1296	----	Transcribed from the 1913 T. N. Foulis edition David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org THE PROVOST INTRODUCTION During a recent visit to the West Country, among other old friends we paid our respects to Mrs Pawkie, the relict of the Provost of that name, who three several times enjoyed the honour of being chief magistrate in Gudetown. Since the death of her worthy husband, and the comfortable settlement in life of her youngest daughter, Miss Jenny, who was married last year to Mr Caption, writer to the signet, she has been, as she told us herself, "beeking in the lown o' the conquest which the gudeman had, wi' sic an ettling o' pains and industry, gathered for his family." Our conversation naturally diverged into various topics, and, among others, we discoursed at large on the manifold improvements which had taken place, both in town and country, since we had visited the Royal Burgh. This led the widow, in a complimentary way, to advert to the hand which, it is alleged, we have had in the editing of that most excellent work, entitled, "Annals of the Parish of Dalmailing," intimating, that she had a book in the handwriting of her deceased husband, the Provost, filled with a variety of most curious matter; in her opinion, of far more consequence to the world than any book that we had ever been concerned in putting out. Considering the veneration in which Mr Pawkie had been through life regarded by his helpmate, we must confess that her eulogium on the merits of his work did not impress us with the most profound persuasion that it was really deserving of much attention. Politeness, however, obliged us to express an earnest desire to see the volume, which, after some little hesitation, was produced. Judge, then, of the nature of our emotions, when, in cursorily turning over a few of the well-penned pages, we found that it far surpassed every thing the lady had said in its praise. Such, indeed was our surprise, that we could not refrain from openly and at once assuring her, that the delight and satisfaction which it was calculated to afford, rendered it a duty on her part to lose no time in submitting it to the public; and, after lavishing a panegyric on the singular and excellent qualities of the author, which was all most delicious to his widow, we concluded with a delicate insinuation of the pleasure we should enjoy, in being made the humble instrument of introducing to the knowledge of mankind a volume so replete and enriched with the fruits of his practical wisdom. Thus, partly by a judicious administration of flattery, and partly also by solicitation, backed by an indirect proposal to share the profits, we succeeded in persuading Mrs Pawkie to allow us to take the valuable manuscript to Edinburgh, in order to prepare it for publication. Having obtained possession of the volume, we lost no time till we had made ourselves master of its contents. It appeared to consist of a series of detached notes, which, together, formed something analogous to an historical view of the different important and interesting scenes and affairs the Provost had been personally engaged in during his long magisterial life. We found, however that the concatenation of the memoranda which he had made of public transactions, was in several places interrupted by the insertion of matter not in the least degree interesting to the nation at large; and that, in arranging the work for the press, it would be requisite and proper to omit many of the notes and much of the record, in order to preserve the historical coherency of the narrative. But in doing this, the text has been retained inviolate, in so much that while we congratulate the world on the addition we are thus enabled to make to the stock of public knowledge, we cannot but felicitate ourselves on the complete and consistent form into which we have so successfully reduced our precious materials; the separation of which, from the dross of personal and private anecdote, was a task of no small difficulty; such, indeed, as the editors only of the autographic memoirs of other great men can duly appreciate. CHAPTER I--THE FORECAST It must be allowed in the world, that a man who has thrice reached the highest station of life in his line, has a good right to set forth the particulars of the discretion and prudence by which he lifted himself so far above the ordinaries of his day and generation; indeed, the generality of mankind may claim this as a duty; for the conduct of public men, as it has been often wisely said, is a species of public property, and their rules and observances have in all ages been considered things of a national concernment. I have therefore well weighed the importance it may be of to posterity, to know by what means I have thrice been made an instrument to represent the supreme power and authority of Majesty in the royal burgh of Gudetown, and how I deported myself in that honour and dignity, so much to the satisfaction of my superiors in the state and commonwealth of the land, to say little of the great respect in which I was held by the townsfolk, and far less of the terror that I was to evil- doers. But not to be over circumstantial, I propose to confine this history of my life to the public portion thereof, on the which account I will take up the beginning at the crisis when I first entered into business, after having served more than a year above my time, with the late Mr Thomas Remnant, than whom there was not a more creditable man in the burgh; and he died in the possession of the functionaries and faculties of town-treasurer, much respected by all acquainted with his orderly and discreet qualities. Mr Remnant was, in his younger years, when the growth of luxury and prosperity had not come to such a head as it has done since, a tailor that went out to the houses of the adjacent lairds and country gentry, whereby he got an inkling of the policy of the world, that could not have been gathered in any other way by a man of his station and degree of life. In process of time he came to be in a settled way, and when I was bound 'prentice to him, he had three regular journeymen and a cloth shop. It was therefore not so much for learning the tailoring, as to get an insight in the conformity between the traffic of the shop and the board that I was bound to him, being destined by my parents for the profession appertaining to the former, and to conjoin thereto something of the mercery and haberdashery: my uncle, that had been a sutler in the army along with General Wolfe, who made a conquest of Quebec, having left me a legacy of three hundred pounds because I was called after him, the which legacy was a consideration for to set me up in due season in some genteel business. Accordingly, as I have narrated, when I had passed a year over my 'prenticeship with Mr Remnant, I took up the corner shop at the Cross, facing the Tolbooth; and having had it adorned in a befitting manner, about a month before the summer fair thereafter, I opened it on that day, with an excellent assortment of goods, the best, both for taste and variety, that had ever been seen in the burgh of Gudetown; and the winter following, finding by my books that I was in a way to do so, I married my wife: she was daughter to Mrs Broderip, who kept the head inn in Irville, and by whose death, in the fall of the next year, we got a nest egg, that, without a vain pretension, I may say we have not failed to lay upon, and clock to some purpose. Being thus settled in a shop and in life, I soon found that I had a part to perform in the public world; but I looked warily about me before casting my nets, and therefore I laid myself out rather to be entreated than to ask; for I had often heard Mr Remnant observe, that the nature of man could not abide to see a neighbour taking place and preferment of his own accord. I therefore assumed a coothy and obliging demeanour towards my customers and the community in general; and sometimes even with the very beggars I found a jocose saying as well received as a bawbee, although naturally I dinna think I was ever what could be called a funny man, but only just as ye would say a thought ajee in that way. Howsever, I soon became, both by habit and repute, a man of popularity in the town, in so much that it was a shrewd saying of old James Alpha, the bookseller, that "mair gude jokes were cracked ilka day in James Pawkie's shop, than in Thomas Curl, the barber's, on a Saturday night." CHAPTER II--A KITHING I could plainly discern that the prudent conduct which I had adopted towards the public was gradually growing into effect. Disputative neighbours made me their referee, and I became, as it were, an oracle that was better than the law, in so much that I settled their controversies without the expense that attends the same. But what convinced me more than any other thing that the line I pursued was verging towards a satisfactory result, was, that the elderly folk that came into the shop to talk over the news of the day, and to rehearse the diverse uncos, both of a national and a domestic nature, used to call me bailie and my lord; the which jocular derision was as a symptom and foretaste within their spirits of what I was ordained to be. Thus was I encouraged, by little and little, together with a sharp remarking of the inclination and bent of men's minds, to entertain the hope and assurance of rising to the top of all the town, as this book maketh manifest, and the incidents thereof will certificate. Nothing particular, however, came to pass, till my wife lay in of her second bairn, our daughter Sarah; at the christening of whom, among divers friends and relations, forbye the minister, we had my father's cousin, Mr Alexander Clues, that was then deacon convener, and a man of great potency in his way, and possessed of an influence in the town-council of which he was well worthy, being a person of good discernment, and well versed in matters appertaining to the guildry. Mr Clues, as we were mellowing over the toddy bowl, said, that by and by the council would be looking to me to fill up the first gap that might happen therein; and Dr Swapkirk, the then minister, who had officiated on the occasion, observed, that it was a thing that, in the course of nature, could not miss to be, for I had all the douce demeanour and sagacity which it behoved a magistrate to possess. But I cannily replied, though I was right contented to hear this, that I had no time for governing, and it would be more for the advantage of the commonwealth to look for the counselling of an older head than mine, happen when a vacancy might in the town-council. In this conjuncture of our discoursing, Mrs Pawkie, my wife, who was sitting by the fireside in her easy chair, with a cod at her head, for she had what was called a sore time o't, said:-- "Na, na, gudeman, ye need na be sae mim; every body kens, and I ken too, that ye're ettling at the magistracy. It's as plain as a pikestaff, gudeman, and I'll no let ye rest if ye dinna mak me a bailie's wife or a' be done"-- I was not ill pleased to hear Mrs Pawkie so spiritful; but I replied, "Dinna try to stretch your arm, gude-wife, further than your sleeve will let you; we maun ca'canny mony a day yet before we think of dignities." The which speech, in a way of implication, made Deacon Clues to understand that I would not absolutely refuse an honour thrust upon me, while it maintained an outward show of humility and moderation. There was, however, a gleg old carlin among the gossips then present, one Mrs Sprowl, the widow of a deceased magistrate, and she cried out aloud:-- "Deacon Clues, Deacon Clues, I redd you no to believe a word that Mr Pawkie's saying, for that was the very way my friend that's no more laid himself out to be fleeched to tak what he was greenan for; so get him intill the council when ye can: we a' ken he'll be a credit to the place," and "so here's to the health of Bailie Pawkie that is to be," cried Mrs Sprowl. All present pledged her in the toast, by which we had a wonderful share of diversion. Nothing, however, immediately rose out of this, but it set men's minds a-barming and working; so that, before there was any vacancy in the council, I was considered in a manner as the natural successor to the first of the counsellors that might happen to depart this life. CHAPTER III--A DIRGIE In the course of the summer following the baptism, of which I have rehearsed the particulars in the foregoing chapter, Bailie Mucklehose happened to die, and as he was a man long and well respected, he had a great funeral. All the rooms in his house were filled with company; and it so fell out that, in the confusion, there was neither minister nor elder to give the blessing sent into that wherein I was, by which, when Mr Shavings the wright, with his men, came in with the service of bread and wine as usual, there was a demur, and one after another of those present was asked to say grace; but none of them being exercised in public prayer, all declined, when Mr Shavings said to me, "Mr Pawkie, I hope ye'll no refuse." I had seen in the process, that not a few of the declinations were more out of the awkward shame of blateness, than any inherent modesty of nature, or diffidence of talent; so, without making a phrase about the matter, I said the grace, and in such a manner that I could see it made an impression. Mr Shavings was at that time deacon of the wrights, and being well pleased with my conduct on this occasion, when he, the same night, met the craft, he spoke of it in a commendable manner; and as I understood thereafter, it was thought by them that the council could not do better than make choice of me to the vacancy. In short, not to spin out the thread of my narration beyond necessity, let it here suffice to be known, that I was chosen into the council, partly by the strong handling of Deacon Shavings, and the instrumentality of other friends and well-wishers, and not a little by the moderation and prudence with which I had been secretly ettling at the honour. Having thus reached to a seat in the council, I discerned that it behoved me to act with circumspection, in order to gain a discreet dominion over the same, and to rule without being felt, which is the great mystery of policy. With this intent, I, for some time, took no active part in the deliberations, but listened, with the doors of my understanding set wide to the wall, and the windows of my foresight all open; so that, in process of time, I became acquainted with the inner man of the counsellors, and could make a guess, no far short of the probability, as to what they would be at, when they were jooking and wising in a round- about manner to accomplish their own several wills and purposes. I soon thereby discovered, that although it was the custom to deduce reasons from out the interests of the community, for the divers means and measures that they wanted to bring to a bearing for their own particular behoof, yet this was not often very cleverly done, and the cloven foot of self-interest was now and then to be seen aneath the robe of public principle. I had, therefore, but a straightforward course to pursue, in order to overcome all their wiles and devices, the which was to make the interests of the community, in truth and sincerity, the end and object of my study, and never to step aside from it for any immediate speciality of profit to myself. Upon this, I have endeavoured to walk with a constancy of sobriety; and although I have, to a certainty, reaped advantage both in my own person and that of my family, no man living can accuse me of having bent any single thing pertaining to the town and public, from the natural uprightness of its integrity, in order to serve my own private ends. It was, however, sometime before an occasion came to pass, wherein I could bring my knowledge and observations to operate in any effectual manner towards a reformation in the management of the burgh; indeed, I saw that no good could be done until I had subdued the two great factions, into which it may be said the council was then divided; the one party being strong for those of the king's government of ministers, and the other no less vehement on the side of their adversaries. I, therefore, without saying a syllable to any body anent the same, girded myself for the undertaking, and with an earnest spirit put my shoulder to the wheel, and never desisted in my endeavours, till I had got the cart up the brae, and the whole council reduced into a proper state of subjection to the will and pleasure of his majesty, whose deputies and agents I have ever considered all inferior magistrates to be, administering and exercising, as they do, their power and authority in his royal name. The ways and means, however, by which this was brought to pass, supply matter for another chapter; and after this, it is not my intent to say any thing more concerning my principles and opinions, but only to show forth the course and current of things proceeding out of the affairs, in which I was so called to form a part requiring no small endeavour and diligence. CHAPTER IV--THE GUILDRY When, as is related in the foregoing chapter, I had nourished my knowledge of the council into maturity, I began to cast about for the means of exercising the same towards a satisfactory issue. But in this I found a great difficulty, arising from the policy and conduct of Mr Andrew M'Lucre, who had a sort of infeftment, as may be said, of the office of dean of guild, having for many years been allowed to intromit and manage the same; by which, as was insinuated by his adversaries, no little grist came to his mill. For it had happened from a very ancient date, as far back, I have heard, as the time of Queen Anne, when the union of the kingdoms was brought to a bearing, that the dean of guild among us, for some reason or another, had the upper hand in the setting and granting of tacks of the town lands, in the doing of which it was jealoused that the predecessors of Mr M'Lucre, no to say an ill word of him, honest man, got their loofs creeshed with something that might be called agrassum, or rather, a gratis gift. It therefore seemed to me that there was a necessity for some reformation in the office, and I foresaw that the same would never be accomplished, unless I could get Mr M'Lucre wised out of it, and myself appointed his successor. But in this lay the obstacle; for every thing anent the office was, as it were, in his custody, and it was well known that he had an interest in keeping by that which, in vulgar parlance, is called nine points of the law. However, both for the public good and a convenience to myself, I was resolved to get a finger in the dean of guild's fat pie, especially as I foresaw that, in the course of three or four years, some of the best tacks would run out, and it would be a great thing to the magistrate that might have the disposal of the new ones. Therefore, without seeming to have any foresight concerning the lands that were coming on to be out of lease, I set myself to constrain Mr M'Lucre to give up the guildry, as it were, of his own free-will; and what helped me well to this, was a rumour that came down from London, that there was to be a dissolution of the parliament. The same day that this news reached the town, I was standing at my shop- door, between dinner and tea-time. It was a fine sunny summer afternoon. Standing under the blessed influence of the time by myself at my shop- door, who should I see passing along the crown of the causey, but Mr M'Lucre himself and with a countenance knotted with care, little in unison with the sultry indolence of that sunny day. "Whar awa sae fast, dean o' guild?" quo' I to him; and he stopped his wide stepping, for he was a long spare man, and looting in his gait. "I'm just," said he, "taking a step to the provost's, to learn the particulars of thir great news--for, as we are to hae the casting vote in the next election, there's no saying the good it may bring to us all gin we manage it wi' discretion." I reflected the while of a minute before I made any reply, and then I said-- "It would hae nae doubt of the matter, Mr M'Lucre, could it be brought about to get you chosen for the delegate; but I fear, as ye are only dean of guild this year, that's no to be accomplished; and really, without the like of you, our borough, in the contest, may be driven to the wall." "Contest!" cried the dean of guild, with great eagerness; "wha told you that we are to be contested?" Nobody had told me, nor at the moment was I sensible of the force of what I said; but, seeing the effect it had on Mr M'Lucre, I replied,-- "It does not, perhaps, just now do for me to be more particular, and I hope what I have said to you will gang no further; but it's a great pity that ye're no even a bailie this year, far less the provost, otherwise I would have great confidence." "Then," said the dean of guild, "you have reason to believe that there is to be a dissolution, and that we are to be contested?" "Mr M'Lucre, dinna speer any questions," was my answer, "but look at that and say nothing;" so I pulled out of my pocket a letter that had been franked to me by the earl. The letter was from James Portoport, his lordship's butler, who had been a waiter with Mrs Pawkie's mother, and he was inclosing to me a five-pound note to be given to an auld aunty that was in need. But the dean of guild knew nothing of our correspondence, nor was it required that he should. However, when he saw my lord's franking, he said, "Are the boroughs, then, really and truly to be contested?" "Come into the shop, Mr M'Lucre," said I sedately; "come in, and hear what I have to say." And he came in, and I shut and barred the half-door, in order that we might not be suddenly interrupted. "You are a man of experience, Mr M'Lucre," said I, "and have a knowledge of the world, that a young man, like me, would be a fool to pretend to. But I have shown you enough to convince you that I would not be worthy of a trust, were I to answer any improper questions. Ye maun, therefore, gie me some small credit for a little discretion in this matter, while I put a question to yourself. 'Is there no a possibility of getting you made the provost at Michaelmas, or, at the very least, a bailie, to the end that ye might be chosen delegate, it being an unusual thing for anybody under the degree of a bailie to be chosen thereto?'" "I have been so long in the guildry," was his thoughtful reply, "that I fear it canna be very well managed without me." "Mr M'Lucre," said I, and I took him cordially by the hand, "a thought has just entered my head. Couldna we manage this matter between us? It's true I'm but a novice in public affairs, and with the mystery of the guildry quite unacquaint--if, however, you could be persuaded to allow yourself to be made a bailie, I would, subject to your directions, undertake the office of dean of guild, and all this might be so concerted between us, that nobody would ken the nature of our paction--for, to be plain with you, it's no to be hoped that such a young counsellor as myself can reasonably expect to be raised, so soon as next Michaelmas, to the magistracy, and there is not another in the council that I would like to see chosen delegate at the election but yourself." Mr M'Lucre swithered a little at this, fearing to part with the bird he had in hand; but, in the end, he said, that he thought what was proposed no out of the way, and that he would have no objection to be a bailie for the next year, on condition that I would, in the following, let him again be dean of guild, even though he should be called a Michaelmas mare, for it did not so well suit him to be a bailie as to be dean of guild, in which capacity he had been long used. I guessed in this that he had a vista in view of the tacks and leases that were belyve to fall in, and I said-- "Nothing can be more reasonable, Mr M'Lucre; for the office of dean of guild must be a very fashious one, to folks like me, no skilled in its particularities; and I'm sure I'll be right glad and willing to give it up, when we hae got our present turn served.--But to keep a' things quiet between us, let us no appear till after the election overly thick; indeed, for a season, we maun fight, as it were, under different colours." Thus was the seed sown of a great reformation in the burgh, the sprouting whereof I purpose to describe in due season. CHAPTER V--THE FIRST CONTESTED ELECTION The sough of the dissolution of parliament, during the whole of the summer, grew stronger and stronger, and Mr M'Lucre and me were seemingly pulling at opposite ends of the rope. There was nothing that he proposed in the council but what I set myself against with such bir and vigour, that sometimes he could scarcely keep his temper, even while he was laughing in his sleeve to see how the other members of the corporation were beglammered. At length Michaelmas drew near, when I, to show, as it were, that no ill blood had been bred on my part, notwithstanding our bickerings, proposed in the council that Mr M'Lucre should be the new bailie; and he on his part, to manifest, in return, that there was as little heart-burning on his, said "he would have no objections; but then he insisted that I should consent to be dean of guild in his stead." "It's true," said he in the council on that occasion, "that Mr Pawkie is as yet but a greenhorn in the concerns of the burgh: however, he'll never learn younger, and if he'll agree to this, I'll gie him all the help and insight that my experience enables me to afford." At the first, I pretended that really, as was the truth, I had no knowledge of what were the duties of dean of guild; but after some fleeching from the other councillors, I consented to have the office, as it were, forced upon me; so I was made dean of guild, and Mr M'Lucre the new bailie. By and by, when the harvest in England was over, the parliament was dissolved, but no candidate started on my lord's interest, as was expected by Mr M'Lucre, and he began to fret and be dissatisfied that he had ever consented to allow himself to be hoodwinked out of the guildry. However, just three days before the election, and at the dead hour of the night, the sound of chariot wheels and of horsemen was heard in our streets; and this was Mr Galore, the great Indian nabob, that had bought the Beerland estates, and built the grand place that is called Lucknoo House, coming from London, with the influence of the crown on his side, to oppose the old member. He drove straight to Provost Picklan's house, having, as we afterwards found out, been in a secret correspondence with him through the medium of Mrs Picklan, who was conjunct in the business with Miss Nelly, the nabob's maiden sister. Mr M'Lucre was not a little confounded at this, for he had imagined that I was the agent on behalf of my lord, who was of the government side, so he wist not what to do, in the morning when he came to me, till I said to him briskly-- "Ye ken, bailie, that ye're trysted to me, and it's our duty to support the nabob, who is both able and willing, as I have good reason to think, to requite our services in a very grateful manner." This was a cordial to his spirit, and, without more ado, we both of us set to work to get the bailie made the delegate. In this I had nothing in view but the good of my country by pleasuring, as it was my duty, his majesty's government, for I was satisfied with my situation as dean of guild. But the handling required no small slight of skill. The first thing was, to persuade those that were on the side of the old member to elect Mr M'Lucre for delegate, he being, as we had concerted, openly declared for that interest, and the benefit to be gotten thereby having, by use and wont, been at an established and regular rate. The next thing was to get some of those that were with me on my lord's side, kept out of the way on the day of choosing the delegate; for we were the strongest, and could easily have returned the provost, but I had no clear notion how it would advantage me to make the provost delegate, as was proposed. I therefore, on the morning of the business, invited three of the council to take their breakfast with me, for the ostensible purpose of going in a body to the council chamber to choose the provost delegate; but when we were at breakfast, John Snakers, my lad in the shop, by my suggestion, warily got a bale of broad cloth so tumbled, as it were by accident, at the door, that it could not be opened; for it bent the key in such a manner in the lock, and crooket the sneck, that without a smith there was no egress, and sorrow a smith was to be had. All were out and around the tolbooth waiting for the upshot of the choosing the delegate. Those that saw me in the mean time, would have thought I had gone demented. I ramped and I stamped; I banned and I bellowed like desperation. My companions, no a bit better, flew fluttering to the windows, like wild birds to the wires of their cage. However, to make a long tale short, Bailie M'Lucre was, by means of this device, chosen delegate, seemingly against my side. But oh! he was a slee tod, for no sooner was he so chosen, than he began to act for his own behoof; and that very afternoon, while both parties were holding their public dinner he sent round the bell to tell that the potato crop on his back rig was to be sold by way of public roup the same day. There wasna one in the town that had reached the years of discretion, but kent what na sort of potatoes he was going to sell; and I was so disturbed by this open corruption, that I went to him, and expressed my great surprise. Hot words ensued between us; and I told him very plainly that I would have nothing further to say to him or his political profligacy. However, his potatoes were sold, and brought upwards of three guineas the peck, the nabob being the purchaser, who, to show his contentment with the bargain, made Mrs M'Lucre, and the bailie's three daughters, presents of new gowns and princods, that were not stuffed with wool. In the end, as a natural consequence, Bailie M'Lucre, as delegate, voted for the Nabob, and the old member was thereby thrown out. But although the government candidate in this manner won the day, yet I was so displeased by the jookerie of the bailie, and the selfish manner by which he had himself reaped all the advantage of the election in the sale of his potatoes, that we had no correspondence on public affairs till long after; so that he never had the face to ask me to give up the guildry, till I resigned it of my own accord after the renewal of the tacks to which I have alluded, by the which renewals, a great increase was effected in the income of the town. CHAPTER VI--THE FAILURE OF BAILIE M'LUCRE Bailie M'Lucre, as I have already intimated, was naturally a greedy body, and not being content with the profits of his potatoe rig, soon after the election he set up as an o'er-sea merchant, buying beef and corn by agency in Ireland, and having the same sent to the Glasgow market. For some time, this traffic yielded him a surprising advantage; but the summer does not endure the whole year round, nor was his prosperity ordained to be of a continuance. One mishap befell him after another; cargoes of his corn heated in the vessels, because he would not sell at a losing price, and so entirely perished; and merchants broke, that were in his debt large sums for his beef and provisions. In short, in the course of the third year from the time of the election, he was rookit of every plack he had in the world, and was obligated to take the benefit of the divor's bill, soon after which he went suddenly away from the town, on the pretence of going into Edinburgh, on some business of legality with his wife's brother, with whom he had entered into a plea concerning the moiety of a steading at the town-head. But he did not stop on any such concern there; on the contrary, he was off, and up to London in a trader from Leith, to try if he could get a post in the government by the aid of the nabob, our member; who, by all accounts, was hand and glove with the king's ministers. The upshot of this journey to London was very comical; and when the bailie afterwards came back, and him and me were again on terms of visitation, many a jocose night we spent over the story of the same; for the bailie was a kittle hand at a bowl of toddy; and his adventure was so droll, especially in the way he was wont to rehearse the particulars, that it cannot fail to be an edification to posterity, to read and hear how it happened, and all about it. I may therefore take leave to digress into the circumstantials, by way of lightening for a time the seriousness of the sober and important matter, whereof it is my intent that this book shall be a register and record to future times. CHAPTER VII--THE BRIBE Mr M'Lucre, going to London, as I have intimated in the foregoing chapter, remained there, absent from us altogether about the space of six weeks; and when he came home, he was plainly an altered man, being sometimes very jocose, and at other times looking about him as if he had been haunted by some ill thing. Moreover, Mrs Spell, that had the post- office from the decease of her husband, Deacon Spell, told among her kimmers, that surely the bailie had a great correspondence with the king and government, for that scarce a week passed without a letter from him to our member, or a letter from the member to him. This bred no small consideration among us; and I was somehow a thought uneasy thereat, not knowing what the bailie, now that he was out of the guildry, might be saying anent the use and wont that had been practised therein, and never more than in his own time. At length, the babe was born. One evening, as I was sitting at home, after closing the shop for the night, and conversing concerning the augmentation of our worldly affairs with Mrs Pawkie and the bairns--it was a damp raw night; I mind it just as well as if it had been only yestreen--who should make his appearance at the room door but the bailie himself, and a blithe face he had? "It's a' settled now," cried he, as he entered with a triumphant voice; "the siller's my ain, and I can keep it in spite of them; I don't value them now a cutty-spoon; no, not a doit; no the worth of that; nor a' their sprose about Newgate and the pillory;"--and he snapped his fingers with an aspect of great courage. "Hooly, hooly, bailie," said I; "what's a' this for?" and then he replied, taking his seat beside me at the fireside--"The plea with the custom-house folk at London is settled, or rather, there canna be a plea at a', so firm and true is the laws of England on my side, and the liberty of the subject." All this was Greek and Hebrew to me; but it was plain that the bailie, in his jaunt, had been guilty of some notour thing, wherein the custom-house was concerned, and that he thought all the world was acquaint with the same. However, no to balk him in any communication he might be disposed to make me, I said:-- "What ye say, bailie, is great news, and I wish you meikle joy, for I have had my fears about your situation for some time; but now that the business is brought to such a happy end, I would like to hear all the true particulars of the case; and that your tale and tidings sha'na lack slackening, I'll get in the toddy bowl and the gardevin; and with that, I winket to the mistress to take the bairns to their bed, and bade Jenny Hachle, that was then our fee'd servant lass, to gar the kettle boil. Poor Jenny has long since fallen into a great decay of circumstances, for she was not overly snod and cleanly in her service; and so, in time, wore out the endurance of all the houses and families that fee'd her, till nobody would take her; by which she was in a manner cast on Mrs Pawkie's hands; who, on account of her kindliness towards the bairns in their childhood, has given her a howf among us. But, to go on with what I was rehearsing; the toddy being ordered, and all things on the table, the bailie, when we were quiet by ourselves, began to say-- "Ye ken weel, Mr Pawkie, what I did at the 'lection for the member and how angry ye were yoursel about it, and a' that. But ye were greatly mista'en in thinking that I got ony effectual fee at the time, over and above the honest price of my potatoes; which ye were as free to bid for, had ye liket, as either o' the candidates. I'll no deny, however, that the nabob, before he left the town, made some small presents to my wife and dochter; but that was no fault o' mine. Howsever, when a' was o'er, and I could discern that ye were mindet to keep the guildry, I thought, after the wreck o' my provision concern, I might throw mair bread on the water and not find it, than by a bit jaunt to London to see how my honourable friend, the nabob, was coming on in his place in parliament, as I saw none of his speeches in the newspaper. "Well, ye see, Mr Pawkie, I gae'd up to London in a trader from Leith; and by the use of a gude Scotch tongue, the whilk was the main substance o' a' the bairns' part o' gear that I inherited from my parents, I found out the nabob's dwelling, in the west end o' the town of London; and finding out the nabob's dwelling, I went and rappit at the door, which a bardy flunkie opened, and speer't what I want it, as if I was a thing no fit to be lifted off a midden with a pair of iron tongs. Like master, like man, thought I to myself; and thereupon, taking heart no to be put out, I replied to the whipper-snapper--'I'm Bailie M'Lucre o' Gudetown, and maun hae a word wi' his honour.' "The cur lowered his birsses at this, and replied, in a mair ceeveleezed style of language, 'Master is not at home.' But I kent what not at home means in the morning at a gentleman's door in London; so I said, 'Very weel, as I hae had a long walk, I'll e'en rest myself and wait till he come;' and with that, I plumpit down on one of the mahogany chairs in the trance. The lad, seeing that I was na to be jookit, upon this answered me, by saying, he would go and enquire if his master would be at home to me; and the short and the long o't was, that I got at last an audience o' my honourable friend. "'Well, bailie,' said he, 'I'm glad to see you in London,' and a hantle o' ither courtly glammer that's no worth a repetition; and, from less to mair, we proceeded to sift into the matter and end of my coming to ask the help o' his hand to get me a post in the government. But I soon saw, that wi a' the phraseology that lay at his tongue end during the election, about his power and will to serve us, his ain turn ser't, he cared so little for me. Howsever after tarrying some time, and going to him every day, at long and last he got me a tide-waiter's place at the custom-house; a poor hungry situation, no worth the grassum at a new tack of the warst land in the town's aught. But minnows are better than nae fish, and a tide-waiter's place was a step towards a better, if I could have waited. Luckily, however, for me, a flock of fleets and ships frae the East and West Indies came in a' thegither; and there was sic a stress for tide-waiters, that before I was sworn in and tested, I was sent down to a grand ship in the Malabar trade frae China, loaded with tea and other rich commodities; the captain whereof, a discreet man, took me down to the cabin, and gave me a dram of wine, and, when we were by oursels, he said to me-- "'Mr M'Lucre, what will you take to shut your eyes for an hour?' "'I'll no take a hundred pounds,' was my answer. "'I'll make it guineas,' quoth he. "Surely, thought I, my eyne maun be worth pearls and diamonds to the East India Company; so I answered and said-- "'Captain, no to argol-bargol about the matter,' (for a' the time, I thought upon how I had not been sworn in;)--'what will ye gie me, if I take away my eyne out of the vessel?' "'A thousand pounds,' cried he. "'A bargain be't,' said I. I think, however, had I stood out I might hae got mair. But it doesna rain thousands of pounds every day; so, to make a long tale short, I got a note of hand on the Bank of England for the sum, and, packing up my ends and my awls, left the ship. "It was my intent to have come immediately home to Scotland; but the same afternoon, I was summoned by the Board at the Custom-house for deserting my post; and the moment I went before them, they opened upon me like my lord's pack of hounds, and said they would send me to Newgate. 'Cry a' at ance,' quoth I; 'but I'll no gang.' I then told them how I was na sworn, and under no obligation to serve or obey them mair than pleasured mysel'; which set them a' again a barking worse than before; whereupon, seeing no likelihood of an end to their stramash, I turned mysel' round, and, taking the door on my back, left them, and the same night came off on the Fly to Edinburgh. Since syne they have been trying every grip and wile o' the law to punish me as they threatened; but the laws of England are a great protection to the people against arbitrary power; and the letter that I have got to-day frae the nabob, tells me that the commissioners hae abandoned the plea." Such was the account and narration that the bailie gave to me of the particulars o' his journey to London; and when he was done, I could not but make a moral reflection or two, on the policy of gentlemen putting themselves on the leet to be members of Parliament; it being a clear and plain thing, that as they are sent up to London for the benefit of the people by whom they are chosen, the people should always take care to get some of that benefit in hand paid down, otherwise they run a great risk of seeing their representatives neglecting their special interests, and treating them as entitled to no particular consideration. CHAPTER VIII--ON THE CHOOSING OF A MINISTER The next great handling that we had in the council after the general election, was anent the choice of a minister for the parish. The Rev. Dr Swapkirk having had an apoplexy, the magistrates were obligated to get Mr Pittle to be his helper. Whether it was that, by our being used to Mr Pittle, we had ceased to have a right respect for his parts and talents, or that in reality he was but a weak brother, I cannot in conscience take it on me to say; but the certainty is, that when the Doctor departed this life, there was hardly one of the hearers who thought Mr Pittle would ever be their placed minister, and it was as far at first from the unanimous mind of the magistrates, who are the patrons of the parish, as any thing could well be, for he was a man of no smeddum in discourse. In verity, as Mrs Pawkie, my wife, said, his sermons in the warm summer afternoons were just a perfect hushabaa, that no mortal could hearken to without sleeping. Moreover, he had a sorning way with him, that the genteeler sort could na abide, for he was for ever going from house to house about tea-time, to save his ain canister. As for the young ladies, they could na endure him at all, for he had aye the sough and sound of love in his mouth, and a round-about ceremonial of joking concerning the same, that was just a fasherie to them to hear. The commonality, however, were his greatest adversaries; for he was, notwithstanding the spareness of his abilities, a prideful creature, taking no interest in their hamely affairs, and seldom visiting the aged or the sick among them. Shortly, however, before the death of the doctor, Mr Pittle had been very attentive to my wife's full cousin, Miss Lizy Pinkie, I'll no say on account of the legacy of seven hundred pounds left her by an uncle that made his money in foreign parts, and died at Portsmouth of the liver complaint, when he was coming home to enjoy himself; and Mrs Pawkie told me, that as soon as Mr Pittle could get a kirk, I needna be surprised if I heard o' a marriage between him and Miss Lizy. Had I been a sordid and interested man, this news could never have given me the satisfaction it did, for Miss Lizy was very fond of my bairns, and it was thought that Peter would have been her heir; but so far from being concerned at what I heard, I rejoiced thereat, and resolved in secret thought, whenever a vacancy happened, Dr Swapkirk being then fast wearing away, to exert the best of my ability to get the kirk for Mr Pittle, not, however, unless he was previously married to Miss Lizy; for, to speak out, she was beginning to stand in need of a protector, and both me and Mrs Pawkie had our fears that she might outlive her income, and in her old age become a cess upon us. And it couldna be said that this was any groundless fear; for Miss Lizy, living a lonely maiden life by herself, with only a bit lassie to run her errands, and no being naturally of an active or eydent turn, aften wearied, and to keep up her spirits gaed may be, now and then, oftener to the gardevin than was just necessar, by which, as we thought, she had a tavert look. Howsever, as Mr Pittle had taken a notion of her, and she pleased his fancy, it was far from our hand to misliken one that was sib to us; on the contrary, it was a duty laid on me by the ties of blood and relationship, to do all in my power to further their mutual affection into matrimonial fruition; and what I did towards that end, is the burden of this current chapter. Dr Swapkirk, in whom the spark of life was long fading, closed his eyes, and it went utterly out, as to this world, on a Saturday night, between the hours of eleven and twelve. We had that afternoon got an inkling that he was drawing near to his end. At the latest, Mrs Pawkie herself went over to the manse, and stayed till she saw him die. "It was a pleasant end," she said, for he was a godly, patient man; and we were both sorely grieved, though it was a thing for which we had been long prepared; and indeed, to his family and connexions, except for the loss of the stipend, it was a very gentle dispensation, for he had been long a heavy handful, having been for years but, as it were, a breathing lump of mortality, groosy, and oozy, and doozy, his faculties being shut up and locked in by a dumb palsy. Having had this early intimation of the doctor's removal to a better world, on the Sabbath morning when I went to join the magistrates in the council-chamber, as the usage is to go to the laft, with the town-officers carrying their halberts before us, according to the ancient custom of all royal burghs, my mind was in a degree prepared to speak to them anent the successor. Little, however, passed at that time, and it so happened that, by some wonder of inspiration, (there were, however, folk that said it was taken out of a book of sermons, by one Barrow an English Divine,) Mr Pittle that forenoon preached a discourse that made an impression, in so much, that on our way back to the council-chamber I said to Provost Vintner, that then was-- "Really Mr Pittle seems, if he would exert himself, to have a nerve. I could not have thought it was in the power of his capacity to have given us such a sermon." The provost thought as I did, so I replied--"We canna, I think, do better than keep him among us. It would, indeed, provost, no be doing justice to the young man to pass another over his head." I could see that the provost wasna quite sure of what I had been saying; for he replied, that it was a matter that needed consideration. When we separated at the council-chamber, I threw myself in the way of Bailie Weezle, and walked home with him, our talk being on the subject of vacancy; and I rehearsed to him what had passed between me and the provost, saying, that the provost had made no objection to prefer Mr Pittle, which was the truth. Bailie Weezle was a man no overladen with worldly wisdom, and had been chosen into the council principally on account of being easily managed. In his business, he was originally by trade a baker in Glasgow, where he made a little money, and came to settle among us with his wife, who was a native of the town, and had her relations here. Being therefore an idle man, living on his money, and of a soft and quiet nature, he was for the reason aforesaid chosen into the council, where he always voted on the provost's side; for in controverted questions every one is beholden to take a part, and he thought it was his duty to side with the chief magistrate. Having convinced the bailie that Mr Pittle had already, as it were, a sort of infeoffment in the kirk, I called in the evening on my old predecessor in the guildry, Bailie M'Lucre, who was not a hand to be so easily dealt with; but I knew his inclinations, and therefore I resolved to go roundly to work with him. So I asked him out to take a walk, and I led him towards the town-moor, conversing loosely about one thing and another, and touching softly here and there on the vacancy. When we were well on into the middle of the moor, I stopped, and, looking round me, said, "Bailie, surely it's a great neglec of the magistrates and council to let this braw broad piece of land, so near the town, lie in a state o' nature, and giving pasturage to only twa-three of the poor folk's cows. I wonder you, that's now a rich man, and with eyne worth pearls and diamonds, that ye dinna think of asking a tack of this land; ye might make a great thing o't." The fish nibbled, and told me that he had for some time entertained a thought on the subject; but he was afraid that I would be overly extortionate. "I wonder to hear you, bailie," said I; "I trust and hope no one will ever find me out of the way of justice; and to convince you that I can do a friendly turn, I'll no objec to gie you a' my influence free gratis, if ye'll gie Mr Pittle a lift into the kirk; for, to be plain with you, the worthy young man, who, as ye heard to-day, is no without an ability, has long been fond of Mrs Pawkie's cousin, Miss Lizy Pinky; and I would fain do all that lies in my power to help on the match." The bailie was well pleased with my frankness, and before returning home we came to a satisfactory understanding; so that the next thing I had to do, was to see Mr Pittle himself on the subject. Accordingly, in the gloaming, I went over to where he stayed: it was with Miss Jenny Killfuddy, an elderly maiden lady, whose father was the minister of Braehill, and the same that is spoken of in the chronicle of Dalmailing, as having had his eye almost put out by a clash of glaur, at the stormy placing of Mr Balwhidder. "Mr Pittle," said I, as soon as I was in and the door closed. "I'm come to you as a friend; both Mrs Pawkie and me have long discerned that ye have had a look more than common towards our friend, Miss Lizy, and we think it our duty to enquire your intents, before matters gang to greater length." He looked a little dumfoundered at this salutation, and was at a loss for an answer, so I continued-- "If your designs be honourable, and no doubt they are, now's your time; strike while the iron's hot. By the death of the doctor, the kirk's vacant, the town-council have the patronage; and, if ye marry Miss Lizy, my interest and influence shall not be slack in helping you into the poopit." In short, out of what passed that night, on the Monday following Mr Pittle and Miss Lizy were married; and by my dexterity, together with the able help I had in Bailie M'Lucre, he was in due season placed and settled in the parish; and the next year more than fifty acres of the town-moor were inclosed on a nine hundred and ninety-nine years' tack at an easy rate between me and the bailie, he paying the half of the expense of the ditching and rooting out of the whins; and it was acknowledged by every one that saw it, that there had not been a greater improvement for many years in all the country side. But to the best actions there will be adverse and discontented spirits; and, on this occasion, there were not wanting persons naturally of a disloyal opposition temper, who complained of the inclosure as a usurpation of the rights and property of the poorer burghers. Such revilings, however, are what all persons in authority must suffer; and they had only the effect of making me button my coat, and look out the crooser to the blast. CHAPTER IX--AN EXECUTION The attainment of honours and dignities is not enjoyed without a portion of trouble and care, which, like a shadow, follows all temporalities. On the very evening of the same day that I was first chosen to be a bailie, a sore affair came to light, in the discovery that Jean Gaisling had murdered her bastard bairn. She was the daughter of a donsie mother, that could gie no name to her gets, of which she had two laddies, besides Jean. The one of them had gone off with the soldiers some time before; the other, a douce well-behaved callan, was in my lord's servitude, as a stable boy at the castle. Jeanie herself was the bonniest lassie in the whole town, but light-headed, and fonder of outgait and blether in the causey than was discreet of one of her uncertain parentage. She was, at the time when she met with her misfortune, in the service of Mrs Dalrymple, a colonel's widow, that came out of the army and settled among us on her jointure. This Mrs Dalrymple, having been long used to the loose morals of camps and regiments, did not keep that strict hand over poor Jeanie, and her other serving lass, that she ought to have done, and so the poor guileless creature fell into the snare of some of the ne'er-do-weel gentlemen that used to play cards at night with Mrs Dalrymple. The truths of the story were never well known, nor who was the father, for the tragical issue barred all enquiry; but it came out that poor Jeanie was left to herself, and, being instigated by the Enemy, after she had been delivered, did, while the midwife's back was turned, strangle the baby with a napkin. She was discovered in the very fact, with the bairn black in the face in the bed beside her. The heinousness of the crime can by no possibility be lessened; but the beauty of the mother, her tender years, and her light-headedness, had won many favourers; and there was a great leaning in the hearts of all the town to compassionate her, especially when they thought of the ill example that had been set to her in the walk and conversation of her mother. It was not, however, within the power of the magistrates to overlook the accusation; so we were obligated to cause a precognition to be taken, and the search left no doubt of the wilfulness of the murder. Jeanie was in consequence removed to the tolbooth, where she lay till the lords were coming to Ayr, when she was sent thither to stand her trial before them; but, from the hour she did the deed, she never spoke. Her trial was a short procedure, and she was cast to be hanged--and not only to be hanged, but ordered to be executed in our town, and her body given to the doctors to make an atomy. The execution of Jeanie was what all expected would happen; but when the news reached the town of the other parts of the sentence, the wail was as the sough of a pestilence, and fain would the council have got it dispensed with. But the Lord Advocate was just wud at the crime, both because there had been no previous concealment, so as to have been an extenuation for the shame of the birth, and because Jeanie would neither divulge the name of the father, nor make answer to all the interrogatories that were put to her--standing at the bar like a dumbie, and looking round her, and at the judges, like a demented creature, and beautiful as a Flanders' baby. It was thought by many, that her advocate might have made great use of her visible consternation, and pled that she was by herself; for in truth she had every appearance of being so. He was, however, a dure man, no doubt well enough versed in the particulars and punctualities of the law for an ordinary plea; but no of the right sort of knowledge and talent to take up the case of a forlorn lassie, misled by ill example and a winsome nature, and clothed in the allurement of loveliness, as the judge himself said to the jury. On the night before the day of execution, she was brought over in a chaise from Ayr between two town-officers, and placed again in our hands, and still she never spoke. Nothing could exceed the compassion that every one had for poor Jeanie, so she wasna committed to a common cell, but laid in the council-room, where the ladies of the town made up a comfortable bed for her, and some of them sat up all night and prayed for her; but her thoughts were gone, and she sat silent. In the morning, by break of day, her wanton mother, that had been trolloping in Glasgow, came to the tolbooth door, and made a dreadful wally-waeing, and the ladies were obligated, for the sake of peace, to bid her be let in. But Jeanie noticed her not, still sitting with her eyes cast down, waiting the coming on of the hour of her doom. The wicked mother first tried to rouse her by weeping and distraction, and then she took to upbraiding; but Jeanie seemed to heed her not, save only once, and then she but looked at the misleart tinkler, and shook her head. I happened to come into the room at this time, and seeing all the charitable ladies weeping around, and the randy mother talking to the poor lassie as loudly and vehement as if she had been both deaf and sullen, I commanded the officers, with a voice of authority, to remove the mother, by which we had for a season peace, till the hour came. There had not been an execution in the town in the memory of the oldest person then living; the last that suffered was one of the martyrs in the time of the persecution, so that we were not skilled in the business, and had besides no hangman, but were necessitated to borrow the Ayr one. Indeed, I being the youngest bailie, was in terror that the obligation might have fallen to me. A scaffold was erected at the Tron, just under the tolbooth windows, by Thomas Gimblet, the master-of-work, who had a good penny of profit by the job, for he contracted with the town-council, and had the boards after the business was done to the bargain; but Thomas was then deacon of the wrights, and himself a member of our body. At the hour appointed, Jeanie, dressed in white, was led out by the town- officers, and in the midst of the magistrates from among the ladies, with her hands tied behind her with a black riband. At the first sight of her at the tolbooth stairhead, a universal sob rose from all the multitude, and the sternest e'e couldna refrain from shedding a tear. We marched slowly down the stair, and on to the foot of the scaffold, where her younger brother, Willy, that was stable-boy at my lord's, was standing by himself, in an open ring made round him in the crowd; every one compassionating the dejected laddie, for he was a fine youth, and of an orderly spirit. As his sister came towards the foot of the ladder, he ran towards her, and embraced her with a wail of sorrow that melted every heart, and made us all stop in the middle of our solemnity. Jeanie looked at him, (for her hands were tied,) and a silent tear was seen to drop from her cheek. But in the course of little more than a minute, all was quiet, and we proceeded to ascend the scaffold. Willy, who had by this time dried his eyes, went up with us, and when Mr Pittle had said the prayer, and sung the psalm, in which the whole multitude joined, as it were with the contrition of sorrow, the hangman stepped forward to put on the fatal cap, but Willy took it out of his hand, and placed it on his sister himself, and then kneeling down, with his back towards her closing his eyes and shutting his ears with his hands, he saw not nor heard when she was launched into eternity. When the awful act was over, and the stir was for the magistrates to return, and the body to be cut down, poor Willy rose, and without looking round, went down the steps of the scaffold; the multitude made a lane for him to pass, and he went on through them hiding his face, and gaed straight out of the town. As for the mother, we were obligated, in the course of the same year, to drum her out of the town, for stealing thirteen choppin bottles from William Gallon's, the vintner's, and selling them for whisky to Maggie Picken, that was tried at the same time for the reset. CHAPTER X--A RIOT Nothing very material, after Jeanie Gaisling's affair, happened in the town till the time of my first provostry, when an event arose with an aspect of exceeding danger to the lives and properties of the whole town. I cannot indeed think of it at this day, though age has cooled me down in all concerns to a spirit of composure, without feeling the blood boil in my veins; so greatly, in the matter alluded to, was the king's dignity and the rightful government, by law and magistracy, insulted in my person. From time out of mind, it had been an ancient and commendable custom in the burgh, to have, on the king's birth-day, a large bowl of punch made in the council-chamber, in order and to the end and effect of drinking his majesty's health at the cross; and for pleasance to the commonality, the magistrates were wont, on the same occasion, to allow a cart of coals for a bonfire. I do not now, at this distance of time, remember the cause how it came to pass, but come to pass it did, that the council resolved for time coming to refrain from giving the coals for the bonfire; and it so fell out that the first administration of this economy was carried into effect during my provostry, and the wyte of it was laid at my door by the trades' lads, and others, that took on them the lead in hobleshows at the fairs, and such like public doings. Now I come to the issue and particulars. The birth-day, in progress of time, came round, and the morning was ushered in with the ringing of bells, and the windows of the houses adorned with green boughs and garlands. It was a fine bright day, and nothing could exceed the glee and joviality of all faces till the afternoon, when I went up to the council-chamber in the tolbooth, to meet the other magistrates and respectable characters of the town, in order to drink the king's health. In going thither, I was joined, just as I was stepping out of my shop, by Mr Stoup, the excise gauger, and Mr Firlot, the meal-monger, who had made a power of money a short time before, by a cargo of corn that he had brought from Belfast, the ports being then open, for which he was envied by some, and by the common sort was considered and reviled as a wicked hard-hearted forestaller. As for Mr Stoup, although he was a very creditable man, he had the repute of being overly austere in his vocation, for which he was not liked over and above the dislike that the commonality cherish against all of his calling; so that it was not possible that any magistrate, such as I endeavoured to be, adverse to ill-doers, and to vice and immorality of every kind, could have met at such a time and juncture, a greater misfortune than those two men, especially when it is considered, that the abolition of the bonfire was regarded as a heinous trespass on the liberties and privileges of the people. However, having left the shop, and being joined, as I have narrated, by Mr Stoup and Mr Firlot, we walked together at a sedate pace towards the tolbooth, before which, and at the cross, a great assemblage of people were convened; trades' lads, weavers with coats out at the elbow, the callans of the school; in short, the utmost gathering and congregation of the clan-jamphry, who the moment they saw me coming, set up a great shout and howl, crying like desperation, "Provost, 'whar's the bonfire? Hae ye sent the coals, provost, hame to yersel, or selt them, provost, for meal to the forestaller?" with other such misleart phraseology that was most contemptuous, bearing every symptom of the rebellion and insurrection that they were then meditating. But I kept my temper, and went into the council-chamber, where others of the respectable inhabitants were met with the magistrates and town-council assembled. "What's the matter, provost?" said several of them as I came in; "are ye ill; or what has fashed you?" But I only replied, that the mob without was very unruly for being deprived of their bonfire. Upon this, some of those present proposed to gratify them, by ordering a cart of coals, as usual; but I set my face against this, saying, that it would look like intimidation were we now to comply, and that all veneration for law and authority would be at an end by such weakness on the part of those entrusted with the exercise of power. There the debate, for a season, ended; and the punch being ready, the table was taken out of the council- chamber and carried to the cross, and placed there, and then the bowl and glasses--the magistrates following, and the rest of the company. Seeing us surrounded by the town-officers with their halberts, the multitude made way, seemingly with their wonted civility, and, when his majesty's health was drank, they shouted with us, seemingly, too, as loyally as ever; but that was a traitorous device to throw us off our guard, as, in the upshot, was manifested; for no sooner had we filled the glasses again, than some of the most audacious of the rioters began to insult us, crying, "The bonfire! the bonfire!--No fire, no bowl!--Gentle and semple should share and share alike." In short, there was a moving backwards and forwards, and a confusion among the mob, with snatches of huzzas and laughter, that boded great mischief; and some of my friends near me said to me no to be alarmed, which only alarmed me the more, as I thought they surely had heard something. However, we drank our second glass without any actual molestation; but when we gave the three cheers, as the custom was, after the same, instead of being answered joyfully, the mob set up a frightful yell, and, rolling like the waves of the sea, came on us with such a shock, that the table, and punch-bowl, and glasses, were couped and broken. Bailie Weezle, who was standing on the opposite side, got his shins so ruffled by the falling of the table, that he was for many a day after confined to the house with two sore legs; and it was feared he would have been a lameter for life. The dinging down of the table was the signal of the rebellious ring leaders for open war. Immediately there was an outcry and a roaring, that was a terrification to hear; and I know not how it was, but before we kent where we were, I found myself with many of those who had been drinking the king's health, once more in the council-chamber, where it was proposed that we should read the riot act from the windows; and this awful duty, by the nature of my office as provost, it behoved me to perform. Nor did I shrink from it; for by this time my corruption was raised, and I was determined not to let the royal authority be set at nought in my hands. Accordingly, Mr Keelivine, the town clerk, having searched out among his law books for the riot act, one of the windows of the council-chamber was opened, and the bell man having, with a loud voice, proclaimed the "O yes!" three times, I stepped forward with the book in my hands. At the sight of me, the rioters, in the most audacious manner, set up a blasphemous laugh; but, instead of finding me daunted thereat, they were surprised at my fortitude; and, when I began to read, they listened in silence. But this was a concerted stratagem; for the moment that I had ended, a dead cat came whizzing through the air like a comet, and gave me such a clash in the face that I was knocked down to the floor, in the middle of the very council-chamber. What ensued is neither to be told nor described; some were for beating the fire-drum; others were for arming ourselves with what weapons were in the tolbooth; but I deemed it more congenial to the nature of the catastrophe, to send off an express to Ayr for the regiment of soldiers that was quartered there--the roar of the rioters without, being all the time like a raging flood. Major Target, however, who had seen service in foreign wars, was among us, and he having tried in vain to get us to listen to him, went out of his own accord to the rioters, and was received by them with three cheers. He then spoke to them in an exhorting manner, and represented to them the imprudence of their behaviour; upon which they gave him three other cheers, and immediately dispersed and went home. The major was a vain body, and took great credit to himself, as I heard, for this; but, considering the temper of mind the mob was at one time in, it is quite evident that it was no so much the major's speech and exhortation that sent them off, as their dread and terror of the soldiers that I had sent for. All that night the magistrates, with other gentlemen of the town, sat in the council-chamber, and sent out, from time to time, to see that every thing was quiet; and by this judicious proceeding, of which we drew up and transmitted a full account to the king and government in London, by whom the whole of our conduct was highly applauded, peace was maintained till the next day at noon, when a detachment, as it was called, of four companies came from the regiment in Ayr, and took upon them the preservation of order and regularity. I may here notice, that this was the first time any soldiers had been quartered in the town since the forty-five; and a woeful warning it was of the consequences that follow rebellion and treasonable practices; for, to the present day, we have always had a portion of every regiment, sent to Ayr, quartered upon us. CHAPTER XI--POLICY Just about the end of my first provostry, I began to make a discovery. Whether it was that I was a little inordinately lifted up by reason of the dignity, and did not comport myself with a sufficient condescension and conciliation of manner to the rest of the town-council, it would be hard to say. I could, however, discern that a general ceremonious insincerity was performed by the members towards me, especially on the part of those who were in league and conjunct with the town-clerk, who comported himself, by reason of his knowledge of the law, as if he was in verity the true and effectual chief magistrate of the burgh; and the effect of this discovery, was a consideration and digesting within me how I should demean myself, so as to regain the vantage I had lost; taking little heed as to how the loss had come, whether from an ill-judged pride and pretending in myself, or from the natural spirit of envy, that darkens the good-will of all mankind towards those who get sudden promotion, as it was commonly thought I had obtained, in being so soon exalted to the provostry. Before the Michaelmas I was, in consequence of this deliberation and counselling with my own mind, fully prepared to achieve a great stroke of policy for the future government of the town. I saw that it would not do for me for a time to stand overly eminent forward, and that it was a better thing, in the world, to have power and influence, than to show the possession of either. Accordingly, after casting about from one thing to another, I bethought with myself, that it would be a great advantage if the council could be worked with, so as to nominate and appoint My Lord the next provost after me. In the proposing of this, I could see there would be no difficulty; but the hazard was, that his lordship might only be made a tool of instrumentality to our shrewd and sly town-clerk, Mr Keelivine, while it was of great importance that I should keep the management of my lord in my own hands. In this strait, however, a thing came to pass, which strongly confirms me in the opinion, that good-luck has really a great deal to say with the prosperity of men. The earl, who had not for years been in the country, came down in the summer from London, and I, together with the other magistrates and council, received an invitation to dine with him at the castle. We all of course went, "with our best breeding," as the old proverb says, "helped by our brawest cleeding;" but I soon saw that it was only a _pro forma_ dinner, and that there was nothing of cordiality in all the civility with which we were treated, both by my lord and my lady. Nor, indeed, could I, on an afterthought, blame our noble entertainers for being so on their guard; for in truth some of the deacons, (I'll no say any of the bailies,) were so transported out of themselves with the glory of my lord's banquet, and the thought of dining at the castle, and at the first table too, that when the wine began to fiz in their noddles, they forgot themselves entirely, and made no more of the earl than if he had been one of themselves. Seeing to what issue the matter was tending, I set a guard upon myself; and while my lord, out of a parly-voo politess, was egging them on, one after another, to drink deeper and deeper of his old wines, to the manifest detriment of their own senses, I kept myself in a degree as sober as a judge, warily noting all things that came to pass. The earl had really a commendable share of common sense for a lord, and the discretion of my conduct was not unnoticed by him; in so much, that after the major part of the council had become, as it may be said, out o' the body, cracking their jokes with one another, just as if all present had been carousing at the Cross-Keys, his lordship wised to me to come and sit beside him, where we had a very private and satisfactory conversation together; in the which conversation, I said, that it was a pity he would not allow himself to be nominated our provost. Nobody had ever minted to him a thought of the thing before; so it was no wonder that his lordship replied, with a look of surprise, saying, "That so far from refusing, he had never heard of any such proposal." "That is very extraordinary, my lord," said I; "for surely it is for your interests, and would to a certainty be a great advantage to the town, were your lordship to take upon you the nominal office of provost; I say nominal, my lord, because being now used to the duties, and somewhat experienced therein, I could take all the necessary part of the trouble off your lordship's hands, and so render the provostry in your lordship's name a perfect nonentity." Whereupon, he was pleased to say, if I would do so, and he commended my talents and prudence, he would have no objection to be made the provost at the ensuing election. Something more explicit might have ensued at that time; but Bailie M'Lucre and Mr Sharpset, who was the dean of guild, had been for about the space of half an hour carrying on a vehement argument anent some concern of the guildry, in which, coming to high words, and both being beguiled and ripened into folly by the earl's wine, they came into such a manifest quarrel, that Mr Sharpset pulled off the bailie's best wig, and flung it with a damn into the fire: the which stramash caused my lord to end the sederunt; but none of the magistrates, save myself, was in a condition to go with his lordship to My Lady in the drawing-room. CHAPTER XII--THE SPY Soon after the foregoing transaction, a thing happened that, in a manner, I would fain conceal and suppress from the knowledge of future times, although it was but a sort of sprose to make the world laugh. Fortunately for my character, however, it did not fall out exactly in my hands, although it happened in the course of my provostry. The matter spoken of, was the affair of a Frenchman who was taken up as a spy; for the American war was then raging, and the French had taken the part of the Yankee rebels. One day, in the month of August it was, I had gone on some private concernment of my own to Kilmarnock, and Mr Booble, who was then oldest Bailie, naturally officiated as chief magistrate in my stead. There have been, as the world knows, a disposition on the part of the grand monarque of that time, to invade and conquer this country, the which made it a duty incumbent on all magistrates to keep a vigilant eye on the in-comings and out-goings of aliens and other suspectable persons. On the said day, and during my absence, a Frenchman, that could speak no manner of English, somehow was discovered in the Cross-Key inns. What he was, or where he came from, nobody at the time could tell, as I was informed; but there he was, having come into the house at the door, with a bundle in his hand, and a portmanty on his shoulder, like a traveller out of some vehicle of conveyance. Mrs Drammer, the landlady, did not like his looks; for he had toozy black whiskers, was lank and wan, and moreover deformed beyond human nature, as she said, with a parrot nose, and had no cravat, but only a bit black riband drawn through two button- holes, fastening his ill-coloured sark neck, which gave him altogether something of an unwholesome, outlandish appearance. Finding he was a foreigner, and understanding that strict injunctions were laid on the magistrates by the king and government anent the egressing of such persons, she thought, for the credit of her house, and the safety of the community at large, that it behoved her to send word to me, then provost, of this man's visibility among us; but as I was not at home, Mrs Pawkie, my wife, directed the messenger to Bailie Booble's. The bailie was, at all times, overly ready to claught at an alarm; and when he heard the news, he went straight to the council-room, and sending for the rest of the council, ordered the alien enemy, as he called the forlorn Frenchman, to be brought before him. By this time, the suspicion of a spy in the town had spread far and wide; and Mrs Pawkie told me, that there was a palid consternation in every countenance when the black and yellow man--for he had not the looks of the honest folks of this country--was brought up the street between two of the town-officers, to stand an examine before Bailie Booble. Neither the bailie, nor those that were then sitting with him, could speak any French language, and "the alien enemy" was as little master of our tongue. I have often wondered how the bailie did not jealouse that he could be no spy, seeing how, in that respect, he wanted the main faculty. But he was under the enchantment of a panic, partly thinking also, perhaps, that he was to do a great exploit for the government in my absence. However, the man was brought before him, and there was he, and them all, speaking loud out to one another as if they had been hard of hearing, when I, on my coming home from Kilmarnock, went to see what was going on in the council. Considering that the procedure had been in handsome time before my arrival, I thought it judicious to leave the whole business with those present, and to sit still as a spectator; and really it was very comical to observe how the bailie was driven to his wit's-end by the poor lean and yellow Frenchman, and in what a pucker of passion the pannel put himself at every new interlocutor, none of which he could understand. At last, the bailie, getting no satisfaction--how could he?--he directed the man's portmanty and bundle to be opened; and in the bottom of the forementioned package, there, to be sure, was found many a mystical and suspicious paper, which no one could read; among others, there was a strange map, as it then seemed to all present. "I' gude faith," cried the bailie, with a keckle of exultation, "here's proof enough now. This is a plain map o' the Frith o' Clyde, all the way to the tail of the bank o' Greenock. This muckle place is Arran; that round ane is the craig of Ailsa; the wee ane between is Plada. Gentlemen, gentlemen, this is a sore discovery; there will be hanging and quartering on this." So he ordered the man to be forthwith committed as a king's prisoner to the tolbooth; and turning to me, said:--"My lord provost, as ye have not been present throughout the whole of this troublesome affair, I'll e'en gie an account mysel to the lord advocate of what we have done." I thought, at the time, there was something fey and overly forward in this, but I assented; for I know not what it was, that seemed to me as if there was something neither right nor regular; indeed, to say the truth, I was no ill pleased that the bailie took on him what he did; so I allowed him to write himself to the lord advocate; and, as the sequel showed, it was a blessed prudence on my part that I did so. For no sooner did his lordship receive the bailie's terrifying letter, than a special king's messenger was sent to take the spy into Edinburgh Castle; and nothing could surpass the great importance that Bailie Booble made of himself, on the occasion, on getting the man into a coach, and two dragoons to guard him into Glasgow. But oh! what a dejected man was the miserable Bailie Booble, and what a laugh rose from shop and chamber, when the tidings came out from Edinburgh that, "the alien enemy" was but a French cook coming over from Dublin, with the intent to take up the trade of a confectioner in Glasgow, and that the map of the Clyde was nothing but a plan for the outset of a fashionable table--the bailie's island of Arran being the roast beef, and the craig of Ailsa the plum-pudding, and Plada a butter- boat. Nobody enjoyed the jocularity of the business more than myself; but I trembled when I thought of the escape that my honour and character had with the lord advocate. I trow, Bailie Booble never set himself so forward from that day to this. CHAPTER XIII--THE MEAL MOB After the close of the American war, I had, for various reasons of a private nature, a wish to sequestrate myself for a time, from any very ostensible part in public affairs. Still, however, desiring to retain a mean of resuming my station, and of maintaining my influence in the council, I bespoke Mr Keg to act in my place as deputy for My Lord, who was regularly every year at this time chosen into the provostry. This Mr Keg was a man who had made a competency by the Isle-of-Man trade, and had come in from the laighlands, where he had been apparently in the farming line, to live among us; but for many a day, on account of something that happened when he was concerned in the smuggling, he kept himself cannily aloof from all sort of town matters; deporting himself with a most creditable sobriety; in so much, that there was at one time a sough that Mr Pittle, the minister, our friend, had put him on the leet for an elder. That post, however, if it was offered to him, he certainly never accepted; but I jealouse that he took the rumour o't for a sign that his character had ripened into an estimation among us, for he thenceforth began to kithe more in public, and was just a patron to every manifestation of loyalty, putting more lights in his windows in the rejoicing nights of victory than any other body, Mr M'Creesh, the candlemaker, and Collector Cocket, not excepted. Thus, in the fulness of time, he was taken into the council, and no man in the whole corporation could be said to be more zealous than he was. In respect, therefore, to him, I had nothing to fear, so far as the interests, and, over and above all, the loyalty of the corporation, were concerned; but something like a quailing came over my heart, when, after the breaking up of the council on the day of election, he seemed to shy away from me, who had been instrumental to his advancement. However, I trow he had soon reason to repent of that ingratitude, as I may well call it; for when the troubles of the meal mob came upon him, I showed him that I could keep my distance as well as my neighbours. It was on the Friday, our market-day, that the hobleshow began, and in the afternoon, when the farmers who had brought in their victual for sale were loading their carts to take it home again, the price not having come up to their expectation. All the forenoon, as the wives that went to the meal-market, came back railing with toom pocks and basins, it might have been foretold that the farmers would have to abate their extortion, or that something would come o't before night. My new house and shop being forenent the market, I had noted this, and said to Mrs Pawkie, my wife, what I thought would be the upshot, especially when, towards the afternoon, I observed the commonality gathering in the market-place, and no sparing in their tongues to the farmers; so, upon her advice, I directed Thomas Snakers to put on the shutters. Some of the farmers were loading their carts to go home, when the schools skailed, and all the weans came shouting to the market. Still nothing happened, till tinkler Jean, a randy that had been with the army at the siege of Gibraltar, and, for aught I ken, in the Americas, if no in the Indies likewise;--she came with her meal-basin in her hand, swearing, like a trooper, that if she didna get it filled with meal at fifteen-pence a peck, (the farmers demanded sixteen), she would have the fu' o't of their heart's blood; and the mob of thoughtless weans and idle fellows, with shouts and yells, encouraged Jean, and egged her on to a catastrophe. The corruption of the farmers was thus raised, and a young rash lad, the son of James Dyke o' the Mount, whom Jean was blackguarding at a dreadful rate, and upbraiding on account of some ploy he had had with the Dalmailing session anent a bairn, in an unguarded moment lifted his hand, and shook his neive in Jean's face, and even, as she said, struck her. He himself swore an affidavit that he gave her only a ding out of his way; but be this as it may, at him rushed Jean with open mouth, and broke her timbermeal-basin on his head, as it had been an egg- shell. Heaven only knows what next ensued; but in a jiffy the whole market-place was as white with scattered meal as if it had been covered with snow, and the farmers were seen flying helter skelter out at the townhead, pursued by the mob, in a hail and whirlwind of stones and glaur. Then the drums were heard beating to arms, and the soldiers were seen flying to their rendezvous. I stood composedly at the dining-room window, and was very thankful that I wasna provost in such a hurricane, when I saw poor Mr Keg, as pale as a dish clout, running to and fro bareheaded, with the town-officers and their halberts at his heels, exhorting and crying till he was as hoarse as a crow, to the angry multitude, that was raging and tossing like a sea in the market-place. Then it was that he felt the consequence of his pridefulness towards me; for, observing me standing in serenity at the window, he came, and in a vehement manner cried to me for the love of heaven to come to his assistance, and pacify the people. It would not have been proper in me to have refused; so out I went in the very nick of time: for when I got to the door, there was the soldiers in battle array, coming marching with fife and drum up the gait with Major Blaze at their head, red and furious in the face, and bent on some bloody business. The first thing I did was to run to the major, just as he was facing the men for a "charge bagonets" on the people, crying to him to halt; for the riot act wasna yet read, and the murder of all that might be slain would lie at his door; at which to hear he stood aghast, and the men halted. Then I flew back to the provost, and I cried to him, "Read the riot act!" which some of the mob hearing, became terrified thereat, none knowing the penalties or consequences thereof, when backed by soldiers; and in a moment, as if they had seen the glimpse of a terrible spirit in the air, the whole multitude dropped the dirt and stones out of their hands, and, turning their backs, flew into doors and closes, and were skailed before we knew where we were. It is not to be told the laud and admiration that I got for my ability in this business; for the major was so well pleased to have been saved from a battle, that, at my suggestion, he wrote an account of the whole business to the commander-in-chief, assuring him that, but for me, and my great weight and authority in the town, nobody could tell what the issue might have been; so that the Lord Advocate, to whom the report was shown by the general, wrote me a letter of thanks in the name of the government; and I, although not provost, was thus seen and believed to be a person of the foremost note and consideration in the town. But although the mob was dispersed, as I have related, the consequences did not end there; for, the week following, none of the farmers brought in their victual; and there was a great lamentation and moaning in the market-place when, on the Friday, not a single cart from the country was to be seen, but only Simon Laidlaw's, with his timber caps and luggies; and the talk was, that meal would be half-a-crown the peck. The grief, however, of the business wasna visible till the Saturday--the wonted day for the poor to seek their meat--when the swarm of beggars that came forth was a sight truly calamitous. Many a decent auld woman that had patiently eiked out the slender thread of a weary life with her wheel, in privacy, her scant and want known only to her Maker, was seen going from door to door with the salt tear in her e'e, and looking in the face of the pitiful, being as yet unacquainted with the language of beggary; but the worst sight of all was two bonny bairns, dressed in their best, of a genteel demeanour, going from house to house like the hungry babes in the wood: nobody kent who they were, nor whar they came from; but as I was seeing them served myself at our door, I spoke to them, and they told me that their mother was lying sick and ill at home. They were the orphans of a broken merchant from Glasgow, and, with their mother, had come out to our town the week before, without knowing where else to seek their meat. Mrs Pawkie, who was a tender-hearted mother herself, took in the bairns on hearing this, and we made of them, and the same night, among our acquaintance, we got a small sum raised to assist their mother, who proved a very well-bred and respectable lady-like creature. When she got better, she was persuaded to take up a school, which she kept for some years, with credit to herself and benefit to the community, till she got a legacy left her by a brother that died in India, the which, being some thousands, caused her to remove into Edinburgh, for the better education of her own children; and its seldom that legacies are so well bestowed, for she never forgot Mrs Pawkie's kindness, and out of the fore-end of her wealth she sent her a very handsome present. Divers matters of elegance have come to us from her, year by year, since syne, and regularly on the anniversary day of that sore Saturday, as the Saturday following the meal mob was ever after called. CHAPTER XIV--THE SECOND PROVOSTRY I have had occasion to observe in the course of my experience, that there is not a greater mollifier of the temper and nature of man than a constant flowing in of success and prosperity. From the time that I had been dean of guild, I was sensible of a considerable increase of my worldly means and substance; and although Bailie M'Lucre played me a soople trick at the election, by the inordinate sale and roup of his potatoe-rig, the which tried me, as I do confess, and nettled me with disappointment; yet things, in other respects, went so well with me that, about the eighty-eight, I began to put forth my hand again into public affairs, endowed both with more vigour and activity than it was in the first period of my magisterial functions. Indeed, it may be here proper for me to narrate, that my retiring into the background during the last two or three years, was a thing, as I have said, done on mature deliberation; partly, in order that the weight of my talents might be rightly estimated; and partly, that men might, of their own reflections, come to a proper understanding concerning them. I did not secede from the council. Could I have done that with propriety, I would assuredly not have scrupled to make the sacrifice; but I knew well that, if I was to resign, it would not be easy afterwards to get myself again chosen in. In a word, I was persuaded that I had, at times, carried things a little too highly, and that I had the adversary of a rebellious feeling in the minds and hearts of the corporation against me. However, what I did, answered the end and purpose I had in view; folk began to wonder and think with themselves, what for Mr Pawkie had ceased to bestir himself in public affairs; and the magistrates and council having, on two or three occasions, done very unsatisfactory things, it was said by one, and echoed by another, till the whole town was persuaded of the fact, that, had I lent my shoulder to the wheel, things would not have been as they were. But the matter which did the most service to me at this time, was a rank piece of idolatry towards my lord, on the part of Bailie M'Lucre, who had again got himself most sickerly installed in the guildry. Sundry tacks came to an end in this year of eighty-eight; and among others, the Niggerbrae park, which, lying at a commodious distance from the town, might have been relet with a rise and advantage. But what did the dean of guild do? He, in some secret and clandestine manner, gave a hint to my lord's factor to make an offer for the park on a two nineteen years' lease, at the rent then going--the which was done in my lord's name, his lordship being then provost. The Niggerbrae was accordingly let to him, at the same rent which the town received for it in the sixty-nine. Nothing could be more manifest than that there was some jookerie cookerie in this affair; but in what manner it was done, or how the dean of guild's benefit was to ensue, no one could tell, and few were able to conjecture; for my lord was sorely straitened for money, and had nothing to spare out of hand. However, towards the end of the year, a light broke in upon us. Gabriel M'Lucre, the dean of guild's fifth son, a fine spirited laddie, somehow got suddenly a cadetcy to go to India; and there were uncharitably-minded persons, who said, that this was the payment for the Niggerbrae job to my lord. The outcry, in consequence, both against the dean of guild, and especially against the magistrates and council for consenting thereto, was so extraordinary, and I was so openly upbraided for being so long lukewarm, that I was, in a manner, forced again forward to take a prominent part; but I took good care to let it be well known, that, in resuming my public faculties, I was resolved to take my own way, and to introduce a new method and reformation into all our concerns. Accordingly, at the Michaelmas following, that is, in the eighty-nine, I was a second time chosen to the provostry, with an understanding, that I was to be upheld in the office and dignity for two years; and that sundry improvements, which I thought the town was susceptible of, both in the causey of the streets and the reparation of the kirk, should be set about under my direction; but the way in which I handled the same, and brought them to a satisfactory completeness and perfection, will supply abundant matter for two chapters. CHAPTER XV--ON THE IMPROVEMENT OF THE STREETS In ancient times, Gudetown had been fortified with ports and gates at the end of the streets; and in troublesome occasions, the country people, as the traditions relate, were in the practice of driving in their families and cattle for shelter. This gave occasion to that great width in our streets, and those of other royal burghs, which is so remarkable; the same being so built to give room and stance for the cattle. But in those days the streets were not paved at the sides, but only in the middle, or, as it was called, the crown of the causey; which was raised and backed upward, to let the rain-water run off into the gutters. In progress of time, however, as the land and kingdom gradually settled down into an orderly state, the farmers and country folk having no cause to drive in their herds and flocks, as in the primitive ages of a rampageous antiquity, the proprietors of houses in the town, at their own cost, began, one after another, to pave the spaces of ground between their steadings and the crown of the causey; the which spaces were called lones, and the lones being considered as private property, the corporation had only regard to the middle portion of the street--that which I have said was named the crown of the causey. The effect of this separation of interests in a common good began to manifest itself, when the pavement of the crown of the causey, by neglect, became rough and dangerous to loaded carts and gentlemen's carriages passing through the town; in so much that, for some time prior to my second provostry, the carts and carriages made no hesitation of going over the lones, instead of keeping the highway in the middle of the street; at which many of the burgesses made loud and just complaints. One dark night, the very first Sunday after my restoration to the provostry, there was like to have happened a very sore thing by an old woman, one Peggy Waife, who had been out with her gown-tail over her head for a choppin of strong ale. As she was coming home, with her ale in a greybeard in her hand, a chaise in full bir came upon her and knocked her down, and broke the greybeard and spilt the liquor. The cry was terrible; some thought poor Peggy was killed outright, and wives, with candles in their hands, started out at the doors and windows. Peggy, however, was more terrified than damaged; but the gentry that were in the chaise, being termagant English travellers, swore like dragoons that the streets should be indicted as a nuisance; and when they put up at the inns, two of them came to me, as provost, to remonstrate on the shameful condition of the pavement, and to lodge in my hands the sum of ten pounds for the behoof of Peggy; the which was greater riches than ever the poor creature thought to attain in this world. Seeing they were gentlemen of a right quality, I did what I could to pacify them, by joining in every thing they said in condemnation of the streets; telling them, at the same time, that the improvement of the causey was to be the very first object and care of my provostry. And I bade Mrs Pawkie bring in the wine decanters, and requested them to sit down with me and take a glass of wine and a sugar biscuit; the civility of which, on my part, soon brought them into a peaceable way of thinking, and they went away, highly commanding my politess and hospitality, of which they spoke in the warmest terms, to their companion when they returned to the inns, as the waiter who attended them overheard, and told the landlord, who informed me and others of the same in the morning. So that on the Saturday following, when the town-council met, there was no difficulty in getting a minute entered at the sederunt, that the crown of the causey should be forthwith put in a state of reparation. Having thus gotten the thing determined upon, I then proposed that we should have the work done by contract, and that notice should be given publicly of such being our intent. Some boggling was made to this proposal, it never having been the use and wont of the corporation, in time past, to do any thing by contract, but just to put whatever was required into the hands of one of the council, who got the work done in the best way he could; by which loose manner of administration great abuses were often allowed to pass unreproved. But I persisted in my resolution to have the causey renewed by contract; and all the inhabitants of the town gave me credit for introducing such a great reformation into the management of public affairs. When it was made known that we would receive offers to contract, divers persons came forward; and I was a little at a loss, when I saw such competition, as to which ought to be preferred. At last, I bethought me, to send for the different competitors, and converse with them on the subject quietly; and I found in Thomas Shovel, the tacksman of Whinstone- quarry, a discreet and considerate man. His offer was, it is true, not so low as some of the others; but he had facilities to do the work quickly, that none of the rest could pretend to; so, upon a clear understanding of that, with the help of the dean of guild M'Lucre's advocacy, Thomas Shovel got the contract. At first, I could not divine what interest my old friend, the dean of guild, had to be so earnest in behalf of the offering contractor; in course of time, however, it spunkit out that he was a sleeping partner in the business, by which he made a power of profit. But saving two three carts of stones to big a dyke round the new steading which I had bought a short time before at the town- end, I had no benefit whatever. Indeed, I may take it upon me to say, that should not say it, few provosts, in so great a concern, could have acted more on a principle than I did in this; and if Thomas Shovel, of his free-will, did, at the instigation of the dean of guild, lay down the stones on my ground as aforesaid, the town was not wronged; for, no doubt, he paid me the compliment at some expense of his own profit. CHAPTER XVI--ABOUT THE REPAIR OF THE KIRK The repair of the kirk, the next job I took in hand, was not so easily managed as that of the causey; for it seems, in former times, the whole space of the area had been free to the parish in general, and that the lofts were constructions, raised at the special expense of the heritors for themselves. The fronts being for their families, and the back seats for their servants and tenants. In those times there were no such things as pews; but only forms, removeable, as I have heard say, at pleasure. It, however, happened, in the course of nature, that certain forms came to be sabbathly frequented by the same persons; who, in this manner, acquired a sort of prescriptive right to them. And those persons or families, one after another, finding it would be an ease and convenience to them during divine worship, put up backs to their forms. But still, for many a year, there was no inclosure of pews; the first, indeed, that made a pew, as I have been told, was one Archibald Rafter, a wright, and the grandfather of Mr Rafter, the architect, who has had so much to do with the edification of the new town of Edinburgh. This Archibald's form happened to be near the door, on the left side of the pulpit; and in the winter, when the wind was in the north, it was a very cold seat, which induced him to inclose it round and round, with certain old doors and shutters, which he had acquired in taking down and rebuilding the left wing of the whinny hill house. The comfort in which this enabled him and his family to listen to the worship, had an immediate effect; and the example being of a taking nature, in the course of little more than twenty years from the time, the whole area of the kirk had been pewed in a very creditable manner. Families thus getting, as it were, portions of the church, some, when removing from the town, gave them up to their neighbours on receiving a consideration for the expense they had been at in making the pews; so that, from less to more, the pews so formed became a lettable and a vendible property. It was, therefore, thought a hard thing, that in the reparation which the seats had come to require in my time, the heritors and corporation should be obligated to pay the cost and expense of what was so clearly the property of others; while it seemed an impossibility to get the whole tot of the proprietors of the pews to bear the expense of new-seating the kirk. We had in the council many a long and weighty sederunt on the subject, without coming to any practical conclusion. At last, I thought the best way, as the kirk was really become a disgrace to the town, would be, for the corporation to undertake the repair entirely, upon an understanding that we were to be paid eighteen pence a bottom- room, per _annum_, by the proprietors of the pews; and, on sounding the heritors, I found them all most willing to consent thereto, glad to be relieved from the awful expense of gutting and replenishing such a great concern as the kirk was. Accordingly the council having agreed to this proposal, we had plans and estimates made, and notice given to the owners of pews of our intention. The whole proceedings gave the greatest satisfaction possible to the inhabitants in general, who lauded and approved of my discernment more and more. By the estimate, it was found that the repairs would cost about a thousand pounds; and by the plan, that the seats, at eighteen pence a sitter, would yield better than a hundred pounds a-year; so that there was no scruple, on the part of the town-council, in borrowing the money wanted. This was the first public debt ever contracted by the corporation, and people were very fain to get their money lodged at five per cent. on such good security; in so much, that we had a great deal more offered than we required at that time and epoch. CHAPTER XVII--THE LAW PLEA The repair of the kirk was undertaken by contract with William Plane, the joiner, with whom I was in terms at the time anent the bigging of a land of houses on my new steading at the town-end. A most reasonable man in all things he was, and in no concern of my own had I a better satisfaction than in the house he built for me at the conjuncture when he had the town's work in the kirk; but there was at that period among us a certain person, of the name of Nabal Smeddum, a tobacconist by calling, who, up to this season, had been regarded but as a droll and comical body at a coothy crack. He was, in stature, of the lower order of mankind, but endowed with an inclination towards corpulency, by which he had acquired some show of a belly, and his face was round, and his cheeks both red and sleeky. He was, however, in his personalities, chiefly remarkable for two queer and twinkling little eyes, and for a habitual custom of licking his lips whenever he said any thing of pith or jocosity, or thought that he had done so, which was very often the case. In his apparel, as befitted his trade, he wore a suit of snuff-coloured cloth, and a brown round-eared wig, that curled close in to his neck. Mr Smeddum, as I have related, was in some estimation for his comicality; but he was a dure hand at an argument, and would not see the plainest truth when it was not on his side of the debate. No occasion or cause, however, had come to pass by which this inherent cross-grainedness was stirred into action, till the affair of reseating the kirk--a measure, as I have mentioned, which gave the best satisfaction; but it happened that, on a Saturday night, as I was going soberly home from a meeting of the magistrates in the clerk's chamber, I by chance recollected that I stood in need of having my box replenished; and accordingly, in the most innocent and harmless manner that it was possible for a man to do, I stepped into this Mr Smeddum, the tobacconist's shop, and while he was compounding my mixture from the two canisters that stood on his counter, and I was in a manner doing nothing but looking at the number of counterfeit sixpences and shillings that were nailed thereon as an admonishment to his customers, he said to me, "So, provost, we're to hae a new lining to the kirk. I wonder, when ye were at it, that ye didna rather think of bigging another frae the fundament, for I'm thinking the walls are no o' a capacity of strength to outlast this seating." Knowing, as I did, the tough temper of the body, I can attribute my entering into an argument with him on the subject to nothing but some inconsiderate infatuation; for when I said heedlessly, the walls are very good, he threw the brass snuff-spoon with an ecstasy in to one of the canisters, and lifting his two hands into a posture of admiration,--cried, as if he had seen an unco-- "Good! surely, provost, ye hae na had an inspection; they're crackit in divers places; they're shotten out wi' infirmity in others. In short, the whole kirk, frae the coping to the fundament, is a fabric smitten wi' a paralytic." "It's very extraordinar, Mr Smeddum," was my reply, "that nobody has seen a' this but yoursel'." "Na, if ye will deny the fact, provost," quo' he, "it's o' no service for me to say a word; but there has to a moral certainty been a slackness somewhere, or how has it happened that the wa's were na subjected to a right inspection before this job o' the seating?" By this time, I had seen the great error into the which I had fallen, by entering on a confabulation with Mr Smeddum; so I said to him, "It' no a matter for you and me to dispute about, so I'll thank you to fill my box;" the which manner of putting an end to the debate he took very ill; and after I left the shop, he laid the marrow of our discourse open to Mr Threeper the writer, who by chance went in, like mysel', to get a supply of rappee for the Sabbath. That limb of the law discerning a sediment of litigation in the case, eggit on Mr Smeddum into a persuasion that the seating of the kirk was a thing which the magistrates had no legal authority to undertake. At this critical moment, my ancient adversary and seeming friend, the dean of guild, happened to pass the door, and the bickering snuff-man seeing him, cried to him to come in. It was a very unfortunate occurrence; for Mr M'Lucre having a secret interest, as I have intimated, in the Whinstone quarry, when he heard of taking down walls and bigging them up again, he listened with greedy ears to the dubieties of Mr Threeper, and loudly, and to the heart's content of Mr Smeddum, condemned the frailty and infirmity of the kirk, as a building in general. It would be overly tedious to mention, however, all the outs and ins of the affair; but, from less to more, a faction was begotten, and grew to head, and stirring among the inhabitants of the town, not only with regard to the putting of new seats within the old walls, but likewise as to the power of the magistrates to lay out any part of the public funds in the reparation of the kirk; and the upshot was, a contribution among certain malecontents, to enable Mr Threeper to consult on all the points. As in all similar cases, the parties applying for legal advice were heartened into a plea by the opinion they got, and the town-council was thrown into the greatest consternation by receiving notice that the malecontents were going to extremities. Two things I saw it was obligational on me to urge forward; the one was to go on still with the reparations, and the other to contest the law- suit, although some were for waiting in the first case till the plea was settled, and in the second to make no defence, but to give up our intention anent the new-seating. But I thought that, as we had borrowed the money for the repairs, we should proceed; and I had a vista that the contribution raised by the Smeddumites, as they were caller, would run out, being from their own pockets, whereas we fought with the public purse in our hand; and by dint of exhortation to that effect, I carried the majority to go into my plan, which in the end was most gratifying, for the kirk was in a manner made as good as new, and the contributional stock of the Smeddumites was entirely rookit by the lawyers, who would fain have them to form another, assuring them that, no doubt, the legal point was in their favour. But every body knows the uncertainty of a legal opinion; and although the case was given up, for lack of a fund to carry it on, there was a living ember of discontent left in its ashes, ready to kindle into a flame on the first puff of popular dissatisfaction. CHAPTER XVIII--THE SUPPRESSION OF THE FAIRS The spirit by which the Smeddumites were actuated in ecclesiastical affairs, was a type and taste of the great distemper with which all the world was, more or less, at the time inflamed, and which cast the ancient state and monarchy of France into the perdition of anarchy and confusion. I think, upon the whole, however, that our royal burgh was not afflicted to any very dangerous degree, though there was a sort of itch of it among a few of the sedentary orders, such as the weavers and shoemakers, who, by the nature of sitting long in one posture, are apt to become subject to the flatulence of theoretical opinions; but although this was my notion, yet knowing how much better the king and government were acquainted with the true condition of things than I could to a certainty be, I kept a steady eye on the proceedings of the ministers and parliament at London, taking them for an index and model for the management of the public concerns, which, by the grace of God, and the handling of my friends, I was raised up and set forward to undertake. Seeing the great dread and anxiety that was above, as to the inordinate liberty of the multitude, and how necessary it was to bridle popularity, which was become rampant and ill to ride, kicking at all established order, and trying to throw both king and nobles from the saddle, I resolved to discountenance all tumultuous meetings, and to place every reasonable impediment in the way of multitudes assembling together: indeed, I had for many years been of opinion, that fairs were become a great political evil to the regular shop-keepers, by reason of the packmen, and other travelling merchants, coming with their wares and under-selling us; so that both private interest and public principle incited me on to do all in my power to bring our fair-days into disrepute. It cannot be told what a world of thought and consideration this cost me before I lighted on the right method, nor, without a dive into the past times of antiquity, is it in the power of man to understand the difficulties of the matter. Some of our fair-days were remnants of the papistical idolatry, and instituted of old by the Pope and Cardinals, in order to make an income from the vice and immorality that was usually rife at the same. These, in the main points, were only market-days of a blither kind than the common. The country folks came in dressed in their best, the schools got the play, and a long rank of sweety-wives and their stands, covered with the wonted dainties of the occasion, occupied the sunny side of the High Street; while the shady side was, in like manner, taken possession of by the packmen, who, in their booths, made a marvellous display of goods of an inferior quality, with laces and ribands of all colours, hanging down in front, and twirling like pinnets in the wind. There was likewise the allurement of some compendious show of wild beasts; in short, a swatch of every thing that the art of man has devised for such occasions, to wile away the bawbee. Besides the fairs of this sort, that may be said to be of a pious origin, there were others of a more boisterous kind, that had come of the times of trouble, when the trades paraded with war-like weapons, and the banners of their respective crafts; and in every seventh year we had a resuscitation of King Crispianus in all his glory and regality, with the man in the coat-of-mail, of bell-metal, and the dukes, and lord mayor of London, at the which, the influx of lads and lasses from the country was just prodigious, and the rioting and rampaging at night, the brulies and the dancing, was worse than Vanity Fair in the Pilgrim's Progress. To put down, and utterly to abolish, by stress of law, or authority, any ancient pleasure of the commonality, I had learned, by this time, was not wisdom, and that the fairs were only to be effectually suppressed by losing their temptations, and so to cease to call forth any expectation of merriment among the people. Accordingly, with respect to the fairs of pious origin, I, without expounding my secret motives, persuaded the council, that, having been at so great an expense in new-paving the streets, we ought not to permit the heavy caravans of wild beasts to occupy, as formerly, the front of the Tolbooth towards the Cross; but to order them, for the future, to keep at the Greenhead. This was, in a manner, expurgating them out of the town altogether; and the consequence was, that the people, who were wont to assemble in the High Street, came to be divided, part gathering at the Greenhead, round the shows, and part remaining among the stands and the booths; thus an appearance was given of the fairs being less attended than formerly, and gradually, year after year, the venerable race of sweety-wives, and chatty packmen, that were so detrimental to the shopkeepers, grew less and less numerous, until the fairs fell into insignificance. At the parade fair, the remnant of the weapon-showing, I proceeded more roundly to work, and resolved to debar, by proclamation, all persons from appearing with arms; but the deacons of the trades spared me the trouble of issuing the same, for they dissuaded their crafts from parading. Nothing, however, so well helped me out as the volunteers, of which I will speak by and by; for when the war began, and they were formed, nobody could afterwards abide to look at the fantastical and disorderly marching of the trades, in their processions and paradings; so that, in this manner, all the glory of the fairs being shorn and expunged, they have fallen into disrepute, and have suffered a natural suppression. CHAPTER XIX--THE VOLUNTEERING The volunteers began in the year 1793, when the democrats in Paris threatened the downfall and utter subversion of kings, lords, and commons. As became us who were of the council, we drew up an address to his majesty, assuring him that our lives and fortunes were at his disposal. To the which dutiful address, we received, by return of post, a very gracious answer; and, at the same time, the lord-lieutenant gave me a bit hint, that it would be very pleasant to his majesty to hear that we had volunteers in our town, men of creditable connexions, and willing to defend their property. When I got this note from his lordship, I went to Mr Pipe, the wine-merchant, and spoke to him concerning it, and we had some discreet conversation on the same; in the which it was agreed between us that, as I was now rather inclined to a corpulency of parts, and being likewise chief civil magistrate, it would not do to set myself at the head of a body of soldiers, but that the consequence might be made up to me in the clothing of the men; so I consented to put the business into his hands upon this understanding. Accordingly, he went the same night with me to Mr Dinton, that was in the general merchandising line, a part-owner in vessels, a trafficker in corn, and now and then a canny discounter of bills, at a moderate rate, to folk in straits and difficulties. And we told him--the same being agreed between us, as the best way of fructifying the job to a profitable issue--that, as provost, I had got an intimation to raise a corps of volunteers, and that I thought no better hand could be got for a co-operation than him and Mr Pipe, who was pointed out to me as a gentleman weel qualified for the command. Mr Dinton, who was a proud man, and an offset from one of the county families, I could see was not overly pleased at the preferment over him given to Mr Pipe, so that I was in a manner constrained to loot a sort a- jee, and to wile him into good-humour with all the ability in my power, by saying that it was natural enough of the king and government to think of Mr Pipe as one of the most proper men in the town, he paying, as he did, the largest sum of the king's dues at the excise, and being, as we all knew, in a great correspondence with foreign ports--and I winkit to Mr Pipe as I said this, and he could with a difficulty keep his countenance at hearing how I so beguiled Mr Dinton into a spirit of loyalty for the raising of the volunteers. The ice being thus broken, next day we had a meeting, before the council met, to take the business into public consideration, and we thereat settled on certain creditable persons in the town, of a known principle, as the fittest to be officers under the command of Mr Pipe, as commandant, and Mr Dinton, as his colleague under him. We agreed among us, as the custom was in other places, that they should be elected major, captain, lieutenants, and ensigns, by the free votes of the whole corps, according to the degrees that we had determined for them. In the doing of this, and the bringing it to pass, my skill and management was greatly approved and extolled by all who had a peep behind the curtain. The town-council being, as I have intimated, convened to hear the gracious answer to the address read, and to take into consideration the suggesting anent the volunteering, met in the clerk's chamber, where we agreed to call a meeting of the inhabitants of the town by proclamation, and by a notice in the church. This being determined, Mr Pipe and Mr Dinton got a paper drawn up, and privately, before the Sunday, a number of their genteeler friends, including those whom we had noted down to be elected officers, set their names as willing to be volunteers. On the Sunday, Mr Pittle, at my instigation, preached a sermon, showing forth the necessity of arming ourselves in the defence of all that was dear to us. It was a discourse of great method and sound argument, but not altogether so quickened with pith and bir as might have been wished for; but it paved the way to the reading out of the summons for the inhabitants to meet the magistrates in the church on the Thursday following, for the purpose, as it was worded by the town-clerk, to take into consideration the best means of saving the king and kingdom in the then monstrous crisis of public affairs. The discourse, with the summons, and a rumour and whispering that had in the mean time taken place, caused the desired effect; in so much, that, on the Thursday, there was a great congregation of the male portion of the people. At the which, old Mr Dravel--a genteel man he was, well read in matters of history, though somewhat over-portioned with a conceit of himself--got up on the table, in one of the table-seats forenent the poopit, and made a speech suitable to the occasion; in the which he set forth what manful things had been done of old by the Greeks and the Romans for their country, and, waxing warm with his subject, he cried out with a loud voice, towards the end of the discourse, giving at the same time a stamp with his foot, "Come, then, as men and as citizens; the cry is for your altars and your God." "Gude save's, Mr Dravel, are ye gane by yoursel?" cried Willy Coggle from the front of the loft, a daft body that was ayefar ben on all public occasions--"to think that our God's a Pagan image in need of sick feckless help as the like o' thine?" The which outcry of Willy raised a most extraordinary laugh at the fine paternoster, about the ashes of our ancestors, that Mr Dravel had been so vehemently rehearsing; and I was greatly afraid that the solemnity of the day would be turned into a ridicule. However, Mr Pipe, who was upon the whole a man no without both sense and capacity, rose and said, that our business was to strengthen the hands of government, by coming forward as volunteers; and therefore, without thinking it necessary, among the people of this blessed land, to urge any arguments in furtherance of that object, he would propose that a volunteer corps should be raised; and he begged leave of me, who, as provost, was in the chair, to read a few words that he had hastily thrown together on the subject, as the outlines of a pact of agreement among those who might be inclined to join with him. I should here, however, mention, that the said few words of a pact was the costive product overnight of no small endeavour between me and Mr Dinton as well as him. When he had thus made his motion, Mr Dinton, as we had concerted, got up and seconded the same, pointing out the liberal spirit in which the agreement was drawn, as every person signing it was eligible to be an officer of any rank, and every man had a vote in the preferment of the officers. All which was mightily applauded; and upon this I rose, and said, "It was a pleasant thing for me to have to report to his majesty's government the loyalty of the inhabitants of our town, and the unanimity of the volunteering spirit among them--and to testify," said I, "to all the world, how much we are sensible of the blessings of the true liberty we enjoy, I would suggest that the matter of the volunteering be left entirely to Mr Pipe and Mr Dinton, with a few other respectable gentlemen, as a committee, to carry the same into effect;" and with that I looked, as it were, round the church, and then said, "There's Mr Oranger, a better couldna be joined with them." He was a most creditable man, and a grocer, that we had waled out for a captain; so I desired, having got a nod of assent from him, that Mr Oranger's name might be added to their's, as one of the committee. In like manner I did by all the rest whom we had previously chosen. Thus, in a manner, predisposing the public towards them for officers. In the course of the week, by the endeavours of the committee, a sufficient number of names was got to the paper, and the election of the officers came on on the Tuesday following; at which, though there was a sort of a contest, and nothing could be a fairer election, yet the very persons that we had chosen were elected, though some of them had but a narrow chance. Mr Pipe was made the commandant, by a superiority of only two votes over Mr Dinton. CHAPTER XX--THE CLOTHING It was an understood thing at first, that, saving in the matter of guns and other military implements, the volunteers were to be at all their own expenses; out of which, both tribulation and disappointment ensued; for when it came to be determined about the uniforms, Major Pipe found that he could by no possibility wise all the furnishing to me, every one being disposed to get his regimentals from his own merchant; and there was also a division anent the colour of the same, many of the doucer sort of the men being blate of appearing in scarlet and gold-lace, insisting with a great earnestness, almost to a sedition, on the uniform being blue. So that the whole advantage of a contract was frustrated, and I began to be sorry that I had not made a point of being, notwithstanding the alleged weight and impediment of my corpulence, the major-commandant myself. However, things, after some time, began to take a turn for the better; and the art of raising volunteers being better understood in the kingdom, Mr Pipe went into Edinburgh, and upon some conference with the lord advocate, got permission to augment his force by another company, and leave to draw two days' pay a-week for account of the men, and to defray the necessary expenses of the corps. The doing of this bred no little agitation in the same; and some of the forward and upsetting spirits of the younger privates, that had been smitten, though not in a disloyal sense, with the insubordinate spirit of the age, clamoured about the rights of the original bargain with them, insisting that the officers had no privilege to sell their independence, and a deal of trash of that sort, and finally withdrew from the corps, drawing, to the consternation of the officers, the pay that had been taken in their names; and which the officers could not refuse, although it was really wanted for the contingencies of the service, as Major Pipe himself told me. When the corps had thus been rid of these turbulent spirits, the men grew more manageable and rational, assenting by little and little to all the proposals of the officers, until there was a true military dominion of discipline gained over them; and a joint contract was entered into between Major Pipe and me, for a regular supply of all necessaries, in order to insure a uniform appearance, which, it is well known, is essential to a right discipline. In the end, when the eyes of men in civil stations had got accustomed to military show and parade, it was determined to change the colour of the cloth from blue to red, the former having at first been preferred, and worn for some time; in the accomplishment of which change I had (and why should I disguise the honest fact?) my share of the advantage which the kingdom at large drew, in that period of anarchy and confusion, from the laudable establishment of a volunteer force. CHAPTER XXI--THE PRESSGANG During the same just and necessary war for all that was dear to us, in which the volunteers were raised, one of the severest trials happened to me that ever any magistrate was subjected to. I had, at the time, again subsided into an ordinary counsellor; but it so fell out that, by reason of Mr Shuttlethrift, who was then provost, having occasion and need to go into Glasgow upon some affairs of his own private concerns, he being interested in the Kilbeacon cotton-mill; and Mr Dalrye, the bailie, who should have acted for him, being likewise from home, anent a plea he had with a neighbour concerning the bounds of their rigs and gables; the whole authority and power of the magistrates devolved, by a courtesy on the part of their colleague, Bailie Hammerman, into my hands. For some time before, there had been an ingathering among us of sailor lads from the neighbouring ports, who on their arrival, in order to shun the pressgangs, left their vessels and came to scog themselves with us. By this, a rumour or a suspicion rose that the men-of-war's men were suddenly to come at the dead hour of the night and sweep them all away. Heaven only knows whether this notice was bred in the fears and jealousies of the people, or was a humane inkling given, by some of the men-of-war's men, to put the poor sailor lads on their guard, was never known. But on a Saturday night, as I was on the eve of stepping into my bed, I shall never forget it--Mrs Pawkie was already in, and as sound as a door-nail--and I was just crooking my mouth to blow out the candle, when I heard a rap. As our bed-room window was over the door, I looked out. It was a dark night; but I could see by a glaik of light from a neighbour's window, that there was a man with a cocked hat at the door. "What's your will?" said I to him, as I looked out at him in my nightcap. He made no other answer, but that he was one of his majesty's officers, and had business with the justice. I did not like this Englification and voice of claim and authority; however, I drew on my stockings and breeks again, and taking my wife's flannel coaty about my shoulders--for I was then troubled with the rheumatiz--I went down, and, opening the door, let in the lieutenant. "I come," said he, "to show you my warrant and commission, and to acquaint you that, having information of several able-bodied seamen being in the town, I mean to make a search for them." I really did not well know what to say at the moment; but I begged him, for the love of peace and quietness, to defer his work till the next morning: but he said he must obey his orders; and he was sorry that it was his duty to be on so disagreeable a service, with many other things, that showed something like a sense of compassion that could not have been hoped for in the captain of a pressgang. When he had said this, he then went away, saying, for he saw my tribulation, that it would be as well for me to be prepared in case of any riot. This was the worst news of all; but what could I do? I thereupon went again to Mrs Pawkie, and shaking her awake, told her what was going on, and a terrified woman she was. I then dressed myself with all possible expedition, and went to the town-clerk's, and we sent for the town-officers, and then adjourned to the council-chamber to wait the issue of what might betide. In my absence, Mrs Pawkie rose out of her bed, and by some wonderful instinct collecting all the bairns, went with them to the minister's house, as to a place of refuge and sanctuary. Shortly after we had been in the council-room, I opened the window and looked out, but all was still; the town was lying in the defencelessness of sleep, and nothing was heard but the clicking of the town-clock in the steeple over our heads. By and by, however, a sough and pattering of feet was heard approaching; and shortly after, in looking out, we saw the pressgang, headed by their officers, with cutlasses by their side, and great club-sticks in their hands. They said nothing; but the sound of their feet on the silent stones of the causey, was as the noise of a dreadful engine. They passed, and went on; and all that were with me in the council stood at the windows and listened. In the course of a minute or two after, two lassies, with a callan, that had been out, came flying and wailing, giving the alarm to the town. Then we heard the driving of the bludgeons on the doors, and the outcries of terrified women; and presently after we saw the poor chased sailors running in their shirts, with their clothes in their hands, as if they had been felons and blackguards caught in guilt, and flying from the hands of justice. The town was awakened with the din as with the cry of fire; and lights came starting forward, as it were, to the windows. The women were out with lamentations and vows of vengeance. I was in a state of horror unspeakable. Then came some three or four of the pressgang with a struggling sailor in their clutches, with nothing but his trousers on--his shirt riven from his back in the fury. Syne came the rest of the gang and their officers, scattered as it were with a tempest of mud and stones, pursued and battered by a troop of desperate women and weans, whose fathers and brothers were in jeopardy. And these were followed by the wailing wife of the pressed man, with her five bairns, clamouring in their agony to heaven against the king and government for the outrage. I couldna listen to the fearful justice of their outcry, but sat down in a corner of the council-chamber with my fingers in my ears. In a little while a shout of triumph rose from the mob, and we heard them returning, and I felt, as it were, relieved; but the sound of their voices became hoarse and terrible as they drew near, and, in a moment, I heard the jingle of twenty broken windows rattle in the street. My heart misgave me; and, indeed, it was my own windows. They left not one pane unbroken; and nothing kept them from demolishing the house to the ground- stone but the exhortations of Major Pipe, who, on hearing the uproar, was up and out, and did all in his power to arrest the fury of the tumult. It seems, the mob had taken it into their heads that I had signed what they called the press-warrants; and on driving the gang out of the town, and rescuing the man, they came to revenge themselves on me and mine; which is the cause that made me say it was a miraculous instinct that led Mrs Pawkie to take the family to Mr Pittle's; for, had they been in the house, it is not to be told what the consequences might have been. Before morning the riot was ended, but the damage to my house was very great; and I was intending, as the public had done the deed, that the town should have paid for it. "But," said Mr Keelivine, the town-clerk, "I think you may do better; and this calamity, if properly handled to the Government, may make your fortune," I reflected on the hint; and accordingly, the next day, I went over to the regulating captain of the pressgang, and represented to him the great damage and detriment which I had suffered, requesting him to represent to government that it was all owing to the part I had taken in his behalf. To this, for a time, he made some scruple of objection; but at last he drew up, in my presence, a letter to the lords of the admiralty, telling what he had done, and how he and his men had been ill-used, and that the house of the chief-magistrate of the town had been in a manner destroyed by the rioters. By the same post I wrote off myself to the lord advocate, and likewise to the secretary of state, in London; commanding, very properly, the prudent and circumspect manner in which the officer had come to apprize me of his duty, and giving as faithful an account as I well could of the riot; concluding with a simple notification of what had been done to my house, and the outcry that might be raised in the town were any part of the town's funds to be used in the repairs. Both the lord advocate and Mr Secretary of State wrote me back by retour of post, thanking me for my zeal in the public service; and I was informed that, as it might not be expedient to agitate in the town the payment of the damage which my house had received, the lords of the treasury would indemnify me for the same; and this was done in a manner which showed the blessings we enjoy under our most venerable constitution; for I was not only thereby enabled, by what I got, to repair the windows, but to build up a vacant steading; the same which I settled last year on my dochter, Marion, when she was married to Mr Geery, of the Gatherton Holme. CHAPTER XXII--THE WIG DINNER The affair of the pressgang gave great concern to all of the council; for it was thought that the loyalty of the burgh would be called in question, and doubted by the king's ministers, notwithstanding our many assurances to the contrary; the which sense and apprehension begat among us an inordinate anxiety to manifest our principles on all expedient occasions. In the doing of this, divers curious and comical things came to pass; but the most comical of all was what happened at the Michaelmas dinner following the riot. The weather, for some days before, had been raw for that time of the year, and Michaelmas-day was, both for wind and wet and cold, past ordinar; in so much that we were obligated to have a large fire in the council-chamber, where we dined. Round this fire, after drinking his majesty's health and the other appropriate toasts, we were sitting as cozy as could be; and every one the longer he sat, and the oftener his glass visited the punch-bowl, waxed more and more royal, till everybody was in a most hilarious temperament, singing songs and joining chorus with the greatest cordiality. It happened, among others of the company, there was a gash old carl, the laird of Bodletonbrae, who was a very capital hand at a joke; and he, chancing to notice that the whole of the magistrates and town-council then present wore wigs, feigned to become out of all bounds with the demonstrations of his devotion to king and country; and others that were there, not wishing to appear any thing behind him in the same, vied in their sprose of patriotism, and bragging in a manful manner of what, in the hour of trial, they would be seen to do. Bodletonbrae was all the time laughing in his sleeve at the way he was working them on, till at last, after they had flung the glasses twice or thrice over their shoulders, he proposed we should throw our wigs in the fire next. Surely there was some glammer about us that caused us not to observe his devilry, for the laird had no wig on his head. Be that, however, as it may, the instigation took effect, and in the twinkling of an eye every scalp was bare, and the chimley roaring with the roasting of gude kens how many powdered wigs well fattened with pomatum. But scarcely was the deed done, till every one was admonished of his folly, by the laird laughing, like a being out of his senses, at the number of bald heads and shaven crowns that his device had brought to light, and by one and all of us experiencing the coldness of the air on the nakedness of our upper parts. The first thing that we then did was to send the town-officers, who were waiting on as usual for the dribbles of the bottles and the leavings in the bowls, to bring our nightcaps, but I trow few were so lucky as me, for I had a spare wig at home, which Mrs Pawkie, my wife, a most considerate woman, sent to me; so that I was, in a manner, to all visibility, none the worse of the ploy; but the rest of the council were perfect oddities within their wigs, and the sorest thing of all was, that the exploit of burning the wigs had got wind; so that, when we left the council-room, there was a great congregation of funny weans and misleart trades' lads assembled before the tolbooth, shouting, and like as if they were out of the body with daffing, to see so many of the heads of the town in their night-caps, and no, maybe, just so solid at the time as could have been wished. Nor did the matter rest here; for the generality of the sufferers being in a public way, were obligated to appear the next day in their shops, and at their callings, with their nightcaps--for few of them had two wigs like me--by which no small merriment ensued, and was continued for many a day. It would hardly, however, be supposed, that in such a matter anything could have redounded to my advantage; but so it fell out, that by my wife's prudence in sending me my other wig, it was observed by the commonality, when we sallied forth to go home, that I had on my wig, and it was thought I had a very meritorious command of myself, and was the only man in the town fit for a magistrate; for in everything I was seen to be most cautious and considerate. I could not, however, when I saw the turn the affair took to my advantage, but reflect on what small and visionary grounds the popularity of public men will sometimes rest. CHAPTER XXIII--THREE THE DEATH OF MR M'LUCRE Shortly after the affair recorded in the foregoing chapter, an event came to pass in the burgh that had been for some time foreseen. My old friend and adversary, Bailie M'Lucre, being now a man well stricken in years, was one night, in going home from a gavawlling with some of the neighbours at Mr Shuttlethrift's, the manufacturer's, (the bailie, canny man, never liket ony thing of the sort at his own cost and outlay,) having partaken largely of the bowl, for the manufacturer was of a blithe humour--the bailie, as I was saying, in going home, was overtaken by an apoplexy just at the threshold of his own door, and although it did not kill him outright, it shoved him, as it were, almost into the very grave; in so much that he never spoke an articulate word during the several weeks he was permitted to doze away his latter end; and accordingly he died, and was buried in a very creditable manner to the community, in consideration of the long space of time he had been a public man among us. But what rendered the event of his death, in my opinion, the more remarkable, was, that I considered with him the last remnant of the old practice of managing the concerns of the town came to a period. For now that he is dead and gone, and also all those whom I found conjunct with him, when I came into power and office, I may venture to say, that things in yon former times were not guided so thoroughly by the hand of a disinterested integrity as in these latter years. On the contrary, it seemed to be the use and wont of men in public trusts, to think they were free to indemnify themselves in a left-handed way for the time and trouble they bestowed in the same. But the thing was not so far wrong in principle as in the hugger-muggering way in which it was done, and which gave to it a guilty colour, that, by the judicious stratagem of a right system, it would never have had. In sooth to say, through the whole course of my public life, I met with no greater difficulties and trials than in cleansing myself from the old habitudes of office. For I must in verity confess, that I myself partook, in a degree, at my beginning, of the caterpillar nature; and it was not until the light of happier days called forth the wings of my endowment, that I became conscious of being raised into public life for a better purpose than to prey upon the leaves and flourishes of the commonwealth. So that, if I have seemed to speak lightly of those doings that are now denominated corruptions, I hope it was discerned therein that I did so rather to intimate that such things were, than to consider them as in themselves commendable. Indeed, in their notations, I have endeavoured, in a manner, to be governed by the spirit of the times in which the transactions happened; for I have lived long enough to remark, that if we judge of past events by present motives, and do not try to enter into the spirit of the age when they took place, and to see them with the eyes with which they were really seen, we shall conceit many things to be of a bad and wicked character that were not thought so harshly of by those who witnessed them, nor even by those who, perhaps, suffered from them. While, therefore, I think it has been of a great advantage to the public to have survived that method of administration in which the like of Bailie M'Lucre was engendered, I would not have it understood that I think the men who held the public trusts in those days a whit less honest than the men of my own time. The spirit of their own age was upon them, as that of ours is upon us, and their ways of working the wherry entered more or less into all their trafficking, whether for the commonality, or for their own particular behoof and advantage. I have been thus large and frank in my reflections anent the death of the bailie, because, poor man, he had outlived the times for which he was qualified; and, instead of the merriment and jocularity that his wily by- hand ways used to cause among his neighbours, the rising generation began to pick and dab at him, in such a manner, that, had he been much longer spared, it is to be feared he would not have been allowed to enjoy his earnings both with ease and honour. However, he got out of the world with some respect, and the matters of which I have now to speak, are exalted, both in method and principle, far above the personal considerations that took something from the public virtue of his day and generation. CHAPTER XXIV--THE WINDY YULE It was in the course of the winter, after the decease of Bailie M'Lucre, that the great loss of lives took place, which every body agreed was one of the most calamitous things that had for many a year befallen the town. Three or four vessels were coming with cargoes of grain from Ireland; another from the Baltic with Norawa deals; and a third from Bristol, where she had been on a charter for some Greenock merchants. It happened that, for a time, there had been contrary winds, against which no vessel could enter the port, and the ships, whereof I have been speaking, were all lying together at anchor in the bay, waiting a change of weather. These five vessels were owned among ourselves, and their crews consisted of fathers and sons belonging to the place, so that, both by reason of interest and affection, a more than ordinary concern was felt for them; for the sea was so rough, that no boat could live in it to go near them, and we had our fears that the men on board would be very ill off. Nothing, however, occurred but this natural anxiety, till the Saturday, which was Yule. In the morning the weather was blasty and sleety, waxing more and more tempestuous till about mid-day, when the wind checked suddenly round from the nor-east to the sou-west, and blew a gale as if the prince of the powers of the air was doing his utmost to work mischief. The rain blattered, the windows clattered, the shop-shutters flapped, pigs from the lum-heads came rattling down like thunder-claps, and the skies were dismal both with cloud and carry. Yet, for all that, there was in the streets a stir and a busy visitation between neighbours, and every one went to their high windows, to look at the five poor barks that were warsling against the strong arm of the elements of the storm and the ocean. Still the lift gloomed, and the wind roared, and it was as doleful a sight as ever was seen in any town afflicted with calamity, to see the sailors' wives, with their red cloaks about their heads, followed by their hirpling and disconsolate bairns, going one after another to the kirkyard, to look at the vessels where their helpless breadwinners were battling with the tempest. My heart was really sorrowful, and full of a sore anxiety to think of what might happen to the town, whereof so many were in peril, and to whom no human magistracy could extend the arm of protection. Seeing no abatement of the wrath of heaven, that howled and roared around us, I put on my big-coat, and taking my staff in my hand, having tied down my hat with a silk handkerchief, towards gloaming I walked likewise to the kirkyard, where I beheld such an assemblage of sorrow, as few men in situation have ever been put to the trial to witness. In the lea of the kirk many hundreds of the town were gathered together; but there was no discourse among them. The major part were sailors' wives and weans, and at every new thud of the blast, a sob rose, and the mothers drew their bairns closer in about them, as if they saw the visible hand of a foe raised to smite them. Apart from the multitude, I observed three or four young lasses standing behind the Whinnyhill families' tomb, and I jealoused that they had joes in the ships; for they often looked to the bay, with long necks and sad faces, from behind the monument. A widow woman, one old Mary Weery, that was a lameter, and dependent on her son, who was on board the Louping Meg, (as the Lovely Peggy was nicknamed at the shore,) stood by herself, and every now and then wrung her hands, crying, with a woeful voice, "The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away, blessed be the name of the Lord;"--but it was manifest to all that her faith was fainting within her. But of all the piteous objects there, on that doleful evening, none troubled my thoughts more than three motherless children, that belonged to the mate of one of the vessels in the jeopardy. He was an Englishman that had been settled some years in the town, where his family had neither kith nor kin; and his wife having died about a month before, the bairns, of whom the eldest was but nine or so, were friendless enough, though both my gudewife, and other well-disposed ladies, paid them all manner of attention till their father would come home. The three poor little things, knowing that he was in one of the ships, had been often out and anxious, and they were then sitting under the lea of a headstone, near their mother's grave, chittering and creeping closer and closer at every squall. Never was such an orphan-like sight seen. When it began to be so dark that the vessels could no longer be discerned from the churchyard, many went down to the shore, and I took the three babies home with me, and Mrs Pawkie made tea for them, and they soon began to play with our own younger children, in blythe forgetfulness of the storm; every now and then, however, the eldest of them, when the shutters rattled and the lum-head roared, would pause in his innocent daffing, and cower in towards Mrs Pawkie, as if he was daunted and dismayed by something he knew not what. Many a one that night walked the sounding shore in sorrow, and fires were lighted along it to a great extent; but the darkness and the noise of the raging deep, and the howling wind, never intermitted till about midnight: at which time a message was brought to me, that it might be needful to send a guard of soldiers to the beach, for that broken masts and tackle had come in, and that surely some of the barks had perished. I lost no time in obeying this suggestion, which was made to me by one of the owners of the Louping Meg; and to show that I sincerely sympathized with all those in affliction, I rose and dressed myself, and went down to the shore, where I directed several old boats to be drawn up by the fires, and blankets to be brought, and cordials prepared, for them that might be spared with life to reach the land; and I walked the beach with the mourners till the morning. As the day dawned, the wind began to abate in its violence, and to wear away from the sou-west into the norit, but it was soon discovered that some of the vessels with the corn had perished; for the first thing seen, was a long fringe of tangle and grain along the line of the highwater mark, and every one strained with greedy and grieved eyes, as the daylight brightened, to discover which had suffered. But I can proceed no further with the dismal recital of that doleful morning. Let it suffice here to be known, that, through the haze, we at last saw three of the vessels lying on their beam-ends with their masts broken, and the waves riding like the furious horses of destruction over them. What had become of the other two was never known; but it was supposed that they had foundered at their anchors, and that all on board perished. The day being now Sabbath, and the whole town idle, every body in a manner was down on the beach, to help and mourn as the bodies, one after another, were cast out by the waves. Alas! few were the better of my provident preparation, and it was a thing not to be described, to see, for more than a mile along the coast, the new-made widows and fatherless bairns, mourning and weeping over the corpses of those they loved. Seventeen bodies were, before ten o'clock, carried to the desolated dwelling of their families; and when old Thomas Pull, the betheral, went to ring the bell for public worship, such was the universal sorrow of the town, that Nanse Donsie, an idiot natural, ran up the street to stop him, crying, in the voice of a pardonable desperation, "Wha, in sic a time, can praise the Lord?" CHAPTER XXV--THE SUBSCRIPTION The calamity of the storm opened and disposed the hearts of the whole town to charity; and it was a pleasure to behold the manner in which the tide of sympathy flowed towards the sufferers. Nobody went to the church in the forenoon; but when I had returned home from the shore, several of the council met at my house to confer anent the desolation, and it was concerted among us, at my suggestion, that there should be a meeting of the inhabitants called by the magistrates, for the next day, in order to take the public compassion with the tear in the eye--which was accordingly done by Mr Pittle himself from the pulpit, with a few judicious words on the heavy dispensation. And the number of folk that came forward to subscribe was just wonderful. We got well on to a hundred pounds in the first two hours, besides many a bundle of old clothes. But one of the most remarkable things in the business was done by Mr Macandoe. He was, in his original, a lad of the place, who had gone into Glasgow, where he was in a topping line; and happening to be on a visit to his friends at the time, he came to the meeting and put down his name for twenty guineas, which he gave me in bank-notes--a sum of such liberality as had never been given to the town from one individual man, since the mortification of fifty pounds that we got by the will of Major Bravery that died in Cheltenham, in England, after making his fortune in India. The sum total of the subscription, when we got my lord's five-and-twenty guineas, was better than two hundred pounds sterling--for even several of the country gentlemen were very generous contributors, and it is well known that they are not inordinately charitable, especially to town folks--but the distribution of it was no easy task, for it required a discrimination of character as well as of necessities. It was at first proposed to give it over to the session. I knew, however, that, in their hands, it would do no good; for Mr Pittle, the minister, was a vain sort of a body, and easy to be fleeched, and the bold and the bardy with him would be sure to come in for a better share than the meek and the modest, who might be in greater want. So I set myself to consider what was the best way of proceeding; and truly upon reflection, there are few events in my history that I look back upon with more satisfaction than the part I performed in this matter; for, before going into any division of the money, I proposed that we should allot it to three classes--those who were destitute; those who had some help, but large families; and those to whom a temporality would be sufficient--and that we should make a visitation to the houses of all the sufferers, in order to class them under their proper heads aright. By this method, and together with what I had done personally in the tempest, I got great praise and laud from all reflecting people; and it is not now to be told what a consolation was brought to many a sorrowful widow and orphan's heart, by the patience and temperance with which the fund of liberality was distributed; yet because a small sum was reserved to help some of the more helpless at another time, and the same was put out to interest in the town's books, there were not wanting evil-minded persons who went about whispering calumnious innuendos to my disadvantage; but I know, by this time, the nature of the world, and how impossible it is to reason with such a seven-headed and ten-horned beast as the multitude. So I said nothing; only I got the town-clerk's young man, who acted as clerk to the committee of the subscription, to make out a fair account of the distribution of the money, and to what intent the residue had been placed in the town-treasurer's hand; and this I sent unto a friend in Glasgow to get printed for me, the which he did; and when I got the copies, I directed one to every individual subscriber, and sent the town-drummer an end's errand with them, which was altogether a proceeding of a method and exactness so by common, that it not only quenched the envy of spite utterly out, but contributed more and more to give me weight and authority with the community, until I had the whole sway and mastery of the town. CHAPTER XXVI--OF THE PUBLIC LAMPS Death is a great reformer of corporate bodies, and we found, now and then, the benefit of his helping hand in our royal burgh. From the time of my being chosen into the council; and, indeed, for some years before, Mr Hirple had been a member, but, from some secret and unexpressed understanding among us, he was never made a bailie; for he was not liked; having none of that furthy and jocose spirit so becoming in a magistrate of that degree, and to which the gifts of gravity and formality make but an unsubstantial substitute. He was, on the contrary, a queer and quistical man, of a small stature of body, with an outshot breast, the which, I am inclined to think, was one of the main causes of our never promoting him into the ostensible magistracy; besides, his temper was exceedingly brittle; and in the debates anent the weightiest concerns of the public, he was apt to puff and fiz, and go off with a pluff of anger like a pioye; so that, for the space of more than five-and-twenty years, we would have been glad of his resignation; and, in the heat of argument, there was no lack of hints to that effect from more than one of his friends, especially from Bailie Picken, who was himself a sharp-tempered individual, and could as ill sit quiet under a contradiction as any man I ever was conjunct with. But just before the close of my second provostry, Providence was kind to Mr Hirple, and removed him gently away from the cares, and troubles, and the vain policy of this contending world, into, as I hope and trust, a far better place. It may seem, hereafter, to the unlearned readers among posterity, particularly to such of them as may happen not to be versed in that state of things which we were obligated to endure, very strange that I should make this special mention of Mr Hirple at his latter end, seeing and observing the small store and account I have thus set upon his talents and personalities. But the verity of the reason is plainly this: we never discovered his worth and value till we had lost him, or rather, till we found the defect and gap that his death caused, and the affliction that came in through it upon us in the ill-advised selection of Mr Hickery to fill his vacant place. The spunky nature of Mr Hirple was certainly very disagreeable often to most of the council, especially when there was any difference of opinion; but then it was only a sort of flash, and at the vote he always, like a reasonable man, sided with the majority, and never after attempted to rip up a decision when it was once so settled. Mr Hickery was just the even down reverse of this. He never, to be sure, ran himself into a passion, but then he continued to speak and argue so long in reply, never heeding the most rational things of his adversaries, that he was sure to put every other person in a rage; in addition to all which, he was likewise a sorrowful body in never being able to understand how a determination by vote ought to and did put an end to every questionable proceeding; so that he was, for a constancy, ever harping about the last subject discussed, as if it had not been decided, until a new difference of opinion arose, and necessitated him to change the burden and o'ercome of his wearysome speeches. It may seem remarkable that we should have taken such a plague into the council, and be thought that we were well served for our folly; but we were unacquaint with the character of the man--for although a native of the town, he was in truth a stranger, having, at an early age, espoused his fortune, and gone to Philadelphia in America; and no doubt his argol- bargolous disposition was an inheritance accumulated with his other conquest of wealth from the mannerless Yankees. Coming home and settling among us, with a power of money, (some said eleven thousand pounds,) a short time before Mr Hirple departed this life, we all thought, on that event happening, it would be a very proper compliment to take Mr Hickery into the council, and accordingly we were so misfortunate as to do so; but I trow we soon had reason to repent our indiscretion, and none more than myself, who had first proposed him. Mr Hickery having been chosen to supply the void caused by the death of Mr Hirple, in the very first sederunt of the council after his election, he kithed in his true colours. Among other things that I had contemplated for the ornament and edification of the burgh, was the placing up of lamps to light the streets, such as may be seen in all well regulated cities and towns of any degree. Having spoken of this patriotic project to several of my colleagues, who all highly approved of the same, I had no jealousy or suspicion that a design so clearly and luminously useful would meet with any other opposition than, may be, some doubt as to the fiscal abilities of our income. To be sure Mr Dribbles, who at that time kept the head inns, and was in the council, said, with a wink, that it might be found an inconvenience to sober folk that happened, on an occasion now and then, to be an hour later than usual among their friends, either at his house or any other, to be shown by the lamps to the profane populace as they were making the best of their way home; and Mr Dippings, the candlemaker, with less public spirit than might have been expected from one who made such a penny by the illuminations on news of victory, was of opinion that lamps would only encourage the commonality to keep late hours; and that the gentry were in no need of any thing of the sort, having their own handsome glass lanterns, with two candles in them, garnished and adorned with clippit paper; an equipage which he prophesied would soon wear out of fashion when lamps were once introduced, and the which prediction I have lived to see verified; for certainly, now-a-days, except when some elderly widow lady, or maiden gentlewoman, wanting the help and protection of man, happens to be out at her tea and supper, a tight and snod serving lassie, with a three-cornered glass lantern, is never seen on the causey. But, to return from this digression; saving and excepting the remarks of Mr Dribbles and Mr Dippings, and neither of them could be considered as made in a sincere frame of mind, I had no foretaste of any opposition. I was, therefore, but ill prepared for the worrying argument with which Mr Hickery seized upon the scheme, asserting and maintaining, among other apparatus-like reasoning, that in such a northern climate as that of Scotland, and where the twilight was of such long duration, it would be a profligate waste of the public money to employ it on any thing so little required as lamps were in our streets. He had come home from America in the summer time, and I reminded him, that it certainly could never be the intention of the magistrates to light the lamps all the year round; but that in the winter there was a great need of them; for in our northern climate the days were then very short, as he would soon experience, and might probably recollect. But never, surely, was such an endless man created. For, upon this, he immediately rejoined, that the streets would be much more effectually lighted, than by all the lamps I proposed to put up, were the inhabitants ordered to sit with their window-shutters open. I really did not know what answer to make to such a proposal, but I saw it would never do to argue with him; so I held my tongue quietly, and as soon as possible, on a pretence of private business, left the meeting, not a little mortified to find such a contrary spirit had got in among us. After that meeting of the council, I went cannily round to all the other members, and represented to them, one by one, how proper it was that the lamps should be set up, both for a credit to the town, and as a conformity to the fashion of the age in every other place. And I took occasion to descant, at some length, on the untractable nature of Mr Hickery, and how it would be proper before the next meeting to agree to say nothing when the matter was again brought on the carpet, but just to come to the vote at once. Accordingly this was done, but it made no difference to Mr Hickery; on the contrary, he said, in a vehement manner, that he was sure there must be some corrupt understanding among us, otherwise a matter of such importance could not have been decided by a silent vote; and at every session of the council, till some new matter of difference cast up, he continued cuckooing about the lamp-job, as he called it, till he had sickened every body out of all patience. CHAPTER XXVII--THE PLAINSTONES The first question that changed the bark of Mr Hickery, was my proposal for the side plainstones of the high street. In the new paving of the crown of the causey, some years before, the rise in the middle had been levelled to an equality with the side loans, and in disposing of the lamp- posts, it was thought advantageous to place them halfway from the houses and the syvers, between the loans and the crown of the causey, which had the effect at night, of making the people who were wont, in their travels and visitations, to keep the middle of the street, to diverge into the space and path between the lamp-posts and the houses. This, especially in wet weather, was attended with some disadvantages; for the pavement, close to the houses, was not well laid, and there being then no ronns to the houses, at every other place, particularly where the nepus-gables were towards the streets, the rain came gushing in a spout, like as if the windows of heaven were opened. And, in consequence, it began to be freely conversed, that there would be a great comfort in having the sides of the streets paved with flags, like the plainstones of Glasgow, and that an obligation should be laid on the landlords, to put up ronns to kepp the rain, and to conduct the water down in pipes by the sides of the houses;--all which furnished Mr Hickery with fresh topics for his fasherie about the lamps, and was, as he said, proof and demonstration of that most impolitic, corrupt, and short-sighted job, the consequences of which would reach, in the shape of some new tax, every ramification of society;--with divers other American argumentatives to the same effect. However, in process of time, by a judicious handling and the help of an advantageous free grassum, which we got for some of the town lands from Mr Shuttlethrift the manufacturer, who was desirous to build a villa-house, we got the flagstone part of the project accomplished, and the landlords gradually, of their own free-will, put up the ronns, by which the town has been greatly improved and convenienced. But new occasions call for new laws; the side pavement, concentrating the people, required to be kept cleaner, and in better order, than when the whole width of the street was in use; so that the magistrates were constrained to make regulations concerning the same, and to enact fines and penalties against those who neglected to scrape and wash the plainstones forenent their houses, and to denounce, in the strictest terms, the emptying of improper utensils on the same; and this, until the people had grown into the habitude of attending to the rules, gave rise to many pleas, and contentious appeals and bickerings, before the magistrates. Among others summoned before me for default, was one Mrs Fenton, commonly called the Tappit-hen, who kept a small change-house, not of the best repute, being frequented by young men, of a station of life that gave her heart and countenance to be bardy, even to the bailies. It happened that, by some inattention, she had, one frosty morning, neglected to soop her flags, and old Miss Peggy Dainty being early afoot, in passing her door committed a false step, by treading on a bit of a lemon's skin, and her heels flying up, down she fell on her back, at full length, with a great cloyt. Mrs Fenton, hearing the accident, came running to the door, and seeing the exposure that perjink Miss Peggy had made of herself, put her hands to her sides, and laughed for some time as if she was by herself. Miss Peggy, being sorely hurt in the hinder parts, summoned Mrs Fenton before me, where the whole affair, both as to what was seen and heard, was so described, with name and surname, that I could not keep my composure. It was, however, made manifest, that Mrs Fenton had offended the law, in so much, as her flags had not been swept that morning; and therefore, to appease the offended delicacy of Miss Peggy, who was a most respectable lady in single life, I fined the delinquent five shillings. "Mr Pawkie," said the latheron, "I'll no pay't. Whar do ye expeck a widow woman like me can get five shillings for ony sic nonsense?" "Ye must not speak in that manner, honest woman," was my reply; "but just pay the fine." "In deed and truth, Mr Pawkie," quo she, "it's ill getting a breek off a highlandman. I'll pay no sic thing--five shillings--that's a story!" I thought I would have been constrained to send her to prison, the woman grew so bold and contumacious, when Mr Hickery came in, and hearing what was going forward, was evidently working himself up to take the randy's part; but fortunately she had a suspicion that all the town-council and magistrates were in league against her, on account of the repute of her house, so that when he enquired of her where she lived, with a view, as I suspect, of interceding, she turned to him, and with a leer and a laugh, said, "Dear me, Mr Hickery, I'm sure ye hae nae need to speer that!" The insinuation set up his birses; but she bamboozled him with her banter, and raised such a laugh against him, that he was fairly driven from the council room, and I was myself obliged to let her go, without exacting the fine. Who would have thought that this affair was to prove to me the means of an easy riddance of Mr Hickery? But so it turned out; for whether or not there was any foundation for the traffickings with him which she pretended, he never could abide to hear the story alluded to, which, when I discerned, I took care, whenever he showed any sort of inclination to molest the council with his propugnacity, to joke him about his bonny sweetheart, "the Tappit-hen," and he instantly sang dumb, and quietly slipped away; by which it may be seen how curiously events come to pass, since, out of the very first cause of his thwarting me in the lamps, I found, in process of time, a way of silencing him far better than any sort of truth or reason. CHAPTER XXVIII--THE SECOND CROP OF VOLUNTEERS I have already related, at full length, many of the particulars anent the electing of the first set of volunteers; the which, by being germinated partly under the old system of public intromission, was done with more management and slight of art than the second. This, however, I will ever maintain, was not owing to any greater spirit of corruption; but only and solely to following the ancient dexterous ways, that had been, in a manner, engrained with the very nature of every thing pertaining to the representation of government as it existed, not merely in burgh towns, but wheresoever the crown and ministers found it expedient to have their lion's paw. Matters were brought to a bearing differently, when, in the second edition of the late war, it was thought necessary to call on the people to resist the rampageous ambition of Bonaparte, then champing and trampling for the rich pastures of our national commonwealth. Accordingly, I kept myself aloof from all handling in the pecuniaries of the business; but I lent a friendly countenance to every feasible project that was likely to strengthen the confidence of the king in the loyalty and bravery of his people. For by this time I had learnt, that there was a wake-rife common sense abroad among the opinions of men; and that the secret of the new way of ruling the world was to follow, not to control, the evident dictates of the popular voice; and I soon had reason to felicitate myself on this prudent and seasonable discovery. For it won me great reverence among the forward young men, who started up at the call of their country; and their demeanour towards me was as tokens and arles, from the rising generation, of being continued in respect and authority by them. Some of my colleagues, who are as well not named, by making themselves over busy, got but small thank for their pains. I was even preferred to the provost, as the medium of communicating the sentiments of the volunteering lads to the lord-lieutenant; and their cause did not suffer in my hands, for his lordship had long been in the habit of considering me as one of the discreetest men in the burgh; and although he returned very civil answers to all letters, he wrote to me in the cordial erudition of an old friend--a thing which the volunteers soon discerned, and respected me accordingly. But the soldiering zeal being spontaneous among all ranks, and breaking forth into ablaze without any pre-ordered method, some of the magistrates were disconcerted, and wist not what to do. I'll no take it upon me to say that they were altogether guided by a desire to have a finger in the pie, either in the shape of the honours of command or the profits of contract. This, however, is certain, that they either felt or feigned a great alarm and consternation at seeing such a vast military power in civil hands, over which they had no natural control; and, as was said, independent of the crown and parliament. Another thing there could be no doubt of: in the frame of this fear they remonstrated with the government, and counselled the ministers to throw a wet blanket on the ardour of the volunteering, which, it is well known, was very readily done; for the ministers, on seeing such a pressing forward to join the banners of the kingdom, had a dread and regard to the old leaven of Jacobinism, and put a limitation on the number of the armed men that were to be allowed to rise in every place--a most ill-advised prudence, as was made manifest by what happened among us, of which I will now rehearse the particulars, and the part I had in it myself. As soon as it was understood among the commonality that the French were determined to subdue and make a conquest of Britain, as they had done of all the rest of Europe, holding the noses of every continental king and potentate to the grindstone, there was a prodigious stir and motion in all the hearts and pulses of Scotland, and no where in a more vehement degree than in Gudetown. But, for some reason or an other which I could never dive into the bottom of, there was a slackness or backwardness on the part of government in sending instructions to the magistrates to step forward; in so much that the people grew terrified that they would be conquered, without having even an opportunity to defend, as their fathers did of old, the hallowed things of their native land; and, under the sense of this alarm, they knotted themselves together, and actually drew out proposals and resolutions of service of their own accord; by which means they kept the power of choosing their officers in their own hands, and so gave many of the big-wigs of the town a tacit intimation that they were not likely to have the command. While things were in this process, the government had come to its senses; and some steps and measures were taken to organize volunteer corps throughout the nation. Taking heart from them, other corps were proposed on the part of the gentry, in which they were themselves to have the command; and seeing that the numbers were to be limited, they had a wish and interest to keep back the real volunteer offers, and to get their own accepted in their stead. A suspicion of this sort getting vent, an outcry of discontent thereat arose against them; and to the consternation of the magistrates, the young lads, who had at the first come so briskly forward, called a meeting of their body, and, requesting the magistrates to be present, demanded to know what steps had been taken with their offer of service; and, if transmitted to government, what answer had been received. This was a new era in public affairs; and no little amazement and anger was expressed by some of the town-council, that any set of persons should dare to question and interfere with the magistrates. But I saw it would never do to take the bull by the horns in that manner at such a time; so I commenced with Bailie Sprose, my lord being at the time provost, and earnestly beseeched him to attend the meeting with me, and to give a mild answer to any questions that might be put; and this was the more necessary, as there was some good reason to believe, that, in point of fact, the offer of service had been kept back. We accordingly went to the meeting, where Mr Sprose, at my suggestion, stated, that we had received no answer; and that we could not explain how the delay had arisen. This, however, did not pacify the volunteers; but they appointed certain of their own number, a committee, to attend to the business, and to communicate with the secretary of state direct; intimating, that the members of the committee were those whom they intended to elect for their officers. This was a decisive step, and took the business entirely out of the hands of the magistrates; so, after the meeting, both Mr Sprose and myself agreed, that no time should be lost in communicating to the lord-lieutenant what had taken place. Our letter, and the volunteers' letter, went by the same post; and on receiving ours, the lord-lieutenant had immediately some conference with the secretary of state, who, falling into the views of his lordship, in preferring the offers of the corps proposed by the gentry, sent the volunteers word in reply, that their services, on the terms they had proposed, which were of the least possible expense to government, could not be accepted. It was hoped that this answer would have ended the matter; but there were certain propugnacious spirits in the volunteers' committee; and they urged and persuaded the others to come into resolutions, to the effect that, having made early offers of service, on terms less objectionable in every point than those of many offers subsequently made and accepted, unless their offer was accepted, they would consider themselves as having the authority of his majesty's government to believe and to represent, that there was, in truth, no reason to apprehend that the enemy meditated any invasion and these resolutions they sent off to London forthwith, before the magistrates had time to hear or to remonstrate against the use of such novel language from our burgh to his majesty's ministers. We, however, heard something; and I wrote my lord, to inform him that the volunteers had renewed their offer, (for so we understood their representation was;) and he, from what he had heard before from the secretary of state, not expecting the effect it would have, answered me, that their offer could not be accepted. But to our astonishment, by the same post, the volunteers found themselves accepted, and the gentlemen they recommended for their officers gazetted; the which, as I tell frankly, was an admonition to me, that the peremptory will of authority was no longer sufficient for the rule of mankind; and, therefore, I squared my after conduct more by a deference to public opinion, than by any laid down maxims and principles of my own; the consequence of which was, that my influence still continued to grow and gather strength in the community, and I was enabled to accomplish many things that my predecessors would have thought it was almost beyond the compass of man to undertake. CHAPTER XXIX--CAPTAIN ARMOUR In the course of these notandums, I have, here and there, touched on divers matters that did not actually pertain to my own magisterial life, further than as showing the temper and spirit in which different things were brought to a bearing; and, in the same way, I will now again step aside from the regular course of public affairs, to record an occurrence which, at the time, excited no small wonderment and sympathy, and in which it was confessed by many that I performed a very judicious part. The event here spoken of, was the quartering in the town, after the removal of that well-behaved regiment, the Argyle fencibles, the main part of another, the name and number of which I do not now recollect; but it was an English corps, and, like the other troops of that nation, was not then brought into the sobriety of discipline to which the whole British army has since been reduced, by the paternal perseverance of his Royal Highness the Duke of York; so that, after the douce and respectful Highlanders, we sorely felt the consequences of the outstropolous and galravitching Englishers, who thought it no disgrace to fill themselves as fou as pipers, and fight in the streets, and march to the church on the Lord's day with their band of music. However, after the first Sunday, upon a remonstrance on the immorality of such irreligious bravery, Colonel Cavendish, the commandant, silenced the musicians. Among the officers, there was one Captain Armour, an extraordinar well demeaned, handsome man, who was very shy of accepting any civility from the town gentry, and kept himself aloof from all our ploys and entertainments, in such a manner, that the rest of the officers talked of him, marvelling at the cause, for it was not his wont in other places. One Sabbath, during the remembering prayer, Mr Pittle put up a few words for criminals under sentence of death, there being two at the time in the Ayr jail, at the which petition I happened to look at Captain Armour, who, with the lave of the officers, were within the magistrates' loft, and I thought he had, at the moment, a likeness to poor Jeanie Gaisling, that was executed for the murder of her bastard bairn. This notion at the time disturbed me very much, and one thought after another so came into my head, that I could pay no attention to Mr Pittle, who certainly was but a cauldrife preacher, and never more so than on that day. In short, I was haunted with the fancy, that Captain Armour was no other than the misfortunate lassie's poor brother, who had in so pathetical a manner attended her and the magistrates to the scaffold; and, what was very strange, I was not the only one in the kirk who thought the same thing; for the resemblance, while Mr Pittle was praying, had been observed by many; and it was the subject of discourse in my shop on the Monday following, when the whole history of that most sorrowful concern was again brought to mind. But, without dwelling at large on the particularities, I need only mention, that it began to be publicly jealoused that he was indeed the identical lad, which moved every body; for he was a very good and gallant officer, having risen by his own merits, and was likewise much beloved in the regiment. Nevertheless, though his sister's sin was no fault of his, and could not impair the worth of his well-earned character, yet some of the thoughtless young ensigns began to draw off from him, and he was visited, in a manner, with the disgrace of an excommunication. Being, however, a sensible man, he bore it for a while patiently, may be hoping that the suspicion would wear away; but my lord, with all his retinue, coming from London to the castle for the summer, invited the officers one day to dine with him and the countess, when the fact was established by a very simple accident. Captain Armour, in going up the stairs, and along the crooked old passages of the castle, happened to notice that the colonel, who was in the van, turned to the wrong hand, and called to him to take the other way, which circumstance convinced all present that he was domestically familiar with the labyrinths of the building; and the consequence was, that, during dinner, not one of the officers spoke to him, some from embarrassment and others from pride. The earl perceiving their demeanour, enquired of the colonel, when they had returned from the table to the drawing-room, as to the cause of such a visible alienation, and Colonel Cavendish, who was much of the gentleman, explaining it, expressing his grief that so unpleasant a discovery had been made to the prejudice of so worthy a man, my lord was observed to stand some time in a thoughtful posture, after which he went and spoke in a whisper to the countess, who advised him, as her ladyship in the sequel told me herself, to send for me, as a wary and prudent man. Accordingly a servant was secretly dispatched express to the town on that errand; my lord and my lady insisting on the officers staying to spend the evening with them, which was an unusual civility at the _pro forma_ dinners at the castle. When I arrived, the earl took me into his private library, and we had some serious conversation about the captain's sister; and, when I had related the circumstantialities of her end to him, he sent for the captain, and with great tenderness, and a manner most kind and gracious, told him what he had noticed in the conduct of the officers, offering his mediation to appease any difference, if it was a thing that could be done. While my lord was speaking, the captain preserved a steady and unmoved countenance: no one could have imagined that he was listening to any thing but some grave generality of discourse; but when the earl offered to mediate, his breast swelled, and his face grew like his coat, and I saw his eyes fill with water as he turned round, to hide the grief that could not be stifled. The passion of shame, however, lasted but for a moment. In less time than I am in writing these heads, he was again himself, and with a modest fortitude that was exceedingly comely, he acknowledged who he was, adding, that he feared his blameless disgrace entailed effects which he could not hope to remove, and therefore it was his intention to resign his commission. The earl, however, requested that he would do nothing rashly, and that he should first allow him to try what could be done to convince his brother officers that it was unworthy of them to act towards him in the way they did. His lordship then led us to the drawing-room, on entering which, he said aloud to the countess in a manner that could not be misunderstood, "In Captain Armour I have discovered an old acquaintance, who by his own merits, and under circumstances that would have sunk any man less conscious of his own purity and worth, has raised himself, from having once been my servant, to a rank that makes me happy to receive him as my guest." I need not add, that this benevolence of his lordship was followed with a most bountiful alteration towards the captain from all present, in so much that, before the regiment was removed from the town, we had the satisfaction of seeing him at divers of the town-ploys, where he received every civility. CHAPTER XXX--THE TRADES' BALL At the conclusion of my second provostry, or rather, as I think, after it was over, an accident happened in the town that might have led to no little trouble and contention but for the way and manner that I managed the same. My friend and neighbour, Mr Kilsyth, an ettling man, who had been wonderful prosperous in the spirit line, having been taken on for a bailie, by virtue of some able handling on the part of Deacon Kenitweel, proposed and propounded, that there should be a ball and supper for the trades; and to testify his sense of the honour that he owed to all the crafts, especially the wrights, whereof Mr Kenitweel was then deacon, he promised to send in both wine, rum, and brandy, from his cellar, for the company. I did not much approve of the project, for divers reasons; the principal of which was, because my daughters were grown into young ladies, and I was, thank God, in a circumstance to entitle them to hold their heads something above the trades. However, I could not positively refuse my compliance, especially as Mrs Pawkie was requested by Bailie Kilsyth, and those who took an active part in furtherance of the ploy, to be the lady directress of the occasion. And, out of an honour and homage to myself, I was likewise entreated to preside at the head of the table, over the supper that was to ensue after the dancing. In its own nature, there was surely nothing of an objectionable principle, in a "trades' ball;" but we had several young men of the gentle sort about the town, blythe and rattling lads, who were welcome both to high and low, and to whom the project seemed worthy of a ridicule. It would, as I said at the time, have been just as well to have made it really a trades' ball, without any adulteration of the gentry; but the hempies alluded to jouked themselves in upon us, and obligated the managers to invite them; and an ill return they made for this discretion and civility, as I have to relate. On the nightset for the occasion, the company met in the assembly-room, in the New-inns, where we had bespoke a light genteel supper, and had M'Lachlan, the fiddler, over from Ayr, for the purpose. Nothing could be better while the dancing lasted; the whole concern wore an appearance of the greatest genteelity. But when supper was announced, and the company adjourned to partake of it, judge of the universal consternation that was visible in every countenance, when, instead of the light tarts, and nice jellies and sillybobs that were expected, we beheld a long table, with a row down the middle of rounds of beef, large cold veal-pies on pewter plates like tea-trays, cold boiled turkeys, and beef and bacon hams, and, for ornament in the middle, a perfect stack of celery. The instant I entered the supper-room, I saw there had been a plot: poor Bailie Kilsyth, who had all the night been in triumph and glory, was for a season speechless; and when at last he came to himself, he was like to have been the death of the landlord on the spot; while I could remark, with the tail of my eye, that secret looks of a queer satisfaction were exchanged among the beaux before mentioned. This observe, when I made it, led me to go up to the bailie as he was storming at the bribed and corrupt innkeeper, and to say to him, that if he would leave the matter to me, I would settle it to the content of all present; which he, slackening the grip he had taken of the landlord by the throat, instantly conceded. Whereupon, I went back to the head of the table, and said aloud, "that the cold collection had been provided by some secret friends, and although it was not just what the directors could have wished, yet it would be as well to bring to mind the old proverb, which instructs us no to be particular about the mouth of a gi'en horse." But I added, "before partaking thereof, wel'll hae in our bill frae the landlord, and settle it,"--and it was called accordingly. I could discern, that this was a turn that the conspirators did not look for. It, however, put the company a thought into spirits, and they made the best o't. But, while they were busy at the table, I took a canny opportunity of saying, under the rose to one of the gentlemen, "that I saw through the joke, and could relish it just as well as the plotters; but as the thing was so plainly felt as an insult by the generality of the company, the less that was said about it the better; and that if the whole bill, including the cost of Bailie Kilsyth's wine and spirits, was defrayed, I would make no enquiries, and the authors might never be known." This admonishment was not lost, for by-and-by, I saw the gentleman confabbing together; and the next morning, through the post, I received a twenty- pound note in a nameless letter, requesting the amount of it to be placed against the expense of the ball. I was overly well satisfied with this to say a great deal of what I thought, but I took a quiet step to the bank, where, expressing some doubt of the goodness of the note, I was informed it was perfectly good, and had been that very day issued from the bank to one of the gentlemen, whom, even at this day, it would not be prudent to expose to danger by naming. Upon a consultation with the other gentlemen, who had the management of the ball, it was agreed, that we should say nothing of the gift of twenty pounds, but distribute it in the winter to needful families, which was done; for we feared that the authors of the derision would be found out, and that ill-blood might be bred in the town. CHAPTER XXXI--THE BAILIE'S HEAD But although in the main I was considered by the events and transactions already rehearsed, a prudent and sagacious man, yet I was not free from the consequences of envy. To be sure, they were not manifested in any very intolerant spirit, and in so far they caused me rather molestation of mind than actual suffering; but still they kithed in evil, and thereby marred the full satisfactory fruition of my labours and devices. Among other of the outbreakings alluded to that not a little vexed me, was one that I will relate, and just in order here to show the animus of men's minds towards me. We had in the town a clever lad, with a geni of a mechanical turn, who made punch-bowls of leather, and legs for cripples of the same commodity, that were lighter and easier to wear than either legs of cork or timber. His name was Geordie Sooplejoint, a modest, douce, and well-behaved young man--caring for little else but the perfecting of his art. I had heard of his talent, and was curious to converse with him; so I spoke to Bailie Pirlet, who had taken him by the hand, to bring him and his leather punch- bowl, and some of his curious legs and arms, to let me see them; the which the bailie did, and it happened that while they were with me, in came Mr Thomas M'Queerie, a dry neighbour at a joke. After some generality of discourse concerning the inventions, whereon Bailie Pirlet, who was naturally a gabby prick-me-dainty body, enlarged at great length, with all his well dockit words, as if they were on chandler's pins, pointing out here the utility of the legs to persons maimed in the wars of their country, and showing forth there in what manner the punch-bowls were specimens of a new art that might in time supplant both China and Staffordshire ware, and deducing therefrom the benefits that would come out of it to the country at large, and especially to the landed interest, in so much as the increased demand which it would cause for leather, would raise the value of hides, and per consequence the price of black cattle--to all which Mr M'Queerie listened with a shrewd and a thirsty ear; and when the bailie had made an end of his paternoster, he proposed that I should make a filling of Geordie's bowl, to try if it did not leak. "Indeed, Mr Pawkie," quo' he, "it will be a great credit to our town to hae had the merit o' producing sic a clever lad, who, as the bailie has in a manner demonstrated, is ordained to bring about an augmentation o' trade by his punch-bowls, little short of what has been done wi' the steam-engines. Geordie will be to us what James Watt is to the ettling town of Greenook, so we can do no less than drink prosperity to his endeavours." I did not much like this bantering of Mr M'Queerie, for I saw it made Geordie's face grow red, and it was not what he had deserved; so to repress it, and to encourage the poor lad, I said, "Come, come, neighbour, none of your wipes--what Geordie has done, is but arles of what he may do." "That's no to be debated," replied Mr M'Queerie, "for he has shown already that he can make very good legs and arms; and I'm sure I shouldna be surprised were he in time to make heads as good as a bailie's." I never saw any mortal man look as that pernickity personage, the bailie, did at this joke, but I suppressed my own feelings; while the bailie, like a bantam cock in a passion, stotted out of his chair with the spunk of a birslet pea, demanding of Mr M'Queerie an explanation of what he meant by the insinuation. It was with great difficulty that I got him pacified; but unfortunately the joke was oure good to be forgotten, and when it was afterwards spread abroad, as it happened to take its birth in my house, it was laid to my charge, and many a time was I obligated to tell all about it, and how it couldna be meant for me, but had been incurred by Bailie Pirlet's conceit of spinning out long perjink speeches. CHAPTER XXXII--THE TOWN DRUMMER Nor did I get every thing my own way, for I was often thwarted in matters of small account, and suffered from them greater disturbance and molestation than things of such little moment ought to have been allowed to produce within me; and I do not think that any thing happened in the whole course of my public life, which gave me more vexation than what I felt in the last week of my second provostry. For many a year, one Robin Boss had been town drummer; he was a relic of some American-war fencibles, and was, to say the God's truth of him, a divor body, with no manner of conduct, saving a very earnest endeavour to fill himself fou as often as he could get the means; the consequence of which was, that his face was as plooky as a curran' bun, and his nose as red as a partan's tae. One afternoon there was a need to send out a proclamation to abolish a practice that was growing into a custom, in some of the bye parts of the town, of keeping swine at large--ordering them to be confined in proper styes, and other suitable places. As on all occasions when the matter to be proclaimed was from the magistrates, Thomas, on this, was attended by the town-officers in their Sunday garbs, and with their halberts in their hands; but the abominable and irreverent creature was so drunk, that he wamblet to and fro over the drum, as if there had not been a bane in his body. He was seemingly as soople and as senseless as a bolster.--Still, as this was no new thing with him, it might have passed; for James Hound, the senior officer, was in the practice, when Robin was in that state, of reading the proclamations himself.--On this occasion, however, James happened to be absent on some hue and cry quest, and another of the officers (I forget which) was appointed to perform for him. Robin, accustomed to James, no sooner heard the other man begin to read, than he began to curse and swear at him as an incapable nincompoop--an impertinent term that he was much addicted to. The grammar school was at the time skailing, and the boys seeing the stramash, gathered round the officer, and yelling and shouting, encouraged Robin more and more into rebellion, till at last they worked up his corruption to such a pitch, that he took the drum from about his neck, and made it fly like a bombshell at the officer's head. The officers behaved very well, for they dragged Robin by the lug and the horn to the tolbooth, and then came with their complaint to me. Seeing how the authorities had been set at nought, and the necessity there was of making an example, I forthwith ordered Robin to be cashiered from the service of the town; and as so important a concern as a proclamation ought not to be delayed, I likewise, upon the spot, ordered the officers to take a lad that had been also a drummer in a marching regiment, and go with him to make the proclamation. Nothing could be done in a more earnest and zealous public spirit than this was done by me. But habit had begot in the town a partiality for the drunken ne'er-do-well, Robin; and this just act of mine was immediately condemned as a daring stretch of arbitrary power; and the consequence was, that when the council met next day, some sharp words flew from among us, as to my usurping an undue authority; and the thank I got for my pains was the mortification to see the worthless body restored to full power and dignity, with no other reward than an admonition to behave better for the future. Now, I leave it to the unbiassed judgment of posterity to determine if any public man could be more ungraciously treated by his colleagues than I was on this occasion. But, verily, the council had their reward. CHAPTER XXXIII--AN ALARM The divor, Robin Boss, being, as I have recorded, reinstated in office, soon began to play his old tricks. In the course of the week after the Michaelmas term at which my second provostry ended, he was so insupportably drunk that he fell head foremost into his drum, which cost the town five-and-twenty shillings for a new one--an accident that was not without some satisfaction to me; and I trow I was not sparing in my derisive commendations on the worth of such a public officer. Nevertheless, he was still kept on, some befriending him for compassion, and others as it were to spite me. But Robin's good behaviour did not end with breaking the drum, and costing a new one.--In the course of the winter it was his custom to beat, "Go to bed, Tom," about ten o'clock at night, and the reveille at five in the morning.--In one of his drunken fits he made a mistake, and instead of going his rounds as usual at ten o'clock, he had fallen asleep in a change house, and waking about the midnight hour in the terror of some whisky dream, he seized his drum, and running into the streets, began to strike the fire-beat in the most awful manner. It was a fine clear frosty moonlight, and the hollow sound of the drum resounded through the silent streets like thunder.--In a moment every body was a-foot, and the cry of "Whar is't? whar's the fire?" was heard echoing from all sides.--Robin, quite unconscious that he alone was the cause of the alarm, still went along beating the dreadful summons. I heard the noise and rose; but while I was drawing on my stockings, in the chair at the bed-head, and telling Mrs Pawkie to compose herself, for our houses were all insured, I suddenly recollected that Robin had the night before neglected to go his rounds at ten o'clock as usual, and the thought came into my head that the alarm might be one of his inebriated mistakes; so, instead of dressing myself any further, I went to the window, and looked out through the glass, without opening it, for, being in my night clothes, I was afraid of taking cold. The street was as throng as on a market day, and every face in the moonlight was pale with fear.--Men and lads were running with their coats, and carrying their breeches in their hands; wives and maidens were all asking questions at one another, and even lasses were fleeing to and fro, like water nymphs with urns, having stoups and pails in their hands.--There was swearing and tearing of men, hoarse with the rage of impatience, at the tolbooth, getting out the fire-engine from its stance under the stair; and loud and terrible afar off, and over all, came the peal of alarm from drunken Robin's drum. I could scarcely keep my composity when I beheld and heard all this, for I was soon thoroughly persuaded of the fact. At last I saw Deacon Girdwood, the chief advocate and champion of Robin, passing down the causey like a demented man, with a red nightcap, and his big-coat on--for some had cried that the fire was in his yard.--"Deacon," cried I, opening the window, forgetting in the jocularity of the moment the risk I ran from being so naked, "whar away sae fast, deacon?" The deacon stopped and said, "Is't out? is't out?" "Gang your ways home," quo' I very coolly, "for I hae a notion that a' this hobleshow's but the fume of a gill in your friend Robin's head." "It's no possible!" exclaimed the deacon. "Possible here or possible there, Mr Girdwood," quo' I, "it's oure cauld for me to stand talking wi' you here; we'll learn the rights o't in the morning; so, good-night;" and with that I pulled down the window. But scarcely had I done so, when a shout of laughter came gathering up the street, and soon after poor drunken Robin was brought along by the cuff of the neck, between two of the town-officers, one of them carrying his drum. The next day he was put out of office for ever, and folk recollecting in what manner I had acted towards him before, the outcry about my arbitrary power was forgotten in the blame that was heaped upon those who had espoused Robin's cause against me. CHAPTER XXXIV--THE COUNTRY GENTRY For a long period of time, I had observed that there was a gradual mixing in of the country gentry among the town's folks. This was partly to be ascribed to a necessity rising out of the French Revolution, whereby men of substance thought it an expedient policy to relax in their ancient maxims of family pride and consequence; and partly to the great increase and growth of wealth which the influx of trade caused throughout the kingdom, whereby the merchants were enabled to vie and ostentate even with the better sort of lairds. The effect of this, however, was less protuberant in our town than in many others which I might well name, and the cause thereof lay mainly in our being more given to deal in the small way; not that we lacked of traders possessed both of purse and perseverance; but we did not exactly lie in the thoroughfare of those mighty masses of foreign commodities, the throughgoing of which left, to use the words of the old proverb, "goud in goupins" with all who had the handling of the same. Nevertheless, we came in for our share of the condescensions of the country gentry; and although there was nothing like a melting down of them among us, either by marrying or giving in marriage, there was a communion that gave us some insight, no overly to their advantage, as to the extent and measure of their capacities and talents. In short, we discovered that they were vessels made of ordinary human clay; so that, instead of our reverence for them being augmented by a freer intercourse, we thought less and less of them, until, poor bodies, the bit prideful lairdies were just looked down upon by our gawsie big-bellied burgesses, not a few of whom had heritable bonds on their estates. But in this I am speaking of the change when it had come to a full head; for in verity it must be allowed that when the country gentry, with their families, began to intromit among us, we could not make enough of them. Indeed, we were deaved about the affability of old crabbit Bodle of Bodletonbrae, and his sister, Miss Jenny, when they favoured us with their company at the first inspection ball. I'll ne'er forgot that occasion; for being then in my second provostry, I had, in course of nature, been appointed a deputy lord-lieutenant, and the town- council entertaining the inspecting officers, and the officers of the volunteers, it fell as a duty incumbent on me to be the director of the ball afterwards, and to the which I sent an invitation to the laird and his sister little hoping or expecting they would come. But the laird, likewise being a deputy lord-lieutenant, he accepted the invitation, and came with his sister in all the state of pedigree in their power. Such a prodigy of old-fashioned grandeur as Miss Jenny was!--but neither shop nor mantuamaker of our day and generation had been the better o't. She was just, as some of the young lasses said, like Clarissa Harlowe, in the cuts and copperplates of Mrs Rickerton's set of the book, and an older and more curious set than Mrs Rickerton's was not in the whole town; indeed, for that matter, I believe it was the only one among us, and it had edified, as Mr Binder the bookseller used to say, at least three successive generations of young ladies, for he had himself given it twice new covers. We had, however, not then any circulating library. But for all her antiquity and lappets, it is not to be supposed what respect and deference Miss Jenny and her brother, the laird, received--nor the small praise that came to my share, for having had the spirit to invite them. The ball was spoken of as the genteelest in the memory of man, although to my certain knowledge, on account of the volunteers, some were there that never thought to mess or mell in the same chamber with Bodletonbrae and his sister, Miss Jenny. CHAPTER XXXV--TESTS OF SUCCESS Intending these notations for the instruction of posterity, it would not be altogether becoming of me to speak of the domestic effects which many of the things that I have herein jotted down had in my own family. I feel myself, however, constrained in spirit to lift aside a small bit of the private curtain, just to show how Mrs Pawkie comported herself in the progressive vicissitudes of our prosperity, in the act and doing of which I do not wish to throw any slight on her feminine qualities; for, to speak of her as she deserves at my hand, she has been a most excellent wife, and a decent woman, and had aye a ruth and ready hand for the needful. Still, to say the truth, she is not without a few little weaknesses like her neighbours, and the ill-less vanity of being thought far ben with the great is among others of her harmless frailities. Soon after the inspection ball before spoken of, she said to me that it would be a great benefit and advantage to our family if we could get Bodletonbrae and his sister, and some of the other country gentry, to dine with us. I was not very clear about how the benefit was to come to book, for the outlay I thought as likely o'ergang the profit; at the same time, not wishing to baulk Mrs Pawkie of a ploy on which I saw her mind was bent, I gave my consent to her and my daughters to send out the cards, and make the necessary preparations. But herein I should not take credit to myself for more of the virtue of humility than was my due; therefore I open the door of my secret heart so far ajee, as to let the reader discern that I was content to hear our invitations were all accepted. Of the specialities and dainties of the banquet prepared, it is not fitting that I should treat in any more particular manner, than to say they were the best that could be had, and that our guests were all mightily well pleased. Indeed, my wife was out of the body with exultation when Mrs Auchans of that Ilk begged that she would let her have a copy of the directions she had followed in making a flummery, which the whole company declared was most excellent. This compliment was the more pleasant, as Lady Auchans was well known for her skill in savoury contrivances, and to have anything new to her of the sort was a triumph beyond our most sanguine expectations. In a word, from that day we found that we had taken, as it were, a step above the common in the town. There were, no doubt, some who envied our good fortune; but, upon the whole, the community at large were pleased to see the consideration in which their chief magistrate was held. It reflected down, as it were, upon themselves a glaik of the sunshine that shone upon us; and although it may be a light thing, as it is seemingly a vain one, to me to say, I am now pretty much of Mrs Pawkie's opinion, that our cultivation of an intercourse with the country gentry was, in the end, a benefit to our family, in so far as it obtained, both for my sons and daughters, a degree of countenance that otherwise could hardly have been expected from their connexions and fortune, even though I had been twice provost. CHAPTER XXXVI--RETRIBUTION But a sad accident shortly after happened, which had the effect of making it as little pleasant to me to vex Mr Hickery with a joke about the Tappit-hen, as it was to him. Widow Fenton, as I have soberly hinted; for it is not a subject to be openly spoken of, had many ill-assorted and irregular characters among her customers; and a gang of play-actors coming to the town, and getting leave to perform in Mr Dribble's barn, batches of the young lads, both gentle and semple, when the play was over, used to adjourn to her house for pies and porter, the commodities in which she chiefly dealt. One night, when the deep tragedy of Mary Queen of Scots was the play, there was a great concourse of people at "The Theatre Royal," and the consequence was, that the Tappit-hen's house, both but and ben, was, at the conclusion, filled to overflowing. The actress that played Queen Elizabeth, was a little-worth termagant woman, and, in addition to other laxities of conduct, was addicted to the immorality of taking more than did her good, and when in her cups, she would rant and ring fiercer than old Queen Elizabeth ever could do herself. Queen Mary's part was done by a bonny genty young lady, that was said to have run away from a boarding-school, and, by all accounts, she acted wonderful well. But she too was not altogether without a flaw, so that there was a division in the town between their admirers and visiters; some maintaining, as I was told, that Mrs Beaufort, if she would keep herself sober, was not only a finer woman, but more of a lady, and a better actress, than Miss Scarborough, while others considered her as a vulgar regimental virago. The play of Mary Queen of Scots, causing a great congregation of the rival partizans of the two ladies to meet in the Tappit-hen's public, some contention took place about the merits of their respective favourites, and, from less to more, hands were raised, and blows given, and the trades'-lads, being as hot in their differences as the gentlemen, a dreadful riot ensued. Gillstoups, porter bottles, and penny pies flew like balls and bomb-shells in battle. Mrs Fenton, with her mutch off, and her hair loose, with wide and wild arms, like a witch in a whirlwind, was seen trying to sunder the challengers, and the champions. Finding, however, her endeavours unavailing, and fearing that murder would be committed, she ran like desperation into the streets, crying for help. I was just at the time stepping into my bed, when I heard the uproar, and, dressing myself again, I went out to the street; for the sound and din of the riot came raging through the silence of the midnight, like the tearing and swearing of the multitude at a house on fire, and I thought no less an accident could be the cause. On going into the street, I met several persons running to the scene of action, and, among others, Mrs Beaufort, with a gallant of her own, and both of them no in their sober senses. It's no for me to say who he was; but assuredly, had the woman no been doited with drink, she never would have seen any likeness between him and me, for he was more than twenty years my junior. However, onward we all ran to Mrs Fenton's house, where the riot, like a raging caldron boiling o'er, had overflowed into the street. The moment I reached the door, I ran forward with my stick raised, but not with any design of striking man, woman, or child, when a ramplor devil, the young laird of Swinton, who was one of the most outstrapolous rakes about the town, wrenched it out of my grip, and would have, I dare say, made no scruple of doing me some dreadful bodily harm, when suddenly I found myself pulled out of the crowd by a powerful-handed woman, who cried, "Come, my love; love, come:" and who was this but that scarlet strumpet, Mrs Beaufort, who having lost her gallant in the crowd, and being, as I think, blind fou, had taken me for him, insisting before all present that I was her dear friend, and that she would die for me--with other siclike fantastical and randy ranting, which no queen in a tragedy could by any possibility surpass. At first I was confounded and overtaken, and could not speak; and the worst of all was, that, in a moment, the mob seemed to forget their quarrel, and to turn in derision on me. What might have ensued it would not be easy to say; but just at this very critical juncture, and while the drunken latheron was casting herself into antic shapes of distress, and flourishing with her hands and arms to the heavens at my imputed cruelty, two of the town-officers came up, which gave me courage to act a decisive part; so I gave over to them Mrs Beaufort, with all her airs, and, going myself to the guardhouse, brought a file of soldiers, and so quelled the riot. But from that night I thought it prudent to eschew every allusion to Mrs Fenton, and tacitly to forgive even Swinton for the treatment I had received from him, by seeming as if I had not noticed him, although I had singled him out by name. Mrs Pawkie, on hearing what I had suffered from Mrs Beaufort, was very zealous that I should punish her to the utmost rigour of the law, even to drumming her out of the town; but forbearance was my best policy, so I only persuaded my colleagues to order the players to decamp, and to give the Tappit-hen notice, that it would be expedient for the future sale of her pies and porter, at untimeous hours, and that she should flit her howff from our town. Indeed, what pleasure would it have been to me to have dealt unmercifully, either towards the one or the other? for surely the gentle way of keeping up a proper respect for magistrates, and others in authority, should ever be preferred; especially, as in cases like this, where there had been no premeditated wrong. And I say this with the greater sincerity; for in my secret conscience, when I think of the affair at this distance of time, I am pricked not a little in reflecting how I had previously crowed and triumphed over poor Mr Hickery, in the matter of his mortification at the time of Miss Peggy Dainty's false step. CHAPTER XXXVII--THE DUEL Heretofore all my magisterial undertakings and concerns had thriven in a very satisfactory manner. I was, to be sure, now and then, as I have narrated, subjected to opposition, and squibs, and a jeer; and envious and spiteful persons were not wanting in the world to call in question my intents and motives, representing my best endeavours for the public good as but a right-handed method to secure my own interests. It would be a vain thing of me to deny, that, at the beginning of my career, I was misled by the wily examples of the past times, who thought that, in taking on them to serve the community, they had a privilege to see that they were full-handed for what benefit they might do the public; but as I gathered experience, and saw the rising of the sharp-sighted spirit that is now abroad among the affairs of men, I clearly discerned that it would be more for the advantage of me and mine to act with a conformity thereto, than to seek, by any similar wiles or devices, an immediate and sicker advantage. I may therefore say, without a boast, that the two or three years before my third provostry were as renowned and comfortable to myself, upon the whole, as any reasonable man could look for. We cannot, however, expect a full cup and measure of the sweets of life, without some adulteration of the sour and bitter; and it was my lot and fate to prove an experience of this truth, in a sudden and unaccountable falling off from all moral decorum in a person of my brother's only son, Richard, a lad that was a promise of great ability in his youth. He was just between the tyning and the winning, as the saying is, when the playactors, before spoken off, came to the town, being then in his eighteenth year. Naturally of a light-hearted and funny disposition, and possessing a jocose turn for mimickry, he was a great favourite among his companions, and getting in with the players, it seems drew up with that little-worth, demure daffodel, Miss Scarborough, through the instrumentality of whose condisciples and the randy Mrs Beaufort, that riot at Widow Fenton's began, which ended in expurgating the town of the whole gang, bag and baggage. Some there were, I shall here mention, who said that the expulsion of the players was owing to what I had heard anent the intromission of my nephew; but, in verity, I had not the least spunk or spark of suspicion of what was going on between him and the miss, till one night, some time after, Richard and the young laird of Swinton, with others of their comrades, forgathered, and came to high words on the subject, the two being rivals, or rather, as was said, equally in esteem and favour with the lady. Young Swinton was, to say the truth of him, a fine bold rattling lad, warm in the temper, and ready with the hand, and no man's foe so much as his own; for he was a spoiled bairn, through the partiality of old Lady Bodikins, his grandmother, who lived in the turreted house at the town- end, by whose indulgence he grew to be of a dressy and rakish inclination, and, like most youngsters of the kind, was vain of his shames, the which cost Mr Pittle's session no little trouble. But--not to dwell on his faults--my nephew and he quarrelled, and nothing less would serve them than to fight a duel, which they did with pistols next morning; and Richard received from the laird's first shot a bullet in the left arm, that disabled him in that member for life. He was left for dead on the green where they fought--Swinton and the two seconds making, as was supposed, their escape. When Richard was found faint and bleeding by Tammy Tout, the town-herd, as he drove out the cows in the morning, the hobleshow is not to be described; and my brother came to me, and insisted that I should give him a warrant to apprehend all concerned. I was grieved for my brother, and very much distressed to think of what had happened to blithe Dicky, as I was wont to call my nephew when he was a laddie, and I would fain have gratified the spirit of revenge in myself; but I brought to mind his roving and wanton pranks, and I counselled his father first to abide the upshot of the wound, representing to him, in the best manner I could, that it was but the quarrel of the young men, and that maybe his son was as muckle in fault as Swinton. My brother was, however, of a hasty temper, and upbraided me with my slackness, on account, as he tauntingly insinuated, of the young laird being one of my best customers, which was a harsh and unrighteous doing; but it was not the severest trial which the accident occasioned to me; for the same night, at a late hour, a line was brought to me by a lassie, requesting I would come to a certain place--and when I went there, who was it from but Swinton and the two other young lads that had been the seconds at the duel. "Bailie," said the laird on behalf of himself and friends, "though you are the uncle of poor Dick, we have resolved to throw ourselves into your hands, for we have not provided any money to enable us to flee the country; we only hope you will not deal overly harshly with us till his fate is ascertained." I was greatly disconcerted, and wist not what to say; for knowing the rigour of our Scottish laws against duelling, I was wae to see three brave youths, not yet come to years of discretion, standing in the peril and jeopardy of an ignominious end, and that, too, for an injury done to my own kin; and then I thought of my nephew and of my brother, that, maybe, would soon be in sorrow for the loss of his only son. In short, I was tried almost beyond my humanity. The three poor lads, seeing me hesitate, were much moved, and one of them (Sandy Blackie) said, "I told you how it would be; it was even-down madness to throw ourselves into the lion's mouth." To this Swinton replied, "Mr Pawkie, we have cast ourselves on your mercy as a gentleman." What could I say to this, but that I hoped they would find me one; and without speaking any more at that time--for indeed I could not, my heart beat so fast--I bade them follow me, and taking them round by the back road to my garden yett, I let them in, and conveyed them into a warehouse where I kept my bales and boxes. Then slipping into the house, I took out of the pantry a basket of bread and a cold leg of mutton, which, when Mrs Pawkie and the servant lassies missed in the morning, they could not divine what had become of; and giving the same to them, with a bottle of wine--for they were very hungry, having tasted nothing all day--I went round to my brother's to see at the latest how Richard was. But such a stang as I got on entering the house, when I heard his mother wailing that he was dead, he having fainted away in getting the bullet extracted; and when I saw his father coming out of the room like a demented man, and heard again his upbraiding of me for having refused a warrant to apprehend the murderers--I was so stunned with the shock, and with the thought of the poor young lads in my mercy, that I could with difficulty support myself along the passage into a room where there was a chair, into which I fell rather than threw myself. I had not, however, been long seated, when a joyful cry announced that Richard was recovering, and presently he was in a manner free from pain; and the doctor assured me the wound was probably not mortal. I did not, however, linger long on hearing this; but hastening home, I took what money I had in my scrutoire, and going to the malefactors, said, "Lads, take thir twa three pounds, and quit the town as fast as ye can, for Richard is my nephew, and blood, ye ken, is thicker than water, and I may be tempted to give you up." They started on their legs, and shaking me in a warm manner by both the hands, they hurried away without speaking, nor could I say more, as I opened the back yett to let them out, than bid them take tent of themselves. Mrs Pawkie was in a great consternation at my late absence, and when I went home she thought I was ill, I was so pale and flurried, and she wanted to send for the doctor, but I told her that when I was calmed, I would be better; however, I got no sleep that night. In the morning I went to see Richard, whom I found in a composed and rational state: he confessed to his father that he was as muckle to blame as Swinton, and begged and entreated us, if he should die, not to take any steps against the fugitives: my brother, however, was loth to make rash promises, and it was not till his son was out of danger that I had any ease of mind for the part I had played. But when Richard was afterwards well enough to go about, and the duellers had come out of their hidings, they told him what I had done, by which the whole affair came to the public, and I got great fame thereby, none being more proud to speak of it than poor Dick himself, who, from that time, became the bosom friend of Swinton; in so much that, when he was out of his time as a writer, and had gone through his courses at Edinburgh, the laird made him his man of business, and, in a manner, gave him a nest egg. CHAPTER XXXVIII--AN INTERLOCUTOR Upon a consideration of many things, it appears to me very strange, that almost the whole tot of our improvements became, in a manner, the parents of new plagues and troubles to the magistrates. It might reasonably have been thought that the lamps in the streets would have been a terror to evil-doers, and the plainstone side-pavements paths of pleasantness to them that do well; but, so far from this being the case, the very reverse was the consequence. The servant lasses went freely out (on their errands) at night, and at late hours, for their mistresses, without the protection of lanterns, by which they were enabled to gallant in a way that never could have before happened: for lanterns are kenspeckle commodities, and of course a check on every kind of gavaulling. Thus, out of the lamps sprung no little irregularity in the conduct of servants, and much bitterness of spirit on that account to mistresses, especially to those who were of a particular turn, and who did not choose that their maidens should spend their hours a-field, when they could be profitably employed at home. Of the plagues that were from the plainstones, I have given an exemplary specimen in the plea between old perjink Miss Peggy Dainty, and the widow Fenton, that was commonly called the Tappit-hen. For the present, I shall therefore confine myself in this _nota bena_ to an accident that happened to Mrs Girdwood, the deacon of the coopers' wife--a most managing, industrious, and indefatigable woman, that allowed no grass to grow in her path. Mrs Girdwood had fee'd one Jeanie Tirlet, and soon after she came home, the mistress had her big summer washing at the public washing-house on the green--all the best of her sheets and napery--both what had been used in the course of the winter, and what was only washed to keep clear in the colour, were in the boyne. It was one of the greatest doings of the kind that the mistress had in the whole course of the year, and the value of things intrusted to Jeanie's care was not to be told, at least so said Mrs Girdwood herself. Jeanie and Marion Sapples, the washerwoman, with a pickle tea and sugar tied in the corners of a napkin, and two measured glasses of whisky in an old doctor's bottle, had been sent with the foul clothes the night before to the washing-house, and by break of day they were up and at their work; nothing particular, as Marion said, was observed about Jeanie till after they had taken their breakfast, when, in spreading out the clothes on the green, some of the ne'er-do-weel young clerks of the town were seen gaffawing and haverelling with Jeanie, the consequence of which was, that all the rest of the day she was light-headed; indeed, as Mrs Girdwood told me herself, when Jeanie came in from the green for Marion's dinner, she couldna help remarking to her goodman, that there was something fey about the lassie, or, to use her own words, there was a storm in her tail, light where it might. But little did she think it was to bring the dule it did to her. Jeanie having gotten the pig with the wonted allowance of broth and beef in it for Marion, returned to the green, and while Marion was eating the same, she disappeared. Once away, aye away; hilt or hair of Jeanie was not seen that night. Honest Marion Sapples worked like a Trojan to the gloaming, but the light latheron never came back; at last, seeing no other help for it, she got one of the other women at the washing-house to go to Mrs Girdwood and to let her know what had happened, and how the best part of the washing would, unless help was sent, be obliged to lie out all night. The deacon's wife well knew the great stake she had on that occasion in the boyne, and was for a season demented with the thought; but at last summoning her three daughters, and borrowing our lass, and Mr Smeddum the tobacconist's niece, she went to the green, and got everything safely housed, yet still Jeanie Tirlet never made her appearance. Mrs Girdwood and her daughters having returned home, in a most uneasy state of mind on the lassie's account, the deacon himself came over to me, to consult what he ought to do as the head of a family. But I advised him to wait till Jeanie cast up, which was the next morning. Where she had been, and who she was with, could never be delved out of her; but the deacon brought her to the clerk's chamber, before Bailie Kittlewit, who was that day acting magistrate, and he sentenced her to be dismissed from her servitude with no more than the wage she had actually earned. The lassie was conscious of the ill turn she had played, and would have submitted in modesty; but one of the writers' clerks, an impudent whipper-snapper, that had more to say with her than I need to say, bade her protest and appeal against the interlocutor, which the daring gipsy, so egged on, actually did, and the appeal next court day came before me. Whereupon, I, knowing the outs and ins of the case, decerned that she should be fined five shillings to the poor of the parish, and ordained to go back to Mrs Girdwood's, and there stay out the term of her servitude, or failing by refusal so to do, to be sent to prison, and put to hard labour for the remainder of the term. Every body present, on hearing the circumstances, thought this a most judicious and lenient sentence; but so thought not the other servant lasses of the town; for in the evening, as I was going home, thinking no harm, on passing the Cross-well, where a vast congregation of them were assembled with their stoups discoursing the news of the day, they opened on me like a pack of hounds at a tod, and I verily believed they would have mobbed me had I not made the best of my way home. My wife had been at the window when the hobleshow began, and was just like to die of diversion at seeing me so set upon by the tinklers; and when I entered the dining-room she said, "Really, Mr Pawkie, ye're a gallant man, to be so weel in the good graces of the ladies." But although I have often since had many a good laugh at the sport, I was not overly pleased with Mrs Pawkie at the time--particularly as the matter between the deacon's wife and Jeanie did not end with my interlocutor. For the latheron's friend in the court having discovered that I had not decerned she was to do any work to Mrs Girdwood, but only to stay out her term, advised her to do nothing when she went back but go to her bed, which she was bardy enough to do, until my poor friend, the deacon, in order to get a quiet riddance of her, was glad to pay her full fee, and board wages for the remainder of her time. This was the same Jeanie Tirlet that was transported for some misdemeanour, after making both Glasgow and Edinburgh owre het to hold her. CHAPTER XXXIX--THE NEWSPAPER Shortly after the foregoing tribulation, of which I cannot take it upon me to say that I got so well rid as of many other vexations of a more grievous nature, there arose a thing in the town that caused to me much deep concern, and very serious reflection. I had been, from the beginning, a true government man, as all loyal subjects ought in duty to be; for I never indeed could well understand how it would advantage, either the king or his ministers, to injure and do detriment to the lieges; on the contrary, I always saw and thought that his majesty, and those of his cabinet, had as great an interest in the prosperity and well- doing of the people, as it was possible for a landlord to have in the thriving of his tenantry. Accordingly, giving on all occasions, and at all times and seasons, even when the policy of the kingdom was overcast with a cloud, the king and government, in church and state, credit for the best intentions, however humble their capacity in performance might seem in those straits and difficulties, which, from time to time, dumfoundered the wisest in power and authority, I was exceedingly troubled to hear that a newspaper was to be set up in the burgh, and that, too, by hands not altogether clean of the coom of jacobinical democracy. The person that first brought me an account of this, and it was in a private confidential manner, was Mr Scudmyloof, the grammar schoolmaster, a man of method and lear, to whom the fathers of the project had applied for an occasional cast of his skill, in the way of Latin head-pieces, and essays of erudition concerning the free spirit among the ancient Greeks and Romans; but he, not liking the principle of the men concerned in the scheme, thought that it would be a public service to the community at large, if a stop could be put, by my help, to the opening of such an ettering sore and king's evil as a newspaper, in our heretofore and hitherto truly royal and loyal burgh; especially as it was given out that the calamity, for I can call it no less, was to be conducted on liberal principles, meaning, of course, in the most afflicting and vexatious manner towards his majesty's ministers. "What ye say," said I to Mr Scudmyloof when he told me the news, "is very alarming, very much so indeed; but as there is no law yet actually and peremptorily prohibiting the sending forth of newspapers, I doubt it will not be in my power to interfere." He was of the same opinion; and we both agreed it was a rank exuberance of liberty, that the commonality should be exposed to the risk of being inoculated with anarchy and confusion, from what he, in his learned manner, judiciously called the predilections of amateur pretension. The parties engaged in the project being Mr Absolom the writer--a man no overly reverential in his opinion of the law and lords when his clients lost their pleas, which, poor folk, was very often--and some three or four young and inexperienced lads, that were wont to read essays, and debate the kittle points of divinity and other hidden knowledge, in the Cross-Keys monthly, denying the existence of the soul of man, as Dr Sinney told me, till they were deprived of all rationality by foreign or British spirits. In short, I was perplexed when I heard of the design, not knowing what to do, or what might be expected from me by government in a case of such emergency as the setting up of a newspaper so declaredly adverse to every species of vested trust and power; for it was easy to forsee that those immediately on the scene would be the first opposed to the onset and brunt of the battle. Never can any public man have a more delicate task imposed upon him, than to steer clear of offence in such a predicament. After a full consideration of the business, Mr Scudmyloof declared that he would retire from the field, and stand aloof; and he rehearsed a fine passage in the Greek language on that head, pat to the occasion, but which I did not very thoroughly understand, being no deacon in the dead languages, as I told him at the time. But when the dominie had left me, I considered with myself, and having long before then observed that our hopes, when realized, are always light in the grain, and our fears, when come to pass, less than they seemed as seen through the mists of time and distance, I resolved with myself to sit still with my eyes open, watching and saying nothing; and it was well that I deported myself so prudently; for when the first number of the paper made its appearance, it was as poor a job as ever was "open to all parties, and influenced by none;" and it required but two eyes to discern that there was no need of any strong power from the lord advocate to suppress or abolish the undertaking; for there was neither birr nor smeddum enough in it to molest the high or to pleasure the low; so being left to itself, and not ennobled by any prosecution, as the schemers expected, it became as foisonless as the "London Gazette" on ordinary occasions. Those behind the curtain, who thought to bounce out with a grand stot and strut before the world, finding that even I used it as a convenient vehicle to advertise my houses when need was, and which I did by the way of a canny seduction of policy, joking civilly with Mr Absolom anent his paper trumpet, as I called it, they were utterly vanquished by seeing themselves of so little account in the world, and forsook the thing altogether; by which means it was gradually transformed into a very solid and decent supporter of the government--Mr Absolom, for his pains, being invited to all our public dinners, of which he gave a full account, to the great satisfaction of all who were present, but more particularly to those who were not, especially the wives and ladies of the town, to whom it was a great pleasure to see the names of their kith and kin in print. And indeed, to do Mr Absolom justice, he was certainly at great pains to set off every thing to the best advantage, and usually put speeches to some of our names which showed that, in the way of grammaticals, he was even able to have mended some of the parliamentary clishmaclavers, of which the Londoners, with all their skill in the craft, are so seldom able to lick into any shape of common sense. Thus, by a judicious forbearance in the first instance, and a canny wising towards the undertaking in the second, did I, in the third, help to convert this dangerous political adversary into a very respectable instrument of governmental influence and efficacy. CHAPTER XL--THE SCHOOL-HOUSE SCHEME The spirit of opposition that kithed towards me in the affair of Robin Boss, the drummer, was but an instance and symptom of the new nature then growing up in public matters. I was not long done with my second provostry, when I had occasion to congratulate myself on having passed twice through the dignity with so much respect; for, at the Michaelmas term, we had chosen Mr Robert Plan into the vacancy caused by the death of that easy man, Mr Weezle, which happened a short time before. I know not what came over me, that Mr Plan was allowed to be chosen, for I never could abide him; being, as he was, a great stickler for small particularities, more zealous than discreet, and even more intent to carry his own point, than to consider the good that might flow from a more urbane spirit. Not that the man was devoid of ability--few, indeed, could set forth a more plausible tale; but he was continually meddling, keeking, and poking, and always taking up a suspicious opinion of every body's intents and motives but his own. He was, besides, of a retired and sedentary habit of body; and the vapour of his stomach, as he was sitting by himself, often mounted into his upper story, and begat, with his over zealous and meddling imagination, many unsound and fantastical notions. For all that, however, it must be acknowledged that Mr Plan was a sincere honest man, only he sometimes lacked the discernment of the right from the wrong; and the consequence was, that, when in error, he was even more obstinate than when in the right; for his jealousy of human nature made him interpret falsely the heat with which his own headstrong zeal, when in error, was ever very properly resisted. In nothing, however, did his molesting temper cause so much disturbance, as when, in the year 1809, the bigging of the new school-house was under consideration. There was, about that time, a great sough throughout the country on the subject of education, and it was a fashion to call schools academies; and out of a delusion rising from the use of that term, to think it necessary to decry the good plain old places, wherein so many had learnt those things by which they helped to make the country and kingdom what it is, and to scheme for the ways and means to raise more edificial structures and receptacles. None was more infected with his distemperature than Mr Plan; and accordingly, when he came to the council- chamber, on the day that the matter of the new school-house was to be discussed, he brought with him a fine castle in the air, which he pressed hard upon us; representing, that if we laid out two or three thousand pounds more than we intended, and built a beautiful academy and got a rector thereto, with a liberal salary, and other suitable masters, opulent people at a distance--yea, gentlemen in the East and West Indies--would send their children to be educated among us, by which, great fame and profit would redound to the town. Nothing could be more plausibly set forth; and certainly the project, as a notion, had many things to recommend it; but we had no funds adequate to undertake it; so, on the score of expense, knowing, as I did, the state of the public income, I thought it my duty to oppose it _in toto_; which fired Mr Plan to such a degree, that he immediately insinuated that I had some end of my own to serve in objecting to his scheme; and because the wall that it was proposed to big round the moderate building, which we were contemplating, would inclose a portion of the backside of my new steading at the Westergate, he made no scruple of speaking, in a circumbendibus manner, as to the particular reasons that I might have for preferring it to his design, which he roused, in his way, as more worthy of the state of the arts and the taste of the age. It was not easy to sit still under his imputations; especially as I could plainly see that some of the other members of the council leant towards his way of thinking. Nor will I deny that, in preferring the more moderate design, I had a contemplation of my own advantage in the matter of the dyke; for I do not think it any shame to a public man to serve his own interests by those of the community, when he can righteously do so. It was a thing never questionable, that the school-house required the inclosure of a wall, and the outside of that wall was of a natural necessity constrained to be a wing of inclosure to the ground beyond. Therefore, I see not how a corrupt motive ought to have been imputed to me, merely because I had a piece of ground that marched with the spot whereon it was intended to construct the new building; which spot, I should remark, belonged to the town before I bought mine. However, Mr Plan so worked upon this material, that, what with one thing and what with another, he got the council persuaded to give up the moderate plan, and to consent to sell the ground where it had been proposed to build the new school, and to apply the proceeds towards the means of erecting a fine academy on the Green. It was not easy to thole to be so thwarted, especially for such an extravagant problem, by one so new to our councils and deliberations. I never was more fashed in my life; for having hitherto, in all my plans for the improvement of the town, not only succeeded, but given satisfaction, I was vexed to see the council run away with such a speculative vagary. No doubt, the popular fantasy anent education and academies, had quite as muckle to do in the matter as Mr Plan's fozey rhetoric, but what availed that to me, at seeing a reasonable undertaking reviled and set aside, and grievous debts about to be laid on the community for a bubble as unsubstantial as that of the Ayr Bank. Besides, it was giving the upper hand in the council to Mr Plan, to which, as a new man, he had no right. I said but little, for I saw it would be of no use; I, however, took a canny opportunity of remarking to old Mr Dinledoup, the English teacher, that this castle-building scheme of an academy would cause great changes probably in the masters; and as, no doubt, it would oblige us to adopt the new methods of teaching, I would like to have a private inkling of what salary he would expect on being superannuated. The worthy man was hale and hearty, not exceeding three score and seven, and had never dreamt of being superannuated. He was, besides, a prideful body, and, like all of his calling, thought not a little of himself. The surprise, therefore, with which he heard me was just wonderful. For a space of time he stood still and uttered nothing; then he took his snuff- box out of the flap pocket of his waistcoat, where he usually carried it, and, giving three distinct and very comical raps, drew his mouth into a purse. "Mr Pawkie," at last he said; "Mr Pawkie, there will be news in the world before I consent to be superannuated." This was what I expected, and I replied, "Then, why do not you and Mr Scudmyloof, of the grammar school, represent to the magistrates that the present school-house may, with a small repair, serve for many years." And so I sowed an effectual seed of opposition to Mr Plan, in a quarter he never dreamt of; the two dominies, in the dread of undergoing some transmogrification, laid their heads together, and went round among the parents of the children, and decried the academy project, and the cess that the cost of it would bring upon the town; by which a public opinion was begotten and brought to a bearing, that the magistrates could not resist; so the old school-house was repaired, and Mr Plan's scheme, as well as the other, given up. In this, it is true, if I had not the satisfaction to get a dyke to the backside of my property, I had the pleasure to know that my interloping adversary was disappointed; the which was a sort of compensation. CHAPTER XLI--BENEFITS OF NEUTRALITY The general election in 1812 was a source of trouble and uneasiness to me; both because our district of burghs was to be contested, and because the contest was not between men of opposite principles, but of the same side. To neither of them had I any particular leaning; on the contrary, I would have preferred the old member, whom I had, on different occasions, found an accessible and tractable instrument, in the way of getting small favours with the government and India company, for friends that never failed to consider them as such things should be. But what could I do? Providence had placed me in the van of the battle, and I needs must fight; so thought every body, and so for a time I thought myself. Weighing, however, the matter one night soberly in my mind, and seeing that whichever of the two candidates was chosen, I, by my adherent loyalty to the cause for which they were both declared, the contest between them being a rivalry of purse and personality, would have as much to say with the one as with the other, came to the conclusion that it was my prudentest course not to intermeddle at all in the election. Accordingly, as soon as it was proper to make a declaration of my sentiments, I made this known, and it caused a great wonderment in the town; nobody could imagine it possible that I was sincere, many thinking there was something aneath it, which would kithe in time to the surprise of the public. However, the peutering went on, and I took no part. The two candidates were as civil and as liberal, the one after the other, to Mrs Pawkie and my daughters, as any gentlemen of a parliamentary understanding could be. Indeed, I verily believe, that although I had been really chosen delegate, as it was at one time intended I should be, I could not have hoped for half the profit that came in from the dubiety which my declaration of neutrality caused; for as often as I assured the one candidate that I did not intend even to be present at the choosing of the delegate, some rich present was sure to be sent to my wife, of which the other no sooner heard than he was upsides with him. It was just a sport to think of me protesting my neutrality, and to see how little I was believed. For still the friends of the two candidates, like the figures of the four quarters of the world round Britannia in a picture, came about my wife, and poured into her lap a most extraordinary paraphernalia from the horn of their abundance. The common talk of the town was, that surely I was bereft of my wonted discretion, to traffic so openly with corruption; and that it could not be doubted I would have to face the House of Commons, and suffer the worst pains and penalties of bribery. But what did all this signify to me, who was conscious of the truth and integrity of my motives and talents? "They say!--what say they?--let them say!"--was what I said, as often as any of my canny friends came to me, saying, "For God's sake, Mr Pawkie, tak'tent"--"I hope, Mr Pawkie, ye ken the ground ye stand on"--or, "I wish that some folks were aware of what's said about them." In short, I was both angered and diverted by their clishmaclavers; and having some need to go into Glasgow just on the eve of the election, I thought I would, for diversion, give them something in truth to play with; so saying nothing to my shop lad the night before, nor even to Mrs Pawkie, (for the best of women are given to tattling), till we were in our beds, I went off early on the morning of the day appointed for choosing the delegate. The consternation in the town at my evasion was wonderful. Nobody could fathom it; and the friends and supporters of the rival candidates looked, as I was told, at one another, in a state of suspicion that was just a curiosity to witness. Even when the delegate was chosen, every body thought that something would be found wanting, merely because I was not present. The new member himself, when his election was declared, did not feel quite easy; and more than once, when I saw him after my return from Glasgow, he said to me, in a particular manner--"But tell me now, bailie, what was the true reason of your visit to Glasgow?" And, in like manner, his opponent also hinted that he would petition against the return; but there were some facts which he could not well get at without my assistance--insinuating that I might find my account in helping him. At last, the true policy of the part I had played began to be understood; and I got far more credit for the way in which I had turned both parties so well to my own advantage, than if I had been the means of deciding the election by my single vote. CHAPTER XLII--THE NEW MEMBER But the new member was, in some points, not of so tractable a nature as many of his predecessors had been; and notwithstanding all the couthy jocosity and curry-favouring of his demeanour towards us before the election, he was no sooner returned, than he began, as it were, to snap his fingers in the very faces of those of the council to whom he was most indebted, which was a thing not of very easy endurance, considering how they had taxed their consciences in his behalf; and this treatment was the more bitterly felt, as the old member had been, during the whole of his time, as considerate and obliging as could reasonably be expected; doing any little job that needed his helping hand when it was in his power, and when it was not, replying to our letters in a most discreet and civil manner. To be sure, poor man, he had but little to say in the way of granting favours; for being latterly inclined to a whiggish principle, he was, in consequence, debarred from all manner of government patronage, and had little in his gift but soft words and fair promises. Indeed, I have often remarked, in the course of my time, that there is a surprising difference, in regard to the urbanities in use among those who have not yet come to authority, or who have been cast down from it, and those who are in the full possession of the rule and domination of office; but never was the thing plainer than in the conduct of the new member. He was by nature and inclination one of the upsetting sort; a kind of man who, in all manner of business, have a leaven of contrariness, that makes them very hard to deal with; and he, being conjunct with his majesty's ministers at London, had imbibed and partook of that domineering spirit to which all men are ordained, to be given over whenever they are clothed in the garments of power. Many among us thought, by his colleaguing with the government, that we had got a great catch, and they were both blythe and vogie when he was chosen; none doubting but he would do much good servitude to the corporation, and the interests of the burgh. However he soon gave a rebuff, that laid us all on our backs in a state of the greatest mortification. But although it behoved me to sink down with the rest, I was but little hurt: on the contary, I had a good laugh in my sleeve at the time; and afterwards, many a merry tumbler of toddy with my brethren, when they had recovered from their discomfiture. The story was this:-- About a fortnight after the election, Mr Scudmyloof, the schoolmaster, called one day on me, in my shop, and said, "That being of a nervous turn, the din of the school did not agree with him; and that he would, therefore, be greatly obligated to me if I would get him made a gauger." There had been something in the carriage of our new member, before he left the town, that was not satisfactory to me, forbye my part at the election, the which made me loth to be the first to ask for any grace, though the master was a most respectable and decent man; so I advised Mr Scudmyloof to apply to Provost Pickandab, who had been the delegate, as the person to whose instrumentality the member was most obliged; and to whose application, he of course would pay the greatest attention. Whether Provost Pickandab had made any observe similar to mine, I never could rightly understand, though I had a notion to that effect: he, however, instead of writing himself, made the application for Mr Scudmyloof an affair of the council; recommending him as a worthy modest man, which he really was, and well qualified for the post. Off went this notable letter, and by return of post from London, we got our answer as we were all sitting in council; deliberating anent the rebuilding of the Crosswell, which had been for some time in a sore state of dilapidation; and surely never was any letter more to the point and less to the purpose of an applicant. It was very short and pithy, just acknowledging receipt of ours; and adding thereto, "circumstances do not allow me to pay any attention to such applications." We all with one accord, in sympathy and instinct, threw ourselves back in our chairs at the words, looking at Provost Pickandab, with the pragmatical epistle in his hand, sitting in his place at the head of the table, with the countenance of consternation. When I came to myself, I began to consider that there must have been something no right in the provost's own letter on the subject, to cause such an uncourteous rebuff; so after condemning, in very strong terms, the member's most ungenteel style, in order to procure for myself a patient hearing, I warily proposed that the provost's application should be read, a copy thereof being kept, and I had soon a positive confirmation of my suspicion. For the provost, being fresh in the dignity of his office, and naturally of a prideful turn, had addressed the parliament man as if he was under an obligation to him; and as if the council had a right to command him to get the gauger's post, or indeed any other, for whomsoever they might apply. So, seeing whence the original sin of the affair had sprung, I said nothing; but the same night I wrote a humiliated letter from myself to the member, telling him how sorry we all were for the indiscretion that had been used towards him, and how much it would pleasure me to heal the breach that had happened between him and the burgh, with other words of an oily and conciliating policy. The indignant member, by the time my letter reached hand, had cooled in his passion, and, I fancy, was glad of an occasion to do away the consequence of the rupture; for with a most extraordinary alacrity he procured Mr Scudmyloof the post, writing me, when he had done so, in the civilest manner, and saying many condescending things concerning his regard for me; all which ministered to maintain and uphold my repute and consideration in the town, as superior to that of the provost. CHAPTER XLIII--MY THIRD PROVOSTRY It was at the Michaelmas 1813 that I was chosen provost for the third time, and at the special request of my lord the earl, who, being in ill health, had been advised by the faculty of doctors in London to try the medicinal virtues of the air and climate of Sicily, in the Mediterranean sea; and there was an understanding on the occasion, that I should hold the post of honour for two years, chiefly in order to bring to a conclusion different works that the town had then in hand. At the two former times when I was raised to the dignity, and indeed at all times when I received any advancement, I had enjoyed an elation of heart, and was, as I may say, crouse and vogie; but experience had worked a change upon my nature, and when I was saluted on my election with the customary greetings and gratulations of those present, I felt a solemnity enter into the frame of my thoughts, and I became as it were a new man on the spot. When I returned home to my own house, I retired into my private chamber for a time, to consult with myself in what manner my deportment should be regulated; for I was conscious that heretofore I had been overly governed with a disposition to do things my own way, and although not in an avaricious temper, yet something, I must confess, with a sort of sinister respect for my own interests. It may be, that standing now clear and free of the world, I had less incitement to be so grippy, and so was thought of me, I very well know; but in sobriety and truth I conscientiously affirm, and herein record, that I had lived to partake of the purer spirit which the great mutations of the age had conjured into public affairs, and I saw that there was a necessity to carry into all dealings with the concerns of the community, the same probity which helps a man to prosperity in the sequestered traffic of private life. This serious and religious communing wrought within me to a benign and pleasant issue, and when I went back in the afternoon to dine with the corporation in the council-room, and looked around me on the bailies, the councillors, and the deacons, I felt as if I was indeed elevated above them all, and that I had a task to perform, in which I could hope for but little sympathy from many; and the first thing I did was to measure, with a discreet hand, the festivity of the occasion. At all former and precedent banquets, it had been the custom to give vent to muckle wanton and luxurious indulgence, and to galravitch, both at hack and manger, in a very expensive manner to the funds of the town. I therefore resolved to set my face against this for the future; and accordingly, when we had enjoyed a jocose temperance of loyalty and hilarity, with a decent measure of wine, I filled a glass, and requesting all present to do the same, without any preliminary reflections on the gavaulling of past times, I drank good afternoon to each severally, and then rose from the table, in a way that put an end to all the expectations of more drink. But this conduct did not give satisfaction to some of the old hands, who had been for years in the habit and practice of looking forward to the provost's dinner as to a feast of fat things. Mr Peevie, one of the very sickerest of all the former sederunts, came to me next morning, in a remonstrating disposition, to enquire what had come over me, and to tell me that every body was much surprised, and many thought it not right of me to break in upon ancient and wonted customs in such a sudden and unconcerted manner. This Mr Peevie was, in his person, a stumpy man, well advanced in years. He had been, in his origin, a bonnet-maker; but falling heir to a friend that left him a property, he retired from business about the fiftieth year of his age, doing nothing but walking about with an ivory-headed staff, in a suit of dark bluecloth with yellow buttons, wearing a large cocked hat, and a white three-tiered wig, which was well powdered every morning by Duncan Curl, the barber. The method of his discourse and conversation was very precise, and his words were all set forth in a style of consequence, that took with many for a season as the pith and marrow of solidity and sense. The body, however, was but a pompous trifle, and I had for many a day held his observes and admonishments in no very reverential estimation. So that, when I heard him address me in such a memorializing manner, I was inclined and tempted to set him off with a flea in his lug. However, I was enabled to bridle and rein in this prejudicial humour, and answer him in his own way. "Mr Peevie," quo' I, "you know that few in the town hae the repute that ye hae for a gift of sagacity by common, and therefore I'll open my mind to you in this matter, with a frankness that would not be a judicious polity with folk of a lighter understanding." This was before the counter in my shop. I then walked in behind it, and drew the chair that stands in the corner nearer to the fire, for Mr Peevie. When he was seated thereon, and, as was his wont in conversation, had placed both his hands on the top of his staff, and leant his chin on the same, I subjoined. "Mr Peevie, I need not tell to a man of your experience, that folk in public stations cannot always venture to lay before the world the reasons of their conduct on particular occasions; and therefore, when men who have been long in the station that I have filled in this town, are seen to step aside from what has been in time past, it is to be hoped that grave and sensible persons like you, Mr Peevie, will no rashly condemn them unheard; nevertheless, my good friend, I am very happy that ye have spoken to me anent the stinted allowance of wine and punch at the dinner, because the like thing from any other would have made me jealouse that the complaint was altogether owing to a disappointed appetite, which is a corrupt thing, that I am sure would never affect a man of such a public spirit as you are well known to be." Mr Peevie, at this, lifted his chin from off his hands, and dropping his arms down upon his knees, held his staff by the middle, as he replied, looking upward to me, "What ye say, Provost Pawkie, has in it a solid commodity of judgment and sensibility; and ye may be sure that I was not without a cogitation of reflection, that there had been a discreet argument of economy at the bottom of the revolution which was brought to a criticism yesterday's afternoon. Weel aware am I, that men in authority cannot appease and quell the inordinate concupiscence of the multitude, and that in a' stations of life there are persons who would mumpileese the retinue of the king and government for their own behoof and eeteration, without any regard to the cause or effect of such manifest predilections. But ye do me no more than a judicature, in supposing that, in this matter, I am habituated wi' the best intentions. For I can assure you, Mr Pawkie, that no man in this community has a more literal respect for your character than I have, or is more disposed for a judicious example of continence in the way of public enterteenment than I have ever been; for, as you know, I am of a constipent principle towards every extravagant and costive outlay. Therefore, on my own account, I had a satisfaction at seeing the abridgement which you made of our former inebrieties; but there are other persons of a conjugal nature, who look upon such castrations as a deficiency of their rights, and the like of them will find fault with the best procedures." "Very true, Mr Peevie," said I, "that's very true; but if his Majesty's government, in this war for all that is dear to us as men and Britons, wish us, who are in authority under them, to pare and save, in order that the means of bringing the war to a happy end may not be wasted, an example must be set, and that example, as a loyal subject and a magistrate, it's my intent so to give, in the hope and confidence of being backed by every person of a right way of thinking." "It's no to be deputed, Provost Pawkie," replied my friend, somewhat puzzled by what I had said; "it's no to be deputed, that we live in a gigantic vortex, and that every man is bound to make an energetic dispensation for the good of his country; but I could not have thought that our means had come to sic an alteration and extremity, as that the reverent homage of the Michaelmas dinners could have been enacted, and declared absolute and abolished, by any interpolation less than the omnipotence of parliament." "Not abolished, Mr Peevie," cried I, interrupting him; "that would indeed be a stretch of power. No, no; I hope we're both ordained to partake of many a Michaelmas dinner thegether yet; but with a meted measure of sobriety. For we neither live in the auld time nor the golden age, and it would not do now for the like of you and me, Mr Peevie, to be seen in the dusk of the evening, toddling home from the town-hall wi' goggling een and havering tongues, and one of the town-officers following at a distance in case of accidents; sic things ye ken, hae been, but nobody would plead for their continuance." Mr Peevie did not relish this, for in truth it came near his own doors, it having been his annual practice for some years at the Michaelmas dinner to give a sixpence to James Hound, the officer, to see him safe home, and the very time before he had sat so long, that honest James was obligated to cleek and oxter him the whole way; and in the way home, the old man, cagie with what he had gotten, stood in the causey opposite to Mr M'Vest's door, then deacon of the taylors, and trying to snap his fingers, sang like a daft man, 'The sheets they were thin and the blankets were sma', And the taylor fell through the bed, thimble and a'." So that he was disconcerted by my innuendo, and shortly after left the shop, I trow, with small inclination to propagate any sedition against me, for the abbreviation I had made of the Michaelmas galravitching. CHAPTER XLIV--THE CHURCH VACANT I had long been sensible that, in getting Mr Pittle the kirk, I had acted with the levity and indiscretion of a young man; but at that time I understood not the nature of public trust, nor, indeed, did the community at large. Men in power then ruled more for their own ends than in these latter times; and use and wont sanctioned and sanctified many doings, from the days of our ancestors, that, but to imagine, will astonish and startle posterity. Accordingly, when Mr Pittle, after a lingering illness, was removed from us, which happened in the first year of my third provostry, I bethought me of the consequences which had ensued from his presentation, and resolved within myself to act a very different part in the filling up of the vacancy. With this intent, as soon as the breath was out of his body, I sent round for some of the most weighty and best considered of the councillors and elders, and told them that a great trust was, by the death of the minister, placed in our hands, and that, in these times, we ought to do what in us lay to get a shepherd that would gather back to the establishment the flock which had been scattered among the seceders, by the feckless crook and ill-guiding of their former pastor. They all agreed with me in this, and named one eminent divine after another; but the majority of voices were in favour of Dr Whackdeil of Kirkbogle, a man of weight and example, both in and out the pulpit, so that it was resolved to give the call to him, which was done accordingly. It however came out that the Kirkbogle stipend was better than ours, and the consequence was, that having given the call, it became necessary to make up the deficiency; for it was not reasonable to expect that the reverend doctor, with his small family of nine children, would remove to us at a loss. How to accomplish this was a work of some difficulty, for the town revenues were all eaten up with one thing and another; but upon an examination of the income, arising from what had been levied on the seats for the repair of the church, it was discovered that, by doing away a sinking fund, which had been set apart to redeem the debt incurred for the same, and by the town taking the debt on itself, we could make up a sufficiency to bring the doctor among us. And in so far as having an orthodox preacher, and a very excellent man for our minister, there was great cause to be satisfied with that arrangement. But the payment of the interest on the public debt, with which the town was burdened, began soon after to press heavily on us, and we were obligated to take on more borrowed money, in order to keep our credit, and likewise to devise ways and means, in the shape of public improvements, to raise an income to make up what was required. This led me to suggest the building of the new bridge, the cost of which, by contract, there was no reason to complain of, and the toll thereon, while the war lasted, not only paid the interest of the borrowed money by which it was built, but left a good penny in the nook of the treasurer's box for other purposes. Had the war continued, and the nation to prosper thereby as it did, nobody can doubt that a great source of wealth and income was opened to the town; but when peace came round, and our prosperity began to fall off, the traffic on the bridge grew less and less, insomuch that the toll, as I now understand, (for since my resignation, I meddle not with public concerns,) does not yield enough to pay the five per cent on the prime cost of the bridge, by which my successors suffer much molestation in raising the needful money to do the same. However, every body continues well satisfied with Dr Whackdeil, who was the original cause of this perplexity; and it is to be hoped that, in time, things will grow better, and the revenues come round again to idemnify the town for its present tribulation. CHAPTER XLV--THE STRAMASH IN THE COUNCIL As I have said, my third provostry was undertaken in a spirit of sincerity, different in some degree from that of the two former; but strange and singular as it may seem, I really think I got less credit for the purity of my intents, than I did even in the first. During the whole term from the election in the year 1813 to the Michaelmas following, I verily believe that no one proposal which I made to the council was construed in a right sense; this was partly owing to the repute I had acquired for canny management, but chiefly to the perverse views and misconceptions of that Yankee thorn-in-the-side, Mr Hickery, who never desisted from setting himself against every thing that sprang from me, and as often found some show of plausibility to maintain his argumentations. And yet, for all that, he was a man held in no esteem or respect in the town; for he had wearied every body out by his everlasting contradictions. Mr Plan was likewise a source of great tribulation to me; for he was ever and anon coming forward with some new device, either for ornament or profit, as he said, to the burgh; and no small portion of my time, that might have been more advantageously employed, was wasted in the thriftless consideration of his schemes: all which, with my advanced years, begat in me a sort of distaste to the bickerings of the council chamber; so I conferred and communed with myself, anent the possibility of ruling the town without having recourse to so unwieldy a vehicle as the wheels within wheels of the factions which the Yankee reformator, and that projectile Mr Plan, as he was called by Mr Peevie, had inserted among us. I will no equivocate that there was, in this notion, an appearance of taking more on me than the laws allowed; but then my motives were so clean to my conscience, and I was so sure of satisfying the people by the methods I intended to pursue, that there could be no moral fault in the trifle of illegality which, may be, I might have been led on to commit. However, I was fortunately spared from the experiment, by a sudden change in the council.--One day Mr Hickery and Mr Plan, who had been for years colleaguing together for their own ends, happened to differ in opinion, and the one suspecting that this difference was the fruit of some secret corruption, they taunted each other, and came to high words, and finally to an open quarrel, actually shaking their neeves across the table, and, I'll no venture to deny, maybe exchanging blows. Such a convulsion in the sober councils of a burgh town was never heard of. It was a thing not to be endured, and so I saw at the time, and was resolved to turn it to the public advantage. Accordingly, when the two angry men had sat back in their seats, bleached in the face with passion, and panting and out of breath, I rose up in my chair at the head of the table, and with a judicial solemnity addressed the council, saying, that what we had witnessed was a disgrace not to be tolerated in a Christian land; that unless we obtained indemnity for the past, and security for the future, I would resign; but in doing so I would bring the cause thereof before the Fifteen at Edinburgh, yea, even to the House of Lords at London; so I gave the offending parties notice, as well as those who, from motives of personal friendship, might be disposed to overlook the insult that had been given to the constituted authority of the king, so imperfectly represented in my person, as it would seem, by the audacious conflict and misdemeanour which had just taken place. This was striking while the iron was hot: every one looked at my sternness with surprise, and some begged me to be seated, and to consider the matter calmly.--"Gentlemen," quo' I, "dinna mistake me. I never was in more composure all my life.--It's indeed no on my own account that I feel on this occasion. The gross violation of all the decent decorum of magisterial authority, is not a thing that affects me in my own person; it's an outrage against the state; the prerogatives of the king's crown are endamaged; atonement must be made, or punishment must ensue. It's a thing that by no possibility can be overlooked: it's an offence committed in open court, and we cannot but take cognizance thereof." I saw that what I said was operating to an effect, and that the two troublesome members were confounded. Mr Hickery rose to offer some apology; but, perceiving I had now got him in a girn, I interposed my authority, and would not permit him to proceed. "Mr Hickery," said I, "it's of no use to address yourself to me. I am very sensible that ye are sorry for your fault; but that will not do. The law knows no such thing as repentance; and it is the law, not me nor our worthy friends here, that ye have offended. In short, Mr Hickery, the matter is such that, in one word, either you and Mr Plan must quit your seats at this table of your own free-will, or I must quit mine, and mine I will not give up without letting the public know the shame on your part that has compelled me." He sat down and I sat down; and for some time the other councillors looked at one another in silence and wonder. Seeing, however, that my gentle hint was not likely to be taken, I said to the town-clerk, who was sitting at the bottom of the table, "Sir, it's your duty to make a minute of everything that is done and said at the sederunts of the council; and as provost, I hereby require of you to record the particularities of this melancholy crisis." Mr Keelevine made an endeavour to dissuade me; but I set him down with a stern voice, striking the table at the same time with all my birr, as I said, "Sir, you have no voice here. Do you refuse to perform what I order? At your peril I command the thing to be done." Never had such austerity been seen in my conduct before. The whole council sat in astonishment; and Mr Keelevine prepared his pen, and took a sheet of paper to draw out a notation of the minute, when Mr Peevie rose, and after coughing three times, and looking first at me and syne at the two delinquents, said-- "My Lord Provost, I was surprised, and beginning to be confounded, at the explosion which the two gentlemen have committed. No man can designate the extent of such an official malversation, demonstrated, as it has been here, in the presence of us all, who are the lawful custodiers of the kingly dignity in this his majesty's royal burgh. I will, therefore, not take it upon me either to apologise or to obliviate their offence; for, indeed, it is an offence that merits the most condign animadversion, and the consequences might be legible for ever, were a gentleman, so conspicable in the town as you are, to evacuate the magistracy on account of it. But it is my balsamic advice, that rather than promulgate this matter, the two malcontents should abdicate, and that a precept should be placarded at this sederunt as if they were not here, but had resigned and evaded their places, precursive to the meeting." To this I answered, that no one could suspect me of wishing to push the matter further, provided the thing could be otherwise settled; and therefore, if Mr Plan and Mr Hickery would shake hands, and agree never to notice what had passed to each other, and the other members and magistrates would consent likewise to bury the business in oblivion, I would agree to the balsamic advice of Mr Peevie, and even waive my obligation to bind over the hostile parties to keep the king's peace, so that the whole affair might neither be known nor placed upon record. Mr Hickery, I could discern, was rather surprised; but I found that I had thus got the thief in the wuddy, and he had no choice; so both he and Mr Plan rose from their seats in a very sheepish manner, and looking at us as if they had unpleasant ideas in their minds, they departed forth the council-chamber; and a minute was made by the town-clerk that they, having resigned their trust as councillors, two other gentlemen at the next meeting should be chosen into their stead. Thus did I, in a manner most unexpected, get myself rid and clear of the two most obdurate oppositionists, and by taking care to choose discreet persons for their successors, I was enabled to wind the council round my finger, which was a far more expedient method of governing the community than what I had at one time meditated, even if I could have brought it to a bearing. But, in order to understand the full weight and importance of this, I must describe how the choice and election was made, because, in order to make my own power and influence the more sicker, it was necessary that I should not be seen in the business. CHAPTER XLVI--THE NEW COUNCILLORS Mr Peevie was not a little proud of the part he had played in the storm of the council, and his words grew, if possible, longer-nebbit and more kittle than before, in so much that the same evening, when I called on him after dusk, by way of a device to get him to help the implementing of my intents with regard to the choice of two gentlemen to succeed those whom he called "the expurgated dislocators," it was with a great difficulty that I could expiscate his meaning. "Mr Peevie," said I, when we were cozily seated by ourselves in his little back parlour--the mistress having set out the gardevin and tumblers, and the lass brought in the hot water--"I do not think, Mr Peevie, that in all my experience, and I am now both an old man and an old magistrate, that I ever saw any thing better managed than the manner in which ye quelled the hobleshow this morning, and therefore we maun hae a little more of your balsamic advice, to make a' heal among us again; and now that I think o't, how has it happent that ye hae never been a bailie? I'm sure it's due both to your character and circumstance that ye should take upon you a portion of the burden of the town honours. Therefore, Mr Peevie, would it no be a very proper thing, in the choice of the new councillors, to take men of a friendly mind towards you, and of an easy and manageable habit of will." The old man was mightily taken with this insinuation, and acknowledged that it would give him pleasure to be a bailie next year. We then cannily proceeded, just as if one thing begat another, to discourse anent the different men that were likely to do as councillors, and fixed at last on Alexander Hodden the blanket merchant, and Patrick Fegs the grocer, both excellent characters of their kind. There was not, indeed, in the whole burgh at the time, a person of such a flexible easy nature as Mr Hodden; and his neighbour, Mr Fegs, was even better, for he was so good-tempered, and kindly, and complying, that the very callants at the grammar school had nicknamed him Barley-sugar Pate. "No better than them can be," said I to Mr Peevie; "they are likewise both well to do in the world, and should be brought into consequence; and the way o't canna be in better hands than your own. I would, therefore, recommend it to you to see them on the subject, and, if ye find them willing, lay your hairs in the water to bring the business to a bearing." Accordingly, we settled to speak of it as a matter in part decided, that Mr Hodden and Mr Fegs were to be the two new councillors; and to make the thing sure, as soon as I went home I told it to Mrs Pawkie as a state secret, and laid my injunctions on her not to say a word about it, either to Mrs Hodden or to Mrs Fegs, the wives of our two elect; for I knew her disposition, and that, although to a certainty not a word of the fact would escape from her, yet she would be utterly unable to rest until she had made the substance of it known in some way or another; and, as I expected, so it came to pass. She went that very night to Mrs Rickerton, the mother of Mr Feg's wife, and, as I afterwards picked out of her, told the old lady that may be, ere long, she would hear of some great honour that would come to her family, with other mystical intimations that pointed plainly to the dignities of the magistracy; the which, when she had returned home, so worked upon the imagination of Mrs Rickerton, that, before going to bed, she felt herself obliged to send for her daughter, to the end that she might be delivered and eased of what she had heard. In this way Mr Fegs got a foretaste of what had been concerted for his advantage; and Mr Peevie, in the mean time, through his helpmate, had, in like manner, not been idle; the effect of all which was, that next day, every where in the town, people spoke of Mr Hodden and Mr Fegs as being ordained to be the new councillors, in the stead of the two who had, as it was said, resigned in so unaccountable a manner, so that no candidates offered, and the election was concluded in the most candid and agreeable spirit possible; after which I had neither trouble nor adversary, but went on, in my own prudent way, with the works in hand--the completion of the new bridge, the reparation of the tolbooth steeple, and the bigging of the new schools on the piece of ground adjoining to my own at the Westergate; and in the doing of the latter job I had an opportunity of manifesting my public spirit; for when the scheme, as I have related, was some years before given up, on account of Mr Plan's castles in the air for educating tawny children from the East and West Indies, I inclosed my own ground, and built the house thereon now occupied by Collector Gather's widow, and the town, per consequence, was not called on for one penny of the cost, but saved so much of a wall as the length of mine extended--a part not less than a full third part of the whole. No doubt, all these great and useful public works were not done without money; but the town was then in great credit, and many persons were willing and ready to lend; for every thing was in a prosperous order, and we had a prospect of a vast increase of income, not only from the toll on the new bridge, but likewise from three very excellent shops which we repaired on the ground floor of the tolbooth. We had likewise feued out to advantage a considerable portion of the town moor; so that had things gone on in the way they were in my time, there can be no doubt that the burgh would have been in very flourishing circumstances, and instead of being drowned, as it now is, in debt, it might have been in the most topping way; and if the project that I had formed for bringing in a supply of water by pipes, had been carried into effect, it would have been a most advantageous undertaking for the community at large. But my task is now drawing to an end; and I have only to relate what happened at the conclusion of the last act of my very serviceable and eventful life, the which I will proceed to do with as much brevity as is consistent with the nature of that free and faithful spirit in which the whole of these notandums have been indited. CHAPTER XLVII--THE RESIGNATION Shortly after the Battle of Waterloo, I began to see that a change was coming in among us. There was less work for the people to do, no outgate in the army for roving and idle spirits, and those who had tacks of the town lands complained of slack markets; indeed, in my own double vocation of the cloth shop and wine cellar, I had a taste and experience of the general declension that would of a necessity ensue, when the great outlay of government and the discharge from public employ drew more and more to an issue. So I bethought me, that being now well stricken in years, and, though I say it that should not, likewise a man in good respect and circumstances, it would be a prudent thing to retire and secede entirely from all farther intromissions with public affairs. Accordingly, towards the midsummer of the year 1816, I commenced in a far off way to give notice, that at Michaelmas I intended to abdicate my authority and power, to which intimations little heed was at first given; but gradually the seed took with the soil, and began to swell and shoot up, in so much that, by the middle of August, it was an understood thing that I was to retire from the council, and refrain entirely from the part I had so long played with credit in the burgh. When people first began to believe that I was in earnest, I cannot but acknowledge I was remonstrated with by many, and that not a few were pleased to say my resignation would be a public loss; but these expressions, and the disposition of them, wore away before Michaelmas came; and I had some sense of the feeling which the fluctuating gratitude of the multitude often causes to rise in the breasts of those who have ettled their best to serve the ungrateful populace. However, I considered with myself that it would not do for me, after what I had done for the town and commonality, to go out of office like a knotless thread, and that, as a something was of right due to me, I would be committing an act of injustice to my family if I neglected the means of realizing the same. But it was a task of delicacy, and who could I prompt to tell the town-council to do what they ought to do? I could not myself speak of my own services--I could ask nothing. Truly it was a subject that cost me no small cogitation; for I could not confide it even to the wife of my bosom. However, I gained my end, and the means and method thereof may advantage other public characters, in a similar strait, to know and understand. Seeing that nothing was moving onwards in men's minds to do the act of courtesy to me, so justly my due, on the Saturday before Michaelmas I invited Mr Mucklewheel, the hosier, (who had the year before been chosen into the council, in the place of old Mr Peevie, who had a paralytic, and never in consequence was made a bailie,) to take a glass of toddy with me, a way and method of peutering with the councillors, one by one, that I often found of a great efficacy in bringing their understandings into a docile state; and when we had discussed one cheerer with the usual clishmaclaver of the times, I began, as we were both birzing the sugar for the second, to speak with a circumbendibus about my resignation of the trusts I had so long held with profit to the community. "Mr Mucklewheel," quo' I "ye're but a young man, and no versed yet, as ye will be, in the policy and diplomatics that are requisite in the management of the town, and therefore I need not say any thing to you about what I have got an inkling of, as to the intents of the new magistrates and council towards me. It's very true that I have been long a faithful servant to the public, but he's a weak man who looks to any reward from the people; and after the experience I have had, I would certainly prove myself to be one of the very weakest, if I thought it was likely, that either anent the piece of plate and the vote of thanks, any body would take a speciality of trouble." To this Mr Mucklewheel answered, that he was glad to hear such a compliment was intended; "No man," said he, "more richly deserves a handsome token of public respect, and I will surely give the proposal all the countenance and support in my power possible to do." "As to that," I replied, pouring in the rum and helping myself to the warm water, "I entertain no doubt, and I have every confidence that the proposal, when it is made, will be in a manner unanimously approved. But, Mr Mucklewheel, what's every body's business, is nobody's. I have heard of no one that's to bring the matter forward; it's all fair and smooth to speak of such things in holes and corners, but to face the public with them is another sort of thing. For few men can abide to see honours conferred on their neighbours, though between ourselves, Mr Mucklewheel, every man in a public trust should, for his own sake, further and promote the bestowing of public rewards on his predecessors; because looking forward to the time when he must himself become a predecessor, he should think how he would feel were he, like me, after a magistracy of near to fifty years, to sink into the humility of a private station, as if he had never been any thing in the world. In sooth, Mr Mucklewheel, I'll no deny that it's a satisfaction to me to think that may be the piece of plate and the vote of thanks will be forthcoming; at the same time, unless they are both brought to a bearing in a proper manner, I would rather nothing was done at all." "Ye may depend on't," said Mr Mucklewheel, "that it will be done very properly, and in a manner to do credit both to you and the council. I'll speak to Bailie Shuttlethrift, the new provost, to propose the thing himself, and that I'll second it." "Hooly, hooly, friend," quo' I, with a laugh of jocularity, no ill-pleased to see to what effect I had worked upon him; "that will never do; ye're but a greenhorn in public affairs. The provost maun ken nothing about it, or let on that he doesna ken, which is the same thing, for folk would say that he was ettling at something of the kind for himself, and was only eager for a precedent. It would, therefore, ne'er do to speak to him. But Mr Birky, who is to be elected into the council in my stead, would be a very proper person. For ye ken coming in as my successor, it would very naturally fall to him to speak modestly of himself compared with me, and therefore I think he is the fittest person to make the proposal, and you, as the next youngest that has been taken in, might second the same." Mr Mucklewheel agreed with me, that certainly the thing would come with the best grace from my successor. "But I doubt," was my answer, "if he kens aught of the matter; ye might however enquire. In short, Mr Mucklewheel, ye see it requires a canny hand to manage public affairs, and a sound discretion to know who are the fittest to work in them. If the case were not my own, and if I was speaking for another that had done for the town what I have done, the task would be easy. For I would just rise in my place, and say as a thing of course, and admitted on all hands, 'Gentlemen, it would be a very wrong thing of us, to let Mr Mucklewheel, (that is, supposing you were me,) who has so long been a fellow-labourer with us, to quit his place here without some mark of our own esteem for him as a man, and some testimony from the council to his merits as a magistrate. Every body knows that he has been for near to fifty years a distinguished character, and has thrice filled the very highest post in the burgh; that many great improvements have been made in his time, wherein his influence and wisdom was very evident; I would therefore propose, that a committee should be appointed to consider of the best means of expressing our sense of his services, in which I shall be very happy to assist, provided the provost will consent to act as chairman.' "That's the way I would open the business; and were I the seconder, as you are to be to Mr Birky, I would say, "'The worthy councillor has but anticipated what every one was desirous to propose, and although a committee is a very fit way of doing the thing respectfully, there is yet a far better, and that is, for the council now sitting to come at once to a resolution on the subject, then a committee may be appointed to carry that resolution into effect.' "Having said this, you might advert first to the vote of thanks, and then to the piece of plate, to remain with the gentleman's family as a monumental testimony of the opinion which was entertained by the community of his services and character." Having in this judicious manner primed Mr Mucklewheel as to the procedure, I suddenly recollected that I had a letter to write to catch the post, and having told him so, "Maybe," quo' I, "ye would step the length of Mr Birky's and see how he is inclined, and by the time I am done writing, ye can be back; for after all that we have been saying, and the warm and friendly interest you have taken in this business, I really would not wish my friends to stir in it, unless it is to be done in a satisfactory manner." Mr Mucklewheel accordingly went to Mr Birky, who had of course heard nothing of the subject, but they came back together, and he was very vogie with the notion of making a speech before the council, for he was an upsetting young man. In short, the matter was so set forward, that, on the Monday following, it was all over the town that I was to get a piece of plate at my resignation, and the whole affair proceeded so well to an issue, that the same was brought to a head to a wish. Thus had I the great satisfaction of going to my repose as a private citizen with a very handsome silver cup, bearing an inscription in the Latin tongue, of the time I had been in the council, guildry, and magistracy; and although, in the outset of my public life, some of my dealings may have been leavened with the leaven of antiquity, yet, upon the whole, it will not be found, I think, that, one thing weighed with another, I have been an unprofitable servant to the community. Magistrates and rulers must rule according to the maxims and affections of the world; at least, whenever I tried any other way, strange obstacles started up in the opinions of men against me, and my purest intents were often more criticised than some which were less disinterested; so much is it the natural humour of mankind to jealouse and doubt the integrity of all those who are in authority and power, especially when they see them deviating from the practices of their predecessors. Posterity, therefore, or I am far mistaken, will not be angered at my plain dealing with regard to the small motives of private advantage of which I have made mention, since it has been my endeavour to show and to acknowledge, that there is a reforming spirit abroad among men, and that really the world is gradually growing better--slowly I allow; but still it is growing better, and the main profit of the improvement will be reaped by those who are ordained to come after us. 
15788	----	WASTE: A TRAGEDY, IN FOUR ACTS, BY GRANVILLE BARKER LONDON: SIDGWICK & JACKSON, LTD. 3 ADAM STREET, ADELPHI. MCMIX. _Entered at the Library of Congress, Washington, U.S.A. All rights reserved._ Waste 1906-7 WASTE At Shapters, GEORGE FARRANT'S house in Hertfordshire. Ten o'clock on a Sunday evening in summer. _Facing you at her piano by the window, from which she is protected by a little screen, sits_ MRS. FARRANT; _a woman of the interesting age, clear-eyed and all her face serene, except for a little pucker of the brows which shows a puzzled mind upon some important matters. To become almost an ideal hostess has been her achievement; and in her own home, as now, this grace is written upon every movement. Her eyes pass over the head of a girl, sitting in a low chair by a little table, with the shaded lamplight falling on her face. This is_ LUCY DAVENPORT; _twenty-three, undefeated in anything as yet and so unsoftened. The book on her lap is closed, for she has been listening to the music. It is possibly some German philosopher, whom she reads with a critical appreciation of his shortcomings. On the sofa near her lounges_ MRS. O'CONNELL; _a charming woman, if by charming you understand a woman who converts every quality she possesses into a means of attraction, and has no use for any others. On the sofa opposite sits_ MISS TREBELL. _In a few years, when her hair is quite grey, she will assume as by right the dignity of an old maid. Between these two in a low armchair is_ LADY DAVENPORT. _She has attained to many dignities. Mother and grandmother, she has brought into the world and nourished not merely life but character. A wonderful face she has, full of proud memories and fearless of the future. Behind her, on a sofa between the windows, is_ WALTER KENT. _He is just what the average English father would like his son to be. You can see the light shooting out through the windows and mixing with moonshine upon a smooth lawn. On your left is a door. There are many books in the room, hardly any pictures, a statuette perhaps. The owner evidently sets beauty of form before beauty of colour. It is a woman's room and it has a certain delicate austerity. By the time you have observed everything_ MRS. FARRANT _has played Chopin's prelude opus 28, number 20 from beginning to end._ LADY DAVENPORT. Thank you, my dear Julia. WALTER KENT. [_Protesting._] No more? MRS. FARRANT. I won't play for a moment longer than I feel musical. MISS TREBELL. Do you think it right, Julia, to finish with that after an hour's Bach? MRS. FARRANT. I suddenly came over Chopinesque, Fanny; ... what's your objection? [_as she sits by her._] FRANCES TREBELL. What ... when Bach has raised me to the heights of unselfishness! AMY O'CONNELL. [_Grimacing sweetly, her eyes only half lifted._] Does he? I'm glad that I don't understand him. FRANCES TREBELL. [_Putting mere prettiness in its place._] One may prefer Chopin when one is young. AMY O'CONNELL. And is that a reproach or a compliment? WALTER KENT. [_Boldly._] I do. FRANCES TREBELL. Or a man may ... unless he's a philosopher. LADY DAVENPORT. [_To the rescue._] Miss Trebell, you're very hard on mere humanity. FRANCES TREBELL. [_Completing the reproof._] That's my wretched training as a schoolmistress, Lady Davenport ... one grew to fear it above all things. LUCY DAVENPORT. [_Throwing in the monosyllable with sharp youthful enquiry._] Why? FRANCES TREBELL. There were no text books on the subject. MRS. FARRANT. [_Smiling at her friend._] Yes, Fanny ... I think you escaped to look after your brother only just in time. FRANCES TREBELL. In another year I might have been head-mistress, which commits you to approve of the system for ever. LADY DAVENPORT. [_Shaking her wise head._] I've watched the Education fever take England.... FRANCES TREBELL. If I hadn't stopped teaching things I didn't understand...! AMY O'CONNELL. [_Not without mischief._] And what was the effect on the pupils? LUCY DAVENPORT. I can tell you that. AMY O'CONNELL. Frances never taught you. LUCY DAVENPORT. No, I wish she had. But I was at her sort of a school before I went to Newnham. I know. FRANCES TREBELL. [_Very distastefully._] Up-to-date, it was described as. LUCY DAVENPORT. Well, it was like a merry-go-round at top speed. You felt things wouldn't look a bit like that when you came to a standstill. AMY O'CONNELL. And they don't? LUCY DAVENPORT. [_With great decision._] Not a bit. AMY O'CONNELL. [_In her velvet tone._] I was taught the whole duty of woman by a parson-uncle who disbelieved in his Church. WALTER KENT. When a man at Jude's was going to take orders.... AMY O'CONNELL. Jude's? WALTER KENT. At Oxford. The dons went very gingerly with him over bits of science and history. [_This wakes a fruitful thought in_ JULIA FARRANT'S _brain._] MRS. FARRANT. Mamma, have you ever discussed so-called anti-Christian science with Lord Charles? FRANCES TREBELL ... Cantelupe? MRS. FARRANT. Yes. It was over appointing a teacher for the schools down here ... he was staying with us. The Vicar's his fervent disciple. However, we were consulted. LUCY DAVENPORT. Didn't Lord Charles want you to send the boys there till they were ready for Harrow? MRS. FARRANT. Yes. FRANCES TREBELL. Quite the last thing in Toryism! MRS. FARRANT. Mamma made George say we were too _nouveau riche_ to risk it. LADY DAVENPORT. [_As she laughs._] I couldn't resist that. MRS. FARRANT. [_Catching something of her subject's dry driving manner._] Lord Charles takes the superior line and says ... that with his consent the Church may teach the unalterable Truth in scientific language or legendary, whichever is easier understanded of the people. LADY DAVENPORT. Is it the prospect of Disestablishment suddenly makes him so accommodating? FRANCES TREBELL. [_With large contempt._] He needn't be. The majority of people believe the world was made in an English week. LUCY DAVENPORT. Oh, no! FRANCES TREBELL. No Bishop dare deny it. MRS. FARRANT. [_From the heights of experience._] Dear Lucy, do you seriously think that the English spirit--the nerve that runs down the backbone--is disturbed by new theology ... or new anything? LADY DAVENPORT. [_Enjoying her epigram._] What a waste of persecution history shows us! WALTER KENT _now captures the conversation with a very young politician's fervour._ WALTER KENT. Once they're disestablished they must make up their minds what they do believe. LADY DAVENPORT. I presume Lord Charles thinks it'll hand the Church over to him and his ... dare I say 'Sect'? WALTER KENT. Won't it? He knows what he wants. MRS. FARRANT. [_Subtly._] There's the election to come yet. WALTER KENT. But now both parties are pledged to a bill of some sort. MRS. FARRANT. Political prophecies have a knack of not coming true; but, d'you know, Cyril Horsham warned me to watch this position developing ... nearly four years ago. FRANCES TREBELL. Sitting on the opposition bench sharpens the eye-sight. WALTER KENT. [_Ironically._] Has he been pleased with the prospect? MRS. FARRANT. [_With perfect diplomacy_] If the Church must be disestablished ... better done by its friends than its enemies. FRANCES TREBELL. Still I don't gather he's pleased with his dear cousin Charles's conduct. MRS. FARRANT. [_Shrugging._] Oh, lately, Lord Charles has never concealed his tactics. FRANCES TREBELL. And that speech at Leeds was the crowning move I suppose; just asking the Nonconformists to bring things to a head? MRS. FARRANT. [_Judicially._] I think that was precipitate. WALTER KENT. [_Giving them_ LORD CHARLES'S _oratory._] Gentlemen, in these latter days of Radical opportunism!--You know, I was there ... sitting next to an old gentleman who shouted "Jesuit." FRANCES TREBELL. But supposing Mallaby and the Nonconformists hadn't been able to force the Liberals' hand? MRS. FARRANT. [_Speaking as of inferior beings._] Why, they were glad of any cry going to the Country! FRANCES TREBELL. [_As she considers this._] Yes ... and Lord Charles would still have had as good a chance of forcing Lord Horsham's. It has been clever tactics. LUCY DAVENPORT. [_Who has been listening, sharp-eyed._] Contrariwise, he wouldn't have liked a Radical Bill though, would he? WALTER KENT. [_With aplomb._] He knew he was safe from that. The government must have dissolved before Christmas anyway ... and the swing of the pendulum's a sure thing. MRS. FARRANT. [_With her smile._] It's never a sure thing. WALTER KENT. Oh, Mrs. Farrant, look how unpopular the Liberals are. FRANCES TREBELL. What made them bring in Resolutions? WALTER KENT. [_Overflowing with knowledge of the subject._] I was told Mallaby insisted on their showing they meant business. I thought he was being too clever ... and it turns out he was. Tommy Luxmore told me there was a fearful row in the Cabinet about it. But on their last legs, you know, it didn't seem to matter, I suppose. Even then, if Prothero had mustered up an ounce of tact ... I believe they could have pulled them through.... FRANCES TREBELL. Not the Spoliation one. WALTER KENT. Well, Mr. Trebell dished that! FRANCES TREBELL. Henry says his speech didn't turn a vote. MRS. FARRANT. [_With charming irony._] How disinterested of him! WALTER KENT. [_Enthusiastic._] That speech did if ever a speech did. FRANCES TREBELL. Is there any record of a speech that ever did? He just carried his own little following with him. MRS. FARRANT. But the crux of the whole matter is and has always been ... what's to be done with the Church's money. LUCY DAVENPORT. [_Visualising sovereigns._] A hundred millions or so ... think of it! FRANCES TREBELL. There has been from the start a good deal of anti-Nonconformist feeling against applying the money to secular uses. MRS. FARRANT. [_Deprecating false modesty, on anyone's behalf._] Oh, of course the speech turned votes ... twenty of them at least. LUCY DAVENPORT. [_Determined on information._] Then I was told Lord Horsham had tried to come to an understanding himself with the Nonconformists about Disestablishment--oh--a long time ago ... over the Education Bill. FRANCES TREBELL. Is that true, Julia? MRS. FARRANT. How should I know? FRANCES TREBELL. [_With some mischief_] You might. MRS. FARRANT. [_Weighing her words._] I don't think it would have been altogether wise to make advances. They'd have asked more than a Conservative government could possibly persuade the Church to give up. WALTER KENT. I don't see that Horsham's much better off now. He only turned the Radicals out on the Spoliation question by the help of Trebell. And so far ... I mean, till this election is over Trebell counts still as one of them, doesn't he, Miss Trebell? Oh ... perhaps he doesn't. FRANCES TREBELL. He'll tell you he never has counted as one of them. MRS. FARRANT. No doubt Lord Charles would sooner have done without his help. And that's why I didn't ask the gentle Jesuit this week-end if anyone wants to know. WALTER KENT. [_Stupent at this lack of party spirit._] What ... he'd rather have had the Liberals go to the country undefeated! MRS. FARRANT. [_With finesse._] The election may bring us back independent of Mr. Trebell and anything he stands for. WALTER KENT. [_Sharply._] But you asked Lord Horsham to meet him. MRS. FARRANT. [_With still more finesse._] I had my reasons. Votes aren't everything. LADY DAVENPORT _has been listening with rather a doubtful smile; she now caps the discussion._ LADY DAVENPORT. I'm relieved to hear you say so, my dear Julia. On the other hand democracy seems to have brought itself to a pretty pass. Here's a measure, which the country as a whole neither demands nor approves of, will certainly be carried, you tell me, because a minority on each side is determined it shall be ... for totally different reasons. MRS. FARRANT. [_Shrugging again._] It isn't our business to prevent popular government looking foolish, Mamma. LADY DAVENPORT. Is that Tory cynicism or feminine? _At this moment_ GEORGE FARRANT _comes through the window; a good natured man of forty-five. He would tell you that he was educated at Eton and Oxford. But the knowledge which saves his life comes from the thrusting upon him of authority and experience; ranging from the management of an estate which he inherited at twenty-four, through the chairmanship of a newspaper syndicate, through a successful marriage, to a minor post in the last Tory cabinet and the prospect of one in the near-coming next. Thanks to his agents, editors, permanent officials, and his own common sense, he always acquits himself creditably. He comes to his wife's side and waits for a pause in the conversation._ LADY DAVENPORT. I remember Mr. Disraeli once said to me ... Clever women are as dangerous to the State as dynamite. FRANCES TREBELL. [_Not to be impressed by Disraeli._] Well, Lady Davenport, if men will leave our intellects lying loose about.... FARRANT. Blackborough's going, Julia. MRS. FARRANT. Yes, George. LADY DAVENPORT. [_Concluding her little apologue to_ MISS TREBELL.] Yes, my dear, but power without responsibility isn't good for the character that wields it either. [_There follows_ FARRANT _through the window a man of fifty. He has about him that unmistakeable air of acquired wealth and power which distinguishes many Jews and has therefore come to be regarded as a solely Jewish characteristic. He speaks always with that swift decision which betokens a narrowed view. This is_ RUSSELL BLACKBOROUGH; _manufacturer, politician ... statesman, his own side calls him._] BLACKBOROUGH. [_To his hostess._] If I start now, they tell me, I shall get home before the moon goes down. I'm sorry I must get back to-night. It's been a most delightful week-end. MRS. FARRANT. [_Gracefully giving him a good-bye hand._] And a successful one, I hope. FARRANT. We talked Education for half an hour. MRS. FARRANT. [_Her eyebrows lifting a shade._] Education! FARRANT. Then Trebell went away to work. BLACKBOROUGH. I've missed the music, I fear. MRS. FARRANT. But it's been Bach. BLACKBOROUGH. No Chopin? MRS. FARRANT. For a minute only. BLACKBOROUGH. Why don't these new Italian men write things for the piano! Good-night, Lady Davenport. LADY DAVENPORT. [_As he bows over her hand._] And what has Education to do with it? BLACKBOROUGH. [_Non-committal himself._] Perhaps it was a subject that compromised nobody. LADY DAVENPORT. Do you think my daughter has been wasting her time and her tact? FARRANT. [_Clapping him on the shoulder._] Blackborough's frankly flabbergasted at the publicity of this intrigue. MRS. FARRANT. Intrigue! Mr. Trebell walked across the House ... actually into your arms. BLACKBOROUGH. [_With a certain dubious grimness._] Well ... we've had some very interesting talks since. And his views upon Education are quite ... Utopian. Good bye, Miss Trebell. FRANCES TREBELL. Good-bye. MRS. FARRANT. I wouldn't be so haughty till after the election, if I were you, Mr. Blackborough. BLACKBOROUGH. [_Indifferently._] Oh, I'm glad he's with us on the Church question ... so far. MRS. FARRANT. So far as you've made up your minds? The electoral cat will jump soon. BLACKBOROUGH. [_A little beaten by such polite cynicism._] Well ... our conservative principles! After all we know what they are. Good-night, Mrs. O'Connell. AMY O'CONNELL. Good-night. FARRANT. Your neuralgia better? AMY O'CONNELL. By fits and starts. FARRANT. [_Robustly._] Come and play billiards. Horsham and Maconochie started a game. They can neither of them play. We left them working out a theory of angles on bits of paper. WALTER KENT. Professor Maconochie lured me on to golf yesterday. He doesn't suffer from theories about that. BLACKBOROUGH. [_With approval._] Started life as a caddie. WALTER KENT. [_Pulling a wry face._] So he told me after the first hole. BLACKBOROUGH. What's this, Kent, about Trebell's making you his secretary? WALTER KENT. He thinks he'll have me. BLACKBOROUGH. [_Almost reprovingly._] No question of politics? FARRANT. More intrigue, Blackborough. WALTER KENT. [_With disarming candour._] The truth is, you see, I haven't any as yet. I was Socialist at Oxford ... but of course that doesn't count. I think I'd better learn my job under the best man I can find ... and who'll have me. BLACKBOROUGH. [_Gravely._] What does your father say? WALTER KENT. Oh, as long as Jack will inherit the property in a Tory spirit! My father thinks it my wild oats. _A Footman has come in._ THE FOOTMAN. Your car is round, sir. BLACKBOROUGH. Ah! Good-night, Miss Davenport. Good-bye again, Mrs. Farrant ... a charming week-end. _He makes a business-like departure_, FARRANT _follows him._ THE FOOTMAN. A telephone message from Dr. Wedgecroft, ma'am. His thanks; they stopped the express for him at Hitchin and he has reached London quite safely. MRS. FARRANT. Thank you. [_The Footman goes out._ MRS. FARRANT _exhales delicately as if the air were a little refined by_ BLACKBOROUGH'S _removal._] MRS. FARRANT. Mr. Blackborough and his patent turbines and his gas engines and what not are the motive power of our party nowadays, Fanny. FRANCES TREBELL. Yes, you claim to be steering plutocracy. Do you never wonder if it isn't steering you? MRS. O'CONNELL, _growing restless, has wandered round the room picking at the books in their cases._ AMY O'CONNELL. I always like your books, Julia. It's an intellectual distinction to know someone who has read them. MRS. FARRANT. That's the Communion I choose. FRANCES TREBELL. Aristocrat ... fastidious aristocrat. MRS. FARRANT. No, now. Learning's a great leveller. FRANCES TREBELL. But Julia ... books are quite unreal. D'you think life is a bit like them? MRS. FARRANT. They bring me into touch with ... Oh, there's nothing more deadening than to be boxed into a set in Society! Speak to a woman outside it ... she doesn't understand your language. FRANCES TREBELL. And do you think by prattling Hegel with Gilbert Wedgecroft when he comes to physic you-- MRS. FARRANT. [_Joyously._] Excellent physic that is. He never leaves a prescription. LADY DAVENPORT. Don't you think an aristocracy of brains is the best aristocracy, Miss Trebell? FRANCES TREBELL. [_With a little more bitterness than the abstraction of the subject demands._] I'm sure it is just as out of touch with humanity as any other ... more so, perhaps. If I were a country I wouldn't be governed by arid intellects. MRS. FARRANT. Manners, Frances. FRANCES TREBELL. I'm one myself and I know. They're either dead or dangerous. GEORGE FARRANT _comes back and goes straight to_ MRS. O'CONNELL. FARRANT. [_Still robustly._] Billiards, Mrs. O'Connell. AMY O'CONNELL. [_Declining sweetly._] I think not. FARRANT. Billiards, Lucy? LUCY DAVENPORT. [_As robust as he._] Yes, Uncle George. You shall mark while Walter gives me twenty-five and I beat him. WALTER KENT. [_With a none-of-your-impudence air._] I'll give you ten yards start and race you to the billiard room. LUCY DAVENPORT. Will you wear my skirt? Oh ... Grandmamma's thinking me vulgar. LADY DAVENPORT. [_Without prejudice._] Why, my dear, freedom of limb is worth having ... and perhaps it fits better with freedom of tongue. FARRANT. [_In the proper avuncular tone._] I'll play you both ... and I'd race you both if you weren't so disgracefully young. AMY O'CONNELL _has reached an open window._ AMY O'CONNELL. I shall go for a walk with my neuralgia. MRS. FARRANT. Poor thing! AMY O'CONNELL. The moon's good for it. LUCY DAVENPORT. Shall you come, Aunt Julia? MRS. FARRANT. [_In flat protest._] No, I will not sit up while you play billiards. MRS. O'CONNELL _goes out through the one window, stands for a moment, wistfully romantic, gazing at_ KENT _are standing at the other, looking across the lawn._ FARRANT. Horsham still arguing with Maconochie. They're got to Botany now. WALTER KENT. Demonstrating something with a ... what's that thing? WALTER _goes out._ FARRANT. [_With a throw of his head towards the distant_ HORSHAM.] He was so bored with our politics ... having to give his opinion too. We could just hear your piano. _And he follows_ WALTER. MRS. FARRANT. Take Amy O'Connell that lace thing, will you, Lucy? LUCY DAVENPORT. [_Her tone expressing quite wonderfully her sentiments towards the owner._] Don't you think she'd sooner catch cold? _She catches it up and follows the two men; then after looking round impatiently, swings off in the direction_ MRS. O'CONNELL _took. The three women now left together are at their ease._ FRANCES TREBELL. Did you expect Mr. Blackborough to get on well with Henry? MRS. FARRANT. He has become a millionaire by appreciating clever men when he met them. LADY DAVENPORT. Yes, Julia, but his political conscience is comparatively new-born. MRS. FARRANT. Well, Mamma, can we do without Mr. Trebell? LADY DAVENPORT. Everyone seems to think you'll come back with something of a majority. MRS. FARRANT. [_A little impatient._] What's the good of that? The Bill can't be brought into the Lords ... and who's going to take Disestablishment through the Commons for us? Not Eustace Fowler ... not Mr. Blackborough ... not Lord Charles ... not George! LADY DAVENPORT. [_Warningly._] Not all your brilliance as a hostess will keep Mr. Trebell in a Tory Cabinet. MRS. FARRANT. [_With wilful avoidance of the point._] Cyril Horsham is only too glad. LADY DAVENPORT. Because you tell him he ought to be. FRANCES TREBELL. [_Coming to the rescue._] There is this. Henry has never exactly called himself a Liberal. He really is elected independently. MRS. FARRANT. I wonder will all the garden-cities become pocket-boroughs. FRANCES TREBELL. I think he has made a mistake. MRS. FARRANT. It makes things easier now ... his having kept his freedom. FRANCES TREBELL. I think it's a mistake to stand outside a system. There's an inhumanity in that amount of detachment ... MRS. FARRANT. [_Brilliantly._] I think a statesman may be a little inhuman. LADY DAVENPORT. [_With keenness._] Do you mean superhuman? It's not the same thing, you know. MRS. FARRANT. I know. LADY DAVENPORT. Most people don't know. MRS. FARRANT. [_Proceeding with her cynicism._] Humanity achieves ... what? Housekeeping and children. FRANCES TREBELL. As far as a woman's concerned. MRS. FARRANT. [_A little mockingly._] Now, Mamma, say that is as far as a woman's concerned. LADY DAVENPORT. My dear, you know I don't think so. MRS. FARRANT. We may none of us think so. But there's our position ... bread and butter and a certain satisfaction until ... Oh, Mamma, I wish I were like you ... beyond all the passions of life. LADY DAVENPORT. [_With great vitality._] I'm nothing of the sort. It's my egoism's dead ... that's an intimation of mortality. MRS. FARRANT. I accept the snub. But I wonder what I'm to do with myself for the next thirty years. FRANCES TREBELL. Help Lord Horsham to govern the country. JULIA FARRANT _gives a little laugh and takes up the subject this time._ MRS. FARRANT. Mamma ... how many people, do you think, believe that Cyril's _grande passion_ for me takes that form? LADY DAVENPORT. Everyone who knows Cyril and most people who know you. MRS. FARRANT. Otherwise I seem to have fulfilled my mission in life. The boys are old enough to go to school. George and I have become happily unconscious of each other. FRANCES TREBELL. [_With sudden energy of mind._] Till I was forty I never realised the fact that most women must express themselves through men. MRS. FARRANT. [_Looking at_ FRANCES _a little curiously._] Didn't your instinct lead you to marry ... or did you fight against it? FRANCES TREBELL. I don't know. Perhaps I had no vitality to spare. LADY DAVENPORT. That boy is a long time proposing to Lucy. _This effectually startles the other two from their conversational reverie._ MRS. FARRANT. Walter? I'm not sure that he means to. She means to marry him if he does. FRANCES TREBELL. Has she told you so? MRS. FARRANT. No. I judge by her business-like interest in his welfare. FRANCES TREBELL. He's beginning to feel the responsibility of manhood ... doesn't know whether to be frightened or proud of it. LADY DAVENPORT. It's a pretty thing to watch young people mating. When they're older and marry from disappointment or deliberate choice, thinking themselves so worldly-wise.... MRS. FARRANT, [_Back to her politely cynical mood._] Well ... then at least they don't develop their differences at the same fire-side, regretting the happy time when neither possessed any character at all. LADY DAVENPORT. [_Giving a final douche of common sense._] My dear, any two reasonable people ought to be able to live together. FRANCES TREBELL. Granted three sitting rooms. That'll be the next middle-class political cry ... when women are heard. MRS. FARRANT. [_Suddenly as practical as her mother._] Walter's lucky ... Lucy won't stand any nonsense. She'll have him in the Cabinet by the time he's fifty. LADY DAVENPORT. And are you the power behind your brother, Miss Trebell? FRANCES TREBELL. [_Gravely._] He ignores women. I've forced enough good manners on him to disguise the fact decently. His affections are two generations ahead. MRS. FARRANT. People like him in an odd sort of way. FRANCES TREBELL. That's just respect for work done ... one can't escape from it. _There is a slight pause in their talk. By some not very devious route_ MRS. FARRANT'S _mind travels to the next subject._ MRS. FARRANT. Fanny ... how fond are you of Amy O'Connell? FRANCES TREBELL. She says we're great friends. MRS. FARRANT. She says that of me. FRANCES TREBELL. It's a pity about her husband. MRS. FARRANT. [_Almost provokingly._] What about him? FRANCES TREBELL. It seems to be understood that he treats her badly. LADY DAVENPORT. [_A little malicious._] Is there any particular reason he should treat her well? FRANCES TREBELL. Don't you like her, Lady Davenport? LADY DAVENPORT. [_Dealing out justice._] I find her quite charming to look at and talk to ... but why shouldn't Justin O'Connell live in Ireland for all that? I'm going to bed, Julia. _She collects her belongings and gets up._ MRS. FARRANT. I must look in at the billiard room. FRANCES TREBELL. I won't come, Julia. MRS. FARRANT. What's your brother working at? FRANCES TREBELL. I don't know. Something we shan't hear of for a year, perhaps. MRS. FARRANT. On the Church business, I daresay. FRANCES TREBELL. Did you hear Lord Horsham at dinner on the lack of dignity in an irreligious state? MRS. FARRANT. Poor Cyril ... he'll have to find a way round that opinion of his now. FRANCES TREBELL. Does he like leading his party? MRS. FARRANT. [_After due consideration._] It's an intellectual exercise. He's the right man, Fanny. You see it isn't a party in the active sense at all, except now and then when it's captured by someone with an axe to grind. FRANCES TREBELL. [_Humorously._] Such as my brother. MRS. FARRANT. [_As humorous._] Such as your brother. It expresses the thought of the men who aren't taken in by the claptrap of progress. FRANCES TREBELL. Sometimes they've a queer way of expressing their love for the people of England. MRS. FARRANT. But one must use democracy. Wellington wouldn't ... Disraeli did. LADY DAVENPORT. [_At the door._] Good-night, Miss Trebell. FRANCES TREBELL. I'm coming ... it's past eleven. MRS. FARRANT. [_At the window._] What a gorgeous night! I'll come in and kiss you, Mamma. FRANCES _follows_ LADY DAVENPORT _and_ MRS. FARRANT _starts across the lawn to the billiard room.... An hour later you can see no change in the room except that only one lamp is alight on the table in the middle._ AMY O'CONNELL _and_ HENRY TREBELL _walk past one window and stay for a moment in the light of the other. Her wrap is about her shoulders. He stands looking down at her._ AMY O'CONNELL. There goes the moon ... it's quieter than ever now. [_She comes in._] Is it very late? TREBELL. [_As he follows._] Half-past twelve. TREBELL _is hard-bitten, brainy, forty-five and very sure of himself. He has a cold keen eye, which rather belies a sensitive mouth; hands which can grip, and a figure that is austere._ AMY O'CONNELL. I ought to be in bed. I suppose everyone has gone. TREBELL. Early trains to-morrow. The billiard room lights are out. AMY O'CONNELL. The walk has just tired me comfortably. TREBELL. Sit down. [_She sits by the table. He sits by her and says with the air of a certain buyer at a market._] You're very pretty. AMY O'CONNELL. As well here as by moonlight? Can't you see any wrinkles? TREBELL. One or two ... under the eyes. But they give character and bring you nearer my age. Yes, Nature hit on the right curve in making you. _She stretches herself, cat-like._ AMY O'CONNELL. Praise is the greatest of luxuries, isn't it, Henry? ... Henry ... [_she caresses the name._] TREBELL. Quite right ... Henry. AMY O'CONNELL. Henry ... Trebell. TREBELL. Having formally taken possession of my name.... AMY O'CONNELL. I'll go to bed. _His eyes have never moved from her. Now she breaks the contact and goes towards the door._ TREBELL. I wouldn't ... my spare time for love making is so limited. _She turns back, quite at ease, her eyes challenging him._ AMY O'CONNELL. That's the first offensive thing you've said. TREBELL. Why offensive? AMY O'CONNELL. I may flirt. Making love's another matter. TREBELL. Sit down and explain the difference ... Mrs. O'Connell. _She sits down._ AMY O'CONNELL. Quite so. 'Mrs. O'Connell'. That's the difference. TREBELL. [_Provokingly._] But I doubt if I'm interested in the fact that your husband doesn't understand you and that your marriage was a mistake ... and how hard you find it to be strong. AMY O'CONNELL. [_Kindly._] I'm not quite a fool though you think so on a three months' acquaintance. But tell me this ... what education besides marriage does a woman get? TREBELL. [_His head lifting quickly._] Education.... AMY O'CONNELL. Don't be business-like. TREBELL. I beg your pardon. AMY O'CONNELL. Do you think the things you like to have taught in schools are any use to one when one comes to deal with you? TREBELL. [_After a little scrutiny of her-face._] Well, if marriage is only the means to an end ... what's the end? Not flirtation. AMY O'CONNELL. [_With an air of self-revelation._] I don't know. To keep one's place in the world, I suppose, one's self-respect and a sense of humour. TREBELL. Is that difficult? AMY O'CONNELL. To get what I want, without paying more than it's worth to me....? TREBELL. Never to be reckless. AMY O'CONNELL. [_With a side-glance._] One isn't so often tempted. TREBELL. In fact ... to flirt with life generally. Now, what made your husband marry you? AMY O'CONNELL. [_Dealing with the impertinence in her own fashion._] What would make you marry me? Don't say: Nothing on earth. TREBELL. [_Speaking apparently of someone else._] A prolonged fit of idleness might make me marry ... a clever woman. But I've never been idle for more than a week. And I've never met a clever woman ... worth calling a woman. AMY O'CONNELL. [_Bringing their talk back to herself, and fastidiously._] Justin has all the natural instincts. TREBELL. He's Roman Catholic, isn't he? AMY O'CONNELL. So am I ... by profession. TREBELL. It's a poor religion unless you really believe in it. AMY O'CONNELL. [_Appealing to him._] If I were to live at Linaskea and have as many children as God sent, I should manage to make Justin pretty miserable! And what would be left of me at all I should like to know? TREBELL. So Justin lives at Linaskea alone? AMY O'CONNELL. I'm told now there's a pretty housemaid ... [_she shrugs._] TREBELL. Does he drink too? AMY O'CONNELL. Oh, no. You'd like Justin, I daresay. He's clever. The thirteenth century's what he knows about. He has done a book on its statutes ... has been doing another. TREBELL. And after an evening's hard work I find you here ready to flirt with. AMY O'CONNELL. What have you been working at? TREBELL. A twentieth century statute perhaps. That's not any concern of yours either. _She does not follow his thought._ AMY O'CONNELL. No, I prefer you in your unprofessional moments. TREBELL. Real flattery. I didn't know I had any. AMY O'CONNELL. That's why you should flirt with me ... Henry ... to cultivate them. I'm afraid you lack imagination. TREBELL. One must choose something to lack in this life. AMY O'CONNELL. Not develop your nature to its utmost capacity. TREBELL. And then? AMY O'CONNELL. Well, if that's not an end in itself ... [_With a touch of romantic piety._] I suppose there's the hereafter. TREBELL. [_Grimly material._] What, more developing! I watch people wasting time on themselves with amazement ... I refuse to look forward to wasting eternity. AMY O'CONNELL. [_Shaking her head._] You are very self-satisfied. TREBELL. Not more so than any machine that runs smoothly. And I hope not self-conscious. AMY O'CONNELL. [_Rather attractively treating him as a child._] It would do you good to fall really desperately in love with me ... to give me the power to make you unhappy. _He suddenly becomes very definite._ TREBELL. At twenty-three I engaged myself to be married to a charming and virtuous fool. I broke it off. AMY O'CONNELL. Did she mind much? TREBELL. We both minded. But I had ideals of womanhood that I wouldn't sacrifice to any human being. Then I fell in with a woman who seduced me, and for a whole year led me the life of a French novel ... played about with my emotion as I had tortured that other poor girl's brains. Education you'd call it in the one case as I called it in the other. What a waste of time! AMY O'CONNELL. And what has become of your ideal? TREBELL. [_Relapsing to his former mood._] It's no longer a personal matter. AMY O'CONNELL. [_With coquetry._] You're not interested in my character? TREBELL. Oh, yes, I am ... up to kissing point. _She does not shrink, but speaks with just a shade of contempt._ AMY O'CONNELL. You get that far more easily than a woman. That's one of my grudges against men. Why can't women take love-affairs so lightly? TREBELL. There are reasons. But make a good beginning with this one. Kiss me at once. _He leans towards her. She considers him quite calmly._ AMY O'CONNELL. No. TREBELL. When will you, then? AMY O'CONNELL. When I can't help myself ... if that time ever comes. TREBELL. [_Accepting the postponement in a business-like spirit._] Well ... I'm an impatient man. AMY O'CONNELL. [_Confessing engagingly._] I made up my mind to bring you within arms' length of me when we'd met at Lady Percival's. Do you remember? [_His face shows no sign of it._] It was the day after your speech on the Budget. TREBELL. Then I remember. But I haven't observed the process. AMY O'CONNELL. [_Subtly._] Your sister grew to like me very soon. That's all the cunning there has been. TREBELL. The rest is just mutual attraction? AMY O'CONNELL. And opportunities. TREBELL. Such as this. _At the drop of their voices they become conscious of the silent house._ AMY O'CONNELL. Do you really think everyone has gone to bed? TREBELL. [_Disregardful._] And what is it makes my pressing attentions endurable ... if one may ask? AMY O'CONNELL. Some spiritual need or other, I suppose, which makes me risk unhappiness ... in fact, welcome it. TREBELL. [_With great briskness._] Your present need is a good shaking.... I seriously mean that. You get to attach importance to these shades of emotion. A slight physical shock would settle them all. That's why I asked you to kiss me just now. AMY O'CONNELL. You haven't very nice ideas, have you? TREBELL. There are three facts in life that call up emotion ... Birth, Death, and the Desire for Children. The niceties are shams. AMY O'CONNELL. Then why do you want to kiss me? TREBELL. I don't ... seriously. But I shall in a minute just to finish the argument. Too much diplomacy always ends in a fight. AMY O'CONNELL. And if I don't fight ... it'd be no fun for you, I suppose? TREBELL. You would get that much good out of me. For it's my point of honour ... to leave nothing I touch as I find it. _He is very close to her._ AMY O'CONNELL. You're frightening me a little ... TREBELL. Come and look at the stars again. Come along. AMY O'CONNELL. Give me my wrap ... [_He takes it up, but holds it._] Well, put it on me. [_He puts it round her, but does not withdraw his arms._] Be careful, the stars are looking at you. TREBELL. No, they can't see so far as we can. That's the proper creed. AMY O'CONNELL. [_Softly, almost shyly._] Henry. TREBELL. [_Bending closer to her._] Yes, pretty thing. AMY O'CONNELL. Is this what you call being in love? _He looks up and listens._ TREBELL. Here's somebody coming. AMY O'CONNELL. Oh!... TREBELL. What does it matter? AMY O'CONNELL. I'm untidy or something.... _She slips out, for they are close to the window. The_ FOOTMAN _enters, stops suddenly._ THE FOOTMAN. I beg your pardon, sir. I thought everyone had gone. TREBELL. I've just been for a walk. I'll lock up if you like. THE FOOTMAN. I can easily wait up, sir. TREBELL. [_At the window._] I wouldn't. What do you do ... just slide the bolt? THE FOOTMAN. That's all, sir. TREBELL. I see. Good-night. THE FOOTMAN. Good-night, sir. _He goes._ TREBELL'S _demeanour suddenly changes, becomes alert, with the alertness of a man doing something in secret. He leans out of the window and whispers._ TREBELL. Amy! _There is no answer, so he gently steps out. For a moment the room is empty and there is silence. Then_ AMY _has flown from him into the safety of lights. She is flushed, trembling, but rather ecstatic, and her voice has lost all affectation now._ AMY O'CONNELL. Oh ... oh ... you shouldn't have kissed me like that! TREBELL _stands in the window-way; a light in his eyes, and speaks low but commandingly._ TREBELL. Come here. _Instinctively she moves towards him. They speak in whispers._ AMY O'CONNELL. He was locking up. TREBELL. I've sent him to bed. AMY O'CONNELL. He won't go. TREBELL. Never mind him. AMY O'CONNELL. We're standing full in the light ... anyone could see us. TREBELL. [_With fierce egotism._] Think of me ... not of anyone else. [_He draws her from the window; then does not let her go._] May I kiss you again? AMY O'CONNELL. [_Her eyes closed._] Yes. _He kisses her. She stiffens in his arms; then laughs almost joyously, and is commonplace._ AMY O'CONNELL. Well ... let me get my breath. TREBELL. [_Letting her stand free._] Now ... go along. _Obediently she turns to the door, but sinks on the nearest chair._ AMY O'CONNELL. In a minute, I'm a little faint. [_He goes to her quickly._] No, it's nothing. TREBELL. Come into the air again. [_Then half seriously._] I'll race you across the lawn. AMY O'CONNELL. [_Still breathless and a little hysterical._] Thank you! TREBELL. Shall I carry you? AMY O'CONNELL. Don't be silly. [_She recovers her self-possession, gets up and goes to the window, then looks back at him and says very beautifully._] But the night's beautiful, isn't it? _He has her in his arms again, more firmly this time._ TREBELL. Make it so. AMY O'CONNELL. [_Struggling ... with herself_] Oh, why do you rouse me like this? TREBELL. Because I want you. AMY O'CONNELL. Want me to...? TREBELL. Want you to ... kiss me just once. AMY O'CONNELL. [_Yielding._] If I do ... don't let me go mad, will you? TREBELL. Perhaps. [_He bends over her, her head drops back._] Now. AMY O'CONNELL. Yes! _She kisses him on the mouth. Then he would release her, but suddenly she clings again._ Oh ... don't let me go. TREBELL. [_With fierce pride of possession._] Not yet. _She is fragile beside him. He lifts her in his arms and carries her out into the darkness._ THE SECOND ACT TREBELL'S house in Queen Anne Street, London. Eleven o'clock on an October morning. TREBELL'S _working room is remarkable chiefly for the love of sunlight it evidences in its owner. The walls are white; the window which faces you is bare of all but the necessary curtains. Indeed, lack of draperies testifies also to his horror of dust. There faces you besides a double door; when it is opened another door is seen. When that is opened you discover a writing table, and beyond can discern a book-case filled with heavy volumes--law reports perhaps. The little room beyond is, so to speak, an under-study. Between the two rooms a window, again barely curtained, throws light down the staircase. But in the big room, while the books are many the choice of them is catholic; and the book-cases are low, running along the wall. There is an armchair before the bright fire, which is on your right. There is a sofa. And in the middle of the room is an enormous double writing table piled tidily with much appropriate impedimenta, blue books and pamphlets and with an especial heap of unopened letters and parcels. At the table sits_ TREBELL _himself, in good health and spirits, but eyeing askance the work to which he has evidently just returned. His sister looks in on him. She is dressed to go out and has a housekeeping air._ FRANCES. Are you busy, Henry? TREBELL. More or less. Come in. FRANCES. You'll dine at home? TREBELL. Anyone coming? FRANCES. Julia Farrant and Lucy have run up to town, I think. I thought of going round and asking them to come in ... but perhaps your young man will be going there. Amy O'Connell said something vague about our going to Charles Street ... but she may be out of town by now. TREBELL. Well ... I'll be in anyhow. FRANCES. [_Going to the window as she buttons her gloves._] Were you on deck early this morning? It must have been lovely. TREBELL. No, I turned in before we got out of le Havre. I left Kent on deck and found him there at six. FRANCES. I don't think autumn means to come at all this year ... it'll be winter one morning. September has been like a hive of bees, busy and drowsy. By the way, Cousin Mary has another baby ... a girl. TREBELL. [_Indifferent to the information._] That's the fourth. FRANCES. Fifth. They asked me down for the christening ... but I really couldn't. TREBELL. September's the month for Tuscany. The car chose to break down one morning just as we were starting North again; so we climbed one of the little hills and sat for a couple of hours, while I composed a fifteenth century electioneering speech to the citizens of Siena. FRANCES. [_With a half smile._] Have you a vein of romance for holiday time? TREBELL. [_Dispersing the suggestion._] Not at all romantic ... nothing but figures and fiscal questions. That was the hardest commercial civilisation there has been, though you only think of its art and its murders now. FRANCES. The papers on both sides have been very full of you ... saying you hold the moral balance ... or denying it. TREBELL. An interviewer caught me at Basle. I offered to discuss the state of the Swiss navy. FRANCES. Was that before Lord Horsham wrote to you? TREBELL. Yes, his letter came to Innsbruck. He "expressed" it somehow. Why ... it isn't known that he will definitely ask me to join? FRANCES. The Whitehall had a leader before the Elections were well over to say that he must ... but, of course, that was Mr. Farrant. TREBELL. [_Knowingly._] Mrs. Farrant. I saw it in Paris ... it just caught me up. FRANCES. The Times is very shy over the whole question ... has a letter from a fresh bishop every day ... doesn't talk of you very kindly yet. TREBELL. Tampering with the Establishment, even Cantelupe's way, will be a pill to the real old Tory right to the bitter end. WALTER KENT _comes in, very fresh and happy-looking. A young man started in life._ TREBELL _hails him._ TREBELL. Hullo ... you've not been long getting shaved. KENT. How do you do, Miss Trebell? Lucy turned me out. FRANCES. My congratulations. I've not seen you since I heard the news. KENT. [_Glad and unembarrassed._] Thank you. I do deserve them, don't I? Mrs. Farrant didn't come down ... she left us to breakfast together. But I've a message for you ... her love and she is in town. I went and saw Lord Charles, sir. He will come to you and be here at half past seven. TREBELL. Look at these. _He smacks on the back, so to speak, the pile of parcels and letters._ KENT. Oh, lord! ... I'd better start on them. FRANCES. [_Continuing in her smooth oldmaidish manner._] Thank you for getting engaged just before you went off with Henry ... it has given me my only news of him, through Lucy and your postcards. TREBELL. Oh, what about Wedgecroft? KENT. I think it was he spun up just as I'd been let in. TREBELL. Oh, well ... [_And he rings at the telephone which is on his table._] KENT. [_Confiding in_ MISS TREBELL.] We're a common sense couple, aren't we? I offered to ask to stay behind but she.... SIMPSON, _the maid, comes in._ SIMPSON. Dr. Wedgecroft, sir. WEDGECROFT _is on her heels. If you have an eye for essentials you may tell at once that he is a doctor, but if you only notice externals you will take him, for anything else. He is over forty and in perfect health of body and spirit. His enthusiasms are his vitality and he has too many of them ever to lose one. He squeezes_ MISS TREBELL'S _hand with an air of fearless affection which is another of his characteristics and not the least loveable._ WEDGECROFT. How are you? FRANCES. I'm very well, thanks. WEDGECROFT. [_To_ TREBELL, _as they shake hands._] You're looking fit. TREBELL. [_With tremendous emphasis._] I am! WEDGECROFT. You've got the motor eye though. TREBELL. Full of dust? WEDGECROFT. Look at Kent's. [_He takes_ WALTER'S _arm._] It's a slight but serious contraction of the pupil ... which I charge fifty guineas to cure. FRANCES. It's the eye of faith in you and your homeopathic doses. Don't you interfere with it. FRANCES TREBELL, _housekeeper, goes out._ KENT _has seized on the letters and is carrying them to his room._ KENT. This looks like popularity and the great heart of the people, doesn't it? WEDGECROFT. Trebell, you're not ill, and I've work to do. TREBELL. I want ten minutes. Keep anybody out, Kent. KENT. I'll switch that speaking tube arrangement to my room. TREBELL, _overflowing with vitality, starts to face the floor._ TREBELL. I've seen the last of Pump Court, Gilbert. WEDGECROFT. The Bar ought to give you a testimonial ... to the man who not only could retire on twenty years' briefs, but has. TREBELL. Fifteen. But I bled the City sharks with a good conscience ... quite freely. WEDGECROFT. [_With a pretence at grumbling._] I wish I could retire. TREBELL. No you don't. Doctoring's a priestcraft ... you've taken vows. WEDGECROFT. Then why don't you establish _our_ church instead of ... TREBELL. Yes, my friend ... but you're a heretic. I'd have to give the Medical Council power to burn you at the stake. KENT. [_With the book packages._] Parcel from the S.P.C.K., sir. TREBELL. I know.... Disestablishment a crime against God; sermon preached by the Vicar of something Parva in eighteen seventy three. I hope you're aware it's your duty to read all those. KENT. Suppose they convert me? Lucy wanted to know if she could see you. TREBELL. [_His eyebrows up._] Yes, I'll call at Mrs. Farrant's. Oh, wait. Aren't they coming to dinner? KENT. To-night? No, I think they go back to Shapters by the five o'clock. I told her she might come round about twelve on the chance. TREBELL. Yes ... if Cantelupe's punctual ... I'd sooner not have too long with him. KENT. All right, then. _He goes, shutting the door; then you hear the door of his room shut too. The two friends face each other, glad of a talk._ TREBELL. Well? WEDGECROFT. Well ... you'll never do it. TREBELL. Yes, I shall. WEDGECROFT. You can't carry any bill to be a credit to you with the coming Tory cabinet on your back. You know the Government is cursing you with its dying breath. TREBELL. [_Rubbing his hands._] Of course. They've been beaten out of the House and in now. I suppose they will meet Parliament. WEDGECROFT. They must, I think. It's over a month since-- TREBELL. [_His thoughts running quickly._] There'll only be a nominal majority of sixteen against them. The Labour lot are committed on their side ... and now that the Irish have gone-- WEDGECROFT. But they'll be beaten on the Address first go. TREBELL. Yes ... Horsham hasn't any doubt of it. WEDGECROFT. He'll be in office within a week of the King's speech. TREBELL. [_With another access of energy._] I'll pull the bill that's in my head through a Horsham cabinet and the House. Then I'll leave them ... they'll go to the country-- WEDGECROFT. You know Percival's pledge about that at Bristol wasn't very definite. TREBELL. Horsham means to. WEDGECROFT. [_With friendly contempt._] Oh, Horsham! TREBELL. Anyway, it's about Percival I want you. How ill is he? WEDGECROFT. Not very. TREBELL. Is he going to die? WEDGECROFT. Well, I'm attending him. TREBELL. [_Pinked._] Yes ... that's a good answer. How does he stomach me in prospect as a colleague, so far? WEDGECROFT. Sir, professional etiquette forbids me to disclose what a patient may confess in the sweat of his agony. TREBELL. He'll be Chancellor again and lead the House. WEDGECROFT. Why not? He only grumbles that he's getting old. TREBELL. [_Thinking busily again._] The difficulty is I shall have to stay through one budget with them. He'll have a surplus ... well, it looks like it ... and my only way of agreeing with him will be to collar it. WEDGECROFT. But ... good heavens! ... you'll have a hundred million or so to give away when you've disendowed. TREBELL. Not to give away. I'll sell every penny. WEDGECROFT. [_With an incredulous grin._] You're not going back to extending old-age pensions after turning the unfortunate Liberals out on it, are you? TREBELL. No, no ... none of your half crown measures. They can wait to round off their solution of that till they've the courage to make one big bite of it. WEDGECROFT. We shan't see the day. TREBELL. [_Lifting the subject off its feet._] Not if I come out of the cabinet and preach revolution? WEDGECROFT. Or will they make a Tory of you? TREBELL. [_Acknowledging that stroke with a return grin._] It'll be said they have when the bill is out. WEDGECROFT. It's said so already. TREBELL. Who knows a radical bill when he sees it! WEDGECROFT. I'm not pleased you have to be running a tilt against the party system. [_He becomes a little dubious._] My friend ... it's a nasty windmill. Oh, you've not seen that article in the Nation on Politics and Society ... it's written at Mrs. Farrant and Lady Lurgashall and that set. They hint that the Tories would never have had you if it hadn't been for this bad habit of opposite party men meeting each other. TREBELL. [_Unimpressed._] Excellent habit! What we really want in this country is a coalition of all the shibboleths with the rest of us in opposition ... for five years only. WEDGECROFT. [_Smiling generously._] Well, it's a sensation to see you become arbiter. The Tories are owning they can't do without you. Percival likes you personally ... Townsend don't matter ... Cantelupe you buy with a price, I suppose ... Farrant you can put in your pocket. I tell you I think the man you may run up against is Blackborough. TREBELL. No, all he wants is to be let look big ... and to have an idea given him when he's going to make a speech, which isn't often. WEDGECROFT. Otherwise ... I suppose ... now I may go down to history as having been in your confidence. I'm very glad you've arrived. TREBELL. [_With great seriousness._] I've sharpened myself as a weapon to this purpose. WEDGECROFT. [_Kindly._] And you're sure of yourself, aren't you? TREBELL. [_Turning his wrist._] Try. WEDGECROFT. [_Slipping his doctor's fingers over the the pulse._] Seventy, I should say. TREBELL. I promise you it hasn't varied a beat these three big months. WEDGECROFT. Well, I wish it had. Perfect balance is most easily lost. How do you know you've the power of recovery? ... and it's that gets one up in the morning day by day. TREBELL. Is it? My brain works steadily on ... hasn't failed me yet. I keep it well fed. [_He breathes deeply._] But I'm not sure one shouldn't have been away from England for five years instead of five weeks ... to come back to a job like this with a fresh mind. D'you know why really I went back on the Liberals over this question? Not because they wanted the church money for their pensions ... but because all they can see in Disestablishment is destruction. Any fool can destroy! I'm not going to let a power like the Church get loose from the State. A thirteen hundred years, tradition of service ... and all they can think of is to cut it adrift! WEDGECROFT. I think the Church is moribund. TREBELL. Oh, yes, of course you do ... you sentimental agnostic anarchist. Nonsense! The supernatural's a bit blown upon ... till we re-discover what it means. But it's not essential. Nor is the Christian doctrine. Put a Jesuit in a corner and shut the door and he'll own that. No ... the tradition of self-sacrifice and fellowship in service for its own sake ... that's the spirit we've to capture and keep. WEDGECROFT. [_Really struck._] A secular Church! TREBELL. [_With reasoning in his tone._] Well ... why not? Listen here. In drafting an act of Parliament one must alternately imagine oneself God Almighty and the most ignorant prejudiced little blighter who will be affected by what's passed. God says: Let's have done with Heaven and Hell ... it's the Earth that shan't pass away. Why not turn all those theology mongers into doctors or schoolmasters? WEDGECROFT. As to doctors-- TREBELL. Quite so, you naturally prejudiced blighter. That priestcraft don't need re-inforcing. WEDGECROFT. It needs recognition. TREBELL. What! It's the only thing most people believe in. Talk about superstition! However, there's more life in you. Therefore it's to be schoolmasters. WEDGECROFT. How? TREBELL. Listen again, young man. In the youth of the world, when priests were the teachers of men.... WEDGECROFT. [_Not to be preached at._] And physicians of men. TREBELL. Shut up. WEDGECROFT. If there's any real reform going, I want my profession made into a state department. I won't shut up for less. TREBELL. [_Putting this aside with one finger._] I'll deal with you later. There's still Youth in the world in another sense; but the priests haven't found out the difference yet, so they're wasting most of their time. WEDGECROFT. Religious education won't do now-a-days. TREBELL. What's Now-a-days? You're very dull, Gilbert. WEDGECROFT. I'm not duller than the people who will have to understand your scheme. TREBELL. They won't understand it. I shan't explain to them that education _is_ religion, and that those who deal in it are priests without any laying on of hands. WEDGECROFT. No matter what they teach? TREBELL. No ... the matter is how they teach it. I see schools in the future, Gilbert, not built next to the church, but on the site of the church. WEDGECROFT. Do you think the world is grown up enough to do without dogma? TREBELL. Yes, I do. WEDGECROFT. What!... and am I to write my prescriptions in English? TREBELL. Yes, you are. WEDGECROFT. Lord save us! I never thought to find you a visionary. TREBELL. Isn't it absurd to think that in a hundred years we shall be giving our best brains and the price of them not to training grown men into the discipline of destruction ... not even to curing the ills which we might be preventing ... but to teaching our children. There's nothing else to be done ... nothing else matters. But it's work for a priesthood. WEDGECROFT. [_Affected; not quite convinced._] Do you think you can buy a tradition and transmute it? TREBELL. Don't mock at money. WEDGECROFT. I never have. TREBELL. But you speak of it as an end not as a means. That's unfair. WEDGECROFT. I speaks as I finds. TREBELL. I'll buy the Church, not with money, but with the promise of new life. [_A certain rather gleeful cunning comes over him._] It'll only look like a dose of reaction at first ... Sectarian Training Colleges endowed to the hilt. WEDGECROFT. What'll the Nonconformists say? TREBELL. Bribe them with the means of equal efficiency. The crux of the whole matter will be in the statutes. I'll force on those colleges. WEDGECROFT. They'll want dogma. TREBELL. Dogma's not a bad thing if you've power to adapt it occasionally. WEDGECROFT. Instead of spending your brains in explaining it. Yes, I agree. TREBELL. [_With full voice._] But in the creed I'll lay down as unalterable there shall be neither Jew nor Greek.... What do you think of St. Paul, Gilbert? WEDGECROFT. I'd make him the head of a college. TREBELL. I'll make the Devil himself head of a college, if he'll undertake to teach honestly all he knows. WEDGECROFT. And he'll conjure up Comte and Robespierre for you to assist in this little _rechauffée_ of their schemes. TREBELL. Hullo! Comte I knew about. Have I stolen from Robespierre too? WEDGECROFT. [_Giving out the epigram with an air._] Property to him who can make the best use of it. TREBELL. And then what we must do is to give the children power over their teachers? _Now he is comically enigmatic._ WEDGECROFT _echoes him._ WEDGECROFT. And what exactly do you mean by that? TREBELL. [_Serious again._] How positive a pedagogue would you be if you had to prove your cases and justify your creed every century or so to the pupils who had learnt just a little more than you could teach them? Give power to the future, my friend ... not to the past. Give responsibility ... even if you give it for your own discredit. What's beneath trust deeds and last wills and testaments, and even acts of Parliament and official creeds? Fear of the verdict of the next generation ... fear of looking foolish in their eyes. Ah, we ... doing our best now ... must be ready for every sort of death. And to provide the means of change and disregard of the past is a secret of statesmanship. Presume that the world will come to an end every thirty years if it's not reconstructed. Therefore give responsibility ... give responsibility ... give the children power. WEDGECROFT. [_Disposed to whistle._] Those statutes will want some framing. TREBELL. [_Relapsing to a chuckle._] There's an incidental change to foresee. Disappearance of the parson into the schoolmaster ... and the Archdeacon into the Inspector ... and the Bishop into--I rather hope he'll stick to his mitre, Gilbert. WEDGECROFT. Some Ruskin will arise and make him. TREBELL. [_As he paces the room and the walls of it fade away to him._] What a church could be made of the best brains in England, sworn only to learn all they could teach what they knew without fear of the future or favour to the past ... sworn upon their honour as seekers after truth, knowingly to tell no child a lie. It will come. WEDGECROFT. A priesthood of women too? There's the tradition of service with them. TREBELL. [_With the sourest look yet on his face._] Slavery ... not quite the same thing. And the paradox of such slavery is that they're your only tyrants. [_At this moment the bell of the telephone upon the table rings. He goes to it talking the while._] One has to be very optimistic not to advocate the harem. That's simple and wholesome.... Yes? KENT _comes in._ KENT. Does it work? TREBELL. [_Slamming down the receiver._] You and your new toy! What is it? KENT. I'm not sure about the plugs of it ... I thought I'd got them wrong. Mrs. O'Connell has come to see Miss Trebell, who is out, and she says will we ask you if any message has been left for her. TREBELL. No. Oh, about dinner? Well, she's round at Mrs. Farrant's. KENT. I'll ring them up. _He goes back into his room to do so leaving_ TREBELL'S _door open. The two continue their talk._ TREBELL. My difficulties will be with Percival. WEDGECROFT. Not over the Church. TREBELL. You see I must discover how keen he'd be on settling the Education quarrel, once and for all ... what there is left of it. WEDGECROFT. He's not sectarian. TREBELL. It'll cost him his surplus. When'll he be up and about? WEDGECROFT. Not for a week or more. TREBELL. [_Knitting his brow._] And I've to deal with Cantelupe. Curious beggar, Gilbert. WEDGECROFT. Not my sort. He'll want some dealing with over your bill as introduced to me. TREBELL. I've not cross-examined company promoters for ten years without learning how to do business with a professional high churchman. WEDGECROFT. Providence limited ... eh? _They are interrupted by_ MRS. O'CONNELL'S _appearance in the doorway. She is rather pale, very calm; but there is pain in her eyes and her voice is unnaturally steady._ AMY. Your maid told me to come up and I'm interrupting business.... I thought she was wrong. TREBELL. [_With no trace of self-consciousness._] Well ... how are you, after this long time? AMY. How do you do? [_Then she sees_ WEDGECROFT _and has to control a shrinking from him._] Oh! WEDGECROFT. How are you, Mrs. O'Connell? TREBELL. Kent is telephoning to Frances. He knows where she is. AMY. How are you, Dr. Wedgecroft? [_then to_ TREBELL.] Did you have a good holiday? London pulls one to pieces wretchedly. I shall give up living here at all. WEDGECROFT. You look very well. AMY. Do I! TREBELL. A very good holiday. Sit down ... he won't be a minute. _She sits on the nearest chair._ AMY. You're not ill ... interviewing a doctor? TREBELL. The one thing Wedgecroft's no good at is doctoring. He keeps me well by sheer moral suasion. KENT _comes out of his room and is off downstairs._ TREBELL _calls to him._ TREBELL. Mrs. O'Connell's here. KENT. Oh! [_He comes back and into the room._] Miss Trebell hasn't got there yet. WEDGECROFT _has suddenly looked at his watch._ WEDGECROFT. I must fly. Good bye, Mrs. O'Connell. AMY. [_Putting her hand, constrained by its glove, into his open hand._] I am always a little afraid of you. WEDGECROFT. That isn't the feeling a doctor wants to inspire. KENT. [_To_ TREBELL.] David Evans-- TREBELL. Evans? KENT. The reverend one ... is downstairs and wants to see you. WEDGECROFT. [_As he comes to them._] Hampstead Road Tabernacle ... Oh, the mammon of righteousness! TREBELL. Shut up! How long have I before Lord Charles--? KENT. Only ten minutes. MRS. O'CONNELL _goes to sit at the big table, and apparently idly takes a sheet of paper to scribble on._ TREBELL. [_Half thinking, half questioning._] He's a man I can say nothing to politely. WEDGECROFT. I'm off to Percival's now. Then I've another case and I'm due back at twelve. If there's anything helpful to say I'll look in again for two minutes ... not more. TREBELL. You're a good man. WEDGECROFT. [_As he goes._] Congratulations, Kent. KENT. [_Taking him to the stairs._] Thank you very much. AMY. [_Beckoning with her eyes._] What's this, Mr. Trebell? TREBELL. Eh? I beg your pardon. _He goes behind her and reads over her shoulder what she has written._ KENT _comes back._ KENT. Shall I bring him up here? TREBELL _looks up and for a moment stares at his secretary rather sharply, then speaks in a matter-of-fact voice._ TREBELL. See him yourself, downstairs. Talk to him for five minutes ... find out what he wants. Tell him it will be as well for the next week or two if he can say he hasn't seen me. KENT. Yes. _He goes._ TREBELL _follows him to the door which he shuts. Then he turns to face_ AMY, _who is tearing up the paper she wrote on._ TREBELL. What is it? AMY. [_Her steady voice breaking, her carefully calculated control giving way._] Oh Henry ... Henry! TREBELL. Are you in trouble? AMY. You'll hate me, but ... oh, it's brutal of you to have been away so long. TREBELL. Is it with your husband? AMY. Perhaps. Oh, come nearer to me ... do. TREBELL. [_Coming nearer without haste or excitement._] Well? [_Her eyes are closed._] My dear girl, I'm too busy for love-making now. If there are any facts to be faced, let me have them ... quite quickly. _She looks up at him for a moment; then speaks swiftly and sharply as one speaks of disaster._ AMY. There's a danger of my having a child ... your child ... some time in April. That's all. TREBELL. [_A sceptic who has seen a vision._] Oh ... it's impossible. AMY. [_Flashing at him, revengefully._] Why? TREBELL. [_Brought to his mundane self_] Well ... are you sure? AMY. [_In sudden agony._] D'you think I want it to be true? D'you think I--? You don't know what it is to have a thing happening in spite of you. TREBELL. [_His face set in thought._] Where have you been since we met? AMY. Not to Ireland ... I haven't seen Justin for a year. TREBELL. All the easier for you not to see him for another year. AMY. That wasn't what you meant. TREBELL. It wasn't ... but never mind. _They are silent for a moment ... miles apart ... Then she speaks dully._ AMY. We do hate each other ... don't we! TREBELL. Nonsense. Let's think of what matters. AMY. [_Aimlessly._] I went to a man at Dover ... picked him out of the directory ... didn't give my own name ... pretended I was off abroad. He was a kind old thing ... said it was all most satisfactory. Oh, my God! TREBELL. [_He goes to bend over her kindly._] Yes, you've had a torturing month or two. That's been wrong, I'm sorry. AMY. Even now I have to keep telling myself that it's so ... otherwise I couldn't understand it. Any more than one really believes one will ever die ... one doesn't believe that, you know. TREBELL. [_On the edge of a sensation that is new to him._] I am told that a man begins to feel unimportant from this moment forward. Perhaps it's true. AMY. What has it to do with you anyhow? We don't belong to each other. How long were we together that night? Half an hour! You didn't seem to care a bit until after you'd kissed me and ... this is an absurd consequence. TREBELL. Nature's a tyrant. AMY. Oh, it's my punishment ... I see that well enough ... for thinking myself so clever ... forgetting my duty and religion ... not going to confession, I mean. [_Then hysterically._] God can make you believe in Him when he likes, can't he? TREBELL. [_With comfortable strength._] My dear girl, this needs your pluck. [_And he sits by her._] All we have to do is to prevent it being found out. AMY. Yes ... the scandal would smash you, wouldn't it? TREBELL. There isn't going to be any scandal. AMY. No ... if we're careful. You'll tell me what to do, won't you? Oh, it's a relief to be able to talk about it. TREBELL. For one thing, you must take care of yourself and stop worrying. _It soothes her to feel that he is concerned; but it is not enough to be soothed._ AMY. Yes, I wouldn't like to have been the means of smashing you, Henry ... especially as you don't care for me. TREBELL. I intend to care for you. AMY. Love me, I mean. I wish you did ... a little; then perhaps I shouldn't feel so degraded. TREBELL. [_A shade impatiently, a shade contemptuously_] I can say I love you if that'll make things easier. AMY. [_More helpless than ever._] If you'd said it at first I should be taking it for granted ... though it wouldn't be any more true, I daresay, than now ... when I should know you weren't telling the truth. TREBELL. Then I'd do without so much confusion. AMY. Don't be so heartless. TREBELL. [_As he leaves her._] We seem to be attaching importance to such different things. AMY. [_Shrill even at a momentary desertion._] What do you mean? I want affection now just as I want food. I can't do without it ... I can't reason things out as you can. D'you think I haven't tried? [_Then in sudden rebellion._] Oh, the physical curse of being a woman ... no better than any savage in this condition ... worse off than an animal. It's unfair. TREBELL. Never mind ... you're here now to hand me half the responsibility, aren't you? AMY. As if I could! If I have to lie through the night simply shaking with bodily fear much longer ... I believe I shall go mad. _This aspect of the matter is meaningless to him. He returns to the practical issue._ TREBELL. There's nobody that need be suspecting, is there? AMY. My maid sees I'm ill and worried and makes remarks ... only to me so far. Don't I look a wreck? I nearly ran away when I saw Dr. Wedgecroft ... some of these men are so clever. TREBELL. [_Calculating._] Someone will have to be trusted. AMY. [_Burrowing into her little tortured self again._] And I ought to feel as if I had done Justin a great wrong ... but I don't. I hate you now; now and then. I was being myself. You've brought me down. I feel worthless. _The last word strikes him. He stares at her._ TREBELL. Do you? AMY. [_Pleadingly._] There's only one thing I'd like you to tell me, Henry ... it isn't much. That night we were together ... it was for a moment different to everything that has ever been in your life before, wasn't it? TREBELL. [_Collecting himself as if to explain to a child._] I must make you understand ... I must get you to realise that for a little time to come you're above the law ... above even the shortcomings and contradictions of a man's affection. AMY. But let us have one beautiful memory to share. TREBELL. [_Determined she shall face the cold logic of her position._] Listen. I look back on that night as one looks back on a fit of drunkenness. AMY. [_Neither understanding nor wishing to; only shocked and hurt._] You beast. TREBELL. [_With bitter sarcasm._] No, don't say that. Won't it comfort you to think of drunkenness as a beautiful thing? There are precedents enough ... classic ones. AMY. You mean I might have been any other woman. TREBELL. [_Quite inexorable._] Wouldn't any other woman have served the purpose ... and is it less of a purpose because we didn't know we had it? Does my unworthiness then ... if you like to call it so ... make you unworthy now? I must make you see that it doesn't. AMY. [_Petulantly hammering at her idée fixe._] But you didn't love me ... and you don't love me. TREBELL. [_Keeping his patience._] No ... only within the last five minutes have I really taken the smallest interest in you. And now I believe I'm half jealous. Can you understand that? You've been talking a lot of nonsense about your emotions and your immortal soul. Don't you see it's only now that you've become a person of some importance to the world ... and why? AMY. [_Losing her patience, childishly._] What do you mean by the World? You don't seem to have any personal feelings at all. It's horrible you should have thought of me like that. There has been no other man than you that I would have let come anywhere near me ... not for more than a year. _He realises that she will never understand._ TREBELL. My dear girl, I'm sorry to be brutal. Does it matter so much to you that I should have wished to be the father of your child? AMY. [_Ungracious but pacified by his change of tone._] It doesn't matter now. TREBELL. [_Friendly still._] On principle I don't make promises. But I think I can promise you that if you keep your head and will keep your health, this shall all be made as easy for you as if everyone could know. And let's think what the child may mean to you ... just the fact of his birth. Nothing to me, of course! Perhaps that accounts for the touch of jealousy. I've forfeited my rights because I hadn't honourable intentions. You can't forfeit yours. Even if you never see him and he has to grow up among strangers ... just to have had a child must make a difference to you. Of course, it may be a girl. I wonder. _As he wanders on so optimistically she stares at him and her face changes. She realises...._ AMY. Do you expect me to go through with this? Henry! ... I'd sooner kill myself. _There is silence between them. He looks at her as one looks at some unnatural thing. Then after a moment he speaks, very coldly._ TREBELL. Oh ... indeed. Don't get foolish ideas into your head. You've no choice now ... no reasonable choice. AMY. [_Driven to bay; her last friend an enemy._] I won't go through with it. TREBELL. It hasn't been so much the fear of scandal then-- AMY. That wouldn't break my heart. You'd marry me, wouldn't you? We could go away somewhere. I could be very fond of you, Henry. TREBELL. [_Marvelling at these tangents._] Marry you! I should murder you in a week. _This sounds only brutal to her; she lets herself be shamed._ AMY. You've no more use for me than the use you've made of me. TREBELL. [_Logical again._] Won't you realise that there's a third party to our discussion ... that I'm of no importance beside him and you of very little. Think of the child. AMY _blazes into desperate rebellion._ AMY. There's no child because I haven't chosen there shall be and there shan't be because I don't choose. You'd have me first your plaything and then Nature's, would you? TREBELL. [_A little abashed._] Come now, you knew what you were about. AMY. [_Thinking of those moments._] Did I? I found myself wanting you, belonging to you suddenly. I didn't stop to think and explain. But are we never to be happy and irresponsible ... never for a moment? TREBELL. Well ... one can't pick and choose consequences. AMY. Your choices in life have made you what you want to be, haven't they? Leave me mine. TREBELL. But it's too late to argue like that. AMY. If it is, I'd better jump into the Thames. I've thought of it. _He considers how best to make a last effort to bring her to her senses. He sits by her._ TREBELL. Amy ... if you were my wife-- AMY. [_Unresponsive to him now._] I was Justin's wife, and I went away from him sooner than bear him children. Had I the right to choose or had I not? TREBELL. [_Taking another path._] Shall I tell you something I believe? If we were left to choose, we should stand for ever deciding whether to start with the right foot or the left. We blunder into the best things in life. Then comes the test ... have we faith enough to go on ... to go through with the unknown thing? AMY. [_So bored by these metaphysics._] Faith in what? TREBELL. Our vitality. I don't give a fig for beauty, happiness, or brains. All I ask of myself is ... can I pay Fate on demand? AMY. Yes ... in imagination. But I've got physical facts to face. _But he has her attention now and pursues the advantage._ TREBELL. Very well then ... let the meaning of them go. Look forward simply to a troublesome illness. In a little while you can go abroad quietly and wait patiently. We're not fools and we needn't find fools to trust in. Then come back to England.... AMY. And forget. That seems simple enough, doesn't it? TREBELL. If you don't want the child let it be mine ... not yours. AMY. [_Wondering suddenly at this bond between them._] Yours! What would you do with it? TREBELL. [_Matter-of-fact._] Provide for it, of course. AMY. Never see it, perhaps. TREBELL. Perhaps not. If there were anything to be gained ... for the child. I'll see that he has his chance as a human being. AMY. How hopeful! [_Now her voice drops. She is looking back, perhaps at a past self._] If you loved me ... perhaps I might learn to love the thought of your child. TREBELL. [_As if half his life depended on her answer._] Is that true? AMY. [_Irritably._] Why are you picking me to pieces? I think that is true. If you had been loving me for a long, long time--[_The agony rushes back on her._] But now I'm only afraid. You might have some pity for me ... I'm so afraid. TREBELL. [_Touched._] Indeed ... indeed, I'll take what share of this I can. _She shrinks from him unforgivingly._ AMY. No, let me alone. I'm nothing to you. I'm a sick beast in danger of my life, that's all ... cancerous! _He is roused for the first time, roused to horror and protest._ TREBELL. Oh, you unhappy woman! ... if life is like death to you.... AMY. [_Turning on him._] Don't lecture me! If you're so clever put a stop to this horror. Or you might at least say you're sorry. TREBELL. Sorry! [_The bell on the table rings jarringly._] Cantelupe! _He goes to the telephone. She gets up cold and collected, steadied merely by the unexpected sound._ AMY. I mustn't keep you from governing the country. I'm sure you'll do it very well. TREBELL. [_At the telephone._] Yes, bring him up, of course ... isn't Mr. Kent there? [_then to her._] I may be ten minutes with him or half an hour. Wait and we'll come to a conclusion. KENT _comes in, an open letter in his hand._ KENT. This note, sir. Had I better go round myself and see him? TREBELL. [_As he takes the note._] Cantelupe's come. KENT. [_Glancing at the telephone._] Oh, has he! TREBELL. [_As he reads._] Yes I think you had. KENT. Evans was very serious. _He goes back into his room._ AMY _moves swiftly to where_ TREBELL _is standing and whispers._ AMY. Won't you tell me whom to go to? TREBELL. No. AMY. Oh, really ... what unpractical sentimental children you men are! You and your consciences ... you and your laws. You drive us to distraction and sometimes to death by your stupidities. Poor women--! _The Maid comes in to announce_ LORD CHARLES CANTELUPE, _who follows her._ CANTELUPE _is forty, unathletic, and a gentleman in the best and worst sense of the word. He moves always with a caution which may betray his belief in the personality of the Devil. He speaks cautiously too, and as if not he but something inside him were speaking. One feels that before strangers he would not if he could help it move or speak at all. A pale face: the mouth would be hardened by fanaticism were it not for the elements of Christianity in his religion: and he has the limpid eye of the enthusiast._ TREBELL. Glad to see you. You know Mrs O'Connell. CANTELUPE _bows in silence._ AMY. We have met. _She offers her hand. He silently takes it and drops it._ TREBELL. Then you'll wait for Frances. AMY. Is it worth while? KENT _with his hat on leaves his room and goes downstairs._ TREBELL. Have you anything better to do? AMY. There's somewhere I can go. But I mustn't keep you chatting of my affairs. Lord Charles is impatient to disestablish the Church. CANTELUPE. [_Unable to escape a remark._] Forgive me, since that is also your affair. AMY. Oh ... but I was received at the Oratory when I was married. CANTELUPE. [_With contrition._] I beg your pardon. _Then he makes for the other side of the room_, TREBELL _and_ MRS. O'CONNELL _stroll to the door, their eyes full of meaning._ AMY. I think I'll go on to this place that I've heard of. If I wait ... for your sister ... she may disappoint me again. TREBELL. Wait. KENT'S _room is vacant._ AMY. Well ... in here? TREBELL. If you like law-books. AMY. I haven't been much of an interruption now, have I? TREBELL. Please wait. AMY. Thank you. TREBELL _shuts her in, for a moment seems inclined to lock her in, but he comes back into his own room and faces_ CANTELUPE, _who having primed and trained himself on his subject like a gun, fires off a speech, without haste, but also apparently without taking breath._ CANTELUPE. I was extremely thankful, Mr. Trebell, to hear last week from Horsham that you will see your way to join his cabinet and undertake the disestablishment bill in the House of Commons. Any measure of mine, I have always been convinced, would be too much under the suspicion of blindly favouring Church interests to command the allegiance of that heterogeneous mass of thought ... in some cases, alas, of free thought ... which now-a-days composes the Conservative party. I am more than content to exercise what influence I may from a seat in the cabinet which will authorise the bill. TREBELL. Yes. That chair's comfortable. CANTELUPE _takes another._ CANTELUPE. Horsham forwarded to me your memorandum upon the conditions you held necessary and I incline to think I may accept them in principle on behalf of those who honour me with their confidences. _He fishes some papers from his pocket._ TREBELL _sits squarely at his table to grapple with the matter._ TREBELL. Horsham told me you did accept them ... it's on that I'm joining. CANTELUPE. Yes ... in principle. TREBELL. Well ... we couldn't carry a bill you disapproved of, could we? CANTELUPE. [_With finesse._] I hope not. TREBELL. [_A little dangerously._] And I have no intention of being made the scapegoat of a wrecked Tory compromise with the Nonconformists. CANTELUPE. [_Calmly ignoring the suggestion._] So far as I am concerned I meet the Nonconformists on their own ground ... that Religion had better be free from all compromise with the State. TREBELL. Quite so ... if you're set free you'll look after yourselves. My discovery must be what to do with the men who think more of the state than their Church ... the majority of parsons, don't you think? ... if the question's really put and they can be made to understand it. CANTELUPE. [_With sincere disdain._] There are more profitable professions. TREBELL. And less. Will you allow me that it is statecraft to make a profession profitable? CANTELUPE _picks up his papers, avoiding theoretical discussion._ CANTELUPE. Well now ... will you explain to me this project for endowing Education with your surplus? TREBELL. Putting Appropriation, the Buildings and the Representation question on one side for the moment? CANTELUPE. Candidly, I have yet to master your figures.... TREBELL. The roughest figures so far. CANTELUPE. Still I have yet to master them on the first two points. TREBELL. [_Firmly premising._] We agree that this is not diverting church money to actually secular uses. CANTELUPE. [_As he peeps from under his eyelids._] I can conceive that it might not be. You know that we hold Education to be a Church function. But.... TREBELL. Can you accept thoroughly now the secular solution for all Primary Schools? CANTELUPE. Haven't we always preferred it to the undenominational? Are there to be facilities for _any_ of the teachers giving dogmatic instruction? TREBELL. I note your emphasis on any. I think we can put the burden of that decision on local authorities. Let us come to the question of Training Colleges for your teachers. It's on that I want to make my bargain. CANTELUPE. [_Alert and cautious._] You want to endow colleges? TREBELL. Heavily. CANTELUPE. Under public control? TREBELL. Church colleges under Church control. CANTELUPE. There'd be others? TREBELL. To preserve the necessary balance in the schools. CANTELUPE. Not founded with church money? TREBELL. Think of the grants in aid that will be released. I must ask the Treasury for a further lump sum and with that there may be sufficient for secular colleges ... if you can agree with me upon the statutes of those over which you'd otherwise have free control. TREBELL _is weighing his words._ CANTELUPE. "You" meaning, for instance ... what authorities in the Church? TREBELL. Bishops, I suppose ... and others, [CANTELUPE _permits himself to smile._] On that point I shall be weakness itself and ... may I suggest ... your seat in the cabinet will give you some control. CANTELUPE. Statutes? TREBELL. To be framed in the best interests of educational efficiency. CANTELUPE. [_Finding an opening._] I doubt if we agree upon the meaning to be attached to that term. TREBELL. [_Forcing the issue._] What meaning do you attach to it? CANTELUPE. [_Smiling again._] I have hardly a sympathetic listener. TREBELL. You have an unprejudiced one ... the best you can hope for. I was not educated myself. I learnt certain things that I desired to know ... from reading my first book--Don Quixote it was--to mastering Company Law. You see, as a man without formulas either for education or religion, I am perhaps peculiarly fitted to settle the double question. I have no grudges ... no revenge to take. CANTELUPE. [_Suddenly congenial._] Shelton's translation of Don Quixote I hope ... the modern ones have no flavour. And you took all the adventures as seriously as the Don did? TREBELL. [_Not expecting this._] I forget. CANTELUPE. It's the finer attitude ... the child's attitude. And it would enable you immediately to comprehend mine towards an education consisting merely of practical knowledge. The life of Faith is still the happy one. What is more crushingly finite than knowledge? Moral discipline is a nation's only safety. How much of your science tends in support of the great spiritual doctrine of sacrifice! TREBELL _returns to his subject as forceful as ever._ TREBELL. The Church has assimilated much in her time. Do you think it wise to leave agnostic science at the side of the plate? I think, you know, that this craving for common knowledge is a new birth in the mind of man; and if your church won't recognise that soon, by so much will she be losing her grip for ever over men's minds. What's the test of godliness, but your power to receive the new idea in whatever form it comes and give it life? It is blasphemy to pick and choose your good. [_For a moment his thoughts seem to be elsewhere._] That's an unhappy man or woman or nation ... I know it if it has only come to me this minute ... and I don't care what their brains or their riches or their beauty or any of their triumph may be ... they're unhappy and useless if they can't tell life from death. CANTELUPE. [_Interested in the digression_] Remember that the Church's claim has ever been to know that difference. TREBELL. [_Fastening to his subject again._] My point is this: A man's demand to know the exact structure of a fly's wing, and his assertion that it degrades any child in the street not to know such a thing, is a religious revival ... a token of spiritual hunger. What else can it be? And we commercialise our teaching! CANTELUPE. I wouldn't have it so. TREBELL. Then I'm offering you the foundation of a new Order of men and women who'll serve God by teaching his children. Now shall we finish the conversation in prose? CANTELUPE. [_Not to be put down._] What is the prose for God? TREBELL. [_Not to be put down either._] That's what we irreligious people are giving our lives to discover. [_He plunges into detail._] I'm proposing to found about seventy-two new colleges, and of course, to bring the ones there are up to the new standard. Then we must gradually revise all teaching salaries in government schools ... to a scale I have in mind. Then the course must be compulsory and the training time doubled-- CANTELUPE. Doubled! Four years? TREBELL. Well, a minimum of three ... a university course. Remember we're turning a trade into a calling. CANTELUPE. There's more to that than taking a degree. TREBELL. I think so. You've fought for years for your tests and your atmosphere with plain business men not able to understand such lunacy. Quite right ... atmosphere's all that matters. If one and one don't make two by God's grace.... CANTELUPE. Poetry again! TREBELL. I beg your pardon. Well ... you've no further proof. If you can't plant your thumb on the earth and your little finger on the pole star you know nothing of distances. We must do away with text-book teachers. CANTELUPE _is opening out a little in spite of himself._ CANTELUPE. I'm waiting for our opinions to differ. TREBELL. [_Businesslike again._] I'll send you a draft of the statutes I propose within a week. Meanwhile shall I put the offer this way. If I accept your tests will you accept mine? CANTELUPE. What are yours? TREBELL. I believe if one provides for efficiency one provides for the best part of truth ... honesty of statement. I shall hope for a little more elasticity in your dogmas than Becket or Cranmer or Laud would have allowed. When you've a chance to re-formulate the reasons of your faith for the benefit of men teaching mathematics and science and history and political economy, you won't neglect to answer or allow for criticisms and doubts. I don't see why ... in spite of all the evidence to the contrary ... such a thing as progress in a definite religious faith is impossible. CANTELUPE. Progress is a soiled word. [_And now he weighs his words._] I shall be very glad to accept on the Church's behalf control of the teaching of teachers in these colleges. TREBELL. Good. I want the best men. CANTELUPE. You are surprisingly inexperienced if you think that creeds can ever become mere forms except to those who have none. TREBELL. But teaching--true teaching--is learning, and the wish to know is going to prevail against any creed ... so I think. I wish you cared as little for the form in which a truth is told as I do. On the whole, you see, I think I shall manage to plant your theology in such soil this spring that the garden will be fruitful. On the whole I'm a believer in Churches of all sorts and their usefulness to the State. Your present use is out-worn. Have I found you in this the beginnings of a new one? CANTELUPE. The Church says: Thank you, it is a very old one. TREBELL. [_Winding up the interview._] To be sure, for practical politics our talk can be whittled down to your accepting the secular solution for Primary Schools, if you're given these colleges under such statutes as you and I shall agree upon. CANTELUPE. And the country will accept. TREBELL. The country will accept any measure if there's enough money in it to bribe all parties fairly. CANTELUPE. You expect very little of the constancy of my Church to her Faith, Mr. Trebell. TREBELL. I have only one belief myself. That is in human progress--yes, progress--over many obstacles and by many means. I have no ideals. I believe it is statesmanlike to use all the energy you find ... turning it into the nearest channel that points forward. CANTELUPE. Forward to what? TREBELL. I don't know ... and my caring doesn't matter. We do know ... and if we deny it it's only to be encouraged by contradiction ... that the movement is forward and with some gathering purpose. I'm friends with any fellow traveller. CANTELUPE _has been considering him very curiously. Now he gets up to go._ CANTELUPE. I should like to continue our talk when I've studied your draft of the statutes. Of course the political position is favourable to a far more comprehensive bill than we had ever looked for ... and you've the advantage now of having held yourself very free from party ties. In fact not only will you give us the bill we shall most care to accept, but I don't know what other man would give us a bill we and the other side could accept at all. TREBELL. I can let you have more Appropriation figures by Friday. The details of the Fabrics scheme will take a little longer. CANTELUPE. In a way there's no such hurry. We're not in office yet. TREBELL. When I'm building with figures I like to give the foundations time to settle. Otherwise they are the inexactest things. CANTELUPE. [_Smiling to him for the first time._] We shall have you finding Faith the only solvent of all problems some day. TREBELL. I hope my mind is not afraid ... even of the Christian religion. CANTELUPE. I am sure that the needs of the human soul ... be it dressed up in whatever knowledge ... do not alter from age to age.... _He opens the door to find_ WEDGECROFT _standing outside, watch in hand._ TREBELL. Hullo ... waiting? WEDGECROFT. I was giving you two minutes by my watch. How are you, Cantelupe? CANTELUPE, _with a gesture which might be mistaken for a bow, folds himself up._ TREBELL. Shall I bring you the figures on Friday ... that might save time. CANTELUPE, _by taking a deeper fold in himself seems to assent._ TREBELL. Will the afternoon do? Kent shall fix the hour. CANTELUPE. [_With an effort._] Kent? TREBELL. My secretary. CANTELUPE. Friday. Any hour before five. I know my way. _The three phrases having meant three separate efforts,_ CANTELUPE _escapes._ WEDGECROFT _has walked to the table, his brows a little puckered. Now_ TREBELL _notices that_ KENT'S _door is open; he goes quickly into the room and finds it empty. Then he stands for a moment irritable and undecided before returning._ TREBELL. Been here long? WEDGECROFT. Five minutes ... more, I suppose. TREBELL. Mrs. O'Connell gone? WEDGECROFT. To her dressmaker's. TREBELL. Frances forgot she was coming and went out. WEDGECROFT. Pretty little fool of a woman! D'you know her husband? TREBELL. No. WEDGECROFT. Says she's been in Ireland with him since we met at Shapters. He has trouble with his tenantry. TREBELL. Won't he sell or won't they purchase? WEDGECROFT. Curious chap. A Don at Balliol when I first knew him. Warped of late years ... perhaps by his marriage. TREBELL. [_Dismissing that subject._] Well ... how's Percival? WEDGECROFT. Better this morning. I told him I'd seen you ... and in a little calculated burst of confidence what I'd reason to think you were after. He said you and he could get on though you differed on every point; but he didn't see how you'd pull with such a blasted weak-kneed lot as the rest of the Horsham's cabinet would be. He'll be up in a week or ten days. TREBELL. Can I see him? WEDGECROFT. You might. I admire the old man ... the way he sticks to his party, though they misrepresent now most things he believes in! TREBELL. What a damnable state to arrive at ... doubly damned by the fact you admire it. WEDGECROFT. And to think that at this time of day you should need instructing in the ethics of party government. But I'll have to do it. TREBELL. Not now. I've been at ethics with Cantelupe. WEDGECROFT. Certainly not now. What about my man with the stomach-ache at twelve o'clock sharp! Good-bye. _He is gone,_ TREBELL _battles with uneasiness and at last mutters._ "Oh ... why didn't she wait?" _Then the telephone bell rings. He goes quickly as if it were an answer to his anxiety._ "Yes?" _Of course, it isn't.._ "Yes." _He paces the room, impatient, wondering what to do. The Maid comes in to announce_ MISS DAVENPORT. LUCY _follows her. She has gained lately perhaps a little of the joy which was lacking and at least she brings now into this room a breath of very wholesome womanhood._ LUCY. It's very good of you to let me come; I'm not going to keep you more than three minutes. TREBELL. Sit down. _Only women unused to busy men would call him rude._ LUCY. What I want to say is ... don't mind my being engaged to Walter. It shan't interfere with his work for you. If you want a proof that it shan't ... it was I got Aunt Julia to ask you to take him.... Though he didn't know ... so don't tell him that. TREBELL. You weren't engaged then. LUCY. I ... thought that we might be. TREBELL. [_With cynical humour._] Which I'm not to tell him either? LUCY. Oh, that wouldn't matter. TREBELL. [_With decision._] I'll make sure you don't interfere. LUCY. [_Deliberately ... not to be treated as a child._] You couldn't, you know, if I wanted to. TREBELL. Why, is Walter a fool? LUCY. He's very fond of me, if that's what you mean? TREBELL _looks at her for the first time and changes his tone a little._ TREBELL. If it was what I meant ... I'm disposed to withdraw the suggestion. LUCY. And, because I'm fond of his work as well, I shan't therefore ask him to tell me things ... secrets. TREBELL. [_Reverting to his humour._] It'll be when you're a year or two married that danger may occur ... in his desperate effort to make conversation. LUCY _considers this and him quite seriously._ LUCY. You're rather hard on women, aren't you ... just because they don't have the chances men do. TREBELL. Do you want the chances? LUCY. I think I'm as clever as most men I meet, though I know less, of course. TREBELL. Perhaps I should have offered you the secretaryship instead. LUCY. [_Readily._] Don't you think I'm taking it in a way ... by marrying Walter? That's fanciful of course. But marriage is a very general and complete sort of partnership, isn't it? At least, I'd like to make mine so. TREBELL. He'll be more under your thumb in some things if you leave him free in others. _She receives the sarcasm in all seriousness and then speaks to him as she would to a child._ LUCY. Oh ... I'm not explaining what I mean quite well perhaps. Walter has been everywhere and done everything. He speaks three languages ... which all makes him an ideal private secretary. TREBELL. Quite. LUCY. Do you think he'd develop into anything else ... but for me? TREBELL. So I have provided just a first step, have I? LUCY. [_With real enthusiasm._] Oh, Mr. Trebell, it's a great thing for us. There isn't anyone worth working under but you. You'll make him think and give him ideas instead of expecting them from him. But just for that reason he'd get so attached to you and be quite content to grow old in your shadow ... if it wasn't for me. TREBELL. True ... I should encourage him in nothingness. What's more, I want extra brains and hands. It's not altogether a pleasant thing, is it ... the selfishness of the hard worked man? LUCY. If you don't grudge your own strength, why should you be tender of other people's? _He looks at her curiously._ TREBELL. Your ambition is making for only second-hand satisfaction though. LUCY. What's a woman to do? She must work through men, mustn't she? TREBELL. I'm told that's degrading ... the influencing of husbands and brothers and sons. LUCY. [_Only half humorously._] But what else is one to do with them? Of course, I've enough money to live on ... so I could take up some woman's profession ... What are you smiling at? TREBELL. [_Who has smiled very broadly._] As you don't mean to ... don't stop while I tell you. LUCY. But I'd sooner get married. I want to have children. [_The words catch him and hold him. He looks at her reverently this time. She remembers she has transgressed convention; then, remembering that it is only convention, proceeds quite simply._] I hope we shall have children. TREBELL. I hope so. LUCY. Thank you. That's the first kind thing you've said. TREBELL. Oh ... you can do without compliments, can't you? _She considers for a moment._ LUCY. Why have you been talking to me as if I were someone else? TREBELL. [_Startled._] Who else? LUCY. No one particular. But you've shaken a moral fist so to speak. I don't think I provoked it. TREBELL. It's a bad parliamentary habit. I apologise. _She gets up to go._ LUCY. Now I shan't keep you longer ... you're always busy. You've been so easy to talk to. Thank you very much. TREBELL. Why ... I wonder? LUCY. I knew you would be or I shouldn't have come. You think Life's an important thing, don't you? That's priggish, isn't it? Good-bye. We're coming to dinner ... Aunt Julia and I. Miss Trebell arrived to ask us just as I left. TREBELL. I'll see you down. LUCY. What waste of time for you. I know how the door opens. _As she goes out_ WALTER KENT _is on the way to his room. The two nod to each other like old friends._ TREBELL _turns away with something of a sigh._ KENT. Just come? LUCY. Just going. KENT. I'll see you at dinner. LUCY. Oh, are you to be here? ... that's nice. LUCY _departs as purposefully as she came._ KENT _hurries to_ TREBELL, _whose thoughts are away again by now._ KENT. I haven't been long there and back, have I? The Bishop gave me these letters for you. He hasn't answered the last ... but I've his notes of what he means to say. He'd like them back to-night. He was just going out. I've one or two notes of what Evans said. Bit of a charlatan, don't you think? TREBELL. Evans? KENT. Well, he talked of his Flock. There are quite fifteen letters you'll have to deal with yourself, I'm afraid. TREBELL _stares at him: then, apparently, making up his mind...._ TREBELL. Ring up a messenger, will you ... I must write a note and send it. KENT. Will you dictate? TREBELL. I shall have done it while you're ringing ... it's only a personal matter. Then we'll start work. KENT _goes into his room and tackles the telephone there._ TREBELL _sits down to write the note, his face very set and anxious._ THE THIRD ACT At LORD HORSHAM'S house in Queen Anne's Gate, in the evening, a week later. _If rooms express their owners' character, the grey and black of_ LORD HORSHAM'S _drawing room, the faded brocade of its furniture, reveal him as a man of delicate taste and somewhat thin intellectuality. He stands now before a noiseless fire, contemplating with a troubled eye either the pattern of the Old French carpet, or the black double doors of the library opposite, or the moulding on the Adams ceiling, which the flicker of all the candles casts into deeper relief. His grey hair and black clothes would melt into the decoration of his room, were the figure not rescued from such oblivion by the British white glaze of his shirt front and--to a sympathetic eye--by the loveable perceptive face of the man. Sometimes he looks at the sofa in front of him, on which sits_ WEDGECROFT, _still in the frock coat of a busy day, depressed and irritable. With his back to them, on a sofa with its back to them, is_ GEORGE FARRANT, _planted with his knees apart, his hands clasped, his head bent; very glum. And sometimes_ HORSHAM _glances at the door, as if waiting for it to open. Then his gaze will travel back, up the long shiny black piano, with a volume of the Well Tempered Clavichord open on its desk, to where_ CANTELUPE _is perched uncomfortably on the bench; paler than ever; more self-contained than ever, looking, to one who knows him as well as Horsham does, a little dangerous. So he returns to contemplation of the ceiling or the carpet. They wait there as men wait who have said all they want to say upon an unpleasant subject and yet cannot dismiss it. At last_ FARRANT _breaks the silence._ FARRANT. What time did you ask him to come, Horsham? HORSHAM. Eh ... O'Connell? I didn't ask him directly. What time did you say, Wedgecroft? WEDGECROFT. Any time after half past ten, I told him. FARRANT. [_Grumbling._] It's a quarter to eleven. Doesn't Blackborough mean to turn up at all? HORSHAM. He was out of town ... my note had to be sent after him. I couldn't wire, you see. FARRANT. No. CANTELUPE. It was by the merest chance your man caught me, Cyril. I was taking the ten fifteen to Tonbridge and happened to go to James Street first for some papers. _The conversation flags again._ CANTELUPE. But since Mrs. O'Connell is dead what is the excuse for a scandal? _At this unpleasant dig into the subject of their thoughts the three other men stir uncomfortably._ HORSHAM. Because the inquest is unavoidable ... apparently. WEDGECROFT. [_Suddenly letting fly._] I declare I'd I'd have risked penal servitude and given a certificate, but just before the end O'Connell would call in old Fielding Andrews, who has moral scruples about everything--it's his trademark--and of course about this...! FARRANT. Was he told of the whole business? WEDGECROFT. No ... O'Connell kept things up before him. Well ... the woman was dying. HORSHAM. Couldn't you have kept the true state of the case from Sir Fielding? WEDGECROFT. And been suspected of the malpractice myself if he'd found it out? ... which he would have done ... he's no fool. Well ... I thought of trying that.... FARRANT. My dear Wedgecroft ... how grossly quixotic! You have a duty to yourself. HORSHAM. [_Rescuing the conversation from unpleasantness._] I'm afraid I feel that our position to-night is most irregular, Wedgecroft. WEDGECROFT. Still if you can make O'Connell see reason. And if you all can't.... [_He frowns at the alternative._] CANTELUPE. Didn't you say she came to you first of all? WEDGECROFT. I met her one morning at Trebell's. FARRANT. Actually _at_ Trebell's! WEDGECROFT. The day he came back from abroad. FARRANT. Oh! No one seems to have noticed them together much at any time. My wife ... No matter! WEDGECROFT. She tackled me as a doctor with one part of her trouble ... added she'd been with O'Connell in Ireland, which of course it turns out wasn't true ... asked me to help her. I had to say I couldn't. HORSHAM. [_Echoing rather than querying._] You couldn't. FARRANT. [_Shocked._] My dear Horsham! WEDGECROFT. Well, if she'd told me the truth!... No, anyhow I couldn't. I'm sure there was no excuse. One can't run these risks. FARRANT. Quite right, quite right. WEDGECROFT. There are men who do on one pretext or another. FARRANT. [_Not too shocked to be curious._] Are there really? WEDGECROFT. Oh yes, men well known ... in other directions. I could give you four addresses ... but of course I wasn't going to give her one. Though there again ... if she'd told me the whole truth!... My God, women are such fools! And they prefer quackery ... look at the decent doctors they simply turn into charlatans. Though, there again, that all comes of letting a trade work mysteriously under the thumb of a benighted oligarchy ... which is beside the question. But one day I'll make you sit up on the subject of the Medical Council, Horsham. HORSHAM _assumes an impenetrable air of statesmanship._ HORSHAM. I know. Very interesting ... very important ... very difficult to alter the status quo. WEDGECROFT. Then the poor little liar said she'd go off to an appointment with her dressmaker; and I heard nothing more till she sent for me a week later, and I found her almost too ill to speak. Even then she didn't tell me the truth! So, when O'Connell arrived, of course I spoke to him quite openly and all he told me in reply was that it wouldn't have been his child. FARRANT. Poor devil! WEDGECROFT. O'Connell? FARRANT. Yes, of course. WEDGECROFT. I wonder. Perhaps she didn't realize he'd been sent for ... or felt then she was dying and didn't care ... or lost her head. I don't know. FARRANT. Such a pretty little woman! WEDGECROFT. If I could have made him out and dealt with him, of course, I shouldn't have come to you. Farrant's known him even longer than I have. FARRANT. I was with him at Harrow. WEDGECROFT. So I went to Farrant first. _That part of the subject drops._ CANTELUPE, _who has not moved, strikes in again._ CANTELUPE. How was Trebell's guilt discovered? FARRANT. He wrote her one letter which she didn't destroy. O'Connell found it. WEDGECROFT. Picked it up from her desk ... it wasn't even locked up. FARRANT. Not twenty words in it ... quite enough though. HORSHAM. His habit of being explicit ... of writing things down ... I know! _He shakes his head, deprecating all rashness. There is another pause._ FARRANT, _getting up to pace about, breaks it._ FARRANT. Look here, Wedgecroft, one thing is worrying me. Had Trebell any foreknowledge of what she did and the risk she was running and could he have stopped it? WEDGECROFT. [_Almost ill-temperedly._] How could he have stopped it? FARRANT. Because ... well, I'm not a casuist ... but I know by instinct when I'm up against the wrong thing to do; and if he can't be cleared on that point I won't lift a finger to save him. HORSHAM. [_With nice judgment._] In using the term Any Foreknowledge, Farrant, you may be more severe on him than you wish to be. FARRANT, _unappreciative, continues._ FARRANT. Otherwise ... well, we must admit, Cantelupe, that if it hadn't been for the particular consequence of this it wouldn't be anything to be so mightily shocked about. CANTELUPE. I disagree. FARRANT. My dear fellow, it's our business to make laws and we know the difference of saying in one of 'em you may or you must. Who ever proposed to insist on pillorying every case of spasmodic adultery? One would never have done! Some of these attachments do more harm ... to the third party, I mean ... some less. But it's only when a menage becomes socially impossible that a sensible man will interfere. [_He adds quite unnecessarily._] I'm speaking quite impersonally, of course. CANTELUPE. [_As coldly as ever._] Trebell is morally responsible for every consequence of the original sin. WEDGECROFT. That is a hard saying. FARRANT. [_Continuing his own remarks quite independently._] And I put aside the possibility that he deliberately helped her to her death to save a scandal because I don't believe it is a possibility. But if that were so I'd lift my finger to help him to his. I'd see him hanged with pleasure. WEDGECROFT. [_Settling this part of the matter._] Well, Farrant, to all intents and purposes he didn't know and he'd have stopped it if he could. FARRANT. Yes, I believe that. But what makes you so sure? WEDGECROFT. I asked him and he told me. FARRANT. That's no proof. WEDGECROFT. You read the letter that he sent her ... unless you think it was written as a blind. FARRANT. Oh ... to be sure ... yes. I might have thought of that. _He settles down again. Again no one has anything to say._ CANTELUPE. What is to be said to Mr. O'Connell when he comes? HORSHAM. Yes ... what exactly do you propose we shall say to O'Connell, Wedgecroft? WEDGECROFT. Get him to open his oyster of a mind and.... FARRANT. So it is and his face like a stone wall yesterday. Absolutely refused to discuss the matter with me! CANTELUPE. May I ask, Cyril, why are we concerning ourselves with this wickedness at all? HORSHAM. Just at this moment when we have official weight without official responsibility, Charles.... WEDGECROFT. I wish I could have let Percival out of bed, but these first touches of autumn are dangerous to a convalescent of his age. HORSHAM. But you saw him, Farrant ... and he gave you his opinion, didn't he? FARRANT. Last night ... yes. HORSHAM. I suppose it's a pity Blackborough hasn't turned up. FARRANT. Never mind him. HORSHAM. He gets people to agree with him. That's a gift. FARRANT. Wedgecroft, what is the utmost O'Connell will be called upon to do for us ... for Trebell? WEDGECROFT. Probably only to hold his tongue at the inquest to-morrow. As far as I know there's no one but her maid to prove that Mrs. O'Connell didn't meet her husband some time in the summer. He'll be called upon to tell a lie or two by implication. FARRANT. Cantelupe ... what does perjury to that extent mean to a Roman Catholic? CANTELUPE'S _face melts into an expression of mild amazement._ CANTELUPE. Your asking such a question shows that you would not understand my answer to it. FARRANT. [_Leaving the fellow to his subtleties._] Well, what about the maid? WEDGECROFT. She may suspect facts but not names, I think. Why should they question her on such a point if O'Connell says nothing? HORSHAM. He's really very late. I told ... [_He stops._] Charles, I've forgotten that man's name again. CANTELUPE. Edmunds, you said it was. HORSHAM. Edmunds. Everybody's down at Lympne ... I've been left with a new man here and I don't know his name. [_He is very pathetic._] I told him to put O'Connell in the library there. I thought that either Farrant or I might perhaps see him first and-- _At this moment_ EDMUNDS _comes in, and, with that air of discreet tact which he considers befits the establishment of a Prime Minister, announces_, "Mr. O'Connell, my lord." _As_ O'CONNELL _follows him_, HORSHAM _can only try not to look too disconcerted._ O'CONNELL, _in his tightly buttoned frock coat, with his shaven face and close-cropped iron grey hair, might be mistaken for a Catholic priest; except that he has not also acquired the easy cheerfulness which professional familiarity with the mysteries of that religion seems to give. For the moment, at least, his features are so impassive that they may tell either of the deepest grief or the purest indifference; or it may be, merely of reticence on entering a stranger's room. He only bows towards_ HORSHAM'S _half-proffered hand. With instinctive respect for the situation of this tragically made widower the men have risen and stand in various uneasy attitudes._ HORSHAM. Oh ... how do you do? Let me see ... do you know my cousin Charles Cantelupe? Yes ... we were expecting Russell Blackborough. Sir Henry Percival is ill. Do sit down. O'CONNELL _takes the nearest chair and gradually the others settle themselves_; FARRANT _seeking an obscure corner. But there follows an uncomfortable silence, which_ O'CONNELL _at last breaks._ O'CONNELL. You have sent for me, Lord Horsham? HORSHAM. I hope that by my message I conveyed no impression of sending for you. O'CONNELL. I am always in some doubt as to by what person or persons in or out of power this country is governed. But from all I hear you are at the present moment approximately entitled to send for me. _The level music of his Irish tongue seems to give finer edge to his sarcasm._ HORSHAM. Well, Mr. O'Connell ... you know our request before we make it. O'CONNELL. Yes, I understand that if the fact of Mr. Trebell's adultery with my wife were made as public as its consequences to her must be to-morrow, public opinion would make it difficult for you to include him in your cabinet. HORSHAM. Therefore we ask you ... though we have no right to ask you ... to consider the particular circumstances and forget the man in the statesman, Mr. O'Connell. O'CONNELL. My wife is dead. What have I to do at all with Mr. Trebell as a man? As a statesman I am in any case uninterested in him. _Upon this throwing of cold water_, EDMUNDS _returns to mention even more discreetly...._ EDMUNDS. Mr. Blackborough is in the library, my lord. HORSHAM. [_Patiently impatient._] No, no ... here. WEDGECROFT. Let me go. HORSHAM. [_To the injured_ EDMUNDS.] Wait ... wait. WEDGECROFT. I'll put him _au fait._ I shan't come back. HORSHAM. [_Gratefully._] Yes, yes. [_Then to_ EDMUNDS _who is waiting with perfect dignity._] Yes ... yes ... yes. EDMUNDS _departs and_ WEDGECROFT _makes for the library door, glad to escape._ O'CONNELL. If you are not busy at this hour, Wedgecroft, I should be grateful if you'd wait for me. I shall keep you, I think, but a very few minutes. WEDGECROFT. [_In his most matter-of-fact tone._] All right, O'Connell. _He goes into the library._ CANTELUPE. Don't you think, Cyril, it would be wiser to prevent your man coming into the room at all while we're discussing this? HORSHAM. [_Collecting his scattered tact._] Yes, I thought I had arranged that he shouldn't. I'm very sorry. He's a fool. However, there's no one else to come. Once more, Mr. O'Connell.... [_He frames no sentence._] O'CONNELL. I am all attention, Lord Horsham. CANTELUPE _with a self-denying effort has risen to his feet._ CANTELUPE. Mr. O'Connell I remain here almost against my will. I cannot think quite calmly about this double and doubly heinous sin. Don't listen to us while we make light of it. If we think of it as a political bother and ask you to smooth it away ... I am ashamed. But I believe I may not be wrong if I put it to you that, looking to the future and for the sake of your own Christian dignity, it may become you to be merciful. And I pray too ... I think we may believe ... that Mr. Trebell is feeling need of your forgiveness. I have no more to say. [_He sits down again._] O'CONNELL. It may be. I have never met Mr. Trebell. HORSHAM. I tell you, Mr. O'Connell, putting aside Party, that your country has need of this man just at this time. _They hang upon_ O'CONNELL'S _reply. It comes with deliberation._ O'CONNELL. I suppose my point of view must be an unusual one. I notice, at least, that twenty four hours and more has not enabled Farrant to grasp it. FARRANT. For God's sake, O'Connell, don't be so cold-blooded. You have the life or death of a man's reputation to decide on. O'CONNELL. [_With a cold flash of contempt._] That's a petty enough thing now-a-days it seems to me. There are so many clever men ... and they are all so alike ... surely one will not be missed. CANTELUPE. Don't you think that is only sarcasm, Mr. O'Connell? _The voice is so gently reproving that_ O'CONNELL _must turn to him._ O'CONNELL. Will you please to make allowance, Lord Charles, for a mediaeval scholar's contempt of modern government? You at least will partly understand his horror as a Catholic at the modern superstitions in favour of popular opinion and control which it encourages. You see, Lord Horsham, I am not a party man, only a little less enthusiastic for the opposite cries than for his own. You appealed very strangely to my feelings of patriotism for this country; but you see even my own is--in the twentieth century--foreign to me. From my point of view neither Mr. Trebell, nor you, nor the men you have just defeated, nor any discoverable man or body of men will make laws which matter ... or differ in the slightest. You are all part of your age and you all voice--though in separate keys, or even tunes they may be--only the greed and follies of your age. That you should do this and nothing more is, of course, the democratic ideal. You will forgive my thinking tenderly of the statesmanship of the first Edward. _The library door opens and_ RUSSELL BLACKBOROUGH _comes in. He has on evening clothes, complicated by a long silk comforter and the motoring cap which he carries._ HORSHAM. You know Russell Blackborough. O'CONNELL. I think not. BLACKBOROUGH. How d'you do? O'CONNELL _having bowed_, BLACKBOROUGH _having nodded, the two men sit down_, BLACKBOROUGH _with an air of great attention_, O'CONNELL _to continue his interrupted speech._ O'CONNELL. And you are as far from me in your code of personal morals as in your politics. In neither do you seem to realise that such a thing as passion can exist. No doubt you use the words Love and Hatred; but do you know that love and hatred for principles or persons should come from beyond a man? I notice you speak of forgiveness as if it were a penny in my pocket. You have been endeavouring for these two days to rouse me from my indifference towards Mr. Trebell. Perhaps you are on the point of succeeding ... but I do not know what you may rouse. HORSHAM. I understand. We are much in agreement, Mr. O'Connell. What can a man be--who has any pretensions to philosophy--but helplessly indifferent to the thousands of his fellow creatures whose fates are intertwined with his? O'CONNELL. I am glad that you understand. But, again ... have I been wrong to shrink from personal relations with Mr. Trebell? Hatred is as sacred a responsibility as love. And you will not agree with me when I say that punishment can be the salvation of a man's soul. FARRANT. [_With aggressive common sense._] Look here. O'Connell, if you're indifferent it doesn't hurt you to let him off. And if you hate him...! Well, one shouldn't hate people ... there's no room for it in this world. CANTELUPE. [_Quietly as ever._] We have some authority for thinking that the punishment of a secret sin is awarded by God secretly. O'CONNELL. We have very poor authority, sir, for using God's name merely to fill up the gaps in an argument, though we may thus have our way easily with men who fear God more than they know him. I am not one of those. Yes, Farrant, you and your like have left little room in this world except for the dusty roads on which I notice you beginning once more to travel. The rule of them is the same for all, is it not ... from the tramp and the labourer to the plutocrat in his car? This is the age of equality; and it's a fine practical equality ... the equality of the road. But you've fenced the fields of human joy and turned the very hillsides into hoardings, Commercial opportunity is painted on them, I think. FARRANT. [_Not to be impressed._] Perhaps it is O'Connell. My father made his money out of newspapers and I ride in a motor car and you came from Holyhead by train. What has all that to do with it? Why can't you make up your mind? You know in this sort of case one talks a lot ... and then does the usual thing. You must let Trebell off and that's all about it. O'CONNELL. Indeed. And do they still think it worth while to administer an oath to your witnesses? _He is interrupted by the flinging open of the door and the triumphant right-this-time-anyhow voice in which_ EDMUNDS _announces_ "Mr. Trebell, my lord." _The general consternation expresses itself through_ HORSHAM, _who complains aloud and unreservedly._ HORSHAM. Good God.... No! Charles, I must give him notice at once ... he'll have to go. [_He apologises to the company._] I beg your pardon. _By this time_ TREBELL _is in the room and has discovered the stranger, who stands to face him without emotion or anger_, BLACKBOROUGH'S _face wears the grimmest of smiles_, CANTELUPE _is sorry_, FARRANT _recovers from the fit of choking which seemed imminent and_ EDMUNDS, _dimly perceiving by now some fly in the perfect amber of his conduct, departs. The two men still face each other_, FARRANT _is prepared to separate them should they come to blows, and indeed is advancing in that anticipation when_ O'CONNELL _speaks._ O'CONNELL. I am Justin O'Connell. TREBELL. I guess that. O'CONNELL. There's a dead woman between us, Mr. Trebell. _A tremor sweeps over_ TREBELL; _then he speaks simply._ TREBELL. I wish she had not died. O'CONNELL. I am called upon by your friends to save you from the consequences of her death. What have you to say about that? TREBELL. I have been wondering what sort of expression the last of your care for her would find ... but not much. My wonder is at the power over me that has been given to something I despised. _Only_ O'CONNELL _grasps his meaning. But he, stirred for the first time and to his very depths, drives it home._ O'CONNELL. Yes.... If I wanted revenge I have it. She was a worthless woman. First my life and now yours! Dead because she was afraid to bear your child, isn't she? TREBELL. [_In agony._] I'd have helped that if I could. O'CONNELL. Not the shame ... not the wrong she had done me ... but just fear--fear of the burden of her woman-hood. And because of her my children are bastards and cannot inherit my name. And I must live in sin against my church, as--God help me--I can't against my nature. What are men to do when this is how women use the freedom we have given them? Is the curse of barrenness to be nothing to a man? And that's the death in life to which you gentlemen with your fine civilisation are bringing us. I think we are brothers in misfortune, Mr. Trebell. TREBELL. [_Far from responding._] Not at all, sir. If you wanted children you did the next best thing when she left you. My own problem is neither so simple nor is it yet anyone's business but my own. I apologise for alluding to it. HORSHAM _takes advantage of the silence that follows._ HORSHAM. Shall we.... O'CONNELL. [_Measuring_ TREBELL _with his eyes._] And by which shall I help you to a solution ... telling lies or the truth to-morrow? TREBELL. [_Roughly, almost insolently._] If you want my advice ... I should do the thing that comes more easily to you, or that will content you most. If you haven't yet made up your mind as to the relative importance of my work and your conscience, it's too late to begin now. Nothing you may do can affect me. HORSHAM. _[fluttering fearfully into this strange dispute._] O'Connell ... if you and I were to join Wedgecroft.... O'CONNELL. You value your work more than anything else in the world? TREBELL. Have I anything else in the world? O'CONNELL. Have you not? [_With grim ambiguity._] Then I am sorry for you, Mr. Trebell. [_Having said all he had to say, he notices_ HORSHAM.] Yes, Lord Horsham, by all means.... _Then_ HORSHAM _opens the library door and sees him safely through. He passes_ TREBELL _without any salutation, nor does_ TREBELL _turn after him; but when_ HORSHAM _also is in the library and the door is closed, comments viciously._ TREBELL. The man's a sentimentalist ... like all men who live alone or shut away. [_Then surveying his three glum companions, bursts out._] Well...? We can stop thinking of this dead woman, can't we? It's a waste of time. FARRANT. Trebell, what did you want to come here for? TREBELL. Because you thought I wouldn't. I knew you'd be sitting round, incompetent with distress, calculating to a nicety the force of a scandal.... BLACKBOROUGH. [_With the firmest of touches._] Horsham has called some of us here to discuss the situation. I am considering my opinion. TREBELL. You are not, Blackborough. You haven't recovered yet from the shock of your manly feelings. Oh, cheer up. You know we're an adulterous and sterile generation. Why should you cry out at a proof now and then of what's always in the hearts of most of us? FARRANT. [_Plaintively._] Now, for God's sake, Trebell ... O'Connell has been going on like that. TREBELL. Well then ... think of what matters. BLACKBOROUGH. Of you and your reputation in fact. FARRANT. [_Kindly._] Why do you pretend to be callous? _He strokes_ TREBELL'S _shoulder, who shakes him off impatiently._ TREBELL. Do you all mean to out-face the British Lion with me after to-morrow ... dare to be Daniels? BLACKBOROUGH. Bravado won't carry this off. TREBELL. Blackborough ... it would immortalize you. I'll stand up in my place in the House of Commons and tell everything that has befallen soberly and seriously. Why should I flinch? FARRANT. My dear Trebell, if your name comes out at the inquest-- TREBELL. If it does!... whose has been the real offence against Society ... hers or mine? It's I who am most offended ... if I choose to think so. BLACKBOROUGH. You seem to forget the adultery. TREBELL. Isn't Death divorce enough for her? And ... oh, wasn't I right?... What do you start thinking of once the shock's over? Punishment ... revenge ... uselessness ... waste of me. FARRANT. [_With finality._] If your name comes out at the inquest, to talk of anything but retirement from public life is perfect lunacy ... and you know it. HORSHAM _comes back from the passage. He is a little distracted; then the more so at finding himself again in a highly-charged atmosphere._ HORSHAM. He's gone off with Wedgecroft. TREBELL. [_Including_ HORSHAM _now in his appeal._] Does anyone think he knows me now to be a worse man ... less fit, less able ... than he did a week ago? _From the piano-stool comes_ CANTELUPE'S _quiet voice._ CANTELUPE. Yes, Trebell ... I do. TREBELL _wheels round at this and ceases all bluster._ TREBELL. On what grounds? CANTELUPE. Unarguable ones. HORSHAM. [_Finding refuge again in his mantelpiece._] You know, he has gone off without giving me his promise. FARRANT. That's your own fault, Trebell. HORSHAM. The fool says I didn't give him explicit instructions. FARRANT. What fool? HORSHAM. That man ... [_The name fails him._] ... my new man. One of those touches of Fate's little finger, really. _He begins to consult the ceiling and the carpet once more._ TREBELL _tackles_ CANTELUPE _with gravity._ TREBELL. I have only a logical mind, Cantelupe. I know that to make myself a capable man I've purged myself of all the sins ... I never was idle enough to commit. I know that if your God didn't make use of men, sins and all ... what would ever be done in the world? That one natural action, which the slight shifting of a social law could have made as negligible as eating a meal, can make me incapable ... takes the linch-pin out of one's brain, doesn't it? HORSHAM. Trebell, we've been doing our best to get you out of this mess. Your remarks to O'Connell weren't of any assistance, and.... CANTELUPE _stands up, so momentously that_ HORSHAM'S _gentle flow of speech dries up._ CANTELUPE. Perhaps I had better say at once that, whatever hushing up you may succeed in, it will be impossible for me to sit in a cabinet with Mr. Trebell. _It takes even_ FARRANT _a good half minute to recover his power of speech on this new issue._ FARRANT. What perfect nonsense, Cantelupe! I hope you don't mean that. BLACKBOROUGH. Complication number one, Horsham. FARRANT. [_Working up his protest._] Why on earth not? You really mustn't drag your personal feelings and prejudices into important matters like this ... matters of state. CANTELUPE. I think I have no choice, when Trebell stands convicted of a mortal sin, of which he has not even repented. TREBELL. [_With bitterest cynicism._] Dictate any form of repentance you like ... my signature is yours. CANTELUPE. Is this a matter for intellectual jugglery? TREBELL. [_His defence failing at last._] I offered to face the scandal from my place in the House. That was mad, wasn't it.... BLACKBOROUGH--_his course mapped out--changes the tone of the discussion._ BLACKBOROUGH. Horsham, I hope Trebell will believe I have no personal feelings in this matter, but we may as well face the fact even now that O'Connell holding his tongue to-morrow won't stop gossip in the House, club gossip, gossip in drawing rooms. What do the Radicals really care so long as a scandal doesn't get into the papers! There's an inner circle with its eye on us. FARRANT. Well, what does that care as long as scandal's its own copyright? Do you know, my dear father refused a peerage because he felt it meant putting blinkers on his best newspaper. BLACKBOROUGH. [_A little subtly._] Still ... now you and Horsham are cousins, aren't you? FARRANT. [_Off the track and explanatory._] No, no ... my wife's mother.... BLACKBOROUGH. I'm inaccurate, for I'm not one of the family circle myself. My money gets me here and any skill I've used in making it. It wouldn't keep me at a pinch. And Trebell ... [_He speaks through his teeth._] ... do you think your accession to power in the party is popular at the best? Who is going to put out a finger to make it less awkward for Horsham to stick to you if there's a chance of your going under? TREBELL _smiles at some mental picture he is making._ TREBELL. Can your cousins and aunts make it so awkward for you, Horsham? HORSHAM. [_Repaying humour with humour._] I bear up against their affectionate attentions. TREBELL. But I quite understand how uncongenial I may be. What made you take up with me at all? FARRANT. Your brains, Trebell. TREBELL. He should have enquired into my character first, shouldn't he, Cantelupe? CANTELUPE. [_With crushing sincerity._] Yes. TREBELL. Oh, the old unnecessary choice ... Wisdom or Virtue. We all think we must make it ... and we all discover we can't. But if you've to choose between Cantelupe and me, Horsham, I quite see you've no choice. HORSHAM _now takes the field, using his own weapons._ HORSHAM. Charles, it seems to me that we are somewhat in the position of men who have overheard a private conversation. Do you feel justified in making public use of it? CANTELUPE. It is not I who am judge. God knows I would not sit in judgment upon anyone. TREBELL. Cantelupe, I'll take your personal judgment if you can give it me. FARRANT. Good Lord, Cantelupe, didn't you sit in a cabinet with ... Well, we're not here to rake up old scandals. BLACKBOROUGH. I am concerned with the practical issue. HORSHAM. We know, Blackborough. [_Having quelled the interruption he proceeds._] Charles, you spoke, I think, of a mortal sin. CANTELUPE. In spite of your lifted eyebrows at the childishness of the word. HORSHAM. Theoretically, we must all wish to guide ourselves by eternal truths. But you would admit, wouldn't you, that we can only deal with temporal things? CANTELUPE. [_Writhing slightly under the sceptical cross-examination._] There are divine laws laid down for our guidance ... I admit no disbelief in them. HORSHAM. Do they place any time-limit to the effect of a mortal sin? If this affair were twenty years old would you do as you are doing? Can you forecast the opinion you will have of it six months hence? CANTELUPE. [_Positively._] Yes. HORSHAM. Can you? Nevertheless I wish you had postponed your decision even till to-morrow. _Having made his point he looks round almost for approval._ BLACKBOROUGH. What had Percival to say on the subject, Farrant? FARRANT. I was only to make use of his opinion under certain circumstances. BLACKBOROUGH. So it isn't favourable to your remaining with us, Mr. Trebell. FARRANT. [_Indignantly emerging from the trap._] I never said that. _Now_ TREBELL _gives the matter another turn, very forcefully._ TREBELL. Horsham ... I don't bow politely and stand aside at this juncture as a gentleman should, because I want to know how the work's to be done if I leave you what I was to do. BLACKBOROUGH. Are we so incompetent? TREBELL. I daresay not. I want to know ... that's all. CANTELUPE. Please understand, Mr. Trebell, that I have in no way altered my good opinion of your proposals. BLACKBOROUGH. Well, I beg to remind you, Horsham, that from the first I've reserved myself liberty to criticise fundamental points in the scheme. HORSHAM. [_Pacifically._] Quite so ... quite so. BLACKBOROUGH. That nonsensical new standard of teachers' salaries for one thing ... you'd never pass it. HORSHAM. Quite easily. It's an administrative point, so leave the legislation vague. Then, as the appropriation money falls in, the qualifications rise and the salaries rise. No one will object because no one will appreciate it but administrators past or future ... and they never cavil at money. [_He remains lost in the beauty of this prospect._] TREBELL. Will you take charge of the bill, Blackborough? BLACKBOROUGH. Are you serious? HORSHAM. [_Brought to earth._] Oh no! [_He corrects himself smiling._] I mean, my dear Blackborough, why not stick to the Colonies? BLACKBOROUGH. You see, Trebell, there's still the possibility that O'Connell may finally spike your gun to-morrow. You realise that, don't you? TREBELL. Thank you. I quite realise that. CANTELUPE. Can nothing further be done? BLACKBOROUGH. Weren't we doing our best? HORSHAM. Yes ... if we were bending our thoughts to that difficulty now.... TREBELL. [_Hardly._] May I ask you to interfere on my behalf no further? FARRANT. My dear Trebell! TREBELL. I assure you that I am interested in the Disestablishment Bill. _So they turn readily enough from the more uncomfortable part of their subject._ BLACKBOROUGH. Well ... here's Farrant. FARRANT. I'm no good. Give me Agriculture. BLACKBOROUGH. Pity you're in the Lords, Horsham. TREBELL. Horsham, I'll devil for any man you choose to name ... feed him sentence by sentence.... HORSHAM. That's impossible. TREBELL. Well, what's to become of my bill? I want to know. BLACKBOROUGH. [_Casting his care on Providence._] We shall manage somehow. Why, if you had died suddenly ... or let us say, never been born.... TREBELL. Then, Blackborough ... speaking as a dying man ... if you go back on the integrity of this scheme, I'll haunt you. [_Having said this with some finality, he turns his back._] CANTELUPE. Cyril, I agree with what Trebell is saying. Whatever happens there must be no tampering with the comprehensiveness of the scheme. Remember you are in the hands of the extremists ... on both sides. I won't support a compromise on one ... nor will they on the other. HORSHAM. Well, I'll confess to you candidly, Trebell, that I don't know of any man available for this piece of work but you. TREBELL. Then I should say it would be almost a relief to you if O'Connell tells on me to-morrow. FARRANT. We seem to have got off that subject altogether. [_There comes a portentous tap at the door._] Good Lord!... I'm getting jumpy. HORSHAM. Excuse me. _A note is handed to him through the half opened door; and obviously it is at_ EDMUNDS _whom he frowns. Then he returns fidgetting for his glasses._ Oh, it turns out ... I'm so sorry you were blundered in here, Trebell ... this man ... what's his name ... Edwards ... had been reading the papers and thought it was a cabinet council ... seemed proud of himself. This is from Wedgecroft ... scribbled in a messenger office. I never can read his writing ... it's like prescriptions. Can you? _It has gradually dawned on the three men and then on_ TREBELL _what this note may have in it._ FARRANT _hand even trembles a little as he takes it. He gathers the meaning himself and looks at the others with a smile before he reads the few words aloud._ FARRANT. "All right. He has promised." BLACKBOROUGH. O'Connell? FARRANT. Thank God. [_He turns enthusiastically to_ TREBELL _who stands rigid._] My dear fellow ... I hope you know how glad I am. CANTELUPE. I am very glad. BLACKBOROUGH. Of course we're all very glad indeed, Trebell ... very glad we persuaded him. FARRANT. That's dead and buried now, isn't it? TREBELL _moves away from them all and leaves them wondering. When he turns round his face is as hard as ever; his voice, if possible, harder._ TREBELL. But, Horsham, returning to the more important question ... you've taken trouble, and O'Connell's to perjure himself for nothing if you still can't get me into your child's puzzle ... to make the pretty picture that a Cabinet should be. HORSHAM _looks at_ BLACKBOROUGH _and scents danger._ HORSHAM. We shall all be glad, I am sure, to postpone any further discussion.... TREBELL. I shall not. BLACKBOROUGH. [_Encouragingly._] Quite so, Trebell. We're on the subject, and it won't discount our pleasure that you're out of this mess, to continue it. This habit of putting off the hour of disagreement is ... well, Horsham, it's contrary to my business instincts. TREBELL. If one time's as good as another for you ... this moment is better than most for me. HORSHAM. [_A little irritated at the wantonness of this dispute._] There is nothing before us on which we are capable of coming to any decision ... in a technical sense. BLACKBOROUGH. That's a quibble. [_Poor_ HORSHAM _gasps._] I'm not going to pretend either now or in a month's time that I think Trebell anything but a most dangerous acquisition to the party. I pay you a compliment in that, Trebell. Now, Horsham proposes that we should go to the country when Disestablishment's through. HORSHAM. It's the condition of Nonconformist support. BLACKBOROUGH. One condition. Then you'd leave us, Trebell? HORSHAM. I hope not. BLACKBOROUGH. And carry with you the credit of our one big measure. Consider the effect upon our reputation with the Country. FARRANT. [_Waking to_ BLACKBOROUGH'S _line of action._] Why on earth should you leave us, Trebell? You've hardly been a Liberal, even in name. BLACKBOROUGH. [_Vigorously making his point._] Then what would be the conditions of your remaining? You're not a party man, Trebell. You haven't the true party feeling. You are to be bought. Of course you take your price in measures, not in money. But you are preeminently a man of ideas ... an expert. And a man of ideas is often a grave embarrassment to a government. HORSHAM. And vice-versa ... vice-versa! TREBELL. [_Facing_ BLACKBOROUGH _across the room._] Do I understand that you for the good of the Tory party ... just as Cantelupe for the good of his soul ... will refuse to sit in a cabinet with me. BLACKBOROUGH. [_Unembarrassed._] I don't commit myself to saying that. CANTELUPE. No, Trebell ... it's that I must believe your work could not prosper ... in God's way. TREBELL _softens to his sincerity._ TREBELL. Cantelupe, I quite understand. You may be right ... it's a very interesting question. Blackborough, I take it that you object first of all to the scheme that I'm bringing you. BLACKBOROUGH. I object to those parts of it which I don't think you'll get through the House. FARRANT. [_Feeling that he must take part._] For instance? BLACKBOROUGH. I've given you one already. CANTELUPE. [_His eye on_ BLACKBOROUGH.] Understand there are things in that scheme we must stand or fall by. _Suddenly_ TREBELL _makes for the door_, HORSHAM _gets up concernedly._ TREBELL. Horsham, make up your mind to-night whether you can do with me or not. I have to see Percival again to-morrow ... we cut short our argument at the important point. Good-bye ... don't come down. Will you decide to-night? HORSHAM. I have made up my own mind. TREBELL. Is that sufficient? HORSHAM. A collective decision is a matter of development. TREBELL. Well, I shall expect to hear. HORSHAM. By hurrying one only reaches a rash conclusion. TREBELL. Then be rash for once and take the consequences. Good-night. _He is gone before_ HORSHAM _can compose another epigram._ BLACKBOROUGH. [_Deprecating such conduct._] Lost his temper! FARRANT. [_Ruffling considerably._] Horsham, if Trebell is to be hounded out of your cabinet ... he won't go alone. HORSHAM. [_Bitter-sweet._] My dear Farrant ... I have yet to form my cabinet. CANTELUPE. You are forming it to carry disestablishment, are you not, Cyril? Therefore you will form it in the best interests of the best scheme possible. HORSHAM. Trebell was and is the best man I know of for the purpose. I'm a little weary of saying that. _He folds his arms and awaits further developments. After a moment_ CANTELUPE _gets up as if to address a meeting._ CANTELUPE. Then if you would prefer not to include me ... I shall feel justified in giving independent support to a scheme I have great faith in. [_And he sits down again._] BLACKBOROUGH. [_Impatiently._] My dear Cantelupe, if you think Horsham can form a disestablishment cabinet to include Trebell and exclude you, you're vastly mistaken. I for one.... FARRANT. But do both of you consider how valuable, how vital Trebell is to us just at this moment? The Radicals trust him.... BLACKBOROUGH. They hate him. HORSHAM. [_Elucidating._] Their front bench hates him because he turned them out. The rest of them hate their front bench. After six years of office, who wouldn't? BLACKBOROUGH. That's true. FARRANT. Oh, of course, we must stick to Trebell, Blackborough. BLACKBOROUGH _is silent; so_ HORSHAM _turns his attention to his cousin._ HORSHAM. Well, Charles, I won't ask you for a decision now. I know how hard it is to accept the dictates of other men's consciences ... but a necessary condition of all political work; believe me. CANTELUPE. [_Uneasily._] You can form your cabinet without me, Cyril. _At this_ BLACKBOROUGH _charges down on them, so to speak._ BLACKBOROUGH. No, I tell you, I'm damned if he can. Leaving the whole high church party to blackmail all they can out of us and vote how they like! Here ... I've got my Yorkshire people to think of. I can bargain for them with you in a cabinet ... not if you've the pull of being out of it. HORSHAM. [_With charming insinuation._] And have you calculated, Blackborough, what may become of us if Trebell has the pull of being out of it? BLACKBOROUGH _makes a face._ BLACKBOROUGH. Yes ... I suppose he might turn nasty. FARRANT. I should hope he would. BLACKBOROUGH.[_Tackling_ FARRANT _with great ease._] I should hope he would consider the matter not from the personal, but from the political point of view ... as I am trying to do. HORSHAM. [_Tasting his epigram with enjoyment._] Introspection is the only bar to such an honourable endeavour, [BLACKBOROUGH _gapes._] You don't suffer from that as--for instance--Charles here, does. BLACKBOROUGH. [_Pugnaciously._] D'you mean I'm just pretending not to attack him personally? HORSHAM. [_Safe on his own ground._] It's only a curious metaphysical point. Have you never noticed your distaste for the colour of a man's hair translate itself ultimately into an objection to his religious opinions ... or what not? I am sure--for instance--I could trace Charles's scruples about sitting in a cabinet with Trebell back to a sort of academic reverence for women generally which he possesses. I am sure I could ... if he were not probably now doing it himself. But this does not make the scruples less real, less religious, or less political. We must be humanly biased in expression ... or not express ourselves. BLACKBOROUGH. [_Whose thoughts have wandered._] The man's less of a danger than he was ... I mean he'll be alone. The Liberals won't have him back. He smashed his following there to come over to us. FARRANT. [_Giving a further meaning to this._] Yes, Blackborough, he did. BLACKBOROUGH. To gain his own ends! Oh, my dear Horsham, can't you see that if O'Connell had blabbed to-morrow it really would have been a blessing in disguise? I don't pretend to Cantelupe's standard ... but there must be something radically wrong with a man who could get himself into such a mess as that ... now mustn't there? Ah! ... you have a fatal partiality for clever people. I tell you ... though this might be patched up ... Trebell would fail us in some other way before we were six months older. _This speech has its effect; but_ HORSHAM _looks at him a little sternly._ HORSHAM. And am I to conclude that you don't want Charles to change his mind? BLACKBOROUGH. [_On another tack._] Farrant has not yet allowed us to hear Percival's opinion. FARRANT _looks rather alarmed._ FARRANT. It has very little reference to the scandal. BLACKBOROUGH. As that is at an end ... all the more reason we should hear it. HORSHAM. [_Ranging himself with_ FARRANT.] I called this quite informal meeting, Blackborough, only to dispose of the scandal, if possible. BLACKBOROUGH. Well, of course, if Farrant chooses to insult Percival so gratuitously by burking his message to us.... _There is an unspoken threat in this_, HORSHAM _sees it and without disguising his irritation...._ HORSHAM. Let us have it, Farrant. FARRANT. [_With a sort of puzzled discontent._] Well ... I never got to telling him of the O'Connell affair at all. He started talking to me ... saying that he couldn't for a moment agree to Trebell's proposals for the finance of his bill ... I couldn't get a word in edgeways. Then his wife came up.... HORSHAM _takes something in this so seriously that he actually interrupts._ HORSHAM. Does he definitely disagree? What is his point? FARRANT. He says Disestablishment's a bad enough speculation for the party as it is. BLACKBOROUGH. It is inevitable. FARRANT. He sees that. But then he says ... to go to the country again having bolstered up Education and quarrelled with everybody will be bad enough ... to go having spent fifty millions on it will dish us all for our lifetimes. HORSHAM. What does he propose? FARRANT. He'll offer to draft another bill and take it through himself. He says ... do as many good turns as we can with the money ... don't put it all on one horse. BLACKBOROUGH. He's your man, Horsham. That's one difficulty settled. HORSHAM'S _thoughts are evidently beyond_ BLACKBOROUGH, _beyond the absent_ PERCIVAL _even._ HORSHAM. Oh ... any of us could carry that sort of a bill. CANTELUPE _has heard this last passage with nothing less than horror and pale anger, which he contains no longer._ CANTELUPE. I won't have this. I won't have this opportunity frittered away for party purposes. BLACKBOROUGH. [_Expostulating reasonably._] My dear Cantelupe ... you'll get whatever you think it right for the Church to have. You carry a solid thirty eight votes with you. HORSHAM'S _smooth voice intervenes. He speaks with finesse._ HORSHAM. Percival, as an old campaigner, expresses himself very roughly. The point is, that we are after all only the trustees of the party. If we know that a certain step will decimate it ... clearly we have no right to take the step. CANTELUPE. [_Glowing to white heat._] Is this a time to count the consequences to ourselves? HORSHAM. [_Unkindly._] By your action this evening, Charles, you evidently think not. [_He salves the wound._] No matter, I agree with you ... the bill should be a comprehensive one, whoever brings it in. BLACKBOROUGH. [_Not without enjoyment of the situation._] Whoever brings it in will have to knuckle under to Percival over its finance. FARRANT. Trebell won't do that. I warned Percival. HORSHAM. Then what did he say? FARRANT. He only swore. HORSHAM _suddenly becomes peevish._ HORSHAM. I think, Farrant, you should have given me this message before. FARRANT. My dear Horsham, what had it to do with our request to O'Connell? HORSHAM. [_Scolding the company generally._] Well then, I wish he hadn't sent it. I wish we were not discussing these points at all. The proper time for them is at a cabinet meeting. And when we have actually assumed the responsibilities of government ... then threats of resignation are not things to be played about with. FARRANT. Did you expect Percival's objection to the finance of the scheme? HORSHAM. Perhaps ... perhaps. I knew Trebell was to see him last Tuesday. I expect everybody's objections to any parts of every scheme to come at a time when I am in a proper position to reconcile them ... not now. _Having vented his grievances he sits down to recover._ BLACKBOROUGH _takes advantage of the ensuing pause._ BLACKBOROUGH. It isn't so easy for me to speak against Trebell, since he evidently dislikes me personally as much as I dislike him ... but I'm sure I'm doing my duty. Horsham ... here you have Cantelupe who won't stand in with the man, and Percival who won't stand in with his measure, while I would sooner stand in with neither. Isn't it better to face the situation now than take trouble to form the most makeshift of Cabinets, and if that doesn't go to pieces, be voted down in the House by your own party? _There is an oppressive silence,_ HORSHAM _is sulky. The matter is beyond_ FARRANT. CANTELUPE _whose agonies have expressed themselves in slight writhings, at last, with an effort, writhes himself to his feet._ CANTELUPE. I think I am prepared to reconsider my decision. FARRANT. That's all right then! _He looks round wonderingly for the rest of the chorus to find that neither_ BLACKBOROUGH _nor_ HORSHAM _have stirred._ BLACKBOROUGH. [_Stealthily._] Is it, Horsham? HORSHAM. [_Sotto voce._] Why did you ever make it? BLACKBOROUGH _leaves him for_ CANTELUPE. BLACKBOROUGH. You're afraid for the integrity of the bill. CANTELUPE. It must be comprehensive ... that's vital. BLACKBOROUGH. [_Very forcefully._] I give you my word to support its integrity, if you'll keep with me in persuading Horsham that the inclusion of Trebell in his cabinet will be a blow to the whole Conservative Cause. Horsham, I implore you not to pursue this short-sighted policy. All parties have made up their minds to Disestablishment ... surely nothing should be easier than to frame a bill which will please all parties. FARRANT. [_At last perceiving the drift of all this._] But good Lord, Blackborough ... now Cantelupe has come round and will stand in ... BLACKBOROUGH. That's no longer the point. And what's all this nonsense about going to the country again next year? HORSHAM. [_Mildly._] After consulting me Percival said at Bristol.... BLACKBOROUGH. [_Quite unchecked._] I know. But if we pursue a thoroughly safe policy and the bye-elections go right ... there need be no vote of censure carried for three or four years. The Radicals want a rest with the country and they know it. And one has no right, what's more, to go wantonly plunging the country into the expenses of these constant general elections. It ruins trade. FARRANT. [_Forlornly sticking to his point._] What has all this to do with Trebell? HORSHAM. [_Thoughtfully._] Farrant, beyond what you've told us, Percival didn't recommend me to throw him over. FARRANT. No, he didn't ... that is, he didn't exactly. HORSHAM. Well ... he didn't? FARRANT. I'm trying to be accurate! [_Obviously their nerves are now on edge._] He said we should find him tough to assimilate--as he warned you. HORSHAM _with knit brows, loses himself in thought again,_ BLACKBOROUGH _quietly turns his attention to_ FARRANT. BLACKBOROUGH. Farrant, you don't seriously think that ... outside his undoubted capabilities ... Trebell is an acquisition to the party? FARRANT. [_Unwillingly._] Perhaps not. But if you're going to chuck a man ... don't chuck him when he's down. BLACKBOROUGH. He's no longer down. We've got him O'Connell's promise and jolly grateful he ought to be. I think the least we can do is to keep our minds clear between Trebell's advantage and the party's. CANTELUPE. [_From the distant music-stool._] And the party's and the Country's. BLACKBOROUGH. [_Countering quite deftly._] Cantelupe, either we think it best for the country to have our party in power or we don't. FARRANT. [_In judicious temper._] Certainly, I don't feel our responsibility towards him is what it was ten minutes ago. The man has other careers besides his political one. BLACKBOROUGH. [_Ready to praise._] Clever as paint at the Bar--best Company lawyer we've got. CANTELUPE. It is not what he loses, I think ... but what we lose in losing him. _He says this so earnestly that_ HORSHAM _pays attention._ HORSHAM. No, my dear Charles, let us be practical. If his position with us is to be made impossible it is better that he shouldn't assume it. BLACKBOROUGH. [_Soft and friendly._] How far are you actually pledged to him? HORSHAM _looks up with the most ingenuous of smiles._ HORSHAM. That's always such a difficult sort of point to determine, isn't it? He thinks he is to join us. But I've not yet been commanded to form a cabinet. If neither you--nor Percival--nor perhaps others will work with him ... what am I to do? [_He appeals to them generally to justify this attitude._] BLACKBOROUGH. He no longer thinks he's to join us ... it's the question he left us to decide. _He leaves_ HORSHAM, _whose perplexity is diminishing._ FARRANT _makes an effort._ FARRANT. But the scandal won't weaken his position with us now. There won't be any scandal ... there won't, Blackborough. HORSHAM. There may be. Though, I take it we're all guiltless of having mentioned the matter. BLACKBOROUGH. [_Very detached._] I've only known of it since I came into this house ... but I shall not mention it. FARRANT. Oh, I'm afraid my wife knows. [_He adds hastily._] My fault ... my fault entirely. BLACKBOROUGH. I tell you Rumour's electric. HORSHAM _has turned to_ FARRANT _with a sweet smile and with the air of a man about to be relieved of all responsibility._ HORSHAM. What does she say? FARRANT. [_As one speaks of a nice woman._] She was horrified. HORSHAM. Of course. [_Once more he finds refuge and comfort on the hearthrug, to say, after a moment, with fine resignation._] I suppose I must let him go. CANTELUPE. [_On his feet again._] Cyril! HORSHAM. Yes, Charles? _With this query he turns an accusing eye on_ CANTELUPE, _who is silenced._ BLACKBOROUGH. Have you made up your mind to that? FARRANT. [_In great distress._] You're wrong, Horsham. [_Then in greater._] That is ... I think you're wrong. HORSHAM. I'd sooner not let him know to-night. BLACKBOROUGH. But he asked you to. HORSHAM. [_All show of resistance gone._] Did he? Then I suppose I must. [_He sighs deeply._] BLACKBOROUGH. Then I'll get back to Aylesbury. _He picks up his motor-cap from the table and settles it on his head with immense aplomb._ HORSHAM. So late? BLACKBOROUGH. Really one can get along quicker at night if one knows the road. You're in town, aren't you, Farrant? Shall I drop you at Grosvenor Square? FARRANT. [_Ungraciously._] Thank you. BLACKBOROUGH. [_With a conqueror's geniality._] I don't mind telling you now, Horsham, that ever since we met at Shapters I've been wondering how you'd escape from this association with Trebell. Thought he was being very clever when he crossed the House to us! It's needed a special providence. You'd never have got a cabinet together to include him. HORSHAM. [_With much intention._] No. FARRANT. [_Miserably.]_ Yes, I suppose that intrigue was a mistake from the beginning. BLACKBOROUGH. Well, good-night. [_As he turns to go he finds_ CANTELUPE _upright, staring very sternly at him._] Good-night, Cantelupe. CANTELUPE. From what motives have we thrown Trebell over? BLACKBOROUGH. Never mind the motives if the move is the right one. [_Then he nods at_ HORSHAM.] I shall be up again next week if you want me. _And he flourishes out of the room; a man who has done a good hour's work_, FARRANT, _who has been mooning depressedly around, now backs towards the door._ FARRANT. In one way, of course, Trebell won't care a damn. I mean, he knows as well as we do that office isn't worth having ... he has never been a place-hunter. On the other hand ... what with one thing and the other ... Blackborough is a sensible fellow. I suppose it can't be helped. HORSHAM. Blackborough will tell you so. Good-night. _So_ FARRANT _departs, leaving the two cousins together._ CANTELUPE _has not moved and now faces_ HORSHAM _just as accusingly._ CANTELUPE. Cyril, this is tragic. HORSHAM. [_More to himself than in answer._] Yes ... most annoying. CANTELUPE. Lucifer, son of the morning! Why is it always the highest who fall? HORSHAM _shies fastidiously at this touch of poetry._ HORSHAM. No, my dear Charles, let us above all things keep our mental balance. Trebell is a most capable fellow. I'd set my heart on having him with me ... he'll be most awkward to deal with in opposition. But we shall survive his loss and so would the country. CANTELUPE. [_Desperately._] Cyril, promise me there shall be no compromise over this measure. HORSHAM. [_Charmingly candid._] No ... no unnecessary compromise, I promise you. CANTELUPE. [_With a sigh._] If we had done what we have done to-night in the right spirit! Blackborough was almost vindictive. HORSHAM. [_Smiling without amusement._] Didn't you keep thinking ... I did ... of that affair of his with Mrs. Parkington ... years ago? CANTELUPE. There was never any proof of it. HORSHAM. No ... he bought off the husband. CANTELUPE. [_Uneasily._] His objections to Trebell were--political. HORSHAM. Yours weren't. CANTELUPE. [_More uneasily still._] I withdrew mine. HORSHAM. [_With elderly reproof._] I don't think, Charles, you have the least conception of what a nicely balanced machine a cabinet is. CANTELUPE. [_Imploring comfort._] But should we have held together through Trebell's bill? HORSHAM. [_A little impatient._] Perhaps not. But once I had them all round a table ... Trebell is very keen on office for all his independent airs ... he and Percival could have argued the thing out. However, it's too late now. CANTELUPE. Is it? _For a moment_ HORSHAM _is tempted to indulge in the luxury of changing his mind; but he puts Satan behind him with a shake of the head._ HORSHAM. Well, you see ... Percival I can't do without. Now that Blackborough knows of his objections to the finance he'd go to him and take Chisholm and offer to back them up. I know he would ... he didn't take Farrant away with him for nothing. [_Then he flashes out rather shrilly._] It's Trebell's own fault. He ought not to have committed himself definitely to any scheme until he was safely in office. I warned him about Percival ... I warned him not to be explicit. One cannot work with men who will make up their minds prematurely. No, I shall not change my mind. I shall write to him. _He goes firmly to his writing desk leaving_ CANTELUPE _forlorn._ CANTELUPE. What about a messenger? HORSHAM. Not at this time of night. I'll post it. CANTELUPE. I'll post it as I go. _He seeks comfort again in the piano and this time starts to play, with one finger and some hesitation, the first bars of a Bach fugue_, HORSHAM'S _pen-nib is disappointing him and the letter is not easy to phrase._ HORSHAM. But I hate coming to immediate decisions. The administrative part of my brain always tires after half an hour. Does yours, Charles? CANTELUPE. What do you think Trebell will do now? HORSHAM. [_A little grimly._] Punish us all he can. _On reaching the second voice in the fugue_ CANTELUPE'S _virtuosity breaks down._ CANTELUPE. All that ability turned to destructiveness ... what a pity! That's the paradox of human activities.... _Suddenly_ HORSHAM _looks up and his face is lighted with a seraphic smile._ HORSHAM. Charles ... I wish we could do without Blackborough. CANTELUPE. [_Struck with the idea._] Well ... why not? HORSHAM. Yes ... I must think about it. [_They both get up, cheered considerably._] You won't forget this, will you? CANTELUPE. [_The letter in_ HORSHAM'S _hand accusing him._] No ... no. I don't think I have been the cause of your dropping Trebell, have I? HORSHAM, _rid of the letter, is rid of responsibility and his charming equable self again. He comforts his cousin paternally._ HORSHAM. I don't think so. The split would have come when Blackborough checkmated my forming a cabinet. It would have pleased him to do that ... and he could have, over Trebell. But now that question's out of the way ... you won't get such a bad measure with Trebell in opposition. He'll frighten us into keeping it up to the mark, so to speak. CANTELUPE. [_A little comforted._] But I shall miss one or two of those ideas ... HORSHAM. [_So pleasantly sceptical._] Do you think they'd have outlasted the second reading? Dullness in the country one expects. Dullness in the House one can cope with. But do you know, I have never sat in a cabinet yet that didn't greet anything like a new idea in chilling silence. CANTELUPE. Well, I should regret to have caused you trouble, Cyril. HORSHAM. [_His hand on the other's shoulder._] Oh ... we don't take politics so much to heart as that, I hope. CANTELUPE. [_With sweet gravity._] I take politics very much to heart. Yes, I know what you mean ... but that's the sort of remark that makes people call you cynical. [HORSHAM _smiles as if at a compliment and starts with_ CANTELUPE _towards the door._ CANTELUPE, _who would not hurt his feelings, changes the subject._] By the bye, I'm glad we met this evening! Do you hear Aunt Mary wants to sell the Burford Holbein? Can she? HORSHAM. [_Taking as keen, but no keener, an interest in this than in the difficulty he has just surmounted._] Yes, by the will she can, but she mustn't. Dear me, I thought I'd put a stop to that foolishness. Well now, we must take that matter up very seriously ... _They go out talking arm in arm._ THE FOURTH ACT At TREBELL'S again; later, the same evening. _His room is in darkness but for the flicker the fire makes and the streaks of moonlight between the curtains. The door is open, though, and you see the light of the lamp on the stairs. You hear his footstep too. On his way he stops to draw back the the curtains of the passage-way window; the moonlight makes his face look very pale. Then he serves the curtains of his own window the same; flings it open, moreover, and stands looking out. Something below draws his attention. After leaning over the balcony with a short_ "Hullo" _he goes quickly downstairs again. In a minute_ WEDGECROFT _comes up._ TREBELL _follows, pausing by the door a moment to light up the room._ WEDGECROFT _is radiant._ TREBELL. [_With a twist of his mouth._] Promised, has he? WEDGECROFT. Suddenly broke out as we walked along, that he liked the look of you and that men must stand by one another nowadays against these women. Then he said good-night and walked away. TREBELL. Back to Ireland and the thirteenth century. WEDGECROFT. After to-morrow. TREBELL. [_Taking all the meaning of to-morrow._] Yes. Are you in for perjury, too? WEDGECROFT. [_His thankfulness checked a little._] No ... not exactly. TREBELL _walks away from him._ TREBELL. It's a pity the truth isn't to be told, I think. I suppose the verdict will be murder. WEDGECROFT. They won't catch the man. TREBELL. You don't mean ... me. WEDGECROFT. No, no ... my dear fellow. TREBELL. You might, you know. But nobody seems to see this thing as I see it. If I were on that jury I'd say murder too and accuse ... so many circumstances, Gilbert, that we should go home ... and look in the cupboards. What a lumber of opinions we inherit and keep! WEDGECROFT. [_Humouring him._] Ought we to burn the house down? TREBELL. Rules and regulations for the preservation of rubbish are the laws of England ... and I was adding to their number. WEDGECROFT. And so you shall ... to the applause of a grateful country. TREBELL. [_Studying his friend's kindly encouraging face._] Gilbert, it is not so much that you're an incorrigible optimist ... but why do you subdue your mind to flatter people into cheerfulness? WEDGECROFT. I'm a doctor, my friend. TREBELL. You're a part of our tendency to keep things alive by hook or by crook ... not a spark but must be carefully blown upon. The world's old and tired; it dreads extinction. I think I disapprove ... I think I've more faith. WEDGECROFT. [_Scolding him._] Nonsense ... you've the instinct to preserve your life as everyone else has ... and I'm here to show you how. TREBELL. [_Beyond the reach of his kindness._] I assure you that these two days while you've been fussing around O'Connell--bless your kind heart--I've been waiting events, indifferent enough to understand his indifference. WEDGECROFT. Not indifferent. TREBELL. Lifeless enough already, then. [_Suddenly a thought strikes him._] D'you think it was Horsham and his little committee persuaded O'Connell? WEDGECROFT. On the contrary. TREBELL. So you need not have let them into the secret? WEDGECROFT. No. TREBELL. Think of that. _He almost laughs; but_ WEDGECROFT _goes on quite innocently._ WEDGECROFT. Yes ... I'm sorry. TREBELL. Upsetting their moral digestion for nothing. WEDGECROFT. But when O'Connell wouldn't listen to us we had to rope in the important people. TREBELL. With their united wisdom. [_Then he breaks away again into great bitterness._] No ... what do they make of this woman's death? I saw them in that room, Gilbert, like men seen through the wrong end of a telescope. D'you think if the little affair with Nature ... her offence and mine against the conveniences of civilization ... had ended in my death too ... then they'd have stopped to wonder at the misuse and waste of the only force there is in the world ... come to think of it, there is no other ... than this desire for expression ... in words ... or through children. Would they have thought of that and stopped whispering about the scandal? _Through this_ WEDGECROFT _has watched him very gravely._ WEDGECROFT. Trebell ... if the inquest to-morrow had put you out of action ... TREBELL. Should I have grown a beard and travelled abroad and after ten years timidly tried to climb my way back into politics? When public opinion takes its heel from your face it keeps it for your finger-tips. After twenty years to be forgiven by your more broad-minded friends and tolerated as a dotard by a new generation.... WEDGECROFT. Nonsense. What age are you now ... forty-six ... forty-seven? TREBELL. Well ... let's instance a good man. Gladstone had done his best work by sixty-five. Then he began to be popular. Think of his last years of oratory. _He has gone to his table and now very methodically starts to tidy his papers,_ WEDGECROFT _still watching him._ WEDGECROFT. You'd have had to thank Heaven for a little that there were more lives than one to lead. TREBELL. That's another of your faults, Gilbert ... it's a comfort just now to enumerate them. You're an anarchist ... a kingdom to yourself. You make little treaties with Truth and with Beauty, and what can disturb you? I'm a part of the machine I believe in. If my life as I've made it is to be cut short ... the rest of me shall walk out of the world and slam the door ... with the noise of a pistol shot. WEDGECROFT. [_Concealing some uneasiness._] Then I'm glad it's not to be cut short. You and your cabinet rank and your disestablishment bill! TREBELL _starts to enjoy his secret._ TREBELL. Yes ... our minds have been much relieved within the last half hour, haven't they? WEDGECROFT. I scribbled Horsham a note in a messenger office and sent it as soon as O'Connell had left me. TREBELL. He'd be glad to get that. WEDGECROFT. He has been most kind about the whole thing. TREBELL. Oh, he means well. WEDGECROFT. [_Following up his fancied advantage._] But, my friend ... suicide whilst of unsound mind would never have done.... The hackneyed verdict hits the truth, you know. TREBELL. You think so? WEDGECROFT. I don't say there aren't excuses enough in this miserable world, but fundamentally ... no sane person will destroy life. TREBELL. [_His thoughts shifting their plane._] Was she so very mad? I'm not thinking of her own death. WEDGECROFT. Don't brood, Trebell. Your mind isn't healthy yet about her and-- TREBELL. And my child. _Even_ WEDGECROFT'S _kindness is at fault before the solemnity of this._ WEDGECROFT. Is that how you're thinking of it? TREBELL. How else? It's very inexplicable ... this sense of fatherhood. [_The eyes of his mind travel down--what vista of possibilities. Then he shakes himself free._] Let's drop the subject. To finish the list of shortcomings, you're a bit of an artist too ... therefore I don't think you'll understand. WEDGECROFT. [_Successfully decoyed into argument._] Surely an artist is a man who understands. TREBELL. Everything about life, but not life itself. That's where art fails a man. WEDGECROFT. That's where everything but living fails a man. [_Drifting into introspection himself._] Yes, it's true. I can talk cleverly and I've written a book ... but I'm barren. [_Then the healthy mind re-asserts itself._] No, it's not true. Our thoughts are children ... and marry and intermarry. And we're peopling the world ... not badly. TREBELL. Well ... either life is too little a thing to matter or it's so big that such specks of it as we may be are of no account. These are two points of view. And then one has to consider if death can't be sometimes the last use made of life. _There is a tone of menace in this which recalls_ WEDGECROFT _to the present trouble._ WEDGECROFT. I doubt the virtue of sacrifice ... or the use of it. TREBELL. How else could I tell Horsham that my work matters? Does he think so now?... not he. WEDGECROFT. You mean if they'd had to throw you over? _Once again_ TREBELL _looks up with that secretive smile._ TREBELL. Yes ... if they'd had to. WEDGECROFT. [_Unreasonably nervous, so he thinks._] My dear fellow, Horsham would have thought it was the shame and disgrace if you'd shot yourself after the inquest. That's the proper sentimental thing for you so-called strong men to do on like occasions. Why, if your name were to come out to-morrow, your best meaning friends would be sending you pistols by post, requesting you to use them like a gentleman. Horsham would grieve over ten dinner-tables in succession and then return to his philosophy. One really mustn't waste a life trying to shock polite politicians. There'd even be a suspicion of swagger in it. TREBELL. Quite so ... the bomb that's thrown at their feet must be something otherwise worthless. FRANCES _comes in quickly, evidently in search of her brother. Though she has not been crying, her eyes are wide with grief._ FRANCES. Oh, Henry ... I'm so glad you're still up. [_She notices_ WEDGECROFT.] How d'you do, Doctor? TREBELL. [_Doubling his mask of indifference._] Meistersinger's over early. FRANCES. Is it? TREBELL. Not much past twelve yet. FRANCES. [_The little gibe lost on her._] It was Tristan to-night. I'm quite upset. I heard just as I was coming away ... Amy O'Connell's dead. [_Both men hold their breath._ TREBELL _is the first to find control of his and give the cue._] TREBELL. Yes ... Wedgecroft has just told me. FRANCES. She was only taken ill last week ... it's so extraordinary. [_She remembers the doctor._] Oh ... have you been attending her? WEDGECROFT. Yes. FRANCES. I hear there's to be an inquest. WEDGECROFT. Yes. FRANCES. But what has been the matter? TREBELL. [_Sharply forestalling any answer._] You'll know to-morrow. FRANCES. [_The little snub almost bewildering her._] Anything private? I mean.... TREBELL. No ... I'll tell you. Don't make Gilbert repeat a story twice.... He's tired with a good day's work. WEDGECROFT. Yes ... I'll be getting away. FRANCES _never heeds this flash of a further meaning between the two men._ FRANCES. And I meant to have gone to see her to-day. Was the end very sudden? Did her husband arrive in time? WEDGECROFT. Yes. FRANCES. They didn't get on ... he'll be frightfully upset. TREBELL _resists a hideous temptation to laugh._ WEDGECROFT. Good night, Trebell. TREBELL. Good night, Gilbert. Many thanks. _There is enough of a caress in_ TREBELL'S _tone to turn_ FRANCES _towards their friend, a little remorseful for treating him so casually, now as always._ FRANCES. He's always thanking you. You're always doing things for him. WEDGECROFT. Good night. [_Seeing the tears in her eyes._] Oh, don't grieve. FRANCES. One shouldn't be sorry when people die, I know. But she liked me more than I liked her ... [_This time_ TREBELL _does laugh, silently._] ... so I somehow feel in her debt and unable to pay now. TREBELL. [_An edge on his voice._] Yes ... people keep on dying at all sorts of ages, in all sorts of ways. But we seem never to get used to it ... narrow-minded as we are. WEDGECROFT. Don't you talk nonsense. TREBELL. [_One note sharper yet._] One should occasionally test one's sanity by doing so. If we lived in the logical world we like to believe in, I could also prove that black was white. As it is ... there are more ways of killing a cat than hanging it. WEDGECROFT. Had I better give you a sleeping draught? FRANCES. Are you doctoring him for once? Henry, have you at last managed to overwork yourself? TREBELL. No ... I started the evening by a charming little dinner at the Van Meyer's ... sat next to Miss Grace Cutler, who is writing a _vie intime_ of Louis Quinze and engaged me with anecdotes of the same. FRANCES. A champion of her sex, whom I do not like. WEDGECROFT. She's writing such a book to prove that women are equal to anything. _He goes towards the door and_ FRANCES _goes with him._ TREBELL _never turns his head._ TREBELL. I shall not come and open the door for you ... but mind you shut it. FRANCES _comes back._ FRANCES. Henry ... this is dreadful about that poor little woman. TREBELL. An unwelcome baby was arriving. She got some quack to kill her. _These exact words are like a blow in the face to her, from which, being a woman of brave common sense, she does not shrink._ TREBELL. What do you say to that? _She walks away from him, thinking painfully._ FRANCES. She had never had a child. There's the common-place thing to say.... Ungrateful little fool! But.... TREBELL. If you had been in her place? FRANCES. [_Subtly._] I have never made the mistake of marrying. She grew frightened, I suppose. Not just physically frightened. How can a man understand? TREBELL. The fear of life ... do you think it was ... which is the beginning of all evil? FRANCES. A woman must choose what her interpretation of life is to be ... as a man must too in his way ... as you and I have chosen, Henry. TREBELL. [_Asking from real interest in her._] Was yours a deliberate choice and do you never regret it? FRANCES. [_Very simply and clearly._] Perhaps one does nothing quite deliberately and for a definite reason. My state has its compensations ... if one doesn't value them too highly. I've travelled in thought over all this question. You mustn't blame a woman for wishing not to bear children. But ... well, if one doesn't like the fruit one mustn't cultivate the flower. And I suppose that saying condemns poor Amy ... condemned her to death ... [_Then her face hardens as she concentrates her meaning._] and brands most men as ... let's unsentimentally call it illogical, doesn't it? _He takes the thrust in silence._ TREBELL. Did you notice the light in my window as you came in? FRANCES. Yes ... in both as I got out of the cab. Do you want the curtains drawn back? TREBELL. Yes ... don't touch them. _He has thrown himself into his chair by the fire. She lapses into thought again._ FRANCES. Poor little woman. TREBELL. [_In deep anger._] Well, if women will be little and poor.... _She goes to him and slips an arm over his shoulder._ FRANCES. What is it you're worried about ... if a mere sister may ask? TREBELL. [_Into the fire._] I want to think. I haven't thought for years. FRANCES. Why, you have done nothing else. TREBELL. I've been working out problems in legal and political algebra. FRANCES. You want to think of yourself. TREBELL. Yes. FRANCES. [_Gentle and ironic._] Have you ever, for one moment, thought in that sense of anyone else? TREBELL. Is that a complaint? FRANCES. The first in ten years' housekeeping. TREBELL. No, I never have ... but I've never thought selfishly either. FRANCES. That's a paradox I don't quite understand. TREBELL. Until women do they'll remain where they are ... and what they are. FRANCES. Oh, I know you hate us. TREBELL. Yes, dear sister, I'm afraid I do. And I hate your influence on men ... compromise, tenderness, pity, lack of purpose. Women don't know the values of things, not even their own value. _For a moment she studies him, wonderingly._ FRANCES. I'll take up the counter-accusation to-morrow. Now I'm tired and I'm going to bed. If I may insult you by mothering you, so should you. You look tired and I've seldom seen you. TREBELL. I'm waiting up for a message. FRANCES. So late? TREBELL. It's a matter of life and death. FRANCES. Are you joking? TREBELL. Yes. If you want to spoil me find me a book to read. FRANCES. What will you have? TREBELL. Huckleberry Finn. It's on a top shelf towards the end somewhere ... or should be. _She finds the book. On her way back with it she stops and shivers._ FRANCES. I don't think I shall sleep to-night. Poor Amy O'Connell! TREBELL. [_Curiously._] Are you afraid of death? FRANCES. [_With humorous stoicism._] It will be the end of me, perhaps. _She gives him the book, with its red cover; the '86 edition, a boy's friend evidently. He fingers it familiarly._ TREBELL. Thank you. Mark Twain's a jolly fellow. He has courage ... comic courage. That's what's wanted. Nothing stands against it. You be-little yourself by laughing ... then all this world and the last and the next grow little too ... and so you grow great again. Switch off some light, will you? FRANCES. [_Clicking off all but his reading lamp._] So? TREBELL. Thanks. Good night, Frankie. _She turns at the door, with a glad smile._ FRANCES. Good night. When did you last use that nursery name? _Then she goes, leaving him still fingering the book, but looking into the fire and far beyond. Behind him through the open window one sees how cold and clear the night is._ * * * * * _At eight in the morning he is still here. His lamp is out, the fire is out and the book laid aside. The white morning light penetrates every crevice of the room and shows every line on_ TREBELL'S _face. The spirit of the man is strained past all reason. The door opens suddenly and_ FRANCES _comes in, troubled, nervous. Interrupted in her dressing, she has put on some wrap or other._ FRANCES. Henry ... Simpson says you've not been to bed all night. _He turns his head and says with inappropriate politeness_-- TREBELL. No. Good morning. FRANCES. Oh, my dear ... what is wrong? TREBELL. The message hasn't come ... and I've been thinking. FRANCES. Why don't you tell me? [_He turns his head away._] I think you haven't the right to torture me. TREBELL. Your sympathy would only blind me towards the facts I want to face. SIMPSON, _the maid, undisturbed in her routine, brings in the morning's letters._ FRANCES _rounds on her irritably._ FRANCES. What is it, Simpson? MAID. The letters, Ma'am. TREBELL _is on his feet at that._ TREBELL. Ah ... I want them. FRANCES. [_Taking the letters composedly enough._] Thank you. SIMPSON _departs and_ TREBELL _comes to her for his letters. She looks at him with baffled affection._ FRANCES. Can I do nothing? Oh, Henry! TREBELL. Help me to open my letters. FRANCES. Don't you leave them to Mr. Kent? TREBELL. Not this morning. FRANCES. But there are so many. TREBELL. [_For the first time lifting his voice from its dull monotony._] What a busy man I was. FRANCES. Henry ... you're a little mad. TREBELL. Do you find me so? That's interesting. FRANCES. [_With the ghost of a smile._] Well ... maddening. _By this time he is sitting at his table; she near him watching closely. They halve the considerable post and start to open it._ TREBELL. We arrange them in three piles ... personal ... political ... and preposterous. FRANCES. This is an invitation ... the Anglican League. TREBELL. I can't go. _She looks sideways at him, as he goes on mechanically tearing the envelopes._ FRANCES. I heard you come upstairs about two o'clock. TREBELL. That was to dip my head in water. Then I made an instinctive attempt to go to bed ... got my tie off even. FRANCES. [_Her anxiety breaking out._] If you'd tell me that you're only ill.... TREBELL. [_Forbiddingly commonplace._] What's that letter? Don't fuss ... and remember that abnormal conduct is sometimes quite rational. FRANCES _returns to her task with misty eyes._ FRANCES. It's from somebody whose son can't get into something. TREBELL. The third heap ... Kent's ... the preposterous. [_Talking on with steady monotony._] But I saw it would not do to interrupt that logical train of thought which reached definition about half past six. I had then been gleaning until you came in. FRANCES. [_Turning the neat little note in her hand._] This is from Lord Horsham. He writes his name small at the bottom of the envelope. TREBELL. [_Without a tremor._] Ah ... give it me. _He opens this as he has opened the others, carefully putting the envelope to one side._ FRANCES _has ceased for the moment to watch him._ FRANCES. That's Cousin Robert's handwriting. [_She puts a square envelope at his hand._] Is a letter marked private from the Education Office political or personal? _By this he has read_ HORSHAM'S _letter twice. So he tears it up and speaks very coldly._ TREBELL. Either. It doesn't matter. _In the silence her fears return._ FRANCES. Henry, it's a foolish idea ... I suppose I have it because I hardly slept for thinking of her. Your trouble is nothing to do with Amy O'Connell, is it? TREBELL. [_His voice strangled in his throat._] Her child should have been my child too. FRANCES. [_Her eyes open, the whole landscape of her mind suddenly clear._] Oh, I ... no, I didn't think so ... but.... TREBELL. [_Dealing his second blow as remorselessly as dealt to him._] Also I'm not joining the new Cabinet, my dear sister. FRANCES. [_Her thoughts rushing now to the present--the future._] Not! Because of...? Do people know? Will they...? You didn't...? _As mechanically as ever he has taken up_ COUSIN ROBERT'S _letter and, in some sense, read it. Now he recapitulates, meaninglessly, that his voice may just deaden her pain and his own._ TREBELL. Robert says ... that we've not been to see them for some time ... but that now I'm a greater man than ever I must be very busy. The vicarage has been painted and papered throughout and looks much fresher. Mary sends you her love and hopes you have no return of the rheumatism. And he would like to send me the proof sheets of his critical commentary on First Timothy ... for my alien eye might possibly detect some logical lapses. Need he repeat to me his thankfulness at my new attitude upon Disestablishment ... or assure me again that I have his prayers. Could we not go and stay there only for a few days? Possibly his opinion-- _She has borne this cruel kindness as long as she can and she breaks out...._ FRANCES. Oh ... don't ... don't! _He falls from his seeming callousness to the very blankness of despair._ TREBELL. No, we'll leave that ... and the rest ... and everything. _Her agony passes._ FRANCES. What do you mean to do? TREBELL. There's to be no public scandal. FRANCES. Why has Lord Horsham thrown you over then ... or hasn't that anything to do with it? TREBELL. It has to do with it. FRANCES. [_Lifting her voice; some tone returning to it._] Unconsciously ... I've known for years that this sort of thing might happen to you. TREBELL. Why? FRANCES. Power over men and women and contempt for them! Do you think they don't take their revenge sooner or later? TREBELL. Much good may it do them! FRANCES. Human nature turns against you ... by instinct ... in self-defence. TREBELL. And my own human-nature! FRANCES. [_Shocked into great pity, by his half articulate pain._] Yes ... you must have loved her, Henry ... in some odd way. I'm sorry for you both. TREBELL. I'm hating her now ... as a man can only hate his own silliest vices. FRANCES. [_Flashing into defence._] That's wrong of you. If you thought of her only as a pretty little fool.... Bearing your child ... all her womanly life belonged to you ... and for that time there was no other sort of life in her. So she became what you thought her. TREBELL. That's not true. FRANCES. It's true enough ... it's true of men towards women. You can't think of them through generations as one thing and then suddenly find them another. TREBELL. [_Hammering at his fixed idea._] She should have brought that child into the world. FRANCES. You didn't love her enough! TREBELL. I didn't love her at all. FRANCES. Then why should she value your gift? TREBELL. For its own sake. FRANCES. [_Turning away._] It's hopeless ... you don't understand. TREBELL. [_Helpless; almost like a deserted child._] I've been trying to ... all through the night. FRANCES. [_Turning back enlightened a little._] That's more the trouble then than the Cabinet question? _He shakes himself to his feet and begins to pace the room; his keenness coming back to him, his brow knitting again with the delight of thought._ TREBELL. Oh ... as to me against the world ... I'm fortified with comic courage. [_Then turning on her like any examining professor._] Now which do you believe ... that Man is the reformer, or that the Time brings forth such men as it needs and lobster-like can grow another claw? FRANCES. [_Watching this new mood carefully._] I believe that you'll be missed from Lord Horsham's Cabinet. TREBELL. The hand-made statesman and his hand-made measure! They were out of place in that pretty Tory garden. Those men are the natural growth of the time. Am I? FRANCES. Just as much. And wasn't your bill going to be such a good piece of work? That can't be thrown away ... wasted. TREBELL. Can one impose a clever idea upon men and women? I wonder. FRANCES. That rather begs the question of your very existence, doesn't it? _He comes to a standstill._ TREBELL. I know. _His voice shows her that meaning in her words and beyond it a threat. She goes to him, suddenly shaking with fear._ FRANCES. Henry, I didn't mean that. TREBELL. You think I've a mind to put an end to that same? FRANCES. [_Belittling her fright._] No ... for how unreasonable.... TREBELL. In view of my promising past. I've stood for success, Fanny; I still stand for success. I could still do more outside the Cabinet than the rest of them, inside, will do. But suddenly I've a feeling the work would be barren. [_His eyes shift beyond her; beyond the room._] What is it in your thoughts and actions which makes them bear fruit? Something that the roughest peasant may have in common with the best of us intellectual men ... something that a dog might have. It isn't successful cleverness. _She stands ... his trouble beyond her reach._ FRANCES. Come now ... you've done very well with your life. TREBELL. Do you know how empty I feel of all virtue at this moment? _He leaves her. She must bring him back to the plane on which she can help him._ FRANCES. We must think what's best to be done ... now ... and for the future. TREBELL. Why, I could go on earning useless money at the Bar ... think how nice that would be. I could blackmail the next judgeship out of Horsham. I think I could even smash his Disestablishment Bill ... and perhaps get into the next Liberal Cabinet and start my own all over again, with necessary modifications. I shan't do any such things. FRANCES. No one knows about you and poor Amy? TREBELL. Half a dozen friends. Shall I offer to give evidence at the inquest this morning? FRANCES. [_With a little shiver._] They'll say bad enough things about her without your blackening her good name. _Without warning, his anger and anguish break out again._ TREBELL. All she had ... all there is left of her! She was a nothingness ... silly ... vain. And I gave her this power over me! _He is beaten, exhausted. Now she goes to him, motherlike._ FRANCES. My dear, listen to me for a little. Consider that as a sorrow and put it behind you. And think now ... whatever love there may be between us has neither hatred nor jealousy in it, has it, Henry? Since I'm not a mistress or a friend but just the likest fellow-creature to you ... perhaps. TREBELL. [_Putting out his hand for hers._] Yes, my sister. What I've wanted to feel for vague humanity has been what I should have felt for you ... if you'd ever made a single demand on me. _She puts her arms round him; able to speak._ FRANCES. Let's go away somewhere ... I'll make demands. I need refreshing as much as you. My joy of life has been withered in me ... oh, for a long time now. We must kiss the earth again ... take interest in common things, common people. There's so much of the world we don't know. There's air to breathe everywhere. Think of the flowers in a Tyrol valley in the early spring. One can walk for days, not hurrying, as soon as the passes are open. And the people are kind. There's Italy ... there's Russia full of simple folk. When we've learned to be friends with them we shall both feel so much better. TREBELL. [_Shaking his head, unmoved._] My dear sister ... I should be bored to death. The life contemplative and peripatetic would literally bore me into a living death. FRANCES. [_Letting it be a fairy tale._] Is your mother the Wide World nothing to you? Can't you open your heart like a child again? TREBELL. No, neither to the beauty of Nature nor the particular human animals that are always called a part of it. I don't even see them with your eyes. I'm a son of the anger of Man at men's foolishness, and unless I've that to feed upon...! [_Now he looks at her, as if for the first time wanting to explain himself, and his voice changes._] Don't you know that when a man cuts himself shaving, he swears? When he loses a seat in the Cabinet he turns inward for comfort ... and if he only finds there a spirit which should have been born, but is dead ... what's to be done then? FRANCES. [_In a whisper._] You mustn't think of that woman.... TREBELL. I've reasoned my way through life.... FRANCES. I see how awful it is to have the double blow fall. TREBELL. [_The wave of his agony rising again._] But here's something in me which no knowledge touches ... some feeling ... some power which should be the beginning of new strength. But it has been killed in me unborn before I had learnt to understand ... and that's killing me. FRANCES. [_Crying out._] Why ... why did no woman teach you to be gentle? Why did you never believe in any woman? Perhaps even I am to blame.... TREBELL. The little fool, the little fool ... why did she kill my child? What did it matter what I thought her? We were committed together to that one thing. Do you think I didn't know that I was heartless and that she was socially in the wrong? But what did Nature care for that? And Nature has broken us. FRANCES. [_Clinging to him as he beats the air._] Not you. She's dead, poor girl ... but not you. TREBELL. Yes ... that's the mystery no one need believe till he has dipped in it. The man bears the child in his soul as the woman carries it in her body. _There is silence between them, till she speaks low and tonelessly, never loosing his hand._ FRANCES. Henry, I want your promise that you'll go on living till ... till.... TREBELL. Don't cry, Fanny, that's very foolish. FRANCES. Till you've learnt to look at all this calmly. Then I can trust you. TREBELL _smiles, not at all grimly._ TREBELL. But, you see, it would give Horsham and Blackborough such a shock if I shot myself ... it would make them think about things. FRANCES. [_With one catch of wretched laughter._] Oh, my dear, if shooting's wanted ... shoot them. Or I'll do it for you. _He sits in his chair just from weariness. She stands by him, her hand still grasping his._ TREBELL. You see, Fanny, as I said to Gilbert last night ... our lives are our own and yet not our own. We understand living for others and dying for others. The first is easy ... it's a way out of boredom. To make the second popular we had to invent a belief in personal resurrection. Do you think we shall ever understand dying in the sure and certain hope that it really doesn't matter ... that God is infinitely economical and wastes perhaps less of the power in us after our death than men do while we live? FRANCES. I want your promise, Henry. TREBELL. You know I never make promises ... it's taking oneself too seriously. Unless indeed one has the comic courage to break them too. I've upset you very much with my troubles. Don't you think you'd better go and finish dressing? [_She doesn't move._] My dear ... you don't propose to hold my right hand so safely for years to come. Even so, I still could jump out of a window. FRANCES. I'll trust you, Henry. _She looks into his eyes and he does not flinch. Then, with a final grip she leaves him. When she is at the door he speaks more gently than ever._ TREBELL. Your own life is sufficient unto itself, isn't it? FRANCES. Oh yes. I can be pleasant to talk to and give good advice through the years that remain. [_Instinctively she rectifies some little untidiness in the room._] What fools they are to think they can run that government without you! TREBELL. Horsham will do his best. [_Then, as for the second time she reaches the door._] Don't take away my razors, will you? I only use them for shaving. FRANCES. [_Almost blushing._] I half meant to ... I'm sorry. After all, Henry, just because they are forgetting in personal feelings what's best for the country ... it's your duty not to. You'll stand by and do what you can, won't you? TREBELL. [_His queer smile returning, in contrast to her seriousness._] Disestablishment. It's a very interesting problem. I must think it out. FRANCES. [_Really puzzled._] What do you mean? _He gets up with a quick movement of strange strength, and faces her. His smile changes into a graver gladness._ TREBELL. Something has happened ... in spite of me. My heart's clean again. I'm ready for fresh adventures. FRANCES. [_With a nod and answering gladness._] That's right. _So she leaves him, her mind at rest. For a minute he does not move. When his gaze narrows it falls on the heaps of letters. He carries them carefully into_ WALTER KENT'S _room and arranges them as carefully on his table. On his way out he stops for a moment; then with a sudden movement bangs the door._ * * * * * _Two hours later the room has been put in order. It is even more full of light and the shadows are harder than usual. The doors are open, showing you_ KENT'S _door still closed. At the big writing table in_ TREBELL'S _chair sits_ WEDGECROFT, _pale and grave, intent on finishing a letter._ FRANCES _comes to find him. For a moment she leans on the table silently, her eyes half closed. You would say a broken woman. When she speaks it is swiftly, but tonelessly._ FRANCES. Lord Horsham is in the drawing room ... and I can't see him, I really can't. He has come to say he is sorry ... and I should tell him that it is his fault, partly. I know I should ... and I don't want to. Won't you go in? What are you writing? WEDGECROFT, _with his physicianly pre-occupation, can attend, understand, sympathise, without looking up at her._ WEDGECROFT. Never mind. A necessary note ... to the Coroner's office. Yes, I'll see Horsham. FRANCES. I've managed to get the pistol out of his hand. Was that wrong ... oughtn't I to have touched it? WEDGECROFT. Of course you oughtn't. You must stay away from the room. I'd better have locked the door. FRANCES. [_Pitifully._] I'm sorry ... but I couldn't bear to see the pistol in his hand. I won't go back. After all he's not there in the room, is he? But how long do you think the spirit stays near the body ... how long? When people die gently of age or weakness.... But when the spirit and body are so strong and knit together and all alive as his.... WEDGECROFT. [_His hand on hers._] Hush ... hush. FRANCES. His face is very eager ... as if it still could speak. I know that. MRS. FARRANT _comes through the open doorway._ FRANCES _hears her steps and turning falls into her outstretched arms to cry there._ FRANCES. Oh, Julia! MRS. FARRANT. Oh my dear Fanny! I came with Cyril Horsham ... I don't think Simpson even saw me. FRANCES. I can't go in and talk to him. MRS. FARRANT. He'll understand. But I heard you come in here.... WEDGECROFT. I'll tell Horsham. _He has finished and addressed his letter, so he goes out with it._ FRANCES _lifts her head. These two are in accord and can speak their feelings without disguise or preparation._ FRANCES. Julia, Julia ... isn't it unbelievable? MRS. FARRANT. I'd give ... oh, what wouldn't I give to have it undone! FRANCES. I knew he meant to ... and yet I thought I had his promise. If he really meant to ... I couldn't have stopped it, could I? MRS. FARRANT. Walter sent to tell me and I sent round to.... FRANCES. Walter came soon after, I think. Julia, I was in my room ... it was nearly breakfast time ... when I heard the shot. Oh ... don't you think it was cruel of him? MRS. FARRANT. He had a right to. We must remember that. FRANCES. You say that easily of my brother ... you wouldn't say it of your husband. _They are apart by this_, JULIA FARRANT _goes to her gently._ MRS. FARRANT. Fanny ... will it leave you so very lonely? FRANCES. Yes ... lonelier than you can ever be. You have children. I'm just beginning to realise.... MRS. FARRANT. [_Leading her from the mere selfishness of sorrow._] There's loneliness of the spirit, too. FRANCES. Ah, but once you've tasted the common joys of life ... once you've proved all your rights as a man or a woman.... MRS. FARRANT. Then there are subtler things to miss. As well be alone like you, or dead like him, without them ... I sometimes think. FRANCES. [_Responsive, lifted from egoism, reading her friend's mind._] You demand much. MRS. FARRANT. I wish that he had demanded much of any woman. FRANCES. You know how this misery began? That poor little wretch ... she's lying dead too. They're both dead together now. Do you think they've met...? JULIA _grips both her hands and speaks very steadily to help her friend back to self control._ MRS. FARRANT. George told me as soon as he was told. I tried to make him understand my opinion, but he thought I was only shocked. FRANCES. I was sorry for her. Now I can't forgive her either. MRS. FARRANT. [_Angry, remorseful, rebellious._] When will men learn to know one woman from another? FRANCES. [_With answering bitterness._] When will all women care to be one thing rather than the other? _They are stopped by the sound of the opening of_ KENT'S _door._ WALTER _comes from his room, some papers from his table held listlessly in one hand. He is crying, undisguisedly, with a child's grief._ KENT. Oh ... am I in your way...? FRANCES. I didn't know you were still here, Walter. KENT. I've been going through the letters as usual. I don't know why, I'm sure. They won't have to be answered now ... will they? WEDGECROFT _comes back, grave and tense._ WEDGECROFT. Horsham has gone. He thought perhaps you'd be staying with Miss Trebell for a bit. MRS. FARRANT. Yes, I shall be. WEDGECROFT. I must go too ... it's nearly eleven. FRANCES. To the other inquest? _This stirs her two listeners to something of a shudder._ WEDGECROFT. Yes. MRS. FARRANT. [_In a low voice._] It will make no difference now ... I mean ... still nothing need come out? We needn't know why he ... why he did it. WEDGECROFT. When he talked to me last night, and I didn't know what he was talking of.... FRANCES. He was waiting this morning for Lord Horsham's note.... MRS. FARRANT. [_In real alarm._] Oh, it wasn't because of the Cabinet trouble ... you must persuade Cyril Horsham of that. You haven't told him ... he's so dreadfully upset as it is. I've been swearing it had nothing to do with that. WEDGECROFT. [_Cutting her short, bitingly._] Has a time ever come to you when it was easier to die than to go on living? Oh ... I told Lord Horsham just what I thought. _He leaves them, his men grief unexpressed._ FRANCES. [_Listlessly._] Does it matter why? MRS. FARRANT. Need there be more suffering and reproaches? It's not as if even grief would do any good. [_Suddenly with nervous caution._] Walter, you don't know, do you? WALTER _throws up his tear-marked face and a man's anger banishes the boyish grief._ WALTER. No, I don't know why he did it ... and I don't care. And grief is no use. I'm angry ... just angry at the waste of a good man. Look at the work undone ... think of it! Who is to do it! Oh ... the waste...! 
4465	----	None 
4466	----	None 
5639	----	THE PROGRESSIVE DEMOCRACY OF JAMES M. COX by Charles E. Morris Secretary to Governor Cox CHAPTER I THE NEED FOR A DOER There come times in the affairs of men which call for "not a forgetful hearer, but a doer of the work." Such a time is at hand. A great war, the most devastating in history, has been concluded. Its moral lesson has been taught by its master minds and learned in penitence, we may hope, by the erring and wrongly willful. But the fruits of victory are ungathered and the beneficence of peace is not yet attained. The call arises for a "doer of the work." Two great political parties in the United States, both with splendid accomplishments behind them and both with grave mistakes as well, have attempted to respond to this call, and America, whose proudest boast is that it has always found a man for every great occasion, chooses between them. It is a solemn and serious hour. For it has been America's special fortune that its great teachers and leaders and doers have been found at just the proper time. This knowledge of the certain right decision of our country is, we might almost say, a part of its very fiber abiding with the persistency of a fixed idea, a part of the heritage of the nation, scarcely needing to be taught in the schools, obvious even to the casual student from an alien land. For our historical records glow with the stories of the appearance of _the_ man; and the thought of a friendly destiny seems not easy to banish. Time has given so often either the inspired teacher of the word or the doer of the work that there is more than a faith and a hope, nay almost a conviction, that it cannot fail now when the agonized appeal of the world beckons America to complete her high mission to humanity upon which she embarked when she threw her power and might on the scales in war. Those who insist that the fulfillment of that mission lies in keeping the solemn promises make in France, accepted by friend and foe alike, for a League of Nations to end war, to see that retribution becomes not blind vengeance, to set the tribes of the earth again on their forward journey, present as their leader James Monroe Cox, Governor of Ohio. A party of traditions, a party that has directed in every critical period save one since the Republic began, has said that he meets the requirements of the time. That party chose him because of his record for doing, because there was an inner conviction that he could enter upon a still larger field with a growing, an ever-expanding capacity. This, too, furnishes a fitter chapter in the history of country and party. For the wise selection of men, even obscure men, has been the tower of our national strength. America had her Thomas Jefferson to expound for all the world the real underlying truth of her Revolution. The equality of rights and duties spread from a dream of philosophers to be the doctrine of warriors for freedom. There was her George Washington to hold together the tenuous bands of freedom. She found her James Monroe to lay the foundations of the doctrine that stern moral precepts forbid the violation of sovereign rights of the nations. She brought forth her Andrew Jackson to make the country in his time safe for democracy, and to establish for all time that no single money baron, nor yet any collection of them, is superior to the power of all the people. In later time she had her Abraham Lincoln, now in the judgment of the succeeding generations but little beneath the Savior of men, preserver of the Union for its larger duties. She had in this day her Woodrow Wilson, builder of the newer policy of world union and recognized spokesman of freedom in the death struggle with military autocracy. It is of history that Lincoln and Wilson both were stricken down with their work incomplete. After Lincoln there was no doer of the work to finish his task and the evil of those who perverted the exalted purpose of the Civil War continues even unto this day. Coming into the arena of national affairs when even America seems to doubt and when the selfish motive of fear threatens to palsy the nation's hand, Governor Cox became the man to vindicate the statements and the pledges given before all the world. His introduction to the conscience and intellect of the country was a demand that the faith be kept. Out of the night of war, the League of Nations has long been a supreme issue with Governor Cox and he was chosen to carry the standard because he had expressed the sentiment most strongly, most clearly and with greatest emphasis. Doers have ever been practical men, and such is Governor Cox. But practicality need not, and does not, imply a lack of vision. There is such a thing as ideality in vision and a practical hand to make good the picture of the mind. The combined qualities are considered as essentials to the adequate man of the times, for a vision of a new world order is the rarest gift of the century, but the man with the dynamic force and the cunning skill to make this new dream come true has been wanting. History--political history--was changed profoundly when President Woodrow Wilson was stricken. Men were slow in rallying to his cause, there were even clouds of doubt, ominous and disturbing, when the party he led to two victories prepared in the late June and the early July days of the year 1920 to state its position, its hope and its aspirations. In the state in which Governor Cox held leadership there was no doubt. His own Ohio knew long ago that at the Democratic National Convention in San Francisco its chosen spokesmen would communicate but two mandates on behalf of the vast majority of the people. One was that Ohio could do no less than be faithful to its greatest executive and the other was that the nation's faith and honor must be kept stainless. Through Governor Cox that message has been sent to the length and breadth of the land. As seen by him, the appeal to the American people is one which began with the first plea to the world powers for such a concert as would banish the continual threat of war. This plea was made to warring powers when the World War began in 1914 and it was renewed at each favorable opportunity during the years when America hoped that the war might be brought to an end before the last great neutral power was drawn into it. Heeded by the Allies, the voice of reason was rejected by the Central Empires, and from that hour there came the conviction among the earnest lovers of peace that only the imposition of peace would furnish a new basis for world concord. Few men were more downcast than this same man when long and vexatious delays in the United States Senate ended at last in the recalcitrant refusal of the masters of the majority to ratify the Treaty of Versailles. It is but a fair and truthful statement to observe that, although his judgment of the mind of the people told him that the party which went before the country to vindicate the sacrifices of the men in the trenches would have a most compelling issue, he had no wish for such partisan advantage. As a Democrat, history will tell that he sought only fair compromise on the treaty, even suggesting any honest settlement that would hasten America's entrance into the League. In his address of acceptance, then, Governor Cox stepped to the fore with the tersest of utterances as to his position on the League, compressing it all into "I favor going in." If this question is not answered now and affirmatively, Governor Cox believes that there may be delay until nations once more have borne their crosses on Calvary and until further blood and treasure are wasted. And so he says now: "I favor going in." CHAPTER II COX THE MAN Men of great versatility are most difficult to picture comprehensively. Perhaps this is the reason that no pen-portrait of Theodore Roosevelt ever seemed quite complete. There was in every single sketch something that seemed to be left unsaid, a point made by one was certain to be omitted by another. Cox is a man after the Roosevelt type. They were fast friends and they had many ideas in common. They often exchanged views upon progressive issues and found themselves largely in accord. Neither was static in mental processes and their dynamics were often of the same sort. But while Governor Cox's intimates compare him often with Roosevelt, they prefer to liken him to Andrew Jackson. For Cox is the true Twentieth Century Jacksonian, they say. Like Andrew Jackson, Governor Cox can improvise the organization of a political campaign better than any man of his time, save Colonel Roosevelt, and the masterful Colonel won only when he had great resources at his command. Cox seems to have reached back into history and grasped the idea of the manner in which Jackson's men worked with resources so small that they had to pass newspapers of their faith from hand to hand. Largely, it seems, because no war came along when he was free of family responsibilities Governor Cox has no martial record. He might have been a soldier of the Roosevelt type had he lived in other circumstances but his youth was spent in the drudgery of toil and there was no chance for education in a military academy. Still they call him "fighting Jimmy," and those who have been through a campaign with him know what they mean. As a boy there was never need to drive him forward to personal combat and in the man the juvenile tendency continued until he was well past the forty-five-year mark of middle age. If one were to inventory his external features there would appear a compact, muscular individual of about five feet six inches in height and of one hundred and seventy pounds in weight, every ounce keyed up to the efficiency of successful performance. motions indicate a man of quick decision, a tendency to suddenness that many older than he have sought to check in his earlier years. It is a proverb among those who know him best that when Governor Cox makes an instant decision he may be mistaken but that when he thinks it over for a single night he is never wrong. As the years in a varied experience have passed this disposition to think everything over has grown and grown until snap judgments no longer are taken. This may be the reason why men say that he has improved as an executive from year to year and why his later acts and deeds have the rounded out and complete aspect that is lacking in the earlier. The nature of Cox himself is for "action," even when it seems to take the form of experiment. In simple justice it must be said that he has never been an adventurer, but he is willing to tackle problems before other would seize hold of them. His first administration, he thinks, was his best, for much more was done, but his last is his best, Ohio judgment has decided, because it repressed tendencies to go the wrong way, taking perhaps the Gladstone view that a statesman deserves more credit for defeating unwise legislation than for securing the enactment of good. As Governor, Cox has been willing to risk defeat for principle. A trait of character is told in the story of school and taxation legislation. He was warned that progressive steps would encompass his defeat. If a composite answer could be formed to all the suggestions of this sort, it would be something like this: "There is need for improving our schools. Time will vindicate it." Something else of character may be learned from the manner in which Governor Cox redeems pledges. When he was sorely beset by his political foes in 1914, it was represented to him that the liquor interests might be made to do service if licenses were withheld until after the election. And the answer given was something like this: "The pledge was given that the license system shall not be prostituted to partisanship. That pledge will be redeemed." The forebodings of the worldly wise were not disappointed. The liquor interests contributed heavily to the opposition candidate and supported him so well that he won the election. Cox hates war even if he made a remarkable record as war Governor. But he likes the smoke and fury of political contest, and he thrives on campaigns. He has a fashion of leading his party organization and making it do his will, and like all men or this sort, he has been accused of being dictatorial. Yet none denies that he gives a fair hearing and is open to conviction on disputed issues. He has a power of expression in a few words, portraying a whole field of action. Tending to go into great detail in public matters, he comes to the heart of an issue with a laconic expression that tells all there is to be told. "I favor going in"--on the League of Nations is one. Assuring his supporters that the proposal for separate peace with Germany was "opening their front lines," he drew a word sketch of a gigantic contest in which he as a general had sensed a rift in the opposition ranks and had broken through a whole army. Associates of Governor Cox say that he is daring because of his strong sense of justice. The question is frequently asked by him as to whether a proposition is fair to all sides. Readiness to trust in him as an arbitrator has brought many issues to his desk that are not part of a Governor's official duties. Disputes between interests and differences among organizations, no less than capital and labor disagreements have been left to his decision. It is an evidence of the trust in the sense of justice in the man. There is a notable habit in him of picking men quickly for tasks. It is not claimed for him that he has never made mistakes in his estimate of men, but they are comparatively rare. Governor Cox is the only man ever nominated for President who owns wealth--real wealth. His personal fortune is handsome. That was a point of criticism when he began to get acquainted with the country, but it is no longer. The reason is to be found in the fact that he has a natural appeal that makes his associates forget money. Nor is the charge ever seriously made that his broad sympathy is affected. When he is best known, the wealth he owns is least often mentioned. They do not refer to a wealthy man whose possessions are an outstanding attribute as "Jim" or "Jimmy." Cox, the man of affairs, is overshadowed by "Jimmy Cox." As with all powerful leaders, no sketch would be complete if it did not allude to a certain imperiousness that is in the man. This quality has made foes but that was inevitable. One who has risen by his own efforts has had the pushing impulse, of course. It tells something of the Cox character that he has become a forceful speaker only in the last ten years. When he first entered public life in 1908 his style in speaking lacked force and his manner was hesitating and uncertain. A course of self- discipline and training led to constant improvement, and while there has never been a pretense of oratorical flight, issues and questions are discussed plainly and effectively. There is a penchant for reducing statements to simple and understandable terms and for stating his conviction with a measure of aggressiveness that carries conviction. As a candidate he has always believed that the people are entitled to the fullest information possible and to see and hear those who seek their suffrage. Like Roosevelt, the more strenuous sports and recreations attract him far more that does the swinging of the golf stick. He is an expert marksman and has astonished military men on the rifle range by what he can do with a gun. His ancestors were squirrel-hunters, and his sure eye was an inheritance from them. The Governor likes to rough it in the Northern Canadian woods, spending at leisure a couple of weeks with only his son, James M. Jr., now a boy of 18, for his companion. He prides himself upon his ability to cook a fish after it is caught, and to plunge in the lake as an evidence of his swimming ability. When in Columbus his form of exercise is walking, and younger men of sedentary pursuits find that he can tire them. Quitting school at an early age, Cox's education has been acquired through much private study. He knows no language except English. His range of reading covers a wide variety of topics, the favorite of which are the political sciences, and outdoor life. He does not lay claim to literary excellence or perfection of style, and is a man of serious bent of mind, speaking only when he thinks he has a message to carry. The name under which he has been known to the country, James Middleton Cox, seems to be an error which only lately his friends have corrected. In the old family Bible the name of James Monroe Cox appears, indicative of a family admiration. The name which appears signed to all official documents is James M. Cox. The Middleton seems to have had its origin in a bit of journalistic levity, probably having reference to Middletown, Ohio, the city in which he got his early training as a newspaper reporter. The Governor's family consists of his wife, a little daughter, Anne, who is slightly less than a year old, a married daughter, Mrs. Daniel J. Mahoney of Dayton, and two sons, James M. Jr., and John, age ten. While the Governor's devotion to the equal suffrage cause has been of many years' standing, the interests of Mrs. Cox are of a domestic nature. The time not devoted to her baby daughter is spent in the outdoors, he hobby being her garden. CHAPTER III WHY COX IS A CANDIDATE FOR PRESIDENT James M. Cox is a candidate for President because he hopes to be the instrument of divine Providence in a great accomplishment. He knows that the man who secures America's adherence to the League of Nations is as certain of a permanent place in the scrolls of fame as those who laid the foundations of freedom or those who preserved it in the days of fiery trial. To a famous correspondent, Mr. Herbert Corey, who put the question, "Why do you wish to be President?" The Governor has answered: "It affords an opportunity to take hold of a knotty situation (the League) by the back of the neck and seat of the pants and shake a result out of it." The answer rings true to the man. The candidate has called it an issue of supreme faith, elaborating his views in a recent communication to the "Christian Herald," in which he has said: "'Fighting the good fight of faith'--these words from the epistle to Timothy might well be our text for this campaign before the American people, which, within the limits of our strength, has been carried to every fireside in this broad land of ours. Ours is a fight of faith--faith with a world that accepted our statement of unselfish purpose, faith with fathers and mothers, wives and loved ones, who gave their sons, husbands and brothers to war upon war, faith with those who made sacrifice in homes, faith with those who toiled, faith with the living and faith with the dead. "If there were in this contest nothing but the question of whether one or the other of two editors should sit in the seat of power, nothing but whether one organization or another should taste the sweets of office, we could not insist that there is involved a fight of faith. There is, indeed, an issue between two views of government, one looking forward and the other backward. But temporary control by one side or the other for a brief period of four years is not necessarily a supreme matter of faith. We might try one or we might, in a spirit of experiment, try another. "In speaking of this we would have our personal fortunes forgotten. They are of transient interest to ourselves and we might say of less interest to others. To hold the exalted office of President of the United States, to occupy the place of Washington, of Jefferson, of Lincoln, to be looked to for leadership in public questions, to be the first citizen in this great land is not a trifling but a gigantic ambition, worthy of all honest striving but involving, in the ordinary sense, no supreme issue. So if personal reasons only animated us, we could not muster the temerity to state our case with the ardent zeal that controls us. "But the motives that guide us are of greater import. As leader of a great organization which has had its part in interpreting the aspirations of the American people, and in shaping Americanism through the generations we have been invested with a sacred commission, a mandate sanctified by the reckless bravery of our sons and ennobled by the heart impulses of our daughters. Through circumstances not of our own choosing we have become the custodians of the honor of the nation, we have been called to fight the good fight of faith. "We as a party willed otherwise. In the face of bigoted denials of our good faith we sought only concord of all our people in the tasks of American in the world. There was glory enough for all and we never advanced the claim that it was a partisan matter until the fact had been established through long and weary months of purposeful misunderstanding and unconscionable intrigue for party advantage by our opponents. There is in this no suggestion of unkind sentiments toward our leading adversaries. We can utter the sentiment voiced on the hill above Jerusalem and when America has come to understand we stand ready to blot out a dark chapter of our national life and to pronounce a pardon upon a course of conduct charitably covered by 'they know not what they do.' "There ought to be in this a special appeal to believers in the living faith. Its purpose to give to all the universal benefits only a share of which it claims for itself, its conception of the Golden Rule as the practical basis for dealings with the world, its high plan to save the weak and feeble from the power and will of the mighty--these things, we say, are of the very essence of the true faith. "It is not a subject for marvel then that practically every denominational and interdenominational gathering of religious men that has been held since the Versailles covenant was adopted has included an endorsement of that great document. Aloof from the contentions of partisans, freed from the bigotry engendered by factionalism, looking upon national questions through the windows of light and truth, the banded followers of the Man of Nazareth have seen the question that is presented shorn of false claims. In a word, Christians, speaking organically, with a voice that could not be misunderstood have stated that they wish the League of Nations. "For such a League, for the only league now in existence or which has a fair chance of coming into existence, we are contending. Could the question be lifted from the arena of partisanship and could the referendum which we have invoked be by direct ballot, there would be no opposition. Unfortunately, our system of government has not provided a choice so direct, nor a manner of expression that would leave so small doubt as to the sentiment of America. We say this from a field of personal experience for like the certain rich young man of Biblical story, we, too, have seen the type of uncompromising partisan who 'turned away sorrowfully' for party seemed more important than duty or honor. "It matters little whether we say that we feel deeply for those across the seas in their troubles when we fail to act in their behalf. The successful issue of the war left a duty on our hands, a duty like that which we performed in Cuba nearly a generation ago and like that which has been brought close to completion in the Philippines. We faced a Christian duty toward our associates and even toward the people of enemy lands. It was our obligation to bind up the wounds of the war and to show by example the fulfillment of high ideals voiced by the leaders of the world thought. "There came to us the divine opportunity to act quickly and with high Christian purposes. We might with one stroke have become the counselor and friend of all humanity, its guarantor that all the forces of morality would be enlisted upon the side of peace. But the precious moments were wasted in fruitless discussion, in idle bickerings, in invention of fancied situations, purposely forgetting that the great purpose of the League of Nations was to band the world together in a great brotherhood against war. We were to lead the nations back to peaceful ways but through our own wavering we actually, by reason or a small coterie of men, we think wrongly advised, have drenched Europe and Asia with new wars. "The great heart of America has always been right upon this great issue. There has never been a time when associations of men and women, independent of partisanship, have turned from the League proposal. America gave freely in alms to every war-torn nation in the world. She sent her devoted bands of workers to relieve distress. She sent her nurses to heal the sick. She sent her contributions to feed the hungry. She opened her warehouses to clothe the naked. She willingly gave her talent, through private auspices, to help bring life back to normal. Her men of finance gave counsel; they offered credit and we applauded. We were touched by the works of associations and individuals to lessen war's terrors and to refound the wrecked civilization. But foolish men, vain men, envious men forbade our government to do in larger form the same sort of acts which, done by private auspices, we applauded as evidence of Christian purpose. "And the good that we sought to do was lost in our larger neglect. Weak fears that in helping the world, fantastic forebodings that in taking our stand for peace everlasting, imaginary perils that in service we might be surrendering our birthright of independence restrained our more noble impulses. While famine stalked and the world cried to heaven for our help we debated selfish questions. Our nation became a silent but effective partner in undermining Christian civilization, causing the despairing peoples of Europe, friend and enemy alike, to turn in every agony to those who denied the fundamental precepts upon which our society rests. "Some one has called this black despair, 'Satanism,' the belief that the laws and deeds of God and men are set against the victim. And we, through the perversity of a few men, have been silent enemies of Christian faith and allies, indeed, or this newer scourge of mankind. There are happiness and satisfaction in the thought that we have not this fault to bear. It is not strange to us that those who permitted narrow views and ungenerous purpose to thwart our nation in its duty rest uncomfortably under the accusations of the American conscience. If temporary success is to be won at such sacrifice we cannot think it worth the price. "Nor can the blame be shifted. So far as was humanly possible, objections were met. Reservations stating our complete compliance with the fundamental organic law, needless as they were in a strictly legal sense, were proposed. Others were accepted where they seemed to be animated by proper motives, but good faith prevented acceptance of those which proposed to withdraw the pledge in the same document in which it was plighted. As was observed in the address accepting the designation as champion of the party, every boy in our schools knows that war may be declared only by act of Congress and that the American Constitution rises superior to all treaties. Still, every friend of the Covenant was ready to acquiesce in proposals that would state these propositions, and more, if that would prove a solution. "Failing in this effort, the resolution was formed that the only other method lay in submitting the matter in a solemn referendum to the conscience of America. In that great judgment we now are. Men are but instrumentalities of the Divine Will, worked out, we pray, in the nations. Few things are of smaller importance than the temporal fortunes of men; no things of greater importance than the destiny of mankind. Willingly would we undergo crushing defeat to save the principle for which we strive, guiltily would we assume power won by appeal to baser motives and selfish fears. "There is in this year, for the causes here outlined, a militancy as of the Crusaders, marching over mountains and deserts to wrest the Holy Places from unworthy hands. There is a sacred fire in the countenances of those who speak the message, there is a joy in proclaiming the tidings, there is a zeal in spreading the word. We are preachers this year of national righteousness, of honor, of faith and of high purpose. "We scorn to think of our mission in ordinary terms. We disdain to look upon the early days of November as a test of rival organizations in their power to muster votes. We have no mind to compete in lavish outlay, we have no purpose to resort to sinister methods of electrical appeal. If we are to be chosen, it is to be because we have won the conscience of the nation, and God helping us, we will appeal to nothing else. "We turn from the external duties of the country to its internal. Promises with respect to these matters must of every necessity be in general terms largely because the problems are vast and must adjust themselves to all parts of the country, harmonizing with conditions that vary widely. Back of all legislation, back of statute and executive policy worth while, there lies one unvarying hope and purpose--to right wrong, to secure justice and to give equal opportunity. All measures must be tested by these great principles and on them rest securely if at all. "Past performances--the record--furnish the best indication of a man's mind, and the executive acts and legislative recommendations of the Governor of Ohio during the past six years have been studied with great care. That they have won approval is a source of gratification and satisfaction that will endure. We are in this country face to face with gigantic problems. They cannot be left unsolved. That would be blindness. They cannot be considered in the gathering darkness of reaction, they must be viewed in the brightening dawn of a new day. "Before us we have the examples of restrained liberties and of unfulfilled desires. It is dangerous to trust reactionary forces with power. It may become a little short of menacing to the stability of our institutions and to the orderly processes of development. It is well to sound a word of warning, calmly but ever seriously. "As has been observed, actions furnish the basis of determination of fitness for further service. What better guarantee of cordial and sound industrial relations between employee and employer than legislation which follows the lines of the Ohio workmen's compensation law? Under its influence, industrial conditions have improved, life and limb have been conserved, the workmen's families are happy in their security and a new era has dawned for millions of people. It was enacted when legislation of this sort was an experiment in America. If every state in this Union had a law of this sort our nation would have solved half of its industrial problems. Our courts are free from the vexatious litigation that fosters criticism and they are trusted as never before in history. It has been a factor of no small importance that enabled our state to uphold the sovereignty of the law without repressive measures directed against freedom of speech and pen. "Educational activities have been quickened and rural life has been regenerated through modem school legislation. To the boys and girls of our rural districts there are coming schools which will be second to none in our most progressive cities, and one of the reasons for draining of the country districts of population will be checked. It has given an impetus to church and community life that is of greatest importance. "These things are cited not because there is any disposition to urge that there should be encroachment by the federal government on local control. It is the healthful, reasonable individualism of American national life that has enabled the people of this country to think for themselves. We have no will to impair their independence. The central government can assist and give encouragement to state movements if the men called to high positions are in sympathy with progress. A reactionary central government can demonstrate likewise that it has no sympathy with men of vision who ever have difficult tasks in bringing about the taking of forward steps. "The details of these instances, which might be greatly expanded, have been touched in order to form a setting as for a picture. Our view is toward to-morrow. The opposition, and I assume that they are sincere in it, stands in the skyline of the setting sun, looking backward, backward to the old days of reaction." CHAPTER IV COX AND THE LEAGUE--"I FAVOR GOING IN" "And I do earnestly urge that all the people of this great and enlightened state assemble at their respective places of worship and invoke Almighty God to enlighten the Rulers of the world to the end that they may see the folly of war and speedily terminate it; that in our homes and about our hearthstones we implore the Divine Spirit in behalf of the people of the stricken nations, whose miseries are beyond our comprehension-- people who have been plunged into the depths of war through no fault of their own. "And I do further recommend and urge that in all the schools of the State of Ohio the afternoon of Friday, October 2nd, 1914, be set aside for exercises, having for their purpose to instill into the minds of children and into their hearts the great blessing that will come to them and to the world when war is no more." The quoted sentences from Governor Cox's proclamation for a day of prayer on October 4, 1914, a period at which the horrors of the great world war had but begun, disclose that Governor Cox is not a recent convert to the central thought and purpose of the conception of the League of Nations. Through the numerous official proclamations and the many addresses which he made during the period of the war the central thought repeatedly emphasized was that the fruit of war must be an everlasting peace. In accordance with the proclamation of the President, establishing June 5, 1917, as the "call-to-the- colors" day of the young men of the Country, the Governor said: "It is probably the most trying hour the world has ever known, and the policies of government, purified and preserved by those who live now, will determine the civilization under which our children and our children's children shall live in the future. What greater guarantee of their peace and happiness can be given them than a democracy that envelops all nations--a democracy sanctified by an endearing memory of what was unselfishly given to make it possible?" In his proclamation calling for a State convention to perfect the organization of an Ohio branch of the League to Enforce Peace, the Governor emphasized as the second of its objects "to keep the world safe by a League of Nations," and he said that the purpose of the organization would be "to confirm opposition to a premature peace and sustain the determination of our people to fight until Prussian militarism is destroyed and the way may be open for securing permanent peace by a League of Nations." When hostilities were concluded Governor Cox had the faith that "this peace brings the dawn of a new day of consecration," and in his official proclamation he said: "A world is reborn. Our Nation has brought success to a righteous cause. Our State has given with full heart to the achievement of the glorious end." In an address in Toronto, Canada, November, 1918, Governor Cox said: "We consign to posterity an example and inspiration and idealism as lofty as ever stirred the hearts of men. And then, turning away from the past, we face the sunrise of to-morrow with faith and resolution to make a better world than that of yesterday, and to demonstrate that our heroic defenders have not died in vain. These are dangerous times to permit the inventive genius of man to go unchecked in matters of armament. The unspeakable horrors of the war just ended make us instinctively turn our faces away from the possibility of a half-century from now, if our thought is to be turned intensively to the production of things destructive to home life. With the sea fairly alive with submarines, the air filled with squadrons of flying machines, and the mysteries of nature unfolding before the sustained labor of chemists--cities and states and nations could be quickly depopulated. The Prussian conspiracy would not have been possible if the international affairs of the earth had been assigned to a League of Nations. The play may seem to be altruistic, if not fantastic, but the skeptic is moved by the idea that nations cannot forget selfishness. If that be true, then the world lacks the fundamental fibers of character to build an enduring civilization." In welcoming the returned soldiers of the 166th Infantry in New York in may, 1919, Governor Cox said: "If peace is to endure, it must be by means of institutions of government whose strength in the right must inspire public confidence. We solemnly give the pledge of our state that the faith will be kept." Economic effects of the defeat of the Treaty of Peace were discussed by Governor Cox at Henderson, Kentucky, in April, 1920. He said: "Some of you may not know the effect of the defeat of the Treaty. While at Mayfield (Ky.) I saw an old farmer who told me he was offered twenty and ten dollars for his tobacco before Christmas, but was forced to sell at six and three dollars. The tumbling of the foreign exchange and the inability of Italy and other Continental European countries to purchase their tobacco is the cause of Western Kentucky farmers losing millions of dollars. This resulted from the Republican Senate's refusal to ratify the peace treaty. While the Republican dictators of the Senate set the stage for political triumph, they do not care how much tobacco growers or the people at large suffer. Turning to the patriotic issue of the present campaign, he said at the same time: "It will be with infinite pleasure that we shall ask the Republican spellbinders if they have kept the faith with the boys who sleep overseas." During all the progress of the early part of the campaign the Governor denounced those who "are seeking to set up racial lines and create a prejudice among the foreign elements in our midst." He said: "While other powers are doing everything possible to hold the loose ends of civilization together, these leaders are deliberately conspiring to mislead the great bulk of Americans with assertions that are, when analyzed, nothing more than demagoguery of the crudest kind." Earlier in the year, in speaking before the Jefferson Club of Marion, Indiana, the Governor said: "The plot to multiply the woes of mankind, in order that confusion multiplied might be charged to President Wilson's insistence on principle and international good faith, is now passing through the process of public thought, and we have confidence in an intelligent verdict. The winning of the war, in less time than the formalizing of peace carries a contrast that needs no comment." During the period for the selection of delegates to the Democratic Convention at San Francisco, Governor Cox gave a signed interview to the New York Times, in which he reviewed the controversy concerning the League of Nations and outlined two reservations which he believed would satisfy every reasonable objection. In part, he said: "If public opinion in the country is the same as it is in Ohio, then there can be no doubt but that the people want a League of Nations because it seems to offer the surest guarantee against war. I am convinced that the San Francisco Convention will endorse in its vital principles the League adopted at Versailles. "There can be no doubt but that some senators have been conscientious in their desire to clarify the provisions of the treaty. Two things apparently have disturbed them. First, they wanted to make sure that the League was not to be an alliance, and that its basic purpose was peace and not controversy. Second, they wanted the other powers signing the instrument to understand our constitutional limitations beyond which the treaty-making power cannot go. "Dealing with these two questions in order, it has always seemed to me that the interpretation of the function of the League might have been stated in these words: "'In giving its assent to this treaty, the Senate has in mind the fact that the League of Nations which it embodies was devised for the sole purpose of maintaining peace and comity among the nations of the earth and preventing the recurrence of such destructive conflicts as that through which the world has just passed. The co-operation of the United States with the League and its continuance as a member thereof, will naturally depend upon the adherence of the League to that fundamental purpose.' "Such a declaration would at least express the view of the United States and justify the course which our nation would unquestionably follow if the basic purpose of the League were at any time distorted. It would also appear to be a simple matter to provide against any misunderstanding in the future and at the same time to meet the objections of those who believe that we might be inviting a controversy over our constitutional rights, by making a senatorial addition on words something like these: "'It will of course be understood that in carrying out the purpose of the League, the government of the United States must at all times act in strict harmony with the terms and intent of the United States Constitution, which cannot in any way be altered by the treaty-making power.' "Some people doubt the enduring quality of this general international scheme. Whether this be true or not, the fact remains that it will justify itself if it does no more than prevent the nations of the earth from arming themselves to the teeth and wasting resource which is necessary to repair the losses of the war. No one contends that it is a perfect document, but it is a step in the right direction. It would put the loose ends of civilization together now and do more toward the restoration of normal conditions in six months' time than can the powers of the earth, acting independently, in ten years' time. The Republican senatorial cabal insists that the treaty be Americanized. Suppose that Italy asked that it be Italianized-- France that it be Frenchized--Britain that it be Britainized, and so on down the line. The whole thing would result in a perfect travesty. "The important thing now is to enable the world to go to work, but the beginning must not be on the soft sands of an unsound plan. If this question passes to the next administration, there should be no fetich developed over past differences. Yet at the same time there must be no surrender of vital principles. It may be necessary if partitions and reparation require changing, to assemble representatives of the people making up the nations of the League, in which event revision may not be so much an affair of diplomats. But I repeat the pressing task is getting started, being careful however that we are starting with an instrument worth while, and not a mere shadow." To an extent to which very few public men favoring the League of Nations have gone, Governor Cox has expressed the firm conviction that the League will enable the people of Ireland to bring their contention and claims before a world tribunal. It was his statement before an audience in Cincinnati that the League would be the means by which the Irish case could be heard in the highest court in the world, and he stated that thus far it had never been heard even in a magistrate's court. Sentiments on the question of self-determination were also expressed in his article in the New York Times. In this the Governor said: "We are a composite people in the United States and the belief of students of government in years past that our democracy would not endure was based entirely upon the idea that we could not build a nation from the blood of many races which had old inherited prejudices. It is very important, particularly at this time when racial impulses and emotions have been stirred world- wide as never before, that we make the utmost effort to prevent division along these lines. In this connection it is well to bear in mind that the armistice which preceded the peace was based upon fourteen cardinal points; one of the most, if not the most, important of which was the right of self-determination. "Wars in the past have resulted largely from dispute over territory and imposed restraints of racial aspirations. Governmental entities are more apt to last and to live harmoniously with others if groups are bounded by racial homogeneity rather than by the physical characteristics of the earth in the form of mountains, rivers, etc. Individual aspiration is a God-given element and distinct ambitions possess the soul of racial unity. In harmony with this theory, the San Francisco convention should emphasize the Democratic belief in the principle of self-determination in government. Our citizens will not deny to any race of people the right to hold the emotions which stirred the founders of our Republic." The Governor's position on the League was amplified in his Address of Acceptance at Dayton on August 7th, 1920, in which he said: "We are in a time which calls for straight thinking, straight talking and straight acting. This is no time for wobbling. Never in all our history has more been done for government. Never was sacrifice more sublime. The most precious things of heart and home were given up in a spirit which guarantees the perpetuity of our institutions--if the faith is kept with those who served and suffered. The altar of our republic is drenched in blood and tears, and he who turns away from the tragedies and obligations of the war, not consecrated to a sense of honor and of duty which resists every base suggestion of personal or political expediency, is unworthy of the esteem of his countrymen. "The men and women who by expressed policy at the San Francisco Convention charted our course in the open seas of the future sensed the spirit of the hour and phrased it with clarity and courage. It is not necessary to read and reread the Democratic platform to know its meaning. It is a document clear in its analysis of conditions and plain in the pledge of service made to the public. It carries honesty of word and intent. Proud of the leadership and achievement of the party in war, Democracy faces unafraid the problems of peace. Indeed, its pronouncement has but to be read along with the platform framed by Republican leaders in order that both spirit and purpose as they dominate the opposing organizations may be contrasted. On the one hand we see pride expressed in the nation's glory and a promise of service easily understood. On the other a captious, unhappy spirit and the treatment of subjects vital to the present and the future, in terms that have completely confused the public mind. It was clear that the senatorial oligarchy had been given its own way in the selection of the presidential candidate, but it was surprising that it was able to fasten into the party platform the creed of hate and bitterness and the vacillating policy that possesses it. "In the midst of war the present senatorial cabal, led by Senators Lodge, Penrose and Smoot, was formed. Superficial evidence of loyalty to the President was deliberate in order that the great rank and file of their party, faithful and patriotic to the very core, might not be offended. But underneath this misleading exterior, conspirators planned and plotted, with bigoted zeal. With victory to our arms they delayed and obstructed the works of peace. If deemed useful to the work in hand no artifice for interfering with our constitutional peace-making authority was rejected. Before the country knew, yes, before these men themselves knew the details of the composite plan, formed at the peace table, they declared their opposition to it. Before the treaty was submitted to the senate in the manner the Constitution provides, they violated every custom and every consideration of decency by presenting a copy of the document, procured unblushingly from enemy hands, and passed it into the printed record of senatorial proceedings. From that hour dated the enterprise of throwing the whole subject into a technical discussion, in order that the public might be confused. The plan has never changed in its objective, but the method has. At the outset there was the careful insistence that there was no desire to interfere with the principle evolved and formalized at Versailles. Later, it was the form and not the substance that professedly inspired attack. But pretense was futile when proposals later came forth that clearly emasculated the basic principle of the whole peace plan. It is not necessary to recall the details of the controversy in the senate. Senator Lodge finally crystallized his ideas into what were known as the Lodge reservations, and when congress adjourned these reservations held the support of the so-called regular Republican leaders. "From that time the processes have been interesting. Political expediency in its truest sense dwarfed every consideration either of the public interest or of the maintenance of the honor of a great political party. The exclusive question was how to avoid a rupture in the Republican organization. The country received with interest, to say the least, the announcement from Chicago, where the national convention was assembled, that a platform plank dealing with the subject of world peace, had been drawn leaving out the Lodge reservations, and yet remaining agreeable to all interests, meaning thereby, the Lodge reservationists, the mild reservationists and the group of Republican senators that openly opposed the League of Nations in any form. "As the platform made no definite committal of policy and was, in fact, so artfully phrased as to make almost any deduction possible, it passed through the convention with practical unanimity. Senator Johnson, however, whose position has been consistent and whose opposition to the League in any shape is well known, withheld his support of the convention's choice until the candidate had stated the meaning of the platform, and announced definitely the policy that would be his, if elected. "The Republican candidate has spoken and his utterance calls forth the following approval from Senator Johnson: "'Yesterday in his speech of acceptance Senator Harding unequivocally took his stand upon the paramount issue in this campaign--the League of Nations. The Republican party stands committed by its platform. Its standard-bearer has now accentuated that platform. There can be no misunderstanding his words.' "Senator Harding, as the candidate of the party, and Senator Johnson are as one on this question, and, as the latter expresses it, the Republican party is committed both by platform in the abstract and by its candidate in specification. The threatened revolt among leaders of the party is averted, but the minority position as expressed in the senate prevails as that of the party. In short, principle, as avowed in support of the Lodge reservations, or of the so-called mild reservations, has been surrendered to expediency. "Senator Harding makes this new pledge of policy in behalf of his party: "'I promise you formal and effective peace so quickly as a Republican congress can pass its declaration for a Republican executive to sign.' "This means but one thing--a separate peace with Germany! "This would be the most disheartening event in civilization since the Russians made their separate peace with Germany, and infinitely more unworthy on our part than it was on that of the Russians. They were threatened with starvation and revolution had swept their country. Our soldiers fought side by side with the Allies. So complete was the coalition of strength and purpose that General Fochs was given supreme command, and every soldier in the allied cause, no matter what flag he followed, recognized him as his chief. We fought the war together, and now before the thing is through it is proposed to enter into a separate peace with Germany! In good faith we pledged our strength with our associates for the enforcement of terms upon offending powers, and now it is suggested that this be withdrawn. Suppose Germany, recognizing the first break in the Allies, proposes something we cannot accept. Does Senator Harding intend to send an army to Germany to press her to our terms? Certainly the allied army could not be expected to render aid. If, on the other hand, Germany should accept the chance we offered of breaking the bond it would be for the express purpose of insuring a German-American alliance, recognizing that the Allies--in fact, no nation in good standing--would have anything to do with either of us. "This plan would not only be a piece of bungling diplomacy, but plain, unadulterated dishonesty, as well." "No less an authority than Senator Lodge said, before the heat of recent controversy, that to make peace except in company with the Allies would 'brand us everlastingly with dishonor and bring ruin to us.' "And then after peace is made with Germany, Senator Harding would, he says, 'hopefully approach the nations of Europe and of the earth, proposing that understanding which makes us a willing participant in the consecration of nations to a new relationship.' "In short, America, refusing to enter the League of Nations (now already established by twenty-nine nations) and bearing and deserving the contempt of the world, would submit an entirely new project. This act would either be regarded as arrant madness or attempted international bossism. "The plain truth is, that the Republican leaders, obsessed with a determination to win the presidential election, have attempted to satisfy too many divergent views. Inconsistencies, inevitable under the circumstances, rise to haunt them on every hand, and they find themselves arrayed, in public thought at least, against a great principle. More than that, their conduct is opposed to the idealism upon which their party prospered in other days." "Illustrating these observations by concrete facts, let it be remembered that those now inveighing against an interest in affairs outside of America, criticised President Wilson in unmeasured terms for not resenting the invasion of Belgium in 1914. They term the League of Nations a military alliance, which, except for their opposition, would envelop our country, when, as a matter of truth, the subject of a League of Nations has claimed the best thought of America for years, and the League to Enforce Peace was presided over by so distinguished a Republican as ex-President Taft, who, before audiences in every section, advocated the principle and the plan of the present League. They charge experimentation, when we have as historical precedent the Monroe Doctrine, which is the very essence of Article X of the Versailles covenant. Skeptics viewed Monroe's mandate with alarm, predicting recurrent wars in defense of Central and South American states, whose guardians they alleged we need not be. And yet not a shot has been fired in almost one hundred years in preserving sovereign rights on this hemisphere. They hypocritically claim that the League of Nations will result in our boys being drawn into military service, but they fail to realize that every high-school youngster in the land knows that no treaty can override our Constitution, which reserves to Congress, and to Congress alone, the power to declare war. They preach Americanism with a meaning of their own invention, and artfully appeal to a selfish and provincial spirit, forgetting that Lincoln fought a war over the purely moral question of slavery, and the McKinley broke the fetters of our boundary lines, spoke the freedom of Cuba, and carried the torch of American idealism to the benighted Philippines. They lose memory of Garfield's prophecy that America, under the blessings of God- given opportunity, would by her moral leadership and co- operation become the Messiah among the nations of the earth. "These are fateful times. Organized government has a definite duty all over the world. The house of civilization is to be put in order. The supreme issue of the century is before us and the nation that halts and delays is playing with fire. The finest impulses of humanity, rising above national lines, merely seek to make another horrible war impossible. Under the old order of international anarchy war came overnight, and the world was on fire before we knew it. It sickens our senses to think of another. We saw one conflict into which modern science brought new forms of destruction in great guns, submarines, airships, and poison gases. It is no secret that our chemists had perfected, when the contest came to a precipitate close, gases so deadly that whole cities could be wiped out, armies destroyed, and the crews of battleships smothered. The public prints are filled with the opinions of military men that in future wars the method, more effective than gases or bombs, will be the employment of the germs of disease, carrying pestilence and destruction. Any nation prepared under these conditions, as Germany was equipped in 1914, could conquer the world in a year. "It is planned now to make this impossible. A definite plan has been agreed upon. The League of Nations is in operation. A very important work, under its control, just completed, was participated in by the Hon. Elihu Root, Secretary of State under the Roosevelt administration. At a meeting of the Council of the League of Nations, February 11, and organizing committee of twelve of the most eminent jurists in the world was selected. The duty of this group was to devise a plan for the establishment of a Permanent Court of International Justice, as a branch of the League. This assignment has been concluded by unanimous action. This augurs well for world progress. The question is whether we shall or shall not join in this practical and humane movement. President Wilson, as our representative at the peace table, entered the League in our name, in so far as the executive authority permitted. Senator Harding, as the Republican candidate for the presidency, proposes in plain words that we remain out of it. As the Democratic candidate, I favor going in. Let us analyze Senator Harding's plan of making a German-American peace, and then calling for a 'new relationship among nations,' assuming for the purpose of argument only, that the perfidious hand that dealt with Germany would possess the power or influence to draw twenty-nine nations away from a plan already at work, and induce them to retrace every step and make a new beginning. This would entail our appointing another commission to assemble with those selected by the other powers. With the Versailles instrument discarded, the whole subject of partitions and divisions of territory on new lines would be reopened. The difficulties in this regard, as any fair mind appreciates, would be greater than they were at the peace session, and we must not attempt to convince ourselves that they did not try the genius, patience, and diplomacy of statesmen at that time. History will say that great as was the Allied triumph in war, no less a victory was achieved at the peace table. The Republican proposal means dishonor, world confusion and delay. It would keep us in permanent company with Germany, Russia, Turkey and Mexico. It would entail, in the ultimate, more real injury than the war itself. The Democratic position on the question, as expressed in platform is: "'We advocate immediate ratification of the Treaty without reservations which would impair its essential integrity, but do no oppose the acceptance of any reservation making clearer or more specific the obligations of the United States to the League associates.' "The first duty of the new administration clearly will be the ratification of the Treaty. The matter should be approached without thought of the bitterness of the past. The public verdict will have been rendered, and I am confident that the friends of world peace as it will be promoted by the League, will have in numbers the constitutional requisite to favorable senatorial action. The captious may say that our platform reference to reservations is vague and indefinite. Its meaning, in brief, is that we shall state our interpretation of the covenant as a matter of good faith to our associates and as a precaution against any misunderstanding in the future. The point is, that after the people shall have spoken, the League will be in the hands of its friends in the Senate, and a safe index as to what they will do is supplied by what reservations they have proposed in the past. "Our platform clearly lays no bar against any additions that will be helpful, but it speaks in a firm resolution to stand against anything that disturbs the vital principle. We hear it said that interpretations are unnecessary. That may be true, but they will at least be reassuring to many of our citizens, who feel that in signing the treaty, there should be no mental reservations that are not expressed in plain words, as a matter of good faith to our associates. Such interpretations possess the further virtue of supplying a base upon which agreement can be reached, and agreement, without injury to the covenant, is now of pressing importance. It was the desire to get things started, that prompted some members of the senate to vote for the Lodge reservations. Those who conscientiously voted for them in the final roll calls realized, however, that they acted under duress, in that a politically bigoted minority was exercising the arbitrary power of its position to enforce drastic conditions. Happily the voters of the republic, under our system of government, can remedy that situation, and I have the faith that they will, at the election this fall. Then organized government will be enabled to combine impulse and facility in the making of better world conditions. The agencies of exchange will automatically adjust themselves to the opportunities of commercial freedom. New life and renewed hope will take hold of every nation. Mankind will press a resolute shoulder to the task of readjustment, and a new era will have dawned upon the earth." Speaking to the National Guardsmen at the National Rifle Matches at Camp Perry, Ohio, on August 12, he said: "I recognize that in a sense you are assembled here for the purpose of increasing the efficiency of our military strength, and yet I am convinced that the great mass of our soldiers are united in purpose and prayer, to prevent wars in the future, if it can be honorably done. They know the meaning of modern warfare. There was very little romance in the long hours and the slaughter of the front trench. The thought that must have run through the mind of every solder in the midst of it all, was how such a thing was possible in modern civilization. "The cost to the United States was more than one million dollars an hour for over two years. The total expense of twenty-two billion dollars was almost equal to the total disbursements of the United States government from 1791 to 1918. It was sufficient to have run the Revolutionary War for more than one thousand years at the rate of expenditure which that war involved. The army expenditures alone, so experts claim, are a near approach to the volume of gold produced in the United Sates from the discovery of America up to the outbreak of the European War, and yet the United States spent only about one-eighth of the entire cost of the war, and less than one-fifth of the expenditure of the allied side. "If civilization has not had its lesson, then there is no hope for it. It could not stand such a war again and survive. The genius of man, if that is a happy term in discussing the horrors of conflict, has always made the latest war the most frightful. When we consider the development in the methods of human destruction between 1914 and 1918 and apply the problem of simple proportion, we are staggered even to think of the possibilities of the sons of men being again brought into combat. "There will always be a national guard in the States, if for no other reason than domestic defense, and the military arm of the federal government will be maintained, but the hope that vast expenditures for armaments are a thing of the past, possesses every home in America, while the common impulse that moves the great mass of people world-wide is inspired by the vision of peace and the settlement of controversy by the arbitrament of reason rather than of force." At the very beginning of his canvass for the Presidency Governor Cox has gone upon the theory that the League of Nations needed simple explanation to the people of the Country. In his own phrase, he has talked the ABC's of the League, finding that the technical discussions had failed to hold the interest of the people. Illustrating this policy are two addresses made to state conventions early in August. At Wheeling, to the West Virginia Democratic Convention, he said: "We resisted a world-wide menace, and we intend now to establish permanent protection against another menace. We know how easily wars came in the past. We want to make their coming difficult in the future. We have a definite plan; the American people understand it, and after the 4th of March, 1921, it is our purpose to put it into practical operation, without continuing months of useless discussion. "The platform of our party gives us the opportunity to render moral co-operation in the greatest movement of righteousness in the history of the world, and at the same time to hold our own interests free from peril. Our position is plain. The circumstances of the last eighteen months convict the Republican leadership of attempted trickery with the American people. Under one pretext after another they prevented the readjustment of national conditions. They proposed certain reservations to the League of Nations, and then they were abandoned, to be followed by nothing more definite than the announcement of a 'hope' that an entirely new arrangement might be made in world affairs. What method they have in mind, if it is concretely in anyone's mind, the people do not know. No unprejudiced person can deny that the consequence of abandoning the League and attempting an entirely new project, will be prolonged delay. If the voters of the Republic, without regard to party, desire action, and prompt action along lines that are now clearly understood, they will render a verdict so overwhelmingly expressive of public indignation that scheming politicians for years to come will not forget. "In the fact of an efficient leadership during the war, and of constructive, progressive, economic service in peace, the Republican leaders developed a smoke screen, behind which they seek to gain their objective, the spoils of office. For years the best thought and the humanitarian impulses of civilized countries have been applied to the high purpose of making war practically impossible. The League of Nations became the composite agreement, and now the senatorial oligarchy meets it with the absurd plea that it increases the probability of armed conflict. It not only reveals unworthy intent, but a very poor estimate of American intelligence as well." Taking the issue to the people, and free from what he termed strait-jacket restrictions, the Governor said at Columbus, when he talked to the Ohio Democratic Convention: "I carefully reviewed the platform adopted at Chicago, and studied its principles, but I know as much about it now as when I started to read it. I gave intensive thought also to the speech made by the Republican candidate, the purpose of which was to interpret the meaning of that historic document, and after long and vigilant labor I found two pronouncements. What was the first? The statement that staggered the sensibilities of the civilization of the world, the unthinkable, monstrous proposal, that in the midst of the uncertainty of the hour, a separate peace ought to be made with Germany. I want you to go back with me just a year and a half, to the time when victory was son; to the time when our boys maintained their vigils on the banks of the Rhine, standing there in solid formation with 2,000,000 great lads behind them. Germany signed the peace document on the dotted line. What has happened in the united States Senate to prevent its acceptance by the upper branch of the American Congress? I need not recall, because every child knows about it. But the soldiers came back home; they were demobilized; they entered into their several walks of life believing that their victory had been complete, and that the offending powers had been brought to terms. And now, with the armies disbanded, and now, with our military strength no longer holding together, it is proposed by the candidate of the Republican party that he will prove false to the boys who stood by when that peace was made. He will destroy the pact and enter into a new covenant. "Six hundred thousand French died at Verdun defending the slogan, 'They shall not pass.' More than a million English and Canadians died on the Somme, reforming their ranks, and hurling back the challenge, 'They shall not pass.' They were possessed of the crusading spirit; they were preserving the Democracy of the world, the very Government of the earth. And now another menace is threatened, and it is proposed that some one, acting in behalf of two millions of soldiers and the one hundred million people of this Republic, shall perform a perfectly perfidious act. Standing at the head of the hosts of the great army which opposes the hosts of reaction; standing at the head of the hosts of Democracy, at the head of the hosts of progress; at the head of the hundreds of thousands of independents of this Country, I give to you this assurance: That this dishonorable deed will not be perpetrated--for two very important reasons. First, Warren G. Harding will not have a chance to do it; and second, I will not insult two million soldiers by doing it myself. "And then proceeding to the second stage of these proceedings, the Republican candidate says that after he shall have made a separate peace with Germany, he will then assemble the conscience of the civilization of the world and form an entirely new relationship. If, for the sake of argument only, we are to assume that a separate peace with Germany were made, I believe that the Government of the United States of America would be so unworthy in the eyes of the nations of the world that none of them would have anything to do with us at all. "This one question will remain in the public mind. After all this is the crux of the whole situation. The Republican candidate and the reactionaries now in control of the Republican party, promise you nothing whatsoever except a proposal which at is best will involve months and probably years of delay. On the other hand, we promise you this, that after the 4th of March, 1921, with the least amount of conversation possible, we will enter the League of Nations of the world. Our Democratic platform adopted at San Francisco gives us full license and opportunity to enter the League upon terms which will need no defense. Our position is not unbending; it is not captious. We proclaim that we will accept any conditions that interpret, that call attention to the limitations of our Constitution; that serve full notice now upon the powers of the earth that we can go so far and no further. "In other words we have the opportunity of concluding this, the greatest movement for righteousness in all the history of the world, and then the loose ends of civilization will be put together. The opportunity for exchange will have been restored. America will proceed upon an era of prosperity and peace without precedent. "I shall address no audience in America this year without puncturing the smoke screen of hypocrisy and insincerity which has been raised, in order that the reactionaries might creep in behind it and claim their main objective, the spoils of office. That smoke screen now is the statement that the League of Nations increases the probabilities of war. It would have been just as absurd to have said to the boys at the time our fathers won their freedom, that if you proclaim your independence you are going to have war, because you will have to fight to retain it. Every school boy in Ohio understands there are three branches of Government, Judicial, Legislative and Executive, and when war has been brought to an end, the head of the Executive Department, the President of the United States, makes the treaty with the power with which we have been at war, and then we find that limitation of power. The President can go no further. He submits it to the Senate for ratification. The President of the United States has very definite power, and there are also very specific powers reserved to the Congress of the United States. The Congress can do nothing contrary to the Constitution; the President can do nothing contrary to the Constitution. The Constitution provides that war can be declared by Congress, and Congress only. In order to give point and truth to what the reactionary leaders are now contending for, it would be necessary to change the Constitution of the United States. This would require a two-thirds' vote of the House and Senate, and then a three-fourths' vote of the states of the Union. Our machinery was so adjusted that no matter who might be the Executive Officer of this Republic, he did not possess the power to declare war. The power was placed as near to the people as it was possible to place it. It was placed with their Representatives in Congress. "Now--the Republican leaders in contending that four or five potentates, four or five distinguished statesmen over seas, sitting in the council of the League of Nations, can order our soldiers anywhere, are speaking a deliberate and a willful untruth. Presidential proprieties require that I do not characterize it in stronger language. You know it is very hard to please the opposition, although we are under great debt to them for having made the gauge of battle in this campaign. The proposition to disgrace America by making a separate peace with Germany was simply opening their front lines. I have already entered that opening with the hosts of Democracy around me. "About three months ago a well-meaning Republican business man was driving through Clark county. His soldier boy was at the wheel, and he looked over into a field and saw a hundred trucks lying there; and he seized upon the circumstance to attack the Administration at Washington. The son had heard enough of it, and he stopped the car and said: 'Father, you have got to stop talking that way. When we were in the front trench we had warm food, no matter whether we were in the midst of hell's fire or not. We had all the ammunition we needed. It was ten times better to have more trucks than we needed than to have fewer trucks than we needed.' And then there is another reason for it all. Need we be reminded that the opposition said that it would require Secretary Baker and President Wilson eighteen months to take 600,000 soldiers over seas, and, recognizing that it would require in all probability more than 2,000,000 soldiers to win the war, that the war would then last, under this Democratic Administration, four times eighteen months. Any child in this country can have the facts presented to him and he will have the mentality to grasp these outstanding circumstances: President Wilson and Secretary Baker, at the head of the military forces of the nation did not send 600,000 soldiers over in eighteen months' time. They sent 2,000,000 soldiers over in eighteen months' time, and won the war without the loss of a single troop ship." CHAPTER V HOW HE HAS DEALT WITH LABOR TROUBLES No subject furnishes so good an index to the entire record of an executive as the manner in which he has handled the affairs growing out of industrial disputes. Touching, as they often do, a zone of disputed claims, and involving, as they often do, the social rights of workers no less than the rights of property, and entailing, as they frequently have, the duty of maintaining public order, the conflicts between capital and labor test to the utmost the abilities of the Executive Officer of a great industrial state like Ohio. Within its borders are toilers from every land and every clime. In her cities dwell as laborers men and women from every known country and representative of every race--a modern Babel of tongues with a greater variety, were it possible, than those upon whom fell confusion of speech in the ages gone. And the period during which Governor Cox has held away has been one of profound upheavals. There have been strikes brought forth by "hard times," strikes occasioned by efforts at organization of workers, and strikes whose distant origin lay in the economic overturn incident to war inflation with its topsy-turvy of values and its jumble of the normal status. These conditions, then, supply a complete and ample test of the effectiveness of the policy which has been followed. The results of this policy are told in a brief statement by Mr. Oscar W. Newman, Associate Justice of the Ohio Supreme Court. He said: "Not a soldier was brought to the scene of a single strike (although they were in readiness for emergency); person and property were preserved; and above all, the dignity of the law was maintained." Nor has capital been offended by the methods pursued. This fact is attested by statements of those who speak for invested industrial wealth. Thus, W. S. Thomas, of Springfield, says that the policies pursued have made "Ohio an oasis in the widespread area of industrial turmoil during and since the great war." There are cited, too, the conclusions reached by Thomas J. Donnelly, Secretary of the Ohio Federation of labor, who has written: "Labor has confidence in James M. Cox because the laboring people feel that he understands their needs and is in hearty sympathy with the progressive aspirations of those who earn their bread by the sweat of their brows. As governor, he accomplished more in the interest of the laboring people of Ohio and is held in higher esteem by them than any other governor in the state's history. "He has done much to avoid and to settle labor troubles. He believes that more can be accomplished through reason and common sense than through force and intimidation; and whenever called upon to send the militia to deal with striking workmen, he always found a way to prevent violence and preserve order without using soldiers for that purpose. During the big steel strike when violence and disorder were rampant in some states where the right peaceably to assemble had been denied to the striking workers, in Ohio, where there were equally as many strikers involved, there was no sign of violence, and the right of workers peaceably to assembled was not interfered with. If his policy had been followed by other public officials throughout the nation, there would be less unrest and the people would have more confidence in the fairness of government authorities." It is only necessary to get a comprehensive view of Governor Cox's record with respect to labor troubles to tell the plain story of what he has done. He had scarce taken hold as Governor in 1913 when a strike broke out in the great rubber plants of Akron. It seemed to have been fomented by members of the Industrial Workers of the World, but it drew in its train thousands upon thousands of other workers until the great plants were practically idle. In Akron, where a heterogenous collection of industrial workers dwell, idleness was a potent factor in fomenting disorder. The normal course of affairs would have been an attempt to operate the plants with strike breakers under guard, provocative acts upon both sides, and finally, recourse to an armed militia to quell the disorder after the inevitable bloodshed had ensued. Although new in executive experience, Governor Cox took another course. He sent trained and trusted investigators to Akron who learned the facts and reported to him accurately upon the situation, including also the grievances of the toilers. At the same time he gave warning to the local authorities that they preserve a strict neutrality in their dealing with the contending forces, and he uttered a solemn warning that the laws must be respected, assuring those of both contending factions that public opinion within the city would speedily ascertain the right and wrong of the controversy. And so it proved to be. But learning there were abuses in the plants that needed correction the Governor gave his assent to an investigation by a legislative committee through the helpful publicity of which all interests were induced to redress certain grievances. It gave an object lesson not only to Akron but to all the state. It taught even the turbulent element that only harm could come through infraction of the law and through disrespect for rights of person and property. The remainder of the story is that I. W. W. disturbers have more sterile soil in Ohio to cultivate than in any of the states about it. A startling comparison two years later at East Youngstown, during the administration of Governor Cox's successor, disclosed by contrast the value of the peaceful plan. Through a policy of uncertainty and wavering, a riot was allowed to start and military were needed to put down the disorder, life being lost in the process. The details of the incidents of similar nature to that of Akron need not be recounted here, but the invariable policy pursued was the collection of all the facts, so far as possible, by a representative of capital and one of labor. Of this course, the simple statement can be made that it was eminently successful. This recital has been made as a preliminary to the narrative of the great steel strike of 1919 on which the Governor's fame as an administrator in troubled times largely rests. The same policy of investigation and research was pursued. Solemn warning was given that freedom of speech and assembly must be respected rigidly but that neither must become the instrument of license nor of subversive speech or conduct. At the time when the situation reached a critical stage the Governor issued this statement: "To the Mayors of municipalities and County Sheriffs of Ohio: "I am impressed with the importance of a statement to the mayors and sheriffs as to a policy which should serve as a guide to government, both state and local, in the matter of turbulent conditions which have developed in many communities, from pending industrial disputes. "We have inquiry at the executive office from local officials clearly indicating that no rule of action has been developed in the face of present emergencies and further that none is in prospect. The constitution imposes upon the Governor the very definite responsibility of law enforcement. While it is the duty of the mayor of a municipality and the sheriff of the county to execute the laws, the founders of our charter of government gave to the state executive, not only the right to keep vigilant eye on conditions in every community, but his oath imposes the obligation so to do. Therefore, in no part of the state must a public officer permit the violation of the law. The mayors and sheriffs seem to have proper concept of their duty in the abstract. The purpose of this statement is to deal with specifications. "The sections of the state which give the greatest concern have large masses of alien residents. Thousands of them do not speak the language. They are not familiar with our laws but it is safe to assume that the individual conscience tells every man that violence is both a moral and a legal wrong. "Officers of companies whose manufacturing plants are closed by strike or other cause have expressed to me the intention to resume operations. At the same time they have asked for 'protection.' Inquiry develops this fact--that some employers believe it the duty of government to transport their employees into and out of the plants in question. This is not a function of government. Throughout the years, the policy has been not to make use of soldiers nor policemen to man street cars, for instance, nor in any way to make of them the instruments to bring a strike to an end. If either state or local officers provided safe conveyance of workmen into or out of a manufacturing institution, then government would be making of itself the agent of one of the parties to the dispute. If, however, the plant resumes, and disorder of any sort ensues as the result of employees going into or out of the factory, then that becomes an affair of governmental concern and the mayor of the municipality or the sheriff of the county, as location within or without the municipality largely determines, must suppress violence and arrest those who violate the law. I shall exact this from all local officers. "Picketing as we understand it is neither prohibited by law nor condemned by public sentiment, but it must go no further than moral persuasion. Organized society cannot continue without government, and government will not live unless the laws are respected. They not only express what experience has taught us, but they are the official mandate of the will of the majority, and after all, that is a fundamental principle in a republic. "All officers must act with care. It will be found that trouble can often be avoided by an open, frank and firm contact of public officers with both the representatives of the employers and employees. No call that I have ever made upon either side of these controversies has ever gone unheeded. "We are in the midst of unprecedented conditions, but if we devote ourselves to the single thought of making government the agency of justice and the instrument of bringing swift punishment to those who violate the laws of this commonwealth, we will pass through the storm safely. "No man must be permitted to define the rules of his individual conduct. The law is supreme. I shall expect its enforcement by local officers. When they have rendered their utmost effort and failed to meet conditions, then the state will act promptly." In every city in Ohio, save one, this warning was sufficient, but in Canton it became necessary for the Governor to remove the mayor. His successor speedily re-established the peace. CHAPTER VI HOW HE HAS DEALT WITH INDUSTRIAL RELATIONS The story of the result of Governor Cox's treatment of industrial issues is told in his parallel of statements from Thomas J. Donnelly, Secretary of the Ohio Federation of Labor, and W. S. Thomas, a leading manufacturer. Statement by Donnelly: "Before Ohio had a Workmen's Compensation Law, only twenty per cent of the injured workers, or the widows and children of deceased workers, were paid any compensation or damages. Eighty per cent got nothing whatever. When Cox was first elected governor, about five per cent of the workers of Ohio were covered under an optional Workmen's Compensation Law. His first move as governor was to insist upon the passage of a Workmen's Compensation Law that would benefit all the workers. In this he met with powerful and bitter opposition. But through his determined efforts the opposition was overcome and the law was passed. To-day the Ohio State Insurance Fund is the largest carrier of workmen's compensation insurance, public or private, in the world. More than a million dollars a month is being collected by this fund, all of which is paid out for compensation and medical treatment for the injured workers or the dependents of those who are killed in the course of employment. This law supplied such an urgent need in the state that the employers and the laboring people of Ohio now look upon it as an accomplishment that outshines any other achievement in the state's history. "The report of the legislative agents of the Ohio State Federation of Labor show that fifty-six laws in behalf of laboring people were passed during Cox's three terms as governor. Among these were laws forbidding the exploitation of women and children and limiting their hours of labor, providing for mothers' pensions, providing for safety codes to protect life, limb and health and numerous other beneficent measures." Statement by Thomas: "His strong sense of right and wrong, and the exercise of an unusual common sense, together with his frankness and courage in expression, have been the controlling factors in his successful relationship with the business interests of the state. "A single example of his wisdom will illustrate this. For years organized labor and organized capital in Ohio have met during the sessions of the general assembly in what seemed to be a necessary antagonism. This was evidenced by the opposition of each to the proposed measures of the other. The result was ill feeling and little accomplished for either. It was Governor Cox's suggestion that these organizations, represented by the State Federation of Labor and the Ohio Manufacturers' Association, through their executive officers, should meet together and discuss pending legislation relating to the interest of either. Finally this plan was adopted, and it is the testimony of those participating tat it did much to avoid misunderstandings, and contributed a great deal towards sane and safe legislation. There is not known any instance of this plan being adopted in any other state of the Union. The fruit of this sensible procedure is that there are no laws in Ohio that hamper industry, impede business or endanger property interests, and at the same time the state is foremost in legislation that promotes social welfare, gives labor its due, and helps the weak and needy. "A man who has occupied this position without interruption during three administrations would be a failure at the very outstart if he resorted to devious conduct or political duplicity. He has but one master--the people at large. To reach this position he had to have courage, be truthful, exercise sound and practical business judgment, and at the same time have a vision looking to the betterment of the condition of his fellow-man." The cornerstone of the labor legislation is the Workmen's Compensation Law, the story of which is told in the state archives, in the messages to the Ohio General Assembly. At the beginning of his first term as Governor in 1913, Governor Cox said: "It would certainly be common bad faith not to pass a compulsory Workmen's Compensation Law. No subject was discussed during the last campaign with greater elaboration, and it must be stated to the credit of our citizenship generally that regardless of the differences of opinion existing for many years, the justice of the compulsory feature is now admitted. Much of the criticism of the courts has been due to the trials of personal injury cases under the principles of practice which held the fellow-servant rule, and assumption of risk and contributory negligence to be grounds of defense. The layman reaches his conclusion with respect to justice along the lines of common sense, and the practice in personal injury cases has been so sharply in conflict with the plain fundamentals of right, that social unrest has been much contributed to. A second phase of this whole subject which has been noted in the development of the great industrialism of the day has been the inevitable animosity between capital and labor through the ceaseless litigation growing out of these cases. The individual or the corporation that employs on a large scale has taken insurance in liability companies, and, in too many instances, cases which admitted of little difference of opinion have been carried into the courts. The third injustice has been the waste occasioned by the system. The injured workman or the family deprived of its support by accident is not so circumstanced that the case can be contested with the corporation to the court of last resort. The need of funds compels compromise on a base that is not always equitable. Human nature many times drives sharp bargains that can hardly be endorsed by the moral scale. In the final analysis the cost of attorney fees is so heavy that the amount which finally accrues in cases of accident is seriously curtailed before it reaches the beneficiary. These three considerations clearly suggest the lifting of this whole operation out of the courts and the sphere of legal disputation. And then there is a broader principle which must be recognized. There is no characteristic of our civilization so marked as the element of interdependence as between social units. We are all dependent upon our fellows in one way or another. Some occupations, however, are more hazardous than others and the rule of the past in compelling those engaged in dangerous activities to bear unaided the burden of this great risk, is not right. The Workmen's Compensation Law in this state, which, however, lacks the compulsory feature, has made steady growth in popularity. The heavy decrease in rates clearly indicates economy and efficiency in the administration of the state liability board of awards. The compulsory feature, however, should at once be added. I respectfully but very earnestly urge its adoption amendatory of the present law with such other changes as experience might dictate. "The objective to be sought is the fullest measure of protection to those engaged in dangerous occupations with the least burden of cost to society, because after all the social organization must pay for it. The ultimate result of this law will be the reduction in death and accident because not only the humanitarian but the commercial consideration will suggest the necessity of installing and maintaining with more vigilance modern safety devices. "Government as a science must make its improvement along the same practical lines which develop system, simplification, classification of kindred activities, and better administrative direction in the evolution of business. A private or corporate enterprise is compelled to promote in the highest degree both efficiency and economy because its income is subject to the hazards of business. Government without this spur of necessity because its revenue is both regular and certain, does not effect reorganizations and combine common activities so readily. One reason, of course, is that new legislation is required and that is not easy at all times. Wherever human energies are now being directed toward more efficient public service, we find the consolidation under one administrative unit or bureau of all departments which deal either in direct or different manner with the same general subject. Investigation develops many duplications in both labor and expense in the departments of the state. No business institution would continue such a policy and recognizing now the importance of conducting the business of the commonwealth along the same modern and efficient lines of private and corporate operations, there is submitted herewith to your honorable body two recommendations which, in my judgment, are of tremendous importance, namely, the creation of an Industrial Commission and a Department of Agriculture. The first named organization would combine every existing department which deals with the relation between capital and labor. It is certainly a logical observation that the department heads clothed with the responsibility of details will find it extremely difficult to rise to the moral vision necessary to construct and conserve policies dealing with big things. Besides duplication of service is a waste of both human energy and state funds." In summing up the results of a single year of Workmen's Compensation Law, the Governor at the beginning of 1915 said: "The humane results of the Workmen's compensation Law have been so widespread and the wisdom of the people in changing the constitution so as to make this plan compulsory has been so completely demonstrated that manufacturer and employee now join in praise of the act. While the liability insurance companies contend that the State could not administer this trust and that the cost would run into millions of dollars per year, the experience of the first twelve months shows the cost of the administration to be approximately $160,000; and the claims, running far in excess of 50,000 in number, have been adjudicated with such promptness as to justify in the fullest measure the soundness of the State plan. The balance in the fund December 15, 1914, was $2,418,414.07. The number of accidents is diminishing and the cost to the employer is decreasing; so that both lower rates and larger compensation seem assured. As one who passed through the stormy period that led to the passage of this law, I urge upon you the extreme importance of the highest manifestations of vigilance, patriotism and humanity in order that the fundamentals of this beneficent legislation may be preserved. Under the pretext of improving the law it can be easily emasculated. Ohio assumed the lead in this legislation, and if the fundamental principle is maintained here, the plan, by its demonstrated worth, will be adopted elsewhere. This means the ultimate loss of ill-gotten millions by potential interests that have grown rich from the tears, blood and maimed bodies of our working people. They will not give it up without a continued struggle. Your duty to humanity and to your State calls for extreme watchfulness. Though he suffered defeat for re-election in 1914, neither the Industrial Commission Law nor the Workmen's compensation Law nor any other major piece of social legislation was disturbed by his successor. In reviewing four years of the history of the law at his re-accession to power in 1917, he said: "Since the adoption of the law there have been 300,000 industrial accidents and only seventeen suits have been brought against employers who paid into the state insurance fund. There was but one single verdict rendered by the court against the employer in the list of seventeen and that was for $2000. Five cases were settled out of court, four were decided in favor of the employer, one was dismissed by the employee, one was dismissed by the court and four are still pending. More than one thousand firms carry their own insurance under state consent, and against these institutions but five suits have been brought. Against the employers who have reinsured with the liability insurance companies, eight suits have been instituted, making a total of thirty law suits from all sources. These figures are procured from the official records of the Industrial Commission." Two years later, in 1919, a further chapter is given: "The experience of our state with the Compulsory Workmen's Compensation Law bears so vitally on the industrial life of our people that it is deemed proper to report the outstanding features of the situation. The amount of money in the fund held by the State as trustee for the injured workmen and their dependents, as of date, January 2, 1919, was $15,401,429.74. So carefully measured has been the cost of human justice that employers pay a smaller premium-rate in Ohio than elsewhere, and the injured workmen and their dependents are given larger compensation. A dramatic circumstance which bears eloquent testimony in behalf of this law is here recited: Not long since a workman was injured in a factory through which runs the boundary line between Ohio and Pennsylvania. The accident occurred a few feet east of our state, but the poor fellow crawled back onto the soil of Ohio because he knew the difference between our law and the law in Pennsylvania. As a further evidence of the basic soundness of the law and the character of its administration, I have directed the Industrial Commission to have an actuarial audit of the fund in its charge, with the imposed condition that the Ohio Federation of Labor, the Ohio Manufacturers' Association and the State Auditor be consulted in the employment of the most competent actuary, obtainable outside the state service, to do the work." This, then, is the story, but not all of it. Having its genesis in the meetings between labor and capital, there has been worked out by the two an elaborate code of safety rules which have been officially promulgated by the commission and have the binding effect of law. To-day capital and labor will demand of his successor that his heart and mind be in accord with the program carried to fruition in his six years as Governor. There are other points in his service, briefly covered here, in these lists: Laws Pertaining to Business A public utilities law providing property re-valuation as a basis for rate making. Provision for court appear from the utilities commission decision to the court of final jurisdiction, preventing delay and loss. Prohibition against injunction on rate hearing without court investigation. A uniform accounting system applied to utilities. A state banking code with close co-operation with the federal reserve system, bringing all private banks under state supervision. State expenditure on a budget system to reduce cost of government and lessen taxation. A blue-sky act to encourage proper investment and protect against fraudulent securities. Labor Legislation A State Industrial Commission with powers to handle all questions affecting capital and labor, with a state mediator as the keystone. Complete survey of occupational diseases with recommendation for health and occupational insurance. Full switching crew in all railroad yards. Strengthening the user in the state of railroad safety appliances. A full crew law. Twenty-four foot caboose. Reduction of consecutive hours of employment for electric railroad workers. Obstruction of fixed signals prohibited. Safeguarding of accidents in mines by proper illumination. Extra provision for dependents of men killed in mines. Increased facilities for mine inspector operation. Protection of miners working toward abandoned mines. Elimination of sweatshop labor. Provision for minimum time pay day. Prohibition of contract labor in workhouses. Provision for minimum wage and nine-hour working day for women. Eight-hour working day on all public contracts. Codification of child laws with establishment of child welfare department. Compulsory provision for mothers' pensions. Verdict by three-fourths jury in civil cases. CHAPTER VII THE LEADER OF THE STATE IN WAR--VISION IN GOVERNMENT IN PEACE TIME Theodore Roosevelt said that Governor Cox was among the very foremost of war Governors. The utterance was made after he had assessed the things done during the fateful period of hostilities. Presenting complicated problems at all time it was no less true that in war there were major, not minor, obstacles to be met and surmounted before Ohio might take her traditional place as one of the very militant states of the Union. That she did achieve such place attests the zeal and ardor of the Governor. Ohio presented to the country a complete division, the Thirty-seventh, recruited under the personal supervision of Governor Cox. It led the nation, by long odds, in sale of war saving stamps, an activity stimulated by Governor Cox. It preserved good order and set an example in spite of many conflicting racial antagonisms within its borders by cultivation of such a spirit as made open or covert disloyalty dangerous to the disloyal. Withal there was no untoward incident affecting peaceful alien enemies. In the cities, none led those of Ohio in war gardening, and the tractor campaign for Ohio farms was adopted and imitated in other states. The Governor himself was a dynamo of activity, organizing the first State Council of Defense and enlisting volunteer aid at no expense to state and country in quickening all war and related activities. Every situation affecting the State's power found him ready for the emergency. When an early frost and severe winter in 1917-18 destroyed much of the seed corn, the Governor uncovered instances of profiteering and immediately stopped it by vigorous action. Corn in other districts with similar soil and climate was brought in and sold at three dollars a bushel. Soldiers of no state were better supplied with all the comforts that could be provided than those of Ohio. While the Thirty- seventh was in camp in the far South a Christmas train was sent to it. Special funds were raised for entertainment of both the Ohio camps. In a word, every war activity felt the vigilant care and sympathetic help of the Governor. During the war time there were few idle men in Ohio. Through proclamation attention of local authorities was directed to an old law making vagrancy an offense and it was applied rigorously. No less in reconstruction than in was activities his energies were tireless. The Governor took the lead in securing legislation to correct the defects found in educational laws and one of the statutes placed upon the books at his suggestion provided for an oath of allegiance on the part of teachers. Referring to disclosures in certain cities, he said: "We have had our bitter experiences and love for our children compels us, in common prudence, to protect them." Without sympathy for the mischievous spirits who sought to foment trouble in America, the Governor clearly expressed his conception of Americanization as a voluntary spiritual, and not a compulsory, process. The policy he had in mind was indicated in an address in Chicago in March, 1920, in which he said: "There must be no compromise with treason, but the surest death to Bolshevism is exposure of the germ of the disease itself to the sunlight of public view. We must protect ourselves against extremes in America. The horrors and tragedies of revolution can be charged to them. If government is assailed, its policy must not become vengeful. Our fathers in specifying what human freedom was, and providing guarantees for its preservation, recognized that among the necessary precautions was the protection of individual right against governmental abuses. "If the alien, ignorant of our laws and customs, cows in fear of our government, he is very apt to believe that things are much the same the world over, and he may become and easy convert to the doctrine of resistance. The skies will clear but meanwhile government must be firm, yet judicial, uninfluenced by the emotionalism that breeds extremes. The less government we have, consistent with safety to life and property, the better for both happiness and morals. A policeman on every corner would be a bad index to the citizenship of the community, for it would reflect a foolish concept of conditions by the municipal officers." The vision of Governor Cox in legislation is best to be studied in the statute book of Ohio. The fact is that he was a pioneer in some of this, indeed in a large part of it. Through the years he has insisted that government must deal with its problem by evolution lest revolution overtake it. It was this sentiment that led him to deal with the industrial injury matter. When he heard men inveighing against the courts, a discerning eye knew something was wrong and he gave his attention to righting that wrong. His creed, not recently as a candidate, but in the years of his public career, has been expressed in this summary: "Our view is toward the sunrise of tomorrow with its progress and its eternal promise of better things." The expression is found so frequently in his state documents that it might properly be set forth in the form of a creed. But there has been more than what the great Roosevelt called "lip- service to progress. The forward steps became a part of the laws. In health affairs he asked for the appointment of a commission to study the need for adequate local administration and he urged its adoption before the General Assembly so forcefully that Ohio to-day has what is universally recognized to be the best system in America. In placing the state department upon a footing commensurate with other institutions of government, case was taken to place it where it cannot be prostituted to partisanship. There has been a growing number of governmental departments under Governor Cox in which partisanship is utterly forbidden. They include the Board of Administration, dealing with the wards of the state, the social agencies, the educational, and the Fish and Game Department. An actual census in all the varied public office activities in Ohio would disclose that although the Democratic party has been in possession of the Government for nearly all of the past twelve years, the number of members of the Republican party on the public rolls is almost as great as that of the victors. The Governor has found that men in the world of business employ, at larger compensation than the state has afforded, the type of men he has most often selected for responsible posts. It is one of the curious effects of progress in government that it has touched and awakened progress in business and in civic life. In social service there has been evolved the cold storage act which has served as a model for proposed national legislation. under its provisions a strict limitation of time is placed upon the storing of food. With this has gone strict legislation against adulteration of food and honest enforcement of the laws. Other states have accepted as a model the social agency committee now working in effective co-operation with state departments and bringing into mutual operation all recognized social agencies. One of the greatest steps forward was the establishment of a bureau of juvenile research with Dr. L. H. Goddard at its head. Second to no other reform has been that effected in handling of the prison problem. Prisoners now earn their freedom through work in the healthful out-of-doors on highways, in plants for making road material, and on farms. There is a system of compensation to the families for work done as a balance on which to begin life anew. Twelve hundred consolidated schools in Ohio attest the successful workings of the rural school code which was brought into existence in 1914 after careful study and after the state in general meetings had carefully studied the plans. The old one-room school house is giving way in the country to the modern centralized school and community life is being remade. Through the raising of the country school to the plane of those of the cities, it will be possible to check the alarming drift to the cities and depopulation of the countryside. Governor Cox does not believe that the federal government should interfere in the affairs of local communities but he does believe that it "can inventory the possibilities of progressive education, and in helpful manner create an enlarged public interest in this subject." Along with the improvement of rural schools has gone a most comprehensive highway programme involving an annual outlay of millions of dollars. Gradually as highways are improved they will, under the state policy shaped in 1913, be taken over by the state. The agricultural legislation was in consonance with the other subjects touched. Ohio was long a dumping ground for inferior fertilizers, diseased livestock and impure seed. Adequate laws have changed all this. Still, these are police measures not of necessity a true index of real vision in agricultural matters. The boldest step ever taken was the establishment of pure bred herds of cattle by the state with opportunity afforded through breeding service at institutional farms to extend these pure strains to the small farms. The success attained is reflected in numerous heard of thorough-bred cattle. CHAPTER VIII FIGHTING "SLUSH FUNDS" Developments of the present campaign have given a peculiar interest to past history with respect to the record of Governor Cox in dealing with campaign expenditures. The Governor's reports, which have been filed under the Ohio Corrupt Practice law, show that he has never been an extravagant spender in campaigns. In his various races for the Governor's office in Ohio one of the points which he has claimed is the redemption of pledges made to the people. Under one of these pledges he advocated and secured the enactment of an anti-lobby law, designed to reduce the evils attendant upon the presence of a legislative lobby. He found upon the statute books of Ohio a corrupt practice act and this was strengthened by laws passed during his term. In taking hold as Governor in 1913, he demanded and secured a rigid lobby law. Of this he said: "Conditions not only justify but demand drastic anti-lobby law. Any person interesting himself in legislation will not, if his motive and cause be just, object to registering his name, residence and the matters he is espousing, with the secretary of state, or some other authority designated by your body. If his activities be of such nature that he does not care to reveal them in the manner indicated, then the public interest is obviously endangered. It is no more than a prudent safeguard to have it known what influences are at work with respect to legislation. There ought to be no temporizing with this situation." In the first year of his administration he combated an attempt to annul the workmen's compensation law by an improper referendum and vigorously cleaned up the situation by causing the arrest of those who had conspired to falsify names to petitions. The Governor followed up his activity for clean administration of the referendum system by comprehensive laws in 1914, since when no abuses have been discovered. What he said to the General Assembly gave a further indication of his policy in this respect. He said: "The underlying spirit of the corrupt practice laws in the state and nation is the ascertainment of the influences behind candidates or measures. We can with profit compel a sworn itemized statement when the petition is filed showing all money or things of value paid, given or promised for circulating such petitions." In the campaign of 1916, in which Governor Cox was re-elected, assertions were made of large improper expenditure of money in defiance of the law. In the following January at the regular session of the General Assembly, the Governor indicated his position by calling for a special legislative inquiry. The statements he made furnish an interesting background for the developments of the year. At that time he said: "Let me lay particular emphasis on the necessity of safeguarding the suffrage thought of the state from the dangers of corrupt influences. The sums of money expended for so-called political purposes are assuming such magnitude as to cause seemingly well- founded alarm, if not to justify the belief that the legitimate purpose of campaigning is being exceeded. Unfettered by law, this tendency might result in the waters of our free institutions being poisoned at their very base. Reduced to simple terms, the object of a campaign is to inform the voters on every subject that legitimately and germanely joins to the issues and the candidates. Any step beyond this, and any project opposed to it in motive, cannot but be regarded as dangerous. Human frailties should not be played upon by vast treasures of money advanced by men or movements whose huge disbursements can hardly be looked upon as of patriotic inspiration. It is not necessary to expend large amounts of money for the promotion of a worthy cause, and, inversely, any cause or candidacy having behind it unprecedented financial support is likely to be regarded with suspicion. It may, through legislation, be necessary to restrain irresponsible organizations whose existence and activities are born of a hidden design, conceived by some interest afraid to operate in the open. I recommend that a legislative committee of investigation be appointed with the power to employ counsel, and the authority to summon persons and papers and to swear witnesses in order that it might be known just what organizations have been entering into campaign activities, and how much money they expended and collected--also the names of the contributors. This should extend also to candidates. The facts as adduced will then be a safe guide as to the necessity of strengthening the corrupt practices act, or more rigorously enforcing existing law, or both." The legislative session had hardly concluded before the war with Germany broke out and it was deemed unwise at that time to proceed to any agitation on the subject. The functions of the committee were, accordingly never fulfilled. Early in the year of 1920, the Governor gave warning of the report that huge funds were to be raised in this year for election purposes. At the very outset of his campaign in addressing the members of Democratic National Committee at Columbus, the Governor said: "I hope I do violence to no member of this committee when I submit to you this proposal: That we purpose not only to deal with eminent good faith with the electorate of this nation in November with reference to platform pledges, but we mean to let every man and woman understand where every dollar comes from, and for what purpose it is spent. We not only urge that as a matter of high principle, but in order to guarantee the triumph of our cause which deserves to triumph. We do not want the publication of expenditures after the election. There is no point in advising the voters what has been done. We want them to be fully advised of every circumstance with reference to the collection and the disbursement of funds in order that from the circumstances they can gain a correct index, and understand that when the Democracy is continued in power in Washington, it assumes its responsibility without a single obligation except to the conscience that God has given us. "Therefore, gentlemen, let us make up a budget which will carry the full details and information--recounting the legitimate expenses of this campaign, render an accounting daily or weekly, and the source from which it came. And more than that, we shall insist upon the senatorial investigating committee continuing in session until the ballot has been closed in November. You know full well that a campaign fund sufficient in size to stagger the sensibilities of the nation is now being procured by our opponents. If they believe that is correct in principle, God speed them in the enterprise, It will be one of our chief assets in this campaign." This, then is the record. CHAPTER IX THE LIFE STORY Born at Jacksonburg, Ohio, March 31, 1870, son of Gilbert and Eliza Cox; educated in public schools; reared on farm; worked in printer's office; taught country school; became newspaper reporter; secretary to Congressman Sorg, 3d Ohio District; bought Dayton Daily News, 1898, and Springfield Press Republic, 1903, forming News League of Ohio; member 61st and 62d Congress (1909-13), 3d Ohio District; Governor of Ohio; elected in 1912, defeated in 1914, elected in 1916 and 1918; now serving third term; home, Trailsend, Dayton. The family of Cox seems to have had its origin in England in the generations gone, but its Americanism is of two centuries in duration. At Freeboard, New Jersey, lived General James Cox, one of the early speakers of the New Jersey House of Representatives and later a member of Congress. Tillers of the soil and artisans, the closer forbears attained to no distinction in public life. To Ohio the family came sometime in the early years of the last century, and at Jacksonburg the paternal grandfather, Gilbert Cox, established himself. On the ancestral farm of 160 acres, his son, Gilbert, Jr., lived, and on it James M. Cox first saw the light of day. His uncles and aunts, for his father was one of a family of thirteen, were of the people who migrated westward. The youngest of a family of seven children, he learned the routine of tasks of a boy on the farm. In the little one-room country school he attended, his teachers found him an ordinary pupil but with a fondness for newspaper reading. Cox's first public job was the humble position of janitor in the United Brethren Church, and even now his favorite reminiscence is the difficulty he had in making the old wood stove function properly. The thrifty farmers in those days were accustomed to commute part of their dues in cord wood for the church, and often the quality they supplied was not of the best. The boy became a member of the Church, a membership which is still retained. At fifteen he left the elementary school to enter the Middletown High School, living with his sister, Mrs. John Q. Baker, whose husband was a teacher in the High School and owner of the Middletown Signal. Board was paid in working as a printer's devil until the apprenticeship was served and the county newspaper business was mastered from both the counting room and the editorial side. Upon completion of his high school course, the young man passed the county examination and obtained a position as teacher of the school he had in earlier years attended, but a pedagogical career was not to his liking and he returned to work on the Signal staff. He became also the local correspondent for the Cincinnati Enquirer and attracted the attention of the main office by a neat scoop which he landed regarding a railroad wreck. Graduating into the reportorial work, he became assistant telegraph and railroad editor of the Enquirer. He retired from the newspaper life for a time to become Secretary to Congressman Sorg, remaining in his capacity until his 28th year, when he purchased the Dayton News, giving $12,000 in notes and beginning with a capital of just $80. The times were hard enough for the young chap with creditors constantly upon him. Once his paper was forced to suspend by reason of an unpaid bill, and the opposition paper heralded its death. The struggling publisher retaliated with an "extra" announcing its continuance. Then again there were plenty of libel suits for the young editor-publisher, setting out to be a reformer, and the ruling powers in the city strongly disapproved his methods, but the militant editor brought readers and the readers brought advertisers, and the venture became a success. Five years from his first venture he bought the Springfield Press Republic and the Springfield Democrat, combining the two in the Evening News. Each is now housed in its own modern newspaper building and each is highly prosperous as a business institution, although the owner's supervision has been of a general character. His associates always speak of the "Cox luck" in politics, but upon analysis it seems that it consists either of seizing or making the opportunity. In 1908 his Congressional district, originally Democratic, had become Republican, but a factional quarrel breaking out in the opposition camps, the Governor took the Democratic nomination and won out, again riding to victory in the great landslide of 1910. In Congress his career afforded him no opportunity to attain to high distinction, but he became a member of the appropriations committee and there became most deeply impressed with the waste in public funds and the unbusinesslike methods of arriving at appropriations. One of his services was the disclosure that the care of Civil War veterans in the National Soldiers' Home at Dayton was shattered, and he won the contest for increased allowances. The gratitude of the veterans was expressed in a majority from the Home in his re- election in 1910, thus breaking an historical precedent. Two years later he became the champion of the constitutional amendments proposed by the Fourth Constitutional Convention of Ohio, then sitting, and as such was unanimously nominated by his party for Governor, on a platform which demanded a "new order" of things in Ohio. As soon as he was nominated he took the platform before the people for the adoption of the constitutional amendments in a special September election. These amendments included one providing for the initiative and referendum of which he had been an advocate for years, and one for the removal of officials failing to enforce the laws, giving the Governor the weapon with which he established his law- enforcement record. There was very little to the campaign in that year, the historical Republican party splitting in two upon the issue of progressiveness, and he was elected by an enormous plurality. Facing the tasks imposed by the new constitution, the Governor insisted upon legislative fulfillment of each popular mandate, and in a busy session of three months he accomplished his programme. Aside from the legislation suggested by the amendments, his greatest constructive step was the enactment of a budget system, which sought to place the financial affairs of Ohio upon a businesslike basis. Its worth as a saver of money and promoter of efficiency has never been challenged. The previous Ohio fiscal system had grown grossly archaic. Appropriations were made by the Legislature to the departments in lump sums or in the form of granting all receipts and balances, some of the departments being maintained by the fees from interests they regulated. Of the departments having receipts of their own, many had deposits of their own in banks and their own checking accounts, so that their funds never passed through the State Treasury or through the hands of the State Auditor. Other departments got much or little from the Legislature, depending upon whether they had a gifted representative to appear for them before the legislative finance committee. Institutions vied with each other in providing the best entertainment to these committees as they made their week-end junket trips over the State during legislative sessions. All this was changed in one sweeping stroke in the first administration of Governor Cox. All receipts of all departments now go into the State Treasury and none leave the treasury until it is appropriated in specific sums for specific purposes within specific departments. The state auditor has a check on every expenditure. The Ohio budget department is composed of one commissioner appointed by the Governor, an assistant and a clerk. All departmental requests for funds desired of the next succeeding Legislature are filed with the Budget Commissioner, to be brought before the Governor. He investigates all items, ascertains the reasons for any increases that are asked, and fixes the sums he deems proper. Also, he estimates what the State revenues during the next biennium will be and prunes the budget to come within the total of expected revenues. The budget as prepared by the commissioner is submitted to the Governor, who frequently makes changes of his own after advising with department heads. The Governor then presents the budget to the Legislature, which refers it to the finance committees of the two houses. The committees, and, in turn, the Legislature, have full authority to make any alterations, increases or decreases, desired, but the spellbinding by department representatives and wire-pulling by lobbyists are reduced to a minimum because the Budget Commissioner sits as the agent of the Governor at all sessions of the finance committees and at all times is prepared to defend the allowance he thinks a department should have. The first budgetary appropriation bill repealed an existing appropriation law. It reduced appropriations aggregating $9,709,288 to $8,762,664, a saving of $946,624. Since that time the Ohio budget system has effected savings of millions, not, of course, in the sense that expenditures of the State government now are less than in 1913--for they have increased as governmental activities have enlarged--but in the sense that expenditures each year have been vastly less than they would have been without the budget plan of pruning and scaling down demands of existing State departments with a view both to general economy and avoidance of deficits. The Ohio Budget and consequently its appropriation law classifies expenditures in two divisions: (1) Operating expenses and (2) Capital outlay (or permanent improvements). Operating expenses are subdivided into personal service and maintenance. Personal service in turn is divided into salaries and wages, and maintenance into supplies, materials, equipment, contract or open order service, and fixed charges and contributions. Elasticity of funds within departments is afforded by periodical meetings of a board of control, composed of the Governor (who may be and usually is represented by the Budget commissioner), the State Auditor, the Attorney-General, and the chairmen of the two legislative finance committees. If any new need develops within departments, funds for the purpose may be provided by a four-fifths vote of the board of control. Effort first is made to transfer the needed funds from one classification to another within the department. If no fund within the department has a surplus, and the need is great enough, relief may be granted by the emergency board, having the same membership as the board of control, which has at its disposal an emergency fund for contingencies arising between legislative sessions. Perfection never has been claimed for the Ohio system. Governor Cox himself realizes certain weaknesses in it and is making a fight now for strengthening features, which, however, necessitate a change in the constitution. One defect is that, regardless of probable income, the Legislature may increase items in the budget (or rather the appropriation bill based on the budget), and it may make other appropriations in separate bills as it sees fit without regard to prospective revenues. In his 1919 message to the General Assembly, a Republican body, the Governor urged submission to the people of an amendment to the constitution providing that the Legislature shall have the right to diminish any item in the executive budget by majority vote or to strike out any item: that, however, it shall not be privileged to increase any item or to add a new one unless it makes legislative provision for sufficient revenue to meet the added cost. Such an amendment was not submitted. Unless it is done by an early legislature, adherents of Cox in Ohio say it may be undertaken by initiative petition. Good Roads Another notable achievement of Governor Cox is the advance of the Ohio highway system. Roads were in deplorable shape when he became Governor. There was no hope for rural counties with small tax duplicates, the ones in greatest need of good roads never being able to lift themselves out of the mud except through liberal state aid. One of the Governor's first acts was a survey of road conditions. A complete network of 10,000 miles of inter-county roads was mapped out. It connected the eighty-eight county seats. Of the 10,000 miles of inter-county highways, 3000 miles, connecting the larger cities, were designated as main market roads. The scheme of financing called for improvement of the main market roads entirely at state expense, which the remainder of the system was to be built on a fifty-fifty basis, the state furnishing half the funds, and the county in which the road lies, the other half. All road improvement under the Cox administration has been given such an impetus that the State, county and township programmes to-day call for an expenditure of $30,000,000 annually, including federal aid. Popular demand for highway improvement is greater than the State Highway department and county commissioners are able to meet. Revitalizing the Schools As a pupil in a one-room country school and as a teacher, he had first knowledge of the shortcomings and possibilities of the Ohio educational system. It was his firm conviction that the country boy and girl should be given the same educational advantages that accrued to those of the city. The purpose of the Governor's school programme was to give Ohio a co-ordinates system of State, county and district supervision, to require normal or college training of all teachers, and, above all, to pave the way for speedier centralization and consolidation of the one-room district school. Results have been beyond the expectations of school men, every breath and opposition to the system has blown away, and it may truthfully be said that it has become an idol of the people of the state. The re-organization has stimulated interest in education in all respects and has made possible a more recent establishment of a state-wide teachers' pensions system and a complete revamping of financial support of schools through a State and county aid plan. Salaries of teachers have been increased the last six years from a minimum of $40 a month to a statutory minimum of $800 a school year. The teacher shortage occasioned by the war will be solved without much delay in Ohio, as county and state normal schools report prospective increases in attendance of fifty to one hundred per cent or even greater for next year. The time had come in 1913 when the little district school with its narrow curriculum and crude methods of instruction did not meet the needs and purposes of modern industrial and social life in Ohio. It had not kept step with rural economic progress. In the whole State it was the one evidence of retardation, an institution of bygone days which had deteriorated instead of having improved. The right of every child to educational opportunities for development to the fullest extent of his possibilities was not recognized by the State in the school system as it existed at that time. Governor Cox, in his first message to the general assembly in January, 1913, recommended that a complete school survey be made. A survey commission was created. To acquaint school patrons with the object of the survey in progress and to get them to discuss in their own communities the defects and the needs of the schools, November 14, 1913, was set apart as "School survey day" and a light burned in every school building in the State that night. Delegates were appointed to attend a state-wide educational congress the next month, and in January, 1914, the Governor called a special session to enact the rural school code. The survey report disclosed that not half of the teachers of the State ever had attended high school, nor had normal training. Rural schools were mere stepping stones for young teachers before securing positions in village and city schools, agriculture was scarcely taught, schools were without equipment, three-fourths of the buildings were twenty years old or older, unsanitary, poorly lighted, without ventilation and insufficiently heated. With one stroke the new school code created county supervision districts under the control of county boards, elected by the presidents of village and township boards; provided for county superintendents and supervisors over smaller districts within the county; required academic and professional training of all new teachers henceforth, and gave communities wider powers to centralize and consolidate schools. At present ninety-five per cent of the elementary teachers have had professional training, and high school teachers are required to be college graduates or have equivalent scholastic attainment. The most common faults of class-room instruction have been to a great extent eliminated. Standard methods of presentation are being practices in an attempt to give to each child opportunity for development of his possibilities. A great stimulation of public school sentiment is manifested by a closer co-operation and correlation of the school and the home, resulting in boys' and girls' club work, achievement courses, home projects and other school extension and community activities; a growth of the feeling of responsibility to the community on the part of the teacher; an attitude of greater interest and responsibility of the boards of education toward the school; a willingness of the people to vote money for new school plants and enterprises; a growing demand for consolidation and centralization; a better trained class of teachers, increased school attendance, especially in high schools where it has increased from fifty to one hundred per cent. School administration is much more efficient as is demonstrated by a uniform course of study for elementary and high schools, vitalized by its articulation with the industrial activities of the community, county uniformity of textbooks, selection and correlation of textbook material and its adaptation to the varying interests and needs of childhood, uniform system of reports and records, and the like. School centers have been made to coincide with social and business centers. Convenient districts have been formed around centers of population. village and surrounding rural districts have been united in accordance with the trend of the community interests and activities. Weak districts have been eliminated by the transfer of their territory to other districts, thereby strengthening property valuations. A centralized school in Ohio was almost a novelty in 1914. A year ago there were 310 centralized (township) schools and 599 consolidated (embracing several contiguous districts) schools, and the number has been materially swelled during the year. Seventy of the eighty-eight counties now have such schools and the trend is toward them throughout the State. One such school replaces, on the average, eight one-room schools. They have brought to the rural pupils trained teachers, well-equipped buildings, courses of study related to the interests of the farm and home by being well-balanced between the cultural and vocational. They have made it possible for the country boy who remains on the farm to obtain a high school education in his own community that is directly related to his needs. Scientific agriculture under trained instructors is taught in all of these schools. The possibilities of the farm and of rural life are thus revealed to the boy and he will be equipped with knowledge necessary to the scientific performance of his work. From the farm instead of the law office and the counting room will come those who know what the needs and interests of the farmer are and who will be qualified to represent those interests. While the system still may be said to be in its infancy, the progress of transformation of Ohio schools under it has been nothing short of wonderful, and unending results may be expected of it. This extensive legislation had aroused many prejudices particularly, in the rural sections, of which his opponent, Congressman Frank B. Willis, took advantage. The bold challenge of the Governor to his opponent was stated by him on the platform in many parts of Ohio "Which law will you repeal?" The question was never answered, but the tide of opposition to the changes swept Governor Cox out of office, although he ran many thousands ahead of his associates. In the succeeding sessions of the General Assembly popular sentiment began once more to swing to Governor Cox and two years later he was re-elected by a small plurality. Improvement in the various laws was sought during his next term, but the shadow of the world war was already beginning to fall, and the greater part of his efforts were devoted to preparation for Ohio's part. In general administration the Governor's supporters are fond of saying that he met successfully In his first term a flood, In his second term a war, In his third term reconstruction. The flood story was the one that really introduced him first to the country at large. Ohio was hit by a calamity greater than any that had befallen a state. Columbus, Dayton, Marietta, Hamilton and other cities were under water for days, many villages were almost washed off the map, and hundreds of lives and untold millions of property were lost. Bridges everywhere were washed out and transportation was practically at a standstill. The eyes of the State and Country were on the then untried Governor Cox. He met the situation in a manner that will never be forgotten in Ohio. The Ohio National Guard was called out, stricken communities were placed under martial law, civilian relief armies under the command of mayors and other designated leaders organized everywhere, Ohio's motor truck, automobile and other facilities commandeered, and the work of feeding, clothing, cleaning up and rehabilitation carried on from the beginning with astounding efficiency. The New York World at that time said of him: "The man who has dominated the situation in Ohio is Governor Cox. He has been not only chief magistrate and commander-in- chief, but the head of the life-saving service, the greatest provider of food and clothing the State has ever known, the principal health officer, the sanest counselor, the severest disciplinarian, the kindest philanthropist and best reporter. He has performed incredible labors in all these fields, and his illuminating dispatches to the World at the close of the heart- breaking days have given a clearer vision of conditions than could be had from any other source. Reared on a farm, educated in the public schools, a printer by trade, a successful publisher and editor of newspapers, a great Governor and a reported who gets his story into the first edition, James M. Cox excites and is herewith offered assurance of the World's most distinguished consideration." The flood revealed the necessity for conservancy legislation and the measure recommended by the Governor was enacted to give local communities the right to protect themselves. The time has gone by when in Ohio the major things in the programme of Governor Cox can be attacked successfully before the people of the State. He does not claim perfection. Suggestion as to improvement has found him ready to listen. There is still a short time for him to serve, but the public judgment has been made up, and Buckeye citizens, without regard to party affiliation, says that he has been a "good Governor." 
21624	----	FIFTEEN CHAPTERS OF AUTOBIOGRAPHY * * * * * _UNIFORM WITH THIS VOLUME._ THE GREAT BOER WAR. _Arthur Conan Doyle._ COLLECTIONS AND RECOLLECTIONS. _G. W. E. Russell._ FROM THE CAPE TO CAIRO. _E. S. Grogan._ SPURGEON'S SERMONS. _Sir W. Robertson Nicoll, LL.D._ SIR FRANK LOCKWOOD. _Augustine Birrell, K.C., M.P._ THE MAKING OF A FRONTIER. _Colonel Durand._ LIFE OF RICHARD COBDEN. _Lord Morley._ LIFE OF PARNELL. _R. Barry O'Brien._ MEMORIES GRAVE AND GAY. _Dr. John Kerr._ A BOOK ABOUT ROSES. _S. Reynolds Hole._ RANDOM REMINISCENCES. _Charles Brookfield._ AT THE WORKS. _Lady Bell._ MEXICO AS I SAW IT. _Mrs. Alec Tweedie._ PARIS TO NEW YORK BY LAND. _Harry de Windt._ LIFE OF LEWIS CARROLL. _Stuart Dodgson Collingwood._ THE MANTLE OF THE EAST. _Edmund Candler._ LETTERS OF DR. JOHN BROWN. JUBILEE BOOK OF CRICKET. _Prince Ranjitsinhji._ BY DESERT WAYS TO BAGHDAD. _Louisa Jebb._ SOME OLD LOVE STORIES. _T. P. O'Connor._ FIELDS, FACTORIES, & WORKSHOPS. _Prince Kropotkin._ PROBLEMS OF POVERTY. _Dr. Chalmers._ THE BURDEN OF THE BALKANS. _M. E. Durham._ LIFE AND LETTERS OF LORD MACAULAY.--I. & II. _Sir George O. Trevelyan, Bart._ WHAT I SAW IN RUSSIA. _Hon. Maurice Baring._ WILD ENGLAND OF TO-DAY. _C. J. Cornish._ THROUGH FINLAND IN CARTS. _Mrs. Alec Tweedie._ THE VOYAGE OF THE "DISCOVERY."--I. & II. _Captain Scott._ FELICITY IN FRANCE. _Constance E. Maud._ MY CLIMBS IN THE ALPS AND CAUCASUS. _A. F. Mummery._ JOHN BRIGHT. _R. Barry O'Brien._ POVERTY. _B. Seebohm Rowntree._ SEA WOLVES OF THE MEDITERRANEAN. _Commander E. Hamilton Currey, R.N._ FAMOUS MODERN BATTLES. _A. Hilliard Atteridge._ THE CRUISE OF THE "FALCON." _E. F. Knight._ A.K.H.B. (A Volume of Selections). THE PEOPLE OF THE ABYSS. _Jack London._ GRAIN OR CHAFF? _A. Chichele Plowden._ LIFE AT THE ZOO. _C. J. Cornish._ THE FOUR MEN. _Hilaire Belloc._ CRUISE OF THE "ALERTE." _E. F. Knight._ FOUR FRENCH ADVENTURERS. _Stoddard Dewey._ A REAPING. _E. F. Benson._ _Etc., etc._ _Others to follow._ * * * * * Fifteen Chapters of Autobiography BY THE RIGHT HON. GEORGE W. E. RUSSELL [Illustration: Publisher's logo] THOMAS NELSON AND SONS LONDON, EDINBURGH, DUBLIN AND NEW YORK _NOTE._ _This book was originally published under the title of "One Look Back."_ TO HENRY SCOTT HOLLAND IN HONOUR OF THE BEST GIFT WHICH OXFORD GAVE ME CONTENTS I. BEGINNINGS 9 II. HARROW 35 III. HARROVIANA 56 IV. OXFORD 82 V. OXONIANA 102 VI. HOME 125 VII. LONDON 143 VIII. HOSPITALITY 171 IX. ELECTIONEERING 195 X. PARLIAMENT 222 XI. POLITICS 246 XII. ORATORY 283 XIII. LITERATURE 309 XIV. SERVICE 338 XV. ECCLESIASTICA 365 FIFTEEN CHAPTERS OF AUTOBIOGRAPHY. I BEGINNINGS One look back--as we hurry o'er the plain, Man's years speeding us along-- One look back! From the hollow past again, Youth, come flooding into song! Tell how once, in the breath of summer air, Winds blew fresher than they blow; Times long hid, with their triumph and their care, Yesterday--many years ago! E. E. BOWEN. The wayfarer who crosses Lincoln's Inn Fields perceives in the midst of them a kind of wooden temple, and passes by it unmoved. But, if his curiosity tempts him to enter it, he sees, through an aperture in the boarded floor, a slab of stone bearing this inscription: "On this spot was beheaded William Lord Russell, A lover of constitutional liberty, 21st July, A.D. 1683."[1] Of the martyr thus temperately eulogized I am the great-great-great-great-grandson, and I agree with The Antiquary, that "it's a shame to the English language that we have not a less clumsy way of expressing a relationship of which we have occasion to think and speak so frequently." Before we part company with my ill-fated ancestor, let me tell a story bearing on his historical position. When my father was a cornet in the Blues, he invited a brother-officer to spend some of his leave at Woburn Abbey. One day, when the weather was too bad for any kind of sport, the visitor was induced to have a look at the pictures. The Rembrandts, and Cuyps, and Van Dykes and Sir Joshuas bored him to extremity, but accidentally his eye lit on Hayter's famous picture of Lord Russell's trial, and, with a sudden gleam of intelligence, he exclaimed, "Hullo! What's this? It looks like a trial." My father answered, with modest pride--"It is a trial--the trial of my ancestor, William, Lord Russell." "Good heavens! my dear fellow--an ancestor of yours tried? What a shocking thing! _I hope he got off._" So much for our Family Martyr. In analysing one's nationality, it is natural to regard one's four grand-parents as one's component parts. Tried by this test, I am half an Englishman, one quarter a Highlander, and one quarter a Welshman, for my father's father was wholly English; my father's mother wholly Scotch; my mother's father wholly Welsh; and my mother's mother wholly English. My grandfather, the sixth Duke of Bedford, was born in 1766 and died in 1839. He married, as his second wife, Lady Georgiana Gordon, sister of the last Duke of Gordon, and herself "the last of the Gordons" of the senior line. She died just after I was born, and from her and the "gay Gordons" who preceded her, I derive my name of George. It has always been a comfort to me, when rebuked for ritualistic tendencies, to recall that I am great-great-nephew of that undeniable Protestant, Lord George Gordon, whose icon I daily revere. My grandmother had a numerous family, of whom my father was the third. He was born in Dublin Castle, his father being then Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland in the Ministry of "All the Talents." My grandfather had been a political and personal friend of Charles James Fox, and Fox had promised to be godfather to his next child. But Fox died on the 13th of September, 1806, and my father did not appear till the 10th of February, 1807. Fox's nephew, Henry Lord Holland, took over the sponsorship, and bestowed the names of "Charles James Fox" on the infant Whig, who, as became his father's viceregal state, was christened by the Archbishop of Dublin, with water from a golden bowl. The life so impressively auspicated lasted till the 29th of June, 1894. So my father, who remembered an old Highlander who had been out with Prince Charlie in '45, lived to see the close of Mr. Gladstone's fourth Premiership. He was educated at Rottingdean, at Westminster, where my family had fagged and fought for many generations, and at the University of Edinburgh, where he boarded with that "paltry Pillans," who, according to Byron, "traduced his friend." From Edinburgh he passed into the Blues, then commanded by Ernest, Duke of Cumberland, and thence into the 52nd Regiment. In 1832 he was returned to the first Reformed Parliament as Whig Member for Bedfordshire. He finally retired in 1847, and from that date till 1875 was Sergeant-at-Arms attending the House of Commons. He married in 1834, and had six children, of whom I was the youngest by eight years, being born on the 3rd of February, 1853.[2] My birthplace (not yet marked with a blue and white medallion) was 16, Mansfield Street; but very soon afterwards the official residences at the Palace of Westminster were finished, and my father took possession of the excellent but rather gloomy house in the Speaker's Court, now (1913) occupied by Sir David Erskine. Here my clear memories begin. I have indeed some vague impressions of a visit to the widow of my mother's grandfather--Lady Robert Seymour--who died in her ninety-first year when I was two years old; though, as those impressions are chiefly connected with a jam-cupboard, I fancy that they must pertain less to Lady Robert than to her housekeeper. But two memories of my fourth year are perfectly defined. The first is the fire which destroyed Covent Garden Theatre on the 5th of March, 1856. "During the operatic recess, Mr. Gye, the lessee of the Theatre, had sub-let it to one Anderson, a performer of sleight-of-hand feats, and so-called 'Professor.' He brought his short season to a close by an entertainment described as a 'Grand Carnival Complimentary Benefit and Dramatic Gala, to commence on Monday morning, and terminate with a _bal masqué_ on Tuesday night.' At 3 on the Wednesday morning, the Professor thought it time to close the orgies. At this moment the gasfitter discovered the fire issuing from the cracks of the ceiling, and, amid the wildest shrieking and confusion, the drunken, panic-stricken masquers rushed to the street. The flames burst through the roof, sending high up into the air columns of fire, which threw into bright reflection every tower and spire within the circuit of the metropolis, brilliantly illuminating the whole fabric of St. Paul's, and throwing a flood of light across Waterloo Bridge, which set out in bold relief the dark outline of the Surrey hills." That "flood of light" was beheld by me, held up in my nurse's arms at a window under "Big Ben," which looks on Westminster Bridge. When in later years I have occasionally stated in a mixed company that I could remember the burning of Covent Garden Theatre, I have noticed a general expression of surprised interest, and have been told, in a tone meant to be kind and complimentary, that my hearers would hardly have thought that my memory went back so far. The explanation has been that these good people had some vague notions of _Rejected Addresses_ floating through their minds, and confounded the burning of Covent Garden Theatre in 1856 with that of Drury Lane Theatre in 1809. Most people have no chronological sense. Our home was at Woburn, in a house belonging to the Duke of Bedford, but given by my grandfather to my parents for their joint and several lives. My father's duties at the House of Commons kept him in London during the Parliamentary Session, but my mother, who detested London and worshipped her garden, used to return with her family to Woburn, in time to superintend the "bedding-out." My first memory is connected with my home in London; my second with my home in the country, and the rejoicings for the termination of the Crimean War. Under the date of May 29, 1856, we read in _Annals of Our Time_, "Throughout the Kingdom, the day was marked by a cessation from work, and, during the night, illuminations and fireworks were all but universal." The banners and bands of the triumphal procession which paraded the streets of our little town--scarcely more than a village in dimensions--made as strong an impression on my mind as the conflagration which had startled all London in the previous March. People who have only known me as a double-dyed Londoner always seem to find a difficulty in believing that I once was a countryman; yet, for the first twenty-five years of my life, I lived almost entirely in the country. "We could never have loved the earth so well, if we had had no childhood in it--if it were not the earth where the same flowers come up again every spring, that we used to gather with our tiny fingers as we sat lisping to ourselves on the grass--the same hips and haws on the autumn hedgerows.... One's delight in an elderberry bush overhanging the confused leafage of a hedgerow bank, as a more gladdening sight than the finest cistus or fuchsia spreading itself on the softest undulating turf, is an entirely unjustifiable preference to a Nursery-Gardener. And there is no better reason for preferring this elderberry bush than that it stirs an early memory--that it is no novelty in my life, speaking to me merely through my present sensibilities to form and colour, but the long companion of my existence, that wove itself into my joys when joys were vivid." I had the unspeakable advantage of being reared in close contact with Nature, in an aspect beautiful and wild. My father's house was remarkable for its pretty garden, laid out with the old-fashioned intricacy of pattern, and blazing, even into autumn, with varied colour. In the midst of it, a large and absolutely symmetrical cedar "spread its dark green layers of shade," and supplied us in summer with a kind of _al fresco_ sitting-room. The background of the garden was formed by the towering trees of Woburn Park; and close by there were great tracts of woodland, which stretch far into Buckinghamshire, and have the character and effect of virgin forest. Having no boy-companions (for my only brother was ten years older than myself), of course I played no games, except croquet. I was brought up in a sporting home, my father being an enthusiastic fox-hunter and a good all-round sportsman. I abhorred shooting, and was badly bored by coursing and fishing. Indeed, I believe I can say with literal truth that I have never killed anything larger than a wasp, and that only in self-defence. But Woburn is an ideal country for riding, and I spent a good deal of my time on an excellent pony, or more strictly, galloway. An hour or two with the hounds was the reward of virtue in the schoolroom; and cub-hunting in a woodland country at 7 o'clock on a September morning still remains my most cherished memory of physical enjoyment. "That things are not as ill with you and me as they might have been is half owing to the number who lived faithfully a hidden life, and now rest in unvisited tombs." Most true: and among that faithful number I must remember our governess,--Catherine Emily Runciman--who devoted forty years of her life, in one capacity or another, to us and to our parents. She was what boys call "jolly out of school," but rather despotic in it; and, after a few trials of strength, I was emancipated from her control when I was eight. When we were in London for the Session of Parliament, I attended a Day School, kept by two sisters of John Leech, in a curious little cottage, since destroyed, at the bottom of Lower Belgrave Street. Just at the age when, in the ordinary course, I should have gone to a boarding-school, it was discovered that I was physically unfit for the experiment; and then I had a series of tutors at home. To one of these tutors my father wrote--"I must warn you of your pupil's powers of conversation, and tact in leading his teachers into it." But I was to a great extent self-taught. We had an excellent, though old-fashioned, library, and I spent a great deal of my time in miscellaneous reading. The Waverley Novels gave me my first taste of literary enjoyment, and _Pickwick_ (in the original green covers) came soon after. Shakespeare and _Don Quixote_ were imposed by paternal authority. Jeremy Taylor, Fielding, Smollett, Swift, Dryden, Pope, Byron, Moore, Macaulay, Miss Edgeworth, Bulwer-Lytton, were among my earliest friends, and I had an insatiable thirst for dictionaries and encyclopædias. Tennyson was the first poet whom I really loved, but I also was fond of Scott's poetry, the _Lays of Ancient Rome_, the _Lays of the Scottish Cavaliers_, and _The Golden Treasury_. Milton, Shelley, Wordsworth, and Matthew Arnold came later, but while I was still a boy. George Eliot, Thackeray, Ruskin, and Trollope came when I was at Oxford; and I am not sure that Browning ever came. On the whole, I owe my chief enjoyment to Scott, Dickens, Wordsworth, and Tennyson, and to _Pickwick_ more than to any single book. But I think the keenest thrill of intellectual pleasure which I ever felt passed through me when, as a boy at Harrow, I first read Wordsworth's "Daffodils." Our home, in its outward aspects, was extremely bright and cheerful. We had, as a family, a keen sense of fun, much contempt for convention, and great fluency of speech; and our material surroundings were such as to make life enjoyable. Even as a child, I used to say to myself, when cantering among Scotch firs and rhododendrons, "The lines are fallen unto me in pleasant places." A graver element was supplied by a good deal of ill-health, by bereavements, and, in some sense, by our way of religion. My home was intensely Evangelical, and I lived from my earliest days in an atmosphere where the salvation of the individual soul was the supreme and constant concern of life. No form of worldliness entered into it, but it was full of good works, of social service, and of practical labour for the poor. All life was lived, down to its minutest detail, "as ever in the great task-Master's eye." From our very earliest years we were taught the Bible, at first orally; and later on were encouraged to read it, by gifts of handsomely bound copies. I remember that our aids to study were Adam Clarke's Commentary, Nicholl's _Help to Reading the Bible_, and a book called _Light in the Dwelling_. Hymns played a great part in our training. As soon as we could speak, we learned "When rising from the bed of death," and "Beautiful Zion, built above." "Rock of Ages" and "Jesu, Lover of my soul" were soon added. The Church Catechism we were never taught. I was confirmed without learning it. It was said to be too difficult; it really was too sacramental. By way of an easier exercise, I was constrained to learn "The Shorter Catechism of the General Assembly of Divines at Westminster." We had Family Prayers twice every day. My father read a chapter, very much as the fancy took him, or where the Bible opened of itself; and he read without note or comment. I recall a very distinct impression on my infant mind that the passages of the Old Testament which were read at prayers had no meaning, and that the public reading of the words, without reference to sense, was an act of piety. After the chapter, my father read one of Henry Thornton's Family Prayers, replaced in later years by those of Ashton Oxenden. While we were still very young children, we were carefully incited to acts of practical charity. We began by carrying dinners to the sick and aged poor; then we went on to reading hymns and bits of Bible to the blind and unlettered. As soon as we were old enough, we became teachers in Sunday schools, and conducted classes and cottage-meetings. From the very beginning we were taught to save up our money for good causes. Each of us had a "missionary box," and I remember another box, in the counterfeit presentment of a Gothic church, which received contributions for the Church Pastoral Aid Society. When, on an occasion of rare dissipation, I won some shillings at "The Race-Game," they were impounded for the service of the C.M.S., and an aunt of mine, making her sole excursion into melody, wrote for the benefit of her young friends: "Would you like to be told the best use for a penny? I can tell you a use which is better than any-- Not on toys or on fruit or on sweetmeats to spend it, But over the seas to the heathen to send it." I learned my religion from my mother, the sweetest, brightest, and most persuasive of teachers, and what she taught I received as gospel. "Oh that those lips had language! Life has past With me but roughly since I heard thee last." _Sit anima mea cum Sanctis._ May my lot be with those Evangelical saints from whom I first learned that, in the supreme work of salvation, no human being and no created thing can interpose between the soul and the Creator. Happy is the man whose religious life has been built on the impregnable rock of that belief. So much for the foundation. The superstructure was rather accidental than designed. From my very earliest days I had a natural love of pomp and pageantry; and, though I never saw them, I used to read of them with delight in books of continental travel, and try to depict them in my sketch-books, and even enact them with my toys. Then came Sir Walter Scott, who inspired me, as he inspired so many greater men, with the love of ecclesiastical splendour, and so turned my vague love of ceremony into a definite channel. Another contribution to the same end was made, all unwittingly, by my dear and deeply Protestant father. He was an enthusiast for Gothic architecture, and it was natural to enquire the uses of such things as piscinas and sedilia in fabrics which he taught me to admire. And then came the opportune discovery (in an idle moment under a dull sermon) of the Occasional Offices of the Prayer Book. If language meant anything, those Offices meant the sacramental system of the Catholic Church; and the impression derived from the Prayer Book was confirmed by Jeremy Taylor and _The Christian Year_. I was always impatient of the attempt, even when made by the most respectable people, to pervert plain English, and I felt perfect confidence in building the Catholic superstructure on my Evangelical foundation. As soon as I had turned fourteen, I was confirmed by the Bishop of Ely (Harold Browne), and made my first Communion in Woburn Church on Easter Day, April 21, 1867. After the Easter Recess, I went with my parents to London, then seething with excitement over the Tory Reform Bill, which created Household Suffrage in towns. My father, being Sergeant-at-Arms, could give me a seat under the Gallery whenever he chose, and I heard some of the most memorable debates in that great controversy. In the previous year my uncle, Lord Russell, with Mr. Gladstone as Leader of the House of Commons, had been beaten in an attempt to lower the franchise; but the contest had left me cold. The debates of 1867 awoke quite a fresh interest in me. I began to understand the Democratic, as against the Whig, ideal; and I was tremendously impressed by Disraeli, who seemed to tower by a head and shoulders above everyone in the House. Gladstone played a secondary and ambiguous part; and, if I heard him speak, which I doubt, the speech left no dint in my memory. At this point of the narrative it is necessary to make a passing allusion to Doctors, who, far more than Premiers or Priests or any other class of men, have determined the course and condition of my life. I believe that I know, by personal experience, more about Doctors and Doctoring than any other man of my age in England. I am, in my own person, a monument of medical practice, and have not only seen, but felt, the rise and fall of several systems of physic and surgery. To have experienced the art is also to have known the artist; and the portraits of all the practitioners with whom at one time or another I have been brought into intimate relations would fill the largest album, and go some way towards furnishing a modest Picture-Gallery. Broadly speaking, the Doctors of the 'fifties and 'sixties were as Dickens drew them. The famous consultant, Dr. Parker Peps; the fashionable physician, Sir Tumley Snuffim; the General Practitioner, Mr. Pilkins; and the Medical Officer of the Anglo-Bengalee Disinterested Loan and Life Insurance Company, Dr. Jobling; are in the highest degree representative and typical; but perhaps the Doctor--his name, unfortunately, has perished--who was called to the bedside of little Nell, and came with "a great bunch of seals dangling below a waistcoat of ribbed black satin," is the most carefully finished portrait. Such, exactly, were the Family Physicians of my youth. They always dressed in shiny black,--trousers, neckcloth, and all; they were invariably bald, and had shaved upper lips and chins, and carefully-trimmed whiskers. They said "Hah!" and "Hum!" in tones of omniscience which would have converted a Christian Scientist; and, when feeling one's pulse, they produced the largest and most audibly-ticking gold watches producible by the horologist's art. They had what were called "the courtly manners of the old school"; were diffuse in style, and abounded in periphrasis. Thus they spoke of "the gastric organ" where their successors talk of the stomach, and referred to brandy as "the domestic stimulant." When attending families where religion was held in honour, they were apt to say to the lady of the house, "We are fearfully and wonderfully made"; and, where classical culture prevailed, they not infrequently remarked-- Crescit indulgens sibi dirus hydrops. By the way, my reference to "the domestic stimulant" reminds me that on stimulants, domestic and other, this school of Physicians relied with an unalterable confidence. For a delicate child, a glass of port wine at 11 was the inevitable prescription, and a tea-spoonful of bark was often added to this generous tonic. In all forms of languor and debility and enfeebled circulation, brandy-and-water was "exhibited," as the phrase went; and, if the dose was not immediately successful, the brandy was increased. I myself, when a sickly boy of twelve, was ordered by a well-known practitioner, called F. C. Skey, to drink mulled claret at bedtime; and my recollection is that, as a nightcap, it beat bromide and sulphonal hollow. In the light of more recent science, I suppose that all this alcoholic treatment was what Milton calls "the sweet poyson of misuséd wine," and wrought havoc with one's nerves, digestion, and circulation. It certainly had this single advantage, that when one grew to man's estate, and passed from "that poor creature, small beer," to the loaded port and fiery sherry of a "Wine" at the University, it was impossible to make one drunk. And thereby hangs a tale. I was once writing the same sentiment in the same words for a medical journal, and the compositor substituted "disadvantage" for "advantage," apparently thinking that my early regimen had deprived me of a real happiness in after-life. Such were the Doctors of my youth. By no sudden wrench, no violent transition, but gently, gradually, imperceptibly, the type has transformed itself into that which we behold to-day. No doubt an inward continuity has been maintained, but the visible phenomena are so radically altered as to suggest to the superficial observer the idea of a new creation; and even we, who, as Matthew Arnold said, "stand by the Sea of Time, and listen to the solemn and rhythmical beat of its waves," even we can scarcely point with confidence to the date of each successive change. First, as to personal appearance. When did doctors abandon black cloth, and betake themselves (like Newman, when he seceded to the Church of Rome) to grey trousers? Not, I feel pretty sure, till the 'seventies were well advanced. Quite certainly the first time that I ever fell into the hands of a moustached Doctor was in 1877. Everyone condemned the hirsute appendage as highly unprofessional, and when, soon after, the poor man found his way into a Lunatic Asylum, the neighbouring Doctors of the older school said that they were not surprised; that "there was a bad family history"; and that he himself had shown marked signs of eccentricity. That meant the moustache, and nothing else. Then, again, when was it first recognized as possible to take a pulse without the assistance of a gold chronometer? History is silent; but I am inclined to assign that discovery to the same date as the clinical thermometer, a toy unknown to the Doctors of my youth, who, indeed, were disposed to regard even the stethoscope as new-fangled. Then "the courtly manners of the old school"--when did they go out? I do not mean to cast the slightest aspersion on the manners of my present doctor, who is as polite and gentlemanlike a young fellow as one could wish to meet. But his manners are not "courtly," nor the least "of the old school." He does not bow when he enters my room, but shakes hands and says it's an A1 day and I had better get out in the motor. Whatever the symptoms presented to his observation, he never says "Hah!" or "Hum!" and he has never once quoted the Bible or Horace, though I have reason to believe that he has read both. Then, again, as a mere matter of style, when did Doctors abandon the majestic "We," which formerly they shared with Kings and Editors? "We shall be all the better when we have had our luncheon and a glass of sherry," said Sir Tumley Snuffim. "We will continue the bark and linseed," murmured Dr. Parker Peps, as he bowed himself out. My Doctor says, "Do you feel as if you could manage a chop? It would do you pounds of good"; and "I know the peroxide dressing is rather beastly, but I'd stick it another day or two, if I were you." Medical conversation, too, is an art which has greatly changed. In old days it was thought an excellent method of lubricating the first interview for the Doctor to ask where one's home was, and to state, quite irrespective of the fact, that he was born in the same neighbourhood; having ascertained that one was, say, a Yorkshireman, to remark that he would have known it from one's accent; to enlarge on his own connexions, especially if of the territorial caste; to describe his early travels in the South of Europe or the United States; and to discourse on water-colour drawing or the flute. "We doctors, too, have our hobbies; though, alas! the demands of a profession in which _Ne otium quidem otiosum est_ leave us little time to enjoy them." Quite different is the conversation of the modern doctor. He does not lubricate the interview, but goes straight to business--enquires, examines, pronounces, prescribes--and then, if any time is left for light discourse, discusses the rival merits of "Rugger" and "Soccer," speculates on the result of the Hospital Cup Tie, or observes that the British Thoroughbred is not deteriorating when he can win with so much on his back; pronounces that the Opera last night was ripping, or that some much-praised play is undiluted rot. Not thus did Dr. Parker Peps regale Mrs. Dombey, or Sir Tumley Snuffim soothe the shattered nerves of Mrs. Wititterly. The reaction against alcoholic treatment can, I believe, be definitely dated from the 10th of January, 1872, when the heads of the medical profession published their opinion that "alcohol, in whatever form, should be prescribed with as much care as any powerful drug, and the directions for its use should be so framed as not to be interpreted as a sanction for excess." This was a heavy blow and deep discouragement to the school of Snuffim and Pilkins, and the system of port at 11, and "the domestic stimulant" between whiles, died hard. But this is a long digression. I return to the Family Physician who prescribed for my youth. He was Dr. T. Somerset Snuffim, son of the celebrated Sir Tumley, and successor to his lucrative practice. His patients believed in him with an unquestioning and even passionate faith, and his lightest word was law. It was he who in 1862 pronounced me physically unfit for a Private School, but held out hopes that, if I could be kept alive till I was fourteen, I might then be fit for a Public School. Four years passed, and nothing particular happened. Then the time arrived when the decision had to be made between Public School and Private Tutor. After a vast amount of stethoscoping and pulse-feeling, Snuffim decided peremptorily against a Public School. My parents had a strong and just detestation of "private study" and its products, and they revolved a great many schemes for avoiding it. Suddenly my mother, who was not only the kindest but also the wisest of mothers, bethought herself of making me a Home-boarder at Harrow. She was one of those persons who, when once they are persuaded that a certain course is right, do not let the grass grow under their feet, but act at once. We did not desert our old home in Bedfordshire, and my father had still his official residence in Speaker's Court; but my parents took a house at Harrow, at the top of Sudbury Hill, and there we established ourselves in September, 1867. On the 4th of November in that year, Matthew Arnold, who was contemplating a similar move, wrote to Lady de Rothschild:--"What you tell me is very important and interesting. I think Lady Charles Russell has a boy who, like my eldest boy, is an invalid, and I dare say you will some time or other be kind enough to ascertain from her whether the school life is at all trying for him, or whether she has any difficulty in getting him excused fagging or violent exercises." FOOTNOTES: [1] The L.C.C., which placed this slab, made a topographical error. James Wright, in his _Compendious View of the late Tumults and Troubles in this Kingdom_ (1683), says: "The Lord Russel ... was on the day following, viz. Saturday the 21st of July, Beheaded in Lincoln's Inn Fields. For which purpose a Scaffold was erected that Morning on that side of the Fields next to the Arch going into Duke Street, in the middle between the said Arch and the corner turning into Queen Street." [2] To the Editor of _The Times_. SIR--As Links with the Past seem just now to be in fashion, permit me to supply two which concern my near relations. 1. My uncle, Lord Russell (1792-1878) visited Napoleon at Elba in December, 1814, and had a long conversation with him, which is reported in Spencer Walpole's "Life of Lord John Russell." There must be plenty of people now alive who conversed with my uncle, so this Link cannot be a very rare one. 2. My second Link is more remarkable. My father (1807-1894) remembered an old Highlander who had been "out" with Prince Charles Edward in 1745. Of course, this "linking" took place at the extremes of age, my father being a little boy and the Highlander a very old man. My grandfather, the sixth Duke of Bedford, was one of the first Englishmen who took a shooting in the Highlands (on the Spey), and the first time that my father accompanied him to the north, Prince Charlie's follower was still living near the place which my grandfather rented. Your obedient servant, _Sept. 6, 1910._ GEORGE W. E. RUSSELL. II HARROW Not to River nor Royal Keep, Low Meads nor level Close, Up to the sturdy wind-worn steep, _Levavi oculos_; To four red walls on a skyward climb, Towering over the fields and Time. E. MILNER-WHITE. When Dr. Vaughan re-created Harrow School, after its long decadence under Longley and Wordsworth, he wished that the number should never exceed five hundred. Of late years the school has been greatly enlarged, but in my time we were always just about the number which, in Vaughan's judgment, was the largest that a Head-master could properly supervise. That number is embalmed in Edward Howson's touching song:-- "Five hundred faces, and all so strange! Life in front of me, Home behind-- I felt like a waif before the wind, Tossed on an ocean of shock and change." Some of those faces I shall presently describe; but, in reviewing my life at Harrow, my first tribute must be paid to my Head-master--for forty-five years the kindest, most generous, and most faithful of friends. Henry Montagu Butler, youngest son of Dr. George Butler, Dean of Peterborough and sometime Head-master of Harrow, was born in 1833, and educated at Harrow. He was Head of the School, made the cock-score in the Eton match at Lords, was Scholar and Fellow of Trinity, and Senior Classic in 1855. He was elected to the Head-mastership of Harrow, in succession to Dr. Vaughan, when he was only a few months over 26, and entered on his reign in January, 1860. It is not easy to describe what a graceful and brilliant creature he seemed to my boyish eyes, when I first saw him in 1867, nor how unlike what one had imagined a Head-master to be. He was then just thirty-four and looked much younger than he was. Gracefulness is the idea which I specially connect with him. He was graceful in shape, gesture, and carriage; graceful in manners and ways, graceful in scholarship, graceful in writing, pre-eminently graceful in speech. It was his custom from time to time, if any peculiar enormity displayed itself in the school, to call us all together in the Speech-Room, and give us what we called a "Pi-jaw." One of these discourses I remember as well as if I had heard it yesterday. It was directed against Lying, as not only un-Christian but ungentlemanlike. As he stood on the dais, one hand grasping his gown behind his back and the other marking his points, I felt that, perhaps for the first time, I was listening to pure and unstudied eloquence, suffused with just as much scorn against base wrongdoing as makes speech pungent without making it abusive. It should be recorded to Butler's credit that he was thoroughly feared. A Head-master who is not feared should be at once dismissed from his post. And, besides being feared, he was profoundly detested by bad boys. The worse the boy's moral character, the more he hated Butler. But boys who were, in any sense or degree, on the right side; who were striving, however imperfectly, after what is pure and lovely and of good report, felt instinctively that Butler was their friend. His preaching in the School Chapel (though perhaps a little impeded by certain mannerisms) was direct, interesting, and uplifting in no common degree. Many of his sermons made a lifelong impression on me. His written English was always beautifully pellucid, and often adorned by some memorable anecdote or quotation, or by some telling phrase. But once, when, owing to a broken arm, he could not write his sermons, but preached to us extempore three Sundays in succession, he fairly fascinated us. As we rose in the School and came into close contact with him, we found ever more and more to admire. It would be impertinent for me to praise the attainments of a Senior Classic, but no one could fail to see that Butler's scholarship was unusually graceful and literary. Indeed, he was literary through and through. All fine literature appealed to him with compelling force, and he was peculiarly fond of English oratory. Chatham, Burke, Canning, Sheil, and Bright are some of the great orators to whom he introduced us, and he was never so happy as when he could quote them to illustrate some fine passage in Cicero or Demosthenes. One other introduction which I owe to him I must by no means forget--Lord Beaconsfield's novels. I had read _Lothair_ when it came out, but I was then too inexperienced to discern the deep truths which underlie its glittering satire. Butler introduced me to _Sybil_, and thereby opened up to me a new world of interest and amusement. When Butler entertained boys at breakfast or dinner, he was a most delightful host, and threw off all magisterial awfulness as easily as his gown. His conversation was full of fun and sprightliness, and he could talk "Cricket-shop," ancient and modern, like Lillywhite or R. H. Lyttelton. In time of illness or failure or conscience-stricken remorse, he showed an Arthur-like simplicity of religion which no one could ignore or gainsay. Next to Dr. Butler, in my list of Harrow masters, must be placed Farrar, afterwards Dean of Canterbury, to whom I owed more in the way of intellectual stimulus and encouragement than to any other teacher. I had, I believe, by nature, some sense of beauty; and Farrar stimulated and encouraged this sense to the top of its bent. Himself inspired by Ruskin, he taught us to admire rich colours and graceful forms--illuminated missals, and Fra Angelico's blue angels on gold grounds--and to see the exquisite beauty of common things, such as sunsets, and spring grass, and autumn leaves; the waters of a shoaling sea, and the transparent amber of a mountain stream. In literature his range was extremely wide. Nothing worth reading seemed to have escaped him, and he loved poetry as much as Butler loved oratory. When he preached in Chapel his gorgeous rhetoric, as yet not overwrought or over-coloured, held us spellbound; and though, or perhaps because, he was inclined to spoil the boys who responded to his appeals, and to rate them higher than they deserved, we loved and admired him as, I should think, few schoolmasters have been loved and admired. When I speak of masters who were also friends, I should be ungrateful indeed if I omitted Arthur George Watson, in whose House I was placed as soon as the doctors were satisfied that the experiment could be tried without undue risks. Mr. Watson was a Fellow of All Souls, and was in all respects what we should have expected a member of that Society (elected the same day as the late Lord Salisbury) to be. It was said of C. P. Golightly at Oxford that, when he was asked his opinion of Dr. Hawkins, Provost of Oriel, he replied: "Well, if I were forced to choose the epithet which should be least descriptive of the dear Provost, I should choose _gushing_." Exactly the same might be said of Mr. Watson; but he was the most high-minded and conscientious of men, a thorough gentleman, inflexibly just, and a perfect House-Master. The days which I spent under his roof must always be reckoned among the happiest of my life. Among masters who were also friends I must assign a high place to the Rev. William Done Bushell, who vainly endeavoured to teach me mathematics, but found me more at home in the sphere (which he also loved) of Ecclesiology. And not even the most thoughtless or ill-conditioned boy who was at Harrow between 1854 and 1882 could ever forget the Rev. John Smith, who, through a life-time overshadowed by impending calamity, was an Apostle to boys, if ever there was one, and the Guardian Angel of youthful innocence. Dr. Vaughan, no lover of exaggerated phrases, called him, in a memorial sermon, "the Christ of Harrow;" and there must be many a man now living who, as he looks back, feels that he owed the salvation of his soul to that Christ-like character. During my first two years at Harrow, Dr. Westcott, afterwards Bishop of Durham, was one of the masters, and it has always been a matter of deep regret to me that I had no opportunity of getting to know him. He was hardly visible in the common life of the School. He lived remote, aloof, apart, alone. It must be presumed that the boys who boarded in his House knew something of him, but with the School in general he never came in contact. His special work was to supervise the composition, English and classical, of the Sixth Form, and on this task he lavished all his minute and scrupulous scholarship, all his genuine enthusiasm for literary beauty. But, until we were in the Sixth, we saw Westcott only on public occasions, and one of these occasions was the calling over of names on half-holidays, styled at Eton "Absence," and at Harrow "Bill." To see Westcott performing this function made one, even in those puerile days, feel that the beautifully delicate instrument was eminently unfitted for the rough work of mere routine on which it was employed. We had sense enough to know that Westcott was a man of learning and distinction altogether outside the beaten track of schoolmasters' accomplishments; and that he had performed achievements in scholarship and divinity which great men recognized as great. "Calling Bill" was an occupation well enough suited for his colleagues--for Huggins or Buggins or Brown or Green--but it was actually pathetic to see this frail embodiment of culture and piety contending with the clamour and tumult of five hundred obstreperous boys. It was not only as a great scholar that we revered Westcott. We knew, by that mysterious process by which school-boys get to know something of the real, as distinct from the official, characters of their masters, that he was a saint. There were strange stories in the School about his ascetic way of living. We were told that he wrote his sermons on his knees. We heard that he never went into local society, and that he read no newspaper except _The Guardian_. Thus when Liddon, at the height of his fame as the author of the great Bampton Lectures, came to Harrow to preach on Founder's Day, it was reported that Westcott would not dine with the Head-master to meet him. He could not spare three hours from prayer and study; but he came in for an hour's conversation after dinner. All that we saw and heard in Chapel confirmed what we were told. We saw the bowed form, the clasped hands, the rapt gaze, as of a man who in worship was really _solus cum Solo_, and not, as the manner of some of his colleagues was, sleeping the sleep of the just, or watching for the devotional delinquencies of the Human Boy. His sermons were rare events; but some of us looked forward to them as to something quite out of the common groove. There were none of the accessories which generally attract boyish admiration--no rhetoric, no purple patches, no declamation, no pretence of spontaneity. His anxious forehead crowned a puny body, and his voice was so faint as to be almost inaudible. The language was totally unadorned; the sentences were closely packed with meaning; and the meaning was not always easy. But the charm lay in distinction, aloofness from common ways of thinking and speaking, a wide outlook on events and movements in the Church, and a fiery enthusiasm all the more telling because sedulously restrained. I remember as if I heard it yesterday a reference in December, 1869, to "that august assemblage which gathers to-morrow under the dome of St. Peter's," and I remember feeling pretty sure at the moment that there was no other schoolmaster in England who would preach to his boys about the Vatican Council. But by far the most momentous of Westcott's sermons at Harrow was that which he preached on the Twentieth Sunday after Trinity, 1868. The text was Ephesians v. 15: "See then that ye walk circumspectly." The sermon was an earnest plea for the revival of the ascetic life, and the preacher endeavoured to show "what new blessings God has in store for absolute self-sacrifice" by telling his hearers about the great victories of asceticism in history. He took first the instance of St. Anthony, as the type of personal asceticism; then that of St. Benedict, as the author of the Common Life of equality and brotherhood; and then that of St. Francis, who, "in the midst of a Church endowed with all that art and learning and wealth and power could give, reasserted the love of God to the poorest, the meanest, the most repulsive of His children, and placed again the simple Cross above all the treasures of the world." Even "the unparalleled achievements, the matchless energy, of the Jesuits" were duly recognized as triumphs of faith and discipline; and the sermon ended with a passionate appeal to the Harrow boys to follow the example of young Antony or the still younger Benedict, and prepare themselves to take their part in reviving the ascetic life of the English Church. "It is to a congregation like this that the call comes with the most stirring and the most cheering voice. The young alone have the fresh enthusiasm which in former times God has been pleased to consecrate to like services.... And if, as I do believe most deeply, a work at present awaits England, and our English Church, greater than the world has yet seen, I cannot but pray everyone who hears me to listen humbly for the promptings of God's Spirit, if so be that He is even now calling him to take a foremost part in it. It is for us, perhaps, first to hear the call, but it is for you to interpret it and fulfil it. Our work is already sealed by the past: yours is still rich in boundless possibilities." It may readily be believed that this discourse did not please either the British Parent or the Common Schoolmaster. A rumour went abroad that Mr. Westcott was going to turn all the boys into monks, and loud was the clamour of ignorance and superstition. Westcott made the only dignified reply. He printed (without publishing) the peccant sermon, under the title "Disciplined Life," and gave a copy to every boy in the School, expressing the hope that "God, in His great love, will even thus, by words most unworthily spoken, lead some one among us to think on one peculiar work of the English Church, and in due time to offer himself for the fulfilment of it as His Spirit shall teach." Those who remember that Charles Gore was one of the boys who heard the sermon may think that the preacher's prayer was answered. With the masters generally I was on the best of terms. Indeed, I can only remember two whom I actively disliked, and of these two one was the absolute reproduction of Mr. Creakle, only armed with "thirty Greek lines" instead of the cane. Some of the staff were not particularly friends, but notable as curiosities; and at the head of these must be placed the Rev. Thomas Henry Steel. This truly remarkable man was born in 1806. He was Second Classic and Twentieth Wrangler, and Fellow of Trinity College, Cambridge. He became a master at Harrow under Dr. Wordsworth in 1836; left the School in 1843, to take a country living; returned to Harrow, under Dr. Vaughan, in 1849, and in 1855 became (for the second time) master of The Grove, one of the largest boarding-houses in Harrow, where he remained till 1881. He was a keen, alert, and active old gentleman, with a rosy face and long white beard, like Father Christmas: and he carried, in season and out of season, a bright blue umbrella. His degree sufficiently proves that he was a ripe scholar, but, as George Eliot says, "to all ripeness under the sun there comes a further stage of development which is less esteemed in the market"; and, when I was in his Form, it was chiefly characterized by an agreeable laxity of discipline. As regards his boarding-house of forty boys, it was currently reported that he had never been seen in the boys' side of it. Perhaps he went round it when they were asleep. But it was on his preaching that his fame chiefly rested. His sermons were written in a most exuberant style of old-fashioned rhetoric, and abounded in phrases, allusions, and illustrations, so quaint that, once heard, they could never be forgotten. I believe that he kept a small stock of these sermons, and seldom added to it; but knowing, I suppose, that if preached twice they must inevitably be recognized, he never preached a sermon a second time as long as there was even one boy in the School who had heard it on its first delivery. This was a very sensible precaution; but he little knew that some of his most elaborate passages had, by their sheer oddity, imprinted themselves indelibly on the memories of the hearers, and were handed down by oral tradition. One such especially, about a lady who used to visit the hospitals in the American War, and left a bun or a rose on the pillow of the wounded according as she thought that they would recover or die, had an established place in our annals; and it is not easy to describe the rapture of hearing a passage which, as repeated by one's schoolfellows, had seemed too absurd for credence, delivered from the School-pulpit, in a kind of solemn stage-whisper. However, "Tommy Steel" was a kind-hearted old gentleman, who believed in letting boys alone, and by a hundred eccentricities of speech and manner, added daily to the gaiety of our life. For one great boon I am eternally his debtor. He set me on reading Wordsworth, and chose his favourite bits with skill and judgment. I had been reared in the school that derided-- "A drowsy, frowsy poem called _The Excursion_, Writ in a manner which is my aversion," and "Tommy Steel" opened my eyes to a new world of beauty. By the way, he had known Wordsworth, and had entertained him at Harrow; and he told us that the Poet always said "housen," where we say houses. Another of our curiosities was Mr. Jacob Francis Marillier, a genial old gentleman without a degree, who had been supposed to teach writing and Mathematics, but long before my time had dropped the writing--I suppose as hopeless--and only played a mathematical barrel-organ. He had joined the staff at Harrow in 1819, and, as from my earliest days I had a love of Links with the Past, I learned from Mr. Marillier a vast amount about the ancient traditions of the School, which, even in 1869 (when he resigned), were becoming faint and forgotten. Yet a third oddity must be commemorated; but in this case it is desirable to use a pseudonym. I think I remember in one of Bulwer-Lytton's novels a family called Sticktoright,[3] and that name will do as well as another. The Rev. Samuel Sticktoright was essentially what is called a "Master of the old school." He was born in 1808, came to Harrow in 1845, and had a large House for thirty years. I have just been contemplating his photograph in my Harrow album, and he certainly looks "the old school" all over, with his carefully-trimmed whiskers, double-breasted waistcoat, and large white "choker," neatly tied. By the boys generally he was regarded as an implacable tyrant, and I have heard (though this was before my time) that a special victim of his passionless severity was a pink-faced youth with blue eyes called Randall Thomas Davidson. Personally, I rather liked him; partly, no doubt, on the principle on which Homer called the Æthiopians blameless--namely, that he had nothing to do with them. But there was a sly twinkle in the corner of Mr. Sticktoright's eye which bespoke a lurking sense of humour, and in the very few words which he ever bestowed on me there generally was a suggestion of dry--very dry--fun. He was, of course, the most uncompromising of Tories, and every form of change, in Church or State or School, was equally abhorrent to him. In local society he played a considerable part, both giving and receiving hospitality; and it was the traditional pleasantry to chaff him as an inveterate bachelor, at whom all the young ladies of the place were setting their virginal caps. These jests he received very much as Tim Linkinwater received the allusions of Mr. Cheeryble to the "uncommonly handsome spinster," rather encouraging them as tributes to the fact that, though now advanced in years, he was well preserved, and, as most people surmised, well off. These facetious passages were, of course, confined to the society in which the masters moved, and we boys knew them only by hearsay. But what we saw with our own eyes was that the only human being who ever dared to "cheek" Mr. Sticktoright, or to interfere with his arrangements, or to disregard his orders, was his butler, whom we will call Boniface. Everyone who knows school-boys knows that they have a trick of saying things about those in authority over them, which really they do not the least believe but which they make a bold pretence of believing. So in the case of "Sticky" and Boniface. They were of much the same age, and rather similar in appearance; wherefore we said that they were brothers; that they had risen from a lowly station in the world, and had tossed up which should be master and which butler; that "Sticky" had won the toss, and that the disappointed Boniface held his brother in subjection by a veiled threat that, if he were offended, he would reveal the whole story to the world. This tradition seemed to present some elements of unlikelihood, and yet it survived from generation to generation; for not otherwise could we account for the palpable fact that the iron severity which held all boy-flesh in awe melted into impotence when Boniface was the offender. The solution of the mystery was romantic. Dr. Butler, contrary to his usual practice, was spending the Christmas holidays of 1876-7 at Harrow. One day a stranger was announced, and opened the conversation by saying--"I regret to tell you that your colleague, Mr. Sticktoright, is dead. He died suddenly at Brighton, where he was spending the holidays. I am his brother-in-law and executor, and, in compliance with his instructions, I have to ask you to accompany me to his house." Those who know the present Master of Trinity can picture the genuine grief with which he received this notification. Mr. Sticktoright had been a master when he was a boy at school, and a highly-respected colleague ever since he became Head-master. That the bearer of the sad news should be Sticktoright's brother-in-law seemed quite natural, for he must have married a Miss Sticktoright; and the Head-master and the executor went together to the dead man's house. There, after some unlocking of drawers and opening of cabinets, they came upon a document to this effect: "In case of my dying away from Harrow, this is to certify that on a certain day, in a certain place, I married Mary Smith, sometime a housemaid in my service, by whom I leave a family." So there had really been much more foundation for our tradition than we had ever dreamed, and Boniface had probably known the romantic history of his master's life. The extraordinary part of the matter was that old Sticktoright had always spent the Easter, Summer, and Christmas holidays in the bosom of his family at Brighton, and that no one connected with Harrow had ever chanced to see him basking in their smiles. [N.B.--the names, personal and local, are fictitious.] In the north aisle of Harrow School Chapel, where departed masters are commemorated, you may search in vain for any memorial to the Rev. Samuel Sticktoright. Yet one more curiosity must be named, this time not a Harrow master. "Polly Arnold" kept a stationer's shop, and, as a child, helping her grand-mother in the same shop, had sold pens--some added cribs--to Byron when a boy in the school. Here was a Link of the Past which exactly suited me, and, if only Polly could have understood the allusion, I should have said to her--"Ah, did you once see Byron plain?" I happened to have a sister who, though exceptionally clever and lively, had absolutely no chronological sense. I took her to see Polly Arnold one day, when this conversation ensued--"Well, Miss Arnold, I am very glad to make your acquaintance. I have often heard of you from my brother. He tells me you remember John Lyon. How very interesting!" [N.B.--John Lyon founded Harrow School in 1571.] To this tribute Polly replied with much asperity--"I know I'm getting on in life, Miss, but I'm not quite three hundred years old yet"--while my sister murmured in my ear--"Who _is_ it she remembers? I know it's someone who lived a long time ago." But the name of Arnold, when connected with Harrow, suggests quite another train of thought. At Easter, 1868, Matthew Arnold came to live at Harrow, with a view of placing his three boys in the School. The eldest of the three was the invalid to whom his father referred in a letter quoted in my first chapter: I was able to show him some little kindnesses, and thus arose an intimacy with the parents, brothers, and sisters which I have always regarded as-- "Part of my life's unalterable good." FOOTNOTE: [3] "The wood belonged to the Hazeldeans, the furze-land to the Sticktorights--an old Saxon family if ever there was one." _My Novel_. Book I. III HARROVIANA "I may have failed, my School may fail; I tremble, but thus much I dare; I love her. Let the critics rail, My brethren and my home are there." W. CORY. Everyone who travels by the North Western, or the Great Central, or the Midland Railway, must be conversant with the appearance of that "Pinnacle perched on a Precipice," which was Charles II.'s idea of the Visible Church on Earth--the Parish Church of Harrow on the Hill. Anselm consecrated it, Becket said Mass in it, and John Lyon, the Founder of Harrow School, lies buried in it. When I was a Harrow boy, the Celebrations of the Holy Communion in the School Chapel were rare, and generally late; so some of us were accustomed to communicate every Sunday at the 8 o'clock service in the Parish Church. But even in holy places, and amid sacred associations, the ludicrous is apt to assert itself; and I could never sufficiently admire a tablet in the North aisle, commemorating a gentleman who died of the first Reform Bill. "JOHN HENRY NORTH, Judge of the Admiralty in Ireland. Without an equal at the University, a rival at the Bar, Or a superior in chaste and classic eloquence in Parliament. Honoured, Revered, Admired, Beloved, Deplored, By the Irish Bar, the Senate and his country, He sunk beneath the efforts of a mind too great for His earthly frame, In opposing the Revolutionary Invasion of the Religion and Constitution of England, On the 29th of September, 1831, in the 44th year of his age." Alas! poor Mr. North. What would he have felt if he had lived to see the Reform Bills of 1867 and 1885? Clearly he was taken away from the evil to come. Until the Metropolitan Railway joined Harrow to Baker Street, the Hill stood in the midst of genuine and unspoilt country, separated by five miles of grass from the nearest point of London, and encompassed by isolated dwellings, ranging in rank and scale from villas to country houses. Most of these have fallen victims to the Speculative Builder, and have been cut up into alleys of brick and stucco, though one or two still remain among their hay-fields and rhododendrons. When I first ascended Harrow Hill, I drove there from London with my mother; and, from Harlesden onwards, our road lay between grass meadows, and was shaded by hedgerow timber. Harrow was then a much prettier place than it is now. The far-seen elms under which Byron dreamed[4] were still in their unlopped glory, and the whole effect of the Hill was wooded. So an Eton man and Harrow master[5] wrote:-- "Collis incola frondei Nympha, sive lubentius Nostra Pieris audies, Lux adest; ades O tuis Herga[6] mater, alumnis!" "Goddess of the leafy Hill, Nymph, or Muse, or what you will, With the light begins the lay,-- Herga, be our guest to-day." The site now covered by the externally hideous Speech-room--a cross between a swimming-bath and a tennis-court--was then a garden. In truth, it only grew strawberries and cabbages, but to the imaginative eye, it was as beautiful as the hanging pleasaunces of Semiramis. Dr. Butler, with a hundred gifts and accomplishments, had no æsthetic or artistic sense; and, under his rule, the whole place was over-run by terrible combinations of red and black brick; and the beautiful view from the School-Yard, stretching away across the Uxbridge plain, was obstructed by some kind of play-shed, with a little spout atop--the very impertinence of ugliness. Of the various buildings at Harrow, by far the most interesting is what is now called "The Fourth Form Room," in the West wing of the Old School. It is the original room which John Lyon designed--"A large and convenient school-house with a chimney in it,"--and in its appearance and arrangements it exactly bespeaks the village Day School that Harrow originally was. Its stout brick walls have faced the western breezes of three hundred years, and in their mellow richness of tint remind one of Hatfield House and Hampton Court. This single room has been the nucleus round which all subsequent buildings--Chapel and Library and School-Rooms and Boarding-Houses--have gathered; and, as long as it exists, Harrow will be visibly and tangibly connected with its Founder's prescient care. John Lyon knew nothing of Conscience Clauses. He ordained that all his school-boys should attend the Parish Church; and so they did, stowed away in galleries where hearing was difficult and kneeling impossible. In 1836 Dr. Christopher Wordsworth, afterwards Bishop of Lincoln, was elected Head-master of Harrow, in succession to the genial but too gentle Longley. Seeing that Worship was practically impossible for the boys under existing conditions, he set to work to build a Chapel. It occupied the same site as the present Chapel, but only one fragment of it remains, embedded in the West wall of Sir Gilbert Scott's more graceful structure. The Chapel was consecrated by the Visitor, Archbishop Howley, in 1839. Dr. Wordsworth, justly proud of his handiwork, invited his brother-master, Dr. Hawtrey of Eton, to view it. Much to Wordsworth's surprise, Hawtrey did not take off his hat on entering the Chapel; but, when he neared the altar, started back in confusion, and exclaimed, in hasty apology, "I assure you, my dear friend, I had no notion that we were already inside the Sacred Edifice." So much for the æsthetics of Harrow Chapel as originally constructed, but time and piety have completely changed it. In 1855, Dr. Vaughan added a Chancel with an apsidal end, designed by Sir Gilbert Scott. Next, the central passage of the Chapel became a Nave, with pillars and a North Aisle. Then the South Aisle was added, and decorated with glass before which one shudders, as a Memorial to Harrow men who fell in the Crimea. So the Chapel remained till 1903, when two curious additions, something between transepts and side-chapels, were added in memory of Harrow men who fell in South Africa. The total result of these successive changes is a building of remarkably irregular shape, but richly decorated, and sanctified by innumerable memories of friends long since loved and lost. A tablet, near which as a new boy I used to sit, bears this inscription-- In mournful and affectionate remembrance of JOHN HYDE D'ARCY, Scholar of Balliol College, Oxford, and formerly Head of this School. He passed through the Strait Gate of Humility, Toil, and Patience, into the clear light and true knowledge of Him Who is our Peace. "If any man will do His Will, he shall know of the doctrine." Few sermons have ever impressed me so powerfully as this significant memorial of a life which lasted only nineteen years. The morning and evening services in the Chapel were what is called "bright and cheerful"--in other words, extremely noisy and not very harmonious or reverent. We had two sermons every Sunday. The Head-master preached in the evening; the Assistant-masters in the morning. Occasionally, we had a stranger of repute. Dr. Butler's preaching I have already described, and also that of Farrar and Westcott. Mr. Steel's traditional discourses were in a class by themselves. But other preachers we had, not less remarkable. I distinctly remember a sermon by Mr. Sticktoright, who told us that we did not know in what way the world would be destroyed--it might be by fire, or it might be by water (though this latter alternative seems precluded by Genesis ix. 11). The Rev. James Robertson, afterwards Head-master of Haileybury, compared the difference between a dull boy and a clever boy to that between an ox and a dog. "To the ox, the universe comprises only the impassive blue above, and the edible green beneath; while the dog finds a world of excitement in hunting, and a demi-god in man." Dean Stanley, preaching on Trinity Sunday, 1868, thus explained away the doctrine of the Trinity--"God the Father is God in Nature. God the Son is God in History. God the Holy Ghost is God in the Conscience." And Thring of Uppingham bellowed an exposition of Psalm lxxviii. 70 with such surprising vigour that he acquired among us the affectionate nickname of "Old Sheepfolds." It is a pleasure to place in contrast with these absurdities the truly pastoral and moving sermons of Mr. John Smith, whose apostolic work at Harrow I have already commemorated. His paraphrase of 1. St. Peter iv. 7-8 still lingers in my ear--"Be watchful, be prayerful, be very kind." He is thus described on a Memorial Tablet in the Chapel: To the Young a Father, To friends in joy or grief a Brother, To the poor, the suffering, and the tempted, A minister of Hope and Strength. Tried by more than common sorrows, And upborne by more than common faith, His holy life interpreted to many The Mind which was in Christ Jesus, The Promise of the Comforter, And the Vision granted to the Pure in Heart. It may seem odd that one should remember so much about sermons preached so long ago, but Bishop Welldon's testimony illustrates the point. "When I came to Harrow, I was greatly struck by the feeling of the boys for the weekly Sermon; they looked for it as an element in their lives, they attended to it, and passed judgment upon it." (I may remark in passing that Dr. Welldon promptly and wisely reduced the Sunday Sermons from two to one.) But the day of days in Harrow Chapel was Founder's Day, October 10th, 1868, when the preacher at the Commemoration Service was Liddon, who had lately become famous by the Bampton Lectures of 1866. The scene and the sermon can never be forgotten. Prayers and hymns and thanksgivings for Founder and Benefactors had been duly performed, and we had listened with becoming solemnity to that droll chapter about "Such as found out musical tunes, and recited verses in writing." When the preacher entered the pulpit, his appearance instantly attracted attention. We had heard vaguely of him as "the great Oxford swell," but now that we saw him we felt a livelier interest. "He looks like a monk," one boy whispers to his neighbour; and indeed it is a better description than the speaker knows. The Oxford M.A. gown, worn over a cassock, is the Benedictine habit modified by time and place; the spare, thin figure suggests asceticism; the beautifully chiselled, sharply-pointed features, the close-shaved face, the tawny skin, the jet-black hair, remind us vaguely of something by Velasquez or Murillo, or of Ary Scheffer's picture of St. Augustine. And the interest aroused by sight is intensified by sound. The vibrant voice strikes like an electric shock. The exquisite, almost over-refined, articulation seems the very note of culture. The restrained passion which thrills through the disciplined utterance warns even the most heedless that something quite unlike the ordinary stuff of school-sermons is coming. "Remember now thy Creator in the days of thy youth, while the evil days come not, nor the years draw nigh, when thou shalt say, I have no pleasure in them." The speaker speaks of the blessedness and glory of boyhood; the splendid inheritance of a Public School built on Christian lines; the unequalled opportunities of learning while the faculties are still fresh and the mind is still receptive; the worthlessness of all merely secular attainment, however desirable, however necessary, when weighed in the balance against "the one thing needful." The congregation still are boys, but soon they will be men. Dark days will come, as Ecclesiastes warned--dark in various ways and senses, darkest when, at the University or elsewhere, we first are bidden to cast faith aside and to believe nothing but what can be demonstrated by "an appeal, in the last resort, to the organs of sense." Now is the time, and this is the place, so to "remember our Creator" that, come what may, we shall never be able to forget Him, or doubt His love, or question His revelation. The preacher leans far out from the pulpit, spreading himself, as it were, over the congregation, in an act of benediction. "From this place may Christ ever be preached, in the fulness of His creative, redemptive, and sacramental work. Here may you learn to remember Him in the days of your youth, and, in the last and most awful day of all, may He remember you." Five minutes afterwards we are in the open air. Boys stare and gasp; masters hurry past, excited and loquacious. Notes are compared, and watches consulted. Liddon has preached for an hour, and the school must go without its dinner. Enough has now been said about the Chapel and its memories. I must now turn to lighter themes. I remember once hearing Mrs. Procter, who was born in 1799 and died in 1888, say casually at a London dinner-party, when someone mentioned Harrow Speech-Day--"Ah! that used to be a pleasant day. The last time I was there I drove down with Lord Byron and Doctor Parr, who had been breakfasting with my step-father, Basil Montagu." This reminiscence seemed to carry one back some way, but I entirely agreed with Mrs. Procter. Speech-Day at Harrow has been for more than forty years one of my favourite holidays. In my time the present Speech-Room did not exist. The old Speech-Room, added to John Lyon's original building in 1819, was a well-proportioned hall, with panelled walls and large windows. Tiers of seats rose on three sides of the room; on the fourth was the platform, and just opposite the platform sat the Head-master, flanked right and left by distinguished visitors. There was a triumphal arch of evergreens over the gate, and the presence of the Beadle of the Parish Church, sumptuous in purple and gold, pointed to the historic but obsolescent connexion between the Parish and the School. The material of the "Speeches," so-called, was much the same as that provided at other schools--Shakespeare, Sheridan, Chatham, Aristophanes, Plautus, Molière, Schiller. An age-long desire to play the Trial in _Pickwick_ was only attained, under the liberal rule of Dr. Wood, in 1909. At the Speeches, one caught one's first glimpse of celebrities whom one was destined to see at closer quarters in the years to come; and I never can forget the radiant beauty of "Spencer's Faery Queen,"[7] as I saw her at the Speeches of 1869. While I am speaking of Celebrities, I must make a short digression from Speech-Day to Holidays. Dr. Vaughan, some time Head-master of Harrow and afterwards Dean of Llandaff, was in 1868 Vicar of Doncaster. My only brother was one of his curates; the Vaughans asked my mother to stay with them at the Vicarage, in order that she might see her son, then newly ordained, at his work; and, the visit falling in the Harrow holidays, they good-naturedly said that she might bring me with her. Dr. Vaughan was always exceedingly kind to boys, and one morning, on our way back from the daily service, he said to me--"Sir Grosvenor Le Draughte[8] has proposed to break his journey here, on his return from Scotland. Do you know him? No? Well--observe Sir Grosvenor. He is well worthy of observation. He is exactly what the hymn-book calls 'a worldling.'" The day advanced, and no Sir Grosvenor appeared. The Doctor came into the drawing-room repeatedly, asking if "that tiresome old gentleman had arrived," and Mrs. Vaughan plied him with topics of consolation--"Perhaps he has missed his train. Perhaps there has been an accident. Perhaps he has been taken ill on the journey"--but the Doctor shook his head and refused to be comforted. After dinner, we sat in an awe-struck silence, while the Vaughans, knowing the hour at which the last train from Scotland came in, and the length of time which it took to drive from the station, listened with ears erect. Presently the wheels of a fly came rumbling up, and Dr. Vaughan, exclaiming, "Our worst anticipations are realized!" hurried to the front door. Then, welcoming the aged traveller with open arms, he said in his blandest tones--"Now, my dear Sir Grosvenor, I know you must be dreadfully tired. You shall go to bed at once." Sir Grosvenor, who longed to sit up till midnight, telling anecdotes and drinking brandy-and-water, feebly remonstrated; but the remorseless Doctor led his unwilling captive upstairs. It was a triumph of the _Suaviter in modo_, and gave me an impressive lesson on the welcome which awaits self-invited guests, even when they are celebrities. But all this is a parenthesis. I should be shamefully ungrateful to a place of peculiar enjoyment if I forbore to mention the Library at Harrow. It was opened in 1863, as a Memorial of Dr. Vaughan's Head-mastership, and its delicious bow-window, looking towards Hampstead, was my favourite resort. On whole-holidays, when others were playing cricket, I used to read there for hours at a stretch; and gratified my insatiable thirst for Biographies, Memoirs, and Encyclopædias. The Library was also the home of the Debating Society, and there I moved, forty-two years ago, that a Hereditary Legislative Body is incompatible with free institutions; and supported the present Bishop of Oxford in declaring that a Republic is the best form of Government. The mention of the Debating Society leads me to the subject of Politics. I have said in a former chapter that the Conservative Reform Bill of 1867 was the first political event which interested me. It was a stirring time all over the world, in France, in Italy, and in Mexico. There were rebellions and rumours of rebellion. Monarchical institutions were threatened. Secret Societies were in full activity. The whole social order seemed to be passing through a crisis, and I, like the Abbé Siéyes, fell to framing constitutions; my favourite scheme being a Republic, with a President elected for life, and a Legislature chosen by universal suffrage. But all these dreams were dispelled by the realities of my new life at Harrow, and, for a while, I perforce thought more of Imperial than of Papal Rome, of Greek than of English Republics. But in the summer of 1868, Mr. Gladstone's first attack on the Irish Church caused such an excitement as I had never before known. It was a pitched battle between the two great Parties of the State, and I was an enthusiastic follower of the Gladstonian standard. In November 1868 came the General Election which was to decide the issue. Of course Harrow, like all other schools, was Tory as the sea is salt. Out of five hundred boys, I can only recall five who showed the Liberal colour. These were the present Lord Grey; Walter Leaf, the Homeric Scholar; W. A. Meek, now Recorder of York; M. G. Dauglish, who edited the "Harrow Register," and myself. On the polling day I received my "Baptism of Fire," or rather of mud, being rolled over and over in the attempt to tear my colours from me. The Tory colour was red; the Liberal was blue; and my mother, chancing to drive through Harrow with the light blue carriage-wheels which my family have always used, was playfully but loudly hissed by wearers of the red rosette. Among the masters, political opinion was divided. Mr. Young, whom I quoted just now, was a Liberal, and a Tory boy called Freddy Bennet (brother of the present Lord Tankerville) covered himself with glory by pinning a red streamer to the back of Young's gown while he was calling "Bill." In the following year our Politics found a fresh vent through the establishment of _The Harrovian_. I had dabbled in composition ever since I was ten, and had printed both prose and verse before I entered Harrow School. So here was a heaven-sent contributor, and one morning, in the autumn of 1869, as I was coming out of First School, one[9] of the Editors overtook me and said-- "We want you to contribute to _The Harrovian_. We are only going to employ fellows who can write English--not such stuff as 'The following boys _were given prizes_.'" Purism indeed! Here began my journalistic career. For three years I wrote a considerable part of the paper, and I was an Editor during my last year, in conjunction with my friends Dumbar Barton and Walter Sichel. Harrow is sometimes said to be the most musical of Public Schools; and certainly our School Songs have attained a wide popularity. I believe that "Forty Years on" is sung all over the world. But, when I went to Harrow, we were confined to the traditional English songs and ballads, and to some Latin ditties by Bradby and Westcott, which we bellowed lustily but could not always construe. E. E. Bowen's stirring, though often bizarre, compositions (admirably set to music by John Farmer) began soon after I entered the school, and E. W. Howson's really touching and melodious verses succeeded Bowens' some ten years after I had left. Other song-writers, of greater or less merit, we have had; but from first to last, the thrilling spell of a Harrow concert has been an experience quite apart from all other musical enjoyments. "The singing is the thing. When you hear the great body of fresh voices leap up like a lark from the ground, and rise and swell and swell and rise till the rafters seem to crack and shiver, then you seem to have discovered all the sources of feeling." This was the tribute of a stranger, and an Harrovian has recorded the same emotion:--"John was singing like a lark, with a lark's spontaneous delight in singing; with an ease and self-abandonment which charmed eye almost as much as ear. Higher and higher rose the clear, sexless notes, till two of them met and mingled in a triumphant trill. To Desmond, that trill was the answer to the quavering, troubled cadences of the first verse; the vindication of the spirit soaring upwards unfettered by the flesh--the pure spirit, not released from the human clay without a fierce struggle. At that moment Desmond loved the singer--the singer who called to him out of heaven, who summoned his friend to join him, to see what he saw--'the vision splendid.'"[10] I am conscious that, so far, I have treated the Moloch of Athletics with such scant respect that his worshippers may doubt if I ever was really a boy. Certainly my physical inability to play games was rendered less bitter by the fact that I did not care about them. I well remember the astonishment of my tutor, when he kindly asked me to luncheon on his carriage at my first Eton and Harrow match, and I replied that I should not be there. "Not be at Lord's, my boy? How very strange! Why?" "Because there are three things which I particularly dislike--heat, and crowds, and cricket." It certainly was a rather priggish answer, but let me say in self-defence that before I left the school I had become as keen on "Lord's," as the best of my compeers. That, in spite of his reprehensible attitude towards our national game, I was still, as Mr. Chadband said, "a human boy," is proved by the intense interest with which I beheld the one and only "Mill" which ever took place while I was at Harrow.[11] It was fought on the 25th of February, 1868, with much form and ceremony. The "Milling-ground," now perverted to all sorts of base uses, is immediately below the School-Yard. The ground slopes rapidly, so that the wall of the Yard forms the gallery of the Milling-Ground. The moment that "Bill" was over, I rushed to the wall and secured an excellent place, leaning my elbows on the wall, while a friend, who was a moment later, sat on my shoulders and looked over my bowed head. It would be indiscreet to mention the names of the combatants, though I remember them perfectly. One was a red-headed giant; the other short, dark, and bow-legged. Neither had at all a pleasant countenance, and I must admit that I enjoyed seeing them pound each other into pulp. I felt that two beasts were getting their deserts. To-day such a sight would kill me; but this is the degeneracy of old age. Now that I am talking about school-fellows, several names call for special mention. As I disliked athletics, it follows that I did not adore athletes. I can safely say that I never admired a boy because of his athletic skill, though I have admired many in spite of it. Probably Sidney Pelham, Archdeacon of Norfolk, who was in the Harrow Eleven in 1867 and 1868, and the Oxford Eleven in 1871, will never see this book; so I may safely say that I have seldom envied anyone as keenly as I envied him, when Dr. Butler, bidding him farewell before the whole school, thanked him for "having set an example which all might be proud to follow--unfailing sweetness of temper, and perfect purity of life." In one respect, the most conspicuous of my school-fellows was H.R.H. Prince Thomas of Savoy, Duke of Genoa, nephew of Victor Emmanuel, and now an Admiral in the Italian Navy. He came to Harrow in 1869, and lived with Mr. and Mrs. Matthew Arnold. He was elected King of Spain by a vote of the Cortes on the 3rd of October 1869. He was quite a popular boy, and no one had the slightest grudge against him; but, for all that, everyone made a point of kicking him, in the hope of being able to say in after-life that they had kicked the King of Spain. Unfortunately Victor Emmanuel, fearing dynastic complications, forbade him to accept the Crown; so he got all the Harrow kicks and none of the Spanish half-pence. When I entered Harrow, the winner of all the classical prizes was Andrew Graham Murray, now Lord Dunedin and Lord President of the Court of Session; a most graceful scholar, and also a considerable mathematician. Just below him was Walter Leaf, to whom no form of learning came amiss; who was as likely to be Senior Wrangler as Senior Classic, and whose performances in Physical Science won the warm praise of Huxley. Of the same standing as these were Arthur Evans, the Numismatist, Frank Balfour, the Physiologist, and Gerald Rendall, Head-master of Charterhouse. Among my contemporaries the most distinguished was Charles Gore, whose subsequent career has only fulfilled what all foresaw; and just after him came (to call them by their present names) Lord Crewe, Lord Ribblesdale, Lord Spencer, Mr. Justice Barton of the Irish Bench, and Mr. Walter Long, in whom Harrow may find her next Prime Minister. Walter Sichel was at seventeen the cleverest school-boy whom I have ever known. Sir Henry McKinnon obtained his Commission in the Guards while he was still in the Fifth Form. Pakenham Beatty was the Swinburnian of the school, then, as now, a true Poet of Liberty. Ion Keith-Falconer, Orientalist and missionary, was a saint in boyhood as in manhood. Edward Eyre seemed foreordained to be what in London and in Northumberland he has been--the model Parish-Priest; and my closest friend of all was Charles Baldwyn Childe-Pemberton, who, as Major Childe, fell at the battle of Spion Kop, on a spot now called, in honour of his memory, "Childe's Hill." _De minimis non curat Respublica_; which, being interpreted, signifies--_The Commonwealth_ will not care to know the names of the urchins who fagged for me.[12] But I cherish an ebony match-box carved and given to me by one of these ministering spirits, as a proof that, though my laziness may have made me exacting, my exactions were not brutal. On the 15th of June, 1871, Harrow School celebrated the three-hundredth anniversary of its foundation. Harrovians came from every corner of the globe to take part in this Tercentenary Festival. The arrangements were elaborated with the most anxious care. The Duke of Abercorn, affectionately and appropriately nicknamed "Old Splendid," presided over a banquet in the School-Yard; and the programme of the day's proceedings had announced, rather to the terror of intending visitors, that after luncheon there would be "speeches, interspersed with songs, from three hundred and fifty of the boys." The abolition of the second comma dispelled the dreadful vision of three-hundred-and-fifty school-boy-speeches, and all went merry as a marriage-bell--all, except the weather. It seemed as if the accumulated rain of three centuries were discharged on the devoted Hill. It was raining when we went to the early celebration in the Chapel; it was raining harder when we came out. At the culminating moment of the day's proceedings, when Dr. Vaughan was proposing "Prosperity to Harrow," the downpour and the thunder drowned the speaker's voice; and, when evening fell on the sodden cricket-ground, the rain extinguished the fireworks. On that same cricket-ground nine days later, in the golden afternoon of Midsummer Day, George Clement Cottrell, a boy beautiful alike in face and in character, was killed in an instant by a blow from a ball, which struck him behind the ear when he was umpiring in the Sixth Form game. On the 29th of June his five hundred school-fellows followed him to his resting-place in the Churchyard on the Hill, and I believe we unanimously felt that he whom we had lost was the one, of all our number, of whom we could say, with the surest confidence, that he was fit to pass, without a moment's warning, into the invisible World. _Beati mundo corde_. FOOTNOTES: [4] Writing to John Murray in 1832, Byron said--"There is a spot in the Churchyard, near the footpath, on the brow of the Hill looking towards Windsor, and a tomb under a large tree (bearing the name of Peachie, or Peachey), where I used to sit for hours and hours as a boy: this was my favourite spot." [5] The Rev. E. M. Young. [6] Herga is the Anglo-Saxon name of Harrow. [7] Charlotte Seymour, Countess Spencer, died 1903. [8] The name is borrowed from "Sybil." The bearer of it was an ancient physician, who had doctored all the famous people of his time, beginning with "Pamela." [9] Mr. R. de C. Welch. [10] _The Hill._ Chapter vi. [11] Some authorities say that it was the last on record. [12] This paper appeared in _The Commonwealth_. IV OXFORD "For place, for grace, and for sweet companee, Oxford is Heaven, if Heaven on Earth there be." SIR JOHN DAVIES. The faithful student of "Verdant Green" will not have forgotten that Charlie Larkyns, when introducing his Freshman-friend to the sights of Oxford, called his attention to a mystic inscription on a wall in Oriel Lane. "You see that? Well, that's one of the plates they put up to record the Vice's height. F.P.--7 feet, you see: the initials of his name--Frederick Plumptre!" "He scarcely seemed so tall as that," replied Verdant, "though certainly a tall man. But the gown makes a difference, I suppose." Dr. Plumptre was Vice-Chancellor of Oxford from 1848 to 1851, and Master of University College for thirty-four years. He died in 1870, and the College thereupon elected the Rev. G. G. Bradley, then Head-master of Marlborough, and afterwards Dean of Westminster, to the vacant post. It was an unfortunate choice. Mr. Bradley was a man of many gifts and virtues, and a successful schoolmaster; but the methods which had succeeded at Marlborough were not adapted to Oxford, and he soon contrived to get at loggerheads both with Dons and with Undergraduates. However, there existed at that time--and I daresay it exists still--a nefarious kind of trades-unionism among the Headmasters of Public Schools; and, as Bradley had been a Head-master, all the Head-masters advised their best pupils to try the scholarships at University College. So far as I had any academical connexions, they were exclusively with Trinity, Cambridge; and my father was as ignorant of Oxford as myself. All I knew about it was that it was the source and home of the Oxford movement, which some of my friends at Harrow had taught me to admire. Two or three of those friends were already there, and I wished to rejoin them; but, as between the different Colleges, I was fancy-free; so when, early in 1872, Dr. Butler suggested that I should try for a scholarship at University, I assented, reserving myself, in the too probable event of failure, for Christ Church. However, I was elected at University on the 24th of February, 1872, and went into residence there on the 11th of the following October. The Vice-Chancellor who matriculated me was the majestic Liddell, who, with his six feet of stately height draped in scarlet, his "argent aureole" of white hair, and his three silver maces borne before him, always helped me to understand what Sydney Smith meant when he said, of some nonsensical proposition, that no power on earth, save and except the Dean of Christ Church, should induce him to believe it. As I write, I see the announcement of Mrs. Liddell's death; and my mind travels back to the drawing-room and lawns of the Deanery at Christ Church, and the garland of beautiful faces "Decking the matron temples of a place So famous through the world." The 13th of October was my first Sunday in Oxford, and my friend Charles Gore took me to the Choral Eucharist at Cowley St. John, and afterwards to luncheon with the Fathers. So began my acquaintance with a Society of which I have always been a grateful admirer. But more exciting experiences were at hand: on the 20th of October it was Liddon's turn, as Select Preacher, to occupy the pulpit at St. Mary's. The impressions of that, my first University sermon, have never faded from my mind. A bright autumn morning, the yellow sunlight streaming in upon the densely crowded church, the long array of scarlet-robed doctors, the preacher's beautiful face looking down from the high pulpit, with anxious brow and wistful gaze. And then the rolling Latin hymn, and then the Bidding Prayer, and then the pregnant text--_He that believeth on the Son hath everlasting life; and he that believeth not the Son shall not see life; but the wrath of God abideth on him_. Are we listening to St. John the Baptist or St. John the Evangelist? The preacher holds that we are listening to the Evangelist, and says that the purpose of St. John's Gospel is condensed into his text. "If to believe in Him is life, to have known and yet to reject him is death. There is no middle term or state between the two.... In fact, this stern, yet truthful and merciful, claim makes all the difference between a Faith and a theory." And now there is a moment's pause. Preacher and hearers alike take breath. Some instinct assures us that we are just coming to the crucial point. The preacher resumes: "A statement of this truth in other terms is at present occasioning a painful controversy, which it would be better in this place to pass over in silence if too much was not at stake to warrant a course from which I shall only depart with sincere reluctance. Need I say that I allude to the vexed question of the Athanasian Creed?" The great discourse which was thus introduced, with its strong argument for the retention of the Creed as it stands, has long been the property of the Church, and there is no need to recapitulate it. But the concluding words, extolling "the high and rare grace of an intrepid loyalty to known truth," spoke with a force of personal appeal which demands commemoration: "To be forced back upon the central realities of the faith which we profess; to learn, better than ever before, what are the convictions which we dare not surrender at any cost; to renew the freshness of an early faith, which affirms within us, clearly and irresistibly, that the one thing worth thinking of, worth living for, if need were, worth dying for, is the unmutilated faith of Jesus Christ our Lord,--these may be the results of inevitable differences, and, if they are, they are blessings indeed."[13] The same Sunday was marked by another unforgettable experience--my first visit to St. Barnabas'. The church was then just three years old. Bishop Wilberforce had consecrated it on the 19th of October, 1869, and made this characteristic note in his diary:--"Disagreeable service. Acolyte running about. Paste squares for bread, etc., but the church a great gift." Three years later, a boy fresh from Harrow, and less sensitively Protestant than the good Bishop, not only thought "the church a great gift," but enjoyed the "acolyte running about," and found the whole service the most inspiring and uplifting worship in which he had ever joined. My impressions of it are as clear as yesterday's--the unadorned simplicity of the fabric, emphasizing by contrast the blaze of light and colour round the altar; the floating cloud of incense; the expressive and unfussy ceremonial; the straightforward preaching; and, most impressive of all, the large congregation of men, old and young, rich and poor, undergraduates and artisans, all singing Evangelical hymns with one heart and one voice. It was, if ever there was on earth, congregational worship; and I, for one, have never seen its like. The people's pride in the church was very characteristic: they habitually spoke of it as "our Barnabas." The clergy and the worshippers were a family, and the church was a home. At the Dedication Festival of 1872, there was a strong list of preachers, including W. J. E. Bennett, of Frome, and Edward King, then Principal of Cuddesdon. But the sermon which made an indelible impression on me was preached by R. W. Randall, then vicar of All Saints, Clifton, and afterwards Dean of Chichester. It was indeed a memorable performance. "Performance" is the right word, for, young as one was, one realized instinctively the wonderful art and mastery and technical perfection of the whole. There was the exquisitely modulated voice, sinking lower, yet becoming more distinct, whenever any specially moving topic was touched; the restrained, yet emphatic action--I can see that uplifted forefinger still--and the touch of personal reminiscence at the close, so managed as to give the sense that we were listening to an elder brother who, thirty years before, had passed through the same experiences, so awfully intermingled of hope and tragedy, which now lay before us on the threshold of our Oxford life. It was, in brief, a sermon never to be forgotten; it was "a night to be much remembered unto the Lord." Some thirty years later, I was introduced to Dean Randall at a London dinner-party. After dinner, I drew my chair towards him, and said, "Mr. Dean, I have always wished to have an opportunity of thanking you for a sermon which you preached at St. Barnabas', Oxford, at the Dedication Festival, 1872." The Dean smiled, with the graceful pleasure of an old man honoured by a younger one, and said, "Yes? What was the text?" "The text I have long forgotten, but I remember the subject." "And what was that?" "It was the insecurity of even the best-founded hopes." "Rather a well-worn theme," said the Dean, with a half-smile. "But not, sir," I said, "as you handled it. You told us, at the end of the sermon, that you remembered a summer afternoon when you were an undergraduate at Christ Church, and were sitting over your Thucydides close to your window, grappling with a long and complicated passage which was to be the subject of next morning's lecture; and that, glancing for a moment from your book, you saw the two most brilliant young Christ Church men of the day going down to bathe in the Isis. You described the gifts and graces of the pair, who, between them, seemed to combine all that was best and most beautiful in body and mind and soul. And then you told us how, as your friends disappeared towards Christ Church Meadows, you returned to your work; and only were roused from it two hours later, when a confused noise of grief and terror in the quadrangle below attracted your attention, and you saw the dead bodies of Gaisford and Phillimore borne past your window from their 'watery bier' at Sandford Lasher." On Advent Sunday, December 1, I saw and heard Dr. Pusey for the first time. He was then in broken health; but he gathered all his physical and mental energies for a great sermon on "The Responsibility of Intellect in Matters of Faith." The theme of this sermon was that Intellect is a great trust confided to us by God; that we are responsible to Him for the use of it; and that we must exercise it in submission to His revealed Will. What He has declared, that it is our duty to believe. Our Lord Himself had uttered the most solemn warning against wilful unbelief; the Athanasian Creed only re-echoed His awful words; and the storm which assailed the Creed was really directed against the revealed Truth of God. "This tornado will, I trust, by God's mercy, soon pass; it is a matter of life and death. To remove those words of warning, or the Creed because it contains them, would be emphatically to teach our people that it is _not_ necessary to salvation to believe faithfully the Incarnation of our Lord Jesus Christ, or in One God as He has made Himself known to us." Immediately after delivering himself of this great apology for the Faith, Pusey went abroad for the benefit of his health, and did not return to Oxford till the Summer Term. I well remember the crowd of ancient disciples, who had missed their accustomed interview at Christmas, thronging his door in Christ Church, like the impotent folk at the Pool of Bethesda. Another reminiscence, and of a very different kind, belongs to my first Term. Dean Stanley had been nominated as Select Preacher, and the old-fashioned High Churchmen made common cause with the Low Churchmen to oppose his appointment. There was a prodigious clamour, but Dr. Pusey held aloof from the agitation, believing--and in this he was conspicuously right--that "opposition would only aggravate the evil by enlisting the enthusiasm of the young." The vote was taken, in an unusually crowded Convocation, on the 11th of December. It was a noteworthy and rather an amusing scene, and was well described by an eyewitness.[14] "Oxford was fairly startled from the serenity which usually marks the fag-end of the Michaelmas Term by a sudden irruption of the outer world. Recognitions took place at every street-corner. The hotels were put upon their mettle. The porters' lodges of the Colleges were besieged, and Boffin's Refreshment Rooms ran over with hungry parsons from the country. As an evidence of the interest which the question of Dean Stanley's appointment excited beyond the walls of the University, I may mention that even the guards and porters at the railway hallooed to each other to know "the state of the betting"; but even they did not seem quite to have calculated on the matter being so warmly taken up in London and by the country at large." At half-past one o'clock the bell of St. Mary's gave notice to the combatants to prepare for the fray, and immediately the floor of the Theatre was sprinkled with representative men of all the schools. The non-residents appeared in gowns of various degrees of rustiness, some with chimney-pot hats and some with wide-awakes. The early comers conversed in small groups, hugging instinctively those sides of the building on which were written respectively _Placet_ or _Non-Placet_, giving thereby an inkling of how they meant to vote. The gathering increased every moment, and soon the Doctors in their scarlet began to dot the seats around the Vice-Chancellor's chair. Prince Leopold, by right of his royalty, entered the sacred enclosure with Dr. Acland, and afterwards took his seat among the Doctors. Before two o'clock every inch of the floor was full, the occupants standing in anticipation of the coming encounter. "Still they gravitated towards their respective voting-doors, and on the _Placet_ side one descried the scholarly face of Professor Jowett, the sharply-cut features of the Rev. Mark Pattison, and the well-known physiognomy of Professor Max Müller. On the opposite side Mr. Burgon was marshalling his forces, and Dean Goulburn, from the Doctors' benches, looked out over the seething mass of M.A.'s below him." At two o'clock the Vice-Chancellor arrived, and forthwith commenced proceedings in Latin, which must have been extremely edifying to the ladies who, in large numbers, occupied the Strangers' Gallery, backed by a narrow fringe of Undergraduates. The object of the Convocation was stated as being the appointment of Select Preachers, and the names were then submitted to the Doctors and Masters for approval. "_Placetne igitur vobis huic nomini assentire?_" being the form in which the question was proposed. The name first on the list was that of the Rev. Harvey Goodwin; and a faint buzz in the assembly was interpreted by the Vice-Chancellor, skilled in such sounds, as an expression of approval. Thereupon he passed on to name number two, which, with some agitation, but with clear, resonant voice, he read out as "Arthurus Penrhyn Stanley." Immediately there ensued a scene of the wildest confusion. On the _Placet_ side, cheers and waving of trencher-caps; on the _Non-Placet_ side feeble hisses; and from all sides, undergraduate as well as graduate, mingled shouts of _Placet_ and _Non_, with an accompaniment of cheers and hisses; until the ringing voice of Dean Liddell pronounced the magic words _Fiat scrutinium_. Thereupon the two Proctors proceeded first of all to take the votes of the Doctors on their benches; and, when this was done, they took their station at the doors labelled _Placet_ and _Non-placet_. During the process of polling we had an opportunity of criticizing the constituents of that truly exceptional gathering. It was certainly not true to say, as some said, that only the younger Masters voted for Dean Stanley. There was quite a fair proportion of white and bald heads on the _Placet_ side. "The country contingent was not so numerous as one had expected, and I do not believe that all of these went out at the _Non-placet_ door. Evidently, parties were pretty evenly balanced; and, when the _Non-placets_ had all recorded their votes there were about twenty-five left on Dean Stanley's side, which probably would have nearly represented the actual majority, but, at the last moment, some stragglers, who had only arrived in Oxford by 2.25 train hurried in, and so swelled the numbers. One late-comer arrived without his academicals, and some zealous supporter of the Dean had to denude himself, and pass his cap and gown outside to enable this gentleman to vote." Soon it was over. The Proctors presented their lists to the Vice-Chancellor, who, amid breathless silence, pronounced the fateful words--"_Majori parti placet._" Then there was indeed a cheer, which rang through the building from basement to upper gallery, and was taken up outside in a way that reminded one of the trial of the Seven Bishops. The hisses, if there were any, were fairly drowned. Oxford had given its approval to Dean Stanley, the numbers being--_Placet_, 349; _Non-placet_, 287. When the fuss was over, Liddon wrote thus to a friend:--"It was a discreditable nomination; but, having been made, ought, in the interests of the Faith, to have been allowed to pass _sub silentio_; for, if opposed, it must either be defeated or affirmed by Convocation--a choice, _me judice_, of nearly balanced evils. To have defeated it would have been to invest Stanley with the cheap honours of a petty martyrdom. To have affirmed it is, I fear, to have given a new impetus to the barren, unspiritual negations which he represents." I went up to Oxford well supplied with introductions. Dr. Cradock, the well-beloved Principal of Brasenose, scholar, gentleman, man of the world, devout Wordsworthian, enthusiastic lover of cricket and boating, had married a connexion of my own, who had been a Maid of Honour in Queen Victoria's first household. Theirs was the most hospitable house in Oxford, and a portrait of Mrs. Cradock, not quite kind, but very lifelike, enlivens the serious pages of _Robert Elsmere_. Dr., afterwards Sir Henry, Acland, with his majestic presence, blandly paternal address, and ample rhetoric, was not only the Regius Professor of Medicine, but also the true and patient friend of many undergraduate generations. Mrs. Acland is commemorated in what I have always thought one of the grandest sermons in the English language--Liddon's "Worth of Faith in a Life to Come."[15] The Warden of Keble and Mrs. Talbot (then the young wife of the young Head of a very young College) were, as they have been for 40 years, the kindest and most constant of friends. Dr. Bright, Canon of Christ Church and Professor of Ecclesiastical History, was a lavish entertainer, "with an intense dramatic skill in telling a story, an almost biblical knowledge of all the pages of Dickens (and of Scott), with shouts of glee, and outpourings of play and fancy and allusion." But I need not elaborate the portrait, for everyone ought to know Dr. Holland's "Personal Studies" by heart. Edwin Palmer, Professor of Latin, was reputed to be the best scholar in Oxford, and Mrs. Palmer was a most genial hostess. Henry Smith, Professor of Geometry, was, I suppose, the most accomplished man of his time;[16] yet he lives, not by his performances in the unthinkable sphere of metaphysical mathematics, but by his intervention at Gladstone's last contest for the University. Those were the days of open voting, and Smith was watching the votes in Gladstone's interest. Professor ----, who never could manage his h's, wished to vote for the Tory candidates, Sir William Heathcote and Mr. Gathorne Hardy, but lost his head, and said:--"I vote for Glad----." Then, suddenly correcting himself, exclaimed, "I mean for 'Eathcote and 'Ardy." Thereupon Smith said, "I claim that vote for Gladstone." "But," said the Vice-Chancellor, "the voter did not finish your candidate's name." "That is true," said Smith, "but then he did not even begin the other two." Henry Smith kept house with an admirable and accomplished sister--the first woman, I believe, to be elected to a School Board, and certainly the only one to whom J. W. Burgon (afterwards Dean of Chichester) devoted a whole sermon. "Miss Smith's Sermon," with its whimsical protest against feminine activities, was a standing joke in those distant days. The Rev. H. R. Bramley, Fellow of Magdalen, used to entertain us sumptuously in his most beautiful College. He was a connecting link between Dr. Routh (1755-1854) and modern Oxford, and in his rooms I was introduced to the ablest man of my generation--a newly-elected Scholar of Balliol called Alfred Milner. It is anticipating, but only by a Term or two (for Dr. King came to Christ Church in 1873), to speak of Sunday luncheons at the house of the Regius Professor of Pastoral Theology, and of Dr. Liddon's characteristic allusion to a remarkably bloated-looking Bishop of Oxford in balloon sleeves and a wig, whose portrait adorned the Professor's house. "How singular, dear friend, to reflect that _that person_ should have been chosen, in the providential order, to connect Mr. Keble with the Apostles!" But though the lines seem to have fallen unto me in ritualistic places, I was not without Evangelical advantages. Canon Linton, Rector of St. Peter-le-Bailey, was a dear old gentleman, who used to entertain undergraduates at breakfasts and luncheons, and after the meal, when more secularly-minded hosts might have suggested pipes, would lead us to a side-table, where a selection of theological works was displayed, and bid us take our choice. "Kay on the Psalms" was a possession thus acquired, and has been used by me from that time to this. Nor must this retrospective page omit some further reference to J. W. Burgon, Fellow of Oriel and Vicar of St. Mary-the-Virgin. Dean Church called him "the dear old learned Professor of Billingsgate," and certainly his method of conducting controversy savoured (as Sydney Smith said about Bishop Monk) of the apostolic occupation of trafficking in fish. But to those whom he liked, and who looked up to him (for this was an essential condition), he was kind, hospitable, courteous, and even playful. His humour, which was of a crabbed kind quite peculiar to himself, found its best vent in his sermons. I often wondered whether he realized that the extreme grotesqueness of his preaching was the spell which drew undergraduates to the Sunday evening service at St. Mary's. For my next reminiscence of hospitality to Freshmen I must rely on the assistance of a pseudonym. At the time of which I am writing, Oxford numbered among her Professors one who had graduated, at a rather advanced age, from Magdalen Hall. Borrowing a name from Dickens, we will call him "Professor Dingo, of European reputation." To the kindness of Professor and Mrs. Dingo I was commended by a friend who lived near my home in Bedfordshire, and soon after my arrival in Oxford they asked me to Sunday luncheon at their villa in The Parks. The conversation turned on a new book of Limericks (or "Nonsense Rhymes," as we called them then) about the various Colleges. The Professor had not seen it, and wanted to know if it was amusing. In my virginal innocence I replied that one rhyme had amused me. "Let's have it," quoth the Professor, so off I went at score-- "There once was at Magdalen Hall A Man who knew nothing at all; When he took his degree He was past fifty-three-- Which is youngish for Magdalen Hall." The Professor snarled like an angry dog, and said, witheringly, that, if _that_ was a specimen, the book must be sorry stuff indeed. After luncheon I walked away with another undergraduate, rather senior to myself, who said rejoicingly, "You've made a good start. That rhyme is meant to describe old Dingo." FOOTNOTES: [13] "The Life of Faith and the Athanasian Creed." University Sermons. Series II. [14] The Rev. C. M. Davies, D.D. [15] University Sermons. Series II. [16] "He had gained University honours, such as have been gained by no one now living, and will probably never be won again.... He was one of the greatest mathematical geniuses of the century. His chief and highest intellectual interests lay in an unknown world into which not more than two or three persons could follow. In that world he travelled alone."--_From a Memorial Sermon by B. Jowett._ V OXONIANA "Mind'st thou the bells? What a place it was for bells, lad! Spires as sharp as thrushes' bills to pierce the sky with song. How it shook the heart of one, the swaying and the swinging, How it set the blood a-tramp and all the brains a-singing, Aye, and what a world of thought the calmer chimes came bringing, Telling praises every hour To His majesty and power, Telling prayers with punctual service, summers, centuries, how long? The beads upon our rosary of immemorial song." _The Minstrelsy of Isis_. Oxford is a subject from which one cannot easily tear oneself: so I make no apology for returning to it. In that delightful book, "The Minstrelsy of Isis," I have found an anonymous poem beginning "Royal heart, loyal heart, comrade that I loved," and, in the spirit of that line, I dedicate this chapter to the friend whom I always regarded as the Ideal Undergraduate.[17] Other names and other faces of contemporaries and companions come crowding upon the memory, but it is better, on all accounts, to leave them unspecified. I lived quite as much in other colleges as in my own, and in a fellowship which was gathered from all sorts and sections of undergraduate life. Let the reader imagine all the best and brightest men in the University between 1872 and 1876, and he will not go far wrong in assuming that my friends were among them. My Oxford life was cut sharply into two halves by a very definite dividing-line; the first half was cheerful and irresponsible enough. A large part of the cheerfulness was connected with the Church, and my earliest friendships (after those which I brought with me from Harrow) were formed in the circle which frequented St. Barnabas. I am thankful to remember that my eyes were even then open to see the moral beauty and goodness all around me, and I had a splendid dream of blending it all into one. In my second term I founded an "Oxford University Church Society," designed to unite religious undergraduates of all shades of Churchmanship for common worship and interchange of views. We formed ourselves on what we heard of a similar Society at Cambridge; and, early in the Summer Term of 1873, a youth of ruddy countenance and graceful address--now Canon Mason and Master of Pembroke--came over from Cambridge, and told us how to set to work. The effort was indeed well-meant. It was blessed by Churchmen as dissimilar as Bishop Mackarness, Edwin Palmer, Burgon, Scott Holland, Illingworth, Ottley, Lacey, Gore, and Jayne, now Bishop of Chester; but it was not long-lived. Very soon the "Victorian Persecution," as we used to call it, engineered by Archbishop Tait through the P.W.R. Act, made it difficult for ritualists to feel that they had part or lot with those who were imprisoning conscientious clergymen; so the O.U.C.S. fell to pieces and disappeared, to be revived after long years and under more peaceable conditions, by the present Archbishop of York, when Vicar of St. Mary's. The accession of Dr. King to the Pastoral Professorship brought a new element of social delight into the ecclesiastical world of Oxford, and that was just what was wanted. We revered our leaders, but saw little of them. Dr. Pusey was buried in Christ Church; and though there were some who fraudulently professed to be students of Hebrew, in order that they might see him (and sketch him) at his lectures, most of us only heard him in the pulpit of St. Mary's. It was rather fun to take ritualistic ladies, who had fashioned mental pictures of the great Tractarian, to Evensong in Christ Church, and to watch their dismay as that very unascetic figure, with tumbled surplice and hood awry, toddled to his stall. "Dear me! Is that Dr. Pusey? Somehow I had fancied quite a different-looking man." Liddon was now a Canon of St. Paul's, and his home was at Amen Court; so, when residing at Oxford, he lived a sort of hermit-life in his rooms in Christ Church, and did not hold much communication with undergraduates. I have lively recollections of eating a kind of plum duff on Fridays at the Mission-House of Cowley, while one of the Fathers read passages from Tertullian on the remarriage of widows; but this, though edifying, was scarcely social. But the arrival of "Canon King," with the admirable mother who kept house for him, was like a sunrise. All those notions of austerity and stiffness and gloom which had somehow clung about Tractarianism were dispelled at once by his fun and sympathy and social tact. Under his roof, undergraduates always felt happy and at home; and in his "Bethel," as he called it, a kind of disused greenhouse in his garden, he gathered week by week a band of undergraduate hearers, to whom religion spoke, through his lips, with her most searching yet most persuasive accent. Lovers of _Friendship's Garland_ will remember that, during their three years at Oxford, Lord Lumpington and Esau Hittall were "so much occupied with Bullingdon and hunting that there was no great opportunity for those mental gymnastics which train and brace the mind for future acquisition." My ways of wasting time were less strenuous than theirs; and my desultory reading, and desultory Church-work, were supplemented by a good deal of desultory riding. I have some delicious memories of autumnal canters over Shotover and Boar's Hill, and racing gallops across Port Meadow, and long ambles on summer afternoons, through the meadows by the river-side, towards Radley and Nuneham. Having been brought up in the country, and having ridden ever since I was promoted from panniers, I looked upon riding as a commonplace accomplishment, much on a par with swimming and skating. Great, therefore, was my surprise to find that many undergraduates, I suppose town-bred, regarded horsemanship not merely as a rare and difficult art, but also as implying a kind of moral distinction. When riding men met me riding, I saw that they "looked at each other with a wild surmise;" and soon, perhaps as a consequence, I was elected to "Vincent's." When, after a term or two, my father suggested that I had better have my own horse sent from home, I was distinctly conscious of a social elevation. Henceforward I might, if I would, associate with "Bloods"; but those whom they would have contemned as "Ritualistic Smugs" were more interesting companions. The mention of "Vincent's" reminds me of the Union, to which also I belonged, though I was a sparing and infrequent participator in its debates. I disliked debating for debating's sake; and, though I have always loved speaking on Religion or Politics or any other subject in which the spoken word might influence practice, it has always seemed to me a waste of effort to argue for abstract propositions. If by speaking I can lead a man to give a vote on the right side, or a boy to be more dutiful to his mother, or a sin-burdened youth to "open his grief," I am ready to speak all night; but the debates of the Oxford Union on the Falck Laws and the Imperial Titles Bill always left me cold. The General Election of 1874 occurred during my second year at Oxford. The City of Oxford was contested by Harcourt, Cardwell, and the local brewer. Harcourt and Cardwell were returned; but immediately afterwards Cardwell was raised to the peerage, and a bye-election ensued. I can vividly recall the gratification which I felt when the Liberal candidate--J. D. Lewis--warmly pressed my hand, and, looking at my rosette, hoped that he might count on my vote and interest. Not for the world would I have revealed the damning fact that I was a voteless undergraduate. In connexion with the Election of 1874, my tutor--C. A. Fyffe--told me a curious story. He was canvassing the Borough of Woodstock on behalf of George Brodrick, then an academic Liberal of the deepest dye. Woodstock was what was called an "Agricultural Borough"--practically a division of the County--and in an outlying district, in a solitary cottage, the canvassers found an old man whom his neighbours reported to be a Radical. He did not disclaim the title, but no inducements could induce him to go to the poll. Gradually, under persistent cross-examination, he revealed his mind. He was old enough to remember the days before the Reform Bill of 1832. His father had been an ardent reformer. Everyone believed that, if only the Bill were passed, hunger and poverty and misery would be abolished, and the poor would come by their own. He said--and this was the curious point--that firearms were stored in his father's cottage, to be used in a popular rising if the Bill were rejected by the Lords. Well, the Lords had submitted, and the Bill had been passed; and we had got our reform--and no one was any better off. The poor were still poor, and there was misery and oppression, and the great people had it all their own way. He had got his roof over his head, and "a bit of meat in his pot," and it was no good hoping for anything more, and he was never going to take any part in politics again. It was a notable echo from the voices which, in 1832, had proclaimed the arrival of the Millennium. Oxford in those days was full of Celebrities. Whenever one's friends came "up" to pay one a visit, one was pretty certain to be able, in a casual stroll up the High or round Magdalen Walks or Christ Church Meadows, to point out someone of whom they had heard before. I have already spoken of Liddell and Pusey and Liddon and Acland and Burgon and Henry Smith. Chief perhaps among our celebrities was Ruskin, who had lately been made Slade Professor of Fine Art, and whose Inaugural Lecture was incessantly on the lips of such undergraduates as cared for glorious declamation. "There is a destiny now possible to us--the highest ever set before a nation to be accepted or refused. We are still undegenerate in race; a race mingled of the best northern blood. We are not yet dissolute in temper, but still have the firmness to govern, and the grace to obey. We have been taught a religion of pure mercy, which we must either now finally betray, or learn to defend by fulfilling. And we are rich in an inheritance of honour, bequeathed to us through a thousand years of noble history, which it should be our daily thirst to increase with splendid avarice, so that Englishmen, if it be a sin to covet honour, should be the most offending souls alive.... Will you, youths of England, make your country again a royal throne of kings; a sceptred isle, for all the world a source of light, a centre of peace; mistress of Learning and of the Arts; faithful guardian of time-tried principles, under temptation from fond experiments and licentious desires; and, amidst the cruel and clamorous jealousies of the nations, worshipped in her strange valour, of goodwill towards men? _Vexilla regis prodeunt._ Yes, but of which King? There are two oriflammes; which shall we plant on the farthest islands--the one that floats in heavenly fire, or that hangs heavy with foul tissue of terrestrial gold?" Ruskin's lectures, ostensibly devoted to the Fine Arts, ranged over every topic in earth and heaven, and were attended by the largest, most representative, and most responsive audiences which had ever been gathered in Oxford since Matthew Arnold delivered his Farewell Lecture on "Culture and its Enemies." Another of our Professors--J. E. Thorold Rogers--though perhaps scarcely a celebrity, was well known outside Oxford, partly because he was the first person to relinquish the clerical character under the Act of 1870, partly because of his really learned labours in history and economics, and partly because of his Rabelaisian humour. He was fond of writing sarcastic epigrams, and of reciting them to his friends, and this habit produced a characteristic retort from Jowett. Rogers had only an imperfect sympathy with the historians of the new school, and thus derided the mutual admiration of Green and Freeman-- "Where, ladling butter from a large tureen, See blustering Freeman butter blundering Green." To which Jowett replied, in his quavering treble, "That's a false antithesis, Rogers. It's quite possible to bluster and blunder, too!" The mention of Oxford historians reminds me of my friend Professor Dingo, to whom reference has been made in an earlier chapter. He had a strong admiration for the virile and masterful character of Henry VIII., and was wont to conceal the blots on his hero's career by this pathetic paraphrase--"The later years of this excellent monarch's reign were clouded by _much domestic unhappiness_." Jowett has been mentioned more than once, and there is no need for me to describe him. Lord Beaconsfield, in _Endymion_, gave a snapshot of "a certain Dr. Comeley, an Oxford Don of the new school, who were initiating Lord Montfort in all the mysteries of Neology. This celebrated divine, who, in a sweet silky voice, quoted Socrates instead of St. Paul, was opposed to all symbols and formulas as essentially unphilosophical." Mr. Mallock, in the _New Republic_, supplied us with a more finished portrait of "Dr. Jenkinson," and parodied his style of preaching with a perfection which irritated the Master of Balliol out of his habitual calm. My own intercourse with Jowett was not intimate, but I once dined with him on an occasion which made an equally deep impression on two of the guests--Lord Milner and myself. When the ladies had left the dining-room, an eminent diplomatist began an extremely full-flavoured conversation, which would have been unpleasant anywhere, and, in the presence of the diplomatist's son, a lad of sixteen, was disgusting. For a few minutes the Master endured it, though with visible annoyance; and then, suddenly addressing the offender at the other end of the table, said, in a birdlike chirp, "Sir ----." "Yes, Master." "Shall we continue this conversation in the drawing-room?" No rebuke was ever more neatly administered. Jowett's name reminds me, rather obliquely, of the Rev. H. O. Coxe, who in my time was Bodleian Librarian. He was clergyman, sportsman, scholar, all in one, with an infectious enthusiasm for the treasures in his charge, and the most unfailing kindness and patience in exhibiting them. "Those who have enjoyed the real privilege of hearing Mr. Coxe discuss points of historical detail, or have been introduced by him to some of the rarer treasures of the Bodleian, will bear witness to the living interest which such subjects acquired in his hands. How he would kindle while he recited Lord Clarendon's written resignation of the Chancellorship of the University! With what dramatic zest he read out the scraps of paper (carefully preserved by Clarendon) which used to pass between himself and his Royal Master across the Council-table!" I quote this life-like description from Burgon's _Twelve Good Men_, and Burgon it is who supplies the link with Jowett. "It was shortly after the publication of _Essays and Reviews_ that Jowett, meeting Coxe, enquired:--"Have you read my essay?" "No, my dear Jowett. We are good friends now; but I know that, if I were to read that essay, I should have to cut you. So I haven't read it, and I don't mean to.""--A commendable way of escape from theological controversy. It is scarcely fair to reckon Cardinal Manning among Oxford celebrities; but during my undergraduateship he made two incursions into the University, which were attended by some quaint consequences. In 1873 he was a guest at the banquet held in honour of the fiftieth anniversary of the foundation of the Union; and it was noted with amusement that, though he was not then a Cardinal, but merely a schismatic Archbishop, he contrived to take precedence of the Bishop of Oxford in his own cathedral city. Bishop Wilberforce had died three months before, and I remember that all the old stagers said:--"If Sam had still been Bishop of Oxford, this would not have happened." The Roman Catholics of Oxford were of course delighted; and when, soon afterwards, Manning returned as Cardinal to open the Roman Catholic Church in St. Giles's, great efforts were made to bring all undergraduates who showed any Rome-ward proclivities within the sphere of his influence. To one rather bumptious youth he said:--"And what are you going to do with your life?" "I'm thinking of taking Orders." "Take care you get them, my friend." Another, quite unmoved by the pectoral cross and crimson soutane, asked artlessly, "What was your college?" The Cardinal replied, with some dignity, "I was at Balliol, and subsequently at Merton." "Oh! that was like me. I was at Exeter, and I was sent down to a Hall for not getting through Smalls." "_I was a Fellow of Merton._" No powers of type can do justice to the intonation. At the time of which I speak Oxford was particularly rich in delightful and accomplished ladies. I have already paid my tribute to Mrs. Cradock, Mrs. Liddell, Mrs. Acland, Mrs. Talbot, and Miss Eleanor Smith. Miss Felicia Skene was at once a devoted servant of the poor and the outcast, and also one of the most powerful writers of her time, although she contrived almost entirely to escape observation. Let anyone who thinks that I rate her powers too highly read "The Divine Master," "La Roquette--1871," and "Hidden Depths." No account of the famous women at Oxford would be complete without a reference to Miss Marion Hughes--the first Sister of Mercy in the Church of England--professed on Trinity Sunday, 1841, and still the Foundress-Mother of the Convent of the Holy and Undivided Trinity at Oxford. * * * * * I said at the beginning of this chapter that my Oxford life was divided sharply into two halves. Neither the climate nor the way of living ever suited my health. In my first term I fell into the doctor's hands, and never escaped from them so long as I was an undergraduate. I well remember the decisive counsel of the first doctor whom I consulted (not Dr. Acland). "What wine do you drink?" "None--only beer." "Oh! that's all nonsense. You never will be able to live in this climate unless you drink port, and plenty of it." To this generous prescription I dutifully submitted, but even port was powerless to keep me well at Oxford. I always felt "seedy"; and the nervous worry inseparable from a time of spiritual storm and stress (for four of my most intimate friends seceded to Rome) told upon me more than I knew. An accidental chill brought things to a climax, and during the Christmas vacation of 1874 I was laid low by a sharp attack of _myelitis_, mistaken at the time for rheumatic fever. I heard the last stroke of midnight, December 31, in a paroxysm of pain which, for years after, I never could recall without feeling sick. I lost two terms through illness, and the doctors were against my returning to the damps of Oxford. However, I managed to hobble back on two sticks, maimed for life, and with all dreams of academical distinction at an end. But what was more important was that my whole scheme of life was dissipated. Henceforward it was with me, as with Robert Elsmere after his malaria at Cannes--"It was clear to himself and everybody else that he must do what he could, and not what he would, in the Christian vineyard." The words have always made me smile; but the reality was no smiling matter. The remainder of my life at Oxford was of necessity lived at half-speed; and in this place I must commemorate, with a gratitude which the lapse of years has never chilled, the extraordinary kindness and tenderness with which my undergraduate friends tended and nursed me in that time of crippledom.[18] Prince Leopold, then an undergraduate of Christ Church, and living at Wykeham House in The Parks, used to lend me his pony-carriage, which, as it strictly belonged to the Queen, and bore her crown and cypher, did not pay toll; and, with an undergraduate friend at my side, I used to snatch a fearful joy from driving at full tilt through turnpike gates, and mystifying the toll-keeper by saying that the Queen's carriages paid no toll. For the short remainder of my time at Oxford I was cut off from riding and all active exercise, and was not able even to go out in bad weather. It was with me as with Captain Harville in _Persuasion_--"His lameness prevented him from taking much exercise; but a mind of usefulness and ingenuity seemed to furnish him with constant employment within." * * * * * Here I must close my recollections of Oxford, and, as I look back upon those four years--1872-1876--I find my thoughts best expressed by Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch, who has done for Oxford in his _Alma Mater_ just what Matthew Arnold did in the preface to _Essays in Criticism_.... "Know you her secret none can utter? Hers of the Book, the tripled Crown? Still on the spire the pigeons flutter; Still by the gateway flits the gown; Still on the street, from corbel and gutter, Faces of stone look down. * * * * * Still on her spire the pigeons hover; Still by her gateway haunts the gown; Ah, but her secret? You, young lover, Drumming her old ones forth from town, Know you the secret none discover? Tell it--when _you_ go down." _Know you the secret none discover_--none, that is, while they still are undergraduates? Well, I think I do; and, to begin with a negative, it is not the secret of Nirvana. There are misguided critics abroad in the land who seem to assume that life lived easily in a beautiful place, amid a society which includes all knowledge in its comprehensive survey, and far remote from the human tragedy of poverty and toil and pain, must necessarily be calm. And so, as regards the actual work and warfare of mankind, it may be. The bitter cry of starving Poplar does not very readily penetrate to the well-spread tables of Halls and Common-rooms. In a laburnum-clad villa in The Parks we can afford to reason very temperately about life in cities where five families camp in one room. But, when we leave actualities, and come to the region of thought and opinion, all the pent energy of Oxford seethes and stirs. The Hebrew word for "Prophet" comes, I believe, from a root which signifies to bubble like water on the flame; and it is just in this fervency of thought and feeling that Oxford is Prophetic. It is the tradition that in one year of the storm-tossed 'forties the subject for the Newdigate Prize Poem was Cromwell, whereas the subject for the corresponding poem at Cambridge was Plato. In that selection Oxford was true to herself. For a century at least (even if we leave out of sight her earlier convulsions) she has been the battle-field of contending sects. Her air has resounded with party-cries, and the dead bodies of the controversially slain lie thick in her streets. All the opposing forces of Church and State, of theology and politics, of philosophy and science, of literary and social and economic theory, have contended for mastery in the place which Matthew Arnold, with fine irony, described as "so unruffled by the fierce intellectual life of our century, so serene!" Every succeeding generation of Oxford men has borne its part in these ever recurring strifes. To hold aloof from them would have been poltroonery. Passionately convinced (at twenty) that we had sworn ourselves for life to each cause which we espoused, we have pleaded and planned and denounced and persuaded; have struck the shrewdest blows which our strength could compass, and devised the most dangerous pitfalls for our opponents' feet which wit could suggest. Nothing came of it all, and nothing could come, except the ruin of our appointed studies and the resulting dislocation of all subsequent life. But we were obeying the irresistible impulse of the time and the place in which our lot was cast, and we were ready to risk our all upon the venture. But now all that passion, genuine enough while it lasted, lies far back in the past, and we learn the secret which we never discovered while as yet Oxford held us in the thick of the fight. We thought then that we were the most desperate partisans; we asked no quarter, and gave none; pushed our argumentative victories to their uttermost consequences, and made short work of a fallen foe. But, when all the old battle-cries have died out of our ears, gentler voices begin to make themselves heard. All at once we realize that a great part of our old contentions was only sound and fury and self-deception, and that, though the causes for which we strove may have been absolutely right, our opponents were not necessarily villains. In a word, we have learnt the Secret of Oxford. All the time that we were fighting and fuming, the higher and subtler influences of the place were moulding us, unconscious though we were, to a more gracious ideal. We had really learnt to distinguish between intellectual error and moral obliquity. We could differ from another on every point of the political and theological compass, and yet in our hearts acknowledge him to be the best of all good fellows. Without surrendering a single conviction, we came to see the virtue of so stating our beliefs as to persuade and propitiate, instead of offending and alienating. We had attained to that temper which, in the sphere of thought and opinion, is analogous to the crowning virtue of Christian charity. "Tell it--when _you_ go down." Not long ago I was addressing a company of Oxford undergraduates, all keenly alive to the interests and controversies of the present hour, all devotedly loyal to the tradition of Oxford as each understood it, and all with their eyes eagerly fixed on "the wistful limit of the world." With such an audience it was inevitable to insist on the graces and benedictions which Oxford can confer, and to dwell on Mr. Gladstone's dogma that to call a man a "typically Oxford man" is to bestow the highest possible praise. But this was not all. Something more remained to be said. It was for a speaker whose undergraduateship lay thirty years behind to state as plainly as he could his own deepest obligation to the place which had decided the course and complexion of his life. Wherever philosophical insight is combined with literary genius and personal charm, one says instinctively, "That man is, or ought to be, an Oxford man." Chiefest among the great names which Oxford ought to claim but cannot is the name of Edmund Burke; and the "Secret" on which we have been discoursing seems to be conveyed with luminous precision in his description of the ideal character:--"It is our business ... to bring the dispositions that are lovely in private life into the service and conduct of the commonwealth; so to be patriots as not to forget we are gentlemen; to cultivate friendships and to incur enmities; to have both strong, but both selected--in the one to be placable, in the other immovable." Whoso has attained to that ideal has learnt the "Secret" of Oxford. FOOTNOTES: [17] The Rev. J. M. Lester. [18] Here I must depart from my rule, and mention a name--FitzRoy Stewart. VI HOME "Type of the wise, who soar, but never roam; True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home." WORDSWORTH, "_To a Sky-lark_." I said good-bye to Oxford on the 17th of June, 1876. What was the next step to be? As so often in my life, the decision came through a doctor's lips. He spoke in a figure, and this is what he said. "When a man has had a severe illness, he has taken a large sum out of his capital. Unless he has the wisdom to replace it, he must be permanently poorer; and, when the original stock was not large, the necessity of economizing becomes more urgent. You are in that case. My advice, therefore, is--Do nothing for the next two or three years. Concentrate all your efforts on getting better. Live as healthy a life as you can, and give mind and body a complete rest. If you will obey this counsel, you will find that you have replaced the capital, or, at any rate, some of it; and you may, in spite of all disabilities, be able to take your part in the life and work of the world." The prescription of total abstinence from effort exactly suited my disposition of the moment. Oxford, one way and another, had taken more out of me than till then I had realized, and I was only too thankful to have an opportunity of making good the loss. It being, for the time, my prime object to recover some portion of health and strength, I was beyond measure fortunate in the possession of an absolutely ideal home. "'Home! Sweet Home!' Yes. That is the song that goes straight to the heart of every English man and woman. For forty years we never asked Madame Adelina Patti to sing anything else. The unhappy, decadent, Latin races have not even a word in their language by which to express it, poor things! Home is the secret of our honest, British, Protestant virtues. It is the only nursery of our Anglo-Saxon citizenship. Back to it our far-flung children turn, with all their memories aflame. They may lapse into rough ways, but they keep something sound at the core so long as they are faithful to the old home. There is still a tenderness in the voice, and tears are in their eyes, as they speak together of the days that can never die out of their lives, when they were at home in the old familiar places, with father and mother, in the healthy gladness of their childhood."[19] To me home was all this and even more; for not only had it been my earthly Paradise when I was a child, but now, in opening manhood, it was a sanctuary and a resting-place, in which I could prepare myself to face whatever lot the future might have in store for me. That London as well as country may be, under certain conditions, Home, I am well aware. For many natures London has an attractiveness which is all its own. And yet to indulge one's taste for it may be a grave dereliction of duty. The State is built upon the Home, and as a training-place for social virtue, there can surely be no comparison between a home in the country and a home in London. All those educating influences which count for so much in the true home are infinitely weaker in the town than in the country. In a London home there is nothing to fascinate the eye. The contemplation of the mews and the chimney-pots through the back-windows of the nursery will not elevate even the most impressible child. There is no mystery, no dreamland, no Enchanted Palace, no Bluebeard's Chamber, in a stucco mansion built by Cubitt, or a palace of terra-cotta on the Cadogan estate. There can be no traditions of the past, no inspiring memories of virtuous ancestry, in a house which your father bought five years ago and of which the previous owners are not known to you even by name. "The Square" or "The Gardens" are sorry substitutes for the Park and the Pleasure-grounds, the Common and the Downs. Crossing-sweepers are a deserving folk, but you cannot cultivate those intimate relations with them which bind you to the lodge-keeper at home, or to the old women in the almshouses, or to the septuagenarian waggoner who has driven your father's team ever since he was ten years old. Holy Trinity, Sloane Street, or All Saints, Margaret Street, may be beautifully ornate, and the congregation what Lord Beaconsfield called "sparkling and modish"; but they can never have the romantic charm of the Village Church where you were confirmed side by side with the keeper's son, or proposed to the Vicar's daughter when you were wreathing holly round the lectern. There is a magic in the memory of a country home with which no urban associations can compete. Nowadays the world is perpetually on the move, but in the old days people who possessed a country house passed nine months out of the twelve under its sacred roof--sacred because it was inseparably connected with memories of ancestry and parentage and early association; with marriage and children, and pure enjoyment and active benevolence and neighbourly goodwill. In a word, the country house was Home, and for those who dwelt in it the interests of life were very much bound up in the Park and the covers, the croquet-ground and the cricket-ground, the kennel, the stable, and the garden. I remember, when I was an undergraduate, lionizing some Yorkshire damsels on their first visit to Oxford, then in the "high midsummer pomps" of its beauty. But all they said was, in the pensive tone of unwilling exiles, "How beautifully the sun must be shining on the South Walk at home!" The Village Church was a great centre of domestic affection. All the family had been christened in it. The eldest sister had been married in it. Generations of ancestry mouldered under the chancel-floor. Christmas decorations were an occasion of much innocent merriment, and a little ditty high in favour in Tractarian homes warned the decorators to be-- "Unselfish--looking not to see Proofs of their own dexterity; But quite contented that 'I' should Forgotten be in brotherhood." Of course, whether Tractarian or Evangelical, religious people regarded church-going as a spiritual privilege; and everyone, religious or not, recognized it as a civil duty. "When a gentleman is _sur ses terres_," said Major Pendennis, "he must give an example to the country people; and, if I could turn a tune, I even think I should sing. The Duke of St. David's, whom I have the honour of knowing, always sings in the country, and let me tell you it has a doosed fine effect from the Family Pew." Before the passion for "restoration" had set in, and ere yet Sir Gilbert Scott had transmogrified the Parish Churches of England, the Family Pew was indeed the ark and sanctuary of the territorial system--and a very comfortable ark too. It had a private entrance, a round table, a good assortment of armchairs, a fire-place, and a wood-basket. And I well remember a wash-leather glove of unusual size which was kept in the wood-basket for the greater convenience of making up the fire during divine service. "You may restore the church as much as you like," said the lay-rector of our parish, to an innovating Incumbent, "but I must insist on my Family Pew not being touched. If I had to sit in an open seat, I should never get a wink of sleep again." A country home left its mark for all time on those who were brought up in it. The sons played cricket and went bat-fowling with the village boys, and not seldom joined with them in a poaching expedition to the paternal preserves. However popular or successful or happy a Public-school boy might be at Eton or Harrow, he counted the days till he could return to his pony and his gun, his ferrets and rat-trap and fishing-rod. In after years, amid all the toil and worry of active life, he looked back lovingly to the corner of the cover where he shot his first pheasant, or the precise spot in the middle of the Vale where he first saw a fox killed, and underwent the disgusting Baptism of Blood. Girls, living more continuously at home, entered even more intimately into the daily life of the place. Their morning rides led them across the Village Green; their afternoon drives were often steered by the claims of this or that cottage to a visit. They were taught as soon as they could toddle never to enter a door without knocking, never to sit down without being asked, and never to call at meal-time. They knew everyone in the village--old and young; played with the babies, taught the boys in Sunday School, carried savoury messes to the old and impotent, read by the sick-beds, and brought flowers for the coffin. Mamma knitted comforters and dispensed warm clothing, organized relief in hard winters and times of epidemic, and found places for the hobbledehoys of both sexes. The pony-boy and the scullery-maid were pretty sure to be products of the village. Very likely the young-ladies'-maid was a village girl whom the doctor had pronounced too delicate for factory or farm. I have seen an excited young groom staring his eyes out of his head at the Eton and Harrow match, and exclaiming with rapture at a good catch, "It was my young governor as 'scouted' that. 'E's nimble, ain't he?" And I well remember an ancient stable-helper at a country house in Buckinghamshire who was called "Old Bucks," because he had never slept out of his native county, and very rarely out of his native village, and had spent his whole life in the service of one family. Of course, when so much of the impressionable part of life was lived amid the "sweet, sincere surroundings of country life," there grew up, between the family at the Hall and the families in the village, a feeling which, in spite of our national unsentimentality, had a chivalrous and almost feudal tone. The interest of the poor in the life and doings of "The Family" was keen and genuine. The English peasant is too much a gentleman to be a flatterer, and compliments were often bestowed in very unexpected forms. "They do tell me as 'is understanding's no worse than it always were," was a ploughman's way of saying that an uncle of mine was in full possession of his faculties. "We call 'im 'Lord Charles' because he's so old and so cunning," was another's description of a pony which had belonged to my father. "Ah, I know you're but a poor creature at the best!" was the recognized way of complimenting a lady on what she considered her bewitching and romantic delicacy. But these eccentricities were merely verbal, and under them lay a deep vein of genuine and lasting regard. "I've lived under four dukes and four 'ousekeepers, and I'm not going to be put upon in my old age!" was the exclamation of an ancient poultry-woman, whose dignity had been offended by some irregularity touching her Christmas dinner. When the daughter of the house married and went into a far country, she was sure to find some emigrant from her old home who welcomed her with effusion, and was full of enquiries about his Lordship and her Ladyship, and Miss Pinkerton the governess, and whether Mr. Wheeler was still coachman, and who lived now at the Entrance Lodge. Whether the sons got commissions, or took ranches, or became curates in slums, or contested remote constituencies, some grinning face was sure to emerge from the crowd with "You know me, sir? Bill Juffs, as used to go birds-nesting with you"; or, "You remember my old dad, my lord? He used to shoe your black pony." When the eldest son came of age, his condescension in taking this step was hailed with genuine enthusiasm. When he came into his kingdom, there might be some grumbling if he went in for small economies, or altered old practices, or was a "hard man" on the Bench or at the Board of Guardians; but, if he went on in the good-natured old ways, the traditional loyalty was unabated. Lord Shaftesbury wrote thus about the birth of his eldest son's eldest son:--"My little village is all agog with the birth of a son and heir in the very midst of them, the first, it is believed, since 1600, when the first Lord Shaftesbury was born. The christening yesterday was an ovation. Every cottage had flags and flowers. We had three triumphal arches; and all the people were exulting. 'He is one of us.' 'He is a fellow-villager.' 'We have now got a lord of our own.' This is really gratifying. I did not think that there remained so much of the old respect and affection between peasant and proprietor, landlord and tenant." In the present day, if a season of financial pressure sets in, people shut up their country houses, let their shooting, cut themselves off with a sigh of relief from all the unexciting duties and simple pleasures of the Home, and take refuge from boredom in the delights of London. In London life has no duties. Little is expected of one, and nothing required. But in old days, when people wished to economize, it was London that they deserted. They sold the "Family Mansion" in Portland Place or Eaton Square; and, if they revisited the glimpses of the social moon, they took a furnished house for six weeks in the summer; the rest of the year they spent in the country. This plan was a manifold saving. There was no rent to pay, and only very small rates, for everyone knows that country houses are shamefully under-assessed. Carriages did not require re-painting every season, and no new clothes were wanted. As the ladies in _Cranford_ said--"What can it matter what we wear here, where everyone knows who we are?" The products of the Park, the Home Farm, the hothouses, and the kitchen-garden kept the family supplied with food. A brother-magnate staying at Beaudesert with the famous Lord Anglesey waxed enthusiastic over the mutton, and, venturing on the privilege of an old friendship, asked how much it cost him. "Cost me?" screamed the hero. "Good Gad, it costs me nothing! I don't buy it. It's my own," and he was beyond measure astonished when his statistical guest proved that "his own" cost him about a guinea per pound. In another great house, conducted on strictly economical lines, it was said that the very numerous family were reared exclusively on rabbits and garden-stuff, and that their enfeebled constitutions and dismal appearance in later life were due to this ascetic regimen. People were always hospitable in the country; but rural entertaining was not a very costly business. The "three square meals and a snack," which represent the minimum requirements of the present day, are a huge development of the system which prevailed in my youth. Breakfast had already grown from the tea and coffee, and rolls and eggs, which Macaulay tells us were deemed sufficient at Holland House, to an affair of covered dishes. Luncheon-parties were sometimes given--terrible ceremonies which lasted from two to four; but the ordinary luncheon of the family was a snack from the servants' joint or the children's rice pudding; and five o'clock tea had only lately been invented. To remember, as I just can, the Foundress[20] of that divine refreshment seems like having known Stephenson or Jenner. Dinner was substantial enough in all conscience, and the wine nearly as heavy as the food. Imagine quenching one's thirst with sherry in the dog-days! Yet so we did, till about half-way through dinner, and then, on great occasions, a dark-coloured rill of champagne began to trickle into the V-shaped glasses. At the epoch of cheese, port made its appearance in company with home-brewed beer; and, as soon as the ladies and the schoolboys departed, the men applied themselves, with much seriousness of purpose, to the consumption of claret which was really vinous. Grace was said before and after dinner. There was a famous squire in Hertfordshire whose love of his dinner was constantly at war with his pietistic traditions. He always had his glass of sherry poured out before he sat down to dinner, so that he might get at it without a moment's delay. One night, in his generous eagerness, he upset the glass just as he dropped into his seat at the end of grace, and the formula ran on to an unexpected conclusion, thus: "For what we are going to receive, the Lord make us truly thankful--D--n!" But if the incongruities which attended grace before dinner were disturbing, still more so were the solemnities of the close. Grace after dinner always happened at the moment of loudest and most general conversation. For an hour and a half people had been stuffing as if their lives depended on it--"one feeding like forty." Out of the abundance of the mouth the heart speaketh, and everyone was talking at once, and very loud. Perhaps the venue was laid in a fox-hunting country, and then the air was full of such voices as these: "Were you out with the Squire to-day?" "Any sport?" "Yes, we'd rather a nice gallop." "Plenty of the animal about, I hope?" "Well, I don't know. I believe that new keeper at Boreham Wood is a vulpicide. I don't half like his looks." "What an infernal villain! A man who would shoot a fox would poison his own grandmother." "Sh! Sh!" "What's the matter?" "_For what we have received_," &c. "Do you know you've been talking at the top of your voice all the time grace was going on?" "Not really? I'm awfully sorry. But our host mumbles so, I never can make out what he's saying." "I can't imagine why people don't have grace after dessert. I know I'm much more thankful for strawberry ice than for saddle of mutton." And so on and so forth. On the whole, I am not sure that the abolition of grace is a sign of moral degeneracy, but I note it as a social change which I have seen. In this kind of hospitality there was no great expense. People made very little difference between their way of living when they were alone, and their way of living when they had company. A visitor who wished to make himself agreeable sometimes brought down a basket of fish or a barrel of oysters from London; and, if one had no deer of one's own, the arrival of a haunch from a neighbour's or kinsman's park was the signal for a gathering of local gastronomers. And in matters other than meals life went on very much the same whether you had friends staying with you or whether you were alone. The guests drove and rode, and walked and shot, according to their tastes and the season of the year. They were carried off, more or less willingly, to see the sights of the neighbourhood--ruined castles, restored cathedrals, famous views. In summer there might be a picnic or a croquet-party; in winter a lawn-meet or a ball. But all these entertainments were of the most homely and inexpensive character. There was very little outlay, no fuss, and no display. But now an entirely different spirit prevails. People seem to have lost the power of living quietly and happily in their country homes. They all have imbibed the urban philosophy of George Warrington, who, when Pen gushed about the country with its "long, calm days, and long calm evenings," brutally replied, "Devilish long, and a great deal too calm. I've tried 'em." People of that type desert the country simply because they are bored by it. They feel with the gentleman who stood for Matthew Arnold in _The New Republic_, and who, after talking about "liberal air," "sedged brooks," and "meadow grass," admitted that it would be a dreadful bore to have no other society than the Clergyman of the parish, and no other topics of conversation than Justification by Faith and the measles. They do not care for the country in itself; they have no eye for its beauty, no sense of its atmosphere, no memory for its traditions. It is only made endurable to them by sport and gambling and boisterous house-parties; and when, from one cause or another, these resources fail, they are frankly bored, and long for London. They are no longer content, as our fathers were, to entertain their friends with hospitable simplicity. So profoundly has all society been vulgarized by the worship of the Golden Calf that, unless people can vie with alien millionaires in the sumptuousness with which they "do you"--delightful phrase,--they prefer not to entertain at all. An emulous ostentation has killed hospitality. All this is treason to a high ideal. Whatever tends to make the Home beautiful, attractive, romantic--to associate it with the ideas of pure pleasure and high duty--to connect it not only with all that was happiest, but also with all that was best, in early years--whatever fulfils these purposes purifies the fountain of national life. A home, to be perfectly a home, should "incorporate tradition, and prolong the reign of the dead." It should animate those who dwell in it to virtue and beneficence, by reminding them of what others did, who went before them in the same place, and lived amid the same surroundings. Thank God, such a home was mine. FOOTNOTES: [19] Henry Scott Holland. [20] Anna Maria, Duchess of Bedford, died in 1857. VII LONDON "O'er royal London, in luxuriant May, While lamps yet twinkled, dawning crept the day. Home from the hell the pale-eyed gamester steals; Home from the ball flash jaded Beauty's wheels; From fields suburban rolls the early cart; As rests the Revel, so awakes the Mart." _The New Timon_. When I was penning, in the last chapter, my perfectly sincere praises of the country, an incongruous reminiscence suddenly froze the genial current of my soul. Something, I know not what, reminded me of the occasion when Mrs. Bardell and her friends made their memorable expedition to the "Spaniards Tea-Gardens" at Hampstead. "How sweet the country is, to be sure!" sighed Mrs. Rogers; "I almost wish I lived in it always." To this Mr. Raddle, full of sympathy, rejoined: "For lone people as have got nobody to care for them, or as have been hurt in their mind, or that sort of thing, the country is all very well. The country for a wounded spirit, they say." But the general verdict of the company was that Mrs. Rogers was "a great deal too lively and sought-after, to be content with the country"; and, on second thoughts, the lady herself acquiesced. I feel that my natural temperament had something in common with that of Mrs. Rogers. "My spirit" (and my body too) had been "wounded" by Oxford, and the country acted as both a poultice and a tonic. But my social instinct was always strong, and could not be permanently content with "a lodge in the vast wilderness" of Woburn Park, or dwell for ever in the "boundless contiguity of shade" which obliterates the line between Beds and Bucks. I was very careful to observe the doctor's prescription of total idleness, but I found it was quite as easily obeyed in London as in the country. For three or four months then, of every year, I forsook the Home which just now I praised so lavishly, and applied myself, circumspectly indeed but with keen enjoyment, to the pleasures of the town. "_One look back_"--What was London like in those distant days, which lie, say, between 1876 and 1886? Structurally and visibly, it was a much uglier place than now. The immeasurable wastes of Belgravian stucco; the "Baker Streets and Harley Streets and Wimpole Streets, resembling each other like a large family of plain children, with Portland Place and Portman Square for their respectable parents,"[21] were still unbroken by the red brick and terra-cotta, white stone and green tiles, of our more æsthetic age. The flower-beds in the Parks were less brilliant, for that "Grand old gardener," Mr. Harcourt, to whom we are so much indebted, was still at Eton. Piccadilly had not been widened. The Arches at Hyde Park Corner had not been re-arranged. Glorious Whitehall was half occupied by shabby shops; and labyrinths of slums covered the sites of Kingsway and Shaftesbury Avenue. But, though London is now a much prettier place than it was then, I doubt if it is as socially magnificent. The divinity which hedged Queen Victoria invested her occasional visits to her Capital with a glamour which it is difficult to explain to those who never felt it. Of beauty, stature, splendour, and other fancied attributes of Queenship, there was none; but there was a dignity which can neither be described nor imitated; and, when her subjects knelt to kiss her hand at Drawing Room, or Levee, or Investiture, they felt a kind of sacred awe which no other presence could inspire. It was, of course, one of the elements of Queen Victoria's mysterious power, that she was so seldom seen in London. In the early days of her widowhood she had resigned the command of Society into other hands; and social London, at the time of which I write, was dominated by the Prince of Wales. Just at this moment,[22] when those who knew him well are genuinely mourning the loss of King Edward VII., it would scarcely become me to describe his influence on Society when first I moved in it. So I borrow the words of an anonymous writer, who, at the time at which his book was published, was generally admitted to know the subjects of which he discoursed. "The Social Ruler of the English realm is the Prince of Wales. I call him the Social Ruler, because, in all matters pertaining to society and to ceremonial, he plays vicariously the part of the Sovereign. The English monarchy may be described at the present moment as being in a state of commission. Most of its official duties are performed by the Queen. It is the Prince of Wales who transacts its ceremonial business, and exhibits to the masses the embodiment of the monarchical principle. If there were no Marlborough House, there would be no Court in London. The house of the Prince of Wales may be an unsatisfactory substitute for a Court, but it is the only substitute which exists, and it is the best which, under the circumstances, is attainable. "In his attitude to English Society, the Prince of Wales is a benevolent despot. He wishes it to enjoy itself, to disport itself, to dance, sing, and play to its heart's content. But he desires that it should do so in the right manner, at the right times, and in the right places; and of these conditions he holds that he is the best, and, indeed, an infallible, judge. "The Prince of Wales is the Bismarck of London society: he is also its microcosm. All its idiosyncrasies are reflected in the person of His Royal Highness. Its hopes, its fears, its aspirations, its solicitudes, its susceptibilities, its philosophy, its way of looking at life and of appraising character--of each of these is the Heir-Apparent the mirror. If a definition of Society were sought for, I should be inclined to give it as the social area of which the Prince of Wales is personally cognizant, within the limits of which he visits, and every member of which is to some extent in touch with the ideas and wishes of His Royal Highness. But for this central authority, Society in London would be in imminent danger of falling into the same chaos and collapse as the universe itself, were one of the great laws of nature to be suspended for five minutes." Of the loved and gracious lady who is now Queen Mother, I may trust myself to speak. I first saw her at Harrow Speeches, when I was a boy of 18, and from that day to this I have admired her more than any woman whom I have ever seen. To the flawless beauty of the face there was added that wonderful charm of innocence and unfading youth which no sumptuosities of dress and decoration could conceal. To see the Princess in Society was in those days one of my chief delights, and the sight always suggested to my mind the idea of a Puritan Maiden set in the midst of Vanity Fair. We have seen that the centre of Society at the period which I am describing was Marlborough House, and that centre was encircled by rings of various compass, the widest extending to South Kensington in the one direction, and Portman Square in the other. The innermost ring was composed of personal friends, and, as personal friendship belongs to private life, we must not here discuss it. The second ring was composed of the great houses--"The Palaces," as Pennialinus[23] calls them,--the houses, I mean, which are not distinguished by numbers, but are called "House," with a capital H. And first among these I must place Grosvenor House. As I look back over all the entertainments which I have ever seen in London, I can recall nothing to compare with a Ball at Grosvenor House, in the days of Hugh, Duke of Westminster, and his glorious wife. No lesser epithet than "glorious" expresses the combination of beauty, splendour, and hospitable enjoyment, which made Constance, Duchess of Westminster, so unique a hostess. Let me try to recall the scene. Dancing has begun in a tentative sort of way, when there is a sudden pause, and "God Save the Queen" is heard in the front hall. The Prince and Princess of Wales have arrived, and their entrance is a pageant worth seeing. With courtly grace and pretty pomp, the host and hostess usher their royal guests into the great gallery, walled with the canvasses of Rubens, which serves as a dancing-room. Then the fun begins, and the bright hours fly swiftly till one o'clock suggests the tender thought of supper, which is served on gold plate and Sèvres china in a garden-tent of Gobelins tapestry. "'What a perfect family!' exclaimed Hugo Bohun, as he extracted a couple of fat little birds from their bed of aspic jelly. 'Everything they do in such perfect taste. How safe you were to have ortolans for supper!'"[24] Next in my recollection to Grosvenor House, but after a considerable interval, comes Stafford House. This is a more pretentious building than the other; built by the Duke of York and bought by the Duke of Sutherland, with a hall and staircase designed by Barry, perfect in proportion, and so harmonious in colouring that its purple and yellow _scagliola_ might deceive the very elect into the belief that it is marble. There, as at Grosvenor House, were wealth and splendour and the highest rank; a hospitable host and a handsome hostess; but the peculiar feeling of welcome, which distinguished Grosvenor House, was lacking, and the aspect of the whole place, on an evening of entertainment, was rather that of a mob than of a party. Northumberland House at Charing Cross, the abode of the historic Percys, had disappeared before I came to London, yielding place to Northumberland Avenue; but there were plenty of "Houses" left. Near where the Percys had flourished, the Duke of Buccleuch, a magnifico of the patriarchal type, kept court at Montagu House, and Londoners have not yet forgotten that, when the Thames Embankment was proposed, he suggested that the new thoroughfare should be deflected, so that it might not interfere with the ducal garden running down to the river. In the famous Picture-Gallery of Bridgewater House, Lord Beaconsfield harangued his disconsolate supporters after the disastrous election of 1880, and predicted that Conservative revival which he did not live to see. Close by at Spencer House, a beautiful specimen of the decorative work of the Brothers Adam, the Liberal Party used to gather round the host, who looked like a Van Dyke. Another of their resorts was Devonshire House, which Horace Walpole pronounced "good and plain as the Duke of Devonshire who built it." There the 7th Duke, who was a mathematician and a scholar, but no lover of society, used to hide behind the door in sheer terror of his guests, while his son, Lord Hartington, afterwards 8th Duke, gazed with ill-concealed aversion on his political supporters. Lansdowne House was, as it still is, a Palace of Art, with all the dignity and amenity of a country house, planted in the very heart of London. During the last quarter of a century the creation of Liberal Unionism has made it the headquarters of a political party; but, at the time of which I write, it was only a place of select and beautiful entertaining. Apsley House, the abode of "The Son of Waterloo," could not, in my time, be reckoned a social centre, but was chiefly interesting as a museum of Wellington relics. Norfolk House was, as it is, the headquarters of Roman Catholic society, and there, in 1880, was seen the unique sight of Matthew Arnold doing obeisance to Cardinal Newman at an evening party.[25] Dorchester House, architecturally considered, is beyond doubt the grandest thing in London; in those days occupied by the accomplished Mr. Holford, who built it, and now let to the American Ambassador. Chesterfield House, with its arcaded staircase of marble and bronze from the dismantled palace of the Dukes of Chandos at Edgeware, was built by the fourth Lord Chesterfield, as he tells us, "among the fields;" and contains the library in which he wrote his famous letters to his son. Holland House, so long the acknowledged sanctuary of the Whig party, still stands amid its terraces and gardens, though its hayfields have, I fear, fallen into the builders' hands. Macaulay's Essay, if nothing else, will always preserve it from oblivion. I have written so far about these "Houses," because in virtue of their imposing characteristics they formed, as it were, an inner, if not the innermost, circle round Marlborough House. But of course Society did not dwell exclusively in "Houses," and any social chronicler of the period which I am describing will have to include in his survey the long stretch of Piccadilly, dividing the "W." from the "S.W." district. On the upper side of it, Portman Square, Grosvenor Square, Berkeley Square, the Grosvenor Streets and Brook Streets, Curzon Street, Charles Street, Hill Street; and below, St. James's Square and Carlton House Terrace, Grosvenor Place, Belgrave Square and Eaton Square, Lowndes Square and Chesham Place. Following Piccadilly westward into Kensington, we come to Lowther Lodge, Norman Shaw's most successful work, then beginning its social career on the coming of age of the present Speaker,[26] April 1st, 1876. Below it, Prince's Gate and Queen's Gate and Prince's Gardens, and all the wilds of South Kensington, then half reclaimed; and that low-lying territory, not even half reclaimed, which, under Lord Cadogan's skilful management, has of late years developed into a "residential quarter" of high repute. Fill all these streets, and a dozen others like them, with rank and wealth and fashion, youth and beauty, pleasure-seeking and self-indulgence, and you have described the concentric circles of which Marlborough House was the heart. Sydney Smith, no mean authority on the social capacities of London, held that "the parallelogram between Oxford Street, Piccadilly, Regent Street, and Hyde Park, enclosed more intelligence and ability, to say nothing of wealth and beauty, than the world had ever collected in such a space before." This was very well for Sydney (who lived in Green Street); but he flourished when Belgravia had barely been discovered, when South Kensington was undreamed-of; and, above all, before the Heir Apparent had fixed his abode in Pall Mall. Had he lived till 1863, he would have had to enlarge his mental borders. Of the delightful women and beautiful girls who adorned Society when I first knew it, I will not speak. A sacred awe makes me mute. The "Professional Beauties" and "Frisky Matrons" who disgraced it, have, I hope, long since repented, and it would be unkind to revive their names. The "Smart Men," old and young, the "cheery boys," the "dancing dogs,"--the Hugo Bohuns and the Freddy Du Canes--can be imagined as easily as described. They were, in the main, very good fellows; friendly, sociable, and obliging; but their most ardent admirers would scarcely call them interesting; and the companionship of a club or a ballroom seemed rather vapid when compared with Oxford:-- "The madness and the melody, the singing youth that went there, The shining, unforgettable, imperial days we spent there." But here and there, swimming rare in the vast whirlpool of Society, one used to encounter remarkable faces. Most remarkable was the face of Lord Beaconsfield,--past seventy, though nobody knows how much; with his black-dyed hair in painful contrast to the corpse-like pallor of his face; with his Blue Ribbon and diamond Star; and the piercing eyes which still bespoke his unconquerable vitality. Sometimes Mr. Gladstone was to be seen, with his white tie working round toward the back of his neck, and a rose in his button-hole, looking like a rather unwilling captive in the hands of Mrs. Gladstone, who moved through the social crush with that queenlike dignity of bearing which had distinguished her ever since the days when she and her sister, Lady Lyttelton, were "the beautiful Miss Glynnes." Robert Lowe, not yet Lord Sherbrooke, was a celebrity who might often be seen in Society,--a noteworthy figure with his ruddy face, snow-white hair, and purblind gaze. The first Lord Lytton--Bulwer-Lytton, the novelist--was dead before I came to London; but his brilliant son, "Owen Meredith," in the intervals of official employment abroad, was an interesting figure in Society; curled and oiled and decorated, with a countenance of Semitic type. Lord Houghton--to me the kindest and most welcoming of hereditary friends--had a personality and a position altogether his own. His appearance was typically English; his manner as free and forthcoming as a Frenchman's. Thirty years before he had been drawn by a master-hand as Mr. Vavasour in _Tancred_, but no lapse of time could stale his infinite variety. He was poet, essayist, politician, public orator, country gentleman, railway-director, host, guest, ball-giver, and ball-goer, and acted each part with equal zest and assiduity. When I first knew him he was living in a house at the top of Arlington Street, from which Hogarth had copied the decoration for his "Marriage à la mode." The site is now occupied by the Ritz Hotel, and his friendly ghost still seems to haunt the Piccadilly which he loved. "There on warm, mid-season Sundays, Fryston's bard is wont to wend, Whom the Ridings trust and honour, Freedom's staunch and genial friend; Known where shrewd hard-handed craftsmen cluster round the northern kilns, He whom men style Baron Houghton, but the gods call Dicky Milnes."[27] When first I entered Society, I caught sight of a face which instantly arrested my attention. A very small man, both short and slim, with a rosy complexion, protruding chin, and trenchant nose, the remains of reddish hair, and an extremely alert and vivacious expression. The broad Red Ribbon of a G.C.B. marked him out as in some way a distinguished person; and I discovered that he was the Lord Chief Justice of England,--Sir Alexander Cockburn, one of the most conspicuous figures in the social annals of the 'thirties and 'forties, the "Hortensius" of _Endymion_, whose "sunny face and voice of music" had carried him out of the ruck of London dandies to the chief seat of the British judicature, and had made him the hero of the Tichborne Trial and the Alabama Arbitration. Yet another personage of intellectual fame who was to be met in Society was Robert Browning, the least poetical-looking of poets. Trim, spruce, alert, with a cheerful manner and a flow of conversation, he might have been a Cabinet Minister, a diplomatist, or a successful financier, almost anything except what he was. "Browning," growled Tennyson, "I'll predict your end. You'll die of apoplexy, in a stiff choker, at a London dinner-party." The streams of society and of politics have always intermingled, and, at the period of which I am writing, Lord Hartington, afterwards, as 8th Duke of Devonshire, leader of the Liberal Unionists, might still be seen lounging and sprawling in doorways and corners. Mr. Arthur Balfour, weedy and willowy, was remarked with interest as a young man of great possessions, who had written an unintelligible book but might yet do something in Parliament; while Lord Rosebery, though looking absurdly youthful, was spoken of as cherishing lofty ambitions. Later on, I may perhaps say more about private entertainment and about those who figured in it; but now I must turn to the public sights and shows. Matthew Arnold once wrote to his mother: "I think you will be struck with the aspect of London in May; the wealth and brilliancy of it is more remarkable every year. The carriages, the riders, and the walkers in Hyde Park, on a fine evening in May or June, are alone worth coming to London to see." This description, though written some years before, was eminently true of Rotten Row and its adjacent drives when I first frequented them. Frederick Locker, a minor poet of Society, asked in some pensive stanzas on Rotten Row: "But where is now the courtly troop That once rode laughing by? I miss the curls of Cantilupe, The laugh of Lady Di." Lord Cantilupe, of whom I always heard that he was the handsomest man of his generation, died before I was born, and Lady Di Beauclerck had married Baron Huddleston and ceased to ride in Rotten Row before I came to London; so my survey of the scene was unmarred by Locker's reflective melancholy, and I could do full justice to its charm. "Is there," asked Lord Beaconsfield, "a more gay and graceful spectacle in this world than Hyde Park at the end of a long summer morning in the merry month of May? Where can we see such beautiful women, such gallant cavaliers, such fine horses, such brilliant equipages? The scene, too, is worthy of such agreeable accessories--the groves, the gleaming waters, and the triumphal arches. In the distance the misty heights of Surrey and the lovely glades of Kensington." This passage would need some re-touching if it were to describe the Park in 1911, but in 1880 it was still a photograph. With regard to Public Entertainments in the more technical sense, the period of which I am writing was highly favoured. We had Irving and Miss Terry at the height of their powers, with all the gorgeous yet accurate "staging" which Irving had originated. We had Lady Bancroft with that wonderful undertone of pathos in even her brightest comedy, and her accomplished husband, whose peculiar art blended so harmoniously with her own. We had John Hare, the "perfect gentleman" of Stage-land, and the Kendals with their quiet excellence in Drawing-room Drama; and the riotous glory of Mrs. John Wood, whose performances, with Arthur Cecil, at the Court Theatre, will always remain the most mirth-provoking memories of my life. Midway between the Theatre and the Opera, there was the long and lovely series of Gilbert and Sullivan, who surely must have afforded a larger amount of absolutely innocent delight to a larger number of people than any two artists who ever collaborated in the public service. As to the Opera itself, I must quote a curious passage from Lord Beaconsfield, who figures so often in these pages, because none ever understood London so perfectly as he. "What will strike you most at the Opera is that you will not see a single person you ever saw before in your life. It is strange; and it shows what a mass of wealth and taste and refinement there is in this wonderful metropolis of ours, quite irrespective of the circles in which we move, and which we once thought, entirely engrossed them." Those words describe, roughly, the seasons of 1867-1870; and they still hold good, to a considerable extent, of my earlier years in London. The Opera was then the resort of people who really loved music. It had ceased to be, what it had been in the 'thirties and 'forties, a merely fashionable resort; and its social resurrection had scarcely begun. Personally, I have always been fonder of real life than of its dramatic counterfeit; and a form of Public Entertainment which greatly attracted me was that provided by the Law Courts. To follow the intricacies of a really interesting trial; to observe the demeanour and aspect of the witnesses; to listen to the impassioned flummery of the leading counsel; to note its effect on the Twelve Men in the Box; and then to see the Chinese Puzzle of conflicting evidence arranged in its damning exactness by a skilful judge, is to me an intellectual enjoyment which can hardly be equalled. I have never stayed in court after the jury had retired in a capital case, for I hold it impious to stare at the mortal agony of a fellow-creature; but the trial of Johann Most for inciting to tyrannicide; of Gallagher and his gang of dynamiters for Treason-Felony; and of Dr. Lampson for poisoning his brother-in-law, can never be forgotten. Not so thrilling, but quite as interesting, were the "Jockey Trial," in 1888, the "Baccarat Case," in 1891, and the "Trial at Bar," of the Raiders in 1896. But they belong to a later date than the period covered by this chapter. My fondness for the Law Courts might suggest that I was inclined to be a lawyer. Not so. Only two professions ever attracted me in the slightest degree,--Holy Orders and Parliament. But when the dividing-line of 1874 cut my life in two, it occurred to my Father that, aided by name and connexions, I might pass a few years at the Parliamentary Bar, pleasantly and not unprofitably, until an opportunity of entering Parliament occurred. Partly with that end in view, and partly because it seemed disgraceful to have no definite occupation, I became, in 1875, a student of the Inner Temple. I duly ate my dinners; or, rather, as the Temple dined at the unappetizing hour of six, went through a form of eating them; and in so doing was constantly reminded of the experiences of my favourite "Pen." The ways of Law-students had altered wonderfully little in the lapse of forty years. "The ancient and liberal Inn of the Inner Temple provides in its Hall, and for a most moderate price, an excellent and wholesome dinner of soup, meat, tarts, and port wine or sherry, for the Barristers and Students who attend that place of refection. The parties are arranged in messes of four, each of which quartets has its piece of beef or leg of mutton, its sufficient apple-pie, and its bottle of wine. 'This is boiled beef day, I believe, Sir,' said Lowton to Pen. 'Upon my word, Sir, I'm not aware,' said Pen. 'I'm a stranger; this is my first term; on which Lowton began to point out to him the notabilities in the Hall. 'Do you see those four fellows seated opposite to us? They are regular swells--tip-top fellows, I can tell you--Mr. Trail, the Bishop of Ealing's son, Honourable Fred Ringwood, Lord Cinqbars' brother, you know; and Bob Suckling, who's always with him. I say, I'd like to mess with those chaps.' 'And why?' asked Pen. 'Why! they don't come down here to dine, you know, they only make believe to dine. _They_ dine here, Lord bless you! They go to some of the swell clubs, or else to some grand dinner-party. You see their names in the _Morning Post_ at all the fine parties in London. They dine! They won't dine these two hours, I dare say.' 'But why should you like to mess with them, if they don't eat any dinner?' Pen asked, still puzzled. 'There's plenty, isn't there?' 'How green you are,' said Lowton. 'Excuse me, but you are green! They don't drink any wine, don't you see, and a fellow gets the bottle to himself, if he likes it, when he messes with those three chaps. That's why Corkoran got in with them.'" Such were dinners at the Temple in Thackeray's time, and such they were in mine. My legal studies were superintended by my friend Mr. J. S. Fox, now K.C., and Recorder of Sheffield. Should this book ever fall under his learned eye, I should be interested to know if he has ever completed the erudite work which in those distant days he contemplated undertaking, "Tell a Lie and Stick to it:" A Treatise on the Law of Estoppel. But this is a digression. Before I leave London as it was when first I dwelt in it, I ought to recall some of the eminent persons who adorned it. Lord Beaconsfield was at the zenith of his power and popularity. Mr. Gladstone, though the crowning triumph of 1880 was not far off, was so unpopular in Society that I was asked to meet him at a dinner as a favour to the hostess, who found it difficult to collect a party when he was dining. Lord Salisbury had just emerged from a seven years' retirement, and was beginning to play for the Premiership. Mr. Chamberlain was spoken of with a kind of awe, as a desperate demagogue longing to head a revolution; and Lord Randolph Churchill was hardly known outside the Turf Club. Law was presided over, as I have already said, by the brilliant Cockburn, and the mellifluous Coleridge was palpably preparing to succeed him. People whispered wonders about Charles Bowen; and Henry James and Charles Russell had established their positions. In the hierarchy of Medicine there were several leaders. Jenner ruled his patients by terror; Gull by tact, and Andrew Clark by religious mysticism. To me, complaining of dyspepsia, he prescribed a diet with the Pauline formula: "I seek to impose a yoke upon you, that you may be truly free." In the chief seat of the Church sat Archbishop Tait, the most dignified prelate whom I have ever met in our communion, and a really impressive spokesman of the Church in the House of Lords. The Northern Primate, Dr. Thomson, was styled "The Archbishop of Society"; and the Deanery at Westminster sheltered the fine flower of grace and culture in the fragile person of Dean Stanley. G. H. Wilkinson, afterwards Bishop of Truro and of St. Andrews, had lately been appointed to St. Peter's, Eaton Square, and had burst like a gunboat into a Dead Sea of lethargy and formalism. Of course, the list does not pretend to be exhaustive. It only aims at commemorating a few of the figures, in different walks of life, which commanded my attention when I began to know--otherwise than as a schoolboy can know it--what London is, means, and contains. Five and thirty years have sped their course. My Home in the country has ceased to exist; and I find myself numbered among that goodly company who, in succeeding ages, have loved London and found it their natural dwelling-place. I fancy that Lord St. Aldwyn is too much of a sportsman to applaud the sentiment of his ancestor who flourished in the reign of Charles II., but it is exactly mine. "London is the only place of England to winter in, whereof many true men might be put for examples. If the air of the streets be fulsome, then fields be at hand. If you be weary of the City, you may go to the Court. If you surfeit of the Court, you may ride into the country; and so shoot, as it were, at rounds with a roving arrow. You can wish for no kind of meat, but here is a market; for no kind of pastime, but here is a companion. If you be solitary, here be friends to sit with you. If you be sick, and one doctor will not serve your turn, you may have twain. When you are weary of your lodging, you may walk into St. Paul's ... in the Middle Aisle you may hear what the Protestants say, and in the others what the Papists whisper; and, when you have heard both, believe but one, for but one of both says true you may be assured." We clear the chasm of a century, and hear Dr. Johnson singing the same tune as Squire Hicks. "The happiness of London is not to be conceived but by those who have been in it. I'll venture to say, there is more learning and science within the circumference of ten miles from where we now sit, than in all the rest of the kingdom." "London is nothing to some people; but to a man whose pleasure is intellectual, London is the place." "The town is my element; there are my friends, there are my books, to which I have not yet bid farewell, and there are my amusements." But even Johnson, who is always quoted as the typical lover of London, was not more enthusiastic in its praise than Gibbon. To him "London was never dull, there at least he could keep the monster _Ennui_ at a respectful distance." For him its heat was always tempered; even its solitude was "delicious." In "the soft retirement of my _bocage de_ Bentinck Street" the dog-days pass unheeded. "Charming hot weather! I am just going to dine alone. Afterwards I shall walk till dark in _my_ gardens at Kensington, and shall then return to a frugal supper and early bed in Bentinck Street. I lead the life of a philosopher, without any regard to the world or to fashion." So much for the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries; we now return to the nineteenth and are listening to Sydney Smith. "I look forward anxiously to the return of the bad weather, coal fires, and good society in a crowded city." "The country is bad enough in summer, but in winter it is a fit residence only for beings doomed to such misery for misdeeds in another state of existence." "You may depend upon it, all lives lived out of London are mistakes, more or less grievous--but mistakes." "I shall not be sorry to be in town. I am rather tired of simple pleasures, bad reasoning, and worse cookery." Let Lord Beaconsfield have the last word, as is his due; for truly did he know and love his London. "It was a mild winter evening, a little fog still hanging about, but vanquished by the cheerful lamps, and the voice of the muffin-bell was heard at intervals; a genial sound that calls up visions of trim and happy hearths. If we could only so contrive our lives as to go into the country for the first note of the nightingale, and return to town for the first note of the muffin-bell, existence, it is humbly presumed, might be more enjoyable." FOOTNOTES: [21] Lord Beaconsfield, _Tancred_. [22] Written in May, 1910. [23] A nickname invented by the famous Eton tutor, "Billy Johnson," for a florid journalist. [24] Lord Beaconsfield, _Lothair_. [25] See M. Arnold's Letters, May 15, 1880. [26] The Right Hon. J. W. Lowther. [27] Sir George Trevelyan, _The Ladies in Parliament_. VIII HOSPITALITY "I never eat and I never drink," said the Cardinal. "I am sorry to say I cannot. I like dinner-society very much. You see the world, and you hear things which you do not hear otherwise." LORD BEACONSFIELD, _Lothair_. The Cardinal was much to be pitied. He had a real genius for society, and thoroughly enjoyed such forms of it as his health and profession permitted. Though he could not dine with Mr. Putney Giles, he went to Mrs. Putney Giles's evening party, where he made an important acquaintance. He looked in at Lady St. Jerome's after dinner; and his visits to Vauxe and to Muriel Towers were fraught with memorable results. Mrs. Putney Giles, though a staunch Protestant, was delighted to receive a Cardinal, and not less so that he should meet in her drawing-room the inexpressibly magnificent Lothair. That is all in the course of nature; but what has always puzzled me is the ease with which a youth of no particular pretensions, arriving in London from Oxford or Cambridge or from a country home, swims into society, and finds himself welcomed by people whose names he barely knows. I suppose that in this, as in more important matters, the helpers of the social fledgling are good-natured women. The fledgling probably starts by being related to one or two, and acquainted with three or four more; and each of them says to a friend who entertains--"My cousin, Freddy Du Cane, is a very nice fellow, and waltzes capitally. Do send him a card for your dance"--or "Tommy Tucker is a neighbour of ours in the country. If ever you want an odd man to fill up a place at dinner, I think you will find him useful." Then there was in those days, and perhaps there is still, a mysterious race of men--Hierophants of Society--who had great powers of helping or hindering the social beginner. They were bachelors, not very young; who had seen active service as dancers and diners for ten or twenty seasons; and who kept lists of eligible youths which they were perpetually renewing at White's or the Marlborough. To one of these the intending hostess would turn, saying, "Dear Mr. Golightly, _do_ give me your list;" and, if Freddy Du Cane had contrived to ingratiate himself with Mr. Golightly, invitations to balls and dances, of every size and sort, would soon begin to flutter down on him like snow-flakes. It mattered nothing that he had never seen his host or hostess, nor they him. Corney Grain expressed the situation in his own inimitable verse: "Old Mr. Parvenu gave a great ball-- And of all his smart guests he knew no one at all. Old Mr. Parvenu went up to bed, And the guest said 'Good-night' to the butler instead." But light come, light go. Ball-going is elysian when one is very young and cheerful and active, but it is a pleasure which, for nine men out of ten, soon palls. Dinner-society, as Cardinal Grandison knew, is a more serious affair, and admission to it is not so lightly attained. When Sydney Smith returned from a visit to Paris, he wrote, in the fulness of his heart: "I care very little about dinners, but I shall not easily forget a _matelote_ at the 'Rochers de Cancale,' or an almond tart at Montreuil, or a _poulet à la Tartare_ at Grignon's. These are impressions which no changes in future life can obliterate." I am tempted to pursue the line of thought thus invitingly opened, but I forbear; for it really has no special connexion with the retrospective vein. I am now describing the years 1876-1880, and dinners then were pretty much what they are now. The new age of dining had begun. Those frightful hecatombs of sheep and oxen which Francatelli decreed had made way for more ethereal fare. The age-long tyranny of "The Joint" was already undermined. I have indeed been one of a party of forty in the dog-days, where a belated haunch of venison cried aloud for decent burial; but such outrages were even then becoming rare. The champagne of which a poet had beautifully said: "How sad and bad and mad it was, And Oh! how it was sweet!" had been banished in favour of the barely alcoholic liquor which foams in modern glasses. And, thanks to the influence of King Edward VII, after-dinner drinking had been exorcised by cigarettes. The portentous piles of clumsy silver which had overshadowed our fathers' tables--effigies of Peace and Plenty, Racing Cups and Prizes for fat cattle--had been banished to the plate-closets; bright china and brighter flowers reigned in their stead. In short, a dinner thirty-five years ago was very like a dinner to-day. It did not take me long to find that (with Cardinal Grandison) "I liked dinner-society very much," and that "you see the world there and hear things which you do not hear otherwise." I have already described the methods by which ball-society was, and perhaps is, recruited. An incident which befell me in my second season threw a similar light on the more obscure question of dinner-society. One day I received a large card which intimated that Mr. and Mrs. Goldmore requested the honour of my company at dinner. I was a little surprised, because though I had been to balls at the Goldmores' house and had made my bow at the top of the stairs, I did not really know them. They had newly arrived in London, with a great fortune made in clay pipes and dolls' eyes, and were making their way by entertaining lavishly. However, it was very kind of them to ask me to dinner, and I readily accepted. The appointed evening came, and I arrived rather late. In an immense drawing-room there were some thirty guests assembled, and, as I looked round, I could not see a single face which I had ever seen before. Worse than that, it was obvious that Mr. and Mrs. Goldmore did not know me. They heard my name announced, received me quite politely, and then retired into a window, where their darkling undertones, enquiring glances, and heads negatively shaken, made it only too clear that they were asking one another who on earth the last arrival was. However, their embarrassment and mine was soon relieved by the announcement of dinner. As there were more male guests than women, there was no need to give me a partner; so we all swept downstairs in a promiscuous flood, and soon were making the vital choice between _bisque_ and _consommé_. Eating my dinner, I revolved my plans, and decided to make a clean breast of it. So, when we went up into the drawing-room, I made straight for my hostess. "I feel sure," I said, "that you and Mr. Goldmore did not expect me to-night." "Oh," was the gracious reply, "I hope there was nothing in our manner which made you feel that you were unwelcome." "Nothing," I replied, "could have been kinder than your manner, but one has a certain social instinct which tells one when one has made a mistake. And yet what the mistake was I cannot guess. I am sure it is the right house and the right evening--Do please explain." "Well," said Mrs. Goldmore, "as you have found out so much, I think I had better tell you all. _We were not expecting you._ We have not even now the pleasure of knowing who you are. We were expecting Dr. Russell, the _Times_ Correspondent, and all these ladies and gentlemen have been asked to meet him." So it was not my mistake after all, and I promptly rallied my forces. "The card certainly had my first name, initials, and address all right, so there was nothing to make me suspect a mistake. Besides, I should have thought that everyone who knew the _Times_ Russell knew that his first name was William--he is always called 'Billy Russell.'" "Well"--and now the truth coyly emerged--"the fact is that we _don't_ know him. We heard that he was a pleasant man and fond of dining out, and so we looked him up in the _Court Guide_, and sent the invitation. I suppose we hit on your address by mistake for his." I suppose so too; and that this is the method by which newcomers build up a "Dinner-Society" in London. One particular form of dinner deserves a special word of commemoration, because it has gone, never to return. This was the "Fish Dinner" at Greenwich or Blackwall, or even so far afield as Gravesend. It was to a certain extent a picnic; without the formality of dressing, and made pleasant by opportunities of fun and fresh air, in the park or on the river, before we addressed ourselves to the serious business of the evening; but that was serious indeed. The "Menu" of a dinner at the Ship Hotel at Greenwich lies before me as I write. It contains turtle soup, eleven kinds of fish, two _entrées_, a haunch of venison, poultry, ham, grouse, leverets, five sweet dishes, and two kinds of ice. Well, those were great days--we shall not look upon their like again. Let a poet[28] who knew what he was writing about have the last word on Dinner. "We may live without poetry, music, and art; We may live without conscience and live without heart; We may live without friends; we may live without books; But civilized man cannot live without Cooks. "He may live without lore--what is knowledge but grieving? He may live without hope--what is hope but deceiving? He may live without love--what is passion but pining? But where is the man that can live without dining?" There is an exquisite truth in this lyrical cry, but it stops short of the fulness of the subject. It must be remembered that "dining" is not the only form of eating. Mr. Gladstone, who thought modern luxury rather disgusting, used to complain that nowadays life in a country house meant three dinners a day, and, if you reckoned sandwiches and poached eggs at five o'clock tea, nearly four. Indeed, the only difference that I can perceive between a modern luncheon and a modern dinner is that at the former meal you don't have soup or a printed _Menu_. There have always been some houses where the luncheons were much more famous than the dinners. Dinner, after all, is something of a ceremony; it requires forethought, care, and organization. Luncheon is more of a scramble, and, in the case of a numerous and scattered family, it is the pleasantest of reunions. My uncle Lord John Russell (1792-1878) published in 1820 a book of _Essays and Sketches_, in which he speaks of "women sitting down to a substantial luncheon at three or four," and observes that men would be wise if they followed the example. All contemporary evidence points to luncheon as a female meal, at which men attended, if at all, clandestinely. If a man habitually sat down to luncheon, and ate it through, he was regarded as indifferent to the claims of dinner, and, moreover, was contemned as an idler. No one who had anything to do could find time for a square meal in the middle of the day. But, as years went on, the feeling changed. Prince Albert was notoriously fond of luncheon, and Queen Victoria humoured him. They dined very late, and the luncheon at the Palace became a very real and fully recognized meal. The example, communicated from the highest quarters, was soon followed in Society; and, when I first knew London, luncheon was as firmly established as dinner. As a rule, it was not an affair of fixed invitation; but a hostess would say, "You will always find us at luncheon, somewhere about two"--and one took her at her word. The luncheon by invitation was a more formal, and rather terrible, affair. I well remember a house where at two o'clock in June we had to sit down with curtains drawn, lights ablaze, and rose-coloured shades to the candles, because the hostess thought, rightly as regarded herself, less so as regarded her guests, that no one's complexion could stand the searching trial of midsummer sunshine. "Sunday Luncheon" was always a thing apart. For some reason, not altogether clear, perhaps because devotion long sustained makes a strong demand on the nervous system, men who turned up their noses at luncheon on weekdays devoured roast beef and Yorkshire pudding on Sundays, and went forth, like giants refreshed, for a round of afternoon calls. The Sunday Luncheon was a recognized centre of social life. Where there was even a moderate degree of intimacy a guest might drop in and be sure of mayonnaise, chicken, and welcome. I can recall an occasion of this kind when I saw social Presence of Mind exemplified, as I thought and think, on an heroic scale. Luncheon was over. It had not been a particularly bounteous meal; the guests had been many; the chicken had been eaten to the drumstick and the cutlets to the bone. Nothing remained but a huge Trifle, of chromatic and threatening aspect, on which no one had ventured to embark. Coffee was just coming, when the servant entered with an anxious expression, and murmured to the hostess that Monsieur de Petitpois--a newly-arrived attaché--had come, and seemed to expect luncheon. The hostess grasped the situation in an instant, and issued her commands with a promptitude and a directness which the Duke of Wellington could not have surpassed. "Clear everything away, but leave the Trifle. Then show M. de Petitpois in." Enter De Petitpois. "Delighted to see you. Quite right. Always at home at Sunday luncheon. Pray come and sit here and have some Trifle. It is our national Sunday dish." Poor young De Petitpois, actuated by the same principle which made the Prodigal desire the husks, filled himself with spongecake, jam, and whipped cream; and went away looking rather pale. If he kept a journal, he no doubt noted the English Sunday as one of our most curious institutions, and "Le Trifle" as its crowning horror. Supper is a word of very different significances. There is the Ball Supper, which I have described in a previous chapter. There is the Supper after the Missionary Meeting in the country, when "The Deputation from the Parent Society" is entertained with cold beef, boiled eggs, and cocoa. There is the diurnal Supper, fruitful parent of our national crudities, eaten by the social class that dines at one; and this Supper (as was disclosed at a recent inquest) may consist of steak, tomatoes, and tea. And yet, again, there is the Theatrical Supper, which, eaten in congenial company after _Patience_ or _The Whip_, is our nearest approach to the "Nights and Suppers of the Gods." This kind of supper has a niche of its own in my retrospects. It was my privilege when first I came to London to know Lady Burdett-Coutts, famous all over the world as a philanthropist, and also, in every tone and gesture, a survival from the days when great station and great manner went together. Lady Burdett-Coutts was an enthusiastic devotee of the drama; and, when her Evening Parties were breaking up, she would gently glide round the great rooms in Stratton Street, and say to a departing guest: "I hope you need not go just yet. I am expecting Mr. Irving to supper after the play, and I am asking a few friends to meet him." As far as I know, I am the only survivor of those delightful feasts. Dinner and luncheon and supper must, I suppose, be reckoned among the permanent facts of life; but there is, or was, one meal of which I have witnessed the unwept disappearance. It had its roots in our historic past. It clung to its place in our social economy. It lived long and died hard. It was the Breakfast-Party. When I first lived in London, it was, like some types of human character, vigorous but unpopular. No one could really like going out to breakfast; but the people who gave Breakfast-Parties were worthy and often agreeable people; and there were few who had the hardihood to say them Nay. The most famous breakfast-parties of the time were given by Mr. Gladstone, on every Thursday morning in the Session; when, while we ate broiled salmon and drank coffee, our host discoursed to an admiring circle about the colour-sense in Homer, or the polity of the ancient Hittites. Around the table were gathered Lions and Lionesses of various breeds and sizes, who, if I remember aright, did not get quite as much opportunity for roaring as they would have liked; for, when Mr. Gladstone had started on a congenial theme, it was difficult to get in a word edgeways. One of these breakfast-parties at 10, Downing Street, stands out in memory more clearly than the rest, for it very nearly had a part in that "Making of History" which was then so much in vogue. The date was April 23, 1885. The party comprised Lady Ripon, Lord Granville, Dean Church, and Miss Mary Anderson, then in the height of her fame and beauty. We were stolidly munching and listening, when suddenly we heard a crash as if heaven and earth had come together; and presently we learned that there had been an explosion of dynamite at the Admiralty, about a hundred yards from where we were sitting. The proximity of nitro-glycerine seemed to operate as a check on conversation, and, as we rose from the table, I heard Miss Anderson say to Miss Gladstone, "Your pa seemed quite scared." Other breakfast-givers of the time were Lord Houghton, Lord Arthur Russell, Mr. Shaw-Lefevre (afterwards Lord Eversley), and Sir John Lubbock (afterwards Lord Avebury); and there were even people so desperately wedded to this terrible tradition that they formed themselves into Clubs with no other object than to breakfast, and bound themselves by solemn pledges to meet one morning in every week, and eat and argue themselves into dyspepsia. Sydney Smith wrote thus to a friend: "I have a breakfast of philosophers to-morrow at ten punctually--muffins and metaphysics, crumpets and contradiction. Will you come?" That inviting picture, though it was drawn before I was born, exactly describes the breakfast-parties which I remember. One met all sorts of people, but very few Mary Andersons. Breakfasters were generally old,--politicians, diplomatists, authors, journalists, men of science, political economists, and everyone else who was most improving. No doubt it was a priceless privilege to meet them; yet, as I heard them prate and prose, I could not help recalling a favourite passage from Mrs. Sherwood's quaint tale of _Henry Milner_:-- "Mr. Dolben, as usual, gave utterance at breakfast to several of those pure and wise and refined principles, which sometimes distil as drops of honey from the lips of pious and intellectual old persons." It was breakfast that set Mr. Dolben off. We are not told that he distilled his honey at dinner or supper; so his case must be added to the long list of deleterious results produced by breakfasting in public. Conversation must, I think, have been at rather a low ebb when I first encountered it in London. Men breakfasted in public, as we have just seen, in order to indulge in it; and I remember a terrible Club where it raged on two nights of every week, in a large, dark, and draughty room, while men sat round an indifferent fire, drinking barley-water, and talking for talking's sake--the most melancholy of occupations. But at these dismal orgies one never heard anything worth remembering. The "pious and intellectual old persons" whom Mrs. Sherwood admired had withdrawn from the scene, if indeed they had ever figured on it. Those who remained were neither pious nor intellectual, but compact of spite and greediness, with here and there worse faults. But some brighter spirits were coming on. To call them by the names which they then bore, Mr. George Trevelyan and Mr. John Morley were thought very promising, for social fame in London takes a long time to establish itself. Sir William Harcourt was capital company in the heavier style; and Lord Rosebery in the lighter. But Mr. Herbert Paul was known only to the _Daily News_, and Mr. Augustine Birrell's ray serene had not emerged from the dim, unfathomed caves of the Chancery Bar. So far, I have been writing about Conversation with a capital "C,"--an elaborate and studied art which in old days such men as Sharpe and Jekyll and Luttrell illustrated, and, in times more modern, Brookfield and Cockburn and Lowe and Hayward. For the ordinary chit-chat of social intercourse--chaff and repartee, gossip and fun and frolic--I believe that London was just as good in 1876 as it had been fifty years before. We were young and happy, enjoying ourselves, and on easy terms with one another. "It was roses, roses all the way." Our talk was unpremeditated and unstudied, quick as lightning, springing out of the interest or the situation of the moment, uttered in an instant and as soon forgotten. Everyone who has ever made the attempt must realize that to gather up the fragments of such talk as this is as impossible as to collect shooting stars or to reconstruct a rainbow. But, though I cannot say what we talked about in those distant days, I believe I can indicate with certainty two topics which were never mentioned. One is Health, and the other is Money. I presume that people had pretty much the same complaints as now, but no one talked about them. We had been told of a lady who died in agony because she insisted on telling the doctor that the pain was in her chest, whereas it really was in the unmentionable organ of digestion. That martyr to propriety has no imitator in the present day. Everyone has a disease and a doctor, and young people of both sexes are ready on the slightest acquaintance to describe symptoms and compare experiences. "Ice!" exclaimed a pretty girl at dessert. "Good gracious, no. So bad for indy!" And her companion, who had not travelled with the times, learned with interest that "indy" was the pet name for indigestion. Then, again, as to money. In the "Sacred Circle of the Great Grandmotherhood," I never heard the slightest reference to income. Not that the Whigs despised money. They were at least as fond of it as other people, and, even when it took the shape of slum-rents, its odour was not displeasing; but it was not a subject for conversation. People did not chatter about their neighbours' incomes; and, if they made their own money in trades or professions, they did not regale us with statistics of profit and loss. To-day everyone seems to be, if I may use the favourite colloquialism, "on the make"; and the devotion with which people worship money pervades their whole conversation, and colours their whole view of life. "Scions of Aristocracy," to use the good old phrase of Pennialinus, will produce samples of tea or floor-cloth from their pockets, and sue quite winningly for custom. A speculative bottle of extraordinarily cheap peach-brandy will arrive with the compliments of Lord Tom Noddy, who has just gone into the wine-trade; and Lord Magnus Charters will tell you that, if you are going to rearrange your electric light, his firm has got some really artistic fittings which he can let you have on specially easy terms. So far I have spoken of Hospitality as if it consisted wholly in eating and drinking. Not so. In those days Evening Parties, or Receptions, or Drums, or Tails, for so they were indifferently called, took place on four or five nights of every week. "Tails" as the name implies, were little parties tacked on to the end of big dinners, where a few people looked in, rather cross at not having been invited to dine, or else in a desperate hurry to get on to a larger party or a ball. The larger parties were given generally on Saturday evenings; and then, amid a crushing crowd and a din which recalled the Parrot-House at the Zoo, one might rub shoulders with all the famous men and women of the time. When Mr. St. Barbe in _Endymion_ attended a gathering of this kind, he said to his companion, "I daresay that Ambassador has been blundering all his life, and yet there is something in that Star and Ribbon. I do not know how you feel, but I could almost go down on my knees to him. 'Ye stars which are the poetry of heaven,' Byron wrote; a silly line, he should have written-- 'Ye stars which are the poetry of dress.'" Political "Drums" had a flavour which was all their own. If they were given in any of the Great Houses of London, where the stateliness and beauty of the old world still survived, such guests as Lord Beaconsfield's creations, Mr. Horrocks, M.P., and Trodgitts, the unsuccessful candidate, would look a little subdued. But in the ordinary house, with a back and front drawing-room and a buffet in the dining-room, those good men were quite at home, and the air was thick with political shop--whether we should loose Pedlington or save Shuffleborough with a struggle--whether A would get office and how disgusted B would be if he did. Here and there a more thrilling note was sounded. At a Liberal party in the spring of 1881 an ex-Whip of the Liberal party said to a Liberal lady, as he was giving her a cup of tea: "Have you heard how ill old Dizzy is?" "Oh, yes!" replied the lady, with a rapturous wink, "I know--dying!" Such are the amenities of political strife. A much more agreeable form of hospitality was the Garden-Party. When I came to live in London, the old-fashioned phrase--a "Breakfast"--so familiar in memoirs and novels, had almost passed out of use. On the 22nd of June, 1868, Queen Victoria signalized her partial return to social life by commanding her lieges to a "Breakfast" in the gardens of Buckingham Palace; and the newspapers made merry over the notion of Breakfast which began at four and ended at seven. The old title gradually died out, and by 1876 people had begun to talk about "Garden-Parties." By whichever names they were called, they were, and are, delightful festivals. Sometimes they carried one as far as Hatfield, my unapproached favourite among all the "Stately homes of England"; but generally they were nearer London--at Syon, with the Thames floating gravely past its lawns--Osterley, where the decorative skill of the Brothers Adam is superimposed on Sir Thomas Gresham's Elizabethan brickwork--Holland House, rife with memories of Fox and Macaulay--Lowther Lodge, with its patch of unspoiled country in the heart of Western London. Closely akin to these Garden-Parties were other forms of outdoor entertainment--tea at Hurlingham or Ranelagh; and river-parties where ardent youth might contrive to capsize the adored one, and propose as he rescued her, dripping, from the Thames. It is only within the last few years that we have begun to talk of "Week-Ends" and "week-Ending." These terrible phrases have come down to us from the North of England; but before they arrived the thing which they signify was here. "Saturday-to-Monday Parties" they were called. They were not so frequent as now, because Saturday was a favourite night for entertaining in London, and it was generally bespoken for dinners and drums. But, as the summer advanced and hot rooms became unendurable, people who lived only forty or fifty miles out of London began to ask if one would run down to them on Friday or Saturday, and stay over Sunday. Of these hospitalities I was a sparing and infrequent cultivator, for they always meant two sleepless nights; and, as someone truly observed, just as you had begun to wear off the corners of your soap, it was time to return to London. But there were people, more happily constituted, who could thoroughly enjoy and profit by the weekly dose of fresh air and quiet. It was seldom that Mrs. Gladstone failed to drag Mr. Gladstone to some country house "from Saturday to Monday." As I re-read what I have written in this chapter, I seem to have lived from 1876 to 1880 in the constant enjoyment of one kind or another of Hospitality. It is true; and for the kindness of the friends who then did so much to make my life agreeable, I am as grateful as I was when I received it. My social life in London seems to me, as I look back, "a crystal river of unreproved enjoyment"; and some of those who shared it with me are still among my closest friends. One word more, and I have done with Hospitality. I brought with me from Oxford a simple lad who had been a College servant. In those more courteous days a young man made it a rule to leave his card at every house where he had been entertained; so I made a list of addresses, gave it to my servant with a nicely-calculated batch of cards, and told him to leave them all before dinner. When I came in to dress, this dialogue ensued: "Have you left all those cards?" "Yes, sir." "You left two at each of the houses on your list?" "Oh no, sir. I left one at each house, and all the rest at the Duke of Leinster's." Surely Mrs. Humphry Ward or Mr. H. G. Wells might make something of this bewildering effect produced by exalted rank on the untutored mind. FOOTNOTE: [28] The second Lord Lytton. IX ELECTIONEERING "Candidates are creatures not very susceptible of affronts, and would rather, I suppose, climb in at a window than be absolutely excluded. Mr. Grenville, advancing towards me, shook me by the hand with a degree of cordiality that was extremely seducing.... He is very young, genteel, and handsome, and the town seems to be much at his service." _W. Cowper_, 1784. Gladstone's first administration, which had begun so gloriously in 1868, ended rather ignominiously at the General Election of 1874. Matthew Arnold wrote to his friend, Lady de Rothschild, "What a beating it is! You know that Liberalism did not seem to me quite the beautiful and admirable thing it does to the Liberal party in general, and I am not sorry that a new stage in its growth should commence, and that the party should be driven to examine itself, and to see how much real stuff it has in its mind, and how much claptrap." That wholesome discipline of self-examination was greatly assisted by the progress of events. England was now subjected to the personal rule of Disraeli. In 1868 he had been for ten months Prime Minister on sufferance, but now for the first time in his life he was in power. His colleagues were serfs or cyphers. He had acquired an influence at Court such as no other Minister ever possessed. He had conciliated the House of Lords, which in old days had looked askance at the picturesque adventurer. He was supported by a strong, compact, and determined majority in the House of Commons. He was the idol of Society, of the Clubs, and of the London Press. He was, in short, as nearly a dictator as the forms of our constitution permit; and the genius, which for forty years had been hampered and trammelled by the exigencies of a precarious struggle, could now for the first time display its true character and significance. Liberals who had been bored and provoked by the incessant blunders of the Liberal ministry in its last years, and, like Matthew Arnold, had welcomed a change of government, soon began to see that they had exchanged what was merely fatuous and foolish for what was actively mischievous. They were forced to ask themselves how much of the political faith which they had professed was "real stuff," and how much was "claptrap." Disraeli soon taught them that, even when all "claptrap" was laid aside, the "real stuff" of Liberalism--its vital and essential part--was utterly incompatible with Disraelitish ideals. The Session of 1874 began quietly enough, and the first disturbance proceeded from a quite unexpected quarter. The two Primates of the English Church were at this time Archbishop Tait and Archbishop Thomson. Both were masterful men. Both hated Ritualism; and both worshipped the Man in the Street. The Man in the Street was supposed to be an anti-Ritualist; so the two Archbishops conceived the happy design of enlisting his aid in the destruction of a religious movement which, with their own unaided resources, they had failed to crush. Bishop Wilberforce, who would not have suffered the Ritualists to be bullied, had been killed in the previous summer. Gladstone, notoriously not unfriendly to Ritualism, was dethroned; so all looked smooth and easy for a policy of persecution. On the 20th of April, 1874, Archbishop Tait introduced his "Public Worship Regulation Bill" into the House of Lords; and, in explanation of this measure, Tait's biographers say that it merely "aimed at reviving in a practical shape the _forum domesticum_ of the Bishops, with just so much of coercive force added as seemed necessary to meet the changed circumstances of modern times." I have always loved this sentence. _Forum domesticum_ is distinctly good, and so is "coercive force." The _forum domesticum_ has quite a comfortable sound, and, as to the "coercive force" which lurks in the background, Ritualists must not enquire too curiously. The Bishops were to have it all their own way, and everyone was to be happy. Such was the Bill as introduced; but in Committee it was made infinitely more oppressive. Henceforward a single lay-judge, to be appointed by the two Archbishops, was to hear and determine all cases relating to irregularities in Public Worship. When the Bill reached the House of Commons, it was powerfully opposed by Gladstone; but the House was dead against him, and Sir William Harcourt, who, six months before, had been his Solicitor-General, distinguished himself by the truculence with which he assailed the Ritualists. On the 5th of August, Gladstone wrote to his wife: "An able but yet frantic tirade from Harcourt, extremely bad in tone and taste, and chiefly aimed at poor me.... I have really treated him with forbearance before, but I was obliged to let out a little to-day." Meanwhile, Disraeli, seeing his opportunity, had seized it with characteristic skill. He adopted the Bill with great cordiality. He rejected all the glozing euphemisms which had lulled the House of Lords. He uttered no pribbles and prabbles about _forum domesticum_, and paternal guidance, and the authoritative interpretation of ambiguous formularies. "This," he said, "is a Bill to put down Ritualism." So the naked truth, carefully veiled from view in episcopal aprons and lawn-sleeves, was now displayed in all its native charm. Its success was instant and complete. The Second Reading passed unanimously; and the Archbishops' masterpiece became at once a law and a laughing-stock. The instrument of tyranny broke in the clumsy hands which had forged it, and its fragments to-day lie rusting in the lumber-room of archiepiscopal failures. But in the meantime the debates on the Bill had produced some political effects which its authors certainly had not desired. Gladstone's vehement attacks on the Bill, and his exhilarating triumph over the recalcitrant Harcourt, showed the Liberal party that their chief, though temporarily withdrawn from active service, was as vivacious and as energetic as ever, as formidable in debate, and as unquestionably supreme in his party whenever he chose to assert his power. Another important result of the controversy was that Gladstone was now the delight and glory of the Ritualists. The Committee organized to defend the clergy of St. Alban's, Holborn, against the _forum domesticum_ and "coercive force" of Bishop Jackson, made a formal and public acknowledgment of their gratitude for Gladstone's "noble and unsupported defence of the rights of the Church of England." Cultivated and earnest Churchmen, even when they had little sympathy with Ritualism, were attracted to his standard, and turned in righteous disgust from the perpetrator of clumsy witticisms about "Mass in masquerade." In towns where, as at Oxford and Brighton, the Church is powerful, the effect of these desertions was unmistakably felt at the General Election of 1880. It has been truly said that among the subjects which never fail to excite Englishmen is Slavery. "No public man," said Matthew Arnold, "in this country will be damaged by having even 'fanaticism' in his hatred of slavery imputed to him." In July, 1875, the Admiralty issued to Captains of Her Majesty's ships a Circular of Instructions which roused feelings of anger and of shame. This circular ran counter alike to the jealousy of patriots and to the sentiment of humanitarians. It directed that a fugitive slave should not be received on board a British vessel unless his life was in danger, and that, if she were in territorial waters, he should be surrendered on legal proof of his condition. If the ship were at sea, he should only be received and protected until she reached the country to which he belonged. These strange and startling orders were not in harmony either with the Law of Nations or with the law of England. They infringed the invaluable rule which prescribes that a man-of-war is British territory, wherever she may be; and they seemed to challenge the famous decision of Lord Mansfield, that a slave who enters British jurisdiction becomes free for ever. Parliament had risen for the recess just before the circular appeared, so it could not be challenged in the House of Commons; but it raised a storm of indignation out of doors which astonished its authors. Disraeli wrote "The incident is grave;" and, though in the subsequent session the Government tried to whittle down the enormity, the "incident" proved to be graver than even the Premier had imagined; for it showed the Liberals once again that Toryism is by instinct hostile to freedom. But events were now at hand before which the Public Worship Regulation Act and the Slave Circular paled into insignificance. In the autumn of 1875 an insurrection had broken out in Bulgaria, and the Turkish Government despatched a large force to repress it. This was done, and repression was followed by a hideous orgy of massacre and outrage. A rumour of these horrors reached England, and public indignation spontaneously awoke. Disraeli, with a strange frankness of cynical brutality, sneered at the rumour as "Coffee-house babble," and made odious jokes about the Oriental way of executing malefactors. But Christian England was not to be pacified with these Asiatic pleasantries, and in the autumn of 1876 the country rose in passionate indignation against what were known as "the Bulgarian Atrocities." Preaching in St. Paul's Cathedral, Liddon made a signal departure from his general rule of avoiding politics in the pulpit, and gave splendid utterance to the passion which was burning in his heart. "Day by day we English are learning that this year of grace 1876 has been signalized by a public tragedy which, I firmly believe, is without a parallel in modern times.... Not merely armed men, but young women and girls and babes, counted by hundreds, counted by thousands, subjected to the most refined cruelties, subjected to the last indignities, have been the victims of the Turk." And then came a fine burst of patriotic indignation. "That which makes the voice falter as we say it is that, through whatever misunderstanding, the Government which is immediately responsible for acts like these has turned for sympathy, for encouragement, not to any of the historical homes of despotism or oppression, not to any other European Power, but alas! to England--to free, humane, Christian England. The Turk has, not altogether without reason, believed himself, amid these scenes of cruelty, to be leaning on our country's arm, to be sure of her smile, or at least of her acquiescence." And soon a mightier voice than even Liddon's was added to the chorus of righteous indignation. Gladstone had resigned the leadership of the Liberal Party at the beginning of 1875, and for sixteen months he remained buried in his library at Hawarden. But now he suddenly reappeared, and flung himself into the agitation against Turkey with a zeal which in his prime he had never excelled, if, indeed, he had equalled it. On Christmas Day, 1876, he wrote in his diary--"The most solemn I have known for long; I see that eastward sky of storm and of underlight!" When Parliament met in February, 1877, he was ready with all his unequalled resources of eloquence, argumentation, and inconvenient enquiry, to drive home his great indictment against the Turkish Government and its champion, Disraeli, who had now become Lord Beaconsfield. For three arduous years he sustained the strife with a versatility, a courage, and a resourcefulness, which raised the enthusiasm of his followers to the highest pitch, and filled his antagonists with a rage akin to frenzy. I well remember that in July, 1878, just after Lord Beaconsfield's triumphant return from Berlin, a lady asked me as a special favour to dine with her: "Because I have got the Gladstones coming, and everyone declines to meet him." Strange, but true. 1878 was perhaps the most critical year of the Eastern question. Russia and Turkey were at death-grips, and Lord Beaconsfield seemed determined to commit this country to a war in defence of the Mahomedan Power, which for centuries has persecuted the worshippers of Christ in the East of Europe. By frustrating the sinister design Gladstone saved England from the indelible disgrace of a second Crimea. But it was not only in Eastern Europe that he played the hero's part. In Africa, and India, and wherever British arms were exercised and British honour was involved, he dealt his resounding blows at that odious system of bluster and swagger and might against right, on which the Prime Minister and his colleagues bestowed the tawdry nickname of Imperialism. In his own phrase he devoted himself to "counterworking the purpose of Lord Beaconsfield," and all that was ardent and enthusiastic and adventurous in Liberalism flocked to his standard. "Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive, But to be young was very heaven." One could not stand aloof--the call to arms was too imperious. We saw our Leader contending single-handed with "the obscene empires of Mammon and Belial," and we longed to be at his side in the thick of the fight. To a man born and circumstanced as I was the call came with peculiar power. I had the love of Freedom in my blood. I had been trained to believe in and to serve the Liberal cause. I was incessantly reminded of the verse, which, sixty years before, Moore had addressed to my uncle, Lord John Russell, "Like the boughs of that laurel, by Delphi's decree Set apart for the Fane and its service divine, So the branches that spring from the old Russell tree Are by Liberty claimed for the use of her shrine." In 1841 that same uncle wrote thus to his eldest brother: "Whatever may be said about other families, I do not think ours ought to retire from active exertion. In all times of popular movement, the Russells have been on the 'forward' side. At the Reformation, the first Earl of Bedford; in Charles the First's days, Francis, the Great Earl; in Charles the Second's, William, Lord Russell; in later times, Francis, Duke of Bedford; our father; you; and lastly myself in the Reform Bill." These hereditary appeals were strong, but there were influences which were stronger. A kind of romantic and religious glamour, such as one had never before connected with politics, seemed to surround this attack on the strongholds of Anti-Christ. The campaign became a crusade. Towards the end of 1879 I accepted an invitation to contest "the Borough and Hundreds of Aylesbury" at the next General Election. The "Borough" was a compact and attractive-looking town, and the "Hundreds" which surrounded it covered an area nearly coextensive with the present division of Mid Bucks. Close by was Hampden House, unaltered since the day when four thousand freeholders of Buckinghamshire rode up to Westminster to defend their impeached member, John Hampden. All around were those beech-clad recesses of the Chiltern Hills, in which, according to Lord Beaconsfield, the Great Rebellion was hatched. I do not vouch for that fact, but I can affirm that thirty years ago those recesses sheltered some of the stoutest Liberals whom I have ever known. The town and its surroundings were, for parliamentary purposes, a Borough, and, as all householders in Boroughs had been enfranchised by the Reform Act of 1867, the Agricultural Labourers of the district were already voters. It happens that Agricultural Labourers are the class of voters with which I am most familiar; and an intimate acquaintance with these men has taught me increasingly to admire their staunchness, their shrewdness, and their racy humour. Two or three of the old sayings come back to memory as I write. "More pigs and less parsons" must have been a survival from the days of Tithe. "The Black Recruiting Sergeant" was a nickname for a canvassing Incumbent. "I tell you how it is with a State-Parson," cried a Village Hampden: "if you take away his book, he can't preach. If you take away his gown he mayn't preach. If you take away his screw, he'll be d--d if he'll preach." A Radical M.P. suddenly deserted his constituency and took a peerage, and this was the verdict of the Village Green: "Mister So-and-so says he's going to the House of Lords to 'leaven it with Liberal principles.' Bosh! Mr. So-and-so can't no more leaven the House of Lords than you can sweeten a cartload of muck with a pot of marmalade." Aylesbury returned two Members to Parliament, and its political history had been chequered. When first I came to know it, the two members were Mr. Samuel George Smith and Sir Nathaniel de Rothschild (afterwards Lord Rothschild). Mr. Smith was a Tory. Sir Nathaniel professed to be a Liberal; but, as his Liberalism was of the sort which had doggedly supported Lord Beaconsfield all through the Eastern Question, the more enthusiastic spirits in the constituency felt that they were wholly unrepresented. It was they who invited me to stand. From the first, Sir Nathaniel made it known that he would not support or coalesce with me; and perhaps, considering the dissimilarity of our politics, it was just as well. So there were three candidates, fighting independently for two seats; there was no Corrupt Practices Act in those days; and the situation was neatly summarized by a tradesman of the town. "Our three candidates are Mr. S. G. Smith, head of 'Smith, Payne & Co.;' Sir Nathaniel de Rothschild, head of 'N. M. Rothschild & Sons,' and Mr. George Russell, who, we understand, has the Duke of Bedford behind him. So we are looking forward to a very interesting contest." That word _interesting_ was well chosen. Now began the most vivid and enjoyable portion of my life. Everything conspired to make it pleasant. In the first place, I believed absolutely in my cause. I was not, as Sydney Smith said, "stricken by the palsy of candour." There were no doubts or questionings or ambiguities in my mind. My creed with regard both to foreign and to domestic politics was clear, positive, and deliberate. I was received with the most extraordinary kindness and enthusiasm by people who really longed to have a hand in the dethronement of Lord Beaconsfield, and who believed in their politics as part of their religion. After my first speech in the Corn Exchange of Aylesbury I was severely reprehended because I had called Lord Beaconsfield a "Jew." If I had known better, I should have said "a Semite" or "an Israelite," or--his own phrase--"a Mosaic Arab," and all would have been well. I had and have close friends among the Jews, so my use of the offending word was not dictated by racial or social prejudice. But it expressed a strong conviction. I held then, and I hold now, that it was a heavy misfortune for England that, during the Eastern Question, her Prime Minister was one of the Ancient Race. The spiritual affinity between Judaism and Mahomedanism, founded on a common denial of the Christian Creed, could not be without its influence on a statesman whose deepest convictions, from first to last, were with the religion of his forefathers. In 1876 Mr. Gladstone wrote--"Some new lights about Disraeli's Judaic feeling, in which he is both consistent and conscientious, have come in upon me." And similar "lights" dictated my action and my language at the crisis of 1879-1880. Another element of enjoyment was that I was young--only twenty-six. Youth is an invaluable asset in a first campaign. Youth can canvass all day, and harangue all night. It can traverse immense distances without fatigue, make speeches in the open air without catching cold, sleep anywhere, eat anything, and even drink port with a grocer's label on it, at five in the afternoon. Then again, I had a natural and inborn love of public speaking, and I have known no enjoyment in life equal to that of addressing a great audience which you feel to be actively sympathetic. Yes, that spring of 1880 was a delightful time. As the condemned highwayman said to the chaplain who was exhorting him to repentance for his life of adventure on the road--"You dog, it was delicious." It was all so new. One emerged (like Herbert Gladstone) from the obscurity of College rooms or from the undistinguished herd of London ball-goers, or from the stables and stubbles of a country home, and became, all in a moment, a Personage. For the first time in one's life one found that people--grown-up, sensible, vote-possessing people--wished to know one's opinions, and gave heed to one's words. For the first time, one had "Colours" of one's own, as if one were a Regiment or a University; for the first time one beheld one's portrait, flattering though perhaps mud-bespattered, on every wall. For the first time one was cheered in the street, and entered the Corn-Exchange amid what the Liberal paper called "thunders of applause," and the opponent's organ whittled down to "cheers." But canvassing cannot, I think, be reckoned among the pleasures of a candidature. One must be very young indeed to find it even tolerable. A candidate engaged in a house-to-house canvass has always seemed to me (and not least clearly when I was the candidate) to sink beneath the level of humanity. To beg for votes, as if they were alms or broken victuals, is a form of mendicancy which is incompatible with common self-respect, and yet it is a self-abasement which thirty years ago custom imperatively demanded. "If my vote ain't worth calling for, I suppose it ain't worth 'aving" was the formula in which the elector stated his requirement. To trudge, weary and footsore, dusty and deliquescent, from door to door; to ask, with damnable iteration, if Mr. So-and-so is at home, and to meet the invariable rejoinder, "No, he isn't," not seldom running on with--"And, if he was, he wouldn't see you;" to find oneself (being Blue) in a Red quarter, where the very children hoot at you, and inebriate matrons shout personalities from upper windows--all this is detestable enough. But to find the voter at home and unfriendly is an experience which plunges the candidate lower still. A curious tradition of privileged insolence, which runs through all English history from the days when great men kept Jesters and the Universities had their _Terræ Filii_, asserts itself, by immemorial usage, at an election. People who would be perfectly civil if one called on them in the ordinary way, and even rapturously grateful if they could sell one six boxes of lucifers or a pound of toffee, permit themselves a freedom of speech to the suppliant candidate, which tests the fibre of his manhood. If he loses his temper and answers in like sort, the door is shut on him with some Parthian jeer, and, as he walks dejectedly away, the agent says--"Ah, it's a pity you offended that fellow. He's very influential in this ward, and I believe a civil word would have won him." If, on the other hand, the candidate endures the raillery and smiles a sickly smile, he really fares no better. After a prolonged battle of wits (in which he takes care not to be too successful) he discovers that the beery gentleman in shirtsleeves has no vote, and that, in the time which he has spent in these fruitless pleasantries, he might have canvassed half the street. There is, of course, a pleasanter side to canvassing. It warms the cockles of one's heart to be greeted with the words, "Don't waste your time here, sir. My vote's yours before you ask for it. There's your picture over the chimney-piece." And when a wife says, "My husband is out at work, but I know he means to vote for you," one is inclined to embrace her on the spot. These are the amenities of electioneering; but a man who enters on a political campaign expecting fair treatment from his opponents is indeed walking in a vain shadow. The ordinary rules of fairplay and straightforward conduct are forgotten at an election. In a political contest people say and do a great many things of which in every-day life they would be heartily ashamed. An election-agent of the old school once said to me in the confidence of after-dinner claret, "For my own part, when I go into a fight, I go in to win, and I'm not particular to a shade or two." All this is the common form of electioneering, but in one respect I think my experience rather unusual. I have been all my life as keen a Churchman as I am a Liberal, and some of my closest friends are clergymen. I never found that the Nonconformists were the least unfriendly to me on this account. They had their own convictions, and they respected mine; and we could work together in perfect concord for the causes of Humanity and Freedom. But the most unscrupulous opponents whom I have ever encountered have been the parochial clergy of the Church to which I belong, and the bands of "workers" whom they direct. Tennyson once depicted a clergyman who-- "From a throne Mounted in heaven should shoot into the dark Arrows of lightnings," and graciously added that he "would stand and mark." But, when the Vicar from his pulpit-throne launches barbed sayings about "those who would convert our schools into seminaries of Atheism or Socialism, and would degrade this hallowed edifice into a Lecture-Hall--nay, a Music-Hall," then the Liberal candidate, constrained to "sit and mark" these bolts aimed at his cause, is tempted to a breach of charity. The Vicar's "workers" follow suit, but descend a little further into personalities. "You know that the Radical Candidate arrived drunk at one of his meetings? He had to be lifted out of the carriage, and kept in the Committee Room till he was sober. Shocking, isn't it? and then such shameful hypocrisy to talk about Local Option! But can you wonder? You know he's an atheist? Oh yes, I know he goes to Church, but that's all a blind. His one object is to do away with Religion. Yes, they do say he has been in the Divorce Court, but I should not like to say I know it, though I quite believe it. His great friend, Mr. Comus, certainly was, and Mr. Quickly only got off by paying an immense sum in hush-money. They're all tarred with the same brush, and it really is a religious duty to keep them out of Parliament." Such I have observed to be the attitude of parochial clergy and church-workers towards Liberal candidates. "They said their duty both to man and God Required such conduct--which seemed very odd." I suppose they would have justified it by that zeal for Established Churches and Sectarian Schools which, if it does not actually "eat up" its votaries, certainly destroys their sense of proportion and perspective.[29] Though I have said so much about the pugnacity of the clergy, I would not have it supposed that the Tory laity were slack or backward in political activity. To verbal abuse one soon became case-hardened; but one had also to encounter physical violence. In those days, stones and cabbage-stalks and rotten eggs still played a considerable part in electioneering. Squires hid their gamekeepers in dark coppices with instructions to pelt one as one drove past after dark. The linch-pin was taken out of one's carriage while one was busy at a meeting; and it was thought seriously unsafe for the candidate to walk unescorted through the hostile parts of the borough. But, after all, this animosity, theological, moral, physical, did no great harm. It quickened the zeal and strengthened the resolve of one's supporters; and it procured one the inestimable aid of young, active, and pugnacious friends, who formed themselves into a body-guard and a cycle-corps, protecting their candidate when the play was rough, and spreading the light all over the constituency. Why did not Lord Beaconsfield dissolve Parliament in July, 1878, when he returned in a blaze of triumph from the Congress of Berlin? Probably because his nerve had failed him, and he chose to retain his supremacy unquestioned, rather than commit it to the chances of a General Election. Anyhow, he let the moment pass; and from that time on his Government began to lose ground. In 1879 _Vanity Fair_, a strongly Disraelitish organ, pronounced (under a cartoon) that Gladstone was the most popular man in England. In the autumn of that year, the "Mid-Lothian Campaign" raised him to the very summit of his great career; and, when Christmas came, most Liberals felt that it was all over except the shouting. On the 9th of March, 1880, Lord Beaconsfield announced that he had "advised the Queen to recur to the sense of her people." His opponents remarked that the nonsense of her people was likely to serve his turn a good deal better; and to the task of exposing and correcting that nonsense we vigorously applied ourselves during the remaining weeks of Lent. It is true that the same statesman had once declared himself "on the side of the Angels" in order to reassure the clergy, and had once dated a letter on "Maundy Thursday" in order to secure the High Church vote. Encouraged by these signs of grace, some of his followers mildly remonstrated against a Lenten dissolution and an Easter poll. But counsels which might have weighed with Mr. Disraeli, M.P. for Bucks (who had clerical constituents), were thrown away on Lord Beaconsfield, who had the Crown, Lords, and Commons on his side; and on the 24th of March the Parliament which he had dominated for six years was scattered to the winds. Electioneering in rural districts was pure joy. It was a delicious spring, bright and yet soft, and the beech-forests of the Chilterns were in early leafage. "There is a rapturous movement, a green growing, Among the hills and valleys once again, And silent rivers of delight are flowing Into the hearts of men. "There is a purple weaving on the heather, Night drops down starry gold upon the furze; Wild rivers and wild birds sing songs together, Dead Nature breathes and stirs."[30] In the spring of 1880, Nature had no monopoly of seasonable life. Humanity was up and doing. Calm people were roused to passion, and lethargic people to activity. There was hurrying and rushing and plotting and planning, and all the fierce but fascinating bustle of a great campaign. One hurried across the Vale from a Farmers' Ordinary, where one had been exposing Lord Beaconsfield's nonsense about the "Three Profits" of agricultural land, to a turbulent meeting in a chapel or a barn (for the use of the schoolroom was denied to the Liberal candidate). As we drove through the primrose-studded lanes, or past the village green, the bell was ringing from the grey tower of the Parish Church, and summoning the villagers to the daily Evensong of Holy Week. The contrast was too violent to be ignored; and yet, for a citizen who took his citizenship seriously, the meeting was an even more imperative duty than the service. Hostilities were suspended for Good Friday, Easter Even, and Easter Day, but on Easter Monday they broke out again with redoubled vigour; and, before the week was over, the Paschal Alleluias were blending strangely with pæans of victory over conquered foes. When even so grave and spiritually-minded a man as Dean Church wrote to a triumphant Gladstonian, "I don't wonder at your remembering the Song of Miriam," it is manifest that political fervour had reached a very unusual point. On the 2nd of April I was returned to Parliament, as colleague of Sir Nathaniel de Rothschild, in the representation of Aylesbury. We were the last Members for that ancient Borough, for, before the next General Election came round, it had been merged, by Redistribution, in Mid Bucks. The Liberal victory was overwhelming. Lord Beaconsfield, who had expected a very different result, resigned on the 18th of April, and Gladstone became Prime Minister for the second time. Truly his enemies had been made his footstool. On the 30th of April I took the oath and my seat in the House of Commons, and a fresh stage of life began. FOOTNOTES: [29] I must except from this general indictment the Rev. A. T. Lloyd, Vicar of Aylesbury in 1880, and afterwards Bishop of Newcastle. A strong Conservative, but eminently a Christian gentleman. [30] Archbishop Alexander. X PARLIAMENT "Still in the Senate, whatsoe'er we lack, It is not genius;--call old giants back, And men now living might as tall appear; Judged by our sons, not us--_we_ stand too near. Ne'er of the living can the living judge-- Too blind the affection, or too fresh the grudge." BULWER-LYTTON, _St. Stephen's_. "In old days it was the habit to think and say that the House of Commons was an essentially 'queer place,' which no one could understand until he was a Member of it. It may, perhaps, be doubted whether that somewhat mysterious quality still altogether attaches to that assembly. 'Our own Reporter' has invaded it in all its purlieus. No longer content with giving an account of the speeches of its members, he is not satisfied unless he describes their persons, their dress, and their characteristic mannerisms. He tells us how they dine, even the wines and dishes which they favour, and follows them into the very mysteries of their smoking-room. And yet there is perhaps a certain fine sense of the feelings, and opinions, and humours of this Assembly which cannot be acquired by hasty notions and necessarily superficial remarks, but must be the result of long and patient observation, and of that quick sympathy with human sentiment, in all its classes, which is involved in the possession of that inestimable quality styled tact. "When Endymion Ferrars first took his seat in the House of Commons, it still fully possessed its character of enigmatic tradition. For himself, Endymion entered the Chamber with a certain degree of awe, which, with use, diminished, but never entirely disappeared. The scene was one over which his boyhood even had long mused, and it was associated with all those traditions of genius, eloquence, and power that charm and inspire youth. His acquaintance with the forms and habits of the House was of great advantage to him, and restrained that excitement which dangerously accompanies us when we enter into a new life, and especially a life of such deep and thrilling interests and such large proportions."[31] I quote these words from a statesman who knew the House of Commons more thoroughly than anyone else has ever known it; and, though Lord Beaconsfield was describing the Parliament which assembled in August, 1841, his description would fit, with scarcely the alteration of a word, the Parliament in which I took my seat in April, 1880.[32] The "acquaintance with the forms and habits of the House," which Lord Beaconsfield attributes to his favourite Endymion, was also mine; from my earliest years I had been familiar with every nook and corner of the Palace of Westminster. My father's official residence in Speaker's Court communicated by a private door with the corridors of the Palace, and my father's privilege as Sergeant-at-Arms enabled him to place me in, or under, the Gallery whenever there was a debate or a scene of special interest. I was early initiated into all the forms and ceremonies of the House; the manoeuvres of the mace, the obeisances to the Chair, the rap of "Black Rod" on the locked door, the daily procession of Mr. Speaker and his attendants (which Sir Henry Irving pronounced the most theatrically effective thing of its kind in our public life). The Sergeant-at-Arms has in his gift the appointment of all the doorkeepers, messengers, and attendants of the House; and, as my father was Sergeant from 1848 to 1875, the staff was almost exclusively composed of men who had been servants in our own or our friends' families. This circumstance was vividly brought home to me on the day on which I first entered the House. In the Members' Lobby I was greeted by a venerable-looking official who bowed, smiled, and said, when I shook hands with him, "Well, sir, I'm glad, indeed, to see you here; and, when I think that I helped to put both your grandfather and your grandmother into their coffins, it makes me feel quite at home with you." The first duty of a new House of Commons is to elect a Speaker, and on the 7th of April, 1880, we re-elected Mr. Henry Brand (afterwards Lord Hampden), who had been Speaker since 1872. Mr. Brand was a short man, but particularly well set up, and in his wig and gown he carried himself with a dignity which fully made up for the lack of inches. His voice was mellow, and his utterance slightly pompous, so that the lightest word which fell from his lips conveyed a sense of urbane majesty. He looked what he was, and what the traditions of the House required--a country gentleman of the highest type. One of the most noticeable traits was his complexion, fresh and rosy as a boy's. I well remember one day, after a stormy "all-night sitting," saying to his train-bearer, "The Speaker has borne it wonderfully. He looks as fresh as paint." Whereupon the train-bearer, a man of a depressed spirit, made answer, "Ah! sir, it's the Speaker's 'igh colour that deceives you. 'E'll 'ave that same 'igh colour when 'e's laid out in 'is coffin." The election of the Speaker having been duly accomplished, and the Members sworn in, the House adjourned till the 20th of May, then to meet for the despatch of business; and this may be a convenient point for a brief recapitulation of recent events. Lord Hartington (afterwards eighth Duke of Devonshire) had been, ever since the beginning of 1875, the recognized leader of the Liberal Party. But, when Gladstone re-entered the field as the foremost assailant of Lord Beaconsfield's policy, Lord Hartington's authority over his party was sensibly diminished. Indeed, it is not too much to say that he was brushed on one side, and that all the fervour and fighting power of the Liberal Party were sworn to Gladstone's standard. When the General Election of 1880 reached its close, everyone felt that Gladstone was now the real, though not the titular, leader of the Liberal Party, and the inevitable Prime Minister. Lord Beaconsfield did not wait for an adverse vote in the new House, but resigned on the 18th of April. We do not at present know, but no doubt we shall know when Mr. Monypenny's "Life" is completed, whether Queen Victoria consulted Lord Beaconsfield as to his successor. A friend of mine once asked the Queen this plain question: "When a Prime Minister goes out, does he recommend a successor?" And the Queen replied, with equal plainness, "Not unless I ask him to do so." There can, I think, be little doubt that Her Majesty, in April, 1880, asked Lord Beaconsfield's advice in this delicate matter, and we may presume that the advice was that Her Majesty should follow the constitutional practice, and send for Lord Hartington, as being the leader of the victorious party. This was done, and on the 22nd of April Lord Hartington waited on Her Majesty at Windsor, and was invited to form an Administration. Feeling in the Liberal Party ran very high. It was not for this that we had fought and won. If Gladstone did not become Prime Minister, our victory would be robbed of half its joy; and great was our jubilation when we learned that the task had been declined. As the precise nature of the transaction has often been misrepresented, it is as well to give it in Lord Hartington's own words-- "The advice which Lord Hartington gave to the Queen from first to last was that Her Majesty should send for Mr. Gladstone, and consult him as to the formation of a Government; and that, if he should be willing to undertake the task, she should call upon him to form an Administration. "Lord Hartington had up to that time had no communication with Mr. Gladstone on the subject, and did not know what his views as to returning to office might be. With the Queen's permission, Lord Hartington, on his return from Windsor, informed Mr. Gladstone and Lord Granville, but no other person, of what had passed between Her Majesty and himself." The result of that interview was a foregone conclusion. If Lord Hartington consented to form an Administration, Gladstone would not take a place in it. If he was not to be Prime Minister, he must remain outside. Having put this point beyond the reach of doubt, Lord Hartington returned next day to Windsor, accompanied by Lord Granville, who led the Liberal Party in the House of Lords. They both assured the Queen that the victory was Gladstone's, and that the Liberal Party would be satisfied with no other Prime Minister. The two statesmen returned to London in the afternoon, and called on Gladstone. He was expecting them and the message which they brought. He went down to Windsor without an hour's delay, and that evening "kissed hands" as Prime Minister for the second time. This was the climax of his career. He had dethroned Lord Beaconsfield. He had vindicated the cause of humanity and freedom all over the world; and he had been recalled, by unanimous acclamation, to the task of governing the British Empire. On the 20th of May he met his twelfth Parliament, and the second in which he had been Chief Minister of the Crown. "At 4.15," he wrote in his diary, "I went down to the House with Herbert.[33] There was a great and fervent crowd in Palace Yard, and much feeling in the House. It almost overpowered me, as I thought by what deep and hidden agencies I have been brought into the midst of the vortex of political action and contention.... Looking calmly on the course of experience, I do believe that the Almighty has employed me for His purposes in a manner larger or more special than before, and has strengthened me and led me on accordingly, though I must not forget the admirable saying of Hooker, that even ministers of good things are like torches--a light to others, waste and destruction to themselves." The conviction so solemnly expressed by Gladstone was entertained by not a few of his followers. We felt that, _Deo adjuvante_, we had won a famous victory for the cause of Right; and, as a Party, we "stood on the top of golden hours." An overwhelming triumph after a desperate fight; an immense majority, in which internecine jealousies were, at least for the moment, happily composed; a leader of extraordinary powers and popularity; an administration of All the Talents; an attractive and practicable programme of Ministerial measures--these were some of the elements in a condition unusually prosperous and promising. But trained observers of political phenomena laid even greater stress on Gladstone's personal ascendancy over the House of Commons. Old and experienced Members of Parliament instructed the newcomer to watch carefully the methods of his leadership, because it was remarkable for its completeness, its dexterity, and the willing submission with which it was received. The pre-eminence of the Premier was, indeed, the most noteworthy feature which the new House presented to the student of Parliamentary life. Whether considered morally or intellectually, he seemed to tower a head and shoulders above his colleagues, and above the Front Opposition Bench. The leader of the Opposition was the amiable and accomplished Sir Stafford Northcote, afterwards Lord Iddesleigh, a "scrupulous, good man, Who would not, with a peremptory tone, Assert the nose upon his face his own." In his youth he had been Gladstone's Private Secretary, and he still seemed to tremble at his old chief's glance. But, when everything looked so fair and smiling, Speaker Brand quietly noted in his diary, that the Liberal Party "were not only strong, but determined to have their way in spite of Mr. Gladstone." And this determination to "have their way" was soon and startlingly manifested, and challenged the personal ascendancy of which we had heard so much. Charles Bradlaugh, a defiant Atheist, and the teacher of a social doctrine which decent people abhor, had been returned as one of the Members for Northampton. When the other Members were sworn, he claimed a right to affirm, which was disallowed on legal grounds. He thereupon proposed to take the oath in the ordinary way; the Tories objected, and the Speaker weakly gave way. The House, on a division, decided that Bradlaugh must neither affirm nor swear. In effect, it decreed that a duly elected Member was not to take his seat. On the 23rd of June, Bradlaugh came to the table of the House, and again claimed his right to take the oath. The Speaker read the Resolution of the House forbidding it. Thereupon Bradlaugh asked to be heard, and addressed the House from the Bar. I happened to be dining that night with Mr. and Mrs. Gladstone in Downing Street. Gladstone came in full of excitement, and pronounced Bradlaugh's speech "consummate." However, it availed nothing. Bradlaugh was ordered to withdraw from the House; refused, and was committed to a farcical imprisonment of two days in the Clock Tower; and so, as Lord Morley says, there "opened a series of incidents that went on as long as the Parliament, clouded the radiance of the Party triumph, threw the new Government at once into a minority, dimmed the ascendancy of the great Minister, and showed human nature at its worst." From the day when Bradlaugh's case was first mooted, it became apparent that the Liberal Party contained a good many men who had only the frailest hold on the primary principles of Liberalism, and who, under the pressure of social and theological prejudice, were quite ready to join the Tories in a tyrannical negation of Religious Liberty. Gladstone, though deserted and defeated by his own followers, maintained the righteous cause with a signal consistency and courage. There was no one in the world to whom Bradlaugh's special opinions could have been more abhorrent; but he felt--and we who followed him felt the same--that the cause of God and morality can never be served by the insolent refusal of a civil right. There is no need to recapitulate the story in all its stages, but one incident deserves commemoration. In April, 1883, Gladstone brought in an Affirmation Bill, permitting Members of Parliament (as witnesses in Law-Courts were already permitted) to affirm their allegiance instead of swearing it. On the 26th of April he moved the Second Reading of the Bill in the finest speech which I have ever heard. Under the existing system (which admitted Jews to Parliament, but excluded Atheists), to deny the existence of God was a fatal bar, but to deny the Christian Creed was no bar at all. This, as Gladstone contended, was a formal disparagement of Christianity, which was thereby relegated to a place of secondary importance. And then, on the general question of attaching civil penalties to religious misbelief, he uttered a passage which no one who heard it can forget. "Truth is the expression of the Divine Mind; and, however little our feeble vision may be able to discern the means by which God may provide for its preservation, we may leave the matter in His hands, and we may be sure that a firm and courageous application of every principle of equity and of justice is the best method we can adopt for the preservation and influence of Truth." The Bill was lost by a majority of three, recreant Liberals again helping to defeat the just claim of a man whom they disliked; and Bradlaugh did not take his seat until the new Parliament in 1886 admitted, without a division, the right which the old Parliament had denied. Meanwhile, a few of us, actuated by the desperate hope of bringing the clergy to a right view of the controversy, printed Gladstone's speech as a pamphlet, and sent a copy, with a covering letter, to every beneficed clergyman in England, Scotland, and Ireland. One of the clergy thus addressed sent me the following reply, which has ever since been hoarded among my choicest treasures: June 16th, 1883. MY DEAR SIR, I have received your recommendation to read carefully the speech of Mr. Gladstone in favour of admitting the infidel Bradlaugh into Parliament. I did so, when it was delivered, and I must say that the strength of argument rests with the Opposition. I fully expect, in the event of a dissolution, the Government will lose between 50 and 60 seats. Any conclusion can be arrived at, according to the premises laid down. Mr. G. avoided the Scriptural lines and followed his own. All parties knew the feeling of the country on the subject, and, notwithstanding the bullying and majority of Gladstone, he was defeated. Before the Irish Church was robbed, I was nominated to the Deanery of Tuam; but, Mr. Disraeli resigning, I was defrauded of my just right by Mr. Gladstone, and my wife, Lady ---- ----, the only surviving child of an Earl, was sadly disappointed, but there is a just Judge above. The letter of nomination is still in my possession. I am, dear Sir, Yours faithfully, ---- ----, D.D. and LL.D. One is often asked if Gladstone had any sense of humour. My simple and sufficient reply is that, when he had read this letter, he returned it to my hands with a knitted brow and flashing eyes, and this indignant question: "What does the fellow mean by quoting an engagement entered into by my predecessor as binding on me?" The good fortune, which had so signally attended Gladstone's campaign against Lord Beaconsfield, seemed to desert him as soon as the victory was won. The refusal of the House to follow his lead in Bradlaugh's case put heart of grace into his opponents, who saw thus early in the new Parliament a hopeful opening for vicious attack. The Front Opposition Bench, left to its own devices, would not have accomplished much, but it was splendidly reinforced by the Fourth Party--a Party of Four--Lord Randolph Churchill, Sir Henry Drummond-Wolff, Sir John Gorst, and Mr. Arthur Balfour. Some light has been cast by recent memoirs on the mutual relations of the Four; but beyond question the head and front of the Party was Lord Randolph. That ingenious man possessed a deadly knack of "drawing" Gladstone, as the boys say. He knew the great man's "vulnerable temper and impetuous moods,"[34] and delighted in exercising them. He pelted Gladstone with rebukes and taunts and gibes, and the recipient of these attentions "rose freely." There was something rather unpleasant in the spectacle of a man of thirty playing these tricks upon a man of seventy; but one could not deny that the tricks were extremely clever; and beyond doubt they did a vast deal to consolidate the performer's popularity out of doors. It is not too much to say that, by allowing himself to be drawn, Gladstone made Lord Randolph. The most formidable enemy of the Liberal Party in the House of Commons was Parnell; and, when he joined forces with the Fourth Party and their adherents, the conjunction was disastrous to Liberalism. He figures in Lord Morley's "Life" of Gladstone as a high-souled and amiable patriot. I always thought him entirely destitute of humane feeling, and a bitter enemy of England. I remember the late Lord Carlisle, then George Howard and Member for East Cumberland, gazing at Parnell across the House and quoting from _The Newcomes_--"The figure of this garçon is not agreeable. Of pale, he has become livid." A lady who met him in a country house wrote me this interesting account of him: "I cannot exaggerate the impression he made on me. I never before felt such power and magnetic force in any man. As for his eyes, if he looks at you, you can't look away, and, if he doesn't, you are wondering how soon he will look at you again. I'm afraid I have very little trust in his goodness--I should think it a very minus quantity; but I believe absolutely in his strength and his power of influence. I should be sorry if he were my enemy, for I think he would stop at nothing." At the General Election of 1880, Irish questions were completely in the background. The demand for Home Rule was not taken seriously, even by Mr. John Morley,[35] who stood unsuccessfully for Westminster. Ireland was politically tranquil, and the distress due to the failure of the crops had been alleviated by the combined action of Englishmen irrespective of party. But during the summer of 1880 it was found that the Irish landlords were evicting wholesale the tenants whom famine had impoverished. To provide compensation for these evicted tenants was the object of a well-meant but hastily drawn "Disturbance Bill," which the Government passed through the Commons. It was rejected by an overwhelming majority in the Lords, and the natural consequence of its rejection was seen in the ghastly record of outrage and murder which stained the following winter. The Session of 1881 opened on the 6th of January. The speech from the Throne announced two Irish Bills--one to reform the tenure of land, and one to repress crime and outrage. The combination was stigmatized by Mr. T. P. O'Connor as "weak reform and strong coercion"; and the same vivacious orator, alluding to Mr. Chamberlain's supposed sympathy with the Irish cause, taunted the Right Honourable gentleman with having had "if not the courage of his convictions, at least the silence of his shame." The debate on the Address in the Commons lasted eleven nights, the Irish Members moving endless amendments, with the avowed object of delaying the Coercion Bill, which was eventually brought in by Forster on the 24th January. The gist of the Bill was arrest on suspicion and imprisonment without trial. The Irish Members fought it tooth and nail, and were defied by Gladstone in a speech of unusual fire. "With fatal and painful precision," he exclaimed, "the steps of crime dogged the steps of the Land League; and it is not possible to get rid of facts such as I have stated, by vague and general complaints, by imputations against parties, imputations against England, or imputations against Government. You must meet them, and confute them, if you can. None will rejoice more than myself if you can attain such an end. But in the meantime they stand, and they stand uncontradicted, in the face of the British House of Commons." The speech in which this tremendous indictment was delivered attracted loud cheers from Liberals and Conservatives alike, but stirred the Irish to fury. I remember Mr. O'Connor saying to me, "If only Gladstone had been in opposition, how he would have enjoyed tearing into shreds the statistics which he has just quoted!" The resistance to the Bill became impassioned. The House sat continuously from the afternoon of January 31st to the forenoon of February 2nd. Members were divided, like miners, into Day-Shifts and Night-Shifts. The Refreshment-Rooms at the House were kept open all night, and we recruited our exhausted energies with grilled bones, oysters, and champagne, and went to bed at breakfast-time. At 9.30 on Wednesday morning, February 2nd, Mr. Speaker Brand, who had been absent from the House for some hours, suddenly resumed the Chair, and, without waiting for J. G. Biggar to finish his speech, put the question that leave be given to bring in the Coercion Bill. The Irish raved and stormed, and cried out against the Speaker's action as "a Breach of Privilege." That it was not; but it was an unexpected and a salutary revolution. When questioned, later in the day, as to the authority on which he had acted, the Speaker said, "I acted on my own responsibility, and from a sense of my duty to the House." Thus was established, summarily and under unprecedented circumstances, that principle of Closure which has since developed into an indispensable feature of Parliamentary procedure. The Session as a whole was extremely dull. The Irish Land Bill was so complicated that, according to common report, only three persons in the House understood it, and they were Gladstone, the Irish Chancellor,[36] and Mr. T. M. Healy. The only amusing incident was that on the 16th of June, owing to the attendance of Liberal Members at Ascot Races, the majority on a critical division fell to twenty-five. Having occupied the whole Session, the Bill was so mangled by the House of Lords that the best part of another year had to be spent on mending it. Meanwhile, the Coercion Bill proved, in working, a total failure. Forster had averred that the police knew the "Village Ruffians" who incited to crime, and that, if only he were empowered to imprison them without trial, outrages would cease. But either he did not lay hold of the right men, or else imprisonment had no terrors; for all through the autumn and winter of 1881 agrarian crimes increased with terrible rapidity. In a fit of desperation, Forster cast Parnell into prison, and Gladstone announced the feat amid the tumultuous applause of the Guildhall. But things only went from bad to worse, and soon there were forty agrarian murders unpunished. Having imprisoned Parnell without trial, and kept him in prison for six months, the Government now determined to release him, in the hope, for certainly there was no assurance, that he would behave like a repentant child who has been locked up in a dark cupboard, and would use his influence to restore order in Ireland. Dissenting, as well he might, from this policy, Forster resigned. His resignation was announced on the 2nd of May. That evening I met Gladstone at a party, and, in answer to an anxious friend, he said: "The state of Ireland is very greatly improved." Ardent Liberals on both sides of the Channel shared this sanguine faith, but they were doomed to a cruel disappointment. On the 6th of May, the Queen performed the public ceremony of dedicating Epping Forest, then lately rescued from depredation, to the service of the public. It was a forward spring; the day was bright, and the forest looked more beautiful than anything that Doré ever painted. I was standing in the space reserved for the House of Commons, by W. H. O'Sullivan, M.P. for the County of Limerick. He was an ardent Nationalist, but recent events had touched his heart, and he overflowed with friendly feeling. "This is a fine sight," he said to me, "but, please God, we shall yet see something like it in Ireland. We have entered at last upon the right path. You will hear no more of the Irish difficulty." Within an hour of the time at which he spoke, the newly-appointed Chief Secretary for Ireland--the gallant and high-minded Lord Frederick Cavendish--and the Under Secretary, Mr. Burke, were stabbed to death in the Phoenix Park at Dublin, and the "Irish difficulty" entered on the acutest phase which it has ever known. At that time Lord Northbrook was First Lord of the Admiralty, and on Saturday evening, the 6th of May, he gave a party at his official residence. The Duke and Duchess of Edinburgh were among the guests, and there was some music after dinner. In the middle of the performance, I noticed a slight commotion, and saw a friend leading Mrs. Gladstone out of the room. The incident attracted attention, and people began to whisper that Gladstone, who was not at the party, must have been taken suddenly ill. While we were all wondering and guessing, a waiter leaned across the buffet in the tea-room, and said to me, "Lord Frederick Cavendish has been murdered in Dublin. I am a Messenger at the Home Office, and we heard it by telegram this evening." In an incredibly short time the ghastly news spread from room to room, and the guests trooped out in speechless horror. That night brought a condition more like delirium than repose. One felt as though Hell had opened her mouth, and the Powers of Darkness had been let loose. Next day London was like a city of the dead, and by Monday all England was in mourning. Sir Wilfrid Lawson thus described that awful Sunday: "The effect was horrifying--almost stupefying. No one who walked in the streets of London that day can ever forget the sort of ghastly depression which seemed to affect everyone. Perfect strangers seemed disposed to speak in sympathizing, horror-stricken words with those whom they met. In short, there was a moral gloom which could be felt over the whole place." FOOTNOTES: [31] Lord Beaconsfield. _Endymion._ [32] The following incident may be worth recording for the information of such as are interested in the antiquities of Parliament. I first took my seat on the highest bench above and behind the Treasury Bench, under the shadow of the Gallery. A few days later, an old Parliamentarian said to me, "That's quite the wrong place for you. That belongs to ancient Privy Councillors, and they sit there because, if any difficulty arises, the Minister in charge of the business can consult them, without being observed by everyone in the House." That was the tradition in 1880, but it has long since died out. [33] Afterwards Lord Gladstone. [34] Gladstone's own phrase. [35] Afterwards Lord Morley of Blackburn. [36] The Right Hon. Hugh Law. XI POLITICS "Ne'er to these chambers, where the mighty rest, Since their foundation came a nobler guest; Nor e'er was to the bowers of bliss conveyed A fairer spirit, or more welcome shade." T. TICKELL, _On the death of Mr. Addison_. Lord Frederick Cavendish was laid to rest with his forefathers at Edensor, near Chatsworth, on the 11th of May, 1882--and on the evening of that day the Home Secretary, Sir William Harcourt, brought in a "Prevention of Crimes Bill" for Ireland, designed to supersede the Coercion Act which had proved such a dismal failure. The new Bill provided for the creation of special tribunals composed of Judges of the Superior Courts, who could sit without juries; and gave the police the right of search at any time in proclaimed districts, and authorized them to arrest any persons unable to give an account of themselves. The Bill was succinctly described as "Martial Law in a Wig," and, as such, it was exactly adapted to the needs of a country in which social war had raged unchecked for two years. The murderous conspiracy died hard, but experience soon justified those who had maintained that, as soon as a proper tribunal was constituted, evidence would be forthcoming. The Act was courageously administered by Lord Spencer and Sir George Trevelyan, under circumstances of personal and political peril which the present generation can hardly realize. In less than two years the murderers of Lord Frederick Cavendish and Mr. Burke had been hanged; the conspiracy which organized the murders had been broken up; and social order was permanently re-established. Such were the excellent effects of the Crimes Act of 1882, and annalists treating of this period have commonly said that the Act was due to the murders in the Phoenix Park. Some years ago Lord James of Hereford, who, as Attorney-General, had been closely associated with these events, placed in my hands a written statement of the circumstances in which the Act originated, and begged that, if possible, the truth of the matter might be made known. This may be a convenient opportunity for giving his testimony. "The Bill of 1882 was designed, and on the stocks, during the month of April. I saw F. Cavendish as to some of its details almost immediately before his starting for Ireland. As Chief Secretary, he discussed with me the provisions the Bill should contain. On Sunday, May 7, 1882, when the news of F. Cavendish's murder became known, I went to see Harcourt. He begged me to see that the drawing of the Bill was hastened on. About 2 o'clock I went to the Irish Office, and found the Irish Attorney-General hard at work on the Bill. The first draft of it was then in print. No doubt F. Cavendish's death tended to affect the subsequent framing of the Bill. Harcourt came upon the scenes. T---- and J---- were called to the assistance of the Irish draftsmen, and no doubt the Bill was rendered stronger in consequence of the events of May 6. "I also well remember the change of front about the power of Search. The Irish Members in the most determined manner fought against the creation of this power.... Harcourt, who had charge of the Bill, would listen to none of these arguments, but Mr. Gladstone was much moved by them. There was almost a crisis produced in consequence of this disagreement; but Harcourt gave way, and the concession was announced." It is not my purpose in these chapters to speak about my own performances in Parliament, but the foregoing allusion to the concession on the Right of Search tempts me to a personal confession. In the Bill, as brought in, there was a most salutary provision giving the police the right to search houses in which murders were believed to be plotted. After making us vote for this clause three times--on the First Reading, on the Second Reading, and in Committee--the Government, as we have just seen, yielded to clamour, and proposed on Report to alter the clause by limiting the Right of Search to day-time. I opposed this alteration, as providing a "close time for murder," and had the satisfaction of helping to defeat the Government. The Big-Wigs of the Party were extremely angry, and Mr. R. H. Hutton, in _The Spectator_, rebuked us in his most grandmotherly style. In reply, I quoted some words of his own. "There is nothing which injures true Liberalism more than the sympathy of its left wing with the loose ruffianism of unsettled States." "Such a State," I said, "is Ireland; and if, under the pressure of extraordinary difficulties, Ministers vacillate or waver in their dealings with it, the truest Liberalism, I believe, is that which holds them firmly to their duty." In that sad Session of 1882 the troubles of the Government "came not single spies, but in battalions," and the most enduring of those troubles arose in Egypt. For the benefit of a younger generation, let me recall the circumstances. Ismail Pasha, the ruler of Egypt, had accumulated a national debt of about £100,000,000, and the pressure on the wretched peasants who had to pay was crushing. Presently they broke out in revolt, partly with the hope of shaking off this burden, and partly with a view to establishing some sort of self-government. But the financiers who had lent money to Egypt took fright, and urged the Government to interfere and suppress the insurrection. A meeting of Tories was held in London on June 29th and the Tory Leaders made the most inflammatory speeches. Unhappily, the Government yielded to this show of violence. It was said by a close observer of Parliamentary institutions that "When the Government of the day and the Opposition of the day take the same side, one may be almost sure that some great wrong is at hand," and so it was now. On July 10th our fleet bombarded Alexandria, smashing its rotten forts with the utmost ease, and killing plenty of Egyptians. I remember to this day the sense of shame with which I read our Admiral's telegraphic despatch: "Enemy's fire weak and ineffectual." The protest delivered on the following day, by Sir Wilfrid Lawson, the most consistent and the most disinterested politician whom I ever knew, deserves to be remembered. "I say deliberately, and in doing so I challenge either Tory or Liberal to contradict me, that no Tory Government could have done what the Liberal Government did yesterday in bombarding those forts. If such a thing had been proposed, what would have happened? We should have had Sir William Harcourt stumping the country, and denouncing Government by Ultimatum. We should have had Lord Hartington coming down, and moving a Resolution condemning these proceedings being taken behind the back of Parliament. We should have had Mr. Chamberlain summoning the Caucuses. We should have had Mr. Bright declaiming in the Town Hall of Birmingham against the wicked Tory Government; and as for Mr. Gladstone, we all know that there would not have been a railway-train, passing a roadside station, that he would not have pulled up at, to proclaim non-intervention as the duty of the Government." On the 12th of July John Bright retired from the Government, as a protest against the bombardment, and made a short speech full of solemn dignity. "I asked my calm judgment and my conscience what was the path I ought to take. They pointed it out to me, as I think, with an unerring finger, and I am humbly endeavouring to follow it." But it was too late. The mischief was done, and has not been undone to this day. I remember Mr. Chamberlain saying to me: "Well, I confess I was tired of having England kicked about all over the world. I never condemned the Tory Government for going to war; only for going to war on the wrong side." It was a characteristic saying; but this amazing lapse into naked jingoism spread wonder and indignation through the Liberal Party, and shook the faith of many who, down to that time, had regarded Gladstone as a sworn servant of Peace. The Egyptian policy of 1882 must, I fear, always remain the blot on Gladstone's scutcheon; and three years later he gave away the whole case for intervention, and threw the blame on his predecessors in office. In his Address to the Electors of Midlothian before the General Election of 1885 he used the following words: "We have, according to my conviction from the very first (when the question was not within the sphere of Party contentions), committed by our intervention in Egypt a grave political error, and the consequence which the Providential order commonly allots to such error is not compensation, but retribution." But, though Providence eventually allotted "retribution" to our crimes and follies in Egypt, and though they were always unpopular with the Liberal Party out of doors, it was curious to observe that the position of the Government in the House of Commons was stronger at the end of 1882 than it was at the beginning. That this was so was due, I think, in part to the fact that for the moment we were victorious in Egypt,[37] and in part to admiration for the vigour with which Lord Spencer was fighting the murderous conspiracy in Ireland. The Government enjoyed the dangerous praise of the Opposition; obstruction collapsed; and some new Rules of Procedure were carried by overwhelming majorities. Here let me interpolate an anecdote. Mr. M---- L---- was a barrister, an obsequious supporter of the Government, and, as was generally surmised, on the lookout for preferment. Mr. Philip Callan, M.P. for County Louth, was speaking on an amendment to one of the new Rules, and Mr. M---- L---- thrice tried to call him to order on the ground of irrelevancy. Each time, the Chairman of Committee ruled that, though the Honourable Member for Louth was certainly taking a wide sweep, he was not out of order. Rising the third time from the seat Callan said: "I may as well take the opportunity of giving notice that I propose to move the insertion of a new Standing Order, which will read as follows: 'Any Hon. Member who three times unsuccessfully calls another Hon. Member to order, shall be ineligible for a County Court Judgeship.'" Mr. M---- L---- looked coy, and everyone else shouted with glee. The Session of 1883 opened very quietly. The speech from the Throne extolled the success of the Ministerial policy in Ireland and Egypt, and promised a series of useful but not exciting measures. Meanwhile the more active Members of the Liberal Party, among whom I presumed to reckon myself, began to agitate for more substantial reforms. We had entered on the fourth Session of the Parliament. A noble majority was beginning to decline, and we felt that there was no time to lose if we were to secure the ends which we desired. Knowing that I felt keenly on these subjects, Mr. T. H. S. Escott, then Editor of the _Fortnightly_, asked me to write an article for his Review, and in that article I spoke my mind about the Agricultural Labourers' Suffrage, the Game Laws, the reform of the City of London, and an English Land Bill. "The action of the Peers," I said, "under Lord Salisbury's guidance will probably force on the question of a Second Chamber, and those who flatter themselves that the Liberal Party will shrink from discussing it will be grievously disillusioned. Disestablishment, begun in Ireland, will inevitably work round, by Scotland, to England. And who is to preside over these changes?" I returned to the charge in the June number of the _Nineteenth Century_, and urged my points more strongly. I pleaded for social reform, and for "a Free Church in a Free State." I crossed swords with a noble Lord who had pronounced dogmatically that "A Second Chamber is absolutely necessary." I gave my reasons for thinking that now-a-days there is very little danger of hasty and ill-considered legislation, and I pointed out that, when this danger disappears, the reason for a Second Chamber disappears with it. "But," I said, "granting, for the sake of argument, that something of this danger still survives, would it not be fully met by limiting the power of the Lords to a Veto for a year on a measure passed by the Commons?" These articles, coupled with my speeches in the House and in my constituency, gave dire offence to the Whigs; and I was chastened with rebukes which, if not weighty, were at any rate ponderous. "Not this way," wrote the _St. James's Gazette_, in a humorous apostrophe, "not this way, O Junior Member for Aylesbury, lies the road to the Treasury Bench," and so, indeed, it seemed. But, on returning from an evening party at Sir Matthew Ridley's, on the 5th of June, 1883, I found a letter from Mr. Gladstone, offering me the post of Parliamentary Secretary to the Local Government Board. One sentence of that letter I may be allowed to quote: "Your name, and the recollections it suggests, add much to the satisfaction which, independently of relationship, I should have felt in submitting to you this request." It was like Gladstone's courtesy to call his offer a "request." Thus I became harnessed to the machine of Government, and my friends, inside the House and out of it, were extremely kind about the appointment. Nearly everyone who wrote to congratulate me used the same image: "You have now set your foot on the bottom rung of the ladder." But my staunch friend George Trevelyan handled the matter more poetically, in the following stanza: "As long as a plank can float, or a bolt can hold together, When the sea is smooth as glass, or the waves run mountains high, In the brightest of summer skies, or the blackest of dirty weather, Wherever the ship swims, there swim I." The part of "the ship" to which I was now fastened was certainly not the most exalted or exciting of the public offices. The estimation in which it was held in official circles is aptly illustrated by a pleasantry of that eminent Civil Servant, Sir Algernon West. When the Revised Version of the New Testament appeared, Gladstone asked Sir Algernon (who had begun life in the Treasury), if he thought it as good as the Authorized Version. "Certainly not," was the reply. "It is so painfully lacking in dignity." Gladstone, always delighted to hear an innovation censured (unless he himself had made it), asked for an illustration. "Well," said West, "look at the Second Chapter of St. Luke. _There went out a decree from Cæsar Augustus that all the world should be taxed._ Now that always struck me as a sublime conception--a tax levied on the whole world by a stroke of the pen--an act worthy of an Imperial Treasury. But I turn to the Revised Version, and what do I read? _That all the world should be enrolled_--a census--the sort of thing the Local Government Board could do. That instance, to my mind, settles the question between Old and New." But in the office thus contemned by the Paladins of the Treasury, there was plenty of interesting though little-observed work. In the autumn of 1883 I undertook, in conjunction with the President of the Board, a mission of enquiry into the worst slums in London. There is no need to recapitulate here all the horrors we encountered, for they can be read in the evidence given before the Royal Commission on the Housing of the Poor which was appointed in the following year; but one incident made a peculiar impression on my mind. The Sanitary Officer reported some underground dwellings in Spitalfields as being perhaps the worst specimens of human habitation which we should find, and he offered to be my guide. I entered a cellar-like room in a basement, which, till one's eyes got used to the dimness, seemed pitch-dark. I felt, rather than saw, the presence of a woman, and, when we began to talk, I discerned by her voice that she was not a Londoner. "No, sir," she replied, "I come from Wantage, in Berkshire." Having always heard of Wantage as a kind of Earthly Paradise, where the Church, the Sisterhood, and the "Great House" combined to produce the millennium, I said, involuntarily, "How you must wish to be back there!" "Back at Wantage!" exclaimed the Lady of the Cellar. "No, indeed, sir. This is a poor place, but it's better than Wantage." It was instructive to find this love of freedom, and resentment of interference, in the bowels of the earth of Spitalfields. An incident which helps to illustrate Gladstone's personal ascendancy belongs to this period. Those were the days of agitation for and against a Channel Tunnel, eagerly promoted by speculative tunnel-makers, and resolutely opposed by Mr. Chamberlain, then President of the Board of Trade. Gladstone, when asked if he was for or against the Tunnel, said very characteristically, "I am not so much in favour of the Tunnel, as opposed to the opponents of it"; and this of course meant that he was really in favour of it. About this time I met him at dinner, and after the ladies had gone, I think we were eight men round the table. Gladstone began praising the Tunnel; one of the hearers echoed him, and the rest of us were silent. Looking round triumphantly, Gladstone said, "Ah, this is capital! Here we are--eight sensible men--and all in favour of the Tunnel." Knowing that several of us were against the Tunnel, I challenged a division and collected the votes. Excepting Gladstone and his echo, we all were anti-tunnelites, and yet none of us would have had the hardihood to say so. In this year--1883--Gladstone's Government had regained some portion of the popularity and success which they had lost; but when the year ran out, their success was palpably on the wane, and their popularity of course waned with it. The endless contradictions and perplexities, crimes and follies, of our Egyptian policy became too obvious to be concealed or palliated, and at the beginning of 1884 the Government resolved on their crowning and fatal blunder. On the 18th of January, Lord Hartington (Secretary of State for War), Lord Granville, Lord Northbrook, and Sir Charles Dilke had an interview with General Gordon, and determined that he should be sent to evacuate the Soudan. Gladstone assented, and Gordon started that evening on his ill-starred errand. In view of subsequent events, it is worth recording that there were some Liberals who, from the moment they heard of it, condemned the undertaking. The dithyrambics of the _Pall Mall Gazette_ drew from William Cory[38] the following protest: "January 21, 1884. "It's really ludicrous--the P. M. G. professing a clearly suprarational faith in an elderly Engineer, saying that he will cook the goose if no one interferes with him ... as if he could go to Suakim, 'summon' a barbarous potentate, make him supply his escort to Khartoum, and, when at Khartoum, issue edicts right and left; as if he could act without subaltern officers, money, stores, gold, etc.; as if he were an _homme drapeau_, and had an old army out there ready to troop round him, as the French veterans round Bonaparte at Fréjus." In Parliament, the principal work of 1884 was to extend the Parliamentary Franchise to the Agricultural Labourer. A Tory Member said in debate that the labourers were no more fit to have the franchise than the beasts they tended; and Lord Goschen, who had remained outside the Cabinet of 1880 sooner than be party to giving them the vote, used to say to the end of his life that, if the Union were ever destroyed, it would be by the agricultural labourers. I, however, who had lived among them all my life and knew that they were at least as fit for political responsibility as the artisans, threw myself with ardour into the advocacy of their cause. (By the way, my speech of the Second Reading of the Franchise Bill was answered by the present Speaker[39] in his maiden speech.) All through the summer the battle raged. The Lords did not refuse to pass the Bill, but said that, before they passed it, they must see the accompanying scheme of Redistribution. It was not a very unreasonable demand, but Gladstone denounced it as an unheard-of usurpation. We all took our cue from him, and vowed that we would smash the House of Lords into atoms before we consented to this insolent claim. Throughout the Parliamentary recess, the voices of protest resounded from every Liberal platform, and even so lethargic a politician as Lord Hartington harangued a huge gathering in the Park at Chatsworth. Everything wore the appearance of a constitutional crisis. Queen Victoria, as we now know, was seriously perturbed, and did her utmost to avert a rupture between Lords and Commons. But still we persisted in our outcry. The Lords must pass the Franchise Bill without conditions, and when it was law, we would discuss Redistribution. A new Session began on 23rd of October. The Franchise Bill was brought in again, passed, and sent up to the Lords. At first the Lords seemed resolved to insist on their terms; then they wavered; and then again they hardened their hearts. Lord Salisbury reported that they would not let the Franchise Bill through till they got the Redistribution Bill from the Commons. Meanwhile, all sorts of mysterious negotiations were going on between the "moderate" men on both sides; and it was known that Gladstone dared not dissolve on the old franchise, as he was sure to be beaten in the Boroughs. His only hope was in the agricultural labourers. Then, acting under pressure which is not known but can be easily guessed, he suddenly announced, on the 17th of November, that he was prepared to introduce the Redistribution Bill before the Lords went into Committee on the Franchise Bill. It was the point for which the Tories had been contending all along, and by conceding it, Gladstone made an absolute surrender. All the sound and fury of the last six months had been expended in protesting that we could never do what now we meekly did. It was the beginning of troubles which have lasted to this day. The House of Lords learned the welcome lesson that, when the Liberal Party railed, they only had to sit still; and the lesson learnt in 1884 was applied in each succeeding crisis down to August 1911. It has always been to me an amazing instance of Gladstone's powers of self-deception that to the end of his life he spoke of this pernicious surrender as a signal victory. Early in 1885, it became my duty to receive at the Local Government Board a deputation of the Unemployed, who then were beginning to agitate the habitual calm of the well-fed and the easy-going. It was a curious experience. The deputation consisted of respectable-looking and apparently earnest men, some of whom spoke the language of _Alton Locke_, while others talked in a more modern strain of dynamite, Secret Societies, and "a life for a life." The most conspicuous figure in the deputation was an engineer called John Burns,[40] and those who are interested in political development may find something to their mind in the report of the deputation in _The Times_ of February 17th, 1885. There they will read that, after leaving Whitehall, the crowd adjourned to the Embankment, where the following resolution was carried, and despatched to the President of the Local Government Board: "That this meeting of the unemployed, having heard the answer given by the Local Government Board to their deputation, considers the refusal to start public works to be a sentence of death on thousands of those out of work, and the recommendation to bring pressure to bear on the local bodies to be a direct incitement to violence; further, it will hold Mr. G. W. E. Russell and the members of the Government, individually and collectively, guilty of the murder of those who may die in the next few weeks, and whose lives would have been saved had the suggestion of the deputation been acted on. (Signed) JOHN BURNS, _Engineer_. JOHN E. WILLIAMS, _Labourer_. WILLIAM HENRY, _Foreman_. JAMES MACDONALD, _Tailor_." The threats with which the leaders of the Unemployed regaled us derived a pleasing actuality from the fact that on the 24th of January simultaneous explosions had occurred at the Tower and in the House of Commons. I did not see the destruction at the Tower, but I went straight across from my office to the House of Commons, and saw a curious object-lesson in scientific Fenianism. In Westminster Hall there was a hole in the pavement six feet wide, and another in the roof. I had scarcely done examining these phenomena when another crash shook the whole building, and we found that an infernal machine had been exploded in the House of Commons, tearing the doors off their hinges, wrecking the galleries, and smashing the Treasury Bench into matchwood. The French Ambassador, M. Waddington, entered the House with me, and for a while stood silent and amazed. At length he said, "There's no other country in the world where this could happen." Certainly it must be admitted that at that moment our detective organization was not at its best. However, neither mock-heroics nor actual outrage could obscure the fact that during the spring of 1885 there Was an immense amount of unemployment, and consequent suffering, among the unskilled labourers. I suggested that we should issue from the Local Government Board a Circular Letter to all the Local Authorities in London, asking them, not to invent work, but to push forward works which, owing to the rapid extension of London into the suburbs, were becoming absolutely necessary. But the President of the Board, a bond slave of Political Economy, would not sanction even this very mild departure from the precepts of the Dismal Science. The distress was peculiarly acute at the Docks, where work is precarious and uncertain in the highest degree. Some well-meaning people at the West End instituted a plan of "Free Breakfasts" to be served at the Dock-Gates to men who had failed to obtain employment for the day. On one of these occasions--and very pathetic they were--I was the host, and the _Saturday Review_ treated me to some not unkindly ridicule. Child of the Whigs whose name you flout, Slip of the tree you fain would fell; Your colleagues own, I cannot doubt, Your plan, George Russell, likes them well, "What will regain," you heard them cry, "That popular praise we once enjoyed?" And instant was your smart reply, "Free Breakfasts to the Unemployed." And then, after six more verses of rhythmical chaff, this prophetic stanza: And howsoe'er profusely flow The tea and coffee round the board, The hospitality you show Shall nowise lack its due reward. For soon, I trust, our turn 'twill be, With joy by no regret alloyed, To give the present Ministry A Breakfast for the Unemployed. The Parliamentary work of 1885 was Redistribution. The principles had been settled in secret conclave by the leaders on both sides; but the details were exhaustively discussed in the House of Commons. By this time we had become inured to Tory votes of censure on our Egyptian policy, and had always contrived to escape by the skin of our teeth; but we were in a disturbed and uneasy condition. We knew--for there was an incessant leakage of official secrets--that the Cabinet was rent by acute dissensions. The Whiggish section was in favour of renewing the Irish Crimes Act. The Radicals wished to let it expire, and proposed to conciliate Ireland by a scheme of National Councils. Between the middle of April and the middle of May, nine members of the Cabinet, for one cause or another, contemplated resignation. After one of these disputes Gladstone said to a friend: "A very fair Cabinet to-day--only three resignations." Six months later, after his Government had fallen, he wrote: "A Cabinet does not exist out of office, and no one in his senses could covenant to call _the late Cabinet_ together." The solution of these difficulties came unexpectedly. The Budget introduced by Hugh Childers on the 30th of April proposed to meet a deficit by additional duties on beer and spirits; and was therefore extremely unpopular. Silently and skilfully, the Tories, the Irish, and the disaffected Liberals laid their plans. On Sunday, June 7th, Lord Henry Lennox--a leading Tory--told me at luncheon that we were to be turned out on the following day, and so, sure enough, we were, on an amendment to the Budget moved by Sir Michael Hicks-Beach.[41] It was thought at the time that the Liberal wirepullers welcomed this defeat, as a way out of difficulties. Certainly no strenuous efforts were made to avert it. The scene in the House when the fatal figures were announced has been often described, and in my mind's eye I see clearly the image of Lord Randolph Churchill, dancing a kind of triumphant hornpipe on the bench which for five momentous years had been the seat of the Fourth Party. On the 24th of June Lord Salisbury became Prime Minister for the first time. The break-up of the Government revealed to all the world the fact that the Liberal Party was cleft in twain. The Whig section was led by Lord Hartington, and the Radical section by Mr. Chamberlain. Gladstone did his best to mediate between the two, and so to present an unbroken front to the common foe. But the parting of the ways soon became painfully apparent. The fall of the Government involved, of course, the return of Lord Spencer from Ireland, and some of his friends resolved, after the manner of admiring Englishmen, to give him a public dinner. The current phrase was that we were to "Dine Spencer for coercing the Irish." As he had done that thoroughly for the space of three years, and, at the risk of his own life, had destroyed a treasonable and murderous conspiracy, he was well entitled to all the honours which we could give him. So it was arranged that the dinner was to take place at the Westminster Palace Hotel on the 24th of July. Shortly before the day arrived, Mr. Chamberlain said to me: "I think you had better not attend that dinner to Spencer. I am not going, nor is D----. Certainly Spencer has done his duty, and shown capital pluck; but I hope we should all have done the same, and there's no reason to mark it by a dinner. And, after all, coercion is not a nice business for Liberals, though we may be forced into it." However, as I had greatly admired Lord Spencer's administration, and as his family and mine had been politically associated for a century, I made a point of attending, and a capital evening we had. There was an enthusiastic and representative company of two hundred Liberals. Lord Hartington presided, and extolled Lord Spencer to the skies; and Lord Spencer justified the Crimes Act by saying that, when it was passed, there was an organization of thirty thousand Fenians, aided by branches in Scotland and England, and by funds from America, defying the law of the land in Ireland. Not a word in all this about Home Rule, or the Union of Hearts, but we cheered it to the echo, little dreaming what the next six months had in store for us. Though I was thoroughly in favour of resolute dealing with murder and outrage, I was also--and this was a combination which sorely puzzled _The Spectator_--an enthusiastic Radical, and specially keen on the side of social reform. My views on domestic politics were substantially the same as those set forth with extraordinary vigour and effect in a long series of speeches by Mr. Chamberlain, who was now unmuzzled, and was making the fullest use of his freedom. He was then at the very zenith of his powers, and the scheme of political and social reform which he expounded is still, in my opinion, the best compendium of Radical politics; but it tended in the direction of what old-fashioned people called Socialism, and this was to Gladstone an abomination. One day, to my consternation, he asked me if it was true that Socialism had made some way among the younger Liberals, of whom I was then one. Endeavouring to parry a question which must have revealed my own guilt, I feebly asked if by Socialism my venerable Leader meant the practice of taking private property for public uses, or the performance by the State of what ought to be left to the individual; whereupon he replied, with startling emphasis: "I mean both, but I reserve my worst Billingsgate for the attack on private property." On the 18th of September Gladstone issued his Address to the Electors of Midlothian--an exceedingly long-winded document, which seemed to commit the Liberal Party to nothing in particular. _Verbosa et grandis epistola_, said Mr. John Morley. "An old man's manifesto," wrote the _Pall Mall_. By contrast with this colourless but authoritative document, Mr. Chamberlain's scheme became known as "The Unauthorized Programme," and of that programme I was a zealous promoter. As soon as the Franchise Bill and the Redistribution Bill had passed into law, it was arranged that the dissolution should take place in November. The whole autumn was given up to electioneering. The newly-enfranchised labourers seemed friendly to the Liberal cause, but our bewildered candidates saw that their leaders were divided into two sections--one might almost say, two camps. This was a condition of things which boded disaster to the Liberal Party; but Gladstone never realized that Chamberlain was a power which it was madness to alienate. On the 2nd of October I went on a visit to Hawarden, and the next day Gladstone opened a conversation on the state of the Party and the prospects of the Election. He said: "I believe you are in Chamberlain's confidence. Can you tell me what he means?" I replied that I was not the least in Chamberlain's confidence, though he had always been very friendly to me, and I admired his Programme. "But," I said, "I think that what he means is quite clear. He has no thought of trying to oust you from the Leadership of the Liberal Party; but he is determined that, when you resign it, he, and not Hartington, shall succeed you." This seemed to give the Chief some food for reflection, and then I ventured to follow up my advantage. "After all," I said, "Chamberlain has been your colleague for five years. Surely your best plan would be to invite him here, and ascertain his intentions from himself." If I had suggested that my host should invite the Sultan or the Czar, he could not have looked more surprised. "I have always made a point," he said, "of keeping this place clear of political transactions. We never invite anyone except private friends." "Well," I said, "but we are within six weeks of the Election, and it will never do for us to go to the country with you and Chamberlain professing two rival policies." Backed by Mrs. Gladstone, I carried my point, and with my own hand wrote the telegram inviting Mr. Chamberlain. Unfortunately I had to leave Hawarden on the 6th of October, so I was not present at the meeting which I had brought about; but a few days later I had a letter from Mr. Chamberlain saying that, though his visit had been socially pleasant, it had been politically useless. He had not succeeded in making Gladstone see the importance of the Unauthorized Programme, and "if I were to drop it now," he said, "the stones would immediately cry out." What then ensued is matter of history. Parliament was dissolved on the 18th of November. When the elections were finished, the Liberal Party was just short of the numerical strength which was requisite to defeat a combination of Tories and Parnellites. Lord Salisbury, therefore, retained office, but the life of his administration hung by a thread. On the 24th of November, 1884, the great Lord Shaftesbury, moved by the spirit of prophecy, had written: "In a year or so we shall have Home Rule disposed of (at all hazards) to save us from daily and hourly bores." On the 17th of December, 1885, the world was astonished by an anonymous announcement in two newspapers--and the rest followed suit next day--that, if Gladstone were returned to power, he would be prepared to deal, in a liberal spirit, with the demand for Home Rule. This announcement was an act of folly not easy to explain or condone. We now know whose act it was, and we know that it was committed without Gladstone's privity. As Lord Morley says: "Never was there a moment when every consideration of political prudence more imperatively counselled silence." But now every political tongue in the United Kingdom was set wagging, and Gladstone could neither confirm nor deny. Our bewilderment and confusion were absolute. No one knew what was coming next; who was on what side; or whither his party--or, indeed, himself--was tending. One point only was clear: if Gladstone meant what he seemed to mean, the Parnellites would support him, and the Tories would be turned out. The new Parliament met on the 21st of January, 1886. On the--, the Government were defeated on an amendment to the Address, in favour of Municipal Allotments, and Lord Salisbury resigned. It was a moment of intense excitement, and everyone tasted for a day or two "the joy of eventful living." On the 29th of January, I dined with Mr. and Mrs. Gladstone. The host was in a grim mood of suppressed excitement, anger, and apprehension. All day long he had been expecting a summons from the Queen, and it had not arrived. "It begins to look," he said, "as if the Government meant after all to ignore the vote of the House of Commons, and go on. All I can say is that, if they do, the Crown will be placed in a worse position than it has ever occupied in my lifetime." But after the party had broken up, Sir Henry Ponsonby arrived with the desired message from the Queen; and on the 1st of February Gladstone kissed hands, as Prime Minister for the third time. "When Gladstone runs down a steep place, his immense majority, like the pigs in Scripture but hoping for a better issue, will go with him, roaring in grunts of exultation." This was Lord Shaftesbury's prediction in the previous year; but it was based on an assumption which proved erroneous. It took for granted the unalterable docility of the Liberal Party. I knew little at first hand of the transactions and tumults which filled the spring and early summer of 1886. At the beginning of February I was laid low by serious illness, resulting from the fatigue and exposure of the Election; and when, after a long imprisonment, I was out of bed, I went off to the seaside for convalescence. But even in the sick-room I heard rumours of the obstinate perversity with which the Liberal Government was rushing on its fate, and the admirably effective resistance to Home Rule engineered by Lord Hartington and Mr. Chamberlain. The Liberal leaders ran down the steep place, but an important minority of the pigs refused to follow them. The Home Rule Bill was thrown out on the 8th of June. Parliament was immediately dissolved. The General Election gave a majority of more than a hundred against Home Rule; the Government retired and Lord Salisbury again became Prime Minister. In those distant days, there was a happy arrangement by which once a year, when my father was staying with me, Mr. and Mrs. Gladstone dined with me to meet him. My father and Gladstone had both entered public life at the General Election of 1832, and my father loved to describe him as he appeared riding in Hyde Park on a grey Arabian mare, "with his hat, narrow-brimmed, high up on the centre of his head, sustained by a crop of thick, curly hair," while a passer-by said: "That's Gladstone. He is to make his maiden speech to-night. It will be worth hearing." The annual rencounter took place on the 21st of July, 1886. After dinner, Gladstone drew me into a window and said: "Well, this Election has been a great disappointment." I replied that we could certainly have wished it better, but that the result was not unexpected. To my amazement, Gladstone replied that it was completely unexpected. "The experts assured me that we should sweep the country." (I always wish that I could have had an opportunity of speaking my mind to those "experts.") Pursuing the subject, Gladstone said that the Queen had demurred to a second election in six months, and that some of his colleagues had recommended more moderate courses. "But I said that, if we didn't dissolve, we should be showing the white feather." It is no part of my purpose to trace the dismal history of the Liberal Party between 1886 and 1892. But one incident in that time deserves to be recorded. I was dining with Lord and Lady Rosebery on the 4th of March, 1889; Gladstone was of the company, and was indulging in passionate diatribes against Pitt. One phrase has always stuck in my memory. "There is no crime recorded in history--I do not except the Massacre of St. Bartholomew--which will compare for a moment with the means by which the Union was brought about." When the party was breaking up, one of the diners said: "I hope Mr. Gladstone won't draw that parallel, between the Union and the Massacre of St. Bartholomew, on a public platform, or we shall stand even less well with the thinking public than we do now." Parliament was dissolved in June, 1892, and, when the elections were over, it was found that the Liberal Party, including the Irish, had only a majority of 40. When Gladstone knew the final figures, he saw the impossibility of forcing Home Rule through the Lords, and exclaimed: "My life's work is done." However, as we all remember, he took the Premiership for a fourth time, and during the Session of 1893 passed a Home Rule Bill through the House of Commons. The Lords threw it out by 419 to 41, the minority being mainly wage-receivers. Other troubles there were, both inside the Government and outside it; Mr. Gladstone told his friends that the Naval Estimates demanded by the Admiralty were "mad and drunk"; and people began to suspect that the great change was at hand. On the 1st of March, 1894, Gladstone made his last speech in the House of Commons. In that speech he bequeathed to his party the legacy of a nobly-worded protest against the irresponsible power of the "Nominated Chamber"; and then, having accomplished sixty-one years of Parliamentary service, he simply disappeared, without ceremony or farewell. In my mind's eye I see him now, upright as ever, and walking fast, with his despatch-box dangling from his right hand, as he passed the Speaker's Chair, and quitted the scene of his life's work for ever. In spite of warnings and anticipations, the end had, after all, come suddenly; and, with a sharp pang of regretful surprise, we woke to the fact that "our master was taken away from our head to-day." Strong men were shaken with emotion and hard men were moved to unaccustomed tears, as we passed out of the emptied House in the dusk of that gloomy afternoon. On the 6th of March, 1894, Gladstone wrote to me as follows, in reply to my letter of farewell: "My speculative view into the future shows me a very mixed spectacle, and a doubtful atmosphere. I am thankful to have borne a part in the emancipating labours of the last sixty years; but entirely uncertain how, had I now to begin my life, I could face the very different problems of the next sixty years. Of one thing I am, and always have been, convinced--it is not by the State that man can be regenerated, and the terrible woes of this darkened world effectually dealt with. In some, and some very important, respects, I yearn for the impossible revival of the men and the ideas of my first twenty years, which immediately followed the first Reform Act. But I am stepping out upon a boundless plain. "May God give you strength of all kinds to perform your appointed work in the world." FOOTNOTES: [37] The British troops entered Cairo on the 14th of September, 1882. [38] Better known as "Billy Johnson," the famous Eton Tutor. [39] The Right Hon. J. W. Lowther. [40] Afterwards the Right Hon. John Burns, M.P., President of the Local Government Board. [41] Afterwards Lord St. Aldwyn. XII ORATORY [Greek: esti d' ouch ho logos tou rhêtoros, Aischinê, timion, oud' ho tonos tês phônês, alla to tauta proaireisthai tois pollois, kai to tous autous misein kai philein, housper an hê patris.] DEMOSTHENES. _De Corona_. The important thing in public speaking is neither the diction nor the voice. What is important is that the speaker should have the same predilections as the majority, and that his country's friends and foes should be also his own. I hope that I shall not be reproached with either Pedantry or Vanity (though I deserve both) if, having begun so classically, I here introduce some verses which, when I was a boy at Harrow, my kind Head Master addressed to my Father. The occasion of these verses was that the recipient of them, who was then Sergeant-at-Arms in the House of Commons and was much exhausted by the long Session which passed the first Irish Land Act, had said in his haste that he wished all mankind were dumb. This petulant ejaculation drew from Dr. Butler the following remonstrance: Semper ego auditor? Requies data nulla loquelæ Quæ miseras aures his et ubique premit? Tot mala non tulit ipse Jobas, cui constat amicos Septenos saltem conticuisse dies. "Si mihi non dabitur talem sperare quietem, Sit, precor, humanum sit sine voce genus!" Mucius[42] hæc secum, sortem indignatus iniquam, (Tum primum proavis creditus esse minor) Seque malis negat esse parem: cui Musa querenti, "Tu genus humanum voce carere cupis? Tene adeo fatis diffidere! Non tibi Natus Quem jam signavit Diva Loquela suum? En! ego quæ vindex 'mutis quoque piscibus' adsum, Donatura cycni, si ferat hora, sonos, Ipsa loquor vates: Patriæ decus addere linguæ Hic sciet, ut titulis laus eat aucta tuis. Hunc sua fata vocant; hunc, nostro numine fretum, Apta jubent aptis ponere verba locis. Hunc olim domus ipsa canet, silvæque paternæ, Curiaque, et felix vatibus Herga parens. Nec lingua caruisse voles, quo vindice vestræ Gentis in æternum fama superstes erit." H. M. B., Aug., 1870. The prophecy has scarcely been fulfilled; but it is true that from my earliest days I have had an inborn love of oratory. The witchery of words, powerful enough on the printed page, is to me ten times more powerful when it is reinforced by voice and glance and gesture. Fine rhetoric and lofty declamation have always stirred my blood; and yet I suppose that Demosthenes was right, and that, though rhetoric and declamation are good, still the most valuable asset for a public speaker is a complete identification with the majority of his countrymen, in their prejudices, their likings, and their hatreds. If Oratory signifies the power of speaking without premeditation, Gladstone stands in a class by himself, far above all the public speakers whom I have ever heard. The records of his speaking at Eton and Oxford, and the reports of his earliest performances in Parliament, alike give proof that he had, as Coleridge said of Pitt, "a premature and unnatural dexterity in the combination of words"; and this developed into "a power of pouring forth, with endless facility, perfectly modulated sentences of perfectly chosen language, which as far surpassed the reach of a normal intellect as the feats of an acrobat exceed the capacities of a normal body." His voice was flexible and melodious (in singing it was a baritone); though his utterance was perceptibly marked by a Lancastrian "burr"; his gestures were free and graceful, though never violent; every muscle of his face seemed to play its part in his nervous declamation; and the flash of his deep-set eyes revealed the fiery spirit that was at work within. It may be remarked in passing that he considered a moustache incompatible with effective speaking--"Why should a man hide one of the most expressive features of his face?" With regard to the still more expressive eyes, Lecky ruefully remarked that Gladstone's glance was that of a bird of prey swooping on its victim. Lord Chief Justice Coleridge told me that he had once asked Gladstone if he ever felt nervous in public speaking. "In opening a subject," said Gladstone, "often; in reply never," and certainly his most triumphant speeches were those in which, when winding up a debate, he recapitulated and demolished the hostile arguments that had gone before. One writes glibly of his "most triumphant" speeches; and yet, when he was among us, he always delivered each Session at least one speech, of which we all used to say, with breathless enthusiasm, "That's the finest speech he ever made." On the platform he was incomparable. His fame as an orator was made within the walls of Parliament; but, when he ceased to represent the University of Oxford, and was forced by the conditions of modern electioneering to face huge masses of electors in halls and theatres and in the open air, he adapted himself with the utmost ease to his new environment, and captivated the constituencies as he had captivated the House. His activities increased as his life advanced. He diffused himself over England and Wales and Scotland. In every considerable centre, men had the opportunity of seeing and hearing this supreme actor of the political stage; but Midlothian was the scene of his most astonishing efforts. When, on the 2nd of September, 1884, he spoke on the Franchise Bill in the Waverley Market at Edinburgh, it was estimated that he addressed thirty thousand people. "Beneath his feet the human ocean lay, And wave on wave flowed into space away, Methought no clarion could have sent its sound Even to the centre of the hosts around; And, as I thought, rose the sonorous swell, As from some church-tower swings the silvery bell. Aloft and clear, from airy tide to tide, It glided, easy as a bird may glide; To the last verge of that vast audience sent, It played with each wild passion as it went; Now stirred the uproar, now the murmur stilled: And sobs or laughter answered as it willed:"[43] It is painful to descend too abruptly from such a height as that: but one would be giving a false notion of Gladstone's speaking if one suggested that it was always equally effective. Masterly in his appeal to a popular audience, supernaturally dexterous in explaining a complicated subject to the House of Commons, supremely solemn and pathetic in a Memorial Oration, he was heard to least advantage on a social or festive occasion. He would use a Club-dinner or a wedding-breakfast, a flower-show or an Exhibition, for the utterance of grave thoughts which had perhaps been long fermenting in his mind; and then his intensity, his absorption in his theme, and his terrible gravity, disconcerted hearers who had expected a lighter touch. An illustration of this piquant maladroitness recurs to my memory as I write. In 1882 I was concerned with a few Radical friends in founding the National Liberal Club.[44] We certainly never foresaw the palatial pile of terra-cotta and glazed tiles which now bears that name.[45] Our modest object was to provide a central meeting-place for Metropolitan and provincial Liberals, where all the comforts of life should be attainable at what are called "popular prices." Two years later, Gladstone laid the foundation-stone of the present Club-house, and, in one of his most austere orations, drew a sharp contrast between our poor handiwork and those "Temples of Luxury and Ease" which gaze in haughty grandeur on Pall Mall. We had hoped to provide what might seem like "luxury" to the unsophisticated citizen of Little Pedlington; and, at the least, we meant our Club to be a place of "ease" to the Radical toiler. But Gladstone insisted that it was to be a workshop dedicated to strenuous labour; and all the fair promises of our Prospectus were trodden under foot.[46] I have often heard Gladstone say that, in the nature of things, a speech cannot be adequately reported. You may get the words with literal precision, but the loss of gesture, voice, and intonation, will inevitably obscure the meaning and impede the effect. Of no one's speaking is this more true than of his own. Here and there, in the enormous mass of his reported eloquence, you will come upon a fine peroration, a poetic image, a verse aptly cited, or a phrase which can be remembered. But they are few and far between--_oases_ in a wilderness of what reads like verbiage. Quite certainly, his speeches, in the mass, are not literature, as those found to their cost who endeavoured to publish them in ten volumes. For speeches which are literature we must go to John Bright; but then Bright's speaking was not spontaneous, and therefore, according to the definition suggested above, could not be reckoned as Oratory. Yet, when delivered in that penetrating voice, with its varied emphasis of scorn and sympathy and passion; enforced by the dignity of that noble head, and punctuated by the aptest gesture, they sounded uncommonly like oratory. The fact is that Bright's consummate art concealed the elaborate preparation which went to make the performance. When he was going to make a speech, he was encompassed by safeguards against disturbance and distraction, which suggested the rites of Lucina. He was invisible and inaccessible. No bell might ring, no door might bang, no foot tread too heavily. There was a crisis, and everyone in the house knew it; and when at length the speech had been safely uttered, there was the joy of a great reaction. My Father, unlike most of the Whigs, had a warm admiration for Bright; and Bright showed his appreciation of this feeling by being extremely kind to me. Early in my Parliamentary career, he gave me some hints on the art of speech-making, which are interesting because they describe his own practice. "You cannot," he said, "over-prepare the substance of a speech. The more completely you have mastered it, the better your speech will be. But it is very easy to over-prepare your words. Arrange your subject, according to its natural divisions, under three or four heads--not more. Supply each division with an 'island'; by which I mean a carefully-prepared sentence to clinch and enforce it. You must trust yourself to swim from one 'island' to another, without artificial aids. Keep your best 'island'--your most effective passage--for your peroration; and, when once you have uttered it, sit down at once. Let no power induce you to go on." Anyone who studies Bright's speeches will see that he exactly followed his own rule. The order and symmetry are perfect. The English is simple and unadorned. Each department of the speech has its notable phrase; and the peroration is a masterpiece of solemn rhetoric. And yet after all what Demosthenes said is true of these two great men--the Twin Stars of Victorian Oratory. Each had all the graces of voice and language, and yet each failed conspicuously in practical effect whenever he ran counter to the predilections and passions of his countrymen. Gladstone succeeded when he attacked the Irish Church, and denounced the abominations of Turkish misrule: he failed when he tried to palliate his blunders in Egypt, and to force Home Rule down the throat of the "Predominant Partner." Bright succeeded when he pleaded for the Repeal of the Corn Laws and the extension of the Suffrage: he failed when he opposed the Crimean War, and lost his seat when he protested against our aggression on China. It must often fall to the lot of the patriotic orator thus to set himself against the drift of national sentiment, and to pay the penalty. No such perils beset the Demagogue. I should not ascribe the title of orator to Mr. Chamberlain. He has nothing of the inspiration, the poetry, the "vision splendid," the "faculty divine," which make the genuine orator. But as a speaker of the second, and perhaps most useful, class, he has never been surpassed. His speaking was the perfection of clearness. Each argument seemed irresistible, each illustration told. His invective was powerful, his passion seemed genuine, his satire cut like steel and froze like ice. His perception of his hearers' likes and dislikes was intuitive, and was heightened by constant observation. His friends and his enemies were those whom he esteemed the friends and the enemies of England; and he never committed the heroic but perilous error of setting himself against the passing mood of national feeling. He combined in rare harmony the debating instinct which conquers the House of Commons, with the power of appeal to popular passion which is the glory of the Demagogue. The word with which my last sentence closed recalls inevitably the tragic figure of Lord Randolph Churchill. The adroitness, the courage, and the persistency with which between 1880 and 1885 he sapped Gladstone's authority, deposed Northcote, and made himself the most conspicuous man in the Tory Party, have been described in his Biography, and need not be recapitulated here. Mr. Chamberlain, who was exactly qualified to resist and abate him, had not yet acquired a commanding position in the House of Commons; and on the platform Churchill could not be beaten. In these two men each party possessed a Demagogue of the highest gifts, and it would have puzzled an expert to say which was the better exponent of his peculiar art. In January, 1884, Churchill made a speech at Blackpool, and thus attacked his eminent rival--"Mr. Chamberlain a short time ago attempted to hold Lord Salisbury up to the execration of the people as one who enjoyed great riches for which he had neither toiled nor spun, and he savagely denounced Lord Salisbury and his class. As a matter of fact, Lord Salisbury from his earliest days has toiled and spun in the service of the State, and for the advancement of his countrymen in learning, in wealth, and in prosperity; but no Radical ever yet allowed himself to be embarrassed by a question of fact. Just look, however, at what Mr. Chamberlain himself does; he goes to Newcastle, and is entertained at a banquet there, and procures for the president of the feast a live Earl--no less a person than the Earl of Durham. Now, Lord Durham is a young person who has just come of age, who is in the possession of immense hereditary estates, who is well known on Newmarket Heath, and prominent among the gilded youth who throng the doors of the Gaiety Theatre; but he has studied politics about as much as Barnum's new white elephant, and the idea of rendering service to the State has not yet commenced to dawn on his ingenuous mind. If by any means it could be legitimate, and I hold it is illegitimate, to stigmatize any individual as enjoying great riches for which he has neither toiled nor spun, such a case would be the case of the Earl of Durham; and yet it is under the patronage of the Earl of Durham, and basking in the smiles of the Earl of Durham, and bandying vulgar compliments with the Earl of Durham, that this stern patriot, this rigid moralist, this unbending censor, the Right Honourable Joseph Chamberlain, flaunts his Radical and levelling doctrines before the astonished democrats of Newcastle. 'Vanity of Vanities,' saith the preacher, 'all is vanity.' 'Humbug of Humbugs,' says the Radical, 'all is humbug.'" And with that most characteristic specimen of popular eloquence, we may leave the two great demagogues of the Victorian Age. At the period of which I am speaking the House of Commons contained two or three orators surviving from a class which had almost died away. These were men who, having no gift for extempore speaking, used to study the earlier stages of a debate, prepare a tremendous oration, and then deliver it by heart. Such, in days gone by, had been the practice of Bulwer-Lytton, and, as far as one can see, of Macaulay. In my day it was followed by Patrick Smyth, Member for Tipperary, and by Joseph Cowen, Member for Newcastle. Both were real rhetoricians. Both could compose long discourses, couched in the most flowery English, interlarded with anecdotes and decorated with quotations; and both could declaim these compositions with grace and vigour. But the effect was very droll. They would work, say, all Tuesday and Wednesday at a point which had been exhausted by discussion on Monday, and then on Thursday they would burst into the debate just whenever they could catch the Speaker's eye, and would discharge these cascades of prepared eloquence without the slightest reference to time, fitness, or occasion. My uncle, Lord Russell, who entered Parliament in 1813, always said that the first Lord Plunket was, on the whole, the finest speaker he had ever heard, because he combined a most cogent logic with a most moving eloquence; and these gifts descended to Plunket's grandson, now Lord Rathmore, and, in the days of which I am speaking, Mr. David Plunket, Member for the University of Dublin. Voice, manner, diction, delivery, were all alike delightful; and, though such finished oratory could scarcely be unprepared, Mr. Plunket had a great deal too much of his nation's tact to produce it except when he knew that the House was anxious to receive it. In view of all that has happened since, it is curious to remember that Mr. Arthur Balfour was, in those days, a remarkably bad speaker. No one, I should think, was ever born with less of the orator's faculty, or was under heavier obligations to the Reporters' Gallery. He shambled and stumbled, and clung to the lapels of his coat, and made immense pauses while he searched for the right word, and eventually got hold of the wrong one. In conflict with Gladstone, he seemed to exude the very essence of acrimonious partisanship, and yet he never exactly scored. As Lord Beaconsfield said of Lord Salisbury, "his invective lacked finish." A precisely opposite description might befit Sir Robert Peel, the strangely-contrasted son of the great Free Trader. Peel was naturally an orator. He could make the most slashing onslaughts without the appearance of ill-temper, and could convulse the House with laughter while he himself remained to all appearance unconscious of the fun. His voice, pronounced by Gladstone the most beautiful he ever heard in Parliament, was low, rich, melodious, and flexible. His appearance was striking and rather un-English, his gestures were various and animated, and he enforced his points with beautifully shaped hands. If voice and manner could make a public speaker great, Sir Robert Peel might have led the Tory Party; but Demosthenes was right after all. The graces of oratory, though delightful for the moment, have no permanent effect. The perfection of Parliamentary style is to utter cruel platitudes with a grave and informing air; and, if a little pomposity be superadded, the House will instinctively recognize the speaker as a Statesman. I have heard Sir William Harcourt say, "After March, comes April," in a tone which carried conviction to every heart. A word must be said about speakers who read their speeches. I do not think I shall be contradicted if I say that in those distant days Sir William Harcourt, Sir George Trevelyan, and Mr. Gibson, now Lord Ashbourne, wrote every word, and delivered their speeches from the manuscript. In late years, when Harcourt had to pilot his famous Budget through Committee, he acquired a perfect facility in extempore speech; but at the beginning it was not so. The Irish are an eloquent nation, and we are apt to send them rather prosy rulers. "The Honourable Member for Bletherum was at that time perambulating the district with very great activity, and, I need not say, with very great ability." Such a sentence as that, laboriously inscribed in the manuscript of a Chief Secretary's speech, seems indeed to dissipate all thoughts of oratory. Mr. Henry Richard, a "Stickit Minister" who represented Merthyr, was the worst offender against the Standing Order which forbids a Member to read his speech, though it allows him to "refresh his memory with notes"; and once, being called to order for his offence, he palliated it by saying that he was ready to hand his manuscript to his censor, and challenged him to read a word of it. The least oratorical of mankind was the fifteenth Lord Derby, whose formal adhesion to the Liberal Party in 1882 supplied _Punch_ with an admirable cartoon of a female Gladstone singing in impassioned strain-- "Always the same, Derby my own! Always the same to your old Glad-stone." Lord Derby wrote every word of his speeches, and sent them in advance to the press. It was said that once he dropped his manuscript in the street, and that, being picked up, it was found to contain such entries as "Cheers," "Laughter," and "Loud applause," culminating in "'But I am detaining you too long.' (Cries of 'No, no,' and 'Go on.')" The mention of Lord Derby reminds me of the much-criticized body to which he belonged. When I entered Parliament, the Chief Clerk of the House of Commons was Sir Thomas Erskine May, afterwards Lord Farnborough--an hereditary friend. He gave me many useful hints, and this among the rest--"Always go across to the House of Lords when they are sitting, even if you only stop five minutes. You may often happen on something worth hearing; and on no account ever miss one of their full-dress debates." I acted on the advice, and soon became familiar with the oratory of "the Gilded Chamber," as Pennialinus calls it. I have spoken in a former chapter of the effect produced on me as a boy by the predominance of Disraeli during the debates on the Reform Bill of 1867. He had left the House of Commons before I entered it, but that same mysterious attribute of predominance followed him to the House of Lords, and indeed increased with his increasing years. His strange appearance--un-English features, corpse-like pallor, blackened locks, and piercing eyes--marked him out as someone quite aloof from the common population of the House of Lords. When he sat, silent and immovable, on his crimson bench, everyone kept watching him as though they were fascinated. When he rose to speak, there was strained and awe-stricken attention. His voice was deep, his utterance slow, his pronunciation rather affected. He had said in early life that there were two models of style for the two Houses of Parliament--for the Commons, _Don Juan_: for the Lords, _Paradise Lost_. As the youthful Disraeli, he had out-Juaned Juan; when, as the aged Beaconsfield, he talked of "stamping a deleterious doctrine with the reprobation of the Peers of England," he approached the dignity of the Miltonic Satan. It was more obviously true of him than of most speakers that he "listened to himself while he spoke"; and his complete mastery of all the tricks of speech countervailed the decay of his physical powers. He had always known the value of an artificial pause, an effective hesitation, in heralding the apt word or the memorable phrase; and just at the close of his life he used the method with a striking though unrehearsed effect. On the 4th of March, 1881, he was speaking in support of Lord Lytton's motion condemning the evacuation of Kandahar. "My Lords," he said, "the Key of India is not Merv, or Herat, or,"--here came a long pause, and rather painful anxiety in the audience; and then the quiet resumption of the thread--"It is not the place of which I cannot recall the name--the Key of India is London." At a dinner at Lord Airlie's in the previous month Lord Beaconsfield, talking to Matthew Arnold, had described the great (that is, the fourteenth) Lord Derby as having been "a man full of nerve, dash, fire, and resource, who carried the House irresistibly along with him." Bishop Samuel Wilberforce was reckoned by Mr. Gladstone as one of the three men who, of all his acquaintance, had the greatest natural gift of public speaking.[47] Both the Bishop and the Statesman found, each in the other, a foeman worthy of his steel; but both had passed beyond these voices before I entered Parliament, leaving only tantalizing traditions--"Ah! but you should have heard Derby on the Irish Church," or "It was a treat to hear 'Sam' trouncing Westbury." Failing those impossible enjoyments, I found great pleasure in listening to Lord Salisbury. I should reckon him as about the most interesting speaker I ever heard. His appearance was pre-eminently dignified: he looked, whether he was in or out of office, the ideal Minister of a great Empire-- "With that vast bulk of chest and limb assigned So oft to men who subjugate their kind; So sturdy Cromwell pushed broad-shouldered on; So burly Luther breasted Babylon; So brawny Cleon bawled his agora down; And large-limb'd Mahomed clutched a Prophet's crown." In public speaking, Lord Salisbury seemed to be thinking aloud, and to be quite unconscious of his audience. Though he was saturated with his subject there was apparently no verbal preparation. Yet his diction was peculiarly apt and pointed. He never looked at a note; used no gesture; scarcely raised or lowered his voice. But in a clear and penetrating monotone he uttered the workings of a profound and reflective mind, and the treasures of a vast experience. Though massive, his style was never ponderous: and it was constantly lightened by the sallies of a pungent humour. In the debate on the Second Reading of the Home Rule Bill of 1893, Lord Ribblesdale, then recently converted from Unionism to Gladstonianism, and Master of the Buckhounds in the Liberal government, had given the history of his mental change. In replying, Lord Salisbury said, "The next speech, my lords, was a confession. Confessions are always an interesting form of literature--from St. Augustine to Rousseau, from Rousseau to Lord Ribblesdale." The House laughed, and the Master of the Buckhounds laughed with it. One of the most vigorous orators whom I have ever heard, in the House of Lords or out of it, was Dr. Magee, Bishop of Peterborough, and afterwards Archbishop of York. He had made his fame by his speech on the Second Reading of the Irish Church Bill, and was always at his best when defending the temporal interests of ecclesiastical institutions. No clergyman ever smacked so little of the pulpit. His mind was essentially legal--clear, practical, logical, cogent. No one on earth could make a better case for a bad cause; no one could argue more closely, or declaim more vigorously. When his blood was up, he must either speak or burst; but his indignation, though it found vent in flashing sarcasms, never betrayed him into irrelevancies or inexactitudes. A fine speaker of a different type--and one better fitted for a Churchman--was Archbishop Tait, whose dignity of speech and bearing, clear judgment, and forcible utterance, made him the worthiest representative of the Church in Parliament whom these latter days have seen. To contrast Tait's stately calm with Benson's fluttering obsequiousness[48] or Temple's hammering force, was to perceive the manner that is, and the manners that are not, adapted to what Gladstone called "the mixed sphere of Religion and the _Sæculum_." By far the greatest orator whom the House of Lords has possessed in my recollection was the late Duke of Argyll. I have heard that Lord Beaconsfield, newly arrived in the House of Lords and hearing the Duke for the first time, exclaimed, "And has this been going on all these years, and I have never found it out?" It is true that the Duke's reputation as an administrator, a writer, a naturalist, and an amateur theologian, distracted public attention from his power as an orator; and I have been told that he himself did not realize it. Yet orator indeed he was, in the highest implication of the term. He spoke always under the influence of fiery conviction, and the live coal from the altar seemed to touch his lips. He was absolute master of every mood of oratory--pathos, satire, contemptuous humour, ethical passion, noble wrath; and his unstudied eloquence flowed like a river through the successive moods, taking a colour from each, and gaining force as it rolled towards its close. On the 6th of September, 1893, I heard the Duke speaking on the Second Reading of the Home Rule Bill. He was then an old man, and in broken health; the speech attempted little in the way of argument, and was desultory beyond belief. But suddenly there came a passage which lifted the whole debate into a nobler air. The orator described himself standing on the Western shores of Scotland, and gazing across towards the hills of Antrim: "We can see the colour of their fields, and in the sunset we can see the glancing of the light upon the windows of the cabins of the people. This is the country, I thought the other day when I looked on the scene--this is the country which the greatest English statesman tells us must be governed as we govern the Antipodes." And he emphasized the last word with a downward sweep of his right hand, which in a commonplace speaker would have been frankly comic, but in this great master of oratory was a master-stroke of dramatic art. Before I close this chapter, I should like to recall a word of Gladstone's which at the time when he said it struck me as memorable. In August, 1895, I was staying at Hawarden. Gladstone's Parliamentary life was done, and he talked about political people and events with a freedom which I had never before known in him. As perhaps was natural, we fell to discussing the men who had been his colleagues in the late Liberal Ministry. We reviewed in turn Lord Spencer, Sir William Harcourt, Lord Rosebery, Mr. John Morley, Sir George Trevelyan, and Mr. Asquith. It is perhaps a little curious, in view of what happened later on, that Sir Henry Campbell-Bannerman was not mentioned; but, with regard to the foregoing names, I perfectly recollect, though there is no need to repeat, the terse and trenchant judgment passed on each. When we had come to the end of my list, the ex-Premier turned on me with one of those compelling glances which we knew so well, and said with emphasis, "But you haven't mentioned the most important man of all." "Who is that?" "Edward Grey--there is the man with the real Parliamentary gift." I am happy to make the Foreign Secretary a present of this handsome compliment. FOOTNOTES: [42] Mucius Scævola per multos annos "Princeps Senatûs." [43] Bulwer-Lytton, _St. Stephen's_. [44] Mr. A. J. Willams, Mr. A. G. Symond, Mr. Walter Wren, Mr. W. L. Bright, and Mr. J. J. Tylor were some of them; and we used to meet in Mr. Bright's rooms at Storey's Gate. [45] "It is an extraordinary big club done in a bold, wholesale, shiny, marbled style, richly furnished with numerous paintings, steel engravings, busts, and full-length statues of the late Mr. Gladstone."--H. G. Wells, _The New Machiavelli_. [46] "Speaking generally, I should say there could not be a less interesting occasion than the laying of the foundation-stone of a Club in London. For, after all, what are the Clubs of London? I am afraid little else than temples of luxury and ease. This, however, is a club of a very different character." [47] The others were the late Duke of Argyll and the eighth Lord Elgin. [48] "I had to speak in the House of Lords last night. It is a really terrible place for the unaccustomed. Frigid impatience and absolute goodwill, combined with a thorough conviction of the infallibility of laymen (if not too religious) on all sacred subjects, are the tone, _morale_, and reason, of the House as a living being. My whole self-possession departs, and ejection from the House seems the best thing which could happen to one."--Archbishop Benson to the Rev. B. F. Westcott, March 22, 1884. XIII LITERATURE There was Captain Sumph, an ex-beau, still about town, and related in some indistinct manner to Literature and the Peerage. He was said to have written a book once, to have been a friend of Lord Byron, to be related to Lord Sumphington.... This gentleman was listened to with great attention by Mrs. Bungay; his anecdotes of the Aristocracy, of which he was a middle-aged member, delighted the publisher's lady. W. M. THACKERAY, _Pendennis_. When I am writing Reminiscences, I always feel dreadfully like Captain Sumph; but, in order to make the resemblance quite exact, I must devote a chapter to Literature. I seem, from my earliest conscious years, to have lived in a world of books; and yet my home was by no means "bookish." I was trained by people who had not read much, but had read thoroughly; who regarded good literature with unfeigned admiration; and who, though they would never have dreamt of forcing or cramming, yet were pleased when they saw a boy inclined to read, and did their best to guide his reading aright. As I survey my early life and compare it with the present day, one of the social changes which impresses me most is the general decay of intellectual cultivation. This may sound paradoxical in an age which habitually talks so much about Education and Culture; but I am persuaded that it is true. Dilettantism is universal, and a smattering of erudition, infinitely more offensive than honest and manly ignorance, has usurped the place which was formerly occupied by genuine and liberal learning. A vast deal of specialism, "mugged up," as boys say, at the British Museum or the London Library, may coexist with a profound ignorance of all that is really worth knowing. It sounds very intellectual to chatter about the authorship of the Fourth Gospel, or to scoff at St. John's "senile iterations and contorted metaphysics"; but, when a clergyman read St. Paul's eulogy on Charity, instead of an address, at the end of a fashionable wedding, one of his hearers said, "How very appropriate that was! Where did you get it from?" Everyone can patter nonsense about the traces of Bacon's influence in _The Merry Wives of Windsor_, and can ransack their family histories for the original of "Mr. W. H." But, when _Cymbeline_ was put on the stage, Society was startled to find that the principal part was not a woman's. When some excellent scenes from Jane Austen were given in a Belgravian drawing-room, a lady of the highest notoriety, enthusiastically praising the performance, enquired who was the author of the dialogue between Mr. and Mrs. John Dashwood, and whether he had written anything else. I have known a Lord Chief Justice who had never seen the view from Richmond Hill; a publicist who had never heard of Lord Althorp; and an authoress who did not know the name of Izaak Walton. Perhaps these curious "ignorances," as the Prayer Book calls them, impressed me the more forcibly because I was born a Whig, and brought up in a Whiggish society; for the Whigs were rather specially the allies of learning; and made it a point of honour to know, though never to parade, the best that has been thought and written. Very likely they had no monopoly of culture: the Tories may have been just as well-informed. But a man "belongs to his belongings"; one can only describe what one has seen; and here the contrast between Past and Present is palpable enough. I am not thinking of professed scholars and students, such as Lord Stanhope the Historian, and Sir Edward Bunbury the Senior Classic; or of professed blue-stockings, such as Barbarina, Lady Dacre, and Georgiana, Lady Chatterton; but of ordinary men and women of good family and good position, who had received the usual education of their class, and had profited by it. Mr. Gladstone used to say that, in his schooldays at Eton, a boy might learn much, or learn nothing; but he could not learn superficially. A similar remark would have applied to the attainments of people who were old when I was young. They might know much, or they might know nothing; but they did not know superficially. What they professed to know, that you could be sure they knew. The affectation of culture was despised; and ignorance, where it existed, was avowed. For example, everyone knew Italian, but no one pretended to know German. I remember men who had never been at a University, but had passed straight from a Public School to a Cavalry Regiment or the House of Commons, and who yet could quote Horace as easily as the present generation quotes Kipling. These people inherited the traditions of Mrs. Montagu, who "vindicated the genius of Shakespeare against the calumnies of Voltaire," and they knew the greatest poet of all time with an absolute ease and familiarity. They did not trouble themselves about various readings, and corrupt texts, and difficult passages. They had nothing in common with that true father of all Shakespearean criticism, Mr. Curdle, in _Nicholas Nickleby_, who had written a treatise on the question whether Juliet's nurse's husband was really "a merry man," or whether it was only his widow's affectionate partiality that induced her so to report him. But they knew the whole mass of the Plays with a natural and unforced intimacy; their speech was saturated with the immortal diction, and Hamlet's speculations were their nearest approach to metaphysics. Pope was quoted whenever the occasion suggested him, and Johnson was esteemed the Prince of Critics. Broadly speaking, all educated people knew the English poets down to the end of the eighteenth century. Byron and Moore were enjoyed with a sort of furtive and fearful pleasure; Wordsworth was tolerated, and Tennyson was "coming in." Everyone knew Scott's novels by heart, and had his or her favourite heroine and hero. I said in a former chapter that I had from my earliest days free access to an excellent library; and, even before I could read comfortably by myself, my interest in books was stimulated by listening to my elders as they read aloud. The magic of words and cadence--the purely sensuous pleasure of melodious sound--stirred me from the time when I was quite a child. Poetry, of course, came first; but prose was not much later. I had by nature a good memory, and it retained, by no effort on my part, my favourite bits of Macaulay and Scott. _The Battle of Lake Regillus_ and _The Lay of the Last Minstrel_, the impeachment of Warren Hastings and the death of Reginald Front-de-Boeuf, are samples of the literature with which my mind was stored. Every boy, I suppose, attempts to imitate what he admires, and I was eternally scribbling. When I was eleven, I began a novel, of which the heroine was a modern Die Vernon. At twelve, I took to versification, for which the swinging couplets of _English Bards and Scotch Reviewers_ supplied the model. Fragments of prose and verse came thick and fast. When I was thirteen, I made my first appearance in print; with a set of verses on a Volunteer Encampment, which really were not at all bad; and at fourteen I published (anonymously) a religious tract, which had some success in Evangelical circles. The effect of Harrow was both to stimulate and to discipline my taste for literature. It was my good fortune to be taught my Sophocles and Euripides, Tacitus and Virgil, by scholars who had the literary sense, and could enrich school-lessons with all the resources of a generous culture. My sixteenth and seventeenth years brought me a real and conscious growth in the things of the mind, and with that period of my life I must always gratefully associate the names of Frederic Farrar, Edward Bowen, and Arthur Watson.[49] Meanwhile I was not only learning, but also practising. My teachers with one accord incited me to write. Essay-writing formed a regular part of our work in school and pupil-room, and I composed a great deal for my own amusement. I wrote both prose and verse, and verse in a great many metres; but it was soon borne in upon me--conclusively after I had been beaten for the Prize Poem[50]--that the Muse of Poetry was not mine. In prose, I was more successful. My work for _The Harrovian_ gave me constant practice, and I twice won the School-Prize for an English Essay. In writing, I indulged to the full my taste for resonant and rolling sound; and my style was ludicrously rhetorical. The subject for the Prize Essay in 1872 was "Parliamentary Oratory: its History and Influence," and the discourse which I composed on that attractive theme has served me from that day to this as the basis of a popular lecture. The "Young Lion" of the _Daily Telegraph_ thus "roared" over my performance-- "The English Essay now takes a higher place on Speech Day than it did in the old season; and the essay which was crowned yesterday was notable alike for the theme, the opinions, and the literary promise of the writer. The young author bore the historical name of Russell, and he was really reviewing the forerunners and the fellow-workers of his own ancestors, in describing the rhetorical powers of the elder and the younger Pitt, Fox, Burke, Sheridan, Canning and Grey.... The well-known Constitutional note of Lord Russell was heard in every page, and the sonorous English was such as the Earl himself might have written fifty years ago, if the undergraduates of that day had been able to copy a Macaulay. The essayist has read the prose of that dangerous model until he has imitated the well-known and now hackneyed devices of the great rhetorician with a closeness which perilously brought to mind the show passages of the 'Essays' and the 'History.' Mr. Russell has caught the trick of cutting up his paragraphs into rolling periods, and short, sharp, and disjointed sentences; but he will go to more subtle and more simple masters of style than Macaulay, when he shall have passed the rhetorical stage of youth." This prophecy was soon fulfilled, and indeed the process of fulfilment had already begun. In the Sixth Form, we naturally were influenced by Dr. Butler, who, though he certainly did not despise fine rhetoric, wrote a beautifully simple style, and constantly instructed us in the difference between eloquence and journalese. "Let us leave _commence_ and _partake_ to the newspapers," was an admonition often on his lips. Our Composition Masters were Edward Young, an exquisite scholar of the Eton type, and the accomplished Henry Nettleship, who detested flamboyancy, and taught us to admire Newman's incomparable easiness and grace. And there was Matthew Arnold living on the Hill, generously encouraging every bud of literary promise, and always warning us against our tendency to "Middle-class Macaulayese." At Oxford, the chastening process went on apace. Newman became my master, as far as language was concerned; and I learned to bracket him with Arnold and Church as possessing "The Oriel style." Thackeray's Latinized constructions began to fascinate me; and, though I still loved gorgeous diction, I sought it from Ruskin instead of Macaulay. All this time I was writing--in a very humble and obscure way, certainly, but still writing. I wrote in local newspapers and Parish Magazines. I published anonymous comments on current topics. I contributed secretly to ephemeral journals. I gave lectures and printed them as pamphlets. It was all very good exercise; but the odd part of it seems to me, in looking back, that I never expected pay, but rather spent my own money in printing what I wrote. That last infirmity of literary minds I laid aside soon after I left Oxford. I rather think that the first money which I made with my pen was payment for a character-study of my uncle, Lord Russell, which I wrote for _The World_; thereby eliciting from Matthew Arnold the urbane remark, "Ah, my dear George, I hear you have become one of Yates's hired stabbers." After I entered Parliament, opportunities of writing, and of writing for profit, became more frequent. I contributed to the _Quarterly_, the _New Quarterly_, the _Nineteenth Century_, the _Fortnightly_, the _Contemporary_, the _Spectator_, and the _Pall Mall_. Yet another magazine recurs pleasantly to my mind, because of the warning which was inscribed on one's proof-sheet--"The cost of _corrigenda_ will be deducted from _honoraria_." What fine language! and what a base economy! It did not take me long to find that the society in which I habitually lived, and which I have described in a former chapter, was profoundly ignorant. A most amusing law-suit between a Duchess and her maid took place about the time of which I am writing, and the Duchess's incriminated letter, beginning in the third person, wandering off into the first, and returning with an effort to the third, was indeed an object-lesson in English composition. A young sprig of fashion once said to me, in the tone of a man who utters an accepted truth, "It is so much more interesting to talk about people than things"--even though those "things" were the literary triumphs of humour or tragedy. In one great house, Books were a prohibited subject, and the word "Books" was construed with such liberal latitude that it seemed to include everything except Bradshaw. Even where people did not thus truculently declare war against literature, they gave it an uncommonly wide berth, and shrank with ill-concealed aversion from such names as Meredith and Browning. "Meredith," said Oscar Wilde, "is a prose-Browning--and so is Browning." And both those forms of prose were equally eschewed by society. Of course, when one is surveying a whole class, one sees some conspicuous exceptions to the prevailing colour; and here and there one had the pleasure of meeting in society persons admirably accomplished. I have already mentioned Lord Houghton, poet, essayist, pamphleteer, book-lover, and book-collector, who was equally at home in the world of society and the world of literature. Nothing that was good in books, whether ancient or modern, escaped his curious scrutiny, and at his hospitable table, which might truly be called a "Festive Board," authors great and small rubbed shoulders with dandies and diplomats and statesmen. On the 16th of June, 1863, Matthew Arnold wrote--"On Sunday I dined with Monckton Milnes,[51] and met all the advanced Liberals in religion and politics, and a Cingalese in full costume.... The philosophers were fearful! George Lewes, Herbert Spencer, a sort of pseudo-Shelley called Swinburne, and so on. Froude, however, was there, and Browning, and Ruskin." The mention of Matthew Arnold reminds me that, though I had admired and liked him in a reverent sort of way, when I was a Harrow boy and he was a man, I found him even more fascinating when I met him on the more even terms of social life in London. He was indeed the most delightful of companions; a man of the world entirely free from worldliness, and a man of letters without the faintest trace of pedantry. He walked through the world enjoying it and loving it; and yet all the time one felt that his "eyes were on the higher loadstars" of the intellect and the spirit. In those days I used to say that, if one could fashion oneself, I should wish to be like Matthew Arnold; and the lapse of years has not altered my desire. Of Robert Browning, as he appeared in society, I have already spoken; but here let me add an instance which well illustrates his tact and readiness. He once did me the honour of dining with me, and I had collected a group of eager disciples to meet him. As soon as dinner was over, one of these enthusiasts led the great man into a corner, and began cross-examining him about the identity of _The Lost Leader_ and the meaning of _Sordello_. For a space Browning bore the catechism with admirable patience; and then, laying his hand on the questioner's shoulder, he exclaimed, "But, my dear fellow, this is too bad. _I_ am monopolizing _you_," and skipped out of the corner. Lord Tennyson was scarcely ever to be encountered in society; but I was presented to him at a garden-party by Mr. James Knowles, of the _Nineteenth Century_. He was, is, and always will be, one of the chief divinities of my poetical heaven; but he was more worshipful at a distance than at close quarters, and I was determined not to dispel illusion by a too near approach to the shrine. J. A. Froude was a man of letters whom from time to time one encountered in society. No one could doubt his cleverness; but it was a cleverness which rather repelled than attracted. With his thin lips, his cold smile, and his remorseless, deliberate, way of speaking, he always seemed to be secretly gloating over the hideous scene in the hall of Fotheringay, or the last agonies of a disembowelled Papist. Lord Acton was, or seemed to be, a man of the world first and foremost; a politician and a lover of society; a gossip, and, as his "Letters" show, not always a friendly gossip.[52] His demeanour was profoundly sphinx-like, and he seemed to enjoy the sense that his hearers were anxious to learn what he was able but unwilling to impart. His knowledge and accomplishments it would, at this time of day, be ridiculous to question; and on the main concerns of human life--Religion and Freedom--I was entirely at one with him. All the more do I regret that in society he so effectually concealed his higher enthusiasms, and that, having lived on the vague fame of his "History of Liberty," he died leaving it unwritten. I am writing of the years when I first knew London socially, and I may extend them from 1876 to 1886. All through those years, as through many before and since, the best representative of culture in society was Mr., now Sir, George Trevelyan--a poet, a scholar to his finger-tips, an enthusiast for all that is best in literature, ancient or modern, and author of one of the six great Biographies in the English language. There is no need to recapitulate Sir George's services to the State, or to criticize his performances in literature. It is enough to record my lively and lasting gratitude for the unbroken kindness which began when I was a boy at Harrow, and continues to the present hour. I have spoken, so far, of literary men who played a more or less conspicuous part in society; but, as this chapter is dedicated to Literature, I ought to say a word about one or two men of Letters who always avoided society, but who, when one sought them out in their own surroundings, were delightful company. Foremost among these I should place James Payn. Payn was a man who lived in, for, and by Literature. He detested exercise. He never travelled. He scarcely ever left London. He took no holidays. If he was forced into the country for a day or two, he used the exile as material for a story or an essay. His life was one incessant round of literary activity. He had published his first book while he was an Undergraduate at Trinity, and from first to last he wrote more than a hundred volumes. _By Proxy_ has been justly admired for the wonderful accuracy of its local colour, and for a masterly knowledge of Chinese character; but the writer drew exclusively from encyclopædias and books of travel. In my judgment, he was at his best in the Short Story. He practised that difficult art long before it became popular, and a book called originally _People, Places, and Things_, but now _Humorous Stories_, is a masterpiece of fun, invention, and observation. In 1874, he became "Reader" to Messrs. Smith and Elder, and in that capacity had the happiness of discovering _Vice Versa_, and the less felicitous experience of rejecting _John Inglesant_ as unreadable. It was at this period of his life that I first encountered Payn, and I fell at once under his charm. His was not a faultless character, for he was irritable, petulant, and prejudiced. He took the strongest dislikes, sometimes on very slight grounds; was unrestrained in expressing them, and was apt to treat opinions which he did not share very cavalierly. But none of these faults could obscure his charm. He was the most tender-hearted of human beings, and the sight, even the thought, of cruelty set his blood on fire. But, though he was intensely humane, he was absolutely free from mawkishness; and a wife-beater, or a child-torturer, or a cattle-maimer would have had short shrift at his hands. He was genuinely sympathetic, especially towards the hopes and struggles of the young and the unbefriended. Many an author, once struggling but now triumphant, could attest this trait. But his chief charm was his humour. It was absolutely natural; bubbled like a fountain, and danced like light. Nothing escaped it, and solemnity only stimulated it to further activities. He had the power, which Sydney Smith described, of "abating and dissolving pompous gentlemen with the most successful ridicule;" and, when he was offended, the ridicule had a remarkably sharp point. It was of course, impossible that all the humour of a man who joked incessantly could be equally good. Sometimes it was rather boyish, playing on proper names or personal peculiarities; and sometimes it descended to puns. But, for sheer rapidity, I have never known Payn's equal. When a casual word annoyed him, his repartee flashed out like lightning. I could give plenty of instances, but to make them intelligible I should have to give a considerable amount of introduction, and that would entirely spoil the sense of flashing rapidity. There was no appreciable interval of time between the provoking word and the repartee which it provoked. Another great element of charm in Payn was his warm love of Life, "And youth, and bloom, and this delightful world." While he hated the black and savage and sordid side of existence with a passionate hatred, he enjoyed all its better--which he believed to be its larger--part with an infectious relish. Never have I known a more blithe and friendly spirit; never a nature to which Literature and Society--books and men--yielded a more constant and exhilarating joy. He had unstinted admiration for the performances of others, and was wholly free from jealousy. His temperament indeed was not equable. He had ups and downs, bright moods and dark, seasons of exaltation and seasons of depression. The one succeeded the other with startling rapidity, but the bright moods triumphed, and it was impossible to keep him permanently depressed. His health had always been delicate, but illness neither crushed his spirit nor paralysed his pen. Once he broke a blood-vessel in the street, and was conveyed home in an ambulance. During the transit, though he was in some danger of bleeding to death, he began to compose a narrative of his adventure, and next week it appeared in the _Illustrated London News_. During the last two years of his life he was painfully crippled by arthritic rheumatism, and could no longer visit the Reform Club, where for many years he had every day eaten his luncheon and played his rubber. Determining that he should not completely lose his favourite, or I should rather say his only, amusement, some members of the Club banded themselves together to supply him with a rubber in his own house twice a week; and this practice was maintained to his death. It was a striking testimony to the affection which he inspired. In those years I was a pretty frequent visitor, and, on my way to the house, I used to bethink me of stories which might amuse him, and I used even to note them down between one visit and another, as a provision for next time. One day Payn said, "A collection of your stories would make a book, and I think Smith and Elder would publish it." I thought my anecdotage scarcely worthy of so much honour; but I promised to make a weekly experiment in the _Manchester Guardian_. My _Collections and Recollections_ ran through the year 1897, and appeared in book-form at Easter, 1898. But Payn died on the 25th of the previous March; and the book, which I had hoped to put in his hand, I could only inscribe to his delightful memory. Another remarkable man of letters, wholly remote from the world, was Richard Holt Hutton, for thirty-six years (1861-1897) the honoured Editor of _The Spectator_. Hutton was a "stickit minister" of the Unitarian persuasion, who had been led, mainly by the teaching of F. D. Maurice, to the acceptance of orthodox Christianity; and who devoted all the rest of his life to the inculcation of what he conceived to be moral and religious truth, through the medium of a weekly review. He lived, a kind of married hermit, on the edge of Windsor Forest, and could hardly be separated, even for a week's holiday, from his beloved _Spectator_. His output of work was enormous and incessant, and was throughout critical and didactic. The style was pre-eminently characteristic of the man--tangled, untidy, ungraceful, disfigured by "trailing relatives" and accumulated epithets; and yet all the time conveying the sense of some real and even profound thought that strove to express itself intelligibly. As the style, so the substance. "_The Spectator_," wrote Matthew Arnold in 1865, "is all very well, but the article has Hutton's fault of seeing so very far into a mill-stone." And, two years later, "_The Spectator_ has an article in which Hutton shows his strange aptitude for getting hold of the wrong end of the stick." Both were sound criticisms. When Hutton addressed himself to a deep topic of abstract speculation, he "saw so very far into it" that even his most earnest admirers could not follow the visual act. When he handled the more commonplace subjects of thought or action with which ordinary men concern themselves, he seemed to miss the most obvious and palpable points. He was a philosophical thinker, with a natural bent towards the abstract and the mystical--a Platonist rather than an Aristotelian. He saw things invisible to grosser eyes; he heard voices not audible to ordinary ears; and, when he was once fairly launched in speculation on such a theme as Personal Identity or the Idea of God, he "found no end, in wandering mazes lost." But the very quality of aloofness from other men and their ways of thinking, which made it impossible for him to be the exponent of a system or the founder of a school, made him a peculiarly interesting friend. In homely phrase, you never knew where to have him; he was always breaking out in a fresh place. Whatever subject he handled, from impaled Bulgarians to the credibility of miracles, was certain to be presented in a new and unlooked-for aspect. He was as full of splendid gleams as a landscape by Turner, and as free from all formal rules of art and method. He was an independent thinker, if ever there was one, and as honest as he was independent. In his belief, truth was the most precious of treasures, to be sought at all hazards, and, when acquired, to be safeguarded at all costs. His zeal for truth was closely allied with his sense of justice. His mind came as near absolute fairness as is possible for a man who takes any part in live controversies. He never used an unfair argument to establish his point, nor pressed a fair argument unduly. He was scrupulously careful in stating his adversary's case, and did all in his power to secure a judicial and patient hearing even for the causes with which he had least sympathy. His own convictions, which he had reached through stern and self-sacrificing struggles, were absolutely solid. By the incessant writing of some forty years, he enforced the fundamental truth of human redemption through God made Man on the attention of people to whom professional preachers speak in vain, and he steadily impressed on his fellow-Christians those ethical duties of justice and mercy which should be, but sometimes are not, the characteristic fruits of their creed. It was a high function, excellently fulfilled. The transition is abrupt, but no catalogue of the literary men with whom I was brought in contact could be complete without a mention of Mr. George Augustus Sala. He was the very embodiment of Bohemia; and, alike in his views and in his style, the fine flower of such journalism as is associated with the name of the _Daily Telegraph_. His portrait, sketched with rare felicity, may be found in Letter XII. of that incomparable book, _Friendship's Garland_. "Adolescens Leo" thus describes him--"Sala, like us his disciples, has studied in the book of the world even more than in the world of books. But his career and genius have given him somehow the secret of a literary mixture novel and fascinating in the last degree: he blends the airy epicureanism of the _salons_ of Augustus with the full-bodied gaiety of our English cider-cellar. With our people and country, _mon cher_, this mixture is now the very thing to go down; there arises every day a larger public for it; and we, Sala's disciples, may be trusted not willingly to let it die." That was written in 1871; and, when sixteen years had elapsed, I thought it would be safe, and I knew it would be amusing, to bring Sala and Matthew Arnold face to face at dinner. For the credit of human nature let it be recorded that the experiment was entirely successful; for, as Lord Beaconsfield said, "Turtle makes all men equal," and vindictiveness is exorcised by champagne. The Journalist of Society in those days was Mr. T. H. S. Escott, who was also Editor of the _Fortnightly_ and leader-writer of the _Standard_. I should be inclined to think that no writer in London worked so hard; and he paid the penalty in shattered health. It is a pleasure to me, who in those days owed much to his kindness, to witness the renewal of his early activities, and to welcome volume after volume from his prolific pen. Mr. Kegan Paul, essayist, critic, editor, and ex-clergyman, was always an interesting figure; and his successive transitions from Tractarianism to Latitudinarianism, and from Agnosticism to Ultramontanism, gave a peculiar piquancy to his utterances on religion. He deserves remembrance on two quite different scores--one, that he was the first publisher to study prettiness in the production of even cheap books; and the other, that he was an early and enthusiastic worker in the cause of National Temperance. It was my privilege to be often with him in the suffering and blindness of his last years, and I have never seen a trying discipline more bravely borne. More than once in these chapters I have referred to "Billy Johnson," as his pupils and friends called William Cory in remembrance of old times. He was from 1845 to 1872 the most brilliant tutor at Eton: an astonishing number of eminent men passed through his hands, and retained through life the influence of his teaching. After leaving Eton, he changed his name from Johnson to Cory, and established himself on the top of the hill at Hampstead, where he freely imparted the treasures of his exquisite scholarship to all who cared to seek them, and not least willingly to young ladies. He was a man of absolutely original mind; paradoxical, prejudiced, and intellectually independent to the point of eccentricity. His range was wide, his taste infallible, and his love of the beautiful a passion. He lived, from boyhood to old age, the life of the Intellect; and yet posterity will know him only as having written one thin book of delightful verse;[53] a fragmentary History of England; and some of the most fascinating letters in the language. A friend and brother-Scholar of mine at Oxford was "Willy" Arnold, son of Mr. Thomas Arnold, and nephew of Matthew. After taking his degree, he joined the staff of the _Manchester Guardian_, and before long became one of the first journalists of his time. He was not merely a journalist, but also a publicist, and could have made his mark in public life by his exceptional knowledge of European politics. We had not seen one another for a good many years, when we met casually at dinner in the summer of 1887. To that chance meeting I owed my introduction to the _Manchester Guardian_. My first contribution to it was a description of the Jubilee Garden-Party at Buckingham Palace on the 29th of June, 1887; so I can reckon almost a quarter of a century of association with what I am bold to call (defying all allusion to the fabled Tanner) the best newspaper in Great Britain. But journalism, though now practised on a more dignified level, was only a continuation and development of a life-long habit; whereas, though I had been scribbling ever since I was a boy, I had never written a book. In 1890 Messrs. Sampson Low started a series of _The Queen's Prime Ministers_. Froude led off, brilliantly, with Lord Beaconsfield; and the editor[54] asked me to follow with Mr. Gladstone. Before acceding to this proposal, I thought it right to ask whether Gladstone had any objection; and, supposing that he had not, whether he would give me any help. His reply was eminently characteristic,-- "When someone proposed to write a book about Harry Phillpotts, Bishop of Exeter, the Bishop procured an Injunction in Chancery to stop him. I shall not seek an Injunction against you--but that is all the help I can give you." Thus encouraged, or rather, I should say, not discouraged, I addressed myself to the task, and the book came out in July, 1891. I was told that Gladstone did not read it, and this assurance was in many respects a relief. But someone told him that I had stated, on the authority of one of his school-fellows, that he played no games at Eton. The next time I met him, he referred to this point; declared that I had been misinformed; and affirmed that he played both cricket and football, and "was in the Second Eleven at Cricket." In obedience to his request, I made the necessary correction in the Second Edition; but _a priori_ I should not have been inclined to suspect my venerated leader of having been a cricketer. It is no part of my plan to narrate my own extremely humble performances in the way of authorship. The heading of the chapter speaks not of Book-making, but of Literature; and for a man to say that he has contributed to Literature would indeed be to invite rebuff. I am thinking now, not of what I have done, but of what I have received; and my debt to Literature is great indeed. I do not know the sensation of dulness, but, like most human beings, I know the sensation of sorrow; and with a grateful heart I record the fact that the darkest hours of my life have been made endurable by the Companionship of Books. FOOTNOTES: [49] To Mr. Watson I owed my introduction to Matthew Arnold's _Essays in Criticism_--a real event in one's mental life. [50] By Sir Walter Strickland; whose poem on William Tyndale was justly admired. [51] Richard Monckton Milnes was created Lord Houghton, August 20, 1863. [52] It is only fair to observe that those "Letters" were written in the strictest confidence. [53] Ionica. [54] Mr. Stuart J. Reid. XIV SERVICE May He "in knowledge of Whom standeth our eternal life, Whose service is perfect freedom"--_Quem nosse vivere, Cui servire regnare est_--teach us the rules and laws of that eternal service, which is now beginning on the scene of time. R. W. CHURCH, _Human Life and its Conditions_. It was my happiness to be born and brought up in a home where Religion habitually expressed itself in Social Service. I cannot remember a time when those nearest to me were not actively engaged in ministering to the poor, the sick, the underfed, and the miserable. The motive of all this incessant ministration was the Christian Faith, and its motto was _Charitas Christi urget nos_. The religion in which the children of an Evangelical home were reared was an intensely vivid and energetic principle, passionate on its emotional side, definite in its theory, imperious in its demands, practical, visible, and tangible in its effects. If a boy's heart-- "Were less insensible than sodden clay In a sea-river's bed at ebb of tide," it could scarcely fail to carry with it into the world outside the impressions stamped by such a training. I can remember quite clearly that, even in my Harrow days, the idea of Life as Service was always present to my mind: and it was constantly enforced by the preaching of such men as Butler, Westcott, and Farrar. "Here you are being educated either for life or for fashion. Which is it? What is your ambition? Is it to continue, with fewer restrictions, the amusements which have engrossed you here? Is it to be favourite or brilliant members of a society which keeps want and misery at a distance? Would this content you? Is this your idea of life? Or may we not hope that you will have a nobler conception of what a Christian manhood may be made in a country so rich in opportunities as our own now presents?"[55] In Dr. Butler's sermons our thoughts were directed to such subjects as the Housing of the Working Classes, Popular Education, and the contrast between the lot of the rich and the lot of the poor. "May God never allow us to grow proud, or to grow indolent, or to be deaf to the cry of human suffering." "Pray that God may count you worthy to be foremost in the truly holy and heroic work of bringing purity to the homes of the labouring classes, and so hastening the coming of the day when the longing of our common Lord shall be accomplished." "Forget not the complaints, and the yet more fatal silence, of the poor, and pray that the ennobling of your own life, and the gratification of your own happiness, may be linked hereafter with some public Christian labour." Thus the influences of school co-operated with the influences of home to give one, at the most impressionable age, a lively interest in Social Service; and that interest found a practical outlet at Oxford. When young men first attempt good works, they always begin with teaching; and a Sunday School at Cowley and a Night School at St. Frideswide's were the scenes of my (very unsuccessful) attempts in that direction. Through my devotion to St. Barnabas', I became acquainted with the homes and lives of the poor in the then squalid district of "Jericho"; and the experience thus acquired was a valuable complement to the knowledge of the agricultural poor which I had gained at home. It was at this time that I first read _Yeast_ and _Alton Locke_. The living voice of Ruskin taught us the sanctity of work for others. A fascinating but awful book called _Modern Christianity a Civilized Heathenism_ laid compelling hands on some young hearts; and in 1875 Dr. Pusey made that book the subject of a sermon before the University, in which he pleaded the cause of the poor with an unforgettable solemnity.[56] For two or three years, illness and decrepitude interfered with my active service, but the ideal was still enthroned in my heart; and, as health returned, the shame of doing nothing for others became intolerable. Return to activity was a very gradual process, and, if one had ever "despised the day of small things," one now learned to value it. When I came up to London, two or three of us, who had been undergraduate friends at Oxford, formed a little party for workhouse-visiting. One of the party has since been a Conservative Minister, one a Liberal Minister, and one a high official of the Central Conservative Association. Sisters joined their brothers, and we used to jog off together on Saturday afternoons to the Holborn Workhouse, which, if I remember right, stood in a poetically-named but prosaic-looking street called "Shepherdess Walk." The girls visited the women, and we the men. We used to take oranges and flowers to the wards, give short readings from amusing books, and gossip with the bedridden about the outside world. We always had the kindest of welcomes from our old friends; and great was their enthusiasm when they learned that two of their visitors had been returned to Parliament at the General Election of 1880. As one of the two was a Conservative and one a Liberal, the political susceptibilities of the ward were not offended, and we both received congratulations from all alike. One quaint incident is connected with these memories. Just outside the Workhouse was a sort of booth, or "lean-to," where a very respectable woman sold daffodils and wall-flowers, which we used to buy for our friends inside. One day, when one of the girls of our party was making her purchase, the flower-seller said, "Would your Ladyship like to go to the Lady Mayoress's Fancy Dress Ball? If so, I can send you and your brother tickets. You have been good customers to me, and I should be very glad if you would accept them." The explanation was that the flower-seller was sister to the Lady Mayoress, whom the Lord Mayor had married when he was in a humbler station. The tickets were gratefully accepted; and, when we asked the giver if she was going to the Ball, she replied, with excellent sense and taste, "Oh, no. My sister, in her position, is obliged to give these grand parties, but I should be quite out of place there. You must tell me all about it next time you come to the Workhouse." Meanwhile, during this "day of small things" a quiet but momentous revolution had been going on all round us, in the spheres of thought and conscience; and the earlier idea of individual service had been, not swamped by, but expanded into, the nobler conception of corporate endeavour. It had been a work of time. The Christian Socialism of 1848--one of the finest episodes in our moral history--had been trampled underfoot by the wickedness of the Crimean War. To all appearance, it fell into the ground and died. After two years of aimless bloodshed, peace was restored in 1856, and a spell of national prosperity succeeded. The Repeal of the Corn Laws had done its work; food was cheaper; times were better; the revenue advanced "by leaps and bounds." But commercialism was rampant. It was the heyday of the Ten Pound Householder and the Middle Class Franchise. Mr. Podsnap and Mr. Gradgrind enounced the social law. Bright and Cobden dominated political thinking. The Universities were fast bound in the misery and iron of Mill and Bain. Everywhere the same grim idols were worshipped--unrestricted competition, the survival of the fittest, and universal selfishness enthroned in the place which belonged to universal love. "The Devil take the hindermost" was the motto of industrial life. "In the huge and hideous cities, the awful problem of Industry lay like a bad dream; but Political Economy warned us off that ground. We were assured that the free play of competitive forces was bound to discover the true equipoise. No intervention could really affect the inevitable outcome. It could only hinder and disturb."[57] The Church, whose pride it had been in remoter ages to be the Handmaid of the Poor, was bidden to leave the Social Problem severely alone; and so ten years rolled by, while the social pressure on labour became daily more grievous to be borne. But meanwhile the change was proceeding underground, or at least out of sight. Forces were working side by side which knew nothing of each other, but which were all tending to the same result. The Church, boldly casting aside the trammels which had bound her to wealth and culture, went down into the slums; brought the beauty and romance of Worship to the poorest and the most depraved, and compelled them to come in. Whenever such a Church as St. Alban's, Holborn, or St. Barnabas, Oxford, was established in the slums of a populous city, it became a centre not only of religious influence, but of social, physical, and educational reform. Ruskin's many-coloured wisdom, long recognized in the domain of Art, began to win its way through economic darkness, and charged cheerfully against the dismal strongholds of Supply and Demand. _Unto this Last_ became a handbook for Social Reformers. The teaching of Maurice filtered, through all sorts of unsuspected channels, into literature and politics and churchmanship. In the intellectual world, Huxley transformed "the Survival of the Fittest," by bidding us devote ourselves to the task of fitting as many as possible to survive. At Oxford, the "home" not of "lost" but of victorious "causes," T. H. Green, wielding a spiritual influence which reached farther than that of many bishops, taught that Freedom of Contract, if it is to be anything but a callous fraud, implies conditions in which men are really free to contract or to refuse; and insisted that all wholesome competition implies "adequate equipment for the competitors." It is impossible to say exactly how all these influences intertwined and co-operated. One man was swayed by one force; another by another; and, after long years of subterranean working, a moment came, as it comes to the germinating seed deep-hidden in the furrow, when it must pierce the superincumbent mass, and show its tiny point of life above ground.[58] The General Election of 1880, by dethroning Lord Beaconsfield and putting Gladstone in power, had fulfilled the strictly political objects which during the preceding three years my friends and I had been trying to attain. So we, who entered Parliament at that Election, were set free, at the very outset of our public career, to work for the Social Reform which we had at heart. We earnestly desired to make the lives of our fellow-men healthier, sweeter, brighter, and more humane; and it was an ennobling and invigorating ambition, lifting the pursuit of politics, out of the vulgar dust of office-seeking and wire-pulling, into the purer air of unselfish endeavour. To some of us it was much more; for it meant the application of the Gospel of Christ to the practical business of modern life. But the difficulties were enormous. The Liberal party still clung to its miserable old mumpsimus of _Laissez-faire_, and steadily refused to learn the new and nobler language of Social Service. Alone among our leading men, Mr. Chamberlain seemed to apprehend the truth that political reform is related to social reform as the means to the end, and that Politics, in its widest sense, is the science of human happiness. But, in spite of all discouragements, we clung to "a Social Philosophy which, however materialistic some of its tendencies might have become, had been allied with the spiritual Hegelianism with which we had been touched. It took its scientific shape in the hands of Karl Marx, but it also floated to us, in dreams and visions, using our own Christian language, and invoking the unity of the Social Body, as the Law of Love, and the Solidarity of Humanity."[59] At the sound of these voices the old idols fell--_Laissez-faire_ and _Laissez-aller_, Individualism and Self-content, Unrestricted Competition and the Survival of the Fittest. They all went down with a crash, like so many dishonoured Dagons; and, before their startled worshippers had time to reinstate them, yet another voice of warning broke upon our ears. _The Bitter Cry of Outcast London_, describing the enormous amount of preventable misery caused by over-crowding, startled men into recognizing the duty of the State to cope with the evil. Then came Henry George with his _Progress and Poverty_, and, as Dr. Holland says, he "forced us on to new thinking." That "new thinking" took something of this form--"Here are the urgent and grinding facts of human misery. The Political Economy of such blind guides as Ricardo and Bastiat and Fawcett has signally failed to cure or even mitigate them. Now comes a new prophet with his gospel of the Single Tax. He may, or may not, have found the remedy, but at any rate he has shown us more clearly than ever the immensity of the evil, and our responsibility for suffering it to continue. We profess and call ourselves Christians. Is it not about time that, casting aside all human teachings, whether Economic or Socialistic, we tried to see what the Gospel says about the subject, and about our duty in regard to it?" Out of this stress of mind and heart arose "The Christian Social Union." It was founded in Lent, 1889, and it set forth its objects in the following statement-- "This Union consists of Churchmen who have the following objects at heart:-- (i) To claim for the Christian Law the ultimate authority to rule social practice. (ii) To study in common how to apply the moral truths and principles of Christianity to the social and economic difficulties of the present time. (iii) To present CHRIST in practical life as the Living Master and King, the enemy of wrong and selfishness, the power of righteousness and love." The Christian Social Union, originating with some Oxford men in London, was soon reinforced from Cambridge, which had fallen under the inspiring though impalpable influence of Westcott's teaching. Westcott was, in some sense, the continuator of Mauricianism; and so, when Westcott joined the Union, the two streams, of Mauricianism and of the Oxford Movement, fused. Let Dr. Holland, with whom the work began, tell the rest of the story--"We founded the C. S. U. under Westcott's presidentship, leaving to the Guild of St. Matthew their old work of justifying God to the People, while we devoted ourselves to converting and impregnating the solid, stolid, flock of our own church folk within the fold.... We had our work cut out for us in dislodging the horrible cast-iron formulæ, which were indeed wholly obsolete, but which seemed for that very reason to take tighter possession of their last refuge in the bulk of the Church's laity." "Let no man think that sudden in a minute All is accomplished and the work is done;-- Though with thine earliest dawn thou shouldst begin it, Scarce were it ended in thy setting sun."[60] The spirit which created the Christian Social Union found, in the same year, an unexpected outlet in the secular sphere. In the Session of 1888, the Conservative Ministry, noting the general disgust which had been aroused by the corrupt misgovernment of Greater London, passed the "Local Government Act," which, among other provisions, made London into a County, gave it a "County Council," and endowed that Council with far-reaching powers. To social reformers this was a tremendous event. For forty years they had been labouring to procure something of the sort, and now it dropped down from the skies, and seemed at first almost too good to be true. Under the shock of the surprise, London suddenly awoke to the consciousness of a corporate life. On every side men were stirred by an honest impulse to give the experiment a good start; to work the new machine for all it was worth; and to make the administration of Greater London a model for all lesser municipalities. The Divisions of London, for the purposes of its new Council, were the same as its Parliamentary Divisions, but each constituency returned two members, and the City four. Every seat (except those for St. George's, Hanover Square) was contested, and there were often as many as six or seven candidates for one division. It was said at the time that "the uncertainty of the issues, the multitude of candidates, and the vagueness of parties made it impossible to tabulate the results with the same accuracy and completeness which are possible in the case of the House of Commons." Some candidates stood professedly as Liberals, and others as Conservatives. The majority, however, declared themselves to be "strictly non-political." Some leading objects, such as Better Housing of the Poor, Sanitary Reform, and the abolition of jobbery and corruption, were professed by all alike; and the main issues in dispute were the control of the Police by the Council, the reform of the Corporation of London and of the City Guilds, the abolition of dues on coal coming into the Port of London, and the taxation of ground-rents. In such projects as these it was easy to discern the working of the new spirit. Men were trying, earnestly though amid much confusion, to translate the doctrines of Social Reform into fact. "Practicable Socialism" became the ideal of the reforming party, who styled themselves "Progressives." Their opponents got the unfortunate name of "Moderates"; and between the ideas roughly indicated by those two names the battle was fought. The Election took place in January, 1889. The result was that 71 candidates labelled "Progressive" were returned, and 47 "Moderates." The Act empowered the Council to complete its number by electing 19 Aldermen. Of these, 18 were Progressives, and one was a Moderate; so the total result was a "Progressive" majority of 41. By the time of which I write I had become, by habitual residence, a Londoner; and I hope I was as keen on Social Reform as anyone in London, or outside it. But, after what I said in an earlier chapter, it will surprise no one that I declined to be a candidate for the London County Council. My dislike of electioneering is so intense that nothing on earth except the prospect of a seat in Parliament would tempt me to undertake it; so to all suggestions that I should stand in the Progressive interest I turned a resolutely deaf ear. But, when the election was over and the Progressive majority had to choose a list of Aldermen, I saw my opportunity and volunteered my services. By the goodwill of my friends on the Council, I was placed on the "Progressive List," and on the 5th of February I was elected an Alderman for six years. Among my colleagues were Lord Meath, Lord Lingen, Lord Hobhouse, Mr. Quintin Hogg, Sir Thomas Farrer, and Mr. Frederic Harrison. Lord Meath was accepted by the Progressive party, in recognition of his devoted services to the cause of social amelioration, especially in the matter of Public Gardens and Open Spaces; but, with this sole exception, the list was frankly partisan. The Progressives had got a majority on the new "Parliament of London," and had no notion of watering it down. Before the Council was created, the governing body for Greater London had been the "Metropolitan Board of Works," which had its dwelling in Spring Gardens. The old building had to be adapted to its new uses, and, while the reconstruction was in progress, the County Council was permitted by the Corporation to meet in the Guildhall. There we assembled on the 12th of February, a highly-diversified, and, in some respects, an interesting company. A careful analysis of our quality and occupations gave the following results: Peers, 4; M.P.'s and ex-M.P.'s, 9; Clergymen, 2; Barristers, 14; Solicitors, 3; Soldiers, 4; Doctors, 5; Tutors, 2; Architects, 2; Builders, 4; Engineers, 3; Journalists, 4; Publisher, 1; Bankers, 5; Stock-Exchange men, 5; Auctioneers, 3; Brewer, 1; Clothiers, 2; Confectioner, 1; Drapers, 2; Grocers, 2; Mineral Water-maker, 1; Optician, 1; Shoemaker, 1; Merchants, 22; Manufacturers, 13; Gentlemen at large, 8; "Unspecified," 10. And to these must be added three ladies, who had been illegally elected and were soon unseated. A current joke of the time represented one of our more highly-cultured Councillors saying to a colleague drawn from another rank,--"The acoustics of this Hall seem very defective"--to which the colleague, after sniffing, replies--"Indeed? I don't perceive anything unpleasant." Which things were an allegory; but conveyed a true impression of our social and educational diversities. The first business which we had to transact was the election of a Chairman. Lord Rosebery was elected by 104 votes to 17; and so began the most useful portion of his varied career. The honorary office of Vice-Chairman was unanimously conferred on Sir John Lubbock, afterwards Lord Avebury; and for the Deputy Chairmanship, a salaried post of practical importance, the Council chose Mr. J. F. B. Firth, who had made his name as an exponent of the intricacies of Metropolitan Government. To watch the methods of Lord Rosebery's chairmanship was an interesting study. After much experience of public bodies and public meetings, I consider him the best chairman but one under whom I ever sat. The best was Mr. Leonard Courtney, now Lord Courtney of Penwith, who to the gifts of accuracy, promptness, and mastery of detail, added the rarer grace of absolute impartiality. Lord Rosebery had the accuracy, the promptness, and the mastery, but he was not impartial. He was inclined to add the functions of Leader of the House to those of Speaker, which were rightly his. When a subject on which he felt strongly was under discussion, and opinion in the Council was closely balanced, Lord Rosebery would intervene just at the close of the debate, with a short, strong, and emphatic speech, and so influence the division in favour of his own view. This practice is, in my judgment, inconsistent with ideal chairmanship, but in the early days of the Council it was not without its uses. We had to furnish ourselves with a constitution, to distribute our various powers, to frame rules of debate, and to create an order of business. To do all this in a full Council of 137 members, most of them quite unversed in public life, many of them opinionated, all articulate, and not a few vociferous, was a work of the utmost difficulty, and Lord Rosebery engineered it to perfection. He was suave and courteous; smoothed acrid dissensions with judicious humour; used sarcasm sparingly, but with effect; and maintained a certain dignity of bearing which profoundly impressed the representatives of the Great Middle Class. "By Jove, how these chaps funk Rosebery!" was the candid exclamation of Sir Howard Vincent; and his remark applied quite equally to his own "Moderate" friends and to my "Progressives." It was characteristic of these gentry that they longed to call Lord Rosebery "My Lord," and were with difficulty induced to substitute "Mr. Chairman." The one member of the Council who stands out in my memory as not having "funked" the Chairman is Mr. John Burns, whose action and bearing in the Council formed one of my most interesting studies. The events of February, 1885, were still present to my memory, though the Councillor for Battersea had probably forgotten them. The change which four years had wrought was extraordinary. He spoke constantly and effectively, but always with moderation, good feeling, and common sense. At the same time, he maintained a breezy independence, and, when he thought that the Chair ought to be defied, defied it. This was awkward, for the Chairman had no disciplinary powers, and there was no executive force to compel submission to his rulings. As far as I could observe, Mr. Burns never gave way, and yet he soon ceased to enter into conflict with the Chair. What was the influence which tamed him? I often wondered, but never knew. The Council had got itself duly divided into Committees, and it was noticeable that there was an enormous rush of Councillors anxious to serve on the Housing Committee. The "Bitter Cry of Outcast London" had not been raised in vain, and every man in the Council seemed anxious to bear his part in the work of redressing an intolerable wrong. The weekly Session of the Council was fixed for Tuesday afternoon, to the disgust of some Progressives who hankered after the more democratic hour of 7 p.m. The main part of the business was the discussion of the Reports brought up from the various Committees, and, when those were disposed of, abstract motions could be debated. Some earnest Liberals were always trying to raise such questions as Home Rule, Land Law, Enfranchisement of Leaseholds, and other matters which lay outside the purview of the Council; and it was delightful to see Lord Rosebery damping down these irregular enthusiasms, and reminding his hearers of the limits which Parliament had set to their activities. Those limits were, in all conscience, wide enough, and included in their scope Housing, Asylums, Bridges, Fire-Brigades, Highways, Reformatory Schools, Main Drainage, Parks, Theatres, and Music-Halls, besides the complicated system of finance by which all our practice was regulated. The Committees dealing with these subjects, and several others of less importance, were manned by able, zealous, and conscientious servants of the public, who gave ungrudgingly of their time (which in many cases was also money), thought, and labour. The Council as a whole displayed a voracious appetite for work, and rendered, without fee or reward, a service to Greater London which no money could have purchased. In the autumn of this year--1889--some correspondence appeared in newspapers and reviews about what was called "The New Liberalism." By that title was meant a Liberalism which could no longer content itself with the crudities of official politics, but longed to bear its part in the social regeneration of the race. In an article in the _Nineteenth Century_, I commented on the insensibility of the Liberal Leaders to this new inspiration. "Who would lead our armies into Edom?" I confess that I thought of Lord Rosebery as our likeliest champion; but I put the cause above the man. "Wherever our leader may come from, I am confident that the movement will go on. _Ça ira! Ça ira! Malgré les mutins, tout réussira!_ The cause of Social Service arouses that moral enthusiasm which cannot be bought and cannot be resisted, and which carries in itself the pledge of victory. The terrible magnitude and urgency of the evils with which we have to cope cannot be overstated. Those who set out to fight them will have to encounter great and manifold difficulties--ignorance, stupidity, prejudice, greed, cruelty, self-interest, instincts of class, cowardly distrust of popular movements, 'spiritual wickedness in high places.' And, in the face of these opposing forces, it is cheering to think that, after long years of single-handed striving, the good cause now has its workers everywhere. And to none does it make a more direct or a more imperious appeal than to us Liberal politicians. If we are worthy of the name, we must be in earnest about a cause which promises happiness, and health, and length of days to those who by their daily labour of hand and head principally maintain the supremacy of the Anglo-Saxon race. We must be impatient of a state of society in which healthy dwellings and unadulterated food and pure water and fresh air are made the monopolies of the rich. We must be eager to do our part towards abolishing filth and eradicating disease, and giving free scope to those beneficent laws of Nature which, if only we will obey them, are so manifestly designed to promote the welfare and the longevity of man. If we believe that every human being has equally and indefeasibly the right to be happy, we must find our chief interest and most satisfying occupation in Social Service. Our aim is, first, to lighten the load of existence for those thronging thousands of the human family whose experience of life is one long suffering, and then to 'add sunshine to daylight by making the happy happier.' The poor, the ignorant, the weak, the hungry, the over-worked, all call for aid; and, in ministering to their wants, the adherent of the New Liberalism knows that he is fulfilling the best function of the character which he professes, and moreover is helping to enlarge the boundaries of the Kingdom of God." When those words were written, the London County Council had just begun its work. I served on it till March, 1895; and during those six years it had proved in practice what a right-minded Municipality can do towards brightening and sweetening human life. It cut broad roads through squalid slums, letting in light and air where all had been darkness and pollution. It cleared wide areas of insanitary dwellings, where only vice could thrive, and re-housed the dispossessed. It broke up the monotony of mean streets with beautiful parks and health-giving pleasure-grounds. It transfigured the Music-Halls, and showed that, by the exercise of a little firmness and common sense, the tone and character of the "Poor Man's Theatre" could be raised to the level of what would be applauded in a drawing-room. By forbidding the sale of refreshments in the auditorium, it crushed the old-fashioned superstition that public entertainment and alcoholic drink are inseparably connected. In some of these good works it was my privilege to bear a part; and, in that matter of the purification of the Music-Halls, I was proud to follow the lead of Sir John McDougall, who has since been Chairman of the Council, and who, at the time of which I am writing, fearlessly exposed himself to unbounded calumny, and even physical violence, in his crusade for the moral purity of popular amusement. Those were six years of fruitful service; and, though a long time has elapsed since I left the Council, I have constantly watched its labours, and can heartily assent to the eulogy pronounced by my friend Henry Scott Holland, when he was quitting his Canonry at St. Paul's for his Professorship at Oxford: "As for London, my whole heart is still given to the lines of the Progressive policy on the County Council. I still think that this has given London a soul; and that it has been by far the most effective work that one has watched happening.... The hope of London lies with the County Council." Before I say goodbye to this portion of my "Autobiography," let me record the fact that the London County Council produced a poet of its own. The first Council came to an end in March, 1892, and the second, elected on the 5th of that month, gave the Progressives a greatly increased majority. One of the newly-elected Councillors uttered his triumphant joy in song. "Here then you have your answer, you that thought To find our London unawakened still, A sleeping plunder for you, thought to fill The gorge of private greed, and count for naught The common good. Time unto her has brought Her glorious hour, her strength of public will Grown conscious, and a civic soul to thrill The once dull mass that for your spoil you sought. Lo, where the alert majestic city stands, Dreaming her dream of golden days to be, With shaded eyes beneath her arching hands Scanning the forward pathway, like a seer To whom the riven future has made clear The marvel of some mighty destiny."[61] Moved by the desire to gratify a young ambition, I introduced the poet to Mr. Gladstone, and that great man, who never damned with faint praise, pronounced that this was the finest thing written about London since Wordsworth's Sonnet "Composed upon Westminster Bridge." In August, 1892, Gladstone became Prime Minister for the fourth time. He gave me a place in his Government; and for the next three years my activities were limited to North Bedfordshire, which I then represented, the House of Commons, and Whitehall. I was restored to liberty by the dissolution of July, 1895. In my chapter about Oxford, I spoke of the Rev. E. S. Talbot, then Warden of Keble, and now Bishop of Winchester, as one of those whose friendship I had acquired in undergraduate days. After serving for a while as Vicar of Leeds, he was appointed in 1895 to the See of Rochester, which then included South London. Soon after he had entered on his new work, he said to me, "Men of leisure are very scarce in South London. Will you come across the Thames, and lend us a hand?" FOOTNOTES: [55] Dr. Butler's Harrow Sermons. Series II. [56] "Christianity without the Cross a Corruption of the Gospel of Christ." [57] Rev. H. Scott Holland, D.D. [58] Honourable mention ought here to be made of "The Guild of St. Matthew," founded by the Rev. Stewart Headlam in 1877. Its object was "To justify God to the People," and it prepared the way for later organizations. [59] The Rev. H. S. Holland, D.D. [60] F. W. H. Myers. [61] F. Henderson, _By the Sea, and other poems_. XV ECCLESIASTICA The English Church, as established by the law of England, offers the Supernatural to all who choose to come. It is like the Divine Being Himself, Whose sun shines alike on the evil and on the good. J. H. SHORTHOUSE, _John Inglesant_. Mr. Shorthouse, like most people who have come over to the Church from Dissent, set an inordinate value on the principle of Establishment. He seemed (and in that particular he resembled Archbishop Tait) incapable of conceiving the idea of a Church as separate from, and independent of, the State. The words "as established by the law of England" in the passage which stands at the head of this chapter appear to suggest a doubt whether the English Church, if she ceased to be "established," could still discharge her function as the divinely-appointed dispenser of sacramental grace to the English people. Those who, like Mr. Gladstone, believe that no change in her worldly circumstances could "compromise or impair her character as the Catholic and Apostolic Church of this country," would omit Mr. Shorthouse's qualifying words, and would say, simply, that the English Church, whether established or not, offers the Supernatural to all who choose to come, and that she is, has been, and always will be, "historically the same institution through which the Gospel was originally preached to the English Nation." But this is not the place for theorization; so, for the moment, I am content to take Mr. Shorthouse's statement as it stands, and to say that a loving pride in the English Church has been the permanent passion of my life. I hold with Dean Church, a man not given to hyperbole, that "in spite of inconsistencies and menacing troubles, she is still the most glorious Church in Christendom." I was baptized in the Parish Church of St. Mary the Virgin, Woburn, formerly a chapel dependent on the Cistercian Abbey hard by, which the first Earl of Bedford received as a gift from Henry VIII.[62] This truly interesting church was destroyed, to please an innovating incumbent, in 1864; but my earliest impressions of public worship are connected with it, and in my mind's eye I can see it as clearly as if it were still standing. It had never been "restored "; but had been decorated by my grandfather, who inherited the ecclesiastical rights of the Abbots of Woburn, and whose "Curate" the incumbent was.[63] My grandfather was a liberal giver, and did his best, according to his lights, to make the Church beautiful. He filled the East Window with stained glass, the central subject being his own coat of arms, with patriarchs and saints grouped round it in due subordination. Beneath the window was a fine picture, by Carlo Maratti, of the Holy Family. The Holy Table was a table indeed, with legs and drawers after the manner of a writing-table, and a cover of red velvet. The chancel was long; and the south side of it was engrossed by "the Duke's Pew," which was enclosed within high walls and thick curtains, and contained a fireplace. The north side of the chancel was equally engrossed by a pew for the Duke's servants. The choir, male and female after their kind, surrounded the organ in a gallery at the West End. The whole Church was pewed throughout, and white-washed, the chancel being enriched with plaster mouldings. On the capital of each pillar was a scutcheon, bearing the arms of some family allied to our own. The largest and most vivid presentment of the Royal Arms which I have ever seen crowned the chancel-arch. Our clerical staff consisted of the incumbent (who became a "Vicar" by Act of Parliament in 1868) and a curate. Our list of services was as follows: Sunday--11 a.m., Morning Prayer, Litany, Table-prayers, and Sermon; 6 p.m., Evening Prayer and Sermon. There was Evening Prayer with a sermon on Thursdays, and a prayer-meeting in the schoolroom on Tuesday evenings. There were no extra services in Lent or Advent, nor on any Holy Days except Good Friday and Ascension Day. The Holy Communion was administered after Morning Service on the first Sunday of the month, and on Christmas and Easter Days; and after Evening Service on the third Sunday. The black gown was, of course, worn in the pulpit, and I remember a mild sensation caused by the disuse of bands. The prayers were preached; the Psalms were read; and the hymn-book in use was "The Church and Home Metrical Psalter and Hymnal"--a quaint compilation which I have never seen elsewhere. It would not be easy to describe the dreariness of the services; and the preaching corresponded to them. This is curious, for Evangelical preaching generally was rousing and effective. I remember that we heard preaching of that type from strangers who occasionally "took duty" or "pleaded for Societies"; but our own pastors always expatiated on Justification by Faith only. I cannot recall any other subject; and, even in enforcing this, "Pulpit-eloquence," topical allusions, and illustrations whether from nature or from books, were rigidly eschewed. "As dull as a sermon" is a proverbial saying which for me in early boyhood had an awful truth. It has been stated in an earlier chapter that I discovered the Sacramental System of the Church by the simple method of studying the Prayer Book. Certainly I got no help in that direction from my spiritual pastors. The incumbent was, I should think, the Lowest Churchman who ever lived. He was a Cambridge man; a thorough gentleman; well-read; wholly devoted to his sacred calling; and fearless in his assertion of what he believed to be right. (He once refused to let Jowett preach in our pulpit, though the noble patron made the request.) He was entirely insensible to poetry, beauty, romance, and enthusiasm; but his mind was essentially logical, and he followed his creed to its extremest consequences. Baptismal grace, of course, he absolutely denied. He prepared me for Confirmation, and he began his preparation by assailing my faith in the Presence and the Succession. He defined Confirmation as "a coming of age in the things of the soul." I perfectly remember a sermon preached on "Sacrament Sunday," which ended with some such words as these, "I go to yonder table to-day; not expecting to meet the Lord, because I know He will not be there." I have seldom heard the doctrine of the Real Absence stated with equal frankness. All my religious associations were with the Evangelical school, of which my parents were devoted adherents. My uncle, the Rev. Lord Wriothesley Russell (1804-1886), had been a disciple of Charles Simeon at Cambridge, but had completely discarded such fragments of Churchmanship as lingered in his master's teaching. My mother (1810-1884) had been in early life closely allied with "the Clapham Sect"; and our friendship with the last survivor of that sect, Miss Marianne Thornton (1797-1887), linked us to the Wilberforces, the Venns, and the Macaulays. My acquaintance with Lord Shaftesbury (1801-1885) I have always esteemed one of the chief honours of my life. He combined in a singular degree the gifts which make a Leader. He had an imperious will, a perfervid temper, unbounded enthusiasm, inexhaustible energy. Any movement with which he was connected he controlled. He brooked neither opposition nor criticism. His authority was reinforced by advantages of aspect and station; by a stately manner, by a noble and commanding eloquence. But all these gifts were as nothing when compared with the power of his lifelong consistency. When he was a boy at Harrow, a brutal scene at a pauper's funeral awoke his devotion to the cause of the poor and helpless. Seventy years later, when he lay on his deathbed, his only regret was that he must leave the world with so much misery in it. From first to last, he was an Evangelical of the highest and purest type, displaying all the religious and social virtues of that school in their perfection. Yet he left it on record that he had been more harshly treated by the Evangelical party than by any other. Perhaps the explanation is that those excellent people were only kicking against the pricks of a too-absolute control. Such were the religious associations of my early life; and I am deeply thankful for them. I have found, by much experiment, that there is no foundation on which the superstructure of Catholic religion can be more securely built than on the Evangelical confession of man's utter sinfulness, and of the free pardon purchased by the Blood of Christ. A man trained in that confession may, without sacrificing a jot of his earlier creed, learn to accept all that the Catholic Church teaches about Orders and Sacraments; but to the end he will retain some characteristic marks of his spiritual beginnings. For my own part, I hold with Mr. Gladstone that to label oneself with an ecclesiastical nickname would be to compromise "the first of earthly blessings--one's mental freedom[64]"; but if anyone chose to call me a "Catholic Evangelical," I should not quarrel with the designation. I said in an earlier chapter that I had an inborn fondness for Catholic ceremonial, and this, I suppose, was part of my general love of material beauty. Amid such surroundings as I have described, it was a fondness not easily indulged. When I was twelve years old, I was staying at Leamington in August, and on a Holy Day I peeped into the Roman Church there, and saw for the first time the ceremonies of High Mass; and from that day on I longed to see them reproduced in the Church of England. During one of our periodical visits to London, I discovered the beautiful church in Gordon Square where the "Adherents of a Restored Apostolate" celebrate Divine Worship with bewildering splendour. The propinquity of our house to Westminster Abbey enabled me to enter into the more chastened, yet dignified, beauty of the English rite. At Harrow the brightness and colour of our School-Chapel struck my untutored eye as "exceeding magnifical"; and the early celebrations in the Parish Church had a solemnity which the Chapel lacked. But the happiest memory of all is connected with a little Church[65] about two miles from my home. It is a tiny structure of one aisle, with the altar fenced off by a screen of carved oak. It served a group of half a dozen houses, and it stood amid green fields, remote from traffic, and scarcely visible except to those who searched for it. There an enthusiastic and devoted priest spent five and twenty years of an isolated ministry; and there, for the first time in our communion, I saw the Divine Mysteries celebrated with the appropriate accessories. My walks to that secluded altar, in the fresh brightness of summer mornings, can never be forgotten until the whole tablet is blotted. On the sky-line, the great masses of distant woodland, half-veiled in mist, lay like a blue cloud. Within, there was "the fair white linen cloth upon the wooden table, with fresh flowers above, and the worn slabs beneath that record the dim names of the forgotten dead"; and there "amid the faint streaks of the early dawn, the faithful, kneeling round the oaken railing, took into their hands the worn silver of the Grail-- "The chalice of the Grapes of God."[66] Perhaps it was just as well for a boy that these glimpses of beautiful worship were few and far between. One was saved from the perils of a mere externalism, and was driven inward on the unseen realities which ceremonial may sometimes obscure. And then, when one got up to Oxford, one found all the splendours of the sanctuary in rich abundance, and enjoyed them with a whole-hearted self-abandonment. I need not repeat what I have already said about St. Barnabas and Cowley and the other strongholds of Catholic worship. I am eternally their debtor, and the friends with whom I shared them have helped to shape my life. But, in spite of all these enjoyments, religious life at Oxford between 1872 and 1876 was not altogether happy. A strong flood of Romanism burst upon the University, and carried some of my best friends from my side; and, concurrently with this disturbance, an American teacher attacked our faith from the opposite quarter. He taught an absolute disregard of all forms and rites, and, not content with the ordinary doctrine of instantaneous conversion, preached the absolute sinlessness of the believer. The movement which, in 1874, he set on foot was marked by disasters, of which the nature can best be inferred from a characteristic saying, "The believer's conflict with Sin is all stuff." This teaching had its natural consequences, and the movement issued in spiritual tragedy. In the following year we were touched by the much more wholesome enterprise of Messrs. Moody and Sankey. Their teaching was wholly free from the perilous stuff which had defiled the previous mission; and though it shook the faith of some who had cultivated the husk rather than the kernel of ritualism, still all could join in the generous tribute paid by Dr. Liddon on Whitsun Day, 1876: "Last year two American preachers visited this country, to whom God had given, together with earnest belief in some portions of the gospel, a corresponding spirit of fearless enterprise. Certainly they had no such credentials of an Apostolic Ministry as a well-instructed and believing Churchman would require.... And yet, acting according to the light which God had given them, they threw themselves on our great cities with the ardour of Apostles; spoke of a higher world to thousands who pass the greater part of life in dreaming only of this; and made many of us feel that we owe them at least the debt of an example, which He Who breatheth where He listeth must surely have inspired them to give us."[67] When I came up to London after leaving Oxford, "the world was all before me where to choose," and I made a pretty wide survey before deciding on my habitual place of worship. St. Paul's Cathedral had lately awoke from its long sleep, and, under the wise guidance of Church, Gregory, and Liddon, was beginning to show the perfection of worship on the strict line of the English Prayer-Book. Being by temperament profoundly Gothic, I hold (with Sir William Richmond) that Westminster Abbey is the most beautiful church in the world. But it had nothing to offer in the way of seemly worship; and, while Liddon was preaching the Gospel at St. Paul's, Dean Stanley at Westminster was delivering the fine rhetoric and dubious history which were his substitutes for theology, and with reference to which a Jewish lady said to me, "I have heard the Dean preach for eighteen years, and I have never heard a word from him which I could not accept." At the Temple, Dr. Vaughan was at the height of his vogue, and Sunday after Sunday was teaching the lawyers the effective grace of a nervous and finished style. All Saints, Margaret Street, St. Paul's, Knightsbridge, and St. Barnabas, Pimlico, showed a type of worship refined, artistic, and rather prim. St. Alban's, Holborn, "the Mother and Mistress" of all ritualistic churches, combined Roman ceremonial with the passionately Evangelical teaching of the greatest extempore preacher I have ever heard, Arthur Stanton. St. Michael's, Shoreditch, and St. Peter's, London Docks, were outposts of the ritualistic army. The Low Church congregated at Portman Chapel, and Belgrave Chapel, and Eaton Chapel (all since demolished), at St. Michael's, Chester Square, and St. John's, Paddington. Broad Churchmen, as a rule, were hidden in holes and corners; for the bizarre magnificence of Holy Trinity, Sloane Street, had not yet superseded the humble structure in which Henry Blunt had formerly preached into the Duchess of Beaufort's[68] ear-trumpet; and St. Margaret's, Westminster, had only just begun to reverberate the rolling eloquence of Dr. Farrar. At St. Peter's, Eaton Square, amid surroundings truly hideous, George Wilkinson, afterward Bishop of St. Andrews, dominated, sheerly by spiritual force, a congregation which, having regard to the numbers, wealth, and importance of the men who composed it, was the most remarkable that I have ever seen. Cabinet Ministers, great noblemen, landed proprietors, Members of Parliament, soldiers, lawyers, doctors, and "men about town," were the clay which this master-potter moulded at his will. Then, as now, Society loved to be scolded, and the more Mr. Wilkinson thundered, the more it crowded to his feet. "Pay your bills." "Get up when you are called." "Don't stay at a ball till two, and then say you are too delicate for early services." "Eat one dinner a day instead of three, and try to earn that one." "Give up champagne for the season, and what you save on your wine-merchant's bill send to the Mission-Field." "You are sixty-five years old, and have never been confirmed. Never too late to mend. Join a Confirmation Class at once, and try to remedy, by good example now, the harm you have done your servants or your neighbours by fifty years' indifference." "Sell that diamond cross which you carry with you into the sin-polluted atmosphere of the Opera, give the proceeds to feed the poor, and wear the only real cross--the cross of self-discipline and self-denial." These are echoes, faint, indeed, but not, I think, unfaithful, of St. Peter's pulpit in its days of glory. When I look back upon the Church in London as it was when I first knew it, and when I compare my recollections with what I see now, I note, of course, a good many changes, and not all of them improvements. The Evangelicals, with their plain teaching about sin and forgiveness, are gone, and their place is taken by the professors of a flabby latitudinarianism, which ignores sin--the central fact of human life--and therefore can find no place for the Atonement. Heresy is preached more unblushingly than it was thirty years ago; and when it tries to disguise itself in the frippery of æsthetic Anglicanism, it leads captive not a few. In the churches commonly called Ritualistic, I note one great and significant improvement. English Churchmen have gradually discovered that they have an indigenous ritual of their own--dignified, expressive, artistic, free from fuss and fidgets--and that they have no need to import strange rites from France or Belgium. The evolution of the English Rite is one of the wholesome signs of the times. About preaching, I am not so clear. The almost complete disuse of the written sermon is in many ways a loss. The discipline of the paper protects the flock alike against shambling inanities, and against a too boisterous rhetoric. No doubt a really fine extempore sermon is a great work of art; but for nine preachers out of ten the manuscript is the safer way. As regards the quality of the clergy, the change is all to the good. When I was a boy at Harrow, Dr. Vaughan, preaching to us on our Founder's Day, spoke with just contempt of "men who choose the Ministry because there is a Family Living waiting for them; or because they think they can make that profession--that, and none other--compatible with indolence and self-indulgence; or because they imagine that a scantier talent and a more idle use of it can in that one calling be made to suffice." "These notions," he added, "are out of date, one Act of Disestablishment would annihilate them." That Act of Disestablishment has not come yet, but the change has come without waiting for it. Even the "Family Living" no longer attracts. Young men seek Holy Orders because they want work. Clerical dreams of laziness or avarice, self-seeking or self-indulgence, have gone out for ever; and the English Church has in her commissioned service a band of men whose devotion and self-sacrifice would be a glory to any Church in Christendom. An active politician, as I was thirty years ago, has not much leisure; but all through my parliamentary work I sought to bear in mind that Life is Service. I helped to found the White Cross League, and worked hard for the cause which it represents. I bore a hand in Missions and Bible-classes. I was a member of a Diocesan Conference. I had ten years of happy visiting in Hospitals, receiving infinitely more than I could ever give. And I should think that no man of my age has spoken on so many platforms, or at so many Drawing Room meetings. But all this was desultory business, and I always desired a more definite obligation. On St. Luke's Day, 1895, my loved and honoured friend, Edward Talbot, formerly Warden of Keble, was consecrated 100th Bishop of Rochester; and the diocese at that time included all South London. As soon as he established himself there, the new Bishop, so I have already stated, asked me to come across the Thames, and do some definite work in South London. At first, that work consisted of service on a Public Morals Committee, and of lecturing on ecclesiastical topics; but gradually the field contracted in one direction and expanded in another. It was in 1891 that Dr. Temple, then Bishop of London, and afterwards Archbishop of Canterbury, being anxious to lighten the burden of preaching which lies so heavily on hardworked clergy, determined to license lay-readers to speak in consecrated buildings. It was a bold step, and of doubtful legality; but the Bishop characteristically declared that he would chance the illegality, feeling sure that, when the Vicar and Churchwardens invited a lay-reader to speak, no one would be churlish enough to raise legal objections. The result proved that the Bishop was perfectly right, and the Diocese of London has now a band of licensed lay-preachers who render the clergy a great deal of valuable aid. I was from the first a good deal attracted by the prospect of joining this band, but Parliament and Office left me no available leisure. When Dr. Talbot became Bishop of Rochester, he at once took in hand the work of reorganizing the body of Lay-Readers in his Diocese; and before long had determined to follow the example set by Bishop Temple, and to license some of his readers to speak at extra services in consecrated buildings. He made it quite clear from the first--and the point has subsequently been established by Convocation--that there was no idea of reviving the Minor Orders. The lay-reader was to be, in every sense, a layman; and, while he might speak, under proper restrictions, in a consecrated building, he still would speak not "as one having authority," but simply as brother-man to brother-men. I was admitted to the office of a Diocesan Lay-Reader, in the Private Chapel of the Bishop's House at Kennington, on the 15th of January, 1898, and have been permitted to spend fifteen years of happy service in this informal ministry. FOOTNOTES: [62] Cf. Froude's "Short Studies in Great Subjects." [63] It may perhaps be worth noting that my parents were married, in 1834, by a Special License issued by my grandfather as Abbot of Woburn. [64] _Letters on the Church and Religion._ Vol. I., p. 385. [65] Pottesgrove. [66] J. H. Shorthouse--Introduction to George Herbert's _Temple_. [67] _Influences of the Holy Spirit._ University Sermons, Series II. [68] Charlotte Sophia, Duchess of Beaufort, a leader of the Evangelical party, died 1854--aged eighty-four. THE END PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN. 
19752	----	_Methuen's Colonial Library_ QUISANTÉ BY THE SAME AUTHOR A Man of Mark Mr. Witt's Widow Father Stafford A Change of Air Half a Hero The Prisoner of Zenda The God in the Car The Dolly Dialogues Comedies of Courtship The Chronicles of Count Antonio The Heart of Princess Osra Phroso Simon Dale Rupert of Hentzau The King's Mirror QUISANTÉ BY ANTHONY HOPE METHUEN & CO. 36 ESSEX STREET, W.C. LONDON 1900 _Colonial Library_ CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. DICK BENYON'S OUTSIDER 1 II. MOMENTS 16 III. SANDRO'S WAY 31 IV. HE'S COMING! 46 V. WHIMSY-WHAMSIES 65 VI. ON DUTY HILL 84 VII. ADVICE FROM AUNT MARIA 101 VIII. CONTRA MUNDUM 120 IX. LEAD US NOT-- 137 X. PRACTICAL POLITICS 155 XI. SEVENTY-SEVEN AND SUSY SINNETT 176 XII. A HIGHLY CORRECT ATTITUDE 196 XIII. NOT SUPERHUMAN 215 XIV. OPEN EYES 235 XV. A STRANGE IDEA 257 XVI. THE IRREVOCABLE 279 XVII. DONE FOR? 301 XVIII. FOR LACK OF LOVE? 321 XIX. DEATH DEFIED 339 XX. THE QUIET LIFE TO-MORROW 355 XXI. A RELICT 371 Transcriber's Note The following sentence, found in Chapter IX., was originally printed with the "three several" error and has not been changed: That evening Quisanté brought home to dinner the gentleman whom Dick Benyon called old Foster the maltster, and who had been Mayor of Henstead three several times. QUISANTÉ. CHAPTER I. DICK BENYON'S OUTSIDER. A shrunken sallow old lady, dressed in rusty ill-shaped black and adorned with an evidently false 'front' of fair hair, sat in a tiny flat whose windows overlooked Hyde Park from south to north. She was listening to a tall loose-built dark young man who walked restlessly about the little room as he jerked out his thoughts and challenged the expression of hers. She had known him since he was a baby, had brought him up from childhood, had always served him, always believed in him, never liked him, never offered her love nor conciliated his. His father even, her only brother Raphael Quisanté, she had not loved; but she had respected Raphael. Alexander--Sandro, as she alone of all the world called him--she neither loved nor respected; him she only admired and believed in. He knew his aunt's feelings well enough; she was his ally, not his friend; kinship bound them, not affection; for his brain's sake and their common blood she was his servant, his heart she left alone. Thus aware of the truth, he felt no obligation towards her, not even when, as now, he came to ask money of her; what else should she do with her money, where else lay either her duty or her inclination? She did not love him, but he was her one interest, the only tie that united her with the living moving world and the alluring future years, more precious to her since she could see so few of them. "I don't mean to make myself uncomfortable," said Miss Quisanté. "How much do you want?" He stopped and turned round quickly with a gleam of eagerness in his eyes, as though he had a vision of much wealth. "No, no," she added with a surly chuckle, "the least you'll take is the most I'll give." "I owe money." "Who to?" she asked, setting her cap uncompromisingly straight. "Jews?" "No. Dick Benyon." "That money you'll never pay. I shan't consider that." The young man's eyes rested on her in a long sombre glance; he seemed annoyed but not indignant, like a lawyer whose formal plea is brushed aside somewhat contemptuously by an impatient truth-loving judge. "You've got five hundred a year or thereabouts," she went on, "and no wife." He threw himself into a chair; his face broke into a sudden smile, curiously attractive, although neither sweet nor markedly sincere. "Exactly," he said. "No wife. Well, shall I get one with five hundred a year?" He laughed a little. "An election any fine day would leave me penniless," he added. "There's Dick Benyon," observed the old lady. "They talk about that too much already," said Quisanté. "Come, Sandro, you're not sensitive." "And Lady Richard hates me. Besides if you want to impress fools, you must respect their prejudices. Give me a thousand a year; for the present, you know." He asked nearly half the old lady's income; she sighed in relief. "Very well, a thousand a year," she said. "Make a good show with it. Live handsomely. It'll pay you to live handsomely." A genuine unmistakable surprise showed itself on his face; now there was even the indignation which a reference to non-payment of debts had failed to elicit. "I shall do something with it, you might know that," he said resentfully. "Something honest, I mean." "What?" "Well, something not criminal," she amended, chuckling again. "I'm sorry to seem to know you so well," she added. "Oh, we know one another pretty well," said he with a nod. "Never the jam without the powder from you." "But always the jam," said old Maria. "And you'll find the world a good deal like your aunt, Sandro." An odd half-cunning half-eager gleam shot across his eyes. "A man finds the world what he makes it," he said. He rose, came and stood over her, and went on, laughing. "But the devil makes an aunt once and for all, and won't let one touch his handiwork." "You can touch her savings, though!" He blazed out into a sudden defiance. "Oh, refuse if you like. I can manage without you. You're not essential to me." She smiled, her thin lips setting in a wry curve. Now and then it seemed hard that there could be no affection between her and the one being whom the course of events plainly suggested for her love. But, as Sandro said, they knew one another very well. In the result she felt entitled to assume no airs of superiority; he had not been a dutiful or a grateful nephew, she had not been a devoted or a patient aunt; as she looked back, she was obliged to remember one or two occasions when he had driven or betrayed her into a severity of which she did not willingly think. This reflection dictated the words with which she met his outburst. "You can tell your story on Judgment Day and I'll tell mine," she said. "Oh, neither of 'em will lose in the telling, I'll be bound. Meanwhile let's be----" "Friends?" he suggested with an obvious but not ill-natured sneer. "Lord, no! Whatever you like! Banker and client, debtor and creditor, actor and audience? Take your choice--and send me your bank's address." He nodded slightly, as though he concluded a bargain, not at all as though he acknowledged a favour. Yet he remarked in a ruminative tone, "I shall be very glad of the money." A moment's pause followed. Then Miss Quisanté observed reluctantly, "The only thing I ever care to know about you is what you're planning, Sandro. Don't I earn that by my thousand a year?" "Well, here you are. I'm started, thanks to Dick Benyon and myself. I've got my seat, I can go on now. But I'm an outsider still." He paused a moment. "I feel that; Benyon feels it too. I want to obviate it a bit. I mean to marry." "An insider?" asked the old lady. She looked at him steadily. "Your taste's too bad," she said; he was certainly dressed in a rather bizarre way. "And your manners," she added. "She won't have you," she ended. Quisanté took no notice and seemed not to hear; he stood quite still by the window, staring over the park. "Besides she'll know what you want her for." He wheeled round suddenly and looked down at his aunt. His face was softer, the cunningness had gone from his smile, his eyes seemed larger, clearer, even (by a queer delusion of sight) better set and wider apart. "Yes, I'll show her that," he said in a low voice, with a new richness of tone. Old Maria looked up at him with an air of surprise. "You do want her for that? As a help, I mean?" she asked. His lips just moved to answer "Yes." Aunt Maria's eyes did not leave his face. She remembered that when he had come before to talk about contesting the seat in Parliament he had now won, there had been a moment (poised between long periods of calculation and elaborate forecasts of personal advantage) in which his face had taken on the same soft light, the same inspiration. "You odd creature!" she murmured gently. "She's handsome, I suppose?" "Superb--better than that." "A swell?" asked old Maria scornfully. "Yes," he nodded. His aunt laughed. "A Queen among women?" was the form her last question took. "An Empress," said Alexander Quisanté, the more ornate title bursting gorgeously from his lips. "Just the woman for you then!" remarked Aunt Maria. A stranger would have heard nothing in her tone save mockery. Quisanté heard more, or did not hear that at all. He nodded again quite gravely, and turned back to the window. There were two reasonable views of the matter; either the lady was not what Quisanté declared her, or if she were she would have nothing to do with Quisanté. But Aunt Maria reserved her opinion; she was prepared to find neither of these alternatives correct. For there was something remarkable about Sandro; the knowledge that had been hers so long promised fair to become the world's discovery. Society was travelling towards Aunt Maria's opinion, moved thereto not so much by a signally successful election fight, nor even by a knack of distracting attention from others and fixing it on himself, as by the monstrous hold the young man had obtained and contrived to keep over Dick Benyon. Dick was not a fool; here ended his likeness to Quisanté; here surely ought to end his sympathy with that aspiring person? But there was much more between them; society could see that for itself, while doubters found no difficulty in overhearing Lady Richard's open lamentations. "If Dick had known him at school or at Cambridge----" "If he was somebody very distinguished----" "If he was even a gentleman----" Eloquent beginnings of unfinished sentences flowed with expressive freedom from Amy Benyon's pretty lips. "I don't want to think my husband mad," she observed pathetically to Weston Marchmont, himself one of the brightest hopes of that party which Dick Benyon was understood to consider in need of a future leader. Was that leader to be Quisanté? Manners, not genius, Amy declared to be the first essential. "And I don't believe he's got genius," she added hopefully; that he had no manners did not need demonstration to Marchmont, whose own were so exquisite as to form a ready-make standard. And it was not only Dick. Jimmy was as bad. Nobody valued Jimmy's intellect, but every one had been prepared to repose securely on the bedrock of his prejudices. He was as infatuated as his brother; Quisanté had swept away the prejudices. The brethren were united in an effort to foist their man into every circle and every position where he seemed to be least wanted; to this end they devoted time, their social reputation, enthusiasm, and, as old Maria knew, hard money. They were triple-armed in confidence. Jimmy met remonstrances with a quiet shrug; Dick had one answer, always the same, given in the same way--a confident assertion, limited and followed, an instant later, by one obvious condition, seemingly not necessary to express. "You'll see, if he lives," he replied invariably when people asked him what there was after all in Mr. Quisanté. Their friends could only wonder, asking plaintively what the Duke thought of his brothers' proceedings. The Duke, however, made no sign; making no sign ranked as a characteristic of the Duke's. When Lady Richard discussed this situation with her friends the Gaston girls, she gained hearty sympathy from Fanny, but from May no more than a mocking half-sincere curiosity. "Is it possible for a man to like both me and Mr. Quisanté?" Lady Richard asked. "And after all Dick does like me very much." "Likes both his wife and Mr. Quisanté! What a man for paradoxes!" May murmured. "Jimmy's worse if anything," the aggrieved wife went on. This remark was levelled straight at Fanny; Jimmy being understood to like Fanny, a parallel problem presented itself. Fanny recognized it but, not choosing to acknowledge Jimmy's devotion, met it by referring to Marchmont's openly professed inability to tolerate Quisanté. "I always go by Mr. Marchmont's judgment in a thing like that," she said. "He's infallible." "There's no need of infallibility, my dear," observed Lady Richard irritably. "Ordinary common sense is quite enough." She turned suddenly on May. "You talked to him for nearly an hour the other night," she said. "Yes--how you could!" sighed Fanny. "I couldn't help it. He talked to me." "About those great schemes that he's filled poor dear Dick's head with? Not that I doubt he's got plenty of schemes--of a sort you know." "He didn't talk schemes," said Lady May. "He was worse than that." "What did he do?" asked her sister. "Flirted." A sort of gasp broke from Lady Richard's lips; she gazed helplessly at her friends. Fanny began to laugh. May preserved a meditative seriousness; she seemed to be reviewing Quisanté's efforts in a judicial spirit. "Well?" said Lady Richard after the proper pause. "Oh well, he was atrocious, of course," May admitted; her tone, however, expressed a reluctant homage to truth rather than any resentment. "He doesn't know how to do it in the least." "He doesn't know how to do anything," Lady Richard declared. "Most men are either elephantine or serpentine," said Fanny. "Which was he, dear?" "I don't think either." "Porcine?" asked Lady Richard. "No. I haven't got an animal for him. Well, yes, he was a little weaselly perhaps. But----" She glanced at Lady Richard as she paused, and then appeared to think that she would say no more; she frowned slightly and then smiled. "I like his cheek!" exclaimed Fanny with a simplicity that had survived the schoolroom. Lady Richard screwed her small straight features into wrinkles of disgust and a shrug seemed to run all over her little trim smartly-gowned figure; no presumption could astonish her in Quisanté. "Why in the world did you listen to him, May?" Fanny went on. "He interested me. And every now and then he was objectionable in rather an original way." With another shrug, inspired this time by her friend's mental vagaries, Lady Richard diverged to another point. "And that was where you were all the time Weston Marchmont was looking for you?" she asked. May began to laugh. "Somehow I'm generally somewhere else when Mr. Marchmont looks for me," she said. "It isn't deliberate, really; I like him very much, but when he comes near me, some perverse fate seems to set my legs moving in the opposite direction." "Well, Alexander Quisanté's a perverse fate, if you like," said Lady Richard. "It's curious how there are people one's like that towards. You're very fond of them, but it seems quite certain that you'll never get much nearer to them. Is it fate? Or is it that in the end there's a--a solution of sympathy, a break somewhere, so that you stop just short of finding them absolutely satisfying?" Neither of her friends answered her. Lady Richard did not deal in speculations; Fanny preferred not to discuss, even indirectly, her sister's feelings towards Marchmont; they bred in her a mixture of resentment and relief too complicated for public reference. It was certainly true enough that he and May got no nearer to one another; if the break referred to existed somewhere, its effect was very plain; how could it display itself more strikingly than in making the lady prefer Quisanté's weaselly flirtation to the accomplished and enviable homage of Weston Marchmont? And preferred it she had, for one hour of life at least. Fanny felt the anger which we suffer when another shows indifference towards what we should consider great good fortune. But indifference was not truly May's attitude towards Marchmont. Nobody, she honestly thought, could be indifferent to him, to his handsomeness, his grace and refinement, the fine temper of his mind, his indubitable superiority of intellect; in everything he was immeasurably above the ordinary run of her acquaintance, the well-groomed inconsiderables of whom she knew such a number. Being accustomed to look this world in the face unblinkingly, she did not hesitate to add that he possessed great wealth and the prospect of a high career. He was all, and indeed rather more, than she, widowed Lady Attlebridge's slenderly dowered daughter, had any reason to expect. She wanted to expect no more, if possible really to regard this opportunity as greater luck than she had a right to anticipate. The dissatisfaction which she sought to explain by talking of a solution of sympathy was very obstinate, but justice set the responsibility down to her account, not to his; analysing her temperament, without excusing it, she found a spirit of adventure and experiment--or should she say of restlessness and levity?--which Marchmont did not minister to nor yet assuage. The only pleasure that lay in this discovery came from the fact that it was so opposed to the general idea about her. For it was her lot to be exalted into a type of the splendid calm patrician maiden. In that sort of vein her friends spoke of her when they were not very intimate, in that sort of language she saw herself described in gushing paragraphs that chronicled the doings of her class. Stately, gracious, even queenly, were epithets which were not spared her; it would have been refreshing to find some Diogenes of a journalist who would have called her, in round set terms, discontented, mutinous, scornful of the ideal she represented, a very hot-bed of the faults the beauty of whose absence was declared in her dignified demeanour. Now what May looked, that Fanny was; but poor Fanny, being slight of build, small in feature, and gay in manner, got no credit for her exalted virtues and could not be pressed into service as the type of them. For certainly types must look typical. May's comfort in these circumstances was that Marchmont's perfect breeding and instinctive avoidance of display, of absurdity, even of betraying any heat of emotion, saved her from the usual troubles which an unsatisfied lover entails on his mistress. He looked for her no doubt, but with no greater visible perturbation than if she had been his handkerchief. An evening or two later Dick Benyon took her in to dinner. Entirely in concession to him--for the subject had passed from her own thoughts--she asked, "Well, how's your genius going on?" Before the meal was over she regretted her question. It opened the doors to Dick's confused eloquence and vague laudations of his _protégé_; putting Dick on his defence, it involved an infinite discussion of Quisanté. She was told how Dick had picked him up at Naples, gone to Pompeii with him, travelled home with him, brought him and Jimmy together, and how the three had become friends. "And if I'm a fool, my brother's not," said Dick. May knew that Jimmy would shelter himself under a plea couched in identical language. From this point Dick became less expansive, for at this point his own benefactions and services had begun. She could not get much out of him, but she found herself trying to worm out all she could. Dick had no objection to saying that he had induced Quisanté to go in for politics, and had "squared" the influential persons who distributed (so far as a free electorate might prove docile) seats in Parliament. Rumour and Aunt Maria would have supplemented his statement by telling of substantial aid given by the Benyon brothers. May, interested against her wish and irritated at her interest, yet not content, like Dick's wife, to shrug away Dick's aberrations, turned on him with a sudden, "But why, why? Why do you like him?" "Like him!" repeated Dick half-interrogatively. He did not seem sure that his companion had chosen the right, or at any rate the best, word to describe his feelings. In response she amended her question. "Well, I mean, what do you see in him?" Here was another fatal question, for Dick saw everything in him. Hastily cutting across the eulogies, she demanded particulars--who was he, where did he come from, and so forth. On these heads Dick's account was scanty; Quisanté's father had grown wine in Spain; and Quisanté himself had an old aunt in London. "Not much of a genealogy," she suggested. Dick was absurd enough to quote "_Je suis un ancêtre_." "Oh, if you're as silly as that!" she exclaimed with an annoyed laugh. "He's the man we want." "You and Jimmy?" "The country," Dick explained gravely. He had plenty of humour for other subjects, but Quisanté, it seemed, was too sacred. "Look here," he went on. "Come and meet him again. Amy's going out of town next week and we'll have a little party for him." "That happens best when Amy's away?" "Well, women are so----" "Yes, I know. I'm a woman. I won't come." Dick looked at her not sourly but sadly, and turned to his other neighbour. May was left to sit in silence for five minutes; then a pause in Dick's talk gave her time to touch him lightly on the arm and to say when he turned, "Yes, I will, and thank you." But she said nothing about the weaselly flirtation. CHAPTER II. MOMENTS. At the little dinner which Lady Richard's absence rendered more easy there were only the Benyon brothers (a wag had recently suggested that they should convert themselves into Quisanté Limited), Mrs. Gellatly, Morewood the painter, and the honoured guest. Morewood was there because he was painting a kit-cat of Quisanté for the host (Heaven knew in what corner Lady Richard would suffer it to hang), and Mrs. Gellatly because she had expressed a desire to meet Lady May Gaston. Quisanté greeted May with an elaborate air of remembrance; his handshake was so ornate as to persuade her that she must always hate him, and that Dick Benyon was as foolish as his wife thought him. This mood lasted half through dinner; the worst of Quisanté was uppermost, and the exhibition depressed the others. The brothers were apologetic, Mrs. Gellatly gallantly suave; her much-lined, still pretty face worked in laborious smiles at every loudness and every awkwardness. Morewood was so savage that an abrupt conclusion of the entertainment threatened to be necessary. May, who had previously decided that Mr. Quisanté would be much better in company, was travelling to the conclusion that he was not nearly so trying when alone; to be weaselly is not so bad as to be inconsiderate and ostentatious. Just then came the change which transformed the party. Somebody mentioned Mahomet; Morewood, with his love of a paradox, launched on an indiscriminate championship of the Prophet. Next to believing in nobody, it was best, he said, to believe in Mahomet; there, he maintained, you got most out of your religion and gave least to it; and he defended the criterion with his usual uncompromising aggressiveness. Then Quisanté put his arms on the table, interrupted Morewood without apology, and began to talk. May thought that she would not have known how good the talk was--for it came so easily--had she not seen how soon Morewood became a listener, or even a foil, ready and content to put his questions not as puzzles but as provocatives. Yet Morewood was proverbially conceited, and he was fully a dozen years Quisanté's senior. She stole a look round; the brothers were open-mouthed, Mrs. Gellatly looked almost frightened. Next her eyes scanned Quisanté's face; he was not weaselly now, nor ostentatious. His subject filled him and lit him up; she did not know that he looked as he had when he spoke to old Maria of his Empress among women, but she knew that he looked as if nothing mentally small, nothing morally mean, nothing that was not in some way or other, for good or evil, big and spacious could ever come near him from without or proceed out from him. She was immensely startled when, in a pause, her host whispered in her ear, "One of his moments!" The phrase was to become very familiar to her on the lips of others, even more in her own thoughts. "His moments!" It implied a sort of intermittent inspiration, as though he were some ancient prophet or mediæval fanatic through whose mouth Heaven spoke sometimes, leaving him for the rest to his own low and carnal nature. The phrase meant at once a plenitude of inspiration and a rarity of it. Not days, nor hours, but moments were seemingly what his friends valued him for, what his believers attached their faith to, what must (if anything could) outweigh all that piled the scales so full against him. An intense curiosity then and there assailed her; she must know more of the man; she must launch a boat on this unexplored ocean--for the Benyons had not navigated it, they only stood gaping on the beach. Here was scope for that unruly spirit of hers which Marchmont's culture and Marchmont's fascination could neither minister to nor assuage. She was gazing intently at Quisanté when she became conscious of Mrs. Gellatly's eyes on her. Mrs. Gellatly looked frightened still; accustomed tactfully to screen awkwardness, she was rather at a loss in the face of naked energy. She sought to share her alarm with May Gaston, but May was like a climber fronted by a mountain range. "You may be right and you may be wrong," said Morewood. "At least I don't know anybody who can settle the quarrel between facts and dreams." "There isn't any quarrel." "There's a little stiffness anyhow," urged Morewood, still unwontedly docile. "They'd get on better if they saw more of one another," suggested May timidly. It was her first intervention. She felt its insignificance. She would not have complained if Quisanté had followed Morewood's example and taken no notice of it. He stopped, turned to her with exaggerated deference, and greeted her obvious little carrying out of the metaphor as though it were a heaven-sent light. Somehow in doing this he seemed to fall all in an instant from lofty heights to depths almost beyond eyesight. While he complimented her elaborately, Morewood turned away in open impatience. Another topic was started, the conversation was killed; or, to put it as she put it to herself, that moment of Quisanté's was ended. Did his moments always end like that? Did they fade before a breath, like the frailest flower? Did the contemptible always follow in a flash on the entrancing? Presently she found a chance for a whisper to Morewood. "How are you painting him?" she asked. "You must come and see," he replied, with a rather sour grin. "So I will, but tell me now. You know the difference, I mean?" "Oh, and do you already? Well, I shall do him making himself agreeable to a lady." "For heaven's sake don't!" she whispered, half-laughing yet not without seriousness. The man was a malicious creature and might well caricature what he was bound to idealise to the extreme limit of nature's sufferance. Such a trick would be hardly honest to Dick Benyon, but Morewood would plead his art with unashamed effrontery, and, if more were needed, tell Dick to take his cheque to the deuce and go with it himself. The rest of the party was, to put it bluntly, a pleasant little gathering in no way remarkable and rather spoilt by the presence of one person who was not quite a gentleman. May struggled hard against the mercilessness of the judgment contained in the last words; for it ought to have proved quite final as regarded Alexander Quisanté. As a fact it would not leave her mind, it established an absolutely sure footing in her convictions; and yet it did not seem quite final in regard to Quisanté. Perhaps Dick Benyon would maintain the proud level of his remark about the genealogy, and remind her that somebody settled Napoleon's claims by the same verdict. But one did not meet Napoleon at little dinners, nor think of him with no countervailing achievements to his name. Her mind was so full of the man that when she joined her mother at a party later in the evening, she had an absurd anticipation that everybody would talk to her about him. Nobody did; that evening an Arctic explorer and a new fortune-teller divided the attention of the polite; men came and discussed one or other of these subjects with her until she was weary. For once then, on Marchmont making an appearance near her, her legs did not carry her in the opposite direction; she awaited and even invited his approach; at least he would spare her the fashionable gossip, and she thought he might tell her something about Quisanté. In two words he told her, if not anything about Quisanté, still everything that he himself thought of Quisanté. "I met Mr. Quisanté at dinner," she said. "That fellow!" exclaimed Marchmont. The tone was full of weariness and contempt; it qualified the man as unspeakable and dismissed him as intolerable. Was Marchmont infallible, as Fanny had said? At least he represented, in its finest and most authoritative form, the opinion of her own circle, the unhesitating judgment against which she must set herself if she became Quisanté's champion. It would be much easier, and probably much more sensible, to fall into line and acquiesce in the condemnation; then it would matter nothing whether the vulgar did or did not elect to admire Dick Benyon's peculiar friend. Yet a protest stirred within her; only her sense of the ludicrous prevented her from adopting Dick's word and asking Marchmont if he had ever seen the fellow in one of his "moments." But it would be absurd to catch up the phrase like that, and it was by no means certain that even the moments would appeal to Marchmont. Looking round, she perceived that a little space in the crowded room had been left vacant about them; nobody came up to her, no woman, in passing by, signalled to Marchmont; the constant give-and-take of companions was suspended in their favour. In fine, people supposed that they wanted to talk to one another; it would not be guessed that one of the pair wished Quisanté to be the topic. "He's got some brains," Marchmont went on, "though of rather a flashy sort, I think. Dick Benyon's been caught by them. But a more impossible person I never met. You don't like him?" "Yes, I do," she answered defiantly. "At least I do every now and then." "Pray make the occasions as rare as possible," he urged in his low lazy voice, with his pleasant smile and a confidential look in his handsome eyes. "And don't let them coincide with my presence." "Really he won't hurt you; you're too particular." "No, he won't hurt me, but I should feel rather as though he were hurting you." "What do you mean?" "By being near you, certainly by being anything in the least like a friend of yours." "He'd defile me?" she asked, laughing. "Yes," said he seriously; the next moment he smiled and shrugged his shoulders; he did not withdraw his seriousness but he apologised for it. "Oh, I'd better get under a glass-case at once," she exclaimed, laughing again impatiently. "Yes, and lock it, and----" "Give you the key?" He laughed as he said, "The most artistic emotions have some selfishness in them, I admit it." "It would make a little variety if I sent a duplicate to Mr. Quisanté!" Here he would not follow her in her banter. He grew grave and even frowned, but all he said was, "Really there are limits, you know." It was her own verdict, expressed more tersely, more completely, and more finally. There were limits, and Alexander Quisanté was beyond them; the barrier they raised could not be surmounted; he could not fly over it even on the wings of his moments. "You above everybody oughtn't to know such people," Marchmont went on. Now he was thinking of the type she was supposed to represent; that was the fashion in which it was appropriate to talk to the type. "I'm not in the very least like that really," she assured him. "If you knew me better you'd find that out very soon." "I'm willing to risk it." Flirtation for flirtation--and this conversation was becoming one--there could be no comparison between Marchmont's and Quisanté's; the one was delightful, the other odious; the one combined charm with dignity; the other was a mixture of cringing and presumption. May put the contrast no less strongly than this as she yielded to the impulse of the minute and gave the lie to Marchmont's ideal of her by her reckless acceptance of the immediate delights he offered. The ideal would no doubt cause him to put a great deal of meaning into her acceptance; whether such meaning were one she would be prepared to indorse her mood did not allow her to consider. She showed him very marked favour that evening, and in his company contrived to forget entirely the puzzle of Quisanté and his moments, and the possible relation of those moments to the limits about which her companion was so decisive. At last, however, they were interrupted. The interruption came from Dick Benyon, who had looked in somewhere else and arrived now at the tail of the evening. Far too eager and engrossed in his great theme to care whether his appearance were welcome, he dashed up to May, crying out even before he reached her, "Well, what do you say about him now? Wasn't he splendid?" Clearly Dick forgot his earlier apologetic period; for him the moment was the evening. A cool question from Marchmont, the cooler perhaps for annoyance, forced Dick into explanations, and he sketched in his summary fashion the incident which had aroused his enthusiasm and made him look so confidently for a response from May. Marchmont was unreservedly and almost scornfully antagonistic. "Oh, you're too cultivated to live," cried Dick. "Now isn't he too elegant, May?" "I'm not the least elegant," said Marchmont, with quiet confidence. "But I'm--well, I'm what Quisanté isn't. So are you, Dick." "Suppose we are, and by Jove, isn't he what we aren't? I'm primitive, I suppose. I think hands and brains are better than manners." "I'll agree, but I don't like his hands or his brains either." "He'll mount high." "As high as Haman. I shouldn't be the least surprised to see it." "Well, I'm not going to give him up because he doesn't shake hands at the latest fashionable angle." "All right, Dick. And I'm not going to take him up because he's a dab at rodomontade." "And you neither of you need fight about him," May put in, laughing. They joined in her laugh, each excusing himself by good-natured abuse of the other. There was no question of a quarrel, but the divergence was complete, striking, and even startling. To one all was black, to the other all white; to one all tin, to the other all gold. Was there no possibility of compromise? As she sat between the two, May thought that a discriminating view of Quisanté ought to be attainable, not an oscillation from disgust to admiration, but a well-balanced stable judgment which should allow full value to merits and to defects, and sum up the man as a whole. Something of the sort she tried to suggest; neither disputant would hear of it, and Marchmont went off with an unyielding assertion that the man was a cad, no more and no less than a cad. Dick looked after him with a well-satisfied air; May fancied that opposition and the failure of others to understand intensified his satisfaction in his own discovery. But he grew mournful as he said to her, "I shan't have a chance with you now. You'll go with Marchmont of course. And I did want you to like him." "Mr. Marchmont doesn't control my opinions." They were very old friends; Dick allowed himself a significant smile. "I know what you mean," she said, smiling. "But it's nonsense. Besides, look at yourself and Amy! She hates him, and yet you----" "Oh, she's only half-serious, and Marchmont's in deadly earnest under that deuced languid manner of his. I tell you what, he's a very limited fellow, after all." May laughed; the limits were being turned to a new use now. "Awfully clever and well-read, but shut up inside a sort of compartment of life. Don't you know what I mean? He's always ridden first-class, and he won't believe there's anybody worth knowing in the thirds." "You think he's like that?" she asked thoughtfully. "You can see it for yourself. There's no better fellow, no better friend, but, hang it, an oyster's got a broader mind." "I like broad minds." "Then you'll like Quis----" "Absolutely you shan't mention that name again. Find mother for me and tell her to tell me that it's time to go home." Going home brought with it a discovery. May was considered to have invited the world to take notice of her preference for Marchmont. This fact was first conveyed to her by Lady Attlebridge's gently affectionate and congratulatory air; at this May was little more than amused. Evidence of greater significance lay in Fanny's demeanour; she came into her sister's room and talked for a while; before leaving, but after the ordinary kiss of goodnight, she came back suddenly and kissed her again; she said nothing, but the embrace was emphatic and eloquent. It seemed to the recipient to be forgiving also; it meant "I want you to be happy, don't imagine I think of anything else." If Fanny kissed her like that, it was because Fanny supposed that she had made up her mind to marry Weston Marchmont. She was fully conscious that the inference was not a strange one to draw from her conduct that evening. But now the mood of impulse was entirely gone; she considered the matter in a cool spirit, and her talk with Dick Benyon assumed unlooked-for importance in her deliberations. To marry Marchmont was a step entirely in harmony with the ideal which her family and the world had of her, which Marchmont himself most thoroughly and undoubtingly believed in. If she were really what she was supposed to be, the match would satisfy her as well as it would everybody else. But if she were quite different in her heart? In that case it might indeed be urged that no marriage would or could permanently satisfy her or the whole of her nature. This was likely enough; to see how often something of that kind happened it was, unfortunately, only necessary to run over ten or a dozen names which offered themselves promptly enough from the list of her acquaintance. Still to marry knowing you would not be satisfied was to drop below the common fate of marrying knowing that you might not be; it gave up the golden chance; it abandoned illusion just where illusion seemed most necessary. Oh for life, for the movement of life! It is perhaps hard to realise how often that cry breaks from the hearts of women. No doubt the aspiration it expresses is rather apt to end in antics, not edifying to the onlooker, hardly (it may be supposed) comforting to the performer. But the antics are one thing, the aspiration another, and they have the aspiration strongest who condemn and shun the antics. The matter may be stated very simply, at least if the form in which it presented itself to May Gaston in her twenty-third year be allowed to suffice. Most girls are bred in a cage, most girls expect to escape therefrom by marriage, most girls find that they have only walked into another cage. She had nothing to say, so far as her own case went, against the comfort either of the old or of the new cage; they were both indeed luxurious. But cages they were and such she knew them to be. Doubtless there must be limits, not only to the tolerance of Weston Marchmont and of society, but to everything else except infinity. But there are great expanses, wide spaces, short of infinity. When she walked out of her first cage, the one which her mother's careful fingers had kept locked on her, she would like not to walk into another, but to escape into some park or forest, not boundless, yet so large as to leave room for exploring, for the finding of new things, for speculation, for doubt, excitement, uncertainty, even for the presence of apprehension and the possibility of danger. As she surveyed the manner in which she was expected to pass her life, the manner in which she was supposed (she faced now the common interpretation of her conduct this evening) already to have elected to pass it, she felt as a speculator feels towards Consols, as a gambler towards threepenny whist. It seemed as though nothing could be good which did not also hold within it the potency of being very bad, as though certainty damned and chance alone had lures to offer. She would have liked to take life in her hand--however precious a thing, what use is it if you hoard it?--and see what she could make of it, what usury its free loan to fate and fortune would earn. She might lose it; youth made light of the risk. She might crawl back in sad plight; the Prodigal Son did not think of that when he set out. She found herself wishing she had nothing, that she might be free to start on the search for anything. Like Quisanté? Why, yes, just like Quisanté. Like that strange, intolerable, vulgar, attractive, intermittently inspired creature, who presented himself at life's roulette-table, not less various in his own person than were the varying turns he courted, unaccountable as chance, baffling as fate, changeable as luck. Indeed he was like life itself, a thing you loved and hated, grew weary of and embraced, shrank from and pursued. To see him then was in a way to look on at life, to be in contact with him was to feel the throb of its movement. In her midnight musings the man seemed somehow to cease to be odious because he ceased to be individual, to be no longer incomprehensible because he was no longer apart, because he became to her less himself and more the expression and impersonation of an instinct that in her own blood ran riot and held festivity. "I'm having moments, like Mr. Quisanté himself!" she said with a sudden laugh. CHAPTER III. SANDRO'S WAY. First to the City, then to the doctor, then to the House, then to the dinner of the Imperial League; this was Quisanté's programme for the second Wednesday in April. It promised a busy day. But of the doctor and the House he made light; the first was a formality, the second held out no prospect of excitement; the City and the dinner were the real things. They were connected with and must be made to promote the two aims which he had taken for his with perfect confidence. He wanted money and he wanted position; he saw no reason why he should not attain both in the fullest measure. Recent events had filled him with a sure and certain hope. Not allowing for the value of the good manners which he lacked, he failed to see that he excited any hostility or any distaste. Unless a man were downright rude to him, he counted him an adherent; this streak of a not unpleasing simplicity ran across his varied nature. He was far from being alive to his disadvantages; every hour assured him of his superiority. Most especially he counted on the aid and favour of women; the future might prove him right or wrong in his expectation; but he relied for its realisation not on the power which he did possess but on an accomplishment of manner and an insinuating fascination which he most absolutely lacked. The ultra-civility which repelled May Gaston was less a device than an exhibition; he embarked on it more because he thought he did it well than (as she supposed) from a desire to curry favour. He was ill-bred, but he was not mean; he was a vaunter but not a coward; he demanded adherence and did not beg alms. This was the attitude of his mind, but unhappily it was often apparently contradicted by the cringing of his body and the wheedling of his tongue. In attempting smoothness he fell into oiliness; where he aimed at polished brilliance, the result was blazing varnish. Had he known what to pray for, he would have supplicated heaven that he might meet eyes able to see the man beneath the ape. Such eyes, dimly penetrating with an unexpected vision, he had won to his side in the Benyon brothers; the rest of the world still stuck on the outside surface. But the brothers could only shield him, they could not change him; they might promote his fortunes, they could not cure his vices. He did not know that he had any vices; the first stage of amendment was still to come. He had a cousin in the City, a stock-jobber, who made and lost large sums of money as fortune smiled or frowned. Quisanté had the first five hundred of Aunt Maria's thousand pounds in his pocket and told his kinsman to use it for him. "A spec?" asked Mr. Josiah Mandeville. "Isn't that rather rough on Aunt Maria?" Quisanté looked surprised. "She gave it me, I haven't stolen it," he said with a laugh. "She gave it you to live on, to keep up your position, I suppose." "I don't think she made any conditions. And if I can make money, I'll give it back to her." "Oh, you know best, I suppose," said Mandeville. "Only if I lose it?" "Losing money's no worse than spending it." And then he mentioned a certain venture in which the money might usefully be employed. "How did you hear of that?" asked Mandeville with a stare; for his cousin had laid his finger on a secret, on the very secret which Mandeville had just decided not to reveal to him, kinsman though he was. "I forget; somebody said something about it that made me think it would be a good thing." Quisanté's tone was vaguely puzzled; he often knew things when he could give no account of his knowledge. "Well, you aren't far wrong. You'll take a small profit, I suppose? Shall I use my discretion?" "No," smiled Quisanté. "I shan't take a small profit, and I'll use mine. But keep me well informed and you shan't be a loser." Mr. Mandeville laughed. "One might think you had a million," he observed. "Or are you proposing to tip me a fiver?" The thought of his own thousands filled his tone with scorn; he did not do his speculating with Aunt Maria's money. "If you're too proud, I can take my business somewhere else--and the name of the concern too," said Quisanté, lighting a cigar. Cousin Mandeville's stare had not escaped his notice. Mandeville hesitated; he was very much annoyed; he liked his money, if not himself, to be respected. But business is business, to say nothing of blood being thicker than water. "Oh, well, I'll do it for you," he agreed with lofty benevolence. Quisanté laughed. He would have covered his own retreat with much the same device. The riches then were on the way; Quisanté had a far-seeing eye, and Aunt Maria's five hundred was to imagination already prolific of thousands. A hansom carried him up to Harley Street; he had been there three months before and had been told to come again in three weeks. The punishment for his neglect was a severe verdict. "No liquor, no tobacco, and three months' immediate and complete rest." Quisanté laughed--very much as he had at his kinsman in the City. Both doctor and stock-jobber showed such a curious ignorance of the conditions under which his life had to be lived and of his reasons for caring to live it. "What's the matter then?" he asked. The doctor became very technical, though not quite unreserved; the heart and the stomach were in some unholy conspiracy; this was as much as Quisanté really understood. "And if I don't do as you say?" he asked. The doctor smiled and shrugged his shoulders. "I shan't outlive Methuselah anyhow, I suppose?" "The present conditions of your life are very wearing," said the doctor. Quisanté looked at him thoughtfully. "But if you'd live wisely, there's no reason why you shouldn't preserve good health till an advanced age." Aunt Maria's five hundred, invested in Consols, would bring in twelve pounds ten shillings or thereabouts every year for ever. "Thank you," said Quisanté, rising and producing the fee. But he paused before going and said meditatively, "I should really like to be able to follow your advice, you know." His brow clouded in discontent; the one serious handicap he recognised was this arbitrary unfortunate doom of a body unequal to the necessary strain of an active life. "Anyhow I'm good for a little while?" he asked. "Dear me, you're in no sort of immediate danger, Mr. Quisanté, or I should be more imperative. Only pray give yourself a chance." On his way from Harley Street to the House, and again from the House to his own rooms in Pall Mall, his mind was busy with the speech that he was to make at the dinner. He had only to respond to the toast of the guests; few words and simple would be expected. He was thus the more resolved on a great effort; the surprise that the mere attempt at an oration would arouse should pave the way for the astonishment his triumph must create. He had no rival in the programme; the Chairman was Dick Benyon, the great gun an eminent Colonial Statesman who relied for fame on his deeds rather than his words. With his curiously minute calculation of chances Quisanté had discovered that there was no social occasion of great attraction to carry off his audience after dinner; they would stay and listen if he were worth listening to; the ladies in the gallery would stay too, if at the outset he could strike a note that would touch their hearts. This was his first really good chance, the first opening for such a _coup_ as he loved. His eyes were bright as he opened an atlas and verified with precision the exact position of the Colonial Statesman's Colony; he had known it before of course--roughly. Lady Richard had much affection in her nature and with it a fine spice of malice. The two ingredients combined to bring her to the gallery; she wished to please Dick, and she wished to be in a position to annoy him by deriding Quisanté. So there she sat looking down on the men through a haze of cigar-smoke which afflicted the ladies' noses and threatened seriously to affect their gowns. "They might give up their tobacco for one night," muttered a girl near her. "They'd much rather give us up, my dear," retorted a dowager who felt that she would be considered a small sacrifice and was not unwilling to make others think the same about themselves. By Lady Richard's side sat May Gaston. The time is happily gone by when any one is allowed even to assume indifference about the Empire, yet it may be doubted whether interest in the Empire had the chief share in moving her to accept Lady Richard's invitation. Nor did she want to hear Dick Benyon, nor the Colonial Statesman; quite openly she desired and expressed her desire to see what Quisanté would make of it. "How absurd!" said Lady Richard crossly. "Besides he's only got a few words to say." May smiled and glanced along the row of ladies. About ten places from her was a funny little old woman with an absurd false front of fair hair and a black silk gown cut in ancient fashion; her features showed vivid disgust at the atmosphere and she made frequent use of a large bottle of smelling-salts. Next to her, on the other side, was Mrs. Gellatly, who nodded and smiled effusively at May. "Who's the funny old woman?" May asked. Lady Richard looked round and made a constrained bow; the old lady smiled a little and sniffed the bottle again. "Oh, she's an aunt of the man's; come to hear him, I suppose. Oh, Dick's getting up." Amid polite attention and encouraging "Hear, hears" Dick made his way through a few appropriate sentences which his hearty sincerity redeemed from insignificance. The Colonial Statesman had a well-founded idea that the zeal of his audience outstripped its knowledge, and set himself to improve the latter rather than to inflame the former. His reward was a somewhat frigid reception. May noticed that old Miss Quisanté was dozing, and Lady Richard said that she wished she was at home in bed: Quisanté himself had assumed a smile of anticipation when the Statesman rose and preserved it unimpaired through the long course of the speech. The audience as a whole grew a little restless; while the next speaker addressed them, one or two men rose and slipped away unobtrusively. A quick frown and a sudden jerk of Quisanté's head betrayed his fear that more would go before he could lay his grip on them. "Why doesn't this man stop?" whispered May. "I suppose, my dear, he thinks he may as well put Mr. Quisanté off as long as possible," Lady Richard answered flippantly. Amid yawns, the laying down of burnt-out cigars, and glances at watches, Quisanté rose to make his reply. Aunt Maria was wide-awake now, looking down at her nephew with her sour smile; Lady Richard leant back resignedly. Quisanté pressed back his heavy smooth black hair, opened his wide thin-lipped mouth, and began with a courteous commonplace reference to those who shared with himself the honour of being guests that night. Ordinary as the frame-work was, there was a touch of originality in what he said; one or two men who had meant to go struck matches and lit fresh cigars. Dick Benyon looked up at the gallery and nodded to his wife. Then Quisanté seemed suddenly to increase his stature by an inch or two and to let loose his arms; his voice was still not loud, but every syllable fell with incisive distinctness on his listener's ears. An old Member of Parliament whispered to an elderly barrister, "He can speak anyhow," and got an assenting nod for answer. And he was looking as he had when he spoke of his Empress among women, as he had when he declared that the Spirit of God could not live and move in the grave-clothes of dead prophets. He was far away from the guests now, and he was far away from himself; it was another moment; he was possessed again. Dick looked up with a radiant triumphant smile, but his wife was frowning, and May Gaston sat with a face like a mask. "By Jove!" murmured the elderly barrister. The whole speech was short; perhaps it had been meant to be longer, but suddenly Quisanté's pale face turned paler still, he caught his hand to his side, he stopped for a moment, and stumbled over his words; than he recovered and, with his hand still on his side, raised his voice again. But the logical mind of the elderly barrister seemed to detect a lacuna in the reasoning; the speaker had skipped something and flown straight to his peroration. He gave it now in tones firm but slower than before, with a pause here and there, yet in the end summoning his forces to a last flood of impassioned words. Then he sat down, not straight, but falling just a little on one side and making a clutch at his neighbour's shoulder; and while they cheered he sat quite still with closed eyes and opened lips. "Has he fainted?" ran in a hushed whisper round the room; Dick Benyon sprang from his chair, a waiter was hurried off for brandy, and Lady Richard observed in her delicately scornful tones, "How extremely theatrical!" "Theatrical!" said May in a low indignant voice. "You don't suppose he's really fainting, my dear, do you? Oh, I've seen him do the same sort of thing once before!" An impulse carried May's eyes towards Miss Quisanté; the old lady was smiling composedly and sniffing her bottle. Her demeanour was in strong contrast to Mrs. Gellatly's almost tearful excitement. "He couldn't, he couldn't!" May moaned in horror. If the untrue suspicion entertained by Lady Richard and possibly shared by Miss Quisanté (the old lady's face was a riddle) spread at all to anybody else, the fault lay entirely at the sufferer's own door. He knew too well how real the attack had been; when the ladies mingled with the men to take tea and coffee, he was still suffering from its after-effects. But he treated the occurrence in so hopelessly wrong a way; he minced and smirked over it; he would not own to a straightforward physical illness, but preferred to hint at and even take credit for an exaggerated sensibility, as though he enhanced his own eloquence by pointing to the extraordinary exhaustion it produced. He must needs bring the frailty of his body to the front, not as an apology, but as an added claim to interest and a new title by which to win soft words, admiring looks, and sympathetic pressings from pretty hands. Who could blame Lady Richard for murmuring, "There, my dear, now you see!"? Who could wonder that Aunt Maria looked cynically indifferent? Was it strange that a good many people, without going to the length of declaring that the orator had suffered nothing at all, yet were inclined to think that he knew better than to waste, and quite well how to improve, the opportunity that a trifling fatigue or a passing touch of faintness gave him? "Knows how to fetch the women, doesn't he?" said somebody with a laugh. To be accused of that knowledge is not a passport to the admiration of men. Before May Gaston came near Quisanté himself, Jimmy Benyon seized on her and introduced her to Aunt Maria. In reply to politely expressed phrases of concern the old lady's shrewd eyes twinkled. "Sandro'll soon come round, if they let him alone," she said. The words were consistent with either view of the occurrence, but the tone inclined them to the side of uncharitableness. "Is he liable to such attacks?" May asked. "He's always been rather sickly," Miss Quisanté admitted grudgingly. "He's had a splendid triumph to-night. He was magnificent." "Sandro makes the most of a chance." May was surprised to find herself attracted to the dry old woman. Such an absence of feeling in regard to one who was her only relative and the hero of the evening might more naturally have aroused dislike; but Aunt Maria's coolness was funnily touched both by resignation and by humour; she mourned that things were as they were, but did not object to laughing at them. When immaculate Jimmy, a splendid type of the handsome dandified man about town, began to be enthusiastic over Quisanté, she looked up at him with a sneering kindly smile, seeming to ask, "How in the world do you come to be mixed up with Sandro?" When May expressed the hope that he would be more careful of himself Aunt Maria's smile said, "If you knew as much about him as I do, you'd take it quietly. It's Sandro's way." Yet side by side with all this was the utter absence of any surprise at his exhibition of power or at the triumph he had won; these she seemed to take as the merest matter of course. She knew Quisanté better than any living being knew him, and this was her attitude towards him. When they bade one another good-bye, May said that she was sure her mother would like to call on Miss Quisanté. "Come yourself," said the old lady abruptly; she at least showed no oiliness, no violence of varnish; they were not in the family, it seemed. The crowd grew thinner, but the diminished publicity brought no improvement to Quisanté's manner. He was with Lady Richard and the brothers now--May noticed that nephew and aunt had been content to exchange careless nods--and Lady Richard made him nearly his worst. He knew that she did not like him, but refused to accept the defeat; he plied her more and more freely with the airs and affectations that rendered him odious to her; he could not help thinking that by enough attention, enough deference, and enough of being interesting he must in the end conciliate her favour. When May joined the group, his manner appealed from her friend to her, bidding Lady Richard notice how much more responsive May was and how pleasant he was to those who were pleasant to him. May would have despised him utterly at that instant but for two things: she remembered his moments, and she perceived that all the time he was suffering and mastering severe, perhaps poignant, pain. But again, when she asked him how he was, he smirked and flourished, till Lady Richard turned away in disgust and even the brothers looked a little puzzled and distressed as they followed her to the buffet and ministered to her wants. "Sit down," said May, in a tone almost sharp. "No, sit at once, never mind whether I'm sitting or not." He obeyed her with an overdone gesture of protest, but his face showed relief. She got a chair for herself and sat down by him. "You spoke splendidly," she said, and hurried on, "No, no, don't thank me, don't tell me that you especially wished to please me, or that my approbation is your reward, or anything about beauty or bright eyes, or anything in the very least like that. It's all odious and I wonder why you--a man like you--should think it necessary to do it." Quisanté looked startled; he had been leaning back in apparent exhaustion, but now he sat up straight and prepared to speak, a conciliatory smile on his lips. "No, don't sit up, lean back. Don't talk, don't smile, don't be agreeable." She had begun to laugh at herself by now, but the laughter did not stop her. "You were ill, you were very ill, you looked almost dead, and you battled with it splendidly, and beat it splendidly, and went on and won. And then you must--Oh, why do you?" "Why do I do what?" he asked, quietly enough now, with a new look of puzzle and bewilderment in his eyes, although his set smile had not disappeared. "Why, go on as if there'd been nothing much really the matter, as if you'd had the vapours or the flutters, or something women have, or used to have when they were even sillier than they are." She laughed again, adding, "Really I was expecting Dick Benyon to propose to cut your stay-laces." The Benyons were coming back; if she had more to say, there was no time for it; yet she managed a whisper as she shook hands with him, her gesture still forbidding him to rise. Her face, a little flushed with colour, bent down towards his and her voice was eager as she whispered, "Good-night. Be simple, be yourself; it's worth while." Then courage failed and she hurried off with a confused nervous farewell to her friends. Her breath came quick as she lay back in the brougham and closed her eyes. Quisanté was tired and ill; he was unusually quiet in his parting talk with Lady Richard. Even she was sorry for him; and when pity entered little Lady Richard's heart it drove out all other emotions however strong, and routed all resolutions however well-founded. "You look dead-beat, you do indeed," she said. She turned to her husband. "Dick, Mr. Quisanté must come and spend a few quiet days with us in the country. Something'll happen to him, if he doesn't." Dick could hardly believe his ears, and was full of delighted gratitude; hitherto Lady Richard had been resolute that their country house at least should be sacred from Quisanté's feet. He took his wife's hand and pressed it as he joyfully seconded her invitation. Some of Quisanté's effusive politeness displayed itself again, but still he was subdued, and Lady Richard, full of her impulse of compassion, escaped without realising fully the enormity of the step into which it had tempted her. CHAPTER IV. HE'S COMING! Dick Benyon was a man of plentiful ideas, but he found great difficulty in conveying them to others and even in expressing them to himself. Jimmy, his faithful disciple, could not help him here, and indeed was too much ashamed of harbouring such things as ideas to be of any service as an apostle. All the ideas were not Dick's own; in the case of the Imperial League, for example, he merely floated on the top of the flood-tide of opinion, and even the Crusade, his other and dearer pre-occupation, was the fruit of the Dean of St. Neot's brain as much as or even more than of his own. The Dean never got the credit of having ideas at all, first because he did not look like it, being short, stout, ruddy, and apparently very fond of his dinner, secondly because he never talked of his ideas to women. Mrs. Baxter did not care about ideas and possibly the Dean generalised rashly. More probably, perhaps, he had contracted a prejudice against talking confidentially to women from observing the ways of some of his brethren; he had dropped remarks which favoured this explanation. Anyhow he lost not only the soil most fruitful for propagation, but also the surest road to a reputation. Of the idea of the Crusade he was particularly careful to talk to men only; women, he felt sure, would tell him it was superb, and his wish was to be confronted with its difficulties and its absurdities, to overcome this initial opposition only with a struggle, and to enlist his antagonist as a fellow-warrior; he had especial belief in the persuasiveness of converts. Unluckily, however, as a rule only the first part of the programme passed into fact; he got the absurdities and difficulties pointed out freely enough, the conversions hung fire. Dick Benyon was almost the sole instance of the triumphant carrying-out of the whole scheme; but though Dick could believe and work, and could make Jimmy believe and nearly make Jimmy work, he could not preach himself nor make Jimmy preach in tones commanding enough to engage the respect and attention of the world. Who could then? Dick had answered "Weston Marchmont;" the Dean shook his head confidently but wistfully; he would have liked but did not expect to find a convert there. Weston Marchmont made, as might be expected, the Great Refusal, although not in the impressive or striking manner which such a phrase may seem to imply. Twisting his claret glass in his long thin fingers, he observed with low-voiced suavity that in ecclesiastical matters, as doubtless in most others, he was behind the times; he was a loyal Establishment man and had every intention of remaining such, and for his own part he found it possible to reconcile the ultimate postulates of faith with the ultimate truths of science. As soon as ultimates came on the scene, the Dean felt that the game was up; the Crusade depended on an appeal to classes which must be reached, if they could be reached at all, by something far short of ultimates. Ultimates were for the few; one reason, among others, why Marchmont fondly affected them. Marchmont proceeded to remark that in his doubtless out-of-date view the best thing was to preserve the traditions and the traditional limits of Church work and Church influence. He did not say in so many words that the Church was a good servant but a bad master, yet Dick and the Dean gathered that this was his opinion, and that he would look with apprehension on any movement directed to bringing ecclesiastical pressure to bear on secular affairs. In all this he assumed politely that the Crusade could succeed, but the lift of his brows which accompanied the concession was very eloquent. "Then," he ended apologetically, "there's the danger of vulgarity. One puts up with that in politics, but I confess I shrink from it in religion." "What appeals to everybody is not necessarily vulgar," said the Dean. "Not necessarily," Marchmont agreed, with the emphasis on the second word. "But," he added, "it's almost of necessity untrue, and after all religion has to do with truth." He was getting near his ultimates again. There was a pause; then Marchmont laughed and said jokingly, "You'll have to go to the Radicals, Dick. They're the dogmatic party nowadays, and they'll be just as ready to manage your soul for you as they are your property." "That's just what I don't mean to do," said Dick obstinately. But he looked a little uncomfortable. It was important to preserve the attitude that fighting the Radicals was no part of the scheme of the Crusade. Marchmont smiled at the Dean across the table. "I love the Church, Mr. Dean," he said, "but I'm afraid of the churchmen." "Much what I feel about politics and politicians." "Then if churchmen are politicians too----?" Marchmont suggested; the Dean's laughter admitted a verbal defeat. But when Marchmont had gone he shook his head over him again, saying, "He'll not be great; he's much too sane." "He's too scrupulous," said Dick. The Dean protested with a smile. "I mean too fastidious," Dick added, correcting himself. "Yes, yes, too fastidious," agreed the Dean contentedly. "And when I said sane perhaps I rather meant cautious, unimaginative, and cold." Both felt the happier for the withdrawal of their hastily chosen epithets. This conversation had occurred in the early days of Dick's acquaintance with Alexander Quisanté, when, although already much taken with the man, he had a clearer view of what he was than enthusiasm allowed later on. Rejecting Marchmont, or rather acquiescing in Marchmont's refusal, on the ground of his excessive caution, his want of imagination, and his fastidiousness, he had hesitated to sound Quisanté in regard to the great project. It seemed to him impossible to regard his new friend as an ideal leader for this purpose; one reason is enough to indicate--the ideal leader should be absolutely unselfish by nature. By nature Quisanté was very far from that, and his circumstances were not such as to enable him to overcome the bent of his disposition; whatever else he was or might become, he would be self-seeking too, and it would be impossible ever to make him steadily and deliberately forgetful of himself. But as time went on, another way opened before Dick's eyes and was cautiously and tentatively hinted at to his confidant, the Dean. The Dean, having seen a little and heard much of Quisanté, was inclined to be encouraging. There were in him possibilities not to be found in Marchmont. He was not fastidious, he would not trouble himself or other people about ultimates, above all he could be fired with imagination. Once that was achieved, he would speak and seem as though he were all that the ideal leader ought to be, as though inspiration filled him; he would express what Dick could only feel and the Dean do no more than adumbrate; nay, in time, as he grew zealous in the cause, his self-interest and personal ambition would be conquered, or at least would be so blended and fused with the nobility of the cause as to lose any grossness or meanness which might be thought to characterise them in an uncompounded condition. All this might be achieved if only the great idea could be made to seem great enough and the potentialities which lay in its realisation invested with enough pomp and dignity. After all was not such a blend of things personal and things beyond and higher than the personal as much as could reasonably be expected from human beings, and adequate to the needs of a work-a-day world? "I don't want to be a bishop, but I do mean to stick to my deanery through thick and thin," said the Dean, smiling. Dick understood him to mean that allowance must be made for the personal element, and that a man might serve a cause very usefully without being prepared to go quite as far as the stake, or even the workhouse, for it; if this were not so, there would be less competition for places in State and Church. Such great schemes for causing right ideas to prevail in things spiritual and temporal and for placing the right men in the right positions to ensure this important result are material here only so far as they influence the career or illustrate the character of individuals. The Crusade did not perhaps do as much towards altering the face of the world, or even of this island, as it was intended to, but it had a considerable, if temporary, effect on current politics, and it appeared to Quisanté to be at once a fine conception and a notable opportunity; between these two aspects he did not, as Dick Benyon had foreseen, draw any very rigid line. To make the Church again a power with the masses; this done, to persuade the masses to use their power under the leadership of the Church; this done, to harmonise unimpaired liberty of conscience with a whole-hearted devotion to truth, and to devote both to ends which should unite the maximum of zeal for the Community with the minimum of political innovation, were aims which, if they were nothing else, might at least claim to be worthy to exercise the intellect of superior men and to inspire the eloquence of orators. That a set of people on the other side was professing to do the same things, with totally different and utterly wrong notions of the results to be obtained, afforded the whet of antagonism, and let in dialectic and partisanship as a seasoning to relieve the high severity of the main topic. Quisanté's personal relations with the Church had never been intimate; he was perhaps the better able to lay hold of its romantic and picturesque aspect. The Dean, for instance, was hampered and at times discouraged by a knowledge of details. Dick Benyon had to struggle against the family point of view as regarded the family livings. Quisanté came almost as a stranger, ready to be impressed, to take what suited him, to form the desired opinion and no other; if a legal metaphor may be allowed, to master what was in his brief, to use that to the full, and to know nothing to the contrary. The Empire was very well, but it was a crowded field; the new subject had advantages all its own and especial allurements. Yet Miss Quisanté laughed, as a man's relatives often will although the rest of the world is unimpeachably grave. For any person engaged in getting a complete view of Alexander Quisanté it was well to turn from Dick Benyon to Aunt Maria. So May Gaston found when she took the old woman at her word and went to see her, unaccompanied by Lady Attlebridge. She listened awhile to her caustic talk and then charged her roundly with not doing justice to her nephew. "Sandro's caught you too, has he?" was her hostess's immediate retort. "No, he hasn't caught me, as you call it, Miss Quisanté," said May, smiling. "I dislike a great deal in him." She paused before adding, "What's more, I've told him so." "He'll be very pleased at that." "He didn't seem to be." "I didn't say he was pleased, I said he would be," remarked Aunt Maria placidly. "No doubt you vexed him at the time, but when he's thought it over, he'll be flattered at your showing so much interest in him." "I shouldn't like him to take it like that," said May thoughtfully. "It's the true way to take it, though." "Well then, I suppose it is. Except that there's no reason why my interest should flatter anybody." She determined on an offensive movement against the sharp confident old lady. "All his faults are merely faults of bringing up. You brought him up; why didn't you bring him up better?" Miss Quisanté looked at her for several moments. "I didn't bring him up well, that's true enough," she said. "But, my dear, don't you run off with the idea that there's nothing wrong with Sandro except his manners." "That's exactly the idea I have about him," May persisted defiantly. "Ah!" sighed Aunt Maria resignedly. "Probably you'll never know him well enough to find out your mistake." Warnings pique curiosity as often as they arouse prudence. "I intend to know him much better if he'll let me," said May. "Oh, he'll let you." The old lady's gaze was very intent; she had by now made up her mind that this must be Sandro's Empress. Had she been omnipotent, she would at that moment have decreed that Sandro should never see his Empress again; she was quite clear that he and his Empress would not be good for one another. "I begin to hear them talking about him," she went on with a chuckle. "He's coming into fashion, he's to be the new man for a while. You London people love a new man just as you do a new craze. You're fine talkers too. I like your buzz. It's a great hum, hum, buzz, buzz. It turns some men's heads, but it only sharpens others' wits; it won't turn Sandro's head." "I'm glad you allow him some virtues." "Oh, if it's a virtue to look so straight forward to where you mean to get that nothing will turn your head away from it." "That's twisting your own words, Miss Quisanté. I don't think he's that sort of man at all; he isn't the least your--your iron adventurer. He's full of emotion, of feeling, of--well, almost of poetry. Oh, not always good poetry, I know. But how funny that I should be defending him and you attacking him; it would be much more natural the other way round." "I don't see that. I know him better than you do. Now he's to champion the Church--or some such nonsense! What's Sandro got to do with your Church? What does he care about it?" "He cared about his subject the other evening; you must admit that." "Oh, his subject! Yes, he cares about it while it's his subject." May laughed. "I want to take just one liberty, Miss Quisanté," she said. "May I? I want to tell you that I think you're a great deal more than half wrong about your nephew." "Even if I am, I'm right enough for practical purposes with the other part," said the obstinate old woman. She leant forward and spoke with a sudden bitter emphasis. "It's not all outside, he's wrong inside too." "It's too bad of you, oh, it really is," cried May indignantly. "You who ought to stand up for him and be his greatest friend!" "Oh, yes, I see! I've overshot my mark. I'm a blunderer." "Your mark? What mark? Why do you want to tell me about him at all?" "I don't," said Miss Quisanté, folding her hands in her lap and assuming an air of resolute reticence. But her eyes dwelt now with an imperfectly disguised kindness on the tall fair girl who pleaded for justice and saw no justice in the answers that she got. But the more Aunt Maria inclined to like May Gaston, the more determined was she not to palter with truth, the more determined to have no hand in giving the girl a false idea of Sandro. So far as lay in her power, Sandro's Empress should know the whole truth about Sandro. The buzz of London, to which Miss Quisanté referred as beginning to sound her nephew's name, revealed to the ear three tolerably distinct notes. There were the people who laughed and said the thing was no affair of theirs; this section was of course the largest, embracing all the naturally indifferent as well as the solid mass of the opposite political party. There were the people who were angry at Dick Benyon's interference and at his _protégé's_ impudence; in the ranks of these were most of Dick's political comrades, together with their wives and daughters. Here the resentment was at the idea that there was any vacancy, actual or prospective, which could not be filled perfectly well without the intrusion of such a person as Quisanté. Thirdly there was the small but gradually growing group which inclined to think that there was something in Dick's notions and a good deal in his friend's head. A reinforcement came no doubt from the persons who were naturally prone to love the new and took up Quisanté as a welcome change, as something odd, with a flavour of the unknown and just a dash of the mystery-man about him. The Quisanté-ites had undoubtedly something to say for themselves and something to show for their faith. Handicapped as he was by his sensational success at the Imperial League dinner, with its theatrical and faintly suspicious climax, Quisanté had begun well in the House. He broke away from his mentor's advice; Dick had been for more sensation, for storming the House; Quisanté rejected the idea and made a quiet, almost hesitating, entry on the scene. He displayed here a peculiarity which soon came to be remarked in him; on public occasions and in regard to public audiences he possessed a tact and a power of understanding the feelings of his company which entirely and even conspicuously failed him in private life. The House did not like being stormed, especially on the strength of an outside reputation; he addressed it modestly, bringing into play, however, resources with which he had not been credited--a touch of humour and a pretty turn of sarcasm. He knew his facts too, and disposed of contradictions with a Blue-book and a smile. The hypercritical were not silenced; Marchmont still found the smile oily, and his friends traced the humour to districts which they supposed to lie somewhere east of the London Hospital; but they were bound to admit sorrowfully that, although all this was true, it might not, under democratic institutions, prove fatal to a career. Dick Benyon was enthusiastic; he told his friend that he had scored absolutely off his own bat and that there was and could be no more question of help or obligation. He was rather surprised by a display of feeling on Quisanté's part which seemed to indicate almost an excess of gratitude; but Quisanté felt his foot on the ladder, and the wells of emotion were full to overflowing. Dick escaped in considerable embarrassment, telling himself that remarkable men could not be expected to behave just like other men, like his sort of man, but wishing they would. None the less he praised what he hardly liked, and the reputation of being a good friend was added to Quisanté's credentials. Lastly, but far from least in importance, a story went the rounds that a very great veteran, who had taken a keen interest in Weston Marchmont, and designated him for high place in a future not remote, had recently warned him, in apparent jest indeed but with unmistakable significance, that it would not do to take things too easily, or let a rival obtain too long a start. There was nobody of whom the Statesman could be supposed to be thinking, except the dark horse that Dick Benyon had brought into the betting--Alexander Quisanté! Such predictions from such quarters have no small power of self-verification; they predispose lesser men to a fatalistic acquiescence which smoothes the way of the prophecy. Marchmont, scorning the rival, was inclined to despise the dangers of the contest, but his supineness may have been in part due to the occupation of his mind by another interest. He had come to the conclusion that he wanted May Gaston for his wife and that she would accept his proposal. A few days before the Easter holidays began he betook himself to Lady Attlebridge's with the intention of settling the matter there and then. The purpose of his coming seemed to be divined; he was shown direct to May's own room, and found her there alone. She had been reading a letter and laid it down on a table by her; Marchmont could not help his eye catching the large printed address at the head of the sheet of paper, "Ashwood." Ashwood was Dick Benyon's country place. A moment later May explained the letter. "I've had a wail from Amy Benyon," she said. "She wants me to go to them for Easter and comfort her. Look what she writes: "You must come, dear. I must be helped through, I must have a refuge. How in the world I ever did such a thing I don't know! But I did and I can't help it now. He's coming! So you must come. We expect the Baxters and Mr. Morewood. But I want _you_."" "What has she done? Who's coming?" asked Marchmont. "Mr. Quisanté." He paused for a moment before he said, "You won't go, I suppose?" "I must go if Amy wants me as much as that. Besides--well, perhaps it'll be interesting." A chill fell on Marchmont, and its influence spread to his companion. Here at least he had hoped to be rid of Quisanté, to find a place where the man could not be met, and people to whom the man was as a friend impossible. May read his thoughts, but her purpose wavered. She liked him very much; that hot rebellious fit, which made her impatient of his limits, was not on her now. He had found her in a more reasonable normal mood, when his advantages pleaded hard for him, and the limits seemed figments of a disorderly transient fancy. Thus he had come happily, and success had been in the mood to kiss his standards. "I wonder you can endure the man in the same house with you," he said. She made no answer except to smile, and he spoke no more of Quisanté. To him it seemed that his enemy passed then and there from thought, as his name disappeared from the conversation. But his own words had raised difficulties and turned the smooth path rough. They had renewed something of the rebellious fit and given fresh life to the disorderly fancies. They had roused her ready apprehensive pride, her swift resentment at the idea of having her friends or her associates chosen for her. She would have said most sincerely then that Marchmont was far more to her in her heart than Quisanté was or could be, but neither from Marchmont nor from any man would she take orders to drop Quisanté. While he opened his tale of love, her fingers played with the invitation to Ashwood and her eyes rested on Lady Richard's despairing declaration of the inevitable--"He's coming!" He almost won her; his soft "Can you love me?" went very near her heart. She wanted to answer "Yes" and felt sure that it would be in reality a true response, and that happiness would wait on and reward the decisive word. But she was held back by an unconquerable indecision, a refusal (as it seemed) of her whole being to be committed to the pledge. She had not resented the confidence of his wooing--she had given him some cause to be confident; she pitied and even hated the distress into which her doubt threw him. Yet she could do no more than say "I don't know yet." He moved away from her. "You'd better go away and leave me altogether," she said. "I won't do that. I can't." "I can say nothing else--I don't know yet. You must give me time." "Ah, you mean 'yes'!" His voice grew assured again and joyful. She weighed the words in which she answered him. "No. If I meant yes, I'd say it. I wouldn't shilly-shally. I simply don't know yet." He left her and paced the length of the room, frowning. Her hesitation puzzled him; he failed to trace its origin and fretted against a barrier that he felt but could not see. She sat silent, looking at him in a distressed fashion and restlessly fingering Lady Richard's invitation. She was no less troubled than he and almost as puzzled; for the feeling that held her back even while she wanted to go forward was vague, formless, empty of anything definite enough to lay hold of and bring forward as the plea that justified her wavering. "I ought to say no, since I can't say yes. This isn't fair to you," she murmured. He protested that anything was better than no, and his protest was manifestly eager and sincere; but a touch of resentment could not be kept out of his voice. She should have a reason to give him, something he could combat, disprove, or ridicule; she gave him no opening, he could not answer an objection that she would not formulate. He pressed this on her and she made no attempt to defend herself, merely repeating that she could not say yes now. "I've lost you, I suppose, and no doubt I shall be very sorry," she said. At that he came up to her again. "You haven't lost me and you never will," he said. "I'll come to you again before long. I think you're strange to-day, not quite yourself, not quite the old May. It's as if something had got between us. Well, I'll wait till it gets out of the way again." Not so much his words as his voice and his eyes told her of a love deeper in him and stronger than she had given him credit for; he lived so much in repression and exercised so careful a guard over any display of feeling. She liked the repression no less than the feeling and was again drawn towards him. "I wish I could," she murmured. "Honestly, I wish I could." He pressed her no more; if he had, she might possibly at last have given a reluctant assent. That he would not have, even had it been in his power to gain it. "I'll come back--after the holidays," he said. She looked up and met his glance. "Yes, after the holidays," she repeated absently. "You go to Ashwood?" There was a pause before she answered. It came into her mind suddenly that it would have been strange to go to Ashwood as Weston Marchmont's promised wife. Why she could not quite tell; perhaps because such a position would set her very much outside of all that was being thought and talked of there, indeed in a quasi-antagonism to it. Anyhow the position would make her feel quite differently towards it all. "Yes," she answered at last, and mustered a laugh as she added, "I'm not so particular as you, you know. And Amy wants me." "I wish you always did what people want you to," said he, smiling. Their parting was in this lighter vein, although on his side still tender and on hers penitent. In both was a consciousness of not understanding, of being somehow apart, of an inexplicable difficulty in taking one another's point of view. The solution of sympathy, the break that May had talked of, made itself apparent again. In spite of self-reproaches, her strongest feeling, when she was left alone, was of joy that her freedom still was hers. CHAPTER V. WHIMSY-WHAMSIES. At Ashwood the sun was sinking after a bright April afternoon. Mrs. Baxter sat in a chair on the lawn and discoursed wisdom to May Gaston and Morewood. The rest of the party had gone for a walk to the top of what Lady Richard called "Duty Hill"; it was the excursion obligatory on all guests. "The real reason," remarked Mrs. Baxter, who was making a garment--she was under spiritual contract to make two a month--"why the Dean hasn't risen higher is because he always has some whimsy-whamsy in his head." "What are they? I never have 'em," said Morewood, relighting his pipe. "You never have anything else," said Mrs. Baxter in a brief but sufficient aside. "And, my dear," she continued to May, "what you want in a bishop is reliability." "The only thing I want in a bishop is absence," grunted Morewood. "Reliability?" murmured May, half assenting, half questioning. "Yes, my dear," said Mrs. Baxter, biting her thread. "Reliability. I shall finish this petticoat to-morrow unless I have to drive with Lady Richard. You don't want him to be original, or to do much, except his confirmations and so on, of course; but you do want to be sure that he won't fly out at something or somebody. Dan got a reputation for not being quite reliable. I don't know how, because I haven't time to go into his notions. But there it was. Somebody told the Prime Minister and he crossed out Dan's name and put in John Wentworth's." Morewood yawned obtrusively. "What a shame!" May murmured at random. "It's just the same with a husband," Mrs. Baxter observed. "Only it's rather more difficult to scratch out his name and put in John Wentworth's," Morewood suggested. May laughed. "But anyhow the Dean's a good husband, isn't he, Mrs. Baxter?" "Oh, yes, my dear. The same men very seldom fly out over notions and over women." Morewood raised himself to a sitting posture and observed solemnly, "The whole history of science, art, and literature contradicts that last observation." Mrs. Baxter looked at him for a brief moment and went on with the petticoat. May interpreted her look. "So much the worse for the whole history!" she laughed. But a moment later she went on, "I think I rather like whimsy-whamsies, though." "I should think you did," said Morewood. "A man ought to have a few," May suggested. "A sort of trimming to the leg of mutton? Only take care the mutton's there!" "Oh, not the mustard without the beef!" cried May. "Now there's Canon Grinling," said Mrs. Baxter. "That's the man I admire." "Pray tell us about him," urged Morewood. "He's content to preach in his turn and work his parish." "How much better than working his head!" "And he'll be a bishop--at least." "Is there anything worse?" growled Morewood disconsolately. Mrs. Baxter never became angry with him; she turned a fresh side of the petticoat, smiled sedately, and went on with her work. "We had whimsy-whamsies last night, hadn't we?" asked May. "I went to bed," said Morewood. "But Jenkins in the next parish, who has eight children, must take up with the Salvation Army. So there's an end of him," continued Mrs. Baxter. "Not that I pity him--only her." "They talked till two. I sat up, looking plainer and plainer every minute." "Who was talking?" "Oh, the Dean and Dick." She paused and added, "And later on Mr. Quisanté." "Quisanté grows more and more anomalous every day. It's monstrous of a man to defy one's power of judgment as he does." "Does he defy yours?" "Absolutely. And I hate it." "I rather like it. You know so well what most people are like in half-an-hour." "I'm splendidly forward," remarked Mrs. Baxter, "This isn't an April one. I've done them, and this is my first May." It was impossible not to applaud and sympathise, for it was no later than the 27th of April. The friendly task performed, Morewood went on, "You're friends again, aren't you?" "Well, partly. He spoke to me last night for almost the first time." "What was the quarrel?" "I told him his manners were bad; and he proved how right I was by getting into a temper." She was silent a moment. Morewood saw her smile and then frown in apparent vexation. Then she looked down at him suddenly and said, "But then--if you'd heard him last night!" "There it is again!" said Morewood. "That's what annoys me so. In common with most of mankind, I like to be able to label a man and put him in his compartment." "That's just what you can't do with Mr. Quisanté." A loud merry boyish laugh sounded from the shrubbery behind him. Then Lady Richard came out, attended by young Fred Wentworth, son of that John whose name had been put in when the Dean's was scratched out owing to a suspicion of whimsy-whamsies. Fred was a lively fellow, whose trinity of occupations consisted of shooting, polo, and flirting; they are set down in his own order of merit; by profession he was a soldier, and just now he adored Lady Richard hopelessly; he was tall, handsome, and no more steady than the sons of ordinary men. "We gave them the slip beautifully, didn't we?" he was asking in exultation. "Think they're still on the top of the hill, jawing, Lady Richard?" "I don't mind how long they stay there," she answered, as she came across to the group on the lawn, a dainty youthful little figure, in her white frock and straw hat. "And how have you three been amusing yourselves?" she inquired. "I declare my head aches, Fred," she complained. "Now is the Church to swallow the State, or the other way round, or are they to swallow one another, or what?" "Such a fine day too!" observed Mrs. Baxter. Morewood burst into a laugh. "To waste it on whimsy-whamsies!" cried May, joining in his mirth. She looked so handsome in her merriment that Fred's eyes dwelt on her for a moment, a new notion showing in their pleasant expanse of blue simplicity. But loyalty's the thing--and a pleasant thing too when Lady Richard stood for it. Besides May Gaston was rather serious as a rule and given to asking questions; she might be able to flirt though; she just might--if there had happened to be anybody for her to flirt with; he pitied her a little because there was not. "Mrs. Baxter," said Morewood suddenly, "have you ever thought what would happen if you stopped making petticoats?" She did not answer. "It illustrates," he went on, "the absurd importance we attach to ourselves. The race would get itself clothed somehow, even as Church and State will go on, although they fail to settle that question of the swallowing on the top of the hill." May alone was listening. "Don't you think it all makes any difference?" she asked in a low voice. "Not enough to stop enjoying one's self about, or to take any risks for." "I disbelieve you with my whole heart and soul; and, what's more, you don't believe yourself," she said. "To take risks is what we were given life for, I believe." "Whimsy-whamsies!" he jeered, jerking his thumb warningly towards Mrs. Baxter. To May it seemed curious how an utter absence of speculation and an honest engrossment in everyday cares, hopes, and duties appeared to produce an attitude of mind similar in many ways to that caused by an extensive survey of thought and a careful detachment of spirit from the pursuits of the vulgar. The expression was different; the man who was now so much in her thoughts, Weston Marchmont, would not have denounced whimsy-whamsies. He would have claimed an open mind and protested that he was ready to entertain every notion on its merits. But temper and taste led to the same end as ignorance and simplicity; the philosopher and the housewife met on a common ground of disapproval and disdain. Mrs. Baxter kept her house and made petticoats. Marchmont read his books, mixed with his world, and did his share in his obvious duty of governing the country. Misty dreams, great cloudy visions, vague ideals, were forsworn of both; they were all whimsy-whamsies, the hardly excusable occupation of an idle day in the country. Was such a coincidence of opinion conclusive? Perhaps. But then, as she had hinted to Morewood, what of life? Was it not conclusive as to the merits of that also? Suddenly Fred Wentworth's voice broke across her meditation. "If you asked me what I wanted," he said in a tone of great seriousness, "upon my honour I don't know what I should say, except another pony." He paused and added, "A real good 'un, you know, Lady Richard." You might trust in God in an almost Quietist fashion (nothing less was at the bottom of Mrs. Baxter's homely serenity), you might exhaust philosophy and the researches of the wise, or you might merely be in excellent health and spirits. Any of these three seemed enough to exclude that painful reaching out to dim unlikely possibilities which must in her mind henceforward be nicknamed whimsy-whamsies. But to May's temper the question about life came up again. She swayed between the opposing sides, as she had swayed between yes and no when Marchmont challenged her with his love. Lady Richard's verdict about Quisanté--she gave it with an air of laboured reasonableness--was that he proved worse on the whole than even she had anticipated. This pessimistic view was due in part to the constant and wearing difficulty of getting Fred Wentworth to be civil to him; yet May Gaston was half-inclined to fall in with it. The attitude of offence which he had at first maintained towards her was marked by peevishness, not by dignity, and when it was relaxed his old excessive politeness revived in full force. He had few 'moments' either; and the one reported to her with enthusiasm by Dick Benyon took place on Duty Hill while she was gossiping on the lawn. Disappointed in the half-conscious anticipation which had brought her to Ashwood, she began to veer towards the obvious, towards safety, and towards Weston Marchmont. He had allowed himself one letter, not urging her, but very gracefully and feelingly expressed. As she walked through the village, the telegraph-office tempted her; her life could be settled for sixpence, and there would be no need of further thought or trouble. She was again held back by a rather impalpable influence, by a vague unwillingness to cut herself off (as she would by such a step) from the mental stir which, beneath the apparent quiet of country-house life, permeated Ashwood. The stir was there, though it defied definition; it was not due to Dick or the Dean, though they shared in it; it was the mark of Quisanté's presence, the atmosphere he carried with him. She recognised this with a mixture of feelings; she was ashamed to dwell on his small faults in face of such a thing; she was afraid to find how strong his attraction grew in spite of the intolerable drawbacks. Wavering again, she could not decide whether his faults were fatal defects or trifling foibles. She saw that the Dean shared her doubts and her puzzle. He had a little trick, an involuntary and unconscious shake of the head which indicated, as her study of it told her, not a mere difference of opinion, but a sort of moral distaste for what was said; it reminded her of a dog shaking his coat to get rid of a splash of dirty water. She came to watch for it when Alexander Quisanté was talking, and to find that it agreed wonderfully well with the invisible movements of her own mind; it came when the man was petty, or facetious on untimely occasions, or when he betrayed blindness to the finer shades of right and wrong. But for all this the Dean did not give up Quisanté; for all this he and Dick Benyon clung to their scheme and to the man who was to carry it out. In her urgent desire for guidance she took the Dean for a walk and tried to draw out his innermost opinions. He showed some surprise at her interest. "He's the last man I should have thought you'd care to know about, Lady May," he said. "That can be only because you think me stupid," she retorted, smiling. "No! But I thought you'd be stopped _in limine_--on the threshold, you know." "I see the threshold; and, yes, I don't like it. But tell me about the house too." "I've not seen it all," smiled the Dean. "Well, to drop our metaphor, I think Mr. Quisanté has a wonderfully acute intellect." "Oh, yes, yes." "And hardly a wonderfully, but a rather noticeably, blunt conscience. Many men have, you'll say, I know. But most of the men we meet have substitutes." "Substitutes for conscience?" May laughed reprovingly at her companion. "Taste, tradition, the rules of society, what young men call 'good form.'" "Ah, yes. And he hasn't?" "His bringing up hasn't given them to him. He might learn them." "Who from?" "One would have hoped from our host, but I see no signs of it." The Dean paused, shaking his head "A woman might teach him." He paused again before adding with emphasis, "But I should be very sorry for her." "Why?" The brief question was asked with averted eyes. "Because the only woman who could do it must be the sort of woman who--whose teeth would be set on edge by him every day till the process--the quite uncertain process--was complete." "Yes, she'd have to be that," murmured May Gaston. "On the whole I think she'd have an unhappy life, and very likely fail. But I also think that it would be the only way." His round face broke again into its cheerful smile. "We shall have to make the best of him as he is, Lady May," he ended. "Heaven forbid that I should encourage any woman to the task!" "I certainly don't think you seem likely to," she said with a laugh. "It seems to come to this: his manners are bad and his morals are worse." "Yes, I think so." "But, as Dick Benyon would say, so were Napoleon's." "Exactly, and, as we know, Napoleon's wife was not to be envied." May Gaston was silent for a moment; then she said meditatively, "Oh, don't you think so?", and fell again into a long silence. The Dean did not break it; his thoughts had wandered from the hypothetical lady who was to redeem Quisanté to the realities of the great Crusade. There seemed to May something a little inhuman in the Dean's attitude, and indeed in the way in which everybody at Ashwood regarded Quisanté. Not even Dick Benyon was altogether free from this reproach, in spite of his enthusiasm and his resulting blindness to Quisanté's lesser, but not less galling, faults. Not even to Dick was he a real friend; none of them took him or offered to take him into their inner lives, or allowed him to share their deepest sympathies. Perhaps this was only to treat him as he deserved to be treated; if he asked nothing but a mutual usefulness and accommodation, that they should use him and he should rise by serving them, neither party was deceived and neither had any cause to complain. But if after all the man was like most men, if his chilly childhood and his lonely youth had left him with any desire for unreserved companionship, for true friendship, or for love, then to acquiesce in his bad manners and his worse morals, to be content (as the Dean said) to make the best of him--out of him would have been a more sincere form of expression--as he was, seemed in some sort cruelty; it was like growing rich out of the skill of your craftsmen and yet taking no interest in their happiness or welfare. It was to use him only as a means, and to be content in turn to be to him only a means; such a relative position excluded true human intercourse, and, it appeared to May, must intensify the faults from which it arose. Even here, in this house, Quisanté was almost a stranger; the rest were easy with one another, their presence was natural and came of itself; he alone was there for a purpose, came from outside, and required to be accounted for. If the talk with the Dean confirmed apprehensions already existing, on the other hand it raised a new force of sympathy and a fresh impulse to kindness. But the sympathy and the apprehensions could make no treaty; fierce war waged between them. That night the turn of events served Quisanté. He seemed ill and tired, yet he had flashes of brilliancy. Again it was made plain that, all said and done, his was the master mind there; even Lady Richard had to listen and Fred Wentworth to wonder unwillingly where the fellow got his notions. After dinner he talked to them, and they gave him all their ears until he chose to cease and sank back wearied in his chair. But then came the contrast. The Dean went to the library, Lady Richard strolled out of doors with Fred, Mrs. Baxter withdrew into seclusion with a novel and a petticoat, Dick Benyon asked May to walk in the garden with him, and when she refused went off to play billiards with Morewood. May had pleaded letters to write and sat down to the task. The man who a little while ago had been the centre of attention was left alone. He wandered about idly for a few moments, then dropped into a chair, seeming too tired to read, looking fretful, listless, solitary and sad. She watched him furtively for some time from behind the tall sides of the old-fashioned escritoire; he sat very still, stretched out, frowning, pale. Suddenly she rose and crossed the room. "It's too much trouble to write letters," she said. "Are you inclined for a stroll, Mr. Quisanté?" He sprang up, a sudden gleam darting into his eyes. She was afraid he would make some ornate speech, but perhaps he was startled into simplicity, perhaps only at a loss; he stammered out no more than "Thanks, very much," and followed her through the doorway on to the gravel-walk. For a little while she did not speak, then she said, "It's good of you to be friends with me again. I was very impertinent that night after your speech. I don't know what made me do it." He did not answer, and she turned to find his eyes fixed intently on her face. "We are friends again, aren't we?" she asked rather nervously; she knew that she risked a renewal of the flirtation, and if it were again what it had been her friendship could scarcely survive the trial. "I shouldn't have said it," she went on, "if I hadn't--I mean, if your speech hadn't seemed so great to me. But you forgive me, don't you?" "Oh yes, Lady May. I know pretty well what you think of me." His lips shut obstinately for a moment. "But I shall go my way and do my work all the same--good manners or bad, you know." "Those are very bad ones," she said, with a little laugh. Then she grew grave and went on imploringly, "Don't take it like that. You talk as if we--I don't mean myself, I mean all of us--were enemies, people you had to fight and beat. Don't think of us like that. We want to be your friends, indeed we do." "For whom are you speaking?" he asked in a low hard voice. She glanced at him. Had he divined the thought which the Dean's talk had put into her head? Did he feel himself a mere tool, always an outsider, in the end friendless? If he discerned this truth, no words of hers could throw his keen-scented mind off the track. She fell back on simple honesty, on the strength of a personal assurance and a personal appeal. "At any rate I speak for myself," she said. "I can answer for myself. I want to be friends." "In spite of my manners?" He was bitter and defiant still. "They grow worse every minute; and your morals are no better, I'm told." "I daresay not," said Quisanté with a short laugh. "Oh, say you won't be friends, if you don't want to! Be simple. There, I say it again. Be simple." Lady Richard's merry laugh rang through the garden, and a brusque "Damn it!" of Morewood's floated out from the open window of the billiard-room. There was an odd contrast to this cheerful levity in the man's pale drawn face as he looked into May Gaston's eyes. "Do you really mean what you say?" he asked. "Or are you only trying to be kind, to put me at my ease?" "It's nobody's fault but your own that you're not always at your ease," she replied. The rest she let pass; when she asked him to walk with her she had only been trying to be kind, and she had been fearful of what her kindness might entail on her. But things went well; he was not flirting and he was not acting; his manners, if still bad, were just now at least not borrowed, they were home-grown. "I am at my ease," he told her. "At least, I was till----" He hesitated, and then went on slowly, "Don't you suppose I've been thinking about what you said?" "I hope not; it wasn't worth it." "It was. But how can I change?" His voice had a touch of despair as well as of defiance. "I don't see what you mean; I don't feel what you mean. Yes, and you talk of morals too. Well, don't I know that every now and then I--I don't see those either?" He paused. "A man must get on as well as he can with what he's got," he resumed. "If he's only got one eye, he must learn to be sharper than other men in looking round." They walked on in silence for some way. His pride and his recognition of his defects, his defiance and his pleading for himself, combined to touch her heart, and she could not at the moment speak to him more about them. And to find all that so near the surface, so eager for utterance, ready to break out at the least encouragement, at the first sign of sympathy! For it had not come home to her yet that another might have spoken to him as she had, but found no response and opened the gates to no confidence; she had not guessed what Aunt Maria had about the Empress among women. "You're ill too," she said. "No, not for me," he answered. "I'm pretty well for me." "Are you never really well?" "My body's not much better than the other things. But I must use that too, as long as it'll last." There was no appeal for pity in his voice; defiance was still uppermost. May felt that she must not let him see that she pitied him, either for his bad body, or his bad manners, or his bad morals, or his want of friends. He thought he had as much to give as to receive. She smiled for a moment. But swift came the question--Was he wrong? But whether he were in fact right or wrong, it was harder to deal with him on the basis of this equality than to stoop to him in the mere friendliness of compassion. The compassion touched him only, to accept the equality was to make admissions about herself. He was very silent and quiet; this might be due to illness or fatigue. But he was also curiously free from tricks, simple, not exhibiting himself. These were the signs of one of his moments; but what brought about a moment now? A moment needed a great subject, a spur to his imagination, an appeal to his deep emotions, a theme, an ideal. The moments had not seemed to May things that would enter into or have any concern with private life and intimate talks; they belonged to Dick Benyon's dark horse, not to the mere man Alexander Quisanté. Or had she a little misunderstood the mere man? The thought crossed her mind that, even if she adopted this conclusion and contrived to come to a better understanding of him, it would be impossible to make the rest of the world, of the world in which she lived and to which she clung, see anything of what she saw. They would laugh if her new position were a passing whim; they would be scornful and angry if it were anything more. Suddenly Quisanté spoke. What he said was not free from consciousness of self, from that perpetual presence of self to self which is common enough in men of great ability and ambition, and yet never ceases to be a flaw; but he said it soberly enough; there were no flourishes. "You can't be half-friends with me," he said. "I must be taken as I am, good and bad. You must let me alone, or take me for better for worse." May smiled at the phrase he had happened on and its familiar associations--surely so out of place here. But she followed his meaning and appreciated his seriousness. She could answer him neither by an only half-sincere assurance that she was ready to be entire friends, nor yet by a joking evasion of his point. "Yes, I see: I expect that is so," she said in a troubled voice; it was so very hard to take him for worse, and it was rather hard to resolve to make no effort at taking him for better. She forced a laugh, as she said, "I'll think about it, Mr. Quisanté." As she spoke, she raised her eyes to his; a low, hardly audible exclamation escaped her lips before she was conscious of it. If ever a man spoke plainly without words what was in his soul, Quisanté spoke it then. She could not miss the meaning of his eyes; all unprepared as she was, it came home to her in a minute with a shock of wonder that forbade either pain or pleasure and seemed to leave her numb. Now she saw how truly she, no less than the others, had treated him as an outsider, as a tool, as something to be used, not as one of their own world. For she had never thought of his falling in love with her, and had never considered him in that point of view at all. Yet he had, and here lay the reason why he flirted no more, and why he would have her sympathy only on even terms. Here also, it seemed, was the reason why his tricks were forgotten, why he was simple and direct; here was the incitement to imagination, the ideal, the passion that had power to fire and purge his soul. "We must go in," she whispered in a shaking voice. "We must go in, Mr. Quisanté." CHAPTER VI. ON DUTY HILL. Another week had gone by, and, although nothing very palpable had happened, there was a sort of vague scare in the house-party. It touched everybody, affecting them in different ways according to their characters, but raising in all an indignant protest against a fact hardly credible and a danger scarcely to be named. Not even Mrs. Baxter, entrenched in placidity and petticoats, quite escaped its influence; even Morewood's cynical humour hesitated to play on a situation so unexpected, possibly so serious. Lady Richard's alarm was the most outspoken, and her dismay the most clamorous; yet perhaps in Dick Benyon himself was the strongest fear. For if that did happen which seemed to be happening beneath the incredulous gaze of their eyes, who but he was responsible, to whose account save his could the result be laid? He had brought the man into the circle, into the house, into the knowledge of his friends; but for him Quisanté might have been carving a career far away, or have given up any idea of one at all. More than this, Dick, seeking approval and sympathy, had looked round for open and intelligent souls who would share his interest, his hopes, and his enthusiasm, and on no soul had he spent more pains or built higher anticipations than May Gaston's. She was to sympathise, to share the hopes and to understand the enthusiasm. Had he not asked her to dinner, had he not brought her to the Imperial League banquet, had he not incited Lady Richard to have her at Ashwood? And now she spread this scare through the house; she outran the limits--all the reasonable limits--of interest, she did far more than ever he had asked of her, she cast reflections on his judgment by pushing it to extremes whither it had never been meant to stretch. She had been bidden to watch Alexander Quisanté, to admire his great moments, to see a future for him, and to applaud the discerning eye which had seen that future first. But who had bidden her make a friend of the man, take him into the inner circle, treat him as one who belonged to the group of her intimates, to the company of her equals and of those with whom she had grown up? Almost passionately Dick disclaimed the responsibility for this; with no less heat his wife forced it on him; relentlessly the course of events seemed to charge him with it. What would happen he did not know; none of them at Ashwood professed to know; they refused to forecast the worst. But what had actually happened was that Quisanté was undoubtedly in love with May Gaston, and that May Gaston was no less certainly wrapped up in Quisanté. The difference of terms was fondly clung to; and indeed she showed no signs of love as love is generally understood; she displayed only an open preference for his society and an engrossed interest in him. It was bad enough; who could tell when it might become worse? "I will buy with you, sell with you, talk with you, walk with you, and so following; but I will not eat with you, drink with you, nor pray with you." Allowing for difference of times and customs, that had been the attitude of all towards Quisanté; a caste-feeling, almost a race-feeling, dictated it and kept it alive and strong under all superficial alliance and outward friendliness. But May had seen the barrier only to throw it down in a passion of scorn for its narrowness and an impulse of indignation at its cruelty. If she had gone so far, he was bold who dared to say that she would not go farther, or would set a limit to her advance on the path that the rest of them had never trodden. "At any rate it shan't happen here," said Lady Richard. "I should never be able to look her mother in the face again." "It won't happen anywhere," Dick protested. "But you can't turn him out, you know." "I can't unless I absolutely literally do. He won't see that he isn't wanted." "No; and he may be excused if he thinks he is--by May Gaston at all events." The subject was one to be discussed between husbands and wives, Dick and Lady Richard, Mrs. Baxter and the Dean, rather than in any more public fashion, but the unexpressed thought pervaded every conversation, and was strongest when the presence of the persons concerned forbade even indirect reference. Once or twice Morewood broke into open comment to Lady Richard; he puzzled her rather, and did not console her at all. "I know why you object and how silly your grounds are," he said. "It's snobbery in you, you know. Now in me it's good sound sense. Because in the first place, if I were ten years younger, and ten times richer, and rather more of a man, I should like to marry her myself; and in the second place I'm not sure Quisanté hasn't forged, or isn't about to forge, a cheque for a million." "Don't talk about it," shuddered little Lady Richard. "She can't care for him, she can't, you know." "Certainly not, in the sentimental sense that you women attach to that very weak form of expression." "And I'm sure there's nothing else to tempt her." "You'll be laying down what does and doesn't tempt me next." "I've known her since she was a child." "There's nothing that produces so many false judgments of people." Lady Richard was far too prostrate to accept any challenge. "You do hate it as much as I do, don't you?" she implored. "Quite," said he with restrained intensity. "But if you ask me, I think she'll do it." A pause followed. "Fred Wentworth must have been waiting ever so long for me," Lady Richard murmured apologetically, though an apology to Morewood could not soothe Fred. Her thoughts were busy, and a resolve was forming in her mind. "I shall ask Mrs. Baxter to speak to her," she announced at last. "That'll be amusing if it's nothing else. I should like to be there." Mrs. Baxter was by no means unwilling to help. She was mother to a large family and had seen all her children creditably married; such matters lay well within the sphere of legitimate feminine activity as she conceived it. Of course the Dean told her she had better leave the thing alone, but it was evident that this was no more than a disclaimer of responsibility in case her efforts did more harm than good. Mrs. Baxter advanced on approved and traditional lines. She slid into the special topic from a general survey of matrimonial desirability; May did not shy, but seemed ready to listen. Mrs. Baxter ignored the possibility of any serious purpose on May's side and pointed out with motherly gentleness that her impulsive interest in Quisanté might possibly be misunderstood by him and give rise to an idea absolutely remote from any which it was May's intention to arouse. Then she would give pain; wouldn't it be better gradually, not roughly or rudely but by slow degrees, to diminish the time she spent with Quisanté and the attention she bestowed on him? Mrs. Baxter's remonstrance, if somewhat conventional, yet was artistic in its way. But May Gaston laughed; it was all very familiar, sounded very old, and was ludicrously wide of the mark. She had not been careless, she had not suffered from the dangerous stupidity of ultra-maidenly blindness, she knew quite well how Quisanté felt. Accordingly she would not acquiesce in Mrs. Baxter's diplomatic ignoring of the only material point--how she felt herself. Of course if all Mrs. Baxter meant to convey was her own disapproval of the idea,--well, she conveyed so much. But then nobody needed to be told of that; it was quite obvious and it was not important; it was an insignificant atom in the great inevitable mass of disapproval which any marked liking for Quisanté (May shrank from even thinking of stronger terms) must arouse. She had far too much understanding of the disapproval and far too much sympathy with it to underrate the probable extent and depth of it; to a half of herself she was with it, heart and soul; to a half of herself the impulse that drove her towards Quisanté was something hardly rational and wholly repulsive. What purpose, then, did Mrs. Baxter's traditional motherliness serve? There was one person with whom she wished to talk, who might, she thought, help her to understand herself and thus to guide her steps. For every day it became more and more obvious that the matter would have to be faced and ended one way or the other. Quisanté was not patient, and he would not be dealt with by way of favour. And she herself was in a turmoil and a contradiction of feeling which she summed up antithetically by declaring that she disliked him more every hour he was there and missed him more every hour he was not; or, to adopt the Dean's metaphor, his presence set her teeth on edge and his absence made her feel as if she had nothing to eat. Morewood might help her; he would at least understand something of how she felt, if she could summon up courage to talk to him; they were old friends. One afternoon Quisanté had been sitting with them on the lawn and, going off to walk with Dick, left them alone together. Quisanté had not been in a happy vein; he had been trying to be light and flippant, and gossiping about people; here, where good taste makes the whole difference between what is acceptable and what is odious, was not the field for him. Morewood had growled and May had flinched several times. She sat looking after Quisanté with troubled puzzled eyes. "How funnily people are mixed!" she murmured, more to herself than her companion. Then she turned to him and said with a laugh, "How you hate him, don't you?" "By all the nature of things you ought to hate him much more." "Yes," she agreed. "But do you think that's the only way to look at people, any more than it is at books? You like or dislike a novel, perhaps; but you don't like or dislike--oh, what shall I say? Gibbon's Roman Empire. There you admire or don't admire; or rather you study or neglect; because, if you study, you must admire. Don't think me learned; it's only an illustration." "Gibbon's a duty," said Morewood, "but I'm not clear that Alexander Quisanté is." "Oh, no; exactly the opposite; for me at least." "Is he then a curriculum?" "He's partly a curriculum, and partly--I don't know--a taste for strong drink perhaps." She laughed reluctantly, adding, "I'm being absurd, I know." "In talk or in conduct?" "Both, Mr. Morewood. I can only see him in metaphors. I once thought of him as a mountain range; that's fine-sounding and dignified, isn't it? But now I'm humbler in my fancies; I think of him as a forest--as the bush, you know, full of wretched underwood that you keep tumbling over, but with splendid trees (I don't know whether there are in the bush, really) and every now and then a beautiful open space or a stately vista." "From all this riot of your fancy," said Morewood grimly, "one only thing emerges quite plainly." "Does even one thing?" "Yes. That you think about Quisanté a mighty lot." "Oh, yes. Of course I do, a mighty lot," she admitted, laughing. "But you aren't very much more useful than Mrs. Baxter, who told me that my innocent heedlessness might give Mr. Quisanté pain. I oughtn't to have told you that, but it was rather funny. I'm sure she's said it to all the Baxter girls in turn, and about all the girls that all the Baxter boys were ever in love with." "Possibly Mrs. Baxter only perceives the wretched underwood." "Inevitably," said May. "For heaven's sake don't drift into thinking that you're the only person who can understand him. Once think that about anybody and you're his slave." "Perhaps I'm the only person who takes the trouble. I don't claim genius, only diligence." "Well, you're very diligent," Morewood grunted. She sat looking straight in front of her for a few moments in silence, while Morewood admired the curve of her chin and the moulding of her throat. "I feel," she said in a low voice and slowly, "as if I must see what becomes of him and as if it ought to be seen at close quarters." Then Morewood spoke with deliberate plainness. "You know better than I do that he's not of your class; I mean in himself, not merely where he happens to come from. And for my part I'm not sure that he's an honest man, and I don't think he's a high-minded one." "Do you believe people are bound to be always just what they are now?" she asked. "Thinking you can improve them is the one thing more dangerous to yourself than thinking you've a special gift for understanding them. To be quite plain, both generally end in love-affairs and, what's more, unhappy love-affairs." "Oh, I'm not in love with Mr. Quisanté. You're going back to your narrow loving-hating theory." "Hum. I'm inclined to think that nature shares my narrowness." If May got small comfort from this conversation, Morewood got less, and the rest of the party, judging from what he let drop about his impressions of May's state of mind, none at all. Lady Richard was of opinion that a crisis approached and re-echoed her cry, "Not here anyhow!" But Quisanté's demeanour at once confirmed her fears and ignored her protest. He had many faults and weaknesses, but he was not the man to shrink from a big stake and a great throw. His confidence in his powers was the higher owing to his blindness to his defects. May Gaston had indeed opened his eyes to some degree, but here again, as she showed him continued favour, he found good excuse for dwelling on the interest which inspired rather than on the frankness which characterised her utterance. She had bidden him be himself; then to her that was a thing worth being. As he believed himself able to conquer all external obstacles in his path, so he vaguely supposed that he could overcome and obliterate anything there might be wrong in himself, or at any rate that he could so outweigh it by a more prodigal display of his gifts as to reduce it to utter insignificance; try as he might to see him self as she saw him, he could not fully understand the gravity of her objections. And anyhow, grave as she thought them, she was his friend; at the cost of defying, perhaps of losing, her friends, she elected to be his friend. To the appeal of this generosity his emotions responded passionately; now he worshipped his Empress among women for more than her grace, her stateliness, or her beauty; he loved her for her courage and her loyalty. There seemed nothing that he would not do for her; it did not, however, occur to him that perhaps the one thing he could do for her was to leave her. But short of this self-sacrifice--and to that even he might have risen had anyone pointed him the way--he was in just that state of exalted feeling which made him at his best, cured him of his tricks for the time being, and gave him the simplicity whose absence marred his ordinary hours. He always rose to the occasion, Dick Benyon maintained; and to this great occasion he came marvellously near to rising. This is not to say that he was altogether in the temper of a hero of romance. He loved the lady, but he loved the victory too, the report of it, the _éclat_, the talk it would make. The tendency of events might seem to justify his growing hopes and almost to excuse confidence, but May's mood, had he seen it fully, would have rebuked him. She hung doubtful. She had succeeded, by the help of her far-fetched metaphors, in describing to Morewood the nature of the attraction which Quisanté exercised over her and of the force which drew her on; but to Morewood she had said nothing of the opposing influences. She had sent no letter to Marchmont, she had not yet refused to become his wife. Although she recognised the unfairness of this treatment of him she could not compel her hand to the writing of the letter; for Marchmont came to personify to her all that she lost, that at least she risked, if she yielded to her new impulse. Thus the hold which her liking for him, their old acquaintance, and all the obvious advantages gave him was further strengthened. Leaving on one side his position and the excellence of the match, things which now seemed to her less important, and coming to the more intimate and personal aspect of the matter, she realised with a pang how much Marchmont pleased her; he never offended her taste or jarred on her feelings; she would be absolutely safe with him, he would gratify almost every mood and satisfy almost every aspiration. Dealing very plainly with herself, formulating the question that she could not put to Morewood, she asked whether she would not rather go as a wife to Marchmont than to any other man she had met, whether Quisanté or another. She had been, perhaps still was, more nearly in love with Weston Marchmont than with anybody else. But the "almosts" were obstinate; the nearly had never become the quite; she did not tell herself that it never could; on the contrary she recognised (though here she was inclined to shirk the probe) that if she married another, she might well awake to find herself loving Marchmont; she knew that she would not like Marchmont to love another woman. So far she carried her inquiry: then she grew in a way sick and disgusted with this exposure of her inmost feelings. She would not proceed to ask why precisely she could not say yes to Marchmont without being sensible of a loss greater than the gain. All she knew was that she would not think of becoming Quisanté's wife if that were not the only way of getting all she wanted from Quisanté. The wifehood she looked on as a means to something else, to what she could hardly say; in itself she did not desire it. Lady Richard's prayer was answered--no thanks to herself or her hints, no thanks either to Mrs. Baxter's motherly remonstrance or to Morewood's blunt speech. It was May herself who sent Quisanté away. A thrill of relief ran round the table when he announced at dinner that if Lady Richard would excuse him he would leave by the early train. Excuse him! She would have hired a balloon to take him if he had declared a preference for that form of locomotion. But she expressed the proper regret and the proper interest in the reason (the pretext she called it in her own mind) for his departure. It appeared that a very large and important Meeting was to be held at Manchester; two Cabinet ministers were to be there; Quisanté was invited to be the third speaker. He explained that he felt it would be a mistake to refuse the invitation, and the acceptance of it entailed a quiet day or two in London with his Blue-books and his papers. As he put it, the whole thing sounded like an excuse; Lady Richard hoped that it covered a retreat and that the retreat was after a decisive repulse from May Gaston. Even Dick was half inclined to share this opinion; for although he knew how a chance of shining with, and perhaps of outshining, such luminaries as were to adorn the Manchester platform would appeal to his friend, he did not think that for its sake Quisanté would abandon any prospect of success in his suit. In fact the impression was general, and the relief proportionate. The Dean beamed and Mrs. Baxter purred; Morewood was good-natured, and Fred Wentworth was lightened of a burden of bewilderment which had pressed heavily on his youthful mind. Quisanté was treated with a marked access of cordiality, and May was petted like a child who has displayed a strong inclination to be naughty, but has at last made up its mind to be good, and thereby saved those responsible for its moral welfare from the disagreeable necessity of showing displeasure and exercising discipline. She smiled to herself at the effusive affection with which Lady Richard bade her good-night. For these people did not know the history, and had not been present at the interview between May and Quisanté on Duty Hill when the sun was sinking and the air was still. They did not know that it was by her command that he went and that his going rather strengthened than relaxed the bond there was between them. Always there stood out in her memory the scene on the hill, how he faced her there and told her that, great as the chance was and imperative as the call, yet he would not go; he could not leave her, he said, and then and there poured out his love for her. When he made love, he was not as when he flirted. Passion purged him; he was strong, direct, and simple; he was consumed then by what he felt and had no time to spoil the effect by asking what impression he made on others. Here was the thing that Marchmont could not give her, the great moment, the thrill, the sense of a power in the man which she had not measured, might spend her life in seeking to measure, and yet never to the end know in its fulness. But she answered not a word to his love-making, she neither accepted nor refused it; as often as he paused an instant and again when he came to the end, she had nothing to say or would say nothing except, "You must go." "You're the only person in the world for whose sake I would hesitate about going." She smiled. "That's not at all to your credit," she said; but she was not ill pleased. He came a step nearer to her and said, still soberly, still quietly, "I'll go away from here to-morrow." "Yes, to the meeting," she said, looking up at him brightly from her seat on the wooden bench on the hill-top. "Away from here," he repeated. "But not to the meeting unless you send me." Then he stood quite still opposite to her for a minute. "Because unless you care for me to do it, I don't care to do it," he went on. A long silence followed as she sat there, looking past him down into the rich valley that spread from the foot of the hill. The fascination was strong on her, the fear was strong on her too; but for the moment the repulsion was forgotten. For he had risen to the occasion, as Dick Benyon maintained that he always did; not a word too much, not an entreaty too extravagant, not an epithet too florid had found passage from his lips. His instinct of the way to treat a great and important situation had saved him and brought him triumphantly through all the perils. He did not ignore what he was, he did not disguise his knowledge of his powers; knowing what they were and the value of his offering, he laid them all at her feet and asked in return no more than her leave and her command to use them. She raised her eyes to his pale eager face. "I send you then," she said. "And now walk with me down the hill and tell me what you'll say at Manchester." That night, before she went to bed, she wrote to Weston Marchmont; "Dear Friend,--I will not wait to see you again. I can't do what you wish. Everything else I could do for you, and everything else that you wish I wish for you. But I can't do that." Alas for the renewed peace of Lady Richard's mind, alas for the returning quiet of Dick Benyon's conscience! Quisanté made his preparations for going with his eyes all agleam, murmuring again and again, "She sends me; she shall see what I'm worth." For one of his great moments had come in the nick of time and done a work that he himself, low as he might now and again fall, could hardly quite undo. CHAPTER VII. ADVICE FROM AUNT MARIA. The two Cabinet Ministers brought back from Manchester different accounts of Quisanté's speech and its effects. One said it was frothy rhetoric heard in puzzled lethargy, the other that it was genuine eloquence received with the hush of profound attention, but hailed at the end with rapturous enthusiasm. This was a typical case of the division of opinion which began to prevail about Quisanté, and was not disposed of by observing that the unfavourable Minister belonged to that "old gang" which it was Quisanté's mission to shake up or shake out. Rich in merits, his speeches were nevertheless faulty to a critical ear; the ornate was apt to turn to the gaudy, the dignified to the pompous. To the critical, defects outweigh merits; but the mass of people, not being critical, fix on the fine things, contentedly and perhaps not unwisely ignoring the blemishes. So the speech was a great popular success, and Alexander Quisanté conceived that he had more than justified his reputation and had ornamented his Lady's colours with the laurel of victory. He wrote to her to say that he was staying a few days in Lancashire and had arranged to speak at one or two other places. "If I do at all well," he wrote, "it is because I forget my audience and think that I speak only to you and to earn the praise of your eyes." "Oh, dear, why does he talk like that?" said May Gaston with a sigh and a smile. "Forget his audience! The praise of my eyes!" She read the compliment over again almost despairingly. "Yet he doesn't really think me an idiot," she ended. She had made up her mind to forgive him his habit of playing to the gallery, but he need not treat her as though she sat there. She felt able to understand the dumb and bewildered reproach which fronted her in her sister Fanny's face, but found spoken expression only in the news that Fanny had had a letter from Lady Richard. The next day she went to see Miss Quisanté; the paying of this visit had been in her mind from the first moment she left Ashwood. In the little flat's narrow passage she had to squeeze by a short, stout, dark man, dressed with much elaboration; Miss Quisanté explained afterwards that he was a sort of cousin of her own and Sandro's. "His name is Mandeville," she said. "His father's was Isaacs. You knew we had Jewish relations?" "I thought it not improbable." "I suppose we've got some of the blood, and some of it's a very good thing," pursued Aunt Maria. "This man's a stock-jobber; he came to talk to me about my money, but he let out a thing or two about Sandro." "About Mr. Quisanté?" "Yes. Well, I'm not surprised; I never am surprised at Sandro. Only if he speculates with my money I shan't give it him." May listened and heard how Quisanté had embarked the five hundred pounds given him to support his new position in a hazardous, although not unpromising, speculation. Whether he would win or lose was still uncertain; Mandeville had hopes. "And I don't know that it's exactly dishonest," said Aunt Maria meditatively. "But that's just like Sandro. He's always doing things that you can't be quite sure about--whether they're straight or not, you know. He was just the same as a boy." May had a sense of treachery in listening, but how should she not listen? Morewood's opinion came into her memory. Miss Quisanté was confirming it out of her full acquaintance with its subject. "I gave him the money, it was his own, I've got nothing to show," said Miss Quisanté with her vinegary little smile. "Perhaps he--he misunderstood what you meant; I mean, that you intended the money for any special purpose." "That's exactly what he'll say," remarked Aunt Maria with a triumphant nod. "But if it's true----" "I shan't know whether it's true or not. That's where Sandro's cleverness comes in." It was hard to realise that the old lady talked of the man whom her hearer had seen on Duty Hill. "I'm sure you don't do him justice." The plea sounded weak even to its utterer. "To an ounce," said Aunt Maria emphatically. May laughed. "I lived with him for twelve years, and I'm not a fool any more than he is. If you ask him about me, you'll get the truth, and you get it when you ask me about him. After twelve years I ought to know." "You've read his speech?" May asked. "Isn't it magnificent, parts of it anyhow?" "Very few men have a brain like Sandro's." "There I agree with you, Miss Quisanté." But May's face was troubled as she added, a moment later, "He ought to give you back your money, though." "He will, if he makes a lot out of it, and he'll give me a nice present too. Then he'll feel that he's acted quite properly all through. And if he loses it--well, as I say, he's got his case, and I can't prove anything." "Men like him are often careless about money affairs. It's only that, I expect." "Careless! Sandro careless! Oh, dear me, no." and for once Miss Quisanté laughed heartily. The beads on her cap shook as her dumpy little form swayed gently with mirth; she looked impishly delighted at such a misconception of her nephew's character. May felt very foolish, but could not help laughing herself. "Well, I won't plead his cause any more," she said. "Only I believe you're prejudiced." She paused, and then, looking the old woman in the face, added, "I ought to tell you that he and I have become great friends." Miss Quisanté had stopped laughing; now she made a gesture which seemed to indicate that she washed her hands of any responsibility. But she appeared fretful and disturbed. "I'm immensely impressed by him; and I think these faults you talk so much about are only superficial. They can't really belong to his nature when so much that's fine does." Her voice shook a little as she implored a merciful judgment from the relentless old lady. Aunt Maria's shrewd eyes grew softer. "I used to say that to myself for ever so long," she said. "I catch myself saying it now and then even now." "You're disappointed at not--not getting on better with him, and it makes you bitter." "And you? You get on very well with him?" "I don't think I'm blind about him. I see what you mean and what a lot of people feel. If there is a pit, I've walked into it open-eyed." "He's in love with you, of course?" A denial was hardly worth while and quite useless. "You must ask him that, Miss Quisanté," May replied. Aunt Maria nodded and gazed at her long and steadily. "Yes, you're his Empress among women," she said at last with a little sneer. "Sandro has a phrase for everything and everybody. And are you in love with him?" May had wanted to come to close quarters and was glad that Aunt Maria gave her a lead. But she did not return a direct answer to the question. "You wouldn't be encouraging, if I were thinking of becoming his wife." "It would be very extraordinary that you should." "I've no particular desire to be ordinary," said May, smiling. Miss Quisanté leant forward suddenly and held up a short forefinger. "My dear, you'd be very unhappy," she said. Then she leant back again and received in complete stillness May's meditative gaze. "In a good many ways perhaps I should," said May at last with a sigh, and her brow puckered with wrinkles. "Yes, I suppose so," she sighed again. "But I know what it is. You've let yourself get interested in Sandro; you've let him lay hold of you." May nodded. "And it would seem rather dull now to lose him?" Again May nodded, laughing a little. Aunt Maria understood her feelings very well, it seemed. "I should be dull too if I lost him." The old lady folded her hands in her lap. "There is that about Sandro," she said with a touch of pride in her voice. "I don't like him; well, you've gathered that perhaps; but if anything happened to him, I should feel I might as well lie down and die. Of course I've got nobody else belonging to me; you're not like that." Again the forefinger was raised in admonition, and Miss Quisanté gave a piece of practical advice. "Marry a nice man of your own sort, my dear, and when you're safely married, be as much interested in Sandro as you like." May was not quite sure of the morality of this counsel; it seemed possible that Aunt Maria shared the vagueness about right and wrong which she quarrelled with in her nephew. She laughed as she said, "But then Mr. Quisanté would marry some other woman, and she mightn't like it. And my nice husband mightn't like it." It was possible to discuss the matter far more frankly with Miss Quisanté than with anybody else, yet the talk with her was only the first of several in which May tried to glean what would be thought of such a step as marrying Alexander Quisanté. Almost everywhere she found, not only the lack of encouragement which Aunt Maria had shown, but an amazement hardly distinguishable from horror and an utter failure to understand her point of view; her care to conceal any personal interest in the discussions she found means to bring about gained her very candid expressions of opinion about Quisanté, and she became aware that her world would regard her as something like a lunatic if it awoke one morning to read of her engagement to the man. Yet side by side with this feeling there was a great and a growing expectancy with regard to him in his public aspect. He began to be a figure, somebody of whom account would have to be taken; Dick Benyon's infatuation was less often mentioned, his sagacity more often praised. May was struck again with the sharp line drawn between the man himself, and what he was to do, with the way in which everybody proposed to invite him to his house, but nobody contemplated admitting him to his heart. The inhumanity made her angry again, but she was alone in perceiving it; and she was half-aware that her perception of it would be far keener than Quisanté's own. In fact it was very doubtful if he asked any more of the world than what the world was prepared to give him. But that, said May, was not because he lacked the power and the desire of love, but because his affections were withered by neglect or rusty from disuse. She knew well that they were there and would expand under the influence of sympathy. If people grew human towards him, he would respond in kind; in hitting on this idea she commended herself for a sagacity in questions of emotion not less than that which Dick Benyon had shown in matters of the intellect. Dick had discovered Quisanté, as he thought; May told herself that he had discovered only half of Quisanté, and that the other half had been left for her to explore, and to reveal to the world. The effect of her various conversations was rather to confirm her in her inclination towards Quisanté than to frighten her out of it. There was one talk which she could not escape and had to face with what resolution she might. Weston Marchmont was not content with the brief dismissal which had reached him from Ashwood, and he was amazed beyond understanding at the hint of its cause which Dick Benyon had given him. He had no doubt some reason to think himself ill-used, but he was not inclined to press that side of the case. It was not his own failure so much as the threatened success of such a rival that staggered and horrified him. Few are wide-minded enough to feel a friendship quite untouched and unimpaired when their friend takes into equal intimacy a third person for whom they themselves entertain aversion or contempt; at the best they see in such conduct an unexpected failure of discernment; very often they detect in it evidence of a startling coarseness of feeling, an insensibility, and a grossness of taste difficult to tolerate in one to whom they have given their affection. Marchmont felt that, if May Gaston wronged him, she was wronging far more herself, and most of all his ideal of her. He could not believe such a thing of her without her own plain assurance, and would not suffer it until every effort to redeem and rescue her was exhausted. "You don't mean," he said at last openly and bluntly to Dick Benyon, "that you think it's possible she'll marry him?" "I do, quite," groaned poor Dick. "You can imagine how I feel about it; and if I didn't see it myself, Amy would soon let me know it." Marchmont said no more, feeling that discussion was difficult for one in his position, but Dick did not spare him a description of what had happened at Ashwood, from which he realised the gravity of the danger. "After all, he's a very remarkable man," Dick pleaded, in a forlorn effort at defending himself no less than the lady. Marchmont found May in a mood most favourable to the cause he had at heart, if he had known how to use his opportunity to the best advantage. From day to day now she wavered between the fear and the fascination, and on this day the fear was stronger and, working together with her affection for Marchmont, might well have gained him the victory. Ill-usage of Quisanté would perhaps have been involved here, but May would not have stood at that, had it been made plain to her heart that in the end the man could not be accepted or endured. To win, Marchmont should have made love to her in his own way, refused to accept his dismissal, and pressed his own suit on his own merits, leaving his rival to stand the contrast as he best might, but not dragging him explicitly into the issue between himself and May. He did not take this course; to his pride it was difficult to plead passionately again when his former pleading had been rebuffed; and the intensity of his desire to show her the truth about Quisanté, and at all costs to rescue her from Quisanté, made him devote more energy to denouncing his rival than to recommending himself. Thus he set May to defend the absent friend rather than to pity and be drawn towards the suitor who was before her. Yet in spite of his mistaken tactics, he shook her sorely; all that was in his favour came home to her with renewed force; she looked on him with pleasure and heard his voice again with delight; it was very pleasant to her to be with him; she admitted to herself that very, very easily she might be in love with him. Old Miss Quisanté's advice recurred to her mind; was this the nice husband who would give her a safety not incompatible with a continued interest in Alexander Quisanté? She smiled regretfully; Marchmont did not fit at all into Aunt Maria's scheme. "I don't want to question you," he said, "but if you will speak plainly to me I shall be glad. The change came at Ashwood?" "There's been no change; there's been a failure to change. When I saw you last, I thought I might change so as to be able to do what you wanted. Now I know I can't." "And why?" She was silent; he went on, speaking lower. "Is there any truth at all in what Dick Benyon thinks? It seemed to me incredible. Will you tell me that I may utterly disbelieve that at all events?" "No, I can't tell you to disbelieve it utterly." The love for her which was his strongest appeal left his face; he looked aghast, at a loss, almost disgusted. His hands moved in a gesture of protest. "I don't tell you to believe it. I can tell you nothing about it just now. I admit you had a right to ask me, but I can say nothing more now." Again the chance offered for him to make her forget Quisanté or remember him only by a disadvantageous comparison. His honest desire to save her combined again with bitter prejudice to lead him wrong. "I can't believe it of you," he declared. "I can't have been so wrong about you as that." "I see nothing to prevent you from having been absolutely wrong about me," she said coldly, "as wrong about me as you are about--other people." "If you mean----" "Oh, yes, let's be open with one another," she cried. "I mean Mr. Quisanté; you're utterly wrong and prejudiced about him." "He's not even a gentleman." "I suppose he goes to the wrong tailor!" said May scornfully. He came a step nearer to her. "You know I don't mean that sort of thing, nor even other things that aren't vital to life though they're desirable in society. He hasn't the mind of a gentleman." Now she wavered; she sat looking at him with troubled eyes, feeling he was right, desiring to be persuaded, struggling against the opposing force. But Marchmont went on fretfully, almost peevishly, "The astonishing thing is that you're blind to that, that you don't see him as he really and truly is." "That's just what I do," she cried eagerly and almost angrily. Marchmont's words had brought back what Quisanté could be; surely a man's best must be what he really and truly is? Then his true self shows itself untrammelled; the measure of it is rather the heights to which it can rise than the level on which it moves at ordinary times. She remembered Quisanté on Duty Hill. "That's what I do, and you--you and all of them--don't. You fix on his small faults, faults of manner--oh, yes, and of breeding too, I daresay, perhaps of feeling too. But to see a man's faults is not to see the man." She rose to her feet and faced him. "I see him more truly than you do," she said proudly and defiantly. Then her face grew suddenly soft, and she caught his hand. "My dear friend, my dear, dear friend," she murmured, "don't be unkind to me. I'm not happy about it; how can I be happy about it? Don't make it worse for me; I'm trying to see the truth, and you might help me; but you only tell me what leaves out more than half the truth." He would not or could not respond to her gentleness; his evil spirit possessed him; he gave expression to his anger with her and his scorn of his rival, not to his own love and his own tenderness. "It turns me almost sick," he declared, "to think of you with him." She let go his hand, moved away, and sat down. "If you're like that, I can say no more," she said. Her eyes were full of tears as she looked at him, but his heart was hard to her; to him she seemed to be humiliating both him and herself; the victory of Quisanté at once insulted him and degraded her. Here was a case where Alexander Quisanté, with all his defects, would have gone right, while Marchmont went wrong. It was a crisis, and Quisanté's insight would have taught him how to handle it, to assure her that whatever she did he would be the same to her, that though he might not understand he would be loyal, that his love only grew greater with his pain, that in everything that awaited her he would be ready with eager service and friendship unimpaired. None of this came from Marchmont's lips; he made no effort to amend or palliate his last bitter speech. He could not conquer his resentment, and it bred an answering resentment in her. "You must think what you like of me," she said, her voice growing cold again. With the end of this interview, with the departure of Marchmont, still sore, angry, and blind to her point of view, May felt that the matter had settled itself. She knew in her heart that she would not have turned Marchmont away unless she had meant to bid Quisanté come. For a little while she struggled against finality, telling herself that the question was still an open one, and that to refuse one man was not of necessity to marry another. Other friends came and talked to her, but none of them got within her guard or induced her to speak freely to them. In the end she had to settle this thing for herself; and now it was settled. Even when undertaken in the conviction of a full harmony of feeling, a community of mind, and an identity of tastes, marriage may startle by the extent of its demands. She was to marry a man--she faced the matter and told herself this--a man from whom she was divided by the training of a lifetime, by antagonisms of feeling so acute as to bite deep into their every-day intercourse, by a jarring of tastes which made him sometimes odious to her. In spite of the resentment to which Marchmont's scorn had stung her, she understood very well how it was that her friends failed to appreciate the motives of her action. To herself she could not justify it; it was taken on impulse, not calculation, and had to rest in the end on the vague effects of what she had seen in Quisanté, not continually, not in his normal state, but by fits and snatches, in scraps of time which, all added together, would scarcely fill the hours between luncheon and dinner. She took him on the strength of his moments; that was the case in plain English, reduced to its lowest terms and its baldest statement. Of confidence, of security, of trust she had none; their place was filled by a vague expectancy, an insistent curiosity, and a puzzled fearful fascination. Not promising materials these, out of which to make happiness. She surprised herself by finding how little happiness in its ordinary sense entered into her reckoning. Or if anything that we happen to want is to be called our happiness, then her happiness consisted in, and refused to be analysed into anything more definite than, a sort of necessity which she felt of being near to Alexander Quisanté, of sharing his mind and partaking of his life. But if this were happiness, then happiness was not what she had been accustomed to think it; where were the rest, the contentment, the placidity and satisfaction which the word was usually considered to imply? * * * Quisanté came to her, wreathed in triumph. It was a mood she liked him in; he offended her not when he celebrated success, but when he intrigued for it. His new-born confidence seemed to make any drawing-back on her part impossible; she had sent him, she was bound to reward the happy issue of her mission. Another thing touched her very deeply; while protesting his unworthiness of her, he based his humility on the special and wonderful knowledge of her that he possessed and referred it entirely to this inner secret excellence of hers and not in the least to her position or to any difference between his and hers. He did not suppose that society would be aghast or that the world at large would see cause for dismay in the marriage. He expected hearty congratulations for himself, but it was evident that he thought she would have her full share of them too; he had, in fact, no idea that May Gaston would not be thought to be doing very well for herself. This mixture of simplicity and self-appreciation, of ignorance of the mind of others combined with a knowledge of the claims of his own, took May's fancy; she laughed a little as she determined that the general opinion of the matter must be kept from his ears, and his robust confidence in the world's admiration of him preserved. "You say you know me so well," she said. "I know very, very little of you; and of what I know there's a lot that's bad." He was not in the temper that had inspired his confession of bad manners and bad morals on Duty Hill. He was inclined, as at such a moment he might be pardonably, to make light of his faults. He was not alarmed when she declared that if she found out anything very bad she would not after all become his wife. "At any moment that you repent, you're free," he said gaily. But she answered gravely, "There'll be a great many moments when I shall repent. You see I don't think I really love you." He looked puzzled. "You know what I mean? Real love is so beautifully undiscriminating, isn't it? I'm not a bit undiscriminating about you; and that'll make me miserable often; it'll make you angry too. You'll forget that I said all this, that I told you and warned you. I shall be (she smiled again for a moment) a critic on the hearth. And nobody hardly understands criticism as badly as you do." "What a lot of reasons for refusing me!" he said, still gay, though with a hint of disturbance in his manner. "And yet you don't refuse." The old answer which was all she could give to herself was all that she found herself able to give him. "Somehow I can't do without you, you see," she said. Then she suddenly leant forward and went on in a low imploring voice, "Don't be worse than I've ever thought. There are some things I couldn't stand. Please don't." Her eyes, fixed on to his, prayed a reassurance against a horde of vague dangers. He laughed off the question, not understanding how or why she came to put it, and their talk passed to a lighter vein. But presently he said, with a half-embarrassed, half-vexed laugh, "Need we sit so far from one another?" May had suffered from a dread of the beginning of sentiment. But she was laughing as she rose and, crossing the room, sat down by him on the sofa. "Here I am then," she said, "and you may kiss me. And if you will ask me I'll kiss you; only I don't particularly want to, you know. I don't think of you in the very least as a man to be kissed. I've thought of other men much more in that way--oh, only thought of them, Mr. Quisanté!" The playful, yet not meaningless, defiance of a softer mood, and of his power to induce it in her, acted as a spark to Quisanté's ardour. It was just the opposition that he had wanted to rescue him from awkwardness. He recovered the splendid intensity which had marked his declaration on Duty Hill. If he did not succeed in changing her feelings, at least he set her wondering why they did not change and wrung from her the smiling admission, "You're very picturesque anyhow." She did not deny vehemently when he told her that he would make her love him as he loved her. "Well, I never use the word impossible about you," she said. "Only--it hasn't happened yet, you know." She paused and added, with a touch of reviving apprehension, "And I mayn't always like you to behave as if it had--though I don't mind much to-night." His manner was good, almost defying criticism, as he reassured her on this point; and when he left her, her predominant impression was that, so far as their personal relations went, she had exaggerated the dangers and under-rated the attractions. "I think he'll always be rather nice to me and not do anything very dreadful. But then, what will he do to other people?" This was the fear which still possessed her and which no fine moment of his drove out. She seemed to have power to bring him to his best, to give him the cue for his fine scenes, to create in him the inspiration to great moments. But when he dealt with other people, her power would be useless. She would have to stand by and see him at his worst, looking on no longer as an irresponsible, as well as a helpless, spectator, but as one who had undertaken responsibility for him, who must feel for him what he did not for himself, who must be sensitive while he was callous, wounded while his skin went unpierced. She felt that she had taken up a very solitary position, between him and the world, not truly at home with either; a sense of loneliness came upon her. "I shall have to fight the whole world," she said. "I wonder if my cause is a good one?" CHAPTER VIII. CONTRA MUNDUM. It was impossible not to admire the wealth of experience which Mrs. Baxter had gathered from a singularly quiet life; many men have gone half a dozen times round the world for less. Whatever the situation, whatever the action, she could supply a parallel and thereby forecast an issue. Superficial differences did not hinder her; she pierced to the underlying likeness. When all the world was piteously crying out that never in its life had it heard of such an affair as this of May Gaston's, Mrs. Baxter dived into her treasure-chest and serenely produced the case of the Nonconformist Minister's daughter and the Circus Proprietor. Set this affair side by side with the Quisanté business, and a complete sum in double proportion at once made its appearance. The audacity of the man, the headlong folly of the girl, the hopeless mixing of incompatibles were common to the two cases; the issue of the earlier clearly indicated the fate that must attend the later. Lady Richard could do nothing but gasp out, "And what happened, Mrs. Baxter?" Mrs. Baxter told her, punctuating the story with stitches on a June petticoat. "She ran away from him twice; but he brought her back, and, they said, beat her well. At any rate she ended by settling down to her new life. They had seven children, all brought up to the circus; only the other day one was sent to prison for ill-treating the dancing bear. He's dead, but she still keeps the circus under his name. Of course all her old friends have dropped her; indeed I hear she drinks. Her father still preaches once on Sundays." It was easy to disentangle the relevant from the merely reminiscent; the running away, the beating, the settling down, the complete absorption in the new life (vividly indicated by the seven children and their habits), stood out saliently. Add the attitude of old friends, and Lady Richard could not deny the value of the parallel. She acknowledged it with a long-drawn sigh. "May Gaston must be mad," she observed. "You can imagine how Dick feels about it!" "And all the while her cousin in the Bank was quite ready to marry her and give her a nice little home. He was Church and sang in the choir at St. Dunstan's." Without consciously appreciating the nicety of the parallel here, Lady Richard began to think of Weston Marchmont. "I suppose Mr. Marchmont'll take Fanny now," she said. "I don't know, though; he won't like any sort of connection with Alexander Quisanté. How selfish people are! They never think of what their marriages mean to their relations." This observation expressed a large part of what was felt by society; add friends to relations, and it summed up one side of the indictment against May Gaston. Lady Attlebridge's helpless and bewildered woe was one instance of its truth, Fanny's rage another; to look farther afield, May's friends and acquaintances discovered great cause for vexation in that they saw themselves somehow "let in for" Quisanté. At least the alternative was to drop May Gaston as entirely as the unfortunate circus proprietor's wife had been dropped; and this alternative was a difficult one. Had Quisanté's raid resulted in the seizure of some insignificant colourless girl who had been merely tolerated for the sake of who she was without possessing any claims in respect of what she was, the dropping would have been easy; but May was not of that kind. She was not only one of them, but very conspicuous among them, one of their ornaments, one in whom they took pride; they would have acknowledged in her a natural leader so soon as a suitable marriage gave her the necessary status and experience. Her treachery was the more flagrant, Quisanté's presumption the more enormous, their own course of action the more puzzling to decide. Yet in their hearts they knew that they must swallow the man; events were too strong for them. Dick Benyon had forced him on them in one side of life, May Gaston now did the like in another; henceforward he must be and would be among them. This consciousness mingled an ingredient of asperity with their genuine pity for May. She would not merely have herself to thank for the troubles which would certainly come upon her; her misfortunes must be regarded as in part a proper punishment for the annoyance she was inflicting on her friends. As for Dick Benyon, it was impossible to speak to him without perceiving that if remorse be in truth the sharpest penalty of sin, he was already punished enough. The poor man's state was indeed such as to move compassion. Besides his old friend Lady Attlebridge's dumbly accusing eyes, besides Fanny's and Lady Richard's by no means dumb reproaches, a very heavy blow had fallen on him. In the words of his own complaint, his brother Jimmy had gone back on him--and back on his allegiance to Alexander Quisanté. The engagement was too much for Jimmy, and in the revulsion of feeling he became downright hostile to Quisanté's claims and pretensions. How could he not when Fanny Gaston imperiously and almost tearfully commanded him to attach himself to her banner, and to behold with her eyes the indignity suffered by the noble family of Gaston? Logic was not Jimmy's strong point, and he confounded poor Dick by the twofold assertion that the thing was utterly incredible, and that Dick and he had been most inconceivably idiotic not to have foreseen it from the first hour that they took up Quisanté. In this stress of feeling the brothers spoke to one another with candour. "You know how I feel about Fanny," said Jimmy, "so you can imagine how much I like it." "Oh, yes, I know; and I quite understand that you wanted Marchmont to marry May," Dick retorted in an alien savageness born of his wounded spirit. Jimmy was taken aback by this direct onslaught, but his native honesty forbade him to deny the charge point-blank. "Supposing she came to like me," he grumbled, "it wouldn't be over and above pleasant to have Quisanté for a brother-in-law." Dick was roused; he summoned up his old faith and his old admiration. "I tell you what," he said, "the only chance you have of your name being known to posterity is if you succeed in becoming his brother-in-law." "Damn posterity," said Jimmy, tugging at his moustache. He had never entertained the absurd idea of interesting future ages. He began to perceive more and more clearly how ridiculous his brother had made himself over the fellow; he had shared in the folly, but now at least he could repent and dissociate himself from it. "What does the Dean say?" he asked maliciously. "I dare say you won't understand," Dick answered in measured tones, "but the Dean's got sense enough to say nothing. Talking's no use, is it?" Few indeed shared the Dean's wisdom, or the somewhat limited view that talking is only to be practised when it chances to be useful. Are we never to discuss the obvious or to deplore the inevitable? From so stern a code human nature revolts, and the storm of volubility went on in spite of the silence of the Dean of St. Neot's. Even this silence was imperfect in so far as the Dean said a word or two in private to Morewood when he visited him in his studio, and the pair were looking at Quisanté's picture. Dick Benyon was less anxious now to have it finished and sent home in the shortest possible time. "You've seen some good in him," said the Dean, pointing to the picture. "Well--something anyhow," said Morewood. "I think, you know," the Dean pursued meditatively, "that a great woman might succeed in what she's undertaken (Morewood did not need the mention of May Gaston's name), at the cost of sacrificing all her other interests and most of her feelings." Morewood was lighting his pipe and made no answer. "Is our dear young friend a great woman, though?" asked the Dean. "She aspires to be," said Morewood; he was sneering as usual, but rather at aspirations in general than at any unusual absurdity in May Gaston's; thus at least the Dean understood him. "You mean that that's at the bottom of the trouble?" he inquired, smiling a little. "Oh, yes," answered Morewood, weary of indicating what was so apparent. "You've dived down to something in that picture; perhaps she has." "Yes, she has." Morewood looked straight at the Dean as he added, "But I can leave out the other things, you see. That's the difference." "And she can't? No. That is the difference. She'll have to live with the other things." He looked courageously at Morewood and ended, "We must trust in God." Either the sincerity or the unexpectedness of the remark kept Morewood silent. No such ambition as these two imputed to her consciously animated May Gaston. Just now she was content if she could persuade her mother that people after all said nothing very dreadful (for what was said was always more to Lady Attlebridge than what was true), could keep on something like friendly relations with her sister, and could maintain a cheerful view of her own position and of her experiment. Inevitably the hostility of his future mother-in-law and of Fanny brought out the worst side of Quisanté's manners; in the effort to conciliate he almost fawned. May had to find consolation in a growth of openness and simplicity towards herself. And she had one notable triumph which more than anything else brought her through the trial with her purpose unshaken and her faith even a little strengthened. It was not a complete triumph, and in trying to push it too far she suffered a slight rebuff; but there was hope to be had from it, it seemed to open a prospect of successes more ample. She made Quisanté send back Aunt Maria's five hundred pounds before Mr. Mandeville's operations had resulted either in safety or in gain. "You see, she never gave it you to use in speculation," she had said. "It isn't right, you must see it isn't. Have you got the money?" "Yes; but I meant to buy you----" "No, no, I wouldn't have it. Now do send it back. I know you see what I mean." Her voice grew doubtful and imploring. "Oh, yes, in a way. But I shan't lose it, you know." "That doesn't make the least difference." "If it pleases you, I'll send it back." "Well, do," she said with a little sigh. The motive was not that which she wished to rouse, but very likely it was that with which she must begin her work. Then she tried the further step. "And any profit you make, if you make any, you ought to send too," she said. Genuine surprise was exhibited on Quisanté's face. "What, after sending back the five hundred?" he asked. "Yes, you ought." She made a little concession by adding, "Strictly, you know." Quisanté looked at her, kissed her hand, and laughed. Her sense of humour, which she began to perceive would rather hamper her, made her join in the laugh. "Do you think me very absurd? No, no, not compliments! Truth, truth always!" "I call the suggestion rather--well, rather fanciful," said he. "Yes, I suppose you do," she sighed. "Do you know what I hope?" she went on. "I hope that some day that sort of suggestion will seem a matter of course to you." He stopped laughing and looked put out. She saw that his vanity was hurt. "But I hope all sorts of unusual things about you," she went on, her conscience rebuking her for using the wile of flattery. But it served well; the cloud passed from his face, as he begged her not to expect to see him a saint too soon. A few days later he came in radiant; the operation had gone splendidly, there was a cent. per cent. profit; she was to come with him and buy the necklace at once. May loved necklaces and liked him for being so eager to give her one. And she did not wish to appear in the light of a prig (that had probably been his impression of her) again so soon. But had he not the evening before, as they talked over their prospects, told her that he owed Dick Benyon a thousand pounds or more, and was in arrears with the instalments by which the debt was to be liquidated? By a not unnatural turn of her mind she found herself less able to allow him to forget his obligation, less able to indulge him in the temporary extravagance of a lover, than if he had been a man on whose punctilious honour in all matters of money she relied absolutely. She was more affectionate and more effusive to him than usual, and it was with a kiss that she whispered, "Give me the money, not the necklace." "The money?" he said in surprise. "Yes, to do what I like with. At least give me your promise to do what I ask with it." He was suspicious and his face showed it. She laughed. "Yes, I'm worrying again," she said. "I can now, you see. When we're married I shan't have the power." "You'll always have absolute power over me." "Oh, I wish that was true!" she said. "No, I don't," came an instant later. "If I thought that, I'd never speak to you again." Moving away a little, she turned her head back towards him and went on, "Use it to pay Dick Benyon. I'd rather you did that than gave me a thousand necklaces." "Oh, Dick's in no hurry; he's got lots of money." Quisanté was visibly vexed this time. "Aren't you going to allow me to give you anything?" he asked. She had a struggle to win this time, and again had to call in the ally she distrusted, an appeal to his vanity. She told him that it hurt her idea, her great idea, of him, that he should be in any way under obligations to or dependent on anybody. This way of putting the matter caught his fancy, which had remained blind to the more prosaic aspect of the case. "You must stand by your own strength," she said. She had to go a step farther still. "It'll make Amy Benyon quite angry too; it'll take away one of her grievances. Don't pay only the arrears, pay all you can." Thus she won and was comforted, in spite of her suspicion of the weapons that she found herself obliged to use. Comfort she needed sadly, and it could come only from Quisanté himself. For the rest the sense of loneliness was strong upon her, and with it a bitterness that this time in her life should be so different from what it was in the lives of most girls. The superficials were there; friends sent presents and Lady Attlebridge was as particular about the gowns and so forth as though the match had been absolutely to her liking. But there was no sincere congratulation, no sympathy, no envy. Her engagement was a mistake, her marriage a tragedy; that was the verdict; she saw it in every glance and discerned it under every civil speech. The common judgment, the opinion of the group we have lived with, has a force irrespective of its merit; there were times when May sank under the burden of it and almost retreated. Then she was outwardly most contented, took Quisanté everywhere with her, tried (as people said) to thrust him down everybody's throat, even pretended a love which she had expressly denied to the man himself. All this done, she would fly to solitude and there be a victim to her fears, shudder at the risk she had elected to run, and pray for any strange convulsion of events to rescue her. None came; time went on, people settled down to the notion; only to a small circle the matter retained a predominant interest. The rest of the world could not go on talking about it for ever; they had a number of other people's affairs to attend to, and the vagaries of one fanciful young woman could not occupy their important minds for ever. None the less, they turned away with a pleasant sense that they might find good reason for turning back presently; let a year or two of the marriage run, and there might be something to look at again. But to one man the thing never became less strange, less engrossing, or less horrible. Weston Marchmont abandoned as pure folly the attempt to accustom his mind to it or to acquiesce in it; he had not the power to cease to think of it. It was unnatural; to that he returned always; and it ousted what surely was natural, what his whole being cried out was meant, if there were such a thing as a purpose in human lives at all. Disguised by his habit of self-repression before others, his passion was as strong as Quisanté's own; it was backed by a harmony of tastes and a similarity of training which gave it increased intensity; it had been encouraged by an apparent promise of success, now turned to utter failure. Amy Benyon might think that he would now marry Fanny, if only he could endure such an indirect connection with Quisanté. To himself it seemed so impossible to think of anyone but May that in face of facts he could not believe that he was not foremost in her heart. The facts meant marriage, it seemed; he denied that they meant love. He discerned what May had said to Quisanté--although not of course that she had said it--and it filled him with a more unendurable revolt. He might have tolerated a defeat in love; not to be defeated and yet to suffer all the pains of the vanquished was not to be borne. But he was helpless, and when he had tried to plead his cause he had done himself no good. He had rather so conducted himself as to give May Gaston the right to shut the door on any further friendship with him; towards her future husband he had never varied from an attitude of cool disdain. It was more than a month since he had seen her, it was longer since he had done more than nod carelessly to Quisanté as they passed one another in the lobby or the smoking-room. Then one day, a fortnight before the marriage, he met Quisanté as they were both leaving the House about four o'clock. On a sudden impulse he joined his rival. He knew his man; Quisanté received him with friendliness and even effusion, and invited him to join him in a call at Lady Attlebridge's. They went on together, Quisanté elated at this new evidence of his power to reconcile opposition and conciliate support, Marchmont filled with a vague painful curiosity and a desire to see the two together at the cost of any suffering the sight might bring him. The drawing-room at Lady Attlebridge's was a double room; in one half May sat reading, in the other her mother dozed. May rose with a start as the men entered together; her face flushed as she greeted Marchmont and bade Quisanté go and pay his respects to her mother. "I hardly expected ever to see you again," she said. "And I didn't expect Mr. Quisanté to bring you." Her tone was oddly expressive at once of pleasure and regret, of anticipation and fear. "Have you made friends?" she asked. He answered under the impulse of his mood. "We must make friends," he said, "or I shall never see any more of you." "I thought you didn't want to." She liked him too well not to show a little coquetry, a little challenge. "I thought so too, or tried to think so." "I was sure you had deserted me. You said such--well, such severe things." "I say them all still." "But here you are!" she cried, laughing. "Yes, here I am," said he, but he was grave and looked intently at her. She grew red again as she met his gaze, and frowned a little. "I'm not sure I'm glad you've come after all," she said after a pause. "Why have you come? I don't quite understand." "I've come to see you, to look on at your happiness," he answered. "You've no right to talk like that." They became silent. From the inner room they heard Lady Attlebridge's nervous efforts at conversation and Quisanté's fluent, too fluent, responses. He was telling the good lady about her great social influence, and, little as she liked him, she seemed to listen eagerly. Marchmont looked at May and smiled. He was disappointed when she returned his smile. "He's a little too much of a politician, isn't he?" she asked. Her refusal to perceive the insinuation of his smile made him ashamed of it. "We all are, when we've something to get, I suppose," he said with a shrug. "Oh, I don't think you need reproach yourself," she exclaimed, laughing. There was a short pause. Then he said suddenly, "You're the one person in the world to talk to." Now she neither laughed nor yet rebuked him, and, as his eyes met hers, he seemed to have no fear that she would do either the one or the other. Yet he could not quite understand her look; did she pity him or did she entreat for herself? For his life he could not answer. The only thing he knew was that she would follow her path and take for husband the man who flattered Lady Attlebridge in the inner room. Then she spoke in a low voice. "Yes, do come, come and see us afterwards, come as often as you like." He raised his eyes to hers again. "Because the oftener you come, the more you'll understand him, and the better you understand him, the better you'll know why I'm doing what I am." The soft look of pity or of entreaty vanished from her eyes now. She seemed to speak in a strong and even defiant confidence. But he met her with a resolute dissent. "If you want me, I'll come. But I shan't understand why you did what you're doing and I shall never see in him what you want me to see." He looked round and saw Quisanté preparing to join them. "Am I to come, then?" he asked. Quisanté was walking towards them; she answered with a nervous laugh, "I think you must come sometimes anyhow." Then she raised her voice and said to Quisanté, "I'm telling Mr. Marchmont that I shall expect to see him often at our house." Quisanté seconded her invitation with more than adequate enthusiasm; if Marchmont were converted to him, who could still be obstinate? The two men began to talk, May falling more and more into silence. She did not accuse Marchmont of deliberate malice, but by chance or the freak of some mischievous demon everything he said led Quisanté on to display his weaknesses. She knew that Marchmont marked them every one; he was too well bred to show his consciousness by so much as the most fleeting glance at her; yet she could have met such a glance with understanding, yes, with sympathy, and would have had to summon up by artificial effort the resentment that convention demanded of her. The sight of the two men brought home to her with a new and an almost terrible sharpness the divorce between her emotional liking and her intellectual interest. And in a matter which all experience declared to concern the emotions primarily, she had elected to give foremost place to the intellect, to suffer under an ever recurring jar of the feelings for the sake of an occasional treat to the brain. That was her prospect unless she could transform the nature of Alexander Quisanté. "Marry a nice man of your own sort, and then be as much interested as you like in Sandro." Aunt Maria's advice echoed in her ears as she watched the two men round whom the struggle of her soul centred, the struggle that she had thought was finished on the day when she promised to become Alexander Quisanté's wife. "I shall keep you both to your word," said Marchmont when he left them. May nodded, smiling slightly. Quisanté said all and more than all the proper things. CHAPTER IX. LEAD US NOT. After a long sojourn in kindlier climates, Miss Quisanté returned to England some eighteen months after May Gaston's marriage. From various hotels and boarding-houses she had watched with an interested eye the progress of public affairs so far as they concerned her nephew. She had seen how his name became more prominent and was more frequently mentioned, how the hopes and fears about him grew, how he had gained glory by dashing sorties in defence of the severely-pressed Government garrison; if the garrison decided (as rumour said they would) to sally out and try fortune in the open field of a General Election, and proved victorious, it could not be doubted that they would bestow a handsome reward on their gallant defender. Quisanté bid fair to eclipse his rivals and to justify to the uttermost Dick Benyon's sagacity and enthusiasm. The bitterness of the foe told the same story; unless a man is feared, he is not caricatured in a comic paper in the guise of a juggler keeping three balls in the air at once, the said balls being each of them legibly inscribed with one of the three words, "Gas--Gabble--Grab." Such a straining of the usual amenity of controversy witnesses to grave apprehension. Miss Quisanté in her _pension_ at Florence smiled contentedly. Of his private life her information had not been very ample. She had heard several times from May, but May occupied her pen chiefly with her husband's political aims. She had heard once from Sandro himself, when he informed her that his wife had borne him a daughter and that all had gone very well indeed. Again Miss Quisanté smiled approvingly. She sent her love to May and expressed to Sandro the hope that the baby would resemble its mother in appearance, constitution, and disposition; the passage was a good example of that _expressio unius_ which is a most emphatic and unmistakable _exclusio alterius_. In the letter she enclosed a cheque for three hundred pounds; the _pensions_ were cheaper than the flat, and thus this service had become possible. The Quisantés had taken a house in Grosvenor Road, near Westminster for Quisanté's convenience, by the river, in obedience to his wife's choice. Here Miss Quisanté was welcomed by her nephew's wife and shown her nephew's daughter. May watched the old lady's face as she perfunctorily kissed and critically inspected the infant. "Gaston!" said Aunt Maria at last; relief was clamorous in her tone. "Yes, Miss Quisanté, Gaston, I think," said May, laughing. The nurse admitted the predominance of Gaston, but with a professional keenness of eye began to point out minor points in which the baby "favoured" her father. "Nonsense, my good woman," snapped Aunt Maria. "The child's got two legs and two arms, I suppose, as its father has, but that's all the likeness." Somewhat ruffled (her observations had been well meant) the nurse carried off her charge. "You look very well," Aunt Maria went on, "but older, my dear." "I am both well and older," said May cheerfully. "Think of my responsibilities! There's the baby! And then Alexander's been seedy. And we aren't as rich as we should like to be; you of all people must know that. And there's going to be an election and our seat's very shaky. So the cares of the world are on me." "Sandro's been doing well." "Splendidly, simply splendidly. It's impossible to doubt that he'll do great things if--if all goes well, and he doesn't make mistakes." "Seems like making mistakes, does he?" "Oh, no. I only said 'if.'" "And you're as happy as you expected to be?" "Quite, thanks." "I see. Just about," was Miss Quisanté's next observation; since it was a little hard to answer, May smiled and rang the bell for tea. "You're very gay, I suppose?" asked the old lady. "Just as many parties as I can find gowns for," May declared. "Seen anything of the Benyons lately?" A little shadow came on May's face. "I hardly ever see Jimmy except at mother's," she answered. "Dick comes sometimes." She paused a moment, and then added, "I expect him this afternoon." "Is he still as devoted to Sandro?" "He believes in his abilities as enthusiastically as ever." The dry laugh which Miss Quisanté gave was as significant as her "Just about," a few minutes before. This time May did not laugh, but looked gravely at Aunt Maria. "They've had a little difference on a political matter. Did you ever hear of what Dick calls the Crusade? His great Church movement, you know." "Lord, yes, my dear. Sandro once speechified to me about it for an hour." "Well, he doesn't speechify so much now; he doesn't believe in it so much, and Dick's annoyed. That's natural, I think, though perhaps it's a little silly of him. However, if you wait, he'll tell you about it himself." "Why doesn't Sandro believe in it so much?" "Perhaps I ought to have said that he doesn't think the present time a suitable one for pressing it." "I see," said Miss Quisanté sipping her tea. May looked at her again and seemed about to speak, but in the end she only smiled. She was amused at the old lady's questions, impelled to speak plainly to her, and restrained only by the sense that any admission she might seem to make would be used to the full against her husband by his faithful and liberal aunt. "He says he has good reasons, and Dick Benyon says they're bad ones," she ended by explaining, though it was not much of an explanation after all. Miss Quisanté had the curiosity to await Dick Benyon's coming, and, in spite of his evident expectation of a _tête-à-tête_, not to go immediately on his arrival. She was struck with the air of mingled affection and compassion with which he greeted his healthy, handsome, smiling young hostess. Moreover he was himself apologetic, as though suffering from a touch of remorse. He began to talk trifles, but May brought him to the point. "I read the speech after I got your letter," she said. "I'm sorry you don't like it, but Alexander must consider the practical aspect of the matter. You won't do your cause any good by urging it out of season." "In season and out of season; that's the only way." "You might be an Irish member," said May, smiling. Dick was too much in earnest to be diverted to mirth. The presence of Miss Quisanté still seemed to make him a little uncomfortable, but the old lady did not move. May gave her no hint, and he was too full of his subject to hold his tongue. "I want you to speak to him about it," he went on. "To urge him to do what he thinks a mistake?" Dick grew a little hot. "To urge him not to go back on the cause and on--on his friends, and almost to laugh at them for----" He paused and looked at May; she was smiling steadily. He did not end quite as bluntly as he had meant. "I think that he has, unconsciously no doubt, allowed personal considerations to influence him." A short sudden chuckle came from Aunt Maria; she rose to her feet and crossed the room to May. "If he's going to abuse Sandro, I mustn't stay," she said. "I couldn't bear to lose any of my illusions, my dear." She kissed May and added, "You might tell him to come and see me, though. I should like to hear what he's got in his head now. Good-bye, Lord Richard. Don't you fret about your Crusade. Sandro'll take it up again when it's convenient." She chuckled again at the puzzled stare which accompanied Dick's shake of the hand. "A very kind old woman, but with a rather malicious tongue," said May. She walked to the hearth and stood there, facing her visitor. "Now, Dick, what is it?" she asked. "The Dean's tremendously hurt about it; he doesn't say much, but he feels it deeply." "I'm very sorry. What are the personal considerations?" "You know Henstead?" It was the borough for which Quisanté sat. "There's an old Wesleyan colony there; several of them are very rich and employ a lot of labour and so on. They've always voted for us. And they've found a lot of the money. They found a lot when Quisanté got in before." "Yes?" Her voice displayed interest but nothing more. Dick grew rather red and hurried on with his story. "Well, one of them, old Foster the maltster, came to your husband and--and told him they didn't like the Crusade and that it wouldn't do." He paused, glanced at May for an instant, and ended, "The seat's not safe, you know, and--and it wants money to fight it." A silence of some few minutes followed. Dick fidgeted with his hat, while May looked out of the window on to the river. "Why do you come and tell this to me?" she asked presently. "Supposing it was all true, what could I do?" Dick's resentment got the better of him; he answered hotly, "Well, you might tell him that it was playing it pretty low down on us." "Have you told him that?" "Yes, I have, or I shouldn't have come to you. I don't mean I used just those words, but I made my meaning clear enough." "And what did he say?" "He said he didn't see it in the light I did." A faint smile came on the face of Mr. Quisanté's wife. "But you could make him see it," urged Dick. May smiled at him for a brief moment and then looked out to the river again. "It'll be deuced awkward for him if they get hold of his back speeches," said Dick with gloomy satisfaction. "Oh, everybody's back speeches are what you call deuced awkward." A moment later she went on, "What does it all come to, after all? We must take things as they are; we mustn't be quixotic, we mustn't quarrel with our bread-and-butter." Dick looked at her with evident surprise, even with dismay. "You think it all right?" he asked. "It's not for me to say. Am I to sit in judgment on my husband? Anyhow people do just the same thing every day. You know that as well as I do, Dick." Just on the last words her voice grew softer; he might have caught a hint of entreaty, had not his mind been fixed on his own wrongs and the betrayal of his favourite cause. "I'm assuming that what you say is true," she added, more coldly again. When Dick left her, it was to go home to his wife and tell her, and Mrs. Gellatly whom he found with her, that he did not understand what had come over May Gaston--May Quisanté, he corrected himself. Not understanding, he proved naturally quite unable to explain. Lady Richard was more equal to the occasion. "That man's simply got hold of her," she said. "She'll think black's white if he says it is. Still she must see that he's treating you shamefully." "She didn't seem to see it." moaned Dick mournfully. Then he laughed rather bitterly and added, "I tell you what, though. I think that old aunt of his has taken his measure pretty well." The innate nobility which underlay Lady Richard's nature showed up splendidly at this moment; she sympathised heartily with Dick, and forbore to remind him of what she had said from the beginning, contenting herself with remarking that for her part she never had considered and did not now consider Mr. Quisanté even particularly clever. "He's as clever as the deuce," said Dick. That conviction, at least, he need not surrender. "I suppose," ventured Mrs. Gellatly, "that's how he convinces Lady May that he's always right." Dick looked at her with a touch of covert contempt; clever people could convince the intellect, but there were instincts of honour, of loyalty, and of fidelity which no arguments should be able to blunt or to turn. Here was the thing which, vaguely felt, had so puzzled him in regard to May Quisanté; he had not doubted that she would see the thing as he had seen it--as Quisanté had professed himself unable to see it. That evening Quisanté brought home to dinner the gentleman whom Dick Benyon called old Foster the maltster, and who had been Mayor of Henstead three several times. He was a tall, stout, white-haired old man with a shrewd kindly face, dressed all in broadcloth, showing an expanse of white shirt-front decorated with a big black stud and a very small black wisp of a tie. His conversation indicated now and then that he gave thought to the other world, always that he knew the ways of this. May liked him in spite of the rather ponderous deference he showed to her; with Quisanté, on the other hand, he was familiar, seeming to say that he could tell the younger man a thing or two; Quisanté's manner did nothing to contradict this implied assumption. "What we want, sir," said Foster, "is to have you in the Government. Once you're there, you'll sit for Henstead till you die or go to the House of Lords. Nobody'll be able to touch you. But this time's critical, very critical. They'll have a strong candidate, and they'll do all they know to keep you out. It's not a time for offending anybody." He turned to May. "I hope your ladyship will let us see you very often in the town?" he said. "When the election begins, I shall come down with my husband and stay all the time." "That's right; you'll be worth a hundred votes." He threw himself back in his chair. "Under God," he said, "we ought to be safe. Your speech had an excellent effect; I sent it to Middleton, and Dunn, and Japhet Williams, and when I met 'em at the Council, they were all most pleasant about it. I think you've undone all the bad impression." "I only said what I thought," observed Quisanté. "Yes, yes, just so; oh, just so, of course." His tone was not in the least ironical, but a little hurried, as though, having put the thing in a way that might sound ambiguous, he hastened to prevent any possible misapprehension. May had looked for a twinkle in his eye, but his eye was guilty of no such frivolity. "I had a letter from Mr. Japhet Williams the other day," said Quisanté. "He was annoyed at a vote I gave in Committee on the Truck Act. You know I voted against the Government once, in favour of what I thought fairer treatment of the men; not that any real hardship on the employer was involved." "Just so, just so," said Mr. Foster. "That's the worst of Japhet. He doesn't look at the matter in a broad way. But I've put that all right, sir. I met him on the Cemetery Board, and walked home with him, and I said, 'Look here Japhet, that vote of Mr. Quisanté's 'll be worth fifty votes among the men.' 'I don't care for that,' he said; 'I'm against interference.' 'So am I,' I told him; 'but where's the harm? Mr. Quisanté must have his own opinion here and there--that comes of having a clever man--but (I said) the Government had a hundred majority there, and Mr. Quisanté knew it.' Well, he saw that, and admitted that he'd been wrong to make a fuss about it." Quisanté nodded grave appreciation. May gave a little laugh, and suddenly poured out a glass of claret for Mr. Foster; turning, he found her eyes on his face, sparkling with amusement. His own large features relaxed into a slow smile; something like the twinkle was to be detected now. "Nothing's the worse for a bit of putting, is it?" he said, and drank his wine at a gulp. "You're a diplomatist, Mr. Foster," said she. "Not to the detriment of truth; I assure you I don't sacrifice that," he replied, with renewed gravity and an apparently perfect sincerity. May was sorry when he took his leave, partly for the temporary loss of a study which amused her, more because his departure brought the time for telling Quisanté of Dick Benyon's visit. She did not want to tell him and anticipated no result, yet she felt herself bound to let him know about it. To this mind her eighteen months of marriage had brought her. In the quite early days, while not blind to the way he looked at things when left to himself, she had been eager to show him how she looked at them, and, with the memory of her triumphs during their engagement, very sanguine that she would be able always to convert him from his view to hers, to open his eyes and show him the truth as it seemed to her. This hopeful mood she had for nearly a year past been gradually abandoning. She had once asked Morewood whether people must always remain what they were; now she inclined to answer yes to her own question. But she could not convince herself so thoroughly as to feel absolved from the duty of trying to prove that the true answer was no. She must offer her husband every chance still, she must not acquiesce, she must not give up the game yet; some day she might (she smiled at herself here) awake an impulse or happen on a moment so great as really to influence, to change, and to mould him. But she had come to hate this duty; she would rather have left things alone; as a simple matter of inclination, she wished that she felt free to sit and smile at Quisanté as she had at old Foster the maltster. She could not; Foster was not part of her life, near and close to her, her chosen husband, the father of her child. Unless she clung to her effort, and to her paradoxical much-disappointed hope, her life and the thought of what she had done with it would become unendurable. Dick and his wife had not quite understood what had come over her. If Mr. Foster was diplomatic, so was she; she set before her husband neither Dick's complaints nor her own misgivings in their crudity; she started by asking how his change of front would affect people and instanced Dick and herself only as examples of how the thing might strike certain minds. She must feed him with the milk of rectitude, for its strong meat his stomach was hopelessly unready. But he was suspicious, and insisted on hearing what Dick Benyon had said; so she told him pretty accurately. His answer was a long disquisition on the political situation, to which she listened with the same faint smile with which she had heard Dick himself; at last he roundly stigmatised the Crusade as a visionary and impracticable scheme. "I stuck to it as long as I could," he said, "but you wouldn't have me risk everything for it?" "Or even anything?" she asked. The question was a spark to him. Gladly leaving the immediate question, he dilated on all that the coming contest meant to him, how victory would assure his prospects, how defeat might leave him hopelessly out in the cold, how it would be absurd to lose all that he was going to accomplish for the sake of a hasty promise and a cause that he had come to disbelieve in. "When did you come to disbelieve in it?" was the question in her heart; he saw it in her eyes. "It's a little hard to have to explain everything in private as well as in public," he complained. "And my head's fit to split." "Don't trouble any more about it; only I thought I'd better tell you what Dick said." She came to him as he lay back in his chair and put her hand on his brow. He was tired, not only looking tired; his head did ache, she had no doubt; to turn these afflictions to account had always been his way; so long ago as the Imperial League banquet she remembered it. "Go to bed," she said. "I'll write a few letters first." "I want you to understand me," he said. He loved her and she had made him uneasy; her good opinion was very necessary to his happiness. "I do understand you," she said, and persuaded him to go upstairs, while she sat down by the fire, forgetful apparently of the excuse that she had made for lingering. Did she repent? That question came often into her mind. She well might, for one of the great hopes with which she had married was quite gone by now. There was no longer any possibility of maintaining that the faults were of manner only, no longer any reasonable expectation that she would be able to banish or materially to diminish them. It was for better for worse with a vengeance then. But did she repent? There were times when she wept, times when she shuddered, times when she scorned, even times when she hated. But had she ever so felt as to be confident that if Omnipotence had offered to undo the past, she would have had the past undone? There had perhaps been one such occasion quite early in the marriage, and the woe of it had been terrible; but it was followed almost immediately by a "moment," by an inspired outbreak of his over some case in the paper, by a vow to see an injustice remedied, a ceaseless, unsparing, unpaid month's work to that end, a triumph over wrong and prejudice in the cause of a helpless woman. He had nearly killed himself over it, the doctor said, and May had watched by his bed, without tears, but with a conviction that if he died she must die also; because it seemed as though he had faced death rather than her condemnation. That was not the truth of it, of course, but she and he between them had made it seem the truth to her. And now, with all the meanness of this abandonment of his friends, with all this fawning on the moneyed Wesleyans before her eyes, she could not declare that she repented, lest he, waking again to greatness, should plunge her again into the depths of abasement. But that the same man should be great and mean, and should escape arraignment for his meanness by making play with his headache! She smiled now to remember how great the mere faults of manner had once seemed to her girlish fastidiousness; they were small to her now; her teeth were set on edge indeed, but by a sharper sourness than lay in them. To the faults of manner she had grown to some extent accustomed; she had become an adept in covering and excusing them. To-day, in her interview with Dick Benyon, she had turned alike art on to the other faults. A new thought and a new apprehension came into her mind. "If I go on defending him," she murmured, "shall I end by getting like him and really think it all right? I wonder!" For it was difficult not to identify herself with her cause, and he was now her cause. Who asks a lawyer to disbelieve his own client, who asks a citizen to be extreme to mark what is done amiss in his country's quarrel? "Now if the Dean did chance to do anything wrong, Mrs. Baxter simply wouldn't see that it was wrong," she meditated. "Neither would Amy Benyon, if Dick did. I see it's wrong and yet defend it. I'm the wrong sort of woman to have married Alexander." Yes, from that point of view, undoubtedly. But there was another. What would Mrs. Baxter or Lady Richard have made of him at the times when he woke to greatness? Dick had appreciated him then; Dick's wife never had; she saw only the worst. Well, it was plain to see. May saw it so plain that night that she sat where she was till the night was old because, if she went upstairs, she might find him there. And she fell to wishing that the seat at Henstead was not shaky; so much hung on it, her hopes for him as well as his own hopes, her passionate interest in him as well as his ambition. Nay, she had a feeling or a fear that more still hung on it. Pondering there alone in the night, assessing her opinion and reviewing her knowledge of him, she told herself that there was hardly anything that he would not do sooner than lose the seat. So that she dreaded the struggle for the strain it might put on him; strains of that sort she knew now that he was not able to bear. "Lead us not into temptation," was the prayer which must be on her lips for him; if that were not answered, he was well-nigh past praying for altogether. For with temptation came his blindness, and he no longer saw the thing that tempted him for what it was. Oh, and what a fool she had been to think that she could make him see! At last she went upstairs, slowly and reluctantly. Passing her own door, she mounted again to the baby's nursery, and entered softly. All was peace; both baby and nurse slept. May was smiling as she came down the stairs; she murmured, "Gaston!" mimicking the satisfied tones of old Aunt Maria's voice. Then she entered her own room; Quisanté's bed was empty. A sense of great relief rose in her, but she went out again and softly turned the handle of his dressing-room door. He had elected to sleep there, as he often did. The light was still high; a book lay open by him on the bed. He was in deep sleep, looking very pale, very tired, very peaceful. She stood looking at him for a moment; again she smiled as she stole forward and peeped at the book. It was a work on Bimetallism. Did he mean to win Henstead with that? Oh, no; he meant to preach the Majesty of the British Sovereign, King of coins, good tender from China to Peru. She imagined him making some fine rhetoric out of it. He breathed gently and regularly; for once he rested, he really rested from his unresting efforts, from the cruel race he ran; he was for once free from all the thoughts of his brain, all the devices of his resourceful, unbaffled, unhesitating mind. With a sigh she turned away and lowered the light, that in darkness he might sleep more easily. In the darkness she stood a minute longer, seeing now only the dim outline of his body on the bed; again the smile came, but her lips moved to murmur softly, "Lead us not into temptation." And still murmuring the only prayer that might serve him, still smiling that it was the only prayer she could pray for her chosen husband, she left Quisanté to his rest. CHAPTER X. PRACTICAL POLITICS. While Alexander Quisanté increased in promise and prominence, Weston Marchmont had begun to cause some anxiety to his best friends. His passion for ultimates grew upon him; sometimes it seemed as though he would put up with nothing less. At the same time a personal fastidiousness and a social exclusiveness, always to a certain extent characteristic of the man, gathered greater dominion over him. He was not civil to the people towards whom civility would be useful, and he refused to shut his eyes to the logical defects or moral shortcomings in the measures promoted by his party. His abilities were still conceded in ample terms, his charm still handsomely and sincerely acknowledged. But a suspicion gradually got about that he was impracticable, that he had a perverse affection for unpopular causes, for reasons of approval or disapproval that did not occur to the world at large, for having a private point of view of his own, differentiated from the common view by distinctions as unyielding as to the ordinary eye they were minute. The man who begins merely by being uncompromising as to his own convictions may end in finding an actual pleasure in disagreeing with those of others. Some such development was, according to acute observers, taking place in Marchmont; if the tendency became his master, farewell to the high career to which he had appeared to be destined. Plain men would call him finicking, and practical men would think it impossible to work with him. No impression is more damning about a man engaged in public life; the Whips have to put a query to his name, and he cannot be trusted to confine his revolts to such occasions as those on which Mr. Foster of Henstead thought an exhibition of independence a venial sin, or in certain circumstances a prudent act. "The fact is," Morewood said to Marchmont once, when they had been talking over his various positions and opinions, "if you want to lead ordinary people, you must keep on roads that ordinary people can travel, roads broad enough for the _grande armée_. You may take them quicker or slower, you may lead them downhill or get them to follow you uphill, but you must keep to the road. A bye-path is all right and charming for yourself, for a _tête-à-tête_, or a small party of friends, but you don't take an army-corps along it." The unusual length and the oratorical character of this warning were strong evidence of the painter's feelings. Marchmont nodded a grave and troubled assent. "Still if I see the thing one way, I can't act as if I saw it the other." "You mustn't see it one way," said Morewood irritably. "If you must be the slave of your conscience, hang it, you needn't be of your intellect. Ask the Dean there." (The Dean, who had been drinking his port in thoughtful peace, started a little.) "He'll tell you that belief is largely or altogether--which is it?--an affair of the will." The Dean was prudent; he smiled and finished his glass. "If I chose to believe in the Crusade, I could," Morewood went on with a satirical smile. "Or with an adequate effort I could think Jimmy Benyon brilliant, or Fred Wentworth wise, or Alexander Quisanté honest. That's it, eh, Mr. Dean?" "Well, the ordinary view may be appreciated, even if it's not entirely embraced," said the Dean diplomatically. "The points of agreement are usually much more important, for practice at all events, than those of difference." "In fact--shut one eye and go ahead?" asked Marchmont. "Oh, shut 'em both and walk by the sound of the feet and the cheering." "Don't say more than you mean, Mr. Morewood," the Dean advised mildly. "I know what he means," said Marchmont. "And, yes, I rather wish I could do it." Morewood began to instance the great men who had done it, including in his list many whom the common opinion that he praised would not have characterised at all in the same way. At each name Marchmont denied either the greatness or the pliancy. The Dean could see with what ardour he maintained his position; in spite of the unvarying suavity of his manner there was something naturally repulsive to him in yielding a hair's breadth in deference to the wishes or the weaknesses of a majority. "Your independence is really half a prejudice," said the Dean at the end. "You're like a man who can't get a cab and misses his appointment sooner than ride in a 'bus." "I suppose so--and I'm much obliged to you. But--well, you can argue against what a man does, but what's the use arguing against what he is?" "No; he himself's the only man who can do that," said the Dean, but he knew as well as Marchmont himself that such an argument would never be victorious. The will to change was wanting; Marchmont might deplore what he lost by being what he was, and at times he felt very sore about it; but as a matter of taste he liked himself just as he was, even as he liked the few people in whom he found some of the same flavour and the same bent of mind. His character was knit consistently all through; whether he dealt with public affairs or ordered his own life the same line of conduct was followed. If he could not have things as he wanted them or do them as he chose, he would not have them or do them at all. He was not modifiable. For example, having failed to win May Gaston, he had no thought of trying for Fanny, and this not (as Lady Richard had thought likely) because he objected to any sort of connection with Quisanté; that point of view did not occur to him; it was merely because Fanny was not May, and May was what he had wanted and did want. Fanny he left to the gradual, uphill, but probably finally successful, wooing of Jimmy Benyon. Even with regard to May herself he very nearly achieved consistency. His promise to be often at Quisanté's house had been flagrantly and conspicuously broken. Quisanté had pressed him often; on the three occasions on which he had called May had let him see how gladly she would welcome him more often. He had not gone more often. He was not sulking, for his temper was not touched; but he held aloof because it was not to his taste to go under existing circumstances. He knew that he gave pain to her and regretted the pain, but he could not go, any more than he could give a vote because his good friend Constantine Blair, the Whip, was very much put out when he wouldn't. "He wants a party all to himself," said Constantine angrily. "And then I'm hanged if he'd vote with it!" Some of the things here indicated May Quisanté read about him in the papers, some Quisanté brought home from the House, some she heard from friends or divined for herself; and her heart went out to Marchmont under the cunning lure of contrast. The Dissolution drew near now, and political conferences, schemes, and manoeuvres were the order of the day in Grosvenor Road and in many other houses which she frequented. Perhaps she exaggerated what she disliked, but it seemed to her that everybody, her husband of course among the first, was carefully considering how many of his previous utterances and how much of his existing opinions he might conveniently, and could plausibly, disclaim and suppress, and on the other hand to what extent it might be expedient, and would not be too startling, to copy and advocate utterances and opinions which were in apparent conflict therewith. This, she was told, was practical politics. Hence her impulse of longing to renew friendship and intimacy with a man who was dubbed unpractical. The change would be pleasant, and, if she found something to laugh at, she would find something to admire, just as if in the practical politicians she found something to frown at, she contrived to find also much matter for legitimate mirth. She had begun by thinking that a gift of humour would make her married life harder; she was conscious now that without that form of insight it would be utterly intolerable. "I hear you're behaving very badly," she said to Marchmont, when he came in obedience to her invitation. "I was talking to Mr. Blair about you, and he had no words strong enough to denounce you in." "Yes, it's atrocious. I'm thinking for myself," he said with a shrug, as he sat down. "For yourself instead of about yourself! With a dissolution coming too!" "Oh, I'm safe enough. I'm a martyr without a stake." "Well, really, you're refreshing. I wish we were safe, and hadn't got to make ourselves safe; I don't think it's a very elevating process." She paused a moment and then added, "I ought to apologise for bringing you into such an atmosphere of it. We conspire here like Fenians or Women Suffragists, and I know how much you hate it all." "And you?" he asked briefly. "Oh, yes, as the clerk hates his desk or a girl her practising. The duties of life, you know." She had received him in an exuberance of spirits, much as though she were the school-girl she spoke of and he a pleasant visitor from the outside world. When she reproached him for not having come before, it was only evidence of her pleasure that he had come now; in the days when he saw her often and was always at her call, there had been no such joy as this. Yet he had hesitated to add one more item to the score of simple perversity, of not wanting when you can have and _vice versâ_; what she said about the atmosphere she lived in showed him that his hesitation had been right. "And I know you didn't want to come," she went on. "You've only come out of politeness, no, I mean out of kindness." "There was an old invitation. An old promise too? Wasn't there?" "One never withdrawn, the other terribly broken," she laughed. "You've heard of our difference with poor Dick Benyon?" "Of your husband's?" May smiled slightly. "Yes, I have. Quisanté's quite right now, you know; the only pity is that he didn't see it sooner." "Dick's not so charitable as you. He suspects our sincerity." It was on the tip of his tongue to say again "Your husband's?" but looking at her he found her eyes full of fun, and began to laugh himself. "I find it absolutely the only way," May explained. "I can't draw distinctions. Mrs. Baxter, now, says 'Our Cathedral' but 'My drawing-room.' Amy Benyon says 'Our relations,' when she means hers and 'Dick's relations' when she means his. I've quite given up the attempt to discriminate; a thorough-going identification of husband and wife is the only thing. The We matrimonial must be as universal as the We editorial." "The theory is far-reaching, if you apply it to qualities." "Yes, I don't quite know how far." "Alliance becomes union, and union leads to fusion?" "And fusion leads where?" He escaped answering or covered inability to answer with a shrug. "I'm sorry you don't please Mr. Blair," she said. "Really I don't think I care so very much. I used to be ambitious, but----" "Oh, don't tell me it's not worth while being ambitious. It's all I've got." She had spoken on a hasty unthinking impulse; she grew a little red and laughed rather nervously when she found what she had said. His face did not change, his voice was quite unmoved, as he said, smiling, "In that case, no doubt, it is worth while." She wanted to applaud his excellent manners; at the same time they annoyed her rather. She had been indiscreet no doubt, but her indiscretion might, if he had liked, have led the way to matters of interest, to that opening of the heart to somebody for which she was pining. His polite care not to embarrass her shut the door. "I mean, just now," she resumed, "while our seat's so shaky, you know." "Ah, yes," said he half-absently. She leant back in her chair and looked at him. "I think," she said, "you look as if you did care, about Mr. Blair or about something else. I wanted to tell you that I don't agree in the least with the criticisms on you." She leant forward, asking in a lower voice, "Do they hurt you?" "Not much. A man likes to succeed, but there are things I like better." "Yes. Well, there's nothing we--_we_--like better, Mr. Marchmont." He rose and stood on the hearth; her eyes were upturned to his in a steady gaze. "You were always very frank, weren't you?" he asked, looking down and smiling. "Well, you've known what you say for a long while, haven't you?" "Oh, yes, even before--Oh, ever since the very beginning, you know. There now! We've left 'We' and got to 'I,' and whenever that happens I say something I oughtn't to. But one must sometimes. I believe I could serve anybody to the death if only I were allowed to speak my whole mind about him once a week. But it's disloyal, I suppose." "Well, I suppose it is." She laughed. "That's what Mr. Blair means," she said. "You must have seen that I wanted you to say 'No, it isn't.' Perhaps you would have to anybody else. You were always one of the people who attributed all the virtues to me. You made it so hard for me to be good. I loathed the girl you thought I was. One comfort is that as I am now----". Suddenly her eyes met his; she stopped. "We'd better talk about 'we' again," she ended with a laugh. "Whom do you talk to?" he asked curiously. "About 'we'? I talk to Miss Quisanté--You've met her? She's never tired of talking about 'we'--though she doesn't like us; but she doesn't care a bit to talk about me." "Have a confidante," he suggested gravely. "Yes--like Tilburina. Who shall I have?" A run through their acquaintance suggested only Mrs. Gellatly, and her May rejected as being too suitable, too much the traditional confidante. "I should like one who might possibly have something to tell me in return, and she never could," she said. They were interrupted by the arrival of the man of whom they had spoken, Constantine Blair. He came with important and, as he clearly considered, disquieting news for Quisanté. Sir Winterton Mildmay, one of the richest landowners near Henstead, who had been at loggerheads with his party, had made up the quarrel and consented to stand in opposition to Quisanté. "I thought the sooner your husband knew the better," said Constantine with a very grave face. "It makes a difference, you see. We only beat young Fortescue, a stranger in the town, by two hundred, and they had four hundred the time before." He paused and added, "Lady Mildmay's very much liked in the town." "Come, Blair, I'm sure we shan't be worse off in that respect anyhow," said Marchmont, laughing. "Oh, I've nothing to do with you, I've given you up," cried Blair, twisting his good-humoured face into a fierce scowl. "He's a man with convictions, Lady May; he's no sort of use to me." Blair had convictions himself, but he and everybody else took them so much for granted that they might almost as well not have existed; they were polite convictions too, ready to give place not only to one another but even to circumstances, and waiting quite patiently their turn to be realised. He expected to be met in a like spirit, conceiving that the true function of a man's own opinions is to decide which party he shall belong to; with that decision their duty was ended. He possessed an extremely cordial manner, dressed perfectly, and never forgot anybody. He enjoyed his work immensely, quarrelling with nothing in it save that it often prevented him from being present at the first performances of new plays. May thought him pleasant, but did not welcome his appearance to-day; he smacked too strongly of those politics distinctively practical from which her talk with Marchmont had afforded a temporary escape. "I know Mildmay," said Marchmont. "He's a capital fellow and, I should think, very popular. He'll give you a bit of a run." "From what I hear he'll run us very close indeed," said Blair with an anxious look. "However I've unlimited confidence in your husband, Lady May. If Mildmay is to be beaten Quisanté'll beat him; if there is a weak spot he'll find it out." May smiled faintly; what Blair said was so true. "Perhaps," smiled Marchmont, "you'll be able to ferret out something about him." May turned to him and said with a touch of sharpness, "We shall fight fairly anyhow, I hope." She saw that she surprised him and went on with a laugh, "You shouldn't talk as if we were going to set detectives on him and use their information for electioneering." "Well, hardly," said Constantine Blair. "Still, mind you, a constituency has a right to know that its member is an honourable and equitable man as well as a supporter of the principles it favours." "Excellently well put, Blair," said Marchmont languidly. "Is it your own?" "No!" said May, with a sudden laugh. "I believe it's my husband's." Blair looked a little put out, but his good-humour triumphed. "I'm not above borrowing from my betters," he said. "Quisanté did say something of the sort to me, but how in the world did you know? Has he said it to you?" "Oh, no; I knew by--oh, just by the subtle sympathy that exists between husband and wife, Mr. Blair." She laughed again and glanced at Marchmont. "Sir Winterton must look out for the detectives, mustn't he?" she ended. Marchmont saw, though Blair did not, that she jested uneasily and reaped no pleasure, although she reaped amusement, from her clever recognition of her husband's style. She had spoken in much the same tone about the difference with Dick Benyon and the suspicions which Dick cast on "our sincerity." He came near to perceiving and understanding what was in her mind--what had been there as she watched Quisanté sleeping. The first suggestion of ferreting out something had come from him, purely in the way of a cynical jeer, just because nobody would ever suspect him of seriously contemplating or taking part in such a thing. Well, May Quisanté did not apparently feel quite so confident about her husband. Blair bustled off, with a parting mysterious hint that they must lose no time in preparing for the fray--it might begin any week now--and May's face relaxed into a more genuine smile. "He does enjoy it so," she explained. But Marchmont was not thinking of Blair. He asked her abruptly, "You'll go to Henstead and help him, I suppose?" "Of course. I shall be with him right through. He'll want all the help I can give him. It's everything to him to win this time." "Yes, I know." Her voice had become troubled again; she was very anxious for her husband's success; but was she anxious about something else too? "If I can help you, let me," he said as he rose to go. She gave him her hand and looked in his face. "I'm afraid that most likely I shouldn't be able to ask you," she said gravely. The answer, as she gave it, meant so much to him, and even seemed to admit so much, that he wondered at once at her insight into his thoughts and at her frankness in facing what she found there. For did she not in truth mean that she might want help most on some occasion when the loyalty he had himself approved would forbid her to reveal her distress to him or to seek his succour? He ventured, after an instant's hesitation, on one word. "After all," he said, "you can't trundle the world's wheelbarrow in white kid gloves; at least you soil them." "Then why trundle it?" she asked. "At any rate you needn't say that sort of thing. Leave that to Mr. Blair." Not only was the time when everybody had to be bestirring themselves approaching rapidly, but the appearance of Sir Winterton Mildmay in the list quickened the Quisantés' departure for the scene of action. Rooms were taken at the Bull in Henstead, an election agent appointed, resources calculated--this involved a visit to Aunt Maria--and matters got into fighting trim. During this period May had again full cause to thank her power of humour; it almost scattered the gloomy and (as she told herself) fanciful apprehensions which had gathered round, and allowed her to study with amusement her husband's preparations. He talked very freely to her always about his political views, and now he consulted her on the very important question of his Election Address. He reminded her of a man packing his portmanteau for a trip and not quite knowing what he would want, whether (for example) shooting boots would come in useful, or warm underclothing be essential. Space was limited, needs difficult to foresee, climate very uncertain. Some things were obviously necessary, such as the cry on which the Government was going to the country; others were sure to be serviceable; in went "something for Labour" (she gathered the phrase from Quisanté's rough notes); odd corners held little pet articles of the owner's things which he had found unexpectedly useful on a previous journey, or which might seem especially adapted to the part of the world he was going to visit. On the local requirements Mr. Foster the maltster was a very Baedeker. With constant effort on Quisanté's part, with almost unfailing amusement on his wife's, the portmanteau got itself filled. "Are you sure there's nothing else, Alexander?" she asked. "I think I've got everything that's of real service," said he. "I don't want to overload it." Of course not; excess luggage may be very expensive. May was smiling as she handed back the Address. "It's extraordinarily clever," she remarked. "You are extraordinarily clever, you know." "There's nothing in it that isn't pretty obvious," said he, though he was well pleased. "Oh, to you, yes, obvious to you; that's just it," she said. But amongst all that was in the portmanteau there was nothing that could be construed into a friendly word for the Crusade; and were not the anxious minds of the Henstead Wesleyans meant to read a disclaimer of that great movement in a reference to "the laudable and growing activity of all religious denominations, each within the sphere of its own action"? Quisanté had put in "legitimate" before "sphere," but crossed it out again; the hint was plain enough without, and a superfluous word is a word too much. "Sphere," implies limitations; the Crusade had negatived them. This significant passage in the Address was fresh in May's mind when, a day or two later, her husband came in, fretful and out of humour. He flung a note down on the table, saying in a puzzled tone, "I can't think what's come over Dick Benyon. You know my fight'll be over before his is half-way through, and I wrote offering to go and make a couple of speeches for him. He writes back to say that under existing circumstances he thinks it'll be better for him not to trouble me. Read his note; it's very stiff and distant." "Can you wonder?" was what rose to her lips. She did not put the question. The odd thing was that most undoubtedly he could wonder and did wonder, that he did not understand why Dick should be aggrieved nor, probably, why, even though he chose to be aggrieved, he should therefore decline assistance of unquestionable value. "Well, there'll be a lot of people glad to have me," said Quisanté in resentful peevishness. "And I daresay, if I have a big win, he'll change his mind. I shall be worth having then." "I don't think that would make any difference to Dick," she said. She spoke lightly, her tone was void of all offence, but Quisanté left the room, frowning and vexed. She had seemed to rebuke him and to accuse him of not seeing or not understanding something that was plain to her. He had become very sensitive on this point. Left to himself, he had been a self-contented man, quite clear about what he meant to do, troubling very little about what he was, quite confident that he could reason from his own mind to the mind of his acquaintances with absolute safety. When he fell in love with May Gaston, however, part of her attraction for him had lain in his sense of a difference between them, of her grasp on things and on aspects of things which eluded him; in this mood he had been prepared to worship, to learn, to amend. These things for a little while he had done or attempted, and had been met by zealous efforts to the same end on her part. His great moments had been frequent then, and May had felt that the risky work she had undertaken might prosper and at last be crowned with success. As for some months back this idea of hers had been dying, even so Quisanté's humble mood died. Now his suspicious vanity saw blame of what he was, or even contempt of him, in every word by which she might seem to invite him to become anything different. Though she had declared herself on his side by the most vital action of her life, he imputed to her a leaning towards treachery; her heart was more with his critics than with him. Yet he did not become indifferent to her praise or her blame, but rather grew morbidly sensitive and exacting, intolerant of questioning and disliking even a smile. He loved her, depended on her, and valued her opinion; but she became in a certain sense, if not an enemy, yet a person to be conciliated, to be hoodwinked, to be tricked into a favourable view. Hence there crept into his bearing towards her just that laboured insincerity which she had never ceased to blame in his attitude towards the world at large. He showed her the truth about himself now only as it were by accident, only when he failed to perceive that the truth would not be to her liking. But this was often, and every time it happened it seemed to him as well as to her at once to widen the gulf between them and to move further away any artificial means of crossing it. Thus the new sense of self-dissatisfaction and self-distrust which had grown upon him centred round his wife and seemed to owe its origin to her. On her side there came a sort of settled, resigned, not altogether unhumorous, despair. She saw that she had over-rated her power alike over him and over herself. She could not change what she hated in him, and she could not cease to hate it. She could neither make the normal level higher nor yet bear patiently with the normal lower level; the great moments would not become perpetual and the small moments grew more irritating and more humiliating. But the great moments recurred from time to time and never lost their charm. Thus she oscillated between the moods produced by an intense intellectual admiration on the one hand and an intense antipathy of the feelings on the other; and in this uncomfortable balancing she had the prospect of spending her life. Well, Aunt Maria had lived in it for years, and Aunt Maria could not be called an unhappy woman. If only Quisanté would not do anything too outrageous, she felt that she would be able to endure. Since she could not change, she must be content to compromise, to ignore--if only he would not drive her from that refuge too. "I suppose she sees what the man is by now," said Lady Richard to Morewood, whom she had been trying to entice into sympathising with her over the scandalous treatment of the Crusade. "My dear Lady Richard, she always saw what he is much better than you do, even better than I do. But it's one thing to see what a man is and quite another to see what effect his being it will have on yourself from time to time." "What he's done about Dick and the Dean is so characteristic." "For example," Morewood pursued, "you know what a bore is, but at one time he kills you, at another he faintly amuses you. You know what a Dean is" (he raised his voice so as to let the Dean, who was reading in the window, overhear); "at one time the abuse exasperates you, at another such splendid indifference to the progress of thought catches your fancy. No doubt Lady May experiences the same varieties of feeling towards her worthy husband." "Well, I've done with him," said little Lady Richard. Morewood laughed. "The rest of us haven't," he said, "and I don't think we ever shall till the fellow dies somehow effectively." "What a blessing for poor May!" cried Lady Richard impulsively. Morewood was a long while answering; even in the end what he said could not be called an answer. But he annoyed Lady Richard by shaking his finger at her and observing, "Ah, there you raise a very interesting question." "Very," agreed the Dean from the window seat. "I didn't know you were listening," said Lady Richard, wheeling round. "I always listen about Mr. Quisanté." "Exactly!" exclaimed Morewood. "I told you so!" But Lady Richard did not even pretend to understand his exultation or what he meant. Whatever he had happened to mean about poor May, the Dean was not Alexander Quisanté's wife. CHAPTER XI. SEVENTY-SEVEN AND SUSY SINNETT. The course of events gave to the Henstead election an importance which seemed rather adventitious to people not Henstead-born. It occurred among the earliest; the cry was on its trial. Quisanté was a prominent champion, his opponent commanded great influence, and the seat had always been what Constantine Blair used to call "pivotal," and less diplomatic tongues "wobbly." Such materials for conspicuousness were sure to lose nothing in the hands of Quisanté. The consciousness that he fought a larger than merely local fight, on a platform broader than parochial, under more eyes than gazed at him from the floor of the Corn-Exchange, was the spur he needed to urge him to supreme effort and rouse him to moments of inspiration. Add to this the feeling that his own career was at its crisis. Even Fanny Gaston, who rather unwillingly accompanied her sister to the Bull, was in twenty-four hours caught by the spirit of combat and acknowledged that Quisanté was a fine leader of a battle, however much he left to be desired as a brother-in-law. She flung herself into the fight with unstinted zeal, and was rewarded by Quisanté's conviction that he had at last entirely overcome her dislike of him. "He's really splendid in his own way," she wrote to Jimmy Benyon--by now they had come to corresponding occasionally--"and I think that you anyhow--I don't ask Dick, who's got a fight of his own--might come and give him some help. People know how much you did for him, and it looks rather odd that you should neither of you be here." So Jimmy, after a struggle, packed up, and gave and received a reciprocal shock of surprise when he got into the same railway carriage as the Dean and Mrs. Baxter. "What, are you going too?" cried Jimmy. Mrs. Baxter explained that they were not going to join Mr. Quisanté; indeed they were bound for the opposite camp, being on their way to stay with the Mildmays. The Dean added that his presence had no political significance; the Mildmays were old friends, and the visit quite unconnected with the election. "Although," the Dean added, "I shall find it interesting to watch the fight." His manner indicated that his sympathies were divided. Jimmy hastened to explain his presence. "I'm only going because of May and Fanny. I don't care a straw about Quisanté," he said, "although I'm loyal to the party, of course." "I'm not a party man," observed the Dean. How should he be, when both parties contemptuously showed his dear Crusade the door? "I want Sir Winterton to win," said Mrs. Baxter with mild firmness. "Oh, I say!" murmured Jimmy, who was very ready to be made to feel uncomfortable. "Come now, why, Mrs. Baxter?" Mrs. Baxter shook her head, and went on knitting the stocking which on journeys took the place of the wonted petticoat. "My wife's taken a prejudice against Mr. Quisanté," the Dean explained apologetically. "A prejudice!" said Mrs. Baxter with a patient withering smile; she implied that her husband would be calling religion and the virtues prejudices next. "There's nothing particularly wrong with him," Jimmy protested weakly. "There's nothing particularly right with him, Lord James. He's just like that coachman of the Girdlestones'; he never told the truth and never cleaned his harness, but, bless you, there was always a good reason for it. What became of the man, Dan?" "I don't know, my dear." "I remember. They had to get rid of him, and the Canon got him made night-watchman at the Institute. However, as I say, I called him Mr. Reasons, and that's what I call Alexander Quisanté. Poor girl!" The last words referred, by a somewhat abrupt transition, to Quisanté's wife. The Dean smiled rather uneasily at Jimmy Benyon; Mrs. Baxter detected the smile, but was not disturbed. She shook her head again, saying, "Sir Winterton you can trust, but if I were he I'd keep a sharp eye on all you Quisanté people." "I say, hang it all!" moaned Jimmy Benyon. But his protest could not soften the old lady's convinced hostility. "You ask his aunt," she ended vindictively, and Jimmy was too timid to suggest that enquiries in such a quarter were not the usual way of forming a judgment on rising statesmen. Moreover he had no opportunity, for Miss Quisanté did not come to Henstead; her explanation showed the mixture of malice and devotion which was her usual attitude towards Sandro. "I'd give my ears to come," she had told May, "to see the fun and hear Sandro. But I'm old and ugly and scrubby, and Sandro won't want me. I'm not a swell like you and your sister. I should do him harm, not good. He'd be ashamed of me--oh, that'd only amuse me. But I'd best not come. Write to me, my dear, and send me all his speeches." "I wish you'd come. I want you to talk to," May said. "Talk to your sister!" jeered Aunt Maria; it was nothing less than a jeer, for she knew very well that May could not and would not talk to Fanny. One thing the Quisanté people (as Mrs. Baxter called them) found out before they had been long in Henstead, and this was the important and delicate nature of anything and everything that touched or affected Mr. Japhet Williams. Something of this had been foreshadowed by Mr. Foster's account of his friend, but the reality went far beyond. Japhet was a small fretful-faced man; he was rich, liberal, and kind, but he plumed himself on a scrupulous conscience and was the slave of a trifle-ridden mind. As a member of a party, then, he was hard to work with, harder even than Weston Marchmont, of whom he seemed sometimes to May to be a reduced and travestied copy. Not a speech could be made, not a bill issued, but Japhet Williams flew round to the Committee Room with an objection to urge and a hole to pick. There he would find large, stout, shrewd old Foster, installed in an arm-chair and ready with native diplomacy, or Quisanté himself, earning Mrs. Baxter's nickname of "Mr. Reasons" by the suave volubility of his explanations. May laughed at such scenes half-a-dozen times in the first week of her stay at Henstead. "Is he so very important to us?" she asked of Foster. He answered her in a whisper behind a fat hand, "His house is only a couple of miles from Sir Winterton's, and Lady Mildmay's been civil. He employs a matter of two hundred men up at the mills yonder." "The position's very critical, isn't it, then?" "So your good husband seems to think," said Foster, jerking his thumb towards where Quisanté leant over Japhet's shoulder, almost caressing him, and ingeniously justifying the statistics of an electioneering placard. May's eyes followed the direction of the jerk. She sighed. "Yes, it's a waste of Mr. Quisanté's time, but we can't help that," Foster sighed responsively. It was not, however, of Quisanté's time that his wife had been thinking. Japhet rose. Quisanté took his hand, shook it, and held it. "Now you're satisfied, really satisfied, Mr. Williams?" he asked. "I give you my word that what I've said is absolutely accurate." "What that placard says, sir?" "Yes, yes, certainly--what the placard says. It doesn't give the details and explanations, of course, but the results are accurately stated." "I'm much relieved to hear it, much relieved," said Japhet. He left them; Foster sat down again, smiling. May had come to drive her husband to a meeting and waited his leisure. He came across to Foster, holding the suspected placard in his hand. "Smoothed him down this time, sir?" asked Foster cheerily. "Yes," answered Quisanté, passing his hand over his smooth hair. "I think, Mr. Foster, we won't have any more of this Number 77. Make a note of that, will you?" "No more of 77," Foster noted on a piece of paper. "It's not one of the most effective," said Quisanté thoughtfully. "Sails a little near the wind, don't it?" asked Foster with a wink. "Brief summaries of intricate subjects are almost inevitably open to misunderstanding," observed Quisanté. "Just so, just so," Foster hurried to say, his eyes grown quite grave again. May remembered Mr. Constantine Blair's plagiarism of her husband's style; had he been there, he must have appropriated this last example also. "I shall end by becoming very fond of Japhet Williams," she said as she got into the carriage. Quisanté glanced at her and did not ask her why. Meanwhile, however, the other side had got hold of No. 77, and Smiley, the agent, a very clever fellow, wired up to the Temple for young Terence McPhair, who had an acquaintance with the subject. Young Terence, who possessed a ready tongue and no briefs to use it on, made fine play with No. 77; accusations of misrepresentation, ignorant he hoped, fraudulent he feared, flew about thick as snowflakes. The next morning Japhet was round at the Committee Room by ten o'clock. Foster was there, and a boy came up to the Bull with a message asking if Mr. Quisanté could make it convenient to step round. It was a bad morning with Quisanté; his head ached, his heart throbbed, and his stomach was sadly out of gear; he had taken up a report of young Terence's speech, and read it in gloomy silence while the others breakfasted. There was to be a great meeting that night, and they had hoped that he would reserve what strength he had for it. He heard the message, rose without a word, and went down to the Committee Room. "What'll he do?" asked Jimmy Benyon. "They gave us some nasty knocks last night." "He can prove that the placard has been withdrawn, at least that no more are to be ordered," said Fanny Gaston. "It wasn't his fault; he's not bound to defend it." Quisanté came home to a late lunch; he was still ill, but his depression had vanished; he ate, drank, and talked, his spirit rising above the woes of his body. "What have you done this morning?" Fanny asked. "Held a meeting in the dinner-hour, had ten interviews, and the usual palaver with Japhet." "How are Mr. Williams' feelings?" asked May. "He's all right now," said Quisanté, smiling. Then he added, "Oh, and we've wired to town for two hundred and fifty more of 77." Then May knew what was going to happen. Quisanté was roused. The placard was untrue, at least misleading, and he knew it was; he might have retreated before young Terence and sheltered himself by an inglorious disclaimer. That, as Aunt Maria said, was not Sandro's way. No. 77 came down by the afternoon train, a corps of bill-posters was let loose, and as they drove to the evening meeting the town was red with it. Withdrawn, disclaimed, apologised for? It was insisted on, relied on, made a trump card of, flung full in young Terence's audacious face. May sat by her husband in that strange mixed mood that he roused in her, half pride, half humiliation; scorning him because he would not bow before the truth, exulting in the audacity, the dash, and the daring of him, at the spirit that caught victory out of danger and turned mistake into an occasion of triumph. For triumph it was that night. Who could doubt his sincerity, who question the injured honour that rang like a trumpet through his words? And who could throw any further slur on No. 77, thus splendidly championed, vindicated, and almost sanctified? Never yet in Henstead had they heard him so inspired; to May herself it seemed the finest thing he had yet done; and even young Terence, when he read it, felt glad that he had left Henstead by the morning train. As Quisanté sank into his chair amid a tumult of applause, Foster winked across the platform at May; but little Japhet Williams was clapping his hands as madly as any man among them. Who could not congratulate him, who could not praise him, who could not feel that he was a man to be proud of and a man to serve? Yet most undoubtedly No. 77 was untrue or at least misleading, and Alexander Quisanté knew it. Undoubtedly he had said "No more of it." And now he had pinned it as his colours to the mast. May found herself looking at him with as fresh an interest and as great a fear as in the first weeks of their marriage. Would she in her heart have had him honest over No. 77, honest and inglorious? Or was she coming to think as he did, and to ask little concerning honesty? What would Weston Marchmont think of the affair? Or, short of that, how Morewood would smile and the Dean shake his head! The No. 77 episode was very typical of that time, and most typical of Alexander Quisanté's conduct, of Sandro's way. His best and his worst, his highest and his lowest, were called out; at one moment he wheedled an ignorant fool with flattery, at another he roused keen honest men to fine enthusiasm; now he seemed to have no thought that was not selfish and mean, now imagination rapt him to a glow of heart-felt patriotism. The good and the bad both stood him in stead, and hope reigned in his camp. But all hung in the balance, for Sir Winterton was tall and handsome, bluff and hearty, a good landlord, a good sportsman, a good man, a neighbour to the town and a friend to half of it. And the great cry did not seem like proving a great success. "It's up-hill work against Sir Winterton," said Japhet Williams, rubbing his thin little hands together. A troubled look spread over the broad face of that provincial diplomatist, Mr. Foster the maltster; he knew where the danger lay. They would come to Quisanté's meetings, applaud him, admire him, be proud of his efforts to please them; but when the day came would they not think (and would not their wives remind them) that Sir Winterton was a neighbour and a friend and that Lady Mildmay was kind and sweet? Then, having shouted for Quisanté, would they not in the peaceful obscurity of the ballot put their cross opposite Mildmay's name? "I'm not easy about it, sir, that I'm not," said Foster, wiping his broad red brow. Quisanté was not easy either, as his lined face and his high-strung manner showed; he was half-killing himself and he was not easy. So much hung on it; before all England he had backed himself to win, and in the strain of his excitement it seemed to him that the stake he laid was his whole reputation. Was all that to go, and to go on no great issue, but just because Sir Winterton was bluff and cheery and Lady Mildmay kind and sweet? Another thing he knew about himself; if he lost this time, he must be out in the cold at least for a long time; he could not endure another contest, even if the offer of a candidature came to him, even though Aunt Maria found the funds. Everything was on this fling of the dice then; and it seemed to him almost iniquitous that he should lose because Sir Winterton was bluff and cheery and his wife kind and sweet. His face was hard and cunning as he leant across towards old Foster and said in a low voice, with a sneering smile, "I suppose there's nothing against this admirable gentleman?" Old Foster started a little, recollecting perhaps that fine passage in the speech which opened the campaign, the passage which defined the broad public lines of the contest and loftily disclaimed any personal attack or personal animosity. But the next moment he smiled in answer, smiled thoughtfully, as he tapped his teeth with the handle of his pen-knife. Quisanté sat puffing at a cigar and looking straight at him with observant searching eyes. "Anything against him, eh?" asked Foster in a ruminative tone. "They've been ready enough to ask where I come from, and how I live, and so on." "They know all that about Sir Winterton, you see, sir." "Yes, confound them." The keen eyes were still on Foster; the fat old man shifted his position a little and ceased to meet their regard. "We don't want to be beaten, you know," said Quisanté. A silence of some minutes followed. Quisanté, rose and strolled off to a table, where he began to sort papers; Foster sat where he was, frowning a little, with his mouth pursed up. He stole a glance at Quisanté's back, a curious enquiring glance. "I know nothing about the rights of it one way or the other," he said at last. "But some of the men up at the mills and in my place still remember Tom Sinnett's affair. Only the other night, as Sir Winterton drove by, one of them shouted out, 'Where's Susy Sinnett?'" Quisanté went on sorting papers and did not turn round. "Who the deuce is Susy Sinnett?" he asked indifferently, with a laugh. "It was about five years ago--before Sir Winterton's split with the Liberals. Tom was a keeper in Sir Winterton's employ, and Sir Winterton charged him with netting game and sending it to London on his own account." Foster's narrative ceased and he looked again at his candidate's back. The papers rustled and the cigar smoke mounted to the ceiling. "Well?" said Quisanté. "Tom was found guilty at Sessions; but in the dock he declared Sir Winterton had trumped up the charge to shut his mouth." "What about?" "Well, because he'd found Sir Winterton dangling after Susy, and threatened to break his head if he found him there again." He paused, Quisanté made no comment. "Tom got nine months, and when he came out all the family emigrated to Manitoba." After a short pause, filled by the arrangement of papers, Quisanté observed, "That must have cost money. He'd saved out of what he got for the game, eh?" "It was supposed Sir Winterton found the money," said Foster, "but nothing was known. Sir Winterton refused to make any statement. He said his friends would know what to think, and he didn't care a damn (that was his word) about anybody else. Still some weren't satisfied. But the talk died away, except here and there among the men who'd been Tom's pals. I daresay Tom gave 'em a rabbit now and again in exchange for a pot of beer, and they missed him." Mr. Foster ended with a little chuckle. "I think Sir Winterton might have been a little more explicit," Quisanté remarked. "There's some excuse for thinking an explanation not unnecessary. What became of the girl? Did she go to Manitoba?" "I believe she did in the end, but she'd married a man from Dunn's works and left the town three months after her father was sent to prison." Quisanté came back to the hearth and stood looking down on old Foster. "Rather a queer story," he said. "But I meant, was there anything against him of a public nature, in his local record, anything of that sort, you know." "I know nothing of that kind," said Foster, raising his eyes and meeting his leader's. He looked rather puzzled, as if he were still not quite sure what Quisanté's question had meant, in spite of Quisanté's explanation of it. "I'd almost forgotten this, but Japhet Williams mentioned it the other day. You know Japhet by now. He said he thought he ought to ask Sir Winterton to make a statement." A sudden gleam shot through Quisanté's eyes. "Mr. Williams' active conscience at work again?" he asked with a sneering laugh. "That's it," said Foster, still looking stolidly at his chief. "But I know Sir Winterton; he'd only say what he did before." Quisanté turned, flung the end of his cigar into the grate, and turned back to Foster, saying, "Mr. Williams must do as he thinks right; but of course I can't have any hand in a matter of that kind." "Just so, just so," murmured Foster as hurriedly but even more vaguely than usual. His chief was puzzling him still. "I can't have anything at all to do with it," Quisanté repeated emphatically. Foster did not quite know whence he gathered the impression, but he was left with the feeling that, if he should chance ever to be asked what had passed between them on the subject, he must remember this sentence at least, whatever else of the conversation he recollected or forgot. "Of course you can't, sir. I only mentioned it in passing," said he. "And you'd better tell Japhet Williams so, if he mentions the matter." The slightest pause followed. "Or," added Quisanté, grinding his heel into the hearth rug as though in absence of mind, "if it happens to crop up in talk between you." Whether the matter did crop up as suggested or not is one of those points of secret history which it seems useless to try to discover. But an incident which occurred the next evening showed that Japhet Williams' mind and conscience had, either of their own motion or under some outside direction, been concerning themselves with the question of Tom Sinnett and his daughter Susy. There was a full and enthusiastic meeting of Sir Winterton's supporters. In spite of Quisanté's victory over No. 77, they were in good heart and fine fighting fettle; Sir Winterton was good-tempered and sanguine; there was enough opposition to give the affair go, not enough to make itself troublesome. But at the end, after a few of the usual questions and the usual verbal triumphs of the candidate, a small man rose from the middle of the hall. He was greeted by hoots, with a few cheers mingling. The Chairman begged silence for their worthy fellow-townsman, Councillor Japhet Williams. Japhet was perfectly self-possessed; he had been, he said, as a rule a supporter of the opposite party, but he kept his mind open and was free to admit that he had been considerably impressed by some of the arguments which had fallen from Sir Winterton Mildmay that evening. The meeting applauded, and Sir Winterton nodded and smiled. There was one matter, however, which he felt it his duty to mention. Now that Sir Winterton Mildmay (the full name came with punctilious courtesy every time) was appealing to a wider circle than that of his personal friends and acquaintances, now that he--was seeking the confidence of his fellow-townsmen in general (A voice "He's got it too," and cheers), would Sir Winterton Mildmay consider the desirability of reconsidering the attitude he had taken up some time ago, and consider the desirability (Japhet's speech was not very artistically phrased but he loved the long words) of making a fuller public statement with reference to what he (Mr. Japhet Williams) would term the Sinnett affair? And with this Japhet sat down, having caused what the reporters very properly described as a "Sensation"--and an infinite deal of hooting and groaning to boot. But there were cheers also from the back of the room, where a body of roughly dressed sturdy fellows sat sucking at black clay pipes; these were men from the various works, from Dunn's and from Japhet's own. As Japhet proceeded Sir Winterton's handsome face had grown ruddier and ruddier; when Japhet finished, he sat still through the hubbub, but his hand twitched and he clutched the elbow of his chair tightly. The platform collectively looked uncomfortable. The chairman--he was Green, the linen-draper in High Street--glanced uneasily at Sir Winterton and then whispered in his ear. Sir Winterton threw a short remark at him, the chairman shrank back with the appearance of having been snubbed. Sir Winterton rose slowly to his feet, still very red in the face, still controlling himself to a calmness of gesture and voice. But all he said in answer to that most respected and influential townsman Mr. Japhet Williams was, "No, I won't." And down he plumped into his chair again. Not a word of courtesy, not a word of respect for Japhet's motives, not even an appeal for trust, not even a simple pledge of his word! A curt and contemptuous "No, I won't," was all that Sir Winterton's feelings, or Sir Winterton's sensitiveness, or his temper, or his obstinacy, allowed him to utter. Sir Winterton was a great man, no doubt, but at election times the People also enjoys a transient sense of greatness and of power. The cheers were less hearty now, the groans more numerous; the audience felt that, in its own person and in the person of Japhet Williams, it was being treated with disrespect; already one or two asked, "If he's got a fair and square answer, why don't he give it?" The superfine sense of honour, which feels itself wounded by being asked for a denial and soiled by condescending to give one, is of a texture too delicate for common appreciation. "No, I won't," said Sir Winterton, red in the face, and the meeting felt snubbed. Why did he snub them? The meeting began to feel suspicious. There were no more questions; the proceedings were hurried through; Sir Winterton drove off, pompous in his anger, red from his hurt feelings, stiff in his obstinacy. The cheer that followed him had not its former heartiness. "I only did my duty," said Japhet to a group who surrounded him. "That's right, Mr. Williams," he was answered. "We know you. Don't you let yourself be silenced, sir." For everybody now remembered the Sinnett affair, which had seemed so forgotten, everybody had a detail to tell concerning it, his own views to set forth, or those of some shrewd friend to repeat. That night the taverns in the town were full of it, and at many a supper table the story was told over again. As for Japhet, he dropped in at Mr. Foster's and told what he had done, complaining bitterly of how Sir Winterton had treated him, declaring that he had been prepared to listen to any explanation, almost to take Sir Winterton's simple word, but that he was not to be bullied in a matter in which his own conscience and the rights of the constituency were plainly and deeply involved. Mr. Foster said as little as he could. "It won't do for me to take any part," he remarked. "I'm too closely connected with Mr. Quisanté, and I know he wouldn't wish to enter into such a matter." "I'm not acting as a party man," said Japhet Williams, "and this isn't a party matter. But a plain answer to a plain question isn't much to ask, and I mean to ask for it till I get it, or know the reason why I can't." Dim rumours of a "row" at Sir Winterton's meeting reached the Bull that night, brought by Jimmy Benyon, who had been at a minor meeting across the railway bridge among the railway men. Somebody had brought up an old scandal, and the candidate's answer had not given satisfaction. The ladies showed no curiosity; Quisanté, very tired, lay on the sofa doing nothing, neither reading, nor talking, nor sleeping. His eyes were fixed on the ceiling, he seemed hardly to hear what Jimmy said, and he also asked no questions. So Jimmy, dismissing the matter from his mind, went to bed, leaving Quisanté still lying there, with wide-open eyes. There he lay a long while alone; once or twice he frowned, once or twice he smiled. Was he thinking over the opportunity that offered, and the instrument that presented itself? What chances might lie in Sir Winterton's dogged honour and tender sensitiveness on the one hand, and on the other in that conscience of little Japhet's, stronger now in its alliance with hurt pride and outraged self-importance! And nobody could say that Quisanté himself had had any part in it; he had spoken to nobody except Foster, and he had told Foster most plainly that he would have nothing to do with such a matter. There he lay, making his case, the case he could tell to all the world, the case Foster also could tell, the case that both Foster and he could and would tell, if need be, to all the world, to all the world--and to May Quisanté. "Sandro always has a case," said Aunt Maria. He had a case about what Japhet termed the Sinnett affair, just as he had had a case, and a very strong one as it had proved, about placard No. 77. When at last he dragged his weary overdone body to bed, his lips were set tight and his eyes were eager. It was the look that meant something in his mind, good or bad, but anyhow a resolution, and the prospect of work to be done. Had May seen him then, she would have known the look, and hoped and feared. But she was sleeping, and none asked Quisanté what was in his mind that night. CHAPTER XII. A HIGHLY CORRECT ATTITUDE. Up to the present time all had gone most smoothly at Moors End, the Mildmays' old manor-house, eight miles from Henstead, and Lady Mildmay had confided many quiet self-congratulations to Mrs. Baxter's ear. For it had seemed possible that the election might prove a cause of perturbation. Lady Mildmay was still in love with her handsome well-preserved husband, and had every confidence in him, but to a chosen friend she would sometimes admit that he was "difficult"; she called him not proud and obstinate, but sensitive and a little touchy; she hinted that he could not bear unpleasant looks, and yet was not very ready to make concessions to friendship. No doubt he needed some management, and Lady Mildmay, like many wives, found one of her chief functions to consist in acting as a buffer between her husband and a world which did not always approach him with enough gentleness and consideration. Hence her joy at the prosperous passage of a critical time, at the enthusiasm of their supporters, and at the gratification and urbanity of Sir Winterton. Satisfaction begat charity, and Lady Mildmay had laughingly dismissed some portentous hints which Mrs. Baxter let fall about the certain character and the probable tactics of Mr. Quisanté. "His wife looks so nice, he can't be very bad," said kind Lady Mildmay, using an argument of most uncritical charity. Although the Dean, if pressed, must have ranked himself among his host's political opponents, he was so little of a party man and had so many points of sympathy with Sir Winterton (especially on Church matters) that he very contentedly witnessed the contest from Moors End and no longer troubled himself to conceal his hopes of a Moors End triumph. Nevertheless he was judiciously reticent about Quisanté, generously eulogistic of May. Sir Winterton looked forward to making the acquaintance of both, but thought that the occasion had better be postponed till they had ceased to be opponents. "But I hope you and your wife'll go over as often as you like," he said to the Dean very cordially. But the Dean and Mrs. Baxter did not go, perhaps preferring not to divide their sympathies, perhaps fearing that they might seem like spies and be suspected of carrying back information to the rival camp. "I dare say you're wise," said Sir Winterton, rather relieved; he had made the suggestion because it was the handsome thing to do, but was not eager that it should be accepted. To do the handsome thing and to meet with pleasant looks were the two requisites most essential to Sir Winterton's happiness; given these he was at his best and his best was a fine specimen of the class to which he belonged. There was, however, a weak side to these two desires of his, as the history of the Sinnett affair to some extent indicated. The first shock to Sir Winterton's good temper had been the matter of No. 77; until then he had been lavish of the usual polite compliments to his opponent's personal character. After No 77's prodigal reappearance and Quisanté's rhetorical effort in defence of it these assurances were no more on his lips, and for a time he bore himself with strict reserve when Quisanté was mentioned. He had been right in the dispute, and he had been beaten; silence was the utmost that could be expected of his tolerance or his self-control; his refusal to speak on the subject showed his opinion well enough, and he must not be blamed too severely if he listened without protest and perhaps with pleasure to Mrs. Baxter's pungent criticisms. Of course she had been reminded of something--of the strictures which a certain Provincial Editor had passed on the household arrangements of a certain Minor Canon; a libel action had ensued, and the jury had been beguiled into finding for the defendant on a bare literal construction of words which to anybody acquainted with local circumstances bore another and much blacker meaning. This Mrs. Baxter called a pettifogging trick, and she pursued her parallel till the same terms were obviously indicated as appropriate to Quisanté's conduct. "My dear!" said the Dean in mild protest; but Sir Winterton laughed as though he had enjoyed the story. He was at once favoured with the further parallel of the Girdlestones' coachman and, as the conversation drifted to May, of the Nonconformist Minister's daughter and the Circus Proprietor. All Mrs. Baxter's armoury of reminiscence was heartily at his service. But No. 77 did not after all touch Sir Winterton very closely. His temper had begun to recover and he had nearly forgiven Quisanté when suddenly Japhet Williams produced a far more severe and deadly shock. His action was a bomb, and a bomb thrown from a hand which Moors End had been fain to think was or might be friendly. Was not Japhet a neighbour, only two miles off along the Henstead Road, and did not Lady Mildmay and Mrs. Williams, religious differences notwithstanding, work together every year on the Committee of the Cottage Gardens and Window-Boxes Show? Had not Japhet himself been understood to be reconsidering his political opinions? There was even more. The Sinnett affair was the one subject utterly forbidden, most rigidly tabooed, at Moors End. All Sir Winterton's relatives, friends, acquaintances, and dependents knew that well. Sir Winterton's honour and temper had never been so wounded as over that affair. By Japhet's hand it was dragged into light again; the odious thing became once more the gossip of Henstead, once more a disgusting topic which it was impossible wholly to ignore at Moors End. This was plain enough since, on the morning after Japhet's question had been put, Lady Mildmay was discussing the position with Mrs. Baxter in the morning-room, while the Dean and Sir Winterton walked round and round the lawn in gloomy conversation punctuated by gloomier silences. What the actual history was Lady Mildmay's narrative showed pretty accurately. Sir Winterton's predominant desires, to do the handsome thing and to meet with pleasant looks, evidently had played a large part. Lady Mildmay blushed a little and smiled as she began by observing that Sir Winterton had distinguished the girl by some kind notice; he liked her, he always liked nice-spoken nice-looking girls; for her sake and her mother's (a very decent woman), he had forgiven Tom many irregularities. At last his patience gave out and Tom was prosecuted; when arrested, Tom had tried blackmail; Sir Winterton was not to be bullied, and Tom's speech from the dock was no more than an outburst of defeated malice. Then came on the scene Sir Winterton's kind heart and his predominant desires. He had made the girl a present to facilitate her marriage and had got the husband work away from the town, where no gossip would have reached. This seemed enough, and so Doctor Tillman, an old and wise friend, urged. But as the time of Tom's release approached and his wife made preparations for receiving him in a cottage just on the edge of Sir Winterton's estate, it became odious to think of the black looks and scowls which would embitter every ride in that direction. "I want to forget the whole thing, to get rid of it, to blot it all out," said Sir Winterton fretfully. Prison had induced reason in Tom Sinnett; he made his submission and accepted the liberal help which carried him and his wife, his daughter and her husband, to a new life across the seas. Then Sir Winterton had peace in his heart and abroad; he had behaved most handsomely, and there were no scowling faces to remind him of the hateful episode. He had met the gossip boldly and defiantly; it had died away and had seemed utterly forgotten and extinct; the low grumbles and not very seemly jokes which still lingered among the men at the various works in Henstead, where Tom had been a _persona grata_, never reached the ears of the great folk at Moors End; it is perhaps only at election times that such things become audible in such quarters. The poor lady ended with a careworn smile; she had suffered much during the episode, and perhaps the more because her faith in her husband had never wavered. "I did so hope it was all over," she said. "That's a good deal to hope about anything," observed Mrs. Baxter rather grimly. "It does annoy Winterton so terribly. I'm afraid it'll quite upset him." Mrs. Baxter had her own opinion about Sir Winterton; amid much that was favourable, she had no doubt that he was far too ready to get on the high horse. "Well, my dear," she said, "Sir Winterton'll have to do what many people have; he must swallow his pride and tell the truth about it." "I don't think he will," sighed Lady Mildmay, looking out at her husband's tall imposing figure, and marking the angry energy with which he was impressing his views on the Dean. In this case at least Mrs. Baxter was right. Sir Winterton had got on the very highest of horses; he had mounted at the meeting, flinging back his "No, I won't," as he sprang to the saddle; he was firmly seated; having got up, he declared that he could not think of coming down. There, for good or evil, he sat. The Dean looked vexed and puzzled. "This Mr. Williams is an honest man, I suppose?" he asked. "Oh, honest as the day, too honest. But he's an infernal little ass," said Sir Winterton. "Somebody's got hold of him and is using him, or he's heard some gossip and caught it up. I won't say a word." And he went on to ask if he were to degrade himself by making explanations and excuses for his personal conduct to all the rowdies and loafers of Henstead. "If I have to do that to get in, why, I'll stay out, and be hanged to them." His face suggested that his language would have been still more vigorous but for a respect due to the Dean's cloth. Later in the day they all had a turn at him, his wife pleading tenderly, Mrs. Baxter exhorting trenchantly (he came nearer to being told he was a fool than had ever happened to him before), the Dean suggesting possible diplomacies, Dr. Tillman, whom they sent for as a reinforcement, declaring that a few simple words, authorised by Sir Winterton, would put the whole matter right. He was obstinate; he had taken up his position and meant to stand by it; his conscience was clear and his honour safe in his own keeping; he would not speak himself and explicitly forbade any statement to be made on his behalf. Surely some power fought for Alexander Quisanté in giving him an opponent of this temper! "If any statement is to be made in reference to the matter," said Sir Winterton, rather red in the face again by now, "I confess to thinking that it would come best from Mr. Quisanté. In fact I think that a few words would come very gracefully from Mr. Quisanté." Lady Mildmay caught at the hope. "If it was suggested to him, I'm sure----" "Suggested!" cried Sir Winterton. "Is it likely I should suggest it or permit any of my friends to do so? I was merely speculating on what might not unnaturally suggest itself to a gentleman in Mr. Quisanté's position." Mrs. Baxter's smile was very eloquent of her opinion on this particular point. The Dean frowned perplexedly. "There are exigencies to be considered," he stammered. "The views of his supporters----" "In a matter like this?" asked Sir Winterton in a tone of lofty surprise. The Dean felt that he had rather committed himself, and did not venture to remind his sensitive host that after all Quisanté had no knowledge of the truth or falsehood of the story, and could say nothing beyond that he had none. Mrs. Baxter, however, spoke plainly. "Let me tell you," she said, "that if you expect anything of the sort from Alexander Quisanté, you'll find yourself mistaken." "I don't know that I agree with you there, my dear," said the Dean, entering his usual _caveat_. "I think very likely Mr. Quisanté would be willing to do the proper thing if it were pointed out to him." "Pointed out!" murmured Sir Winterton, raising his brows. Did gentlemen need to have the proper thing pointed out to them? Did they not see it for themselves and do it? Nay, one might look for more than the mere naked proper thing; from a gentleman the handsome thing was to be expected, and that of his own motion. There could, in Sir Winterton's view, be no doubt of what was in this case the handsome thing. Unhappily, there is no subject on which greater divergence of opinion exists than that of the proper thing to be done under given circumstances. Here was Sir Winterton holding one view; Japhet Williams held another, and it is to be feared that a section of the inhabitants of Henstead adopted a third. Sir Winterton's cry was honour, Japhet's was duty; the inhabitants would have differed rather even among themselves as to how to describe their motive; party spirit, curiosity, the zest of a personal question, interest in a promising quarrel, mere mischief, all had a hand in producing the applause which greeted Japhet when he rose the next evening and with absolute imperturbability repeated the same question as nearly as possible in the same words. Sir Winterton's answer was not in the same words, but entirely to the same effect. "I've answered that question once, and I won't answer it again," he said. Then came the tumult, and after that a dull unenthusiastic ending, and the drive off through a grinning crowd, which enjoyed Sir Winterton's fury and added to it by a few hateful cries of "Where's Susy Sinnett?" From the outskirts of the town till his own gates were reached Sir Winterton did not speak to his wife. Then he turned to her and said very courteously but most decisively, "Marion dear, you will oblige me by not accompanying me to any more meetings at present and by not visiting the town just now. I don't choose to expose you to any more such scenes. I can't teach these fellows to respect a lady's presence, but I can protect my wife by ensuring her absence." He looked very chivalrous and very handsome as he made this little speech. But his wife's heart sank; such an attitude could mean nothing but defeat. "Can't you help us?" she implored of the Dean, when she had got him alone and told him of this new development of her husband's pride or temper. It was evident that Japhet Williams meant, as he had said, to go on putting his plain question till he got a plain answer, and so long as he put his question, Lady Mildmay was not to be present. How soon would Henstead understand that the gentleman who sought to be its member openly declared that he did not consider it a fit place for his wife to enter? "Something must really be done," said the Dean nervously. "At all hazards." They both knew that "at all hazards" meant in spite of the prohibition and in face of the wrath of Sir Winterton. Indeed this impulsive gentleman, seated on his high horse, was in urgent need of being saved from himself. Hitherto Japhet's importunity and the attacks of less conscientious opponents had had the natural effect of rousing his supporters to greater enthusiasm and greater zeal. When his fresh step began to be understood, when Lady Mildmay came with him no more, and it dawned upon Henstead that Sir Winterton would not bring her, the very supporters felt themselves offended. Were a few ribald cries and the folly of a wrong-headed old Japhet Williams to outweigh all their loyalty and devotion? Was the town to be judged by its rowdies? They could not but remember that Lady May Quisanté sat smiling through the hottest meetings, and one evening had at the last moment saved her husband's platform from being stormed by sitting, composed and immovable, in the very middle of it till the rioters came to a stand a foot from her, and then retreated cowed before her laughter. That was the sort of thing Henstead liked; to be told that it was unworthy of Lady Mildmay's presence was not what it liked. A strong deputation came out to Sir Winterton; he replied from his high horse; the deputation averred that they could not answer for the consequences; Sir Winterton said he did not care a rush about the consequences; the deputation ventured timidly to hint that an excessive care to shield Lady Mildmay's ears from any mention of the Sinnett affair might be misunderstood; Sir Winterton said that he had nothing to do with that; his first duty was to his wife, his second to himself. The deputation retired downcast and annoyed. "If you're going to do anything, Dan, you'd better do it at once," said Mrs. Baxter. The Dean, resolved to risk Sir Winterton's anger in Sir Winterton's interest, did something; he wrote covertly to Jimmy Benyon at the Bull, begging him to be riding on the Henstead road at ten o'clock the next morning; the Dean would take a walk and the pair would meet, as it was to seem, accidentally; nothing had been said to Sir Winterton, nothing was to be said at present to Mr. Quisanté. The Dean was, in fact, most carefully unofficial, and in no small fright besides; yet he was also curious to know how this new phase of the fight was regarded at the Quisanté headquarters. Jimmy came punctually, greeted the Dean most heartily, and listened to all that he said. The Dean could not quite make out his mood; he seemed uncomfortable and vexed, but he was not embarrassed, and was able to state what the Dean took to be the Quisanté position with so much clearness that the Dean could not help wondering whether he had received instructions. "Quisanté's line has been to take absolutely no notice of the whole thing," said Jimmy. "He knows nothing about it, and has had nothing to do with its being brought forward; he's never mentioned it, and he won't. But on the other hand he doesn't feel called upon to fight Mildmay's battle, or to offend his own supporters by defending a man who won't defend himself. As for this business about Lady Mildmay, if Mildmay likes to make such an ass of himself he must take the consequences." The Dean felt that the Quisanté case even put thus bluntly by Jimmy was very strong; Quisanté's deft tongue and skilful brain could make it appear irresistible. Strategically retiring from the ground of strict justice, he made an appeal to the feelings. "Surely neither Mr. Quisanté himself nor any of you would wish to win through such an occurrence as this? That would be no satisfaction to you." "Of course we'd rather win without it," said Jimmy irritably. "It's not our fault. Go to Japhet Williams, or, best of all, persuade Mildmay not to be a fool. Why won't he answer?" "Have you had any talk with Quisanté about it?" "Very little. He thinks pretty much what I've said." "Or with Lady May?" asked the Dean with a direct glance. "She's never mentioned it to me." "The whole affair is deplorable." "I don't see what we can do." Jimmy's tone was rather defiant. The Dean fell into thought and, as the result thereof, made a proposition; it was very much that suggestion to Quisanté on which Sir Winterton had frowned so scornfully. "If," said he, "I could persuade Sir Winterton to give Mr. Quisanté a private assurance that the scandal is entirely baseless, would Mr. Quisanté state publicly that he was convinced of its falsity and did not wish it to influence the electors in any way?" "Perhaps he would," said Jimmy. "I think it would be only the proper thing for him to do," said the Dean rather warmly. "I don't know about that. Why can't Mildmay say it for himself? But I'll ask Quisanté, if you like." The Dean was only too conscious of the weakness of his cause; he became humble again in thanking Jimmy for this small promise. "And Mr. Quisanté'll be glad to have done it, I know, whatever the issue of the fight may be," he ended. The remark received for answer no more than a smile from Jimmy. Jimmy was not sure that among the stress of emotions filling Quisanté's heart in case of defeat there would be room for any consoling consciousness of moral rectitude. Perhaps Jimmy himself would not care much about such a solatium. He wanted to win and he wanted Quisanté to win; such was the effect of being much with Quisanté; and in this matter at least, so far as Jimmy's knowledge went, his champion had acted with perfect correctness. At other times Jimmy might have been, like Sir Winterton, apt to exact something a little beyond correctness, but now the spirit of the fight was on him. The Dean returned with the rather scanty results of his mission, and after luncheon took his courage in both hands and told Sir Winterton what he had done. But for his years and his station, Sir Winterton would, at the first blush, have called him impertinent; the Dean divined the suppressed epithet and defended himself with skill, but, alas, not without verging on the confines of truth. To say that he had happened to meet Jimmy Benyon was to give less than its due credit to his own ingenuity; to say that Jimmy and he had agreed on the proper thing was rather to interpret than to record Jimmy's brief and not very sanguine utterances. However the Dean's motive was very good, and before the meal ended Sir Winterton forgave him, while still sternly negativing the course which his diplomacy suggested. In fact Sir Winterton was very hard to manage; the Dean understood the Quisanté position better and better; Mrs. Baxter gave up her efforts; she had an almost exaggerated belief in the inutility of braying fools in a mortar; she was content to show them the mortar, and if that were not enough to leave them alone. Only the wife persevered, for she thought neither of herself nor of what was right, but only of what might serve her husband. To the meetings he would not speak, to Quisanté he might be got to speak; she would not let him alone while there was a chance of it. And at last she prevailed, not by convincing his reason (which indeed was little involved in the matter either way), not by taming his pride, and not by pointing to his interest, but by the old illogical, perhaps in the strictest view immoral, appeal--"For my sake, because I ask you for your love of me!" For his love of her Sir Winterton consented to write a private note to Alexander Quisanté, stating for his own satisfaction and for his opponent's information the outline of the true facts of the Sinnett affair. Sir Winterton disliked his task very much but, having to do it, he did it as he did everything, as a gentleman would, frankly, simply, cordially, with an obvious trust in Quisanté's chivalry, good faith, and reluctance to fight with any weapons that were not stainless. "Now we've put it straight," said the Dean gleefully. "He's bound to mention your note and to accept your account, and if he accepts it, his supporters can't help themselves, they must do the same." Sir Winterton agreed that, distasteful as this quasi-appeal to his opponent had been, it could not fail to have the beneficial results which the Dean forecast. There was more cheerfulness at Moors End that evening than had been seen since Japhet Williams rose from the body of the hall, a small but determined Accusing Angel. It is not so easy to put straight what has once gone crooked, nor so safe to undertake to advise other folks, however much the task may by habit seem to lose half its seriousness. In his heart the Dean was thinking that he had "cornered" Quisanté, and Sir Winterton was hoping that he had combined the advantages of pliancy with the privilege of pride. The note that Quisanté wrote in answer did nothing to disturb this comfortable state of feeling--unless indeed any danger were foreshadowed in the last line or two; "While, as I have said, most ready to accept your assurance, and desirous, as I have always been, of keeping all purely personal questions in the background, I do not feel myself called upon to express any opinion on the course which you have, doubtless after full consideration, adopted in regard to the requests for a public explanation which have been addressed to you by duly qualified electors of the borough." The Dean felt a little uneasy when that sentence was read out to him; was it possible that he had underrated Quisanté's resources and not perceived quite how many ways of escaping from a corner that talented gentleman might discover? Yet there was nothing to quarrel with in the sentence; at the outside it was a courteous intimation of a difference of opinion and of the view (held by every man in the place except Sir Winterton himself) that a simple explanation on a public occasion would have done Sir Winterton's honour no harm and his cause a great deal of good. Such was the private answer; the public reference was no less neat. First came a ready and ample acceptance of the explanation which Sir Winterton had given. "I accept it unreservedly, I do not repeat it only because it was given to me privately." Then followed an expression of gratitude for the manly and straightforward way in which the speaker felt himself to have been treated by his opponent; then there was an expression of hope that these personal matters might disappear from the contest. "Had I been sensitive, I in my turn might have found matter for complaint, but I was content to place myself in your hands, trusting to your good sense and fairness." (Sir Winterton had not been so content.) "I trust that the episode may be regarded as at an end." Then a pause and--"It is not for me, as I have already observed to my honourable opponent, to express any judgment on the course which he has seen fit to adopt. I have only to accept his word, which I do unhesitatingly, and it is no part of my duty to ask why he preferred to make his explanation to one who is trying to prevent him from sitting in Parliament rather than to those whom he seeks to represent in that high assembly." This was said gravely and was much cheered. As the cheering went on, a smile gradually bent the speaker's broad expressive mouth; the crowded benches became silent, waiting the fulfilment of the smile's promise. A roguish look came into Quisanté's face, he glanced at his audience, then at his friends on the platform, lastly at his wife who sat on the other side of the chairman's table. He spoke lower than was his wont, colloquially, almost carelessly, with an amused intonation. "At any rate," he said, "I trust that Henstead may once more be thought worthy of the presence of----" He paused, spread out his hands, and sank his voice in mock humility--"of other ladies besides--my wife." It was well done. May's ready laugh was but the first of a chorus, and Quisanté, sitting down, knew that his shaft had sped home when somebody cried, "Three cheers for Lady May Quisanté!" and they gave them again and again, all standing on their feet. Alas for the Dean! For some men there are many ways out of a corner. CHAPTER XIII. NOT SUPERHUMAN. "I don't set up for being superhuman," said Alexander Quisanté with a shrug and a smile at his sister-in-law, "and I should very soon be told of my mistake if I did. I had nothing to do with putting the story about. I never countenanced it in any way. But since it got about, since Mildmay chose to give himself airs and make a fool of himself, and then come to me to get him out of his trouble, I thought myself entitled to give him one little dig." "Of course you were," agreed Fanny. "And if they choose to decide the election on that instead of on the Government policy, why, in the first place we can't help it, and in the second we needn't talk about it." He paused and then added with greater gravity, "I have nothing to reproach myself with in the matter." "What's Mr. Williams going to do?" "Oh, he made one solemn protest and now, at my request, he'll hold his tongue." "He's done all the mischief, though," said Jimmy Benyon with much satisfaction. It was true enough, and the triumph at the Bull equalled the depression at Moors End, where the Dean was aghast at the result of his diplomacy, and Sir Winterton began to perceive that he had vindicated his honour at the cost of his good sense, and his dignity at the price of his popularity. It was not Henstead's moral sense that was against him now, but that far more formidable enemy, Henstead's wounded vanity. The best judges refused to estimate how many votes that ride on the high horse was likely to cost him; but all agreed that the bill would be heavy; even Smiley, his own agent, shook a rueful head over the probable figure. And all this advantage had accrued to the Quisanté faction without involving any reproach or any charge of unfair tactics; rather were they praised for moderation, magnanimity, and good-nature. "To tell the truth," Jimmy whispered to Fanny, "I never felt sure that Quisanté would treat it in such a gentlemanly way." "No, neither did I," Fanny confessed. "I'm so glad about it." "He's rather proud of himself, though," chuckled Jimmy. "Yes, I know. Well, we mustn't be too critical," urged Fanny. His public demeanour had been beyond reproach, and after all even persons of more delicate feeling and more exalted position than Quisanté are apt to plume their feathers a little in the family circle. In the whirl of these last few days there was however little time for scrutinising the fine shades of manner or speculating on nice points of conscience. They were all worked to death, they were all inflamed with enthusiasm and the determination to win. As was only becoming, Quisanté's wife was the most enthusiastic and the most resolute; a thing not seeming so natural to herself was that she was also happier than she had ever been since her marriage. As the fight grew hotter, Quisanté grew greater in her eyes; he had less time to make postures, she less leisure to criticise; if he forgot himself in what he was doing, she could come near to forgetting the side of him she disliked in an admiration of the qualities that attracted her. His praises were in men's mouths beyond Henstead; letters of congratulation came from great folk, and Quisanté was told that his speeches had more than a local audience and more than a local influence. Sympathy joined with admiration; he was not only successful, he was brave; for it was a serious question whether his body and his nerves would last out, and every night found him utterly exhausted and prostrate. Yet he never spared himself, he was wherever work was to be done, refused no call, and surrendered not an inch to his old and hated enemy, the physical weakness which had always hindered him. May wrote to Miss Quisanté that he was "wonderful, wonderful, wonderful." There she paused, and added after a moment's thought, "It's something to be his wife." And to Mr. Foster she said, "They must elect him, they can't help it, can they?" "Well, I think we shall win now," said old Foster, smiling, but directing a rather inquisitive glance at her. "Japhet Williams has helped us; not so much as Sir Winterton himself, though." May's face fell a little. "I didn't mean that," she said. "Oh, I suppose I want to win anyhow, but I'd much rather not win through that." "Must take what we can get," murmured Foster, quite resignedly. "I suppose so; and it's not as if my husband, or you, or any of his friends had taken any part in it." The inquisitive glance ceased; Foster had found out the answer to what it had asked; there were limits to the confidence which existed between Lady May Quisanté and her husband. But he only smiled comfortably; Quisanté wouldn't talk, he himself was safe, and, if anything had cropped up in talk between him and Japhet, his skill and Japhet's vanity had ensured that the little man should think himself the initiator, inventor, and sole agent in the whole affair. "We're not responsible for Japhet Williams," said he. "His vote's safe for us now, though, and it means a few besides his own." "I sometimes wonder," mused May, "whether anybody at an election ever votes one way and not the other simply because he thinks that way right and the other wrong." She laughed, adding, "You don't get the impression that they ever do, canvassing and going about like this." "Must allow for local feelings, Lady May." "Yes, I know; and everybody has feelings, and I suppose every place is local. You say a lot of people'll vote for us because Sir Winterton wouldn't let Lady Mildmay come to the town?" "A better stroke for us than any even Mr. Quisanté has done." "And there's something like that in every constituency, I suppose! How do we get governed even as well as we do?" Foster looked thoughtful and nursed his foot (in which he had a touch of the gout). "It's all under God," he said gravely. "He turns things to account in ways we can't foresee, Lady May." Was it possible that he was remembering the peculiar qualities of Mr. Japhet Williams? May did not laugh, for Mr. Foster was obviously sincere, but she looked at him with surprise; his religion came in such odd flashes across the homely tints of his worldly wisdom and placid acceptance of things and men as he happened to find them. Henstead was not the Kingdom of Heaven, and he did not pretend to think it wise to act on the assumption that it was. Like Quisanté, he did not set up for being superhuman--nor set other people up for it either. May felt that there were lessons to be learnt here; nay, that she was making some progress in them; though she wondered now and then what Weston Marchmont would think of the lessons and of her progress in them. "The worst of it is," she went on, "that I'm afraid one has to say a lot of things that are not exactly quite true." "Truer than the other side," Mr. Foster affirmed emphatically, his corpulence seeming to give weight to the dictum as he threw himself forward in his chair. "Relative truth!" laughed May. "Like No. 77?" "You must ask Mr. Quisanté about that." "Oh, no, I won't. I'll listen to his speeches about it." She grew grave as she went on. "I've only asked him about one thing all through the election. I had to ask him about that." "Ah!" murmured Foster, cautiously, vaguely, safely. "This wretched story about Sir Winterton, you know. And I got into terrible trouble by my question." She laughed a little. "He doesn't as a rule scold me, you know, but he really did. I was very much surprised. Fancy boring you with this! Well, I asked him if he'd had anything to do with reviving the story. I asked him right straight out. Did you think I was like that, Mr. Foster?" "Pretty well, pretty well," said old Foster; he was smiling, but he was watching her again. "Was it insulting? Well, you see----" She stopped abruptly; Foster was not, after all, Aunt Maria, and she could not tell him how it was that she might ask her husband questions that sounded insulting. "Anyhow he was very much offended." Foster still nursed his foot, and now he shifted a little in his chair. "He gave me his word directly, but told me he was very much hurt at my asking him." She smiled again. "There's a confession of a conjugal quarrel for you, Mr. Foster. Don't talk about it, or Mr. Smiley will have a caricature of us throwing the furniture at one another. I've been very humble ever since, I assure you." Mr. Foster chuckled. May imagined that his fancy was touched by her suggestion of the caricature; in fact he was picturing Alexander Quisanté's indignant disclaimer. "Don't tell him I said anything to you about it," she added. "You may be sure I won't," he promised. It would not have been out of harmony with Mr. Foster's general theological position to consider the sudden and serious development of his gout as a direct judgment on him for a diplomacy that perhaps overstepped legitimate limits, and in another man's case he might have adopted such a view with considerable complacency. When, however, he was laid up and placed _hors du combat_ in the last three critical days, he needed all his faith to reconcile him to one of the most unfathomable instances of the workings of Providence. His grumbles were loud and long, and the directions which he sent from his sick bed were tinged with irritability. For at last the other side had come to its senses; Sir Winterton was affable again, Lady Mildmay was canvassing, and Mr. Smiley had high hopes. Despondency would have fallen on Foster's spirit but for the report of Quisanté's exploits, performed in the teeth of the orders of that same Dr. Tillman who had given Sir Winterton such excellent unprofessional advice touching the affair of Tom Sinnett. He gave Quisanté just as good counsel, and with just as little result. Then he tried Quisanté's wife and found in her what he thought a hardness or an insensibility, or, if that were an unjust view, a sort of fatalism which forbade her to seek to interfere, and reduced her to being a spectator of her husband's doings and destiny rather than a partner in them. "How can he lie by now?" she asked. "It's impossible; he must see this out whatever happens." Quisanté had said exactly the same thing, but his wife's perfect agreement in it seemed strange to the doctor. It was making the man's success more than the man; there was too much of the Spartan wife about it, without the Spartan wife's excuse of patriotism. Something of these feelings found expression in the look with which he regarded May, and he allowed himself to express them more freely to Lady Mildmay, who would have disappointed the most important meeting sooner than face the risk of Sir Winterton's taking cold. He told her how May had said, "He won't stand being coddled," and then had added, with a frankness which the doctor had not become accustomed to, "Besides I should never do it. We aren't in the least like that to one another." "I felt rather sorry for the man," said the doctor. "It's as if he was a racehorse, and they didn't think so much about him as about a win for the stable." "Do you like him?" asked Lady Mildmay, merely in natural curiosity. But the doctor started a little as he answered, "Why, no, I don't like him at all." And as he drove home he was thoughtful. "Well, here we are at last!" said Jimmy Benyon as he sat down to breakfast on the morning of the polling day. "I'm told Mildmay's people were asking for six to four last night. Where's Quisanté?" "He went out just before eight, to catch some of the men who work on the line and can't be back to vote in the evening," said May. "Lord!" sighed Jimmy in a self-reproachful tone; it was past nine now, and he was only just out of bed. "What are you going to do?" "Drive and bow and smile and shake hands," said May. "And you're going to and fro in a wagonette of Mr. Williams'--without any springs, you know. And Mr. Dunn's going to take Fanny in one of his waggons; she'll have to sit on a plank without a back all day, so I told her to stay in bed till she has to start at ten." "It's a devilish difficult question," said Jimmy meditatively, "whether it's all worth it, you know." "Oh, it's worth more than that," said May lightly, as she sprang up and put on her hat. "It's worth--well, almost anything. Six to four? They expect us to win then?" "By a neck, yes." He glanced at her and added rather uneasily, "They say friend Japhet's done the trick for us." She made no answer, and he went on hastily, "Old Foster's still in bed, and the waiter says he's written five notes to your husband already--a regular row of them in the bar, you know." "Last instructions?" "Oh, somebody else to be nobbled, don't you know; some fellow who wants to marry his deceased wife's sister--or else is afraid he'll have to if they pass the Bill. And there's the butcher in Market Street who's got some trouble about slaughterhouses that I'm simply hanged if I can understand. I jawed with him for half-an-hour yesterday, and then didn't hook him safe." "Alexander must find time to go and hook him," said May, smiling. "Alexander'll be great on slaughter-houses." "And at the last minute Smiley's been hinting something about Mildmay giving a bit of land to extend the Recreation Ground. A beastly unscrupulous fellow I call Smiley." "Oh, poor Mr. Smiley! He wants to win." "He might play fair, though." "Might he? Oh, well, I suppose so. We've played fair anyhow--pretty fair, haven't we?" "Rather!" "You really think so, Jimmy?" She was serious now; Jimmy reached out his hand and touched hers for a moment; he divined that she was asking him for a verdict and was anxious what it might be. "Rather!" he said again. "That's all right. We've kept to the rules square enough." "Then I'm off to bow and smile!" she cried. As she went by she touched his hand again. "Thanks, Jimmy," she said. Jimmy, left alone, stretched himself, sighed, and lit a cigar; they were nearly out of the wood now, and they had managed to play pretty fair. For his own sake he was glad, since he had been mixed up in the campaign; he had perception enough to be far more glad for May Quisanté's. Through all the fever of that day the same gladness and relief were in her heart in a form a thousandfold more intense. They enabled her to do her bowing and smiling, to hope eagerly, to work unceasingly, to be gay and happy in the excitement of fighting and the prospect of victory. She could put aside the memory of Tom Sinnett; they had not been to blame; let that affair be set off against Smiley's hypothetical extension of the Recreation Ground. She felt that she could face people, above all that she could face the Mildmays when the time came for her to meet them at the declaration of the poll. And as regarded her husband she could do more than praise and more than admire; she could feel tenderness and a touch of remorse as she saw him battling against worse than the enemy, against a deadly weariness and weakness to which he would not yield. From to-morrow she determined to lay to heart the doctor's counsel, to try whether he could not be persuaded to stand a little coddling, whether he might not be brought to, if only she could persuade herself to show him more love. When she looked at the Mildmays she understood what had perhaps been in the doctor's mind; dear Lady Mildmay (she was a woman who immediately claimed that epithet with its expression of mingled affection and ridicule) no doubt overdid a little her pleasant part. She made Sir Winterton a trifle absurd. But then with what chivalry he faced and covered the touch of absurdity, or avoided it without offending the love that caused it! Very glad she was that, when Lady Mildmay asked to be introduced, she could clasp hands with the consciousness that her side had played fair, and by a delicate distant reference could honestly assure the enemy's wife that both she and her husband had looked with disfavour on that unpleasant episode. She had known she would like Sir Winterton and was not disappointed; she saw that he was very favourably impressed by her, largely, no doubt, because she was handsome, even more because their ways of looking at things would be very much the same; they had the same pride and the same sensitiveness; in humour he was not her match, or he would not have ridden his high horse. She felt that he complimented her in begging her to make him known to Quisanté; and this office also she was able to perform with pleasure, because they had played fair. Hope was high in her that night, not merely for this contest, not merely now for her husband's career, but for her life and his, for her and him themselves. If her old fears had been proved wrong, if in face of temptation he had not yielded, if now by honourable means he had made good his footing, things might go better in the future, that constant terror vanish, and there be left only what she admired and what attracted her. For they had kept to the rules square enough; Quisanté had played fair. She heard Sir Winterton tell him so in a friendly phrase, just touched with a pleasantly ornate pompousness; eagerly looking, she saw Quisanté accept the compliment just as he should, as a graceful tribute from an antagonist, as no more than his due from anyone who knew him. She smiled to think that she could write and tell Aunt Maria that Sandro was improving, that even his manners grew better and better as success gave him confidence, and confidence produced simplicity. Making a friendly group with their rivals in the ante-room, they were able to forget the little fretful man who paced up and down, carefully avoiding Sir Winterton's eye, but asserting by the obstinate pose of his head and the fierce pucker on his brow that he had done no more than his duty in asking a plain answer to a plain question, and that on Sir Winterton's head, not on his, lay the consequences of evasion. Presently the group separated. The little heaps of paper on the long table in the inner room had grown from tens to hundreds; the end was near. Quisanté's agent stood motionless behind the clerks who counted, Jimmy Benyon looking over his shoulder eagerly. Smiley regarded the heaps for a moment or two and then walked across to Sir Winterton. Through the doorway May saw Sir Winterton bend his head, listen, nod, smile, and turn and whisper to his friends. At the next moment Jimmy Benyon came to the door, caught her eye, smiled, and nodded energetically. The presiding officer looked down the row of men counting to right and left. "Are you all agreed on your figures?" he asked. They exchanged papers, counted, whispered a little, recovered their own papers. "Yes," ran along the row, and the presiding officer pushed back his chair. In a single instant Quisanté was the centre of a throng of people shaking his hand, and everybody crowded into the inner room. "How many?" asked Sir Winterton Mildmay. "Forty-seven, Sir Winterton," answered Smiley. So it was over, and Alexander Quisanté was again Member for Henstead. "Send somebody to tell Foster," May heard him say before he followed to the window from which the announcement was to be made. He was very pale and walked rather unsteadily. "Stay by Mr. Quisanté; I think he's not very well," she whispered to the agent. The next moment two of Sir Winterton's prominent supporters passed her; one spoke to the other half in a whisper. "That damned Sinnett business has done us," he said. Her cheek flushed suddenly; it was horrible to think that. Still they had played fair, and it was no fault of theirs. "Let me be the first to congratulate you," said a gentle voice. She turned and found Lady Mildmay beside her; Sir Winterton's wife was smiling, but there were tears in her eyes. "And do get your husband home to bed; he looks terribly, terribly tired. I'm afraid he's not nearly as strong as Winterton; but I'm sure you take great care of him." "Not so much as I ought to." Lady Mildmay, accustomed to straightforward emotions, was puzzled at the half-bitter half-merry tone. "I mean I egg him on when perhaps I ought to hold him back. I know he ought to rest, but I never want him to--never really want it, you know." Lady Mildmay still looked puzzled. "He's at his best working," said May. "Well, but you must want him to yourself sometimes anyhow, and that's a rest for him." Oh, the differences of people and fates! That was May's not original but irresistible reflection when Lady Mildmay left her. Want him to herself! Never--or never as Lady Mildmay meant, anyhow. She only wanted a good place whence to look at him. She had one more encounter before Jimmy Benyon came to take her home. Japhet Williams came up to her and made her shake hands. "We have got a representative in whom we can have confidence," he said. "I hope so, Mr. Williams." She smiled to think how exactly she was speaking the truth--a rare privilege in social intercourse. "Don't think that I resent in any way the distant attitude which Mr. Quisanté thought it desirable to take up in regard to my action," pursued Japhet; it seemed odd that such a coil of words could be unrolled from so small a body. "My course was incumbent on me. I recognise that his attitude was proper for him." "I'm so glad, Mr. Williams," May murmured vaguely. "I could take the course I did because I had nothing to gain by it, nothing personally. Being personally interested, he could not have moved in the matter. I hope you see my point of view as well as his, Lady May?" "Oh, perfectly. I--I'm sure you're both right." "My conscience doesn't blame me," said Japhet solemnly; and something in his manner made May remark to Jimmy, when he came to take her home, "What a lot of excellent people are spoilt by their consciences!" Quisanté had disappeared, engulfed in a vortex of triumphant supporters, carried off by arms linked in his, or perhaps hoisted in uncomfortable grandeur on enthusiastic but unsteady shoulders. The street was densely packed, and Jimmy's apparently simple course of returning straight to the hotel proved to be a work of much time and difficulty. But the stir of life was there, all around them, and May's eyes grew bright as she felt it. Now at least it could not seem a difficult question whether the result were worth the effort; triumph drove out such doubts. "I'm so glad we've won; I'm so glad we've won," she kept repeating in simple girlish enthusiasm as Jimmy steered her through the crowd, heading towards the Bull whenever he could make a yard or two. "Though I'm awfully sorry for Lady Mildmay," she added once. So long were they in getting through that on their arrival they found that Quisanté had reached home before them. His journey had been hurried; he had been taken faint and the rejoicings were of necessity interrupted; he was upstairs now on the sofa. May ran up, followed by Fanny and Jimmy, passing many groups of anxious friends on the way. Quisanté was stretched in a sort of stupor; he was quite white, his eyes were closed. She knelt down by him and called him by his name. "He's quite done up," said Jimmy, and he went to the sideboard and got hold of the brandy. "Do keep everybody out," called May, and Fanny shut the door oh half-a-dozen inquisitive people. Both she and Jimmy were looking very serious; May grew frightened when she turned and saw their faces. "He's only tired; he'll be all right again soon," she protested. "Give me a little brandy and water, Jimmy." They stood looking at her while she did her best for him; a slight surprise was in their faces; they had never seen her minister to him before. Did she really love him? The question escaped from Jimmy's eyes, and Fanny's acknowledged without answering it. Presently Quisanté sighed and opened his eyes. "Drink some of this," said his wife low and tenderly. "Do drink some." She was kneeling by him, one arm under his shoulder, the other offering the glass. "We've done it, haven't we?" he murmured, as she tilted the glass to his lips. The drink revived him; with her help he hoisted himself higher on the sofa and looked at her. A smile came on his face; they heard him whisper, "My darling!" Again it struck them both as a little strange that he should call her that. But she smiled in answer and made him drink again. "Yes, you've won; you always win," they heard her whisper softly. She had forgotten all now, except that he had won, that her faith stood justified, and he lay half-dead from the work of vindicating it. At that moment she would have been no man's if she could not be Alexander Quisanté's. There was a knock at the door; Jimmy Benyon went and opened it; he came back holding a note, and gave it to May; it was addressed to her husband in a pencil scrawl. "A congratulation for you," she said to Quisanté. He glanced carelessly and languidly at it, murmuring, "Read it to me, please," and she broke open the sealed envelope. Inside the writing was as negligent a scribble as on the outside, the writing of a man in bed, with a stump of pencil. Old Mr. Foster wrote better when he was up and abroad, so much better that Quisanté's tired eyes had not marked the hand for his. "Read it out to me," said Quisanté, his eyes now dwelling gratefully on his wife's face, his brain at last resting from the long strain of weeks of effort. "Yes, I'll read it," she said cheerfully, almost merrily. "We shall be full of congratulations for days now, shan't we?" She smoothed out the sheet of paper; there were but two or three lines of writing, and she read them aloud. She read aloud the simple indiscreet little hymn of triumph which victory and the safety of a private note lured from old Mr. Foster's usually diplomatic lips:-- "Just done it, thank God. Shouldn't have without Tom Sinnett, and we've got you to thank for that idea too." She read it all before she seemed to put any meaning into it. A silence followed her reading. She knelt there by him, holding the sheet of note-paper in her hands. Fanny and Jimmy stood without moving, their eyes on her and Quisanté. Slowly May rose to her feet. Quisanté closed his eyes and moved restlessly on the sofa; he sighed and put his hand up to his head. The slightest of smiles came on May's lips as she stood looking at him for a minute; then she turned to Fanny, saying, "I think he'd better have a little more brandy-and-water." She walked across to the mantelpiece, the crumpled sheet of paper in her hand. She looked at Fanny with the little smile still on her lips as she lit a candle and burnt the note in its flame, dropping the ashes into the grate. Quisanté lay as though unconscious, taking no heed of his sister-in-law's proffered services. Jimmy Benyon stood in awkward stillness, looking at May. Suddenly May broke into a laugh. "Just as well to burn it; it might be misunderstood," said she. Jimmy moved towards her quickly and impulsively. "No, no, I'm all right," she went on. "And we've won, haven't we? I'm going to my room. Look after him." She paused and added, smiling still, "His head's very bad, you know." And so, pale and smiling, she left her husband to their care. The ashes of Mr. Foster's note seemed to crinkle into a sour grin where they lay on the black-leaded floor of the fire-grate. CHAPTER XIV. OPEN EYES. It is a matter of common observation that the local influences and peculiarities which loom so large before the eyes of both parties during such a struggle as that at Henstead seem to be entirely forgotten after the declaration of the poll, at least by the victorious faction and their friends in the Press and the country. Out of a congeries of conflicting views, fancies, fads, interests, quarrels, and misunderstandings a reasoned and single political verdict is considered to emerge, and great is the credit of the advocate who extracts it from the multitudinous jury. When Quisanté had won Henstead, little more was heard of the gentleman with a deceased wife's sister, of the butcher in trouble about slaughter-houses, of Japhet Williams' conscience or Tom Sinnett's affair. The result was taken as an augury of triumph for the party all over the country, where these things had never been heard of and the voices of Henstead did not reach. Unhappily however, as events proved, the victory of Henstead had in the end to be regarded not as the inauguration of a triumphant campaign but as a brilliant exploit performed in face of an overwhelming enemy. To be brief, the Government was beaten, somewhat badly beaten, the great cry was a failure, and there were many casualties in the ranks. Marchmont kept his seat by virtue of personal and hereditary popularity; but Dick Benyon, who had been considered quite safe, lost his, a fate shared by many who had deemed themselves no less secure. "I suppose you preached your miserable Crusade, as you call it?" said Constantine Blair. They were at dinner at Marchmont's, Morewood and the Dean also being of the company. "I did, and without it I should have got a worse thrashing," said Dick stoutly; it would be unkind to scrutinise too closely the sincerity of this statement. "Quisanté had the sense to throw it over," growled Constantine; his equanimity was not up to its usual standard. "It's wisdom to lighten the ship in a storm," smiled Marchmont. "Yes, and to jettison other people's heavy luggage first," said Morewood. "The duty of a captain, I suppose," murmured the Dean with a smile. "You needn't begin with your best guns," argued Dick, a little hotly. "We can't let Dick appropriate our metaphor to his own purposes," said Marchmont. "As a matter of fact now, had the Crusade much to do with it?" Morewood interposed before Dick could answer. "Oh, only as a Crusade. 'Causes' of any kind are properly suspected," said he. "For my part I should imitate the noble simplicity of municipal election bills. 'Down with the rates!' Quite enough, you know. The end is indisputably attractive, and you aren't such an ass as to try to indicate the means. So you get in." "And don't do it?" The question was Marchmont's. "Of course not--or what would you have to say next time?" "The other side has always prevented your doing it?" the Dean suggested. "Mostly, yes--by factious opposition." "You fellows don't seem to care," observed Constantine Blair moodily, "but I tell you we're out for four or five years at least." There was a pause; the accused persons looked at one another; then Marchmont had the courage to observe that the country would perhaps live through the period of calamity before it. "The country, yes, but how about some of the party?" asked Morewood. "How about that, Blair? You're supposed to be the man who feeds the ravens and providently caters for the sparrows, you know. You'll have your hands full, I should think." Blair's look expressed the opinion that they trenched on mysteries; he had these little traits of self-importance, sitting funnily on a round and merry face. Marchmont laughed as he turned to Dick and enquired after Jimmy. "He was helping you, I suppose?" "Yes, after Quisanté was in. He's all right." Dick's tone was slightly reserved. "Did Quisanté help you? He seems to have helped everybody; the man ran about like an electric current." "I didn't ask him to come to me. I felt, you know----" "Yes, I see. But Jimmy didn't?" Dick looked rather puzzled. "I don't quite make Jimmy out about Quisanté," he remarked. "He worked for him like a horse all the time, and wrote me letters praising him to the skies. Then when he was in and everybody was cracking him up Jimmy wouldn't open his mouth about him--seemed not to like the subject, you know." Nobody spoke; they had heard rumours of an event which would bring Jimmy into new relations with Quisanté, and they waited for possible information. But Dick did not go on, so it was left to Morewood to make the necessary intrusion into private affairs; he did it willingly, with a malicious grin. "Thinking him over in the light of a relation, perhaps?" he suggested. "It would only be a connection anyhow," Dick corrected rather sharply. "Oh, if that comforts you!" said Morewood, laughing. "She's a charming girl and I'm awfully glad it's come off." "Oh, it has?" asked Marchmont. "Yes, the other day." "And you're glad in spite of----?" "Yes, I am. Besides I don't mean anything of that sort. I suppose I know as well as anybody what Quisanté is." "As far as I'm concerned I'll admit you do, and still feel you don't know much," remarked the Dean. "Well, I wish there were more men like him," said Blair, nodding vigorously. "Some men would sacrifice anything for their party," remarked Morewood. Marchmont took no part in the talk about Quisanté; he could not praise; for reasons very plain to himself he would not say a word in blame or depreciation. Not only had he been Quisanté's rival, but ever since his talk with May he had felt himself the repository of special information, imperfect indeed and shadowy, yet beyond that which the outside world possessed. Besides he had received two letters from her, one written in the course of the fight, gay in tone, expressing an eager interest in her husband's fortunes, keenly appreciative of her husband's brilliancy and bravery. The second, in reply to his telegram of congratulation, had run in another key; an utter weariness and an almost disgusted satiety seemed to have superseded her former interest. Side by side with these he had discovered in the repressed but eloquent words of her greeting to him an intense desire to see him. "I want a change so badly," she wrote. "I want somebody unpractical, unpushing. You must come directly we're back in town." They had been back in town ten days, he knew, but he had not yet obeyed her summons. The thought crossed his mind that the contrast between her two letters was an odd parallel to Dick's description of the puzzling demeanour of his brother Jimmy. Was it a characteristic of the man's to produce these sudden and startling changes of mood towards himself? Marchmont was puzzled at the notion; he was too little able to sympathise with the attraction to find himself capable of understanding the force and extent of the revulsion. "At all events she must be pretty well prepared for what he is by now," he said to himself with the mixture of pity and resentment which his love for her and her rejection of him in Quisanté's favour had bred in his mind. For her he was very sorry; it was harder to be quite simply and sincerely sorry that her blindness to what had been so obvious was working out its inevitable result; he would like to console her in any way short of refraining from pointing out how wrong she had been proved. When, in obedience to another note, he went, he did not at first find May alone. Although he knew Sir Winterton Mildmay, he was not acquainted with his wife, and was surprised when the kind-looking woman who sat with May was introduced to him as Lady Mildmay. This was a quick and thorough burying of the hatchet indeed. "Would you see this in any country except England?" he asked jokingly. Lady Mildmay declared not, adding that there was no bitterness in England because there was only upstanding fighting which left no rancour and indeed bred personal liking. Marchmont thought to himself that Quisanté must have been very clever--or that this dear woman (he gave her the epithet at once as everybody did) was not very clever, no cleverer than he had long known handsome Sir Winterton to be. Glancing across at May, he seemed to see an expression of absolute pain on her face, as Lady Mildmay developed these amiable theories. "I don't believe my husband will ever stand against yours again," she said. May looked at Marchmont. "They really have taken quite a fancy to one another," she said with a laugh that sounded rather forced. "Funny, isn't it?" "The speech you invite me to would be a very unfortunate one to address to the wives of the two gentlemen," he answered, smiling. "Funny indeed! I prefer to call it inevitable, don't you, Lady Mildmay?" May made the slightest gesture of impatience, but a moment later smiled again at Lady Mildmay, saying, "Yes, I suppose that's what I ought to have said." The visitor rose to go; approaching May, she first shook hands and then stood for a moment with a half-expectant half-imploring air. It was plain that she suggested a kiss. Marchmont looked on rather amused; he knew that May Quisanté was not given to effusiveness. It would, however, have been cruel not to kiss Lady Mildmay, and May kissed her with an excellent grace. "Well," said Marchmont when the door was shut, "she takes defeat prettily. Evidently you've made a conquest, as well as your husband." "I wish she wouldn't come here," said May, wandering to the window and speaking in a disconsolate voice. "You don't like her?" "Like her? Oh, of course I like the dear creature! Who wouldn't? And I like him too." She turned round, smiling a little. "He's so nice, and large, and clean, and direct, and obvious, and simple, you know. I like him just as I like a great rosy apple." "Hum! I don't eat many of those, do you?" She laughed, but rather reluctantly. "Perhaps that's more your fault than the apple's. Still I agree. A bite now and then. But they're mostly only to dress the table." "Why don't you want her to come?" May sat down and fidgeted with a nick-nack on the table. "Don't you think being forgiven's rather tiresome work?" she asked. "They don't mean that, I know, but I can't help feeling as if they did." "I don't see why you should." She looked full at him for a moment. "No, I didn't suppose you would see it," she said. "Don't stand there, come and sit here,--near me. I've written you three letters, but you don't seem to understand yet that I want to see you." He took the chair near her to which she had pointed; she looked at him, evidently with both pleasure and amusement. "You don't look the least as if you'd been electioneering," she told him in an admiring congratulatory tone. "I've had the egg-marks brushed off," he explained with the insincere gravity that he knew she liked. "Will they brush off? Will they always brush off?" she asked, her voice low, her hands nursing her knee, her eyes on his. "Parables, my lady?" "Yes. Do you know that we won the election because rosy Sir Winterton was supposed to have flirted with his keeper's daughter, and wouldn't say he hadn't, and wouldn't bring that dear soul where anybody was likely to say he had?" "No, I hadn't heard that. I thought your husband's----" "Oh, yes, all that helped. He was splendid. But we shouldn't have done it without the keeper's daughter." "_Vox populi, vox Dei_; they're both so hard to understand." "I've been longing for you," she said, seeming to awake suddenly from her half-dreamy half-playful account of the life she had been living. The speech, with its cruel frankness and its more cruel affection, embittered him. "When you're tired of a rosy apple, you like a bite at a bitter cherry? One bite; the rest of me, I suppose, is only to dress the table." She understood him. "Well, then, you shouldn't come," she protested. "I've been fair about it." "No, not always; what you write and say now and then isn't fair unless it means something more." "Oh, I don't know what it means." Her misery drove away his resentment, and pity filled its place. "You seem more than usually down on your luck," he said with a smile. "Yes, a little," she confessed. "It's the Mildmays and--and--the general sham of it, you know." She glanced across at him, smiling. "That's why I longed for you," she said. It seemed to him that never had fate and never had woman been so cruel. The one so nearly had given what he wanted, the other tantalised with the exhibition of a feeling only just short of what he hoped for, but the more merciless because it seemed not to understand by how narrow an inch it failed of his desires. He spoke to her hardly and coldly. "You seem to me to choose to try a bit of everything and a bit of everybody," he said. "That's your affair. But I'm not surprised that you don't find it satisfactory." "I have to try more than I like of some things and some people," she replied. She went on quickly, "I know, oh, I know! Now you're calling me disloyal!" A curious vexation laid hold of him. Once he had liked her to speak of him in this strain, even as once he had loved to see in her the type of the pure, calm, gracious maiden. Now he knew better both her and himself. The impulse was on him to say that he cared nothing for her disloyalty so that he himself was the cause of it and he himself to reap the benefit. He was quick to read her, and he read in her restless misery some sore discontent with the lot that she had chosen. But he refrained from the words, not in his turn from any loyalty, but rather still from bitterness, from a perverse desire to give her nothing of what she had refused, to leave her in the solitude of spirit which came of her own action. Besides his fastidiousness revolted from plunging him into a position which was so common, and which he, with his dislike of things common, had always counted vulgar. Thus he was silent, and she also sat silent, looking straight before her. At last, however, she spoke. "Alexander's gone to the city," she said, "to see his stockbroker. The stockbroker's a cousin of--ours." She smiled for a moment. "His name's Mandeville. Since the party's out, we've got to see if we can make some money." His pity revived; whatever she deserved, it was not this horrible common-place lot of wanting money; that sat so ill on his still stately, no longer faultless, image of her. "To make some money?" he repeated, half-scornful, half-puzzled. "Oh, you're rich--you don't know. We spent a lot at Henstead. We must have money: I spend a lot, so does Alexander." She glanced at him, and he saw that something had nearly escaped her lips of which she repented. "Do you ever feel," she went on, apparently by way of amendment, "as if you might be dishonest--under stress of circumstances, you know?" "I suppose I might. I've never thought about it." "So dishonest as--as to get into trouble and be sent to prison and so on?" "Oh, I should hope to be skilful enough to avoid that," he laughed. "Fools ought never to be dishonest; so they invented the 'best policy' proverb to keep themselves straight." May nodded. "That's it, I think," she said, and fell into silence again. This time he spoke. "I don't like your wanting money," he said in a low voice. "No, I know," she smiled. "It's not like what you've always chosen to think I'm like. I ought to live in gilded halls and scatter largesse, oughtn't I?" She laughed a little bitterly. "Perhaps I will, if cousin Mandeville does his duty." "Meanwhile you feel the temptation to dishonesty?" He paused, but then went on deliberately, "Or, to follow your rule of complete identification, shall I say 'we feel a temptation to dishonesty, do we?'" "Oh, but we should be clever enough not to be found out, shouldn't we?" "I think you would." "You've not half such good reason to think it as I have." She rose, walked to the hearth-rug, and stood facing the grate, her back turned to him. She seemed to him to be looking at a photograph which he noticed now for the first time on the mantelpiece, the picture of a stout elderly man with large clean-shaven face and an expression of tolerant shrewdness. Marchmont moved close to her shoulder and looked also. Perceiving him, she half turned her head towards him. "That's my husband's right-hand man at Henstead," she said. "They understand each other perfectly." "He looks a sharp fellow." "So he may be able to understand Alexander? Thank you. I like to have his picture here." Suddenly she turned round full on him, stretching out her hand. "I wish you'd go now," she said. "Have you turned stupid, or don't you see that you must leave me alone, or--or I shall say all sorts of things I mustn't? That man on the mantelpiece there typifies it all. Bless his dear old fat face! I like him so much--and he's such a humbug, and I don't think he knows that he's in the least a humbug. Is sincerity just stupidity?" Her mirth broke out. "Alexander hates my having him there," she whispered; then she drew away, crying, "Go, go." "I'm off," said he. "But why doesn't Quisanté like the old gentleman's picture, and why do you keep it there if he doesn't?" "And why are none of us perfect--except perhaps the Mildmays? Good-bye." She gave him her hand. "Oh, by the way," she went on, calling him back after he had turned, "have you ever had anything to do with promoting companies or anything of that kind?" "Well, no, I can't say I have." "Is it necessarily disreputable?" "Oh, no," he smiled. "Not necessarily. In fact it's an essential feature in the life of a commercial nation." He was mockingly grave again. "Thank you very much, Mr. Marchmont. An essential feature of the life in a commercial nation! That's very good." She broke into a laugh. "Now I've got something agreeable to say," she said. He did not move till she shook her head violently at him and pointed to the door. As he went out, she turned back to Mr. Foster's picture, murmuring, "It's no use my setting up for a martyr. Martyrs don't giggle half the time." Had Marchmont heard her, the word "giggle" would have stirred him to real indignation; it was so inappropriate to that low reluctant mirth-laden laugh of hers, which seemed to reveal the feeling that it mocked and extorted the pity that it could not but deride. It sounded again as she stood looking at old Foster the maltster's picture there on the mantelpiece where Quisanté did not like to see it. For what was the meaning of it to her, declared by her perverse determination to keep it there and plain enough to her husband's quick wit? It was the outward sign that her malicious fancy chose of the new state of feeling and the new relation between them which had emerged from the tempest of emotion that Foster's congratulatory note had thrown her into. The tempest had raged in solitude and silence; she had not spoken a word to her sister, or to Jimmy Benyon, hardly a word to Quisanté himself. He had his case of course, and she was obliged to hear it, to hear also Foster's own account of how he came to express himself so awkwardly and to write as though Mr. Quisanté had originally set the story afloat, whereas he meant only to applaud the tact with which his leader had regulated their conduct towards it after it was started. May said she was quite sure he had meant only this, thanked him for all his services, and begged the photograph. Quisanté approved this bearing towards the third party but was not deceived by it himself. When the picture was set on the mantelpiece, he understood that his case was not convincing, that the episode would not fall into the oblivion which he had suggested for it; it would not be forgotten and could not be forgiven. Deeply resentful of this treatment--for he saw nothing very bad in his manoeuvre--he had been moved to protest passionately, to explain volubly, and to offer pledge on pledge. Protests, plaints, and promises broke uselessly against the cool, composed, indulgent friendliness of her bearing. She gave him to understand that no pretences were longer possible between them, but that they would get along without them. She allowed him to see that the one fear left to her on his account was the apprehension that some day he would be found out by other people. Here her terror was as great as it had ever been, for her pride was unbroken; but she did not show him the full extent of her anxiety. "You ought to be particularly careful, so many people would like to see you come to grief." This, or something like it, was what she had said, by way of dismissing the subject for ever from their conversation with one another. It expressed very well her new position, how she had abandoned those mad hopes of changing him and fallen back on the resolve to see the truth of him herself and make the best of him to others. But the very calmness and friendliness of the warning told him how resolutely she had chosen her path, while they concealed the shame and the fear with which she set herself to tread it. One thing only Quisanté understood quite clearly; it was no use acting to her any more; what she wished was that he should cease to act to her. Yet, knowing this, he could not cease, it was not in his nature to cease, and he went on playing his part before eyes that he knew were not imposed on but saw through all his disguises. His old furtiveness of manner came back now when he talked over himself and his affairs with his wife. But even here he had his triumph, he was not at her mercy, he wielded a power of his own; she recognised it with a smile. Like Aunt Maria, whatever she might think of him she was bound to think constantly of him, to be occupied with his doings and his success, to want to know what was in his mind, yes, although it might be what she hated to find there. For a while he had withdrawn himself from her, ceasing to tell of his life, aims, and doings. If he sought thus to bring her to terms, she proved an easy conquest; she surrendered at once, laughing at herself and at him. "We're partners," she said, "and I must hear all about what you're doing. I can't live without that, you know." And as the price of what she must have she gave him friendship, sympathy, and comradeship, crossing his wishes in nothing and never allowing herself to upbraid except in that small tacit jeer of Mr. Foster's picture on the mantelpiece. For now she believed herself to know the worst, and yet to be able to endure. What sort of life promised to form itself out of this state of affairs? For after all she was at the beginning of life, and he hardly well into the middle of his. Neither of the two obvious things seemed possible; devotion was out of the question, alienation was forbidden by her unconquerable interest in him and his irrepressible instinct to hold her mind, even if he could not chain her affections. Perhaps a third thing was more usual still, tolerance. But for her at least neither was tolerance the mood, for that is ill to build out of a mixture of intense admiration and scornful contempt. These seemed likely to be the predominant features of her life with her husband, sharing it so equally that the one could never drive out the other nor yet come to fair terms and, dividing the territory, live at peace. "Perhaps they will some day," she thought, "when I get old and quiet." She was neither old nor quiet now, and her youth cried out against so poor a consolation. Then she told herself that she had the child, only to reproach herself, a moment later, with the insincere repetition of a commonplace. The child was not enough; had her nature been such as to find the child enough, she would certainly never have become Alexander Quisanté's wife. Always when she was most strongly repelled by him, there was in the back of her mind the feeling that it was something to be his wife. Only--he mustn't be found out. The worst terror of all, at which her half-jesting words to Marchmont had hinted, came back as she murmured, "I wish we had more money." For money was necessary, as votes had been, and--her eyes strayed to old Foster's portrait on the mantelpiece. The election had cost a lot; no salary was to be looked for now; both by policy and by instinct Quisanté was lavish; she herself had no aptitude for small economies. Money was wanted very much indeed in Grosvenor Road. It was on the way, though. This was the news that Quisanté, in the interval between his return from electioneering and the meeting of Parliament, brought back day by day from his excursions to the City and his conversations with Mandeville. He was careful to explain to his wife that he was no "guinea-pig," that he did not approve of the animal, and would never use his position to pick up gain in that way. But he had leisure--at least he could make time--and some of it he proposed to devote to starting a really legitimate and highly lucrative undertaking. The Alethea Printing Press was to revolutionise a great many things besides the condition of Quisanté's finances; it was not an ordinary speculative company. Marchmont's phrase came in here, and May used it neatly and graciously. Quisanté, much encouraged, plunged into an account of the great invention; if only it worked as it was certain to work, there was not one fortune but many fortunes in it. "And it will work?" she asked. "If we can get the capital," he answered with a confident air. "I shall try to interest all my friends in it," he went on. "You can help me there." May looked doubtful, and Quisanté grew more eloquent. At last he held up a sheaf of papers, saying triumphantly, "Here are favourable reports from all the leading experts. We shall have an array of them in the prospectus. Of course they're absolutely impartial, and they really leave no room for doubt." He held them out to her, but she leant back with her hands in her lap. "I shouldn't understand them," she protested. "But they all agree, do they?" "Yes, all," he said emphatically. "Well, all except one." His brow wrinkled a little. "Mandeville insisted on having an opinion from Professor Maturin. I was against it. Maturin's absurdly pessimistic." "He's a great man, isn't he?" "Oh, yes, I suppose so,--he's got a great reputation anyhow." "And he's against you?" "The fact is that his is only--only a draft report. So far as it goes, it's not encouraging, but he's never had the facts really laid before him." "You'd better go and lay them before him," she said very gravely. Quisanté caught eagerly at the suggestion. "Exactly what I proposed to Mandeville!" he cried. "The prospectus won't be out for nearly a month yet, and I shall go and see Maturin. I know----" He rose and began to walk about. "I know Maturin is wrong, and I know that I can show him he's wrong. I only want an hour with him to bring him round to my view, to the true view." "Well, why haven't you been to see him?" "I tried to go, but he's ill and not equal to business. As soon as he gets better I shall go. To put his report in as it stands would not only do us infinite harm--in fact we couldn't think of it--but it wouldn't be just to him." "But if he won't change his opinion?" "Oh, he must, he will. I tell you it's as plain as a pikestaff, when once it's properly explained." "I'm sure you'll be able to convert him, if anyone can," said May soothingly. "I must," said Quisanté briefly, and sat down to his papers again. For an hour or two he worked steadily, without a pause, without an apparent hesitation. That fine machine of his was ploughing its straight unfaltering way through details previously unfamiliar and through problems which he had never studied. From five to seven she sat with a book in her hands, feigning to read, really watching her husband. He could not fail, she said to herself; he would make the Alethea Printing Press a success, irrespective of the actual merits of it. Was that possible? It seemed almost possible as she looked at him. "It's bound to go," he said at last, pushing away the papers. "I'm primed now, and I can convince old Maturin in half an hour." He held up the Professor's report. "He must withdraw this and give us another." Alas, there are things before which even will and energy and brains must bow. As he spoke the servant came in, bringing the _Evening Standard_. May took it, glanced at the middle page, and then, with a little start, looked across at her husband. He saw her glance. "Any news?" he asked. "The Professor can't be convinced," she said. "His illness took a sudden turn for the worse last night and he died this afternoon at three o'clock." Quisanté sat quite still for a few minutes, the dead Professor's report on the Alethea Printing Press still in his fingers. "What'll you do now?" she asked, with the smile of curiosity which she always had ready for his plans. Would he pursue the Professor beyond Charon's stream? He hesitated a little, glancing at her rather uneasily. At last he spoke. "One thing at all events is clear to me," he said. "This thing doesn't represent a reasoned and well-informed opinion." He folded it up carefully and placed it by itself in a long envelope. "We must consider our course," he ended. In a flash, by an instinct, May knew what their course would be and at whose dictation it would be followed. "Of course," said Quisanté, "all this is strictly between ourselves." Her cheek flushed a little. "You mustn't tell me any more business secrets. I don't like them," said she, and she turned away to escape the quick, would-be covert glance that she knew he would direct at her. Money was necessary; votes had been necessary; old Foster smiled in fat shrewdness from the mantelpiece. May Quisanté was less sure that she knew the worst. CHAPTER XV. A STRANGE IDEA. The next few weeks were a time of restless activity with Alexander Quisanté. Again he was like an electric current, not travelling now from constituency to constituency, but between Westminster and his cousin Mandeville's offices in the City. In both places he was very busy. His leader had declared for a waiting policy, and an interval in which the demoralisation of defeat should pass away; the party must feel its feet again, the great man said. Constantine Blair was full of precedents for the course, quoting Lord Melbourne, Sir Robert Peel, Sir James Graham, and all the gods of the Parliamentarian. Brusquely and almost rudely Quisanté brushed him, his gods, and his leader on one side, and raised the standard of fierce and immediate battle. The majority was composite; his quick eye saw the spot where a wedge might be inserted between the two component parts and driven home till the gap yawned wide and scission threatened. The fighting men needed only to be shown where to fight; they followed enthusiastically the man who led them to the field. Leaders shook grey heads, and leader-writers disclaimed a responsibility which _primá facie_ had never rested on them; Quisanté was told that he would wreck the party for a quarter of a century to come. It would perhaps have been possible to meet Constantine Blair's precedents with other precedents, to quote newer gods against his established deities. That was not "Sandro's way"; here again he was content to be an ancestor, the originator of his methods, and the sufficient authority for them. He was justified. The spirit of his fighting men ran high, and his fighting men's wives grew gracious to him. The majority, if they scowled at him (as was only to be hoped), began to scowl furtively at one another also and to say that certain questions, on which they were by no means of one mind, could not permanently be shirked and kept in the background. Some of them asked what their constituents had sent them to Westminster for, a question always indicative of perturbation in the parliamentary mind; in quiet times it is not raised. The Government papers took to observing that they did not desire to hurry or embarrass the Government, but that time was running on and it would be no true friendship to advise it to ignore the feeling which existed among an important, if numerically small, section of its followers. Altogether at the opening of the session the majority was much less happy, the minority in far finer feather, than anybody had expected. Only officialdom or ignorance could refuse the main credit to Alexander Quisanté. "I declare," said Lady Castlefort--and her opinion was not one to neglect--"May Gaston was right to take the man after all. He'll be Prime Minister." And she settled her _pince-nez_ and looked round for contradiction. She loved argument but had made the mistake of growing too important to be differed from. None the less on this occasion a sweet little voice spoke up in the circle. "I wouldn't marry him if he were fifty times Prime Minister," said Lady Richard Benyon. "He's odious." "God bless me!" murmured the Countess, genuinely startled. "Well, you'll see, my dear," she went on, nodding emphatically. "He's the only man among them." Her eye fell on Weston Marchmont. "Oh, yes, I see you're there," she said, "and I'm very glad you should be." "It's always a pleasure to be here," he smiled urbanely. "Especially, apparently, when you ought to be at the House," she retorted, glancing at the clock. "However to-day you've heard more truth here than you're likely to there, so I forgive you." "More truth here? But Quisanté's making a speech!" "Oh, you're very neat," she said with an open impatience. "You can score off a woman at her tea-table; go and score off the other side, Weston, and then you may do it as much as you like to me. As if anybody cared whether Mr. Quisanté speaks the truth or not!" He came up to her and held out his hand, smiling good-naturedly. She gave him hers with a laugh, for she liked him much and did not like Quisanté at all. "It's your own fault, that's why you're so exasperating," she half-whispered as she bade him good-bye. Here was one side; on the other the men of the City came to know Quisanté too, but, as befitted persons engaged in the serious pursuit of dealing with money, gave more hesitating and guarded opinions; no party spirit led them astray or fired them to desperate ventures. However there was no denying that the Alethea Printing Press sounded a very good thing, and moreover no denying that measures had been skilfully taken to prevent anybody having a share in that good thing without paying handsomely for the privilege. The Syndicate, speaking through Mr. Mandeville its mouthpiece, by no means implored support or canvassed new partners; it was prepared to admit one or two names of weight in return for substantial aid. Mandeville did nothing of himself; he referred to the Board, and the Board's answers came after Alexander Quisanté's hansom had flashed back to Westminster. But a few did gain admittance, and these few were much struck by the reports on the Alethea, all of which had been sent back for revision to their respective authors, accompanied by some new and important facts. These latter did not, as it turned out, alter the tenor of the reports, but it had been thought as well to afford an opportunity for reconsideration in the light of them; so Mandeville explained, seeming always just a little nervous over this matter of the reports. "We had hoped," he said to one gentleman who was rather important and rather hard to satisfy, "to fortify ourselves with Professor Maturin's opinion. But unfortunately he died before he could complete his examination, and nothing on the subject was found among his papers." "That's a pity. Maturin would have carried great weight." "We were quite alive to that," Mandeville assured him with a somewhat uneasy smile. His feelings were not unlike those of a quiet steady-going member of Quisanté's party in Parliament. "We have no doubt of what his opinion would have been, had he been able to study our additional facts and been spared to complete his report. As it was, he had only discussed the matter informally with one or two of us." And when he was left alone, he murmured softly, "I suppose that's how Alexander meant me to put it." But he rather wished that Alexander had been there to put it himself. It is perhaps needless to say that Aunt Maria, sturdily fulfilling her destiny in life, was deeply concerned in the fortunes of the Alethea Printing Press. But large as was her stake--and the possibilities of loss at least were for her very large--she was not disturbed; she said that heaven alone knew whether there was anything in the thing, but that she knew that Sandro would make people think there was. Nor did she share in any serious degree the fears which afflicted her nephew's wife; Sandro always had a case, and she did not doubt that he would have a very good one whereby to justify any proceedings he might take in regard to the Alethea. So she lived frugally, hoped magnificently, and came often to Grosvenor Road to pick up what crumbs of information she could. Here she met Lady Castlefort and nodded her rusty bonnet at that great personage with the remark that she was glad people were waking up to what there was in Sandro; it was time, goodness knew. Lady Castlefort was for the moment taken aback. "Mr. Quisanté has had certain--er--difficulties to overcome," she murmured rather vaguely, and was not reassured by a dry chuckle and the heartfelt exclamation, "I should think so!" Altogether it was difficult to make out exactly what Mr. Quisanté's aunt thought of him. Here the old lady met also the Dean of St. Neot's, who called every now and then because he liked May and wished to show that he bore no malice about the Crusade; but the subject was still a sore one, and he was as little prepared to be chuckled at over it as Lady Castlefort had been over her diplomatic indication of the fact that Quisanté's blood was not blue nor his manners those of a grand old English gentleman. "Sandro knew all along that there wasn't much in that, but it was something to begin with," Aunt Maria remarked to the uncomfortable Dean. She herself had dragged in the Crusade, to which she referred so contemptuously. "Miss Quisanté will do anything in the world for my husband," May interposed, "but nothing'll persuade her to say a good word for him." "As long as that's understood, she does him no harm. We discount all you say, Miss Quisanté." The Dean's affability was thrown away on Aunt Maria. "I know what I'm talking about," she remarked grimly, "and as far as your Crusade goes, I should think you'd have seen it yourself by now." The Dean had seen it himself by now, but he did not wish to say so in the presence of Quisanté's wife. May's laugh relieved him a little. "The Dean's very forgiving," she said, "and Alexander's doing well now, anyhow, isn't he?" The Dean agreed that he was doing well now--for in spite of his disclaimers of partisanship there was a spice of the fighting man in the Dean--and repeated Lady Castlefort's prophecy, reported to him by Lady Richard. The rusty black bonnet nodded approvingly. "I knew that was a sensible woman, in spite of her airs," said Miss Quisanté. Lastly, among those whom Miss Quisanté encountered at her nephew's house was Lady Mildmay, and this interview took a rather more serious turn. In after days May used to look back to it as the first faint sign of the new factor which from now began to make itself felt in her life and to become a very pressing presence to her. She did not enjoy the friendship which the Mildmays forced on her, but it was impossible to receive it otherwise than with outward graciousness; the cordiality was so kind, the interest so frank, Sir Winterton's gallantry so chivalrous, his wife's gentleness so appealing. When Lady Mildmay was announced May found time for a hasty whisper to Aunt Maria: "Take care what you say about Alexander before her." Doubts must not be stirred in the Mildmay mind; the Mildmays must be kept in their delusion; to help in this was one of the duties of Quisanté's wife. Lady Mildmay smiled gladly on Aunt Maria. "I'm so pleased you're here," she said, "because I know you'll second me in what I'm going to venture to say to Lady May. I know I'm taking a liberty, but I can't help it. Meeting people now and then, you do sometimes see what people who are always with them don't. Now don't you, Miss Quisanté?" "And _vice versâ_," murmured Aunt Maria; but May's eye rested on her warningly, and she refrained from pointing her observation by any reference to Sandro. "I'm quite sure your husband is overdoing himself terribly," Lady Mildmay went on. "I saw him the other day walking through the Park, and he looked ghastly. I stopped him and told him so, but he said he'd just been to his doctor, and that there was really nothing the matter with him." "I didn't know he'd been to the doctor lately. He seemed pretty well for him," said May. Aunt Maria said nothing; her keen little eyes were watching the visitor very closely. "I've seen a lot of illness," pursued Lady Mildmay in her gentle voice, "and I know. He's working himself to death; he's killing himself." She raised her eyes and looked at May. Kind as the glance was, May felt in it a wonder, almost a reproach. "How comes it that you, his wife, haven't seen it too?" the eyes seemed to say in plaintive surprise. "Are you sure there's nothing wrong with him?" she asked. "Wrong with him? What do you mean?" The question was Aunt Maria's, asked abruptly, roughly, almost indignantly. Lady Mildmay started. "I--I don't want to alarm you, I'm sure," she murmured, "but I don't like his looks. Do, do persuade him to take a rest." Both of them were silent now; Lady Mildmay's wonder grew; she did not understand them; she saw them exchange a glance whose expression she could not analyse. "He wants absolute rest and care, the care you could give him, my dear," she said to May--such a care she meant as her loving heart and hands would give to handsome Sir Winterton. "Go away with him for a few months and take care of him, now do. Keep all worries and--and ambitions and so on away from him." May's face was grave and strained in a painful attention; but on Miss Quisanté's lips there came slowly a bitter little smile. What a picture this good lady drew of Sandro and his loving wife, together, apart from the world, with ambitions and worries set aside! Must the outlines of that picture be followed if--well, if Sandro was to live? "I hope you're not offended? Seeing him only now and then I notice the change. Winterton and I have both been feeling anxious about it, and we decided that you wouldn't mind if I spoke to you." "You're too good, too good," said May. "We don't deserve it." Lady Mildmay smiled. "I know what a strain the election was," said she. "Even Winterton felt it, and Mr. Quisanté never seems to rest, does he?" She rose to go, but, as she said good-bye, she spoke one more word, half in a whisper and timidly, "I daresay I'm wrong, but are you sure his heart's quite sound?" And so she left them, excusing herself to the last for what might seem an intrusion, or even a slight on the careful watch that an affectionate wife keeps over her husband's health. May walked to the hearthrug and stood there; Aunt Maria, sitting very still, glanced up with a frightened gaze, but her speech came bitter with aggressive scorn. "What does the silly creature mean?" she asked. "There's nothing the matter with Sandro, is there?" "I don't know that there is," May answered slowly. "The woman talks as if he was going to die." Still the tone was contemptuous, still the look frightened. "Such nonsense!" "I hope it is. He's not strong though, is he?" Miss Quisanté had often said the same, but now she received the remark irritably. "Strong! He's not a buffalo like some men, like Jimmy Benyon or, I suppose, that poor creature's husband she's always talking about. But there's nothing the matter with him, there's no reason he shouldn't--no reason he should fall ill at all." "She thinks he ought to rest, perhaps give up altogether." "Altogether? Nonsense!" The tone was sharp. "Well, then, for a long while." "And go away, and let you coddle him?" "Yes, and let me coddle him." May looked down on Aunt Maria, and for the first time smiled faintly. "The woman's out of her senses," declared Aunt Maria testily. "Don't you think so? Don't you think so?" "I don't know," was all May could say in answer either to the irritation of the voice or to the fear of the eyes. The old lady's hands were trembling as she raised them and gave a pull to the bow of her bonnet-strings. "He'll see me out anyhow, I'll be bound," she said obstinately. She was fighting against the bare idea of being left with a remnant of life to live and no Sandro to fill it for her; what a miserable fag-end of empty waiting that would be! She glanced sharply at his wife; she did not know what his wife was thinking of. "I'll ask him," said May, "and I must insist on knowing." She paused and added, "I ought to have noticed and I ought to have asked before. But somehow----" The sentence went unfinished, and Aunt Maria's sharp unsatisfied eyes drew no further answer. May kissed her when they parted; whatever this idea might mean to her, whatever the strange tumult it might raise in her, she read well enough the story of the old lady's rough tones, shaking hands and frightened eyes. To the old woman Sandro was the sum of life. She might sneer, she might scorn, she might rail, she might and would suffer at his hands. But he was the one thing, the sole support, she had to cling to; he kept her alive. Yet the last words that Miss Quisanté said were, "I expect Sandro wanted to wheedle something out of that woman, and has been playing one of his tricks to get a bit of sympathy." Then she climbed slowly and totteringly down the stairs. Left alone, May Quisanté sat in apparent idleness, letting her thoughts play with a freedom which some people consider in itself blameworthy, though certainly no action and often no desire accompany the picture which the mind draws. She said to herself, "Supposing this is true, or that more than this is true, supposing his heart is unsound, what does it mean to me?" What it excluded was easier to realise than what it meant. Unless Quisanté were to have not existence only, but also health, such health at least as enables a man to do work although not, may be, to glory in the doing of it, unless there were to the engine wheels sound enough to answer to the spur of the steam that his brain's furnace made, nothing could come about of what Lady Castlefort's Mightiness prophesied, nothing of what friends and enemies had begun to look for, nothing of what May herself had grown to regard as his future and hers, as the basis, the condition, the circumstances, of her life and of his. An old thought of her own came to her, back from the dim region of ante-marriage days, the idea to which the Henstead doctor had given a terse, if metaphorical, expression. Quisanté was their race-horse, their money was on him, they wanted a win for the stable. If this or more than this were true, then there would be no win for the stable; the horse was a grand horse, but he wouldn't stand training. What was left then? An invalid and the wife of an invalid, coddlings, cossetings, devotion, ambition far away, life kept in him by loving heart and loving hands. Hers must be the heart and the hands. Hers also were the keen eyes that knew every weakness, every baseness, of the man to whom heart and hands must minister, but would see no more the battle and the triumph and the brilliance which set them sparkling and seemed to make the world alight for them. For a little while the third thing, the remaining possibility, was unformulated in her thoughts; perhaps she had a scruple which made her turn away from it. But her speculations would not be denied their irresponsible freedom of ranging over all the field of chance. If it were true, if more than it, more than the kind timid woman had dared to say, were true, he might die. He might die, not in some dim far-off time when nature made the thing seem inevitable, when he had lived his life, been Prime Minister and so forth, and she had lived hers, filling it with work for him, and with looking on at him and with endurance of him, but sooner, much sooner, almost now, when he had not lived his life, while hers was not exhausted, when there would still be left to her another of her own to live after he was gone. It was strange to think of that, to see how what had seemed to be irrevocable and for ever, to stretch in unfaltering perpetuity to the limits of old age, might so easily, by the occasion of so small a matter as a heart not sound, turn out to be a passing thing, and there come to her again freedom, choice, a life to be re-made. If that happened, how would she feel? At the new-learnt chance of that happening, how did she feel? Very strange, very bewildered, very upset; that was her answer. Such a thing--Quisanté's death she meant--would mean so much, change so much, take away so much--and might give so much. Her thoughts flew off to the new life that she might live then, to the new freedom from embarrassments, from fears and from disgusts, to a new love which it might be hers to gain and to enjoy. People said that it was always impossible to go back--_vestigia nulla_. But that event would open to her a sort of going back, such a return to her old life and her surroundings as might some day make the time she had spent with Quisanté and its experiences seem but an episode, studding the belt of long days with one strange bizarre ornament. And on the other side? There was the greatest difficulty, the greatest puzzle. She had not failed to understand the roughness of Aunt Maria's tones, her frightened eyes and the shaking of her hands. It would be very strange to see an end of him, to know that he would never be Prime Minister and so forth, to look on at a world devoid of him, to live a life in which he was only a memory. How were the scales to be held, which way did the balance incline? She could not tell, and at last she smiled at her inability to answer the riddle. It would amuse people so much, and shock some people so much and doubtless so properly, if they knew that she was sitting in her drawing-room in the afternoon, trying to make up her mind whether she would rather her husband lived or that he died. Even there the fallacy crept in; she was not desiring either way; she was simply looking at the two pictures which the two events painted for her fancy; and she did not know which picture she preferred. So all was still bewilderment, all still rocking from the sudden gust that had proceeded out of dear Lady Mildmay's gentle lips. But the undercurrent of wonder and of reproach that there had been in the warning May Quisanté now almost missed. By an effort at last she realised its presence, the naturalness of it, and its rightness. But still it seemed to her a little conventional, something that might be supposed to be appropriate, but was not, if the truth were faced. "Alexander and I have never been like that to one another--at least never for more than a very little while," was the form her thought about it took. When he came in that evening, she found herself looking at him with wonder, and with a sort of scepticism about what her visitor had said. He seemed so full of life; it was impossible to think of him as being likely, or even able, to die. But she had made up her mind to open the subject to him, to force something from him, and to learn about this visit to the doctor which he had so studiously concealed from her. She gave him tea, and was so far affected by her mood as to show unusual kindness towards him, or rather to let her uniform friendliness be tinged by an affection which was not part of her habitual bearing; with the help of this she hoped to lead up to a subject which her own strangely mixed meditations somehow made it hard for her to approach. But Quisanté also had a scheme; he also was watching and working for an opportunity, and seeing one now in her great cordiality of manner he seized it with his rapid decisiveness, cutting in before his wife had time to develop her attack. He pressed her hand as she gave him his cup, sighed as though in weariness, took a paper from his pocket, and laid it on the table, giving it a tentative gentle push in the direction of her chair. "We've got the Alethea afloat at last," he said. "There's the prospectus, if you care to look at it." With this he glanced at the clock, sighed again and added, "I must be at the House early this evening. By Jove, I'm tired though!" This little odd ineradicable trick of his made May smile; he was never so tired as when he had a risky card to play; then, indeed, he affected for his purposes some sort of reconcilability with those incongruous ideas of collapse and mortality that Lady Mildmay had suggested. He inspired May, as he did sometimes now, with a malicious wish to make him show himself at his trickiest. Fingering the prospectus carelessly, she asked, "I suppose it sets out all the wonderful merits of the Alethea, doesn't it? Well, I've heard a good deal about them. I don't think I need read it." "It gives a full account of the invention," said Quisanté, wearily passing his hand across his brow. "Have you put in Professor Maturin's report?" She was not looking at him, but smiling over to Mr. Foster on the mantelpiece. There was a moment's pause. "The facts about Maturin are fully stated. You'll find it on the third page." He rose with a sigh and threw himself on the sofa; he groaned a little and shut his eyes. May glanced at him, smiled, and turned to the third page. "In addition to the foregoing very authoritative opinions, steps were taken to obtain a report from the late Professor Maturin, F.R.S. Professor Maturin was very favourably impressed with several features of the invention, and was about to pursue his investigations with the aid of further information furnished to him, when he was unfortunately attacked by the illness of which he recently died. The Directors therefore regret to be unable to present any report of his examination. But they have every reason to believe that his opinion would have been no less encouraging than those of the other gentlemen consulted." May turned back to the list of directors. Three out of the six she did not know; the other three were Quisanté himself, Jimmy Benyon, and Sir Winterton Mildmay. The presence of these two last names filled May with a feeling of helplessness; this was worse than she had expected. Of course neither Jimmy nor Sir Winterton had heard anything about the Maturin report; of the other three she knew nothing and took no thought. Jimmy, not warned, alas, by that affair of old Foster's note, and Sir Winterton, in the chivalrous confidence of perfect trust, had given their support to Quisanté. The use he made of their names was to attach them to a statement which she who knew of the Maturin report could describe only in one way. She looked round at her husband's pale face and closed eyes. "I thought you were supposed to tell the--I mean, to state all the facts in a prospectus?" she said. Quisanté sat up suddenly, leant forward, and spread his hands out. "My dear May," he replied with a smile, "the facts are stated, stated very fully." "There's nothing about the report the Professor did give. You remember you told me about it?" "Oh, no, he gave no report." "Well, you called it a draft report." "No, no, did I? That was a careless way of speaking if I did. He certainly sent me some considerations which had occurred to him at the beginning of his inquiry, but they were based on insufficient information and were purely provisional. They did not in any sense constitute a report. It would have been positively misleading to speak of them in any such way." He was growing eager, animated, almost excited. May was not inclined to cross-examine him; she knew that he would develop his case for himself if she sat and listened. "The whole thing was so inchoate as to be worth nothing," he went on. "We simply discarded it from our minds; we didn't let it weigh one way or the other." "The directors didn't?" That little question she could not resist asking. "Oh, it was never laid before them. As I tell you, Mandeville and I decided that it could not be regarded as a report, or even as an indication of Maturin's opinion. We only referred to Maturin at all because--because we wanted to be absolutely candid." May smiled; absolute candour resulted, as it seemed to her, in giving rise to an impression that the Professor had been in favour of the merits of the Alethea. "And you won't show it to the directors?" "No," said Quisanté, "certainly not." He paused for a moment and then added slowly, "In fact it has not been preserved. What is stated there is based on my own personal discussions with the Professor, and on Mandeville's; the few lines he wrote added nothing." It had not been preserved; it had sunk from a report to a draft report, from a draft report to considerations, from considerations to a few lines which added nothing; the minimising process, pursued a little further, had ended in a total disappearance. And nobody knew that it had ever existed, even as considerations, even as a few lines adding nothing, except her husband, cousin Mandeville, and herself. "If the Professor himself," Quisanté resumed, "had considered it of any moment, he would have kept a copy or some memorandum of it; but there was not a word about it among his papers." There was safety, then, so far as the Professor was concerned; and so far as Quisanté was concerned; of course, also, so far as cousin Mandeville was concerned. But Quisanté's restless eyes seemed to ask whether there were perfect safety all round, no possibility of Jimmy or Sir Winterton or anybody else picking up false ideas from careless talk about the few lines in which the Professor had added nothing. For an instant May's eyes met his, and she understood what he asked of her. She was to hold her tongue; that sounded simple. She had held her tongue before, and thus it happened that Sir Winterton was her husband's friend and trusted him. Now she was again to be a party to deceiving him, and this time Jimmy Benyon was to be hoodwinked too. She was to hold her tongue; if by any chance need arose, she was to lie. That was the request Quisanté made of her, part of the price of being Quisanté's wife. She gave him no pledge in words; a touch of the tact that taught him how to deal with difficult points prevented him from asking one of her. But it was quite understood between them; no reference was to be made to the few lines that the Professor had written. Quisanté's uneasiness passed away, his headache seemed to become less severe; he was in good spirits as he made his preparations to go to the House. Apparently he had no consciousness of having asked anything great of her. He had been far more nervous and shamefaced about his betrayal of the Crusade, far more upset by the untoward incident of Mr. Foster's letter. May told herself that she understood why; he was getting accustomed to her and she to him; he knew her point of view and allowed for it, expecting a similar toleration in return. As she put it, they were getting equalised, approaching more nearly to one another's level. You could not aid in queer doings and reap the fruits of them without suffering some gradual subtle moral change which must end in making them seem less queer. As the years passed by, the longer their companionship lasted, the more their partnership demanded in its community of interest and effort, the more this process must go on. As they rose before the world--for rise they would (even the Alethea would succeed in spite of the Professor's burked report)--they would fall in their own hearts and in one another's eyes. This was the prospect that stretched before her, as she sat again alone in the drawing-room, after Quisanté had set out, much better, greatly rested, in good spirits, serene and safe, and after she had pledged herself to his fortunes by the sacrifice of loyalty to friends and to truth. Yes, that was the prospect unless--she started a little. She had forgotten what she had meant to ask him; she had not inquired about his visit to the doctor nor told him that kind Lady Mildmay was anxious about his health. It had all been driven out of her head, she said to herself in excuse at first. Then she faced her feelings more boldly. Just then she could have put no such questions, feigned no such interest, and assumed no show of affection or solicitude. That evening such things would have been mere hypocrisy, pretences of a desire to keep him for herself when her whole nature was in revolt at having to be near him. Her horror now was not that she might lose him, but of the prospect that lay before her and the road she must tread with him. Trodden it must be; unless by any chance there were truth, or less than the truth, in what good Lady Mildmay said. CHAPTER XVI. THE IRREVOCABLE. So far as May Quisanté's distress had its rise in her husband's treatment of Sir Winterton Mildmay, she was entitled to take some comfort from that gentleman's extreme happiness. He had lost a seat in Parliament, thanks to Tom Sinnett and the account to which Tom Sinnett had been turned; he had been caused to represent to the world that the Alethea Printing Press had lost Professor Maturin's express approval only by the accident of the Professor's lamented decease. The one wrong he forgot, the other he did not know. It was a favourite tenet of his that an English gentleman ought to be able to turn his hand to everything--everything honourable, of course--and should at once shine in any sphere of practical activity. He saw the triumph of his opinion, and found his own delight, in his new part of a business man. His brougham rolled down to Dowgate Hill almost every day; he delighted to lunch with Mandeville or to entertain the Secretary of the Company at the midday meal; business could be made to last till three when there was no Board, till four if there were; then Sir Winterton drove to his club and sat down to his cards with a rich consciousness of commercial importance. He believed in the Alethea with a devotion and a thoroughness second only to the unquestioning faith and obedience which he now had at the service of Alexander Quisanté. Many an amazed secret stare and many a sour smile his eulogies drew from cousin Mandeville; for even in his enthusiasm Sir Winterton praised with discrimination; it was the sterling worth, the heart of the man, that he admired; shallow people stuck at superficial defects of manner; not such was Sir Winterton. "I trust him as I do myself," he used to say to Lady Mildmay, and she, in honest joy, posted off with the testimonial to May Quisanté; besides she was eager to seize a chance of throwing out another hint or two about Quisanté's health. The Alethea, at least, seemed to be going to prove worthy of these laudations. There really had, it appeared, been some good reason why the Professor should reconsider his considerations. The invention stood the test of criticism and experiment; it saved a lot of expense; the idea got about more and more that it was an uncommonly good thing; the two or three papers which were inquisitive about the actual views of the Professor were treated with disdain (one with advertisements also) and their clamour went almost unnoticed. There was a demand for the shares. Sir Winterton pointed out to Weston Marchmont what a mistake he had committed in not accepting the offer of an allotment which had been made to him. "The only thing for which I value independent means," said Marchmont, "is that they relieve me from the necessity of imposing on the public. I suppose my ancestors did it for me." Sir Winterton laughed serenely. "We're serving the public," said he. Then he remembered the new man of business in him, and added, with a slyness obvious from across the street, "Oh, and ourselves too, ourselves too, I admit that." "And you, Jimmy?" asked Marchmont, turning to him; they made a group of three at the club. "I don't think Quisanté'll go far wrong," said Jimmy. "You know Dick's gone in too?" "What, after the Crusade?" "This is another sort of game," said Jimmy, with a grim smile; he had gone in after both the Crusade and the Sinnett affair. He turned to Sir Winterton; "Old Foster of Henstead's in it too; he's pretty wide-awake, you know." "Oh, we Henstead fellows have heads on our shoulders," said Sir Winterton, but he looked a little less happy; he had never acquitted Foster with the confidence that Quisanté had won from him. "And you'll grow rich against your wedding, Jimmy?" asked Marchmont. Again Jimmy smiled. The wedding was near now, and the next day he was going to Ashwood to meet Fanny Gaston. "You're going to Dick's on Friday, aren't you?" he said to Marchmont. "I believe I am." "Ah, then you shall hear about our show from Quisanté himself." "What?" Weston Marchmont's tone expressed surprise rather than pleasure. "May's going to be there, and he's coming for the Sunday. Amy fought hard, but Dick said he must come, because he was going to be a connection." Jimmy's slow smile endured all through this speech; he had a sense of humour which he treated gravely. "I didn't know he was coming," said Marchmont. Sir Winterton broke into a hearty laugh. "You're the most prejudiced fellow in the world, Marchmont," he said. "I tell you what, though," he went on. "Do persuade Lady May to take care of her husband, or get him to take care of himself. My wife's been at her again and again, but nothing's done. The man's not well, he'll break up if they aren't careful." He paused, and a puzzled look came over his handsome candid face. "If I was half as bad as he is, my wife'd have me in bed or off to the seaside in a jiffy," he ended. The silence that followed struck him much as May's and Aunt Maria's had struck his wife. Neither he nor his wife were accustomed to the way in which people who knew Quisanté close at hand came to stand towards him. "I suppose Lady May's not what you'd call a very domestic woman?" he hazarded. "Charming, most charming, but full of politics and that sort of thing, eh?" To Weston Marchmont it seemed simplest to laugh and say, "I suppose so." Sir Winterton's mind had need of categories, and was best not burdened with the complexities of an individual. But Jimmy was not so wise. "I don't think she cares a hang about politics, except so far as Quisanté's concerned in them," he said. Sir Winterton looked more puzzled still. "Nothing's any good unless he keeps his health," he murmured. He was uncomfortable; he liked May very much, and did not welcome the thought of there being any truth in the idea of indifference and carelessness about her husband at which Lady Mildmay had sorrowfully hinted. "That's his wife's first business anyhow," he ended, a trifle defiantly. But his challenge was not taken up by either of his friends. He went home with his high spirits rather dashed. On the Friday Marchmont found himself travelling down to Ashwood in company with Mr. Morewood. The painter had an extreme fit of his mocking acidity; he refrained his tongue from nobody and showed no respect for what might be guessed to be delicate points with his companion. Quisanté's success was his principal theme; he exhibited it in its four aspects, political, social, commercial, and matrimonial. "I've talked," he said, "to Constantine Blair, to Lady Castlefort, to Winterton Mildmay, and to Jimmy Benyon. There's nothing left for all of us but to fall down and worship. On to your knees with the rest of us, my friend! In every relation of life the man is great. You'll say he's objectionable. Quite so. Greatness always is. You're still pleasant, because you haven't become great." "A few people think you a great artist." "Quite a few," grinned Morewood. "I can still set up for being pleasant." This mood did not leave him with his arrival at Ashwood. He reminded Marchmont of a monkey who had some trick to play, and grinned and chattered in anticipation of his cruel fun; his smile was most mocking when he greeted May Quisanté. She was in high spirits; girlish gaiety marked a holiday mood in her. Morewood seemed to encourage it with malicious care, letting it grow that he might strike at it with better effect later on. Yet what did the man know, what could he do? And though Dick Benyon winced at his darts, and Jimmy grew a little sulky, May herself seemed unconscious of them. She was ready to meet him in talk about her husband and her husband's plans; she laughed at his jibes in all the apparent security of a happy confidence. Such a state of things exactly suited Lady Richard; she would not wish May to be pained, but she enjoyed infinitely any legitimate "dig" at her old enemy. May fought with equal gallantry and good temper. "Success is our crime," she said gaily at dinner. "Mr. Morewood can't forgive it. You call us Philistines now, I expect, don't you?" "Philistines in the very highest degree," he nodded. "I know," she cried. "The only really cultivated thing is to fail elegantly." "Let's bow our acknowledgments," Morewood called across to Marchmont. "Oh, no, Mr. Marchmont isn't like that. He doesn't even try. Well, perhaps that's still more superior." She smiled at Marchmont, shaking her head. "But we try, we try everything." The "we" grated still on Marchmont's feelings, and the worse because it seemed to come more easily and naturally from her lips. Yet that might be only the result of practice; she had looked at him in a merry defiance as the last words left her lips. "And you get other people to try your things too," pursued Morewood. "Look here, you don't mean me, do you?" Jimmy Benyon put in. "Because I'm not trying Fanny; on the contrary, she's trying me." "What, already?" asked Dick with exaggerated apprehension. "What'll it be when you're married?" "Ah," said Morewood, "now what is it when you're married? Does any duly qualified person wish to answer the question?" His mischievous glance rested again on May Quisanté. "Oh, marriage is all right," said Dick, raising his voice to allow his wife to hear. "At least it's not so bad as things go in this world. It's giving a shilling and getting back eleven-pence." There was a little murmur of applause. "I declare every married person at the table seems to endorse the opinion," said Marchmont with a laugh. "We'll keep our shillings, I think, Morewood." "You'd better wait till somebody offers you change," advised Lady Richard. "Meanwhile we've had an admirable expert opinion," said Marchmont. "Which we believe," added Morewood, "as implicitly as we do in the excellence of the Alethea Printing Press." "Hallo, are you in it too?" cried Dick. "You see we're all disciples," he added to May. She smiled slightly and turned to Jimmy Benyon who was by her, as though to speak to him; but Morewood's voice cut across her remark. "No, I'm not. I'm a sceptic there," he said. "Oh, well, you don't know anything about it," Dick assured him placidly. If plain-speaking were the order of the day, the Benyon family could hold their own. "I bet he hasn't read the prospectus," said Jimmy. "Couldn't understand it, if he had," added Dick, after a comforting gulp of champagne. "You're really splendid people to be in with," said May, looking gratefully from one brother to the other. They were so staunch, and alas, how had they been treated! For a moment Morewood said nothing; he sat smiling maliciously. "Shall I give my authority?" he asked. "It won't do you any harm if I do, because I can't call him to give evidence." "We had all the best authorities," said Dick Benyon, "as you'd know if you'd read the prospectus." "Hang the prospectus! What's the good of reading a man's puff of his own wares? But I'm certain you hadn't one authority." "Well, who's your authority?" asked Jimmy, with a contempt that he took no trouble to conceal. "What he said was confidential, you know----" "Oh, you won't get out of it like that. We're all friends here. Fire away." Thus exhorted, and indeed nothing loth--for he had not read the prospectus and knew not the full extent of what he did--Morewood drew his malicious little bow and shot his arrow, sharper-pointed than he fancied. "I suppose you'll admit," said he with the exaggerated carelessness of a man with an unanswerable case, "that poor old Maturin was some authority, and he told me in confidence--I asked him about it, you know, just to be able to warn you fellows--that there was an absolutely fatal defect in your machine." To score too great a triumph is sometimes as disconcerting as to fail. There was no chorus of indignation, no denial of Maturin's authority, no good-natured scoffing such as Morewood had expected. He looked round on faces fallen into a sudden troubled seriousness; no voice was raised in protest, gay or grave. In an instant he knew that he had done something far beyond what his humour had suggested; but what it was or how it came about, he could not tell. The Benyon brothers were not over-ready of speech in a difficulty; their thoughts were busy now, but their tongues tied. Marchmont found nothing to say; he could not help raising his eyes under half-drooped lids till they rested on May Quisanté's face. There was a moment more of silence; then, answering the tacit summons of the table, May Quisanté spoke. She leant forward a little, smiling, and spoke clearly and composedly. "Oh, you misunderstood him," she said. "He was consulted, but fell ill before he could go into all the facts or write his report. But he had expressed a favourable opinion of the Alethea to my husband." She paused, and then added, "If you'd taken the trouble to read the prospectus you'd have known that, Mr. Morewood." Little Lady Richard laughed nervously, glanced round, and rose from the table; it was sooner than the ladies were wont to move but, as she said, nobody seemed to be eating any fruit, and so there was nothing to stay for. The men sat down again. Morewood perceived very clearly that a constraint had come upon them; but he was possessed by curiosity. "Well, I should like to see the prospectus now," he said. "You'll find one or two over there," said Dick, jerking his head towards a writing-table, but not rising. Morewood made in the direction indicated, a low mutter from Dick following him. Then Jimmy observed: "He doesn't understand a thing about it, you know, and of course he didn't follow what Maturin said." The others nodded. This explanation was indeed the simple one; in most cases it would have been accepted without demur; or recourse would have been had to the hypothesis of a sudden change in the Professor's opinion; indeed Marchmont broached this solution in an off-hand way. Neither view was explicitly rejected, but a third possibility was in their minds, one which would not and could not have been there, had any one of the three had the settling of the prospectus and conducted the business with Maturin. But Alexander Quisanté, assisted only by cousin Mandeville, had conducted the business and drawn the prospectus. Morewood came back, sat down, and poured out a glass of wine. "Yes, I see what it says," he observed. His mood of malice was gone, he looked troubled and rather remorseful. "Well, I only repeated what Maturin said. I'd no idea there was anything about him in the prospectus." The two reasonable views were suggested again by Dick and Marchmont. "It's impossible that I misunderstood him, but of course he may have changed his mind." He paused, seeming to think. "I gather that he put nothing in writing?" he went on. "He only talked to you about it?" After a little pause Jimmy Benyon said, "Not exactly to us--to the people at the office, you know. And there was nothing in writing as you say--at least so I understand too." Morewood passed his hand through his hair; the ruffled locks intensified the ruefulness of his aspect; he had before his eyes the picture of May Quisanté's silence and her so careful, so deliberate little speech after it. He tossed off his wine almost angrily, as Dick Benyon rose, saying, "Let's have coffee in the garden. It's a splendid night." He added with a rather uneasy laugh, "Quisanté's coming to-morrow! We'll leave him to tackle you himself, Morewood." Lady Richard and Fanny Gaston were sitting in the garden by the drawing-room window when the men joined them; Morewood dropped into a chair by Lady Richard and, looking across the lawn, saw May strolling by herself on the walk that bounded the shrubberies. He took his coffee in silence and then lighted his pipe; the vanity of cigarettes was not for him. At last he said confidentially, "I've a sort of feeling that I've made an ass of myself." Lady Richard glanced round; Fanny had gone across to the other group; nobody was in hearing. "Do you know," she said in a low voice, "I believe that man's been up to some trick again. You know how he treated us over the Crusade? Now I suppose he's going to ruin us!" The satisfaction of a justified prophet seemed to mingle with the dismay of a wife and the anger of a sufferer; Lady Richard had expected nothing less all along! "I'm afraid I rather--well, that Lady May didn't like it." "Poor dear May must know what to expect by now." "Perhaps she never knows what to expect. That'd be worse." The remark was a little too subtle for Lady Richard's half-attentive ear. She contented herself with sighing expressively. Morewood looked across the lawn again; the slow-walking figure had disappeared, presumably into the shrubberies. Two or three moments later he saw Marchmont strolling off in that direction, cigar in mouth and hands in pockets. He rose, shook himself, and cried to the brothers, "Oh, in heaven's name, come and play pool." Jimmy refused and paired off with his _fiancée_, but Dick agreed to billiards, saying as they went in, "It'll keep you from making a fool of yourself any more." Morewood, finding his own impression of his conduct thus confirmed, grunted remorsefully as he took down his cue. Marchmont crossed the lawn and the path, and was hidden by the shrubberies. Lady Richard watched till she could see him no more, and then went indoors with another sigh; this last was a disclaimer of responsibility; if Marchmont liked to comfort May, it was no business of hers. He loitered on, not admitting that he was looking for May, but very sore to think that she had wandered away to a sad solitude rather than be with her friends; since she did that, she was wounded indeed. There was a seat round an old tree-trunk at the farther side of the shrubbery; the memory of it really directed his apparently aimless steps, and as he approached it he threw away his half-smoked cigar; he thought he would find her there; what he would say to her he did not know. He was right. There, she sat, very still, and looking pale under the moon. Coming up to her he said, "I know you want to be alone, don't you?" She smiled and answered, "No, stay. I'm glad to have you," and he sat down by her. She was silent, her eyes gazing steadily in front of her; the air was sweet and very still. Now he needed no telling that his guess at the situation had been right, that she had shielded her husband at her own cost; her face told him what the cost seemed to her. A great indignation against the man filled him, gaining unacknowledged reinforcement from the love he himself had for the woman. He had wrought for himself a masterpiece of pure and faultless beauty; when another took it from him, he had endured; now the other spoilt and stained and defiled it; could he still endure? It seems sometimes as though the deep silence of night carries thoughts from heart to heart that would be lost in the passage through the broken tumultuous sea of day. The thought that was in him he felt to be in her also, changed as her mind would change it, yet in essence the same. She had now no ironical smiles for him, no fencing, and no playing with her fate; and he had for her no talk of loyalty. The time for these was gone in the light of the confidence that her silence gave him; it told him everything, and he had no rebuke for its openness. At last he put out his hand and lightly pressed hers for a moment. She turned her eyes on him. "It's a little hard, isn't it?" she asked. "I can stand most things, but it's hard to have to tell lies to your friends." Her voice rose a little and shook as the composure which she had so long kept failed her. "And they know I'm lying. Oh, I don't deceive them, however hard I try. They don't tell me so, but they know. I can't help it, I must do it. I must sit and do it, knowing that they know it's a lie. For decency's sake I must do it, though. Some people believe, the Mildmays believe; but you here don't. You know me too well, and you know him too well." "For God's sake, don't talk like that," said Marchmont. "Don't talk like that! The talk's not the harm. If you could tell me how not to live like that!" Her self-control broke utterly; she covered her face with her hands and sobbed. "For God's sake!" he murmured again. "Oh, you don't know. This is only the crown of it. It goes on every day. I'm coming not to know myself, not to be myself. I live scheming and lying. I've given everything, all my life. Must I give myself, my own self, too? Must I lose that for him?" Her bitter despairing words seemed to him what at that moment her mood made them seem to herself, the all-sufficient all-embracing summary of her life; she had then no thought of another side to it, and into that she gave him no insight. He counted as dead for her all the high hopes and the attractive imaginings with which Quisanté once had fired her. Dead for her they were at that moment; she could see nothing but her husband's baseness and a baseness bred by it in herself; her bond to him was an obligation to dishonour and a chain of treachery. She abandoned to Marchmont's eyes all the hidden secrets of her misery; in this she seemed also to display before him the dead body of her hopes, her interest, her ambitions. Giving all, she had gained nothing; so her sobs said. But only for moments does life seem so simple that a sob can cover all of it. Presently she grew calmer. "I've never broken out like this before," she said, "but it's rather bad to have to look forward to a life of it. And it'll get worse, not better; or if it doesn't get worse it'll mean that I'm getting worse, and that'll be worse than all." She smiled forlornly. "What a tangle of 'worses' I've tied it up in, haven't I?" She did not seem to be ashamed of her breaking-out, but rather to be relieved by it, and to feel that it had helped to establish or renew an intimacy in which she found some pleasure and some consolation; at least there was one friend now who knew exactly how she stood and would not set down to that own self of hers the actions that he might see her perform in Quisanté's service. "You once told me I ought to take a confidante," she reminded him. "I don't suppose you thought I should take you, though." She had had her outburst; his was still to come. Yet it seemed rather as though he acted on a deliberate purpose than was carried away by any irresistible impulse; he spoke simply and plainly. "I love you as I've always loved you," he said. "I know, and I've taken advantage of it to inflict all this on you." Her eyes rested on his for some moments, and she answered his glance. "No, I can't escape that way. I'm not talking of running away; of course I couldn't do that." She laughed a little and even he smiled. "But I can't escape even in--in spirit by it. Sometimes I wish I could. It would change the centre of my life, wouldn't it? Perhaps I shouldn't mind the things that distress me so much now. But I can't." "You don't love me? Well, you never did." He paused an instant and added in a puzzled way, "Somehow." "Yes, it's all 'somehow.' Somehow I didn't; I ought to have. Somehow I've got where I am; and somehow, I suppose, I shall endure it." She laid her hand on his. "I should actually like to love you--in a way I do. I'm afraid I've very little conscience about it. But somehow--yes, somehow again--it's all a hopeless puzzle--I can't altogether, not as you mean. I understand it very little myself, and I know you won't understand it at all, but--well, Alexander imprisons me; I can't escape from him; as long as he's there he keeps me." She looked in Marchmont's face and then shook her head, half-sadly, half-playfully. "You don't understand a bit, do you?" she asked. "No, I don't," he said bluntly, with an accent of impatience and almost of exasperation. Recognising it, she gave the slightest shrug of her shoulders. "It's my infatuation again, I suppose, as you all said when I married him. It makes you all angry. Oh, it makes me angry too, as far as that goes." "He's ruining your whole life." She made no answer, relapsing into the still silence which had preceded her tears. Marchmont was baffled again by his old inability to follow the movements of her mind and the old sense of blindness in dealing with her to which it gave rise. Owing to this he had lost her at the first; now it seemed to prevent him from repairing the loss. In spite of all that they had in common, in spite of the strong attraction she felt towards him and of the love he bore her, there was always, as she had said once, at last a break somewhere, some solution in the chain of sympathy that should have bound them together. But he would not admit this, and chose to see the only barrier between them in the man who was ruining her life. "You'd be yourself again if only you could get away from him," he murmured resentfully. "Perhaps; I never shall, though." She added, laughing a little, "Neither will you. I've made you an accomplice, you're bound to a guilty silence now." Then, growing grave, she leant towards him. "Don't look like that," she said, "pray, pray, pray don't. I haven't spoilt your life as well as my own? No, you mustn't tell me that." Her voice grew very tender and low. "But I can say almost all you want. I wish I had loved you, I wish I had married you. Oh, how I wish it! I should have been happy, I think, and I know I--I shouldn't have had to live as I do now and do the things I have to do now. Well, it's too late." "You're very young," he said in a voice as low as hers. "It mayn't always be too late." She started a little, drawing away from him. He had brought back thoughts which the stress of pain and excitement had banished from her mind. "You mean----?" she murmured. "I know what you mean, though." Her face showed again a sort of puzzle. "I can't think of that happening. I tried the other day--_à propos_ of something else; but I couldn't. I couldn't see it, you know. It doesn't fit my ideas about him. No, that won't happen. We must just go on." The wind had begun to rise, the trees stirred, leaves rustled, the whole making, or seeming to her ears to make, a sad whimsical moaning. She rose, gathering her lace scarf closer round her neck, and saying, "Do you hear the wood crying for us? It's sorry for our little troubles." She stood facing him and he took both her hands in his. "You look so unhappy," she said in a fresh access of pity. "No use, no use; it'll all go on, right to the end of everything. So--good-bye." "He's coming to-morrow, isn't he?" "Yes, he's coming to-morrow. Good-bye." She smiled a little, feeling Marchmont's hands drawing her to him. "Oh, kiss me then," she said, turning her cheek to him. "It'll feel friendly. And now we'll go in." They had just started to return when they heard steps in the wood, and a moment later her name was called in Dick Benyon's voice. Marchmont shouted in answer, "Here we are," and Dick came along the path. "I couldn't think where you'd got to," he said. "That's because you've no romance in you," said May. "Or you'd have known we should be wandering in the wood in the moonlight. Ah, she's gone under a cloud now, but she was beautiful. Are we wanted, though?" "Well, in the first place I think you've been quite long enough for propriety, and in the second a man's brought a wire for you, and he's waiting to see if there's an answer." "Under that combination of moral and practical reasons we'll go in," said May, laughing. Marchmont, less ready in putting on his mask, said nothing but followed a step or two behind. "I expect the wire's from Alexander," she went on, "to say he's going to make a speech somewhere and won't come to-morrow." Dick turned to her with a quick jerk of the head; a moment later he was covered with confusion, for her bitter little smile told him that he had betrayed the joy which such a notion gave him. To all of them it would be a great relief that Quisanté should not come while the memory of the scene that Morewood had caused at dinner was still so fresh. Dick, though he attempted no excuse, felt himself forgiven when May took his arm and thus walked back to the house. "Your husband had a slight seizure while dining with us to-night. He is comfortable now, and there is no immediate reason for anxiety. But doctor thinks you had better come up earliest convenient train to-morrow. Winterton Mildmay." May read the telegram, standing between Marchmont and Dick. She handed it to Dick, saying, "Read it, and will you send an answer that I'll come as early as possible in the morning;" then she walked to the table and sat down by it. Dick gave Marchmont the slip of paper and went off to despatch the answer. Nobody else was in the room, except Fanny Gaston, who was playing softly on the piano in the corner. Marchmont came up to May and put the telegram down on the table by her. "I'm so sorry," he said formally and constrainedly. "I don't suppose it's very serious," she said. "But I must go, of course." She went on under the cover of Fanny's gentle music. "It's all rather odd though--its coming to-night and its happening at the Mildmays'. I forgot, though, you don't know why I feel that so odd. How Lady Mildmay'll nurse him! I expect I shall have a struggle to get him out of the house and home again." Marchmont made no answer but stood looking down on her face. She met his glance fairly, and knew what it was that had forced itself into his mind and now found expression in his eyes. She had declared to him that her fate was irrevocable, that the lines of her life were set, that nothing but death could alter them, and that death had no part in her thoughts about her husband. The telegram did not prove her wrong; yet seizure was a vague word under which much might lie hidden. But her mood and her feeling still remained; it was not in hope or in any attempt at self-consolation, but in the expression of an obstinate conviction which dominated her mind that she said in answer to Marchmont's glance, "I can't believe it's anything really amiss. I expect I shall find him at work again when I get back to-morrow." With a little movement of his hands Marchmont turned away. He had at command no conventional phrases in which to express a desire that she might prove right. It was impossible to say that he wished she might prove wrong; even in his own mind a man leaves a hope like that vague and unformulated. But he marvelled, still without understanding, at the strange obstinate idea which seemed almost to exalt Quisanté above the ordinary lot of mortals, to see in him a force so living that it could not perish, a vitality so intense that death could lay no hand on it. He glanced at her as he crossed the room to the piano; she sat now with the telegram in her hands and her eyes fixed on the floor in front of her. It needed a sharper summons, a nearer reality, to rouse her from the conviction that her life was bound for ever to that of the man whom she had chosen and for whom she had given so much. It would all go on, right to the end of everything. The telegram had not shaken that faith in her, nor altered that despair. CHAPTER XVII. DONE FOR? A knotty point of casuistry was engaging the thoughts of the Dean of St. Neot's. Morewood had been to see him, had told without disguise the whole story of his blunder at the dinner-table at Ashwood, had referred to Alexander Quisanté's serious illness, and had finally, without apology and without periphrasis, expressed the hope that Alexander Quisanté would die. The Dean's rebuke had produced a strenuous effort at justification. Quisanté was, the painter pointed out, no doubt a force, but a force essentially immoral (Morewood took up morality when it suited his purpose); he did work, but he made unhappiness; he affected people's lives, but not so as to promote their well-being. Or if the Dean chose to champion the man, Morewood was ready for him again. If Quisanté were good, were moral, were deserving of defence, then the merely natural process lugubriously described as death, and fantastically treated with black plumes and crape, would, so far as he himself was concerned, be no more than a transition to a better state of existence, while certain solid and indisputable benefits would accrue to those who were condemned to wait a little longer for their summons. Whether the Dean elected to be for Quisanté or against him, Morewood claimed a verdict. This challenging of a man's general notions by the putting of a thorny special case was rather resented by the Dean; it reminded him of the voluble atheist in Hyde Park, who bases his attack on the supernatural on the obsolete enactments of the Book of Leviticus. None the less he was rather puzzled as to what he had a right to wish about Alexander Quisanté, and so he had recourse to his usual remedy--a consultation with his wife. He had the greatest faith in Mrs. Baxter's eye for morality; perhaps generations of clerical ancestry had bred in her such an instinct as we see in sporting-dogs; she could not go wrong. On this question she was immediately satisfactory. "We are forbidden," she said, removing a piece of tape from her mouth, "to wish anybody's death; you know that as well as I do, Dan." She made a stitch or two. "We must leave it to Providence," she ended serenely. At first sight there was nothing much in this dictum; it appeared even commonplace. But Mrs. Baxter had been lunching with the Mildmays, had heard a full account of what the doctors said about Quisanté, and had expressed her conviction that he could not possibly last long. So far as could be judged then, the confidence which she proposed to show ran no appreciable risk of being misplaced, while at the same time she avoided committing herself by any expression of a personal opinion. "Doubtless, my dear," said the Dean with a little cough. "If he had thought less about himself and more about other people----" she resumed. "That can't have anything to do with an apoplectic seizure," the Dean pleaded. Mrs. Baxter looked up with a patient smile. "If you weren't in such a hurry, Dan, to show what you call your enlightenment (though heaven knows you may be wrong all the time, and a judgment is a perfectly possible thing) you'd have found out that I was only going to say that, if he'd thought more of other people, he'd find other people thinking more about him now." "There I quite agree with you, my dear." Mrs. Baxter looked less grateful than she might have for this endorsement of her views; self-confidence is apt to hold external support in cheap esteem. "When the first Mrs. Greening died," she remarked, "they gave the maids very nice black frocks, with a narrow edging of good crape. The very first Sunday-out that Elizabeth had--the butcher's daughter near the Red Cow--you remember?--she stuck a red ribbon round the neck." The Dean looked puzzled. "Mrs. Greening was the most selfish woman I've ever known," explained Mrs. Baxter; and she added with a pensive smile, "And I've lived in a Cathedral town for thirty years." The red-ribbon became intelligible; it fell into line with Morewood's ill-disciplined wish. Both signified an absence of love, such a departing without being desired as serves for the epitaph of a Jewish king. The Dean cast round for somebody who would prove such an inscription false on Alexander Quisanté's tomb. "Anyhow it would break the old aunt's heart," he said. "It'd save her money," observed Mrs. Baxter. "And his wife!" mused the Dean. It was impossible to say whether there were a question in his words or not. But his first instance had not been Quisanté's wife; the old aunt offered a surer case. "If you always knew what a man's wife thought about him, you'd know a great deal," said Mrs. Baxter. She possessed in the fullest degree her sex's sense of an ultimate superiority in perception; men knew neither what their wives did nor what they were; wives might not know what their husbands did, but they always knew what they were. It would be rash to differ from a person of her observation and experience; half a dozen examples would at once have confounded the objector. Mrs. Baxter took perhaps a too private and domestic view of the man whose fate she was discussing; she judged the husband and friend, she had nothing to say to the public character. The voices of his political associates and acquaintances, of his fellow-workers in business, of his followers and enthusiastic adherents in his constituency, did not reach her ears, and perhaps, if they had, would not have won much attention. The consternation of Constantine Blair, Lady Castlefort's dismay, the sad gossiping and head-shaking that went on in the streets of Henstead and round old Mr. Foster's comfortable board, witnessed to a side of Quisanté in which Mrs. Baxter did not take much interest. She did not understand the sort of stupor with which they who had lived with him and worked with him saw the force he wielded and the anticipations he filled them with both struck down by a sudden blow; she did not share the feeling that all at once a gap had been made in life. But something of this sort was the effect in all the circles which Quisanté had invaded and in which he had moved. The philosophical might already be saying that there was no necessary man; to the generality that reflection would come only later, when they had found a new leader, a fresh inspiration, and another personality in which to see the embodiment of their hopes. Now the loss was too fresh and too complete; for although it might be doubtful how long Quisanté's life would last, there seemed no chance of his ever filling the place to which he had appeared to be destined. Only a miracle could give that back to one who must cling to life, if he could keep his hold on it at all, at the cost of abandoning all the efforts and all the activities which had made it what it was alike for himself and for others. He was rallying slowly and painfully from his blow; a repetition of it would be the certain penalty of any strenuous mental exertion or any sustained strain of labour. In inactivity, in retirement, in the placid existence of a recognised invalid he might live years, indeed probably would; but otherwise the authorities declined to promise him any life at all. His body had played him false in the end. Constantine Blair began to look out for a candidate for Henstead and to wonder whether Sir Winterton would again expose himself to the unpleasantness of a contested election; Lady Castlefort must find another Prime Minister, the fighting men another champion, even the Alethea Printing Press Limited a new chairman. The places he had filled or made himself heir to were open to other occupants and fresh pretenders. That the change seemed so considerable proved how great a figure he had become in men's eyes no less than how utterly his career was overthrown. The comments on his public life were very flattering, but already they praised in the tone of an obituary notice, and the hopes they expressed of his being able some day to return to the arena were well understood to be no more than a kind or polite refusal to display naked truth in the merciless clearness of print. Here was the state of things which extorted from Morewood the blunt wish that Quisanté might die. Such a desire was hardly cruel to the man himself, since he must now lose all that he had loved best in the market of the world; but it was not the man himself who had been most in Morewood's thoughts. With a penetration sharpened by the memory of his blunder he had appreciated the perverse calamity which had fallen on the man's wife, and had passed swiftly to the conclusion that for her an end by death was the only chance, the only turn of events which could give back to her the chance of a real life to be lived. He knew by what Quisanté had attracted and held her; all that, it seemed, was gone now. He divined also in what Quisanté repelled and almost terrified her; that would remain so long as breath was in the man and might grow even more intense. A sense of fairness somehow impelled him to his wish; her bargain had turned out so badly; the underlying basis of her marriage was broken; she was left to pay the price to the last penny, but was to get nothing of what she had looked to purchase. Was it not then the part of a courageous man to face his instinctive wish, and to accept it boldly? Cant and tradition apart, it must be the wish of every sensible person. For she knew, she had realised most completely on the very evening when Quisanté was struck down, what manner of man he was. She might have endured if she had still been able to tell herself of the wonderful things that he would do. No such comfort was open now. The man was still what he was; but he would do nothing. There came the change. "That's the weak point about marriage as compared with other contractual arrangements," said Morewood to Dick Benyon. "You can never in any bargain ensure people getting what they expect to get--because to do that you'd have to give all of them sense--but in most you can to a certain extent see that they're allowed to keep what they actually did get. In marriage you can't. Something of this sort happens and the whole understanding on which the arrangement was based breaks down." "Do people marry on understandings?" asked Dick doubtfully. "The only way of getting anything like justice for her is that he should die. You must see that?" "I don't know anything about it," said Dick morosely, "but I hear there's no particular likelihood of his dying if he obeys orders and keeps quiet." "Just so, just so," said Morewood. "That's exactly what I mean. Do you suppose she'd ever have taken him if he'd been going to keep quiet? You know why you took him up; well, she did just the same. You know what you found him; she's found him just the same. What's left now? The _rôle_ of a loving nurse! She's not born a nurse; and how in the devil's name is she to be expected to love him?" Dick Benyon found no answer to questions which put with a brutal truthfulness the salient facts of the position. The one thing necessary, the one thing which would have made the calamity bearable, perhaps better than bearable, was wanting. She might love or have loved things in him, or about him, or done by him; himself she did not love; and now nothing but himself remained to her. Seeing the matter in this light, Dick was dumb before Morewood's challenge to him to say, if he dared, that he hoped a long life for Alexander Quisanté. Yet neither would he wish his death; for Dick had been an enthusiast, the spell had been very strong on him, and there still hung about him something of that inability to think of Quisanté as dead or dying, something of the idea that he must live and must by very strength of will find strength of body, which had prevented May herself from believing that the news which came in her telegram could mean anything really serious. While Quisanté lived, there would always be to Dick a possibility that he would rise up from his sickness and get to work again. Death would end this, death with its finality and its utter incongruous stillness. Death was repose, and neither for good nor for evil had Quisanté ever embraced repose. He had never been quiet; when he was not achieving, he had been grimacing. In death he could do neither. "I can't fancy the fellow dead," said Dick to his wife and his brother. "I should be expecting him to jump up again every minute." Lady Richard shuddered. The actual Quisanté had been bad; the idea of a dead Quisanté horribly galvanized into movement by a restlessness that the tomb could not stifle was hideous. Jimmy came to her aid with a rather unfeeling but apparently serious suggestion. "We must cremate him," he said gravely. "No, but, barring rot," Dick pursued, "I don't believe he'll die, you know." "Poor May!" said Lady Richard. Neither of them pressed her to explain the precise point in May Quisanté's position which produced this exclamation of pity. It might have been that the death was possible, or that the death was not certain, or at least not near, or it might have sprung from a purely general reflection on the unhappiness of having life coupled with the life of such a man as Quisanté. All these voices of a much interested, much pitying, much (and on the whole not unenjoyably) discussing world were heard only in dim echoes in the Mildmays' big quiet house in Carlton-House Terrace, where Quisanté had been stricken by his blow. There May had found him on her hasty return from Ashwood, and here he was still, thanks to the host's and hostess's urgent entreaties. They declared that he was not fit to be moved; the doctors hardly endorsed this view heartily but went so far as to say that any disturbance was no doubt bad in its degree; Lady Mildmay seized eagerly on the grudging support. "Let him stay here till he's fit to go to the country," she urged. "I'm sure we can make him comfortable. And--" she smiled apologetically, "I'm a good nurse, if I'm nothing else, you know." "But won't Sir Winterton----?" "My dear, you don't know what a lot Winterton thinks of Mr. Quisanté; he's proud to be of the least service to him. And you do know, I think, how it delights him to be any use at all to you." In spite of that reason buried in her own heart which made every kindness received from these kind hands bitter to her, May let him stay. He wanted to stay, she thought, so far as his relaxed face and dimmed eyes gave evidence of any desire. And besides--yes, Lady Mildmay was a good nurse; he might find none so good if he were moved away. No sense of duty, no punctilious performance of offices, no such constancy of attendance as a wife is bound to render, could give what Lady Mildmay gave. Yet more than these May could not achieve. It was rather cruel, as it seemed to her, that the great and sudden call on her sympathy should come at the moment of all others when the spring of her sympathy was choked, when anger still burnt in her heart, when passionate resentment for a wound to her own pride and her own honour still inflamed her, when the mood in which she had broken out in her talk with Marchmont was still predominant. Such a falling-out of events sometimes made this real and heavy sickness seem like one of Quisanté's tricks, of at least suggested that he might be making the most of it in his old way, as he had of his faintness at the Imperial League banquet, or of his headache when old Foster's letter followed on the declaration of the poll at Henstead. Such feelings as these, strong enough to chill her pity till Lady Mildmay wondered at a wife so cold, were not deep or sincere enough to blind May Quisanté's eyes. Even without the doctor's story--which she had insisted on being told in all its plainness--she thought that she would have known the meaning of what had befallen her husband and herself, and have grasped at once its two great features, the great certainty and the great uncertainty; the certainty that his career was at an end, the uncertainty as to how near his life was to its end. Such a position chimed in too well with the bitter mood of Ashwood not to seem sent to crown it by a malicious device of fate's. At the very moment when she least could love, she was left no resource but love; at the moment when she would have turned her eyes most away from him and most towards his deeds, the deeds were taken away and he only was left; at the time when her hot anger against him drove her into a cry for release, she received no promise of release, or a promise deferred beyond an indefinitely stretching period of a worse imprisonment. For she clung to no such hope as that which made Dick Benyon dream of a resurrection of activity and of power, and had nothing to look for save years of a life both to herself and to him miserable. It might be sin to wish him dead; but was it sin to wish him either alive or dead, either in vigour or at rest? Sin or no sin, that was the desire in her heart, and it would not be stifled however much she accused its inhumanity or recognised the want of love in it. Was the fault all hers? With her lips still burning from the lie that she had told for him, she could not answer 'yes.' Still and silent Quisanté lay on his bed. His head was quite clear now and his eyes grew brighter. He watched Lady Mildmay as she ministered to him, and he watched his wife with his old quick furtive glances, so keen to mark every shade of her manner towards him. She had never really deceived him as to her thoughts of him; she did not deceive him now. He knew that her sympathies were estranged, more estranged than they had ever been before. So far as the reason lay in the incident of Ashwood, it was hidden from him; he knew nothing of the last great shame that he had put on her. But long before this he had recognised where his power over her lay, by what means he had gained and by what he kept it; he had been well aware that if she were still to be under his sway, the conquest must be held by his achievements; he himself was as nothing beside them. Now, as he lay, he was thinking what would happen. He also had heard the doctor's story or enough of it to enable him to guess the purport of their sentence on him; he was to live as an invalid, to abandon all his ambitions, to throw away all that made people admire him or made him something in the world's eyes and something great in hers. On these terms and on these only life was offered to him now; if he refused, if he defied nature, then he must go on with the sword ever hanging over him, in the knowledge that it soon must fall. He told himself that, yet was but half-convinced. Need it fall? With the first spurt of renewed strength he raised that question and argued it, till he seemed able to say 'It may fall,' rather than 'It must.' What should be his course then? The world thought it had done with him. All seemed gone for which his wife had prized him. Should he accept that, and in its acceptance take up his life as valetudinarian, his life forgotten of the world which he had loved to conquer, barren of interest for the woman whom it had been his strongest passion to win against her instincts, to hold as it were against her will, and to fascinate in face of her distaste? Such were the terms offered; Alexander Quisanté lay long hours open-eyed and thought of them. There had come into his head an idea that attracted him mightily and suited well with his nature, so oddly mixed of strength and weakness, greatness and smallness, courage and bravado, the idea of a means by which he might keep the world's applause and his wife's fascinated interest, aye, and increase them too, till they should be more intense than they had ever been. That would be a triumph, played before admiring eyes. But what would be the price of it, and was the price one that he would pay. It might be the biggest price a mortal man can pay. So for a few days more Alexander Quisanté lay and thought about it. Once old Miss Quisanté came to see him, at his summons, not of her own volunteering. Since the blow fell she had neither come nor written, and May, with a sense of relief, had caught at the excuse for doing no more than sending now and again a sick-room report. Aunt Maria looked old, frail, and very yellow, as she made her way to a chair by her nephew's bed. He turned to her with the smile of mockery so familiar to her eyes. "You haven't been in any hurry to see me, Aunt Maria," said he. "You've always sent for me when you wanted me before, Sandro, and I supposed you would this time." "May's kept you posted up? You know what those fools of doctors say?" The old woman nodded. Quisanté was smiling still. "I'm done then, eh?" he asked. Her hands were trembling, but her voice was hard and unsympathetic. "It sounds like it," she said. Quisanté raised himself on his elbow. "You'll see me out after all," said he, "if I'm not careful. That's what it comes to." He gave a low laugh as Aunt Maria's lips moved but no words came. He leant over a little nearer to her and asked, "Have you had any talk with my wife about it?" "No," said Aunt Maria. "Not a word, Sandro." "Nothing to be said, eh? What does she think, though? Oh, you know! You've got your wits about you. Don't take to considering my feelings at this time of day." Now the old woman smiled too. "I'm sorry you're done for, Sandro," she said. "So's your wife, I'll be bound." "You both love me so much?" he sneered. "We've always understood one another," said Aunt Maria. "I tell you, I love my wife." Aunt Maria made no remark. "And you both think I'm done for? Well, we'll see!" Aunt Maria looked up with a gleam of new interest in her sharp eyes, so like the eyes of the man on the bed. Quisanté met her glance and understood it; it appealed at once to his malice and to his vanity; it was a foretaste of the wonder he would raise and the applause he would win, if he determined to face the price that might have to be paid for them. He had listened with exasperated impatience to kind Lady Mildmay's pleadings with him, to her motherly insisting on perfect rest for his mind, and to her pathetically hopeful picture of the new interests and the new pleasure he would find in days of rest and peace, with his wife tenderly looking after him. To such charming as that his ears were deaf; they pricked at the faintest sound of distant cheering. It would be something to show even Aunt Maria that he was not done with; what would it not be to show it to the world--and to that wife of his whom he loved and could hold only by his deeds? "I only know what the doctors say," remarked Miss Quisanté. "They say you must throw up everything." "You wouldn't have me risk another of those damned strokes, would you?" he asked, the mockery most evident now in his voice and look. "Lady Mildmay implores me to be careful, almost with tears. I suppose my own aunt'll be still more anxious, and my own wife too?" "Doctors aren't infallible. And they don't know you, Sandro. You're not like other men." Hard as the tone was, his ears drank in the words eagerly. "They don't know how much there is in you." Again he leant forward and said almost in a whisper, "May thinks I'm done for?" Aunt Maria nodded. "And she'll nurse me? Take me to some infernal invalids' place, full of bath-chairs, and walk beside mine, eh?" Aunt Maria smiled grimly. "She'll like that, won't she?" he asked. "You won't die," she said suddenly and abruptly, her eyes fixed on his. "What?" he asked sharply. "Well, who said I was going to die?" "The doctors--unless you go to the invalids' place." "Oh, and my dear aunt doesn't agree with them?" Eagerness now broke through the mockery in his tones. He had longed so for a word of hope, for someone to persuade him that he might still live and could still work. "But suppose they proved right? Well, that's no worse than the other anyhow." "Not much," said Aunt Maria. "But I don't believe 'em." Her faith in him came back at his first summons of it. He had but to tell her that he would live and need not die, and she would believe him. Sandro's ways were not as other men's; she could not believe that for Sandro as for other men there were necessities not to be avoided, and a fate not to be mastered by any defiant human will. So there she sat, persuading him that he was not mortal; and he lay listening, mocking, embittered, yet still lending an ear to the story, eager to believe her fable, rejoicing in the power that he had over her mind. If he felt all this for Aunt Maria, what would he not feel for the world, and for that wife of his? If old Aunt Maria could so wake in him the love of life and the hatred of that living death to which he had been condemned, what passionate will to live would rise in answer to the world's wonder and his wife's? "I wish you'd give me that little book on the table there," he said. Aunt Maria obeyed. "My engagement-book," he explained. "Look. I had things booked for five months ahead. See--speeches, meetings, committees, the Alethea--so on--so on. They're all what they call cancelled now." He turned the leaves and Aunt Maria stood by him, watching. "They won't get anybody to do 'em like you, Sandro," she said. He flung the book down on the floor in sudden peevishness, with an oath of anger and exasperation. "By God, why haven't I a fair chance?" he asked, and fell back on his pillows. Lady Mildmay would have come and whispered softly to him, patted his hand, given him lemonade, and bade him try to sleep while she read softly to him. His old Aunt Maria Quisanté stood motionless, saying not a word, looking away from him. Yet she was nearer to his mood and suited him better than kind Lady Mildmay. "You've done a good bit already, Sandro," she said. "And you're only thirty-nine." "And I'm to die at thirty-nine, or else live like an idiot, bored to death, and boring to death everybody about me!" "I shall go now," said Aunt Maria. "Good-bye, Sandro. Send for me again when you want me." "Aunt Maria!" She stopped at his call. "Go and see May. Go and talk to her." "Yes, Sandro." "Tell her what you think. You know: I mean, tell her that perhaps it's not as bad as the doctors say; that I may get about a bit soon and--and so on--You know." "I'm to tell her that?" asked Aunt Maria. "She's not to conclude it's all over with me yet." Miss Quisanté nodded and moved towards the door. "Oh, and before you go, just pick up that book and give it me again, will you?" She returned, picked up the engagement-book and gave it him; then she stood for a moment by the bed, beginning to smile a little. "You've got a lot to fret about," she said. "Don't you fret about money, Sandro. I can manage a thousand in a month or so. No use hoarding it; it looks as if we should neither of us want it long." "You've got a thousand? What, now? Available?" "In a week or so it could be." "Then in God's name put it in the Alethea. What are you thinking about? It's the biggest thing out." "In the Alethea? I meant to give it to you." "All right. I shall put it in, if you do. I tell you that in three years' time you'll be rich out of it, and I shall draw an income of a couple of thousand a year at least as long as the patent lasts, if not longer." "How long does it last?" "Fourteen years; then we'll try for an extension, for another seven, you know, and we ought to get it. First and last I expect to get fifty thousand out of the Alethea alone, besides another thing that I've talked over with Mandeville. I'll tell you about it some day, I can't to-day. I--I'm a little tired. But anyhow the Alethea's sure. I'll put the thousand into it for you, and I'll hand you back double the money this time next year." He was leaning on his left elbow, talking volubly; his eyes were bright, his right hand moved in rapid apt gestures; his voice was sanguine as he spoke of the seven years' extension of the Alethea patent; he had forgotten his stroke and the verdict of his doctors. Aunt Maria nodded her head to him, saying, "I'll send it you as soon as I can," and made for the door. She was smiling now; Sandro seemed more himself again. He, left alone, lay back on his pillow, breathing fast, rather exhausted; but after awhile he opened the engagement-book again and ran his eyes up and down its columns. Lady Mildmay found him thus occupied when she came to give him a cup of milk. CHAPTER XVIII. FOR LACK OF LOVE? Weston Marchmont, punctilious to the verge of fastidiousness, or even over it, in his conduct towards the world and his friends, allowed himself easily enough a liberty of speculative opinion which the Dean of St. Neot's would have hesitated about and the Dean's wife decidedly veiled by a reference to Providence. To him the blow that had fallen on Quisanté seemed no public evil. Allowing the man's talents, he distrusted both his aims and his methods; they would not have come to good; the removal of his personality meant relief from an influence which was not healthy and an example which taught nothing beyond the satisfaction of ambition and the pursuit of power. It was well then if Quisanté were indeed, as he himself said, "done with," so far as public activity went. Marchmont, not concealing his particular interest but rather facing it and declaring it just, went on to say that, since Quisanté was done with publicly, it was well that he should be done with privately also, and that as speedily as might be. Love for May Quisanté might be the moving spring of this conclusion, but he insisted that it was not necessary thereto. Any reasonable person her friend, nay, anybody whose attention was fairly directed to the case, must hold the same view. There was a hideous mistake to be undone, and only one way of undoing it. Permanent unions in marriage, immense and indispensable engines of civilisation, yet exacted their price. One instance of the compensating payment was that deaths sometimes became desirable; you had to wish a death sooner than life-long misery for a friend; to wish it was not wrong, though to have to wish it might be distasteful. In this self-justification he contrived to subordinate, while he admitted, his own strong interest in the death and his violent dislike of the sufferer which robbed the death of its pain so far as he was concerned. People's infatuation with Quisanté, above all May's infatuation, had so irritated him that he did not scruple to accept the only means of ending them; that they would be thus ended it never came into his mind to doubt. His regret was only for the stretch of delay, for the time of waiting, for the respite promised to the doomed man if he would be docile and obedient; for all of them life was passing, and too much had already in tragic mistake been spent on Alexander Quisanté. "I think you're damnably inhuman," said Dick Benyon, expressing, as he often did, an unsophisticated but not perhaps an altogether unsound popular judgment. "He's a remarkable man. And after all she married him. She needn't have. As for the party--well, I don't know how we shall replace him." "I don't want him replaced," said Marchmont. "Everything that he was doing had better be left undone; and everything that he is had better not be. You call me inhuman. Well, people who repress their pity for individuals in the interests of the general welfare are always called that." "Yes, but you don't pity him," retorted Dick. Marchmont thought for a moment. "No, I don't," he admitted. "I see why one might; but I can't do it myself." He paused and added, smiling, "I suppose that's the weak point in my attitude." "One of them," said Dick, but he said no more. There are limits to candid discussion even among the closest friends; he could not tell Marchmont in so many words that he wanted Quisanté dead so as to be able to marry Quisanté's wife, however well aware of the fact he might be and Marchmont might suspect him to be. Or, if he had said this, he could have said it only in vigorous reproof, perhaps even in horror; and to this he was not equal. For Dick was sorely torn. On the one hand he had never ceased to hang on Quisanté's words and to count on Quisanté's deeds; on the other, he had never acquitted himself of responsibility for a marriage which he believed to have been most disastrous. Worst of all then for him was what threatened now, an end of the illuminating words and the stirring deeds, but no end to the marriage yet in sight. To him too death seemed the best thing, unless that wonderful unlikely resurrection of activity and power could come. And even then--Dick remembered the face of Quisanté's wife as she lied for him to her friends at Ashwood. The resurrection must be not only with a renewed but with a transformed mind, if it were to bring happiness, and to bring no more of things like that. The world at large, conceiving that the last word had been said and the last scene in which it was interested played, had soon turned its curious eyes away from Quisanté's sick bed, leaving only the gaze of the smaller circle personally concerned in the dull and long-drawn-out ending of a piece once so full of dramatic incident. But the world found itself wrong, and all the eyes spun round in amazed staring when the sick man leapt from his bed and declared that he was himself again. The news came in paragraphs, to the effect that after another week's rest Mr. Quisanté, whose health had made a rapid and great improvement, hoped to return to his Parliamentary duties and to fulfil the more urgent of his public engagements. Here was matter enough for surprise, but it was needful to add the fast-following well-authenticated stories of how the doctors had protested, how Sir Rufus Beaming had washed his hands of the case, and how Dr. Claud Manton had addressed an energetic warning to Lady May Quisanté. This last item came home most closely to the general feeling, and the general voice asked what Lady May was thinking of. There was warrant for the question in the wondering despair of Lady Mildmay and the sad embarrassment of debonair Sir Winterton. The Mildmays knew all about it, the whole thing had happened in their house; but Sir Winterton, challenged with the story about Sir Rufus, could only hum and ha, and Lady Mildmay had not denied the interview between Quisanté's wife and the energetic Dr. Manton. What was the meaning of it? And, once again, what was Lady May Quisanté thinking of? Was she blind, was she careless? Or were the doctors idiots? The world, conscious of its own physical frailty, shrank from the last question and confined its serious attention to the two preceding ones. "Does she want to kill him?" asked the honest graspers of the obvious. "Does she think him above all laws?" was the question of those who wished to be more subtle. At least she was a puzzle. All agreed on that. Lady Richard discountenanced all speculation and all questionings. For her part she did her duty, mentioning to Mrs. Baxter that this was what she meant to do and that, whatever happened, she intended to be able, _salvâ conscientiâ_, to tell herself that she had done it; Mrs. Baxter approved, saying that this was what the second Mrs. Greening had done when her husband's sister's daughter, a very emancipated young woman as it seemed, had incomprehensibly flirted with the auctioneer's apprentice and had scouted Mrs. Greening's control; Mrs. Greening had told the girl's mother and sent the girl home, second class, under the care of the guard. Similarly then Lady Richard, without embarking on any consideration of ultimate problems, wrote to May, suggesting that Mr. Quisanté wanted rest and putting Ashwood at her disposal for so long as she and her husband might be pleased to occupy it. "If they don't choose to go, it's not my fault," said Lady Richard with the sigh which declares that every reasonable requirement of conscience has been fulfilled. Happy lady, to be able to repose in this conviction by the simple expedient of lending a house not otherwise required at the moment! So kind are we to our own actions that Lady Richard felt meritorious. They chose to go, and went unaccompanied save by their baby girl and Aunt Maria--this last a strange addition made at Quisanté's own request. He had not been wont to show such a desire for the old lady's society when there was nothing to be gained by seeking it; nor had it seemed to May altogether certain that Miss Quisanté would come. Yet she came with ardent eagerness and her nephew was plainly glad to have her. It took May a little while to understand why, but soon she saw the reason. Aunt Maria was deep in the conspiracy, or the infatuation, or whatever it was to be called; she flattered Quisanté's hope of life, she applauded his defiance of the inevitable; she hung on him more and more, herself forgetting and making him forget the peril of the way he trod. He wanted to be told that he was right, and he wanted an applauding audience. In both ways Aunt Maria satisfied him. She would talk of the present as though it were no more than a passing interruption of a long career, of the future as though it stretched in assured leisure through years of great achievement, of his life and his life's work as though both were in his own hand and subject to nothing save his own will and power. She was to him the readiest echo of the world's wonder and applause, the readiest assurance that his great effort was not going unrecognised. Hence he would have her with him, though there seemed no more love and no more tenderness between them than when in old days they had quarrelled and he had grumbled and she had flung him her money with a bitter jeer. But she lived in him and could think of him only as living, and through her he could cheat himself into an assurance that indeed he could live and work. Then Aunt Maria was very bad for him. That could not be denied, but something more nearly touching herself pressed on May Quisanté. She had seen the Mildmays' painful puzzle; she had listened to Dr. Claud Manton's energetic warning; it was before her, no less than before the patient, that Sir Rufus had washed his hands. She was not ignorant of the questions the world asked. She was not careless, nor was she any longer the dupe of her old delusion that such a man as Quisanté could not die. Her eye for truth had conquered; now she believed that, if he persisted in his rebellion, he must surely die; unless all medical knowledge went for nothing, he would surely die, and die not after long years of lingering, but soon, perhaps very soon. A moment of excitement, say one of the moments that she had loved so much, might kill him; so Claud Manton said. A life of excitement would surely and early do the work. And why was he rebellious? She accused himself, she accused Aunt Maria, she accused the foolishly wondering, foolishly chattering world; and in every accusation there was some justice. Was there enough to acquit the other defendant who stood arraigned? To that she dared not answer "Yes," because of the fear which was in her that the strongest amongst all the various impulses driving him to his defiance was in the end to be found in his relations to her, in the attitude of his own wife towards him. Ashwood was full of associations; there was Duty Hill, where he had risen to his greatest and thereby won her; there was the tree beneath which she had sat with Marchmont on the evening when the knowledge of her husband's worst side had been driven like a sharp knife into her very heart. But more vivid than these memories now was the recollection of that first evening when she had seen him sitting alone, nobody's friend, and had determined to be human towards him and to treat him in a human way. There had been the true beginning of her great experiment. Now she told herself that she had failed in it, had never been human to him, and had never treated him in a human way, had not been what a man's wife should be, had stood always outside, a follower, an admirer, a critic, an accuser, never simply the woman who was his wife. His fault or hers, or that of both--it seemed to matter little. The experiment had been hers; and because she had made it and failed, it seemed to her that he was braving death. Had she been different, perhaps he would not have rebelled and could have lived the quiet life with her. It needed little more to make her tell herself that she drove him to his death, that she was with the enemy, with the chattering world and with poor deluded old Aunt Maria; she was of the conspirators; she egged him on to brave his doom. In darker vein still ran her musings sometimes, when there came over her that haunting self-distrust; the fear that she was juggling with herself, shutting her eyes to the sin of her own heart, and, in spite of all her protestations, was really inspired by a secret hope too black and treacherous to put in words. However passionately she repudiated it, it still cried mockingly, "I am here!" It asked if her prayers for her husband's life were sincere, if her care for him were more than a due paid to decency, if the doom were in truth a thing she dreaded, and not a deliverance which convention alone forbade her openly to desire. Plainly, plainly--did she wish the doom to fall, did she wish him dead, was the rebellion that threatened death the course which the secret craving of her heart urged him to take? To do everything for him was not enough, if the doubt still lurked that her heart was not in the doing. For now she could no more ask coolly what she wished; the thing had come too near; it was odious to have a thought except of saving him by all means and at every cost; it was intolerable not to know at least that no part of the impulse which drove him to his rebellion lay at her door, not to feel at least that she had nothing but dread and horror for the threatened doom. She had no love for him; it came home to her now with a strange new sense of self-condemnation; she had married him for her own pleasure, because he interested her and made life seem dull without him. She pleaded no more that he had killed her love; it had never been there to kill. Had she left him to find a woman who loved him in and for himself, not for his doings, not for the interest of him, that woman might now be winning him by love from the open jaws of death. Yet again laughter, obstinate and irrepressible, shot often in a jarring streak of inharmonious colour across the sombre fabric of her thoughts. He was not only mad, not only splendid--he seemed both to her--he was absurd too at moments, often when he was with Aunt Maria. Letters came in great numbers, from political followers, from women prominent in society, from constituents, from old Foster and Japhet Williams at Henstead, even from puissant Lady Castlefort; they wondered, applauded, implored, flattered, in every key of that sweet instrument called praise. Quisanté read them out, pluming and preening his feathers, strutting about, crowing. He would repeat the passages he liked, asking his wife's approbation; that he must have, it seemed. She gave it with what heartiness she could, and laughed only in her sleeve. Surely a man facing death could have forgotten all this? Not Alexander Quisanté. He could die, and die bravely; but the world must stand by his bedside. So till the end, whenever that most uncertainly dated end might come, the old mixture promised to go on, the great and small, the mean and grand, the call for tears and throbs of the heart alternating with the obstinate curling or curving of lips swift to respond to the vision of the contemptible or the ludicrous. But she had her appeal to make, the one thing, it seemed, she could do to put herself at all in the right, the offer she must make, and try to make with a sincerity which should rise unimpaired from the conflicts of her heart. She had caught at coming to Ashwood because she thought she could make it best there, not indeed in the room where she had lied for him, nor by the tree where she had turned to Marchmont in a pang of wild regret, but there, on Duty Hill, where he had won her, had touched his highest, and had seemed a conqueror. She took him there, climbing with him very slowly, very gently; there she made him sit and sat by him. Again it was a quiet evening, and still the valley stretched below; nothing changed here made all the changes of her life seem half unreal. Here she told him he must live, he must be docile and must live. "You may get strong again, but for the time you must do as the doctors say. You ought to; for the little girl's sake, if for nothing else, you ought to. You know you're risking another seizure now, and you know what that might mean." His eyes were fixed keenly on her, though he lay back motionless in weariness. "You ought to live for your daughter." She paused a minute and added, "And some day we might have a son, and you'd live again in him; we both should; we should feel that we were doing--that you were doing--everything he did. I think your son would be a great man, and I should be proud to be his mother. Isn't the hope of that worth something?" He was silent, watching her closely still. "I know what you think of me," she continued. "You think an active life essential to me, that I can't do without it. God knows I loved all you did, I loved your triumphs, I loved to hear you speak and see them listen. You know I loved all that, loved it too much perhaps. But I'll do without it. I'm your wife, your fate's mine. It'll be the braver thing for you to face it, really; I'm ready to face it with you." Still he would only look at her. "We know what we both are," she went on with a little smile. "We're not Mildmays, you and I. But let's try. I must tell you. I can't bear to think that it's partly at least because of me that you won't try, that if I were a different sort of woman it might be much easier for you to try. If it's that at all, imagine what I should feel if--if anything happened such as the doctors are afraid of." "I've chosen my course. I believe the doctors are all wrong." "Do you really believe that?" she asked quickly. He shrugged his shoulders, seeming to say that he would not discuss it. "A great many considerations influence me," he said with a touch of pompousness. "Am I one of them?" she persisted. "Because I don't want to be. I'm ready to share your life, whatever it is." "Are you?" he asked, with something of the same malicious smile that he was wont to bestow on Aunt Maria. "Do you think you could share my life? Do you think you have?" "I know what you mean," she said, flushing a little. "I daresay I've been hard and--and didn't take the pains to understand, and was uncharitable perhaps. Anyhow there'll be no opportunity for any more--any more misunderstandings of that sort." "No; the understanding's clear enough now," said he. She looked at him almost despairingly; he seemed so strangely hostile, so bitterly sensitive to her judgment of him. "You think me," he went on, with his persistent eyes unwaveringly set on her, "a not over-honest mountebank; that's what you and your friends think me." "Oh, I wish I'd never tried to talk to you about it!" she cried. "You take hold of some hasty mood or look of mine and treat it as if it were everything. You know it isn't." "It's there, though." "It never need be, never, never." "You'll forget it all when we're settled down at--where was it?--Torquay or somewhere--in our villa, like two old tabby-cats sitting in the sun? No time to think it all over then? No, only all the hours of every day!" He paused and then added in a low hard voice, "I'm damned if I'll do it. I may have to die, but I'll die standing." His eyes gleamed now, and for the first time they turned from her and roamed over the prospect that lay below Duty Hill. But they were back on her face soon. "No, no," she implored. "Not because of me, for heaven's sake, not because of me!" "Because of it all. Yes, and because of you too. You don't love me, you never have." He leant towards her. "But I love you," he said, "yes, as I loved you when I asked you to be my wife on this hill where we are. Then don't you understand? I won't go and live that old cat's life with you." He laid his hand on hers. "Your eyes shall still sparkle for me, your breath shall still come quick for me, your heart beat for me; or I'll have no more of it at all." The touch of rhetoric, so characteristic of him, so unlike anything that Marchmont or Dick Benyon would have used in such a case, did not displease her then. And it hit the truth as his penetration was wont to hit it. That was what he wanted, that was what she could and should and must give, or he would have nothing from her. Here was the truth; but the truth was what she had struggled so hard to deny and feared so terribly to find true. He was not indeed led by a sense of obligation towards her; the need was for himself. It was not that he felt in her a right to call on him for exertions or for a performance of his side of the bargain; it was that he could not bear to lose his tribute from her. But still she stood self-condemned. Again the thought came--with a woman who loved him there might have been another tribute that she could have paid and he been content to levy. He would have believed such a woman if she told him that he would be as much to her, and she as much absorbed in him, in the villa at Torquay as ever in the great world; and perhaps--oh, only perhaps, it is true--he would have made shift with that and fed his appetite on the homage of one, since his wretched body denied him the rows on rows of applauding spectators that he loved. But from his wife's lips he would not accept any such assurance, and from her no such homage could be hoped for to solace him. Then the strange creature began to talk to her, not of what he had done, nor even of what he had hoped to do, but of what he meant and was going to do; how he would grow greater and richer, of schemes in politics and in business, of the fervour and devotion of the fighting men behind him and how they were sick of the old gang and would have no leader but Alexander Quisanté; of the prosperity of the Alethea, how the shares rose, how big orders came in, how utterly poor old Maturin had blundered. He spoke like a strong man with a wealth of years and store-houses of force, who sees life stretched long before him, material to be shaped by his hand and forced into what he will make it. He talked low and fast, his eyes again roaming over the prospect; the evening fell while he still talked. Almost it seemed then that the doctors were wrong, that his courage was no folly, that indeed he would not die. O for the faith to believe that! For his spell was on her again now, and now she would not have him die. Once again he had his desire; once more her heart beat and her eyes gleamed for him. But then it came on her, with a sudden fierce light of conviction, that all this was hollow, useless, vain, that the sentence was written and the doom pronounced. No pleading however eloquent could alter it. Quisanté was stopped in mid-career by a short sharp sob that escaped from his wife's lips. He turned and looked at her, breaking off the sentence that he had begun. She met his glance with a frightened look in her eyes. "What's the matter?" he asked slowly, rather resentfully. "Nothing, nothing," she stammered. "I--I was excited by what you were saying." She tried to laugh. "I'm emotional, you know, and you can always rouse my emotions." "Was it that?" For a moment longer he sat upright, looking hard at her; then his body relaxed, and he lay back, his lower lip dropping and his eyes half closed. An expression of great weariness and despair came over him. He had read the meaning of her sob; and now he hid his face in his hands. His pretences failed him, and he was assailed by the bitterness of truth and of death. She rose, saying, "It's late, we must go in; you'll be over-tired." After an instant Quisanté rose slowly and falteringly; he laid his arm in hers, and they stood side by side, gazing down into the valley. This hill had come to mean much in their lives, and somehow now they seemed to be saying good-bye to it. "I could never forget this hill," she said, "any more than I could forget you. You told me just now that I didn't love you. Well, as you mean it, perhaps not. But you've been almost everything in the world to me. Everything in the world isn't all good, but it's--everything." She turned to him suddenly and kissed him on the cheek. "Lean on me as we go down the hill," she said. There was pity and tenderness in the words and the tone. But Quisanté drew his arm sharply away and braced his body to uprightness. "I'm not tired. I can go quite well by myself. You look more tired than I do," he said. "Come, we shall be late," and he set off down the hill at a brisk pace. Her appeal then had failed; this last little incident told her that with unpitying plainness. If he had yielded for a moment before the face of reality, he soon recovered himself, turned away from the sight, and went back to his masquerading. She lacked the power to lead him from it, and again she feared that she lacked the power because her will was not sincere and single. Now they must go on to that uncertain end, he playing his part before the world, before her and Aunt Maria, she looking on, sometimes in admiration, sometimes in contempt, always in fear of the moment when the actor's speeches would be suddenly cut short and the curtain, falling on the interrupted scene, hide him for ever from the audience whom he had made wondering applauding partners in his counterfeit. The last of his life was to be like the rest of it, with the same elements of tragedy and of farce, of what attracted and of what revolted, of the great and the little. It was to be like in another way too; it was to be lived alone, without any true companion for his soul, without the love that he had not asked except of one, and, asking of that one, had not obtained. As the days went on, the fascination of the spectacle she watched grew on her; it was more poignant now than in the former time, and it filled all her life. Thus in some sort Alexander Quisanté had his way; his hold on her was not relaxed, his dominion over her not abrogated, to the end of his life he would be what she told him he had been--almost everything. When the end came, what would he be? The question crossed her thoughts, but found no answer; some day it would fall to be answered. Now she could only watch and wait, half persuaded that the pretence was no pretence, yet always dreading the summons of reality to end the play. So the world asked in vain what May Quisanté was thinking of, whether she wanted to kill him, or whether she thought him above all laws. A puzzle to the world and a puzzle to her friends, she waited for the falling of the blow which Quisanté daily challenged. Sir Rufus Beaming met Dr. Claud Manton at the Athenaeum and showed him a newspaper paragraph. "To address a great meeting at Henstead!" said Manton, raising his brows and shaping his lips for a whistle. "'From his own and neighbouring constituencies.'" "He might just as well take chloroform comfortably by his fireside," said Sir Rufus. "It would be a little quicker, perhaps, but not a bit more sure." And again they washed their hands of the whole affair very solemnly. CHAPTER XIX. DEATH DEFIED. Constantine Blair, no less active and soon little less serene in opposition than in power, felt himself more than justified in all that he had ever said about Weston Marchmont when he received an intimation of Marchmont's intention to apply for the Chiltern Hundreds. Yet he was aghast at this voluntary retirement into the wilderness of private life, a life without bustle, without gossip, without that sense of being intimate with the march of affairs and behind the scenes of the national theatre. There were reasons assigned, of course. One was that Marchmont found himself ("I'll bet he does!" groaned Constantine with anticipatory resignation) more in agreement with the other side than with his own on an important question of foreign politics then to the front. But this state of matters had ceased to be unusual with him and hardly in itself accounted for the step he was now taking. The care of his estate was the second reason, properly dismissed as plainly frivolous. In the end of the letter more sincerity peeped out, as the writer lapsed from formality into friendship. "I know I shall surprise many people and grieve some, but I'm sick of the thing. I can't endure the perpetual haggling between what I ought to do and what I'm expected to do; the compromises that result satisfy me as little as anybody. In fine, my dear Constantine, I'm going back to my pictures, my books, my hills, and my friends." Constantine read with a genuine sorrow and criticised with a contemptuous sniff. Pictures, books--and hills! Hills! It was insulting his intelligence. And though friends were all very well, yet where was the use of them if a man deprived himself of all the sources of entertaining conversation? But there was nothing to be done--except to tell Lady Castlefort a day before the rest of the world knew. Constantine held her favour on that tenure. She showed no surprise. "A loss to the country, but not to us," she said. "Just what I think," agreed Constantine, with a revival of cheerfulness. "If I hadn't known him since he was so high, I'd wish he had the what-do-you-call-it seizures instead of the other man." "But Quisanté's not going, he means to hold on," said Constantine. "I'm glad of it. Henstead's very shaky. But we shall hold Marchmont's seat all right. We're going to put up Dick Benyon." "He's safe enough, he won't worry you," said Lady Castlefort. "You'll have to fight Henstead before long, all the same. The man'll die, you know." "Think so?" asked Constantine uneasily. "And he will be a loss--a loss to us, whatever one may think about the country." Constantine looked troubled. "Oh, it's not your business to think about the country--or mine either, thank goodness," she added rather irritably. She was more distressed about Weston Marchmont than she chose to tell; and it was impossible not to be annoyed at the perversity. Of the two men whom she had singled out for greatness one might go on but would not, the other asked nothing but to be allowed to go on, and found refusal at the hands of fate. There was another thing in her thoughts too. She had a strong belief in hostesses, natural to her, perhaps not unreasonable. In either of two events she had foreseen an ideal hostess for the party in the woman she still thought of as May Gaston. There was no need to detail the two events; suffice it to say that, whichever of them now happened, it appeared that May Gaston would not be able to figure as a great hostess; at least there would have to rise for her some star not yet visible in the heavens. Marchmont and May had neither met nor written to one another since their talk under the tree at Ashwood. He had not doubted that she would understand silence and like silence best; from him any word seemed impossible. But on the day when his determination was made public he received a summons from her and at once obeyed it. He found her alone, though she told him that she expected Quisanté back from the City in a little while. "He wants to see you," she said. "I don't know why, unless it's just as a curiosity." She smiled for a moment. "I'm sorry you find you can't stand it," she went on. "You understand? You've been in that state of mind or pretty near it, I know." "Yes, pretty near at times, but I'm not as honest as you. I may see all you see, but I should always go on." She glanced at him. "I'm more like my husband than I'm like you," she ended. "I don't believe that," he said gravely. "I know you don't, but it's true. I daresay you never will understand it, because of the other May Gaston you've made for yourself. But it's true. And you know what he is. He's ready to give body and soul--Oh, I'm not just using a phrase--body and soul to keep the things that you've given up for your hills. How scornful your hills made Constantine Blair!" "Are you importing metaphorical meanings into my hills?" he asked, sitting down near her. "Yes," she answered. "Mr. Blair didn't, but I do." "Perhaps it was rather a silly thing to say." "No, I don't think so." "I mean to Constantine." "Oh, well then, perhaps it was," she admitted, smiling. "But that's all consistent, isn't it? You couldn't trim your sails to suit the breeze even in a letter like that." "Are you rebuking me? Are you contemptuous? What are you?" He leant back and looked at her, smiling. "If my husband would do what you've done, he might live," she said. Marchmont nodded gravely; it was easy to see the odd way in which his action fitted into the drama of her life. "But we've no hills," she went on. "You leave London--all London means--to wander on hills, high glorious hills; he'd leave it for a villa, a small villa at a seaside place." "Metaphors again?" "It comes easier to talk in them sometimes. And I--I'm of my husband's way of thinking." "I don't believe it," he said again, but looking at her now with a little touch of doubt. "You'll never come back, will you?" she asked. "Never," said he with a quiet certainty. She rose with a restless sigh and walked to the fireplace. "I couldn't," he went on. "I'm not fit for it; that's the end of the matter. Use your own term of abuse. I shall hear plenty of them." "I don't want to abuse you," she said. She walked quickly over to him, gave him her hand for a moment, and then returned to her place. "But it makes me feel rather strange to you." She looked full at him with a plain distress in her eyes, and her voice shook a little. "I'm coming to feel more strange towards you," she went on. "I thought we had got nearer at Ashwood, we did for the moment. But now I'm farther off again." "I would have you always very near," he said in low tones, his eyes saying more than his lips. "I know. And perhaps you've had thoughts----" She paused before she added, "Alexander's quite set on his course, nothing will stop him--except the thing that I expect to stop him. You know what I mean?" Marchmont nodded again. "And he's doing it a good deal because of me. I wonder if you understand that?" "I don't know that I do." "No; he knows more of me than you do." She became silent, and he, watching her, was silent too. What was this strangeness of which she spoke? He felt it too but without understanding it. It caused in him a vague discomfort, an apprehension that some obstacle was between them, something more than any external hindrance, a thing which might perhaps remain though all external hindrance were removed. Her last words both puzzled and wounded him with their implication of a deeper sympathy between Quisanté and herself than existed or could exist between her and him. That he did not understand, and could not without giving up his own idea of her, the May Gaston which, as she said, he had made for himself. Was his image gone indeed? Had Alexander Quisanté's chisel altered the features beyond recognition and till true identity was gone? Yet Alexander Quisanté was the man who had put on her the shame for which she had sobbed under the tree on that evening at Ashwood. Before such a seeming contradiction his penetration stood baffled. She had said then that her present life would, she supposed, go on right to the end, and had said it as though the prospect were unendurable; now a new and to him unnatural resignation seemed to have come upon her, just when her present life had shown that it was not likely to go on right to the end. "I've prayed my husband to give up," she said, "I don't beg you not to give up. To begin with, you wouldn't listen to me any more than he did. And then, I suppose, you're right for yourself." "You're about the only person who'll say so." "I daresay. I've learnt about you in learning about myself. And I can feel it just as you do--Oh, how intolerably strongly sometimes!" She added with a smile, "We've only just missed suiting one another," and then, "Yes, but we have missed, you know." "I don't believe it," he persisted, struggling to throw off the new doubt she was thrusting into his mind. His thought was that, once she got free of her husband, she would indeed be his. That he must hold to. It was Quisanté, not she herself, who made her now feel strange to him; and Quisanté's spell was not to last; her quiet certitude that her husband's days were numbered carried conviction to him also. "But I won't talk any more about it now," he said. "No, it seems inhuman," she agreed. "I spend all my days cheating myself into a hope that he'll get better. I know you don't like him, but if you lived with him as I do, you'd come to hope as I do. Yes, in spite of all you know about us; and you know more than anybody alive. I've not been so--so disloyal--to anybody else." She smiled as she quoted the word against him. "One must admire him," said Marchmont. May Quisanté laughed at his tone almost scornfully. "The way you say that shows how little you understand," she exclaimed. "It's not a bit like that." She took a step nearer to him. "When it comes," she said slowly, "I shan't shed a single tear, but I shall feel that my life's over. He'll have had it all." "God forbid you should feel anything like that," he said, looking up at her. She laughed again, asking bitterly, "Does God forbid what Alexander wants--except one thing? And what I tell you is what he would want. He would want to have had it all." He raised his hand in protest. "You're right; we won't talk any more," she said. "But don't think that it's all only because I'm overwrought, or something feminine of that kind. It's the truth. When it comes, Aunt Maria'll die and I shall live; but the difference won't be as great as it sounds." This time he was about to speak, but she stopped him, saying, "No, no more now. Tell me about Dick Benyon. He's to have your seat, isn't he?" "Yes, I'm gathered to my fathers, and Dick reigns in my stead." "You're sorry?" she asked, forgetting Dick and coming back again to the man before her. "Yes; but I accept the inevitable and contrive to be quite cheerful about it." "We don't do either of those things. Hark, I hear my husband's step." Quisanté ran quickly up the stairs and burst into the room. His face was alight with animation, and before greeting Marchmont he cried, "I've carried it, I've brought them round. We attack all along the line, and I open the ball at Henstead next week! They'll be out in six months, and I shall----" Suddenly he paused. "They'll be out in six months," he said again. Marchmont rose and shook hands, "It doesn't matter to me now if they are," he said, laughing. "Blair's troubles and mine are both over now." "I know," nodded Quisanté. "Well, I suppose you know best. But hasn't May been trying to convert you?" "No, I haven't tried to convert him," she said. "I'm not going to try to convert people any more." After this she fell into silence, listening and watching while the two men talked. Talk between them could never be intimate and could hardly be even easy, but they interested one another to-day. On Quisanté's face especially there was a look of searching, of wonder, of a kind of protest. Once he flung himself back and stared at his guest with a fixity of gaze painful to see. But he said nothing of what was passing in his mind. At last Marchmont turned to May again. "I shall hear of you at Henstead," he said. "I'm going to pay the Mildmays a visit. I suppose, as you're on the war-path, you won't come over?" "I might," she said, "if we were there long enough. I expect Alexander mustn't. Friendship with the enemy is not always appreciated." "Oh, I might go," Quisanté remarked. "The Alethea's an admirable excuse." He spoke with a laugh but then, glancing at his wife, saw her face flush. He turned to Marchmont and found him rising to his feet. Much puzzled, Quisanté looked again from one to the other, noting the sudden constraint that had fallen on them. What had he said? What was there in the mention of the Alethea to disturb a conversation so harmonious? That there was something his quick wit told him in a moment. While Marchmont said good-bye to May he stood by, frowning a little, and then escorted his guest downstairs. While he was away his wife stood quite still in the middle of the room, a little flushed and breathing rather quickly. Quisanté came back, sat down, and took up a newspaper. May sat in her usual chair, doing nothing. Presently he asked, "Did I say anything wrong?" "No. But I'd rather you didn't talk about the Alethea when Mr. Marchmont is with us." He looked up in, surprise. "It embarrasses me--and him too." "Embarrasses you? Why should it?" "There's no use in my telling you." "I can't see why it should embarrass you. Pray tell me." She sat silent for a moment or two. "It's no good," she said, looking over to him with a forlorn smile. He moved his hand impatiently. "Very well. At dinner at Ashwood, on the night you were taken ill, somebody talked about the Alethea and said Professor Maturin had told him there was a fatal defect in it. He hadn't seen the prospectus. And I----" She paused a moment. "I had to back up your version." Again she broke off for a moment. "And after dinner Mr. Marchmont talked to me; and I cried about it. So, you see, references are embarrassing." After a pause of a minute or two Quisanté said, "Cried about it? About what?" She raised her eyes, looked at him a moment, and said simply, "About having to tell a lie to them." And she added with a sudden quiver in her voice, "I've known them all my life." "Maturin was quite wrong. There's absolutely no doubt about that now." "Was he?" she asked listlessly. "What did you say?" "That he'd expressed a favourable opinion about it to you. I kept to the prospectus. Oh, there's no use talking. It's only with Mr. Marchmont that it matters. I can't keep it up before him, because he found me crying, you know." "Crying!" murmured Quisanté. "Crying!" She nodded at him, with the same faint smile on her lips. The silence seemed very long as she looked at him and he gazed straight before him, the forgotten paper falling with a rustle from his knees on to the floor. "You never told me," he said at last. "Why should I? What was the good of telling you?" "It was on the night of my--when I was taken ill?" "Yes. The telegram came later in the evening. Don't bother about it now, Alexander." "Did you hope it meant I was dead?" For a moment she sat still; then she sprang up, ran across the room, and fell on her knees before him, grasping his arms in her hands. "No, no, no, I didn't. Indeed, indeed, I didn't." He sat still in her clasp, looking intently in her face. His was hard and sneering. "Yes, you did. You wished me dead. By God, you wish me dead now. Well, you can wait a little. I shall be dead soon." With a sudden rough movement he freed himself from her hands and pushed her away. "I suppose wives often wish their husbands dead, but they don't tell them so quite so plainly." "It's not true, I've never told you so." "Oh, I'm not a fool. I don't need to have it spelt out for me in syllables." She rose slowly to her feet, and, turning, went back to her own chair. Quisanté sat where he was, quite motionless. She could not endure to look at him and, rising, went and stood by the window, looking out on the river she loved. This moment was in strange contrast with their talk on Duty Hill; the two together summed up her married life and the nature of the man she had married. But it was not true that she wished him dead; not true now, at all events, even though the charge he brought against her of its having been so once might have some truth in it. For if ever that thought had crept into her mind as a dreaded shameful wish, it was when she seemed able to look forward to a new life. It seemed to her now that no new life was possible; that impression had grown and grown while she talked with Weston Marchmont, and it pressed upon her now with the weight of conviction. She heard her husband get up and go out of the room; his steps sounded going upstairs, in the direction of his study. She went and drew the chair up to the hearthrug, and sat down, resting her elbows on the arms and holding her head between her hands. It was very wanton that a chance allusion of his should have brought about this scene between them. Perhaps she could have put him off with excuses, but that had not occurred to her. The scene had told her nothing new, but it had torn away the last of the veil from before his eyes. He had known that she disapproved, he had even braved her disapproval when he could not hoodwink or evade it. It was a little strange that he should be moved to such a transport of bitterness by hearing that she had cried over telling a lie for him. Yet that was it; she was sure that he had not cared whether Marchmont saw her crying or not. The tears themselves made him think that she had wished him dead, yes, that she still wished him dead. He must not die thinking that. She started across the room towards the door, at a quick step; it was in her mind to follow him and tell him again that it was not true, that he would ruin and empty her life if he died, that there was no man in the world who could be what he was to her. But her impulse failed her; he would sneer again. There was one thing that would drive away his sneer if she said it and got him to believe it--that she loved him as he loved her. Well, she couldn't tell him that, and he would not believe her if she did. She stopped and returned to her chair. She leant back now, resting her head on the cushion. The afternoon grew old, and a gleam of sinking sun, escaping from the grey red-edged clouds that hung over the river, troubled her eyes; she closed them and reclined in stillness. She felt very tired, worn out with the stress of it, with the conflict and the strain. Strange notions, half fancies, half dreams, began to flit through her mind. She saw the end come in many ways, now while they were alone together, now in some public place, even in the House, or while he addressed his shareholders. She seemed to hear the buzz of talk that followed the event, the wonder at him, the blame of her; she saw poor old Aunt Maria's trembling hands and hopeless face. Presently, as she fell into an unquiet drowsiness, she seemed to see even beyond the end, as though the end were no end and he were with her still, his spirit being about her, enveloping her, still wrapping her round so that the rest of the world was kept away and she was still with him, though she could not see him nor hear his voice. For her alone he existed now. Soon the rest who had wondered and praised and blamed and gossipped forgot about him; they had no more attention to give him, no more flattery, no more allegiance. For them he had ceased to exist. Only for her he went on existing still, nay, it seemed that it was through her that he clung to the life he had loved, and was even now not dead because he lived in and through her. And sometimes--she shivered in her broken sleep, for she had not the love which would have made the dream all joy--he became more than a spirit or an impalpable presence; he was again almost corporeal, almost to be felt and touched, almost a living man. Shrinking and fearing, yet she was glad; she welcomed his exemption from the grave and abetted him in his rebellion against death; and for her that restless spirit almost clothed itself again in flesh. She sat up with a great start and a low cry. Her hand had been hanging over the arm of the chair, it had grown cold; now it was held in another cold hand, and it was raised. Awake but thinking she still dreamed, she waited in mingled fear and anticipation. Cold lips pressed her hand. She dreamed then, and in her dream he came from the grave to kiss her hand. He came not only back to the world where he had triumphed, he came also to the woman he had loved, who had not loved him. Again the kiss came cold on her hand. She fell back with a sudden sob, not knowing whether terror or repulsion or joy, held greater, sway in her. The kisses covered her hand. Ah, the marvel! They grew living, they were warm now and passionate. This was not a dead man's kiss. With a second cry she turned her head. Quisanté himself knelt by her, kissing her hand. His eyes rose to hers, and she cried, "It is you! You're not dead! Thank God, thank God!" His eyes were gleaming in the strong excitement of his heart; he knew how he had found her. "No, not dead, not dead yet," he said. "But by heaven, when I am dead, I won't leave you. I can't leave you. As I kiss your hand now, so will I kiss it always, and with my soul I will worship you. But neither now nor then will I kiss your lips." "You won't kiss my lips?" "No. They have lied for me; I won't stain them any more." For a moment she looked at him. Then she caught her hand away and flung her arms round his neck. She kissed him on his lips, crying, "For good or evil, for good or evil, but always, always, always!" Then she drew away, and, with her arms still round his neck, she broke into her low laugh: "Oh, but how like you to make that little speech about my lips!" CHAPTER XX. THE QUIET LIFE TO-MORROW. Old Miss Quisanté was not as sympathetic as might have been wished. She acquiesced indeed (as who would not?) in the new programme of at least a year's complete rest; she offered to find funds--happily it was not necessary, since the sale of some Alethea shares at a handsome premium supplied them; she admitted that May had done her duty in persuading her husband to yield a limited obedience to his doctors' orders. But she looked disappointed, uninterested, dull; she awoke only for a sparkle of malice, when she remarked how happy they would be together in the country, with nothing to disturb them, nothing but just their two selves. "Not as unhappy as you think," said May, smiling. "All nonsense, I call it," pursued the old lady. "Sandro knew best; now you've put notions into his head. Oh, I daresay you were bound to, my dear." "How can you be so blind?" murmured May. Aunt Maria shook her head derisively; she was not blind, it was the wife and the doctors who were blind. "You're not to say that sort of thing to Alexander," May went on imperiously. Aunt Maria put her head on one side and smiled sardonically. "You used to agree with me," she said. "Has the Mildmay woman been here again?" "No; she's at home. We shall see her perhaps at Henstead." "Henstead! What are you going there for?" "And you said you knew Alexander!" laughed May. "You don't suppose he's going into retirement without a display of fireworks? The Henstead speech is to be made. Then we put up the shutters--for a year at least, as I say." "That's something. Is he interested in it?" "Oh, yes, working all day. But he's wonderfully well. I've never seen him better." She hesitated and laughed a little. "How shall we ever stick to our year?" she asked. "He means it now and I mean it. But----" "You won't do it," said Aunt Maria emphatically. "Nobody could keep Sandro quiet for a year!" "Don't tell me that. We're going to try." "Oh, I won't interfere, my dear. Try away. After all he'll be young still, and they won't forget him in a year. Or if they do, he'll soon make them remember him again." The buoyant confidence was hard to resist. It seemed to grow greater in face of all reason, and more and more to fill the old woman's mind as she herself descended towards the grave which she scorned as a possibility for Sandro. For now she was very small and frail, thin and yellow; she too, like her nephew, seemed to hold on to life rather because she chose of her arbitrary will, than thanks to any physical justification that she could adduce. Could Quisanté not only make himself live but make Aunt Maria live too? Full of the influence of that last great moment, May, laughing at herself, yet hesitated to answer "No." But the year was to be tried, lest, if die he must, he should die to please her or thinking that she wanted him to die. He did not think now that she wanted that; she was happier with him than she had ever been before. She had found a new indulgence for him, even for what she had hated in him. Justice would have turned to harshness, clearness of vision to a Pharisaic strictness, had she not found indulgence for the man who had crept back to kiss her hand. She was very indulgent towards him, and he seemed happy, save that now and then he looked at her wistfully, and began to fall into the way of reminding her of past occasions when he had shone and she admired, asking whether she remembered this and that. He dropped hints too that the Henstead speech was to be memorable. She was a little afraid that already he was feeling indulgence insufficient and mere kindness, or indeed mere affection, not the great thing that he asked of her, just as peace and quiet, or pictures, books, and hills, were not the things that he asked of life. If this were so, the compromise she had brought him to consent to was precarious; it was, as she had hinted to Aunt Maria, doubtful whether they could stick to their year. There was another question in her mind, not less persistent, not less troubling. Perhaps the greater harmony between them, which had induced and enabled her to obtain that consent from him, was as precarious as the compromise itself; it too was liable to be overthrown by a return of Quisanté's old self, or at least of that side of him which was for the time hidden. The temptation to work would overthrow the compromise, the temptation to win might again produce action in him and impose action on her which would bring death to their newly-achieved harmony, even as exertion would to his worn-out body. The great speech, the last speech, was to be on Wednesday. They arrived in Henstead on Tuesday morning and were plunged at once into a turmoil of business. There was a luncheon, a deputation, a meeting of the party association; Japhet Williams had half a dozen difficulties, and old Foster as many bits of shrewd counsel. Over all and through all was the air of congratulation, of relief from the fear of losing Quisanté, of enthusiastic applause for his magnificently courageous struggle against illness and its triumphant issue. When May hinted at a period of rest--the full extent of it was not disclosed--Foster nodded tolerantly, Japhet said times were critical, and the rest declared that they would not flog a willing horse, but knew that Mr. Quisanté would do his duty. Unquestionably Henstead's effect was bad, both for the compromise and for Quisanté. Minute by minute May saw how the old fascination grew on him, how more and more he forgot that this was to be the last effort, that it was an end, not a beginning. He gave pledges of action, he would not positively decline engagements, he talked as though he would be in his place in Parliament throughout the session. While doing all this he avoided meeting her eye; he would have found nothing worse than pity touched with amusement. But he kept declaring to her, when they had a chance of being alone, that he was loyal to their compact. "Though it's pretty hard," he added with a renewal of his bitterness against the fate that constrained him. "We ought never to have come," she said. "It makes it worse. I wish we hadn't." "Wait till you've heard me to-morrow night," he whispered, pressing her hand and looking into her eyes with the glee of anticipated triumph. He was going to make a great speech, she knew that very well; there were all the signs about him, the glee, the pride, the occasional absence of mind, the frequent appeal for sympathy, the need of a confidence to answer and confirm his own. Such a mood, in spite of its element of childishness, was yet a good one with him. It raised him above pettiness and made him impatient of old Foster's cunning little devices for capturing an enemy or confirming the allegiance of a doubtful friend. He had for the time forgotten himself in his work, the position in what he meant to do with it; he would have delivered that speech now if the price had been the loss of his seat; whatever the price was, that speech now would have its way, all of it, whole and unimpaired, even the passage on which Foster was consulted with the result that its suppression was declared imperative in view of Japhet Williams' feelings. "Damn Japhet Williams," said Quisanté with a laugh, and Quisanté's wife found herself wishing that he would "damn" a few more men and things. It was just the habit that he wanted, just the thing that Marchmont and Dick Benyon and men like them had. Oh, if he could win and keep it! "He must consider local feeling," said old Foster, pinching a fat chin in fear and doubt. "No, he needn't, no, he needn't now," she cried. "He'll carry it with him, whatever he does now. Don't you see? He can take them all with him now. Wait till you've heard him to-morrow night!" Here was happiness for her and for him, but where else? Not in the compromise, not in the year of quiet. It seemed to be for this that they had come together, in this that they could help one another, feel with one another, be really at one. And this could not be. The tears stood in May Quisanté's eyes as she turned away from the pleasant shrewd old schemer; his picture should stand no more on the mantelpiece. But now it seemed again strange and incredible that this, the great career, could not be; Aunt Maria's was the creed for a time like this. The great night came, and a great crowd in the Corn Exchange. Old Foster was in the chair and the place seemed full of familiar faces; the butcher who was troubled about slaughter-houses sat side by side with the man who was uneasy about his deceased wife's sister; Japhet Williams was on the platform and his men sat in close ranks at the back of the hall, they and Dunn's contingent hard-by smoking their pipes as the custom was at Henstead. There were other faces, not so usual; for far away, in a purposely chosen obscurity, May saw Weston Marchmont and the Dean of St. Neot's. The Mildmays themselves could not be present, but these two had come over from Moors End and sat there now, the Dean beaming in anticipation of a treat, Marchmont with a rather supercilious smile and an air of weariness. May could not catch their eyes but she felt glad to have them there; it was always pleasant to her that her friends should see Quisanté when he was at his best, and he was going to be at his best to-night. "We are rejoiced to welcome our Member back among us in good health and strength again," old Foster began, quite in the Aunt Maria style, and he went on to describe the grief caused by Quisanté's illness and the joy now felt at the prospect of his being able to render services to his Queen, his country, and his constituency no less long than valuable and brilliant. Quisanté listened with a smile, gently tapping the table with his fingers. May turned from him to seek again her friends' faces in the hall; this time she met their gaze; they were both looking at her with pitying eyes; the instant they saw her glance, they avoided it. What did that mean? It meant that they were not of Aunt Maria's party. The kindly compassionate look of those two men went to her heart; it brought back reality and pierced through the pretence, the grand pretence, which everybody, herself included, had been weaving. An impulse of fear laid hold of her; involuntarily she put out her hand towards Foster who had just finished his speech and was sitting down. She meant to tell him to stop the meeting, to send the people home, to help her to persuade Quisanté to go back to the hotel and not to speak. Foster looked round to see what she wanted, but at the moment Quisanté was already on his feet. "It's nothing," May whispered, withdrawing her hand. It was too late now, the thing must go forward now, whatever the end of it might be, whatever the friendly pity of those eyes might seem to say. To-morrow quiet would begin; but she had a new, strange, intense terror of to-night. This feeling lasted through the early part of Quisanté's speech, when he was still in a quiet vein and showed some signs of physical weakness. But as he went on it vanished and in its place came the old faith and the old illusion. For he gathered force, he put out his strength, he exhaled vitality. Again she sought her friends' faces and marked with joy and triumph that their eyes were now set on the speaker and their attention held firmly, as the fine resonant voice filled the building and seemed to resent the confinement of its walls, or even more when a whisper, heard only by a miracle as she thought, thrilled even the most distant listener. The speech was being all that it had been going to be, his confidence and hers were to be justified. The pronouncement that the country waited for was coming, the fighting men were to get the lead they wanted, the attack was sounded, the battle was being opened to the sound of a trumpet-call. May leant forward, listening. A period reached its close, and applause delayed the beginning of the next. Quisanté glanced round and saw his wife; their eyes met; a slow smile came on his lips, a smile of great delight. Once more her heart beat and her eyes gleamed for him, once more she would be no man's if she could not be his. His air was gay and his face joyful as, the next minute, he threw himself into a flood of eloquence where indignation mingled with ridicule; he made men doubt whether they must laugh or fight. Now he had all that he desired, men hung on his words, and she sat by, and saw, and felt, and shared. At the next pause, when the cheering again imposed a momentary silence, the Dean turned to Marchmont, raising his hands and dropping them again. "Yes, he can do it," said Marchmont in a curious tone; envy and scorn and admiration all seemed to find expression. "Look at her!" whispered the Dean, but this time Marchmont made no answer. He had been looking at her, and knew now why she had tied her life to Alexander Quisanté's. "If I could do it like that I couldn't stop doing it," said the Dean. "He never will as long as he lives," answered Marchmont with a shrug of his shoulders. "But he won't live?" whispered the Dean. "You mean that?" The applause ended; there was no need for Marchmont to answer, even if he could have found an answer. Quisanté took up his work again. He was near the end now, an hour and a quarter had passed. May's eyes never left him; he was going to get through, she thought, and she had no thought now of the compromise or the year of quiet, no thought except of his triumph that to-morrow would ring through the land. He paused an instant, whether in faltering or for effect she could not tell, and then began his peroration. It was short, but he gave every word slowly, apart, as it were in a place of its own, in the sure and superb confidence that every word had its own office, its own weight, and its own effect. But before he ended there came one interruption. Suddenly, as though moved by an impulse foreign to himself, old Foster pushed back his chair and rose to his feet; after an instant the whole audience imitated him. Quisanté paused and looked round; again he smiled; then, taking a step forward to clear himself of those who surrounded him, he went on. Thus he ended his speech, he standing, to men and women one and all standing about and before him. "I never saw such a thing," whispered the Dean of St. Neot's. But his words were lost in the cheers, and Weston Marchmont's "Bravo" rang out so loud that May Quisanté heard it on the platform and bent forward to kiss her hand to him. In the tea-room, to which all the important persons withdrew after the meeting, festivity reigned. Quisanté was surrounded by admirers, busy listening to compliments and congratulations, and receiving the advice of the local wise men. May did not attempt to get near him, but surrendered herself to a like process. Old Foster came up to her and shook hands, saying, "I'm proud to have had a hand in making Mr. Quisanté member for Henstead. You were right too; he can say what he likes now." Then came Japhet Williams' thin voice. "I hope it won't be many days before Mr. Quisanté tells the House of Commons what he's told us to-night." Should she say that he would not tell anything to the House of Commons for many days, probably not ever, that his voice would not be heard there? They would not believe her, she hardly would believe herself. In that hour illness and retirement seemed dim and distant, unreal and a little ludicrous. She abandoned herself to the temptation pressed upon her and talked as though her husband were to lead all through the campaign that he had opened. "I never saw him looking better in my life," said Foster. As he spoke a short thick-set man with grey hair pushed by him. Old Foster caught him by the wrist, crying with a laugh, "Why, Doctor, what are you doing here? You're one of the enemy!" "I came to hear the speech." "A good'un, eh?" "Never mind the speech. Take me over to Mr. Quisanté--now, directly." "What for?" "He must go home." "Go home? Nonsense. He's all right." Dr. Tillman wrenched his hand away, shook his head scornfully, and started across the room toward where Quisanté was. May laid her hand on old Foster's arm. "What did he say? Does he think my husband ill?" "I don't know. It's all nonsense." Another voice broke in. "A triumph, Lady May, a triumph indeed!" She turned to find the Dean and Marchmont close behind her, and the Dean holding out his hand as he spoke. "Yes, yes," she said hurriedly and uncomfortably. "It was fine, wasn't it?" "It was magnificent," said Marchmont. "Thanks, thanks." Her tone was still hurried, absent, ungracious. The two looked at her in surprise. Where was the radiance of triumph that had lit up her face as she signalled to them from the platform? They had expected to find her full of the speech and had been prepared to give her joy by the warmth and sincerity of their praise. "What's the matter?" whispered Marchmont. "Do you see that short man, the one with grey hair, trying to get near Alexander It's the doctor--Dr. Tillman. He can't get near Alexander." "What does he want?" "I don't know. He thinks he ought to go home. He thinks--Ah, now he's getting to him! Look! He's speaking to him now!" They saw the doctor come up to Quisanté and Quisanté smile as he waited for the visitor to introduce himself. The doctor began to speak quickly and energetically. "Oh, thank you very much, but I'm all right," came suddenly in loud clear tones from Quisanté. The doctor spoke again. Quisanté shook his head, laughing merrily. Marchmont looked at May; her eyes were on her husband and they were full of fear. "I'd forgotten," he heard her murmur. She turned to him with an imploring air. "He won't listen," she said. A burst of laughter came from Quisanté's group; he had made some joke and they all applauded him. Tillman stood for a moment longer before him, then gave a queer jerk of his head, and turned sharp round on his heel. He came back towards where she stood. She took a step forward and thus crossed his path, Marchmont and the Dean standing on either side of her. "You remember me, Dr. Tillman?" she asked. "I'm Mr. Quisanté's wife, you know." He stood still, looking at her angrily from under his bushy eyebrows. "Take him home then," he said sharply. "It was madness to let him come here at all. You're flying in the face of the advice you've had. Oh, I know about it. Let me tell you, you're very lucky to have got through so far." "We--we're through all right now," she said. "Are you? I hope so. The man's in a high state of excitement now, and high states of excitement aren't good for him." He paused and added impatiently, "Have you no influence over him? Can none of you do anything with him?" "He won't like it if I go to him," May whispered. "I'll go," said the Dean, stepping forward. "Yes," said Tillman, "go and tell him Lady May Quisanté wants him." The Dean started off on his errand. The doctor's manner grew a little gentler. "You couldn't be expected to know," he said. "But in a thing like this you mustn't think he's all right because he looks all right. He'll look his best just at the time when there's most--well, when he isn't. I hope he's going to keep quiet after this?" "Yes, yes. At least we've arranged that. Weston, do go and bring him to me." "Look, he's coming now with the Dean." Quisanté's group opened, and he began to move towards them. But at every step somebody stopped him, to shake hands and to say a few words of thanks or praise. The Dean kept urging him on gently, but he would not be hurried. "Now take him straight home," said Tillman. "Good-night." And hardly waiting for May's bow he turned away and disappeared among the throng that was making for the door. Quisanté, at last escaping from his admirers, came up to his wife. His eyes were very bright, and he ran to her, holding out both his hands. She put hers in his and said, "We must go home. You'll be worn out." "Worn out? Not I! But you look worn out. Come along. Ah, Marchmont, this is a compliment indeed." They were almost alone in the room now. May took her husband's arm and they walked thus together. "Are you pleased?" he whispered. "Am I pleased!" she said with the laugh he knew and an upward glance of her eyes. Quisanté himself laughed and drew himself to his full height, carrying his head defiantly. For though he sought and loved to please all, it was pleasing her that had been foremost in his mind that night. He had remembered the boast he made on Duty Hill; now it was justified, and he had once again tasted his sweetest pleasure. They had to wait in an ante-room while their carriage was sent for. Here the Dean and Marchmont joined them again. They were there when old Foster rushed in in great excitement. "The whole town's in the square," he cried. "There's never been anything like it in Henstead. You'll say just a word to them from the steps, sir? Only a word! They're all waiting there for you. You'll say just a word? I'll be back in an instant." And he bustled out again. Quisanté walked across to a window that opened on to the Market Square. He looked out, then turned and beckoned to his wife. The whole town seemed to be in the square, as Foster said, and the people caught sight of him as he stood in the window with the lighted room behind him. They broke into loud cheering. Quisanté bowed to them. Then a sudden short shiver seemed to run through him; he put his hand first to his side, then to his head. "I feel queer" he said to his wife. "I think I--I won't--I won't speak any more. I feel so--so queer." Her eyes were fixed on him now, and his on hers. He smiled and tapped his forehead lightly with his hand. "It's nothing," he said. "You were pleased, weren't you, to-night?" Again he put his hands in hers. She found no word to say and they stood like this for a moment. The cheers ceased, the crowd outside was puzzled. Marchmont jumped up from his chair and walked forward hastily. "Anything wrong?" he asked. Neither heeded him. May's eyes were set in terror on her husband's face; for now she was holding him up by the power of her hands gripped in his; without them he would fall. Nay, he would fall now! He spoke in a low thick voice. "It's come," he said, "it's come." And he sank back into Weston Marchmont's arms, his wife letting go his hands and standing rigid. Old Foster ran in again, calling, "Are you ready, sir?" He found his answer. Alexander Quisanté would speak no more in Henstead. He was leaning against Marchmont, breathing heavily and with sore difficulty. May went to him; she was very white and very calm; she took his hand and kissed it. "I--I--I spoke well?" he muttered. "Didn't I?" "Very very finely, Alexander." "They were--were all wrong in saying I couldn't do it," he murmured. He shivered again and then was still. The Dean had brought a chair and they put him in it. But he moved no more. May looked at old Foster who stood by, his face wrung with helpless distress and consternation. "We've killed him among us, I and you and the people out there," she said. CHAPTER XXI. A RELICT. "Yes, I asked her," said Weston Marchmont, "but--Well, I don't think she'd mind you reading her letter, and I should rather like you to." He flung it across the table to Dick Benyon. "I half see what she means," said he, lighting a cigarette. Dick took the letter with an impatient frown. "I don't," he said, as he settled himself to read it. "My dear Friend, I have thought it over, many times, in many different moods, and in all of them I have always wanted to do what you ask. Not for your sake, not because you ask me, but for my own. I think I should be very happy, and as you know I have never yet been very happy. I wasn't while my husband was alive. Imagine my finding side by side in his desk the doctor's letter saying it was certain death to go to Henstead and that report of Professor Maturin's which he suppressed and told me had been destroyed. That brought him back to me just as he was. With you I think I should be happy. I should never be afraid, I should never be ashamed. What fear and what shame I used to feel! I write very openly to you about myself and about him; if I were answering as you wish, I would not say a word against him. But I can't. That's just the feeling. You tell me I am free, that two years have gone by, that I might find a new life for myself, that you love me. I know it all, but except the last none of it sounds true. You know that once I thought about being free and that then you were in my thoughts. Who should be, if you were not? Except him and you I have never thought of any man. And I want to come to you now. He is too strong for me. Is it really two years ago? Surely not! I seem still to hear his speech, and still to see him fall into your arms. I should always hear him, and always see that. I'm afraid you won't understand me, least of all when I say I don't feel sure that I want him back. That would mean the fear and the shame again. But he was so marvellous. How right he was! They followed the lead he gave them at Henstead; and even you, dear recluse, know that there was a change of Government last year. And I am quite rich out of the Alethea. For he was right and the poor Professor, who was supposed to know all about it, was absolutely, utterly, hopelessly wrong. And the Crusade's come to nothing, and--and so on. I wish I was convincing you; but I never did. You didn't understand why I married him, why in face of everything I behaved pretty well to him, why his death left everything blank to me. Nobody quite understood, except old Aunt Maria who just quietly died as soon as he was gone. And you'll understand me no better now. I resent the way the world forgets him. There seems nothing of him left. My little girl is all Gaston; she lives with Gastons, she has the Gaston face and the Gaston ways. She's not a bit Quisanté; she's nothing of him, nothing that he has left behind. If we'd had a son, a boy like him, I might feel differently. But, as it is, what's left? Only me. I am left, and I am not altogether a Gaston now, though it's the Gaston and nothing else that you like. No, I'm not all Gaston now. I've become Quisanté in part--not in every way, or I shouldn't have felt as I did when I found the Professor's report. But he has laid hold of me, and he doesn't let go. I can't help thinking that he needn't have died except on my account. You feel sore that I don't love you, not as you want me to. He was sore too because I didn't love him; and since he couldn't make me love him, he had to make me wonder at him; he was doing that when he died. So I feel that I can't do anything to blot him out, and that I must stay Quisanté, somebody bearing his name, representing him, keeping him in a way alive, being still his and not anybody else's. For I still feel his and I still feel him alive. You can love people, and then forget them, and love somebody else; or love somebody else without forgetting. Love is simple and gentle and, I suppose, gives way. Alexander doesn't give way. I shall hurt you now, I'm afraid, but I must say it. After him there can be no other man for me. I think I'm sorry I ever married him, for I could have loved somebody else and yet looked on at him. Or couldn't I? You'll say I couldn't. Anyhow, as it is, I've come too near to him, seen too much of him, become too much a part of him. You might think me mad if I told you he often seemed to be with me and that I'm not frightened, but admire and laugh as I used; I needn't fear any more. So it is; and since it is so, how can I come to you? What is it they call widows on tombstones and in the _Times_? Relicts, isn't it? I'm literally his relict, something he's left behind. As I say, the only thing. He can't come back for me, I suppose. But I feel as if he'd pick me up somewhere some time, and we should begin over again, and go on together. Where to I don't know. I never knew where he would end by taking me to. And you, dear friend, mustn't make his relict your wife. It's not right for you, it wouldn't be right for me. We should pretend that nothing had happened, that I'd made a mistake, that it was luckily and happily over, and that I was doing now what I ought to have done in the beginning. All that's quite false. I suppose everybody has one great thing to do in life, one thing that determines what they're to be and how they're to end. I did my great thing, for good or evil, when I became his wife. I can't undo it or go back on it, I can't become what I was before I did it. I can't be now what you think me and wish me to be. His stamp is on me. I write very sadly; for I didn't love him. And now I can love nobody. I shall never quite know what that means. Or is it possible that I loved him without knowing it, and hated him sometimes just because of that? I mean, felt so terribly the times when he was--well, what you know he was sometimes. I find no answer to that. It never was what I thought love meant, what they tell you it means. But if love can mean sinking yourself in another person, living in and through him, meaning him when you say life, then I did love him. At any rate, whatever it was, there it is. Yet I'm not very unhappy. I have a feeling--it will seem strange to you, like all my feelings--that I have had a great share in something great, that without me he wouldn't have been what he was, that I gave as well as took, and brought my part into the common stock. We did odd things, he and I in our partnership, things never to be told. My poor cheeks burn still, and you remember that I cried. But we did great things too, he and I, and at the end we were for a little while together in heart. It wouldn't have lasted? Perhaps not. As it was it lasted long enough--till 'it came', as he said, and he died asking me to tell him that he had spoken well. I'm very glad he knew that I thought he had spoken well. So out of this rambling letter comes the end of it. Be kind to me, be my friend, and be somebody else's lover, dear Weston. For I am spoilt for you. 'Her mad folly'--that was what you thought it. Well, it isn't ended, not even death has ended it. He reaches me still from where he is--Ah, and what is he doing? I can't think of him doing nothing. Shall I hear of all he's done some day? Will he tell me himself, and watch my lips and my eyes as I listen to him? I don't know. These are dreams, and perhaps I wouldn't have them come true; for he might do dreadful things again. But I can't marry you. For to me he is not dead, he lives still, and I am his. I can as little say whether I like it as I could while he was here. But now, as then, it is so; whether I like it is little; it is what has come to me, my lot, my place, my fate, the end of me, the first and last word about me. And--yes--I am content to have it so. He loved me very much, and he was a very great man. You'll wonder again, but I'm a proud woman among women, Weston dear. Goodbye." Dick Benyon laid down the letter, and pushed it back to Weston Marchmont. "Yes, I see," said he. TURNBULL AND SPEARS. PRINTERS, EDINBURGH. 
19966	----	THE STATESMEN SNOWBOUND _By_ ROBERT FITZGERALD _Illustrated by Wad-el-Ward_ New York and Washington THE NEALE PUBLISHING COMPANY 1909 CONTENTS CHAPTER I. The Funeral II. Senator Bull and Mr. Ridley--Trials and Tribulations of the Newly Fledged Member III. Colonel Manysnifters--An Outing with the "Jewels" IV. An Accident--Dinner V. Senator Bull's Story VI. Representative Holloway Has the Floor VII. Representative Van Rensselaer Unfolds a Strange Tale VIII. Senator Wendell Reads "The Creaking of the Stairs" IX. Senator Hammond's Experience X. Mr. Callahan's Story XI. What Happened to Denmead XII. O'Brien's Narrative XIII. An Uninvited Guest ILLUSTRATIONS Senator Bull and Sammy Ridley President Madison Senator Pennypacker Colonel Ross Addressing the Jury "Stick to the Thirteenth Commandment!" The Kiss Manuel Villasante Papa Villasante "Upon each stair the clear impression of a naked human foot!" "Ah Moy, shrieking, turned and fled!" "Shoved a revolver right up in the teeth of the prosperous one!" "Writes the dramatic criticisms for the moving-picture shows" "Framed in the doorway stood one of the finest examples of the early Gothic I have ever seen" Professor Habib An Uninvited Guest The Statesmen Snowbound I THE FUNERAL Toward the close of the --th Congress I was designated a member of a committee on the part of the House to accompany the remains of the late Senator Thurlow to their last resting-place at the old home in Kentucky. And it might be well to state here that I am quite aware that some of my ungrateful countrymen apply the spiteful term "junket" to a journey of this description. When one considers the sacrifices we Congressmen make in order to serve the nation, it is hard to believe that unthinking persons begrudge us a little pleasure. In many cases we give up all home life, business interests, and personal comfort, and take up our abode in second-rate hotels and boarding-houses. We are continually pestered and annoyed by office-seekers, book-agents, cranks, and reporters; and, alas, we form habits that cling like barnacles, try as hard as we may to shake them off. A taste of public life is fatal to most men, and the desire to feed from the public crib goes right to the bone. It is like a cancer, and it is removed only with grave danger to the afflicted. Everything, therefore, which may lighten our burdens and tend to relieve the situation should be the aim and study of our constituents. But this may be digression. The trip out was necessarily a quiet one, though a well-stocked buffet kept the delegation from absolute depression. Leaving Washington early in the afternoon we arrived at the little Kentucky town the next morning about eleven o'clock, and found that we had yet some five miles to go over bad roads to the homestead. We were met by two nephews of the deceased, with a host of relatives and friends. The son, Albert Thurlow, came on with us from Washington. There was ample accommodation in the way of conveyances, and we proceeded slowly up into the higher country. In something more than an hour the house was reached--a big home-like structure, large enough for us all, and the entertainment most lavish. The estate was an extensive one, and the innumerable outbuildings and well-stocked barns gave evidence of wealth and thrift. A long drive between rows of lofty poplars led to the main entrance, and the view from the front of the house down to the river was superb. There were servants in abundance, and nothing had been overlooked to insure our comfort. The stables were the attraction for most of our party, and several kings of the turf were brought out for inspection. We were taken all over the place, and many things of interest were shown us. A Bible and powder-horn, once the property of Daniel Boone, books with the autograph of Henry Clay, duelling pistols, quaint and almost priceless silver and china, and a rare collection of old prints and family portraits. The walls in one room were fairly lined with cups, the trophies of many a famous meet. And such whiskey! There is nothing like it in Washington, or in the whole world, perhaps. A volume might be written in praise of that mellow, golden fluid. There were many in our party who would gladly add to this glowing testimony, and wax eloquent over the virtues of that noble life-saver and panacea, referred to by our good hosts as "a little something." Accustomed, as most of us were, to the stuff served over the Washington bars, this was indeed well worth the trip out. Late February is not the time to see rural Kentucky at its best, and but few signs of spring were visible. The day of the funeral dawned with leaden skies, and a piercing wind from the north groaned in the chimneys, and whistled through the leafless trees on the lawn. The branches of a huge maple scraped and fretted against my windows and woke me several times during the night. At an early hour a servant was piling high the fire, and the room was soon bathed in a cheerful glow, the logs cracking and sputtering merrily. I parted the curtains of my large old-fashioned bed, slipped to the floor feeling very well and fit, and glanced curiously about me. Every appointment of the room was long out of date, but nevertheless made for snugness and comfort. The lover of antique furniture would surely revel here. I do not know what would delight him most; the high-post bed, the dressing-table, the chest of drawers, or the old clock on the mantel. The sheets and hangings smelled faintly of lavender, the walls were papered with landscapes in which pretty shepherdesses, impossible sheep, and garlands of roses predominated,--a style much in vogue in the early forties,--indeed the room seemed as if it had been closed and laid away by a tidy housewife years before, and opened and aired for my reception but yesterday. An illumined text,--a "Jonah under his Gourd," elaborately worked in colored silks,--a smirking likeness of "The Father of his Country," and an equally self-satisfied looking portrait of Mrs. W. hung in prominent places. There was a gentle tap on the door, and an ancient darky entered, with a tall glass of whipped-cream punch, light as a feather, and as delicate as thought. Then, breakfast, in a long, low-ceilinged room on the ground floor, with a blazing fire at each end, a pickaninny gravely watchful over both. Only the male members of the family were at the meal, which was a solemn festival as befitting a house of mourning. At ten o'clock the funeral procession left the mansion and slowly wound its way along a rough road to a little weather-beaten church a mile or so distant. It was set well back from the highway in the shadow of tall pines, and looked lonely and uncared-for. In the churchyard were a few scattered tombstones, moss-grown, and very much awry. The graves were unkempt and sunken, and weeds and poison ivy struggled for the mastery. The day was bitterly cold, with an occasional flurry of snow; but, in spite of that, an immense crowd had gathered. The church and churchyard were filled to overflowing. It was the largest collection of queer looking people, horses, and "fixes" I have ever seen. The services were brief, but most impressive, and it must have been a trying ordeal for the aged clergyman, an old friend of the deceased. Several times his voice faltered, and he seemed about to break down. The coffin was borne to the grave by six stalwart negroes, laborers on the estate. A lad followed, leading poor Thurlow's favorite horse. Then the widow and her son, the relatives, friends, and family servants. A fine male quartet sang "Nearer, my God, to Thee," and a soul-stirring contralto, "Asleep in Jesus." Tears stood in the eyes of all, the negroes weeping openly and uncontrollably. As the grave was filled in, the snow began to fall in real earnest, gusts of wind lashing the pines into fury. It was the beginning of a three days' blizzard long to be remembered in that country. Returning to the warmth and comfort of the homestead, we found a vast array of eatables and drinkables; every one was welcomed, but notwithstanding the unusual number of guests, all was well-ordered and decorous. The Thurlows and their numerous clan are a fine-looking folk; the men, sturdy, well set-up--a fighting people, yet generous, kindly and hospitable. The women--gracious, lovely, and altogether charming. Beyond the universally cherished idea of beautiful women, blooded horses, and blue grass, my knowledge of Kentucky had been rather vague. My information had been derived chiefly from my experience on various Election Committees, where moonshiners, mountain feuds, and double-barrelled shot guns played prominent parts. Commonwealths, like communities, are advertised most widely by the _evils_ in their midst; a fact which jolts the reformer and drives the optimist to drink. The lordly manner of living, the immense estates, and the magnificent hospitality of our hosts, was a revelation to me; and an occasional reference by one of the older servants to the grandeur of antebellum days indicated a condition of even greater splendor and luxury. But the cruel hand of war had devastated and impoverished the country, the slaves were freed, and the land for years lay untilled and neglected. Marse Henry, the head of the house, was killed in almost the first battle of the war. Marse Breckinridge died, a prisoner in Fort Warren, and now Marse Preston had followed them to the land of shadows. Uncle Eph'm, himself, was getting very feeble and helpless, and it would not be long before he joined his loved ones on the other shore. De good ole times were gone forever! It was with regret that I left this attractive home, and I gladly accepted an invitation to return in the fall for the shooting. For the shooting, indeed! Why, _that_ was all over! Dan Cupid never aimed truer! My wife--a Kentuckian--says that I will never shine as a Nimrod, but it seems to me that I have had pretty fair success in that rôle. II SENATOR BULL AND MR. RIDLEY--TRIALS AND TRIBULATIONS OF THE NEWLY FLEDGED MEMBER. Again on the train, our troubles were over, and we pulled out of the station amid cheers and yells from hundreds of throats--an odd contrast to the mournful silence of the throng upon our arrival. In our party were Senators Baker, of Kentucky; Bull, of Montana; Wendell, of Massachusetts; Hammond, of Michigan; Pennypacker, of West Virginia; and Congressmen Holloway, of Illinois; Manysnifters, of Georgia; Van Rensselaer, of New York; a majority of the Kentucky delegation, Mr. Ridley, Senator Bull's private secretary, and several newspaper men. Senator Bull is seventy, tall and massive. His features are striking--a big nose, heavy, grizzled mustache, bushy brows emphasizing eyes blue and kindly, a wide mouth, tobacco-stained, with a constant movement of the jaws--bovine, but shrewdly ruminative. A leonine head of shaggy white hair crowns the whole. Ridley, the private secretary, is about the same age. He is a ruddy-cheeked, round-paunched little fellow, scarcely measuring up to the Senator's shoulder. The thin fringe of hair around his shining pate gives him the appearance of a jolly friar. He peers at you through gold-rimmed spectacles, and is quite helpless without them. He has been with Senator Bull for years, serving him faithfully in various capacities, and is now a partner in the enterprises which have made the Senator many times a millionaire. The title of "private secretary" is one of courtesy merely, and seems to highly amuse the two friends. [Illustration: Senator Bull and Sammy Ridley.] At nightfall we had left the storm behind us, and were speeding over the mountains. The sunlight, lingering on the higher peaks, cast great shadows into the depths beyond. There had been much snow all winter, and the summits sparkled and shone out dazzlingly, then went pink and crimson and purple as the radiance slowly faded. The lamps had not been lighted in the car, and most of us had gathered at the observation end, impressed by the grandeur of it all, when the silence was broken by Mr. Ridley. "That's a pretty sight, sure! It gives me a kind of solemn feeling all over. The glory up there makes me think of dying, and heaven, and angels, and all that," he said gravely. "That patch of light calls to mind the fellows I know who climb the heights, and when they get near the top the sunshine of prosperity, or fame, or notoriety, or whatever you call it, strikes them and it wilts them, and they can't stand it for long, so they fall back, and you don't hear of them any more. There're others, though, who get up there and fairly bask in it all, walk around, lie down, eat and sleep in it. _They_ can stand it, and, my, what big shadows they throw!" "Well, well, well, Sammy Ridley, I never heard you talk like that before," said Senator Bull; "it must have been that funeral to-day. Got on your nerves, eh? Some folks are affected like that. Come away from that window, boy, and get back to earth again." Thus urged, Mr. Ridley got back to earth again, and took a drink of generous size. Several of the delegation joined him. The movement seemed a popular one. The conversation then turned to the deceased, his many good qualities, his probable successor in the Senate, and the bearing his death would have upon the political situation in Kentucky. "We will miss him in the Senate," said Senator Wendell; "we will miss his wise counsel, the broad statesmanlike views, and the kindly personality that endeared him to us all. Thurlow was a great man, and the State of Kentucky will no doubt erect a fitting memorial." "Yes," said Mr. Ridley, "I suppose they will. They ought to. It may be some consolation to the family anyhow. But it is an empty sort of thing, after all, when you come to think of it. A man's life and actions are his best monument; those who loved him will never forget him, his enemies will be sorry they spoke, and there will be something _more_ than appropriate cut on his tombstone--that's certainly all a man should want. What's the use of waiting for a fellow to die before immortalizing him in marble or bronze? It is small satisfaction to him personally. Why not put up a statue while he is living, and let him have the pleasure of walking past it with his wife and children on a fine Sunday afternoon when all the folks are out?" "There is a rich vein of truth in what you say, Sammy," said Senator Bull; "but you are alive and well, and it is almost impossible for you to take a dead man's view of the situation." "I don't know but what you are right, Senator," observed Mr. Ridley thoughtfully, and the group relapsed into silence. "You are a Southern man, I believe, Mr. Ridley," said Representative Van Rensselaer a few minutes later, as they touched glasses. "I _was_ one, sir, very much of one; that's why I am limping around now. I was in the Confederate Army, up to the fall of sixty-three, and then I was taken prisoner." "So you have had a taste of Union prisons, eh?" asked Senator Baker, who spoke feelingly--his "Recollections of Johnson's Island" had just made its appearance. "Just a leetle might of a taste, Senator; nothing like your experience, though. You see, it was this way with me. I was captured by a pretty good sort of a fellow--a big, husky, soft-hearted chap who wouldn't hurt a flea. That's him over there," pointing to Senator Bull, "and he has held me prisoner ever since. He ran up against me at Chickamauga." "Well?" said Senator Baker expectantly. "Tell them the whole story, Sammy," said Senator Bull, as several of the party drew their chairs up closer to the private secretary; "tell them the whole story; it will kill time, anyway." "Yes," continued Mr. Ridley, "I was taken prisoner, and it all came of my foolishness and scorn for the enemy. We boys of the --th Arkansas thought any Johnny Reb could whip five Yanks, and it made us kind of careless-like, I reckon. I was a raw country lad when the war broke out, as tough a specimen as ever Jefferson County turned loose on the unsuspecting public, but I wasn't much worse than the rest of the boys who loafed around Todd's livery stable swapping lies, chawing tobacco, and setting the nation to rights. We were all full of fight when the Sumter news came, and anxious to get in it; and I saw a heap of it, too, before I made the acquaintance of Nathan Bull. "There was some lively skirmishing on the morning of September twentieth, sixty-three, before the armies got together in earnest. It was real comical to see the boys tearing up their love-letters and playing-cards just before going into battle. The roads and fields were speckled with the scraps just like a snowfall on the stage, as I reckon all of you have seen in plays like 'Alone in London,' and the 'Banker's Daughter.' It was in one of those preliminary set-tos that somehow my company strayed away, and left me up in the woods with a bullet in my leg. I was looking around for some place where I could lie down and nurse myself a bit, and at the same time keep clear of the shells and other things flying around. The air was full of them--making a noise like 'Whar-izz-yer?' 'Whar-izz-yer?' Haven't you often heard that sound, Senator? Some poor devil hears it once _too_ often, every now and then, doesn't he? "It was very hot and dusty, and I was plumb crazy for water. Somehow I managed to work my way out to a big clear space on the side of the hill. The brush and weeds were up to your neck. At the foot of the hill was a piece of marshy land where there had once been a spring. It had long since dried up, but there were patches of greenish water here and there. I threw myself on the ground, and my, how good that nasty-looking water tasted! Then I bathed my face and hands in it. I heard a man over to my right shout out that General Hood had been killed; and in a minute or so two of our officers dashed out of the timber, coming my way, riding for dear life, and nearly trampling me. Meanwhile, the battle seemed to be raging all around me. Most of the heavy fighting that day was done in the woods, and the losses were big on both sides. Well, I dragged myself to a little clump of sassafras, not caring much whether I lived or died, I was that played out, and my leg burning and stinging just as though it was being touched up with a red-hot poker. I had been there about fifteen minutes when a blue-coat rose up in front of me--right out of the ground it seemed--and says, very fierce, 'You're my prisoner!' He was a young fellow, about my age, and didn't look at all dangerous. I just wished that leg of mine had been all right, I would have given him his money's worth, I tell you! But it wasn't any use. I couldn't stir for the misery. "'You're my prisoner,' he says again, louder'n before. "'All right,' says I, 'I'm willing,' seeing there wasn't anything else to say, and putting a free and easy face on it. "'Get up, then, and come along with me,' says he. I pointed to my leg, and tried to grin. He saw the curious way it was lying--all twisted up--and the big red splotch on my trousers, and says, as if imparting information, 'You're hurt, man, badly hurt. Keep perfectly still,' which seemed to be unnecessary, as that was the onliest thing I could do anyhow. 'I'll get you out of this. Now, brace up,' and he knelt down, and held out his canteen. I tried to take it, but the effort was too much for me. 'Poor chap, he's gone,' I heard him say, and then I faded away. When I came to--a minute later it seemed to me--I was in a Yankee hospital; a big tent full of men groaning and dying, and doctors running this way and that with bottles, and bandages, and knives; and the cussing, and the screaming, and the smells! It makes me sick to think of it, even now. It was hell! I know you don't want to hear about the time I spent there, and in another place like it, tossing and groaning through the long days and nights; and when I got nearly well again, about my life in prison, and my parole. Nathan fixed that, and I walked out a free man, limping a little, just as I've done ever since. Nathan hadn't forgotten the Reb he had taken prisoner, and when I went back to Pine Bluff, poorer'n a rat, and no prospects to speak of, he gave me my start in life. He sent me with a letter to his folks in Illinois, and when I got there they gave me work to do, and treated me like one of their own. They certainly were white to me. When Nathan came home after the war, he cal'lated that Illinois was too far east for him, so after a few years we packed up our duds, and 'migrated out to Montana. There we've been ever since. That's my story, and it ain't a very startling one after all, is it?" "And it is true--every word of it," said Senator Bull warmly. "Sammy has stuck by me through thick and thin. I don't believe I could have made out without him. As a mine boss, store keeper, deputy sheriff, and Indian fighter, we swear by him out our way. There is a fellow, gentlemen, who calls a spade a spade, and oftener than not a _damned_ spade!" "Don't take my character away, Nathan," expostulated Mr. Ridley humbly; "give me a show. I'm an old man now, and all I've got left is my good name, and a little something in the savings bank. Don't be hard on me." "Sammy," continued the Senator, unnoticing, "could have gone to Congress if he had cared to. The Democrats were after him only year before last. Their man won out hands down. Sammy declined the nomination. And that's the only thing I have against Sammy Ridley. He is a Democrat. It's born in him, just as some folks inherit a taste for liquor, and others come into the world plumb crazy, and are satisfied to stay that way all their lives. However, it is not as bad as it seems. They do say out in our country that the firm of 'Bull and Ridley' is bound to get there, because when the Republican party is in the saddle, and there's anything to be had, it's 'Bull and Ridley,' and when the Democrats are on top, it's 'Ridley and Bull,' and when the Populists come in we are going out of business. So there may be some truth in it after all. What say you, Sammy boy?" Mr. Ridley nodded gravely. "In Washington Sammy is invited everywhere, but society is not his strong point. He won't get in the swim." "I'd rather not be 'in the swim' than swim in dirty water," said the private secretary brusquely. "But speaking of the Senator; _there_, friends, is certainly an all-around heavy-weight." "Sammy, Sammy," said the Senator reproachfully. "I see you are getting back at me. I didn't think it of you. No bouquets, if you please. As a matter of fact, gentlemen, I feel that I am growing beautifully less every day; I have noticed it ever since I came to Washington. I haven't been in the Senate long enough to amount to anything, if I ever do. We new people are only in demand when there is a vote to be taken. We are put on minor committees, and are thankful for any crumbs that fall from the great man's table. I am a very small spar in the ship of state. It takes all the conceit out of a fellow when he finds how little he amounts to in Washington. He leaves his own part of the world a giant, puffed up with pride and importance; but the shrinking process begins as soon as the train rolls out of the home depot. It comes on like an attack of the ague--you are first hot, then cold, then colder still. You shiver and shake----" "For drinks?" murmured one of the newspaper men absently. "Well--yes," replied the Senator, smiling. "I hadn't thought of that. Very neatly put. Quite true. And, as I say, he shivers and shakes--for drinks--loses, and loses--pays for them, and by the time he reaches Washington he and his pocket-book are several sizes below normal." The humble attitude of this, one of America's wealthiest and most influential men, was edifying but scarcely convincing. The newspaper men looked at one another dubiously. Perhaps, they thought, when the Senator's magnificent house in the West End was completed, and his wife and daughters came over from Paris, the poor fellow would not be so lonely and neglected. He was a fine man, and it seemed too bad that he should be so side-tracked. "Quite true, Senator," agreed Representative Holloway, "and matters are even worse in the House. There are more of us there, and the mere individual is more dwarf-like than over in the Senate. We are treated like a lot of naughty school-boys, and when we meekly beg leave 'to speak out in meetin'' we are practically told to shut up and sit down. The new comer is the victim of much quiet hazing on the part of his colleagues,--ably aided and abetted by the Speaker,--but he soon learns the ropes, and quickly effaces himself. He reserves his babble for the cloak-room and hotel lobby; yet, to many of his constituents, he is still a great man. There is no sadder sight in the world than the newly-fledged Congressman in the throes of his maiden speech, delivered to a half-filled House, busily reading the papers, talking, writing, or absorbed in thought. An official stenographer, right under his nose, wearily jots down the effort, and the real audience consists of a few bored friends in the galleries who smile uneasily now and then, and wonder what it is all about, and how long the blamed thing is going to last. Anyway, he gets it in the Record for free distribution to thousands of constituents, who read it, perhaps, and try to imagine why 'Applause' is tagged on to the finish." "A gloomy picture, but not overdrawn," sighed one of the Kentucky delegation. "Here's looking at you, Holloway," he added, more cheerfully, "here's looking at you." III COLONEL MANYSNIFTERS--AN OUTING WITH THE "JEWELS" Colonel Manysnifters, who had been quietly smoking a little apart from the group, now drew up and joined us. He had been imbibing rather freely since we left the station, but with the exception of a somewhat suspicious silence, had shown no further effects of his efforts in behalf of the Whiskey Trust. The Colonel's resemblance to Uncle Sam (as popularly portrayed) was so striking that children taken to the Capitol for the first time would shout with glee when he was pointed out to them. Rural visitors went home satisfied that the country was safe--they had seen Uncle Sam on hand, sober, and 'tending to business!' A friend once said to him, "Manysnifters, you look so much like Uncle Sam that whenever I see you on a jag I feel like this great nation of ours is going to hell!" Georgia is the Colonel's native State, and he is proud of it, but I imagine that some recent legislation down there has greatly upset him. He looked rather downcast when I last saw him, and refused nourishment either in solid or liquid form. And then he said, eyeing me solemnly, "'Times is right porely down our way, boss. Things don't lap. De chinquapin crap done gin out 'fore de simmons is ripe!' Now, boy, don't ask me how things are going in my State. You know as much about it as I do. Let the old man alone, won't you?" and so I left him. "Well, Colonel, how do you feel now?" asked Senator Bull solicitously. "Oh, I'm all right," replied the Colonel, suspicion lurking in his tones. "I know what you think, Senator, but I am not. No, siree! I _have_ had three or four small ones, but I am not 'lit' by a jugful! The idea! Drunk on four high-balls! Why, they just clear my brain--drive the fog out. Maybe it's the Scotch, maybe the soda. A fine combination, the high-ball. I am as stupid as an owl when I am cold sober, but when I drink, I soar! I feel like a lark with nothing between myself and the sun except a little fresh air and exercise. Oh, there's nothing the matter with me; any one can see that. "It's funny how small this world is, and how time flies. I supposed you all noticed the tall, bald-headed man with the spectacles who ran up and hugged me to-day. Ain't he the ugly one? His ma certainly did hand his pa a lemon when he was born. Why, if I had been a long-lost brother he could not have been gladder to see me. Well, I was glad to see him, too, but the sight of him called up memories at once humiliating and smile-provoking. Senator, may I trouble you to depress the business end of that syphon? Thank you. Now, that fellow's name is Seymour--that's why he wears specs, I suppose--and he rattles around in the chair of Applied Science at Jay College, this State. Not much of an institution, and still less of a job, I imagine, and poor Seymour's salary quite in keeping. If there ever was any one deserving a Carnegie medal, Seymour is the chap. He studied medicine once, and graduated high up, but he never practised his profession! That's saving lives for you. Can you beat it? "Well, Harry was a protégé, or something of the sort, of our late friend Thurlow. And, as I said, I beheld his honest, glowing countenance with mixed feelings. But it is a long story--a long story----" and the Colonel paused as if seeking encouragement to proceed. It was forthcoming. "We would like very much to hear it," said Senator Wendell gravely; "that is, of course, if it involves no sacrifice of your feelings. We are all friends here, and will go at once into executive session. Let all who have a story to tell, an anecdote to relate, or a joke to perpetrate, feel free to do so. The galleries shall be cleared, and reporters and the public excluded--metaphorically speaking," he added hastily, turning to the newspaper men, who wore a pained expression, "metaphorically speaking, of course." The skies journalistic cleared at once, and then Colonel Manysnifters, a born diplomat, whispered to the waiting porter, who nodded knowingly, and disappeared. "Senator, I thank you. You relieve the situation. I am a modest man, sir, and hesitate to talk about myself even among friends; but since you all insist, there is nothing for me to do but yield as gracefully as I may--and as a yielder I glitter in the front rank. My experience, gentlemen, was a peculiar one, and I think it will hold you for a while. "It was during that never-to-be-forgotten session of Congress which lasted almost up to the time for getting together again. Cleveland was on the thro--in the White House, I mean--and I was looking after things up at the big building on Capitol Hill. "One day in the latter part of June, when the sun was firing up for a real old-fashioned Washington summer, and the thermometer about four degrees below Jackson City, a number of my constituents came on to see me, and after we had transacted certain important business I undertook to show the boys the town; and in the party was this fellow, Professor Seymour. "We started out one broiling afternoon upon our giddy round of pleasure, and, after keeping up the festivities all night and a portion of the next day, I became separated from my friends in some unaccountable way, and toward evening found myself wandering down town near the wharves. It was very dusty and close, and the temperature a slice of Hades served up on a hot plate. There was no need for matches, all you had to do was to put your unlighted cigar in your mouth and puff away. I was trying hard to remember why I had on glasses,--they were of no use in the world to me,--and I was also much astonished to find that I was wearing Seymour's coat and hat, the latter a typical western slouch, broad-brimmed and generous. I also sported a tie loud enough to frighten an automobile. After pondering awhile upon this remarkable state of affairs, the thought arose so far as I knew I might be Seymour myself! I was strangely befuddled by the adventures of the past twenty-four hours, and it was not long before I began to seriously argue with myself that I _was_ Seymour,--undoubtedly Seymour,--indeed, why should I not be Seymour as well as any one else? This masterly line of reason settled it. I _was_ Seymour, and as an instructor and guide of youth I felt that I ought to be thoroughly ashamed of myself for flocking with the dissipated crowd I had just left. Acting upon this elevating thought, I braced up considerably, assumed an air of virtue, and not knowing exactly what to do next, joined a throng of people who were jostling one another in their efforts to get on a steamboat. A sail, I fancied, would do me no end of good, and as the ticket seller assured me with a smile that the boat was perfectly safe and would return in a few hours, I went aboard with the rest of the fools, children, and old folks. This I accomplished after barely escaping a plunge into the river from what struck me as being an exceedingly narrow gang-plank. "The band struck up one of Sousa's lively marches, a hoarse whistle sounded, the boat trembled all over, and we were off. As the _Charles Auchester_ glided out into the stream, two young women with camp stools in their hands pushed through the crowd at the entrance to the hurricane deck--an elevation I had succeeded in attaining--and took their seats near a life-raft upon which I reclined, Cleopatra-like. "'Oh, aren't these excursions perfectly lovely, Ruby?' said the taller of the pair, taking off her hat and dropping it in her lap. "'Yes, and so cheap. All the way to Indian Head and back for a quarter. It's a godsend for us poor tired folks who have to stay in town all summer. And you know what that means, don't you, Pearl?' "'Oh, yes, but don't let's talk about it,' said the other fretfully. 'I try not even to think of what we will have to go through. What good does it do to fuss over things we can't help?' "'That's right, dear,' said her companion, 'and it doesn't pay to look far ahead, either, if one wants to be happy. I never do.' "They were pretty and quite well dressed, these two maidens. As to their being without a male escort, I rather admired their sturdy independence. Everything about them bespoke refinement, and yet the very next remark from the girl called Ruby sent a shiver through my sensitive frame, and caused my hastily formed but favorable opinion of the pair to change color. "'I'd give anything, Pearl, if Will and the other fellows were here. They always buy, and I've got an awful thirst on me.' "'We might have some beer, anyway,' mildly suggested Pearl, and a flying waiter took the order. "'I guess we can pick up something on the boat,' remarked Ruby; who, by the way, was good to look at--a black-eyed lass with regular features and lots of pink and white complexion. Pearl, languidly sipping her beer, nodded in the affirmative. This person, evidently the younger of the two, had a babyish face, big innocent blue eyes, and a profusion of fluffy yellow hair. She did not appeal as much to my sense of the beautiful as the dark one did; but I have always been partial to brunettes. She told me later that she was twenty--which figure was enough for me to know, I suppose. Oh, I understand women. They are an open book to me. "About eight o'clock the moon, immense and crimson, came up from behind the Maryland hills, and cast a lurid path upon the wavelets. The girls, or rather the 'Jewels,' as I have since learned to think of them, huddled closer together, with a not too capacious shawl around them, for the wind was freshening considerably. For a while I stopped looking at them, being interested in the little stunts that are done on the boat as it passes Mount Vernon. The tolling of the bell and the dirge by the band absorbed all my attention. "It was not long, though, before I began to feel that I was the object of very earnest scrutiny on the part of an individual or individuals nearby. Turning suddenly, I met the basilisk gaze of Pearl and Ruby. Their dreadful remark came to me with crushing force. They had begun, as they coarsely put it, 'to pick up something.' Lobster-like, finding myself in hot water, I turned several beautiful shades of red immediately. I became terror-stricken--I, the dignified Professor of Applied Science at Jay College, Kentucky! All my innate modesty began to assert itself; and is not this the surest protection of the innocent? I arose and fled. "Unfortunately, while retreating, I looked back, simply to see how the shameless creatures were affected by my departure. Oh, fatal curiosity! They must have considered my backward glance an invitation to follow, for they did so with alacrity. That accursed backward glance! Lot's wife--you know the story. "However, I saw that I was in for it, so just before reaching the steps leading to the bar, I resolutely faced my pursuers and stood at bay. They bore down upon me like ships that pass--no, I won't say that. "'You sweet thing,' chirped Ruby, 'it knew how thirsty we were, didn't it? I don't care if it isn't the youngest baby at the christening, it's just all skeeky; so there!' This speech was delivered in gentle tones, but loud enough to be heard by several bystanders, who snickered disagreeably. "'Yes, popper,' joined in Pearl warmly, 'do buy us a drink.' "'Yes, popper!' I could have slapped her! Heavens! Did I look as old as that? I was aghast, for I have always prided myself upon my youthful appearance. "'If you call me "popper" again,' said I in a savage undertone, 'I will throw you overboard! Do you hear? How dare you speak to me anyway? I have a great mind to call an officer! Come now, girls,' I added in a milder strain, aware of the helplessness of the situation, 'let's go below; and keep quiet, do. I will buy the drinks.' "Then in sheer self-defense I ordered beer, then more beer, then cocktails, then I don't know what--Pearl asked the waiter to bring it--a queer greenish-yellow stuff which quickly overpowered me. When the vile mixture had gotten in its handiwork the Jewels seemed highly satisfied, and laughed gleefully. A few moments later I was introduced to a 'gentleman friend' of theirs whom they fished out of the crowd. He was a flashily dressed youth who insisted upon another drink--and another--at my expense. After that I have a faint recollection of getting off the boat upon its return to Washington, and of being hustled into a night-liner, the Jewels and their pal nobly standing by me. We jogged along for miles, Ruby singing at the top of her voice and the gentleman friend joining in at the chorus. Pearl's head was bent over, wobbly fashion. She was either asleep, or lost in deep thought. I have also a dim recollection of the vehicle coming to an abrupt halt, and a head thrust in at the window, saying pointedly that if we did not make less noise he would run the whole blanketty-blank gang in. This made me mad, and I wanted to fight the stranger then and there; but my warlike purpose was frustrated by the Jewels and their friend, who flung themselves upon me, wisely detaining me. The end of our journey was reached soon afterwards and our little party rolled out. "I was then dragged up an apparently endless flight of steps, and into the vestibule of a large old-fashioned house, once the stately residence of a famous man, but now given over to the undesirable class of persons into whose clutches I had fallen. An aged negress tugged at an immense paneled door, and let us into a wide hall, at the end of which a lamp burned feebly. Then we struggled up more stairs, and after many turnings drew up before a shabbily furnished room. Into this I was rudely pushed, and the door closed and locked upon me. I rocked about in the darkness, grabbed the bed as it swung around for the third time, got a strangle hold, and went right to sleep. From this I was awakened some hours later by voices in the hall just outside. The transom over the door was open, so I could hear pretty well all that was said. "'That's a good sort of haul you made to-night--nit!' growled a deep bass. 'Ain't you afraid you'll get into trouble? That fellow in there is Colonel Manysnifters. You've all heard of him--haven't yer? Why, he is the biggest man in the House--a great swell--money to throw at the birds; and he's been a throwin' it, hey?' said he of the voice, with a chuckle; 'but he ain't no greenhorn, I can tell yer! The old sport can make it powerful warm for us when he gets out of here!' "'Suppose he never gets out--not for a long time, anyway; and the ransom--just think of the ransom!' joyously urged one of the Jewels, whose voice I recognized. "'Oh, that sorter thing don't go now,' said the man; 'besides, the cop who stopped yer awhile ago knows a thing or two. You can't work any Turkish brigand racket here in Washington--the town's too small. Could do it in New York, I suppose, but not down here. The game ain't worth the candle, anyhow. The chap's blown in all he had about him. We've got his scarf-pin and alarm clock, and that's all there is to it.' "'I guess you're right,' remarked the Jewel; 'but wait until Lola comes, and see what she says.' "'So they think I am old Manysnifters,' thought I, trying to smile. 'That's real funny, ain't it? Oh, if he were only here now, wouldn't he get me out of this?' And in my fancy I could see my husky friend grappling with the gang outside, pitching them down the stairs, and carrying me off in triumph--the way they do it in the best sellers. My captors then went below, their voices trailing away into silence. They left me with some nasty thoughts. "'What would the faculty of Jay think of their Seymour, could they but gaze upon him now? What would my pupils say? The World, the great World at large, the Press, the Pulpit?' (My brother is an Atlanta clergyman.) 'What would these great social forces say?' Confused ideas of my identity and importance arose like fumes to further befuddle me. I sat on the side, and in the middle of the bed, in despair--longing for something to smoke! "The hours dragged slowly by, and yet Lola, Lola the mysterious, upon whose decision so much depended, came not. "'Something must be done, and quickly,' thought I, and I started to get up. But hark! I heard some one in the hall softly slip a key in the lock of my door, and turn it with a creaking sound. The next moment a very odd figure came into the room. 'Twas a little old woman, and as she glided toward me I sank back on the couch quivering with terror! On, on, she came, and lightly touched my forehead. "My first impulse was to shriek with affright; the impulse was all right, but I just couldn't do it. I must have been paralyzed. I blew first hot and then cold, and then stopped blowing altogether. "So there I lay, stark with fear. But my visitor seemed to be very harmless. She drew up a chair by the side of the bed and took her seat, muttering something I couldn't catch. Then she bent over me and I felt her warm breath on my cheek!... "The situation had changed but slightly when I came to a little later. She was talking. "'Marse Edwin, Marse Edwin, don't yer know yer ole black mammy? Hush-sh-sh, chile, doan' answer me, 'cept in a whisper! I'se done come fer to save yer! I nussed yer when yer was a little baby, and I promised ole Missus always to look arter yer. De sojers is a huntin' fer yer, Marse Edwin; dey's all eround us! Hush-sh-sh!' said she, as I attempted to rise; 'lie still, honey, dey'll sartainly cotch yer if yer goes out now! Dey's sentinils posted everywhar, and dey'll shoot you down like a dog! My poor Marse Edwin,' she wailed, 'why did yer do it? Why did yer do it? Why did yer kill him? He nebber done yer no harm. Why, Gawd bless him, he done sot ole Mammy free! But dar ain't no use talkin' 'bout it now!' She walked up and down the room several times, still muttering, and then peered out of the window. Something in the street attracted her. "'Hush-sh-sh, chile, now's de time! Git up quick, deary, but fer de Lawd's sake doan' make no noise! Follow de ole woman--dis way.' I got up at once and obeyed her. It was a ghastly sort of thing, this Marse Edwin business, but I saw a chance of escape at the bottom of it. We went to the lower part of the house on tip-toe, and the negress, opening the street door, pushed me out into the cool dawn, saying with a shaking voice, 'Run, Marse Edwin, run fer yer life! Watch out for de sojers! Good-bye, Gawd bress you, my lam'!' And I ran, you bet. "Day was breaking when I found myself in the street, and as I emerged from the slightly disreputable neighborhood where I had passed the night I felt sure that a glance in the mirror would show me up a haggard, white-haired wreck. The air was wonderfully reviving, though, and I felt a subtle change stealing over me. An odd, pricking sensation, like one's foot awakening from sleep, gradually took possession of me, and to my horror I appeared to be separating from myself. Any one who has had that feeling knows what it is. At one moment I was the Professor; the next, I was undoubtedly Manysnifters! I found myself walking by the side of one; then, in the twinkling of an eye, with the other. It was not long, however, before I began to get tired of it, so just before I reached the hotel I determined to decide once for all who I was. I felt that it was important I should know. The decision was arrived at by a simple expedient to which I invariably resort whenever I find my judgment wavering. There is no patent on the thing, and I don't mind letting you all into it. Fortunately, I still had my luck-piece--an ancient Roman coin--with me. "'Now,' thought I, 'let the antique beer check decide it. I will cinch this question by tossing up. If it falls heads, I am Manysnifters, and if the reverse appears, I am the Professor. I will abide by the decree of Fate.' "Up went the Denarius, striking the asphalt with a merry ring in its fall. I bent eagerly over it, and lo, the image and superscription of Caesar stared me in the face! "So I was Manysnifters after all, and this fact was further impressed upon me an hour or so later by an enterprising office-seeker, to whom, in my enfeebled state, I fell an easy prey--I endorsed his application for the Nova Zembla consulship." IV AN ACCIDENT--DINNER Colonel Manysnifters's story was very thirst-provoking, and President Madison, our grinning drink-mixer, had a busy half-hour of it. It was now about seven o'clock and we were again overtaken by the storm, which hurled itself upon us, fairly rocking the car in its violence. The train, which had been proceeding slowly and jerkily, now came to a full stop. An avalanche of snow, earth, and loose stones had fallen at the end of a deep cut. Had we been going at any speed an awful catastrophe would have resulted. As it was we were barely moving when we ran into the obstruction. It would be hours before the track could be cleared, and there was no relief in sight. Fortunately, we were well provisioned, and could stand a siege of a day or so in any event. The brakeman set out on his long, hard journey to the nearest telegraph station, swinging his lantern, and swearing picturesquely. Every precaution was taken to guard the train against further accident. Our party accepted the inevitable philosophically. Dinner was announced, and amid the good things provided by our chef we soon forgot our mishap. [Illustration: President Madison.] "Now, gentlemen," said Colonel Manysnifters genially, between the soup and fish, "let's cut out golf, religion, baseball, and politics, and get down to serious subjects. Senator, what is the best poker hand you ever held?" Senator Wendell, thus addressed, said, with a far-away look in his eyes, "Let me see, let me see. Oh, I remember now; it happened twice--three times--or was it three times? Twice I will swear to." "How's that?" "I say it happened twice; I am positive of it--and before the draw, too." "Who was dealing?" asked the Colonel eagerly. "Poker stories barred," said Senator Baker sternly. "Remember, gentlemen, that this is a non-partisan gathering; not only that, but some of us know absolutely nothing about the game. And yet, and yet," said he thoughtfully, as if to himself, "it _is_ a fascinating subject. Why, on one occasion,--I will never forget it,--being right under the guns, I passed without looking at my hand. The man next to me opened the pot, and all the rest stayed. I picked up my cards carelessly, and imagine my delight when I found that I had----" "Senator, Senator," said Van Rensselaer reproachfully, "I am surprised. I didn't think you would go back on the sentiments you so warmly espoused a few moments ago. Let us avoid so agitating a topic. Personally," continued he, slowly and dreamily, as if going into a trance, "I have no objection to the game. I have played it myself, though I do not pose as an expert. Coming over on the steamer last summer--'twas the night before we landed--the game was steep, painfully steep, and nothing friendly about it, with the lid off finally. I was about two thousand to the bad,--it was the consolation round, ending with and up to me,--my deal, and the fellows counting and stacking their chips preparatory to cashing in. I doled the papes with deliberation, and a saddened soul, and skinned my hand carefully. They were hearts--all but one. A seven, four, six, five and a trey of clubs. That's the way they came to me. A nice little straight, but apparently not nice enough. All the fellows stayed, and there was considerable hoisting before the draw. Then the man next to me took one card; the Englishman with the monocle, two; General Thomas, one; the fat man from Cincinnati, three (to his aces), and Doctor McNab stood pat; and then discarding the trey of clubs--foolhardy, very foolhardy, but I did it--I dealt myself one--the eight of hearts! My, how good I felt! The battle was on! Backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards, until one by one the players dropped out, leaving the Doctor and myself to settle it. Doctor McNab saw my three thousand and raised me five. "Five better," said I. "Back at you," said he; the others in the meanwhile keeping tab in their notebooks. "Once again," said I. "And again," said he. "That was about all I could stand, and I called him. With a leer of triumph he threw his hand on the table, face-up, displaying----" "Stop him, stop him!" shouted Mr. Ridley, rising excitedly. "Don't let him take the money! If I'd a knowed you at the time, brother, it never would a happened! I'd a put you wise to that McNab. He ain't no more doctor than I am, and his name ain't McNab either! The scar-faced son of a gun! I've been up against him, and so has Bull; ain't you, Nathan?" "Poker stories are barred, I believe," said the Senator coldly. Mr. Ridley's face was a study. "Well, I'll be damned!" he muttered, with his mouth full of potatoes. "Let's change the subject; there are lots of other things to talk about. I like war stories, myself. Senator," said he, turning to Senator Hammond, "the first time I ever saw you--and then it was some distance off--you were in the biggest kind of a hurry; I never saw a man so anxious to get from here, say, to over there." "When was it? I do not recollect," said the old veteran pleasantly. "Why, at Bull Run; don't you remember Bull Run?" "Do I? Well, I should say I did. You fellows certainly had us going that day, and if you had been smart you would have pushed matters, captured Washington, and thus ended the war, or at least have been in a position to dictate your own terms. As to our retreat, I remember so well the disgusted tones of a staunch Union lady living in Washington, speaking to one of the boys on the night of our return. "'You coward!' she said bitterly, 'to run away at the first fire! Don't you know that the finger of scorn will be pointed at you all the rest of your life?' "'That may be so, lady,' said the soldier doggedly, 'but I'd ruther hev the finger o' scorn pinted at me any time than one o' them damned Rebel cannon!' "And another of the boys limping by, foot-sore and weary, was accosted by this same angry dame, 'You ran, did you? You ran! Shame! Shame! A big fellow like you! Why did you run?' "'I run, mum, 'cause I couldn't _fly_, that's why I run!'" "Yes, quite true; and yet, after all, how like the moon we are," muttered one of the newspaper men disconnectedly. "How so?" inquired Senator Hammond acidly. "Why, here we are, full--gloriously full--on the twentieth of the month, and eight days later, down to our last quarter." "That's bad, very bad, O'Brien," said another scribe mournfully. "Forgive him, Senator. I will have something to say to him later." Withering glances were cast at the unlucky one, who seemed about to sink under the table, and the wind outside howled dismally, and rattled the windows in its rage. [Illustration: Senator Pennypacker.] The situation was steadied somewhat by Senator Pennypacker. The Senator, who entered public life five years ago a poor man, and who, by living economically, saving his pay, and borrowing his chewing tobacco, is at present worth considerably over a million dollars, now favored the company with some sage remarks as to the tendency of the times toward extravagance, the high cost of living in Washington, the iniquity of the boarding-house keepers, and the difficulty he had to make both ends meet. The Senator is a tall, lank, ungainly looking man; thin lipped, with mean, cunning eyes, strained ever for the main chance. A few tufts of reddish hair are flattened on either side of his cranium, and his nose and chin were sharpened on the grindstone of necessity and early hardship into twin beaks. Verily a vulture, battening now on the Trusts, and feared and hated by other birds of smaller body and weaker wing. With him, Selfishness is indeed the main-spring of Ambition! His features are well-known to the public through the medium of those extensive advertisements in the papers heralding the great vegetable remedy "Gee-Soo-Na." His remarks were received in silence, though a careful observer might have noticed an exchange of solemn winks between Colonel Manysnifters and Sammy Ridley. "Oh, he is the stingy one, all right," Colonel Manysnifters confided later to Mr. Ridley. "He is the kind of fellow who would send his best girl a box of candy Saturday morning, and call around Sunday night and eat it all up." When the Senator had fully delivered himself, some one brought up the negro question. "They certainly are the limit in Washington," said Colonel Manysnifters. "The sassy black rascals seem to think they own the town. And nigger policemen, too! Think of a white man being arrested by a nigger policeman!" "I do not see why lawbreakers should object to the color of the man who gathers them in," said Van Rensselaer sarcastically. "We Southerners do, anyway," retorted the Colonel hotly. "You Southerners should behave yourselves, then there would be no trouble," observed Senator Hammond dryly. "Well, that's all right, now," said Colonel Manysnifters, flaring up, "we don't expect you Northerners to feel as we do about it! We----" "Come, come, Manysnifters," said Senator Bull pacifically, "don't get excited. Don't let the 'nigger in the wood-pile' spoil this occasion. Calm yourself." "Oh, I'm not excited. It takes a lot to excite me," said the Colonel; "but just to give you an idea of how things are going in Washington, a cousin of mine from Atlanta, a kindly disposed chap as ever lived, meeting an old negress on the street there the other day, said to her, 'Well, Auntie, how are you this bright morning?' "'Huh!' exclaimed the old woman angrily, 'Auntie! Don't you call me no Auntie! I ain't yoh aunt, and I ain't yoh uncle; I'se yoh ekal!' Now wouldn't that jar you? That's the way the niggers feel about it in Washington." "Forget it, Manysnifters," urged Senator Bull, "forget it. Give the colored brother a show. He will work out his own salvation." "At the end of a rope," growled the Colonel. "Be charitable, sir, be charitable," said Senator Pennypacker ponderously. "The negro problem lies with the white people of the South. They will solve it. Give them time. Perhaps they may find "'With keen, discriminating sight, Black's not so black, Nor white's so very white!'" "Oh, we will solve it all right," said Colonel Manysnifters knowingly, "trust us for that. Only--you Northern folks keep your hands off. That's all we ask!" Mr. Ridley, to soothe the fiery Southerner, poured out a generous libation, and the dark cloud rolled over. V SENATOR BULL'S STORY When we returned to the observation car Senator Bull was unanimously called to the chair. "I shall hark back to my boyhood days," said he, "and relate an incident in my early life, and its sequel when I attained man's estate. I suppose all of us have had experiences which have more than once brought home the weight of that bewhiskered old maxim--'Truth is stranger than fiction.' "There were twelve of us--Bert Martin, Joey Scott, Tom Hyland, Georgie Morris, Jake Milburn, Bob Hardee, Lannie Sudduth, Owen Prouty, Alf Rush, Ed Ross, Dolph Levy, and myself. The Forestburg Rifles we called ourselves. Ed Ross was captain, and Lannie Sudduth and Bob Hardee, lieutenants. There were no other officers, for that would have left too few privates; but, as it was, our nine men marching single file and wide apart made a fine showing. Owen Prouty limping bravely along, brought up the rear. 'That lame Prouty boy' was the gamest fellow in the command and it nearly broke his heart when we marched away in earnest in sixty-one, and left him behind--the leader of the home-guard. "The Rifles were armed with wooden guns, and drilled twice a week in Bert Martin's barn--drilled with almost the same precision and attention to the manual as we _had_ to do in later years. Ed Ross was a strict disciplinarian even then, and awfully in earnest. Indeed, we all were for that matter. When the notion is strong upon them, young folks beat their elders all hollow at that sort of thing. Every Saturday afternoon at three o'clock, weather permitting, we met at our armory, and after some preliminary maneuvers marched down High Street. Old Cush Woodberry and the other loafers at Horton's would come out on the platform in front of the store and review the troops. The interest those lazy fellows took in us was astonishing. Old Cush even volunteered one day to give us some instructions in tactics, but our gallant captain courteously declined. There were others, though, who did not admire us so much. The green-eyed monster reigned supreme over on Liberty Street, and around by the court-house lot. There the country lads in town for Saturday market were entrenched, and they jeered at us enviously from the line of wagons drawn up in battle array. Occasionally a rotten apple or potato would sail through the air in our direction, but we marched past our tormentors stiffly erect, and apparently unconscious. Had our numbers been stronger we would have joyfully stormed the enemy's works, but the country boys were bigger than we, and vastly more numerous; so with us discretion was indeed the better part of valor. "The Rifles were organized just after school broke up, and flourished all that summer; a remarkable thing for Forestburg boys, for we were a squabbling lot, prone to quarrel and fight upon the slightest provocation. But in some way our captain held us together--just as he did afterward at Antietam and Gettysburg. Dear old chap, he holds us still! "In early September we received our colors. Up to that time Owen Prouty had carried a small flag on his musket, but it had never been dignified as the company's colors. Our real flag was given to us by the little McDermott girl, and the giving was done so prettily and sweetly that our boyish hearts were touched--and this is saying a good deal. Not, indeed, that the Forestburg boys were rougher than other boys, for I guess they are all pretty much alike; but we had been taught to hate and shun the McDermotts. They were newcomers, and Danny McDermott had been a Young Irelander, or something else equally as dreadful. Then, too, Forestburg was a Knownothing stronghold, and we fell naturally into our daddies' way of thinking. So we roundly snubbed the pleasant-faced Danny and his family whenever we had a chance, and the fellows at school used to bully Terence, the son, most atrociously. Yet as we marched by the McDermotts' on Saturday afternoons little Katie would always run out to the gate delightedly and wave a large flag, and after a while we came to look upon the little golden-haired child and her flag as quite a feature of our parade. Finally, one day she stepped into the street, and with a quaint curtsy presented the flag, garlanded with roses and buttercups, to our captain. The command was at once ordered to halt, and all eyes were fixed upon Ed and the blushing child. "'Attention!' shouted Captain Ross. We obeyed and looked straight ahead as good soldiers should, with a sly glance out of the corners of our eyes at our leader. But Ed knew just what to do. He faced about sharply, and made a low bow to the lady, took the flag held out to him, and then made a speech. Ed Ross was always a fine talker, and had won the elocution prize at school the year before. On this occasion he fairly surpassed himself. I have often thought of it since. At our next meeting we unanimously elected Miss Katherine Burke McDermott an honorary member of the Rifles. Tom Ryland's sister drew up the resolutions, and they were very beautiful. * * * * * "It was a sultry afternoon, and the little jury-room was suffocating. The fight for a life which had raged out in the gloomy court-room for two weeks or more was now transferred to the ten by twelve cubby-hole where we had been cooped up since noon. The evidence against the prisoner was overwhelming, but some of the jurors still wavered as to their clear duty. Eight of us were for murder in the first degree; the others were in the same frame of mind, I am sure, but tantalizingly slow about saying so. It looked like an all-night struggle. "Thrice since midday had Sheriff Watkins popped in his red head and asked if we had agreed upon a verdict, and as often had he angrily withdrawn. Watkins had a profound contempt for juries in general, and our jury in particular. According to the sheriff, the case of Commonwealth against Hardy was decided, and decided fully, when Dillingham finished his speech. Dillingham was the prosecuting attorney, and Watkins worshipped him down to the ground. Watkins was therefore clearly prejudiced, but in this instance his views were undeniably sound. "The court, despairing and thirsty, had adjourned to meet at seven o'clock. In the jury-room all arguments for and against the stand taken by the unshaken eight seemed exhausted. The hours dragged wearily by. At half-past five o'clock, to our great surprise, three of the obstinate crowd came over to our way of thinking. Whether stern duty, our mutual discomfort, or the prospect of another night away from their families wrought this, I know not. So then, with the single exception of Colonel Ross, we were all for stringing up the prisoner. "Colonel Ross still stuck out doggedly for a milder punishment--anything to save the poor devil's life, he said. For the first time in my career I rebelled against the judgment of my old friend, and for the first time found myself arrayed against him, and the novelty of the situation was far from agreeable. The clock in the town hall struck six, and the whistles down at Thayer's mill blew furiously. The Colonel was biting the ends of his mustache and gazing moodily into the crowded street below. I went up to him and put my hand on his shoulder. "'Now, Colonel,' said I, in my most persuasive tones, 'can't you make up your mind to join us in this thing? We are all agreed except yourself. God knows we have no personal feeling against Hardy. We are simply doing what we think is our duty, and a mighty nasty one it is, too! You know that. But we owe something to society--society, whose structure was shaken to its very foundation by the perpetration of this crime! (Dillingham's own words.) The prisoner is clearly guilty. Why, the fellow practically confesses it. We ought to put some stop to the killing and general rascality up there in the settlement. Our section is fast becoming a monstrous blot on the fair name of the Commonwealth! (Dillingham again.) What is there left for us to do but carry out the law? What is there left for----' My voice died away weakly. Something in the Colonel's face effectually blasted my budding eloquence. At that moment I felt myself a greater criminal than Hardy or any of his gang. "Colonel Ross tapped the floor impatiently with his crutch. He was a testy man, but much was borne from him. [Illustration: Colonel Ross addressing the jury.] "'Gentlemen,' said he, his eyes flashing, 'I verily think that the good God above in His great wisdom and mercy picked out this jury Himself. I am sure He did. Now, listen to me. It will not take long. "'We have all had a tedious two weeks of it, haven't we? The weather has been warm; our business neglected; some of us have sick ones at home we are anxious to see; and we are all losing our health and temper in this close confinement. And I by no means omit the dreadful meals at the Darby House. But, gentlemen, rather than come over to you and hang Eph Hardy, I would stay here forever! Not, indeed, that there is any danger of that, for the Judge will discharge us pretty soon if we do not come to terms. But I can at least go to my home with nothing to haunt me the rest of my life. I can at least close my eyes at night without fear of troubled dreams or hours of unrest. And I thank God for it. "'Now, my friends, while all that we've gone through has been wearing on a fellow, it has not been without interest. You have doubtless heard and gazed in wonder at "the cloud of witnesses" the defense and prosecution have summoned for this case. You have listened open-mouthed to the fine eloquence of the lawyers. You have seen, day after day, the fashionable city folk, who have come down to our little town, troop in and take their seats--and the reporters, and the men with the cameras, and the hungry-looking "poor whites." Now, gentlemen, of course you have seen and heard all this, and of course you have been duly impressed. _I_ have been, I grant you; but of late there has been but one thing in that court-room I could see; but one thing that interested me, and held my attention to the exclusion of all else. I don't suppose you know what I mean. It is this--back, 'way back by the door a little woman has been in torture, such torture as I hope you will never know. I cannot keep my eyes from that shabbily dressed figure; from that white, tear-stained face. Again and again I have seen her veil drawn down, and the poor creature shaking with grief. At first I did not know her, though I guessed. Watkins told me about her. She is the prisoner's mother. "'When Dillingham was putting in his finishing touches this morning I thought of _my_ mother. _She_ was like that when they brought my brother Archie home. You remember Archie--and the day he was drowned? We were all in swimming that Sunday, you know, and Parson Moore said it was a judgment, but my poor mother could not bring herself to think so. "'Well, the Hardy woman called to mind mother when they told her about Archie. That same awful, awful look of despair. "'As I said before, I see the hand of God in the choosing of this jury.' The Colonel eyed us almost exultingly. "'Boys! Attention!' Mechanically we old soldiers arose and faced about, obeying our Colonel as of yore. The order was electrical, and set us tingling with expectation. Something else was surely coming. "The Colonel bowed profoundly to an imaginary person at his side. "'Boys, listen! I accept this flag from your fair hands in behalf of my men and myself. Mere words fail to express our thanks, but in deeds most glorious will we attest our love for you, and the Stars and Stripes!'--or something like that--all very childish and grandiloquent, but we kept our word, didn't we? And again--picture it to yourselves, now--Bob Hardee's barn; your captain in the chair; Private Ryland rises, and offers the following: "Be it Resolved, that Miss Katherine Burke McDermott be, and hereby is, elected an honorary member for life in the Forestburg Rifles, and that we swear to cherish and protect her forever." That was the gist of it, I believe, and there were other resolutions regarding the same young lady, which have unfortunately escaped my memory. But, boys, need I remind you that these resolutions were adopted unanimously? O, let them bind us still! That broken-hearted woman in there was once the little golden-haired lass to whom we were so loyal in the long ago. Shall we not be loyal to-day? It isn't justice, and it isn't law; but, boys, we've got to save that fellow's life--now, haven't we?' "An hour later we entered the court-room. The woman over by the door looked up with a faint flush on her face. Hope had made it radiant. She knew that 'The Rifles' would never vote to take her boy's life! "And she was right. "We acquitted him. "The verdict was heard in absolute silence. Then there was a slight stir in the rear of the room. Nothing, after all; only--a woman had fainted. It was hot in the court-room that night, and no place for women, anyhow, as Colonel Ross gruffly remarked at the time. "But there were tears in his eyes." VI REPRESENTATIVE HOLLOWAY HAS THE FLOOR At the conclusion of Senator Bull's story President Madison was again requisitioned, and a crap game which was in lively progress in the dining-car was thus rudely disturbed. "Tell us, Holloway, about your nomination and election to Congress. Was it not somewhat in the nature of a surprise?" asked Congressman Van Rensselaer. "Very much so. It will hardly make a story, but if you would like to hear how it happens that the --th District of Illinois is represented in Congress by a Democrat for the first time in its history, here goes--but mind you, now, I don't pretend to be in Senator Bull's class as a story teller. "It was a piping hot day in August, and Harrisville at its worst. Whenever a vehicle passed, clouds of dust floated in at the windows and settled upon my books, my papers, and covered my green baize table with an infinitesimal section of H---- County real estate. Even the slumberer on the sofa was not exempt. His usually ruddy face had become ashen, and his snoring was developing into a series of choking gasps. It was fearful, this dust,--alkaline, penetrating, stifling,--and from such soil the raw-boned, hard-featured men of H---- wrung a living. And I, sharing their narrow lives, began to understand the true significance of the word 'onery' as applied to us by our more prosperous and ofttimes just exasperated neighbors. "It was court day, and I had just come in after a stiff tussle with a pig-headed judge, an irritating opposing counsel, and a H---- County jury. I thought of old Uncle Peter Whitehead, 'The onriest critters in the whole State of Illinoy come out o' H----! Thar ain't no tellin' which way an H---- County jury's a goin' to jump. The law and the facts ain't nothin' ter them, it's jest the way they are feelin' that particler day and minnit. If so happen they got outer bed the wrong foot furrard that mornin', then it's good-by ter the pris'ner, and hell fer the lawyer that's defendin' him!' "Court had adjourned until two o'clock, leaving the fate of my client undecided, and I came into my office, tired-out, warm, and exceedingly anxious. Clearing Thad Hawley meant a great deal to me just then. It was my first important case, and I felt that my future would be decided in a great measure by its outcome. If the twelve stolid farmers upon whom I had showered my eloquence went Fraley-ward in their verdict, I knew that my professional goose would be cooked, and visions of a move to some distant bailiwick rose up before me. Fraley and Hicks would then monopolize the Harrisville practice, and perhaps in a year or so some other fledgling would rise up in his ignorance and be as ruthlessly cut down as I had been. "Yes, I was worried, and the sight of Andrew Sale asleep on my sofa did not tend to soothe that feeling. At any time a visit from the county chairman would have been most unwelcome, but now it was an exhibition of unmitigated gall! Another contribution, I supposed, angrily eyeing the sleeper. I had been the 'good thing' for Sale and his crowd for some years past, and had pretty well resolved to cut loose from them--and politics. I thought of the many ambitious young fellows I knew who had been permanently injured while hovering around the political flame. Some, indeed, were burned to death, others are floundering through life on crippled wings; all were more or less singed, both morally and financially. My experience thus far had been a financial singe, and the last scorching was still fresh and quivering. Only the week before I had given Sale my check for quite a tolerable sum, and then as soon as he had left my office, kicked myself for doing so. The money, he said, was to go toward defraying the expenses of the nominating convention, which was to meet at Shawnee on the twenty-first, and as a good man and true I had to 'cough up' with the rest of them. "And here he was again! "As I glared at him the chairman turned over uneasily, sputtered, sneezed, opened his eyes, and sat up, staring stupidly. "'How're you? How're you?' he roared, wiping his face with a grimy handkerchief. 'Ain't this dust awful? There ain't no doing anything with it. If you put the winders down you'll smother with the heat, and if you leave 'em up, you'll choke to death. Hobson's choice, eh? Ha, ha! And all that prayin' for rain on Sunday, too. Providence's ways is certainly beyond us--ain't they? Well, I rather guess _this_ visit 'll surprise ye.' "'It does, Mr. Sale, it does!' said I warmly. 'You know I told you when you were here the other day that I could not--you know damn well that----' "'Now, now, now,' said he soothingly, holding up his hand, 'don't do that! You're on the wrong tack, Mister, 'deed you are. There's another guess a comin' to you. It ain't money we want this time, no, siree! Money don't cut no ice this trip, though it _is_ a mighty handy thing to have a jinglin' in your jeans--ain't it? No, it ain't the "sinews," as Jim McGubbin calls it; it's _you_, Mr. Holloway; it's _you_, sir!' "'Me, Mr. Sale?' "'Yes, sir; you. Why it's as plain as the nose on your face, Mr. Holloway, and that is--the Democratic party of the --th deestric' is pretty unanimous on _one_ thing anyhow, this year. I'll admit we ain't come to no final decision on our platform, but we air pretty generally agreed on our candi_date_, and that's the Honrubble Andrew Jackson Holloway--yourself, sir! That's why I am here to-day. When I heerd you speakin' in court just now, I turned and says to Jim McGubbin, says I, "That there's the voice that'll wake 'em up in Congress." I felt just like the old feller in the Bible. The sperrit of prophecy was on me. And Jim he agreed with me. Jim's got the Shawnee organization right under his thumb, same as--'tween you and me--I've got H----. McGubbin's out and out for Holloway. "Holloway and Reform!" That's our cry this year. I seen Potter James and old Pete Whitehead over to Andrewville yesterday, and they'll fetch their people in line for you all right. If you'll make the run, we'll elect you sure; and that ain't no lie.' "Sale, a big man with a loud voice, impressive tones, and masterful ways, overpowered me. "'Sit down, Mr. Sale,' I said weakly, 'sit down. Let us talk it over. This nomination--it is a great honor, I am sure--I can scarcely tell you how flattered--how----' "'Oh, that's all right, that's all right,' said he, beaming. 'I know'd you'd be a little, well--flustered, eh?--when I fust broke the news to you, and I don't say but what it isn't perfectly natural, too. These things don't happen to a man every day, and especially to--beggin' your pardon--to a man as young as yourself, sir. But the Democratic party of the --th deestric' of Illinoy knows a good thing when they sees it.' Sale's unconscious sarcasm hurt me. 'I have sounded them to the bottom,' he went on, 'and it's Holloway, Holloway, Holloway, everywhere. Now you'll let us put you up, won't you? There ain't no earthly doubt 'bout your gettin' the nomination. Harrison may give old Colonel Harrison its vote on the first ballot, just as a compliment, you know; and I'll admit that down Hall City way there's some talk of Sile Munyon, but there ain't nothin' to it. We'll prick the Munyon boom before it's bigger'n a pea. We'll fix things, you bet. And we'll elect you, too! It's a good job to hold down--that of being a Congressman; it ain't the office so much as it is the purgatives that go with it. I'd like to go to Congress myself. Maybe I will some day. Well, as I was goin' to say, I driv over to the Courthouse Sunday, and saw the boys there, and I talked them into the right way o' thinkin'. They are all O. K. "'There's a deal of grumblin' and dissatisfaction 'mongst the Republicans just now. Sam Thorne ain't done the square thing by the gang that 'lected him, and they are mighty sore over it. Washington's kinder turned his head. He's got awful stuck up of late, and wears a long-tailed coat and beaver hat all the time. And that 'pointment of Ben McConnell postmaster of Liberty has hurt Thorne and the Republican party a heap all over the deestric'. Ben McConnell never voted the Republican ticket but twicst in his life. Up to two years ago he was a red-hot Democrat, and no one down in their hearts, Republican or Democrat, has any use for a turncoat. I take it all in all, he is the most onpopular man in Illinoy to-day. His conduct is as hard to swaller as a dose of them old Greek twins, Castor Oil and Politics, we use to wrastle with at school. Of course in political life, like in ordinary life, you have to eat a peck o' dirt before you die, but you don't have to eat it all at oncst like he's a doin'! Why, old war-horses, Republicans all their lives, were turned down for this here upstart! It's done the party a deal of harm. And then, as I said before, Sam Thorne's confounded airs is making everybody sick. No one ever thought anything of the Thornes when I fust grew up. They wasn't no better'n any one else. Sam Thorne's father was the clerk of the court at Liberty, and a darned poor one at that, as I have often heard my father say. I went to school with Sam, and many's the thrashin' I have given him, but that's neither here nor there. "'Oh, we've got 'em this time, sure! Yes, they're going to run Thorne again. He's got hold of a wad there in Washington, and can buy up the whole convention if need be. I wouldn't trust any of them Republicans. The Democratic party is above sech doin's. We stand for purity, patriotism--the whole bag o' tricks! Ha, ha! And politics, I guess, is like everything else. So long as you stick to the Thirteenth Commandment, you'll get there without any trouble.' "'The Thirteenth Commandment'? [Illustration: "--Stick to the Thirteenth Commandment!"] "'Yes, the Thirteenth--"Thou shalt not be found out," you know. Oh, we'll fix the Thorne gang as sure's you're born to die! My luck'll carry you through. It sure will! A chiropodist in Chicago once told me that there was a terribul commotion in the heavens when I was born. Venus was bit by the Dog Star--or some sech foolishness--all of which went to show that I come on the earth at jest the right diabolical moment. And I guess the fellow knew what he was a talkin' about, with his maps, and charts, and things. Anyway, I've got no kick comin'. I have always had the best o' good luck, and I'll pass it on to you.' "Sale was a good talker, and carried everything before him. Now and then I managed to slip in a word or two in feeble protest, but he swept away all my objections with the same easy movement that he chased off the flies from his face. "When I looked at my watch it was ten minutes before two o'clock. Sale was going out into the hot street, jubilant, and I was the more than probable nominee of the Democratic party of the --th district for Congress! I knew that Sale would make good his word; and, having given it, I would stick to mine. But my tempter out of the way, I writhed and groaned under my folly and weakness. I grabbed up my hat, and hurried back to court as in a nightmare. The Hawley case went against me, but it paled into insignificance by the side of my newer and greater misfortune. "For Sale had hypnotized me! "Of course I was nominated. Nominated with shouts, and cat-calls, and much unearthly clamor. Nominated on the second ballot to the eternal confusion of the Munyon crowd, who afterward, I have been told, bolted the ticket and voted solidly for my Republican opponent. I made a speech, and was wildly cheered, then dragged in Lum Atkins's buggy to my hotel by an army of yelling partisans. I was interviewed by reporters, photographed by an enthusiastic young woman on the _Argus_ staff, and made in every way to feel that I was one of the truly great. But I knew otherwise. "In the months following I hobnobbed lovingly with every heeler, ward-worker, and thug in that part of the State. My bar'l was tapped, and well tapped. The stubs in my check-book are mutely eloquent. Then the press got in its fine work. When the opposition sheets were through with me not a shred of character had I left. I shivered in my moral nakedness, one enterprising journal said, and that is just about what I did. My public appearances--on the stump, and on the rostrum--afforded rare fun for the other side. I was not an orator--never claimed to be one--and of course they made the most of it. I spoke my little piece as well as I could, but my opponent was known as 'The Silver-tongued Demosthenes of Illinois'--or something like that--so where did I come in? And how those newspaper fellows did enjoy it all! God bless them! They have proven good friends of mine since, but their sharpened quills were fiery darts to me in those days! "And I was otherwise discouraged. My encounter with big Bill Such of Sangamon left him, as before, the undisputed rough and tumble champion of middle Illinois. My people at home, too, were solidly against me. Life-long Republicans, as they had always been, they felt that I had disgraced them, and showed it very plainly. As the standard-bearer of a party upon whose banners Victory had never perched, at least so far as my district was concerned, I was indeed the leader of a forlorn and ragged hope; but my blood was up, and I was determined at least to make a better showing than any other Democrat had done. "But it was an expensive ambition. "Election day rolled around, and I spent the greater part of the time driving to and from the polling places in my own county. I was particularly anxious to carry H----, even though all the other counties failed me. That would soften the blow to the family pride, I thought. Not a morsel of food passed my lips during the whole of that trying fifth of November. From sunrise to sunset I never left my buggy, except once to vote, and at nightfall I was fairly done up. When all was over I was too tired-out to await returns at headquarters, so I turned in quite early, only venturing to hope that the fate of Judkins would not be mine. For Judkins, a recent victim, had been so overwhelmingly defeated in the spring elections that he had retired from the political arena in disgust; anathematizing politics in general and the politics of the --th district in particular. Then, in his weak and shattered condition, he fell into the arms of the eldest Parsons girl, who had been stalking him for, lo, these many years! "I slept as soundly as though trouble, sorrow, and Congressional elections had never been; and in the morning came the surprise. "I was elected by an enormous majority! "I can not explain this phenomenon; they are still trying to do that out my way. It was an upheaval, with the great Democratic party and its astonished candidate very much on top. Its like will never occur again in my State; not in my district, anyhow. A recent Republican gerrymander will prevent that. Andrew Sale says he did it. Maybe he did; I don't know." "It was Fate--f-a-t-e--Fate!" said Colonel Manysnifters, solemnly. "There's no avoiding it. My sainted parents, both good Presbyterians in their day, would doubtless have urged predestination. That may be it. Your election to Congress was something you couldn't side-step. Nor, by the same token, can I. Only when I am nominated, I don't worry any more. There _is_ a general election, I believe, but that doesn't fret me much. We have eliminated the opposition down our way--perfectly legal and statutory. Oh, yes. There _are_ a few 'lily-white' votes cast on the other side, they tell me,--sort of a registered kick for conscience's sake, I suppose,--but it is just a matter of form, and nobody gets excited over it. They are trifles lighter than air, yet-- "'Small things should not unheeded be, Nor atoms due attention lack, We all know well the miseree Occasioned by an unseen tack!' "And again: "'Little drops of water, Little grains of sand Make contractors' mortar That is used throughout the land.'" "Well," said Sammy Ridley, drawing a deep breath when the Colonel was through, "I may be a damn fool, but I am no poet!" VII REPRESENTATIVE VAN RENSSELAER UNFOLDS A STRANGE TALE "And now, Van Rensselaer," said Colonel Manysnifters, "it's around to you. I reckon you have something up your sleeve that will surprise us, eh?" The debonair Congressman from the Empire State was quite equal to the occasion. He seemed primed and ready, and needed no further urging. There was another hiss of soda, the clink of glasses, and with a prolonged sigh of satisfaction he began. "This is a true tale, and unfolded now for the first time. Harken unto the evidence. "It was a lovely afternoon in early spring, and 'The Avenue' was alive with a leisurely moving throng--for no one hurries in Washington. I strolled along, thoroughly enjoying the balmy weather, the crowds, and the charm of it all. About four o'clock hundreds of government clerks streamed out sluggishly from the side streets. At the crossings fakirs were busy, their customers good-naturedly elbowing each other in their eagerness to be swindled. And violets everywhere! The air was filled with the scent of them. Men, women, and children with trays piled high with the tiny purple and white flowers were doing a tremendous business; their customers ranging from dignified statesmen to the loudly dressed Afro-American gayly swinging along. Out of the fashionable Northwest came many carriages, passing from the grim shadow of the Treasury into the sunlit way beyond. The trend of movement was eastward--always eastward--toward the great white dome on the hill. Congress was in session, and history was making there. The war debate was on in all its fury, with the whole world listening breathlessly. Pictures of the ill-fated _Maine_ were much in evidence, and maps of Cuba in the shop windows were closely scanned. The probability of war with Spain was loudly and boastfully discussed by seedy looking men in front of the cheaper hotels and restaurants. Extra editions of the New York papers with huge scare headlines were eagerly bought up. The latest news from the Capitol--_via_ New York--was seized upon with avidity. The papers were filled with the rumored departure of the American Consul-General from Havana. 'Twas said that he was coming direct to Washington. His portrait and the _Maine_ lithographs were hung side by side, and the people spoke of 'Our Fitz' with enthusiastic affection. The President and his Cabinet were roundly censured for their policy of moderation. Much whiskey and beer was consumed by thirsty patriots. The pent-up feeling of the people found relief here and there by loud cheering--especially at the bulletin boards. Tiny Cuban flags were worn. Crossed American and Cuban flags were everywhere displayed. "The De Lome incident--the intercepted letter of the imprudent Spanish Minister, and his subsequent disgrace and recall--was another much-discussed topic. It was an open secret, especially among the newspaper fraternity and others in the know, that the former minister had dispensed with lavish hand a corruption fund to influence writers on the American press. A little clique of journalists in and around the Capitol had profited greatly. Information about alleged filibuster movements found a ready market at the Spanish legation. These, and a dozen other subjects relative to the momentous events then impending, occupied the thoughts of a highly excited public. "That walk down Pennsylvania Avenue from the Treasury to the Capitol opened my eyes wider than ever to the fact that the popular clamor was for war, war, the sooner the better. The sentiment in Washington voiced that of the entire country. Similar scenes were occurring in all the large cities, and I could fancy the crowd at the home post-office waiting for the latest Buffalo papers, hear the warm debate at Steve Warner's, and see Major Kirkpatrick haranguing the boys from the steps of the city hall; which, in fact, he did. (See the Hiram _Intelligencer_ of that date.) "Henley of Iowa had the floor when I took my seat in the House. The galleries were filled. It was warm in the chamber, and fans, bright bits of color, waved briskly. In the Diplomatic gallery the representatives of many nations seemed anxious and absorbed. Subdued murmurs of applause, like the hum of a mighty hive, arose at the telling points of the speech, which was for war! war! war! The galleries reeked with enthusiasm, and quailed not before the stern eye of the Speaker. "Notwithstanding Henley's fiery eloquence, I was desperately sleepy, having been up late the night before; indeed, there were streaks of rosy light in the eastern sky when I reached my hotel. I found myself nodding at my desk, and it was with an effort that I turned to the work which had accumulated before me. An enormous mail had arrived. The usual place-hunting letters from constituents, a petition from the Women's Christian Temperance Union of Hiram Center protesting against the sale of liquor at the Capitol, invitations to dine, a tempting mining prospectus, circulars without number, and at the bottom of the pile a square blue affair with the Washington postmark. I gave it my immediate attention. The letter began abruptly, and ran as follows: "'Ah, senor, have you forgotten Saratoga, and the little Mercedes? Have you forgotten your promise to the Cuban girl? Surely not! The pain in my heart you must well understand, for I know that _you_ love _your_ country very dearly. I read your speeches--all of them--I read them in the papers, but not a word for Cuba--my poor, bleeding Cuba! And yet you swore to me that night on the veranda, with the moon shining so softly through the vines, that your voice would ever be raised for Cuba--Cuba Libre! Would I have kissed you else? Now, dear friend, when you make one of your beautiful speeches again, think of Cuba, my gasping, dying Cuba, and "'MERCEDES. "'P. S.--I am in Washington, at the Arlington.--M.' "This was interesting, to say the least. Of course, I remembered Mercedes, and old Villasante, her fat papa, and Manuel the brother, and Alejandro the cousin. Yes, I remembered them all very well and the night on the veranda, with the moon shining softly through the vines, the music floating out to us from the ballroom, the innumerable bumpers with Manuel Villasante, Carlos Amezaga, Alejandro Menendez, and others of the Cuban colony at the hotel. Also the promise made to my lovely partner as to the voice for Cuba--Cuba Libre!--when I took my seat in Congress; the warm pressure of her arms around my neck--and the kiss! How could I forget it? But that was two summers ago, and my views now and then were vastly different. Whatever I may have said under the combined witchery of Mercedes, the moonlight, and the champagne was not to be seriously considered now. Like all Americans and lovers of liberty, I thought of course that Cuba should be free, that she should make every effort toward that much-to-be-desired end, but the idea of my own country stepping in to aid her did not strongly appeal to me. While Cuban affairs elicited the warmest interest in the States, those of our people who had actively assisted the patriots had become involved in endless trouble both with the home government and that of Spain. Filibustering was severely frowned upon, and many recent attempts had proven most disastrous, jeopardizing both the lives of the 'patriots' and the _entente cordiale_ between two great and friendly nations. The blowing up of the _Maine_, undoubtedly the work of Cuban insurgents in order to hasten hostilities with Spain, had rendered the situation most acute. Pledged to the Administration, I was a conservative of conservatives. I was therefore opposed to any interference in Cuban affairs, and I regarded a conflict with Spain as the height of folly. I was determined to fight to the bitter end any measure for war. [Illustration: The Kiss!] "With all this in mind, I tore up the fair Cuban's letter and threw it into the waste-basket. At that very moment a page hurried to my side and handed me a card. "Manuel Villasante was waiting to see me! "I went out to him most reluctantly. He greeted me with enthusiasm; his delight amounting almost to rapture. I am afraid I did not meet him half way, nor anywhere near it. He did not appear to notice it. "'My dear, dear friend,' said he, 'this is a sublime moment! To see _you_, the gay companion, the good fellow, the butterfly, I may say, of other days, a member of this great body is certainly soul-stirring! So you have realized your ambition? What next? The Senate? And then--then?' he pointed upward, 'higher yet? and still higher? Ha! The White House? Who knows?' he whispered prophetically. "I cast my eyes modestly to the floor. "'This is quite enough for me, or any other good American; but, Senor, tell me about your father and the Senorita, your sister; are they well? And how long have you been in Washington? It is certainly good to see you again.' "'We are all here for a few days--my father, my sister, and I. You know we are living in New York this winter?' "'In New York, eh? Fine! It is strange,' I continued, 'but I was thinking of you and your family the very moment your card was brought in.' "'Ah, my friend,' he said mysteriously, 'you know what it is, do you not? It is the mental telepathy. I have known of things most wonderful to happen by the mental telepathy. Only yesterday my sister Mercedes----' "'Quite right,' said I, heading him off, and remembering something I had read not long before, 'it is indeed a wonderful, subtle thing. We live in the midst of the unknown. Unseen forces drag us hither and thither. At times we are brought face to face with the occult, the eerie, the gruesome. Charcot says in his superb work on the subject that--er--that--well, we will hardly go into it now. Some other time. The matter is a profound one, and not to be touched upon lightly. How is my old friend Alejandro Menendez?' "'He is well, but--sh! Caution! Are we quite safe here? Yes? It is a great secret, but I tell _you_--you, a trusted friend. I tell you all! Alejandro Menendez is at this very moment approaching the shores of our beloved isle! I can see it now--the beautiful yacht, the calm blue sea, the brave patriots, and our glorious flag floating in the breeze! And a more magnificent body of men never set forth in a grander cause; with hearts full of courage and high purpose to fight, aye, to die, in the sacred cause of Liberty!' "'That's great!' said I, with a burst of false enthusiasm, 'great! never heard anything better in my life! Villasante, old fellow, put it there! I admire your ner--feeling!' And we clasped hands. "'And you will join them?' I added. "'No, not yet,' he said, with an expressive shrug; 'I am more needed elsewhere; here--in New York. There is money to be raised, arms and ammunition to be procured, sympathies to enlist, influence to gain. Later, I will see Alejandro, and the beautiful _Sylph_.' "'The what?' I asked, rising excitedly. "'The _Sylph_--the _Sylph_--queen of vessels! Senor Robson's yacht. Senor Robson--the tall handsome fellow who was with us at the Spa. You know him.' "'Know him? Of course I know him! Robson? Robson a filibuster? Impossible!' "'Why so?' asked the Cuban coldly. "'Hell, man!' I said, 'don't you realize what it all means?--certain failure, disgrace, death! My God, what folly!' "'Never, never!' shouted Villasante, waving his arms. 'Glory awaits them! The plaudits of the world! The embraces and blessings of a freed people! Laurel wreaths shall crown their brows! Poets shall chant their praises! History will render them immortal! Oh, what an opportunity is theirs! And everything has been most carefully planned. 'Twas Robson's own idea. A picked lot of men, with rifles and ammunition. He to command the vessel; Menendez to assume the lead on landing. Their destination, co-operation with the patriots on shore, supplies--everything has been arranged for. As to their success, I have no fear whatsoever!' "I was aghast! The thought that my hare-brained cousin was engaged in such a foolhardy expedition was maddening. I loved the boy as a brother--indeed he _was_ my foster-brother, brought up in my own family, and regarded as one of us. The Cuban studied my face curiously. "'Senor,' said he gravely, 'knowing your sentiments, I came here to-day for advice. There is much more to be told. Every moment is precious. To-morrow in New York----' "'Stop!' I thundered, 'you have gone too far already! There is some mistake. You are laboring under a delusion. I will tell you frankly, Villasante, that you misjudge me. Many things have happened since I saw you at Saratoga two years ago. My views upon public questions have changed, as a more intimate acquaintance with any subject is apt to effect. I should like to see your country self-governed, the Spanish yoke overthrown, and liberty in its best sense gained; but the United States must keep her hands off! It would mean war with a friendly nation, an ancient ally. In other words, there would be the Devil to pay! Can't you see our position in the matter?' "'Caramba!' (or something like that) exclaimed Villasante excitedly, walking up and down, and clenching his fists. 'Your country _must_ aid us! We can not free ourselves--quite impossible! We are weak; Spain is mighty! For centuries she has held us in her torturing grasp! It has been a continual drain of our blood, our pride, our gold, and all that goes to make for the self-respect and prosperity of a nation! Cuba is desolated! She cries for aid--first to you; if unheeded, then to the whole world! Shall the Pearl of the Antilles fall to Germany, France, or England?' "'Not while the Monroe Doctrine is respected and enforced, as it will be!' said I spread-eagle-ly. "'Your Monroe Doctrine, bah, I care not _that_ for it!' said he, snapping his fingers. 'Let the United States look to herself if she refuses to help us! As for you, Senor,' he continued in milder tones, but with a threatening note, 'if, as you tell me, you are no longer our friend, as a gentleman you will at least respect the secret that I have so ill-advisedly betrayed to you. My kinsman's life, as well as that of the Captain Robson, depend upon your silence. I rather think you will do us no harm, eh?' And there he had me. If I was ever disposed to violate his confidence, the fact that I would thereby jeopardize my young cousin would effectually deter me. I assured the tempestuous fellow that his secret was safe with me, and after a few moments we parted, with a great show of politeness on both sides. I was glad to have him go. "Again back in my seat my reflections were anything but pleasing. It was harrowing to think of Charlie Robson so completely in the power of these desperadoes, his probable fate, and the grief of his family and friends. And what could I do to save him? My hands were completely tied. "The Villasante family and I were under the same roof, all of us being at the Arlington, but I hoped to avoid seeing them. Certainly, after my talk with Manuel, a meeting would be anything but agreeable. With these and a thousand other perplexing thoughts I left the House, hailed a cab, and was hurried to my hotel. "While dressing for dinner there came a discreet knock at the door, and Manuel Villasante glided in. [Illustration: Manuel Villasante.] "I was distinctly annoyed. "'Pardon this intrusion, Senor,' he said courteously, 'also what I may have said to you this afternoon. I was excited--distressed--wounded to the heart! Perhaps I forgot myself. Let us forget it all, and be good friends once more,' and he held out his hand with a smile. I took it. There was something very winning about the fellow, and he made me feel sorry and ashamed. Somehow all the blame shifted over to me. We shook hands warmly. "'Now,' he said, 'you are the bon comrade I knew at Saratoga. Let it always be so. My father and sister are waiting below and long to see you. Perhaps you will dine with us? We will consider ourselves fortunate.' "We went down to the parlors and found Mercedes and her father. She was as beautiful as ever, and the old fellow was the same courtly, polished man of the world as of yore; a little grayer and more rat-like, perhaps, but showing no other signs of advancing age. Mercedes was a trifle more plump than when I last saw her, but not unbecomingly so. What a magnificent creature she was! [Illustration: Papa Villasante.] "My Cuban friends had much to say about their life in New York, the many flattering attentions received from friends and acquaintances, the opera, the shops, and other delights of metropolitan life. The Senorita said she preferred New York to Paris; so did her papa and brother. They loved America and everything American. "The dinner was a delight. Afterward we went to the theatre. The excitement in the streets did not escape the notice of the Cubans. Nor did the flag of Cuba Libre picked out in electric lights over the entrance of a restaurant near the theatre, nor other significant sights and sounds. But they warily held their peace. I looked for some show of feeling, but there was none. A téte-â-téte with Mercedes was out of the question, and for this I fervently thanked the gods! There was no telling the havoc that bewitching face might have wrought. Principles, opinions, and theories might have withered and fallen utterly consumed beneath the fire of those ardent glances and the magic of that caressing voice! So it was all for the best. "After the play there was supper, and then we returned to the hotel. Parting with the Senorita at the elevator, not without a tender pressure of her jeweled fingers,--ah me!--I proposed to the father and son that we go to my club, a few staggers away. They consented and we ambled leisurely along, the streets now quite deserted. The night was fine; clear, and unusually warm for the season. We moved along silently, enjoying our cigars; at peace with ourselves and all the world. As we approached H Street I was roughly seized by the collar, a gag thrust into my mouth, and turning in amazement was felled by a terrible blow from a cane--Papa Villasante's cane! While on the pavement, stunned and bleeding, blows and kicks were rained upon my face and shoulders by the pair, who were evidently bent upon killing me. Then Manuel drew a long, deadly looking knife! I caught its hideous gleam in the semi-light as it was about to descend, and then I lost consciousness! * * * * * "An interested and amused group surrounded me when I opened my eyes and realized that the end was not yet. Hillis, of Kentucky, Campbell, of Ohio, Reyburn, of Texas, and many others were grouped about my desk in mock solemnity. A loud laugh arose as I staggered to my feet; for I alone, of a vast gathering, had slept soundly through one of the most exciting debates in parliamentary history! Through it all--the battle raging around me, and the House swept as by a great storm. Through it all, yea, even unto the adjournment!" "A very pretty tale, and one to be remembered," observed Colonel Manysnifters thoughtfully. "_I_ never had an adventure like that, because I am awfully careful about what I eat and drink, and I roost at chicken-time. There's no telling what will happen to a man when he violates Nature's laws. Night is made for sleep, and the three hours before midnight count for more than all the rest." "And yet, Colonel," remonstrated Van Rensselaer, "by your own admission just now----" "You mean my outing with the 'Jewels,' I suppose. That, my friend, is the solitary exception that proves the rule. That little adventure simply confirmed yours truly in his belief of the old maxim learned at Mammy's knee, that "'Early to bed and early to rise, Makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise!' "I may misquote, but it will do. Old Sol has scarce seemed to illumine the Western heavens ere I seek my humble couch. And yet I do not pose as a saint. But stop! If I do not greatly err, the junior Senator from Massachusetts seems restless and eager-eyed. I think he would like to take the floor. I know the signs, having often observed just such a readiness in many a good man before." Senator Wendell, blushing, denied the charge, but when urged by all present responded gamely. "I really think I have no story to tell that would interest you. My life has been cast upon very hum-drum matter-of-fact lines, and I can recall no startling incident. In my native town there is a shop-keeper who, when he is out of any article called for, tells his customers to wait a moment while he sends the boy over to the warehouse,--the 'warehouse' being the larger and more prosperous establishment of a rival just around the corner,--and the boy never returns empty-handed. I shall have to imitate my worthy friend; so pardon me just a moment." And the Senator left us and went to his room. He soon returned with some papers. "I am, as perhaps you know, connected with the ---- Magazine, and this is one of the many manuscripts that reach our office every day. These things, with a very few exceptions, are promptly returned to their authors--provided, of course, that sufficient postage for that purpose is enclosed. This particular effort is as yet under advisement. Perhaps the tale will interest you. It is called 'The Creaking of the Stairs,' and is rather out of the ordinary. You may fancy it." VIII SENATOR WENDELL READS "THE CREAKING OF THE STAIRS" "After four years of luxury at the Capital there came a most disastrous change in the Administration and I lost my rather exalted position under the government. This was all the greater shock, for I had cherished the comforting idea that I was protected to some extent by the Civil Service law. However, when I recovered from the first effects of the blow I looked the situation squarely in the face, and was content with a stray crumb which fell from the opposition table. I had still some influence to command, and after superhuman exertion managed to secure a twelve-hundred-dollar clerkship. "My wife, always cheerful under the most trying circumstances, was fully equal to this occasion. "'Well, my love,' said she, 'of course we must give up everything here, and that will be a little trying for a while, I'll admit, but we should be thankful that you are not thrown out altogether,' adding with a tinge of melancholy, 'I don't think, though, that I could bear to live in Washington after the change. Suppose we try A---- for a while.' "A---- is over in Maryland, about six miles from town, and very convenient trains are run between the two places. One can live quite comfortably there for very little, so my wife's suggestion was quickly adopted. "'It reminds me of dear, dear Salem,' she said some weeks later, 'and rents are so cheap. Think of the ridiculously small price we pay for this house.' "'Suspiciously small, you mean,' said I gloomily, not at all reconciled to my wife's choice of abode. But as my feeble protest was treated with silence I held my peace. 'Anything for a quiet life' has ever been a favorite conceit with me. "Mrs. Ploat had taken an old-fashioned house in Queen Anne Street, large enough for a family of twenty persons. Now, as my household consisted of only my wife, her unmarried sister, and myself, I could not understand what was wanted with such capacious quarters. But I had no say in the matter. My wife fancied the house, it seemed to me, on account of its colonial air, wide halls, huge high-ceilinged rooms, and general lack of modern improvements. "I never liked the house in Queen Anne Street, though this aversion was apparently unreasonable, for we were cosy enough after the throes of moving in and settling down were over. But it struck me from the start that there was something decidedly uncanny about the place, and a vague feeling of uneasiness became very keenly defined in me whenever I heard the creaking of the stairs. "The stairs throughout the house had an infernal habit of creaking--one after another--as if somebody was coming up or down. At first I thought it was the rats that infested the old mansion in legions; but I abandoned this idea after a few experiments which proved conclusively that the creaking sounds could only be made by a person or thing quite as heavy, if not heavier, than myself--then tipping the beam at one hundred and eighty pounds. "In the course of time I became personally acquainted with each stair in the Queen Anne Street house, and especially with those in the main flight. Business, or pleasure, often compelled me to keep late hours, and on such occasions, on arriving home, I would naturally try to reach my room as quietly as possible. With my shoes in my hand, and by a series of agile leaps from one less noisy stair to another, I usually succeeded in attaining the upper part of the house without much disturbance. "The annoying sounds occurred at all hours, but were of course more noticeable at night. I am a light sleeper, and was invariably awakened by them, and this, with the loud ticking of a grandfather's clock on the first landing, usually banished further slumber, and I would arise at daybreak, weary and unrefreshed. The clock was finally stopped, after a heated discussion with my wife and sister-in-law, who regarded it with something akin to reverence. It was indeed a venerable affair. I hated the thing even when it was quiet, for it reminded me of a coffin set on end, and I would pass it in the dark hurriedly, and with averted face. "I do not think that either my wife or sister-in-law ever heard the creaking of the stairs. If they did they never said anything about it to me. For my part, I was silent, because I did not want to be laughed at by my womenkind, and I knew also that if the matter reached the ear of our only servant she would immediately take her departure. Help is not easy to obtain in A----, and if it were known that our home was haunted we would be obliged to do all our own drudgery in future. "This state of things continued nearly a year. Occasionally, for a week or two at a time, the creaking stopped altogether. In these intervals I slept well and improved in every way, but when the disturbances returned I became more depressed and gloomy than ever. My health was wretched at the time, and I felt that I was gradually breaking down. "At last I determined to call upon my landlord, Doctor Matthai, and lay the trouble before him. He was born and raised in the house, and I thought it probable that he could solve the mystery, or at least suggest a remedy. Doctor Matthai lived just across the way in a quaint cottage covered with great climbing roses and set well back in a prim garden, with hollyhocks and hedges of box, and an ancient sun-dial which was my wife's never-ending delight. "The doctor was a short, thick-set, heavily whiskered gentleman, and looked more like a retired man of affairs than the prosy recluse that he was; but he had long since ceased to take any active interest in life, and gave himself up entirely to scientific study and research of a more or less abstruse nature. A useless sort of existence, it seemed to me, as mankind was never destined, nor intended, to reap the benefits of his labor. His sister kept house for him, and had full charge of all his business matters. The doctor owned considerable property, and Miss Regina proved a capable manager; as a collector of rents she certainly had no equal--to that I can cheerfully testify. She was not popular in A----, nor was her eccentric brother. Unpleasant tales were told about Matthai. I never knew all the particulars, but they had something to do with the murder of a slave in antebellum days. The townsfolk were extremely reticent on the subject, and very mercifully so, for, as I have since learned, the tragedy occurred in our house in Queen Anne Street. "I found Doctor Matthai in his library, immersed in study as usual; quite out of the world so far as every-day happenings were concerned. He greeted me rather coldly. "'I beg your pardon,' said I, 'but I have come to see you about the house.' "'My sister, Regina----' he interrupted. "'Yes, I know,' said I, 'but this visit is to _you_, though I fear you will look upon what I have to say as very nonsensical and farfetched. To me, though, it is a very serious matter.' "I dwelt at length upon the grievance; putting it as strongly as possible. The doctor listened attentively, and when I concluded, laughed and said, 'I believe you fully as to the creaking of the stairs, but you attach entirely too much importance to it. The noise results, I have no doubt, from perfectly natural causes. You must remember, sir, that the stairways are very old indeed, any jar from the movement of persons in other parts of the house, the action of the wind against the walls, or the rotting or shrinking of wood from age will produce just such sounds as you have heard. I quite fail, therefore, to see any mystery about it.' "'However,' he continued, 'I will send a carpenter around who will probably set things to rights; that is, if the expense be not too great. I am not prepared to put a large sum of money on the house; and stairways, you know, are costly arrangements at best.' I fully agreed with him. "'By the way,' said he, blinking at me through his thick glasses, 'there is just a bit of nervousness in your make-up, isn't there? "A little off your feed," as Regina says; liver out of shape--something of that sort, eh?' I confessed that that was just it. I frankly told him that I was not only a nervous man, but a miserably sick and frightened one to boot. He did not offer to prescribe for me, and after some moments of silence I judged that he considered our interview at an end. I arose to go, but on leaving the room fired a parting shot, which, to my surprise, proved a telling one. "'Doctor,' said I, 'before you send the man to make repairs I would like you to hear the creaking of the stairs for yourself--just as a matter of curiosity. My wife and sister-in-law are going up to the old home in a few days. Suppose you come over and spend a night with me while they are away.' "The doctor chuckled, 'You are a queer fellow, Mr. Ploat; a queer fellow, and no mistake. You say you are run down, played out, can't sleep. Take more exercise, sir; give up late suppers, drink less, stop smoking. A man leading the sedentary life you do should take more care of himself. I am older than you are, and a physician. My advice may be worth something. As to coming over and staying with you, I don't see that there is anything in that. It seems absurd, quite so; but nevertheless, I will humor you. Let me know when to come, but on no account say anything of this to my sister. My absence would greatly alarm her. I have not been out of this house after dark for over forty years!' "With this strange assertion our conversation closed. "The following Monday my wife and sister-in-law left for Salem, and Doctor Matthai promised to be with me on Wednesday night. When I found myself alone in the house I resolved to put into execution an idea which struck me with much force. I thought it very likely that I would find out whether the creaking of the stairs was of human or supernatural origin; and this I hoped would be made plain before the doctor came over. That the noise was due to natural causes, as he so adroitly suggested, I, in my heart of hearts, could not bring myself to believe. Poe is my favorite author, and he perhaps could have suggested a solution of the perplexities that beset me; but no inspiration came to me from the oft-read pages which I turned over and over in despair. "My plan was a simple one, and it was odd that I had not thought of it before; but after all, it would have been impracticable as long as my wife and sister-in-law were in the house. "On Tuesday night I sprinkled a thin layer of flour over each stair, from basement to attic. This was a task of an hour or so, but I felt that I did not labor in vain. Then I turned in and slept soundly until midnight, when I was awakened as usual by the creaking of the stairs. It is hardly necessary to say that I remained in bed, making no attempt whatever to investigate, but valiantly drew up the covers over my head, fully expecting every moment to feel the weight of a dreadful hand upon some portion of my body. "In the morning, my bravery having returned, I found upon each stair the clear impression of a naked human foot! The footprints were very large, and were made in ascent. There was no trace of them beyond the third floor, for the flour on the stairway to the attic above had been partially brushed off as by a trailing garment. The attic was perfectly bare, affording no hiding-place for man or beast, as there were no closets, presses or means of concealment of any kind. My visitor may have gone out by way of the trap door in the loft which opened upon the roof, but it was securely bolted on the inside, and the bolts, which were caked with rust in their fastenings, had evidently not been pulled out for years. I made a thorough search of the attic, the loft, and the upper floors of the house, but failed utterly to discover any further trace of the prowler. [Illustration: "--Upon each stair the clear impression of a naked human Foot!"] "I hardly knew whether to feel relieved or not when I learned that the unknown was no ghost after all. Certainly not the vapory, unsubstantial kind that flit through mansions such as mine. Here was a being of solid, nay, gigantic proportions, as the creakings and huge footprints fully attested. I knew, though, that I would assuredly have the best of Dr. Matthai should he (or she) of the massive feet see fit to appear on the coming night. "After carefully sweeping up the floor I shut up the house, and resolved to keep my own counsel. I breakfasted in Washington that morning, having, for obvious reasons, given our servant a holiday, and returned to A---- about five in the afternoon; dining later with Doctor Matthai, who met me at the station and very hospitably insisted upon my going home with him. Shortly after dinner I bade my host and his sister good-evening and went over to my own deserted dwelling. An hour or so after, Doctor Matthai came in. Both of us were armed, and I thought it singular that the doctor, who appeared to treat the whole affair as a joke, should have taken that precaution. We sat by the open fire in my dining-room, smoking; the doctor lingering somewhat mournfully upon the departed greatness of A---- which, it seems, had once been a town of considerable social and commercial importance. With reminiscence and ancedote the hours sped by, and it was nearly midnight when we retired. "The doctor, sharing my bed, asked me to arouse him if I heard anything during the night. I slept fairly well until the clock on the mantel struck two, when I awoke with a start. Complete silence reigned, and I rolled over again for another nap. As I did so I heard a faint creaking sound on the upper stair! "'Ah,' thought I, 'it is coming down.' And so it proved. I gave the doctor a violent nudge. He opened his eyes and looked at me stupidly. "'Hush,' I whispered, 'don't you hear it? Don't you hear it?' "'Yes, I do,' replied he, sitting up and peering into the darkness. "Creak! Creak! Creak! Nearer 'It' came, and our floor was reached. Clutching his revolver, Doctor Matthai sprang out of bed and ran to the door. Then a horrible scream of terror and anguish rang through the house. An invisible hand seemed to drag the unfortunate man out of the room. There was a brief, desperate struggle on the landing, the creature went heavily down the stairs, and the street door shut with a bang! "When I recovered to some extent from the panic of fear and trembling into which I was thrown by this awful and inexplicable occurrence, I hurriedly dressed, and seeing nothing of the doctor, went over at once to his cottage. Remembering his caution about Miss Regina, and not wishing to otherwise frighten her, I ran around to the alley at the rear of the grounds and climbed over the fence. The doctor's library and bedroom were adjoining apartments on the ground floor, and the long, low windows of each opened upon a porch at the side of the house. All the blinds were closed and securely fastened. I knocked on them several times, but there was no response, though a dim light was burning in the library. I heard some one moving inside, and for a moment I thought I heard the sound of voices in angry argument or expostulation. But of this I cannot be positive. I remained on the porch at least ten minutes, vainly trying to get into the rooms, then I gave it up and left the premises. "My state of mind after the harrowing events of the night was indeed distressing. I did not--could not--return home. I have an indistinct recollection of walking swiftly up and down the deserted streets and far out into the country. Daylight found me several miles from the town; hatless, wild-eyed, a sorry spectacle, at whom one or two farmers, on their way to early market, gazed in amazement. When I turned back, the sun was high in the heavens. I went again to Doctor Matthai's. A crowd stood about the door. I was rudely seized and placed under arrest, charged--oh, my God!--with the murder of Doctor Matthai! The shockingly mutilated body had just been found in the hallway of the old house in Queen Anne Street! * * * I am innocent, innocent! Weeks--they seem centuries--pass, and I yet await trial. * * * * * * * * "George Delwyn Ploat, the writer of the above remarkable story, was hanged in the jailyard at A---- for the wilful and brutal murder of Doctor Ambrose Matthai, a retired practitioner of that place. The plea of insanity, so strongly urged by the prisoner's counsel, proved unavailing, and the condemned man paid the penalty for his crime on Friday morning last." * * * * * "You know what a story like that demands, I suppose," said Colonel Manysnifters, reaching for the button; "and as I seem to be the self-appointed chairman here, I will now call upon the gentleman from Michigan for a few remarks. I am sure that he will not disappoint us. Senator, we are waiting for you, sir." "Very well," said Senator Hammond, "since there seems to be no escape, I will do the best I can." IX SENATOR HAMMOND'S EXPERIENCE "The facts that I am about to relate occurred many years ago while I was on a visit to relatives in Charleston, South Carolina. The old house where I was a guest stands on the Battery, and with its beautiful gardens is still one of the show places of the city. "It was on a warm Sunday afternoon, and I found myself alone in the house, the family and servants at church, and a brooding stillness that presaged the approach of a storm, settling over all. At that time I was a dreamy, romantic, long-haired youth with all sorts of notions about the artistic temperament, carelessness in dress, and painting miniatures for a living. They told me I had some talent, and I believed them thoroughly. "I had wandered in from the garden, my hands full of flowers for the vases in the library, when a sudden gust of wind tore through the wide hall, the door shut with a bang, and I found myself face to face with my ancestors. Grim gentlemen with somber faces, simpering almond-eyed beauties in cobwebby laces; and in the place of honor a frowning hag, whose wrinkles even the flattering painter dare not hide. Time had added to the sallowness of her complexion, and certain cracks in the canvas but intensified her ugliness. Artistic cracks they were, too, for they fell in just the right places, and heightened the general effect amazingly. "Doubtless it was from this person, thought I, that I inherited my rather nasty temper and other moral and mental infirmities. I gazed at the lady long and earnestly, for as an ardent believer in heredity I felt that here I had the key to a problem which often worried me. I resolved to look her up at once in the family records. "But I was saved that trouble. "'Young man,' piped a high, thin voice close at hand, 'in my day it was considered boorish in the extreme to stare at any one as you are now doing. No gentleman, I am sure, would have been guilty of such a thing. But these modern manners, and modern ways are quite beyond me. Perhaps it is the mode nowadays to ape the rude youths who hung about the London playhouses in my time. N'est'ce pas?' "I felt decidedly uncomfortable. "'Pardon me, I----' "'Stop!' said the voice, which came from the ugly one in the corner, 'stop, if you please! Don't attempt to apologize or explain; it takes too much time, and time with me is very precious just now. You see,' she added in milder tones, 'when one is allowed to have a say only once in a century, and but fifteen minutes at that, one naturally wants to do all the talking. That's perfectly reasonable, is it not? So keep quiet, my dear, and listen to me. No interruptions, if you please. "'I am Margaret Holmead, your blood relation. You have the Holmead figure, and coloring, and I knew you were one of us as soon as you came into the room. Well. "'Do you see that hussy in the ruff over there? That is Mary Darragh, Lady Benneville, my bitterest, bitterest enemy! See how she smiles at me! Deceitful minx! When I tell you all you will surely take her out of the room and fling her into the fire! For sixty years she has hung there taunting me. They brought her down from the hall above just to spite me, I do believe. 'Twas done in your grandfather's time. He was a Benneville all over, and of course had no use for me. So for sixty long years I have had to face Mary Darragh and submit to her impertinence, and I tell you I am sick of it! Why do I hate her? For a very good reason, sir. Let me tell you about it. "'My troubles began at the Duchess of Bolton's ball, long before I came to this dreadful America. The King was there, and Lady Morley-Frere. If my voice trembles as I mention their names, it is with rage I assure you, and no wonder--for God knows that between them they played me a scurvy trick! Yes, these two were there, and Lord Benneville, my cousin, the handsomest man in all England--indeed, in all the world, I thought. He was tall and slight, with wavy hair, light brown, almost golden, in the sunlight. His eyes were gray, a lovely shade, though those who hated him swore 'twas green. A clever supple swordsman, and to the fore in all the rough games that men delight in. His face was very winsome, yet often swept by varying moods. I have seen it hard and stern, and again alight with the keenest appreciation of one of my Lord Kenneth's witticisms. And, too, I have seen it tender, pleading, and melancholy almost unto tears. Ah me! "'Lord Kenneth, older by several years; taller, darker, soured by a great disappointment--so 'twas said--loved my Lord Benneville with all the affection his selfish nature allowed. And Benneville returned it frankly, in his open boyish fashion. They were ever together, and their adventures and daring escapades more than once nearly threw them into serious trouble. But what cared they, crack-brained as they were? Why, on one pitch dark night, masked and mounted, my Lords Kenneth and Benneville held up the Royal Mail, frightened the passengers almost to death, and alarmed the whole countryside; sober folk who thought the Devil himself was abroad! But the King only smiled indulgently, and nothing came of it save much gossip at court. They were merry days for all of us; balls and routs, and parties on the river, the King so handsome and debonair, and the world so bright with sunshine and happiness. Youth, my dear, is a great thing; what is there to compare with it? "'But I am losing time. I must hasten to the ball at the Duchess's. 'Tis hardly fair, this terrible silence they have imposed upon me. A century at a stretch--think of it! "'I looked my best that night, at least every one said I did, and I had my mirror to tell me so too. My gown was a wondrous figured thing from the Indies--a soft, clinging, silken stuff that became me well. Royalty sent an armful of great purple blossoms, strange in shape and smelling ravishingly. My clever Prue spent hours on my hair, with the little Lafitte for the finishing touches. My father was waiting below, and his eyes shone with joy when he saw me; for he was proud, very proud of his only daughter. "'The King patted my cheek and said such pretty things, and kissed me. Little did I know what was to follow! Child, beware of Princes and princely favor, for therein lies destruction! "'The night wore on, and the affair became gayer and more crowded. I had been much with my Lord Benneville, who seemed quiet and preoccupied, yet very tender and sweet withal. At that time there existed an understanding between Arthur and me. Nothing announced as yet, for my lover feared the King. His Majesty, of late, had been singularly attentive to me. In fact, so marked had this been that the Queen's manner toward me became more distant every day; thanks to Lady Morley-Frere, Mary Darragh, and the other busybodies who had the royal ear, and hated me. If I coquetted with the King 'twas but to see my heart's real master frown, and his face grow wan and sad, for by those very tokens I knew that he loved me. "'As I say, something was wrong with my dear Lord that night, and after I had danced twice with the King, and once with the old Duke, Benneville came to claim me. He took me away from the throng into a little gilded room with scattered tables for cards, and there we were quite to ourselves. "'"My darling," said he, "the King has honored me with a very special mission. His Majesty deems that of all his loving subjects I am the best fitted for this most important business," and my lover's voice hoarsened, and there was hatred in his face. "I start at once for that far city where the Grand Turk holds court. It is a long journey, and a hard; and who can say when I will return? I have feared this all along, sweetest one, and I have tried in vain to put off the evil day; and yet, by Heaven, I will thwart him! You shall be Lady Benneville before sunrise! And you will, dearest?" "'He took me in his arms. I was trembling from head to foot; fearful, yet joyous. Mine is an emotional nature. But his next words sent a chill through me. "'"Lady Morley-Frere has promised to help me. You must leave the palace with her, and drive straight to St. Stephens-in-the-Fields. She has arranged it all, like the dear, clever woman she is. As for me, I am in Kenneth's hands." "'"No! No!" I cried out suddenly, quite aghast. "Not Lord Kenneth! O God; not that man!" I feared and hated Robert, Lord Kenneth, and knew well that he had no liking for me. "Not Lord Kenneth," I urged. "'"He is my friend," said Lord Benneville gravely. "'So what more could I say? "'"Your father has gone home, tired out," he said, by all this frivolity, but Lady Morley-Frere will keep you to the end; and then to Morley House with her. That at least is what she told him, and he seemed well content." "'I nodded passively, but wondered, knowing as I did my father's especial detestation for Lady Morley-Frere. Why, they scarcely spoke! But of course my Arthur knew. There was no further time for parley, however, as several of the guests, upon gaming bent, invaded our retreat, and we returned to the ballroom. "'Old Lady Morley-Frere gave me a meaning look when we met at supper, but had only the opportunity to whisper in passing, "At two o'clock; the little door under the green lanthorn." I knew the place well, having often taken chair there when the crowd pressed in front. Two o'clock came, and we succeeded in leaving the palace quite unobserved, thanks to the private door. It was bitterly cold and snowing hard, and we had scarce left the court-yard when I fell to shivering, my teeth clicking like castanets. Lady Morley-Frere, seeing my plight, held out a silver flask, and from the depths of her cloak growled out, "Drink, drink! 'Twill set you right in a trice. 'Tis hot and spiced, and good for you." I obeyed her. I had hardly swallowed it before a delicious warmth stole over me, and every nerve tingled with pleasure. I sank back into the cushions revived--exalted! Then I fell asleep. Oh, the shame of it! The shame of it! A thousand curses upon a tipple that caused such woe! May eternal perdition be the portion of the giver! "'Strong arms enfolded me when I came to my senses. My Benneville, I was sure of it! "Darling," I murmured, still feeling strangely, "I have come to you. Yes, out of the storm have I come to you! Like a weary, drenched bird, I seek rest in thy dear arms! Kiss me, my dearest, kiss me!" "'He kissed me again and again ... How can I go on?... There was a sound of smothered laughter--the irritating laugh of a woman I hated.... His face was close to mine.... I opened my eyes.... Oh, God! It was the King! "'In my rage and confusion I flung him from me, and fell, half-fainting, to the floor. Then I heard my Lord Benneville say brokenly, as one crushed by awful trouble, "Your Majesty is right. I pray you forgive my harsh words of yesterday. Fool, fool that I am to have been so tricked! O my Liege, my Liege, death would have been far preferable to this!" And then my dear Lord, sobbing, went out into the gray dawn, and out of my life forever! * * * * * "'They took me from the King's chamber, and revived by the sharp air in the street I managed to grope my way to my father's house. To _him_ I told nothing, for he was proud of me, and should I have killed him? Yet he was much perplexed at my determination, for I never showed my face at court again!' "My relative's voice, growing weaker every moment, flickered and died out in a hissing whisper just as the silver chime over the mantel proclaimed that her time was up. Then I must have awakened. "It may have been a dream, but so impressed was I by the old lady's story that all the rest of the week I searched for further light upon it. Into old carven chests I dived, opening package after package of mouldy papers. In the attic trunks and boxes were rifled, until at last, about to give up in despair, I found in an old desk a letter. It was in French with the Benneville crest and seal, brown with age, and by no means easy to decipher. The place of writing, and the date, quite beyond human ken, so frayed and stained was the upper margin. Freely translated, the letter read: "'My Dear Old Bobby: "'Here we are, safe and sound. And what can I say to you, friend of friends? This last scrape was the worst of all; was it not? Worse by far than the affairs with the little Italian, or the fat Princess, eh, Bobby, my boy? Our heartfelt thanks to his Majesty, God bless him! and to Lady Morley-Frere, and to your dear self--our eternal love! Oh, Bobby, the thought of marrying that sour-visaged cousin of mine makes me ill, even now! And yet--at the time, before I told you--I felt myself slowly drifting into it. The ground seemed to be slipping from under my feet, as it were. I felt wholly lost--trapped, by Jove! She was very determined. We are here with the Ambassador until the affair blows over. My sweetest Mary joins me in love. "'Ever your affectionate friend, "'BENNEVILLE.'" "A dirty low trick of that fellow Benneville, I must say," said Colonel Manysnifters disgustedly. "That sort of thing could never have happened in these days. Did they ever move the Darragh woman's picture out of the room?" he asked. "I believe so--some years later," replied Senator Hammond dryly; "in fact, they were _all_ moved out, and hurried into the up-country for safe-keeping. That was about the time that we boys in blue were making it particularly unpleasant for the residents of that part of the State. I never knew the fate of the collection. I have not been South since '64." "Well, anyway, Senator," said the Colonel, "I see you have got a line on your ancestors, and that's more than many of us can say. I've never bothered about mine. Descendants are bad enough. My forebears came over to America years ago as ballast--didn't have any names, just numbers, mostly thirteen and twenty-three! That old lady you were telling us about certainly got it in the neck, and I hope that she will even matters up in the other world. If she hasn't, by the time I get there I will do all I can to help her out--always assuming, of course, that I am going to the same place. "Now, if you gentlemen of the press will kindly step to the front and favor us with your yarns we will all be mightily obliged to you. I have heard nothing from any of you since 'way back in the dining-car. Some observation about the moon, I believe." Mr. Callahan, the dean of the corps, blushed slightly. "It was O'Brien who got off the spiel about the moon. _I_ have outgrown that sort of thing. In my younger days I might have--well, we won't be hard on O'Brien. He is not a bad fellow at heart, and I believe he will try to do better in future. Now, as it seems to be my turn at word-painting, I am going to tell you of an affair that occurred in Washington a few years ago. It has to do with a well-known society girl, an irascible father, a bad Chinaman, and a high collar--seemingly irreconcilable elements, I'll admit, but I will do my best to mix 'em in. I had the story in sections from most of the parties concerned; a wide acquaintance with the police and an intimate knowledge of the Chinese quarter helping out considerably. The odds and ends, pieced together, make, I hope, a hearable tale." X MR. CALLAHAN'S STORY "My story begins, then, on a bright Sabbath afternoon in mid-autumn when Miss Janet Cragiemuir left her home in K Street and set out leisurely upon her walk to Bethany Church, where she revelled in her latest fad. She had recently taken a class in the Chinese Sunday-school. The good work began at three o'clock, and as it was nearly that hour, groups of Chinamen stood out on the sidewalk chattering as only Celestials can. They greeted Miss Cragiemuir with grave courtesy when she approached, and shuffled lazily out of her way as she swept past. She was followed into the building by her three scholars, one of whom presented her with a small package which was accepted with some reluctance. Then a brief whispered argument took place between the two, the Chinaman appearing to have decidedly the best of it, for he displayed his broken, yellow teeth in a hideous grin when his teacher turned from him to the other members of the class. "Miss Cragiemuir was attached to her scholars, an intelligent lot of men, speaking English fairly well, and at times quite electrifying her by their naïve observations on men and things. But Ah Moy, the ugly fellow at the end of the form, was her especial pride. That gorgeously clad individual was considered the star scholar of the school, and as a shining example of what Christian training can do for the heathen was often pointed out to visitors. Well, Ah Moy _was_ undeniably clever, but not in just the way the good people of Bethany imagined. As a matter of fact, a more corrupt Chinaman had never been smuggled into America. Ostensibly in the laundry business, and really a master workman in that line, the astute Chink had long since relinquished the labor over the tubs and ironing-board to Hop Wah, his silent partner. Ah Moy's chief interest in the establishment lay in its cavernous sub-cellar, where he conducted gaming tables and a smoking-'parlor' with flattering success. The gods evidently smiled upon him, for his den seemed to be unknown to the police, though they had ferreted out all other resorts of the kind in the city. As there is no 'graft' in Washington, and 'the Finest' are above reproach, the idea that Ah Moy enjoyed police protection should be dismissed with indignation. "Ah Moy's place bore an unsavory reputation even among the saffron-hued residents of Four-and-a-half Street, but its bland proprietor was regarded by the authorities as a particularly inoffensive and law-abiding specimen--his high standing at Bethany proving a very strong card. He was also the head of a powerful secret society, or 'tong,' and wielded a tremendous influence in the Washington settlement, so his countrymen dared not betray him. There was another, and in its way an equally potent reason why the Chinaman played so well the rôle of convert. He had fallen desperately in love with Miss Cragiemuir, and to the unconscious girl his antics were puzzling, to say the least. He annoyed her, too, with presents--trifles which she could not well refuse without a scene, for after much surly mumbling he would sulk in his corner like a spoiled child unless she instantly accepted his offerings. So jars of preserved ginger, hideous ivory images, and trinkets of every description were showered upon her, much to her discomfiture. "On the afternoon I speak of, Ah Moy, who had eclipsed all previous records for brilliant recitations, became decidedly uneasy as the benediction was being pronounced, and when he arose from his knees tapped Miss Cragiemuir gently with his fan. "'Can Ah Moy walk home with pletty lady?' he asked in dove-like tones. "Now Miss Cragiemuir's fads were invariably carried through to the last extremity, and Ah Moy's request, instead of embarrassing her, afforded a thrill of gratification. She felt sure that he yearned for a fuller knowledge of the great truths that had been unfolded in the afternoon's lesson, and she also felt, with some exaltation of spirit, that her influence over the man was being exerted for much good. So she nodded a pleasant assent to the delighted Celestial, who blushed and trembled with joy; and a blushing, trembling Chinaman is a sight for the gods! "'Well, Ah Moy,' she said in her best manner, 'I hope you will think over what you have learned to-day, ponder it in your heart, and let it be a subject of prayer. I see a great change in you--a change for the better. The good seed has taken root, and my puny efforts will yet bear fruit in due season. Now next Sunday we will take up the wonderful story of "Daniel in the Lion's Den." That will interest you, I am sure.' "'Ah Moy takee up anysing that Missee want,' said the Chinaman gallantly. 'Ah Moy velly, velly fond of Missee. He no come to Slunday-school at all if teacher no come too! Slunday-school is a great big bluff most allee time--it seem to me. Humbug, eh?' "This was a staggerer. "'Why, Ah Moy, how perfectly shocking! "Bluff!" "Humbug!" Where did you learn such words? Oh, Ah Moy, you don't know how much you distress me! I thought better of you than that; I did indeed! What do you come to the school for? Isn't it because you want to be a better man, and to lead a good and useful life? I certainly thought so. I am disappointed in you, Ah Moy, more than I can say. This is dreadful!' "'Ah Moy rich,' he continued, unnoticing; 'got plenty money, habee heap house--one in 'Flisco, one in San Looey, one here in this city. He want get mallied; lovee gal, 'flaid tell her. 'Flaid makee mad. Ah Moy bashful!' "'Really?' said Miss Cragiemuir with interest, wondering which of the two or three women at the Mission he meant, 'In love! Oh, Ah Moy, how romantic! Who is she? Perhaps I can help you.' "'I don't likee say,' replied he coyly. "'How foolish, Ah Moy. Tell me--I will promise not to mention it--not to say a word to any one. Understand?' "'Plomise?' asked he craftily. "'Certainly I will promise. Don't you think I can keep a secret? Lots of people tell me things--that's because they trust me. Who do you want to marry? Ah, I believe I know. Isn't it Hoi Kee?' "'No-o.' "'Oo-Chow?' "'No-o.' "'Hoi Sing?' "'No-o.' "'Well, I declare! Who on earth is it then?' "'Ah Moy want mallie _you_!' "'What?' "Miss Cragiemuir, not knowing whether to laugh or cry, giggled hysterically. A flush of rage darkened the Chinaman's sallow features, and his eyes glittered with anger. Had the street been deserted he would have strangled her, then and there, after the pleasing Oriental fashion. But the time and place were unpropitious. "'Mellican gal makee fun of Ah Moy,' he said gruffly. 'She think he joke, when allee time he mean velly much what he say!' "Then the teacher lost her temper. "'How dare you say such a thing to me? Are you crazy? You must be! Don't you ever talk to me again like that. Do you hear? Leave me--go away! I don't want you to walk a step further with me! Go home! I hope I will never, never see you again!' and she turned her back on him indignantly. Ah Moy made no response, but still stuck gamely at her side. She walked faster; so did he, keeping right in line. For a square or so they hurried along. Then she gave it up, slowed down, and said mildly, 'I am glad, of course, that you are fond of me, Ah Moy. I want all the members of my class to like me. I am trying to do a good part by you, and I hope some day to see you back in your native land leading your people to the light; but you have a great deal to learn yet. Besides,' she added thoughtfully, reverting to his unlucky remark, 'haven't you a wife in China?' "'I have _two_ wifee in old countly,' replied Ah Moy proudly, 'but I have none in 'Mellica--not a single wifee--no, not one! Ah Moy want 'Mellican wifee, so ba-ad, so ba-ad!' he said plaintively. "Miss Cragiemuir was seized with a wild desire to shriek with laughter, but she wisely suppressed it. She felt that with the frank avowal of her scholar the end of her usefulness at Bethany was drawing near. It sobered and saddened her. "Ah Moy accompanied her in sullen silence to the door of the house in K Street. Well-dressed church-goers gazed curiously at the pair, and many facetious remarks were bandied about. Fragments of this found their way to the ear of Major Cragiemuir as he was taking his afternoon airing in the park, and filled him with wrath. The Major is a testy, pompous specimen of the retired army officer, and takes himself very seriously. His sense of dignity and propriety is never for a moment in abeyance, and covers himself and all his belongings like a pall. "'This thing shall be stopped,' he declared, fuming with rage. 'I have put up with Janet's infernal nonsense long enough! I won't have her the laughing stock of the town! She shall give up this Chinese Sunday-school business at once! But what next, what next?' he groaned 'Really, Janet is getting quite beyond me--something decisive will have to be done. Each new fad is more damnable than the other! Will there never be any let up? God knows I have been a good father, and let her have her own way in everything--nearly everything; but this is going a little too far! If her mother had lived things would have been so different. Ah, me!' And muttering angrily to himself, he whacked the inoffending shrubbery with his cane. "The old gentleman's walk was quite spoiled. "When Miss Cragiemuir and Ah Moy reached the house in K Street the young woman thanked her pupil for his escort, and politely wished him a good afternoon. As she was about to leave him he madly seized her around the waist, exclaiming, 'Ah Moy kissee you good-bye!' and tried his best to do so. Miss Cragiemuir screamed, and nearly fainted with fright. Luckily, the Major turned the corner just at this moment, and speedily took in the situation. He rushed at the Chinaman, hurling him to the pavement, and beat him soundly with his ever-ready stick. Then he bestowed several well-directed kicks upon the prostrate form. Ah Moy scrambled to his feet and fled, closely pursued by the enraged Major; but the nimble-footed Chink managed to make good his escape, darting into a friendly alley, and disappearing. "The terrified girl hurried into the house, and received shortly afterward from her father a brief, but spirited lecture, which she will long remember. He sternly declared, after touching upon all of her hobbies,--he called them by a stronger name,--that if she continued to give him trouble he would close up the Washington house and live in future at The Oaks, the Cragiemuir place down in Maryland. This dire threat proved most effectual, for Janet hated The Oaks, and she recalled with disagreeable vividness one never-to-be-forgotten year spent there as a child. So she went to her room and wrote to the superintendent at Bethany that a sudden change in her plans would force her to give up her class. The letter, a masterpiece in its way, closed with expressions of the deepest regret, and was duly received by the excellent Mr. Bagby, who felt that both Bethany and himself had sustained an irreparable loss. "But the affair of the Chinaman by no means ended here. "Ten minutes after his unpleasant encounter with Major Cragiemuir, Ah Moy arrived at his place of business in Four-and-a-half Street, a mass of bruises, and with a heart full of hatred for his assailant. Perhaps, after all, the fellow had meant no harm. In his guileless, imitative way he had simply tried to do what he had often seen American young men do. Had he not frequently observed big Policeman Ryan kiss the red-haired widow who kept the lodging-house around on Missouri Avenue? Did not Muggsy Walker--across the street--salute his sweetheart in the same manner? Ah Moy had many times witnessed what struck him as a most absurd ceremony on the part of the foreign devils; but he had watched them closely, though, and flattered himself that he too could do the proper thing when occasion called for it. He had, in fact, done so, and was beaten for his pains! This was a h--l of a country, anyhow, thought he; after this he would stick to the good old ways of his native land, and have a whole skin to his credit. The teachings of a long line of philosophical ancestors were by no means lost upon this their up-to-date descendant. No more monkey tricks for him! "On the night of the beating, Ah Moy did not feel equal to presiding over the tables, so the resort was closed for the first time in many months. Down in the dark sub-cellar he soothed his ruffled feelings with a long, quiet smoke, and meditated upon elaborate though somewhat impracticable schemes of revenge as he lay in his bunk. "Several days later the Chinaman, still sore and in a bad humor, swung himself on a car for Sam Yen's, whose laundry was some distance up town. Yen was a quiet, easygoing fellow, and Ah Moy thought it great fun to badger and worry him whenever there was nothing more promising in view. On this particular morning Ah Moy found Yen shaking with a chill, and almost too weak to drag himself across the room. Sam scarcely replied to his tormentor's teasing, and the latter was about to leave the place in disgust, when a well-known countenance appeared in the doorway, and Dennis Coogan came in. "Coogan was Major Cragiemuir's factotum, and Ah Moy, who had spent many a weary hour opposite the house in K Street waiting to catch a glance of Janet Cragiemuir, knew him by sight. Coogan presented a ticket and demanded his 'wash.' Sam Yen reached feebly for the pink slip of paper, peered up and down the rows of bundles on the shelves, and finally announced that the garments were not ready, but would be later in the day. Coogan then stalked out, stating that he would call again at five o'clock, sternly warning Sam not to disappoint him. Coogan aped the Major to the life, and Ah Moy, recognizing the caricature, hated him heartily for it. Yet, the Chinaman, sitting behind the counter, with his eyes nearly closed, paid but scanty attention to the customer; but when Coogan left, a look of supreme cunning flitted over his wooden face. He was silent for a few moments, and then, to the surprise and delight of Yen, volunteered to remain and complete the day's work, urging the sick man to turn in until he felt better. Sam Yen gladly accepted the offer of his kindly disposed countryman, and Ah Moy hurriedly left for his own laundry to get, he said, a very superior polishing iron, promising to return in a few moments. When he found himself on Pennsylvania Avenue near Four-and-a-half Street he entered the tea, spice, and curio emporium of Quong Lee. "Quong Lee was not only a shrewd merchant, but a skilful chemist as well, and was regarded with deep reverence and esteem by his fellows. The eminent man, had he been a trifle taller, would have readily been taken for the great Li Hung Chang, spectacles and all; and it was owing as much to this wonderful resemblance as to his wisdom and learning that Chinatown groveled at his feet. He received Ah Moy effusively when the latter, breathless and excited, burst into the stuffy little room at the rear of the shop. "'Welcome, thrice welcome, oh, Beautiful One,' said Quong Lee (not in English, but in the liquid dialect of the Shansi region). 'It fills my heart with joy to see you. Why have you thus deserted the lifelong friend of your father?' "Ah Moy smiled sardonically, for he had parted from Quong Lee but at sunrise that morning, after a warm discussion over some of the nicer points of the game, and the old man's query appealed very strongly to his by no means undeveloped sense of humor. "'Most excellent and revered sage,' replied Ah Moy dryly, 'pardon the unheard-of negligence, and generously deign to overlook the thoughtlessness of your sorrowing servant--do that; and, Quong Lee, you must help me! Quickly! Quickly! I want a poison such as you can easily distil. A mixture so deadly that the slightest contact with it is fatal! Give me that, I pray you, and let me go. Hurry! Hurry! I am in haste!' "'You ask much of me, Ah Moy, after your harsh, ill-timed words of the morning,' remarked Quong Lee coldly. "'Forget them, O Munificent; forget them,' said Ah Moy, deeply contrite. 'Carried away by excitement, your abject slave considered but lightly what he then so foolishly said, and now so fervently regrets--and--and--let's drop this powwow, Quong Lee. I have no time for it! I tell you, man, I am in a hurry!' "Now, Quong Lee, while wholly in Ah Moy's power, and quite well aware of it, exacted from all of his countrymen a certain amount of deference, and was loath that his visitor should prove an exception to this gratifying rule. Ah Moy knew this, but the little farce was becoming very irksome to him; it took up too much of his always valuable time, and he intended to forego it in future. Quong Lee, thought he, was a tiresome old goat who badly needed his whiskers trimmed and his horns sawed off; and he, Ah Moy, was the man for the job. "'I am indeed fortunate,' said Quong Lee, ignoring Ah Moy's concluding remark, 'tremendously lucky, in fact, for I think I have in my laboratory just what you desire. Yes, I am sure of it. I will get it without further delay.' He took down a lighted lantern from the wall, and lifting a trap door at the end of the room, plunged into the darkness. From the opening nasty, suffocating smells arose, and Ah Moy was driven out to the shop, where he impatiently awaited his learned friend. That worthy soon reappeared, and paying no attention whatever to the odors, beckoned Ah Moy into the room. Ah Moy approached gingerly. "'My beloved child,' said Quong Lee, exhibiting the regulation tiny phial of romance containing a few drops of a white liquid, 'here is a poison ten-fold more subtle and deadly than that ejected from the fangs of the cruel serpent of the plain. The merest scratch from a weapon dipped in it will effect instant death. The victim curls up as a tender leaf in the midday sun. Yet it may be taken into the stomach with impunity. Strange, is it not? The minute quantity that you see here is all that I possess, and I shall feel honored if you will accept it. But,' he added, clutching Ah Moy by the wrist, 'should trouble come, remember that I--Quong Lee----' "'Trust me for that, venerable Uncle of the Moon; your name shall not be breathed in the matter, whatever happens. Ah Moy is not the man to bring misfortune upon the lifelong friend of his father,' and the fiendish chuckle which accompanied this remark filled the merchant-chemist with alarm. "'A million thanks, O Illustrious,' continued Ah Moy, pocketing the phial. 'I shall never forget your generosity. In good time I shall repay. Ah Moy will not prove ungrateful. Pardon this brief visit, O revered wearer of the crimson blouse. We meet again to-night. Bathed in the glow of thy approving smile, I leave thee. We meet again to-night, to-night. For the present, farewell. And I say, old 'un, you were dead wrong about that last game. You get a little dippy toward morning, don't you? Most old folks do. Ta, ta.' He glided out, slamming the door behind him. "Quong Lee followed his guest to the street, and watched his retreating figure until lost to sight. "'Curse him! Curse him!' hissed the old man vindictively. 'May the gods destroy him! And Quong Lee will aid them! Give me but the chance; oh, give me but the chance!' And he crossed his fingers. "The subject of this cheerful soliloquy returned without delay to Sam Yen's, who welcomed him with a wan smile, and after explaining some minor details of the work, crept off to his cot. Ah Moy immediately began his self-imposed task, and worked with a will, crooning the while a quaint Celestial air. It was ironing day at Sam Yen's, and the new hand did not object particularly to that part of the process. By a quarter after four he had completed the job, and surveyed with much satisfaction the neat bundles, duly ranged on the shelves. "Dennis Coogan arrived at dusk, and throwing down his ticket and some small change on the counter, walked off with his parcel, mumbling something uncomplimentary about the dirty haythin' who kept honest folks waitin' for their clothin'. Later in the evening Sam Yen appeared, much refreshed, and relieved his kind assistant. Ah Moy then left, cutting short the thanks of his countryman. "Honesty is the best policy, and it is to be regretted that this astute maxim had not been more thoroughly kneaded into the moral make-up of Mr. Dennis Coogan. Arriving at the house in K Street, Coogan, sneaking through a side entrance and across the yard at the rear, took his master's clothing up to his own little room over the stables, where he carefully selected such articles as seemed to strike his fancy. It was the night of the coachmen's ball, and Dennis did not propose to be eclipsed at that event by any Jehu who ever handled the ribbons. So there in readiness lay the hired dress-suit, the Major's gleaming linen, and the other necessaries of evening attire. Coogan leisurely donned the unaccustomed plumage, paying as much attention to his toilet as a debutante when arraying herself for her first cotillion. After struggling into a remarkably obstinate shirt he selected the highest collar he could find, put it on, and admiringly surveyed the general effect in a cracked mirror, turning his head this way and that as he did so. Suddenly, with a gasping cry, he lurched forward, and fell heavily to the floor. "Great was the horror and distress in the Cragiemuir household the next morning when the shockingly discolored body of the ill-fated Coogan was found. Major Cragiemuir, who was attached to the man, was sorely grieved by his death; and as there were no relatives to claim the body had the poor fellow buried from the K Street house, which was closed until after the funeral. The family physician and his confreres who examined the corpse were puzzled for some time as to the cause of Coogan's death. Cases of this sort, they solemnly declared, while not unknown to the profession, were yet extremely rare; and the long scientific name which was inscribed on the register at the health office as the disease that carried off Dennis Coogan had certainly never been seen there before. The slight scratch under the chin made by one of the sharp points of the collar was quite unnoticed in the rigid inspection to which the body was subjected. "On the evening following the untimely death of Dennis Coogan, impelled by a curiosity which he could not resist, Ah Moy sought out the fashionable neighborhood where the Cragiemuirs resided, and found, as he had scarcely dared hope, the mansion closed and the badge of mourning on the door. He saw a dim light burning in the front parlor, and in his excited fancy could see the still form of the hated Major reposing in the satin-lined casket beneath the flickering gas jets. The Chinaman laughed aloud, and then a look of supreme terror came into his face, for he thought he saw a menacing figure leave the house, and with clenched fists start over to him. "Ah Moy, shrieking, turned and fled. [Illustration: "Ah Moy, shrieking, turned and fled!"] "He finally took refuge from his imaginary pursuer at Wo Hong's. Here he drank repeatedly a fiery liquor which the proprietor, serenely untroubled by the revenue laws, dispensed to his pals for a trifle. When Ah Moy staggered into his den several hours later, Quong Lee, who had arrived on the scene, noted with much satisfaction the ghastly appearance of his friend. "'If he keeps this up for any length of time,' thought the learned man, 'I shall be spared the performance of a very unpleasant act. Murder is not in my line--now--anyway. It is trying work for an old man like me--and the police forever at one's heels!' "Leaving his associates in charge of the tables, Ah Moy wearily sought the adjoining room, a filthy, ill-lighted apartment, with rows of bunks along its sides. Opening a cupboard he drew forth a pipe and a small jar of opium. His stained fingers trembled violently as he rolled a much larger pill than usual and placed it in the bowl of his pipe. He had consumed a frightful quantity of the stuff in the past few days, and his nerves were in just the condition that required a larger amount than ever to quiet them. "He stretched himself at full length in the nearest bunk and proceeded to lull the awful fantasies which threatened his reason. With a moan he buried his face in his pillow; for at the end of the room he saw a grim phantom whom, he felt sure, the doubly accursed Quong Lee had maliciously admitted. The old man should pay dearly for this on the morrow! Ah Moy felt his fingers tightening convulsively around the throat of the dying Quong Lee; he could hear the croaking in his victim's wind-pipe, and the gruesome death-rattle! The sounds were all well known to the Chinaman, and recalled a chain of lurid experiences. "'I should have done it before,' he muttered, as in his fancy he kicked the body aside. "He grew calmer. There was a bright gleam of hope in the thought that with the death of Major Cragiemuir his wooing would be far less difficult. As to the girl returning his love--bah! Women were not consulted upon such matters--in China. He smiled, for he felt that his triumph was assured. "Radiant visions came to him. He was floating in space, wafted by perfumed breezes. Around him were lovely faces dimly outlined in circles of roseate clouds. Each face was Janet Cragiemuir's, and all smiled most bewitchingly at him. Showers of white and yellow blossoms fell at intervals, and the orchestra from the Imperial theatre at Pekin boomed lazily in the distance. "Happy, happy Ah Moy! "But the Chinaman, though a hardened smoker, had badly miscalculated matters, for when Quong Lee came in at daybreak to awaken him the 'Beautiful One' had been dead many hours!" * * * * * "Now, Mr. Denmead," said Colonel Manysnifters, turning to another representative of the press, "it's your turn. Let us have it good and strong. I have read your East Side Sketches, and like 'em immensely. Can't you give us a touch of New York in yours?" "I'll try," said Denmead modestly, "though it isn't exactly a story. It was just a passing incident, but it was something that I will not soon forget. An affair of that kind is apt to make more or less of an impression on a fellow. Maybe you will agree with me." XI WHAT HAPPENED TO DENMEAD "Several years ago I found myself in New York; penniless, weary, and heartsick. I wandered one morning into a tiny park, mouldering in the shadow of the huge skyscrapers with which Manhattan is everywhere defaced. I sank upon a bench, pulled a soiled newspaper from my pocket, and scanned for the fiftieth time the 'Help Wanted' columns. Work I wanted of any kind, and work of any kind had eluded my tireless search for days--ever since my arrival in New York. The benches about me were filled with bleary, unshaven men; some asleep, others trying hard to keep awake; each clutching a paper which presently it seemed they might devour, goat-like, in sheer hunger. The stamp of cruel want convulsed each hopeless face, and crowsfeet lines of despair lay as a delta beneath each fishy eye. About us in all directions towered huge monuments of apoplectic wealth--teeming hives, draining the honey from each bee, tearing from thousands their best years, their finest endeavors, their very hearts' blood--all to swell the wealth of a bloated few! And we, the drones, sat mildewing in the little open space below! "The man next to me, his head hanging over the back of the bench in ghastly jointlessness, awoke with a snort, stared about him stupidly, and something like a sob bubbled up from his Adam-appled throat. He wiped his eyes with the back of a grimy paw, and diving into a greasy pocket pulled out a short black pipe. Between consoling puffs he jerked out, 'A man's a damn fool--a damn fool, I say, to come to New York to look for a job! That's why _you_ are here. Oh, I know. I can tell. You're a stranger all right; that's easy to see. You look the part.' "'That's so,' said I, 'and worse. I am about down and out. Financially, I stand exactly twenty-one--no--twenty-three cents to the good.' "'I am right with you, friend--only more so. I have nothing, absolutely nothing! You've twenty-three cents, hey? A bad number, that twenty-three. Give me the odd penny, and perhaps luck'll change for both of us.' I put the copper into his hand, and in chucking it into his pocket he dropped it. It rolled out to the center of the walk, and in an instant not less than a dozen men made a determined rush for it. There was a desperate struggle; others joined; it became a mad, screaming, tumbling, sweating mob. Instantly a crowd from outside gathered, and a free-for-all fight began. Hundreds flocked in from the adjacent streets. The affair quickly assumed the proportions of a riot. Knives and revolvers were brought into play. It was every man against his neighbor, and an unreasoning wave of frenzy and blood seemed to sweep over the crowd. The police rushed in from all quarters, but their efforts seemed powerless. My new acquaintance and myself, the innocent cause of all the trouble, managed to escape from the thick of the fray--he with the loss of a hat and a bleeding face; and I in much worse shape--physically sound, but--I had lost my twenty-two cents! We hurriedly entered a dark canyon which led to wider paths where quiet reigned. The tumult in the park, sharply accentuated by pistol shots, came to us like the roar of falling water. "'What an astonishing thing!' said my companion. 'And all for a penny--a bloomin' penny! And to think of the fabulous wealth stored in the midst of all these tigers! Do you suppose that mere walls of steel and granite could withstand the fury of such a mob as this great city now holds, straining at its leash? Horrible things will happen in New York one of these days, and we will not have long to wait for it either. Discipline of the crudest sort, and a leader, is all that is needed to start a great army of destruction in motion!' "'But how about the police, the Federal and State troops, supposed to be in instant readiness?' I urged. "'They would count as nothing before the fury of an organized mob. A portion of the monstrous mountain of wealth stored here in New York City should be moved to a central, safer point; say St. Louis, Omaha, or even further west to Denver. It's piling up here is an ever-present menace and danger. It is a serious problem.' "'Quite so,' agreed I; 'but there is a much more serious problem confronting you and me just at present, and that is a certain sickening emptiness which makes one weak and giddy. My few coppers stood between us and--and--well, serious thoughts of the future. I have never begged nor stolen, and yet----' "'Oh, don't bother about that. The thing's easy,' said my friend; 'just watch me.' "A fat, prosperous-looking man approached. His sleek face, garlanded with mutton-chop whiskers, was creased in smiles. Evidently a broker who had just 'done' some one, was my sour thought. There were but few on the street, and the outlook for business was favorable. "'Pardon me, friend,' whined my companion, stepping out in front of him, 'but can't you give a fellow a lift? I'm a mechanic by trade, and----' "'Oh, cut it out!' said the fat man, leering knowingly. 'I'm on to what you're going to say. Why don't you fellows vary your song and dance--just for luck? G'wan. Get out of the way!' And he tried to side-step us. With a quick glance over his shoulder, my new acquaintance shoved a revolver right up in the teeth of the prosperous one. Skyward the podgy, bejeweled hands, and we deftly went through him, securing his wallet, watch, scarf-pin, and then stripped his fingers of their adornment. It was over in a flash, and the fat man on his back by a dexterous push and go-down which the Japs might add with advantage to their much-vaunted jiu-jitsu. [Illustration: "--Shoved a revolver right up in the teeth of the prosperous one!"] "'Beat it!' urged my companion, and 'beat it' we did; dropping casually but hurriedly into a corner saloon, then through a side entrance out into another street. I looked at my friend admiringly. "'I suppose there's hell to pay around the corner just now,' said he coolly; 'but we are as safe here as if we were in Jersey City--and safer. Still, it won't do to linger. Come this way,' and he led me into a lunch-room of the baser sort. "'Sit here, at this table, and I will eat at the counter. We had best not be seen together, though they would never look for us here.' I gazed at him in amazement. My bearded friend had become smooth-shaven! His neck, but a moment before collarless, was now surrounded by a high white-washed wall; he flashed a crimson tie, and somehow his clothes looked newer and sprucer. Of all the lightning-change acts I have ever seen, this was certainly the extreme tip of the limit! "'What do you think of it?' he asked, grinning, jamming his whiskers still further into his pocket. "'Wonderful!' said I. "'Now,' said he confidently, '_I_ am absolutely safe, and I don't think the stout party saw _you_. Don't worry. I caught only my reflection in the little swinish eyes. I saw nothing in the background. What'll you have to eat? There seems to be enough in the pocket-book--which I ought to empty and chuck--to buy up several lunch-rooms, with the Waldorf thrown in for good measure.' "'How much?' I asked. "'Not now,' he whispered, 'not now. Wait until we get out. The proprietor is looking at us. Here's coffee, and pie, and sandwiches--ice cream--oh, anything you like!' "We munched in silence and he pushed up a twenty-dollar bill in payment, much to the surprise of the man behind the counter. The change pocketed, we strolled out leisurely, picking our teeth with easy nonchalance. "'I hated to give that fellow the double cross, but really, old cock, that is the smallest denomination in the bundle. Wander down to the Battery with me and we will investigate further.' "'You're an Englishman,' I essayed knowingly. 'I am on to the lingo.' "'Not on your life!' said he. Born in Newark, New Jersey, deah boy, I assure you--right back of the gas-house; what? These togs o' mine were handed out to me by an old pal--a cockney valet--and the accent goes with 'em, don't ye know?' "'I'm on,' said I, sadder but wiser, and then relapsed into reverie. "The Battery was thronged as usual, but we found a bench away from prying eyes. "'Gee whiz! Jumping Jerusalem! Julius Caesar! Joe Cannon!' murmured my friend as he emptied the stuffing of the wallet into his hat. 'Am I dreaming again? I've often dreamt that I have found a bunch of money--picking it out of the gutter, usually--dimes, quarters, halves--bushels of 'em! But this is different--oh, so different! Can it be real? Am I on the boards again? Can it be only stage mon----? Look here; isn't this a windfall? Isn't this a monumental rake-off for a non-profesh? Heaven knows I'm but an amateur in this line--normally an honest man, with but slightly way-ward tendencies. Whooping O'Shaughnessy! Just look! Six one-thousand-dollar bills, fifty one-hundreds--that's eleven thousand! A sheaf of fifties and twenties, swelling the total to something like twelve thousand! Hoo-ray! Again I ask, am I dreaming? Pinch me, I'll stop snoring, 'deed I will. I'll turn over, dearie, and go to sleep again! Twelve thousand plunks! Wouldn't that everlastingly unsettle you? Well, well, well! Not so bad for a moment's effort before breakfast, eh? Ain't it simply grand, Mag? I wonder who and what our friend is, anyway. He wasn't dressed just for the part of bank messenger, though he had the inside lining, all right! A pursy old broker, I guess. Might have been a book-maker--you never can tell. Anyhow, I am sort o' sorry for the chap. It would break _me_ all up if I lost a wad of that size! Who is he? Hell, what a fool I am! Here is the name on the flap of the wallet. ABNER MCNAMEE, 24 Broadway, New York. "'Abner McNamee! Abner McNamee!! Abner Mac----! Ain't this the limit! Abner McNamee! We can't take this money! Just my damned, hydra-headed luck! You hear me? It has always been that way with me--all my life! We can't take this money, pardner! It's got to be returned! This money's all got to go back--every cent of it! Ain't it a shame? Abner McNamee! I oughter have known him at the time, but I only saw him once, and that was years ago. He has taken on a lot of flesh since then. Abner McNamee! Who'd 'a' thought it?' "'Who the devil is Abner McNamee?' I asked, scenting treachery. This was a share and share alike affair, and no crooked work, and--I needed the money! 'What's the game--this McNamee business? Do you think I am a fool?' "'Look here, pal,' said my companion quietly, 'say bye-bye to your dirigible and drop to the ground. You're all up in the air. Of course we are together in this thing. I've no thought of doing you. I know you can make trouble if you want to. You could turn me over to the first cop that heaves in sight, and there's one over there now--why don't you do it? Of course _I_ would have something to say in that event, and then there would be _two_ of us in trouble; and with Abner confronting the pair, the odds would be all in my favor. He'd never recognize _me_! No, sir! But what's the use of hot-airing like this? Be good, now, and listen to me. We can't, can't, can't keep this money! Do you hear? Now let it filter through your make-up--slowly at first, and then as fast as you like. Honest, pal, we've got to give it back!' "'Why?' I asked, still skeptical. "'Oh, what's the use of your going on like that? You worry me with your fool questions! Here, take it all and accept the responsibility, and I will leave you! Here--take it! Take it, you idiot!' "Somehow, I hesitated--held back by Heaven knows what. "'No,' said he, returning the wallet to his pocket, 'I thought not! You know a thing or two after all. You haven't lost your mind. Looks are deceptive sometimes.' I instantly regretted my indecision. "'What's the matter with the money?' I asked. 'I was just kidding you. Give it to me. Hand it over. I will take it.' "'Never-r-r! Never-r-r!' he whispered mysteriously. 'This money belongs to THE CAUSE!' "'Oh, come off!' said I with a foxy wink. Don't you think because I am a countryman I gambol exclusively on the green. I am not altogether to the emerald by a pailful! I've got you where I want you, and you know it! Quit your fooling and hand over the wallet! There's a cop over there now,' I added meaningly. "'Yes, over there--I see him,' said my companion slowly. 'A cop--a very necessary evil, highly ornamental cops are, and occasionally useful. Now kindly look over _this_ way, deah boy, and you'll see two more of 'em.' "I looked, and then----WOW! (The Milky Way.) * * * * * "They took me to Bellevue, and three days later I found myself echoing, 'Six one-thousand-dollar bills, fifty one-hundreds--that's eleven thousand. A sheaf of fifties and twenties, swelling the total to something like twelve thousand! Hooray! Am I dreaming? Pinch me, I'll stop snoring, 'deed I will. I'll turn over, dearie, and go to sleep again! Twelve thousand plunks. Well, well, well! Not so bad for a moment's effort before breakfast, eh?' "And my nurse smiled wearily." * * * * * "That New York is a fearful and wonderful place," said Colonel Manysnifters gravely. "I will never forget the first time I went there as a young man. Why, I didn't get any sleep at all! The first night I was there I turned in about two-thirty, took off my clothes, and got in bed; but it seemed sort of foolish and wasteful. Sleep in New York? Well, hardly. I argued that I could do that at home--and me paying three dollars a day! So I got right up, dressed, and started out to see the sights. It was about three o'clock then, and there wasn't any one around but the night clerk and myself. I asked him if he couldn't lock up the house and go out with me for a little while. He smiled, and said that he would like to do it, but he was afraid the boss might kick; so we had a drink together, and I went by myself. I was a green boy then and didn't know any better, but I am on to the little old town now, all right! They all know me up there. As soon as I get off the ferry, perfect strangers come up, call me by name, shake hands, and slip me a card. I don't mean to brag, but I know the location of every poolroom in the city! I have a friend in New York who writes the dramatic criticisms for the moving-picture shows; he puts me in touch with the theatrical and newspaper element, and I have seen some high old times up there, I tell you! One night--but, hold on--I've had my inning, Mr. O'Brien is at the bat, I think." [Illustration: "--Writes the dramatic criticisms for the moving picture shows."] Mr. O'Brien blushingly admitted the charge. "This is the first time I ever spoke in public," said the young man modestly, "and I crave your indulgence. If you don't mind, I will tell you about Judge Waddington and myself at Atlantic City last summer. Every one in Washington knows the Judge, and hopes that some day Congress will take up his claim and adjust it satisfactorily. The old gentleman is about all in, but we are doing what we can for him." XII O'BRIEN'S NARRATIVE "I met him on the Boardwalk, and asked him where he was stopping. "'Oh, a nice, home-like place--right over there,' indicating its position by a careless wave of the hand; 'nice place, quiet, no music at meals, or that sort of thing. Good cooking, no dogs or children. I came down here to rest. None of the glare and glitter of the Boardwalk hotels for me; no, sir!' "'What's the name of your place?' I asked. "'Hasn't any name--just a private cottage; old Southern family, one or two paying guests, you know. They have been coming here for years; never took boarders before, but the head of the house was caught in the Knicknack Trust affair last fall. Funny how many were hurt by that bust-up. Nearly all the boys down in Washington say they were stung. As I remarked, old man Montgomery is rather hard up just now; but proud, dev'lish proud, sir. I consider it a privilege to be taken in. They have rented the cottage next door for their guests. Every convenience.' "All very fine, but the Judge avoided my direct gaze. Seaward he turned a shifty eye, and I knew that he was lying. He looked depressed and down at the heel, and bore the signs of recent illness. I led him, unresisting to the nearest café, and properly stimulated, he told me that the Washington summer had proven too much for him, that the boys had kindly advanced the wherewithal for a two weeks' stay at the shore, and that he had been very sick, but already felt like a new man. "I ordered another. "'While I am very snugly fixed down here, Patsy,' said he confidentially, 'I must confess I was a little disappointed in the location of the cottage. From the picture on the letter-head the waves seemed to be curling under the Boardwalk onto the lower steps of the front porch. Every room with a sea view, and no mosquitos, the circular said. But the printer evidently got hold of the wrong form. We are a durn sight nearer Atlantic Avenue than the Atlantic Ocean!' "'Regularly buncoed, eh?' I ventured. "'As a matter of proximity to the sea, yes. But I am sure the Montgomerys are not a party to the deceit. They took the printed matter along with the new cottage, I reckon. How long will you be down, Patsy?' "'Just the week-end, sir. My, but look over there!' Our eyes were glued on the entrance. Framed in the doorway, with the glare of the white street as a background, stood one of the finest examples of the early Gothic I have ever seen. She gazed haughtily about the room, and at the waiters who rushed to her side. She selected the table next to ours, and dropped into a seat, her attenuated form sharply at right angles, like a half-closed jack-knife. With long bony fingers glistening with rings she raised her veil, and opening a chatelaine bag, pulled out a handkerchief, smelling salts, and a gold-meshed purse. Then, with a murmured order to the waiter, she settled herself comfortably, and with an imperial uplift of the pointed chin the foxy face swung slowly around to us and settled with a grimace of recognition upon the Judge. My old friend reddened, and moved about uneasily. [Illustration: "Framed in the doorway ... stood one of the finest examples of the early Gothic I have ever seen."] "'Pardon me a moment,' said he, rising and starting over to her. "'Why, Judge Waddington, what a delightful thurprise,' shrilled the lady of peroxide in a voice that carried all over the room and back as far as the bar. "'When did you come down? Thith ith thertainly fine.' The judge mumbled something which I did not catch--it sounded like 'Oh, hell!' "'Here, Patrick,' he said, without enthusiasm, 'I want you to meet a friend of mine.' "An introduction to Miss Clarice de Dear, who had appeared in the original Black Crook company with Lydia Thompson, was no every-day occurrence in my hum-drum existence, and I was perhaps visibly affected. She overlooked it, and greeted me with girlish enthusiasm. "'Tho glad,' she lisped, 'to meet any friend of the dear Judge's, and ethpethially you. I have heard tho much about you.' I wondered what in the devil she had heard. 'I've known Judge Waddington ever since I was a little tot.' "'And not so long, either,' said the Judge gallantly--and grimly. The fair one shot a curious glance at him, and smiled a smile, sour in its exceeding sweetness. "'I have often heard the Judge mention your name. 'Twath only the other night he thaid----What will I have? nothing, thanks, I have just ordered.' But she joined us later, and still later, when the conversation became general; that is, we all tried to talk at once. "From the Judge's attitude I gathered that he was commencing to celebrate the birthday of some famous man or the anniversary of a great battle. He never drank otherwise. To-day, he informed me, he was tanking up in honor of Bolivar, the great South American Liberator. "'Ah, Bolivar! Great man, Bolivar! Waiter!' "'Yes, sir!' "'The same!' "From Miss de Dear, 'midst smiles and tears, I gleaned that she had once adorned the stage, pursued always by the jealousy of her less-talented sisters. Heaven knows she couldn't help the gifts of Nature which had come to her through no effort of her own--her birthright. The de Dears were all that way, as far back as Sir Something-or-the-other de Dear who came over with the Conqueror--and her mother's first cousin went to the Philadelphia Assembly--how could she help it? _Noblesse Oblige!_ All the girls were jealous--the cats! Anyhow, she had quit the scene of her early triumphs, lured by the attractive offer of a vaudeville manager. In this new field she appeared for a short time; but when on the roof they put her on the programme sandwiched between a troup of performing dogs and a bunch of bum acrobats--she kicked! Any self-respecting artiste would have done the same! I agreed with her. She, too, like the Montgomerys, and other noble families, had been caught in the Knicknack disaster, and her savings swept away; and rather than be dependent upon the bounty of an immensely wealthy English aunt, she had consented to represent a great New York publishing house. "'The World's Famous Fat Men,' twenty volumes; cloth, levant, or half-calf; ten dollars down, and a dollar a month far into the hazy future. Of course this was hardly the place to talk business, she said, but I had her card and knew where to find her. Every one should have the work. All the best people in New York, Philadelphia, Sioux City, and other places were putting it into their libraries, and so on, and so on. "This flotsam and jetsam of her talk came to me from time to time as confidential asides from the main flow of palaver which rolled along steadily toward the Judge. The Judge, poor fellow, showed plainly the effects of the struggle; so much so, that I suggested a stroll up the Boardwalk. "We arose with an effort, and went out to meet the bracing air. "'Ah, the thea, the thea; the dear, dear thea! Always tho--er--wet and rethleth. I inherit a love for the water from my father's great uncle who was an Admiral in the British Navy.' As this was the first intimation Miss de Dear had given as to a fondness for water, except on the side, I felt that living and learning were synonymous terms. So, perhaps, did the Judge, who said, apropos of nothing in particular, 'When I was in California in fifty-nine, I saw a snake over forty-seven feet long. The onery rascal wouldn't coil up, and they had to carry him from place to place on flat cars. Now what do you think of _that_?' Miss de Dear gazed dreamily out at the tossing waves, and said nothing, while I caught hold of the Judge's elbow to steady him. Plainly the celebration was on. "'My dear, dear Patsy,' he said affectionately. "'Oh, I tell you what let'h do,' said the maiden impulsively; 'let'h go and have our fortunes told. I am dying to have mine told. Last night I dreamt for the third time that Aunt Genevieve had died and left me all her money. Maybe there is something in it. The palm of my left hand has been itching all day.' "So to the fortune-teller's we went. [Illustration: Professor Habib.] "Professor Habib was a Parsee, with features Irish in their intensity. As I gazed at him I thought of the far-reaching kinship of man. Here was a Fire-worshipper out of Persia, who for all the world looked like my brother Mick; and God knows Mick's no Parsee! Habib wore his native costume with a little red fez on top. "'Be seated,' he said courteously; again reminding me of Mick. "'Which one first?' he asked, pointing to a little inner room curtained from view. The Judge suggested genially that we all go in together, but the professor explained that one at a time was his invariable rule. "'Oh, all right, all right,' said the judge, somewhat miffed; 'far be it from me to--to----' "'Ladies first,' said I. "''Tis well,' said the professor, with a salaam; and the pair disappeared behind the draperies. "'I wonder how long they are going to stay,' said the Judge, after we had waited some fifteen minutes. The conversation behind the arras, at first low and murmuring, was becoming animated. I distinctly heard the Parsee say, 'Who are the blaggards ye've brought here wid ye?' followed by an unintelligible reply. "'What did he say?' queried the Judge, looking up sharply. "'I don't understand Parsee, sir,' said I. "'That was no foreign tongue; that was American--with a brogue. I don't like that. Let's hurry them up. I say, what time is it?' "We reached for our watches. They were gone! Instinctively I felt for my wallet. Gone! My scarf-pin. Gone! "We made a wild rush for the little inner room. "Miss de Dear? Gone! And the Parsee? Gone! * * * * * "Later, when we had made our report to the police, and I was guiding the Judge home, I asked: "Who is this de Dear? Where did you know her?" "'Never laid eyes on her before!' growled the Judge." * * * * * "Another 'Jewel'!" said Colonel Manysnifters. "You find them everywhere." XIII AN UNINVITED GUEST In the lull following Mr. O'Brien's story the conductor and porter went hurriedly through the car out to the rear platform; where, it seems, they had been summoned by the brakeman. They quickly reappeared with as bedraggled and woebegone a specimen of humanity as it has ever been my misfortune to see. An unwashed, evil-smelling, half-frozen Hobo was dragged into the car, to our utter amazement! "Hold on a minute, conductor," said Colonel Manysnifters, as they were rushing the captive through. "What have you here? Where did you get him? Who are you, sir?" asked he of the tramp. "Who are you, I say, and what are you doing on this strictly private outfit?" [Illustration: An uninvited guest.] The tramp, quite unabashed, blew upon his fingers to warm them, picked up a cigar stump from the floor, lighted it, and looking around the group said courteously, though with a bored expression: "Gentlemen, I got on your train about the time you did, though hardly in the same way. A ride on the trucks and brakebeams, while exhilarating in the extreme at the outset, soon becomes wearying and nerve-racking, so at the last water tank I made bold to take up my quarters on the rear platform, with an occasional climb to the roof for observation and change. But, my, it is cold out there! If it hadn't been for my friend here," exhibiting a flask, "I would have frozen to death. Alas, poor fellow, he is empty now!" and he held it up to the light. "It grew very dark and bitter as the night wore on; then the blizzard caught us; but even in spite of that, I fell into a doze, to be rudely awakened by this fellow--but what can you expect from a person of that kind?" Here the brakeman gave a scornful grunt, and the conductor smiled broadly. "After all," the tramp continued affably, between cigar puffs, "their lot is a hard one, and it is not for me to cast the first stone. So here I am, gentlemen, right with you, and my fate is quite in your hands." This with a magnificent wave of a grimy paw, and something approaching a curtsy. "You should get down on your knees, fellow, and thank this brakeman. He undoubtedly saved your life. It would have been your last sleep if he had not come along! Where is your gratitude?" asked Senator Pennypacker severely. "You may be right, sir," said the tramp politely. "I don't dispute your word. I _ought_ to be friendly with that fellow, as I see he is a brother of mine. He belongs to my order. I can tell by his watch-charm--that square bit of enamel with the rising sun in the middle, and the letters 'I. O. U.' in red, white, and blue, around it. Yes, he is O. K. I have been a member of many fraternities, and in better days I was the keeper of the 'Hoot Mon' in our local Caledonian club. Brother, accept my thanks. Perhaps some of these days I may be able to repay you with something more substantial." The brakeman laughed, and by this time we were all in a melting mood. Senator Bull reached instinctively into his trousers pocket, and Mr. Ridley did the same. "Just a moment, gentlemen, just a moment," said Colonel Manysnifters. "Now, sir," said he to the tramp, "we have been telling stories here to-night--some of them fair, some pretty bad. Let us hear what you can do in that line. We will give you a chance. If you don't make good we will put you off at the next station and turn you over to the authorities. Captain," to the conductor, "and you, President Madison, take our friend into the next car, give him something to eat and drink, wash him up a bit--several bits--and let him come back here and do his best." "Sir, I thank you," said the tramp with dignity. "Your idea is a great and noble one. My stomach is so empty that it hangs about me in folds. You have all doubtless seen a balloon awaiting the kindly offices of the gas-man--that's me. But it will soon be remedied. Adieu for the present." He left us, with the conductor in the lead and the grinning darky at his heels. "The nerve of those hoboes is something astonishing," said Colonel Manysnifters, walking up and down, and filling the car with smoke in order to cover up all traces of our visitor. I'll bet a thousand dollars that that fellow had as good a chance at the start as any of us,--just threw himself away,--whiskey, I suppose, or women, or the platers--the combination more likely. Did you ever see such eyes?--like two burnt holes in a blanket!" "Yet he has the manners of a gentleman, and seems to have had some education," said Van Rensselaer. "Did you notice his small hands and rather classic profile? Bathed, shaven, manicured, and properly clothed, he would be much like the rest of us--externally so, at least." "May have been born a gentleman," observed the Colonel, "but he seems to have outgrown it. A college man, too, no doubt; but what does that signify? I have a friend who spent about six thousand simoleons on his son's education, and at the end of three years all the boy had learned was to wear baggy pants, sport a cane, and yell 'Raw! Raw! Raw!'--very appropriately--upon the slightest provocation. The kind of chap you will find dashing through the streets in a forty horse-power automobile with a hundred fool-power chauffeur in charge. As to the modern young woman, all the education _she_ wants is to be able to write love-letters! "But our visitor is certainly an individual of strong personality!" grunted Colonel Manysnifters, continuing to blow smoke into all parts of the car. "Whew! Open the window back of you, Ridley. It is hard to realize that he has left us! He was certainly not 'born to blush unseen, nor waste his sweetness on the desert air,' eh?" "The tramp problem is becoming a serious one," said Senator Pennypacker ponderously. "The great army of the unemployed is steadily increasing. In New York City alone, on October the first of last year, there were no less than--just a second. I have the data in my bag. I will read you some figures that will astonish you." The Senator arose to get his bag. Faint groans were heard as he left us. Senators Bull, Wendell, Baker, several Representatives, and the gentlemen of the press arose as one man and rushed to the button. President Madison appeared and took the orders. Then Pennypacker returned with a look of determination on his face, and for fifteen minutes or more we were regaled with facts, figures, and statistics, all tending to prove that crime and wretchedness were on the increase throughout the country; that we were a degenerate people; and other equally cheerful information. The hobo's return was hailed with joy. He was vastly improved in appearance, and fairly radiated contentment. He sank into the seat that Colonel Manysnifters had thoughtfully placed for him,--somewhat apart from the rest,--with a murmur of satisfaction not unlike the loud purring of a cat. Senator Bull pushed the cigars in his direction, and Van Rensselaer was equally assiduous with the whiskey and soda. Our visitor seemed perfectly at home. He drank,--drank deeply,--and wiping his mouth on his sleeve, drank again. "The hair of the goat is certainly good for the butt," said he, smiling, and displaying a set of marvellously white and regular teeth. "Now, gentlemen, I am quite ready to fulfil my part of the agreement. If my little story interests you, you are welcome to it. It was this way. "I was a doctor by profession, carpenter by trade, stevedore by occupation; then came harder times--booze--more booze--despair, illness, and I found myself discharged from the hospital, down and out--a hobo! Yet tramp life is not so bad after all. I like it. I like the open-air existence, the freedom from care and responsibility, and--the hours. I am much alone, and genius, you know, grows corpulent in solitude. "My name is Tippett--Livingstone Tippett. Age, of no special moment. You know," he said pleasantly, "there are two things all of us lie about--our ages and our incomes. As this is a true story I will drop the _age_ question. It is better so. "My early life was uneventful. I was brought up by a pious mother in a quiet, deeply religious home; every influence uplifting and good-instilling. I was taught, among other things, to regard liquor in any form with abhorrence, and that drunkenness was the sin of sins. I was surrounded with every safeguard a loving mother could devise, and it was not until after her death and my wife's that I took to drink. My father and grandfather both died drunkards. Heredity, in my case, overcame both training and environment, and my troubles hurried on the inevitable. "I passed through college unscathed, studied medicine, walked the hospitals, and began the practice of my profession under the most favorable auspices. I fell in love with a charming girl, and blessed with my good mother's approval we were married. Our future seemed singularly bright and untroubled. Life is a game and I was considerably ahead of the game. I was certainly playing on velvet. "When my Elizabeth and I announced that instead of going abroad we would spend our honeymoon at 'Raven Hill' our little world thought it quite absurd. They were charitably inclined, however, and made excuses for us upon the ground that we were too much absorbed in each other to know what we were doing. But we did know, nevertheless. Our plans had been fully matured long before we saw fit to reveal them. To spend a month or so at Neville Mason's, down in Virginia, appealed very pleasantly to both of us, and I accepted my old chum's offer with avidity. We were to have everything to ourselves, with just as many servants as we wanted. "We were married. There was a wedding breakfast, flowers, weeping relatives, old shoes, and a profusion of rice; nothing, in short, was omitted. A few hours later we left Jersey City on the southbound flyer. Breaking the journey at Washington, and remaining over night there, we arrived at the tiny depot near our ultimate destination late on the evening of the following day. An ancient but still serviceable family carriage was in waiting, and we were conveyed in state to the mansion. "The house at Raven Hill is a huge affair of the Revolutionary period, with numerous modern additions, which fail entirely to harmonize with the quaint architecture of the original. The stables and servants' quarters give the place the appearance of quite a settlement--a survival of slavery days one sees here and there in the South. "We were shown to a suite of sunny rooms in the east wing which had been especially prepared for us, and soon made ourselves thoroughly at home. From this agreeable vantage-ground we set out upon many pleasant expeditions into the countryside, returned the visits of our neighbors, and attended the chapel at the Crossways in truly rural style. Nothing amused us as much, though, as the negro servants. To them Elizabeth was 'Honey,' and I, 'Marse Livingstone'; and over at the quarters the little darkies gave rare exhibitions of dancing for our benefit, while solemn, gray-haired Uncle Ashby picked a greasy banjo. The men sang in nasal, but not unmelodious tones, weird, crooning songs, with occasionally an up-to-date composition which found its way, no doubt, from nearby Richmond. I shall never forget those happy evenings at Raven Hill; and in my dreams I often see and hear the negroes as they danced and sang in the moonlight. "There were some good horses in the stables, and we did not spare them. Our cross-country dashes were most exciting, and the total absence of fences in the region gave us an apparently limitless expanse over which to wander. And that reminds me of a never-to-be-forgotten fox hunt which was attended by riders from all over that section of the country. Half a dozen foxes were corralled at the 'round-up,' and I could not help thinking how tame our alleged 'chases' at home appeared by the contrast. "One day while roaming about the lower portion of the Raven Hill estate we stumbled quite by accident into Dark Forest, vaguely hinted at by the negroes as a place to be avoided. This Dark Forest is a large tract of scrub oak, birch and holly, with dense undergrowths of briar; the haunt of innumerable small birds that dart in and out, chirping faintly. In its depressed portions the 'forest' has degenerated into a marsh through which a sluggish stream wends it way to the distant river. Slimy reptiles bask in the warm sun and glide lazily over the black, oozy soil. At intervals the stillness is broken by the splash of a gigantic bullfrog returning to his favorite pool. This acrobatic feat is usually accompanied by a deep-throated cry of satisfaction, not unlike the twanging of an ill-tuned guitar. On the edges of the marsh mud-covered terrapins drag themselves through the weeds and disappear with surprising swiftness when they see an intruder. "Through this singular region, and overgrown with rank, sedgy grass, is a wagon trail, here and there along its winding course several inches under water; and into this wretched road we turned our horses. After a half a mile or so we left the marsh and struck into firmer ground. Then came a sharp bend in the undergrowth, and a clearing, several acres in extent, burst into view. Here stood a white-washed cabin in the midst of a little garden enclosed by a paling fence, and tall sunflowers, swaying to and fro in the breeze, brushed the low-hanging eaves. Flowers grew everywhere in profusion, and the rude porch at the front of the dwelling was half buried in a mass of fragrant honey-suckle. White curtains, gracefully looped, hung at the windows, and there was a charming air of femininity and comfort about the place. We dismounted, and tied our horses at the gate. As we approached the cabin an immense cat dozing on the stoop sprang up hurriedly and darted into the vines. We knocked repeatedly at the door without response. Finally, some one was heard approaching, so we walked to the lean-to at the rear, and there saw, coming up from the spring at the foot of the enclosure, a young and astonishingly pretty girl. She was not at all startled by seeing us; in fact, led us to believe from her manner that we were rather expected than otherwise. "'Walk right in,' said the little beauty. 'I reckon you folks must be pretty well beat out after your long ride in the hot sun. It's a goodish bit from here to the Hill, ain't it?' "'How do you know that we are from the Hill?' I asked in surprise. "'Oh, I know,' she replied. 'I saw ye both at the station when ye first come, and then again at meetin' on Sunday. And you air a bride?' she added, turning to my wife. "'Yes, and a very happy one,' said Elizabeth, placing her hand upon my shoulder in loving fashion. The child, for she was hardly more than that, gave an odd little sigh, but quickly brightened up again. "'I'm downright glad ye came,' she said heartily. 'I do so like folks to be neighborly and sociable. Ye ain't stuck up, nuther, like most city folks; no airs, nor the like o' that. Pap'll be home soon, and he'll be glad to see ye too!' "Then she prepared a nice luncheon in the living-room. The lightest bread, delicious butter, preserved peaches, and some slices of marvellous old ham; this, with a stone pitcher of cool, foamy milk, made life very pleasant to the weary travelers. The girl declined to join us, but sat near at hand, gazing intently at my wife. No detail of Elizabeth's attire seemed to escape her. "'Oh,' said she, partly to herself, 'what beautiful, beautiful clothes!' And I registered a vow that she should have just such an outfit as soon as we went back to New York. "'That child, properly dressed, would attract attention anywhere; she does not look at all bourgeois,' said my wife; and this from Elizabeth, whose grandmother was a Boston Higglesworth, was a concession indeed. "'Do not tell her so,' said I; 'it would certainly spoil her. She _is_ uncommonly pretty, I'll admit; but unless something unforeseen happens she will probably marry within her own sphere of life, toil unceasingly, rear a brood of uncouth bumpkins--a hag at thirty, and thus fulfil her destiny.' "Elizabeth looked exceeding wise, but said nothing. "Ailsee came to us at that moment, and I looked at her closely as she stood in the sunlight, her bonnet dangling from her arm. She was undeniably beautiful--a dainty little head, crowned with a wealth of golden-brown hair, sweet hazel eyes, a lovely mouth, and the most bewitching dimples. There was nothing of the milkmaid style about her, for she lacked the vivid coloring and tendency to embonpoint of the typical rustic beauty. I pictured her to myself entering the room at one of the Bachelors' on the arm of the leader of the cotillion, and the subsequent sensation and heart-burnings. "My reverie was interrupted by a hoarse voice calling, 'Ailsee! Ailsee!'--seemingly just over in the forest. "'Dad wants me,' she said with a smile. 'I'll go and fetch him back with me. Please you folks wait a moment.' And she tripped lightly down the garden and out into the wilderness beyond. "Ten or fifteen minutes slipped by without the return of either Ailsee or her father. The footfalls in the forest died away, and the stillness was becoming oppressive. "'Remarkable, truly,' said my wife, with a puzzled expression. 'Where could she have gone? Do you think her father is keeping her? Dearest,' she added gravely, 'don't laugh, I feel--I feel--that something dreadful is going to happen. I don't know exactly what, but----' "'Of course you don't know exactly what,' I interrupted. 'Come now, be a sensible little woman. You surely don't believe in presentiments. It is the heat; this sticky, Southern heat! I feel a little queer myself.' "But nothing I could say quite banished the singular fancy which had taken possession of my young wife. Womenkind cling tenaciously to absurd ideas, especially when they are of the worrying kind; and Elizabeth looked so troubled and sad that I soon caught the feeling and became melancholy too. "It was long past noon and intensely sultry, and we were sitting on the porch where occasionally the faintest shadow of a breeze made life more endurable. Our horses, maddened by the flies and heat, chafed and stamped restlessly out at the gate. Elizabeth tried to amuse herself with a huge album of daguerreotypes which occupied the place of honor in the cabin parlor, and I smoked and lounged about, wondering what had become of Ailsee. "'Well,' said I at last, 'we can not wait here forever. If I am not greatly mistaken there will be a storm before night, and we had better get out of this at once. We can come down here some other day and renew our acquaintance with the mysterious child of the forest.' So back through the marsh we splashed our way, and arrived at Raven Hill barely in time to escape the storm, which broke with fury just as Uncle Ashby came around for our mud-bespattered steeds. "Elizabeth went upstairs to change her dress and rest before dinner, and I settled down in the library with the _Country Gentleman_. There was a knock at the door, and Uncle Ashby came in. "'Marse Livingstone,' he asked huskily, 'whar has you been wif de horses?' "I told him; and during the brief account of our adventures his face grew ashen and his eyes seemed about to start out of his head. When I was through he tottered over to the window, muttering, 'Gawd help us! Gawd help us!' "'What's the matter, Uncle Ashby?' I asked curiously. 'What on earth are you so excited about?' "'Boss,' said he entreatingly, 'doan' make me tell you--you'll be sorry ef you do. 'Deed, Marster, I really mus' go now, sah; dey's waitin' fer me at de stables. And youse been down dar an' seen it! Oh, Lordy, Lordy!' "'Come back here,' said I, my curiosity getting the better of me. 'Don't be a fool, old man; brace up. What's the trouble? You are not afraid to speak out, eh?' "'Well, Marse Livingstone, ef I mus' tell you, I 'spose I mus'--thar doan' 'pear to be no help fer it. But I'd ruther not, boss; 'deed, I'd ruther not.' "'Go on; tell your story,' said I impatiently. 'I guess I can stand it. Just try me, anyhow.' So in the semi-darkness a marvellous tale was unfolded to my ears. "In the first place, Uncle Ashby solemnly assured me that I had that day seen a ghost. The flesh-and-blood Ailsee, he declared, had been dead many years. Her father, Coot Harris, was a rough customer who took up his abode in the marsh--'mash,' Uncle Tucker called it--at the close of the Civil War. Here he gained a precarious livelihood by 'pot-hunting'; for Harris and others of his ilk paid but little attention to the poorly enforced game laws of the section. Coot Harris, the marshman, had a daughter, who, as Uncle Ashby contemptuously remarked, 'was peart enuff, as pore white trash folkses go.' "This daughter was named Ailsee. Thwarted by her father in some love affair with a swain of the neighborhood, she had drowned herself in a gloomy pool in the very darkest part of the forest. The body was found shortly afterward and buried in the cottage garden. Harris then left the country and has never since been heard of. All this, according to Uncle Ashby, happened twenty years ago. The ghost of the ill-starred Ailsee had occasionally been seen by the country folk, but always with dire results. Bad luck, disease, and in some cases death, had been the fate of those who saw the 'ha'nt.' One man lost his house by fire within forty-eight hours after the shadowy form crossed his path. The body of another unfortunate was found floating in the creek; his eyes wide open, staring horribly. The drowned man had but the day before made known the fact that he had seen the wraith of the marshman's daughter. Still another poor fellow had been taken, raving and violent, to the asylum. Numerous additional instances, equally as harrowing, were cited by Uncle Ashby, whose fervent belief in all that he said was rather impressive than otherwise. "I listened patiently to the old man until he finished. By that time the storm had ceased and the sky, suddenly clearing in the west, revealed the last rays of the setting sun, which brightened the room for a few moments. I laughed softly when Uncle Ashby went out, and all that I had heard of the ignorance, credulity, and superstition of the Southern negro came into my mind. I sat for a while, musing in the gathering dusk, and then went up to my room. "The lamps had not been lighted in that portion of the house, and it was quite dark. The atmosphere was stifling, as all the windows had been closed at the approach of the storm. I raised them, and the cool, damp air, heavy with the odor of jessamine, floated into the room. Elizabeth, evidently greatly fatigued by the day's exertions, had thrown herself upon a lounge at the foot of the bed. She was in her dressing-gown, and her face was framed in masses of wavy brown hair which had become uncoiled in her restless movements. I hesitated to awaken her, but as sounds from below indicated the near approach of dinner I called her--at first softly, and then in louder tones, an indefinable fear stealing over me as I did so. I approached the couch, and tremblingly placed my hand upon her forehead.... Ah, God, I cannot tell the rest! "Seven years have dragged their weary length along since I lost my dear young wife and the light of my life was extinguished forever! Now, all is darkness! darkness! "Subsequent investigation, supported by the testimony of well-known and thoroughly reliable residents of the country, confirmed in every particular the truth of Uncle Ashby's story. A visit to the marshman's cottage some days after my wife's death revealed a ruinous mouldering habitation, in the midst of a wilderness of weeds and vines. A mournful, desolate spot, shunned and avoided by all for the past twenty years, and yet had I not seen----" Tippett paused abruptly, with bowed head and eyes tear-dimmed. "Here, old chap, take this," said Colonel Manysnifters, hastily pouring out and handing him a stiff drink. Tippett, obeying, was somewhat revived, and continued. "I returned to Brooklyn with the body of my wife. My mother followed her to the grave a few months later. All in the world that was dear to me was now lost. I took to drink; I sunk lower and lower, dissipated my little fortune, friends forsook me; and by quick stages in the descending scale I found myself, as I said before--an outcast! Yet, through all my troubles I have never entertained the thought of self-destruction. I have no desire whatever to seek-- "'The undiscover'd country, from whose bourn No traveler returns,--puzzles the will, And makes us rather bear those ills we have Than to fly to others we know not of.'" It was long after midnight when Tippett concluded his story and the gathering broke up; not, however, before sleeping-quarters had been found for the unfortunate man, and a promise given by Senator Bull to put him on his feet again in the far West--an offer gladly accepted in all sincerity, and a venture which proved highly successful, as most of the long-headed Senator's usually did. Morning brought relief, the track was cleared, and our train proceeded on its way, arriving at Washington many hours behind schedule; its occupants but little the worse for their experience--Colonel Manysnifters, I believe, with a slight headache. 
4468	----	None 
40837	----	Whoso Findeth a Wife, by William Le Queux. ________________________________________________________________________ ________________________________________________________________________ WHOSO FINDETH A WIFE, BY WILLIAM LE QUEUX. CHAPTER ONE. A STATE SECRET. "_Whoso findeth a wife findeth a good thing, and obtaineth favour of the Lord_."--Proverbs xviii, 22. "Have those urgent dispatches come in from Berlin, Deedes?" "Captain Hammerton has not yet arrived," I answered. "Eleven o'clock! Tut, tut! Every moment's delay means greater risk," and the Earl of Warnham, Her Majesty's Principal Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, strode up and down his private room, with his hat still on, impatiently snapping his bony fingers in agitation quite unusual to him. "Hammerton wired from Berlin yesterday, when on the point of leaving," I observed, taking a telegram from the table before me. "In cipher?" "Yes." "No accident is reported in the papers, I suppose?" "Nothing in the _Times_," I replied. "Strange, very strange, that he should be so long overdue," the Earl said, at last casting himself into his padded chair, and lounging back, his hands thrust deep into his pockets as he stared thoughtfully into space. I resumed my writing, puzzled at the cause of the chief's excited demeanour, but a few moments later sharp footsteps sounded outside in the corridor, followed by a loud rapping, and there entered the messenger, clad in his heavy fur-lined travelling coat, although a July morning, and carrying a well-worn leather dispatch-box, which he placed upon my table. "Late, Hammerton. Very late," snapped the Earl, glancing at his watch. "There's a dense fog in the Channel, your Lordship, and we were compelled to come across dead slow the whole distance. I've driven straight from the station," the Captain answered good-humouredly, looking so spruce and well-groomed that few would credit he had been travelling for nearly twenty-four hours. "Go and rest. You must return to-night," his Lordship said testily. "At seven-thirty?" "Yes, at my house in Berkeley Square." Then, taking up the receipt I had signed for the dispatch-box, the messenger, to whom a journey to Constantinople or St Petersburg was about as fatiguing as a ride on the Underground Railway is to ordinary persons, walked jauntily out, wishing us both good-day. When the door had closed, Lord Warnham quickly opened the outer case with his key, and drew forth a second box, covered with red morocco, and securely sealed. This he also opened, and, after rummaging for some moments among a quantity of papers, exclaimed, in a tone of satisfaction,-- "Ah! Here it is. Good! Seals not tampered with." Withdrawing from the box a large official envelope, doubly secured with the seal of the British Embassy at Berlin, and endorsed by Sir Philip Emden, our Ambassador, he walked hastily to one of the long windows overlooking the paved courtyard of the Foreign Office, and for some moments closely scrutinised both seals and signature. "Did you fear that the papers might have been examined in transit?" I inquired of my grave-faced chief in surprise. "No, Deedes, no. Not at all," he answered, returning to his table, cutting open the envelope, and giving a rapid glance at its contents to assure himself that it was the same document he had sent to the German capital a week before. "Hammerton is trustworthy, and while dispatches are in his care I have no fear. The only apprehension I had was that an attempt might possibly have been made to ascertain the nature of this treaty," the great statesman added, indicating the document beneath his hand. "The result would be detrimental?" I hazarded. "Detrimental!" he cried. "If the clauses of this secret defensive alliance became known to our enemies war would be inevitable. Russia and France would combine, and the whole of the Powers would become embroiled within a week. Exposure of these secret negotiations would be absolutely disastrous. It would, I verily believe, mean irretrievable ruin to England's prestige and perhaps to her power." He uttered the ominous words slowly and distinctly, then carefully refolding the precious document, with its string of sprawly signatures, he placed it in another envelope, sealing it with his own private seal. The great statesman, the greatest Foreign Minister of his time, upon whose tact, judgment and forethought the peace and prosperity of England mainly depended, was tall and thin, with scanty, white hair, a pale, refined face, slightly wizened by age, deep-sunken, steely eyes, shaggy brows, a sharp, straight nose, and a breadth of forehead indicating indomitable perseverance and an iron will. His reputation as brilliant orator and shrewd and skilful diplomat was a household word throughout the civilised world, whilst in our own land confidence always increased when he was at the head of Foreign Affairs. As his confidential private secretary, I, Geoffrey Deedes, had daily opportunities of observing how conscientiously he served his Sovereign and his country, and how amazing was his capacity for work. With him, duty was always of paramount consideration; he worked night and day to sustain England's honour and welfare, for times without number I had gone to his great gloomy house in Berkeley Square in the middle of the night and roused him from his bed to attend to urgent dispatches. Although a perfect martinet towards many in the various departments of the Foreign Office, he was to me always kind and generous. My father, Sir Reginald Deedes, had, as many will doubtless remember, represented Her Majesty at the Netherlands Court for fifteen years until his death. He was thus an old friend of the Earl, and it was this friendship that caused him to appoint me five years ago his private secretary, and, much to the chagrin of young Lord Gaysford, the Under Secretary, repose such implicit confidence in me that very frequently he entrusted to my care the keys of the ponderous safe wherein were deposited the State secrets of the nation. "You'd better register this, and we'll lock it away from prying eyes at once," Lord Warnham said a few moments later, handing me the envelope after he had sealed it. Taking it, I went straight to my own room across the corridor at the head of the fine central staircase. It was part of my duty to receive the more important dispatches, number those which were sealed, and prior to depositing them in the safe, register the number in my book, stating the source whence they came, the date received, and the name of the messenger who brought them. Alone in my room, I closed the door, took the register from my own small safe, numbered the precious envelope with the designation "B27,893," and carefully made an entry in the book. Having finished, a clerk brought me two letters from other Departments, both of which needed immediate replies, therefore I sat down and scribbled them while he waited. Then, having been absent from the Chief's room nearly a quarter of an hour, I went back with the dispatch in my hand. In the room I found Lord Gaysford, who, in reply to my question, stated that the Earl had been compelled to leave in order to attend a meeting of the Cabinet, which he believed would be a protracted one. To me this was provoking, for the great statesman had taken with him the key of the safe; thus was I left with this important document in my possession. But I said nothing of the matter to the Under Secretary, and returning to my room placed the dispatch in my inner pocket for greater security, determined to keep it there until his Lordship returned. I feared to lock it away in my own safe lest anyone else might possess a key, and felt that in the circumstances my own pocket was the safest place. For nearly two hours I continued my work, it being Friday, an unusually busy day, until, just as the clock at the Horse Guards chimed one o'clock, a clerk entered with the card of Dudley Ogle, my college chum, with whom I was now sharing, during the summer months, a cottage close to the Thames at Shepperton. On the card was the pencilled query, "Can you come and lunch with me?" For a few moments I hesitated. I was busy, and I was compelled to deliver the dispatch in my pocket to Lord Warnham before he left for home. I knew, however, that the meeting of the Cabinet must be a long one, and recognising the fact that I must lunch somewhere, I gave the clerk a message that I would join Mr Ogle in the waiting-room in a few moments. Then, locking my safe, I assured myself that the dispatch was still in my pocket, brushed my hat, and joined my friend. Dudley Ogle was the best of good fellows. After a rather wild college career, it had been his fancy to roam for about two years on the Continent, and on his return, his father, with whom he was not on the best of terms, conveniently died, leaving him possessor of about twenty thousand pounds. By this time he had, however, sown his wild oats, and instead of spending his money as most young men of his age would have done, he invested it, and now lived a careless, indolent existence, travelling where he pleased, and getting as much enjoyment out of life as was possible. He was about my own age--twenty-eight, well set-up, smart-looking, with rather aquiline features, dark hair, and a pair of merry eyes that were an index to a contented mind. "Didn't expect me, I suppose, old fellow?" he exclaimed breezily, when we met. "I found after you'd left this morning that I was compelled to come up to town, and having nothing to do for an hour or so, it occurred to me that we might lunch together." "I thought you intended to pull up as far as `The Nook,'" I said, laughing. "So I did, but I received a wire calling me to town on some rather urgent business. Where shall we lunch?" In descending the stairs and turning into Downing Street we discussed the merits of various restaurants, and finally decided upon a small, old-fashioned, unpretentious, but well-known place a few doors from Charing Cross, in the direction of Whitehall, known as "The Ship." Here we ate our meal, spent an hour together, and then parted, he leaving to return to Shepperton, I to finish my work and rejoin him later at our riparian cottage. On my return to the Foreign Office the Earl had, I found, just come in, and I handed him the secret document which some day, sooner or later, would control the destiny of an empire. "This has, of course, not been out of your possession, Deedes?" inquired his Lordship, looking keenly at me with his grey eyes, as he stood before the open door of the great safe. "Not for a single instant," I replied. "Good. I trust you," he said, carefully placing the sealed envelope in a pigeon-hole to itself, and closing the door with a loud clang, locked it. "I think," he said, his ascetic features relaxing into a self-satisfied smile, "I think we have once again checkmated our enemies, and swiftly too. The whole thing has been arranged and concluded within a week, thanks to the clever diplomacy of Emden at Berlin." "And to your own forethought," I added, laughing. "No, no. To Emden all credit is due, none to me, none," he answered modestly; then, turning, he gave me some instructions, and a few minutes later put on his hat and left for home. At four o'clock I also left, and driving to Waterloo, caught my train to Shepperton, where I found Dudley Ogle awaiting me. Ours was a pretty cottage. Facing the river, it was covered with creepers, sweet-smelling jasmine and roses, with a rustic porch in front, and a large old-world garden around. Life was delightful there after the stuffiness of London chambers, and as we both had with us our men, in addition to Mrs Franks, my trusty housekeeper, we were prevented from being troubled by the minor worries of life. "Hulloa, old chap!" cried Dudley, hastily rousing himself from a lazy attitude on the couch in our sitting-room as I entered. "Stifling hot, isn't it? There's a wire from the Laings. They want us to dine with them to-night. Going?" I hesitated, and my reluctance did not escape him. "Isn't Ella's company sufficient inducement?" he asked chaffingly. "Going? Of course I am," I answered quickly, glancing at my watch. "We have a full hour before dressing. Let's go for a row. It'll improve our appetites." Within a few minutes I had exchanged the frock coat of officialdom for flannels, and very soon we were pulling upstream towards a delightful backwater that was our goal. As we rowed, the silence being broken only by the sound of the oars in the row-locks, I calmly reviewed the situation. Why the Laings invited me that night puzzled me. Truth to tell, I loved Ella Laing with all the strength of my being, and had foolishly believed she reciprocated my affection until two nights ago, when I had called at the house near Staines, where she lived with her mother during the summer months. I had discovered her in the garden walking in lover-like attitude with Andrew Beck, a retired silk manufacturer, who had lived in France so long that he had become something of a cosmopolitan, and who had lately entered Parliament at a bye-election as representative of West Rutlandshire. I confess to having conceived an instinctive dislike to this man from the very first moment we had been introduced by a mutual friend in the Lobby of the House of Commons, for he was a parvenu of the most pronounced type, while his grey, beetling brows and flat, broad nose gave his face an expression anything but pleasing. Nevertheless he walked jauntily, spoke loudly in bluff good-natured tones, gave excellent dinners, and, strangely enough, was voted a good fellow wherever he went. Yet there was an ostentatiousness about his actions that was sickening; his arrogant, self-assertive manner was, to me, extremely distasteful. The discovery that he was endeavouring to supplant me in Ella's affections filled my cup of indignation to the full. I had left the garden unobserved on that fateful night, returned at once to our riverside cottage, and written her an angry letter, charging her in plain terms with having played me false. In reply, next morning she sent by the gardener a long letter full of mild reproach, in which she asserted that she had no thought of love for anyone beside myself, and that I had entirely misconstrued her relations with Mr Beck. "Strange, indeed, it is that you, of all men, should declare that I love him," she wrote. "Love! If you knew all, you would neither write nor utter that sacred word to me; and even though you are the only man for whom I have a thought, it may, after all, be best if we never again meet. You say you cannot trust me further. Well, I can only reply that my future happiness is in your hands. I am yours." Deeply had I pondered over this curious, half-hysterical, half-reproachful letter, re-reading it many many times, and becoming more and more puzzled over its vague, mysterious meaning. On several occasions I had been upon the point of calling and questioning her, but had refrained. Now, however, this formal invitation to dine had come no doubt through Ella, and I saw in it her desire to personally explain away my jealousy. So I accepted. CHAPTER TWO. "THE NOOK." When, a couple of hours later, we entered Mrs Laing's garden, the first person we encountered was the man I hated, Andrew Beck, in his ill-fitting dress clothes and broad, crumpled shirt-front, with its great diamond solitaire, lounging in a wicker chair at the river's brink, smoking, and in solitude enjoying the glorious sunset that, reflecting upon the water, transformed it into a stream of rippling gold. "The Nook," as Mrs Laing's house was called, was a charming old place facing the river at a little distance above Staines Bridge--long, low, completely covered with ivy and surrounded by a wide sweep of lawn that sloped down to the water's edge, and a belt of old elms beneath the cool shade of which I had spent many delightfully lazy afternoons by the side of my well-beloved. "Ah! Deedes," exclaimed Beck, gaily, rising as we approached, "I was waiting for somebody to come. The ladies haven't come down yet." "Have you seen them?" I asked. "Not yet," he replied; then turning to my friend Dudley, he began chaffing him about a young and wealthy widow he had rowed up to Windsor in our boat a few days before. "We saw you, my boy. We saw you?" he laughed. "You were talking so confidentially as you passed, that Ella remarked that you were contemplating stepping into the dead man's shoes." "No, no," Dudley retorted good-humouredly. "No widows for me. She was merely left under my care for an hour or so, and I had to do the amicable. It's really too bad of you all to jump to such rash conclusions." At that instant a soft, musical voice behind me uttered my name, and, turning, I met Ella, with a light wrap thrown about her shoulders, coming forward to me with outstretched hand. "Ah! Geoffrey, how are you?" she cried gaily, with joy in her brilliant, sparkling eyes. Then, as our hands clasped, she added in an undertone, "I knew you would come; I knew you would forgive." "I have not forgiven," I answered, rather coldly, bending over her slim white hand. "But I have committed no fault," she said, pouting prettily. "You have given me no satisfactory explanation." "Wait until after dinner. We will come out here together, where we can talk without being overheard," she whispered hurriedly, then left me abruptly to greet Dudley and Andrew Beck. There was something significant in the swift, inquisitive glance she exchanged with the last-named man, and turning away I strode across the lawn annoyed. A moment later I met Mrs Laing herself. She was elderly and effusive; tall, and of stately bearing. Her hair was perfectly white but by no means scanty, her face was clever and refined without that grossness that too often disfigures a well-preserved woman of fifty, and in her dark eyes, undimmed by time, there was always an expression of calm contentment. Her husband had been a great traveller until his death ten years ago, and she, accompanying him on his journeys in the East, had become a clever linguist, an accomplishment which her only daughter, Ella, shared. As we stood together chatting, and watching the boats full of happy youths and maidens gliding past in the brilliant afterglow, I thought that never had I seen Ella looking so handsome, as, standing with Dudley, she had taken up Beck's theme, and was congratulating him upon his trip with the skittish widow. Hers was an oval face, perfect in its symmetry, clear cut and refined, a trifle pale perhaps, but from her eyes of that darkest blue that sometimes sparkled into the brightness of a sapphire, sometimes deepened into softest grey like the sky on a summer night, there shone an inner beauty, indicative of a purity of soul. The mouth was mobile, short and full, with an exquisite finish about the curve of the lips, the nose short and straight, and the hair of darkest gold--the gold that cannot be produced artificially, but has a slight dash of red in it, just sufficient to enrich the brown of the shadows and give a burnish to the ripples in the high lights. Her eyebrows were set rather high up from the eye itself, and were slightly drooped at the corner nearest the ear, imparting to her face a kind of plaintive, questioning look that was exceedingly becoming to her. Her gown was of soft clinging silk of palest heliotrope, that bore the unmistakable stamp of Paris, while on her slim wrist I noticed she wore the diamond bangle I had given her six months before. As she chatted with Dudley, she turned and laughed at me gaily over her shoulder from time to time, and when we entered the house a few minutes later, it was with satisfaction that I found myself placed beside her at table. Dinner was always a pleasant, if slightly stately, meal at Mrs Laing's. She was a brilliant and accomplished hostess, whose entertainments at her house in Pont Street were always popular, and who surrounded herself with interesting and intellectual people. Bohemia was generally well represented at her receptions, for the lions of the season, whether literary, artistic, or musical, were always to be met there--a fact which induced many of the more exclusive set to honour the merry widow by their presence. Wearied, however, of the eternal small talk about new books, new plays, new pictures, and the newest fads, I was glad when, after smoking, we were free to rejoin the ladies in the quaint, oak-panelled drawing-room. The moon had risen, and ere long I strolled with Ella through the French windows, and out upon the lawn, eager to talk alone with her. "Well," she said at length, when we were seated in the shadow beneath one of the high rustling elms, "so you want an explanation. What can I give?" "Your letter conveys the suspicion that there exists some secret between Beck and yourself," I said, as calmly as I could. "My letter!" she exclaimed, in a voice that seemed a little harsh and strained. "What did I say? I really forget." "It's useless to prevaricate, Ella," I said, rather impatiently. "You say that if I knew all I would never utter words of love to you. What do you mean?" "Exactly what I wrote," she answered huskily, in a low voice. "You mean to imply that you are unworthy of the love of an honest man?" I observed in astonishment. "Yes," she gasped hoarsely. "I do not--I--cannot deceive you, Geoffrey, because I love you." The last sentence she uttered passionately, with a fierce fire burning in her eyes. "You are jealous of Andrew Beck, a man old enough to be my father. Well, I confess I was foolish to allow him to walk with me here with his arm around my waist; yet at that moment the indiscretion did not occur to me." "But he was speaking to you--whispering into your ready ears words of love and tenderness. He spoke in persuasive tones, as if begging you to become his wife," I said angrily, the very thought of the scene I had witnessed filling me with indignation and bitter hatred. "No, you are entirely mistaken, Geoffrey. No word of love passed between us," she said quietly, looking into my eyes with unwavering glance. I smiled incredulously. "You will perhaps deny that here, within six yards of this very spot, you stopped and burst forth into tears?" I exclaimed, with cold cynicism. "I admit that. The words he uttered were of sufficient significance to bring tears to my eyes," she replied vaguely. "He must have spoken words of love to you," I argued. "I watched you both." "I deny that he did, Geoffrey," she cried fiercely, starting up. "To satisfy you, I am even ready to take an oath before my Creator that the subject of our conversation was not love." "What was Beck persuading you to do?" I demanded. "No, no," she cried, as if the very thought was repulsive to her. "No, do not ask me. I can never tell you, never!" "Then there is a secret between you that you decline to reveal," I said reproachfully. She laughed a harsh metallic laugh, answering in a tone of feigned flippancy,-- "Really, Geoffrey, you are absurdly and unreasonably suspicious. I tell you I love no other man but yourself, yet merely because it pleases you to misconstrue what you have witnessed you brand me as base and faithless. It is unjust." "But your letter!" I cried. "I had no intention of conveying the idea that any secret existed between Mr Beck and myself. He was, as you well know, an old friend of my father's, and has known me since a child. Towards me he is always friendly and good-natured, but I swear he has never spoken to me of love." "But you cannot deny, Ella, that a secret--some fact that you are determined to keep from me--exists, and that if not of love, it was of that secret Beck spoke to you so earnestly in the garden here!" Her dry lips moved, but no sound escaped them. She shivered. I saw my question had entirely nonplussed her, and I felt instinctively that I had uttered the truth. At that instant, however, a servant crossed the lawn in the moonlight, and approaching, handed me a telegram, stating that Juckes, my man, had brought it over from Shepperton, fearing that it might be of importance. Hastily I thrust it into my pocket unopened, and when the servant was out of hearing I repeated the plain question I had put to my well-beloved. In the bright moonlight I watched how pale and agitated was her face, while involuntarily she shuddered, as if the thought that I might ascertain the truth terrified her. "Geoffrey," she said at last, in a low, plaintive voice as, sitting beside me, her slim fingers suddenly closed convulsively upon mine, "why cannot you trust me, when you know I love you so dearly?" "Why cannot you tell me the truth instead of evading it? You say you are unworthy of my love. Why?" "I--I cannot tell you," she cried wildly, breaking into hysterical sobs. "Ah! You do not know how I have suffered, Geoffrey, or you would not speak thus to me. If you can no longer trust me, then we must, alas! part. But if we do, I shall think ever of you as one who misjudged me and cast me off, merely because of my inability to give you an explanation of one simple incident." "But I love you, Ella," I cried. "Why should we part--why should--" "Hulloa, Deedes!" interrupted Beck's high-pitched, genial voice. "I've been looking for you everywhere. We're all going for a moonlight row. Come along." Further conversation was, I saw, out of the question, and a few minutes later we had all embarked, with the exception of Mrs Laing, and were gliding slowly down the stream, now glittering in the brilliant moonbeams. Dudley had brought Ella's mandoline from the house, and as our prow cut the rippling waters he played a soft, charming gondolier's song. My love sat beside me in the stern, and her eyes mutely asked forgiveness as ever and anon she turned to me. I saw how beautiful she was, how full of delicate grace, and how varying were her moods; yet she seemed nervous, highly-strung, with a strange harshness in her voice that I had never before noticed. She spoke no word to Beck, and I remarked within myself that she avoided him, while once, when he leant over to grasp her hand, she shrank shudderingly from its contact. An hour later, when, after rowing down to Laleham, we had returned to the "Nook" and, at the instigation of the ladies, were enjoying cigars, I accidentally placed my hand in the breast-pocket of my dress-coat and there felt the telegram which I had until that moment entirely forgotten. Opening it, I was amazed to find it in cipher. The cipher signature was that of the Earl of Warnham, and I saw it had been transmitted over the private wire from Warnham, his seat in Sussex. Taking a pencil from my pocket I at once proceeded to transcribe the mysterious array of letters, and when I at last discovered the purport of the message, I sat back in my chair, breathless and rigid, while the flimsy paper nearly fell from my nerveless fingers. "Why, Geoffrey!" cried Ella, starting up in alarm and rushing towards me, "what's the matter? You are as pale as death. Have you had bad news?" "Bad news!" I answered, trying to laugh and slowly rousing myself. "No bad news at all, except that I must leave for town at once." "Well, you certainly look as if you've been hard hit over a race," Beck exclaimed, laughing. "You can't possibly get a train now till 11:30. It's hardly ten yet," said my well-beloved, exchanging a strange, mysterious glance with Dudley. "Then I must go by that," I answered, again re-reading the pink paper, replacing it in my pocket, and endeavouring to preserve an outward calm. Presently, when Ella was again alone with me, her first question was,-- "What bad news have you received, Geoffrey?" "None," I answered, smiling. "It is a private matter, of really no importance at all." "Oh, I thought it must have been something very, very serious, your hand trembled so, and you turned so pale." "Did I?" I laughed cheerily. "Well, it's nothing, dearest; nothing at all." Thus reassured, she continued to chat with that bright vivacity that was one of her most engaging characteristics. I have, however, no idea of what she said; I only answered her mechanically, for I was too full of gloomy apprehensions to heed her gossip, even though I loved her with all my soul. Half-an-hour later, Dudley, finding that I had to go to town, announced his intention of walking back to Shepperton. "The night is lovely, and the moon bright as day," he said, as we all shook hands with him in the hall. "I shall enjoy the walk." "Beware of widows!" shouted Beck, standing at the top of the wide flight of steps. We all laughed heartily. "None about to-night," my friend shouted back good-humouredly, and, setting out briskly, disappeared a moment later down the long, winding carriage drive. "It's really too bad to tease Mr Ogle about widows," Ella protested when we went in. "He enjoys the joke hugely," I said. "Dudley's an excellent fellow. I've never in my life seen him out of temper." "In that case he ought to make a good husband," she replied, laughing, as together we all entered Mrs Laing's pretty drawing-room, with its shaded lamps and cosy-corners, where we spent another three-quarters of an hour chatting until, finding we had just time to catch our train, Beck and I made our adieux. When I shook hands with Ella she whispered an earnest appeal for forgiveness, which, truth to tell, I feigned not to hear. Then we parted. With Beck at my side, I walked sharply down the drive, rendered dark by the thick canopy of trees overhead, and had almost gained the gate leading to the high road when suddenly, catching my foot against some unseen object in the pathway, I fell heavily forward upon the gravel, just managing to save my face by putting out both hands. "Hulloa!" cried Beck; "what's the matter?" "The matter!" I gasped, groping at the mysterious object quickly with my hands. "I believe I've fallen over somebody." "Drunk, I suppose. Come along, or we sha'n't catch our train." But, still kneeling, I quickly took my vestas from my pocket and struck one. By its fitful light I distinguished the prostrate body of a man lying face downwards, with arms outstretched beyond his head. Turning him over with difficulty, I lit another vesta and held it close down to his face. Next second I drew back with a loud cry of dismay and horror. It was Dudley Ogle. His bloodless features were hideously distorted, his limbs rigid, his wildly-staring eyes were already glazed, and his stiffened fingers icy cold. In an instant I knew the truth. He was dead. CHAPTER THREE. A MYSTERY. "Why!" gasped Beck, recognising the cold, drawn features by the light of the match he struck. "It's Dudley! Run back to the house and get assistance quickly. I'll remain here. Life may not be extinct after all, poor fellow!" At this suggestion I sprang up, and dashing away along the drive, burst into the drawing-room from the lawn. "Geoffrey!" cried Mrs Laing, starting up quickly from a cosy-corner wherein she had settled to read. "What has happened? You look scared." "A very painful thing has occurred," I gasped breathlessly, striving to preserve a calm demeanour. "We have found poor Dudley lying in the drive yonder. He's dead!" "Dead!" she screamed hysterically. "Dudley dead!" "Yes, alas!" I replied. "Beck is with him, awaiting assistance." "I can't believe it," she cried, clutching at a chair for support. Her face was ashen pale, and her bejewelled hands trembled violently. "Poor Dudley! If he is dead, it is certain that he has been the victim of foul play," she added mechanically, in a low tone. Then suddenly recovering herself, she inquired the circumstances in which we had found him. "I will explain later," I cried impatiently. "May I ring for the servants?" "No," she cried, starting forward with a strange, wild look. "Return to him, and leave all to me. For the present the truth must be kept from Ella. There are reasons why my daughter should not know of this tragic affair until to-morrow. As you are aware, she is weak and unstrung to-night, and has already gone to her room. I fear that any sudden shock may prove extremely detrimental to her, and I therefore trust you will respect my wishes." "Certainly," I answered. "But we are not yet convinced that life is extinct, so while you arrange for his removal here, I'll go at once for a doctor." "Yes, do. Dr Allenby is nearest. The first house over the bridge," she replied hastily, and as she rang the bell I sprang out again upon the lawn and rushed away along the drive. Beck was still kneeling beside the prostrate man, supporting his head upon his knee, and approaching, I asked whether he had detected any signs of respiration. "None whatever," he answered. "I'm afraid, poor fellow, he has gone." Briefly I explained my errand and rushed off for medical assistance, returning to "The Nook" with the grey-haired practitioner a quarter of an hour later. We found Dudley lying in the drawing-room on the large couch of yellow silk, with Beck and Mrs Laing standing calmly on either side. In Mrs Laing's eyes were traces of tears. The doctor, after a brief examination, shook his head gravely, saying,-- "Life has, unfortunately, been extinct for fully an hour." "What is the cause of death?" inquired Mrs Laing, eagerly. "I have not yet examined the body, but there are no marks of violence whatever, as far as I can observe. At the _post-mortem_ we may be able to discover something." She drew a deep breath. I chanced at that moment to glance at her, and was surprised to observe an unmistakable look of terror flit for a brief instant across her haggard countenance. It seemed as though the doctor's hope of determining the cause of death had aroused within her a sudden apprehension. Dr Allenby, however, suggested, in polite terms, that she should leave the room, as he desired to examine the body, and she reluctantly consented, exclaiming, as she moved slowly out,-- "I would have given worlds to have avoided all this. One's name will be bruited about in the papers; and there will be an inquest, I suppose, and all that sort of thing. And dear Ella--what a terrible blow it will be to her!" Then, when the door had closed, while I stood gazing upon my intimate friend who, only an hour before, had been so full of life's enjoyment, buoyant spirits and _bonhomie_, surprised at Mrs Laing's extraordinary manner, and reflecting upon her sudden strange demeanour, the doctor, assisted by Beck, began a minute and careful examination. In a quarter of an hour, they satisfied themselves that no violence had been used, and just as they concluded, the police, who had been sent for, arrived. The local sub-divisional inspector, tall, red-faced, and inclined to obesity, a plain-clothes constable, and a sergeant in uniform, who entered the drawing-room, were at once informed of the mysterious circumstances in which the body had been discovered. The inspector scribbled some brief notes, took the names and addresses of all of us, remarking with politeness that we should be compelled to attend the inquest. Afterwards, the body was removed to the billiard-room and the plain-clothes constable left in charge of it, while, with Beck and Dr Allenby, I entered the dining-room where Mrs Laing, pale, agitated and nervous, was eagerly awaiting us. The arrival of the police in her house had apparently filled her with dread, for almost the first question she asked me was,-- "Have they gone? Have they gone?" "They have left one officer on duty to prevent the body being touched," I answered. "Then the police are absolutely in possession of my house! Will they search it?" she inquired hoarsely. "Search it! Certainly not," I answered. "Of course, if foul play were suspected, they might. Otherwise they have no power without a search-warrant properly signed by a magistrate." "But no violence is suspected," she exclaimed in a half whisper, glancing over to where the doctor and Beck were standing in earnest conversation. "I shall therefore be spared the indignity of having my house searched, sha'n't I?" "I trust so, Mrs Laing," I replied. "But it is not such a dreadful ordeal, after all, to have one's place rummaged." "No, perhaps not," she answered thoughtfully; then, smiling, she added, "Perhaps I am foolish to regret that this terrible affair has occurred at my very door. Poor Dudley has died suddenly, and it is only right that I, his intimate friend, should do what I can to ensure the last rite being carried out in decency. But the very thought of the police unnerves me! and I fear, too, on Ella's account. Only yesterday Dr Allenby told her that she must carefully avoid any shock." "But she must know the truth to-morrow," I observed. "Will you break the dreadful news to her?" she urged. "As her betrothed, you, perhaps, can tell her better than anyone else." "Unfortunately I shall be unable," I said. "This evening I received a very urgent telegram which recalls me to town, and having now lost my last train, I must go by the 6:30 in the morning. I cannot get back before late in the evening, or it may be next day. But as soon as possible I will return straight here, and render you whatever assistance is in my power." "Thanks. But is your business so very urgent?" she asked. "Of greatest importance. Poor Dudley's tragic end has delayed me, and even this brief delay may be of most serious consequence." "Ah! you men in the Foreign Office are always full of deep schemes and clever diplomacy," she smiled, toying with her mass of rings. I laughed, but did not reply. "Is it on Foreign Office business that you are compelled to leave us?" she persisted, glancing at me keenly, I thought, as if intent upon ascertaining the purport of the telegram I had received. "Yes," I replied, in wonder that she should thus evince such a strong desire to glean the nature of my business. But next instant it occurred to me that possibly she might suspect me of being implicated in some mysterious manner with my friend's sudden end, and that, believing I desired to escape, was determined at least to know where I was going, and upon what errand. At that moment Beck crossed to us, saying,-- "This affair is certainly most distressing, Mrs Laing. Dudley was such an excellent fellow that we must each one of us regret his loss very deeply indeed. I have just been discussing the matter with the doctor; but, of course, he can at present form no conjecture as to the cause of death." "Natural causes, no doubt," chimed in the medical man, in a dry, business-like tone. "I think we may at once dismiss all idea that violence was used." "You think so?" inquired Mrs Laing, with eagerness. "You don't believe, then, he has been a victim of foul play?" "Not at all. Beyond the slight bruise on the forehead, evidently caused by the fall upon the gravel, there is no mark whatever," the doctor answered. "Until I have made a thorough examination I cannot, of course, determine the nature of the fatal cause. By noon to-morrow we shall, I hope, know the truth." "He must have fallen and expired within ten minutes of leaving the house," Beck exclaimed. "Yet when he shook hands with us he was in the highest possible spirits. How terribly sudden his end was." "Terrible!" I exclaimed, myself dazed by the peculiarly tragic and mysterious affair. "When he wished us adieu he could not have dreamed that his life had so nearly run its course." "He complained of no pain during the evening, I suppose?" the doctor inquired. "Not to my knowledge," Beck answered, and this statement I was compelled to endorse. "He dined here?" Dr Allenby exclaimed, turning to Mrs Laing. "Yes." "There are some remains of the food left, I presume?" "No doubt," she answered quickly. "But--but what do you suspect! Are the symptoms those of poisoning?" she gasped. "I suspect nothing," replied the doctor, with hesitation. "The fact that the hands are tightly clenched suggests a final paroxysm of pain which might possibly accrue from poison. The remains of the dinner may be required for analysis, therefore it would be advisable to keep them." "Very well," she answered, a shadow of annoyance upon her face. "I'll give orders to that effect. But surely, doctor, you do not think poor Dudley can have been poisoned in my house. If anything we had for dinner had been deleterious, all of us must have suffered." "No, pardon me for disagreeing," he answered politely. "In many cases known to toxicologists, families have eaten of the same meal, and one person only has been seized with sudden illness that has proved fatal. By analysis we may obtain some clue as to the cause of Mr Ogle's unfortunate end." Mrs Laing's thin lips moved, but no sound escaped them. At last, turning suddenly, she covered her face with her hands, as if to shut out from her gaze the white, haggard countenance she had so recently looked upon. "Come," exclaimed the doctor, sympathetically, laying his hand upon her arm. "You are trembling. This unfortunate occurrence has no doubt upset you, but you must bear up. Immediately I get home I shall send you a draught that will brace up your nerves. Take care how the sad news is broken to Miss Ella. The slightest undue excitement may affect her very seriously." "I have not forgotten your words yesterday, doctor," she replied. "You are very kind. Good-night!" They shook hands, and Dr Allenby, taking up his hat, left--an example Beck and I soon afterwards followed, passing the night at the Angel Hotel. Throughout the dark, breathless hours sleep came not to my eyes, so full was my mind of the tragic discovery. As I lay awake, hour after hour, listening to the chiming bells, and watching the dawn struggling in between the curtains, I reflected deeply upon the strange events of that evening, and the more I pondered, the more mysterious appeared the circumstances. Foremost in my mind was the strange, inviolable secret that I felt convinced existed between Ella and Beck. Although strenuously denied by her, she had nevertheless admitted her unworthiness of my love. Yet I adored her. No woman had ever stirred my soul as she had; no woman had so completely held me under her spell. I remembered how she had seemed a trifle wan and distressed; yet that look enhanced rather than detracted from her refined beauty. Her steady refusal to enlighten me regarding the subject of her earnest conversation with Beck when I had watched them in the garden, and the significant glances she had exchanged with him across the dinner-table, had aroused within me a suspicion that, notwithstanding her declaration, she loved Beck. Again, the tone of her letter was, I now saw distinctly, such as a woman would write if she desired to break off her engagement. Yet had I not a right to demand full explanation of her extraordinary statement? had I not a right to seek the truth of her relations with this loud-spoken parvenu? Nevertheless, as I pondered, I felt half inclined to believe that my estimate of Beck was a distorted one, for his regret at the death of Dudley, and his sympathy for Mrs Laing were, I felt assured, deep, heartfelt and genuine. When at last I carefully analysed my feelings towards him, I was bound to admit within myself that jealousy was now the only cause of my bitter antipathy. Again, other incidents increased the mystery. Mrs Laing's dread that Ella should know of Dudley's death was very curious, and her exclamations and inquiries of the doctor regarding his conjecture of poison seemed to point to the fact that she entertained certain suspicions, or was aware of certain facts. But, after fully reviewing the tragic affair in all its phases, I arrived at the conclusion that Dr Allenby did not anticipate for one moment finding poison at the _post-mortem_. On the contrary, from the words he had let drop, he undoubtedly believed death due to heart-disease. I could not, however, rid myself of a vague suspicion that Ella's mother feared analysis of the remains of the dinner, and that the presence of the police unnerved her, as it invariably does those who are guilty. Until the sun shone out, casting a long bright beam across the dingy carpet, I pondered over these curious facts in their sequence, unable to elucidate the deep mystery underlying them. After a dismal, sleepless night, haunted by a nameless spectral fear, that ray of sunshine brought back hope and banished despair I found myself at last reflecting that, after all, Dudley had expired suddenly from a cause to which any of us might be liable, and it was probable that I had been scenting mystery and tragedy where there were none. I rose, and actually smiled at the weird and horrible nature of the thoughts that throughout the wearying night had held me spellbound in indescribable dread and terror. CHAPTER FOUR. THE CLICK OF THE TELEGRAPH. When at noon, in accordance with the urgent and strangely-worded telegram I had received from the Earl of Warnham, I alighted at Horsham Station, in Sussex, I found one of the carriages from the Hall awaiting me. As I entered it, I was followed by a man I knew slightly, Superintendent Frayling, chief of the Criminal Investigation Department at Scotland Yard, who had apparently travelled down by the same train from Victoria. Greeting me, he took the place beside me, and a moment later the footman sprang upon the box and we sped away towards the open country. To my question as to his business with the Earl, he made an evasive reply, merely stating that he had received a telegram requesting an immediate interview. "This summons is rather unusual," he added, smiling. "Has anything serious occurred, do you know?" "Not that I'm aware of. Perhaps there's been a burglary at the Hall?" I suggested. "Hardly that, I think," he replied, with a knowing look, stroking his pointed brown beard. "If burglars had visited the place, he would have asked for a clever officer or two, not for a personal interview with me." With this view I was compelled to agree, then, lighting cigarettes, we sat back calmly contemplating the beautiful, fertile country through which we were driving. The road, leaving the quaint old town, descended sharply for a short distance, then wound uphill through cornfields lined by high hedges of hawthorn and holly. On, past a quaint old water-mill we skirted Warnham Pond, whereon Shelley in his youthful days sailed paper boats, then half-a-mile further entered the handsome lodge-gates of Warnham Park. Through a fine avenue, with a broad sweep of park on either side well stocked with deer, emus and many zoological specimens, we ascended, until at last, after negotiating the long, winding drive in front of the Hall, the carriage pulled up with a sudden jerk before its handsome portico. As I alighted, old Stanford, the white-haired butler, came forward hurriedly, saying,-- "His Lordship is in the library awaiting you, sir. He told me to bring you to him the moment you arrived." "Very well," I said, and the aged retainer, leading the way along a spacious but rather cheerless corridor, stopped before the door of the great library, and throwing it suddenly open, announced me. "At last, Deedes," I heard the Earl exclaim in a tone that showed him to be in no amiable mood; and as I entered the long, handsome chamber, lined from floor to ceiling with books, I did not at first notice him until he rose slowly from a large writing-table, behind which he had been hidden. His face, usually wizened and pale, was absolutely bloodless. Its appearance startled me. "I wired you last night, and expected you by the 9:18 this morning, Why did you not come?" was his first question, uttered in a sharp tone of annoyance. "The sudden death of a friend caused me to lose the train I intended to catch," I explained. "Death!" he snapped, in the manner habitual to him when impatient. "Is the death of a friend any account when the interests of the country are at stake? On the night my wife was dying I was compelled to leave her bedside to travel to Balmoral to have audience of Her Majesty regarding a document I had sent for the Royal assent. When I returned, Lady Warnham had been dead fourteen hours. In the successful diplomat there must be no sentiment--none." "The five minutes I lost when I discovered my friend dead caused me to miss my train from Staines to London," I explained. "But you received my telegram, and should have strictly regarded its urgency," he answered, with an air of extreme dissatisfaction. "The fact of its being in cipher was sufficient to show its importance." "I was out dining, and my man brought it along to me," I said. "Why did he do so?" he inquired quickly. "Because he thought it might be urgent." "Did he open it?" "No. Even if he had it was in cipher." "Is your man absolutely trustworthy?" he asked. "He has been in the service of my family for fifteen years. He was my father's valet at the Hague." "Is his name Juckes?" he inquired. "Yes." "Ah! I know him. He is absolutely trustworthy; a most excellent man." The Earl's manner surprised me. His face, usually calm, sphinx-like and expressionless, betrayed the most intense anxiety and suspicion. That my delay had caused him great annoyance was apparent, but the anxious expression upon his ashen, almost haggard face was such, that even in moments of extreme perplexity, when dealing with one or other of the many complex questions of foreign policy, it had never been so intense. Standing with his back to one of the great bay windows that commanded extensive views of the picturesque park, he was silent for a moment, then turning his keen, grey eyes upon me, he suddenly exclaimed, in a tone of extreme gravity,-- "Since yesterday, Deedes, a catastrophe has occurred." "You briefly hinted at it in your telegram," I answered. "What is its nature?" "The most serious that has happened during the whole of my administration," he said in a voice that plainly betrayed his agitation. "The clauses of the secret defensive alliance which Hammerton brought from Berlin yesterday are known in St Petersburg." "What!" I cried in alarm, remembering the Earl's words, and his elaborate precautions to preserve its secrecy. "Surely they cannot be already known?" "We have been tricked by spies, Deedes," he answered sternly. "Read this," and he handed me a telegram in the private cipher known only to the Minister himself. Its transcript was written beneath, and at a glance I saw it was from a Russian official in the Foreign Office at St Petersburg, who acted as our secret agent there and received a large sum yearly for his services. The dispatch, which showed that it had been handed in at Hamburg at six o'clock on the previous evening--all secret messages being sent in the first instance to that city--and re-transmitted--read as follows:-- "_Greatest excitement caused here by receipt by telegraph an hour ago of verbatim copy of secret defensive alliance between England and Germany. Have seen telegram, which was handed in at 369, Strand, London, at 3:30. Just called at Embassy and informed Lord Strathavon. Council of Ministers has been summoned_." "It is amazing," I gasped, when I had read the dispatch. "How could our enemies have learned the truth?" Without replying he took from his writing-table another message, which read:-- "_From Strathavon, St Petersburg. To the Earl of Warnham, London.-- Defensive alliance known here. Hostilities feared. French ambassador has had audience at Winter Palace, and telegraphed to Paris for instruction. Shall wire hourly_." One by one he took up the telegraphic dispatches which, during the night, had been re-transmitted from the Foreign Office over the private wire to the instrument that stood upon a small table opposite us. As I read each of them eagerly, I saw plainly that Russia and France were in complete accord, and that we were on the verge of a national disaster, sudden and terrible. With such secrecy and rapidity were negotiations being carried on between Paris and St Petersburg, that in Berlin, a city always well-informed in all matters of diplomacy, nothing unusual was suspected. A further telegram from our secret agent in the Russian Foreign Office, received an hour before my arrival at Warnham, read:-- "_The secret is gradually leaking out. The_ Novosti _has just issued a special edition hinting at the possibility of war with England, and this has caused the most intense excitement everywhere. The journal, evidently inspired, gives no authority for its statement, nor does it give any reason for the startling rumour_." I laid down the dispatch in silence, and as I raised my head the Minister's keen, penetrating eyes met mine. "Well," he exclaimed, in a dry, harsh tone. "What is is your explanation, sir?" "My explanation?" I cried, in amazement, noticing his determined demeanour. "I know nothing of the affair except the telegrams you have shown me." "Upon you alone the responsibility of this catastrophe rests," he said angrily. "It is useless to deny all knowledge of it and only aggravates your offence. Because you come of a diplomatic family I have trusted you implicitly, but it is evident that my confidence has been utterly misplaced." "I deny that I have ever, for a single instant, betrayed the trust you have placed in me," I replied hotly. "I know nothing of the means by which the Tzar's army of spies have obtained knowledge of our secret." He snapped his bony fingers impatiently, saying,-- "It is not to be expected that you will acknowledge yourself a traitor to your country, sir; therefore we must prove your guilt." "You are at liberty, of course, to act in what manner you please," I answered. "I tell you frankly, however, that this terrible charge you bring against me is as startling as the information I have just read. I can only say I am entirely innocent." "Bah!" he cried, turning on his heel with a gesture of disgust. Then, facing me again, his eyes flashing with anger, he added, "If you are innocent, tell me why you were so long absent yesterday when registering the dispatch; tell me why, when such an important document was in your possession, you did not remain in the office instead of being absent over an hour?" "I went out to lunch," I said. "With the document in your pocket?" "Yes. But surely you do not suspect me of being a spy?" I cried. "I do not suspect you, sir. I have positive proof of it." "Proof!" I gasped. "Show it to me." "It is here," he answered, his thin, nervous hands turning over the mass of papers littering his writing-table, and taking from among them an official envelope. In an instant I recognised it as the one containing the treaty. "This remains exactly as I took it from the safe with my own hands and cut it open." With trembling fingers I drew the document from its envelope and opened it. The paper was blank! I glanced at him in abject dismay, unable to utter a word. "That is what you handed me on my return from the Cabinet Council," he said, with knit brows. "Now, what explanation have you to offer?" "What can I offer?" I cried. "The envelope I gave you was the same that you handed to me. I could swear to it." "No, it was not," he replied quickly. "Glance at the seal." Taking it to the light I examined the seal carefully, but failed to detect anything unusual. It bore in black wax the Warnham coat of arms impressed by the large, beautifully-cut amethyst which the Earl wore attached to the piece of rusty silk ribbon that served him as watch chain. "I can see nothing wrong with this," I said, glancing up at him. "I admit that the imitation is so carefully executed that it is calculated to deceive any eye except my own." Then, putting on his _pince-nez_, he made an impression in wax with his own seal and pointed out a slight flaw which, in the impression upon the envelope, did not exist. "And your endorsement. Is it not in your own hand?" he inquired. I turned over the envelope and looked. It bore the designation "B27,893," just as I had written it, and the writing was either my own or such a marvellously accurate imitation that I was compelled to confess my inability to point out any discrepancy. "Then the writing is yours, eh?" the Earl asked abruptly. "If it is, you must be aware who forged the seal." "The writing certainly contains all the characteristics of mine, but I am not absolutely sure it is not a forgery. In any case, I am confident that the document you gave me I handed back to you." Then I explained carefully, and in detail, the events which occurred from the time he gave the treaty into my possession, up to the moment I handed it back to him. "But how can you account for giving back to me a blank sheet of paper in an envelope secured by a forged seal?" he asked, regarding me with undisguised suspicion. "You do not admit even taking it from your pocket, neither have you any suspicion of the friend with whom you lunched. I should like to hear his independent version." "That is impossible," I answered. "Why?" he asked, pricking up his ears and scenting a mystery. "Because he is dead." At that moment our conversation was interrupted by the sharp ringing of the bell of the telegraph instrument near us, and an instant later the telegraphist in charge entered, and seated himself at the table. Click, click, click--click--click began the needle, and next moment the clerk, turning to the Earl, exclaimed,-- "An important message from St Petersburg, your Lordship." "Read it as it comes through," the Earl replied breathlessly, walking towards the instrument and bending eagerly over it. Then, as the rapid metallic click again broke the silence, the clerk, in monotonous tones, exclaimed,-- "_From Lobetski, St Petersburg, via Hamburg. To Earl of Warnham.--A proclamation signed by the Tzar declaring war against England has just been received at the Foreign Office, but it is as yet kept secret. It will probably be posted in the streets this evening. Greatest activity prevails at the War Office and Admiralty. Regiments in the military districts of Charkoff, Odessa, Warsaw and Kieff have received orders to complete their cadres of officers to war strength, recalling to the colours all officers on the retired list and on leave. This is a preliminary step to the complete mobilisation of the Russian forces. All cipher messages now refused_." The Earl, with frantic effort, grasped at the edge of the table, then staggered unevenly, and sank back into a chair, rigid and speechless. CHAPTER FIVE. LORD WARNHAM'S ADMISSION. "Anything further?" inquired the great statesman in a low, mechanical tone, his gaze fixed straight before him as he sat. "Nothing further, your Lordship," answered the telegraphist. The Earl of Warnham sighed deeply, his thin hands twitching with a nervous excitement he strove in vain to suppress. "Ask if Lord Maybury is in town," he said hoarsely, suddenly rousing himself. Again the instrument clicked, and a few moments later the telegraphist, turning to the Foreign Minister, said,-- "The Premier is in town, your Lordship." The Earl glanced at his watch a few seconds in silence, then exclaimed,-- "Tell Gaysford to inform Lord Maybury at once of the contents of this last dispatch from St Petersburg, and say that I will meet the Premier at 5:30 at the Foreign Office." The telegraphist touched the key, and in a few moments the Minister's orders were obeyed. Then, taking a sheet of note-paper and a pencil, he wrote in a private cipher a telegram, which he addressed to Her Majesty at Osborne. This, too, the clerk dispatched at once over the wire, followed by urgent messages to members of the Cabinet Council and to Lord Kingsbury, Commander-in-Chief of the British Army, asking them to meet informally at six o'clock that evening at the Foreign Office. When all these messages had been transmitted with a rapidity that was astonishing, the telegraphist turned in his chair and asked,-- "Anything more, your lordship?" "Nothing for the present," he answered. "Leave us." Then, when he had gone, the Earl rose slowly, and with bent head, and hands clasped behind his back, he strode up and down the library in silent contemplation. Suddenly he halted before me where I stood, and abruptly asked,-- "What did you say was the name of that friend who lunched with you yesterday?" "Ogle," I answered. "Dudley Ogle." "And his profession?" "He had none. His father left him with enough to live upon comfortably." "Who was his father?" he inquired, with a sharp look of doubt. "A landowner." "Where?" "I don't know." The Earl slightly raised his shaggy grey brows, then continued,-- "How long have you known this friend?" "Several years." "You told me that he has died since yesterday," his lordship said. "Is not that a rather curious fact--if true?" "True!" I cried. "You apparently doubt me. A telegram to the police at Staines will confirm my statement." "Yes, I never disguise my doubts, Deedes," the Earl snapped, fixing his grey eyes upon mine. "I suspect very strongly that you have sold the secret to our enemies; you have, to put it plainly, betrayed your country." "I deny it!" I replied, with fierce anger. "I care not for any of your alleged proofs. True, the man who was with me during the whole time I was absent is dead. Nevertheless I am prepared to meet and refute all the accusations you may bring against me." "Well, we shall see. We shall see," he answered dryly, snapping his fingers, and again commencing to pace the great library from end to end with steps a trifle more hurried than before. "We have--nay, I, personally have been the victim of dastardly spies, but I will not rest until I clear up the mystery and bring upon the guilty one the punishment he deserves. Think," he cried. "Think what this means! England's prestige is ruined, her power is challenged; and ere long the great armies of Russia and France will be swarming upon our shores. In the fights at sea and the fights on land with modern armaments the results must be too terrible to contemplate. The disaster that we must face will, I fear, be crushing and complete. I am not, I have never been, one of those over-confident idiots who believe our island impregnable; but am old-fashioned enough to incline towards Napoleon's opinion. We are apt to rely upon our naval strength, a strength that may, or may not, be up to the standard of power we believe. If it is a rotten reed, what remains? England must be trodden beneath the iron heel of the invader, and the Russian eagle will float beside the tricolour in Whitehall." "But can diplomacy do nothing to avert the catastrophe?" I suggested. "Not when it is defeated by the devilish machinations of spies," he replied meaningly, flashing a glance at me, the fierceness of which I did not fail to observe. "But Russia dare not take the initiative," I blurted forth. "Permit me, sir, to express my own opinion upon our relations with St Petersburg," he roared. "I tell you that for years Russia has held herself in readiness to attack us at the moment when she received sufficient provocation, and for that very object she contracted an alliance with France. The Tzar's recent visit to England was a mere farce to disarm suspicion, a proceeding in which, thank Heaven! I refused to play any part whatever. The blow that I have long anticipated, and have sought to ward off all these long years of my administration as Premier and as Foreign Secretary, has fallen. To-day is the most sorry day that England has ever known. The death-knell of her power is ringing," and he walked down the room towards me, pale-faced and bent, his countenance wearing an expression of unutterable gloominess. He was, I knew, a patriot who would have sacrificed his life for his country's honour, and every word he had uttered came straight from his heart. "How the secret agents of the Tzar obtained knowledge of the treaty surpasses comprehension," I exclaimed. "The catastrophe is due to you--to you alone!" he cried. "You knew of what vital importance to our honour it was that the contents of that document should be kept absolutely secret. I told you with my own lips. You have no excuse whatever--none. Your conduct is culpable in the highest degree, and you deserve, sir, instant dismissal and the publication in the _Gazette_ of a statement that you have been discharged from Her Majesty's service because you were a thief and a spy!" "I am neither," I shouted in a frenzy of rage, interrupting him. "If you were a younger man, I'd--by Heaven! I'd knock you down. But I respect your age, Lord Warnham, and I am not forgetful of the fact that to you I owe more than I can ever repay. My family have faithfully served their country through generations, and I will never allow a false accusation to be brought upon it, even though you, Her Majesty's Foreign Secretary, may choose to make it." He halted, glancing at me with an expression of unfeigned surprise. "You forget yourself, sir," he answered, with that calm, unruffled dignity that he could assume at will. "I repeat my accusation, and it is for you to refute it." "I can! I will!" I cried. "Then explain the reason you handed me a sheet of blank paper in exchange for the instrument." "I cannot, I--" He laughed a hard, cynical laugh, and, turning upon his heel, paced towards the opposite window. "All I know is that the envelope I gave you was the same that you handed to me," I protested. "It's a deliberate lie," he cried, as he turned in anger to face me again. "I opened the dispatch, read it through to ascertain there was no mistake, and, after sealing it with my own hands, gave it to you. Yet, in return, you hand me this!" and he took from the table the ingeniously-forged duplicate envelope and held it up. Then, casting it down again passionately, he added,-- "The document I handed to you was exchanged for that dummy, and an hour later the whole thing was telegraphed _in extenso_ to Russia. The original was in your possession, and even if you are not actually in the pay of our enemies, you were so negligent of your duty towards your Queen and country that you are undeserving the name of Englishman." "But does not London swarm with Russian agents?" I said. "Have we not had ample evidence of that lately?" "I admit it," he answered. "But what proof is there to show that you yourself did not hand the original document to one of these enterprising gentlemen who take such a keen interest in our affairs?" "There is no proof that I am a spy," I cried hotly. "There never will be; for I am entirely innocent of this disgraceful charge. You overlook the fact that after it had been deposited in the safe it may have been tampered with." "I have overlooked no detail," he answered, with calmness. "Your suggestion is an admirable form of excuse, but, unfortunately for you, it will not hold water. First, because, as you must be aware, there is but one key to that safe, and that never leaves my person; secondly, no one but you and I are possessed of the secret whereby the safe may be opened or closed; thirdly, the packet you gave me did not remain in the safe. In order that you should believe that the document was deposited there, I put it in in your presence, but when you left my room I took it out again, and carried it home with me to Berkeley Square, intending to show it to Lord Maybury. The Premier did not call as he had promised, but I kept the document in my pocket the whole time, and at six o'clock returned to the Foreign Office and deposited it again in the safe. Almost next moment--I had not left the room, remember--some thought prompted me to reopen the envelope and reassure myself of the wording of one of the clauses. Walking to the safe, I took out the envelope and cut it open, only to discover that I had been tricked. The paper was blank!" "It might have been stolen while in your possession just as easily as while in mine!" I exclaimed, experiencing some satisfaction at being thus able to turn his own arguments against himself. "Knowing its vital importance, I took the most elaborate precautions that such circumstances were rendered absolutely impossible." "From your words, when Hammerton arrived from Berlin, it was plain that you suspected treachery. On what ground were your suspicions founded?" Upon his sphinx-like face there rested a heavy frown of displeasure as he replied,-- "I refuse to submit to any cross-examination, sir. That I entertained certain suspicions is enough." "And you actually accuse me without the slightest foundation?" I cried with warmth. "You are in error," he retorted very calmly, returning to his writing-table and taking up some papers. "I have here the original of the telegram handed in at the branch post-office in the Strand yesterday afternoon." "Well?" "It has been examined by the calligraphic expert employed by the police, and declared to be in your handwriting." "What?" I gasped, almost snatching the yellow telegraph form from his hand in my eagerness to examine the mysterious jumble of letters and figures composing the cypher. My heart sank within me when next instant I recognised they were in a hand so nearly resembling my own that I could scarcely detect any difference whatever. As I stood gazing at this marvellous forgery, open-mouthed in abject dismay, there broke upon my ear a short, harsh laugh--a laugh of triumph. Raising my head, the Earl's penetrating gaze met mine. "Now," he exclaimed, "come, acknowledge the truth. It is useless to prevaricate." "I have told the truth," I answered. "I never wrote this." For an instant his steely eyes flashed as his blanched face assumed an expression of unutterable hatred and disgust. Then he shouted,-- "You are a thief, a spy and a liar, sir! Leave me instantly. Even in the face of such evidence as this you protest innocence with childish simplicity. You have betrayed your country into the hands of her enemies, and are, even now, seeking to throw blame and suspicion upon myself. You--" "I have not done so. I merely suggested that the document might have been exchanged while in your possession. Surely--" "And you actually come to me with a lame, absurd tale that the only man who can clear you is dead! The whole defence is too absurd," he thundered. "You have sold your country's honour and the lives of your fellow-men for Russian roubles. Go! Never let me see you again, except in a felon's dock." "But surely I may be permitted to clear myself?" I cried. "Your masters in St Petersburg will no doubt arrange for your future. In London we require your faithless services no longer," the Earl answered, with intense bitterness. "Go!" CHAPTER SIX. THE VEIL. Leaving the Earl's presence, I refused old Stanford's invitation to take some refreshment, and, walking along the corridor on my way out, came face to face with Frayling, who was being conducted to the library. "Going?" he inquired. "Yes," I answered, and passing on, engrossed in bitter thoughts that overwhelmed me, strode out into the park, wandering aimlessly across the grass to where a well-kept footpath wound away among the trees. Taking it, heedless of my destination, I walked on mechanically, regardless of the brilliant sunshine and the songs of the birds, thinking only of the unjust accusation against me, and of my inability to clear myself. I saw that the stigma upon me meant ruin, both social and financial. Branded as a spy, I should be spurned by Ella, sneered at by Mrs Laing, and avoided by Beck. Friends who had trusted me would no longer place any confidence in a man who had, according to their belief, sold his country into the hands of her enemies, while it was apparent from the Earl's words that he had no further faith in my actions. Yet the only man who could have cleared me, who could have corroborated my statement as to how I spent my time during my absence at lunch, and shown plainly that I had never entered the Strand nor visited the branch post-office next to Exeter Hall, was dead. His lips were for ever sealed. I went forward, plunged deeply in thought, until passing a small gate I left the park, and found myself in Warnham Churchyard. For a moment I stood on the peaceful spot where I had often stood before, admiring the quaint old church, with its square, squat, ivy-covered tower, its gilded clock face, and its ancient doors that, standing open, admitted air and sunshine. Before me were the plain, white tombs of the departed earls, the most recent being that in memory of the Countess, one of the leaders of London society, who had died during her husband's absence on his official duties; while across the well-kept lawn stood a quaint old sun-dial that had in silence marked the time for a century or so. From within the church the organ sounded softly, and I could see the Vicar's daughter, a pretty girl still in her teens, seated at the instrument practising. Warnham was a quiet Sussex village unknown to the world outside, unspoiled by modern progress, untouched by the hand of the vandal. As presently I passed the lych-gate and entered its peaceful street, it wore a distinctly old-world air. At the end of the churchyard wall stood the typical village blacksmith, brown-faced and brawny, swinging his hammer with musical clang upon his anvil set beneath a great chestnut tree in full bloom; further along stood the schools, from the playground of which came the joyous sound of children's voices; and across the road was the only inn--the Sussex Arms--where, on more than one occasion, I had spent an hour in the bare and beery taproom, chatting with the garrulous village gossips, the burly landlord and his pleasant spouse. The air was heavy with the scent of June roses and the old-fashioned flowers growing in cottage gardens, whilst the lilacs sent forth a perfume that in my perturbed state of mind brought me back to a realisation of my bitterness. Lilac was Ella's favourite scent, and it stirred within me thoughts of her. How, I wondered, had she borne the news of Dudley's tragic and mysterious end? How, I wondered, would she greet me when next we met? Yet somehow I distrusted her, and as I walked on through the village towards the Ockley road, nodding mechanically to a man I knew, I was seriously contemplating the advisability of never again seeing her. But I loved her, and though I strove to reason with myself that some secret tie existed between her and Beck, I found myself unable to break off my engagement, for I was held in her toils by the fascination of her eyes. For fully an hour I walked on, ascending the hill swept by the fresh breeze from the Channel, only turning back on finding myself at the little hamlet at Kingsfold. In that walk I tried to form resolutions-- to devise some means to regain the confidence of the Earl, and to conjecture the cause of Dudley's death--but all to no purpose. The blows which had fallen in such swift succession had paralysed me. I could not think, neither could I act. Re-passing the Sussex Arms, I turned in, dusty and thirsty. In the bare taproom, deserted at that hour, old Denman, a tall, tight-trousered, splay-footed, grey-haired man, who drove the village fly, and acted as ostler and handy man about the hostelry, was busy cleaning some pewters, and as I entered, looked up and touched his hat. "Well, Denman," I said, "you don't seem to grow very much older, eh?" The man, whose hair and beard were closely-cropped, and whose furrowed face had a habit of twitching when he spoke, grinned as he answered,-- "No, sir. People tells me I bear my age wonderful well. But won't you come into the parlour, sir?" Declining, I told him to get me something to drink, and when he brought it questioned him as to the latest news in the village. Denman was an inveterate gossip, and in his constant drives in the rickety and antiquated vehicle known as "the fly," to villages and towns in the vicinity, had a knack of picking up all the news and scandal, which he retailed at night for the delectation of customers at the Sussex Arms. "I dunno as anything very startling has happened lately in Warnham. The jumble sale came off at the schools last Tuesday fortnight, and there's a cricket match up at the Lodge next Saturday. Some gentlemen are coming down from London to play." "Anything else?" Denman removed his hat and scratched his head. "Oh, yes," he said suddenly. "You knows Mr Macandrew what's steward for Mr Thornbury? Well, last Monday week an old gentleman called at his house up street and asked to see him. His wife asked him into the parlour, and Mr Macandrew went in. `Are you Mr Macandrew?' says the old gent. `I am,' says Mr Macandrew. `Well, I shouldn't 'ave known you,' says the old man. And it turned out afterwards that this old man was actually Mr Macandrew's father, who's lived ever so many years in America, and hasn't seen Mr Macandrew since he wor a boy. I did laugh when I heard it." "Extraordinary. Have you had any visitors down from London?" I inquired, for sometimes people took the houses of the better-class villagers, furnished for the season. "We had a lively young gent staying here in the inn for four days last week. He was a friend of somebody up at the Hall, I think, for he was there a good deal. He came from London. I wonder whether you'd know him." "What was his name?" "Funny name," Denman said, grinning. "Ogle, Mr Ogle." "Ogle!" I gasped. "What was his Christian name?" "Dudley, I fancy it was." "Dudley Ogle," I repeated, remembering that he had been absent from Shepperton for four days, and had told me he had been in Ipswich visiting some friends. "And he has been here?" "Yes, sir. We made him as comfortable as we could, and I think he enjoyed hisself." "But what did he do--why was he down here?" I inquired eagerly. "Do you know him, sir? Jolly gentleman, isn't he? Up to all manners o' tricks, and always chaffing the girls." "Yes, I knew him, Denman," I answered gravely. "Tell me, as far as you know, his object in coming to Warnham. I'm very interested in his doings." "As far as I know, sir, he came to see somebody up at the Hall. I drove him about a good deal, over to Ockley, to Cowfold, and out to Handcross; and I took him into Horsham every day." "Do you know who was his friend at the Hall?" "No, I don't, sir. He never spoke about it; but I did have my suspicions," he answered, smiling. "Oh! what were they?" I asked. "I fancy he came to see Lucy Bryden, the housekeeper's daughter. She's a good-looking girl, you know," and the old man winked knowingly. "What made you think that, eh?" "Well, from something I was told," he replied mysteriously. "He was seen walking with a young lady across the park one night, and I 'eard as 'ow it was Mrs Bryden's daughter. But next day I 'ad a surprise. A young lady called here for him, and she was dressed exactly as the young woman who had been in the park with him was. But it wasn't Mrs Bryden's daughter." "Then who was it?" "I heard him call her Ella. She came from London." "Ella?" I gasped. "What the deuce do you mean, Denman? What sort of a girl was she? A lady?" "Yes, sir, quite a lady. She was dressed in brown, and one thing I noticed was that she had on a splendid diamond bracelet. It was a beauty." "A diamond bracelet!" I echoed. There was no doubt that Ella had actually been to Warnham without my knowledge, for the bracelet that the old ostler, in reply to my eager questions, described accurately, was the one I had given her. "What time in the day did she call? Where did they go?" I demanded, in surprise. "She came about mid-day, and they both went for a walk towards Broadbridge Heath. They were gone, I should reckon, about three hours, and when they returned, it was evident from her eyes that she'd been crying." "Crying! Had Ogle been talking to her angrily, do you think?" "No. I don't believe so. They remained here and had some tea together in the parlour, and then I drove 'em to Horsham, and they caught the 6:25 to London." I was silent. There was some remarkable, unfathomable mystery in this. "Now, Denman," I said at last, "I know you've got a sharp pair of ears when you're perched up on that box of yours. Did you overhear their conversation while driving them to Horsham?" Again the old man removed his battered hat and calmly scratched his head. "Well, sir, to tell you the truth, I did 'ear a few words," he answered. "I 'eard the young lady say as 'ow she wor powerless. He seemed to be a-begging of her to do something which horrified her. I 'eard her ask him in a whisper whether he thought they would be discovered, and he laughed at her fear, and said, `If you don't do it, you know the consequences will be fatal.'" "Do you think they went up to the Hall when they went out walking?" "I don't know, sir. They could, of course, have got into the park that way. But you don't look very well, sir. I hope what I've told you isn't--isn't very unpleasant," the old ostler added, with a look of apprehension. "No. Get me some brandy, Denman," I gasped. While he was absent I rose and walked unsteadily to the window that overlooked a comfortable-looking corner residence surrounded by a belt of firs, a wide road, and a beautiful stretch of valley and blue downs beyond. The landscape was peaceful and picturesque, and I sought solace in gazing upon it. But this latest revelation had unnerved me. Dudley and Ella had met in that quiet, rural place for some purpose which I could not conceive. Their meeting had evidently been pre-arranged, and their object, from the words the old man had overheard, was apparently of a secret and sinister character. The strange, inquiring look I had detected in Ella's face whenever she had glanced surreptitiously at Dudley on the previous night was, I now felt assured, an index of guilty conscience; and Mrs Laing's dread that Ella should know the truth of my friend's tragic end appeared to prove, in a certain degree, the existence of some secret knowledge held by all three. Yet I could not bring myself to believe that my well-beloved had wilfully deceived me. From what Denman had said, it appeared as if Ogle had held her under some mysterious thrall, and was trying to compel her to act against her better judgment. Her pure, womanly conscience had, perhaps, revolted against his suggestion, and she had shed the tears the old ostler had noticed; yet he had persisted and held over her a threat that had cowed her, and, perhaps, for aught I knew, compelled her to submit. My thought that the man who was my friend should have thus treated the woman I adored filled me with fiercest anger and hatred. With bitterness I told myself that the man in whom I placed implicit confidence, and with whom I had allowed Ella to spend many idle hours punting or sculling while I was absent at my duties in London, was actually my enemy. With sudden resolve I determined to travel back to Staines and, by possession of the knowledge of her mysterious visit to that village, worm from her its object. At that moment Denman entered, and I drank the brandy at one gulp, afterwards ordering the fly and driving back to Horsham station, whence I returned to London. At my flat in Rossetti Mansions, Chelsea, I found a telegram from the Staines police summoning me to the inquest to be held next morning at eleven o'clock, and also one from Ella asking me to return. The latter I felt inclined to disregard; the former I could not. Her words and actions were, indeed, beyond comprehension, but in the light of this knowledge I had by mere chance acquired, it seemed plain that her declaration of her unworthiness of my love was something more than the natural outcome of highly-strung nerves and a romantic disposition. Women of certain temperaments are prone to self-accusation, and I had brought myself to believe her words to be mere hysterical utterances; but now, alas! I saw there was some deep motive underlying them. I had been tricked. I had, it seemed, been unduly jealous of Beck, and unsuspecting of my real enemy, the man whose lips were closed in death. I now regretted his end, not as a friend regrets, but merely because no effort would be availing to compel his lying tongue to speak the truth. Yet, if he were my rival for Ella's hand, might he not have lied when questioned regarding the events of that fateful afternoon when the secret defensive alliance had been so mysteriously exchanged for a dummy? Jealousy knows neither limit nor remorse. Next morning, after spending the greater part of the night sitting alone smoking and endeavouring to penetrate the ever-increasing veil of mystery that had apparently enveloped her, I travelled down to Staines, arriving there just in time to take a cab to the Town Hall, where the inquest was to be held. The town was agog, for a crowd of those unable to enter because the room was already filled to overflowing, stood in the open space outside, eagerly discussing the tragic affair in all its various aspects, and hazarding the wildest and most impossible theories. Entering the hall, I elbowed my way forward, and as I did so I heard my name shouted loudly by a police constable. I was required as a witness, and succeeded in struggling through to the baize-covered table whereat the grave-faced Coroner sat. He stretched forth his hand to give me the copy of Holy Writ whereon to take the oath, when suddenly my eyes fell upon a watch and a collection of miscellaneous articles lying upon the table, the contents of the dead man's pockets. One small object alone riveted my attention. Heedless of the Coroner's words I snatched it up and examined it closely. Next second I stood breathless and aghast, dumbfounded by an amazing discovery that staggered belief. CHAPTER SEVEN. ELLA'S SUSPICIONS. The formula of the oath fell upon my ears in a dull monotone, as mechanically I raised the Bible to my lips, afterwards replying to the Coroner's formal questions regarding my name, address and occupation. The discovery I had made filled me with fierce, bitter hatred against my dead companion, and, dazed by the startling suddenness of the revelation, I stood like a man in a dream. Dr Diplock, the Coroner, noticed it, and his sharp injunction to answer his question brought me back to a knowledge of my surroundings. I was standing in full view of an assembly of some three hundred persons, so filled by curiosity, and eager to hear my story, that the silence was complete. "I beg your pardon, but I did not hear the question," I said, bracing myself with effort. "The deceased was your friend, I believe?" "Yes," I answered. "He shared a furnished cottage with me at Shepperton. I have known him for some time." "Were you with him at the day of his death?" "I left him at Shepperton in the morning, when I went to town, and he called upon me at the Foreign Office about one o'clock. We lunched together, and then, returning to Downing Street, parted. We met again at Shepperton later, and came here, to Staines, in response to an invitation to dinner at `The Nook.' I--" A woman's low, despairing cry broke the silence, and as I turned to the assembly I saw, straight before me, Ella, rigid, almost statuesque. Her terror-stricken gaze met mine; her eyes seemed riveted upon me. "Kindly proceed with your evidence," exclaimed the Coroner, impatiently. "We dined at `The Nook,'" I went on, turning again to face him. "Then we went for a row, and on our return Mr Ogle left us to walk back to Shepperton." "Alone?" "Yes." "Why did you not accompany him?" "Because I had, during the evening, received a telegram summoning me away." "Who was the message from?" "The Earl of Warnham," I replied. Then obeying his request to continue, I explained how, on leaving "The Nook" about an hour later to catch my last train, I had stumbled upon the body of my friend. Then, when I had concluded, the Coroner commenced his cross-examination. Many of his questions were purely formal in character, but presently, when he began to take me through the events which occurred at the Foreign Office, I experienced a very uncomfortable feeling, fearing lest I should divulge the suspicions that had during the last half-hour been aroused within me. It was, I recognised, absolutely necessary that I should keep my discovery a strict secret, for upon my ability to do so everything depended. "Was there any reason why he should call for you at the Foreign Office and ask you to lunch with him? Was he in the habit of doing this?" inquired the Coroner. "No; there seemed no reason, beyond the fact that he was compelled to come to town, and merely wanted to pass an idle hour away," I said. "Why did he go to London?" "I have no idea what business took him there." "He never told you that he had any enemy, I suppose?" the official asked, with an air of mystery. "Never. He was, on the contrary, most popular." "And no incident other than what you have related occurred at the Foreign Office? You are quite certain of this?" For a moment I hesitated, half inclined to relate the whole story of the mysterious theft of the secret convention; but risking perjury rather than an exposure of facts that I saw must remain hidden, I answered as calmly as I could,-- "No other incident occurred." "Have you any reason to suspect that he was a victim of foul play?" the Coroner continued, looking at me rather suspiciously, I thought. At that moment I glanced at Ella, and was astounded to see how intensely excited she appeared, with her white face upturned, her mouth half open, her eyes staring, eagerly drinking in every word that fell from my lips. Her whole attitude was of one who dreaded that some terrible truth might be brought to light. "I have no reason to suspect he was murdered," I answered in a low tone, and as I surreptitiously watched the face of the woman I loved I saw an instant transformation. Her breast heaved with a heavy sigh of relief as across her countenance there passed a look of satisfaction she was unable to disguise. She was in deadly fear of something, the nature of which I could not conjecture. "You have no suspicion whatever that the deceased had an enemy?" asked the foreman of the jury, who had the appearance of a local butcher. "None whatever," I answered. "I frequently saw Mr Ogle on the river of an afternoon with Miss Laing," the man observed. "Was there, as far as you are aware, any affection between them?" Glancing at Ella, I saw she had turned even paler than before, and was trembling. The question nonplussed me. In my heart I strongly suspected that some attachment existed between them; but resenting this impertinent question from a man who struck me as a local busybody, I made a negative reply. "Then jealousy, it would appear, was not the cause of the crime," the foreman observed to his fellow-jurymen. The Coroner, however, quickly corrected him, pointing out that they had not yet ascertained whether death had, or had not, been due to natural causes. Turning to me, he said,-- "I believe I am right in assuming that you are engaged to be married to Miss Laing, am I not?" "I was engaged to her," I replied hoarsely. "Then you are not engaged at the present moment? Why was the match broken off?" I hesitated for several moments, trying to devise some means to avoid answering this abrupt question. The bitter thought of Ella's double dealing occurred to me, and with foolish disregard for consequences I resolved not to spare her. "Because of a confession she made to me," I said. "A confession! What of?" "Of unworthiness." "She acknowledged herself unfaithful to you, I presume?" observed one of the jurymen who had not before spoken; but to this I made no reply. "Now, have you any suspicion that any secret affection existed between her and the deceased?" the Coroner asked, in a dry, distinct voice, that could be heard all over the room. "I--I cannot say," I faltered. The movement among the audience showed the sensation my reply had caused, and it was increased by Ella suddenly rising from her place and shrieking hysterically: "That answer is a lie--a foul lie!" "Silence!" shouted the Coroner, who, above all things, detested a scene in his Court. "If that lady interrupts again, she must be requested to leave." "Have you any further question to ask Mr Deedes?" he inquired, turning to the jury; but as no one replied, he intimated that the examination was at an end, and I felt that I had, at last, successfully passed through the ordeal I had dreaded. Retiring to a seat, my place as a witness was at once taken by Beck; but scarcely had I sunk into a chair near where Ella was sitting when I felt within my hand the object I had taken from among the things found in the dead man's possession. It had not been missed, and I wondered whether its loss would ever be detected. To keep it was, I felt, extremely dangerous; nevertheless I sat holding it in my palm, listening to the evidence of the well-known member for West Rutlandshire. His story, related in that loud, bombastic tone that had at first so prejudiced me against him, was much to the same effect as mine regarding the discovery of the body, its removal into the house, and the subsequent examination by the doctor, until there commenced the minute cross-examination. "How long have you known the deceased?" the Coroner inquired, looking up suddenly from his notes. "A few months. About six, I should think," he answered. "Have you any suspicion that he had an enemy?" "No. He was about the last man in the world who would arouse the hatred of anybody. In fact, he was exceedingly popular." "You say you have been a frequent visitor at Mrs Laing's. Now, from your own observations, have you seen anything that would lead you to the belief that he loved Miss Laing?" "Nothing whatever," he replied. "Ella was engaged to Mr Deedes, and although she was on the river a great deal with Ogle, I am confident she never for a moment regarded him as her lover." "Why are you so confident?" "Because of certain facts she has confided in me." "What are they?" He was silent. Evidently he had no intention of being led on in this manner, but, even finding himself cornered, his imperturbable coolness never deserted him, for he calmly replied, with a faint smile,-- "I refuse to answer." "Kindly reply to my question, sir, and do not waste the time of the Court," exclaimed the Coroner, with impatience. "What were these facts?" Again he was silent, twisting his gloves around his fingers uneasily. "Come, answer if you please." "Well," he replied, after considerable hesitation, "briefly, she gave me to understand that she loved Deedes, and had refused to listen to the deceased's declaration of affection." "How came she to confide this secret of hers to you?" the Coroner asked eagerly. Through my memory at that moment there flashed the scene I had witnessed in secret in the garden on that memorable night when I had detected this man with his arm around Ella's waist, and I looked on in triumph at his embarrassment. "I am a friend of the family," he answered, with a calm, irritating smile a moment later. "She has told me many of her secrets." I knew from the expression upon his face that he lied. Was it not far more likely that on that night when I had discovered them he was uttering words of affection to her, and she, in return, had confessed that she loved me? "Are you aware whether Mr Deedes had any knowledge that the deceased was his rival for Miss Laing's hand?" inquired the Coroner, adding, self-apologetically, "I much regret being compelled to ask these questions, for I am aware how painful it must be to the family." "I believe he was utterly ignorant of it," Beck replied. "He regarded Mr Ogle as his closest friend." "A false one, to say the least," Dr Diplock observed in tones just audible. Beck shrugged his shoulders, but did not reply. The inquisitive foreman of the jury then commenced a series of clumsy, impertinent questions, many of which the witness cleverly evaded. He resented this man's cross-examination just as I had done, and during the quarter of an hour's fencing with the tradesman no noteworthy fact was elicited. The Coroner, seeing this, suddenly put an end to the foreman's pertinacious efforts to draw from the Member of Parliament further facts regarding home life at "The Nook," and called Dr Allenby. The doctor, who had apparently had long experience of inquests, took the oath in a business-like manner, and related the facts within his knowledge clearly and succinctly, describing how I had summoned him, his visit to "The Nook," and the appearance of the dead man. "Have you made a _post-mortem_?" the Coroner asked, without looking up from the notes he was making. "I made an examination yesterday, in conjunction with Dr Engall. We found no trace of disease, with the exception of a slight lung trouble of recent date." "Was it sufficient to cause death?" "Certainly not; neither was the bruise upon the forehead, which had, no doubt, been caused by the fall upon the gravel. The heart was perfectly normal, and we failed utterly to detect anything that would result fatally. The contents of the stomach have been analysed by Dr Adams, of the Home Office, at the instigation of the police, I believe." "Then, as far as you are concerned, you are unable to determine the cause of death?" "Quite. It is a mystery." The next witness was a thin, white-haired, dapper little man, who, in reply to questions, explained that he was analyst to the Home Office, and had, at the request of the police, submitted the contents of the deceased's stomach to analysis, the position of the hands pointing to a slight suspicion of poison. "And what have you discovered?" inquired the Coroner, the Court being so silent that the proverbial pin, if it had been dropped at that moment, might have been heard. "Nothing," he answered clearly. "There was no sign of anything of a deleterious nature whatsoever. The deceased was certainly not poisoned." The assembly of excited townspeople again shifted uneasily, as it was wont to do after every important reply which might elucidate the mystery. It seemed as though a rumour had been circulated that Dudley had been poisoned, and this declaration of the renowned analyst set at rest for ever that wild, unfounded report. People turned to one another, whispering excitedly, and a shadow of disappointment rested upon their inquisitive countenances. They had expected it to be pronounced a case of murder, whereas it would now be proved that death had occurred from some natural but sudden and unknown cause. "Then you have no opinion to offer as to the cause of death!" the Coroner exclaimed. "None whatever," was the reply, and that concluded the analyst's important testimony. The foreman of the jury expressed a wish to put a question to Ella, and a few moments later she stood where I had stood, and removing her glove, took the oath with trembling voice. "Have you any reason to suppose, Miss Laing, that Mr Ogle's declaration of love to you had aroused the enmity of Mr Deedes?" asked the man, seriously. "No," she answered in a tone so low that I could scarcely distinguish the word. "Mr Deedes was your lover, wasn't he?" "I am still engaged to him," she replied, tears welling in her eyes. "He tells a falsehood when he says that our love is at an end." "Then why did you not tell him of Mr Ogle's declaration?" "Because they were friends, and I did not wish to arouse animosity between them." Slight applause followed this reply, but it was instantly suppressed. The Coroner, to bring matters to a conclusion, asked, "Now, knowing Mr Ogle as intimately as you did, do you suspect that he might have been murdered?" She gasped, swayed slowly forward and gripped the corner of the baize-covered table to steady herself. "Yes," she answered in a clear but tremulous voice. "I--I believe he was murdered." A thrill of excitement and wonder ran through the onlookers. Her handsome face was ashen pale, and her breast, beneath her blouse of cool-looking muslin, rose and fell quickly, showing how intense was her agitation. "And what causes you to believe this?" asked the Coroner, raising his brows in interrogation. "I have suspicions," she answered in a low voice, striving to remain calm, and glancing quickly around the silent assembly. "You suspect some person of having been guilty of murder?" he asked, interested. "Not exactly that," she said quickly. "That Mr Ogle was murdered I feel confident, but who committed the crime I am unaware. It is a mystery. Knowing Mr Ogle so well as I did, he entrusted to me knowledge of certain facts that he strenuously kept secret from others. Yet I cannot conceive who would profit by his death." At this point the inspector of police rose and expressed a desire to know, through the Coroner, whether she had quarrelled with Mr Ogle. "The day prior to his death we had a few words," she faltered. "Upon what subject?" asked the Coroner. She at first refused to reply, but after being pressed, said, "We quarrelled about my engagement to Mr Deedes." So she acknowledged with her own lips that the dead man had been my bitter enemy, as I, too late, had discovered. "He wished you to marry him?" suggested the Coroner. She did not answer, but burst into a fit of hysterical tears, and a few moments later was led out of the Court. "I think, gentlemen," the Coroner observed, turning to the jury, "no end can be obtained in pursuing this very painful inquiry further. You have heard the evidence, and while on the one hand the exact cause of death has not been established, on the other we have Miss Laing declaring that the unfortunate gentleman was murdered. The evidence certainly does not point to such a conclusion, and there are two courses that may be pursued; either to adjourn the inquiry, or to return an open verdict and leave the elucidation of the mystery in the hands of the police." The jury, after consulting among themselves, retired, but only for five minutes, coming back into court and returning an open verdict of "Found dead." Then, as the Coroner thanked the twelve tradesmen for their attendance, I rose and crossed to Beck, afterwards walking with him to "The Nook." CHAPTER EIGHT. "I DARE NOT!" "What do you think of Ella's statement?" Beck asked, as we were crossing Staines Bridge on our way to Mrs Laing's. "I can't understand it," I replied. "Neither can I," he said. "Girls of her excitable temperament are apt to make statements of that character utterly without foundation. No doubt Dudley was her intimate friend, and finding him dead, her romantic mind at once conjured up visions of murder." "Yes. There is a good deal in your argument," I admitted, with a touch of sorrow at the remembrance that Ogle had aspired to her hand. "I never spoke to you on the subject, for fear of making mischief, but I have many times been amazed at your blindness when Dudley and Ella used to flirt openly before your very eyes," he observed, glancing at me. "Ah! you are right," I cried angrily. "I foolishly trusted him, believing implicitly in his honour and in Ella's purity." "Of the latter you surely have no cause for suspicion," he exclaimed quickly. "I am not so certain," I replied with bitterness. "The more deeply I attempt to probe this mystery, the more sorrow I heap upon myself. I was happy in the belief that she loved no other man except me, yet apparently she is as tactful as an adventuress, and delights in toying with a man's affections." "Every woman is fickle," my friend remarked sympathetically. "If she is thrown into the society of one man frequently, and passes idle hours alone with him, she either ends in loving him or hating him. There is little purely platonic friendship between men and women nowadays." "Yes, alas!" I echoed, as we entered the carriage drive and passed the well-remembered spot where I had discovered the body. "There is very little indeed." A quarter of an hour later I stood alone before the window of the bright morning-room which commanded a beautiful view of the brilliant, sunlit Thames, and the row of tall, swaying poplars and drooping, wind-whitened willows on the opposite shore. I was awaiting Ella, who had, her maid told me, gone to her room. Presently, pale-faced and trembling, she entered, and, closing the door, moved slowly towards me, stretching forth her hand in silence, her tearful eyes downcast. I grasped the slim, white fingers, and found them cold as marble. "Geoffrey," she exclaimed, low and huskily. "Geoffrey, forgive me!" "Forgive! For what reason?" I inquired sternly, looking at her in admiration, yet determined to be firm. This was, I resolved, to be our last interview. "Because I--I was foolish and weak, and--" She paused, sighing deeply. "Well?" I said cynically. "What other excuse?" "Yes, yes," she cried brokenly. "I know they are mean, paltry excuses. I know I am trying to make you believe it was not my own fault, yet--" and pausing again, she raised her clear blue eyes to mine with passionate glance, "and yet, Geoffrey, I love you in a manner I have loved no other man before." "You have a strange way of exhibiting this so-called affection," I observed coldly. "You actually encouraged the advances of the man in whom I reposed foolish and ill-placed confidence." "For a purpose. I never loved him--never," she protested, trembling. "You had a reason? A strange one, I should think," I exclaimed angrily. "Indeed, at this very moment you are mourning the loss of this man." "Dudley Ogle was not your enemy, Geoffrey. He was your friend," she answered, with a tremor in her voice. "Some day I will prove this to you. I cannot now. It is impossible." "Why?" "I dare not!" "Dare not! What do you fear?" I demanded in surprise, instantly releasing her hand. "The consequences would be fatal to our love," she gasped. Then, after a pause, she clutched my arm, and, burying her beautiful face upon my shoulder, sobbed bitterly. "Our love!" I echoed contemptuously. Notwithstanding the fierceness of my anger, I smoothed her dark gold hair, and presently, when she grew a trifle calmer, endeavoured to discover the meaning of her strange, enigmatical words. "You cannot know--you will never know--how dearly I have loved you, Geoffrey," she cried, in answer to my eager questions. "Neither will you ever know how much I have suffered, how hard I have striven for your sake." "For my sake! Yet you admit having allowed Dudley Ogle to utter words that I alone had a right to utter!" "Yes, I admit all," she said, with a tragic touch of sorrow in her strained voice. "I deny nothing." "And you come to me asking forgiveness, believing that I can again trust you without hearing any explanation of your recent strange conduct with Beck, as well as with Dudley! I think you must regard me, Ella, as a weak, impressionable fool," I added, with bitter sarcasm. "No, I do not," she cried quickly. "I appeal to your generosity towards a woman. I have been compelled to act against my own inclinations, compelled, in order to outwit my enemies, to act a part despicable and revolting. I can now only ask forgiveness," and, throwing herself suddenly upon her knees before me, she cried, "See! Geoffrey, I crave one grain of pity from you, my old friend, the only man I have loved!" "No, Ella," I answered, quickly withdrawing my hand that she was pressing to her hot, fevered lips. "I may pity you, but forgive you never." "Never!" she gasped, clasping her breast with her hands as if to stay the wild beating of her heart, and struggling unevenly to her feet. "Why never?" "Because you have deceived me." "Yes, yes!" she wailed. "I admit it, I admit it all, but I swear my actions were imperative. Ah! alas that you cannot know everything, or you would kiss me as fondly as you used to do. You, Geoffrey, would love me with a love even more tender and passionate than before, if only you were aware of what I have suffered for your sake." I turned from her in disgust. Her tragic attitude filled me with loathing and contempt, for I knew she was lying. "Can you never again trust me?" she asked, in a low, hoarse voice. "Will you never forgive?" "I can have no further confidence in a woman who has practised such artful deception as you have," I answered, turning again towards her, and noticing the look of unutterable sadness in her tearful eyes. "Deception!" she cried, starting. "What do you mean? What have I done?" "You acknowledge having deceived me wilfully with all the deep cunning of an adventuress, yet you refuse me one word of explanation, either in regard to Beck or Dudley?" "There is nothing to explain, as far as Mr Beck is concerned," she answered demurely. "He is an old friend, and your suspicions that there was any love between us are absolutely absurd." "Why, then, did you confess in your letter that you were unworthy of my love!" I demanded with warmth, walking towards her. She hung her head. There was a deep silence, broken only by the low ticking of the clock. In a few moments her hand stole in search of mine, and, engrossed in my own sad thoughts, I let it linger there. "Geoffrey," she said at length, timidly. I gazed out upon the sunlit river, watching a boatful of happy holiday folk pass by, and remained stolidly unconscious. "Geoffrey," she repeated, "I tried ever so long to refrain from that confession, yet was unable. But I did not allude to Mr Beck. It was my conduct with Dudley that caused me to become a conscience-stricken wretch. I feared from day to day that you might discover our many long excursions and the idle afternoons we spent up the backwaters; he lazy and indolent, I using all my woman's wiles to fascinate him and bring him to my feet." "And you succeeded," I interrupted huskily. "Yes, I succeeded," she went on, speaking slowly, almost mechanically. "I had set my mind upon victory, and I achieved it after weeks and weeks of striving, dreading always that you might discover the truth, and fearing lest my conduct should appear in your eyes too serious for forgiveness. The blow that I dreaded has now fallen," she cried, with a choking sob. "Dudley is dead, and I, compelled to speak the truth, have publicly acknowledged myself unworthy of your love." "Is it not best that I should know the truth?" I asked seriously. "You render your behaviour the more unpardonable by the absurd falsehoods you wish me to believe." "I do not wish you to believe any falsehoods," she cried resentfully, her bright eyes flashing as she glanced at me. "What I have now told you is the truth. I swear it before Heaven!" "You deliberately flirted with Dudley, with an object in view. Oh, no!" I laughed with contempt, "that is too lame a tale." "It is the truth," she said, looking me straight in the face, her nervous hands toying with her rings. "Even though you may believe ill of me, I have lost neither honour nor self-respect. I acted under compulsion, to achieve one object." "And I hope you have gained the mysterious end you had in view," I said, with bitter sarcasm. "Yes, I have," she replied, with an intenseness in her voice that surprised me. "I have gained my object even at risk of being discarded by you, Geoffrey, and being branded as a base adventuress." "Even at the cost of the life of the man you deceived?" I hazarded. She started at my words. Her pale lips trembled, and in her eyes was a strange look, as if haunted by some spectral fear. The effect of this remark was extraordinary, and I at once added,-- "Remember, you suspect that Dudley's death was not due to natural causes." "Suspect?" she cried. "I know he was foully murdered." "By whom?" I inquired, with breathless eagerness. "I have yet to discover that," she answered, in a low voice. "But I will make the elucidation of the mystery the one object of my life. It is I alone who will avenge his murder." "Your very words betray your love for him," I exclaimed, disgusted. "I tell you it is not because I loved him," she protested, with indignation. "Then why do you seek revenge?" I demanded ruthlessly. "For reasons known to myself--reasons I refuse for the present to disclose," she replied, regarding me with unwavering glance. "And you expect me to again repose confidence in you, notwithstanding your steady refusal to explain anything?" I observed, with a laugh. "All I have told you now, Geoffrey, is the truth," she replied, looking earnestly into my eyes. "Once I deceived you, but I will never do so in future. I promise some day before long to explain all the facts to you; when I do so they will astound you. For the success of my plans I am compelled at present to preserve my secret, even from you." "What are your plans?" "Be patient, and you shall see." "You intend to avenge Dudley's death?" "I do; and something further," she said. "Only by the most careful investigation and the strictest secrecy can my plans be successfully carried out. Trust in me, Geoffrey. Tell me that you will reconsider your decision not to forgive me," she whispered, leaning upon my shoulder with one arm entwined affectionately about my neck, as was her habit. "And I will yet prove to you that I am an honest woman who has acted only in your interests." "In my interests? How?" I asked, amazed. "You shall know all later, when I have ascertained the truth." "Tell me one thing, Ella," I exclaimed, after a pause. "Have you any idea whether Dudley had any occupation?" "Occupation? I always understood he had enough money to be independent." Then taking from my vest pocket the object I had picked up from among the contents of the dead man's pockets displayed on the table in the Coroners's Court, I held it up to her, saying seriously,-- "Now, tell me truthfully, Ella, have you ever seen this in Dudley's possession?" She glanced at it for an instant, holding her breath, as across her blanched countenance there passed an expression of bewildered amazement. The object I held beneath her gaze was insignificant in itself, merely a small brass seal, but it bore the Warnham arms in exact imitation of the cut amethyst worn by the Earl. It was the seal which had been used to manufacture the duplicate of the envelope containing England's secret alliance with Germany. The suddenness with which I had produced it startled and nonplussed her. As I transfixed her blue eyes with my keen, suspicious gaze, her white lips moved, but no sound fell from them. Embarrassment held her dumb. CHAPTER NINE. THE BOND OF SECRECY. I held the small brass stamp towards her, inviting her to examine it, but she shrank back with an expression of terror and repulsion, refusing to touch it. "Have you ever seen Dudley with this in his hand?" I asked, repeating my question seriously, determined upon learning the truth. "Where did you find it?" she inquired, a look of bewilderment upon her haggard face. "You have not answered my question, Ella," I said sternly. "Your question? Ah!" she cried, as if in sudden remembrance of my words. "I--I have never seen Dudley with it. I--I swear I haven't." "Is that the absolute truth?" I asked in doubt. "The truth!" she echoed. "Did I not, a moment ago, promise you I would never again deceive you by word or action? Can you never have confidence in me?" she asked, in a tone of mingled regret and reproach. "But this was found in Dudley's possession," I said, holding it nearer my gaze, and detecting in the bright sunlight streaming through the window small portions of black wax still adhering to the cleverly-cut coat of arms. Black wax, I remembered, had been used to secure the dummy envelope. "And even if that were so, is it such a very remarkable fact that a man should carry a seal?" she asked suddenly, raising her brows and assuming a well-feigned air of surprise. At that instant it occurred to me that she was an adept in preserving a mystery; she could practice deception with a verisimilitude little short of marvellous. "But this," I observed, "is no ordinary seal." "It looks ordinary enough," she answered, smiling. "It's only brass." "But its discovery forms a clue to a most serious and startling crime," I said. "A crime!" she gasped. "What do you mean? Dudley's murder?" I did not fail to notice that she used the word "murder" as if she had absolute proof that death had not been due to natural causes. Yet the effect of my announcement had been to fill her with sudden apprehension. She strove to appear amazed, but I thought I could detect in her attitude and bearing a fear that I had knowledge of her secret. "It is most probably connected with that tragic event," I answered meaningly, looking her straight in the face. "The police will no doubt pursue their investigations and clear up the matter." "The police!" she whispered hoarsely, just as Mrs Laing had done when the officers had entered her house. "Do you think they will discover the cause of poor Dudley's death?" "I cannot say," I answered calmly. "They will, however, discover the reason he had this seal in his possession." "I tell you it was not his--I mean I never saw him with it," she protested. "But he may have had it in his pocket and not shown it to you. Indeed, there were reasons that he should not do so because it was used for a nefarious purpose." "For what?" she asked, suddenly evincing an interest in the stamp, taking it from my hand and examining it closely. It was on my tongue to relate to her the whole circumstances, but suddenly remembering that for the present the secret of England's peril must be preserved if the identity of the spy were to be discovered, I refrained, and answered,-- "The man who used that seal committed one of the worst crimes of which a man can be guilty." "What was it; tell me?" she asked quickly. "Surely Dudley never committed any offence!" "I am not certain," I answered gloomily. "An enemy who would pose as a friend, as he has done, might be capable of any deceit." "Have I not already told you that he was not your enemy, Geoffrey?" she observed calmly. "Ah, Ella," I cried in disgust, "all these falsehoods only render your conduct the more despicable. You will deny next that you went down to Warnham to meet him surreptitiously." "To Warnham?" she cried, white to the lips. "Yes. Do you deny it?" "No. I--it is quite true that I met him there," she faltered. "You spent the day with my rival, unknown to me," I went on bitterly. "Yet you declare that you never loved him?" Her breath came and went in short, quick gasps, her haggard eyes were fixed; she stood silent, unable to make reply. "It is useless to further prolong this painful interview," I exclaimed at last, turning from her. "I swear I never loved him," she cried suddenly. "Some day, when you know the truth, you will bitterly regret how you have misjudged me, how, while striving to serve you, I have fallen under suspicion." "But your visit to Warnham!" I said. "Is that an act such as can be overlooked without explanation?" "I only ask you to place trust in me, and I will prove ere long that I acted under compulsion." "You want me to believe that he held you irrevocably in his power, I suppose?" I said with biting sarcasm. She nodded, and held her head in downcast, dejected attitude. "It is easy enough to allege all this, now that he is dead," I observed doubtingly. "I have told you the truth. I feared him, and was compelled to obey," she exclaimed hoarsely. "What was the object of your visit? Surely you can explain that?" "No. I cannot." "You absolutely refuse?" "Absolutely," she answered, in a low, strained voice, looking straight at me with an expression of determination. "Then we must part," I said, slowly but firmly disengaging myself from her embrace. "No, no," she wailed, sobbing bitterly and clinging more closely to me. "Do not be so cruel, Geoffrey. You would never utter these words could you know all." "But you will not tell me," I cried. "At present I dare not. Wait; be patient, and you shall know everything." "How long must I remain in doubt and ignorance?" I asked. "I know not. To-morrow the bond of secrecy may be removed from my lips, or it may be many months ere I can fearlessly speak and explain," she answered in a strange voice, almost as if speaking to herself. "From your words it would appear that some person still holds power over you, even though Dudley is dead," I said, looking into her eyes seriously. She sighed deeply, and her hand, resting upon my shoulder, trembled violently. "Yes, you guess the truth," she answered. "I would tell you all--explain all these facts that no doubt puzzle you and cause me to appear base, heartless and deceitful--yet I fear the consequences. If I did so we should be parted for ever." "But if you told the truth and cleared your conduct, I should then have confidence again, and love you. How should we be parted?" Pale and silent she stood, with her eyes resting upon the distant line of drooping willows. Not until I had repeated my question did she move and answer in a voice almost inaudible, as she clung to me,-- "We should be parted by death," she whispered hoarsely. "By death!" I cried, dismayed. "What do you mean, Ella? Do you fear that the same tragic fate that has overtaken Dudley will overtake you?" She shuddered, and burying her white face upon my shoulder, again burst into a torrent of tears. Hers was indeed a woeful figure, bent, dejected and grief-stricken. Raising her head at last, she stifled her sobs with an effort, and implored with earnestness,-- "Tell me, Geoffrey, that you will not prejudge me. Tell me with your own lips that you will be content to wait in patience until I can present the facts to you in their true light. I am not an adventuress, as you think. I have never, I swear before Heaven, looked upon any other man with thought of affection. I have told you of my inability to speak; I can tell you no more." I made a movement, steady, stern and deliberate, to put her from me; but, with her arms around my neck, she cried in an agonised tone,-- "No, Geoffrey. At least show me a single grain of pity. Be patient. If you desire it I will not come near you until I can reply to your questions and clear my conduct of the stigma upon it; I will do anything you ask so long as you give me time to pursue my investigations and free myself from this terrible thraldom. Say you will, and bring back peace to my mind and happiness to my heart. I love you, Geoffrey, I love you!" and her hot, passionate lips met mine in a manner that showed plainly her terrible agitation, and her fear lest I should cast her off. Slowly, during those moments of painful silence that followed, my anger and bitterness somewhat abated, and, even against my better judgment, feelings of pity swayed my mind. It seemed to me, as I reflected upon the past, that Dudley Ogle had been unfortunate in his early surroundings and education; his character had received a wrong bias from the very beginning, and the possession of wealth had increased it. And yet, in spite of all that, there had been something pleasant and good in him. No man is altogether hideous when truly known, and I had not yet accurately ascertained the character of his mysterious relations with my well-beloved. I had, during this interview, caught glimpses of the real, true woman beneath the veil of falsehood and evasion of the truth; I had seen a wistful look occasionally in Ella's eyes, as though she were haunted constantly by some terrible dread. Yea, I pitied her. Perhaps, if I waited, the time would come when her nature would recover from the blight that had fallen upon it; when the alien element that had grafted itself upon her true life would be expelled by those avenging powers that vex and plague the erring soul, not in mockery, but to save it from the death that cannot die. The strangeness of her manner, and the tragic apprehension of her words would, I knew, never fade from my memory; yet half inclined to believe I had misjudged her, I at length, although feeling that the world could never again be quite the same for me, drew her slight form towards me, and imprinting a long, passionate kiss upon her ready lips, said,-- "I will try and think of you as a woman who has been wronged, Ella. I will wait until you can explain, but remember that until you relate to me truthfully the whole of the facts there can be no love between us." "No love!" she wailed in a voice of poignant grief. "Is your love for me so utterly dead, then, that you should say this?" "No," I answered, caressing her, stroking her wealth of gold-brown hair fondly as of old. "I love you still, Ella; yet, speaking candidly, I cannot trust you further until you explain the truth." "But you will be patient, will you not?" she urged. "Remember that I have before me a task so difficult that it may require all my woman's tact and cunning to accomplish it. But I will--I must succeed; failure will mean that I lose you, my best beloved. Therefore wait, and ere long I will convince you that I have not lied." "Yes, I will wait," I said, kissing her once again. "Until you have cleared yourself, however, remember that I cannot love you as I have done." "Very well," she answered, her tear-stained face brightening. "If such is your decision, I am content. Before long I will explain all the facts, and then, I feel confident, you, noblest and dearest, will love me even better than before." "I trust I shall," I answered with heartfelt earnestness, taking her small hand and pressing it softly; "for I love you, Ella." "I care for nothing else," she answered, raising her face to mine and smiling through her tears. "I am happy in the knowledge that you still think of me. You have enemies; yes, many. But there was one that loved you always--ay, and loves you now, and ever shall love you." For a moment I gazed into the deep blue depths of her clear, trusting eyes, still grasping her tiny hand in mine, but almost at that instant the door opened and Mrs Laing, fussy, good-natured, and full of sympathy, entered, and seating herself, commenced to chat about the events of that memorable morning. CHAPTER TEN. ENGLAND'S PERIL. By the discovery of the duplicate of Lord Warnham's private seal in the possession of my dead companion, it became impressed upon my mind that Dudley Ogle, the man in whom I had placed implicit trust, had not only abused my confidence by making love to Ella, but was a spy in the Russian secret service. Try how I would I could see no extenuating circumstances, and as next morning, when sitting alone in my London flat, moody and disconsolate, I calmly reflected upon the startling events of the past few days, I saw plainly, from Ella's attitude when I had exhibited the brass stamp, that, notwithstanding her declaration to the contrary, she had seen it before. It seemed placed beyond all doubt that Dudley had acted in conjunction with certain agents, who had by some means ascertained the very day and hour that the secret convention would arrive from Berlin. Then Dudley, armed with the forged duplicate, called upon me, and while we were together extracted the document from my pocket and substituted the envelope. Yet there was the registration mark upon it, so cleverly imitated as to defy detection. How that had been placed upon the dummy puzzled me, for the designation I had written could not be known until the envelope, with its precious contents, had been filched from my pocket. The reason of Dudley's visit to Warnham was now, to a certain extent, explained. More than probable it seemed that through bribery he had obtained from one of the servants an impression in wax of the Earl's private seal, and from it the brass stamp had been cut. The theft of the document had been accomplished with a neatness that seemed almost miraculous; and if Dudley really had stolen it, he must have been a most adroit pickpocket. Nevertheless, even though his every action had now corroborated up to the hilt the suspicion that he was a spy, I could not, somehow, believe him capable of such crafty, nay devilish, deception. Friends that we were, I could have trusted him with any secret, or with any of my possessions; but these revelations startled and amazed me. Still there was a more remarkable and puzzling phase of the mystery. If Ella's fears were well grounded, why had he been murdered, and by whom? The mysterious secret possessed by the woman I adored, the woman who held me under the spell of her marvellous beauty, was of a tragic and terrible nature, I felt assured. No doubt it had some connection with Dudley's death, and that sinister circumstance, once elucidated, would, I knew, furnish a very valuable clue to the identity of the spy, if perchance the innocence of my companion should be established, as I hoped it might be. There was still one fact, too, that required explanation, one that seemed to prove conclusively that Dudley was in the pay of our enemies. I had found, on looking over his possessions in our cottage at Shepperton, some pieces of crumpled foolscap. He had evidently intended to throw them away, but being unable to get rid of them at the moment, had placed them in a drawer and locked them up. On smoothing them out, I found another piece of paper inside. To my astonishment I saw it was a letter written by me, while the pieces of foolscap accompanying it were covered with words and sentences in ink and pencil, showing how carefully he had studied and copied all the characteristics of my handwriting. These papers were, in themselves, sufficient evidence that he had practised the forger's art. I had, after leaving Staines, returned straight to Shepperton, and in company with a detective carefully investigated all my friend's belongings. We spent the afternoon and evening in reading through heaps of letters, but discovered nothing that would lead to any suspicion of foul play. The detective made notes of one or two of the addresses of the writers, and took charge of several letters relating to money matters. When, however, we had removed all the correspondence from the small wooden box in which it had been kept, the detective ascertained that there was a false bottom, and unable to find out the secret whereby it might be opened, we forced it with a chisel. At first we were disappointed, only one insignificant-looking paper being therein concealed, but when the officer eagerly opened it I at once recognised its extreme importance, although I preserved silence. The paper was nothing less than a Russian passport of a special character signed by the Chief of Secret Police in St Petersburg, and countersigned by the Minister of the Interior himself. It was not a formally printed document, but written in Russian upon official paper stamped with the double-headed eagle. It was made out in the name of Dudley Ogle, and after explaining that he was an official engaged on secret service, gave him complete immunity from arrest within the Russian Empire. "What's this, I wonder?" the detective said, puzzled by the unfamiliar characters in the writing. Taking it from him I glanced through it, and without betraying the slightest surprise, answered, "Merely a passport for Russia." "That doesn't lead us to anything," he replied, taking it from my form, glancing at it again for an instant, and tossing it back carelessly into the box. But when he had completed his investigations, removed whatever letters and papers he thought might be of use and departed, I secured the passport and the crumpled foolscap, and giving Juckes orders to remove my belongings back to London and give up possession of the cottage, I returned to Rossetti Mansions. With these undeniable evidences of Ogle's activity as a spy, I was sitting alone next morning pondering over the best course to pursue, at last resolving to go to the Foreign Office and boldly place the startling facts before Lord Warnham. About noon I knocked at the door of the Minister's private room, and received, in his deep, hoarse voice, permission to enter. He was alone, seated at his big writing-table, engrossed in a long, closely-written document he was studying. "Well, sir," he exclaimed, with an expression of displeasure when he saw me, "to what, pray, do I owe this intrusion?" "I have come," I said, "to clear myself of the charge you have made against me." "To clear yourself! Bah!" he cried in disgust, returning to his papers. "My time is too valuable for further discussion," and he made a movement to ring the bell for a messenger to conduct me out. But I placed my hand upon his bony fingers firmly, and stayed it, saying,-- "It is to your interest, Lord Warnham, as well as to my own, that you should know the truth." "A traitor who will sell his country's honour is capable of any falsehood whereby to justify himself," he snapped savagely. "I am no traitor," I protested in anger. His thin, white face relaxed into a bitterly sarcastic smile, and his lip curled in withering contempt. "The efforts of ten years' delicate diplomacy with Berlin have been rendered futile by your treachery or culpable negligence. Now you come to me with some lame, paltry tale or other, in an endeavour to convince me that you are neither thief nor spy! Each word of yours only aggravates your offence. I have dismissed you, and I tell you I decline to reopen the question." "But you have accused me of a crime, and I demand to be judged," I cried. "I have already judged you," he said, after a pause, laying down his pen with a sudden calmness, and fixing his grey eyes keenly upon me. "Yes, falsely." "You have come to me to prove that I have misjudged you," he said at last, leaning back in his chair. "Very well. Let me hear your story." "I have no story further than what I have already told you," I answered. "You have made a charge against me; I have come to you to refute it." "By what means?" "By documentary evidence." "Documentary evidence!" he exclaimed. "Of what kind?" "You will remember that I told you of the death of the only man who could speak regarding my absence from the office and my return." "Yes. He died mysteriously. The inquest was held yesterday;" and, taking up a letter from his table, the Earl added, "They report from Scotland Yard that an open verdict was returned, although one witness, a woman, alleged murder. Well, what was the allegation? Against yourself?" he asked, raising his grey, shaggy brows. "No," I said with emphasis. "I am not a murderer." "Then why did this woman--what's her name?--Ella Laing," he said, referring to the letter, "why did she allege foul play?" "I cannot tell; but all the facts I have ascertained point to the same conclusion, although the medical evidence negatived any such suggestion." "Then what is your contention?" "That the man who was my friend was a spy," I said. "You would shift the responsibility upon one who, being dead, can tell us nothing," he said in a tone of reproachful contempt. "I suspected this. It was but what might have been expected." "But I have evidence indisputable that he was a spy," I exclaimed excitedly. "Read this," and I handed to him Dudley's passport. Spreading it out before him, he carefully adjusted his gold _pince-nez_, and after a little difficulty translated it. Then, without expressing any surprise, he turned it over and held the paper to the light of the window, examining the water-mark. "Well," he exclaimed calmly at last, "what else?" I placed before him the crumpled sheets of foolscap whereon attempts had been made--and successfully too--to imitate my handwriting, explaining where I had discovered them. These he also examined very minutely, giving vent to a low grunt, as was habitual to him when reassured. "Anything more?" he asked impatiently. "I can't waste time. The outlook is too serious." "But you must--you shall spare time to fully investigate this mystery," I cried. "You will remember that the dummy envelope you took from your safe bore an imitation of your private seal?" "Yes. What of that?" "Here is the seal with which that impression was made," I replied in triumph, handing to him the little brass stamp. "I have had the portions of wax microscopically examined, and they are of the same wax as was used to seal the dummy." He took it between his thin fingers that now trembled with excitement. The production of this object was, I saw, entirely unexpected. Suddenly rising from his chair he unlocked his great safe and took therefrom the dummy envelope. Then, returning to his table, he lit a taper and carefully made an impression in wax of the seal I had given him, afterwards taking it to the light, and by the aid of a large magnifying glass compared it closely with the seal upon the dummy. "And where did you find this seal?" he inquired, glancing across to me. "Among the contents of the dead man's pockets," I answered. "Impossible!" he retorted. "The police have possession of everything found on the man." "Yes, they had, but this came into my possession yesterday at the inquest." "How?" I hesitated, then, determined to conceal no fact from the great statesman, I answered boldly,-- "I stole it from the table whereon it was displayed." "Stole it!" he echoed. Slowly he turned the brass stamp over in his hand as if deep in thought; then, with brows knit in anger, he looked me straight in the face, exclaiming bluntly,-- "Your story is an absolute tissue of lies from beginning to end." His words staggered me. I had expected him to be eager to further probe the mystery, and try and elucidate the manner in which Dudley had manufactured the dummy and exchanged it for the secret convention. Instead of this he was distrustful and suspicious; indeed, he boldly accused me of attempting to wilfully mislead him and conceal the truth. "I have told you no lies. Every word I have uttered is the truth," I answered, with fierce indignation. "You certainly never obtained possession of this seal in the manner in which you would have me believe, for the detectives sent to Staines had strict injunctions to search for any object that would lead them to suppose the dead man was not what he represented himself to be, and I made a special request that any seals discovered might be submitted to me for examination. If this had been in the dead man's pockets it would have been brought to me." "But I tell you it was among the articles found upon him. I picked it up from the Coroner's table, and finding it was not missed, brought it to you, rather than inform the police of our suspicions, which I understood you desired should, for the present, be kept secret." "I do not believe you," he retorted angrily. "Ask whoever searched the body, and they will no doubt remember finding the seal," I answered. "It is quite unnecessary," he exclaimed. "Unnecessary? Why?" "Because I don't believe one word of this elegantly romantic story of yours." "But I have brought you evidence in black and white that Ogle was a spy!" I cried. "Evidence of a sort," he answered carelessly, returning to his table and sinking into his armchair. "You have brought these things to me in order to induce me to believe that they were in the dead man's possession instead of where they really were--in your own." "It is false," I protested, flushing at his base and dogged insinuations. "So is this elaborate so-called evidence you have brought me," he answered. "In what way?" I demanded. "You wish to know," he cried. "Well, I will tell you. First, the passport is a forged one, and was never written in St Petersburg." "Why?" I cried in dismay. "How can you tell?" "Because its water-mark shows it to be English paper, whereas all Russian official paper, as this is supposed to be, is manufactured by Yaronovski, of Moscow, and bears his name." This fact had never occurred to me, and taking up the paper I examined the water-mark, finding, to my surprise, the name of a well-known English mill. "Then the attempts at imitating your handwriting are quite as unsatisfactory," he went on. "Indeed, I have no proof that all those letters and words have not been made by yourself." "They have not," I protested. "You seem determined not to believe in my innocence." "And the seal," he continued, heedless of my interruption. "You expected that it would be regarded as irresistible proof. Well, in the first place I do not believe it was discovered on the body, as you allege; and, secondly, even if it had been, it is no absolute proof that the dead man was the culprit." "Why?" I inquired eagerly. "Because it was not with that seal that the dummy envelope was secured," he answered slowly, at the same time handing me the two impressions, and inviting me to compare them. This I did with breathless eagerness, by the aid of the magnifying glass, and in astonishment was compelled to admit that he spoke the truth. There were several discrepancies in the quarterings of the arms that I had not before noticed, and I saw instantly that they did not correspond with those impressed upon the envelope. The amazing worthlessness of my discoveries held me embarrassed, and I stood helpless, and in silence, as the Minister hurled at me some bitter invectives, declaring that I had come to him with an ingenious story, and evidence that might have convinced a man less shrewd. "Take your clumsily-forged documents and your attempt to reproduce my seal, and leave me at once!" he cried, in a terrible ebullition of wrath, gathering up the objects I had brought and tossing them back to me. "Your dastardly conduct is too despicable for words; but remember that to you, and you alone, your country owes the overwhelming catastrophe that must now inevitably fall upon it." With these ominous words ringing in my ears I stumbled out, knowing not whither I went, and scarcely responding to the greetings of the men I knew, who regarded me in askance. The great central staircase, up which climbed the brilliantly-uniformed representatives of all civilised countries on the face of the earth whenever the Minister held his receptions, I descended with heavy heart, and crossing the grey, silent courtyard, soon found myself amid the bustle of Parliament Street. I saw with chagrin how utterly I had failed in my endeavour to elucidate the mystery, for not only had I been unable to throw any further light upon the theft of the treaty, or the tragic end of the man I suspected, but I had actually heaped increased suspicion upon myself. On reflection, I found myself in accord with the Minister's declaration that the passport was a forgery, and that the brass stamp was not the seal used by the spy. These facts were absolutely incontestable. The only thing remaining was the paper whereon attempts had been made to imitate my writing. I tried to explain this fact away, and clear the memory of the dead man of all suspicion, but, alas! could not bring myself to believe in his innocence. There rankled in my breast the bitter thought that he had uttered words of love to Ella, and had tried to induce her to break off her engagement to me. She herself had acknowledged on oath before the Coroner that they had quarrelled because she loved me. No. Although this passport was a clumsy imitation, and the seal had been cut without due regard to the Warnham quarterings, the plain, incontestable evidence of his forgery remained. He was, after all, a cunning, despicable scoundrel, who had brought dishonour upon my name and ruined me both socially and financially. I found myself smiling grimly at the thought of how quickly retribution had fallen upon him. If he had died from natural causes it was but a judgment for his misdeeds; if struck down by an unknown hand it was but vengeance for his treachery towards his Queen, his country, and his bosom friend. Heedless of where I went I walked on, called at my club, I remember, and thrust my letters into my pocket unopened; then, pursuing my way, arrived home late in the afternoon. As I entered, Juckes handed me a note from Ella, telling me that they had left Staines owing to the tragic affair, and asking me to call that evening at Pont Street, adding that she wished to see me upon a very important matter. For a long time I sat alone, smoking and thinking, trying to devise some means by which I could bring the Earl to believe in my loyalty; but at last, in desperation, I rose, dressed, and took a cab to Mrs Laing's. The house was not large, but well ordered, exquisitely furnished, and there was about everything an air of elegant refinement that betokened wealth, taste and culture. It was nearly seven when I arrived, and I was gratified to learn that, with the exception of Beck, who came later, I was the only guest. Dinner was a much more stately meal at Pont Street than it had been at Staines, where very often we sat down in flannels, and I was not sorry when it was over, and I found myself free to talk alone with Ella. It was plain, from the dark rings about her eyes, that she had passed a sleepless night, and that her terrible and mysterious secret bore her down beneath its oppressive weight. Yet she had greeted me with the same joyous smile, the same hearty hand-shake as of old, and I had, while sitting at dinner chatting with her, felt myself wondering how I could ever have brought myself to utter such bitter reproaches and recriminations as I had done on the previous day. Her kiss, now that we were alone, thrilled me; her speech, soft and musical, held me enraptured by its charm. She told me, in answer to my questions, how she had fared after I left "The Nook"; how dismal the place had appeared, and how many bitter memories it would always possess for her. Then, in response to her suggestion, we walked out upon the balcony, where, under the striped awning, a table and chairs were set. Here, in the cool night air, the quiet only broken by an occasional footfall or the tinkle of a passing cab-bell, we sipped our coffee and gossiped on as lovers will. Suddenly, while she was telling me of the plans her mother had prepared for their sojourn for a couple of months at the seaside, the loud, strident cry of a running newsman broke upon our ears. At first, in the distance, the voice did not attract our attention, but when it neared us, the words, hoarse, yet indistinct, held me speechless. I sat stunned. Ella herself sprang from her chair, and leaned over the balcony, straining her ears to catch every sound of the rough, coarse voice. The man had paused for breath before the house, a bundle of papers across his shoulder, and the ominous words he shouted were,-- "Extra spe-shall! Probable war against England! Spe-shall! War against England! Startling statement! Spe-shall!" CHAPTER ELEVEN. BECK'S PROPHECY. "Hark!" gasped Ella, turning to me, pale in alarm. "What is that man crying? Listen!" Again the hoarse voice broke the silence, dear, distinct, ominous,-- "War against England! Spe-shall!" his cry being followed by the sound of hurrying feet as people rushed from their houses, purchased copies of the paper at exorbitant prices, and eagerly devoured the amazing news. "Surely it must be some absurd story that the papers have got hold of," Ella exclaimed a few moments later, when, after again watching the excitement below, she returned and stood beside my chair. "The idea of war against us is absolutely absurd. You Foreign Office people would have known if such were actually the case. Evening papers are so often full of exaggerated reports, contradicted next morning, that one ceases to believe in them." "I have every reason, unfortunately, to believe in the truth of this sudden probability of war," I answered gloomily, scarce knowing what I said. "You believe it's true!" she cried. "How do you know? Will Russia actually dare to challenge us?" "Yes," I replied. "But how were you aware that Russia was our enemy?" She started and held her breath. Her attitude was that of one who had unconsciously betrayed herself. "I--I--merely guessed it," she answered lamely, with a forced smile a moment later. "I've been reading the papers lately." "The papers have given no hint of any impending complication," I answered abruptly, removing the cigarette from my lips and looking up at her keenly. "But I read something the other day which stated that Russia and France had combined with the object of attacking England in the near future." I did not answer. I could only gaze at her, amazed at the calm, circumstantial manner in which she lied. That she had some knowledge of the political situation--of what character or extent I knew not--was certain, for other words she had let drop in unguarded moments had once or twice aroused within me increasing suspicion. When I reflected upon her alarm on hearing the strident cry of the newsman, I was compelled to admit that her fears were not genuine. The questions she put to me regarding the relative strengths of England and Russia, and the probable course of events, were naive enough, but they were uttered, I knew, with a view to disarm any suspicion I might entertain. At last, wearied of her eternal masquerade, I roused myself, tossed away my dead cigarette, and, declaring that in the circumstances my presence at the Foreign Office was imperative, suddenly said,-- "You asked me to come here this evening because you had something particular to say to me, Ella. You have not yet referred to it." "I wanted to ask you a question," she exclaimed in a low tone, slowly moving towards me and bending until she placed her arm tenderly around my neck. "Well, what is it?" For a moment she remained silent in hesitation, but at last spoke in that harsh, strained voice that had so frequently puzzled me of late. "I know you have investigated Dudley's belongings," she said. "And I wanted to know whether you discovered among them some scraps of paper bearing imitations of your own handwriting." I regarded her in surprise; her question amazed me. In her eyes I noticed a look of intense earnestness and appeal for sympathy. "Well, what if I have?" I inquired. "If you have, they will, I know, be regarded by you as evidence that Dudley was a forger." "That is what I believe him to have been," I said with bitterness. "You judge him wrongly," she replied quite calmly, her face nevertheless as white as the simple-made dinner gown she wore. "I have already seen those papers, and know their authorship." "Did not Dudley trace my writing?" "He never did," she replied. "As his death was encompassed by his enemies, so is dishonour cast upon his memory." "Then you allege that he was the victim of conspiracy!" I exclaimed, surprised. "No doubt. When I am at last free to speak I shall prove it, and by so doing remove from myself the suspicion now resting upon me." She spoke earnestly, with an intense ring in her voice that told me she now uttered the truth. "For what reason was it desired to imitate my handwriting?" I asked, pressing her hand tenderly. "Come, tell me, Ella." "I really don't know," she replied. "All I am aware is that your writing was most carefully traced and imitated, and for that purpose two of your letters to me were stolen." "By whom?" "I have never been able to discover." At that moment our conversation was interrupted by a voice crying, "Here, Deedes! Have you seen this alarming news?" and turning I saw Beck standing beside the tall, amber-shaded lamp in the drawing-room, a pale pink news-sheet in his hand. Rising quickly I re-entered the room, and walking over to him, followed by Ella, took the newspaper, and devoured the dozen lines of leaded type placed beneath the bold, alarming head-lines. My well-beloved was peering over my shoulder as, in breathless eagerness, I read that, according to Reuter's correspondent at St Petersburg, the _Novoe Vremya_ had that afternoon issued a special edition containing the amazing statement that Russia would, in the course of a few hours, formally declare war against England, and that this fact was corroborated by the issue of telegraphic orders to the commanders of military districts as a preliminary to a general mobilisation of the forces. This announcement was similar to that of our secret agent in St Petersburg, with the additional facts that the greatest activity had commenced in the War Office and Admiralty, and that the Tzar had, in consequence, abandoned his visit to Odessa, which he was about to undertake that day. "The outlook is certainly most alarming," I observed, handing on the paper to Ella. "It's extraordinary!" cried Beck, intensely excited, as became a patriotic legislator. "We have not had the slightest inkling of any diplomatic deadlock, or any disagreement with Russia. The whole thing is absolutely amazing." "But what will happen?" asked Ella, eagerly, with white, scared face. "Will England be invaded and battles fought here in the manner prophetic writers have foretold?" "I fear so," I said despondently. "If war is really declared, a conflict must very soon occur, and the struggle will then be long and deadly." "But surely the Government will not allow an enemy to land upon English soil," she exclaimed, still holding the paper in her trembling hands. "What are ambassadors for but to avert such catastrophes as this?" "Ambassadors," exclaimed Beck, "appear to me to be useless pawns. Surely our Embassy at St Petersburg must have been asleep not to have given the Government warning of the plans of Russia long ago. Preparations for war against a power like England are not made without very careful deliberation." "But can we be invaded?" I queried. "No doubt," Beck replied promptly. "The opinions of our greatest strategists are unanimous that, under certain conditions, France and Russia combined could invade our island. It is all very well for people to talk about England's maritime power; but is it what we believe it to be? I think not." Having made a deep study of this very question, I was, although a loyal and patriotic Englishman, compelled to agree with him in a certain measure. Once, not so very long ago, it was generally believed, even by our greatest military and naval experts, that should England become engaged with a first-rate foreign Power, she could, single-handed, in a week close every one of her enemy's ports and have a fleet ready to reduce at its leisure everything he held beyond the seas. Indeed, some authorities went so far as to declare that with almost any two Powers against her, she could do as much; and it was that recognition of this power abroad that gave England, in spite of her military weakness, so commanding a position in Europe. But since the Franco-Russian Alliance the increase in the fleets of the Powers had been so rapid that we had utterly failed to keep pace with them. We built huge, unwieldy battleships, while our enemies constructed the fastest cruisers and torpedo-boat destroyers afloat, thereby sweeping away our hitherto undisputed mastery of the sea. "The great danger that appears to me," Beck said presently, after we had been discussing the serious outlook at considerable length, "is that we may be blockaded by these two hostile powers, so as to reduce us near starvation, and compel us to surrender." "But not before we have engaged the enemy at sea and given them a taste of the lion's paw," I observed. "Of course. First, we must expect a great naval battle or battles, followed by a dash upon our territory and the landing of the hostile armies. If England received one serious reverse at sea, she could never recover from it. The loss of her maritime power would paralyse her." "I know," I said. "That argument is trite enough. But I, nevertheless, believe that England is still, and will be for many centuries to come, Queen of the Sea." "Oh! yes," he said, rather contemptuously. "The cheap, clap-trap patriotism of the pot-house and the music-hall is all very well, but we, in the House of Commons, entertain a very different opinion. The belief in England's greatness held by the lower classes is admirable, and, of course, ought to be carefully fostered, because it leads men to enlist in the Services. But you know, as well as I do, that in the Government Departments our naval strength is regarded as over-estimated in comparison with the power of some other European nations, and our military strength utterly inadequate. If it is really true that Russia is about to declare war against us, I fear the awakening of those confident of our insular security will be a terrible one." "Terrible no doubt it will be, on account of the fearful loss of life and property such a war must entail, but I anticipate that when the struggle comes every Englishman will bear arms for the defence of his home and loved ones, and that the foreign invader will meet with a reception the warmth of which he never expected." "Geoffrey is a patriot," exclaimed Ella, laughing. "So am I. I don't believe Russia and France will ever dare to land soldiers on our coasts." "Well spoken," I exclaimed. "I do not share the fears of these so-called experts." "I do," Beck went on excitedly. "If hostilities occur our defences will soon be found weak and utterly unreliable. That's my opinion." "Then you declare that England is great no longer," I observed, with a smile. "No, I don't go so far as that; but I contend, as I did in my speech in the House a fortnight ago, that those charged with maintaining our defences in a proper state of efficiency have for years been culpably negligent. The power of England to-day is still the same as it has been--on paper. But, in ascertaining it, we always close our eyes wilfully to the true fact that other nations have awakened during the past ten years, and have now actually overtaken us." "I don't think that," I answered. "Until our country is actually invested I shall still believe in its strength." But Beck, greatly to the amusement of Ella, was firm in his opinions, and, when I argued with him, commenced to quote statistics with a glibness which told how carefully he had studied the speech he recently delivered before the House, a speech which, by the way, had been dismissed in one line by all the newspapers. Ella, standing beside me in her pale cream dress, girdled narrow with a band of mauve silk, looked charming, and supported me in all my views, exhibiting a knowledge of politics and of the Continental outlook that I had not in the least suspected. Indeed, she now and then attacked the arguments of the member for West Rutlandshire with a vehemence that surprised me, for more than once she completely upset his declarations by citing some fact he had overlooked. Even while we discussed these things we knew how wildly-excited must be the seething world of London. The news, although, alas! not fresh to me, had fallen that night upon the metropolis like a thunderbolt. Mrs Laing, who presently entered the room, was shown the paper by Ella, and was utterly unnerved by the startling intelligence. I had noticed that she had never since been the same stately, composed woman as before the discovery of Dudley. The tragic affair at "The Nook" seemed to have upset her, and in her face there were now traces of extreme nervousness and excitability. "Surely the paper has printed an unwarrantable untruth, Mr Beck," she exclaimed, after reading the statement by the aid of her glasses. "I really can't believe it." "I scarcely think we ought to credit it before we receive some confirmation," the burly legislator replied. "It may, of course, be a mere idle rumour set afloat for Stock Exchange purposes." At that moment they exchanged swift, mysterious glances that somehow appeared to me significant, yet next instant I found myself convinced that the unusual expression in their eyes had merely been due to a chimera of my own imagination. With a foolish disregard for probability, I seemed somehow to scent mystery in everything, and it now occurred to me that to successfully probe the truth of Ella's relations with the two men, I must never allow myself to be misled by misconstruing words or actions. I felt almost confident that I had noticed Beck and Mrs Laing exchange looks akin to approbation; nevertheless, on reflection, I convinced myself that I had been quite mistaken, and half an hour later laughed at my suspicions. Presently Beck announced his intention of going down to the House to ascertain the latest official news, and I, bidding Ella and her mother farewell, accompanied him. It was about eleven o'clock when we drove up, but the cab could not get much further than Broad Sanctuary, so dense was the crowd that had gathered at St Stephen's on the startling news being spread. From the high summit of Big Ben the electric light was streaming westward, showing the excited thousands assembled there that Parliament was already deliberating upon the best course to pursue on the outbreak of hostilities, and as we elbowed our way through the turbulent concourse war was on everyone's tongue. Men and women of all classes of society, wildly-excited, with pale, scared faces, discussed the probable course of events; many sang patriotic songs, the choruses of which were taken up and shouted lustily, while here and there, as we proceeded, loud invectives against the Tzar and his French allies greeted our ears. At last we reached St Stephen's Hall, and, passing its zealously-guarded portals, hurried forward to the Lobby. Here the scene was of a most exciting character. Members were standing in small groups, eagerly discussing the serious and unexpected turn affairs had taken, and, in answer to our inquiries, we learnt that a quarter of an hour before an official reply had been given in the House to a question addressed from the Opposition benches, admitting that, according to the latest advices from St Petersburg, there was, no doubt, foundation for the rumour published by the _Novoe Vremya_, and that it was very probable that in the course of an hour or two war would formally be declared. A tiresome topic was being discussed in the House, but it was being carried on without spirit or enthusiasm, all the members being on tiptoe with expectation regarding the next telegram from the enemy's camp. The amazing intelligence that had spread like wildfire throughout the metropolis had brought every member in town down to the House, until the Lobby became so thronged that locomotion was difficult. I chatted with many legislators I knew, and found all held similar views--that an attempted invasion of England had been planned by France and Russia. The Cabinet had been hastily summoned, and was at that moment deliberating with the Commander-in-Chief regarding the immediate steps to be taken for the complete mobilisation of the forces. One fact had impressed itself upon me as, accompanied by Beck, I had struggled through the ever-increasing crowd outside, namely, the intense patriotism of the Volunteers. There were dozens who, on hearing the news, had at once put on their uniforms in readiness to bear their part in the defence of their homes, and everywhere as they swayed to and fro in the crowd they were lustily cheered. The sight of a uniform in those wild moments was sufficient to send the multitude half mad with enthusiasm, and in one or two instances volunteers had been raised shoulder-high in order that all should unite in giving them ovations. Within the sombre, smoke-blackened walls of Parliament it was a breathless period of eager waiting. There was no cheering, there was no cheap patriotism, no outburst of enthusiasm. Some of the little knots of white-hatted politicians condemned the Government unmercifully for failing to obtain news of a pending catastrophe which might have been avoided by diplomacy, while others declared that the action of the Opposition in the past was alone responsible for the present disaster. Wherever I went I found an opinion, almost unanimous, that England could not withstand the blow now threatened. In that time of wild theories and wilder apprehensions Beck's arguments and prophetic utterances were listened to eagerly, until quite a crowd stood around him. Of late he had written one or two articles on the subject of England's unpreparedness for war, notably one in the _Nineteenth Century_, which had attracted considerable attention, and his opinions were now listened to and afterwards discussed, even among men whose names were household words. As I stood watching and listening, I was compelled to admit that during the short time my friend had been in Parliament he had certainly won good opinions, and even among the most level-headed politicians his views, notwithstanding his blustering manner, were regarded as worthy of serious consideration. I confess to having previously looked upon him rather as a crank upon this subject, but I did so no longer, now that I recognised what weight his arguments carried. CHAPTER TWELVE. AN IMPORTANT DISPATCH. Half an hour later I stood at the door of the small post-office in the Lobby, after discussing the situation with that most cheery and courteous of officials, Mr Pike, the postmaster, who had left me for a moment to give some instructions to his subordinates. My mind was filled by gloomy thoughts, as I reflected that all this national terror and excitement had been produced by the dastardly and almost miraculous ingenuity of some unknown person. But was he unknown? Was it not more than probable that the person to whom all this was due was Dudley Ogle, the man who lay lifeless without a single sorrowing friend to follow his body to the grave? Sometimes I felt entirely convinced of this: at others I doubted it. If Ella spoke the truth, as it now appeared, then it was plain that Dudley had been the victim of a terribly cruel and crafty conspiracy that culminated in his death. Might not this be so, I argued within myself. Yet the words and actions of Ella were all so remarkable, so veiled by an impenetrable mystery, that any endeavour to elucidate her reasons only puzzled me the more, driving me almost to the verge of madness. Truth to tell, I loved her with a fond, passionate love, and had, only after months of trepidation and uncertainty, succeeded in obtaining her declaration that she reciprocated my affection, and her promise to be my wife. Yet within a month of my new-born life in happiness supreme, all these untoward events had, alas! occurred, stifling my joy, replacing confidence by doubt, and driving me to despair. While I stood there alone, Lord Warnham hastily approached the post-office window with a telegram, and, seeing me, exclaimed,-- "Ah! I want you, Deedes. An hour ago I sent telegrams everywhere for you. Come with me to my room." He handed in his telegram, and together we went along the corridors to his own private room, where, in an armchair, with some papers in his hand, sat the Marquis of Maybury, Prime Minister of England. We had met before many times when the burly, elderly peer had been a guest at Warnham Hall, and on many occasions I had acted as his secretary when he had been alone. "Well, Deedes," he exclaimed gravely, looking up suddenly from the papers, "Lord Warnham has explained to me the mysterious theft of the secret convention, and I am anxious to see you regarding it." The Foreign Minister seated himself at his table in silence, with folded arms, as the world-renowned statesman proceeded to question me closely regarding the events of that memorable day when the document had been so ingeniously stolen. "Have you not the slightest clue to the culprit, even now?" Lord Maybury asked at last, stroking his full grey beard. "Remember that England's honour and her future depends absolutely upon the issue of this serious complication. If you can furnish us with any information, it is just possible that diplomacy may do something, even at the eleventh hour. You see we have lost the original of the convention, and this, if produced in Petersburg, is sufficient evidence against us to upset all our protestations." "I have told Lord Warnham all I know," I answered calmly. "To him I have explained my suspicions." "That this friend of yours called Ogle, who died mysteriously on that very same day, was the actual spy," he observed. "Some of the facts certainly point to such a conclusion; but, now tell me, did Ogle enter your room at the Foreign Office on that day?" "Certainly not," I replied. "No one is allowed in my room except the clerks." "Could he have seen the envelope sticking out of your pocket?" "No," I answered. "I am confident he could not, because, on placing it in my pocket, a deep one, I took precaution to notice whether it were visible." "Then, if such is the case, I maintain that Ogle could not possibly have known what designation you had written upon the envelope," the Premier observed; adding, "Did you meet anyone you knew during your walk to the Ship, or while you were in Ogle's company?" "No one whatever," I said. "I know the Ship. At which table did you sit?" "At the first table on the left, in the inner room beyond the bar. I sat in the corner, with my back to a high partition. Therefore, the envelope could not possibly have been extracted from my pocket without my knowledge." "Then I should like to hear your theory of the affair," said the Prime Minister, his dark, penetrating eyes fixed upon me. "It is so remarkable," I answered, "that I am utterly unable to form any idea how the theft was accomplished." "You believe, however, that Ogle was a spy?" "At present, yes," I said. "And further, I have grave suspicions that he was murdered." "Ah, that was alleged at the inquest," his Lordship observed. "At present the police are sparing no effort to determine the cause of his death, and to find out who manufactured the duplicate of Lord Warnham's seal." "The seal I picked up from among the contents of Ogle's pockets was not the identical one used to secure the dummy envelope," I said quickly. "I am fully aware of all the facts," he answered rather coldly. "My desire is to find out something fresh. Even the police seem utterly baffled. Who is this young woman, Ella Laing, who at the inquest alleged murder?" "The daughter of Mrs Laing, of Pont Street." "Do you know her intimately?" "She is engaged to be married to me," I replied. "It is apparent that she was very friendly with this Ogle. Surely you can induce her to tell you something about him." "She knows but little more than what I already know. He lived with me at Shepperton, and had few secrets from me." "Did you ever suspect him to be a spy?" "Not for one moment. He had plenty of money of his own, and was in no sense an adventurer." "Well," exclaimed the Premier, turning to his colleague at last. "It is extraordinary--most extraordinary." Lord Warnham nodded acquiescence, and said, "Yes, there is a deep and extraordinary mystery somewhere: a mystery we must, for the sake of our own honour, penetrate and elucidate." "I entirely agree," answered the other. "We have been victimised by clever spies." "And all owing to Deedes's culpable negligence," added Lord Warnham, testily, glancing at me. "No, I am inclined to differ," exclaimed the Premier. He had never acted very generously towards me, and I was surprised that he should at this moment take up the cudgels on my behalf. "To me it appears, as far as the facts go, that Deedes has been victimised in the same manner as ourselves." "But if he had exercised due caution this terrible catastrophe could never have occurred," the Foreign Minister cried impatiently, tapping the table with his pen in emphasis of his words. "A little more than mere caution, or even shrewdness, is required to defeat the efforts of the Tzar's spies," the Premier said quietly. "In my opinion, Deedes, although in a measure under suspicion, cannot be actually condemned. Remember, among Ogle's correspondence he discovered evidence of an undoubted attempt to forge his handwriting." "We have no corroboration that he really did find that actually among the dead man's possessions," exclaimed Lord Warnham quickly. "I have myself seen the detective who accompanied him to Shepperton, and he tells me that no sheets of paper of that character were discovered. He--" "I found them while he was engaged in an adjoining room," I interrupted. "I did not mention it to him, preferring to bring the evidence straight to you." "It is just possible that Deedes's version is correct," observed the Premier. "Personally, I must say, Warnham, that I cannot see any ground for the dismissal of a hitherto trustworthy servant of Her Majesty upon this extraordinary evidence. I have always found Deedes upright, loyal and patriotic, and coming as he does of a well-known family of diplomats, I really do not suspect him of having played his country false." "I am obliged for your Lordship's words," I exclaimed fervently. "I assure you that your merciful view is entirely correct. I am innocent, and at this moment am utterly at a loss to account for any of the amazing events of the past few days." Lord Warnham was silent in thought for a few moments, then, turning his sphinx-like face to me, he said, in a tone rather more conciliatory than before, "Very well. As it is Lord Maybury's wish, I will reinstate you in the Service; but remember, I have no confidence in you." "Then you still suspect me of being a spy?" I cried reproachfully. "I am to remain under suspicion!" "Exactly," he answered dryly. "Until the truth is ascertained I, at least, shall believe you had something to do with the theft of that secret convention. Even the telegram sent from the Strand Post-Office to St Petersburg is in your handwriting--" "Forged!" I interposed. "Have you not already seen the careful attempts made to copy the formation of my letters and figures?" "The greatest calligraphic expert of the day has pronounced the telegram to be undoubtedly in your own hand, while the counter-clerk who took in the message and received payment for it, has seen you surreptitiously, and recognised you by the shape of the silk hat you habitually wear." Here was an astounding case of mistaken identity. I had never entered the post-office near Exeter Hall for six months at least. "I should like to meet that clerk face to face," I burst forth. "He tells a distinct falsehood when he says he recognises me. I did not go into the Strand at all on that day." Then a thought suddenly occurred to me when I reflected upon the shape of my hat, and I added, "I admit that my hat is of a rather unusual shape," taking it up and exhibiting it to them. "But when I bought this in Piccadilly two months ago Ogle was with me, and he purchased one exactly similar." "Again the evidence is against the dead man," the Premier said, turning to Lord Warnham. "Where is his hat?" he inquired of me sharply. "At Shepperton. I can produce it if required. Its shape is exactly like mine." "You had better speak to Frayling upon that point," observed Lord Warnham. "It may prove important. At any rate, Deedes, perhaps, after all, I have been just a trifle unjust in condemning you, therefore consider yourself reinstated in the same position as before, although I must admit that my previous confidence in your integrity is, to say the least, seriously--very seriously--impaired." "I hope it will not remain so long," I said. "If there is anything I can do to restore your belief in my honesty, I will do it at whatever cost." "There is but one thing," he exclaimed. "Discover the identity of the spy." "I will regard that the one endeavour of my life," I declared earnestly. "If the mystery is to be fathomed I will accomplish it." "While we've been talking," the Premier interposed, "a thought has occurred to me, and for mentioning it I hope you, Deedes, will pardon me. It has struck me that if, as seems even more than likely, this man Ogle was actually a spy who had carefully cultivated your acquaintance with an ulterior motive, is it not within the range of possibility that the lady, who was also your most intimate friend, as well as his, either knew the true facts, or had a hand in the affair?" "I can trust Ella," I said, glancing at him resentfully. "She is no spy." The elderly statesman stroked his beard thoughtfully and smiled, saying, "Ah, I expected as much. I myself was young once. When a man loves a woman he is very loth to think her capable of deceit. Yet in this instance we must not overlook the fact that more than one female spy has been brought under our notice." "I am aware of that," I replied, angry that he should have made such a suggestion against my well-beloved, yet remembering her strange utterances when she heard the news of impending war shouted in the street. "But I have the most implicit faith in the woman who is to be my wife." "Has she explained, then, the character of the secret existing between herself and Ogle?" asked Lord Warnham, raising his grey, shaggy brows. "From the evidence at the inquest it was plain, you will remember, that there was some mysterious understanding between them. Has she given you her reasons for declaring that Ogle has been murdered?" For a moment I was silent; afterwards I was compelled to make a negative reply. "That doesn't appear like perfect confidence, does it?" the Foreign Minister observed, with a short, hard laugh. "Depend upon it, Deedes, she fears to tell you the truth." "No, she fears some other person," I admitted. "Who it is I know not." "Find out, and we shall then discover the spy," the Premier said, adding, with a touch of sympathy, after a moment's pause, "Remember, I allege nothing against you, Deedes. Do your duty, and regardless of all consequences discover the means by which we have been tricked. Induce the woman you love to speak; nay, if she loves you, force her to do so, for a woman who truly loves a man will do anything to benefit him, otherwise she is unworthy to become his wife. Some day ere long you yourself will become a diplomat, as other members of your family have been. Now is the time to practise tact, the first requisite of successful diplomacy. Be tactful, be resourceful, be cunning, and look far into the future, and you will succeed both in clearing yourself and in explaining this, the most remarkable mystery that has occurred during the long years of my administration." I thanked him briefly for his advice, declaring that it should be my firm endeavour to follow it, and also thanked Lord Warnham for my re-instatement, but my words were interrupted by a loud double knock at the door, and in response to an injunction to enter, there appeared, hot and breathless, Frank Lawley, one of the Foreign Office messengers. He wore, half-concealed by his overcoat, his small enamelled greyhound suspended around his neck by a thin chain, his badge of office, and in his hand carried one of the familiar travelling dispatch-boxes. "Good evening, your Lordships," he exclaimed, greeting us. "Where are you from, Lawley?" inquired Lord Warnham, eagerly. "From Paris, your Lordship. My dispatch, under flying seal, is, I believe, most important. The Marquis of Worthorpe feared to trust it on the wire." In an instant both Premier and Minister sprang to their feet. While Lord Maybury broke the seals Lord Warnham whipped out his keys, opened the outer case, and then the inner red leather box, from which he drew forth a single envelope. This he tore open, and holding beneath the softly-shaded electric lamp the sheet of note-paper that bore the heading of our Embassy in Paris, both of Her Majesty's Ministers eagerly devoured its contents. When they had done so they held their breath, raised their heads, and without speaking, looked at each other in abject dismay. The contents of the dispatch held them spellbound. The window of the room was open, and the dull, distant roaring of the great, turbulent multitude broke upon our ears. The excitement outside had risen to fever heat. CHAPTER THIRTEEN. A STATEMENT TO THE PRESS. "This is indeed extraordinary!" exclaimed Lord Maybury, the Premier, at last. "An amazing development--most amazing!" the Foreign Minister cried, unusually excited. "What is the best course?" asked the head of the Government. "There is but one," his colleague answered. "I shall wire to St Petersburg at once and await confirmation." "The situation is becoming absolutely bewildering," observed the Premier. "It may be best, I think, to convene another meeting of the Cabinet." Lord Warnham, with that involuntary caution that he had developed during long years of office as Minister of Foreign Affairs, at once dismissed Frank Lawley, but allowed me to remain. As his confidential secretary I had been present on many occasions when delicate matters of diplomacy had been adjusted and plans arranged which, if divulged, would have caused an upheaval throughout Europe. "No, I don't think another Council is necessary, at least not to-night," answered Lord Warnham, when the cosmopolitan messenger had closed the door behind him. "But the whole thing is at present a mystery," said the Prime Minister, standing astride with his broad back to the empty grate. "Exactly. We must have news from the Embassy in St Petersburg before long. Until then, I think we should be patient." "But hark!" exclaimed the Premier, quite calmly, and as we all three listened we could hear the dull roar of the crowd becoming louder. The popular excitement outside was intense, and the eager multitude increased each moment. "They are clamouring for news. It is, I think, time that another statement should be made in the House." "As you wish," Lord Warnham answered, with ill grace. It was part of his creed to tell the public absolutely nothing. The Premier was for publicity--he for secrecy always. "But whatever statement is made regarding the receipt of intelligence it cannot compromise our position at St Petersburg," the Marquis argued. "Very well. Let the statement be made. But, personally, I cannot see what we can say at present." "Say something. It will reassure the public that we are endeavouring to readjust diplomatic negotiations. Already we are being hounded down on all sides by wild-haired agitators as having been asleep. Let us show our opponents that we are now fully alive to England's peril." "Ah, Maybury," laughed the Foreign Minister, "it is always my opinion that the less the public know the easier it is for us to carry on the business of the country. The irresponsible journals are really the cause of nine-tenths of our diplomatic ruptures." "But the Press assist us in many ways, and if you are averse to a statement in the House why not make one to _The Times_, or to a news agency? Perhaps the latter course would be best, for it will re-establish public confidence." "But that will not be official," Lord Warnham demurred. "Nevertheless, we can make the official statement later, when we have received confirmation of this extraordinary dispatch." "Is the dispatch from Paris very remarkable?" I asked, unable to any longer bear their tantalising conversation, so anxious was I to ascertain the latest development of this conspiracy against our country. "Read it for yourself," Lord Warnham answered, glancing at the Premier to ascertain whether this course received his approbation, and finding that it did, he handed me the dispatch, which I found a moment later read as follows:-- "_From Marquis of Worthorpe, Paris, to Earl of Warnham, Her Majesty's Principal Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs.--My Lord,--In further continuation of my dispatch of this morning, I have the honour to report to your Lordship that the war preparations actively commenced here on receipt of a telegram from St Petersburg (copy of which was enclosed in my last dispatch) have, owing to a later telegram from Russia, been entirely stopped. The orders for mobilisation have everywhere been countermanded. According to a statement just made to me by our secret agent in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, the French Government have to-day received word that the Tzar's declaration of war will not, for some unexplained reason, be published. I send this by special messenger in the hope that it will reach your Lordship this evening_.--Worthorpe." "This is remarkable!" I cried. "It appears as if Russia has already repented." But the Premier and his colleague, at that moment in consultation regarding the steps to be taken should this astounding and reassuring news prove correct, did not notice my remark. Presently, however, the Prime Minister, turning to me, asked,-- "Are any of the reporters your personal friends, Deedes?" "Yes, I know several." "To whom shall we make our statement?" he inquired. "We want it spread throughout the country." "In that case I should suggest Mr Johns, of the agency that supplies the club tapes and newspapers." "Then send for him." At once I went to the door and dispatched the messenger waiting outside to find that well-known figure of the Reporters' Gallery, who makes it his boast that for years without a break he had sat through every sitting of the House of Commons, and whose friends have a legend that he can enjoy a sleep in his "box" over the Speaker's chair and awake at the very moment any question of public interest arises. Ten minutes had elapsed when the chosen representative of the Press entered, hot and breathless, bowing to their Lordships. He was spare, dark-haired, with sharp, aquiline features, a breadth of forehead that denoted considerable learning, a pointed, dark-brown beard, and a pair of sharp, penetrating eyes. He spoke with a broad Scotch accent, his sallow face betraying signs of considerable excitement. "I desire, Mr Johns, to make a statement to the Press, and have sent for you with that object," exclaimed the Minister for Foreign Affairs, glancing up at him. "With pleasure, my Lord," exclaimed the reporter, taking from his pocket a pencil and a few loose sheets of "copy paper." "I'm quite ready." Then, as Lord Warnham dictated his message to the public, the representative of the news agency took it down in a series of rapid hieroglyphics. The words the Minister uttered were as follows:-- "In order to allay undue public alarm, I wish it to be known that, according to advices I have received, the statement in the _Novoe Vremya_ to-day, at first believed to be correct, is without foundation." "Then war is not declared?" interrupted the reporter, excitedly. "No. The alarming report reproduced by the English Press from the St Petersburg journal is apparently totally incorrect." "And I presume I may say that there is no rupture of diplomatic negotiations with St Petersburg?" Lord Warnham, smiling that sphinx-like smile which might be construed into anything the interlocutor chose, turned to the Prime Minister for his opinion upon the point. "Of course," exclaimed the Marquis. "We have received no intimation of any diplomatic difficulty. Further, you may reassure the public that the Government will do everything in its power to avert any catastrophe; but as no catastrophe has occurred, all this excitement is quite uncalled for." "May I use your own words, your Lordship?" inquired the reporter, quickly. "I want to reproduce this in the form of an interview." "You can act as you please about that," the Premier said, smiling as he added, "I suppose we shall see it in every newspaper in England to-morrow, headed, `The War Against England: Interview with the Prime Minister'--eh?" "Not to-morrow, your Lordship--to-night," laughed the reporter, fidgeting in his eagerness to get away with the finest bit of "copy" that ever his pencil wrote. The Premier turned to speak with Lord Warnham, but my friend Johns was not to be delayed, even by the discussion of the nation's peril. If the Archangel had suddenly appeared he would have calmly "taken a note" of how such an occurrence affected the onlookers. "Is there anything more I can say, your Lordship?" he asked, impatiently interrupting their conversation. "No, I think not at present," Lord Warnham answered. "If you have any further statement to make, I shall hold myself in readiness," he said, the journalistic spirit of greed being aroused to have the whole of this exclusive information to himself. "We will send for you if we have anything further to communicate," Lord Warnham answered, and wishing him good evening, intimated that at least for the present the interview was at an end. After he had left, it was desired, upon the suggestion of the Premier, to slightly amend one of the sentences used by Lord Warnham, and with that object I rushed after the excited interviewer. After a little search I found him in the small room behind the Press Gallery, dictating in breathless haste to the clerk, who sat resting his head on one hand while with the other he worked the telegraph-key. As I approached, I heard him exclaim in broad Scotch,--"Now, then, Ford, look sharp, my lad, look sharp! Send this along, `Our representative has just interviewed the Marquis of Maybury and the Earl of Warnham on the situation. The exclusive information imparted is of the greatest possible importance, as it shows'--" Here I interrupted him, and having requested him to reconstruct the sentence, as desired by Lord Warnham, left him, and returned to where the two Ministers were still in earnest consultation. Having busied myself with some correspondence lying upon the Foreign Minister's table, while the pair discussed a critical point as to the instructions to be sent to Lord Worthorpe in Paris, there presently came another loud knock at the door. One of the clerks, who had rushed over from the Foreign Office, entered, bearing a telegraphic dispatch. "Where from?" inquired Lord Warnham, noticing the paper in his hand as he came in. "From St Petersburg, your Lordship," he answered, handing him the telegram. The Premier and Foreign Secretary read it through together in silence, expressions of satisfaction passing at once across both their countenances. "Then we need have no further apprehension," exclaimed the Premier at last, looking up at his colleague. "Apparently not," observed Lord Warnham. "This is certainly sufficient confirmation of Worthorpe's dispatch," and he tossed it across to the table whereat I sat, at the same time dismissing the clerk who had brought it. Taking up the telegram, I saw at a glance it was from our secret agent in the Russian Foreign Office, and that it had been re-transmitted from Hamburg. Although he had stated that all cipher messages were refused, this was in our private code, and its transcription, written beneath, was as follows:-- "_Remarkable development of situation has occurred. Ministers held a Council this afternoon, and after conferring with the Tzar, the latter decided to withdraw his proclamation of war, which was to be issued to-night. The reason for this sudden decision to preserve peace is a mystery, but the Tzar left half-an-hour ago on his journey south, two of the Ministers have left for their country seats, and telegraphic orders have been issued countermanding the military preparations, therefore it is certain that all idea of war is entirely abandoned. Immediately at the conclusion of the Council, a telegram was sent to the Russian Minister in Paris, informing him of the decision not to commence hostilities against England. The_ Novoe Vremya, _in order to allay public feeling, is to be prosecuted for publishing false news_." When I had read this astounding dispatch, congratulating myself that, after all, our country need not fear a foreign foe, I sat listening to the discussion between the two great statesmen. The Premier advocated an immediate statement in the House in order to reassure the public, but Lord Warnham, with that love of secrecy apparent in all his actions, personal or political, was strenuously opposed to such a course. "Let us wait until to-morrow," he said. "To-night the papers will publish special editions containing the interview we have just given the Press representative, and this certainly ought to calm the crowd outside." He spoke with a sneer of contempt of the multitude of excited citizens in fear of their lives and property. "But they are patriots, many of them, Warnham," the Premier protested. "Who have placed us in power but that public?" "Oh, of course," the other snapped impatiently. "You go in for popularity with the masses. I don't. I've never been popular, not even in my own Department. But I can't help it. I do my duty, and perhaps it is my very unpopularity that has secured me a reputation as head of Foreign Affairs." "It may be, Warnham. It may be," said the Premier, slowly. "But you are more popular than you imagine." "In the Press, yes. These modern journals will lick the boots of anybody in power. It is not as it used to be in the old days, when you and I received a sound rating nearly every morning in _The Times_." "I do not allude to the Press, but contend that you are popular with the public. You would increase that popularity by allowing a statement to be made to-night." "Let them wait until the morning," he growled. "I haven't the slightest wish to be regarded as the people's saviour. An immediate statement will appear too much like a bid for cheap notoriety." "Is it not your duty to the people to allay their apprehensions of a coming war?" "It is my duty to Her Majesty alone," he exclaimed, suddenly remembering that he had forgotten to dispatch the reassuring news to Osborne, and turning, he thereupon dictated to me a telegram, which I quickly reduced to cipher. "Then you decline to allow any explanation to be given?" said the Premier, in a tone of reproach, stroking his full beard thoughtfully. "You would go home comfortably to bed and allow these thousands of half-scared citizens to remain in fear and doubt throughout the night." "Why not?" he laughed. "I tell you I am unpopular, therefore a little secrecy more or less does not matter. If a Foreign Minister allowed the Press and public to know all his doings, how could diplomacy be conducted? The first element of success in dealing with foreign affairs is to preserve silence, and not allow one's self to be drawn." "But in this instance silence is quite unnecessary," exclaimed the Prime Minister, growing impatient at the dogged persistence of his eccentric colleague, whose delight was to be designated as harsh, unrelenting and ascetic. In private life Lord Warnham lived almost alone in his great, gloomy mansion, scarcely seen by any other person save his valet, the telegraph clerk and myself. Some said that a strange romance in his youth had soured him, causing him to become misanthropic and eccentric; but it was always my opinion that the blow which fell upon him years ago; the early death of his young and beautiful wife, whom he loved intensely, was responsible for his slavish devotion to duty, his eccentricity, and the cool cynicism with which he regarded everybody, from his Sovereign to his secretary. As a Foreign Minister, every Government in Europe admired, yet feared him. He was, without doubt, the most shrewd and clever statesman the present century had known. "I shall preserve silence until to-morrow," he said, decisively, at last. "If Her Majesty were consulted, she would, I feel sure, advocate an immediate declaration of the exact position of affairs," Lord Maybury said. "She has the welfare of her people at heart. Remember, both you and I are her servants." "Of course, of course," he said, commencing to pace the room slowly. "Well," he added, after a pause, "suppose we made a statement in the Commons to-night, and to-morrow we find the outlook still threatening and gloomy--what then?" "Listen!" cried the Prime Minister, at last losing patience, and throwing open the window wide. "Listen! The people of London are clamouring for news. Give it to them, and let them depart." "They'll be able to read it in the papers presently. Let them pay their pennies for it," he sneered. "But that is not official," the Premier argued, and before his colleague had time to reply, the messenger stationed outside the door entered, bearing a telegram, which he took to Lord Warnham. "The representative of Reuter's Agency has brought this telegram, just received from St Petersburg, and desires to know whether you have any confirmation of the abandonment of the proposed hostilities against us," the man said. "Oh, tell him I have nothing to communicate," cried his Lordship, hastily. "And, look here, don't bother me again with any inquiries from the Press." "Very well, your Lordship," the messenger answered, and at once withdrew. "Why not make an official declaration?" the Marquis urged. "It would avoid a great deal of unnecessary worry and anxiety." For a long time the Foreign Minister held out, until at length he became convinced by Lord Maybury's forcible arguments in favour of publicity, and gave his sanction to a statement being made in the House of Commons. Presently we all three proceeded there, and at once the news spread like wildfire, within Parliament and without, that the latest news from St Petersburg was to be officially announced. From the glass swing door of the Press gallery I watched the House rapidly fill to overflowing, even to its galleries, and when all had assembled the excitement for about ten minutes was intense. It was a memorable scene, more impressive, perhaps, than any of the many that have taken place within those sombre-panelled walls. Presently, prefaced by the Speaker's loud "Order-r-r! Order!" a slim, grey-haired figure rose from the Government bench and explained that the news contained in the _Novoe Vremya_ was entirely false, and assured the House that war had not been, and would not be, declared against England. The final sentences of this welcome announcement were lost in a terrific outburst of applause. So excited were some of the younger members that they tossed their hats high in the air like schoolboys, and the vociferous cheering of the Foreign Secretary was continued, loud and long, notwithstanding the Speaker's dignified and formal efforts to suppress it. The scene was the most enthusiastic and stirring that I had ever witnessed, but even this was eclipsed by the terrific enthusiasm I found prevailing among the multitude when, a quarter of an hour later, I fought my way though the throng to gaze outside. The great concourse of citizens, wildly-excited, were almost mad with delight. Publicly, from the steps of St Stephen's Hall, the official statement had been shouted, and the multitude sent up such an outburst of applause that it echoed far and wide from the dark walls of Parliament and Abbey, church and hospital. The more enthusiastic ones yelled themselves hoarse with joyful shouts, while others started to sing "God save the Queen" until, taken up by all, the National Anthem echoed through the streets again and again. Then cheer upon cheer was given for "Warnham" and for "Good old Maybury," the women joining in honouring England's greatest statesman. It was popularly believed that by the efforts of these two men war had been averted, and it was not therefore surprising when they both left together and entered a carriage to drive to Downing Street, that the crowd unharnessed the horses, and fifty stalwart patriots dragged the carriage in triumph to its destination, while such an ovation was accorded them on every side, that even the excitement of the declaration of the poll at their election was paltry in comparison. I sat with them on the carriage, and as we were dragged onward through the dense, surging crowd, the Marquis turned to the Foreign Minister and exclaimed, with a smile,-- "Surely you can never regard yourself as unpopular after this?" "Ah!" exclaimed the other, sadly, with a heavy sigh. "It is you they are cheering, not myself. The people call you `good old Maybury,' but they have never called me `good old Warnham,' and will never do so. I am still unpopular, and shall be always." CHAPTER FOURTEEN. SONIA. Notwithstanding official assurances that no alarm need be felt at the political outlook, the popular excitement, fostered by a sensational Press, abated but slowly. On the morning following the memorable scene in the House of Commons, a great panic occurred on the Stock Exchange, and it was fully a week ere confidence was restored. Meanwhile, at Lord Warnham's dictation, I exchanged constant communications with our ambassador in St Petersburg, and although every endeavour was used to elucidate the mysterious reason why the Russian Government so suddenly altered its tactics, it remained as inexplicable as the means whereby they had obtained the original of our secret convention with Germany. Both the London police and our secret agents in Russia abandoned none of their activity, but all their efforts were to no purpose. The incident was a perfect enigma. Thus a month went by. Lord Warnham had slightly relaxed towards me as if, after all, he believed that I had spoken the truth, although he frequently, when vexed, would refer in uncomplimentary terms to what he called my "carelessness that nearly cost England her honour." Indeed, although I had been reinstalled in the position of great trust I had previously held, mine was no enviable lot. The Foreign Minister was a man of moods, strangely eccentric, sometimes preserving a rigid silence for hours, and often working for long periods alone during the night, attending to unimportant dispatches that might have been answered by a lower-grade clerk. But it was his object always to know the exact work done in each department, and to be able to do it himself. Thus he was enabled to keep a more careful watch over everything that went on, and was not, like the majority of Cabinet Ministers, a mere figure-head. Times without number I have gone to Berkeley Square early in the morning when some important matter of diplomacy has been in progress, and found the grey, thin-faced peer still seated in his study, the blinds still down, the electric light still on, showing how he had worked on unconsciously throughout the whole night, and was quite unaware of dawn. His servants had strict orders never to disturb him, even for meals, hence, when he was busy, he frequently spent many hours in his chair, regardless of day or night. These periods of intense mental strain would, however, be followed by exasperating irritability of such a character that I often feared to utter a word lest he should break out into a fierce ebullition of anger. At those times he would scatter broadcast the most severe censures on all and sundry, sparing neither ambassador nor consul, so fierce was his wrath. Knowing this, I would sometimes, after writing an abusive dispatch at his dictation, put it aside and, instead of forwarding it, accidentally overlook it. Then, next day, he would almost invariably relent, and after deep thought, exclaim,-- "Read me the copy of that dispatch I sent yesterday to Vienna, Deedes." "Oh," I would answer, as if suddenly recollecting, "I quite forgot to forward it, we were so busy yesterday." "Ah, too late now! too late!" he would grumble, feigning annoyance, yet secretly pleased. "Destroy it, Deedes; destroy it." Afterwards he would dictate a more temperate and less offensive letter, which the messenger leaving London that night would carry in his valise. One morning, towards the end of July, I received a strangely-worded letter, written in a foreign hand, asking me to call at an address in Pembroke Road, Kensington, and signed "Sonia." The missive, which had been left at my flat by a commissionaire, stated that the matter upon which the writer desired to see me was extremely urgent, and contained a request that I would telegraph a reply. This I did, accepting the appointment, for, on reflection, I had a very dim recollection of having, at some time or other, written officially to someone named "Sonia," and the letter aroused curiosity within me. That night, at the time she named, I found myself before a large, substantial-looking detached house, situated in the quiet, rather unfrequented thoroughfare off Earl's Court Road, a house which, to my excited imagination, bore external evidence of mystery within. Why such thought should seize me I know not. Perhaps it was because the writer of the letter was unknown, and the object of my visit at present unexplained; nevertheless I entered the small garden that divided the house from the roadway, and, ascending the steps, rang the bell. My summons was immediately answered by a neat maid, to whom I gave my card, and next moment I was ushered into a well-furnished drawing-room, dimly lit by one tall, shaded lamp, the light of which was insufficient to illuminate the whole room. For a few moments I remained alone in wonder, when suddenly the door opened, and there entered an extremely pretty girl, scarcely out of her teens, dark-haired, with clear-cut features, bright eyes, and a delicately-rounded chin. It struck me, however, even before she spoke, that in her face was a strange expression of unutterable sadness, a look that told of long suffering and intense agony of mind. Her mannerisms were those of a foreigner, her _chic_ was that of the true Parisienne, her dress of black silk crepon was plainly but well made, and the fact that she spoke in broken French was, next second, conclusive. "Ah! You have come, m'sieur. You are indeed very good," she exclaimed, with a charming accent, her skirt rustling as she advanced to greet me. "I am at your service, mademoiselle," I answered, bowing, at the same time accepting the seat she offered. "Well," she commenced, with a smile, slowly sinking into an armchair near me, "when I wrote to you I feared you would not come. You have been so good to me already that I fear to ask any further favour." "I must ask your pardon, mademoiselle," I said, "but I really am unaware that I have ever rendered you any service." "What, do you not remember?" she cried. "You, who were so good to my father and myself; you, to whom we both owed our lives." "I certainly have some hazy recollection of your name," I answered, puzzled, "but try how I will, I cannot recollect in what connection it has come before me." "Do you not remember the case of the refugee, Anton Korolenko, the man who, after being hounded all over Europe, in Vienna, in Madrid, in Paris, by the _agents provocateurs_ of the Secret Police, found an asylum in London?" she inquired, surprised. "They said we need not fear the _Okhrannoe Otdelenie_ here, in your free England, but no sooner had we arrived than, owing to the treachery of one of our brotherhood, a warrant for our extradition was issued by General Sekerzhinski, chief of the Department in St Petersburg. News of this was telegraphed to us, and I applied to your Minister for protection. You yourself saw me and gave me your promise of assistance, a promise which you kept; the warrant was returned to Russia unexecuted, and you thus saved us from the fate we dreaded." "Ah, yes," I answered quickly. "Of course, I remember now. It is fully two years ago; but you have so altered that I scarcely knew you." "I was a girl then," she smiled. "Now I feel quite a woman. Since I saw you last I have sustained a bereavement. My poor father is, alas! dead." "Dead!" I echoed sympathetically. "Yes," she sighed, with bitterness. "He died of a broken heart. On the day we escaped from St Petersburg, my mother, who was perfectly innocent, had unfortunately fallen into the drag-net of the police. She was imprisoned for six months, then sent to Siberia, but died of cold and fever on the road there. Her tragic end proved such a terrible blow to my father that, even here in safety, he grew morose, his health, already broken by long years of imprisonment, failed, and six months ago he died, and I was left alone." "Your life is indeed a sad one, mademoiselle," I said, for I well-remembered the touching story she related when, a mere girl, pale-faced and agitated, she came to implore the protection of the British Government on behalf of her aged father. She had, with tears in her dark, brilliant eyes, told me a narrative of systematic persecution almost incredible; how her father, a wealthy merchant, having fallen into disfavour with General Sekerzhinski, the chief of Secret Police in St Petersburg, that official had formed a cunningly-devised plan to entrap him into a political conspiracy. She admitted that at one time, during the Terror that culminated in the murder of Alexander II, her father had participated in the revolutionary movement, and had spent eight years of solitary confinement in the Peter-Paul Fortress. Although he had long ago renounced all revolutionary ideas, it was, of course, easy enough for an all-powerful official like Sekerzhinski to discover evidence against him. The _agents provocateurs_ were quickly at work, with the result that orders were in a few days issued for the arrest of Korolenko for the murder of a woman in a low quarter of the city, and for the apprehension of his wife and their pretty daughter, Sonia, as accomplices. The reason of this allegation was plain. If the General had only alleged a political offence his victims could not be extradited from a foreign country, while for an ordinary crime they could. Korolenko's wife was arrested while shopping in the Nevski Prospekt, but Sonia and her father, fortunately, obtained word from a friend of theirs in the secret service, and fled, succeeding in escaping from St Petersburg into Finland, and after weeks of starvation and terrible hardships found themselves in Stockholm, whence they went to Hamburg. Here they narrowly escaped arrest by the German police, but succeeded in getting to Vienna, and thence to Venice, Marseilles, Madrid, and afterwards to Paris, where they had heard a large colony of Russian refugees resided. After two days, however, owing to a fact they ascertained, they fled to London. Here they believed themselves safe until one day they received another telegram from their friend in the secret police, warning them that a request for their extradition was on its way to London. It was then, in desperation, that Sonia came to crave an interview with Lord Warnham, and I had seen her on his behalf. Her story of wrong, hatred, and heartless persecution I have only here briefly outlined, but during the half-hour she had sat in the waiting-room at the Foreign Office relating it to me in detail she spoke with such earnestness that I was convinced of the truth, and resolved to assist her. Urging her to be assured that I would do all that lay in my power, she had at last dried her tears, and grasping my hand as she went out, had said,-- "I shall never forget your kindness to us, m'sieur. We are alone, friendless, forsaken, hounded down by a man who has sworn to ruin my father and his family. That you can protect us, I am confident. You can save us from the mines--nay, you can save our lives, if you will. I appeal to you, our only friend. Assist us, and you will ever receive the thanks from one who is to-day on the verge of despair and suicide." I promised, and she went away hopeful and confident. But to secure their immunity from arrest was by no means an easy matter. Fortunately, however, I was on excellent terms with the Secretary of the Russian Embassy, and having obtained the sanction of Lord Warnham, who was always chivalrous wherever women were concerned, treating them with a charming old-world courtesy, I set about attaining my object, securing it at last, but being compelled in turn to promise my friend assistance in an important matter of diplomacy. The warrant was next day returned to Russia unexecuted, and Sonia and her father were free. From her I had received a brief note in response to my intimation of the withdrawal of the warrant, apparently hastily written, but thanking me, and declaring that they both owed their future happiness to my exertions. For a few days I reflected upon the strange drama of real life that had been enacted, then the circumstances passed out of my mind. Now, as she sat before me, older and yet more beautiful, gazing into my eyes with that intense, wistful look that had attracted me when first we had met, all her tragic story came back to me vividly, and I was not surprised at her deep sorrow at the loss of her father she had loved so dearly. "So you desire my assistance," I exclaimed presently, after she had been explaining how lonely she was in exile from her friends. "Yes," she said slowly, with emphasis. "But first tell me one thing. You are acquainted with a woman named Ella Laing. Do you know her past?" CHAPTER FIFTEEN. BEYOND RECALL. "Really your question is a curious one," I exclaimed, smiling, although inwardly I resented her intrusion upon my affairs. "Do not think I intended to be unduly inquisitive," my youthful hostess said quickly, fidgeting with her golden bangle whereon a tiny bell tinkled musically as she moved, and glancing up at me with her dark, bright eyes. "Ella's past can concern no one except herself," I observed, rather puzzled. There was a strange, half-suspicious expression in her face that I had not at first noticed. "If you intend to marry her it concerns you also, does it not?" she asked, in a quiet, grave voice. "Yes, of course," I answered. "But how do you know I intend to marry her?" "I have heard so, and have seen you together," she answered, rather evasively. "Well, let us come to the point at once," I said, still smiling, and feigning to be amused. "Tell me what objection there is to her. Why do you inquire about her past?" "Because it is a mystery," she replied, regarding me calmly, the strange glint in her penetrating eyes increasing my mistrust. "In what way?" I inquired. I had known Mrs Laing and Ella for over a year, and certainly nothing I had learnt regarding their antecedents had excited my suspicion. The Yorkshire Laings are a county family, and Edward Laing, Ella's father, had been the head of the great shipping firm that has its headquarters in Hull, and is well-known in the North Sea and Atlantic trades. At his death the concern was turned into a company, and Mrs Laing and her daughter had travelled for nearly three years, returning to London shortly before I met them. The statement that Ella's past was mysterious was certainly puzzling, therefore I added, "When you make an allegation, I really think it is only fair that you should substantiate it." She shrugged her shoulders with a foreign mannerism that was charming, exclaiming in her broken English,--"Ah, you understand me not, m'sieur. I speak not your language with politeness. Well, it is, oh, so very difficult?" "Do you tell me that Ella Laing is not what she represents herself to be?" I inquired eagerly. "Ah, no," she answered. "I ask m'sieur if he knows of her past. M'sieur was once good to me, very good. I forget never those who to me are generous." "But your words contain a hidden meaning," I said, dropping into French, hoping thereby to induce her to place my mind at rest. "Yes, I am well aware of that," she answered, with volubility. "You love her; you have offered her marriage--the woman who is your most bitter foe!" "What do you mean? That Ella is my enemy?" I cried, dismayed. Her full, red lips parted in a silvery peal of laughter, displaying an even set of pearly teeth, as, throwing back her handsome head, she exclaimed,-- "Ah! I expected it would cause you pain to learn the truth. Yet, after all, is it not best to know now, instead of hereafter?" "In what way is she my enemy?" I asked, bending forward to her and transfixing her with my eyes. She remained silent, merely giving her shoulders a slight shrug, sighing the while. "A moment ago you told me that because I once performed you a service you intended to render me one in return. Come, tell me the truth," I urged. Again she sighed, but at last said, "The truth has already been forced upon you, I should think." "In what manner?" "By the death of your friend, Dudley Ogle," she replied, in a half whisper, the strange look of almost murderous hatred again showing in her eyes. "Well," I said, "I can see nothing in that tragic incident to lead me to any conclusion that Ella is my enemy." "Love is blind, of course," she answered, rather contemptuously. "Your blindness extends apparently even to the theft of the important dispatch entrusted to your care." Her words amazed me, for, with the exception of Lord Warnham, the Marquis of Maybury, and Frayling at Scotland Yard, no living person knew of the theft of the secret convention. "How, pray, are you aware that any document has been stolen?" I asked quickly, my mind at once filled with suspicion. The fact that this girl was a Russian was in itself sufficient to place me at once upon my guard. "I have heard so," she answered, with a mysterious smile. "Well, and what do you allege?" I inquired, keeping my eyes fixed upon her. "Allege!" she cried. "Why, nothing. I have merely asked you a simple question, whether you are aware of the past of Ella Laing, and you have not answered. You are silent." "I know sufficient of her past to love her," I answered, determined that the words of this strange-mannered girl should not arouse greater suspicion than that which already dwelt in my mind. "Love her! Bah! You will hate her when you learn the truth," she cried, with a gesture of disgust. "Then tell me," I cried impatiently. "Why should I hate her?" "No," she said slowly, shaking her head, and slightly raising her shoulders. "I make no reflections. If you love her--well, I suppose you desire that your fool's paradise should last as long as possible." "My fool's paradise, as you term it, will, I trust, last always," I said resentfully, for her manner had suddenly changed, and she treated me reproachfully, with a familiarity that was as surprising as it was annoying. "Alas! not always, I fear," she smiled, as if pitying my simplicity. "Your present paradise will soon be a veritable hell." "You speak candidly, at least," I said, angered at her words. "But I did not call here to listen to libellous allegations of which there are no proofs." "No proofs?" she echoed. "Ah, do not be so confident, m'sieur. You have no knowledge of the character of the woman you love, or you would not say this. I do not wish you to follow my advice; I do not urge you to listen to my words. I only warn you because you have been my best friend," and she gazed straight into my eyes with an earnestness that was intense. "You warn me. Of what?" "Of Ella, the woman who has apparently fascinated you as she has done others," and she sighed, as if memories were painful. "A pretty woman may often unconsciously fascinate many men before meeting the man she marries," I said, as calmly as I could. "Unconsciously, yes," she answered. "But there are some who use the beauty that their Maker has bestowed upon them to allure their victims." "You anticipate I am doomed, then?" I laughed. She regarded me gravely for an instant, then said, in a voice quiet and low,-- "I do not think--I know. The mysterious death that overtook your friend Dudley Ogle should have overtaken you instead. But for an amazing coincidence, by which your life was saved and his taken, you would, ere this, have been in your grave." "And my assassin would have been the woman I love, I suppose, you are going to tell me?" I observed, amused at her melodramatic manner and the absurdity of the idea. "No, I leave you to discover the truth," she answered, arching her dark brows, a shadow of annoyance crossing her refined features at that moment. "You are apparently well acquainted with Miss Laing," I said, after a long pause. "I know her," she admitted abruptly. "Then, as I refuse to listen further to any charges against her of which you can give me no corroboration, it may be best for me to bring her here to hear your allegations, even at risk of creating a scene. You said you intended to render me a service, and by facing her you can." "No, no," she cried, suddenly jumping from her chair and laying her hand upon my arm in earnestness. "She does not know I am in London; she must never know, otherwise our plans will be spoilt. Do not mention my name to her; now promise me," she implored. "Promise me, and I will render you the assistance you will require ere long. The secret knowledge I possess enables me to give you warning. Remember that what I have said is between one friend and another." Through my perturbed mind there surged vivid recollections of recent events, of Ella's beauty, and of the inscrutable mystery surrounding her. It was amazing, to say the least, that this handsome girl, whose life had been so romantic and full of tragedy, should thus make veiled allegations and denounce as vile and worthless the woman I so deeply loved. That she had some ulterior motive was, of course, apparent, but although I debated within myself its probable cause, I utterly failed to arrive at any satisfactory conclusion. One fact was, however, impressed upon me during our subsequent conversation--namely, that Sonia was in possession of the secret that Ella withheld from me. That the pretty Russian had known Mrs Laing and Ella intimately I could not doubt from what she told me regarding them, yet I did not fail to detect in her voice a harshness whenever she spoke of them, the more so when she mentioned the name of my well-beloved. Once, in trying to determine the cause of this, I felt inclined to attribute it to jealousy, but when I reflected that I had seen Sonia only once before, and that I knew absolutely nothing of her except what she herself had told me, I scouted the idea. It was plain, too, that she had been intimately acquainted with Dudley, for she spoke of him familiarly, smiled at his little eccentricities, and expressed the most heartfelt regret at his mysterious and tragic end. Times without number, when she had sunk back into her chair, I tried to induce her to impart to me something more regarding the woman I loved, but she declined. She warned me by constant utterances to be circumspect, but regarding the past preserved a silence rigid and severe. Presently, as my eyes wandered around the well-furnished room, I noticed, standing upon the piano, a photograph frame of oxydised silver containing a portrait. I looked at it astounded, for it was the likeness of my dead friend. She noticed my attention attracted by it, and rising in silence, brought it across to me, and taking it from its frame, said,-- "This, perhaps, will convince you that Mr Ogle was my friend." I took the portrait from her hand, and read on the back in his well-known handwriting the words,--"From Dudley to dearest Sonia." No copy of this portrait had I before seen. From the suit of light tweed he wore I knew that he could not have been photographed longer than a month prior to his death, and it seemed likely that he had had this taken specially for her. Although fond of telling me of his flirtations, he had never spoken of his acquaintance with this pretty refugee, yet from her remarks I knew that they had been friends for several years. Long and earnestly I looked at the picture, then handed it back to her without comment. Truth to tell, even this counterfeit presentment filled me with a fierce hatred against him, for had not Lord Maybury been absolutely correct in remarking that everything pointed to the conclusion that he was a spy? Indeed, his association with this pretty Russian, who had perhaps fascinated him, was another fact which seemed now to confirm my increasing suspicions. It was a romantic story that Sonia told me, but what evidence did I possess that she was actually a political refugee? The warrant issued from St Petersburg for the arrest of her father and herself was for the murder of a foreign woman who, according to the depositions that my friend at the Russian Embassy showed me, had been enticed to a house in a low quarter of the city and strangled with a silken cord. No hint had been given that the pair "wanted" were "apostles of dynamite," and I now remembered that when I had suggested it to my friend he laughed, declaring that I was utterly mistaken. I recollected that the words he used were,-- "They are not revolutionists, but a precocious pair of criminals who, from time to time, have made enormous coups. No doubt the charming girl has told you some ingenious fiction or other about her father's patriotism, but I should advise you to take it all with the proverbial grain of salt. They are the only two of an utterly unscrupulous gang now remaining at liberty, and if your Government will give them up, we will rid society of them by burying them deep in one of our Siberian mines. But as you have come with this offer to readjust the little diplomatic friction in return for their liberty, I will urge my chief to accept it; nevertheless, do not forget that this action of yours will set at liberty a pair of the most fearless and ingenious harpies in Europe." As I sat opposite her, watching her seductive smiles, these words recurred to me, and I wondered whether the allegations of the Secretary of the Embassy was true. I recollected also, when, with tears in those brilliant eyes, she had besought me to intercede on her father's behalf, how she told me distinctly that Sekerzhinski, the Chief of Police, had made charges against them cruel and false. Certainly when she had come to me humbly imploring the protection of the British Government against the persecution of her accusers she had none of the swagger of the adventuress. Even now, dressed in plain mourning, with no jewellery except the single golden bangle which I remembered she had worn when we before met, I could not bring myself to think that she was actually the desperate criminal that my friend Paul Verblioudovitch would have me believe. Knowing, as I did, how the Tzar's emissaries followed and captured by all manner of subtle devices those suspected of revolutionary conspiracy, I was again convinced, as I had been two years ago, that Sonia was a conspirator against the life of his Majesty. She certainly was not a common criminal. As she chatted to me, young, refined, sad-eyed, there were in her face unmistakable traces of anxiety and suffering. Finding that she absolutely refused to say anything further regarding the woman I adored, I began to question her as to her own happiness and future. "Ah," she sighed, "I am lonely, dull, and unhappy now that my father is no longer alive. Together we shared months of terrible hardship, of semi-starvation, hiding in the frozen wilds of the North, and ever pushing forward through that great lonely land towards our goal of freedom. Often and often we were compelled to exist on roots and leaves, and more than once we were compelled to face death," and she shuddered. "The recollection of that terrible journey is to me like some hideous nightmare, for to escape detection we often travelled by night, in terror of the wolves, and guided only by the brilliant stars high in the bright, frosty sky. The knowledge of our fate if caught-- the mines in far Siberia--held us in dread and hastened our footsteps. Thus, clad only in tattered rags, we went forward shivering, knowing that to halt meant certain death. Not until after three long months of suffering did we reach Stockholm, where we once more awakened to the joys of life, but then, alas! they had in them the dregs of bitterness. Two days after regaining our liberty, the news reached us that my poor mother had died at the roadside while chained to a gang of desperate convicts on their long and weary journey to Lake Baikal, the most dreaded district in all Asiatic Russia. The Almighty spared her the horrors of the fever-infected _etapes_ and the gloom and torture of the mines, but from that moment my poor father, heart-broken, grew careless of the future, and it was only for my sake that he endeavoured to elude the bloodhounds of the Tzar." "Do you live here, in this house, alone?" I asked. "No," she replied. "I have Petrouchka and his wife Akoulina, who were our servants in St Petersburg for many years, in addition to the English maid who admitted you." "Then you are not quite alone," I said. "Besides, you ought not to be unhappy, for you have enough money to live comfortably, and you should try and forget your sad bereavement." "Alas! I cannot forget," she said, still speaking in French. "It is impossible. I am exiled here in your country, while all my relatives and friends are so far away. I cannot go into your society, for I have no chaperon; besides, English puzzles me so. I shall never learn it, never. Oh, it is so difficult." "Yes," I admitted, laughing. "But not so puzzling as your own Russian, with all its bewildering letters." She smiled, but there was a touch of wistful sadness in her handsome face when, after a slight pause, she looked at me earnestly, saying,-- "It was because I am so lonely and unhappy that I asked you to come here to-night." "To be your companion--eh?" I observed, laughing. "Well, what you have told me regarding Ella Laing is scarcely calculated to set a man's mind at rest." "Ah, no. I have only told you in order that you should be forewarned. Let that pass; yet remember the words I have uttered, proof of which you shall have some day. The fact is, I want you to do me a favour. I am tired of this exile from my friends; I have no one as companion except old Akoulina, and I want to return to Russia for a month or so to visit my relatives, and to transact some legal business connected with my poor father's estate." "But is it safe for you to return?" I hazarded. "Not unless you will procure me a passport. This you can do if you will," she answered earnestly. "You would be arrested on the frontier," I said. "Is it wise to run such risk?" "Of course the passport must not be in my own name," she went on. "You alone can obtain one from your friend at the Embassy." I shook my head dubiously, feeling assured that I could never induce Verblioudovitch to issue a false passport to a woman he had denounced as a dangerous criminal. "Ah, you will try, will you not?" she implored, rising and gripping my arm. "It is necessary that I should be in St Petersburg within fourteen days from now, in order to give instructions regarding my late father's property. His brother, my uncle, is endeavouring to cheat me of it, and I must return, or I shall lose everything. I shall be ruined utterly." She spoke so rapidly, and upon her pale face was a look so wistful, that I felt assured she was in earnest. Hers was not the face of a malefactor, but rather that of a modest girl whose spirit had been broken by her bereavement. "I obtained your immunity from arrest here in England, it is true," I said. "But I fear that in my efforts to obtain for you a false passport I shall fail. If the police discover you within Russian territory, then nothing can save you from Siberia." "But they will not find me," she cried hastily. "Obtain for me a passport that will carry me across the frontier, and within an hour I shall be as dead to the police as the stones in the wall." This expression she had involuntarily let drop struck me as distinctly curious. It certainly was not such a phrase as would be used by any but a constant fugitive from justice. Indeed, it was really the parlance of the habitual criminal. Again I remained silent in doubt. "Will you try?" she asked, intensely in earnest. "If it is your wish I will try," I answered. "But only in return for one service." "Well?" she inquired sharply. "That when I bring you the passport you will tell me truthfully and honestly the grounds whereon you allege that Ella Laing is my enemy." She knit her brows for a few brief seconds, as if the possibility of my demand had never occurred to her. Then, suddenly smiling, she answered, extending her hand,-- "It's a bargain. But, remember, I must be in St Petersburg within fourteen days." "I shall not forget," I answered, with a sudden resolve to do my utmost to obtain the permit allowing this strange but handsome girl to re-enter her native land, and thus learn the truth regarding my well-beloved. "I shall call on Verblioudovitch to-morrow." "You are good to me, m'sieur, very good," she cried, joyfully. "In return, I will tell you one thing, even now. If you doubt what I say regarding the woman you love, look calmly into her face, pressing her hand affectionately the while, and ask her if she knows anyone with diamond eyes." "Is Diamond Eyes a pet name?" I inquired. I was puzzled, for I had a faint consciousness of having heard that designation before, but to whom applied I know not. "Discover for yourself," she answered, smiling. "I have given you the clue. Follow it, and seek the truth." Many times during our subsequent conversation I besought her to tell me something further, but she would not, and at last, after remaining with her over an hour, I left, promising I would at once set about obtaining the passport she desired. Hers was a strange personality, yet I, by some vague intuition, felt myself on the verge of a discovery. I was convinced that she knew of the theft of the secret convention, and could, if she wished, impart to me some startling truth. CHAPTER SIXTEEN. ADVICE GRATIS. Soon after noon next day I called at the Russian Embassy at Chesham House, and was ushered into the private room of my friend, Paul Verblioudovitch, the secretary to the urbane old gentleman who acted as the Tzar's representative at the Court of St James. It was a large but rather gloomy room, well stocked with books, containing a writing-table and several easy-chairs, into one of which I sank after the hall-porter, a gigantic, liveried Russian, had conducted me thither, and announced the immediate arrival of my official friend. While waiting, I reflected that my errand was scarcely one that would commend itself to the favour of Lord Warnham. Official relations between the Russian Embassy and the British Foreign Office, never very cordial, were, owing to our knowledge of the suppressed declaration of war, now seriously strained. Nevertheless, Paul and I were very intimate friends. I had first met him in St Petersburg, where for six months I had occupied an unimportant post in the British Embassy. Being compelled to pay frequent visits to the Minister of Foreign Affairs, I was always seen by Verblioudovitch, an official who spoke excellent English. Then I left and returned to London under Lord Warnham, and for nearly two years entirely lost sight of him, until I was one day delighted to find he had been promoted as Secretary of Embassy in London. Since that time our friendship had been renewed, and we had spent many a pleasant evening together. "Ah, my dear fellow!" he cried, almost without any trace of accent, as he suddenly opened the door and interrupted my reflections. "You're an early visitor," he laughed, shaking hands cordially. "Well, what is it? A message from your indefatigable chief?" "No, not exactly," I smiled, sinking again into my comfortable chair as he walked to the opposite side of his writing-table, afterwards seating himself at it. He was a well-preserved man of about forty-five, tall, erect, of military bearing, with closely-cropped, dark hair, a well-trimmed moustache, and a face that was an index to his happy, contented disposition. The Tzar's officials are supposed to be a set of the most stern, hard-hearted ruffians on earth, but there was certainly nothing of the heartless persecutor about him. Indeed, he was quite the reverse--a devil-may-care, easy-going fellow, who enjoyed a joke hugely, and when outside the sombre walls of the Embassy was full of genuine good humour and buoyant spirits. He may have been able to disguise his careless demeanour beneath the stern, strictly business-like manner of officialdom, but I, for one, had never seen him assume the loftiness of his position as secretary of the chief among the Embassies in London. "Our people at home have recently been playing an amusing little game at your expense, haven't they?" he laughed, passing over to me his silver cigarette case and selecting one himself when I gave it back to him. "I believe they have," I answered. "I would have given anything to have seen the look on your old chief's face when first he heard that we were going to declare war," he laughed. "How did he take it? You had a rough half-hour, I expect." "Of course," I smiled. "Things looked so serious." "Yes, so they did," he admitted, his face growing grave. "I quite expected that we should have to pack up our baggage and go back to St Petersburg. The fact is it's a puzzle to us why the Imperial declaration wasn't actually published. A hitch somewhere, I suppose." "Fortunately for us--eh?" I observed, lighting up calmly. He imported his own cigarettes, and they were always excellent. "Yes," he answered, adding after a moment's reflection, "but why have you come to me now that we are officially at daggers drawn?" "Only officially are we bad friends," I said. "Personally we shall be on good terms always, I hope, Paul. It was because I know I can count upon your assistance that I've come to ask you a favour." "Ask away, old chap," he said, deftly twisting his cigarette in his fingers, afterwards placing it between his lips. "I have a friend who wants to go to Russia, and desires a passport." "Well, he can get one at the Consul-General's office," my friend answered, without removing his cigarette. "I'll give you a note, if you like." "No," I said. "First, it is not a man who is going, but a woman; and, secondly, I want a passport vised by the Embassy in a name other than the real name of its bearer." "Oh," he exclaimed suspiciously, glancing straight at me. "Something shady, oh? Who's the woman?" "Well, she's hardly a woman yet," I answered. "A pretty girl who has lost her father and desires to return to her friends in St Petersburg." "What's her name?" "You know her," I said slowly. "I came to you on her behalf some time ago when a warrant was out for the arrest of her and her father. I--" "Of course, I quite remember," he answered quickly, interrupting me. "Anton Korolenko escaped with his daughter, that ingenious little nymph, Sonia, who came and pitched you a long, almost idyllic yarn, and you came here to intercede. I did as you requested and secured their freedom by endorsing the report of the agent of police told off to watch them by a statement that both father and daughter were dead. I then kept my promise by returning the warrant, but I tell you I narrowly escaped getting into a devil of a scrape about it." "But you can manage to give me a false passport for her, can't you?" I urged. "Where's her father? If he goes back their whole game will be given away." "Her father is dead," I answered. "Dead! Well, the grave is, I think, about the best place for such an enterprising old scoundrel, and as for his daughter, hang it, old chap, ten years in Nerchinsk wouldn't hurt her. What story has she been telling you this time, eh?" he asked. "She is lonely without her father, and in order to secure her property, which is about to be seized by her uncle, she is bound to be in St Petersburg within fourteen days." "Fourteen days," repeated my friend, reflectively. "Let's see, to-day's the twelfth," and he made some rapid calculations upon his blotting-pad. "Well, what else?" he inquired, looking up at me keenly. "Nothing, except that she dare not return under her own name." "I should scarcely think she'd better," he laughed, "unless she wants to spend the remainder of her days in that rather uncomfortable hotel called Schlusselburg, where the beds are not aired, and there are no toilet-glasses. But, tell me," he added gravely, a moment later, "why do you interest yourself in her welfare? She's entertaining and rather pretty, I've been told, but surely you, who are engaged to that charming girl to whom you introduced me at the Gaiety one evening a few weeks ago, really ought not to associate yourself with Anton Korolenko's daughter? She's a criminal." "I have an object," I said briefly. "Every man says that when a girl has taken his fancy. I know the world, old fellow." "But it so happens that I've not been captivated by her charms," I retorted. "Well, my dear Geoffrey," he said, in a tone of unusual gravity, "take my advice and keep away from her. Ever since you induced me to secure her her liberty, I have honestly regretted it, knowing as I do the terrible crimes alleged against the gang of which she and her villainous old father were prominent members." "What kind of crimes were they?" "Everything, from picking pockets to murder," he answered. "They stuck at nothing, so long as they secured the huge stakes for which they played. Has she been again weaving for your benefit any more of her tragic romances? She'd make a fortune as a novelist." I paused in deep thought. "Truth to tell," I said at last, "she has made an allegation against the woman I love." "Against Ella Laing?" he exclaimed, a faint shadow of anger crossing his brow. "What has she said? Tell me; perhaps I can suggest a way of dealing with her," he added quickly. "She's most unscrupulous; her tongue is tipped with venom." "She has given me to understand that Ella is an adventuress, and my most bitter enemy," I blurted out suddenly. He flung down his pen in anger, a fierce imprecation in Russian upon his lips. The reason of his sudden annoyance was a mystery, but his quick eyes noticed my amazement, and in on instant he assumed a calm demeanour, saying, in a voice of reproach,-- "So this woman, who has libelled Ella, you are striving to assist, eh? Well, what ground has she for her allegation?" "She will tell me only on one condition." "And what is that?" "If I induce you to give her a false passport, and promise not to inform the frontier police of her intended departure, she will relate to me the truth," I said. "And are you actually prepared to accept as truth the allegations which this woman uses as a lever to compel you to exercise your good offices on her behalf?" he observed, in a tone of reproach. I was silent, for I now recognised for the first time the strength of his argument. "You see her position is this," he continued. "She has nothing to lose and everything to gain. You get her the permit she desires; and she, in return, will tell you some absurd romance or other, concocted, perhaps, because she has taken a fancy to you and is jealous of Ella. We are friends, Deedes, or I should not speak so plainly. But I tell you that if I were in your place I would refuse to hear any lies from this pretty, soft-spoken criminal." "I quite appreciate your argument," I answered, reflectively, "and I thank you for your good advice." Were the words she had uttered lies, I wondered? Assuredly, her allegation that Ella was my enemy was a foul falsehood; nevertheless that she was well aware of the tragic end of Dudley Ogle I could not doubt, and her assertion that it had been intended that I should be the victim had startled me and aroused my curiosity. I was determined, at all hazards, to ascertain the truth. "Do not be entrapped by a pretty face or a fine pair of eyes, that's my advice," my companion said, slowly striking a match. "I can assure you, old fellow, I shall not be misled by any pretty face, even if it has diamond eyes," I said, quite unthinkingly, Sonia's strange words recurring to me at that moment. "Diamond eyes!" gasped Paul Verblioudovitch, starting visibly and holding the burning match still between his fingers without lighting his cigarette. He had in that instant grown paler, and I thought I detected that his hand trembled, almost imperceptibly be it said. "What do you mean?" he demanded, with a strange fierceness in his gaze. "What do you know of Diamond Eyes?" CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. A SPY'S STORY. "I know nothing of diamond eyes," I replied, surprised at Paul's excited inquiry. Instead of showing a good-natured friendliness towards me as usual, he had suddenly become agitated and suspicious. He glanced at me in doubt, saying,-- "Sonia has been revealing something. It is useless now to try and disguise the fact." "No," I replied quickly. "She has not explained anything. What do you expect her to reveal?" "Oh, nothing, my dear fellow, nothing," he answered, smiling, with that indifference cultivated by the diplomat. "The expression you used was as original as it was unusual, that's all." "I don't claim originality for it," I laughed. "To Sonia is the credit due." "To Sonia?" he exclaimed uneasily, glancing sharply at me. "Then it is true, as I suspected, that she has been telling you some of her ingenious falsehoods." "Scarcely that," I replied, thrusting my hands deeply into my pockets. "She has merely urged me to go to Ella and ask her whether she is acquainted with anyone with diamond eyes." "As I thought," he cried, rising and pacing the room furiously. "It is exactly as I expected. She is trying to entrap you as she has the others, and has embarked upon the first step by speaking thus of Ella, and sowing seeds of suspicion in your mind. This is the character of the woman you seek to help, and you invoke my assistance in your efforts! No, Geoffrey," he said, halting suddenly, and looking me straight in the face, "I shall not stir on her behalf." "But remember, that in return for the passport, she has promised to tell me all regarding Ella," I cried anxiously. "All?" he echoed, in surprise. "Is she such a mysterious person, then? Surely you have confidence in her, or you would not have asked her to be your wife?" "There is a mystery connected with her," I said quietly. "A mystery, deep and inscrutable, that perplexes me to the point of distraction." "Tell me about it," Verblioudovitch said, interested. It was upon my tongue to relate to him the whole of the facts _sub silentio_, but a thought at that instant occurred to me that such a course would be unjust to Ella, therefore I evaded his invitation to make him my confidant. Returning quickly to the object for which I had sought him, I persuaded him to assist me by giving me a passport for Sonia. "What will she do in return?" he again inquired, raising his eyebrows and shrugging his shoulders in a manner habitual to him when unduly excited. "She will concoct some idiotic, romantic story, in order that the woman you love shall suffer. I really cannot see, Geoffrey, what end can be attained in assisting a criminal to re-enter the country from which she is a fugitive. You don't know the real character of this apparently ingenuous girl, or I feel certain you would never ask me to imperil my reputation by rendering her assistance. If I had done my duty long ago, I should have allowed the extradition proceedings to go on. I'm sorry now I didn't, for if I had you would have been saved a world of worry, and we should have been rid of the pair for ever." "You seem actuated by some spirit of animosity against her," I blurted forth. "Not at all. I've never seen her in my life," he protested. "You apparently want confirmation of my words. Well, you shall have it at once," and he touched an electric button. The summons was instantly obeyed by a messenger in uniform, and to this man Paul spoke some words. A few minutes later a short, middle-aged Russian entered. His hair was grey, his clean-shaven face was rather red and slightly pimply, his small, jet black eyes were set too closely together, and his low brows met above his nose. Fashionably attired in frock coat of light grey, with a pink carnation in the lapel, he looked so spick and span that I regarded him with genuine surprise, when my friend, introducing us, said,-- "This, Geoffrey, is Ivan Renouf; I daresay you have heard of him. He is now chief of the section of Secret Police attached to our Embassies of London and Paris." I nodded in acknowledgment of the bow of this expert detective who, at the time I had lived in St Petersburg, had been the terror of all criminals. The stories told of his amazing ingenuity in detecting crime were legion, though many of them were perhaps fabulous; yet there was no doubt that he was one of the most experienced police officers in Europe. "Renouf," my friend exclaimed, "I want to ask you a question. What character does Sonia Korolenko bear?" "Sonia?" answered the great detective, reflectively, in fairly good English. "Ah! you mean the daughter of Anton Korolenko who escaped from St Petersburg?--eh?" "Yes. Tell my friend, Deedes," Paul said, with a slow gesture indicating me. "Well," he answered, glancing quickly at me with his searching eyes, "for the past nine months we have kept her under strict surveillance, expecting that she intended to re-commence operations in London. Indeed, I have here in my pocket the report for the last forty-eight hours," and he took from his breast-pocket a long folded paper. "It shows among other things that she has had several visitors at her house in Kensington, one of whom was a gentleman who, according to the description, must have borne a strong resemblance to m'sieur. Two hours before this man had called a lady visited her, and remained with her about an hour." Then, reading from the report, he continued, "the description says, tall, good-looking, blue eyes, reddish-brown hair, straw hat trimmed with pale-blue, brown shoes, light blouse, black cycling skirt." "By Heaven!" I cried excitedly, "that's Ella! Every word of that description tallies, even to the dress, boots and hat!" "She is a frequent visitor," the detective observed. "She calls on her bicycle every day." "Every day!" I echoed in astonishment. "I did not know they were friends." "Did I not tell you that she was concealing the truth?" Paul observed, smiling at my dismay. "Tell m'sieur of the past, Ivan." "Ah! her record is a very black one--very black," the officer of police answered gravely, again fixing his small dark eyes upon me. "Her swindling transactions extend over several years, and she has no doubt acquired quite a fortune, while at least one of her victims has lost his life. By one coup she accomplished in Moscow, with the aid of that soft-spoken old scoundrel, her father, they pocketed nearly one hundred thousand roubles between them." "I really can't believe it," I exclaimed, dumbfounded. "There is no doubt whatever about it," Renouf answered. "It was all in the papers at the time and made quite a stir throughout Europe. The story is a rather tragic one; sufficient to show what kind of woman she is. About three years ago she went with her father from St Petersburg to Moscow, where they took a handsome house, furnished it luxuriously, and gave a number of brilliant entertainments. At one of these the pretty Sonia, whose jewels were the admiration of half the city, met the young Prince Alexis Gazarin, a mere youth of twenty-two, who had only a few months before inherited a huge fortune from his father, the well-known promoter of the oil industry at Baku. Alexis fell violently in love with her, made her many costly presents, proposed marriage and was accepted, the parental consent being extracted only when he had deposited in the bank in Sonia's name one hundred thousand roubles as settlement upon her. A week before the marriage, the body of Alexis was discovered floating in the yellow Volga near Kostroma, but whether his death was due to accident, suicide or foul play has never been ascertained. The fact, however, remains that Anton Korolenko and his pretty daughter left Moscow a week later, carrying with them one hundred thousand roubles of the dead man's money." "Do you allege that the pair actually murdered him?" I inquired, astounded at this story. The detective smiled mysteriously, gave his shoulders a significant shrug, but did not reply. "This," exclaimed Paul, "is the sort of woman you are trying to befriend! No doubt she has told you a most touching story of persecution, and all that; but can anyone be surprised if our police endeavour to arrest her? I tell you plainly she's a mere adventuress, with a plausible story ever upon her tongue." "Do you refuse to do what I ask?" I inquired at last, when Renouf, pleading an appointment, had bowed and departed. "I can really see no satisfactory reason why I should," he answered, standing in the centre of the Persian rug spread before the fireplace. "You are my friend, Paul," I urged. "At all times I am, as you are aware, ready to perform you any personal service." "It is not rendering you a personal service if, by giving the passport, I induce her to tell you a tissue of untruths." "But it is evident, even from Renouf's report, that Ella visits her. It is to obtain an elucidation of a secret that I am striving, for I am convinced Sonia knows the truth." "If she does, then you may rely upon it she will not tell it to you, but substitute some romantic fiction or other," he laughed. "It is really astounding to find you so confident in her honesty." Paul Verblioudovitch's attack of ill-temper vanished as he threw himself back in his chair and showed all his white teeth in a hearty guffaw. "I am not confident," I declared. "I have assisted the girl to obtain her freedom, therefore I cannot see that she can have any object in wilfully deceiving me. Her promise to reveal the truth regarding Ella in exchange for the passport is but a mere business arrangement." "You apparently suspect the woman you love of some terrible crime or other," Paul said, after a pause. "I can't understand you, Geoffrey, I must confess." "If you were in my place, fondly loving a woman who was enveloped in bewildering mystery, you would, I have no doubt, act quite as strangely as myself," I exclaimed, smiling grimly. "I only want to discover light in this chaos of perplexity; then only shall I be content." "But if circumstances have so conspired to produce a problem, why not remain patient until its natural elucidation is effected? The police, when baffled, frequently adopt that course, and often very effectually, too." "Truth to tell, old fellow," I said confidentially, "I am anxious to marry Ella, but cannot until I have ascertained some substantial truth." "Of what do you suspect her--of a crime?" he inquired, smiling. I paused. "Yes," I answered gravely, "of a crime." I fancied he started as I spoke, almost imperceptibly, perhaps, yet I could have sworn that my words produced within him some nervous apprehension. "A crime!" he echoed. "Surely she cannot be guilty of anything more serious than some little indiscretion." "It is more than mere indiscretion that I suspect," I said, in a low tone. "Well," he observed mechanically, as, after a pause, he stood at the window, gazing fixedly into the street, "I certainly would never accept as truth anything whatever told me by Sonia Korolenko." I was, however, inexorable in my demand, more than ever determined to hear Sonia's story. The strange, hesitating manner in which my friend had endeavoured to avoid complying with my request had aroused suspicion within me; of what, I could not tell. It struck me as curious that he should thus defend Ella so strenuously, although he knew her but slightly. He was, perhaps, acting in my interests as his friend, but if so, his intense hatred of Sonia was more than the mere official denunciation of an evil-doer. I did not believe his declaration that he had never met Sonia, but it seemed rather as if he had cause to well remember his meeting with her, and that its recollection still rankled bitterly within him. The admission by Renouf was a little disconcerting. Sonia certainly did not dream that the Tzar's spies were even now watching her every action and carefully scrutinising each person who called at Pembroke Road. I saw that this knowledge I had acquired might prove extremely useful to her, for it was plain that even if she obtained the passport she would have to leave England secretly to avoid the vigilance of the secret agents of the Embassy. Again, why did Ella visit her? Instead of cycling in the Park she went to Pembroke Road, according to the report furnished to Renouf, nearly every day. For what purpose, I wondered. The more I reflected, the more deeply it became rooted within me that through Sonia I might ascertain the truth I sought. Therefore I abandoned none of my efforts to persuade my friend to issue the document that would pass the sad-eyed girl across the frontier into the land she loved. For fully half-an-hour we discussed the situation, but he would not consent. She was an adventuress and a criminal, he said, and he was not prepared to risk the consequences if she were arrested in Russia with a false special permit issued by him. "Besides," he added, "you have heard from Renouf how she is constantly kept under observation." "But you could arrange that with him if you liked. A word from you and the vigilance of the police would be relaxed for an hour or two while she escaped," I observed. "Ah, no," Verblioudovitch answered, "we have nothing whatever to do with Renouf and his subordinates, who are under the direct control of Sekerzhinski, the chief of the department in St Petersburg. They take no instructions from us." "Renouf would, however, do you a personal favour," I hazarded. "I fear not," was the reply. "We are not the best of friends. That is the reason I hesitate to issue a document that might implicate me. If he discovered the truth, my prospects in the diplomatic service might be ruined." With all Paul's gay spirits and careless manner he possessed an eager enthusiasm, and an insatiable curiosity concerning humanity at large. "But there is yet another way," I said. "How?" "Obtain the signature of His Excellency, the Ambassador. You can make an excuse that the permit is for a friend." Paul remained silent, pacing the room with stolid face and automatic movement. At last he turned to me, saying,-- "I see, Deedes, it's quite useless to argue longer. I admit that I am exceedingly anxious to render you this service, but knowing as I do that the consequences must be disastrous either to you, or to the woman Korolenko, I have hesitated. Yet if you are determined to assist her I suppose I must obtain for you the necessary paper." "Thanks, old fellow, thanks! I knew you would help me," I exclaimed enthusiastically. "I cannot let you have it before this evening. If you will send Juckes round at seven you shall have it with the vise and everything complete." "What a good fellow you are!" I cried joyfully, rising and shaking his hand. "Some day I hope to be able to perform a service for you." "Let's hope so, old chap," he answered cheerily, but next second his face assumed a grave expression, as he added, "Take my advice now, and do not let any of Sonia's wild allegations disturb you. She certainly is too expert an adventuress to tell you anything to your own advantage, although whatever she does reveal will be to the detriment of the woman you love." "Why are you so certain of this?" I inquired quickly, in genuine surprise. "I have strong reasons for anticipating the course she will adopt," he answered ambiguously. "I therefore give you warning." "It seems that she is acquainted with Ella," I observed. "Yes, from Renouf's report. But remember my words, and don't be led away by any of her false statements. Do not forget that there is a very strong motive why she should denounce Miss Laing--a motive you will perhaps discover ere long," and he smiled mysteriously. "Very well," I exclaimed, after a brief pause. Then again shaking his hand, I left, after expressing thanks and promising to send Juckes to the Embassy that evening. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN. SOME SURPRISES. Several weeks passed uneventfully. In fulfilment of my promise to Sonia I had obtained the required permit and taken it personally to Pembroke Road on the same evening, but on arrival there discovered that the pretty Russian had been unexpectedly summoned to the bedside of a sick friend. She had, however, left a note with the English maid asking me to enclose the document in an envelope and leave it. "I regret it is impossible for me to be at home to receive you," she wrote in French, "but I have every confidence that you will secure me what I require. If you leave it for me I will, in return, write down and send you the facts I promised to reveal. Time presses, therefore kindly excuse my haste. I shall always remember your kindness and be ready to render you any service in return." This was disappointing. I had hoped to hear from her own lips her promised revelations, but this being impossible, I enclosed the special permit in an envelope, sealed it and left it, together with a brief note warning her that she was being carefully watched by police agents, and promising to call next day and bid her farewell. When on the following morning I presented myself at her house, I was informed by the maid that mademoiselle had left early to visit her sick friend, and that she would not return till evening. Inquiry showed that she had received my letter, and when at eight o'clock that night I again called in the expectation of obtaining the fulfilment of her promise to tell me of Ella, I found her still absent, and gathered from the servant that she had taken a travelling-trunk with her. I concluded that she had left secretly for Russia. From day to day I waited in the expectation of a letter from her, but although I remained in anxiety and doubt for more than a month, none came, and I was at last compelled to admit that I had actually been tricked, as Paul had predicted. He was right after all. Sonia, the innocent-looking girl with the sad, dark eyes and dimpled chin, was a woman internationally notorious, who, soft-voiced, had posed as my friend in order to attain her own ends, and had then departed without carrying out her part of the compact. As the weeks passed I gradually began to realise the force of Paul Verblioudovitch's words when he had tried to impress upon me the necessity of accepting her statements with caution. Without doubt she was a heartless adventuress, therefore I bitterly reproached myself for having allowed her libellous allegations against Ella to arouse suspicion within me, and at length determined upon regarding all her words as false, uttered merely for the purpose of enlisting my assistance to procure here re-entry into her own country. My anger that I should have allowed myself to fall into such a trap, and make such a demand upon a friend's goodwill, knew no bounds. I went to the Embassy, and to Paul admitted that my hopes had not been realised. In reply, he laughed heartily, saying,-- "I warned you, my dear fellow, of the kind of woman with whom you were dealing. Thank your stars that she has discarded you so easily, and be careful of pretty refugees in future. No harm has apparently been done, for inquiries I've made showed that she crossed the frontier at Verjbolovo without detection." "I must confess I doubted the truth of your words before you issued the permit, but of course it is all plain now," I said. "You don't believe her lies about Miss Laing, eh?" he inquired bluntly, but a trifle earnestly, I thought. "No, I don't," I smiled; and then our conversation had drifted into a different channel. It was clear enough now, patent to everybody, that the girl I had fancied so pure, so unworldly--the goddess that sat in the clouds regarding all earth with clear, immaculate eyes--was simply an adventuress, a wretched creature, on the lookout for victims. The popular excitement consequent from the belief that war was to be declared had died down, although in the Foreign Office the reason of the sudden abandonment of Russia's intentions remained an inscrutable mystery, while the panic on the Stock Exchange had enriched a few and ruined many. Parliament had risen for the recess, and Beck had taken a party in his yacht to the Norwegian fiords, Ella and Mrs Laing declining his invitation to join them. This course had been adopted at my suggestion. When Ella had spoken to me of their proposed cruise, I at once demurred, for although I had also been asked, I found absence from the Foreign Office impossible, owing to several delicate negotiations at that moment proceeding, and therefore urged her to remain in London. This she did at once, declining the invitation on behalf of both herself and her mother. The latter, who was not a good sailor, secretly thanked me for rescuing her from what she termed "three weeks of misery," and, truth to tell, although no longer jealous of Beck's attention to Ella, I was glad to have her remain in town. Through the hot, stifling August days, when London was what is termed "empty," Mrs Laing and her daughter still lived in Pont Street. During the first three weeks following my visit to Sonia I called only twice, but meantime Ella was, I know, suffering tortures of doubt and anxiety. She had been trained in a school of self-repression, and it now stood her in good stead. She could not, however, prevent her cheeks being pale, neither could she help her eyes looking dilated and odd. Speech was difficult and smiles impossible; otherwise she held her own, and only I felt the difference, and knew that there lay a deep gulf of suspicion between us. On the two occasions on which I had called we had no confidential chat, and the formal hours went by almost in silence. I had received positive proof from Renouf that she had been a constant visitor to Sonia, and it was impossible to talk with frivolity in that oppressive atmosphere of doubt. Mrs Laing, I noticed, hung her gold _pince-nez_ high upon her nose in wonder. Ella was thus consuming herself with anxiety, while I, struggling along from day to day, saw my last hope growing thinner and yet more shadowy, and looming through it--despair. Then at last, five weeks after Sonia's flight, I called at Pont Street and demanded of Ella the reason she had visited the house in Pembroke Road. Her reply was quite unexpected. She told me quite calmly that they had been schoolfellows at Neuilly, and that, finding Sonia had lost both her parents, she went to Pembroke Road each day to bear the bereaved girl company. She was in ignorance regarding Sonia's life since she had left the French school, and expressed surprise that she should have departed suddenly without telling her of her destination. Her replies to my inquiries set my mind at rest upon several points. It appeared quite plain that Ella herself had told Sonia of her engagement to me and had described the tragic incident at Staines, therefore the pretty refugee had been enabled to drop those ingenious hints at mystery that had so sorely puzzled me, and had cleverly secured my interests on her behalf. When I realised how artfully I had been tricked, I ground my teeth, and Ella, standing statuesque on the opposite side of the drawing-room in strong relief against a background of dark, glossy palms and broad-leaved tropical plants, noticed my anger. The light fell upon her red-brown hair and upon her slightly upturned face, showing its delicate modelling in its almost childish roundness. Her profile was quite as charming as her full face, perhaps more so, as it had the advantage of the curl and sweep of the eyelashes and of the fine line of the upper lip. She eyed me gravely, but spoke no word. Yet in that instant I knew I had misjudged her, that through those long, anxious weeks while I had entertained dark suspicions she had nevertheless still loved me honestly and truly. I know not what words I uttered, but a few moments later I found her sobbing in my fond embrace. Her tears were tears of joy. The silence was long. We had so much to think about that we forgot to speak, but presently, when she dried her blue eyes with her flimsy lace handkerchief and seated herself, I took the tiny hand lying idly in her lap and laid my cheek down on the tender, rosy palm. "How I wish that this night could last for ever," I said, with a sigh of supreme contentment. "In my memory it will live always." "Always?" she echoed, looking tenderly into my face; then for the first time she put her arms around me and held me tightly pressed against her heart. "Yes, always," I said. "Until I die." "Ah! Don't speak of death," she whispered. "If you died, I--I should die also, Geoffrey. I could not live without you. How I have endured these dark, weary weeks I scarcely know." Together we remained a long time, while I reproached myself for entertaining suspicion that her friendliness with Dudley or with Beck was anything but platonic, declaring that my love had ever been unwavering, that my recent actions had been due to a mad and unjust jealousy for which I craved her forgiveness. With her eyes still wet she told me how fondly she had always loved me, and urged me to think no more of the strange events that had led to Dudley's tragic end. "It is my duty to ascertain the truth and clear up the mystery," she said. "I have promised you a solution of the enigma, and you shall have it some day." "For the present, dearest, I am content to wait," I answered, and in the same breath repeated the question I had asked her months ago--whether she would be my wife. "Alas! I fear you do not trust me sufficiently, Geoffrey," she answered in a low, intense tone, tears still welling in her blue eyes. "I do," I cried. "I know that all the time I have been a jealously brutal fool you have loved me as truly as ever." "I told you long ago that I loved you," she answered earnestly. "Yes, I believe it now, darling," I said. "That is why I ask you to become my wife. Tell me once more that you will." In a whisper, as her handsome head pillowed itself upon, my arm, she repeated her promise, then burst into a torrent of tears, while I, in joyful ecstasy, still held her in my arms. It was an idyllic evening, this first one of love and trust; a brief dream such as one has in the moment before waking. Bowing before my idol, I had humbly acknowledged myself wrong, and my well-beloved had frankly forgiven and forgotten. There was a long silence, deep and impressive, broken only by the confused sound from the street that came in through the open window. Then, when she stirred again and raised her head, I told her of my position at the Foreign Office, and the probability of my appointment to a diplomatic post abroad. She listened, her clear, trusting eyes fixed upon me. She, too, was ambitious. "It's a great responsibility for any woman," she said at last, "to think she is to be part of a career. I will help you, my darling," then she buried her face again in my coat-collar, protesting fervently, "I will never, never allow myself to hinder you; but will do my utmost to help you to success, only you must have patience with me." Suddenly she raised her head again, continuing, "I know there is one strange episode in my past that is a mystery to you, nay, to all. My misfortune is that I am unable yet to reveal the truth, because I fear the consequences of such disclosure. Some day you shall know everything, but until then think only of me as the woman who loves you with all her soul." She spoke with a terrible earnestness, her slim fingers clutching my arm convulsively, and as I gave my promise to regard her always as a pure and upright woman, and forget the mystery surrounding her, I sealed our compact with a long, passionate kiss. Mrs Laing, stiff and stately in black satin, entered the room a few moments later, and Ella, having whispered and obtained my consent, forthwith made a full and complete statement to her mother of the position of affairs. The old lady listened attentively in silence, inclining her head now and then with a gesture indicative of approbation, but when her daughter had concluded her face brightened. "I am indeed glad to think that dear Ella is to marry you after all, Geoffrey," she said. "Once, not so very long ago, I feared that you two would never again be reconciled, for Ella moped day after day, crying, and quite spoiling her complexion. But the old saying about the course of true love contains much truth, and now that your little differences are readjusted, there can be no cause for any further regret. That Ella loves you dearly, I, as her mother, have had better opportunity for knowing than anyone else and were it not for the fact that I am convinced you both will be happy, I should never give my consent to your marriage. But I am absolutely sure that this marriage is one that Ella's father would have approved, therefore you have my entire consent and heartiest congratulations." "Thank you, Mrs Laing," I answered. "I, too, am convinced that we love each other sufficiently well, and I can only promise to be a sympathetic and devoted husband." Ella, who, standing beside her mother's chair, had entwined her arms affectionately around her neck, slowly released her, and walked across the room to turn the lamp higher. Then, deeming it but just that they both should know the reason of my recent coolness and suspicion, I told them in confidence of the mysterious theft of the secret convention, the strange and tragic events that followed, the discovery of the seal on the body of Dudley Ogle, and my absurd belief that Ella had, in some way, been implicated in the ingenious efforts of the spy. "Do you actually suspect poor Dudley of having been in the pay of the Russian Government?" Mrs Laing asked, open-mouthed, in dismay. "I do," I was constrained to reply. "There is no shadow of doubt that he was a spy. He tricked you as he did myself. I was his best friend, yet he nearly ruined all my prospects in the Service." While we had been speaking the door had opened, and as I glanced from Ella across to Mrs Laing, I saw a grey-haired man-servant in the act of handing her a letter. As he turned from her to leave he glanced at me suddenly. Our eyes met in mutual recognition, and I think I must have started perceptibly, for his brows suddenly contracted as if commanding me to silence; then he made his exit, closing the door noiselessly behind him. "You haven't seen my new man Helmholtz before, Geoffrey," Mrs Laing exclaimed when he had gone. "He seems a perfect treasure, although he is a German. But, after all, German servants are more useful, and quite as trustworthy as English. I should certainly advise Ella to have one." "Yes," I answered mechanically. The man was none other than Ivan Renouf, the great Russian detective. CHAPTER NINETEEN. A BLADE OF GRASS. Nearly three months had slipped away. It was mid-November. The cloud that had darkened my days had lifted, the sun shone out, and life and hope sprang up and ran riot in my heart. The long, anxious weeks were over, for Ella was now my wife, and our lives were full of joy and love. With utter contempt for the warning words of the ingenuous Russian who left so mysteriously without fulfilling her promise, I had taken the dearest other half of my soul, happy in the knowledge that I would be a solitary wretch no more. After a quiet wedding at St Peter's, Eaton Square, at which, however, a large number of our friends were present, including Paul Verblioudovitch, the reception had been held at Pont Street, and we left to spend our honeymoon on the Continent while our house in Phillimore Gardens, Kensington, was being prepared. I loved my wife with the whole strength of my being. Her beauty was incomparable, her grace charming, and I could not doubt that she loved me with her whole soul, and that her vows came direct from her heart. The reason of Renouf's presence in Mrs Laing's household was an enigma. Since the night when I had first seen him there I had visited Pont Street each day, and on several occasions had managed to speak with him alone. To all my inquiries, however, he remained dumb. One night, when I had called and found Ella and her mother had gone to the theatre, I closed the door of the room into which I had been ushered, and asked him point-blank whether his presence there was not calculated to arouse suspicions in my mind. With an imperturbable smile he replied,-- "There is no allegation whatever against mother or daughter, therefore set your mind entirely at rest. We desire to ascertain something. That is all." His manner angered me. "If I were to denounce you as a spy you would be thrown out of this house very quickly," I said, indignant that this ill-featured man should, for some mysterious reason, watch every action of my well-beloved. He glanced at me with an amused expression, as he answered in a half whisper,-- "By betraying me, m'sieur would betray one of his closest friends." "Oh! How's that?" "A word from you to either of these women," he exclaimed, with brows slightly knit, "and the department in St Petersburg will know the reason that Sonia Korolenko was enabled to pass the frontier at Verjbolovo; they will know that Paul Verblioudovitch, the Secretary of Embassy, has assisted a criminal to escape." "You scoundrel!" I cried, facing him fiercely. "You listened to our conversation!" He shrugged his shoulders, and with the same grim smile, answered,-- "My ears are trained, m'sieur. It is part of my profession." "But why do you remain here, in a peaceable household?" I demanded. "Surely neither Mrs Laing nor Ella have incurred the Tzar's displeasure or the hatred of those in authority! They know nothing of Russia; they have never set foot in the country." The man's features relaxed, and turning from me, he busied himself among some bottles on the sideboard. "I desire an answer," I continued. "I have my instructions," he replied, without looking towards me. "From whom?" "From headquarters." "Well," I exclaimed. "We are not in Russia, therefore, when the ladies return, I shall explain who and what you are." "You dare not," he said, regarding me suddenly with dark, penetrating gaze. "Miss Ella will soon be my wife, and I will not allow her actions to be noted upon one of those formidable forms of yours that are too often the death-warrants of your victims." "These ladies are not my victims, as you are pleased to term them," he protested, laughing at my anger. "Victims or friends, they shall no longer remain under your accursed surveillance," I cried hotly. "You may practice your espionage upon your suspected compatriots; but I will never allow you to keep observation upon my friends here in England." "Very well," he said, quite calmly, with that cynical expression that was so tantalising. "Act as you think fit. We, of the secret service, take no step before due consideration of its consequences, a policy it would be wise for you also to adopt." Then, with a show of mock politeness, he opened the door of the dining-room, and, bowing, exclaimed, "Madame is out, will m'sieur remain, or call again?" Our eyes met, and I saw in his a look of triumph. "I'll call again," I replied, and walked out into the hall, gaining the street a moment later. The first passing hansom I hailed, and drove at once to Chesham House, where I was fortunate to find Paul. When we were closeted together, I told him of the police officer's threat, and my announcement caused him considerable astonishment. "Curious," he repeated, as if to himself. "Very curious that Renouf should be installed in that family, above all others." "Above all others," I echoed. "Why?" "I--I mean that Mrs Laing could not possibly have done anything to offend our Government," he said, quickly correcting himself. "It is certainly very strange. Renouf is not a man to be trifled with," he added quickly. "There must be some very strong reason, known only to himself, that has induced him to act in this manner. If the motive were not a strong one, he would delegate the menial position he has had to assume to one of his subordinates. I know he has his hands full of important inquiries just now, and it therefore surprises me that he is calmly reposing as butler in Mrs Laing's service." "But knowing him to be a spy, I cannot allow him to remain longer in daily contact with those two defenceless women," I exclaimed. "Have they ever been in Russia?" "Never!" I replied. "Only the other evening they were asking me about St Petersburg, and both expressed a wish to visit your country." Paul, with his hands behind his back, and head bent in thought, paused for a moment, and then said,-- "From what I know of Ivan Renouf, I believe that were you to do him an evil turn, and obtain his dismissal from Pont Street, he would at once expose to the Ministry of the Interior how Sonia Korolenko obtained her passport. If he did so, the result would be disastrous to me, especially just at a time when our frontier regulations are extremely rigid." "What, then, is the best course to pursue?" I asked. He was silent, looking moodily into the fire. Then turning with a sudden movement, he said, with emphasis,--"You are my friend, Geoffrey. My future is in your hands." "Which means that my silence is imperative," I observed reflectively. Paul Verblioudovitch nodded, but uttered no word. If I denounced Renouf it was plain that my friend who had seriously imperilled his position at my urgent request, must undoubtedly suffer. In order to shield him I must therefore remain silent. With intense chagrin I saw myself ingeniously checkmated. I dared not allow one single syllable of suspicion regarding the German servant, who was, according to Mrs Laing, "a treasure," to escape my lips, and thus, as the weeks passed preceding my marriage, I was compelled to watch and wait without any outward sign. The reason of his vigilance was an inscrutable mystery. With Ella as my wife I had passed six blissful weeks, visiting many of the quaint, old-world towns in Central France. It had been Ella's fancy to do this. She hated the glare and glitter of Paris, and would only remain there the night on our outward and homeward journeys; indeed, cities had no charm for her, she preferred the lethargic provincial towns, from which we could make excursions into the country and spend the bright autumn days at old-fashioned inns. Fearing that she was becoming bored, I endeavoured to induce her to go to Biarritz or Pau, but to no avail. The crowded _table-d'hote_, of the popular resort possessed no attraction, and I rejoiced in secret, for we spent a far happier time wandering through the country than if installed in some garish hotel in the neighbourhood of a casino. Once, and only once since our marriage, had I made any mention of the death of Dudley Ogle. We were driving into the ancient town of Chateauroux, in the Indre, on the lumbering, dusty, old diligence that has performed the same daily journey for perhaps a century, when I chanced to incidentally utter his name, and express wonder when the mystery would be solved. We were speaking in English, not a word of which could be understood by our driver, but instantly she turned to me with a look of reproach, and, placing her little gloved hand on my mouth in haste, exclaimed,-- "No, Geoffrey. Do not recall that terrible tragedy. Promise never again to mention his name; it only brings sadness to both of us, while the mystery surrounding the crime is irritating and puzzling. You have already told me that he was not your friend, although he posed as such, therefore forget him. I have not forgotten; nor shall I ever cease to think and to strive towards the solution of the problem." "But cannot I help you to search and investigate?" I suggested. "Why should you strive to elucidate this mystery alone, now that you are my wife?" "Because it is my ambition," she answered, regarding me earnestly with clear, trusting eyes. "You will, I know, allow me to retain one object in life apart from you." "Certainly," I answered, surreptitiously pressing her hand, although puzzled at her strange words. In the few weeks we had been together I had discovered that she was a woman of moods and curious fancies. Once or twice she had exhibited a strong desire to walk alone at night when the moon shone, and because I objected she had pouted prettily, scorning the idea that she was not able to take care of herself. Except when in this mood she was always eager to fulfil my every wish, and I had quickly arrived at the conclusion that her strange desires were but natural to one of a slightly hysterical temperament, and therefore troubled myself but little about them. Thus after an enjoyable trip through one of the most beautiful districts of France, unknown to the average Briton, we returned and settled comfortably at our new home in Kensington. My duties at the Foreign Office took me away the greater part of the day, but Ella was not lonely, for she drove out frequently with her mother, who visited her almost daily. Of interference or maternal influence I had nothing whatever to complain, yet Ella's desire to wander about alone, aimless and absorbed, soon again seized her. We had been settled about a month when I made this discovery from the servants, who, on my arrival home earlier than usual on several occasions, told me, in answer to questions, that their mistress had gone out by herself. But on her return she betrayed no surprise, mentioning quite incidentally that she had been shopping in High Street, or that she had been to her milliner's in Bond Street, or elsewhere. So frequently did this occur that at last I became puzzled, and on making further inquiries found that on many occasions she had been absent the whole day, returning only just in time to change her dress and receive me with that bright, winning smile that always held me entranced. One bright December afternoon I returned at three o'clock, and found she had been absent since eleven that morning. I took a cab to Pont Street, but ascertaining she had not been there, returned home, and impatiently awaited her until nearly six. As soon as I heard her light footstep I seized a book that lay nearest and pretended to read. She burst in like a ray of sunshine, her face aglow with laughter, and in her hand an immense bunch of sweet-smelling violets. The book chanced to be a Koran in Arabic. She came across to kiss me, but I waved her off with dignity, and went on translating the Word of the Prophet. Ella stood back indignant, and with her flowers in front of her waited at the other side of the table. After a pause I commenced, "You went out this morning ten minutes after I had gone; it is now six o'clock. You have been absent seven hours." Ella nodded. "And how have you employed your time?" I asked. "Have you been shopping, as usual?" Ella again nodded. "Seven hours is a long time. Where did you get those flowers?" I asked, sniffing contemptuously at the huge bunch of sweet-smelling blossoms she had let fall before me. "I bought them at Scott's." "That is a bunch specially made up for presentation," I said. "Someone gave them to you." "Yes, the shopman," she laughed. "I gave him two shillings for them." Then she took off her hat and, impaling it with a long pin, cast it heedlessly upon the table. "It has not occupied seven hours to buy a bunch of violets," I said ruthlessly. "Where have you been?" Ella looked round laughing, and said in a quiet voice, "I have been to see a friend." "Another aunt--eh?" I asked, suspiciously. She took a chair and sat down opposite; then, with her head leaning upon her hands, she said demurely, "Yes, it was an aunt." There was silence. Ella had picked up her bunch of violets, and every time I looked up she was watching me over them. "Well," I exclaimed at last, "where does this aunt live--at Highgate?" "No, not that one. She is poor. She lives in Camberwell." "I don't believe it," I said, standing up suddenly. Ella raised her eyebrows in interrogation. There was an ominous look in her blue eyes, and I put forth my hand to snatch the flowers and cast them into the fire. Instead, I sat down again and turned over another hundred pages of my Koran. "Geoffrey," she said at length in a low, timid voice I perused my book with stolid indifference. "Geoffrey," she repeated, "why are you angry with me without cause?" Raising my head, I saw that her fine eyes were dimmed by tears, and almost unconsciously I reached, took her hand, and pressed it. Then Ella, rising slowly, came round and sat upon my knee. "You see," she whispered, with her arms around my neck, "this is how it was. Last night I said to myself,-- "This poor, dear Geoffrey--he is so busy with his country's affairs, and works so hard--he will be away all day; therefore I will go over to call upon my aunt in Camberwell and take her a bottle of wine and some tea, for she is a great invalid and in poverty. Since my marriage I haven't seen her, and as she is in great straits I know dear Geoffrey will not object." Here Ella stopped to nestle closer to me, and went on,-- "And to-day I took a cab down to Camberwell, to a dreary row of drab, mournful-looking houses, and all day long I have sat by her bedside trying to cheer her. Ah! she is so ill, and so sad. Then on my return I called at Scott's and bought these flowers for my darling, serious old boy who has been working all day in his dreary office with its window overlooking the dismal grey quadrangle. And I am so tired, and it was not at all amusing for me without him." The flowers smelt so sweet in front of me; and Ella was so sweet, childlike and full of happiness, that I took her soft face between my hands, as was my habit, and kissed her. But later that evening, on going to her room alone to fetch something for her, I noticed that her high-heeled French boots, thrown aside, as she had cast them off, were unusually muddy, although, strangely enough, it had been a dry day. I took them up, and upon examining the soles found them caked with damp clay in which were embedded some blades of grass. I slowly descended the stairs engrossed by my own thoughts. Grass does not grow in the streets of Camberwell. CHAPTER TWENTY. UNDERCURRENTS OF DIPLOMACY. A few nights later we went together to a ball at the Russian Embassy. Perhaps of all the functions in London a ball at Chesham House is one of the most brilliant and imposing, for it is always on a scale in keeping with the dignity of the representative of the Tzar. The spacious state rooms with their great crystal chandeliers and heavy gilding, were filled to overflowing with pretty women and men in uniform of hues as varied as those of the ladies' dresses, from the black coat of the United States Minister to the bright yellow jacket of the Emperor of China's representative. All the diplomatic body were present, as well as many personages well-known in English society. At the head of the grand staircase Monsieur Grodekoff, the Russian Ambassador, a striking figure in his spotless white uniform, his breast glittering with orders set in brilliants, including the much-coveted ribbon of St Andrew, stood with his daughter receiving their guests, and as we advanced the courtly, white-haired old gentleman, whom I had met on many occasions in my official capacity, shook me heartily by the hand and congratulated us upon our marriage. "I heard, Deedes, of your good fortune," he said, after greeting Ella. "I trust that you and your wife will have long life and every happiness." "Thanks, your Excellency," I answered, smiling contentedly. "There is no doubt, I think, concerning our happiness." "You should take madame to St Petersburg," the aged diplomatist laughed. "She would enjoy it, especially with you, who know our country." "I hope to go very soon," Ella said. "I have heard so much about it, and am longing to see it." "Go now," he urged. "This is just the season; plenty of snow, and skating and sledging and suchlike sports that delight us in the North." We both laughed in chorus, while the representative of the White Tzar, dismissing us into the ballroom with a low bow, turned to greet the tall, full-bearded representative of his Imperial master's ally, the French Republic. In the corridor there was bustle everywhere. Gaily-uniformed servants hurried here and there, young attaches, their breasts decorated with crosses and ribbons of every combination of colour, lounged along with pretty women on their arms, while older diplomats of every shade of complexion from white to black, exchanged greetings as they met. From the gay cosmopolitan throng in the ballroom rose the mingled odour of a thousand perfumes with the chatter of laughing women, and ere we had entered, Paul Verblioudovitch, erect, spruce and smart in his pale-blue uniform, and wearing many decorations, elbowed his way through the crush towards us. We had not met since the wedding reception at Pont Street, and as we strolled through the brightly-lit _salons_, Ella, radiant and enthusiastic, began telling him of our idle days and explorations in the old-world French towns. "Permit me, madame, to congratulate you," he exclaimed presently. "Upon what?" asked Ella, in surprise. "Upon being the prettiest woman it has ever been our honour to entertain here upon this small square of territory belonging to our Imperial Master," he said, bowing and smiling with that inborn _finesse_ which was one of his chief characteristics. "Ah, you diplomatists always flatter," she laughed lightly behind her fan. "Is it really wise of you to make a woman vain?" she asked, inclining her head slightly. I felt compelled to admit that Paul had spoken the truth, for as we passed along I had not failed to notice that Ella's beauty was everywhere remarked. Her gown of cream satin, a trifle _decollete_, with the corsage thickly embroidered with pearls and edged with flowers, suited her admirably, and the instant consciousness of success in that brilliant circle of society unfamiliar to her heightened the colour of her cheeks and added lustre to her eyes. "The majority of the women who honour us with their presence on these occasions are vain enough," my friend admitted, adding in a low voice, "even though some of them are absolute hags." "Mr Verblioudovitch is, I believe, past-master of the art of flattery," Ella observed, laughing, turning towards me. "He could make a dowager-duchess believe herself as youthful and attractive as a girl of eighteen." "It is necessary sometimes, madame," he answered, amused. "Quite necessary, I assure you." At that moment a quietly-dressed elderly lady of pronounced Teutonic type and matronly proportions was struggling to pass us, but, recognised by Paul, was introduced to Ella. It was a woman with whom I was well acquainted, the Countess Landsfeldt, wife of the German Ambassador. She at once joined our little group, and commenced to chat with a strong accent. "We have not met, madame, for quite an age--three months, is it?" Paul exclaimed presently. "You have been away, I believe." "Ah! yes. For a month I was in Berlin, and afterwards, just as I was returning to London, my youngest daughter fell ill, and I was compelled to spend two months with her in Ehrenburg, our schloss on the Mosel." "The Ehrenburg!" exclaimed Ella, enthusiastically. "I know it quite well. How romantic and charming it looks perched high up upon its solitary rock. My mother and I drove from Brodenbach along the valley to see it last year." "Ah, you did not enter?" "No," my wife answered, smiling. "I had not then the honour of madame's acquaintance." "Inside, we are back in mediaeval days, with dungeons, torture-chambers, and all sorts of relics of barbarism; while the legends connected with the place are legion. Some day, if you are interested in ancient castles, you and your husband must visit me in Germany." "It is the most carefully preserved stronghold of the middle ages extant," Paul observed. "Ah, yes," replied the Countess, "but it is gloomy and dull--ugh!" and, shrugging her shoulders, she pulled a little grimace. "I prefer Berlin--or even London." "You say even London, Countess," exclaimed Paul. "I quite agree. London is _triste_ after Vienna or St Petersburg. Is his Excellency with you this evening?" "No. My husband is--oh, so busy. We only returned from Lord Maybury's this morning, and dispatches accumulate so fast in his absence." "He has received another decoration from the Emperor, I hear," Verblioudovitch observed. "Yes, the Iron Cross," replied the Countess, looking at him sharply. Then she added quickly,-- "But who told you? He only received His Majesty's intimation three days ago, and I thought for the present it was a profound secret." Upon Paul's face there spread that imperturbable smile that he could assume at will, as he answered,-- "It is the object of a diplomatist to ascertain the nature of all secrets." The Countess gave vent to a forced laugh as she exclaimed, "My husband, I think, fully deserved the honour." "Certainly, madame," replied the Tzar's official, courteously, his hands clasped behind his back. "The completion of the secret convention with England was, I admit, a master-stroke, and even though directed against us, the rapidity and cleverness with which it was effected were worthy of reward." And he smiled at her mysteriously. "Ah," she exclaimed, fanning herself slowly with a sudden hauteur; "no secret seems safe from you, m'sieur. Nothing escapes the Embassy of Russia." And bowing slightly, her stiff silks swept past us, and a moment later she became lost in the chattering, well-dressed crowd. "You see, my dear Geoffrey," laughed Paul, when the Countess was out of hearing, "we are accredited with the omnipotence of the Evil One himself quite unduly. I particularly desired to learn whether her husband had been decorated by his Emperor for that convention which nearly cost Europe a war; therefore I hazarded a single remark. Whereupon she at once told me all about it, and having done so, in her next breath denounced us and all our works. But, there," and he gave his shoulders a shrug, "women are such strange creatures." "How cleverly you managed to ascertain what you desired," observed Ella. But the fine Viennese orchestra had struck up, and my wife, being engaged to him for a dance then commencing, he led her off, and I failed to overhear his reply. For the next hour I did not dance, but wandering about the rooms I exchanged greetings and chatted with those I knew, until at length I came across Lady Farringford, the wife of Sir Henry Farringford, our Minister in Washington, sitting with her daughter Mabel. We were old friends, and Mabel quickly responded to my invitation to waltz. She was a smart girl, and rumour said that she had become engaged to a wealthy American, a statement which, in reply to my inquiry, she frankly confirmed. As we waltzed and lounged together I noticed Ella dancing first with Paul, and afterwards with several young attaches of my acquaintance. Once or twice we exchanged smiles, and I knew by the expression on her face how thoroughly she was enjoying her first night in the diplomatic circle. The scene was brilliant and full of colour, the music excellent, and the scent of exotics almost overpowering. Everyone seemed intoxicated with gaiety. In that cosmopolitan crowd hearts were lighter and talk more free than in the ordinary London ballroom, although experienced ones knew that here, amid this brilliant assembly, there were many strange undercurrents affecting the prestige of monarchs and the welfare of nations. "So, you are to marry, Mabel," I observed when, after waltzing, I led her into an ante-room, and she sat down to eat an ice. "Yes, at last," she sighed, looking up at me with a pair of mischievous dark eyes. She was about twenty-two, and rather pretty. "I'm to be married in June, and we are coming to Europe for a twelve months' tour. You are married already. I'd so much like to meet your wife. Since I've been here this evening I've heard nothing but admiration of her. You're the envy of all your male friends, Geoffrey." I laughed. I confess that by the sensation Ella had caused I felt flattered. "I'll introduce you when I have a chance," I said. "Our congratulations are mutual. You are to have a husband; I have already a wife." "I hope you'll find the Biblical quotation correct," she laughed, peering at me over her gauzy fan. "Do you know the words?" "No," I replied, "I'm not good at remembering quotations." "Well, the Bible says, `Whoso findeth a wife, findeth a good thing.' I hope you'll be no exception to that rule." "Thanks," I replied. "I don't know what it says about husbands, but, however it may be worded, you have my heartiest wishes for long life and good luck." At that instant Ella, on the arm of a young Italian marquis, possessed of a longer title than his rent-roll, entered. I sprang up at once and introduced her, and soon we all four were chatting merrily. When, a quarter of an hour later, we rose to return to the ballroom, Ella, radiant and happy, walked beside me. In reply to my question, she declared that she was enjoying herself immensely, but as we were re-entering the _salon_ she clutched my arm, and in a half-frightened whisper exclaimed,-- "Look! Geoffrey. Look at that servant in uniform over there. Why, it's our man, Helmholtz!" I glanced in the direction she had indicated, and sure enough there was the detective Renouf, who, in the Laing household, posed as Carl Helmholtz, in the handsome blue-and-gold livery of the Embassy, handing an ice to a lady. Instantly I grasped the situation. "It is a striking resemblance, dearest," I said; "nothing more." "But I'm certain it's Helmholtz," she declared excitedly. "Take me closer to him." "When we were at Pont Street this afternoon, Helmholtz was there, wasn't he?" "Yes. He brought tea into the drawing-room." "Well, no doubt he is at home now. This fellow may be his brother, or something." For a moment we stood watching, and saw him make a servile bow. Fortunately he turned his back upon us, hastening to execute some command, otherwise he must have come towards us and met us face to face. "I'm certain it is Helmholtz," Ella exclaimed, in a tone of conviction. "Without doubt it is a very striking resemblance," I admitted. "But the servants of an Embassy are not recruited from the nearest registry office. Besides, they would never employ a German here." At that moment Paul approached and claimed her for the next dance, while I wandered on alone amid the crowd, my mind full of strange thoughts. Presently, while watching the dancers, I chanced to glance aside and recognised a sparse, well-known figure approaching. It was the Earl of Warnham. Attired in plain evening dress of a rather antiquated cut, he wore no decorations, save the broad blue ribbon across his narrow strip of shirt-front, the highest honour his Sovereign had bestowed upon him. I was surprised to find him there, for I had believed him to be at Osborne in attendance on Her Majesty. "Ah, Deedes," he exclaimed in a low voice, with a slight smile upon his colourless, wizened face. "In the enemy's camp--eh?" "Yes, my wife wished to come," I explained. "Of course. Women like this sort of thing. I have never met her. You must introduce her presently." "She will esteem it an honour," I said, adding, "She is over there in a cream dress, dancing with Verblioudovitch." He glanced in their direction, and started perceptibly. For some moments his keen eyes followed her. Then I noticed that his grey brows contracted, and his usually expressionless face wore a strange, ominous look such as I had never before detected upon it. "Is that your wife?" he asked huskily, turning and eyeing me curiously. "Yes." "Was it she who alleged that your friend Ogle was the victim of foul play?" he inquired with emphasis, in a voice that betrayed dismay. "It was," I replied. The Foreign Minister sighed. As he again turned his eyes upon the pair at that moment gliding down the room to the strains of the latest fashionable refrain his brow darkened, and his teeth were firmly set. A silence fell between us. CHAPTER TWENTY ONE. IN KENSINGTON GARDENS. On our return home in the early hours, Ella sat before the fire in her cosy boudoir, her opera-cape still about her shoulders, resting her tired head upon a cushion, and staring thoughtfully into the dying embers, while I lounged near, smoking a final cigarette. Times out of number I tried to account for the Earl's agitation when he had encountered her. It was evident they were not strangers, although when I had introduced them he treated her with studied courtesy. There were, I remembered, many suspicious incidents connected with her as yet unexplained, nevertheless, from that memorable evening when Dudley and I had dined at "The Nook" and we had become reconciled, I had never doubted that she loved me. Perhaps I had been foolish, I told myself. I ought to have obtained full explanation of the several circumstances that had caused me such uneasiness before marriage, yet I had abandoned all active effort to ascertain the truth, because of the intensity of my passion. Her beauty had captivated me; her voice held me spellbound, and because I loved her I could not bring myself to suspect her. For a long time she sat, reflecting gravely upon the events of the evening; then, shivering slightly, rose and went to her room, leaving me alone to ponder over her sudden seriousness. Sometimes a slight shadow of suspicion would flit across my mind, as it often had on finding her absent, yet when she spoke caressingly to me I at once found myself laughing at the foolishness of my thoughts, basking in the sun of her brilliant beauty, heedless and content. Prior to our marriage, I had been madly jealous of every slight attention paid to her by one of my own sex, of whatever age, but now, recognising how marvellously fair she was, and that wherever she went she became the centre of attraction, I was no longer angry with any of our guests who paid court to her. Beck dined with us frequently, always gay and amusing, while once or twice Verblioudovitch had also accepted our invitation, and treated Ella with the courtliness of the polished diplomatist. I did not invite the latter often, because of her antipathy towards him. When, after his first visit, I had asked her what she thought of him, she had replied,-- "There is something about him I don't like, dearest. I cannot explain what it is. Perhaps it is his excessive politeness; or it may be his profuse flattery that bores me; nevertheless, I seem to have a feeling that I ought to avoid him." "He's one of the best of fellows, darling," I said, laughing at her misgivings. "In my bachelor days we were very close friends." "I don't like him," she answered frankly. "I hate all Russians." "I thought you said once you would like to go to Russia?" "Yes, I am anxious to see the country, but the Russians I have met I have always detested," she said, adding, with seriousness, "Now that I am your wife I may speak plainly, may I not?" "Of course, darling." "Then, in your own interests, promise me to avoid Paul Verblioudovitch as much as possible." "Why?" I asked, surprised. "Because--well," she answered in hesitation; "because I have some curious, inexplicable feeling that he is not your friend." Then it occurred to me that they had been sitting together that evening in a cosy-corner in the drawing-room, deep in conversation, and it might be that Paul had uttered some compliments meant to be polite, but which she had misconstrued into flirtation. In that case, it was only natural that, loving me so deeply as she did, she should warn me that Paul was not my friend. "In what way do you suspect him of being my enemy?" I inquired. "He is untrustworthy," she replied, an answer that tended to confirm my supposition. On several other occasions I laughed at her fears, but she always made the same reply, that she believed he was not straightforward, and even went so far as to ask me not to invite him to our house in future. This caused me some little annoyance, for of all men Paul Verblioudovitch was one of my most valued friends; and, further, while she had conceived a violent dislike towards him, she nevertheless allowed herself to be flattered by the man of whom I had once been madly jealous--Andrew Beck. Thus the early days of our married life proceeded, blissful and full of love, but with one tiny cloud of mystery that, although growing no larger, still cast its ominous shadow ever between us. Sometimes when alone I pondered deeply, wondering whether my confidence had after all been ill-placed, puzzled over one or two incidents such as I have already described. Trifling as they were in themselves, they nevertheless caused me much uneasiness, yet when Ella entered, bright and radiant, greeting me with an affectionate caress, I could not doubt her. I knew that, however suspicious her actions might appear in my eyes, she loved me honestly, with a passion as fierce and uncontrollable as my own. Meanwhile Renouf, who explained his absence on the night of the Embassy ball to Ella's complete satisfaction, still continued to remain in service at Pont Street, and each time we dined there he hovered about us noiselessly and ever watchful, like a spirit of evil. When our eyes met, I saw in his a cold glance of contemptuous triumph, for he had already seen that I feared to denounce him for Paul's sake, and he was pursuing his mysterious investigations, whatever they were, without let or hindrance. Mrs Laing, sighing as stout ladies will, was always loud in his praise, declaring him to be the most steady and attentive servant that had ever been in her service, while Ella expressed a wish that we could meet with a man possessed of similar virtues. A dozen times I longed to take my wife and her mother into my confidence, but dared not, for the silence imposed upon me was absolutely imperative. One day, early in January, I had received a message from Lord Warnham to call at his house in Berkeley Square, but when I arrived found a note stating that he had been compelled unexpectedly to go down to Lord Maybury's seat in Hertfordshire to consult him. Therefore I left, and it being a cold but invigorating afternoon I resolved to walk home. Proceeding along Piccadilly and Knightsbridge, I skirted the Park, and entering Kensington Gardens by the Alexandra Gate, strolled towards Kensington in the full enjoyment of a cigar. Ella had, I knew, gone to Pont Street, her mother being rather unwell, therefore I walked leisurely beneath the leafless, smoke-blackened trees. The short, gloomy day was now fast drawing to a close, and, with the falling gloom, a chill wind had sprung up, whistling mournfully through the bare branches, causing me to turn up my coat-collar and draw on my gloves. I fancied myself alone, for at four o'clock in winter the place is dismal and deserted. Having passed Queen's Gate, I was approaching the Broad Walk, when I was attracted by two figures strolling slowly together in front of me, a man and a woman. At first I took no heed, and would in a few moments have overtaken them, when it occurred to me that the silhouette of the woman was familiar even in the dusk. Again I looked, and noticed that she was fashionably dressed in a dark-brown tailor-made gown, a sealskin cape and close-fitting hat. Next second I realised the amazing truth. The woman walking before me was Ella. Her companion, a tall, broad-shouldered young man, wore a long drab overcoat of distinctly "horsey" cut, a silk hat of the latest shape, and displayed a good deal of shirt cuff. He was evidently a fop, and his whole exterior, from his varnished boots to the velvet cuffs of his overcoat, pronounced him to be a cad. Leisurely he strode by her side, smoking a cigarette, and earnest in conversation, now and then emphasising his words by striking the palm of one gloved hand with his fist. Once, as I dogged their footsteps, my teeth clenched in fierce anger, I heard her give vent to a rippling peal of laughter that echoed among the black, gaunt tree trunks. I knew by that laugh she was tantalising him. My first impulse was to rush up to them and demand an explanation, but my second thought had been to hold my anger in control, and ascertain the true extent of her perfidy. Was not this the second time I had detected Ella walking alone with a man in lover-like attitude? I loved her with all my heart, and had believed implicitly that she reciprocated my affection, yet here, in this single moment, the cup of happiness was dashed from my lips. I knew I had been the victim of base deception. While I, fool that I had been, had fondly imagined that she loved me; she had abandoned all self-respect and allowed herself to walk in a public garden with a chance-met acquaintance. Sonia's ominous words recurred to me, and I saw how I had been tricked and betrayed. The pretty refugee was right, notwithstanding the denunciations of the diplomatist and the spy, both of whom had some motive in discrediting her statements. With eager eyes and heavy heart I followed the pair cautiously, fearing each moment lest either should turn and detect my presence. Apparently they were too deeply engrossed in each other's talk, which, although carried on in a tone so low that I could catch no single word, seemed scarcely of an amatory nature, judging from the man's gestures. To me it appeared rather as if he were urging her to do something from which she shrank. Once, while he spoke, she stopped short and stretched out both hands towards him in an attitude of supplication. But he did not heed her, for, giving vent to a low laugh, he continued, emphasising his words as before. Then, clenching her hands, she stamped her foot in anger, and tossing her head in contempt, walked forward again, heedless of her companion's threatening attitude. From that moment both grew calmer, for the man, uttering words of forgiveness, snatched up her hand and imprinted a kiss upon it. For a brief second she allowed her hand to linger in his grasp, then withdrew it gently, but firmly, regarding him with earnestness the while. This action aroused my anger to a fierce, murderous hatred. With difficulty I managed to preserve an outward calm, because, in my state of mind, I felt compelled to watch and wait. Yet, if I had had a weapon ready to my hand at that moment, I verily believe that I must have thrown myself upon this arrogant cad, and mercilessly killed him. The manner in which his hat was set upon his head, slightly askew, in the manner of the London "'Arry," and his over-burdening mannerism, were in themselves sufficient to show the type of lover my wife cultivated. As I stepped softly behind them in the gloom, I told myself that she must leave my house that night, or I should. I felt in my throat a choking sensation, for I had loved her so fervently that this discovery of her falseness had utterly unnerved me, and even in those moments of fierce anger and hatred I confess that tears welled in my eyes. Ella was the only woman I had ever loved, yet she who had taken her marriage vows only a few short months before had already discarded me for this overdressed idiot, who would be termed in vulgar parlance a "bounder." Perhaps he did not know her to be married. This thought took possession of me. When their quarrel ended it became manifest that Ella herself was endeavouring to fascinate and hold him, just as she had charmed me, by the softness of her speech, her exquisite grace, and her wonderful beauty. She spoke quietly, with her dainty finger-tips laid lightly upon his arm, while he listened, gazing earnestly into her face, enchanted. To-night, I told myself, the bonds uniting me to Ella should be for ever severed. I remembered the many occasions when she had been absent, visiting imaginary friends; I recollected the evening she brought home the violets and preserved them carefully in water until they smelt so faint that she was compelled to throw them away; I had not forgotten the fact that blades of grass did not grow in the squalid, overcrowded streets of modern Camberwell. I glanced around at the grass on every side. Perhaps she frequented that place, and took clandestine walks daily with her lover beneath those leafless trees. The thought provoked my bitter hatred, and I know not how I refrained from facing the pair. I managed, however, to hold myself back, watching them exchange a tender farewell at the gate that led into Kensington High Street, next the Palace Hotel, and while the man raised his hat politely and, turning, walked away in the direction of Knightsbridge, Ella, her face radiant and happy, bowed and set out homeward in the opposite direction. Beneath the lamp in the gateway I had, in those brief seconds, obtained a glimpse of his face. It was that of a young man of about two-and-twenty, with strongly marked features, fair-haired, and of quite a different type than I had conjectured. The features were rather refined, by no means those of a cad, but rather those of a well-bred young idler, who affected the dress and manners of that class of youths who frequent the Cafe Monico on Sunday evenings, the slaves of the counter. Once he glanced back to Ella, but she did not turn; then he went on and was lost in the darkness, while I followed my wife's neat figure through the bustling throng of foot-passengers. CHAPTER TWENTY TWO. TO ERR IS HUMAN. Instead of keeping behind her straight home, I turned from the main road, and with my mind full of gloomy thoughts, wandered about the dark, quiet thoroughfares in the neighbourhood of Campden Hill until, having walked for over an hour undecided how to act, I awoke to a consciousness that I was before my own house. When I entered I opened a telegram lying on the hall table, and found it was from Lord Warnham, stating that he was leaving the Premier's suddenly, and asking me to call at Berkeley Square at six. It was then a quarter to six, and I saw that even by cab I must be ten minutes late for the appointment. "Has my wife returned, Juckes?" I asked my faithful man, who stood ready to relieve me of hat and coat. "Yes, sir. She returned an hour ago, and is now in the drawing-room." My first impulse was to return to Berkeley Square without seeing her, but unable longer to bear the suspense, I allowed Juckes to take my things, and entered the room, where she awaited me. "Ah! Geoffrey!" she exclaimed, jumping to her feet with an expression of joy, and coming forward to meet me. "I expected you home long ago, dearest." And she raised her face for the habitual kiss. "Oh," I said coldly, placing her away from me without caressing her. "Have you been home long?" "A long, long time," she answered, regarding my coldness with unfeigned surprise. "Where have you been to-day?" I inquired, rather sharply, taking up a position on the hearthrug, with my back to the bright wood fire. "This morning I went to Mr Praga's studio in Hornton Street, and gave him a sitting. He is painting my portrait for the Academy, you know." "Yes," I answered. "He told me so at the club the other day. Where else have you been?" "Why are you so anxious to have a complete record of my doings?" she asked, pouting. "You seem absurdly suspicious." I smiled bitterly. Since her return she had exchanged her tailor-made gown for a handsome dinner-dress, and wore as her only ornament a string of pearls, my wedding gift. She stood gazing at me with her dark blue eyes wide-open, and brows arched in well-feigned reproach. "You did not return to lunch," I said quietly. "No, I went to Pont Street," she answered. "Mother was so fearfully upset." "Why?" "Last night she detected Helmholtz in the act of opening a letter he had taken from the postman. It contained a cheque, and she was compelled to discharge him at a moment's notice." "I understood he was quite a model servant," I said, in genuine surprise at this latest development. To me it was astounding that a shrewd officer like Renouf should have thus allowed himself to be caught napping. "Mother thought most highly of him," she went on. "But it now appears that for the past few weeks she has had suspicions that her letters were being tampered with, for two cheques sent by tenants for rent have been stolen." "I never thought very much of him," I said. "Neither did I," she declared. "He had such a silent, cunning way, and moved so softly, that dozens of times when I have turned suddenly I have been quite startled to find him standing close to me. I'm glad mother has got rid of him. She packed him off bag and baggage." "Did he protest his innocence?" "No. He treated her with cool indifference, placed his things in his portmanteau leisurely, hailed a cab, and went off without asking for his wages." I was silent. The reason Renouf should descend to steal cheques was inexplicable. One thing, however, appeared clear, namely, that he had taken an unusual interest in the nature of Mrs Laing's correspondence. To me it was a matter for congratulation that as he had been detected by his mistress and discharged, he could not cast upon me the blame for his betrayal. "What did you do after lunch?" I at last inquired, returning to my charge. "I went shopping," she replied, smiling. "With whom?" "Alone." "Were you alone the whole time?" I inquired, regarding her intently. Her lips quivered slightly and her glance wavered. "Yes," she answered, "I did not meet anyone I knew." "That is a lie, Ella!" I cried. "It is not," she stammered, pale and agitated. "I have told you the truth." "To prevaricate is utterly useless," I said angrily. "I followed you through Kensington Gardens, where you were walking with your lover. I--" "My lover?" she cried hoarsely, in dismay. "He--he is not my lover. I had never seen him before!" "Then by your own admission you have abandoned all respect for me and yourself. You are addicted to strolling alone with any idiot who flatters you." "I swear I do not," she retorted. "You misjudge me entirely." And she placed her trembling hand upon my arm. But I shook it off wrathfully, saying, "I have discovered the truth, alas! too late. While making pretence to love me you prefer the society of other men. I was a blind fool, or I should have discovered the fact, plain to everybody else, that Ogle was your lover, and that you mourned for him when he met the fate he so justly deserved." "He never uttered one word of love to me, Geoffrey," she protested. "How can you make such horrible charges against me when I love you so dearly," she cried, bursting into a torrent of tears. "Because!" I said, with emphasis, "because I have myself followed you this evening. Surely Kensington Gardens is not the spot where a wife should take recreation, unless clandestinely, as you have done! No, this is not the first occasion you have lied to me, Ella; but it shall be the last." "The last!" she gasped, glancing up at me. "What do you mean?" "I mean that I can have no further confidence in you, and that we are better apart." "You don't intend to leave me. Surely you would never be so cruel, Geoffrey. It would kill me." "I have loved you, Ella," I said hoarsely, after a pause, brief and full of suspense. "No man could have loved a woman with a passion more tender than I have done, but now that I have discovered how basely I have been deceived, my affection has turned to hatred." "You hate me!" she wailed. "Ah, no, you cannot--you shall not," she cried, as, rushing towards me, she threw both arms around my neck, and, notwithstanding my efforts to avert her, pressed her tear-stained face to mine. Roughly I unclasped her arms and cast her from me, saying,-- "I have resolved. Nothing will cause me to reconsider my decision. We must part." "It is not like you, Geoffrey, to be cruel to a woman," she said reproachfully, standing before me. "I admit I have acted foolishly, but that man you saw was not my lover. I care for no one except your own dear self." "Terms of endearment are unnecessary," I answered impatiently, turning from her. "Such expressions from one who has so grossly deceived me are absolutely nauseating. I have striven for your social advancement and have loved you dearly, but from this moment you are my wife only in name." She buried her face in her hands and was seized by a fit of hysterical sobbing. All her self-control had vanished at the instant she realised that I know the truth, and she now stood before me bent and penitent. "Forgive me," she whispered earnestly. "Forgive me, Geoffrey." "No," I answered, with firmness. "I cannot trust you." "Overlook this incident, and I will never again give you cause for jealousy," she exclaimed. "I will do anything you ask, only have patience with me." "I have already had patience," I answered. "Yet, deceived as I am daily, we can live together no longer." "But I love you," she declared, with fierce earnestness, fixing her fathomless eyes upon me. "If I lose you I shall kill myself." "It is your own fault entirely," I said. "You have chosen to act in this manner, and whatever are the consequences they are of your own seeking. I suppose you will tell me next that this man who was with you compelled you to meet him." "That is the absolute truth," she faltered. "Ah, always the same lame tale," I observed in disgust. "I have not forgotten that night at `The Nook' when I watched you walking with Beck. No, Ella. There is some strange mystery about it all that I don't like. You pretend to love me; but you have some ulterior motive." "There is a mystery, it is true," she admitted, her eyes dimmed with tears. "A mystery so strange and startling that when you know the truth you will stand aghast and dumbfounded. But with its elucidation you will have knowledge of how I have suffered and striven for your sake; therefore I can only pray that the revelations that must accrue may be hastened, for, although to-day you regard me as base and deceitful, you will then learn how much one woman has endured and sacrificed because she loved you." "Then we must part until this mystery is cleared up," I said calmly, my heart full of grief. "You refuse to take me, your husband, into your confidence, therefore I can place no further reliance in your word." "Think," she cried, clutching my arms convulsively. "Why should the happiness of both of us be wrecked by a mere misunderstanding?" "A misunderstanding!" I echoed. "It is assuredly more than that." "No," she answered, endeavouring to stifle her sobs. "You misunderstand me, believing me false to you, whereas I am acting solely in our mutual interests." "To walk alone with a stranger is surely not acting in your husband's interests," I observed bitterly. "Ah, you are mistaken," she said quickly. "When all is explained you will regret the cruel words you have uttered this evening." "Have I, then, no cause to object to your acquaintance with this man?" I inquired, looking sharply at her. "None whatever. He is neither my lover nor my friend." "What is his name?" "I do not know. He did not tell me," she replied. "Was this the only occasion you had met?" "It was." "He spoke to you casually in the street, I suppose?" "No, we met by appointment at Victoria Station," she answered quite frankly. "By appointment! Then you knew him!" "No, our meeting was arranged by a third person. It was by no means of an amatory character, I assure you." "What was its object?" I asked. Slowly she shook her head. "I cannot tell you without relating to you facts which I dare not yet divulge." "Ah! as I thought," I cried in anger. "You refuse always to explain. As each week passes the mystery surrounding you increases." "Unfortunately I cannot prevent it," she answered in a low, earnest tone. "Before we married I told you plainly that I intended to seek the truth of the conspiracy against Dudley's life, and you did not object." "Why not leave that wretched affair to the police and secure our own happiness?" I urged. "Because the police are powerless. They can have no clue." "Is it then absolutely necessary that you should attain this end?" I inquired dubiously. "Are you ready to sacrifice your own home and husband in order to ascertain the truth regarding a crime?" "Yes, it is absolutely imperative," she replied emphatically. "Before perfect happiness can be ours we must both be aware of the causes which led to Dudley's sudden death. Towards that end I am striving, and knowing what I do, I am regardless of your suspicions and your cruel words. If we part--well, it will be you who one day will be filled with bitter regret; and as for me, I shall not pause in my merciless quest." Often she had told me that to ascertain the true cause of Dudley's death was, next to her duty as my wife, her main object in life, and these words, uttered with an earnestness that was genuine, bore out her most frequent declarations. Glancing at the facts as a whole, it was not surprising that I should have suspected Dudley of having been her lover, whose death she intended to avenge. In silence and hesitation I paced the room that she had furnished with such exquisite taste. A dozen times she asked forgiveness, but no word passed my lips. She stood motionless, her head bent in submission, her hands clasped before her, awaiting my decision. Her pale, tear-stained face betrayed signs of a terrible, breathless suspense, she fearing that I intended to cast her off, while I could not bring myself to any firm belief that her declarations of affection were genuine. Between us there yawned a gulf of darkness and mystery which hourly grew wider and more impassable. "Tell me that you'll still be patient and wait," she implored at last. "Surely you can see how intensely I love you and how utterly aimless will be my life if we part." "This mystery is, I confess, Ella, driving me to distraction," I said, halting at last before her. "Cannot you confide in me? I will preserve silence, I promise." "No, no," she gasped in fear. "I dare not." Her attitude was one of deep dejection, yet I could not fail to notice, even at this moment of her abject despair, how beautiful she was. But a look of unutterable terror was in her deep blue eyes, and upon her handsome features was an expression as though, dreading exposure, she were haunted by some terrible ghost of the past. "You told me this once before," I said gravely, "and I trusted you. To-day I have discovered my confidence ill-placed." "Trust me once again," she cried hoarsely. "Only once, and I will show you ere long that your suspicions are utterly without foundation." I took another turn up and down the drawing-room, my hands clasped behind my back, my gaze fixed upon the carpet. I was still undecided. With a sudden impulse she rushed forward, and flinging her warm arms about my neck, kissed me, next second bursting into tears and burying her face upon my shoulder. My hand unconsciously stroked her hair, and, bending, I pressed my lips upon her soft cheek. Then she knew that I had forgiven, and holding back her sobs with difficulty, raised her face, and kissing me passionately, thanked me in a low, broken voice, assuring me that I should never regret the step I had taken. During half-an-hour we remained together, she full of love and confidence, I admiring and hopeful. I was glad I had not acted rashly, nor left her as I had intended, and as we went in to dinner arm in arm, we laughed together, joyous in each other's love. After we had eaten, I smoked a cigarette and lingered as long as possible, happy with my well-beloved; then kissing her fondly, I was compelled to take a hansom to Berkeley Square, promising her to return at the earliest possible moment, and expressing confidence that our love would last always. The Earl, grumbling at my tardy arrival, was busy in his library with a number of important dispatches relating to our affairs in the East. When he had expressed displeasure that I had not been waiting to receive him, he added,-- "But there, I suppose now you are married, Deedes, your wife is exacting; they always are. She likes you to dine with her, eh?" "Yes," I admitted, smiling. "I did dine at home." "Ah, I thought so," snapped the shrewd old Minister. "A good dinner and your wife's smiles were of more consequence to you than England's prestige with the Sultan,--oh?" I made no answer to this sarcasm, but began busying myself with the correspondence, packing it away in the dispatch-bag and sealing it for delivery to Hammerton, the messenger, who was waiting in an adjoining room ready to take it to Constantinople. Not until eleven o'clock was I able to get away from Berkeley Square, and leaving the aged statesman alone, deeply immersed in the puzzling applications for advice of all sorts from Her Majesty's representatives at the various Courts of Europe, I drove back to Phillimore Gardens. On arrival home my first question of Juckes was whether Ella was in the drawing-room. "No, sir. Madame is out, sir." "Out! When did she go out?" "About an hour after you had left, sir," replied the man. "She has gone into the country, I believe." "Into the country? What makes you think so?" "Because she put on her travelling dress, and took two trunks with her," he answered. "Roberts, her maid, says she packed the boxes herself three days ago." "Did she say where she was going?" I inquired breathlessly. "No, sir. She left no message with anyone." Entering the drawing-room with my overcoat still on, I noticed, lying upon her little rosewood escritoire, a note addressed to me. Eagerly I took it up, tore it open, and read its contents. There were only a few hurriedly-scrawled words--a brief and formal farewell. "You cannot trust me," she wrote, "therefore we are best apart. Do not attempt to follow me, for you cannot find me. Do not think ill of me, for even if I have wronged and deceived you, I have, nevertheless, been your friend." It commenced formally, without any endearing term, and concluded abruptly with the two words, "Your Wife." For a few moments I stood with it in my hand, staring at it in blank amazement. Then it occurred to me that in that very escritoire she kept all her correspondence, and it was more than probable that I might learn the truth from some of the letters therein contained. I endeavoured to open it, but it was, as usual, locked. She had taken the key. In my sudden excitement I called to Juckes to bring a hammer, and with a few sharp blows broke open the sloping, leather-covered top, finding a number of letters addressed in unfamiliar handwriting. One, larger than the rest, crumpled, dirty and worn, as if it had reposed in someone's pocket for a long period, I took out, and eagerly opened beneath the soft-shaded lamp. "My God!" I cried aloud, scarcely able to believe my own eyes, when next instant I realised the terrible truth. "My God! I had never suspected this!" CHAPTER TWENTY THREE. A TERRIBLE TRUTH. Ella's cold, formal adieu stunned me. I stood open-mouthed, petrified. We had parted on the best of terms, she kissing me affectionately, and with wifely solicitude bidding me hasten back; yet in my absence she had departed, evidently carrying out some pre-arranged plan. Her maid, Roberts, had noticed her packing her trunks three days before, therefore it was certain that she meant to desert me as soon as opportunity offered. Unaccountable and astounding as was her sudden flight, the discovery I had made among the papers in her escritoire was even more amazing. It held me stupefied and aghast. The paper I held in my hand was the original of the secret convention between England and Germany; the document which had been stolen from me, transmitted by telegraph to the Russian Foreign Office, and had nearly caused a terrible and disastrous European war. When I took it from among the letters and saw its neat, formal writing and sprawly signatures, I gazed upon it in blank amazement, unable at first to realise the startling truth. There was, however, no room for doubt. It was the actual document which had been so ingeniously purloined, for it reposed in the escritoire still in its official envelope. The great black seal affixed by the Earl of Warnham had been broken, and both envelope and document had the appearance of having at some time or other been folded small, besides being sadly crumpled. Beneath the shaded light I examined the envelope carefully, and detected a faint carmine streak upon it; then, placing it to my nostrils, found that it exuded a stale odour of sampaguita. In an instant the truth was plain. The pink discolouration had been caused by rouge; the scent was Ella's favourite perfume, which she always procured from Paris. No doubt the document had been carried for a considerable period in her pocket for safety, and become crumpled, as papers will if carried in a woman's dress. While the envelope might easily have absorbed the odour of that unmistakable perfume from her handkerchief, the streak of rouge puzzled me, for I had never suspected her of an artificial complexion, nor had I ever seen the hare's foot and carmine among her toilet articles. "Tell Roberts I wish to speak to her," I said, turning to Juckes, who had stood by in silence, puzzled at my strange action of breaking the top of the escritoire. He obeyed, and in a few moments the neat, dark-eyed maid entered. "Roberts," I exclaimed, "I want you to tell me something. Does my wife use any carmine to give artificial colour to her cheeks?" "Oh, no, sir," the girl assured me. "Madame is very averse to the use of such things. Once or twice, when she has been going out at night, and looked unusually pale, I have suggested a little additional colour, but she has always refused." "Did she have any rouge or anything of that sort in her possession?" I inquired. "No, sir, I am quite certain she hadn't." "Why are you so confident?" "Because only the other day, when I was ill with a sick headache, madame urged me to use some colour, as my face was so pale. Visitors were coming, she said, and she didn't want me to look like a ghost. I told her that I had no carmine, and she remarked that she had none, therefore nothing could be done." "When did my wife pack those two trunks she took with her this evening?" "Last Monday, sir," the girl answered, slowly twisting her befrilled apron in her hands. "She received a note by boy-messenger, and immediately set about packing the boxes." "Did she tell you anything?" I asked, adding confidentially, "I have reason to believe that my wife has left us, therefore anything you tell me may assist me in tracing her." The girl glanced at me in genuine surprise. "Do you mean, sir, that madame has--has run away?" she gasped. "No--well, not exactly," I stammered. "But did she tell you anything?" With eyes downcast the girl paused in hesitation, answering at last, "She didn't actually tell me anything." "But what do you know about her intentions?" "Nothing," she answered. Then, after a pause, she added, "Well, to tell you the truth, sir, I had suspicions." "Of what? Do not fear to speak because I am her husband," I said reassuringly. "I may as well know the worst at once." "She used frequently to receive notes from a gentleman. They were brought by a commissionaire or by a man-servant, who waited for the answer. When they came I always knew that on the following day she would be absent many hours." "You believe that she met this mysterious individual--eh?" I asked huskily. "Yes, for she always told me never to admit to you that she had been long absent. Therefore I had suspicion that she met somebody clandestinely." "What was his name?" "I have never been able to ascertain. Once I glanced at a note lying on madame's dressing-table. It merely announced the writer's intention to attend Lady Pearson's `at home,' and was signed `X.'" "Well," I said hoarsely, after a long silence. "What else?" "Nothing," she replied. "That is all I know, sir." "Has my wife taken her jewels?" I inquired. "No. She has left her jewel-case unlocked, but everything is there. She has even left behind her wedding-ring." "Her wedding-ring!" I echoed, astounded and dismayed. "Then she has discarded me completely." "Unfortunately it appears so, sir," the girl observed gravely. "Very well, Roberts," I said in a broken voice. "Thank you. You may go." The girl glanced at me for an instant, with a sad, pitying look, then turned and left, closing the door noiselessly behind her. Alone, I sank into the chair utterly broken down, still holding in my nervous, trembling fingers the secret document that secured the peace and welfare of the two most powerful nations on earth. I had at last discovered the hideous truth. Ella, the woman whose grace and beauty had held me enmeshed, and whom I had loved with an intensity of passion that was all-consuming, was, after all, base and worthless. Although making a hollow pretence to love me, she had cast me aside for this mysterious man who signed himself with an initial, and who met her secretly almost daily. I had been a blind, devoted idiot, I knew, but until I had watched her in Kensington Gardens I had never suspected her of infamy. It seemed, however, that she had no sense of shame, and cared nought for my dishonour or despair. Her perfidy was now revealed in all its painful reality. Ella, whom I had always regarded as pure, honest and trusting, was a woman of tarnished repute. The fact that she had the secret convention in her possession was, in itself, sufficient evidence that the mystery surrounding her was deep, and of no ordinary character. Sonia had warned me that she was my enemy, and this fact was now indeed vividly apparent. How she had become possessed of the stolen treaty was inexplicable. Full well she knew all the terrible anxiety its loss had caused me, and the sensation that its revelation had created throughout Europe. Times without number I had mentioned to her how anxious my chief was to recover the original, so that our enterprising friends in St Petersburg could have no tangible proof that it had actually existed, yet she had given no sign that she knew anything of it, much less that it actually reposed in my own drawing-room. I did not fail, in those moments of my despair, to recollect that she had been on the most intimate terms with Dudley Ogle, the man suspected to have been in the service of the Tzar's Government, and as I sat in wonderment it became gradually impressed upon me that through those many months I had been basely tricked, and that Ella herself, charming and ingenuous as she seemed, was actually a secret agent of the enemies of England. Several facts that I recollected combined to produce this startling belief. Because of my confidential position as secretary to the Earl of Warnham, it was apparent that Ella, with the assistance of my whilom friend Dudley and the encouragement of her mother, had conspired to hold me beneath her spell. She had become my wife, not because she had ever loved me, but because she could feign affection or hatred with equal impunity, and had some ulterior motive in obtaining my confidence. Her firm resolve to ascertain the true facts regarding Dudley's mysterious end showed plainly that if they were not lovers they had acted in complete accord, and what was more likely than that he, having stolen the secret convention, had on that memorable night at "The Nook" handed it to her, the instigator of the ingenious theft. Yet an hour or so later he died from some cause that neither doctors nor police had been able to determine. To her, the tragic occurrence was a mystery, as to all, and her refusal to render me any explanation of her suspicious actions was, I now saw, quite natural. Held beneath the iron thraldom of her masters in St Petersburg, she dared not utter one word; hence I had remained in the outer darkness of doubt and ignorance. However it might be, one thing was certain. She had been unexpectedly parted from me, either by choice or compulsion. Perhaps it was that to pose as my wife was no longer necessary; yet if she were actually a spy, was it not curious that in departing she should overlook this document, of which the Ministry at St Petersburg were so anxious to possess themselves. Again, as I sat alone before the cheerless grate, I reflected that if she were in the pay of Russia, surely Monsieur Grodekoff, the Ambassador, would have been acquainted with her. Besides, what reason could Renouf have had in making such careful inquiries, or why did Paul Verblioudovitch discredit the truths uttered by Sonia and urge me to marry the woman I loved? Nevertheless if, as I supposed, my position in the Foreign Office had caused me to be the victim of a clever and deeply-conceived conspiracy, it was scarcely surprising that the Tzar's representative should disclaim all knowledge of the sweet-faced agent, or that Paul had praised her and cast obloquy upon Sonia in order that their plans, whatever they were, should be achieved. Of the actions of Renouf, and his strange disregard for detection, I could form no satisfactory conclusion. All I knew was that Ella's career had been an unscrupulous and inglorious one, and that she had cast me aside as soon as her infamous ends had been attained. The only person who could elucidate the mystery was Sonia, the pretty girl who had been denounced by Renouf as a murderess, and who was now in hiding in far-off Russia, in some out-of-the-world place where I could never hope to find her. If she were clever enough to elude the combined vigilance of the detective force of Europe, as undoubtedly she had done, there was but little hope that I could ever run her to earth. The mystery had, by Ella's flight, been increased rather than explained, for the more I pondered the more deeply-rooted became the conviction that she had decamped because she had cause to fear some strange development that would lead to her exposure and shame. After a time I roused myself, and taking from the broken escritoire the other letters it contained, five in number, examined them eagerly beneath the light. All were in the same hand, a heavy masculine one, written evidently with a quill. One by one I read them, finding that they contained appointments, which fully bore out her maid's suspicions. "_My dear Ella_," one ran, "_to-morrow I shall be on the departure platform at King's Cross Station at 11:30. I have good news for you. Come.--X_." Another regretted the writer's inability to keep an appointment, as he had been called unexpectedly to Paris, and was compelled to leave by the night mail from Charing Cross. He, however, promised to return in three days, and gave her the Grand Hotel as his address if she found it necessary to telegraph. Strangely enough, the letters contained no endearing terms either at their commencement or conclusion. Formal and brief, they all related to appointments at various places in London where two persons might meet unnoticed by the crowd, and all were signed by the single mysterious initial. I stood with them in my hand for a long time, puzzled and hesitating, then placing them carefully in my pocket, together with the secret document I had so unexpectedly unearthed, I crammed on my hat and hastily drove to Pont Street. The house was in darkness, save for a light in the basement, and in answer to my summons, after a lapse of some minutes a tall, gaunt, woman in rusty black appeared in the area below. I was surprised at being thus met by a stranger, but inquired for Mrs Laing. "Mrs Laing ain't at 'ome, sir," answered the woman, looking up and speaking with a strong Cockney twang. "Not at home?" I exclaimed, surprised. "Where is she?" "She's gone abroad somewheres, but I don't know where," the woman answered. "She's sold all her valuables, discharged the servants, and left me 'ere as 'ouse-keeper." "When did she go?" I asked. "This morning. I answered an advertisement in the _Chronicle_ yesterday, and entered on my duties 'ere to-day. Quick, ain't it?" The rapidity of her engagement I was compelled to admit, but proceeded to make further inquiry whether Mrs Laing's daughter had been there. "No, sir. No one's been 'ere to-day, except a foreign-looking gentleman who asked if madame had left, and when I said that she had, he went away quite satisfied." "What kind of man was he?" "Tall and thin, with a longish dark beard." The description did not correspond with anyone of my acquaintance; therefore, after some further questions regarding Mrs Laing's mysterious departure, I was compelled to wish the worthy woman good evening. She knew nothing of Mrs Laing's movements, not even the name of the terminus to which she had driven, such pains had Ella's mother taken to conceal the direction in which she intended to travel. Some secret undoubtedly existed between mother and daughter; its nature held me perplexed and bewildered. CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR. STRICTLY CONFIDENTIAL. The early morning was dry, frosty, but starless. The clock of that fashionable temple of Hymen, St George's, Hanover Square, was slowly chiming three as I alighted from a cab at the corner of Mount Street, and walking along Berkeley Square, ascended the steps of the Earl of Warnham's great mansion, and rang its ponderous bell. The place was severe and gloomy enough by day, but in the silence and darkness of the night its exterior presented a forbidding, almost ghostly appearance. It was an unusual hour for a call, but, knowing that a porter was on duty always, and that dispatches frequently arrived during the night, I had no hesitation in seeking an interview. In a few moments there was a grating sound of bolts drawn back, a clanking of chains, and the heavy door was slowly opened by the sleepy man, who, with a word of recognition, at once admitted me. Walking across the great square hall; warmed by a huge, roaring fire, I passed down the passage to the Earl's study and rapped at the door, receiving an impatient permission to enter. The Minister for Foreign Affairs was sitting at his table where I had left him, with an empty tea-cup at his side, resting his pale, weary brow upon his hand and writing dispatches rapidly with his scratchy quill. His fire was nearly out, the pair of candles, in their heavy, old-fashioned silver candlesticks that stood upon his writing-table, had burned down almost to their sockets, and the strong smell of burnt paper that pervaded the book-lined den, showed that, with his innate cautiousness, he had destroyed documents that he did not desire should be seen by other eyes. The world-renowned statesman raised his head as I entered, gave vent to a low grunt of dissatisfaction, and continued writing at topmost speed. I saw I was unwelcome, but, well acquainted with his mannerisms and eccentricities, walked to the fire, added more fuel, and waited in patience until he had finished. "Well," he snarled, casting down his pen impatiently, and turning upon me at last. "I thought you, of all men, were aware that I do not desire interruption when at work." "I should not have ventured to come at this hour," I said, "were it not that the news I bring is of extreme importance." He sighed, as was his habit when expecting further complications. "What is its nature?" he asked coldly, leaning back in his chair. "Abandon preliminaries, please, and come to the point. What is it?" "I have recovered the original of our secret convention with Germany," I answered in as quiet a tone as I could assume. "You have!" he cried excitedly, starting up. "You are quite right to seek me at once--quite right. Where did you obtain it?" he inquired. Slowly I drew forth the precious document from my pocket, and handed it to him, still in the envelope that bore my own mark, with the remains of his broken seal. He took it eagerly and bent to the candles to examine it more closely. A few seconds sufficed to reassure him that the document was the genuine one. "It is fortunate that this has returned into our possession," he observed, his thin blue lips quivering slightly. "I feared that it had already passed beyond our reach, and that one day or other in the near future our policy must be narrowed by the knowledge that it was preserved in the archives of the Foreign Office at St Petersburg, and could be used as a pretence for a declaration of war by Russia and France. Now, however, that the original is again in our possession we can disclaim all copies, and give assurances that no secret understanding exists between us and Berlin. The only fact that at present lends colour to the assertion of the boulevard journals is the ill-timed bestowal of the Iron Cross upon Count Landsfeldt. Such an action was characteristic of their impetuous Emperor." Then, after a second's reflection, he added, "Just sit down, Deedes, and write to Sir Philip Emden at Berlin, asking him to obtain audience immediately of the Kaiser, point out the harmful impression this decoration has occasioned, and get His Majesty to exhibit his marked displeasure towards Landsfeldt in some form or other. That will remove any suspicion that the convention is actually an accomplished fact. Besides, you may hint also that it may be well for the relations between the Kaiser and Sir Philip to appear slightly strained, and that this fact should be communicated indirectly to the Press. Sit down and write at once: it must be sent under flying seal." I obeyed, and commenced writing a formal dispatch while, in answer to the electric bell rung by his Lordship, the sleepy night-porter appeared. "Calvert," exclaimed the Minister, "telephone to the Foreign Office and say that I want a messenger to call here and proceed to Berlin by the morning mail." "Yes, m'lord," answered the man, bowing and closing the door. While I wrote, the Earl perused the document, the loss of which had caused the Cabinets of Europe so much apprehension, and taking his magnifying glass he examined the portions of the seal still remaining. Then carefully unlocking one of the small private drawers in the top of the great writing-table, he took therefrom some object, and gazed upon it long and earnestly. With a heavy sigh he again replaced it, and slowly locked the drawer. When I had finished and placed the instructions to Sir. Philip Emden before him, he took up his quill, corrected my letter, here and there adding an emphatic word or two, and then appended his signature. Obtaining one of the bags used for the transmission of single dispatches, I deposited it therein, sealed it, and placed upon it one of those labels with a cross drawn upon its face, the signification of that mark being that it is never to be lost sight of by the messenger. There are two kinds of bags sent out and received by the Foreign Office, one with this cross-marked label, and the other without it. The latter are generally larger and less important, and may be placed with the messenger's luggage. It is no pleasant life our messengers lead, liable as they are to be summoned at an hour's notice to "proceed at once" to anywhere, from Brussels to Teheran. Armed with a _laissez-passer_, they are constantly hurrying over the face of Europe as fast as the fastest expresses can carry them, passing through the frontier stations freed from the troublesome concomitant of ordinary travelling--the examination of luggage--known on all the great trunk lines from Paris to Constantinople and from Rome to St Petersburg, sometimes bearing epoch-making documents, sometimes a lady's hat of latest mode, or a parcel of foreign delicacies, but always on the alert, and generally sleeping on a layer of stiff dispatches and bulky "notes." At last, having made up the bag, I rose slowly and faced my chief. "Well," he exclaimed, raising his keen eyes from the document I had brought him and regarding me with that stony, sphinx-like expression he assumed when resolved upon cross-questioning, "how did you obtain possession of this?" "I found it," I answered. "Found it?" he growled, with a cynical curl of the lip. "I suppose you have some lame story that you picked it up in the street, or something-- eh!" he exclaimed testily. "No," I replied hoarsely. "Mine is no lame story, although a wretched one. The discovery has unnerved and bewildered me; it--" "I have no desire to know how its discovery affected you mentally," he interrupted, with impatient sarcasm. "I asked where you found it," he observed coldly. "I found it in my own house," I answered. "Then you mean to tell me that it has been in your possession the whole time. The thing's impossible," he cried angrily. "Remember the dummy palmed off upon me, and the fact that an exact copy was transmitted to St Petersburg." "No. It has not been in my possession," I answered, leaning against my writing-chair for support. "I found it among my wife's letters." "Your wife!" he gasped, agitated. He had turned ghastly pale at mention of her name, and, trembling with agitation, swayed forward. A moment later, however, he recovered his self-possession, clutched at the corner of his table, and regarding me sharply, asked, "What do you suspect?" "I scarce know what to suspect," I answered gravely, striving to remain calm, but remembering at that instant the curious effect produced upon the Foreign Minister when he had first seen Ella dancing at the Embassy ball. My declaration that I had found this official bond of nations in her possession had produced a similar disquieting result which puzzled me. "But surely she can have had no hand in the affair," he cried. "She certainly did not strike me as an adventuress, or an agent of the Tzar's secret service." "It is a problem that I cannot solve," I exclaimed slowly, watching the strange, haggard look upon his usually imperturbable features. "After leaving you this evening I went home only to find a letter of farewell from her, and--" "She has fled, then!" he exclaimed, with quick suspicion. "Yes. Her flight was evidently pre-arranged, and curiously enough her mother, who lives in Pont Street, has discharged her servants, disposed of a good deal of her property, and also departed." "Gone together, no doubt," the Earl observed, frowning reflectively. "But is it not very strange that she should have left the stolen convention behind? Surely if my wife were actually a Russian agent she would never have been guilty of such indiscretion," I said. "The mystery is inexplicable, Deedes," he declared, with a heavy look, half of pain, half of bewilderment. "Absolutely inexplicable." This aged man, to whose firmness, clever statesmanship, and calm foresight England owed her place as foremost among the Powers, was trembling with an excitement he strove in vain to suppress. In manner that surprised me, his cold, cynical face relaxed, and placing his thin, bony hand upon my shoulder with fatherly tenderness, Her Majesty's most trusted Minister urged me to confide in him all my suspicions and my fears. "You have, I believe, after all, been cruelly wronged, Deedes," he added in a low, harsh tone. "I sympathise with you because I myself once felt the loss of a wife deeply, and I know what feelings must be yours now that you suspect the woman you have trusted and loved to have been guilty of base treachery and espionage. She, or someone in association with her, has besmirched England's honour, and brought us to the very verge of a terrible national disaster. Providentially, this was averted; by what means we have not yet ascertained, although our diplomatic agents at the Court of the Tzar are striving day and night to ascertain; yet the fact remains that we were victimised by some daring secret agent who sacrificed everything in order to accomplish the master-stroke of espionage. I can but re-echo the thanks to Heaven uttered by my gracious Sovereign when she received the news that war had been averted; nevertheless it is my duty--nay, it is yours, Deedes, to strive on without resting, in order that this mystery may be satisfactorily unravelled." For a moment we were silent. Then in a voice that I felt painfully conscious was broken by grief and emotion, I related to him the whole of the wretched story of my marriage, my suspicions, the discovery of Ella in Kensington Gardens, how I had taxed her with flirtation and frivolity, our peace-making, and her sudden and unexpected flight. He heard me through to the end with bent head, sighing now and then sympathetically. Then he slowly asked,--"Did you ever refer to those earlier incidents, such as the death of that young man Ogle? Remember, whatever you tell me I shall regard as strictly confidential." "I seldom mentioned it, as she desired me not to do so." "When you referred to it, what was her attitude?" he inquired, in a pained tone, the furrows on his high white brow deep and clearly defined. "She declared always that he had been murdered, and vowed to detect the author of the crime." "Are you, in your own mind, convinced that there was anything really mysterious regarding her actions; or were they only everyday facts distorted by jealousy?" he asked gravely. "There is, I believe, some deep mystery regarding her past," I answered. He knit his grey, shaggy brows, and started perceptibly. "Her past!" he echoed. "Were you aware of any--er--unpleasant fact prior to marriage?" he inquired quickly. "Yes. She promised to explain everything ere long; therefore, loving her devotedly as I did, I resolved to make her my wife and await in patience her explanation." "Love!" he cried cynically. "She did not love you. She only married you, it seems, to accomplish her own base and mysterious designs." Then, pacing the room from end to end, he added, "The more I reflect, the more apparent does it become that Ella Laing meant, by becoming your wife, to accomplish some great coup, but, prevented by some unforeseen circumstance, she has been compelled to fly, and in her haste overlooked this incriminating paper." This, too, was my own opinion, and taking from my pocket the whole of the letters that were in the escritoire, I placed them before him. "They are from your wife's mysterious lover," he observed, when a few moments later he had digested them. "Who he is there is no evidence to show. You suspect him, of course, to be the man she met in Kensington Gardens?" I nodded. A sigh escaped me. "Well," he went on. "Leave them with me. A calligraphic expert may possibly find some clue to the identity of their writer." Afterwards, he took up the broken envelope that had contained the treaty, carefully re-examining its edges by the aid of his large magnifying glass. "There is another curious fact that we must not overlook," he observed slowly. "While the seal has been broken this envelope has also passed through a `cabinet noir.' See, this edge bears unmistakable traces after wear in the pocket," and he handed it to me, together with his glass. The suggestion was startling, and one that I had entirely overlooked. The "cabinet noir" is a term well understood in diplomacy, but unfamiliar perhaps to the general public. Official documents of no great importance are often sent by post, and in most European countries this has led to the establishment of a "cabinet noir," in which the envelope is opened and its contents examined. The mode of procedure is interesting. The letter to be opened is first shaken well in such a way that the enclosure falls to one side of the envelope, leaving a space of about a quarter of an inch between it and the outer edge. This edge is then placed under an extremely sharp knife worked like a guillotine, care being taken to put it carefully at right angles to the knife, which is then brought down and cuts off a slip about one hundredth part of an inch wide. The envelope is now open, and the enclosure is extracted by a pair of pincers made for the purpose. After examination it is replaced, and the ticklish job of removing all trace of the opening has to be done. This is very ingenious. There are different pots of paper pulp mixed with a little gum, and each tinted a different colour to suit the various shades of paper that are operated upon. A very fine camel-hair brush is dipped into the pot containing the proper tint, and is then run carefully along the edges which have been cut open. They are then closed and left under a press for an hour or so, and after being smoothed with a flat steel instrument, it would take a very clever expert to notice that the envelope has passed through the "cabinet noir." I saw, however, in this worn envelope the two edges were coming apart, and at once admitted the truth of the Earl's assertions. He was intensely shrewd; scarcely any minute detail escaped him. "Well," he said reflectively, at last, "there is but one person from whom we may ascertain the truth." "Who?" "Your wife." "But she has disappeared." "We must trace her. She must not escape us," he cried fiercely, with set teeth. "She has wronged you and acted in collusion with a man who has betrayed his country and met with a tragic end, even if she herself did not actually sell the copy of the secret convention to our enemies-- which appears to me more than likely." "What causes you to believe this?" I inquired, surprised at his sudden assertion. "I have a reason," he answered quickly, with an air of mystery. The cold manner of the expert diplomatist had again settled upon him. "If it is as I expect, I will show her no mercy, for it is upon me, as Foreign Minister of Her Majesty, that opprobrium has fallen." "But she is still my wife," I observed, for even at that moment, when I had discovered her false and base, I had not ceased to regard her with a passionate affection. "Wife!" he snarled angrily. "You would have been a thousand times better dead than married to such as she." Then he added, "Remain here. I am going to the telephone to apprise Scotland Yard of her flight. She only left to-night after the mails were gone, therefore if we have the ports watched we may yet find her." And he left me, his quick footsteps echoing down the long corridor. The moment he had gone I went to his table. Some sudden curiosity prompted me to endeavour to ascertain what he had been gazing upon so intently while my back had been turned in penning the instructions to Sir Philip Emden. Quickly I took his keys, and, unlocking the tiny drawer, opened it. Inside there reposed a highly-finished cabinet portrait of my wife. Amazed to find this picture in the possession of my chief, I took it in my hands and stood agape. Its pose was unfamiliar, but the reason I had never before seen a copy of it was instantly made plain. It bore the name of a well-known St Petersburg photographer. Ella had lied to me when she had denied ever having been in Russia. CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE. THE MAN OF THE HOUR. Months of anxiety went wearily by, but no tidings of Ella could I glean. Time could never efface the bitter memories of the past. The police had, at Lord Warnham's instigation, exerted every effort to trace her, but without avail. She had disappeared with a rapidity that was astounding, for, apparently expecting that some attempt might be made to follow her, she had ingeniously taken every precaution to baffle her pursuers in the same manner as her mother had done. The cause of her sudden flight was an enigma only equalled by my discovery of her portrait in the Earl's possession. Although I had several times in conversation led up to the subject of photographs, and shown him Ella's picture, that had been taken by a firm in Regent Street, the astute old statesman made no sign that he already had her counterfeit presentment hidden among his most treasured possessions. When I recollected, as I often did, how on gazing upon it, while believing me engrossed in the writing of a dispatch, the sight of it had affected him, the new phase of the mystery perplexed me sorely. That they had been previously acquainted seemed more than probable, and his Lordship's earnest desire to secure knowledge of her whereabouts lent additional colour to this opinion. Daily the aged statesman grew more gloomy and misanthropic. He lived alone, in an atmosphere of severe officialdom. His only recreation was a formal visit on rare occasions to a reception at one or other of the principal Embassies, or attendance on Her Majesty at Osborne or Balmoral; his brief, far-seeing suggestions at the Cabinet Council were always adopted unanimously, and his peremptory "notes" to the Powers incontrovertible marvels of diplomacy. He hated society, and never went anywhere without some strong motive by which he could further his country's interests. His eccentricities were proverbial, his caustic observations on men and things the delight of leader-writers on Government journals; and as director of England's foreign policy he was feared, yet admired, in every capital in Europe. He, however, cared not a jot for notoriety, but with an utter disregard for all else, served his country with a slavish devotion, that even the most scathing Opposition gutter-journal could not fail to recognise. It was common talk that some strange, romantic incident had overshadowed his life, but with that innate secrecy that was part of his creed he never confided in anybody. Notwithstanding his frigid cynicism, however, he was nevertheless sympathetic, and at any mention of Ella's name he would rivet his searching eyes upon me, while across the white brow, furrowed by the heavy responsibilities of State through so many years, would spread an expression of regret, anxiety or pain. But he spoke seldom upon that subject. That he regarded my marriage as a deplorable fiasco I was well aware, but felt that in his cold heart, hardened as it was by the artful subterfuges of successful diplomacy, there yet remained a spark of pity, for he still regarded me as his _protege_. On the day after Ella had fled I called at Andrew Beck's office at Winchester House, Old Broad Street, but found he had sailed a few days before by the Union Liner _Scot_ for Cape Town. Of late he had become connected with several South African gold ventures of enormous extent, and in the interests of some of the companies most prominently before the public, had undertaken the journey. His great wealth, in combination with that of his associates, had inspired public confidence, and there had commenced that feverish tendency in the city that quickly developed, and was later known as the "gold boom." The movements of the popular member for West Rutlandshire were cabled and chronicled in the newspapers as diligently as if he were a prince of a reigning house, and it was with extreme satisfaction that one morning in June I saw it announced that the mail had arrived at Southampton from the Cape bearing him on board, the same paper printing an account of an interview regarding gold prospects in South Africa which he had given its representative before he left the steamer. I was down at Warnham at the time, but three days later returned to London, and that same night sought Beck at the House of Commons. I found him in the Members' Lobby, bustling about in his ill-fitting evening clothes and crumpled shirt-front, looking sun-tanned and well; a trifle more arrogant, perhaps, but nevertheless easy-going and good-natured as usual. He greeted me heartily, and the night being warm we lit cigars and walked out upon the Terrace beside the Thames. Big Ben was chiming the midnight hour. It was bright and star-lit above, but before us the river ran darkly beneath the arches of Westminster Bridge, its ripples glistening under the gas lamps. Across on the opposite bank, in the row of buildings comprising St Thomas's Hospital, lights glimmered faintly in the windows of the wards, while here and there on the face of the black, silent highway, lights, white, red and green, shone out in silent warning. As we set foot upon the long, deserted Terrace, strolling slowly forward in the balmy, refreshing night air, my thoughts wandered back to the last occasion when we had spent an evening together beside the Thames, that memorable night at "The Nook," when we had afterwards discovered Dudley Ogle lying dead. During the first half-hour we discussed the progress of several questions of foreign policy which had been pursued during his absence, and he, an enthusiast in politics, confided in me his intention to head a select circle of his party to demand a commission of inquiry into the working of our mobilisation scheme for home defence. "One would think that you desired to obtain further notoriety," I laughed. "Surely you are popular enough; you are now the man of the hour." "Well, I suppose I am," he answered, a trifle proudly, halting suddenly, leaning with his back to the stone parapet and puffing vigorously at his cigar. "But it isn't for the sake of notoriety that I'm pressing forward this inquiry. It is for the benefit of the country generally. The scheme for the mobilisation of our forces in case of invasion is utterly rotten, and had we been compelled to fight a little time ago, when France and Russia were upon the point of declaring war, we should have been in a wretched plight. The scheme is all very well on paper, but I and my friends are determined to ascertain whether it will act. It has never been tested, and no doubt it is utterly unworkable. What, indeed, can be said of a scheme which decrees that in case of an enemy landing on our shores a regiment of cavalry, now in London, must draw its horses from Dublin! Why, the thing's absurd. We don't mean to rest until the whole matter is thoroughly threshed out." "You intend to worry up the War Office a little," I observed, smiling. "Yes," he answered, ostentatiously. "We intend to bring public opinion to bear so heavily upon them that they will be absolutely bound to submit to the inquiry. This is, however, a secret for the present. It is best that the newspapers should not get hold of it yet. You understand?" "Of course," I said. We stood watching the dark, swirling waters and enjoying the cool night breeze that swept along the river, causing the lamps to flicker, when he suddenly asked,--"How is Ella? I quite forgot to ask after your wife." "I don't know," I replied, after a brief pause. "Don't know?" he echoed, looking at me, puzzled. "Why, what's the matter?" "She has left me," I answered gravely. "Left you!" he cried, removing his cigar and staring at me. "Have you quarrelled?" "No. On my return home one night in January I found a note of farewell from her. I have heard nothing of her since. Mrs Laing disappeared on the same day." "Disappeared!" he gasped. My announcement had caused him the greatest consternation, for he stood agape. "Have you no idea of the reason?" "None whatever," I replied. Then confidentially I told him of Ella's mysterious absences, her walk in Kensington Gardens, and her letters from the unknown individual who had met her so frequently, omitting, however, all mention either of the theft or recovery of the secret convention, for it was Lord Warnham's wish that I should keep the existence of that instrument a profound secret. "Have you no idea who this strange fellow is?" he inquired, sympathetically. "Not the slightest," I said. "Ella was not addicted to flirtation," he observed reflectively, a few moments later. "As you are aware, I have been acquainted with the family for some years, and have known your wife ever since she could toddle." "Tell me of them," I urged impatiently. "I know scarcely anything beyond what Ella and her mother have told me. What do you know of Ella's past?" "You speak as if you suspected her to be an adventuress," he said, and as the lamplight fell upon his face I saw that his lips relaxed into a good-humoured smile. "As far as I'm aware there is no incident of her life prior to marriage that will not bear the fullest investigation; and as for her mother, no more straightforward nor upright woman ever lived. Before poor Robert Laing died I was a frequent visitor at their country house, so I had ample opportunity of noticing what an affectionate family they were; and after his death it was I who succeeded in turning his great business into a limited liability concern." To outsiders Beck was a swaggering parvenu, who delighted in exhibiting his wealth to others by giving expensive dinners and indulging in extravagances of speech and beverage; but towards me he had always been honestly outspoken and unassuming--in fact, a typical successful business man, with whose unruffled good humour I had, even when madly jealous of his attentions to Ella, found it impossible to quarrel. I had long ago grown to ridicule the suggestion that any secret had existed between them, and now felt instinctively that he was my friend. "Do you think--" I asked him, after a long pause. "Candidly speaking, have you any suspicion that Dudley Ogle was her lover?" He knit his brows. For an instant a hard expression played about his mouth, and he drew a long breath. "I didn't, of course, know so much of Dudley as you did," he answered, slowly contemplating the end of his cigar. "But to tell you the honest truth, I always suspected that he loved her. In fact her own evidence at the inquest was sufficient proof of that." "His death was an enigma," I observed. "Entirely so," he acquiesced, sighing. "She alleged that he had been murdered, and there is no room for doubt that she entertained certain very grave suspicions." "Of what?" "Of the identity of the murderer," I said. "She declared to me, times without number, that she would never rest until she had unravelled the mystery." "Her theory was a very wild one," he laughed. "Personally, I do not entertain it for one moment. The medical opinion that he died from a sudden but natural cause is undoubtedly correct," he said, replacing his dead cigar between his lips, as, slowly striking a vesta, he re-lit it. Then he added, "Her anxiety to avenge Dudley's death certainly seems to bear out your suspicion that they were lovers." "Then you entirely agree with me?" I cried. "In a measure only," he answered, his voice suddenly harsh and cold. "I have no suspicion that she ever reciprocated his affection, although in seeking to learn the truth of your friend's tragic end she must have had some very strong motive." "Another fact I also discovered was a trifle curious," I observed, after we had strolled along the deserted Terrace from end to end, discussing the details of Dudley's death, and the manner in which it had affected her. "What was it?" he inquired, glancing towards me. "I found that she was in the habit of visiting every day a pretty Russian girl with whom I was acquainted." "Before marriage?" he asked, raising his eyebrows meaningly. "Yes," I answered. "She was a refugee, and I had been enabled to render her father a service some time before; therefore we had become friends. I had lost sight of her for a long time, and when I again met her I discovered that she had not only been an intimate friend of poor Dudley, but that Ella visited her frequently on her bicycle when she was supposed by her mother to be riding in the Park." "Was there anything remarkable in that fact?" he inquired, with a half-amused air, nevertheless regarding me with undue keenness, I thought. "Nothing, except that the little Russian, who, having lost her father, was living a lonely life in a rather large house in Kensington, warned me against Ella, telling me she was my enemy. She, however, left without fulfilling her promise to reveal the details." "Your enemy!" he cried, laughing jocosely. "She was evidently jealous of your attentions to her, my boy. A Russian, too! She was a Nihilist, I suppose, or some interestingly romantic person of that sort, eh? Surely you didn't heed what she said, did you?" "Of course not," I replied, with a forced laugh. "I loved Ella too well; so I married her." "And you now regret it," he added abruptly. Without replying I walked on by his side, smoking furiously. My object in seeking him had been to learn what I could of Ella's past, but no mysterious incident had, to his knowledge, occurred. Her family were well-known in Yorkshire, respected throughout the county, and no breath of scandal had ever besmirched the fair fame of either Robert Laing's widow or his daughter. Beck, their intimate friend, concealed nothing from me, but frankly discussed my hopes and fears, expressing his heartfelt sympathy that I should have thus mysteriously lost my well-beloved, and offering me all the assistance that lay in his power. "It certainly is extremely curious that Mrs Laing should have left Pont Street without sending me a letter to the club, giving me her new address," he said calmly, after reflection. "You have not, then, heard from her?" "No, I have had no letter. A week before I left for South Africa I dined there, and she then told me that she intended to remain in England throughout the year. She expressed the greatest gratification that Ella had married so happily, and seemed in the best of spirits. Yet a few days later, it appears, she fled as secretly as if she had been a criminal. It is really very extraordinary; I can't account for it in the least." "All effort to trace Ella has failed," I observed gloomily, after a moment's reflection. "Whose aid have you sought? A private inquiry agent?" "No. The police," I answered. "Police!" he exclaimed, surprised. "They have committed no crime, surely. I--I mean that the police do not trace missing friends." "They will carry out the orders of any Government Department," I answered. "The request came from my chief." "From Lord Warnham! Then you have told him!" "Of course," I responded. In contemplative silence he slowly blew a great cloud of smoke from his lips. Then he said, "There is one thing you haven't told me, Geoffrey. What was the name of this pretty Russian who made these mysterious allegations against Ella?" "Her name was Sonia Korolenko." "Sonia Korolenko!" he cried in a voice strangely hoarse, halting and glaring at me with wide-open, staring eyes. "Sonia! And she has gone, you say?" "Yes. She has returned to Russia, I believe. But what do you know of her?" I quickly inquired. "Nothing. I merely know her by repute as a notorious woman, that's all," he answered. "You were certainly wise to discard her allegations." "Is she such a well-known person?" I asked. "I should rather think so," he answered, elevating his eyebrows. "Her fame has spread all over the Continent. She was leader of a certain circle of questionable society in Vienna a year ago, and narrowly escaped falling into the hands of the police." "But what can have induced Ella to associate with her?" I exclaimed in wonderment. "Ah! That is more than we can tell," he answered, in a tone of sincere regret. "The ways of women of her type are ofttimes utterly incomprehensible." "Were you aware that Ella was acquainted with her?" I inquired earnestly. At that moment, however, the electric gongs along the Terrace commenced ringing sharply, announcing that the House was about to divide. The division was upon an important amendment, and had been expected at any moment since the dinner-hour. Turning back quickly he hurried through the tea-room along the corridor, and shaking hands with me in haste, promising to resume our conversation on another occasion, disappeared to record his vote. For a single instant I stood alone in the Lobby, watching the receding figure of the portly man of the hour, and pondering deeply. Then, full of gloomy recollections of the past, I turned on my heel and went out through the long, echoing hall. CHAPTER TWENTY SIX. A MISSION AND ITS SEQUEL. "You fully understand the position, Deedes?" "Absolutely," I replied. "Well, this is your first mission abroad--a secret one and most important--so do your best, and let me see how you shape towards being a diplomatist. Remember you have one main object to bear in mind, as I have already told you; and further, that the strictest secrecy is absolutely necessary." It was the Earl of Warnham who thus spoke gravely as we stood opposite one another in the private room of the Minister in attendance at Osborne. Between us was a large table littered with state documents, each of which Her Majesty had carefully investigated before appending her firm, well-written signature. Late on the previous night I had travelled to the Isle of Wight in response to a telegram summoning me and my chief, who, after three rather protracted audiences of Her Majesty during the morning, had instructed me to proceed at once to Paris, entrusting me with a secret mission. Lord Gaysford, the Under Secretary, would undoubtedly have gone, but as he was away in Scotland attending some election meetings, and as time was pressing, I had, much to my gratification, been chosen. My mission was a rather curious one, not unconnected with Her Majesty's personal affairs, and the instructions I had to deliver to the Marquis of Worthorpe, our Ambassador to the French Republic, were of such a delicate nature that if written in a formal dispatch would, the Earl feared, cause that skilled and highly-valued diplomatist to send in his resignation. I had therefore been chosen to put a suggestion politely to his Excellency, and at the same time deliver the Earl's instructions with deference, yet so firmly that they could not be disregarded. Mine was certainly a difficult task, nevertheless in my enthusiasm at being chosen to execute this secret mission abroad I was prepared to attempt anything, from the settlement of the Egyptian Question to the formation of a Quadruple Alliance. "I shall carry out your instructions to the best of my ability," I assured him, after he had given me various valuable hints how to act. "Yes," the aged Minister said, slowly gathering the tails of his black broadcloth frock coat over his arms and thrusting his hands into his pockets, "cross from Newhaven to-night, and you can see Worthorpe at noon to-morrow. Tell him to give you an interview alone; then explain what I have told you. He must obtain an audience of the President some time to-morrow." "I shall act as discreetly as possible," I declared. "I feel sure you will, Deedes," he exclaimed, with a look more kindly than usual. "This mission will, I hope, lead to others, further afield, perhaps. But remember that you were once victimised by a spy; therefore exercise the greatest care and caution in this and all matters." "I certainly shall," I answered, smiling; then, after the further discussion of a point upon which I was not perfectly clear, I wished my chief adieu. As I passed out of the room he said,-- "Put up at the Continental. If I have any further instructions, I'll wire in cypher." "Very well," I replied, and as I went forth I met on the threshold a servant in the royal livery who had come to summon the trusted Minister to another audience with his Sovereign. Eager to fulfil my mission to the satisfaction of the eccentric old statesman, who, if to others was a martinet, was to me a firm and sympathetic friend, I at once set out, crossed to Dieppe that night, and duly arrived in Paris next day. Shortly before noon I presented myself at the handsome official residence of the British Ambassador, and was quickly ushered into his presence. We were not strangers, having met on several occasions when he visited London and called to consult the chief; therefore he welcomed me cordially when I entered his private room. The Marquis was a tall, brown-bearded, pleasant-faced man, who had graduated in the Constantinople and Vienna schools of diplomacy before being appointed Ambassador in Paris, and who had achieved considerable reputation as a skilled negotiator of the most delicate points. Seated opposite one another in softly-padded armchairs, we chatted affably for perhaps a quarter of an hour. First, he inquired after our chief's health, and then endeavoured to ascertain from me the policy about to be pursued towards Russia in view of our recent strained relations, but I strenuously avoided answering any of his artfully-concealed questions. A dozen times, with that consummate tact acquired by a lifetime of diplomacy, he endeavoured to get me to hazard an opinion or express a doubt, but I always refused. Lord Warnham's instructions were that I should say nothing of those affairs of State which, in my capacity of private secretary, were well-known to me, hence my determination to maintain silence. Presently the Marquis smilingly exclaimed, "Lord Warnham has evidently taught you the first requisite of the successful diplomatist--namely, secrecy. You've borne well the test I have applied, Deedes. By the same questions I have just put to you I could have learnt just what I wanted from half the diplomatic circle here in Paris, yet you have fenced with me admirably. I shall not omit to mention the fact to Lord Warnham when next I call at the Foreign Office." I thanked his Excellency, adding, with a smile, "One learns the value of silence with our chief." "Yes," he answered, slowly tapping his table with a quill. "He's a curious man, extremely curious. His very eccentricity causes him to be feared by every Cabinet in Europe. Is he really as impetuous and strange in private life as he is in public?" I paused, looking fixedly into my companions dark eyes. "The object of my visit, your Excellency, is not to discuss the merits of my chief or the policy of the Home Government, but to make a suggestion which he has desired me to place before you with all deference to your wide experience as Ambassador, and your unequalled knowledge of the French people," I said gravely, and then, clearly and succinctly, I placed before him the Earl's ideas, together with the instructions he had entrusted me to deliver. At first the Ambassador, resenting my interference with his actions, seemed disinclined to entertain the suggestions; but using the arguments my chief had advanced, I at length induced him to view the matter from the same standpoint. I even obtained from him what was practically an admission that the policy he had pursued in the past regarding the question under discussion was not altogether sound, and once having obtained that, I felt confident of gaining my point without any unpleasant incident. From that moment, indeed, he recognised that I bore a message from the chief, therefore he treated me pleasantly, and announced his intention of seeking an audience with the President of the Republic at the Elysee at four o'clock, to enter upon negotiations which Her Majesty earnestly desired should be carried forward without delay. Although the Marquis treated me with calm, unruffled dignity, as befitted the Ambassador of the greatest nation on earth, I nevertheless congratulated myself that my efforts had been eminently successful. Aided by the promptings of the shrewd old Earl, I had, I flattered myself, exercised a careful and even delicate tact in dealing with this leader among diplomatists, and, as may be imagined, the knowledge that my mission was successful caused me the utmost satisfaction. When I had first approached the subject he had been inclined to disregard my words, and grew so angry that I feared lest he might tender his resignation, as the Earl had apprehended. But the Minister's clever arguments, rather than my own tact, convinced him, for he saw that to act at once was imperative; hence the success of my first secret mission. We sat together for nearly an hour calmly discussing the matter from various standpoints, and when we rose his Excellency again congratulated me upon the soundness of my views, laughingly declaring that, instead of penning the Earl's impatient and irritating dispatches, he ought to appoint me to a post abroad. Full of elation, I descended the broad stairs, so thickly carpeted that my feet fell noiselessly, and met unexpectedly, a few moments later, my friend Captain Cargill, of the 2nd Life Guards, the junior Military Attache, who greeted me with a hearty British hand-grip. "Didn't expect to meet you here, old chap," he cried. "I thought you were tied up in the chief's private room always, and never allowed out of England." "This is the first time I've been here officially," I replied, laughing. "What's the trouble? Anything startling?" he inquired. "No, nothing very extraordinary," I remarked, carelessly. "I've seen the Marquis, and concluded my mission." Continuing, I extracted from him a promise to dine with me at the Continental that evening, as I intended to leave next day, and after a brief conversation we parted. Along the shady side of the Rue du Faubourg St Honore I strolled leisurely, turning into the Rue Royale, passing the gloomy facade of the Madeleine, and continuing along the boulevard to the Grand Cafe. Paris possessed but little attraction for me in my gloomy frame of mind. Five years of my youth had been spent there, and I knew the city in every mood, but to-day, plunged as I was in a debauch of melancholy, its gay aspect under the warm sunshine jarred upon me. On leaving the Embassy it had occurred to me to call upon an old friend, who, in my student days, had shared rooms with me, but who had been returned as Deputy at the last election, and now lived in the Rue des Petits-Champs. With that object I had walked along mechanically, and instead of turning down the Rue des Capucines, as I should have done, I had found myself in the Place de l'Opera. Then, seating myself at one of the tables in front of the Grand Cafe, I ordered a "bock," and contemplatively watched the crowd of passers-by. When last I had sat at that spot it was with Ella, on the night before we had returned to London from our honeymoon. Well I remembered how happy and content she had then been; how she had enjoyed the light, cosmopolitan chatter about her, and how fondly we had loved each other. In those days she had mingled tender words with her kisses, which seemed to bear my soul away. Yet how weary and full of terrible anxiety had been the nine months that had elapsed since that delightful autumn night, the last of our lazy tour through rural France. When I reflected upon all the remarkable occurrences, they seemed like some hideous nightmare, while she herself appeared striking, yet mysterious, as the fair vision in some half-remembered dream. Thus was I sitting alone at the little marble-topped table, gazing into space, wondering, as I did daily, how my lost wife fared, and whether she ever gave a single passing thought to the man who, notwithstanding all her faults and follies, loved her better than his life, when before my eyes there arose for a second a face that in an instant was familiar. A man, short of stature and well-dressed, had lounged leisurely by with a cigarette, but scarcely had he walked a dozen yards beyond the cafe when I jumped up, and rushing along, accosted him. It was Ivan Renouf. He turned sharply at mention of his name, regarding me with an inquiring glance, but next second expressed pleasure at our meeting. Together we returned to the cafe, and chatted amicably over a mazagran. Presently, after we had been speaking of our last interview at Mrs Laing's, I asked him the truth about his sudden dismissal from her service. "What your wife told you was quite correct," he answered, with a mysterious smile; "I was detected." "You are generally too wary to be caught by those upon whom you are keeping observation," I remarked. Slowly he selected a fresh cigarette, and laughing carelessly, answered,-- "It was not by accident but by design that I was caught. My object was already attained, and I desired to be discharged at once from madame's service." "She left London almost immediately," I said. "Yes, I am quite aware of that. It was best for her," he observed, rather abruptly. "My wife also fled on the same day," I exclaimed slowly. "I haven't seen her since." At this announcement he betrayed no surprise, but merely remarked, "So I have heard." "Tell me," I urged earnestly, "do you know anything of her movements? I am endeavouring to find her, and am in utter despair." With a sharp glance at me, the great detective stirred his long glass, raised it to his lips, and took a deep draught. Then, slowly replacing it upon the table, he coldly answered,-- "I know nothing of your wife's whereabouts, m'sieur." "Am I to understand that you refuse to tell me anything?" I asked, annoyed. He shrugged his shoulders, but answered no word. I detested him instinctively. "Is it not strange that they should both have fled in this extraordinary manner?" I suggested. "Can you assign any motive whatever for their flight?" "I am really not good at conundrums," he replied indifferently. "But if you took my advice, m'sieur, you would abandon all thought of her, for at least one fact was quite plain, namely, that mademoiselle never loved you." "How do you know that?" I cried, with sinking heart, as the ghastly truth was forced upon me for the thousandth time. "From my own observations," he answered, looking straight at me across the table. "Your marriage was, I am fully aware, an unhappy one; therefore you should regard it entirely as of the past. She will never trouble you again, I can assure you." "Why?" I demanded. "Your words indicate that you are fully aware of the true facts. Tell me all, Renouf, and set my mind at rest." "I have told you all, m'sieur," he said, suddenly tossing his cigarette away, glancing at his watch and rising. "That is, I have told you all that I may. But I have an appointment," he added abruptly. "Adieu." And before I could prevent him he had raised his hat with a show of politeness, and walked hurriedly off across the broad Place in the direction of the Boulevard des Italiens. In chagrin I bit my lip, for instead of giving me any clue to the hiding-place of my errant wife, his words only tended to increase my mistrust and despair. Was not, however, his refusal only what I might have expected? I rose and slowly walked away down the Rue Auber, deeply reflecting upon his denunciation of Ella's faithlessness. What motive could he have, I wondered, in thus declaring that she had never loved me? That night Cargill dined with me, and after taking our coffee and liqueurs in the courtyard of the Continental, watching the well-dressed crowd of idlers who assemble there nightly after dinner, we strolled out along the brightly-lit streets, where all Paris was enjoying the cool, star-lit evening after the heat and burden of the day. Our footsteps led us unconsciously to that Mecca of the Briton or American resident in Paris, the Hotel Chatham, and entering the American bar we found assembled there a number of mutual acquaintances. At one of the small wooden tables sat my old and valued friend, Henry Allender, counsel to the United States Embassy in Paris, a man universally liked in both British and American colonies of the French capital, and opposite him a short, stout, round-faced Frenchman, attired in grey, and wearing the Legion of Honour in his lapel--Monsieur Goron, the well-known Chief of Police. From both I received a cordial welcome, and as we sat down to chat over cocktails carefully mixed by the deft, loquacious bar-tender, Tommy, I took up _Le Monde Illustre_, lying upon the table, and opened it carelessly. Several pages I had turned over, when suddenly my eyes fell upon a full-page illustration of a beautiful woman in evening dress, with a fine diamond tiara upon her head. The features were unmistakable. With an involuntary cry that startled my companions, I sat rigid and motionless, glaring at it in abject dismay. The portrait itself did not surprise me so much as the amazing words printed beneath. The latter held me spellbound. CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. COSMOPOLITANS. "Why, what's the matter, old chap?" inquired Cargill, bending forward quickly to glance at the journal. "You look as if you've got an acute attack of the jim-jams." "See!" I gasped hoarsely, pointing to the printed page upon which my strained eyes had riveted themselves. "Deucedly pretty woman," declared the attache, who was nothing if not a ladies' man. Few men were better known in Paris than Hugh Cargill. "Yes, yes, I know," I exclaimed impatiently. I was sitting dumbfounded, the words beneath the picture dancing before my vision in letters of fire. The portrait that seemed to smile mockingly at me was a reproduction of a photograph of Ella. The handsome, regular features were unmistakable. With the exception of the magnificent tiara, the ornaments she wore I recognised as belonging to her. All were now in my possession, alas! for on leaving me she had discarded them, and with ineffable sadness I had locked them away in a small cabinet. The jewel-case containing her wedding-ring was a veritable skeleton in my cupboard that I dare not gaze upon. The picture was undoubtedly that of my lost wife, yet beneath was printed in French the words,-- "Her Imperial Highness the Grand Duchess Elizaveta Nicolayevna of Russia." "Look!" I cried, my eye still upon the page. "Surely there's some mistake! That can't be the Grand Duchess!" Allender and Cargill bent simultaneously over the little table, and both declared that there was no mistake. "She's very well-known here," exclaimed the attache. "I've seen her driving her Orloff ponies in the Bois dozens of times. Besides, one never forgets such a face as hers." "Does she live here?" I inquired breathlessly. "Sometimes," he answered; and smiling behind the veil of tobacco smoke, he added, "She's been away a long time now. I suppose you want an introduction to her--eh? Well, I don't expect you'll be successful, as her circle is the most select in Paris. She never invites any of the `corps diplomatique.'" "No," I answered huskily, "I desire no introduction." A sudden giddiness had seized me. The jingle of glasses, the incessant chatter, the loud laughter, and the heavy smoke of cigars had combined with this sudden and bewildering discovery to produce a slight faintness. I took up a glass of ice-water at my elbow and gulped it down. "Do you know her?" inquired Allender, with a pronounced American accent, at the same time regarding me curiously. "Yes," I answered, not without hesitation. "She is--I mean we have already met." "Well, you're to be congratulated," he answered, smiling. "I reckon she's the finest looking woman in Paris, and that's a solid fact." Without replying I slowly turned over the page, and there saw a brief article with the same heading as the legend beneath the portrait. Cargill and Allender were attracted at that moment by the entry of one of their friends, a wealthy young man who, with his wife, had forsaken Ohio for residence in the French capital, and while they chatted I eagerly scanned the article, which ran as follows,-- "Paris will welcome the return of Her Imperial Highness the Grand Duchess Elizaveta Nicolayevna of Russia, whose portrait we give on another page. For nearly nine months her great house in the Avenue des Champs Elysees, the scene of so many brilliant _fetes_ during her last residence there, has been closed, but she arrived in Paris about ten days ago, and has announced her intention of remaining among us until the end of the year. As our readers are no doubt aware, Her Imperial Highness, niece of the late Tzar Alexander, and cousin of the present Czar, is an excellent linguist, speaking English and French perfectly, in addition to her native Russian. She was born at Tzarskoie-Selo, but her early days were spent in England. She, however, prefers Paris to either London or St Petersburg, although in the latter city her entertainments at the mansion on the English Quay are on a scale almost as brilliant as those at the Winter Palace itself. Her beauty is incomparable, and her diamonds among the finest in Europe. Her munificence to the poor of Paris is well-known. Although moving in the highest circle, she does not fear to go herself into the very vilest slums, accompanied by her trusty Muscovite man-servant, and there distribute relief to the deserving from her own purse. Both the needy and the wealthy therefore welcome her on her return." I re-read the article. Then I sat with the paper before me, staring at it in blank bewilderment. The surprising discovery held me petrified. This beautiful woman, who had masqueraded as Ella Laing, and had become my wife by law, was actually the daughter of a reigning house, the cousin of an Emperor. The astounding truth seemed incredible. "Well," asked Cargill, turning to me with a smile a moment later, "have you been reading all about her?" "Yes," I answered, drawing a long breath. "Come, don't sigh like that, old fellow," he cried, and glancing across to the bar, shouted, "Mix another dry Martini, Tommy, for my friend." To affect indifference I strove vainly. Nevertheless, I listened with eager ears as my three companions commenced discussing the merits of the high-born woman who was my wife. To me she was no longer Ella. Her personality, so vivid and distinct, seemed in those moments of perplexity to fade like the memory of some half-remembered dream. "Her beauty is simply marvellous," Allender acknowledged, smoking on in his dry, matter-of-fact way. He was not more than thirty-eight, but by sheer merit as a sound lawyer and a thorough good fellow, he had risen to the lucrative post he held, and had, in the course of five years, formed a large and valuable practice and a wide circle of friends among the English-speaking colonies in the French capital. "I entirely agree with m'sieur," observed Monsieur Goron, in his broken English. "Her Highness is very beautiful, but, ah--cold as an icicle." "Is there no scandal regarding her?" I inquired eagerly, well knowing that in Paris no woman is considered really _chic_ without some story being whispered about her. "None," replied the renowned investigator of Anarchist conspiracies. "I have the pleasure of knowing Her Highness, and I have always found her a most estimable young lady. There is, however," he added, "some curious romance, I believe, connected with her earlier life." "A romance?" cried Cargill. "Do tell us all about it." "Ah, unfortunately I do not know the details," answered the old Frenchman, suddenly exhibiting his palms. "It was alleged once by somebody I met officially--who it was, I really forget. She lived for years in England, and is a cosmopolitan thoroughly, besides being one of the richest women in Paris." "Is it true that she sometimes goes into the low quarters of the city and gives money to the poor?" I asked him, for this love of midnight adventure accounted for Ella's strange penchant for rambling alone at night that had once caused me so much perturbation. "Certainly. With her, philanthropy is a fad. I accompanied her on several occasions last year," he replied. "She attired herself in an old, worn-out dress of one of her maids, and disguised herself most effectually. On each night she distributed about five thousand francs with her own hands. Indeed, so well-known is she in certain quarters that I believe she might go there alone with perfect safety. However, when she is going we always know at the Prefecture, and take precautions. It would not do for us to allow anything to happen to an Imperial Highness," he added. "Of course not," observed Cargill, adding with the diplomatic instinct, "Of course. Not in view of the Franco-Russian Alliance," an observation at which we all three laughed merrily. "Has she a lover?" inquired Allender, turning to Monsieur Goron. "I think not," the other replied. "I never heard of one. Indeed, I have never heard her accused of flirtation with anybody." "Tell me, m'sieur," I asked, "are you acquainted with a Russian named Ivan Renouf, who is, I believe, in the secret service." "Renouf!" he repeated, glancing quickly at me with his steel-blue eyes. "Yes, I have met him. He is in Paris at the present moment. Whether he is in the actual service of the Tzar's Government I don't know, but one thing is certain, namely, that he is a blackmailer and a scoundrel," he added frankly. "What offence has he committed?" I asked, eager to learn some fact to his detriment. "He keeps well within the bounds of the law," my companion answered. "Nevertheless he is utterly unscrupulous and most ingenious in his methods. He is reported to be chief of the section of Secret Police attached to the Russian Embassy, but they are a mysterious lot of spies, always coming and going. Sent here from St Petersburg, they remain a few months, watching the revolutionary refugees, and then go back, their places being taken by a fresh batch." "Why is Renouf in Paris? Have you any idea?" "None, m'sieur," Monsieur Goron answered. "He has been absent fully six months, and only last night I met him coming out of La Scala." "Did you speak?" "Yes. He did not, however, recognise me," smiled the Chief of Police. "I did not expect he would, as I chanced to be acting as a cabman, and was sitting upon my box outside the theatre. He hailed me, but I refused to drive him. I was waiting for a fare who was enjoying himself inside, and who, on coming out, I had the pleasure of driving straight to the Prefecture," added the man of a thousand disguises with a chuckle, swallowing his cocktail in one gulp. "Where does the Grand Duchess live?" I inquired, after a slight pause. "Deedes is simply gone on her," cried Cargill, with good-humoured banter. "He evidently wants to take her out to dinner." "No," I protested, smiling grimly. "Nothing of the kind. I only want to know whereabouts in the Avenue des Champs Elysees she lives." "It is a large white house, with green jalousies, on the left-hand side, just beyond the Avenue de l'Alma," explained the Chief of Police, laughing at Cargill's suggestion. "But how did you become acquainted with her?" inquired the attache, presently, after my companions had been praising her face and extolling her virtues. "We met in London," I answered vaguely, for I was in no confidential mood. "And she captivated you, eh?" my friend exclaimed. "Well, I'm not surprised. Half Paris goes mad over her beauty whenever she's here." "It is said, and I believe there's a good deal of truth in it," exclaimed Goron, confidentially, "that young Max Duchanel, the well-known writer on the _Figaro_, committed suicide last year by shooting himself over at Le Pre St Gervais because she disregarded his attentions. At any rate an extravagant letter of reproach and farewell was discovered in his pocket. We hushed up the matter because of the position of the personage therein mentioned." At least one man had paid with his life the penalty of his devotion to her. Did not this fact force home once again the truth of Sonia's disregarded denunciation that Ella was not my friend? It was now plain how neatly I had been tricked; and with what artful ingenuity she had masqueraded as my wife. Monsieur Grodekoff, the Russian Ambassador, Paul Verblioudovitch, and Ivan Renouf all knew her true position, yet feared to tell me. Indeed, my friend Paul had urged me to marry and forgot the past, and his Excellency had actually congratulated us both with outstretched hand. Because she was so well-known in Paris she had, while on our honeymoon, only remained in the capital the night, and had refused to go shopping or show herself unnecessarily. She had preferred a quiet, unfashionable hotel in a by-street to any of those well-known; and I now remembered how, even then, she had remained in her room, pleading fatigue and headache. From our first meeting to the moment of her flight her attitude had been that of a consummate actress. "Did Her Highness pass under another name in London?" Goron asked me presently, appearing much interested. "Yes," I replied. "Ah!" he ejaculated. "She is perfectly charming, and so fond of concealing her real position beneath the most ordinary patronymic. To me, she is always so affable and so nice." "Goron is sweet on her also, I believe," observed Allender, whereat we all laughed in chorus. I struggled to preserve an outward show of indifference, but every word these men uttered stabbed my heart deeply. When I had ascertained the whereabouts of her house, my first impulse had been to rush out, drive there, and meet her face to face, but my nerves were, I knew, upset and unsteady, so I remained sitting with my light-hearted companions, endeavouring amid that jingle, popping of corks, and chatter of London, New York and Paris, to think deeply and decide upon the best course to pursue. "Our chief sent her invitations to the Embassy balls on several occasions a year ago, but she declined each," I heard the attache saying. "She's a royalty, so I suppose she thinks herself just a cut above us. But, after all, I don't blame her," he added, reflectively. "Diplomacy is but the art of lying artistically. She has no need to struggle for a foothold in society." "Correct," observed Allender. "The women who flutter around at our Embassy are the gayest crowd I've ever struck. I reckon they're not of her set. But she's a very fine woman, even though she may be a Highness. She's simply beautiful. I've seen some fine women in my day, but for thrilling a man's soul and driving him to distraction, I never saw anyone to compare with her." "That's so," Cargill acquiesced. "Yet her refusal to come to us has often been remarked by our chief, especially as we've entertained a crowd of other princesses and high nobilities at one time or another." "She has a reason, I suppose," observed Goron, slowly twisting his eternal caporal. "Goron appears to know all her secrets," said Cargill, winking at me knowingly. "He trots her about Paris at night, and she confides in him all her little anxieties and fears. A most charming arrangement." The astute officer, who, by his energetic action, had succeeded in effectually stamping out the Anarchist activity, smiled and raised both his hands in protest, crying,-- "No, no, messieurs! It is in you younger men that the pretty women confide. As for me, I am old, fat and ugly." "But you act as the protector of the philanthropic Elizaveta Nicolayevna," observed Cargill, "therefore, when you next see her, tell her how her portrait in _Le Monde_ has been admired by an impressionable young Englishman, named Deedes, and present to her the compliments and profound admiration of all three of us." "Don't do anything of the kind, Goron," I cried, rather angrily. "Remember I know the lady, and such words would be an insult." "Very well, if you're really going to call on her, you might convey our message," exclaimed the attache, nonchalantly. "You're not jealous, are you?" "I don't think there's any need for jealousy," I responded. Goron laughed heartily at this retort. He was more shrewd than the others, and I instinctively felt that he had guessed that Her Highness and myself were a little more than chance-met acquaintances. But the others continued their fooling, happy, careless, bubbling over with buoyant spirits. Many good fellows frequent the bar of the Chatham, one of the most cosmopolitan resorts in Europe. Many adventurers and "dead beats" make it their headquarters, but of all that merry, easy-going crowd of men with money, and those in want of it, to find two men more popular and more generous than Hugh Cargill and Henry Allender would have been difficult. As we still sat together smoking and drinking, the pair directed their chaff continually in my direction. Evidently believing that the incomparable beauty of Her Highness had fascinated me, they urged me to go to her and suggest a drive in the Bois, a quiet little dinner somewhere, or a box at the opera. Little did they dream how every jesting word they uttered pained me, how each laugh at my expense caused me excruciating anguish, or how any detrimental allegation, spoken unthinkingly, sank deeply into my mind. But I had never worn my heart on my sleeve, therefore I treated their banter with good humour, determined that, at least for the present, they should remain in ignorance of the fact that I was the husband of the woman whose adorable face and charming manner had excited universal admiration in the gayest capital of the world. CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT. HER IMPERIAL HIGHNESS. Until we rose and separated I succeeded in hiding my sorrow beneath a smile, but when at length I had shaken hands with my companions at the corner of the Rue de la Paix, and to my relief found myself once more alone walking across the Place Vendome, with the black column standing out before me in the bright moonlight, my outburst of grief became uncontrollable. My heart, lancinated by the careless words of my companions, had been burdened by a bitterness rendered the more poignant because I had been compelled to laugh with them. Now that I had proof that Ella was not what she had represented herself to be--an affectionate, unassuming woman of my own station--I felt crushed, bewildered and disconsolate, for with the knowledge of our difference of birth the iron had entered my soul. The manner in which she had posed as daughter of the pleasant-faced widow of Robert Laing, and her calm, dignified bearing as my wife, had been a most perfect piece of acting. Never for one moment had I suspected her to be anything else than what she represented herself to be--plain Ella Laing, the only daughter of the deceased shipowner; yet she was actually a daughter of the Romanoffs, the most powerful and wealthy house in Europe. As I strolled slowly along the Rue Castiglione towards the hotel, I asked myself whether she had ever really loved me. At first I doubted her, because of the difference of our stations. Presently, however, when I recollected the perfect bliss of our honeymoon, when I remembered how childishly happy we had been together through those brief autumn days, in the sleepy old towns and villages of the Indre, content in each other's joys, I could not longer declare within myself that hers had been mere theatrical emotion. Yes, she had loved me then, this high-born woman, over whose beauty half Paris raved, and I, in my ignorance, had fondly imagined our love would last always. The experiment of the masquerade had amused her at first, perhaps, but soon, alas! she had grown tired of life in a ten-roomed house in a quiet road in Kensington, and with a brief, cruel farewell had returned to her jewel-case the ring I had placed upon her slim finger, and left me with ruthless disregard for all the love I had bestowed upon her. Yet after all, was it really surprising that she, the daughter of an Imperial House, should become weary of the humdrum life she had been compelled to lead with one whose private income, outside his salary, was a paltry nine hundred a year? While we lived together, she had apparently exercised the greatest caution not to show herself possessed of money, for she always did her shopping in Kensington High Street, with due regard to economy, as became the wife of a man of limited means. Never once had she grumbled or sighed because she could not purchase higher-priced hats or dresses, but, always content, she had, I remembered, been proud to exhibit to me those odds-and-ends picked up in drapers' shops, so dear to the feminine heart, and known as bargains. When I had regretted my small income, as I had done more than once, she had fondly kissed me, declaring herself perfectly willing to wait until I had obtained a diplomatic and more lucrative appointment. "You have an excellent friend in the Earl," she would say, smiling sweetly. "He is certain to give you a post before long. Be patient." I had been patient, and had lost her. Plunged in deep despair, I turned into the courtyard of the hotel, and sat down to think. As I did so a servant handed me a telegram. It was from Lord Warnham at Osborne, requesting my return on the morrow. The one thought that possessed me was that Ella--or the woman I had known and adored under that name--was in Paris. Could I leave without seeing her? She had deserted me, it was true, yet my passion was at that moment as intense even as it had been in those calm autumn days when we had wandered together along the peaceful lanes around old-world Chateauroux, hand-in-hand, in sweet contentment. In those never-to-be-forgotten hours we both possessed the delights of love and fever of happiness. To us everything was passion, ecstasy and delirium. We both felt as if we were living in a rose-coloured atmosphere; the heights of sentimentality glistened in our imaginations, and common everyday existence appeared to us to be far down below in the distance-- in the shade between the gaps in these heights. I still felt the softness of that tiny hand I had so often pressed to my lips; I still felt the clasp of her arms about my neck; I still saw her deep blue eyes gazing into mine as we interchanged vows of eternal fidelity. The cry of a man selling the _Soir_ aroused me. I rose suddenly. Yes, I must see her again. I must see her, if for the last time. Stepping into a cab, I directed the man to drive to her house, then, seating myself, glanced at my watch. It was already near midnight. Soon, with the clip-clap of the horse's hoofs sounding upon the asphalte, we were crossing the Place de la Concorde, rendered bright by its myriad lights, then entering the broad avenue we passed the lines of illuminated cafes half-hidden by the trees surrounding them, and, driving on for some ten minutes, at last pulled up among a number of private carriages that were setting down guests before a great mansion, where I alighted. One of those brilliant _fetes_ that were the talk of Paris was apparently about to commence, for many notabilities were arriving, and as I went forward to the spacious portico I was preceded by two pretty laughing girls attended by a tall and distinguished-looking man of military appearance. I drew back while they entered the great, brilliantly-lit hall with its fine marble staircase and profusion of exotics; then, when they had passed on, I inquired in French of the gigantic Russian concierge whether Her Highness was at home. "Yes, m'sieur," answered the man, gruffly, scanning me closely, noticing that I was attired in a suit of dark tweed, for so suddenly had I left England that I had had no time to take with me a claw-hammer coat. "Her Highness is at home, m'sieur, but she is engaged," he said, when he had thoroughly inspected me. I half drew my card-case from my pocket, but fearing lest she might not see me if she knew my name, I said,-- "Go to her, and say that a friend craves one moment of her time upon an important matter." "M'sieur gives no card?" he inquired, with a quick, interrogative look of suspicion. "No," I answered. He led me across the hall wherein hung an elaborate Russian ikon, down one long well-carpeted corridor and then along another, at last ushering me into a great apartment resplendent with mirrors, statuary and gilt furniture, the latter bearing embroidered upon the crimson backs of the chairs her monogram, "E.N," surmounted by a Russian coronet. In the costly inlaid cabinets were arranged many pieces of priceless china, the carpet was of rich turquoise blue, the tables of ebony were inlaid with silver, and over all electric lamps, dotted here and there, shaded by coral silk, shed a warm, subdued light. Near the four long windows that occupied one end of the great room was a grand piano, upon which two photographs in ormolu frames stood conspicuously. I crossed to look at them and discovered that one was my own, that she had evidently taken with her when she had so suddenly left my house, and the other a portrait of the man who had betrayed me--Dudley Ogle. Slowly my eyes wandered around the elegant apartment, unable to realise that this handsome, luxurious abode could actually be my wife's home. How mean and paltry indeed must our small drawing-room in Phillimore Gardens have appeared to her after all this stately magnificence and rigid etiquette. As I passed through the great mansion, one of the largest private residences in Paris, my nostrils had been greeted by the subtle odours of exotics, and upon my ears there had fallen the strains of an orchestra somewhere in the opposite wing of the building. Guests were evidently not shown to the side of the house where I had been conducted, for not a sound penetrated there. All was quiet, peaceful and stately. Suddenly, just as I bent to more closely examine Dudley's portrait, and had distinguished that it was a copy similar to the one I had seen in Sonia's possession, the door was thrown wide-open by a tall, liveried servant, who entered, and, bowing low, announced in stentorian tones,--"Her Imperial Highness Elizaveta Nicolayevna." The rapid frou-frou of silk sounded outside, and next second my wife and I stood face to face. In an instant the colour left her cheeks. She staggered as if she had been dealt a blow, but managing to regain her self-possession, she turned quickly to the servant, and in a frigid tone said,-- "Go, Anton. And see that I am not disturbed." The man, glancing at me for a moment in unfeigned surprise, bowed, and withdrew in silence. I stood motionless, gazing upon her, noting the beauty of her costume, the brilliance of her diamonds, and the deathly pallor of her adorable face. "Geoffrey!" she gasped at last. In a half-fearful whisper she repeated my name, adding, "So you have found me!" With a quick, impetuous movement she walked unevenly towards me, with rustling skirts and outstretched hands. It seemed to me, as I looked at her, as if my soul flew towards her, spreading at first like a wave around the outline of her head, and then, attracted by the whiteness of her breast, descended into her. "Yes," I said, slowly and gravely. "I have found you, Ella." "Ah, no!" she cried, advancing so close to me that the well-remembered odour of sampaguita intoxicated me. I felt her warm, passionate breath upon my cheek. "Do not call me longer by that false name. Forget it-- forget it all, and call me by my right name--Elizaveta." "It is impossible," I answered. "No, do not say that," she cried hoarsely. "I--I know I have deceived you, Geoffrey. I lied to you. But forgive me. Tell me that you will some day forget." "Think," I said, in a low, reproachful tone, my heart filled with grief to overflowing--"think how you have wrecked my life," I urged. "You masqueraded before me as a plain English girl; you married me and allowed me to adore you--ah! better than all the world besides--until you grew tired and left our poor, matter-of-fact home to reassume your true station--that of a Grand Duchess. You never loved me; but it amused you, I suppose, to become the wife of a man who was compelled to earn his livelihood. The economy you practised while with me was a new sensation to you, and your--" "Stop!" she cried vehemently, putting up her tiny hand to my mouth, as had been her habit long ago when she wished to arrest the flow of my words. "Stop! I cannot bear it! I tell you I did love you, Geoffrey. I love you now, dearer than life." "Then why did you practise such base deception?" I demanded. "Why did you leave me and cast aside my wedding-ring?" "I--I was compelled," she faltered. "Compelled!" I echoed, in a voice full of bitter sarcasm. "I do not-- indeed I cannot blame you for regretting the false step you took when you consented to become my wife, yet why you should have done this is to me utterly incomprehensible." "It will all be plain ere long," she assured me, in a low, intense voice. "If I had not loved you, I should never have become your wife." "But you were cruel to deceive me thus," I retorted. "It is my misfortune, Geoffrey, that I was born a Grand Duchess," she answered, looking straight at me with her deep blue eyes full of intense anxiety and sorrow. "It is not my fault. I swear I still love you with a love as honest and pure as ever a woman entertained towards a man." "But after deceiving me in every particular regarding both the past and the present, you thought fit to leave me," I went on ruthlessly. "Ah!" she exclaimed, as if reflecting, "I admit that I wronged you cruelly; yes, I admit it all, everything. Nevertheless, since we have parted, Geoffrey, I have recollected daily, with a thousand heartfelt regrets, the supreme joy of our married life. Ah! it was happiness, indeed, with you, the man I so dearly loved. But now," and she shrugged her shoulders, half-hidden in their pale blue chiffon, the movement causing her diamonds to gleam with fiery iridescence. "Now, without your love, I have happiness no longer. All is despair." "I have not forgotten. Every detail of our brief, joyous life together is still fresh in my memory," I declared sorrowfully. "Forgotten! How can either of us forget?" she cried impetuously, pushing back from her white brow her gold-brown hair, with its scintillating star. "Only in those few months spent by your side, Geoffrey, have I known what it is to really live and to love. Although I have been absent from you I have, nevertheless, known from time to time how you have fared, yet I dared not give you any sign as to my whereabouts, fearing that you would brand me as base and heartless. To you I must appear so, I know; yet, although we are separated, I am still your wife and you my husband. I still love you. Forgive me." And she stood before me with bent head in penitent attitude, her slight frame shaken by tremulous emotion. A lump rose in my throat. I felt choked by the intoxication of her love, for I idolised her. Yet I knew that, although my wife, she could never be the same to me as in those blissful days in Kensington before the shadow of suspicion fell between us. "You are silent, Geoffrey," she whispered hoarsely at last, starting at the sound of her own voice. Then, throwing her soft arms about my neck, she clung to me passionately, as she was wont to do in those bygone days of happiness, saying, "You cannot deny that you still care for me--that I am yours. Yet you are thinking of the past; of what you regard as my base faithlessness! My actions were, I admit, full of apparent ingratitude. Yes, I cast your great love beneath my feet and trampled it in the mire, not because I am what I am, I swear, but because such action was imperative--because I was striving for my emancipation." "Your emancipation?" I exclaimed, with a touch of anger. "From your marriage vows, it seems." "Ah, no!" cried the Grand Duchess, throwing back her white neck, which rose with her hot, panting breath. "No, no, not that! I struggled to free myself from a tie so hateful that I believe I should have killed myself were it not that I loved you so fondly, and hoped that some day happiness would again be ours. But, alas! I strove in vain; for, when within an ace of success, you became filled with suspicion and accused me of unfaithfulness, while it became imperative, almost at the same moment, that I should return to the position I had sought to relinquish. Since I fled from you I have lived on from day to day full of bitter regrets and in constant fear lest you should discover that I was not what I represented myself to be, and come here to demand an explanation. Well, at last you have come, and--and all I can now do is to assure you that I acted in our mutual interests, and to implore your forgiveness." I still gazed at her without replying. "Forgive me, Geoffrey," she repeated. "One cannot get accustomed to the loss of happiness, and I cannot live without you; indeed, I cannot. Say that we may begin again, that, even though we must for the present be parted, we may still love and live for each other. See! I am laughing and am happy," she cried hysterically. "Speak! Do speak to me?" Tears were trembling in her deep, wonderful eyes like dewdrops in the calix of a blue flower, and without knowing what I did, I stroked her silky hair. Slowly she bent her head, and at last I softly kissed her eyelids. "Yes," I said huskily, "I love you, Ella--for I can call you by no other name, and cannot think of you other than as the woman I believed you to be. I can see that although we are man and wife in the eyes of the law, that you were right to end the folly, even though you were unable to do it without some pangs of conscience. You are my wife, it is true, but our lives lie apart, for your position precludes you from acknowledging me to the world as your husband. You--" "Yes, I will. I will, Geoffrey! Soon I shall be freed from this terrible yoke that crushes me beneath its burden," she exclaimed eagerly. "Be patient, and ere long we may again live together and enjoy our happiness to the full. You still doubt that I really love you. You believe that my marriage was a mere freak, of which I afterwards repented, and then strove to hide my identity. What can I do?" she cried, dismayed. "What can I do to give you proof that I love no other man?" "One very small action," I answered gravely, still holding her slight, trembling form in my arms. "What is it?" she inquired quickly, glancing up into my face. "I am ready to do it, whatever it is." For a moment I paused in hesitation. "Answer me a single question, Ella," I said. "Remember you are my wife, and should have no secrets from me. Tell me, truthfully and honestly, how there came into your possession the secret document that was stolen from me on the day of Dudley's death." The colour left her face, her lips moved, and a slight shiver ran over her shoulders as she gazed at me. Never before had her eyes seemed so large, nor had there been such depths in them. Some subtle influence seemed in an instant to have transfigured her whole being. CHAPTER TWENTY NINE. THE SEAL OF SILENCE. "No, you must not ask me, for I cannot tell you," she faltered, after I had gravely repeated my earnest inquiry. She shrank from my embrace, and as she stood before me, her handsome head was bent in an attitude of utter dejection. "Ah, the same lame story?" I cried impatiently. "You refuse." She raised her sad eyes. I saw in their clear depths a yearning for pity. "I dare not tell you yet, Geoffrey," she whispered, in a strained, terrified voice. "You know well how much keen anxiety the loss of that document caused me," I said. "Why did you not tell me that it was in your keeping?" "It was not in my keeping," she protested. "I recovered it only a few days before we parted." "But you knew something of its whereabouts?" I argued. "I was not certain," she vaguely replied, her slim fingers picking at the bands of pearl passementerie across the flimsy chiffon of her bodice. With an expression of disbelief I turned from her. "Ah, Geoffrey," she cried wildly, "I am fully conscious of what your thoughts must be. Now that you have discovered my true position, that I am a Russian, you believe I had a hand in the theft of the Anglo-German Convention; that by my machinations its text was transmitted to St Petersburg--eh?" No answer passed my lips, but I think I bowed my head in confirmation of her fevered words. "Well, it is untrue, as you will learn some day. It is untrue, I swear," she exclaimed with terrible earnestness. "Instead of endeavouring to bring suspicion and opprobrium upon you, and disaster upon the nations of Europe, I have striven both night and day to clear away the ill effect produced by the dastard revelations made to our Ministry in St Petersburg. Remember that the single spark required to fire the mine and convulse the world from Calais to Pekin was not applied; the Tzar refrained from declaring war. Some day you, and through you, the British Government, will know the reason a recourse to arms was averted. When you are made aware of the truth, then no longer will you misjudge me." She spoke with a fervency that was entirely unfeigned; her bright eyes met mine with unwavering glance, and with a quick movement she had placed one hand upon her breast as if to allay the palpitation there. Her heart was full; upon her fair face was an expression of mingled anxiety and dread, and her bejewelled hands trembled. "I am your husband," I said calmly. "If I promise you not to divulge-- surely I may know your secret whatever it may be." "No," she answered, speaking almost mechanically, "I dare not tell you anything at present. It would be fatal to all my plans--fatal to me, and to you." "You speak so strangely," I observed, with some warmth. "Mystery seems one of your idiosyncrasies." "Ah," she sighed, advancing a step towards me, her head sunk upon her breast, "it is imperative. You cannot know how I have suffered, Geoffrey, ever since we met. Long ago at `The Nook,' fearing that I should bring you unhappiness, I strove to tear myself from you and return here to this life, but was unable. I loved you, and hated all the strict etiquette and theatrical display with which I am bound to surround myself, merely because I chance to be born of an Imperial family. I married you, and, content in the knowledge that you loved me devotedly, I was prepared to renounce my name and live quietly with you always. But, alas! we of the Romanoffs are ruled by the head of our House, and our actions are ofttimes in obedience to the will of the Emperor. I was compelled to depart without revealing to you the secret of my birth." "But why did you masquerade in that manner?" I inquired. "At first I did so in order to avoid all the trammels of Court life in St Petersburg, the eternal gaiety of la Ville Lumiere, and to be free to do what I liked and go where I chose," she answered. "Soon, however, my life as Ella Laing became a stern reality, for I met and loved you." "Then you regretted?" "I regretted only because I feared that I cared for you too much--that one day we should be compelled to part." "You knew that it was impossible for you to renounce both title and position," I hazarded, looking at her gravely. "I feared that my family would not allow me to do so," she answered frankly. "Yet you proposed marriage; we became man and wife, and the first weeks of our new life were full of joy and happiness. Soon, however, the Nemesis that I dreaded fell upon me, crushing all desire for life from my heart. I was compelled to fly and leave you in ignorance." "And you forgot that in your escritoire there remained the stolen agreement?" I said slowly, looking straight into her pale face. "Yes, I admit it," she replied, in a voice almost inaudible, her dry lips moving convulsively. "So full was my mind of thoughts of you that I did not remember it until too late to return and secure it." "The woman who passed as Mrs Laing was not, of course, your mother?" "She was no relation whatever. I paid her to pose as my maternal relative and keep house for me." "Where is she now?" "I have no idea," my wife answered. "She was a curious woman, and, strangely enough, she left London suddenly, on the very morning of the day of my departure." "And what of Beck?" I asked. "Did he know who you really were?" "Scarcely," she exclaimed. "Do you think he could have kept to himself the knowledge that I was a relative of the Tzar. Why, such a man would have related the fact that he knew me, and dined at our house, to every member of his club within twenty-four hours. You know, as well as I do, how he simply adores anybody with a title. It is the same with all the newly-wealthy crowd who are struggling to get into society." It was upon my tongue to explain to her the truth regarding the man-servant who passed as Helmholtz; nevertheless, I hesitated to do so at present because of my promise to Paul Verblioudovitch. The silence between us was protracted. She had covered her tear-stained face with her hands, and was sobbing. Nevertheless, I was not moved with pity. Her determination to preserve her secret filled me with annoyance. I had expected her to make confession, but I plainly saw she had no intention of revealing the truth. "Why did you associate with a woman of such doubtful reputation as Sonia Korolenko?" I asked abruptly at last. "Because I wished to ascertain something," she replied, in a harsh voice. "She is scarcely your friend," I observed. "She is," she declared. "I have known her for several years." "And you were actually aware of her true character while associating with her!" I exclaimed, rather surprised. "Of course," she sighed. "She is an adventuress, I know; nevertheless, she has proved my friend on many occasions." "That's curious," I remarked. "Why?" "Because she made certain allegations against you," I answered. "Yes," she said, without betraying either anger or surprise. "I am fully aware of that. Strange though it may appear, her statements were made with a definite object." "Why did she utter such unfounded calumnies?" "Because I wished to see whether you really loved me," she answered, drawing herself up and regarding me with sudden calmness. At that moment she assumed the air of the Grand Duchess. "I did love you," I declared, "and I took no heed of her assertions. I notice, however," I added, turning and pointing towards the piano, "I notice that you have placed in a position of conspicuousness the portrait of the man she declared was your lover. Side by side you have placed the pictures of betrayer and betrayed." She held her breath, gazing across to the spot I had indicated. Then, in a voice full of emotion, she said,-- "You were foully betrayed, Geoffrey, it is true, but the evil that was done has now been eradicated." "In other words, Ogle has paid the death penalty, eh?" I observed, with a grim expression of satisfaction. "No, no, not that," she protested seriously. "I mean that the strained relations between your country and mine have now been readjusted, and that a feeling more amicable than before prevails. Even the Earl of Warnham must admit the plain truth that no Power joins another in war unless it sees its own interest in so doing. Russia now, as before the effusion of hearts here in Paris, will attend to her own business, and will not send her Black Sea and Baltic Fleets flying out unless her interests bring her into collision with your British Government--and then it may happen it will not be the interest of France to fight. In the latter days of Louis Philippe there was talk of a Franco-Russian alliance, and there were people who knew--they did not think they knew on the best authority--that the two would be one next spring. Yet Louis Philippe went over to your England an exile by the useful name of Smith, and before long France and England were allied in war against my country. No, good counsel has prevailed, and by the very revelation of the secret alliance contracted between England and Germany, European peace has been secured." "You talk like a diplomatist," I observed reflectively. She shrugged her shoulders, and with a forced laugh said,-- "It is but natural that I should take an interest in the affairs of nations, I suppose." "Let us put them aside," I said. "We are not rival diplomatists, but husband and wife; we--" "Yes, yes," she cried, interrupting. "I am happy because you are here with me; you, whose presence I have been fearing for so long. See! I smile and am happy;" and she gave vent to a hollow, discordant laugh. "Happy because you have so successfully mystified me," I sighed. "No. Happy because I love you, Geoffrey," she exclaimed, again throwing her arms affectionately about my neck, and raising her full red lips to mine. "Forgive me; do say you will forgive me," she implored. "How can I ever forget the ingenuity and deep cunning with which you deceived me," I said. "I cannot but recollect how, on that night at Chesham House, Grodekoff congratulated you upon your marriage, yet how careful he was not to disclose to me your identity. Again, even my friend Verblioudovitch must have known who you really were. Why did he not tell me?" "Because the staff of the Embassy had already received strict orders from St Petersburg not to acknowledge me," she exclaimed, with a smile. "Lord Warnham fancied he recognised me, and spoke to the Ambassador; but the latter succeeded in assuring him that before marriage I was Ella Laing, and that the Grand Duchess Elizaveta Nicolayevna was at that moment with the Tzarina at Tzarskoie-Selo. He believed it, and afterwards M'sieur Grodekoff assured me that was the first occasion he had been enabled to successfully deceive your lynx-eyed Foreign Minister." "You feared that the Earl might recognise you," I exclaimed, surprised, for I now remembered the effect produced on my chief when his eyes had first fallen upon my wife. "You knew him, then?" "Ah, no," she faltered; "well, we were not exactly acquainted," and she appeared rather confused, I thought, for her cheeks were suffused by the faintest suspicion of a blush. "Did you expect he would be there?" "No; you told me distinctly that he was not going, otherwise I should never have accompanied you," she said frankly. "Why?" "Because I did not desire to meet him," she replied, adding, with a laugh, "As it was, however, he was satisfied, and went away marvelling, no doubt, at the striking resemblance." "Yet you told me nothing," I observed reproachfully. "No; I was afraid," she replied, in a serious voice. "With you I lived on from day to day, fearing detection, dreading lest you should discover some facts regarding my past, and by their light believe me to be an adventuress. Yet, at the same time, I worked on to achieve my freedom from a yoke which had become so galling that, now I loved you, I could endure it no longer." "And did you not succeed in breaking asunder this mysterious bond?" I inquired, half doubtfully. "No," she answered, shaking her head sorrowfully. "By an untoward circumstance, against which I had not provided, I was prevented, and compelled to flee." "If you will divulge absolutely nothing regarding the manner in which you became possessed of the stolen convention, or the reason you have masqueraded as my wife, you can at least tell me why you received so many communications regarding clandestine meetings, and explain who was your mysterious correspondent who signed himself `X.'" Her heart beat quickly; she sighed, and lowered her gaze. She strove to preserve a demeanour of calm hauteur as befitted her station, but in vain. "You have also found those letters," she remarked, her voice trembling. "Yes. Tell me the truth and put my mind at ease." "I can put your mind entirely at ease by assuring you, as I did after you detected me walking in Kensington Gardens, that I have had no lover besides yourself, Geoffrey," she cried vehemently. "I have told you already that I worked to secure freedom of action in the future. Those letters were from one who rendered me considerable assistance." "What was his name?" I demanded quickly. "I may not tell you that," was her answer, uttered in a quiet, firm tone. "Then, speaking plainly, you refuse, even now, to give me any elucidation whatever of this irritating mystery, or to allow me to obtain any corroboration of your remarkable story," I said, with a sudden coldness. She noticed my change of manner, and clung to me with uplifted face, pale and agitated. Her attempt to treat me as other than her husband had utterly failed. "Ah! do not speak so cruelly," she exclaimed, panting. "I--I really cannot bear it, Geoffrey--indeed I can't. You must have seen that I loved you. I was, when I married, prepared to sacrifice all for your sake; nay, I did sacrifice everything until--until I was forced from you, and thrust back here to this place, that to me is little else than a gilded prison. Ah?" she cried, sobbing bitterly, and gazing around her in despair, "you cannot know how deeply I have sorrowed, how poignant has been the grief in the secret and inmost recesses of my heart; or how, through these months, while I have been travelling, I have longed to see you once again, and hear your voice telling me of your love. But, alas! without knowledge of the strange secret that seals my lips, you can know nothing--nothing!" "I only know that I still adore you," I said, with heartfelt fervency. "Ah! I knew you did," she exclaimed, raising her eager lips to mine in ecstasy. "I knew you would pity me when you came, yet I feared--I feared because I had lied to you, and deceived you so completely." Then she kissed my lips, but I did not return her hot, passionate caress, although I confess it made my head reel. "You have not forgiven," she exclaimed, in a voice quivering with emotion, as she drew back. "You have not yet promised that you will still regard me as your wife." I hesitated. The startling fact of her true station, and the revelation of how ingeniously I had been tricked, caused me a slight revulsion of feeling. Somehow, as Grand Duchess she seemed an entirely different being to the plain, unassuming woman I had known as Ella. From the crown of her well-dressed hair to the point of her tiny, white kid shoe with its pearl embroidery, she was a patrician; the magnificence of her dress and jewels dazzled me, yet in her declarations of devotion her voice seemed to be marred by some indefinable but spurious ring. Even now she was deceiving me. She would allow no word of her mysterious secret to pass her lips. It had always been the same. She would tell me absolutely nothing, vaguely asserting that to utter the truth would be to invoke an avenging power that she dreaded. I remembered how she had seemed terrorised on more than one occasion when I had demanded the truth, yet what I had learned that night increased my suspicions. "If I forgive and seek no explanation of the past," I said at last, "we must, I suppose, remain parted." "Ah, yes!" she gasped. "But only for a few short weeks. Then we will come together again never to part--never." "I can forgive on one condition only," I said--"that you tell me the truth regarding the dastardly theft from me on the day of Dudley's death." For an instant she was silent. Then, burying her face on my shoulder, sobbing, she answered in a tone so low as to be almost inaudible,-- "I cannot!" Gently but firmly I put her from me, although she clung about my neck, urging me to pity her. "I cannot pity you if you refuse to repose confidence in me," I answered. "I do not refuse," she cried. "It is because my secret is of such a nature that, if divulged, it would wreck both your own happiness and mine." "Then to argue further is absolutely useless," I answered coldly. "We must part." "You intend to leave me without forgiveness," she wailed. "Ah, you will not be so cruel, Geoffrey. Surely you can see how passionately I love you." "You do not, however, love me sufficiently well to risk all consequences of divulging your mysterious secret," I retorted, with almost brutal indifference, turning slowly from her. "Then kiss me, Geoffrey," she cried wildly, springing towards me and again entwining her soft arms about my neck. "Kiss me once again--if for the last time." Our lips met for an instant, then slowly I disengaged myself and strode towards the door. In her refusal to throw light upon the incidents that had so long held me perplexed and bewildered, I fancied she was shielding someone. Although crushed and downcast, I had resolved to go forth into the world again with my terrible burden of sorrow concealed beneath a smiling countenance. I regretted deeply that I had sought her, now that I was aware of the gulf that lay between us. "Stay, Geoffrey! Stay. I cannot bear that you should go," she wailed. Halting, I turned towards her, saying,-- "When I have learnt the truth, then only will I return. Till then, I can have no faith in you." "But you are my husband, Geoffrey. I love you." She tottered forward unevenly, as if to follow me, but ere I could save her she staggered and fell forward upon the carpet in a dead faint. I rang the bell violently, then, with a final glance at the blanched features of the woman I so dearly loved, I passed out, struggling through the brilliant, laughing throng of guests in the great hall, and was soon alone in utter dejection beneath the trees in the long, gas-lit avenue. CHAPTER THIRTY. HONOUR AMONG THIEVES. In brilliant sunshine, with the larks singing merrily in the cloudless vault of blue, and the air heavy with the scent of hay, I drove from Horsham station along the old turnpike road to Warnham Hall. A carriage had been sent for me, as usual, and as I sat back moodily, I fear I saw little of interest in the typical English landscape. The joys of the world were dead to me, consumed as I was by the one great sorrow of my life. My mind was full of the tristful past. I had reached London from Paris on the previous night, and in response to a telegram from the Earl, saying he had left Osborne and gone to the Hall, I had travelled down by the morning train. As we entered the park and drove up the broad, well-kept drive, the startled deer bounded away, and the emus raised their small heads with resentful, inquiring glance, but dashing along, the pair of spanking bays quickly brought me up to the great grey portico. As soon as I alighted I handed over my traps to one of the servants and walked straight to the great oak-panelled dining-room. As I paused at the door, it suddenly opened, and a man emerged so quickly that he almost stumbled over me. Our eyes met. I stood aghast, staring as if I had seen an apparition. In the semi-darkness of the corridor I doubt whether my face was quite distinguishable, but upon his there shone the slanting rays of light from an old diamond-paned window. In a instant I recognised the features, although I had only seen them once before. It was the foppish young man who had been Ella's companion on that lonely walk in Kensington Gardens. Why he had visited the Earl was an inscrutable mystery. He regarded me in surprise for a single instant, then, thrusting both hands negligently into his trousers pockets, strode leisurely away along the corridor, a straw hat with black and white band placed jauntily at the back of his head. I watched him until he had turned the corner and disappeared, then I entered the great old-fashioned apartment. "Well, Deedes!" exclaimed the Earl, in a voice that was unusually cheerful. He was standing at the window gazing across the park, but my presence caused him to turn sharply. "Back again, then?" "Yes. I think I have fulfilled the mission," I managed to exclaim. Truth to tell, this extraordinary encounter had caused me considerable perplexity and annoyance. "You have done excellently," he said. "A telegram this morning from Lord Worthorpe shows with what tact you put matters to him, and I am glad to tell you that his interview with the President proved entirely satisfactory. I wired the news to Her Majesty only half-an-hour ago." "I did my best," I observed, perhaps a trifle carelessly, for there was another matter upon which I was anxious to consult my eccentric benefactor. "The task was one of unusual difficulty, I admit, Deedes, and you have shown yourself fully qualified for a post abroad. You shall have one before long." At other times I should have warmly welcomed the enthusiasm of this speech, and thanked him heartily for the promise of a more lucrative position, but now, crushed and hopeless, I felt that joy had left my soul for ever, and merely replied,-- "I am quite satisfied to be as I am. I do not care for the Continent." "Why?" he inquired, surprised. "If you remain in the Service here you will have but little chance of distinguishing yourself, whereas in Rome, Constantinople or Berlin, you might obtain chances of promotion." "I have been already in St Petersburg, you remember," I said. "Ah, of course. But you didn't get on very well there," he said. "It is a difficult staff for younger men to work amongst. You'd be more comfortable in Vienna, perhaps. Viennese society would suit you, wouldn't it?" "No," I replied, very gravely. "I fear that henceforward I shall be, like yourself, a hater of society and all its ways." "Oh?" he exclaimed, placing his hands beneath his coat-tails, a habit of his when about to enter any earnest consultation. "Why?" "Well, if you desire to know the truth," I said, "it concerns my marriage." "Ah, of course!" he observed, with deep sorrow. "I had quite forgotten that unfortunate affair. Yet time will cause you to forget. You are young, remember, Deedes--very young, compared with an old stager like myself." "It is scarcely likely that I shall forget so easily," I said, after a slight pause. "Since I have been in Paris I have made a discovery that has bewildered me. I confide in you because you are the only person who knows the secret of my wife's flight." "Quite right," he said, regarding me with those piercing eyes shaded by their grey shaggy, brows. "If I can assist you or give you advice I am always pleased, for the romance of your marriage is the strangest I have ever known." "Yes," I acquiesced, "and the truth I have accidentally learnt still stranger. I have discovered that my wife was never Ella Laing, as I had believed, but that she really is the Grand Duchess Elizaveta Nicolayevna of Russia." "The Grand Duchess!" he cried, amazed, his eyes aflame in an instant. "Are you certain of this; have you absolute proof?" "Absolute. I have seen her, and she has admitted it, and told me that she masqueraded in England as Ella Laing because she desired to avoid Court etiquette for a time," I said. "Grodekoff lied," he growled in an ebullition of anger. "I recognised her at the Embassy ball when you pointed her out, yet the Ambassador assured me that Her Highness was at that moment in Russia. We have both been tricked, Deedes. But he who laughs last laughs longest." He had folded his arms and was standing resolutely before me, gazing upon the dead green carpet deep in thought. "The mystery becomes daily more puzzling," he said at length, seating himself. "Tell me all that transpired between you." I sank into a chair opposite the renowned chief of the Foreign Office and repeated the conversation that had taken place at our interview, while he listened attentively without hazarding a single remark. "Then again she would tell you nothing," exclaimed the Earl, when I had concluded. "She refused absolutely to divulge her secret." "Yes," I said. "I promised to forgive if she would only tell me the truth. She refused; so we have parted." "And what do you intend doing?" "I intend to seek the truth for myself," I answered with fierce resolve. "How?" "I have not yet decided," I said. "The reason she took such infinite pains to conceal her identity is incomprehensible, but her firm resolution to preserve her secret at all hazards appears as though she is in deadly fear of exposure by some person or other who can only be conciliated by absolute silence." "Then we must discover who that person is." I nodded, answering:--"I intend to do so." Presently, after he had crossed and recrossed the room several times with hands behind his back, murmuring to himself in apparent discontent, but in tones that were undistinguishable, I turned to him saying,-- "As I entered, a visitor left you. Who is he?" "Cecil Bingham. He is staying with me for a few days." "A friend?" "Well--yes," answered his Lordship, halting, and regarding me with no little surprise. "What do you know of him?" At first I hesitated, but on reflection resolved to explain the circumstances in which we had met, and slowly related to him how I had encountered him with my wife in Kensington Gardens on that well-remembered wintry afternoon. The Earl grew grave, and after observing that Bingham had arrived on the previous day to spend a week, he for some moments stood looking aimlessly out of the window upon the broad park and the great sheet of water glistening in the sunlight beyond. Then, muttering something I could not catch, he walked quickly back to the fireplace, and touched the electric bell. "Ask Mr Bingham to see me for a moment," he exclaimed, when the man answered the summons, and in a few minutes the Earl's guest came in with that affected jaunty air that had caused me to class him as a cad. When he had entered, the Earl himself walked to the door and softly closed it, then, turning, said in a hard, dry voice,-- "This, Cecil, is my secretary, Deedes, the husband of the woman known as Ella Laing, with whom you have, I understand, been in correspondence, and have met clandestinely on many occasions." "What do you mean?" he cried, resentfully, glancing from the Earl to myself. "I know no one of that name. You are mistaken." "There is no mistake," answered the great statesman, coldly, at the same time taking from an old oak bureau a large linen-lined envelope of the kind used in our Department. From a drawer he took one of his visitor's letters, while from the envelope he drew forth a second letter. At a glance I saw that the latter was one of those mysterious missives signed "X" that had been received by my wife. Opening both, he placed them together and handed them to me without comment. They were in the same handwriting. "Do you deny having written that letter?" asked the Minister, sternly, at the same time showing him the note. He made a motion to take it, but suddenly drew away his hand. His lips contracted, his face grew pale, and with a gesture of feigned contempt he waved the Earl's hand aside. "Do you deny it?" repeated my chief. He was still silent--his face a sufficient index to the agitation within him. "You have endeavoured to deceive me," continued the Earl, harshly. "You have some fixed purpose in accepting my invitation, and coming here to visit me, but you were unaware that already I had knowledge of facts you have endeavoured so cunningly to conceal. It is useless to deny that you are acquainted with Deedes's wife, for he recognises you as having walked with her in Kensington Gardens, while I have ascertained at last who she really is--that her name was never Ella Laing." He started at this announcement. His lips moved, but no word escaped him. That the Earl should have learned the true name and station of my wife apparently disconcerted him. His complexion was of ashen hue; all his arrogance had left him, for he saw himself cornered. I stood glaring at him fiercely, for was not I face to face with the man whom my wife had met times without number, concealing from me all motive or duration of her absences? Some secret had existed between them--he was the man whom she apparently feared, and whose will she had obeyed. I felt that now, at last, I should ascertain the truth, and obtain a key to the strange perplexing enigma that had held me in doubt and suspicion through so many weary months. His shifty gaze met mine; I detected a fierce glint in his eyes. "Well?" exclaimed his Lordship, as determined as myself upon seeking a solution of the problem. "Now that you admit these mysterious meetings with Her Highness, perhaps you will explain their object." "I admit nothing," he answered in anger, knitting his brows. "Neither have I anything to explain." "See!" the Earl said, drawing Ella's photograph from the envelope. "Perhaps you will recognise this picture?" and his bony hand trembled with suppressed excitement as he placed it before him. At sight of it my wife's strange friend drew a long breath. He was white to the lips. Never before had I witnessed such a complete change in any man in so short a period, and especially curious, it seemed, when I reflected that he had been charged with no very serious crime. "You may allege whatever it may please you," he said at last, with affected sarcasm. "But a woman's honour is safe in my hands." "My wife's honour!" I cried, with fierce indignation, walking towards him threateningly. I could no longer stand by in silence when I recollected what Ella had said about being compelled to act according to the will of another. She had, no doubt, been under the thrall of this overdressed dandy. "Now that we have met," I exclaimed, "you shall explain to me, her husband." With a quick movement he strode forward as if to escape us, but in an instant I had gripped him by the shoulder with fierce determination, whole the Earl himself, apprehending his intention, placed his back against the door. "Speak!" I cried wildly, shaking him in my anger. "You shall tell us the true nature of the secret between you and my wife, and prove your statement to our satisfaction, or, by heaven, I'll thrash you as a cunning, cowardly cur!" CHAPTER THIRTY ONE. DUE EAST. "Bah!" retorted the Earl's visitor, contemptuously, shaking himself free with a sudden twist, and standing before me in defiance. "I understand," he cried, glancing towards the elder man before the door. "You believe, gentlemen, that from me you can ascertain a key to certain curious occurrences that have puzzled you. But I may as well undeceive you at once. I can tell you absolutely nothing." "But you shall tell us!" I cried, angrily. "I found you walking with my wife in Kensington Gardens, and followed you. It was apparent from her demeanour that she feared you." He smiled sarcastically, and answered with a flippant air: "Perhaps she did. If so, she certainly had cause." "Why? What power do you hold over her, pray?" I demanded. In his eyes was a mysterious glance. He was scarcely the brainless young dandy that I had imagined. "It is hardly likely that I shall divulge to you a secret. Remember that your wife comes of one of the highest families in Europe, and the slightest breath of scandal must reflect upon them." "At what scandal do you hint?" I asked, in fierce, breathless eagerness. "At what is best kept quiet," he answered, gravely. His enigmatical words maddened me. I felt that I could spring upon him and strangle him, for I knew instinctively that he was my wife's enemy-- the man of whom she lived in deadly fear. If only I could silence him, she might then relate to me those long-promised facts. "Then if you decline to prove that there is a concealed scandal, utter no more of your lying allegations," I blurted forth. He bowed deeply with mock politeness, and smiled grimly. "Come," exclaimed the Earl at last, in a conciliatory tone, advancing towards him and laying his hand upon his shoulder. "Let us get at once to the point. It is useless to quarrel. You decline to reveal to us the nature of your curious friendship with the Grand Duchess--eh?" "I do," he answered, firmly. "Well," said the tactful old Minister. "First carefully review the situation, and you will, I think, admit that I have been your friend. And how have you shown your gratitude?" "By concealing from you a truth both hideous and terrible," he replied, with apparent unconcern. "But you can, if you will, give us some clue to this remarkable chain of circumstances. I appeal to you on behalf of Deedes, her husband," the old man said. "I am well aware of the reason you yourself desire to know the absolute truth, Lord Warnham," he answered, after a brief pause, "but, unfortunately, I am unable to tell you, because of certain promises having been extracted from me." "At least you can tell us from whom I may ascertain the true facts," I cried. He looked at me for an instant gravely, then answered in all seriousness: "The only person who knows the truth is Sonia Korolenko, the refugee." "Sonia!" gasped the Earl. "That woman is not in England, surely?" "I think not," Bingham replied. "But if you would ascertain the key to the enigma, seek her, and she may explain everything. That is as far as I can assist you. Remember, I myself have revealed nothing." "She has returned to Russia," I observed. "Have you any knowledge where she is?" "No, there are reasons why her whereabouts should remain unknown," he answered, hesitatingly. "She is in fear of the police." "Do her friends know of her hiding-place?" "No. A short time ago I desired to communicate with her, but was unable. The last I heard of her was that she was living at Skerstymone, a little town somewhere in Poland." "If she can successfully elude the vigilance of the Russian police, I can have but little hope of finding her," I said, doubtfully. "Make the attempt, Deedes," the Earl suggested. "I will give you leave of absence." "I intend to do so," I replied; and remembering my wife, lonely amid all her splendour, I added, "The elucidation of the mystery is, as it has long since been, the main object of my life." In consultation we sat a long time. This caddish young man of whom I had been so madly jealous had now grown quite calm and communicative, apparently ready to render me all assistance; yet to my questions regarding my wife he was as dumb as others had been. Now, more than ever, the Earl seemed anxious to solve the strange problem. With that object he obtained from the library a section of the large ordnance map of the Russian Empire, and with it spread before us we discovered that Skerstymone was a little place remotely situated on the bank of the Niemen river, within a short distance of the German frontier. I had long ago learned from Paul Verblioudovitch that my friend, the well-known adventuress, had crossed the frontier at Wirballen, or Verjbolovo, as it is called in Russian; but after that I knew nothing of her movements. Bingham seemed anxious to lead me indirectly towards the truth, and after assuring me with a firm hand-grasp that the secret that existed between himself and my wife was of a purely platonic nature, and that he had throughout acted on her behalf, I ate a hasty luncheon and again left the Hall on the first stage of my long, tedious journey across Europe. As I entered the carriage the old Earl and his guest stood out upon the gravelled drive and heartily wished me "Bon voyage," and, waving them farewell, I was whirled away through the great park that lay silent and breathless beneath the scorching sun. At the bookstall at Horsham station I bought an early edition of the _Globe_, and on opening it in the train my eyes fell upon the following announcement in its "Court and Personal" column,-- "A marriage is arranged, and will shortly take place between Mr. Andrew Beck, the Member for West Rutlandshire, who is well-known in connection with African mines, and Miss Gertrude Millard, only daughter of Sir Maynard Millard, Bart, of Spennythorpe Park, Montgomeryshire." This was not exactly unexpected, for I had already heard vague rumours that news of Beck's engagement would shortly be made public, therefore I tore out the paragraph and placed it in my pocket-book, with the reflection that my friend's marriage might be more happy than mine. That evening about six o'clock I called at Chesham House, the Russian Embassy, and obtained the signature of the Ambassador, Monsieur Grodekoff, to my passport. I did not, however, see Verblioudovitch, he being absent at Brighton, therefore I left the same evening for Flushing, and after a long and wearisome ride across Germany duly arrived at Verjbolovo, one of the principal gates of the great Russian Empire. The formalities troubled me but little, for I had passed the frontier on several occasions when stationed in St Petersburg. After getting my passport stamped I strolled up and down the platform gazing about over the flat, uninteresting country, contemplatively smoking a cigarette, and watching the crowd of tired, worried travellers experiencing the ways of Russian officialdom for the first time. Among them was an elderly Russian lady who, travelling with her three daughters, good-looking girls, ranging from eighteen to twenty-three, had omitted to have her passport vised by a Russian Consul outside the Empire. So stringent were the regulations that, although they were subjects of the Tzar returning to their own country, the officer would not allow them to proceed, and all four were detained while the passport was sent back to the nearest Russian consul in Germany to be "treated." At first it had occurred to me to travel on to St Petersburg, and there endeavour to learn from a police official of my acquaintance whether Sonia Korolenko had been heard of lately, but on reflection I saw that every precaution would no doubt be taken by her in order that the police should not be made aware of her presence in Russian territory. A strange vagary of Fate it seemed that through my own action in obtaining for her a false passport she had been enabled to escape, and that my own endeavours had actually thwarted my own ends. As I paced the railway platform, with the brilliant afterglow shedding a welcome light across that dead level country so zealously-guarded by the green-coated sentries in their black and white striped boxes, and Cossack pickets, each with his "nagaika" stuck in his boot, I remembered with failing heart how this woman, whose fame was notorious throughout Europe, had told me that once past this portal of the Tzar's huge domain all traces of her would be obliterated completely. This fact in itself convinced me that she had never intended to travel direct to St Petersburg, and it became impressed upon me that in order to trace her it would be necessary to first visit the little out-of-the-world town of Skerstymone, that was situated a long way to the north along the frontier. With that object I allowed the St Petersburg express to proceed, and after an hour's wait entered a local train, alighting at a small town euphoniously termed Pilwiszki, where I spent the night in an exceedingly uncomfortable inn. Next day I learnt with satisfaction that this town was situated on the main post-road between Maryampol and Rossieny, and that about thirty miles due north along this road was Skerstymone. The innkeeper, at an exorbitant figure, provided me with a rickety old cart and a pair of shaggy horses, driven by an uncouth-looking lad, wearing an old peaked cap so large that his brow and eyes were hidden. An hour before noon I set out upon my expedition. Our way lay across the boundless Nawa steppe, a plain which stretched away as far as the eye could reach without a single tree to break its monotony, until at a wretched little village called Katyle we forded a shallow stream, the Penta, and presently passed through the town of Szaki. Soon afterwards the road became full of deep ruts that jolted us terribly, and for many miles we travelled through a pine forest until at last we found ourselves at the ferry before Skerstymone. In the mystic light of evening the place, standing on the opposite bank of the Niemen, presented a novel and rather picturesque aspect, with its wooden houses, their green and brown roofs of painted sheet-iron, but when landing from the ferry I was soon undeceived. It was one of those towns best seen from a distance. The dirt and squalor were horrible. For a fortnight I remained at the wretched little inn making inquiries in all quarters, but could hear nothing of the pretty dark-eyed girl who had earned such unenviable notoriety, and who in Vienna spent such an enormous sum in a single year that her extravagance had become proverbial, even in that most reckless of cities. That she had been here was certain from what Bingham had told us, and somehow I had an instinctive feeling that here the dainty-handed refugee had assumed a fresh identity, it being dangerous for her to proceed further into Russia, so well-known was she. Therefore, with fixed determination, I still prosecuted my inquiries everywhere, until I found the police regarding me with considerable mistrust, for the officers of public order are everywhere ubiquitous in the giant empire of the Tzar. The hot July sun shone on the dusty streets; through the open windows of the white-washed barrack-like Government office the scratching of pens could be heard; the "factors," agents who offer their services to strangers, lolled in the shade, keeping a watchful eye upon any stranger who might happen to pass by, and looking out eagerly for a "geschaft," or stroke of business. The townspeople eyed me distrustfully as I wandered aimlessly about the streets, where tumble-down hovels alternated with endless expanses of grey moss-grown wood fences and plots of waste ground heaped with rubbish and offal. The place was full of horrible smells, filth, rags, and dirty children, who enjoyed themselves by rolling in the soft white dust. At either end of the noisy, evil-smelling place, a post-road led out along the bank of the sluggish yellow stream, and at the entrance to the town on the German side was a "schlagbaum," a pole painted with the national colours that served as toll-bar, in charge of a sleepy invalided soldier in a dingy old uniform with a tarnished eagle on his cap, who looked the very incarnation of undisturbed slumber. Life in Kovno was by no means diverting. Truly Skerstymone was a wretched, half-starved, miserable little place of terribly depressing aspect, notwithstanding the brilliant sunshine and blue sky. The long, gloomy days dragged by, but no tidings could I glean of Sonia Korolenko. It was evident that if she had ever been there she had passed under some other name, and that her identity had been lost before arrival there. One warm morning, while seated outside a "kabak" moodily watching the old women in the market selling their twisted rolls of bread called "kalach," an ill-dressed man approached me, and, touching his shabby cap respectfully, pronounced my name with strong Russian accent, at the same time slowly sinking upon the wooden bench beside me. He was tall and square-built, with coarse but expressive features. His long grey hair was matted and unkempt; his low brow, protruding jaws, and the constant twitching of his facial muscles reminded me of a monkey, but the stern eyes shining from beneath a pair of bushy, overhanging brows, spoke of indomitable energy, cleverness, and cunning. They never changed; and while the rest of his face was a perfect kaleidoscope whenever he spoke, the expression of his eyes remained ever the same. His confidence surprised me, and I immediately asked him how he had ascertained my patronymic, to which he replied, not without hesitation,-- "I am fully aware of your high nobility's object in visiting Skerstymone. You are seeking Sonia Korolenko." "Yes," I replied, in the best Russian I could remember. "Do you know her whereabouts? If you take me to her you shall have a handsome reward." He smiled mysteriously, and glanced so wistfully at my vodka that I at once ordered for him a second glass of the spirit so beloved of the Muscovite palate. "Is your high nobility well acquainted with Sonia!" I replied in the affirmative, offering him a cigarette from my case. At last I had found one who had met the dark-eyed girl of whom I was in search. "You know her," I said. "Where is she?" "In hiding." "Far from here?" "Well, not very," he answered. "I could take you to her this very night--if you made it worth my while." "Why not in daylight?" I inquired. "Because the frontier-guards are here in swarms." Then, in reply to my questions, he admitted that he was one of those who obtained his living by smuggling contraband goods and persons without passports across the frontier into and out of Germany. Along the whole of the Russo-German frontier there are bands of peasantry who live by smuggling emigrants, Jews, malefactors, and others who have no permit to leave the country, across into Germany by certain by-paths that remain unguarded, notwithstanding the constant vigilance of the military. "And what is Sonia doing at present?" I inquired, after he had frankly related to me his position in a low tone so that we might not be overheard by any eavesdropper or police spy. "She has always been a leader," he answered, laughing gaily. "She is so still." "A leader of smugglers!" I exclaimed, surprised that the pretty girl who had been admired in every capital in Europe should adopt such a hazardous, reckless life. "Well, yes, if you choose to call it so," he said, rather resentfully, I thought. "We merely assist our countrymen to escape the police, and they pay toll for our aid," he added. "She heard you were inquiring for her, here in Skerstymone, and has sent me as messenger to take you to her. She fears to come herself." I looked steadily at the man, and saw for the first time that, although a moujik, he was nevertheless a sturdy adventurer, whose brow was deeply furrowed by hardship. "And you wish me to pay toll like the others?" I exclaimed with a smile. "If we act as guide we are surely entitled to something. There are many risks," he answered, puffing at his cigarette, afterwards examining it with the air of a connoisseur. "How much?" "The high nobility is rich," he replied. "He was once at the English Embassy in St Petersburg. Let us say two hundred roubles." "Two hundred, to be paid only in Sonia's presence," I acquiesced eagerly. Truth to tell, I would have paid five hundred, or even a thousand for safe conduct to her. "It's a bargain," he answered, draining his glass. "Meet me to-night at ten o'clock at this place. I hope you are a good walker, for we must travel by the secret paths. The post-road would mean arrest for me; it might also go rather hard with you to be found in my company." "I can walk well," I answered. "To-night at ten." Then I ordered more vodka, and after drinking success to our midnight journey, he rose and left me, bending a good deal as he shuffled along the street in his old frieze overcoat many sizes too large for him. In any other circumstances I should have looked upon this devil-may-care, shock-headed adventurer with gravest suspicion, for his face was of distinctly criminal physiognomy, and his speech was that of one utterly unscrupulous. Yet when I remembered the allegations that Sonia, the woman who lured the young Prince Alexis Gazarin to his death, was an associate of the most desperate thieves in Europe, the fact that she had sent him as messenger seemed by no means remarkable. From what he had told me it was apparent that this girl, whose beauty had brought her renown and held her victims fascinated, had returned to her own country and become leader of a desperate band of nomads who drove a thriving trade by guiding fugitives from justice out of the Tzar's dominions, and importing from Germany dutiable articles of every description. Sonia's offences against the law did not, however, trouble me much. I only desired to ascertain from her the truth regarding my wife, the Grand Duchess, and in order to meet her was prepared for any risk. Thus I placed myself in the hands of this villainous-looking rascal whose name I did not know, and who had come to me entirely without credentials. My natural caution warned me that from every point of view my midnight expedition was fraught with considerable danger, yet thoughts of my sad-eyed wife whom I so dearly loved aroused within me a determination to ascertain some key to the enigma, and I was therefore resolved to accompany the unkempt stranger in face of any peril. CHAPTER THIRTY TWO. ON THE FRONTIER. The first hour of our walk in the bright balmy night proved fresh and pleasant after the stifling malodorous town. My unknown guide was, I soon discovered, a typical gaol-bird, the fact being made plain by the scanty growth of hair on one side of his head revealed when he inadvertently removed his cap to wipe his brow with his dirty hand. His strong knee-boots were well-patched, but he was out at elbow, and his moustache and matted beard sadly wanted trimming. He kept his appointment to the moment, and declining my invitation to drink, we set off together, ascending the low hill behind the town, and taking a circuitous route back to the river bank. By no means devoid of a sense of humour, he strode along jauntily, laughing, joking, and making light of any risk of capture, until I began to regard him with less suspicion. That he was no ordinary moujik was certain, for he spoke of life and people in Moscow, in Nijni, and even in Petersburg, his conversation showing a more intimate acquaintance than could be acquired by mere hearsay. Our way at first was through narrow lanes of dirty wooden houses, where the foetid odours of decaying refuse greeted our nostrils; then, leaving the town, we ascended through some cornfields until, suddenly descending again, we came to where the Niemen flowed onward between its sedgy banks, its placid bosom a sheet of silver beneath the light of the full moon. Fully three miles we trudged along the post-road beside the river, passing a solitary little hamlet. Not a soul stirred, not a dog barked. The place seemed uninhabited. Now and then we passed a country cart driven by some sleepy peasant who had imbibed too freely of vodka, until we came to where a striped verst-post stood at the junction of another narrower highway. "That's the road to Jurburg, and to the frontier at Poswentg," my companion remarked, in reply to my enquiry. "It's too dangerous for us." "Why?" "It swarms with frontier-guards," he answered, with a low laugh. "We have no desire to encounter any of these gentlemen this evening, therefore we must presently take to the paths. See!" and he nodded upward to the sky, "The tail of the Great Bear points downwards. We shall have luck to-night." "Is this the route you take with the fugitives?" I asked, pausing to take breath, and gazing around upon the lovely scene, for here the moonlit river flowed among its osiers and rushes, across the great grass-covered steppe. "Yes," he answered. "This is the only portion of our journey where there are serious risks of detection, so let us hurry. On a bright night like this, a man can be seen a long way off. The guards are too fond of hiding along the banks, fearing that any German boats from Endruszen may creep up the river." I started forward again, and we both quickened our pace. I now saw from his demeanour that he feared an encounter, for at each unusual sound he paused, his hand uplifted in silence. At last, at a point where the stream made a sudden bend, we left the river road and plunged into a great marsh, where the reeds grew almost as high as ourselves, and where our feet ever and anon sank deep into chill, slimy mud. As soon as we had left the river, my strange guide became as jovial as before, and spoke entirely without restraint. Fear of detection no longer troubled him, for as we held on our way over the soft clay, the silence of the calm night was now and then broken by his coarse laughter. On that flat, marshy land, each step became hampered by huge cakes of yellow mud that clung to our boots, while often I sank with a splash ankle-deep in water, much to my companion's amusement. Whistling softly to himself, he laughed at all misfortunes, assuring me that we should very soon find drier ground, and that before dawn I should meet Sonia Korolenko, who was awaiting me. "She is your leader--eh?" I asked. "Well, of course," he answered, with a grim smile. In the moonlight he looked a shaggy, evil-faced ruffian, and more than once, when I remembered that I had upon me a good round sum in notes and gold, I regretted that I had trusted myself with him unarmed. "The police drove her from Vienna, from Paris, from London; so she has come to us." "And is yours a paying profession?" I asked interested. "Generally," he answered, with that frankness that characterised all his conversation. "You'd be surprised how many people seek our assistance. Some of our party are in St Petersburg, Moscow, and Warsaw, and make the contracts with the fugitives; then they hand them over to us, and we do the rest." "You guarantee to put them on German soil, or bring foreigners into Russia for a fixed sum?" "Yes. You would open your eyes if you knew some of the people I've guided over this very path. Sometimes it is a Jew peasant who has no permit, and desires to emigrate to London, or to America; at others, an escaped prisoner, a murderer, or a revolutionist, who is being tracked down by the Security Section. We always know why they are leaving Russia, and make them pay accordingly. Not long ago I brought a young titled lady across here; accompanied her into Germany, and put her into the train for Berlin. We had a narrow shave of being captured, but she gave me a thousand roubles when we parted." "Why did she want to leave secretly?" I asked. "She had poisoned her husband somewhere down in Minsk, and the police were in search of her," he laughed. "Never a night passes, but one or other of us cross the frontier." "And you find it an adventurous game--eh?" "Well, it is pleasant after ten years of Siberia," he answered grimly. "I let loose the red rooster and burned down the barin's house in a village in Tver. He well deserved it. I and two friends got away with his money and jewels to Moscow, but one night, a week later, I had an appointment to meet my companions opposite the fountain in the Lubyansky Square, and was arrested." "And you got ten years?" "They made out that the barin got burned to death, so I was packed off for life to Kara. After ten years I managed to escape and become a `cuckoo.' Then after a year's wandering I succeeded in returning to Moscow, where I found one or two old friends, and we started together in this business. We don't intend to fall into the drag-net of the police again," he added with a sardonic grin, at the same moment drawing from his trousers pocket a big army revolver. "Do the frontier-guards ever trouble you?" "Sometimes," he laughed. "When we meet we always show fight. Three were killed in a brush with some of our party not long ago. It will teach them not to interfere with us for a little time." Long ago I had heard of a gang of desperate characters who made the strip of zealously-guarded territory between Germany and Russia a terror to travellers, and the utter loneliness of the dismal place, and the swaggering demeanour of my evil-faced companion increased my mistrust. We left the swamp shortly afterwards, and strode out again across the boundless undulating steppe that stretched away as far as the eye could reach. The moon had sunk lower in the sky, and a whitish cloud appeared in the zenith which seemed to shine with a phosphorescent light. Our trackless path wound between low shrubs, and then, after another hour's weary, lonely plodding across the grass-covered plain, we came to a clump of trees where the underwood was thick and tangled. I paused for a moment to gaze behind at the great expanse of flat, uncultivated, uninhabited country we had traversed. A mystery seemed to plane over the boundless steppe. The night wind played among the dry grasses, and sad thoughts awakened in my soul. Hist!... there was a slight rustling! A reddish fur gleamed in the moonlight so close to me that I could see the ears of a fox and its bushy tail sweeping the ground. It disappeared between the trees, and my heart beat faster as together we went forward, bursting through the underwood. The twigs struck me in the face; I stumbled, gasped for breath, and halted. The wail of a night bird broke the silence. At that moment I saw my companion bending at the foot of a solitary tree that stood alone amid the tangled undergrowth. There was a hole in its trunk from which he drew forth something and placed it hastily in his pocket. Then, turning towards me, he took out a cigarette and calmly lit it, saying,-- "We have nothing now to fear." He allowed the match to burn much longer than was absolutely necessary. Instantly the thought flashed upon me that this light might be a signal to some of his nefarious companions. But together we went forward again; he jovial and amusing, I moody and thoughtful. His actions had aroused my suspicions. I glanced at my watch, and in the dim light distinguished that it was just past two o'clock. We had already been walking four hours. Presently, chattering and laughing as we proceeded, we left the wide rolling steppe and plunged into a great wood. The forest was still as death. The moss-grown fir trees stretched out their huge arms as they waved slowly to and fro like funeral plumes. Little light penetrated there, but now and then we could see the bright stars between the branches as we went along a narrow winding track, the intricacies of which were apparently well-known to my guide, for he went onward with the firm, confidential tread of one who know the path, while I followed him closely, the dead branches crackling beneath our feet. Once or twice a noise fell upon his quick ear, and we halted, he standing revolver in hand in an attitude of defence. Each time, however, we ascertained that we had no occasion for alarm, the noise being made by some animal or bird startled by our sudden intrusion. Then we resumed our midnight journey in single file. During half an hour we proceeded, he leading the way, directing his footsteps by marks upon the trunks of the trees, so near the ground that they would have escaped the notice of any but those who knew of their whereabouts. Once I thought I detected a dark figure between the trees, and fearing that it might be one of the sentries, whispered a word of warning to my guide, but he reassured me by telling me that we were skirting the frontier outside guarded territory, therefore there could be no danger. Nevertheless, as he turned to me, I thought his furrowed face looked darker, and his teeth gleamed whiter than usual. We walked on. The forest was silent, save for the soft whisper of the pines. Without uttering any word I was following closely the footsteps of my guide, when suddenly, how it occurred I know not, I was conscious of being stopped dead by my evil-faced companion, who, with a quick movement, brought up his ready revolver to a level with my head. Fate had played me an ugly trick. One thought remained uppermost in the chaos of wild, feverish fancies that seized me--the thought of the woman who was my wife. CHAPTER THIRTY THREE. BAD COMPANY. "Well," I managed to ejaculate, standing quite still, without moving a muscle. I saw that his attitude was one of determination, and that he had been joined by a ruffianly-looking companion who had emerged from the undergrowth as if by magic. My only thought was of my past life. How had I been able to bear the suspicion and suspense so long? I had borne it because the star of hope had glimmered in the darkness. And now the star had vanished, and the hope was dead. Darkness had fallen upon my soul, and a storm arose within it like the chill whirling wind that swept across the steppe at dead of night. I could not think; I forgot where I was, forgot everything except my anger. My heart was full of blind despair. I was conscious that the gaol-bird spoke. He was demanding my money, and threatening to put a bullet through my head if I refused. "I promised you money on condition that you took me to Sonia Korolenko," I answered. "I am ready to pay when you have fulfilled your part of the contract." Both men laughed heartily. "We have no knowledge of her," declared the man who had been my guide. "All we know is that you have money; if you don't hand it to us quietly your grave will be in yonder heap of dead leaves." "He'll be company for the others," observed the man with a fox-like countenance, who had joined us, and was leaning upon an old Berdan rifle. "Then I understand you have brought me here, to this spot, on a false pretence. You mean to rob me?" I said. "You assured me that you were Sonia's messenger, and so implicitly did I trust you, that I left my revolver behind at the inn." "That is no affair of ours," answered the old scoundrel, shrugging his shoulders unconcernedly. "Hand us over your money, and we are ready to guarantee you safe conduct, either on into Germany or back to Skerstymone." "I'll pay you nothing, not even a rouble, na vodkou, until you take me to your leader," I answered defiantly, for somehow I had from the first been convinced of the truth of the man's assertion that Sonia was in that neighbourhood. "As we are unable to conduct you to the lady, whoever she is, we shall therefore be compelled to use violence," observed my guide, glancing at his companion, who nodded approvingly. Then, still holding the muzzle of his weapon to my face, he added with brutal frankness: "You'd better make the sign of the cross now, if you want to. It will be the last chance you'll get. When a man's dead and buried he can tell the police nothing." Well I knew the desperate character of these brigandish nomads, and fully recognised that they were not to be trifled with. "The people who come to us for aid never get across the frontier unless they part with their money first," he continued. "If they don't--well, we put them to rest quietly and unceremoniously, and give them decent burial. A good many of all sorts, rich and poor, lie buried in these woods. You asked me whether it was a paying profession," he laughed. "Judge for yourself." He still spoke with that unaffected carelessness that had impressed me when we had first met outside the dingy little "tractir" in Skerstymone. "Come," cried the ragged, fox-faced man, impatiently, with an accent of South Russia. "We have no time to waste; we have many versts before us ere dawn." "Then you'd better be off, and leave me to find my way back as best I can," I said, endeavouring to preserve an outward show of calmness. Some noise, so faint that I did not distinguish it, caused both outlaws to hold their breath and listen. They exchanged quick glances. They had wandered thousands of versts across the "taiga" and the steppe, and constantly on the alert to evade Cossack patrols and police, knew every sound of the forest. They had learnt to know the voice of the wood; the speech of every tree. The great firs rustle with their thick boughs, the dark, gloomy pines whisper to one another in mystery, the bright green leafy trees wave their dewy branches, and the mountain-ash trembles with a noise like a faintly rippling brook. They knew, to their disgust, too, how those spies of the frontier, the magpies, hover in crowds over the track of the man who tries in daylight to creep unseen across the bare open steppe. It was evident that the noise had for an instant puzzled them; yet, after listening a moment, both became reassured, and re-demanded with many violent threats whatever money I had upon me. "I tell you I refuse," I answered. "If you take me to Sonia you shall have two hundred roubles each, with twenty more na vodkou." "Then you do not wish to live?" exclaimed the man who had so cunningly entrapped me. "I will give you nothing," I said resolutely. "Then take that!" he cried, wildly, and at the same time his revolver flashed close to my face. The shot echoed far away among the myriad tree trunks, but the bullet passed harmlessly by my ear. Ere he could fire a second time I sprang upon him, and clutching him by the throat with one hand, with the other grasped the wrist of the sinewy hand that held the revolver. It was a struggle for life. Again my antagonist drew the trigger, but the weapon was exploded in mid-air. Then his companion flung himself upon me in an endeavour to drag me off. This he was unable to do, and, apparently, fearing lest I should succeed in wresting the weapon from his accomplice's grasp and use it against him, he sought to stun me by raining blows with his clenched fist upon my head. A third time the ruffianly assassin's revolver went off with loud report, but doing no harm. At that moment, however, I was conscious that my strength was failing me. I was muscular, but against this pair of hulking brutes I had no chance in a contest of mere physical power. The repeated blows upon my skull dazed me, but hearing shouts resounding in the darkness, I held on with grim, dogged courage, with the faint hope that they might be Cossacks. In the dim light I could distinguish figures moving rapidly beneath the trees. The forest seemed suddenly alive with men, but at that instant the fox-faced ruffian, finding his efforts unavailing, stepped back a pace or two, and lowering his rifle, took deliberate aim at my breast. I closed my eyes tightly and held my breath. A shot rang out, followed by a burst of wild shouting, but finding myself unharmed, I opened my eyes again. In terror I glanced up, and saw my fox-faced assailant lying face downward. The cowardly villain had evidently been shot at the very instant he had covered me with his Berdan. Half-a-dozen men sprang forward, and wrenching the revolver from the scoundrel who had attempted to take my life, seized him in their strong grasp, while I, breathless and exhausted, struggled up from my knees, amazed at my sudden and unexpected delivery. Some twenty men, an ill-dressed, ruffianly crowd, in patched cloaks and dirty grey caps covering their long hair, surrounded me, talking excitedly, bestowing opprobrious epithets upon the man who lay wounded and groaning, and as I turned suddenly in wonder, I was confronted by a peasant woman in a short skirt of some dark stuff, an ill-fitting striped bodice, with a handkerchief tied about her head. She uttered my name. In an instant I recognised her. It was Sonia. "I arrived only just in time to save you," she explained, half breathlessly, in English. "The shots attracted us. That villain, Stepanovitch, whom I sent into Skerstymone to bring you here, no doubt intended to take your money and decamp, but, fortunately, we caught him redhanded. He has long been suspected of doing away with people entrusted to his care for conduct across the frontier, but I never believed him capable of treating any of our friends as victims." "He fired at me point-blank," I said, "although I was unarmed." "What shall we do with him, little mother?" cried the excited crowd of burly malefactors, dragging the man before the notorious woman, with pleasant countenance, sonorous voice, and lively manners, whom they acknowledged as leader. "Tie him up to yonder tree and let him be shot," answered Sonia, pointing out a lofty pine. "Pick a marksman from among yourselves, and do not shout so loudly. Only one shot must be fired, for I believe the guards are lurking about to-night, and more may attract them." With yells of execration the crowd hurried away the unfortunate wretch who had so treacherously treated the friend of their leader, and ere a couple of minutes had elapsed he had been secured to the tree. Then they commenced haggling among themselves as to who should fire the fatal shot. It was a weird scene, this summary justice directed by a woman. The choice fell at last upon a tall hulking fellow in ragged coat and a hat of dirty sheepskin, who, addressed by the nickname of "The Goat," on account of the shape of his beard, lifted his gun with a jeering remark at the cowering wretch, and stepped back to take more deliberate aim. "No," I cried, "don't let him be shot on my account, Sonia. Give him his life." She shook her head, saying simply: "He betrayed my trust." "I ask you to forgive him," I urged. "At least grant me this favour." She was undecided, and the outlaws hearing us speak in English, called to their tall champion to stay his hand. "Very well," she said, at last. "I forgive him because you plead." Without a word I pushed past the men surrounding us, and, taking out my pocket-knife, severed the cord holding the terrified wretch. The old scoundrel, dropping upon his knee, kissed my hand amid the loud jeers of his rough, brutal companions, then regaining his feet, took off his cap, and looking towards heaven, made the sign of the cross. "This, I hope, will be a lesson, Stepanovitch," exclaimed Sonia, sternly, in Russian, advancing towards him. "I forgive you only because of the request of this Englishman. Remember in future that the person of any friend of mine, or any of our brothers, is sacred." "Yes, I will, matoushka," answered the old villain, penitently. "That I will. I owe my life to his high nobility's intercession. I will not again offend, little mother." "Very well," she answered, abruptly; then, briefly explaining how they had just returned from a hazardous trip across the frontier, during which they were detected and followed by a Cossack picket, she gave the order to return home, and we moved forward in single file along the narrow secret paths which wound with so many intricacies through the dark, gloomy forest. As I walked behind her we chatted in English, she telling me how she had been compelled to leave London unexpectedly, and relating how she had fared since we had last met. She, however, made no mention of the nefarious trade she had adopted, and I hesitated to refer to it. When at length we emerged from the forest, the wounded man being assisted along by his companions, it was near morning. The darkness had gradually become less intense, the stars shone more faintly, and a streak of dawn showed on the far-off horizon. The pale light revealed grassy plains as far as the eye could reach, and the fresh morning breeze swept softly over the thick, green grass that promised an abundant hay crop, such as the dwellers on the broad Kovno plains had longed for for many years. Soon after leaving the forest, however, the party separated, arranging as meeting-place, when the moon rose on the morrow, the third verst-post out of Wezajce, a small village five miles distant. All her associates, Sonia explained, lived in villages in the vicinity, scattering themselves in order to avoid detection by the authorities. The villagers themselves, although well aware of their doings, said nothing. To all inquiries by Cossack frontier-guards or police spies they remained dumb, for the simple reason that while contraband trade could be transacted the village thrived, each of these small, wretched little places receiving indirectly a portion of the outlaws' profit. In summer there were no empty barns or thistle-grown threshing floors, and in winter the stoves in the huts were always burning, and the "borstch," or soup, was never without its proper proportion of buck-wheat gruel. Many were the rumours of missing travellers and violent deaths in that neighbourhood, but the villagers feared nothing from this adventurous gang, who had grown more bold now that they were led by their "little mother." From what I gathered from my fair companion as we pushed forward together towards the dim line of trees that bounded the steppe in the direction of the sunrise, it appeared that the band had been in existence for several years, but that a few months before, the leader, a well-known escaped convict, was shot dead by a picket while creeping by day across the Zury steppe, and that a proposal had been sent to her at Skerstymone, where she was hiding, that she should become their head. She admitted, with a smile, that the men who had just left us to return to their various occupations were all of bad character, and that, almost without exception, all had served long terms of imprisonment for robbery or murder. "But is not the assassination of those who have paid for guidance into Germany quite unjustifiable?" I exclaimed, reproachfully, as we walked side by side across the long, dewy grass. "How can I prevent it!" she asked. "I do all I can to preserve the lives of our clients, but with men of their stamp it is impossible to stop it. Nearly every one of the brotherhood would slit a throat with as little compunction as lighting his cigarette: first, because it avoids the risk of crossing the boundary, and secondly, because of the money the victim has in his pockets. Again, persons who accept our escort are not those persons after whom any inquiry is made. When they are missed, their friends naturally conclude they've fallen into the hands of the police, or have escaped abroad and fear to write. Stepanovitch, for instance, does not obtain the rolls of notes he sometimes has by importing contraband goods, neither could he afford to keep a snug house down in Ludwinow, where he spends the winter, and is regarded as a highly respectable member of the Mir." "He is an assassin, then?" Sonia smiled and shrugged her shoulders. We were approaching a small village with a background of high pine trees, situated on the edge of the great treeless plain. Its name was Sokolini, she told me. Once, in the days of serfdom, it had been the property of a landowner, but now, enjoying liberty, its emancipation was attested by its half-ruined huts, whose bulging walls and smoke-blackened timbers were supported by wooden props. There were not more than thirty houses, all of a similarly squalid, miserable character, and as we entered the tiny place the cocks were crowing in the yards, for the sun had by this time fully risen. "Five miles through yonder forest as the crow flies brings us into German territory," she said, indicating the dense wood behind the houses, then pausing before the door of one of the tumble-down huts, pushed it open, and invited me to enter. The interior was one square room, with huge brick stove, the flat top of which served as bed in winter, a low sloping ceiling and two small windows with uneven panes of greenish glass that imparted to the rays of light a melancholy greyish tint. The bare miserable place was poorly furnished with wooden chairs, a rickety table, and a very old moth-eaten sofa covered with velvet that was once red, but now of faded brown. Over the door was nailed a cheap, gaudy ikon, and on the opposite wall was pasted a crude woodcut of his Majesty the Tzar. The room was, indeed, in strange contrast to the dainty little drawing-room in Pembroke Road. While I threw myself into a chair worn-out by fatigue, she removed the ugly wrapper from her head, and disappearing into a little inner den, the only other room in the house, soon reappeared with a steaming samovar, afterwards handing me tea with lemon. The pale yellow sun struggling in through the thick green panes, fell in slanting rays across the carpetless room, and as we sat opposite one another sipping our cups we exchanged curious glances. Ours had, indeed, been a strange meeting. She burst out laughing at last. "Well," she said, "I see you are surprised." "I am. I did not expect you had exchanged your life in London for this," I exclaimed. "Ah! I was horribly tired of inactivity there. I had spent all my money, and could do nothing in your country. It is a drawback to be too well-known," she laughed. "But surely this life is attended by very serious risks," I observed, noticing, as the sunlight fell across her hair, that she was still as handsome as ever, notwithstanding her ugly peasant costume and clumsy boots. "Yes," she answered reflectively. "Perhaps, in a little while, when I have made more money I shall leave here and return to London. One cannot live without money." "True," I answered. "Yet life here must be terribly dull and monotonous after Vienna and Paris." "Ah!" she cried, with the slightest suspicion of a sigh. "All that I have forgotten long, long ago." Her eyes were downcast, and I thought I detected tears in them. I gazed at her, this woman who was known in nearly every capital in Europe as one of the most daring and enterprising adventuresses of the century, half-fearing that she might still refuse to disclose her secret. CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR. OUTCAST. She moved slightly, raised her cup to her lips with a coquettish air, and on setting it down her dark bright eyes again met mine with inquiring glance. "Well," she exclaimed. "Is it not strange that you, of all men, should be in Skerstymone?" "I came to seek you," I said, looking earnestly into her pretty face. "For what reason?" "Because by your aid alone can I regain my lost happiness," I answered in deep earnestness. "Once, before you left London, you made certain allegations against Ella; but you failed to substantiate them, or to fulfil your promise in exchange for your passport." "Yes, I remember." "She is now my wife, and I have come to hear the truth from your own lips, Sonia." "Your wife!" she gasped, glaring at me. "Has--has she actually dared to marry you?" "Yes," I answered. "She has dared, because she loves me." She remained silent, with knit brows, for a long time engrossed in thought. Then briefly I told her how, after her departure, we had married, and related how suspicion had been aroused within me by her clandestine meetings with Cecil Bingham, her flight, and my subsequent discovery of her true position. "Then you are aware who she really is," she observed slowly at last. "That she has dared to enter into a matrimonial alliance with you is certainly astounding. Indeed, it is incredible." "Why?" I inquired in surprise. "There are the strongest reasons why she should never have become your wife," she replied ambiguously. "She lives apart from me. She has returned to her house in Paris," I said. "Ah! it is best," she answered mechanically. "It is best for both of you." "But we love one another, and although she fears to tell me the truth regarding all this mystery that has enveloped her for so long, you, nevertheless, are in a position to explain everything. Therefore I have come to you. You were my wife's friend, Sonia," I went on. "Tell me why she has acted with all this secrecy." "Her friend," she echoed blankly. "Yes, you are right," she sighed. "It was a strange friendship, ours; she, a Grand Duchess against whom never a word of scandal had been uttered, and I--well I was notorious. The people in Vienna and Paris pointed at me in the streets, and fashionable women copied my manners and my dress. Yet there was, nay there still is, a strong tie between us, a tie that can never be severed." "Tell me of it," I urged, when, pausing, she turned her pale agitated face away from me towards the small grimy window that overlooked the great sunlit steppe. "Once I believed that she was your enemy, and told you so. I feared that because of her position she would never marry you. Yet it seems she was really in earnest, therefore I now withdraw that allegation. She evidently loves you." "Yes, but we are living apart because she fears the revelation of some terrible secret if she acknowledges me as her husband." "And that is why you have come here--to learn of her past!" she cried in a hoarse hollow voice, as if the truth had suddenly dawned upon her. I nodded gravely in the affirmative, then told her of our meeting in Paris, and her refusal to make any satisfactory explanation. "I envied Elizaveta once," she said reflectively at last. "I envied her because she was so supremely happy in your love. Yet it now seems as if I, degraded outcast that I am, have even more happiness and freedom." "You were once her friend--she visited you every day. You can be her friend now; and by telling me the truth, bring joy and confidence to both of us. You can make our lives happy, if you only will." "No," she answered coldly, her face hard and set. There was a cruel look in her eyes. "Why should I? Why should I strive for the happiness of one to whom I owe all my grief and despair?" "Surely no misfortune of yours is due to her?" I protested quickly. "Misfortune!" she wailed, her eyes flashing. "Would you not call the loss of the man you love, misfortune?" Then, in quieter tones, she added with a sigh, "Ah, you don't know, Geoffrey, how intensely bitter my strange, adventurous life has been. You believe, no doubt, that a woman of my character cannot love. Well, I thought so once. But I tell you that in London I loved one man; the only man I ever met that I could marry. I had renounced my past, and sought to lead a new life when I knew that he cared for me, and was preparing to make me his wife. But she, the Grand Duchess who tricked you so cleverly, came between us, and we were parted. Then I came here, to Russia, sought solace among my former companions, the scum of the gaols and ghettos, and have now descended in despair to what I am. By her, the woman you ask me to free from a terrible thraldom, I have been thrust back into hopelessness, and have lost for ever the one chance I had of joy and love." Then, covering her handsome face with her hands, she burst into a torrent of tears. "Come," I said, rising, and stroking her soft, silky hair. Her arms were upon the table, and she had buried her head in them, sobbing as if her heart would break. "Come, do not give way," I urged. "Who was the man you loved?" "That concerns no one but myself," she murmured. "Even she has never had proof that we loved one another. Yet to her is due all this grief, that has fallen upon me." Raising her head, she strove to suppress her emotion, and her brilliant tear-bedewed eyes fixed themselves steadily upon mine. "I may perhaps be able to assist you," I said. "I did on a former occasion." "No," she answered, in a voice of intense sorrow. "I have now grown careless of myself, careless of life, careless of everything since I left London. With the man I loved so truly I could have been happy always, yet she knew my past, and would allow me no chance to redeem myself. It is but what I deserve, I suppose, therefore I must suffer. But can you wonder that, hating the world as I do, I entertain a certain grim satisfaction in being leader of this ragged, ruffianly band of frontier free-lances?" "No," I answered, echoing her sigh; "I am scarcely surprised, yet I cannot think that my wife, who was your friend, would willingly serve you as you believe." "She did," Sonia answered, again raising her sad, dark eyes. "She alone I have to thank for the sorrow that has wrecked my life." "What was the name of the man you loved?" I asked. "Do I know him?" "Yes, you know him; but his name is of no consequence," she answered evasively, in a faint voice, lowering her eyes. "My secret is best kept in my own heart." "If my wife did it unintentionally, without knowing you were lovers, there is some excuse," I said, half apologetically. "No," she answered, with sudden harshness. "No excuse is possible. There were other circumstances which rendered her conduct unpardonable." "I really can't believe it," I said. "I feel certain that she would never have exposed you willingly." "Alas!" she said at last, "the evil is now done, and the stigma cannot be removed. But you asked me to reveal certain facts that would place her mind at rest, restore her confidence, and give her freedom. I have told you. I have made a confession to you that no other person has had from my lips." "Ah, do not be pitiless," I cried imploringly, feeling assured that she alone knew the truth. Her assertion that she could restore my wife to freedom meant, I knew, the removal of that dark cloud of suspicion and dread that, overshadowing her, held her spellbound by fear. "Think," I urged, standing close to her, my hand resting upon the bare, unpolished table. "Once when you came to me, a stranger, and I rendered you a service, you promised to perform one for me in return when I desired it. I am now sorely in need of your friendship, and have come to you for aid." "We shall be friends always, I hope, Geoffrey," she answered quietly, pushing back her dark hair from her brow. Her head was untidy and her hair tangled, for so callous had she grown that she took no heed either of attire or personal appearance. "Then you will, at least, fulfil your promise," I said. "No," she replied, with dogged firmness. "In this matter I absolutely refuse. I know how weary and wretched your life must be, with mystery surrounding you as it does, and being compelled to live apart from the woman you love; but, frankly, the fact that her cold, proud Highness fears to acknowledge you, or tell you the truth, is a source of satisfaction to me. She has sown dissension, and is now reaping her harvest of tears." The cankerworm of care was eating out my heart, and I resolved to make one final appeal to her better nature, albeit I saw from her demeanour how embittered she was against Ella. "No effort have I left unattempted to seek some solution of the problem," I said. "Yet all is unavailing. I have sought the truth from Cecil Bingham, but he refused to utter one word, and referred me to you. He said you knew all." "Cecil Bingham!" she cried, suddenly starting. "Do you know him? He was your wife's friend." "Yes," I answered. "I know that, although I am unaware of the true character of their relationship." "Ah!" she ejaculated, and I thought she winced beneath my words. "He sent you here?" "Yes," I said. "But before seeing him I had endeavoured to obtain some facts from another of Ella's acquaintances, Andrew Beck." "Andrew Beck?" she repeated in a low, hollow voice, her brows contracting as if mention of his name were unpleasant to her ears. "You were jealous of him once," she added in a hard, dry tone. "Yea," I smiled. "But I am so no longer." "Why? I thought from what Ella told me long ago that you had some cause. He certainly was one of her admirers." "Yes. But he's about to be married." "Married!" she cried wildly, starting to her feet, her lips moving convulsively. "Andrew Beck?" I nodded, for a moment surprised; but, suddenly remembering, I took from my pocket-book the newspaper cutting announcing the engagement. Eagerly her strained eyes read the three formal lines of print, then hastily crushing the piece of paper in her hand she cast it from her with a gesture of anger. Her face was pale and determined, her thin hands, no longer loaded with rings as they once had been, twitched nervously, and I could plainly see the strange convulsion that the unexpected intelligence had caused within her. "Do you know the--the girl who is to be his wife?" she stammered presently. "No, we have never met," I answered. "His marriage does not, however, concern us for the moment. It is of Ella and her strange secret that I seek knowledge. Tell me the truth, Sonia, so that I may be able to place within her hand a weapon wherewith to combat this mysterious enemy she fears." There was a long pause. Her breath came and went quickly in hot convulsive gasps. Her hands were so tightly clenched that their nails were driven into the palms; her mouth was firmly set, and in her eyes was a cold, stony stare. The knowledge of Beck's intended marriage had aroused within her a veritable tumult of passion. "The truth!" she cried hoarsely at last, her hand upon her throbbing breast. "You ask me to clear suspicion from the woman whose whim it has been to marry you and I refuse, because I should bring her happiness, and remove from her the terror that now holds her enthralled. But I have reconsidered my decision. I--" "Ah, tell me!" I exclaimed, interrupting her in my eagerness. "I will speak because my disclosures, remarkable though they may be, will not only bring peace to you and your wife, but will also prove a trifle disconcerting to her companions. Once they hunted me from town to town as a criminal; they will now beg to me for mercy upon their knees." "Tell me. Do not conceal the truth longer," I cried anxiously. "No. Only in Elizaveta's presence will I speak," she answered, in a strained voice quivering with violent emotion. "Let us start for Paris to-night. When the moon rises I will guide you through the forest into Germany; we can cross the Jura by the bridge beyond Absteinen, and from Tilsit take train to Berlin. In two days we can be in Paris. Take me to her," she said with sudden eagerness, "and you shall both learn facts that will astound you." "I am quite ready," I said; "I knew you alone would prove my friend." "No," she answered, regarding me gravely. "No, Geoffrey. It is a secret full of grim realities and ugly revelations, which, when disclosed, will, I fear, cause you to hate me, and count me among your enemies. But you seek the truth; you shall therefore be satisfied." CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE. CONFESSION. "Her Highness has this moment returned from driving, m'sieur," answered the big Russian concierge, when, accompanied by Sonia, I entered the hall of the great house in the Avenue des Champs Elysees, and handed him a card. Then a second servant, in the blue-and-gold livery of the Romanoffs, conducted us ceremoniously along the wide, soft-carpeted corridor to the well-remembered room wherein I had taken leave of the woman I loved. My companion, in her neat, tailor-made travelling gown of dark grey cloth, looked a very different person to the dirty, unkempt peasant woman who led that band of desperate gaol-birds on the frontier, and as she glanced around the fine apartment on entering, she observed, with a slight sigh, that this was not her first visit. The afternoon was breathless. All Paris had left for the plages of Arcachon, Dieppe, or Trouville, or the baths of Royat, Vichy or Luchon, and the boulevards were given over to unhappy business men, _cafe_ loungers, and soft-hatted, gaping tourists in check tweeds. The green jalousies of the room were closed, the senses were suffused with a tender and restful twilight, for the glare had been tempered to suit the dreamy languor of that great mansion's world-weary mistress. The open windows admitted, with air, the faint sound of traffic from the Avenue. A lad passing somewhere outside whistled a few bars from the gay chansonette, "Si qu'on leur-z-y, f'rait ca," which Judic was singing nightly with enormous success at the Summer Alcazar. I noticed that upon the piano there still stood my own photograph, while that of my betrayer had been replaced by a picture of my wife. With my back to the great tiled hearth, filled with ferns and flowers, and surrounded by its wonderful mantel of Italian sculptured marble, I waited, while Sonia, fatigued after our long and dusty journey, sank into one of the silken armchairs, unloosened her coat, and sniffed at her little silver bottle of smelling-salts. Scarce a word had she uttered during our drive across the city from the Gare de Lyon, so full she seemed of unutterable sadness. During several minutes we remained in silence, when, without warning, the long doors of white-and-gold were flung open by the flunkey who, advancing into the room, announced his mistress. Next instant we were face to face. "Ah! Geoffrey. At last!" she cried, with flushed cheeks, a smile of glad welcome lighting up her pale countenance as she rushed towards me with both hands outstretched. A second later, noticing Sonia, she suddenly halted. Instantly a change passed over her face. She was unlike the gay, light-hearted girl who loved to idle up the quiet Thames backwaters, or punt along the banks at sundown. She was different from the happy, trustful bride who had wandered with me during those autumn days in quaint old Chateauroux. She had none of the flush of joyous youth, and the harder lines of resolve and determination were softened by an expression for which there is no better word than consecration. There were signs of endurance in her face, but it was the endurance of the martyr, not of the champion. Facing Sonia, she drew herself up haughtily, and demanded in French in a harsh, angry voice,-- "To what, pray, do I owe this intrusion? I should have thought that after what has passed you would not dare to come here. But I suppose cool audacity is a characteristic which must be cultivated by a woman of your character." Sonia rose slowly from her chair, her features haggard and blanched, her head bent slightly, as if in penitence. No effort did she make to resent the bitter, angry words my wife had uttered, but in a low tone simply replied,-- "I have come here with Geoffrey, to tell you the truth." "The truth!" echoed the Grand Duchess, with withering contempt. "The truth from such as you! Who would believe it?" "Wait! Hear me before you denounce me," Sonia urged, in a strange, hollow voice, that sounded like one speaking in the far distance. "I do not deny that my presence may seem unwarrantable. I admit that between us there can no longer be friendship, yet strange it is that, although you are honest, upright and respected, while I am a social outcast, spurned and degraded by all, there nevertheless exists a common bond between us--the bond of love. You love Geoffrey, the man who by law is your husband; while I love another, a man you also know;" and her voice faltered, "the man to whom you denounced me as base and worthless." "Well?" asked Ella, standing stern, upright, full of calm, unruffled dignity. She still wore the cool-looking summer gown in which she had been driving in the Bois, and had not removed her large black hat with its long ostrich plumes. "You are quite right, quite right," Sonia admitted in a voice trembling with emotion. "You were justified to undeceive him as you did. I know, alas! how black is my heart--how blunted is all the womanly feeling I once possessed, like you. But you have been nurtured in the lap of luxury, while I, fed from infancy upon the offal of a slum, and taught to regard the world from a cynical point of view, have grown old in evil-doing, and am now a mere derelict in the stream of life. Long ago we met, and parted. I treated you, as I did others, as an enemy. We have now met again, and I, conscience-stricken and penitent, have come to atone for the past--to prove your friend, to beg forgiveness." My wife shrugged her shoulders with a gesture of quick impatience. "Ah! You don't believe I am in earnest," cried the unhappy woman. "Has it never occurred to you that I alone can free you from the bond that has held you aloof from your husband?" "What do you mean?" cried Ella, with a puzzled expression. "I mean," she answered, in a deep, earnest voice. "I mean that if you will make full and open confession to Geoffrey I will furnish you with proof positive of the identity of the murderer of Dudley Ogle. By this means only can you obtain freedom from your bondage of guilt." "My freedom!" echoed my wife. She was pale as death; her hot, dry lips moved convulsively, and she glanced at me in feverish apprehension. "How can you give me my freedom?" "By revealing the truth," Sonia answered. "When you have told Geoffrey all, then will I disclose the terrible secret that I have selfishly kept from you because I envied you your happiness." The silence remained unbroken for some moments. Ella stood with her gloved hands clasped before her. The haughty demeanour of the daughter of the Romanoffs had entirely forsaken her; with head bent she stood immovable as a statue. Terror and despair showed themselves in her clear, bright eyes. It seemed as though she mistrusted this woman of evil repute, whose assertions half induced her to confess to me. "Come," Sonia said, "speak, and freedom, love and happiness are yours." Her breast, beneath its lace and flimsy muslin, heaved and fell. Her fingers hitched themselves nervously in the trimming of her gown. Then, at last, with sudden resolve, she turned, and with terror-stricken eyes fixed upon me, said in English, in low, faltering tone,-- "To confess to you, Geoffrey, will cause you to hate, ah! even to curse me. After to-day I fear we shall part never again to meet." "No, no," I cried, advancing to take her soft hand in mine. "Tell me your secret. Then let us hear what Sonia has to reveal." "Ah! mine is a wretched, horrible story of duplicity," my wife faltered, standing in an attitude of deep dejection. "Although I am a Grand Duchess, the bearer of an Imperial name, I can hope for neither pity nor mercy from you, nor from the world outside." "Why?" "Because I have foully deceived you. I am a spy!" "A spy!" I gasped, amazed. "What do you mean?" "Listen; I will tell you," she answered, in a hard, strained voice, swaying slowly forward and clutching at the table for support. "Three years ago, when my mother, the Grand Duchess Nicholas, was still alive, we were spending some months as usual at our winter villa that faced the Mediterranean at St Eugene, close to Algiers, and my mother engaged as _valet de chambre_ an Englishman. Soon this man grew, I suppose, to admire me. He pestered me with hateful attentions, and at last had the audacity to declare his love. As may be readily imagined, I scornfully rejected him, treated him with contempt, and finding that he still continued his protestations, meeting me when I went for walks along the sea-road to Algiers, or under the palms and orange groves in the Jardin Marengo, I one day in a fit of ill-temper, disclosed to my mother the whole of the circumstances. The fellow was at once discharged, but before he left for Europe he wrote me a letter full of bitter reproach, and expressed his determination to some day wreak vengeance upon me, as well as upon a young Englishman whom he suspected that I loved. His suspicions, however, were entirely unfounded. I, known at home and throughout all our family by the pet name of `Tcherno-okaya,' or `Sparkling Eyes,' a nickname taken from our Russian poet Lermontoff, had met this young Englishman quite casually, when one day, while passing through the Kasbah, I was insulted by two half-drunken Arabs, and he escorted me home. Then, when we parted, he told me that he was staying at the Hotel de la Regence, opposite the great white mosque, and gave me his name. It was Dudley Ogle." CHAPTER THIRTY SIX. THE THRALL. "Dudley Ogle!" I echoed in blank amazement. "Are you certain that the servant's suspicions were devoid of foundation?" "Absolutely," she answered in quick breathlessness. "In those days I was supercilious and disdainful, being taught to regard my dignity as Grand Duchess with too great a conceit to make a _mesalliance_. My mother used constantly to urge that in the marriages contracted by members of our family love was not absolutely necessary--position was everything. Well, the months went by. We left Algiers, returned to St Petersburg, and soon afterwards my mother died, leaving me alone. I found myself possessor of great wealth, and when, after a period of mourning, I reappeared in society, I was courted and flattered by all sorts and conditions of men. In a year I grew tired of it all and longed to return to England, the land wherein I had spent many years of my youth; therefore I engaged a woman to pose as my mother, and dropping my title, went to London and lived there as Ella Laing. Then I met you," and she paused, looking earnestly into my face with her deep blue eyes. To me she had embodied everything that was fair, honourable, and pure, yet I had dreaded some sinister peril from an unknown source. "And we loved each other," I said simply. "Yes," she went on fervently. "But from the first I was fettered, being unable to act as my heart prompted. I loved you fondly, and knew you wished to make me your wife, yet I dared not to risk such a step without the permission of our House. I went to St Petersburg, explained who and what you were, and craved leave to marry you. A family council was held, but the suggestion was unanimously denounced as a piece of sentimental folly. Ah, shall I ever forget that night? I pleaded to them upon my knees to let me obtain happiness in your love, but they were inexorable and refused. At length, when in a moment of despair I threatened that if shut out from love by the barrier of birth I would end my life, a suggestion was made--a horrible, infamous one, prompted by Makaroff, Minister of the Household. Yet I was ready to commit any act, to do anything in order to secure happiness with you. Permission was given me to marry you on condition that I entered the Secret Service as spy. I appealed personally to the Tzar, but in vain. You were in the Earl of Warnham's confidence, and it was seen that from you I could obtain information which would be of greatest utility to our Foreign Department." "So you accepted," I said sternly. "Yes. I accepted their abominable conditions because I loved you so well, Geoffrey," she said gloomily, her trembling hand upon my shoulder. "It was not my fault, indeed it wasn't. If I had known what was to follow I would have killed myself rather than bring about all the trouble and disaster for which I became responsible." "No," I said, "don't speak like that." "I would," she declared despairingly. "What followed was a dark, mysterious tragedy, while all the time I knew that you must suspect-- that, after all, you might forsake me. Within a week after binding myself irrevocably to the Tzar's army of spies I made a discovery that held me appalled. I found that my master, the man to whose will I was compelled to submit, was none other than our discharged _valet de chambre_--the man who two years before had declared his love. At the time my mother had engaged him he was already in the Secret Service, and had no doubt kept watch upon us. He came to me at `The Nook,' and, exulting in the fact that I had become his puppet, renewed his protestations of affection. When, frankly, I told him that I hated him and loved only you, he at once informed me, with a grin of satisfaction, that the department in St Petersburg found it compulsory to obtain possession of a copy of a secret convention at that moment being concluded between your country and Germany, and that I must get possession of it at any cost, through you. It was in order that I might betray you that the Imperial permission had been given to our marriage. In indignation I refused, whereupon he threatened to expose me to you as a Russian spy, and I saw only too clearly that any such revelation must end for ever our acquaintance. He cajoled, urged, threatened, and explained all the elaborate precautions that had been taken by two clerks in Russian pay at your Foreign Office in order that on a certain day you should carry the precious document in your pocket, and how he had prepared the dummy envelope sealed with your Minister's seal. At last--at last, after striving long and vainly against the performance of this ignominious action that I knew must reflect on your honesty, I was compelled to submit. Ah! you can never know what agony I suffered. I verily believe that in those few days the terrible vengeance of that scoundrel drove me insane. The hideous ghost of the past causes me to shudder whenever I think of it." I echoed her sigh, but no word escaped me. Her revelations were astounding. I had never suspected her of being actually a spy, although the discovery of the stolen convention in her escritoire had lent colour to that view. "I deceived you," she went on in a hard, monotonous voice. "But only because I loved you so fondly, and dreaded that this man, who had long ago vowed to wreck my life, would expose, and thus part us. Yet I could not bring myself to commit the theft. How could I place upon you--the man who was all in all to me--the stigma of having traitorously sold your country's secrets? The man who held me enslaved, and whose attentions I had spurned, exulted in his malevolent revenge. Once he offered, if I would renounce all thought of you and treat him with more cordiality, to commit the theft himself; but I refused, determined at all hazards to remain with you as long as possible. Once it was thought that the secret convention would be sent to Warnham Hall, and I was compelled to go down there to devise some means of obtaining it. I found Dudley staying in the village, and we returned to London together. The end must soon come, I knew. Therefore I lived on in daily terror of what must follow. At last the day dawned on which I had to meet you at the Foreign Office, and filch from you the bond of nations. After breakfast I stood out on the lawn by the sunny river's brink, contemplating suicide rather than your ruin, when there rowed up to the steps Dudley Ogle, who hailed me, inviting me to pull up to Windsor, and there lunch with him. At once I accepted, and after embarking, told him of my dilemma, and besought his assistance. As you know, he was a good amateur conjurer, and skilled in feats of sleight-of-hand. Without thought of the consequences, he resolved to commit the theft for my sake, and when I had fully explained all the facts and given him the dummy envelope that the cunning chief of the _Okhrannoe Otdelenie_ had prepared, he turned the boat and put me ashore at `The Nook,' afterwards rowing rapidly down to Shepperton to change and go at once to London." "He did this because he loved you?" I exclaimed sternly. "No," she answered reassuringly. "Poor Dudley was simply my friend. He called on you and extracted the document from your pocket while you lunched together, because he saw in what a dilemma I was. He knew I loved you dearly, and never once spoke a single word of affection to me. That I swear before Heaven. What followed his visit to Downing Street I have only a hazy idea, so full of awful anxieties was that breathless day. From Waterloo Station he telegraphed to me that he had successfully secured the agreement and handed it to the chief of spies. The latter, who had been waiting in Parliament Street expecting me, seeing him, took in the situation at a glance, and approaching him, asked for the document, which he gave up. An hour afterwards, fearing that you might suspect me, I telegraphed to you at Shepperton to dine with us, well knowing that already the text of the convention was at that moment being transmitted to Petersburg, and that war was imminent. You came; you kissed me. I loved you dearer than life, yet dreaded the frightful consequences of the dastardly act I had instigated. Suddenly, while we were at dinner, and you were laughing, happy and unconscious of the conspiracy against the peace of Europe, a thought flashed across my mind. I well knew that an awful conflict of armed forces must accrue from my deep, despicable cunning, and it occurred to me, as I sat by your side, that I would, using the secret cipher I had been provided with, telegraph to St Petersburg in the name of the chief of spies, assuring our Foreign Department that a mistake had been made. I slipped out, and running down to the telegraph office just before it closed, sent a message to an unsuspicious-looking address, stating that the text of the convention already sent had been discovered to be that of a rejected draft, and not that of the actual defensive alliance which had received the signature of the Emperor William." "Then it was actually this message of yours that prevented war?" I gasped, in profound astonishment. "Yes," she answered. "Before receipt of my telegram all preparations were being made for the commencement of hostilities, but on its arrival the Tzar at once countermanded the mobilisation order, and Europe was thereby spared a terrible and bloody conflict. Ah! that was indeed a memorable night, brought to a conclusion by a dark and terrible tragedy." Her astounding disclosures held me dumbfounded. I remembered vividly how, during our lunch at the Ship, Dudley had risen and gone out to the bar to speak to an acquaintance. It was at that moment, having stolen the document from me, he glanced at its register number and imitated it upon the dummy with which Ella had provided him. "But how came you possessed of the original of the convention?" I asked. "A week before I fled from you I received it by post anonymously," she replied. "When compelled by my enemy to leave you and return here to my true position, I unfortunately left it behind, and knew that, sooner or later, you must discover it. The man who, with the Tzar's authority, held me under the lash, still holds me, the plaything of his spite, and threatens that if I allow you to come here and occupy your rightful place as my husband, he will denounce me to the British Government as a spy. Hence I am still his puppet, still held by a bond of guilt that I dare not break asunder." "Be patient," urged Sonia, in a deep, calm voice. "Be patient, and you shall yet be free." "Ah! Geoffrey," sobbed my wife, her blanched, tearful face buried in her hands, "you can never, I fear, forgive. After all, notwithstanding the glamour that must surround me as Grand Duchess, I am but a mean, despicable woman who foully betrayed you, the man who loved me." "You atoned for your crime by your successful effort to preserve the peace of Europe," I answered. "Yes, yes," she cried, with a quiver in her voice there was no mistaking for any note save that of love; "but, alas! I am in the power of an unscrupulous knave who parted us because he saw me happy with you. Can you ever forgive me? Can you, now you know of my unworthiness, ever say that you love me as truly as you did in those bygone days at `The Nook'? Speak! Tell me?" "Yes," I answered, fervently pressing her closely in affectionate embrace. "I forgive you everything, darling. You sinned; but, held as you have been by the hateful conditions imposed upon you by a base, unprincipled villain, I cannot blame, but only pity you." "Then you still love me, Geoffrey?" she cried, panting, gazing up into my face. For answer I bent until my lips met hers in a long fond caress. In those moments of ecstasy I was conscious of having regained the idyllic happiness long lost. Even though her story was full of bitter and terrible sorrow, and rendered gloomy by the tragic death of her self-sacrificing friend, the truth nevertheless brought back to me the joys and pleasures of life that not long ago I believed had departed from me for ever. Again and again our lips met with murmured words of tender passion--she declaring that her crime had been flagitious and unpardonable, yet assuring me of what I now felt convinced, that her love had been unwavering. If it were not that she had resolved to renounce her title and become my wife she would never have fallen beneath the vassalage of the infamous scoundrel who sought her social ruin. Thus we stood together locked in each other's arms, exchanging once again vows of love eternal, while Sonia stood watching us, sad, silent and motionless, save for a deep sigh that once escaped her. She knew that supreme happiness had come to the woman she had once denounced as my bitterest foe. CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN. CONCLUSION. It was four o'clock on the following afternoon. The black, iron-studded doors of the Bank of England were just closing. The beadle mopped his brow. The traffic around the Royal Exchange was becoming more congested, as it generally does at that hour, and perspiring clerks hurrying along Threadneedle Street sought the shady side, for the sun was still powerful. So hot indeed was the season that general permission had been granted everywhere in the City to wear the jacket suit and straw headgear reminiscent of Margate, in place of the conventional silk hat and frock coat. Although in the West the houses were mostly closed, and thousands were absent in the country and by the sea, the great, turbulent, bustling crowd that constitutes business London showed no sign of inactivity or decrease as, accompanied by my wife and Sonia, I walked up Old Broad Street to that pile of offices known as Winchester House, through the swing doors of which passed a constant stream of hurrying clerks. By the lift we ascended to the second floor, and then passed down a long corridor to a door on which was inscribed the name "Mr Andrew Beck." We entered a large office of business-like aspect, where some dozen clerks were busy writing, and were informed that their principal, although absent, would return in a few minutes, therefore we decided to wait, and were ushered into a comfortable private room, one door of which opened on to the corridor. Scarcely had we been seated a few moments when the click of a latch-key was heard in the door, and my friend Beck entered. He was well-dressed as usual, with a green-tinted carnation in his button-hole, and a glossy hat with brim of the latest curl stuck a trifle rakishly upon his head. The instant he confronted us the light died out of his face. He drew himself up with a quick look of suspicion, while from his lips there escaped a muttered imprecation. Without further ado he turned on his heel, as if preparing to make a hurried exit, but in a moment Sonia, detecting his intention, sprang towards the door and prevented him. "Well?" he asked, with a sorry endeavour to remain cool, "why are you all here? This is an unexpected pleasure, I assure you." It was Sonia who, standing before him with dark, flashing eyes, answered in a tone of fierce hatred and contempt,-- "I have come, Andrew, to present my congratulations upon your forthcoming marriage," she said, with her pronounced foreign accent. "They could have been conveyed by a penny stamp," he retorted impatiently. "You taunt me, do you?" she cried in a towering passion. "You, the cunning, cowardly spy whom I shielded because you professed love for me. Had I spoken long ago you would have met with your deserts, either at the hands of the Nihilists, or at those of justice. Although myself a criminal I yearned for love, and foolishly believing that you cared for me, preserved the secret of your guilt, allowing you to wreck the happiness of Geoffrey Deedes, the man who twice proved my friend, and of Elizaveta, the only honest woman who ever spoke kindly to me or endeavoured to induce me to reform. Because you were chief of the Tzar's spies and I was notorious, with plenty of money always at command, you imagined that you held me irrevocably. Well, for a time, you did. Your false protestations of affection caused me to refrain from exposing your base, cunning, heartless infamy. It was you, with your renegade underling Renouf, who contrived to get me introduced to Elizaveta in order to further your own ends; but it was you also, when fearing that I might make some ugly revelations, made unfounded allegations against me to General Sekerzhinski, and informed him of my whereabouts, so that I was compelled to fly from Pembroke Road and seek shelter where I could." His eyes were fixed upon her with a look of fierce hatred, and he muttered some incoherent words between his teeth. "Yes," she went on defiantly, "I know you are anxious to close my lips, because of the startling disclosures it is within my power to make. The Department in St Petersburg have in you a keen, cunning spy, but when it becomes known throughout England that Andrew Beck, the popular Member for West Rutlandshire, is in the pay of the Russian Government, do you anticipate that you will still occupy your seat in the House of Commons, or at the Committee you have so ingeniously obtained for the investigation of the strength of England's defences?" He started. His face was ashen pale; his cigar dropped from his nerveless, trembling fingers. "Geoffrey," she went on, "has already heard from Elizaveta how cleverly you tricked her, and with what dastard knavishness you compelled her to instigate the theft of the secret convention. She--" "Then the world shall know that the Grand Duchess Elizaveta Nicolayevna is in the Secret Service!" he cried fiercely. "She has betrayed her country and her kinsman, the Emperor!" Sonia, smiling in contempt, said,-- "The denunciation will be your own condemnation." "Why? What have I to lose?" he asked indignantly. "Your life. The police have not yet forgotten the tragedy at `The Nook.'" He glared at her open-mouthed. "Perhaps it may be well at this moment to recall some facts that you may have found convenient to forget," she went on ruthlessly, while I, standing beside Ella, drank in eagerly every word. "You will remember where you reduced the stolen document to cipher, imitating Dudley's handwriting on the telegraph forms. It was at my house. The envelope containing the agreement had been opened in the `cabinet noir' at the Embassy, the intention being to replace it at the Foreign Office. But it was I who broke the seal. In your hurry you left the document behind, and even when you returned two hours later, your mind was so full of other things that you did not remember it; so I gummed down the cut edges, and sent it afterwards to Elizaveta. When you came the second time you had with you a pair of men's gloves. Whose they were I knew not, but you got me to sew inside the index-finger of the left hand a tiny, jagged splinter of glass, and upon that glass, when you thought I did not observe you, you smeared some of that fluid that Ruyandez, the Haytian merchant, had given me long ago. That poison I kept locked away in a small cabinet, but many months before I had shown it to you and explained that it was some of that used by the Obeah men, and so rapid was it in effect that one single drop would cause paralysis of the heart within five minutes without leaving any trace of poison. You obtained a key to that cabinet, for when I had gone from the room on that afternoon I watched you unlock it, take out the reed containing the decoction, and prepare the glove." "Liar!" gasped Beck. "I didn't touch it." "The glove," she continued, "belonged to Dudley Ogle. That day Elizaveta had told him that you, a member of the English Parliament, was the chief of Russian spies, and you feared lest he should expose you, as no doubt he would have done if you had not, with cowardly cunning, taken his life." "Murderer!" cried Ella, amazed. "You--you killed him! Ah! I suspected it. Tell us, Sonia, how it was accomplished." "The gloves this man brought to my house were a pair he had taken up by mistake when at Shepperton on the previous evening. For cool and desperate plotting, the manner in which he killed the man he feared was astounding, for, having introduced into the finger of the glove the tiny piece of glass, he, during that evening at `The Nook,' took out his victim's gloves from his overcoat in the hall and replaced them by those prepared. When Dudley left to walk home he bade farewell to you, and at once proceeding to put on his gloves, received a scratch on the finger so slight as to be almost unnoticeable, yet within five minutes the effects of the poison had reached his heart, and he was beyond human aid." "Amazing!" I cried, regarding my whilom friend with intense loathing as he stood before us, his face a ghastly hue. "It's untrue! Who will believe such a woman?" he cried. "Everyone will," Sonia retorted quickly. "See, here is the proof," and she drew from her pocket a well-worn suede glove of dark grey, which I recognised at once as being one of the kind always worn by Dudley. "The splinter of glass is still inside." The man who had led the double life of spy and legislator, and who had amassed a great fortune in his speculations in African gold, stood livid, with terror-stricken eyes riveted upon the evidence of his crime, like one transfixed. "The Tzar will have no further employment for a murderer," exclaimed Ella at last. "Neither will the House of Commons permit a spy to sit in its midst. When I consented to enter the Secret Service of His Majesty, it was with one object--to obtain permission to marry. This I have attained, and because of Geoffrey's generosity and free forgiveness I have now no further fear of the opinion of the world or of revelations by a man who is proved to be a murderer. At last I have secured freedom from your hateful tie." "Then you intend to denounce me?" Beck cried, glancing round with a wild, hunted look. "Twenty-four hours from now I shall place Lord Warnham in possession of the whole of these curious facts. If you are still upon English soil, you will be arrested for the murder of my friend," I answered calmly. "I see plainly how, while I left you alone with the dead man, you placed in his pocket the brass seal found upon him, and how cleverly you managed to introduce the bogus passport and evidences of forgery among his possessions. Yours was a devilish ingenuity, indeed." "If I fly you will not follow?" he gasped eagerly. "Wherever you may hide you will be followed by your guilt," I answered. "A murderer can hope for no forgiveness from his fellow-men." With his chin sunk upon his breast, and his wild eyes downcast, he stood in silence, leaning heavily against the wall. Then, slowly, with a final look upon him, I passed out behind my wife and the pale-faced woman who had so clearly substantiated her terrible charge. The vengeance he had sought to bring upon Ella had fallen upon him and completely crushed him. In the library at Berkeley Square on the following afternoon I explained the whole of the startling facts, to the wizened, ascetic old Earl, who sat speechless in amazement when he realised that Andrew Beck was actually a foreign spy. It was during the conversation that followed I learnt that the man who had been loved by Sonia was Cecil Bingham, the young country gentleman who, known to both, had sought to assist Ella in unearthing the identity of Dudley's murderer. Sonia had misjudged my wife entirely, for she had never denounced her to Cecil, and the latter, being at that moment a guest in the Earl's house, was sent for, and before us all the pair became reconciled. Elizaveta Nicolayevna, or Ella, as I still call her, has now renounced her country, and become thoroughly English. A year ago Lord Warnham, assured of my wife's probity--for greatly to Monsieur Grodekoff's dismay, she had given some valuable information regarding the activity of the Russian Secret Service at Downing Street--appointed me to a responsible post at our Embassy in Paris, so that we now live together at the big white house in the Avenue des Champs Elysees, while Sonia and Cecil are also married and live quietly in a quaint old manor-house near Winchester. It was only the other day, however, that we heard mention of Andrew Beck, the popular legislator who so mysteriously accepted stewardship of the Chiltern Hundreds. There was a paragraph in the newspapers stating that he had been found drowned in the Scheldt, near Antwerp, and foul play was suspected. Then Ella explained to me that the woman who had passed as her mother, Mrs Laing, was, she afterwards discovered, a well-known Nihilist, and it was in order to keep observation upon her that the detective Renouf had entered her service. This woman, whose real name was Sophie Grunsberg, was greatly incensed against Beck on account of certain false accusations he had made against members of the revolutionary organisation, and there was little doubt that he had fallen beneath their far-reaching vengeance. Here, as I pen these last few lines of my strange story of England's peril, my own betrayal, and my wife's fond love, Ella, with sweet, glad smile, moves forward to stroke my hair with soft, caressing hand. The odour of sampaguita pervades her chiffons, stirring within me memories of the past. We are together in the room I know so well, with its great windows overlooking the leafy Avenue. It is warm, the sun-shutters are closed, and from somewhere outside the gay air, "Si qu'on leur-z-y f'rait ca" is borne in upon the summer wind. At last our days are full of passionate love and idyllic happiness. Verily there is great truth in those words of Holy Writ, "Whoso findeth a wife, findeth a good thing." The End. 
4469	----	None 
14126	----	[Illustration: LADY KITTY BRISTOL] The Marriage of William Ashe BY MRS. HUMPHRY WARD Author of "Lady Rose's Daughter" "Eleanor" etc. ILLUSTRATED BY ALBERT STERNER [Illustration] 1905 Contents PAGE PART I. ACQUAINTANCE . . . . . . . 1 PART II. THREE YEARS AFTER . . . . 125 PART III. DEVELOPMENT . . . . . . 293 PART IV. STORM . . . . . . . . . . 365 PART V. REQUIESCAT . . . . . . . . 511 TO D.M.W. DAUGHTER AND FRIEND I INSCRIBE THIS BOOK MARCH, 1905 Illustrations LADY KITTY BRISTOL . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . _Frontispiece_ LADY TRANMORE AND MARY LYSTER . . . . . . . . . . . . _Facing page_ 6 "A SLIM GIRL IN WHITE AT THE FAR END OF THE LARGE ROOM" . . . . . . 44 THE FINISHING TOUCHES . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 200 "HE GATHERED HER IN HIS ARMS" . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 278 "THE ACTRESS PAUSED TO STARE AT LADY KITTY" . . . . . . . . . . . . 438 "SHE THOUGHT OF CLIFFE STANDING BESIDE THE DOOR OF THE GREAT HALL" . 474 "HE DREW SOME CHAIRS TOGETHER BEFORE THE FIRE" . . . . . . . . . . . 556 PART I ACQUAINTANCE "Just oblige me and touch With your scourge that minx Chloe, but don't hurt her much." The Marriage of William Ashe I "He ought to be here," said Lady Tranmore, as she turned away from the window. Mary Lyster laid down her work. It was a fine piece of church embroidery, which, seeing that it had been designed for her by no less a person than young Mr. Burne Jones himself, made her the envy of her pre-Raphaelite friends. "Yes, indeed. You made out there was a train about twelve." "Certainly. They can't have taken more than an hour to speechify after the declaration of the poll. And I know William meant to catch that train if he possibly could." "And take his seat this evening?" Lady Tranmore nodded. She moved restlessly about the room, fidgeting with a book here and there, and evidently full of thoughts. Mary Lyster watched her a little longer, then quietly took up her work again. Her air of well-bred sympathy, the measured ease of her movements, contrasted with Lady Tranmore's impatience. Yet in truth she was listening no less sharply than her companion to the sounds in the street outside. Lady Tranmore made her way to the window, and stood there looking out on the park. It was the week before Easter, and the plane-trees were not yet in leaf. But a few thorns inside the park railings were already lavishly green and there was a glitter of spring flowers beside the park walks, not showing, however, in such glorious abundance as became the fashion a few years later. It was a mild afternoon and the drive was full of carriages. From the bow-window of the old irregular house in which she stood, Lady Tranmore could watch the throng passing and repassing, could see also the traffic in Park Lane on either side. London, from this point of sight, wore a cheerful, friendly air. The dim sunshine, the white-clouded sky, the touches of reviving green and flowers, the soft air blowing in from a farther window which was open, brought with them impressions of spring, of promise, and rebirth, which insensibly affected Lady Tranmore. "Well, I wonder what William will do, this time, in Parliament!" she said, as she dropped again into her seat by the fire and began to cut the pages of a new book. "He is sure to do extremely well," said Miss Lyster. Lady Tranmore shrugged her shoulders. "My dear--do you know that William has been for eight years--since he left Trinity--one of the idlest young men alive?" "He had one brief!" "Yes--somewhere in the country, where all the juniors get one in turn," said Lady Tranmore. "That was the year he was so keen and went on circuit, and never missed a sessions. Next year nothing would induce him to stir out of town. What has he done with himself all these eight years? I can't imagine." "He has grown--uncommonly handsome," said Mary Lyster, with a momentary hesitation as she threaded her needle afresh. "I never remember him anything else," said Lady Tranmore. "All the artists who came here and to Narroways wanted to paint him. I used to think it would make him a spoiled little ape. But nothing spoiled him." Miss Lyster smiled. "You know, Cousin Elizabeth--and you may as well confess it at once!--that you think him the ablest, handsomest, and charmingest of men!" "Of course I do," said Lady Tranmore, calmly. "I am certain, moreover--now--that he will be Prime Minister. And as for idleness, that, of course, is only a _façon de parler_. He has worked hard enough at the things which please him." "There--you see!" said Mary Lyster, laughing. "Not politics, anyway," said the elder lady, reflectively. "He went into the House to please me, because I was a fool and wanted to see him there. But I must say when his constituents turned him out last year I thought they would have been a mean-spirited set if they hadn't. They knew very well he'd never done a stroke for them. Attendances--divisions--perfectly scandalous!" "Well, here he is, in triumphantly for somewhere else--with all sorts of delightful prospects!" Lady Tranmore sighed. Her white fingers paused in their task. "That, of course, is because--now--he's a personage. Everything'll be made easy for him now. My dear Mary, they talk of England's being a democracy!" The speaker raised her handsome shoulders; then, as though to shake off thoughts of loss and grief which had suddenly assailed her, she abruptly changed the subject. "Well--work or no work--the first thing we've got to do is to marry him." She looked up sharply. But not the smallest tremor could she detect in Mary Lyster's gently moving hand. There was, however, no reply to her remark. "Don't you agree, Polly?" said Lady Tranmore, smiling. Her smile--which still gave great beauty to her face--was charming, but a little sly, as she observed her companion. "Why, of course," said Miss Lyster, inclining her head to one side that she might judge the effect of some green shades she had just put in. "But that surely will be made easy for him, too." "Well, after all, the girls can't propose! And I never saw him take any interest in a girl yet--outside his own family, of course," added Lady Tranmore, hastily. "No--he does certainly devote himself to the married women," replied Miss Lyster, in the half-absent tone of one more truly interested in her embroidery than in the conversation. "He would sooner have an hour with Madame d'Estrées than a week with the prettiest miss in London. That's quite true, but I vow it's the girls' own fault! They should stand on their dignity--snub the creatures more! In my young days--" [Illustration: LADY TRANMORE AND MARY LYSTER] "Ah, there wasn't a glut of us then," said Mary, calmly. "Listen!"--she held up her hand. "Yes," said Lady Tranmore, springing up. "There he is." She stood waiting. The door flew open, and in came a tall young man. "William, how late you are!" said Lady Tranmore, as she flew into his arms. "Well, mother, are you pleased?" Her son held her at arm's-length, smiling kindly upon her. "Of course I am," said Lady Tranmore. "And you--are you horribly tired?" "Not a bit. Ah, Mary!--how do you do?" Miss Lyster had risen, and the cousins shook hands. "But I don't deny it's very jolly to come back--out of all that beastly scrimmage," said the new member, as he threw himself into an arm-chair by the fire with his hands behind his head, while Lady Tranmore prepared him a cup of tea. "I expect you've enjoyed it," said Miss Lyster, also moving towards the fire. "Well, when you're in it there's a certain excitement in wondering how you're going to come out of it! But one might say that, of course, of the infernal regions." "Not quite," said Mary Lyster, smiling demurely. "Polly! you _are_ a Tory. Everybody else's hell has moved--but yours! Thank you, mother," as Lady Tranmore gave him tea. Then, stretching out his great frame in lazy satisfaction, he turned his brown eyes from one lady to the other. "I say, mother, I haven't seen anything as good-looking as you--or Polly there, if she'll forgive me--for weeks." "Hold your tongue, goose," said his mother, as she replenished the teapot. "What--there were no pretty girls--not one?" "Well, they didn't come my way," said William, contentedly munching at bread-and-butter. "I have gone through all the usual humbug--and perjured my soul in all the usual ways--without any consolation worth speaking of." "Don't talk nonsense, sir," said Lady Tranmore. "You know you like speaking--and you like compliments--and you've had plenty of both." "You didn't read me, mother!" "Didn't I?" she said, smiling. He groaned, and took another piece of tea-cake. "My own family at least, don't you think, might omit that?" "H'm, sir--So you didn't believe a word of your own speeches?" said Lady Tranmore, as she stood behind him and smoothed his hair back from his forehead. "Well, who does?" He looked up gayly and kissed the tips of her fingers. "And it's in that spirit you're going back into the House?" Mary Lyster threw him the question--with a slight pinching of the lips--as she resumed her work. "Spirit? What do you mean, Polly? One plays the game, of course--and it has its moments--its hot corners, so to speak--or I suppose no one would play it!" "And the goal?" She lifted a gently disapproving face, in a movement which showed anew the large comeliness of head and neck. "Why--to keep the other fellows out, of course!" He lifted an arm and drew his mother down to sit on the edge of his chair. "William, you're not to talk like that," said Lady Tranmore, decidedly, laying her cheek, however, against his hand the while. "It was all very well when you were quite a free-lance--but now--Oh! never mind Mary--she's discreet--and she knows all about it." "What--that they're thinking of giving me Hickson's place? Parham has just written to me--I found the letter down-stairs--to ask me to go and see him." "Oh! it's come?" said Lady Tranmore, with a start of pleasure. Lord Parham was the Prime Minister. "Now don't be a humbug, William, and pretend you're not pleased. But you'll have to work, mind!" She held up an admonishing finger. "You'll have to answer letters, mind!--you'll have to keep appointments, mind!" "Shall I?... Ah!--Hudson--" He turned. The butler was in the room. "His lordship, my lady, would like to see Mr. William before dinner if he could make it convenient." "Certainly, Hudson, certainly," said the young man. "Tell his lordship I'll be with him in ten minutes." Then, as the butler departed--"How's father, mother?" "Oh! much as usual," said Lady Tranmore, sadly. "And you?" He laid his arm boyishly round her waist, and looked up at her, his handsome face all affection and life. Mary Lyster, observing them, thought them a remarkable pair--he in the very prime and heyday of brilliant youth, she so beautiful still, in spite of the filling-out of middle life--which, indeed, was at the moment somewhat toned and disguised by the deep mourning, the sweeping crape and dull silk in which she was dressed. "I'm all right, dear," she said, quietly, putting her hand on his shoulder. "Now, go on with your tea. Mary--feed him! I'll go and talk to father till you come." She disappeared, and William Ashe approached his cousin. "She _is_ better?" he said, with an anxiety that became him. "Oh yes! Your election has been everything to her--and your letters. You know how she adores you, William." Ashe drew a long breath. "Yes--isn't it bad luck?" "William!" "For her, I mean. Because, you know--I can't live up to it. I know it's her doing--bless her!--that old Parham's going to give me this thing. And it's a perfect scandal!" "What nonsense, William!" "It is!" he maintained, springing up and standing before her, with his hands in his pockets. "They're going to offer me the Under-Secretaryship for Foreign Affairs, and I shall take it, I suppose, and be thankful. And do you know"--he dropped out the words with emphasis--"that I don't know a word of German--and I can't talk to a Frenchman for half an hour without disgracing myself. There--that's how we're governed!" He stood staring at her with his bright large eyes--amused, yet strangely detached--as though he had very little to do with what he was talking about. Mary Lyster met his look in some bewilderment, conscious all the time that his neighborhood was very agreeable and stirring. "But every one says--you speak so well on foreign subjects." "Well, any fool can get up a Blue Book. Only--luckily for me--all the fools don't. That's how I've scored sometimes. Oh! I don't deny that--I've scored!" He thrust his hands deeper into his pockets, his whole tall frame vibrant, as it seemed to her, with will and good-humor. "And you'll score again," she said, smiling. "You've got a wonderful opportunity, William. That's what the Bishop says." "Much obliged to him!" Ashe looked down upon her rather oddly. "He told me he had never believed you were such an idler as other people thought you--that he felt sure you had great endowments, and that you would use them for the good of your country, and"--she hesitated slightly--"of the Church. I wish you'd talk to him sometimes, William. He sees so clearly." "Oh! does he?" said Ashe. Mary had dropped her work, and her face--a little too broad, with features a trifle too strongly marked--was raised towards him. Its pale color had passed into a slight blush. But the more strenuous expression had somehow not added to her charm, and her voice had taken a slightly nasal tone. Through the mind of William Ashe, as he stood looking down upon her, passed a multitude of flying impressions. He knew perfectly well that Mary Lyster was one of the maidens whom it would be possible for him to marry. His mother had never pressed her upon him, but she would certainly acquiesce. It would have been mere mock modesty on his part not to guess that Mary would probably not refuse him. And she was handsome, well provided, well connected--oppressively so, indeed; a man might quail a little before her relations. Moreover, she and he had always been good friends, even when as a boy he could not refrain from teasing her for a slow-coach. During his electoral weeks in the country the thought of "Polly" had often stolen kindly upon his rare moments of peace. He must marry, of course. There was no particular excitement or romance about it. Now that his elder brother was dead and he had become the heir, it simply had to be done. And Polly was very nice--quite sweet-tempered and intelligent. She looked well, moved well, would fill the position admirably. Then, suddenly, as these half-thoughts rushed through his brain, a breath of something cold and distracting--a wind from the land of _ennui_--seemed to blow upon them and scatter them. Was it the mention of the Bishop--tiresome, pompous fellow--or her slightly pedantic tone--or the infinitesimal hint of "management" that her speech implied? Who knows? But in that moment perhaps the scales of life inclined. "Much obliged to the Bishop," he repeated, walking up and down. "I am afraid, however, I don't take things as seriously as he does. Oh, I hope I shall behave decently--but, good Lord, what a comedy it is! You know the sort of articles"--he turned towards her--"our papers will be writing to-morrow on my appointment. They'll make me out no end of a fine fellow--you'll see! And, of course, the real truth is, as you and I know perfectly well, that if it hadn't been for poor Freddy's death--and mother--and her dinners--and the chaps who come here--I might have whistled for anything of the sort. And then I go down to Ledmenham and stand as a Liberal, and get all the pious Radicals to work for me! It's a humbugging world--isn't it?" He returned to the fireplace, and stood looking down upon her--grinning. Mary had resumed her embroidery. She, too, was dimly conscious of something disappointing. "Of course, if you choose to take it like that, you can," she said, rather tartly. "Of course, everything can be made ridiculous." "Well, that's a blessing, anyway!" said Ashe, with his merry laugh. "But look here, Mary, tell me about yourself. What have you been doing?--dancing--riding, eh?" He threw himself down beside her, and began an elder-brotherly cross-examination, which lasted till Lady Tranmore returned and begged him to go at once to his father. When he returned to the drawing-room, Ashe found his mother alone. It was growing dark, and she was sitting idle, her hands in her lap, waiting for him. "I must be off, dear," he said to her. "You won't come down and see me take my seat?" She shook her head. "I think not. What did you think of your father?" "I don't see much change," he said, hesitating. "No, he's much the same." "And you?" He slid down on the sofa beside her and threw his arm round her. "Have you been fretting?" Lady Tranmore made no reply. She was a self-contained woman, not readily moved to tears. But he felt her hand tremble as he pressed it. "I sha'n't fret now"--she said after a moment--"now that you've come back." Ashe's face took a very soft and tender expression. "Mother, you know--you think a great deal too much of me--you're too ambitious for me." She gave a sound between a laugh and a sob, and, raising her hands, she smoothed back his curly hair and held his face between them. "When do you see Lord Parham?" she asked. "Eight o'clock--in his room at the House. I'll send you up a note." "You'll be home early?" "No--don't wait for me." She dropped her hands, after giving him a kiss on the cheek. "I know where you're going! It's Madame d'Estrées' evening." "Well--you don't object?" "Object?" She shrugged her shoulders. "So long as it amuses you--You won't find _one_ woman there to-night." "Last time there were two," he said, smiling, as he rose from the sofa. "I know--Lady Quantock--and Mrs. Mallory. Now they've deserted her, I hear. What fresh gossip has turned up I don't know. Of course," she sighed, "I've been out of the world. But I believe there have been developments." "Well, I don't know anything about it--and I don't think I want to know. She's very agreeable, and one meets everybody there." "_Everybody_. Ungallant creature!" she said, giving a little pull to his collar, the set of which did not please her. "Sorry! Mother!"--his laughing eyes pursued her--"Do you want to marry me off directly?--I know you do!" "I want nothing but what you yourself should want. Of course, you must marry." "The young women don't care twopence about me!" "William!--be a bear if you like, but not an idiot!" "Perfectly true," he declared; "not the dazzlers and the high-fliers, anyway--the only ones it would be an excitement to carry off." "You know very well," she said, slowly, "that now you might marry anybody." He threw his head back rather haughtily. "Oh! I wasn't thinking about money, and that kind of thing. Well, give me time, mother--don't hurry me! And now I'd better stop talking nonsense, change my clothes, and be off. Good-bye, dear--you shall hear when the job's perpetrated!" "William, really!--don't say these things--at least to anybody but me. You understand very well"--she drew herself up rather finely--"that if I hadn't known, in spite of your apparent idleness, you would do any work they _set_ you to do, to your own credit and the country's, I'd never have lifted a finger for you!" William Ashe laughed out. "Oh! intriguing mother!" he said, stooping again to kiss her. "So you admit you did it?" He went off gayly, and she heard him flying up-stairs three steps at a time, as though he were still an untamed Eton boy, and there were no three weeks' hard political fighting behind him, and no interview which might decide his life before him. He entered his own sitting-room on the second floor, shut the door behind him, and glanced round him with delight. It was a large room looking on a side street, and obliquely to the park. Its walls were covered with books--books which almost at first sight betrayed to the accustomed eye that they were the familiar companions of a student. Almost every volume had long paper slips inside it, and when opened would have been found to contain notes and underlinings in a somewhat reckless and destructive abundance. A large table, also loaded untidily with books and papers, stood in the centre of the room; many of them were note-books, stored with evidences of the most laborious and patient work; a Cambridge text lay beside them face downward, as he had left it on departure. His mother's housekeeper, who had been one of his best friends from babyhood, was the only person allowed to dust his room--but on the strict condition that she replaced everything as she found it. He took up the volume, and plunged a moment headlong into the Greek chorus that met his eye. "_Jolly!_" he said, putting it down with a sigh of regret. "These beastly politics!" And he went muttering to his dressing-room, summoning his valet almost with ill-temper. Yet half his library was the library of a politician, admirably chosen and exhaustively read. The footman who answered his call understood his moods and served him at a look. Ashe complained hotly of the brushing of his dress-clothes, and worked himself into a fever over the set of his tie. Nevertheless, before he left he had managed to get from the young man the whole story of his engagement to the under-housemaid, giving him thereupon some bits of advice, jocular but trenchant, which James accepted with a readiness quite unlike his normal behavior in the circles of his class. II Ashe took his seat, dined, and saw the Prime Minister. These things took time, and it was not till past eleven that he presented himself in the hall of Madame d'Estrées' house in St. James's Place. Most of her guests were already gathered, but he mounted the stairs together with an old friend and an old acquaintance, Philip Darrell, one of the ablest writers of the moment, and Louis Harman, artist and man of fashion, the friend of duchesses and painter of portraits, a person much in request in many worlds. "What a _cachet_ they have, these houses!" said Harman, looking round him. "St. James's Place is the top!" "Where else would you expect to find Madame d'Estrées?" asked Darrell, smiling. "Yes--what taste she has! However, it was I really who advised her to take the house." "Naturally," said Darrell. Harman threw a dubious look at him, then stopped a moment, and with a complacent proprietary air straightened an engraving on the staircase wall. "I suppose the dear lady has a hundred slaves of the lamp, as usual," said Ashe. "You advise her about her house--somebody else helps her to buy her wine--" "Not at all, my dear fellow," said Harman, offended--"as if I couldn't do that!" "Hullo!" said Darrell, as they neared the drawing-room door. "What a crowd there is!" For as the butler announced them, the din of talk which burst through the door implied indeed a multitude--much at their ease. They made their way in with difficulty, shaping their course towards that corner in the room where they knew they should find their hostess. Ashe was greeted on all sides with friendly words and congratulations, and a passage was opened for him to the famous "blue sofa" where Madame d'Estrées sat enthroned. She looked up with animation, broke off her talk with two elderly diplomats who seemed to have taken possession of her, and beckoned Ashe to a seat beside her. "So you're in? Was it a hard fight?" "A hard fight? Oh no! One would have had to be a great fool not to get in." "They say you spoke very well. I suppose you promised them everything they wanted--from the crown downward?" "Yes--all the usual harmless things," said Ashe. Madame d'Estrées laughed; then looked at him across the top of her fan. "Well!--and what else?" "You can't wait for your newspaper?" he said, smiling, after a moment's pause. She shrugged her shoulders good-humoredly. "Oh! I _know_--of course I know. Is it as good as you expected?" "As good as--" The young man opened his mouth in wonder. "What right had I to expect anything?" "How modest! All the same, they want you--and they're very glad to get you. But you can't save them." "That's not generally expected of Under-Secretaries, is it?" "A good deal's expected of _you_. I talked to Lord Parham about you last night." William Ashe flushed a little. "Did you? Very kind of you." "Not at all. I didn't flatter you in the least. Nor did he. But they're going to give you your chance!" She bent forward and lightly patted the sleeve of his coat with the fingers of a very delicate hand. In this sympathetic aspect, Madame d'Estrées was no doubt exceedingly attractive. There were, of course, many people who were not moved by it; to whom it was the conjuring of an arch pretender. But these were generally of the female sex. Men, at any rate, lent themselves to the illusion. Ashe, certainly, had always done so. And to-night the spell still worked; though as her action drew his particular attention to her face and expression, he was aware of slight changes in her which recalled his mother's words of the afternoon. The eyes were tired; at last he perceived in them some slight signs of years and harass. Up till now her dominating charm had been a kind of timeless softness and sensuousness, which breathed from her whole personality--from her fair skin and hair, her large, smiling eyes. She put, as it were, the question of age aside. It was difficult to think of her as a child; it had been impossible to imagine her as an old woman. "Well, this is all very surprising," said Ashe, "considering that four months ago I did not matter an old shoe to anybody." "That was your own fault. You took no trouble. And besides--there was your poor brother in the way." Ashe's brow contracted. "No, that he never was," he said, with energy. "Freddy was never in anybody's way--least of all in mine." "You know what I mean," she said, hastily. "And you know what friends he and I were--poor Freddy! But, after all, the world's the world." "Yes--we all grow on somebody's grave," said Ashe. Then, just as she became conscious that she had jarred upon him, and must find a new opening, he himself found it. "Tell me!" he said, bending forward with a sudden alertness--"who is that lady?" He pointed out a little figure in white, sitting in the opening of the second drawing-room; a very young girl apparently, surrounded by a group of men. "Ah!" said Madame d'Estrées--"I was coming to that--that's my girl Kitty--" "Lady Kitty!" said Ashe, in amazement. "She's left school? I thought she was quite a little thing." "She's eighteen. Isn't she a darling? Don't you think her very pretty?" Ashe looked a moment. "Extraordinarily bewitching!--unlike other people?" he said, turning to the mother. Madame d'Estrées raised her eyebrows a little, in apparent amusement. "I'm not going to describe Kitty. She's indescribable. Besides--you must find her out. Do go and talk to her. She's to be half with me, half with her aunt--Lady Grosville." Ashe made some polite comment. "Oh! don't let's be conventional!" said Madame d'Estrées, flirting her fan with a little air of weariness--"It's an odious arrangement. Lady Grosville and I, as you probably know, are not on terms. She says atrocious things of me--and I--" the fair head fell back a little, and the white shoulders rose, with the slightest air of languid disdain--"well, bear me witness that I don't retaliate! It's not worth while. But I know that Grosville House can help Kitty. So!--" Her gesture, half ironical, half resigned, completed the sentence. "Does Lady Kitty like society?" "Kitty likes anything that flatters or excites her." "Then of course she likes society. Anybody as pretty as that--" "Ah! how sweet of you!" said Madame d'Estrées, softly--"how sweet of you! I like you to think her pretty. I like you to say so." Ashe felt and looked a trifle disconcerted, but his companion bent forward and added--"I don't know whether I want you to flirt with her! You must take care. Kitty's the most fantastic creature. Oh! my life now'll be very different. I find she takes all my thoughts and most of my time!" There was something extravagant in the sweetness of the smile which emphasized the speech, and altogether, Madame d'Estrées, in this new maternal aspect, was not as agreeable as usual. Part of her charm perhaps had always lain in the fact that she had no domestic topics of her own, and so was endlessly ready for those of other people. Those, indeed, who came often to her house were accustomed to speak warmly of her "unselfishness"--by which they meant the easy patience with which she could listen, smile, and flatter. Perhaps Ashe made this tacit demand upon her, no less than other people. At any rate, as she talked cooingly on about her daughter, he would have found her tiresome for once but for some arresting quality in that small, distant figure. As it was, he followed what she said with attention, and as soon as she had been recaptured by the impatient Italian Ambassador, he moved off, intending slowly to make his way to Lady Kitty. But he was caught in many congratulations by the road, and presently he saw that his friend Darrell was being introduced to her by the old habitué of the house, Colonel Warington, who generally divided with the hostess the "lead" of these social evenings. Lady Kitty nodded carelessly to Mr. Darrell, and he sat down beside her. "That's a cool hand for a girl of eighteen!" thought Ashe. "She has the airs of a princess--except for the chatter." Chatter indeed! Wherever he moved, the sound of the light hurrying voice made itself persistently heard through the hum of male conversation. Yet once, Ashe, looking round to see if Darrell could be dislodged, caught the chatterer silent, and found himself all at once invaded by a slight thrill, or shock. What did the girl's expression mean?--what was she thinking of? She was looking intently at the crowded room, and it seemed to Ashe that Darrell's talk, though his lips moved quickly, was not reaching her at all. The dark brows were drawn together, and beneath them the eyes looked sorely out. The delicate lips were slightly, piteously open, and the whole girlish form in its young beauty appeared, as he watched, to shrink together. Suddenly the girl's look, so wide and searching, caught that of Ashe; and he moved impulsively forward. "Present me, please, to Lady Kitty," he said, catching Warington's arm. "Poor child!" said a low voice in his ear. Ashe turned and saw Louis Harman. The tone, however--allusive, intimate, patronizing--in which Harman had spoken, annoyed him, and he passed on without taking any notice. "Lady Kitty," said Warington, "Mr. Ashe wishes to be presented to you. He is an old friend of your mother's. Congratulate him--he has just got into Parliament." Lady Kitty drew herself up, and all trace of the look which Ashe had observed disappeared. She bowed, not carelessly as she had bowed to Darrell, but with a kind of exaggerated stateliness, not less girlish. "I never congratulate anybody," she said, shaking her head, "till I know them." Ashe opened his eyes a little. "How long must I wait?" he said, smiling, as he drew a chair beside her. "That depends. Are you difficult to know?" She looked up at him audaciously, and he on his side could not take his eyes from her, so singular was the small, sparkling face. The hair and skin were very fair, like her mother's, the eyes dark and full of fire, the neck most daintily white and slender, the figure undeveloped, the feet and hands extremely small. But what arrested him was, so to speak, the embodied contradiction of the personality--as between the wild intelligence of the eyes and the extreme youth, almost childishness, of the rest. He asked her if she had ever known any one confess to being easy, to know. "Well, I'm easy to know," she said, carelessly, leaning back; "but, then, I'm not worth knowing." "Is one allowed to find out?" "Oh yes--of course! Do you know--when you were over there, I _willed_ that you should come and talk to me, and you came. Only," she sat up with animation, and began to tick off her sentences on her fingers--"Don't ask me how long I've been in town. Don't ask where I was in Paris. Don't inquire whether I like balls! You see, I warn you at once"--she looked up frankly--"that we mayn't lose time." "Well, then, I don't see how I'm ever to find out," said Ashe, stoutly. "Whether I'm worth knowing?" She considered, then bent forward eagerly. "Look here! I'll just tell you everything in a lump, and then that'll do--won't it? Listen. I'm just eighteen. I was sent to the Soeurs Blanches when I was thirteen--the year papa died. I _didn't_ like papa--I'm very sorry, but I didn't! However, that's by-the-way. In all those years I have only seen maman once--she doesn't like children. But my aunt Grosville has some French relations--very, _very_ 'comme il faut,' you understand--and I used to go and stay with them for the holidays. Tell me!--did you ever hunt in France?" "Never," said Ashe, startled and amused by the sudden glance of enthusiasm that lit up the face and expressed itself in the clasped hands. "Oh! it's such heaven," she said, lifting her shoulders with an extravagant gesture--"such _heaven_! First there are the old dresses--the men look such darlings!--and then the horns, and the old ways they have--_si noble!--si distingué!_--not like your stupid English hunting. And then the dogs! Ah! the _dogs_"--the shoulders went higher still; "do you know my cousin Henri actually gave me a puppy of the great breed--_the_ breed, you know--the Dogs of St. Hubert. Or at least he _would_ if maman would have let me bring it over. And she wouldn't! Just think of that! When there are thousands of people in France who'd give the eyes out of their head for one. I cried all one night--Allons!--faut pas y penser!"--she shook back the hair from her eyes with an impatient gesture. "My cousins have got a château, you know, in the Seine-et-Oise. They've promised to ask me next year--when the Grand-Duke Paul comes--if I'll promise to behave. You see, I'm not a bit like French girls--I had so many affairs!" Her eyes flashed with laughter. Ashe laughed too. "Are you going to tell me about them also?" She drew herself up. "No! I play fair, always--ask anybody! Oh, I _do_ want to go back to France so badly!" Once more she was all appeal and childishness. "Anyway, I won't stay in England! I have made up my mind to that!" "How long has it taken?" "A fortnight," she said, slowly--"just a fortnight." "That hardly seems time enough--does it?" said Ashe. "Give us a little longer." "No--I--I hate you!" said Lady Kitty, with a strange drop in her voice. Her little fingers began to drum on the table near her, and to Ashe's intense astonishment he saw her eyes fill with tears. Suddenly a movement towards the other room set in around them. Madame d'Estrées could be heard giving directions. A space was made in the large drawing-room--a little table appeared in it, and a footman placed thereon a glass of water. Lady Kitty looked up. "Oh, that _detestable_ man!" she said, drawing back. "No--I can't, I can't bear it. Come with me!" and beckoning to Ashe she fled with precipitation into the farther part of the inner drawing-room, out of her mother's sight. Ashe followed her, and she dropped panting and elate into a chair. Meanwhile the outer room gathered to hear the recitation of some _vers de société_, fondly believed by their author to be of a very pretty and Praedian make. They certainly amused the company, who laughed and clapped as each neat personality emerged. Lady Kitty passed the time either in a running commentary on the reciter, which occasionally convulsed her companion, or else in holding her small hands over her ears. When it was over, she drew a long breath. "How maman _can!_ Oh! how _bête_ you English are to applaud such a man! You have only _one_ poet, haven't you--one living poet? Ah! I shouldn't have laughed if it had been he!" "I suppose you mean Geoffrey Cliffe?" said Ashe, amused. "Nobody abroad seems ever to have heard of any one else." "Well, of course, I just long to know him! Every one says he is so dangerous!--he makes all the women fall in love with him. That's _delicious_! He shouldn't make me! Do you know him?" "I knew him at Eton. We were 'swished' together," said Ashe. She inquired what the phrase might mean, and when informed, flushed hotly, denouncing the English school system as quite unfit for gentlemen and men of honor. Her French cousins would sooner die than suffer such a thing. Then in the midst of her tirade she suddenly paused, and fixing Ashe with her brilliant eyes, she asked him a surprising question, in a changed and steady voice: "Is Lady Tranmore not well?" Ashe was fairly startled. "Thank you, I left her quite well. Have you--" "Did maman ask her to come to-night?" It was Ashe's turn to redden. "I don't know. But--we are in mourning, you see, for my brother." Her face changed and softened instantly. "Are you? I'm so sorry. I--I always say something stupid. Then--Lady Tranmore used to come to maman's parties--before--" She had grown quite pale; it seemed to him that her hand shook. Ashe felt an extraordinary pang of pity and concern. "It's I, you see, to whom your mother has been kind," he said, gently. "We're an independent family; we each make our own friends." "No--" she said, drawing a deep breath. "No, it's not that. Look at that room." Following her slight gesture, Ashe looked. It was an old, low-ceiled room, panelled in white and gold, showing here and there an Italian picture--saint, or holy family, agreeable school-work--from which might be inferred the tastes if not the _expertise_ of Madame d'Estrées' first husband, Lord Blackwater. The floor was held by a plentiful collection of seats, neither too easy nor too stiff; arranged by one who understood to perfection the physical conditions at least which should surround the "great art" of conversation. At this moment every seat was full. A sea of black coats overflowed on the farther side, into the staircase landing, where through the open door several standing groups could be seen; and in the inner room, where they sat, there was but little space between its margin and themselves. It was a remarkable sight; and in his past visits to the house Ashe had often said to himself that the elements of which it was made up were still more remarkable. Ministers and Opposition; ambassadors, travellers, journalists; the men of fashion and the men of reform; here a French republican official, and beyond him, perhaps, a man whose ancestors were already of the most ancient _noblesse_ in Saint-Simon's day; artists, great and small, men of letters good and indifferent; all these had been among the guests of Madame d'Estrées, brought to the house, each of them, for some quality's sake, some power of keeping up the social game. But now, as he looked at the room, not to please himself but to obey Lady Kitty, Ashe became aware of a new impression. The crowd was no less, numerically, than he had seen it in the early winter; but it seemed to him less distinguished, made up of coarser and commoner items. He caught the face of a shady financier long since banished from Lady Tranmore's parties; beyond him a red-faced colonel, conspicuous alike for doubtful money-matters and matrimonial trouble; and in a farther corner the sallow profile of a writer whose books were apt to rouse even the man of the world to a healthy and contemptuous disgust. Surely these persons had never been there of old; he could not remember one of them. He looked again, more closely. Was it fancy, or was the gathering itself aware of the change which had passed over it? As a whole, it was certainly noisier than of old; the shouting and laughter were incessant. But within the general uproar certain groups had separated from other groups, and were talking with a studied quiet. Most of the habitué's were still there; but they held themselves apart from their neighbors. Were the old intimacy and solidarity beginning to break up?--and with them the peculiar charm of these "evenings," a charm which had so far defied a social boycott that had been active from the first? He glanced back uncertainly at Lady Kitty, and she looked at him. "Why are there no ladies?" she said, abruptly. He collected his thoughts. "It--it has always been a men's gathering. Perhaps for some men here--I'm sorry there are such barbarians, Lady Kitty!--that makes the charm of it. Look at that old fellow there! He is a most famous old boy. Everybody invites him--but he never stirs out of his den but to come here. My mother can't get him--though she has tried often." And he pointed to a dishevelled, gray-haired gentleman, short in stature, round in figure, something, in short, like an animated egg, who was addressing a group not far off. Lady Kitty's face showed a variety of expressions. "Are there many parties like this in London? Are the ladies asked, and don't come? I--I don't--understand!" Ashe looked at her kindly. "There is no other hostess in London as clever as your mother," he declared, and then tried to change the subject; but she paid no heed. "The other day, at Aunt Grosville's," she said, slowly, "I asked if my two cousins might come to-night, and they looked at me as though I were mad! Oh, _do_ talk to me!" She came impulsively nearer, and Ashe noticed that Darrell, standing against the doorway of communication, looked round at them in amusement. "I liked your face--the very first moment when I saw you across the room. Do you know--you're--you're very handsome!" She drew back, her eyes fixed gravely, intently upon him. For the first time Ashe was conscious of annoyance. "I hope you won't mind my saying so"--his tone was a little short--"but in this country we don't say those things. They're not--quite polite." "Aren't they?" Her eyebrows arched themselves and her lips fell in penitence. "I always called my French cousin, Henri la Fresnay, _beau!_ I am sure he liked it!" The accent was almost plaintive. Ashe's natural impulse was to say that if so the French cousin must be an ass. But all in a moment he found himself seized with a desire to take her little hands in his own and press them--she looked such a child, so exquisite, and so forlorn. And he did in fact bend forward confidentially, forgetting Darrell. "I want you to come and see my mother?" he said, smiling at her. "Ask Lady Grosville to bring you." "May I? But--" She searched his face, eager still to pour out the impulsive, uncontrolled confidences that were in her mind. But his expression stopped her, and she gave a little, resentful sigh. "Yes--I'll come. _We_--you and I--are a little bit cousins too--aren't we? We talked about you at the Grosvilles." "Was our 'great-great' the same person?" he said, laughing. "Hope it was a decent 'great-great.' Some of mine aren't much to boast of. Well, at any rate, let's _be_ cousins--whether we are or no, shall we?" She assented, her whole face lighting up. "And we're going to meet--the week after next!" she said, triumphantly, "in the country." "Are we?--at Grosville Park. That's delightful." "And _then_ I'll ask your advice--I'll make you tell me--a hundred things! That's a bargain--mind!" "Kitty! Come and help me with tea--there's a darling!" Lady Kitty turned. A path had opened through the crowd, and Madame d'Estrées, much escorted, a vision of diamonds and pale-pink satin, appeared, leading the way to the supper-room, and the light "refection," accompanied by much champagne, which always closed these evenings. The girl rose, as did her companion also. Madame d'Estrées threw a quick, half-satirical glance at Ashe, but he had eyes only for Lady Kitty, and her transformation at the touch of her mother's voice. She followed Madame d'Estrées with a singular and conscious dignity, her white skirts sweeping, her delicately fine head thrown back on her thin neck and shoulders. The black crowd closed about her; and Ashe's eyes pursued the slender figure till it disappeared. Extreme youth--innocence--protest--pain--was it with these touching and pleading impressions, after all, that his first talk with Kitty Bristol had left him? Yet what a little _étourdie_! How lacking in the reserves, the natural instincts and shrinkings of the well-bred English girl! * * * * * Darrell and Ashe walked home together, through a windy night which was bringing out April scents even from the London grass and lilac-bushes. "Well," said Darrell, as they stepped into the Green Park, "so you're safely in. Congratulate you, old fellow. Anything else?" "Yes. They've offered me Hickson's place. More fools they, don't you think?" "Good! Upon my word, Bill, you've got your foot in the stirrup now! Hope you'll continue to be civil to poor devils like me." The speaker looked up smiling, but neither the tone nor the smile was really cordial. Ashe felt the embarrassment that he had once or twice felt before in telling Darrell news of good fortune. There seemed to be something in Darrell that resented it--under an outer show of felicitation. However, they went on talking of the political moment and its prospects, and of Ashe's personal affairs. As to the last, Darrell questioned, and Ashe somewhat reluctantly replied. It appeared that his allowance was to be largely raised, that his paralyzed father, in fact, was anxious to put him in possession of a substantial share in the income of the estates, that one of the country-houses was to be made over to him, and so on. "Which means, of course, that they want you to marry," said Darrell. "Well, you've only to throw the handkerchief." They were passing a lamp as he spoke, and the light shone on his long, pale face--a face of discontent--with its large sunken eyes and hollow cheeks. Ashe treated the remark as "rot," and endeavored to get away from his own affairs by discussing the party they had just left. "How does she get all those people together? It's astonishing!" "Well, I always liked Madame d'Estrées well enough," said Darrell, "but, upon my word, she has done a beastly mean thing in bringing that girl over." "You mean?"--Ashe hesitated--"that her own position is too doubtful?" "Doubtful, my dear fellow!" Darrell laughed unpleasantly. "I never really understood what it all meant till the other night when old Lady Grosville took and told me--more at any rate than I knew before. The Grosvilles are on the war-path, and they regard the coming of this poor child as the last straw." "Why?" said Ashe. Darrell gave a shrug. "Well, you know the story of Madame d'Estrées' step-daughter--old Blackwater's daughter?" "Ah! by his first marriage? I knew it was something about the step-daughter," said Ashe, vaguely. Darrell began to repeat his conversation with Lady Grosville. The tale threatened presently to become a black one indeed; and at last Ashe stood still in the broad walk crossing the Green Park. "Look here," he said, resolutely, "don't tell me any more. I don't want to hear any more." "Why?" asked Darrell, in amazement. "Because"--Ashe hesitated a moment. "Well, I don't want it to be made impossible for me to go to Madame d'Estrées' again. Besides, we've just eaten her salt." "You're a good friend!" said Darrell, not without something of a sneer. Ashe was ruffled by the tone, but tried not to show it. He merely insisted that he knew Lady Grosville to be a bit of an old cat; that of course there was something up; but it seemed a shame for those at least who accepted Madame d'Estrées' hospitality to believe the worst. There was a curious mixture of carelessness and delicacy in his remarks, very characteristic of the man. It appeared as though he was at once too indolent to go into the matter, and too chivalrous to talk about it. Darrell presently maintained a rather angry silence. No man likes to be checked in his story, especially when the check implies something like a snub from his best friend. Suddenly, memory brought before him the little picture of Ashe and Lady Kitty together--he bending over her, in his large, handsome geniality, and she looking up. Darrell felt a twinge of jealousy--then disgust. Really, men like Ashe had the world too easily their own way. That they should pose, besides, was too much. III Rather more than a fortnight after the evening at Madame d'Estrées', William Ashe found himself in a Midland train on his way to the Cambridgeshire house of Lady Grosville. While the April country slipped past him--like some blanched face to which life and color are returning--Ashe divided his time between an idle skimming of the Saturday papers and a no less idle dreaming of Kitty Bristol. He had seen her two or three times since his first introduction to her--once at a ball to which Lady Grosville had taken her, and once on the terrace of the House of Commons, where he had strolled up and down with her for a most amusing and stimulating hour, while her mother entertained a group of elderly politicians. And the following day she had come alone--her own choice--to take tea with Lady Tranmore, on that lady's invitation, as prompted by her son. Ashe himself had arrived towards the end of the visit, and had found a Lady Kitty in the height of the fashion, stiff mannered, and flushed to a deep red by her own consciousness that she could not possibly be making a good impression. At sight of him she relaxed, and talked a great deal, but not wisely; and when she was gone, Ashe could get very little opinion of any kind from his mother, who had, however, expressed a wish that she should come and visit them in the country. Since then he frankly confessed to himself that in the intervals of his new official and administrative work he had been a good deal haunted by memories of this strange child, her eyes, her grace--even in her fits of proud shyness--and the way in which, as he had put her into her cab after the visit to Lady Tranmore, her tiny hand had lingered in his, a mute, astonishing appeal. Haunted, too, by what he heard of her fortunes and surroundings. What was the real truth of Madame d'Estrées' situation? During the preceding weeks some ugly rumors had reached Ashe of financial embarrassment in that quarter, of debts risen to mountainous height, of crisis and possible disappearance. Then these rumors were met by others, to the effect that Colonel Warington, the old friend and support of the d'Estrées' household, had come to the rescue, that the crisis had been averted, and that the three weekly evenings, so well known and so well attended, would go on; and with this phase of the story there mingled, as Ashe was well aware, not the slightest breath of scandal, in a case where, so to speak, all was scandal. And meanwhile what new and dolorous truths had Lady Kitty been learning as to her mother's history and her mother's position? By Jove! it _was_ hard upon the girl. Darrell was right. Why not leave her to her French friends and relations?--or relinquish her to Lady Grosville? Madame d'Estrées had seen little or nothing of her for years. She could not, therefore, be necessary to her mother's happiness, and there was a real cruelty in thus claiming her, at the very moment of her entrance into society, where Madame d'Estrées could only stand in her way. For although many a man whom the girl might profitably marry was to be found among the mother's guests, the influences of Madame d'Estrées' "evenings" were certainly not matrimonial. Still the unforeseen was surely the probable in Lady Kitty's case. What sort of man ought she to marry--what sort of man could safely take the risks of marrying her--with that mother in the background? He descended at the way-side station prescribed to him, and looked round him for fellow-guests--much as the card-player examines his hand. Mary Lyster, a cabinet minister--filling an ornamental office and handed on from ministry to ministry as a kind of necessary appendage, the public never knew why--the minister's second wife, an attaché from the Austrian embassy, two members of Parliament, and a well-known journalist--Ashe said to himself flippantly that so far the trumps were not many. But he was always reasonably glad to see Mary, and he went up to her, cared for her bag, and made her put on her cloak, with cousinly civility. In the omnibus on the way to the house he and Mary gossiped in a corner, while the cabinet minister and the editor went to sleep, and the two members of Parliament practised some courageous French on the Austrian attaché. "Is it to be a large party?" he asked of his companion. "Oh! they always fill the house. A good many came down yesterday." "Well, I'm not curious," said Ashe, "except as to one person." "Who?" "Lady Kitty Bristol." Mary Lyster smiled. "Yes, poor child, I heard from the Grosville girls that she was to be here." "Why 'poor child'?" "I don't know. Quite the wrong expression, I admit. It should be 'poor hostess.'" "Oh!--the Grosvilles complain?" "No. They're only on tenter-hooks. They never know what she will do next." "How good for the Grosvilles!" "You think society is the better for shocks?" "Lady Grosville can do with them, anyway. What a masterful woman! But I'll back Lady Kitty." "I haven't seen her yet," said Mary. "I hear she is a very odd-looking little thing." "Extremely pretty," said Ashe. "Really?" Mary lifted incredulous eyebrows. "Well, now I shall know what you admire." "Oh, my tastes are horribly catholic--I admire so many people," said Ashe, with a glance at the well-dressed elegance beside him. Mary colored a little, unseen; and the rattle of the carriage as it entered the covered porch of Grosville Park cut short their conversation. * * * * * "Well, I'm glad you got in," said Lady Grosville, in her full, loud voice, "because we are connections. But of course I regard the loss of a seat to our side just now as a great disaster." "Very grasping, on your part!" said Ashe. "You've had it all your own way lately. Think of Portsmouth!" Lady Grosville, however, as she met his bantering look, did not find herself at all inclined to think of Portsmouth. She was much more inclined to think of William Ashe. What a good-looking fellow he had grown! She heaved an inward sigh, of mingled envy and appreciation, directed towards Lady Tranmore. Poor Susan indeed had suffered terribly in the death of her eldest son. But the handsomer and abler of the two brothers still remained to her--and the estate was safe. Lady Grosville thought of her own three daughters, plain and almost dowerless; and of that conceited young man, the heir, whom she could hardly persuade her husband to invite, once a year, for appearance sake. "Why are we so early?" said Ashe, looking at his watch. "I thought I should be disgracefully late." For he and Lady Grosville had the library to themselves. It was a fine, book-walled room, with giallo antico columns and Adam decoration; and in its richly colored lamp-lit space, the seated figure--stiffly erect--of Lady Grosville, her profile, said by some to be like a horse and by others to resemble Savonarola, the cap of old Venice point that crowned her grizzled hair, her black velvet dress, and the long-fingered, ugly, yet distinguished hands which lay upon her lap, told significantly; especially when contrasted with the negligent ease and fresh-colored youth of her companion. Grosville Park was rich in second-rate antiques; and there was a Greco-Roman head above the bookcase with which Ashe had been often compared. As he stood now leaning against the fireplace, the close-piled curls, and eyes--somewhat "à fleur de tête"--of the bust were undoubtedly repeated with some closeness in the living man. Those whom he had offended by some social carelessness or other said of him when they wished to run him down, that he was "floridly" handsome; and there was some truth in it. "Didn't you get the message about dinner?" said Lady Grosville. Then, as he shook his head: "Very remiss of Parkin. I always tell him he loses his head directly the party goes into double figures. We had to put off dinner a quarter of an hour because of Kitty Bristol, who missed her train at St. Pancras, and only arrived half an hour ago. By-the-way, I suppose you have already seen her--at that woman's?" "I met her a week or two ago, at Madame d'Estrées'," said Ashe, apparently preoccupied with something wrong in the set of his white waistcoat. "What did you think of her?" "A charming young lady," said Ashe, smiling. "What else should I think?" "A lamb thrown to the wolves," said Lady Grosville, grimly. "How that woman _could_ do such a thing!" "I saw nothing lamblike about Lady Kitty," said Ashe. "And do you include me among the wolves?" Lady Grosville hesitated a moment, then stuck to her colors. "You shouldn't go to such a house," she said, boldly--"I suppose I may say that without offence, William, as I've known you from a boy." "Say anything you like, my dear Lady Grosville! So you--believe evil things--of Madame d'Estrées?" His tone was light, but his eyes sought the distant door, as though invoking some fellow-guest to appear and protect him. Lady Grosville did not answer. Ashe's look returned to her, and he was startled by the expression of her face. He had always known and unwillingly admired her for a fine Old Testament Christian, one from whom the language of the imprecatory Psalms with regard to her enemies, personal and political, might have flowed more naturally than from any other person he knew, of the same class and breeding. But this loathing--this passion of contempt--this heat of memory!--these were new indeed, and the fire of them transfigured the old, gray face. "I have known a fair number of bad people," said Lady Grosville, in a low voice--"and a good many wicked women. But for meanness and vileness combined, the things I know of the woman who was Blackwater's wife have no equal in my experience!" There was a moment's pause. Then Ashe said, in a voice as serious as her own: "I am sorry to hear you say that, partly because I like Madame d'Estrées, and partly--because--I was particularly attracted by Lady Kitty." Lady Grosville looked up sharply. "Don't marry her, William!--don't marry her! She comes of a bad stock." Ashe recovered his gayety. "She is your own niece. Mightn't a man dare--on that guarantee?" "Not at all," said Lady Grosville, unappeased. "I was a hop out of kin. Besides--a Methodist governess saved me; she converted me, at eighteen, and I owe her everything. But my brothers--and all the rest of us!" She threw up her eyes and hands. "What's the good of being mealy mouthed about it? All the world knows it. A good many of us were mad--and I sometimes think I see more than eccentricity in Kitty." "Who was Madame d'Estrées?" said Ashe. Why should he wince so at the girl's name?--in that hard mouth? Lady Grosville smiled. "Well, I can tell you a good deal about that," she said. "Ah!--another time!" For the door opened, and in came a group of guests, with a gush of talk and a rustling of silks and satins. * * * * * Everybody was gathered; dinner had been announced; and the white-haired and gouty Lord Grosville was in a state of seething impatience that not even the mild-voiced Dean of the neighboring cathedral, engaged in complimenting him on his speech at the Diocesan Conference, could restrain. "Adelina, need we wait any longer?" said the master of the house, turning an angry eye upon his wife. "Certainly not--she has had ample time," said Lady Grosville, and rang the bell beside her. Suddenly there was a whirlwind of noise in the hall, the angry barking of a small dog, the sound of a girl's voice laughing and scolding, the swish of silk skirts. A scandalized butler, obeying Lady Grosville's summons, threw the door open, and in burst Lady Kitty. "Oh! I'm so sorry," said the new-comer, in a tone of despair. "But I couldn't leave him up-stairs, Aunt Lina! He'd eaten one of my shoes, and begun upon the other. And Julie's afraid of him. He bit her last week. _May_ he sit on my knee? I know I can keep him quiet!" [Illustration: "A SLIM GIRL IN WHITE AT THE FAR END OF THE LARGE ROOM"] Every conversation in the library stopped. Twenty amazed persons turned to look. They beheld a slim girl in white at the far end of the large room struggling with a gray terrier puppy which she held under her left arm, and turning appealing eyes towards Lady Grosville. The dog, half frightened, half fierce, was barking furiously. Lady Kitty's voice could hardly be heard through the din, and she was crimson with the effort to control her charge. Her lips laughed; her eyes implored. And to add to the effect of the apparition, a marked strangeness of dress was at once perceived by all the English eyes turned upon her. Lady Kitty was robed in the extreme of French fashion, which at that moment was a fashion of flounces; she was much _décolletée;_ and her fair, abundant hair, carried to a great height, and arranged with a certain calculated wildness around her small face, was surmounted by a large scarlet butterfly which shone defiantly against the dark background of books. "Kitty!" said Lady Grosville, advancing indignantly, "what a dreadful noise! Pray give the dog to Parkin at once." Lady Kitty only held the struggling animal tighter. "_Please_, Aunt Lina!--I'm afraid he'll bite! But he'll be quite good with me." "Why _did_ you bring him, Kitty? We can't have such a creature at dinner!" said Lady Grosville, angrily. Lord Grosville advanced behind his wife. "How do you do, Kitty? Hadn't you better put down the dog and come and be introduced to Mr. Rankine, who is to take you in to dinner?" Lady Kitty shook her fair head, but advanced, still clinging to the dog, gave a smile and a nod to Ashe, and a bow to the young Tory member presented to her. "You don't mind him?" she said, a flash of laughter in her dark eyes. "We'll manage him between us, won't we?" The young man, dazzled by her prettiness and her strangeness, murmured a hopeful assent. Lord Grosville, with the air of a man determined on dinner though the skies fall, offered his arm to Lady Edith Manley, the wife of the cabinet minister, and made for the dining-room. The stream of guests followed; when suddenly the puppy, perceiving on the floor a ball of wool which had rolled out of Lady Grosville's work-table, escaped in an ecstasy of mischief from his mistress's arm and flew upon the ball. Kitty rushed after him; the wool first unrolled, then caught; the table overturned and all its contents were flung pell-mell in the path of Lady Grosville, who, on the arm of the amused and astonished minister, was waiting in restrained fury till her guests should pass. * * * * * "I shall never get over this," said Lady Kitty, as she leaned back in her chair, still panting, and quite incapable of eating any of the foods that were being offered to her in quick succession. "I don't know that you deserve to," said Ashe, turning a face upon her which was as grave as he could make it. The attention of every one else round the room was also in truth occupied with his companion. There was, indeed, a general buzz of conversation and a general pretence that Lady Kitty's proceedings might now be ignored. But in reality every guest, male or female, kept a stealthy watch on the red butterfly and the sparkling face beneath it; and Ashe was well aware of it. "I vow it was not my fault," said Kitty, with dignity. "I was not allowed to have the dog I should have had. You'd never have found a dog of St. Hubert condescending to bedroom slippers! But as I had to have a dog--and Colonel Warington gave me this one three days ago--and he has already ruined half maman's things, and no one could manage him but me, I just had to bring him, and trust to Providence." "I have been here a good many times," said Ashe, "and I never yet saw a dog in the sanctuary. Do you know that Pitt once wrote a speech in the library?" "Did he? I'm sure it never made such a stir as Ponto did." Kitty's face suddenly broke into laughter, and she hid it a moment in her hands. "You brazen it out," said Ashe; "but how are you going to appease Lady Grosville?" Kitty ceased to laugh. She drew herself up, and looked seriously, observantly at her aunt. "I don't know. But I must do it somehow. I don't want any more worries." So changed were her tone and aspect that Ashe turned a friendly examining look upon her. "Have you been worried?" he said, in a lower voice. She shrugged her shoulders and made no reply. But presently she impatiently reclaimed his attention, snatching him from the lady he had taken in to dinner, with no scruple at all. "Will you come a walk with me to-morrow morning?" "Proud," said Ashe. "What time?" "As soon as we can get rid of these people," she said, her eye running round the table. Then as it paused and lingered on the face of Mary Lyster opposite, she abruptly asked him who that lady might be. Ashe informed her. "Your cousin?" she said, looking at him with a slight frown. "Your cousin? I don't--well, I don't think I shall like her." "That's a great pity," said Ashe. "For me?" she said, distrustfully. "For both, of course! My mother's very fond of Miss Lyster. She's often with us." "Oh!" said Kitty, and looked again at the face opposite. Then he heard her say behind her fan, half to herself and half to him: "She does not interest me in the least! She has no ideas! I'm sure she has no ideas. Has she?" She turned abruptly to Ashe. "Every one calls her very clever." Kitty looked contempt. "That's nothing to do with it. It's not the clever people who have ideas." Ashe bantered her a little on the meaning of her words, till he presently found that she was too young and unpractised to be able to take his thrusts and return them, with equanimity. She could make a daring sally or reply; but it was still the raw material of conversation; it wanted ease and polish. And she was evidently conscious of it herself, for presently her cheek flushed and her manner wavered. "I suppose you--everybody--thinks her very agreeable?" she said, sharply, her eyes returning to Miss Lyster. "She is a most excellent gossip," said Ashe. "I always go to her for the news." Kitty glanced again. "I can see that already she detests me." "In half an hour?" The girl nodded. "She has looked at me twice--about. But she has made up her mind--and she never changes." Then with an abrupt alteration of note she looked round the room. "I suppose your English dining-rooms are all like this? One might be sitting in a hearse. And the pictures--no! _Quelles horreurs_!" She raised her shoulders again impetuously, frowning at a huge full-length opposite of Lord Grosville as M.F.H., a masterpiece indeed of early Victorian vulgarity. Then suddenly, hastily, with that flashing softness which so often transformed her expression, she turned towards him, trying to make amends. "But the library--that was _bien_--ah! _tr-rès, tr-rès_ bien_!" Her r's rolled a little as she spoke, with a charming effect, and she looked at him radiantly, as though to strike and to make amends were equally her prerogative, and she asked no man's leave. "You've not yet seen what there is to see here," said Ashe, smiling. "Look behind you." The girl turned her slim neck and exclaimed. For behind Ashe's chair was the treasure of the house. It was a "Dance of Children," by one of the most famous of the eighteenth-century masters. From the dark wall it shone out with a flower-like brilliance, a vision of color and of grace. The children danced through a golden air, their bodies swaying to one of those "unheard melodies" of art, sweeter than all mortal tunes; their delicate faces alive with joy. The sky and grass and trees seemed to caress them; a soft sunlight clothed them; and flowers brushed their feet. Kitty turned back again and was silent. Was it Ashe's fancy, or had she grown pale? "Did you like it?" he asked her. She turned to him, and for the second time in their acquaintance he saw her eyes floating in tears. "It is too beautiful!" she said, with an effort--almost an angry effort. "I don't want to see it again." "I thought it would give you pleasure," said Ashe, gently, suddenly conscious of a hope that she was not aware of the slight look of amusement with which Mary Lyster was contemplating them both. "So it did," said Kitty, furtively applying her lace handkerchief to her tears; "but"--her voice dropped--"when one's unhappy--very unhappy--things like that--things like _Heaven_--hurt! Oh, what a _fool_ I am!" And she sat straightly up, looking round her. There was a pause; then Ashe said, in another voice: "Look here, you know this won't do. I thought we were to be cousins." "Well?" said Kitty, indifferently, not looking at him. "And I understood that I was to be taken into respectable cousinly counsel?" "Well?" said Kitty again, crumbling her bread. "I can't do it here, can I?" Ashe laughed. "Well, anyhow, we're going to sample the garden to-morrow morning, aren't we?" "I suppose so," said Kitty. Then, after a moment, she looked at her right-hand neighbor, the young politician to whom as yet she had scarcely vouchsafed a word. "What's his name?" she asked, under her breath. Ashe repeated it. "Perhaps I ought to talk to him?" "Of course you ought," said Ashe, with smiling decision, and turning to the lady whom he had brought in he left her free. * * * * * When the ladies rose, Lady Grosville led the way to the large drawing-room, a room which, like the library, had some character, and a thin elegance of style, not, however, warmed and harmonized by the delightful presence of books. The walls, blue and white in color, were panelled in stucco relief. A few family portraits, stiff handlings of stiff people, were placed each in the exact centre of its respective panel. There were a few cases of china and a few polished tables. A crimson Brussels carpet, chosen by Lady Grosville for its "cheerfulness," covered the floor, and there was a large white sheepskin rug before the fireplace. A few hyacinths in pots, and the bright fire supplied the only gay and living notes--before the ladies arrived. Still, for an English eye, the room had a certain cold charm, was moreover full of _history_. It hardly deserved at any rate the shiver with which Kitty Bristol looked round it. But she had little time to dwell upon the room and its meanings, for Lady Grosville approached her with a manner which still showed signs of the catastrophe before dinner. "Kitty, I think you don't know Miss Lyster yet--Mary Lyster--she wants to be introduced to you." Mary advanced smiling; Kitty held out a limp hand, and they exchanged a few words standing in the centre of the floor, while the other guests found seats. "What a charming contrast!" said Lady Edith Manley in Lady Grosville's ear. She nodded smiling towards the standing pair--struck by the fine straight lines of Mary's satin dress, the roundness of her fine figure, the oval of her head and face, and then by the little, vibrating, tempestuous creature beside her, so distinguished, in spite of the billowing flounces and ribbons, so direct and significant, amid all the elaboration. "Kitty is ridiculously overdressed," said Lady Grosville. "I hope we shall soon change that. My girls are going to take her to their woman." Lady Edith put up her eye-glass slowly and looked at the two Grosville girls; then back at Kitty. Meanwhile a few perfunctory questions and answers were passing between Miss Lyster and her companion. Mary's aspect as she talked was extremely amiable; one might have called it indulgent, perhaps even by an adjective that implied a yet further shade of delicate superiority. Kitty met it by the same "grand manner" that Ashe had several times observed in her, a manner caught perhaps from some French model, and caricatured in the taking. Her eyes meanwhile took note of Mary's face and dress, and while she listened her small teeth tormented her under-lip, as though she restrained impatience. All at once in the midst of some information that Miss Lyster was lucidly giving, Kitty made an impetuous turn. She had caught some words on the farther side of the room; and she looked hard, eagerly, at the speaker. "Who is that?" she inquired. Mary Lyster, with a sharp sense of interruption, replied that she believed the lady in question was the Grosville's French governess. But in the very midst of her sentence Kitty deserted her, left her standing in the centre of the drawing-room, while the deserter fled across it, and sinking down beside the astonished mademoiselle took the Frenchwoman's hand by assault and held it in both her own. "Vous parlez Français?--vous êtes Française? Ah! ça me fait tant de bien! Voyons! voyons!--causons un peu!" And bending forward, she broke into a cataract of French, all the elements of her strange, small beauty rushing, as it were, into flame and movement at the swift sound and cadence of the words, like a dancer kindled by music. The occasion was of the slightest; the Frenchwoman might well show a natural bewilderment. But into the slight occasion the girl threw an animation, a passion, that glorified it. It was like the leap of a wild rain-stream on the mountains, that pours into the first channel which presents itself. "What beautiful French!" said Lady Edith, softly, to Mary Lyster, who had found a seat beside her. Mary Lyster smiled. "She has been at school, of course, in a French convent." Somehow the tone implied that the explanation disposed of all merit in the performance. "I am afraid these French convent schools are not at all what they should be," said Lady Grosville. And rising to a pyramidal height, her ample moiré dress swelling behind her, her gray head magnificently crowned by its lace cap and black velvet _bandeau_, she swept across the room to where the Dean's wife, Mrs. Winston, sat in fascinated silence observing Lady Kitty. The silence and the attention annoyed her hostess. The first thing to be done with girls of this type, it seemed to Lady Grosville, was to prove to them that they would _not_ be allowed to monopolize society. * * * * * There are natural monopolies, however, and they are not easy to deal with. As soon as the gentlemen returned, Mr. Rankine, whom she had treated so badly at dinner, the young agent of the estate, the clergyman of the parish, the Austrian attaché, the cabinet minister, and the Dean, all showed a strong inclination to that side of the room which seemed to be held in force by Lady Kitty. The Dean especially was not to be gainsaid. He placed himself in the seat shyly vacated by the French governess, and crossed his thin, stockinged legs with the air of one who means to take his ease. There was even a certain curious resemblance between him and Kitty, as was noticed from a distance by Ashe. The Dean, who was very much a man of the world, and came of an historic family, was, in his masculine degree, planned on the same miniature scale and with the same fine finish as the girl of eighteen. And he carried his knee-breeches, his apron, and his exquisite white head with a natural charm and energy akin to hers--mellowed though it were by time, and dignified by office. He began eagerly to talk to her of Paris. His father had been ambassador for a time under Louis Philippe, and he had boyish memories of the great house in the Faubourg St. Honoré, and of the Orleanist ministers and men of letters. And lo! Kitty met him at once, in a glow and sparkle that enchanted the old man. Moreover, it appeared that this much-beflounced young lady could talk; that she had heard of the famous names and the great affairs to which the Dean made allusion; that she possessed indeed a native and surprising interest in matter of the sort; and a manner, above all, with the old, alternately soft and daring, calculated, as Lady Grosville would no doubt have put it, merely to make fools of them. In her cousins' house, it seemed, she had talked with old people, survivors of the Orleanist and Bourbon régimes--even of the Empire; had sat at their feet, a small, excited hero-worshipper; and had then rushed blindly into the memoirs and books that concerned them. So, in this French world the child had found time for other things than hunting, and the flattery of her cousin Henri? Ashe was supposed to be devoting himself to the Dean's wife; but both he and she listened most of the time to the sallies and the laughter of the circle where Kitty presided. "My dear young lady," cried the delighted Dean, "I never find anybody who can talk of these things--it is really astonishing. Ah, _now_, we English know nothing of France--nor they of us. Why, I was a mere school-boy then, and I had a passion for their society, and their books--for their _plays_--dare I confess it?"--he lowered his voice and glanced at his hostess--"their plays, above all!" Kitty clapped her hands. The Dean looked at her, and ran on: "My mother shared it. When I came over for my Eton holidays, she and I lived at the Théâtre-Français. Ah, those were days! _I_ remember Mademoiselle Mars in 'Hernani.'" Kitty bounded in her seat. Whereupon it appeared that just before she left Paris she had been taken by a friend to see the reigning idol of the Comédie-Française, the young and astonishing actress, Sarah Bernhardt, as Doña Sol. And there began straightway an excited duet between her and the Dean; a comparison of old and new, a rivalry of heroines, a hot and critical debate that presently silenced all other conversation in the room, and brought Lord Grosville to stand gaping and astounded behind the Dean, reflecting no doubt that this was not precisely the Dean of the Diocesan Conference. The old man indeed forgot his age, the girl her youth; they met as equals, on poetic ground, till suddenly Kitty, springing up, and to prove her point, began an imitation of Sarah in the great love-scene of the last act, before arresting fate, in the person of Don Ruy, breaks in upon the rapture of the lovers. She absolutely forgot the Grosville drawing-room, the staring Grosville girls, the other faces, astonished or severe, neutral or friendly. Out rolled the tide of tragic verse, fine poetry, and high passion; and though it be not very much to say, it must at least be said that never had such recitation, in such French, been heard before within the walls of Grosville Park. Nor had the lips of any English girl ever dealt there with a poetic diction so unchastened and unashamed. Lady Grosville might well feel as though the solid frame of things were melting and cracking round her. Kitty ceased. She fell back upon her chair, smitten with a sudden perception. "You made me!" she said, reproachfully, to the Dean. The Dean said another "Brava!" and gave another clap. Then, becoming aware of Lord Grosville's open mouth and eye, he sat up, caught his wife's expression, and came back to prose and the present. "My dear young lady," he began, "you have the most extraordinary talent--" when Lady Grosville advanced upon him. Standing before him, she majestically signalled to her husband across his small person. "William, kindly order Mrs. Wilson's carriage." Lord Grosville awoke from his stupor with a jerk, and did as he was told. Mrs. Wilson, the agent's timid wife, who was not at all aware that she had asked for her carriage, rose obediently. Then the mistress of the house turned to Lady Kitty. "You recite very well, Kitty," she said, with cold and stately emphasis, "but another time I will ask you to confine yourself to Racine and Corneille. In England we have to be very careful about French writers. There are, however, if I remember right, some fine passages in 'Athalie.'" Kitty said nothing. The Austrian attaché who had been following the little incident with the liveliest interest, retired to a close inspection of the china. But the Dean, whose temper was of the quick and chivalrous kind, was roused. "She recites wonderfully! And Victor Hugo is a classic, please, my lady--just as much as the rest of them. Ah, well, no doubt, no doubt, there might be things more suitable." And the old man came wavering down to earth, as the enthusiasm which Kitty had breathed into him escaped, like the gas from a balloon. "But, do you know, Lady Kitty "--he struck into a new subject with eagerness, partly to cover the girl, partly to silence Lady Grosville--"you reminded me all the time so remarkably--in your voice--certain inflections--of your sister--your step-sister, isn't it?--Lady Alice? You know, of course, she is close to you to-day--just the other side the park--with the Sowerbys?" The Dean's wife sprang to her feet in despair. In general it was to her a matter for fond complacency that her husband had no memory for gossip, and was in such matters as innocent and as dangerous as a child. But this was too much. At the same moment Ashe came quickly forward. "My sister?" said Kitty. "My sister?" She spoke low and uncertainly, her eyes fixed upon the Dean. He looked at her with a sudden odd sense of something unusual, then went on, still floundering: "We met her at St. Pancras on our way down. If I had only known we were to have had the pleasure of meeting you--Do you know, I think she is looking decidedly better?" His kindly expression as he rose expected a word of sisterly assent. Meanwhile even Lady Grosville was paralyzed, and the words with which she had meant to interpose failed on her lips. Kitty, too, rose, looking round for something, which she seemed to find in the face of William Ashe, for her eyes clung there. "My sister," she repeated, in the same low, strained voice. "My sister Alice? I--I don't know. I have never seen her." * * * * * Ashe could not remember afterwards precisely how the incident closed. There was a bustle of departing guests, and from the midst of it Lady Kitty slipped away. But as he came down-stairs in smoking trim, ten minutes later, he overheard the injured Dean wrestling with his wife, as she lit a candle for him on the landing. "My dear, what did you look at me like that for? What did the child mean? And what on _earth_ is the matter?" IV After the ladies had gone to bed, on the night of Lady Kitty's recitation, William Ashe stayed up till past midnight talking with old Lord Grosville. When relieved of the presence of his women-kind, who were apt either to oppress him, in the person of his wife, or to puzzle him, in the persons of his daughters, Lord Grosville was not by any means without value as a talker. He possessed that narrow but still most serviceable fund of human experience which the English land-owner, while our English tradition subsists, can hardly escape, if he will. As guardsman, volunteer, magistrate, lord-lieutenant, member--for the sake of his name and his acres--of various important commissions, as military _attaché_ even, for a short space, to an important embassy, he had acquired, by mere living, that for which his intellectual betters had often envied him--a certain shrewdness, a certain instinct, as to both men and affairs, which were often of more service to him than finer brains to other persons. But, like most accomplishments, these also brought their own conceit with them. Lord Grosville having, in his own opinion, done extremely well without much book education himself, had but little appreciation for it in others. Nevertheless he rarely missed a chance of conversation with William Ashe, not because the younger man, in spite of his past indolence, was generally held to be both able and accomplished, but because the elder found in him an invincible taste for men and women, their fortunes, oddities, catastrophes--especially the latter--similar to his own. Like Mary Lyster, both were good gossips; but of a much more disinterested type than she. Women indeed as gossips are too apt to pursue either the damnation of some one else or the apotheosis of themselves. But here the stupider no less than the abler man showed a certain broad detachment not very common in women--amused by the human comedy itself, making no profit out of it, either for themselves or morals, but asking only that the play should go on. The incident, or rather the heroine of the evening, had given Lord Grosville a topic which in the case of William Ashe he saw no reason for avoiding; and in the peace of the smoking-room, when he was no longer either hungry for his dinner or worried by his responsibilities as host, he fell upon his wife's family, and, as though he had been the manager of a puppet-show, unpacked the whole box of them for Ashe's entertainment. Figure after figure emerged, one more besmirched than another, till finally the most beflecked of all was shaken out and displayed--Lady Grosville's brother and Kitty's father, the late Lord Blackwater. And on this occasion Ashe did not try to escape the story which was thus a second time brought across him. Lord Grosville, if he pleased, had a right to tell it, and there was now a curious feeling in Ashe's mind which had been entirely absent before, that he had, in some sort, a right to hear it. Briefly, the outlines of it fell into something like this shape: Henry, fifth Earl of Blackwater, had begun life as an Irish peer, with more money than the majority of his class; an initial advantage soon undone by an insane and unscrupulous extravagance. He was, however, a fine, handsome, voracious gentleman, born to prey upon his kind, and when he looked for an heiress he was not long in finding her. His first wife, a very rich woman, bore him one daughter. Before the daughter was three years old, Lord Blackwater had developed a sturdy hatred of the mother, chiefly because she failed to present him with a son; and he could not even appease himself by the free spending of her money, which, so far as the capital was concerned, was sharply looked after by a pair of trustees, Belfast manufacturers and Presbyterians, to whom the Blackwater type was not at all congenial. These restrictions presently wore out Lord Blackwater's patience. He left his wife, with a small allowance, to bring up her daughter in one of his Irish houses, while he generously spent the rest of her large income, and his own, and a great deal besides, in London and on the Continent. Lady Blackwater, however, was not long before she obliged him by dying. Her girl, then twelve years old, lived for a time with one of her mother's trustees. But when she had reached the age of seventeen her father suddenly commanded her presence in Paris, that she might make acquaintance with his second wife. The new Lady Blackwater was an extremely beautiful woman, Irish, as the first had been, but like her in no other respect. Margaret Fitzgerald was the daughter of a cosmopolitan pair, who after many shifts for a living, had settled in Paris, where the father acted as correspondent for various English papers. Her beauty, her caprices, and her "affairs" were all well known in Paris. As to what the relations between her and Lord Blackwater might have been before the death of the wife, Lord Grosville took a frankly uncharitable view. But when that event occurred, Blackwater was beginning to get old, and Miss Fitzgerald had become necessary to him. She pressed all her advantages, and it ended in his marrying her. The new Lady Blackwater presented him with one child, a daughter; and about two years after its birth he sent for his elder daughter, Lady Alice, to join them in the sumptuous apartment in the Place Vendôme which he had furnished for his new wife, in defiance both of his English and Irish creditors. Lady Alice arrived--a fair slip of a girl, possessed, it was plain to see, by a nervous terror both of her father and step-mother. But Lady Blackwater received her with effusion, caressed her in public, dressed her to perfection, and made all possible use of the girl's presence in the house for the advancement of her own social position. Within a year the Belfast trustees, watching uneasily from a distance, received a letter from Lord Blackwater, announcing Lady Alice's runaway marriage with a certain Colonel Wensleydale, formerly of the Grenadier Guards. Lord Blackwater professed himself vastly annoyed and displeased. The young people, furiously in love, had managed the affair, however, with a skill that baffled all vigilance. Married they were, and without any settlements, Colonel Wensleydale having nothing to settle, and Lady Alice, like a little fool, being only anxious to pour all that she possessed into the lap of her beloved. The father threw himself on the mercy of the trustees, reminding them that in little more than three years Lady Alice would become unfettered mistress of her own fortune, and begging them meanwhile to make proper provision for the rash but happy pair. Harry Wensleydale, after all, was a rattling good fellow, with whom all the young women were in love. The thing, though naughty, was natural; and the colonel would make an excellent husband. One Presbyterian trustee left his business in Belfast and ventured himself among the abominations of Paris. He was much befooled and befeasted. He found a shy young wife tremulously in love; a handsome husband; an amiable step-mother. He knew no one in Paris who could enlighten him, and was not clever enough to invent means of getting information for himself. He was induced to promise a sufficient income for the moment on behalf of himself and his co-trustee; and for the rest was obliged to be content with vague assurances from Colonel Wensleydale that as soon as his wife came into her property fitting settlements should be made. Four years passed by. The young people lived with the Blackwaters, and their income kept the establishment going. Lady Alice had a child, and was at first not altogether unhappy. She was little more than a timid child herself; and no doubt, to begin with, she was in love. Then came her majority. In defiance of all her trustees, she gave her whole fortune to her husband, and no power could prevent her from so doing. The Blackwater ménage blazed up into a sudden splendor. Lady Blackwater's carriage and Lady Blackwater's jewels had never been finer; and amid the crowds who frequented the house, the slight figure, the sallow face, and absent eyes of her step-daughter attracted little remark. Lady Alice Wensleydale was said to be delicate and reserved; she made no friends, explained herself to no one; and it was supposed that she occupied herself with her little boy. Then one December she disappeared from the apartment in the Place Vendôme. It was said that she and the boy found the climate of Paris too cold in winter, and had gone for a time to Italy. Colonel Wensleydale continued to live with the Blackwaters, and their apartment was no less sumptuous, their dinners no less talked of, their extravagance no less noisy than before. But Lady Alice did not come back with the spring; and some ugly rumors began to creep about. They were checked, however, by the death of Lord Blackwater, which occurred within a year of his daughter's departure; by the monstrous debts he left behind him; and by the sale of the contents of the famous apartment, matters, all of them, sufficiently ugly or scandalous in themselves to keep the tongues of fame busy. Lady Blackwater left Paris, and when she reappeared, it was in Rome as the Comtesse d'Estrées, the wife of yet another old man, whose health obliged them to winter in the south and to spend the summer in yachting. Her _salon_ in Rome under Pio Nono became a great rendezvous for English and Americans, attracted by the historic names and titles that M. d'Estrées' connections among the Black nobility, his wealth, and his interest in several of the Catholic banking-houses of Rome and Naples enabled his wife to command. Colonel Wensleydale did not appear. Madame d'Estrées let it be understood that her step-daughter was of a difficult temper, and now spent most of her time in Ireland. Her own daughter, her "darling Kitty," was being educated in Paris by the Soeurs Blanches, and she pined for the day when the "little sweet" should join her, ready to spread her wings in the great world. But mothers must not be impatient, Kitty must have all the advantages that befitted her rank; and to what better hands could the most anxious mother intrust her than to those charming, aristocratic, accomplished nuns of the Soeurs Blanches? Then one January day M. d'Estrées drove out to San Paolo fuori le Mura, and caught a blast from the snowy Sabines coming back. In three days he was dead, and his well-provided widow had snatched the bulk of his fortune from the hands of his needy and embittered kindred. Within six months of his death she had bought a house in St. James's Place, and her London career had begun. * * * * * "It is here that we come in," said Lord Grosville, when, with more digressions and more plainness of speech with regard to his quondam sister-in-law than can be here reproduced, he had brought his story to this point. "Blackwater--the old ruffian--when he was dying had a moment of remorse. He wrote to my wife and asked her to look after his girls, 'For God's sake, Lina, see if you can help Alice--Wensleydale's a perfect brute.' That was the first light we had on the situation, for Adelina had long before washed her hands of him; and we knew that _she_ hated us. Well, we tried; of course we tried. But so long as her husband lived Alice would have nothing to say to any of us. I suppose she thought that for her boy's sake she'd better keep a bad business to herself as much as possible--" "Wensleydale--Wensleydale?" said Ashe, who had been smoking hard and silently beside his host. "You mean the man who distinguished himself in the Crimea? He died last year--at Naples, wasn't it?" Lord Grosville assented. It appeared that during the last year of his life Lady Alice had nursed her husband faithfully through disease and poverty; for scarcely a vestige of her fortune remained, and an application for money made by Wensleydale to Madame d'Estrées, unknown to his wife, had been peremptorily refused. The colonel died, and within three months of his death Lady Alice had also lost her son and only child, of blood-poisoning developed in Naples, whither he had been summoned from school that his father might see him for the last time. Then, after seventeen years, Lady Alice came back to her kindred, who had last seen her as a young girl--gentle, undeveloped, easily led, and rather stupid. She returned a gray-haired woman of thirty-four, who had lost youth, fortune, child, and husband; whose aspect, moreover, suggested losses still deeper and more drear. At first she wrapped herself in what seemed to some a dull and to others a tragic silence. But suddenly a flame leaped up in her. She became aware of the position of Madame d'Estrées in London; and one day, at a private view of the Academy, her former step-mother went up to her smiling, with out-stretched hand. Lady Alice turned very pale; the hand dropped, and Alice Wensleydale walked rapidly away. But that night, in the Grosville house, she spoke out. "She told Lina and myself the whole story. You'd have thought the woman was possessed. My wife--she's not of the crying sort, nor am I. But she cried, and I believe--well, I can tell you it was enough to move a stone. And when she'd done, she just went away, and locked her door, and let no one say a word to her. She has told one or two other relations and friends, and--" "And the relations and friends have told others?" "Well, I can answer for myself," said Grosville after a pause. "This happened three months ago. I never have told, and never shall tell, all the details as she told them to us. But we have let enough be known--" "Enough?--enough to damn Madame d'Estrées?" "Oh, well, as far as the women were concerned, she was mostly that already. There are other tales going about. I expect you know them." "No, I don't know them," said Ashe. Lord Grosville's face expressed surprise. "Well, this finished it," he said. "Poor child!" said Ashe, slowly, putting down his cigarette and turning a thoughtful look on the carpet. "Alice?" said Lord Grosville. "No." "Oh! you mean Kitty? Yes, I had forgotten her for the moment. Yes, poor child." There was silence a moment, then Lord Grosville inquired: "What do you think of her?" "I?" said Ashe, with a laugh. "I don't know. She's obviously very pretty--" "And a handful!" said Lord Grosville. "Oh, quite plainly a handful," said Ashe, rather absently. Then the memory of Kitty's entry recurred to them both, and they laughed. "Not much shyness left in that young woman--eh?" said the old man. "She tells my girls such stories of her French doings--my wife's had to stop it. She seems to have had all sorts of love-affairs already. And, of course, she'll have any number over here--sure to. Some unscrupulous fellow'll get hold of her, for naturally the right sort won't marry her. I don't know what we can do. Adelina offered to take her altogether. But that woman wouldn't hear of it. She wrote Lina rather a good letter--on her dignity--and that kind of thing. We gave her an opening, and, by Jove! she took it." "And meanwhile Lady Kitty has no dealings with her step-sister?" "You heard what she said. Extraordinary girl! to let the thing out plump like that. Just like the blood. They say anything that comes into their heads. If we had known that Alice was to be with the Sowerbys this week-end, my wife would certainly have put Kitty off. It would be uncommonly awkward if they were to meet--here for instance. Hullo! Is it getting late?" For the whist-players at the end of the library had pushed back their chairs, and men were strolling back from the billiard-room. "I am afraid Lady Kitty understands there is something wrong with her mother's position," said Ashe, as they rose. "I dare say. Brought up in Paris, you see," said the white-haired Englishman, with a shrug. "Of course, she knows everything she shouldn't." "Brought up in a convent, please," said Ashe, smiling. "And I thought the French _girl_ was the most innocent and ignorant thing alive." Lord Grosville received the remark with derision. "You ask my wife what she thinks about French convents. She knows--she's had lots of Catholic relations. She'll tell you tales." Ashe thought, however, that he could trust himself to see that she did nothing of the sort. * * * * * The smoking-room broke up late, but the new Under-secretary sat up still later, reading and smoking in his bedroom. A box of Foreign Office papers lay on his table. He went through them with a keen sense of pleasure, enjoying his new work and his own competence to do it, of which, notwithstanding his remarks to Mary Lyster, he was not really at all in doubt. Then when his comments were done, and the papers replaced in the order in which they would now go up to the Secretary of State, he felt the spring night oppressively mild, and walking to the window, he threw it wide open. He looked out upon a Dutch garden, full of spring flowers in bloom. In the midst was a small fountain, which murmured to itself through the night. An orangery or conservatory, of a charming eighteenth-century design, ran round the garden in a semicircle, its flat pilasters and mouldings of yellow stone taking under the moonlight the color and the delicacy of ivory. Beyond the terrace which bordered the garden, the ground fell to a river, of which the reaches, now dazzling, now sombre, now slipping secret under woods, and now silverly open to the gentle slopes of the park, brought wildness and romance into a scene that had else been tame. Beyond the river on a rising ground was a village church with a spire. The formal garden, the Georgian conservatory, the park, the river, the church--they breathed England and the traditional English life. All that they implied, of custom and inheritance, of strength and narrowness, of cramping prejudice and stubborn force, was very familiar to Ashe, and on the whole very congenial. He was glad to be an Englishman and a member of an English government. The ironic mood which was tolerably constant in him did not in the least interfere with his normal enjoyment of normal goods. He saw himself often as a shade among shadows, as an actor among actors; but the play was good all the same. That a man should know himself to be a fool was in his eyes, as it was in Lord Melbourne's, the first of necessities. But fool or no fool, let him find the occupations that suited him, and pursue them. On those terms life was still amply worth living, and ginger was still hot in the mouth. This was his usual philosophy. Religiously he was a sceptic, enormously interested in religion. Should he ever become Prime Minister, as Lady Tranmore prophesied, he would know much more theology than the bishops he might be called on to appoint. Politically, at the same time, he was an aristocrat, enormously interested in liberty. The absurdities of his own class were still more plain to him perhaps than the absurdities of the populace. But had he lived a couple of generations earlier he would have gone with passion for Catholic emancipation, and boggled at the Reform Bill. And if fate had thrown him on earlier days still, he would not, like Falkland, have died ingeminating peace; he would have fought; but on which side, no friend of his--up till now--could have been quite sure. To have the reputation of an idler, and to be in truth a plodding and unwearied student; this, at any rate, pleased him. To avow an enthusiasm, or an affection, generally seemed to him an indelicacy; only two or three people in the world knew what was the real quality of his heart. Yet no man feigns shirking without in some measure learning to shirk; and there were certain true indolences and sybaritisms in Ashe of which he was fully and contemptuously aware, without either wishing or feeling himself able to break the yoke of them. At the present moment, however, he was rather conscious of much unusual stirring and exaltation of personality. As he stood looking out into the English night the currents of his blood ran free and fast. Never had he felt the natural appetite for living so strong in him, combined with what seemed to be at once a divination of coming change, and a thirst for it. Was it the mere advancement of his fortunes--or something infinitely subtler and sweeter? It was as though waves of softness and of yearning welled up from some unknown source, seeking an object and an outlet. As he stood there dreaming, he suddenly became conscious of sounds in the room overhead. Or rather in the now absolute stillness of the rest of the house he realized that the movements and voices above him, which had really been going on since he entered his room, persisted when everything else had died away. Two people were talking; or rather one voice ran on perpetually, broken at intervals by the other. He began to suspect to whom the voice belonged; and as he did so, the window above his own was thrown open. He stepped back involuntarily, but not before he had caught a few words in French, spoken apparently by Lady Kitty. "Ciel! what a night!--and how the flowers smell! And the stars--I adore the stars! Mademoiselle--come here! Mademoiselle! answer me--I won't tell tales--now do you--_really and truly_--believe in God?" A laugh, which was a laugh of pleasure, ran through Ashe, as he hurriedly put out his lights. "Tormentor!" he said to himself--"must you put a woman through her theological paces at this time of night? Can't you go to sleep, you little whirlwind?--What's to be done? If I shut my window the noise will scare her. But I can't stand eavesdropping here." He withdrew softly from the window and began to undress. But Lady Kitty was leaning out, and her voice carried amazingly. Heard in this way also, apart from form and face, it became a separate living thing. Ashe stood arrested, his watch that he was winding up in his hand. He had known the voice till now as something sharp and light, the sign surely of a chatterer and a flirt. To-night, as Kitty made use of it to expound her own peculiar theology to the French governess--whereof a few fragments now and then floated down to Ashe--nothing could have been more musical, melancholy, caressing. A voice full of sex, and the spell of sex. What had she been talking of all these hours to mademoiselle? A lady whom she could never have set eyes on before this visit. He thought of her face, in the drawing-room, as she had spoken of her sister--of her eyes, so full of a bright feverish pain, which had hung upon his own. Had she, indeed, been confiding all her home secrets to this stranger? Ashe felt a movement of distaste, almost of disgust. Yet he remembered that it was by her unconventionality, her lack of all proper reticence, or, as many would have said, all delicate feeling, that she had made her first impression upon him. Ay, that had been an impression--an impression indeed! He realized the fact profoundly, as he stood lingering in the darkness, trying not to hear the voice that thrilled him. At last!--was she going to bed? "Ah!--but I am a pig, to keep you up like this! Allez dormir!" (The sound of a kiss.) "I? Oh no! Why should one go to bed? It is in the night one begins to live." She fell to humming a little French tune, then broke off. "You remember? You promise? You have the letter?" Asseverations apparently from mademoiselle, and a mention of eight o'clock, followed by remorse from Kitty. "Eight o'clock! And I keep you like this. I am a brute beast! Allez--allez vite!" And quick steps scudded across the floor above, followed by the shutting of a door. Kitty, however, came back to the window, and Ashe could still hear her sighing and talking to herself. What had she been plotting? A letter? Conveyed by mademoiselle? To whom? * * * * * Long after all sounds above had ceased Ashe still lay awake, thinking of the story he had heard from Lord Grosville. Certainly, if he had known it, he would never have gone familiarly to Madame d'Estrées' house. Laxity, for a man of his type, is one thing; lying, meanness, and cruelty are another. What could be done for this poor child in her strange and sinister position? He was ironically conscious of a sudden heat of missionary zeal. For if the creature to be saved had not possessed such a pair of eyes--so slim a neck--such a haunting and teasing personality--what then? The question presently plunged with him into sleep. But he had not forgotten it when he awoke. * * * * * He had just finished dressing next morning, when he chanced to see from the front window of his room, which commanded the main stretch of the park, the figure of a lady on one of the paths. She seemed to be returning from the farther end of a long avenue, and was evidently hurrying to reach the house. As she approached, however, she turned aside into a shrubbery walk and was soon lost to view. But Ashe had recognized Mademoiselle D. The matter of the letter recurred to him. He guessed that she had already delivered it. But where? At breakfast Lady Kitty did not appear. Ashe made inquiries of the younger Miss Grosville, who replied with some tartness that she supposed Kitty had a cold, and hurried off herself to dress for Sunday-school. It was not at all the custom for young ladies to breakfast in bed on Sundays at Grosville Park, and Lady Grosville's brow was clouded. Ashe felt it a positive effort to tell her that he was not going to church, and when she had marshalled her flock and carried them off, those left behind knew themselves, indeed, as heathens and publicans. Ashe wandered out with some official papers and a pipe into the spring sunshine. Mr. Kershaw, the editor, would gladly have caught him for a political talk. But Ashe would not be caught. As to the interests of England in the Persian Gulf, both they and Mr. Kershaw might for the moment go hang. Would Lady Kitty meet him in the old garden at eleven-thirty, or would she not? That was the only thing that mattered. However, it was still more than an hour to the time mentioned. Ashe spent a while in roaming a wood delicately pied with primroses and anemones, and then sauntered back into the gardens, which were old and famous. Suddenly, as he came upon a terrace bordered by a thick yew hedge, and descending by steps to a lower terrace, he became aware of voices in a strange tone and key--not loud, but, as it were, intensified far beyond the note of ordinary talk. Ashe stood still; for he had recognized the voice of Lady Kitty. But before he had made up his mind what to do a lady began to ascend the steps which connected the upper terrace with the lower. She came straight towards him, and Ashe looked at her with astonishment. She was not a member of the Grosville house party, and Ashe had never seen her before. Yet in her pale, unhappy face there was something that recalled another person; something, too, in her gait and her passionate energy of movement. She swept past him, and he saw that she was tall and thin, and dressed in deep mourning. Her eyes were set on some inner vision; he felt that she scarcely saw him. She passed like an embodied grief--menacing and lamentable. Something like a cry pursued her up the steps. But she did not turn. She walked swiftly on, and was soon lost to sight in the trees. Ashe hesitated a moment, then hurried down the steps. On a stone seat beneath the yew hedge, Kitty Bristol lay prone. He heard her sobs, and they went most strangely through his heart. "Lady Kitty!" he said, as he stood beside her and bent over her. She looked up, and showed no surprise. Her face was bathed in tears, but her hand sought his piteously and drew him towards her. "I have seen my sister," she said, "and she hates me. What have I done? I think I shall die of despair!" V The effect of the few sobbing words, with which Kitty Bristol had greeted his presence beside her, upon the feeling of William Ashe was both sharp and deep, for they seemed already to imply a peculiar relation, a special link between them. Had it not, indeed, begun in that very moment at St. James's Place when he had first caught sight of her, sitting forlorn in her white dress?--when she had "willed" him to come to her, and he came? Surely--though as to this he had his qualms--she could not have spoken with this abandonment to any other of her new English acquaintances? To Darrell, for instance, who was expected at Grosville Park that evening. No! From the beginning she had turned to him, William Ashe; she had been conscious of the same mutual understanding, the same sympathy in difference that he himself felt. It was, at any rate, with the feeling of one whose fate has most strangely, most unexpectedly overtaken him that he sat down beside her. His own pulses were running at a great rate; but there was to be no sign of it for her. He tried, indeed, to calm her by that mere cheerful strength and vitality of which he was so easily master. "Why should you be in despair?" he said, bending towards her. "Tell me. Let me try and help you. Was your sister unkind to you?" Kitty made no reply at once. The tears that brimmed her large eyes slipped down her cheeks without disfiguring her. She was looking absently, intently, into a dark depth of wood as though she sought there for some truth that escaped her--truth of the past or of the present. "I don't know," she said, at last, shaking her head, "I don't know whether it was unkind. Perhaps it was only what we deserve, maman and I." "You!" cried Ashe. "Yes," she said, passionately. "Who's going to separate between maman and me? If she's done mean, shocking things, the people she's done them to will hate me too. They _shall_ hate me! It's right." She turned to him violently. She was very white, and her little hands as she sat there before him, proudly erect, twisted a lace handkerchief between them that would soon be in tatters. Somehow Ashe winced before the wreck of the handkerchief; what need to ruin the pretty, fragile thing? "I am quite sure no one will ever hate you for what you haven't done," he said, steadily. "That would be abominably unfair. But, you see, I don't understand--and I don't like--I don't wish--to ask questions." "_Do_ ask questions!" she cried, looking at him almost reproachfully. "That's just what I want you to do--Only," she added, hanging her head in depression, "I shouldn't know what to answer. I am played with, and treated as a baby! There is something horrible the matter--and no one trusts me--every one keeps me in the dark. No one ever thinks whether I am miserable or not." She raised her hands to her eyes and vehemently wiped away her tears with the tattered lace handkerchief. In all these words and actions, however, she was graceful and touching, because she was natural. She was not posing or conscious, she was hiding nothing. Yet Ashe felt certain she could act a part magnificently; only it would not be for the lie's sake, but for the sake of some romantic impulse or imagination. "Why should you torment yourself so?" he asked her, kindly. Her hand had dropped and lay beside her on the bench. To his own amazement he found himself clasping it. "Isn't it better to forget old griefs? You can't help what happened years ago--you can't undo it. You've got to live your own life--_happily_! And I just wish you'd set about it." He smiled at her, and there were few faces more attractive than his when he let his natural softness have its way, without irony. She let her eyes be drawn to his, and as they met he saw a flush rise in her clear skin and spread to the pale gold of her hair. The man in him was marvellously pleased by that flush--fascinated, indeed. But she gave him small time to observe it; she drew herself impatiently away. "Of course, you don't understand a word about it," she said, "or you couldn't talk like that. But I'll tell you." Her eyes, half miserable, half audacious, returned to him. "My sister--came here--because I sent for her. I made mademoiselle go with a letter. Of course, I knew there was a mystery--I knew the Grosvilles did not want us to meet--I knew that she and maman hated each other. But maman will tell me nothing--and I have a _right_ to know." "No, you have no right to know," said Ashe, gravely. She looked at him wildly. "I have--I have!" she repeated, passionately. "Well, I told my sister to meet me here--I had forgotten, you see, all about you! My mind was so full of Alice. And when she came I felt as if it was a dream--a horrible, tragic dream. You know--she is _so_ like me--which means, I suppose, that we are both like papa. Only her face--it's not handsome, oh no--but it's stern--and--yes, noble! I was proud of her. I would like to have gone on my knee and kissed her dress. But she would not take my hand--she would hardly speak to me. She said she had come, because it was best, now that I was in England, that we should meet once, and understand that we _couldn't_ meet--that we could never, never be friends. She said that she hated my mother--that for years she had kept silence, but that now she meant to punish maman--to drive her from London. And then"--the girl's lips trembled under the memory--"she came close to me, and she looked into my eyes, and she said, 'Yes, we're like each other---we're like our father--and it would be better for us both if we had never been born--'" "Ah, cruel!" cried Ashe, involuntarily, and once more his hand found Kitty's small fingers and pressed them in his. Kitty looked at him with a strange, exalted look. "No. I think it's true. I often think I'm not made to be happy. I can't ever be happy--it's not in me." "It's in you to say foolish things then!" said Ashe, lightly, and crossing his arms he tried to assume the practical elder-brotherly air, which he felt befitted the situation--if anything befitted it. For in truth it seemed to him one singularly confused and ugly. Their talk floated above tragic depths, guessed at by him, wholly unknown to her. And yet her youth shrank from it knew not what--"as an animal shrinks from shadows in the twilight." She seemed to him to sit enwrapped in a vague cloud of shame, resenting and hating it, yet not able to escape from thinking and talking of it. But she must not talk of it. She did not answer his last remark for a little while. She sat looking before her, overwhelmed, it seemed, by an inward rush of images and sensations. Till, with a sudden movement, she turned to him and said, smiling, quite in her ordinary voice: "Do you know why I shall never be happy? It is because I have such a bad temper." "Have you?" said Ashe, smiling. She gave him a curious look. "You don't believe it? If you had been in the convent, you would have believed it. I'm mad sometimes--quite mad; with pride, I suppose, and vanity. The Soeurs said it was that." "They had to explain it somehow," said Ashe. "But I am quite sure that if I lived in a convent I should have a furious temper." "You!" she said, half contemptuously. "You couldn't be ill-tempered anywhere. That's the one thing I don't like about you--you're too calm--too--too satisfied. It's--Well! you said a sharp thing to me, so I don't see why I shouldn't say one to you. You shouldn't look as though you enjoyed your life so much. It's _bourgeois_! It is, indeed." And she frowned upon him with a little extravagant air that amused him. By some prescience, she had put on that morning a black dress of thin material, made with extreme simplicity. No flounces, no fanfaronnade. A little girlish dress, that made the girlish figure seem even frailer and lighter than he remembered it the night before in the splendors of her Paris gown. Her large black hat emphasized the whiteness of her brow, the brilliance of her most beautiful eyes; and then all the rest was insubstantial sprite and airy nothing, to be crushed in one hand. And yet what untamed, indomitable things breathed from it--a self surely more self, more intensely, obstinately alive than any he had yet known. Her attack had brought the involuntary blood to his cheeks, which annoyed him. But he invited her to say why cheerfulness was a vice. She replied that no one should look success--as much as he did. "And you scorn success?" "Scorn it!" She drew a long breath, clasped both her hands above her head, then slowly let the thin arms fall again. "Scorn it! What nonsense! But everybody who hasn't got it hates those who have." "Don't hate me!" said Ashe, quickly. "Yes," she said, with stubbornness, "I must. Do you know why I was such a wild-cat at school? Because some of the other girls were more important than I--much more important--and richer--and more beautiful--and people paid them more attention. And that seemed to _burn_ the heart in me." She pressed her hands to her breast with a passionate gesture. "You know the French word _panache_? Well, that's what I care for --that's what I _adore_! To be the first--the best--the most distinguished. To be envied--and pointed at--obeyed when I lift my finger--and then to come to some great, glorious, tragic end!" Ashe moved impatiently. "Lady Kitty, I don't like to hear you talk like this. It's wild, and it's also--I beg your pardon--" "In bad taste?" she said, catching him up breathlessly. "That's what you meant, isn't it? You said it to me before, when I called you handsome." "Pshaw!" he said, in vexation. She watched him throw himself back and feel for his cigarette-case; a gesture of her hand gave him leave; she waited, smiling, till he had taken a few calming whiffs. Then she gently moved towards him. "Don't be angry with me!" she said, in a sweet, low voice. "Don't you understand how hard it is--to have that nature--and then to come here out of the convent--where one had lived on dreams--and find one's self--" She turned her head away. Ashe put down his new-lit cigarette. "Find yourself?" he repeated. "Everybody scorns me!" she said, her brow drooping. Ashe exclaimed. "You know it's true. My mother is not received. Can you deny that?" "She has many friends," said Ashe. "She is _not received_. When I speak of her no one answers me. Lady Grosville asked me here--_me_--out of charity. It would be thought a disgrace to marry me--" "Look here, Lady Kitty!--" "And I"--she wrung her small hands, as though she clasped the necks of her enemies--"I would never _look_ at a man who did not think it the glory of his life to win me. So you see, I shall never marry. But then the dreadful thing is--" She let him see a white, stormy face. "That I have no loyalty to maman--I--I don't think I even love her." Ashe surveyed her gravely. "You don't mean that," he said. "I think I do," she persisted. "I had a horrid childhood. I won't tell tales; but, you see, I don't _know_ maman. I know the Soeurs much better. And then for some one you don't know--to have to--to have to bear--this horrible thing--" She buried her face in her hands. Ashe looked at her in perplexity. "You sha'n't bear anything horrible," he said, with energy. "There are plenty of people who will take care of that. Do you mind telling me--have there been special difficulties just lately?" "Oh yes," she said, calmly, looking up, "awful! Maman's debts are--well--ridiculous. For that alone I don't think she'll be able to stay in London--apart from--Alice." The name recalled all she had just passed through, and her face quivered. "What will she do?" she said, under her breath. "How will she punish us?--and why?--for what?" Her dread, her ignorance, her fierce, bruised vanity, her struggling pride, her helplessness, appealed amazingly to the man beside her. He began to talk to her very gently and wisely, begging her to let the past alone, to think only what could be done to help the present. In the first place, would she not let his mother be of use to her? He could answer for Lady Tranmore. Why shouldn't Lady Kitty spend the summer with her in Scotland? No doubt Madame d'Estrées would be abroad. "Then I must go with her," said Kitty. Ashe hesitated. "Of course, if she wishes it." "But I don't know that she will wish it. She is not very fond of me," said Kitty, doubtfully. "Yes, I would like to stay with Lady Tranmore. But will your cousin be there?" "Miss Lyster?" Kitty nodded. "How can I tell? Of course, she is often there." "It is quite curious," said Kitty, after reflection, "how we dislike each other. And it is so odd. You know most people like me!" She looked up at him without a trace of coquetry, rather with a certain timidity that feared possible rebuff. "That's always been my difficulty," she went on, "till now. Everybody spoils me. I always get my own way. In the convent I was indulged and flattered, and then they wondered that I made all sorts of follies. I want a guide--that's quite certain--somebody to tell me what to do." "I would offer myself for the post," said Ashe, "but that I feel perfectly sure that you would never follow anybody's advice in anything." "Yes, I would," she said, wistfully. "I would--" Ashe's face changed. "Ah, if you would--" She sprang up. "Do you see "--she pointed to some figures on a distant path--"they are coming back from church. You understand?--_nobody_ must know about my sister. It will come round to Aunt Lina, of course; but I hope it'll be when I'm gone. If she knew now, I should go back to London to-day." Ashe made it clear to her that he would be discretion itself. They left the bench, but, as they began to ascend the steps, Kitty turned back. "I wish I hadn't seen her," she said, in a miserable tone, the tears flooding once more into her eyes. Ashe looked at her with great kindness, but without speaking. The moment of sharp pain passed, and she moved on languidly beside him. But there was an infection in his strong, handsome presence, and her smiles soon came back. By the time they neared the house, indeed, she seemed to be in wild spirits again. Did he know, she asked him, that three more guests were coming that afternoon--Mr. Darrell, Mr. Louis Harman, _and_--Mr. Geoffrey Cliffe? She laid an emphasis on the last name, which made Ashe say, carelessly: "You want to meet him so much?" "Of course. Doesn't all the world?" Ashe replied that he could only answer for himself, and as far as he was concerned he could do very well without Cliffe's company at all times. Whereupon Kitty protested with fire that other men were jealous of such a famous person because women liked him--because-- "Because the man's a coxcomb and the women spoil him?" "A coxcomb!" Kitty was up in arms. "Pray, is he not a great traveller?--_a very_ great traveller?" she asked, with indignation. "Certainly, by his own account." "And a most brilliant writer?" "Macaulayese," said Ashe, perversely, "and not very good at that." Kitty was at first struck dumb, and then began a voluble protest against unfairness so monstrous. Did not all intelligent people read and admire? It was mere jealousy, she repeated, to deny the gentleman's claims. Ashe let her talk and quote and excite herself, applying every now and then a little sly touch of the goad, to make her still run on, and so forget the tragic hour which had overshadowed her. And meanwhile all he cared for was to watch the flashing of her face and eyes, and the play of the wind in her hair, and the springing grace with which she moved. Poor child!--it all came back to that--poor child!--what was to be done with her? * * * * * At luncheon--the Sunday luncheon--which still, at Grosville Park, as in the early Victorian days of Lord Grosville's mother, consisted of a huge baronial sirloin to which all else upon the varied table appeared as appurtenance and appendage, Ashe allowed himself the inward reflection that the Grosville Park Sundays were degenerating. Both Lord and Lady Grosville had been good hosts in their day; and the downrightness of the wife had been as much to the taste of many as the agreeable gossip of the husband. But on this occasion both were silent and absent-minded. Lady Grosville showed no generalship in placing her guests; the wrong people sat next to each other, and the whole party dragged--without a leader. And certainly Kitty Bristol did nothing to enliven it. She sat very silent, her black dress changing her a good deal, to Ashe's thinking, bringing back, as he chose to fancy, the pale convent girl. Was it so that she went through her pious exercises?--by-the-way, she was, of course, a Catholic?--said her lessons, and went to her confessor? Had the French cousin with whom she rode stag-hunting ever seen her like this? No; Ashe felt certain that "Henri" had never seen her, except as a fashion-plate, or _en amazone_. He could have made nothing of this ghost in black--this distinguished, piteous, little ghost. After luncheon it became tolerably clear to Ashe that Lady Grosville's preoccupation had a cause. And presently catching him alone in the library, whither he had retired with some official papers, she closed the door with deliberate care, and stood before him. "I see you are interested in Kitty, and I feel as if I must tell you, and ask your opinion. William, do you know what that child has been doing?" He looked up from his writing. "Ah!--what have you been discovering?" "Grosville told you the story last night." Ashe nodded. "Well--Kitty wrote to Alice this morning--and they met. Alice has kept her room since--prostrate--so the Sowerbys tell me. I have just had a note from Mrs. Sowerby. Wasn't it an extraordinary, an indelicate thing to do?" Ashe studied the frowning lady a moment--so large and daunting in her black silk and white lace. She seemed to suggest all those aspects of the English Sunday for which he had most secret dislike--its Pharisaism and dulness and heavy meals. He felt himself through and through Lady Kitty's champion. "I should have thought it very natural," was his reply. Lady Grosville threw up her hands. "Natural!--when she knows--" "How can she know?" cried Ashe, hotly. "How can such a child know or guess anything? She only knows that there is some black charge against her mother, on which no one will enlighten her. How can they? But meanwhile her mother is ostracized, and she feels herself dragged into the disgrace, not understanding why or wherefore. Could anything be more pathetic--more touching?" In his heat of feeling he got up, and began to pace up and down. Lady Grosville's countenance expressed first astonishment--then wavering. "Oh--of course, it's very sad," she said--"extremely sad. But I should have thought Kitty was clever enough to understand at least that Alice must have some grave reason for breaking with her mother--" "Don't you all forget what a child she is," said Ashe, indignantly--"not yet nineteen!" "Yes, that's true," said Lady Grosville, grudgingly. "I must confess I find it difficult to judge her fairly. She's so different from my own girls." Ashe hastily agreed. Then it struck him as odd that he should have fallen so quickly into this position of Kitty's defender with her father's family; and he drew in his horns. He resumed his work, and Lady Grosville sat for a while, her hands in her lap, quietly observing him. At last she said: "So you think, William, I had better leave Kitty alone?" "About what?" Ashe raised his curly head with a laugh. "Don't put too much responsibility on me. I know nothing about young ladies." "I don't know that I do--much," said Lady Grosville, candidly. "My own daughters are so exceptional." Ashe held his peace. Distant cousins as they were, he hardly knew the Grosville girls apart, and had never yet grasped any reason why he should. "At any rate, I see clearly," said Lady Grosville, after another pause, "that you're very sorry for Kitty. Of course, it's very nice of you, and I find it's what most people feel." "Hang it! dear Lady Grosville, why shouldn't they?" said Ashe, turning round on his chair. "If ever there was a forlorn little person on earth, I thought Lady Kitty was that person at lunch to-day." "And after that absurd exhibition last night!" said Lady Grosville, with a shrug. "You never know where to have her. You think she looked ill?" "I am sure she has got a splitting headache," said Ashe, boldly. "And why you and Grosville shouldn't be as sorry for her as for Lady Alice I can't imagine. _She's_ done nothing." "No, that's true," said Lady Grosville, as she rose. Then she added: "I'll go and see if she has a headache. You must consult with us, William; you know the mother so well." "Oh, I'm no good!" said Ashe, with energy. "But I'm sure that kindness would pay with Lady Kitty." He smiled at her, wishing to Heaven she would go. Lady Grosville stared. "I hope we are always kind to her," she said, with a touch of haughtiness. And then the library door closed behind her. * * * * * "Kindness" was indeed, that afternoon, the order of the day, as from the Grosvilles to Lady Kitty. Ashe wondered how she liked it. The girls followed her about with shawls. Lady Grosville installed her on a sofa in the back drawing-room. A bottle of sal-volatile appeared, and Caroline Grosville, instead of going twice to Sunday-school, devoted herself to fanning Kitty, though the weather--which was sunny, with a sharp east wind--suggested, to Ashe's thinking, fires rather than fans. He was himself carried off for the customary Sunday walk, Mr. Kershaw being now determined to claim the sacred rights of the press. The walkers left the house by a garden door, to reach which they had to pass through the farther drawing-room. Kitty, a picturesque figure on the sofa, nodded farewell to Ashe, and then, unseen by Caroline Grosville, who sat behind her, shot him a last look which drove him to a precipitate exit lest the inward laugh should out. The walk through the flat Cambridgeshire country was long and strenuous. Though for at least half of it the active journalist who was Ashe's companion conceived the poorest opinion of the new minister. Ashe knew nothing; had no opinions; cared for nothing, except now and then for the stalking of an unfamiliar bird, or the antics of the dogs, or tales of horse-racing, of which he talked with a fervor entirely denied to those high political topics of which Kershaw's ardent soul was full. Again and again did the journalist put them under his nose in their most attractive guise. In vain; Ashe would have none of them. Till suddenly a chance word started an Indian frontier question, vastly important, and totally unknown to the English public. Ashe casually began to talk; the trickle became a stream, and presently he was holding forth with an impetuosity, a knowledge, a matured and careful judgment that fairly amazed the man beside him. The long road, bordered by the flat fen meadows, the wide silver sky, the gently lengthening day, all passed unnoticed. The journalist found himself in the grip of a _mind_--strong, active, rich. He gave himself up with docility, yet with a growing astonishment, and when they stood once more on the steps of the house he said to his companion: "You must have followed these matters for years. Why have you never spoken in the House, or written anything?" Ashe's aspect changed at once. "What would have been the good?" he said, with his easy smile. "The fellows who didn't know wouldn't have believed me; and the fellows who knew didn't want telling." A shade of impatience showed in Kershaw's aspect. "I thought," he said, "ours was government by discussion." Ashe laughed, and, turning on the steps, he pointed to the splendid gardens and finely wooded park. "Or government by country-houses--which? If you support us in this--as I gather you will--this walk will have been worth a debate--now won't it?" The flattered journalist smiled, and they entered the house. From the inner hall Lord Grosville perceived them. "Geoffrey Cliffe's arrived," he said to Ashe, as they reached him. "Has he?" said Ashe, and turned to go up-stairs. But Kershaw showed a lively interest. "You mean the traveller?" he asked of his host. "I do. As mad as usual," said the old man. "He and my niece Kitty make a pair." VI When Ashe returned to the drawing-room he found it filled with the sound of talk and laughter. But it was a talk and laughter in which the Grosville family seemed to have itself but little part. Lady Grosville sat stiffly on an early Victorian sofa, her spectacles on her nose, reading the _Times_ of the preceding day, or appearing to read it. Amy Grosville, the eldest girl, was busy in a corner, putting the finishing touches to a piece of illumination; while Caroline, seated on the floor, was showing the small child of a neighbor how to put a picture-puzzle together. Lord Grosville was professedly in a farther room, talking with the Austrian count; but every other minute he strolled restlessly into the big drawing-room, and stood at the edge of the talk and laughter, only to turn on his heel again and go back to the count--who meanwhile appeared in the opening between the two rooms, his hands on his hips, eagerly watching Kitty Bristol and her companions, while waiting, as courtesy bade him, for the return of his host. Ashe at once divined that the Grosville family were in revolt. Nor had he to look far to discover the cause. Was that astonishing young lady in truth identical with the pensive figure of the morning? Kitty had doffed her black, and she wore a "demi-toilette" gown of the utmost elegance, of which the expensiveness had, no doubt, already sunk deep into Lady Grosville's soul. At Grosville Park the new fashion of "tea-gowns" was not favorably regarded. It was thought to be a mere device of silly and extravagant women, and an "afternoon dress," though of greater pretensions than a morning gown, was still a sober affair, not in any way to be confounded with those decorative effects that nature and sound sense reserved for the evening. But Kitty's dress was of some white silky material; and it displayed her slender throat and some portion of her thin white arms. The Dean's wife, Mrs. Winston, as she secretly studied it, felt an inward satisfaction; for here at last was one of those gowns she had once or twice gazed on with a covetous awe in the shop-windows of the Rue de la Paix, brought down to earth, and clothing a simple mortal. They were then real, and they could be worn by real women; which till now the Dean's wife had scarcely believed. Alack! how becoming were these concoctions to minxes with fair hair and sylphlike frames! Kitty was radiant, triumphant; and Ashe was certain that Lady Grosville knew it, however she might barricade herself behind the _Times_. The girl's slim fingers gesticulated in aid of her tongue; one tiny foot swung lightly over the other; the glistening folds of the silk wrapped her in a shimmering whiteness, above which the fair head--negligently thrown back--shone out on a red background, made by the velvet chair in which she sat. The Dean was placed close beside her, and was clearly enjoying himself enormously. And in front of her, absorbed in her, engaged, indeed, in hot and furious debate with her, stood the great man who had just arrived. "How do you do, Cliffe?" said Ashe, as he approached. Geoffrey Cliffe turned sharply, and a perfunctory greeting passed between the two men. "When did you arrive?" said Ashe, as he threw himself into an arm-chair. "Last Tuesday. But that don't matter," said Cliffe, impatiently--"nothing matters--except that I must somehow defeat Lady Kitty!" And he stood, looking down upon the girl in front of him, his hands on his sides, his queer countenance twitching with suppressed laughter. An odd figure, tall, spare, loosely jointed, surmounted by a pale parchment face, which showed a somewhat protruding chin, a long and delicate nose, and fine brows under a strange overhanging mass of fair hair. He had the dissipated, battered look of certain Vandyck cavaliers, and certainly no handsomeness of any accepted kind. But as Ashe well knew, the aspect and personality of Geoffrey Cliffe possessed for innumerable men and women, in English "society" and out of it, a fascination it was easier to laugh at than to explain. Lady Kitty had eyes certainly for no one else. When he spoke of "defeating" her, she laughed her defiance, and a glance of battle passed between her and Cliffe. Cliffe, still holding her with his look, considered what new ground to break. "What is the subject?" said Ashe. "That men are vainer than women," said Kitty. "It's so true, it's hardly worth saying--isn't it? Mr. Cliffe talks nonsense about our love of clothes--and of being admired. As if that were vanity! Of course it's only our sense of duty." "Duty?" cried Cliffe, twisting his mustache. "To whom?" "To the men, of course! If we didn't like clothes, if we didn't like being admired--where would you be?" "Personally, I could get on," said Cliffe. "You expect us to be too much on our knees." "As if we should ever get you there if it didn't amuse you!" said Kitty. "Hypocrites! If we don't dress, paint, chatter, and tell lies for you, you won't look at us--and if we do--" "Of course, it all depends on how well it's done," threw in Cliffe. Kitty laughed. "That's judging by results. I look to the motive. I repeat, if I powder and paint, it's not because I'm vain, but because it's my painful duty to give you pleasure." "And if it doesn't give me pleasure?" She shrugged her shoulders. "Call me stupid then--not vain. I ought to have done it better." "In any case," said Ashe, "it's your duty to please us?" "Yes--" sighed Kitty. "Worse luck!" And she sank softly back in her chair, her eyes shining under the stimulus of the laugh that ran through her circle. The Dean joined in it uneasily, conscious, no doubt, of the sharp, crackling movements by which in the distance Lady Grosville was dumbly expressing herself--through the _Times_. Cliffe looked at the small figure a moment, then seized a chair and sat down in front of her, astride. "I wonder why you want to please us?" he said, abruptly, his magnificent blue eyes upon her. "Ah!" said Kitty, throwing up her hands, "if we only knew!" "You find it in the tragedy of your sex?" "Or comedy," said the Dean, rising. "I take you at your word, Lady Kitty. To-night it will be your duty to please _me_. Remember, you promised to say us some more French." He lifted an admonitory finger. "I don't know any 'Athalie,'" said Kitty, demurely, crossing her hands upon her knee. The Dean smiled to himself as he crossed the room to Lady Grosville, and endeavored by an impartial criticism of the new curate's manner and voice, as they had revealed themselves in church that morning, to distract her attention from her niece. A hopeless task--for Kitty's personality was of the kind which absorbs, engulfs attention, do what the by-stander will. Eyes and ears were drawn perforce into the little whirlpool that she made, their owners yielding them, now with delight, now with repulsion. Mary Lyster, for instance, came in presently, fresh from a walk with Lady Edith Manley. She, too, had changed her dress. But it was a discreet and reasonable change, and Lady Grosville looked at her soft gray gown with its muslin collar and cuffs--delicately embroidered, yet of a nunlike cut and air notwithstanding--with a hot energy of approval, provoked entirely by Kitty's audacities. Mary meanwhile raised her eyebrows gently at the sight of Kitty. She swept past the group, giving a cool greeting to Geoffrey Cliffe, and presently settled herself in the farther room, attended by Louis Harman and Darrell, who had just arrived by the afternoon train. Clearly she observed Kitty and observed her with dislike. The attitude of her companions was not so simple. "What an amazing young woman!" said Harman, presently, under his breath, yet open-mouthed. "I suppose she and Cliffe are old friends." "I believe they never met before," said Mary. Darrell laughed. "Lady Kitty makes short work of the preliminaries," he said; "she told me the other night life wasn't long enough to begin with talk about the weather." "The weather?" said Harman. "At the present moment she and Cliffe seem to be discussing the 'Dame aux Camélias.' Since when do they take young girls to see that kind of thing in Paris?" Miss Lyster gave a little cough, and bending forward said to Harman: "Lady Tranmore has shown me your picture. It is a dear, delicious thing! I never saw anything more heavenly than the angel." Harman smiled a flattered smile. Mary Lyster referred to a copy of a "Filippo Lippi Annunciation" which he had just executed in water-color for Lady Tranmore, to whom he was devoted. He was, however, devoted to a good many peeresses, with whom he took tea, and for whom he undertook many harmless and elegant services. He painted their portraits, in small size, after pre-Raphaelite models, and he occasionally presented them with copies--a little weak, but charming--of their favorite Italian pictures. He and Mary began now to talk of Florence with much enthusiasm and many caressing adjectives. For Harman most things were "sweet"; for Mary, "interesting" or "suggestive." She talked fast and fluently; a subtle observer might have guessed she wished it to be seen that for her Lady Kitty Bristol's flirtations, be they in or out of taste, were simply non-existent. Darrell listened intermittently, watched Cliffe and Lady Kitty, and thought a good deal. That extraordinary girl was certainly "carrying on" with Cliffe, as she had "carried on" with Ashe on the night of her first acquaintance with him in St. James's Place. Ashe apparently took it with equanimity, for he was still sitting beside the pair, twisting a paper-knife and smiling, sometimes putting in a word, but more often silent, and apparently of no account at all to either Kitty or Cliffe. Darrell knew that the new minister disliked and despised Geoffrey Cliffe; he was aware, too, that Cliffe returned these sentiments, and was not unlikely to be found attacking Ashe in public before long on certain points of foreign policy, where Cliffe conceived himself to be a master. The meeting of the two men under the Grosvilles' roof struck Darrell as curious. Why had Cliffe been invited by these very respectable and straitlaced people the Grosvilles? Darrell could only reflect that Lady Eleanor Cliffe, the traveller's mother, was probably connected with them by some of those innumerable and ever-ramifying links that hold together a certain large group of English families; and that, moreover, Lady Grosville, in spite of philanthropy and Evangelicalism, had always shown a rather pronounced taste in "lions"--of the masculine sort. Of the women to be met with at Grosville Park, one could be certain. Lady Grosville made no excuses for her own sex. But she was a sufficiently ambitious hostess to know that agreeable parties are not constructed out of the saints alone. The men, therefore, must provide the sinners; and of some of the persons then most in vogue she was careful not to know too much. For, socially, one must live; and that being so, the strictness of to-day may have at any moment to be purchased by the laxity of to-morrow. Such, at any rate, was Darrell's analysis of the situation. He was still astonished, however, when all was said. For Cliffe during the preceding winter, on his return from some remarkable travels in Persia, had paused on the Riviera, and an affair at Cannes with a French vicomtesse had got into the English papers. No one knew the exact truth of it; and a small volume of verse by Cliffe, published immediately afterwards--verse very distinguished, passionate, and obscure--had offered many clews, but no solution whatever. Nobody supposed, however, that the story was anything but a bad one. Moreover, the last book of travels--which had had an enormous success--contained one of the most malicious attacks on foreign missions that Darrell remembered. And if the missionaries had a supporter in England, it was Lady Grosville. Had she designs--material designs--on behalf of Miss Amy or Miss Caroline? Darrell smiled at the notion. Cliffe must certainly marry money, and was not to be captured by any Miss Amys--or Lady Kittys either, for the matter of that. But?--Darrell glanced at the lady beside him, and his busy thoughts took a new turn. He had seen the greeting between Miss Lyster and Cliffe. It was cold; but all the same the world knew that they had once been friends. Was it some five years before that Miss Lyster, then in the height of a brilliant season under the wing of Lady Tranmore, had been much seen in public with Geoffrey Cliffe? Then he had departed eastward, to explore the upper waters of the Mékong, and the gossip excited had died away. Of late her name had been rather coupled with that of William Ashe. Well, so far as the world was concerned, she might mate with either--with the mad notoriety of Cliffe or the young distinction of Ashe. Darrell's bitter heart contracted as he reflected that only for him and the likes of him, men of the people, with average ability, and a scarcely average income, were maidens of Mary Lyster's dower and pedigree out of reach. Meanwhile he revenged himself by being her very good friend, and allowing himself at times much caustic plainness of speech in his talks with her. * * * * * "What are you three gossiping about?" said Ashe, strolling in presently from the other room to join them. "As usual," said Darrell. "I am listening to perfection. Miss Lyster and Harman are discussing pictures." Ashe stifled a little yawn. He threw himself down by Mary, vowing that there was no more pleasure to be got out of pictures now that people would try to know so much about them. Mary meanwhile raised herself involuntarily to look into the farther room, where the noise made by Cliffe and Lady Kitty had increased. "They are going to sing," said Ashe, lazily--"and it won't be hymns." In fact, Lady Kitty had opened the piano, and had begun the first bars of something French and operatic. At the first sound of Kitty's music, however, Lady Grosville drew herself up; she closed the volume of Evangelical sermons for which she had exchanged the _Times_; she deposited her spectacles sharply on the table beside her. "Amy!--Caroline!" Those young ladies rose. So did Lady Grosville. Kitty meanwhile sat with suspended fingers and laughing eyes, waiting on her aunt's movements. "Kitty, pray don't let me interfere with your playing," said Lady Grosville, with severe politeness--"but perhaps you would kindly put it off for half an hour. I am now going to read to the servants--" "Gracious!" said Kitty, springing up. "I was going to play Mr. Cliffe some Offenbach." "Ah, but the piano can be heard in the library, and your cousin Amy plays the harmonium--" "_Mon Dieu_!" said Kitty. "We will be as quiet as mice. Or"--she made a quick step in pursuit of her aunt--"shall I come and sing, Aunt Lina?" Ashe, in his shelter behind Mary Lyster, fell into a silent convulsion of laughter. "No, thank you!" said Lady Grosville, hastily. And she rustled away followed by her daughters. Kitty came flying into the inner room followed by Cliffe. "What have I done?" she said, breathlessly, addressing Harman, who rose to greet her. "Mayn't one play the piano here on Sundays?" "That depends," said Harman, "on what you play." "Who made your English Sunday?" said Kitty, impetuously. "Je vous demande--_who_?" She threw her challenge to all the winds of heaven--standing tiptoe, her hands poised on the back of a chair, the smallest and most delicate of furies. "A breath unmakes it, as a breath has made," said Cliffe. "Come and play billiards, Lady Kitty. You said just now you played." "Billiards!" said Harman, throwing up his hands. "On Sunday--_here_?" "Can they hear the balls?" said Kitty, eagerly, with a gesture towards the library. Mary Lyster, who had been perfunctorily looking at a book, laid it down. "It would certainly greatly distress Lady Grosville," she said, in a voice studiously soft, but on that account perhaps all the more significant. Kitty glanced at Mary, and Ashe saw the sudden red in her cheek. She turned provokingly to Cliffe. "There's quite half an hour, isn't there, before one need dress--" "More," said Cliffe. "Come along." And he made for the door, which he held open for her. It was now Mary Lyster's turn to flush--the rebuff had been so naked and unadorned. Ashe rose as Kitty passed him. "Why don't you come, too?" she said, pausing. There was a flash from eyes deep and dark beneath a pair of wilful brows. "Aunt Lina would never be cross with _you_!" "Thank you! I should be delighted to play buffer, but unfortunately I have some work I must do before dinner." "Must you?" She looked at him uncertainly, then at Cliffe. In the dusk of the large, heavily furnished room, the pale yet brilliant gold of her hair, her white dress, her slim energy and elegance drew all their eyes--even Mary Lyster's. "I must," Ashe repeated, smiling. "I am glad your headache is so much better." "It is not in the least better!" "Then you disguise it like a heroine." He stood beside her, looking down upon her, his height and strength measured against her smallness. Apparently his amused detachment, the slight dryness of his tone annoyed her. She made a tart reply and vanished through the door that Cliffe held open for her. * * * * * Ashe retired to his own room, dealt with some Foreign Office work, and then allowed himself a meditative smoke. The click of the billiard-balls had ceased abruptly about ten minutes after he had begun upon his papers; there had been voices in the hall, Lord Grosville's he thought among them; and now all was silence. He thought of the events of the afternoon with mingled amusement and annoyance. Cliffe was an unscrupulous fellow, and the child's head might be turned. She should be protected from him in future--he vowed she should. Lady Tranmore should take it in hand. She had been a match for Cliffe in various other directions before this. What brought the man, with his notorious character and antecedents, to Grosville Park--one of the dwindling number of country-houses in England where the old Puritan restrictions still held? It was said he was on the look-out for a post--Ashe, indeed, happened to know it officially; and Lord Grosville had a good deal of influence. Moreover, failing an appointment, he was understood to be aiming at Parliament and office; and there were two safe county-seats within the Grosville sphere. "Yet even when he wants a thing he can't behave himself in order to get it," thought Ashe. "Anybody else would have turned Sabbatarian for once, and refrained from flirting with the Grosvilles' niece. But that's Cliffe all over--and perhaps the best thing about him." He might have added that as Cliffe was supposed to desire an appointment under either the Foreign Office or the Colonial Office, it might have been thought to his interest to show himself more urbane than he had in fact shown himself that afternoon to the new Under-Secretary for Foreign Affairs. But Ashe rarely or never indulged himself in reflections of that kind. Besides, he and Cliffe knew each other too well for posing. There was a time when they had been on very friendly terms, and when Cliffe had been constantly in his mother's drawing-room. Lady Tranmore had a weakness for "influencing" young men of family and ability; and Cliffe, in fact, owed her a good deal. Then she had seen cause to think ill of him; and, moreover, his travels had taken him to the other side of the world. Ashe was now well aware that Cliffe reckoned on him as a hostile influence and would not try either to deceive or to propitiate him. He thought Cliffe had been disagreeably surprised to see him that afternoon. Perhaps it was the sudden sense of antagonism acting on the man's excitable nature that had made him fling himself into the wild nonsense he had talked with Lady Kitty. And thenceforward Ashe's thoughts were possessed by Kitty only--Kitty in her two aspects, of the morning and the afternoon. He dressed in a reverie, and went down-stairs still dreaming. * * * * * At dinner he found himself responsible for Mary Lyster. Kitty was on the other side of the table, widely separated both from himself and Cliffe. She was in a little Empire dress of blue and silver, as extravagantly simple as her gown of the afternoon had been extravagantly elaborate. Ashe observed the furtive study that the Grosville girls could not help bestowing upon her--upon her shoulder-straps and long, bare arms, upon her high waist and the blue and silver bands in her hair. Kitty herself sat in a pensive or proud silence. The Dean was beside her, but she scarcely spoke to him, and as to the young man from the neighborhood who had taken her in, he was to her as though he were not. "Has there been a row?" Ashe inquired, in a low voice, of his companion. Mary looked at him quietly. "Lord Grosville asked them not to play--because of the servants." "Good!" said Ashe. "The servants were, of course, playing cards in the house-keeper's room." "Not at all. They were singing hymns with Lady Grosville." Ashe looked incredulous. "Only the slaveys and scullery maids that couldn't help themselves. Never mind. Was Lady Kitty amenable?" "She seems to have made Lord Grosville very angry. Lady Grosville and I smoothed him down." "Did you?" said Ashe. "That was nice of you." Mary colored a little, and did not reply. Presently Ashe resumed. "Aren't you as sorry for her as I am?" "For Lady Kitty? I should think she managed to amuse herself pretty well." "She seems to me the most deplorable tragic little person," said Ashe, slowly. Miss Lyster laughed. "I really don't see it," she said. "Oh yes, you do," he persisted--"if you think a moment. Be kind to her--won't you?" She drew herself up with a cold dignity. "I confess that she has never attracted me in the least." Ashe returned to his dinner, dimly conscious that he had spoken like a fool. When the ladies had withdrawn, the conversation fell on some important news from the Far East contained in the Sunday papers that Geoffrey Cliffe had brought down, and presumed to form part of the despatches which the two ministers staying in the house had received that afternoon by Foreign Office messenger. The government of Teheran was in one of its periodical fits of ill-temper with England; had been meddling with Afghanistan, flirting badly with Russia, and bringing ridiculous charges against the British minister. An expedition to Bushire was talked of, and the Radical press was on the war-path. The cabinet minister said little. A Lord Privy Seal, reverentially credited with advising royalty in its private affairs, need have no views on the Persian Gulf. But Ashe was appealed to and talked well. The minister at Teheran was an old friend of his, and he described the personal attacks made on him for political reasons by the Shah and his ministers with a humor which kept the table entertained. Suddenly Cliffe interposed. He had been listening with restlessness, though Ashe, with pointed courtesy, had once or twice included him in the conversation. And presently, at a somewhat dramatic moment, he met a statement of Ashe's with a direct and violent contradiction. Ashe flushed, and a duel began between the two men of which the company were soon silent spectators. Ashe had the resources of official knowledge; Cliffe had been recently on the spot, and pushed home the advantage of the eye-witness with a covert insolence which Ashe bore with surprising carelessness and good-temper. In the end Cliffe said some outrageous things, at which Ashe laughed; and Lord Grosville abruptly dissolved the party. Ashe went smiling out of the dining-room, caressing a fine white spaniel, as though nothing had happened. In crossing the hall Harman found himself alone with the Dean, who looked serious and preoccupied. "That was a curious spectacle," said Harman. "Ashe's equanimity was amazing." "I had rather have seen him angrier," said the Dean, slowly. "He was always a very tolerant, easy-going fellow." The Dean shook his head. "A touch of _soeva indignatio_ now and then would complete him." "Has he got it in him?" "Perhaps not," said the little Dean, with a flash of expression that dignified all his frail person. "But without it he will hardly make a great man." Meanwhile Geoffrey Cliffe, his strange, twisted face still vindictively aglow, made his way to Kitty Bristol's corner in the drawing-room. Mary Lyster was conscious of it, conscious also of a certain look that Kitty bestowed upon the entrance of Ashe, while Cliffe was opening a battery of mingled chaff and compliments that did not at first have much effect upon her. But William Ashe threw himself into conversation with Lady Edith Manley, and was presently, to all appearance, happily plunged in gossip, his tall person wholly at ease in a deep arm-chair, while Lady Edith bent over him with smiles. Meanwhile there was a certain desertion of Kitty on the part of the ladies. Lady Grosville hardly spoke to her, and the girls markedly avoided her. There was a moment when Kitty, looking round her, suddenly shook her small shoulders, and like a colt escaping from harness gave herself to riot. She and Cliffe amused themselves so well and so noisily that the whole drawing-room was presently uneasily aware of them. Lady Grosville shot glances of wrath, rose suddenly at one moment and sat down again; her girls talked more disjointedly than ever to the gentlemen who were civilly attending them; while, on the other hand, Miss Lyster's flow of conversation with Louis Harman was more softly copious than usual. At last the Dean's wife looked at the Dean, a signal of kind distress, and the Dean advanced. "Lady Kitty," he said, taking a seat beside the pair, "have you forgotten you promised me some French?" Kitty turned on him a hot and mutinous face. "Did I? What shall I say? Some Alfred de Musset?" "No," said the Dean, "I think not." "Some--some"--she cudgelled her memory--"some Théophile Gautier?" "No, certainly not!" said the Dean, hastily. "Well, as I don't know a word of him--" laughed Kitty. "That was mischievous," said the Dean, raising a finger. "Let me suggest Lamartine." Kitty shook her head obstinately. "I never learned one line." "Then some of the old fellows," said the Dean, persuasively. "I long to hear you in Corneille or Racine. That we should _all_ enjoy." And suddenly his wrinkled hand fell kindly on the girl's small, chilly ringers and patted them. Their eyes met, Kitty's wild and challenging, the Dean's full of that ethereal benevolence which blended so agreeably with his character as courtier and man of the world. There was a bright sweetness in them which seemed to say: "Poor child! I understand. But be a _little_ good--as well as clever--and all will be well." Suddenly Kitty's look wavered and fell. All the harshness dissolved from her thin young beauty. She turned from Cliffe, and the Dean saw her quiver with submission. "I think I could say some 'Polyeucte,'" she said, gently. The Dean clapped his hands and rose. "Lady Grosville," he said, raising his voice--"Ladies and gentlemen, Lady Kitty has promised to say us some more French poetry. You remember how admirably she recited last night. But this is Sunday, and she will give us something in a different vein." Lady Grosville, who had risen impatiently, sat down again. There was a general movement; chairs were turned or drawn forward till a circle formed. Meanwhile the Dean consulted with Kitty and resumed: "Lady Kitty will recite a scene from Corneille's beautiful tragedy of 'Polyeucte'--the scene in which Pauline, after witnessing the martyrdom of her husband, who has been beheaded for refusing to sacrifice to the gods, returns from the place of execution so melted by the love and sacrifice she has beheld that she opens her heart then and there to the same august faith and pleads for the same death." The Dean seated himself, and Kitty stepped into the centre of the circle. She thought a moment, her lips moving, as though she recalled the lines. Then she looked down at her bare arms, and dress, frowned, and suddenly approached Lady Edith Manley. "May I have that?" she said, pointing to a lace cloak that lay on Lady Edith's knee. "I am rather cold." Lady Edith handed it to her, and she threw it round her. "Actress!" said Cliffe, under his breath, with a grin of amusement. At any rate, her impulse served her well. Her form and dress disappeared under a cloud of white. She became in a flash, so to speak, evangelized--a most innocent and spiritual apparition. Her beautiful head, her kindled and transfigured face, her little hand on the white folds, these alone remained to mingle their impression with the austere and moving tragedy which her lips recited. Her audience looked on at first with the embarrassed or hostile air which is the Englishman's natural protection against the great things of art; then for those who understood French the high passion and the noble verse began to tell; while those who could not follow were gradually enthralled by the gestures and tones with which the slight, vibrating creature, whom but ten minutes before most of them had regarded as a mere noisy flirt, suggested and conveyed the finest and most compelling shades of love, faith, and sacrifice. When she ceased, there was a moment's profound silence. Then Lady Edith, drawing a long breath, expressed the welcome commonplace which restored the atmosphere of daily life. "How _could_ you remember it all?" Kitty sat down, her lip trembling scornfully. "I had to say it every week at the convent." "I understand," said Cliffe in Darrell's ear--"that last night she was Doña Sol. An accommodating young woman." Meanwhile Kitty looked up to find Ashe beside her. He said, "Magnificent!"--but it did not matter to her what he said. His face told her that she had moved him, and that he was incapable of any foolish chatter about it. A smile of extraordinary sweetness sprang into her eyes; and when Lady Grosville came up to thank her, the girl impetuously rose, and, in the foreign way, kissed her hand, courtesying. Lord Grosville said, heartily, "Upon my word, Kitty, you ought to go on the stage!" and she smiled upon him, too, in a flutter of feeling, forgetting his scolding and her own impertinence, before dinner. The revulsion, indeed, throughout the company--with two exceptions--was complete. For the rest of the evening Kitty basked in sunshine and flattery. She met it with a joyous gentleness, and the little figure, still bedraped in white, became the centre of the room's kindness. The Dean was triumphant. "My dear Miss Lyster," he said, presently, finding himself near that lady, "did you ever hear anything better done? A most remarkable talent!" Mary smiled. "I am wondering," she said, "what they teach you in French convents--and why! It is all so singular,--isn't it?" * * * * * Late that night Ashe entered his room--before his usual time, however. He had tired even of Lord Grosville's chat, and had left the smoking-room still talking. Indeed, he wished to be alone, and there was that in his veins which told him that a new motive had taken possession of his life. He sat beside the open window reviewing the scenes and feelings of the day--his interview with Kitty in the morning--the teasing coquette of the afternoon--the inspired poetic child of the evening. Rapidly, but none the less strongly and steadfastly, he made up his mind. He would ask Kitty Bristol to marry him, and he would ask her immediately. Why? He scarcely knew her. His mother, his family would think it madness. No doubt it was madness. Yet, as far as he could explain his impulse himself, it depended on certain fundamental facts in his own nature--it was in keeping with his deepest character. He had an inbred love of the difficult, the unconventional in life, of all that piqued and stimulated his own superabundant consciousness of resource and power. And he had a tenderness of feeling, a gift of chivalrous pity, only known to the few, which was in truth always hungrily on the watch, like some starved faculty that cannot find its outlet. The thought of this beautiful child, in the hands of such a mother as Madame d'Estrées, and rushing upon risks illustrated by the half-mocking attentions of Geoffrey Cliffe, did in truth wring his heart. With a strange imaginative clearness he foresaw her future, he beheld her the prey at once of some bad fellow and of her own temperament. She would come to grief; he saw the prescience of it in her already; and what a waste would be there! No!--he would step in--capture her before these ways and whims, now merely bizarre or foolish, stiffened into what might in truth destroy her. His pulse quickened as he thought of the development of this beauty, the ripening of this intelligence. Never yet had he seen a girl whom he much wished to marry. He was easily repelled by stupidity, still more by mere amiability. Some touch of acid, of roughness in the fruit--that drew him, in politics, thought, love. And if she married him he vowed to himself, proudly, that she would find him no tyrant. Many a man might marry her who would then fight her and try to break her. All that was most fastidious and characteristic in Ashe revolted from such a notion. With him she should have _freedom_--whatever it might cost. He asked himself deliberately, whether after marriage he could see her flirting with other men, as she had flirted that day with Cliffe, and still refrain from coercing her. And his question was answered, or rather put aside, first by the confidence of nascent love--he would love her so well and so loyally that she would naturally turn to him for counsel; and then by the clear perception that she was a creature of mind rather than sense, governed mainly by the caprices and curiosities of the _intelligence_, combined with a rather cold, indifferent temperament. One moment throwing herself wildly into a dangerous or exciting intimacy, the next, parting with a laugh, and without a regret--it was thus he saw her in the future, even as a wife. "She may scandalize half the world," he said to himself, stubbornly--"I shall understand her!" But his mother?--his friends?--his colleagues? He knew well his mother's ambitions for him, and the place that he held in her heart. Could he without cruelty impose upon her such a daughter as Kitty Bristol? Well!--his mother had a very large experience of life, and much natural independence of mind. He trusted her to see the promise in this untamed and gifted creature; he counted on the sense of power that Lady Tranmore possessed, and which would but find new scope in the taming of Kitty. But Kitty's mother? Kitty must, of course, be rescued from Madame d'Estrées--must find a new and truer mother in Lady Tranmore. But money would do it; and money must be lavished. Then, almost for the first time, Ashe felt a conscious delight in wealth and birth. _Panache_? He could give it her--the little, wild, lovely thing! Luxury, society, adoration--all should be hers. She should be so loved and cherished, she must needs love in turn. His dreams were delicious; and the sudden fear into which he fell at the end lest after all Kitty should mock and turn from him, was only in truth another pleasure. No delay! Circumstances might develop at any moment and sweep her from him. Now or never must he snatch her from difficulty and disgrace--let hostile tongues wag as they pleased--and make her his. His political future? He knew well the influence which, in these days of universal publicity, a man's private affairs may have on his public career. And in truth his heart was in that career, and the thought of endangering it hurt him. Certainly it would recommend him to nobody that he should marry Madame d'Estrées' daughter. On the other hand, what favor did he want of anybody? save what work and "knowing more than the other fellows" might compel? The cynic in him was well aware that he had already what other men fought for--family, money, and position. Society must accept his wife; and Kitty, once mellowed by happiness and praise, might live, laugh, and rattle as she pleased. As to strangeness and caprice, the modern world delights in them; "the violent take it by force." There is, indeed, a dividing-line; but it was a love-marriage that should keep Kitty on the safe side of it. He stood lost in a very ecstasy of resolve, when suddenly there was a sharp movement outside, and a flash of white among the yew hedges bordering the formal garden on which his windows looked. The night outside was still and veiled, but of the flash of white he was certain--and of a step on the gravel. Something fell beside him, thrown from outside. He picked it up, and found a flower weighted by a stone, tied into a fold of ribbon. "Madcap!" he said to himself, his heart beating to suffocation. Then he stole out of his room, and down a small, winding staircase which led directly to the garden and a door beside the orangery. He had to unbolt the door, and as he did so a dog in one of the basement rooms began to bark. But there could be no flinching, though the whole thing was of an imprudence which pricked his conscience. To slip along the shadowed side of the orangery, to cross the space of clouded light beyond, and gain the darkness of the ilex avenue beyond was soon done. Then he heard a soft laugh, and a little figure fled before him. He followed and overtook. Kitty Bristol turned upon him. "Didn't I throw straight?" she said, triumphantly. "And they say girls can't throw." "But why did you throw at all?" he said, capturing her hand. "Because I wanted to talk to you. And I was restless and couldn't sleep. Why did you never come and talk to me this afternoon? And why"--she beat her foot angrily--"did you let me go and play billiards alone with Mr. Cliffe?" "Let you!" cried Ashe. "As if anybody could have prevented you!" "One sees, of course, that you detest Mr. Cliffe," said the whiteness beside him. "I didn't come here to talk about Geoffrey Cliffe. I _won't_ talk about him! Though, of course, you must know--" "That I flirted with him abominably all the afternoon? _C'est vrai--c'est ab-sol-ument vrai!_ And I shall always want to flirt with him, wherever I am--and whatever I may be doing." "Do as you please," said Ashe, dryly, "but I think you will get tired." "No, no--he excites me! He is bad, false, selfish, but he excites me. He talks to very few women--one can see that. And all the women want to talk to him. He used to admire Miss Lyster, and now he dislikes her. But she doesn't dislike him. No! she would marry him to-morrow if he asked her." "You are very positive," said Ashe. "Allow me to say that I entirely disagree with you." "You don't know anything about her," said the teasing voice. "She is my cousin, mademoiselle." "What does that matter? I know much more than you do, though I have only seen her two days. I know that--well, I am afraid of her!" "Afraid of her? Did you come out--may I ask--determined to talk nonsense?" "I came out--never mind! I _am_ afraid of her. She hates me. I think"--he felt a shiver in the air--will do me harm if she can." "No one shall do you harm," said Ashe, his tone changing, "if you will only trust yourself--" She laughed merrily. "To you? Oh! you'd soon throw it up." "Try me!" he said, approaching her. "Lady Kitty, I have something to say to you." Suddenly she shrank away from him. He could not see her face, and had nothing to guide him. "I haven't yet known you three weeks," he said, over-mastered by something passionate and profound. "I don't know what you will say--whether you can put up with me. But I know my own mind--I shall not change. I--I love you. I ask you to marry me." A silence. The night seemed to have grown darker. Then a small hand seized his, and two soft lips pressed themselves upon it. He tried to capture her, but she evaded him. "You--you really and actually--want to marry me?" "I do, Kitty, with all my heart." "You remember about my mother--about Alice?" "I remember everything. We would face it together." "And--you know what I told you about my bad temper?" "Some nonsense, wasn't it? But I should be bored by the domestic dove. I want the hawk, Kitty, with its quick wings and its daring bright eyes." She broke from him with a cry. "You must listen. I _have_--a wicked, odious, ungovernable temper. I should make you miserable." "Not at all," said Ashe. "I should take it very calmly. I am made that way." "And then--I don't know how to put it--but I have fancies--overpowering fancies--and I must follow them. I have one now for Geoffrey Cliffe." Ashe laughed. "Oh, that won't last." "Then some other will come after it. And I can't help it. It is my head"--she tapped her forehead lightly--"that seems on fire." Ashe at last slipped his arm round her. "But it is your heart--you will give me." She pushed him away from her and held him at arm's-length. "You are very rich, aren't you?" she said, in a muffled voice. "I am well off. I can give you all the pretty things you want." "And some day you will be Lord Tranmore?" "Yes, when my poor father dies," he said, sighing. He felt her fingers caress his hand again. It was a spirit touch, light and tender. "And every one says you are so clever--you have such prospects. Perhaps you will be Prime Minister." "Well, there's no saying," he threw out, laughing--"if you'll come and help." He heard a sob. "Help! I should be the ruin of you. I should spoil everything. You don't know the mischief I can do. And I can't help it, it's in my blood." "You would like the game of politics too much to spoil it, Kitty." His voice broke and lingered on the name. "You would want to be a great lady and lead the party." "Should I? Could you ever teach me how to behave?" "You would learn by nature. Do you know, Kitty, how clever you are?" "Yes," she sighed. "I am clever. But there is always something that hinders--that brings failure." "How old are you?" he said, laughing. "Eighteen--or eighty?" Suddenly he put out his arms, enfolding her. And she, still sobbing, raised her hands, clasped them round his neck, and clung to him like a child. "Oh! I knew--I knew--when I first saw your face. I had been so miserable all day--and then you looked at me--and I wanted to tell you all. Oh, I adore you--I adore you!" Their faces met. Ashe tasted a moment of rapture; and knew himself free at last of the great company of poets and of lovers. They slipped back to the house, and Ashe saw her disappear by a door on the farther side of the orangery--noiselessly, without a sound. Except that just at the last she drew him to her and breathed a sacred whisper in his ear. "Oh! what--what will Lady Tranmore say?" Then she fled. But she left her question behind her, and when the dawn came Ashe found that he had spent half the night in trying anew to frame some sort of an answer to it. PART II THREE YEARS AFTER "The world an ancient murderer is." VII "Her ladyship will be in before six, my lady. I was to be sure and ask you to wait, if you came before, and to tell you that her ladyship had gone to Madame Fanchette about her dress for the ball." So said Lady Kitty's maid. Lady Tranmore hesitated, then said she would wait, and asked that Master Henry might be brought down. The maid went for the child, and Lady Tranmore entered the drawing-room. The Ashes had been settled since their marriage in a house in Hill Street--a house to which Kitty had lost her heart at first sight. It was old and distinguished, covered here and there with eighteenth-century decoration, once, no doubt, a little florid and coarse beside the finer work of the period, but now agreeably blunted and mellowed by time. Kitty had had her impetuous and decided way with the furnishing of it; and, though Lady Tranmore professed to admire it, the result was, in truth, too French and too pagan for her taste. Her own room reflected the rising worship of Morris and Burse-Jones, of which, indeed, she had been an adept from the beginning. Her walls were covered by the well-known pomegranate or jasmine or sunflower patterns; her hangings were of a mystic greenish-blue; her pictures were drawn either from the Italian primitives or their modern followers. Celtic romance, Christian symbolism, all that was touching, other-worldly, and obscure--our late English form, in fact, of the great Romantic reaction--it was amid influences of this kind that Lady Tranmore lived and fed her own imagination. The dim, suggestive, and pathetic; twilight rather than dawn, autumn rather than spring; yearning rather than fulfilment; "the gleam" rather than noon-day: it was in this half-lit, richly colored sphere that she and most of her friends saw the tent of Beauty pitched. But Kitty would have none of it. She quoted French sceptical remarks about the legs and joints of the Burne-Jones knights; she declared that so much pattern made her dizzy; and that the French were the only nation in the world who understood a _salon_, whether as upholstery or conversation. Accordingly, in days when these things were rare, the girl of eighteen made her new husband provide her with white-panelled walls, lightly gilt, and with a Persian carpet of which the mass was of a plain, blackish gray, and only the border was allowed to flower. A few Louis-Quinze girandoles on the walls, a Vernis-Martin screen, an old French clock, two or three inlaid cabinets, and a collection of lightly built chairs and settees in the French mode--this was all she would allow; and while Lady Tranmore's room was always crowded, Kitty's, which was much smaller, had always an air of space. French books were scattered here and there; and only one picture was admitted. That was a Watteau sketch of a group from "L'Embarquement pour Cythère." Kitty adored it; Lady Tranmore thought it absurd and disagreeable. As she entered the room now, on this May afternoon, she looked round it with her usual distaste. On several of the chairs large illustrated books were lying. They contained pictures of seventeenth and eighteenth century costume--one of them displayed a colored engraving of a brilliant Madame de Pompadour, by Boucher. The maid who followed her into the room began to remove the books. "Her ladyship has been choosing her costume, my lady," she explained, as she closed some of the volumes. "Is it settled?" said Lady Tranmore. The maid replied that she believed so, and, bringing a volume which had been laid aside with a mark in it, she opened on a fantastic plate of Madame de Longueville, as Diana, in a gorgeous hunting-dress. Lady Tranmore looked at it in silence; she thought it unseemly, with its bare ankles and sandalled feet, and likely to be extremely expensive. For this Diana of the Fronde sparkled with jewels from top to toe, and Lady Tranmore felt certain that Kitty had already made William promise her the counterpart of the magnificent diamond crescent that shone in the coiffure of the goddess. "It really seemed to be the only one that suited her ladyship," said the maid, in a deprecating voice. "I dare say it will look very well," said Lady Tranmore. "And Fanchette is to make it?" "If her ladyship is not too late," said the maid, smiling. "But she has taken such a long time to make up her mind--" "And Fanchette, of course, is driven to death. All the world seems to have gone mad about this ball." Lady Tranmore shrugged her shoulders in a slight disgust. She was not going. Since her elder son's death she had had no taste for spectacles of the kind. But she knew very well that fashionable London was talking and thinking of nothing else; she heard that the print-room of the British Museum was every day besieged by an eager crowd of fair ladies, claiming the services of the museum officials from dewy morn till eve; that historic costumes and famous jewels were to be lavished on the affair; that those who were not invited had not even the resource of contempt, so unquestioned and indubitable was the prospect of a really magnificent spectacle; and that the dress-makers of Paris and London, if they survived the effort, would reap a marvellous harvest. "And Mr. Ashe--do you know if he is going, after all?" she asked of the maid as the latter was retreating. "Mr. Ashe says he will, if he may wear just court-dress," said the maid, smiling. "Not unless. And her ladyship's afraid it won't be allowed." "She'll make him go in costume," thought Lady Tranmore. "And he will do it, or anything, to avoid a scene." The maid retired, and Lady Tranmore was left alone. As she sat waiting, a thought occurred to her. She rang for the butler. "Where is the _Times_?" she asked, when he appeared. The man replied that it was no doubt in Mr. Ashe's room, and he would bring it. "Kitty has probably not looked at it," thought the visitor. When the paper arrived she turned at once to the Parliamentary report. It contained an important speech by Ashe in the House the night before. Lady Tranmore had been disturbed in the reading of it that morning, and had still a few sentences to finish. She read them with pride, then glanced again at the leading article on the debate, and at the flattering references it contained to the knowledge, courtesy, and debating power of the Under-Secretary for Foreign Affairs. "Mr. Ashe," said the _Times_, "has well earned the promotion he is now sure to receive before long. In those important rearrangements of some of the higher offices which cannot be long delayed, Mr. Ashe is clearly marked out for a place in the cabinet. He is young, but he has already done admirable service; and there can be no question that he has a great future before him." Lady Tranmore put down the paper and fell into a reverie. A great future? Yes--if Kitty permitted--if Kitty could be managed. At present it appeared to William's mother that the caprices of his wife were endangering the whole development of his career. There were wheels within wheels, and the newspapers knew very little about them. Three years, was it, since the marriage? She looked back to her dismay when William brought her the news, though it seemed to her that in some sort she had foreseen it from the moment of his first mention of Kitty Bristol--with its eager appeal to her kindness, and that new and indefinable something in voice and manner which put her at once on the alert. Ought she to have opposed it more strongly? She had, indeed, opposed it; and for a whole wretched week she who had never yet gainsaid him in anything had argued and pleaded with her son, attempting at the same time to bring in his uncles to wrestle with him, seeing that his poor paralyzed father was of no account, and so to make a stubborn family fight of it. But she had been simply disarmed and beaten down by William's sweetness, patience, and good-humor. Never had he been so determined, and never so lovable. It had been made abundantly plain to her that no wife, however exacting and adorable, should ever rob her, his mother, of one tittle of his old affection--nay, that, would she only accept Kitty, only take the little forlorn creature into the shelter of her motherly arms, even a more tender and devoted attention than before, on the part of her son, would be surely hers. He spoke, moreover, the language of sound sense about his proposed bride. That he was in love, passionately in love, was evident; but there were moments when he could discuss Kitty, her family, her bringing-up, her gifts and defects, with the same cool acumen, the same detachment, apparently, he might have given, say, to the Egyptian or the Balkan problem. Lady Tranmore was not invited to bow before a divinity; she was asked to accept a very gifted and lovely child, often troublesome and provoking, but full of a glorious promise which only persons of discernment, like herself and Ashe, could fully realize. He told her, with a laugh, that she could never have behaved even tolerably to a stupid daughter-in-law. Whereas, let London and society and a few years of love and living do their work, and Kitty would make one of the leading women of her time, as Lady Tranmore had been before her. "You'll help her, you'll train her, you'll put her in the way," he had said, kissing his mother's hand. "And you'll see that in the end we shall both of us be so conceited to have had the making of her there'll be no holding us." Well, she had yielded--of course she had yielded. She had explained the matter, so far as she could, to the dazed wits of her paralyzed husband. She had propitiated the family on both sides; she had brought Kitty to stay with her, and had advised on the negotiations which banished Madame d'Estrées from London and the British Isles, in return for a handsome allowance and the payment of her debts; and, finally, she had with difficulty allowed the Grosvilles to provide the trousseau and arrange the marriage from Grosville Park, so eager had she grown in her accepted task. And there had been many hours of high reward. Kitty had thrown herself at first upon William's mother with all the effusion possible. She had been docile, caressing, brilliant. Lady Tranmore had become almost as proud of her gifts, her social effect, and her fast advancing beauty as Ashe himself. Kitty's whims and humors; her passion for this person, and her hatred of that; her love of splendor and indifference to debt; her contempt of opinion and restraint, seemed to her, as to Ashe, the mere crude growth of youth. When she looked at Ashe, so handsome, agreeable, and devoted, at his place and prestige in the world, his high intelligence and his personal attraction, Ashe's mother must needs think that Kitty's mere cleverness would soon reveal to her her extraordinary good-fortune; and that whereas he was now at her feet, she before long would be at his. Three years! Lady Tranmore looked back upon them with feelings that wavered like smoke before a wind. A year of excitement, a year of illness, a year of extravagance, shaken moreover by many strange gusts of temper and caprice, it was so she might have summarized them. First, a most promising début in London. Kitty welcomed on all hands with enthusiasm as Ashe's wife and her own daughter-in-law, fêted to the top of her bent, smiled on at Court, flattered by the country-houses, always exquisitely dressed, smiling and eager, apparently full of ambition for Ashe no less than for herself, a happy, notorious, busy little person, with a touch of wildness that did but give edge to her charm and keep the world talking. Then, the birth of the boy, and Kitty's passionate, ungovernable recoil from the deformity that showed itself almost immediately after his birth--a form of infantile paralysis involving a slight but incurable lameness. Lady Tranmore could recall weeks of remorseful fondling, alternating with weeks of neglect; continued illness and depression on Kitty's part, settling after a while into a petulant melancholy for which the baby's defect seemed but an inadequate cause; Ashe's tender anxiety, his willingness to throw up Parliament, office, everything, that Kitty might travel and recover; and those huge efforts by which she and his best friends in the House had held him back--when Kitty, it seemed, cared little or nothing whether he sacrificed his future or not. Finally, she herself, with the assistance of a new friend of Kitty's, had become Kitty's nurse, had taken her abroad when Ashe could not be spared, had watched over her, and humored her, and at last brought her back--so the doctors said--restored. Was it really recovery? At any rate, Lady Tranmore was often inclined to think that since the return to London--now about a twelvemonth since--both she and William had had to do with a different Kitty. Young as she still was, the first exquisite softness of the expanding life was gone; things harder, stranger, more inexplicable than any which those who knew her best had yet perceived, seemed now and then to come to the surface, like wreckage in a summer sea. * * * * * The opening door disturbed these ponderings. The nurse appeared, carrying the little boy. Lady Tranmore took him on her knee and caressed him. He was a piteous, engaging child, generally very docile, but liable at times to storms of temper out of all proportion to the fragility of his small person. His grandmother was inclined to look upon his passions as something external and inflicted--the entering-in of the Blackwater devil to plague a tiny creature that, normally, was of a divine and clinging sweetness. She would have taught him religion, as his only shield against himself; but neither his father nor his mother was religious; and Harry was likely to grow up a pagan. He leaned now against her breast, and she, whose inmost nature was maternity, delighted in the pressure of the tiny body, crooning songs to him when they were left alone, and pausing now and then to pity and kiss the little shrunken foot that hung beside the other. She was interrupted by a soft entrance and the rustle of a dress. "Ah, Margaret!" she said, looking round and smiling. The girl who had come in approached her, shook hands, and looked down at the baby. She was fair-haired and wore spectacles; her face was round and childish, her eyes round and blue, with certain lines about them, however, which showed that she was no longer in her first youth. "I came to see if I could do anything to-day for Kitty. I know she is very busy about the ball--" "Head over ears apparently," said Lady Tranmore. "Everybody has lost their wits. I see Kitty has chosen her dress." "Yes, if Fanchette can make it all right. Poor Kitty! She has been in such a state of mind. I think I'll go on with these invitations." And, taking off her gloves and hat, Margaret French went to the writing-table like one intimately acquainted with the room and its affairs, took up a pile of cards and envelopes which lay upon it, and, bringing them to Lady Tranmore's side, began to work upon them. "I did about half yesterday," she explained; "but I see Kitty hasn't been able to touch them, and it is really time they were out." "For their party next week?" "Yes. I hope Kitty won't tire herself out. It has been a rush lately." "Does she ever rest?" "Never--as far as I can see. And I am afraid she has been very much worried." "About that silly affair with Prince Stephan?" said Lady Tranmore. Margaret French nodded. "She vows that she meant no harm, and did no harm, and that it has been all malice and exaggeration. But one can see she has been hurt." "Well, if you ask me," said Lady Tranmore, in a low voice, "I think she deserved to be." Their eyes met, the girl's full of a half-smiling, half-soft consideration. Lady Tranmore, on the other hand, had flushed proudly, as though the mere mention of the matter to which she had referred had been galling to her. Kitty, in fact, had just been guilty of an escapade which had set the town talking, and even found its way here and there in the newspapers. The heir to a European monarchy had been recently visiting London. A romantic interest surrounded him; for a lady, not of a rank sufficiently high to mate with his, had lately drowned herself for love of him, and the young man's melancholy good looks, together with the magnificent apathy of his manner, drew after him a chain of gossip. Kitty failed to meet him in society; certain invitations that for once she coveted did not arrive; and in a fit of pique she declared that she would make acquaintance with him in her own way. On a certain occasion, when the Princeling was at the play, his attention was drawn to a small and dazzling creature in a box opposite his own. Presently, however, there was a commotion in this box. The dazzling creature had fainted; and rumor sent round the name of Lady Kitty Ashe. The Prince despatched an equerry to make inquiries, and the inquiries were repeated that evening in Hill Street. Recovery was prompt, and the Prince let it be known that he wished to meet the lady. Invitations from high quarters descended upon Kitty; she bore herself with an engaging carelessness, and the melancholy youth was soon spending far more pains upon her than he had yet been known to spend upon any other English beauties presented to him. Ashe and Kitty's friends laughed; the old general in charge of the Princeling took alarm. And presently Kitty's audacities, alack, carried away her discretion; she began, moreover, to boast of her ruse. Whispers crept round; and the general's ears were open. In a few days Kitty's triumph went the way of all earthly things. At a Court ball, to which her vanity had looked forward, unwarned, the Prince passed her with glassy eyes, returning the barest bow to her smiling courtesy. She betrayed nothing; but somehow the thing got out, and set in motion a perfect hurricane of talk. It was rumored that the old Prime Minister, Lord Parham, had himself said a caustic word to Lady Kitty, that Royalty was annoyed, and that William Ashe had for once scolded his wife seriously. Lady Tranmore was well aware that there was, at any rate, no truth in the last report; but she also knew that there was a tone of sharpness in the London chatter that was new with regard to Kitty. It was as though a certain indulgence was wearing out, and what had been amusement was passing into criticism. She and Margaret French discussed the matter a little, _sotto voce_, while Margaret went on with the invitations and Lady Tranmore made a French toy dance and spin for the babe's amusement. Their tone was one of close and friendly intimacy, an intimacy based clearly upon one common interest--their relation to Kitty. Margaret French was one of those beings in whom, for our salvation, this halting, hurried world of ours is still on the whole rich. She was unmarried, thirty-five, and poor. She lived with her brother, a struggling doctor, and she had come across Kitty in the first months of Kitty's married life, on some fashionable Soldiers' Aid Committee, where Margaret had done the work and Kitty with the other great ladies had reaped the fame. Kitty had developed a fancy for her, and presently could not live without her. But Margaret, though it soon became evident that she had taken Kitty and, in due time, the child--Ashe, too, for the matter of that--deep into her generous heart, preserved a charming measure in the friendship offered her. She would owe Kitty nothing, either socially or financially. When Kitty's smart friends appeared, she vanished. Nobody in her own world ever heard her mention the name of Lady Kitty Ashe, largely as that name was beginning to figure in the gossip of the day. But there were few things concerning the Hill Street ménage that Lady Tranmore could not safely and rightly discuss with her; and even Ashe himself went to her for counsel. "I am afraid this has made things worse than ever with the Parhams," said Lady Tranmore, presently. Margaret shook her head anxiously. "I hope Kitty won't throw over their dinner next week." "She is talking of it!" "Yesterday she had almost made up her mind," said Margaret, reluctantly. "Perhaps you will persuade her. But she has been terribly angry with Lord Parham--and with Lady P., too." "And it was to be a reconciliation dinner, after the old nonsense between her and Lady Parham," sighed Lady Tranmore. "It was planned for Kitty entirely. And she is to act something, isn't she, with that young De La Rivière from the embassy? I believe the Princess is coming--expressly to meet her. I have been hearing of it on all sides. She _can't_ throw it over!" Margaret shrugged her shoulders. "I believe she will." The older lady's face showed a sudden cloud of indignation. "William must really put his foot down," she said, in a low, decided voice. "It is, of course, most important--just now--" She said no more, but Margaret French looked up, and they exchanged glances. "Let's hope," said Margaret, "that Mr. Ashe will be able to pacify her. Ah, there she is." For the front door closed heavily, and instantly the house was aware from top to toe of a flutter of talk and a frou-frou of skirts. Kitty ran up the stairs and into the drawing-room, still talking, apparently, to the footman behind her, and stopped short at the sight of Lady Tranmore and Margaret. A momentary shadow passed across her face; then she came forward all smiles. "Why, they never told me down-stairs!" she said, taking a hand of each caressingly, and slipping into a seat between them. "Have I lost much of you?" "Well, I must soon be off," said Lady Tranmore. "Harry has been entertaining me." "Oh, Harry; is he there?" said Kitty, in another voice, perceiving the child behind his grandmother's dress as he sat on the floor, where Lady Tranmore had just deposited him. The baby turned towards his beautiful mother, and, as he saw her, a little wandering smile began to spread from his uncertain lips to his deep-brown eyes, till his whole face shone, held to hers as to a magnet, in a still enchantment. "Come!" said Kitty, holding out her hands. With difficulty the child pulled himself towards her, moving in sideway fashion along the floor, and dragging the helpless foot after him. Again the shadow crossed Kitty's face. She caught him up, kissed him, and moved to ring the bell. "Shall I take him up-stairs?" said Margaret. "Why, he seems to have only just come down!" said Lady Tranmore. "Must he go?" "He can come down again afterwards," said Kitty. "I want to talk to you. Take him, Margaret." The babe went without a whimper, still following his mother with his eyes. "He looks rather frail," said Lady Tranmore. "I hope you'll soon be sending him to the country, Kitty." "He's very well," said Kitty. Then she took off her hat and looked at the invitations Margaret had been writing. "Heavens, I had forgotten all about them! What an angel is Margaret! I really can't remember these things. They ought to do themselves by clock-work. And now Fanchette and this ball are enough to drive one wild." She lifted her hands to her face and pressed back the masses of fair hair that were tumbling round it, with a gesture of weariness. "Fanchette can make your dress?" "She says she will, but I couldn't make her understand anything I wanted. She is off her head! They all are. By-the-way, did you hear of Madeleine Alcot's. telegram to Worth?" "No." Kitty laughed--a laugh musical but malicious. Mrs. Alcot, married in the same month as herself, had been her companion and rival from the beginning. They called each other "Kitty" and "Madeleine," and saw each other frequently; why, Lady Tranmore could never discover, unless on the principle that it is best to keep your enemy under observation. "She telegraphed to Worth as soon as her invitation arrived, 'Envoyez tout de suite costume Vénus. Réponse.' The answer came at dinner--she had a dinner-party--and she read it aloud: 'Remercîments. Il n'y en a pas.' Isn't it delightful?" "Very neat," said Lady Tranmore, smiling. "When did you invent that? You, I hear, are to be Diana?" Kitty made a gesture of despair. "Ask Fanchette--it depends on her. There is no one but she in London who can do it. Oh, by-the-way, what's Mary going to be? I suppose a Madonna of sorts." "Not at all," said Lady Tranmore, dryly; "she has chosen a Sir Joshua costume I found for her." "A vocation missed," said Kitty, shaking her head. "She ought to have been a 'Vestal Virgin' at least.... Do you know that you look _such_ a duck this afternoon!" The speaker put up two small hands and pulled and patted at the black lace strings of Lady Tranmore's hat, which were tied under the delicately wrinkled white of her very distinguished chin. "This hat suits you so--you are such a _grande dame_ in it. Ah! Je t'adore!" And Kitty softly took the chin aforesaid into her hands, and dropped a kiss on Lady Tranmore's cheek, which reddened a little under the sudden caress. "Don't be a goose, Kitty." But Elizabeth Tranmore stooped forward all the same and returned the kiss heartily. "Now tell me what you're going to wear at the Parhams'." Kitty rose deliberately, went to the bell and rang it. "It must be quite time for tea." "You haven't answered my question, Kitty." "Haven't I?" The butler entered. "Tea, please, Wilson, at once." "Kitty!--" Lady Kitty seated herself defiantly a short distance from her mother-in-law and crossed her hands on her lap. "I am not going to the Parhams'." "Kitty!--what do you mean?" "I am not going to the Parhams'," repeated Kitty, slowly. "They should behave a little more considerately to me if they want to get me to amuse their guests for them." At this moment Margaret French re-entered the room. Lady Tranmore turned to her with a gesture of distress. "Oh, Margaret knows," said Kitty. "I told her yesterday." "The Parhams?" said Margaret. Kitty nodded. Margaret paused, with her hand on the back of Lady Tranmore's chair, and there was a short silence. Then Lady Tranmore began, in a tone that endeavored not to be too serious: "I don't know how you're going to get out of it, my dear. Lady Parham has asked the Princess, first because she wished to come, secondly as an olive-branch to you. She has taken the greatest pains about the dinner; and afterwards there is to be an evening party to hear you, just the right size, and just the right people." "Cela m'est égal," said Kitty, "par-faite-ment égal! I am not going." "What possible excuse can you invent?" "I shall have a cold, the most atrocious cold imaginable. I take to my bed just two hours before it is time to dress. My letter reaches Lady Parham on the stroke of eight." "Kitty, you would be doing a thing perfectly unheard of--most rude--most unkind!" The stiff, slight figure, like a strained wand, did not waver for a moment before the grave indignation of the older woman. "I should for once be paying off a score that has run on too long." "You and Lady Parham had agreed to make friends, and let bygones be bygones." "That was before last week." "Before Lord Parham said--what annoyed you?" Kitty's eyes flamed. "Before Lord Parham humiliated me in public--or tried to." "Dear Kitty, he was annoyed, and said a sharp thing; but he is an old man, and for William's sake, surely, you can forgive it. And Lady Parham had nothing to do with it." "She has not written to me to apologize," said Kitty, with a most venomous calm. "Don't talk about it, mother. It will hurt you, and I am determined. Lady Parham has patronized or snubbed me ever since I married--when she hasn't been setting my best friends against me. She is false, false, _false_!" Kitty struck her hands together with an emphatic gesture. "And Lord Parham said a thing to me last week I shall never forgive. Voilà! Now I mean to have done with it!" "And you choose to forget altogether that Lord Parham is William's political chief--that William's affairs are in a critical state, and everything depends on Lord Parham--that it is not seemly, not possible, that William's wife should publicly slight Lady Parham, and through her the Prime Minister--at this moment of all moments." Lady Tranmore breathed fast. "William will not expect me to put up with insults," said Kitty, also beginning to show emotion. "But can't you see that--just now especially--you ought to think of nothing--_nothing_--but William's future and William's career?" "William will never purchase his career at my expense." "Kitty, dear, listen," cried Lady Tranmore, in despair, and she threw herself into arguments and appeals to which Kitty listened quite unmoved for some twenty minutes. Margaret French, feeling herself an uncomfortable third, tried several times to steal away. In vain. Kitty's peremptory hand retained her. She could not escape, much as she wished it, from the wrestle between the two women--on the one side the mother, noble, already touched with age, full of dignity and protesting affection; on the other the wife, still little more than a child in years, vibrating through all her slender frame with passion and insolence, more beautiful than usual by virtue of the very fire which possessed her--a mænad at bay. Lady Tranmore had just begun to waver in a final despair when the door opened and William Ashe entered. He looked in astonishment at his mother and wife. Then in a flash he understood, and, with an involuntary gesture of fatigue, he turned to go. "William!" cried his mother, hurrying after him, "don't go. Kitty and I were disputing; but it is nothing, dear! Don't go, you look so tired. Can you stay for dinner?" "Well, that was my intention," said Ashe, with a smile, as he allowed himself to be brought back. "But Kitty seems in the clouds." For Kitty had not moved an inch to greet him. She sat in a high-back chair, one foot crossed over the other, one hand supporting her cheek, looking straight before her with shining eyes. Lady Tranmore laid a hand on her shoulder. "We won't talk any more about it now, Kitty, will we?" Kitty's pinched lips opened enough to emit the words: "Perhaps William had better understand--" "Goodness!" cried Ashe. "Is it the Parhams? Send them, Kitty, if you please, to ten thousand _diables_! You won't go to their dinner? Well, don't go! Please yourself--and hang the expense! Come and give me some dinner--there's a dear." He bent over her and kissed her hair. Lady Tranmore began to speak; then, with a mighty effort, restrained herself and began to look for her parasol. Kitty did not move. Lady Tranmore said a muffled good-bye and went. And this time Margaret French insisted on going with her. * * * * * When Ashe returned to the drawing-room, he found his wife still in the same position, very pale and very wild. "I have told your mother, William, what I intend to do about the Parhams." "Very well, dear. Now she knows." "She says it will ruin your career." "Did she? We'll talk about that presently. We have had a nasty scene in the House with the Irishmen, and I'm famished. Go and change, there's a dear. Dinner's just coming in." Kitty went reluctantly. She came down in a white, flowing garment, with a small green wreath in her hair, which, together with the air of a storm which still enwrapped her, made her more mænad-like than ever. Ashe took no notice, gave her a laughing account of what had passed in the House, and ate his dinner. Afterwards, when they were alone, and he was just about to return to the House, she made a swift rush across the dining-room, and caught his coat with both hands. "William, I can't go to that dinner--it would kill me!" "How you repeat yourself, darling!" he said, with a smile. "I suppose you'll give Lady Parham decent notice. What'll you do? Get a doctor's certificate and go away?" Kitty panted. "Not at all. I shall not tell her till an hour before." Ashe whistled. "War? I see. Open war. Very well. Then we shall get to Venice for Easter." Kitty fell back. "What do you mean?" "Very plain, isn't it? But what does it matter? Venice will be delightful, and there are plenty of good men to take my place." "Lord Parham would pass you over?" "Not at all. But I can't work in public with a man whom I must cut in private. It wouldn't amuse me. So if you're decided, Kitty, write to Danieli's for rooms." He lit his cigarette, and went out with a perfect nonchalance and good-temper. * * * * * Kitty was to have gone to a ball. She countermanded her maid's preparations, and sent the maid to bed. In due time all the servants went to bed, the front door being left on the latch as usual for Ashe's late return. About midnight a little figure slipped into the child's nursery. The nurse was fast asleep. Kitty sat beside the child, motionless, for an hour, and when Ashe let himself into the house about two o'clock he heard a little rustle in the hall, and there stood Kitty, waiting for him. "Kitty, what are you about?" he said, in pretended amazement. But in reality he was not astonished at all. His life for months past had been pitched in a key of extravagance and tumult. He had been practically certain that he should find Kitty in the hall. With great tenderness he half led, half carried her up-stairs. She clung to him as passionately as, before dinner, she had repulsed him. When they reached their room, the tired man, dropping with sleep, after a Parliamentary wrestle in which every faculty had been taxed to the utmost, took his wife in his arms; and there Kitty sobbed and talked herself into a peace of complete exhaustion. In this state she was one of the most exquisite of human beings, with words, tone, and gestures of a heavenly softness and languor. The evil spirit went out of her, and she was all ethereal tenderness, sadness, and remorse. For more than two years, scenes like this had, in Ashe's case, melted into final delight and intoxication which more than effaced the memory of what had gone before. Now for several months he had dreaded the issue of the crisis, no less than the crisis itself. It left him unnerved as though some morbid sirocco had passed over him. When Kitty at last had fallen asleep, Ashe stood for some time beside his dressing-room window, looking absently into the cloudy night, too tired even to undress. A gusty northwest wind tore down the street and beat against the windows. The unrest without increased the tension of his mind and body. Like Lady Tranmore, he had, as it were, stepped back from his life, and was looking at it--the last three years of it in particular--as a whole. What was the net result of those years? Where was he? Whither were he and Kitty going? A strange pang shot through him. The mere asking of the question had been as the lifting of the lamp of Psyche. The scene that night in the House of Commons had been for him a scene of conflict; in the main, also, of victory. His virile powers, capacities, and ambitions had been at their height. He had felt the full spell of the English political life, with all its hard fighting joy, the exhilaration which flows from the vastness of the interests on which it turns, and the intricate appeal it makes, in the case of a man like himself, to a hundred inherited aptitudes, tastes, and traditions. And here he stood in the darkness, wondering whether indeed the best of his life were not over--the prey of forebodings as strong and vagrant as the gusts outside. Birds of the night! He forced himself to bed, and slept heavily. When he woke up, the May sun was shining into his room. Kitty, in the freshest of morning dresses, was sitting on his bed like a perching bird, waiting impatiently till his eyes should open and she could ask him his opinion on her dress for the ball. The savor and joy of life returned upon him in a flood. Kitty was the prettiest thing ever seen; he had scored off those Tory fellows the night before; the Parhams' dinner was all right; and life was once more kind, manageable, and full of the most agreeable possibilities. A certain indolent impatience in him recoiled from the mere recollection of the night before. The worry was over; why think of it again? VIII Meanwhile Lady Tranmore had reached home, and after one of those pathetic hours in her husband's room which made the secret and sacred foundation of her daily life, she expected Mary Lyster, who was to dine at Tranmore House before the two ladies presented themselves at a musical party given by the French Ambassadress. Before her guest's arrival, Lady Tranmore wandered about her rooms, unable to rest, unable even to read the evening papers on Ashe's speech, so possessed was she still by her altercation with Kitty, and by the foreboding sense of what it meant. William's future was threatened; and the mother whose whole proud heart had been thrown for years into every successful effort and every upward step of her son, was up in arms. Mary Lyster arrived to the minute. She came in, a tall gliding woman, her hair falling in rippled waves on either side of her face, which in its ample comeliness and placidity reminded the Italianate Lady Tranmore of many faces well known to her in early Siennese or Florentine art. Mary's dress to-night was of a noble red, and the glossy brown of her hair made a harmony both with her dress and with the whiteness of her neck that contented the fastidious eye of her companion. "Polly" was now thirty, in the prime of her good looks. Lady Tranmore's affection for her, which had at one time even included the notion that she might possibly become William Ashe's wife, did not at all interfere with a shrewd understanding of her limitations. But she was daughterless herself; her family feeling was strong; and Mary's society was an old and pleasant habit one could ill have parted with. In her company, moreover, Mary was at her best. Elizabeth Tranmore never discussed her daughter-in-law with her cousin. Loyalty to William forbade it, no less than a strong sense of family dignity. For Mary had spoken once--immediately after the engagement--with energy--nay, with passion; prophesying woe and calamity. Thenceforward it was tacitly agreed between them that all root-and-branch criticism of Kitty and her ways was taboo. Mary was, indeed, on apparently good terms with her cousin's wife. She dined occasionally at the Ashes', and she and Kitty met frequently under the wing of Lady Tranmore. There was no cordiality between them, and Kitty was often sharply or sulkily certain that Mary was to be counted among those hostile forces with which, in some of her moods, the world seemed to her to bristle. But if Mary kept, in truth, a very sharp tongue for many of her intimates on the subject of Kitty, Lady Tranmore at least was determined to know nothing about it. On this particular evening, however, Lady Tranmore's self-control failed her, for the first time in three years. She had not talked five minutes with her guest before she perceived that Mary's mind was, in truth, brimful of gossip--the gossip of many drawing-rooms--as to Kitty's escapade with the Prince, Kitty's relations to Lady Partham, Kitty's parties, and Kitty's whims. The temptation was too great; her own guard broke down. "I hear Kitty is furious with the Parhams," said Mary, as the two ladies sat together after their rapid dinner. It was a rainy night, and the fire to which they had drawn up was welcome. Lady Tranmore shook her head sadly. "I don't know where it is to end," she said, slowly. "Lady Parham told me yesterday--you don't mind my repeating it?"--Mary looked up with a smile--"she was still dreadfully afraid that Kitty would play her some trick about next Friday. She knows that Kitty detests her." "Oh no," said Lady Tranmore, in a vague voice, "Kitty couldn't--impossible!" Mary turned an observant eye upon her companion's conscious and troubled air, and drew conclusions not far from the truth. "And it's all so awkward, isn't it?" she said, with sympathy, "when apparently Lady Parham is as much Prime Minister as he is." For in those days certain great houses and political ladies, though not at the zenith of their power, were still, in their comparative decline, very much to be reckoned with. When Lady Parham talked longer than usual with the French Ambassador, his Austrian and German colleagues wrote anxious despatches to their governments; when a special mission to the East of great importance had to be arranged, nobody imagined that Lord Parham had very much to do with the appointment of the commissioner, who happened to have just engaged himself to Lady Parham's second girl. No young member on the government side, if he wanted office, neglected Lady Parham's invitations, and admission to her more intimate dinners was still almost as much coveted as similar favors had been a generation before in the case of Lady Jersey, or still earlier, in that of Lady Holland. She was a small old woman, with a shrewish face, a waxen complexion, and a brown wig. In spite of short sight, she saw things that escaped most other people; her tongue was rarely at a loss; she was, on the whole, a good friend, though never an unreflecting one; and what she forgave might be safely reckoned as not worth resenting. Elizabeth Tranmore received Mary's remark with reluctant consent. Lady Parham--from the English aristocratic stand-point--was not well-born. She had been the daughter of a fashionable music-master, whose blood was certainly not Christian. And there were many people beside Lady Tranmore who resented her domination. "It will be so perfectly easy when the moment comes to invent some excuse or other for shelving William's claims," sighed Ashe's mother. "Nobody is indispensable, and if that old woman is provoked, she will be capable of any mischief." "What do you want for William?" said Mary, smiling. "He ought, of course, to have the Home Office!" replied Lady Tranmore, with fire. Mary vowed that he would certainly have it. "Kitty is so clever, she will understand how important discretion is, before things go too far." Lady Tranmore made no answer. She gazed into the fire, and Miss Lyster thought her depressed. "Has William ever interfered?" she asked, cautiously. Lady Tranmore hesitated. "Not that I know of," she said, at last. "Nor will he ever--in the sense in which any ordinary husband would interfere." "I know! It is as though he had a kind of superstition about it. Isn't there a fairy story, in which an elf marries a mortal on condition that if he ever ill-treats her, her people will fetch her back to fairyland? One day the husband lost his temper and spoke crossly; instantly there was a crash of thunder and the elf-wife vanished." "I don't remember the story. But it's like that--exactly. He said to me once that he would never have asked her to marry him if he had not been able to make up his mind to let her have her own way--never to coerce her." But having said this, Lady Tranmore repented. It seemed to her she had been betraying William's affairs. She drew her chair back from the fire, and rang to ask if the carriage had arrived. Mary took the hint. She arrayed herself in her cloak, and chatted agreeably about other things till the moment for their departure came. As they drove through the streets, Lady Tranmore stole a glance at her companion. "She is really very handsome," she thought--"much better-looking than she was at twenty. What are the men about, not to marry her?" It was indeed a puzzle. For Mary was increasingly agreeable as the years went on, and had now quite a position of her own in London, as a charming woman without angles or apparent egotisms; one of the initiated besides, whom any dinner-party might be glad to capture. Her relations, near and distant, held so many of the points of vantage in English public life that her word inevitably carried weight. She talked politics, as women of her class must talk them to hold their own; she supported the Church; and she was elegantly charitable, in that popular sense which means that you subscribe to your friends' charities without setting up any of your own. She was rich also--already in possession of a considerable fortune, inherited from her mother, and prospective heiress of at least as much again from her father, old Sir Richard Lyster, whose house in Somersetshire she managed to perfection. In the season she stayed with various friends, or with Lady Tranmore, Sir Richard being now infirm, and preferring the country. There was a younger sister, who was known to have married imprudently, and against her father's wishes, some five or six years before this. Catharine was poor, the wife of a clergyman with young children. Lady Tranmore sometimes wondered whether Mary was quite as good to her as she might be. She herself sent Catharine various presents in the course of the year for the children. --Yes, it was certainly surprising that Mary had not married. Lady Tranmore's thoughts were running on this tack when of a sudden her eyes were caught by the placard of one of the evening papers. "Interview with Mr. Cliffe. Peace assured." So ran one of the lines. "Geoffrey Cliffe home again!" Lady Tranmore's tone betrayed a shade of contemptuous amusement. "We shall have to get on without our daily telegram. Poor London!" If at that moment it had occurred to her to look at her companion, she would have seen a quick reddening of Mary's cheeks. "He has had a great success, though, with his telegrams!" replied Miss Lyster. "I should have thought one couldn't deny that." "Success! Only with the people who don't matter," said Lady Tranmore, with a shrug. "Of what importance is it to anybody that Geoffrey Cliffe should telegraph his doings and his opinions every morning to the English public?" We were in the midst of a disagreement with America. A whirlwind was unloosed, and as it happened Geoffrey Cliffe was riding it. For that gentleman had not succeeded in the designs which were occupying his mind when he had first made Kitty's acquaintance in the Grosvilles' country-house. He had desired an appointment in Egypt; but it had not been given him, and after some angry restlessness at home, he had once more taken up a pilgrim's staff and departed on fresh travels, bound this time for the Pamirs and Thibet. After nearly three years, during which he had never ceased, through the newspapers and periodicals, to keep his opinions and his personality before the public, he had been heard of in China, and as returning home by America. He arrived at San Francisco just as the dispute had broken out, was at once captured by an English paper, and sent to New York, with _carte blanche_. He had risen with alacrity to the situation. Thenceforward for some three weeks, England found a marvellous series of large-print telegrams, signed "Geoffrey Cliffe," awaiting her each morning on her breakfast-table. "'The President and I met this morning'--'The President considers, and I agree with him'--'I told the President'--etc.--'The President this morning signed and sealed a memorable despatch. He said to me afterwards'"--etc. Two diverse effects seemed to have been produced by these proceedings. A certain section of Radical opinion, which likes to see affairs managed _sans cérémonie_, and does not understand what the world wants with diplomatists when journalists are to be had, applauded; the old-fashioned laughed. It was said that Cliffe was going into the House immediately; the young bloods of the party in power enjoyed the prospect, and had already stored up the _ego et Rex meus_ details of his correspondence for future use. "How could a man make such a fool of himself!" continued Lady Tranmore, the malice in her voice expressing not only the old aristocratic dislike of the press, but also the jealousy natural to the mother of an official son. "Well, we shall see," said Mary, after a pause. "I don't quite agree with you, Cousin Elizabeth--indeed, I know there are many people who think that he has certainly done good." Lady Tranmore turned in astonishment. She had expected Mary's assent to her original remark as a matter of course. Mary's old flirtation with Geoffrey Cliffe, and the long breach between them which had followed it, were things well known to her. They had coincided, moreover, with her own dropping of the man whom for various reasons she had come to regard as unscrupulous and unsafe. "Good!" she echoed--"_good_?--with that boasting, and that _fanfaronnade_. Polly!" But Miss Lyster held her ground. "We must allow everybody their own ways of doing things, mustn't we? I am quite sure he has meant well--all through." Lady Tranmore shrugged her shoulders. "Lord Parham told me he had had the most grotesque letters from him!--and meant henceforward to put them in the fire." "Very foolish of Lord Parham," said Mary, promptly. "I should have thought that a Prime Minister would welcome information--from all sides. And of course Mr. Cliffe thinks that the government has been _very_ badly served." Lady Tranmore's wonder broke out. "You don't mean--that--you hear from him?" She turned and looked full at her companion. Mary's color was still raised, but otherwise she betrayed no embarrassment. "Yes, dear Cousin Elizabeth. I have heard from him regularly for the last six months. I have often wished to tell you, but I was afraid you might misunderstand me, and--my courage failed me!" The speaker, smiling, laid her hand on Lady Tranmore's. "The fact is, he wrote to me last autumn from Japan. You remember that poor cousin of mine who died at Tokio? Mr. Cliffe had seen something of him, and he very kindly wrote both to his mother and me afterwards. Then--" "You didn't forgive him!" cried Lady Tranmore. Mary laughed. "Was there anything to forgive? We were both young and foolish. Anyway, he interests me--and his letters are splendid." "Did you ever tell William you were corresponding with him?" "No, indeed! But I want very much to make them understand each other better. Why shouldn't the government make use of him? He doesn't wish at all to be thrown into the arms of the other side. But they treat him so badly--" "My dear Mary! are we governed by the proper people, or are we not?" "It is no good ignoring the press," said Mary, holding herself gracefully erect. "And the Bishop quite agrees with me." Lady Tranmore sank back in her seat. "You discussed it with the Bishop?" It was now some time since Mary had last brought the family Bishop--her cousin, and Lady Tranmore's--to bear upon an argument between them. But Elizabeth knew that his appearance in the conversation invariably meant a _fait accompli_ of some sort. "I read him some of Mr. Cliffe's letters," said Mary, modestly. "He thought them most remarkable." "Even when he mocks at missionaries?" "Oh! but he doesn't mock at them any more. He has learned wisdom--I assure you he has!" Lady Tranmore's patience almost departed, Mary's look was so penetrated with indulgence for the prejudices of a dear but unreasonable relation. But she managed to preserve it. "And you knew he was coming home?" "Oh yes!" said Mary. "I meant to have told you at dinner. But something put it out of my head--Kitty, of course! I shouldn't wonder if he were at the embassy to-night." "Polly! tell me--"--Lady Tranmore gripped Miss Lyster's hand with some force--"are you going to marry him?" "Not that I know of," was the smiling reply. "Don't you think I'm old enough by now to have a man friend?" "And you expect me to be civil to him!" "Well, dear Cousin Elizabeth--you know--you never did break with him, quite." Lady Tranmore, in her bewilderment, reflected that she had certainly meant to complete the process whenever she and Mr. Cliffe should meet again. Aloud she could only say, rather stiffly: "I can't forget that William disapproves of him strongly." "Oh no--excuse me--I don't think he does!" said Mary, quickly. "He said to me, the other day, that he should be very glad to pick his brains when he came home. And then he laughed and said he was a 'deuced clever fellow'--excuse the adjective--and it was a great thing to be 'as free as that chap was'--'without all sorts of boring colleagues and responsibilities.' Wasn't it like William?" Lady Tranmore sighed. "William shouldn't say those things." "Of course, dear, he was only in fun. But I'll lay you a small wager, Cousin Elizabeth, that Kitty will ask Mr. Cliffe to lunch as soon as she knows he is in town." Lady Tranmore turned away. "I dare say. No one can answer for what Kitty will do. But Geoffrey Cliffe has said scandalous things of William." "He won't say them again," said Mary, soothingly. "Besides, William never minds being abused a bit--does he?" "He should mind," said Lady Tranmore, drawing herself up. "In my young days, our enemies were our enemies and our friends our friends. Nowadays nothing seems to matter. You may call a man a scoundrel one day and ask him to dinner the next. We seem to use words in a new sense--and I confess I don't like the change. Well, Mary, I sha'n't, of course, be rude to any friend of yours. But don't expect me to be effusive. And please remember that my acquaintance with Geoffrey Cliffe is older than yours." Mary made a caressing reply, and gave her mind for the rest of the drive to the smoothing of Lady Tranmore's ruffled plumes. But it was not easy. As that lady made her way up the crowded staircase of the French Embassy, her fine face was still absent and a little stern. Mary could only reflect that she had at least got through a first explanation which was bound to be made. Then for a few minutes her mind surrendered itself wholly to the question, "Will he be here?" * * * * * The rooms of the French Embassy were already crowded. An ambassador, short, stout, and somewhat morose, his plain features and snub nose emerging with difficulty from his thick, fair hair, superabundant beard, and mustache--with an elegant and smiling ambassadress, personifying amid the English crowd that Paris from which through every fibre she felt herself a pining exile--received the guests. The scene was ablaze with uniforms, for the Speaker had been giving a dinner, and Royalty was expected. But, as Lady Tranmore perceived at once, very few members of the House of Commons were present. A hot debate on some detail of the naval estimates had been sprung on ministers, and the whips on each side had been peremptorily keeping their forces in hand. "I don't see either William or Kitty," said Mary, after a careful scrutiny not, in truth, directed to the discovery of the Ashes. "No. I suppose William was kept, and Kitty did not care to come alone." Mary said nothing. But she was well aware that Kitty was never restrained from going into society by the mere absence of her husband. Meanwhile Lady Tranmore was lost in secret anxieties as to what might have happened in Hill Street. Had there been a quarrel? Something certainly had gone wrong, or Kitty would be here. "Lady Kitty not arrived?" said a voice, like a macaw's, beside her. Elizabeth turned and shook hands with Lady Parham. That extraordinary woman, followed everywhere by the attentive observation of the crowd, had never asserted herself more sharply in dress, manner, and coiffure than on this particular evening--so it seemed, at least, to Lady Tranmore. Her ample figure was robed in the white satin of a bride, her wrinkled neck disappeared under a weight of jewels, and her bright chestnut wig, to which the diamond tiara was fastened, positively attacked the spectator, so patent was it and unashamed. Unashamed, too, were the bold, tyrannous eyes, the rouge-spots on either cheek, the strength of the jaw, the close-shut ability of the mouth. Elizabeth Tranmore looked at her with a secret passion of dislike. Her English pride of race, no less than the prejudices of her taste and training, could hardly endure the fact that, for William's sake, she must make herself agreeable to Lady Parham. Agreeable, however, she tried to be. Kitty had seemed to her tired in the afternoon, and had, no doubt, gone to bed--so she averred. Lady Parham laughed. "Well, she mustn't be tired the night of my party next week--or the skies will fall. I never took so much trouble before about anything in my life." "No, she must take care," said Lady Tranmore. "Unfortunately, she is not strong, and she does too much." Lady Parham threw her a sharp look. "Not strong? I should have thought Lady Kitty was made on wires. Well, if she fails me, I shall go to bed--with small-pox. There will be nothing else to be done. The Princess has actually put off another engagement to come--she has heard so much of Lady Kitty's reciting. But you'll help me through, won't you?" And the wrinkled face and harsh lips fell into a contortion meant for a confidential smile; while through it all the eyes, wholly independent, studied the face beside her--closely, suspiciously--until the owner of it in her discomfort could almost have repeated aloud the words that were ringing in her mind--"I shall _not_ go to Lady Parham's! My note will reach her on the stroke of eight." "Certainly--I will keep an eye on her!" she said, lightly. "But you know--since her illness--" "Oh no!" said Lady Parham, impatiently, "she is very well--very well indeed. I never saw her look so radiant. By-the-way, did you hear your son's speech the other night? I did not see you in the gallery. A great pity if you missed it. It was admirable." Lady Tranmore replied regretfully that she had not been there, and that she had not been able to have a word with him about it since. "Oh, he knows he did well," said Lady Parham, carelessly. "They all do. Lord Parham was delighted. He could do nothing but talk about it at dinner. He says they were in a very tight place, and Mr. Ashe got them out." Lady Tranmore expressed her gratification with all the dignity she could command, conscious meanwhile that her companion was not listening to a word, absorbed as she was in a hawklike examination of the room through a pair of gold-rimmed eye-glasses. Suddenly the eye-glasses fell with a rattle. "Good Heavens!" cried Lady Parham. "Do you see who that is talking to Mr. Loraine?" Lady Tranmore looked, and at once perceived Geoffrey Cliffe in close conversation with the leader of the Opposition. The lady beside her gave an angry laugh. "If Mr. Cliffe thinks he has done himself any good by these ridiculous telegrams of his, he will find himself mistaken! People are perfectly furious about them." "Naturally," said Lady Tranmore. "Only that it is a pity to take him seriously." "Oh, I don't know. He has his following; unfortunately, some of our own men are inclined to think that Parham should conciliate him. Ignore him, I say. Behave as though he didn't exist. Ah! by-the-way"--the speaker raised herself on tiptoe, and said, in an audacious undertone--"is it true that he may possibly marry your cousin, Miss Lyster?" Lady Tranmore kept a smiling composure. "Is it true that Lord Parham may possibly give him an appointment?" Lady Parham turned away in annoyance. "Is that one of the inventions going about?" "There are so many," said Lady Tranmore. At that moment, however, to her infinite relief, her companion abruptly deserted her. She was free to observe the two distant figures in conversation--Geoffrey Cliffe and Mr. Loraine, the latter a man now verging on old age, white-haired and wrinkled, but breathing still through every feature and every movement the scarcely diminished energy of his magnificent prime. He stood with bent head, listening attentively, but, as Lady Tranmore thought, coldly, to the arguments that Cliffe was pouring out upon him. Once he looked up in a sudden recoil, and there was a flash from an eye famous for its power of majestic or passionate rebuke. Cliffe, however, took no notice, and talked on, Loraine still listening. "Look at them!" said Lady Parham, venomously, in the ear of one of her intimates. "We shall have all this out in the House to-morrow. The Opposition mean to play that man for all he's worth. Mr. Loraine, too--with his puritanical ways! I know what he thinks of Cliffe. He wouldn't _touch_ him in private. But in public--you'll see--he'll swallow him whole--just to annoy Parham. There's your politician." And stiff with the angry virtue of the "ins," denouncing the faction of the "outs," Lady Parham passed on. Elizabeth Tranmore meanwhile turned to look for Mary Lyster. She found her close behind, engaged in a perfunctory conversation, which evidently left her quite free to follow things more exciting. She, too, was watching; and presently it seemed to Lady Tranmore that her eyes met with those of Cliffe. Cliffe paused; abruptly lost the thread of his conversation with Mr. Loraine, and began to make his way through the crowded room. Lady Tranmore watched his progress with some attention. It was the progress, clearly, of a man much in the eye and mouth of the public. Whether the atmosphere surrounding him in these rooms was more hostile or more favorable, Lady Tranmore could not be quite sure. Certainly the women smiled upon him; and his strange face, thinner, browner, more weather-beaten and life-beaten than ever, under its crest of grizzling hair, had the old arrogant and picturesque power, but, as it seemed to her, with something added--something subtler, was it, more romantic than of yore? which arrested the spectator. Had he really been in love with that French woman? Lady Tranmore had heard it rumored that she was dead. It was not towards Mary Lyster, primarily, that he was moving, Elizabeth soon discovered; it was towards herself. She braced herself for the encounter. The greeting was soon over. After she herself had said the appropriate things, Lady Tranmore had time to notice that Mary Lyster, whose turn came next, did not attempt to say them. She looked, indeed, unusually handsome and animated; Lady Tranmore was certain that Cliffe had noticed as much, at his first sight of her. But the remarks she omitted showed how minute and recent was their knowledge of each other's movements. Cliffe himself gave a first impression of high spirits. He declared that London was more agreeable than he had ever known it, and that after his three years' absence nobody looked a day older. Then he inquired after Ashe. Lady Tranmore replied that William was well, but hard-worked; she hoped to persuade him to get a few days abroad at Whitsuntide. Her manner was quiet, without a trace of either discourtesy or effusion. Cliffe began to twist his mustache, a sign she knew well. It meant that he was in truth both irritable and nervous. "You think they'll last till Whitsuntide?" "The government?" she said, smiling. "Certainly--and beyond." "I give them three weeks," said Cliffe, twisting anew, with a vigor that gave her a positive physical sympathy with the tortured mustache. "There will be some papers out to-morrow that will be a bomb-shell." "About America? Oh, they have been blown up so often! You, for instance, have been doing your best--for months." His perfunctory laugh answered the mockery of her charming eyes. "Well--I wish I could make William hear reason." Lady Tranmore held herself stiffly. The Christian name seemed to her an offence. It was true that in old days he and Cliffe had been on those terms. Now--it was a piece of bad taste. "Probably what is reason to you is folly to him," she said, dryly. "No, no!--he _knows_," said Cliffe, with impatience. "The others don't. Parham is more impossible--more crassly, grossly ignorant!" He lifted hands and eyes in protest. "But Ashe, of course, is another matter altogether." "Well, go and see him--go and talk to him!" said Lady Tranmore, still mocking. "There are no lions in the way." "None," said Cliffe. "As a matter of fact, Lady Kitty has asked me to luncheon. But does one find Ashe himself in the middle of the day?" At the mention of her daughter-in-law Elizabeth made an involuntary movement. Mary, standing beside her, turned towards her and smiled. "Not often." The tone was cold. "But you could always find him at the House." And Lady Tranmore moved away. "Is there a quiet corner anywhere?" said Cliffe to Mary. "I have such heaps to tell you." So while some Polish gentleman in the main drawing-room, whose name ended in _ski_, challenged his violin to the impossible, Cliffe and Mary retired from observation into a small room thrown open with the rest of the suite, which was in truth the morning-room of the ambassadress. As soon as they found themselves alone, there was a pause in their conversation; each involuntarily looked at the other. Mary certainly recognized that these years of absence had wrought a noticeable change in the man before her. He had aged. Hard living and hard travelling had left their marks. But, like Lady Tranmore, she also perceived another difference. The eyes bent upon her were indeed, as before, the eyes of a man self-centred, self-absorbed. There was no chivalrous softness in them, no consideration. The man who owned them used them entirely for his own purposes; they betrayed none of that changing instinctive relation towards the human being--any human being--within their range, which makes the charm of so many faces. But they were sadder, more sombre, more restless; they thrilled her more than they had already thrilled her once, in the first moment of her youth. What was he going to say? From the moment of his first letter to her from Japan, Mary had perfectly understood that he had some fresh purpose in his mind. She was not anxious, however, to precipitate the moment of explanation. She was no longer the young girl whose equilibrium is upset by the mere approach of the man who interests her. Moreover, there was a past between herself and Cliffe, the memory of which might indeed point her to caution. Did he now, after all, want to marry her--because she was rich, and he was comparatively poor, and could only secure an English career at the cost of a well-stored wife? Well, all that should be thought over; by herself no less than by him. Meanwhile her vanity glowed within her, as she thus held him there, alone, to the discomfiture of other women more beautiful and more highly placed than herself; as she remembered his letters in her desk at home; and the secrets she imagined him to have told her. Then again she felt a rush of sudden disquiet, caused by this new aspect--wavering and remote--as though some hidden grief emerged and vanished. He had the haggard air of a man who scarcely sleeps. All that she had ever heard of the French affair rushed through her mind, stirring there an angry curiosity. These impressions took, however, but a few minutes, while they exchanged some conventionalities. Then Cliffe said, scrutinizing the face and form beside him with that intentness which, from him, was more generally taken as compliment than offence: "Will you excuse the remark? There are no women who keep their first freshness like Englishwomen." "Thank you. If we feel fresh, I suppose we look it. As for you, you clearly want a rest." "No time to think of it, then; I have come home to fight--all I know; to make myself as odious as possible." Mary laughed. "You have been doing that so long. Why not try the opposite?" Cliffe looked at her sharply. "You think I have made a failure of it?" "Not at all. You have made everybody furiously uncomfortable, and you see how civil even the Radical papers are to you." "Yes. What fools!" said Cliffe, shortly. "They'll soon leave that off. Just now I'm a stick to beat the government with. But you don't believe I shall carry my point?" The point concerned a particular detail in a pending negotiation with the United States. Cliffe had been denouncing the government for what he conceived to be their coming retreat before American demands. America, according to him, had been playing the bully; and English interests were being betrayed. Mary considered. "I think you will have to change your tactics." "Dictate them, then." He bent forward, with that sudden change of manner, that courteous sweetness of tone and gesture, which few women could resist. Mary's heart, seasoned though it were, felt a charming flutter. She talked, and she talked well. She had no independence of mind, and very little real knowledge; but she had an excellent reporter's ability; she knew what to remember, and how to tell it. Cliffe listened to her attentively, acknowledging to himself the while that she had certainly gained. She was a far more definite personality than she had been when he last knew her; and her self-possession, her trained manner, rested him. Thank Heaven, she was not a clever woman--how he detested the breed! But she was a useful one. And the smiling commonplace into which she fell so often was positively welcome to him. He had known what it was to court a woman who was more than his equal both in mind and passion; and it had left him bitter and broken. "Well, all this is most illuminating," he said at last. "I owe you immense thanks." And he put out a pair of hands, thin, brown, and weather-stained as his face, and pressed one of hers. "We're very old friends, aren't we?" "Are we?" said Mary, drawing back. "So far as any one can be the friend of a chap like me," he said, hastily. "Tell me, are you with Lady Tranmore?" "No. I go to her in a few days--till I leave London." "Don't go away," he said, suddenly and insistently. "Don't go away." Mary could not help a slight wavering in the eyes that perforce met his. Then he said, abruptly, as she rose: "By-the-way, they tell me Ashe is a great man." She caught the note of incredulous contempt in his voice and laughed. "They say he'll be in the cabinet directly." "And Lady Kitty, I understand, is a scandal to gods and men, and the most fashionable person in town?" "Oh, not now," said Mary. "That was last year." "You mean people are tired of her?" "Well, after a time, you know, a naughty child--" "Becomes a bore. Is she a bore? I doubt; I very much doubt." "Go and see," said Mary. "When do you lunch there?" "I think to-morrow. Shall I find you?" "Oh no. I am not at all intimate with Lady Kitty." Cliffe's slight smile, as he followed her into the large drawing-room, died under his mustache. He divined at once the relation between the two, or thought he did. As for Mary, she caught her last sight of Cliffe, standing bareheaded on the steps of the embassy, his lean distinction, his ugly good looks marking him out from the men around him. Then, as they drove away she was glad that the darkness hid her from Lady Tranmore. For suddenly she could not smile. She was filled with the perception that if Geoffrey Cliffe did not now ask her to marry him, life would utterly lose its savor, its carefully cherished and augmented savor, and youth would abandon her. At the same time she realized that she would have to make a fight of it, with every weapon she could muster. IX "Wasn't I expected?" said Darrell, with a chilly smile. "Oh yes, sir--yes, sir!" said the Ashes' butler, as he looked distractedly round the drawing-room. "I believe her ladyship will be in directly. Will you kindly take a seat?" The man's air of resignation convinced Darrell that Lady Kitty had probably gone out without any orders to her servants, and had now forgotten all about her luncheon-party--a state of things to which the Hill Street household was, no doubt, well accustomed. "I shall claim some lunch," he thought to himself, "whatever happens. These young people want keeping in their place. Ah!" For he had observed, placed on a small easel, the print of Madame de Longueville in costume, and he put up his eye-glass to look at it. He guessed at once that its appearance there was connected with the fancy ball which was now filling London with its fame, and he examined it with some closeness. "Lady Kitty will make a stir in it--no doubt of that!" he said to himself, as he turned away. "She has the keenest _flair_ of them all for what produces an effect. None of the others can touch her--Mrs. Alcot--none of them!" He was thinking of the other members of a certain group, at that time well known in London society--a group characterized chiefly by the beauty, extravagance, and audacity of the women belonging to it. It was by no means a group of mere fashionables. It contained a large amount of ability and accomplishment; some men of aristocratic family, who were also men of high character, with great futures before them; some persons from the literary or artistic world, who possessed, besides their literary or artistic gifts, a certain art of agreeable living, and some few others--especially young girls--admitted generally for some peculiar quality of beauty or manner outside the ordinary canons. Money was really presupposed by the group as a group. The life they belonged to was a life of the rich, the houses they met in were rich houses. But money as such had no power whatever to buy admission to their ranks; and the members of the group were at least as impatient of the claims of mere wealth as they were of those of mere virtue. On the whole the group was an element of ferment and growth in the society that had produced it. Its impatience of convention and restraint, the exaltation of intellectual or artistic power which prevailed in it, and even the angry opposition excited by its pretensions and its exclusiveness, were all, perhaps, rather profitable than harmful at that moment of our social history. Old customs were much shaken; the new were shaping themselves, and this daring coterie of young and brilliant people, living in one another's houses, calling one another by their Christian names, setting a number of social rules at defiance, discussing books, making the fame of artists, and, now and then, influencing politics, were certainly helping to bring the new world to birth. Their foes called them "The Archangels," and they themselves had accepted the name with complacency. Kitty, of course, was an Archangel, so was Mrs. Alcot. Cliffe had belonged to them before his travels began. Louis Harman was more or less of their tribe, and Lady Tranmore, though not herself an Archangel, entertained the set in London and in the country. Like various older women connected with the group, she was not of them, but she "harbored" them. Darrell was well aware that he did not belong to them, though personally he was acquainted with almost all the members of the group. He was not completely indifferent to his exclusion; and this fact annoyed him more than the exclusion itself. He had scarcely finished his inspection of the print when the door again opened and Geoffrey Cliffe entered. Darrell had not yet seen him since his return and since his attack on the government had made him the hero of the hour. Of the newspaper success Darrell was no less jealous and contemptuous than Lady Tranmore, though for quite other reasons. But he knew better than she the intellectual quality of the man, and his disdain for the journalist was tempered by his considerable though reluctant respect for the man of letters. They greeted each other coolly, while Cliffe, not seeing his hostess, looked round him with annoyance. "Well, we shall probably entertain each other," said Darrell, as they sat down. "Lady Kitty often forgets her engagements." "Does she?" said Cliffe, coldly, pretending to glance through a book beside him. It touched his vanity that his hostess was not present, and still more that Darrell should suppose him a person to be forgotten. Darrell, however, who had no mind for any discomfort that might be avoided, made a few dexterous advances, Cliffe's brow relaxed, and they were soon in conversation. The position of the ministry naturally presented itself as a topic. Two or three retirements were impending, the whole position was precarious. Would the cabinet be reconstructed without a dissolution, or must there be an appeal to the country? Cliffe was passionately in favor of the latter course. The party fortunes could not possibly be retrieved without a general shuffling of the cards, and an opportunity for some wholly fresh combination involving new blood. "In any case," said Cliffe, "I suppose our friend here is sure of one or other of the big posts?" "William Ashe? Oh, I suppose so, unless some intrigue gets in the way." Darrell dropped his voice. "Parham doesn't, in truth, hit it off with him very well. Ashe is too clever, and Parham doesn't understand his paradoxes." "Also I gather," said Cliffe, with a smile, "that Lady Parham has her say?" Darrell shrugged his shoulders. "It sounds incredible that one should still have to reckon with that kind of thing at this time of day. But I dare say it's true." "However, I imagine Lady Kitty--by-the-way, how much longer shall we give her?"--Cliffe looked at his watch with a frown--"may be trusted to take care of that." Darrell merely raised his eyebrows, without replying. "What, not a match for one Lady Parham?" said Cliffe, with a laugh. "I should have thought--from my old recollections of her--she would have been a match for twenty?" "Oh, if she cared to try." "She is not ambitious?" "Certainly; but not always for the same thing." "She is trying to run too many horses abreast?" "Oh, I am not a great friend," said Darrell, smiling. "I should never dream of analyzing Lady Kitty. Ah!"--he turned his head--"are we not forgotten, or just remembered--which?" For a rapid step approached, the door opened, and a lady appeared on the threshold. It was not Kitty, however. The new-comer advanced, putting up a pair of fashionable eye-glasses, and looking at the two men in a kind of languid perplexity, intended, as Darrell immediately said to himself, merely to prolong the moment and the effect of her entry. Mrs. Alcot was very tall, and inordinately thin. Her dark head on its slim throat, the poetic lines of the brow, her half-shut eyes, the gleam of her white teeth, and all the delicate detail of her dress, and, one might even say, of her manner, gave an impression of beauty, though she was not, in truth, beautiful. But she had grace and she had daring--the two essential qualities of an Archangel; she was also a remarkable artist, and no small critic. "Mr. Cliffe," she said, with a start of what was evidently agreeable surprise, "Kitty never told me. When did you come?" "I arrived a few days ago. Why weren't you at the embassy last night?" "Because I was much better employed. I have given up crushes. But I would have come--to meet you. Ah, Mr. Darrell!" she added, in another tone, holding out an indifferent hand. "Where is Kitty?" She looked round her. "Shall we order lunch?" said Darrell, who had given her a greeting as careless as her own. "Kitty is really too bad; she is never less than an hour late," said Mrs. Alcot, seating herself. "Last time she dined with us I asked her for seven-thirty. She thought something very special must be happening, and arrived--breathless--at half-past eight. Then she was furious with me because she was not the last. But one can't do it twice. Well"--addressing herself to Cliffe--"are you come home to stay?" "That depends," said Cliffe, "on whether England makes itself agreeable to me." "What are your deserts? Why should England be agreeable to you?" she replied, with a smiling sharpness. "You do nothing but croak about England." Thus challenged, Cliffe sat down beside her and they fell into a bantering conversation. Darrell, though inwardly wounded by the small trouble they took to include him, let nothing appear, put in a word now and then, or turned over the pages of the illustrated books. After five minutes a fresh guest arrived. In walked the little Dean, Dr. Winston, who had originally made acquaintance with Lady Kitty at Grosville Park. He came in overflowing with spirits and enthusiasm. He had been spending the morning in Westminster Abbey with another Dean more famous though not more charming than himself, and with yet another congenial spirit, one of the younger historians, all of them passionate lovers of the rich human detail of the past, the actual men and women, kings, queens, bishops, executioners, and all the shreds and tatters that remained of them. Together they had opened a royal tomb, and the Dean's eyes were sparkling as though the ghost of the queen whose ashes he had been handling still walked and talked with him. He passed in his light, disinterested way through most sections of English society, though the slave of none; and he greeted Darrell and Mrs. Alcot as acquaintances. Mrs. Alcot introduced Cliffe to him, and the small Dean bowed rather stiffly. He was a supporter of the government, and he thought Cliffe's campaign against them vulgar and unfair. "Is there no hope of Lady Kitty?" he said to Mrs. Alcot. "Not much. Shall we go down to lunch?" "Without our hostess?" The Dean opened his eyes. "Oh, Kitty expects it," said Mrs. Alcot, with affected resignation, "and the servants are quite prepared. Kitty asks everybody to lunch--then somebody asks her--and she forgets. It's quite simple." "Quite," said Cliffe, buttoning up his coat, "but I think I shall go to the club." He was looking for his hat, when again there was a commotion on the stairs--a high voice giving orders--and in burst Kitty. She stood still as soon as she saw her guests, talking so fast and pouring out such a flood of excuses that no one could get in a word. Then she flew to each guest in turn, taking them by both hands--Darrell only excepted--and showing herself so penitent, amusing, and charming that everybody was propitiated. It was Fanchette, of course--Fanchette the criminal, the incomparable. Her dress for the ball. Kitty raised eyes and hands to heaven--it would be a marvel, a miracle. Unless, indeed, she were lying cold and quiet in her little grave before the time came to wear it. But Fanchette's tempers--Fanchette's caprices--no! Kitty began to mimic the great dressmaker torn to pieces by the crowd of fashionable ladies, stopping abruptly in the middle to say to Cliffe: "You were going away? I saw you take up your hat." "I despaired of my hostess," said Cliffe, with a smile. Then as he perceived that Mrs. Alcot had taken up the theme and was holding the others in play, he added in a lower voice, "and I was in no mood for second-best." Kitty's eyes twinkled a moment as she turned them on Madeleine Alcot. "Ah, _I_ remember--at Grosville Park--what a bad temper you had. You would have gone away furious." "With disappointment--yes," said Cliffe, as he looked at her with an admiration he scarcely endeavored to conceal. Kitty was in black, but a large hat of white tulle, in the most extravagant fashion of the day, made a frame for her hair and eyes, and increased the general lightness and fantasy of her appearance. Cliffe tried to recall her as he had first seen her at Grosville Park, but his recollection of the young girl could not hold its own against the brilliant and emphatic reality before him. At luncheon it chafed him that he must divide her with the Dean. Yet she was charming with the old man, who chatted history, art, and Paris to her, with a delightful innocence and ignorance of all that made Lady Kitty Ashe the talk of the town, and an old-fashioned deference besides, that insensibly curbed her manner and her phrases as she answered him. Yet when the Dean left her free she returned to Cliffe, as though in some sort they two had really been talking all the time, through all the apparent conversation with other people. "I have read all your telegrams," she said. "Why did you attack William so fiercely?" Cliffe was taken by surprise, but he felt no embarrassment--her tone was not that of the wife in arms. "I attacked the official--not the man. William knows that." "He is coming in to-day if possible. He wanted to see you." "Good news! William knows that he would have hit just as hard in my place." "I don't think he would," said Kitty, calmly. "He is so generous." The color rushed to Cliffe's face. "Well scored! I wish I had a wife to play these strokes for me. I shall argue that a keen politician has no right to be generous. He is at war." Kitty took no notice. She leaned her little chin on her hand, and her eyes perused the face of her companion. "Where have you been--all the time--before America?" "In the deserts--fighting devils," said Cliffe, after a moment. "What does that mean?" she asked, wondering. "Read my new book. That will tell you about the deserts." "And the devils?" "Ah, I keep them to myself." "Do you?" she said, softly. "I have just read your poems over again." Cliffe gave a slight start, then looked indifferent. "Have you? But they were written three years ago. Dieu merci, one finds new devils like new acquaintances." She shook her head. "What do you mean?" he asked her, half amused, half arrested. "They are always the old," she said, in a low voice. Their eyes met. In hers was the same veiled, restless melancholy as in his own. Together with the dazzling air of youth that surrounded her, the cherished, flattered, luxurious existence that she and her house suggested, they made a strange impression upon him. "Does she mean me to understand that she is not happy?" he thought to himself. But the next moment she was engaged in a merry chatter with the Dean, and all trace of the mood she had thus momentarily shown him had vanished. Half-way through the luncheon, Ashe came in. He appeared, fresh and smiling, irreproachably dressed, and showing no trace whatever of the hard morning of official work he had just passed through, nor of the many embarrassments which, as every one knew, were weighing on the Foreign Office. The Dean, with his keen sense for the dramatic, watched the meeting between him and Cliffe with some closeness, having in mind the almost personal duel between the two men--a duel of letters, telegrams, or speeches, which had been lately carried on in the sight of Europe and America. For Ashe now represented the Foreign Office in the House of Commons, and had been much badgered by the Tory extremists who followed Cliffe. Naturally, being Englishmen, they met as though nothing had happened and they had parted the day before in Pall Mall. A "Hullo, Ashe!" and "Hullo, Cliffe! glad to see you back again," completed the matter. The Dean enjoyed it as a specimen of English "phlegm," recalling with amusement his last visit to the Paris of the Second Empire--Paris torn between government and opposition, the _salons_ of the one divided from the _salons_ of the other by a sulphurous gulf, unless when some Lazarus of the moment, some well-known novelist or poet, cradled in the Abraham's bosom of Liberalism, passed amid shrieks of triumph or howls of treason into the official inferno. Not that there was any avoiding of topics in this English case. Ashe had no sooner slipped into his seat than he began to banter Cliffe upon a letter of a supporter which had appeared in that morning's _Times_. It was written by Lord S., who had played the part of public "fool" for half a generation. To be praised by him was disaster, and Cliffe's flush showed at once that the letter had caused him acute annoyance. He and Ashe fell upon the writer, vying with each other in anecdotes that left him presently close-plucked and bare. "That's all very well," said Kitty, amid the laughter which greeted the last tale, "but he never told _you_ how he proposed to the second Lady S." And lifting a red strawberry, which she held poised against her red, laughing lips, she waited a moment--looking round her. "Go on, Kitty," said Ashe, approvingly; "go on." Thus permitted, Kitty gave one of the little "scenes," arranged from some experience of her own, which were very famous among her intimates. Ashe called them her "parlor tricks," and was never tired of making her exhibit them. And now, just as at Grosville Park, she held her audience. She spoke without a halt, her small features answering perfectly to every impulse of her talent, each touch of character or dialogue as telling as a malicious sense of comedy could make it; arms, hands, shoulders all aiding in the final result--a table swept by a very storm of laughter, in the midst of which Kitty quietly finished her strawberry. "Well done, Kitty!" Ashe, who sat opposite to her, stretched his hand across, and patted hers. "Does she love him?" Cliffe asked himself, and could not make up his mind, closely as he tried to observe their relations. He was more and more conscious of the exciting effect she produced on himself, doubly so, indeed, because of that sudden stroke of melancholy wherewith--like a Rembrandt shadow, she had thrown into relief the gayety and frivolity of her ordinary mood. The stimulus, whatever it was, played upon his vanity. He, too, sought an opening and found it. Soon it was he who was monopolizing the conversation with an account of two days spent with Bismarck in a Prussian country-house, during the triumphant days of the winter which followed on Sadowa. The story was brilliantly told, and of some political importance. But it was disfigured by arrogance and affectation, and Ashe's eyes began to dance a little. Cliffe meanwhile could not forget that he was in the presence of a rival and an official, could not refrain after a while from a note of challenge here and there. The conversation diverged from the tale into matters of current foreign politics. Ashe, lounging and smoking, at first knew nothing, had heard of nothing, as usual. Then a comment or correction dropped out; Cliffe repeated himself vehemently--only to provoke another. Presently, no one knew how, the two men were measured against each other _corps à corps_--the wide knowledge and trained experience of the minister against the originality, the force, the fantastic imagination of the writer. The Dean watched it with delight. He was very fond of Ashe, and liked to see him getting the better of "the newspaper fellow." Kitty's lovely brown eyes travelled from one to the other. Now it seemed to the Dean that she was proud of Ashe, now that she sympathized with Cliffe. Soon, however, like the god at Philippi, she swept upon the poet and bore him from the field. "Not a word more politics!" she said, peremptorily, to Ashe, holding up her hand. "_I_ want to talk to Mr. Cliffe about the ball." Cliffe was not very ready to obey. He had an angry sense of having been somehow shown to disadvantage, and would like to have challenged his host again. But Kitty poured balm into his wounds. She drew him apart a little, using the play of her beautiful eyes for him only, and talking to him in a new voice of deference. "You're going, of course? Lady M. told me the other day she _must_ have you." Cliffe, still a little morose, replied that his invitation had been waiting for him at his London rooms. He gave the information carelessly, as though it did not matter to him a straw. In reality, as soon as, while still in America, he had seen the announcement of the ball in one of the New York papers, he had written at once to the Marchioness who was to give it--an old acquaintance of his--practically demanding an invitation. It had been sent indeed with alacrity, and without waiting for its arrival Cliffe had ordered his dress in Paris. Kitty inquired what it was to be. "I told my man to copy a portrait of Alva." "Ah, that's right," said Kitty, nodding--"that's right. Only it would have been better if it had been Torquemada." Rather nettled, Cliffe asked what there might be about him that so forcibly suggested the Grand Inquisitor. Kitty, cigarette in hand, with half-shut eyes, did not answer immediately. She seemed to be perusing his face with difficulty. "Strength, I suppose," she said at last, slowly. Cliffe waited, then burst into a laugh. "And cruelty?" She nodded. "Who are my victims?" She said nothing. "Whose tales have you been listening to, Lady Kitty?" She mentioned the name of a French lady. Cliffe changed countenance. "Ah, well, if you have been talking to her," he said, haughtily, "you may well expect to see me appear as Diabolus in person." "No. But it's since then that I've read the poems again. You see, you tell the public so much--" "That you think you have the right to guess the rest?" He paused, then added, with impatience, "Don't guess, Lady Kitty. You have everything that life can give you. Let my secrets alone." There was silence. Kitty looking round her saw that Madeleine Alcot was entertaining her other guests, and that she and Cliffe were unobserved. Suddenly Cliffe bent towards her, and said, with roughness, his face struggling to conceal the feeling behind it: "You heard--and you believed--that I tormented her--that I killed her?" The anguish in his eyes seemed to strike a certain answering fire from Kitty's. "Yes, but--" "But what?" "I didn't think it very strange--" Cliffe watched her closely. "--that a man should be--an inhuman beast--if he were jealous--and desperate. You can sympathize with these things?" She drew a long breath, and threw away the cigarette she had been holding suspended in her small fingers. "I don't know anything about them." "Because," he hesitated, "your own life has been so happy?" She evaded him. "Don't you think that jealousy will soon be as dead as--saying your prayers and going to church? I never meet anybody that cares enough--to be jealous." She spoke first with passionate force, then with contempt, glancing across the room at Madeleine Alcot. Cliffe saw the look, and remembered that Mrs. Alcot's husband, a distinguished treasury official, had been for years the intimate friend of a very noble and beautiful woman, herself unhappily married. There was no scandal in the matter, though much talk. Mrs. Alcot meanwhile had her own affairs; her husband and she were apparently on friendly terms; only neither ever spoke of the other; and their relations remained a mystery. Cliffe bent over to Kitty. "And yet you said you could understand?--such things didn't seem strange to you." She gave a little, reckless laugh. "Did I? It's like the people who think they could act or sing, if they only had the chance. I choose to think I could feel. And of course I couldn't. We've lost the power. All the old, horrible, splendid things are dead and done with." "The old passions, you mean?" "And the old poems! _You'll_ never write like that again." "God forbid!" said Cliffe, under his breath. Then as Kitty rose he followed her with his eyes. "Lady Kitty, you've thrown me a challenge that you hardly understand. Some day I must answer it." "Don't answer it," said Kitty, hastily. "Yes, if I can drag the words out," he said, sombrely. She met his look in a kind of fascination, excited by the memory of the story which had been told her, by her own audacity in speaking of it, by the presence of the dead passion she divined lying shrouded and ghastly in the mind of the man beside her. Even the ugly things of which he was accused did but add to the interest of his personality for a nature like hers, greedy of experience, and discontented with the real. While he on his side was nattered and astonished by her attitude towards him, as Ashe's wife, she would surely dislike and try to trample on him. That was what he had expected. * * * * * "I hear you are an Archangel, Lady Kitty," said the Dean, who, having obstinately outstayed all the other guests, had now settled his small person and his thin legs into a chair beside his hostess with a view to five agreeable minutes. He was the most harmless of social epicures, was the Dean, and he felt that Lady Kitty had defrauded him at lunch in favor of that great, ruffling, Byronic fellow Cliffe, who ought to have better taste than to come lunching with the Ashes. "Am I?" said Kitty, who had thrown herself into the corner of a sofa, and sat curled up there in an attitude which the Dean thought charming, though it would not, he was aware, "have become Mrs. Winston. "Well, you know best," said the Dean. "But, at any rate, be good and explain to me what is an Archangel." "Somebody whom most men and all women dislike," said Kitty, promptly. "Yet they seem to be numerous," remarked the Dean. "Not at all!" cried Kitty, with an air of offence; "not at all! If they were numerous they would, of course, be popular." "And in fact they are rare--and detested? What other characteristics have they?" "Courage," said Kitty, looking up. "Courage to break rules? I hear they all call one another by their Christian names, and live in one another's rooms, and borrow one another's money, and despise conventionalities. I am sorry you are an Archangel, Lady Kitty." "I didn't admit that I was," said Kitty, "but if I am, why are you sorry?" "Because," said the Dean, smiling, "I thought you were too clever to despise conventionalities." Kitty sat up with revived energy, and joined battle. She flew into a tirade as to the dulness and routine of English life, the stupidity of good people, and the tyranny of English hypocrisy. The Dean listened with amusement, then with a shade of something else. At last he got up to go. "Well, you know, we have heard all that before. My point of view is so much more interesting--subtle--romantic! Anybody can attack Mrs. Grundy, but only a person of originality can adore her. Try it, Lady Kitty. It would be really worth your while." Kitty mocked and exclaimed. "Do you know what that phrase--that name of abomination--always recalls to me?" pursued the old man. "It bores me, even to guess," was Kitty's petulant reply. "Does it? I think of some of the noblest people I have ever known--brave men--beautiful women--who fought Mrs. Grundy, and perished." The Dean stood looking down upon her, with an eager, sensitive expression. Tales that he had heeded very little when he had first heard them ran through his mind; he had thought Lady Kitty's intimate _tête-à-tête_ with her husband's assailant in the press disagreeable and unseemly; and as for Mrs. Alcot, he had disliked her particularly. Kitty looked up unquelled. "''Tis better to have fought and lost Than never to have fought at all--'" she quoted, with one of her most radiant and provoking smiles. "Incorrigible!" cried the Dean, catching up his hat. "I see! Once an Archangel--always an Archangel." "Oh no!" said Kitty. "There may be 'war in heaven.'" "Well, don't take Mrs. Alcot for a leader, that's all," said the Dean, as he held out a hand of farewell. "And now I understand!" cried Kitty, triumphantly. "You detest my best friend." The Dean laughed, protested, and went. Ashe, who had been writing letters while Kitty and the Dean were talking, escorted the old man to the door. * * * * * When he returned he found Kitty sitting with her hands in her lap, lost apparently in thought. "Darling," he said, looking at his watch, "I must be off directly, but I should like to see the boy." Kitty started. She rang, and the child was brought down. He sat on Kitty's knee, and Ashe coming to the sofa, threw an arm round them both. "You are not a bad-looking pair," he said, kissing first Kitty and then the baby. "But he's rather pale, Kitty. I think he wants the country." Kitty said nothing, but she lifted the little white embroidered frock and looked at the twisted foot. Then Ashe felt her shudder. "Dear, don't be morbid!" he cried, resentfully. "He will have so much brains that nobody will remember that. Think of Byron." Kitty did not seem to have heard. "I remember so well when I first saw his foot--after your mother told me--and they brought him to me," she said, slowly. "It seemed to me it was the end--" "The end of what?" "Of my dream." "What _do_ you mean, Kitty!" "Do you remember the mask in the 'Tempest'? First Iris, with saffron wings, and rich Ceres, and great Juno--" She half closed her eyes. "Then the nymphs and the reapers--dancing together on 'the short-grassed green,' the sweetest, gayest show--" She breathed the words out softly. "Then, suddenly--" She sat up stiffly and struck her small hands together: "Prospero starts and speaks. And in a moment--without warning--with 'a strange, hollow, and confused noise'"--she dragged the words drearily--"_they heavily vanish_. That"--she pointed, shuddering, to the child's foot--"was for me the sign of Prospero." Ashe looked at her with anxiety, finding it indeed impossible to laugh at her. She was very pale, her breath came with difficulty, and she trembled from head to foot. He tried to draw her into his arms, but she held him away. "That first year I had been so happy," she continued, in the same voice. "Everything was so perfect, so glorious. Life was like a great pageant, in a palace. All the old terrors went. I often had fears as a child--fears I couldn't put into words, but that overshadowed me. Then when I saw Alice--the shadow came nearer. But that was all gone. I thought God was reconciled to me, and would always be kind to me now. And then I saw that foot, and I knew that He hated me still. He had burned His mark into my baby's flesh. And I was never to be quite happy again, but always in fear, fear of pain--and death--and grief--" She paused. Her large eyes gazed into vacancy, and her whole slight frame showed the working of some mysterious and pitiful distress. A wave of poignant alarm swept through Ashe's mind, coupled also with a curious sense of something foreseen. He had never witnessed precisely this mood in her before; but now that it was thus revealed, he was suddenly aware "that something like it had been for long moving obscurely below the surface of her life. He took the child and laid him on the floor, where he rolled at ease, cooing to himself. Then he came back to Kitty, and soothed her with extraordinary tenderness and skill. Presently she looked at him, as though some obscure trouble of which she had been the victim had released her, and she were herself again. "Don't go away just yet," she said, in a voice which was still low and shaken. He came close to her, again put his arms round her, and held her on his breast in silence. "That is heavenly!" he heard her say to herself after a while, in a whisper. "Kitty!" His eyes grew dim and he stooped to kiss her. "Heavenly--" she went on, still as though following out her own thought rather than speaking to him, "because one _yields_--_yields_! Life is such tension--always." She closed her eyes quickly, and he watched the beautiful lashes lying still upon her cheek. With an emotion he could not explain--for it was not an emotion of the senses, just as her yielding had not been a yielding of the senses but a yielding of the soul--he continued to hold her in his arms, her life, her will given to him wholly, sighed out upon his heart. * * * * * Then gradually she recovered her balance; the normal Kitty came back. She put out her hand and touched his face. "You must go back to the House, William." "Yes, if you are all right." She sat up, and began to rearrange some of her hair that had slipped down. "You have carried us both into such heights and depths, darling!" said Ashe, after he had watched her a little in silence, "that I have forgotten to tell you the gossip I brought back from mother this morning." Kitty paused, interrogatively. She was still pale. "Do you know that mother is convinced Mary Lyster has made up her mind to marry Cliffe?" There was a pause, then Kitty said, with incredulous contempt: "He would never _dream_ of marrying her!" "Not so sure! She has a great deal of money, and Cliffe wants money badly." Ashe began to put his papers together. Kitty questioned him a little more, intermittently, as to what his mother had said. When he had left her, she sat for long on the sofa, playing with some flowers she had taken from her dress, or sombrely watching the child, as it lay on the floor beside her. X "My lady! It's come!" The maid put her head in just to convey the good news. Kitty was in her bedroom walking up and down in a fury which was now almost speechless. The housemaid was waiting on the stairs. The butler was waiting in the hall. Till that hurried knock was heard at the front door, and the much-tried Wilson had rushed to open it, the house had been wrapped in a sort of storm silence. It was ten o'clock on the night of the ball. Half Kitty's costume lay spread out upon her bed. The other half--although since seven o'clock all Kitty's servants had been employed in rushing to Fanchette's establishment in New Bond Street, at half-hour intervals, in the fastest hansoms to be found--had not yet appeared. However, here at last was the end of despair. A panting boy dragged the box into the hall, the butler and footman carried it up-stairs and into their mistress's room, where Kitty in a white peignoir stood waiting, with the brow of Medea. "The boy that brought it looked just fit to drop, my lady!" said the maid, as she undid the box. She was a zealous servant, but she was glad sometimes to chasten these great ones of the land by insisting on the seamy side of their pleasures. Kitty paused in the eager task of superintendence, and turned to the under-housemaid, who stood by, gazing open-mouthed at the splendors emerging from the box. "Run down and tell Wilson to give him some wine and cake!" she said, peremptorily. "It's all Fanchette's fault--odious creature!--running it to the last like this--after all her promises!" The housemaid went, and soon sped back. For no boy on earth would she have been long defrauded of the sight of her ladyship's completed gown. "Did Wilson feed him?" Kitty flung her the question as she bent, alternately frowning and jubilant, over the creation before her. "Yes, my lady. It was quite a little fellow. He said his legs were just run off his feet," said the girl, growing confused as the moon-robe unfolded. "Poor wretch!" said Kitty, carelessly. "I'm glad I'm not an errand--Blanche! you know Fanchette may be an old demon, but she _has_ got taste! Just look at these folds, and the way she's put on the pearls! Now then--make haste!" Off flew the peignoir, and, with the help of the excited maids, Kitty slipped into her dress. Ten times, over did she declare that it was hopeless, that it didn't fit in the least, that it wasn't one bit what she had ordered, that she couldn't and wouldn't go out in it, that it was simply scandalous, and Fanchette should never be paid a penny. Her maids understood her, and simply went on pulling, patting, fastening, as quickly as their skilled fingers could work, till the last fold fell into its place, and the under-housemaid stepped back with clasped hands and an "Oh, my lady!" couched in a note of irrepressible ecstasy. "Well?" said Kitty, still frowning--"eh, Blanche?" The maid proper would have scorned to show emotion; but she nodded approval. "If you ask me, my lady, I think you have never looked so well in anything." Kitty's brow relaxed at last, as she stood gazing at the reflection in the large glass before her. She saw herself as Artemis--á la Madame de Longueville--in a hunting-dress of white silk, descending to the ankles, embroidered from top to toe in crescents of seed pearls and silver, and held at the waist by a silver girdle. Her throat was covered with magnificent pearls, a Tranmore family possession, lent by Lady Tranmore for the occasion. The slim ankles and feet were cased in white silk, cross-gartered with silver and shod with silver sandals. Her belt held her quiver of white-winged arrows; her bow of ivory inlaid with silver was slung at her shoulder, while across her breast, the only note of color in the general harmony of white, fell a scarf of apple-green holding the horn, also of ivory and silver, which, like the belt and bow, had been designed for her in Madame de Longueville's Paris. But neither she nor her model would have been finally content with an adornment so delicately fanciful and minute. Both Kitty and the goddess of the Fronde knew that they must hold their own in a crowd. For this there must be diamonds. The sleeves, therefore, on the white arms fell back from diamond clasps; the ivory spear in her right hand was topped by a small genius with glittering wings; and in the masses of her fair hair, bound with pearl fillets, shone the large diamond crescent that Lady Tranmore had foreseen, with one small attendant star at either side. [Illustration: THE FINISHING TOUCHES] "Well, upon my word, Kitty!" said a voice from her husband's dressing-room. Kitty turned impetuously. "Do you like it?" she cried. Ashe approached. She lifted her horn to her mouth and stood tiptoe. The movement was enchanting; it had in it the youth and freshness of spring woods; it suggested mountain distances and the solitudes of high valleys. Intoxication spoke in Ashe's pulses; he wished the maids had been far away that he might have taken the goddess in his very human arms. Instead of which he stood lazily smiling. "What Endymion are you calling?" he asked her. "Kitty, you are a dream!" Kitty pirouetted, then suddenly stopped short and held out a foot. "Look at those silk things, sir. Nobody but Fanchette could have made them look anything but a botch. But they spoil the dress. And all to please mother and Mrs. Grundy!" "I like them. I suppose--the nearest you could get to buskins? You would have preferred ankles _au naturel_? I don't think you'd have been admitted, Kitty." "Shouldn't I? And so few people have feet they can show!" sighed Kitty, regretfully. Ashe's eyes met those of the maid, who was trying to hide her smiles, and he and she both laughed. "What do you think about it, eh, Blanche?" "I think her ladyship is much better as she is," said the maid, decidedly. "She'd have felt very strange when she got there." Kitty turned upon her like a whirlwind. "Go to bed!" she said, putting both hands on the shoulders of the maid. "Go to bed at once! Esther can give me my cloak. Do you know, William, she was awake all last night thinking of her brother?" "The brother who has had an operation? But I thought there was good news?" said Ashe, kindly. "He's much better," put in Kitty. "She heard this afternoon. She won't be such a goose as to lie awake, I Should hope, to-night. Don't let me catch you here when I get back!" she said, releasing the girl, whose eyes had filled with tears. "Mr. Ashe will help me, and if he pulls the strings into knots, I shall just cut them--so there! Go away, get your supper, and go to bed. Such a life as I've led them all to-day!" She threw up her hands in a perfunctory penitence. The maid was forced to go, and the housemaid also returned to the hall with Kitty's Opera-cloak and fan, till it should please her mistress to descend. Both of them were dead tired, but they took a genuine disinterested pleasure in Kitty's beauty and her fine frocks. She was not by any means always considerate of them; but still, with that wonderful generosity that the poor show every day to the rich, they liked her; and to Ashe every servant in the house was devoted. Kitty meanwhile had driven Ashe to his own toilette, and was walking about the room, now studying herself in the glass, and now chattering to him through the open door. "Have you heard anything more about Tuesday?" she asked him, presently. "Oh yes!--compliments by the dozen. Old Parham overtook me as I was walking away from the House, and said all manner of civil things." "And I met Lady Parham in Marshall's," said Kitty. "She does thank so badly! I should like to show her how to do it. Dear me!" Kitty sighed. "Am I henceforth to live and die on Lady Parham's ample breast?" She sat with one foot beating the floor, deep in meditation. "And shall I tell you what mother said?" shouted Ashe through the door. "Yes." He repeated--so far as dressing would let him a number of the charming and considered phrases in which Lady Tranmore, full of relief, pleasure, and a secret self-reproach, had expressed to him the effect produced upon herself and a select public by Kitty's performance at the Parhams'. Kitty had indeed behaved like an angel--an angel _en toilette de bal_, reciting a scene from Alfred de Musset. Such politeness to Lady Parham, such smiles, sometimes a shade malicious, for the Prime Minister, who on his side did his best to efface all memory of his speech of the week before from the mind of his fascinating guest; smiles from the Princess, applause from the audience; an evening, in fact, all froth and sweetstuff, from which Lady Parham emerged grimly content, conscious at the same time that she was henceforward very decidedly, and rather disagreeably, in the Ashes' debt; while Elizabeth Tranmore went home in a tremor of delight, happily persuaded that Ashe's path was now clear. Kitty listened, sometimes pleased, sometimes inclined to be critical or scornful of her mother-in-law's praise. But she did love Lady Tranmore, and on the whole she smiled. Smiles, indeed, had been Kitty's portion since that evening of strange emotion, when she had found herself sobbing in William's arms for reasons quite beyond her own defining. It was as if, like the prince in the fairy tale, some iron band round her heart had given way. She seemed to dance through the house; she devoured her child with kisses; and she was even willing sometimes to let William tell her what his mother suspected of the progress of Mary's affair with Geoffrey Cliffe, though she carefully avoided speaking directly to Lady Tranmore about it. As to Cliffe himself, she seemed to have dropped him out of her thoughts. She never mentioned him, and Ashe could only suppose she had found him disenchanting. "Well, darling! I hope I have made a sufficient fool of myself to please you!" Ashe had thrown the door wide, and stood on the threshold, arrayed in the brocade and fur of a Venetian noble. He was a somewhat magnificent apparition, and Kitty, who had coaxed or driven him into the dress, gave a scream of delight. She saw him before her own glass, and the crimson senator made eyes at the white goddess as they posed triumphantly together. "You're a very rococo sort of goddess, you know, Kitty!" said Ashe. "Not much Greek about you!" "Quite as much as I want, thank you," said Kitty, courtesying to her own reflection in the glass. "Fanchette could have taught them a thing or two! Now come along! Ah! Wait!" And, gathering up her possessions, she left the room. Ashe, following her, saw that she was going to the nursery, a large room on the back staircase. At the threshold she turned back and put her finger to her lip. Then she slipped in, reappearing a moment afterwards to say, in a whisper, "Nurse is not in bed. You may come in." Nurse, indeed, knew much better than to be in bed. She had been sitting up to see her ladyship's splendors, and she rose smiling as Ashe entered the room. "A parcel of idiots, nurse, aren't we?" he said, as he, too, displayed himself, and then he followed Kitty to the child's bedside. She bent over the baby, removed a corner of the cot-blanket that might tease his cheek, touched the mottled hand softly, removed a light that seemed to her too near--and still stood looking. "We must go, Kitty." "I wish he were a little older," she said, discontentedly, under her breath, "that he might wake up and see us both! I should like him to remember me like this." "Queen and huntress, come away!" said Ashe, drawing her by the hand. Outside the landing was dimly lighted. The servants were all waiting in the hall below. "Kitty," said Ashe, passionately, "give me one kiss. You're so sweet to-night--so sweet!" She turned. "Take care of my dress!" she smiled, and then she held out her face under its sparkling crescent, held it with a dainty deliberation, and let her lips cling to his. * * * * * Ashe and Kitty were soon wedged into one of the interminable lines of carriages that blocked all the approaches to St. James's Square. The ball had been long expected, and there was a crowd in the streets, kept back by the police. The brougham went at a foot's pace, and there was ample time either for reverie or conversation. Kitty looked out incessantly, exclaiming when she caught sight of a costume or an acquaintance. Ashe had time to think over the latest phase of the negotiations with America, and to go over in his mind the sentences of a letter he had addressed to the _Times_ in answer to one of great violence from Geoffrey Cliffe. His own letter had appeared that morning. Ashe was proud of it. He made bold to think that it exposed Cliffe's exaggerations and insincerities neatly, and perhaps decisively. At any rate, he hummed a cheerful tune as he thought of it. Then suddenly and incongruously a recollection occurred to him. "Kitty, do you know that I had a letter from your mother, this morning?" "Had you?" said Kitty, turning to him with reluctance. "I suppose she wanted some money." "She did. She says she is very hard up. If I cared to use it, I have an easy reply." "What do you mean?" "I might say,' D---n it, we are, too!'" Kitty laughed uneasily. "Don't begin to talk money matters now, William, _please_." "No, dear, I won't. But we shall really have to draw in." "You _will_ pay so many debts!" said Kitty, frowning. Ashe went into a fit of laughter. "That's my extravagance, isn't it? I assure you I go on the most approved principles. I divide our available money among the greatest number of hungry claimants it will stretch to. But, after all, it goes a beggarly short way." "I know mother will think my diamond crescent a horrible extravagance," said Kitty, pouting. "But you are the only son, William, and we must behave like other people." "Dear, don't trouble your little head," he said; "I'll manage it, somehow." Indeed, he knew very well that he could never bring his own indolent and easy-going temper in such matters to face any real struggle with Kitty over money. He must go to his mother, who now--his father being a hopeless invalid--managed the estates with his own and the agent's help. It was, of course, right that she should preach to Kitty a little; but she would be sensible and help them out. After all, there was plenty of money. Why shouldn't Kitty spend it? Any one who knew him well might have observed a curious contrast between his private laxity in these matters and the strictness of his public practice. He was scruple and delicacy itself in all financial matters that touched his public life--directorships, investments, and the like, no less than in all that concerned interest and patronage. He would have been a bold man who had dared to propose to William Ashe any expedient whatever by which his public place might serve his private gain. His proud and fastidious integrity, indeed, was one of the sources of his growing power. But as to private debts--and the tradesmen to whom they were owed--his standards were still essentially those of the Whigs from whom he descended, of Fox, the all-indebted, or of Melbourne, who has left an amusing disquisition on the art of dividing a few loaves and fishes in the shape of bank-notes among a multitude of creditors. Not that affairs were as yet very bad. Far from it. But there was little to spare for Madame d'Estrées, who ought, indeed, to want nothing; and Ashe was vaguely meditating his reply to that lady when a face in a carriage near them, which was trying to enter the line, caught his attention. "Mary!" he said, "à la Sir Joshua--and mother. They don't see us. Query, will Cliffe take the leap to-night? Mother reports a decided increase of ardor on his part. Sorry you don't approve of it, darling!" "It's just like lighting a lamp to put it out--that's all!" said Kitty, with vivacity. "The man who marries Mary is done for." "Not at all. Mary's money will give him the pedestal he wants, and trust Cliffe to take care of his own individuality afterwards! Now, if you'll transfer your alarms to _Mary_, I'm with you!" "Oh! of _course_ he'll be unkind to her. She may lay her account for that. But it's the _marrying_ her!" And Kitty's upper-lip curled under a slow disdain. William laughed out. "Kitty, really!--you remind me, please, of Miss Jane Taylor: "'I did not think there could be found--a little heart so hard!' Mary is thirty; she would like to be married. And why not? She'll give quite as good as she gets." "Well, she won't get--anything. Geoffrey Cliffe thinks of no one but himself." Ashe's eyebrows went up. "Oh, well, all men are selfish--and the women don't mind." "It depends on how it's done," said Kitty. Ashe declared that Cliffe was just an ordinary person, "l'homme sensuel moyen"--with a touch of genius. Except for that, no better and no worse than other people. What then?--the world was not made up of persons of enormous virtue like Lord Althorp and Mr. Gladstone. If Mary wanted him for a husband, and could capture him, both, in his opinion, would have pretty nearly got their deserts. Kitty, however, fell into a reverie, after which she let him see a face of the same startling sweetness as she had several times shown him of late. "Do you want me to be nice to her?" She nestled up to him. "Bind her to your chariot wheels, madam! You can!" said Ashe, slipping a hand round hers. Kitty pondered. "Well, then, I won't tell her that I _know_ he's still in love with the Frenchwoman. But it's on the tip of my tongue." "Heavens!" cried Ashe. "The Vicomtesse D---, the lady of the poems? But she's dead! I thought that was over long ago." Kitty was silent for a moment, then said, with low-voiced emphasis: "That any one could write those poems, and then _think_ of Mary!" "Yes, the poems were fine," said Ashe, "but make-believe!" Kitty protested indignantly. Ashe bantered her a little on being one of the women who were the making of Cliffe. "Say what you like!" she said, drawing a quick breath. "But, often and often, he says divine things--divinely! I feel them there!" And she lifted both hands to her breast with an impulsive gesture. "Goddess!" said Ashe, kissing her hand because enthusiasm became her so well. "And to think that I should have dared to roast the divine one in a _Times_ letter this morning!" * * * * * The hall and staircase of Yorkshire House were already filled with a motley and magnificent crowd when Ashe and Kitty arrived. Kitty, still shrouded in her cloak, pushed her way through, exchanging greetings with friends, shrieking a little now and then for the safety of her bow and quiver, her face flushed with pleasure and excitement. Then she disappeared into the cloak-room, and Ashe was left to wonder how he was going to endure his robes through the heat of the evening, and to exchange a laughing remark or two with the Parliamentary Secretary to the Admiralty, into whose company he had fallen. "What are we doing it for?" he asked the young man, whose thin person was well set off by a Tudor dress. "Oh, don't be superior!" said the other. "I'm going to enjoy myself like a school-boy!" And that, indeed, seemed to be the attitude of most of the people present. And not only of the younger members of the dazzling company. What struck Ashe particularly, as he mingled with the crowd, was the alacrity of the elder men. Here was a famous lawyer already nearing the seventies, in the Lord Chancellor's garb of a great ancestor; here an ex-Viceroy of Ireland with a son in the government, magnificent in an Elizabethan dress, his fair bushy hair and reddish beard shining above a doublet on which glittered a jewel given to the founder of his house by Elizabeth's own hand; next to him, a white-haired judge in the robes of Judge Gascoyne; a peer, no younger, at his side, in the red and blue of Mazarin: and showing each and all in their gay complacent looks a clear revival of that former masculine delight in splendid clothes which came so strangely to an end with that older world on the ruins of which Napoleon rose. So with the elder women. For this night they were young again. They had been free to choose from all the ages a dress that suited them; and the result of this renewal of a long-relinquished eagerness had been in many cases to call back a bygone self, and the tones and gestures of those years when beauty is its own chief care. As for the young men, the young women, and the girls, the zest and pleasure of the show shone in their eyes and movements, and spread through the hall and up the crowded staircase, like a warm, contagious atmosphere. At all times, indeed, and in all countries, an aristocracy has been capable of this sheer delight in its own splendor, wealth, good looks, and accumulated treasure; whether in the Venice that Petrarch visited; or in the Rome of the Renaissance popes; in the Versailles of the Grand Monarque; or in the Florence of to-day, which still at moments of _festa_ reproduces in its midst all the costumes of the Cinque-cento. In this English case there was less dignity than there would have been in a Latin country, and more personal beauty; less grace, perhaps, and yet a something richer and more romantic. At the top of the stairs stood a marquis in a dress of the Italian Renaissance, a Gonzaga who had sat for Titian; beside him a fair-haired wife in the white satin and pearls of Henrietta Maria; while up the marble stairs, watched by a laughing multitude above, streamed Gainsborough girls and Reynolds women, women from the courts of Elizabeth, or Henri Quatre, of Maria Theresa, or Marie Antoinette, the figures of Holbein and Vandyck, Florentines of the Renaissance, the youths of Carpaccio, the beauties of Titian and Veronese. "Kitty, make haste!" cried a voice in front, as Kitty began to mount the stairs. "Your quadrille is just called." Kitty smiled and nodded, but did not hurry her pace by a second. The staircase was not so full as it had been, and she knew well as she mounted it, her slender figure drawn to its full height, her eyes flashing greeting and challenge to those in the gallery, the diamond genius on her spear glittering above her, that she held the stage, and that the play would not begin without her. And indeed her dress, her brilliance, and her beauty let loose a hum of conversation--not always friendly. "What is she?" "Oh, something mythological! She's in the next quadrille." "My dear, she's Diana! Look at her bow and quiver, and the moon in her hair." "Very incorrect!--she ought to have the towered crown!" "Absurd, such a little thing to attempt Diana! I'd back Actæon!" The latter remark was spoken in the ear of Louis Harman, who stood in the gallery looking down. But Harman shook his head. "You don't understand. She's not Greek, of course; but she's fairyland. A child of the Renaissance, dreaming in a wood, would have seen Artemis so--dressed up and glittering, and fantastic--as the Florentines saw Venus. Small, too, like the fairies!--slipping through the leaves; small hounds, with jewelled collars, following her!" He smiled at his own fancy, still watching Kitty with his painter's eyes. "She has seen a French print somewhere," said Cliffe, who stood close by. "More Versailles in it than fairyland, I think!" "It is _she_ that is fairyland," said Harman, still fascinated. Cliffe's expression showed the sarcasm of his thought. Fairy, perhaps!--with the touch of malice and inhuman mischief that all tradition attributes to the little people. Why, after that first meeting, when the conversation of a few minutes had almost swept them into the deepest waters of intimacy, had she slighted him so, in other drawing-rooms and on other occasions? She had actually neglected and avoided him--after having dared to speak to him of his secret! And now Ashe's letter of the morning had kindled afresh his sense of rancor against a pair of people, too prosperous and too arrogant. The stroke in the _Times_ had, he knew, gone home; his vanity writhed under it, and the wish to strike back tormented him, as he watched Ashe mounting behind his wife, so handsome, careless, and urbane, his jewelled cap dangling in his hand. * * * * * The quadrille of gods and goddesses was over. Kitty had been dancing with a fine clumsy Mars, in ordinary life an honest soldier and deer-stalker, the heir to a Scotch dukedom; having as her _vis-à-vis_ Madeleine Alcot--as the Flora of Botticelli's "Spring"--and slim as Mercury in fantastic Renaissance armor. All the divinities of the Pantheon, indeed, were there, but in Gallicized or Italianate form; scarcely a touch of the true antique, save in the case of one beautiful girl who wore a Juno dress of white whereof the clinging folds had been arranged for her by a young Netherlands painter, Mr. Alma Tadema, then newly settled in this country. Kitty at first envied her; then decided that she herself could have made no effect in such a gown, and threw her the praises of indifference. When, to Kitty's sharp regret, the music stopped and the glittering crew of immortals melted into the crowd, she found behind her a row of dancers waiting for the quadrille which was to follow. This was to consist entirely of English pictures revived--Reynolds, Gainsborough, and Romney--and to be danced by those for whose families they had been originally painted. As she drew back, looking eagerly to right and left, she came across Mary Lyster. Mary wore her hair high and powdered--a black silk scarf over white satin, and a blue sash. "Awfully becoming!" said Kitty, nodding to her. "Who are you?" "My great-great aunt!" said Mary, courtesying. "You, I see, go even farther back." "Isn't it fun?" said Kitty, pausing beside her. "Have you seen William? Poor dear! he's so hot. How do you do?" This last careless greeting was addressed to Cliffe, whom she now perceived standing behind Mary. Cliffe bowed stiffly. "Excuse me. I did not see you. I was absorbed in your dress. You are Artemis, I see--with additions." "Oh! I am an 'article de Paris,'" said Kitty. "But it seems odd that some people should take me for Joan of Arc." Then she turned to Mary. "I think your dress is quite lovely!" she said, in that warm, shy voice she rarely used except for a few intimates, and had never yet been known to waste on Mary. "Don't you admire it enormously, Mr. Cliffe?" "Enormously," said Cliffe, pulling at his mustache. "But by now my compliments are stale." "Is he cross about William's letter?" thought Kitty. "Well, let's leave them to themselves." Then, as she passed him, something in the silent personality of the man arrested her. She could not forbear a look at him over her shoulder. "Are you--Oh! of course, I remember--" for she had recognized the dress and cap of the Spanish grandee. Cliffe did not reply for a moment, but the harsh significance of his face revived in her the excitable interest she had felt in him on the day of his luncheon in Hill Street; an interest since effaced and dispersed, under the influence of that serenity and home peace which had shone upon her since that very day. "I should apologize, no doubt, for not taking your advice," he said, looking her in the eyes. Their expression, half bitter, half insolent, reminded her. "Did I give you any advice?" Kitty wrinkled up her white brows. "I don't recollect." Mary looked at her sharply, suspiciously. Kitty, quite conscious of the look, was straightway pricked by an elfish curiosity. Could she carry him off--trouble Mary's possession there and then? She believed she could. She was well aware of a certain relation between herself and Cliffe, if, at least, she chose to develop it. Should she? Her vanity insisted that Mary could not prevent it. However, she restrained herself and moved on. Presently looking back, she saw them still together, Cliffe leaning against the pedestal of a bust, Mary beside him. There was an animation in her eyes, a rose of pleasure on her cheek which stirred in Kitty a queer, sudden sympathy. "I _am_ a little beast!" she said to herself. "Why shouldn't she be happy?" Then, perceiving Lady Tranmore at the end of the ballroom, she made her way thither surrounded by a motley crowd of friends. She walked as though on air, "raining influence." And as Lady Tranmore caught the glitter of the diamond crescent, and beheld the small divinity beneath it, she, too, smiled with pleasure, like the other spectators on Kitty's march. The dress was monstrously costly. She knew that. But she forgot the inroad on William's pocket, and remembered only to be proud of William's wife. Since the Parhams' party, indeed, the unlooked-for submission of Kitty, and the clearing of William's prospects, Lady Tranmore had been sweetness itself to her daughter-in-law. But her fine face and brow were none the less inclined to frown. She herself as Katharine of Aragon would have shed a dignity on any scene, but she was in no sympathy with what she beheld. "We shall soon all of us be ashamed of this kind of thing," she declared to Kitty. "Just as people now are beginning to be ashamed of enormous houses and troops of servants." "No, please! Only bored with them!" said Kitty. "There are so many other ways now of amusing yourself--that's all." "Well, this way will die out," said Lady Tranmore. "The cost of it is too scandalous--people's consciences prick them." Kitty vowed she did not believe there was a conscience in the room; and then, as the music struck up, she carried off her companion to some steps overlooking the great marble gallery, where they had a better view of the two lines of dancers. It is said that as a nation the English have no gift for pageants. Yet every now and then--as no doubt in the Elizabethan mask--they show a strange felicity in the art. Certainly the dance that followed would have been difficult to surpass even in the ripe days and motherlands of pageantry. To the left, a long line, consisting mainly of young girls in their first bloom, dressed as Gainsborough and his great contemporaries delighted to paint these flowers of England--the folds of plain white muslin crossed over the young breast, a black velvet at the throat, a rose in the hair, the simple skirt showing the small pointed feet, and sometimes a broad sash defining the slender waist. Here were Stanleys, Howards, Percys, Villierses, Butlers, Osbornes--soft slips of girls bearing the names of England's rough and turbulent youth, bearing themselves to-night with a shy or laughing dignity, as though the touch of history and romance were on them. And facing them, the youths of the same families, no less handsome than their sisters and brides--in Romney's blue coats, or the splendid red of Reynolds and Gainsborough. To and fro swayed the dancers, under the innumerable candles that filled the arched roof and upper walls of the ballroom; and each time the lines parted they disclosed at the farther end another pageant, to which that of the dance was in truth subordinate--a dais hung with blue and silver, and upon it a royal lady whose beauty, then in its first bloom, has been a national possession, since as, the "sea-king's daughter" she brought it in dowry to her adopted country. To-night she blazed in jewels as a Valois queen, with her court around her, and as the dancers receded, each youth and maiden seemed instinctively to turn towards her as roses to the sun. "Oh, beautiful, beautiful world!" said Kitty to herself, in an ecstasy, pressing her small hands together; "how I love you!--_love_ you!" * * * * * Meanwhile Darrell and Harman stood side by side near the doorway of the ballroom, looking in when the crowd allowed. "A strange sight," said Harman. "Perhaps they take it too seriously." "Ah! that is our English upper class," said Darrell, with a sneer. "Is there anything they take lightly?--_par exemple!_ It seems to me they carry off this amusement better than most. They may be stupid, but they are good-looking. I say, Ashe"--he turned towards the new-comer who had just sauntered up to them--"on this exceptional occasion, is it allowed to congratulate you on Lady Kitty's gown?" For Kitty, raised upon her step, was at the moment in full view. Ashe made some slight reply, the slightest of which indeed annoyed the thin-skinned and morbid Darrell, always on the lookout for affronts. But Louis Harman, who happened to observe the Under-Secretary's glance at his wife, said to himself, "By George! that queer marriage is turning out well, after all." * * * * * The Tudor and Marie Antoinette quadrilles had been danced. There was a rumor of supper in the air. "William!" said Kitty, in his ear, as she came across him in one of the drawing-rooms, "Lord Hubert takes me in to supper. Poor me!" She made an extravagant face of self-pity and swept on. Lord Hubert was one of the sons of the house, a stupid and inarticulate guardsman, Kitty's butt and detestation. Ashe smiled to himself over her fate, and went back to the ballroom in search of his own lady. Meanwhile Kitty paused in the next drawing-room, and dismissed her following. "I promised to wait here for Lord Hubert," she said. "You go on, or you'll get no tables." And she waved them peremptorily away. The drawing-room, one of a suite which looked on the garden, thinned temporarily. In a happy fatigue, Kitty leaned dreamily over the ledge of one of the open windows, looking at the illuminated space below her. Amid the colored lights, figures of dream and fantasy walked up and down. In the midst flashed a flame-colored fountain. The sounds of a Strauss waltz floated in the air. And beyond the garden and its trees rose the dull roar of London. A silk curtain floated out into the room under the westerly breeze, then, returning, sheathed Kitty in its folds. She stood there hidden, amusing herself like a child with the thought of startling that great heavy goose, Lord Hubert. Suddenly a pair of voices that she knew caught her ear. Two persons, passing through, lingered, without perceiving her. Kitty, after a first movement of self-disclosure, caught her own name and stood motionless. "Well, of course you've heard that we got through," said Lady Parham. "For once Lady Kitty behaved herself!" "You were lucky!" said Mary Lyster. "Lady Tranmore was dreadfully anxious--" "Lest she should cut us at the last?" cried Lady Parham. "Well, of course, Lady Kitty is 'capable de tout.'" She laughed. "But perhaps as you are a cousin I oughtn't to say these things." "Oh, say what you like," said Mary. "I am no friend of Kitty's, and never pretended to be." Lady Parham came closer, apparently, and said, confidentially: "What on earth made that man marry her? He might have married anybody. She had no money, and worse than no position." "She worked upon his pity, of course, a good deal. I saw them in the early days at Grosville Park. She played her cards very cleverly. And then, it was just the right moment. Lady Tranmore had been urging him to marry." "Well, of course," said Lady Parham, "there's no denying the beauty." "You think so?" said Mary, as though in wonder. "Well, I never could see it. And now she has so much gone off." "I don't agree with you. Many people think her the star to-night. Mr. Cliffe, I am told, admires her." Kitty could not see how the eyes of the speaker, under a Sir Joshua turban, studied the countenance of Miss Lyster, as she threw out the words. Mary laughed. "Poor Kitty! She tried to flirt with him long ago--just after she arrived in London, fresh out of the convent. It was so funny! He told me afterwards he never was so embarrassed in his life--this baby making eyes at him! And now--oh no!" "Why not now? Lady Kitty's very much the rage, and Mr. Cliffe likes notoriety." "But a notoriety with--well, with some style, some distinction! Kitty's sort is so cheap and silly." "Ah, well, she's not to be despised," said Lady Parham. "She's as clever as she can be. But her husband will have to keep her in order." "Can he?" said Mary. "Won't she always be in his way?" "Always, I should think. But he must have known what he was about. Why didn't his mother interfere? Such a family!--such a history!" "She did interfere," said Mary. "We all did our best"--she dropped her voice--"I know I did. But it was no use. If men like spoiled children they must have them, I suppose. Let's hope he'll learn how to manage her. Shall we go on? I promised to meet my supper-partner in the library." They moved away. * * * * * For some minutes Kitty stood looking out, motionless, but the beating of her heart choked her. Strange ancestral things--things of evil--things of passion--had suddenly awoke, as it were, from sleep in the depths of her being, and rushed upon the citadel of her life. A change had passed over her from head to foot. Her veins ran fire. At that moment, turning round, she saw Geoffrey Cliffe enter the room in which she stood. With an impetuous movement she approached him. "Take me down to supper, Mr. Cliffe. I can't wait for Lord Hubert any more, I'm _so_ hungry!" "Enchanted!" said Cliffe, the color leaping into his tanned face as he looked down upon the goddess. "But I came to find--" "Miss Lyster? Oh, she is gone in with Mr. Darrell. Come with me. I have a ticket for the reserved tent. We shall have a delicious corner to ourselves." And she took from her glove the little coveted paste-board, which--handed about in secret to a few intimates of the house--gave access to the sanctum sanctorum of the evening. Cliffe wavered. Then his vanity succumbed. A few minutes later the supper guests in the tent of the _élite_ saw the entrance of a darkly splendid Duke of Alva, with a little sandalled goddess. All compact, it seemed, of ivory and fire, on his arm. XI The spring freshness of London, had long since departed. A crowded season; much animation in Parliament, where the government, to its own amazement, had rather gained than lost ground; industrial trouble at home, and foreign complications abroad; and in London the steady growth of a new plutocracy, the result, so far, of American wealth and American brides. In the first week of July, the outward things of the moment might have been thus summed up by any careful observer. On a certain Tuesday night, the debate on a private member's bill unexpectedly collapsed, and the House rose early. Ashe left the House with his secretary, but parted from him at the corner of Birdcage Walk, and crossed the park alone. He meant to join Kitty at a party in Piccadilly; there was just time to go home and dress; and he walked at a quick pace. Two members sitting on the same side of the House with himself were also going home. One of them noticed the Under-Secretary. "A very ineffective statement Ashe made to-night--don't you think so?" he said to his companion. "Very! Really, if the government can't take up a stronger line, the general public will begin to think there's something in it." "Oh, if you only shriek long enough and sharp enough in England something's sure to come of it. Cliffe and his group have been playing a very shrewd game. The government will get their agreement approved all right, but Cliffe has certainly made some people on our side uneasy. However--" "However, what?" said the other, after a moment. "I wish I thought that were the only reason for Ashe's change of tone," said the first speaker, slowly. "What do you mean?" The two were intimate personal friends, belonging, moreover, to a group of evangelical families well known in English life; but even so, the answer came with reluctance: "Well, you see, it's not very easy to grapple in public with the man whose name all smart London happens to be coupling with that of your wife!" "I say"--the other stood still, in genuine consternation and distress--"you don't mean to say that there's that in it!" "You notice that the difference is not in _what_ Ashe says, but in _how_ he says it. He avoids all personal collision with Cliffe. The government stick to their case, but Ashe mentions everybody but Cliffe, and confutes all arguments but his. And meanwhile, of course, the truth is that Cliffe is the head and front of the campaign, and if he threw up to-morrow, everything would quiet down." "And Lady Kitty is flirting with him at this particular moment? Damned bad taste and bad feeling, to say the least of it!" "You won't find one of the Bristol lot consider that kind of thing when their blood is up!" said the other. "You remember the tales of old Lord Blackwater?" "But is there really any truth in it? Or is it mere gossip?" "Well, I hear that the behavior of both of them at Grosville Park last week was such that Lady Grosville vows she will never ask either of them again. And at Ascot, at Lord's, the opera, Lady Kitty sits with him, talks with him, walks with him, the whole time, and won't look at any one else. They must be asked together or neither will come--and 'society,' as far as I can make out, thinks it a good joke and is always making plans to throw them together." "Can't Lady Tranmore do anything?" "I don't know. They say she is very unhappy about it. Certainly she looks ill and depressed." "And Ashe?" His companion hesitated. "I don't like to say it, but, of course, you know there are many people who will tell you that Ashe doesn't care twopence what his wife does so long as she is nice to him, and he can read his books and carry on his politics as he pleases!" "Ashe always strikes me as the soul of honor," said the other, indignantly. "Of course--for himself. But a more fatalist believer in liberty than Ashe doesn't exist--liberty especially to damn yourself--if you must and will." "It would be hard to extend that doctrine to a wife," said the other, with a grave, uncomfortable laugh. * * * * * Meanwhile the man whose affairs they had been discussing walked home, wrapped in solitary and disagreeable thought. As he neared the Marlborough House corner a carriage passed him. It was delayed a moment by other carriages, and as it halted beside him Ashe recognized Lady M----, the hostess of the fancy ball, and a very old friend of his parents. He took off his hat. The lady within recognized him and inclined slightly--very slightly and stiffly. Ashe started a little and walked on. The meeting vividly recalled the ball, the _terminus a quo_ indeed from which the meditation in which he had been plunged since entering the park had started. Between six and seven weeks ago, was it? It might have been a century. He thought of Kitty as she was that night--Kitty pirouetting in her glittering dress, or bending over the boy, or holding her face to his as he kissed her on the stairs. Never since had she shown him the smallest glimpse of such a mood. What was wrong with her and with himself? Something, since May, had turned their life topsy-turvy, and it seemed to Ashe that in the general unprofitable rush of futile engagements he had never yet had time to stop and ask himself what it might be. Why, at any rate, was _he_ in this chafing irritation and discomfort? Why could he not deal with that fellow Cliffe as he deserved? And what in Heaven's name was the reason why old friends like Lady M---- were beginning to look at him coldly, and avoid his conversation? His mother, too! He gathered that quite lately there had been some disagreeable scene between her and Kitty. Kitty had resented some remonstrance of hers, and for some days now they had not met. Nor had Ashe seen his mother alone. Did she also avoid him, shrink from speaking out her real mind to him? Well, it was all monstrously absurd!--a great coil about nothing, as far as the main facts were concerned, although the annoyance and worry of the thing were indeed becoming serious. Kitty had no doubt taken a wild liking to Geoffrey Cliffe-- "And, by George!" said Ashe, pausing in his walk, "she warned me." And there rose in his memory the formal garden at Grosville Park, the little figure at his side, and Kitty's franknesses--"I shall take mad fancies for people. I sha'n't be able to help it. I have one now, for Geoffrey Cliffe." He smiled. There was the difficulty! If only the people whose envious tongues were now wagging could see Kitty as she was, could understand what a gulf lay between her and the ordinary "fast" woman, there would be an end of this silly, ill-natured talk. Other women might be of the earth earthy. Kitty was a sprite, with all the irresponsibility of such incalculable creatures. The men and women--women especially--who gossiped and lied about her, who sent abominable paragraphs to scurrilous papers--he had one now in his pocket which had reached him at the House from an anonymous correspondent--spoke out of their own vile experience, judged her by their own standards. His mother, at any rate--he proudly thought--ought to know better than to be misled by them for a moment. At the same time, something must be done. It could not be denied that Kitty had been behaving like a romantic, excitable child with this unscrupulous man, whose record with regard to women was probably wholly unknown to her, however foolishly she might idealize the _liaison_ commemorated in his poems. What had Kitty, indeed, been doing with herself this six weeks? Ashe tried to recall them in detail. Ascot, Lord's, innumerable parties in London and in the country, to some of which he had not been able to accompany her, owing to the stress of Parliamentary and official work. Grosville Park, for instance--he had been stopped at the last moment from going down there by the arrival of some important foreign news, and Kitty had gone alone. She had reappeared on the Monday, pale and furious, saying that she and her aunt had quarrelled, and that she would never go near the Grosvilles either in town or country again. She had not volunteered any further explanation, and Ashe had refrained from inquiry. There were in him certain disgusts and disdains, belonging to his general epicurean conception of existence, which not even his love for Kitty could overcome. One was a disdain for the quarrels of women. He supposed they were inevitable; he saw, by-the-way, that Kitty and Lady Parham were once more at daggers drawn; and Kitty seemed to enjoy it. Well, it was her own affair; but while there was a Greek play, or a Shakespeare sonnet, or even a Blue Book to read, who could expect him to listen? What had old Lady Grosville been about? He understood that Cliffe had been of the party. And Kitty must have done something to bring down upon her the wrath of the Puritanical mistress of the house. Well, what was he to do? It was now July. The session would last certainly till the middle of August, and though the American business would be disposed of directly, there was fresh trouble in the Balkan Peninsula, and an anxious situation in Egypt. Impossible that he should think of leaving his post. And as for the chance of a dissolution, the government was now a good deal stronger than it had been before Easter--worse luck! Of course he ought to take Kitty away. But short of resignation how was it to be done? And what, even, would resignation do--supposing, _per impossibile_, it could be thought of--but give to gnawing gossip a bigger bone, and probably irritate Kitty to the point of rebellion? Yet how induce her to go with any one else? Lady Tranmore was out of the question. Margaret French, perhaps? Then, suddenly, Ashe was assailed by an inner laughter, hollow and discomfortable. Things were come to a pretty pass when he must even dream of resigning because a man whom he despised would haunt his house, and absorb the company of his wife; when, moreover, he could not even think of a remedy for such a state of things without falling back dismayed from the certainty of Kitty's temper--Kitty's wild and furious temper. For during the last fortnight, as it seemed to Ashe, all the winds of tempest had been blowing through his house. Himself, the servants, even Margaret, even the child, had all suffered. He also had lost his temper several times--such a thing had scarcely happened to him since his childhood. He thought of it as of a kind of physical stain or weakness. To keep an even and stoical mind, to laugh where one could not conquer--this had always seemed to him the first condition of decent existence. And now to be wrangling over an expenditure, an engagement, a letter, the merest nothing--whether it was a fine day or it wasn't--could anything be more petty, degrading, intolerable? He vowed that this should stop. Whatever happened, he and Kitty should not degenerate into a pair of scolds--besmirch their life with quarrels as ugly as they were silly. He would wrestle with her, his beloved, unreasonable, foolish Kitty; he ought, of course, to have done so before. But it was only within the last week or so that the horizon had suddenly darkened--the thing grown serious. And now this beastly paragraph! But, after all, what did such garbage matter? It would of course be a comfort to thrash the editor. But our modern life breeds such creatures, and they have to be borne. * * * * * He let himself into a silent house. His letters lay on the hall-table. Among them was a handwriting which arrested him. He remembered, yet could not put a name to it. Then he turned the envelope. "H'm. Lady Grosville!" He read it, standing there, then thrust it into his pocket, thinking angrily that there seemed to be a good many fools in this world who occupied themselves with other people's business. Exaggeration, of course, damnable _parti pris_! When did she ever see Kitty except with a jaundiced eye? "I wonder Kitty condescends to go to the woman's house! She must know that everything she does is seen there _en noir_. Pharisaical, narrow-minded Philistines!" The letter acted as a tonic. Ashe was positively grateful to the "old gorgon" who wrote it. He ran up-stairs, his pulses tingling in defence of Kitty. He would show Lady Grosville that she could not write to him, at any rate, in that strain, with impunity. He took a candle from the landing, and opened his wife's door in order to pass through her room to his own. As he did so, he ran against Kitty's maid, Blanche, who was coming out. She shrank back as she saw him, but not before the light of his candle had shone full upon her. Her face was disfigured with tears, which were, indeed, still running down her cheeks. "Why, Blanche!" he said, standing still--then in the kind voice which endeared him to the servants--"I am afraid your brother is worse?" For the poor brother in hospital had passed through many vicissitudes since his operation, and the little maid's spirits had fluctuated accordingly. "Oh no, sir--no, sir!" said Blanche, drying her eyes and retreating into the shadows of the room, where only a faint flame of gas was burning. "It's not that, sir, thank you. I was just putting away her ladyship's things," she said, inconsequently, looking round the room. "That was hardly what caused the tears, was it?" said Ashe, smiling. "Is there anything in which Lady Kitty or I could help you?" The girl, who had always seemed to him on excellent terms with Kitty, gave a sudden sob. "Thank you, sir; I've just given her ladyship warning." "Indeed!" said Ashe, gravely. "I'm sorry for that. I thought you got on here very well." "I used to, sir, but this last few weeks there's nothing pleases her ladyship; you can't do anything right. I'm sure I've worked my hands off. But I can't do any more. Perhaps her ladyship will find some one else to suit her better." "Didn't her ladyship try to persuade you to stay?" "Yes--but--I gave warning once before, and then I stayed. And it's no good. It seems as if you must do wrong. And I don't sleep, sir. It gets on your nerves so. But I didn't mean to complain. Good-night, sir." "Good-night. Don't sit up for your mistress. You look tired out. I'll help her." "Thank you, sir," said the maid, in a depressed voice, and went. * * * * * Half an hour later, Ashe mounted the staircase of a well-known house in Piccadilly. The evening party was beginning to thin, but in a side drawing-room a fine Austrian band was playing Strauss, and some of the intimates of the house were dancing. Ashe at once perceived his wife. She was dancing with a clever Cambridge lad, a cousin of Madeleine Alcot's, who had long been one of her adorers. And so charming was the spectacle, so exhilarating were the youth and beauty of the pair, that Ashe presently suspected what was indeed the truth, that most of the persons gathering in the room were there to watch Kitty dance, rather than to dance themselves. He himself watched her, though he professed to be talking to his hostess, a woman of middle age, with honest eyes and a brow of command. "It is a delight to see Lady Kitty dance," she said to him, smiling. "But she is tired. I am sure she wants the country." "Like my boy," said Ashe. "I wish to goodness they'd both go." "Oh, I know it's hard to leave the husband toiling in town!" said his companion, who, as the daughter, wife, and mother of politicians, had had a long experience of official life. Ashe glanced at her--at her face moulded by kind and scrupulous living--with a sudden relief from tension. Clearly no gossip had reached her. He lingered beside her, for the sheer pleasure of talking to her. But their _tête-à-tête_ was soon interrupted by the approach of Lady Parham, with a daughter--a slim and silent girl, to whom, it was whispered, her mother was giving "a last chance" this season, before sending her into the country as a failure, and bringing out her younger sister. Lady Parham greeted the hostess with effusion. It was a rich house, and these small, informal dances were said to be more helpful to matrimonial development than larger affairs. Then she perceived Ashe, and her whole manner changed. There was a very evident bristling, and she gave him a greeting deliberately careless. "Confound the woman!" thought Ashe, and his own pride rose. "Working as hard as usual, Lady Parham?" he asked her, with a smile. "If you like to put it so," was the stiff reply. "There is, of course, a good deal of going out." "I hope, if I may say so, you don't allow Lord Parham to do too much of it." "Lord Parham never was better in his life," said Lord Parham's spouse, with the air of putting down an impertinence. "That's good news. I must say when I saw him this afternoon I thought he seemed to be feeling his work a good deal." "Oh, he's worried," said Lady Parham, sharply. "Worried about a good many things." She turned suddenly, and looked at her companion--an insolent and deliberate look. "Ah, that's where the wives come in!" replied Ashe, unperturbed. "Look at Mrs. Loraine. She has the art to perfection--hasn't she? The way she cushions Loraine is something wonderful to see." Lady Parham flushed angrily. The suggested comparison between herself, and that incessant rattle and blare of social event through which she dragged her husband--conducting thereby a vulgar campaign of her own, as arduous as his and far more ambitious--and the ways and character of gentle Mrs. Loraine, absorbed in the man she adored, scatter-brained and absent-minded towards the rest of the world, but for him all eyes and ears, an angel of shelter and protection--this did not now reach the Prime Minister's wife for the first time. But she had no opportunity to launch a retort, even supposing she had one ready, for the music ceased, and the tide of dancers surged towards the doors. It brought Kitty abruptly face to face with Lady Parham. "Oh! how d'you do?" said Kitty, in a tone that was already an offence, and she held out a small hand with an indescribably regal air. Lady Parham just touched it, glanced at the owner from top to toe, and walked away. Kitty slipped in beside Ashe for a moment, with her back to the wall, laughing and breathless. "I say, Kitty," said Ashe, bending over her and speaking in her small ear, "I thought Lady Parham was eternally obliged to us. What's wrong with her?" "Only that I can't stand her," said Kitty. "What's the good of trying?" She looked up, a flame of mutiny in her cheeks. "What, indeed?" said Ashe, feeling as reckless as she. "Her manners are beyond the bounds. But look here, Kitty, don't you think you'll come home? You know you do look uncommonly tired." Kitty frowned. "Home? Why, I'm only just beginning to enjoy myself! Take me into the cool, please," she said to the boy who had been dancing with her, and who still hovered near, in case his divinity might allow him yet a few more minutes. But as she put out her hand to take his arm, Ashe saw her waver and look suddenly across the room. A group parted that had been clustering round a farther door, and Ashe perceived Cliffe, leaning against the doorway with his arms crossed. He was surrounded by pretty women, with whom he seemed to be carrying on a bantering warfare. Involuntarily Ashe watched for the recognition between him and Kitty. Did Kitty's lips move? Was there a signal? If so, it passed like a flash; Kitty hurried away, and Ashe was left, haughtily furious with himself that, for the first time in his life, he had played the spy. He turned in his discomfort to leave the dancing-room. He himself enjoyed society frankly enough. Especially since his marriage had he found the companionship of agreeable women delightful. He went instinctively to seek it, and drive out this nonsense from his mind. Just inside the larger drawing-room, however, he came across Mary Lyster, sitting in a corner apparently alone. Mary greeted him, but with an evident coldness. Her manner brought back all the preoccupations of his walk from the House. In spite of her small cordiality, he sat down beside her, wondering with a vicarious compunction at what point her fortunes might be, and how Kitty's proceedings might have already affected them. But he had not yet succeeded in thawing her when a voice behind him said: "This is my dance, I think, Miss Lyster. Where shall we sit it out?" Ashe moved at once. Mary looked up, hesitated visibly, then rose and took Geoffrey Cliffe's arm. "Just read your remarks this evening," said Cliffe to Ashe. "Well, now, I suppose to-morrow will see your ship in port?" For it was reasonably expected that the morrow would see the American agreement ratified by a substantial ministerial majority. "Certainly. But you may at least reflect that you have lost us a deal of time." "And now you slay us," said Cliffe. "Ah, well--'_dulce et decorum est_,' etcetera." "Don't imagine that you'll get many of the honors of martyrdom," laughed Ashe--in Cliffe's eyes an offensive and triumphant figure, as he leaned carelessly upon a marble pedestal that carried a bust of Horace Walpole. "Why?" Cliffe's hand had gone instinctively to his mustache. Mary had dropped his arm, and now stood quietly beside him, pale and somewhat jaded, her fine eyes travelling between the speakers. "Why? Because the heresies have no martyrs. The halo is for the true Church!" "H'm!" said Cliffe, with a reflective sneer. "I suppose you mean for the successful?" "Do I?" said Ashe, with nonchalance. "Aren't the true Church the people who are justified by the event?" "The orthodox like to think so," said Cliffe. "But the heretics have a way of coming out top." "Does that mean you chaps are going to win at the next election? I devoutly hope you may--_we_'re all as stale as ditch-water--and as for places, anybody's welcome to mine!" And so saying, Ashe lounged away, attracted by the bow and smile of a pretty Frenchwoman, with whom it was always agreeable to chat. "Ashe trifles it as usual," said Cliffe, as he and Mary forced a passage into one of the smaller rooms. "Is there anything in the world that he really cares about?" Mary looked at him with a start. It was almost on her lips to say, "Yes! his wife." She only just succeeded in driving the words back. "His not caring is a pretence," she said. "At least, Lady Tranmore thinks so. She believes that he is becoming absorbed in politics--much more ambitious than she ever thought he would be." "That's the way of mothers," said Cliffe, with a sarcastic lip. "They have got to make the best of their sons. Tell me what you are going to do this summer." He had thrown one arm round the back of a chair, and sat looking down upon her, his colorless fair hair falling thick upon his brow, and giving by contrast a strange inhuman force to the dark and singular eyes beneath. He had a way of commanding a woman's attention by flashes of brusquerie, melting when he chose into a homage that had in it the note of an older world, a world that had still leisure for, passion and its refinements, a world still within sight of that other which had produced the _Carte du tendre_. Perhaps it was this, combined with the virilities, not to be questioned, of his aspect, the signs of hard physical endurance in the face burned by desert suns, and the suggestions of a frame too lean and gaunt for drawing-rooms, that gave him his spell and preserved it. Mary's conversation with him consisted at first of much cool fencing on her part, which gradually slipped back, as he intended it should, into some of the tones of intimacy. Each meanwhile was conscious of a secret range of thoughts--hers concerned with the effort and struggle, the bitter disappointments and disillusions of the past six weeks; and his with the schemes he had cherished in the East and on the way home, of marrying Mary Lyster, or more correctly, Mary Lyster's money, and so resigning himself to the inevitable boredoms of an English existence. For her the mental horizon was full of Kitty--Kitty insolent, Kitty triumphant. For him, too, Kitty made the background of thought--environed, however, with clouds of indecision and resistance that would have raised happiness in Mary could she have divined them. For he was now not easy to capture. There had been enough and more than enough of women in his life. The game of politics must somehow replace them henceforth, if, indeed, anything were still worth while, except the long day in the saddle and the dawn of new mornings in untrodden lands. Mingled, all these, with hot dislike of Ashe, with the fascination of Kitty, and a kind of venomous pleasure in the commotion produced by his pursuit of her; inter penetrated, moreover, through and through with the memory of his one true feeling, and of the woman who had died, alienated from and despising him. He and Mary passed a profitless half-hour. He would have liked to propitiate her, but he had no notion what he should do with the propitiation, if it were reached. He wanted her money, but he was beginning to feel with restlessness that he could not pay the cost. The poet in him was still strong, crossed though it were by the adventurer. He took her back to the dancing-room. Mary walked beside him with a dull, fierce sense of wrong. It was Kitty, of course, who had done it--Kitty who had taken him away from her. "That's finished," said Cliffe to himself, with a long breath of relief, as he delivered her into the hands of her partner. "Now for the other!" * * * * * Thenceforward, no one saw Kitty and no one danced with her. She spent her time in beflowered corners, or remote drawing-rooms, with Geoffrey Cliffe. Ashe heard her voice in the distance once or twice, answering a voice he detested; he looked into the supper-room with a lady on his arm, and across it he saw Kitty, with her white elbow on the table and her hand propping a face that was turned--half mocking and yet wholly absorbed--to Cliffe. He saw her flitting across vistas or disappearing through far doorways, but always with that sinister figure in attendance. His mind was divided between a secret fury--roused in him by the pride of a man of high birth and position, who has always had the world at command, and now sees an impertinence offered him which he does not know how to punish--and a mood of irony. Cliffe's persecution of Kitty was a piece of confounded bad manners. But to look at it with the round, hypocritical eyes some of these people were bringing to bear on it was really too much! Let them look to their own affairs--they needed it. At last the party broke up. Kitty touched him on the shoulder as he was standing on the stairs, apparently absorbed in a teasing skirmish with a charming child in her first season, who thought him the most delightful of men. "I'm ready, William." He turned sharply, and saw that she was alone. "Come along, then! In five minutes more I should have been asleep on the stairs." They descended. Kitty went for her cloak. Ashe sent for the carriage. As he was standing on the steps Cliffe pushed past him and called for a hansom. It came in the rear of two or three carriages already under the portico. He ran along the pavement and jumped in. The doors were just being shut by the linkman when a little figure in a white cloak flew down the steps of the house and held up a hand to the driver of the hansom. "Do you see that?" said Lady Parham, in a voice of suppressed but contemptuous amazement, as she turned to Mary Lyster, who was driving home with her. "Call my carriage, please!" she said, imperiously, to one of the footmen at the door. Her carriage, as it happened, was immediately behind the hansom; but the hansom could not move because of the small lady who had jumped upon the step and was leaning eagerly forward. There was a clamor of shouting voices: "Move on, cabby! Move on!" "Stand clear, ma'am, please," said the driver, while Cliffe opened the door of the cab, and seemed about to jump down again. "Who is it?" said an impatient judge behind Lady Parham. "What's the matter?" Lady Parham shrugged her shoulders. "It's Lady Kitty Ashe," whispered the _débutante_, who was the judge's daughter, "talking to Mr. Cliffe. Isn't she pretty?" A sudden silence fell upon the group in the porch. Kitty's high, clear laugh seemed to ring back into the house. Then Ashe ran down the steps. "Kitty, don't stop the way." He peremptorily drew her back. Cliffe raised his hat, fell back into the hansom, and the man whipped up his horse. Kitty came back to the outer hall with Ashe. Her cheeks had a rose flush, her wild eyes laughed at the crowd on the steps, without really seeing them. "Are you going with Lady Parham?" she said, absently, to Mary Lyster. "Yes." Kitty looked up and Ashe saw the two faces as she and Mary confronted each other--the contempt in Mary's, the startled wrath in Kitty's. "Come, Miss Lyster!" said Lady Parham, and pushing past the Ashes without a good-night, she hurried to her carriage, drawing up the glass with a hasty hand, though the night was balmy. For a few moments none of those left on the steps spoke, except to fret in undertones for an absent carriage. Then Ashe saw his own groom, and stormed at him for delay. In another minute he and Kitty were in the carriage, and the figures under the porch dropped out of sight. * * * * * "Better not do that again, Kitty, I think," said Ashe. Kitty glanced at him. But both voice and manner were as usual. "Why shouldn't I?" she said, haughtily; he saw that she had grown very white. "I was telling Geoffrey where to find me at Lord's." Ashe winced at the "Archangelism" of the Christian name. "You kept Lady Parham waiting." "What does that matter?" said Kitty, with an angry laugh. "And you did Cliffe too much honor," said Ashe. "It's the men who should stand on the steps--not the women!" Kitty sat erect. "What do you mean?" she said, in a low, menacing voice. "Just what I say," was the laughing reply. Kitty threw herself back in her corner, and could not be induced to open her lips or look at her companion till they reached home. On the landing, however, outside her bedroom, she turned and said: "Don't, please, say impertinent things to me again!" And drawn up to her full height, the most childish and obstinate of tragedy queens, she swept into her room. Ashe went into his dressing-room. And almost immediately afterwards he heard the key turn in the lock which separated his room from Kitty's. For the first time since their marriage! He threw himself on his bed, and passed some sleepless hours. Then fatigue had its way. When he awoke, there was a gray dawn in the room, and he was conscious of something pressing against his bed. Half asleep, he raised himself and saw Kitty, in a long white dressing-gown, sitting curled up on the floor, or rather on a pillow, her head resting on the edge of the bed. In a glass opposite he saw the languid grace of her slight form and the cloud of her hair. "Kitty"--he tried to shake himself into full consciousness--"do go to bed!" "Lie down," said Kitty, lifting her arm and pressing him down, "and don't say anything. I shall go to sleep." He lay down obediently. Presently he felt that her cheek was resting on one of his hands, and in his semi-consciousness he laid the other on her hair. Then they both fell asleep. His dreams were a medley of the fancy ball and of some pageant scene in which Iris and Ceres appeared, and there was a rustic dance of maidens and shepherds. Then a murmur as of thunder ran through the scene, followed by darkness. He half woke, in a hot distress, but the soft cheek was still there, his hand still felt the silky curls, and sleep recaptured him. XII When Ashe woke up in earnest he was alone. He sprang up in bed and looked round the darkened room, ashamed of his long sleep; but there was no sign of Kitty. After dressing, he knocked, as usual, at Kitty's door. "Oh, come in," cried Kitty's lightest voice. "Margaret's here; but if you don't mind her, she won't mind you." Ashe entered. Kitty, as was her wont four days out of the seven, was breakfasting in bed. Margaret French was beside her with a batch of notes, mostly bills and unanswered invitations, with which she was trying to make Kitty cope. "Excuse me, Mr. Ashe," Margaret lifted a smiling face. "I had to be out on business for my brother all day, so I thought I'd come early and remind Kitty of some of these tiresome things while there was still a chance of finding her." "I don't know why guardian angels excuse themselves," said Ashe, as they shook hands. "Oh, dear, what a lot of them there are!" said Kitty, tossing over the notes with a bored air. "Refuse them all, Margaret; I'm tired to death of dining out." "Not all, I think," pleaded Margaret. "Here's that nice woman--you remember--who wanted to thank Mr. Ashe for what he'd done for her son. You promised to dine with her." "Did I?" Kitty wriggled with annoyance. "Well, then, I suppose we must. What did William do for her? When I ask him to do something for the nicest boys in the world, he won't lift a finger." "I gave him some introductions in Berlin," laughed Ashe. "What you generally want me to do, Kitty, is to stuff the public service with good-looking idiots. And there I really can't oblige you." "Every one knows that corruption gets the best men," said Kitty. "Hullo, what's that?" and she lifted a dinner-card, and looked at it strangely. "My dear Kitty! when did it come?" exclaimed Margaret French, in dismay. It was a dinner-card, whereby Lord and Lady Parham requested the honor of Mr. and Lady Kitty Ashe's company at dinner, on a date somewhere within the first week of July. Ashe bent over to look at it. "I think that came ten days ago," he said, quietly. "I imagined Kitty accepted it." "I never thought of it from that day to this," said Kitty, who had clasped her hands behind her head and was staring at the ceiling. "Say, please, that"--she spaced out the words deliberately--"Mr. and Lady Kitty Ashe--are unable to accept--Lord and Lady Parham's invitation--etc.--" "Kitty!" said Margaret, firmly, "there must be a 'regret' and a 'kind.' Think! Ten days! The party is next week!" "No 'regret,' and no 'kind'!" said Kitty, still staring overhead. "It's my affair, please, Margaret, altogether. And I'll see the note before it goes, or you'll be putting in civilities." Margaret, in despair, looked entreatingly at Ashe. He and she had often conspired before this to soften down Kitty's enormities. But he said nothing--made not the smallest sign. With difficulty Margaret got a few more directions out of Kitty, over whom a shade of sombre taciturnity had now fallen. Then, saying she would write the notes down-stairs and come back, she gathered up her basketful of letters and departed. As soon as she was alone with Ashe, Kitty took up a novel beside her, and pretended to be absorbed in it. He hesitated a moment, then he stooped over her and took her hand. "Why did you come in to visit me, Kitty?" he said, in a low voice. "I don't know," was her indifferent reply, and her hand pulled itself away, though not with violence. "I wish I could understand you, Kitty." His tone was not quite steady. "Well, I don't understand myself!" said Kitty, shortly, reaching out for a bunch of roses that Margaret had just brought her, and burying her face among them. "Perhaps, if you submitted the problem to me," said Ashe, laughing, "we might be able to thresh it out together!" He folded his arms and leaned against the foot of the bed, delighting his eyes with the vision of her amid the folds of muslin and lace, and all the costly refinements of pillow and coverlet with which she liked to surround herself at that hour of the morning. She might have been a French princess of the old regime, receiving her court. Kitty shook her head. The roses fell idly from her hands, and made bright patches of blush pink about her. Ashe went on: "Anyway, dear, don't give silly tongues _too_ good a handle!" He threw her a gay comrade's look, as though to say that they both knew the folly of the world, but he perhaps the better, as he was the elder. "You mean," said Kitty, calmly, "that I am not to talk so much to Geoffrey Cliffe?" "Is he worth it?" said Ashe. "That's what I want to know--worth the fuss that some people make?" "It's the fuss and the people that drive one on," said Kitty, under her breath. "You flatter them too much, darling! Do you think you were quite kind to me last night?--let's put it that way. I looked a precious fool, you know, standing on those steps, while you were keeping old Mother Parham and the whole show waiting!" She looked at him a moment in silence, at his heightened color and insistent eyes. "I can't think what made you marry me," she said, slowly. Ashe laughed, and came nearer. "And I can't think," he said, in a lower voice, "what made you come--if you weren't a little bit sorry--and lean your dear head against me like that, last night." "I wasn't sorry--I couldn't sleep," was her quick reply, while her eyes strove to keep up their war with his. A knock was heard at the door. Ashe moved hastily away. Kitty's maid entered. "I was to tell you, sir, that your breakfast was ready. And Lady Tranmore's servant has brought this note." Ashe took it and thrust it into his pocket. "Get my things ready, please," said Kitty to her maid. Ashe felt himself dismissed and went. As soon as he was gone, Kitty sprang out of bed, threw on a dressing-gown, and ran across to Blanche, who was bending over a chest of drawers. "Why did you say those foolish things to me yesterday?" she demanded, taking the girl impetuously by the arm, and so startling her that she nearly dropped the clothes she held. "They weren't foolish, my lady," said Blanche, sullenly, with averted eyes. "They were!" cried Kitty. "Of course, I'm a vixen--I always was. But you know, Blanche, I'm not always as bad as I have been lately. Very soon I shall be quite charming again--you'll see!" "I dare say, my lady." Blanche went on sorting and arranging the _lingerie_ she had taken out of the drawer. Kitty sat down beside her, nursing a bare foot which was crossed over the other. "You know how I abused you about my hair, Blanche? Well, Mrs. Alcot said, that very night, she never saw it so well done. She thought it must be Pierrefitte's best man. Wasn't it hellish of me? I knew quite well you'd done it beautifully." The maid said nothing, but a tear fell on one of Kitty's night-dresses. "And you remember the green garibaldi--last week? I just loathed it--because you'd forgotten that little black rosette." "No!" said Blanche, looking up; "your ladyship had never ordered it." "I did--I did! But never mind. Two of my friends have wanted to copy it, Blanche. They wouldn't believe it was done by a maid. They said it had such style. One of them would engage you to-morrow if you really want to go--" A silence. "But you won't go, Blanchie, will you?" said Kitty's silver voice. "I'm a horrid fiend, but I did get Mr. Ashe to help your young man--and I did care about your poor brother--and--and--" she stroked the girl's arm--"I do look rather nice when I'm dressed, don't I? You wouldn't like a great gawk to dress, would you?" "I'm sure I don't want to leave your ladyship," said the girl, choking. "But I can't have no more--" "No more ructions?" said Kitty, meditating. "H'm, of course that's serious, because I'm made so. Well, now, look here, Blanchie, you won't give me warning again for a fortnight, whatever I do, mind. And if by then I'm past praying for, you may. And I'll import a Russian--or a Choctaw--who won't understand when I call her names. Is that a bargain, Blanchie?" The maid hesitated. "Just a fortnight!" said Kitty, in her most seductive tones. "Very well, my lady." Kitty jumped up, waltzed round the room, the white silk skirts of her dressing-gown floating far and wide, then thrust her feet into her slippers, and began to dress as though nothing had happened. * * * * * But when her toilette was accomplished, Kitty having dismissed her maid, sat for some time in front of her mirror in a brown study. "What _is_ the matter with me?" she thought. "William is an angel, and I love him. And I can't do what he wants--I _can't_!" She drew a long, troubled breath. The lips of the face reflected in the glass were dry and colorless, the eyes had a strange, shrinking expression. "People _are_ possessed--I know they are. They can't help themselves. I began this to punish Mary--and now--when I don't see Geoffrey, everything is odious and dreary. I can't care for anything. Of course, I ought to care for William's politics. I expect I've done him harm--I know I have. What's wrong with me?" But suddenly, in the very midst of her self-examination, the emotion and excitement that she had felt of late in her long conversations with Cliffe returned upon her, filling her at once with poignant memory and a keen expectation to which she yielded herself as a wild sea-bird to the rocking of the sea. They had started--those conversations--from her attempt to penetrate the secret history of the man whose poems had filled her with a thrilling sense of feelings and passions beyond her ken--untrodden regions, full, no doubt, of shadow and of poison, but infinitely alluring to one whose nature was best summed up in the two words, curiosity and daring. She had not found it quite easy. Cliffe, as we know, had resented the levity of her first attempt. But when she renewed it, more seriously and sweetly, combining with it a number of subtle flatteries, the flattery of her beauty and her position, of the private interest she could not help showing in the man who was her husband's public antagonist, and of an admiration for his poems which was not so much mere praise as an actual covetous sharing in them, a making their ideas and their music her own--Cliffe could not in the end resist her. After all, so far, she only asked him to talk of himself, and for a man of his type the process is the very breath of his being, the stimulus and liberation of all his powers. So that before they knew they were in the midst of the most burning subjects of human discussion--at first in a manner comparatively veiled and general, then with the sharpest personal reference to Cliffe's own story, as the intimacy between them grew. Jealousy, suffering, the "hard cases" of passion--why men are selfish and exacting, why women mislead and torment--the ugly waste and crudity of death--it was among these great themes they found themselves. Death above all--it was to a thought of death that Cliffe's harsh face owed its chief spell perhaps in Kitty's eyes. A woman had died for love of him, crushed by his jealousy and her own self-scorn. So Kitty had been told; and Cliffe's tortured vanity would not deny it. How could she have cared so much? That was the puzzle. But this vicarious relation had now passed into a relation of her own. Cliffe was to Kitty a problem--and a problem which, beyond a certain point, defied her. The element of sex, of course, entered in, but only as intensifying the contrasts and mysteries of imagination. And he made her feel these contrasts and mysteries as she had never yet felt them; and so he enlarged the world for her, he plunged her, if only by contact with his own bitter and irritable genius, into new regions of sentiment and feeling. For in spite of the vulgar elements in him there were also elements of genius. The man was a poet and a thinker, though he were at the same time, in some sense, an adventurer. His mind was stored with eloquent and beautiful imagery, the poetry of others, and poetry of his own. He could pursue the meanest personal objects in an unscrupulous way; but he had none the less passed through a wealth of tragic circumstance; he had been face to face with his own soul in the wilds of the earth; he had met every sort of physical danger with contempt; and his arrogant, imperious temper was of the kind which attracts many women, especially, perhaps, women physically small and intellectually fearless, like Kitty, who feel in it a challenge to their power and their charm. His society, then, had in these six weeks become, for Kitty, a passion--a passion of the imagination. For the man himself, she would probably have said that she felt more repulsion than anything else. But it was a repulsion that held her, because of the constant sense of reaction, of on-rushing life, which it excited in herself. Add to these the elements of mischief and defiance in the situation, the snatching him from Mary, her enemy and slanderer, the defiance of Lady Grosville and all other hypocritical tyrants, the pride of dragging at her chariot wheels a man whom most people courted even when they loathed him, who enjoyed, moreover, an astonishing reputation abroad, especially in that France which Kitty adored, as a kind of modern Byron, the only Englishman who could still display in public the "pageant of a bleeding heart," without making himself ridiculous, and perhaps enough has been heaped together to explain the infatuation that now, like a wild spring gust on a shining lake, was threatening to bring Kitty's light bark into dangerous waters. "I don't care for him," she said to herself, as she sat thinking alone, "but I must see him--I _will_! And I will talk to him as I please, and where I please!" Her small frame stiffened under the obstinacy of her resolution. Kitty's will at a moment of this kind was a fatality--so strong was it, and so irrational. * * * * * Meanwhile, down-stairs, Ashe himself was wrestling with another phase of the same situation. Lady Tranmore's note had said: "I shall be with you almost immediately after you receive this, as I want to catch you before you go to the Foreign Office." Accordingly, they were in the library, Ashe on the defensive, Lady Tranmore nervous, embarrassed, and starting at a sound. Both of them watched the door. Both looked for and dreaded the advent of Kitty. "Dear William," said his mother at last, stretching her hand across a small table which stood between them and laying it on her son's, "you'll forgive me, won't you?--even if I do seem to you prudish and absurd. But I am afraid you _ought_ to tell Kitty some of the unkind things people are saying! You know I've tried, and she wouldn't listen to me. And you ought to beg her--yes, William, indeed you ought!--not to give any further occasion for them." She looked at him anxiously, full Of that timidity which haunts the deepest and tenderest affections. She had just given him to read a letter from Lady Grosville to herself. Ashe ran through it, then laid it down with a gesture of scorn. "Kitty apparently enjoyed a moonlight walk with Cliffe. Why shouldn't she? Lady Grosville thinks the moon was made to sleep by--other people don't." "But, William!--at night--when everybody had gone to bed--escaping from the house--they two alone!" Lady Tranmore looked at him entreatingly, as though driven to protest, and yet hating the sound of her own words. Ashe laughed. He was smoking with an air so nonchalant that his mother's heart sank. For she divined that criticism in the society around her which she was never allowed to hear. Was it true, indeed, that his natural indolence could not rouse itself even to the defence of a young wife's reputation? "All the fault of the Grosvilles," said Ashe, after a moment, lighting another cigarette, "in shutting up their great heavy house, and drawing their great heavy curtains on a May night, when all reasonable people want to be out-of-doors. My dear mother, what's the good of paying any attention to what people like Lady Grosville say of people like Kitty? You might as well expect Deborah to hit it off with Ariel!" "William, don't laugh!" said his mother, in distress. "Geoffrey Cliffe is not a man to be trusted. You and I know that of old. He is a boaster, and--" "And a liar!" said Ashe, quietly. "Oh! I know that." "And yet he has this power over women--one ought to look it in the face. William, dearest William!" she leaned over and clasped his hand close in both hers, "do persuade Kitty to go away from London now--at once!" "Kitty won't go," said Ashe, quietly, "I am sorry, dear mother. I hate that you should be worried. But there's the fact. Kitty won't go!" "Then use your authority," said Lady Tranmore. "I have none." "William!" Ashe rose from his seat, and began to walk up and down. His aspect of competence and dignity, as of a man already accustomed to command and destined to a high experience, had never been more marked than at the very moment of this helpless utterance. His mother looked at him with mingled admiration and amazement. Presently he paused beside her. "I should like you to understand me, mother. I cannot fight with Kitty. Before I asked her to marry me, I made up my mind to that. I knew then and I know now that nothing but disaster could come of it. She must be free, and I shall not attempt to coerce her." "Or to protect her!" cried his mother. "As to that, I shall do what I can. But I clearly foresaw when we married that we should scandalize a good many of the weaker brethren." He smiled, but, as it seemed to his mother, with some effort. "William! as a public man--" He interrupted her. "If I can be both Kitty's husband and a public man, well and good. If not, then I shall be--" "Kitty's husband?" cried Lady Tranmore, with an accent of bitterness, almost of sarcasm, of which she instantly repented her. She changed her tone. "It is, of course, Kitty, first and foremost, who is concerned in your public position," she said, more gently. "Dearest William--she is so young still--she probably doesn't quite understand, in spite of her great cleverness. But she _does_ care--she _must_ care--and she ought to know what slight things may sometimes affect a man's prospects and future in this country." Ashe said nothing. He turned on his heel and resumed his pacing. Lady Tranmore looked at him in perplexity. "William, I heard a rumor last night--" He held his cigarette suspended. "Lord Crashaw told me that the resignations would certainly be in the papers this week, and that the ministry would go on--after a rearrangement of posts. Is it true?" Ashe resumed his cigarette. "True--as to the facts--so far as I know. As to the date, Lord Crashaw knows, I think, no more than I do. It may be this week, it may be next month." "Then I hear--thank goodness I never see her," Elizabeth went on, reluctantly--"that that dreadful woman, Lady Parham, is more infuriated than ever--" "With Kitty? Let her be! It really doesn't matter an old shoe, either to Kitty or me." "She can be a most bitter enemy, William. And she certainly influences Lord Parham." Ashe smoked and smiled. Lady Tranmore saw that his pride, too, had been aroused, and that here he was likely to prove as obstinate as Kitty. "I wish I could get her out of my mind!" she sighed. Ashe glanced at her kindly. "I daresay we shall hold our own. Xanthippe is not beloved, and I don't believe Parham will let her interfere with what he thinks best for the party. Will it pay to put me in the cabinet or not?--that's what he'll ask. I shall be strongly backed, too, by most of our papers." A number of thoughts ran through Lady Tranmore's brain. With her long experience of London, she knew well what the sudden lowering of a man's "consideration"--to use a French word--at a critical moment may mean. A cooling of the general regard--a breath of detraction coming no one knows whence--and how soon new claims emerge, and the indispensable of yesterday becomes the negligible of to-day! But even if she could have brought herself to put any of these anxieties into words, she had no opportunity. Kitty's voice was in the hall; the handle turned, and she ran in. "William! Ah!--I didn't know mother was here." She went up to Elizabeth, and lightly kissed that lady's cheek. "Good-morning. William, I just came to tell you that I may be late for dinner, so perhaps you had better dine at the House. I am going on the river." "Are you?" said Ashe, gathering up his papers. "Wish I was." "Are you going with the Crashaw's party?" asked Elizabeth. "I know they have one." "Oh, dear, no!" said Kitty. "I hate a crowd on the river. I am going with Geoffrey Cliffe." Ashe bent over his desk. Lady Tranmore's eyebrows went up, and she could not restrain the word: "Alone?" "_Naturellement_!" laughed Kitty. "He reads me French poetry, and we talk French. We let Madeleine Alcot come once, but her accent was so shocking that Geoffrey wouldn't have her again!" Lady Tranmore flushed deeply. The "Geoffrey" seemed to her intolerable. Kitty, arrayed in the freshest of white gowns, walked away to the farther end of the library to consult a _Bradshaw_. Elizabeth, looking up, caught her son's eyes--and the mingled humor and vexation in them, wherewith he appealed to her, as it were, to see the whole silly business as he himself did. Lady Tranmore felt a moment's strong reaction. Had she indeed been making a foolish fuss about nothing? Yet the impression left by the miserable meditations of her night was still deep enough to make her say--with just a signal from eye and lips, so that Kitty neither saw nor heard--"Don't let her go!" Ashe shook his head. He moved towards the door, and stood there despatch-box in hand, throwing a last look at his wife. "Don't be late, Kitty--or I shall be nervous. I don't trust Cliffe on the river. And please make it a rule that, in locks, he stops quoting French poetry." Kitty turned round, startled and apparently annoyed by his tone. "He is an excellent oar," she said, shortly. "Is he? At Oxford we tried him for the Torpids--" Ashe's shrug completed his remark. Then, still disregarding another imploring look from Lady Tranmore, he left the room. Kitty had flushed angrily. The belittling, malicious note in Ashe's manner had been clear enough. She braced herself against it, and Lady Tranmore's chance was lost. For when, summoning all her courage, and quite uncertain whether her son would approve or blame her, Elizabeth approached her daughter-in-law affectionately, trying in timid and apologetic words to unburden her own heart and reach Kitty's, Kitty met her with one of those outbursts of temper that women like Elizabeth Tranmore cannot cope with. Their moral recoil is too great. It is the recoil of the spiritual aristocrat; and between them and the children of passion the links are few, the antagonism eternal. She left the house, pale, dignified, the tears in her eyes. Kitty ran up-stairs, humming an air from "Faust," as though she would tear it to pieces, put on a flame-colored hat that gave a still further note of extravagance to her costume, ordered a hansom, and drove away. * * * * * Whether Kitty got much joy out of the three weeks which followed must remain uncertain. She had certainly routed Mary Lyster, if there were any final satisfaction in that. Mary had left town early, and was now in Somersetshire helping her father to entertain, in order, said the malicious, to put the best face possible on a defeat which this time had been serious. And instead of devoting himself to the wooing of a northern constituency where he had been adopted as the candidate of a new Tory group, Cliffe lingered obstinately in town, endangering his chances and angering his supporters. Kitty's influence over his actions was, indeed, patent and undenied, whatever might be the general opinion as to her effect upon his heart. Some of Kitty's intimates at any rate were convinced that his absorption in the matter was by now, to say the least, no less eager and persistent than hers. At this point it was by no means still a relation of flattery on Kitty's side and a pleased self-love on his. It had become a duel of two personalities, or rather two imaginations. In fact, as Kitty, learning the ways of his character, became more proudly mistress of herself and him, his interest in her visibly increased. It might almost be said that she was beginning to hold back, and he for the first time pursued. Once or twice he had the grace to ask himself where it was all to end. Was he in love with her? An absurd question! He had paid his heavy tribute to passion if any man ever had, and had already hung up his votive tablet and his garments wet from shipwreck in the temple of the god. But it seemed that, after all said and done, the society of a woman, young, beautiful, and capricious, was still the best thing which the day--the London day, at all events--had to bring. At Kitty's suggestion he was collecting and revising a new volume of his poems. He and she quarrelled over them perpetually. Sometimes there was not a line which pleased her; and then, again, she would delight him with the homage of sudden tears in her brown eyes, and a praise so ardent and so refined that it almost compared--as Kitty meant it should--with that of the dead. In the shaded drawing-room, where every detail pleased his taste, Cliffe's harsh voice thundered or murmured verse which was beyond dispute the verse of a poet, and thereby sensuous and passionate. Ostensibly the verse concerned another woman; in truth, the slight and lovely figure sitting on the farther side of the flowered hearth, the delicate head bent, the finger-tips lightly joined, entered day by day more directly into the consciousness of the poet. What harm? All he asked was intelligence and response. As to her heart, he made no claim upon it whatever. Ashe, by-the-way, was clearly not jealous--a sensible attitude, considering Lady Kitty's strength of will. Into Cliffe's feeling towards Ashe there entered, indeed, a number of evil things, determined by quite other relations between the two men--the relation of the man who wants to the man who has, of the man beaten by the restlessness of ambition to the man who possesses all that the other desires, and affects to care nothing about it--of the combatant who fights with rage to the combatant who fights with a smile. Cliffe could often lash himself into fury by the mere thought of Ashe's opportunities and Ashe's future, combined with the belief that Ashe's mood towards himself was either contemptuous or condescending. And it was at such moments that he would fling himself with most resource into the establishing of his ascendency over Kitty. The two men met when they did meet--which was but seldom--on perfectly civil terms. If Ashe arrived unexpectedly from the House in the late afternoon to find Cliffe in the drawing-room reading aloud to Kitty, the politics of the moment provided talk enough till Cliffe could decently take his departure. He never dined with them alone, Kitty having no mind whatever for the discomforts of such a party; and in the evenings when he and Kitty met at a small number of houses, where the flirtation was watched nightly with a growing excitement, Ashe's duties kept him at Westminster, and there was nothing to hinder that flow of small and yet significant incident by which situations of this kind are developed. Ashe set his teeth. He had made up his mind finally that it was a plague and a tyranny which would pass, and could only be magnified by opposition. But his temper suffered. There were many small quarrels during these weeks between himself and Kitty, quarrels which betrayed the tension produced in him by what was--in essentials--an iron self-control. But they made daily life a sordid, unlovely thing, and they gave Kitty an excuse for saying that William was as violent as herself, and for seeking refuge in the exaltations of feeling or of fancy provided by Cliffe's companionship. Perhaps of all the persons in the drama, Lady Tranmore was the most to be pitied. She sat at home, having no heart to go to Hill Street, and more tied indeed than usual by the helpless illness of her husband. Never, in all these days, did Ashe miss his daily visit to his father. He would come in, apparently his handsome, good-humored self, ready to read aloud for twenty minutes, or merely to sit in silence by the sick man, his eyes making affectionate answer every now and then to the dumb looks of Lord Tranmore. Only his mother sought and found that slight habitual contraction of the brow which bore witness to some equally persistent disquiet of the mind. But he kept her at arm's-length on the subject of Kitty. She dared not tell him any of the gossip which reached her. Meanwhile these weeks meant for her not only the dread of disgrace, but the disappointment of a just ambition, the humiliation of her mother's pride. The political crisis approached rapidly, and Ashe's name was less and less to the front. Lady Parham was said to be taking an active part in the consultations and intrigues that surrounded her husband, and it was well known by now to the inner circle that her hostility to the Ashes, and her insistence on the fact that cabinet ministers must be beyond reproach, and their wives persons to whose houses the party can go without demeaning themselves, were likely to be of importance. Moreover, Ashe's success in the House of Commons was no longer what it had been earlier in the session. The party papers had cooled. Elizabeth Tranmore felt a blight in the air. Yet William, with his position in the country, his high ability, and the social weight belonging to the heir of the Tranmore peerage and estates, was surely not a person to be lightly ignored! Would Lord Parham venture it? * * * * * At last the resignations of the two ministers were in the _Times_; there were communications between the Queen and the Premier, and London plunged with such ardor as is possible in late July into the throes of cabinet-making. Kitty insisted petulantly that of course all would be well; William's services were far too great to be ignored; though Lord Parham would no doubt slight him if he dared. But the party and the public would see to that. The days were gone by when vulgar old women like Lady Parham could have any real influence on political appointments. Otherwise, who would condescend to politics? Ashe brought her amusing reports from the House or the clubs of the various intrigues going on, and, as to his own chances, refused to discuss them seriously. Once or twice when Kitty, in his presence, insisted on speaking of them to some political intimate, only to provoke an evident embarrassment, Ashe suffered the tortures which proud men know. But he never lost his tone of light detachment, and the conclusion of his friends was that, as usual, "Ashe didn't care a button." The hours passed, however, and no sign came from the Prime Minister. Everything was still uncertain; but Ashe had realized that at least he was not to be taken into the inner counsels of the party. The hopes and fears, the heartburnings and rivalries of such a state of things are proverbial. Ashe wondered impatiently when the beastly business would be over, and he could get off to Scotland for the air and sport of which he was badly in need. * * * * * It was a Friday, in the first week of August. Ashe was leaving the Athenæum with another member of the House when a newspaper boy rushing along with a fresh bundle of papers passed them with the cry, "New cabinet complete! Official list!" They caught him up, snatched a paper, and read. Two men of middle age, conspicuous in Parliament, but not hitherto in office, one of them of great importance as a lawyer, the other as a military critic, were appointed, the one to the Home Office, the other to the Ministry of War; there had been some shuffling in the minor offices, and a new Privy Seal had dawned upon the world. For the rest, all was as before, and in the formal list the name of the Honorable William Travers Ashe still remained attached to the Under-Secretaryship for Foreign Affairs. Ashe's friend shrugged his shoulders, and avoided looking at his companion. "A bomb-shell, to begin with," he said; "otherwise the flattest thing out." "On the contrary," laughed Ashe. "Parham has shown a wonderful amount of originality. If you and I are taken by surprise, what will the public be? And they'll like him all the better--you'll see. He has shown courage and gone for new men--that's what they'll say. _Vive_ Parham! Well, good-bye. Now, please the Lord, we shall get off--and I may be among the grouse this day week." He stopped on his way out of the club to discuss the list with the men coming in. He was conscious that some would have avoided him. But he had no mind to be avoided, and his caustic, good-humored talk carried off the situation. Presently he was walking homeward, swinging his stick with the gayety of a school-boy expecting the holidays. As he mounted St. James's Street a carriage descended. Ashe mechanically took off his hat to the half-recognized face within, and as he did so perceived the icy bow and triumphant eyes of Lady Parham. He hurried along, fighting a curious sensation, as of a physical bruising and beating. The streets were full of the news, and he was stopped many times by mere acquaintances to talk of it. In Savile Row he turned into a small literary club of which he was a member, and wrote a letter to his mother. In very affectionate and amusing terms it begged her not to take the disappointment too seriously. "I think I won't come round to-night. But expect me first thing to-morrow." He sent the note by messenger and walked home. When he reached Hill Street it was close on eight. Outside the house he suddenly asked himself what line he was going to take with Kitty. Kitty, however, was not at home. As far as he could remember she had gone coaching with the Alcots into Surrey, Geoffrey Cliffe, of course, being of the party. Presently, indeed, he discovered a hasty line from her on his study table, to say that they were to dine at Richmond, and "Madeleine" supposed they would get home between ten and eleven. Not a word more. Like all strong men, Ashe despised the meditations of self-pity. But the involuntary reflection that on this evening of humiliation Kitty was not with him--did not apparently care enough about his affairs and his ambitions to be with him--brought with it a soreness which had to be endured. The next moment, he was inclined to be glad of her absence. Such things, especially in the first shock of them, are best faced alone. If, indeed, there were any shock in the matter. He had for some time had his own shrewd previsions, and he was aware of a strong inner belief that his defeat was but temporary. Probably, when she had time to remember such trifles, Kitty would feel the shock more than he did. Lady Parham had certainly won this round of the rubber! He settled to his solitary dinner, but in the middle of it put down Kitty's Aberdeen terrier, which, for want of other company, he was stuffing atrociously, and ran up to the nursery. The nurse was at her supper, and Harry lay fast asleep, a pretty little fellow, flushed into a semblance of health, and with a strong look of Kitty. Ashe bent down and put his whiskered cheek to the boy's. "Never mind, old man!" he murmured, "better luck next time!" Then raising himself with a smile, he looked affectionately at the child, noticed with satisfaction his bright color and even breathing, and stole away. He ran through the comments of the evening papers on the new cabinet list, finding in only two or three any reference to himself, then threw them aside, and seized upon a pile of books and reviews that were lying on his table. He carried them up to the drawing-room, hesitated between a theological review and a new edition of Horace, and finally plunged with avidity into the theological review. For some two hours he sat enthralled by an able summary of the chief Tübingen positions; then suddenly threw himself back with a stretch and a laugh. "Wonder what the chap's doing that's got my post! Not reading theology, I'll be bound." The reflection followed that were he at that moment Home Secretary and in the cabinet, he would not probably be reading it either--nor left to a solitary evening. Friends would be dropping in to congratulate--the modern equivalent of the old "turba clientium." As his thoughts wandered, the drawing-room clock struck eleven. He rose, astonished and impatient. Where was Kitty? By midnight she had not arrived. Ashe heard the butler moving in the hall and summoned him. "There may have been some mishap to the coach, Wilson. Perhaps they have stayed at Richmond. Anyway, go to bed. I'll wait for her ladyship." He returned to his arm-chair and his books, but soon drew Kitty's _couvre-pied_ over him and went to sleep. When he awoke, daylight was in the room. "What has happened to them?" he asked himself, in a sudden anxiety. And amid the silence of the dawn he paced up and down, a prey for the first time to black depression. He was besieged by memories of the last two months, their anxieties and quarrels--the waste of time and opportunity--the stabs to feeling and self-respect. Once he found himself groaning aloud, "Kitty! Kitty!" When this huge, distracting London was left behind, when he had her to himself amid the Scotch heather and birch, should he find her again--conquer her again--as in the exquisite days after their marriage? He thought of Cliffe with a kind of proud torment, disdaining to be jealous or afraid. Kitty had amused herself--had tested her freedom, his patience, to the utmost. Might she now be content, and reward him a little for a self-control, a philosophy, which had not been easy! A French novel on Kitty's little table drew his attention. He thought not without a discomfortable humor of what a French husband would have made of a similar situation--recalling the remark of a French acquaintance on some case illustrating the freedom of English wives. "Il y a un élément turc dans le mari français, qui nous rendrait ces moeurs-là impossibles!" _À la bonne heure_! Let the Frenchman keep up his seraglio standards as he pleased. An Englishman trusts both his wife and his daughter--scorns, indeed, to consider whether he trusts them or no! And who comes worst off? Not the Englishman--if, at least, we are to believe the French novel on the French _ménage!_ He paced thus up and down for an hour, defying his unseen critics--his mother--his own heart. * * * * * Then he went to bed and slept a little. But with the post next morning there was no letter from Kitty. There might be a hundred explanations of that. Yet he felt a sudden need of caution. "Her ladyship comes up this morning by train," he said to Wilson, as though reading from a note. "There seems to have been a mishap." Then he took a hansom and drove to the Alcots. "Is Mrs. Alcot at home?" he asked the butler. "Can I have an answer to this note?" "Mrs. Alcot has been in her room since yesterday morning, sir. She was taken ill just before the coach was coming round, and the horses had to be sent back. But the doctor last night hoped it would be nothing serious." Ashe turned and went home. Then Kitty was not with Madeleine Alcot--not on the coach! Where was she, and with whom? He shut himself into his library and fell to wondering, in bewilderment, what he had better do. A tide of rage and agony was mounting within him. How to master it--and keep his brain clear! He was sitting in front of his writing-table staring at the floor, his hands hanging before him, when the door opened and shut. He turned. There, with her back to the door, stood Kitty. Her aspect startled him to his feet. She looked at him, trembling--her little face haggard and white, with a touch of something in it which had blurred its youth. "William!" She put both her hands to her breast, as though to support herself. Then she flew forward. "William! I have done nothing wrong--nothing--nothing! William--look at me!" He sternly put out his hand, protecting himself. "Where have you been?" he said, in a low voice--"and with whom?" Kitty fell into a chair and burst into wild tears. XIII There was silence for a few moments except for Kitty's crying. Ashe still stood beside his writing-table, his hand resting upon it, his eyes on Kitty. Once or twice he began to speak, and stopped. At last he said, with obvious difficulty: "It's cruel to keep me waiting, Kitty." "I sent you a telegram first thing this morning." The voice was choked and passionate. "I never got it." "Horrid little fiend!" cried Kitty, sitting up and dashing back her hair from her tear-stained cheeks. "I gave a boy half a crown this morning to be at the station with it by eight o'clock. And I couldn't possibly either write or telegraph last night--it was too late." "Where were you?" said Ashe, slowly. "I went to the Alcots' this morning, and--" "--the butler told you Madeleine was in bed? So she is. She was ill yesterday morning. There was no coach and no party. I went with Geoffrey." Kitty held herself erect; her eyes, from which the tears were involuntarily dropping, were fixed on her husband. "Of course I guessed that," said Ashe. "It was Geoffrey brought me the news--here, just as I was starting to go to the Alcots'. Then he said he had something to read me--and it would be delicious to go to Pangbourne--spend the day on the river--and come back from Windsor--at night--by train. And I had a horrid headache--and it was so hot--and you were at the office"--her lip quivered--"and I wanted to hear Geoffrey's poems--and so--" She interrupted herself, and once more broke down--hiding her face against the chair. But the next moment she felt herself roughly drawn forward, as Ashe knelt beside her. "Kitty!--look at me! That man behaved to you like a villain?" She looked up--she saw the handsome, good-humored face transformed--and wrenched herself away. "He did," she said, bitterly--"like a villain." She began to twist and torment her handkerchief as Ashe had seen her do once before, the small white teeth pressed upon the lower lip--then suddenly she turned upon him-- "I suppose you want me to tell you the story?" All Kitty in the words! Her frankness, her daring, and the impatient, realistic tone she was apt to impose upon emotion--they were all there. Ashe rose and began to walk up and down. "Tell me your part in it," he said, at last--"and as little of that fellow as may be." Kitty was silent. Ashe, looking at her, saw a curious shade of reverie, a kind of dreamy excitement steal over her face. "Go on, Kitty!" he said, sharply. Then, restraining himself, he added, with all his natural courtesy--"I beg your pardon, Kitty, but the sooner we get through with this the better." The mist in which her expression had been for a moment wrapped fell away. She flushed deeply. "I told you I had done nothing vile!" she said, passionately. "Did you believe me?" Their eyes met in a shock of challenge and reply. "Those things are not to be asked between you and me," he said, with vehemence, and he held out his hand. She just touched it--proudly. Then she drew a long breath. "The day was--just like other days. He read me his poems--in a cool place we found under the bank. I thought he was rather absurd now and then--and different from what he had been. He talked of our going away--and his not seeing me--and how lonely he was. And of course I was awfully sorry for him. But it was all right till--" She paused and looked at Ashe. "You remember the inn near Hamel Weir--a few miles from Windsor--that lonely little place." Ashe nodded. "We dined there. Afterwards we were to row to Windsor and come home by a train about ten. We finished dinner early. By-the-way, there were two other people there--Lady Edith Manley and her boy. They had rowed down from somewhere--" "Did Lady Edith--" "Yes--she spoke to me. She was going back to town--to the Holland House party--" "Where she probably met mother?" "She did meet her!" cried Kitty. She pointed to a letter which she had thrown down as she entered. "Your mother sent round this note to me this morning--to ask when I should be at home. And Wilson sent word--There! Of course I know she thinks I'm capable of anything." She looked at him, defiant, but very miserable and pale. "Go on, please," said Ashe. "We finished dinner early. There was a field behind the inn, and then a wood. We strolled into the wood, and then Geoffrey--well, he went mad! He--" She bit her lip fiercely, struggling for composure--and words. "He proposed to you to throw me over?" said Ashe, as white as she. With a sudden gesture she held out her arms--like a piteous child. "Oh! don't stand there--and look at me like that--I can't bear it." Ashe came--unwillingly. She perceived the reluctance, and with a flaming face she motioned him back, while she controlled herself enough to pour out her story. Presently Ashe was able to reconstruct with tolerable clearness what had occurred. Cliffe, intoxicated by the long day of intimacy and of solitude, by Kitty's beauty and Kitty's folly, aware that parting was near at hand, and trusting to the wildness of Kitty's temperament, had suddenly assumed the language of the lover--and a lover by no means uncertain of his ultimate answer. So long as they understood each other--that, indeed, for the present, was all he asked. But she must know that she had broken off his marriage with Mary Lyster, and reopened in his nature all the old founts of passion and of storm. It had been her sovereign will that he should love her; it had been achieved. For her sake--knowing himself for the seared and criminal being that he was--for Ashe's sake--he had tried to resist her spell. In vain. A fatal fusion of their two natures--imaginations--sympathies--had come about. Each was interpenetrated by the other; and retreat was impossible. A kind of sombre power, indeed--the power of the poet and the dreamer--seemed to have spoken from Cliffe's strange wooing. He had taken no particular pains to flatter her, or to conceal his original hesitation. He put her own action in a hard, almost a brutal light. It was plain that he thought she had treated her husband badly; that he warned her of a future of treachery and remorse. At the same time he let her see that he could not doubt but that she would face it. They still had the last justifying cards in their hands--passion, and the courage to go where passion leads. When those were played, they might look each other and the world in the face. Till then they were but triflers--mean souls--fit neither for heaven nor for hell. Ashe's whole being was soon in a tumult of rage under the sting of this report, as he was able to piece it out from Kitty. But he kept his self-command, and by dint of it he presently arrived at some notion of her own share in the scene. Horror, recoil, disavowal--a wild resentment of the charges heaped upon her, of the pitiless interpretation of her behavior which broke from those harsh lips, of the incredulity passing into something like contempt with which Cliffe had endured her wrath and received her protestations--then a blind flight through the fields to the little wayside station, where she hoped to catch the last train; the arrival and departure of the train while she was still half a mile from the line, and her shelter at a cottage for the night; these things stood out plainly, whatever else remained in obscurity. How far she had provoked her own fate, and how far even now she was delivered from the morbid spell of Cliffe's personality, Ashe would not allow himself to ask. As she neared the end of her story, it was as though the great tempest wave in which she had been struggling died down, and with a merciful rush bore him to a shore of deliverance. She was there beside him; and she was still his own. He had been leaning over the side of a chair, his chin on his hand, his eyes fixed upon her, while she told her tale. It ended in a burst of self-pity, as she remembered her collapse in the cottage, the impossibility of finding any carriage in the small hamlet of which it made part, the faint weariness of the night-- "I never slept," she said, piteously. "I got up at eight for the first train, and now I feel"--she fell back in her chair, and whispered desolately with shut eyes--"as if I should like to die!" Ashe knelt down beside her. "It's my fault, too, Kitty. I ought to have held you with a stronger hand. I hated quarrelling with you. But--oh, my dear, my dear--" She met the cry in silence, the tears running over her cheeks. Roughly, impetuously, he gathered her in his arms and kissed her, as though he would once more re-knit and reconsecrate the bond between them. She lay passively against him, the tangle of her fair hair spread over his shoulder--too frail and too exhausted for response. "This won't do," he said, presently, disengaging himself; "you must have some food and rest. Then we'll think what shall be done." She roused herself suddenly as he went to the door. "Why aren't you at the Foreign Office?" "I sent a message early. Lawson came"--Lawson was his private secretary--"but I must go down in an hour." "William!" Kitty had raised herself, and her eyes shone large and startled in the small, tear-stained face. "Yes." He paused a moment. "William, is the list out?" "Yes." Kitty tottered to her feet. "Is it all right?" "I suppose so," he said, slowly. "It doesn't affect me." And then, without waiting, he went into the hall and closed the door behind him. He wrote a note to the Foreign Office to say that he should not be at the office till the afternoon, and that important papers were to be sent up to him. Then he told Wilson to bring wine and sandwiches into the library for Lady Kitty, who had been detained by an accident on the river the night before, and was much exhausted. No visitors were to be admitted, except, of course, Lady Tranmore or Miss French. When he returned to the library he found Kitty with crimson cheeks, her hands locked behind her, walking up and down. As soon as she saw him she motioned to him imperiously. [Illustration: "HE GATHERED HER IN HIS ARMS"] "Shut the door, William. I have something very important to say to you." He obeyed her, and she walked up to him deliberately. He saw the fluttering of her heart beneath her white dress--the crushed, bedraggled dress, which still in its soft elegance, its small originalities, spoke Kitty from head to foot. But her manner was quite calm and collected. "William, we must separate! You must send me away." He started. "What do you mean?" "What I say. It is--it is intolerable--that I should ruin your life like this." "Don't, please, exaggerate, Kitty! There is no question of ruin. I shall make my way when the time comes, and Lady Parham will have nothing to say to it!" "No! Nothing will ever go well--while I'm there--like a millstone round your neck. William"--she came closer to him--"take my advice--do it! I Warned you when you married me. And now you see--it was true." "You foolish child," he answered, slowly, "do you think I could forget you for an hour, wherever you were?" "Oh yes," she said, steadily, "I know you would forget me--- if I wasn't here. I'm sure of it. You're very ambitious, William--more than you know. You'll soon care--" "More for politics than for you? Another of your delusions, Kitty. Nothing of the sort. Moreover, if you will only let me advise you--trust your husband a little--think both for him and yourself. I see nothing either in politics or in our life together that cannot be retrieved." He spoke with manly kindness and reasonableness. Not a trace of his habitual indolence or indifference. Kitty, listening, was conscious of the most tempestuous medley of feelings--love, remorse, shame, and a strange gnawing desolation. What else, what better _could_ she have asked of him? And yet, as she looked at him, she thought suddenly of the moonlit garden at Grosville Park, and of that young, headlong chivalry with which he had thrown himself at her feet. This man before her, so much older and maturer, counting the cost of his marriage with her in the light of experience, and magnanimously, resolutely paying it--Kitty, in a flash, realized his personality as she had never yet done, his moral independence of her, his separateness as a human being. Her passionate self-love instinctively, unconsciously, had made of his life the appendage of hers. And now--? His devotion had never been so plain, so attested; and all the while bitter, terrifying voices rang upon the inner ear, voices of fate, vague and irrevocable. She dropped into a chair beside his table, trembling and white. "No, no," she said, drawing her handkerchief across her eyes, with a gesture of childish misery, "it's all been a--a horrid mistake. Your mother was quite right. Of course she hated your marrying me--and now--now she'll see what I've done. I guess perfectly what she's thinking about me to-day! And I can't help it--I shall go on--if you let me stay with you. There's a twist--a black drop in me. I'm not like other people." Her voice, which was very quiet, gave Ashe intolerable pain. "You poor, tired, starved child," he said, kneeling down beside her. "Put your arms round my neck. Let me carry you up-stairs." With a sob she did as she was told. Ashe's library a comparatively late addition to the rambling, old-fashioned house, communicated by a small staircase at the back with his dressing-room above. He lifted the small figure with ease, and half-way up-stairs he impetuously kissed the delicate cheek. "I'm glad you're not Polly Lyster, darling!" Kitty laughed through her tears. Presently he deposited her on the large sofa in her own room, and stood beside her, panting a little. "It's all very well," said Kitty, as she nestled down among the pillows, "but we're _none_ of us feathers!" Her eyes were beginning to recover a little of their sparkle. She looked at him with attention. "You look horribly tired. What--what did you do--last night?" She turned away from him. "I sat up reading--then went to sleep down-stairs. I thought the coach had come to grief, and you were somewhere with the Alcots." "If I had known that," she murmured, "_I_ might have gone to sleep. Oh, it was so horrible--the little stuffy room, and the dirty blankets." She gave a shiver of disgust. "There was a poor baby, too, with whooping-cough. Lucky I had some money. I gave the woman a sovereign. But she wasn't at all nice--she never smiled once. I know she thought I was a bad lot." Then she sprang up. "Sit there!" She pointed to the foot of the sofa. Ashe obeyed her. "When did you know?" "About the ministry? Between six and seven. I saw Lady Parham afterwards driving in St. James's Street. She never enjoyed anything so much in her life as the bow she gave me.'" Kitty groaned, and subsided again, a little crumpled form among her cushions. "Tell me the names." Ashe gave her the list of the ministry. She made one or two shrewd or bitter comments upon it. He fully understood that in her inmost mind she was registering a vow of vengeance against the Parhams; but she made no spoken threat. Meanwhile, in the background of each mind there lay that darker and more humiliating fact, to which both shrank from returning, while yet both knew that it must be faced. There was a knock at the door, and Blanche appeared with the tray which had been ordered down-stairs. She glanced in astonishment at her mistress. "We had an accident on the river last night, Blanche," said Kitty. "Come back in half an hour. I'm too tired to change just yet." She kept her face hidden from the maid, but when Blanche had departed, Ashe saw that her cheeks were flaming. "I hate lying!" she said, with a kind of physical disgust--"and now I suppose it will be my chief occupation for weeks." It was true that she hated lying, and Ashe was well aware of it. Of such a battle-stroke, indeed, as she had played at the ball, when her prompt falsehood snatched Cliffe from Mary Lyster, she was always capable. But in general her pride, her very egotism and quick temper kept her true. Perhaps the fact represented one of those deep sources whence the well of Ashe's tenderness was fed. At any rate, consciously or not, it was at this moment one of his chief motives for not finding the past intolerable or the future without hope. He took some wine and a sandwich from the tray, and began to feed her. In the middle, she pushed his hands away, and her eyes brimmed again with tears. "Put it down," she commanded. And when he had done so, she raised his hands deliberately, one after the other, and kissed them, crying: "William!--I have been a horrible wife to you!" "Don't be a goose, Kitty. You know very well that--till this last business--And don't imagine that I feel myself a model, either!" "No," she said, with a long sigh. "Of course, you ought to have beaten me." He smiled, with an unsteady lip. "Perhaps I might still try it." She shook her head. "Too late. I am not a child any more." Then throwing her soft arms round his neck, she clung to him, saying the most adorable and poignant things, dissolved, indeed, in a murmuring anguish of remorse; until, with the same unexpectedness as before, she again disengaged herself--urging, insisting that he should send her away. "Let me go and live at Haggart, baby and I." (Haggart was one of the Tranmore "places," recently handed over to the young people.) "You can come and see me sometimes. I'll garden--and write books. Half the smart women I know write stories--or plays. Why shouldn't I?" "Why, indeed? Meanwhile, madam, I take you to Scotland--next week." "Scotland?" She pressed her hands over her eyes. "'Anywhere--anywhere--out of the world!'" "Kitty!" Startled by the abandonment of her words, Ashe caught her hands and held them. "Kitty!--- you regret--" "That man? Do I?" She opened her eyes, frowning. "I loathe him! When I think of yesterday, I could drown myself. If I could pile the whole world between him and me--I would. But"--she shivered--"but yet--if he were sitting there--" "You would be once more under the spell?" said Ashe, bitterly. "Spell!" she repeated, with scorn. Then snatching her hands from his, she threw back the hair from her temples with a wild gesture. "I warned you," she said--"I warned you." "A man doesn't pay much attention to those warnings, Kitty." "Then it is not my fault. I don't know what's wrong with me," she said, sombrely; "but I remember saying to you that sometimes my brain was on fire. I seem to be always in a hurry--in a desperate, desperate hurry!--to know or to feel something--while there is still time--before one dies. There is always a passion--always an effort. More life--_more life_!--even if it lead to pain--and agony--and tears." She raised her strange, beautiful eyes, which had at the moment almost a look of delirium, and fixed them on his face. But Ashe's impression was that she did not see him. He was conscious of the same pang, the same sudden terror that he had felt on that never-to-be-forgotten evening when she had talked to him of the mask in the "Tempest." He thought of the Blackwater stories he had heard from Lord Grosville. "_Mad, my dear fellow, mad!_"--the old man's frequent comment ran through his memory. Was there, indeed, some unsound spot in Kitty? He sat dumb and paralyzed for a moment; then, recovering himself, he said, as he recaptured the cold little hands: "'More _light_,' Kitty, was what Goethe said, in dying. A better prayer, don't you think?" There was a strong, even a stern insistence in his manner which quieted Kitty. Her face as it came back to full consciousness was exquisitely sweet and mournful. "That's the prayer of the _calm_," she said, in a whisper, "and my nature is hunger and storm. And Geoffrey Cliffe is the same. That's why I couldn't help being--" She sprang up. "William, don't let's talk nonsense. I can't ever see that man again. How's it to be done?" She moved up and down--all practical energy and impatience--her mood wholly altered. His own adapted itself to hers. "For the present, fear nothing," he said, dryly. "For his own sake Cliffe will hold his tongue and leave London. And as to the future--I can get some message conveyed to him--by a man he won't disregard. Leave it to me." "You can't write to him, William!" cried Kitty, passionately. "Leave it to me," he repeated. "Then suppose you take the boy--and Margaret French--to Haggart till I can join you?" "And your mother?" she said, timidly, coming to stand beside him and laying a hand on each shoulder. "Leave that also to me." "How she'll hate the sight of me," she said, under her breath. Then, with another tone of voice--"How long, William, do you give the government?" "Six months, perhaps--perhaps less. I don't see how they can last beyond February." "And then--we'll _fight_!" said Kitty, with a long breath, smoothing back the hair from his brow. "Allow me, please, to command the forces! Well, now then, I must be off!" He tried to rise, but she still held him. "Did you have any breakfast, William?" "I don't remember." "Sit still and eat one of my sandwiches." She divided one into strips, and standing over him began to feed him. A knock at the door arrested her. "Don't move!" she said, peremptorily, before she ran to open the door. "Please, my lady," said Blanche, "Lady Tranmore would like to see you." Kitty started and flushed. She looked round uncertainly at Ashe. "Ask her ladyship to come up," said Ashe, quietly. The maid departed. "Feed me if you want to, Kitty," said Ashe, still seated. Kitty returned, her breath hurried, her step wavering. She looked doubtfully at Ashe--then her eyes sparkled--as she understood. She dropped on her knees beside him, kissing the sleeve of his coat, against which her cheek was pressed--in a passion of repentance. He bent towards her, touching her hair, murmuring over her. His mind meanwhile was torn with feelings which, so to speak, observed each other. This thing which had happened was horribly serious--important. It might easily have wrecked two lives. Had he dealt with it as he ought--made Kitty feel the gravity of it? Then the optimist in him asked impatiently what was "the good of exaggerating the damned business"? That fellow has got his lesson--could be driven headlong out of his life and Kitty's henceforward. And how could _he_ doubt the love shown in this clinging penitence, these soft kisses? How would the Turk theory of marriage, please, have done any better? Kitty had had her own wild way. No fiat from without had bound her; but love had brought her to his feet. There was something in him which triumphed alike in her revolt and her submission. * * * * * Meanwhile, in the cool drawing-room to which the green _persiennes_ gave a pleasant foreign look, Lady Tranmore had been waiting for the maid's return. She shrank from every sound in the house; from her own reflection in Kitty's French mirrors; from her own thoughts most of all. Lady Edith Manley--at Holland House--had been the most innocent of gossips. A little lady who did no wrong herself--and thought no wrong of others; as white-minded and unsuspicious as a convent child. "Poor Lady Kitty! Something seemed to have gone wrong with the Alcots' coach, and they were somehow divided from all their party. I can't remember exactly what it was they said, but Mr. Cliffe was confident they would catch their train. Though my boy--you remember my boy? they've just put him in the eight!--thought they were running it _rather_ fine." Then, five minutes later, in the supper-room, Lady Tranmore had run across Madeleine Alcot's husband, who had given her in passing the whole story of the frustrated expedition--Mrs. Alcot's chill, and the despatch of Cliffe to Hill Street. "Horrid bore to have to put it off! Hope he got there in time to stop Lady Kitty getting ready. Oh, thanks, Madeleine's all right." And then no more, as the rush of the crowd swept them apart. After that, sleep had wholly deserted Lady Tranmore--if, indeed, after the publication of the cabinet list in the afternoon, and William's letter following upon it, any had been still possible. And in the early morning she had sent her note to Kitty--a _ballon d'essai_, despatched in a horror of great fear. "Her ladyship has not yet returned." The message from Hill Street, delivered by the footman's indifferent mouth, struck Lady Tranmore with trembling. "Where is William?" she said to herself, in anguish. "I must find him--but--what shall I say to him?" Then she went up-stairs, and, without calling for her maid, put on her walking things with shaking hands. She slipped out unobserved by her household, and took a hansom from the corner of Grosvenor Street. In the hansom she carefully drew down her veil, with the shrinking of one on whom disgrace--the long pursuing, long expected--has seized at last. All the various facts, statements, indications as to Kitty's behavior, which through the most diverse channels had been flowing steadily towards her for weeks past, were now surging through her mind and memory--a grievous, damning host. And every now and then, as she caught the placards in the streets, her heart contracted anew. Her son, her William, in what should have been the heyday of his gifts and powers, baffled, tripped up, defeated!--by his own wife, the selfish, ungrateful, reckless child on whom he had lavished the undeserved treasures of the most generous and untiring love. And had she not only checked or ruined his career--was he to be also dishonored, struck to the heart? She could scarcely stand as she rang the bell at Hill Street, and it was only with a great effort that she could ask her question: "Is Mr. Ashe at home?" "Mr. Ashe, my lady, is, I believe, just going out," said Wilson. "Her ladyship arrived just about an hour ago, and that detained him." Elizabeth betrayed nothing. The training of her class held good. "Are they in the library?" she asked--"or up-stairs?" Wilson replied that he believed her ladyship was in her room, and Mr. Ashe with her. "Please ask Mr. Ashe if I can see him for a few minutes." Wilson disappeared, and Lady Tranmore stood motionless, looking round at William's books and tables. She loved everything that his hand had touched, every sign of his character--the prize books of his college days, the pictures on the wall, many of which had descended from his Eton study, the photographs of his favorite hunter, the drawing she herself had made for him of his first pony. On his writing-table lay a despatch-box from the Foreign Office. Lady Tranmore turned away from it. It reminded her intolerably of the shock and defeat of the day before. During the past six months she had become more rejoicingly conscious than ever before of his secret, deepening ambition, and her own heart burned with the smart of his disappointment. No one else, however, should guess at it through her. No sooner had she received his letter from the club than, after many weeks of withdrawal from society, she had forced herself to go to the Holland House party, that no one might say she hid herself, that no one might for an instant suppose that any hostile act of such a man as Lord Parham, or any malice of that low-minded woman, could humiliate her son or herself. Suddenly she saw Kitty's gloves--Kitty's torn and soiled gloves--lying on the floor. She clasped her trembling hands, trying to steady herself. Husband and wife were together. What tragedy was passing between them? Of course there _might_ have been an accident; her thoughts might be all mistake and illusion. But Lady Tranmore hardly allowed herself to encourage the alternative of hope. It was like Kitty's audacity to have come back. Incredible!--unfathomable!--like all she did. "Her ladyship says, my lady, would you please go up to her room?" The message was given in Blanche's timid voice. Lady Tranmore started, looked at the girl, longed to question her, and had not the courage. She followed mechanically, and in silence. Could she, must she face it? Yes--for her son's sake. She prayed inwardly that she might meet the ordeal before her with Christian strength and courage. * * * * * The door opened. She saw two figures in the pretty, bright-colored room, William sat astride upon a chair in front of Kitty, who, like some small mother-bird, hovered above him, holding what seemed to be a tiny strip of bread-and-butter, which she was dropping with dainty deliberation into his mouth. Her face, in spite of the red and swollen eyes, was alive with fun, and Ashe's laugh reflected hers. The domesticity, the intimate affection of the scene--before these things Elizabeth Tranmore stood gasping. "Dearest mother!" cried Ashe, starting up. Kitty turned. At sight of Lady Tranmore she hung back; her smiles departed; her lip quivered. "William!"--she pursued him and touched him on the shoulder. "I--I can't--I'm afraid. If mother ever means to speak to me again--come and tell me." And, hiding her face, Kitty escaped like a whirlwind. The dressing-room door closed behind her, and mother and son were left alone. "Mother!" said Ashe, coming up to her gayly, both hands out-stretched. "Ask me nothing, dear. Kitty has been a silly child--but things will go better now. And as for the Parhams--what does it matter?--come and help me send them to the deuce!" Lady Tranmore recoiled. For once the good-humor of that handsome face--pale as the face was--seemed to her an offence--nay, a disgrace. That what had happened had been no mere _contretemps_, no mere accident of trains and coaches, was plain enough from Kitty's eyes--from all that William did _not_ say, no less than from what he said. And still this levity!--this inconceivable levity! Was it true, as she knew was said, that William had no high sense of honor, that he failed in delicacy and dignity? In reality, it was the same cry as the Dean's--upon another and smaller occasion. But in this case it was unspoken. Lady Tranmore dropped into a chair, one hand abandoned to her son, the other hiding her face. He talked fast and tenderly, asking her help--neither of them quite knew for what--her advice as to the move to Haggart--and so forth. Lady Tranmore said little. But it was a bitter silence; and if Ashe himself failed in indignation, his mother's protesting heart supplied it amply. PART III DEVELOPMENT "Es bildet ein Talent sich in der Stille, Sich ein Character in dem Strom, der Welt." XIV "What does Lady Kitty do with herself here?" said Darrell, looking round him. He had just arrived from town on a visit to the Ashes, to find the Haggart house and garden completely deserted, save for Mrs. Alcot, who was lounging in solitude, with a cigarette and a novel, on the wide lawn which surrounded the house on three sides. As he spoke he lifted a chair and placed it beside her, under one of the cedars which made deep shade upon the grass. "She plays at Lady Bountiful," said Mrs. Alcot. "She doesn't do it well, but--" "--The wonder is, in Johnsonian phrase, that she should do it at all. Anything else?" "I understand--she is writing a book--a novel." Darrell threw back his head and laughed long and silently. "Il ne manquait que cela," he said--"that Lady Kitty should take to literature!" Mrs. Alcot looked at him rather sharply. "Why not? We frivolous people are a good deal cleverer than you think." The languid arrogance of the lady's manner was not at all unbecoming. Darrell made an inclination. "No need to remind me, madam!" A recent exhibition at an artistic club of Mrs. Alcot's sketches had made a considerable mark. "Very soon you will leave us poor professionals no room to live." The slight disrespect of his smile annoyed his companion, but the day was hot and she had no repartee ready. She only murmured as she threw away her cigarette: "Kitty is much disappointed in the village." "They are greater brutes than she thought?" "Quite the contrary. There are no poachers--and no murders. The girls prefer to be married, and the Tranmores give so much away that no one has the smallest excuse for starvation. Kitty gets nothing out of them whatever." "In the way of literary material?" Mrs. Alcot nodded. "Last week she was so discouraged that she was inclined to give up fiction and take to journalism." "Heavens! Political?" "Oh, _la haute politique_, of course." "H'm. The wives of cabinet ministers have often inspired articles. I don't remember an instance of their writing them." "Well, Kitty is inclined to try." "With Ashe's sanction?" "Goodness, no! But Kitty, as you are aware"--Mrs. Alcot threw a prudent glance to right and left--"goes her own way. She believes she can be of great service to her husband's policy." Darrell's lip twitched. "If you were in Ashe's position, would you rather your wife neglected or supported your political interests?" Mrs. Alcot shrugged her shoulders. "Kitty made a considerable mess of them last year." "No doubt. She forgot they existed. But I think if I were Ashe, I should be more afraid of her remembering. By-the-way--the glass here seems to be at 'Set Fair'?" His interrogative smile was not wholly good-natured. But mere benevolence was not what the world asked of Philip Darrell--even in the case of his old friends. "Astonishing!" said Mrs. Alcot, with lifted brows. "Kitty is immensely proud of him--and immensely ambitious. That, of course, accounts for Lord Parham's visit." "Lord Parham!" cried Darrell, bounding on his seat. "Lord Parham!--coming here?" "He arrives to-morrow. On his way from Scotland--to Windsor." Mrs. Alcot enjoyed the effect of her communication on her companion. He sat open-mouthed, evidently startled out of all self-command. "Why, I thought that Lady Kitty--" "Had vowed vengeance? So, in a sense, she has. It is understood that she and Lady Parham don't meet, except--" "On formal occasions, and to take in the groundlings," said Darrell, too impatient to let her finish her sentence. "Yes, that I gathered. But you mean that _Lord_ Parham is to be allowed to make his peace?" Madeleine Alcot lay back and laughed. "Kitty wishes to try her hand at managing him." Darrell joined her in mirth. The notion of the white-haired, bullet-headed, shrewd, and masterful man who at that moment held the Premiership of England managed by Kitty, or any other daughter of Eve--always excepting his wife--must needs strike those who had the slightest acquaintance with Lord Parham as a delicious absurdity. Suddenly Darrell checked himself, and bent forward. "Where--if I may ask--is the poet?" "Geoffrey? Somewhere in the Balkans, isn't he?--making a revolution." Darrell nodded. "I remember. They say he is with the revolutionary committee at Marinitza. Meanwhile there is a new volume of poems out--to-day," said Darrell, glancing at a newspaper thrown down beside him. "I have seen it. The 'portrait' at the end--" "Is Lady Kitty." They spoke under their breaths. "Unmistakable, I think," said Kitty's best friend. "As poetry, it seems to me the best thing in the book, but the audacity of it!" She raised her eyebrows in a half-unwilling, half-contemptuous admiration. "Has she seen it?" Mrs. Alcot replied that she had not noticed any copy in the house, and that Kitty had not spoken of it, which, given the Kitty-nature, she probably would have done, had it reached her. Then they both fell into reverie, from which Darrell emerged with the remark: "I gather that last year some very important person interfered?" This opened another line of gossip, in which, however, Mrs. Alcot showed herself equally well informed. It was commonly reported, at any rate, that the old Duke of Morecambe, the head of Lady Eleanor Cliffe's family, the great Tory evangelical of the north, who was a sort of patriarch in English political and aristocratic life, had been induced by some undefined pressure to speak very plainly to his kinsman on the subject of Lady Kitty Ashe. Cliffe had expectations from the duke which were not to be trifled with. He had, accordingly, swallowed the lecture, and, after the loss of his election, had again left England with an important newspaper commission to watch events in the Balkans. "May he stay there!" said Darrell. "Of course, the whole thing was absurdly exaggerated." "Was it?" said Mrs. Alcot, coolly. "Kitty richly deserved most of what was said." Then--on his start--"Don't misunderstand me, of course. If twenty actions for divorce were given against Kitty, I should believe nothing--_nothing_!" The words were as emphatic as voice and gesture could make them. "But as for the tales that people who hate her tell of her, and will go on telling of her--" "They are merely the harvest of what she has sown?" "Naturally. Poor Kitty!" Madeleine Alcot rested her thin cheek on a still frailer hand and looked pensively out into the darkness of the cedars. Her tone was neither patronizing nor unkind; rather, the shade of ironic tenderness which it expressed suited the subject, and that curious intimacy which had of late sprung up between herself and Darrell. She had begun, as we have seen, by treating him _de haut en bas_. He had repaid her with manner of the same type; in this respect he was a match for any Archangel. Then some accident--perhaps the publication by the man of a volume of essays which expressed to perfection his acid and embittered talent--perhaps a casual meeting at a northern country-house, where the lady had found the man of letters her only resource amid a crowd of uncongenial nonentities--had shown them their natural compatibility. Both were in a secret revolt against circumstance and their own lives; but whereas the reasons for the man's attitude--his jealousies, defeats, and ambitions--were fairly well understood by the woman, he was almost as much in the dark about her as when their friendship began. He knew her husband slightly--an eager, gifted fellow, of late years a strong High Churchman, and well known in a certain group as the friend of Mrs. Armagh, that muse--fragile, austere, and beautiful--of several great men, and great Christians, among the older generation. Mrs. Alcot had her own intimates, generally men; but she tired of them and changed them often. Mr. Alcot spent part of every year within reach of the Cornish home of Mrs. Armagh; and during that time his wife made her round of visits. Meanwhile her thin lips were sealed as to her own affairs. Certainly she made the impression of an unhappy woman, and Darrell was convinced of some tragic complication. But neither he nor any one of whom he had yet inquired had any idea what it might be. "By-the-way--where is Lady Kitty?--and are there many people here?" Darrell turned, as he spoke, to scrutinize the house and its approaches. Haggart Hall was a large and commonplace mansion, standing in the midst of spreading "grounds" and dull plantations, beyond which could be sometimes seen the tall chimneys of neighboring coal-mines. It wore an air of middle-class Tory comfort which brought a smile to Darrell's countenance as he surveyed it. "Kitty is at the Agricultural Show--with a party." "Playing the great lady? _What_ a house!" "Yes. Kitty abhors it. But it will do very well for the party to-morrow." "Half the county--that kind of thing?" "_All_ the county--some royalties--and Lord Parham." "Lord Parham being the end and aim? I thought I heard wheels." Mrs. Alcot rose, and they strolled back towards the house. "And the party?" resumed Darrell. "Not particularly thrilling. Lord Grosville--" "Also, I presume, _en garçon_." Mrs. Alcot smiled. "--the Manleys, Lady Tranmore, Miss French, the Dean of Milford and his wife, Eddie Helston--" "That, I understand, is Lady Kitty's undergraduate adorer?" "It's no use talking to you--you know all the gossip. And some county big-wigs, whose names I can't remember--come to dinner to-night." Mrs. Alcot stifled a yawn. "I am very curious to see how Ashe takes his triumph," said Darrell, as they paused half-way. "He is just the same. No!" said Madeleine Alcot, correcting herself--"no--not quite. He _meant_ to triumph, and he _knows_ that he has done so." "My dear lady!" cried Darrell--"a quite _enormous_ difference! Ashe never took stock of himself or his prospects in his life before." "Well, now--you will find he takes stock of a good many things." "Including Lady Kitty?" His companion smiled. "He won't let her interfere again." "_L'homme propose_," said Darrell. "You mean he has grown ambitious?" Mrs. Alcot seemed to find it difficult to cope with these high things. Fanning herself, she languidly supposed that the English political passion, so strong and unspent still in the aristocratic families, had laid serious hold at last on William Ashe. He had great schemes of reform, and, do what he might to conceal it, his heart was in them. His wife, therefore, was no longer his occupation, but-- Mrs. Alcot hesitated for a word. "Scarcely his repose?" laughed Darrell. "I really won't discuss Kitty any more," said Mrs. Alcot, impatiently. "Here they are! Hullo! What has Kitty got hold of now?" Three carriages were driving up the long approach, one behind the other. In the first sat Kitty, a figure beside her in the dress of a nurse, and opposite to them both an indistinguishable bundle, which presently revealed a head. The carriage drew up at the steps. Kitty jumped down, and she and the nurse lifted the bundle out. Footmen appeared; some guests from the next carriage went to help; there was a general movement and agitation, in the midst of which Kitty and her companions disappeared into the house. Lady Edith Manley and Lord Grosville began to cross the lawn. "What is the matter?" asked Mrs. Alcot, as they converged. "Kitty ran over a boy," said Lord Grosville, in evident annoyance. "The rascal hadn't a scratch, but Kitty must needs pick him up and drive him home with a nurse. 'I ain't hurt, mum,' says the boy. 'Oh! but you must be,' said Kitty. I offered to take him to his mother and give him half a crown. 'It's my duty to look after him,' says Kitty. And she lifted him up herself--dirty little vagabond!--and put him in the carriage. There were some laborers and grooms standing near, and one of them sang out, 'Three cheers for Lady Kitty Ashe!' Such a ridiculous scene as you never saw!" The old man shrugged his shoulders contemptuously. "Lady Kitty is always so kind," said the amicable Lady Edith. "But her pretty dress--I _was_ sorry!" "Oh no--only an excuse for a new one," said Mrs. Alcot. The Dean and Lady Tranmore approached--behind them again Ashe and Mrs. Winston. "Well, old fellow!" said Ashe, clapping a hand on Darrell's shoulder. "Uncommonly glad to see you. You look as though that damned London had been squeezing the life out of you. Come for a stroll before dinner?" The two men accordingly left the talkers on the lawn, and struck into the park. Ashe, in a straw hat and light suit, made his usual impression of strength and good-humor. He was gay, friendly, amusing as ever. But Darrell was not long in discovering or imagining signs of change. Any one else would have thought Ashe's talk frankness--nay, indiscretion--itself. Darrell at once divined or imagined in it shades of official reserve, tracts of reticence, such as an old friend had a right to resent. "One can see what a personage he feels himself!" Yet Darrell would have been the first to own that Ashe had some right to feel himself a personage. The sudden revelation of his full intellectual power, and of his influence in the country, for which the general election of the preceding winter had provided the opportunity, was still an exciting memory among journalists and politicians. He had gone into the election a man slightly discredited, on whose future nobody took much trouble to speculate. He had emerged from it--after a series of speeches laying down the principles and vindicating the action of his party--one of the most important men in England, with whom Lord Parham himself must henceforth treat on quasi-equal terms. Ashe was now Home Secretary, and, if Lord Parham's gout should take an evil turn, there was no saying to what height fortune might not soon conduct him. The will--the iron purpose--with which it had all been done--that was the amazing part of it. The complete independence, moreover. Darrell imagined that Lord Parham must often have regretted the small intrigue by which Ashe's promotion had been barred in the crisis of the summer. It had roused an indolent man to action, and freed him from any particular obligation towards the leader who had ill-treated him. Ashe's campaign had not been in all respects convenient; but Lord Parham had had to put up with it. The summer evening broadened as the two men sauntered on through the park, beside a small stream fringed with yellow flags. Even the dingy Midland landscape, with its smoke-blackened woods and lifeless grass, assumed a glory of great light; the soft, interlacing clouds parted before the dying sun; the water received the golden flood, and each coot and water-hen shone jet and glossy in the blaze. A few cries of birds, the distant shouts of harvesters, the rustling of the water-flags along the stream, these were the only sounds--traditional sounds of English peace. "Jolly, isn't it?" said Ashe, looking round him--"even this spoiled country! Why did we go and stifle in that beastly show!" The sensuous pleasure and relaxation of his mood communicated itself to Darrell. They talked more intimately, more freely than they had done for months. Darrell's gnawing consciousness of his own meaner fortunes, as contrasted with the brilliant and expanding career of his school-friend, softened and relaxed. He almost forgave Ashe the successes of the winter, and that subtly heightened tone of authority and self-confidence which here and there bore witness to them in the manner or talk of the minister. They scarcely touched on politics, however. Both were tired, and their talk drifted into the characteristic male gossip--"What's ---- doing now?" "Do you ever see So-and-so?" "You remember that fellow at Univ.?"--and the like, to the agreeable accompaniment of Ashe's best cigars. So pleasant was the half-hour, so strongly had the old college intimacy reasserted itself, that suddenly a thought struck upward in Darrell's mind. He had not come to Haggart bent merely on idle holiday--far from it. At the moment he was weary of literature as a profession, and sharply conscious that the time for vague ambitions had gone by. A post had presented itself, a post of importance, in the gift of the Home Office. It meant, no doubt, the abandonment of more brilliant things; Darrell was content to abandon them. His determination to apply for it seemed, indeed, to himself an act of modesty--almost of sacrifice. As to the technical qualifications required, he was well aware there might be other men better equipped than himself. But, after all, to what may not general ability aspire--general ability properly stiffened with interest? And as to interest, when was it ever to serve him if not now--through his old friendship with Ashe? Chivalry towards a much-solicited mortal, also your friend--even the subtler self-love--might have counselled silence--or at least approaches more gradual. It had been far from his purpose, indeed, to speak so promptly. But here were the hour and the man! And there, in a distant country town, a woman--whereof the mere existence was unsuspected by Darrell's country-house acquaintance--sat waiting, in whose eyes the post in question loomed as a condition--perhaps indispensable. Darrell's secret eagerness could not withstand the temptation. So, with a nervous beginning--"By-the-way, I wished to consult you about a personal matter. Of course, answer or not, as you like. Naturally, I understand the difficulties!"--the plunge was taken, and the petitioner soon in full career. After a first start--a lifted brow of astonishment--Ashe was uncomfortably silent--till suddenly, in a pause of Darrell's eloquence, his face changed, and with a burst of his old, careless freedom and affection, he flung an arm along Darrell's shoulder, with an impetuous-- "I say, old fellow--don't--don't be a damned fool!" An ashen white overspread the countenance of the man thus addressed. His lips twitched. He walked on in silence. Ashe looked at him--stammered: "Why, my dear Philip, it would be the extinguishing of you!" Darrell said nothing. Ashe, still holding his friend captive, descanted hurriedly on the disadvantages of the post "for a man of your gifts," then--more cautiously--on its special requirements, not one of which did Darrell possess--hinted at the men applying for it, at the scientific and professional influences then playing upon himself, at his strong sense of responsibility--"Too bad, isn't it, that a duffer like me should have to decide these things"--and so on. In vain. Darrell laughed, recovered himself, changed the subject; but as they walked quickly back to the house, Ashe knew, perchance, that he had lost a friend; and Darrell's smarting soul had scored another reckoning against a day to come. * * * * * As they neared the house they found a large group still lingering on the lawn, and Kitty just emerging from a garden door. She came out accompanied by the handsome Cambridge lad who had been her partner at Lady Crashaw's dance. He was evidently absorbed in her society, and they approached in high spirits, laughing and teasing each other. "Well, Kitty, how's the bruised one?" said Ashe, as he sank into a chair beside Mrs. Alcot. "Doing finely," said Kitty. "I shall send him home to-night." "Meanwhile, have you put him up in my dressing-room? I only ask for information." "There wasn't another corner," said Kitty. "There!" Ashe appealed to gods and men. "How do you expect me to dress for dinner?" "Oh, now, William, don't be tiresome!" said Kitty, impatiently. "He was bruised black and blue"--("Serve him right for getting in the way," grumbled Lord Grosville)--"and nurse and I have done him up in arnica." She came to stand by Ashe, talking in an undertone and as fast as possible. The little Dean, who never could help watching her, thought her more beautiful--and wilder--than ever. Her eyes--it was hardly enough to say they shone--they glittered--in her delicate face; her gestures were more extravagant than he remembered them; her movements restlessness itself. Ashe listened with patience--then said: "I can't help it, Kitty--you really must have him removed." "Impossible!" she said, her cheek flaming. "I'll go and talk to Wilson; he'll manage it," said Ashe, getting up. Kitty pursued him, arguing incessantly. He lounged along, turning every now and then to look at her, smiling and demurring, his hat on the back of his head. "You see the difference," said Mrs. Alcot, in Darrell's ear. "Last year Kitty would have got her way. This year she won't." Darrell shrugged his shoulders. "These domesticities should be kept out of sight, don't you think?" Madeleine Alcot looked at him curiously. "Did you have a pleasant walk?" she said. Darrell made a little face. "The great man was condescending." Madeleine Alcot's face was still interrogative. "A touch of the _folie des grandeurs?_" "Well, who escapes it?" said Darrell, bitterly. * * * * * Most of the party had dispersed. Only Lady Tranmore and Margaret French were on the lawn. Margaret was writing some household notes for Kitty; Lady Tranmore sat in meditation, with a book before her which she was not reading. Miss French glanced at her from time to time. Ashe's mother was beginning to show the weight of years far more plainly than she had yet done. In these last three years the face had perceptibly altered; so had the hair. The long strain of nursing, and that pathetic change which makes of the husband who has been a woman's pride and shelter her half-conscious dependent, had, no doubt, left deep marks upon a beauty which had so long resisted time. And yet Margaret French believed it was rather with her son than with her husband that the constant and wearing anxiety of Lady Tranmore's life should be connected. All the ambition, the pride of race and history which had been disappointed in her husband had poured themselves into her devotion to her son. She lived now for his happiness and success. And both were constantly threatened by the personality and the presence of Kitty. Such, at least, as Margaret French well knew, was the inmost persuasion--fast becoming a fanaticism--of Ashe's mother. William might, indeed, for the moment have triumphed over the consequences of Kitty's bygone behavior. But the reckless, untamed character was there still at his side, preparing Heaven knew what pitfalls and catastrophes. Lady Tranmore lived in fear. And under the outward sweetness and dignity of her manner was there not developing something worse than fear--that hatred which is one of the strange births of love? If so, was it just? There were many moments when Margaret would have indignantly denied it. It was true, indeed, that Kitty's eccentricity seemed to develop with every month that passed. The preceding winter had been marked, first by a mad folly of table-turning--involving the pursuit of a particular medium whose proceedings had ultimately landed him in the dock; then by a headlong passion for hunting, accompanied by a series of new flirtations, each more unseemly than its predecessor, as it seemed to Lady Tranmore. Afterwards--during the general election--a political phase! Kitty had most unfortunately discovered that she could speak in public, and had fallen in love with the sound of her own voice. In Ashe's own contest, her sallies and indiscretions had already begun to do mischief when Lady Tranmore had succeeded in enticing her to London by the bait of a French _clairvoyante_, with whom Kitty nightly tempted the gods who keep watch over the secrets of fate--till William's poll had been declared. All this was deplorably true. And yet no one could say that Kitty in this checkered year had done her husband much harm. Ashe was no longer her blind slave; and his career had carried him to heights with which even his mother might have been satisfied. Sometimes Margaret was inclined to think that Kitty had now less influence with him and his mother more than was the just due of each. She--the younger woman--felt the tragedy of Ashe's new and growing emancipation. Secretly--often--she sided with Kitty! * * * * * "Margaret!" The voice was Kitty's. She came running out, her pale-pink skirts flying round her. "Have you seen the babe?" Margaret replied that he and his nurse were just in sight. Kitty fled over the lawn to meet the child's perambulator. She lifted him out, and carried him in her arms towards Margaret and Lady Tranmore. "Isn't it piteous?" said Margaret, under her breath, as the mother and child approached. Lady Tranmore gave her a sad, assenting look. For during the last six months the child had shown signs of brain mischief--a curious apathy, broken now and then by fits of temper. The doctors were not encouraging. And Kitty varied between the most passionate attempts to rouse the child's failing intelligence and days--even weeks--when she could hardly bring herself to see him at all. She brought him now to a seat beside Lady Tranmore. She had been trying to make him take notice of a new toy. But the child looked at her with blank and glassy eyes, and the toy fell from his hand. "He hardly knows me," said Kitty, in a low voice of misery, as she clasped her hands round the baby of three, and looked into his face, as though she would drag from it some sign of mind and recognition. But the blue eyes betrayed no glimmer of response, till suddenly, with a gesture as of infinite fatigue, the child threw itself back against her, laying its fair head upon her breast with a long sigh. Kitty gave a sob, and bent over him, kissing--and kissing him. "Dear Kitty!" said Lady Tranmore, much moved. "I think--partly--he is tired with the heat." Kitty shook her head. "Take him!" she said to the nurse--"take him! I can't bear it." The nurse took him from her, and Kitty dried her tears with a kind of fierceness. "There is the post!" she said, springing up, as though determined to throw off her grief as quickly as possible, while the nurse carried the child away. The footman brought the letters across the lawn. There were some for Lady Tranmore and for Margaret French. In the general opening and reading that ensued, neither lady noticed Kitty for a while. Suddenly Margaret French looked up. She saw Kitty sitting motionless with a book on her lap, a book of which the wrapper lay on the grass beside her. Her finger kept a page; her eyes, full of excitement, were fixed on the distant horizon of the park; the hurried breathing was plainly noticeable under the thin bodice. "Kitty--time to dress!" said Margaret, touching her. Kitty rose, without a word to either of them, and walked quickly away, her hands, still holding the book, dropped in front of her, her eyes on the ground. "Oh, Kitty!" cried Margaret, in laughing protest, as she stooped to pick up the litter of Kitty's letters, some of them still unopened, which lay scattered on the grass, as they had fallen unheeded from her lap. But the little figure in the trailing skirts was already out of hearing. * * * * * At dinner Kitty was in her wildest spirits--a sparkling vision of diamonds and lace, much beyond--so it seemed to Lord Grosville--what the occasion required. "Dressed out like a comedy queen at a fair!" was his inward comment, and he already rolled the phrases in which he should describe the whole party to his wife. Like the expected Lord Parham, he was there in sign of semi-reconciliation. Nothing would have induced Kitty to invite her aunt; the memory of a certain Sunday was too strong. On her side, Lady Grosville averred that nothing would have induced her to sit at Kitty's board. As to this, her husband cherished a certain scepticism. However, her resolution was not tried. It was Ashe, in fact, who had invited Lord Grosville, and Lord Grosville, who was master in his own house, and had no mind to break with William Ashe just as that gentleman's company became even better worth having than usual, had accepted the invitation. But his patience was sorely tried by Kitty. After dinner she insisted on table-turning, and Lord Grosville was dragged breathless through the drawing-room window, in pursuit of a table that broke a chair and finally danced upon a flower-bed. His theology was harassed by these proceedings and his digestion upset. The Dean took it with smiles; but then the Dean was a Latitudinarian. Afterwards Kitty and the Cambridge boy--Eddie Helston--performed a duologue in French for the amusement of the company. Whatever could be understood in it had better not have been understood--such at least was Lord Grosville's impression. He wondered how Ashe--who laughed immoderately--could allow his wife to do such things; and his only consolation was that, for once, the Dean--whose fancy for Kitty was ridiculous!--seemed to be disturbed. He had at any rate walked away to the library in the middle of the piece. Kitty was, of course, making a fool of the boy all through. Any one could see that he was head over ears in love with her. And she seemed to have all sorts of mysterious understandings with him. Lord Grosville was certain they passed each other notes, and made assignations. And one night, on going up himself to bed very late, he had actually come upon the pair pacing up and down the long passage after midnight!--Kitty in such a _negligée_ as only an actress should wear, with her hair about her ears--and the boy out of his wits and off his balance, as any one could see. Kitty, indeed, had been quite unabashed--trying even to draw _him_ into their unseemly talk about some theatrical nonsense or other; and such blushes as there were had been entirely left to the boy. He supposed there was no harm in it. The lad was not a Geoffrey Cliffe, and it was no doubt Kitty's mad love of excitement which impelled her to these defiances of convention. But Ashe should put his foot down; there was no knowing with a creature so wild and so lovely where these things might end. And after the scandal of last year-- As to that scandal, Lord Grosville, as a man of the world, by no means endorsed the lurid imaginations of his wife. Kitty and Cliffe had certainly behaved badly at Grosville Park--that is to say, judged by any ordinary standards. And the gossip of the season had apparently gathered and culminated round some incident of a graver character than the rest--though nobody precisely knew what it might be. But it seemed that Ashe had at last asserted himself; and if in Kitty's abrupt departure to the country, and the sudden dissolution of the intimacy between herself and Cliffe, those who loved her not had read what dark things they pleased, her uncle by marriage was quite content to see in it a mere disciplinary act on the part of the husband. Lord Grosville believed that some rumors as to Cliffe's private character had entered into the decisive defeat--in a constituency largely Nonconformist--which had befallen that gentleman at the polls. Poor Lady Tranmore! He saw her anxieties in her face, and was truly sorry for her. At the same time, inveterate gossip that he was, he regarded her with a kind of hunger. If she only _would_ talk things over with him! So far, however, she had given him very little opening. If she ever did, he would certainly advise her to press something like a temporary separation on her son. Why should not Lady Kitty be left at Haggart when the next session began? Lord Grosville, who had been a friend of Melbourne's, recalled the early history of that great man. When Lady Caroline Lamb had become too troublesome to a political husband, she had been sent to Brocket. And then Mr. Lamb was only Irish Secretary--without a seat in the cabinet. How was it possible to take an important share in steering the ship of state, and to look after a giddy wife at the same time? * * * * * Ashe and his guests lingered late below-stairs. When, somewhere about one o'clock, he entered his dressing-room, he was suddenly alarmed by a smell of burning. It seemed to come from Kitty's room. He knocked hastily at her door. "Kitty!" No answer. He opened the door, and stood arrested. The room was in complete darkness save for some weird object in the centre of it, on which a fire was burning, sending up a smoke which hung about the room. Ashe recognized an old Spanish brazier of beaten copper, standing on iron feet, which had been a purchase of his own in days when he trifled with _bric-à-brac_. Upon it, a heap of some light material, which fluttered and crackled as it burned, was blazing and smoking away, while beside it--her profile set and waxen amid the drifts of smoke, her fair hair blanched to whiteness by the strange illumination from below, and all her slight form, checkered with the light and shade of the fire, drawn into a curve of watchfulness, vindictive and intent--stood Kitty. "What in the name of fortune are you doing, Kitty?" cried Ashe. She made no answer, and he approached. Then he saw that in the centre of the pile, and propped up against some small pieces of wood, a photograph of Geoffrey Cliffe was consuming slow and dismally. The fire had just sent a line across his cheek. The lower limbs were already charred, and the right hand was shrivelling. All around were letters, mostly consumed; while at the top of the pile above the culprit's head, stuck in a cleft stick, and just beginning to be licked by the flames, was what seemed to be a leaf torn out of a book. The book from which it had apparently been wrenched lay open on a chair near. Kitty drew a long breath as Ashe came near her. "Keep off!" she said--"don't touch it!" "You little goose!" cried Ashe--"what are you about?" "Burning a coward in effigy," said Kitty, between her teeth. Ashe thrust his hands into his pockets. "I wish to God you'd forget the creature, instead of flattering him with these attentions!" Kitty made no reply, but as she drew the fire together Ashe captured her hand. "What's he been doing now, Kitty?" "There are his poems," said Kitty, pointing to the chair. "The last one is about me." "May I be allowed to see it?" "It isn't there." "Ah! I see. You've topped the pile with it. With your leave, I'll delay its doom." He snatched the leaf from its stick, and bending down read it by the light of the burning paper. Kitty watched him, frowning, her hand on her hip, the white wrap she wore over her night-dress twining round her in close folds a slender, brooding sorceress, some Canidia or Simaetha, interrupted in her ritual of hate. But Ashe was in no mood for literary reminiscence. His lip was contemptuous, his brow angry as he replaced the leaf in its cleft stick, whither the flames immediately pursued it. "Wretched stuff, and damned impertinence!--that's all there is to say. For Heaven's sake, Kitty, don't let any one suppose you mind the thing--for an instant!" She looked at him with strange eyes. "But if I do mind it?" His face darkened to the shade of hers. "Does that mean--that you still think of him--still wish to see him?" "I don't know," said Kitty, slowly. The fire had died away. Nothing but a few charred remnants remained in the brazier. Ashe lit the gas, and disclosed a tragic Kitty, flushed by the audacity of her last remark. He took her masterfully in his arms. "That was bravado," he said, kissing her. "You love _me_! And I may be a poor stick, but I'm worth a good many Cliffes. Defy me--and I'll write you a better poem, too!" The color leaped afresh in Kitty's cheek. She pushed him away, and, holding him, perused his handsome, scornful face, and all the manly strength of form and attitude. Her own lids wavered. "What a silly scene!" she said, and fell--a little, soft, yielding form--into his arms. XV The church clock of Haggart village had just struck half-past six. A white, sunny mist enwrapped the park and garden. Voices and shouts rang through the mist; little could yet be seen, but the lawns and the park seemed to be pervaded with bustle and preparation, and every now and then as the mist drifted groups of workmen could be distinguished, marquees emerged, flags floated, and carts laden with benches and trestle-tables rumbled slowly over the roads and tracks of the park. The house itself was full of gardeners, arranging banks of magnificent flowers in the hall and drawing-rooms, and superintended by the head gardener, a person of much greater dignity than Ashe himself, who swore at any underling making a noise, as though the slumbers of the "quality" in the big house overhead and the danger of disturbing them were the dearest interests of a burdened life. As to the mistress of the house, at any rate, there was no need for caution. The clocks of the house had barely followed the church clock in striking the half-hour when the workmen on the ground floor saw Lady Kitty come down-stairs and go through the drawing-room window into the garden. There she gave her opinion on the preparations, pushing on afterwards into the park, where she astounded the various contractors and their workmen by her appearance at such an hour, and by the vigor and decision of her orders. Finally she left the park behind, just as its broad, scorched surfaces began everywhere to shake off the mist, and entered one of the bordering woods. She had a basket on her arm, and, when she had found for herself a mossy seat amid the roots of a great oak, she unpacked it. It contained a mass of written pages, some fresh scribbling-paper, ink and pens, and a small portfolio. When they were all lying on the moss beside her, Kitty turned over the sheets with a loving hand, reading here and there. "It is good!" she said to herself. "I vow it is!" Dipping her pen in the ink, she began upon corrections. The sun filtered through the thick leafage overhead, touching her white dress, her small shoes, and the masses of her hair. She wore a Leghorn garden-hat, tied with pink ribbons under her chin, and in her morning freshness and daintiness she looked about seventeen. The hours of sleep had calmed the restlessness of the wide, brown eyes; they were full now of gentleness and mirth. "I wonder if he'll come?" She looked up and listened. And as she did so, her eyes and sense were seized with the beauty of the wood. The mystery of early solitary hours seemed to be still upon it; both in the sunlight and the shadow there was a magic unknown to the later day. In a clearing before her spread a lake of willow-herb, of a pure bright pink, hemmed in by a golden shore of ragwort. The splash of color gave Kitty a passionate delight. "Dear, dear world!" She stretched out her hands to it in a childish greeting. Then the joy died sharply from her eyes. "How many years left--to enjoy it in--before one dies--or one's heart dies?" Invariably, now, her moments of sensuous pleasure ended in this dread of something beyond--of a sudden drowning of beauty and delight--of a future unknown and cruel, coming to meet her, like some armed assassin in a narrow path. William! When it came could William save her? "William is a _darling_!" she said to herself, her face full of yearning. As for that other--it gave her an intense pleasure to think of the flames creeping up the form and face of the photograph. Should she hear, perhaps, in a week or two that he had been seized with some mysterious illness, like the witch-victims of old? A shiver ran through her, a thrill of repentance--till the bitter lines of the poem came back to memory--lines describing a woman with neither the courage for sin nor the strength for virtue, a "light woman" indeed, whom the great passions passed eternally by, whom it was a humiliation to court and a mere weakness to regret. Then she laughed, and began again with passionate zest upon the sheets before her. A sound of approaching footsteps on the wood-path. She half rose, smiling. The branches parted, and Darrell appeared. He paused to survey the oread vision of Lady Kitty. "Am I not to the minute?" He held up his watch in front of her. "So you got my note?" "Certainly. I was immensely flattered." He threw himself down on the moss beside her, his sallow, long-chinned face and dark eyes toned to a morning cheerfulness, his dress much fresher and more exact than usual. "But he is one of the men who look so much better in their old clothes!" thought Kitty. "Well, what can I do for you, Lady Kitty?" he resumed, smiling. "I wanted your advice," said Kitty--not altogether sure, now that he was there beside her, that she did want it. "About your literary work?" She threw him a quick glance. "Do you know? How do you know? I have been writing a book!" "So I imagined--" "And--and--" She broke now into eagerness, bending forward, "I want you to help me get it published. It is a deadly secret. Nobody knows--" "Not even William?" "No one," she repeated. "And I can't tell you about it, or show you a line of it, unless you vow and swear to me--" "Oh! I swear," said Darrell, tranquilly--"I swear." Kitty looked at him doubtfully a moment--then resumed: "I have written it at all sorts of times--when William was away--in the middle of the night--out in the woods. _Nobody_ knows. You see"--her little fingers plucked at the moss--"I have a good many advantages. If people want 'Society' with a big S, I can give it them!" "Naturally," said Darrell. "And it always amuses people--doesn't it?" Kitty clasped her hands round her knees and looked at him with candor. "Does it?" said Darrell. "It has been done a good deal." "Oh, of course," said Kitty, impatiently, "mine's not the proper thing. You don't imagine I should try and write like Thackeray, do you? Mine's _real_ people--_real_ things that happened--with just the names altered." "Ah!" said Darrell, sitting up--"that sounds exciting. Is it libellous?" "Well, that's just what I want to know," said Kitty, slowly. "Of course, I've made a kind of story out of it. But you'd have to be a great fool not to guess. I've put myself in, and--" "And Ashe?" Kitty nodded. "All the novels that are written about politics nowadays--except Dizzy's--are such nonsense, aren't they? I just wanted to describe--from the inside--how a real statesman"--she threw up her head proudly--"lives, and what he does." "Excellent subject," said Darrell. "Well--anybody else?" Kitty flushed. "You'll see," she said, uncertainly. Darrell's involuntary smile was hidden by a bunch of honeysuckle at which he was sniffing. "May I look?" he asked, stretching out a hand for the sheets. She pushed them towards him, half unwilling, half eager, and he began to turn them over. Apparently it had a thread of story--both slender and extravagant. And on the thread--Hullo!--here was the fancy ball; he pounced upon it. A portrait of Lady Parham--Ye powers! he chuckled as he read. On the next page the Chancellor of the Exchequer--snub-nosed _parvenu_ and Puritan--admirably caught. Further on a speech of Ashe's in the House--with caricature to right and caricature to left ... Ah! the poet!--at last! He bent over the page till Kitty coughed and fidgeted, and he thought it best to hurry on. But it was war, he perceived--open, undignified, feminine war. On the next page, the Archbishop of Canterbury--with Lady Kitty's views on the Athanasian Creed! Heavens! what a book! Next, Royalty itself, not too respectfully handled. Then Ashe again--Ashe glorified, Ashe explained, Ashe intrigued against, and Ashe triumphant--everywhere the centre of the stage, and everywhere, of course, all unknown to the author, the fool of the piece. Political indiscretions also, of the most startling kind, as coming from the wife of a cabinet minister. Allusions, besides, scattered broadcast, to the scandals of the day--material as far as he could see for a dozen libel actions. And with it all, much fantastic ability, flashes of wit and romance, enough to give the book wings beyond its first personal audience--enough, in fact, to secure to all its scandalous matter the widest possible chance of fame. "Well!" He rolled over on his elbows, and lay staring at the sheets before him--dumb. What was he to say? A thought struck him. As far as he could perceive, there was an empty niche. "And Lord Parham?" A smile of mischief broadened on Kitty's lips. "That'll come," she said--and checked herself. Darrell bowed his face on his hands and laughed, unseen. To what sacrificial rite was the unconscious victim hurrying--at that very moment--in the express train which was to land him at Haggart Station that afternoon? "Well!" said Kitty, impatiently--"what do you think? Can you help me?" Darrell looked up. "You know, Lady Kitty, that book can't be published like that. Nobody would risk it." "Well, I suppose they'll tell me what to cut out." "Yes," said Darrell, slowly, caught by many reflections--"no doubt some clever fellow will know how near the wind it's possible to sail. But, anyway, trim it as you like, the book will make a scandal." "Will it?" Kitty's eyes flashed. She sat up radiant, her breath quick and defiant. "I don't see," he resumed, "how you can publish it without consulting Ashe." Kitty gave a cry of protest. "No, no, _no_! Of course he'd disapprove. But then--he soon forgives a thing, if he thinks it clever. And it is clever, isn't it?--some of it. He'd laugh--and then it would be all right. _He'd_ never pay out his enemies, but he couldn't help enjoying it if some one else did--could he?" She pleaded like a child. "'No need to forgive them,'" murmured Darrell, as he rolled over on his back and put his hat over his eyes--"for you would have 'shot them all.'" Under the shelter of his hat he tried to think himself clear. What _really_ were her motives? Partly, no doubt, a childish love of excitement--partly revenge? The animus against the Parhams was clear in every page. Cliffe, too, came badly out of it--a fantastic Byronic mixture of libertine and cad. Lady Kitty had better beware! As far as he knew, Cliffe had never yet been struck, with impunity to the striker. If these precious sheets ever appeared, Ashe's position would certainly be shaken. Poor wretch!--endeavoring to pursue a serious existence, yoked to such an impish sprite as this! His own fault, after all. That first night, at Madame d'Estrées', was not her madness written in her eyes? "Now tell me, Lady Kitty"--he roused himself to look at her with some attention--"what do you want me to do?" "To find me a publisher, and"--she stooped towards him with a laughing shyness--"to get me some money." "Money!" "I've been so awfully extravagant lately," said Kitty, frankly. "Something really will have to be done. And the book's worth some money, isn't it?" "A good deal," said Darrell. Then he added, with emphasis--"I really can't be responsible for it in any way, Lady Kitty." "Of course not. I will never, _never_ say I told you! But, you see, I'm not literary--I don't know in the least how to set about it. If you would just put me in communication?" Darrell pondered. None of the well-known publishers, of course, would look at it. But there were plenty of people who would--and give Lady Kitty a large sum of money for it, too. What part, however, could he--Darrell--play in such a transaction? "I am bound to warn you," he said, at last, looking up, "that your husband will probably strongly disapprove this book, and that it may do him harm." Kitty bit her lip. "But if I tell nobody who wrote it--and you tell nobody?" "Ashe would know at once. Everybody would know." "William would know," his companion admitted, unwillingly. "But I don't see why anybody else should. You see, I've put myself in--I've said the most shocking things!" Darrell replied that she would not find that device of much service to her. "However--I can no doubt get an opinion for you." Kitty, all delight, thanked him profusely. "You shall have the whole of it before you go--Friday, isn't it?" she said, eagerly gathering it up. Darrell was certainly conscious of no desire to burden himself with the horrid thing. But he was rarely able to refuse the request of a pretty and fashionable woman, and it flattered his conceit to be the sole recipient of what might very well turn out to be a political secret of some importance. Not that he meant to lay himself open to any just reproach whatever in the matter. He would show it to some fitting person--to pacify Lady Kitty--write a letter of strong protest to her afterwards--and wash his hands of it. What might happen then was not his business. Meanwhile his inner mind was full of an acrid debate which turned entirely upon his interview with Ashe of the day before. No doubt, as an old friend, aware of Lady Kitty's excitable character, he might have felt it his duty to go straight to Ashe, _coûte que coûte_, and warn him of what was going on. But what encouragement had been given him to play so Quixotic a part? Why should he take any particular thought for Ashe's domestic peace, or Ashe's public place? What consideration had Ashe shown for _him_? "Tu l'as voulu, Georges Dandin!" So it ended in his promising to take the MS. to London with him, and let Lady Kitty know the result of his inquiries. Kitty's dancing step as they returned to the house betrayed the height of her spirits. * * * * * A rumor flew round the house towards the middle of the day that Harry, the little heir, was worse. Kitty did not appear at luncheon, and the doctor was sent for. Before he came, it was known only to Margaret French that Kitty had escaped by herself from the house and could not be found. Ashe and Lady Tranmore saw the doctor, who prescribed, and would not admit that there was any cause for alarm. The heat had tried the child, and Lady Kitty--he looked round the nursery for her in some perplexity--might be quite reassured. Margaret found her, wandering in the park--very wild and pale--told her the doctor's verdict, and brought her home. Kitty said little or nothing, and was presently persuaded to change her dress for Lord Parham's arrival. By the time the operation was over she was full as usual of smiles and chatter, with no trace apparently of the mood which had gone before. Lord Parham found the house-party assembled on the lawn, with Kitty in a three-cornered hat, fantastically garnished at the side with a great plume of white cock's feathers, presiding at the tea-table. "Ah!" thought the Premier, as he approached--"now for the tare in Ashe's wheat!" Nothing, however, could have been more gracious than Kitty's reception of him, or more effusive than his response. He took his seat beside her, a solid and impressive figure, no less closely observed by such of the habitual guests of the political country-houses as happened to be present, than by the sprinkling of local clergy and country neighbors to whom Kitty was giving tea. Lord Parham, though now in the fourth year of his Premiership, was still something of a mystery to his countrymen; while for the inner circle it was an amusement and an event that he should be seen without his wife. For some time all went well. Kitty's manners and topics were alike beyond reproach. When presently she inquired politely as to the success of his Scottish tour, Lord Parham hoped he had not altogether disgraced himself. But, thank Heaven, it was done. Meanwhile Ashe, he supposed, had been enjoying the pursuits of a scholar and a gentleman?--lucky fellow! "He has been reading the Bible," said Kitty, carelessly, as she handed cake. "Just now he's in the Acts. That's why, I suppose, he didn't hear the carriage. John!" She called a footman. "Tell Mr. Ashe that Lord Parham has arrived!" The Premier opened astonished eyes. "Does Ashe generally study the Scriptures of an afternoon?" Kitty nodded--with her most confiding smile. "When he can. He says"--she dropped her voice to a theatrical whisper--"the Bible is such a 'd----d interesting' book!" Lord Parham started in his seat. Ashe and some of his friends still faintly recalled, in their too familiar and public use of this particular naughty word, the lurid vocabulary of the Peel and Melbourne generation. But in a lady's mouth the effect was prodigious. Lord Grosville frowned sternly and walked away; Eddie Helston smothered a burst of laughter; the Dean, startled, broke off a conversation with a group of archaeological clergymen and came to see what he could do to keep Lady Kitty in order; while Lady Tranmore flushed deeply, and began a hasty conversation with Lady Edith Manley. Meanwhile Kitty, quite unconscious, "went on cutting"--or rather, dispensing "bread-and-butter"; and Lord Parham changed the subject. "What a charming house!" he said, unwarily, waving his hand towards the Haggart mansion. He was short-sighted, and, in truth, saw only that it was big. Kitty looked at him in wonder--a friendly and amiable wonder. She said it was very kind of him to try and spare her feelings, but, really, anybody might say what they liked of Haggart. She and William weren't responsible. Lord Parham, rather nettled, put on his eye-glass, and, being an obstinate man, still maintained that he saw no reason at all to be dissatisfied with Haggart, from the æsthetic point of view. Kitty said nothing, but for the first time a gleam of mockery showed itself in her changing look. Lady Tranmore, always nervously on the watch, moved forward at this point, and Lord Parham, with marked and pompous suavity, transferred his conversation to her. Thus assured, as he thought, of a good listener, and delivered from his uncomfortable hostess, Lord Parham crossed his legs and began to talk at his ease. The guests round the various tea-tables converged, some standing and some sitting, and made a circle about the great man. About Kitty, too, who sat, equally conspicuous, dipping a biscuit in milk, and teasing her small dog with it. Lord Parham meanwhile described to Lady Tranmore--at wearisome length--the demonstrations which had attended his journey south, the railway-station crowds, addresses, and so forth. He handled the topic in a tone of jocular humility, which but slightly concealed the vast complacency beneath. Kitty's lip twitched; she fed Ponto hastily with all possible cakes. "No one, of course, can keep any count of what he says on these occasions," resumed Lord Parham, with a gracious smile. "I hope I talked some sense--" "Oh, but why?" said Kitty, looking up, her large fawn's eyes bent on the speaker. "Why?" repeated Lord Parham, suddenly stiffening. "I don't follow you, Lady Kitty." "Anybody can talk sense!" said Kitty, throwing a big bit of muffin at Ponto's nose. "It's the other thing that's hard--isn't it?" "Lady Kitty," said the Dean, lifting a finger, "you are plagiarizing from Mr. Pitt." "Am I?" said Kitty. "I didn't know." "I imagine that Mr. Pitt talked sense sometimes," said Lord Parham, shortly. "Ah, that was when he was drunk!" said Kitty. "Then he wasn't responsible." Lord Parham and the circle laughed--though the Premier's laugh was a little dry and perfunctory. "So you worship nonsense, Lady Kitty?" Kitty nodded sweetly. "And so does William. Ah, here he is!" For Ashe appeared, hurrying over the lawn, and Lord Parham rose to greet his host. "Upon my word, Ashe, how well you look! _You_ have had some holiday!" "Which is more than can be said of yourself," said Ashe, with smiling sympathy. "Well!--how have the speeches gone? Is there anything left of you? Edinburgh was magnificent!" He wore his most radiant aspect as he sat down beside his guest; and Kitty watching him, and already conscious of a renewed and excitable dislike for her guest, thought William was overdoing it absurdly, and grew still more restive. The Premier brought the tips of his fingers lightly together, as he resumed his seat. "Oh! my dear fellow, people were very kind--too much so! Yes--I think it did good--it did good. I should now rest and be thankful--if it weren't for the Bishops!" "The Bishops!" said the Rector of the parish standing near. "What have the Bishops been doing, my lord?" "Dying," said Kitty, as she fell into an attitude which commanded both William and Lord Parham. "They do it on purpose." "Another this morning!" said Ashe, throwing up his hands. "Oh! they die to plague me," said the Prime Minister, with the air of one on whom the universe weighs heavy. "There never was such a conspiracy!" "You should let William appoint them," said Kitty, leaning her chin upon her hands and studying Lord Parham with eyes all the more brilliant for the dark circles which fatigue, or something else, had drawn round them. "Ah, to be sure!" said Lord Parham, affably. "I had forgotten that Ashe was our theologian. Take me a walk before dinner!" he added, addressing his host. "But you won't take his advice," said Kitty, smiling. The Premier turned rather sharply. "How do you know that, Lady Kitty?" Kitty hesitated--then said, with the prettiest, slightest laugh: "Lady Parham has such strong views--hasn't she?--on Church questions!" Lord Parham's feeling was that a more insidiously impertinent question had never been put to him. He drew himself up. "If she has, Lady Kitty, I can only say I know very little about them! She very wisely keeps them to herself." "Ah!" said Kitty, as her lovely eyebrows lifted, "that shows how little people know." "I don't quite understand," said Lord Parham. "To what do you allude, Lady Kitty?" Kitty laughed. She raised her eyes to the Rector, a spare High Churchman, who had retreated uncomfortably behind Lady Tranmore. "Some one--said to me last week--that Lady Parham had saved the Church!" The Prime Minister rose. "I must have a little exercise before dinner. Your gardens, Ashe--is there time?" Ashe, scarlet with discomfort and annoyance, carried his visitor off. As he did so, he passed his wife. Kitty turned her little head, looked at him half shyly, half defiantly. The Dean saw the look; saw also that Ashe deliberately avoided it. The party presently began to disperse. The Dean found himself beside his hostess--strolling over the lawn towards the house. He observed her attentively--vexed with her, and vexed for her! Surely she was thinner than he had ever seen her. A little more, and her beauty would suffer seriously. Coming he knew not whence, there lit upon him the sudden and painful impression of something undermined, something consumed from within. "Lady Kitty, do you ever rest?" he asked her, unexpectedly. "Rest!" she laughed. "Why should I?" "Because you are wearing yourself out." She shrugged her shoulders. "Do you ever lie down--alone--and read a book?" persisted the Dean. "Yes. I have just finished Renan's _Vie de Jésus_!" Her glance, even with him, kept its note of audacity, but much softened by a kind of wistfulness. "Ah! my dear Lady Kitty, let Renan alone," cried the Dean--then with a change of tone--"but are you speaking truth--or naughtiness?" "Truth," said Kitty. "But--of course--I am in a temper." The Dean laughed. "I see Lord Parham is not a favorite of yours." Kitty compressed her small lips. "To think that William should have to take his orders from that man!" she said, under her breath. "Bear it--for William's sake," said the Dean, softly, "and, meanwhile--take my advice--and don't read any more Renan!" Kitty looked at him curiously. "I prefer to see things as they are." The Dean sighed. "That none of us can do, my dear Lady Kitty. No one can satisfy his _intelligence_. But religion speaks to the _will_--and it is the only thing between us and the void. Don't tamper with it! It is soon gone." A satirical expression passed over the face of his companion. "Mine was gone before we had been a month married. William killed it." The Dean exclaimed: "I hear always of his interest in religious matters!" "He cares for nothing so much--and he doesn't believe one single word of anything! I was brought up in a convent, you know--but William laughed it all out of me." "Dear Lady Kitty!" Kitty nodded. "And now, of course, I know there's nothing in it. Oh! I _do_ beg your pardon!" she said, eagerly. "I never meant to say anything rude to _you._ And I must go!" She looked up at an open window on the second floor of the house. The Dean supposed it was the nursery, and began to ask after the boy. But before he could frame his question she was gone, flying over the grass with a foot that scarcely seemed to touch it. "Poor child, poor child!" murmured the Dean, in a most genuine distress. But it was not the boy he was thinking of. Presently, however, he was overtaken by Miss French, of whom he inquired how the baby was. Margaret hesitated. "He seems to lose strength," she said, sadly. "The doctor declares there is no danger, unless--" "Unless what?" "Oh! but it's so unlikely!" was her hasty reply. "Don't let's think of it." * * * * * Kitty was just giving a last look at herself in the large mirror which lined half one of the sides of her room when Ashe invaded her. She glanced at him askance a little, and when the maid had gone Kitty hurriedly gathered up gloves and fan and prepared to follow her. "Kitty--one word!" He caught her in his arm, and held her while he looked down upon her sparkling dress and half-reluctant face. "Kitty, do be nice to that old fellow to-night! It's only for two nights. Take him in the right way, and make a conquest of him--for good. He's been very decent to me in our walk--though you did say such extraordinary things to him this afternoon. I believe he really wants to make amends." "I do hate his white eyelashes so," said Kitty, slowly. "What does it matter," cried Ashe, angrily, "whether he were a blue-faced baboon!--for two nights? Just listen to him a little, Kitty--that's all he wants. And--don't be offended!--but hold your own small tongue--just a little!" Kitty pulled herself away. "I believe I shall do something dreadful," she said, quietly. A sternness to which Ashe's good-humored face was almost wholly strange showed itself in his expression. "Why should you do anything dreadful, please? Lord Parham is your guest, and my political chief. Is there any woman in England who would not do her best to be civil to him under the circumstances?" "I suppose not," said Kitty, with deliberation. "No, I don't think there can be." "Kitty!" For the first time Ashe was conscious of real exasperation. What was to be done with a temperament and a disposition like this? "Do you never think that you have it in your power to help me or to ruin me?" he said, with vehemence. "Oh yes--often. I mean--to help you--in my own way." Ashe's laugh was a sound of pure annoyance. "But please understand, it would be _infinitely_ better if you would help me, in _my_ way--in the natural, accepted way--the way that everybody understands." "The way Lord Parham recommends?" Kitty looked at him quietly. "Never mind, William. I _am_ trying to help you." Her eyes shone with the strangest glitter. Ashe was conscious of another of those sudden stabs of anxiety about her which he had felt at intervals through the preceding year. His face softened. "Dear, don't let's talk nonsense! Just look at me sometimes at dinner, and say to yourself, 'William asks me--for his sake--to be nice to Lord Parham.'" He again drew her to him, but she repulsed him almost with violence. "Why is he here? Why have we people dining? We ought to be alone--in the dark!" Her face had become a white mask. Her breast rose and fell, as though she fought with sobs. "Kitty--what do you mean?" He recoiled in dismay. "Harry!"--she just breathed the word between her closed lips. "My darling!" cried Ashe, "I saw Dr. Rotherham myself this afternoon. He gave the most satisfactory account, and Margaret told me she had repeated everything to you. The child will soon be himself again." "He is _dying_!" said Kitty, in the same low, remote voice, her gaze still fixed on Ashe. "Kitty! Don't say such things--don't think them!" Ashe had himself grown pale. "At any rate"--he turned on her reproachfully--"tell me _why_ you think them. Confide in me, Kitty. Come and talk to me about the boy. But three-fourths of the time you behave as though there were nothing the matter with him--you won't even see the doctor--and then you say a thing like this!" She was silent a moment; then with a wild gesture of the head and shoulders, as of one shaking off a weight, she moved away--drew on her long gloves--and going to the dressing-table, gave a touch of rouge to her cheeks. "Kitty, why did you say that?" Ashe followed her entreatingly. "I don't know. At least, I couldn't explain. Now, shall we go down?" Ashe drew a long breath. His frail son held the inmost depths of his heart. "You have made the party an abomination to me!" he said, with energy. "Don't believe me, then--believe the doctor," said Kitty, her face changing. "And as for Lord Parham, I'll try, William--I'll try." She passed him--the loveliest of visions--flung him a hand to kiss--and was gone. XVI There could be no question that in all external matters Lord Parham was that evening magnificently entertained by the Home Secretary and Lady Kitty Ashe. The chef was extravagantly good; the wines, flowers, and service lavish to a degree which made both Ashe and Lady Tranmore secretly uncomfortable. Lady Tranmore in particular detested "show," influenced as much by aristocratic instinct as by moral qualms; and there was to her mind a touch of vulgarity in the entertaining at Haggart, which might be tolerated in the case of financiers and _nouveaux riches_, while, as connected with her William and his wife, who had no need whatever to bribe society, it was unbecoming and undignified. Moreover, the winter had been marked by a financial crisis caused entirely by Kitty's extravagance. A large sum of money had had to be raised from the Tranmore estates; times were not good for the landed interest, and the head agent had begun to look grave. If only William would control his wife! But Haggart contained one of those fine, slowly gathered libraries which make the distinction of so many English country-houses; and in the intervals of his official work, which even in holiday time was considerable, Ashe could not be beguiled from the beloved company of his books to help Kitty sign checks, or scold her about expenditure. So Kitty signed and signed; and the smaller was Ashe's balance, the more, it seemed, did Kitty spend. Then, of course, every few months, there were deficits which had to be made good. And as to the debts which accumulated, Lady Tranmore preferred not to think about them. It all meant future trouble and clipping of wings for William; and it all entered into that deep and hidden resentment, half anxious love, half alien temperament, which Elizabeth Tranmore felt towards Ashe's wife. However--to repeat--Lord Parham, as far as the fleshpots went, was finely treated. Kitty was in full force, glittering in a spangled dress, her dazzling face and neck, and the piled masses of her hair, thrown out in relief against the panelled walls of the dining-room with a brilliance which might have tempted a modern Rembrandt to paint an English Saskia. Eddie Helston, on her left, could not take his eyes from her. And even Lord Parham, much as he disliked her, acknowledged, during the early courses, that she was handsome, and in her own way--thank God! it was not the way of any womankind belonging to him--good company. He saw, too, or thought he saw, that she was anxious to make him amends for her behavior of the afternoon. She restrained herself, and talked politics. And within the lines he always observed when talking to women, lines dictated by a contempt innate and ineradicable, Lord Parham was quite ready to talk politics too. Then--it suddenly struck him that she was pumping him, and with great adroitness. Ashe, he knew, wanted an early place in the session for a particular measure in which he was interested. Lord Parham had no mind to give him the precedence that he wanted; was, in fact, determined on something quite different. But he was well aware by now that Ashe was a person to be reckoned with; and he had so far taken refuge in vagueness--an amiable vagueness, by which Ashe, on their walk before dinner, had been much taken in, misled no doubt by the strength of his own wishes. And now here was Lady Kitty--whom, by-the-way, it was not at all easy to take in--trying to "manage" him, to pin him to details, to wheedle him out of a pledge! Lord Parham, presently, looked at her with cold, smiling eyes. "Ah! you are interested in these things, Lady Kitty? Well--tell me your views. You women have such an instinct--" --whereby the moth was kept hovering round the flame. Till, in a flash, Kitty awoke to the fact that while she had been listening happily to her own voice, taking no notice whatever of the signals which William endeavored to send her from the other end of the table--while she had been tripping gayly through one indiscretion after another, betraying innumerable things as to William's opinions and William's plans that she had infinitely better not have betrayed--Lord Parham had said nothing, betrayed nothing, promised nothing. A quiet smile--a courteous nod--and presently a shade of mockery in the lips--the meaning of them, all in a moment, burst on Kitty. Her face flamed. Thenceforward it would be difficult to describe the dinner. Conversationally, at Kitty's end it became an uproar. She started the wildest topics, and Lord Parham had afterwards a bruised recollection as of one who has been dragged or driven, Caliban-like, through brake and thicket, pinched and teased and pelted by elfish fingers, without one single uncivil speech or act of overt offence to which an angry guest could point. With each later course, the Prime Minister grew stiffer and more silent. Endurance was written in every line of his fighting head and round, ungraceful shoulders, in his veiled eyes and stolid mouth. Lady Tranmore gave a gasp of relief when at last Kitty rose from her seat. * * * * * The evening went no better. Lord Parham was set down to cards with Kitty, Eddie Helston, and Lord Grosville. Lord Grosville, his partner, played, to the Premier's thinking, like an idiot, and Lady Kitty and the young man chattered and sparred, so that all reasonable play became impossible. Lord Parham lost more than he at all liked to lose, and at half-past ten he pleaded fatigue, refused to smoke, and went to his room. Ashe was perfectly aware of the failure of the evening, and the discomfort of his guest. But he said nothing, and Kitty avoided his neighborhood. Meanwhile, between him and his mother a certain tacit understanding began to make itself felt. They talked quietly, in corners, of the arrangements for the speech and fête of the morrow. So far, they had been too much left to Kitty. Ashe promised his mother to look into them. He and she combined for the protection of Lord Parham. When about one o'clock Ashe went to bed, Kitty either was or pretended to be fast asleep. The room was in darkness save for the faint illumination of a night-light, which just revealed to Ashe the delicate figure of his wife, lying high on her pillows, her cheek and brow hidden in the confusion of her hair. One window was wide open to the night, and once more Ashe stood lost in "recollection" beside it, as on that night in Hill Street, more than a year before. But the thoughts which on that former occasion had been still as tragic and unfamiliar guests in a mind that repelled them had now, alack, lost their strangeness; they entered habitually, unannounced--frequent, irritating, deplorable. Had the relation between himself and Kitty ever, in truth, recovered the shock of that incident on the river--of his night of restlessness, his morning of agonized alarm, and the story to which he listened on her return? It had been like some physical blow or wound, easily healed or conquered for the moment, which then, as time goes on, reveals a hidden series of consequences. Consequences, in this case, connected above all with Kitty's own nature and temperament. The excitement of Cliffe's declaration, of her own resistance and dramatic position, as between her husband and her lover, had worked ever since, as a poison in Kitty's mind--Ashe was becoming dismally certain of it. The absurd incident of the night before with the photograph had been enough to prove it. Well, the thing, he supposed, would right itself in time. Meanwhile, Cliffe had been dismissed, and this foolish young fellow Eddie Helston must soon follow him. Ashe had viewed the affair so far with an amused tolerance; if Kitty liked to flirt with babes it was her affair, not his. But he perceived that his mother was once more becoming restless, under the general _inconvenance_ of it; and he had noticed distress and disapproval in the little Dean, Kitty's stanchest friend. Luckily, no difficulty there! The lad was almost as devoted to him--Ashe--as he was to Kitty. He was absurd, affected, vain; but there was no vice in him, and a word of remonstrance would probably reduce him to abject regret and self-reproach. Ashe intended that his mother should speak it, and as he made up his mind to ask her help, he felt for the second time the sharp humiliation of the husband who cannot secure his own domestic peace, but must depend on the aid of others. Yet how could he himself go to young Helston? Some men no doubt could have handled such an incident with dignity. Ashe, with his critical sense for ever playing on himself and others; with the touch of moral shirking that belonged to his inmost nature; and, above all, with his half-humorous, half-bitter consciousness that whoever else might be a hero, he was none: Ashe, at least, could and would do nothing of the sort. That he should begin now to play the tyrannous or jealous husband would make him ridiculous both in his own eyes and other people's. And yet Kitty must somehow be protected from herself!... Then--as to politics? Once, in talking with his mother, he had said to her that he was Kitty's husband first, and a public man afterwards. Was he prepared now to make the statement with the same simplicity, the same whole-heartedness? Involuntarily he moved closer to the bed and looked down on Kitty. Little, delicate face!--always with something mournful and fretful in repose. He loved her surely as much as ever--ah! yes, he loved her. His whole nature yearned over her, as the wife of his youth, the mother of his poor boy. Yet, as he remembered the mood in which he had proposed to her, that defiance of the world and life which had possessed him when he had made her marry him, he felt himself--almost with bitterness--another and a meaner man. No!--he was _not_ prepared to lose the world for her--the world of high influence and ambition upon which he had now entered as a conqueror. She _must_ so control herself that she did not ruin all his hopes--which, after all, were hers--and the work he might do for his country. What incredible perversity and caprice she had shown towards Lord Parham! How was he to deal with it--he, William Ashe, with his ironic temper and his easy standards? What could he say to her but "Love me, Kitty!--love yourself!--and don't be a little fool! Life might be so amusing if you would only bridle your fancies and play the game!" As for loftier things, "self-reverence, self-knowledge, self-control"--duty--and the passion of high ideals--who was he to prate about them? The little Dean, perhaps!--most spiritual of worldlings. Ashe knew himself to be neither spiritual nor a hypocrite. A certain measure, a certain order and harmony in life--laughter and good-humor and affection--and, for the fight that makes and welds a man, those great political and social interests in the midst of which he found himself--he asked no more, and with these he would have been abundantly content. He sighed and frowned, his muscles stiffening unconsciously. Yes, for both their sakes he must try and play the master with Kitty, ridiculous as it seemed. ... He turned away, remembering his sick child--and went noiselessly to the nursery. There, along the darkened passages, he found a night-nurse, sitting working beside a shaded lamp. The child was sleeping, and the report was good. Ashe stole on tiptoe to look at him, holding his breath, then returned to his dressing-room. But a faint call from Kitty pursued him. He opened the door, and saw her sitting up in bed. "How is he?" She was hardly awake, but her expression struck him as very wild and piteous. He went to her and took her in his arms. "Sleeping quietly, darling--so must you!" She sank back on her pillows, his arm still round her. "I was there an hour ago," she murmured. "I shall soon wake up--" But for the moment she was asleep again, her fair head lying against his shoulder. He sat down beside her, supporting her. Suddenly, as he looked down upon her with mingled passion, tenderness, and pain, a sharp perception assailed him. How thin she was--a mere feather's weight! The face was smaller than ever--the hands skin and bone! Margaret French had once or twice bade him notice this, had spoken with anxiety. He bent over his wife and observed her attentively. It was merely the effect of a hot summer, surely, and of a constant nervous fatigue? He would take her abroad for a fortnight in September, if his official work would let him, and perhaps leave her in north Italy, or Switzerland, with Margaret French. * * * * * The great day was half-way through, and the throng in Haggart Park and grounds was at its height. A flower-show in the morning; then a tenants' dinner with a speech from Ashe; and now, in a marquee erected for the occasion, Lord Parham was addressing his supporters in the county. Around him on the platform sat the Whig gentry, the Radical manufacturers, the town wire-pullers and local agents on whom a great party depended; in front of him stretched a crowded meeting drawn in almost equal parts from the coal-mining districts to the north of Haggart and from the agricultural districts to the south.... The August air was stifling; perspiration shone on the broad brows and cheeks of the farmers sitting in the front half of the audience; Lord Parham's gray face was almost white; his harsh voice labored against the acoustic difficulties of the tent; effort and heat, discomfort and ennui breathed from the packed benches, and from the short-necked, large-headed figure of the Premier. Ashe sat to the speaker's right, outwardly attentive, inwardly ashamed of his party and his chief. He himself belonged to a new generation, for whom formulæ that had satisfied their fathers were empty and dead. But with these formulas Lord Parham was stuffed. A man of average intriguing ability, he had been raised, at a moment of transition, to the place he held, by a consummate command of all the meaner arts of compromise and management, no less than by an invaluable power of playing to the gallery. He led a party who despised him--and he complacently imagined that he was the party. His speech on this occasion bristled with himself, and had, in truth, no other substance; the I's swarmed out upon the audience like wasps. Ashe groaned in spirit, "We have the ideas," he thought, "but they are damned little good to us--it is the Tories who have the men! Ye gods! must we all talk like this at last?"... Suddenly, on the other side of the platform, behind Lord Parham, he noticed that Kitty and Eddie Helston were exchanging signs. Kitty drew out a tablet, wrote upon it, and, leaning over some white-frocked children of the Lord Lieutenant who sat behind her, handed the torn leaf to Helston. But from some clumsiness he let it drop; at the moment a door opened at the back of the platform, and the leaf, caught by the draught, was blown back across the bench where Kitty and the house-party were sitting, and fluttered down to a resting-place on the piece of red baize wheron Lord Parham was standing--close beside his left foot. Ashe saw Kitty's start of dismay, her scarlet flush, her involuntary movement. But Lord Parham had started on his peroration. The rustics gaped, the gentry sat expressionless, the reporters toiled after the great man. Kitty all the time kept her eyes fixed on the little white paper; Ashe no less. Between him and Lord Parham there was first the Lord Lieutenant, a portly man, very blind and extremely deaf--then a table with a Liberal peer behind it for chairman. Lord Parham had resumed his seat. The tent was shaken with cheers, and the smiling chairman had risen. "Can you ask Lord Parham to hand me on that paper on the floor," said Ashe, in the ear of the Lord Lieutenant, "it seems to have dropped from my portfolio." The Lord Lieutenant, bending backward behind the chairman as the next speaker rose, tried to attract Lord Parham's attention. Eddie Helston was, at the same time, endeavoring to make his way forward through the crowded seats behind the Prime Minister. Meanwhile Lord Parham had perceived the paper, raised it, and adjusted his spectacles. He thought it was a communication from the audience--a question, perhaps, that he was expected to answer. "Lord Parham!" cried the Lord Lieutenant again, "would you--" "Silence, please! Speak up!"--from the audience, who had so far failed to catch a word of what the new speaker was saying. "What _is_ the matter? You really can't get through here!" said a gray-haired dowager crossly to Eddie Helston. Lord Parham looked at the paper in mystification. It contained these words: "Hope you've been counting the 'I's.' I make it fifty-seven.--K." And in the corner of the paper a thumb-nail sketch of himself, perorating, with a garland of capital I's round his neck. The Premier's face became brick-red, then gray again. He folded up the paper and put it in his waistcoat-pocket. The meeting had broken up. For the common herd, it was to be followed by sports in the park and refreshments in big tents. For the gentry, Lady Kitty had a garden-party to which Royalty was coming. And as her guests streamed out of the marquee, Lord Parham approached his hostess. "I think this belongs to you, Lady Kitty." And taking from his pocket a folded slip of paper he offered it to her. Kitty looked at him. Her color was high, her eyes sparkled. "Nothing to do with me!" she said, gayly, as she glanced at it. "But I'll look for the owner." "Sorry to give you the trouble," said Lord Parham, with a ceremonious inclination. Then, turning to Ashe, he remarked that he was extremely tired--worn out, in fact--and would ask his host's leave to desert the garden-party while he attended to some most important letters. Ashe offered to escort him to the house. "On the contrary, look after your guests," said the Premier, dryly, and, beckoning to the Liberal peer who had been his chairman, he engaged him in conversation, and the two presently vanished through a window open to the terrace. Kitty had been joined meanwhile by Eddie Helston, and the two stood talking together, a flushed, excited pair. Ashe overtook them. "May I speak to you a moment, Kitty?" Eddie Helston glanced at the fine form and stiffened bearing of his host, understood that his presence counted for something in the annoyance of Ashe's expression, and departed abashed. "I should like to see that paper, Kitty, if you don't mind." His frown and straightened lip brought fresh wildness into Kitty's expression. "It is my property." She kept one hand behind her. "I heard you just disavow that." Kitty laughed angrily. "Yes--that's the worst of Lord Parham--one has to tell so many lies for his _beaux yeux_!" "You must give it me, please," said Ashe, quietly. "I ought to know where I am with Lord Parham. He is clearly bitterly offended--by something, and I shall have to apologize." Kitty breathed fast. "Well, don't let's quarrel before the county!" she said, as she turned aside into a shrubbery walk edged by clipped yews and hidden from the big lawn. There she paused and confronted him. "How did you know I wrote it?" "I saw you write it and throw it." He stretched out his hand. Kitty hesitated, then slowly unclosed her own, and held out the small, white palm on which lay the crumpled slip. Ashe read it and tore it up. "That game, Kitty, was hardly worth the candle!" "It was a perfectly harmless remark--and only meant for Eddie! Any one else than Lord Parham would have laughed. _Then_ I might have begged his pardon." "It is what you ought to do now," said Ashe. "A little note from you, Kitty--you could write it to perfection--" "Certainly not," said Kitty, hastily, locking her hands behind her. "You prefer to have failed in hospitality and manners," he said, bitterly. "Well, I'm afraid if you don't feel any disgrace in it I do. Lord Parham in our _guest_!" And Ashe turned on his heel and would have left her, when Kitty caught him by the arm. "William!" She had grown very pale. "Yes." "You've never spoken to me like that before, William--never! But--as I told you long ago, you can stop it all if you like--in a moment." "I don't know what you mean, Kitty--but we mustn't stay arguing here any longer--" "No!--but--don't you remember? I told you, you can always send me away. Then I shouldn't be putting spokes in your wheel." "I don't deny," said Ashe, slowly, "it might be wisest if, next spring, you stayed here, for part at least of the session--or abroad. It is certainly difficult carrying on politics under these conditions. I could, of course, come backward and forward--" Kitty's brown eyes that were fixed upon his face wavered a little, and she grew even whiter. "Very well. That would be a kind of separation, wouldn't it?" "There would be no need to call it by any such name. Oh! Kitty!" cried Ashe, "why can't you behave like a reasonable woman?" "Separation," she repeated, steadily. "I know that's what your mother wants." A wave of sound reached them amid the green shadow of the yews. The cheers that heralded Royalty had begun. "Come!" said Kitty. And she flew across the grass, reaching her place by the central tent just as the Royalties drove up. The Prime Minister sulked in-doors; and Kitty, with the most engaging smiles, made his apologies. The heat--the fatigue of the speech--a crushing headache, and a doctor's order!--he begged their Royal Highnesses to excuse him. The Royal Highnesses were at first astonished, inclined, perhaps, to take offence. But the party was so agreeable, and Lady Kitty so charming a hostess, that the Premier's absence was soon forgotten, and as the day cooled to a delicious evening, and the most costly bands from town discoursed a melting music, as garlanded boats appeared upon the river inviting passengers, and, with the dusk, fireworks began to ascend from a little hill; as the trees shone green and silver and rose-color in the Bengal lights, and amid the sweeping clouds of smoke the wide stretches of the park, the close-packed groups of human beings, appeared and vanished like the country and creatures of a dream--the success of Lady Kitty's fête, the fame of her gayety and her beauty, filled the air. She flashed hither and thither, in a dress embroidered with wild roses and a hat festooned with them--attended always by Eddie Helston, by various curates who cherished a hopeless attachment to her, and by a fat German grand-duke, who had come in the wake of the Royalties. Her cleverness, her resource, her organizing power were lauded to the skies, Royalty was gracious, and the grand-duke resentfully asked an aide-de-camp on the way home why he had not been informed that such a pretty person awaited him. "I should den haf looked beforehand--as vel as tinking behind," said the grand-duke, as he wrapped himself sentimentally in his military cloak, to meditate on Lady Kitty's brown eyes. Meanwhile Lord Parham remained closeted in his sitting-room with his secretary. Ashe tried to gain admittance, but in vain. Lord Parham pleaded great fatigue and his letters; and asked for a _Bradshaw_. "His lordship has inquired if there is a train to-night," said the little secretary, evidently much flustered. Ashe protested. And, indeed, as it turned out, there was no train worth the taking. Then Lord Parham sent a message that he hoped to appear at dinner. Kitty locked her door while she was dressing, and Ashe, whose mind was a confusion of many feelings--anger, compunction, and that fascination which in her brilliant moods she exercised over him no less than over others--could get no speech with her. They met on the threshold of the child's room, she coming out, he going in. But she wrenched herself from him and would say nothing. The report of the little boy was good; he smiled at his father, and Ashe felt a cooling balm in the touch of his soft hands and lips. He descended--in a more philosophical mind; inclined, at any rate, to "damn" Lord Parham. What a fool the man must be! Why couldn't he have taken it with a laugh, and so turned the tables on Kitty? Was there any good to be got out of apologizing? Ashe supposed he must attempt it some time that night. A precious awkward business! But relations had got to be restored somehow. Lady Tranmore overtook him on the way down-stairs. In the press of the afternoon they had hardly seen each other. "What is really wrong with Lord Parham, William?" she asked him, anxiously. Ashe hesitated, then whispered a word or two in her ear, begging her to keep the great man in play for the evening. He was to take her in, while Kitty would fall to the Bishop of the diocese. "She gets on perfectly with the clergy," said Lady Tranmore, with an involuntary sigh. Then, as the sense of humor was strong in both, they laughed. But it was a chilly and perfunctory laughter. They had no sooner passed into the main hall than Kitty came running down-stairs, with a large packet in her hand. "Mr. Darrell!" "At your service!" said Darrell, emerging from the shadows of one of the broad corridors of the ground-floor. "Take it, please!" said Kitty, panting a little, as she gave the packet into his hands. "If I look at it any more, I _might_ burn it!" "Suppose you do!" "No, no!" said Kitty, pushing the bundle away, as he laughingly tendered it. "I must see what happens!" "Is the gap filled?" She laid her finger on her lips. Her eyes danced. Then she hurried on to the drawing-room. Whether it were the soothing presence of the clergy or no, certainly Kitty was no less triumphant at dinner than she had been in the afternoon. The chorus of fun and pleasure that surrounded her, while he himself sat, tired and bored, between Lady Edith Manley and Lady Tranmore, did but make her offence the greater in the eyes of Lord Parham. He had so far buried it in a complete and magnificent silence. The meeting between him and his hostess before dinner had been marked by a strict conformity to all the rules. Kitty had inquired after his headache; Lord Parham expressed his regrets that he had missed so brilliant a party; and Kitty, flirting her fan, invented messages from the Royalties which, as most of those present knew, the Royalties had been far too well amused to think of. Then after this _pas seul_, in the presence of the crowded drawing-room, had been duly executed, Kitty retired to her Bishop, and Lord Parham led forth Lady Tranmore. * * * * * "What a lovely moon!" said Lady Edith Manley to the Dean. "It makes even this house look romantic." They were walking outside the drawing-room windows, on a terrace which was, indeed, the only feature of the Haggart façade which possessed some architectural interest. A low balustrade of terra-cotta, copied from a famous Italian villa, ran round it, broken by large terra-cotta pots now filled with orange-trees. Here and there between the orange-trees were statues transported from Naples in the late eighteenth century by a former Lord Tranmore. There was a Ceres and a Diana, a Vestal Virgin, an Athlete, and an Antinous, now brought into strange companionship under the windows of this ugly English house. Chipped and blackened as they were, and, to begin with, of a mere decorative importance, they still breathed into the English evening a note of Italy or Greece, of things lovely and immortal. The lamps in the sitting-rooms streamed out through the widely opened windows upon the terrace, checkering the marble figures, which now emerged sharply in the light, and now withdrew in the gloom; while at one point they shone plainly upon an empty pedestal before which the Dean and his companion paused. The Dean looked at the inscription. "What a pity! This once held a statue of Hebe holding a torch. It was struck by lightning fifty years ago." "Lady Kitty might stand for her to-night," said Edith Manley. For Kitty, the capricious, had appeared at dinner in a _quasi_-Greek dress, white, soft, and flowing, without an ornament. The Dean acquiesced, but rather sadly. "I wish she had the bloom of Hebe! My dear Lady Edith, our hostess looks _ill_!" "Does she? I can't tell--I admire her so!" said the woman beside him, upon whose charming eyes some fairy had breathed kindness and optimism from her cradle. "_Ouf!_" cried Kitty, as she sprang across the sill of the window behind them. "They're _all_ gone! The Bishop wishes me to become a vice-president of the Women's Diocesan Association. And I've promised three curates to open bazaars. _Ah, mon Dieu!_" She raised her white arms with a wild gesture, and then beckoned to Eddie Helston, who was close beside her. "Shall we try our dance?" The young men of the house, a group of young guardsmen and diplomats, gathered round, laughing and clapping. Kitty's dancing had become famous during the winter as one of her many extravagances. She no longer recited; literature bored her; motion was the only poetry. So she had been carefully instructed by a _danseuse_ from the Opera, and in many points, so the enthusiasts declared, had bettered her instructions. She was now in love with a tempestuous Spanish dance, taught her by a gypsy _señorita_ who had been one of the sensations of the London season. It required a partner, and she had been practising it with young Helston, for several mornings past, in the empty ballroom. Helston had spread its praises abroad; and all Haggart desired to see it. "There!" said Kitty, pointing her partner to a particular spot on the terrace. "I think that will do. Where are the castanets, I wonder?" "Kitty!" said a voice behind her. Ashe emerged from the drawing-room. "Kitty, please! It is nearly midnight. Everybody is tired--and you yourself must be worn out! Say good-night, and let us all go to bed." She turned. Willam's voice was low, but peremptory. She shook back her hair from her temples and neck, with the gesture he had learned to dread. "Nobody's tired--and nobody wants to go to bed. Please stand out of the way, William. I want plenty of room for my steps." And she began pirouetting, as though to try the capacities of the space, humming to herself. "Helston--this must be, please, for another night," said Ashe, resolutely, in the young man's ear. "Lady Kitty is much too tired." Then to Lady Edith, and the Dean--"Lady Edith, it would be very kind of you to persuade my wife to go to bed. She never knows when she is done!" Lady Edith warmly acquiesced, and, hurrying up to Kitty, she tried to persuade her in soft, caressing phrases. "I stand on my rights!" said the Dean, following her. "If my hostess is used up to-night, there'll be no hostess for me to-morrow." Kitty looked at them all, silent--her head bending forward, a curious _méchant_ look in the eyes that shone beneath the slightly frowning brows. Meanwhile, by her previous order, a footman had brought out two silver lamps and placed them on a small table a little way behind her. Whether it was from some instinctive sense of the beauty of the small figure in the slender, floating dress under the deep blue of the night sky and amid the romantic shadows and lights of the terrace--or from some divination of things significant and hidden--it would be hard to say; but the group of spectators had fallen back a little from Kitty, so that she stood alone, a picture lit from the left by the lamps just brought in. The Dean looked at her--troubled by her wild aspect and the evident conflict between her and Ashe. Then an idea flashed into his mind, filled always, like that of an innocent child, with the images of poetry and romance. "One moment!" he said, raising his hand. "Lady Kitty, you spoil us! After amusing us all day, now you would dance for us all night. But your guests won't let you! We love you too well, and we want a bit of you left for to-morrow. Never mind! You offered us a dance--you bring us a vision--and a poem!--Friends!" He turned to those crowding round him, his white hair glistening in the lamplight, his delicate face, so old and yet so eager, the smile on his kind lips, and all the details of his Dean's dress--apron and knee-breeches, slender legs and silver buckles--thrown out in sharp relief upon the dark.... "Friends! you see this pedestal. Once Hebe, the cup-bearer of the gods, stood there. Then--ungrateful Zeus smote her, and she fell! But the Hours and the Graces bore her safe away, into a golden land, and now they bring her back again. Behold her!--Hebe reborn!" He bowed, his courtly hand upon his breast, and a wave of laughter and applause ran through the young group round him as their eyes turned from the speaker to the exquisite figure of Kitty. Lady Edith smiled kindly, clapping her soft hands. Mrs. Winston, the Dean's wife, had eyes only for the Dean. In the background Lady Tranmore watched every phase of Kitty's looks, and Lord Grosville walked back into the dining-room, growling unutterable things to Darrell as he passed. Kitty raised her head to reply. But the Dean checked her. Advancing a step or two, he saluted her again--profoundly. "Dear Lady Kitty!--dear bringer of light and ambrosia!--rest, and good-night! Your guests thank you by me, with all their hearts. You have been the life of their day, the spirit of their mirth. Good-night to Hebe!--and three cheers for Lady Kitty!" Eddie Helston led them, and they rang against the old house. Kitty with a fluttering smile kissed her hand for thanks, and the Dean saw her look round--dart a swift glance at Ashe. He stood against the window-frame, in shadow, motionless, his arms folded. Then suddenly Kitty sprang forward. "Give me that lamp!" she said to the young footman behind her. And in a second she had leaped upon the low wall of the terrace and on the vacant pedestal. The lad to whom she had spoken lost his head and obeyed her. He raised the lamp. She stooped and took it. Ashe, who was now standing in the open window with his back to the terrace, turned round, saw, and rushed forward. "Kitty!--put it down!" "Lady Kitty!" cried the Dean, in dismay, while all behind him held their breath. "Stand back!" said Kitty, "or I shall drop it!" She held up the lamp, straight and steady. Ashe paused--in an agony of doubt what to do, his whole soul concentrated on the slender arm and on the brightly burning lamp. "If you make me speeches," said Kitty, "I must reply, mustn't I? (Keep back, William!--I'm all right.) Hebe thanks you, please--_mille fois_! She herself hasn't been happy--and she's afraid she hasn't been good! _N'importe!_ It's all done--and finished. The play's over!--and the lights go out!" She waved the lamp above her head. "Kitty! for God's sake!" cried Ashe, rushing to her. "She is mad!" said Lord Parham, standing at the back. "I always knew it!" The other spectators passed through a second of anguish. The bright figure on the pedestal wavered; one moment, and it seemed as though the lamp must descend crashing upon the head and neck and the white dress beneath it; the next, it had fallen from Kitty's hand--fallen away from her--wide and safe--into the depths of the garden below. A flash of wild light rose from the burning oil and from the dry shrubs amid which it fell. Kitty, meanwhile, swayed--and dropped--heavily--unconscious--into William Ashe's arms. * * * * * Kitty barely recovered life and sense during the night that followed. And while she was still unconscious her boy passed away. The poor babe, all ignorant of the straits in which his mother lay, was seized with convulsions in the dawn, and gave up his frail life gathered to his father's breast. Some ten weeks later, towards the end of October, society knew that the Home Secretary and Lady Kitty had started for Italy--bound first of all for Venice. It was said that Lady Kitty was a wreck, and that it was doubtful whether she would ever recover the sudden and tragic death of her only child. PART IV STORM "Myself, arch-traitor to myself; My hollowest friend, my deadliest foe, My clog whatever road I go." XVII "'Among the numerous daubs with which Tintoret, to his everlasting shame, has covered this church--'" "Good Heavens!--what does the man mean?--or is he talking of another church?" said Ashe, raising his head and looking in bewilderment, first at the magnificent Tintoret in front of him, and then at the lines he had just been reading. "William!" cried Kitty, "_do_ put that fool down and come here; one sees it splendidly!" She was standing in one of the choir-stalls of San Giorgio Maggiore, somewhat raised above the point where Ashe had been studying his German hand-book. "My dear, if this man doesn't know, who does!" cried Ashe, flourishing his volume in front of him as he obeyed her. "'Dans le royaume des aveugles,'" said Kitty, contemptuously. "As if any German could even begin to understand Tintoret! But--don't talk!" And clasping both hands round Ashe's arm, she stood leaning heavily upon him, her whole soul gazing from the eyes she turned upon the picture, her lips quivering, as though, from some physical weakness, she could only just hold back the tears with which, indeed, the face was charged. She and Ashe were looking at that "Last Supper" of Tintoret's which hangs in the choir of San Giorgio Maggiore at Venice. It is a picture dear to all lovers of Tintoret, breathing in every line and group the passionate and mystical fancy of the master. The scene passes, it will be remembered, in what seems to be the spacious guest-chamber of an inn. The Lord and His disciples are gathered round the last sacred meal of the Old Covenant, the first of the New. On the left, a long table stretches from the spectator into the depths of the picture; the disciples are ranged along one side of it; and on the other sits Judas, solitary and accursed. The young Christ has risen; He holds the bread in His lifted hands and is about to give it to the beloved disciple, while Peter beyond, rising from his seat in his eagerness, presses forward to claim his own part in the Lord's body. The action of the Christ has in it a very ecstasy of giving; the bending form, indeed, is love itself, yearning and triumphant. This is further expressed in the light which streams from the head of the Lord, playing upon the long line of faces, illuminating the vehement gesture of Peter, the adoring and radiant silence of St. John--and striking even to the farthest corners of the room, upon a woman, a child, a playing dog. Meanwhile, from the hanging lamps above the supper-party there glows another and more earthly light, mingled with fumes of smoke which darken the upper air. But such is the power of the divine figure that from this very darkness breaks adoration. The smoke-wreaths change under the gazer's eye into hovering angels, who float round the head of the Saviour, and look down with awe upon the first Eucharist; while the lamp-light, interpenetrated by the glory which issues from the Lord, searches every face and fold and surface, displays the figures of the serving men and women in the background, shines on the household stuff, the vases and plates, the black and white of the marble floor, the beams of the old Venetian ceiling. Everywhere the double ray, the two-fold magic! Steeped in these "majesties of light," the immortal scene lives upon the quiet wall. Year after year the slender, thought-worn Christ raises His hands of blessing; the disciples strain towards Him; the angels issue from the darkness; the friendly domestic life, happy, natural, unconscious, frames the divine mystery. And among those who come to look there are, from time to time, men and women who draw from it that restlessness of vague emotion which Kitty felt as she hung now, gazing, on Ashe's arm. For there is in it an appeal which torments them--like the winding of a mystic horn, on purple heights, by some approaching and unseen messenger. Ineffable beauty, offering itself--and in the human soul, the eternal human discord: what else makes the poignancy of art--the passion of poetry? * * * * * "That's enough!" said Kitty, at last, turning abruptly away. "You like it?" said Ashe, softly, detaining her, while he pressed the little hand upon his arm. His heart was filled with a great pity for his wife in these days. "Oh, I don't know!" was Kitty's impatient reply. "It haunts me. There's still another to see--in a chapel. The sacristan's making signs to us." "Is there?" Ashe stifled a yawn. He asked Margaret French, who had come up with them, whether Kitty had not had quite enough sight-seeing. He himself must go to the Piazza, and get the news before dinner. As an English cabinet minister, he had been admitted to the best club of the Venice residents. Telegrams were to be seen there; and there was anxious news from the Balkans. Kitty merely insisted that she could not and would not go without her remaining Tintoret, and the others yielded to her at once, with that indulgent tenderness one shows to the wilfulness of a sick child. She and Margaret followed the sacristan. Ashe lingered behind in a passage of the church, surreptitiously reading an Italian newspaper. He had the ordinary cultivated pleasure in pictures; but this ardor which Kitty was throwing into her pursuit of Tintoret--the Wagner of painting--left him cold. He did not attempt to keep up with her. Two ladies were already in the cloister chapel, with a gentleman. As Kitty and her friend entered, these persons had just finished their inspection of the damaged but most beautiful "Pietà" which hangs over the altar, and their faces were towards the entrance. "Maman!" cried Kitty, in amazement. The lady addressed started, put up a gold-rimmed eye-glass, exclaimed, and hurried forward. Kitty and she embraced, amid a torrent of laughter and interjections from the elder lady, and then Kitty, whose pale cheeks had put on scarlet, turned to Margaret French. "Margaret!--my mother, Madame d'Estrées." Miss French, who found herself greeted with effusion by the strange lady, saw before her a woman of fifty, marvellously preserved. Madame d'Estrées had grown stout; so much time had claimed; but the elegant gray dress with its floating chiffon and lace skilfully concealed the fact; and for the rest, complexion, eyes, lips were still defiant of the years. If it were art that had achieved it, nature still took the credit; it was so finely done, the spectator could only lend himself and admire. Under the pretty hat of gray tulle, whereof the strings were tied bonnet-fashion under the plump chin, there looked out, indeed, a face gay, happy, unconcerned, proof one might have thought of an innocent past and a good conscience. Kitty, who had drawn back a little, eyed her mother oddly. "I thought you were in Paris. Your letter said you wouldn't be able to move for weeks--" "_Ma chère!_--_un miracle!_" cried Madame d'Estrées, blushing, however, under her thin white veil. "When I wrote to you, I was at death's door--wasn't I?" She appealed to her companion, without waiting for an answer. "Then some one told me of a new doctor, and in ten days, _me voici_! They insisted on my going away--this dear woman--Donna Laura Vercelli--my daughter, Lady Kitty Ashe!--knew of an apartment here belonging to some relations of hers. And here we are--charmingly _installées_!--and really _nothing_ to pay!"--Madame d'Estrées whispered, smiling, in Kitty's ear--"nothing, compared to the hotels. I'm economizing splendidly. Laura looks after every sou. Ah! my dear William!" For Ashe, puzzled by the voices within, had entered the chapel, and stood in his turn, open-mouthed. "Why, we thought you were an invalid." For, some three weeks before, a letter had reached him at Haggart, so full of melancholy details as to Madame d'Estrées' health and circumstances that even Kitty had been moved. Money had been sent; inquiries had been made by telegraph; and but for a hasty message of a more cheerful character, received just before they started, the Ashes, instead of journeying by Brussels and Cologne, would have gone by Paris that Kitty might see her mother. They had intended to stop there on their way back. Ashe was not minded that Kitty should see more of Madame d'Estrées than necessity demanded; but on this occasion he would have felt it positively brutal to make difficulties. And now here was this moribund lady, this forsaken of gods and men, disporting herself at Venice, evidently in the pink of health and attired in the freshest of Paris toilettes! As he coldly shook hands, Ashe registered an inner vow that Madame d'Estrées' letters henceforward should receive the attention they deserved. And beside her was her somewhat mysterious friend of London days, the Colonel Warington who had been so familiar a figure in the gatherings of St. James's Place--grown much older, almost white-haired, and as gentlemanly as ever. Who was the lady? Ashe was introduced, was aware of a somewhat dark and Jewish cast of face, noticed some fine jewels, and could only suppose that his mother-in-law had picked up some one to finance her, and provide her with creature comforts in return for the social talents that Madame d'Estrées still possessed in some abundance. He had more than once noticed her skill in similar devices; but, indeed, they were indispensable, for while he allowed Madame d'Estrées one thousand a year, she was, it seemed, firmly determined to spend a minimum of three. He and Warington looked at each other with curiosity. The bronzed face and honest eyes of the soldier betrayed nothing. "Are you going to marry her at last?" thought Ashe. "Poor devil!" Meanwhile Madame d'Estrées chattered away as though nothing could be more natural than their meeting, or more perfect than the relations between herself and her daughter and son-in-law. As they all strolled down the church she looked keenly at Kitty. "My dear child, how ill you look!--and your mourning! Ah, yes, of course!"--she bit her lip--"I remember--the poor, poor boy--" "Thank you!" said Kitty, hastily. "I got your letter--thank you very much. Where are you staying? We've got rooms on the Grand Canal." "Oh, but, Kitty!" cried Madame d'Estrées--"I was so sorry for you!" "Were you?" said Kitty, under her breath. "Then, please, never speak of him to me again!" Startled and offended, Madame d'Estrées looked at her daughter. But what she saw disarmed her. For once even she felt something like the pang of a mother. "You're _dreadfully_ thin, Kitty!" Kitty frowned with annoyance. "It's not my fault," she said, pettishly. "I live on cream, and it's no good. Of course, I know I'm an object and a scarecrow; but I'd rather people didn't tell me." "What nonsense, _chére enfant!_ You're much prettier than you ever were." A wild and fugitive radiance swept across the face beside her. "Am I?" said Kitty, smiling. "That's all right! If I had died it wouldn't matter, of course. But--" "Died! What do you mean, Kitty?" said Madame d'Estrées, in bewilderment. "When William wrote to me I thought he meant you had overtired yourself." "Oh, well, the doctors said it was touch and go," said Kitty, indifferently. "But, of course, it wasn't. I'm much too tough. And then they fussed about one's heart. And that's all nonsense, too. I couldn't die if I tried." But Madame d'Estrées pondered--the bright, intermittent color, the emaciation, the hollowness of the eyes. The effect, so far, was to add to Kitty's natural distinction, to give, rather, a touch of pathos to a face which even in its wildest mirth had in it something alien and remote. But she, too, reflected that a little more, a very little more, and--in a night--the face would have dropped its beauty, as a rose its petals. The group stood talking awhile on the steps outside the church. Kitty and her mother exchanged addresses, Donna Laura opened her mouth once or twice, and produced a few contorted smiles for Kitty's benefit, while Colonel Warington tipped the sacristan, found the gondolier, and studied the guide-book. As Madame d'Estrées stepped into her gondola, assisted by him, she tapped him on the arm. "Are you coming, Markham?" The low voice was pitched in a very intimate note. Kitty turned with a start. * * * * * "A casa!" said Madame d'Estrées, and she and her friend made for one of the canals that pierce the Zattere, while Colonel Warington went off for a walk along the Giudecca. Kitty and Ashe bade their gondoliers take them to the Piazzetta, and presently they were gliding across waters of flame and silver, where the white front and red campanile of San Giorgio--now blazing under the sunset--mirrored themselves in the lagoon. The autumn evening was fresh and gay. A light breeze was on the water; lights that only Venice knows shone on the tawny sails of fishing-boats making for the Lido, on the white sides of an English yacht, on the burnished prows of the gondolas, on the warm reddish-white of the Ducal Palace. The air blowing from the Adriatic breathed into their faces the strength of the sea; and in the far distance, above that line of buildings where lies the heart of Venice, the high ghosts of the Friulian Alps glimmered amid the sweeping regiments and purple shadows of the land-hurrying clouds. "This does you good, darling!" said Ashe, stooping down to look into his wife's face, as she nestled beside him on the soft cushions of the gondola. Kitty gave him a slight smile, then said, with a furrowed brow: "Who could ever have thought we should find maman here!" "Don't have her on your mind!" said Ashe, with some sharpness. "I can't have anything worrying you." She slipped her hand into his. "Is that man going to marry her--at last? She called him 'Markham.' That's new." "Looks rather like it," said Ashe. "Then _he'll_ have to look after the debts!" They began to piece together what they knew of Colonel Warington and his relation to Madame d'Estrées. It was not much. But Ashe believed that originally Warington had not been in love with her at all. There had been a love-affair between her and Warington's younger brother, a smart artillery officer, when she was the widowed Lady Blackwater. She had behaved with more heart and scruple than she had generally been known to do in these matters, and the young officer adored her--hoped, indeed, to marry her. But he was called on--in Paris--to fight a duel on her account, and was killed. Before fighting, he had commended Lady Blackwater to the care of his much older brother, also a soldier, between whom and himself there existed a rare and passionate devotion; and ever since the poor lad's death, Markham Warington had been the friend and quasi-guardian of the lady--through her second marriage, through the checkered years of her existence in London, and now through the later years of her residence on the Continent, a residence forced upon her by her agreement with the Tranmores. Again and again he had saved her from bankruptcy, or from some worse scandal which would have wrecked the last remnants of her fame. But, all the time, he was himself bound by strong ties of gratitude and affection to an elder sister who had brought him up, with whom he lived in Scotland during half the year. And this stout Puritan lady detested the very name of Madame d'Estrées. "But she's dead," said Ashe. "I remember noticing her death in the _Times_ some three months ago. That, of course, explains it. Now he's free to marry." "And so maman will settle down, and be happy ever afterwards!" said Kitty, with a sarcastic lifting of the brow. "Why should anybody be good?" The bitterness of her look struck Ashe disagreeably. That any child should speak so of a mother was a tragic and sinister thing. But he was well aware of the causes. "Were you very unhappy when you were a child, Kitty?" He pressed the hand he held. "No," said Kitty, shortly. "I'm too like maman. I suppose, really, at bottom, I liked all the debts, and the excitement, and the shady people!" "That wasn't the impression you gave me, in the first days of our acquaintance!" said Ashe, laughing. "Oh, then I was grown up--and there were drawbacks. But I'm made of the same stuff as maman," she said, obstinately--"except that I can't tell so many fibs. That's really why we didn't get on." Her brown eyes held him with that strange, unspoken defiance it seemed so often beyond her power to hide. It was like the fluttering of some caged thing hungering for it knows not what. Then, as they scanned the patient good-temper of his face, they melted; and her little fingers squeezed his; while Margaret French kept her eyes fixed on the two columns of the Piazzetta. "How strange to find her here!" said Kitty, under her breath. "Now, if it had been Alice--my sister Alice!" William nodded. It had been known to them for some time that Lady Alice Wensleydale, to whom Italy had become a second country, had settled in a villa near Treviso, where she occupied herself with a lace school for women and girls. The mention of her sister threw Kitty into what seemed to be a disagreeable reverie. The flush brought by the sea-wind faded. Ashe looked at her with anxiety. "You have done too much, Kitty--as usual!" His voice was almost angry. She shrugged her shoulders. "What does it matter? You know very well it would be much better for you if--" "If what?" "If I followed Harry." The words were just breathed, and her eyes shrank from meeting his. Ashe, on the other hand, turned and looked at her steadily. "Are you quite determined I sha'n't get _any_ joy out of my holiday?" She shook her head uncertainly. Then, almost immediately, she began to chatter to Margaret French about the sights of the lagoon, with her natural trenchancy and fun. But her hand, hidden under the folds of her black cloak, still clung to William's. "It is her illness," he said to himself, "and the loss of the child." And at the remembrance of his little son, a wave of sore yearning filled his own heart. Deep under the occupations and interests of the mind lay this passionate regret, and at any moment of pause or silence its "buried life" arose and seized him. But he was a busy politician, absorbed even in these days of holiday by the questions and problems of the hour. And Kitty was a delicate woman--with no defence against the torture of grief. He thought of those first days after the child's death, when in spite of the urgency of the doctors it had been impossible to keep the news from Kitty; of the ghastly effect of it upon nerves and brain already imperilled by causes only half intelligible; of those sudden flights from her nurses, when the days of convalescence began, to the child's room, and, later, to his grave. There was stinging pain in these recollections. Nor was he, in truth, much reassured by his wife's more recent state. It was impossible, indeed, that he should give it the same constant thought as a woman might--or a man of another and more emotional type. At this moment, perhaps, he had literally no _time_ for the subtleties of introspective feeling, even had his temperament inclined him to them, which was, in truth, not the case. He knew that Kitty had suddenly and resolutely ceased to talk about the boy, had thrown herself with the old energy into new pursuits, and, since she came to Venice in particular, had shown a feverish desire to fill every hour with movement and sight-seeing. But was she, in truth, much better--in body or soul?--poor child! The doctors had explained her illness as nervous collapse, pointing back to a long preceding period of overstrain and excitement. There had been suspicions of tubercular mischief, but no precise test was then at command; and as Kitty had improved with rest and feeding the idea had been abandoned. But Ashe was still haunted by it, though quite ready--being a natural optimist--to escape from it, and all other incurable anxieties, as soon as Kitty herself should give the signal. As to the moral difficulties and worries of those months at Haggart, Ashe remembered them as little as might be. Kitty's illness, indeed, had shown itself in more directions than one, as an amending and appeasing fact. Even Lord Parham had been moved to compassion and kindness by the immediate results of that horrible scene on the terrace. His leave-taking from Ashe on the morning afterwards had been almost cordial--almost intimate. And as to Lady Tranmore, whenever she had been able to leave her paralyzed husband she had been with Kitty, nursing her with affectionate wisdom night and day. While on the other members of the Haggart party the sheer pity of Kitty's condition had worked with surprising force. Lord Grosville had actually made his wife offer Grosville Park for Kitty's convalescence--Kitty got her first laugh out of the proposal. The Dean had journeyed several times from his distant cathedral town, to see and sit with Kitty; Eddie Helston's flowers had been almost a nuisance; Mrs. Alcot had shown herself quite soft and human. The effect, indeed, of this general sympathy on Lord Parham's relations to the chief member of his cabinet had been but small and passing. Ashe disliked and distrusted him more than ever; and whatever might have happened to the Premier's resentment of a particular offence, there could be no doubt that a visit from which Ashe had hoped much had ended in complete failure, that Parham was disposed to cross his powerful henchman where he could, and that intrigue was busy in the cabinet itself against the reforming party of which Ashe was the head Ashe, indeed, felt his own official position, outwardly so strong, by no means secure. But the game of politics was none the less exhilarating for that. As to Kitty's relation to himself--and life's most intimate and tender things--in these days, did he probe his own consciousness much concerning them? Probably not. Was he aware that, when all was said and done, in spite of her misdoings, in spite of his passion of anxiety during her illness, in spite of the pity and affection of his daily attitude, Kitty occupied, in truth, much less of his mind than she had ever yet occupied?--that a certain magic--primal, incommunicable--had ceased to clothe her image in his thoughts? Again--probably not. For these slow changes in a man's inmost personality are like the ebb and flow of summer tides over estuary sands. Silent, the main creeps in, or out; and while we dream, the great basin fills, and the fishing-boats come in--or the gentle, pitiless waters draw back into the bosom of ocean, and the sea-birds run over the wide, untenanted flats. * * * * * They landed at the Piazzetta as the lamps were being lit. The soft October darkness was falling fast, and on the ledges of St. Mark's and the Ducal Palace the pigeons had begun to roost. An animated crowd was walking up and down in the Piazza where a band was playing; and on the golden horses of St. Mark's there shone a pale and mystical light, the last reflection from the western sky. Under the colonnades the jewellers and glass-shops blazed and sparkled, and the warm sea-wind fluttered the Italian flags on the great flag-staffs that but so recently had borne the Austrian eagle. Ashe walked with his head thrown back, thinking absently, in this centre of Venice, of English politics, and of a phrase of Metternich's he had come across in a volume of memoirs he had been lately reading on the journey: "Le jour qui court n'a aucune valeur pour moi, excepté comme la veille du lendemain. C'est toujours avec le lendemain que mon esprit lutte." The phrase pleased him particularly. He, too, was wrestling with the morrow, though in another sense than Metternich's. His mind was alive with projects; an exultant consciousness both of capacity and opportunity possessed him. "Why, you've passed the club, William!" said Kitty. Ashe awoke with a start, smiled at her, and with a wave of the hand disappeared in a stairway to the right. Margaret French lingered in a bead-shop to make some purchases. Kitty walked home alone, and Margaret, whose watchful affection never failed, knew that she preferred it, and let her go her way. The Ashes had rooms on the first bend of the Grand Canal looking south. To reach them by land from the Piazza, Kitty had to pass through a series of narrow streets, or _calles_, broken by _campos_, or small squares, in which stood churches. As she passed one of these churches she was attracted by the sound of gay music and by the crowd about the entrance. Pushing aside the leathern curtain over the door, she found herself in a great rococo nave, which blazed with lights and decorations. Lines of huge wax candles were fixed in temporary holders along the floor. The pillars were swathed in rose-colored damask, and the choir was ablaze with flowers, and even more brilliantly lit, if possible, than the rest of the church. Kitty's Catholic training told her that an exposition of the Blessed Sacrament was going on. Mechanically she dipped her fingers into the holy water, she made her genuflection to the altar, and knelt down in one of the back rows. How rich and sparkling it was--the lights, the bright colors, the dancing music! "_Dolce Sacramento! Santo Sacramento!_" these words of an Italian hymn or litany recurred again and again, with endless iteration. Kitty's sensuous, excitable nature was stirred with delight. Then, suddenly, she remembered her child, and the little face she had seen for the last time in the coffin. She began to cry softly, hiding her face in her black veil. An unbearable longing possessed her. "I shall never have another child," she thought. "_That's_ all over." Then her thoughts wandered back to the party at Haggart, to the scene on the terrace, and to that rush of excitement which had mastered her, she scarcely knew how or why. She could still hear the Dean's voice--see the lamp wavering above her head. "What possessed me! I didn't care a straw whether the lamp set me on fire--whether I lived or died. I wanted to die." Was it because of that short conversation with William in the afternoon?--because of the calmness with which he had taken that word "separation," which she had thrown at him merely as a child boasts and threatens, never expecting for one moment to be taken at its word? She had proposed it to him before, after the night at Hamel Weir; she had been serious then, it had been an impulse of remorse, and he had laughed at her. But at Haggart it had been an impulse of temper, and he had taken it seriously. How the wound had rankled, all the afternoon, while she was chattering to the Royalties! And as she jumped on the pedestal, and saw his face of horror, there was the typical womanish triumph that she had made him _feel_--would make him feel yet more. How good, how tender he had been to her in her illness! And yet--yet? "He cares for politics, for his plans--not for me. He will never trust me again--as he did once. He'll never ask me to help him--he'll find ways not to--though he'll be very sweet to me all the time." And the thought of her nullity with him in the future, her insignificance in his life, tortured her. Why had she treated Lord Parham so? "I can be a lady when I choose," she said, mockingly, to herself. "I wasn't even a lady." Then suddenly there flashed on her memory a little picture of Lord Parham, standing spectacled and bewildered, peering into her slip of paper. She bent her head on her hands and laughed, a stifled, hysterical laugh, which scandalized the woman kneeling beside her. But the laugh was soon quenched again in restless pain. William's affection had been her only refuge in those weeks of moral and physical misery she had just passed through. "But it's only because he's so terribly sorry for me. It's all quite different. And I can't ever make him love me again in the old way.... It wasn't my fault. It's something born in me--that catches me by the throat." And she had the actual physical sense of some one strangled by a possessing force. "_Dolce Sacramento! Santo Sacramento!_"... The music swayed and echoed through the church. Kitty uncovered her eyes and felt a sudden exhilaration in the blaze of light. It reminded her of the bending Christ in the picture of San Giorgio. Awe and beauty flowed in upon her, in spite of the poor music and the tawdry church. What if she tried religion?--recalled what she had been taught in the convent?--gave herself up to a director? She shivered and recoiled. How would she ever maintain her faith against William--William, who knew so much more than she? Then, into the emptiness of her heart there stole the inevitable temptations of memory. Where was Geoffrey? She knew well that he was a violent and selfish man; but he understood much in her that William would never understand. With a morbid eagerness she recalled the play of feeling between them, before that mad evening at Hamel Weir. What perpetual excitement--no time to think--or regret! During her weeks of illness she had lost all count of his movements. Had he been still writing during the summer for the newspaper which had sent him out? Had there not been rumors of his being wounded--or attacked by fever? Her memory, still vague and weak, struggled painfully with memories it could not recapture. The Italian paper of that morning--she had spelled it out for herself at breakfast--had spoken of a defeat of the insurrectionary forces, and of their withdrawal into the highlands of Bosnia. There would be a lull in the fighting. Would he come home? And all this time had he been the mere spectator and reporter, or fighting, himself? Her pulses leaped as she thought of him leading down-trodden peasants against the Turk. But she knew nothing. Surely during the last few months he had purposely made a mystery of his doings and his whereabouts. The only sign of him which seemed to have reached England had been that volume of poems--with those hateful lines! Her lip quivered. She was like a weak child--unable to bear the thought of anything hostile and unkind. If he had already turned homeward? Perhaps he would come through Venice! Anyway, he was not far off. The day before she and Margaret had made their first visit to the Lido. And as Kitty stood fronting the Adriatic waves, she had dreamed that somewhere, beyond the farther coast, were those Bosnian mountains in which Geoffrey had passed the winter. Then she started at her own thoughts, rose--loathing herself--drew down her veil, and moved towards the door. * * * * * As she reached the leathern curtain which hung over the doorway, a lady in front who was passing through held the curtain aside that Kitty might follow. Kitty stepped into the street and looked up to say a mechanical "Thank you." But the word died on her lips. She gave a stifled cry, which was echoed by the woman before her. Both stood motionless, staring at each other. Kitty recovered herself first. "It's not my fault that we've met," she said, panting a little. "Don't look at me so--so unkindly. I know you don't want to see me. Why--why should we speak at all? I'm going away." And she turned with a gesture of farewell. Alice Wensleydale laid a detaining hand on Kitty's arm. "No! stay a moment. You are in black. You look ill." Kitty turned towards her. They had moved on instinctively into the shelter of one of the narrow streets. "My boy died--two months ago," she said, holding herself proudly aloof. Lady Alice started. "I hadn't heard. I'm very sorry for you. How old was he?" "Three years old." "Poor baby!" The words were very low and soft. "My boy--was fourteen. But you have other children?" "No--and I don't want them. They might die, too." Lady Alice paused. She still held her half-sister by the arm, towering above her. She was quite as thin as Kitty, but much taller and more largely built; and, beside the elaborate elegance of Kitty's mourning, Alice's black veil and dress had a severe, conventual air. They were almost the dress of a religious. "How are you?" she said, gently. "I often think of you. Are you happy in your marriage?" Kitty laughed. "We're such a happy lot, aren't we? We understand it so well. Oh, don't trouble about me. You know you said you couldn't have anything to do with me. Are you staying in Venice?" "I came in from Treviso for a day or two, to see a friend--" "You had better not stay," said Kitty, hastily. "Maman is here. At least, if you don't want to run across her." Lady Alice let go her hold. "I shall go home to-morrow morning." They moved on a few steps in silence, then Alice paused. Kitty's delicate face and cloud of hair made a pale, luminous spot in the darkness of the _calle_. Alice looked at her with emotion. "I want to say something to you." "Yes?" "If you are ever in trouble--if you ever want me, send for me. Address Treviso, and it will always find me." Kitty made no reply. They had reached a bridge over a side canal, and she stopped, leaning on the parapet. "Did you hear what I said?" asked her companion. "Yes. I'll remember. I suppose you think it your duty. What do you do with yourself?" "I have two orphan children I bring up. And there is my lace-school. It doesn't get on much; but it occupies me." "Are you a Catholic?" "Yes." "Wish I was!" said Kitty. She hung over the marble balustrade in silence, looking at the crescent moon that was just peering over the eastern palaces of the canal. "My husband is in politics, you know. He's Home Secretary." "Yes, I heard. Do you help him?" "No--just the other thing." Kitty lifted up a pebble and let it drop into the water. "I don't know what you mean by that," said Alice Wensleydale, coldly. "If you don't help him you'll be sorry--when it's too late to be sorry." "Oh, I know!" said Kitty. Then she moved restlessly. "I must go in. Good-night." She held out her hand. Lady Alice took it. "Good-night. And remember!" "I sha'n't want anybody," said Kitty. "_Addio!_" She waved her hand, and Alice Wensleydale, whose way lay towards the Piazza, saw her disappear, a small tripping shadow, between the high, close-piled houses. Kitty was in so much excitement after this conversation that when she reached the Campo San Maurizio, where she should have turned abruptly to the left, she wandered awhile up and down the campo, looking at the gondolas on the Traghetto between it and the Accademia, at the Church of San Maurizio, at the rising moon, and the bright lights in some of the shop windows of the small streets to the north. The sea-wind was still warm and gusty, and the waves in the Grand Canal beat against the marble feet of its palaces. At last she found her way through narrow passages, past hidden and historic buildings, to the back of the palace on the Grand Canal in which their rooms were. A door in a small court opened to her ring. She found herself in a dark ground-floor--empty except for the _felze_ or black top of a gondola--of which the farther doors opened on the canal. A cheerful Italian servant brought lights, and on the marble stairs was her maid waiting for her. In a few minutes she was on her sofa by a bright wood fire, while Blanche hovered round her with many small attentions. "Have you seen your letters, my lady?" and Blanche handed her a pile. Upon a parcel lying uppermost Kitty pounced at once with avidity. She tore it open--pausing once, with scarlet cheeks, to look round her at the door, as though she were afraid of being seen. A book--fresh and new--emerged. _Politics and the Country Houses_; so ran the title on the back. Kitty looked at it frowning. "He might have found a better name!" Then she opened it--looked at a page here and a page there--laughed, shivered--and at last bethought her to read the note from the publisher which accompanied it. "'Much pleasure--the first printed copy--three more to follow--sure to make a sensation'--hateful wretch!--'if your ladyship will let us know how many presentation copies--' Goodness!--not _one_! Oh--well!--Madeleine, perhaps--and, of course, Mr. Darrell." She opened a little despatch-box in which she kept her letters, and slipped the book in. "I won't show it to William to-night--not--not till next week." The book was to be out on the 20th, a week ahead--three months from the day when she had given the MS. into Darrell's hands. She had been spared all the trouble of correcting proofs, which had been done for her by the publisher's reader, on the plea of her illness. She had received and destroyed various letters from him--almost without reading them--during a short absence of William's in the north. Suddenly a start of terror ran through her. "No, no!" she said, wrestling with herself--"he'll scold me, perhaps--at first; of course I know he'll do that. And then, I'll make him laugh! He can't--he can't help laughing. I _know_ it'll amuse him. He'll see how I meant it, too. And nobody need ever find out." She heard his step outside, hastily locked her despatch-box, threw a shawl over it, and lay back languidly on her pillows, awaiting him. XVIII The following morning, early, a note was brought to Kitty from Madame d'Estrées: "Darling Kitty,--Will you join us to-night in an expedition? You know that Princess Margherita is staying on the Grand Canal?--in one of the Mocenigo palaces. There is to be a serenata in her honor to-night--not one of those vulgar affairs which the hotels get up, but really good music and fine voices--money to be given to some hospital or other. Do come with us. I suppose you have your own gondola, as we have. The gondolas who wish to follow meet at the Piazzetta, weather permitting, eight o'clock. I know, of course, that you are not going out. But this is _only_ music!--and for a charity. One just sits in one's gondola, and follows the music up the canal. Send word by bearer. Your fond mother, "Marguerite d'Estrées." Kitty tossed the note over to Ashe. "Aren't you dining out somewhere to-night?" Her voice was listless. And as Ashe lifted his head from the cabinet papers which had just reached him by special messenger, his attention was disagreeably recalled from high matters of state to the very evident delicacy of his wife. He replied that he had promised to dine with Prince S---- at Danieli's, in order to talk Italian politics. "But I can throw it over in a moment, if you want me. I came to Venice for _you_, darling," he said, as he rose and joined her on the balcony which commanded a fine stretch of the canal. "No, no! Go and dine with your prince. I'll go with maman--Margaret and I. At least, Margaret must, of course, please herself!" She shrugged her shoulders, and then added, "Maman's probably in the pink of society here. Venice doesn't take its cue from people like Aunt Lina!" Ashe smiled uncomfortably. He was in truth by this time infinitely better acquainted with the incidents of Madame d'Estrées's past career than Kitty was. He had no mind whatever that Kitty should become less ignorant, but his knowledge sometimes made conversation difficult. Kitty was perfectly aware of his embarrassment. "You never tell me--" she said, abruptly. "Did she really do such dreadful things?" "My dear Kitty!--why talk about it?" Kitty flushed, then threw a flower into the water below with a defiant gesture. "What does it matter? It's all so long ago. I have nothing to do with what I did ten years ago--nothing!" "A convenient doctrine!" laughed Ashe. "But it cuts both ways. You get neither the good of your good nor the bad of your bad." "I have no good," said Kitty, bitterly. "What's the matter with you, miladi?" said Ashe, half scolding, half tender. "You growl over my remarks as though you were your own small dog with a bone. Come here and let me tell you the news." And drawing the sofa up to the open window which commanded the marvellous waterway outside, with its rows of palaces on either hand, he made her lie down while he read her extracts from his letters. Margaret French, who was writing at the farther side of the room, glanced at them furtively from time to time. She saw that Ashe was trying to charm away the languor of his companion by that talk of his, shrewd, humorous, vehement, well informed, which made him so welcome to the men of his own class and mode of life. And when he talked to a woman as he was accustomed to talk to men, that woman felt it a compliment. Under the stimulus of it, Kitty woke up, laughed, argued, teased, with something of her natural animation. Presently, indeed, the voices had sunk so much and the heads had drawn so close together that Margaret French slipped away, under the impression that they were discussing matters to which she was not meant to listen. She had hardly closed the door when Kitty drew herself away from Ashe, and holding his arm with both hands looked strangely into his eyes. "You're awfully good to me, William. But, you know--you don't tell me secrets!" "What do you mean, darling?" "You don't tell me the real secrets--what Lord Palmerston used to tell to Lady Palmerston!" "How do you know what he used to tell her?" said Ashe, with a laugh. But his forehead had reddened. "One hears--and one guesses--from the letters that have been published. Oh, I understand quite well! You can't trust me!" Ashe turned aside and began to gather up his papers. "Of course," said Kitty, a little hoarsely, "I know it's my own fault, because you used to tell me much more. I suppose it was the way I behaved to Lord Parham?" She looked at him rather tremulously. It was the first time since her illness began that she had referred to the incidents at Haggart. "Look here!" said Ashe, in a tone of decision; "I shall _really_ give up talking politics to you if it only reminds you of disagreeable things." She took no notice. "Is Lord Parham behaving well to you--now--William?" Ashe colored hotly. As a matter of fact, in his own opinion, Lord Parham was behaving vilely. A measure of first-rate importance for which he was responsible was already in danger of being practically shelved, simply, as it seemed to him, from a lack of elementary trustworthiness in Lord Parham. But as to this he had naturally kept his own counsel with Kitty. "He is not the most agreeable of customers," he said, gayly. "But I shall get through. Pegging away does it." "And then to see how our papers flatter him!" cried Kitty. "How little people know, who think they know! It would be amusing to show the world the real Lord Parham." She looked at her husband with an expression that struck him disagreeably. He threw away his cigarette, and his face changed. "What we have to do, my dear Kitty, is simply to hold our tongues." Kitty sat up in some excitement. "That man never hears the truth!" Ashe shrugged his shoulders. It seemed to him incredible that she should pursue this particular topic, after the incidents at Haggart. "That's not the purpose for which Prime Ministers exist. Anyway, _we_ can't tell it him." Undaunted, however, by his tone, and with what seemed to him extraordinary excitability of manner, Kitty reminded him of an incident in the life of a bygone administration, when the near relative of an English statesman, staying at the time in the statesman's house, had sent a communication to one of the quarterlies attacking his policy and belittling his character, by means of information obtained in the intimacy of a country-house party. "One of the most treacherous things ever done!" said Ashe, indignantly. "Fair fight, if you like! But if that kind of thing were to spread, I for one should throw up politics to-morrow." "Every one said it did a vast deal of good," persisted Kitty. "A precious sort of good! Yes--I believe Parham in particular profited by it--more shame to him! If anybody ever tried to help me in that sort of way--anybody, that is, for whom I felt the smallest responsibility--I know what I should do." "What?" Kitty fell back on her cushions, but her eye still held him. "Send in my resignation by the next post--and damn the fellow that did it! Look here, Kitty!" He came to stand over her--a fine formidable figure, his hands in his pockets. "Don't you ever try that kind of thing--there's a darling." "Would you damn me?" She smiled at him--with a tremor of the lip. He caught up her hand and kissed it. "Blow out my own brains, more like," he said, laughing. Then he turned away. "What on earth have we got into this beastly conversation for? Let's get out of it. The Parhams are there--male and female--aren't they?--and we've got to put up with them. Well, I'm going to the Piazza. Any commissions? Oh, by-the-way"--he looked back at a letter in his hands--"mother says Polly Lyster will probably be here before we go--she seems to be touring around with her father." "Charming prospect!" said Kitty. "Does mother expect me to chaperon her?" Ashe laughed and went. As soon as he was gone, Kitty sprang from the sofa, and walked up and down the room in a passionate preoccupation. A tremor of great fear was invading her; an agony of unavailing regret. "What can I do?" she said to herself, as her upper lip twisted and tortured the lower one. Presently she caught up her purse, went to her room, where she put on her walking things without summoning Blanche, and stealing down the stairs, so as to be unheard by Margaret, she made her way to the back gate of the Palazzo, and so to the streets leading to the Piazza. William had taken the gondola to the Piazzetta, so she felt herself safe. She entered the telegraphic office at the western end of the Piazza, and sent a telegram to England that nearly emptied her purse of francs. When she came out she was as pale as she had been flushed before--a little, terror-stricken figure, passing in a miserable abstraction through the intricate backways which took her home. "It won't be published for ten days. There's time. It's only a question of money," she said to herself, feverishly--"only a question of money!" * * * * * All the rest of the day, Kitty was at once so restless and so languid that to amuse her was difficult. Ashe was quite grateful to his amazing mother-in-law for the plan of the evening. As night fell, Kitty started at every sound in the old Palazzo. Once or twice she went half-way to the door--eagerly--with hand out-stretched--as though she expected a letter. "No other English post to-night, Kitty!" said Ashe, at last, raising his head from the finely printed _Poetæ Minores_ he had just purchased at Ongania's. "You don't mean to say you're not thankful!" * * * * * The evening arrived--clear and mild, but moonless. Ashe went off to dine with his prince, in the ordinary gondola of commerce, hired at the Traghetto; while Margaret and Kitty followed a little later in one which had already drawn the attention of Venice, owing to the two handsome gondoliers, habited in black from head to foot, who were attached to it. They turned towards the Piazzetta, where they were to meet with Madame d'Estrées' party. Kitty, in her deep mourning, sank listlessly into the black cushions of the gondola. Yet almost as they started, as the first strokes carried them past the famous palace which is now the Prefecture, the spell of Venice began to work. City of rest!--as it seems to our modern senses--how is it possible that so busy, so pitiless, and covetous a life as history shows us should have gone to the making and the fashioning of Venice! The easy passage of the gondola through the soft, imprisoned wave; the silence of wheel and hoof, of all that hurries and clatters; the tide that comes and goes, noiseless, indispensable, bringing in the freshness of the sea, carrying away the defilements of the land; the narrow winding ways, now firm earth, now shifting sea, that bind the city into one social whole, where the industrial and the noble alike are housed in palaces, equal often in beauty as in decay; the marvellous quiet of the nights, save when the northeast wind, Hadria's stormy leader, drives the furious waves against the palace fronts in the darkness, with the clamor of an attacking host; the languor of the hot afternoons, when life is a dream of light and green water, when the play of mirage drowns the foundations of the _lidi_ in the lagoon, so that trees and buildings rise out of the sea as though some strong Amphion-music were but that moment calling them from the deep; and when day departs, that magic of the swiftly falling dusk, and that white foam and flower of St. Mark's upon the purple intensity of the sky!--through each phase of the hours and the seasons, _rest_ is still the message of Venice, rest enriched with endless images, impressions, sensations, that cost no trouble and breed no pain. It was this spell of rest that descended for a while on Kitty as they glided downward to the Piazzetta. The terror of the day relaxed. Her telegram would be in time; or, if not, she would throw herself into William's arms, and he _must_ forgive her!--because she was so foolish and weak, so tired and sad. She slipped her hand into Margaret's; they talked in low voices of the child, and Kitty was all appealing melancholy and charm. At the Piazzetta there was already a crowd of gondolas, and at their head the _barca_, which carried the musicians. "You are late, Kitty!" cried Madame d'Estrées, waving to them. "Shall we draw out and come to you?--or will you just join on where you are?" For the Vercelli gondola was already wedged into a serried line of boats in the wake of the _barca_. "Never mind us," said Kitty. "We'll tack on somehow." And inwardly she was delighted to be thus separated from her mother and the chattering crowd by which Madame d'Estrées seemed to be surrounded. Kitty and Margaret bade their men fall in, and they presently found themselves on the Salute side of the floating audience, their prow pointing to the canal. The _barca_ began to move, and the mass of gondolas followed. Round them, and behind them, other boats were passing and repassing, each with its slim black body, its swanlike motion, its poised oarsman, and its twinkling light. The lagoon towards the Guidecca was alive with these lights; and a magnificent white steamer adorned with flags and lanterns--the yacht, indeed, of a German prince--shone in the mid-channel. On they floated. Here were the hotels, with other illuminated boats in front of their steps, whence spoiled voices shouted, "Santa Lucia," till even Venice and the Grand Canal became a vulgarity and a weariness. These were the "serenate publiche," common and commercial affairs, which the private serenata left behind in contempt, steering past their flaring lights for the dark waters of romance which lay beyond. Suddenly Kitty's sadness gave way; her starved senses clamored; she woke to poetry and pleasure. All round her, stretching almost across the canal, the noiseless flock of gondolas--dark, leaning figures impelling them from behind, and in front the high prows and glow-worm lights; in the boats, a multitude of dim, shrouded figures, with not a face visible; and in their midst the _barca_, temple of light and music, built up of flowers, and fluttering scarves, and many-colored lanterns, a sparkling fantasy of color, rose and gold and green, shining on the bosom of the night. To either side, the long, dark lines of thrice-historic palaces; scarcely a poor light here and there at their water-gates; and now and then the lamps of the Traghetti.... Otherwise, darkness, soundless motion, and, overhead, dim stars. "Margaret! Look!" Kitty caught her companion's arm in a mad delight. Some one for the amusement of the guests of Venice was experimenting on the top of the campanile of St. Mark's with those electric lights which were then the toys of science, and are now the eyes and tools of war. A search-light was playing on the basin of St. Mark's and on the mouth of the canal. Suddenly it caught the Church of the Salute--and the whole vast building, from the Queen of Heaven on its topmost dome down to the water's brim, the figures of saints and prophets and apostles which crowd its steps and ledges, the white whorls, like huge sea-shells, that make its buttresses, the curves and volutes of its cornices and doorways, rushed upon the eye in a white and blinding splendor, making the very darkness out of which the vision sprang alive and rich. Not a Christian church, surely, but a palace of Poseidon! The bewildered gazer saw naiads and bearded sea-gods in place of angels and saints, and must needs imagine the champing of Poseidon's horses at the marble steps, straining towards the sea. The vision wavered, faded, reappeared, and finally died upon the night. Then the wild beams began to play on the canal, following the serenata, lighting up now the palaces on either hand, now some single gondola, revealing every figure and gesture of the laughing English or Americans who filled it, in a hard white flash. "Oh! listen, Kitty!" said Margaret. "Some one is going to sing 'Ché faro.'" Miss French was very musical, and she turned in a trance of pleasure towards the _barca_ whence came the first bars of the accompaniment. She did not see meanwhile that Kitty had made a hurried movement, and was now leaning over the side of the gondola, peering with arrested breath into the scattered group of boats on their left hand. The search-light flashed here and there among them. A gondola at the very edge of the serenata contained one figure beside the gondolier, a man in a large cloak and slouch hat, sitting very still with folded arms. As Kitty looked, hearing the beating of her heart, their own boat was suddenly lit up. The light passed in a second, and while it lasted those in the flash could see nothing outside it. When it withdrew all was in darkness. The black mass of boats floated on, soundless again, save for an occasional plash of water or the hoarse cry of a gondolier--and in the distance the wail for Eurydice. Kitty fell back in her seat. An excitement, from which she shrank in a kind of terror, possessed her. Her thoughts were wholly absorbed by the gondola and the figure she could no longer distinguish--for which, whenever a group of lamps threw their reflections on the water, she searched the canal in vain. If what she madly dreamed were true, had she herself been seen--and recognized? The serenata in honor of Italy's beautiful princess duly made its way to the Grand Canal. The princess came to her balcony, while the "Jewel Song" in "Faust" was being sung below, and there was a demonstration which echoed from palace to palace and died away under the arch of the Rialto. Then the gondolas dispersed. That of Lady Kitty Ashe had some difficulty in making its way home against a force of wind and tide coming from the lagoon. * * * * * Kitty was apparently asleep when Ashe returned. He had sat late with his hosts--men prominent in the Risorgimento and in the politics of the new kingdom--discussing the latest intricacies of the Roman situation and the prospects of Italian finance. His mind was all alert and vigorous, ranging over great questions and delighting in its own strength. To come in contact with these able foreigners, not as the mere traveller but as an important member of an English government, beginning to be spoken of by the world as one of the two or three men of the future--this was a new experience and a most agreeable one. Doors hitherto closed had opened before him; information no casual Englishman could have commanded had been freely poured out for him; last, but not least, he had at length made himself talk French with some fluency, and he looked back on his performance of the evening with a boy's complacency. For the rest, Venice was a mere trial of his patience! As his gondola brought him home, struggling with wind and wave, Ashe had no eye whatever for the beauty of this Venice in storm. His mind was in England, in London, wrestling with a hundred difficulties and possibilities. The old literary and speculative habit was fast disappearing in the stress of action and success. His well-worn Plato or Horace still lay beside his bedside; but when he woke early, and lit a candle carefully shaded from Kitty, it was not to the poets and philosophers that he turned; it was to a heap of official documents and reports, to the letters of political friends, or an unfinished letter of his own, the phrases of which had perhaps been running through his dreams. The measures for which he was wrestling against the intrigues of Lord Parham and Lord Parham's clique filled all his mind with a lively ardor of battle. They were the children--the darlings--of his thoughts. Nevertheless, as he entered his wife's dim-lit room the eager arguments and considerations that were running through his head died away. He stood beside her, overwhelmed by a rush of feeling, alive through all his being to the appeal of her frail sweetness, the helplessness of her sleep, the dumb significance of the thin, blue-veined hand--eloquent at once of character and of physical weakness--which lay beside her. Her face was hidden, but the beautiful hair with its childish curls and ripples drew him to her--touched all the springs of tenderness. It was a loveliness so full, it seemed, of meaning and of promise. Hand, brow, mouth--they were the signs of no mere empty and insipid beauty. There was not a movement, not a feature, that did not speak of intelligence and mind. And yet, were he to wake her now and talk to her of the experience of his evening, how little joy would either get out of it. Was it because she had no intellectual disinterestedness? Well, what woman had! But other women, even if they saw everything in terms of personality, had the power of pursuing an aim, steadily, persistently, for the sake of a person. He thought of Lady Palmerston--of Princess Lieven fighting Guizot's battles--and sighed. By Jove! the women could do most things, if they chose. He recalled Kitty's triumph in the great party gathered to welcome Lord Parham, contrasting it with her wilful and absurd behavior to the man himself. There was something bewildering in such power--combined with such folly. In a sense, it was perfectly true that she had insulted her husband's chief, and jeopardized her husband's policy, because she could not put up with Lord Parham's white eyelashes. Well, let him make his account with it! How to love her, tend her, make her happy--and yet carry on himself the life of high office--there was the problem! Meanwhile he recognized, fully and humorously, that she had married a political sceptic--and that it was hard for her to know what to do with the enthusiast who had taken his place. Poor, pretty, incalculable darling! He would coax her to stay abroad part of the Parliamentary season--and then, perhaps, lure her into the country, with the rebuilding and refurnishing of Haggart. She must be managed and kept from harm--and afterwards indulged and spoiled and _fêted_ to her heart's content. If only the fates would give them another child!--a child brilliant and lovely like herself, then surely this melancholy which overshadowed her would disperse. That look--that tragic look--she had given him on the day of the _fête_, when she spoke of "separation"! The wild adventure with the lamp had been her revenge--her despair. He shuddered as he thought of it. He fell asleep, still pondering restlessly over her future and his own. Amid all his anxieties he never stooped to recollect the man who had endangered her name and peace. His optimism, his pride, the sanguine perfunctoriness of much of his character were all shown in the omission. * * * * * Kitty, however, was not asleep while Ashe was beside her. And she slept but little through the hours that followed. Between three and four she was finally roused by the sounds of storm in the canal. It was as though a fleet of gigantic steamers--in days when Venice knew but the gondola--were passing outside, sending a mountainous "wash" against the walls of the old palace in which they lodged. In this languid autumnal Venice the sudden noise and crash were startling. Kitty sprang softly out of bed, flung on a dressing-gown and fur cloak, and slipped through the open window to the balcony. A strange sight! Beneath, livid waves, lashing the marble walls; above, a pale moonlight, obscured by scudding clouds. Not a sign of life on the water or in the dark palaces opposite. Venice looked precisely as she might have looked on some wild sixteenth-century night in the years of her glorious decay, when her palaces were still building and her state tottering. Opposite, at the Traghetto of the Accademia, there were lamps, and a few lights in the gondolas; and through the storm-noises one could hear the tossed boats grinding on their posts. The riot of the air was not cold; there was still a recollection of summer in the gusts that beat on Kitty's fair hair and wrestled with her cloak. As she clung to the balcony she pictured to herself the tumbling waves on the Lido; the piled storm-clouds parting like a curtain above a dead Venice; and behind, the gleaming eternal Alps, sending their challenge to the sea--the forces that make the land, to the forces that engulf it. Her wild fancy went out to meet the tumult of blast and wave. She felt herself, as it were, anchored a moment at sea, in the midst of a war of elements, physical and moral. Yes, yes!--it was Geoffrey. Once, under the skipping light, she had seen the face distinctly. Paler than of old--gaunt, unhappy, absent. It was the face of one who had suffered--in body and mind. But--she trembled through all her slight frame!--the old harsh power was there unchanged. Had he seen and recognized her--slipping away afterwards into the mouth of a side canal, or dropping behind in the darkness? Was he ashamed to face her--or angered by the reminder of her existence? No doubt it seemed to him now a monstrous absurdity that he should ever have said he loved her! He despised her--thought her a base and coward soul. Very likely he would make it up with Mary Lyster now, accept her nursing and her money. Her lip curled in scorn. No, _that_ she didn't believe! Well, then, what would be his future? His name had been but little in the newspapers during the preceding year; the big public seemed to have forgotten him. A cloud had hung for months over the struggle of races and of faiths now passing in the Balkans. Obscure fighting in obscure mountains; massacre here, revolt there; and for some months now hardly an accredited voice from Turk or Christian to tell the world what was going on. But Geoffrey had now emerged--and at a moment when Europe was beginning perforce to take notice of what she had so far wilfully ignored. _À lui la parole!_ No doubt he was preparing it, the bloody, exciting story which would bring him before the foot-lights again, and make him once more the lion of a day. More social flatteries, more doubtful love-affairs! Fools like herself would feel his spell, would cherish and caress him, only to be stung and scathed as she had been. The bitter lines of his "portrait" rung in her ears--blackening and discrowning her in her own eyes. She abhorred him!--but the thought that he was in Venice burned deep into senses and imagination. Should she tell William she had seen him? No, no! She would stand by herself, protect herself! So she stole back to bed, and lay there wakeful, starting guiltily at William's every movement. If he knew what had happened!--what she was thinking of! Why on earth should he? It would be monstrous to harass him on his holiday--with all these political affairs on his mind. Then suddenly--by an association of ideas--she sat up shivering, her hands pressed to her breast. The telegram--the book! Oh, but _of course_ she had been in time!--_of course_! Why, she had offered the man two hundred pounds! She lay down laughing at herself--forcing herself to try and sleep. XIX Sir Richard Lyster unfolded his _Times_ with a jerk. "A beastly rheumatic hole I call this," he said, looking angrily at the window of his hotel sitting-room, which showed drops from a light shower then passing across the lagoon. "And the dilatoriness of these Italian posts is, upon my soul, beyond bearing! This _Times_ is _three_ days old." Mary Lyster looked up from the letter she was writing. "Why don't you read the French papers, papa? I saw a _Figaro_ of yesterday in the Piazza this morning." "Because I can't!" was the indignant reply. "There wasn't the same amount of money squandered on _my_ education, my dear, that there has been on yours." Mary smiled a little, unseen. Her father had been, of course, at Eton. She had been educated by a succession of small and hunted governesses, mostly Swiss, whose remuneration had certainly counted among the frugalities rather than the extravagances of the family budget. Sir Richard read his _Times_ for a while. Mary continued to write checks for the board wages of the servants left at home, and to give directions for the beating of carpets and cleaning of curtains. It was dull work, and she detested it. Presently Sir Richard rose, with a stretch. He was a tall old man, with a shock of white hair and very black eyes. A victim to certain obscure forms of gout, he was in character neither stupid nor inhuman, but he suffered from the usual drawbacks of his class--too much money and too few ideas. He came abroad every year, reluctantly. He did not choose to be left behind by county neighbors whose wives talked nonsense about Botticelli. And Mary would have it. But Sir Richard's tours were generally one prolonged course of battle between himself and all foreign institutions; and if it was Mary who drove him forth, it was Mary also who generally hurried him home. "Who was it you saw last night in that ridiculous singing affair?" he asked, as he put the fire together. "Kitty Ashe--and her mother," said Mary--after a moment--still writing. "Her mother!--what, that disreputable woman?" "They weren't in the same gondola." "Ashe will be a great fool if he lets his wife see much of that woman! By all accounts Lady Kitty is quite enough of a handful already. By-the-way, have you found out where they are?" "On the Grand Canal. Shall we call this afternoon?" "I don't mind. Of course, I think Ashe is doing an immense amount of harm." "Well, you can tell him so," said Mary. Sir Richard frowned. His daughter's manners seemed to him at times abrupt. "Why do you see so little now of Elizabeth Tranmore?" he asked her, with a sharp look. "You used to be always there. And I don't believe you even write to her much now." "Does she see much of anybody?" "Because, you mean, of Tranmore's condition? What good can she be to him now? He knows nobody." "She doesn't seem to ask the question," said Mary, dryly. A queer, soft look came over Sir Richard's old face. "No, the women don't," he said, half to himself, and fell into a little reverie. He emerged from it with the remark--accompanied by a smile, a little sly but not unkind: "I always used to hope, Polly, that you and Ashe would have made it up!" "I'm sure I don't know why," said Mary, fastening up her envelopes. As she did so it crossed her father's mind that she was still very good-looking. Her dress of dark-blue cloth, the plain fashion of her brown hair, her oval face and well-marked features, her plump and pretty hands, were all pleasant to look upon. She had rather a hard way with her, though, at times. The servants were always giving warning. And, personally, he was much fonder of his younger daughter, whom Mary considered foolish and improvident. But he was well aware that Mary made his life easy. "Well, you were always on excellent terms," he said, in answer to her last remark. "I remember his saying to me once that you were very good company. The Bishop, too, used to notice how he liked to talk to you." When Mary and her father were together, "the Bishop" was Sir Richard's property. He only fell to Mary's share in the old man's absence. Mary colored slightly. "Oh yes, we got on," she said, counting her letters the while with a quick hand. "Well, I hope that young woman whom he _did_ marry is now behaving herself. It was that fellow Cliffe with whom the scandal was last year, wasn't it?" "There was a good deal of talk," said Mary. "A rum fellow, that Cliffe! A man at the club told me last week it is believed he has been fighting for these Bosnian rebels for months. Shocking bad form I call it. If the Turks catch him, they'll string him up. And quite right, too. What's he got to do with other people's quarrels?" "If the Turks will be such brutes--" "Nonsense, my dear! Don't you believe any of this radical stuff. The Turks are awfully fine fellows--fight like bull-dogs. And as for the 'atrocities,' they make them up in London. Oh, of course, what Cliffe wants is notoriety--we all know that. Well, I'm going out to see if I can find another English paper. Beastly climate!" But as Sir Richard turned again to the window, he was met by a burst of sunshine, which hit him gayly in the face like a child's impertinence. He grumbled something unintelligible as Mary put him into his Inverness cape, took hat and stick, and departed. Mary sat still beside the writing-table, her hands crossed on her lap, her eyes absently bent upon them. She was thinking of the serenata. She had followed it with an acquaintance from the hotel, and she had seen not only Kitty and Madame d'Estrées, but also--the solitary man in the heavy cloak. She knew quite well that Cliffe was in Venice; though, true to her secretive temper, she had not mentioned the fact to her father. Of course he was in Venice on Kitty's account. It would be too absurd to suppose that he was here by mere coincidence. Mary believed that nothing but the intervention of Cliffe's mighty kinsman from the north had saved the situation the year before. Kitty would certainly have betrayed her husband but for the _force majeure_ arrayed against her. And now the magnate who had played Providence slumbered in the family vault. He had passed away in the spring, full of years and honors, leaving Cliffe some money. The path was clear. As for the escapade in the Balkans, Geoffrey was, of course, tired of it. A sensational book, hurried out to meet the public appetite for horrors--and the pursuance of his intrigue with Lady Kitty Ashe--Mary was calmly certain that these were now his objects. He was, no doubt, writing his book and meeting Kitty where he could. Ashe would soon have to go home. And then! As if that girl Margaret French could stop it! Well, William had only got his deserts! But as her thoughts passed from Kitty or Cliffe to William Ashe, their quality changed. Hatred and bitterness, scorn or wounded vanity, passed into something gentler. She fell into recollections of Ashe as he had appeared on that bygone afternoon in May when he came back triumphant from his election, with the world before him. If he had never seen Kitty Bristol!-- "I should have made him a good wife," she said to herself. "_I_ should have known how to be proud of him." And there emerged also the tragic consciousness that if the fates had given him to her she might have been another woman--taught by happiness, by love, by motherhood. It was that little, heartless creature who had snatched them both from her--William and Geoffrey Cliffe--the higher and the lower--the man who might have ennobled her--and the man, half charlatan, half genius, whom she might have served and raised, by her fortune and her abilities. Her life might have been so full, so interesting! And it was Kitty that had made it flat, and cold, and futureless. Poor William! Had he really liked her, in those boy-and-girl days? She dreamed over their old cousinly relations--over the presents he had sometimes given her. Then a thought, like a burning arrow, pierced her. Her hands locked, straining one against the other. If this intrigue were indeed renewed--if Geoffrey succeeded in tempting Kitty from her husband--why then--then-- She shivered before the images that were passing through her mind, and, rising, she put away her letters and rang for the waiter, to order dinner. "Where shall we go?" said Kitty, languidly, putting down the French novel she was reading. * * * * * "Mr. Ashe suggested San Lazzaro." Margaret looked up from her writing as Kitty moved towards her. "The rain seems to have all cleared off." "Well, I'm sure it doesn't matter where," said Kitty, and was turning away; but Margaret caught her hand and caressed it. "Naughty Kitty! why this sea air can't put some more color into your cheeks I don't understand." "I'm _not_ pale!" cried Kitty, pouting. "Margaret, you do croak about me so! If you say any more I'll go and rouge till you'll be ashamed to go out with me--there! Where's William?" William opened the door as she spoke, the _Gazetta di Venezia_ in one hand and a telegram in the other. "Something for you, darling," he said, holding it out to Kitty. "Shall I open it?" "Oh no!" said Kitty, hastily. "Give it me. It's from my Paris woman." "Ah--ha!" laughed Ashe. "Some extravagance you want to keep to yourself, I'll be bound. I've a good mind to see!" And he teasingly held it up above her head. But she gave a little jump, caught it, and ran off with it to her room. "Much regret impossible stop publication. Fifty copies distributed already. Writing." She dropped speechless on the edge of her bed, the crumpled telegram in her hand. The minutes passed. "When will you be ready?" said Ashe, tapping at the door. "Is the gondola there?" "Waiting at the steps." "Five minutes!" Ashe departed. She rose, tore the telegram into little bits, and began with deliberation to put on her mantle and hat. "You've got to go through with it," she said to the white face in the glass, and she straightened her small shoulders defiantly. * * * * * They were bound for the Armenian convent. It was a misty day, with shafts of light on the lagoon. The storm had passed, but the water was still rough, and the clouds seemed to be withdrawing their forces only to marshal them again with the darkness. A day of sudden bursts of watery light, of bands of purple distance struck into enchanting beauty by the red or orange of a sail, of a wild salt breath in air that seemed to be still suffused with spray. The Alps were hidden; but what sun there was played faintly on the Euganean hills. "I say, Margaret, at last she does us some credit!" said Ashe, pointing to his wife. Margaret started. Was it rouge?--or was it the strong air? Kitty's languor had entirely disappeared; she was more cheerful and more talkative than she had been at any time since their arrival. She chattered about the current scandals of Venice--the mysterious contessa who lived in the palace opposite their own, and only went out, in deep mourning, at night, because she had been the love of a Russian grand-duke, and the grand-duke was dead; of the Carlist pretender and his wife, who had been very popular in Venice until they took it into their heads to require royal honors, and Venice, taking time to think, had lazily decided the game was not worth the candle--so now the sulky pair went about alone in a fine gondola, turning glassy eyes on their former acquaintance; of the needy marchese who had sold a Titian to the Louvre, and had then found himself boycotted by all his kinsfolk in Venice who were not needy and had no Titians to sell--all these tales Kitty reeled out at length till the handsome gondoliers marvelled at the little lady's vivacity and the queer brightness of her eyes. "Gracious, Kitty, where do you get all these stories from?" cried Ashe, when the chatter paused for a moment. He looked at her with delight, rejoicing in her gayety, the slight touches of white which to-day for the first time relieved the sombreness of her dress, the return of her color. And Margaret wondered again how much of it was rouge. At the Armenian convent a handsome young monk took charge of them. As George Sand and Lamennais had done before them, they looked at the printing-press, the garden, the cloister, the church; they marvelled lazily at the cleanliness and brightness of the place; and finally they climbed to the library and museum, and the room close by where Byron played at grammar-making. In this room Ashe fell suddenly into a political talk with the young monk, who was an ardent and patriotic son of the most unfortunate of nations, and they passed out and down the stairs, followed by Margaret French, not noticing that Kitty had lingered behind. Kitty stood idly by the window of Byron's room, thinking restlessly of verses that were not Byron's, though there was in them, clothed in forms of the new age, the spirit of Byronic passion, and more than a touch of Byronic affectation--thinking also of the morning's telegram. Supposing Darrell's prophecy, which had seemed to her so absurd, came true, that the book did William harm, not good--that he ceased to love her--that he cast her off?... ... A plash of water outside, and a voice giving directions. From the lagoon towards Malamocco a gondola approached. A gentleman and lady were seated in it. The lady--a very handsome Italian, with a loud laugh and brilliant eyes--carried a scarlet parasol. Kitty gave a stifled cry as she drew back. She fled out of the room and overtook the other two. "May we go back into the garden a little?" she said, hurriedly, to the monk who was talking to William. "I should like to see the view towards Venice." William held up a watch, to show that there was but just time to get back to the Piazza, for lunch. Kitty persisted, and the monk, understanding what the impetuous young lady wished, good-naturedly turned to obey her. "We must be _very_ quick!" said Kitty. "Take us please, to the edge, beyond the trees." And she herself hurried through the garden to its farther side, where it was bounded by the lagoon. The others followed her, rather puzzled by her caprice. "Not much to be seen, darling!" said Ashe, as they reached the water--"and I think this good man wants to get rid of us!" And, indeed, the monk was looking backward across the intervening trees at a party which had just entered the garden. "Ah, they have found another brother!" he said, politely, and he began to point out to Kitty the various landmarks visible, the arsenal, the two asylums, San Pietro di Castello. The new-comers just glanced at the garden apparently, as the Ashes had done on arrival, and promptly followed their guide back into the convent. Kitty asked a few more questions, then led the way in a hasty return to the garden door, the entrance-hall, and the steps where their gondola was waiting. Nothing was to be seen of the second party. They had passed on into the cloisters. * * * * * Animation, oddity, inconsequence, all these things Margaret observed in Kitty during luncheon in a restaurant of the Merceria, and various incidents connected with it; animation above all. The Ashes fell in with acquaintance--a fashionable and harassed mother, on the fringe of the Archangels, accompanied by two daughters, one pretty and one plain, and sore pressed by their demands, real or supposed. The parents were not rich, but the girls had to be dressed, taken abroad, produced at country-houses, at Ascot, and the opera, like all other girls. The eldest girl, a considerable beauty, was an accomplished egotist at nineteen, and regarded her mother as a rather inefficient _dame de compagnie_. Kitty understood this young lady perfectly, and after luncheon, over her cigarette, her little, sharp, probing questions gave the beauty twenty minutes' annoyance. Then appeared a young man, ill-dressed, red-haired, and shy. Carelessly as he greeted the mother and daughters, his entrance, however, transformed them. The mother forgot fatigue; the beauty ceased to yawn; the younger girl, who had been making surreptitious notes of Kitty's costume in the last leaf of her guide-book, developed a charming gush. He was the owner of the Magellan estates and the historic Magellan Castle; a professed hater of "absurd womankind," and, in general, a hunted and self-conscious person. Kitty gave him one finger, looked him up and down, asked him whether he was yet engaged, and when he laughed an embarrassed "No," told him that he would certainly die in the arms of the Magellan housekeeper. This got a smile out of him. He sat down beside her, and the two laughed and talked with a freedom which presently drew the attention of the neighboring tables, and made Ashe uncomfortable. He rose, paid the bill, and succeeded in carrying the whole party off to the Piazza, in search of coffee. But here again Kitty's extravagances, the provocation of her light loveliness, as she sat toying with a fresh cigarette and "chaffing" Lord Magellan, drew a disagreeable amount of notice from the Italians passing by. "Mother, let's go!" said the angry beauty, imperiously, in her mother's ear. "I don't like to be seen with Lady Kitty! She's impossible!" And with cold farewells the three ladies departed. Then Kitty sprang up and threw away her cigarette. "How those girls bully their mother!" she said, with scorn. "However, it serves her right. I'm sure she bullied hers. Well, now we must go and do something. Ta-ta!" Lord Magellan, to whom she offered another casual finger, wanted to know why he was dismissed. If they were going sight-seeing, might he not come with them?" "Oh no!" said Kitty, calmly. "Sight--seeing with people you don't really know is too trying to the temper. Even with one's best friend it's risky." "Where are you? May I call?" said the young man. "We're always out," was Kitty's careless reply. "But--" She considered-- "Would you like to see the Palazzo Vercelli?" "That magnificent place on the Grand Canal? Very much." "Meet me there to-morrow afternoon," said Kitty. "Four o'clock." "Delighted!" said Lord Magellan, making a note on his shirt-cuff. "And who lives there?" "My mother," said Kitty, abruptly, and walked away. Ashe followed her in discomfort. This young man was the son of a certain Lady Magellan, an intimate friend of Lady Tranmore's--one of the noblest women of her generation, pure, high-minded, spiritual, to whom neither an ugly word nor thought was possible. It annoyed him that either he or Kitty should be introducing _her_ son to Madame d'Estrées. It was really tiresome of Kitty! Rich young men with characters yet indeterminate were not to be lightly brought in contact with Madame d'Estrées. Kitty could not be ignorant of it--poor child! It had been one of her reckless strokes, and Ashe was conscious of a sharp annoyance. However, he said nothing. He followed his companions from church to church, till pictures became an abomination to him. Then he pleaded letters, and went to the club. "Will you call on maman to-morrow?" said Kitty, as he turned away, looking at him a little askance. She knew that he had disapproved of her invitation to Lord Magellan. Why had she given it? She didn't know. There seemed to be a kind of revived mischief and fever in the blood, driving her to these foolish and ill-considered things. Ashe met her question with a shake of the head and the remark, in a decided tone, that he should be too busy. Privately he thought it a piece of impertinence that Madame d'Estrées should expect either Kitty or himself to appear in her drawing-room at all. That this implied a complete transformation of his earlier attitude he was well aware; he accepted it with a curious philosophy. When he and Kitty first met he had never troubled his head about such things. If a woman amused or interested him in society, so long as his taste was satisfied she might have as much or as little character as she pleased. It stirred his mocking sense of English hypocrisy that the point should be even raised. But now--how can any individual, he asked himself, with political work to do, affect to despise the opinions and prejudices of society? A politician with great reforms to put through will make no friction round him that he can avoid--unless he is a fool. It weighed sorely, therefore, on his present mind that Madame d'Estrées was in Venice--that she was a person of blemished repute--that he must be and was ashamed of her. It would have been altogether out of consonance with his character to put any obstacle in the way of Kitty's seeing her mother. But he chafed as he had never yet chafed under the humiliation of his relationship to the notorious Margaret Fitzgerald of the forties, who had been old Blackwater's _chère amie_ before she married him, and, as Lady Blackwater, had sacrificed her innocent and defenceless step-daughter to one of her own lovers, in order to secure for him the step-daughter's fortune--black and dastardly deed! Was it all part of the general growth and concentration that any shrewd observer might have read in William Ashe?--the pressure--enormous, unseen--of the traditional English ideals, English standards, asserting itself at last in a brilliant and paradoxical nature? It had been so--conspicuously--in the case of one of his political predecessors. Lord Melbourne had begun his career as a person of idle habits and imprudent adventures, much given to coarse conversation, and unable to say the simplest thing without an oath. He ended it as the man of scrupulous dignity, tact, and delicacy, who moulded the innocent youth of a girl-queen, to his own lasting honor and England's gratitude. In ways less striking, the same influence of vast responsibilities was perhaps acting upon William Ashe. It had already made him a sterner, tougher, and--no doubt--a greater man. The defection of William only left Kitty, it seemed, still more greedy of things to see and do. Innumerable sacristans opened all possible doors and unveiled all possible pictures. Bellini succeeded Tintoret, and Carpaccio Bellini. The two sable gondoliers wore themselves out in Kitty's service, and Margaret's kind, round face grew more and more puzzled and distressed. And whence this strange impression that the whole experience was a _flight_ on Kitty's part?--or, rather, that throughout it she was always eagerly expecting, or eagerly escaping from some unknown, unseen pursuer? A glance behind her--a start--a sudden shivering gesture in the shadows of dark churches--these things suggested it, till Margaret herself was caught by the same suppressed excitement that seemed to be alive in Kitty. Did it all point merely to some mental state--to the nervous effects of her illness and her loss? When they reached home about five o'clock, Kitty was naturally tired out. Margaret put her on the sofa, gave her tea, and tended her, hoping that she might drop asleep before dinner. But just as tea was over, and Kitty was lying curled up, silent and white, with that brooding look which kept Margaret's anxiety about her constantly alive, there was a sudden sound of voices in the anteroom outside. "Margaret!" cried Kitty, starting up in dismay--"say I'm not at home." Too late! Their smiling Italian housemaid threw the door open, with the air of one bringing good-fortune. And behind her appeared a tall lady, and an old gentleman hat in hand. "May we come in, Kitty?" said Mary Lyster, advancing. "Cousin Elizabeth told us you were here." Kitty had sprung up. The disorder of her fair hair, her white cheeks, and the ghostly thinness of her small, black-robed form drew the curious eyes of Sir Richard. And the oddness of her manner as she greeted them only confirmed the old man's prejudice against her. However, greeted they were, in some sort of fashion; and Miss French gave them tea. She kept Sir Richard entertained, while Kitty and Mary conversed. They talked perfunctorily of ordinary topics--Venice, its sights, its hotels, and the people staying in them--of Lady Tranmore and various Ashe relations. Meanwhile the inmost thought of each was busy with the other. Kitty studied the lines of Mary's face and the fashion of her dress. "She looks much older. And she's not enjoying her life a bit. That's my fault. I spoiled all her chances with Geoffrey--and she knows it. She _hates_ me. Quite right, too." "Oh, you mean that nonsensical thing last night?" Sir Richard was saying to Margaret French. "Oh no, I didn't go. But Mary, of course, thought she must go. Somebody invited her." Kitty started. "You were at the serenata?" she said to Mary. "Yes, I went with a party from the hotel." Kitty looked at her. A sudden flush had touched her pale cheeks, and she could not conceal the trembling of her hands. "That was marvellous, that light on the Salute, wasn't it?" "Wonderful!--and on the water, too. I saw two or three people I knew--just caught their faces for a second." "Did you?" said Kitty. And thoughts ran fast through her head. "Did she see Geoffrey?--and does she mean me to understand that she did? How she detests me! If she did see him, of course she supposes that I know all about it, and that he's here for me. Why don't I ask her, straight out, whether she saw him, and make her understand that I don't care twopence?--that she's welcome to him--as far as I'm concerned?" But some hidden feeling tied her tongue. Mary continued to talk about the serenata, and Kitty was presently conscious that her every word and gesture in reply was closely watched. "Yes, yes, she saw him. Perhaps she'll tell William--or write home to mother?" And in her excitement she began to chatter fast and loudly, mostly to Sir Richard--repeating some of the Venice tales she had told in the gondola--with much inconsequence and extravagance. The old man listened, his hands on his stick, his eyes on the ground, the expression on his strong mouth hostile or sarcastic. It was a relief to everybody when Ashe's step was heard stumbling up the dark stairs, and the door opened on his friendly and courteous presence. "Why, Polly!--and Cousin Richard! I wondered where you had hidden yourselves." Mary's bright, involuntary smile transformed her. Ashe sat down beside her, and they were soon deep in all sorts of gossip--relations, acquaintance, politics, and what not. All Mary's stiffness disappeared. She became the elegant, agreeable woman, of whom dinner-parties were glad. Ashe plunged into the pleasant malice of her talk, which ranged through the good and evil fortunes--mostly the latter--of half his acquaintance; discussed the debts, the love-affairs, and the follies of his political colleagues or Parliamentary foes; how the Foreign Secretary had been getting on at Balmoral--how so-and-so had been ruined at the Derby and restored to sanity and solvency by the Oaks--how Lady Parham, at Hatfield, had been made to know her place by the French Ambassador--and the like; passing thereby a charming half-hour. Meanwhile Kitty, Margaret French, and Sir Richard kept up intermittent remarks, pausing at every other phrase to gather the crumbs that fell from the table of the other two. Kitty was very weary, and a dead weight had fallen on her spirits. If Sir Richard had thought her bad form ten minutes before, his unspoken mind now declared her stupid. Meanwhile Kitty was saying to herself, as she watched her husband and Mary: "I used to amuse William just as well--last year!" When the door closed on them, Kitty fell back on her cushions with an "ouf!" of relief. William came back in a few minutes from showing the visitors the back way to their hotel, and stood beside his wife with an anxious face. "They were too much for you, darling. They stayed too long." "How you and Mary chattered!" said Kitty, with a little pout. But at the same moment she slipped an appealing hand into his. Ashe clasped the hand, and laughed. "I always told you she was an excellent gossip." * * * * * Sir Richard and Mary pursued their way through the narrow _calles_ that led to the Piazza. Sir Richard was expatiating on Ashe's folly in marrying such a wife. "She looks like an actress!--and as to her conversation, she began by telling me outrageous stories and ended by not having a word to say about anything. The bad blood of the Bristols, it seems to me, without their brains." "Oh no, papa! Kitty is very clever. You haven't heard her recite. She was tired to-night." "Well, I don't want to flatter you, my dear!" said the old man, testily, "but I thought it was pathetic--the way in which Ashe enjoyed your conversation. It showed he didn't get much of it at home." Mary smiled uncertainly. Her whole nature was still aglow from that contact with Ashe's delightful personality. After months of depression and humiliation, her success with him had somehow restored those illusions on which cheerfulness depends. How ill Kitty looked--and how conscious! Mary was impetuously certain that Kitty had betrayed her knowledge of Cliffe's presence in Venice; and equally certain that William knew nothing. Poor William! Well, what can you expect of such a temperament--such a race? Mary's thoughts travelled confusedly towards--and through--some big and dreadful catastrophe. And then? After it? It seemed to her that she was once more in the Park Lane drawing-room; the familiar Morris papers and Burne-Jones drawings surrounded her; and she and Elizabeth Tranmore sat, hand in hand, talking of William--a William once more free, after much folly and suffering, to reconstruct his life.... "Here we are," said Sir Richard Lyster, moving down a dark passage towards the brightly lit doorway of their hotel. With a start--as of one taken red-handed--Mary awoke from her dream. XX Madame d'Estrées and her friend, Donna Laura, occupied the _mezzanin_ of the vast Vercelli palace. The palace itself belonged to the head of the Vercelli family. It was a magnificent erection of the late seventeenth century, at this moment half furnished, dilapidated, and forsaken. But the _entresol_ on the eastern side of the _cortile_ was in good condition, and comfortably fitted up for the occasional use of the Principe. As he was wintering in Paris, he had let his rooms at an ordinary commercial rent to his kinswoman, Donna Laura. She, a soured and melancholy woman, unmarried in a Latin society which has small use or kindness for spinsters, had seized on Marguerite d'Estrées--whose acquaintance she had made in a Mont d'Or hotel--and was now keeping her like a caged canary that sings for its food. Madame d'Estrées was quite willing. So long as she had a sofa on which to sit enthroned, a sufficiency of new gowns, a maid, cigarettes, breakfast in bed, and a supply of French novels, she appeared the most harmless and engaging of mortals. Her youth had been cruel, disorderly, and vicious. It had lasted long; but now, when middle age stood at last confessed, she was lapsing, it seemed, into amiability and good behavior. She was, indeed, fast forgetting her own history, and soon the recital of it would surprise no one so much as herself. It was five o'clock. Madame d'Estrées had just established herself in the silk-panelled drawing-room of Donna Laura's apartment, expectant of visitors, and, in particular, of her daughter. In begging Kitty to come on this particular afternoon, she had not thought fit to mention that it would be Donna Laura's "day." Had she done so, Kitty, in consideration of her mourning, would perhaps have cried off. Whereas, really--poor, dear child!--what she wanted was distraction and amusement. And what Madame d'Estrées wanted was the presence beside her, in public, of Lady Kitty Ashe. Kitty had already visited her mother privately, and had explored the antiquities of the Vercelli palace. But Madame d'Estrées was now intent on something more and different. For in the four years which had now elapsed since the Ashe's marriage this lively lady had known adversity. She had been forced to leave London, as we have seen, by the pressure of certain facts in her past history so ancient and far removed when their true punishment began that she no doubt felt it highly unjust that she should be punished for them at all. Her London debts had swallowed up what then remained to her of fortune; and, afterwards, the allowance from the Ashes was all she had to depend on. Banished to Paris, she fell into a lower stratum of life, at a moment when her faithful and mysterious friend, Markham Warington, was held in Scotland by the first painful symptoms of his sister's last illness, and could do but little for her. She had, in fact, known the sordid shifts and straits of poverty, though the smallest moral effort would have saved her from them. She had kept disreputable company, she had been miserable, and base; and although shame is not easy to persons of her temperament, it may perhaps be said that she was ashamed of this period of her existence. Appeals to the Ashes yielded less and less, and Warington seemed to have forsaken her. She awoke at last to a panic-stricken fear of darker possibilities and more real suffering than any she had yet known, and under the stress of this fear she collapsed physically, writing both to Warington and to the Ashes in a tone of mingled reproach and despair. The Ashes sent money, and, though Kitty was at the moment not fit to travel, prepared to come. Warington, who had just closed the eyes of his sister, went at once. He was now the last of his family, without any ties that he could not lawfully break. Within two days of his arrival in Paris, Madame d'Estrées had promised to marry him in three months, to break off all her Paris associations, and to give her life henceforward into his somewhat stern hands. The visit to Venice was part of the price that he had had to pay for her decision. Marguerite pleaded, with a shudder, that she must have a little amusement before she went to live in Dumfriesshire; and he had been obliged to acquiesce in her arrangement with Donna Laura--stipulating only that he should be their escort and guardian. What had moved him to such an act? His reasons can only be guessed at. Warington was a man of religion, a Calvinist by education and inheritance, and of a silent and dreamy temperament. He had been intimate with very few women in his life. His sister had been a second mother to him, and both of them had been the guardians of their younger brother. When this adored brother fell shot through the lungs in the hopeless defence of Lady Blackwater's reputation, it would have been natural enough that Markham should hate the woman who had been the occasion of such a calamity. The sister, a pious and devoted Christian, had indeed hated her, properly and duly, thenceforward. Markham, on the contrary, accepted his brother's last commission without reluctance. In this matter at least Lady Blackwater had not been directly to blame; his mind acquitted her; and her soft, distressed beauty touched his heart. Before he knew where he was she had made an impression upon him that was to be life-long. Then gradually he awoke to a full knowledge of her character. He suffered, but otherwise it made no difference. Finding it was then impossible to persuade her to marry him, he watched over her as best he could for some years, passing through phases of alternate hope and disgust. His sister's affection for him was clouded by his strange relation to the Jezebel who in her opinion had destroyed their brother. He could not help it; he could only do his best to meet both claims upon him. During her lingering passage to the grave, his sister had nearly severed him from Marguerite d'Estrées. She died, however, just in time, and now here he was in Venice, passing through what seemed to him one of the ante-rooms of life, leading to no very radiant beyond. But, radiant or no, his path lay thither. And at the same time he saw that although Marguerite felt him to be her only refuge from poverty and disgrace, she was painfully afraid of him, and afraid of the life into which he was leading her. * * * * * The first guest of the afternoon proved to be Louis Harman, the painter and dilettante, who had been in former days one of the _habitués_ of the house in St. James's Place. This perfectly correct yet tolerant gentleman was wintering in Venice in order to copy the Carpaccios in San Giorgio dei Schiavoni. His copies were not good, but they were all promised to artistic fair ladies, and the days which the painter spent upon them were happy and harmless. He came in gayly, delighted to see Madame d'Estrées in flourishing circumstances again, delivered apparently from the abyss into which he had found her sliding on the occasion of various chance visits of his own to Paris. Warington's doing, apparently--queer fellow! "Well!--I saw Lady Kitty in the Piazza this afternoon," he said, as he sat down beside his hostess. Donna Laura had not yet appeared. "Very thin and fragile! But, by Jove! how these English beauties hold their own." "Irish, if you please," said Madame d'Estrées, smiling. Harman bowed to her correction, admiring at the same time both the toilette and the good looks of his companion. Dropping his voice, he asked, with a gingerly and sympathetic air, whether all was now well with the Ashe ménage. He had been sorry to hear certain gossip of the year before. Madame d'Estrées laughed. Yes, she understood that Kitty had behaved like a little goose with that _poseur_ Cliffe. But that was all over--long ago. "Why, the silly child has everything she wants! William is devoted to her--and it can't be long before he succeeds." "No need to go trifling with poets," said Harman, smiling. "By-the-way, do you know that Geoffrey Cliffe is in Venice?" Madame d'Estrées opened her eyes. "Est-il possible? Oh! but Kitty has forgotten all about him." "Of course," said Harman. "I am told he has been seen with the Ricci." Madame d'Estrées raised her shoulders this time in addition to her eyes. Then her face clouded. "I believe," she said, slowly, "that woman may come here this afternoon." "Is she a friend of yours?" Harman's tone expressed his surprise. "I knew her in Paris," said Madame d'Estrées, with some hesitation, "when she was a student at the Conservatoire. She and I had some common acquaintance. And now--frankly, I daren't offend her. She has the most appalling temper!--and she sticks at nothing." Harman wondered what the exact truth of this might be, but did not inquire. And as guests--including Colonel Warington--began to arrive, and Donna Laura appeared and began to dispense tea, the _tête-à-tête_ was interrupted. Donna Laura's _salon_ was soon well filled, and Harman watched the gathering with curiosity. As far as it concerned Madame d'Estrées--and she was clearly the main attraction which had brought it together--it represented, he saw, a phase of social recovery. A few prominent Englishmen, passing through Venice, came in without their wives, making perfunctory excuse for the absence of these ladies. But the cosmopolitans of all kinds, who crowded in--Anglo-Italians, foreign diplomats, travellers of many sorts, and a few restless Venetians, bearing the great names of old, to whom their own Venice was little more than a place of occasional sojourn--made satisfactory amends for these persons of too long memories. In all these travellers' towns, Venice, Rome, and Florence, there is indeed a society, and a very agreeable society, which is wholly irresponsible, and asks few or no questions. The elements of it meet as strangers, and as strangers they mostly part. But between the meeting and the parting there lies a moment, all the gayer, perhaps, because of its social uncertainty and freedom. Madame d'Estrées was profiting by it to the full. She was in excellent spirits and talk; bright-rose carnations shone in the bosom of her dress; one white arm, bared to the elbow, lay stretched carelessly on the fine cut-velvet which covered the gilt sofa--part of a suite of Venetian Louis Quinze, clumsily gorgeous--on which she sat; the other hand pulled the ears of a toy spaniel. On the ceiling above her, Tiepolo had painted a headlong group of sensuous forms, alive with vulgar movement and passion; the _putti_ and the goddesses, peering through aërial balustrades, looked down complacently on Madame d'Estrées. Meanwhile there stood behind her--a silent, distinguished figure--the man of whom Harman saw that she was always nervously and sometimes timidly conscious. Harman had been reading Molière's _Don Juan_. The sentinel figure of Warington mingled in his imagination with the statue of the Commander. Or, again, he was tickled by a vision of Madame d'Estrées grown old, living in a Scotch house, turreted and severe, tended by servants of the "Auld Licht," or shivering under a faithful minister on Sundays. Had she any idea of the sort of fold towards which Warington--at once Covenanter and man of the world--was carrying his lost sheep? The sheep, however, was still gambolling at large. Occasionally a guest appeared who proved it. For instance, at a certain tumultuous entrance, billowing skirts, vast hat, and high-pitched voice all combining in the effect, Madame d'Estrées flushed violently, and Warington's stiffness redoubled. On the threshold stood the young actress, Mademoiselle Ricci, a Marseillaise, half French, half Italian, who was at the moment the talk of Venice. Why, would take too long to tell. It was by no means mostly due to her talent, which, however, was displayed at the Apollo theatre two or three times a week, and was no doubt considerable. She was a flamboyant lady, with astonishing black eyes, a too transparent white dress, over which was slung a small black mantilla, a scarlet hat and parasol, and a startling fan of the same color. Both before and after her greeting of Madame d'Estrées--whom she called her "chérie" and her "belle Marguerite"--she created a whirlwind in the _salon_. She was noisy, rude, and false; it could only be said on the other side that she was handsome--for those who admired the kind of thing; and famous--more or less. The intimacy of the party was broken up by her, for wherever she was she brought uproar, and it was impossible to forget her. And this uneasy attention which she compelled was at its height when the door was once more thrown open for the entrance of Lady Kitty Ashe. "Ah, my darling Kitty!" cried Madame d'Estrées, rising in a soft enthusiasm. Kitty came in slowly, holding herself very erect, a delicate and distinguished figure, in her deep mourning. She frowned as she saw the crowd in the room. "I'll come another time!" she said, hastily, to her mother, beginning to retreat. "Oh, Kitty!" cried Madame d'Estrées, in distress, holding her fast. At that moment Harman, who was watching them both with keenness, saw that Kitty had perceived Mademoiselle Ricci. The actress had paused in her chatter to stare at the new-comer. She sat fronting the entrance, her head insolently thrown back, knees crossed, a cigarette poised in the plump and dimpled hand. A start ran through Kitty's small person. She allowed her mother to lead her in and introduce her to Donna Laura. "Ah-ha, my lady!" said Harman, to himself. "Are you, perhaps, interested in the Ricci? Is it possible even that you have seen her before?" Kitty, however, betrayed herself to no one else. To other people it was only evident that she did not mean to be introduced to the actress. She pointedly and sharply avoided it. This was interpreted as aristocratic _hauteur_, and did her no harm. On the contrary, she was soon chattering French with a group of diplomats, and the centre of the most animated group in the room. All the new-comers who could attached themselves to it, and the actress found herself presently almost deserted. She put up her eye-glass, studied Kitty impertinently, and asked a man sitting near her for the name of the strange lady. "Isn't she lovely, my little Kitty!" said Madame d'Estrées, in the ears of a Bavarian baron, who was also much occupied in staring at the small beauty in black. "I may say it, though I am her mother. And my son-in-law, too. Have you seen him? Such a handsome fellow!--and _such_ a dear!--so kind to me. They _say_, you know, that he will be Prime Minister." The baron bowed, ironically, and inquired who the gentleman might be. He had not caught Kitty's name, and Madame d'Estrées had been for some time labelled in his mind as something very near to an adventuress. Madame d'Estrées eagerly explained, and he bowed again, with a difference. He was a man of great intelligence, acquainted with English politics. So that was _really_ the wife of the man to whose personality and future the London correspondent of the _Allgemeine Zeitung_ had within the preceding week devoted a particularly interesting article, which he had read with attention. His estimate of Madame d'Estrées' place in the world altered at once. Yet it was strange that she--or, rather, Donna Laura--should admit such a person as Mademoiselle Ricci to their _salon_. The mother, indeed, that afternoon had much reason to be socially grateful to the daughter. Curious contrast with the days when Kitty had been the mere troublesome appendage of her mother's life! It was clear to Marguerite d'Estrées now that if she was to accept restraint and virtuous living, if she was to submit to this marriage she dreaded, yet saw no way to escape, her best link with the gay world in the future might well be through the Ashes. Kitty could do a great deal for her; let her cultivate Kitty; and begin, perhaps, by convincing William Ashe on this present occasion that for once she was not going to ask him for money. In the height of the party, Lord Magellan appeared. Madame d'Estrées at first looked at him with bewilderment, till Kitty, shaking herself free, came hastily forward to introduce him. At the name the mother's face flashed into smiles. The ramifications of two or three aristocracies represented the only subject she might be said to know. Dear Kitty! Lord Magellan, after Madame d'Estrées had talked to him about his family in a few light and skilful phrases, which suggested knowledge, while avoiding flattery, was introduced to the Bavarian baron and a French naval officer. But he was not interesting to them, nor they to him; Kitty was surrounded and unapproachable; and a flood of new arrivals distracted Madame d'Estrées' attention. The Ricci, who had noticed the restrained _empressement_ of his reception, pounced on the young man, taming her ways and gestures to what she supposed to be his English prudery, and produced an immediate effect upon him. Lord Magellan, who was only dumb with English marriageable girls, allowed himself to be amused, and threw himself into a low chair by the actress--a capture apparently for the afternoon. Louis Harman was sitting behind Kitty, a little to her right. He saw her watching the actress and her companion; noticed a compression of the lip, a flash in the eye. She sprang up, said she must go home, and practically dissolved the party. Mademoiselle Ricci, who had also risen, proposed to Lord Magellan that she should take him in her gondola to the shop of a famous dealer on the Canal. "Thank you very much," said Lord Magellan, irresolute, and he looked at Kitty. The look apparently decided him, for he immediately added that he had unfortunately an engagement in the opposite direction. The actress angrily drew herself up, and proposed a later appointment. Then Kitty carelessly intervened. "Do you remember that you promised to see me home?" she said to the young man. "Don't if it bores you!" Lord Magellan eagerly protested. Kitty moved away, and he followed her. "Chère madame, will you present me to your daughter?" said the Ricci, in an unnecessarily loud voice. Madame d'Estrées, with a flurried gesture, touched Kitty on the arm. "Kitty, Mademoiselle Ricci." Kitty took no notice. Madame d'Estrées said, quickly, in a low, imploring voice: "Please, dear Kitty. I'll explain." Kitty turned abruptly, looked at her mother, and at the woman to whom she was to be introduced. "Ah! comme elle est charmante!" cried the actress, with an inflection of irony in her strident voice. "Miladi, il faut absolument que nous nous connaissions. Je connais votre chère mère depuis si longtemps! À Paris, l'hiver passé c'était une amitié des plus tendres!" The nasal drag she gave to the words was partly natural, partly insolent. Madame d'Estrées bit her lip. "Oui?" said Kitty, indifferently. "Je n'en avais jamais entendu parler." Her brilliant eyes studied the woman before her. "She has some hold on maman," she said to herself, in disgust. "She knows of something shady that maman has done." Then another thought stung her; and with the most indifferent bow, triumphing in the evident offence that she was giving, she turned to Lord Magellan. "You'd like to see the Palazzo?" Warington at once offered himself as a guide. But Kitty declared she knew the way, would just show Lord Magellan the _piano nobile_, dismiss him at the grand staircase, and return. Lord Magellan made his farewells. As Kitty passed through the door of the _salon_, while the young man held back the velvet _portière_ which hung over it, she was aware that Mademoiselle Ricci was watching her. The Marseillaise was leaning heavily on a _fauteuil_, supported by a hand behind her. A slow, disdainful smile played about her lips, some evil threatening thought expressed itself through every feature of her rounded, coarsened beauty. Kitty's sharp look met hers, and the curtain dropped. * * * * * "Don't, please, let that woman take you anywhere--to see anything!" said Kitty, with energy, to her companion, as they walked through the rooms of the _mezzanino_. Lord Magellan laughed. "What's the matter with her?" "Oh, nothing!" said Kitty, impatiently, "except that she's wicked--and common--and a snake--and your mother would have a fit if she knew you had anything to do with her." The red-haired youth looked grave. "Thank you, Lady Kitty," he said, quietly. "I'll take your advice." "Oh, I say, what a nice boy you are!" cried Kitty, impulsively, laying a hand a moment on his shoulder. And then, as though his filial instinct had awakened hers, she added, with hasty falsehood: "Maman, of course, knows nothing about her. That was just bluff what she said. But Donna Laura oughtn't to ask such people. There--that's the way." And she pointed to a small staircase in the wall, whereof the trap-door at the top was open. They climbed it, and found themselves at once in one of the great rooms of the _piano nobile_, to which this quick and easy access from the inhabited _entresol_ had been but recently contrived. "What a marvellous place!" cried Lord Magellan, looking round him. They were in the principal apartment of the famous Vercelli palace, a legacy from one of those classical architects whose work may be seen in the late seventeenth-century buildings of Venice. The rooms, enormously high, panelled here and there in tattered velvets and brocades, or frescoed in fast-fading scenes of old Venetian life, stretched in bewildering succession on either side of a central passage or broad corridor, all of them leading at last on the northern side to a vast hall painted in architectural perspective by the pupils of Tiepolo, and overarched by a ceiling in which the master himself had massed a multitude of forms equal to Rubens in variety and facility of design, expressed in a thin trenchancy of style. Figures recalling the ancient triumphs and possessions of Venice, in days when she sat dishonored and despoiled, crowded the coved roof, the painted cornices and pediments. Gayly colored birds hovered in blue skies; philosophers and poets in grisaille made a strange background for large-limbed beauties couched on roses, or young warriors amid trophies of shining arms; and while all this garrulous commonplace lived and breathed above, the walls below, cold in color and academic in treatment, maintained as best they could the dignity of the vast place, thus given up to one of the greatest of artists and emptiest of minds. On the floor of this magnificent hall stood a few old and broken chairs. But the candelabra of glass and ormolu, hanging from the ceiling, were very nearly of the date of the palace, and superb. Meanwhile, through a faded taffeta of a golden-brown shade, the afternoon light from the high windows to the southwest poured into the stately room. "How it dwarfs us!" said Lord Magellan, looking at his companion. "One feels the merest pygmy! From the age of decadence indeed!" He glanced at the guide-book in his hand. "Good Heavens!--if this was their decay, what was their bloom?" "Yes--it's big--and jolly. I like it," said Kitty, absently. Then she recollected herself. "This is your way out. Federigo!" she called to an old man, the _custode_ of the palace, who appeared at the magnificent door leading to the grand staircase. "Commanda, eccellenza!" The old man, bent and feeble, approached. He carried a watering-pot wherewith he was about to minister to some straggling flowers in the windows fronting the Grand Canal. A thin cat rubbed itself against his legs. As he stood in his shabbiness under the high, carved door, the only permanent denizen of the building, he seemed an embodiment of the old shrunken Venetian life, still haunting a city it was no longer strong enough to use. "Will you show this signor the way out?" said Kitty, in tourists' Italian. "Are you soon shutting up?" For the main palazzo, which during the day was often shown to sightseers, was locked at half-past five, only the two _entresols_--one tenanted by Donna Laura, the other by the _custode_--remaining accessible. The old man murmured something which Kitty did not understand, pointing at the same time to a door leading to the interior of the _piano nobile_. Kitty thought that he asked her to be quick, if she wished still to go round the palace. She tried to explain that he might lock up if he pleased; her way of retreat to the _mezzanino_, down the small staircase, was always open. Federigo looked puzzled, again said something in unintelligible Venetian, and led the way to the grand staircase followed by Lord Magellan. * * * * * A heavy door clanged below. Kitty was alone. She looked round her, at the stretches of marble floor, and the streaks of pale sunshine that lay upon its black and white, at the lofty walls painted with a dim superb architecture, at the crowded ceiling, the gorgeous candelabra. With its costly decoration, the great room suggested a rich and festal life; thronging groups below answering to the Tiepolo groups above; beauties patched and masked; gallants in brocaded coats; splendid senators, robed like William at the fancy ball. Suddenly she caught sight of herself in one of the high and narrow mirrors that filled the spaces between the windows. In her mourning dress, with the light behind her, she made a tiny spectre in the immense hall. The image of her present self--frail, black-robed--recalled the two figures in the glass of her Hill Street room--the sparkling white of her goddess dress, and William's smiling face above hers, his arm round her waist. How happy she had been that night! Even her wild fury with Mary Lyster seemed to her now a kind of happiness. How gladly would she have exchanged for it either of the two terrors that now possessed her! With a shiver she crossed the hall, and pushed her way into the suite of rooms on the northern side. She felt herself in absolute possession of the palace. Federigo no doubt had locked up; her mother and a few guests were still talking in the _salon_ of the _mezzanine_, expecting her to return. She would return--soon; but the solitariness and wildness of this deserted place drew her on. Room after room opened before her--bare, save for a few worm-eaten chairs, a fragment of tapestry on the wall, or some tattered portraits in the Longhi manner, indifferent to begin with, and long since ruined by neglect. Yet here and there a young face looked out, roses in the hair and at the breast; or a Doge's cap--and beneath it phantom features still breathing even in the last decay of canvas and paint the violence and intrigue of the living man--the ghost of character held there by the ghost of art. Or a lad in slashed brocade, for whom even in this silent palace, and in spite of the gaping crack across his face, life was still young; a cardinal; a nun; a man of letters in clerical dress, the Abbé Prévost of his day.... Presently she found herself in a wide corridor, before a high, closed door. She tried it, and saw a staircase mounting and descending. A passion of curiosity that was half romance, half restlessness, drove her on. She began to ascend the marble steps, hearing only the echo of her own movements, a little afraid of the cold spaces of the vast house, and yet delighting in the fancies that crowded upon her. At the top of the flight she found, of course, another apartment, on the same plan as the one below, but smaller and less stately. The central hall entered from a door supported by marble caryatids, was flagged in yellow marble, and frescoed freely with faded eighteenth-century scenes--cardinals walking in stiff gardens, a pope alighting from his coach, surrounded by peasants on their knees, and behind him fountains and obelisk and the towering façade of St. Peter's. At the moment, thanks to a last glow of light coming in through a west window at the farther end, it was a place beautiful though forlorn. But the rooms into which she looked on either side were wreck and desolation itself, crowded with broken furniture, many of them shuttered and dark. As she closed the last door, her attention was caught by a strange bust placed on a pedestal above the entrance. What was wrong with it? An accident? An injury? She went nearer, straining her eyes to see. No!--there was no injury. The face indeed was gone. Or, rather, where the face should have been there now descended a marble veil from brow to breast, of the most singular and sinister effect. Otherwise the bust was that of a young and beautiful woman. A pleasing horror seized on Kitty as she looked. Her fancy hunted for the clew. A faithless wife, blotted from her place?--made infamous forever by the veil which hid from human eye the beauty she had dishonored? Or a beloved mistress, on whom the mourning lover could no longer bear to look--the veil an emblem of undying and irremediable grief? Kitty stood enthralled, striving to pierce the ghastly meaning of the bust, when a sound--a distant sound--a shock through her. She heard a step overhead, in the topmost apartment, or _mansarde_ of the palace, a step that presently traversed the whole length of the floor immediately above her head and began to descend the stair. Strange! Federigo must have shut the great gates by this time--as she had bade him? He himself inhabited the smaller _entresol_ on the farther side of the palace, far away. Other inhabitants there were none; so Donna Laura had assured her. The step approached, resonant in the silence. Kitty, seized with nervous fright, turned and ran down the broad staircase by which she had come, through the series of deserted rooms in the _piano nobile_, till she reached the great hall. There she paused, panting, curiosity and daring once more getting the upperhand. The door she had just passed through, which gave access to the staircase, opened again and shut. The stranger who had entered came leisurely towards the hall, lingering apparently now and then to look at objects on the way. Presently a voice--an exclamation. Kitty retreated, caught at the arm of a chair for support, clung to it trembling. A man entered, holding his hat in one hand and a small white glove in the other. At sight of the lady in black, standing on the other side of the hall, he started violently--and stopped. Then, just as Kitty, who had so far made neither sound nor movement, took the first hurried step towards the staircase by which she had entered, Geoffrey Cliffe came forward. "How do you do, Lady Kitty? Do not, I beg of you, let me disturb you. I had half an hour to spare, and I gave the old man down-stairs a franc or two, that he might let me wander over this magnificent old place by myself for a bit. I have always had a fancy for deserted houses. You, I gather, have it, too. I will not interfere with you for a moment. Before I go, however, let me return what I believe to be your property." He came nearer, with a studied, deliberate air, and held out the white glove. She saw it was her own and accepted it. "Thank you." She bowed with all the haughtiness she could muster, though her limbs shook under her. Then as she walked quickly towards the door of exit, Cliffe, who was nearer to it than she, also moved towards it, and threw it open for her. As she approached him he said, quietly: "This is not the first time we have met in Venice, Lady Kitty." She wavered, could not avoid looking at him, and stood arrested. That almost white head!--that furrowed brow!--those haggard eyes! A slight, involuntary cry broke from her lips. Cliffe smiled. Then he straightened his tall figure. "You see, perhaps, that I have not grown younger. You are quite right. I have left my youth--what remained of it--among those splendid fellows whom the Turks have been harrying and torturing. Well!--they were worth it. I would give it them again." There was a short silence. The eyes of each perused the other's face. Kitty began some words, and left them unfinished. Cliffe resumed--in another tone--while the door he held swung gently backward, his hand following it. "I spent last winter, as perhaps you know, with the Bosnian insurgents in the mountains. It was a tough business--hardships I should never have had the pluck to face if I had known what was before me. Then, in July, I got fever. I had to come away, to find a doctor, and I was a long time at Cattaro pulling round. And, meanwhile, the Turks--God blast them!--have been at their fiends' work. Half my particular friends, with whom I spent the winter, have been hacked to pieces since I left them." She wavered, held by his look, by the coercion of that mingled passion and indifference with which he spoke. There was in his manner no suggestion whatever of things behind, no reference to herself or to the past between them. His passion, it seemed, was for his comrades; his indifference for her. What had he to do with her any more? He had been among the realities of battle and death, while she had been mincing and ambling along the usual feminine path. That was the utterance, it seemed, of the man's whole manner and personality, and nothing could have more effectually recalled Kitty's wild nature to the lure. "Are you going back?" She had turned from him and was pulling at the fingers of the glove he had picked up. "Of course! I am only kicking my heels here till I can collect the money and stores--ay, and the _men_--I want. I give my orders in London, and I must be here to see to the transshipment of stores and the embarkation of my small force! Not meant for the newspapers, you see, Lady Kitty--these little details!" He drew himself up smiling, his worn aspect expressing just that mingling of dare-devil adventure with subtler and more self-conscious things which gave edge and power to his personality. "I heard you were wounded," said Kitty, abruptly. "So I was--badly. We were defending a _polje_--one of their high mountain valleys, against a Beg and his troops. My left arm"--he pointed to the black sling in which it was still held--"was nearly cut to pieces. However, it is practically well." He took it out of the sling and showed that he could use it. Then his expression changed. He stepped back to the door, and opened it ceremoniously. "Don't, however, let me delay you, Lady Kitty--by my chatter." Kitty's cheeks were crimson. Her momentary yielding vanished in a passion of scorn. What!--he knew that she had seen him before, seen him with that woman--and he dared to play the mere shattered hero, kept in Venice by these crusader's reasons! "Have you another volume on the way?" she asked him, as she advanced. "I read your last." Her smile was the smile of an enemy. He eyed her strangely. "Did you? That was waste of time." "I think you intended I should read it." He hesitated. "Lady Kitty, those things are very far away. I can't defend myself--for they seem wiped out." He had crossed his arms, and was leaning back against the open door, a fine, rugged figure, by no means repentant. Kitty laughed. "You overstate the difference!" "Between the past and the present? What does that mean?" She dropped her eyes a moment, then raised them. "Do you often go to San Lazzaro?" He bowed. "I had a suspicion that the vision at the window--though it was there only an instant--was you! So you saw Mademoiselle Ricci?" His tone was assurance itself. Kitty disdained to answer. Her slight gesture bade him let her pass through; but he ignored it. "I find her kind, Lady Kitty. She listens to me--I get sympathy from her." "And you want sympathy?" Her tone stung him. "As a hungry man wants food --as an artist wants beauty. But I know where I shall _not_ get it." "That is always a gain!" said Kitty, throwing back her little head. "Mr. Cliffe, pray let me bid you good-bye." He suddenly made a step forward. "Lady Kitty!"--his deep-set, imperious eyes searched her face--"I can't restrain myself. Your look--your expression--go to my heart. Laugh at me if you like. It's true. What have you been doing with yourself?" He bent towards her, scrutinizing every delicate feature, and, as it seemed, shaken with agitation. She breathed fast. "Mr. Cliffe, you must know that any sympathy from you to me--is an insult! Kindly let me pass." He, too, flushed deeply. "Insult is a hard word, Lady Kitty. I regret that poem." She swept forward in silence, but he still stood in the way. "I wrote it--almost in delirium. Ah, well"--he shook his head impatiently--"if you don't believe me, let it be. I am not the man I was. The perspective of things is altered for me." His voice fell. "Women and children in their blood--heroic trust--and brute hate--the stars for candles--the high peaks for friends--those things have come between me and the past. But you are right; we had better not talk any more. I hear old Federigo coming up the stairs. Good-night, Lady Kitty--good-night!" He opened the door. She passed him, and, to her own intense annoyance, a bunch of pale roses she carried at her belt brushed against the doorway, so that one broke and fell. She turned to pick it up, but it was already in Cliffe's hand. She held out hers, threateningly. "I think not." He put it in his pocket. "Here is Federigo. Good-night." It was quite dark when Kitty reached home. She groped her way up-stairs and opened the door of the _salon_. So weary was she that she dropped into the first chair, not seeing at first that any one was in the room. Then she caught sight of a brown-paper parcel, apparently just unfastened, on the table, and within it three books, of similar shape and size. A movement startled her. "William!" Ashe rose slowly from the deep chair in which he had been sitting. His aspect seemed to her terrified eyes utterly and wholly changed. In his hand he held a book like those on the table, and a paper-cutter. His face expressed the remote abstraction of a man who has been wrestling his way through some hard contest of the mind. She ran to him. She wound her arms round him. "William, William! I didn't mean any harm! I didn't! Oh, I have been so miserable! I tried to stop it--I did all I could. I have hardly slept at all--since we talked--you remember? Oh, William, look at me! Don't be angry with me!" Ashe disengaged himself. "I have asked Blanche to pack for me to-night, Kitty. I go home by the early train to-morrow." "Home!" She stood petrified; then a light flashed into her face. "You'll buy it all up? You'll stop it, William?" Ashe drew himself together. "I am going home," he said, with slow decision, "to place my resignation in the hands of Lord Parham." XXI Kitty fell back in silence, staring at William. She loosened her mantle and threw it off, then she sat down in a chair near the wood fire, and bent over it, shivering. "Of course you didn't mean that, William?" she said, at last. Ashe turned. "I should not have said it unless I had meant every word of it. It is, of course, the only thing to be done." Kitty looked at him miserably. "But you _can't_ mean that--that you'll resign because of that book?" She pulled it towards her and turned over the pages with a hand that trembled. "That would be too foolish!" Ashe made no reply. He was standing before the fire, with his hands in his pockets, and a face half absent, half ironical, as though his mind followed the sequences of a far distant future. "William!" She caught the sleeve of his coat with a little cry. "I wrote that book because I thought it would help you." His attention came back to her. "Yes, Kitty, I believe you did." She gulped down a sob. His tone was so odd, so remote. "Many people have done such things. I know they have. Why--why, it was only meant--as a skit--to make people laugh! There's _no_ harm in it, William." Ashe, without speaking, took up the book and looked back at certain pages, which he seemed to have marked. Kitty's feeling as she watched him was the feeling of the condemned culprit, held dumb and strangled in the grip of his own sense of justice, and yet passionately conscious how much more he could say for himself than anybody is ever likely to say for him. "When did you have the first idea of this book, Kitty?" "About a year ago," she said, in a low voice. "In October? At Haggart?" Kitty nodded. Ashe thought. Her admission took him back to the autumn weeks at Haggart, after the Cliffe crisis and the rearrangement of the ministry in the July of that year. He well remembered that those weeks had been weeks of special happiness for both of them. Afterwards, the winter had brought many renewed qualms and vexations. But in that period, between the storms of the session and Kitty's escapades in the hunting-field, memory recalled a tender, melting time--a time rich in hidden and exquisite hours, when with Kitty on his breast, lip to lip and heart to heart, he had reaped, as it seemed to him, the fruits of that indulgence which, as he knew, his mother scorned. And at that very moment, behind his back, out of his sight, she had begun this atrocious thing. He looked at her again--the bitterness almost at his lips, almost beyond his control. "I wish I knew what could have been your possible object in writing it?" She sat up and confronted him. The color flamed back again into her pale cheeks. "You know I told you--when we had that talk in London--that I wanted to write. I thought it would be good for me--would take my thoughts off--well, what had happened. And I began to write this--and it amused me to find I could do it--and I suppose I got carried away. I loved describing you, and glorifying you--and I loved making caricatures of Lady Parham--and all the people I hated. I used to work at it whenever you were away--or I was dull and there was nothing to do. "Did it never occur to you," said Ashe, interrupting, "that it might get you--get us both--into trouble, and that you ought to tell me?" She wavered. "No!" she said, at last. "I never did mean to tell you, while I was writing it. You know I don't tell lies, William! The real fact is, I was afraid you'd stop it." "Good God!" He threw up his hands with a sound of amazement, then thrust them again into his pockets and began to pace up and down. "But then"--she resumed--"I thought you'd soon get over it, and that it was funny--and everybody would laugh--and you'd laugh--and there would be an end of it." He turned and stared at her. "Frankly, Kitty--I don't understand what you can be made of! You imagined that that sketch of Lord Parham"--he struck the open page--"a sketch written by _my wife_, describing my official chief--when he was my guest--under my own roof--with all sorts of details of the most intimate and offensive kind--mocking his speech--his manners--his little personal ways--charging him with being the corrupt tool of Lady Parham, disloyal to his colleagues, a man not to be trusted--and justifying all this by a sort of evidence that you could only have got as my wife and Lord Parham's hostess--you actually supposed that you could write and publish _that!_--without in the first place its being plain to every Tom, Dick, and Harry that you had written it--and in the next, without making it impossible for your husband to remain a colleague of the man you had treated in such a way? Kitty!--you are not a stupid woman! Do you really mean to say that you could write and publish this book without _knowing_ that you were doing a wrong action--which, so far from serving me, could only damage my career irreparably? Did nothing--did no one warn you--if you were determined to keep such a secret from your husband, whom it most concerned?" He had come to stand beside her, both hands on the back of a chair--stooping forward to emphasize his words--the lines of his fine face and noble brow contracted by anger and pain. "Mr. Darrell warned me," said Kitty, in a low voice, as though those imperious eyes compelled the truth from her--"but of course I didn't believe him." "Darrell!" cried Ashe, in amazement--"Darrell! You confided in him?" "I told him all about it. It was he who took it to a publisher." "Hound!" said Ashe, between his teeth. "So that was his revenge." "Oh, you needn't blame him too much," said Kitty, proudly, not understanding the remark. "He wrote to me not long ago to say it was horribly unwise--and that he washed his hands of it." "Ay--when he'd done the deed! When did you show it him?" said Ashe, impetuously. "At Haggart--in August." "_Et tu, Brute!_" said Ashe, turning away. "Well, that's done with. Now the only thing to do is to face the music. I go home. Whatever can be done to withdraw the book from circulation I shall, of course, do; but I gather from this precious letter"--he held up the note which had been enclosed in the parcel--"that some thousands of copies have already been ordered by the booksellers, and a few distributed to 'persons in high places.'" "William," she said, in despair, catching his arm again--"listen! I offered the man two hundred pounds only yesterday to stop it." Ashe laughed. "What did he reply?" "He said it was impossible. Fifty copies had been already issued." "The review copies, no doubt. By next week there will be, I should say, five thousand in the shops. Your man understands his business, Kitty. This is the kind of puff preliminary he has been scattering about." And with sparkling eyes he handed to her a printed slip containing an outline of the book for the information of the booksellers. It drew attention to the extraordinary interest of the production as a painting of the upper class by the hand of one belonging to its inmost circle. "People of the highest social and political importance will be recognized at once; the writer handles cabinet ministers and their wives with equal freedom, and with a touch betraying the closest and most intimate knowledge. Details hitherto quite unknown to the public of ministerial combinations and intrigues--especially of the feminine influences involved--will be found here in their lightest and most amusing form. A certain famous fancy ball will be identified without difficulty. Scathing as some of the portraits are, the writer is by no means merely cynical. The central figure of the book is a young and rising statesman, whose aim and hopes are touched with a loving hand--the charm of the portrait being only equalled by the venom with which the writer assails those who have thwarted or injured his hero. But our advice is simply--'Buy and Read!' Conjecture will run wild about the writer. All we can say is that the most romantic or interesting surmise that can possibly be formed will fall far short of the reality." "The beast is a shrewd beast!" said Ashe, as he raised himself from the stooping position in which he had been following the sentences over Kitty's shoulder. "He knows that the public will rush for his wares! How much money did he offer you, Kitty?" He turned sharply on his heel to wait for her reply. "A hundred pounds," said Kitty, almost inaudibly--"and a hundred more if five thousand sold." She had returned again to her crouching attitude over the fire. "Generous!--upon my word!" said Ashe, scornfully turning over the two thick-leaved, loosely printed Mudie volumes. "A guinea to the public, I suppose--fifteen shillings to the trade. Darrell didn't exactly advise you to advantage, Kitty." Kitty kept silence. The sarcastic violence of his tone fell on her like a blow. She seemed to shrink together; while Ashe resumed his walk to and fro. Presently, however, she looked up, to ask, in a voice that tried for steadiness: "What do you mean to do--exactly--William?" "I shall, of course, buy up all I can; I shall employ some lawyer fellow, and appeal to the good feelings of the newspapers. There will be no trouble with the respectable ones. But some copies will get out, and some of the Opposition newspapers will make capital out of them. Naturally!--they'd be precious fools if they didn't." A momentary hope sprang up in Kitty. "But if you buy it up--and stop all the papers that matter," she faltered--"why should you resign, William? There won't be--such great harm done." For answer he opened the book, and without speaking pointed to two passages--the first, an account full of point and malice of the negotiations between himself and Lord Parham at the time when he entered the cabinet, the conditions he himself had made, and the confidential comments of the Premier on the men and affairs of the moment. "Do you remember the night when I told you those things, Kitty?" Yes, Kitty remembered well. It was a night of intimate talk between man and wife, a night when she had shown him her sweetest, tenderest mood, and he--incorrigible optimist!--had persuaded himself that she was growing as wise as she was lovely. Her lip trembled. Then he pointed to the second--to the pitiless picture of Lord Parham at Haggart. "You wrote that--when he was under our roof--there by our pressing invitation! You couldn't have written it--unless he had so put himself in your power. A wandering Arab, Kitty, will do no harm to the man who has eaten and drunk in his tent!" She looked up, and as she read his face she understood at last how what she had done had outraged in him all the natural and all the inherited instincts of a generous and fastidious nature. The "great gentleman," so strong in him as in all the best of English statesmen, whether they spring from the classes or the masses, was up in arms. She sprang to her feet with a cry. "William, you can't give up politics! It would make you miserable." "That can't be helped. And I couldn't go on like this, Kitty--even if this affair of the book could be patched up. The strain's too great." They were but a yard apart, and yet she seemed to be looking at him across a gulf. "You have been so happy in your work!" This time the sob escaped her. "Oh, don't let's talk about that," he said, abruptly, as he walked away. "There'll be a certain relief in giving up the impossible. I'll go back to my books. We can travel, I suppose, and put politics out of our heads." "But--you won't resign your seat?" "No," he said, after a pause--"no. As far as I can see at present, I sha'n't resign my seat, though my constituents, of course, will be very sick. But I doubt whether I shall stand again." Every phrase fell as though with a thud on Kitty's ear. It was the wreck of a man's life, and she had done it. "Shall you--shall you go and see Lord Parham?" she asked, after a pause. "I shall write to him first. I imagine"--he pointed to the letter lying on the table--"that creature has already sent him the book. Then later I daresay I shall see him." She looked up. "If I wrote and told him it was all my doing, William?--if I grovelled to him?" "The responsibility is mine," he said, sternly. "I had no business to tell even you the things printed there. I told them at my own risk. If anything I say has any weight with you, Kitty, you will write nothing." She spread out her hands to the fire again, and he heard her say, as though to herself: "The thing is--the awful thing is, that I'm mad--I must be mad. I never thought of all this when I was writing it. I wrote it in a kind of dream. In the first place, I wanted to glorify you--" He broke into an exclamation. "Your _taste_, Kitty!--where was your taste? That a wife should praise a husband in public! You could only make us both laughing-stocks." His handsome features quivered a little. He felt this part of it the most galling, the most humiliating of all; and she understood. In his eyes she had shown herself not only reckless and treacherous, but indelicate, vulgar, capable of besmirching the most sacred and intimate of relations. She rose from her seat. "I must go and take my things off," she said, in "a vague voice," and as she moved she tottered a little. He turned to look at her. Amid his own crushing sense of defeat and catastrophe, his natural and righteous indignation, he remembered that she had been ill--he remembered their child. But whether from the excitement, first of the meeting in the Vercelli palace, and now of this scene--or merely from the heat of the fire over which she had been hanging, her cheeks were flushed, her eyes blazed. Her beauty had never been more evident; but it made little appeal to him; it was the wild, ungovernable beauty from which he had suffered. He saw that she was excited, but there was an air also of returning physical vigor; and the nascent feeling which might have been strengthened by pallor and prostration died away. Kitty moved as though to pass him and go to her room, which opened out of the _salon_. But as she neared him she suddenly caught him by the arm. "William!--William! don't do it!--don't resign! Let me apologize!" He was angered by her persistence, and merely said, coldly: "I have given you my reasons, Kitty, why such a course is impossible." "And--and you start to-morrow morning?" "By the early train. Please let me go, Kitty. There are many things to arrange. I must order the gondola, and see if the people here can cash me a check." "You mean--to leave me alone?" The words had a curious emphasis. "I had a few words with Miss French before you came in. The packet arrived by the evening post, and seeing that it was books--for you--I opened it. After about an hour"--he turned and walked away again--"I saw my bearings. Then I called Miss French, told her I should have to go to-morrow, and asked her how long she could stay with you." "William!" cried Kitty again, leaning heavily on the table beside her--"don't go!--don't leave me!" His face darkened. "So you would prevent me from taking the only honorable, the only decent way out of this thing that remains to me?" She made no immediate reply. She stood--wrapped apparently in painful abstraction--a creature lovely and distraught. The masses of her fair hair loosened by the breeze on the canal had fallen about her cheeks and shoulders; her black hat framed the white brow and large, feverish eyes; and the sable cape she had worn in the gondola had slipped down over the thin, sloping shoulders, revealing the young figure and the slender waist. She might have been a child of seventeen, grieving over the death of her goldfinch. Ashe gathered together his official letters and papers, found his check-book, and began to write. While he wrote he explained that Miss French could keep her company at least another fortnight, that he could leave with them four or five circular notes for immediate expenses, and would send more from home directly he arrived. In the middle of his directions Kitty once more appealed to him in a passionate, muffled voice not to go. This time he lost his temper, and without answering her he hastily left the room to arrange his packing with his valet. * * * * * When he returned to the _salon_ Kitty was not there. He and Miss French--who knew only that something tragic had happened in which Kitty was concerned--kept up a fragmentary conversation till dinner was announced and Kitty entered. She had evidently been weeping, but with powder and rouge she had tried to conceal the traces of her tears; and at dinner she sat silent, hardly answering when Margaret French spoke to her. After dinner Ashe went out with his cigar towards the Piazza. He was in a smarting, dazed state, beginning, however, to realize the blow more than he had done at first. He believed that Parham himself would not be at all sorry to be rid of him. He and his friends formed a powerful group both in the cabinet and out of it. But they were forcing the pace, and the elements of resistance and reaction were strong. He pictured the dismay of his friends, the possible breakdown of the reforming party. Of course they might so stand by him--and the suppression of the book might be so complete-- At this moment he caught sight of a newspaper contents bill displayed at the door of the only shop in the Piazza which sold English newspapers. One of the lines ran, "Anonymous attack on the Premier." He started, went in and bought the paper. There, in the "London Topics" column, was the following paragraph: "A string of extracts from a forthcoming book, accompanied by a somewhat startling publisher's statement, has lately been sent round to the press. We are asked not to print them before the day of publication, but they have already roused much attention, if not excitement. They certainly contain a very gross attack on the Prime Minister, based apparently on first-hand information, and involving indiscretions personal and political of an unusually serious character. The wife of a cabinet minister is freely named as the writer, and even if no violation of cabinet secrecy is concerned, it is clear that the book outrages the confidential relations which ought to subsist between a Premier and his colleagues, if government on our English system is to be satisfactorily carried on. The statements it makes with every appearance of authority both as to the relations between Lord Parham and some of the most important members of his cabinet, and as to the Premier's intentions with regard to one or two of the most vital questions now before the country, are calculated seriously to embarrass the government. We fear the book will have a veritable _succès de scandale_." "That fellow at least has done his best to kick the ball, damn him!" thought Ashe, with contempt, as he thrust the paper into his pocket. It was no more than he expected; but it put an end to all thoughts of a more hopeful kind. He walked up and down the _Piazza_ smoking, till midnight, counting the hours till he could reach London, and revolving the phrases of a telegram to be sent to his solicitor before starting. Kitty made no sign or sound when he entered her room. Her fair head was turned away from him, and all was dark. He could hardly believe that she was asleep; but it was a relief to him to accept her pretence of it, and to escape all further conversation. He himself slept but little. The mere profundity of the Venetian silence teased him; it reminded him how far he was from home. Two images pursued him--of Kitty writing the book, while he was away electioneering or toiling at his new office--and then, of his returns to Haggart--tired or triumphant--on many a winter evening, of her glad rush into his arms, her sparkling face on his breast. Or again, he conjured up the scene when the MS. had been shown to Darrell--his pretence of disapproval, his sham warnings, and the smile on his sallow face as he walked off with it. Ashe looked back to the early days of his friendship with Darrell, when he, Ashe, was one of the leaders at Eton, popular with the masters in spite of his incorrigible idleness, and popular with the boys because of his bodily prowess, and Darrell had been a small, sickly, bullied colleger. Scene after scene recurred to him, from their later relations at Oxford also. There was a kind of deliberation in the way in which he forced his thoughts into this channel; it made an outlet for a fierce bitterness of spirit, which some imperious instinct forbade him to spend on Kitty. He dozed in the later hours of the night, and was roused by something touching his hand, which lay outside the bedclothes. Again the little head!--and the soft curls. Kitty was there--crouched beside him--weeping. There flashed into his mind an image of the night in London when she had come to him thus; and unwelcome as the whole remembrance was, he was conscious of a sudden swelling wave of pity and passion. What if he sprang up, caught her in his arms, forgave her, and bade the world go hang! No! The impulse passed, and in his turn he feigned sleep. The thought of her long deceit, of the selfish wilfulness wherewith she had requited deep love and easy trust, was too much; it seared his heart. And there was another and a subtler influence. To have forgiven so easily would have seemed treachery to those high ambitions and ideals from which--as he thought, only too certainly--she had now cut him off. It was part of his surviving youth that the catastrophe seemed to him so absolute. Any thought of the fresh efforts which would be necessary for the reconquering of his position was no less sickening to him than that of the immediate discomforts and humiliations to be undergone. He would go back to books and amusement; and in the idling of the future there would be plenty of time for love-making. * * * * * In the morning, when all preparations were made, the gondoliers waiting below, Ashe's telegram sent, and the circular notes handed over to Margaret French, who had discreetly left the room, William approached his wife. "Good-bye!" said Kitty, and gave him her hand, with a strange look and smile. Ashe, however, drew her to him and kissed her--against her will. "I'll do my best, Kitty," he said, in a would-be cheery voice--"to pull us through. Perhaps--I don't know!--things may turn out better than I think. Good-bye. Take care of yourself. I'll write, of course. Don't hurry home. You'll want a fortnight or three weeks yet." Kitty said not a word, and in another minute he was gone. The Italian servants congregated below at the water-gate sent laughing "A rivederlas" after the handsome, good-tempered Englishman, whom they liked and regretted; the gondola moved off; Kitty heard the plash of the water. But she held back from the window. Half-way to the bend of the canal beyond the Accademia, Ashe turned and gave a long look at the balcony. No one was there. But just as the gondola was passing out of sight, Kitty slipped onto the balcony. She could see only the figure of Piero, the gondolier, and in another second the boat was gone. She stayed there for many minutes, clinging to the balustrade and staring, as it seemed, at the sparkle of autumnal sun which danced on the green water and on the red palace to her right. * * * * * All the morning Kitty on her sofa pretended to write letters. Margaret French, working or reading behind her, knew that she scarcely got through a single note, that her pen lay idle on the paper, while her eyes absently watched the palace windows on the other side of the canal. Miss French was quite certain that some tragic cause of difference between the husband and wife had arisen. Kitty, the indiscreet, had for once kept her own counsel about the book, and Ashe had with his own hands packed away the volumes which had arrived the night before; so that she could only guess, and from that delicacy of feeling restrained her as much as possible. Once or twice Kitty seemed on the point of unburdening herself. Then overmastering tears would threaten; she would break off and begin to write. At luncheon her look alarmed Miss French, so white was the little face, so large and restless the eyes. Ought Mr. Ashe to have left her, and left her apparently in anger? No doubt he thought her much better. But Margaret remembered the worst days of her illness, the anxious looks of the doctors, and the anguish that Kitty had suffered in the first weeks after her child's death. She seemed now, indeed, to have forgotten little Harry, so far as outward expression went; but who could tell what was passing in her strange, unstable mind? And it often seemed to Margaret that the signs of the past summer were stamped on her indelibly, for those who had eyes to see. Was it the perception of this pity beside her that drove Kitty to solitude and flight? At any rate, she said after luncheon that she would go to Madame d'Estrées, and did not ask Miss French to accompany her. She set out accordingly with the two gondoliers. But she had hardly passed the Accademia before she bid her men take a cross-cut to the Giudecca. On these wide waters, with their fresher air and fuller sunshine, a certain physical comfort seemed to breathe upon her. "Piero, it is not rough! Can we go to the Lido?" she asked the gondolier behind her. Piero, who was all smiles and complaisance, as well he might be with a lady who scattered _lire_ as freely as Kitty did, turned the boat at once for that channel "Del Orfano" where the bones of the vanquished dead lie deep amid the ooze. They passed San Giorgio, and were soon among the piles and sand-banks of the lagoon. Kitty sat in a dream which blotted the sunshine from the water. It seemed to her that she was a dead creature, floating in a dead world. William had ceased to love her. She had wrecked his career and destroyed her own happiness. Her child had been taken from her. Lady Tranmore's affection had been long since alienated. Her own mother was nothing to her; and her friends in society, like Madeleine Alcot, would only laugh and gloat over the scandal of the book. No--everything was finished! As her fingers hanging over the side of the gondola felt the touch of the water, her morbid fancy, incredibly quick and keen, fancied herself drowned, or poisoned--lying somehow white and cold on a bed where William might see and forgive her. Then with a start of memory which brought the blood rushing to her face, she thought of Cliffe standing beside the door of the great hall in the Vercelli palace--she seemed to be looking again into those deep, expressive eyes, held by the irony and the passion with which they were infused. Had the passion any reference to her?--or was it merely part of the man's nature, as inseparable from it as flame from the volcano? If William had cast her off, was there still one man--wild and bad, indeed, like herself, but poet and hero nevertheless--who loved her? She did not much believe it; but still the possibility of it lured her, like some dark gulf that promised her oblivion from this pain--pain which tortured one so impatient of distress, so hungry for pleasure and praise. * * * * * In those days the Lido was still a noble and solitary shore, without the degradations of to-day. Kitty walked fast and furiously across the sandy road, and over the shingles, turning, when she reached the firm sand, southward towards Malamocco. It was between four and five, and the autumn afternoon was fast declining. A fresh breeze was on the sea, and the short waves, intensely blue under a wide, clear heaven, broke in dazzling foam on the red-brown sand. She seemed to be alone between sea and sky, save for two figures approaching from the south--a fisher-boy with a shrimping-net and a man walking bareheaded. She noticed them idly. A mirage of sun was between her and them, and the agony of remorse and despair which held her blunted all perceptions. Thus it was that not till she was close upon him did her dazzled sight recognize Geoffrey Cliffe. He saw her first, and stopped in motionless astonishment on the edge of the sand. She almost ran against him, when his voice arrested her. "Lady Kitty!" She put her hand to her breast, wavered, and came to a stand-still. He saw a little figure in black between him and those "gorgeous towers and cloud-capped palaces" of Alpine snow, which dimly closed in the north; and beneath the drooping hat a face even more changed and tragic than that which had haunted him since their meeting of the day before. [Illustration: "SHE THOUGHT OF CLIFFE STANDING BESIDE THE DOOR OF THE GREAT HALL."] "How do you do?" she said, mechanically, and would have passed him. But he stood in her path. As he stared at her an impulse of rage ran through him, resenting the wreck of anything so beautiful--rage against Ashe, who must surely be somehow responsible. "Aren't you wandering too far, Lady Kitty?" His voice shook under the restraint he put upon it. "You seem tired--very tired--and you are perhaps farther from your gondola than you think." "I am not tired." He hesitated. "Might I walk with you a little, or do you forbid me?" She said nothing, but walked on. He turned and accompanied her. One or two questions that he put to her--Had she companions?--Where had she left her gondola?--remained unanswered. He studied her face, and at last he laid a strong hand upon her arm. "Sit down. You are not fit for any more walking." He drew her towards some logs of driftwood on the upper sand, and she sank down upon them. He found a place beside her. "What is the matter with you?" he said, abruptly, with a harsh authority. "You are in trouble." A tremor shook her--as of the prisoner who feels on his limbs the first touch of the fetter. "No, no!" she said, trying to rise; "it is nothing. I--I didn't know it was so far. I must go home." His hand held her. "Kitty!" "Yes." Her voice was scarcely audible. "Tell me what hurts you! Tell me why you are here, alone, with a face like that! Don't be afraid of me! Could I lift a finger to harm a mother that has lost her child? Give me your hands." He gathered both hers into the warm shelter of his own. "Look at me--trust me! My heart has grown, Kitty, since you knew me last. It has taken into itself so many griefs--so many deaths. Tell me your griefs, poor child!--tell me!" He stooped and kissed her hands--most tenderly, most gravely. Tears rushed into her eyes. The wild emotions that were her being were roused beyond control. Bending towards him she began to pour out, first brokenly, then in a torrent, the wretched, incoherent story, of which the mere telling, in such an ear, meant new treachery to William and new ruin for herself. XXII On a certain cloudy afternoon, some ten days later, a fishing-boat, with a patched orange sail, might have been seen scudding under a light northwesterly breeze through the channels which connect the island of San Francesco with the more easterly stretches of the Venetian lagoon. The boat presently neared the shore of one of the cultivated _lidi_--islands formed out of the silt of many rivers by the travail of centuries, some of them still mere sand or mud banks, others covered by vineyards and fruit orchards--which, with the _murazzi_ or sea-walls of Venice, stand sentinel between the city and the sea. On the _lido_ along which the boat was coasting, the vintage was long since over and the fruit gathered; the last yellow and purple leaves in the orchards, "a pestilent-stricken multitude," were to-day falling fast to earth, under the sighing, importunate wind. The air was warm; November was at its mildest. But all color and light were drowned in floating mists, and darkness lay over the distant city. It was one of those drear and ghostly days which may well have breathed into the soul of Shelley that superb vision of the dead generations of Venice, rising, a phantom host from the bosom of the sunset, and sweeping in "a rapid mask of death" over the shadowed waters that saw the birth and may yet furnish the tomb of so vast a fame. Two persons were in the boat--Kitty, wrapped in sables, her straying hair held close by a cap of the same fur--and Geoffrey Cliffe. They had been wandering in the lagoons all day, in order to escape from Venice and observers--first at Torcello, then at San Francesco, and now they were ostensibly coming home in a wide sweep along the northern _lidi_ and _murazzi_, that Cliffe might show his companion, from near by, the Porto del Lido, that exit from the lagoons where the salt lakes grow into the sea. A certain wildness and exaltation, drawn from the solitudes around them and from their _tête-à-tête_, could be read in both the man and the woman. Cliffe watched his companion incessantly. As he lay against the side of the boat at her feet, he saw her framed in the curving sides of the stern, and could read her changing expressions. Not a happy face!--that he knew! A face haunted by shadows from an underworld of thought--pursuing furies of remorse and fear. Not the less did he triumph that he had it _there_, in his power; nor had the flashes of terror and wavering will which he discerned in any way diminished its beauty. "How long have you known--that woman?" Kitty asked him, suddenly, after a pause broken only by the playing of the wind with the sail. Cliffe laughed. "The Ricci? Why do you want to know, madame?" She made a contemptuous lip. "I knew her first," said Cliffe, "some years ago in Milan. She was then at La Scala--walking on--paid for her good looks. Then somebody sent her to Paris to the Conservatoire, which she only left this spring. This is her first Italian engagement. Her people are shopkeepers here--in the Merceria--which helped her. She is as vain as a peacock and as dangerous as a pet panther." "Dangerous!" Kitty's scorn had passed into her voice. "Well, Italy is still the country of the knife," said Cliffe, lightly--"and I could still hire a bravo or two--in Venice--if I wanted them." "Does the Ricci hire them?" Cliffe shrugged his shoulders. "She'd do it without winking, if it suited her." Then, after a pause--"Do you still wonder why I should have chosen her society?" "Oh no," said Kitty, hastily. "You told me." "As much as a _friend_ cares to know?" She nodded, flushing, and dropped the subject. Cliffe's mouth still smiled, but his eyes studied her with a veiled and sinister intensity. "I have not seen the lady for a week," he resumed. "She pesters me with notes. I promised to go and see her in a new play to-morrow night, but--" "Oh, go!" said Kitty--"by all means go!" "'Ruy Blas' in Italian? I think not. Ah! did you see that gleam on the Campanile?--marvellous!... Miladi, I have a question to ask you." "_Dites!_" said Kitty. "Did you put me into your book?" "Certainly." "What kind of things did you say?" "The worst I could!" "Ah! How shall I get a copy?" said Cliffe, musing. She made no answer, but she was conscious of a sudden movement--was it of terror? At the bottom of her soul was she, indeed, afraid of the man beside her? "By-the-way," he resumed, "you promised to tell me your news of this morning. But you haven't told me a word!" She turned away. She had gathered her furs around her, and her face was almost hidden by them. "Nothing is settled," she said, in a cold, reluctant voice. "Which means that you won't tell me anything more?" She was silent. Her lip had a proud line which piqued him. "You think I am not worthy to know?" Her eye gleamed. "What does it matter to you?" "Oh, nothing! I should have been glad to hear that all was well, and Ashe's mind at rest about his prospects." "His prospects!" she repeated, with a scorn which stung. "How _dare_ we mention his name here at all?" Cliffe reddened. "I dare," he said, calmly. Kitty looked at him--a quivering defiance in face and frame; then bent forward. "Would you like to know--who is the best--the noblest--the handsomest--the most generous--the most delightful man I have ever met?" Each word came out winged and charged with a strange intensity of passion. "Do I?" said Cliffe, raising his eyebrows--"do I want to know?" Her look held him. "My husband, William Ashe!" And she fell back, flushed and breathless, like one who throws out a rebel and challenging flag. Cliffe was silent a moment, observing her. "Strange!" he said, at last. "It is only when you are miserable you are kind. I could wish you miserable again, _chérie_." Tone and look broke into a sombre wildness before which she shrank. Her own violence passed away. She leaned over the side of the boat, struggling with tears. "Then you have your wish," was her muffled answer. The three bronzed Venetians, a father and two sons, who were working the _bragozzo_ glanced curiously at the pair. They were persuaded that these charterers of their boat were lovers flying from observation, and the unknown tongue did but stimulate guessing. Cliffe raised himself impatiently. They were nearing a point where the line of _murazzi_ they had been following--low breakwaters of great strength--swept away from them outward and eastward towards a distant opening. On the other side of the channel was a low line of shore, broadening into the Lido proper, with its scattered houses and churches, and soon lost in the mist as it stretched towards the south. "Ecco!--il Porto del Lido!" said the older boatman, pointing far away to a line of deeper color beneath a dark and lowering sky. Kitty bent over the side of the boat staring towards the dim spot he showed her--where was the mouth of the sea. "Kitty!" said Cliffe's voice beside her, hoarse and hurried--"one word, and I tell these fellows to set their helm for Trieste. This boat will carry us well--and the wind is with us." She turned and looked him in the face. "And then?" "Then? We'll think it out together, Kitty--together!" He bent his lips to her hand, bending so as to conceal the action from the sailors. But she drew her hand away. "You and I," she said, fiercely--"would tire of each other in a week!" "Have the courage to try! No!--you should not tire of me in a week! I would find ways to keep you mine, Kitty--cradled, and comforted, and happy." "Happy!" Her slight laugh was the forlornest thing. "Take me out to sea--and drop me there--with a stone round my neck. That might be worth doing--perhaps." He surveyed her unmoved. "Listen, Kitty! This kind of thing can't go on forever." "What are you waiting for?" she said, tauntingly. "You ought to have gone last week." "I am not going," he said, raising himself by a sudden movement--"till you come with me!" Kitty started, her eyes riveted to his. "And yet go I will! Not even you shall stop me, Kitty. I'll take the help I've gathered back to those poor devils--if I die for it. But you'll come with me--you'll come!" She drew back--trembling under an impression she strove to conceal. "If you will talk such madness, I can't help it," she said, with shortened breath. "Yes--you'll come!" he said, nodding. "What have you to do with Ashe, Kitty, any longer? You and he are already divided. You have tried life together and what have you made of it? You're not fit for this mincing, tripping London life--nor am I? And as for morals--- I'll tell you a strange thing, Kitty." He bent forward and grasped her hands with a force which hurt--from which she could not release herself. "I believe--yes, by God, I believe!--that I am a better man than I was before I started on this adventure. It's been like drinking at last at the very source of life--living, not talking about it. One bitter night last February, for instance, I helped a man--one of the insurgents--who had taken to the mountains with his wife and children--to carry his wife, a dying woman, over a mountain-pass to the only place where she could possibly get help and shelter. We carried her on a litter, six men taking turns. The cold and the fatigue were such that I shudder now when I think of it. Yet at the end I seemed to myself a man reborn. I was happier than I had ever been in my life. Some mystic virtue had flowed into me. Among those men and women, instead of being the selfish beast I've been all these years, I can forget myself. Death seems nothing--brotherhood--liberty!--everything! And yet--" His face relaxed, became ironical, reflective. But he held the hands close, his grasp of them hidden by the folds of fur which hung about her. "And _yet_--I can say to you without a qualm--put this marriage which has already come to naught behind you--and come with me! Ashe cramps you. He blames you--you blame yourself. What _reality_ has all that? It makes you miserable--it wastes life. _I_ accept your nature--I don't ask you to be anything else than yourself--your wild, vain, adorable self! Ashe asks you to put restraint on yourself--to make painful efforts--to be good for his sake--the sake of something outside. _I_ say--come and look at the elemental things--death and battle--hatred, solitude, love. _They'll_ sweep us out of ourselves!--no need to strive and cry for it--into the great current of the world's being--bring us close to the forces at the root of things--the forces which create--and destroy. Dip your heart in that stream, Kitty, and feel it grow in your breast. Take a nurse's dress--put your hand in mine--and come! I can't promise you luxuries or ease. You've had enough of those. Come and open another door in the House of Life! Take starving women and hunted children into your arms--- feel with them--weep with them--look with them into the face of death! Make friends with nature--with rocks, forests, torrents--with night and dawn, which you've never seen, Kitty! They'll love you--they'll support you--the rough people--and the dark forests. They'll draw nature's glamour round you--they'll pour her balm into your soul. And I shall be with you--beside you!--your guardian--your lover--your _lover_, Kitty--till death do us part." He looked at her with the smile which was his only but sufficient beauty; the violent, exciting words flowed in her ear, amid the sound of rising waves and the distant talk of the fishermen. His hand crushed hers; his mad, imploring eyes repelled and constrained her. The wild hungers and curiosities of her being rushed to meet him; she heard the echo of her own words to Ashe: "More life--more _life_!--even though it lead to pain--and agony--and tears!" Then she wrenched herself away--suddenly, contemptuously. "Of course, that's all nonsense--romantic nonsense. You've perhaps forgotten that I am one of the women who don't stir without their maid." Cliffe's expression changed. He thrust his hands into his pockets. "Oh, well, if you must have a maid," he said, dryly, "that settles it. A maid would be the deuce. And yet--I think I could find you a Bosnian girl--strong and faithful--" Their eyes met--his already full of a kind of ownership, tender, confident, humorous even--hers alive with passionate anger and resistance. "_Without a qualm_!" she repeated, in a low voice--"without a qualm! Mon Dieu!" She turned and looked towards the Adriatic. "Where are we?" she said, imperiously. For a gesture of command on Cliffe's part, unseen by her, had sent the boat eastward, spinning before the wind. The lagoon was no longer tranquil. It was covered with small waves; and the roar of the outer sea, though still far off, was already in their ears. The mist lifting showed white, distant crests of foam on a tumbling field of water, and to the north, clothed in tempestuous purple, the dim shapes of mountains. Kitty raised herself, and beckoned towards the captain of the _bragozzo_. "Giuseppe!" "Commanda, Eccellenza!" The man came forward. With a voice sharp and clear, she gave the order to return at once to Venice. Cliffe watched her, the veins on his forehead swelling. She knew that he debated with himself whether he should give a counter-order or no. "A Venezia!" said Kitty, waving her hand towards the sailors, her eyes shining under the tangle of her hair. The helm was put round, and beneath a tacking sail the boat swept southward. With an awkward laugh Cliffe fell back into his seat, stretching his long limbs across the boat. He had spoken under a strong and genuine impulse. His passion for her had made enormous strides in these few wild days beside her. And yet the fantastic poet's sense responded at a touch to the new impression. He shook off the heroic mood as he had doffed his Bosnian cloak. In a few minutes, though the heightened color remained, he was chatting and laughing as though nothing had happened. * * * * * She, exhausted physically and morally by her conflict with him, hardly spoke on the way home. He entertained her, watching her all the time--a hundred speculations about her passing through his brain. He understood perfectly how the insight which she had allowed him into her grief and her remorse had broken down the barriers between them. Her incapacity for silence, and reticence, had undone her. Was he a villain to have taken advantage of it? Why? With a strange, half-cynical clearness he saw her, as the obstacle that she was, in Ashe's life and career. For Ashe--supposing he, Cliffe, persuaded her--there would be no doubt a first shock of wrath and pain--then a sense of deliverance. For her, too, deliverance! It excited his artist's sense to think of all the further developments through which he might carry that eager, plastic nature. There would be a new Kitty, with new capacities and powers. Wasn't that justification enough? He felt himself a sculptor in the very substance of life, moulding a living creature afresh, disengaging it from harsh and hindering conditions. What was there vile in that? The argument pursued itself. "The modern judges for himself--makes his own laws, as a god, knowing good and evil. No doubt in time a new social law will emerge--with new sanctions. Meanwhile, here we are, in a moment of transition, manufacturing new types, exploring new combinations--by which let those who come after profit!" Little delicate, distinguished thing!--every aspect of her, angry or sweet, sad or wilful, delighted his taste and sense. Moreover, she was _his_ deliverance, too--from an ugly and vulgar entanglement of which he was ashamed. He shrank impatiently from memories which every now and then pursued him of the Ricci's coarse beauty and exacting ways. Kitty had just appeared in time! He felt himself rehabilitated in his own eyes. Love may trifle as it pleases with what people call "law"; but there are certain æsthetic limits not to be transgressed. The Ricci, of course, was wild and thirsting for revenge. Let her! Anxieties far more pressing disturbed him. What if he tempted Kitty to this escapade--and the rough life killed her? He saw clearly how frail she was. But it was the artificiality of her life, the innumerable burdens of civilization, which had brought her to this! Women were not the weaklings they seemed, or believed themselves to be. For many of them, probably for Kitty, a rude and simple life would mean not only fresh mental but fresh physical strength. He had seen what women could endure, for love's or patriotism's sake! Make but appeal to the spirit--the proud and tameless spirit--and how the flesh answered! He knew that his power with Kitty came largely from a certain stoicism, a certain hardness, mingled, as he would prove to her, with a boundless devotion. Let him carry it through--without fears--and so enlarge her being and his own! And as to responsibilities beyond, as to their later lives--let time take care of its own births. For the modern determinist of Cliffe's type there _is_ no responsibility. He waits on life, following where it leads, rejoicing in each new feeling, each fresh reaction of consciousness on experience, and so links his fatalist belief to that Nietzsche doctrine of self-development at all costs, and the coming man, in which Cliffe's thought anticipated the years. * * * * * Kitty meanwhile listened to his intermittent talk of Venice, or Bosnia, with all its suggestions of new worlds and far horizons, and scarcely said a word. But through the background of the brain there floated with her, as with him, a procession of unspoken thoughts. She had received three letters from William. Immediately on his arrival he had tendered his resignation. Lord Parham had asked him to suspend the matter for ten days. Only the pressure of his friends, it seemed, and the consternation of his party had wrung from Ashe a reluctant consent. Meanwhile, all copies of the book had been bought up; the important newspapers had readily lent themselves to the suppression of the affair; private wraths had been dealt with by conciliatory lawyers; and in general a far more complete hushing-up had been attained than Ashe had ever imagined possible. There was no doubt infinite gossip in the country-houses. But sympathy for Kitty in her grief, for Ashe himself, and Lady Tranmore, had done much to keep it within bounds. The little Dean especially, beloved of all the world, had been incessantly active on behalf of peace and oblivion. All this Kitty read or guessed from William's letters. After all, then, the harm had not been so great! Why such a panic!--such a hurry to leave her!--when she was ill--and sorry? And now how curtly, how measuredly he wrote! Behind the hopefulness of his tone she read the humiliation and soreness of his mind--and said to herself, with a more headlong conviction than ever, that he would never forgive her. No, _never!_--and especially now that she had added a thousandfold to the original offence. She had never written to him since his departure. Margaret French, too, was angry with her--had almost broken with her. * * * * * They left their boat on the Riva, and walked to the _Piazza_, through the now starry dusk. As they passed the great door of St. Mark's, two persons came out of the church. Kitty recognized Mary Lyster and Sir Richard. She bowed slightly; Sir Richard put his hand to his hat in a flurried way; but Mary, looking them both in the face, passed without the smallest sign, unless the scorn in face and bearing might pass for recognition. Kitty gasped. "She cut me!" she said, in a shaking voice. "Oh no!" said Cliffe. "She didn't see you in the dark." Kitty made no reply. She hurried along the northern side of the Piazza, avoiding the groups which were gathered in the sunset light round the flocks of feeding pigeons, brushing past the tables in front of the cafe's, still well filled on this mild evening. "Take care!" said Cliffe, suddenly, in a low, imperative voice. Kitty looked up. In her abstraction she saw that she had nearly come into collision with a woman sitting at a café table and surrounded by a noisy group of men. With a painful start Kitty perceived the mocking eyes of Mademoiselle Ricci. The Ricci said something in Italian, staring the while at the English lady; and the men near her laughed, some furtively, some loudly. Cliffe's face set. "Walk quickly!" he said in her ear, hurrying her past. When they had reached one of the narrow streets behind the Piazza, Kitty looked at him--white and haughtily tremulous. "What did that mean?" "Why should you deign to ask?" was Cliffe's impatient reply. "I have ceased to go and see her. I suppose she guesses why." "I will have no rivalry with Mademoiselle Ricci!" cried Kitty. "You can't help it," said Cliffe, calmly. "The powers of light are always in rivalry with the powers of darkness." And without further pleading or excuse he stalked on, his gaunt form and striking head towering above the crowded pavement. Kitty followed him with difficulty, conscious of a magnetism and a force against which she struggled in vain. * * * * * About a week afterwards Kitty shut herself up one evening in her room to write to Ashe. She had just passed through an agitating conversation with Margaret French, who had announced her intention of returning to England at once, alone, if Kitty would not accompany her. Kitty's hands were trembling as she began to write. * * * * * "I am glad--oh! so glad, William--that you _have_ withdrawn your resignation--that people have come forward so splendidly, and _made_ you withdraw it--that Lord Parham is behaving decently--and that you have been able to get hold of all those copies of the book. I always hoped it would not be quite so bad as you thought. But I know you must have gone through an awful time--and I'm _sorry_. "William, I want to tell you something--for I can't go on lying to you--or even just hiding the truth. I met Geoffrey Cliffe here--before you left--and I never told you. I saw him first in a gondola the night of the serenata--and then at the Armenian convent. Do you remember my hurrying you and Margaret into the garden? That was to escape meeting him. And that same afternoon when I was in the unused rooms of the Palazzo Vercelli--the rooms they show to tourists--he suddenly appeared--and somehow I spoke to him, though I had never meant to do so again. "Then when you left me I met him again--that afternoon--and he found out I was very miserable and made me tell him everything. I know I had no right to do so--they were your secrets as well as mine. But you know how little I can control myself--it's wretched, but it's true. "William, I don't know what will happen. I can't make out from Margaret whether she has written to you or not--she won't tell me. If she has, this letter will not be much news to you. But, mind, I write it of my own free will, and not because Margaret may have forced my hand. I should have written it anyway. Poor old darling!--she thinks me mad and bad, and to-night she tells me she can't take the responsibility of looking after me any longer. Women like her can never understand creatures like me--and I don't want her to. She's a dear saint, and as true as steel--not like your Mary Lysters! I could go on my knees to her. But she can't control or save me. Not even you could, William. You've tried your best, and in spite of you I'm going to perdition, and I can't stop myself. "For, William, there's something broken forever between you and me. I know it was I who did the wrong, and that you had no choice but to leave me when you did. But yet you _did_ leave me, though I implored you not. And I know very well that you don't love me as you used to--why should you?--and that you never can love me in the same way again. Every letter you write tells me that. And though I have deserved it all, I can't bear it. When I think of coming home to England, and how you would try to be nice to me--how good and dear and magnanimous you would be, and what a beast I should feel--I want to drown myself and have done. "It all seems to me so hopeless. It is my own nature--- the stuff out of which I am cut--that's all wrong. I may promise my breath away that I will be discreet and gentle and well behaved, that I'll behave properly to people like Lady Parham, that I'll keep secrets, and not make absurd friendships with absurd people, that I'll try and keep out of debt, and so on. But what's the use? It's the _will_ in me--the something that drives, or ought to drive--that won't work. And nobody ever taught me or showed me, that I can remember, till I met you. In Paris at the Place Vendôme, half the time I used to live with maman and papa, be hideously spoiled, dressed absurdly, eat off silver plate, and make myself sick with rich things--and then for days together maman would go out or away, forget all about me, and I used to storm the kitchen for food. She either neglected me or made a show of me; she was my worst enemy, and I hated and fought her--till I went to the convent at ten. When I was fourteen maman asked a doctor about me. He said I should probably go mad--and at the convent they thought the same. Maman used to throw this at me when she was cross with me. "Well, I don't repeat this to make you excuse me and think better of me--- it's all too late for that--but because I am such a puzzle to myself, and I try to explain things. I _did_ love you, William--I believe I do still--but when I think of our living together again, my arms drop by my side and I feel like a dead creature. Your life is too great a thing for me. Why should I spoil or hamper it? If you loved me, as you did once--if you still thought _everything_ worth while, then, if I had a spark of decency left, I might kill myself to free you, but I should never do--what I may do now. But, William, you'll forget me soon. You'll pass great laws, and make great speeches, and the years when I tormented you--and all my wretched ways--will seem such a small, small thing. "Geoffrey says he loves me. And I think he does, though how long it will last, or may be worth, no one can tell. As for me, I don't know whether I love him. I have no illusion about him. But there are moments when he absolutely holds me--when my will is like wax in his hands. It is because, I think, of a certain grandness--_grandeur_ seems too strong--in his character. It was always there; because no one could write such poems as his without it. But now it's more marked, though I don't know that it makes him a better man. He thinks it does; but we all deceive ourselves. At any rate, he is often superb, and I feel that I could die, if not for him, at least with him. And he is not unlikely to die in some heroic way. He went out as you know simply as correspondent and to distribute relief, but lately he has been fighting for these people--of course he has!--and when he goes back he is to be one of their regular leaders. When he talks of it he is noble, transformed. It reminds me of Byron--his wicked life here--and then his death at Missolonghi. Geoffrey can do such base, cruel things--and yet-- "But I haven't yet told you. He asks me to go with him, back to the fighting-lines in upper Bosnia. There seems to be a great deal that women can do. I shall wear a nurse's uniform, and probably nurse at a little hospital he founded--high up in one of the mountain valleys. I know this will almost make you laugh. You will think of me, not knowing how to put on a button without Blanche--and wanting to be waited on every moment. But you'll see; there'll be nothing of that sort. I wonder whether it's hardship I've been thirsting for all my life--even when I seemed such a selfish, luxurious little ape? "At the same time, I think it will kill me--and that would be the best end of all. To have some great, heroic experience, and then--'cease upon the midnight with no pain!...' "Oh, if I thought you'd care very, _very_ much, I should have pain--horrible pain. But I know you won't. Politics have taken my place. Think of me sometimes, as I was when we were first married--and of Harry--my little, little fellow! "--Maman and I have had a ghastly scene. She came to scold me for my behavior--to say I was the talk of Venice. _She!_ Of course I know what she means. She thinks if I am divorced she will lose her allowance--and she can't bear the thought of that, though Markham Warington is quite rich. My heart just _boiled_ within me. I told her it is the poison of her life that works in me, and that whatever I do, _she_ has no right to reproach me. Then she cried--and I was like ice--and at last she went. Warington, good fellow, has written to me, and asked to see me. But what is the use? "I know you'll leave me the £500 a year that was settled on me. It'll be so good for me to be poor--and dressed in serge--and trying to do something else with these useless hands than writing books that break your heart. I am giving away all my smart clothes. Blanche is going home. Oh, William, William! I'm going to shut this, and it's like the good-bye of death--a mean and ugly--_death_. "... Later. They have just brought me a note from Danieli's. So Margaret did write to you, and your mother has come. Why did you send her, William? She doesn't love me--and I shall only stab and hurt her. Though I'll try not--for your sake." Two days later Ashe received almost by the same post which brought him the letter from Kitty, just quoted, the following letter from his mother: "My DEAREST WILLIAM,--I have seen Kitty. With some difficulty she consented to let me go and see her yesterday evening about nine o'clock. "I arrived between six and seven, having travelled straight through without a break, except for an hour or two at Milan, and immediately on arriving I sent a note to Margaret French. She came in great distress, having just had a fresh scene with Kitty. Oh, my dear William, her report could not well be worse. Since she wrote to us Kitty seems to have thrown over all precautions. They used to meet in churches or galleries, and go out for long days in the gondola or a fishing-boat together, and Kitty would come home alone and lie on the sofa through the evening, almost without speaking or moving. But lately he comes in with her, and stays hours, reading to her, or holding her hand, or talking to her in a low voice, and Margaret cannot stop it. "Yet she has done her best, poor girl! Knowing what we all knew last year, it filled her with terror when she first discovered that he was in Venice and that they had met. But it was not till it had gone on about a week, with the strangest results on Kitty's spirits and nerves, that she felt she must interfere. She not only spoke to Kitty, but she spoke and wrote to him in a very firm, dignified way. Kitty took no notice--only became very silent and secretive. And he treated poor Margaret with a kind of courteous irony which made her blood boil, and against which she could do nothing. She says that Kitty seems to her sometimes like a person moving in sleep--only half conscious of what she is doing; and at others she is wildly excitable, irritable with everybody, and only calming down and becoming reasonable when this man appears. "There is much talk in Venice. They seem to have been seen together by various London friends who knew--about the difficulties last year. And then, of course, everybody is aware that you are not here--and the whole story of the book goes from mouth to mouth--and people say that a separation has been arranged--and so on. These are the kind of rumors that Margaret hears, especially from Mary Lyster, who is staying in this hotel with her father, and seems to have a good many friends here. "Dearest William--I have been lingering on these things because it is so hard to have to tell you what passed between me and Kitty. Oh! my dear, dear son, take courage. Even now everything is not lost. Her conscience may awaken at the last moment; this bad man may abandon his pursuit of her; I may still succeed in bringing her back to you. But I am in terrible fear--and I must tell you the whole truth. "Kitty received me alone. The room was very dark--only one lamp that gave a bad light--so that I saw her very indistinctly. She was in black, and, as far as I could see, extremely pale and weary. And what struck me painfully was her haggard, careless look. All the little details of her dress and hair seemed so neglected. Blanche says she is far too irritable and impatient in the mornings to let her hair be done as usual. She just rolls it into one big knot herself and puts a comb in it. She wears the simplest clothes, and changes as little as possible. She says she is soon going to have done with all that kind of thing, and she must get used to it. My own impression is that she is going through great agony of mind--above all, that she is ill--ill in body and soul. "She told me quite calmly, however, that she had made up her mind to leave you; she said that she had written to you to tell you so. I asked her if it was because she had ceased to love you. After a pause she said 'No.' Was it because some one else had come between you? She threw up her head proudly, and said it was best to be quite plain and frank. She had met Geoffrey Cliffe again, and she meant henceforward to share his life. Then she went into the wildest dreams about going back with him to the Balkans, and nursing in a hospital, and dying--she hopes!--of hard work and privations. And all this in a torrent of words--and her eyes blazing, with that look in them as though she saw nothing but the scenes of her own imagination. She talked of devotion--and of forgetting herself in other people. I could only tell her, of course, that all this sounded to me the most grotesque sophistry and perversion. She was forgetting her first duty, breaking her marriage vow, and tearing your life asunder. She shook her head, and said you would soon forget her. 'If he had loved me he would never have left me!' she said, again and again, with a passion I shall never forget. "Of course that made me very angry, and I described what the situation had been when you reached London--Lord Parham's state of mind--and the consternation caused everywhere by the wretched book. I tried to make her understand what there was at stake--the hopes of all who follow you in the House and the country--the great reforms of which you are the life and soul--your personal and political honor. I impressed on her the endless trouble and correspondence in which you had been involved--and how meanwhile all your Home Office and cabinet work had to be carried on as usual, till it was decided whether your resignation should be withdrawn or no. She listened with her head on her hands. I think with regard to the book she is most genuinely ashamed and miserable. And yet all the time there is this unreasonable, this monstrous feeling that you should not have left her! "As to the scandalous references to private persons, she said that Madeleine Alcot had written to her about the country-house gossip. That wretched being, Mr. Darrell, seems also to have written to her, trying to save himself through her. And the only time I saw her laugh was when she spoke of having had a furious letter from Lady Grosville about the references to Grosville Park. It was like the laugh of a mischievous, unhappy child. "Then we came back to the main matter, and I implored her to let me take her home. First I gave her your letter. She read it, flushed up, and threw it away from her. 'He commands me!' she said, fiercely. 'But I am no one's chattel.' I replied that you had only summoned her back to her duty and her home, and I asked her if she could really mean to repay your unfailing love by bringing anguish and dishonor upon you? She sat dumb, and her stubbornness moved me so that I fear I lost my self-control and said more, much more--in denunciation of her conduct--than I had meant to do. She heard me out, and then she got up and looked at me very bitterly and strangely. I had never loved her, she said, and so I could not judge her. Always from the beginning I had thought her unfit to be your wife, and she had known it, and my dislike of her, especially during the past year, had made her hard and reckless. It had seemed no use trying. I just wanted her dead, that you might marry a wife who would be a help and not a stumbling-block. Well, I should have my wish, for she would soon be as good as dead, both to you and to me. "All this hurt me deeply, and I could not restrain myself from crying. I felt so helpless, and so doubtful whether I had not done more harm than good. Then she softened a little, and asked me to let her go to bed--she would think it all over and write to me in the morning.... "So, my dear William, I can only pray and wait. I am afraid there is but little hope, but God is merciful and strong. He may yet save us all. "But whatever happens, remember that you have nothing to reproach yourself with--that you have done all that man could do. I should telegraph to you in the morning to say, 'Come, at all hazards,' but that I feel sure all will be settled to-morrow one way or the other. Either Kitty will start with me--or she will go with Geoffrey Cliffe. You could do nothing--absolutely nothing. God help us! She seems to have some money, and she told me that she counted on retaining her jointure." * * * * * On the night following her interview with Lady Tranmore, Kitty went from one restless, tormented dream into another, but towards morning she fell into one of a different kind. She dreamed she was in a country of great mountains. The peaks were snow-crowned, vast glaciers filled the chasms on their flanks, forests of pines clothed the lower sides of the hills, and the fields below were full of spring flowers. She saw a little Alpine village, and a church with an old and slender campanile. A plain stone building stood by--it seemed to be an inn of the old-fashioned sort--and she entered it. The dinner-table was ready in the low-roofed _salle-à-manger_, and as she sat down to eat she saw that two other guests were at the same table. She glanced at them, and perceived that one was William and the other her child, Harry, grown older--and transfigured. Instead of the dull and clouded look which had wrung her heart in the old days, against which she had striven, patiently and impatiently, in vain, the blue eyes were alive with mind and affection. It was as if the child beheld his mother for the first time and she him. As he recognized her he gave a cry of joy, waving one hand towards her while with the other he touched his father on the arm. William raised his head. But when he saw his wife his face changed. He rose from his seat, and drawing the little boy into his arms he walked away. Kitty saw them disappear into a long passage, indeterminate and dark. The child's face over his father's shoulder was turned in longing towards his mother, and as he was carried away he stretched out his little hands to her in lamentation. Kitty woke up bathed in tears. She sprang out of bed and threw the window nearest to her open to the night. The winter night was mild, and a full moon sailed the southern sky. Not a sound on the water, not a light in the palaces; a city of ebony and silver, Venice slept in the moonlight. Kitty gathered a cloak and some shawls round her, and sank into a low chair, still crying and half conscious. At his inn, some few hundred yards away, between her and the Piazzetta, was Geoffrey Cliffe waking too?--making his last preparations? She knew that all his stores were ready, and that he proposed to ship them and the twenty young fellows, Italians and Dalmatians, who were going with him to join the insurgents, that morning, by a boat leaving for Cattaro. He himself was to follow twenty-four hours later, and it was his firm and confident expectation that Kitty would go with him--passing as his wife. And, indeed, Kitty's own arrangements were almost complete, her money in her purse, the clothes she meant to take with her packed in one small trunk, some of the Tranmore jewels which she had been recently wearing ready to be returned on the morrow to Lady Tranmore's keeping, other jewels, which she regarded as her own, together with the remainder of her clothes, put aside, in order to be left in the custody of the landlord of the apartment till Kitty should claim them again. One more day--which would probably see the departure of Margaret French--one more wrestle with Lady Tranmore, and all the links with the old life would be torn away. A bare, stripped soul, dependent henceforth on Geoffrey Cliffe for every crumb of happiness, treading in unknown paths, suffering unknown things, probing unknown passions and excitements--it was so she saw herself; not without that corroding double consciousness of the modern, that it was all very interesting, and as such to be forgiven and admired. Notwithstanding what she had said to Ashe, she did believe--with a clinging and desperate faith--that Cliffe loved her. Had she really doubted it, her conduct would have been inexplicable, even to herself, and he must have seemed a madman. What else could have induced him to burden himself with a woman on such an errand and at such a time? She had promised, indeed, to be his lieutenant and comrade--and to return to Venice if her health should be unequal to the common task. But in spite of the sternness with which he put that task first--a sternness which was one of his chief attractions for Kitty--she knew well that her coming threw a glamour round it which it had never yet possessed, that the passion she had aroused in him, and the triumph of binding her to his fate, possessed him--for the moment at any rate--heart and soul. He had the poet's resources, too, and a mind wherewith to organize and govern. She shrank from him still, but she already envisaged the time when her being would sink into and fuse with his, and like two colliding stars they would flame together to one fiery death. Thoughts like these ran in her mind. Yet all the time she saw the high mountains of her dream, the old inn, the receding face of her child on William's shoulder; and the tears ran down her cheeks. The letter from William that Lady Tranmore had given her lay on a table near. She took it up, and lit a candle to read it. * * * * * "Kitty--I bid you come home. I should have started for Venice an hour ago, after reading Miss French's letter, but that honor and public duty keep me here. But mother is going, and I implore and command you, as your husband, to return with her. Oh, Kitty, have I ever failed you?--have I ever been hard with you?--that you should betray our love like this? Was I hard when we parted--a month ago? If I was, forgive me, I was sore pressed. Come home, you poor child, and you shall hear no reproaches from me. I think I have nearly succeeded in undoing your rash work. But what good will that be to me if you are to use my absence for that purpose to bring us both to ruin? Kitty, the grass is not yet green on our child's grave. I was at Haggart last Sunday, and I went over in the dusk to put some flowers upon it. I thought of you without a moment's bitterness, and prayed for us both, if such as I may pray. Then next morning came Miss French's letter. Kitty, have you no heart--and no conscience? Will you bring disgrace on that little grave? Will you dig between us the gulf which is irreparable, across which your hand and mine can never touch each other any more? I cannot and I will not believe it. Come back to me--come back!" * * * * * She reread it with a melting heart--with deep, shaking sobs. When she first glanced through it the word "command" had burned into her proud sense; the rest passed almost unnoticed. Now the very strangeness in it as coming from William--the strangeness of its grave and deep emotion--held and grappled with her. Suddenly--some tension of the whole being seemed to give way. Her head sank back on the chair, she felt herself weak and trembling, yet happy as a soul new-born into a world of light. Waking dreams passed through her brain in a feverish succession, reversing the dream of the night--images of peace and goodness and reunion. Minutes--hours--passed. With the first light she got up feebly, found ink and paper, and began to write. * * * * * _From Lady Tranmore to William Ashe_: "Oh! my dearest William--at last a gleam of hope. "No letter this morning. I was in despair. Margaret reported that Kitty refused to see any one--had locked her door, and was writing. Yet no letter came. I made an attempt to see Geoffrey Cliffe, who is staying at the 'Germania,' but he refused. He wrote me the most audacious letter to say that an interview could only be very painful, that he and Kitty must decide for themselves, that he was waiting every hour for a final word from Kitty. It rested with her, and with her only. Coercion in these matters was no longer possible, and he did not suppose that either you or I would attempt it. "And now comes this blessed note--a respite at least! '_I am going to Verona to-night with Blanche. Please let no one attempt to follow me. I wish to have two days alone--absolutely alone. Wait here. I will write. K_.' "... Margaret French, too, has just been here. She was almost hysterical with relief and joy--and you know what a calm, self-controlled person she is. But her dear, round face has grown white, and her eyes behind her spectacles look as though she had not slept for nights. She says that Kitty will not see her. She sent her a note by Blanche to ask her to settle all the accounts, and told her that she should not say good-bye--it would be too agitating for them both. In two days she should hear. Meanwhile the maid Blanche is certainly going with Kitty; and the gondola is ordered for the Milan train this evening. "Two P.M. There is one thing that troubles me, and I must confess it. I did not see that across Kitty's letter in the corner was written 'Tell _nobody_ about this letter.' And Polly Lyster happened to be with me when it came. She has been _au courant_ of the whole affair for the last fortnight--that is, as an on-looker. She and Kitty have only met once or twice since Mary reached Venice; but in one way or another she has been extraordinarily well informed. And, as I told you, she came to see me directly I arrived and told me all she knew. You know her old friendship for us, William? She has many weaknesses, and of late I have thought her much changed, grown very hard and bitter. But she is always _very_ loyal to you and me--and I could not help betraying my feeling when Kitty's note reached me. Mary came and put her arms round me, and I said to her, 'Oh, Mary, thank God!--she's broken with him! She's going to Verona to-night on the way home!' And she kissed me and seemed so glad. And I was very grateful to her for her sympathy, for I am beginning to feel my age, and this has been rather a strain. But I oughtn't to have told her!--or anybody! I see, of course, what Kitty meant. It is incredible that Mary should breathe a word--or if she did that it should reach that man. But I have just sent her a note to Danieli's to warn her in the strongest way. "Beloved son--if, indeed, we save her--we will be very good to her, you and I. We will remember her bringing up and her inheritance. I will be more loving--more like Christ. I hope He will forgive me for my harshness in the past.... My William!--I love you so! God be merciful to you and to your poor Kitty!" * * * * * "Will the signora have her dinner outside or in the _salle-à-manger?"_ The question was addressed to Kitty by a little Italian waiter belonging to the Albergo San Zeno at Verona, who stood bent before her, his white napkin under his arm. "Out here, please--and for my maid also." The speaker moved wearily towards the low wall which bounded the foaming Adige, and looked across the river. Far away the Alps that look down on Garda glistened under the stars; the citadel on its hill, the houses across the river were alive with lights; to the left the great mediæval bridge rose, a dark, ponderous mass, above the torrents of the Adige. Overhead, the little outside restaurant was roofed with twining vine-stems from which the leaves had fallen; colored lights twinkled among them and on the white tables underneath. The night was mild and still, and a veiled moon was just rising over the town of Juliet. "Blanche!" "Yes, my lady?" "Bring a chair, Blanchie, and come and sit by me." The little maid did as she was told, and Kitty slipped her hand into hers with a long sigh. "Are you very tired, my lady?" "Yes--but don't talk!" The two sat silent, clinging to each other. A step on the cobble-stones disturbed them. Blanche looked up, and saw a gentleman issuing from a lane which connected the narrow quay whereon stood the old Albergo San Zeno with one of the main streets of Verona. There was a cry from Kitty. The stranger paused--looked--advanced. The little maid rose, half fierce, half frightened. "Go, Blanche, go!" said Kitty, panting; "go back into the hotel." "Not unless your ladyship wishes me to leave you," said the girl, firmly. "Go at once!" Kitty repeated, with a peremptory gesture. She herself rose from her seat, and with one hand resting on the table awaited the new-comer. Blanche looked at her--hesitated--and went. Geoffrey Cliffe came to Kitty's side. As he approached her his eyes fastened on the loveliness of her attitude, her fair head. In his own expression there was a visionary, fantastic joy; it was the look of the dreamer who, for once, finds in circumstance and the real, poetry adequate and overflowing. "Kitty!--why did you do this?" he said to her, passionately, as he caught her hand. Kitty snatched it away, trembling under his look. She began the answer she had devised while he was crossing the flagged quay towards her. But Cliffe paid no heed. He laid a hand on her shoulder, and she sank back powerless into her chair as he bent over her. "Cruel--cruel child, to play with me so! Did you mean to put me to a last test?--or did your hard little heart misgive you at the last moment? I cross-examined your landlady--I bribed the servants--the gondoliers. Not a word! They were loyal--or you had paid them better. I went back to my hotel in black despair. Oh, you artist!--you plotter! Kitty--you shall pay me this some day! And there--there on my table--all the time--lay your little crumpled note!" "What note?" she gasped--"what note?" "Actress!" he said, with an amused laugh. And cautiously, playfully, lest she should snatch it from him, he unfolded it before her. Without signature and without date, the soiled half-sheet contained this message, written in Italian and in a disguised handwriting: * * * * * "Too many spectators. Come to Verona to-night. "K." Kitty looked at it, and then at the face beside her--infused with a triumphant power and passion. She seemed to shrink upon herself, and her head fell back against one of the supports of the _pergola_. One of the blue lights from above fell with ghastly effect upon the delicate tilted face and closed eyes. Cliffe bent over her in a sharp alarm, and saw that she had fainted away. PART V REQUIESCAT "Pluck, pluck cypress, O pale maidens, Dusk the hall with yew!" XXIII "How strange!" thought the Dean, as he once more stepped back into the street to look at the front of the Home Secretary's house in Hill Street. "He is certainly in town." For, according to the _Times_, William Ashe the night before had been hotly engaged in the House of Commons fighting an important bill, of which he was in charge, through committee. Yet the blinds of the house in Hill Street were all drawn, and the Dean had not yet succeeded in getting any one to answer the bell. He returned to the attack, and this time a charwoman appeared. At sight of the Dean's legs and apron, she dropped a courtesy, or something like one, informing him that they had workmen in the house and Mr. Ashe was "staying with her ladyship." The Dean took the Tranmores' number in Park Lane and departed thither, not without a sad glance at the desolate hall behind the charwoman and at the darkened windows of the drawing-room overhead. He thought of that May day two years before when he had dropped in to lunch with Lady Kitty; his memory, equally effective whether it summoned the detail of an English chronicle or the features of a face once seen, placed firm and clear before him the long-chinned fellow at Lady Kitty's left, to whose villany that empty and forsaken house bore cruel witness. And the little lady herself--what a radiant and ethereal beauty! Ah me! ah me! He walked on in meditation, his hands behind his back. Even in this May London the little Dean was capable of an abstracted spirit, and he had still much to think over. He had his appointment with Ashe. But Ashe had written--evidently in a press of business--from the House, and had omitted to mention his temporary change of address. The Dean regretted it. He would rather have done his errand with Lady Kitty's injured husband on some neutral ground, and not in Lady Tranmore's house. At Park Lane, however, he was immediately admitted. "Mr. Ashe will be down directly, sir," said the butler, as he ushered the visitor into the commodious library on the ground-floor, which had witnessed for so long the death-in-life of Lord Tranmore. But now Lord Tranmore was bedridden up-stairs, with two nurses to look after him, and to judge from the aspect of the tables piled with letters and books, and from the armful of papers which a private secretary carried off with him as he disappeared before the Dean, Ashe was now fully at home in the room which had been his father's. There was still a fire in the grate, and the small Dean, who was a chilly mortal, stood on the rug looking nervously about him. Lord Tranmore had been in office himself, and the room, with its bookshelves filled with volumes in worn calf bindings, its solid writing-tables and leather sofas, its candlesticks and inkstands of old silver, slender and simple in pattern, its well-worn Turkey carpet, and its political portraits--"the Duke," Johnny Russell, Lord Althorp, Peel, Melbourne--seemed, to the observer on the rug, steeped in the typical habit and reminiscence of English public life. Well, if the father, poor fellow, had been distinguished in his day, the son had gone far beyond him. The Dean ruminated on a conversation wherewith he had just beguiled his cup of tea at the Athenæum--a conversation with one of the shrewdest members of Lord Parham's cabinet, a "new man," and an enthusiastic follower of Ashe. "Ashe is magnificent! At last our side has found its leader. Oh! Parham will disappear with the next appeal to the country. He is getting too infirm! Above all, his eyes are nearly gone; his oculist, I hear, gives him no more than six months' sight, unless he throws up. Then Ashe will take his proper place, and if he doesn't make his mark on English history, I'm a Dutchman. Oh! of course that affair last year was an awful business--the two affairs! When Parliament opened in February there were some of us who thought that Ashe would never get through the session. A man so changed, so struck down, I have seldom seen. You remember what a handsome boy he was, up to last year even! Now he's a middle-aged man. All the same, he held on, and the House gave him that quiet sympathy and support that it can give when it likes a fellow. And gradually you could see the life come back into him--and the ambition. By George! he did well in that trade-union business before Easter; and the bill that's on now--it's masterly, the way in which he's piloting it through! The House positively likes to be managed by him; it's a sight worthy of our best political traditions. Oh yes, Ashe will go far; and, thank God, that wretched little woman--what has become of her, by-the-way?--has neither crushed his energy nor robbed England of his services. But it was touch and go." To all of which the Dean had replied little or nothing. But his heart had sunk within him; and the doubtfulness of a certain enterprise in which he was engaged had appeared to him in even more startling colors than before. However, here he was. And suddenly, as he stood before the fire, he bowed his white head, and said to himself a couple of verses from one of the Psalms for the day: "Who will lead me into the strong city: who will bring me into Edom? Oh, be thou our help in trouble: for vain is the help of man." The door opened, and the Dean straightened himself impetuously, every nerve tightening to its work. * * * * * "How do you do, my dear Dean?" said Ashe, enclosing the frail, ascetic hand in both his own. "I trust I have not kept you waiting. My mother was with me. Sit there, please; you will have the light behind you." "Thank you. I prefer standing a little, if you don't mind--and I like the fire." Ashe threw himself into a chair and shaded his eyes with his hand. The Dean noticed the strains of gray in his curly hair, and that aspect, as of something withered and wayworn, which had invaded the man's whole personality, balanced, indeed, by an intellectual dignity and distinction which had never been so commanding. It was as though the stern and constant wrestle of the mind had burned away all lesser things--the old, easy grace, the old, careless pleasure in life. "I think you know," began the Dean, clearing his throat, "why I asked you to see me?" "You wished, I think, to speak to me--about my wife," said Ashe, with difficulty. Under his sheltering hand, his eyes looked straight before him into the fire. The Dean fidgeted a moment, lifted a small Greek vase on the mantel-piece, and set it down--then turned round. "I heard from her ten days ago--the most piteous letter. As you know, I had always a great regard for her. The news of last year was a sharp sorrow to me--as though she had been a daughter. I felt I must see her. So I put myself into the train and went to Venice." Ashe started a little, but said nothing. "Or, rather, to Treviso, for, as I think you know, she is there with Lady Alice." "Yes, that I had heard." The Dean paused again, then moved a little nearer to Ashe, looking down upon him. "May I ask--stop me if I seem impertinent--how much you know of the history of the winter?" "Very little!" said Ashe, in a low voice. "My mother got some information from the English consul at Trieste, who is a friend of hers--to whom, it seems, Lady Kitty applied; but it did not amount to much." The Dean drew a small note-book from a breast-pocket and looked at some entries in it. "They seem to have reached Marinitza in November If I understood aright, Lady Kitty had no maid with her?" "No. The maid Blanche was sent home from Verona." "How Lady Kitty ever got through the journey!--or the winter!" said the Dean, throwing up his hands. "Her health, of course, is irreparably injured. But that she did not die a dozen times over, of hardship and misery, is the most astonishing thing! They were in a wretched village, nearly four thousand feet up, a village of wooden huts, with a wooden hospital. All the winter nearly they were deep in snow, and Lady Kitty worked as a nurse. Cliffe seems to have been away fighting, very often, and at other times came back to rest and see to supplies." "I understand she passed as his wife?" said Ashe. The Dean made a sign of reluctant assent. "They lived in a little house near the hospital. She tells me that after the first two months she began to loathe him, and she moved into the hospital to escape him. He tried at first to melt and propitiate her; but when he found that it was no use, and that she was practically lost to him, he changed his temper, and he might have behaved to her like the tyrant he is but that her hold over the people among whom they were living, both on the fighting-men and the women, had become by this time greater than his own. They adored her, and Cliffe dared not ill-treat her. And so it went on through the winter. Sometimes they were on more friendly terms than at others. I gather that when he showed his dare-devil, heroic side she would relent to him, and talk as though she loved him. But she would never go back--to live with him; and that after a time alienated him completely. He was away more and more; and at last she tells me there was a handsome Bosnian girl, and--well, you can imagine the rest. Lady Kitty was so ill in March that they thought her dying, but she managed to write to this consul you spoke of at Trieste, and he sent up a doctor and a nurse. But this you probably know?" "Yes," said Ashe, hoarsely. "I heard that she was apparently very ill when she reached Treviso, but that she had rallied under Alice's nursing. Lady Alice wrote to my mother." "Did she tell Lady Tranmore anything of Lady Kitty's state of mind?" said the Dean, after a pause. Ashe also was slow in answering. At last he said: "I understand there has been great regret for the past." "Regret!" cried the Dean. "If ever there was a terrible case of the dealings of God with a human soul--" He began to walk up and down impetuously, wrestling with emotion. "Did she give you any explanation," said Ashe, presently, in a voice scarcely audible--"of their meeting at Verona? You know my mother believed--that she had broken with him--that all was saved. Then came a letter from the maid, written at Kitty's direction, to say that she had left her mistress--and they had started for Bosnia." "No; I tried. But she seemed to shrink with horror from everything to do with Verona. I have always supposed that fellow in some way got the information he wanted--bought it no doubt--and pursued her. But that she honestly meant to break with him I have no doubt at all." Ashe said nothing. "Think," said the Dean, "of the effect of that man's sudden appearance--of his romantic and powerful personality--your wife alone, miserable--doubting your love for her--" Ashe raised his hand with a gesture of passion. "If she had had the smallest love left for me she could have protected herself! I had written to her--she knew--" His voice broke. The Dean's face quivered. "My dear fellow--God knows--" He broke off. When he recovered composure he said: "Let us go back to Lady Kitty. Regret is no word to express what I saw. She is consumed by remorse night and day. She is also still--as far as my eyes can judge--desperately ill. There is probably lung trouble caused by the privations of the winter. And the whole nervous system is shattered." Ashe looked up. His aspect showed the effect of the words. "Every provision shall be made for her," he said, in a voice muffled and difficult. "Lady Alice has been told already to spare no expense--to do everything that can be done." "There is only one thing that can be done for her," said the Dean. Ashe did not speak. "There is only one thing that you or any one else could do for her," the Dean repeated, slowly, "and that is to love--and forgive her!" His voice trembled. "Was it her wish that you should come to me?" said Ashe, after a moment. "Yes. I found her at first very despairing--and extremely difficult to manage. She regretted she had written to me, and neither Lady Alice nor I could get her to talk. But one day"--the old man turned away, looking into the fire, with his back to Ashe, and with difficulty pursued his story--"one day, whether it was, the sight of a paralyzed child that used to come to Lady Alice's lace-class, or some impression from the service of the mass to which she often goes in the early mornings with her sister, I don't know, but she sent for me--and--and broke down entirely. She implored me to see you, and to ask you if she might live at Haggart, near the child's grave. She told me that according to every doctor she has seen she is doomed, physically. But I don't think she wants to work upon your pity. She herself declares that she has much more vitality than people think, and that the doctors may be all wrong. So that you are not to take that into account. But if you will so far forgive her as to let her live at Haggart, and occasionally to go and see her, that would be the only happiness to which she could now look forward, and she promises that she will follow your wishes in every respect, and will not hinder or persecute you in any way." Ashe threw up his hands in a melancholy gesture. The Dean understood it to mean a disbelief in the ability of the person promising to keep such an engagement. His face flushed--he looked uncertainly at Ashe. "For my part," he said, quickly, "I am not going to advise you for a moment to trust to any such promise." Rising from his seat, Ashe began to pace the room. The Dean followed him with his eyes, which kindled more and more. "But," he resumed, "I none the less urge and implore you to grant Lady Kitty's prayer." Ashe slightly shook his head. The little Dean drew himself together. "May I speak to you--with a full frankness? I have known and loved you from a boy. And"--he stopped a moment, then said, simply--"I am a Christian minister." Ashe, with a sad and charming courtesy, laid his hand on the old man's arm. "I can only be grateful to you," he said, and stood waiting. "At least you will understand me," said the Dean. "You are not one of the small souls. Well--here it is! Lady Kitty has been an unfaithful wife. She does not attempt to deny or cover it. But in my belief she loves you still, and has always loved you. And when you married her, you must, I think, have realized that you were running no ordinary risks. The position and antecedents of her mother--the bringing up of the poor child herself--the wildness of her temperament, and the absence of anything like self-discipline and self-control, must surely have made you anxious? I certainly remember that Lady Tranmore was full of fears." He looked for a reply. "Yes," said Ashe, "I was anxious. Or, rather, I saw the risks clearly. But I was in love, and I thought that love could do everything." The Dean looked at him curiously--hesitated--and at last said: "Forgive me. Did you take your task seriously enough?--did you give Lady Kitty all the help you might?" The blue eyes scanned Ashe's face. Ashe turned away, as though the words had touched a sore. "I know very well," he said, unsteadily, "that I seemed to you and others a weak and self-indulgent fool. All I can say is, it was not in me to play the tutor and master to my wife." "She was so young, so undisciplined," said the Dean, earnestly. "Did you guard her as you might?" A touch of impatience appeared in Ashe. "Do you really think, my dear Dean," he said, as he resumed his walk up and down, "that one human being has, ultimately, any decisive power over another? If so, I am more of a believer in--fate--or liberty--I am not sure which--than you." The Dean sighed. "That you were infinitely good and loving to her we all know." "'Good'--'loving'?" said Ashe, under his breath, with a note of scorn. "I--" He restrained himself, hiding his face as he hung over the fire. There was a silence, till the Dean once more placed himself in Ashe's path. "My dear friend--you saw the risks, and yet you took them! You made the vow 'for better, for worse.' My friend, you have, so to speak, lost your venture! But let me urge on you that the obligation remains!" "What obligation?" "The obligation to the life you took into your own hands--to the soul you vowed to cherish," said the Dean, with an apostolic and passionate earnestness. Ashe stood before him, pale, and charged with resolution. "That obligation--has been cancelled--by the laws of your own Christian faith, no less than by the ordinary laws of society." "I do not so read it!" cried the Dean, with vivacity. "Men say so, 'for the hardness of their hearts.' But the divine pity which transformed men's idea of marriage could never have meant to lay it down that in marriage alone there was to be no forgiveness." "You forget your text," said Ashe, steadily. "Saving for the cause--'" His voice failed him. "Permissive!" was the Dean's eager reply--"permissive only. There are cases, I grant you--cases of impenitent wickedness--where the higher law is suspended, finds no chance to act--where relief from the bond is itself mercy and justice. But the higher law is always there. You know the formula--'It was said by them of old time. But _I_ say unto you--' And then follows the new law of a new society. And so in marriage. If love has the smallest room to work--if forgiveness can find the narrowest foothold--love and forgiveness are imposed on--demanded of--the Christian!--here as everywhere else. Love and forgiveness--_not_ penalty and hate!" "There is no question of hate--and--I doubt whether I am a Christian," said Ashe, quietly, turning away. The Dean looked at him a little askance--breathing fast. "But you are a _heart_, William!" he said, using the privilege, of his white hairs, speaking as he might have spoken to the Eton boy of twenty years before--"ay, and one of the noblest. You gathered that poor thing into your arms--knowing what were the temptations of her nature, and she became the mother of your child. Now--alas! those temptations have conquered her. But she still turns to you--she still clings to you--and she has no one else. And if you reject her she will go down unforgiven and despairing to the grave." For the first time Ashe's lips trembled. But his speech was very quiet and collected. "I must try and explain myself," he said. "Why should we talk of forgiveness? It is not a word that I much understand, or that means much to men of my type and generation. I see what has happened in this way. Kitty's conduct last year hit me desperately hard. It destroyed my private happiness, and but for the generosity of the best friends ever man had it would have driven me out of public life. I warned her that the consequences of the Cliffe matter would be irreparable, and she still carried it through. She left me for that man--and at a time when by her own action it was impossible for me to defend either her or myself. What course of action remained to me? I _did_ remember her temperament, her antecedents, and the certainty that this man, whatever might be his moments of heroism, was a selfish and incorrigible brute in his dealings with women. So I wrote to her, through this same consul at Trieste. I let her know that if she wished it, and if there were any chance of his marrying her, I would begin divorce proceedings at once. She had only to say the word. If she did not wish it, I would spare her and myself the shame and scandal of publicity. And if she left him, I would make additional provision for her which would insure her every comfort. She never sent a word of reply, and I have taken no steps. But as soon as I heard she was at Treviso, I wrote again--or, rather, this time my lawyers wrote, suggesting that the time had come for the extra provision I had spoken of, which I was most ready and anxious to make." He paused. "And this," said the Dean, "is all? This is, in fact, your answer to me?" Ashe made a sign of assent. "Except," he added, with emotion, "that I have heard, only to-day, that if Kitty wishes it, her old friend Miss French will go out to her at once, nurse her, and travel with her as long as she pleases. Miss French's brother has just married, and she is at liberty. She is most deeply attached to Kitty, and as soon as she heard Lady Alice's report of her state she forgot everything else. Can you not persuade--Kitty"--he looked up urgently--"to accept her offer?" "I doubt it," said the Dean, sadly. "There is only one thing she pines for, and without it she will be a sick child crossed. Ah! well--well! So to allow her to share your life again--however humbly and intermittently--is impossible?" It seemed to the Dean that a shudder passed through the man beside him. "Impossible," said Ashe, sharply. "But not only for private reasons." "You mean your public duty stands in the way?" "Kitty left me of her own free will. I have put my hand to the plough again--and I cannot turn back. You can see for yourself that I am not at my own disposal--I belong to my party, to the men with whom I act, who have behaved to me with the utmost generosity." "Of course Lady Kitty could no longer share your public life. But at Haggart--in seclusion?" "You know what her personality is--how absorbing--how impossible to forget! No--if she returned to me, on any terms whatever, all the old conditions would begin again. I should inevitably have to leave politics." "And that--you are not prepared to do?" The Dean wondered at his own audacity, and a touch of proud surprise expressed itself in Ashe. "I should have preferred to put it that I have accepted great tasks and heavy responsibilities--and that I am not my own master." The Dean watched him closely. Across the field of imagination there passed the figure of one who "went away sorrowful, having great possessions," and his heart--the heart of a child or a knight-errant--burned within him. But before he could speak again the door of the room opened and a lady in black entered. Ashe turned towards her. "Do you forbid me, William?" she said, quietly--"or may I join your conversation?" Ashe held out his hand and drew her to him. Lady Tranmore greeted her old friend the Dean, and he looked at her overcome with emotion and doubt. "You have come to us at a critical moment," he said--"and I am afraid you are against me." She asked what they had been discussing, though, indeed, as she said, she partly guessed. And the Dean, beginning to be shaken in his own cause, repeated his pleadings with a sinking heart. They sounded to him stranger and less persuasive than before. In doing what he had done he had been influenced by an instinctive feeling that Ashe would not treat the wrong done him as other men might treat it; that, to put it at the least, he would be able to handle it with an ethical originality, to separate himself in dealing with it from the mere weight of social tradition. Yet now as he saw the faces of mother and son together--the mother leaning on the son's arm--and realized all the strength of the social ideas which they represented, even though, in Ashe's case, there had been a certain individual flouting of them, futile and powerless in the end--the Dean gave way. "There--there!" he said, as he finished his plea, and Lady Tranmore's sad gravity remained untouched. "I see you both think me a dreamer of dreams!" "Nay, dear friend!" said Lady Tranmore, with the melancholy smile which lent still further beauty to the refined austerity of her face; "these things seem possible to you, because you are the soul of goodness--" "And a pious old fool to boot!" said the Dean, impatiently. "But I am willing--like St. Paul and my betters--to be a fool for Christ's sake. Lady Tranmore, are you or are you not a Christian?" "I hope so," she said, with composure, while her cheek flushed. "But our Lord did not ask impossibilities. He knew there were limits to human endurance--and human pardon--though there might be none to God's." "'Be ye perfect, as your Father which is in heaven is perfect,'" cried the Dean. "Where are the limits there?" "There are other duties in life besides that to a wife who has betrayed her husband," she said, steadily. "You ask of William what he has not the strength to give. His life was wrecked, and he has pieced it together again. And now he has given it to his country. That poor, guilty child has no claim upon it." "But understand," said Ashe, interposing, with an energy that seemed to express the whole man--"while I live, _everything_--short of what you ask--that can be done to protect or ease her, shall be done. Tell her that." His features worked painfully. The Dean took up his hat and stick. "And may I tell her, too," he said, pausing--"that you forgive her?" Ashe hesitated. "I do not believe," he said, at last, "that she would attach any more meaning to that word than I do. She would think it unreal. What's done is done." The Dean's heart leaped up in the typical Christian challenge to the fatal and the irrevocable. While life lasts the lost sheep can always be sought and found; and love, the mystical wine, can always be poured into the wounds of the soul, healing and recreating! But he said no more. He felt himself humiliated and defeated. Ashe and Lady Tranmore took leave of him with an extreme gentleness and affection. He would almost rather they had treated him ill. Yes, he was an optimist and a dreamer!--one who had, indeed, never grappled in his own person with the worst poisons and corrosions of the soul. Yet still, as he passed along the London streets--marked here and there by the newspaper placards which announced Ashe's committee triumphs of the night before--he was haunted anew by the immortal words: "One thing thou lackest," ... and "Come, follow me!" * * * * * Ah!--could he have done such a thing himself? or was he merely the scribe carelessly binding on other men's shoulders things grievous to be borne? The answering passion of his faith mounted within him--joined with a scorn for the easy conditions and happy, scholarly pursuits of his own life, and a thirst which in the early days of Christendom would have been a thirst for witness and for martyrdom. * * * * * Three days later the Dean--a somewhat shrunken and diminished figure, in ordinary clerical dress, without the buckles and silk stockings that typically belonged to him--stood once more at the entrance of a small villa outside the Venetian town of Treviso. He was very weary, and as he sought disconsolately through all his pockets for the wherewithal to pay his fly, while the spring rain pattered on his wide-awake, he produced an impression as of some delicate, draggled thing, which would certainly have gone to the heart of his adoring wife could she have beheld it. The Dean's ways were not sybaritic. He pecked at food and drink like a bird; his clothes never caused him a moment's thought; and it seemed to him a waste of the night to use it for sleeping. But none the less did he go through life finely looked after. Mrs. Winston dressed him, took his tickets and paid his cabs, and without her it was an arduous matter for the Dean to arrive at any destination whatever. As it was, in the journey from Paris he had lost one of the two bags which Mrs. Winston had packed for him, and he looked remorsefully at the survivor as it was deposited on the steps beside him. It did not, however, remain on the steps. For when Lady Alice's maid-housekeeper appeared, she informed the Dean, with a certain flurry of manner, that the ladies were not at home. They had gone off that morning--suddenly--to Venice, leaving a letter for him, should he arrive. "_Fermate!_" cried the Dean, turning towards the cab, which was trailing away, and the man, who had been scandalously overpaid, came back with alacrity, while the Dean stepped in to read the letter. When he came out again he was very pale and in a great haste. He bade the man replace the bag and drive him at once to the railway-station. On the way thither he murmured to himself, "Horrible!--horrible!"--and both the letter and a newspaper which had been enclosed in it shook in his hands. He had half an hour to wait before the advent of the evening train for Venice, and he spent it in a quiet corner poring over the newspaper. And not that newspaper only, for he presently became aware that all the small, ill-printed sheets offered him by an old newsvender in the station were full of the same news, and some with later detail--nay, that the people walking up and down in the station were eagerly talking of it. An Englishman had been assassinated in Venice. It seemed that a body had been discovered early on the preceding morning floating in one of the small canals connecting the Fondamente Nuove with the Grand Canal. It had been stabbed in three places; two of the wounds must have been fatal. The papers in the pocket identified the murdered man as the famous English traveller, poet, and journalist, Mr. Geoffrey Cliffe. Mr. Cliffe had just returned from an arduous winter in the Balkans, where he had rendered superb service to the cause of the Bosnian insurgents. He was well known in Venice, and the terrible event had caused a profound sensation there. No clew to the outrage had yet been obtained. But Mr. Cliffe's purse and watch had not been removed. The Dean arrived in Venice by the midnight train, and went to the hotel on the Riva whither Lady Alice had directed him. She was still up, waiting to see him, and in the dark passage outside Kitty's door she told him what she knew of the murder. It appeared that late that night a startling arrest had been made--of no less a person than the Signorina Ricci, the well-known actress of the Apollo Theatre, and of two men supposed to have been hired by her for the deed. This news was still unknown to Kitty--she was in bed, and her companion had kept it from her. "How is she?" asked the Dean. "Frightfully excited--or else dumb. She let me give her something to make her sleep. Strangely enough, she said to me this morning on the way from Treviso: 'It is a woman--and I know her!'" The following day, when the Dean entered the dingy hotel sitting-room, a thin figure in black came hurriedly out of the bedroom beside it, and Kitty caught him by the hand. "Isn't it horrible?" she said, staring at him with her changed, dark-rimmed eyes. "She tried once, in Bosnia. One of the Italians who came out with us--she had got hold of him. Do you think--he suffered?" Her voice was quite quiet. The Dean shuddered. "One of the stabs was in the heart," he said. "But try and put it from you, Lady Kitty. Sit down." He touched her gently on the shoulder. Kitty nodded. "Ah, then," she said--"_then_ he couldn't have suffered--could he? I'm glad." She let the Dean put her in a chair, and, clasping her hands round her knees, she seemed to pursue her own thoughts. Her aspect affected him almost beyond bearing. Ashe's brilliant wife?--London's spoiled child?--this withered, tragic little creature, of whom it was impossible to believe that, in years, she was not yet twenty-four? So bewildered in mind, so broken in nerve was she, that it was not till he had sat with her some time, now entering perforce into the cloud of horror that brooded over her, now striving to drag her from it, that she asked him about his visit to England. He told her in a faltering voice. She received it very quietly, even with a little, queer, twisting laugh. "I thought he wouldn't. Was Lady Tranmore there?" The Dean replied that Lady Tranmore had been there. "Ah, then, of course there was no chance," said Kitty. "When one is as good as that, one never forgives." She looked up quickly. "Did William say he forgave me?" The Dean hesitated. "He said a great deal that was kind and generous." A slight spasm passed over Kitty's face. "I suppose he thought it ridiculous to talk of forgiving. So did I--once." She covered her eyes with her hands--removing them to say, impatiently: "One can't go on being sorry every moment of the day. No, one can't! Why are we made so? William would agree with me there." "Dear Lady Kitty!" said the Dean, tenderly--"God forgives--and with Him there is always hope, and fresh beginning." Kitty shook her head. "I don't know what that means," she said. "I wonder whether"--she looked at him with a certain piteous and yet affectionate malice--"if you'd been as deep as I, whether _you_'d know." The Dean flushed. The hidden wound stung again. Had he, then, no right to speak? He felt himself the elder son of the parable--and hated himself anew. But he was a Christian, on his Master's business. He must obey orders, even though he could feel no satisfaction, or belief in himself--though he seem to himself such a shallow and perfunctory person. So he did his tender best for Kitty. He spent his loving, enthusiastic, pitiful soul upon her; and while he talked to her she sat with her hands crossed on her lap, and her eyes wandering through the open window to the forests of masts outside and the dancing wavelets of the lagoon. When at last he spoke of the further provision Ashe wished to make for her, when he implored her to summon Margaret French, she shook her head. "I must think what I shall do," she said, quietly; and a minute afterwards, with a flash of her old revolt--"He cannot prevent my going to Harry's grave!" * * * * * Early the following morning the murdered man was carried to the cemetery at San Michele. In spite of some attempt on the part of the police to keep the hour secret, half Venice followed the black-draped barca, which bore that flawed poet and dubious hero to his rest. It was a morning of exceeding beauty. On the mean and solitary front of the Casa dei Spiriti there shone a splendor of light; the lagoon was azure and gold; the main-land a mist of trees in their spring leaf; while far away the cypresses of San Francesco, the slender tower of Torcello, and the long line of Murano--and farther still the majestic wall of silver Alps--greeted the eyes that loved them, as the ear is soothed by the notes of a glorious and yet familiar music. Amid the crowd of gondolas that covered the shallow stretch of lagoon between the northernmost houses of Venice and the island graveyard, there was one which held two ladies. Alice Wensleydale was there against her will, and her pinched and tragic face showed her repulsion and irritation. She had endeavored in vain to dissuade Kitty from coming; but in the end she had insisted on accompanying her. Possibly, as the boat glided over the water amid a crowd of laughing, chattering Italians, the silent Englishwoman was asking herself what was to be the future of the trust she had taken on herself. Kitty in her extremity had remembered her half-sister's promise, and had thrown herself upon it. But a few weeks' experience had shown that they were strange and uncongenial to each other. There was no true affection between them--only a certain haunting instinct of kindred. And even this was weakened or embittered by those memories in Alice's mind which Kitty could never approach and Alice never forget. What was she to do with her half-sister, stranded and dishonored as she was?--How content or comfort her?--How live her own life beside her? Kitty sat silent, her eyes fixed upon the barca which held the coffin under its pall. Her mind was the scene of an infinite number of floating and fragmentary recollections; of the day when she and Cliffe had followed the _murazzi_ towards the open sea; of the meeting at Verona; of the long winter, with its hardship and its horror; and that hatred and contempt which had sprung up between them. Could she love no one, cling faithfully to no one? And now the restless brain, the vast projects, the mixed nature, the half-greatness of the man had been silenced--crushed--in a moment, by the stroke of a knife. He had been killed by a jealous woman--because of his supposed love for another woman, whose abhorrence, in truth, he had earned in a few short weeks. There was something absurd mingled with the horror--as though one watched the prank of a demon. Her sensuous nature was tormented by the thought of the last moment. Had he had time to feel despair--the thirst for life? She prayed not. She thought of the Sunday afternoon at Grosville Park when they had tried to play billiards, and Lord Grosville had come down on them; or she saw him sitting opposite to her, at supper, on the night of the fancy ball, in the splendid Titian dress, while she gloated over the thoughts of the trick she had played on Mary Lyster--or bending over her when she woke from her swoon at Verona. Had she ever really loved him for one hour?--and if not, what possible excuse, before gods or men, was there for this ugly, self-woven tragedy into which she had brought herself and him, merely because her vanity could not bear that William had not been able to love her, for long, far above all her deserts? William! Her heart leaped in her breast. He was thirty-six--and she not twenty-four. A strange and desolate wonder overtook her as the thought seized her of the years they might still spend on the same earth--members of the same country, breathing the same air--and yet forever separate. Never to see him--or speak to him again!--the thought stirred her imagination, as it were, while it tortured her; there was in it a certain luxury and romance of pain. Thus, as she followed Cliffe to his last blood-stained rest, did her mind sink in dreams of Ashe--and in the dismal reckoning up of all that she had so lightly and inconceivably lost. Sometimes she found herself absorbed in a kind of angry marvelling at the strength of the old moral commonplaces. It had been so easy and so exciting to defy them. Stones which the builders of life reject--do they still avenge themselves in the old way? There was a kind of rage in the thought. On the way home Kitty expressed a wish to go into St. Mark's alone. Lady Alice left her there, and in the shadow of the atrium Kitty looked at her strangely, and kissed her. An hour after Lady Alice had reached the hotel a letter was brought to her. In it Kitty bade her--and the Dean--farewell, and asked that no effort should be made to track her. "I am going to friends--where I shall be safe and at peace. Thank you both with all my heart. Let no one think about me any more." Of course they disobeyed her. They made what search in Venice they could, without rousing a scandal, and Ashe rushed out to join it, using the special means at a minister's disposal. But it was fruitless. Kitty vanished like a wraith in the dawn; and the living world of action and affairs knew her no more. XXIV "Well, I must have a carriage!" said William Ashe to the landlord of one of the coaching inns of Domo Dossola--"and if you can't give me one for less, I suppose I shall have to pay this most ridiculous charge. Tell the man to put to at once." The landlord who owned the carriages, and would be sitting snugly at home while the peasant on the box faced the elements in consideration of a large number of extra francs to his master, retired with a deferential smile, and told Emilio to bring the horses. Meanwhile Ashe finished an indifferent dinner, paid a large bill, and went out to survey the preparations for departure, so far as the pelting rain in the court-yard would let him. He was going over the Simplon, starting rather late in the day, and the weather was abominable. His valet, Richard Dell, kept watch over the luggage and encouraged the ostlers, with a fairly stoical countenance. He was an old traveller, and though he would have preferred not to travel in a deluge, he disliked Italy, as a country of sour wine, and would be glad to find himself across the Alps. Moreover, he knew the decision of his master's character, and, being a man of some ability and education, he took a pride in the loftiness of the affairs on which Ashe was generally engaged. If Mr. Ashe said that he _must_ get to Geneva the following morning, and to London the morning after, on important business--why, he _must_, and it was no good talking about weather. They rattled off through the streets of Domo Dossola, Dell in front with the driver, under a waterproof hood and apron, Ashe in the closed landau behind, with a plentiful supply of books, newspapers, and cigars to while away the time. At Isella, the frontier village, he took advantage of the custom-house formalities and of a certain lull in the storm to stroll a little in front of the inn. On the Italian side, looking east, there was a certain wild lifting of the clouds, above the lower course of the stream descending from the Gondo ravine; upon the distant meadows and mountain slopes that marked the opening of the Tosa valley, storm-lights came and went, like phantom deer chased by the storm-clouds; beside him the swollen river thundered past, seeking a thirsty Italy; and behind, over the famous Gondo cleft, lay darkness, and a pelting tumult of rain. Ashe turned back to the carriage, bidding a silent farewell to a country he did not love--a country mainly significant to him of memories which rose like a harsh barrier between his present self and a time when he, too, fleeted life carelessly, like other men, and found every hour delightful. Never, as long as he lived, should he come willingly to Italy. But his mother this year had fallen into such an exhaustion of body and mind, caused by his father's long agony, that he had persuaded her to let him carry her over the Alps to Stresa--a place she had known as a girl and of which she often spoke--for a Whitsuntide holiday. He himself was no longer in office. A coalition between the Tories and certain dissident Liberals had turned out Lord Parham's government in the course of a stormy autumn session, some eight months before. It had been succeeded by a weak administration, resting on two or three loosely knit groups--with Ashe as leader of the Opposition. Hence his comparative freedom, and the chance to be his mother's escort. But at Stresa he had been overtaken by some startling political news--news which seemed to foreshadow an almost immediate change of ministry; and urgent telegrams bade him return at once. The coalition on which the government relied had broken down; the resignation of its chief, a "transient and embarrassed phantom," was imminent; and it was practically certain, in the singular dearth of older men on his own side, since the retirement of Lord Parham, that within a few weeks, if not days, Ashe would be called upon to form an administration.... The carriage was soon on its way again, and presently, in the darkness of the superb ravine that stretches west and north from Gondo, the tumult of wind and water was such that even Ashe's slackened pulses felt the excitement of it. He left the carriage, and, wrapped in a waterproof cape, breasted the wind along the water's edge. Wordsworth's magnificent lines in the "Prelude," dedicated to this very spot, came back to him, as to one who in these later months had been able to renew some of the literary habits and recollections of earlier years "--Tumult and peace, the darkness and the light!" But here on this wild night were only tumult and darkness; and if Nature in this aspect were still to be held, as Wordsworth makes her, the Voice and Apocalypse of God, she breathed a power pitiless and terrible to man. The fierce stream below, the tiny speck made by the carriage and horses straining against the hurricane of wind, the forests on the farther bank climbing to endless heights of rain, the flowers in the rock crannies lashed and torn, the gloom and chill which had thus blotted out a June evening: all these impressions were impressions of war, of struggle and attack, of forces unfriendly and overwhelming. A certain restless and melancholy joy in the challenge of the storm, indeed, Ashe felt, as many another strong man has felt before him, in a similar emptiness of heart. But it was because of the mere provocation of physical energy which it involved; not, as it would have been with him in youth, because of the infinitude and vastness of nature, breathing power and expectation into man: "Effort, and expectation and desire-- And something evermore about to be!" He flung the words upon the wind, which scattered them as soon as they were uttered, merely that he might give them a bitter denial, reject for himself, now and always, the temper they expressed. He had known it well, none better!--gone to bed, and risen up with it--the mere joy in the "mere living." It had seasoned everything, twined round everything, great and small--a day's trout-fishing or deer-stalking; a new book, a friend, a famous place; then politics, and the joys of power. Gone! Here he was, hurrying back to England, to take perhaps in his still young hand the helm of her vast fortunes; and of all the old "expectation and desire," the old passion of hope, the old sense of the magic that lies in things unknown and ways untrodden, he seemed to himself now incapable. He would do his best, and without the political wrestle life would be too trifling to be borne; but the relish and the savor were gone, and all was gray. * * * * * Ah!--he remembered one or two storm-walks with Kitty in their engaged or early married days--in Scotland chiefly. As he trudged up this Swiss pass he could see stretches of Scotch heather under drifting mist, and feel a little figure in its tweed dress flung suddenly by the wind and its own soft will against his arm. And then, the sudden embrace, and the wet, fragrant cheek, and her Voice--mocking and sweet! Oh, God! where was she now? The shock of her disappearance from Venice had left in some ways a deeper mark upon him than even the original catastrophe. For who that had known her could think of such a being, alone, in a world of strangers, without a peculiar dread and anguish? That she was alive he knew, for her five hundred a year--and she had never accepted another penny from him since her flight--was still drawn on her behalf by a banking firm in Paris. His solicitors, since the failure of their first efforts to trace her after Cliffe's death, had made repeated inquiries; Ashe had himself gone to Paris to see the bankers in question. But he was met by their solemn promise to Kitty to keep her secret inviolate. Madame d'Estrées supplied him with the name of the convent in which Kitty had been brought up; but the mother superior denied all knowledge of her. Meanwhile no course of action on Kitty's part could have restored her so effectually to her place in Ashe's imagination. She haunted his days and nights. So also did his memory of the Dean's petition. Insensibly, without argument, the whole attitude of his mind thereto had broken down; since he had been out of office, and his days and nights were no longer absorbed in the detail of administration and Parliamentary leadership, he had been the defenceless prey of grief; yearning and pity and agonized regret, rising from the deep subconscious self, had overpowered his first recoil and determination; and in the absence of all other passionate hope, the one desire and dream which still lived warm and throbbing at his heart was the dream that still in some crowd, or loneliness, he might again, before it was too late, see Kitty's face and the wildness of Kitty's eyes. And he believed much the same process had taken place in his mother's feeling. She rarely spoke of Kitty; but when she did the doubt and soreness of her mind were plain. Her own life had grown very solitary. And in particular the old friendship between her and Polly Lyster had entirely ceased to be. Lady Tranmore shivered when she was named, and would never herself speak of her if she could help it. Ashe had tried in vain to make her explain herself. Surely it was incredible that she could in any way blame Mary for the incident at Verona? Ashe, of course, remembered the passage in his mother's letter from Venice, and they had the maid Blanche's report to Lady Tranmore, of Kitty's intentions when she left Venice, of her terror when Cliffe appeared--of her swoon. But he believed with the Dean that any treacherous servant could have brought about the catastrophe. Vincenzo, one of the gondoliers who took Kitty to the station, had seen the luggage labelled for Verona; no doubt Cliffe had bribed him; and this explanation was, indeed, suggested to Lady Tranmore by the maid. His mother's suspicion--if indeed she entertained it--was so hideous that Ashe, finding it impossible to make his own mind harbor it for an instant, was harrowed by the mere possibility of its existence; as though it represented some hidden sore of consciousness that refused either to be probed or healed. As he labored on against the storm all thought of his present life and activities dropped away from him; he lived entirely in the past. "What is it in me," he thought, "that has made the difference between my life and that of other men I know--that weakened me so with Kitty?" He canvassed his own character, as a third person might have done. The Christian, no doubt, would say that his married life had failed because God had been absent from it, because there had been in it no consciousness of higher law, of compelling grace. Ashe pondered what such things might mean. "The Christian--in speculative belief--fails under the challenge of life as often as other men. Surely it depends on something infinitely more primitive and fundamental than Christianity?--something out of which Christianity itself springs? But this something--does it really exist--or am I only cheating myself by fancying it? Is it, as all the sages have said, the pursuit of some eternal good, the identification of the self with it--the 'dying to live'? And is this the real meaning at the heart of Christianity?--at the heart of all religion?--the everlasting meaning, let science play what havoc it please with outward forms and statements?" Had he, perhaps, _doubted the soul?_ He groaned aloud. "O my God, what matter that I should grow wise--if Kitty is lost and desolate?" And he trampled on his own thoughts--feeling them a mere hypocrisy and offence. As they left the Gondo ravine and began to climb the zigzag road to the Simplon inn, the storm grew still wilder, and the driver, with set lips and dripping face, urged his patient beasts against a deluge. The road ran rivers; each torrent, carefully channelled, that passed beneath it brought down wood and soil in choking abundance; and Ashe watched the downward push of the rain on the high, exposed banks above the carriage. Once they passed a fragment of road which had been washed away; the driver pointing to it said something sulkily about "_frane"_ on the "other side." This bad moment, however, proved to be the last and worst, and when they emerged upon the high valley in which stands the village of Simplon, the rain was already lessening and the clouds rolling up the great sides and peaks of the Fletschhorn. Ashe promised himself a comparatively fine evening and a rapid run down to Brieg. Outside the old Simplon posting-house, however, they presently came upon a crowd of vehicles of every description, of which the drivers were standing in groups with dripping rugs across their shoulders--shouting and gesticulating. And as they drove up the news was thundered at them in every possible tongue. Between the hospice and Bérizal two hundred metres of road had been completely washed away. The afternoon diligence had just got through by a miracle an hour before the accident occurred; before anything else could pass it would take at least ten or twelve hours' hard work, through the night, before the laborers now being requisitioned by the commune could possibly provide even a temporary passage. Ashe in despair went into the inn to speak with the landlord, and found that unless he was prepared to abandon books and papers, and make a push for it over mountain paths covered deep in fresh snow, there was no possible escape from the dilemma. He must stay the night. The navvies were already on their way; and as soon as ever the road was passable he should know. For not even a future Prime Minister of England could Herr Ludwig do more. He and Dell went gloomily up the narrow stone stairs of the inn to look at the bedrooms, which were low-roofed and primitive, penetrated everywhere by the roar of a stream which came down close behind the inn. Through the open door of one of the rooms Ashe saw the foaming mass, framed as it were in a window, and almost in the house. He chose two small rooms looking on the street, and bade Dell get a fire lit in one of them, a bed moved out, an arm-chair moved in, and as large a table set for him as the inn could provide, while he took a stroll before dinner. He had some important letters to answer, and he pointed out to Dell the bag which contained them. Then he stepped out into the muddy street, which was still a confusion of horses, vehicles, and men, and, turning up a path behind the inn, was soon in solitude. An evening of splendor! Nature was still in a tragic, declamatory mood--sending piled thunder-clouds of dazzling white across a sky extravagantly blue, and throwing on the high snow-fields and craggy tops a fierce, flame-colored light. The valley was resonant with angry sound, and the village, now in shadow, with its slender, crumbling campanile, seemed like a cowering thing over which the eagle has passed. The grandeur and the freshness, the free, elemental play of stream and sky and mountain, seized upon a man in whom the main impulses of life were already weary, and filled him with an involuntary physical delight. He noticed the flowers at his feet, in the drenched grass which was already lifting up its battered stalks, and along the margins of the streams--deep blue colombines, white lilies, and yellow anemones. Incomparable beauty lived and breathed in each foot of pasture; and when he raised his eyes from the grass they fed on visionary splendors of snow and rock, stretching into the heavens. No life visible--except a line of homing cattle, led by a little girl with tucked-up skirt and bare feet. And--in the distance--the slender figure of a woman walking--stopping often to gather a flower--or to rest? Not a woman of the valley, clearly. No doubt a traveller, weather-bound like himself at the inn. He watched the figure a little, for some vague grace of movement that seemed to enter into and make a part of that high beauty in which the scene was steeped; but it disappeared behind a fold of pasture, and he did not see it again. In spite of the multitude of vehicles gathered about the inn there were not so many guests in the _salle-à-manger_, when Ashe entered it, as he had expected. He supposed that a majority of these vehicles must be return carriages from Brieg. Still there was much clatter of talk and plates, and German seemed to be the prevailing tongue. Except for a couple whom Ashe took to be a Genevese professor and his wife, there was no lady in the room. He lingered somewhat late at table, toying with his orange, and reading a _Journal de Genève_, captured from a neighbor, which contained an excellent "London letter." The room emptied. The two Swiss handmaidens came in to clear away soiled linen and arrange the tables for the morning's coffee. Only, at a farther table, a _couvert_ for one person, set by itself, remained still untouched. He happened to be alone in the room when the door again opened and a lady entered. She did not see him behind his newspaper, and she walked languidly to the farther table and sat down. As she did so she was seized with a fit of coughing, and when it was over she leaned her head on her hands, gasping. Ashe had half risen--the newspaper was crushed in his hand--when the Swiss waitress whom the men of the inn called Fräulein Anna--who was, indeed, the daughter of the landlord--came back. "How are you, madame?" she said, with a smile, and in a slow English of which she was evidently proud. "I'm better to-day," said the other, hastily. "I shall start to-morrow. What a noise there is to-night!" she added, in a tone both fretful and weary. "We are so full--it is the accident to the road, madame. Will madame have a _thé complet_ as before?" The lady nodded, and Frãulein Anna, who evidently knew her ways, brought in the tea at once, stayed chatting beside her for a minute, and then departed, with a long, disapproving look at the gentleman in the corner who was so long over his coffee and would not let her clear away. Ashe made a fierce effort to still the thumping in his breast and decide what he should do. For the guests there was only one door of entrance or exit, and to reach it he must pass close beside the new-comer. He laid down his newspaper. She heard the rustling, and involuntarily looked round. There was a slight sound--an exclamation. She rose. He heard and saw her coming, and sat tranced and motionless, his eyes bent upon her. She came tottering, clinging to the chairs, her hand on her side, till she reached the corner where he was. "William!" she said, with a little, glad sob, under her breath--"William!" He himself could not speak. He stood there gazing at her, his lips moving without sound. It seemed to him that she turned her head a moment, as though to look for some one beside him--with an exquisite tremor of the mouth. "Isn't it strange?" she said, in the same guarded voice. "I had a dream once--a valley--and mountains--and an inn. You sat here--just like this--and--" She put up her hands to her eyes a moment, shivered, and withdrew them. From her expression she seemed to be waiting for him to speak. He moved and stood beside her. "Where can we talk?" he said, with difficulty. She shook her head vaguely, looking round her with that slight frown, complaining and yet sweet, which was like a touch of fire on memory. The waitress came back into the room. "It _is_ odd to have met you here!" said Kitty, in a laughing voice. "Let us go into the _salon de lecture_. The maids want to clear away. Please bring your newspaper." Fräulein Anna looked at them with a momentary curiosity, and went on with her work. They passed into the passage-way outside, which was full of smokers overflowing from the crowded room beyond, where the humbler frequenters of the inn ate and drank. Kitty glanced round her in bewilderment. "The _salon de lecture_ will be full, too. Where shall we go?" she said, looking up. Ashe's hand clinched as it hung beside him. The old gesture--and the drawn, emaciated face--they pierced the heart. "I told my servant to arrange me a sitting-room up-stairs," he said, hurriedly, in her ear. "Will you go up first?--number ten." She nodded, and began slowly to mount the stairs, coughing as she went. The man whom Ashe had taken for a Genevese professor looked after her, glanced at his neighbor, and shrugged his shoulders. "Phthisique," he said, with a note of pity. The other nodded. "Et d'un type très avancé!" They moved towards the door and stood looking into the night, which was dark with intermittent rain. Ashe studied a map of the commune which hung on the wall beside him, till at a moment when the passage had become comparatively clear he turned and went up-stairs. The door of his improvised _salon_ was ajar. Beyond it his valet was coming out of his bedroom with wet clothes over his arm. Ashe hesitated. But the man had been with him through the greater part of his married life, and was a good heart. He beckoned him back into the room he was leaving, and the two stepped inside. "Dell, my good fellow, I want your help. I have just met my wife here--Lady Kitty. You understand. Neither of us, of course, had any idea. Lady Kitty is very ill. We wish to have a conversation--uninterrupted. I trust you to keep guard." The young man, son of one of the Haggart gardeners, started and flushed, then gave his master a look of sympathy. "I'll do my best, sir." Ashe nodded and went back to the next room. He closed the door behind him. Kitty, who was sitting by the fire, half rose. Their eyes met. Then with a stifled cry he flung himself down, kneeling beside her, and she sank into his arms. His tears fell on her face, anguish and pity overwhelmed him. "You may!" she said, brokenly, putting up her hand to his cheek, and kissing him--"you may! I'm not mad or wicked now--and I'm dying!" Agonized murmurs of love, pardon, self-abasement passed between them. It was as though a great stream bore them on its breast; an awful and majestic power enwrapped them, and made each word, each kiss, wonderful, sacramental. He drew himself away at last, holding her hair back from her brow and temples, studying her features, his own face convulsed. "Where have you been? Why did you hide from me?" "You forbade me," she said, stroking his hair. "And it was quite right. The dear Dean told me--and I quite understood. If I'd gone to Haggart then there'd have been more trouble. I should have tried to get my old place back. And now it's all over. You can give me all I want, because I can't live. It's only a question of months, perhaps weeks. Nobody could blame you, could they? People don't laugh when--it's death. It simplifies things so--doesn't it?" She smiled, and nestled to him again. "What do you mean?" he said, almost violently. "Why are you so ill?" "It was Bosnia first, and then--being miserable--I suppose. And Poitiers was very cold--and the nuns very stuffy, bless them--they wouldn't let me have air enough." He groaned aloud while he remembered his winter in London, in the forlorn luxury of the Park Lane house. "Where have you been?" he repeated. "Oh! I went to the Soeurs Blanches--you remember?--where I used to be. You went there, didn't you?"--he made a sign of miserable assent--"but I made them promise not to tell! There was an old mistress of novices there still who used to be very fond of me. She got one of the houses of the Sacré Coeur to take me in--at Poitiers. They thought they were gathering a stray sheep back into the fold, you understand, as I was brought up a Catholic--of sorts. And I didn't mind!" The familiar intonation, soft, complacent, humorous, rose like a ghost between them. "I used to like going to mass. But this Easter they wanted to make me 'go to my duties'--you know what it means?--and I wouldn't. I wanted to confess." She shuddered and drew his face down to hers again--"but only once--to--you--and then, well then, to die, and have done with it. You see, I knew one can't get on long with three-quarters of a lung. And they were rather tiresome--they didn't understand. So three weeks ago I drew some money out and said good-bye to them. Oh! they were very kind, and very sorry for me. They wanted me to take a maid, and I meant to. But the one they found wouldn't come with me when she saw how ill I was--and it all lingered on--so one day I just walked out to the railway-station and went to Paris. But Paris was rainy--and I felt I must see the sun again. So I stayed two nights at a little hotel maman used to go to--horrid place!--and each night I read your speeches in the reading-room--and then I got my things from Poitiers, and started--" A fit of coughing stopped her, coughing so terrible and destructive that he almost rushed for help. But she restrained him. She made him understand that she wanted certain remedies from her own room across the corridor. He went for them. The door of this room had been shut by the observant Dell, who was watching the passage from his own bedroom farther on. When Ashe had opened it he found himself face to face as it were with the foaming stream outside. The window, as he had seen it before, was wide open to the water-fall just beyond it, and the temperature was piercingly cold and damp. The furniture was of the roughest, and a few of Kitty's clothes lay scattered about. As he fumbled for a light, there hovered before his eyes the remembrance of their room in Hill Street, strewn with chiffons and all the elegant and costly trifles that made the natural setting of its mistress. He found the medicines and hurried back. She feebly gave him directions. "Now the strychnine!--and some brandy." He did all he could. He drew some chairs together before the fire, and made a couch for her with pillows and rugs. She thanked him with smiles, and her eyes followed his every movement. "Tell your man to get some milk! And listen"--she caught his hand. "Lock my door. That nice woman down-stairs will come to look after me, and she'll think I'm asleep." It was done as she wished. Ashe took in the milk from Dell's hands, and a fresh supply of wood. Then he turned the key in his own door and came back to her. She was lying quiet, and seemed revived. "How cosey!" she said, with a childish pleasure, looking round her at the bare white walls and scoured boards warmed with the fire-light. The bitter tears swam in Ashe's eyes. He fell into a chair on the other side of the fire, and stared--seeing nothing--at the burning logs. "You needn't suppose that I don't get people to look after me!" she went on, smiling at him again, one shadowy hand propping her cheek. And she prattled on about the kindness of the chambermaids at Vevey and Brieg, and how one of them had wanted to come with her as her maid. "Oh! I shall find one at Florence if I get there--or a nurse. But just for these few days I wanted to be free! In the winter there were so many people about--so many eyes! I just pined to cheat them--get quit of them. A maid would have bothered me to stay in bed and see doctors--and you know, William, with this illness of mine you're so _restless_!" "Where were you going to?" he said, without looking up. "Oh! to Italy somewhere--just to see some flowers again--and the sun. Only not to Venice!" There was a silence, which she broke by a sudden cry as she drew him down to her. "William! you know--I was coming home to you, when that man--found me." "I know. If it had only been I who killed him!" "I'm just--_Kitty_!" she said, choking--"as bad as bad can be. But I couldn't have done what Mary Lyster did." "Kitty--for God's sake!" "Oh, I know it," she said, almost with triumph--"now I _know_ it. I determined to know--and I got people in Venice to find out. She sent the message--that told him where I was--and I know the man who took it. I suppose it would be pathetic if I sent her word that I had forgiven her. But I _haven't_!" Ashe cried out that it was wholly and utterly inconceivable. [Illustration: "HE DREW SOME CHAIRS TOGETHER BEFORE THE FIRE"] "Oh no!--she hated me because I had robbed her of Geoffrey. I had killed her life, I suppose--she killed mine. It was what I deserved, of course; only just at that moment--If there is a God, William, how could He have let it happen so?" The tears choked her. He left his seat, and, kneeling beside her, he raised her in his arms, while she murmured broken and anguished confessions. "I was so weak--and frightened. And _he_ said, it was no good trying to go back to you. Everybody knew I had gone to Verona--and he had followed me--No one would ever believe--And he wouldn't go--wouldn't leave me. It would be mere cruelty and desertion, he said. My real life was--with him. And I seemed--paralyzed. Who _had_ sent that message? It never occurred to me--I felt as if some demon held me--and I couldn't escape--" And again the sighs and tears, which wrung his heart--with which his own mingled. He tried to comfort her; but what comfort could there be? They had been the victims of a crime as hideous as any murder; and yet--behind the crime--there stretched back into the past the preparations and antecedents by which they themselves, alack, had contributed to their own undoing. Had they not both trifled with the mysterious test of life--he no less than she? And out of the dark had come the axe-stroke that ends weakness, and crushes the unsteeled, inconstant will. * * * * * After long silence, she began to talk in a rambling, delirious way of her months in Bosnia. She spoke of the _cold_--of the high mountain loneliness--of the terrible sights she had seen--till he drew her, shuddering, closer into his arms. And yet there was that in her talk which amazed him; flashes of insight, of profound and passionate experience, which seemed to fashion her anew before his eyes. The hard peasant life, in contact with the soil and natural forces; the elemental facts of birth and motherhood, of daily toil and suffering; what it means to fight oppressors for freedom, and see your dearest--son, lover, wife, betrothed--die horribly amid the clash of arms; into this caldron of human fate had Kitty plunged her light soul; and in some ways Ashe scarcely knew her again. She recurred often to the story of a youth, handsome and beardless, who had been wounded by a stray Turkish shot in the course of the long climb to the village where she nursed. He had managed to gain the height, and then, killed by the march as much as by the shot, he had sunk down to die on the ground-floor of the house where Kitty lived. "He was a stranger--no one knew him in the village--no one cared. They had their own griefs. I dressed his wound--and gave him water. He thought I was his mother, and asked me to kiss him. I kissed him, William--and he smiled once--before the last hemorrhage. If you had seen the cold, dismal room--and his poor face!" Ashe gathered her to his breast. And after a while she said, with closed eyes: "Oh, what pain there is in the world, William!--what _pain_! That's what--I never knew." * * * * * The evening wore on. All the noises ceased down-stairs. One by one the guests came up the stone stairs and along the creaking corridor. Boots were thrown out; the doors closed. The strokes of eleven o'clock rang out from the village campanile; and amid the quiet of the now drizzling rain the echoes of the bell lingered on the ear. Last of all a woman's step passed the door--stopped at the door of Kitty's room, as though some one listened, and then gently returned. "Fräulein Anna!" said Kitty--"she's a good soul." Soon nothing was heard but the roar of the flooded stream on one side of the old narrow building and the dripping of rain on the other. Their low voices were amply covered by these sounds. The night lay before them, safe and undisturbed. Candles burned on the mantel-piece, and on a table behind Kitty's head was a paraffine lamp. She seemed to have a craving for light. "Kitty!" said Ashe, suddenly bending over her--"understand! I shall never leave you again." She started, her head fell back on his arm, and her brown eyes considered him: "William! I saw the _Standard_ at Geneva. Aren't you going home--because of politics?" "A few telegrams will settle that. I shall take you to Geneva to-morrow. We shall get doctors there." A little smile played about her mouth--a smile which did not seem to have any reference to his words or to her next question. "Nobody thinks of the book now, do they, William?" "No, Kitty, no! It's all forgotten, dear." "Oh, it was abominable!" She drew a long breath. "But I can't help it--I did get a horrid pleasure out of writing it--till Venice--till you left off loving me. Oh, William! William!--what a good thing it is I'm dying!" "Hush, Kitty--hush." "It gives one such an unfair advantage, though, doesn't it? You can't ever be angry with me again. There won't be time. William, dear!--I haven't had a brain like other people. I know it. It's only since I've been so ill--that I've been sane! It's a strange feeling--as though one had been _bled_--and some poison had drained away. But it would never do for me to take a turn and live! Oh no!--people like me are better safely under the grass. Oh, my beloved! my beloved! I just want to say that all the time, and nothing else--I've hungered so to say it!" He answered her with all the anguish, all the passionate, fruitless tenderness and vain comfortings that rise from the human heart in such a strait. But when he asked her pardon for his hardness towards the Dean's petition, when he said that his conscience had tormented him thenceforward, she would scarcely hear a word. "You did quite right," she said, peremptorily--"quite right." Then she raised herself on her arm and looked at him. "William!" she said, with a strange, kindled expression. "I--I don't think I can live any more! I think--I'm dying--here--now!" She fell back on her pillows, and he sprang to his feet, crying that he must go for Fräulein Anna and a doctor. But she held him feebly, motioning towards the brandy and strychnine. "That's all--you can do." He gave them to her, and again she revived and smiled at him. "Don't be frightened. It was a sudden feeling--it came over me--that this dear little room--and your arms--would be the end. Oh, how much best! There!--that was foolish!--I'm better. It isn't only the lungs, you see; they say the heart's worst. I nearly went at Vevey, one night. It was such a long faint." Then she lay quiet, with her hand in his, in a dreamy, peaceful state, and his panic subsided. Once she sent messages to Lady Tranmore--messages full of sorrow, touched also--by a word here, a look there--by the charm of the old Kitty. "I don't deserve to die like this," she said, once, with a half-impatient gesture. "Nothing can prevent it's being beautiful--and touching--you know; our meeting like this--and your goodness to me. Oh, I'm glad! But I don't want to glorify--what I've done. _Shame! Shame!"_ And again her face contracted with the old habitual agony, only to be soothed away gradually by his tone and presence, the spending of his whole being in the broken words of love. Towards the morning, when, as it seemed to him, she had been sleeping for a time, and he had been, if not sleeping, at least dreaming awake beside her, he heard a little, low laugh, and looked round. Her brown eyes were wide open, till they seemed to fill the small, blighted face; and they were fixed on an empty chair the other side of the fire. "It's so strange--in this illness," she whispered--"that it makes one dream--and generally kind dreams. It's fever--but it's nice." She turned and looked at him. "Harry was there, William--sitting in that chair. Not a baby any more--but a little fellow--and so lively, and strong, and quick. I had you both--_both_." Looking back afterwards, also, he remembered that she spoke several times of religious hopes and beliefs--especially of the hope in another life--and that they seemed to sustain her. Most keenly did he recollect the delicacy with which she had refrained from asking his opinion upon them, lest it should trouble him not to be able to uphold or agree with her; while, at the same time, she wished him to have the comfort of remembering that she had drawn strength and calm, in these last hours, from religious thoughts. * * * * * For they proved, indeed, to be the last hours. About three the morning began to dawn, clear and rosy, with rich lights striking on the snow. Suddenly Kitty sat up, disengaged herself from her wraps, and tottered to her feet. "I'll go back to my room," she said, in bewilderment. "I'd rather." And as she clung to him, with a startled yet half-considering look, she gazed round her, at the bright fire, the morning light, the chair from which he had risen--his face. He tried to dissuade her. But she would go. Her aspect, however, was deathlike, and as he softly undid the doors, and half-helped, half-carried her across the passage, he said to her that he must go and waken Fräulein Anna and find a doctor. "No--no." She grasped him with all her remaining strength; "stay with me." They entered the little room, which seemed to be in a glory of light, for the sun striking across the low roof of the inn had caught the foamy water-fall beyond, and the reflection of it on the white walls and ceiling was dazzling. Beside the bed she swayed and nearly fell. "I won't undress," she murmured--"I'll just lie down." She lay down with his help, turning her face to make a fond, hardly articulate sound, and press her cheek against his. In a few minutes it seemed to him that she was sleeping again. He softly went out of the room and down-stairs. There, early as it was, he found Fräulein Anna, who looked at him with amazement. "Where can I find a doctor?" he asked her; and they talked for a few minutes, after which she went up-stairs beside him, trembling and flushed. They found Kitty lying on her side, her face hidden entirely in the curls which had fallen across it, and one arm hanging. There was that in her aspect which made them both recoil. Then Ashe rushed to her with a cry, and as he passionately kissed her cold cheek he heard the clamor of the frightened girl behind him. "Ach, Gott!--Ach Gott!"--and the voices of others, men and women, who began to crowd into the narrow room. THE END 
4467	----	None 
7374	----	AN AMERICAN POLITICIAN _A Novel_ BY F. MARION CRAWFORD AUTHOR OF "MR. ISAACS," "DR. CLAUDIUS," "A ROMAN SINGER," "TO LEEWARD," ETC. TO MY DEAR FRIEND, ELIZABETH CHRISTOPHERS HOBSON, IN GRATITUDE AND AFFECTION, I DEDICATE THIS STORY. CONSTANTINOPLE, _October 7,1884._ CHAPTER I. Mrs. Sam Wyndham was generally at home after five o'clock. The established custom whereby the ladies who live in Beacon Street all receive their friends on Monday afternoon did not seem to her satisfactory. She was willing to conform to the practice, but she reserved the right of seeing people on other days as well. Mrs. Sam Wyndham was never very popular. That is to say, she was not one of those women who are seemingly never spoken ill of, and are invited as a matter of course, or rather as an element of success, to every dinner, musical party, and dance in the season. Women did not all regard her with envy, all young men did not think she was capital fun, nor did all old men come and confide to her the weaknesses of their approaching second childhood. She was not invariably quoted as the standard authority on dress, classical music, and Boston literature, and it was not an unpardonable heresy to say that some other women might be, had been, or could be, more amusing in ordinary conversation. Nevertheless, Mrs. Sam Wyndham held a position in Boston which Boston acknowledged, and which Boston insisted that foreigners such as New Yorkers, Philadelphians and the like, should acknowledge also in that spirit of reverence which is justly due to a descent on both sides from several signers of the Declaration of Independence, and to the wife of one of the ruling financial spirits of the aristocratic part of Boston business. As a matter of fact, Mrs. Wyndham was about forty years of age, as all her friends of course knew; for it is as easy for a Bostonian to conceal a question of age as for a crowned head. In a place where one half of society calls the other half cousin, and went to school with it, every one knows and accurately remembers just how old everybody else is. But Mrs. Wyndham might have passed for younger than she was among the world at large, for she was fresh to look at, and of good figure and complexion. Her black hair showed no signs of turning gray, and her dark eyes were bright and penetrating still. There were lines in her face, those microscopic lines that come so abundantly to American women in middle age, speaking of a certain restless nervousness that belongs to them especially; but on the whole Mrs. Sam Wyndham was fair to see, having a dignity of carriage and a grace of ease about her that at once gave the impression of a woman thoroughly equal to the part she had to play in the world, and not by any means incapable of enjoying it. For the rest, Mrs. Sam led a life very much like the lives of many rich Americans. She went abroad frequently, wandered about the continent with her husband, went to Egypt and Algiers, stayed in England, where she had a good many friends, avoided her countrymen and countrywomen when away from home, and did her duty in the social state to which she was called in Boston. She read the books of the period, and generally pronounced them ridiculous; she believed in her husband's politics, and aristocratically approved the way in which he abstained from putting theory into practice, from voting, and in a general way from dirtying his fingers with anything so corrupt as government, or so despicable as elections; she understood Boston business to some extent, and called it finance, but she despised the New York Stock Market and denounced its doings as gambling. She made fine distinctions, but she was a woman of sense, and was generally more likely to be right than wrong when she had a definite opinion, or expressed a definite dislike. Her religious views were simple and unobtrusive, and never changed. Her custom of being at home after five o'clock was perhaps the only deviation she allowed herself from the established manners of her native city, and since two or three other ladies had followed her example, it had come to be regarded as a perfectly harmless idiosyncrasy for which she could not properly be blamed. The people who came to see her were chiefly men, except, of course, on the inevitable Monday. A day or two before Christmas, then, Mrs. Sam Wyndham was at home in the afternoon. The snow lay thick and hard outside, and the sleigh bells tinkled unceasingly as the sleighs slipped by the window, gleaming and glittering in the deep red glow of the sunset. The track was well beaten for miles away, down Beacon Street and across the Milldam to the country, and the pavements were strewn with ashes to give a foothold for pedestrians. For the frost was sharp and lasting. But within, Mrs. Wyndham sat by the fire with a small table before her, and one companion by her side, for whom she was pouring tea. "Tell me all about your summer, Mr. Vancouver," said she, teasing the flame of the spirit-lamp into better shape with a small silver instrument. Mr. Pocock Vancouver leaned back in his corner of the sofa and looked at the fire, then at the window, and finally at his hostess, before he answered. He was a pale man and slight of figure, with dark eyes, and his carefully brushed hair, turning gray at the temples and over his forehead, threw his delicate, intelligent face into relief. "I have not done much," he answered, rather absently, as though trying to find something interesting in his reminiscences; and he watched Mrs. Wyndham as she filled a cup. He was not the least anxious to talk, it seemed, and he had an air of being thoroughly at home. "You were in England most of the time, were you not?" "Yes--I believe I was. Oh, by the bye, I met Harrington in Paris; I thought he meant to stay at home." "He often goes abroad," said Mrs. Wyndham indifferently. "One lump of sugar?" "Two, if you please--no cream--thanks. Does he go to Paris to convert the French, or to glean materials for converting other people?" inquired Mr. Vancouver languidly. "I am sure I cannot tell you," answered the lady, still indifferently. "What do you go to Paris for?" "Principally to renew my acquaintance with civilized institutions and humanizing influences. What does anybody go abroad for?" "You always talk like that when you come home, Mr. Vancouver," said Mrs. Wyndham. "But nevertheless you come back and seem to find Boston bearable. It is not such a bad place after all, is it?" "If it were not for half a dozen people here, I would never come back at all," said Mr. Vancouver. "But then, I am not originally one of you, and I suppose that makes a difference." "And pray, who are the half dozen people who procure us the honor of your presence?" "You are one of them, Mrs. Wyndham," he answered, looking at her. "I am much obliged," she replied, demurely. "Any one else?" "Oh--John Harrington," said Vancouver with a little laugh. "Really?" said Mrs. Wyndham, innocently; "I did not know you were such good friends." Mr. Vancouver sipped his tea in silence for a moment and stared at the fire. "I have a great respect for Harrington," he said at last. "He interests me very much, and I like to meet him." He spoke seriously, as though thoroughly in earnest. The faintest look of amusement came to Mrs. Wyndham's face for a moment. "I am glad of that," she said; "Mr. Harrington is a very good friend of mine. Do you mind lighting those candles? The days are dreadfully short." Pocock Vancouver rose with alacrity and performed the service required. "By the way," said Mrs. Wyndham, watching him, "I have a surprise for you." "Indeed?" "Yes, an immense surprise. Do you remember Sybil Brandon?" "Charlie Brandon's daughter? Very well--saw her at Newport some time ago. Lily-white style--all eyes and hair." "You ought to remember her. You used to rave about her, and you nearly ruined yourself in roses. You will have another chance; she is going to spend the winter with me." "Not really?" ejaculated Mr. Vancouver, in some surprise, as he again sat down upon the sofa. "Yes; you know she is all alone in the world now." "What? Is her mother dead too?" "She died last spring, in Paris. I thought you knew." "No," said Vancouver, thoughtfully. "How awfully sad!" "Poor girl," said Mrs. Wyndham; "I thought it would do her good to be among live people, even if she does not go out." "When is she coming?" There was a show of interest about the question. "She is here now," answered Mrs. Sam. "Dear me!" said Vancouver. "May I have another cup?" His hostess began the usual series of operations necessary to produce a second cup of tea. "Mrs. Wyndham," began Vancouver again after a pause, "I have an idea--do not laugh, it is a very good one, I am sure." "I am not laughing." "Why not marry Sibyl Brandon to John Harrington?" Mrs. Wyndham stared for a moment. "How perfectly ridiculous!" she cried at last. "Why?" "They would starve, to begin with." "I doubt it," said Vancouver. "Why, I am sure Mr. Harrington never had more than five thousand a year in his life. You could not marry on that, you know--possibly." "No; but Miss Brandon is very well off--rich, in fact." "I thought she had nothing." "She must have thirty or forty thousand a year from her mother, at the least. You know Charlie never did anything in his life; he lived on his wife's money, and Miss Brandon must have it all." Mrs. Wyndham did not appear surprised at the information; she hardly seemed to think it of any importance. "I knew she had something," she repeated; "but I am glad if you are right. But that does not make it any more feasible to marry her to Mr. Harrington." "I thought that starvation was your objection," said Vancouver. "Oh, no; not that only. Besides, he would not marry her." "He would be very foolish not to, if he had the chance," remarked Vancouver. "Perhaps he might not even have the chance--perhaps she would not marry him," said Mrs. Wyndham, thoughtfully. "Besides, I do not think John Harrington ought to marry yet; he has other things to do." Mr. Vancouver seemed about to say something in answer, but he checked himself; possibly he did not speak because he saw some one enter the room at that moment, and was willing to leave the discussion of John Harrington to a future time. In fact, the person who entered the room should have been the very last to hear the conversation that was taking place, for it was Miss Brandon herself, though Mr. Vancouver had not recognized her at once. There were greetings and hand-shakings, and then Miss Brandon sat down by the fire and spread out her hands as though to warm them. She looked white and cold. There are women in the world, both young and old, who seem to move among us like visions from another world, a world that is purer and fairer, and more heavenly than this one in which the rest of us move. It is hard to say what such women have that marks them so distinctly; sometimes it is beauty, sometimes only a manner, often it is both. It is very certain that we know and feel their influence, and that many men fear it as something strange and contrary to the common order of things, a living reproach and protest against all that is base and earthly and badly human. Most people would have said first of Sybil Brandon that she was cold, and many would have added that she was beautiful. Ill-natured people sometimes said she was deathly. No one ever said she was pretty. Vancouver's description--lily-white, all eyes and hair--certainly struck the principal facts of her appearance, for her skin was whiter than is commonly natural, her eyes were very deep and large and blue, and her soft brown hair seemed to be almost a burden to her from its great quantity. She was dressed entirely in black, and being rather tall and very slight of figure, the dress somewhat exaggerated the ethereal look that was natural to her. She seemed cold, and spread out her delicate hands to the bright flame of the blazing wood-fire. Mrs. Wyndham and Pocock Vancouver looked at her in silence for a moment. Then Mrs. Wyndham rose with a cup of tea in her hand, and crossed to the other side of the fireplace where Sybil was sitting and offered it to her. "Poor Sybil, you are so cold. Drink some tea." The elder woman sat down by the young girl, and lightly kissed her cheek. "You must not be sad, darling," she whispered sympathetically. "I am not sad at all, really," answered Miss Brandon aloud, quite naturally, but pressing Mrs. Wyndham's hand a little, as though in acknowledgment of her sympathy. "No one can be sad in Boston," said Vancouver, putting in a word. "Our city is altogether too wildly gay." He laughed a little. "You must not make fun of us to visitors, Mr. Vancouver," answered Mrs. Wyndham, still holding Sybil's hand. "It is Mr. Vancouver's ruling passion, though he never acknowledges it," said Miss Brandon, calmly. "I remember it of old." "I am flattered at being remembered," said Mr. Vancouver, whose delicate features betrayed neither pleasure nor interest, however. "But," he continued, "I am not particularly flattered at being called a scoffer at my own people--" "I did not say that," interrupted Miss Brandon. "Well, you said my ruling passion was making fun of Boston to visitors; at least, you and Mrs. Wyndham said it between you. I really never do that, unless I give the other side of the question as well." "What other side?" asked Mrs. Sam, who wanted to make conversation. "Boston," said Vancouver with some solemnity. "It is not more often ridiculous than other great institutions." "You simply take one's breath away, Mr. Vancouver," said Mrs. Wyndham, with a good deal of emphasis. "The idea of calling Boston 'an institution!'" "Why, certainly. The United States are only an institution after all. You could not soberly call us a nation. Even you could not reasonably be moved to fine patriotic phrases about your native country, if your ancestors had signed twenty Declarations of Independence. We live in a great institution, and we have every right to flatter ourselves on the success of its management; but in the long run this thing will not do for a nation." Miss Brandon looked at Vancouver with a sort of calm incredulity. Mrs. Wyndham always quarreled with him on points like the one now raised, and accordingly took up the cudgels. "I do not see how you can congratulate yourself on the management of your institution, as you call it, when you know very well you would rather die than have anything to do with it." "Very true. But then, you always say that gentlemen should not touch anything so dirty as politics, Mrs. Wyndham," retorted Vancouver. "Well, that just shows that it is not an institution at all, and that you are quite wrong, and that we are a great nation supported and carried on by real patriotism." "And the Irish and German votes," added Vancouver, with that scorn which only the true son of freedom can exhibit in speaking of his fellow-citizens. "Oh, the Irish vote! That is always the last word in the argument," answered Mrs. Sam. "I do not see exactly what the Irish have to do with it," remarked Miss Brandon, innocently. She did not understand politics. Vancouver glanced at the clock and took his hat. "It is very simple," he said, rising to go. "It is the bull in the china shop--the Irish bull amongst the American china--dangerous, you know. Good evening, Mrs. Wyndham; good evening, Miss Brandon." And he took his leave. Miss Brandon watched his slim figure disappear through the heavy curtains of the door. "He has not changed much since I knew him," she said, turning again to the fire. "I used to think he was clever." "And have you changed your mind?" asked Mrs. Wyndham, laughing. "Not quite, but I begin to doubt. He has very good manners, and looks altogether like a gentleman." "Of course," said Mrs. "Wyndham." His mother was a Shaw, although his father came from South Carolina. But he is really very bright; Sam always says he is one of the ablest men in Boston." "In what way?" inquired Sybil. "Oh, he is a lawyer, don't you know?--great railroad man." "Oh," ejaculated Miss Brandon, and relapsed into silence. Mrs. Wyndham rose and stood before the fire, and pushed a log back with her small foot. Miss Brandon watched her, half wondering whether the flames would not catch her dress. "I have been to see that Miss Thorn," said Sybil presently. "Oh," exclaimed Mrs. Sam, with sudden interest, "tell me all about her this minute, dear. Is not she the most extraordinary creature?" "I rather like her," answered Miss Brandon. "She is very pretty." "What style? Dark?" "No; not exactly. Brown hair, and lots of eyebrows. She is a little thing, but very much alive, you know." "Awfully English, of course," suggested Mrs. Sam. "Well--yes, I suppose so. She is wild about horses, and says she shoots. But I like her--I am sure I shall like her very much. She does not seem very pleased with her aunt." "I do not wonder," said Mrs. Sam. "Poor little thing--she has nobody else belonging to her, has she?" "Oh, yes," answered Sybil, with a little tremor in her voice; "she has a mother in England." "I want to see her ever so much," said Mrs. Sam. "Bring her to luncheon." "You will see her to-night, I think; she said she was going to that party." "I hate to leave you alone," said Mrs. Wyndham. "I really think I had better not go." "Dear Mrs. Wyndham," said Sybil, rising, and laying her hands on her hostess's shoulders, half affectionately, half in protest, "this idea must be stopped from the first, and I mean to stop it. You are not to give up any party, or any society, or anything at all for me. If you do I will go away again. Promise me, will you not?" "Very well, dear. But you know you are the dearest girl in the world." And so they kissed, and agreed that Mrs. Wyndham should go out, and that Sybil should stay at home. Mrs. Wyndham was really a very kind-hearted woman and a loving friend. That might be the reason why she was never popular. Popularity is a curious combination of friendliness and indifference, but very popular people rarely have devoted friends, and still more rarely suffer great passions. Everybody's friend is far too apt to be nobody's, for it is impossible to rely on the support of a person whose devotion is liable to be called upon a hundred times a day, from a hundred different quarters. The friendships that mean anything mean sacrifice for friendship's sake; and a man or a woman really ready to make sacrifices for a considerable number of people is likely to be asked to do it very often, and to be soon spent in the effort to be true to every one. But popularity makes no great demands. The popular man is known to be so busy in being popular that his offenses of omission are readily pardoned. His engagements are legion, his obligations are innumerable, and far more than he can fulfill. But, meet him when you will, his smile is as bright, his greeting as cordial, and his sayings as universally good-natured and satisfactory as ever. He has acquired the habit of pleasing, and it is almost impossible for him to displease. He enjoys it all, is agreeable to every one, and is never expected to catch cold in attending a friend's funeral, or otherwise to sacrifice his comfort, because he is quite certain to have important engagements elsewhere, in which the world always believes. There is probably no individual more absolutely free and untrammeled than the thoroughly popular man. CHAPTER II. Fate, the artist, mixes her own colors. She grinds them with a pestle in the fashion of the old masters, and out of the most strange pigments she produces often only soft neutral tints for background and shadow, kneading a vast deal of bright colors away among the grays and browns; but now and then she takes a palette loaded with strong paint, and a great brush, and splashes a startling full length portrait upon the canvas, without much regard for drawing or general composition, but with very startling effect. To paint well needs life-long study; to paint so as merely to attract attention needs courage and a heart hardened against artistic sensitiveness. John Harrington was a high light against the mezzotint of his surroundings. He was a constant source of interest, and not infrequently of terror, to the good town of Boston. True, he was a Bostonian himself, a chip of the old block, whose progenitors had lived in Salem, and whose very name breathed Pilgrim memories. He even had a teapot that had come over in the Mayflower. This was greatly venerated, and whenever John Harrington said anything more than usually modern, his friends brandished the teapot, morally speaking, in his defense, and put it in the clouds as a kind of rainbow--a promise that Puritan blood could not go wrong. Nevertheless, John Harrington continued to startle his fellow-townsmen by his writings and sayings, so that many of the grave sort shook their heads and swore that he sympathized with the Irish and believed in Chinese labor. As a matter-of-fact, he did not mince matters. Endowed with unbounded courage and an extraordinary command of language, when he got upon his feet he spoke his mind in a way that was good to hear. Moreover, he had the strong oratorical temperament that forces attention and commands men in a body. He said that things were wrong and should be put right; and when he had said so for half an hour to a couple of thousand people, most of them were ready to follow him out of the hall and go and put things right on the spot, with their own hands. As yet the opportunity had not offered for proceeding in so simple a manner, but the aforesaid Bostonians of the graver sort said that John Harrington would some day be seen heading a desperate mob of socialists in an assault upon the State House. What he had to do with socialism, or to what end he should thus fiercely invade the headquarters of all earthly respectability, was not exactly apparent, but the picture thus evoked in the minds of the solemn burghers satisfactorily defined for them the personality of the man, and they said it and said it again. It was somewhat remarkable that he had never been called clever. At first he was regarded as a fool by most of his own class, though he always had friends who believed in him. By and by, as it came to be seen that he had a purpose and would be listened to while he stated it, Boston said there was something in him; but he was never said to be clever or "bright"--he was John Harrington, neither more nor less. He was never even called "Jack." He was a friend of Mrs. Wyndham's; her keen instincts had long ago recognized the true metal in the man, and of all who came and went in her house there was none more welcome than he. Sam Wyndham utterly disagreed with him in politics, but always defended him in private, saying that he would "calm down a lot when he got older," and that meanwhile he was "a very good fellow if you did not stir him up." He was therefore very intimate at the Sam Wyndham establishment; in fact, at the very hour when Pocock Vancouver was drinking Mrs. Sam's tea, John had intended to be enjoying the same privilege. Unfortunately for his intention he was caught elsewhere and could not get away. He was drinking tea, it is true, but the position in which he found himself was not entirely to his taste. Old Miss Schenectady, whose niece, Miss Josephine Thorn, had lately come over from England to pass the winter, had asked John Harrington to call that afternoon. The old lady believed in John on account of the Mayflower teapot, and consequently thought him a desirable acquaintance for her niece. Accordingly, John went to the house, and met Miss Sybil Brandon just as she was leaving it; which he regretted, suspecting that her society would have been more interesting than that of Miss Thorn. As it turned out, he was right, for his first impression of the young English girl was not altogether agreeable; and he found himself obliged to stay and talk to her until an ancient lady, who had come to gossip with Miss Schenectady, and was fully carrying out her intentions, should go away and make it possible for him to take his leave without absolutely abandoning Miss Thorn in the corner of the room she had selected for the _tête-à-tête_. "All that, of course, you know," said Miss Thorn, in answer to some remark of John's, "but what sort of things do you really care for?" "People," answered John without hesitation. "Of course," returned his companion, "everybody likes people. It is not very original. One could not live without lots of society, could one?" "That depends on the meaning of society." "Oh, I am not in the least learned about meanings," answered Miss Thorn. "I mean what one means by society, you know. Heaps of men and women, and tea-parties, and staying in the country, and that." "That is a sketch indeed," said John, laughing. "But then it is rather different here. We do not relapse into the country as you do in England, and then come back to town like lions refreshed with sleep." "Why not?" "Because once in society here one is always in it. At least, most people are. As soon as heat begins Boston goes to New York; and by-and-by New York goes to Saratoga, and takes Boston with it; and then all three go to Newport, and the thing begins again, until there is a general rush to Lenox, to see the glories of the autumn; and by the time the glories are getting a little thin it is time to be in Beacon Street again." "But when do people shoot and ride?--do they ever hunt?" asked Miss Thorn, opening her wide brown eyes in some astonishment at John Harrington's description of society life in America. "Oh yes, they hunt at Newport with a drag and a bagged fox. They do it in July and August, when it is as hot as it can be, and the farmers turn out with pitchforks and stones to warn them off the growing crops." "How ridiculous!" exclaimed Miss Josephine. "It is absurd, of course," said Harrington, "and cruel. But I must say they ride as though there were no hereafter, and it is a stiff country." "They must, I should think; no one who believed in a hereafter would hunt in summer." "I will wager that if you go to Newport this summer you will hunt, just like everybody else," said John boldly. Josephine Thorn knew in her heart that it was true, but she did not like the tone in which John said it. There was an air of certainty about his way of talking that roused her opposition. "I would do nothing so foolish," said she. "You do not know me. And do you mean to tell me that you like these people who rush madly about the country and hunt in summer, and those sort of things?" "No," said John, "not always." "But you said you liked people. How awfully inconsistent you are!" "Excuse me, I think not. I meant that I liked people and having to do with them--with men and women--better than I like things." "What are 'things'?" inquired Josephine, sarcastically. "You are not very clear in your way of expressing yourself." "I will be as clear as you please," answered John, looking across the room at Miss Schenectady and her ancient friend, and devoutly wishing he could get away. "I mean by 'things' the study of the inanimate part of creation, of such sciences as are not directly connected with man's thoughts and actions, and such pursuits as hunting, shooting, and sporting of all kinds, which lead only to the amusement of the individual. I mean also the production of literature for literature's sake, and of works of art for the mere sake of themselves. When I say I like 'people,' I mean men and women, their opinions and their relations to each other." "I should think you would get very tired of them," said Miss Thorn scornfully. "They are all dreadfully alike." She never forgot the look Harrington turned upon her as he answered. His calm, deep-set gray eyes gazed steadily at her, and his square features assumed an air of gravity that almost startled her. "I am never tired of men and women," he said. "Has it ever struck you, Miss Thorn, that the study of men and women means the study of government, and that a knowledge of men and women may give the power to influence the destiny of mankind?" "I never thought of it like that," said Josephine, very quietly. She was surprised at his manner, and she suddenly felt that he was no ordinary man. To tell the truth, her aunt had informed her that John Harrington was coming that afternoon, and had told her he was an exceedingly able man, a statement which at once roused Josephine's opposition to its fiercest pitch. She thoroughly hated to be warned about people, to be primed as it were with a dose of their superiority beforehand. It always prepared her to dislike the admirable individual when he appeared. It seemed as though it were taken for granted that she herself had not enough intelligence to discover wit in others, and needed to be told of it with great circumstance in order to be upon her good behavior. Consequently Josephine began by disliking John. She thought he was a Philistine; his hair was too straight, and besides, it was red; he shaved all his face, whereas the men she liked always had beards; she liked men with black eyes, or blue--John's were gray and hard; he spoke quietly, without expression, and she liked men who were enthusiastic. After all, too, the things he said were not very clever; anybody could have said them. She meant to show her Boston aunt that she had no intention of accepting Boston genius on faith. It was not her way; she liked to find out for herself whether people were able or not, without being told, and if she ascertained that John Harrington enjoyed a fictitious reputation for genius it would amuse her to destroy it--or at all events to write a long letter home to a friend, expressing her supreme opinion on that and other matters. John, on his part, did not very much care what impression he produced. He never did on such occasions, and just now he was rendered doubly indifferent by the fact that he was wishing himself somewhere else. True, there was a certain novelty in being asked point-blank questions about his tastes. Boston people knew what he liked, and generally only asked him about what he did. Perhaps, if he had met Josephine by daylight, instead of in the dim shadows of Miss Schenectady's front drawing-room, he might have been struck by her appearance and interested by her manner. As it was, he was merely endeavoring to get through his visit with a proper amount of civility, in the hope that he might get away in time to see Mrs. Sam Wyndham before dinner. Josephine thought John dull, probably well informed, and utterly without interest in anything. She felt inclined to do something desperate--to throw the cushions at him, to do anything, in short, to rouse him from his calmness. Then he made that remark about government, and his voice deepened, and his gray eyes shone, and she was aware that he had a great and absorbing interest in life, and that he could be roused in one direction at least. To do her justice, she had quick perceptions, and the impression on her mind was instantaneous. "I never thought of it like that," she said. "Do you know?" she added in a moment, "I should not have thought you took much interest in anything at all." John laughed. He was amused at the idea that he, who knew himself to be one of the most enthusiastic of mortals, should be thought indifferent; and he was amused at the outspoken frankness of the girl's remark. "You know that is just like me," continued Miss Thorn quickly. "I always say what I think, you know. I cannot help it a bit." "What a pity all the world is not like you!" said John. "It would save a great deal of trouble, I am sure." "The frump is going at last," said Josephine, in an undertone, as the ancient friend rose and showed signs of taking leave of Miss Schenectady. "There is certainly no mistake about the frankness of that speech," said John, rising to his feet and laughing again. "There is no mistaking its truth," answered Josephine. "She is the real thing--the real old-fashioned frump--we have lots of them at home." "You remind me of Heine," said John. "He said he called a spade a spade, and Herr Schmidt an ass." Miss Thorn laughed. "Exactly," she answered, "that is the knowledge of men which you say leads to power." She rose also, and there was a little stir as the old lady departed. Josephine watched John as he bowed and opened the door of the room to let the visitor out. She wondered vaguely whether she would like him, whether he might not really be a remarkable man--a fact she doubted in proportion as her aunt assured her of its truth; she liked his looks and tried to determine whether he was handsome or not, and she watched closely for any awkwardness or shyness of manner, that being the fault in a man which she never pardoned. He was very different from the men she had generally known, and most completely different from those she had known as her admirers. In fact she had never admired her admirers at all,--except dear Ronald, of course. They competed with her on her own ground, and she knew well enough she was more than a match for any of them. Ronald was different; she had known him all her life. But all those other men! They could ride--but she rode as well, or better. They could shoot, but so could she, and allowing for the disadvantages of a woman in field sports, she was as good a shot as they. She knew she could do anything they could do, and understood most things they understood. All in all, she did not care for the average young Englishman. He was great fun in his own way, but there were probably more interesting things in the world than pheasants and fences. Politics would be interesting, she thought; she had known three or four men who were young and already prominent in Parliament, and they were undeniably interesting; but they were generally either ugly or clumsy,--the unpardonable sin,--or perhaps they were vain. Josephine could not bear vain men. John Harrington probably had some one or more of these defects. He was certainly no "beauty man," to begin with, nevertheless, she wondered whether he might not be called handsome by stretching a point. She rather hoped, inwardly and unconsciously, that her ultimate judgment would decide in favor of his good looks. She always judged; it was the first thing she did, and she was surprised, on the present occasion, to find her judgment so slow. People who pride themselves on being critical are often annoyed when they find themselves uncertain of their own opinion. As for his accomplishments, they were doubtful, to say the least. Miss Thorn was not used to considering American men as manly. She had read a great many books which made game of them, and showed how unused they were to all those good things which make up the life of an English country gentleman; she had met one or two Americans who turned up their noses in impotent scorn of all field sports except horse-racing, which they regarded from a financial point of view. Probably John Harrington had never killed a pheasant in his life. Lastly, he might be vain. A man with such a reputation for ability would most likely be conceited. And yet, despite probability, she could not help thinking John interesting. That one speech of his about government had meant something. He was a man with a strong personality, with a great interest in the world led by a dominant aspiration of some sort; and Josephine, in her heart, loved power and admired those who possessed it. Political power especially had that charm for her which it has for most English people of the upper class. There is some quality in the English race which breeds an inordinate admiration for all kinds of superiority: it is certain that if one class of English society can be justly accused of an over-great veneration for rank, the class which is rank itself is not behindhand in doing homage to the political stars of the day. In favor of this peculiarity of English people it may fairly be said that they love to associate with persons of rank and power from a disinterested love of those things themselves, whereas in most other countries the society of noble and influential persons is chiefly sought from the most cynical motives of personal advantage. Politics--that is, the outward and appreciable manifestations of political life--must always furnish abundant food for the curiosity of the many and the intelligent criticism of the few. There is no exception to that rule, be the state great or small. But politics in England and politics in America, so far as the main points are concerned, are as different as it is possible for any two social functions to be. Roughly, Government and the doings of Government are centripetal in England, and centrifugal in America. In England the will of the people assists the workings of Providence, whereas in America devout persons pray that Providence may on occasion modify the will of the people. In England men believe in the Queen, the Royal Family, the Established Church, and Belgravia first, and in themselves afterwards. Americans believe in themselves devoutly, and a man who could "establish" upon them a church, a royalty, or a peerage, would be a very clever fellow. Josephine Thorn and John Harrington were fair examples of their nationalities. Josephine believed in England and the English; John Harrington believed in America and the Americans. How far England and America are ever likely to believe in each other, however, is a question of future history and not of past experience, and any reasonable amount of doubt may be cast upon the possibility of such mutual confidence. But as Josephine stood watching John Harrington while he opened the drawing-room door for the visitor to go out, she thought of none of these things. She certainly did not consider herself a type of her nation--a distinction to which few English people aspire--and she as certainly would have denied that the man before her was a type of the modern American. John remained standing when the lady was gone. "Do sit down," said Miss Schenectady, settling herself once more in her corner. "Thank you, I think I must be going now," answered John. "It is late." As he spoke he turned toward Miss Thorn, and for the first time saw her under the bright light of the old-fashioned gas chandelier. The young girl was perhaps not what is called a great beauty, but she was undeniably handsome, and she possessed that quality which often goes with quick perceptions and great activity, and which is commonly defined by the expression "striking." Short, rather than tall, she was yet so proportioned between strength and fineness as to be very graceful, and her head sat proudly on her shoulders--too proudly sometimes, for she could command and she could be angry. Her wide brown eyes were bright and fearless and honest. The faint color came and went under the clear skin as freely as the heart could send it, and though her hair was brown and soft, there were ruddy tints among the coils, that flashed out unexpectedly here and there like threads of red gold twined in a mass of fine silk. John looked at her in some astonishment, for in his anxiety to be gone and in the dimness of the corner where they had sat, he had not realized that Josephine was any more remarkable in her appearance than most of the extremely young women who annually make their entrance into society, with the average stock of pink and white prettiness. They call them "buds" in Boston--an abbreviation for rosebuds. Fresh young roses of each opening year, fresh with the dew of heaven and the blush of innocence, coming up in this wild garden of a world, what would the gardener do without you? Where would all beauty and sweetness be found among the thorny bushes and the withering old shrubs and the rotting weeds, were it not for you? Maidens with clean hands and pure hearts, in whose touch there is something that heals the ills and soothes the pains of mortality, roses whose petals are yet unspotted by dust and rain, and whose divine perfume the hot south wind has not scorched, nor the east wind nipped and frozen--you are the protest, set every year among us, against the rottenness of the world's doings, the protest of the angelic life against the earthly, of the eternal good against the eternal bad. John Harrington looked at Miss Thorn, and looked at her with pleasure, for he saw that she was fair--but in spite of her newly discovered beauty he resisted Miss Schenectady's invitation to sit down again, and departed. Any other man would have stayed, under the circumstances. "Well, Josephine," said Miss Schenectady, when he was gone, "now you have seen John Harrington." Josephine looked at her aunt and laughed a little; it seemed to her a very self-evident fact, since John had just gone. "Exactly," said she. "Won't you call me Joe, aunt Zoruiah? They all do at home--even Ronald." "Joe? Boy's name. Well, if you insist upon it. As I was saying, you have seen John Harrington, now." "Exactly," repeated Joe. "But I mean, how does he strike you?" "Clever I should think," answered the young lady. "Clever, you know--that sort of thing. Not bad looking, either." "I told you so," said Miss Schenectady. "Yes--but I expected ever so much more from what you said," returned Joe, kneeling on the rug before the fire and poking the coals with the tongs. Miss Schenectady looked somewhat offended at the slight cast upon her late guest. "You are very _difficile_, Josephi--I mean Joe, I forgot." "Ye--es, very diffyseal--that sort of thing," repeated Josephine, mimicking her aunt's pronunciation of the foreign word, "I know I am, I can't possibly help it, you know." A dashing thrust with the tongs finally destroyed the equilibrium of the fire, and the coals came tumbling down upon the hearth. "Goodness gracious me!" exclaimed the old lady in great anxiety, "you will have the house on fire in no time! Give me the tongs right away, my dear. You do not understand American fires!" CHAPTER III. "Dear Ronald,--You can't imagine what a funny place Boston is. I wish you were here, it would be so nice to talk about them together--I mean the people, of course, for they are much funnier than the place they live in. But I think they are very nice, too, particularly some of the men. I don't understand the women in the least--they go in awfully for sets, if you understand that kind of thing--and art, too, and literature. The other day at a lunch party--that is what they call it here--they sat and talked about pictures for ever so long. I wonder what you would have said if you had been there! but then there were no men, and so you couldn't have been, could you? And the sets, too. The girls who come out together, all in a batch, like a hive of bees swarming, spend the rest of their lives together; and they have what they call sewing circles, that go on all their lives. There are sewing circles of old frumps sixty years old who have never been parted since they all went to their first ball together. They sew for the poor; they don't sew so very much, you know; but then they have a tremendous lunch afterwards. I sewed for the poor the other day, because one of the sewing circles asked me to their meeting. I sewed two buttons on to the end of something, and then I ate six kinds of salad, and went to drive with Mr. Vancouver. I dare say it does a lot of good in its way, but I think the poor must be awfully good-natured. "It is quite too funny about driving, too. You may go out with a man in a sleigh, but you couldn't possibly go with him on wheels--on the same road, at the same hour, same man, same everything, except the wheels. You agree to go out next week in a sleigh with Mr. Vancouver; but when the day comes, if it has happened to thaw and there is no snow, and he comes in a buggy, you couldn't possibly go with him, because it would be quite too improper. But I mean to, some day, just to see what they will say. I wish you would come! We would do a lot of driving together, and by and by, in the spring, they say one can ride here, but only along the roads, for everything else is so thick with steam-engines and Irishmen that one could not possibly go across country. "But although they are so funny, they are really very nice, and awfully clever. I don't think there are nearly so many clever men anywhere else in society, when once you have got over their Americanisms. Most of them would be in Parliament at home; but nobody goes into Parliament here, except Mr. Harrington--that is, into Congress, which is the same thing, you know. They say politics in America are not at all fit for gentlemen, and they spend an hour or two every day in abusing all the politicians, instead of turning them out and managing things themselves. But Mr. Harrington is going to be a senator as soon as he can, and he is so clever that I am sure he will make a great reform. "I don't think of anything else to say just now, but if I do I will write again--only it's unfeminine to write two letters running, so you must answer at once. And if you should want to travel this winter you can come here; they will treat you ever so much better than you deserve. So good-by. Yours ever sincerely, "JOE THORN." The precise nature of the friendship that existed between Josephine Thorn and Ronald Surbiton could not be accurately inferred from the above specimen of correspondence; and indeed the letter served rather to confuse than to enlighten the recipient as to the nature of his relations with the writer. He was, of course, very much in love with Joe Thorn; he knew it, because he had always been in love with her since they were children together, so there could be no possible doubt in the matter. But whether she cared a jot for him and his feelings he could not clearly make out, from the style of the hurried, ungrammatical sentences, crammed with abbreviations and unpermissible elisions. True, she said three times that she hoped he would come to America; but America was a long way off, and she very likely reckoned on his laziness and dislike to foreign traveling. It is so easy for a young woman writing from Boston to say to a young man residing in Scotland, "Do come over for a few days"--Surbiton thought it would be a good joke to take her at her word and go. The idea of seeing her again so much sooner than he had expected was certainly uppermost in his mind as he began to make his resolution; but it was sustained and strengthened by a couple of allusions Joe had made to men of her acquaintance in Boston, not to say by the sweeping remark that there were more clever men in Boston society than anywhere else, which made his vanity smart rather unpleasantly. When Josephine used to tell him, half in earnest, half in jest, that he was "so dreadfully stupid," he did not feel much hurt; but it was different when she took the trouble to write all the way from America to tell him that the men there were much cleverer than at home. He had a great mind to go and see for himself whether it were true. Nevertheless, the hunting was particularly good just at the time when he got the letter, and being rather prudent of counsel, Ronald determined to wait until a hard frost should spoil his temper and give the necessary stimulus to his activity, before he packed his boxes for a western voyage. As for Josephine, it was very natural that she should feel a little homesick, and wish to have some one of her own people with her. In spite of the favorable views she expressed about America, Boston, and her new acquaintances, her position was not without some drawbacks in her own eyes. She felt herself out of her natural element, and the very great admiration she received in society, though pleasant enough in itself, was not to her so entirely satisfactory as it would have been to a woman older or younger than she, or to a more thorough flirt. An older woman would have enjoyed more keenly the flattery of it; a younger girl would have found it more novel and fresh, and the accomplished professional society flirt--there is no other word to express her--would have rejoiced exceedingly over a great holocaust of victims. In writing to Surbiton and suggesting to him to come to Boston, Joe had no intention of fanning his hopes into flame. She never thought much about Ronald. She had long been used to him, and regarded him in the light of a marriage fixture, though she had never exactly promised to marry him; she had been brought up to suppose she would, and that was all. When or where the marriage would actually take place was a question she did not care to raise, and if ever Surbiton raised it she repressed him ruthlessly. For the present she would look about the world, seeing she had been transported into a new part of it, and she found it amusing. Only she would like to have a companion to whom she could talk. Ronald would be so convenient, and after all it was a great advantage to be able to make use of the man to whom she was engaged. She never had known any other girl who could do that, and she rather prided herself on the fact that she was not ridiculous, although she was in the most traditionally absurd position, that of betrothal. She would like to compare Ronald with the men she had met lately. The desire for comparison had increased of late. A fortnight had passed since she had first met John Harrington, and she had made up her mind. He was handsome, though his hair was red and he had no beard, and she liked him; she liked him very much; it was quite different from her liking for Ronald. She liked Ronald, she said to herself that she loved him dearly, partly because she expected to marry him, and partly because he was so good and so much in love with herself. He would take any amount of trouble for anything she wanted. But John was different. She knew very well that she was thinking much more of him than he of her, if indeed he thought of her at all. But she was a little ashamed of it, and in order to justify herself in her own eyes she was cold and sarcastic in her manner to him, so that people noticed it, and even John Harrington himself, who never thought twice whether his acquaintances liked him or disliked him, remarked one day to Mrs. Wyndham that he feared he had offended Miss Thorn, as she took such particular pains to treat him differently from others. On the other hand Joe was always extremely candid to Pocock Vancouver. It was on a Monday that John made the aforesaid remark. All Boston was at Mrs. Wyndham's, excepting all the other ladies who lived in Beacon Street, and that is a very considerable portion of Boston, as every schoolboy knows. John was standing near the tea-table talking to Mrs. Sam, when Joe entered the room and came up to the hostess, who welcomed her warmly. She nodded coldly to John without shaking hands, and joined a group of young girls near by. "It is very strange," said John to Mrs. Wyndham. "I wonder whether I can have done anything Miss Thorn resents. I am not sensitive, but it is impossible to mistake people when they look at one like that. She always does it just in that way." Mrs. Wyndham looked inquiringly at John for a moment, and the quick smile of ready comprehension played on her sensitive mouth. "Are you really quite sure you have not offended her?" she asked. "Quite sure," John answered, in a tone of conviction. "Besides, I never offend any one, certainly not ladies. I never did such a thing in my whole life." "Not singly," said Mrs. Wyndham, laughing. "You offend people in large numbers when you do it at all, especially newspaper people. Sam read that ridiculous article in the paper to me last night." "Which paper?" asked John, smiling. "They have most of them been at me this week." "_The_ paper," answered Mrs. Sam, "the _horrid_ paper. You do not suppose I would mention such a publication in my house?" "Oh, my old enemy," laughed John. "I do not mind that in the least. One might almost think those articles were written by Miss Thorn." "Perhaps they are," answered Mrs. Wyndham. "Really," she added, glancing at Josephine, whom Pocock Vancouver had just detached from her group of girls, "really you may not be so very, very far wrong." John's glance followed the direction of her eyes, and he saw Vancouver. He looked steadily at the man's delicate pale features and intellectual head, and at the end of half a minute he and Mrs. Wyndham looked at each other again. She probably regretted the hint she had carelessly dropped, but she met Harrington's gaze frankly. "I did not mean to say it," she said, for John looked so grave that she was frightened. "It was only a guess." "But have you any reason to think it might be the truth?" asked John. "None whatever--really none, except that he differs so much from you in every way, politically speaking." She knew very well that Vancouver hated John, and she had often thought it possible that the offensive articles in question came from the pen of the former. There was a tone of superior wit and a ring of truer English in them than are generally met with in the average office work of a daily newspaper. "I do not believe Vancouver writes them," said John, slowly. "He is not exactly a friend, but he is not an enemy either." Mrs. Wyndham, who knew better than that, held her peace. She was not a mischief-maker, and moreover she liked both the men too well to wish a quarrel between them. She busied herself at the tea-table for a moment, and John stood near her, watching the moving crowd. Now and then his eyes rested on Josephine Thorn's graceful figure, and he noticed how her expressive features lighted up in the conversation. John could hear something of their conversation, which was somewhat noisy. They were talking in that strain of objectless question and answer which may be stupid to idiocy or clever to the verge of wit, according to the talkers. Joe called it "chaff." "I have learned America," said Joe. "Indeed!" said Vancouver. "You have not been long about it; but then, you will say there is not much to learn." "I never believe in places till I have lived in them," said Joe. "Nor in people till you have seen them, I suppose," returned Vancouver. "But now that you have learned America, of course you believe in us all without exception. We are the greatest nation on earth--I suppose you have heard that?" "Yes; you told me so the other day; but it needs all the faith I have in your judgment to believe it. If any one else had said it, you know, I should have thought there was some mistake." "Oh no; it is pretty true, taking it all round," returned Vancouver, with a smile. "But I am tremendously flattered at the faith you put in my sayings." "Oh, are you? That is odd, you know, because if you are so much flattered at my believing you, you would not be much disappointed if I doubted you." "I beg to differ. Excuse me"-- "Not at all," answered Joe, laughing. "Only we have old-fashioned prejudices at home. We begin by expecting to be believed, and are sometimes a good deal annoyed if any one says we are telling fibs." "Of course, if you put it in that way," said Vancouver. "But I suppose it is not a very bad fib to say one's country is the greatest on earth. I am sure you English say it quite as often and as loudly as we do, and, you see, we cannot both be right, possibly." "No, not exactly. But suppose two men, any two, like you and Mr. Harrington for instance, each made a point of telling every one you met that you were the greatest man on earth." "It is conceivable that we might both be wrong," said Vancouver, laughing at the idea. "But one of you might be right," objected Joe. "No--that is not conceivable," retorted Vancouver. "No? Let us ask Mr. Harrington. Mr. Harrington!" Joe turned towards John and called him. He was only a step from her, and joined the two instantly. He looked from one to the other inquiringly. "Here is a great question to be decided, Mr. Harrington," said Joe. "I was saying to Mr. Vancouver that, supposing each of you asserted that he was the greatest man on earth, it would--I mean, how could the point be settled?" John stared for a moment. "If you insist upon raising such a very remarkable point of precedence, Miss Thorn," he answered calmly, "I am sure Vancouver will agree with me to leave the decision to you also." Joe looked slightly annoyed. She had brought the retort on herself. "Pardon me," said Vancouver, quickly, "I object to the contest. The match is not a fair one. Mr. Harrington means to be the greatest man on earth, or in the water under the earth, whereas I have no such aspiration." Instead of being grateful to Vancouver for coming to her rescue in the rather foolish position in which she was placed, Joe felt unaccountably annoyed. She was willing to make sure of John herself, if she could, but she was not prepared to allow that privilege to any one else. Accordingly she turned upon Vancouver before John could answer. "The question began in a foolish comparison, Mr. Vancouver," she said coldly. "I think you are inclined to make it personal?" "I believe it became personal from the moment you hit upon Mr. Harrington and me as illustrations of what you were saying, Miss Thorn," retorted Vancouver, very blandly, but with a disagreeable look in his eyes. He was angry at Joe's rebuke. John stood calmly by without exhibiting the least shade of annoyance. The chaff of a mere girl, and the little satirical thrusts of a lady's man like Vancouver, did not seem to him of much importance. Joe, however, did not vouchsafe any answer to Vancouver's last remark, and it devolved on John to say something to relieve the awkwardness of the situation. "Have you become reconciled to our methods of amusement, Miss Thorn?" he asked, "or shall we devise something different from the everlasting sleighing and five o'clock tea, and dinner parties and 'dancing classes'?" "Oh, do not remind me of all that," said Joe. "I did not mean half of it, you know." She turned to John, and Vancouver moved away in pursuit of Sybil Brandon, who had just entered the room. "Tell me," said Joe, when Pocock was gone, "do you like Mr. Vancouver? You are great friends, are you not?" John looked at her inquiringly. "I should not say we were very great friends," he answered, "because we are not intimate; but we have always been on excellent terms, as far as I know. Vancouver is a very clever fellow." "Yes," said Joe, thoughtfully, "I fancy he is. You do not mind my having asked, do you?" "Not in the least," said John, quietly. His face had grown very grave again, and he seemed suddenly absorbed by some thought. "Let us sit down," he said presently, and the two installed themselves on a divan in a corner. "You are not in the least inquisitive," remarked Joe, as soon as they were settled. "What makes you say that?" asked John. "It was such a silly thing, you know, and you never asked what it was all about." "When you called me? No--I did not hear what led up to it, and I supposed from what you said afterwards that I understood." "Did you? What did you think?" asked Joe. "I thought from the question about Vancouver that you wanted to put us into an awkward position in order to find out whether we were friends." "No," said Joe, with a little laugh, "I am not so clever as that. It was pure silliness--chaff, you know--that sort of thing." "Oh," ejaculated John, still quite unmoved, "then it was not of any importance." "Very silly things sometimes turn out to be very important. Saul, you know--was not it he?--was looking for asses and he found a kingdom." John laughed suddenly. "And so it is clear which part Vancouver and I played in the business," he said. "But where is the kingdom?" "I did not mean that," said Joe, seriously. "I am not making fun any more. I have not been successful in my chaff to-day. I should think that in your career it would be very important for you to know who are your friends. Is it not?" "Certainly," said John, looking at her curiously. "It is very important; but I think political life is generally much simpler than people suppose. It is rather like fighting. The man who hits you is your enemy. The man who does not is practically your friend. Do you mean in regard to Vancouver?" "Yes." "Vancouver never hit me, that I can swear," said John, "and I am very sure I never hit him." "I dare say I am mistaken," said Joe. "You ought to know best. Let us leave him alone." "With all my heart," answered John. "Tell me what you have been doing, Mr. Harrington," said Joe, after a moment's pause; "all the papers are full of you." "Yes, I have been rather in the passive mood during the last week. I have been standing up to be shot at." "Without shooting back? What are they so angry about?" "The truth," said John, calmly. "They do not like to hear it." "What is truth--in this instance?" "Apparently something so unpleasant that the mere mention of it has roused the bile of every penny-a-liner in the Republican press. I undertook to demonstrate that one of the fifteen millions of the 'ablest men in the country,' whom you are always hearing about, is a swindler. He is, but he does not like to be told so." "I suppose not," said Joe. "I wonder if any one likes unpleasant truths. But what do you mean to do now? Are you going to fight it out? I hope so!" "Of course, in good time. One can hardly retire from such a position as mine; they would make an end of me in a week and quarrel over my bones. But the real fight will be fought by and by, when the elections come on." "How exciting it must all be," said Joe. "I wish I were a man!" "And an American?" asked John, smiling. "How are the mighty fallen! You were laughing at us and our politics the day before yesterday, and now you are wishing you were one of us yourself. I think you must be naturally fond of fighting"-- "Fond of a row?" suggested Miss Thorn, with a laugh. "Yes, I fancy I am. I am fond of all active things. Are not you?" "I do not know," said John. "I never thought much about it. But I suppose I should be called rather an active person." "Is not she beautiful?" ejaculated Miss Thorn, looking across the room at Sybil Brandon, whose fair head was just visible between two groups of people. "Who?" asked John, who was looking at his companion. "Miss Brandon," said Joe. "Look at her, over there. I think she is the most beautiful thing I ever saw." "Yes," said John, "she is very beautiful." CHAPTER IV. All sorts and conditions of men and women elbowed and crowded each other under the dim gaslight at the three entrances to the Boston Music Hall. The snow was thick on the ground outside, and it had been thawing all the afternoon. The great booby sleighs slid and slipped and rocked through the wet stuff, the policemen vociferated, the horse-car drivers on Tremont Street rang their bells furiously, and a great crowd of pedestrians stumbled and tumbled about in the mud and slush and snow of the crossings, all bent on getting inside the Music Hall in time for the beginning of the lecture. The affair was called a "lecture" in accordance with the time-honored custom of Boston, and unless it were termed an oration, it would be hard to find a better name for it. A "meeting" implies a number of orators, or at least a well-filled row of chairs upon the platform. A "lecture," on the other hand, does not convey to the ordinary mind the idea of a political speech, and critical persons with a taste for etymology say that the word means something which is read. John Harrington had determined to speak in public on certain subjects connected with modern politics, and had caused the fact to be extensively made known. His name alone would have sufficed to draw a large audience, but the great attention he had attracted by his doings for some time past, and the severe criticisms lately made upon him by the local press, rendered the interest even greater than it would otherwise have been. Moreover, the lecture was free. Harrington was a poor man, as fortunes go in Boston, but it was his chiefest principle that a man had no right to be paid for speaking the truth, even though it might sometimes be just that people should pay something for hearing it. Accordingly the lecture was free, and at the appointed hour the house was full to overflowing. In the front row of the first gallery sat old Miss Schenectady, and by her side was Josephine Thorn. A little colony of "Beacon Street" had collected there, and Pocock Vancouver was not far off. It is not often that Beacon Street goes to such lectures, but John was one of themselves, and had too many friends and enemies among them not to be certain of a large attendance. Miss Schenectady was there, partly because she believed in John Harrington, and partly because Joe insisted upon going; and, generally speaking, what Joe insisted upon was done. The old lady did not understand why her niece was so very anxious to be present, but as the proposition fell in with her own desires, she made no objection. The fact was that Joe's interest in John had very greatly increased of late, and her curiosity to hear the man she met so often speak to a great audience was excited to its highest pitch. She fancied, too, from many things she had heard said, that a large proportion of his audience would be hostile to him, and that she would see him roused to his greatest strength and eloquence. She did not consider her impulse in the least, for though she felt a stronger interest in Harrington than she had ever before felt in any individual, it had not struck her that she was beginning to care overmuch for the sight of his face and the sound of his voice. She could not have believed she was beginning to love him; and if any secret voice had suggested to her conscience that it was so, she could have silenced it at once to her own satisfaction by merely remembering the coldness with which she generally treated him. She had got into the habit of treating him in that way from the first, when she had been prejudiced against him and the annoyance she often felt at his indifference made her think that she ought to be consistent and never allow her formal manner to change. Unfortunately she now and then forgot herself, as she had done after the little skirmish with Vancouver at Mrs. Wyndham's, and then she talked to him and asked him questions of himself almost as though he were an intimate friend. John, who was a man of the world as well as a man of talent, thought she was capricious, and since he was infinitely removed from falling in love with her, or indeed with any other woman, he found it agreeable to talk to her when she was in a good humor, and when she was ungracious he merely kept out of her way. If he had deliberately made up his mind to attract her attention and interest, he could have chosen no surer way than this. But although he admired her beauty and vivacity, and now and then took a real pleasure in her conversation, his mind was too full of other matters to receive any lasting impression of such a kind. Besides, she was capricious, and he hated mere caprice. And now there was a hush in the house, and then a short burst of applause, and Josephine, looking down, saw John standing alone upon the platform in front of the great bronze statue of Beethoven. He looked exactly as he did when she met him in society; there was no change in the even color of his face, nor any awkwardness or self-consciousness in his easy attitude as he stood there, broad-shouldered and square, his strong hand just resting on the plain desk that had been placed in the middle of the stage. He waited a few seconds for silence in the audience, and then began to speak. His voice sounded as natural and his accent as unaffected as though he were talking alone with a friend, saving only that every syllable he uttered was audible in the furthest gallery. Josephine leaned forward upon the red leather cushion of the railing before her, watching and listening intently. She did not understand the subject well. John Harrington was a reformer, she knew; or, to speak more accurately, he desired to be one. He believed great changes were necessary. He believed in an established Civil Service, in something which, if not exactly Free Trade, was much nearer to it than the existing tariff. Above all, he believed in truth and freedom instead of lying and bribery. As he spoke and cleared the way to his main points, his voice never quavered or faltered. He was perfectly sure of himself, and he reserved all his strength for the time when it should be most required. For a quarter of an hour he proceeded, and the people sat in dead silence before him. Then he paused a moment, and shifted his position a little, moving a step forward as though to gain a better hearing. "I am coming to the point," he said,--"the point that I must come to sooner or later. I am a Democrat, as perhaps some of you know." Here there was an uneasy movement in the house. "Yes, I guess you are!" cried a voice from somewhere, in a tone of high nasal irony. Some one laughed, and some one hissed, and then there was silence again. "Exactly," continued John, unmoved by the interruption. "I am a Democrat, and though the sight does not astonish you so much as it might have done twenty years ago, it is worthy of remark, nevertheless. But I have a peculiarity which I think you will allow to be extremely novel. I do not begin by saying that salvation is only to be found with Democrats, and I will not believe any man who says it belongs exclusively to Republicans. If we were suddenly put in great danger of any kind, war, famine, or revolution, I think that in some way or other we should manage to save the country between us, Republicans and Democrats, for the common good." "That's so!" said more than one voice. "Of course we should. Is there any one among us all who would not give up his individual views about a local election rather than see the country go to pieces? Would any man be such a coward as to be afraid to change his mind in order to prevent another Rebellion, another Civil War? No, no, we are more civilized than that. We want our own men in Congress, our own friends in office, just so long as they are serviceable--just so long as the country can stand it, if you like it in that way. But if it comes to be a question between the public good and having your cousin made postmaster in a country village, I think there is enough patriotism in the average Democrat or Republican to send the country cousin about his business. If worst comes to worst, we can save the country between us, depend upon it. We have done it before." Here there was a burst of willing applause. It is a great point to bring an audience into the position of applauding themselves. Joe watched John's every gesture, and listened intently to every word. His voice rang clear and strong through the great hall, and he was beginning to be roused. He had gained a decided advantage in the success of his last words, and as he gathered his strength for the real effort which was to come, his cheek paled and his gray eyes grew brighter. He spoke out again through the subsiding clamor. "Now I say that the country is in danger. It is in very great danger, the greatest danger that can threaten any community. The institutions of a nation are like the habits of a man, except that they are harder to improve and easier to spoil. We have got into bad habits, and if we do not mend them they will take us to a more certain destruction than revolution, famine, or war,--or all three together. It is easier to fight a thing that has a head to it and a name, than a thing that is everywhere and has no name, because no one has the courage to christen it. "We are like a man who has grown from being a peddler of tape and buttons to be the greatest dry-goods-man in his town, and then to being a great dealer for many towns. When he was a peddler he could carry the profit and loss on his buttons and tape in his head, because the profits were literally in his pocket, and the losses were literally out of it. But when he has grown into a great merchant he must keep books, and he must keep a great many of them, and they must be kept accurately, or he will get into trouble and go to ruin. That is true, is it not? And when he was a peddler he could buy his stock-in-trade himself, and be sure that it was what he wanted; but when he is one of the great merchants he must employ other people to help him, and unless they are the right people and understand the business, he will be ruined. Nobody can deny that. "Very well. We began in a small way as a nation, without much stock-in-trade, and we kept our accounts by rule of thumb. But it seems to me we are doing a pretty large business as a nation just now." There was a laugh, and sundry remarks to the effect that the audience understood what John was driving at. "Yes, we are doing a great business, and to all intents and purposes we are doing it on false business principles, and with an absolutely incompetent staff of clerks. What would you think of a merchant who dismissed all his book-keepers every four years, and engaged a set of shoemakers, or tailors, or artists, or musicians to fill up the vacancies?" A low murmur ran through the hall, a murmur of disapprobation. Probably a large number out of the three thousand men and women present had cousins in country post offices. But John did not pause; his voice grew full and clear, ringing high above the dull sounds in the house. From her place in the gallery Josephine looked down, never taking her eyes from the face of the orator. She too was pale with excitement; had she been willing to acknowledge it, it was fear. That deep-toned beginning of a protest from the great concourse was like an omen of failure to her sensitive ear. She longed to see John Harrington succeed and carry his hearers with him into an access of enthusiasm. John expected no such thing. He only wanted the people to understand thoroughly what he meant, for he was sure that if once they knew the truth clearly they would feel for it as he himself did. "Nevertheless," he continued, "I tell you that is what we are doing, what we have been doing for years, from the very beginning. And if we go on doing it we shall get into trouble. We choose schoolboys to do the work of men, we expect that by the mere signature of the head of the executive any man can be turned into an accomplished public officer fit to be compared with one whose whole life has been spent in the public service. We wish to be represented abroad among foreign nations in a way becoming to our dignity and very great power, and we select as our ministers a number of gentlemen who in most cases have never read a diplomatic dispatch in their lives, and who sometimes are not even acquainted with any language save their own. Perhaps you will say that our dignity is not of much importance provided our power is great enough. I do not think you will say it, but there are communities in our country where it would most certainly be said. Very well, so be it. But where do you think our power comes from? Do you think there is a boundless store of some natural product called power, of which we need only take as much as we want in order to stand a head and shoulders higher than any other nation in the world? What is power? Can a man be strong if he has an internal disease, or is his strength any use to him if his arms and legs are out of joint? Would you believe in the strength of a great firm that hired a company of actors from a theatre, and made the tragedian cashier and the low-comedy man head book-keeper? "The sick man may live for years with his sickness, and the man whose limbs are all distorted may still deal a formidable blow with his head, if it is thick enough. The firm may prosper for a time with its staff of theatrical clerks, provided there is enough business to pay for all their mistakes and leave a margin of profit. But the sick man does not live because he is diseased, but in spite of it. The distorted joints of the cripple do not help him to fight. The firm is not rich because its business is done by tragedians and walking-gentlemen, but in spite of them. If the doctor fails to give his medicine, if the fighting grows too rough for the cripple, if business grows slack, or if some good business man with competent assistants starts a strong opposition--what happens? What must inevitably happen? Why, the sick man dies, the cripple gets the worst of it, and the theatrical firm of merchants goes straight into bankruptcy. "And so I tell you that we are in danger. We are sick with the foul disease of office seeking; we are crippled hand and foot not only for fighting but for working, because our public officers are inexperienced men who spend four years in learning a trade not theirs, and are very generally turned out before they have half learnt it; we are doing a political business which will succeed fairly well just so long as we are rich enough to provide funds for any amount of extravagance and keep enough in our pockets to buy bread and cheese with afterwards. Just so long. "When we have been lanced here in Boston and the blood is running freely, we can still cut a slice out of the West and use it like court-plaster to stop the bleeding. Some day there will be no more slices to be had. It will be a bad day in State Street." This remark raised a laugh and a good deal of noise for a moment. But the audience were soon silent again. Whether they meant to approve or disapprove, they kept their opinions to themselves. Miss Thorn did not comprehend the allusion, but she was listening with all her ears. "You understand that," John went on. "Then understand it about the rest of the country as well. Understand that we are all the time patching our income with our capital; and it answers pretty well because there is a good deal of capital and not so very many of ourselves, as yet. There will be twice as many of us in a few years, and very much less than half as much capital. Understand above all that we are getting into bad habits--habits we should despise in a corporation, and condemn by very bad names in any individual man of our acquaintance. "And when you have understood it, look at matters as they stand. Look at the incompetence of our public officers, look at our ruined carrying trade, at those vile enactions of fools, and worse than fools, the Navigation Laws of the United States, and tell me whether things are as they should be. Tell me what has become of liberty if you cannot buy a ship where you can get her best and cheapest, and hoist your own flag upon her, and call her your own? You may pay for her and bring her home with you, but though she were ten times paid for, you cannot hoist the American flag, nor register her in your own port, nor claim the protection of your country for your own property--because, forsooth, the ship was not built on American stocks, where she would cost three times her value, and put a job into the hands of a set of builders of river steamboats and harbor mudscows." Loud murmurs ran through the audience, and cries of "That's so!" and counter cries of "Freetrader!" were heard on all sides. John's great voice rang out like a trumpet. He knew the sensitiveness of his townsmen on the point. "I am not speaking against protection," he said, and at the magic word "protection" a dead silence again fell over the vast crowd. "I say to you, 'Protect!' Protect, all of you, merchants, tradesmen, the great body of the commerce of this country; protect whatever you all decide together needs protection. But by the greatness and the power you have, by the Heaven that gave us this land of ours to till and to enjoy, protect also yourselves and your liberties." A patriotic phrase in the mouth of a man who has the golden gift of speech, coupled with the statement of a principle popular with his audience, is a sure point in an oration. Something in John's tone and gesture touched the sympathetic chord, and the house broke out in a great cry of applause. An orator cannot always talk in strict logical sequence. He must search about for the right nail till he has found it, and then drive it home. "Aye, that is the point," he said. "You men of Boston here, look to your harbors, crowded with English craft, and think of what is gone, lost to you forever, unless you will strike a blow for it. Many of you are old enough to remember how it used to be. Look at Salem Harbor, at Marblehead. Where are the fleets of noble ships that lay side by side along the great docks, the ships that did half the carrying trade of the world? Where are the great merchantmen that used to sail so grandly away to the East and that came home so richly laden? They are sunk or gone to pieces, or sold as old timber and copper and nails to the gentlemen who build mudscows. What are the great merchants doing who owned those fleets? They are employing their time in building railroads with English iron and foreign labor into desolate deserts in the West, which they hope to sell for a handsome profit, and probably will. But when there are no more desolate deserts and English iron and foreign labor to be had, they will wish they had their ships again, and that in all these years they had got possession of the carrying trade of the world, as they might have done. "That is what I am here to say. The time is come to give up the shifts and unstable expedients that we needed, or thought we needed, in our early beginnings. Let us pull down all these scaffoldings and stages that have helped us to build, and let us see whether our fabric will stand upon its base, erect, without the paltry support of a few rotting timbers. Let us substitute the permanent for the transitory, the stable for the unstable, and the reality for the sham. Let us have a Civil Service in fact as well as in name, a service of men trained to their duties, and who shall spend their lives in fulfilling them; a service of competent men to represent us abroad, and a service of honest men to do the country's business at home, instead of making the country do theirs and being paid for it into the bargain. Let us put men into Congress who will cover the seas with our ships again, as well as make our harbors impassable with a competition of cheap ferry-boats. Begin here, as you began here more than a hundred years ago, and as you succeeded then you will succeed now. "Begin, and go on, and God prosper you; and when the work is done, when bribery and extortion and all corruption are crushed forever out of our public life, when the Navigation Act is a thing of the past, and you are again the carriers of the world's commerce as well as the greatest sharers in it, then it will be time enough to give a name to the men who shall have done all these things, Republicans and Democrats together, a new party, the last and the greatest of all parties that the country has ever seen. You will find a name, surely enough, that will answer the purpose then; but whatever that name may be, it will not be forgotten that, for the third time in the history of our land, Massachusetts has struck the first and the strongest blow in the struggle for liberty, honor, and truth." Few men in public life had as good a right as John Harrington to denounce all manner of dishonesty. Many a speaker would have raised a sneering laugh by that last phrase, but even John's enemies admitted that his hands were clean. Coming from one of themselves it was a strong appeal, and the applause was long and loud. With a courteous inclination John turned and left the platform through the door at the back. He was well enough satisfied. His hearers had been moved for a moment to enthusiasm. They would go home and on mature reflection would not agree with him; but a blow struck is a point in the fight so long as it is felt at all, and John was well pleased at the reception he had met with. He had avoided every detail, and had confined himself to the widest generalities, but his homely illustrations would not be forgotten, and his strong individuality had created a sincere desire in many who had been there that night to hear him speak again. For some minutes after John had left the platform, Josephine sat unmoved in her seat beside her aunt, lost in thought as she watched the surging crowd below. "Well," said Miss Schenectady, "you have heard John Harrington now." Joe started. She had grown used to the implied interrogation her aunt usually conveyed in that way. "He is a great man, Aunt Zoë," she said quietly, and looked round. There was a moisture in her beautiful brown eyes that told of great excitement. She was very pale too, and looked tired. "Yes, my dear," said Aunt Zoruiah. "But we had better go home right away, Joe darling. You are so pale, I suppose you must be a good deal used up." "Allow me to see you to your carriage," said Pocock Vancouver in dulcet tones, coming up to the two ladies as they rose. CHAPTER V. "Why can't you get in, Mr. Vancouver?" inquired Miss Schenectady, when she and Joe were at last packed into the deep booby. It was simply a form of invitation. There was no reason why Mr. Vancouver should not get in, and with a word of thanks he did so. Ten minutes later the three were seated round the fire in Miss Schenectady's drawing-room. "It was very fine, was it not, Miss Thorn?" said Vancouver. "Yes," said Joe, staring at the fire. "There are some people," said Miss Schenectady, "it does not seem to make much difference what they say, but it is always fine." "Is that ironical?" asked Vancouver. "Why, goodness gracious no! Of course not! I am John Harrington's very best friend. I only mean to say." "What, Aunt Zoë?" inquired Joe, not yet altogether accustomed to the peculiar implications of her aunt's language. "Why, what I said, of course; it sounds very fine." "Then you do not believe it all?" asked Vancouver. "I don't understand politics," said the old lady. "You might ring the bell, Joe, and ask Sarah for some tea." "Nobody understands politics," said Vancouver. "When people do, there will be an end of them. Politics consist in one half of the world trying to drive paradoxes down the throats of the other half." Joe laughed a little. "I do not know anything about politics here," she said, "though I do at home, of course. I must say, though, Mr. Harrington did not seem so very paradoxical." "Oh no," answered Vancouver, blandly, "I did not mean in this case. Harrington is very much in earnest. But it is like war, you see. When every one understands it thoroughly, it will stop by universal consent. Did you ever read Bulwer's 'Coming Race'?" "Yes," said Joe. "I always read those books. _Vril_, and that sort of thing, you mean? Oh yes." "Approximately," answered Vancouver. "It was an allegory, you know. A hundred years hence people will write a book to explain what Bulwer meant. _Vril_ stands for the cumulative power of potential science, of course." "I think Bulwer's word shorter, and a good deal easier to understand," said Joe, laughing. "It is a great thing to be great," remarked Miss Schenectady. "Sarah, I think you might bring us some tea, please, and ask John if he couldn't stir the furnace a little. And then to have people explain you. Goethe must be a good deal amused, I expect, when people write books to prove that Byron was Euphorion." Miss Schenectady was fond of German literature, and the extent of her reading was a constant surprise to her niece. "What a lot of things you know, Aunt Zoë!" said Joe. "But what had Bulwer to do with war, Mr. Vancouver?" "Oh, in the book--the 'Coming Race,' you know--they abolished war because they could kill each other so easily." "How nice that would be!" exclaimed Joe, looking at him. "Why, you perfectly shock me, Joe," cried Miss Schenectady. "I mean, to have no war," returned Joe, sweetly. "Oh; I belonged to the Peace Conference myself," said her aunt, immediately pacified. "Well, yes. Perhaps you could bring us a little cake, Sarah? War is a terrible thing, my dear, as Mr. Vancouver will tell you." Vancouver, however, was silent. He probably did not care to have it remembered that he was old enough to carry a musket in the Rebellion. Joe understood and asked no Questions about it, and Vancouver was grateful for her tact. She rose and began to pour out some tea. "You began talking about Mr. Harrington's speech," said she presently, "but we got away from the subject. Is it all true?" "That is scarcely a fair question, Miss Thorn," answered Vancouver. "You see, I belong to the opposite party in politics." "But Mr. Harrington said he wanted both parties to combine. Besides, you do not take any active part in it all." "I have very strong opinions, nevertheless," replied Pocock. "Strong opinions and activity ought to go together," said Joe. "Not always." "But if you have strong opinions and disagree with Mr. Harrington," persisted Miss Thorn, "then you have a strong opinion against your two parties acting together for the common good." "Not exactly that," said Vancouver, embarrassed between the directness of Joe's question and a very strong impression that he had better not say anything against John Harrington. "Then what do you believe? Will you please give this cup to Miss Schenectady?" Vancouver rose quickly to escape. "Cream and sugar, Miss Schenectady?" he said. "Ah, Miss Thorn has already put them in. It is such celebrated tea of yours! Do you know, I always look forward to a cup of it as one of the greatest pleasures in life!" "When you have quite done praising the tea, will you please tell me what you believe about Mr. Harrington's speech?" said the inexorable Joe, drowning her aunt's reply to Vancouver's polite remark. Thus cornered, Vancouver faced the difficulty. "I believe it was a very good speech," he said mildly. "Do you believe what he said was true?" "A great deal of it was true, but I assure you that Harrington is very enthusiastic. Much of it was extremely imaginative." "I dare say; all that about making a Civil Service, I suppose?" "Well, not exactly. I think all good Republicans hope to have a regular Civil Service some day. It is necessary, or will be so before long." "But then it is what he said about that ridiculous Navigation Act that you object to?" pursued Joe, without mercy. "Really, I think it would be an advantage to repeal it. It is only kept up for the sake of a few builders who have influence." "Ah, I see," exclaimed Joe triumphantly, "you think the hope he expressed that bribery and that sort of thing might be suppressed was altogether imaginary?" "I hope not, Miss Thorn. But I am sure there is not nearly so much of it as he made out. It was a very great exaggeration." "Was there? Really, he only used the word once in the most general way. I remember very well, at the end; he said, 'when bribery, corruption, and all extortion are crushed forever;' anybody might say that!" "You make out a wonderfully good case, Miss Thorn," said Vancouver, who was not altogether pleased; "was the speech printed before Harrington spoke it this evening?" "No!" exclaimed Joe. "I have a very good memory, in that way, just to remember what I hear. I could repeat word for word everything he said, and everything you have said since during the evening." "What a terrible person you are!" said Vancouver, smiling pleasantly. "Well, then, now that you have proved every word of Harrington's speech out of an opponent's evidence, I will tell you frankly how it is that I do not agree with him. He is a Democrat, I am a Republican. That is the whole story. I do not believe, nor shall I ever believe, that any large number of the two parties can work together. I cannot help my belief in the least; it is a matter of conscience. Nevertheless, I have a very great respect for Harrington, and as I take no active part whatever in any political contest, my opinion of his politics will never interfere with my personal feeling for him." Frankness seemed to be Mr. Vancouver's strong point. Joe was obliged to admit that he spoke clearly, even if she did not greatly respect his logic. During all this time, Miss Schenectady had been sipping her tea in silence. "Joe," she said at last, "you are a perfect Socrates for questions. You ought to have been a lawyer." "I wish I were," said Joe, laughing, "or Socrates himself." "Yes, you ought to have been. Here you know nothing at all about this thing, and you have been talking like anything for half an hour. I think Socrates was perfectly horrid." "So do I," said Vancouver, laughing aloud. "Why?" Joe asked, turning to her aunt. "To be always stopping people in the street, and button-holing them with his questions. Of course it was very clever, as Plato makes it out; but I do wish he could have met me--when I was young, my dear. I would have answered him once and for all!" "Try me, Aunt Zoë, for practice," said Joe, "until you meet him." "Really, I expect you would do almost as well. Look at Mr. Vancouver, he is quite used up." The case was not so serious with Mr. Vancouver as the old lady made it out to be. He was silent and to all intents vanquished for the present, but it was not long before he turned the conversation to other things, and succeeded in making himself very agreeable. He admired Josephine very much, and though she occasionally made him feel very uncomfortable, he always returned to the charge with renewed intelligence and sweetness. Joe liked him too, in spite of an unfounded suspicion she felt that he was dangerous. He was always ready when she needed anything at a party; he never bored her, but whenever he saw she was wearied by any one else he came up and saved her, clearing a place for himself at her side with an ease that bespoke long and constant experience of the world. Women, especially young women, always like men of that description; they are flattered at the attention of a man who is so evidently able to choose, and they enjoy the immunity from all annoyance and weariness that such men are able to carry with them. Consequently Joe accepted the attentions of Pocock Vancouver with a certain amount of satisfaction, and she had not been displeased that he should come to Miss Schenectady's house for tea. The evening passed quickly, and Vancouver took his leave. As he opened the front door to let himself out he nearly fell over a small telegraph messenger. "Thorn here?" inquired the boy, laconically. "Yes, I'll take it in," said Vancouver quickly. He went back with the telegram, and the boy stood inside the door waiting for the receipt. He noticed the stamp of the Cable Office on the envelope. "Miss Thorn," said Vancouver, entering the drawing-room again, hat in hand, "I just met this telegram on the steps, so I brought it in. It may need an answer, you know." "Thanks, so much," said Joe, tearing open the pale yellow cover. She was startled, not being accustomed to receive telegrams. Her brow contracted as she read the contents, and she tapped her small foot on the carpet impatiently. THORN, care Schenectady, Beacon, Boston. Sailed to-day. RONALD. Josephine crushed the paper in her hand and signed the receipt with the pencil Vancouver offered her. "Thanks, so much," she said again, but in a different tone of voice. "Any answer?" suggested Vancouver. "Thanks, no," answered Joe. "Good-night again." "Good-night." And Vancouver departed, wondering what the message could have been. Miss Schenectady had looked on calmly throughout the little scene, and nodded to Pocock as he left the room; her peculiarities were chiefly those of diction; she was a well-bred old lady, not without wisdom. "Nothing wrong, Joe?" she inquired, when alone with her niece. "I hardly know," answered Joe. "Ronald has just sailed from England. I suppose he will be here in ten days." "Business here?" asked Miss Schenectady. "Oh dear, no! He knows nothing about business. I wish he would stay at home. What a bore!" It was evident that Joe had changed her mind since she had written to Ronald a fortnight before. It seemed to her now, when she looked forward to Surbiton's coming, that he would not find his place in Boston society so easily as she had done. Of course he would expect to see her every day, and to spend all his leisure hours at Miss Schenectady's house. Whatever she happened to be doing, it would always be necessary to take Ronald into consideration, and the prospect did not please her at all. Ronald was a dear good fellow, of course, and she meant to marry him in the end--at least, she probably would. But then, she intended to marry him at a more convenient season, some time in the future. She knew him well, and she was certain that when he saw her surrounded by her Boston acquaintances, his British nature would assert itself, and he would claim her, or try to claim her, and persuade her to go away. She bid Miss Schenectady good night, and went to her room; and presently, when she was sure every one was in bed in the house, she stole down to the drawing-room again, and sat alone by the remains of the coal-fire, thinking what she should do. Josephine Thorn was young and more full of life and activity than most girls of her age. She enjoyed what came in her way to enjoy with a passionate zest, and she had the reputation of being somewhat capricious and changeable. But she was honest in all her thoughts, and very clear-sighted. People often said she spoke her mind too freely, and was not enough in awe of the veiled deity known in society as "The Thing." How she hated it! How many times she had been told that what she said and did was not quite "The Thing." She knew now what Ronald would say when he came, if he found her worshiped on all sides by Pocock Vancouver and his younger and less accomplished compeers. Ronald would say "it was rather rough, you know." She sat by the fire and thought the matter over, and when she came to formulating in her mind the exact words that Ronald would say, she paused to think of him and how he would look. He was handsome--far handsomer than Vancouver or--or John Harrington. He was very nice; much nicer than Vancouver. John Harrington was different, "nice" did not describe him; but Ronald was nicer than all the other men she knew. He would make a charming husband. At the thought Joe started. "My husband!" she repeated aloud to herself in the silence. Then she rose quickly to her feet and leaned against the smooth white marble mantelpiece, and buried her face in her small white hands for an instant. "Oh no, no, no, no!" she cried aloud. "It is impossible; oh no! never! I never really meant it; did I?" She stared at herself in the glass for a few seconds, and her face was very pale. Then she bent over her hands again, and the tears came and wetted them a little, and at last she sat down as she had sat before, and stared vacantly at the fire. It would be very wrong to break Ronald's heart, she thought. He would come to her so full of hope and gladness; how could she tell him she did not love him? But how was it possible that in all these years she had never before understood that she could not marry him? It had always seemed so natural to marry Ronald. And yet she must have always really felt just as she did to-night; only she had never realized it, never at all. Why had it come over her so suddenly too? It would have been so much better if she could have seen the truth at home, before she parted from him; for it would be so hard for him to bear it now, after coming across the ocean to see her--so cruelly hard. Dear Ronald; and yet he must be told. Yes, there was no doubt about it, the very first meeting must explain it to him. He would say--what would he say? He would tell her she liked some one else better. Some one else! Some one who had stolen away her heart; of course he would say that. But he would be wrong, for there was no one else, not one of all these men she had seen, who had so much as breathed a word of love to her. None whom she liked nearly so much as Ronald, no, not one. For a long time she sat very quietly, following a train of thought that was half unconscious. Her lips moved now and then, as though she were repeating something to herself, and gradually the pained and anxious expression of her face melted away into a look of peace. The old gilt clock upon the chimney-piece struck twelve in its shrill steel tones. Josephine started at the sound, and passed one hand over her eyes as though to rouse herself, and at the same time a deep blush spread over her delicate cheek. For with the voice of midnight there was also the voice of a man ringing in her ears, and she heard the two together, so that it seemed as though all the world must hear them also, and her gentle maiden's soul was shamed at the thought. So it is that our loves are always with us, and though we search ourselves diligently to find them and rebuke them, we find them not; but if we give up searching they come upon us unawares, and speak very soft words. Love also is a gentle thing, full of sweetness and peace, when he comes to us so; and though the maiden blushes at his speaking, she would not stop the ears of her heart against him for all the world; and although the boy trembles and turn pale, and forgets to be boyish when, the fit is on him, nevertheless he goes near and worships, and loses his heart in learning a new language. So kind and soft is love, so tender and sweet-spoken, that you would think he would not so much as ruffle the leaf of a rose, nor breathe too sharply on a violet, lest he should hurt the flower-soul within; and if you treat him hospitably he is kind to the last, so that when he is gone there is still a sweet savor of him left. But if you would drive him roughly away with scorn and rude language, he will stand at your door and will not leave you. Then his wings drop from him, and he grows strong and fierce, and deadly and beautiful, as the fallen archangel of heaven, crying aloud bitter things to you by day and night; till at the last he will break down bolt and bar and panel, and enter your chamber, and drag you out with him to your death in the wild darkness. But Josephine blushed deeply there in the old-fashioned drawing-room at midnight, and as she turned away she wondered at herself, for she could not believe nor understand what was happening. Poor girl! She had talked of love so often as an abstract thing, she had seen so many love-makings of others, and so many men had tried to make love to her in her short brilliant life, and she had always thought it could not come near her, because, of course, she really loved Ronald. She had marveled, indeed, at what people were willing to do, and at what they were ready to sacrifice, for a feeling that seemed to her of such little importance as that. It had been an illusion, and the waking had come at last very suddenly. Whoever it might be whom she was destined to take, it was not Ronald. It was madness to think she could be bound forever to him, however much she might admire him and desire him as a friend. When the clock struck she was thinking of John, and the words he had said that night to his great audience were ringing again in her ears. She blushed indeed at the idea that she was thinking so much of him, but it was not that she believed she loved him. If as yet she really did, she was herself most honestly unconscious of it; and so the blush was not accounted for in the reckoning she made. She lay awake long, trying to determine what was best to be done, but she could not. One thing she must do; she must explain to Ronald, when he came, that she could never, never marry him. If only she had a sister, or some one! Dear Aunt Zoruiah was so horrid about such things that it was impossible to talk to her! CHAPTER VI. "Do you know how to skate?" Sybil Brandon asked of Joe as the two young girls, clad in heavy furs, walked down the sunny side of Beacon Street two days later. They were going from Miss Schenectady's to a "lunch party"--one of those social institutions of Boston which had most surprised Joe on her first arrival. "Of course," answered Joe. "I do not know anything, but I can do everything." "How nice!" said Sybil. "Then you can go with us to-night. That will be too lovely!" "What is it?" "We are all going skating on Jamaica Pond. Nobody has skated for so long here that it is a novelty. I used to be so fond of it." "We always skate at home, when there is ice," said Joe. "It will be enchanting though, with the full moon and all. What time?" "Mrs. Sam Wyndham will arrange that," said Sybil. "She is going to matronize us." "How dreadful, to have to be chaperoned!" ejaculated Joe. "But Mrs. Wyndham is very jolly after all, so it does not much matter." "I believe they used to have Germans here without any mothers," remarked Sybil, "but they never do now." "Poor little things, how awfully lonely for them!" laughed Joe. "Who?" "The Germans--without their mothers. Oh, I forgot the German was the cotillon. You mean cotillons, without tapestry, as we say." "Yes, exactly. But about the skating party. It will be very select, you know; just ourselves. You know I never go out," Sybil added rather sadly, "but I do love skating so." "Who are 'ourselves'--exactly?" "Why, you and I, and the Sam Wyndhams, and the Aitchison girls, and Mr. Topeka, and Mr. Harrington, and Mr. Vancouver--let me see--and Miss St. Joseph, and young Hannibal. He is very nice, and is very attentive to Miss St. Joseph." "Is it nice, like that, skating about in couples?" asked Joe. "No; that is the disagreeable part; but the skating is delicious." "Let us stay together all the time," said Joe spontaneously, "it will be ever so much pleasanter. I would not exactly like to be paired off with any of those men, you know." Sybil looked at Joe, opening her wide blue eyes in some astonishment. She did not think Joe was exactly one of those young women who object to a moonlight _tête-à-tête_, if properly chaperoned. "Yes, if you like, dear," she said. "I would like it much better myself, of course." "Do you know, Sybil," said Joe, looking up at her taller companion, "I should not think you would care for skating and that sort of thing." "Why?" asked Sybil. "You do not look strong enough. You are not a bit like me, brought up on horseback." "Oh, I am very strong," answered Sybil, "only I am naturally pale, you see, and people think I am delicate." But the north wind kissed her fair face and the faint color came beneath the white and through it, so that Joe looked at her and thought she was the fairest woman in the world that day. "When I was a little girl," said Joe, "mamma used to tell me a story about the beautiful Snow Angel: she must have been just like you, dear." "What is the story?" asked Sybil, the delicate color in her cheek deepening a little. "I will tell you to-night when we are skating, we have not time now. Here we are." And the two girls went up the steps of the house where they were going to lunch. On the other side of the street Pocock Vancouver and John Harrington met, and stopped to speak just as Joe and Sybil had rung the bell, and stood waiting at the head of the steps. "Don't let us look at each other so long as we can look at them," said Vancouver, shaking hands with John, but looking across the street at the two girls. John looked too, and both men bowed. "They are pretty enough for anything, are they not?" continued Vancouver. "Yes," said John, "they are very pretty." With a nod and a smile Joe and Sybil disappeared into the house. "Why don't you marry her?" asked Vancouver. "Which? The English girl?" "No; Sybil Brandon." "Thank you, I am not thinking of being married," said John, a half-comic, half-contemptuous look in his strong face. "Miss Brandon could do better than marry a penniless politician, and besides, even if I wanted it, I care too much for Miss Brandon's friendship to risk losing it by asking her to marry me." "Nonsense, my dear fellow," said Vancouver, "she would accept you straight off. So would the other." "You ought to know," said John, eyeing his companion calmly. Vancouver looked away; it was generally believed that he had been refused by Miss Brandon more than a year previous. "Well, you can take my word for it, you could not do better," he answered, ambiguously. "There is no knowing how the moonlight effects on Jamaica Pond may strike you this evening. I say, though, you were pretty lucky in having such warm weather the night before last." "Yes," said John. "The house was full. Were you there?" "Of course. If I were not a Republican I would congratulate you on your success. It is a long time since any one has made a Boston audience listen to those opinions. You did it surprisingly well; that sentence about protection was a masterpiece. I wish you were one of us." "It is of no use arguing with you," said John. "If it were, I could make a Democrat of you in an afternoon." "I make a pretty good thing of arguing, though," answered the other. "It's my trade, you see, and it is not yours. You lay down the law; it is my business to make a living out of it." "I wish I _could_ lay it down, as you say, and lay it down according to my own ideas," said John. "I would have something to say to you railroad men." "As for that, I should not care. Railroad law is stronger than iron and more flexible than india-rubber, and the shape of it is of no importance whatever. So long as there is enough of it to work with, you can twist it and untwist it as much as you please." John laughed. "It would simplify matters to untwist it and cut it up into lengths," he said. "But then your occupation would be gone." "I think my occupation will last my life-time," answered Vancouver, laughing in his turn. "Not if I can help it," returned John. "But we can provide you with another. Good-by. I am going to Cambridge." They shook hands cordially, and John Harrington turned down Charles Street, while Vancouver pursued his way up the hill. He had been going in the opposite direction when he met Harrington, but he seemed to have changed his mind. He was not seen again that day until he went to dine with Mrs. Sam Wyndham. There was no one there but Mr. Topeka and young John C. Hannibal, well-dressed men of five-and-thirty and five-and-twenty respectively, belonging to good families of immense fortune, and educated regardless of expense. No homely Boston phrase defiled their anglicized lips, their great collars stood up under their chins in an ecstasy of stiffness, and their shirt-fronts bore two buttons, avoiding the antiquity of three and the vulgarity of one. Well-bred Anglo-maniacs both, but gentlemen withal, and courteous to the ladies. Mr. Topeka was a widower, John C. Hannibal was understood to be looking for a wife. They came, they dined, and they retired to Sam Wyndham's rooms to don their boots and skating clothes. At nine o'clock the remaining ladies arrived, and then the whole party got into a great sleigh and were driven rapidly out of town over the smooth snow to Jamaica Pond. John Harrington had not come, and only three persons missed him--Joe Thorn, Mrs. Sam, and Pocock Vancouver. The ice had been cut away in great quantities for storing and the thaw had kept the pond open for a day or two. Then came the sharpest frost of the winter, and in a few hours the water was covered with a broad sheet of black ice that would bear any weight. It was a rare piece of good fortune, but the fashion of skating had become so antiquated that no one took advantage of the opportunity; and as the party got out of the sleigh and made their way down the bank, they saw that there was but one skater before them, sweeping in vast solitary circles out in the middle of the pond, under the cold moonlight. The party sat on the bank in the shadow of some tall pine trees, preparing for the amusement, piling spare coats and shawls on the shoulders of a patient groom, and screwing and buckling their skates on their feet. "What beautiful ice!" exclaimed Joe, when Vancouver had done his duty by the straps and fastenings. She tapped the steel blade twice or thrice on the hard black surface, still leaning on Vancouver's arm, and then, without a word of warning, shot away in a long sweeping roll. The glorious vitality in her was all alive, and her blood thrilled and beat wildly in utter enjoyment. She did not go far at first, but seeing the others were long in their preparations, she turned and faced them, skating away backwards, leaning far over to right and left on each changing stroke, and listening with intense pleasure to the musical ring of the clanging steel on the clean ice. Some pride she felt, too, at showing the little knot of Bostonians how thoroughly at home she was in a sport they seemed to consider essentially American. Joe had not noticed the solitary skater, and thought herself alone, but in a few moments she was aware of a man in an overcoat bowing before her as he slackened his speed. She turned quickly to one side and stopped herself, for the man was John Harrington. "Why, where did you come from, Mr. Harrington?" she asked in some astonishment. "You were not hidden under the seats of the sleigh, were you?" "Not exactly," said John, looking about for the rest of the party. "I was belated in Cambridge this afternoon, so I borrowed a pair of skates and walked over. Splendid ice, is it not?" "I am so glad you came," said Joe. She was in such high spirits and was so genuinely pleased at meeting John that she forgot to be cold to him. "It would have been a dreadful pity to have missed this." "It would indeed," said John, skating slowly by her side. For down by the pine trees two or three figures began to move on the ice. "I want to thank you, Mr. Harrington," said Joe. "What for, Miss Thorn?" he asked. "For the pleasure you gave me the other night," she answered. "I have not seen you since to speak to. It was splendid!" "Thanks," said John. "I saw you there, in the gallery on my left." "Yes; but how could you have time to look about and recognize people? You must have splendid eyes." "It is all a habit," said John. "When one has been before an audience a few times one does not feel nervous, and so one has time to look about. Do you care for that sort of thing, Miss Thorn?" "Oh, ever so much. But I was frightened once, when they began to grumble." "There was nothing to fear," said John, laughing. "Audiences of that kind do not punctuate one's speeches with cabbages and rotten eggs." "They do sometimes in England," said Joe. "But here come the others!" Two and two, in a certain grace of order, the little party came out from the shore into the moonlight. The women's faces looked white and waxen against their rich furs, and the moonbeams sparkled on their ornaments. A very pretty sight is a moonlight skating party, and Pocock Vancouver knew what he was saying when he hinted at the mysterious and romantic influences that are likely to be abroad on such occasions. Indeed, it was not long before young Hannibal was sliding away hand in hand with Miss St. Joseph at a pace that did not invite competition. And Mr. Topeka decided which of the Aitchison girls he preferred, and gave her his arm, so that the other fell to the lot of Sam Wyndham, while Mrs. Sam and Sybil Brandon came out escorted by Vancouver, who noticed with some dismay that the party was "a man short." The moment he saw Joe talking to the solitary skater, he knew that the latter must be Harrington, who had gone to Cambridge and come across. John bowed to every one and shook hands with Mrs. Wyndham. Joe eluded Vancouver and put her arm through Sybil's, as though to take possession of her. Joe would have been well enough pleased at first to have been left with John, but the sight of Vancouver somehow reminded her of the compact she had made in the morning with Sybil, and in a few moments the two girls were away together, talking so persistently to each other that Vancouver, who at first followed them and tried to join their conversation, was fain to understand that he was not wanted, so that he returned to Mrs. Wyndham. "I want so much to talk to you," Joe began, when they were alone. "Yes, dear?" said Sybil half interrogatively, as they moved along. "We can talk here charmingly, unless Mr. Vancouver comes after us again. But you do skate beautifully, you know. I had no idea you could." "Oh, I told you I could do everything," said Joe, with some pride. "Where _did_ you get that beautiful fur, my dear? It is magnificent. You are just like the Snow Angel now." "In Russia. Everybody wears white fur there, you know. We were in St. Petersburg some time." "I know. We cannot get it in England. If one could I would have told Ronald to bring me some when he comes." "Who is Ronald?" asked Sybil innocently. "Oh, he is the dearest boy," said Joe, with a little sigh, "but I do so wish he were not coming!" "Because he has not got the white fur?" suggested Sybil. "Oh no! But because"--Joe lowered her voice and spoke demurely, at the same time linking her arm more closely in Sybil's. "You see, dear, he wants to marry me, and I am afraid he is coming to say so." "And you do not want to marry him? Is that it?" Joe's small mouth closed tightly, and she merely nodded her head gravely, looking straight before her. Sybil pressed her arm sympathetically and was silent, expecting more. "It was such a long time ago, you see," said Joe, after a while. "I was not out when it was arranged, and it seemed so natural. But now--it is quite different." "But of course, if you do not love him, you must not think of marrying him," said Sybil, simply. "I won't," answered Joe, with sudden emphasis. "But I shall have to tell him, you know," she added despondently. "It is very hard to say those things," said Sybil, in a tone of reflection. "But of course it must be done--if you were really engaged, that is." "Yes, almost really," said Joe. "Not quite?" suggested Sybil. "I think not quite; but I know he thinks it is quite quite, you know." "Well, but perhaps he is not so certain, after all. Do you know, I do not think men really care so much; do you?" "Oh, of course not," said Joe scornfully. "But it does not seem quite honest to let a man think you are going to marry him if you do not mean to." "But you did mean to, dear, until you found out you did not care for him enough. And just think how dreadful it would be to be married if you did not care enough!" "Yes, that is true," answered Joe. "It would be dreadful for him too." "When is he coming?" asked Sybil. "I think next week. He sailed the day before yesterday." "Then there is plenty of time to settle on what you want to say," said Sybil. "If you make up your mind just how to put it, you know, it will be ever so much easier." "Oh no!" cried Joe. "I will trust to luck. I always do; it is much easier." "Excuse me, Miss Brandon," said the voice of Vancouver, who came up behind them at a great pace, and holding his feet together let himself slide rapidly along beside the two girls,--"excuse me, but do you not think you are very unsociable, going off in this way?" "May I give you my arm, Miss Thorn?" asked Harrington, coming up on the other side. Without leaving each other Joe and Sybil took the proffered arms of the two men, and the four skated smoothly out into the middle of the ice, that rang again in the frosty air under their joint weight. Mrs. Wyndham had insisted that Vancouver and Harrington should leave her and follow the young girls, and they had obeyed in mutual understanding. "Which do you like better, Miss Brandon, boating in Newport or skating on Jamaica Pond?" asked Vancouver. "This is better than the Music Hall, is it not?" remarked John to Miss Thorn. "Oh, Jamaica Pond, by far," Sybil answered, and her hold on Joe's arm relaxed a very little. "Oh no! I would a thousand times rather be in the Music Hall!" exclaimed Joe, and her hand slipped away from Sybil's white fur. And so the four were separated into couples, and went their ways swiftly under the glorious moonlight. As they parted Sybil turned her head and looked after Joe, but Joe did not see her. "I would rather be here," said John quietly. "Why?" asked Joe. "There is enough fighting in life to make peace a very desirable thing sometimes," John answered. "A man cannot be always swinging his battle-axe." There was a very slight shade of despondency in the tone of his voice. Joe noticed it at once. Women do not all worship success, however much they may wish their champion to win when they are watching him fight. In the brilliant, unfailing, all-conquering man, the woman who loves him feels pride; if she be vain and ambitious, she feels wholly satisfied, for the time. But woman's best part is her gentle sympathy, and where there is no room at all for that, there is very often little room for love. In the changing hopes and fears of uncertain struggles, a woman's love well given and truly kept may turn the scale for a man, and it is at such times, perhaps, that her heart is given best, and most loyally held by him who has it. "I wish I could do anything to help him to succeed," thought Joe, in the innocent generosity of her half-conscious devotion. "Has anything gone wrong?" she asked aloud. CHAPTER VII. "Has anything gone wrong?" There was so much of interest and sympathy in her tone, as Joe put the simple question, that John turned and looked into her face. The magic of moonlight softens the hardest features, makes interest look like friendship, and friendship like love; but it can harden too at times, and make a human face look like carved stone. "No, there is nothing wrong," John answered presently; "what made you think so?" "You spoke a little regretfully," answered Joe. "Did I? I did not mean to. Perhaps one is less gay and less hopeful at some times than at others. It has nothing to do with success or failure." "I know," answered Joe. "One can be dreadfully depressed when one is enjoying one's self to any extent. But I should not have thought you were that sort of person. You seem always the same." "I try to be. That is the great difference between people who live to work and people who live to amuse and be amused." "How do you mean?" "I mean," said John, "that people who work, especially people who have to do with large ideas and great movements, need to be more or less monotonous. The men who succeed are the men of one idea or at least they are the men who only have one idea at a time." "Whereas people who live to amuse and be amused must have as many ideas as possible." "Yes, to play with," said John, completing the sentence. "Their life is play, their ideas are their playthings, and so soon as they have spoiled one toy they must have another. The people who supply ideas to an idle public are very valuable, and may have great power." "Novel-writers, and that sort of people," suggested Joe. "All producers of light literature and second-rate poetry, and a very great variety of other people besides. A man who amuses others may often be a worker himself. He raises a laugh or excites a momentary interest by getting rid of his superfluous ideas and imaginations, reserving to himself all the time the one idea in which he believes." "Not at all a bad theory," said Joe. "There are more men of that sort with you in Europe than with us. You need more amusement, and you will generally give more for it. You English, who are uncommonly fond of doing nothing, give yourselves vast trouble in the pursuit of pleasure. We Americans, who are ill when we are idle, are content to surround ourselves with the paraphernalia of pleasure when office hours are over; but we make very little use of our opportunities for amusement, being tired out at the end of the day with other things which we think more important. The result is that we have no such thing as what you denominate 'Society,' because we lack the prime element of aristocratic social intercourse, the ingrained determination to be idle." "You are very hard on us," remarked Joe. "Excuse me," returned John, "you are compensated by having what we have not. Europeans are the most agreeable people in the world, wherever mutual and daily conversation and intercourse are to be considered. The majority of you, of polite European society, are not troubled with any very large ideas, but you have an immense number of very charming and attractive small ones. In America there are only two ideas that practically affect society, but they are very big ones indeed." "What?" asked Joe laconically, growing interested in John's queer lecture. "Money and political influence," answered John Harrington. "They are the two great motors of our machine. All men who are respected among us are in pursuit of one or the other, or have attained to one or the other by their own efforts. The result is, that European society is amusing and agreeable; whereas Americans of the same class are more interesting, less polished, better acquainted with the general laws that govern the development of nations." "Really, Mr. Harrington," said Joe, "you are making us out to be very insignificant. And I think it would be very dull if we all had to understand ever so many general laws. Besides, I do not agree with you." "About what, Miss Thorn?" "About Americans. They talk better than Englishmen, as a rule." "But I am comparing Americans with the whole mass of Europeans," John objected. "The English are a rather silent race, I should say." "Cold, you think?" suggested Joe. "No, not cold. Perhaps less cold than we are; but less demonstrative." "I like that," answered Joe. "I like people to feel more than they show." "Why?" asked John. "Why should not people be perfectly natural, and show when they feel anything, or be cold when they do not?" "I think when you know some one feels a great deal and hides it, that gives one the idea of reserved strength." They had reached a distant part of the ice, and were slowly skating round the limits of a little bay, where the slanting moonbeams fell through tall old trees upon the glinting black surface. They were quite alone, only in the distance they could hear the long-drawn clang and ring of the other skaters, echoing all along the lake with a tremulous musical sound in the still bright night. "You must be very cold yourself, Mr. Harrington," Joe began again after a pause, stopping and looking at him. John laughed a little. "I?" he cried. "No, indeed, I am the most enthusiastic man alive." "You are when you are speaking in public," said Joe. "But that may be all comedy, you know. Orators always study their speeches, with all the gestures and that, before a glass, don't they?" "I do not know," said John. "Of course I know by heart what I am going to say, when I make a speech like that of the other evening, but I often insert a great deal on the spur of the moment. It is not comedy. I grow very much excited when I am speaking." "Never at any other time?" asked Joe. "Seldom; why should I? I do not feel other things or situations so strongly." "In other words," replied Joe, "it is just as I said; you are generally very cold." "I suppose so," John acquiesced, "since you will not allow the occasions when I am not cold to be counted." Joe looked down as she stood, and moved her skates slowly on the ice; the shadows hid her face. "Do you know," she said presently, "you lose a great deal; you must, you cannot help it. You only like people in a body, so as to see what you can do with them. You only care for things on a tremendously big scale, so that you may try to influence them. When you have not a crowd to talk to, or a huge scheme to argue about, you are bored to extinction." "No," said John; "I am not bored at present, by any means." "Because you are talking about big things. Most men in your place would be talking about the moonlight, and quoting Shelley." "To oblige you, Miss Thorn, I could quote a little now and then," said John, laughing. "Would it please you? I dare say you have seen elephants stand upon their hind legs and their heads alternately. I should feel very much like one; but I will do anything to oblige you." "That is frivolous," said Joe, who did not smile. "Of course it is. I am heavy by nature. You may teach me all sorts of tricks, but they will not be at all pretty." "No, you are very interesting as you are," said Joe quietly. "But I do not think you will be happy." "It is not a question of happiness." "What is it then?" "Usefulness," said John. "You do not care to be happy, you only care to be useful?" Joe asked. "Yes. But my ideas of usefulness include many things. Some of the people who listen to me would be very much astonished if they knew what I dream." "Nothing would astonish me," said Joe, thoughtfully. "Of course you must think of everything in a large way--it is your nature. You will be a great man." John looked at his companion. She had struck the main chord of his nature in her words, and he felt suddenly that thrill of pleasure which comes from the flattery of our pride and our hopes. John was not a vain man, but he was capable of being intoxicated by the grandeur of a scheme when the possibility of its realization was suddenly thrust before him. Like all men of exceptional gifts who are constantly before the public, he could estimate very justly the extent of the results he could produce on any given occasion, but his enthusiastic belief in his ideas could see no limit to the multiplication of those results. His strong will and natural modesty about himself constantly repressed any desire he might have to speak over-confidently of ultimate success, so that the prediction of ultimate success by some one else was doubly sweet to him. We Americans have said of ourselves that we are the only nation who accomplish what we have boasted of. Rash speech and rash action are our national characteristics, and lead us into all manner of trouble, but in so far as such qualifications or defects imply a positive conviction of success, they contribute largely to the realization of great schemes. No one can succeed who does not believe in himself, nor can any scheme be realized which has not gained the support of a sufficient number of men who believe in it and in themselves. John was gratified by Miss Thorn's speech, for he saw that it was spontaneous. "I will try to be great," he said, "for the sake of what I think is great." There was a short pause, and the pair by common consent skated slowly out of the shadow into the broad moonlight. "Not that I believe you will be happy if you think of nothing else," said Joe presently. "In order to do anything well, one must think of nothing else," answered John. "Many great men find time to be great and to do many other things," said Joe. "Look at Mr. Gladstone; he has an immense private correspondence about things that interest him, quite apart from the big things he is always doing." "When a man has reached that point he may find plenty of time to spare," answered Harrington. "But until he has accomplished the main object of his life he must not let anything take him from his pursuit. He must form no ties, he must have no interests, that do not conduce to his success. I think a man who enters on a political career must devote himself to it as exclusively as a missionary Jesuit attacks the conversion of unbelievers, as wholly as a Buddhist ascetic gives himself to the work of uniting his individual intelligence with the immortal spirit that gives it life." "I do not agree with you," said Joe decisively, and in her womanly intelligence of life she understood the mistake John made. "I cannot agree with you. You are mixing up political activity, which deals with the government of men, with spiritual ideas and immortality, and that sort of thing." "How so?" asked John, in some surprise. "I am quite sure," said Joe, "that to govern man a man must be human, and the imaginary politician you tell me of is not human at all." "And yet I aspire to be that imaginary politician," said John. "Do not think me too dreadfully conceited," Joe answered, "in talking about such things. Of course I do not pretend to understand them, but I am quite sure people must be like other people--I mean in good ways--or other people will not believe in them, you know. You are not vexed, are you?" She looked up into John's face with a little timid smile that might have done wonders to persuade a less prejudiced person than Harrington. "No indeed! why should I be vexed? But perhaps some day you will believe that I am right." "Oh no, never!" exclaimed Joe, in a tone of profound conviction. "You will never persuade me that people are meant to shut themselves from their fellow-creatures, and not be human, and that." "And yet you were so good as to say that you thought I might attain greatness," said John, smiling. "Yes, I think you will. But you will change your mind about a great many things before you do." John's strong face grew thoughtful, and the white moonlight made his features seem harder and sterner than ever. Slowly the pair glided over the polished black ice, now marked here and there with clean white curves from the skates, and in a few minutes they were once more within hail of the remainder of their party. CHAPTER VIII. Eight days after the skating party, Ronald Surbiton telegraphed from New York that he would reach Boston the next morning, and Josephine Thorn knew that the hour had come. She was not afraid of the scene that must take place, but she wished with all her heart that it were over. As Sybil Brandon had told her, there had been time to think of what she should say, and although she had answered recklessly that she would "trust to luck," she knew when the day was come that she had in reality thought intensely of the very words which must be spoken. To Miss Schenectady she had said nothing, but on the other hand she had become very intimate with Sybil, and to tell the truth, she hoped inwardly for the support and sympathy of her beautiful friend. Meanwhile, since her long evening with John Harrington on the ice, she had made every effort to avoid his society. Like many very young women with a vivid love of enjoyment and a fairly wide experience, she was something of a fatalist. That is to say, she believed that her evil destiny might spring upon her unawares at any moment, and she felt something when she was with Harrington that warned her. For the first time in her life she knew what it was to have moods of melancholy; she caught herself asking what was really the end and object of her gay life, whether it amounted to anything worthy in comparison with the trouble one had to take to amuse one's self, whether it would not be far better in the end to live like Miss Schenectady, reading and studying and caring nothing for the world. Not that Josephine admired Miss Schenectady, or thought that she herself could ever be like her. The old lady was a type of her class; intelligent and well versed in many subjects--even learned she might have been called by some. But to Joe's view, essentially European by nature and education, it seemed as though her aunt, like many Bostonians, judged everything--literature, music, art of all kinds, history and the doings of great men--by one invariable standard. Her comments on what she heard and read were uniformly delivered from the same point of view, in the same tone of practical judgment, and with the same assumption of original superiority. It was the everlasting "Carthago delenda" of the Roman orator. Whatever the world wrote, sang, painted, thought, or did, the conviction remained unshaken in Miss Schenectady's mind that Beacon Street was better than those things, and that of all speeches and languages known and spoken in the world's history, the familiar dialect of Boston was the one best calculated by Providence and nature to express and formulate all manner of wisdom. It is a strange thing that where criticism is on the whole so fair, and cultivation of the best faculties so general, the manner of expressing a judgment and of exhibiting acquired knowledge should be such as to jar unpleasantly on the sensibilities of Europeans. Where is the real difference? It probably lies in some subtle point of proportion in the psychic chemistry of the Boston mind, but the analyst who shall express the formula is not yet born; though there be those who can cast the spectrum of Boston existence and thought upon their printed screens with matchless accuracy. Joe judged but did not analyze. She said Miss Schenectady was always right, but that the way she was right was "horrid." Consequently she did not look to her aunt for sympathy or assistance, and though they had more than once talked of Ronald Surbiton since receiving his cable from England, Joe had not said anything of her intentions regarding him. When the second telegram arrived from New York, saying that he would be in Boston on the following morning, Joe begged that Miss Schenectady would be at home to receive him when he came. "Well, if you insist upon it, I expect I shall have to," said Miss Schenectady. She did not see why her niece should require her presence at the interview; young men may call on young ladies in Boston without encountering the inevitable chaperon, or being obliged to do their talking in the hearing of a police of papas, mammas, and aunts. But as Joe "insisted upon it," as the old lady said, she "expected there were no two ways about it." Her expectations were correct, for Joe would have refused absolutely to receive Ronald alone. "I know the value of a stern aunt, my dear," she had said to Sybil the day previous. When matters were arranged, therefore, they went to bed, and in the morning Miss Schenectady sat in state in the front drawing-room, reading the life of Mr. Ticknor until Ronald should arrive. Joe was up-stairs writing a note to Sybil Brandon, wherein the latter was asked to lunch and to drive in the afternoon. Ronald could not come before ten o'clock with any kind of propriety, and they could have luncheon early and then go out; after which the bitterness of death would be past. It was not quite ten o'clock when Ronald Surbiton rang the bell, and was turned into the drawing-room to face an American aunt for the first time in his life. "Miss Schenectady?" said he, taking the proffered hand of the old lady and then bowing slightly. He pronounced her name Schenectady, with a strong accent on the penultimate syllable. "Sche_nec_tady," corrected his hostess. "I expect you are Mr. Surbiton." "A--exactly so," said Ronald, in some embarrassment. "Well, we are glad to see you in Boston, Mr. Surbiton." Miss Schenectady resumed her seat, and Ronald sat down beside her, holding his hat in his hand. "Put your hat down," said the old lady. "What sort of a journey did you have?" "Very fair, thanks," said Ronald, depositing his hat on the floor beside him, "in fact I believe we came over uncommonly quick for the time of year. How is"-- "What steamer did you come by?" interrupted Miss Schenectady. "The Gallia. She is one of the Cunarders. But as I was going to ask"-- "Yes, an old boat, I expect. So you came on right away from New York without stopping?" "Exactly," answered Ronald. "I took the first train. The fact is, I was so anxious--so very anxious to"-- "What hotel are you at here?" inquired Miss Schenectady, without letting him finish. "Brunswick. How is Miss Thorn?" Ronald succeeded at last in putting the question he so greatly longed to ask--the only one, he supposed, which would cause a message to be sent to Joe announcing his arrival. "Joe? She is pretty well. I expect she will be down in a minute. Are you going to stay some while, Mr. Surbiton?" Ronald thought Miss Schenectady the most pitiless old woman he had ever met. In reality she had not the most remote intention of being anything but hospitable. But her idea of hospitality at a first meeting seemed to consist chiefly in exhibiting a great and inquisitive interest in the individual she wished to welcome. Besides, Joe would probably come down when she was ready, and so it was necessary to talk in the mean time. At last Ronald succeeded in asking another question. "Excuse the anxiety I show," he said simply, "but may I ask whether Miss Thorn is at home?" "Perhaps if you rang the bell I could send for her," remarked the old lady in problematic answer. "Oh, certainly!" exclaimed Ronald, springing to his feet, and searching madly round the room for the bell. Miss Schenectady watched him calmly. "I think if you went to the further side of the fire-place you would find it--back of the screen," she suggested. "Thanks; here it is," cried Ronald, discovering the handle in the wall. "Yes, you have found it now," said Miss Schenectady with much indifference. "Perhaps you find it cold here?" she continued, observing that Ronald lingered near the fire-place. "Oh dear, no, thanks, quite the contrary," he answered. "Because if it is you might--Sarah, I think you could tell Miss Josephine that Mr. Surbiton is in the parlor, could not you?" "Oh, if it is any inconvenience"--Ronald began, misunderstanding the form of address Miss Schenectady used to her handmaiden. "Why?" asked Miss Schenectady, in some astonishment. "Nothing," said Ronald, looking rather confused; "I did not quite catch what you said." There was a silence, and the old lady and the young man looked at each other. Ronald was a very handsome man, as Joe knew. He was tall and straight and deep-chested. His complexion was like a child's, and his fine moustache like silk. His thick fair hair was parted accurately in the middle, and his smooth, white forehead betrayed no sign of care or thought. His eyes were blue and very bright, and looked fearlessly at every one and everything, and his hands were broad and clean-looking. He was perfectly well dressed, but in a fashion far less extreme than that affected by Mr. Topeka and young John C. Hannibal. There was less collar and more shoulder to him, and his legs were longer and straighter than theirs. Nevertheless, had he stood beside John Harrington, no one would have hesitated an instant in deciding which was the stronger man. With all his beauty and grace, Ronald Surbiton was but one of a class of handsome and graceful men. John Harrington bore on his square brow and in the singular compactness of his active frame the peculiar sign-manual of an especial purpose. He would have been an exception in any class and in any age. It was no wonder Joe had wished to compare the two. In a few moments the door opened, and Joe entered the drawing-room. She was pale, and her great brown eyes had a serious expression in them that was unusual. There was something prim in the close dark dress she wore, and the military collar of most modern cut met severely about her throat. If Ronald had expected a very affectionate welcome he was destined to disappointment; Joe had determined not to be affectionate until all was over. To prepare him in some measure for what was in store, she had planned that he should be left alone for a time with Miss Schenectady, who, she thought, would chill any suitor to the bone. "My dear Ronald," said Joe, holding out her hand, "I am so glad to see you." Her voice was even and gentle, but there was no gladness in it. "Not half so glad as I am to see you," said Ronald, holding her hand in his, his face beaming with delight. "It seems such an age since you left!" "It is only two months, though," said Joe, with a faint smile. "I ought to apologize, but I suppose you have introduced yourself to Aunt Zoë." She could not call her Aunt Zoruiah, even for the sake of frightening Ronald. "What did you think when you got my telegram?" asked the latter. "I thought it was very foolish of you to run away just when the hunting was so good," answered Joe with decision. "But you are glad, are you not?" he asked, lowering his voice, and looking affectionately at her. Miss Schenectady was again absorbed in the life of Mr. Ticknor. "Yes," said Joe, gravely. "It is as well that you have come, because I have something to say to you, and I should have had to write it. Let us go out. Would you like to go for a walk?" Ronald was delighted to do anything that would give him a chance of escaping from Aunt Zoruiah and being alone with Joe. "I think you had best be back to lunch," remarked Miss Schenectady as they left the room. "Of course, Aunt Zoë," answered Joe. "Besides, Sybil is coming, you know." So they sallied forth. It was a warm day; the snow had melted from the brick pavement, and the great icicles on the gutters and on the trees were running water in the mid-day sun. Joe thought a scene would be better to get over in the publicity of the street than in private. Ronald, all unsuspecting of her intention, walked calmly by her side, looking at her occasionally with a certain pride, mixed with a good deal of sentimental benevolence. "Do you know," Joe began presently, "when your cable came I felt very guilty at having written to you that you might come?" "Why?" asked Ronald, innocently. "You know I would come from the end of the world to see you. I have, in fact." "Yes, I know," said Joe wearily, wishing she knew exactly how to say what she was so thoroughly determined should be said. "What is the matter, Joe?" asked Ronald, suddenly. He smiled rather nervously, but his smooth brow was a little contracted. He anticipated mischief. "There is something the matter, Ronald," she said at last, resolved to make short work of the revelation of her feelings. "There is something very much the matter." "Well?" said Surbiton, beginning to be alarmed. "You know, Ronald dear, somehow I think you have thought--honestly, I know you have thought for a long time that you were to marry me." "Yes," said Ronald with a forced laugh, for he was frightened. "I have always thought so; I think so now." "It is of no use to think it, Ronald dear," said Joe, turning very pale. "I have thought of it too--thought it all over. I cannot possibly marry you, dear boy. Honestly, I cannot." Her voice trembled violently. However firmly she had decided within herself, it was a very bitter thing to say; she was so fond of him. "What?" asked Ronald hoarsely. But he turned red instead of pale. It was rather disappointment and anger that he felt at the first shock than sorrow or deep pain. "Do not make me say it again," said Joe, entreatingly. She was not used to entreating so much as to commanding, and her voice quavered uncertainly. "Do you mean to say," said Ronald, speaking loudly in his anger, and then dropping his voice as he remembered the passers-by,--"do you mean to tell me, Joe, after all this, when I have come to America just because you told me to, that you will not marry me? I do not believe it. You are making fun of me." "No, Ronald," Joe answered sorrowfully, but regaining her equanimity in the face of Surbiton's wrath, "I am in earnest. I am very, very fond of you, but I do not love you at all, and I never can marry you." Ronald was red in the face, and he trod fast and angrily, tapping the pavement with his stick. He was very angry, but he said nothing. "It is much better to be honest about it," said Joe, still very pale; and when she had spoken, her little mouth closed tightly. "Oh, yes," said Ronald, who was serious by this time; "it is much better to be honest, now that you have brought me three thousand miles to hear what you have to say--much better. By all means." "I am very sorry, Ronald," Joe answered. "I really did not mean you to come, and I am very sorry,--oh, more sorry than I can tell you,--but I cannot do it, you know." "If you won't, of course you can't," he said. "Will you please tell me who he is?" "Who?--what?" asked Joe, coldly. She was offended at the tone. "The fellow you have pitched upon in my place," he said roughly. Joe looked up into his face with an expression that frightened him. Her dark eyes flashed with an honest fire, He stared angrily at her as they walked slowly along. "I made a mistake," she said slowly. "I am not sorry. I am glad. I would be ashamed to marry a man who could speak like that to any woman. I am sorry for you, but I am glad for myself." She looked straight into his eyes, until he turned away. For some minutes they went on in silence. "I beg your pardon, Joe," said Ronald presently, in a subdued tone. "Never mind, Ronald dear, I was angry," Joe answered. But her eyes were full of tears, and her lips quivered. Again they went on in silence, but for a longer time than before. Joe felt that the blow was struck, and there was nothing to be done but to wait the result. It had been much harder than she had expected, because Ronald was so angry; she had expected he would be pained. He, poor fellow, was really startled out of all self-control. The idea that Joe could ever ultimately hesitate about marrying him had never seemed to exist, even among the remotest possibilities. But he was a gentleman in his way, and so he begged her pardon, and chewed the cud of his wrath in silence for some time. "Joe," he said at last, with something of his usual calm, though he was still red, "of course you are really perfectly serious? I mean, you have thought about it?" "Yes," said Joe; "I am quite sure." "Then perhaps it is better we should go home," he continued. "Perhaps so," said Joe. "Indeed, it would be better." "I would like to see you again, Joe," he said in a somewhat broken fashion. "I mean, by and by, when I am not angry, you know." Joe smiled at the simple honesty of the proposition. "Yes, Ronald dear, whenever you like. You are very good, Ronald," she added. "No, I am not good at all," said Ronald sharply, and they did not speak again until he left her at Miss Schenectady's door. Then she gave him her hand. "I shall be at home until three o'clock," said she. "Thanks," he answered; so they parted. Joe had accomplished her object, but she was very far from happy. The consciousness of having done right did not outweigh the pain she felt for Ronald, who was, after all, her very dear friend. They had grown up together from earliest childhood, and so it had been settled; for Ronald was left an orphan when almost a baby, and had been brought up with his cousin as a matter of expediency. Therefore, as Joe said, it had always seemed so very natural. They had plighted vows when still in pinafores with a ring of grass, and later they had spoken more serious things, which it hurt Joe to remember, and now they were suffering the consequence of it all, and the putting off childish illusions was bitter. It was not long before Sybil Brandon came in answer to Joe's invitation. She knew what trouble her friend was likely to be in, and was ready to do anything in the world to make matters easier for her. Besides, though Sybil was so white and fair, and seemingly cold, she had a warm heart, and had conceived a very real affection for the impulsive English girl. Miss Schenectady had retired to put on another green ribbon, leaving the life of Mr. Ticknor open on the table, and the two girls met in the drawing-room. Joe was still pale, and the tears seemed ready to start from her eyes. "Dear Sybil--it is so good of you to come," said she. Sybil kissed her affectionately and put her arm round her waist. They stood thus for a moment before the fire. "You have seen him?" Sybil asked presently. Joe had let her head rest wearily against her friend's shoulder, and nodded silently in answer. Sybil bent down and kissed her soft hair, and whispered gently in her ear,--"Was it very hard, dear?" "Oh, yes--indeed it was!" cried Joe, hiding her face on Sybil's breast. Then, as though ashamed of seeming weak, she stood up boldly, turning slightly away as she spoke. "It was dreadfully hard," she continued; "but it is all over, and it is very much better--very, very much, you know." "I am so glad," said Sybil, looking thoughtfully at the fire. "And now we will go out into the country and forget all about it--all about the disagreeable part of it." "Perhaps," said Joe, who had recovered her equanimity, "Ronald may come too. You see he is so used to me that after a while it will not seem to make so very much difference after all." "Of course, if he would," said Sybil, "it would be very nice. He will have to get used to the idea, and if he does not begin at once, perhaps he never may." "He will be just the same as ever when he gets over his wrath," answered Joe confidently. "Was he very angry?" "Oh, dreadfully! I never saw him so angry." "It is better when men are angry than when they are sorry," said Sybil. "Something like this once happened to me, and he got over it very well. I think it was much more my fault, too," she added thoughtfully. "Oh, I am sure you never did anything bad in your life," said Joe affectionately. "Nothing half so bad as this--my dear Snow Angel!" And so they kissed again and went to lunch. "I suppose you went to walk," remarked Miss Schenectady, when they met at table. "Yes," said Joe, "we walked a little." "Well, all Englishmen walk, of course," continued her aunt. "Most of them can," said Joe, smiling. "I mean, it is a great deal the right thing there. Perhaps you might pass me the pepper." Before they had finished their meal the door opened, and Ronald Surbiton entered the room. "Oh--excuse me," he began, "I did not know"-- "Oh, I am so glad you have come, Ronald," cried Joe, rising to greet him, and taking his hand. "Sybil, let me introduce Mr. Surbiton--Miss Brandon." Sybil smiled and bent her head slightly. Ronald bowed and sat down between Sybil and Miss Schenectady. CHAPTER IX. Josephine Thorn never read newspapers, partly because she did not care for the style of literature known as journalistic, and partly, too, because the papers always came at such exceedingly inconvenient hours. If she had possessed and practiced the estimable habit of "keeping up with the times," she would have observed an article which appeared on the morning after the skating party, and which dealt with the speech John Harrington had made in the Music Hall two days previous. Miss Schenectady had read it, but she did not mention it to Joe, because she believed in John Harrington, and wished Joe to do likewise, wherefore she avoided the subject; for the article treated him roughly. Nevertheless, some unknown person sent Joe a copy of the paper through the post some days later, with a bright red pencil mark at the place, and Joe, seeing what the subject was, read it with avidity. As she read, her cheek flushed, her small mouth closed like a vise, and she stamped her little foot upon the floor. It was evident that the writer was greatly incensed at the views expressed by John, and he wrote with an ease and a virulence which proclaimed a practiced hand. "The spectacle of an accomplished Democrat," said the paper, "is always sufficiently unusual to attract attention: but to find so rare a bird among ourselves is indeed a novel delight. The orator who alternately enthralled and insulted a considerable audience at the Music Hall, two nights ago, laid a decided claim both to accomplishment and to democracy. He himself informed his hearers that he was a Democrat; and, indeed, it was necessary that he should state his position, for it would have been impossible to decide from the tone and quality of his opinions whether he were a socialist, a reformer, a conservative, or an Irishman. Perchance he has discovered the talisman by which it is possible for a man to be all four, and yet to be a man, Furthermore, he claims to be an orator. No one could listen to the manifold intonations of his voice, or witness the declamatory evolutions of his body, without feeling an inward conviction that the gentleman on the platform intended to present himself to us as an orator. "Lest we be accused of partiality and prejudice, we will at once state that we believe it possible for a man to be singular in his manner and quaint in his mode of phrasing, and yet to utter an opinion in some one direction which, if neither novel nor interesting, nor even tenable, shall yet have the one redeeming merit of representing a conceivable point of view. But when a man begins by stating that he belongs to the Democrats and then claims as his own the views of his political opponents, winding up by demanding the sympathy and support of a third party, the obvious conclusion is that he is either a lunatic, a charlatan, or both. A man cannot serve God and Mammon, neither can any man serve both the Irish and Chinese. "Mr. John Harrington has made a great discovery. He has discovered that we require a Civil Service. This is apparently the ground on which he states himself to be a Democrat. If we remember rightly, the Civil Service Convention, which sat in discussion of the subject in the summer of 1881, was presided over by a prominent member of the Republican party. As some time has elapsed since then, and the gentlemen connected with the movement are as active and as much interested in it as ever, our orator will pardon us for questioning his right of discovery on the one hand, and his claim to be considered a Democrat on the strength of it, on the other. A Civil Service is doubtless a good thing, even a very good thing, and in due time we shall certainly have it; but that the Constitution of the United States is on the verge of dissolution at the hands of our corrupt public officers, that our finance is only another name for imminent bankruptcy, or that the new millennium of Washington morals will be organized by Mr. John Harrington--these things we deny _in toto_, from beginning to end. So wide and deep is our skepticism, that we even doubt whether 'war, famine, revolution, or all three together' would have instantly ensued if Mr. John Harrington had not delivered his speech on Wednesday evening. "In illustration--or rather, in the futile attempt to illustrate--Mr. Harrington put forth a series of similes that should make any dead orator turn in his grave. The nation was successively held up to our admiration in the guise of a sick man, a cripple, a banker, a theatrical company, and a peddler of tape and buttons. We were bankrupt, diseased; and our bones, like those of the Psalmist, were all out of joint; and if our hearts did not become like melting wax in the midst of our bodies, it was not the fault of Mr. John Harrington, but rather was it due to the hardening of those organs against the voice of the charmer. "The Navigation Act called down the choicest of the orator's vessels of wrath. Fools had made it, worse than fools submitted to it, and the reason why the Salem docks were no longer crowded with the shipping of the Peabody family was that there were ferry-boats in Boston harbor, a train of reasoning that must be clear to the mind of the merest schoolboy. Mr. Harrington further stated that these same ferry-boats--not to mention certain articles he terms 'mudscows,' with which we have no acquaintance--are built of old timber, copper, and nails, obtained by breaking tip the fleets of the Peabody family, which is manifestly a fraud on the nation. As far as the ferry-boats are concerned, we believe we are in a position to state that they are not built of old material; as regards the aforesaid 'mudscows' we can give no opinion, not having before heard of the article, which we presume is not common in commerce, and may therefore be regarded as an exception to the universal rule that things in general should not be made of old timber, copper, and rusty nails. "We will not weary our readers with any further attempt at unraveling the opinions, illustrations, and rhetoric of Mr. John Harrington, Democrat and orator. The possession of an abundant vocabulary without any especial use for it in the shape of an idea will not revolutionize modern government, whatever may be the opinion of the individual so richly gifted; nor will any accomplished Democrat find a true key to success in following a course of politics which consists in one half of the world trying to drive paradoxes down the throat of the other half. It will not do, and Mr. Harrington will find it out. He will find out also that the differences which exist between the Republican and the Democratic parties are far deeper and wider than he suspects, and do not consist in such things as the existence or non-existence of a Civil Service, free trade, or mudscows; and when these things are forever crushed out of his imagination it will be time enough to give him a name, seeing he is neither Republican nor Democrat, nor Tammany, nor even a Stalwart, nor a three-hundred-and-sixer--seeing, in fact, that he is not an astronomical point in any political heaven with which the world is acquainted, but only the most nebulous of nebulae which have yet come within our observation." Joe read the article rapidly, and then read the last paragraph again and threw the paper aside. She sat by the fire after breakfast, and Miss Schenectady had come into the room several times and had gone out again, busied with much housekeeping. For Miss Schenectady belonged to the elder school of Boston women, who "see to things" themselves in the intervals of literature, gossip, and transcendental philosophy. But Joe sat still for nearly half an hour after she had done reading and nursed her wrath, while she toasted her little feet at the fire. At last she made up her mind and rose. "I am going to see Sybil, Aunt Zoë," she said, meeting the old lady at the door. "Well, if she is up at this time of day," answered Miss Schenectady. "Oh, I fancy so," said Joe. Mrs. Sam Wyndham's establishment was of the modern kind, and nobody was expected to attend an early breakfast of fish, beefsteaks, buckwheat cakes, hot rolls, tea, coffee, and chocolate at eight o'clock in the morning. Visitors did as they pleased, and so did Mrs. Sam, and they met at luncheon, a meal which Sam Wyndham himself was of course unable to attend. Joe knew this, and knew she was certain to find Sybil alone. It was Sybil she wanted to see, and not Mrs. Wyndham. But as she walked down Beacon Street the aspect of affairs changed in her mind. Joe had not exaggerated when she said to Vancouver that she had a very good memory, and it would have been better for him if he had remembered the fact. Joe had not forgotten the conversation with him in the evening after Harrington's speech, and in reading the article that had been sent to her she instantly recognized a phrase, word for word as Vancouver had uttered it. In speaking to her he had said that politics "consisted in one half of the world trying to drive paradoxes down the throat of the other half." It was true that in the article John Harrington was warned that he would discover the fallacy of this proposition, but in Joe's judgment this did not constitute an objection. Vancouver had written the article, and none other; Vancouver, who professed a boundless respect for John, and who constantly asserted that he took no active part whatever in politics. It was inconceivable that the coincidence of language should be an accident. Vancouver had made the phrase when making conversation, and had used it in his article; Joe was absolutely certain of that, and being full of her discovery and of wrath, she was determined to consult with her dearest friend as to the best way of revenging the offense on its author. But as she walked down Beacon Street she reflected on the situation. She was sure Sybil would not understand why she cared so much, and Sybil would form hasty ideas as to the interest Joe took in Harrington. That would never do. It would be better to speak to Mrs. Sam Wyndham, who was herself so fond of John that she would seize with avidity on the information, from whatever source it came. But then Mrs. Wyndham was fond of Vancouver also. No, she was not. When Joe thought of it she was sure that though Vancouver was devoted to Mrs. Sam, Mrs. Sam did not care for him excepting as an agreeable person of even temper, who was useful in society. But for Harrington she had a real friendship. If it came to the doing of a service, Mrs. Wyndham would do it. Joe's perceptions were wonderfully clear and just. But when she reached the house she was still uncertain, and she passed on, intending to turn back and go in as soon as she had made up her mind. In spite of all that she could argue to herself it seemed unsafe--unwise, at least. Sybil might laugh at her, after all; Mrs. Wyndham might possibly tell Vancouver instead of telling John. It would be better to tell John herself; she remembered having once spoken to him about Vancouver, and she could easily remind him of the conversation. She would probably see him that evening at a party she was going to; and yet it was so hard to have to keep it all to herself for so many hours, instead of telling. Nevertheless she would go and see Sybil, taking care, of course, to say nothing about the article. At the time Joe was walking up and down Beacon Street in the effort to come to a decision, John Harrington found himself face to face with a very much more formidable problem. He stood before the fire-place in his rooms in Charles Street, with an extinguished cigar between his teeth, his face paler than usual, and a look of uncertainty on his features that was oddly out of keeping with his usual mood. He wore an ancient shooting coat, and his feet were trust into a pair of dingy leather slippers; his hands were in his pockets, and he was staring vacantly at the clock. On the oak writing-table that filled the middle of the room lay an open telegram. It was dated from Washington, and conveyed the simple information that Senator Caleb Jenkins had died at five o'clock that morning. It was signed by an abbreviation that meant nothing except to John himself. The name of the senator was itself fictitious, and stood for another which John knew. The table was covered with Government reports, for when the message came John was busy studying a financial point of importance to him. The telegram had lain on the table for half an hour, and John still stood before the fire-place, staring at the clock. The senator had not been expected to live, in fact it was remarkable that he should have lived so long. But when a man has been preparing for a struggle during many months, he is apt to feel that the actual moment of the battle is indefinitely far off. But now the senator was dead, and John meant to stand in his place. The battle was begun. No one who has not seen some of the inside workings of political life can have any idea of what a man feels who is about to stand as a candidate in an election for the first time in his life. For months, perhaps for years, he has been engaged with political matters; his opinions have been formed by himself or by others into a very definite shape; it may be that, like Harrington, he has frequently spoken to large audiences with more or less success; he may have written pamphlets and volumes upon questions of the day, and his writings may have roused the fiercest criticism and the most loyal support. All this he may have done, and done it well, but when the actual moment arrives for him to stand upon his feet and address his constituents, no longer for the purpose of making them believe in his opinions, but in order to make them believe in himself, he is more than mortal if he does not feel something very unpleasantly resembling fear. It is one thing to express a truth, it is another to set one's self upon a pedestal and declare that one represents it, and is in one's own person the living truth itself. John was too honest and true a man not to feel a positive reluctance to singing his own praises, and yet that is what most electioneering consists in. But to be elected a senator in Massachusetts is a complicated affair. A man who intends to succeed in such an enterprise must not let the grass grow under his feet. In a few hours the whole machinery of election must be at work, and before night he would have to receive all sorts and conditions of men and electioneering agents. The morning papers did not contain any notice of the senator's death, as they had already gone to press when the news reached them, if indeed it was as yet public property. But other papers appeared at mid-day, and by that time the circumstances would undoubtedly be known. John struck a match and relit his cigar. The moment of hesitation was over, the last breathing-space before the fight, and all his activity returned. Half an hour later he went out with a number of written telegrams in his hand, and proceeded to the central telegraph office. The case was urgent. In the first place the governor of the state would, according to law and custom, immediately appoint a senator _pro tempore_ to act until the legislature should elect the new senator in place of the one deceased. Secondly, the legislature, which meets once a year, was already in session, and the election would therefore take place immediately, unless some unusual delay were created, and this was improbable. In spite of the article which had so outraged Josephine Thorn's sense of justice, there were many who believed in John Harrington as the prophet of the new faith, as the senator of reform and the orator of the future, and his friends were numerous and powerful, both in the electing body and among the non-official mass of prominent persons who make up the aggregate of public opinion. It had long been known that John Harrington would be brought forward at the next vacancy, which, in the ordinary course of things, would have occurred in about a year's time, at the expiration of the senior senator's term of office, but which had now been suddenly caused by the death of his colleague. John was therefore aware that his success must depend almost immediately upon the present existing opinion of him that prevailed, and as he made his way through the crowded streets to the telegraph office, he realized that no effort of his own would be likely to make a change in that opinion at such short notice. At first it had seemed to him as though he were on a sudden brought face to face with a body of men whom he must persuade to elect him as their representative, and in spite of his great familiarity with political proceedings, the idea was extremely disagreeable to him. But on more mature reflection it was clear to him that he was in the hands of his friends, that he had said his say and had done all he would now be able to do in the way of public speaking or public writing, and that his only possible sphere of present action lay in exerting such personal influence as he possessed. John Harrington was ambitious, or, to speak more accurately, he was wholly ruled by a dominant aspiration. He was convinced by his own study and observation, as well as by a considerable amount of personal experience, that great reforms were becoming necessary in the government of the country, and he was equally sure that a man was needed who should be willing to make any sacrifice for the sake of creating a party to inaugurate such changes. In his opinion the surest step towards obtaining influence in the affairs of the country was a seat in the senate, and with an unhesitating belief in the truth and honesty of the principles he desired to make known, he devoted every energy he possessed to the attainment of his object. To him government seemed the most important function of society, the largest, the broadest, and the noblest; to help, if possible, to be a leader in the establishment of what was good for the country, and to be the very foremost in destroying that which was bad, were in his view the best objects and aims for a strong man to follow. And John Harrington knew himself to be strong, and believed himself to be right, and thus armed he was prepared for any struggle. The quality of vanity exists in all men, not least in those whose chief profession is modesty; and seeing that it is a universal element, created and inherent in every one, it is impossible to say it is bad in itself. For it is impossible to conceive any human creature without it. A recent philosopher of reputation has taught that by vanity, by the desire to appear attractive to the other sex, man has changed his own person from the form of a beast to the image of God. Vanity is a mighty power and incentive, as great as hunger and thirst, and much more generally active in the affairs of civilized humanity. And yet its very name means hollowness. "The hollowness of hollowness, all things are hollowness," said the preacher, and his translators have put the word vanity in his mouth, because it means the same thing. But in itself, being hollow, it is neither bad nor good; its badness or goodness lies in those things whereof a man makes choice to fill the void, the inexpressible and indefinable craving within his soul; as also hunger is only bad when it is satisfied by bad things, or not satisfied at all, so that in the one case it leads to disease, and in the other to the committing of crimes in the desire for satisfaction. Many a poor fellow was hung by the neck in old times for stealing a loaf to stop his hunger, and many a man of wit goes to the mad-house nowadays because the void of his vanity is unfilled. But vanity is called by yet another name when its disagreeable side is hidden, and when its emptiness has come to crave for great things. It is pride, then honorable pride, then ambition, and perhaps at the last it is called heroic sacrifice. Vanity is an unsatisfied desire, hollow in itself, but capable of holding both bad and good. It is not identical with self-complacency, nor yet with conceit. Probably John Harrington had originally possessed as much of this mysterious quality as most men who are conscious of strength and talent. It had never manifested itself in small things, and its very extent had made many things seem small which were of the highest importance to other men. He had worked as a boy at all manner of studies like other boys, but the idea of laboring in distasteful matters for the sake of being first among his companions seemed utterly absurd to him. From the time he had begun to think for himself--and he was young when he reached that stage--he had formed a rooted determination to be first in his country, to be a great reformer or a great patriot, and he cared to study nothing that was not connected with this idea. When his name was first heard in public life, it was as the author of a pamphlet advocating certain sweeping measures of which no one else had ventured to dream as yet. He would have smiled now had he taken the trouble to read again some of those earlier productions of his. It had seemed so easy to move the world then, and it seemed so hard now. But nevertheless he meant to move it, and as each year brought him increased strength and wider experience, it brought with it also the conviction of ultimate success. He had long forgotten to hope for the sudden and immediate power to stir the world, for he had discovered that it was a labor of years, the work of a lifetime; but if he had ever had any doubts as to the result of that work, he had forgotten them also. And now his strength, his aspirations, his vanity, and his intellect were roused together to the highest activity of which they were capable, the hour having come for which he had longed through half his lifetime, and though it was but the first trial, in which he might fail, it had for him all the importance of the supreme crisis of his existence. No wonder that his face was pale and his lips set as he walked back to his lodgings from the telegraph office. As he walked down the hill by the railings of the Common he came upon Josephine Thorn, standing at the entrance of one of the boarded walks, as though hesitating whether to go in. He was close to her as he bowed, and something in her face made him stop. "Good morning, Miss Thorn," he said. She nodded gravely and hesitated. He was about to go on, thinking she was in one of those moods which he called capricious. But she stopped him. "Mr. Harrington, I want to speak to you," she said quickly, seeing that her opportunity was on the point of slipping away. "Yes?" said John, smiling faintly. "Mr. Harrington--did you read that article about you, the day after the skating party?" "Yes," said John. "It was not complimentary, if I remember." "It was vile," said Joe, the angry color rising to her temples again. "It was abominable. It was written by Mr. Vancouver." John started slightly. "I think you must be mistaken," he said. "No, I am not mistaken. There were things in it, word for word as he said them to me just after the speech. I am perfectly sure." John looked very gravely at Joe, as though to be sure of her honesty. There was no mistaking the look in her eyes. "Miss Thorn," John said, "Vancouver may have said those very things to some one else, who wrote them and printed them. But in any case, I am exceedingly obliged to you for the information"-- "You are not angry?" Joe began, already repenting. "No--how could I be? It may be important. The junior senator for Massachusetts died this morning, and there may be an election at any moment. I have not told any one else, but it will be known everywhere in an hour's time. Good-by, and many thanks." "You will be senator, of course?" said Joe, in great excitement. "I cannot tell," John answered. "Are you going down the hill?" "No--thanks--I am going home," said Joe. "Good-by." CHAPTER X. Joe had been mistaken in thinking that Ronald would be less well received than herself. There was of course the usual amount of gossip concerning him, but as he refrained from eccentricities of dress when asked to dinner, and did not bet that he would ride his horse into the smoking-room of the Somerset Club, the gossip soon lost ground against the list of his good qualities. Moreover, he was extremely good-looking, and his manner was modesty itself. He admired everything he saw, partly because it was new to him, and partly because there was a good deal to admire. For a day or two after the final scene with Joe he had avoided seeing her. He had not been able to resist the temptation to go back on the same day, and he had spent some hours in considering that human affairs are extremely mutable. But the scenes about him were too new, and very many of the faces he saw were too attractive, to allow of his brooding for long over his misfortune. His first impulse had been to go away again on the very evening of his arrival. He had gone to see Joe, arriving during luncheon, in the expectation of seeing her alone again. There would be a scene of solemn farewell, in which he would bid her be happy in her own way, in a tone of semi-paternal benevolence, after which he would give her his blessing, and bid farewell to the pomps and vanities of society. He would naturally retire gloomily from the gay world, and end his miserable existence in the approved Guy Livingstone fashion of life, between cavendish tobacco, deep drinking, and high play. Joe would then repent of the ruin she had caused, and that would be a great satisfaction. There was once a little boy in Boston whose hands were very cold as he went to school. But he blew on them savagely, saying, "I am glad of it! It serves my father right for not buying me my gloves." That was Ronald's state of mind. He had led the most sober of lives, and the wildest dissipation he remembered was the Lord Mayor's supper to the Oxford and Cambridge crews, when he himself had been one of the winners. But surely, for a disappointed lover there could be no course so proper as a speedy death by dissipation--which would serve Joe right. Therefore, on his return to his hotel, he ordered whiskey, in a sepulchral tone of voice. He tasted it, and thought it detestable. On reflection, he would put off the commencement of his wild career until the evening after he had seen Joe again. The ravages of drink would not be perceptible so soon, after all. He changed his tie for one of a darker hue, ate sparingly of a beefsteak, and went back to bid Joe a last farewell. Sybil Brandon and Miss Schenectady were elements in the solemn leave-taking which Ronald had not anticipated. Sybil, moreover, made a great effort, for she was anxious to help Joe as much as possible in her difficulties. She talked to Ronald with a vivacity that was unusual, and Joe herself was astonished at the brilliance of her conversation. She had always thought Sybil very reserved, if not somewhat shy. Perhaps Sybil pitied Ronald a little. He was very quiet in his manner, though after the first few minutes he found himself talking much as usual. True, he often looked at Joe, and then was silent; but then again he looked at Sybil, and his tongue was unloosed. He was grateful after a time, and he was also flattered. Besides, he could not help noticing that his new acquaintance was extremely beautiful. His conscience smote him as he realized that he was thinking of her appearance, and he immediately quieted the qualm by saying that it was but natural admiration for an artistic object. Ronald did not know much about artists and that sort of people, but the expression formed itself conveniently in his mind. The consequence was that he accepted an invitation to drive with the two girls after luncheon, and when they left him at his hotel, a proceeding against which he vehemently protested on the score of propriety, he reluctantly acknowledged to himself that he had enjoyed the afternoon very much. "Come and see us after five o'clock," said Sybil. "I will present you to Mrs. Wyndham. Nine hundred and thirty-six, Beacon Street," she added, laughing. "With great pleasure--thanks," said Ronald. "Good-by, Ronald dear," said Joe pleasantly. "Good-by," he answered in a doubtful tone of voice, as he raised his hat; and the two girls drove away. Sybil was apparently in very good spirits. "Do not be frightened, Joe dearest," she said. "We will manage it very well. He is not hurt in the least." "Really, I do not believe he is--so very much, you know," Joe answered. But she was thoughtful, and did not speak again for some time. It was on the morning after this that Joe read the article on John's speech, and met him by the Common. Ronald did not call during the day, and in the evening Joe went to her party as she had intended; but neither Sybil nor John Harrington were there. Sybil did not go to parties, and John probably had too much to do. But at supper Joe chanced to be standing near Mrs. Sam Wyndham. "Oh, I so much wanted to see you, Miss Thorn," said the latter. "I wanted to tell you how much we like your cousin, Mr. Surbiton. He came today, and I have asked him to dinner to-morrow." "Yes?" said Joe, turning a shade paler. "I am so glad you like him. He is a very nice boy." "He is perfectly lovely," said Mrs. Sam, enthusiastically. "And he is so natural, you would not know he was English at all." "Really?" said Joe, raising her eyebrows a little, but laughing at the same time. "Oh my dear," said Mrs. Wyndham, "I always forget you are not one of us. Besides, you are, you see." Mrs. Wyndham rarely said a tactless thing, but this evening she was in such good spirits that she said what came uppermost in her thoughts. Joe was not offended; she was only bored. "Will you not come and dine too, to-morrow night?" asked Mrs. Wyndham, who was anxious to atone. "Thanks, awfully," said Joe, "but I have to dine with the Aitchisons." Pocock Vancouver, pale and exquisite as ever, came up to the two ladies. "Can I get you anything, Mrs. Wyndham?" he inquired, after a double bow. "No, thank you. Johnny Hannibal is taking care of me," answered Mrs. Sam, coldly. "Miss Thorn, what can I get you?" he asked, turning to Joe. "Nothing, thanks," said Joe, "Mr. Biggielow is getting me something." She did not look at Vancouver as she answered, and the angry color began to rise to her temples. Vancouver, who was not used to repulses such as these, and was too old a soldier to give up a situation so easily, stood a moment playing with his coat tails. A sudden thought passed through Joe's mind. It struck her that, considering the situation of affairs, it would be unwise to break off her acquaintance with Vancouver at the present time. Her first honest impulse was to cut him and never speak to him again. But it was better to act with more deliberation. In the first place, there might be more to be learnt which might be of service to John; secondly, people would talk about it if she cut him, and would invent some story to the effect that he had proposed to marry her, or that she had proposed to marry him. It was contrary to her nature to pretend anything she did not feel, but it would nevertheless be a mistake to quarrel openly with Vancouver. "On second thoughts--if you would get me a glass of water"--she said, speaking to him. He instantly disappeared; but even in the moment before he departed to execute her command he had time to express by his look a sense of injury forgiven, which did not escape Joe. "What a hypocrite the man is!" she thought. Vancouver on his part could form no conception of the cause of the coldness the two ladies had shown him. He could not know that Joe had discovered in him the writer of the article, still less could he have guessed that Joe had told John, and that John had told Mrs. Sam. He could only suppose that the two had been talking of something, and were annoyed at being interrupted. When he came back with the glass of water Mr. Biggielow had just brought Joe some salad. The usual struggle began between the two men. Mr. Bonamy Biggielow was a little poet. "I ought to thank you, Miss Thorn, instead of you thanking me," said Vancouver, in a seductive voice, on one side of Joe. "Is it not the most crowded supper you ever saw?" remarked Mr. Biggielow on the other side. "Why?" said Joe, eating her salad and looking straight before her. "I thought you were going to send me away. I was so glad when you condescended to make use of me," answered Vancouver. Mr. Biggielow also answered Joe's interrogation. "Well," he said, "I mean it is thronged with people. There is a decided 'sound of revelry by night'." "Youth and beauty? That sort of thing?" said Joe to Biggielow. Then turning to Vancouver, she added, "Why should I send you away?" "I hope there is no reason," he said gravely. "In fact, I am sure there is none, except that you would of course always do exactly as you pleased about that and everything else." "Yes, indeed," Joe answered, and her lip curled a little proudly, "you are quite right about that. But then, you know, I did not send you away." "Thanks, again," said Vancouver. "Do let me get you something more, Miss Thorn," suggested Mr. Biggielow. "No? There is any amount of _pâtés_. You always like"-- "Of course you have heard about Harrington?" said Vancouver in a low voice close to Josephine's ear. "No, really," she answered. "Will you take my plate? And the glass--thanks." Mr. Bonamy Biggielow was obliged to retire. "You mean about the senatorship?" asked Joe. "Yes. The senator died this morning. Harrington will make a fight for it. He has many friends." "Among whom you count yourself, doubtless," remarked Joe. "Not politically, of course. I take no active part"-- "Yes, I know." Joe knew the remainder of the sentence by heart. "Then you will have a glorious opportunity for maintaining an armed neutrality." "Oh, if it comes to that," said Vancouver mildly, "I would rather see Harrington senator than some of our own men. At all events, he is honest." "At all events!" Joe repeated. "You think, perhaps, that some man of your own party may be elected who will not turn out to be honest?" "Well, the thing is possible. You see, politics are such a dirty business--all kinds of men get in." Joe laughed in a way that made Vancouver nervous. He was beginning to know her, and he could tell when some sharp thrust was coming by the way she laughed. Nevertheless, he was fascinated by her. "It is not long since you told me that Mr. Harrington's very mild remark about extinguishing bribery and corruption was a piece of gross exaggeration," said Joe. "Why do you say politics are dirty work?" "There is a great difference," answered Vancouver. "What difference? Between what?" "Between saying that the business of politics is not clean, and saying that all public officers are liars, like the Cretans." "Who is exaggerating now?" asked Joe scornfully. "Of course it is I," answered Vancouver, submissively. "If it is not a rude question, did not that dress come from Egypt?" "Yes." The garment in question was made of a kind of soft white, fluted material over a rose-colored silk ground. The raised flutings followed the exquisite lines of Joe's figure, and had the double merit of accentuating its symmetry, and of so leading the eye as to make her height seem greater than it really was. Cut square at the neck, it showed her dazzling throat at its best advantage, and a knot of pink lilies at the waist harmonized delicately with the color of the whole. "It is just like you," said Vancouver, "to have something different from everybody else. I admire Eastern things so much, and one gets so tired of the everlasting round of French dresses." "I am glad you like it," said Joe, indifferently. "I am so anxious to meet your cousin, Miss Thorn," said Vancouver, trying a new subject. "I hear there is to be a dinner for him to-morrow night at Mrs. Sam Wyndham's. But of course I am not asked." "Why 'of course'?" inquired Joe quickly. "I believe Mrs. Wyndham thinks I dislike Englishmen," said Vancouver at random. "But she is really very much mistaken." "Really?" "Yes--I should be willing to like any number of Englishmen for the sake of being liked by one Englishwoman." He looked at Joe expressively as he spoke. "Really?" "Indeed, yes. Do you not believe me?" "Oh, yes," said Joe. "Why should I not believe you?" Her voice was calm, but that same angry flush that had of late so often shown itself began to rise slowly at her temples. Vancouver saw it, and thought she was blushing at what he said. "I trust you will," said Vancouver. "I trust that some day you will let me tell you who that Englishwoman is." It was horrible; he was making love to her, this wretch, whom she despised. She turned her head away to hide the angry look in her eyes. "Thanks--no, if you do not mind," said she. "I do not care to receive confidences,--I always forget to forget them." It was not in order that Pocock Vancouver might make love to her that she had sent away Bonamy Biggielow, the harmless little poet. She wished him back again, but he was embarked in an enterprise to dispute with Johnny Hannibal a place near Miss St. Joseph. Mrs. Wyndham had long since disappeared. "Will you please take me back to my aunt?" said Joe. As they passed from the supper-room they suddenly came upon John Harrington, who was wandering about in an unattached fashion, apparently looking for some one. He bowed and stared a little at seeing Joe on Vancouver's arm, but she gave him a look of such earnest entreaty that he turned and followed her at a distance to see what would happen. Seeing her sit down by her aunt, he came up and spoke to her, almost thrusting Vancouver aside with his broad shoulders. Vancouver, however, did not dispute the position, but turned on his heel and went away. "Oh, I am so glad," said Joe, with a sigh of relief. "I thought I should never get away from him!" It is amazing what a difference the common knowledge of a secret will make in the intimacy of two people. "I was rather taken aback at seeing you with him," said John. "Not that it can make any difference to you," he added quickly, "only you seemed so angry at him this morning." "But it does"--Joe began, impulsively. "That is, I began by meaning to cut him, and then I thought it would be a mistake to make a scandal." "Yes," said John, "it would be a great mistake. Besides, I would not for all the world have you take a part in this thing. It would do no good, and it might do harm." "I think I have taken a part already," said Joe, somewhat hurt. "Yes, I know. I am very grateful, but I hope you will not think any more about it, nor allow it to influence you in any way." "But what is the use of friends if they do not take a part in one's quarrels?" asked Joe. John looked at her earnestly for a few seconds, and saw that she was perfectly sincere. He had grown to like Josephine of late, and he was grateful to her for her friendship. Her manner that morning, when she told him of her discovery, had made a deep impression on him. "My dear Miss Thorn," he said earnestly, in a low voice, "you are too good and kind, and I thank you very heartily for your friendship. But I think you were very wise not to cut Vancouver, and I hope you will not quarrel with anybody for any matter so trivial." The color came to Joe's face, but not for anger this time. "Trivial!" she exclaimed. "Yes, trivial," John repeated. "Remember that it is the policy of that paper to abuse me, and that if Vancouver had not written the article, the editor could have found some one else easily enough who would have done it." "But it is such a dastardly thing!" said Joe. "He always says to every one that he has the greatest respect for you, and then he does a thing like this. If I were you I would kill him--I am sure I would." "That would not be the way to win an election nowadays," said John, laughing. "Oh, I would not care about that," said Joe, hotly. "But I dare say it is very silly of me," she added. "You do not seem to mind it at all." "It is not worth while to lose one's temper or one's soul for the iniquities of Mr. Pocock Vancouver," said John. "The man may do me harm, but as I never expected his friendship or help, he neither falls nor rises in my estimation on that account. Blessed are they who expect nothing!" "Blessed indeed," said Joe. "But one cannot help expecting men who have the reputation of being gentlemen to behave decently." "Vancouver has a right to his political opinions, and a perfect right to express them in any way he sees fit," said John. "Oh, of course," said Joe, impatiently. "This is a free country, and that sort of thing. But if he means to express political opinions he should not cry aloud at every tea-party in town that he is neutral and takes no active part in politics. I think that writing violent articles in a newspaper is a very active part indeed. And he should not go about saying that he has the highest reverence for a man, and then call him a lunatic and a charlatan in print, unless he is willing to sign his name to it, and take the consequences. Should he? I think it is vile, and horrid, and abominable, and nasty, and I hate him." "With the exception of the peroration to that speech," said John, who was very much amused, "I am afraid I must agree with you. A man certainly ought not to do any of those things." "Then why do you defend him?" asked Joe, with flashing eyes. "Because, on general principles, I do not think a man is so much worse than his fellows because he does things they would very likely do in his place. There are things done every day, all over the world, quite as bad as that, and no one takes much notice of them. Almost every businessman is trying to get the better of some other business man by fair means or foul." "You do not seem to have a very exalted idea of humanity," said Joe. "A large part of humanity is sick," said John, "and it is as well to be prepared for the worst in any illness." "I wish you were not so tremendously calm, you know," said Joe, looking thoughtfully into John's face. "I am afraid it will injure you." "Why in the world should it injure me?" asked John, much astonished at the remark. "I have a presentiment"--she checked herself suddenly. "I do not like to tell you," she added. "I would like to hear what you think, if you will tell me," said John, gravely. "Well, do not be angry. I have a presentiment that you will not be made senator. Are you angry?" "No indeed. But why?" "Just for that very reason; you are too calm. You are not enough of a partisan. Every one is a partisan here." John was silent, and his face was grave and thoughtful. The remark was profound in its way, and showed a far deeper insight into political matters than he imagined Joe possessed. He had long regarded Mrs. Wyndham as a woman of fine sense and judgment, and had often asked her opinion on important questions. But in all his experience she had never said anything that seemed to strike so deeply at the root of things as this simple remark of Josephine's. "I am afraid you are angry," said Joe, seeing that he was grave and silent. "You have set me thinking, Miss Thorn," he answered. "You think I may be right?" she said. "The idea is quite new to me, I think it is perhaps the best definition of the fact that I ever heard. But it is not what ought to be." "Of course not," Joe answered. "Nothing is just what it ought to be. But one has to take things as they are." "And make them what they should be," added John, and the look of strong determination came into his face. "Ah, yes," said Joe, softly. "Make things what they should be. That is the best thing a man can live for." "Perhaps we might go home, Joe," said Miss Schenectady, who had been conversing for a couple of hours with another old lady of literary tastes. "Yes, Aunt Zoë," said Joe, rousing herself, "I think we might." "Shall I see you to-morrow night at Mrs. Wyndham's dinner?" asked John, as they parted. "No, I refused. Good-night." As Joe sat by her aunt's side in the deep dark carriage on the way home, her hands were cold and she trembled from head to foot. And when at last she laid her head upon her pillow there were tears in her eyes and on her cheeks. "Is it possible that I can be so heartless?" she murmured to herself. CHAPTER XI. Ronald went to see Sybil Brandon at five o'clock, and as it chanced he found her alone. Mrs. Wyndham, she said, had gone out, or rather she had not yet come home; but if Ronald would wait, she would certainly be in. Ronald waited, and talked to Miss Brandon in the mean while. He had a bereaved air when he arrived, which was calculated to excite sympathy, and his conversation was subdued in tone, and grave in subject. But Sybil did her best to cheer him, and in the fullness of her sympathy did perhaps more than was absolutely necessary. Ronald's wound was not deep, but he had a firm conviction that it ought to be. Any man would have thought the same in his place. Certainly, few people would have understood what they felt in such a position. He had grown up believing he was to marry a young and charming woman of whom he was really exceedingly fond, and now he was suddenly told that the whole thing was a mistake. It was enough to break a man's heart, and yet Ronald's heart was not broken, and to his great surprise beat nearly as regularly the day after his disaster as it had done during the whole two-and-twenty years of his life. He could not understand his own calmness, and he was sure that he ought to be profoundly grieved over the whole affair, so that his face was drawn into an expression of solemnity somewhat out of keeping with its singular youthful freshness of color and outline. The idea of devoting himself to the infernal gods as a sacrifice to the blighted passion had passed away in the course of the drive on the previous afternoon. He had felt no inclination to drown his cares in drink during the evening, but on the contrary he had gone for a brisk walk in Beacon Street, and had ascertained by actual observation, and the assistance of a box of matches, the precise position of No. 936. This had occupied some time, as it is a peculiarity of Boston to put the number of the houses on the back instead of the front, so that the only certain course to follow in searching for a friend, is to reach the rear of his house by a circuitous route through side streets and back alleys, and then, having fixed the exact position of his residence by astronomical observation, to return to the front and inquire for him. It is true that even then one is frequently mistaken, but there is nothing else to be done. It was perhaps not extraordinary that Ronald should be at some pains to find out where Mrs. Wyndham lived, for Sybil was the only person besides Joe and Miss Schenectady whom he had yet met, and he wanted company, for he hated and dreaded solitude with his whole heart. Having traveled all the night previous, he went home and slept a sounder sleep than falls to the lot of most jilted lovers. The next day he rose early and "did" Boston. It did not take him long, and he said to himself that half of it was very jolly, and half of it was too utterly beastly for anything. The Common, and the Gardens, and Commonwealth Avenue, you know, were rather pretty, and must have cost a deuce of a lot of money in this country; but as for the State House, and Paul Revere's Church, and the Old South, and the city generally, why, it was simply disgusting, all that, you know. And in the afternoon he went to see Sybil Brandon, and began talking about what he had seen. She was, if anything, more beautiful than ever, and as she looked at him, and held out her hand with a friendly greeting, Ronald felt himself actually blushing, and Sybil saw it and blushed too, a very little. Then they sat down by the window where there were plants, and they looked out at the snow and the people passing. Sybil asked Ronald what he had been doing. "I have been doing Boston," he said. "Of course it was the proper thing. But I am afraid I do not know much about it." "But do you like it?" she asked. "It is much more important, I think, to know whether you like things or dislike them, than to know everything about them. Do not you think so?" "Oh, of course," said Ronald. "But I like Boston very much; I mean the part where you live. All this, you know--Commonwealth Place, and the Public Park, you know, and Beacon Avenue, of course, very much. But the city"-- "You do not like the city?" suggested Sybil, seeing he hesitated, and smiling at his strange confusion of names. "No," said Ronald. "I think it is so cramped and ugly, and all little narrow streets. But then, of course, it is such a little place. You get into the country the moment you walk anywhere." "It seems very big to the Bostonians," said Sybil, laughing. "Oh, of course. You have lived here all your life, and so it is quite different." "I? Dear me no! I am not a Bostonian at all." "Oh," said Ronald, "I thought you were. That was the reason I was not sure of abusing the city to you. But it is not a bad place, I should think, when you know lots of people, and that was such a pretty drive we went yesterday." "Yes, it must seem very new to you. Everything must, I should think, most of all this casual way we have of receiving people. But there really is a Mrs. Wyndham, with whom I am staying, and she will be in before long." "Oh--don't--don't mention her," said Ronald, hastily, "I mean it--it is of no importance whatever, you know." He blushed violently. Sybil laughed, and Ronald blushed again, but in all his embarrassment lie could not help thinking what a silvery ring there was in her voice. "I am afraid Mrs. Wyndham would not like it, if she heard you telling me she was not to be mentioned, and was not of any importance whatever. But she is a very charming woman, and I am very fond of her." "She is your aunt, I presume, Miss Brandon?" said Ronald. "My aunt?" repeated Sybil. "Oh no, not at all--only a friend." "Oh, I thought all unattached young ladies lived with aunts here, like Miss Schenectady." Ronald smiled grimly at the recollections of the previous day. "Not quite that," said Sybil, laughing. "Mrs. Wyndham is not the least like Miss Schenectady. She is less clever and more human." "Really, I am so glad," said Ronald. "And she talks so oddly--Joe's--Miss Thorn's aunt. Could you tell me, if it is not a rude question, why so many people here are never certain of anything? It strikes me as so absurdly ridiculous, you know. She said yesterday that 'perhaps, if I rang the bell, she could send a message.' And the man at the hotel this morning had no postage stamps, and said that perhaps if I went to the General Post Office I might be able to get some there." "Yes," said Sybil, "it is absurd, and one catches it so easily." "But would it not be ridiculous if the guard called out at a station, 'Perhaps this is Boston!' or 'Perhaps this is New York?' It would be too utterly funny." "I am afraid that if you begin to make a list of our peculiarities yon will find funnier things than that," said Sybil, laughing. "But then we always laugh at you in England, so that it is quite fair." "Oh, we are very absurd, I know," said Ronald, "but I think we are much more comfortable. For instance, we do not have niggers about who call us 'Mister.'" "You must not use such words in Boston, Mr. Surbiton," said Sybil. "Seriously, there are people who would be very much offended. You must speak of 'waiters of color,' or 'the colored help;' you must be very careful." "I will," said Ronald. "Thanks. Is everything rechristened in that way? I am afraid I shall always be in hot water." "Oh yes, there are no men and women here. They are all ladies and gentlemen, or 'the gurls,' and 'the fellows.' But it is very soon learnt." "Yes, I can imagine," said Ronald, very much amused. "But--by the bye, this is the season here, is not it?" So they chattered together for nearly an hour about the merest nothings, not saying anything particularly witty, but never seeming to each other in the least dull. Ronald had gone to Sybil for consolation, and he was so well consoled that he was annoyed when Mrs. Wyndham came in and interrupted his _tête-à-tête_. Sybil introduced Ronald, and when he rose to go, after a quarter of an hour, Mrs. Wyndham asked him to dinner on the following day. That night, when Ronald was alone in his room at the hotel, he took Josephine's photograph from a case in his bag and set it before him on the table. He would think about her for a while, and reflect on his situation; and he sat down for that purpose, his chin resting on his folded hands. Dear Joe--he loved her so dearly, and she was so cruel not to marry him! But, somehow, as he looked, he seemed to see through the photograph, and another face came and smiled on him. Again and again he called his attention back, and tried to realize that the future would be very blank and dreary without Joe; but do what he would, it did not seem so blank and dreary after all; there was somebody else there. "Joe is quite right," he said aloud. "I am a brute." And he went to bed, trying hard to be disgusted with himself. But his dreams were sweet, for he dreamed he was sitting among the ferns at Mrs. Wyndham's house, talking to Sybil Brandon. "Why, my dear," said Mrs. Wyndham, when Ronald was gone, "he is perfectly charming. We have positively found a new man." "Yes," said Sybil. "I am so glad you asked him to dinner. I do not think he is very clever, but he talks easily, and says funny things." "I suppose he has come over to marry his cousin--has not he?" inquired Mrs. Wyndham. "No," replied Sybil, "he is not going to marry Joe Thorn," she answered absently; for she was thinking of something, and her tone indicated such absolute certainty in the matter that Mrs. Wyndham looked quickly at her. "Well, you seem quite certain about it, any way," she said. "I? Oh--well, yes. I think it is extremely unlikely that he will marry her." "I almost wish I had offered to take him to the party to-night," said Mrs. Wyndham, evidently unsatisfied. "However, as he is coming to-morrow, that will do quite as well. Sybil, dear, you look tired. Why don't you go and lie down before dinner?" "Oh, because--I am not tired, really. I am always pale, you know." "Well, I am tired to death myself, my dear, and as there is no one here I will say I am not at home, and rest till dinner." Mrs. Wyndham had been as much startled as any one by news of the senator's death that morning, and though she always professed to agree with her husband she was delighted at the prospect of John Harrington's election. She had been a good friend to him, and he to her, for years, and she cared much more for his success than for the turn of events. She had met him in the street that afternoon, and they had perambulated the pavement of Beacon Street for more than an hour in the discussion of the future. John had also told her that he was now certain that Vancouver was the writer of the offensive articles that had so long puzzled him; at all events that the especial one which had appeared the morning after the skating-party was undoubtedly from his pen. Mrs. Wyndham, who had long suspected as much, was very angry when she found that her suspicions had been so just, and she proposed to deal summarily with Vancouver. John, however, begged her to temporize, and she promised to be prudent. "By the way," she said to Sybil, as she was about to leave the room, "it was a special providence that you did not marry Vancouver. He has turned out badly." Sybil started slightly and looked up. Her experience with Pocock Vancouver was a thing she rarely referred to. She had undoubtedly given him great encouragement, and had then mercilessly refused him, to the great surprise of every one. But as that had occurred a year and a half ago, it was quite natural that she should treat him like any one else, now, just as though nothing had happened. She looked up at Mrs. Wyndham in some surprise. "What has he done?" she asked. "You know how he always talks about John Harrington?" "He always says he respects him immensely." "Very well. It is he who has been writing those scurrilous articles that we have talked about so much." "How disgraceful!" exclaimed Sybil. "How perfectly detestable! Are you quite sure?" "There is not the least doubt about it. John Harrington told me himself." "Oh, then of course it is true," said Sybil. "How dreadful!" "Harrington takes it in the calmest way, as though he had expected it all his life. He says they were never friends, and that Vancouver has a perfect right to his political opinions. I never saw anybody so cool in my life." "What a splendid fellow he is!" exclaimed Sybil. "There is something lion-like about him. He would forgive an enemy a thousand times a day, and say the man who injured him had a perfect right to his opinions." "Why gracious goodness, Sybil, how you talk!" cried Mrs. Wyndham; "you are not in love with the man yourself, are you, my dear?" "I?" asked Sybil. Then she laughed. "No, indeed! I would not marry him if he asked me." "Why not?" "Oh, I would never marry a celebrity like that. He is splendid, and noble, and honest; but everything in him is devoted to his career. There is no room for a woman at all." "I think the amount of solid knowledge about men that you dear, sweet, lovely, beautiful, innocent little girls possess is something just too perfectly amazing!" said Mrs. Wyndham, slowly, and with great emphasis. "If we do," said Sybil, "it is not surprising. I am sure I do not wonder at girls knowing a great deal about the world. Everything is discussed before them, and marriage and men are the usual topics of conversation. The wonder is that girls still make so many mistakes in their choice, after listening to the combined experience of all the married women of their acquaintance for several years. It shows that no one is infallible." "What a funny girl you are, Sybil!" exclaimed Mrs. Wyndham. "I think you turn the tables on me altogether." "Yes? Well, I have experiences of my own now," said Sybil, leaning back against an enormous cushion. Mrs. Wyndham came and sat upon the arm of the easy-chair, and put one arm round Sybil's neck and kissed her. "Sybil, dear," she said affectionately, and then stopped. They sat in silence for some time, looking at the great logs burning in the deep fire-place. "Sybil, dear," Mrs. Wyndham began again, presently, "why did you refuse Vancouver? You do not mind telling me, do you?" "Why do you ask?" said Sybil. "It makes no difference now." "No, perhaps not. Only I always thought it strange. He must have done something you did not like, of course." "Yes, that was it. He did something I did not like. Mr. Harrington would have said he had a perfect right to do as he pleased. But I could not marry him after that." "Was it anything so very bad?" asked Mrs. Wyndham, affectionately, smoothing Sybil's thick fair hair. "It was not as deep as a well, nor as broad as a house," said Sybil, with a faint, scornful laugh; "but it was enough. It would do." "I wish you would tell me, dear," persisted Mrs. Wyndham. "I have a particular reason for wanting to know." "Well, I would not have told before this other affair came out," said Sybil. "I would not marry him because he tried to find out from poor mamma's man of business whether we were rich. And the day after he got the information that I was rich enough to suit him, he proposed. But mamma knew all about what had gone on and told me, and so I refused him. She said I was wrong, and would not have told me if she had known it would make any difference. And now you say I was right. I am sure I was; it was only a fancy I had for him, because he was so clever and well-bred. Besides, he is much too old." "He is old enough to be your father, my dear," said Mrs. Wyndham; "but I think you were a little hard on him. Almost any man would do the same. We here in Boston, of course, always know about each other. It was a little mean of him, no doubt, but it was not a mortal crime." "I think it was low," said Sybil, decisively. "To think of a man as rich as that caring for a paltry twenty or thirty thousand a year." "I know, my dear," said Mrs. Wyndham, "it is mean; but they all do it, and life is uncertain, and so is business I suppose, and twenty or thirty thousand a year does make a difference to most people, I expect." Mrs. Wyndham looked at the fire reflectively, as though not absolutely certain of the truth of the proposition. Sam Wyndham was commonly reputed to be worth a dozen millions or so. He would have been very well off even in New York, and in Boston he was rich. "It would make a great difference to me," said Sybil, laughing, "for it is all I have in the world. But I am glad I refused Vancouver on that ground, all the same. If it had not been for that I should have married him--just imagine!" "Yes, just imagine!" exclaimed Mrs. Wyndham. "And to have had him turn out such an abominable blackguard!" "There is no mistaking what you think of him now, at all events," said Sybil. "No, my dear. And now we have talked so long that it is time to dress for dinner." How Mrs. Wyndham went to the party and met Joe Thorn has already been told. It was no wonder that Mrs. Sam treated Vancouver so coldly, and she repulsed him again more than once during the evening. When Joe was gone, John Harrington went up to her. "I came very late," he said, "and at first I could not find you, and then I had to say something to Miss Thorn. But I wanted to see you especially." "Give me your arm," said Mrs. Wyndham, "and we will go into the conservatory. I have something especial to say to you, too." Once out of the thick of the party, they sat down. "I have discovered something more about our amiable friend," she continued. "It is a side-light on his character--something he did a year and a half ago. Do you remember his flirtation with Sybil Brandon at Saratoga and then at Newport?" "Yes, I was in Newport most of the summer." "You don't know why she refused him, though. It's perfectly rich!" Mrs. Sam laughed dryly. "No; I only know she did, and every one seemed very much astonished," answered John. "She refused him because he had been trying to find out how much she was worth. It speaks volumes for the characters of both of them, does it not?" "Yes, indeed," said John. "What a Jew that man is! He is as rich as Croesus." "Oh, well, as I told her, most men would do it." "I suppose so," John answered, laughing a little. "A man the other night told me he was going to make inquiries concerning the fortunes of his beloved one. He said he had no idea of buying a pig in a poke. That was graceful, was it not?" Mrs. Wyndham laughed aloud. "He was honest, at all events. By the bye, do you know you have a fanatic admirer in Sybil Brandon?" "No, really? I like her very much, too: and I am very glad if she likes me." "She said she would not marry you if you asked her, though," said Mrs. Sam, laughing again. "You see you must not flatter yourself too much." "I do not. I should not think of asking her to marry me. Did she give any especial reason why she would inevitably refuse me?" "Yes, indeed; she said you were lion-like, and, oh, the most delightful things! But she said she would not marry you if you asked her, because you are a celebrity and devoted to your career, so that there is no room for a woman in your life. Is that true?" "I am not so sure," said John, thoughtfully. "Perhaps she is right in the way she means. I never thought much about it." CHAPTER XII. The idea Joe had formed about Vancouver was just, in the main, and she was not far wrong in disliking him and thinking him dangerous. Nevertheless John Harrington understood the man better. Vancouver was so constituted that his fine intellect and quick perception were unsupported by any strong principle of individuality. He was not capable of hatred--he could only be spiteful; he could not love, he could only give a woman what he could spare of himself. He would at all times rather avoid an open encounter, but he rarely neglected an opportunity of dealing a thrust at any one he disliked, when he could do so safely. He was the very opposite of John, who never said of any one what he would not say to themselves, and granted to every man the broadest right of judgment and freedom of opinion. Nevertheless there was not enough real strength in anything Vancouver felt to make him very dangerous as an opponent, nor valuable as a friend. Had it not been for the important position he had attained by his clever subtlety in affairs, and by the assistance of great railroad magnates who found in him a character and intelligence precisely suited to their ends, Pocock Vancouver would have been a neutral figure in the world, lacking both the enterprise to create an idea and the courage to follow it out. It was most characteristic of his inherent smallness, that in spite of his wealth and the very large operations that must be constantly occupying his thoughts, he could demean himself to write anonymous articles in a daily paper, in the hope of injuring a man he disliked. It is true that his feeling against Harrington was as strong as anything in his nature. He detested John's strength because he had once made him a confidence and John had done him a favor. He disliked him also because he knew that wherever they chanced to be together John received an amount of consideration and even of respect which he himself could not obtain with all his money and all his cleverness. His mind, too, delighted in detail and revolted against John's sweeping generalities. For these several reasons Vancouver had taken great delight in writing and printing sundry vicious criticisms upon John in the absolute certainty of not being found out. The editor of the paper did not know Vancouver's name, for the articles came through the post with a modest request that they might be inserted if they were of any use; and they were generally so pungent and to the point that the editor was glad to get them, especially as no remuneration was demanded. As for the confidence Vancouver had once made to John, it was another instance of his littleness. At the time when Vancouver was anxious to marry Sybil Brandon, John Harrington was very intimate at the house, and was, in Vancouver's opinion, a dangerous rival; at all events he felt that the contest was not an agreeable one, nor altogether to his own advantage. Accordingly he tried every means to clear the coast, as he expressed it; but although John probably had no intention of marrying Sybil, and Sybil certainly had never thought of marrying John, the latter was fond of her society, and of her mother's, and came to the cottage on the Newport cliff with a regularity that drove Vancouver to the verge of despair. Pocock at last could bear it no longer and asked John to dinner. Over a bottle of Pommery Sec he confided his passion, and hinted that John was the obstacle to his wooing. Harrington raised his eyebrows, smiled, wished Vancouver all success, and left Newport the next day. If Vancouver had not disgusted Sybil by his inquiries concerning her fortune, he would have married her, and his feelings towards John would have been different. But to know that Harrington had done him the favor of going away, knowing that he was about to offer himself to Miss Brandon, and then to have failed in his suit was more than the vanity of Mr. Pocock Vancouver could bear with any sort of calmness, and the consequence was that he disliked John as much as he disliked anybody or anything in the world. There is no resentment like the resentment of wounded vanity, nor any self-reproach like that of a man who has shown his weakness. When Mrs. Wyndham told John the story of Vancouver's failure he could have told her the rest, had he chosen, and she would certainly have been very much amused. But John was not a man to betray a confidence, even that of a man who had injured him, and so he merely laughed and kept his own counsel. He would have scorned to speak to Vancouver about the articles, or to make any change in his manner towards him. As he had said to Josephine, he had expected nothing from the man, and now he was not disappointed. Meanwhile Vancouver, who was weakly but frequently susceptible to the charms of woman, had made up his mind that if Josephine had enough pin-money she would make him an admirable wife, and he accordingly began to make love to her in his own fashion, as has been seen. A day or two earlier Joe would have laughed at him, and it would perhaps have amused her to hear what he had to say, as it amuses most young women to listen to pretty speeches. But Joe was between two fires, so to speak; she was under the two influences that were strongest with her. She loved John Harrington with all her heart, and she hated Vancouver with all her strength. It is true that her hatred was the only acknowledged passion, for her maidenly nature was not able yet to comprehend her love; and the mere thought that she cared for a man who did not care for her brought the hot blush to her cheek. But the love was in her heart all the same, strong and enduring, so that Vancouver found the fortress doubly guarded. He could not entirely explain to himself her conduct at the party. She had always seemed rather willing to accept his attentions and to listen to his conversation, but on this particular evening, just when he wished to make a most favorable impression, she had treated him with surprising coldness. There was a supreme superiority in the way she had at first declined his services, and had then told him he might be permitted to get her a glass of water. The subsequent satisfaction of having ousted Mr. Bonamy Biggielow, the little poet, from his position at her side was small enough, and was more than counterbalanced and destroyed by her returning to her chaperon at the first soft-tongued insinuation of a desire to flirt, which Vancouver ventured to speak. Moreover, when Harrington almost pushed him aside and sat down by Josephine, Vancouver could bear it no longer, but turned on his heel and went away, with black thoughts in his heart. It seemed as though John was to be always in his way. It would be hard to say what he would have felt had he known that Josephine Thorn, John Harrington, and Mrs. Sam Wyndham all knew of his journalistic doings. And yet it was nearly certain that no one of the three would ever speak to him on the subject. Joe would not, because she knew John would not like it; John himself despised the whole business too much to condescend to reproach Vancouver; and, finally, Mrs. Wyndham was too much a woman of the world to be willing to cause a scandal when it could possibly be avoided. She liked Vancouver too, and regretted what he had done. Her liking only extended to his conversation and agreeable manners, for she was beginning to despise his character; but he had so long been an _habitué_ about the house that she could not make up her mind to turn him out. But for all that, she could not help being cold to him at first. John himself was too busy with important matters to bestow much thought on Vancouver or his doings. His day had been spent in interviews and letter-writing; fifty people had been to see him at his rooms, and he had dispatched more than that number of letters. At five o'clock he had slipped out with the intention of dining at his club before any one else was there, but he had met Mrs. Wyndham in the street, and had spent his dinner-hour with her. At half-past six he had another appointment in his rooms, and it was not till nearly eleven that he was able to get away and look in upon the party, when he met Joe. For a week this kind of life would probably last, and then all would be over, in one way or another, but meanwhile the excitement was intense. On the next day Ronald came to see Joe before ten o'clock. The time hung heavily on his hands, and he found it impossible to occupy himself with his troubles. There were moments when the first impression of disappointment returned upon him very strongly, but he was conscious of a curious duplicity about his feelings, and he knew well enough in his inmost heart that he was only evoking a fictitious regret out of respect for what he thought he ought to feel. "Tell me all about the people here, Joe," said he, sitting down beside her almost as though nothing had happened. "Who is Mrs. Wyndham, to begin with?" "Mrs. Wyndham--she is Sam Wyndham's wife. Just that," said Joe. "And Sam Wyndham?" "Oh--he is one of the prevalent profession. He is a millionaire. In fact he is one of the real ones." "When do they get to be real?" asked Ronald. "Oh, when they have more than ten millions. The other ones do not count much. It is much more the thing to be poor, unless you have ten millions." "That is something in my favor, at all events," said Ronald. "Very much. You have been to see Mrs. Wyndham, then?" "Oh yes, I went yesterday, and she has asked me to dinner to-night. It is awfully good of her, I must say." "You will like her very much, and Sybil Brandon too," said Joe. "Sybil is an adorable creature." "She is most decidedly good-looking, certainly. There is no doubt about it." Ronald pulled his delicate moustache a little. "Though she is quite different style from you, Joe," he added presently, as though he had discovered a curious fact in natural history. "Of course. Sybil is a great beauty, and I am only pretty," answered Joe in perfectly good faith. "I think you are a great beauty too," said Ronald critically. "I am sure most people think so, and I have heard lots of men say so. Besides, you are much more striking-looking than she is." "Oh, nonsense, Ronald!" "Joe--who is Mr. Vancouver?" "Vancouver! Why do you ask especially?" "It is very natural, I am sure," said Ronald in a somewhat injured tone. "You wrote about him. He was the only person you mentioned in your letter-that is, he and a man called Harrington." "Mr. Vancouver--Mr. Pocock Vancouver--is a middle-aged man of various accomplishments," said Joe, "more especially distinguished by the fact that Sybil Brandon refused to marry him some time ago. He is an enemy of Mr. Harrington's, and they are both friends of Mrs. Wyndham's." "Ah!" ejaculated Ronald, "and who is Harrington?" "Mr. John Harrington is a very clever person who has to do with politics," said Joe, without hesitation, but as she continued she blushed a little. "He is always being talked about because he wants to reform everything. He is a great friend of ours." "Oh--I thought so," said Ronald. "What sort of a fellow is he?" "I suppose he is five-and-thirty years old; he is neither tall nor short, and he has red hair," said Joe. "What a beauty!" laughed Ronald. "He is not at all ugly, you know," said Joe, still blushing. "Shall I ever see him?" "You will see him to-night at Mrs. Wyndham's; he told me he was going." "Oh--are you going too, Joe?" "No. I have another dinner-party. You will have to do without me." "I suppose I shall always have to do without you, now." said Ronald disconsolately. "Don't be silly, Ronald!" "Silly!" repeated Surbiton in injured tones. "You call it silly to be cut up when one is treated as you have treated me! It is too bad, Joe!" "You are a dear, silly old thing," said his cousin affectionately, "and I will say it as much as I please. It is ever so much better, because we can always be like brother and sister now, and we shall not marry and quarrel over everything till we hate each other." "I think you are very heartless, all the same," said Ronald. "Listen to me, Ronald"-- "You will go and marry one of these middle-aged people with red hair"-- "Be quiet," said Joe, stamping her little foot. "Listen to me. I will not marry you because I like you and I do not love you, and I never mean to marry any middle-aged person. I shall not marry at all, most probably. Will you please to imagine what life would have been like if we had married first, and found out afterwards that we had made a mistake." "Of course that would have been awful," said Ronald. "But then it would not be a mistake, because I love you--like anything, Joe!" "Oh, nonsense! You are quite mistaken, my dear boy, because some day you will fall desperately in love with some one else, and you will like me just as much as ever"-- "Of course I should," said Ronald indignantly. "Nothing would ever make any difference at all!" "But, Ronald," retorted Joe laughing, "if you were desperately in love with some one else, how could you still be just as fond of me?" "I don't know, but I should," said Ronald. "Besides, it is absurd, for I shall never love any one else." "We shall see; but of course if you never do, we shall always be just the same as we are now." "Well--that would not be so bad, you know," said Ronald with a certain air of resignation. After this conversation Ronald became reconciled to the situation. Joe's remark that he would be able to love some one else very much without being--any the less fond of herself made him reflect, and he came to the conclusion that the case was conceivable after all. He therefore agreed within himself that he would think no more about the matter for the present, but would take what came in his way, and trust that Joe would ultimately change her mind. But he went to Mrs. Wyndham's that evening with a firm determination to dislike John Harrington to the best of his ability. A middle-aged man with red hair! Five-and-thirty was undoubtedly middle-age. Short, too. But Joe had blushed, and there was no doubt about it; this was the man who had won her affections. Ronald would hate him cordially. But John refused to be hated. His manner was easy and courteous, but not gentle. He was evidently no lady's man. He talked to the men more than to the women, and he was utterly without affectation. Indeed, he was not in the least like what Ronald had expected. Moreover, Ronald was seated next to Sybil Brandon at dinner, and drove every one away who tried to disturb the _tête-à-tête_ he succeeded in procuring with her afterwards. He was surprised at his own conduct, but he somehow connected it in his mind with his desire to hate Harrington. It was not very clear to himself, and it certainly would have been incomprehensible to any one else, but the presence of Harrington stimulated him in his efforts to amuse Miss Brandon. Sybil, too, in her quiet way, was very willing to be amused, and she found in Ronald Surbiton an absolute freshness of ideas that gave her a new sense of pleasure. Her affair with Vancouver had made a deep impression on her mind, and her mother's death soon afterwards had had the effect of withdrawing her entirely from the world. It was no wonder, therefore, that she liked this young Englishman, so different from most of the men she knew best. It was natural, too, that he should want to talk to her, for she was the only young girl present. At last, as Ronald began to feel that intimacy which sometimes grows out of a simple conversation between two sympathetic people, he turned to the subject he had most in mind, if not most in his heart. "You and my cousin are very intimate, Miss Brandon, I believe?" he said. "Yes--I have grown very fond of her in a few weeks." Sybil wondered whether Ronald was going to make confidences. It seemed to her rather early in the acquaintance. "Yes, she told me," said Ronald. "She is very fond of you, too; I went to see her this morning." "I suppose you go every day," said Sybil, smiling. "No--not every day," answered Ronald. "But this morning I was asking her about some of the people here. She seems to know every one." "Yes indeed, she is immensely popular. Whom did she tell you about?" "Oh--Mrs. Wyndham, and Mr. Wyndham, and Mr. Vancouver, and Mr. Harrington. He is immensely clever, she says," added Ronald, with a touch of irony in his voice. "What do you think about him, Miss Brandon?" "I cannot judge very well," said Sybil. "He is a great friend of mine, and I do not care in the least whether my friends are clever or not." "Joe does," said Ronald. "She hates stupid people. She is very clever too, you know, and so I suppose she is right about Harrington." "Oh yes; I was only speaking of myself," answered Sybil. "He is probably the strongest man in this part of the world." "He looks strong," said Ronald, who was a judge of athletes. "I mean in the way of brains," said Sybil. "But he is more than that, for he is so splendidly honest." "But lots of people are honest," said Ronald, who did not want to concede too much to the man he meant to dislike. "Perhaps, but not so much as he is. I do not believe John Harrington ever in his life said anything that could possibly convey a false impression, or ever betrayed a confidence." Sybil looked calmly across the room at John, who was talking earnestly to Sam Wyndham. "But has he no defects at all? What a model of faultlessness!" exclaimed Ronald. "People say he is self-centred, whatever that may mean. He is certainly a very ambitious man, but his ambitions are large, and he makes no secret of them. He will make a great stir in the world some day." Ronald would have liked to ask about Vancouver also, but he fortunately remembered what Joe had told him that morning, and did not ask his questions of Sybil. But he went home that night wondering what manner of man this Harrington might be, concerning whom such great things were said. He was conscious also that he had not been very wise in what he had asked of Sybil, and he was dissatisfied at not having heard anything about the friendship that existed between Harrington and Joe. But on the whole he had enjoyed the evening very much--almost too much, when he remembered the things Joe had said to him in the morning. It ought not to be possible, he thought, for a jilted lover to look so pleasantly on life. "Well," said Sam Wyndham to his wife when everybody was gone, and he had lit a big cigar; "well, it was a pleasant kind of an evening, was not it?" "Yes," said Mrs. Sam, sitting down in a low easy-chair for a chat with her husband. "What a nice boy that young Englishman is." "I was just going to say so," said Sam. "He made himself pretty comfortable with Sybil, did he not? I could not help thinking they looked a very pretty pair as they sat in that corner. What is he?" "He is Miss Thorn's cousin. Sam, you really must not drop your ashes on the carpet. There are no end of saucers and things about." "Oh, bother the carpet, my dear," said Sam good-naturedly; "tell me about that young fellow--what is his name?--Surbiton, is not it?" "Yes--well, there is not very much to tell. He is here traveling for amusement, just like any other young Englishman. For my part I expected he had come here to marry his cousin, because Englishmen always marry their cousins. But Sybil says it is not true." "How does she come to know?" inquired Sam, rolling his cigar in his mouth and looking at the ceiling. "I suppose Miss Thorn told her. She ought to know, any way." "Well, one would think so. By the way, this election is going to turn out a queer sort of a business, I expect. John says the only thing that is doubtful is that fellow Patrick Ballymolloy and his men. Now is not that just about the queerest thing you ever heard of? A set of Irishmen in the Legislature who are not sure they can manage to vote for a Democratic senator?" "Yes, that is something altogether new," said Mrs. Wyndham. "But it seems so funny that John should come telling you all about his election, when you are such a Republican, and would go straight against him if you had anything to say about it." "Oh, he knows I don't vote or anything," said Sam. "Of course you don't vote, because you are not in the Legislature. But if you did, you would go against him, would not you?" "Well, I am not sure," answered Sam in a drawl of uncertainty. "I tell you what it is, my dear, John Harrington is not such a bad Republican after all, though he _is_ a Democrat. And it is my belief he could call himself a Republican, and could profess to believe just the same things as he does now, if he only took a little care." CHAPTER XIII A council of three men sat in certain rooms, in Conduit Street, London. There was nothing whatever about the bachelor's front room overlooking the thoroughfare to suggest secrecy, nor did any one of the three gentlemen who sat in easy-chairs, with cigars in their mouths, in any way resemble a conspirator. They were neither masked nor wrapped in cloaks, but wore the ordinary garb of fashionably civilized life. For the sake of clearness and convenience, they can be designated as X, Y, and Z. X was the president on the present occasion, but the office was not held permanently, devolving upon each of the three in succession at each successive meeting. X was a man sixty years of age, clean-shaved, with smooth iron-gray hair and bushy eyebrows, from beneath which shone a pair of preternaturally bright blue eyes. His face was of a strong, even, healthy red; he was stout, but rather thick and massive than corpulent; his hands were of the square type, with thick straight fingers and large nails, the great blue veins showing strongly through the white skin. He was dressed in black, as though in mourning, and his clothes fitted smoothly over his short heavy figure. Y was very tall and slight, and it was not easy to make a guess at his age, for his hair was sandy and thick, and his military moustache concealed the lines about his mouth. His forehead was high and broad, and the extreme prominence between his brows made his profile look as though the facial angles were reversed, as in certain busts of Greek philosophers. His fingers were well shaped, but extremely long and thin. He wore the high collar of the period, with a white tie fastened by a pin consisting of a single large pearl, and it was evident that the remainder of his dress was with him a subject of great attention. Y might be anywhere from forty to fifty years of age. Z was the eldest of the three, and in some respects the most remarkable in appearance. He was well proportioned, except that his head seemed large for his body. His face was perfectly colorless, and his thin hair was white and long and disorderly. A fringe of snowy beard encircled his throat like a scarf, but his lips and cheeks were clean-shaved. The dead waxen whiteness of his face was thrown into startling relief by his great black eyes, in which there was a depth and a fire when he was roused that contrasted strongly with his aged appearance. His dress was simple in the extreme, and of the darkest colors. The three sat in their easy-chairs round the coal fire. It was high noon in London, and the weather was moderately fine; that is to say, it was possible to read in the room without lighting the gas. X held a telegram in his hand. "This is a perfectly clear case against us," he remarked in a quiet, business-like manner. "It has occurred at such an unfortunate time," said Y, who spoke very slowly and distinctly, with an English accent. "We shall do it yet," said Z, confidently. "Gentlemen," said the president, "it will not do to hesitate. There is an individual in this case who will not let the grass grow under his feet. His name is Mr. Patrick Ballymolloy. We all know about him, I expect?" "I know him very well indeed," said old Z. "It was I who put him in the book." He rose quickly and took a large volume from a shelf near by. It was a sort of ledger, with the letters of the alphabet printed on the cut edges of the leaves. "I don't believe Y knows him," said the president. "Please read him to us." Z turned over the leaves quickly. "B--Bally--Ballymolloy-Patrick--Yes," he said, finding the place. "Patrick Ballymolloy. Irish iron man. Boston, Mass. Drinks. Takes money from both sides. Voted generally Democratic ticket. P.S. 1882, opposed B. in election for Governor. Iron interest increased. P.S. 1883, owns twenty votes in House. Costs more than he did. That is all," said Z, shutting up the book. "Quite enough," said the president. "Mr. Patrick Ballymolloy and his twenty votes will bother us. What a pity J.H. made that speech!" "It appears that as Patrick has grown rich, Patrick has grown fond of protection, then," remarked Y, crossing one long leg over the other. "Exactly," said Z. "That is it. Now the question is, who owns Patrick? Anybody know?" "Whoever can pay for him, I expect," said the president. "Now I have an idea," said the old man suddenly, and again he dived into the book. "Did either of you ever know a man called Vancouver?" "Yes--I know all about him," said Y, and a contemptuous smile hinted beforehand what he thought of the man. "I made an entry about him the other day," said the president. "You will find a good deal against his name." "Here he is," said Z again. "Pocock Vancouver. Railways. Rep. Boston, Mass. Was taxed in 1870 for nearly a million dollars. Weak character, very astute. Takes no money. Believed to be dissipated, but he cleverly conceals it. Never votes. Has extensive financial interests. 1880, taxed for nearly three millions. 1881, paid ten thousand dollars to Patrick Ballymolloy (D) for carrying a motion for the Monadminck Railroad (see Railroads). 1882, voted for Butler"-- "Hollo!" exclaimed the president. "Wait," said Z, "there is more. 1883, thought to be writer of articles against J.H. in Boston 'Daily Standard.' Subsequently confirmed by J.H. That is all." "Yes," said the president, "that last note is mine. Harrington wired it yesterday with other things. But I was hurried and did not read his old record. Things could not be much worse. You see Harrington has no book with him, or he would know all this, and be on the lookout." "Has he figured it out?" inquired Y. "Yes, he has figured it out. He is a first-rate man, and he has the whole thing down cold. Ballymolloy and his twenty votes will carry the election, and if Vancouver cares he can buy Mr. Ballymolloy as he has done before. He does care, if he is going to take the trouble to write articles against J.H., depend upon it." "Well, there is nothing for it," said Z, who, in spite of his age, was the most impulsive of the three. "We must buy Ballymolloy ourselves, with his twenty men." "I think that would be a mistake," said the president. "Do you?" said Z. "What do you say?" he asked, turning to Y. "Nothing," replied Y. "Then we will argue it, I suppose," said Z. "Certainly," said the president. "I will begin." He settled himself in his chair and knocked the ashes from his cigar. "I will begin by stating the exact position," he said. "In the first place this whole affair is accidental, resulting from the death of the junior senator. No one could foresee this event. We had arranged to put in John Harrington at the regular vacancy next year, and we are now very busy with a most important business here in London. If we were on the spot, as one of us could have been had we known that the senator would die, it would have been another matter. This thing will be settled by next Saturday at the latest, but probably earlier. I am opposed to buying Ballymolloy, because it is an uncertain purchase. He has taken money from both sides, and if he has the chance he will do it again. If we were present it would be different, for we could hold him to his bargain. "We do not like buying, and we only do it in very urgent cases, and when we are certain of the result. To buy without certainty is simply to begin a system of reckless bribery, which is exactly what we want to put down. Moreover, it is a bad plan to bribe a man who is interested in iron. The man in that business ought to be with us any way, without anything but a little talking to. When you have stated any reasons to the contrary I will tell you what I propose instead. That is all." During the president's little speech, Y and Z had listened attentively. When he had finished, Z turned in his chair and took his cigar from his lips. "I think," said Z, "that the case is urgent. The question is just about coming to a head, and we want all the men we can get at any price. It will not do to let a chance slip. If we can put J.H. in the senate now, we may put another man in at the vacancy. That makes two men instead of one. I am aware that it would be an improbable thing to get two of our men in for Massachusetts; but I believe it can be done, and for that reason I think we ought to make an effort to get J.H. in now. It may cost something, but I do not believe it is uncertain. I expect Vancouver is not the sort of man to spend much just for the sake of spite. The question of buying as a rule is another matter. None of us want that; but if the case is urgent I think there is no question about its being right. Of course it is a great pity J.H. said anything about protection in that speech. He did not mean to, but he could not help it, and at all events he had no idea his election was so near. If we are not certain of the result, J.H. ought to withdraw, because it will injure his chance at the vacancy to have him defeated now. That is all I have to say." "I am of opinion," said the president, "that our best plan is to let John Harrington take his chance. You know who his opponent is, I suppose?" "Ira C. Calvin," said Y and Z together. "Calvin refused last night," said the president, "and they have put Jobbins in his place. Here is the telegram. It is code three," he remarked, handing it to Z. Z read it, and his face expressed the greatest surprise. "But Jobbins belongs to us," he cried. "He will not move hand or foot unless we advise him!" "Of course," said the president. "But Mr. Ballymolloy does not know that, nor any other member of the Legislature. Harrington himself does not know it. Verdict, please." "Verdict against buying," said Y. "Naturally," said Z. "What a set of fools they are! How about withdrawing Harrington?" "I object," said the president. "Proceed." "I think it will injure his chance at the vacancy to have him defeated now, as I said before. That is all," said Z. "I think it would be dangerous to withdraw him before so weak a man as Jobbins. It would hurt his reputation. Besides, our second man is in Washington arguing a case; and, after all, there is a bare chance that J.H. may win. If he does not, we win all the same, for Jobbins is in chains. Verdict, please." Y was silent, and smoked thoughtfully. For five minutes no one spoke, and the president occupied the time in arranging some papers. "Let him stand his chance," said Y, at last. In spite of the apparent informality of the meetings of the three, there was an unchangeable rule in their proceedings. Whenever a question arose, the member who first objected to the proposition argued the case briefly, or at length, with the proposer, and the third gave the verdict, against which there was no appeal. These three strong men possessed between them an enormous power. It rarely happened that they could all meet together and settle upon their course of action by word of month, but constant correspondence and the use of an extensive set of telegraphic codes kept them in unbroken communication. No oaths or ceremonies bound them together, for they belonged to a small community of men which has existed from the earliest days of American independence, and which took its rise before that period. Into this council of three, men of remarkable ability and spotless character were elected without much respect of age whenever a vacancy occurred. They worked quietly, with one immutable political purpose, with which they allowed no prejudiced party view to interfere. Always having under their immediate control some of the best talent in the country, and frequently commanding vast financial resources, these men and their predecessors had more than once turned the scale of the country's future. They had committed great mistakes, but they had also brought about noble results. It had frequently occurred that all the three members of the council simultaneously held seats in the senate, or that one or more were high in office. More than one President since Washington had sat at one time or another in the triumvirate; secretaries of state, orators, lawyers, financiers, and philanthropists had given the best years of their lives to the duties of the council; and yet, so perfect was the organization, the tests were so careful, and so marvelously profound was the insight of the leaders into human character, that of all these men, not one had ever betrayed the confidence placed in him. In the truest sense they and their immediate supporters formed an order; an order of true men, with whom the love of justice, honor, and freedom took the place of oath and ceremonial, binding them by stronger obligations than ever bound a ring of conspirators or a community of religious zealots. The great element of secrecy as regards the outer world lay in the fact that only two men at any one time knew of the existence of the council of three, and these were those who were considered fit to sit in the council themselves. Even these two did not know more than one of the three leaders as such, though probably personally and even intimately acquainted with all three. The body of men whom the council controlled was ignorant of its existence therefore, and was composed of the personal adherents of each of the three. Manifestly one member of the council could, with the consent and cooperation of the other two, command the influence of the whole body of political adherents in favor of one of his friends, at any time, leaving the individual in entire ignorance of the power employed for his advancement. When a vacancy occurred in the council, by death or old age of any member, one of the two already designated took the place, while the other remained ignorant of the fact that any change had occurred, unless the vacancy was caused by the withdrawal of the member he had known, in which case he was put in communication with that member with whom he was most intimately acquainted. By this system of management no one man knew more than one of the actual leaders until he was himself one of the three. At the present time Z had been in the council nearly thirty years, and X for upwards of twenty, while Y, who was in reality fifty years old, had received his seat fifteen years before, at the age of thirty-five. A year ago one of the men selected to fill a possible vacancy had died, and John Harrington was chosen in his place. It has been seen that the three kept a sort of political ledger, which was always in the hands of the president for the time being, whose duty it was to make the insertions necessary from time to time. Some conception of the extent and value of the book may be formed from the fact that it contained upwards of ten thousand names, including those of almost every prominent man, and of not a few remarkable women in the principal centres of the country. The details given were invariably brief and to the point, written down in a simple but safe form of cipher which was perfectly familiar to every one of the three. This vast mass of information was simply the outcome of the personal experience of the leaders, and of their trusted friends, but no detail which could by any possibility be of use escaped being committed to paper, and the result was in many cases a positive knowledge of future events, which, to any one unacquainted with the system, must have appeared little short of miraculous. "What time is it in Boston?" inquired the president, rising and going to the writing-table. "Twenty-eight minutes past seven," said Y, producing an enormous three-dial time-piece, set to indicate simultaneously the time of day in London, Boston, and Washington. "All right, there is plenty of time," answered X, writing out a dispatch on a broad white sheet of cable office paper. "See here--is this all right?" he asked, when he had done. The message ran as follows: "Do not withdraw. If possible gain Ballymolloy and men, but on no account pay for them. If asked, say iron protection necessary at present, and probably for many years." Y and Z read the telegram, and said it would do. In ten minutes it was taken to the telegraph office by X's servant. "And now," said X, lighting a fresh cigar, "we have disposed of this accident, and we can turn to our regular business. The question is broadly, what effect will be produced by suddenly throwing eight or ten millions of English money into an American enterprise?" "When Englishmen are not making money, they are a particularly disagreeable set of people to deal with," remarked Y, who would have been taken for an Englishman himself in any part of the world. And so the council left John Harrington, and turned to other matters which do not in any way concern this tale. John received the dispatch at half-past ten o'clock in the morning after the dinner at Mrs. Wyndham's, and he read it without comprehending precisely the position taken by his instructor. Nevertheless, the order coincided with what he would have done if left to himself. He of course could not know that even if his opponent were elected it would be a gain to his own party, for the outward life of Mr. Jobbins gave no cause for believing that he was in anybody's power. Harrington was left to suppose that, if he failed to get the votes of Patrick Ballymolloy and his party, the election would be a dead loss. Nevertheless, he rejoiced that the said Patrick was not to be bought. An honorable failure, wherein he might honestly say that he had bribed no one, nor used any undue pressure, would in his opinion be better than to be elected ten times over by money and promises of political jobbery. The end rarely justifies the means, and there are means so foul that they would blot any result into their own filthiness. All that the world can write; or think, or say, will never make it honorable or noble to bribe and tell lies. Men who lie are not brave because they are willing to be shot at, in some instances, by the men their falsehoods have injured. Men who pay others to agree with them are doing a wrong upon the dignity of human nature, and they very generally end by saying that human nature has no dignity at all, and very possibly by being themselves corrupted. Nevertheless, so great is the interest which men, even upright and honorable men, take in the aims they follow, that they believe it possible to wade knee-deep through mud, and then ascend to the temple of fame without dragging the mud with them, and befouling the white marble steps. "Political necessity!" What deeds are done in thy name! What a merciful and polite goddess was the necessity of the ancients, compared with the necessity of the moderns. Political necessity has been hard at work in our times from Robespierre to Sedan, from St. Helena to the Vatican, from the Tea-chests of Boston Harbor to the Great Rebellion. Political necessity has done more lying, more bribery, more murdering, and more stealing in a century, than could have been invented by all the Roman emperors together, with the assistance of the devil himself. CHAPTER XIV. In all the endless folk-lore of proverbs, there is perhaps no adage more true than that which warns young people to beware of a new love until they have done with the old, and as Ronald Surbiton reflected on his position, the old rhyme ran through his head. Ho was strongly attracted by Sybil Brandon, but, at the same time, he still felt that he ought to make an effort to win Joe back. It seemed so unmanly to relinquish her without a struggle, just because she said she did not love him. It could not be true, for they had loved each other so long. When Ronald looked out of the window of his room in the hotel, on the morning after Mrs. Wyndham's dinner, the snow was falling as it can only fall in Boston. The great houses opposite were almost hidden from view by the soft, fluttering flakes, and below, in the broad street, the horse-cars moved slowly along like immense white turtles ploughing their way through deep white sand. The sound of the bells was muffled as it came up, and the scraping of the Irishmen's heavy spades on the pavement before the hotel followed by the regular fall of the great shovels full on the heap, as they stacked the snow, sounded like the digging of a gigantic grave. Ronald felt that his spirits were depressed. He watched the drifting storm for a few minutes, and then turned away and looked for a novel in his bag, and filled a pipe with some English tobacco he had jealously guarded from the lynx-eyed custom-house men in New York, and then sat down with a sigh before his small coal fire, and prepared to pass the morning, in solitude. But Ronald was not fond of reading, and at the end of half an hour he threw his book and his pipe aside, and stretched his long limbs. Then he rose and went to the window again with an expression of utter weariness such as only an Englishman can put on when he is thoroughly bored. The snow was falling as thickly as ever, and the turtle-backed horse-cars crawled by through the drifts, more and more slowly. Ronald turned away with an impatient ejaculation, and made up his mind that he would go and see Joe at once. He wrapped himself carefully in a huge ulster overcoat and went out. Joe was sitting alone in the drawing-room, curled up in an old-fashioned arm-chair by the fire, with a book in her lap which she was not reading. She had asked her aunt for something about politics, and Miss Schenectady had given her the "Life of Rufus Choate," in two large black volumes. The book was interesting, but in Joe's mind it was but a step from the speeches and doings of the great and brilliant lawyer-senator to the speeches and doings of John Harrington. And so after a while the book dropped upon her knee and she leaned far back in the chair, her great brown eyes staring dreamily at the glowing coals. "I was so awfully lonely," said Ronald, sitting down beside her, "that I came here. You do not mind, Joe, do you?" "Mind? No! I am very glad. It must be dreadfully lonely for you at the hotel. What have you been doing with yourself?" "Oh--trying to read. And then, I was thinking about you." "That is not much of an occupation. See how industrious I am. I have been reading the 'Life and Writings of Rufus Choate.' I am getting to be a complete Bostonian." "Have you read it all? I never heard of him. Who was he?" "He was an extremely clever man. He must have been very nice, and his speeches are splendid. You ought to read them." "Joe, you are going to be a regular blue-stocking! The idea of spending your time in reading such stuff. Why, it would be almost better to read the parliamentary reports in the 'Times!' Just fancy!" Ronald laughed at the idea of any human being descending to such drudgery. "Don't be silly, Ronald. You do not know anything about it," said Joe. "Oh, it is of no use discussing the question," answered Ronald. "You young women are growing altogether too clever, with your politics, and your philosophy, and your culture. I hate America!" "If you really knew anything about it, you would like it very much. Besides, you have no right to say you hate it. The people here have been very good to you already. You ought not to abuse them." "No--not the people. But just look at that snow-storm, Joe, and tell me whether America is a place for human beings to live in." "It is much prettier than a Scotch mist, and ever so much clearer than a fog in London," retorted Joe. "But there is nothing for a fellow to do on a day like this," said Ronald sulkily. "Nothing, but to come and see his cousin, and abuse everything to her, and try to make her as discontented as himself," said Joe, mimicking his tone. "If I thought you liked me to come and see you"--began Ronald. "Well?" "It would be different, you know." "I like you when you are nice and good-tempered," said Joe. "But when you are bored you are simply--well, you are dreadful." Joe raised her eyebrows and tapped with her fingers on the arm of the chair. "Do you think I can ever be bored when I come to see you, Joe?" asked Ronald, changing his tone. "You act as if you were, precisely. You know people who are bored are generally bores themselves." "Thanks," said Ronald. "How kind you are!" "Do say something nice, Ronald. You have done nothing but find fault since you came. Have you heard from home?" "No. There has not been time yet. Why do you ask?" "Because I thought you might say something less disagreeable about home than you seem able to say about things here," said Joe tartly. "You do not want me this morning. I will go away again," said Ronald with a gloomy frown. He rose to his feet, as though about to take his leave. "Oh, don't go, Ronald." He paused. "Besides," added Joe, "Sybil will be here in a little while." "You need not offer me Miss Brandon as an inducement to stay with you, Joe, if you really want me. Twenty Miss Brandons would not make any difference!" "Really?" said Joe smiling. "You are a dear good boy, Ronald, when you are nice," she added presently. "Sit down again." Ronald went back to his seat beside her, and they were both silent for a while. Joe repented a little, for she thought she had been teasing him, and she reflected that she ought to be doing her best to make him happy. "Joe--do not you think it would be very pleasant to be always like this?" said Ronald after a time. "How--like this?" "Together," said Ronald softly, and a gentle look came into his handsome face, as he looked up at his cousin. "Together--only in our own home." Joe did not answer, but the color came to her cheeks, and she looked annoyed. She had hoped that the matter was settled forever, for it seemed so easy for her. Ronald misinterpreted the blush. For the moment the old conviction came back to him that she was to be his wife, and if it was not exactly love that he felt, it was a satisfaction almost great enough to take its place. "Would it not?" said he presently. "Please do not talk about it, Ronald. What is the use? I have said all there is to say, I am sure." "But I have not," he answered, insisting. "Please, Joe dearest, think about it seriously. Think what a cruel thing it is you are doing." His voice was very tender, but he was perfectly calm; there was not the slightest vibration of passion in the tones. Joe did not wholly understand; she only knew that he was not satisfied with the first explanation she had given him, and that she felt sorry for him, but was incapable of changing her decision. "Must I go over it all again?" she asked piteously. "Did I not make it clear to you, Ronald? Oh--don't talk about it!" "You have no heart, Joe," said Ronald hotly. "You don't know what you make me suffer. You don't know that this sort of thing is enough to wreck a man's existence altogether. You don't know what you are doing, because you have no heart--not the least bit of one." "Do not say that--please do not," Joe entreated, looking at him with imploring eyes, for his words hurt her. Then suddenly the tears came in a quick hot gush, and she hid her face in her hands. "Oh, Ronald, Ronald--it is you who do not know," she sobbed. Ronald did not quite know what to do; he never did when Joe cried, but fortunately that disaster had not occurred often since he was very small. He was angry with himself for having disturbed and hurt her, but he did not know what to do, most probably because he did not really love her. "Joe," he said, looking at her in some embarrassment, "don't!" Then he rose and rather timidly laid a hand on her shoulder. But she shrank from him with a petulant motion, and the tears trickled through her small white hands and fell upon her dark dress and on the "Life of Rufus Choate." "Joe, dear"--Ronald began again. And then, in great uncertainty of mind, he went and looked out of the window. Presently he came back and stood before her once more. "I am awfully sorry I said it, Joe. Please forgive me. You don't often cry, you know, and so"--He hesitated. Joe looked up at him with a smile through her tears, beautiful as a rose just wet with a summer shower. "And so--you did not think I could," she said. She dried her eyes quickly and rose to her feet. "It is very silly of me, I know, but I cannot help it in the least," said she, turning from him in pretense of arranging the knickknacks on the mantel. "Of course you cannot help it, Joe, dear; as if you had not a perfect right to cry, if you like! I am such a brute--I know." "Come and look at the snow," said Joe, taking his hand and leading him to the window. Enormous Irishmen in pilot coats, comforters, and india-rubber boots, armed with broad wooden spades, were struggling to keep the drifts from the pavement. Joe and Ronald stood and watched them idly, absorbed in their own thoughts. Presently a booby sleigh drawn by a pair of strong black horses floundered up the hill and stopped at the door. "Oh, Ronald, there is Sybil, and she will see I have been crying. You must amuse her, and I will come back in a few minutes." She turned and fled, leaving Ronald at the window. A footman sprang to the ground, and nearly lost his footing in the snow as he opened a large umbrella and rang the bell. In a moment Sybil was out of the sleigh and at the door of the house; she could not sit still till it was opened, although the flakes were falling as thickly as ever. "Oh"--she exclaimed, as she entered the room and was met by Ronald, "I thought Joe was here." There was color in her face, and she took Ronald's hand cordially. He blushed to the eyes, and stammered. "Miss Thorn is--she--indeed, she will be back in a moment. How do you do? Dreadful weather, is not it?" "Oh, it is only a snowstorm," said Sybil, brushing a few flakes from her furs as she came near the fire. "We do not mind it at all here. But of course you never have snow in England." "Not like this, certainly," said Ronald. "Let me help you," he added, as Sybil began to remove her cloak. It was a very sudden change of company for Ronald; five minutes ago he was trying, very clumsily and hopelessly, to console Joe Thorn in her tears, feeling angry enough with himself all the while for having caused them. Now he was face to face with Sybil Brandon, the most beautiful woman he remembered to have seen, and she smiled at him as he took her heavy cloak from her shoulders, and the touch of the fur sent a thrill to his heart, and the blood to his cheeks. "I must say," he remarked, depositing the things on a sofa, "you are very courageous to come out, even though you are used to it." "You have come yourself," said Sybil, laughing a little. "You told me last night that you did not come here every day." "Oh--I told my cousin I had come because I was so lonely at the hotel. It is amazingly dull to sit all day in a close room, reading stupid novels." "I should think it would be. Have you nothing else to do?" "Nothing in the wide world," said Ronald with a smile. "What should I do here, in a strange place, where I know so few people?" "I suppose there is not much for a man to do, unless he is in business. Every one here is in some kind of business, you know, so they are never bored." Ronald wished he could say the right thing to reestablish the half-intimacy he had felt when talking to Sybil the night before. But it was not easy to get back to the same point. There was an interval of hours between yesterday and to-day--and there was Joe. "I read novels to pass the time," he said, "and because they are sometimes so like one's own life. But when they are not, they bore me." Sybil was fond of reading, and she was especially fond of fiction, not because she cared for sensational interests, but because she was naturally contemplative, and it interested her to read about the human nature of the present, rather than to learn what any individual historian thought of the human nature of the past. "What kind of novels do you like best?" she asked, sitting down to pass the time with Ronald until Josephine should make her appearance. "I like love stories best," said Ronald. "Oh, of course," said Sybil gravely, "so do I. But what kind do you like best? The sad ones, or those that end well?" "I like them to end well," said Ronald, "because the best ones never do, you know." "Never?" There was something in Sybil's tone that made Ronald look quickly at her. She said the word as though she, too, had something to regret. "Not in my experience," answered Surbiton, with the decision of a man past loving or being loved. "How dreadfully gloomy! One would think you had done with life, Mr. Surbiton," said Sybil, laughing. "Sometimes I think so, Miss Brandon," answered Ronald in solemn tones. "I suppose we all think it would be nice to die, sometimes. But then the next morning things look so much brighter." "I think they often look much brighter in the evening," said Ronald, thinking of the night before. "I am sure something disagreeable has happened to you to-day, Mr. Surbiton," said Sybil, looking at him. Ronald looked into her eyes as though to see if there were any sympathy there. "Yes, something disagreeable has happened to me," he answered slowly. "Something very disagreeable and painful." "I am sorry," said Sybil simply. But her voice sounded very kind and comforting. "That is why I say that love stories always end badly in real life," said Ronald. "But I suppose I ought not to complain." It was not until he had thought over this speech, some minutes later, that he realized that in a few words he had told Sybil the main part of his troubles. He never guessed that she was so far in Joe's confidence as to have heard the whole story before. But Sybil was silent and thoughtful. "Love is such an uncertain thing," she began, after a pause; and it chanced that at that very moment Joe opened the door and entered the room. She caught the sentence. "So you are instructing my cousin," she said to Sybil, laughing. "I approve of the way you spend your time, my children!" No one would have believed that, twenty minutes earlier, Joe had been in tears. She was as fresh and as gay as ever, and Ronald said to himself that she most certainly had no heart, but that Sybil had a great deal,--he was sure of it from the tone of her voice. "What is the news about the election, Sybil?" she asked. "Of course you know all about it at the Wyndhams'." "My dear, the family politics are in a state of confusion that is simply too delightful," said Sybil. "You know it is said that Ira C. Calvin has refused to be a candidate, and the Republicans mean to put in Mr. Jobbins in his place, who is such a popular man, and so good and benevolent-quite a philanthropist." "Does it make very much difference?" asked Joe anxiously. "I wish I understood all about it, but the local names are so hard to learn." "I thought you had been learning them all the morning in Choate," put in Ronald, who perceived that the conversation was to be about Harrington. "It does make a difference," said Sybil, not noticing Ronald's remark, "because Jobbins is much more popular than Calvin, and they say he is a friend of Patrick Ballymolloy, who will win the election for either side he favors." "Who is this Irishman?" inquired Ronald. "He is the chief Irishman," said Sybil laughing, "and I cannot describe him any better. He has twenty votes with him, and as things stand he always carries whichever point he favors. But Mr. Wyndham says he is glad he is not in the Legislature, because it would drive him out of his mind to decide on which side to vote--though he is a good Republican, you know." "Of course he could vote for Mr. Harrington in spite of that," said Joe, confidently. "Anybody would, who knows him, I am sure. But when is the election to come off?" "They say it is to begin to-day," said Sybil. "We shall never hear anything unless we go to Mrs. Wyndham's," said Joe. "Aunt Zoë is awfully clever, and that, but she never knows in the least what is going on. She says she does not understand politics." "If you were a Bostonian, Mr. Surbiton," said Sybil, "you would get into the State House and hear the earliest news." "I will do anything in the world to oblige you," said Ronald gravely, "if you will only explain a little"-- "Oh no! It is quite impossible. Come with me, both of you, and we will get some lunch at the Wyndhams' and hear all about it by telephone." "Very well," said Joe. "One moment, while I get my things." She left the room. Ronald and Sybil were again alone together. "You were saying when my cousin came in, that love was a very uncertain thing," suggested Ronald, rather timidly. "Was I?" said Sybil, standing before the mirror above the mantelpiece, and touching her hat first on one side and then on the other. "Yes," answered Ronald, watching her. "Do you know, I have often thought so too." "Yes?" "I think it would be something different if it were quite certain. Perhaps it would be something much less interesting, but much better." "I think you are a little confused, Mr. Surbiton," said Sybil, and as she smiled, Ronald could see her face reflected in the mirror. "I--yes--that is--I dare say I am," said he, hesitatingly. "But I know exactly what I mean." "But do you know exactly what you want?" she asked with a laugh. "Yes indeed," said he confidently. "But I do not believe I shall ever get it." "Then that is the 'disagreeable and painful thing' you referred to, as having happened this morning, I suppose," remarked Sybil, calmly, as she turned to take up her cloak which lay on the sofa. Ronald blushed scarlet. "Well--yes," he said, forgetting in his embarrassment to help her. "It is so heavy," said Sybil. "Thanks. Do you know that you have been making confidences to me, Mr. Surbiton?" she asked, turning and facing him, with a half-amused, half-serious look in her blue eyes. "I am afraid I have," he answered, after a short pause. "You must think I am very foolish." "Never mind," she said gravely. "They are safe with me." "Thanks," said Ronald in a low voice. Josephine entered the room, clad in many furs, and a few minutes later all three were on their way to Mrs. Wyndham's, the big booby sleigh rocking and leaping and ploughing in the heavy dry snow. CHAPTER XV. Pocock Vancouver was also abroad in the snowstorm. He would not in any case have stayed at home on account of the weather, but on this particular morning he had very urgent business with a gentleman who, like Lamb, rose with the lark, though he did not go to bed with the chickens. There are no larks in Boston, but the scream of the locomotives answers nearly as well. Vancouver accordingly had himself driven at an early hour to a certain house not situated in the West End, but of stone quite as brown, and having a bay window as prominent as any sixteen-foot-front on Beacon Street; those advantages, however, did not prevent Mr. Vancouver from wearing an expression of fastidious scorn as he mounted the steps and pulled the polished German silver handle of the door-bell. The curl on his lip gave way to a smile of joyous cordiality as he was ushered into the presence of the owner of the house. "Indeed, I'm glad to see you, Mr. Vancouver," said his host, whose extremely Celtic appearance was not belied by unctuous modulation of his voice, and the pleasant roll of his softly aspirated consonants. This great man was no other than Mr. Patrick Ballymolloy. He received Vancouver in his study, which was handsomely furnished with bright green wall-paper, a sideboard on which stood a number of decanters and glasses, several leather easy-chairs, and a green china spittoon. In personal appearance, Mr. Patrick Ballymolloy was vastly more striking than attractive. He was both corpulent and truculent, and his hands and feet were of a size and thickness calculated to crush a paving-stone at a step, or to fell an ox at a blow. The nails of his fingers were of a hue which is made artificially fashionable in eastern countries, but which excites prejudice in western civilization from an undue display of real estate. A neck which the Minotaur might have justly envied surmounted the thickness and roundness of Mr. Ballymolloy's shoulders, and supported a head more remarkable for the immense cavity of the mouth, and for a quantity of highly pomaded sandy hair, than for any intellectuality of the brows or high-bred fineness of the nose. Mr. Ballymolloy's nose was nevertheless an astonishing feature, and at a distance called vividly to mind the effect of one of those great glass bottles of reddened water, behind which apothecaries of all degrees put a lamp at dusk in order that their light may the better shine in the darkness. It was one of the most surprising feats of nature's alchemy that a liquid so brown as that contained in the decanters on Patrick's sideboard should be able to produce and maintain anything so supernaturally red as Patrick's nose. Mr. Ballymolloy was clad in a beautiful suit of shiny black broadcloth, and the front of his coat was irregularly but richly adorned with a profusion of grease-spots of all sizes. A delicate suggestive mezzotint shaded the edges of his collar and cuffs, and from his heavy gold watch-chain depended a malachite seal of unusual greenness and brilliancy. Vancouver took the gigantic outstretched hand of his host in his delicate fingers, with an air of cordiality which, if not genuine, was very well assumed. "I'm glad to see you, sir," said the Irishman again. "Thanks," said Vancouver, "and I am fortunate in finding you at home." Mr. Ballymolloy smiled, and pushed one of his leather easy-chairs towards the fire. Both men sat down. "I suppose you are pretty busy over this election, Mr. Ballymolloy," said Vancouver; blandly. "Now, that's just it, Mr. Vancouver," replied the Irishman. "That's just exactly what's the matter with me, for indeed I am very busy, and that's the truth." "Just so, Mr. Ballymolloy. Especially since the change last night. I remember what a good friend you have always been to Mr. Jobbins." "Well, as you say, Mr. Vancouver, I have been thinking that I and Mr. Jobbins are pretty good friends, and that's just about what it is, I think." "Yes, I remember that on more than one occasion you and he have acted together in the affairs of the state," said Vancouver, thoughtfully. '"Ah, but it's the soul of him that I like," answered Mr. Ballymolloy very sweetly. "He has such a beautiful soul, Mr. Jobbins; it does me good, and indeed it does, Mr. Vancouver." "As you say, sir, a man full of broad human sympathies. Nevertheless I feel sure that on the present occasion your political interests will lead you to follow the promptings of duty, and to vote in favor of the Democratic candidate. I wish you and I did not differ in politics, Mr. Ballymolloy." "And, indeed, there is not so very much difference, if it comes to that, Mr. Vancouver," replied Patrick in conciliating tones. "But it's just what I have been thinking, that I will vote for Mr. Harrington. It's a matter of principle with me, Mr. Vancouver, and that's it exactly." "And where should we all be without principles, Mr. Ballymolloy? Indeed I may say that the importance of principles in political matters is very great." "And it's just the greatest pity in the world that every one has not principles like you, Mr. Vancouver. I'm speaking the truth now." According to Mr. Patrick Ballymolloy's view of destiny, it was the truth and nothing but the truth. He knew Vancouver of old, and Vancouver knew him. "You flatter me, sir," said Pocock, affecting a pleased smile. "To tell the truth, there is a little matter I wanted to speak to you about, if you can spare me half an hour.". "Indeed, I'm most entirely delighted to be at your service, Mr. Vancouver, and I'm glad you came so early in the morning." "The fact is, Mr. Ballymolloy, we are thinking of making an extension on one of our lines; a small matter, but of importance to us." "I guess it must be the branch of the Pocahontas and Dead Man's Valley you'll be speaking of, Mr. Vancouver," said the Irishman, with sudden and cheerful interest. "Really, Mr. Ballymolloy, you are a man of the most surprising quickness. It is a real pleasure to talk with you on such matters. I have no doubt you understand the whole question thoroughly." "Well, it's of no use at all to say I know nothing about it, because I _have_ heard it mentioned, and that's the plain truth, Mr. Vancouver. And it will take a deal of rail, too, and that's another thing. And where do you think of getting the iron from, Mr. Vancouver?" "Well, I had hoped, Mr. Ballmolly," said Vancouver, with some affected hesitation, "that as an old friend, we might be able to manage matters with you. But, of course, this is entirely unofficial, and between ourselves." Mr. Ballymolloy nodded with something very like a wink of one bloodshot eye. He knew what he was about. "And when will you be thinking of beginning the work, Mr. Vancouver?" he inquired, after a short pause. "That is just the question, or rather, perhaps, I should say the difficulty. We do not expect to begin work for a year or so." "And surely that makes no difference, then, at all," returned Patrick. "For the longer the time, the easier it will be for me to accommodate you." "Ah--but you see, Mr. Ballymolloy, it may be that in a year's time these new-fangled ideas about free trade may be law, and it may be much cheaper for us to get our rails from England, as Mr. Vanderbilt did three or four years ago, when he was in such a hurry, you remember." "And, indeed, I remember it very well, Mr. Vancouver." "Just so. Now you see, Mr. Ballymolloy, I am speaking to you entirely as a friend, though I hope I may before long bring about an official agreement. But you see the difficulty of making a contract a year ahead, when a party of Democratic senators and Congressmen may by that time have upset the duty on steel rails, don't you?" "And indeed, I see it as plain as day, Mr. Vancouver. And that's why I was saying I wished every one had such principles as yourself, and I'm telling you no lie when I say it again." Verily Mr. Ballymolloy was a truthful person! "Very well. Now, do not you think, Mr. Ballymolloy, that all this talk about free trade is great nonsense?" "And, surely, it will be the ruin of the whole country, Mr. Vancouver." "Besides, free trade has nothing to do with Democratic principles, has it? You see here am I, the best Republican in Massachusetts, and here are you, the best Democrat in the country, and we both agree in saying that it is great nonsense to leave iron unprotected." "Ah, it's the principle of you I like, Mr. Vancouver!" exclaimed Ballymolloy in great admiration. "It's your principles are beautiful, just!" "Very good, sir. Now of course you are going to vote for Mr. Harrington to-day, or to-morrow, or whenever the election is to be. Don't you think yon might say something to him that would be of some use? I believe he is very uncertain about protection, you see. I think you could persuade him, somehow." "Well, now, Mr. Vancouver, it's the truth when I tell you I was just thinking of speaking to him about it, just a little, before I went up to the State House. And indeed I'll be going to him immediately." "I think it is the wisest plan," said Vancouver, rising to go, "and we will speak about the contract next week, when all this election business is over." "Ah, and indeed, I hope it will be soon, sir," said Ballymolloy. "But you'll not think of going out again in the snow without taking a drop of something, will you, Mr. Vancouver?" He went to the sideboard and poured out two stiff doses of the amber liquid. "Since you are so kind," said Vancouver, graciously taking the proffered glass. He knew better than to refuse to drink over a bargain. "Well, here goes," he said. "And luck to yourself, Mr. Vancouver," said Ballymolloy. "I think you can persuade him, somehow," said Vancouver, as his host opened the street-door for him to go out. "And, indeed, I think so too," said Ballymolloy. Then he went back to his study and poured out a second glass of whiskey. "And if I cannot persuade him," he continued in soliloquy, "why, then, it will just be old Jobbins who will be senator, and that's the plain truth." Vancouver went away with a light heart, and the frank smile on his delicate features was most pleasant to see. He knew John Harrington well, and he was certain that Mr. Ballymolloy's proposal would rouse the honest wrath of the man he detested. Half an hour later Mr. Ballymolloy entered Harrington's room in Charles Street. John was seated at the table, fully dressed, and writing letters. He offered his visitor a seat. "So the election is coming on right away, Mr. Harrington," began Patrick, making himself comfortable, and lighting one of John's cigars. "So I hear, Mr. Ballymolloy," answered John with a pleasant smile. "I hope I may count on you, in spite of what you said yesterday. These are the times when men must keep together." "Now Mr. Harrington, you'll not believe that I could go to the House and vote against my own party, surely, will you now?" said Patrick. But there was a tinge of irony in his soft tones. He knew that Vancouver could make him great and advantageous business transactions, and he treated him accordingly. John Harrington was, on the other hand, a mere candidate for his twenty votes; he could make John senator if he chose, or defeat him, if he preferred it, and he accordingly behaved to John with an air of benevolent superiority. "I trust you would do no such thing, Mr. Ballymolloy," said John gravely. "Without advocating myself as in any way fit for the honors of the Senate, I can say that it is of the utmost importance that we should have as many Democrats in Congress as possible, in the Senate as well as in the House." "Surely you don't think I doubt that, Mr. Harrington? And indeed the Senate is pretty well Democratic as it is." "Yes," said John, smiling, "but the more the better, I should think. It is a very different matter from the local legislature, where changes may often do good." "Indeed and it is, Mr. Harrington. And will you please to tell me what you will do about free trade, when you're in the Senate, sir?" "I am afraid I cannot tell you anything that I did not tell you yesterday, Mr. Ballymolloy. I am a tariff reform man. It is a great Democratic movement, and I should be bound to support it, even if I were not myself so thorough a believer in it as I am." "Now see here, Mr. Harrington, it's the gospel truth I'm telling you, when I say you're mistaken. Here are plenty of us Democrats who don't want the least little bit of free trade. I'm in the iron business, Mr. Harrington, and you won't be after thinking me such an all-powerful galoot as to cut my own nose off, will you?" "Well, not exactly," said John, who was used to many peculiarities of language in his visitors. "But, of course, iron will be the thing last on the tariff. I am of opinion that it is necessary to put enough tax on iron to protect home-producers at the time of greatest depression. That is fair, is not it?" "I dare say you may think so, Mr. Harrington," said Ballymolloy, knocking the ashes from his cigar. "But you are not an iron man, now, are you?" "Certainly not," said John. "But I have studied the question, and I know its importance. In a reformation of the tariff, iron would be one of the things most carefully provided for." "Oh, I know all that," said Ballymolloy, somewhat roughly, "and there's not much you can tell me about tariff reform that I don't know, neither. And when you have reformed other things, you'll be for reforming iron, too, just to keep your hands in. And, indeed, I've no objection whatever to your reforming everything you like, so long as you don't interfere with me and mine. But I don't trust the principles of the thing, sir; I don't trust them the least little bit, and for me I would rather there were not to be any reforming at all, except for the Chinamen, and I don't care much for them, neither, and that's a fact." "Very good, Mr. Ballymolloy. Every man has a right to his free opinion. But we stand on the reform platform, for there is no country in the world where reform is more needed than it is here. I can only repeat that the interests of the iron trade stand high with the Democratic party, and that it is highly improbable that any law will interfere with iron for many years. I cannot say more than that and yet stick to facts." "Always stick to facts, Mr. Harrington. You will find the truth a very important thing indeed, and good principles too, in dealing with plain-spoken men like myself, sir. Stick to the truth, Mr. Harrington, forever and ever." "I propose to, Mr. Ballymolloy," answered John, internally amused at the solemn manner of his interlocutor. "And then I will put the matter to you, Mr. Harrington, and indeed it's a plain matter, too, and not the least taste of dishonesty in it, at all. I've been thinking I'd make you senator if you'll agree to go against free trade, and that's just what I'll do, and no more." "It is impossible for me to make such a bargain, Mr. Ballymolloy. After your exposition of the importance of truth I am surprised that you should expect me to belie my whole political life. As I have told you, I am prepared to support laws to protect iron as much as is necessary. Free trade nowadays does not mean cutting away all duties; it means a proper adjustment of them to the requirements of our commerce. A proper adjustment of duties could not possibly be interpreted to mean any injury to the iron trade. You may rely upon that, at all events." "Oh, and I'm sure I can," said Ballymolloy incredulously, and he grew, if possible, redder in the face than nature and the action of alcohol had made him. "And I'm not only sure of it, but I'll swear it's gospel truth. But then, you know, I'm of opinion that by the time you've done reforming the other things, the reformed gentlemen won't like it, and then they'll just turn round and eat you up unless you reform us too, and that just means the ruin of us." "Come now, Mr. Ballymolloy, that is exaggeration," said John. "If you will listen to me for a moment"-- "I haven't got the time, sir, and that's all about it. If you'll protect our interests and promise to do it, you'll be senator. The election is coming on, Mr. Harrington, and I'd be sorry to see you thrown out." "Mr. Ballymolloy, I had sincerely hoped that you would support me in this matter, but I must tell you once more that I think you are unreasonable. I vouch for the sufficient protection of your interests, because it is the belief of our party that they need protection. But it is not necessary for you to have an anti-reform senator for that purpose, in the first place; and secondly, the offer of a seat in the Senate would never induce me to change my mind, nor to turn round and deny everything that I have said and written on the subject." "Then that is your last word of all, Mr. Harrington?" said Ballymolloy, heaving his heavy body out of the easy-chair. But his voice, which had sounded somewhat irate during the discussion, again rolled out in mellifluous tones. "Yes, Mr. Ballymolloy, that is all I have to say." "And indeed it's not so very bad at all," said Patrick. "You see I just wanted to see how far you were likely to go, because, though I'm a good Democrat, sir, I'm against free trade in the main points, and that's just the truth. But if you say you will stand up for iron right through, and use your best judgment, why, I guess you'll have to be senator after all. It's a great position, Mr. Harrington, and I hope you'll do honor to it." "I hope so, indeed," said John. "Can I offer you a glass of wine, or anything else, Mr. Ballymolloy?" "Indeed, and it's dirty weather, too," said Patrick. "Thank you, I'll take a little whiskey." John poured out a glass. "You won't let me drink alone, Mr. Harrington?" inquired Patrick, holding his tumbler in his hand. To oblige him, after the manner of the country, John poured out a small glass of sherry, and put his lips to it. Ballymolloy drained the whiskey to the last drop. "You were not really thinking I would vote for Mr. Jobbins, were you now, Mr. Harrington?" he asked, with a sly look on his red face. "I always hope that the men of my party are to be relied upon, Mr. Ballymolloy," said John, smiling politely. "Very well, they are to be relied upon, sir. We are, every man of us, to the last drop of Christian blood in our blessed bodies," said Patrick, with a gush of patriotic enthusiasm, at the same time holding out his heavy hand. Then he took his leave. "You had better have said 'to the last drop of Bourbon whiskey in the blessed bottle!'" said John to himself when his visitor was gone. Then he sat down for a while to think over the situation. "That man will vote against me yet," he thought. He was astonished to find himself nervous and excited for the first time in his life. With characteristic determination he went back to his desk, and continued the letter which the visit of the Irish elector had interrupted. Meanwhile Mr. Patrick Ballymolloy was driven to the house of the Republican candidate, Mr. Jobbing. CHAPTER XVI. Sybil was right when she said the family politics at the Wyndhams' were disturbed. Indeed the disturbance was so great that Mrs. Wyndham was dressed and down-stairs before twelve o'clock, which had never before occurred in the memory of the oldest servant. "It is too perfectly exciting, my dears," she exclaimed as Joe and Sybil entered the room, followed--at a respectful distance by Ronald. "I can't stand it one minute longer! How do you do, Mr. Surbiton?" "What is the latest news?" asked Sybil. "I have not heard anything for ever so long. Sam has gone round to see--perhaps he will be back soon. I do wish we had 'tickers' here in the house, as they do in New York; it _is_ such fun watching when anything is going on." She walked about the room as she talked, touching a book on one table and a photograph on another, in a state of great excitement. Ronald watched her in some surprise; it seemed odd to him that any one should take so much interest in a mere election. Joe and Sybil, who knew her better, made themselves at home. It appeared that although Sam had gone to make inquiries, it was very improbable that anything would be known until late in the afternoon. There was to be a contest of some sort, but whether it would end in a single day, or whether Ballymolloy and his men intended to prolong the struggle for their own ends, remained to be seen. Meanwhile Mrs. Wyndham walked about her drawing-room descanting upon the iniquities of political life, with an animation that delighted Joe and amused Ronald. "Well, there is nothing for it, you see," she said at last. "Sam evidently does not mean to come home, and you must just stay here and have some lunch until he does." The three agreed, nothing loath to enjoying one another's company. There is nothing like a day spent together in waiting for an event, to bring out the characteristics of individuals. Mrs. Wyndham fretted and talked, and fretted again. Joe grew silent, pale, and anxious as the morning passed, while Sybil and Ronald seemed to enjoy themselves extremely, and talked without ceasing. Outside the snow fell thick and fast as ever, and the drifts rose higher and higher. "I do wish Sam would come back," exclaimed Mrs. Wyndham at last, as she threw herself into an easy-chair, and looked at the clock. But Sam did not come, nevertheless, and Joe sat quietly by the fire, wishing she were alone, and yet unwilling to leave the house where she hoped to have the earliest information. The two who seemed rapidly growing indifferent to the issue of the election were Sybil and Ronald, who sat together with a huge portfolio of photographs and sketches between them, laughing and talking pleasantly enough. Joe did not hear a word of their conversation, and Mrs. Wyndham paid little attention to it, though her practiced ears could have heard it all if need be, while she herself was profoundly occupied with some one else. The four had a somewhat dreary meal together, and Ronald was told to go into Sam's study and smoke if he liked, while Mrs. Wyndham led Joe and Sybil away to look at a quantity of new things that had just come from Paris. Ronald did as he was bid and settled himself for an hour, with a plentiful supply of newspapers and railroad literature. It was past three o'clock when Sam Wyndham entered the room, his face wet with the snowflakes and red with excitement. "Hollo!" he exclaimed, seeing Ronald comfortably ensconced in his favorite easy-chair. "How are you?" "Excuse me," said Ronald, rising quickly. "They told me to come in here after lunch, and so I was waiting until I was sent for, or told to come out." "Very glad to see you, any way," said Sam cordially. "Well, I have been to hear about an election--a friend of ours got put up for senator. But I don't expect that interests you much?" "On the contrary," said Ronald, "I have heard it so much talked of that I am as much interested as anybody. Is it all over?" "Oh yes, and a pretty queer business it was. Well, our friend is not elected, anyway"-- "Has Mr. Harrington been defeated?" asked Ronald quickly. "It's my belief he has been sold," said Sam. "But as I am a Republican myself and a friend of Jobbins, more or less, I don't suppose I feel so very bad about it, after all. But I don't know how my wife will take it, I'm sure," said Sam presently. "I expect we had better go and tell her, right off." "Then he has really lost the election?" inquired Ronald, who was not altogether sorry to hear it. "Why, yes--as I say, Jobbins is senator now. I should not wonder if Harrington were a good deal cut up. Come along with me, now, and we will tell the ladies." The three ladies were in the drawing-room. Mrs. Wyndham and Joe sprang to their feet as Sam and Ronald entered, but Sybil remained seated and merely looked up inquiringly. "Oh now, Sam," cried Mrs. Wyndham, in great excitement, "tell us all about it right away. We are dying to know!" Joe came close to Mrs. Wyndham, her face very pale and her teeth clenched in her great anxiety. Sam threw back the lapels of his coat, put his thumbs in the armholes of his broad waistcoat, and turned his head slightly on one side. "Well," he said slowly, "John's wiped out." "Do you mean to say he has lost the election?" cried Mrs. Wyndham. "Yes--he's lost it. Jobbins is senator." "Sam, you are perfectly horrid!" exclaimed his spouse, in deepest vexation. Josephine Thorn spoke no word, but turned away and went alone to the window. She was deathly pale, and she trembled from head to foot as she clutched the heavy curtain with her small white fingers. "Poor Mr. Harrington!" said Sybil thoughtfully. "I am dreadfully sorry." Mr. and Mrs. Wyndham and Ronald moved toward the fire where Sybil was sitting. No one spoke for a few seconds. At last Mrs. Wyndham broke out: "Sam, it's a perfect shame!" she said. "I think all those people ought to be locked up for bribery. I am certain it was all done by some horrid stealing, or something, now, was not it?" "I don't know about that, my dear," said Sam reflectively. "You see they generally vote fair enough in these things. Well, may be that fellow Ballymolloy has made something out of it. He's a pretty bad sort of a scamp, any way, I expect. Sorry you are so put out about it, but Jobbins is not so very bad, after all." Sybil suddenly missed Joe from the group, and looked across to where she stood by the window. A glance told her that something was wrong, and she rose from her seat and went to her friend. The sight of Josephine's pale face frightened her. "Joe, dear," she said affectionately, "you are ill--come to my room." Sybil put one arm round her waist and quietly led her away. Ronald had watched the little scene from a distance, but Mr. and Mrs. Wyndham continued to discuss the result of the election. "It is exactly like you, Sam, to be talking in that way, instead of telling me just how it happened," said Mrs. Wyndham. "And then to say it is not so very bad after all!" "Oh, I will tell you all about it right away, my dear, if you'll only give me a little time. You're always in such an immense fever about everything that it's perfectly impossible to get along." "Are you going to begin?" said Mrs. Wyndham, half vexed with her husband's deliberate indifference. "Well, as near as I can make out it was generally thought at the start that John had a pretty good show. The Senate elected him right away by a majority of four, which was so much to the good, for of course his friends reckoned on getting him in, if the Senate hadn't elected him, by the bigger majority of the House swamping the Senate in the General Court. But it's gone just the other way." "Whatever is the General Court?" asked Ronald, much puzzled. "Oh, the General Court is when the House and the Senate meet together next day to formally declare a senator elected, if they have both chosen the same man, or to elect one by a general majority if they haven't." "Yes, that is it," added Mrs. Wyndham to Ronald, and then addressing her husband, "Do go on, Sam; you've not told us anything yet." "Well, as I said, the Senate elected John Harrington by a majority of four. The House took a long time getting to work, and then there was some mistake about the first vote, so they had to take a second. And when that was done Jobbins actually had a majority of eighteen. So John's beaten, and Jobbins will be senator anyhow, and you must just make the best you can out of it." "But I thought you said when the House and the Senate did not agree, the General Court met next day and elected a senator?" asked Ronald again; "and in that case Mr. Harrington is not really beaten yet." "Well, theoretically he's not," said Sam, "because of course Jobbins is not actually senator until he has been elected by the General Court, but the majority for him in the House was so surprisingly large, and the majority for John so small in the Senate, and the House is so much larger than the Senate, that the vote to-morrow is a dead sure thing, and Jobbins is just as much senator as if he were sitting in Washington." "I suppose you will expect me to have Mr. Jobbins to dinner, now. I think the whole business is perfectly mean!" "Don't blame me, my dear," said Sam calmly. "I did not create the Massachusetts Legislature, and I did not found the State House, nor discover America, nor any of these things. And after all, Jobbins is a very respectable man and belongs to our own party, while Harrington does not. When I set up creating I'll make a note of one or two points, and I'll see that John is properly attended to." "You need not be silly, Sam," said Mrs. Wyndham. "What has become of those girls?" "They went out of the room some time ago," said Ronald, who had been listening with much amusement to the description of the election. He was never quite sure whether people could be serious when they talked such peculiar language, and he observed with surprise that Mr. and Mrs. Wyndham talked to each other in phrases very different from those they used in addressing himself. Sybil had led Joe away to her room. She did not guess the cause of Joe's faintness, but supposed it to be a momentary indisposition, amenable to the effects of eau-de-cologne. She made her lie upon the great cretonne sofa, moistening her forehead, and giving her a bottle of salts to smell. But Joe, who had never been ill in her life, recovered her strength in a few minutes, and regaining her feet began to walk about the room. "What do you think it was, Joe, dear?" asked Sybil, watching her. "Oh, it was nothing. Perhaps the room was hot, and I was tired." "I thought you looked tired all the morning," said Sybil, "and just when I looked at you I thought you were going to faint. You were as pale as death, and you seemed holding yourself up by the curtains." "Did I?" said Joe, trying to laugh. "How silly of me! I felt faint for a moment--that was all. I think I will go home." "Yes, dear--but stay a few minutes longer and rest yourself. I will order a carriage--it is still snowing hard." Sybil left the room. Once alone, Joe threw herself upon the sofa again. She would rather have died than have told any one, even Sybil Brandon, that it was no sickness she felt, but only a great and overwhelming disappointment for the man she loved. Her love was doubly hers--her very own--in that it was fast locked in her own heart, beyond the reach of any human being to know. Of all that came and went about her, and flattered her, and strove for her graces, not one suspected that she loved a man in their very midst, passionately, fervently, with all the strength she had. Ronald's suspicions were too vague, and too much the result of a preconceived idea, to represent anything like a certainty to himself, and he had not mentioned them to her. If anything can determine the passion of love in a woman, it is the great flood of sympathy that overflows her heart when the man she loves is hurt, or overcome in a great cause. When, for a little moment, that which she thinks strongest and bravest and most manly is struck down and wounded and brought low, her love rises up and is strong within her, and makes her more noble in the devotion of perfect gentleness than a man can ever be. "Oh, if only he could have won!" Joe said again and again to herself. "If only he could have won, I would have given anything!" Sybil came back in a few moments, and saw Joe lying down, still white and apparently far from well. She knelt upon the floor by her side and taking her hands, looked affectionately into her face. "There is something the matter," she said. "I know--you cannot deceive me--there is something serious the matter. Will you tell me, Joe? Can I do anything at all to help you?" Joe smiled faintly, grateful for the sympathy and for the gentle words of her friend. "No, Sybil dear. It is nothing--there is nothing you can do. Thanks, dearest--I shall be very well in a little while. It is nothing, really. Is the carriage there?" A few minutes later, Joe and Ronald were again at Miss Schenectady's house. Joe recovered her self-control on the way, and asked Ronald to come in, an invitation which he cheerfully accepted. John Harrington had spent the day in a state of anxiety which was new to him. Enthusiastic by nature, he was calm by habit, and he was surprised to find his hand unsteady and his brain not capable of the intense application he could usually command. Ten minutes after the results of the election were known at the State House, he received a note from a friend informing him with expressions of hearty sympathy how the day had gone. The strong physical sense of pain which accompanies all great disappointments, took hold of him, and he fell back in his seat and closed his eyes, his teeth set and his face pale with the suffering, while his broad hands convulsively grasped the heavy oaken arms of his chair. It may be that this same bodily agony, which is of itself but the gross reflection in our material selves of what the soul is bearing, is a wholesome provision that draws our finer senses away from looking at what might blind them altogether. There are times when a man would go mad if his mind were not detached from its sorrow by the quick, sharp beating of his bodily heart, and by the keen torture of the physical body, that is like the thrusting of a red-hot knife between breastbone and midriff. The expression "self-control" is daily in the blatant mouths of preachers and moralists, the very cant of emptiness and folly. It means nothing, nor can any play of words or cunning twisting of conception ever give it meaning. For the "self" is the divine, imperishable portion of the eternal God which is in man. I may control my limbs and the strength that is in them, and I may force under the appetites and passions of this mortal body, but I cannot myself, for it is myself that controls, being of nature godlike and stronger than all which is material. And although, for an infinitely brief space of time, I myself may inhabit and give life to this handful of most changeable atoms, I have it in my supreme power and choice to make them act according to my pleasure. If I become enamored of the body and its ways, and of the subtleties of a fleeting bodily intelligence, I have forgotten to control those things; and having forgotten that I have free will given me from heaven to rule what is mine, I am no longer a man, but a beast. But while I, who am an immortal soul, command the perishable engine in which I dwell, I am in truth a man. For the soul is of God and forever, whereas the body is a thing of to-day that vanishes into dust to-morrow; but the two together are the living man. And thus it is that God is made man in us every day. All that which we know by our senses is but an illusion. What is true of its own nature, we can neither see, nor hear, nor feel, nor taste. It is a matter of time, and nothing more, and whatever palpable thing a man can name will inevitably be dissolved into its constituent parts, that these may again agglomerate into a new illusion for future ages. But that which is subject to no change, nor disintegration, nor reconstruction, is the immortal truth, to attain to a knowledge and understanding of which is to be saved from the endless shifting of the material and illusory universe. John Harrington lay in his chair alone in his rooms, while the snow whirled against the windows outside and made little drifts on the sills. The fire had gone out and the bitter storm beat against the casements and howled in the chimney, and the dusk of the night began to mingle with the thick white flakes, and brought upon the solitary man a great gloom and horror of loneliness. It seemed to him that his life was done, and his strength gone from him. He had labored in vain for years, for this end, and he had failed to attain it. It were better to have died than to suffer the ignominy of this defeat. It were better never to have lived at all than to have lived so utterly in vain. One by one the struggles of the past came up to him; each had seemed a triumph when he was in the glory of strength and hope. The splendid aims of a higher and nobler government, built by sheer truth and nobility of purpose upon the ashes and dust of present corruption, the magnificent purity of the ideal State of which he had loved to dream--all that he had thought of and striven after as most worthy of a true man to follow, dwindled now away into a hollow and mocking image, more false than hollowness itself, poorer and of less substance than a juggler's show. He clasped his hands over his forehead, and tried to think, but it was of no use. Everything was vague, broken, crushed, and shapeless. Faces seemed to rise to his disturbed sight, and he wondered whether he had ever known these people; a ghastly weariness as of death was upon him, and his arms fell heavily by his sides. He groaned aloud, and if in that bitter sigh he could have breathed away his existence he would have gladly done it. Some one entered the room, struck a match, and lit the gas. It was his servant, or rather the joint servant of two or three of the bachelors who lived in the house, a huge, smooth-faced colored man. "Oh, excuthe _me_, Mister Harrington, I thought you wath out, Thir. There's two o' them notes for you." John roused himself, and took the letters without a word. They were both addressed in feminine handwriting. The one he knew, for it was from Mrs. Wyndham. The other he did not recognize. He opened Mrs. Wyndham's first. "DEAR MR. HARRINGTON,--Sam and I are very much put out about it, and sympathize most cordially. We think you might like to come and dine this evening, if you have no other invitation, so I write to say we will be all alone and very glad to see you. Cordially yours, "JANE WYNDHAM." "P.S. Don't trouble about the answer." John read the note through and laid it on the table. Then he turned the other missive over in his fingers, and finally tore open the envelope. It ran as follows:-- "MY DEAR MR. HARRINGTON,--Please don't be surprised at my writing to you in this way. I was at Mrs. Wyndham's this afternoon and heard all about it, and I must write to tell you that I am very, _very_ sorry. It is too horrible to think how bad and wicked and foolish people are, and how they invariably do the wrong thing. I cannot tell you how sorry we all are, because it is just such men as you who are most needed nowadays, though of course I know nothing about politics here. But I am quite sure that all of them _will live to regret it_, and that you will win in the end. Don't think it foolish of me to write, because I'm so angry that I can't in the least help it, and I think everybody ought to. "Yours in sincerity," "JOSEPHINE THORN." CHAPTER XVII. John read Joe's note many times over before he quite realized what it contained. It seemed at first a singular thing that she should have written to him, and he did not understand it. He knew her as an enthusiastic and capricious girl who had sometimes laughed at him, and sometimes treated him coldly; but who, again, had sometimes talked with him as though he were an old friend. He called to mind the interest she had taken in his doings of late, and how she had denounced Vancouver as his enemy, and he thought of the long conversation he had had with her on the ice under the cold moonlight. He thought of many a sympathetic glance she had given when he spoke of his aims and intentions, of many a gentle word spoken in praise of him, and which at the time he had taken merely as so much small, good-natured flattery, such as agreeable people deal out to each other in society without any thought of evil nor any especial meaning of good. All these things came back to him, and he read the little note again. It was a kindly word, nothing more, penned by a wild, good-hearted girl, in the scorn of consequence or social propriety. It was nothing but that. And yet, there was something more in it all--something not expressed in the abbreviated words and hurriedly-composed sentences, but something that seemed to struggle for expression. John's experience of womankind was limited, for he was no lady's man, and had led a life singularly lacking in woman's love or sentiment, though singularly dependent on the friendship of some woman. Nevertheless he knew that Joe's note breathed the essence of a sympathy wider than that of mere every-day acquaintance, and deeper, perhaps, than that of any friendship he had known. He could not have explained the feeling, nor reasoned upon it, but he knew well enough that when he next met Joe it would be on new terms. She had declared herself his friend in a way no longer mistakable, for she must have followed her first impulse in writing such a note, and the impulse must have been a strong one. For a while he debated whether to answer the note or not, almost forgetting his troubles in the tumult of new thoughts it had suggested to him. A note, thought he, required an answer, on general principles--but such a note as this would be better answered in person than by any pen and paper. He would call and see Joe, and thank her for it. But, again, he knew he could not see her until the next day, and that seemed a long time to wait. It would not have been long under ordinary circumstances, but in this case it seemed to him an unreasonable delay. He sat down and took a pen in his fingers. "Dear Miss Thorn"--he began, and stopped. In America it is more formal to begin without the preliminary "my;" in England the "my" is indispensable, unless people are on familiar terms. John knew this, and reflected that Joe was English. While he was reflecting his eye fell upon a heap of telegraph blanks, and he remembered that he had not given notice of his defeat to the council. He pushed aside the note paper and took a form for a cable dispatch. In a moment Joe was forgotten in the sudden shock that brought his thoughts back to his position. He wrote out a simple message addressed to Z, who was the only one of the three whom he officially knew. But when he had done that, he fell to thinking about Joe again, and resolved to write the note. "MY DEAR MISS THORN,--I cannot allow your very friendly words to remain unanswered until tomorrow. It is kind of you to be sorry for the defeat I have suffered, it is kinder still to express your sympathy so directly and so soon. Concerning the circumstances which brought the contest to such a result, I have nothing to say. It is the privilege of elective bodies to choose as they please, and indeed, that is the object of their existence. No one has any right to complain of not being elected, for a man who is a candidate knows from the first what he is undertaking, and what manner of men he has to deal with. Personally, I am a man who has fought a fight and has lost it, and however firmly I still believe in the cause which led me to the struggle, I confess that I am disappointed and disheartened at being vanquished. You are good enough to say you believe I shall win in the end; I can only answer that I thank you very heartily indeed for saying so, though I do not think it is likely that any efforts of mine will be attended with success for a long time. "Believe me, with great gratitude, "Very sincerely yours, "JOHN HARRINGTON." It was a longer note than he had meant to write, in fact it was almost a letter; but he read it over and was convinced he had said what he meant to say, which was always the principal consideration in such matters. Accordingly the missive was dispatched to its destination. As for Mrs. Wyndham, John determined to accept her invitation, and to answer it in person by appearing at the dinner-hour. He would not let any one think he was so broken-hearted as to be unable to show himself. He was too strong for that, and he had too much pride in his strength. He was right in going to Mrs. Wyndham's, for she and her husband were his oldest friends, and he understood well enough what true hearts and what honest loyalty lie sometimes concealed in the bosoms of those brisk, peculiar people, who seem unable to speak seriously for long about the most serious subjects, and whose quaint turns of language seem often so unfit to express any deep feeling. But while he talked with his hosts his own thoughts strayed again and again to Joe, and he wondered what kind of woman she really was. He intended to visit her the next day. The next day came, however, and yet John did not turn his steps up the hill towards Miss Schenectady's house. It was a cloudless morning after the heavy storm, and the great drifts of snow flashed like heaps of diamonds in the sun. All the air was clear and cold, and the red brick pavements were spotted here and there with white patches left from the shovels of the Irishmen. Sleighs of all sizes were ploughing their way hither and thither, breaking out a track in the heavy mass that encumbered the streets. Every one was wrapped in furs, and every one's face was red with the smarting cold. Joe stayed at home until mid-day, when she went to a luncheon-party of young girls. As usual, they had been sewing for the poor, but Joe thought that she was not depriving the poor people of any very material assistance by staying away from the more industrious part of the entertainment. The sewing they all did together in a morning did not produce results whereby even the very smallest baby could have been clothed, and the part effected by each separate damsel in this whole was consequently somewhat insignificant. Joe would have stayed at home outright had the weather not been so magnificent, and possibly she thought that she might meet John Harrington on her way to the house of her friend in Dartmouth Street. Fate, however, was against her, for she had not walked thirty yards down the hill before she was overtaken by Pocock Vancouver. He had been standing in one of the semi-circular bay windows of the Somerset Club, and seeing Joe coming down the steep incline, had hurriedly taken his coat and hat and gone out in pursuit of her. Had he suspected in the least how Joe felt toward him, he would have fled to the end of the world rather than meet her. "Good morning, Miss Thorn," he said, walking rapidly by her side and taking off his hat, "how very early you are to-day." "It is not early," said Joe, looking at him coldly, "it is nearly one o'clock." "It would be called early for most people," said Vancouver; "for Mrs. Wyndham, for instance." "I am not Mrs. Wyndham," said Joe. "I am going to see Harrington," remarked Vancouver, who perceived that Joe was not in a good humor. "I am afraid he must be dreadfully cut up about this business." "So you are going to condole with him? I do not believe he is in the least disturbed. He has far too much sense." "I fancy the most sensible man in the world would be a trifle annoyed at being defeated in an election, Miss Thorn," said Vancouver blandly. "I am afraid you are not very sorry for him. He is an old friend of mine, and though I differ from him in politics, very passively, I cannot do less than go and see him, and tell him how much I regret, personally, that he should be defeated." Joe's lip curled in scorn, and she flushed angrily. She could have struck Vancouver's pale face with infinite pleasure and satisfaction, but she said nothing in immediate answer. "Do you not think I am right?" asked Vancouver. "I am sure you do; you have such a good heart." They passed Charles Street as he was speaking, and yet he gave no sign of leaving her. "I am not sure that I have a good heart, and I am quite sure that you are utterly wrong, Mr. Vancouver," said Joe, in calm tones. "Really? Why, you quite surprise me, Miss Thorn. Any man in my place ought"-- "Most men in your place would avoid Mr. Harrington," interrupted Joe, turning her clear brown eyes full upon him. Had she been less angry she would have been more cautious. But her blood was up, and she took no thought, but said what she meant, boldly. "Indeed, Miss Thorn," said Vancouver, stiffly, "I do not understand you in the least. I think what you say is very extraordinary. John Harrington has always been a friend of mine." "That may be, Mr. Vancouver, but you are certainly no friend of his," said Joe, with a scornful laugh. "You astonish me beyond measure," rejoined Pocock, maintaining his air of injured virtue, although he inwardly felt that he was in some imminent danger. "How can you possibly say such a thing?" Joe could bear it no longer. She was very imprudent, but her honest anger boiled over. She stopped in her walk, her back against the iron railings, and she faced Vancouver with a look that frightened him. He was forced to stop also, and he could not do less than return her glance. "Do you dare to stand there and tell me that you are Mr. Harrington's friend?" she asked in low distinct tones. "You, the writer of articles in the 'Daily Standard,' calling him a fool and a charlatan? You, who have done your very best to defeat him in this election? Indeed, it is too absurd!" She laughed aloud in utter scorn, and then turned to continue her way. Vancouver turned a shade paler than was natural with him, and looked down. He was very much frightened, for he was a coward. "Miss Thorn," he said, "I am sorry you should believe such calumnies. I give you my word of honor that I have never either written or spoken against Mr. Harrington. He is one of my best friends." Joe did not answer; she did not even look at him, but walked on in silence. He did not dare to speak again, and as they reached the corner of the Public Garden he lifted his hat. "I am quite sure that you will find you have misjudged me, Miss Thorn," he said, with a grieved look. "In the mean while I wish you a very good morning." "Good-morning," said Joe, without looking at him; and she passed on, full of indignation and wrath. To tell the truth, she was so much delighted at having spoken her mind for once, that she had not a thought of any possible consequences. The delight of having dealt Vancouver such a buffet was very great, and she felt her heart beat fast with a triumphant pleasure. But Vancouver turned and went away with a very unpleasant sensation in, him. He wished with all his might that he had not left the comfortable bay window of the Somerset Club that morning, and more than all he wished he could ascertain how Joe had come to know of his journalistic doings. As a matter of fact, what she had said concerning Pocock's efforts against John in the election had been meant in a most general way. But Vancouver thought she was referring to his interview with Ballymolloy, and that she understood the whole matter. Of course, there was nothing to be done but to deny the accusations from beginning to end; but they nevertheless had struck deep, and he was thoroughly alarmed. When he left the club he had had no intention of going to see Harrington; the idea had formed itself while talking with her. But now, again, he felt that he could not go. He had not the courage to face the man he had injured, principally because he strongly suspected that if Joe knew what he had done, John Harrington most likely knew it too. He was doubly hit. He would have been less completely confused and frightened if the attack had come from Sybil Brandon; but he had had vague ideas of trying to marry Joe, and he guessed that any such plan was now hopelessly out of the question. He turned his steps homeward, uncertain what to do, and hoping to find counsel in solitude. He took up the letters and papers that lay on his study table, brought by the mid-day post. One letter in particular attracted his attention, and he singled it out and opened it. It was dated from London, and had been twelve days on its way. "MY DEAR VANCOUVER, "Enclosed please find Bank of England Post Note for your usual quarterly honorarium, £1250. My firm will address you upon the use to be made of the Proxies lately sent you for the ensuing election of officers of the Pocahontas and Dead Man's Valley R. R., touching your possession of which I beg to reiterate the importance of a more than Masonic discretion. I apprehend that unless the scattered shares should have been quickly absorbed for the purpose of obtaining a majority, these Proxies will enable you to control the election of the proper ticket. If not, and if the Leviathan should decline the overtures that will be made to him during his summer visit to London, I should like your estimate of five thousand shares more, to be picked up in the next three months, which will assure our friends the control. Should the prospective figure be too high, we may elect to sell out, after rigging the market for a boom. "In either event there will be lots of pickings in the rise and fall of the shares for the old joint account, which has been so profitable because you have so skillfully covered up your tracks. "Yours faithfully," "SAUNDERS GRABBLES." "P. S. The expectations of the young lady about whom you inquire are involved in such a tangle of conditions as could only have occurred to the excited fancy of an old Anglo-Indian. He left about twenty lacs of rupees in various bonds--G. I. P. and others--to his nephew, Ronald Surbiton, and to his niece jointly, provided that they marry each other. If they do not, one quarter of the estate is to go to the one who marries first, and the remaining three quarters to the other. The estate is in the hands of trustees, who pay an allowance to the heirs. In case they marry each other, the said heirs have power to dispose by will of the inheritance. Otherwise the whole of it reverts to the last survivor, and at his or her death it is to be devoted to founding a home for superannuated governesses." Vancouver read the letter through with care, and held it a moment in his hand. Then he crushed it angrily together and tossed it into the fire. It seemed as though everything went wrong with him to-day. Not only was no information concerning Joe of any use now. It would be a hard thing to disabuse her of the idea that he had written those articles. After all, though, as he thought the matter over, it could be only guess-work. The manuscripts had always gone through the post, signed with a feigned name, and it was utterly impossible that the editor himself could know who had written them. It would be still more impossible, therefore, for any one else to do more than make a guess. It is easy to deny any statement, however correct, when founded on such a basis. But there was the other thing: Joe had accused him of having opposed John's election to the best of his ability. No one could prove that either. He had even advised Ballymolloy to vote for John, in so many words. On the whole, his conscience was clear enough. Vancouver's conscience was represented by all those things which could by any possibility be found out; the things that no one could ever know gave him no anxiety. In the present case the first thing to be done was plainly to put the whole blame of the articles on the shoulders of some one else, a person of violent political views and very great vanity, who would be greatly flattered at being thought the author of anything so clever. That would not be a difficult task. He would broach the subject to Mrs. Wyndham, telling her that the man, whoever he should be, had told him in strictest confidence that he was the writer. Vancouver would of course tell it to Mrs. Wyndham as a state secret, and she would tell some one else--it would soon be public property, and Joe would hear of it. It would be easy enough to pitch upon some individual who would not deny the imputation, or who would deny it in such a way as to leave the impression on the public mind unchanged, more especially as the articles had accomplished the desired result. The prime cause of all this, John Harrington himself, sat in his room, unconscious, for the time, of Vancouver's existence. He was in a state of great depression and uncertainty, for he had not yet rallied from the blow of the defeat. Moreover he was thinking of Joe, and her letter lay open on the table beside him. His whole heart went out to her in thanks for her ready sympathy, and he had almost made up his mind to go and see her, as he had at first determined to do. He would have laughed very heartily at the idea of being in love, for he had never thought of himself in such a position. But he realized that he was fond of Josephine Thorn, that he was thinking of her a great deal, and that the thought was a comfort to him in his distress. He knew very well that he would find a great rest and refreshment in talking to her at present, and yet he could not decide to go to her. John was a man of calm manner and with plenty of hard, practical sense, in spite of the great enthusiasm that burned like a fire within him, and that was the mainspring of his existence. But like all orators and men much accustomed to dealing with the passions of others, he was full of quick intuitions and instincts which rarely betrayed him. Something warned him not to seek her society, and though he said to himself that he was very far from being in love, the thought that he might some day find that he wished to marry her presented itself continually to his mind; and since John had elected to devote himself to celibacy and politics, there was nothing more repugnant to his whole life than the idea of marriage. At this juncture, while he was revolving in his mind what was best to be done, a telegram was brought to him. It was from Z, and in briefest terms of authority commanded John to hold himself ready to start for London at a moment's notice. It must have been dispatched within a few hours after receiving his own message of the night before, and considering the difference of time, must have been sent from London early in the afternoon. It was clearly an urgent case, and the supreme three had work for John to do, even though he had not been made senator. The order was a great relief. It solved all his uncertainty and scattered all his doubts to the wind. It gave him new courage and stimulated his curiosity. Z had only sent for him twice before, and then only to call him from Boston or New York to Washington. It was clear that something of very great importance was likely to occur. His energy returned in full, with the anticipation of work to do and of a journey to be made, and before night he was fully prepared to leave on receipt of his orders. His box was packed, and he had drawn the money necessary to take him to London. As for Joe, he could go and see her now if he pleased. In twenty-four hours he might be gone, never to see her again. But it was too late on that day--he would go on the following morning. It was still the height of the Boston season, which is short, but merry while it lasts. John had a dinner-party, a musical evening, and a ball on his list for the evening, and he resolved that he would go to all three, and show himself bravely to the world. He was full of new courage and strength since he had received Z's message, and he was determined that no one should know what he had suffered. The dinner passed pleasantly enough, and by ten o'clock he was at the musical party. There he found the Wyndhams and many other friends, but he looked in vain for Joe; she was not there. Before midnight he was at the dance, pushing his way through crowds of acquaintances, stumbling over loving couples ensconced on the landings of the stairs, and running against forlorn old ladies, whose mouths were full of ice-cream and their hearts of bitterness against the younger generation; and so, at last, he reached the ball-room, where everything that was youngest and most fresh was assembled, swaying and gliding, and backing and turning in the easy, graceful half-walk, half-slide of the Boston step. As John stood looking on, Joe passed him, leaving the room on Mr. Topeka's arm. There was a little open space before her in the crowd, and Pocock Vancouver darted out with the evident intention of speaking to her. But as she caught sight of him she turned suddenly away, pulling Mr. Topeka round by his arm. It was an extremely "marked thing to do." As she turned she unexpectedly came face to face with John, who had watched the maneuver. The color came quickly to her face, and she was slightly embarrassed; nevertheless she held out her hand and greeted John cordially. CHAPTER XVIII. "I am so glad to have found you," said John to Josephine, when the latter had disposed of Mr. Topeka. They had chosen a quiet corner in a dimly-lighted room away from the dancers. "But I suppose it is useless to ask you for a dance?" "No," said Joe, looking at her card; "I always leave two dances free in the middle of the evening in case I am tired. We will sit them out." "Thank you," said John, looking at her. She looked pale and a little tired, but wonderfully lovely. "Thank you," he repeated, "and thank you also for your most kind note." "I wish I could tell you better how very sorry I am," said Joe, impulsively. "It is bad enough to look on and see such things done, but I should think you must be nearly distracted." "I think I was at first," said John, simply. "But one soon grows used to it. Man is a vain animal, and I suppose no one could lose a fight as I have without being disappointed." "If you were not disappointed it would be a sign you did not really care," answered Joe. "And of course you must care--a great, great deal. It is a loss to your cause, as well as a loss to yourself. But you cannot possibly give it up; you will win next time." "Yes," said John, "I hope I shall win some day." But his voice sounded uncertain; it lacked that determined ring that Joe loved so well. She felt as she sat beside him that he was deeply hurt and needed fresh encouragement and strength to restore him to his old self. She longed to help him and to rouse him once more to the consciousness of power and the hope of victory. "It is my experience," said she with an air of superiority that would have been amusing if she had spoken less earnestly--"it is my experience that one should never think of anything in which one has come to grief. I know, when one is going at a big thing--a double post and rails with a ditch, or anything like that, you know--it would never do to remember that you have come off at the same thing or at something else before. When a man is always remembering his last tumble he has lost his nerve, and had better give up hunting altogether. Thinking that you may get an ugly fall will not help you over anything." "No," said John, "that is very true." "You must forget all about it and begin again. You have missed one bird, but you are a good shot, and you will not miss the next." "You are a most encouraging person, Miss Thorn," said John with a faint smile. "But you know the only test of a good shot is that one hits the mark. I have missed at the first trial, and that is no reason why I should not miss at the second, too." "You are disappointed and unhappy now," said Joe, gently. "It is very natural indeed. Anybody would feel like that. But you must not believe in yourself any less than your friends believe in you." "I fancy my friends do not all think alike," answered John. "But I am grateful to you for what you say." He was indeed grateful, and the soothing sound of her gentle voice was the best refreshment for his troubled spirit. He thought for a moment how brave a man could be with such a woman by his side; and the thought pleased him, the more because he knew that it could not be realized. They sat in silence for a while, contented to be together, and in sympathy. But before long the anxiety for the future and the sense of his peculiar position came over John again. "Do you know," he said, "there are times when I regret it all very much? I never told any one so before--perhaps I was never so sure of it as I have been since this affair." "What is it that you regret so much?" asked Joe, softly. "It is a noble life." "It is, indeed, if only a man knows how to live it," answered John. "But sometimes I think I do not. You once said a very true thing to me about it all. Do you remember?" "No; what was it?" "You said I should not succeed because I am not enough of a partisan, and because every one is a partisan here." "Did I? Yes, I remember saying it," answered Joe, secretly pleased that he should not have forgotten it. "I do not think it is so very true, after all. It is true to-day; but it is for men like you to set things right, to make partisanship a thing of the past. Men ought to make laws because they are just and necessary, not in order that they may profit by them at the expense of the rest of the world. And to have such good laws men ought to choose good men to represent them." "There is no denying the truth of that," said John. "That is the way to construct the ideal republic. It would be the way to do a great many ideal things. You need only persuade humanity to do right, and humanity will do it. Verily, it is an easy task!" He laughed, a little bitterly. "It is not like you to laugh in that way," said Joe, gravely. "No; to tell the truth, I am not overmuch inclined to laugh at anything to-day, excepting myself, and I dare say there are plenty of people who will do that for me without the asking. They will have no chance when I am gone." Joe started slightly. "Gone?" she repeated. "Are you going away?" "It is very likely," said John. "A friend of mine has warned me to be ready to start at a moment's notice on very important business." "But it is uncertain, then?" asked Joe, quickly. She had turned very white in an instant, and she looked straight across the little room and pulled nervously at her fan. She would not have dared to let her eyes meet John's at that moment. "Yes, rather uncertain," answered John. "But he would not have sent me such a warning unless it were very likely that he would really want me." Joe was silent; she could not speak. "So you see," continued Harrington, "I may leave to-morrow, and I cannot tell when I may come back. That is the reason I was glad to find you here. I would have called to-day, if it had been possible, after I got the message." He spoke calmly, not dreaming of the storm of fear and passion he was rousing in the heart of the fair girl beside him. "Where--where are you going?" asked Joe in a low voice. "Probably to England," said John. Before the words were out of his mouth he turned and looked at her, suddenly realizing the change in her tones. But she had turned away from him. He could see the quiver of her lips and the beating throb of her beautiful throat; and as he watched the outline of her cheek a tear stole slowly over the delicate skin, and trembled, and fell upon her white neck. But still she looked away. Ah, John Harrington, what have you done? You have taken the most precious and pure thing in this world, the thing men as brave as you have given their heart's best blood to win and have perished for failing, the thing which angels guard and Heaven has in its keeping--the love of a good and noble woman. It has come into your hands and you do not want it. You hardly know it is yours; and if you fully knew it you would not know what to do! You are innocent, indeed; you have done nothing, spoken no word, given no look that, in your opinion, your cold indifferent opinion, could attract a woman's love. But the harm is done, nevertheless, and a great harm too. When you are old and sensible you will look back to this day as one of sorrow and evil, and you will know then that all greatness and power and glory of realized ambition are nothing unless a man have a woman's love. You will know that a man who cannot love is blind to half the world he seeks to conquer, and that a man who cannot love truly is no true man, for he who is not true to one cannot be true to many. That is the sum and reckoning of what love is worth. But John knew of nothing beyond friendship, and he could not conceive how friendship could turn into anything else. When he saw the tear on Josephine Thorn's cheek he was greatly disturbed, and vaguely wondered what in the world he should do. The idea that any woman could care enough for him to shed a tear when he left her had never crossed his mind; even now, with the actual fact before his eyes, he doubted whether it were possible. She was ill, perhaps, and suffering pain. Pshaw! it was absurd, it could not be that she cared so much for him. Seeing she did not move, he sat quite still for a while. His usual tact had deserted him in the extremity of the situation. He revolved in his mind what was best to say. It was safest to suppose that Joe was ill, but he would say something indifferent, in order to see whether she recovered, before he suggested that he might be of assistance. "It is cold here," he remarked, trying to speak as naturally as possible. "Would you not like to take a turn, Miss Thorn?" Joe moved a little. She was deadly pale, and in the effort she had made to control her feelings she was unconscious of the tears in her eyes. "Oh no, thanks," she faltered, "I will not dance just now." She could not say more. John made up his mind. "You are ill, Miss Thorn," he said anxiously. "I am sure you are very far from well. Let me get you something, or call your aunt. Shall I?" "Oh no--don't--that is--please, I think so. I will go home." John rose quickly, but before he reached the door she called him back. "Mr. Harrington, it is nothing. Please sit down." John came back and did as he was bid, more and more surprised and confused. "I was afraid it was something serious," he said nervously, for he was greatly disturbed. Joe laughed, a bitter, harsh little laugh, that was bad to hear. She was making a great effort, but she was strong, and bravely forced back her bursting tears. "Oh no! I was only choking," she said. "I often do. Go on, please, with what you were saying. Why are you going away so suddenly?" "Indeed," answered John, "I do not know what the business is. I am going if I am required, simply because my friend wants me." "Do you mean to say," asked Joe, speaking more calmly, "that you will pack up your belongings and go to the end of the world whenever a friend asks you to? It is most tremendously obliging, you know." "Not for any friend," John replied. "But I would most certainly do it for this particular one." "You must be very fond of him to do that," said Joe. "I am under great obligations to him, too. He is certainly the most important man with whom I have any relations. We can trust each other-it would not do to endanger the certainty of good faith that exists between us." "He must be a very wonderful person," said Joe, who had grown quite calm by this time. "I should like to know him." "Very possibly you may meet him, some day. He is a very wonderful person indeed, as you say. He has devoted fifty years of his life and strength to the unremitting pursuit of the best aim that any man can set before him." "In other words," said Joe, "he is your ideal. He is what you hope to be at his age. He must be very old." "Yes, he is old. As for his representing my ideal, I think he approaches more nearly to it than any man alive. But you would probably not like him." "Why?" "He belongs to a class of men whom old-world people especially dislike," answered John. "He does not believe in any monarchy, aristocracy, or distinction of birth. He looks upon titles as a decaying institution of barbarous ages, and he confidently asserts that in two or three generations the republic will be the only form of social contract known amongst the inhabitants of the civilized world." John was watching Joe while he spoke. He was merely talking because it seemed necessary, and he saw that in spite of her assumed calm she was still greatly agitated. She seemed anxious, however, to continue the conversation. "It is absurd," said she, "to say that all men are born equal." "Everything depends on what you mean by the word 'equal.' I mean by it that all men are born with an equal claim to a share in all the essential rights of free citizenship. When a man demands more than that, he is infringing on the rights of others; when he is content with less, he is allowing himself to be robbed." "But who is to decide just how much belongs to each man?" asked Joe, leaning back wearily against the cushions. She wished now that she had allowed him to call her aunt. It was a fearful strain on her faculties to continue talking upon general subjects and listening to John Harrington's calm, almost indifferent tones. "The majority decides that," said John. "But a majority has just decided that you are not to be senator," said Joe. "According to you they were right, were they not?" "It is necessary that the majority should be free," said John, "and that they should judge of themselves, each man according to his honest belief. Majorities with us are very frequently produced by a handful of dishonest men, who can turn the scale on either side, to suit their private ends. It is the aim we set before us to protect the freedom of majorities. That is the true doctrine of a republic." "And for that aim," said Joe, slowly, "you would sacrifice everything?" "Yes, indeed we would," said John, gravely. "For that end we will sacrifice all that we have to give--the care for personal satisfaction, the hope of personal distinction, the peace of a home and the love of a wife. We seek neither distinction nor satisfaction, and we renounce all ties that could hamper our strength or interfere with the persevering and undivided attention we try to give to our work." "That is a magnificent programme," said Joe, somewhat incredulously. "Do you not think it is possible sometimes to aim too high? You say 'we seek,' 'we try,' as though there were several of you, or at least, some one besides yourself. Do you believe that such ideas as you tell me of are really and seriously held by any body of men?" Nothing had seemed too high to Josephine an hour earlier, nothing too exalted, nothing so noble but that John Harrington might do it, then and there. But a sudden change had come over her, the deadly cold phase of half melancholy unbelief that often follows close upon an unexpected disappointment, so that she looked with distaste on anything that seemed so full of the enthusiasm she had lost. The tears that bad risen so passionately to her dimmed eyes were suddenly frozen, and seemed to flow back with chilling force to her heart. She coldly asked herself whether she were mad, that she could have suffered thus for such a man, even ever so briefly. He was a man, she said, who loved an unattainable, fanatic idea in the first place, and who dearly loved himself as well for his own fanaticism's sake. He was a man in whom the heart was crushed, even annihilated, by his intellect, which he valued far too highly, and by his vanity, which he dignified into a philosophy of self-sacrifice. He was aiming at what no man can reach, and though he knew his object to be beyond human grasp, he desired all possible credit for having madly dreamed of anything so high. In the sudden revulsion of her strong passion, she almost hated him, she almost felt the power to refute his theories, to destroy his edifice of fantastic morality, and finally to show him that he was a fool among men, and doubly a fool, because he was not even happy in his own folly. Joe vaguely felt all this, and with it she felt a sense of shame at having so nearly broken down at the news that he was going away. He had thought she was ill; most assuredly he could not have guessed the cause of what he had seen; but nevertheless she had suffered a keen pain, and the tears had come to her eyes. She did not understand it. He might leave her now, if he pleased, and she would not care; indeed, it would be rather a relief if he would go. She no longer asked what she was to him, she simply reflected that, after all was said, he was nothing to her. She felt a quick antagonism to his ideas, to his words, and to himself, and she was willing to show it. She asked him incredulously whether his ideas were really held by others. "It makes little difference," answered John, "whether they are many or few who think as I do, and I cannot tell how many there may be. The truth is not made truth because many people believe it. The world went round, as Galileo knew, although he alone stood up and said it in the face of mankind, who scoffed at him for his pains." "In other words, you occupy the position of Galileo," suggested Joe, calmly. "Not I," said John; "but there are men, and there have been men, in our country who know truths as great as any he discovered, and who have spent their lives in proclaiming them. I _know_ that they are right, and that I am right, and that, however we may fail, others will succeed at last. I know that, come what may, honor and truth and justice will win the day in the end!" His gray eyes glittered as he spoke, and his broad white hands clasped nervously together in his enthusiasm. He was depressed and heartsick at his failure, but it needed only one word of opposition to rouse the strong main thought of his life into the most active expression. But Joe sat coldly by, her whole nature seemingly changed in the few minutes that had passed. "And all this will be brought about by the measures you advocated the other day," said she with a little laugh. "A civil service, a little tariff reform--that is enough to inaugurate the reign of honor, truth, and justice?" John turned his keen eyes upon hers. He had begun talking because she had required it of him, and he had been roused by the subject. He remembered the sympathy she had given him, and he was annoyed at her caprice. "Such things are the mere passing needs of a time," he said. "The truth, justice, and honor, at which you are pleased to be amused, would insure the execution at all times of what is right and needful. Without a foundation composed of the said truth, justice, and honor, to get what is right and needful is often a matter so stupendous that the half of a nation's blood is drained in accomplishing the task, if even it is accomplished after all. I see nothing to laugh at." Indeed, Joe was only smiling faintly, but John was so deeply impressed and penetrated by the absolute truth of what he was saying, that he had altogether ceased to make any allowances for Joe's caprice of mood or for the disturbance in her manner that he had so lately witnessed. He was beginning to be angry, and she had never seen him in such a mood. "The world would be a very nice tiresome place to live in," she said, "if every one always did exactly what is absolutely right. I should not like to live among people who would be always so entirely padded and lined with goodness as they must be in your ideal republic." "It is a favorite and characteristic notion of modern society to associate goodness with dullness, and consequently, I suppose, to connect badness with all that is gay, interesting, and diverting. There is nothing more perverted, absurd, and contemptible than that notion in the whole history of the world." John was not gentle with an idea when he despised it, and the adjectives fell in his clear utterance like the blows of a sledge-hammer. But as the idea he was abusing had been suggested by Joe, she resented the strong language. "I am flattered that you should call anything I say by such bad names," she said. "I am not good at arguing and that sort of thing. If I were I think I could answer you very easily. Will you please take me back to my aunt?" She rose in a somewhat stately fashion. John was suddenly aware that he had talked too much and too strongly, and he was very sorry to have displeased her. She had always let him talk as he pleased, especially of late, and she had almost invariably agreed with him in everything he said, so that he had acquired too much confidence. At all events, that was the way he explained to himself the present difficulty. "Please forgive me, Miss Thorn," he said humbly, as he gave her his arm to leave the room. "I am a very sanguine person, and I often talk great nonsense. Please do not be angry." Joe paused just as they reached the door. "Angry? I am not angry," she said with sudden gentleness. "Besides, you know, this is--you are really going away?" "I think so," said John. "Then, if you do," she said with some hesitation--"if you do, this is good-by, is it not?" "Yes, I am afraid it is," said John; "but not for long." "Not for long, perhaps," she answered; "but I would not like you to think I was angry the very last time I saw you." "No, indeed. I should be very sorry if you were. But you are not?" "No. Well then"--she held out her hand--"Good-by, then." She had almost hated him a few minutes ago. Half an hour earlier she had loved him. Now her voice faltered a little, but her face was calm. John took the proffered hand and grasped it warmly. With all her caprice, and despite the strange changes of her manner toward him, she had been a good friend in a bad time during the last days, and he was more sorry to leave her than he would himself have believed. "Good-by," he said, "and thank you once more, with all my heart, for your friendship and kindness." Their hands remained clasped for a moment; then she took his arm again, and he led her out of the dimly-lighted sitting-room back among the brilliant dancers and the noise and the music and the whirling crowd. CHAPTER XIX. A change has come over Boston in four months, since John Harrington and Josephine Thorn parted. The breath of the spring has been busy everywhere, and the haze of the hot summer is ripening the buds that the spring has brought out. The trees on the Common are thick and heavy with foliage, the Public Garden is a carpet of bright flowers, and on the walls of Beacon Street the great creepers have burst into blossom and are stretching long shoots over the brown stone and the iron balconies. There is a smell of violets and flowers in the warm air, and down on the little pond the swan-shaped boats are paddling about with their cargoes of merry children and calico nursery-maids, while the Irish boys look on from the banks and throw pebbles when the policemen are not looking, wishing they had the spare coin necessary to embark for a ten minutes' voyage on the mimic sea. Unfamiliar figures wander through the streets of the West End, and more than half the houses show by the boarded windows and doors that the owners are out of town. The migration of the "tax-dodgers" took place on the last day of April; they will return on the second day of December, having spent just six months and one day in their country places, whereby they have shifted the paying of a large proportion of their taxes to more economical regions. It is a very equitable arrangement, for it is only the rich man who can save money in this way, while his poorer neighbor, who has no country-seat to which he may escape, must pay to the uttermost farthing. The system stimulates the impecunious to become wealthy and helps the rich to become richer. It is, therefore, perfectly good and just. But Boston is more beautiful in the absence of the "tax-dodger" than at any other season. There is a stillness and a peace over the fair city that one may long for in vain during the winter. Business indeed goes on without interruption, but the habitation of the great men of business knows them not. They come up from their cool bowers by the sea, in special trains, in steamers, and in yachts, every morning, and early in the afternoon they go back, so that all day long the broad streets at the west are quiet and deserted, and seem to be basking in the sunshine to recover from the combined strain of the bitter winter and the unceasing gayety that accompanies it. In the warm June weather Miss Schenectady and Joe still linger in town. The old lady has no new-fangled notions about taxes, and though she is rich and has a pretty place near Newport, she will not go there until she is ready, no, not for all the tax-gatherers in Massachusetts. As for Joe, she does not want to go away. Urgent letters come by every mail entreating her to return to England in time for a taste of the season in London, but they lie unanswered on her table, and often she does not read more than half of what they contain. The books and the letters accumulate in her room, and she takes no thought whether she reads them or not, for the time is weary on her hands and she only wishes it gone, no matter how. Nevertheless she will not go home, and she even begs her aunt not to leave Boston yet. She is paler than she was and her face looks thin. She says she is well and as strong as ever, but the elasticity is gone from her step, and the light has faded in her brown eyes, so that one might meet her in the street and hardly know her. As she sits by the window, behind the closed blinds, the softened light falls on her face, and it is sad and weary. It was not until John Harrington was gone that she realized all. He had received the message he expected early on the morning after that memorable parting, and before mid-day he was on his way. Since then she had heard no word of tidings concerning him, save that she knew he had arrived in England. For anything she knew he might even now be in America again, but she would not believe it. If he had come back he would surely have come to see her, she thought. There were times when she would have given all the world to look on his face again, but for the most part she said to herself it was far better that she should never see him. Where was the use? Joe was not of the women who have intimate confidants and can get rid of much sorrow by much talking about it. She was too proud and too strong to ask for help or sympathy in any real distress. She had gone to Sybil Brandon when she was about to tell Ronald of her decision, because she thought that Sybil would be kind to him and help him to forget the past; but where she herself was alone concerned, she would rather have died many deaths than confess what was in her heart. She had gone bravely through the remainder of the season, until all was over, and no one had guessed her disappointment. Such perfect physical strength as hers was not to be broken down by the effort of a few weeks, and still she smiled and talked and danced and kept her secret. But as the long months crawled out their tale of dreary days, the passion in her soul spread out great roots and grew fiercely against the will that strove to break it down. It was a love against which there was no appeal, which had taken possession silently and stealthily, with no outward show of wooing or sweet words; and then, safe within the fortress of her maidenly soul, it had grown up to a towering strength, feeding upon her whole life, and ruthlessly dealing with her as it would. But this love sought no confidence, nor help, nor assistance, being of itself utterly without hope, strong and despairing. One satisfaction only she had daily. She rejoiced that she had broken away from the old ties, from Ronald and from her English life. To have found herself positively loving one man while she was betrothed to another would have driven her to terrible extremity; the mere idea of going back to her mother and to the old life at home with this wild thought forever gnawing at her heart was intolerable. She might bear it to the end, whatever the end might be, and in silence, so long as none of her former associations made the contrast between past and present too strong. Old Miss Schenectady, with her books and her odd conversation, was as good a companion as any one, since she could not live alone. Sybil Brandon would have wearied her by her sympathy, gentle and loving as it would have been; and besides, Sybil was away from Boston and very happy; it would be unkind, as well as foolish, to disturb her serenity with useless confidences. And so the days went by and the hot summer was come, and yet Joe lingered in Boston, suffering silently and sometimes wondering how it would all end. Sybil was staying near Newport with her only surviving relation, an uncle of her mother. He was an old man, upward of eighty years of age, and he lived in a strange old place six or seven miles from the town. But Ronald had been there more than once, and he was always enthusiastic in his description of what he had seen, and he seemed particularly anxious that Joe should know how very happy Sybil was in her country surroundings. Ronald had traveled during the spring, making short journeys in every direction, and constantly talking of going out to see the West, a feat which he never accomplished. He would go away for a week at a time and then suddenly appear again, and at last had gravitated to Newport. Thence he came to town occasionally and visited Joe, never remaining more than a day, and sometimes only a few hours. Joe was indifferent to his comings and goings, but always welcomed him in a friendly way. She saw that he was amusing himself, and was more glad than ever that the relations formerly existing between them had been so opportunely broken off. He had never referred to the past since the final interview when Joe had answered him by bursting into tears, and he talked about the present cheerfully enough. One morning he arrived without warning, as usual, to make one of his short visits. Joe was sitting by the window dressed all in white, and the uniform absence of color in her dress rather exaggerated the pallor of her face than masked it. She was reading, apparently with some interest, in a book of which the dark-lined binding sufficiently declared the sober contents. As she read, her brows bent in the effort of understanding, while the warm breeze that blew through the blinds fanned her tired face and gently stirred the small stray ringlets of her soft brown hair. Ronald opened the door and entered. "Oh, Ronald!" exclaimed Joe, starting a little nervously, "have you come up? You look like the sunshine. Come in, and shut the door." He did as he was bidden, and came and sat beside her. "Yes, I nave come up for the day. How are you, Joe dear? You look pale. It is this beastly heat--you ought to come down to Newport for a month. It is utterly idiotic, you know, staying in town in this weather." "I like it," said Joe. "I like the heat so much that I think I should be cold in Newport. Tell me all about what you have been doing." "Oh, I hardly know," said Ronald. "Lots of things." "Tell me what you do in one day--yesterday, for instance. I want to be amused this morning." "It is not so very amusing, you know, but it is very jolly," answered Ronald. "To begin with, I get up at unholy hours and go and bathe in the surf at the second beach. There are no end of a a lot of people there even at that hour." "Yes, I dare say. And then?" "Oh, then I go home and dress: and later, if I do not ride, I go to the club--casino, I beg its pardon!--and play tennis. They play very decently, some of those fellows." "Are there any nice rides?" "Just along the roads, you know. But when you get out to Sherwood there are meadows and things--with a brook. That is very fair." "Do you still go to Sherwood often? How is Sybil?" "Yes," said Ronald, and a blush rose quickly to his face, "I often go there. It is such a queer old place, you know, full of trees and old summer-houses and graveyards--awfully funny." "Tell me, Ronald," said Joe, insisting a little, "how is Sybil?" "She looks very well, so I suppose she is. But she never goes to anything in Newport; she has not been in the town at all yet, since she went to stay with her uncle." "But of course lots of people go out to see her, do they not?" "Oh, well, not many. In fact I do not remember to have met any one there," answered Ronald, as though he were trying to recall some face besides Miss Brandon's. "Her uncle is such an odd bird, you have no idea." "I do not imagine you see very much of him when you go out there," said Joe, with a faint laugh. "Oh, I always see him, of course," said Ronald, blushing again. "He is about a hundred years old, and wears all kinds of clothes, and wanders about the garden perpetually. But I do not talk to him unless I am driven to it"-- "Which does not occur often," interrupted Joe. "Oh, well, I suppose not very often. Why should it?" Ronald was visibly embarrassed. Joe watched him with a look of amusement on her face; but affectionately, too, as though what he said pleased her as well as amused her. There was a short pause, during which Ronald rubbed his hat slowly and gently. Then he looked up suddenly and met Joe's eyes; but he turned away again instantly, blushing redder than ever. "Ronald," Joe said presently, "I am so glad." "Glad? Why? About what?" "I am glad that you like her, and that she likes you. I think you like her very much, Ronald." "Oh yes, very much," repeated Ronald, trying to seem indifferent. "Do you not feel as though we were much more like brother and sister now?" asked Joe, after a little while. "Oh, much!" assented Ronald. "I suppose it is better, too, though I did not think so at first." "It is far better," said Joe, laying her small, thin hand across her cousin's strong fingers and pressing them a little. "You are free now, and you will probably be very happy before long. Do you not think so?" she asked, looking affectionately into his eyes. "I hope so," said Ronald, with a last attempt at indifference. Then suddenly his face softened, and he added in a gentler tone, "Indeed, Joe, I think I shall be very happy soon." "I am so glad," said Joe again, still holding his hand, but leaning her head back wearily in the deep chair. "There is only one thing that troubles me." "What is that?" "That horrid will," said Joe. "I am sure we could get it altered in some way." "We never thought about it before, Joe. Why should we think about it now? It seems to me it is a very good will as things have turned out." "But, my dear boy," said Joe, "if you are married to Sybil Brandon, you will need ever so much money." Ronald blushed again. "I have not asked her to marry me," he said quickly. "That makes no difference at all," replied Joe. "As I was saying, when you have married her you will need money." "What an idea!" exclaimed Ronald, indignantly. "As if any one wanted to be rich in order to be happy. Besides, between what I have of my own, and my share of the money, there is nearly four thousand a year; and then there is the place in Lanarkshire for us to live in. As if that were not enough!" "It is not so very much, though," said Joe, reflecting. "I do not think Sybil has anything at all. You will be as poor as two little church mice; but I will come and stay with you sometimes," Joe added, laughing, "and help you about the bills." "The bills would take care of themselves," said Ronald, gravely. "They always do. But whatever happens, Joe, my home is always yours. You will always remember that, will you not?" "Dear Ronald," answered his cousin affectionately, "you are as good as it is possible to be--you really are." "Ronald," said Joe, after a pause, "I have an idea." He looked at her inquiringly, but said nothing. "I might," she continued, smiling at the thought--"I may go and marry first, you know, after all, and spoil it." "But you will not, will you? Promise me you will not." "I wish I could," said Joe, "and then you could have the money"-- "But I would not let you," interrupted Ronald. "I would go off and get married by license, and that sort of thing." "Without asking Miss Brandon?" suggested Joe. "Nonsense!" ejaculated Ronald, coloring for the twentieth time. "I think we are talking nonsense altogether," said Joe, seriously. "I do not think, indeed I am quite sure, I shall never marry." "How absurd!" cried Ronald. "The idea of your not marrying. It is perfectly ridiculous." The name of John Harrington was on his lips, but he checked himself. John was gone abroad, and with more than usual tact, Ronald reflected that, if Joe had really cared for the man, an allusion to him would be unkind. But Joe only shook her head, and let her cousin's words pass unanswered. She had long suspected, from Ronald's frequent allusions to Sybil, which were generally accompanied by some change of manner, that he was either already in love with the fair American girl, or that he soon would be, and the acknowledgment she had now received from himself gave her infinite pleasure. In her reflections upon her own conduct she had never blamed herself, but she had more than once thought that he was greatly to be pitied. To have married him six months ago, when she was fully conscious that she did not love him, would have been very wrong; and to have gone back at a later period, when she realized that her whole life was full of her love for John Harrington, would have been a crime. But in spite of that she was often very sorry for Ronald, and feared that she had hurt his happiness past curing. Now, therefore, when she saw how much he loved another, she was exceedingly glad, for she knew that the thing she had done had been wholly good, both for him and for her. They soon began to talk of other things, but the conversation fell back to the discussion of Newport, and Joe learned with some surprise that Pocock Vancouver assiduously cultivated Ronald's acquaintance, and was always ready to do anything in the world that Ronald desired. It appeared that Vancouver lent Ronald his horses at all times, and was apparently delighted when Ronald would take a mount and stay away all day. The young Englishman, of course, was not loath to accept such offers, having a radical and undisguised contempt for hired horseflesh, and as Sybil lived several miles out of town, it was far the most pleasant plan to ride out to her, and after spending the day there, to ride back in the evening, more especially as it cost him nothing. Joe was on the point of making some remark upon Vancouver, which would very likely have had the effect of cooling the intimacy between him and Ronald; but she thought better of it, and said nothing. Ronald had had no part in all the questions connected with John's election, and knew nothing of what Vancouver had done in the matter. It was better on many grounds not to stir up fresh trouble, and so long as Vancouver's stables afforded Ronald an easy and economical means of locomotion from Newport to the house of the woman he loved, the friendship that had sprung up was a positive gain. She could not understand the motives that prompted Vancouver in the least. He had made more than one attempt to regain his position with her after the direct cut he had sustained on the evening when she parted with John; but Joe had resolutely set her face against him. Possibly she thought Vancouver might hope to regain her good opinion by a regular system of kindness to Ronald; but it hardly seemed to her as though such a result would reward him for the pains of his diplomacy. Meanwhile it would be foolish of her to interfere with any intimacy which was of real use to Ronald in his suit. As a matter of fact, Vancouver was carrying out a deliberate plan, and one which was far from ill-conceived. He had not been so blind as not to suspect Joe's secret attachment for John, when she was willing to go to such lengths in her indignation against himself for being John's enemy. But he had disposed of John, as he thought, by assisting, if not actually causing, his defeat. He imagined that Harrington had gone abroad to conceal the mortification he felt at having lost the election, and he rightly argued that for some time Joe would not bestow a glance upon any one else. In the mean time, however, he was in possession of certain details concerning Joe's fortune which could be of use, and he accordingly set about encouraging Ronald's affections in any direction they might take, so long as they were not set upon his cousin. He was not surprised that Ronald should fall in love with Sybil, though he almost wished the choice could have fallen upon some one else, and accordingly he did everything in his power to make life in Newport agreeable for the young Englishman. It was convenient in some respects that the wooing should take place at so central a resort; but had the case been different, Vancouver would not have hesitated to go to Saratoga, Lenox, or Mount Desert, in the prosecution of his immediate purpose, which was to help Ronald to marry any living woman rather than let him return to England a bachelor. When Ronald should be married, Joe would be in possession of three quarters of her uncle's money--a very considerable fortune. If she was human, thought Vancouver, she would be eternally grateful to him for ridding her of her cousin, whom she evidently did not wish to marry, and for helping her thereby to so much wealth. He reflected that he had been unfortunate in the time when he had decided to be a candidate for her hand; but whatever turn affairs took, no harm was done to his own prospects by removing Ronald from the list of possible rivals. He was delighted at the preference Surbiton showed for Sybil Brandon, and in case Ronald hesitated, he reserved the knowledge he possessed of her private fortune as a final stimulus to his flagging affections. Hitherto it had not seemed necessary to acquaint his friend with the fact that Sybil had an income of some thirty thousand dollars yearly--indeed, no one seemed to know it, and she was supposed to be in rather straitened circumstances. As for his own chances with Joe, he had carefully hidden the tracks of his journalistic doings in the way he had at once proposed to himself when Joe attacked him on the subject. A gentleman had been found upon whom he had fastened the authorship of the articles in the public estimation, and the gentleman would live and die with the reputation for writing he had thus unexpectedly obtained. He had ascertained beyond a doubt that Joe knew nothing of his interview with Ballymolloy, and he felt himself in a strong position. Pocock Vancouver had for years taken an infinite amount of pains in planning and furthering his matrimonial schemes. He was fond of money; but in a slightly less degree he was fond of all that is beautiful and intelligent in woman; so that his efforts to obtain for himself what he considered a perfect combination of wit, good looks, and money, although ineffectual, had occupied a great deal of his spare time very agreeably. CHAPTER XX. Sherwood was a very old place. It had been built a hundred years at least before the Revolution in the days when the States had English governors, and when its founder had been governor of Rhode Island. His last descendant in the direct line was Sybil Brandon's great-uncle. The old country-seat was remarkable chiefly for the extent of the gardens attached to the house, and for the singularly advanced state of dilapidation in which everything was allowed to remain. Beyond the gardens the woods stretched down to the sea, unpruned and thick with a heavy undergrowth; from the road the gardens were hidden by thick hedges, and by the forbidding gray front of the building. It was not an attractive place to look at, and once within the precincts there was a heavy sense of loneliness and utter desolation, that seemed to fit it for the very home of melancholy. The damp sea air had drawn green streaks of mould downwards from each several jointing of the stones; the long-closed shutters of some of the windows were more than half hidden by creepers, bushy and straggling by turns, and the eaves were all green with moss and mould. From the deep-arched porch at the back a weed-grown gravel walk led away through untrimmed hedges of box and myrtle to an ancient summer-house on the edge of a steep slope of grass. To right and left of this path, the rose-trees and box that had once marked the gayest of flower gardens now grew in such exuberance of wild profusion that it would have needed strong arms and a sharp axe to cut a way through. Far away on a wooded knoll above the sea was the old graveyard, where generations of Sherwoods lay dead in their quiet rest, side by side. But for a space in every year the desolation was touched with the breath of life, and the sweet June air blew away the mould and the smell of death, and the wild flowers and roses sprang up joyfully in the wilderness to greet the song-birds and the butterflies of summer. And in this copious year a double spring had come to Sherwood, for Sybil Brandon had arrived one day, and her soft eyes and golden hair had banished all sadness and shadow from the old place. Even the thin old man, who lived there among the ghosts and shadows of the dead and dying past, smoothed the wrinkles from his forehead, forgetting to long selfishly for his own death, when Sybil came; and with touching thoughtfulness he strove to amuse her, and to be younger for her sake. He found old garments of a gayer time, full thirty years hidden away in the great wardrobes up-stairs, and he put them on and wore them, though they hung loosely about his shaken and withered frame, lest he should be too sad a thing for such young eyes to look upon. Then Ronald came one day, and the old man took kindly to him, and bade him come often. In the innocence of his old age it seemed good that what youth and life there was in the world should come together; and Ronald treated him with a deference and respect to which he had long been unused. Moreover, Ronald accepted the invitation given him and came as often as he pleased, which, before long, meant every day. When he came in the morning he generally stayed until the evening, and when he came in the afternoon he always stayed as long as Sybil would let him, and rode home late through the misty June moonlight pondering on the happiness the world had suddenly brought forth for him who had supposed, but a few months ago, that all happiness was at an end. Six months had gone by since Ronald had first seen Sybil, and he had changed in that time from boy to man. Looking back through the past years he knew that he was glad Joe had not married him, for the new purpose of his new life was to love and marry Sybil Brandon. There was no doubt in his mind as to what he would do; the strong nature in him was at last roused, and he was capable of anything in reason or without it to get what he wanted. Some one has said that an Englishman's idea of happiness is to find something he can kill and to hunt it. That is a metaphor as well as a fact. It may take an Englishman half a lifetime to find out what he wants, but when he is once decided he is very likely to get it, or to die in the attempt. The American is fond of trying everything until he reaches the age at which Americans normally become dyspeptic, and during his comparatively brief career he succeeds in experiencing a surprising variety of sensations. Both Americans and English are tenacious in their different ways, and it is certain that between them they have gotten more things that they have wanted than any other existing nation. What most surprised Ronald was that, having made up his mind to marry Sybil, he should not have had the opportunity, or perhaps the courage, to tell her so. He remembered how easily he had always been able to speak to Joe about matrimony, and he wondered why it should be so hard to approach the subject with one whom he loved infinitely more dearly than he had ever loved his cousin. But love brings tact and the knowledge of fitness, besides having the effect of partially hiding the past and exaggerating the future into an eternity of rose-colored happiness; wherefore Ronald supposed that everything would come right in time, and that the time for everything to come right could not possibly be very far off. On the day after he had seen Joe in Boston he rode over to Sherwood in the morning, as usual, upon one of Vancouver's horses. He was lighter at heart than ever, for he had somewhat dreaded the revelation of his intentions to Joe; but she had so led him on and helped him that it had all seemed very easy. He was not long in reaching his destination, and having put his horse in the hands of the single man who did duty as gardener, groom, and dairyman for old Mr. Sherwood, he entered the garden, where he hoped to meet Sybil alone. He was not disappointed, for as he walked down the path through the wilderness of shrubbery he caught sight of her near the summer-house, stooping down in the act of plucking certain flowers that grew there. She, too, was dressed all in white, as he had seen his cousin on the previous day; but the difference struck him forcibly as he came up and took her outstretched hand. They had changed places and character, one could almost have thought. Joe had looked so tired and weary, so "wilted," as they say in Boston, that it had shocked Ronald to see her. Sybil, who had formerly been so pale and cold, now was the very incarnation of life; delicate and exquisitely fine in every movement and expression, but most thoroughly alive. The fresh soft color seemed to float beneath the transparent skin, and her deep eyes were full of light and laughter and sunshine. Ronald's heart leaped in his breast for love and pride as she greeted him, and his brow turned hot and his hands cold in the confusion of his happiness. "You have been away again?" she asked presently, looking down at the wild white lilies which she had been gathering. "Yes, I was in Boston yesterday," answered Ronald, who had immediately begun to help in plucking the flowers. "I went to see Joe. She looks dreadfully knocked up with the heat, poor child." And so they talked about Joe and Boston for a little while, and Sybil sat upon the steps of the summer-house on the side where there was shade from the hot morning sun, while Ronald brought her handfuls of the white lilies. At last there were enough, and he came and stood before her. She was so radiantly lovely as she sat in the warm shade with the still slanting sunlight just falling over her white dress, he thought her so super-humanly beautiful that he stood watching her without thinking of speaking or caring that she should speak to him. She looked up and smiled, a quick bright smile, for she was woman enough to know his thoughts. But she busied herself with the lilies and looked down again. "Let me help you," said Ronald suddenly, kneeling down before her on the path. "I don't think you can--very much," said Sybil, demurely. "You are not very clever about flowers, you know. Oh, take care! You will crush it--give it back to me!" Ronald had taken one of the lilies and was smelling it, but it looked to Sybil very much as though he were pressing it to his lips. He would not give it back, but held it away at arm's length as he knelt. Sybil made as though she were annoyed. "Of course," said she, "I cannot take it, if you will not give it to me." Ronald gently laid the flower in her lap with the others. She pretended to take no notice of what he did, but went on composing her nosegay. "Miss Brandon"--began Ronald, and stopped. "Well?" said Sybil, without looking up. "May I tell you something?" he asked. "That depends," said Sybil. "Is it anything very interesting?" "Yes," said Ronald. There seemed to be something the matter with his throat all at once, as though he were going to choke. Sybil looked up and saw that he was very pale. She had never seen him otherwise than ruddy before, and she was startled; she dropped the lilies on her knees and looked at him anxiously. Ronald suddenly laid his hands over hers and held them. Still she faced him. "I am very unworthy of you--I know I am-but I love you very, very much." He spoke distinctly enough now, and slowly. He was as white as marble, and his fingers were cold, and trembled as they held hers. For an instant after he had spoken, Sybil did not move. Then she quietly drew back her hands and hid her face in a sudden, convulsive movement. She, too, trembled, and her heart beat as though it would break; but she said nothing. Ronald sprang from the ground and kneeled again upon the step beside her; very gently his arm stole about her and drew her to him. She took one hand from her face and tried to disentangle his hold, but he held her strongly, and whispered in her ear,-- "Sybil, I love you--do you love me?" Sybil made a struggle to rise, but it was not a very brave struggle, and in another moment she had fallen into his arms and was sobbing out her whole love passionately. "Oh, Ronald, you mu--must not!" But Ronald did. Half an hour later they were still sitting side by side on the steps, but the storm of uncertainty was passed, and they had plighted their faith for better and for worse, for this world and the next. Ronald had foreseen the event, and had hoped for it as he never had hoped for anything in his life; Sybil had perhaps guessed it; at all events, now that the supreme moment was over, they both felt that it was the natural climax to all that had happened during the spring. "I think," said Sybil, quietly, "that we ought to tell my uncle at once. He is the only relation I have in the world." "Oh yes, of course," said Ronald, holding her hand. "That is, you know, I think we might tell him after lunch. Because I suppose it would not be the right thing for me to stay all day after he knows. Would it?" "Why not?" asked Sybil. "He must know it soon, and you will come to-morrow." "To-morrow, and the next day, and the day after that, and always," said Ronald, lovingly. "But he will not like it, I suppose." "Why not?" asked Sybil, again. "Because I am poor," said Ronald, quietly. "You know I am not rich at all, Sybil dearest. We shall have to be very economical, and live on the place in Scotland. But it is a very pretty place," he added, reassuringly. Sybil flushed a little. He did not know, then, that she had a fortune of her own. It was a new pleasure. She did not say anything for a moment. "Do you mind very much, dearest?" asked Ronald, doubtfully. "Do you think it would bore you dreadfully to live in the country?" Sybil hesitated before she answered. She hardly knew whether to tell him or not, but at last she decided it would be better. "No, Ronald," said she, smiling a little; "I like the country. But, you know, we can live anywhere we please. I am rich, Ronald--you did not know it?" Ronald started slightly. It was indeed an unexpected revelation. "Really?" he cried. "Oh, I am so glad for you. You will not miss anything, then. I was so afraid." That evening Ronald telegraphed to Joe the news of his engagement, and the next day he wrote her a long letter, which was more remarkable for the redundant passion expressed than for the literary merit of the expression. It seemed far easier to write it since he had seen her and talked with her about Sybil, not because he felt in the least ashamed of having fallen in love within six months of the dissolution of his former engagement with Joe, but because it seemed a terribly difficult thing to speak to any one about Sybil. Ronald was very far from being poetical, or in any way given to lofty and medieval reflections of the chivalric sort, but he was a very honest fellow, loving for the first time, and he understood that his love was something more to be guarded and respected than anything that had yet come into his life; wherefore it seemed almost ungentlemanly to speak about it. When Joe received the intelligence her satisfaction knew no bounds, for although she had guessed that the climax of the affair was not far off, she had not expected it so very soon. Had she searched through the whole of her acquaintance at home and in America she could have found no one whom she considered more fit to be Ronald's wife, and that alone was enough to make her very happy; but the sensation of freedom from all further responsibility to Ronald, and the consciousness that every possible good result had followed upon her action, added so much to her pleasure in the matter, that for a time she utterly forgot herself and her own troubles. She instantly wrote a long and sympathetic letter to Ronald, and another to Sybil. Sybil replied at once, begging Joe to come and spend a month at Sherwood, or as much time as she was able to give. "I expect you had best go," remarked Miss Schenectady. "It is getting pretty hot here, and you look quite sick." "Oh no, I am very well," said Joe; "but I think I will go for a week or ten days." "Well, if you find you are going to have a good time, you can always stay, any way," replied the old lady. "I think if I were you I would take some books and a Bible and a pair of old boots." Miss Schenectady did not smile, but Joe laughed outright. "A Bible and a pair of old boots!" she cried. "Yes, I would," said her aunt. "Old Tom Sherwood cannot have seen a Bible for fifty years, I expect, and it might sort of freshen him up." The old lady's eye twinkled slightly and the corners of her mouth twitched a little. "As for the old boots, if you conclude to go, you will want them, for you will be right out in the country there." Joe laughed again, but she took her aunt's advice; and on the following day she reached Newport, and was met by Sybil and Ronald, who conveyed her to Sherwood in a thing which Joe learned was called a "carryall." Late in the afternoon, when Ronald was gone, the two girls sat in an angle of the old walls, looking over the sea to eastward. The glow of the setting sun behind them touched them softly, and threw a rosy color upon Joe's pale face, and gilded Sybil's bright hair, hovering about her brows in a halo of radiant glory. Joe looked at her and wondered at the change love had wrought in so short a time. Sybil had once seemed so cold and white that only a nun's veil could be a fit thing to bind upon her saintly head; but now the orange blossoms would look better there, Joe thought, twined in a bride's wreath of white and green, of purity and hope. "My Snow Angel," she exclaimed, "the sun has melted you at last!" "Tell me the story of the Snow Angel," said Sybil, smiling. "You once said that you would." "I will tell you," said Joe, "as well I can remember it. Mamma used to tell it to me years and years ago, when I was quite a small thing. It is a pretty story. Listen." "Once on a time, far away in the north, there lived an angel. She was very, very beautiful, and all of the purest snow, quite white, her face and her hands and her dress and her wings. She lived alone, ever so far away, all through the long winter, in a valley of beautiful snow, where the sun never shone even in the summer. She was the most lovely angel that ever was, but she was so cold that she could not fly at all, and so she waited in the valley, always looking southward and wishing with all her heart that the sun would rise above the hill. "Sometimes people passed, far down below, in sledges, and she almost would have asked some one of them to take her out of the valley. But once, when she came near the track, a man came by and saw her, and he was so dreadfully frightened that he almost fell out of the sled. "Sometimes, too, the little angels, who were young and curious, would fly down into the cold valley and look at her and speak to her. "'Pretty angel,' they would say, 'why do you stay all alone in this dreary place?' "'They forgot me here,' she used to answer, 'and now I cannot fly until the sun is over the hill. But I am very happy. It will soon come.' "It was too cold for the little angels, and so they soon flew away and left her; and they began to call her the Snow Angel among themselves, and some of them said she was not real, but the other ones said she must be, because she was so beautiful. She was not unhappy, because angels never can be, you know; only it seemed a long time to wait for the sun to come. "But at last the sun heard of her, and the little angels who had seen her told him it was a shame that he should not rise high enough to warm her and help her to fly. So, as he is big and good-natured and strong, he said he would try, and would do his best; and on midsummer's day he determined to make a great effort. He shook himself, and pushed and struggled very hard, and got hotter than he had ever been in his whole life with his exertions, but at last, with a great brave leap, he found himself so high that he could see right down into the valley, and he saw the Snow Angel standing there, and she was so beautiful that he almost cried with joy. And then, as he looked, he saw a very wonderful sight. "The Snow Angel, all white and glistening, looked up into the sun's face and stretched her arms towards him and trembled all over; and as she felt that he was come at last and had begun to warm her, she thrust out her delicate long wings, and they gleamed and shone and struck the cold clear air. Then the least possible tinge of exquisite color came into her face, and she opened her lips and sang for joy; and presently, as she was singing, she rose straight upward with a rushing sound, like a lark in the sunlight, the whitest and purest and most beautiful angel that ever flew in the sky. And her voice was so grand and clear and ringing, that all the other angels stopped in their songs to listen, and then sang with her in joy because the Snow Angel was free at last. "That is the story mamma used to tell me, long ago, and when I first saw you I thought of it, because you were so cold and beautiful that you seemed all made of snow. But now the sun is over the hill, Sybil dear, is it not?" "Dear Joe," said Sybil, winding her arm round her friend's neck and laying her face close to hers, "you are so nice." The sun sank suddenly behind them, and all the eastern water caught the purple glow. It was dark when the two girls walked slowly back to the old house. Joe stayed many days with Sybil at Sherwood, and the days ran into weeks and the weeks to months as the summer sped by. Ronald came and went daily, spending long hours with Sybil in the garden, and growing more manly and quiet in his happiness, while Sybil grew ever fairer in the gradual perfecting of her beauty. It was comforting to Joe to see them together, knowing what honest hearts they were. She occupied herself as she could with books and a few letters, but she would often sit for hours in a deep chair under the overhanging porch, where the untrimmed honeysuckle waved in the summer breeze like a living curtain, and the birds would come and swing themselves upon its tendrils. But Joe's cheek was always pale, and her heart weary with longing and with fighting against the poor imprisoned love that no one must ever guess. CHAPTER XXI. The wedding-day was fixed for the middle of August, and the ceremony was to take place in Newport. It is not an easy matter to arrange the marriage of two young people neither of whom has father or mother, though their subsequent happiness is not likely to suffer much by the bereavement. It was agreed, however, that Mrs. Wyndham, who was Sybil's oldest friend, should come and stay at Sherwood until everything was finished; and she answered the invitation by saying she was "perfectly wild to come,"--and she came at once. Uncle Tom Sherwood was a little confused at the notion of having his house full of people; but Sybil had been amusing herself by reorganizing the place for some time back, and there is nothing easier than to render a great old-fashioned country mansion habitable for a few days in the summer, when carpets are useless and smoking chimneys are not a necessity. Mrs. Wyndham said that Sam would come down for the wedding and stay over the day, but that she expected he was pretty busy just now. "By the way," she remarked, "you know John Harrington has come home. We must send him an invitation." The three ladies were walking in the garden after breakfast, hatless and armed with parasols. Joe started slightly, but no one noticed it. "When did he come--where has he been all this time?" asked Sybil. "Oh, I do not know. He came down to see Sam the other day at our place. He seems to have taken to business. They talked about the Monroe doctrine and the Panama canal, and all kinds of things. Sam says somebody has died and left him money. Anyway, he seems a good deal interested in the canal." Mrs. Wyndham chatted on, planning with Sybil the details of the wedding. The breakfast was to be at Sherwood, and there were not to be many people. Indeed, the distance would keep many away, a fact for which no one of those principally concerned was at all sorry. John Harrington, sweltering in the heat of New York, and busier than he had ever been in his life, received an engraved card to the effect that Mr. Thomas Sherwood requested the pleasure of Mr. Harrington's company at the marriage of his grandniece, Miss Sybil Brandon, to Mr. Ronald Surbiton, at Sherwood, on the 15th of August. There was also a note from Mrs. Wyndham, saying that she was staying at Sherwood, and that she hoped John would be able to come. John had, of course, heard of the engagement, but he had not suspected that the wedding would take place so soon. In spite of his business, however, he determined to be present. A great change had come over his life since he had bid Joe good-by six months earlier. He had been called to London as he had expected, and had arrived there to find that Z was dead, and that he was to take his place in the council. The fiery old man had died very suddenly, having worked almost to his last hour, in spite of desperate illness; but when it was suspected that his case was hopeless, John Harrington was warned that he must be ready to join the survivors at once. In the great excitement, and amidst the constant labor of his new position, the past seemed to sink away to utter insignificance. His previous exertions, the short sharp struggle for the senatorship ending in defeat, the hopes and fears of ten years of a most active life, were forgotten and despised in the realization of what he had so long and so ardently desired, and now at last he saw that his dreams were no impossibility, and that his theories were not myths. But he knew also that, with all his strength and devotion and energy, he was as yet no match for the two men with whom he had to do. Their vast experience of men and things threw his own knowledge into the shade, and cool as he was in emergencies, he recognized that the magnitude of the matters they handled astonished and even startled him more than he could have believed possible. Years must elapse before he understood what seemed as plain as the day to them, and he must fight many desperate battles before he was their equal. But the determination to devote his life wholly and honestly to the one object for which a man should live had grown stronger than ever. In his exalted view the ideal republic assumed grand and noble proportions, and already overshadowed the whole earth with the glory of honor and peace and perfect justice. Before the advancing tide of a spotless civilization, all poverty, all corruption and filthiness, all crime, all war and corroding seeds of discord were swept utterly away and washed from the world, to leave only forever and ever the magnificent harmony of nations and peoples, wherein none of those vile, base, and wicked things should even be dreamed of, or so much as remembered. He thought of Joe sometimes, wondering rather vaguely why she had acted as she had, and whether any other motive than pure sympathy with his work had made her resent so violently Vancouver's position towards him. It was odd, he thought, that an English girl should find such extreme interest in American political doings, and then the scene in the dim sitting-room during the ball came vividly back to his memory. It was not in his nature to fancy that every woman who was taken with a fit of coughing was in love with him, but the conviction formed itself in his mind that he might possibly have fallen in love with Joe if things had been different. As it was, he had put away such childish things, and meant to live out his years of work, with their failure or success, without love and without a wife. He would always be grateful to Joe, but that would be all, and he would be glad to see her whenever an opportunity offered, just as he would be glad to see any other friend. In this frame of mind he arrived in Newport on the morning of the wedding, and reached the little church among the trees just in time to witness the ceremony. It was not different from other weddings, excepting perhaps that the place where the High Church portion of Newport elects to worship is probably smaller than any other consecrated building in the world. Every seat was crowded, and it was with difficulty that John could find standing room just within the door. The heat was intense, and the horses that stood waiting in the avenue, sweated in the sun as they fought the flies, and pawed the hard road in an agony of impatience. Sybil was exquisitely lovely as she went by on old Mr. Sherwood's arm. The old gentleman had consented to assume a civilized garb for once in his life, and looked pleased with his aged self, as well he might be, seeing that the engagement had been made under his roof. Then Ronald passed, paler than usual, but certainly the handsomest man present, carrying himself with a new dignity, as though he knew himself a better man than ever in being found worthy of his beautiful bride. It was soon over, and the crowd streamed out after the bride and bridegroom. "Hallo, Harrington, how are you?" said Vancouver, overtaking John as he turned into the road. "You had better get in with me and drive out. I have not seen you for an age." John stood still and surveyed Vancouver with a curiously calm air of absolute superiority. "Thank you very much," he answered civilly. "I have hired a carriage to take me there. I dare say we shall meet. Good-morning." John had been to Sherwood some years before, but he was surprised at the change that had been wrought in honor of the marriage. The place looked inhabited, the windows were all open, and the paths had been weeded, though Sybil had not allowed the wild shrubbery to be pruned nor the box hedges to be trimmed. She loved the pathless confusion of the old grounds, and most of all she loved the dilapidated summer-house. John shook hands with many people that he knew. Mrs. Wyndham led him aside a little way. "Is it not just perfectly splendid?" she exclaimed. "They are so exactly suited to each other. I feel as if I had done it all. You are not at all enthusiastic." "On the contrary," said John, "I am very enthusiastic. It is the best thing that could possibly have happened." "Then go and do likewise," returned Mrs. Sam, laughing. Then she changed her tone. "There is a young lady here who will be very glad to see you. Go and try and cheer her up a little, can't you?" "Who is that?" "A young lady over there--close to Sybil-dressed in white with roses. Don't you see? How stupid you are! There--the second on the left." "Do you mean to say that is Miss Thorn?" exclaimed John in much surprise, and looking where Mrs. Sam directed him. "Good Heavens! How she has changed!" "Yes, she has changed a good deal," said Mrs. Wyndham, looking at John's face. "I hardly think I should have known her," said John. "She must have been very ill; what has been the matter?" "The matter? Well, perhaps if you will go and speak to her, you will see what the matter is," answered Mrs. Sam, enigmatically. "What do you mean?" John looked at his companion in astonishment. "I mean just exactly what I say. Go and talk to her, and cheer her up a little." She dropped her voice, and spoke close to Harrington's ear--"No one else in the world can," she added. John's impulse was to answer Mrs. Wyndham sharply. What possible right could she have to say such things? It was extremely bad taste, if it was nothing worse, even with an old friend like John. But he checked the words on his lips and spoke coldly. "It is not fair to say things like that about any girl," he answered. "I will certainly go and speak to her at once, and if you will be good enough to watch, you will see that I am the most indifferent of persons in her eyes." "Very well, I will watch," said Mrs. Wyndham, not in the least disconcerted. "Only take care." John smiled quietly, and made his way through the crowd of gaily-dressed, laughing people to here Joe was standing. She had not yet caught sight of him, but she knew he was in the room, and she felt very nervous. She intended to treat him with friendly coolness, as a protest against her conduct in former days. Poor Joe! she was very miserable, but she had made a brave effort. Her pale cheeks and darkened eyes contrasted painfully with the roses she wore, and her short nervous remarks to those who spoke to her sounded very unlike her former self. "How do you do, Miss Thorn?" John said, very quietly. "It is a long time since we met." Joe put her small cold hand in his, and it trembled so much that John noticed it. She turned her head a little away from him, frightened now that he was at last come. "Yes," she said in a low voice, "it is a long time." She felt herself turn red and then pale, and as she looked away from John she met Mrs. Wyndham's black eyes turned full upon her in an inquiring way. She started as though she had been caught in some wrong thing; but she was naturally brave, and after the first shock she spoke to John more naturally. "We seem destined for festivities, Mr. Harrington," she said, trying to laugh. "We parted at a ball, and we meet again at a wedding." "It is always more gay to meet than to part," answered John. "I think this is altogether one of the gayest things I ever saw. What a splendid fellow your cousin is. It does one good to see men like that." "Yes, Ronald is very good-looking," said Joe. "I am so very glad, you do not know; and he is so happy." "Any man ought to be who marries such a woman," said John. "By the bye," he added with a smile, "Vancouver takes it all very comfortably, does he not? I would like to know what he really feels." "I am sure that whatever it is, it is something bad," said Joe. "How you hate him!" exclaimed John with a laugh. "I--I do not hate him. But you ought to, Mr. Harrington. I simply despise him, that is all." "No, I do not hate him either," answered John. "I would not disturb my peace of mind for the sake of hating any one. It is not worth while." Some one came and spoke to Joe, and John moved away in the crowd, more disturbed in mind than he cared to acknowledge. He had gone to Joe's side in the firm conviction that Mrs. Wyndham was only making an untimely jest, and that Joe would greet him indifferently. Instead she had blushed, turned paler, hesitated in her speech, and had shown every sign of confusion and embarrassment. He knew that Mrs. Wyndham was right, after all, and he avoided her, not wishing to give a fresh opportunity for making remarks upon Joe's manner. The breakfast progressed, and the people wandered out into the garden from the hot rooms, seeking some coolness in the shady walks. By some chain of circumstances which John could not explain, he found himself left alone with Joe an hour after he had first met her in the house. A little knot of acquaintances had gone out to the end of one of the walks, where there was a shady old bower, and presently they had paired off and moved away in various directions, leaving John and Joe together. The excitement had brought the faint color to the girl's face at last, and she was more than usually inclined to talk, partly from nervous embarrassment, and partly from the enlivening effect of so many faces she had not seen for so long. "Tell me," she said, pulling a leaf from the creepers and twisting it in her fingers--"tell me, how long was it before you forgot your disappointment about the election? Or did you think it was not worth while to disturb your peace of mind for anything so trivial?" "I suppose I could not help it," said John. "I was dreadfully depressed at first. I told you so, do you remember?" "Of course you were, and I was very sorry for you. I told you you would lose it, long before, but you do not seem to care in the least now. I do not understand you at all." "I soon got over it," said John. "I left Boston on the day after I saw you, and went straight to London. And then I found that a friend of mine was dead, and I had so much to do that I forgot everything that had gone before." Joe gave a little sigh, short and sharp, and quickly checked. "You have a great many friends, have you not?" she said. "Yes, very many. A man cannot have too many of the right sort." "I do not think you and I mean the same thing by friendship," said Joe. "I should say one cannot have too few." "I mean friends who will help you at the right moment, that is, when you ask help. Surely it must be good to have many." "Everything that you do and say always turns to one and the same end," said Joe, a little impatiently. "The one thing you live for is power and the hope of power. Is there nothing in the world worth while save that?" "Power itself is worth nothing. It is the thing one means to get with it that is the real test." "Of course. But tell me, is anything you can obtain by all the power the world holds better than the simple happiness of natural people, who are born and live good lives, and--fall in love, and marry, and that sort of thing, and are happy, and die?" Joe looked down and turned the leaf she held in her fingers, as she stated her proposition. John Harrington paused before he answered. A moment earlier he had been as calm and cold as he was wont to be; now, he suddenly hesitated. The strong blood rushed to his brain and beat furiously in his temples, and then sank heavily back to his heart, leaving his face very pale. His fingers wrung each other fiercely for a moment. He looked away at the trees; he turned to Josephine Thorn; and then once more he gazed at the dark foliage, motionless in the hot air of the summer's afternoon. "Yes," he said, "I think there are things much better than those in the world." But his voice shook strangely, and there was no true ring in it. Joe sighed again. In the distance she could see Ronald and Sybil, as they stood under the porch shaking hands with the departing guests. She looked at them, so radiant and beautiful with the fulfilled joy of a perfect love, and she looked at the stern, strong man by her side, whose commanding face bore already the lines of care and trouble, and who, he said, had found something better than the happiness of yonder bride and bridegroom. She sighed, and she said in her woman's heart that they were right, and that John Harrington was wrong. "Come," she said, rising, and her words had a bitter tone, "let us go in; it is late." John did not move. He sat like a stone, paler than death, and said no word in answer. Joe turned and looked at him, as though wondering why he did not follow her. She was terrified at the expression in his face. "Are you not coming?" she asked, suddenly going close to him and looking into his eyes. CHAPTER XXII. Joe was frightened; she stood and looked into Harrington's eyes, doubting what she should do, not understanding what was occurring. He looked so pale and strange as he sat there, that she was terrified. She came a step nearer to him, and tried to speak. "What is the matter, Mr. Harrington?" she stammered. "Speak--you frighten me!" Harrington looked at her for one moment more, and then, without speaking, buried his face in his hands. Joe clasped her hands to her side in a sudden pain; her heart beat as though it would break, and the scene swam round before her in the hot air. She tried to move another step towards the bench, and her strength almost failed her; she caught at the lattice of the old summer-house, still pressing one hand to her breast. The rotten slabs of the wood-work cracked under her light weight. She breathed hard, and her face was as pale as the shadows on driven snow; in another moment she sank down upon the bench beside John, and sat there, staring vacantly out at the sunlight. Harrington felt her gentle presence close to him and at last looked up; every feature of his strong face seemed changed in the convulsive fight that rent his heart and soul to their very depths; the enormous strength of his cold and dominant nature rose with tremendous force to meet and quell the tempest of his passion, and could not; dark circles made heavy shadows under his deep-set eyes, and his even lips, left colorless and white, were strained upon his clenched teeth. "God help me--I love you." That was all he said, but in his words the deep agony of a mortal struggle rang strangely--the knell of the old life and the birth-chime of the new. One by one, the words he had never thought to speak fell from his lips, distinctly; the oracle of the heart answered the great question of fate in its own way. Josephine Thorn sat by his side, her hands lying idly in her lap, her thin white face pressing against the old brown lattice, while a spray of the sweet honeysuckle that climbed over the wood-work just touched her bright brown hair. As John spoke she tried to lift her head and struggled to put out her hand, but could not. As the shadows steal at evening over the earth, softly closing the flowers and touching them to sleep, silently and lovingly, in the promise of a bright waking--so, as she sat there, her eyelids drooped and the light faded gently from her face, her lips parted a very little, and with a soft-breathed sigh she sank into unconsciousness. John Harrington was in no state to be surprised or startled by anything that happened. He saw, indeed, that she had fainted, but with the unerring instinct of a great love he understood. With the tenderness of his strength he put one arm about her, and drew her to him till her fair head rested upon his shoulder, and he looked into her face. In a few moments he had passed completely from the old life to a life which he had never believed possible, but which had nevertheless been long present with him. He knew it and felt it, quickly realizing that for the first time since he could remember he was wholly and perfectly happy. He was a man who had dreamed of all that is noble and great for man to do, who had consecrated his every hour and minute to the attainment of his end; and though his aim was in itself a good one, the undivided concentration which the pursuit of it required had driven him into a state outwardly resembling extreme egotism. He had loved his own purposes as he had loved nothing else, and as he had been persuaded that he could love nothing else, in the whole world. Now, suddenly, he knew his own heart. There is something beyond mere greatness, beyond the pursuit of even the highest worldly aims; there is something which is not a means to the attainment of happiness, which is happiness itself. It is an inner sympathy of hearts and souls and minds, a perfect union of all that is most worthy in the natures of man and woman; it is a plant so sensitive that a breath of unkindness will hurt it and blight its beauty, and yet it is a tree so strong that neither time nor tempest can overthrow it when it has taken root; and if you would tear it out and destroy it, the place where it grew is as deep and as wide as a grave. It is a bond that is as soft as silk and as strong as death, binding hearts, not hands; so long as it is not strained a man will hardly know that he is bound, but if he would break it he will spend his strength in vain and suffer the pains of hell, for it is the very essence and nature of a true love that it cannot be broken. With such men as John Harrington love at first sight is an utter impossibility. The strong dominant aspirations that lead them are a light too brilliant to be outshone by any sudden flash of hot passion. Love, when it comes to them, is of slow growth, but enduring in the same proportion as it is slow; identifying itself, by degrees so small that a man himself is unconscious of it, with the deepest feelings of the heart and the highest workings of the intellect. It steals silently into the soul in the guise of friendship, asking nothing but loyal friendship in return; in the appearance of kindness which asks but a little gratitude; in the semblance of a calm and passionless trustfulness, demanding only a like trust as its equivalent pledge, a like faith as a gauge for its own, an equal measure of charity for an equal; and so love builds himself a temple of faith and charity, and trust and kindness, and honest friendship, and rejoices exceedingly in the whole goodness and strength and beauty of the place where he will presently worship. When that day comes he stands in the midst and kindles a strong clear flame upon the altar, and the fire burns and leaps and illuminates the whole temple of love, which is indeed the holy of holies of the temple of life. John Harrington, through five and thirty years of his life, had believed that the patient labor of a powerful intellect could suffice to a man, in its results, for the attainment of all that humanity most honors, even for the wise and unerring government of humanity itself. To that end and in that belief he had honestly given every energy he possessed, and had sternly choked down every tendency he felt in his inner nature toward a life less intellectual and more full of sympathy for the affairs of individual mankind. With him to be strong was to be cold--to be warm was to be weak and subject to error; a supreme devotion to his career and a supreme disdain of all personal affections were the conditions of success which he deemed foremostly necessary, and he had come to an almost superstitious belief in the idea that the love of woman is the destruction of the intellectual man. Himself ready to sacrifice all he possessed, and to spend his last strength in the struggle for an ideal, he had nevertheless so identified his own person with the object he strove to attain that he regarded all the means he could possibly control with as much jealousy as though he had been the most selfish of men. Friends he looked upon as tools for his trade, and he valued them not only in proportion to their honesty and loyalty of heart, but also in the degree of their power and intelligence. He sought no friendships which could not help him, and relinquished none that could be of service in the future. But the world is not ruled by intellect, though it is sometimes governed by brute force and yet more brutal passions. The dominant power in the affairs of men is the heart. Humanity is moved far more by what it feels than by what it knows, and those who would be rulers of men must before all things be men themselves, and not merely highly finished intellectual machines. The guests were gone, no one had missed Harrington and Joe, and Ronald and Sybil had gone into the house. They sat side by side in the little bower at the end of the long walk--Joe's fair head resting in her unconsciousness upon John's shoulder. Presently she stirred, and opening her eyes, looked up into his face. She drew gently away from him, and a warm blush spread quickly over her pale cheek; she glanced down at her small white hands and they clasped each other convulsively. John looked at her; suddenly his gray eyes grew dark and deep, and the mighty passion took all his strength into its own, so that he trembled and turned pale again. But the words failed him no longer now. He knew in a moment all that he had to say, and he said it. "You must not be angry with me, Miss Thorn," he began, "you must not think I am losing my head. Let me tell you now--perhaps you will listen to me. God knows, I am not worthy to say such things to you, but I will try to be. It is soon said. I love you; I can no more help loving you than I can help breathing. You have utterly changed me, and saved me, and made a life for me out of what was not life at all. Do not think it is sudden--what is really to last forever must take some time in growing. I never knew till to-day-I honored you and would have done everything in the world for you, and I was more grateful to you than I ever was to any human being. But I thought when we met we should be friends just as we always were, and instead of that I know that this is the great day of my life, and that my life with all that it holds is yours now, for always, to do with as you will. Pray hear me out, do not be afraid; no man ever honored you as I honor you." Joe glanced quickly at him and then again looked down; but the surging blood came and went in her face, coursing madly in her pulses, every beat of her heart crying gladness. "It is little enough I have to offer you," said John, his voice growing unsteady in the great effort to speak calmly. There was something almost terrible in the strength of his rising passion. "It is little enough--my poor life, with its wretched struggles after what is perhaps far too great for me. But such as it is I offer it to you. Take it if you will. Be my wife, and give me the right to do all I do for your sake, and for your sake only." He stretched out his hand and took hers, very gently, but the strained sinews of his wrist trembled violently. Josephine made no resistance, but she still looked down and said nothing. "Use me as you will," he continued almost in a whisper. "I will be all to you that man ever was to a living woman. Do not say I have no right to ask you for as much. I have this right, that I love you beyond the love of other men, so truly and wholly I love you; I will serve you so faithfully, I will honor you so loyally that you will love me too. Say the word, my beloved, say that it is not impossible! I will wait--I will work--I will strive to be worthy of you." He pressed his white lips to her white hand, and tried to look into her eyes, but she turned away from him. "Will you not speak to me? Will you not give to me some word--some hope? I can never love you less, whatever you may answer me--yes or no--but oh, if you knew the difference to me!" Pale as death, John looked at Joe. She turned to him, very white, and gazed into the dark gray depths of his eyes, where the raging force of a transcendent passion played so wildly; but she felt no fear, only a mad longing to speak. "Tell me--for God's sake tell me," John said in low, trembling tones, "have I hurt you? Is it too much that I ask?" For one moment there was silence as they gazed at each other. Then with a passionate impulse Josephine buried her face in her hands upon John's shoulder. "No, it is not that!" she sobbed. "I love you so much--I have loved you so long!" CHAPTER XXIII. John Harrington and Josephine Thorn were married in the autumn of that year, and six months later John was elected to the Senate. With characteristic patience he determined to await a favorable opportunity before speaking at any length in the Capitol. He loved his new life, and the instinct to take a leading part was strong in him, but he knew too well the importance of the first impression made by a long speech to thrust himself forward until the right moment came. It chanced that the presidential election took place in that year, just a twelvemonth after John's marriage, and the unusual occurrences that attended the struggle gave him the chance he desired. Three candidates were supported nearly equally by the East, the West, and the South, and on opening the sealed documents in the presence of the two houses, it was found that no one of the three had obtained the majority necessary to elect him. The country was in a state of unparalleled agitation. The imminent danger was that the non-election of the candidate from the West would produce a secession of the Western States from the Union, in the same way that a revolution was nearly brought about in 1876, during the contest between Mr. Hayes and Mr. Tilden. In this position of affairs, the electors being unable to agree upon any one of the three candidates, the election was thrown into the hands of Congress, in accordance with the clause of the Constitution which provides that in such cases the House of Representatives shall elect a president, each State having but one vote. Harrington had made many speeches in different parts of the country during the election campaign, and had attracted much attention by his calm good sense in such excited times. There was consequently a manifest desire among senators and representatives to hear him speak in the Capitol, and upon the day when the final election of the President took place he judged that his opportunity had come. Josephine was in the ladies' gallery, and as John rose to his feet he looked long and fixedly up to her, gathering more strength to do well what he so much loved to do, from gazing at her whom he loved better than power, or fame, or any earthly thing. His eyes shone and his cheek paled; his old life with all its energy and active work was associated in his mind with failure, with discontent, and with solitude; his new life, with her by his side, was brilliant, happy, and successful. He felt within him the strength to move thousands, the faith in his cause and in his power to help it which culminates in great deeds. His strong voice rang out, clear and far-heard, as he spoke. "MR. PRESIDENT,--We are here to decide, on behalf of our country, a great matter. Many of us, many more who are scattered over the land, will look back upon this day as one of the most important in our times, and for their sakes as well as our own we are bound to summon all our strength of intelligence and all our calmness of judgment to aid us in our decision. "The question in which a certain number of ourselves are to become arbitrators is briefly this: Are we to act on this occasion like partisans, straining every nerve for the advantage of our several parties? or are we to act like free men, exerting our united forces in one harmonious body for the immediate good of the whole country? The struggle may seem at first sight to be a battle between the East, the West, and the South. In sober earnest, it is a contest between the changing principles of party politics on the one hand and the undying principle of freedom on the other. "I need not make any long statement of the case to you. We are here assembled to elect a President. Our position is almost unprecedented in the history of the country. Instead of acquiescing in the declared will of the people, our fellow-citizens, we are told that the people's wish is divided, and we are called upon to act spontaneously for the people, in accordance with the constitution of our country. By our individual and unhampered votes the life of the country is to be determined for the next four years. Let us not forget the vast responsibility that is upon us. Let us join our hands and say to each other, 'We are no longer Republicans, nor Democrats, nor Independents--we are one party, the party of the Union, and there are none against us.' "A partisan is not necessarily a man who asserts a truth and defends it with his whole strength. A partisan means one who takes up his position with a party. There is a limit where a partisan becomes an asserter of falsehood, and that limit is reached when a man resigns his own principles into the judgment of another, his conscience into another's keeping; when a man gives up free thought, free judgment, and free will in absolute and blind adherence to a set of thoughts, judgments, and decisions over which he exercises no control, and in the formation of which he has but one voice in many millions. Every one remembers the fable of the old man who, when dying, made his sons break their staves one by one, and then bade them bind a bundle of others together, and to try and break them by one effort. In the uniting of individuals in a party there is strength, but there must also be complete unity. If the old man had bidden his sons bind their staves in several bundles instead of in one, the result would have been doubtful. That is what party spirit makes men do. Party spirit is a universal solvent; it is the great acid, the _aqua fortis_ of political alchemy, which eats through bands of steel and corrodes pillars of iron in its acrid virulence, till the whole engine of a nation's government is crumbled and dissolved into a shapeless and a worse than useless mass of broken metal. "Man is free, his will is free, his choice, his judgments, his capacity for thought, and his power to profit by it are all as free as air, just so long as he remembers that they are his own--no longer. When he forgets that he is his own master, absolutely and entirely, he becomes another man's slave. "The contest here is between political passion roused to its fiercest pitch by the antagonism of parties, and the universal liberty of opinion, which we all say we possess, while so few of us dare honestly exercise it. This passion, this political frenzy that seizes men and whirls them in its eddies, is a most singular compound of patriotism, of enthusiasm for an individual, and of the personal hopes, fears, generosity, and avarice of the individual who is enthusiastic. It is a passion which, existing in others, can be turned to account by the cool leader who does not possess it, but which may too easily bring ruin upon the man who is led. "The danger ahead is this same party spirit, this wild and thoughtless frenzy in matters where unbiased judgment is most of all necessary. It is a rock upon which we have split before; it has taken us many years to recover from the shock, and now we are in danger of altogether losing our political life upon the same reef. Unless we mend our course we inevitably shall. Men forego every consideration of public honor and private conscience for the sake of electing a party candidate. The man at the helm of the party ship has declared that he will sail due north, or south, or east, or west, whatever happens, and his crew laugh together and keep no lookout; they even feel a certain pride in their leader, who thus defies the accidents of nature for the sake of sailing in a fixed direction. "What is the result of all this? It is here before us. The country is splitting into parties. Three candidates are set up for the office of President. Three distinct parties stand in the field, each one vowing vengeance, secession, revolution, utter dismemberment of the Union, unless its chosen champion is elected to be chief of the Executive Department. Is this to be the life of our Republic in future? Is this all that so many millions of free citizens can do for the public good and for public harmony? What shall we gain by electing the candidate from the North, if the defeated candidate from the South is determined to produce a revolution; and if the disappointed candidate from the West threatens to touch off the dry powder and spring the mine of a great western secession? Have we not seen all this before? Has not the bitter cry of a nation's broken heart gone up to heaven already in mortal agony for these very things to which our uncontrollable political passions are hourly leading us? "The contest is between political passion on the one hand and universal liberty on the other. "Liberty in some countries is a kind of charade word, an anagram, a symbol representing an imaginary quantity, a password invented by unhappy men to express all that they do not possess; a term meaning in the minds of slaves a conglomerate of conditions so absurd, of aspirations so futile, of imaginary delights so fantastically unreasonable, that if the ideal state of which the chained dreamers rave were realized but for one moment, humanity would start in amazement at the first glimpse of so much monstrosity, and by and by would hold its sides with laughter at the folly of its deluded fellows. In most countries where liberty is talked of it is but a dream, and such a dream as could only occur to the sickened fancy of a generation of bondsmen. But it means something else with us. It is here, in this country, in this capital, in this hall, it is in the air we breathe, in the light we see, in the strong, free pulses of our blood; it is the heritage of men whose sires died for it, whose fathers laid down all they had for it, of men whose own veins have bled for it--and not in vain. In these United States, liberty is a fact. "We must decide quickly, then, between the conditions of our liberty and the requirements of frantic political passion. We must decide between peace and war, for that is where the issue will come in the end. Between freedom, prosperity, and peace on the one side, and a civil war on the other; an alternative so horrible and inhuman and hideous, that the very mention of it makes brave men shiver in disgust at the memories the word recalls. Do you think we are much further from it now than we were in 1860? Do you think we were far from it in 1876? It is a short step from the threat to the deed when political passion is already turning to bitter personal hate. "In our times there is much talk of civilization and culture. Two words define all that is necessary to be known about them. Civilization is peace. The uncivilized state of man is incessant war. Culture is conscience, because conscience means the exercise of honest judgment, and an ignorant people can form no honest judgment of their own which can be exercised. "In a state of peace, educated and truthful men judge fairly, and act sensibly on their decisions. In other words, the majority is right and free. In times of war and in times of great ignorance majorities have rarely been either free or right. "It is a bad sign of the times when education increases and truth disappears. They ought to grow together, for education means absolutely nothing but the teaching and learning of what is true. If it does not mean that, it means nothing. In some countries the idea of truth is coexistent with the idea of destroying all existing forms of belief. Some silly person recently went so far as to raise the cry in this country, 'Separate Church and State!' If there is a country where they are absolutely separated, it is ours; but let the beliefs of mankind take care of themselves. I dare say there will be Christians left in the world even when Professor Huxley has written his last book, and when Colonel Ingersoll has delivered his last lecture. I am reminded of the Chinese philosopher and political economist, who answered when he was asked about religious matters: 'Do you understand this world so well that you need occupy yourselves with another?' "The issue turns upon no such absurdities, neither does it rest with any consideration of so-called platforms--free trade, civil service, free navigation, tariff reform, and all the rest of those things. The real issue is between civilization and barbarism, between peace and war. "Be warned in this great strait. I believe we need few principles, but universal ones. I believe in the republic because it was founded in simplicity, and has been built up in strength by the strongest of strong men; because its existence proves the greatest truth with which we ever have to do, namely, that men are born equal and free, although they may grow up slaves to their evil passions, and become greater or less according as they manfully put their hands to the plough, or ignobly lie down and let themselves be trampled upon. The battle of life is to the stronger, but no man is so weak that he cannot raise himself a little if he will, according to the abilities that are born in him; and nowhere can he raise himself so speedily and securely as on this free soil of ours. Nowhere can he go so far without being molested; for nowhere can man put himself so closely and trustfully in the keeping of nature, certain that she will not fail him, certain that she will yield him a thousand fold for his labor. "There are indeed times in the history of a great institution when it is just as well as necessary to reconsider the principles upon which it is founded. There are times in the life of a great nation when it behooves her chief men to examine and see whether the basis of her constitution is a sound one, and whether she can continue to grow great without any change in the fundamental conditions of her development. It is a bad and a dangerous time for a growing nation, but it is an almost inevitable stage in her life. Thank God, that time is past with us! Let us not think of the possibility of exposing ourselves again to civil war as an alternative against retrogression into barbarism. "Civilization is peace, and to extend civilization is to increase the security of property in the world--of property and life and conscience. The natural and barbarous state of man is that where the human animal satisfies its cravings without any thought of consequences. The cultivated state is that where humanity has ceased to be merely animal, and considers the consequences first and the cravings afterwards. Civilization unites men so that they dwell together in harmony; to separate them into parties that strive to annihilate each other is to undo the work of civilization, to plunge the state into civil war; to hew it in pieces, and split it and tear it to shreds, till the magnificent body of thinking beings, acting as one man for the public good, is reduced to the miserable condition of a handful of hostile tribes, whose very existence depends upon successful robbery and well-timed violence. "Party spirit, so long as it is only a force which binds together a number of men of honest purposes and opinions, is a good thing, and it is by its means that just and powerful majorities are formed and guided. But where party spirit loses sight of the characters of men, and judges them according as they are Republicans or Democrats, instead of considering whether they are good or bad citizens; when party spirit becomes a machine for obtaining power by fair or foul means, instead of a fixed principle for upholding the fair against the foul--then there is great danger that the majority itself is losing its liberty, and upon the liberty of majorities depends ultimately the stability and prosperity of the republic. "Consider what is the history of the average politician to-day, of the man whose personal character is as good as that of his neighbor, who has always belonged to the same party, and who looks forward to the hope of political distinction. Consider how he has struggled through all manner of difficulties to his present position, striving always to maintain good relations with the chiefs of his party, while often acknowledging in his heart that he would act differently were his connection with those chiefs a matter of less vital importance to himself. He probably will tell you that his profession is politics. He has sacrificed much to obtain his seat in Congress, or his position in office, and he knows that henceforth he must live by it or else begin life over again in another sphere. At all events, for a term of years, his personal prosperity depends upon the use he can make of his hold upon the public goods. He is not individually to be blamed, perhaps, for he follows a precedent as widely recognized as it is universally pernicious. It is the system that is to be blamed, the general belief that a man can, and justly may, support himself by clinging to a set of principles of which he does not honestly approve; that he may earn his daily meal, since it comes to that in the end, by doing jobs which in the free state he would despise as unworthy, and by speaking boldly in support of measures which he knows to be injurious to the welfare of the country. That is the history, the epitome of the ends and aims and manner of being of the average politician in our day. He has ventured into the waters of political life, and they have risen around him till he must use all his strength in keeping his head above them, though the torrent carry him whither it will and whither he would not. There are no compromises when a man is drowning. "There are many who are not in any such position. There are men great and honest, and disinterested in the highest sense of the word--men whose whole lives prove it, whose whole record is one of honor and truth, whose following consists of men they have themselves chosen as their friends. We are not obliged to select a drowning man for our President; we can choose a man who stands on his own feet upon dry ground. "There is an old proverb which contains much wisdom: 'Tell me who are your friends, and I will tell you what you are.' Is a man fit to stand at the head of a community of men when he has associated with a set of parasites, who live upon his leavings, and will starve him if they can, in order to enjoy his portion? Consider what is the position of the President of the United States. Think what vast power is placed in the hands of one man; what vast interests of public and private good are at stake; what an endless sequence of events and results of events must follow upon the individual action of the chief of the Executive Department; and remember how free and untrammeled that individual action is. A people who elect an officer to such a position need surely to be cautious in their choice and circumspect in their judgment of the man elected. They must satisfy themselves about what he is likely to do by judging honestly what he has done; they must know who are his friends, his supporters, his advisers, in order to judge of the friends he will make. They must take into their consideration also the character of his colleague, the vice-president, and the effect upon the country and the country's relation with, the world, should any disaster suddenly throw the vice-president into office. We cannot afford to elect a vice-president who would destroy the national credit in a week, should the President himself be overtaken by death. We must remember to count the cost of what we are doing, not passing over one item because another item seems just. We cannot overlook the future, nor disregard the influence which our election has upon the next; the steps which men, once in office, may take in order to secure to themselves another term, or to strengthen the position of the men whom they desire to succeed them. "In a word, we must put forth all our strength. We must be cool, far-sighted, and impartial in such times as these. And yet, how has this campaign been hitherto conducted? Practically, by raising a party cry; by exciting every species of evil passion of which man is capable; by tickling the cupidity of one man and flattering the ambitions of another; by intimidating the weak, and groveling before the strong; by every species of fawning sycophancy on the one hand, and brutal overbearing bullying on the other. "Party, party, party! A man would rather commit a crime than vote against his party. The evil runs through the country from East to West, from North to South, eating at the nation's heartstrings, gnawing at her sinews, and undermining her strength. The time is coming, is even now come, when two or three parties no longer suffice to express the disunion of the Union. There are three to-day: to-morrow there will be five, the next day ten, twenty, a hundred, till every man's hand is against his fellow, and his fellow's against him. The divisions have grown so wide that the majority and the minority are but the extremities of a countless set of internecine majorities and minorities. "Members of parties are bound no longer by the honest determination to do the right, to choose the right, and to uphold the right--they are bound by fearful penalties to support their own man, were he the very chiefest outcast of the earth, lest the man of another party be elected in his place. The adverse candidate is perhaps avowedly better fitted for the office, a hundred times more honest, more experienced, more worthy of respect. But he belongs to the enemy. Down with him! let him perish in his honesty and righteousness! There is no good in him, for he is a Democrat! There is no good in him, for he is a Republican! He is a scoundrel, for he is a Southerner! He is a thief, for he is a Northerner! He is the prince of liars, for he comes from the West! He is the scum of mankind, for he is from the East! The people rage and rend each other, and the frenzy grows apace with the hour, till honor and justice, truth and manliness, are lost together in the furious chaos of human elements. The tortured airs of heaven howl out curses in a horrid unison, this fair free soil of ours, dishonored and befouled, moans beneath our feet in a dismal drone of hopeless woe; there is no rock or cavern or ghostly den of our mighty land but hisses back the echo of some hideous curse, and hell itself is upon earth, split and rent into multiplied hells. "And the ultimate expression of the senses of these things is money. There is the chiefest disgrace. We are not worse than the old nations, but we have a right to be very much better; we have the obligation to be better, the unchanging moral obligation which lies upon every man to use the advantage he has. We alone among nations are free, we alone among nations inhabit a quarter of the world by ourselves, and live and grow great in our own way with no thought of the rest. Let us think more of living greatly than of prosecuting greatness for the sake of its pecuniary emoluments. Let us elect presidents who will give their efforts to making us all great together, and not to making some citizens rich at the expense of others who are also citizens. A President can do much toward either of these results, bad or good. He has the future of the republic in his hands, as well as the present. Let us be the richest among nations, since the course of events makes us so, but let us not be the most sordid. Let it never be said, in the land which has given birth to the only true liberty the world has ever seen, that liberty can be sold for a few dollars in the market-place, and bartered against the promise of four years of civil employment at a small salary! "This party spirit, this miserable craving for the good things that may be extracted from the service of a party, has produced the crying evil of our times. A certain class--a very large class--call our politics dirty, and our politicians dishonest. Young men whose education and position in the commonwealth entitle them to a voice in public matters withdraw entirely from all contact with the real life of the country. Liberty has become a leper, a blind outcast in the eyes of the gilded youth of to-day. She sits apart in ashes and in rags, and asks a little charity of the richest of her children--a miserable mother despised and cast out by her sons. They will not own her for their mother, nor spare one crust to feed her from their plenty. They pass by on the other side, staring in admiration at the image they have set up for themselves--the image of what they consider social excellence, an idol compounded of decayed customs, and breathing the poisonous emanations of a dead world, a monument raised to the prejudices of former times, to the petty thirst for aristocratic distinctions which they cherish in their hearts, to their love of money, show, superficial culture, and armorial bearings. "Truly let them perish in the fruition of their contemptible desires! Let them set up a thing called society and worship it; let them lose themselves in the contemplation of objects whose beauty they can never appreciate save by counting the cost; let them disgrace the names their honest fathers bore, by striving to establish their descent from houses stained with crime and denied with blood; let them disown their fathers and spit in their mothers' faces,--but let them not call themselves free, nor give themselves the airs of men. They toss their foolish heads in scorn of all that a man holds truest and best. We can afford to let them speak, if they please, even words of contempt and dishonor; we can afford to let them say that in laboring for our country we are groveling in mud and defiling our hands with impurity; but we cannot afford to let them steal our children from us, nor to submit to the pestilent influence of their corruption in our ranks. Those who would be of the republic must labor for the public good, instead of insolently asserting that there is no good in the public on which they have fattened and thriven so well. "All honor to those who have set their faces against the growing evil, to check it if they can, and to lay the foundation of a barrier against which the tidal wave of corruption and dishonesty shall break in vain. All praise to the brave men who might live in the indolent lotus-eating atmosphere of wasteful idleness, but who have put their hand to the wheel of state, determined to bear all their might upon the whirling spokes rather than see the good ship go to pieces on the rock ahead. They have begun a good work, and they have sown a good seed; they ask for no reward, nor look for the reaping of the harvest. They mean to do right, and they do it, because right is right, not because they expect to be rewarded with the spoils or fed with fat tit-bits from the feast of party. Upon such men as these, be they rich or poor, we must rely. The poor man can make sacrifices as great as the rich, for he can forego for his country's sake, the promise of ease and the hope of wealth as well as any million-maker in the land. "In the tremendous issue now before us we are called to decide upon the life of the country during the next four years. We are chosen to direct the course of a stream from its very source, and to turn it into a channel where it will run smoothly to the end. For the four years of an administration are like a river. The water rises suddenly from the spring and flows swiftly, ever increasing in volume as it is swollen by tributaries and absorbs into itself other rivers by the way. It may run smoothly in a fair stream, moistening barren lands and softening the parched desert into fertility; moving great engines of industry with a ceaseless, even strength; bearing the burden of a mighty and prosperous commerce on its broad bosom; spreading plenty and refreshment through the wide pastures by its banks, fed on its way by waters so clear that at the last it merges untainted and unsullied into the ocean, whence its limpid drops may again be taken up and poured in soft, life-giving rain upon the earth. "But in digging for a spring men may find suddenly a torrent that they cannot control. It suddenly bursts its bounds and banks, and rushes headlong down, carrying everything before it in a resistless whirl of devastation, tearing great trees up by the roots, crashing through villages and towns and factories, girding the world with a liquid tempest that sends the works of man spinning down upon its dreadful course, till it plunges into the abyss, a frantic chaos of indiscriminate destruction, storm, and death. "Can any of us here present say that he will, that he dare, take upon himself the responsibility of electing a President from motives of party prejudice? Having it in our power to agree upon the very best man, would any of us remember this day without shame if we disgraced those who trust us, by giving our votes to a mere party candidate? The danger is great, imminent, universal. We can save the country from it, I would almost say from, death itself, by acting in accordance with our honest convictions. Is any man so despicable, so lost to honor, that in such a case he will put aside the welfare of a nation for the miserable sake of party popularity? Are we to stand here in the guise and manner of free men, knowing that we are driven together like a flock of sheep into the fold by the howling of the wolves outside? Are we to strut and plume ourselves upon our unhampered freedom, while we act like slaves? Worse than slaves we should be if we allowed one breath of party spirit, one thought of party aggrandizement, to enter into the choice we are about to make. Slaves are driven to their work; shall we willingly let ourselves be beaten into doing the dirty work of others by sacrificing the nobility of our manhood? Do we meet here, like paid gladiators of old, to cut each other's throats in earnest while attacking and defending a sham fortress, raised in the arena for the diversion of those who set us on to the butchery and promise to pay the survivors? Are we to provide a feast of carrion for a flock of vultures and unclean beasts of prey, when we need only stand together, and be true to ourselves and to each other, to accomplish one of the greatest acts in history? The vultures will leave us alone unless we destroy each other; we need not fear them. We are not slaves to be terrified into compliance with evil, neither are we sheep that we need huddle trembling together at the snarling of a wolf." "No, no, indeed!" were the words heard on all sides in the audience, now thoroughly roused. "I do not say, elect this candidate, or that one. I am not canvassing for any candidate. It is too late for that, even if it were seemly for me to do so. I am canvassing for the cause of liberty against slavery, as better men have done before me in this very house. I am defending the reputation of unity against the slanderous attack of disunion, against the fearful peril of secession. I appeal to you, as you are men, to act as men in this great crisis, to put out your strong hands together and avert the overwhelming disaster that threatens us; to stand side by side as brothers,--for we are indeed brothers, children of one father and one mother, heirs of such magnificent heritage as has not fallen to the lot of mortality before, co-heirs of freedom, and inheritors of the free estate, five and fifty millions of free children, born to our mother, the great republic, who bow the knee to no man, and call no man master." Loud applause greeted this part of the speech. "I appeal from license to law, from division to harmony, from the raging turmoil of angry and devouring passion without to the calm serenity that reigns within these walls. As we turn in horror and loathing from the unbridled fury of human beings, changed almost to beasts, so let us turn in hope and security to those things we can honor and respect, to the dignity of truth and the unbending strength of unquestioned right. "I appeal to you to make this day the greatest in your lives, the most memorable in our history as a nation. Lay aside this day the memories of the past, and look forward to the brightness of the future. Throw down the weapons of petty and murderous strife, and join together in perfect harmony of mutual trust. Be neither Republicans, nor Democrats, nor Independents. Be what it is your greatest privilege to be--American citizens. Cast parties to the winds, and uphold the state. Trample under your free-born feet the badges of party bondage, the ignoble chains of party slavery, the wretched hopes of party preferment." "Yes. Hear, hear! He is right!" cried many voices. "Yes," answered John Harrington, in tones that rose to the very roof of the vast building. "'Yes, by that blood our fathers shed, O Union, in thy sacred cause, Whilst, streaming from the gallant dead, It sealed and sanctified thy laws.' "Yes, and strong hearts and strong hands will hold their own; the promise of brave men will prevail, and echoing down the avenues of time will strike grand chords of harmony in the lives of our children and children's children. So, in the far-off ages, when hundreds of millions of our flesh and blood shall fill this land, dwelling together in the glory of such peace as no turmoil can trouble and no discontent disturb, those men of the dim future will remember what we swore to do, and what we did; and looking back, they will say one to another: 'On that day our fathers struck a mighty blow, and shattered and crushed and trampled out all dissensions and all party strife forever and ever.' "Choose, then, of your own heart and will a man to be our President and our leader. Elect him with one accord, and as you give your voices in the choice, stand here together, knee to knee, shoulder to shoulder, hand to hand; and let the mighty oath go thundering up to heaven, "'THIS UNION SHALL NOT BE BROKEN!'" 
7931	----	ALL-WOOL MORRISON _Time:_ Today _Place:_ The United States _Period of Action:_ Twenty-four Hours by HOLMAN DAY Author of _"The Rider of King Log" "The Red Lane" "King Spruce" "Where Your Treasure Is"_ To PERCIVAL P. BAXTER A Consistent and Courageous Champion in the Protection of "The People's White Coal." With the Author's Sincere Friendship and High Regard. _CONTENTS_ I. HOW "THE MORRISON" BROKE ST. RONAN'S RULE II. THE THREAT OF WHAT THE NIGHT MAY BRING III. THE MORRISON ASSUMES SOME CONTRACTS IV. ANSWERING THE FIRST ALARM V. THE MEN WHO WERE WAITING TO BE SHOWN VI. THE MAN'S WORD OF THE MAYOR OF MARION VII. THE THIN CRUST OVER BOILING LAVA VIII. A ROD IN PICKLE IX. MAKING IT A SQUARE BREAK X. A SENATOR SIZES UP A FOE XI. FLAREBACKS IN THE CASE OF LOVE AND A MOB XII. RIFLES RULE IN THE PEOPLE'S HOUSE XIII. THE LINE-UP FORMS IN THE PEOPLE'S HOUSE XIV. THE IMPENDING SHAME OF A STATE XV. THE BOSS OF THE JOB XVI. THE CITY OF MARION SEEKS ITS MAYOR XVII. THE CAPITOL IN SHADOW XVIII. THE CAPITOL ALIGHT XIX. LANA CORSON HAS HER DOUBTS XX. IN THE COLD AND CANDID DAYLIGHT XXI. A WOMAN CHOOSES HER MATE _All-Wool Morrison_ I HOW "THE MORRISON" BROKE ST. RONAN'S RULE On this crowded twenty-four-hour cross-section of contemporary American life the curtain goes up at nine-thirty o'clock of a January forenoon. Locality, the city of Marion--the capital of a state. Time, that politically throbbing, project-crowded, anxious, and expectant season of plot and counterplot--the birth of a legislative session. Disclosed, the office of St. Ronan's Mill of the city of Marion. From the days of old Angus, who came over from Scotland and established a woolen mill and handed it down to David, who placed it confidently in the possession of his son Stewart, the unalterable rule was that "The Morrison" entered the factory at seven o'clock in the morning and could not be called from the mill to the office on any pretext whatsoever till he came of his own accord at ten o'clock in the forenoon. In the reign of David the old John Robinson wagon circus paraded the streets of Marion early on a forenoon and the elephant made a break in a panic and ran into the mill office of the Morrisons through the big door, and Paymaster Andrew Mac Tavish rapped the elephant on the trunk with a penstock and, only partially awakened from abstraction in figures, stated that "Master Morrison willna see callers till he cooms frae the mill at ten." To go into details about the Morrison manners and methods and doggedness in attending to the matter in hand, whatever it might be, would not limn Stewart Morrison in any clearer light than to state that old Andrew, at seventy-two, was obeying Stewart's orders as to the ten-o'clock rule and was just as consistently a Cerberus as he had been in the case of Angus and David. He was a bit more set in his impassivity--at least to all appearances--because chronic arthritis had made his neck permanently stiff. It may be added that Stewart Morrison was thirty-odd, a bachelor, dwelt with his widowed mother in the Morrison mansion, was mayor of the city of Marion, though he did not want to be mayor, and was chairman of the State Water Storage Commission because he particularly wanted to be the chairman; he was, by reason of that office, in a position where he could rap the knuckles of those who should attempt to grab and selfishly exploit "The People's White Coal," as he called water-power. These latter appertaining qualifications were interesting enough, but his undeviating observance of the mill rule of the Morrisons of St. Ronan's served more effectively to point the matter of his character. Stewart Morrison when he was in the mill was in it from top to bottom, from carder to spinner and weaver, from wool-sorter to cloth-hall inspector, to make sure that the manufacturing principles for which All-Wool Morrison stood were carried out to the last detail. On that January morning, as usual, he was in the mill with his sleeves rolled up. On his high stool in the office was Andrew Mac Tavish, his head framed in the wicket of his desk, and the style of his beard gave him the look of a Scotch terrier in the door of a kennel. The office was near the street, a low building of brick, having one big room; a narrow, covered passage connected the room with the mill. A rail divided the office into two small parts. According to his custom in the past few months, Mac Tavish, when he dipped his pen, stabbed pointed glances beyond the rail and curled his lips and made his whiskers bristle and continually looked as if he were going to bark; he kept his mouth shut, however. But his silence was more baleful than any sounds he could have uttered; it was a sort of ominous, canine silence, covering a hankering to get in a good bite if the opportunity was ever offered. It was the rabble o' the morning--the crowd waiting to see His Honor the Mayor--on the other side of the rail. It was the sacrilegious invasion of a business office in the hours sacred to business. It was like that every morning. It was just as well that the taciturn Mac Tavish considered that his general principle of cautious reserve applied to this situation as it did to matters of business in general, otherwise the explosion through that wicket some morning would have blown out the windows. Mac Tavish did not understand politics. He did not approve of politics. Government was all right, of course. But the game of running it, as the politicians played the game! Bah! He had taken it upon himself to tell the politicians of the city that Stewart Morrison would never accept the office of mayor. Mac Tavish had frothed at the mouth as he rolled his r's and had threshed the air with his fist in frantic protest. Stewart Morrison was away off in the mountains, hunting caribou on the only real vacation he had taken in half a dozen years--and the city of Marion took advantage of a good man, so Mac Tavish asserted, to shove him into the job of mayor; and a brass band was at the station to meet the mayor and the howling mob lugged him into City Hall just as he was, mackinaw jacket, jack-boots, woolen Tam, rifle and all--and Mac Tavish hoped the master would wing a few of 'em just to show his disapprobation. In fact, it was allowed by the judicious observers that the new mayor did display symptoms of desiring to pump lead into the cheering assemblage instead of being willing to deliver a speech of acceptance. He did not drop, as his manner indicated, all his resentment for some weeks--and then Mac Tavish picked up the resentment and loyally carried it for the master, in the way of outward malevolence and inner seething. The regular joke in Marion was built around the statement that if anybody wanted to get next to a hot Scotch in these prohibition times, step into the St. Ronan's mill office any morning about nine-thirty. Up to date Mac Tavish had not thrown any paper-weights through the wicket, though he had been collecting ammunition in that line against the day when nothing else could express his emotions. It was in his mind that the occasion would come when Stewart Morrison finally reached the limit of endurance and, with the Highland chieftain's battle-cry of the old clan, started in to clear the office, throwing his resignation after the gang o' them! Mac Tavish would throw the paper-weights. He wondered every day if that would be the day, and the encouraging expectation helped him to endure. Among those present was a young fellow with his chaps tied up; there was a sniveling old woman who patted the young man's shoulder and evoked protesting growls. There were shifty-eyed men who wanted to make a touch--Mac Tavish knew the breed. There was a fat, wheezy, pig-farm keeper who had a swill contract with the city and came in every other day with a grunt of fresh complaint. There were the usual new faces, but Mac Tavish understood perfectly well that they were there to bother a mayor, not to help the woolen-goods business. There was old Hon. Calvin Dow, a pensioner of David Morrison, now passed on to the considerately befriending Stewart, and Mac Tavish was deeply disgusted with a man who was so impractical in his business affairs that, though he had been financially busted for ten years, he still kept along in the bland belief, based on Stewart's assurances, that money was due him from the Morrisons. Whenever Mac Tavish went to the safe, obeying Stewart's word, he expressed _sotto voce_ the wish that he might be able to drop into the Hon. Calvin Dow's palm red-hot coins from the nippers of a pair of tongs. It was not that Mac Tavish lacked the spirit of charity, but that he wanted every man to know to the full the grand and noble goodness of the Morrisons, and be properly grateful, as he himself was. Dow's complacency in his hallucination was exasperating! But there was no one in sight that morning who promised the diversion or the effrontery that would make this the day of days, and there seemed to be no excuse that would furnish the occasion for the battle-cry which would end all this pestiferous series of levees. The muffled rackelty-chackle of the distant looms soothed Mac Tavish. The nearer rick-tack of Miss Delora Bunker's typewriter furnished obbligato for the chorus of the looms. It was all good music for a business man. But those muttering, mumbling mayor-chasers--it was a tin-can, cow-bell discord in a symphony concert. Mac Tavish, honoring the combat code of Caledonia, required presumption to excuse attack, needed an upthrust head to justify a whack. Patrolman Cornelius Rellihan, six feet two, was lofty enough. He marched to and fro beyond the rail, his heavy shoes flailing down on the hardwood floor. Every morning the bang of those boots started the old pains to thrusting in Mac Tavish's neck. But Officer Rellihan was the mayor's major-domo, officially, and Stewart's pet and protégé and worshiping vassal in ordinary. An intruding elephant might be evicted; Rellihan could not even receive the tap of a single word of remonstrance. It promised only another day like the others, with nothing that hinted at a climacteric which would make the affairs of the mill office of the Morrisons either better or worse. Then Col. Crockett Shaw marched in, wearing a plug-hat to mark the occasion as especial and official, but taking no chances on the dangers of that unwonted regalia in frosty January; he had ear-tabs close clamped to the sides of his head. Mac Tavish took heart. He hated a plug-hat. He disliked Col. Crockett Shaw, for Shaw was a man who employed politics as a business. Colonel Shaw was carrying his shoulders well back and seemed to be taller than usual, his new air of pomposity making him a head thrust above the horde. Colonel Shaw offensively banged the door behind himself. Mac Tavish removed a package of time-sheets that covered a pile of paper-weights. Colonel Shaw came stamping across the room, clapping his gloved hands together, as if he were as cold under the frosty eyes of Mac Tavish as he had been in the nip of the January chill outdoors. "Mayor Morrison! Call him at once!" he commanded, at the wicket. Mac Tavish closed his hand over one of the paper-weights. He opened his mouth. But Colonel Shaw was ahead of him with speech! "This is the time when that fool mill-rule goes bump!" The colonel's triumphant tone hinted that he had been waiting for a time like this. His entrance and his voice of authority took all the attention of the other waiters off their own affairs. "Call out Mayor Morrison." "Haud yer havers, ye keckling loon! Whaur's yer een for the tickit gillie?" The old paymaster jabbed indignant thumb over his shoulder to indicate the big clock on the wall. "I can't hear what you say on account of these ear-pads, and it doesn't make any difference what you say, Andy! This is the day when all rules are off." He was fully conscious that he had the ears of all those in the room. He braced back. With an air of a functionary calling on the multitude to make way for royalty he declaimed, "Call His Honor Mayor Morrison at once to this room for a conference with the Honorable Jodrey Wadsworth Corson, United States Senator. I am here to announce that Senator Corson is on the way." Mac Tavish narrowed his eyes; he whittled his tone to a fine point to correspond, and the general effect was like impaling a puffball on a rat-tail file. "If ye hae coom sunstruck on a January day, ye'd best stick a sopped sponge in the laft o' yer tar-pail bonnet. Sit ye doon and speir the hands o' the clock for to tell when the Morrison cooms frae the mill." The colonel banged the flat of his hand on the ledge outside the wicket. "It isn't an elephant this time, Mac Tavish. It's a United States Senator. Act on my orders, or into the mill I go, myself!" The old man slid down from the stool, a paperweight in each hand. "Only o'er my dead body will ye tell him in yer mortal flesh. Make the start to enter the mill, and it's my thocht that ye'll tell him by speeritual knocks or by tipping a table through a meejum!" "Lay off that jabber, old bucks, the two of ye!" commanded Officer Rellihan, swinging across the room. "I'm here to kape th' place straight and dacint!" "I hae the say. I'll gie off the orders," remonstrated Mac Tavish; there was grim satisfaction in the twist of his mouth; it seemed as if the day of days had arrived. "On that side your bar ye may boss the wool business. But this is the mayor's side and the colonel is saying he's here to see His Honor. Colonel, ye'll take your seat and wait your turn!" He cupped his big hand under the emissary's elbow. Mac Tavish and Rellihan, by virtue of jobs and natures, were foes, but their team-work in behalf of the interests of the Morrison was comprehensively perfect. "What's the matter with your brains, Rellihan?" demanded the colonel, hotly. "I don't kape stirring 'em up to ask 'em, seeing that they're resting aisy," returned the policeman, smiling placidly. "And there's nothing the matter with my muscle, is there?" He gently but firmly pushed the colonel down into a chair. "Don't you realize what it means to have a United States Senator come to a formal conference?" "No! I never had one call on me." "Rellihan, Morrison will fire you off the force if it happens that a United States Senator has to wait in this office." The officer pulled off his helmet and plucked a card from the sweatband. "It says here, 'Kape 'em in order, be firm but pleasant, tell 'em to wait in turn, and'--for meself--'to do no more talking than necessary.' If there's to be a new rule to fit the case of Senators, the same will prob'bly be handed to me as soon as Senators are common on the calling-list." He put up a hand in front of the colonel's face--a broad and compelling hand. "Now I'm going along on the old orders and the clock tells ye that ye have a scant twinty minutes to wait. And if I do any more talking, of the kind that ain't necessary, I'll break a rule. Be aisy, Colonel Shaw!" He resumed his noisy promenade. Mac Tavish was back on the stool and he clashed glances with Colonel Shaw with alacrity. "There'll be an upheaval in this office, Mac Tavish." "Aye! If ye make one more step toward the mill door ye'll not ken of a certainty whaur ye'll land when ye're upheaved." After a few minutes of the silence of that armed truce, Miss Bunker tiptoed over to Mac Tavish, making an excuse of a sheet of paper which she laid before him; the paper was blank. "Daddy Mac!" Miss Bunker enjoyed that privilege in nomenclature along with other privileges usually won in offices by young ladies who know how to do their work well and are able to smooth human nature the right way. She went on in a solicitous whisper. "We must be sure that we're not making any office mistake. This being Senator Corson!" "I still hae me orders, lassie!" "But listen, Daddy Mac! When I came from the post-office the Senator's car went past me. Miss Lana was with him. Don't you think we ought to get a word to Mr. Morrison?" "Word o' what?" The old man wrinkled his nose, already sniffing what was on the way. "Why, that Miss Lana may be calling, along with her father." "What then?" "Mr. Morrison is a gentleman, above all things," declared the girl, nettled by this supercilious interrogation. "If Miss Corson calls with her father and is obliged to wait, Mr. Morrison will be mortified. Very likely he will be angry because he wasn't notified. I understand the social end of things better than you, Daddy Mac. I think it's my duty to take in a word to him." "Aye! Yus! Gude! And tell him the music is ready, the flowers are here, and the tea is served! Use the office for all owt but the wool business. To Auld Hornie wi' the wool business! Politeeks and socieety! Lass, are ye gone daffie wi' the rest?" "Hush, Daddy Mac! Don't raise your voice in your temper. What if he should still be in love with Miss Lana, spite of her being away among the great folks all this long time?" Mac Tavish was holding the paper-weights. He banged them down on his desk and shoved his nose close to hers. "Fash me nae mair wi' your silly talk o' love, in business hours! If aye he wanted her when she was here at hame and safe and sensible, the Morrison o' the Morrisons had only to reach his hand to her and say, 'Coom, lass!' But noo that she is back wi' head high and notions alaft, he'd no accept her! She's nowt but a draft signed by Sham o' Shoddy and sent through the Bank o' Brag and Blaw! No! He'd no' accept her! And now back wi' ye to yer tickety-tack! I hae my orders, and the Queen o' Sheba might yammer and be no' the gainer!" Miss Bunker swept up the sheet of blank paper with a vicious dab and went back to her work, crumpling it. Passing the hat-tree, she was tempted to grab the Morrison's coat and waistcoat and run into the mill with them, dodging Mac Tavish and his paper-weights in spite of what she knew of his threats regarding the use he proposed to make of them in case of need. She believed that Miss Lana Corson would come to the office with the others who were riding in the automobile. She had her own special cares and a truly feminine apprehension in this matter, and she believed that the young man, who was one of the guests at the reopened Corson mansion on Corson Hill, was a suitor, just as Marion gossip asserted he was. Miss Bunker had two good eyes in her head and womanly intuitiveness in her soul, and she had read three times into empty air a dictated letter while Stewart Morrison looked past her in the direction which the Corson car had taken that first day when Lana Corson had shown herself on the street. And here was that stiff-necked old watch-dog callously laying his corns so that Stewart Morrison would appear to be boor enough to allow a young lady to wait along with that unspeakable rabble; and when he did come he would arrive in his shirt-sleeves to be matched up against a handsome young man in an Astrakhan top-coat! Under those circumstances, what view would Miss Lana Corson take of the man who had stayed in Marion? Miss Bunker was profoundly certain that Mac Tavish did not know what love was and never did understand and could not be enlightened at that period in his life. But he might at least put the matter on a business basis, she reflected, incensed, and show some degree of local pride in grabbing in with the rest of Mr. Morrison's friends to assist in a critical situation. And right then the situation became pointedly critical. The broad door of the office was flung open by a chauffeur. It was the Corson party. Colonel Shaw was not in a mood to apologize for anybody except himself. He rose and saluted. "Coming here to herald your call, Senator Corson, I have been insulted by a bumptious understrapper and held in leash by an ignorant policeman. They say it's according to a rule of the Morrison mills. I suppose that when Mayor Morrison comes out of the mill at ten o'clock, following his own rule, he can explain to you why he maintains that insulting custom of his and continues this kind of an office crew to enforce it." Miss Bunker flung the sheet of paper that she had crumpled into a ball and it struck Mac Tavish on the side of the head that he bent obtrusively over his figures. The old man snapped stiffly upright and distributed implacable stare among the members of the newly arrived party. He was not softened by Miss Corson's glowing beauty, nor impressed by the United States Senator's dignity, nor won by the charming smile of Miss Corson's well-favored squire, nor daunted by the inquiring scowl of a pompous man whose mutton-chop whiskers mingled with the beaver fur about his neck; a stranger who was patently prosperous and metropolitan. Furthermore, Mac Tavish, undaunted, promptly dared to exchange growls with "Old Dog Tray," himself. The latter, none else than His Excellency, Lawrence North, Governor of the state, marched toward the wicket, wagging his tail, but the wagging was not a display of amiability. The politicians called North "Old Dog Tray" because his permanent limp caused his coattails to sway when he walked. "Be jing! I've been on the job here at manny a deal of a morn," confided Officer Rellihan to Calvin Dow, "but here's the first natural straight flush r'yal, dealt without a draw." He tagged the Corson party with estimating squints, beginning with the Governor. "Ace, king, queen, John-jack, and the ten-spot! They've caught the office, this time, with a two-spot high!" Mac Tavish played it pat! "And 'tis the mill rule; it lacks twal' meenutes o' the hour--and the clock yon on the wall is richt!" Thus referring all responsibility to the clock, the paymaster dipped his pen and went on with his figures. The Governor cross-creased the natural deep furrows in his face with ridges which registered indignant amazement. "You have lost your wits, but you seem to have your eyes! Use them!" "It's the mill rule!" "But we are not here on mill business!" "Then it canna concern me." "Officer, do you know what part of the mill Mayor Morrison is in?" The Governor turned from Mac Tavish to Rellihan. "He is nae sic thing as mayor till ten o' the clock and till he cooms here for the crackin wi' yon corbies!" declared the old paymaster, pointing derogatory penstock through the wicket at "the crows" who were ranged along the settees. Rellihan shook his head. "Well, at any rate, go hunt him up," commanded His Excellency. Rellihan shook his head again; this seemed to be an occasion where unnecessary talking fell under interdiction; for that matter, Rellihan possessed only a vocabulary to use in talking down to the proletariat; he was debarred from telling these dignitaries to "shut up and sit aisy!" "A blind man, now a dumb man--Colonel Shaw, go and hunt up the man we're here to see!" The colonel feigned elaborately not to hear. "And finally a deaf one! Take off those ear-tabs! Go and bring the mayor here!" Mac Tavish dropped from his stool, armed himself with two paper-weights, and took up a strategic position near the door which led into the passage to the mill. "Roderick Dhu at bay! Impressive tableau!" whispered the young man of the Corson party in Lana's ear, displaying such significant and wonted familiarity that Miss Bunker, employing her vigilance exclusively in the direction in which her fears and her interest lay, sighed and muttered. The door of the corridor was flung open suddenly! The staccato of the orchestra of the looms sounded more loudly and provided entrance music. Astonishment rendered Mac Tavish _hors de combat_. He dropped his weights and his lower jaw sagged. It was the Morrison--breaking the ancient rule of St. Ronan's--ten minutes ahead of time! II THE THREAT OF WHAT THE NIGHT MAY BRING All the Morrisons were upstickit chiels in point of height. Stewart had appeared so abruptly, he towered so dominantly, that a stranger would have expected a general precipitateness of personality and speech to go with his looks. But after he had closed the door he stood and stroked his palm slowly over his temple, smoothing down his fair hair--a gesture that was a part of his individuality; and his smile, while it was not at all diffident, was deprecatory. He began to roll down the sleeves of his shirt. There was the repressed humor of his race in the glint in his eyes; he drawled a bit when he spoke, covering thus the Scotch hitch-and-go-on in the natural accent that had come down to him from his ancestors. "I saw your car arrive, Senator Corson, and I broke the sprinting record." "And the mill rule!" muttered Mac Tavish. "It's only an informal call, Stewart," explained the Senator, amiably, walking toward the rail. "And you have caught me in informal rig, sir!" He pulled his coat and waistcoat from the hooks and added, while he tugged the garments on, "So I'll say, informally, I'm precious glad to see old neighbors home again and to know the Corson mansion is opened, if only for a little while." "Lana came down with the servants a few days ago. I couldn't get here till last evening. I have some friends with me, Stewart, who have come along in the car to join me in paying our respects to the mayor of Marion." Morrison threw up the bar of the rail and stepped through. He clutched the hand of the Senator in his big, cordial grip. "And now, being out in the mayor's office, I'll extend formal welcome in the name of the city, sir." He looked past the father toward the daughter. "But I must interrupt formality long enough to present my most respectful compliments to Miss Corson, even walking right past you, Governor North, to do so!" explained Stewart, marching toward Lana, smiling down on her. Their brief exchange of social commonplaces was perfunctory enough, their manner suggested nothing to a casual observer; but Miss Bunker was not a casual observer. "She's ashamed," was her mental conviction. "Her eyes give her away. She don't look up at him like a girl can look at any man when there's nothing on her conscience. Whatever it was that happened, she's the one who's to blame--but if she can't be sorry it doesn't excuse her because she's ashamed." Possibly Miss Corson was covering embarrassment with the jaunty grandiloquence that she displayed. "I have dared to intrude among the mighty of the state and city, Mister Mayor, in order to impress upon you by word of mouth that your invitation to the reception at our home this evening isn't merely an invitation extended to the chief executive of the city. It's for Stewart Morrison himself," ran her little speech. "I hoped so. This word from you certifies it. And Stewart Morrison will strive to behave just as politely as he used to behave at other parties of Lana Corson's when he steeled his heart against a second helping of cake and cream." She forestalled her father. "Allow me to make you acquainted with Coventry Daunt, Stewart." Morrison surveyed the young stranger with frank and appraising interest. Then the big hand went out with no hint of any reservation in cordiality. "I'm sure you two are going to be excellent friends!" prophesied Lana. "You're so much alike." The florid giant and the dapper, dark young man swapped apologies in a faint flicker of a mutual grin. "I mean in your tastes! Mr. Daunt is tremendously interested in water-power," Miss Corson hastened to say. "But father is waiting for you, Stewart." So, however, was the sniveling old woman waiting! She had not presumed to break in on a conference with another of her sex--but when the mayor turned from the lady and started to be concerned with mere men, the old woman asserted her prerogative. "Out of me way. Con Rellihan, ye omadhaun, that I have chased manny the time out o' me patch! I'm a lady and I have me rights first!" She struggled and squalled when the officer set his palms against her to push her away. Morrison dropped the Governor's hand, broke off his "duty speech," and with rueful smile pleaded for tolerance from the Corson party. "Hush, Mother Slattery!" he remonstrated. "Ah, that's orders from him as has the grand right to give 'em! Niver a wor-rd from me mouth, Your 'Anner, till I may say me say at your call!" A prolonged, still more deprecatory smile was bestowed by the mayor on the élite among his guests! "I was out of town when I was elected mayor, and they hadn't taken the precaution to measure me for an office room at the city building. I didn't fit anything down there. Some day they're going to build the place over and have room for the mayor to transact business without holding callers on his knee. In the mean time, what mayoralty business I don't do out of my hat on the street I attend to here where I can give a little attention to my own business as well. Now, just a moment please!" he pleaded, turning from them. He went to the old woman, checking the outburst with which she flooded him when he approached. "I know! I know, Mother Slattery! No need to tell me about it. As a fellow-martyr, I realize just how Jim has been up against it--again!" He slid something into her hand "Rellihan will speak to the judge!" He passed hastily from person to person, the officer at his heels with ear cocked to receive the orders of his master as to the disposition of cases and affairs. Then Rellihan marshaled the retreat of the supplicants from the presence. "I do hope you understand why I attended to that business first," apologized the mayor. "Certainly! It's all in the way of politics," averred the Senator, out of his own experience. "I have been mayor of Marion, myself!" "With me it's business instead of politics," returned Morrison, gravely. "I don't know anything about politics. Mac Tavish, there, says I don't. And Tavish knows me well. But when I took this job--" "Ye didna tak' it," protested Mac Tavish, determined then, as always, that the Morrison should be set in the right light. "They scrabbled ye by yer scruff and whamped ye into a--" "Yes! Aye! Something of the sort! But I'm in, and I feel under obligations to attend to the business of the city as it comes to hand. And business--I have made business sacred when I have taken on the burden of it." "I fully understand that, Stewart, and my friend Daunt will be glad to hear you say what I know is true. For he is here in our state on business--business in your line," affirmed the Senator. He put his hand on the arm of the elderly man with the assertive mutton-chop whiskers. "Silas Daunt, Mayor Morrison! Mr. Daunt of the banking firm of Daunt & Cropley." "Business in my line, you say, sir?" demanded Morrison, pursuing a matter of interest with characteristic directness. "Development of water-power, Mister Mayor. We are taking the question up in a broad and, I hope, intelligent way." "Good! You touch me on my tenderest spot, Mr. Daunt." "Senator Corson has explained your intense interest in the water-power in this state. And this state, in my opinion, has more wonderful possibilities of development than any other in the Union." Morrison did not drawl when he replied. His demeanor corroborated his statement as to his tenderest spot. "It's a sleeping giant!" he cried. "It's time to wake it up and put it to work," stated Daunt. "Exactly!" agreed Senator Corson. "I'm glad I'm paying some of the debt I owe the people of this state by bringing two such men as you together. I have wasted no time, Stewart!" "Round and round the wheels of great affairs begin to whirl!" declaimed Lana. "The grain of sand must immediately eliminate itself from this atmosphere; otherwise, it may fall into the bearings and cause annoying mischief. I'll send the car back, father. I mustn't bother a business meeting." A grimace that hinted at hurt wrinkled the candor of the Morrison's countenance. "I hoped it wasn't mere business that brought you--all!" He dwelt on the last word with wistful significance, staring at Lana. "No, no!" said the Senator, hastily. "Not business--not business, wholly. A neighborly call, Stewart! The Governor, Mr. Daunt, Lana--all of us to pay our respects. But"--he glanced around the big room--"now that we're here, and the time will be so crowded after the legislature assembles, why not let Daunt express some of his views on the power situation? Without you and your support nothing can be done. We must develop our noble old state! Where is your private office?" "I have never needed one," confessed Stewart; it was a pregnant hint as to the Morrison methods. "I never expected to be honored as I am to-day." The Hon. Calvin Dow was posted near a window in a big chair, comfortably reading one of Stewart's newspapers. Several other citizens of Marion, sheep of such prominence that they could not be shooed away with the mere goats who had been excluded, were waiting an audience with the mayor. "You understand, of course, that there is no secrecy--that is to say, no secrecy beyond the usual business precautions involved," protested the Senator. The frank query in Stewart's eyes had been a bit disconcerting. "But to have matters of business bandied ahead of time by the mouth of gossip, on half-information, is as damaging as all this ridiculous talk that's now rioting through the city regarding politics." "It's all an atrocious libel on my administration," exploded Governor North. "It's damnable nonsense!" "Old Dog Tray," when he had occasion to bark, was not noted for polite reticence. Lana took Coventry Daunt's arm and started off with an elaborate display of mock terror. "And now politics goes whirling, too! My, how the ground shakes! Mister Mayor, I'll promise you more serene conditions on Corson Hill this evening." There was an unmistakable air of proprietorship in her manner with the young man who accompanied her. The Governor shook his finger before the mayor's face and, in his complete absorption in his own tribulation, failed to remark that he was not receiving undivided attention. "I'm depending on men like you, Morrison. I have dropped in here to-day to tell you that I'm depending on you." Senator Corson had apparently convinced himself that the mill office of St. Ronan's was too much of an open-faced proposition; it seemed more like an arena than a conference-room. Dow and the waiting gentlemen of Marion showed that they were frankly interested in the Governor's outbreak. Right then there were new arrivals. The Senator hastily made himself solitaire manager of that particular chess-game and ordered moves: "Lana, wait with Coventry in the car. We'll be only a moment. At my house this evening it will be a fine opportunity for you and Daunt to have your little chat, Stewart, and get together to push the grand project for our good state." "Yes," agreed Morrison; "I'll be glad to come." He was giving the young woman and her escort his close attention and spoke as if he meant what he said. He blinked when the door closed behind them. "And what say if you wait till then, Governor, to confer with the mayor--if you really find that there is need of a conference?" suggested the director of moves. "But I want to tell you right now, Morrison, seeing that you're mayor of the city where our state Capitol is located, that I expect your full co-operation in case of trouble to-night or to-morrow," His Excellency declared, with vigor. "Oh, there will be no trouble," asserted the Senator, airily. "Coming in fresh from the outside--from a wider horizon--I can estimate the situation with a better sense of proportion than you can, North, if you'll allow me to say so. We can always depend on the sane reliability of our grand old state!" The Governor was not reassured or placated. "And you can always depend on a certain number of sore-heads to make fools of themselves here--you could depend on it in the old days; it's worse in these times when everybody is ready to pitch into a row and clapper-claw right and left simply because they're aching for a fight." The closed door had no more revelations to offer to Morrison; he turned his mystified gaze on the Senator and the Governor as if he desired to solve at least one of the problems that had come to hand all of a sudden. "I can take care of things up on Capitol Hill, Morrison! I'm the Governor of this state and I have been re-elected to succeed myself, and that ought to be proof that the people are behind me. But I want you to see to it that the damnation mob-hornets are kept at home in the city here, where they belong." "When father kept bees I used to save many a hiveful for him by banging on mother's dishpan when they started to swarm. As to the hornets--" "I don't care what you bang on," broke in His Excellency. "On their heads, if they show them! But do I have your co-operation in the name of law and order?" "You may surely depend on me, even if I'm obliged to mobilize Mac Tavish and his paper-weights," said the mayor, and for the first time in the memory of Miss Bunker, at least, Mac Tavish flushed; the paymaster had been hoping that the laird o' St. Ronan's had not noted the full extent of the belligerency that had been displayed in making mill rules respected. But the abstraction that had marked Morrison's demeanor when he had looked over the Governor's head at the closed door and the later glint of jest in his eyes departed suddenly. The eyes narrowed. "You talk of trouble that's impending this night, Governor North!" "There'll be no trouble," insisted the Senator. "Fools can always stir a row," declared His Excellency, with just as much emphasis. "Fools who are led by rascals! Rascals who would wreck an express train for the chance to pick pocketbooks off corpses! There's been that element behind every piece of political hellishness and every strike we've had in this country in the last two years since the Russian bear stood up and began to dance to that devil's tune! On the eve of the assembling of this legislature, Morrison, you're probably hearing the blacklegs in the other party howl 'state steal' again!" "No, I haven't heard any such howl--not lately--not since the November election," said Morrison. "Why are they starting it now?" "I don't know," retorted the Governor. But the mayor's stare was again wide-open and compelling, and His Excellency's gaze shifted to Mac Tavish and then jumped off that uncomfortable object and found refuge on the ceiling. "The licked rebels know! They're the only ones who do know," asserted the Senator. Col. Crockett Shaw, practical politician, felt qualified to testify as an expert. "Those other fellows won't play the game according to the rules, Morrison! They sit in and draw cards and then beef about the deal and rip up the pasteboards and throw 'em on the floor and try to grab the pot. They won't play the game!" "That's it exactly!" the Governor affirmed. Senator Corson patted Morrison's arm. "Now that you're in politics for yourself, Stewart, you can see the point, can't you?" "I don't think I'm in politics, sir," demurred the mayor, smiling ingenuously. "At any rate, there isn't much politics in _me!_" "But the game must be played by the rules!" Senator Corson spoke with the finality of an oracle. "If you don't think that way," persisted Governor North, nettled by Morrison's hesitancy in jumping into the ring with his own party, "what _do_ you think?" "I wouldn't presume," drawled Stewart, "to offer political opinions to gentlemen of your experience. However, now that you ask me a blunt question, I'm going to reply just as bluntly--but as a business man! I believe that running the affairs of the people on the square is business--it ought to be made good business. Governor North, you're at the head of the biggest corporation in our state. That corporation is the state itself. And I don't believe the thing ought to be run as a game--naming the game politics." "That's the only way the thing can be run--and you've got to stand by your own party when it's running the state. You need a little lesson in politics, Morrison, and I'm going to show you--" The mayor of Marion raised a protesting hand. "I never could get head nor tail out of a political oration, sir. But I do understand facts and figures. Let's get at facts! Is this trouble you speak of as imminent--is it due to the question of letting certain members of the House and Senate take their seats to-morrow?" "I must go into that matter with you in detail!" "It has been gone into with detail in the newspapers till I'm sick of it, with all due respect to you, Governor North. It has been played back and forth like a game--and I don't understand games. There has been no more talk of trouble since you and your executive council let it be known that all the members were to walk into the State House and take their seats and settle among themselves their rights." "We never deliberately and decisively let that be known." "Then it has been guessed by your general attitude, sir. That's the common talk--and the common talk comes to me like it does to all others. That talk has smoothed things. Why not keep things smooth?" "Breaking election laws to keep sore-heads smooth? Is that your idea of politics?" "You cannot get me into any argument over politics, sir! I'm talking about the business of the state. I have found that I could do business openly in this office. It has served me even though it has no private room. I say nothing against you and your council because you have done the state's business behind closed doors at the State House. However--" "The law obliges us to canvass returns in executive session, Morrison." "I say nothing against the business you have done there," proceeded Morrison, inexorably. "I can't say anything. I don't know what has been done. I'm in no position, therefore, to criticize. If I did know I'd probably have, good reason to praise you state managers as good and faithful servants of our people. But the people don't know. You have left 'em to guess. It's their business. It's bad policy to keep folks guessing when their own business is concerned. What's the matter with throwing wide the doors to-morrow and saying 'Come along in, people, and we'll talk this over'?" "That's admitting the mob to riot, to intimidate, to rule!" "Impractical--wholly impractical, Stewart," the Senator chided. Calvin Dow came toward the group, stuffing his spectacles back into their case. Given a decoration for his coat lapel, the Hon. Calvin Dow, with his white mustache and his imperial, would have served for an excellent model in a study of a marshal of France. His intrusion, if such it was, was not resented; with his old-school manners and his gentle voice he was the embodiment of apology that demanded acceptance. "Jodrey, you never said a truer word. As old politicians, you and I, we understand just how impractical such an idea is. But I must be allowed to put the emphasis very decidedly on the word 'old.' There seems to be something new in the air all of a sudden." "Yes, a fresh crop of moonshiners in politics," was the Senator's acrid response. "And the stuff they're putting out is as raw and dangerous as this prohibition-ducking poison." "The trouble is, Jodrey," pursued the old man, gently, but undeterred, "those honest folks who really do own the country show signs of waking up and wanting to pay off the mortgage the politicians hold on it; and those radicals who think they're going to own the country right soon, now, believe they can turn the trick overnight by killing off the politicians and browbeating the proprietors. It looks to me as if the politicians and the real owners better hitch up together on a clean, business basis." "Excellent! Excellent!" declared Banker Daunt, who had been shifting uneasily from foot to foot, chafing his heavy neck against the beaver collar, perceiving that his own projects were only marking time. "Hitch up on a better business basis! It should be the slogan of the times. Eh, Mister Mayor?" "Right you are! crisply agreed Stewart, complimenting Daunt with a cheery smile that promised excellent understanding. "And harmony among the progressive leaders of city and state! Eh, Mister Mayor? What say, Governor North?" The metropolitan Mr. Daunt was not disposed to allow his commercial proposition to be run away with by a stampeding political team. "That's what I'm asking for--the co-operation that will fetch harmony," admitted the Governor, grudgingly. "But--" However, when His Excellency turned to the mayor with the plain intent of getting down to a working understanding, Mr. Daunt broke up what threatened to be an embarrassing clinch. As if carried away by enthusiasm in meeting one of his own kind in business affairs, Daunt grabbed Morrison's hand and pulled the mayor away with him toward the door, assuring him that he was glad to pitch in, heart and soul, with a man who had the best interests of a grand state to conserve and develop in the line of water-power. Then he went on as if quoting from a prospectus. "When the veins and the arteries of old Mother Earth have been drained of the coal and oil, Mr. Morrison, God's waters will still be flowing along the valleys, roaring down the cliffs, ready to turn the wheels of commerce. On the waters we must put our dependence. They are the Creator's best heritage to His people, in lifting and making light the burden of labor!" was the promoter's pompous declaration. "You cannot shout that truth too loudly, sir! I have been crying it, myself. But I always add with my cry the warning that if the people don't look sharp, the folks who hogged the other heritages, grabbed the iron, hooked onto the coal, and have posted themselves at the tap o' the nation's oil-can, will have the White Coal, too! God will still make water run downhill, but it will run for the profit of the men who peddle what it performs. I'll be glad to have you help me in that warning!" "Exactly!" agreed Mr. Daunt. "When you and I are thoroughly _en rapport_, we can accomplish wonders." His rush of the willing Morrison to the door had accomplished one purpose: he had created a diversion that staved off further political disagreement for the moment. "You must pardon my haste in being off, Mister Mayor. Senator Corson has promised to motor me along the river as far as possible before lunch, so that I may inspect the water-power possibilities. Come, Governor North!" he called. Daunt again addressed Morrison. "The Senator tells me that your mill privilege is the key power on the river." "Aye, sir! The Morrison who was named Angus built the first dam," stated Stewart, with pride. "But we have never hoarded the water nor hampered the others who have come after us. We use what we need--only that--and let the water flow free--and we're glad to see it go down to turn other wheels than our own. Without the many wheels a-turning there would not have been the many homes a-building!" "Exactly! Development--along the broadest lines! Do you promise me your aid and your co-operation?" "I do," declared Stewart. "You're the kind of a man who makes a spoken word of that sort more binding than a written pledge with a notarial seal." Again Daunt shook the Morrison hand. "I consider it settled!" Daunt's wink when he grabbed Morrison had tipped off Senator Corson, and the latter collaborated with alacrity; he hustled the Governor toward the door. "We must show Daunt all we can before lunch, Your Excellency! All the possibilities of the grand old state!" "I haven't got your promise for myself, Morrison," snapped North over his shoulder. "But I reckon I can depend on you to do as much for your party and for law and order as you'll do for the sake of a confounded mill-dam. And we'll leave it that way!" "There'll be no trouble, I repeat," promised Senator Corson, making himself file-closer. "North has been sticking too close to politics on Capitol Hill, and he has let it make him nervous. But we'll put festivity ahead of everything else on Corson Hill, to-night, and the girls will be on hand to make the boys all sociable. Come early, Stewart!" The mayor flung up his hand--a boyish gesture of faith in the best. "Hail to you as a peacemaker! We have been needing you! We're glad you're home again, sir." For a few moments he turned his back on the business of the city, as it awaited him in the persons of the citizens. He went to the front window and gazed at the Corson limousine until it rolled away; Lana had Coventry Daunt with her in the cozy intimacy afforded by the twin seats forward in the tonneau. "They make a smart-looking couple, bub," commented Calvin Dow, feeling perfectly free to stand at Stewart's elbow to inspect any object that the younger man found of interest. "Is it to be a hitch, as the gossip runs?" "There seems to be some gossip that's running ahead of my ken in this city just now, Calvin!" The mayor frowned, his eyes fixed on the departing car. His demeanor hinted that his thoughts were wholly absorbed by the persons in that car. "I hope you're spry enough to catch it. Go find out for me, will you, what the blue mischief they're up to?" "In politics? Or--" "In politics! Yes!" returned Morrison, tartly. "What other kind of gossip would I be interested in, this day?" He snapped himself around on his heels and started toward the men who were waiting. He singled one and clapped brisk hands smartly with the air of a man who wanted to wake himself from the abstraction of bothersome visions. "Well, Mister Public Works, how about the last lap of paving on McNamee Avenue? Can we open up to-morrow? I plan on showing our arriving legislative cousins clean thoroughfares on Capitol Hill, you know!" "I'm losing fourteen men off the job at noon today, Your Honor! Grabbed off without notice," grumbled the superintendent. "Grabbed off for what?" "Well, maybe, to keep our paving-blocks from being thrown through the windows of the State House!" "Who is taking those men from their work?" "The adjutant-general. They're Home Guard boys." "Something busted out in Patagonia needing the attention of a League of Nations army?" inquired the mayor, putting an edge of satire on his astonishment. The superintendent shot a swift stare past the mayor. "Perhaps Danny Sweetsir, there, can tell you--_Captain_ Daniel Sweetsir." The public works man copied the mayor's sarcasm by dwelling on the title he applied to Sweetsir. The mayor took a look, too. A young man in overalls and jumper had hurried into the office from the private passage; he was trotting toward a closet in one corner. He had the privileges of the office because he was "a mill student," studying the textile trade, and was a son of the Morrison's family physician. Sweetsir shucked off his jumper, leaped out of his overalls, threw them in at the closet door, and was revealed in full uniform of O. D. except for cap and sword. He secured those two essentials of equipment from the closet and strode toward the rail, buckling on his sword. Miss Bunker was surveying him with telltale and proprietary pride that was struggling with an expression of utter amazement. "The deil-haet ails 'em a' this day!" exploded Mac Tavish. The banked fires of his smoldering grudges blazed forth in a sudden outburst of words that revealed the hopes he had been hiding. His natural cautiousness in his dealings with the master went by the board. "Noo it's yer time, chief! I'll hae at 'em--the whole fause, feth'rin' gang o' the tykes, along wi' ye! Else it's heels o'er gowdie fer the woolen business." Morrison flicked merely a glance of mystification at Mac Tavish. The master's business was with his mill student. "What's wrong with you, Danny? Hold yourself for a moment on that side of the rail where you're still a man of the mill! I'm afraid of a soldier, like you'll be when you're out here in the mayor's office," he explained, softening the situation with humor. "What does it mean?" "The whole company of the St. Ronan's Rifles has been ordered to the armory, sir. The adjutant-general just informed me over the mill 'phone." "What's amiss?" Captain Sweetsir saluted stiffly. "I am not allowed to ask questions of a superior officer, sir, or to answer questions put by a civilian. I am now a soldier on duty, sir!" "Come through the rail." The officer obeyed and stood before Morrison. "Now, Captain, you're in the office of the mayor of Marion, and the mayor officially asks you why the militia has been ordered out in his city?" Again Captain Sweetsir saluted. "Mister Mayor, I refer you to my superior officer, the adjutant-general of the state." Morrison promptly shook the young man cordially by the hand. "That's the talk, Captain Sweetsir! Attend honestly to whatever job you're on! It's my own motto." "I try to do it, Mr. Morrison. You have always set me the example!" Mac Tavish groaned. He saw mill discipline going into the garbage along with everything else that had been sane and sensible and regular at St. Ronan's. And the Morrison himself had come from the mill that day ten minutes ahead of the hour! "So, on with you, lad, and do your duty!" Stewart forwarded Sweetsir with a commendatory clap of the palm on the barred shoulder. Calvin Dow was lingering. "We mustn't let the youngsters shame us, Calvin," Morrison murmured in the old man's ear. "We all seem to have our jobs cut out for us--and I can't tend to mine in an understanding way till you have attended to yours." The veteran saluted as smartly as had the soldier and trudged away on the heels of Sweetsir. "Ain't there any way of your making that infernal old tin soldier up at the State House lay his paws off our paving crew?" asked the superintendent. "Hush, Baldwin!" chided the mayor, unruffled, speaking indulgently. "We seem to have a new war on the board! Have you forgotten, after all that has been happening in this world, that in time of war we must sacrifice public improvements and private enterprises? Go on and do your best with the paving." "Hell is paved with good intentions, but I can't put 'em down on McNamee Avenue." "Of course not, Baldwin! That would be using war material that will be urgently needed, if I'm any judge of these times." "How's that, Mister Mayor?" "Why, the hell architects seem to be planning an extension of the premises," drawled Morrison. III THE MORRISON ASSUMES SOME CONTRACTS In the past, each day after lunch, Mac Tavish had been enabled to get back to the sanity of a well-conducted woolen-mill business; in the peace that descended on the office afternoons he put out of his mind the nightmare of the forenoons and tried not to think too much of what the morrows promised. Stewart Morrison had caused it to be known in Marion that he reserved afternoons for the desk affairs of St. Ronan's mill. Mac Tavish always brought his lunch; he cooked it himself in his bachelor apartment and warmed it up in the office over a gas-burner at high noon. While he was brushing the crumbs of an oaten cake off his desk, six men filed in. He knew them well. They were from the Marion Chamber of Commerce; they made up the Industrial Development Committee. "I'm afraid we're a bit too early to see the mayor," suggested Chairman Despeaux. "Ye are! Nigh twenty-two hours too early to see the mayor!" "But we 'phoned the house and were told he had left to come to the office!" "The mayor--mind ye, the _mayor_--he cooms frae the mill at--" Mac Tavish remembered the crashing blow to his proud pronunciamiento that forenoon, and his natural caution regarding statements caused him to hesitate. "He is supposed to coom frae the mill at ten o'clock, antemeridian! Postmeridian, Master Morrison, of St. Ronan's--not the mayor--he cooms to his desk yon--well, when he cooms isna the concern o' those who are speirin for a mayor." The gentlemen of the committee exchanged wise grins, suggestively sardonic grins, and sat down. Mac Tavish, bristling in silence over his figures, was comforted by the ever-springing hope that this intrusion might serve as the last straw on the overloaded Morrison endurance. He perked up expectantly when Stewart came striding in. Then he wilted despondently, because Morrison greeted the gentlemen with breezy hospitality, led them beyond the rail, and gave them chairs near his desk. "Command me! I am at your service!" "We're on our way to Senator Corson's. We have been invited to meet Mr. Daunt at lunch," said Despeaux; a thin veneer of suavity suited his thin lips. "Fine!" "I'm glad to hear you say so. We felt that we'd like your opinion of him and his plans before we commit ourselves." "I like his personality," stated Stewart, heartily. "But I have only a general notion of his plans." "Same here," admitted the chairman, though not in a tone of convincing sincerity. "The Senator brought him into my office for a minute or so before they started up-river. Told me to get the boys together and come for lunch. But if it's to put the water-power of this state on a bigger and broader basis, you and the storage commission are with us, aren't you?" Despeaux demanded rather than queried; his air was a bit offensive. "I'm a citizen of Marion and a native of this state, body and soul for all the good that can come to us, by our own efforts or through the aid of outsiders," declared Morrison, spacking his palm upon the arm of his chair. "Well, I guess we don't need any better promise than that, for a starter, at any rate. Of course, we knew it--but there's nothing like having a right-out word of mouth." Despeaux rose and pulled out his watch. "We'd better move on toward the eats, boys!" "Just a moment, however, Despeaux! My father was a Morrison and my mother a Mac Dougal. I can't help what's in me!" "What is it that's in you?" inquired Despeaux, pausing in the act of putting back his watch. "Scotch cautiousness!" "You don't suspect that a man like the big Silas Daunt, of Daunt and Cropley--" "I don't suspect. I haven't got as far as that! But I want to know exactly what he means by coming into this state. I have a man out getting me some facts about what kind of a devil's mess is being stirred up all of a sudden to-day in politics. Suppose you get under Daunt's hide and find out whether he wants to _do_ us or do _for_ us, on the water-power matter." An observant bystander would have perceived a queer sort of crispness in Morrison's manner from the outset of the interview; the same perspicacity would have detected something hard under the smooth surface of Despeaux's early politeness. Mr. Despeaux was not so elaborately polite when he retorted that he did not propose to play the spy on a guest while eating a host's victuals. Mr. Morrison promptly put more of a snap into his crispness. "Having balanced to partners, for politeness's sake, Despeaux, we'll take hold of hands and swing, with both feet on the floor. That was a good job you did in the legislative lobby two years ago for the crowd that called itself 'The Consolidated Development Company.' You're a smart lawyer and we had hard work beating you." "I'll tell you what you franchise-owners did, Morrison! You beat a grand and comprehensive plan that was going to take in the whole state." "It did take in a lot of folks for a time, but, thank God, it didn't take in a few of us who were wise to the scheme. I know why you have called on me to-day. But you haven't put me on record. Let no man of you think I have made a pledge or have committed myself till I know what's what!" "You're Scotch, all right, Morrison. You're canny! You're for yourself and the main chance. Now let me tell you! You caught us foul two years ago because you jumped the newspapers into coming out with broadsides about a thing they didn't understand. Their half-baked scare stuff made the state think somebody was trying to steal the whole water-power." "According to that general franchise bill, as it was framed, somebody was!" "Morrison, in the last two years the people have been educated to understand that broad-gaged consolidation of water-power is what we must have." "You have put out good propaganda. That fellow you have hired is a mighty fine press-agent," admitted Morrison, smiling ingenuously. "And the men who get in the way and try to trig development this year will be ticketed before an understanding public for what they are," declared Despeaux. "Try me as a part of the public, and see whether I'll understand! Ticketed as what, Brother Despeaux?" "As profiting dogs in the manger of manufacturing, sir!" There were expostulatory murmurs in the group. "We're rather non-committal as a body on this matter, Despeaux," protested a committeeman. "We're waiting to be shown. In the mean time, we don't like to have a man like Morrison here called any hard names." "Oh, I don't mind being called a watch-dog, boys! That's what I am. So you think I'm wholly selfish, do you, Despeaux?" "The water-power franchises of this state were grabbed away from the people years ago, like the timber-lands were, by first-comers, and the state got nothing! The waters belong to the people. The people have a right to realize on their property! Morrison, considering what kind of a free gift you had handed to you, you've got to be careful about the position you take in these enlightened days when the people propose to profit from their own. It's mighty easy to shift public opinion these days!" "Yes, I have seen tons of sand shifted in no time by a stream from a squirt-gun," confessed Morrison, placidly. "And that leaves it a fifty-fifty break between us on the name-calling proposition," rejoined Despeaux, "I'll bid you a kind good day!" He strode away and his group trailed him. A deprecating committeeman turned back, however. "I know you are honest, Morrison. But a lot of us are beginning to think that the general policy in the state regarding outside capital has been a bit too conservative. These are new times." "Very!" said the mayor, pleasantly. "They're creaking about as loud as Squire Despeaux's new shoes." There was a snarl of ire from the shoes every time the retreating chairman lifted a foot. "I hope they won't pinch us, Doddridge! Good day!" He sat down at his desk. Mac Tavish held his place on his stool in silence for a long time. The stiffness of his neck seemed to embrace all his members, even his tongue. Miss Bunker came in from her lunch, bringing the afternoon mail. Mac Tavish maintained his silence while Morrison picked out what were patently his personal letters before surrendering the others to the girl to be opened and assorted. Mac Tavish waited till his master had gone through his personal mail. The paymaster maintained a demeanor of what may be termed hopeful apprehension; this baiting, this impugning of honesty must needs turn the trick! No Morrison would stand for it! Mac Tavish found the laird's suppression of all comment promisingly bodeful. The fuse must be sizzling. There would be an explosion! But Morrison began to play a lively tattoo on his desk with the knob of a paper-slitter and whistled "The Campbells Are Coming, Hurrah, Hurrah!" with the cheery gusto of a man who had not a care to trouble him. "Snoolin' and snirtlin' o'er it!" spat the old man. "Eh?" queried Stewart, amiably. "Do ye let whigmaleeries flimmer in yer noddle at a time like this?" "Why, Andy, speaking of a day like this, you'd have the crochets whiffed from your head if you'd go out for your lunch in the pep of the air instead of penning yourself in the office." Mac Tavish leaped from his stool and marched toward this non-combatant. "Whaur's the fire o' yer spunk, Stewart Morrison?" "Go on, Andy!" permitted the master, leaning back in his chair. "Do ye allow such feckless loons to coom and beard ye in yer ain castle?" "Andy, if I were playing their game, as they call it, I'd say that I'm going to give 'em all a chance to lay their cards, face up, on the table. But, putting it in a way you and I understand, I'm touching a match to their goods." Mac Tavish nodded approvingly. He did understand that metaphor. A burning match will not ignite pure wool; threads of shoddy will catch fire. "Aye! The fire test o' the fabric! Well and gude! But the toe o' yer boot for 'em. Such was ca'd for when he said ye set yer ainsel' in the way for muckle profeet!" "Soft! Soft and slow, Andy," reproved the master. "There may be some truth in what he said. I'll have to stop right here and do some thinking about it! A chap gets to slamming ahead in his own line, you know. All of us ought to stop short once in a while and make a cold, calm estimate. Take account of stock! Balance the books! Discover how much of it is for ourselves, personally, and how much for the other fellow! No telling how the figures of debit and credit may surprise us!" He spun around in his swivel chair. "Lora, get Mr. Blanchard of the Conawin Mills on the 'phone, that's the girl!" "Yes, Andy, I'm going to get down to the figures in my case! I hope there's a balance in my favor--but we never can tell!" He set his elbows on his desk and clutched his hands into the hair above his temples. Mac Tavish tiptoed away. Morrison had apparently prostrated himself in the fane of figures; in the case of Mac Tavish figures were holy. "Mr. Blanchard on the 'phone, Mr. Morrison," reported Miss Bunker. Morrison put questions, quickly, emphatically, searchingly. He listened. He hung up. "Memo., Miss Bunker." He was curt. His eyes were hard. One observing his manner and hearing his tone would have realized that quarry had broken cover and that Mr. Blanchard had not been able to confuse the trail by dragging across it an anise-bag; in fact, Morrison had said so over the telephone just before he hung up. "Get me Cooper of the Waverly, Finitter of the Lorton Looms, Labarre of the Bleachery, Sprague of the Bates." He named four of the great textile operators of the river. "One after the other, as I finish with each!" After he had finished with all, pondering while he waited between calls, he strode to Mac Tavish and brought the old man around on his stool by a clap on the shoulder. "A devil of a mouser, I am! I've been sitting purring on the top and they have hollowed it out underneath me." "Eh? What?" "The cheese, Andy, the water-power cheese! They have been playing me for the cat in the case! Left me till the last, left me sitting on an empty shell! The mice have made away with the cheese from under me. They have engineered a combine! There's a syndicate a-forming! It's for me to tumble down among 'em when the shell caves. I was right about Despeaux!" "He's Auld Bartie, wi'out the horns!" "Oh no! Not as smart as Satan, Andy! But smart, nevertheless! Very smart. He has shown 'em a good thing. They're ready to run in! And the devil take the hindmost. I'm the hindmost and I'd better get a gait on." "But the company ye'll be keeping!" "You don't suppose that I'll run away from the mice instead of after 'em, do you?" "A thoct has been wi' me, Master Morrison! May I speak it?" "Out with it!" "Ye'll ne'er find a better chance to break from the kin o' Auld Cloven Cootie and mind yer ain wi' the claith business! Resign!" "It's good advice, backed up by a good excuse, Andy!" "And noo that I may speak freely," rattled on the old man, after a gasp of delight, "I can tell ye how I hae been list'nin' for yer interests till ten o' the clock each forenoon, and the dyvor loons--deil tak' it, and here cooms back one o' the waurst o' the widdifu's." It was the Hon. Calvin Dow and Morrison hurried to meet him. "Sum it short, Uncle Calvin!" "They're going to play straight politics, Stewart." "God save the state--in times like these!" "They're going to admit to seats only the Senators and Representatives who are clearly and indisputably elected by the face of the returns." "The picked and the chosen!" scoffed Morrison. "The matter of the right to take seats is going to be referred to the full bench instead of being left to the legislature--taken out of politics, they say." "Going to be put into cold storage, with all due respect to our eminent justices!" "It means the careful weighing of evidence--and the courts are obliged to move with judicial slowness, Stewart!" "And in the mean time those picked and chosen ones will elect the state officers whom the legislature has the power to name, will have the machinery to distribute all state patronage and to make the legislative committees safe for the big measures. There's no telling when the bench will hand down a decision." "No telling, Stewart!" admitted the sage. "After it has been done, it will be hard to undo it, no matter what the judges may decide as to members." "But we can't throw the law out of the window, my son! On the outside of the thing, the Big Boys on Capitol Hill are playing the game strictly according to the legal rules. The legal rules, understand! On the outside!" Dow's emphasis on certain words was significant. He put up his hand and drew Morrison's head down close to his mouth. He began to whisper. "Talk out loud, Calvin!" commanded Stewart, jerking away. "Keep in the habit of talking out loud with me! I won't even talk politics in a whisper." "It really shouldn't be talked out, not at this time," expostulated Dow, wedded to the old ways. "I have had to burrow deep for it. It ought to be saved carefully--to do business with later! To win a stroke in politics it's necessary to jump the people with a sensation!" "Try it on me! I'm one of the people. See if it will work," insisted Morrison, after the manner of his methods with Despeaux. "They propose to go according to the strict letter of the law." "Important but not sensational." Dow was plainly having hard work to keep his voice above a whisper. "Returns not properly sworn to or not attested in due form by city clerks, returns not signed in open town meeting or otherwise defective on account of strictly technical errors, no matter how plainly the intent of the voters was registered, have been finally and definitely thrown out by North and his executive council, acting as a canvassing board." "Damn'd picayune hair-splitting! Why can't they use business horse-sense?" "I'll tell you what they've used! They've used Tim Snell and Waddy Sturges and a few other safe hounds with muffled paws to run around and lug back to cities and towns deficient returns and have 'em quietly and secretly corrected where it was a case of adding a safe man to the legislature. I know that, Stewart. I know how to make some of my close friends brag to me. I know it, but I can't prove it. Clean-scrubbed are the faces of those returns. They'll show up to-morrow like the faces of the good boys on the first day at school." "That's North's idea of that game he was talking about, is it?" Morrison exploded. "I don't believe that Senator Corson knows about those dirty details, or is a party to 'em." "Well," asserted the Hon. Calvin Dow, stroking his nose contemplatively, "Jodrey and I used to cut sharp corners on two wheels of the four of the old wagon, in past times when he was a politician. But now that he's a statesman he doesn't like to be bothered by details." "Do you see any joke to this, Calvin?" demanded Morrison, not relishing the veteran's chuckle. "I can't help seeing the humor," confessed Dow, blandly. "The other, boys would be grinding the same grist if they had control of the machinery. It's only what I myself used to do." Then his face became grave. "But, confound it! in these days there seems to be an element that can't take a joke in politics. There's trouble in the air!" "Probably!" agreed Morrison, dryly. Dow walked to the window and looked out with the air of a man who wanted proof to confirm a statement. "I reckon I'll let you be informed direct from Trouble Headquarters, Stewart. Headquarters was at the Soldiers' Memorial in the park when I came past. I gathered that they were picking out a delegation to call on you. Post-Commander Lanigan of the American Legion was doing the picking. He's heading the bunch that I see coming across the street." "Resign!" barked Mac Tavish through his wicket. But the mayor of Marion did not appear to hear, nor Calvin Dow to understand. Morrison faced the door of his office. Lanigan led in his companions with the marching stride of an overseas veteran and halted them with a top-sergeant's yelp. Click o' heels and snap o' the arm! The salute made Captain Sweetsir's previous effort seem torpid by comparison. That a further comparison with Home Guard methods and morale was in Commander Lanigan's mind became promptly evident. "Your Honor the Mayor, we represent John P. Dunn Post, American Legion, and the independent young men of this city in general. May we have a word with you?" "Certainly, Mr. Commander!" In the stress of his emotions Lanigan immediately sloughed off his official air. "It's a hell of a note when a bunch of sissy slackers can keep real soldiers ten feet from the door of the city armory at the end of a bayonet." The mayor strolled over and placed a placatory palm on the shoulder of the spokesman. "What's, all the row, Joe? Let's not get excited!" "I have been away fighting for liberty and justice and I don't know what's been going on in politics at home. I don't know anything about politics." "Nor I, Joe, so let's not try to discuss 'em. What else?" "They've got three machine-guns up in our State House. What for? They are going to put in them sissy slackers--" "Let's not call names, Joe. Those boys would have followed you across if you boys hadn't been so all-fired smart that you cleaned it all up in a hurry! What else?" "Why have a gang of politicians got to barricade our State House against the people?" "Let's keep cool, Joe, my boy, and find out." "They won't let us in to find out. How are we going to find out?" "Why, I was thinking of doing something in that line--thinking about it just before you came in." Lanigan looked relieved, also a bit ashamed. "Excuse me for being pretty hot, Mr. Morrison. But the boys have been saying we couldn't depend on anybody to stand up for the people. By gad! I told 'em we'd come to you. Says I, 'All-Wool Morrison is our kind!'" "I hope the name fits the goods, Joe! Suppose you boys keep all quiet and calm for the good name of the city and let me find out how the thing stands?" He was assured of support and compliance by a chorus of voices. Lanigan trailed the chorus in solo. "Does that settle it? I'll say it does. It's up to you--the whole thing. You've given us the word of a square man! We can depend on you. And we thank you for taking the full responsibility for seeing to it that the people get theirs--and not in the neck, either!" But the mayor looked like a man who had stretched forth his hand to take a kitten and had had an elephant tossed at him. "It's a pretty big contract, that! See here, Joe--" "You're good for any contract you take on, sir! We should worry after what you promise!" He whirled on his heels. "'Bout face! Forward, march!" He followed them and turned at the door. "All the rest of the Big Ones seem to be too almighty busy to bother with the common folks to-day, sir! The Governor with his politics, the adjutant-general with his tin soldiers, and the high and mighty Senator Corson with that party he's giving to-night so as to spout socially the news that his daughter is engaged to marry a millionaire dude. Thank God, we've got a man who 'ain't taken up with anything of that sort and can put all his mind on to a square deal!" Morrison did not turn immediately to face the three persons, his familiars in the office of St. Ronan's. He clasped his hands behind him and went to the window, as if to survey the departure of the delegation. "What with one thing and another, they're loading the boy up--they're piling it on," observed Dow to Mac Tavish in sympathetic undertone. "He'll resign out o' the meeser-r-rable pother," growled Mac Tavish. "The word he just gied the gillies! It was as much as to say, 'I'll be coomin' along wi' ye from noo on.'" The old man's hankerings were helping his persistent hope, in spite of his respect for the Morrison trait of devotion to duty. "Resign, Andy! Confound it, he's only nailing his grit to the mast and planning on what end of the row to tackle first. You'll see!" Stewart walked slowly, meditating deeply, went through the opening in the rail, sat down at his desk and fumbled in a drawer and sought deeply under many papers. He brought out a book, a worn volume. Calvin Dow, daring to peer more closely than Miss Bunker or Mac Tavish had the courage to venture, noted that the place to which Morrison opened was marked by a slip of paper, a snapshot photograph. "Miss Bunker!" called the master. "A memo.!" She came with her note-book and sat at the lid of the desk, facing him. "His resignation, I tell ye," whispered Mac Tavish. "I ken the look o' detar-rmination!" "I want it typed on a narrow strip that I can slip into my pocketbook," stated Stewart. Then, to all appearances entirely unconcerned with the listening veterans, he dictated: "Meanwhile I was thinking of my first love, As I had not been thinking of aught for years. Till over my eyes there began to move Something that felt like tears." Mac Tavish bent on Dow a wild look and swapped with the old pensioner of the Morrisons a stare of amazement for one of bewildered concern. "I thought of the dress that she wore last time When we stood 'neath the cypress-tree together In that lost land, in that soft clime, In the crimson evening weather. "Of that muslin dress (for the eve was hot) And her warm white neck in its golden chain, And her full, soft hair, just tied in a knot, And falling loose again. "I thought of our little quarrels and strife, And the letter that brought me back my ring. And it all seemed then, in the waste of life, Such a very little thing." The girl dabbed up her hand under pretense of fixing a lock of hair; she scrubbed away tears that were trickling. So this was it! The powwow over business and politics had not been stirring even languid interest in her. Now her emotions were rioting. Here seemed to be something worth while in the life of the master! "But I will marry my own first love With her primrose face; for old things are best. And the flower in her bosom I prize it above-- "My God!" Mac Tavish gasped. "Next he'll be playing jiggle-ma-ree wi' dollies on his desk! His wits hae gane agley!" In the horror of his discovery he flung his arms and knocked off the desk his full stock of paperweight ammunition. Then he was convinced beyond doubt that the Morrison was daft. Stewart did not even raise his eyes from the book; he kept on dictating above the clatter of the rolling weights; his intentness on the matter in hand was that of a business man putting a proposition on paper for the purpose of making it definite and cogent and clear. But Stewart's thoughts were not at all clear, he was confessing to himself; in spite of his assumed indifference, he was embarrassed by the focused stares of Dow and Mac Tavish. He wondered what sudden, devil-may-care whimsy was this that was galloping him away from business and politics and every other sane subject! He was conscious that there was in him a freakish and juvenile hankering to astonish his friends. He heard Dow say: "Oh, don't worry about the boy, Andy! We do strange things in big times! Even Nero fiddled when Rome was burning!" Stewart finished the dictation and closed the book. "Losh! I canna understand!" mourned Mac Tavish, not troubling to hush his tones. The girl hesitated, her gaze on her notes. Then she looked full into Morrison's face, all her woman's intuitive and long-repressed sympathy in her brimming eyes. "But I understand, sir!" She arose. She extended her hand and when he took it she put into her clasp of his fingers what she did not presume to say in words. "Thank you!" said Morrison. Then he left his chair and strolled across to the old men, while Miss Bunker rattled her typewriter. "It begins to look, boys, like we're going to have quite a large evening!" he remarked, sociably. IV ANSWERING THE FIRST ALARM After his dinner with his mother, Stewart went to the library-den, his own room, the habitat consecrated to the males of the Morrison menage. He was in formal garb for the reception at Senator Corson's. He removed and hung up his dress-coat and pulled on his house-jacket; he was prompted to make this precautionary change by a woolen man's innate respect for honest goods as much as he was by his desire for homely comfort when he smoked. He lighted a jimmy-pipe and marched up and down the room. He was determined to give the situation a good going-over in his mind. He had settled many a problem in that old room! He was always helped by Grandfather Angus and Father David. When he walked in one direction he was looking at the portrait of Angus on the end wall of the long narrow room; Angus bored him with eyes as hard as steel buttons and out from the close-set lips seemed to issue many an aphorism to put the grit into a man. From the opposite wall, when Morrison whirled on his heels, David looked down. David's eyes had little, softening scrolls at the corners of them; the artist had painted from life, in the case of David, and had caught the glint of humor in the eyes. The picture of Angus had been enlarged from a daguerreotype and seemed to lack some of the truly human qualities of expression. But it was a strong face, the face of a pioneer who had come into a strange land to make his way and to smooth that way for the children who were to have life made easier for them. "Tak' it! Wi' all the strength o' ye, reach oot and tak' it for yer ainsel' else ithers will gr-rasp ahead and snigger at ye!" So said Angus from the wall, whenever Stewart pondered on problems. But David, though the pictured countenance was resolute enough, always put in a shrewd and cautionary amendment, whenever Stewart came down the room, stiffened by the counsel of Angus, "Mind ye, laddie, when ye tak', that the mon wha tak's slidd'ry serpents to tussle wi' 'em, he haes nae hand to use for his ainsel' whilst the slickit beasties are alive; and a deid snake serves nae guid." That evening Stewart was distinctly getting no help from either Angus or David. They did not appear to understand his new and peculiar mood. He had been in the habit of fusing their clashing arbitraments by a humor of his own which he knew was fantastic, yet helpful according to his whimsical custom, welding their judgments twain into one dominant counsel of determination, softened by the spirit of fairness. But after he had plucked a certain slip of paper from his waistcoat pocket, squinting at it through the pipe smoke, as he walked to and fro, mumbling as if he were engaged in the task of memorizing, he ceased to look up to Angus and David for assistance. He was sure they would not know! Here were warp and woof of a fabric beyond their ken. He would not admit to himself that he understood in full measure this emotion that had come surging up in him, overwhelming and burying all the ordinarily steadfast landmarks by which he regulated his daily thoughts and actions. "I had built a dam," he muttered, using the metaphor that was natural, "and I've been thinking it was safe and sure. Whether it wasn't strong enough--whether it was undermined, I don't know. It has given way." There was a tap on the door and he hastily tucked the paper back into his pocket. He knew it was his mother, trained in the way of the Morrisons to respect the sanctuary of the family lairds when they were paying their devotions at the shrine of business. "I'm saying my gude nicht to ye, bairnie, for ye're telling me ye'll no' be hame till late," she said when he flung open the door. He copied affectionately her Scotch "braidness" of dialect when they were alone together. "No, wee mither, not till late." He stepped out into the corridor and kissed her. She patted his cheek and walked on. More of that whimsy into which he had been allowing his troubled emotions to lead him! He realized it fully! His brow wrinkled, he shook his head, but he called to her. He went to meet her when she returned. "It's like it is at the office, these days! I'm Morrison of St. Ronan's on one side o' the rail; I'm the mayor of Marion on t'other! Here in the corridor, ye're wee mither!" He put his arm about her and lifted her into the library. "Coom awa' wi' ye, noo!" he cried. He threw himself into a big chair and pulled her upon his knee. "Ye're Jeanie Mac Dougal--only a woman. I need to talk wi' a woman. I canna talk wi' Mac Tavish or sic as he. He thinks I'm daft. He said so. I canna get counsel frae grands'r or sire yon on the walls. They don't understand, Jeanie Mac Dougal. I'm in love!" "Aye! Wi' the lass o' the Corsons!" "But ye shouldna sigh when ye say it, Jeanie Mac Dougal." "A gashing guidwife sat wi' me to-day in the ben, bairnie, and said the lass brings her ain laddie wi' her frae the great town." "I tak' no gossip for my guide!" he protested. "In business I tak' my facts only frae the lips o' the one I ask. I'll do the same in love." She did not speak. "I know, Jeanie Mac Dougal! Ye canna forget ye are wee mither and it's hard for ye to be only woman richt noo. I know the kind of wife ye hae in mind for me. The patient wife, the housewife, the meek wife wi' only her een for back-and-ben, for kitchen and parlor. But I love Lana." "She promised and she took her promise back! Again she promised, and again she took it back!" The proud resentment of a mother flamed. "And I'm no' content wi' the lass who once may win my laddie's word and doesna treasure it and be thankfu' and proud for all the years to come." "Oh, I know, mither! But she was young. She must needs wonder what there was in the world outside Marion. I loved her just the same." "But noo that she is hame they tell me that her heid 'tis held perkit and her speech is high and the polished shell is o'er all." Stewart looked away from his mother's frank eyes. He was too honest to argue or dispute. "I love her just the same!" "She ca'd wi' her father at the mill this day, eh? The guidwife said as much." "Aye, in the way o' politeness!" He remembered that the politeness seemed too elaborate, too florid, altiloquent to the extent of insincerity. "To see her again is to love her the more," he insisted. "I have never been to Washington. Probably I'd be able to understand better the manners one is obliged to put on there, if I had been to Washington. I ought to have gone there on my vacation, instead of into the woods. I'm afraid I have been keeping in the woods too much!" "But did she talk high and flighty to you, bairnie?" "It meant nowt except it's the way one must talk when great folks stand near to hear. The Governor was there!" he said, lamely. "That was unco trouble to mak' for hersel' in the hearing o' that auld tyke whose tongue is as rough as his gruntle!" "Still, he's the Governor in spite of his phiz, and that shows her tact in getting on well with the dignitaries, Jeanie Mac Dougal, and you're a woman and must praise the wit of the sex. She has seen much. She has been obliged to do as the others do. But good wool is ne'er the waur for the finish of it! My faith is in her from what I know of the worth o' her in the old days. And now that she has seen, she can understand better. Yes, back here at home she'll be able to understand better. Listen, Jeanie Mac Dougal!" He fumbled in his pocket. "Here's a bit of a poem. I have loved it ever since she recited it at the festival when she was a little girl. You have forgotten--I remember! And here's one verse: "And I think, in the lives of most women and men, There's a moment when all would go smooth and even, If only the dead could find out when To come back and be forgiven." "But I would change it to read, 'If only we all could find out when,'" he proceeded. "It wasn't all her fault, mother. I was younger, then. I'm old enough now to be humble. She is home again, and I'm going to ask to be forgiven!" Then the telephone-bell called. He lifted her gently off his knee and stood up. "As to the lad who is here with his father! Gossip is playing all sorts of capers this day, wee mither! And do not be worried if gossip of another sort comes to you after I'm gone this evening. There may be matters in the city for me to attend to as mayor. If I'm not home you'll know that I'm attending to them." He went to the telephone, replied to an inquiring voice and listened intently, and then he assented with heartiness. "It's Blanchard of the Conawin Mills! He has a bit of business with me and offers to take me along with him to the reception. Tell Jock he'll not have to bother with my car!" he said, coming to her where she waited at the door. She had picked up the slip of paper which he had dropped in his haste to attend to the telephone. "I daured to peep at yer bit poem, Stewart, so that my ear might not seem to be put to o'erhearing your business discourse," she apologized, stanch in her adherence to the rules of the Morrisons. "And I'll tell ye that Jeanie Mac Dougal says aye to one sentiment I hae found in it." "Good! Read it aloud to me, that's my own girlie!" He folded his arms and shut his eyes. She read in tones that thrilled with conviction: "The world is filled with folly and sin And love must cling where it can, I say; For Beauty is easy enough to win, But one isn't loved every day." She tucked the paper into the fingers of his hand that lay lightly along his arm. He opened his eyes and gazed down into her straightforward ones. "Whoever may be the lass my bairnie loves will be honored by that love; aye, and sanctified by that love! And sic a lass will deserve from Jeanie Mac Dougal a smile at our threshold and respect in our hame." She went away. Her eyes were dim with unshed tears; but she held her chin high and trailed her bit of a train with dignity. Morrison folded the paper and put it away. He took a turn up and down the long room, confronting the portrait faces in turn. He eyed them as if he were approaching them on a matter where there now could be a better understanding than on the subject suggested by the slip of paper. "I don't know whether Blanchard ought to be kicked or coddled," he confessed. "He's a fair sample of the rest. They don't kick so often in these days, Grands'r Angus, as you did in yours. On the other hand, Daddy David, there has been too much coddling in this country, lately, by the cowardice of men who ought to know better and the coddling has continued to the hurt of all of us!" He sat down and looked at the clock; the face of that would, at least, tell him something definite: Blanchard said that he was talking from the club, around the corner, and would be along in five minutes. And Blanchard arrived on time! "I suppose I ought to be offended by what you said to me over the 'phone to-day, Morrison. I was hurt, at any rate!" "So was I!" retorted Stewart, promptly. "Hurt and offended, both! So we start from the scratch, neck and neck!" "But why do you assume that attitude on account of what I told you?" "I was obliged to put questions to you in order to get the news that you propose to hitch up with a dominating water-power syndicate!" "Only following out your proposition that we must get down to development in this state." "The development is taking care of itself, Brother Blanchard. As chairman of the water-power commission, I shall submit my report to the incoming legislature. And in that report I propose to make conservation the corollary of development." Blanchard blinked inquiringly. "What do you mean?" "Why, I mean just this! Putting it in business terms, I propose to ask for legislation that will make the public the partners of the men who handle and control the water-power." "I don't know how you're going about to do that in any sensible way," grumbled the other. "There have been a good many rumors about that forthcoming report of yours, Morrison. What's the big notion in keeping it so secret?" "I have been ordered to report to the legislature, Blanchard! I have prepared my case for that general court, and customary deference and common politeness in such matters oblige me to hold my mouth till I do report officially." "Nothing to be hidden, then?" probed the magnate. "Not a thing--not when the proper time comes!" "But we have been left guessing--and I don't like the sound of the rumors. You must expect big interests to get an anchor out to windward. There's no telling what a damphool legislature will do in case a theory is put up and there are no sensible business arguments to contradict it." "As owners of water-power, Blanchard--you and I--let's bring our business arguments into the open this year, in the committee-rooms and on the floor of the House and Senate, instead of in the buzzing-corners of the lobby or down in the hotel button-holing boudoirs! Now we'll get right down to cases! You have been leaving me out of your conferences ever since I refused to drop my coin into the usual pool to hire lobbyists. I take the stand that these times are more enlightened and that we can begin to trust the people's business to the people's general court in open sessions." Blanchard showed the heat of a man whose conscience was not entirely comfortable. "Just what is this _people_ idea that you're making so much of all of a sudden, Morrison? People as partners, people as judges--people--people--" Blanchard hitched over the word wrathfully. "People be damned?" inquired Stewart, with a provocative grin. "There's too much of this soviet gabble loose these days. It all leads to the same thing, and you've got to choke it for the good of this government!" "Right you are to a big extent, Blanchard! But just now we are talking of a vital problem in our own state and it has nothing to do with sovietism." "But you spoke of making the people our partners!" "I merely put the matter to you in a nutshell, for we'll need to be moving on pretty quick!" He glanced at the clock. He threw off his jacket and pulled on his coat. "Partners how?" "It will be explained in my official report, as chairman of the power and storage commission." "I don't relish the rumors about what that report is likely to recommend." "Rumors are prevalent, are they?" "Prevalent, Morrison, and devilish pointed, too!" "I suppose that's why the old horned stags of the lobby are whetting their antlers," surmised Morrison, giving piquant emphasis to his remark by a gesture toward a caribou head, a trophy of his vacation chase. "I have heard a rumor, too, Blanchard. Are they going to introduce legislation to abolish my commission and turn the whole water-power matter over to the public utilities commission?" Blanchard flushed and said he knew nothing about any such move. "I'm sorry that syndicate isn't taking you into their confidence," sympathized Morrison. "I know just how you feel. The boys who ought to train with me are not taking me into their conferences, either!" "You spoke of coming down to cases!" snapped Blanchard, his uneasy conscience getting behind the mask of temper. "I don't ask you to reveal any official report. But can you tell me what this 'people-partners' thing is?" "I can, Blanchard, because it isn't anything that is specifically a part of the report. It's principle, and principle belongs in everything. I merely apply it to the case of water-power in this state." He went close to his caller and beamed down on him in a sociable manner. "I rather questioned my own good taste and the propriety of my effort to get on to the commission and be made its chairman. As an owner of power and of an important franchise I might be considered a prejudiced party. But I hoped I had established a bit of a reputation for square-dealing in business and I wanted to feel that my own kind were in touch with me and would have faith that I was working hard for all interests. You and I can both join in damning these demagogues and radicals and visionaries and Bolshevists. We must be practical even when we're progressive, Blanchard." "Now you're talking sense!" "I hope so!" But his next statement, made while the millman glared and muttered oaths, fell far short of sanity in Blanchard's estimation. "I'm fully convinced that one of the inalienable rights of the people is ownership of water-power. We franchise-proprietors ought to content ourselves with being custodians, managers, lessees of that power that comes from the lakes that God alone owns." "Are you putting that notion in your confounded report?" "I am." "Are you sticking in something about confiscating the coal and the oil and the iron and--" "Oh no!" broke in Morrison, calm in the face of fury. "Those particular packages all seem to be nicely tied up and laid on the shelf out of the people's reach. And whether they are or not is not my concern now. I'm only a little fellow up here in a small puddle, Brother Blanchard. I'm not undertaking the reorganization of the world. I'll say frankly that I don't know just what kind of legislation in regard to the already developed water-power in this state can be passed and be made constitutional. But now when coal is scarcer and high, or monopolized, at any rate, to make it high and scarce in the market, the exploiters are turning to water-power possibilities with hearty hankering, and the people are turning with hope." "I'm afraid I'm getting hunks out of that report of yours, ahead of official time." "You're getting the principle underlying it--and you're welcome." "Morrison, the idea that the people have any overhead right and ownership in franchise-granted and privately developed water-power is ridiculous and dangerous nonsense." "It does sound a bit that way, considering the fact that the people of this state have never even taxed water-power, as such. The ideas of the fathers, who gave away the power for nothing, seem to have come down to the sons, who haven't even woke up to the fact that it's worth taxing--yes, Blanchard, taxing even to the extent that the people will get enough profits from the taxation to make 'em virtual partners! And as to the millions of horse-power yet to be developed, let the profits be called lease-money instead of taxation. Then we'll be going on a business basis without having the matter everlastingly muddled and mixed and lobbied in politics!" Blanchard knew inflexibility when he saw it; and he knew Stewart Morrison when it came to matters of business. He did not attempt argument. "Well, I'll be good and cahootedly condemned!" he exploded. "No, you'll be helped and I'll be helped by putting this on a business basis where the radicals, if they grab off more political power, won't be able to rip it up by crazy methods; the radicals don't know when to stop when they get to reforming." "Radicals! Confound it, it looks to me as if we had one of 'em at the head of that power commission! Morrison, have you turned Bolshevik?" "My friend," expostulated Stewart, gently, "when you opposed the principle of prohibition the fanatics called you 'Rummy.' The name hurt your feelings." "They had no right to impugn my motives!" "Certainly not! It's all wrong to try to turn a trick by sticking a slurring name on to conscientiousness." "You're turning around and hammering your friends and associates, no matter what name you put on it." "It has always been considered perfectly proper to lobby for the big interests in this state for pay! Why shouldn't I lobby for the people for nothing?" "You and I are the people! The business men are the people. The enterprising capitalists who pay wages are the people. The people are--" He halted; the telephone-bell had broken in on him. Morrison apologized with a smile and answered the call. He sprawled in his chair, his elbow on the table, and listened for a few moments. "But don't stutter so, Joe!" he adjured. "Take your time, now, boy! Say it again!" He attended patiently on the speaker. "They won't take your word on the matter, you say? Why, Joe, that's not courteous in the case of an American Legion commander! Hold on! I can't come down there! I have to attend the reception at Senator Corson's." He listened again to what was evidently expostulation and entreaty, and, while he listened, he gazed at the sullen Blanchard with an expression of mock despair. "Joe, just a word for myself," he broke in. "I'm afraid you have pledged me a little too strongly. You went off half cocked this afternoon! Oh no! I don't take it back. I'm not a quitter to that extent. But I really didn't undertake to run the whole state government, you know! Those folks up on Capitol Hill don't need my advice, they think!" With patience unabated he listened again. "If it's that way, Joe, I'll have to come down. I'll certainly never put an honest chap in bad or leave him in wrong, when a word can straighten the thing. Hold 'em there! I'll be right along!" He hung up. "As I was saying," persisted Blanchard, "the people--" Morrison put up his hand and shook his head. "I guess we'd better hang up the joint debate on the people right here, Blanchard! What say if you come along with me and pick up a few facts? The facts may give you a new light on your theories." He hastened to a closet and secured his top-coat and his silk hat. "Come where?" "Down to the Central Labor Union hall. There's a big crowd waiting there." Blanchard surveyed his own evening apparel in a mirror. "I'm headed for a reception--not the kind I'd get as the head of the Conawin corporation from a labor crowd." "Nevertheless, I urge you to come with me. I believe that a little contact with the people in this instance will clear your thoughts." "Another one of your riddles!" snorted the manufacturer. "What's it all about?" "Blanchard," declared Morrison, setting his jaws grimly while he pondered for a moment and then coming out explosively, "it's about what we may expect from the people when damned fools try to play politics according to the old rules in these new times. It's about what we may expect of the people when they're denied a showdown by men at the head of public affairs. There's trouble brewing in the city of Marion to-night. What would you do if you happened to glance out of your office window and saw a leak spurting big as a lead-pencil from the base of the Conawin dam? You'd know the leak would be as big as a hogshead in a few minutes, wouldn't you?" "Yes!" admitted the other. "You'd get to that leak and plug it mighty quick, wouldn't you?" "No need to ask!" "Well, this is a hurry call and I need your help." "I don't stand in well with the labor crowd--" demurred Blanchard. "I know all that! You're hiring too many aliens and Red radicals in your mill! But you ought to have some influence with your own gang, such as they are! I suspect that they're the leading trouble-makers down in that hall. Blanchard, if you're not afraid of your own men, come along!" He clapped the millman on the shoulder and led the way toward the door. "If there are scalawags starting that 'state steal' howl again somebody ought to tell 'em that there are three machine-guns and plenty of loaded rifles on Capitol Hill to-night, and the men behind 'em propose to shoot to kill," stated Blanchard, vengefully, shaking his silk hat. Morrison whirled on him. "You're just the man to go down there and tell 'em so! You probably have inside information. All I know is hearsay! I'll advise 'em and you threaten 'em. Come along, Blanchard! We'll make a good team!" V THE MEN WHO WERE WAITING TO BE SHOWN While Commander Lanigan talked with the mayor from a telephone-booth in a drug-store under Central Labor Union hall, Post-Adjutant Demeter stood with his nose pressed against the glass door, waiting anxiously. Lanigan pushed open the door with one hand while he hung up the receiver with the other, and by his precipitate exit nigh bowled his adjutant over; Mr. Lanigan, it was plain to be seen, was wound up tightly that evening and his mainspring was operating him by jumps. "He's the boy! He's coming! Tell the world so! And I'll go back up-stairs and tell them blistered sons o' seefo that there are such things as truth and a bar o' soap in this country, spite o' the fact they have never used either one!" Demeter followed his commander into the street. In spite of his haste, Lanigan was halted; he gazed up into the heavens, his breath streaming on the crackly-cold air. The skies were blazing with shuttlings of lambent flame. From nadir to zenith the mystic light shivered and sheeted. Never had Lanigan beheld a more vivid display of the phenomenon of the aurora borealis. He seemed to be waiting for something. He sighed and shook his head. "Peter, my heart jumped at first glimpse! 'Tis like the flash of the Argonne big guns! Thank God, the thunder of 'em isn't following!" "Yes, thank God!" murmured Demeter, his soul in his tones! They stood there for a few minutes, shoulder to shoulder, the contact of arm with arm serving for an exchange of thoughts between those veterans in a silence that would have been profaned by words. The phantasmagoria overhead was shifting infinitely and rapidly; there were flashes that seemed to presage a thunderous roar of an explosion and were more bodeful because the hush aloft in the heavenly spaces remained unbroken; then the filaments and streamers of light made one mighty oriflamme across the skies, an expanse of woven hues, wavering and lashing as if a great wind were threshing across the main fabric and flinging its attendant bannerets. "It's in the air; it's in the nerves! It puts hell into a man, doesn't it, Peter?" "Yes!" "It was in that telephone back there! It crackled and snapped! A lot of it may be in those poor fools up in that hall--and they ain't knowing what the matter is with 'em! You and I have been over in the Big Bow-wow, boy, and we have had some good lessons in how to handle rattled nerves. I guess it's up to us to hold things steady, as experts. Soothe 'em and smooth 'em! It was All-Wool Morrison's lesson to me to-day! Soft and careful with 'em, seeing that they're full of what's in the air this night, and don't know just what ails 'em!" He lowered his gaze from the skies. A man was passing on his way toward the door of the hall. Lanigan had just laid down a general rule of diplomatic conduct for the evening, but he made a prompt exception. He leaped on the man, struggled with him for a moment, and yanked off a red necktie, taking with it the man's collar and a part of his shirt, "But some stuff that they're full of can't be smoothed out--it's got to be whaled out!" panted Lanigan. He did not release his captive. "The nerve o' ye, parading your red wattles on a night like this, ye Tom Gobbler of a Bullshevist!" "I have the right to pick the color of my own necktie!" snarled the man. "Not for the reason why you picked it! Not to wear it up into that hall, my bucko boy!" When the man expostulated with oaths, Lanigan tripped him and held him on the sidewalk. "Hush your yawp! You can't fool me about your taste in ties! I know what's behind that color like I'd know what's behind an Orangeman's yellow! I don't need to wait for him to hooray for the battle o' the Boyne ere I get my brick ready! Peter, frisk his pockets!" Demeter obeyed. A crowd was collecting. Through the press rushed a young man. "Need help, Commander?" "Only keep your eye peeled to see that another Bullshevist don't sneak up and kick me from behind, after the like o' the breed!" Demeter's exploration produced a bulldog revolver, a slungshot, a packet of pamphlets, and several small red flags. "What's your name?" demanded the commander. "No business of yours!" Lanigan kneeled on the captive and roweled cruel thumbs into the man's neck. "Out with it before I dig deeper for it." "Nicolai Krylovensky!" "I knew it must be bad, but I didn't think it was as bad as that! I don't blame ye for trying to keep it mum! And ye look as though it tasted bitter coming up. I'll not poison me own mouth." He stood up and yanked the man to his feet. "So I'll call ye Bill the Bomber! Where do ye work, or don't ye work?" "Conawin!" "I thought so! One of that bunch down there that's trying to undermine the best government on the face of the earth. Come along! I've got a bit o' business on hand right now and I need you in it." Then he turned, pushing the man ahead of him. Lanigan became aware that the young fellow who had proffered aid was muttering in a derogatory fashion. "What's on your mind, Jeff?" demanded the commander, recognizing a member of the post. "Nothing!" "I'm in an inquiring turn o' mind right now," rasped Lanigan. "And ye have just seen me go after information. I heard ye damning something. Ye'd best make me understand that you wasn't damning _me_!" "I sure wasn't, sir! But as for this government being the best, I want to say--" Lanigan's yelp broke in like an explosion. "Hold this Bullshevist, Peter! I want both hands free!" "I wasn't saying anything against our government, Commander Lanigan! Not a word!" wailed the overseas man. "So help me!" "I'm in a soothing frame of mind this night," returned the ex-sergeant. "I have been having some good lessons in soothing from the mayor of Marion, God bless him! I was nigh making a fool of myself till he showed me that the soothing way is the best way. And I shall keep right on soothing. But this is a night when the plain truth and the word of man-to-man have got to operate to prevent trouble! And I want the truth out o' ye, Jeff Tolson, or else ye'll be calling for toast, well soaked, in the hospital in the morning!" "I went up to one of them sissy slackers--" "Mind the kind of a name ye stick on to a soldier of the government! Do ye see who's listening?" He grabbed his prisoner again and shook him. "Be careful of what you say as an American citizen in the hearing of rats like this, Tolson! It encourages 'em. They think we mean it. Get the bile out of your system in a strictly family fuss! Spit out a lot you don't mean, if it's going to make you feel better! But first slam down the windows so that the outsiders can't overhear. I'll see you later!" "But I want you to get me right, Commander," Tolson pleaded. "I went up to one of the boys to show him how to hold his gun and he banged me with the butt of it!" "He did!" Lanigan clicked his teeth and showed that he was having hard work to control his own resentment. "I was only trying to be helpful. I tried to take his gun and show him. And he insulted an overseas veteran!" Lanigan had himself in hand again. "Tried to take away his gun, you say! You in civics and he in uniform and on duty! Jeff, if it's that hard to wake up and know that you're no longer a soldier, I reckon your wrist-watch is acting too much like a reminder-string around a Jane's finger! Better hang it from the end of your nose. It's a wonder he didn't give you the bayonet!" "The butt was aplenty, sir!" "I can stand it better to be banged on the knob by a gun-butt by a good American than batted in the eye by this color on a Bullshevist!" asserted Lanigan, waving the red necktie that he still retained in his clutch. He gave the owner of it another push. "Along with you, Bill the Bomber." Tolson trailed. "But what are they trying to do up on Capitol Hill, sir? What does it all mean?" "I don't know," confessed the commander. He drove his way through the bystanders. "You see, boys, I have started in along the way of telling the truth to-night. So I own up that I don't know! We're going to find out what it means!" He kept on toward the door of the hall with his prisoner. "I've arranged to have a man come down here and tell us what it means and tell us how to act." "Well, he'll know more than anybody else I have tackled on the subject to-night," said Tolson, sourly. "He's a wonder, if he does know!" "He's All-Wool Morrison--and that's your answer, buddie," retorted Lanigan. And that answer did seem to suffice for Tolson. There were many men on the stairs leading up to the hall, and the elbowing throng at the door of the auditorium furnished further evidence of the overflowing nature of the gathering. "Gangway!" commanded Lanigan at the top of his voice. "Make way, there! I'm bringing something straight in my mouth and something crooked in my mit, and neither one of 'em will ye have till free passage is made to the platform." The crowd's curiosity served effectively to clear that passage. Lanigan's captive went along, sullenly unresisting. There was no opportunity for rebellion in that mob that opened a narrow passage grudgingly, only to pack together again in a solid mass. But certain men whom Krylovensky passed or men who caught his eye by swift motions spat whispers at him in a language that Lanigan did not understand. "Is it three cheers that your brother rattlesnakes are giving ye in the natural hissing way of 'em?" inquired the captor. "They're a fine bunch!" With his hand twisted tightly into the slack of the man's coat and the torn shirt, the ex-sergeant forced the prisoner up the short stairs that conducted to the platform; Demeter followed. Tobacco smoke streamed up in whirls from the banked faces that filled the hall from side to side, and the eddying clouds floated in strata above the rows of heads. Lanigan peered sternly at the crowd through the haze. "Here I am back! And I'm thanking the good saints for the few mouthfuls of fresh air I got outside and the news I got, and for this here I found and fetched along. I need him. I was on a jury once, in a murder case, and they had the tool that done the job and the lawyers tagged it Exhibit A. This is it! He's got a name, but if I tried to say it, it would cramp my jaws and hold my mouth open so long that I'd get assifixiated with this smoke. This is Bill the Bomber! Demeter, hold up the goods we found on him!" The post-adjutant obeyed the order. "Now, Bill the Bomber," demanded Lanigan, "tell me and the bunch what's the big idea of the arsenal, in a peaceful American city?" "Is it peaceful?" screamed the captive, at bay. "There are soldiers marching with guns. There are men threatening and cursing! There are--" "Hold right on--right where you are! Are you naturalized?" "No!" "Well, let me tell you, you red-gilled Bullshevist, that till you're a voting American citizen, our private and personal and strictly family rows are none of your damn' business! All American citizens kindly applaud!" He was answered by cheers, stamping feet, and clapping hands. "Contrary-minded?" he invited in the silence that followed. "Hiss a few hisses, you snakes!" he urged. "Or show those red flags you're carrying in your pockets!" There was no demonstration, either by act or by word. Lanigan pushed his captive to the rear of the platform and jolted him down into a chair behind which, on the wall, was draped a large United States flag. "Set there and see if you can't absorb a little of the white and blue into your system, along with the red that's already there," counseled the patriot. "You're going to hear some man-talk in a little while, and I hope 'twill do you good!" A man in the audience rose to his feet when Lanigan marched back to the front of the rostrum. "I am a voter here, yet I was born in another country. Will you allow me to ask a question, Commander Lanigan?" "Sure! But let's start even on names. What's yours?" "Otto Weisner!" Lanigan made a grimace. "But even at that I'm going to keep my word and I call on all present to back me up." "See here!" bawled a voice from a far corner. "Let that Hun wait! How about your word to us in another matter? Where's the mayor of Marion?" "The mayor of Marion is on his way to this hall!" The soldier's face was set into a grim expression and deep ridges lined his jaws. "I gave you all once to-night his word to me that he'd stand up for us on Capitol Hill, whatever it is they're trying to put over. I got the hoot from you when I said it. You wouldn't take my word and I just told him so. Now he's coming down here for himself! I say it. If some gent would like to hoot another hoot on that subject will he kindly step up here and hoot?" He doubled his fists. There was no indication that anybody wanted to accept the invitation. "Very well, then!" proceeded Lanigan. "I'm in a soothing frame of mind, myself, and I hope you're all soothed, too. And so that we won't be wasting any time on a busy evening I'll state that the meeting is now open for that question, Mister Weisner. Shoot!" VI THE MAN'S WORD OF THE MAYOR OF MARION Commander Lanigan had constituted himself the presiding officer of the assemblage that had been gathered under no special auspices and by no formal call. It was a flocking together of those uneasy persons who had been informing one another that they wanted to be shown! Mr. Lanigan's unconventional methods in the chair were tolerated because he had displayed much alacrity in putting the mob in the way of securing information from such high authority as the mayor of Marion. Chairman Lanigan's compelling methods in pumping this time-filler kept up the interest of the auditors. "I belong to der Socialist party," stated Weisner. "We don't want no Boche speeches!" warned a voice. In his absorption in affairs, Lanigan was still hanging on to the captured red necktie. He noted that fact and held the danger signal aloft. "I don't approve of this color at this time," he remarked. "But when I have seen it waved in times past I have known that it meant a blast going off or a train coming on, and I have never taken foolish chances. Does the objecting gent down there in the corner need any further instruction from here, or shall I come down and whisper in his ear?" Silence assured him and again he ordered Mr. Weisner to ask his question. The querist ceased from showing deference to the volunteer in the chair; Weisner turned his back on Lanigan and addressed all in hearing, shaking his fist over his head: "Who tells me dis vhat I don'd know? Does Karl Trimbach his seat haf in der State House vhere der Socialists haf elected him?" "If he has been elected, sure he'll have his seat," declared Lanigan, loyally. "That's the way we do things in this country! Why shouldn't he have his seat?" "Den vhere--vhere is dot zertificate dot should show to Karl Trimbach dot he shall valk into der State House und sit on his seat? He don't get it. Why don'd dey send it?" Weisner bellowed his questions. He threshed his arms wildly about him. "This is no time to be starting anything, Weisner! Don't stand there and be a Dutch windmill--be an American citizen! Soothe yourself!" Another gentleman arose. He was distinctly Hibernian. He wore an obtrusive ribbon-knot of green, white, and yellow, the colors of the flag of the Irish Republic. "Lanigan, ye may not be able to reply satisfact'rily to th' questions o' the sour-krauters, but when I ask ye whether or not the Hon'rable Danyel O'Donnell, riprisent'thive-ilict, put in that high office be th' votes o' th' Marion pathrits of a free Ireland, takes his sate, what does th' blood o' yer race say to me?" Lanigan blinked and hesitated. He felt the sudden Celtic surging of a natural impulse to run with his kind, to swing the cudgel valiantly for the cause, and to ask questions after the shindy was over. "You know th' principles o' th' Hon'rable O'Donnell," insisted the speaker in loud tones. "Tis his intint to raise his voice in th' halls o' state and shout ear-rly and late, 'Whativer it is ye're about, gents, it all may be very well, but what will ye be doing for the cause o' free Ireland?' That's th' kind of a hero we're putting in th' State House en the hill." "Putting a pest there, ye mean!" returned Lanigan. "Is that the blood o' yer race speaking?" "No, it's the common sense up here," declared the commander, tapping his knuckles against the side of his head. "Look, here, Mulcahy, my man! You're spouting about a subject that's too big for me to understand or you to explain. And that's why you're muddling yourself and mixing up the minds of others with your questions. I ask you no questions. I'm going to tell you something--and it's so! If the kids in your family was down with the measles, and the missus was all snarled up with the tickdoolooroo and you wasn't feeling none too well yourself, what with a hold-over, a black eye, and a lot o' bumps, what would you--Hold on! I say, I ask no questions! I know the answer. If Tommy O'Rourke came howling and whooping into your back door and asked you to go out and shin up a tree and fetch down his tomcat, ye'd tell Tommy to bounce along and mind his own matters till ye'd settled your own--and if he didn't go you'd kick him out." "I'm discussing th' rights and wrongs of a suffering people." "And playing safe for yourself because the subject is so big--and putting others in wrong because they can't settle all the troubles of the universe offhand to suit ye! My family is America, Mulcahy! It ought to be yours, first, last, and all the time. But we've got our own aches to mind, right now! And the way I'm putting it, a plain man can understand. If the tomcat don't know enough to come down all by himself, leave him be up there till the doctor tells us we can be out and about." Weisner put his demand again and Mulcahy made the affair a vociferous duet; other men were on their feet, shouting. But a top sergeant has a voice of his own and a manner to go with the voice: Lanigan yelled the chorus into silence. While he was engaged in this undertaking a diversion at the door assisted him. The crowd parted. Men shouted, pleading, "Make way for the mayor!" Morrison came up the aisle toward the platform, Blanchard at his heels. There were cheers--plenty of them! But sibilantly, steadily, ominously the derogatory hisses were threaded with the frank clamor of welcome; hisses whose sources were concealed. The mayor ran up the steps of the platform and marched to Lanigan, doffing the silk hat and extending his hand cordially. With his forearm the commander scrubbed off the sweat that was streaming down into his eyes. "It's been like hauling a seventy-five into action with mules, Your Honor! For the love o' Mike, shoot!" The hisses continued along with the applause when Stewart faced the throng. Lanigan leaped off the platform, not bothering with the stairs. "I'm going to wade through this grass," he yelped. "God pity the rattlesnake I locate!" A shrill voice from somewhere dared to taunt, "Pipe the dude!" Morrison smiled. He had unbuttoned his top-coat, and his evening garb, in that congress of the rough and ready, made him as conspicuous as a bird of paradise in a rookery. "I seem to be double-crossed by my scenic effects, Blanchard," he stated in an aside to the magnate, who had stepped upon the platform because that elevation seemed safer than a position on the floor. "We must fix that! Furthermore, it's hot up here!" He pulled off his top-coat. He realized that the full display of his formal dress only aggravated the situation. In St. Ronan's mill he mingled with men in his shirt-sleeves. He turned and saw Nicolai Krylovensky in the chair where Lanigan had thrust him. There was no other chair on the platform. Stewart hastily laid the coat across the alien's knees. "Keep 'em out of the dirt for me, will you, brother? I'm notional about good cloth!" He pushed his silk hat into the man's hand and then he stripped off the claw-hammer and white waistcoat, piled them upon the overcoat; and whirled to face his audience. All eyes were engaged with the mayor. Krylovensky, unobserved, let the garments slip to the floor and dropped the hat. "Now, boys, we'll get down to business together in an understanding way! What's it all about?" Stewart invited, cheerily. "Just a minute!" cried Lanigan, heading off all the possibilities that were threatening by a general powwow. "I've just been up against the bunch here, Mister Mayor, and they're trying to turn it into a congress-of-nations debate, and it ain't nothing of the kind. And I know you're in a hurry, and we don't expect a speech!" "You won't get one!" retorted the mayor, tartly. "I have dropped down here merely in a business way to find out what's wanted of me as the executive head of this city." "Your Honor, I have been preaching the notion of telling the truth to-night, and I'm going to come across with something about myself," confessed Lanigan, manfully. "I've gone off half cocked twice to-day. I've been thinking it over and I realize it. In your office I grabbed in on a word or two you said and took it for granted that you were going to lift the whole load of the people's case up at the State House and stop anything being put over on the people, whatever it is the Big Boys are planning. But you didn't promise me to do it." "I did not, Joe!" "And I've been telling this gang that you did promise me and that I'd get you down here to back up my word. I don't ask you to back up my lie. You're too square a proposition, Mayor Morrison!" "After that man-talk, Joe, I've just naturally got to make a little of my own. And the boys can't help seeing that both you and I mean all right. I did give you good reasons for jumping at conclusions as you say you did, Joe! Understand that, boys! But my head isn't swelled to the extent that I believe I can settle everything. "Now that I'm down here I'll say this. I'll do everything I can, as mayor of Marion, to straighten things out to-night so that the people won't be left guessing. Guessing starts gabble and gabble starts trouble! Don't do any more shouting about 'state steal,' and don't allow others to shout. Most of us don't know what it means, anyway, and others don't care, so long as it gives 'em a chance to stir up riots and grab off something for themselves under cover of the trouble. There are a lot of outsiders in this country, standing ready to make just such plays! Don't let your ears be scruffed by mischief-makers, boys. Let's have our city come through with a clean name! I'm going to do my part as best I can. But you've all got to do yours--understand that!" He smacked his fist down into his palm. "Do you bromise me dot Karl Trimbach gets dot seat?" boomed Mr. Weisner. "The same question goes as to th' Hon'rable Danyel O'Donnell," said Adherent Mulcahy. "I cannot promise." Then sounded that voice of the unknown troublemaker, sneeringly shrill, the senseless, passion-provoking common, human fife of the mob spirit, persistently present and consistently cowardly in concealment. "Of course you don't promise anything to the people! Dudes stand together! Go back and dance!" Lanigan began to claw a passage for himself. "Stand where you are, Joe!" commanded Stewart. "Don't flatter a fool by making any account of him!" "Those kinds of fools are going to make trouble in this city before the night is over, Your Honor!" "That's the trouble with politics," declared Mulcahy. "Ye can't get a square promise in politics fr'm th' Big Boys!" Morrison put up a monitory forefinger. "But you can get a square promise from me in business--and I can see that it's time to give that promise and make it specific. That's the way a business contract must be drawn. Hear me, then! It's the business of this city to see that no man abuses its good name or its hospitality, no matter whether he's a resident or comes here because it's the capital of the state. And I'll see to it that the men up at the State House end understand that they must play fair for the good of all of us. You must understand the same at this end. I'll take no sides in politics. The men who are entitled to their seats in this legislature will have those seats. I'm only one man, boys! But one man who is perfectly honest and is depending on the right will find the whole law of the land behind him--and wise men and good men have attended to the law. Will you take my word and let it stand that way between us?" A chorused yell of assent greeted him. "All right! It's a contract! Mind your end of it!" He turned sharply from them and faced Krylovensky. The alien leaped up and kicked the mayor's garments to one side. "Say! See here, my friend!" expostulated Stewart. "Down with rulers!" screamed the man. "I'll be a martyr, but not a hat-rack!" The mayor walked toward the frantic person. "I'm sorry! I was thoughtless!" "You and your kind think of nothing but yourselves. You try to make slaves of free citizens of the world!" Krylovensky had been buffeted and had controlled himself. But the fires of his narrow fanaticism were now whirling in his brain; sitting there on high before the eyes of his fellows, the men to whom he had been preaching the doctrines of soviet sovereignty--the supremacy of the people--he had just suffered what his distorted views held as the enormity of ignominy; he had been used as a clothes-tree for discarded garments. Used by a ruler! When Morrison, not realizing that the man had become little short of a maniac, stooped to pick up the garments Krylovensky dove forward and struck the mayor's face with open hand. "Now throw me to your dogs! I'll die a martyr to my cause!" he squalled. The mayor snapped upright and laid restraining hands on the man who was threatening him with doubled fists. A roaring mob came milling toward the platform. "I'll be a martyr!" insisted the alien. "I can't humor you to that extent," replied Morrison, in the tone of a father denying indulgence in the case of a wilful child. He got between the man and the mob. He held Krylovensky from him with one hand and put up the other protestingly, authoritatively. "No man that's a real man lets another man bang him in the face," declared Lanigan with fury. "That's a nice point, to be argued later by us when things are quieter, Joe. Stand back!" "I'm going to kill him even if you haven't got the grit to do it." Lanigan was showing the bitter disappointment of a worshiper kicking among the fragments of a shattered idol. "I won't allow you to do that, Joe! A dead man can't answer questions. Stand back, all of you, I say!" He twisted the grip of his hand in the man's collar until Krylovensky ceased his struggles. "Do you work in this city?" asked the mayor. "He works in the Conawin," shouted Lanigan. "And I shook him down this evening for a gun, a knob-knocker, and a lot of red flags." Blanchard was backed against the big Stars and Stripes, apprehensively seeking refuge from the crowd massing on the platform. Morrison caught his eye. "Seems to be one of your patriots, Blanchard! Shall I hand him over to you?" "I never saw the renegade before." "I'm sorry you don't get into your mill the way I do into mine. I'd like to know something about this gentleman who doesn't show any inclination to speak for himself." "I'm not afraid to speak," declared the captive, all cautiousness burned out of him by the fires of his martyr zeal. "I'm an ambassador of the grand and good Soviet Government of Russia." The mayor preserved his serenity. "Ah, I think I understand! One of the estimable gentlemen who have been coming to us by the way of the Mexican border of late! When you picked up such a good command of our language, my friend, it's too bad you didn't pick up a better understanding of our country. I haven't any time just now to give you an idea of it, sir. I'll have a talk with you to-morrow." The mayor had seen Officer Rellihan at the door of the hall. As a satellite, Rellihan was constant in his attendance on his controlling luminary in public places, even though the luminary issued no special orders to that effect; Morrison's intended visit to the hall had been quickly advertised down-town. Stewart glanced about him and found Rellihan at his elbow. "Here's the honorable ambassador of Soviet Russia, Rellihan," said his chief. "Take him along with you, keep harm from him on the way, and see that he is well lodged for the night in a place where enemies can't get at him." "I know just the right place, Your Honor," stated the policeman, pulling his club from his belt and waving it to part the throng. Morrison broke in upon Lanigan's mumbled threats. "Mind your manners, Joe!" "But he hit you!" The mayor picked up his garments, one by one, inspected them, and dusted them with his palm; then he pulled them on. The crowd gazed at him. "He hit you!" Lanigan insisted, bellicosely. "When a man hits me, I lick him!" "You're a good fighter, Joe," agreed His Honor, running his forearm about his silk hat to smooth the nap. "But let me tell you something! Unless you put yourself in better shape there'll be a fellow some day that you'll want to lick, and you won't be able to lick him, and you'll be almighty sorry because you can't turn the trick." "Show me the feller, Mister Mayor!" "Go look in the glass, Joe." "Lick myself--is that what you mean, sir?" "Sure! If you can do it when it ought to be done, you'll have the right to feel rather proud of yourself." He invited Blanchard with a side wag of his head and led the way from the hall. "Morrison, let me say this," blurted the mill magnate, when they were on their way in the limousine. "By reason of this people-side-partner notion of yours, you have gone to work and got yourself into an infernal fix. How do you expect to make good that promise?" "I suppose I did sound rather boastful, but I had to put it strong. A mealy-mouthed promise wouldn't hold them in line!" "But that promise only encourages such muckers in the belief that they have a right to demand, to boss their betters, to call for accountings and concessions. You have put the devil into 'em!" "I hope not! Faith in a contract--that's what I tried to put into 'em. They'll wait and let me operate!" "Operate! You're one man against the whole state government and you're defying single-handed the political powers! You can't deliver the goods! That gang down-town will wait about so long and then 'twill be hell to pay to-night!" Morrison had found his pipe in his overcoat pocket. He was soothing himself with a smoke on the way toward the Corson mansion. "But why worry so much when the night is still young?" he queried, placidly. VII THE THIN CRUST OVER BOILING LAVA Senator Corson, at the head of the receiving-line, attended strictly to the task in hand as an urbane and assiduous host. Wonted by long political usage to estimate everything on the basis of votes for and against, he was entirely convinced, by the face of the returns that evening, that the reception he was tendering was a grand success, unanimously indorsed; he would have been immensely surprised to learn that under his roof there was a bitterly incensed, furiously resentful minority that was voting "No!" The "Yes!" was by the applausive, open, _viva voce_ vote of all those who filed past him and shook his hand and thronged along toward the buffet that was operated in _de luxe_ style by a metropolitan caterer's corps of servants. The Senator's mansion was spacious and luxuriously appointed, and the millions from the products of his timber-land barony were lavishly behind his hospitality. Consoled by the knowledge that Corson could well afford the treat, his guests, after that well-understood quality in human nature, relished the hospitality more keenly. At the buffet all the plates were piled high. In the smoking-room men took handfuls of the Senator's cigars from the boxes. And the pleasantry connected with Governor Lawrence North's custom in campaigning was frequently heard. It was related of North that he always thriftily passed his cigars by his own hand and counseled the recipient: "Help yourself! Take all you want! Take two!" The guests adopted the comfortable attitude that Corson had dropped down home to Marion to pay a debt which he owed to his constituents, and they all jumped in with alacrity to help him pay it. While the orchestra played and the ware of the buffet clattered, the joyous voices of the overwhelming majority gave Senator Corson to understand that he was the idol of his people and the prop of the state. The minority kept her mouth closed and her teeth were set hard. The minority was racked by agony that extended from finger-tips to shoulder. The minority was distinctly groggy. This minority was compassed in the person of a single young and handsome matron who was Mrs. J. Warren Stanton in her home city Blue Book, and Doris in the family register of Father Silas Daunt, and "Dorrie" in the good graces of Brother Coventry Daunt. In addition she was the close friend, the social mentor, the volunteer chaperon for Lana Corson, whose mother had become voicelessly and meekly the mistress of the Corson mausoleum, as she had been meekly and unobtrusively the mistress of the Corson mansion. Miss Lana had suddenly observed warning symptoms in the case of Mrs. Stanton. Mrs. Stanton, according to a solicitous friend's best judgment, was no longer assisting in the receiving-line; Mrs. Stanton needed assistance! Therefore, sooner than the social code might have permitted in an affair of more rigorously formal character, Lana left the receiving job to her father and the Governor and the aides, and rescued Mrs. Stanton and accompanied the young matron to the sanctuary of a boudoir above-stairs. Mrs. Stanton extended to the tender touch of her maid a wilted hand, lifted by a stiffened arm, the raising of which pumped a groan from the lady. The white glove which incased the hand and arm was smutched liberally in telltale fashion. "Pull it off, Hibbert! But careful! Don't pull off my fingers unless they are very loose and beyond hope. But hurry! Let me know the worst as soon as possible." "I realize that the reception--" began Lana. "Reception!" Mrs. Stanton snapped her head around to survey her youthful hostess. The flame on the matron's cheeks matched the fire in her tones. "Reception, say you? Lana Corson, don't you know the difference between a reception and a political rally?" "I'm sorry, Doris! But father simply must do this duty thing when the legislature meets. The members expect it. It keeps up his fences, he says. It's politics!" "I'm glad my father is a banker instead of a United States Senator. If this is what a Senator has to do when he comes back to his home, I think he'd better stay in Washington and send down a carload of food and stick a glove on the handle of the town pump and let his constituents operate that! At any rate, the power wouldn't be wasted in a dry time!" Lana surveyed her own hand. The glove was not immaculate any more, but it covered a firm hand that was unweary. "Father has given me good advice. It's to shake the hand of the other chap, not let yours be shaken." "Those brutes gave me no chance!" "I noticed that they were very enthusiastic, Doris. I'm afraid you're too handsome!" But that flattery did not placate Mrs. Stanton. "It's only a rout and a rabble, Lana! The feminine element does not belong in it. My father dines his gentlemen and accomplishes his objects. And I think you have become one of these political hypocrites! You actually looked as if you were enjoying that performance down-stairs." "I was enjoying it, Doris! I was helping my father as best I could, and at the same time I was meeting many of my old, true friends. I'm glad to be home again." The girl was unaffectedly sincere in her statement. The glove was off and Mrs. Stanton was surveying her hand, wriggling the fingers tentatively. "And they all seemed so glad to see me that I'm a bit penitent," Lana went on. "I'm ashamed to own up to myself that I have allowed California and Palm Beach to coax me away from Marion these last two winters. I ought to have come down here with father. I'm not talking like a politician now, Doris. Honestly, I'm stanch for old friends!" "I trust you don't think I'm an ingrate in the case of my own old friends, Lana!" Mrs. Stanton, unappeased, was willing to take issue right then with anybody, on that topic. "But the main trouble with old friends is, they take too many liberties. Your old friends certainly did take liberties with my poor hand, and they took liberties with your own private business in my hearing." "How--in what way?" "I overheard persons say distinctly, over and over again, that one feature of this--no, I'll not muddle my own ideas of society functions by calling it a reception--they declared that your father proposes to announce to-night in his home town your engagement to Coventry." The question that she did not put into words she put into the searching, quizzical stare she gave Lana. "Ah!" remarked Miss Corson, revealing nothing either by tone or countenance. "It looks to me as if you've been receiving other lessons from your father, outside of the hand-shaking art. You are about as non-committal as the best of our politicians, Lana dear!" For reply the Senator's daughter smiled. The smile was so ingenuous that it ought to have disarmed the young matron of her petulance. But Mrs. Stanton went on with the sharp insistence of one who had discovered an opportunity and proposed to make the most of it. "Seeing that the matter has come up in this way--quite by chance--" Mrs. Stanton did not even blink when she said it--"though I never would have presumed to speak of it to you, Lana, without good and sufficient provocation--I think that you and Coventry should have confided in me, first of all. Of course, I know well enough how matters stand! I really believe I do! But I think I'm entitled to know, officially, to put it that way, as much as your highly esteemed old friends here in Marion know." "Yes," agreed Miss Corson. "But _first_, Lana dear! To know it first--as a sister should! I'm not blaming you! I realize that you met some of those aforesaid old, true friends while you were out around the city to-day. One does drop confidences almost without realizing how far one goes, when old friends are met. I'm sure such reports as I overheard couldn't be made up out of whole cloth." Mrs. Stanton's air and tone were certainly provoking, but Miss Corson's composure was not ruffled. "Out of the knowledge that you profess in regard to old friends, Doris, you must realize that they are energetic and liberal guessers." She turned toward the door. "Where are you going?" "To my room for a fresh pair of gloves, dear." "Do you mean to tell me that you're going back for another turn among those jiu-jitsu experts?" "We're to have dancing later." "For myself, I'd as soon dance with performing bears. I must be excused. I'll do anything in reason, but I have reached my limit!" Lana walked back to her, both hands extended. "You have been a dear martyr to the cause of politics. But now you are going to be the queen of our little festival. Listen, Doris! All the political buzzing bees will be thinning out, right soon. Those elderly gentlemen from the country who shook hands with a good Grange grip--they'll be wanting to get plenty of sleep so as to be wide awake to-morrow to hear the Governor's inaugural address. The other vigorous gentlemen who are so deeply in politics will be hurrying back to their hotels for their caucuses, or whatever it is they have to attend to in times like these. And the younger folks, who have no politics on their minds, will stay and enjoy themselves. There are some really dear folks in Marion!" "I thank you for the information," returned Mrs. Stanton, dryly. "It's important if true. But there's other information that's more important in my estimation just now and you don't allow me the opportunity to thank you for it." "I have been thinking, Doris! I really don't feel in the mood, when all those friends are under my roof, to stand here and brand them as prevaricators. Mayn't we let the matter stand till later?" "Until after it has been officially announced?" queried Mrs. Stanton, sarcastically. "I'm afraid that father's lessons have trained me better in political methods than I have realized," said Lana, meekly apologetic. "Because, right now, I'm obliged to run the risk of offending you, Doris, by quoting him and making his usual statement my rule of conduct." "Well?" "'Nothing can be officially declared until all the returns are in.'" "What am I to understand from that?" "It isn't so awfully clear, I know! But let's not talk any more about it." Lana had dropped her friend's hands. She took them again in her grasp and swung Mrs. Stanton's arms to and fro in girlish and frolicsome fashion. "Now go ahead and be your own jolly Doris Stanton! You're going to meet folks who'll understand you and appreciate all your wit. One especially I'll name. I don't know why he's so late in coming, for he had a special invitation from my own mouth. He's the mayor of Marion!" "What?" demanded Mrs. Stanton, irefully, pulling away from the girl who was trying to coax back good nature. "Picking out another politician for my special consideration, after what I have been through?" "Oh, he's not a politician, Doris dear! Father says he isn't one; he says so himself and his party newspaper here in the city says regularly that he isn't, in a complimentary way, and the opposition paper says so in a sneering way--and I suppose that makes the thing unanimous. He is one of my oldest friends; he was my hero when I was a little girl in school; he is tall and big and handsome and--" Mrs. Stanton narrowed her eyes. She broke in impatiently on the panegyric. "I'm so thoroughly disgusted with the ways of politics, Lana, that I draw the line at a speech of nomination. You said you'd name him! Who is he?" "Stewart Morrison." "I thought so!" Mrs. Stanton's tone was vastly significant. Lana flushed. The composure that she had been maintaining was losing its serenity and her friend noted that fact and became more irritable. "My dear Lana, I gathered so much enlightenment from the twittering of those old friends of yours down-stairs that you'll not be obliged, I think, to break your most excellent rule of reticence in order to humor my impertinent curiosity in this instance!" "Don't be sarcastic with me, Doris! I don't find it as funny as when you're caustic with other folks." "There does seem to be a prevailing lack of humor in the affairs of this evening," acknowledged Mrs. Stanton. "We'll drop the subject, dear!" "I don't like you to feel that I'm putting you to one side as my dearest friend--not in anything." "If you haven't felt like being candid with me in a matter where I'd naturally be vitally interested, I can hardly expect you to pour out your heart about a dead-and-gone love-affair with a rustic up in these parts. I understood from the chatter of your old friends that it _is_ dead and gone. I can congratulate you on that proof of your newer wisdom, Lana. It shows that my counsels haven't been entirely wasted on you." "It was dead and gone before you began to counsel me, Doris. It's not a matter of withholding confidence from you. Why should I talk about such things to anybody?" "Oh, a discreet display of scalp-locks decorates a boudoir and interests one's friends," vouchsafed the worldly matron. "Such confidences are atrocious!" Miss Corson displayed spirit. "Now both of us are getting peppery, dear Lana, and I always reserve that privilege exclusively for myself in all my friendly relations. I have to keep a sharp edge on my tongue because folks expect me to perform the social taxidermy in my set, and it's only brutal and messy if done with a dull tool. Run and get your gloves! But take your own time in returning to me. There are still two of my fingers that need a further period of convalescence." Mrs. Stanton promptly neglected her duties as a finger nurse the moment Miss Corson was out of the room. "Hibbert, ask one of the servants to find my brother and tell him I want to see him here. He will undoubtedly be located in some group where there is a rural gentleman displaying the largest banner of beard. My brother has an insatiable mania for laying bets with sporting young men that he can fondle any set of luxuriant whiskers without giving the wearer cause for offense." Coventry answered his sister's call with promptitude. "I'll keep you only a moment from your whisker-parterres, Cov! When you go back into that down-stairs garden please give some of those beards a good hard yank for my sake." But young Mr. Daunt was serious and rebuked her. "This isn't any lark we're on up here, Dorrie! Dad needs to have everybody's good will and I'm doing my little best on the side-lines for him. And he isn't tickled to pieces by your quitting. It's a big project we're gunning through this legislature!" "It may be so! It probably is! But I'm not sacrificing four fingers, a thumb, and a perfectly good arm for the cause and I'm not allowing public affairs to take my mind wholly off private matters. So here's at it! Are you and Lana formally engaged?" "Well, I must say you're not abrupt or anything of the sort!" "Certain semi-coaxing methods haven't seemed to succeed, and therefore I'm shooting the well, as our oil friend Whitaker puts it!" "Simply for the sake of keeping our affectionate brother-and-sister relations on the safe and approved plane, I'll say it's none of your blamed business," declared Coventry. "On the other hand, in a purely tolerant and friendly way, I'll say that Lana and I are proceeding agreeably, I think, and dad told me the other day that the Senator talked as if the matrimonial bill might receive favorable consideration when duly reported from committee--meaning Lana and myself and--" "Gas!" broke in Mrs. Stanton. "I shot and I get only gas! I'm looking for oil! Is there an actual and formal engagement, I ask?" "Oh, say!" expostulated her brother, registering disgust. "The motion pictures have spoiled that sort of thing. They have to propose bang outright in the films because the fans can't be bothered by the nuances of courtship. But for a chap to get down on his knees these days in real life would make the girl laugh as loud as the fans would whoop if the hero in reel life stood on his head and popped the question. Nothing of that kind of formal stuff in my case, sis! Of course not!" "There better be! You go ahead this very night and attend to it!" "Where do you get your appointment as general manager of the matter, Dorrie? You certainly don't get it from me!" "Leaving it to be inferred--" "I leave nothing to be inferred," declared her brother, righteously indignant. "Dorrie, you absolutely must get off that habit of carving your own kin in order to keep up the edge of your tongue. I wouldn't as much as intimate it, by denying it, that you get your meddling commission from Lana. If this is all you wanted to talk about, I'll have to be going. This is my busy evening!" "Just one moment! It's always the busiest man who has time to attend to one thing more! I'm assuming that you love Lana." "Conceded! You always did have a good eye in that line, Dorrie!" "Then my advice, as an expert, ought to be respected. You go ahead and get a promise from Lana Corson. Then you'll have somebody working for your interests day and night." "Who?" "Her New England conscience!" Young Mr. Daunt gave his sister a long, searching, and sophisticated stare. "I think I have a little the advantage of you, Dorrie. I met to-day this Mr. Stewart Morrison you're speaking of!" "I haven't spoken of him! I haven't mentioned his name!" "Oh, didn't you?" purred the brother. "Then I must have anticipated what you were going to say, or else I read your mind for the name--and that only shows that the Daunt family's members are thoroughly _en rapport_, to use dad's favorite phrase when he's showing the strawberry mark on ideas and making the other fellow adopt 'em as his own children. And I have heard how Lana and Morrison have been twice engaged and twice estranged. So, how about her New England conscience in the matter of a promise in love?" "As I understand it, the New England conscience grows up with the possessor and comes of age and asserts itself. You can't expect an infant or juvenile conscience to boss and control like a grown-up conscience. Coventry, what kind of a man is Morrison?" "A big, opinionated ramrod of a Scotchman who'd drive any girl to break her engagement a dozen times if she had promised as often as that." Mrs. Stanton relaxed in her chair and sighed with relief. "Oh, from what she said about him--But no matter! I think you do know men very well, Cov! I'll do no more worrying where he's concerned. Forgive me for advising you so emphatically." "He'd boss any girl into breaking her engagement," continued Coventry, with conviction. "Any dreaming, wondering, restless girl, curious to find out for herself and afraid of restraint." "I know the type. Impossible as husbands," averred Mrs. Stanton, a caustic and unwearying counselor of sex independence. "But there are some girls who grow up into real women, though you probably have hard work to believe that," said her brother, equally caustic in stating his opinions, "and they are waiting for the right man to come along and take sole possession of them, body and soul and affairs--when they are women! Then it isn't bossing any more! It's love, glorified! Letting 'em have their own way would seem like neglect and indifference, and their hearts would be broken. They eat it up, sis, eat it up, that kind of love!" His sister leaped from her chair. "How anybody with an ounce of brains can take stock in this caveman nonsense is more than I can understand!" "It has nothing to do with brains, sis! It's in here!" He tapped his finger on his breast. "It was put in when the first heart started beating." "But you listen to reason! No woman wants a--" He put his hand up and broke in on her furious remonstrance. "If I listen to reason, sis, you'll have me against the ropes in thirty seconds. I admit that there's no reason why a woman should want it that way! Brains can argue us right out of the notion. I won't argue. But I don't want you to think I'm keeping anything away from you that a sister ought to know. As my sister and as Lana's good friend, I'm sure you'll be glad to know that I love her with all my heart and I hope I haven't misunderstood her feelings in regard to me. I don't want to be too complacent, but I think she's still girl enough to welcome my kind of love and to take me for what I am." He and his sister were thoroughly absorbed in their dialogue. Having summed up the situation in his final declaration, he turned hastily to leave the room and was assured, to his dismay, that Miss Corson had heard the declaration; she was at the threshold, her lips apart; she was plainly balancing a desire to flee against a more heroic determination to step in and ignore the situation and the words which had accompanied it. Young Mr. Daunt manfully did his best to get that situation out of the chancery of embarrassing silence. "Lana, the three of us are too good friends to allow this foozle to make us feel altogether silly. Despite present appearances I don't go around making speeches on a certain subject. Nor will I lay it all on Dorrie by saying, 'The woman tempted me and I fell.'" "Yes, we may as well be sensible," affirmed Mrs. Stanton. In spite of her momentary embarrassment her countenance was displaying bland satisfaction. This was an occasion to be grasped. "I'll say right out frankly that I consider I'm one too many in this room just now!" Lana retreated across the threshold. She was distinctly frightened. Young Mr. Daunt laughed and his merriment helped to relieve the situation still more. "Oh, I say, Lana! This isn't a trap set by the Daunts. You come right in! I'm leaving!" "I didn't mean to overhear," the girl faltered. "You and I have nothing to apologize for--either of us! I take nothing back, but this is no kind of a time to go forward. I'd be taking advantage of your confusion." "Well, of all the mincing minuets!" blurted the young matron. "One word will settle it all. I tell you, I'm going!" But Daunt rushed to the door, seized Lana's hands, and swung her into the room. "This is a political night, and we'll go by the rules. The gentleman has introduced the bill and on motion of the lady it has been tabled. But it will be taken from the table on a due and proper date and assigned at the head of the calendar. I think that's the way the Senator would state it. It ought to be good procedure." He released her hands. "And speaking of the calendar, Lana, may I have a peep at your dance-list?" She gave him the engraved card. "All the waltzes for me, eh?" he queried, wistfully. "I note that you're free." "One, please, Coventry--for now! No, please select some of the new dances. You know them all! Some of my Marion friends are old-fashioned and I must humor them with the waltzes." Her hands were trembling. She laughed nervously. "I feel free to task your good nature." "Thank you," he returned, gratefully, accepting the implied compliment she paid him. He dabbed on his initials here and there and hurried away. Mrs. Stanton had plenty of impetuous zeal for all her quests, but she had also abundance of worldly tact. "One does get so tremendously interested in friends and family, Lana! Affection makes nuisances of us so often! But no more about it! I feel quite happy now. I'm even so kindly disposed toward politics that I'm ready to go down and dance for the cause, whatever it is your father and mine are going after. These men in politics--they always seem to me to be like small boys building card houses. Piling up and puffing down! Putting in little tin men and pulling out little tin men. And to judge by the everlasting faultfinding, nobody is ever satisfied by what is accomplished." Miss Corson plainly welcomed this consoling shift from an embarrassing topic. And, in order to get as far from love as possible, she turned to business. When she and her friend descended the broad stairway of the mansion Lana was discoursing on the need of coaxing men of big commercial affairs into politics. Her views were rather immature and her fervor was a bit hysterical, but the subject was plainly more to her taste than that on which Mrs. Stanton had been dwelling. The crowd below them, as they stood for a moment on the landing, half-way down the stairs, gave comforting evidence that it had thinned, according to Lana's prophecy. The receiving-line was broken. Senator Corson was sauntering here and there, saying a word to this one or that in more intimate manner than his formal post in the line permitted. Governor North, also released from conventional restrictions as a hand-shaker, was on his rounds and wagged his coattails and barked and growled emphatically. The word "Law," oft repeated, fitted itself to his growls; when he barked he ejaculated, "Election statutes!" "It's a pity your state is wasting such excellent material on the mere job of Governor, Lana. What a perfectly wonderful warden he would make for your state prison," suggested Mrs. Stanton, sweetly. But she did not provoke a reply from the girl and noted that Lana was frankly interested in somebody else than the Governor. It was a new arrival; his busy exchange of greetings revealed that fact. "Ah! Your dilatory mayor of Marion!" said the matron, needing no identification. Nor did Stewart require any word to indicate the whereabouts of the hostess of the Corson mansion. His eyes had been searching eagerly. As soon as he saw Lana he broke away from the group of men who were engaging him. The Governor accosted Morrison sharply, when the mayor hurried past on the way to the stairway. But again, within a few hours, Stewart slighted the chief executive of the state. "I am late, I fear," he called to Lana, leaping up the stairs. "And after my solemn promise to come early! But you excused me this morning when I was obliged to attend to petty affairs. Same excuse this time! Do I receive the same pardon?" The girl displayed greater ease in his presence at this second meeting. She received him placidly. There were no more of those disconcerting and high-flown forensics in her greeting. There was the winning candor of old friendship in her smile and he flushed boyishly in his frank delight. She presented him to Mrs. Stanton and that lady's modish coolness did not dampen his spirits, which had become plainly exuberant. In fact, he paid very little attention to Mrs. Stanton. "It has got to you, Lana--this coming home again, hasn't it?" he demanded, with an unconventionality of tone and phraseology that caused the metropolitan matron to express her startled emotions by a blink. "I knew it would!" "I am glad to be home, Stewart. But I have been tiring Mrs. Stanton by my enthusiasm on that subject," was her suggestive move toward another topic. "You're in time for the dancing. That's the important feature of the evening." "Certainly!" he agreed. "May I be pardoned, Mrs. Stanton, for consulting my hostess's card first?" He secured Lana's program without waiting for the matron's indifferent permission. "A waltz--two waltzes, anyway!" he declared. "They settle arrearages in your accounts, Lana, for the two winters you have been away. And why not another?" He was scribbling with the pencil. "It will settle the current bill." "It is a business age," murmured Mrs. Stanton, "and collections cannot be looked after too sharply." "Will you not permit me to go in debt to you, madam?" he asked. "I'll be truly obligated if you'll allow me to put my name on your card." "As a banker's daughter, I'll say that the references that have been submitted by Miss Corson in regard to your standing are excellent," said Mrs. Stanton, with a significance meant for Lana's confusion. But while she was detaching the tassel from her girdle Governor North interrupted. He was standing on the stairs, just below the little group. "Excuse me for breaking in on the party, but I'm due at the State House. I'll bother you only a second, Morrison. Then you won't have a thing to do except be nice to the ladies." "I know I'll be excused by them for a few moments, Governor." He started to descend. His Excellency put up his hand. "We can attend to it right here, Mister Mayor!" "But I have a word or two--" "That's all I have!" was the blunt retort. "And I'm in a hurry. Have you got 'em smoothed down, according to our understanding?" "I have, I think! But whether they'll stay smooth depends on you, Governor North!" "And I can be depended on! I told you so at the office." He turned away. "I think I ought to have a few words with you in private, however," Morrison insisted. "That general understanding is all right. But I need to know something specific." The Governor was well down the stairs; he trudged energetically, his coattails wagging in wide arcs. It was not premeditated insolence; it was the usual manner of Lawrence North when he did not desire an interview prolonged to an extent that might commit him. "I'll be at the State House in case there's any need of my attention to something specific. I'll attend to it over the telephone--over the telephone, understand!" The diversion on the stairs had attracted a considerable audience and produced a result that interfered further with Stewart's immediate social plans. Senator Corson came across the reception-hall, beckoning amiably, and the three descended obediently. "Stewart, before you get too deep into the festivities with the girls, I want you to have a bit of a chat with Mr. Daunt. We arranged it, you know." "But Stewart isn't up here to attend to business, father," protested the daughter, with a warmth that the subject of the controversy welcomed with a smile of gratitude. "There is an urgent reason why Mr. Daunt should have a few words with Stewart to-night--before the legislature assembles." The Senator assumed an air of mock autocratic dignity. "I command the obedience of my daughter!" He saw the banker approaching. "I call on you, sir, to put down rebellion in your own family! These daughters of ours propose to spirit away this young gentleman." "I'll keep you from the merrymaking only a few moments, Mayor Morrison," apologized Daunt. "But I feel that it is quite essential for us to get together on that matter we mentioned in the forenoon. I'm sure that only a few words will put us thoroughly _en rapport_." Mrs. Stanton lifted her eyebrows. "That phrase means that father will do the talking, Mister Mayor. I recommend that you go along with him. You won't have to do a thing except listen. You can come later and dance with us with all your energy unimpaired." "Yes!" urged Lana. "The waltzes will be waiting!" "Use my den, Daunt! If I can get away from my gang, here, I'll run in on you," stated the Senator. He smacked his palm on Stewart's shoulder. "I know you always put business ahead of pleasure, though it may be hard to do it in this case, my boy! But after you and my friend Daunt get matters all tied up snug you won't have a thing to do for the rest of the night but enjoy yourself and be nice to the girls--not another thing, Stewart." VIII A ROD IN PICKLE With great promptitude Attorney Despeaux fastened upon Blanchard, of the Conawin, the moment the latter left the company of Mayor Morrison on the arrival of the twain at the Corson mansion; and Mr. Blanchard seemed alertly willing to break off his companionship with the passenger he had brought in his limousine. "What's that bull-headed fool been stirring up down-town?" demanded Despeaux when he had Blanchard safely to himself in a corner. "Have you heard something about it?" "I was called on the 'phone a few minutes ago." "Who called you?" "No matter! But hold on, Blanchard! I may as well tell you that I'm using a part of our fund to have Morrison shadowed. I suppose the reason you went along was to get a line on him. But it was imprudent. It looked like lending your countenance." Blanchard explained sullenly why he did accompany Morrison to the meeting. "Well, I'm glad you were there and heard him inflaming the mob," admitted the syndicate's lobbyist and lawyer. "I want to have Senator Corson fully informed on the point and it will come better from you than from a paid detective. Give it to Corson, and give it to him strong!" "I don't know that I can justly say that he was inflaming the mob," demurred Blanchard. "But you've got to say it! You must make it appear that way! Blanchard, it has come to a clinch and we must smash Morrison's credit in every direction. I didn't realize till to-day that he is out to blow up the whole works. Didn't he preach to you on the text of that infernal people-partner notion of his?" "Yes! He's crazy!" "The people own the moon, if you want to put it that way! But they can't do anything sensible with it, any more than they can with ownership of the state's water-power." The Conawin magnate exhibited bewilderment. "Despeaux, I'm a business man. I suppose you lawyers go to work in a different way than we do in business. But as I have read the propaganda you're putting out--as I understand it--_you_ are shouting for the people's rights, too!" "I am! Strongly! Right out open! I even preached on people's rights to Morrison this very day--and looked him right in that canny Scotch eye of his while I preached. I like to keep in good practice!" "Then why is Morrison so dangerous, if he's only doing what you do?" inquired the business man, with an artlessness that the attorney greeted with an oath. "Because the infernal ramrod means what he says, Blanchard!" "But if you don't mean it--if you have put yourself on record--and if you're obliged to step up and honor the draft you've sanctioned--what's going to happen in the showdown?" Attorney Despeaux moderated his mordancy and became tolerantly patient in enlightening the ignorance of one of his employers. "The people are hungry for some kind of fodder in this water-power proposition. I've been telling all you power-owners so! We'll have to admit it, Blanchard! The time is played out when you can drive the people in this country. You've got to be a nice, kind shepherd and get their confidence and lead 'em. I'm a shepherd! See?" He patted himself on the breast. "There are two cribs!" "You'll have to name 'em to me, Despeaux. I'm apt to be pretty dull outside of matters in my own line." "I guess I'd do better to designate the chaps who are managing the cribs." The two men were in a window embrasure. Despeaux pointed to one side of the niche. "Over there, behold Morrison and his 'storage and power' crowd, made up of pig-headed engineers and scientific experts who are thinking only of how much power can be developed for the people as proprietors; over here, the public utilities commission made up of safe men, judiciously appointed, tractable in politics, consistently on the side of vested interests and right on the job to see to it that the state keeps its contracts with capital. I propose to be something of a shepherd and lead the people to the public utilities crib! And I'm going to show folks that they'll be eating poison-ivy out of the Morrison crib--even if I have to put the poison-ivy in there myself. This is no time to be squeamish, Blanchard! You've got to do your part in nailing a disturber like Morrison to the cross. Speak like a business man and say that he is dangerous in good business. We've got a Governor who is safe; we've got to have a legislature that will see to it that the committees are all right. And that's why we're standing no monkey business from any mob up on Capitol Hill to-night! Down at that hall, so my man told me, Morrison talked as if he's going to take hold and run the state! Didn't he?" "Well, one might draw some such conclusions, I suppose, by stretching his words!" "Blanchard, you must stretch words when you talk to Senator Corson and to all others who need to be stirred up and can help us. If that wild Scotchman butts into this plan he's inviting trouble, and we've got to see that he gets it. He's got to be choked now or never! Don't have any mercy! Just look at it this way! Talk it this way! He's turning on his own, if he does what he threatens! He played the sneak, he, a mill-owner, getting on to that commission! And he proposes to shove in a report that will smother development by outside capital. Play up the reason for his interest in the thing along that line! A hog for himself! It's easy to turn public sentiment by the right kind of talk! If I really start out to go the limit I can have him tarred and feathered as a chief conspirator, rigging a scheme to have our big industries knocked in the head." Despeaux spoke low, but his tone conveyed the malice and the menace of a man who had been nursing a grudge for a long time. "Two years ago his newspaper letters and his rant killed that Consolidated project, and I had a contingent fee of fifty thousand dollars at stake; as it was, I got only a little old regular lobby fee and my expense money. And the power hasn't been developed by the infernal, dear, protected people, has it?" he sneered. "If the Consolidated folks had been let alone and given their franchise, we'd now be marketing over our high-tension wires two millions of horse-power in big centers two or three hundred miles from this state." "Well, I'm not so awfully strong, myself, for making a mere power station of our own state, and letting outsiders ship our juice over the border." "But you ought to be devilish strong against a man who is proposing to have the state break existing contracts, take back power rights and franchises and make you simply a lessee of what you already own! You've got yours! Give the outsiders a show! It's all snarled up together, Blanchard, and you've got to kill him and his crowd and their whole mushy, socialistic scheme and eliminate him from the proposition. Then we can go ahead and do something sensible in this state!" affirmed Mr. Despeaux, with the lustful ardor of one who foresaw the possibility of eliminating, also, the hateful word "contingent" in the case of fees. But Business-man Blanchard was displaying symptoms of worriment. The lawyer viewed with concern this evidence of backsliding, but his attention was suddenly diverted from his companion; then Despeaux nudged Blanchard and directed the latter's gaze by a thumb jerk. They saw Morrison hurry up the stairs to greet Lana Corson when she appeared with her house guest. The attorney seemed to be vastly interested in the scene. "I don't mean to scare you," went on Despeaux, his manner milder. "I'm not planning to commit murder or steal a state! It's Morrison right now! He's the one we're after! This whole thing may be taken care of in another way--so easily that it may make us smile. I've been keeping my eyes open, Blanchard--ears, too! Did you see Morrison rush to the Senator's daughter? A fellow can work himself into a terrible state of worry over the dear, unprotected people, when he has nothing else better to take up his mind. But after a Scotchman goes crazy over a girl--well, when the whole of 'em hold Poet Bobby Burns up as the type of their race, they know what they're talking about!" "I can hardly conceive of Morrison being a poet or relishing poetry or the ways of a poet," returned Blanchard, dryly. "And he probably has never read a line of it in his whole life," agreed Despeaux. "But that isn't the point! You may think I've gone off on a queer tack, all of a sudden, but I know human nature! That girl is back here with a slick young fellow, and he's the pepper in a certain mess of Scotch broth that has been heated up all over again, if I'm any guesser. That girl has been living in Washington, Blanchard. It's a great school! I've been watching her shake hands. You saw her just now when she shook with our friend, the mayor. That girl isn't down here on this trip simply to see whether the care-takers have been looking after the Corson mansion in good shape," opined the cynical Mr. Despeaux, having excellent personal reasons to distrust everybody else in the matter of motives. "That sort of a trick is beneath Senator Corson and his daughter." "Well," drawled the lawyer, "that all depends how closely he and Silas Daunt are tied up in a common interest in this water-power question and other matters. I suspect everybody in this world. I go on that principle. It eases my mind about slipping something over on the other fellow when I get the chance. I'm talking out pretty frankly, Blanchard, to a man who has his money in the syndicate pool, as you have! But I play square with the crowd I take money from, so long's I'm with 'em. The fee makes me yours to command, heart and soul! There's something--some one thing--that can control every man, according to his tastes. Stewart Morrison can be controlled right now by that black-eyed Corson girl more effectually than he can by any other person or consideration on God's earth. I've known him ever since he was a boy--I have watched the thing between 'em--and now that she's back here where he can see her, be near her, and be worried by the sight of another fellow trailing her, he'll be doing more thinking about her than he will about the partner-people, as he calls that dream of his about something that isn't so! I wish I could know just how sly the Senator is! I wish I could get a line on what's underneath that girl's curly topknot," he said, fervently. Apparently absorbed by that speculation, Lawyer Despeaux again gave close attention to the tableau on the landing presented by Lana, Mrs. Stanton, and Morrison. When Governor North marched up the stairs, said his vociferous say, and marched down again Despeaux grunted his satisfaction. "That's the talk, old boy! Show him where he gets off!" The manner in which Senator Corson handed Morrison over to Silas Daunt elicited further commendation from the lawyer. "He's being pulled into camp smoothly and scientifically, Blanchard! The Senator is on to his job, but did you see Morrison's mug when he had to leave the girl?" "I'll admit that it's the first time I ever saw him make up a face when he was called on to tend to business!" "The Senator is a wise old bird! He knows human nature down to the ground. He's got the right kind of a daughter to help him, and he's making her useful. It's a case of shutting Morrison's mouth, and Corson is hep to the right play. I don't think the Senator needs any advice from us, but a little of the proper kind of information about Morrison's latest demfoolishness will make Corson understand that he needs to put some hot pep as well as sugar into his politeness. We'll get to him as soon as we can. Make it strong, Blanchard, make it strong!" As soon as opportunity offered, Blanchard did make it strong. He was harboring a pretty large-sized grudge of his own in the case of Morrison, and it was easy to put malice into the report he gave the Senator. "But hold on!" protested Corson. "You're making Stewart out to be a radical as red as any of them!" "I can't help that, Senator," retorted the millman. "He dragged me down to his cursed meeting over my protest and he made a speech that put himself in hand in glove with 'em." Corson pursed his lips and displayed the concern of a friend who had heard bad news regarding a favorite. "I always found the boy a bit inclined to mix high-flown notions in with the business practicality of his family. But I didn't realize that he was going so far wrong in his theories. That's the danger in permitting even one unsound doctrine to get into a level-headed chap's apple-basket, gentlemen! First thing you know, it has affected all the fruit. I'm glad you told me. I'm not surprised that your arguments have had no effect, Despeaux. He's naturally headstrong. Do you know, these fellows with poetic, chivalrous natures are hard boys to bring to reason in certain practical matters?" "I was just telling Despeaux that I never saw much poetry sentiment in Stewart Morrison," affirmed the millman. Senator Corson's condescending smile assured Mr. Blanchard that he was all wrong. "He was much in our family as a boy. Very sentimental if approached from the right angle! Very! And I think this is a matter to be handled wholly by Stewart's closest friends. Sentiment has led him off on a wrong slant. He'll only fight harder if he's tackled by a man like you, Despeaux. That's the style of him. But in his case sentiment can be guided by sentiment. And all for his best good! He mustn't run wild in this folly! I believe there's no one who can approach him with more tact than my daughter Lana." Despeaux found an opportunity to dig his thumb suggestively into Blanchard's side. "They have been extremely good friends, I believe, in boy-and-girl fashion; between us three old townsmen, I'll go as far as to say they were very much interested in each other. But in the case of both of 'em their horizons are naturally wider these days; however, first-love affairs, even if rather silly, are often the basis for really sensible and enduring friendships. And friendship must handle this thing. We'll leave it to Lana. I'll speak to her." He went on his way toward the ballroom, pausing to chat with this or that group of constituents. "There!" exclaimed the lawyer, relieving his high pressure by a vigorous exhalation of breath. "What did I tell you?" "It's mighty kind and sensible of the Senator! Morrison is making a big mistake and the way to handle him is by friendship." "Friendship hell!" "Say, look here, Despeaux, I don't believe in spoiling my teeth by biting every coin that's handed to me in this world." "Are you as devilish green as you pretend to be, Blanchard? If you had ever hung around in Washington as I have, you'd have wisdom teeth growing so fast that they'd keep your jaws propped open like a country yap's unless you kept 'em filed by biting all the coin of con! Now I know what's in the Senator's dome and what's under his girl's topknot! But let's not argue about that. Let's take a look at the probabilities in regard to the water-power matter--that's of more importance just now. I doubt that even friendship"--he dwelt satirically on the word--"can shut Morrison up on the storage report that he will shove into the legislature. But we're going to have safe committees this year, thanks to the election laws and guns, and that report will be pocketed. Then if Morrison keeps still about making the dear people millionaires by having 'em peddle their puddles to the highest bidders, capital can go ahead and do business in this state. I think his mouth is going to be effectively shut! The right operators are on the job!" Despeaux took a peep at his watch. "Time slipped by while we were waiting to get at Corson. Daunt has had half an hour for laying down the law to Morrison. And Daunt can do a whole lot of business in half an hour." "He'll only stir up Morrison's infernal scrapping spirit by laying down the law," objected Blanchard, sourly. Despeaux took both of the millman's coat lapels in his clutch. "He'll lay down in front of Morrison the prospect of the profits to be made by the deal that is proposed. And if you had ever heard Silas Daunt talk profits as a promoter you would reckon just as I'm reckoning, Blanchard--to see our Scotch friend come out of that conference walking like the man who broke the bank at Monte Carlo, instead of bobbing around astraddle of that damnation hobby-goat of his! Daunt can talk money in the same tone that a Holy Roller revivalist talks religion, Blanchard! And he makes converts, he sure does!" A moment later the mayor of Marion strode across the reception-hall. Lawyer Despeaux, giving critical attention, was not ready to affirm that Morrison's gait was that of a man who had broken a bank. But the manner in which he marched, shoulders back and chin up, and the dabs of color on his cheeks, would have suggested to a particularly observant person that the mayor had broken something. He pushed past those who addressed him and went on toward the ballroom, staring straight ahead; the music was pulsing in the ballroom; he seemed to be thoroughly entranced by the strains; at any rate, he was attending strictly to the business of going somewhere! He passed Senator Corson, who was returning to the reception-hall; the mayor gave his host only a nod. While the Senator stood and gazed at the precipitate young man, Banker Daunt, following on Morrison's trail, arrived in front of Corson. Lawyer Despeaux stepped from the window embrasure to get a good view and was not at all reassured by Daunt's looks. The banker displayed none of the symptoms of a victor. There was more of choler than complacency in his air. He hooked his arm inside the Senator's elbow and they went away together. "Blanchard," said the lawyer, after a period of pondering, "that infernal Scotch idiot says that he isn't interested in politics and now he seems to have put promoting in the same class. Our hope is that he's interested in something else. Suppose we stroll along and see just how much interested he is." By the time they reached the ballroom Morrison was waltzing with Lana. He was distinctly another person from that tense, saturnine, defiant, brusk person who strode through the reception-hall. He was radiantly and boyishly happy. He was clasping the girl tenderly. He directed her steps in a small circle outside the throng of dancers, and waltzed as slowly as the tempo would allow. He was talking earnestly. "Look at him! There you have it!" whispered Despeaux, recovering his confidence. "Every man has his price--but it's a mistake to think that the price must always be counted down in cash. Daunt didn't act as if he had captured our friend. He's dancing to a girl's tune now. Corson will whistle a jig when he gets ready and Morrison will dance to that tune, too!" IX MAKING IT A SQUARE BREAK In the privacy of Senator Corson's study Mr. Daunt had allowed himself to raise his voice and express some decided opinions by the way of venting his emotions. In his heat he disregarded the amenities that should govern a guest in the presence of his host. In fact, Mr. Daunt asserted that the host was partly responsible for the awkward position in which Mr. Daunt found himself. The Senator, whenever he was able to make himself heard, put in protesting "buts." Mr. Daunt, riding his grievance wildly, hurdled every "but" and kept right on. "Confound it, Corson, I accepted him as your friend, as your guest, as a gentleman under the roof of a mutual friend. Most of all, I accepted him as a safe and sane business man. I talked to him as I would to the gentlemen who put their feet under my table. I know how to be cautious in the case of men I meet in places of business. But you bring this man to your house and you put me next to him with the assurance that he is all right--and I go ahead with him on that basis. I was perfectly and entirely honest with him. I disregarded all the rules that govern me in ordinary business offices," the banker added, too excited to appreciate the grim humor flashed by the flint and the steel of his last, juxtaposed sentences. "You say you told him all your plans in full?" suggested Corson, referring to the outburst with which Daunt began his arraignment of the situation. "Of course I told him! You gave me no warning. I dealt with him, gentleman with gentleman, under your roof!" "I didn't think it was necessary to counsel a man like you about the ordinary prudence required in all business matters." "I had his word in his own office that he was heartily with me. You told me he was as square as a brick when it came to his word. I went on that basis, Corson!" "I'm sorry," admitted the Senator. "I thought I knew Stewart through and through. But I haven't been keeping in touch as closely as I ought. I have heard things this evening--" He hesitated. "You have heard things--and still you allowed me to go on and empty my basket in front of him?" "I heard 'em only after you were closeted here with him, Daunt. And I can't believe it's as bad as it has been represented to me. And even as it stands, I think I know how to handle him. I have already taken steps to that end." "How?" "Please accept my say-so for the time being, Daunt! It isn't a matter to be canvassed between us." "I suppose you learn that sort of reticence in politics, even in the case of a friend, Corson," growled the banker. "I wish I had taken a few lessons from you before talking with one of your friends this evening." "Was it necessary for you to do so much talking before you got a line on his opinions?" "Confound it, Corson, with that face of his--with that candor in his countenance--he looks as good and reliable as a certified check--and in addition I had your indorsement of him." "I felt that I had a right to indorse him." The Senator showed spirit. "Daunt, I don't like to hear you condemn Stewart Morrison so utterly." "Not utterly! He has qualities of excellence! For instance, he's a damnation fine listener," stated the disgusted banker. "But he couldn't have thrown down your whole proposition--he couldn't have done that, after the prospects you held out to him, as you outlined them to me when we first discussed the matter," Corson insisted. "Morrison has a good business head on him. He comes of business stock. He has made a big success of his mill. He must be on the watch for more opportunities. All of us are." "Well, here was the offer I made to him, seeing that he is a _friend_ of yours," said Banker Daunt, dilating his nostrils when he dwelt on the word "friend." "I offered to double his own appraisal of his properties when we pay him in the preferred stock of the consolidation. I told him that he would receive, like the others, an equal amount of common stock for a bonus. I assured him that we would be able to pay dividends on the common. And he asked me particularly if I was certain that dividends would be paid on the common. I gave him that assurance as a financier who knows his card." Daunt had been attempting to curb his passion and talk in a business man's tone while on the matter of figures. But he abandoned the struggle to keep calm. He cracked his knuckles on the table and shouted: "But do you know--can you imagine what he said after I had twice assured him as to those dividends on common, replying to his repeated questions? Can you?" "No," admitted Corson, having reason to be considerably uncertain in regard to Stewart Morrison's newly developed notions about affairs in general. "He told me I ought to be ashamed of myself--then he pulled out his watch and apologized for monopolizing me so long on a gay evening, hoped I was enjoying it, and said he must hurry away and dance with Miss Corson. What did he mean by saying that I ought to be ashamed of myself? What did he mean by that gratuitous insult to a man who had made him a generous proposition in straight business--to a guest under your roof, Senator Corson?" "By gad! I'll find out what it means!" snapped the Senator, pricked in his pride and in his sense of responsibility as a go-between. He pushed a button in the row on his study table. "This new job as mayor seems to be playing some sort of a devil's trick with Stewart. I'll admit, Daunt, that I didn't relish some of the priggish preachment on politics mouthed by him in his office when we were there. But I didn't pay much attention--any more than I did to his exaggerated flourish in the way he attended to city business. The new brooms! You know!" "Yes, I know!" The banker was sardonic. "I could overlook his display of importance when he neglected gentlemen in order to parade his tuppenny mayor's business. I paid no attention to his vaporings on the water question. I've heard plenty of franchise-owners talk that way for effect! He's an especially avaricious Scot, isn't he? Confound him! How much more shall I offer him?" "I'll admit that Stewart seems to be different these days in some respects, but unless he has made a clean change of all his nature in this shift of some of his ideas, you'd better not offer him any more!" warned the Senator. "I never detected any 'For Sale' sign on him!" The Senator's secretary stepped into the study. "Find Mayor Morrison in the ballroom and tell him I want to see him here." "Corson, you're a United States Senator," proceeded the banker when the man had departed, "and your position enables you to take a broad view of business in general. But naturally you're for your own state first of all." "Certainly! Loyally so!" "I think you thoroughly understand my play for consolidated development of the water-power here. Every single unit should be put at work for the good of the country. Isn't that so?" "Yes, decidedly." "To set up such arbitrary boundaries as state lines in these matters of development is a narrow and selfish policy," insisted Daunt. "It would be like the coal states refusing to sell their surplus to the country at large. If this Morrison proposes to play the bigoted demagogue in the matter, exciting the people to attempt impractical control that will paralyze the whole proposition, he must be stepped on. You can show due regard for the honor and the prosperity of your own state, but as a statesman, working for the general welfare of the country at large, you've got to take a broader view than his." "I do. I can make Stewart understand." Daunt paced up and down the room, easing his turgid neck against a damp collar. The Senator pondered. The secretary, after a time, tapped and entered. "Mayor Morrison is not in the ballroom, sir. And I could not find him." "You should have inquired of Miss Corson." "I could not find Miss Corson." The Senator started for the door. He turned and went back to Daunt. "It's all right! I gave her a bit of a commission. It's in regard to Morrison. She seems to be attending to it faithfully. Be easy! I'll bring him." The father went straight to the library. He knew the resources of his own mansion in the matter of nooks for a tete-a-tete interview; now he was particularly assisted by remembrance of Stewart's habits in the old days. He found his daughter and the mayor of Marion cozily ensconced among the cushions of a deep window-seat. Stewart was listening intently to the girl, his chin on his knuckles, his elbow propped on his knee. His forehead was puckered; he was gazing at her with intent seriousness. "Senator Corson," warned the girl, "we are in executive session." "I see! I understand! But I need Stewart urgently for a few moments." "I surrendered him willingly a little while ago. But this conference must not be interrupted, sir!" "Certainly not, Senator Corson!" asserted Stewart, with a decisive snap in his tone. "We have a great deal of ground to go over." "I'll allow you plenty of time--but a little later. There is a small matter to be set straight. 'Twill take but a few moments." "It's undoubtedly either business or politics, sir," declared Lana, with a fine assumption of parliamentary dignity. "But I have the floor for concerns of my own, and I'll not cede any of my time." "It is hardly business or politics," returned the Senator, gravely. "It concerns a matter of courtesy between guests in my home, and I'm anxious to have the thing straightened out at once. I beg of you, Stewart!" The mayor rose promptly. "I suppose I must consider it a question of privilege and yield," consented Lana, still carrying on her little play of procedure. "But do I have your solemn promise, Senator Corson, that this gentleman will be returned to me by you at the earliest possible moment?" "I promise." "And I want your promise that you will hurry back," said the girl, addressing Stewart. "I'll wait right here!" "But, Lana, remember your duties to our guests," protested her father. "I have been fulfilling them ever since the reception-line was formed." She waved her hand to draw their attention to the distant music. "The guests are having a gorgeous time all by themselves. I'll be waiting here," she warned. "Remember, please, both of you that I am waiting. That ought to hurry your settlement of that other matter you speak of." "I'll waste no time!" Morrison assured her. He marched away with the Senator. In the study Corson took his stand between his two guests. Daunt was bristling; Morrison displayed no emotion of any sort. "Mr. Daunt, I think you'd better state your grievance, as you feel it, so that Mr. Morrison can assure both of us that it arises from a misunderstanding." The banker took advantage of that opportunity with great alacrity. "Now that Senator Corson is present--now that we have a broad-minded referee, Mr. Morrison, I propose to go over that matter of business." "Exactly on the same lines?" inquired Stewart, mildly. "Exactly! And for obvious reasons--so that Corson may understand just how much your attitude hurt my feelings." "Pardon me, Mr. Daunt. I have no time to listen to the repetition. It will gain you nothing from me. My mind remains the same. And Miss Corson is waiting for me. I have promised to return to her as soon as possible." "But it will take only a little while to go over the matter," pleaded Corson. "It will be time wasted on a repetition, sir. I have no right to keep Miss Corson waiting, on such an excuse." "You give me an almighty poor excuse for unmannerly treatment of my business, Morrison," Daunt stated, with increasing ire. "I really must agree in that," chided the Senator. "Sir, you gave your daughter the same promise for yourself," declared Stewart. "Now let's not be silly, Stewart. Lana was playing! You can go right on with her from where you left off." "Perhaps!" admitted the mayor. "I hope so, at any rate. But I don't propose to break my promise." He added in his own mind that he did not intend to allow a certain topic between him and Lana Corson to get cold while he was being bullyragged by two elderly gentlemen in that study. "By the gods! you'll have to talk turkey to me on one point!" asserted Daunt, his veneer of dignity cracking wide and showing the coarser grain of his nature. "I made you a square business proposition and you insulted me--under the roof of a gentleman who had vouched for both of us." "Thank you! Now we are not retracing our steps, as you threatened to do. We go on from where we left off. Therefore, I can give you a few moments, sir. What insult did I offer you?" "You told me that I ought to be ashamed of myself." "That was not an insult, Mr. Daunt. I intended it to be merely a frank expression of opinion. Just a moment, please!" he urged, breaking in on violent language. He brought his thumb and forefinger together to make a circle and poised his hand over his head. "I don't wear one of these. I have no right to wear one. Halo, I mean! I'm no prig or preacher--at least, I don't mean to be. But when I talk business I intend to talk it straight and use few words--and those words may sound rather blunt, sometimes. Just a moment, I say!" He leaned over the table and struck a resounding blow on it with his knuckles. "This is a nutshell proposition and we'll keep it in small compass. You gave me a layout of your proposed stock issue. No matter what has been done by the best of big financiers, no matter what is being done or what is proposed to be done, in this particular case your consolidation means that you've got to mulct the people to pay unreasonably high charges on stock. It isn't a square deal. My property was developed on real money. I know what it pays and ought to pay. I won't put it into a scheme that will oblige every consumer of electricity to help pay dividends on imaginary money. And if you're seriously attempting to put over any consolidation of that sort on our people, Mr. Daunt, I repeat that you ought to be ashamed of yourself." "And now you have heard him with your own ears," clamored the banker. "What do you say to that, Mr. Corson?" "All capitalization entails a fair compromise--values to be considered in the light of new development," said the Senator. "Let's discuss the proposition, Stewart." "Discussion will only snarl us up. I'm stating the principle. You can't compromise principle! I refuse to discuss." "Have you gone crazy over this protection-of-the-people idea?" demanded Corson, with heat. "Maybe so! I'm not sure. I may be a little muddled. But I see a principle ahead and I'm going straight at it, even though I may tread on some toes. I believe that the opinion doesn't hold good, any longer, as a matter of right, that because a man has secured a franchise, and his charter permits him to build a dam across a river or the mouth of a lake, he is thereby entitled to all the power and control and profit he can get from that river or lake without return in direct payment on that power to the people of the state. We know it's by constitutional law that the people own the river and the lake. I'm putting in a report on this whole matter to the incoming legislature, Senator Corson." "Good Heavens! Morrison, you're not advocating the soviet doctrine that the state can break existing contracts, are you?" shouted the Senator. "I take the stand that charters do not grant the right for operators of water-power to charge anything their greed prompts 'em to charge on ballooned stock. I assert that charters are fractured when operators flagrantly abuse the public that way! I'm going to propose a legislative bill that will oblige water-power corporations to submit in public reports our state engineers' figures on actual honest profit-earning valuation; to publish complete lists of all the men who own stock so that we may know the interests and the persons who are secretly behind the corporations." Corson displayed instant perturbation. "Such publication can be twisted to injure honest investors. It can be used politically by a man's enemies. Stewart, I am heavily interested financially in Daunt's syndicate, because I believe in developing our grand old state. I bring this personal matter to your attention so that you may see how this general windmill-tilting is going to affect your friends." "I'm for our state, too, sir! And I'll mention a personal matter that's close to me, seeing that you have broached the subject. St. Ronan's mill is responsible for more than two hundred good homes in the city of Marion, built, owned, and occupied by our workers. And in order to clean up a million profit for myself, I don't propose to go into a syndicate that may decide to ship power out of this state and empty those homes." "You are leaping at insane conclusions," roared Daunt. He shook his finger under Morrison's nose. "I'll admit that I have arrived at some rather extreme conclusions, sir," admitted Stewart, putting his threatened nose a little nearer Daunt's finger. "I based the conclusions on your own statement to me that you proposed to make my syndicate holdings more valuable by a legislative measure that would permit the consolidation to take over poles and wires of existing companies or else run wires into communities in case the existing companies would not sell." "That's only the basic principle of business competition for the good of the consuming public. Competition is the demand, the right of the people," declared Daunt. "I'm a bit skeptical--still basing my opinion on your own statements as to common-stock dividends--as to the price per kilowatt after competitors shall have been sandbagged according to that legislative measure," drawled the mayor. He turned to the Senator. "You see, sir, your guest and myself are still a good ways apart in our business ideas!" "We'll drop business--drop it right where it is," said the Senator, curtly. "Mr. Daunt has tried to meet you more than half-way in business, in my house, taking my indorsement of you. When I recommended you I was not aware that you had been making radical speeches to a down-town mob. I am shocked by the change in you, Stewart. Have you any explanation to give me?" "I'm afraid it would take too long to go over it now in a way to make you understand, sir. I don't want to spoil my case by leaving you half informed. Mr. Daunt and I have reached an understanding. Pardon me, but I insist that I must keep my promise to Miss Corson." The father did not welcome that announcement. "I trust that the understanding you mention includes the obligation to forget all that Mr. Daunt has said under my roof this evening." "I have never betrayed confidences in my personal relations with any man, Senator Corson," returned Morrison. "Then your honor naturally suggests your course in this peculiar situation." "Let's not stop to split hairs of honor! What do you expect me to do?" demanded Morrison, bruskly business-like. "I'll tell you what I expect," volunteered Daunt. "You have possession of facts----" "I did not solicit them, sir. I was practically forced into an interview with you when I much rather would have been enjoying myself in the ballroom." "Nevertheless, you have the facts. Under the circumstances you have no right to them. I expect you to show a gentleman's consideration and keep carefully away from my affairs." "I, also, must ask that much, as your mutual host," put in Corson. "Gentlemen," declared Stewart, setting back his shoulders, "by allowing myself to stretch what you term 'honor' to that fine point I would be held up in a campaign I have started--prevented from going on with my work, simply because Mr. Silas Daunt is among the men I'm fighting. I'm exactly where I was before Mr. Daunt talked to me. I propose to lick a water-power monopoly in this state if it's in my humble power to do it. If you stay in that crowd, Mr. Daunt, you've got to take your chances along with the rest of 'em." "Stewart, your position is outrageous," blazed Corson. "You're not only throwing away a wonderful business opportunity on lines wholly approved by general usage--simply to indulge an impractical whim for which you'll get no thanks--taking a nonsensical stand for a mere dream in the way of public ownership--but you're insulting me, myself, by the inference that may be drawn." "I don't understand, sir." "Well, then, understand!" said the Senator, carried far by his indignation. "You know how I made my fortune!" "I do!" "Was I not justified in buying in all the public timber-lands at the going price?" "Yes, seeing that the people of the state were fools enough to stay asleep and let lands go for a dollar or so an acre--lands to-day worth thousands of dollars an acre for the timber on 'em!" "I paid the price that was asked. That's as far as a business man is expected to go." "Certainly, Senator. I'm glad for you. But, I repeat, the people were asleep! Now I'm going to wake 'em up to guard their last great heritage--the water-power that they still own! I'll keep 'em awake, if I've got strength enough in this arm to keep on drumming and breath enough to keep the old trumpet sounding!" "The corporations in this state are organized, they will protect their charters, they will make you let go of your wild scheme," bellowed the banker. "By the jumped-up Jehoshaphat, they will make you let go, Morrison! By the great--" "Hush!" pleaded their host. "They can hear outside. No profanity!" Stewart had started toward the door; he paused for a moment when he had his hand on the knob. "We will not let go!" he said, calmly. "We won't let go--and this is not profanity, Senator Corson--we won't let go of as much as one dam-site!" X A SENATOR SIZES UP A FOE After Stewart had closed the door behind himself Senator Corson rose hastily. For a few moments he surveyed the panels of the oaken portal with the intentness of one who was studying a problem on a printed page. Then, plainly, his thoughts went traveling beyond the closed door. But he appeared to be receiving no satisfaction from his scrutiny or from his thoughts. He scowled and muttered. He stared into the palms of his soiled gloves; the suggestion they offered did not improve his temper. He ripped them from his hands. "What the mischief ails 'em, down here? They're all more or less slippery, Daunt! I've been sensing it all the evening! I feel as if I'd been handling eels." Banker Daunt was calming himself by a patrol of the room. "I can view matters like a statesman when I'm in the Senate Chamber," Corson asserted, "but down here at home these days I can't see the forest on account of the trees! I don't know what tree to climb first, Daunt, I swear I don't! What with North getting the party into this scrape it's in, and playing his sharp politics, and this power question fight and--and--" He gazed at the door again. It now suggested a definite course of procedure, apparently. He crumpled his gloves into a ball and threw them on the table. There was a hint in that action; the Senator was showing his determination to handle matters without gloves for the rest of the evening. "There's one thing about it, Daunt, a man can't do his best in public concerns till he has freed his mind of his private troubles. You wait here. I'll be right back." "Where are you going, Senator?" "I'm going to regain my self-respect! I'm going to assert myself as master of my own home. I'm going to tell Stewart Morrison that I have business with him, and that I'll attend to it in a strictly business office, later, where he can't insult my friends and abuse my hospitality!" "Wait a minute! I've had an acute attack of it, too, this evening--the same ailment, but I'm getting over it. Don't lose your head and your temper, both at the same time. You're not in the right trim just now to go against that bullhead. Let's estimate him squarely. That's always my plan in business." Mr. Daunt plucked a cigar from a box on the table and lighted up leisurely, soothing himself into a matter-of-fact mood. Corson waited with impatience, but his politician's caution began to tug on the bits, moderating the rush of his passion, and he took a cigar for himself. "Outside of this petty mayor business, does Morrison cut any figure--have any special power in state politics?" the banker asked. "Not a particle--not as a politician. He doesn't know the A B C's of the game." "How much influence can he wield as an agitator, as he threatens to become?" Corson's declaration was less emphatic. "We're conservative, the mass of us, in these parts. Starting trouble isn't wielding influence, Daunt. He'll be going up against the political machine that has always handled this state safely and sanely--and we know what to do with trouble-makers." "This communistic stand of his certainly discredits him with the corporations, also. Despeaux has been doing good work, and practically all of 'em have come over to the Consolidated camp. Of course, Morrison is antagonizing the banking interests, too. Is he a heavy borrower?" "He doesn't borrow. He works on his own capital. St. Ronan's is free and clear," admitted the Senator, crossly. "That's too bad! Calling loans is always effective in improving a radical's opinions. Then this friend, whom you have held up to me as so important in our plans----" "I did consider him important, Daunt! I do now. I know him. I have seen him go after things, ever since he was a boy. That storage-commission scheme is his own device and, as the head of it, he occupies a strategic position." "But it's only a scheme; he has no actual organization of the people behind it." "Confound it! I'm afraid he will have!" "It's an impractical dream--trying to establish such shadowy ownership of what vested capital under private control must naturally possess and develop. We have sound business on our side." "It may not seem so much like a dream after he puts that report into the legislature," complained the Senator. "I tell you, I know Stewart Morrison. He indulges in visions, but he'll back this particular one up with so many facts and figures that it will make a treasury report look like a ghost-story by comparison. Talk about sound business! That's Morrison's other name!" "What's going to be done with that report, Corson?" The Senator hesitated a few moments. "Understand that I'm no kin of old Captain Teach, the buccaneer, either in politics or business, Daunt. But I'm not fool enough to believe that the millennium has arrived in this world, even if the battle of Armageddon has been fought, as the parsons are preaching. We still must deal with human conditions. The tree is full of good ideas, I'll admit. But we've got to let 'em ripen. Eat 'em now--and it's a case of the gripes for business and politics, both. Therefore"--the Senator paused and squinted at the end of his cigar. "Well, Daunt, we'll have to apply a little common sense to conditions, even though the opposition may squeal. That ownership of the water-power by the people isn't ripe. The legislative committee will pocket Morrison's report, or will refer the thing to the public utilities commission." "Both plans meaning the same thing?" "I won't put it as coarsely as that. It only means handling the situation with discretion. Discretion by those in power is going to save us a lot of trouble in times like these." "You are sure of the right legislative committee, are you?" "Certainly! North is on the job up at the State House. I'll admit that he isn't tactful. He's very old-fashioned in his political ideas. But he doesn't mind clamor and criticism, and he isn't afraid of the devil himself. Between you and me, I think," continued the Senator, judicially, "that North is skating pretty near the edge this time. I would not have allowed him to go so far if I had been in better touch with conditions down here. But it's too late to modify his plans much at this hour. He must bull the thing through as he's going. I can undo the mischief to the party by the selection of a smooth diplomat for the gubernatorial nomination next year. But jumping back to the main subject--Stewart Morrison! Seeing what he is, in the water-power matter, I hoped I could smooth things by your getting next to him. I'm sorry you have been so much annoyed, Daunt! He may make it uncomfortable by his mouth, but he cannot control anything by direct political influence. Absolutely not!" The Senator was recovering his confidence in himself as a leader; he started up from his chair and stamped down an emphatic foot. "He is a nonentity in that direction. Politics will handle the thing! The legislature will be all right! The situation on Capitol Hill is safe. However, I think I'll pass a word or two with North!" He went to the wall of the study, slipped aside a small panel, and lifted out a telephone instrument. "A little precaution I've held over from the old days," Corson informed his guest, with a smile. "A private line to the Executive Chamber." From where he sat Daunt could hear the Governor's voice. The tones rasped and rattled and jangled in the receiver, which, for the sake of his eardrum, Senator Corson held away from his head. The puckers on his countenance indicated that he was annoyed, both by the news and by the discordant violence of its delivery. "But it's not as threatening as all that! It can't be!" the listener kept insisting. "Well, I'll come up," he promised, at last. "I'll come, but I think you're over-anxious, North!" There was a sound as if somebody were banging on a tin pan at the other end of the line; His Excellency had merely put more vigor into his voice. "I think--I'm quite sure that he's still here--in my house," Corson replied. "Yes--yes--I certainly will!" He hung up. "You seemed to think, Daunt, that I didn't have a good and a sufficient reason for saying a few words to Morrison when I started to hunt him up a few minutes ago. However, this time you'll have to excuse me. I'm going to him." "But you're not intending to make him of any especial importance in affairs, are you? You said he could be ignored." "Yes! But I don't propose to ignore his efforts to stir up the mob spirit in a city of which he happens to be mayor. He has been up to that mischief! I have heard straight reports from various sources this evening. The Governor has been posted and he is very emphatic on the point." Corson rubbed the ear that was still reminding him of that emphasis. "That's the trouble with men like Morrison, when they begin to talk people's rights these days, Senator! They go up in the air and jump all the way over into Bolshevism. I'm sorry now because I counseled you to smooth your temper. Go at him. I'll sit here and finish my smoke." At the head of the broad staircase Senator Corson came upon Mrs. Stanton and Coventry Daunt. They wore expressions of bewilderment that would have fitted the countenances of explorers who had missed their quest and had lost their reckoning. Mrs. Stanton put out her fan, and the striding father halted at the polite barrier with a greeting, but evinced anxiety to be on the way. "I'm so glad to see you, Senator Corson!" This with delight. "But isn't Lana with you?" this with anxiety. "I mean, hasn't she been with you?" "My dance contracts with Miss Corson have been shot quite all to pieces," said Coventry. "I have searched everywhere for her--I think I have," supplemented the sister. "But we guessed she must be with you, and we didn't venture to intrude." "And you are sure she is not in the ballroom?" "Absolutely!" Young Mr. Daunt plainly knew what he was talking about. "Coventry, if you and Mrs. Stanton will go there and wait a few moments, I am positive that Lana will come to you very promptly!" Senator Corson also seemed to know what he was talking about! XI FLAREBACKS IN THE CASE OF LOVE AND A MOB Again was Stewart a close listener, his chin resting on his knuckles, his serious eyes searching Lana's face while she talked. A cozy harbor was afforded by the bay of the great window in the library. When Stewart had returned to the girl he noticed that she had provided the harbor with a breakwater--a tall Japanese screen; waiting there she had found the room draughty, she informed him. He was placid when he returned. His demeanor was so untroubled and his air so eagerly invited her to go on from where she had left off that she did not bother her mind about the errand which had called him away. "I'm really glad because we adjourned the executive session for a recess," she confided. "I've had a chance to think over what I was saying to you, Stewart. While I talked I found myself getting a bit hysterical. I realized that I was presumptuous, but I couldn't seem to stop. But I have been going over it in my mind and I'm glad now that my feelings did carry me away. Friendship has a right to be impetuous on some occasions. I never tried to advise you in the old days. You wouldn't have listened, anyway." "I've always been glad to listen to you," he corrected. "But it makes a friend so provoked to have one listen and then go ahead and do just as one likes. I want to ask you--while you have been away from me have you been reflecting on what I said?" He stammered a bit, and there was not absolute candor in his eyes. "To tell the truth, Lana, I allowed myself to be taken up considerably with other matters. But I did remember my promise to hurry back to you, just the minute I could break away," he added, apologetically. "I'm a little disappointed in you, just the same, Stewart! I've been hoping that you were putting your mind on what I said to you. I was hoping that when you came back----" "Well, go on, Lana!" he prompted, gently, when she paused. "It's so hard for me to say it so it will sound as I mean it," she lamented. "To make my interest appear exactly what it is. To find the words to fit my thoughts just now! I know what they're saying about me these days in Marion. I know our folks so well! I don't need to hear the words; I have been studying their faces this evening. You, also, know what they're saying, Stewart!" He confined his assent to a significant nod; Jeanie MacDougal's few words on the subject had been, for him, a comprehensive summary of the general gossip. "When I was speechifying to you in St. Ronan's office you thought I had come back here filled with airs and lofty notions. I knew how you felt!" He shook his head and allowed the extent of his negation to be limited to that! "I'll tell you how I felt--some time--but now I'll listen to you." "I was putting all that on for show, Stewart! I felt so--so--I don't know! Embarrassed, perhaps! And I felt that you--" her color deepened then in true embarrassment. "And--and--they were all there!" It was naïve confession, and he smiled. "So I said to my wee mither, Lana, by way of setting her right as to meddlesome tongues." "I am sincere and honest still, Stewart, where my real friends are concerned. I've just complained because I can't find words to express my thoughts to you. Well, I never was at a loss when we were boy and girl together." She paused and they heard the sound of music. "There's a frilly style of talk that belongs with that--down there," she went on. There was a hint of contempt in her gesture. "But you and I used to get along better--or worse--with plain speech." The flash of a smile of her own softened her _moue_. "I make it serve me well in my affairs," agreed Morrison. "Do you think I'm airy and notional and stuck up?" "No!" "Do you think I'm posing as a know-it-all because I have been about in the world and have seen and heard?" "No!" "But you do think I'm broader and wiser and more open-minded and have better judgment on matters in general than I had when I was penned up here in Marion, don't you?" "Yes!" "Stewart, you're not helping me much, staring at me and popping those noes and yesses at me! You make me feel like--but, honestly, I'm not! I don't intend to seem like that!" "Eh?" "Why, like an opinionated lecturer, laying down the law of conduct to you! I don't mean to do all the talking." "You'd better, Lana--for the present," he advised, seriously; "If you have something to say to me, take care and not let me get started on what I want to say to you." She flushed. She drew away from him slightly. In her apprehensiveness she hurried on for her own protection. "I hoped you were coming back just now, Stewart, and put out your hand to me as your friend, a good pal who had given sensible advice, and say to me, 'Lana, you have used your wits to good advantage while you have been out and about in the world, and your suggestions to me are all right.' Aren't you going to say so, Stewart?" "As I understand it, putting all you said to me awhile back in that plain language we have agreed on, you tell me that I'm missing my opportunities, have gone to sleep down here in Marion, am allowing myself to be everlastingly tied up by petty business details that keep me away from real enjoyment of a bigger and better life, and that there's not the least need of my spending my best years in that fashion." "You state it bluntly, but that is the gist of it!" "Yes, I was blunt. I'm going to be even more blunt! What do I get out of this prospective, bigger life, Lana?" He drew a deep breath. "Do I get--you?" "Stewart, hush! Wait!" He had spread his hands to her appealingly. "I am talking to you as your friend--I'm talking of your business, your outlook. I must say something further to you!" He set as firm a grip on his emotions as he had on his anger earlier in the evening when Krylovensky's hand had dealt him a blow. Her demeanor had thrust him away effectually. The fire died in his eyes. "Go on, Lana! I have promised to allow you to have your say. And, once I start, only a 'Yes!' can stop me." She displayed additional apprehension and plunged into a strictly commercial topic with desperate directness. "I'm positive that you have no further need of making yourself a slave to details of business. I know that you can be free to devote yourself to the higher things that are worthy of your real self and your talents, Stewart. Father says that through Mr. Daunt there will come to you the grandest opportunity of your life. I suppose that's what Mr. Daunt explained to you when you were with him this evening. Even though you may not consider me wise in men's business affairs, Stewart, you must admit that my father and Mr. Daunt know. You haven't any silly notions, have you? You're ready to seize every opportunity to make a grand success in business, the way the great men do, aren't you?" There was a very different light in Morrison's eyes than had flamed in them a few moments before. He stared at her appraisingly, wonderingly. His demanding survey of her was disconcerting, but his somberness was that of disappointment rather than of any distrust. "Has your father asked you to talk to me on the subject of that business?" She did not reply promptly. But his challenge was too direct. "I confess that father did intimate that there'd be no need of mentioning him in the matter." "He asked you to talk to me, then?" "Yes, Stewart!" "And I thought you were talking only for yourself when you begged me to step up into that broader life!" His voice trembled. She did not appear to understand his emotion. "But I _am_ talking for myself," protested the girl. "You're talking only your father's views, his plans, his ambition, his scheme of life--talking Daunt's project for his own selfish ends!" "I don't understand!" "I hope you don't! For the sake of my love for you, I hope so!" He was striving to control himself. "In the name of what we have been to each other in days past, I hope you are not their--that you don't realize they are making you a----But I can't say it! I want proof from you now by word o' mouth! I don't want any more prattle of business! I want you to show me that you are talking for yourself. Lana Corson, say to me some word from your own heart--something for me alone--something from old times--to prove that you are what I want you to be! I love you. You are mine! I don't believe their gossip. I have never given you up. I've been waiting patiently for you to come back to me. Can't you go back to the old times--and speak from your own soul?" The intensity of his appeal carried her along in the rush of his emotion. "Stewart, I have been speaking for myself, as best I knew how! I'm back to the old times! If you need further words from me, you shall have them." Senator Corson stepped around the end of the screen. "You will postpone any further words to Mr. Morrison! I have some words of my own for him! Lana, Coventry Daunt is waiting for you in the ballroom and I have told him that you will be there at once." "Mr. Daunt must continue to wait, father. I have something to tell Stewart, and you must allow me to say it--say it to him, alone." "You shall never speak another word to him on any subject with my permission. I have been listening and--" "Father, do you confess that you have been eavesdropping?" "My present code of manners is perfectly suited to the tactics of this fellow who has flouted me and insulted an honored guest under my roof this evening. Morrison, leave the house!" "He shall stay at the request of his hostess," declared the girl, defiantly. "On with you to your guests--that's where your hostess duties are!" Corson reached to take her arm. Stewart hastily raised Lana's hand and bent over it. "I am indebted to you for a charming evening." He stood erect and his demeanor of manly sincerity removed every suggestion of sarcasm from the conventional phrase he had spoken quietly. "The charm, Senator Corson, has outweighed all the unpleasantness." When he turned to retire Corson halted him with a curt word. "Lana, I command you to go and join your partner." But Miss Corson persisted in her rebelliousness. She did not relish the ominous threat that she perceived in the situation. "I shall stay with you till you're in a better state of temper, father." "You'll hear nothing to this man's credit if you do stay," said the Senator, acridly. "I have just talked on the 'phone with the Governor, Mayor Morrison. He asked me to notify you that your mob which you have stirred up in your own city, by your devilish speeches this evening, is evidently on the war-path. He, expects you to undo the mischief, seeing that your tongue is the guilty party!" Lana turned startled gaze from her father to Morrison; amazement struggled with her indignation. Her amazement was deepened by the mayor's mild rejoinder. "Very well, Senator. I have an excellent understanding with that mob." "Making speeches to a mob!" Lana gasped. "I'll not allow even my father to say that about you, Stewart, and leave it undisputed." "Your father is angry just now, Lana! Any discussion will provoke further unpleasantness!" "Confound you! Don't you dare to insult me by your condescending airs," thundered Corson. "You have your orders. Go and mix with your rabble and continue that understanding with 'em, if you can make 'em understand that law and order must prevail in this city to-night." The library was in a wing of the mansion, far from the street, and the three persons behind the screen had been entirely absorbed in their troubled affairs. They had heard none of the sounds from the street. Somebody began to call in the corridor outside the library. The voice sounded above the music from the ballroom, and quavered with anxious entreaty as it demanded, over and over: "Senator Corson! Where are you, Senator Corson?" "Here!" replied the Senator. The secretary rushed in. "There's a mob outside, sir! A threatening mob!" "Ah! Morrison, your friends are looking you up!" "They are radicals--anarchists. They must be!" panted the messenger. "They are yelling: 'Down with the capitalists! Down with the aristocrats!' I ordered the shades pulled. The men seemed to be excited by looking in through the windows at the dancers in the ballroom!" "There'll be no trouble. I'll answer for that," promised the Mayor, marching away. Before he reached the door the crash of splintered glass, the screams of women and shouts of men; drowned the music. Stewart went leaping down the stairs. When he reached the ballroom he found the frightened guests massed against the wall, as far from the windows as they could crowd. A wild battle of some sort was going on outside in the night, so oaths and cries and the grim thudding of battering fists revealed. Before Stewart could reach a window--one of those from which the glass had been broken--Commander Lanigan came through the aperture with a rush, skating to a standstill along the polished floor. Blood was on his hands. His sleeves hung in ribbons. In that scene of suspended gaiety he was a particularly grisly interloper. "They sneaked it over on us, Mister Mayor!" he yelled. "I got a tip and routed out the Legion boys and chased 'em, but the dirty, Bullshevists beat us to it up the hill. But we've got 'em licked!" "Keep 'em licked for the rest of the night," Morrison suggested. "I'll be down-town with you, right away!" But Lanigan, in his raging excitement, was not amenable to hints or orders, nor was he cautious in his revelations. "We can handle things down-town, Your Honor! What we want to know is, what about up-town--up on Capitol Hill?" "You've had my promise of what I'll do. And I'll do it!" Senator Corson and his daughter had arrived in the ballroom. The Senator was promptly and intensely interested in this cocksure declaration by Morrison. "Your promise is the same as hard cash for me and the level-headed ones," retorted Commander Lanigan. "But whether it's the Northern Lights in the skies or plain hellishness in folks or somebody underneath stirring and stirring trouble and starting lies, I don't know! Lots of good boys have stopped being level-headed! I'll hold the gang down if I can, sir. But what I want to know is, can we depend on you to tend to Capitol Hill? Are you still on the job? Can I tell 'em that you're still on the job?" "You can tell 'em all that I'm on the job from now till morning," shouted the mayor. He was heard by the men outside. They gave his declaration a howl of approval. "The people will be protected," shouted an unseen admirer. Stewart hurried to Senator Corson and was not daunted by that gentleman's blazing countenance. "I'm sorry, sir. This seems to be a flareback of some sort. I'll have police on guard at once!" "You'll protect the people, eh? There's a flatterer in your mob, Morrison! You can't even give window-glass in this city suitable protection--a mayor like you! I'll have none of your soviet police around my premises." He turned to his secretary. "Call the adjutant-general at the State House and tell him to send a detachment of troops here." "I trust they'll co-operate well with the police I shall send," stated the Mayor, stiffly. He hastened from the room. When Stewart had donned hat and overcoat and was about to leave the mansion by the main door, Lana stepped in front of him. "Stewart, you must stop for a moment--you must deny it, what father has been saying to me about you just now!" "Your father is angry--and in anger a man says a whole lot that he doesn't mean. I'm in a hurry--and a man in a hurry spoils anything he tries to tell. We must let it wait, Lana." "But if you go on--go on as you're going--crushing Mr. Daunt's plans--spoiling your own grand prospects--antagonizing my father--paying no heed to my advice!" The girl's sentences were galloping breathlessly. "We'll have time to talk it over, Lana!" "What! Talk it over after you have been reckless enough to spoil everything? You must stand with your friends, I tell you! Father is wiser than you! Isn't he right?" "I--I guess he thinks he is--but I can't talk about it." He was backing toward the door. "You must know what it means--for us two--if you go headlong against him. I stand stanchly for my father--always!" "I reckon you'll have to be sort of loyal to your father--but I can't talk about it! Not now!" he repeated. He was uncomfortably aware that he had no words to fit the case. "But if you don't stand with him, you're in with the rabble--the rabble," she declared, indignantly. "He says you are! Stewart, I know you won't insult his wisdom and deny my prayer to you! Only a few moments ago I was ready----But I cannot say those words to you unless----You understand!" This interview had been permitted only because Senator Corson's attention had been absorbed by Mrs. Stanton's hysterical questions. But the lady's fears did not affect her eyesight. She had noted Lana's departure and she caught a glimpse of the mayor when he strode past the ballroom door with his hat in his hand. "Yes, I'll be calm, Senator! I'm sure that we'll be perfectly protected. Lana followed the mayor just now, and I suppose she is insisting on a double detail of police." The Senator promptly followed, too, to find out more exactly what Lana was insisting on. "Haven't you joined your rabble yet, Morrison?" Corson queried, insolently, when he came upon the two. "I'm going, sir--going right along!" Lana set her hands together, the fingers interlaced so tightly that the flesh was as white as her cheeks. "'Your rabble!' Stewart! Oh! Oh!" In spite of her thinly veiled threat of a few moments ago, there was piteous protest in her face and voice. "According to suggestions from all quarters, I don't seem to fit any other kind of society just now," he replied, ruefully. He marched out into the night. "Call my car," Senator Corson directed a servant. In the reception-hall he encountered Silas Daunt, "Slip on your hat and coat. Come along with me to the State House. I'll show you how practical politics can settle a rumpus, after a visionary has tumbled down on his job!" XII RIFLES RULE IN THE PEOPLE'S HOUSE At eleven o'clock Adj.-Gen. Amos Totten set up the cinch of his sword-belt by a couple of holes and began another tour of inspection of the State House. He considered that the parlous situation in state affairs demanded full dress. During the evening he had been going on his rounds at half-hour intervals. On each trip he had been much pleased by the strict, martial discipline and alertness displayed by his guardsmen. The alertness was especially noticeable; every soldier was tautly at 'tention when the boss warrior hove in sight. General Totten was portly and came down hard on his heels with an elderly man's slumping gait, and his sword clattered loudly and his movements were as well advertised as those of a belled cat in a country kitchen. In the interims, between the tours of General Totten, Captain Danny Sweetsir did his best to keep his company up to duty pitch. But he was obliged to admit to himself that the boys were not taking the thing as seriously as soldiers should. Squads were scattered all over the lower part of the great building, guarding the various entrances. While Captain Sweetsir was lecturing the tolerant listeners of one squad, he was irritably aware that the boys of the squads that were not under espionage were doing nigh about everything that a soldier on duty should not do, their diversions limited only by their lack of resources. Therefore, when General Totten complimented him at eleven o'clock, Captain Sweetsir had no trouble at all in disguising his gratification and in assuming the approved, sour demeanor of military gravity. Even then his ears, sharpened by his indignation, caught the clicking of dice on tiles. "Of course, there will be no actual trouble to-night," said the general, removing his cap and stroking his bald head complacently. "I have assured the boys that there will be no trouble. But this experience is excellent military training for them, and I'm pleased to note that they're thoroughly on the _qui vive_." Captain Sweetsir, on his own part, did not apprehend trouble, either, but the A.-G.'s bland and unconscious encouragement of laxity was distinctly irritating, "Excuse me, sir, but I have been telling 'em right along that there will be a rumpus. I was trying to key 'em up!" "Remember that you're a citizen as well as a soldier!" The general rebuked his subaltern sternly. "Don't defame the fair name of your city and state, sir! The guard has been called out by His Excellency, the Commander-in-Chief, merely as a precaution. The presence of troops in the State House--their mere presence here--has cleared the whole situation. Mayor Morrison agrees with me perfectly on that point." "He does?" demanded the captain, eagerly, showing relief. "Why, I was afraid--" He checked himself. "Of what, sir?" "He didn't look like giving three cheers when I told him in the mill office that we had been ordered out." "Mayor Morrison called me on the telephone in the middle of the day and I explained to him why it was thought necessary to have the State House guarded." "And what did he say?" urged the captain, still more eagerly. Again he caught himself. He saluted. "I beg your pardon, General Totten. I have no right to put questions to my superior officer." But General Totten was not a military martinet. He was an amiable gentleman from civil life, strong with the proletariat because he had been through the chairs in many fraternal organizations and, therefore, handy in politics; and he was strong with the Governor on account of another fraternal tie--his sister was the Governor's wife. General Totten, as a professional mixer, enjoyed a chat. "That's all right, Captain! What did the mayor say, you ask? He courteously made no comment. Official tact! He is well gifted in that line. His manner spoke for him--signified his complete agreement. He was cordially polite! Very!" The general put on his cap and slanted it at a jaunty angle. "And he still approves. Is very grateful for the manner in which I'm handling the situation. He called me only a few minutes ago. From his residence! I informed him that all was serene on Capitol Hill." "And what did he say when he called you this time?" "Nothing! Oh, nothing by way of criticism! Distinctly affable!" Captain Sweetsir did not display the enthusiasm that General Totten seemed to expect. "Let's see, Captain! You are employed by him?" "Not quite that way! I'm a mill student--learning the wool business at St. Ronan's." "Aren't you and Mayor Morrison friendly?" "Oh yes! Certainly, sir! But--" Captain Sweetsir appeared to be having much difficulty in completing his sentences, now that Stewart Morrison had become the topic of conversation. "But what?" "He didn't say anything, you tell me?" "His cordiality spoke louder than words. And, of course, I was glad to meet him half-way. I have invited him to call at the State House, if he cares to do so, though the hour is late. And now I come to the matter of my business with you, Captain Sweetsir," stated the general, putting a degree of official sanction on his garrulity in the case of this subordinate. "If Mayor Morrison does come to the State House to-night, by any chance, you may admit him." "Did he say anything about coming?" "Mayor Morrison understands that I am handling everything so tactfully that an official visit by him might be considered a reflection on my capability. His politeness equals mine, Captain. Undoubtedly he will not trouble to come. If he should happen to call unofficially you will please see to it that politeness governs." "Yes, sir! But the other orders hold good, do they, politeness or no politeness?" "For mobs and meddling politicians, certainly! I put them all in the same class in a time like this." General Totten clucked a stuffy chuckle and clanked on his official way. Captain Sweetsir heard a sound that was as fully exasperating as the click of dice; somebody, somewhere in the dimly lighted rotunda, was snoring. He had previously found sluggards asleep on settees; he went in search of the latest offender. But his thoughts were occupied principally by reflection on that peculiar reticence of the Morrison of St. Ronan's; Mill-student Sweetsir was assailed by doubts of the correctness of General Totten's comfortable conclusions. Mr. Sweetsir, in the line of business, had had opportunity on previous occasions to observe the reaction of the Morrison's reticence. The adjutant-general did not bother with the elevator. He marched up the middle of the grand stairway. The State House was only partially illuminated with discreet stint of lights. All the outside incandescents of dome, _porte-cochère_, and vestibules had been extinguished. The inside lights were limited to those in the corridors and the lobbies. The great building on Capitol Hill seemed like a cowardly giant, clumsily intent on being inconspicuous. General Totten did not harmonize with the hush. He was distinctly an ambulatory noise in the corridor which led to the executive department. He was announced informally, therefore, to His Excellency. There was no way of announcing oneself formally to the Governor at that hour, except by rapping on the door of the private chamber. The reception-room was empty, the private secretary was not on duty, the messenger of the Governor and of the Executive Council had been informed by Governor North that his services would not be required for the rest of the evening. Being both adjutant-general and brother-in-law, Totten did not bother to knock. The Governor was at his broad table in the center of the room; the big chandelier above the table was ablaze, and the shadows of the grooves on North's face were accentuated. He was staring at the opening door with an expectancy that had been fully apprised as to the caller's identity, and he was not cordial. "You make a devilish noise lugging that meat-cleaver around, Amos. What's the use of all the full-dress nonsense?" "Official example _and_"--the general bore down hard on the conjunction--"the absolute necessity of a civilian officer getting into uniform when he exercises authority. I know human nature!" "All right! Maybe you do. But don't trip yourself up with that sword and fall down and break your neck," advised the Governor, satirically solicitous as one of the family. "Anything stirring down-stairs?" "The situation is being handled perfectly. Everybody alert. It's wonderful training for the guards." "I haven't liked the sound of reports from the city. Has any news come to you lately?" "Nothing of special importance. Only a little disturbance, or the threat of one, in the vicinity of Senator Corson's residence. His secretary called up. I sent a few boys down there." "A disturbance?" barked North. "I didn't quite gather the details. The man ran his words together." General Totten helped himself to one of his brother-in-law's cigars. "This sounds serious. Why the infernal blazes don't you wake up?" "An officer commanding troops mustn't be thrown off his poise by every flurry. What would happen if I didn't keep my head?" "When was this?" "Oh, maybe half an hour ago," replied the adjutant-general, with martial indifference to any mere rumblings of popular discontent. "That's probably the reason why Corson hasn't got along yet. I'm expecting him. I sent for him." North twitched his nose; his eye-glasses dropped off and dangled at the end of their cord. "I have sent explicit orders to Mayor Morrison to tend to that mob that he has been coddling. He's letting 'em get away from him, if what you say is so." "Oh, the mayor and I are in perfect accord and are handling the situation. I have just been talking with him on the telephone." Totten settled his cigar into the corner of his mouth. "Where is he?" "At his residence! Showing that he isn't any more worried than I am." "Well, if he has got the thing in hand again, I hope he'll stay at his residence. If reports are anything to go by, he didn't help matters by going down-town and making speeches to that rabble." "Politeness wins in the long run, Lawrence, whether you're talking to the mob or the masters. I make it my principle in life. Tact and diplomacy. Harmony and--" "Hell and repeat!" stormed North. "You and Morrison are not taking this thing the way you ought to! In accord, say you! He is torching 'em up and you are grinning while the fire burns! Fine team-work! Amos, you get in accord with me and my orders. You keep away from Morrison till I can make sure that he stands clean in his party loyalty." His Excellency was stuttering in his wrath and the general determined to be discreetly silent as to his recent tender of politeness to Morrison through the captain of the guards. Furthermore, Totten's self-complacency assured him that the mayor of Marion was leaving the affairs on Capitol Hill in the hands of the accredited commander on Capitol Hill. Governor North pulled open a drawer of the table. He threw a bunch of keys to his brother-in-law. "I had the messenger leave these with me. Lock up all the doors of the Council Chamber. Leave only my private door unlocked." The adjutant-general caught the keys. "But you certainly don't expect any trouble up here, with my guards--" "It's plenty enough of a job for a cat to watch one rat-hole! Lock up, I tell you!" XIII THE LINE-UP FORMS IN THE PEOPLE'S HOUSE While General Totten was bruising his dignity in the menial work of a turnkey, Governor North received two visitors. They were furred gentlemen who entered abruptly by the private door--the before-mentioned rat-hole--but the waiting cat did not pounce. On the contrary, one of the furred intruders did the pouncing. It was Senator Corson and he was furiously angry. "What kind of a damnable fool has been giving off orders to those soldiers? I have been tramping around outside this State House from door to door, held up everywhere and insulted by those young whelps." "I don't see how that could happen," protested the Governor. "Who gave off such orders?" "There were no orders, not in your case. I didn't think it was necessary to specify anything in regard to you, Senator. Do you mean to tell me that there's a man down there who didn't recognize you--who refused to allow you to pass without question?" "They all know me! Of course they know me. And that's the whole trouble. They made that the reason why they wouldn't let me in here." "How in the devil's name could that be?" The Governor's anger that promised punishment for the offenders served Senator Corson in lieu of apology. "I was informed that there were strict orders not to admit politicians. According to those lunkheads at the doors I came under that classification." The Senator threw off his coat. "And Daunt, here, was penalized on account of the company he was keeping. Find out who gave those orders." General Totten had locked the doors and was nervously jangling the keys. "Amos, what kind of a fool have you been making yourself with your orders?" the Governor demanded. "I--I think some instructions of mine in regard to admitting any of those persons whose seats are in dispute--probably those orders were misconstrued. My guards are very zealous--very alert," affirmed the adjutant-general, putting as good a face on the matter as was possible. He fully realized that this was no time to mention that exception in favor of Mayor Morrison, or to explain that he had intended to have Captain Sweetsir accept humorously instead of literally the more recent statement about politicians. "There are two of those alert patriots who have had their zeal dulled for the time being," stated the Senator, showing his teeth with a grim smile. "I stood the impertinence as long as I could and then I cuffed the ears of the fools and walked in." "We did issue strict instructions, as Amos has intimated," the Governor pleaded. "Some of those Socialists and Progressives who are claiming their seats have hired counsel and they proposed to force their way into the House and Senate chambers and make a test case, inviting forcible expulsion. I'm reckoning that my plan of forcible exclusion leaves us in cleaner shape." "I'm not sure just how clean the whole thing is going to leave us, North." The Senator tossed his coat upon a huge divan at one side of the chamber and invited Daunt to dispose of his own coat in like fashion. Corson came to the table and sat sidewise on one corner of it. "You know how I feel about your pressing the election statutes to the extent you have. But we've got the old nag right in the middle of the river, and we've got to attend to swimming instead of swapping. I think, in spite of all their howling, the other crowd will take their medicine, as the courts hand it to them, when the election cases go up for adjudication. But there's a gang in every community that always takes advantage of any signs of a mix-up in high authority. My house got merry hell from a mob a little while ago. There's no political significance in the matter, however!" The Governor queried anxiously for details and Corson gave them. He bitterly arraigned Morrison's stand. North came to his feet and banged his fist on the table. "What? Take that attitude toward a mob in his own city? Strike hands with a ringleader of a riot--do it under a violated roof? Do it after what he promised me in the way of co-operation for law and order? Has he completely lost his mind, Senator Corson?" "I think so," stated the Senator, with sardonic venom. "I'll admit that the thing isn't exactly clear to me--what he's trying to do--what he's thinking. A crazy man's actions and whims seldom are understandable by a sane man. But, so I gather, after showing us, as he has this evening, a sample of his work in running municipal government, he now proposes to take full charge of state matters." "What?" yelled the Governor. "Yes! Promised the ringleader of the mob to come up here and run everything on Capitol Hill. In behalf of the people--as the people's protector!" The Senator's irony rasped like a file on metal. Banker Daunt was provoked to add his evidence. "It's exactly as my friend Corson says, Governor. I have been hearing some fine soviet doctrines from the mouth of Morrison this evening. Not at all stingy about giving his help to all those who need it! Gave his pledge of assistance to the fellow in the ballroom, as Corson says. Understood him to say that he is coming up here to help you, too!" "I rather expected to find him here," pursued the Senator. "He went away in a great hurry to go somewhere. But after my experience with your alert soldiers down-stairs, Totten, I'm afraid our generous savior is going to be bothered about getting in." The adjutant-general pulled off his cap and scrubbed his palm nervously over the glossy surface that was revealed. "You might give some special orders to admit him," suggested Corson. "He'll be a great help in an emergency." "This settles it with me as to Morrison and his conception of law and order," affirmed Governor North. "I have been depending on him to handle his city. I'd as soon depend on Lenin and the kind of government he's running in Russia." "According to the samples furnished by both, I think Lenin would rank higher as help," said the Senator. "At least he has shown that he knows how to handle a mob. But we may as well calm down, North, and attend to our own business. We are making altogether too much account of a silly nincompoop. Daunt and I let our feelings get away from us this evening on the same subject. But we woke up promptly. Morrison was in a position to help his friends and to amount to something as an aid in that line. Now that he is running with the rabble, for some purpose of his own, he can be ignored. He amounts to nothing--to that!" He snapped a derogatory finger into his palm. "We can handle that rabble, Morrison included." He turned to the adjutant-general. "Your men seem to be alert enough in keeping out gentlemen who ought to be let in. Do you think you can depend on them to keep out real intruders?" "Oh yes!" faltered Totten, absent-mindedly. He was trying to clear his troubled thoughts in regard to the matter of Morrison, who was now presented in a light where politeness might not be allowed to govern the situation. "Have they been put to any test of their courage and reliability? Have they been up against any actual threats from the outside, this evening?" "No, but I can depend on them to the limit, Senator Corson. I have been on regular tours of inspection. They are a cool and nervy set of young men and I have impressed on them a sense of what a soldier on duty should be." "Very well, Totten! Nevertheless, let us hope that the mob fools have gone home to bed, including our friend Morrison. He needs his sleep; I believe he still follows the family rule of being in his mill at seven in the morning. He's a good millman, even if he isn't much of a politician." "And I don't look for any trouble, anyway," declared General Totten, adding in his thoughts, for his further consolation, the assurance that, at half past eleven, so the clock on the wall revealed to his gaze, such an early riser as Morrison must be abed and asleep; therefore, the exception for the sake of politeness did not threaten to complicate affairs! But at that instant something else did threaten. Through the arches and corridors of the State House rang the sounds of tumult, breaking on the hush with terrifying suddenness. One voice, shouting with frenzied violence, prefaced the general uproar; there was the crashing of shattered wood. The rifles barked angrily. "My God, North! I've been afraid of it!" Corson lamented. "You have crowded 'em too hard!" "I'm going by the law, Corson! The election law! The statute law! And the riot laws of this state! The law says a mob must be put down!" An immediate and reassuring silence suggested that the law had prevailed and that a mob had been put down in this instance. Corson, whose face was white and whose eyes were distended, voiced that conviction. "If a gang had been able to get in they'd be howling their heads off. But it was quick over!" The men in the Executive Chamber stood in their tracks and exchanged troubled glances in silence. "Amos, what are you waiting for?" demanded His Excellency. "For a report--an official report on the matter," mumbled the adjutant-general, steadying his trembling hands by shoving them inside his sword-belt. "Go down and find out what it all means." "I can save time by telephoning to the watchman's room," demurred Totten. "Incidentally saving your skin!" the Governor rapped back. "But I don't care how you get the information, if only you get it and get it sudden!" Totten went to the house telephone in the private secretary's room and called and waited; he called again and waited. "Nobody is on his job in this State House to-night!" His Excellency's fears had wire-edged his temper. "By gad! you go down there and tend to yours, as I have told you to do, Amos, or I'll take that sword and race you along the corridor on the point of it!" "We must be informed on what this means," insisted the Senator. There was a rap on the private door. Again the men in the Executive Chamber swapped uneasy glances. Corson's demeanor invited the Governor to assume the responsibility. His Excellency was manifestly shirking. He looked over his shoulder in the direction of the fireplace, as if he felt an impulse to arm himself with the ornamental poker and tongs. "May I come in?" The voice was that of the mayor of Marion. The voice was deprecatory. "Come in!" invited North. Morrison entered. He greeted them with a wide smile that did not fit the seriousness of the situation, as they viewed it. There was humor behind the smile; it suggested suppressed hilarity; it hinted that he had something funny to tell them. But their grim countenances did not encourage him. "If I am intruding on important business----" "Shut the door behind you! What is it? What happened?" demanded North. Before shutting the door Morrison reached into the gloom behind him and pulled in a soldier. Stewart had put off his evening garb. He wore a business suit of the shaggy gray mixture that was one of the staples among the products of St. Ronan's mill. His matter-of-fact attire was not the only element that set him out in sharp contrast among the claw-hammers and uniforms in the room; he was bubbling with undisguised merriment; Corson, Daunt, and the Governor were sullenly anxious; even the young soldier looked flustered and frightened. "I have brought along Paul Duchesne so that you may have it from his own mouth! Go ahead, Duchesne! Let 'em in on the joke! Gentlemen, get ready for a laugh!" Stewart set an example for them by a suggestive chuckle. "Your arrival in the State House seems to have been attended by considerable of a demonstration," commented Senator Corson, recovering himself sufficiently to indulge in his animosity. "Judging from your success in starting other riots this evening, I ought to have guessed that you were in the neighborhood." "My arrival had nothing whatever to do with the demonstration, Senator. Go on, Duchesne!" "I jomped myself," stammered the soldier, a particularly crestfallen Canuck. "I see you don't grasp the idea," Morrison hastened to put in. "We mustn't have the flavor of the joke spoiled. I know Paul, here. He works in my mill. He has a little affliction that's rather common among French Canadians. He's a jumper." He suddenly clapped the youth on the shoulder and yelled "Hi!" so loudly that all the auditors leaped in trepidation. The soldier leaped the highest, flung his arms about wildly, and let out a resounding yelp. "That's the idea!" explained Stewart. "A congenital nervous trouble. Jumpers, they are called!" "What the devil is this all about?" raged the Governor. "Tell 'em, Paul. Hurry up!" "I gone off on de nap on a settee," muttered Duchesne, twisting his fingers together. General Totten winced. "Dere ban whole lot o' dem gone off on de nap, too," asserted the guard, offering defense for himself. "By way of showing alertness, Totten!" growled the Senator. "So I ban dream somet'ing! Ba gar! I dream dat t'ree or two bobcat he come--" "Never mind the details of the dream, Paul!" interposed Morrison. "These gentlemen have business! Get 'em to the laugh, quick!" "Ma big button on ma belt she caught on de crack between de slat of dat settee. And when I fight all dat bobcat dat jomp on maself, ba gee! it was de settee dat fall on me and I fight dat all over de floor. Dat's all! Oh yes! Dey all wake up and shoot!" "And nobody hurt!" stated Morrison. He gazed at the sour faces of the listeners. "Great Scott! Doesn't Duchesne's battle to the death with a settee get even a grin? What's the matter with all of you?" "We seem to be quite all right--in our normal senses," returned the Senator, icily. "I believe there are persons who gibber and giggle at mishaps to others--but I also believe that such a peculiar sense of humor is confined largely to institutions for the refuge of the feeble-minded." "You may go back to your nap, Duchesne!" The mayor turned on the soldier and spoke sharply. He followed the young man to the door and closed it behind Duchesne. He marched across the chamber and faced the surly Governor. "I brought the boy here, Your Excellency, so that you might get the thing straight. I hope you believe him, even if you don't take much stock in me!" Morrison's face matched the others in gravity. There was an incisive snap in his tone. "I happened to be in the rotunda when the--" "How did you happen to be in the rotunda, sir--past the guards?" "I walked in." "By whose permission?" "Why, I reckoned it must have been yours," returned Stewart, calmly. "I gave no such permission." "Well, at any rate, I was informed by the guards that a special exception had been made in my case. Furthermore, Governor North, you told me this evening that if I needed any specific information I could find you at the State House." "By telephone, sir! By telephone! I distinctly stipulated that!" "I'm sorry! I was considerably engrossed by other matters just then. Perhaps I didn't get you straight. However, telephone conferences are apt to be unsatisfactory for both parties. I'm glad I came up. I assure you it's no personal inconvenience to me, sir!" "There's a fine system of military guard here, and a fine bunch to enforce it. That's what I've got on my mind to say!" whipped out the Senator. "If one man and a settee can show up your soldiers in that fashion, Totten, what will a real affair do to them?" "Nobody sent for you, Mayor Morrison. Nobody understands why you're here," stated Governor North. "You're not needed." The intruder hesitated for a few moments. His eyes found no welcome in any of the faces in the Executive Chamber. He swapped a whimsical smile for their frowns. "Well, at all events, I'm here," he said, mildly. He was carrying his overcoat on his arm, his hat in his hand. He went across the room and laid the garment carefully on the divan, smoothing its folds. His manner indicated that he felt that the coat might be lying there for some little time, and consideration for good cloth was ingrained in a Morrison. XIV THE IMPENDING SHAME OF A STATE Morrison, returning from the shadows, standing in the light-flood from the great chandelier, confronted three men who were making no effort to disguise their angry hostility. The adjutant-general, nervously neutral, dreading incautious words that would reveal his unfortunate policy of politeness, tiptoed to the table and laid there the bunch of keys. "I'm needed officially down-stairs, Your Excellency!" "By Judas! I should think you were!" Stewart placed a restraining hand on Totten's arm. "I beg your pardon, Governor, but we need the adjutant-general of the state in our conference." "Conference about _what_?" "About the situation that's developing outside, sir." "I'm principally interested in the situation that has developed inside. In just what capacity do you appear here?" There was offensive challenge in every intonation of North's voice. His eyes protruded, purple circlets made his cheek-bones look like little knobs, he shoved forward his eye-glasses as far as the cord permitted and waggled them with a hand that trembled. Morrison's good humor continued; his calmness was giving him a distinct advantage, and North, still shaken by the panic of a few moments before, was forced farther off his poise by realization of that advantage. "Allow me to be present simply as an unprejudiced constituent of yours, Governor North." "Judging from all reports, I'm not sure whether you are a constituent or not. I'm considerably doubtful about your politics, Morrison." "I hope you don't intend to read me out of the party, sir! But if that question is in doubt, please permit me to be here as the mayor of the city of Marion. There's no doubt about my being that!" "Let me remind you that this is the State House, not City Hall." "But tolerate me for a few minutes! I beg of you, sir! Both of us are sworn executives!" "Your duties lie where you belong--down in your city. This is the State House, I repeat!" "Do you absolutely refuse to give me a courteous hearing?" "Under the circumstances, after your actions this evening, after your public alliance with the mob and your boasts of what you were coming up here to do, I'm taking no chances on you. You're only an intruder. Again, this is the State House!" Morrison dropped his deference. He shot out a forefinger that was just as emphatic as the Governor's eye-glasses. "I accept your declaration as to what this place is! It is the State House. It is the Big House of the People. I'm a joint owner in it. I'm here on my own ground as a citizen, as a taxpayer in this state. I have personal business here. Let me inform you, Governor North, that I'm going to stay until I finish that business." "That poppycock kind of reasoning would allow every mob-mucker in this state to rampage through here at his own sweet will. General Totten, call a corporal and his squad. Put this man out." Senator Corson grunted his indorsement and went to a chair and sat down. His Excellency was pursuing his familiar tactics in an emergency--the rough tactics that were characteristic of him. In this case Senator Corson approved and allowed the Governor to boss the operation. "I--I think, Mayor Morrison," ventured the adjutant-general, "considering that recent perfect understanding we had on the matter, that we'd do well to keep this on the plane of politeness." "So do I," Stewart agreed. "Then I hazard the guess that you'll accompany me down-stairs to the door. Calling a guard would be mutually embarrassing." "It sure would," asserted Stewart, agreeing still. "Then--" The general crooked a polite arm and offered it. "But your guess was too much of a hazard! You don't win!" However, Morrison turned on his heel and ran toward the private door. He appeared to be solving all difficulties by flight. It was plain that those in the room supposed so; their tension relaxed; the mayor of Marion was manifestly avoiding the ignominy of ejection from the Capitol by the militia--and that would be a fine piece of news to be bruited on the streets next day, if he had remained to force that issue! Stewart flung open the door. But instead of stepping through he stepped back. "Come in," he called. Paymaster Andrew Mac Tavish led the way, plodding stolidly, his neck particularly rigid. Delora Bunker, stenographer at St. Ronan's mill, followed. Last came Patrolman Rellihan, his bulk nigh filling the door, his helmeted head almost scraping the lintel. He carried a night-stick that resembled a flail-handle rather than the usual locust club. Morrison slammed the door and Rellihan put his back against it. There was a profound hush in the Executive Chamber. The feet of those who entered made no sound on the thick carpet. Those who were in the chamber offered evidence of the truism that there are situations where words fail to do justice to the emotions. Morrison was the first to speak. He walked to the table before uttering a word; on his way across the room his eyes were on the keys. When he leaned on the table he put one hand over them. "This invasion seems outrageous, gentlemen. Undoubtedly it is. But I have tried another plan with you and it did not succeed. I had hoped that I would not need these assistants whom I have just called in." "Totten, go bring the guard!" North's voice was balefully subdued. Rellihan looked straight ahead and twirled his stick. "I apologize for stretching my special exception a bit, and introducing these guests past the boys at the door," Stewart went on. "I'm breaking the rules of politeness--and the rules of everything else, I'm afraid. But all rules seem to be suspended to-night!" "Totten!" the Governor roared, pounding his fist on the arm of his chair. Morrison gave the policeman a side-glance as if to inform himself that all was right with Rellihan. Then he pulled a handy chair to the table and motioned to Miss Bunker. She sat down and opened her note-book. "I have come here on business, gentlemen, and you must allow me to follow some of my business methods. The heat of argument often causes men to forget what has been said. I'm willing to leave what I may say to the record, and, in view of the fact that all this is public business, I trust I'll have your co-operation along the same line. And there's a young lady present," he added. "That fact will help us to get along wonderfully well together." "What's that devilish policeman doing at my door?" demanded the Governor, finding that his frantic gestures were not starting the adjutant-general on his way. "Insuring complete privacy!" The mayor beamed on the Governor. "Nothing gets in--nothing gets out!" North grabbed the telephone instrument on his desk. One of Stewart's hands was covering the keys; with the fingers of the other hand he had been fumbling under the edge of the desk. He suddenly pulled wires from the confining staples; he yanked a big mill-knife from his trousers pocket and cut the wires. North flung a dead instrument clattering on the broad table and found only oaths fit to apply to this perfectly amazing effrontery. "You need not take, Miss Bunker!" The quiet dignity of Morrison and the rebuke the Governor found in the girl's contemplative eyes choked off the profanity as effectively as would gripping fingers at his throat. "I realize that all this is absolutely unprecedented--has never been done before--is unadulterated gall on my part, Governor North. Perhaps I haven't a leg to stand on." "Morrison, this infernal nonsense must cease!" Senator Corson shouted, leaping from his chair and shaking both fists. "You need not take, Miss Bunker!" Corson gulped and surveyed the young lady, and found her eyes as disconcertingly rebuking as they had proved in the case of North. "Not especially on account of the style of your language, Senator! But you are merely a visitor here, the same as I! At the present time your comments on the business between the Governor and myself can scarcely have any weight in the record." "What in blazes is that business? Get it out of you!" commanded the other principal in the controversy. "With pleasure! Thank you for coming down to the matter in hand. You may take, Miss Bunker. "Governor North, I have been about among people this evening and--" "You have been making incendiary speeches, and I demand to know what you have said and why you have said it!" "I have no time now to go into those details. My business is more pressing, sir." "You're in cahoots with a mob! I saw you operating, with my own eyes, under my own roof," asserted Senator Corson, violently. "I have no time for discussing that matter." Morrison looked up at the clock on the wall. "This other business, I assert, is urgent." Banker Daunt had been holding his peace, growling anathema to himself in the depths of a big chair. He struggled to the edge of that chair. "I am in this building right now to warn the Governor of this state that you are playing your own selfish game to stifle enterprise and development and to discourage outside capital--hundreds of thousands of it--waiting to come in here." "Pardon me, sir! I have no time to discuss water-power, either! Right now I'm submitting news instead of theories!" He faced the Governor again. "That's why I'm here--I'm bringing news. That news must put everything else to one side. We have minutes only to deal with the matter. And if we don't use those minutes with all the wisdom that's in us, the shame of our state will be on the wires of the world inside of an hour!" His vehemence intimidated them. His manner as the bearer of ill tidings won what his appeals had not secured--an instant hearing. "What I say will be a matter of record, and the blame will be placed where it belongs. You can't claim that you didn't have facts. I have been among the people. I have sent others among 'em and I have received reports and I know what I am talking about. There's a mob massing down-town--a mob made up of many different elements! That kind of mob can't be handled by mere arguments or by machine-guns. That mob must be shown! Talking won't do any good. Just a moment! You won't do what you ought to do, Governor, unless you have this thing driven straight at you! In that mob are the men who have voted for various members of the legislature who claim seats and whose seats are threatened. It's a personal matter with those men. You can't soft-soap 'em to-night with promises of what the courts will do. Several hundred huskies are on the way over here from the Agawam quarries Those men don't care about this or that candidate. They have been paid to grab in on general principles--and they're bringing sledge-hammers. In that mob, also, are the Red aliens who keep under cover till a row breaks out; any kind of trouble suits their purpose--and you know what their purpose is in regard to this government of ours. They're coming, I tell you. They're coming on to Capitol Hill!" "And what have you been doing to stop 'em, after all your promises of what you'd do?" raged North. "I've been doing the best I could, with what loyal boys I could depend on. But I want to know now what _you're_ going to do?" "Shoot every damnation thug of 'em who gets in range of our machine-guns. Totten, hustle yourself down-stairs and see that it's done!" "Genera! Totten will not leave this room--not now! You're all wrong, Governor." "That's the way a mob was handled in one state in this Union not so very long ago, and the Governor was right! He was hailed from one end of the country to the other as right!" "The principle behind him was right--that's what you mean, Governor North. That was just the point he made!" "Do you dare to stand there and intimate that I haven't got principle behind me? Statute law, election law?" Morrison glanced again at the clock; then he tossed a bomb into the argument. "The principle in this instance is a pretty wabbly backing, sir. I'm afraid that even my loyal boys will join the mob if the news gets out about those election returns in certain districts--the returns that were sent back secretly to be corrected." The bomb had all the effect that Morrison hoped for. His Excellency slumped back in his chair and "pittered" his lips wordlessly. "I don't think the news has actually got out among the general public, but it's apt to leak any minute, sir. You can't afford to take chances." "Such slander is preposterous!" Corson asserted. "What used to be done--reviving old stories--I say that our party will not lend its countenance to any such tricks." In his excitement he had dropped an admission as to the past in politics while offering a disclaimer as to the present. "There's no time now for any political discussions," retorted Morrison, curtly. "It's a matter right now of side-tracking a fight. If that fight comes off, Governor North, the truth will come out. And you can't point to a principle in your case as an excuse for bloodshed!" "If a mob attacks this State House there's got to be a fight." "It takes two to make a fight, sir. Order General Totten to march his troops out of the State House. Machine-guns and all! Tell 'em to go home and go to bed." That audacious advice was a second bomb! After a few moments Senator Corson leaped out of his chair, strode across the room, and plucked his coat and hat from the divan. "Come along, Daunt!" he counseled, his voice cracking hoarsely. "Hold on, Senator!" expostulated the Governor. "I need your help!" "I won't allow myself to be mixed into this mess, North. I can't afford to help shoulder the blame where I have not been fully informed. And I won't allow a lunatic to endanger my life. Come on, Daunt, I tell you!" "If you're bound to go, I'll go along, too," proffered the Governor, rising hastily. "This thing can be handled. It's got to be handled. We'll go where this infernal, clattering loom from St. Ronan's mill can't break up a gentlemen's conference." Stewart did not suggest that the gentlemen remain; nor did he offer to go; nor did he plead for a decision. He stood quietly and watched them pull on their overcoats. The Senator led the retreat toward the private door. Morrison dropped the captured bunch of keys into his pocket. Rellihan held his club horizontally in front of him with both hands. "Get out of the way!" yelped Corson. The officer shook his head. "General Totten, open that door." "No chance!" Rellihan growled. North wagged his way close to the barring "fender" and shook an admonitory finger under the policeman's nose. "I'm the Governor of this state! I order you to move away from that door." "I can't help what ye are! I'm taking me orders on'y fr'm the mayor o' Marion." "You see, gentlemen!" suggested Morrison. "It looks as if we'd be obliged to settle our business right where we are--in this room. Time is short. Won't you come back here to the table?" There was absolute silence in the Executive Chamber--a silence that continued. The dignitaries at the door deigned to accord to Morrison neither glance nor word; they would not indulge his incredible audacity to that extent. As to Rellihan, they did not feel like stooping so low as to waste words on the impassive giant who personified an ignorant insolence that made no account of personalities. They adventured in no move against that obstacle in their path, either by concerted attack or individual effort to pass. They looked like wakened sleepers who were struggling with the problems proposed in a nightmare. It was a situation which seemed beyond solution by the ordinary sensible methods. After a time Governor North voiced in a coarse manner, inadequately, some expression of the emotion that was dominating the group. "What in hell is the matter with us, anyway?" Again there was a prolonged silence. "Seeing that nobody else seems to want to express an opinion on the subject, I'll tell you what the matter is, as I look at it," ventured Stewart, chattily matter-of-fact. "We're all native-born Americans in this room. Right down deep in our hearts we're not afraid of our soldiers. We good-naturedly indulge the boys when they are called on to exercise authority. But from the time an American youngster begins to steal apples and junk and throw snowballs and break windows a healthy fear of a regular cop is ingrained in him. It's a fear he doesn't stop to analyze. It's just there, that's all he knows. Even a perfectly law-abiding citizen walking home late feels a little tingle of anxiety in him when he marches past a cop. Puts on an air as much as to say, 'I hope you think I'm all right, officer--tending right to my own business!' So, in this case, it's only your ingrained American nature talking to you, gentlemen! You're all right! Nothing is the matter with you! It ought to please you because you feel that way! Proves you are truly American. 'Don't monkey with the cop!' Just as long as we obey that watchword we've got a good government!" Senator Corson was more infuriated by that bland preachment than he would have been by vitriolic insult. While he marched back to the table he prefaced his arraignment of Morrison by calling him an impudent pup. He dwelt on that subject with all his power of invective for some minutes. "I agree with you, Senator," admitted Morrison when Corson stopped to gather more ammunition of anathema. "But what are you going to do about it?" He asked the same question after the Senator had finished a statement of his opinion on the obstinacy of the lunkhead at the door. The Senator kept on in his objurgation. But whenever he looked at the door he found the policeman there, an immovable obstacle. Whenever Corson looked at Morrison he met everlastingly that hateful query. Both the question and the cop were impossible, impassable. Corson found the thing too outrageously ridiculous to be handled by sane argument; his insanity in declamation was getting him nowhere. "There's only one subject before the meeting," insisted Stewart. "We've got to keep this state from being ashamed of itself when it wakes up to-morrow morning!" Somewhere, in some hidden place in the room, a subdued buzzing began and continued persistently. The understanding that passed between Corson and North in the glance which they exchanged was immediate and highly informative, even had the observer been obtuse. But in that crisis Stewart Morrison was not obtuse. Whether it was deference, one to the other, or caution in general that was dominating the Senator and the Governor was not clearly revealed by their countenance. At any rate, they made no move. "Pardon me, Senator Corson," said Stewart. "I'm quite sure I know where the other end of that telephone line is. I think your daughter is calling!" His inquisitive eyes were searching the walls of the chamber; the source of the buzzing was not easily to be located by the sound. The Governor suddenly dumped himself out of his chair and started across the room. Morrison strode into His Excellency's path and extended a restraining arm that was as authoritative as Rellihan's club. "I beg your pardon, too, Governor! But that call is undoubtedly for Senator Corson. I happen to know quite a lot about the conveniences in his residence!" "And all the evening you have been using that knowledge to help you in violating my hospitality! Morrison, you're not much else than a sneak!" affirmed Corson. The Governor struck his fist against the rigid arm and spat an oath in Morrison's face, "Get out of my way! I'm in my own office--I'll tend to that call!" "No, you'll not!" was Morrison's quick rejoinder. "Senator Corson, if you want to inform your daughter that you're all safe--if you want to ask her not to worry, you'd better answer. But I must insist that a private line shall not be used to convey out of this room any of our public business!" Corson then became the only moving figure in the tableau; he went to the wall, pushed aside a huge frame which held the state's coat of arms, and pulled from a niche a telephone on an extension arm. He proceeded to display his utter contempt for commands issuing from the absurd interloper who was presuming in such dictation to dignity "Yes! Lana! Call High-sheriff Dalton! As quickly as possible! Tell him to secure a posse. Tell him I'm in the State House, threatened by a lunatic. Tell him--" By that time Morrison was at Corson's side and was wresting the instrument from the wall. He broke off the arm and the wires and flung them across the room. "There's fight enough on the docket, as the thing stands, without calling in another bunch to make it three-sided, sir! Rellihan, open the door for Mac Tavish! Andy, run to the public booth in the corridor and call Dalton and tell him to pay no attention to any hullabaloo by hysterical women. Tell him I said so! Ask him to keep that to himself. And rush back!" He turned on the Senator and the Governor. There was no longer apology or compromise in the demeanor of the mayor of Marion. "I know I'm a rank outsider! You needn't try to tell me what I know myself. I didn't think I'd need to be so rank! But I'm just what you're forcing me to be. I have jumped in here to stop something that there's no more sense in than there is in a dog-fight. They may fight in spite of all I can do! But, by the gods! I'm not going to stand by and see men like you rub their ears! Senator Corson, I advise you and Governor North to go and sit down. You're only making spectacles of yourselves!" XV THE BOSS OF THE JOB After Senator Corson had recovered his poise his dignity asserted itself and he sat down and assumed an attitude that suggested the frigidity of a statue on an ice-cake. He checked Governor North with an impatient flap of the hand. "You have had your innings as a manager, North!" He proceeded frostily with Morrison. "There was never a situation in state history like this one you have precipitated, sir, and if I have made an ass of myself I was copying current manners." "It is a strange situation, I'll admit, Senator," Morrison agreed. "As a newsmonger, you say, do you, that minutes are valuable?" "Yes, sir!" "Well, we'd better find out how valuable they are. Will you send General Totten below to investigate?" Morrison surveyed appraisingly the panoplied adjutant-general. "I'd never think of making General Totten an errand-boy, sir, if I'm to imply that I have any say in affairs just now." "You have assumed all say! You have put gentlemen in a position where they can't help themselves." The Senator scowled in the direction of Rellihan. But Rellihan did not mind; right then he was opening the door to the returning Mac Tavish. "I routed Mac Tavish out of bed and brought him along to attend to errands. He will go and see how matters are below, and outside," proffered Morrison, courteously. The self-appointed manager gave Mac Tavish his new orders and added: "Inquire, please, if any telegrams have arrived for me. I'm expecting some." Rellihan again deferentially opened the door for the messenger of the mayor of Marion; Mac Tavish had knocked and given his name. "It's all richt, sir!" he had reported on his arrival from his mission to the telephone. The exasperated Governor viewed that free ingress and muttered. Mac Tavish's unimpeded egress on the second errand provoked the Governor more acutely. "Morrison, I'm now talking strictly for myself," went on the Senator. "I shall use plain words. By your attitude you directly accuse me of being a renegade in politics. To all intents and purposes I am under arrest, as a person dangerous to be at large in the affairs that are pressing." "Senator Corson, I don't believe you ever did a deliberately wrong or wicked thing in your life, as an individual." "I thank you!" "But deliberately political methods can be wicked in their general results, even if those methods are sanctioned by usage. It's wicked to start a fight here to-night by allowing political misunderstandings to play fast and loose with the people." "You're a confounded imbecile, that's what you are," shouted Governor North. The mayor turned on him. "Replying in the same sort of language, so that you may understand right where you and I get off in our relations, I'll tell you that you're the kind of man who would use grandmothers in a matched fight to settle a political grudge--if the other fellow had a grandmother and you could borrow one. Now let me alone, sir! I am talking with Senator Corson!" The Senator squelched the Governor with another gesture. "We have our laws, Morrison. We must abide by 'em. And the political game must be played according to the law." "I think I have already expressed my opinion to you about that game, sir. I'll say again that in this country politics is no longer a mere game to be played for party advantage and the aggrandizement of individuals. The folks won't stand for that stuff any longer." "I think you and North, both of you, are overexcited. You're going off half cocked. You are exaggerating a tempest in a teapot." "If every community in this country gets right down to business and stops the teapot tempests by good sense in handling them when they start, we'll be able to prevent a general tornado that may sweep us all to Tophet, Senator Corson." "Legislation on broad lines will remedy our troubles. We are busy in Washington on such matters." "Good luck to the cure-all, sir! But in the mean time we need specific doses, right at home, in every community, early and often. That's what we ought to be tending to to-night, here in Marion. If every city and town does the same thing, the country at large won't have to worry." Senator Corson kept his anxious gaze on the private door. "Well, let's have it, Morrison! You seem to be bossing matters, just as you threatened to do. What's your dose in this case?" "I wasn't threatening! I was promising." "Promising what?" "That the people would get a square deal in this legislative matter." "You don't underrate your abilities, I note!" "Oh, I was not promising to do it myself. I have no power in state politics. I was promising that Governor North and his Executive Councilors who canvassed the election returns would give the folks a square deal." In his rage the Governor, defying such presumptuous interference, was not fortunate in phrasing his declaration that Morrison had no right to promise any such thing. The big millman surveyed His Excellency with a whimsical expression of distress. "Why, I supposed I had the right to promise that much on behalf of our Chief Executive. You aren't going to deny 'em a square deal--you don't mean that, do you, sir?" "Confound your impudence, you have no right to twist my meaning. I'm going by the law--strictly by the statutes! The question will be put up to the court." "Certainly!" affirmed Senator Corson. "It must go to the court." Just then Rellihan slammed the private door with a sort of official violence. Mac Tavish had entered. He marched straight to Morrison with the stiff jerkiness of an automaton. He carried a sealed telegram and held it as far in front of himself as possible. Stewart seized upon it and tore the envelope. "I'm glad to hear you say that about the court, gentlemen. I have taken a liberty this evening. Will you please wait a moment while I glance at this?" It was plainly, so his manner indicated, something that had a bearing on the issue. They leaned forward and attended eagerly on him when he began to read aloud: "My opinion hastily given for use if emergency is such as you mention is that mere technicalities, clerical errors that can be shown to be such or minor irregularities should not be allowed to negative will of voter when same has been shown beyond reasonable doubt. Signed, Davenport, Judge Supreme Judicial Court." Morrison waited a few moments, gazing from face to face. Then he leaned across the table and gave the telegram into the hands of Miss Bunker. "Make it a part of the record, please," he directed. "Well, I'll be eternally condemned!" roared the Governor. "You're a rank outsider. You don't know what you're talking about. How do you dare to involve the judges? They don't know what they're talking about, either, on a point of law, in this case." "Perhaps Judge Davenport isn't talking law, wholly, in that telegram. He may be saying a word as an honest man who doesn't want to see his state disgraced by riot and bloodshed to-night." The mayor addressed Mac Tavish with eager emphasis. "What do you find down below, Andy?" "Nae pairticular pother withindoors. Muckle powwow wi'out," reported the old man, tersely. "Then you got a look outside?" "Aye! When I took the message frae the telegraph laddie at the door." "Was Joe Lanigan in sight?" "Aye!" "It's all right so far, gentlemen," the mayor assured his involuntary conferees. "Joe is on the job with his American Legion boys, as he promised me he'd be. Now I'm going to be perfectly frank and inform you that I have made a promise of my own in this case. I haven't meant to be presumptuous. I don't want you to feel that I've got a swelled head. I'm merely trying to keep my word and carry out a contract on a business oasis. It's only a matter of starting right; then everything can be kept right." He whirled on Mac Tavish. "Trot down again, Andy. I'm expecting more messages. And keep us posted on happenings!" "Are such humble persons as North and I are entitled to be let in on any details of your contract, Mister Boss-in-Chief?" inquired the Senator. "I think the main contract is your own, sir--yours and the Governor's. I don't like to seem too forward in suggesting what it is." "Nothing you can say or do from now on will seem forward, Morrison. Even if you should order that Hereford steer, there, at the door, to bang us over our heads with his shillalah, it would seem merely like an anticlimax, matched with the rest of your cheek! What's the contract?" "You and North stated the terms of it, yourselves, when you were campaigning last election. You said that if you were elected you'd be the servants of the people." "What in the devil do you claim we are now?" "I make no assertion. But when I was down with the bunch this evening I was able to get into the spirit of the crowd. I found myself, feeling, just as they said they felt, that it's a queer state of affairs when servants barricade themselves in a master's castle and use other paid servants to threaten with rifles and machine-guns when the master demands entry." "I'd be carrying out my contract, would I, by disbanding that militia and opening this State House to the mob?" demanded North. "This is a peculiar emergency, sir," Morrison insisted. "Outside are massing all the elements of a know-nothing, rough-house mêlée. Even the Legion boys don't know just where they're at till there's a showdown. I can depend on 'em right now while they're waiting for that showdown. They'll fight their finger-nails off to hold the plain rowdies in line. Such boys have been showing their mettle in one city in this country, haven't they? But a mere licking, no matter which side wins, doesn't last long enough for any general good unless the licking is based on principle and the principle is thereby established as right! Now let me tell you, Governor North. You can't fool those Legion boys outside. They have come home with new conceptions of what is a square deal. They're plumb on to the old-fashioned tricks in cheap politics. They're not letting officeholders play checkers with 'em any longer. "Governor--and you, Senator Corson--this is now a question of to-night--an emergency--an exigency! I have told those boys that they will be shown! You've got to show 'em. Show 'em that this State House is always open to decent citizens. Show 'em that you, as officeholders, don't need machine-guns to back you up in your stand." He emphasized each declaration by a resounding thump of his fist on the table. "Show 'em that it's a square deal, and that your cuffs are rolled up when you deal! Show 'ern that you're not bluffing honestly elected members of this incoming legislature out of their seats by closing the doors on 'em to-morrow. That's your contract! Are you going to keep it?" Mac Tavish returned. He brought another telegram. Morrison ripped the inclosure from the envelope. "It's of the same purport as the other," he reported. "Signed, 'Madigan, Justice Supreme Judicial Court.' Back to the door, Mac Tavish. Here, Miss Bunker, insert this in the record." "This is simply preposterous!" exploded the Senator. "Rather irregular, certainly," Stewart confessed. "But I didn't ask 'em for red tape! I asked 'em for quick action to prevent bloodshed!" Senator Corson's fresh fury did not allow him to reason with himself or argue with this interloper, this lunatic who was flailing about in that sanctuary of vested authority, knocking down hallowed procedure, sacred precedents--all the gods of the fane! "Morrison, no such an outrage as this was ever perpetrated in American politics!" "It surely does seem to be a new wrinkle, Senator! I'll confess that I don't know much about politics. It's all new to me. I apologize for the mistakes I'm making. Probably I'll know more when I've been in politics a little longer." "You will, sir!" Governor North agreed with that dictum, heartily, irefully. "I do seem to be finding out new things every minute or so," went on Stewart, making the agreement unanimous. "Taking your opinion as experts, perhaps I may qualify as an expert, too, before the evening is over." "Where is this infernal folly of yours heading you?" Corson permitted his wrath to dominate him still farther. He shook his fist under Morrison's nose. "Straight toward a Bright Light, Senator! I'm putting no name on it. But I'm keeping my eyes on it. And I can't stop to notice what I'm knocking down or whose feet I'm treading on." The Senator went to Governor North and struck his fist down on His Excellency's shoulder. "I've been having some doubts about your methods, sir, but now I'm with you, shoulder to shoulder, to save this situation. Pay no attention to those telegrams. There's no telling what that idiot has wired to the justices. This man has not an atom of authority. You cannot legally share your authority with him. To defer to one of his demands will be breaking your oath to preserve order and protect state property." "Exactly! I don't need that advice, Corson, but I do need your support. I shall go ahead strictly according to the constitution and the statutes." "I am glad to hear you say that, Governor," stated Morrison. "Did you expect that I was going to join you and your mob of lawbreakers?" "Your explicit statement pleases me, I say. Shall you follow the constitution absolutely, in every detail?" "Absolutely! In every detail." "Right down to the last technical letter of it?" "Good gad! what do you mean by asking me such fool questions?" "I'm getting a direct statement from you on the point. For the record!" He pointed to the stenographer. "I shall observe the constitution of this state to the last letter of it, absolutely, undeviatingly. And now, as Governor of this state, I shall proceed to exert my authority. Put that statement in the record! I order you to leave the State House immediately. Record that, too! Otherwise I shall prefer charges before the courts that will put you in state prison, Morrison!" "Do you know exactly the provisions of the constitution relating to your office, sir?" "I do." "Don't you realize that, according to the technical stand you take, you have no more official right in this Capitol than I have, just now?" His Excellency's silence, his stupefaction, suggested that his convictions as to Morrison's lunacy were finally clinched. "The constitution, that you have invoked, expressly provides that a Governor's term of office expires at midnight, on the day preceding the assembling of the first session of the legislature. You will be Governor in the morning at ten-thirty o'clock, when you take your oath before the joint session. But by your own clock up there you ceased to be Governor of this state five minutes ago!" Morrison drawled that statement in a very placid manner. His forefinger pointed to the clock on the wall of the Executive Chamber. Governor North did know the constitution, even if he did not know the time o' night until his attention had been drawn to it. He was disconcerted only for a moment; then he snorted his disgust, roused by this attempt of a tyro to read him a lesson in law. Senator Corson expressed himself. "Don't bother us with such nonsense! Such a ridiculous point has never been raised." "But this is a night of new wrinkles, as we have already agreed," insisted the mayor of Marion. "I'm right along with the Governor, neck and neck, in his observance of the letter of the law." "Well, then, we'll stick to the letter," snapped His Excellency. "I have declared this State House under martial law. The adjutant-general, here, is in command of the troops and the situation." "I'm glad to know that. I'll talk with General Totten in a moment!" Again Mac Tavish came trotting past Rellihan. Morrison snatched away the telegram that his agent proffered; but the master demanded news before proceeding to open the missive. "There's summat in the air," reported Andrew. "Much blust'ring; the square is crowded! Whilst I was signing the laddie's book Lanigan cried me the word for ye to look sharp and keep the promise, else he wouldna answer for a'!" "Gentlemen, I'll let you construe your own contracts according to your consciences. I have one of my own to carry out. Mac Tavish has just handed me a jolt on it! "Governor North, seeing that your contract with the state is temporarily suspended, I suppose we'll have to excuse you to some extent, after all! Mac Tavish, step here, close to me!" The old man obeyed; the two stood in the full glare of the chandelier. Stewart held up his right hand. "You're a notary public, Andrew. Administer an oath! Like that one you administered to me when I was sworn in as mayor of Marion. You can remember the gist of it." "In what capaceety do you serve, Master Morrison?" inquired Mac Tavish, stolidly. Stewart hesitated a moment, taking thought. "I'm going to volunteer as a sort of an Executive, gentlemen," he explained, deferentially. "The exigency seems to need one. I have heard that a good Executive is one who acts quickly and is right--part of the time! I'm indebted to Senator Corson for a suggestion he made a little while ago. I think, Mac Tavish, you'd better swear me in as Boss of the Job." XVI THE CITY OF MARION SEEKS ITS MAYOR Gaiety's glaring brilliancy on Corson Hill had been effectually snuffed by the onslaught of the mob. The mansion hid its lights behind shades and shutters. The men of the orchestra had packed their instruments; the dismayed guests put on their wraps and called for their carriages. In the place of lilting violins and merry tongues, hammers clattered and saws rasped; the servants were boarding up the broken windows. Lana Corson, closeted with Mrs. Stanton, found the discord below-stairs peculiarly hateful; it suggested so much, replacing the music. The rude hand of circumstance had been laid so suddenly on the melody of life! "And I'll say again--" pursued Mrs. Stanton, breaking a silence that had lain between the two. "Don't say it again! Don't! Don't!" It was indignant expostulation instead of supplication and the matron instantly exhibited relief. "Thank goodness, Lana! Your symptoms are fine! You're past the crisis and are on the mend. Get angrier! Stay angry! It's a healthy sign in any woman recovering from such a relapse as has been threatening you since you came back home." "Will you not drop the topic?" demanded Miss Corson, with as much menace as a maiden could display by tone and demeanor. "As your nurse in this period of convalescence," insisted the imperturbable lady, "I find your temperature encouraging. The higher the better, in a case like this! But I'd like to register on your chart a hard-and-fast declaration from you that you'll never again expose yourself to infection from the same quarter!" Lana did not make that declaration; she did not reply to her friend. The two were in the Senator's study. Lana had led the retreat to that apartment; its wainscoted walls and heavy door shut out in some measure the racket of hammers and saws. She walked to the window and pulled aside the curtain and looked out into the night. Between Corson Hill and Capitol Hill, in the broad bowl of a valley, most of the structures of the city of Marion were nested. The State House loomed darkly against the radiance of the winter sky. She was still wondering what that blood-stained intruder had meant when he declaimed about the job waiting on Capitol Hill, and she found disquieting suggestiveness in the gloom which wrapped the distant State House. Even the calm in the neighborhood of the Corson mansion troubled her; the scene of the drama, whatever it was all about, had been shifted; the talk of men had been of prospective happenings at the State House, and that talk was ominous. Her father was there. She was fighting an impulse to hasten to the Capitol and she assured herself that the impulse was wholly concerned with her father. "I'll admit that the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts, just as that poet has said they are," Mrs. Stanton went on, one topic engrossing her. "But I'm assuming that there's an end to 'em, just as there is to the much-talked-of long lane. In poems there's a lot of nonsense about marrying one's own first love--and I suppose the thing is done, sometimes. Yes, I'm quite sure of it, because it's written up so often in the divorce cases. If I had married any one of the first five fellows I was engaged to, probably my own case would have been on record in the newspapers before this. Lana dear, why don't you come here and sit down and confide in a friend and assure her that you're safe and sane from now on?" Miss Corson, as if suddenly made aware that somebody in the room was talking, snapped herself 'bout face. "Doris, what are you saying to me?" "I'm giving you a little soothing dissertation on love--the right kind of love--the sensible kind--" "How do you dare to annoy me with such silliness in a time like this?" "Why, because this is just the right moment for you to tell me that you are forever done with the silly kind of love. Mushy boy-and-girl love is wholly made up of illusions. This Morrison man isn't leaving you any illusions in regard to himself, is he?" Miss Corson came away from the window with a rush; her cheeks were danger-flags. "You seem to be absolutely determined to drive me to say something dreadful to you, Doris! I've been trying so hard to remember that you're my guest." "Your friend, you mean!" "You listen to me! I'm making my own declarations to myself about the men in this world--the ones I know. If I should say out loud what I think of them--or if I should say what I think of friends who meddle and maunder on about love--_love_--I'd be ashamed if I were overheard. Now not another word, Doris Stanton!" She stamped her foot and beat her hand hard on the table in a manner that smacked considerably of the Senator's violence when his emotions were stirred. "I'm ashamed of myself for acting like this. I hate such displays! But I mean to protect myself. And now keep quiet, if you please. I have something of real importance to attend to, even if you haven't." She went to a niche in the wall and pulled out the private telephone instrument; the pressure of a button was required to put in a call. After the prolonged wait, Senator Corson's voice sounded, high-pitched, urgent. His appeal was broken short off. Lana stared at Mrs. Stanton while making futile efforts to get a reply to frantic questions; fear paled the girl's face and widened her eyes. "What has happened, Lana?" "It's father! He asked for help! It's something--some danger--something dreadful." She clung to the telephone for several minutes, demanding, listening, hoping for further words--the completion of his orders to her. Then, abandoning her efforts, she made haste to call the sheriff of the county, using the study extension of the regular telephone. The customary rattle informed her that the line was in use, after she had called for the number, looking it up in the directory. When she finally did succeed in getting the ear of the sheriff she was informed in placatory orotund by that official that all her fears were groundless. "I have been talking with the State House just before you called me, Miss Corson. I am assured on the best of authority that everything is all right, there." He was plainly indulging what he accepted as the vagaries of hysteria--having been apprised by the matter-of-fact Mac Tavish that some nonsensical news might come through an excited female. "I think you must have misconstrued what your father said. My informant is known to me as reliable. Oh no, Miss Corson, I cannot give you his name. It's a rule of the sheriff's office that individuals who give information have their identities respected. If the Senator is at the State House you can undoubtedly reach him by 'phone in the Executive Chamber." He placidly bade her good night. But Miss Corson was unable to communicate with the Executive Chamber. After many delays she was informed that central had tried repeatedly and directly through the State House exchange, as was the custom after the departure of the exchange operators for the night; central officially reported, "Line out of order." During her efforts to communicate, Coventry Daunt hastened into the study; he had tapped and he obeyed his sister's admonition, "Come in!" "I tell you something terrible is the matter," Lana declared, giving up her efforts to get news over the wire. "Coventry, your looks tell me that you have heard bad news of some sort!" "I don't want to be an alarmist," admitted young Daunt, "but all sorts of whip-whap stuff seem to be in the air all of a sudden. I just took a run down to the foot of the hill. The bees are buzzing a little livelier there than they are in the neighborhood of the house. Up here some soldier boys are waving their bayonets and fat cops are swinging clubs. We're all right, ladies, but there are all sorts of stories about what's likely to happen up at the State House. I've come to tell you that if you can do without me I think I'll take a swing over to Capitol Hill. I don't want to miss anything good, and I'll bring back straight news." "I can't endure to wait here for news, Coventry," Lana said. "Order the car; I'll go along with you." "It's absolute folly!" declared Mrs. Stanton, aghast, "Haven't you had enough experience with mobs for one evening?" "I am going to my father, mobs or no mobs! I know his voice and I know he's in trouble, no matter what that idiot of a sheriff tells me." She hurried to the door. "Order the car, I say! I'll get my wraps." Mrs. Stanton divided rueful gaze between her own evening gown and Lana's. "Are you going with that dress on?" "I certainly am!" Lana called from the corridor, running toward her apartments. "Well," Mrs. Stanton informed her brother, "this gown has served me all evening during the political rally that somebody tried to pass off as a reception. Probably it will do very well for the mob-affair. I'll go for my furs." "That's a brick!" was her brother's indorsement. "She needs us both. But don't be frightened, sis! It's only a political flurry, and such fusses are usually more fizz than fight. I'll have the car around to the door in a jab of a jiffy!" By the time the limousine swung under the _porte-cochère_ Lana was down and waiting; Mrs. Stanton came hurrying after, ready to defy a January midnight in a cocoon of kolinsky. Coventry had ridden from the garage with the chauffeur. "I have been talking with Wallace. He thinks he'd better drive to the State House by detour through the parkway." "Go straight down through the city," commanded the mistress. "I'm not afraid of my hometown folks. Besides, I have an errand. Stop at the Marion _Monitor_ office, Wallace!" The city certainly offered no cause for alarm when they traversed the streets of the business district. Nobody was in sight; they did not see even a patrolman. "The bees seem to have hived all of a sudden," remarked young Daunt. "All fizz, as I told you, and now the fizz has fizzled." When the car stopped in front of the newspaper office Lana asked her guests to wait in the automobile. "That is, if you don't mind!" Then Miss Corson revealed a bit of nerve strain; she allowed herself to copy some of the sarcasm that was characteristic of Doris Stanton. "One of those old friends whom we have been discussing so pleasantly this evening, Doris, is the city editor of the _Monitor_. Gossipy, of course, from the nature of his business. But I'm sure that he'll gossip more at his ease if there are no strangers present." Coventry had opened the door of the car. Lana hastened past him and disappeared in the building. "Dorrie, I'm afraid you are overtraining Lana," the brother complained. "I have never heard her speak like that before." "I'm giving her special training for a special occasion which will present itself very soon, I hope. When she talks to a certain man I want to feel that my efforts haven't been thrown away." "Oh, Morrison has botched everything for himself--all around!" "Thank you! I'm glad to hear you admit that a caveman can be too much of a good thing with his stone hatchet or club or whatever he uses to bang and whack all heads with!" Mrs. Stanton impatiently invited Coventry to step in and shut the door and make sure that the electric heater was doing business. City Editor Tasper had a pompadour like a penwiper, round eyes, and a wide smile. He trotted out to Lana in the reception-room and gave her comradely greeting. "Any other night but this, Lana Corson, and I'd have been up to your house to pat Juba on the side-lines even if I couldn't squeeze in one assignment on your dance order. But as a Marionite you know what we're up against in this office the night before an inauguration. Afraid the reception-spread will be squeezed? Don't worry. It's a big night, but I'm giving you a first-page send-off just the same." "Billy, I'm not here to talk about that reception. I don't care if there isn't a word about it." "Oh, I get you! Don't worry about that fracas, either! I'm killing all mention of it. We're not advertising that Marion has Bolshevists. Hurts!" "But I'm not trying to tell you your business about the paper!" the girl protested. "I'm here after news. What is the trouble at the State House?" "I don't know," he confessed. "That is to say, I'm not on to the real inside of the proposition. We can't get our boys in and we can't get any news out! Those soldiers won't even admit the telephone crew to restore connection with the Executive Chamber." "My father is there! He's there with the Governor." "Well, I should say for a guess that the Senator is in the safest place in the city, judging from the way Danny Sweetsir and his warriors are on their jobs at those doors." "Billy, who else is there with the Governor?" she questioned, anxiously, harrowed by that memory of her father's tone when he shouted the word "lunatic!" "No know! No can tell!" returned Tasper. "But why all the excitement? There's a crowd outside the State House, but all my reports say that it's still orderly. It's only the old 'state steal' stuff warmed over by the sore-heads. But we're printing a statement from Governor North in the morning. The whole matter is going up to the full bench in the usual way. If the opposition starts any rough-stuff to-night, the gang hasn't got a Pekingese's chance in a bulldog convention. There are three machine-guns in that State House!" A young chap who was trying hard to be professionally _blasé_ bolted into the reception-room in search of his chief. "Excuse me! But four truck-loads of men from the Agawam quarries just went through toward the State House. They had crowbars and sledge-hammers!" "So? Warson is making a demonstration, is he? I'll be back there in a minute, Jack!" Tasper turned to Lana again. "Warson was turned down by North on the state-prison-wing stone contract. If Warson is setting up stone-cutters to be shot as rowdies, Warson and his party will be the ones who'll get hurt." "But our state will be hurt most of all, Billy," the girl declared, with passionate earnestness. "We'll be ashamed and disgraced from one end of the country to the other. Just think of our own good state making a hideous exhibition when we're all trying so hard to get back to peace!" "Must have law and order," Tasper insisted. "Will Governor North tell those soldiers to shoot and kill?" "Sure thing! His oath of office obliges him to protect state property. I've just been reading proof of an interview he gave us this afternoon." Lana walked up and down the room, beating her hands together. "I'll explain to you, Lana. There's quite a story goes with it. You haven't been in touch with conditions here at home. The election statutes provide that the Governor and his Council--" "I haven't any time to listen to explanations! My father is in that State House! In the name of Heaven, Billy Tasper, isn't there some man in this state big enough, broad enough, honest enough to get between the fools who are threatening this thing?" "He doesn't seem to be in sight--at any rate, just now." She paused in her walk, hesitated, and then blurted, "What part is Stewart Morrison playing in all this?" "I see you have some news about him, too!" Mr. Tasper fenced, eying her with some curiosity. "Dealing in news is your business, not mine," she said, tartly. "But I did hear him declare in public to-night that he would give the people a square deal--or that he would see to it that it is done--or--or something!" She showed the embarrassment of a person who was dealing with affairs in the details of which she was not well informed. "All right, I'll give you news as we get it in the office, here. Morrison has gone nuts over this People thing. He is bucking the corporations in this water-power dream of his. Playing to the people! I think it's bosh. Holds capital out of the state! But I see you're in a hurry! He made a speech to a hit-or-miss gang down-town to-night. It was snapped as a surprise and we didn't have our men there. But from what we gather he incited feeling against the State House crowd. Told his merry men he'd grab in and fix it for 'em. Bad foozle, Lana! Bad! When a mayor of a city talks like that he's putting a fool notion into the heads of unthinking irresponsibles, making 'em believe that there is really something to be fixed. He ought to have told 'em that everything was all right and to go home and go to bed. Your father would have told 'em that. That's good politics. But you and I know Stewart from the ground up! He is about as much a politician as I am parson--and I'd wreck a well-established parish in less than five minutes by the clock. He's taking a little more time as a wrecker in his line--but he's making a thorough job of it!" When Tasper mentioned "job" he suggested a natural question to Miss Corson. "Where is he right now?" This time the stare that the city editor gave the girl was distinctly peculiar. "According to what we can get in the way of reports, Lana, the last time Morrison was seen in public he was talking with you. If he has talked with anybody since then the folks he has talked with are keeping mighty mum about it. Perhaps he has told you where he was going." Miss Corson exhibited an emotion that was more profound than mere embarrassment. "Pardon me! But I'd like to know, Lana! It's mighty important to me in the line of my business right now." "What? Can't you find the mayor of the city in a time like this?" "He's not at home! He's not at City Hall. The chief of police won't say a word. And he's not in the crowd outside the State House." Lana did not disclose the fact that she had suggested to the mayor, in a way, the rabble as Morrison's probable destination, and that he had agreed with her. "And a fine chance he has of being let inside the State House," Tasper went on, with conviction, "after the attitude he has taken in regard to the administration!" "He may be there, nevertheless!" Whether hope that he was there or fear that he might be there prompted Lana's suggestion was not clear from her manner. "You'll sooner find a rat down the back of my neck than find Stewart Morrison inside that State House after the brags he has been making around this city in the past few hours," declared Tasper, with the breezy freedom of long friendship with the caller. "He is A Number One in the list of those who can't get in!" "But Captain Sweetsir is his mill-student!" "Captain Sweetsir, in this new importance of his, is leaning so far backward, in trying to stand straight, that he's scratching the back of his head on his heels. His own brother is one of our reporters and what Dan did to Dave when Dave made a holler at the door is a matter of record on the emergency-hospital blotter. That's straight! Inch of sword-blade. Not dangerous, but painful!" All through this interview Lana had maintained the demeanor of one who was poised on tiptoes, ready to run. She gathered her coat's broad collar more tightly in its clasp of her throat, and started for the door. But she whirled and ran back to Tasper. "You say that Stewart Morrison is no politician! But I noticed the queer flash in your eyes, Billy Tasper! Do you think he is a coward and has run away?" "Tut, tut! Not so strong!" The newspaper man put up a protesting palm. "I simply state that His Honor the Mayor is under-somewhere! I never saw any signs of his being a coward--but a lot of us have never been tested by a real crisis, you know!" "You say he has no power in politics! Could he do anything in a case like this?" Tasper clawed his hand over his head and the crest of his pompadour bristled more horrently. "He could at least try to undo some of the trouble he has caused by his tongue. He could be at City Hall, where he belongs. The fact that he isn't there--that he can't be found--speaks a whole lot to the people of this city, Lana Corson! Why, there isn't a policeman to be seen on the streets of Marion to-night! We can't get any explanation from police headquarters. A devil of a mayor, say I!" She turned and fled to the door. "Lana!" called the editor. "He has made promises that he can't back up--and he has ducked. That's the story! We're going to say so in the _Monitor_. We can't say anything else!" She made no reply. She did not wait for the elevator to take her down the single flight of stairs; she ran, holding her wrap about her. Coventry Daunt, on the watch for her, opened the limousine's door and she plunged in. "Wallace! To the State House! Quick!" she commanded. When Tasper returned to the city-room he was told that somebody was waiting on the telephone. It was one of the men assigned to the matter on Capitol Hill; he was calling from a drug-store booth in that neighborhood. "Boss, it looks as if they're going to mix it. The tough mutts are ready to grab any excuse and they won't listen to men like Commander Lanigan of the Legion." "If there's a fight pulled off all we can do is to see that we have a good story. What else?" "I think I've located the mayor. I can't get anything at all out of those tin Napoleons at the doors, but Lanigan says that Morrison is in the State House--'on his job,' so Lanigan puts it." "Lanigan is a liar!" the city editor yelped. "He has been a two-legged Hurrah-for-Morrison ever since his high-school days. I like a good lie when it's told to help a friend! This one isn't good enough! Stewart Morrison is in that State House like tissue-paper napkins are in Tophet." "But sha'n't I send in what Lanigan says?" "We won't have any room for the joke column in the morning," returned the city editor, hanging up. XVII THE CAPITOL IN SHADOW Capitol Square was choked with men. The gathering was characteristically a mob made up of diverse elements. It was not swayed by a set purpose and a common motive. It was not welded by coherence of intent. Its eddies rushed here or filtered there, according as arguments or protests gained attention by sharp clamor above the continuous diapason of voices. One who was versed in the natures and the moods of mobs would have found that mass particularly menacing by reason of the lack of unanimity. Too many men of the component elements did not know what it was all about! The arguments pro and con were developing animosities that were new, fresh, of the moment, creating factions, collecting groups that were ready to jump into an affray that would enable them to avoid embarrassing explanations of why they were there. A mob of that sort is easily stampeded! Some men who captained the factions did know why they were there! A few of them harangued; others went about, whispering and muttering, inciting malice by their counsel. The scum of that yeasty gallimaufry was on the outskirts. When the Corson limousine rolled into the square and sought to part its way through that scum somebody in the crowd made a proposition that was promptly favored as far as the votes by voices went: "Tip the lapdog kennel upside down!" Chauffeur Wallace met the emergency with quick tactics. He reversed and drove the car backward. The fingers of the attackers slipped from the smooth varnish and the wheels threatened those who tried to grab the running-boards. Men who seized the fender-bar were dragged off their feet. When Coventry Daunt showed a praiseworthy inclination to jump out and whip a few hundred of them, so he declared in his ire, he was pushed back into a corner by his sister. The chauffeur made a long drive in reverse, circling, and then put the car ahead with a rush and they escaped into a side-street. "Wallace, get us home as quick as the good Lord will let you!" Mrs. Stanton's command was hysterically shrill. "Wallace, take the first turn to the left," countermanded the mistress. "Then around the State House to the west portico." "You crazy girl, what--after that--why--what are you trying to do?" demanded Mrs. Stanton, fear making her furious. "I'm trying to get into that building--and I'm going to get in!" "You can't get in! They won't let you in! Lana Corson, you sha'n't endanger our lives again!" "Here, Wallace! This turn!" The driver obeyed. Doris set rude hands upon Lana and shook her. "There's nothing sensible you can do if you do get in!" "Perhaps not! But my father is there; he has asked me to help and I'm going to explain to him how I did my best. Doris, I must tell him, so that he won't get into worse danger by waiting and depending on that idiot of a sheriff." "You are the idiot!" "I may be. But I'm going in there!' "Coventry, you are sitting like a prune glacé! Help me to prevail on this girl to use some common sense!" "You'll help me very much if you'll do some prevailing with your sister, Coventry," affirmed Miss Corson, resentfully, trying to unclasp the chaperon's vigorous hands. "After what has been happening, I don't think Lana needs any more shaking, Dorrie," the brother remonstrated. "Everything having been well shaken, it's time to do a little taking. Won't you take some advice, Lana?" "If it's advice about going home and deserting my father I'll not take it." "I was afraid you wouldn't. But do you really think you can get into the State House?" The girl did not disclose the discouraging information given to her by Editor Tasper on the subject of effecting an entrance. "I'm going to try! And I warn you, Doris, that I'm about at the end of my endurance." Mrs. Stanton sat back and gritted her teeth. The car traversed a boulevard; the arc-lights showed that it was deserted. A narrow street, empty of humankind, led to the west portico. That entrance, so Lana knew, was used almost wholly by the State House employees. The door was closed; nobody was in sight. "If you insist on the venture, I'll go with you, of course," offered the young man. When the car stopped he stepped out. "I'm afraid you'll only make it harder for me, Coventry. I know the captain of the guard. But it will never do for me to bring a stranger." She hurried into the shadow of the portico. "Get back into the car! You must! Wallace, drive Mrs. Stanton and Mr. Daunt to the house." When Coventry protested indignantly she broke in: "I haven't any time to argue with you. We may be watched. Wait at the corner yonder with the car. If you see me go in, take Doris home and send the car back. Wallace, I'll find you down there at the fountain!" She designated with a toss of her hand the statuary, gleaming in the starlight, and when the car moved on she ran up the steps of the State House. The big door had neither bell nor knocker. She turned her back on it and kicked with the heel of her slipper. The voice that inquired "Who's there?" revealed that the warder was not wholly sure of his nerves. "I am Senator Corson's daughter!" She received no reply. "I tell you I am Senator Corson's daughter! I want to come in. My father is there!" She was answered by a different voice; she recognized it. It was the unmistakable drawl and nasal twang of Perley Wyman. Her girlhood memories of Perley's voice had been freshened very recently because he had been assigned to the Corson mansion by Thompson the florist as her chief aide in decorating for the reception. "Wal, I should say he was here--and then some! This was the door he came in through." "Open it! Open it at once, Perley Wyman!" "I dunno about that, Miss Corson! We've got orders about politicians and mobbers--" "I'm neither. I command you to open this door." "Who else is there?" "I'm alone." Soldier Wyman pulled the bolts and opened. "I ain't feeling like taking any more chances with the Corson family this evening," he admitted, with a grin that set his long jaw awry. "Your father nigh cuffed my head up to a peak when I tried to tell him what my orders were." Miss Corson was not interested in the troubles of Guard Wyman. He was talking through a narrow crack; she set her hands against the door and pushed her way in. "Where is my father? What trouble is he in?" "I reckon it can't be any kind of trouble but what he'll be capable of taking care of himself in it all right," opined the guard, fondling his cheek with the back of his hand. "But there ain't any trouble in here, Miss Corson. It's all serene as a canned sardine that was canned for the siege of Troy, as it said in the opery the High School Cadets put on that year you was in the--" "There's a mob in front of the State House!" "It'll stay there," stated Wyman, remaining as serene as the comestible he had mentioned. "The St. Ronan's Rifles can't be backed down by any mob. We have been ordered to shoot, and that kind of a gang in this city might as well learn its lesson to-night as any other night. It's getting time to do a lot of law-and-order shooting in this country." The girl, harrowed by her apprehensions, was not in the mood to discuss affairs with this amateur belligerent. But his complacency in his bloodthirsty attitude was peculiarly exasperating in her case. He seemed to typify that unreasonable spirit of slaughter that disdained to employ the facilities of good sense first of all. This florist's clerk, whom she had last seen on a step-ladder with his mouth full of tacks, was talking of shooting down his fellow-civilians as if there were no other alternative. "My father may be in danger in this State House, but I'm glad he is here. He is not condoning this! He is not allowing this shame! Who is the lunatic who is threatening my father and bringing disgrace on this state?" She remembered the Senator's assertion over the telephone and, in her eagerness for news, she was willing to start with the humble Soldier Wyman. She realized suddenly that her spirit of fiery protest was provoking her into an argument that might seem rather ridiculous if somebody in real authority should overhear her talking to Wyman and his mate. The portico door opened into a remote corridor. "The only lunatic, up to date, Miss Corson, has been a Canuck who had a knock-down and drag-out with a settee and--" Lana was not finding Wyman's statement especially convincing in the way of establishing faith in his sanity. "I thank you for letting me in! I must find my father." The interior of the Capitol building was familiar ground to her. It occurred to her sense of discretion that it might be well to avoid Captain Sweetsir in his new exaltation as a military martinet. She found a narrow, curving stairway which served employees. On the second floor, hastening along the dimly lighted corridors, turning several corners, she reached the spacious hall outside the Senate lobby. She paused for a moment. From the hall she could look down the broad, main stairway which conducted to the rotunda. The rumble of trucks had attracted her attention. Soldiers were moving a machine-gun; they lined it up with two others that were already facing the great doors of the main entrance. She had half hoped that her father was in the rotunda, using his influence and his wisdom, now that the mob was threatening the building outside those great doors. She did not understand just how the Senator would be able to operate, she admitted to herself, but she felt that his manly advice could prevail in keeping his fellow-citizens from murdering one another! In the gloom below her she saw only soldiers and uniformed Capitol watchmen. Across from her in the upper hall where she waited there was the entrance to the wing which contained the Executive Chambers. Two men, one of whom was talking earnestly, came along the corridor from the direction of the chambers. Still mindful of what Tasper had said about the State House rules of that evening, she did not want to take chances with others who might be less amenable than Florist-Clerk Wyman. There were high-backed chairs in the corners of the hall; she hid herself behind the nearest chair. Her dark fur coat and the twilight concealed her effectually. "General Totten, if you don't fully comprehend your plain duty in this crisis, you'd better stop right here with me until you do. We can't afford to have those soldiers overhear. Are you going to order them to march out of this State House?" This peremptory gentleman was Stewart Morrison! Lana choked back what threatened to be an exclamation. "I refuse to take that responsibility on myself." "You must! Such a command to state troops must come from you, the adjutant-general." "This is a political exigency, Mister Mayor!" "It seems like that to me!" "It requires martial law." "But not civil war." "This building is threatened by a mob." "That's because you have put it in a state of siege against citizens." "There's no telling what those men will do if they are allowed to enter." "They'll do worse if they are kept out by guns." "It means wreck and rampage if they are permitted to come through those doors." "Look here, Totten, this State House has stood here for a good many years, with the citizens coming and going in it at will. I don't see any dents!" "This is an exigency, and it's different, sir. The state must assert its authority." "I'll not argue against the state and authority with you, Totten, for you're right and there's no time for argument. But when you said political exigency you said a whole lot--and we'll let this particular skunk cabbage go under that name. Don't try that law-and-order and state-authority bluff with me in such a case as this is. You're right in with the bunch and you know just as well as I do what the game is this time. Probably those folks outside there don't know what they want, but they do know that something is wrong! Something is almighty wrong when elected servants are obliged to get behind closed doors to transact public affairs. I'm putting this on a business basis because business is my strong point. These red-tape fellows go to war and use the people for the goats to settle a matter that could be settled peaceably by hard-headed every-day men in five minutes. Now with these few words, and admitting that I'm all that you want to tell me I am--and confessing to a whole lot more that I personally know about my unadulterated brass cheek in the whole thing--we'll close debate. Order those militia boys to march out!" "I--" Morrison held a little sheaf of papers in his hand. He flapped the papers violently under General Totten's nose. "Do you dare to ignore these telegrams--the opinions of the justices of the supreme judicial court of this state?" "I don't--" The papers flicked the end of the general's nose and he shuffled slowly backward. "Do you dare, I say?" "This exigency--" "That's the name we've agreed on--for a dirty political trick without an atom of principle behind it. These telegrams will make great reading on the same page with the list of names in the hospitals and the morgue!" General Totten was retreating more rapidly, but the vibrating papers inexorably kept pace with his nose. "But to leave this State House unguarded--" "I have already shown you what I can do with one single cop! I gave you a little lecture on cops in general back yonder. You fully understand how one cop handled the adjutant-general of a state. I'll answer for the guarding of this State House. Send away your militia!" "I'm afraid to do it!" wailed Totten. "Then you're afraid of a shadow, sir! But I'll tell you what you may well be afraid of. I'm giving you your chance to save your face and your dignity. Order away those boys or I'll go and stand on the main stairway and tell 'em just how they're being used as tools by political tricksters. And then even your tricksters will land on your back and blame you for forcing an exposure. I'll tell the boys! I swear I'll do it! And I'll bet you gold-dust against sawdust that they'll refuse to commit murder. Totten, this exigency is now working under a full head of steam. You can hear that mob now! This thing is getting down to minutes, I'll give you just one of those minutes to tramp down into that rotunda and issue your orders." "But what--" The general's tone unmistakably indicated surrender; the Governor had already shifted the onus; Totten knew his brother-in-law's nature; the Governor would just as soon shift the odium after such an explosion as this wild Scotchman threatened. "You needn't bother about the what, sir. You give the order. And as soon as the thing is on a business basis I'll tend to it." Stewart took the liberty of hooking his arm inside the general's. The officer seemed to be experiencing some difficulty in getting his feet started. The two hurried along and trudged down the middle of the main stairway. Lana followed. She halted at the gallery rail and surveyed the scene below. Even in her absorption in the affair between Stewart and the adjutant-general she had been aware of the rising tumult outside. The bellow of voices had settled into a sort of chant of, "Time's up--time's up!" Captain Sweetsir had deployed his men across the rotunda behind the machine-guns. When he beheld the mayor and the general on the stairs he saluted nervously. "They're getting ready to use sledge-hammers, sir. Shall I hand 'em the rifle-fire first or let loose with the machine-guns?" Stewart still held to the general's arm. Totten hesitated. His face was white and his lips quivered. Morrison's gaze was set straight ahead, but a twist of his face indicated that he said something through the corner of his mouth. The general made his plunge. "Captain Sweetsir, instruct your men to empty their magazines, assemble accoutrements, and stand at ease in marching order." The captain came onto his tiptoes in order to elongate himself as a human interrogation-point. "Captain Sweetsir, order your bugler to sound retreat!" The officer forced an amazed croak out of his throat by way of a command, and on the hush within the rotunda the clarion of the bugle rang out. It echoed in the high arches. Its sharp notes cut into the clamor outdoors. Morrison recognized a voice that was keyed to a pitch almost as high as the bugle's strains. "Hold your yawp! Don't you hear that?" Lanigan screamed. "Don't you know the difference between that and a fish-peddler's horn? That's the tune we fellers heard the Huns play just before Armistice Day. That's retreat! Come on, Legion!" he urged, frantically. "Ram back those sledge-hammers!" Morrison grinned and released the general's arm. "You hear that, do you, sir? When you can convince fair men that you're on the right slant, the fair men will proceed to show rough-necks where they get off if they go to trying on the wrong thing!" "There's going to be the devil to pay!" insisted the adjutant-general. "You're going to let that mob into the State House, and they'll fight all over the place." "We'll see what they'll do after the showdown, sir! And you can't make much of a showdown in the dark." He left General Totten on the stairs, leaped down the remaining steps, and ran to a group of watchmen and night employees of the State House who were bulwarking the soldiers. "I'm beginning to see that it's some advantage, after all, to be the mayor of this city," Stewart informed himself. One of Marion's aldermen was chief electrician of the Capitol building and was in the group, very much on duty on a night like that. "Torrey has always backed me in the city government meetings, at any rate!" The alderman came out of the ranks, obeying the mayor's gesture. "Alderman, I'm in the minority here, right now, but I hope you're going to vote with me for more light on the subject." Torrey did not understand what this quick shift in all plans signified, and said so, showing deference to the mayor at the same time. "If we've got to fight that gang we need these soldiers, Mayor Morrison!" "Our kind of men, Alderman, fight best in the light; the cowards like the dark so that they can get in their dirty work. Do you get me? Yes! Thanks! Excuse me for hurrying you. But get to that switchboard! We need quick action. You and I represent the city of Marion right now. Must keep her name clean! I'll explain later. But give 'er the juice! Jam on every switch. Dome to cellar! Lots of it! Put their night-beetle eyes out with it." He was hustling along with Torrey toward the electrician's room. He was clapping his hand on the alderman's shoulder. "I'm going outside there, Torrey! Touch up the old dome and give me all the front lights. If the bricks begin to whiz I want to see who's throwing 'em!" XVIII THE CAPITOL ALIGHT First of all, within the State House, there was burgeoning of the separate lights of the wall brackets and then the great chandeliers burst into bloom. Electrician Torrey possessed a quick understanding and was in the habit of doing a thorough job whenever he tackled anything. He threw in the switches as rapidly as he could operate them. Story by story the great building was flooded with glory that mounted to the upper windows and overflowed into the night with a veritable cascade of brilliancy when the thousand bulbs of the dome's circlet flashed their splendor against the sky. The lamps of the broad front portico and its approaches added the final, dazzling touch to the general illumination. From a sullen, gloomy hulk of a building, with its few lights showing like glowering eyes in ambush, the State House was transformed into a temple of glory, thrust into the heavens from the top of Capitol Hill, a torch that signaled comforting candor, a reassuring beacon. The surprise of the happening stilled the uproar. Neither Morrison, inside, nor the mob, outside, was bothering with the mental analysis of the psychology of the thing! Something had happened! There was The Light! It threw into sharp relief every upturned face in the massed throng. Their voices remained hushed. Commander Lanigan, standing above them on a marble rail, his figure outlined against a pergola column, did his best to put some of his emotions into speech. He shouted, "_Some_ night-blooming cereus, I'll tell the world!" The great doors swung open slowly. They remained open. Now curiosity replaced astonishment and held the rioters in their tracks; their mouths were wide, the voices mute. The mayor of Marion walked into view. The columns of the _porte-cochère_ were supported on a broad base, and he climbed up and was elevated in the radiance high above their heads. He smiled hospitably. "Boys, it's open house, and the house is yours. Hope you like its looks! But what's the big idea of the surprise party?" No one took it on himself to reply. He waited tolerantly. "Well, out with it!" he suggested. Somebody with a raucous voice ventured. "You probably know what they've been trying to hide away from the people inside there. Suppose you do the talking." "I'm not here to make a speech." "Well, answer a question, then!" This was a shrill voice. "What about those soldiers and those machine-guns in there?" "Not a word!" With yells, oaths, and catcalls the crowd offered comment on that declaration. His demeanor as a statue of patience was more effective than remonstrance in quieting them. "Any other gentlemen wish to offer more remarks? Get it all out of you!" He utilized the hush. "Boys, I'm going to give you something better than words. Hearing can't always be trusted. But seeing is believing!" He pulled a police whistle from his pocket and shrilled a signal. For a time there was no answer or demonstration of any sort. Then the tramp of marching feet was heard on the pavement of the square. It was Marion's police force, issuing from some point of mobilization near at hand; it was the force in full strength, led by the chief; he was in dress-parade garb and the radiance of the square was reflected in imposing high-lights by his gold braid. The crowd was shaken by eddies and was convulsed by quickly formed vortices. Morrison was studying that mob with his keen gaze, watching the movements as they sufficed to reveal an expression of emotions. "Hold on, boys! Don't run away!" he counseled. "Wait for the big show! No arrests intended! Only cowards and guilty men will run!" The light that was shed from the State House was pitilessly revealing; men could not hide their movements. Morrison reiterated his promise and dwelt hard on the "coward and guilty" part of his declaration. The chief of police waved his hand and the crowd parted obediently and the officers marched up the lane, four abreast. "Hold open that passage as you stand, fellow-citizens!" the mayor commanded. "There's more to this show! You haven't seen all of it! Hold open, I tell you!" Men whom he recognized as Lanigan's Legion members were jumping in on the side-lines as the policemen passed. With arms extended the veterans held back those whom Morrison's commands were not restraining. "That's good team-work, Joe," Stewart informed Lanigan when the latter hurried past to take his place as a helper. The advent of the police had provoked a flurry; their movements after their arrival caused a genuine surprise. They gave no indication of being interested in the crowd that was packed into Capitol Square. The ears of the mob were out for orders of dispersal! Eyes watched to see the officers post themselves and operate according to the usual routine in such matters. But the policemen marched straight into the State House, preserving their solid formation. The bugle sounded again within. With a promptness that indicated a good understanding of the procedure to be followed, the St. Ronan's Rifles came marching out. Captain Sweetsir saluted smartly as he passed the place where the mayor of Marion was perched. "How about three cheers for the boys?" Morrison shouted. "What's the matter with you down there?" He led them off as cheer-leader. He marked the sullen groups, the voiceless malcontents as best he was able. The Legion boys were vehemently enthusiastic in their acclaim. The guards marched briskly. The machine-guns clanged along the pavement, bringing up the rear. "That's all!" Stewart declared, when the soldiers were well on their way. "Now you don't need any words, do you? I'll merely state that your State House is open to the people!" "Like blazes it is," bawled somebody. He pointed to the open doors, his reply to that challenge. "How about those cops?" demanded somebody else. "Your State House is open, I tell you. If you want to go in, go ahead. It's open for straight business, and it will stay open. There are no dark corners for dirty tricks or lying whispers. It's your property. If there's any whelp mean enough to damage his own property, he'll be taken care of by a policeman. That's why they're in there. That's what you're paying taxes for, to have policemen who'll take care of sneaks who can't be made decent in any other way. Some other gentleman like to ask a question?" Morrison realized that he had not won over the elements that were determined to make trouble. His searching eyes were marking the groups of the rebels. He directed an accusatory finger at one man, a Marion politician. "Matthewson, what's on your mind? Don't keep it all to yourself and those chaps you're buzzing with!" Matthewson, thus singled out, was embarrassed and incensed at the same time. "What have they been trying to put over with that militia, anyway?" "Put protection over state property because such mouths as yours have been making threats ever since election. But just as soon as it was realized that good citizens, like the most of these here, were misunderstanding the situation and were likely to be used as tools of gangsters, out went the militia! You saw it go, didn't you?" "I'd like to know who did all that realizing you're speaking of!" "It's not in good taste for an errand-boy of my caliber to gossip about the business of those for whom he is doing errands. I'll merely say, Matthewson, that the people of this state can always depend on the broad-gaged good sense of United States Senator Corson to suggest a solution of a political difficulty. And you may be sure that the state government will back him up. Go down-town and ask the boys of the guard who it was that gave the command for them to leave the State House. After that you'd better go home to bed. That's good advice for all of you." A shrill voice from the center of the massed throng cut in sharply. "Go home like chickens and wait to have your necks wrung! Go home like sheep and wait for the shearer and the butcher." The mayor leaned forward and tried to locate the agitator. "Hasn't the gentleman anything to say about goats? He's missing an excellent opportunity!" Morrison showed the alert air of a hunter trying to flush game in a covert. The provoking query had its effect. "Yes, that's what you call us-all you rulers call us the goats!" A brandished fist marked the man's position in the mob. "Ah, there you are, my friend! What else have you on your mind?" "I'll tell you what you have on your face. You have the mark of an honest man's hand there! I saw him plant that mark!" "And what's the answer?" asked Stewart, pleasantly. "You're a coward! You're not fit to advise real men what to do!" "I'm afraid you have me sized up all too well!" There was something like wistful apology in Morrison's smile. Lanigan had forced his way close to the foot of the plinth where the mayor was elevated. The commander's head was tipped back, his goggling eyes were full of anguished rebuke, and his mouth was wide open. The man in the crowd yelped again, encouraged by his distance and by Morrison's passivity under attack. "You think you own a mill. Your honest workmen own it. You are a thief!" "My Gawd!" Lanigan squawked, hoarsely. "Ain't it in you? Ain't a spark of it in you?" Morrison delivered sharp retort in an undertone. "Don't you know better than to tangle my lines when I'm playing a fish? Shut up!" He tossed his hand at the individual in the crowd, inviting him to speak further. "You're a liar, tool," responded the disturber. "That's a tame epithet, my friend. Commonly used in debate. I'm afraid you're running out of ammunition. Haven't you anything really important to say, now that I'm giving you the floor?" Men were beginning to remonstrate and to threaten in behalf of the mayor of the city. "Hold on, boys!" Morrison entreated. "We must give our friend a minute more if he really has anything to say. Otherwise we'll adjourn--" The bait had been dangled ingratiatingly; a movement had been made to jerk it away--the "fish" bit, promptly and energetically. "I'll say it--I'll say what ought to be said--I'll shame the cowards here!" "Let Brother What's-his-name come along, boys! Please! Please!" The mayor stretched forth his arms and urged persuasively. "Keep your hands off him! Let him come!" "They're going over him for a gat, Mister Mayor," called Lanigan. "I've given 'em one lesson in that line this evening, already!" The volunteers who were patting the disturber released him. The patting had not been in the way of encouragement. "Nothing on him! Let him go!" commanded one of the searchers. The man who came forcing his way through the press, his clinched fists waving over his head, was young, pallid, typically an academic devotee of radicalism, a frenetic disciple, obsessed by _furor loquendi_ He was calling to the mob, trying to rouse followers. "You have been standing here, freezing in the night, damning tyrants, boasting what you would do. Why don't you do it? Do you let a smirking ruler bluff all the courage of real men out of you? He's only doing the bidding of those higher up. He admits it! He's a tool, too! He's a fool, along with you, if he tries to excuse tyranny. You have your chance, now, and all the provocation that honest men need. The rulers tried to scare you with guns. But you have called the bluff. Their hired soldiers have run away. Now is your time! Take your government into your hands! Down with aristocrats! Smash 'em like we smash their windows. They hold up an idol and ask you to bow down and be slaves to it; but you're only bowing to the drivers of slaves! They hide behind that idol and work it for all it's worth. They point to it and tell you that you must empty your pockets to add to their wealth, and work your fingers off for their selfish ends." He halted a short distance from the plinth, declaiming furiously. Morrison broke in, snapping out his words. "Down to cases, now! What is the idol?" "A patchwork of red, white, and blue rags!" Morrison whirled, crouched on his hands and knees, set his fingers on the edge of the plinth, and slid down the side. He swung for an instant at the end of his arms and dropped the rest of the way to the pavement. Lanigan had started for the man, but Stewart overtook the commander, seized him by the collar and coattail slack, and tossed him to one side. "Here's a case at last where I don't need any help or advice from you, Joe!" "Punch the face offn him!" adjured Lanigan, even while he was floundering among the legs of the men against whom he had been thrown. The mayor plunged through the crowd in the direction of the vilifier. The man did not attempt to escape. "Strike me! Strike me down. I offer myself for my cause to shame these cowards!" But Morrison did not use his fists, though Lanigan continued to exhort. "There are altogether too many of you would-be martyrs around this city to-night. I can't accommodate you all!" Stewart made the same tackle he had used in the case of Lanigan and Spanish-walked his captive back toward the _porte-cochère_. "I reckon I do need your help, after all, Joe!" confessed Morrison, noting that Lanigan was on his feet again. "Give me your back and a boost!" Then the captor suddenly tripped the captive and laid him sprawling at Lanigan's feet; before the fallen man was up, Morrison, using the commander's sturdy shoulders and the thrust of the willing arms of his helper, had swung himself back to the top of the plinth. He kneeled and reached down his hands. "Up with him, Joe! Toss! I won't miss him!" Lanigan was helped by a comrade in making the toss. Morrison grasped the man and yanked him upright and held him in a firm clutch. The mayor was receiving plenty of advice from the crowd by that time. The gist of the counsel followed Lanigan's suggestion about punching off the fellow's face. But the mob was by no means unanimous. Men were daring to voice threats against Morrison. As it had availed before that evening, Morrison's imperturbable silence secured quiet on the part of others. "The opinion of the meeting seems to be divided," he said. He had recovered his poise along with his breath. "But no matter! I shall not adopt the advice of either side. I shall not let this fellow go until I have finished my business with him. I shall not punch his face off him. I'll not flatter him to that extent. A good American reserves his fists for a man-fight with a real man." He shook the captive, holding him at arm's-length. "Here's a young fool who has been throwing stones at windows. Here's a fresh rowdy who has been sticking out his tongue at authority. I know exactly what he needs!" "He insulted the flag of this country! Turn him over to the police!" somebody insisted, and a roar of indorsement hailed the demand. "Citizens, that would be like giving a mongrel cur a court trial for sheep-killing! This perverted infant simply needs--_dingbats!_" He shouted the last word. He twisted the radical off his feet, stooped, and laid the victim across a knee that was as solid as a tree-trunk, and with the flat of a broad hand began to whale the culprit with all his might. The onlookers were silent for a few moments. Then there was a chorus of jeering approbation. When the shamed, humiliated, agonized radical--thus made a mark for gibes instead of winning honor as a martyr for the cause--began to wail and plead the men who were nearest the scene of flagellation started to laugh. The laughter spread like a fire through dry brambles. It ran crackling from side to side of the great square. It mounted into higher bursts of merriment. It became hilarity that was expended by a swelling roar that split wide the night silence and came beating back in riotous echoes from the façade of the State House. That amazing method of handling anarchy had snapped the tense strain of a situation which had been holding men's emotions in leash for hours. The ludicrousness of the thing was heightened by the nervous solemnity immediately preceding. Men beat their neighbors on the back in instant comradeship of convulsed, rollicking jubilation. "Always leave 'em laughing when you say good-by!" Morrison advised the chap whom he was manhandling. He held the fellow over the edge of the plinth by the collar and dropped him, wilted and whimpering, into the waiting arms of the appreciative Lanigan. "Dry his eyes, Joe, and wipe his nose, and see that he gets started for home all right." Morrison stood straight and secured a hearing after a time. "Boys, those of you who are in the right mind--and I hope all of you are that way now, after a good laugh--I've given you a sample of how to handle the Bolshevist blatherskites when you come across 'em in this country. Look around and if you find any more of 'em in the crowd go ahead and dose 'em with dingbats! Fine remedy for childish folly! I reckon all of us have found out that much for ourselves in the old days. I won't keep you standing in the cold here any longer. Good night!" He leaped down on to the porch and went into the State House. General Totten was near the big door. The men outside were guffawing again. Morrison was dusting his palms with the air of a man who had finished a rather unpleasant job. "Do you hear 'em, Totten? Sounds better than howls of a crowd bored by machine-gun bullets, eh? How much chance do you think there is of starting a civil war among men who are laughing like that?" XIX LANA CORSON HAS HER DOUBTS The chief of police had distributed his officers to posts of duty and was patrolling the rotunda. He saluted the mayor when Morrison came hurrying in through the main entrance. "All is fine, Chief! I thank you for your work. I don't look for anything out of the way, after this. But keep your men on till further orders." At the foot of the grand stairway Stewart's self-possession left him. Lana Corson was standing half-way up the stairs. Her furs were thrown back, revealing her festival attire. Her beauty was heightened by the flush on her cheeks and by the vivid animation in her luminous eyes. He paused for a moment, his gaze meeting hers, and then he hastened to her. "How did it happen--that you're here, Lana?" "I'm here--let that be an answer for now. But this, Stewart--this what I have been seeing and hearing! Does it mean what it seems to mean?" "I'll have to admit that I don't know exactly how it does show up from the side-lines. Suppose you say!" "I heard you talk to General Totten. I heard you talk to that mob. I saw what you did. But I heard you give all the credit to my father." She searched Stewart's face with more earnest stare. "You have saved the state from disgracing itself, haven't you? Isn't that what you have done--you yourself?" "Oh, nonsense! Tell me! How did you get in and who came with you?" "I'm here alone, Stewart, and it's of no importance how I got in. The question I have asked you is the important one just now." Her insistence was disconcerting; he had not recovered from the astonishment of the sudden meeting; he felt that he ought to lie to that daughter, in the interests of her family pride, but he was conscious of his inability to lie glibly just then. "Where is your car?" "Waiting for me in the little park." "Lana, there'll be no more excitement here--not a bit. Nothing to see! Suppose you allow me to take you to the car. Come!" He put out his arm. "Certainly not! Not till I see my father! He is in danger!" "I assure you he is not. I left him with the Governor only a few minutes ago, and the Senator was never better in his life--nor safer!" In spite of his best endeavor to be consolatory and matter-of-fact he was not able to keep a certain significance out of his tone. From where she stood she could look across the rotunda and down into the square. The glare of the lights made all movements visible. The crowd was melting away. "Stewart, brains and tact have accomplished wonders here to-night. I want to know all the truth. Why shouldn't you be as candid to me as you seemed to be with those men when you were talking to them? I want to give my gratitude to somebody! The name of our good state has been kept clean. You're not fair to me if you leave me in the dark any longer." "I did my little bit, that's all! I'm only one of the cogs!" "I know how I'll make you tell. I propose to give you all the credit. And I never knew you to keep anything that didn't belong to you." "Now you're not fair yourself, Lana! We just put our heads together--the whole of us--that's all! Put our heads together! You know! As men will!" His stammering eagerness did not satisfy her feminine penetration. Her daughterly interest in the Senator's political standing was stirred as she reflected. "My father is down here to see that his fences are in good shape," she declared, with true Washington sapience. "I think it was his duty and privilege to step out there and make the speech. I'm surprised because he let such an opportunity slip. With all due respect to the mayor of Marion, you were not at all dignified, Stewart. They laughed at you--and I didn't blame them!" "I can't blame 'em, either," he confessed. "I--I--I guess I lost my head. I'm not used to making speeches. I have made two since supper, and both of 'em have seemed to stir up a lot of trouble for me." "I think, myself, that you're rather unfortunate as a speechmaker," she returned, dryly. "I suppose you're going back to report to father. I'll go with you." In her manner there was implied promise that she would proceed to learn more definitely in what quarters her especial gratitude ought to be expended. "Lana," he urged, "I wish you'd go home and wait for your talk with your father when he comes. He'll be coming right along. I'll see that he does. There's nothing--not much of anything to keep him here. But I need to have a little private confab with him." "So private that I mustn't listen? I hope that we're still old friends, Stewart, you and I, though your attitude in regard to father's affairs has made all else between us impossible." He did not pursue the topic she had broached. There was a certain finality about her deliverance of the statement, a decisiveness that afforded no hint that she would consider any compromise or reconsideration. His face was very grave. "I have a little business--a few loose ends to take up with the Senator. Once more I beg that you will defer--" "I will go with you to the Executive Chamber. I'll be grateful for your escort. If you don't care to have me go along with you, I can easily find my way there alone." Her manner left no opportunity for further appeal. He bowed. He did not offer his arm. They walked together up the stairway. With side-glances she surveyed his countenance wonderingly; in his expression true distress was mingled with apprehensiveness. He had the air of an unwilling guide detailed to conduct an unsuspecting innocent to be shocked by the revelations of a chamber of horrors; she put it that way to herself in jesting hyperbole. The newspaper men, who had followed Mayor Morrison into the State House, had been holding aloof, politely, from a conference which seemed to have no bearing on the political situation. They hurried behind and overtook Stewart and the young lady at the head of the stairway; their spokesman asked for a statement. "I made it! Out there a few minutes ago! Boys, you heard what I said, didn't you?" "Yes." "Well, I talked more than I intended to! Boil it down to a few lines and let it go at that!" "We want to get the matter just right, Mister Mayor, and give credit where it's due." "I covered the matter of credit. There's nothing more to say," replied Stewart, curtly. The reporters surveyed him with considerable wonderment; his manner in times past had always been distinguished by frank graciousness. "We'd like to see Senator Corson and Governor North." That request seemed to provoke the mayor's irritability still more. "I'm not the guardian of those gentlemen or of this State House!" He turned on his heel abruptly. "Miss Corson!" She was waiting a few paces away. He rejoined her and by a gesture invited her to walk along. "I'm sorry! I did not mean to delay you!" The newspaper men followed on as far as the door of the Executive Chamber. Morrison faced them there. "I don't mean to interfere with you, boys, in any way. And you mustn't interfere with me. As soon as the Senator and the Governor finish with me they'll give you all the time you want, no doubt! Please wait outside!" He tapped on the door and gave his name. Rellihan opened. Morrison seized the officer's arm and pulled him outside. "Keep everybody away from the door for a few moments--till further orders." Stewart escorted Miss Corson into the chamber with almost as much celerity as he had employed in escorting Rellihan out; and he promptly banged the door. He walked slowly across the room toward the big table, following Lana, who hastened toward her father. The Senator was standing behind the table, flanked by North and Daunt. The three of them formed a portentous battery. Morrison did not speak. His expression indicated humility. He drooped his shoulders. There was appeal in his eyes. "Here I am!" the eyes informed the glowering Senator. But a side-glance hinted: "Here is your daughter, too. Use judgment!" Lana was manifestly perplexed by what she saw. Three distinguished gentlemen were presenting the visages of masculine Furies. She looked away from them and received a little comfort from the placid countenances of Andrew Mac Tavish and Delora Bunker, but their presence in that place and at that hour only made her mystification more complete. She had been allowing her imagination to paint pictures before she stepped into the Executive Chamber; she had expected to find her father virtuously triumphant, serenely a successful molder of pacific plans. His scowl was so forbidding that she stopped short. "Father, it's wonderful--perfectly wonderful, isn't it?" She tried to speak joyously, but she faltered. "I saw it all! I saw how your plan succeeded." "Damn you, Morrison! What has happened?" The Senator did not merely demand--he exploded. The silence which followed became oppressive. Miss Corson was too thoroughly horrified to proceed. Apparently Governor North and Daunt had selected their spokesman and had nothing to say for themselves. Morrison seemed to be especially helpless as an informant; he wagged his head and pointed to Lana. "Answer my question, Morrison!" "I think Miss Corson better tell you, sir. She was an impartial observer." "Perhaps she _had_ better tell me! You're right! After this night I wouldn't take your word as to the wetness of water. Lana, speak out!" "I don't know what I can tell you--you have been right here all the time in the State House--" The Senator jammed a retort between the links of her stammering speech. "Yes, I have been right here! What has happened below, I ask you?" "Why, the troops marched out. They went away! Right through the mob! And it's all calm and quiet." Governor North stamped his way a half-dozen paces to the rear, and whirled and marched back into line. "Morrison, have you--have you--" Senator Corson choked. Not knowing exactly what to say, he shook his fist. "Father, what's the matter? It was only carrying out your orders." "Orders--my orders?" "Stewart Morrison, why don't you say something?" she demanded. "I'm sure your father prefers to hear from you." "Confound it! I do want to hear, and hear immediately!" Lana displayed some of the paternal ire. "Stewart, I asked you to be candid with me. You're leaving me to flounder around disgracefully in this matter." The Senator advanced on his daughter and seized her arm. "I don't want that renegade to say another word to me as long as I live--and he knows it. I'll tell you later what has been going on here. But now tell me to what orders of mine you are referring! Quick and short!" "Mayor Morrison made a little speech to the mob and said that you thought it was best to send away the troops to prevent bad feelings and misunderstanding, and said you were backed up by the Governor." The Senator swapped looks with the goggling North over Lana's head. "And the mob has gone home, and the State House is thrown wide open, and the policemen are on duty, and I say again that it's wonderful," insisted the girl. "Morrison, did you say that? Have you done that?" Stewart was fully aware that he had allowed the men in the square to draw an inference from a compliment that he had paid to Senator Corson's sagacity, and had refrained from making a direct declaration. But he was not minded to embarrass the girl any further. He bowed. "I thank Miss Corson for giving the gist of the thing so neatly." "I know I don't understand it all yet, father!" Lana was both frightened and wistful. The Senator had turned from her and was striding to and fro, scuffing his feet hard on the carpet. "If you're blaming Mayor Morrison for revealing confidences, I'm sorry. But you can't help being proud when it is spread abroad how your handling of the dreadful affair prevented bloodshed and shame in this state." "Spread abroad!" Senator Corson brought down his feet more violently. The situation, if it remained bottled up there in the Executive Chamber any longer, threatened to explode in still more damaging fashion, was Stewart's uncomfortable thought. The Senator's remark suggested a diversion in the way of topics, at any rate. "That reminds me that the newspaper boys are waiting outside in the corridor, Senator Corson. I asked them to be patient for a few minutes. Please allow me to say that I have added no statement to what I said to the crowd in the square. I shall not add any." "I don't see how you could add anything!" retorted the Senator with venom. He continued his promenade. Again the silence in the room became oppressive. Morrison was scrutinizing Governor North with especial intentness. His Excellency was giving unmistakable evidence that he was surcharged. He was working his elbows and was whispering to himself with a fizzling sound. He had turned his back on Lana Corson as if he were resolved to ignore the fact of her presence. Stewart, exhibiting deference while a United States Senator was pondering, strolled leisurely across the room to North and fondled the lapel of the Governor's coat. "I beg your pardon, and I hope you'll excuse curiosity in a chap who makes cloth, Governor. But this is as fine a piece of worsted as I've seen in many a day." North lifted his arm as if to knock the presumptuous hand away; but Stewart slowly clenched his fist, holding the fabric in his close clutch, exerting a strength that dominated the man upon whom his hold was fastened. The mayor went on in an undertone, as if anxious to show additional deference in the presence of the senatorial ponderings. "Governor, petty politics haven't been allowed to make a bad mess of what has been turned into an open proposition. Now don't allow your tongue to make a mess of this new development as it stands right now. Humor Miss Corson's notions! And let me tell you! My policemen are going to stay on the job until after the legislature assembles." "Morrison, you're a coward!" grated North. "You brought Corson's girl here so that you can sneak behind her petticoats." Stewart released his hold, clapped His Excellency on the shoulder, raised his voice, and cried, heartily: "Thank you. Governor! You're right. You have an excellent idea of a piece of goods, yourself." Senator Corson arrived at a decision which he did not confide to anybody. He spoke to Daunt and the two of them went to the divan and dragged on the overcoats which they had discarded when Rellihan's obstinacy had been found to be unassailable. Lana, studying the faces of the men, drew her furs about her. "The car is waiting near the west portico, father," she ventured to say. Corson took his time about buttoning his coat. Lana had her heritage of dark eyes from her father; his wrath had settled into cold malevolence and his eyes above his white cheeks were not pleasant objects. He surveyed the various persons in the room. He took his time in that process, too! "For the present--for now--for to-night," he said, quietly, elaborating his mention of the moment with significance, "we seem to have cleaned up all the business before us. In view of that interregnum, Governor, of which you have been so kindly reminded, I suppose you feel that you can go to your hotel and rest for the remainder of the night so as to be in good trim for the inaugural ceremonies. Allow me to offer you a lift in my car." The Governor trudged toward, a massive wardrobe in a corner of the chamber. "I do not presume to offer you the convenience of my car, Mayor Morrison," the Senator went on. "I take it that your recent oath as supreme Executive during the aforesaid interregnum obliges you to stay on the job. Ah--er--do we require a countersign in order to get out of the building?" The mayor was walking toward the private door. "No, sir!" he said, mildly. "I hope you hear that, Governor North! I was compelled to give countersigns to your soldiers--quite emphatic countersigns. The new regime is to be complimented." Morrison threw open the door. "That's all, Rellihan! Report to the chief!" The newspaper men came crowding to the threshold. "You have interviewed Mayor Morrison on the situation, haven't you?" demanded the Senator, breaking in on their questions. "Yes!" "To-night--for the time being--for now," returned Corson, dwelling on the point as emphatically as he had when he spoke before, "Mayor Morrison seems to be doing very well in all that has been undertaken. I have no statement to make--absolutely no word to say!" He stepped back and allowed the Governor to lead the retreat; His Excellency collided with two of the more persistent news-gatherers. With volleyed "No! Nothing!" he marked time for the thudding of his feet. Apparently Lana had entered into the spirit of that armed truce which, so her father's manner informed her, was merely a rearrangement of the battle-front. She hurried out of the chamber without even a glance in Morrison's direction. Stewart's grim countenance intimidated the reporters; they went away. For a long time the mayor paced up and down the Executive Chamber, his hands clasped behind him. Miss Bunker thumbed the leaves of her note-book, putting on an air of complete absorption in that matter. Mac Tavish studied the mayor's face; Morrison was wearing that expression which indicated a mood strange for him. Mac Tavish had seen it on the master's face altogether too many times since the Morrison had come from the mill in the forenoon. It was not the look he wore when matters of business engrossed him. The old paymaster liked to see Morrison pondering on mill affairs; it was meditation that always meant solution of difficulties, and the solution was instantly followed by a laugh and good cheer. But it was plain that Morrison had not solved anything when he turned to Mac Tavish. "Not much like honest, real business--this, eh, Andy?" "Naething like, sir!" "Doesn't seem to be a polite job, either--politics--if you go in and fight the other fellow on his own ground." "I've e'er hated the sculch and the scalawags!" "Totten calls this a political exigency." "I'll no name it for mysel' in the hearing o' the lass!" "Seems to need a lot of fancy lying when a greenhorn like me starts late and is obliged to do things in a hurry. Gives business methods an awful wrench, Andy!" "Aye!" The old Scotchman was emphatic. "In fact, in a political exigency, according to what I've found out this evening, the quickest liar wins!" He walked to Miss Bunker's side. "You might jot that down as sort of summing the thing up and consider the record closed." "Do ye think it's all closed and that ye're weel out of it?" inquired Mac Tavish, anxiously. "I think, Andy," drawled the mayor, a wry smile beginning to twist at the corners of his mouth, "that I may have the militia and the people and the politicians well out of it, but considering the mess, as it concerns me, myself, I'm only beginning to be good and properly in it." "Ye hae the record, as jotted by the lass, and I heard ye say naething but what was to your credit. And the words o' the high judges! Ye're well backed!" "Oh, that reminds me, Andy. That boy who brought the telegrams to the door! He'll come to the mill in the morning. Pay him ten dollars. I didn't have the money in my clothes when I hired him." "And that reminds me, too, Mr. Morrison!" said Miss Bunker. "Do you want me to keep the telegrams with the record? You remember you took them when you went out with the general." Morrison reached into his breast pocket for the papers, tore them slowly across, and stuffed the scraps back into a side-pocket. "I reckon they won't do the record much good. It's more of the political exigency stuff, Andy! I wrote 'em myself!" His hands had touched his pipe when he had shoved the bits of paper into his pocket. He took it out and peered into the bowl. There was tobacco there and he fumbled for a match. "Andy, usually I like to have morning come, for there's always business waiting for me in the mornings and honest daylight helps any matter of clean business. But I'm not looking ahead to this next sunrise with a great deal of relish. Those telegrams were clinchers in the case of Totten, but I don't know what the judges will say. What I said about Senator Corson to the mob helped a lot--but I don't know what the Senator is going to say in the morning. And I don't know what Governor North proposes to say. Or what--" He checked himself and shook his head. "Well, there's considerable going to be said, at any rate! I'll run over the thing in my mind right now while I have time and everything is quiet. Mac Tavish, take Miss Bunker to the car and tell Jock to carry you and her home and to come back here for me." After they had gone he lighted his pipe and sat down in the Governor's big chair and smoked and pondered. Every little while he thrust his forefinger and thumb into his vest pocket and ransacked without avail. "I must have left it in my dress clothes," he muttered. "But no matter! I'm not in the right frame of mind to enjoy poetry. However, merely in the way of taking a new clinch on the proposition I do remember this much, 'But I will marry my own first love!' There's truth in poetry if you go after it hard enough. And, on second thought, I'd better keep my mind on poetry as closely as I can! I certainly don't dare to think of politics right now!" XX IN THE COLD AND CANDID DAYLIGHT For the first time in his life Governor North had his breakfast served to him in his room at his hotel; he ate alone, chewing savagely and studying newspapers. He did not welcome this method of breakfasting as a pleasing indulgence. Rugged Lawrence North was no sybarite; he hated all assumptions of exclusiveness; he loved to mingle and mix, and his morning levees in the hotel breakfast-room catered to all his vanity as a public functionary. He did not own up squarely to himself that he was afraid to go down and face men and answer questions. He had ordered the hotel telephone exchange to give him no calls; he had told the desk clerk to state to all inquirers that the Governor was too busy to be seen; he paid no attention to raps on his door. His self-exculpation in this unwonted privacy was that he could not afford to allow himself to be bothered by questioners until he and Senator Corson could arrange for effectual team-work by another conference. When he and the Senator parted they agreed to get together at the Corson mansion the first thing after breakfast. While the Governor ground his food between his teeth he also chewed on the savage realization that he had nothing sensible to say in public on the situation, considering his uncompromising declarations of the day before; there were those declarations thrusting up at him from the newspaper page like derisive fingers; by the reports in parallel columns he was represented as saying one thing and doing another! And a bumptious, blundering, bull-headed Scotchman had put the Governor of a state in that tongue-tied, skulking position on the proud day of inauguration! His Excellency slashed his ham, and stabbed his eggs, making his food atone vicariously. He did not order his car over the hotel telephone. The hotel _attachés_ were obsequious and would be waiting to escort him in state across the main office. The politicians would surround the car. And he was perfectly sure that some of the big men of an amazed State House lobby might step into that car along with him and seek to know what in the name o' mischief had happened overnight to change all the sane and conservative plans in the way of making a legislature safe! He bundled himself and his raw pride into his overcoat, turned the fur collar up around his head, and went down a staircase. He was sneaking and he knew it and no paltering self-assurance that he was handling a touchy situation with necessary tact helped his feelings in the least. He stepped into a taxicab and was glad because the breath of previous passengers that morning had frosted the windows. That consolation was merely a back-fire in the rest of the conflagration that raged in him. It was a dull morning, somber and cold. When he stamped up the broad walk from the gate of the Corson mansion he beheld the boarded windows of the ballroom, and the spectacle added to his sense of chill. But his anger was not cooled. Senator Corson's secretary was waiting in the hall; he showed the Governor up to the Senator's study. Either because the outdoors was not cheerful that morning or because the Senator had been too much engrossed in meditation to remember that daylight would serve him, the curtains of the study were drawn and the electric lamps were on. Corson was walking up and down the room, chewing on one end of a cigar and making a soggy torch of the other end. He continued to pace while North pulled off his coat. "I have sent word to Morrison to come here," reported the host. The mantel clock reported the hour as nine; His Excellency scowled at the clock's face. "And you got word back, I suppose, that after he has come out of his mill at ten o'clock and has washed his hands and--" "He's at City Hall," snapped Corson, with an acerbity that matched the Governor's. "I called the mill and was referred to Morrison at City Hall. He's on his way up here! At any rate, he said he'd start at once." "Did he condescend to intimate in what capacity he proposes to land on us this time?" "I'm going to allow you to draw your own conclusions. I've been trying to draw some of my own from what he said." "What did he say?" "Apologized because I was put to any trouble in locating him. Said he was expecting to be called by me and thought he would go to City Hall and await my summons in order to put himself and the whole situation on a strictly official basis." The Senator delivered that information sullenly. "What kind of a devilish basis does he think he's been operating on?" "Look here, North! If you have come up here to fight with me after the row you have been having down-town this morning I warn you--" "I have had no row down-town. I wouldn't see anybody. I wouldn't talk with anybody. Blast it! Corson, I don't know what to say to anybody!" "Well, that's one point, at least, on which you and I can get together even if we can't agree on anything else. If you have been so cursedly exclusive as all that, North, perhaps you haven't been in touch with any of the justices of the supreme court, as I have." "You have, eh?" "I called Davenport and Madigan on the telephone." "What excuse could they give for sending their snap opinions over the wire on the inquiry of a fool?" "They offered no excuse. They couldn't. They knew nothing about any telegrams till I informed 'em. They received no inquiry. They sent no replies, naturally." "That--that--Did that--" The Governor pawed at his scraggly neck. "He faked all that stuff?" "Absolutely!" Comment which could not have been expressed in long speeches and violent denunciation was put into the pregnant stare exchanged by the two men. Then the Senator took another grip on his cigar with bared teeth and began to march again. "Corson, what's going to be done with that blue-blazed understudy of Ananias?" "Depend on the wrath of Heaven, perhaps," said the Senator, sarcastically. "I haven't had time to look in Holy Writ this morning and ascertain just what kind of a lie Ananias told. But whatever it was, it was tame beside what Morrison told that mob about me last night." "You've had your fling at me about my exclusiveness! What are you putting out yourself this morning in the way of statements?" The Governor banged his fist down on the newspapers which littered the study table. "Nothing! Not yet!" "I've got to have my self-respect with me when I deliver my inaugural address this forenoon. The only way I can possess it is by ramming Morrison into jail." "On what ground, may I ask?" "Interference with the Chief Executive of this state! Inciting the mob against the militia! Putting state property in danger. Forgery--contempt of court! I'll appeal to the judges to act. I'll call in the attorney-general. You and I were forcibly detained!" "Yes, we might allege abduction," was Corson's dry rejoinder. "Our helplessness in the hands of a usurper would win a lot of public sympathy." "I tell you, we would have the sympathy of the people," asserted the Governor, too angry to be anything else than literal. "And they'd express it by giving us the biggest laugh ever tendered to two public men in this state, North. We've got to look this thing straight in the eye. I told Morrison last night that no such preposterous thing was ever put over in American politics, and he agreed with me. You must agree, too! That makes us unanimous on one point, and that's something gained, because it's an essential point. We can't afford to let the public know just how preposterous the situation was. A man in American public life can get away with almost any kind of a fix, if it's taken seriously. But the right sort of a general laugh will snuff him like that!" He snapped his finger. "We're not dealing with politics and procedure in the case of Morrison." "We're dealing with a fool and his folly!" the Governor shouted. It was another of those cases where the expected guest under discussion becomes an eavesdropper at just the wrong moment; Morrison was not deliberately an eavesdropper. He had followed the instructed secretary to the study door, and the Governor had declared himself with a violence that was heard outside the room. The mayor stepped in when the secretary opened the door After the secretary had closed the door and departed Morrison stepped forward. "Governor North, you're perfectly right, and I agree with you without resenting your remark. I did make quite a fool of myself last night. Perhaps you are not ready to concede that the ends justify the means." "I do not, sir!" "A result built on falsehoods is a pretty poor proposition," declared the Senator. "I refer especially to those fake telegrams and to your impudent assertion to the mob that I said this or that!" "Yes, that telegram job was a pretty raw one, sir," Morrison admitted. "But I really didn't lie straight out to those men in the square about your participation. I let 'em draw an inference from the way I complimented your fairness and good sense. I was a little hasty last night--but I didn't have much time to do advance thinking." "I'm going to express myself about last night," stated Senator Corson. "Will you wait a moment, sir?" Morrison had not removed his overcoat; he had not even unbuttoned it; he afforded the impression of a man who intended to transact business and be on his way with the least possible delay. He glanced at the electric lights and at the shaded windows. "This seems too much like last night. Won't you allow me? It's a little indulgence to my state of mind!" He hurried across the room and snapped up the shades and pulled apart the curtains. He reached his hand to the wall-switch and turned off the lights. "This isn't last night--it's this morning--and there's nothing like honest daylight on a proposition, gentlemen! Nothing like it! Last night things looked sort of tragic. This morning the same things will look comical if"--he raised his forefinger--"if the inside of 'em is reported. If the real story is told, the people in this state will laugh their heads off." Again the Governor and the Senator put a lot of expression into the look which they exchanged. "I got that mob to laughing last night and, as I told General Totten, that settled the civil war. If the people get to laughing over what happened when Con Rellihan took his orders only from the mayor of Marion, it will--well, it'll be apt to settle some political hash." "Do you threaten?" demanded North. He was blinking into the matter-of-fact daylight where Morrison stood, framed in a window. "Governor North, take a good look at me. I'm not a pirate chief. I'm merely a business man up here to do a little dickering. I can't trade on my political influence, because I haven't any. You have all the politics on your side. I propose to do the best I can with the little stock in trade I have brought." He walked to the table and flapped on it his hand, palm up. "You are two almighty keen and discerning gentlemen. I don't need to itemize the stock in trade I have laid down here. You see what I've got!" He paused and, his eyes glinting with a suppressed emotion that the discerning gentlemen understood, he glanced from one to the other of them. "You've got a cock-and-bull yarn in which you are shown up as a liar and a lawbreaker," the Governor declared. "You've got some guess--so about errors in returns--" "Hold on! Hold on, North!" protested Senator Corson. "It's just as Morrison says--we don't need to itemize his stock in trade. I can estimate it for myself. Morrison, you say you're ready to dicker. What do you want?" "A legislature that's organized open and above-board, with all claimants in their seats and having their word to say as to the sort of questions that will be sent up to the court. Staying in their seats, gentlemen, till the decisions are handed down! Let the legislature, as a whole, draft the questions about the status of its membership. I've got my own interest in this--and I'll be perfectly frank in stating it. I have a report on water-power to submit. I don't want that report to go to a committee that has been doctored up by a hand-picked House and Senate." "You don't expect that Governor North and myself are going to stand here and give you guaranties as to proposed legislation, do you?" "You are asking me, as an executive, to interfere with the legislative branch," expostulated His Excellency. "Gentlemen, I don't expect to settle the problems of the world here this morning, or even this water-power question. I'm simply demanding that the thing be given a fair start on the right track." There was a great deal of significance in his tone when he added: "I hope there'll be no need of going into unpleasant details, gentlemen. All three of us know exactly what is meant." Senator Corson was distinctly without enthusiasm; he maintained his air of chilly dignity. "What legislation is contemplated under that report that you will submit?" "Some of the lawyers say that a general law prohibiting the shipping of power over wires out of the state must be backed by a change in our constitution. Until we can secure that change there must be a prohibitive clause on every water-power charter granted by the legislature--a clause that restricts all the developed power for consumption in this state." "A policy of selfishness, sir." "No, Senator Corson, a policy that protects our own development until we can create a surplus of power. Sell our surplus, perhaps! That's a sound rule of business. If you'll allow me to volunteer a word or two more as to plans, I'll say that eventually I hope to see the state pay just compensation and take back and control the water-power that was given away by our forefathers. "As to power that is still undeveloped, I consider it the heritage of the people, and I refuse to be a party to putting a mortgage on it. My ideas may be a little crude just now--I say again that everything can't be settled and made right in a moment, but I have stated the principle of the thing and we fellows who believe in it are going ahead on that line. I realize perfectly well, sir, that this plan discourages the kind of capital that Mr. Daunt represents, but if there is one thing in this God's country of ours that should not be put into the hands of monopoly it's the power in the currents of the rivers that are fed by the lakes owned by the people. I'm a little warm on the subject, Senator Corson, I'll confess. I have been stubbing my toes around in pretty awkward shape. But I had to do the best I could on short notice." "You have been very active in the affair," was the Senator's uncompromising rejoinder. Governor North continued to be frankly a skeptic and had been expressing his emotions by wagging his head and grunting. In the line of his general disbelief in every declaration and in everybody, he pulled his watch from his pocket as if to assure himself as to the real time; he had scowled at the Senator's mantel clock as if he suspected that even the timepiece might be trying to put something over on him. "I must be moving on toward the State House." He wore the air of a defendant headed for the court-room instead of a Governor about to be inaugurated. "I must know where I stand! Morrison, what's it all about, anyway?" The Governor was convincingly sincere in his query. He had the manner of one who had decided, all of a sudden, to come into the open. There was something almost wistful in this new candor. Stewart's poise was plainly jarred. "What's it all about?" He blinked with bewilderment. "Why, I have been telling you, Governor!" "Do you think for one minute that I believe all that Righteous Rollo rant?" "I have been stating my principles and--" "Hold on! I've had all the statements that I can absorb. What's behind 'em? That's what I want to know. Wait, I tell you! Don't insult my intelligence any more by telling me it's altruism, high-minded unselfishness in behalf of the people! I have heard others and myself talk that line of punk to a finish. Are you going to run for Governor next election?" "Absolutely not!" "Are you grooming a man?" "No, sir!" "Building up a political machine?" "Certainly I am not," "Going to organize a water-power syndicate of your own after you get legislation that will give you a clear field against outside capital?" "No--no, most positively!" "Senator Corson, you claim you know Morrison better than I do. How much is he lying?" "I think he means what he says." North picked up his overcoat and plunged his arms into the sleeves. "If I should think so--if I should place implicit faith in any man who talks that way--I'd be ashamed of my weakness--and I've got too many things about myself to be ashamed of, all the way from table manners to morals! There's one thing that I'm sort of holding on to, and that's the fact that my intellect seems to be unimpaired in my old age. Morrison, I don't believe half what you say." The mayor of Marion made no reply for some moments. Corson, surveying him, showed uneasiness. A retort that would fit the provocation was likely to lead to results that would embarrass the host of the two Executives. "Oh, by the way, Governor," said Stewart, quietly, "I just came from City Hall. I really did not intend to drift so far from strictly official business when I came up here. I want to assure you that there will be no expense to the state connected with the police guard at the Capitol. They are at your service till after the inaugural ceremonies. Do you think you will need the officers on duty at your residence any longer, Senator Corson?" "No, sir!" "I agree with you that everything seems to have quieted down beautifully. Governor, you have my best wishes for your second term. I'm sorry I'll not be able to go to the State House to hear your address." He went to the Governor and put out his hand, an act which compelled response in kind. "I'm much obliged!" His Excellency was curt and caustic. "After the vaudeville show of last night there won't be much to-day at the State House to suit anybody who is fond of excitement." Before North, departing, reached the door Senator Corson's secretary tapped and entered. He gave several telegrams into the hand of his employer. "Pardon me, gentlemen!" apologized the Senator, tearing open an envelope. "Wait a moment, North. These messages may bear on the situation." He read them in silence one after the other, his face betraying nothing of his thoughts. He stacked the sheets on the table. "Evidently several notable gentlemen in our state rise early, read the newspapers before breakfast, and are handy to telegraph offices," he remarked, leveling steady gaze at Stewart. "These telegrams are addressed to me, but by good rights they belong to you, Mister Mayor, I'm inclined to believe." There was irony in the Senator's tone; Morrison offered no reply. "They're all of the same tenor, North," explained Senator Corson. "I'm bracketed with you. You'll probably find some of your own waiting at the State House for you. And more to come!" "Well, what are they--what are they?" "Compliments for the sane, safe, and statesmanlike way we handled a crisis and saved the good name of the state." "Now, Morrison," raged the Governor, "you can begin to understand what kind of a damnable mess you've jammed me into along with Corson, here! That steer of a policeman will blab, that Scotchman will snarl, and that loose-mouthed girl will babble!" "Governor, I haven't resented anything you have said to me, personally. You can go ahead and say a lot more to me, and I'll not resent it. But let me tell you that I can depend on the business loyalty of the folks who serve me; and if you go to classing my kind of helpers in with the cheap politicians with whom you have been associating, I shall say something to you that will break up this friendly party. My folks will not talk! Save your sarcasm for your agents who have been running around getting you into a real scrape by telling about those election returns." He snapped about face, on his heels, and walked out of the door. XXI A WOMAN CHOOSES HER MATE The haste displayed by Mayor Morrison in getting away from the study door suggested that he was glad to escape and was not fishing for any invitation to return for further parley. But when he approached the head of the stairway he moved more slowly. His demeanor hinted that he would welcome some excuse, outside of politics, to keep him longer in the Corson mansion. He paused on the stairs and made an elaborate arrangement of a neck muffler as if he expected to confront polar temperature outside. He pulled on his gloves, inspected them critically as if to assure himself that there were no crevices where the cold could enter. He looked over the banisters. There was nobody in the reception-hall. He arranged the muffler some more. Step by step, very slowly, he descended as far as the landing where he had met Lana Corson joyously the night before. Not expectantly, with visage downcast, he looked behind him. Lana was framed in the library door at the head of the stairs. "I was trying to make up my mind to call to you. But you seemed to be in so much of a hurry! I suppose you have a great deal to attend to this morning." "The principal rush seems to be over. Was it anything--Did you want to speak to me?" "Perhaps it isn't of much importance. It did seem to be, for a moment. But it's something of a family matter. I think, after all, it will be imprudent to mention it." He waited for her to go on. "Probably under the circumstances you'll not be especially interested," she ventured. "The trouble is, I'm afraid I'll show too much interest and seem to be prying." "Will you please step up here where I'll not be obliged to shout at you?" He obeyed so promptly that he fairly scrambled up the stairs. "You said down there in the hall last evening that my father was angry and that an angry man says a great deal that he doesn't mean. My father was very, very angry when he and. I arrived home last night." "I reckoned he would be." "In his anger he talked to me very freely about you. The question is, should I believe anything he said?" "I--I don't know," he stammered, "You're not going back on your own statement about an angry man, are you?" "I don't think it's fair to accept all his statements." "I'm sorry you still hold that opinion. You see I drew some conclusions of my own from what my father said to me, and those conclusions urge me to apologize to you for the Corson family. I'm afraid you didn't find my father in an apologetic mood this morning." "Not exactly." "Doris tells me that I have a New England conscience. I'm not sure. At any rate, I'm feeling very uncomfortable about something! It may be because you're misunderstood by our family. Do I seem forward?" "No! Of course you don't. But you're putting me in a terrible position. I don't know what to say. I don't want any apologies. They'd make me feel like a fool--more of a fool than I have been." "Are you admitting now that you were wrong in the stand you took about the water-power and--and--well, about everything?" He had been listening in distress and perplexity, striving to understand her, groping for the meaning she was hiding behind her quiet manner. But her question struck fire from the flint of his resolution. "That power matter is a principle, and I am not wrong in it. As to the means I used last night, it was brass and blunder and I'm ashamed of acting that way." "There's no need of going into the matter. I received a great deal of information from my father--when he was angry. And I woke up early this morning and began to consider the evidence. I was hard at it when you drove up in your car. I have been waiting for you to come from your talk with my father and the Governor. I want to say, Stewart, that when I stood up last night, like a fool, and lectured you about neglecting your opportunities in life I was considering you only as the boss of St. Ronan's mill. But my father told me what you really are. I have always respected him as a very truthful man, even when he is well worked up by any subject. I must take his word in this matter, though he didn't realize just how complimentary he was in your case. And if you can spare me a few moments, I want you to come into the library." She walked ahead of him toward the door. "I think I'll leave the Corson family right out of it, Stewart. I'm a loyal daughter of this state. I'm home again and I've waked up. Humor me in a little conceit, won't you? Let me make believe that I'm the state and listen to me while I tell you what a big, brave, unselfish--" They were inside the door and he put his arm about her and led her toward the big screen and broke in on her little speech that she was making tremulously, apprehensively, with a sob in her voice, trying to hide her deeper emotions under her mock-dramatics. "Hush, dear! I don't want to hear any state talk to me! I want to hear only Lana Corson talk. I didn't understand her last night! Now, bless her honest, true heart, I do understand her." Speech, long repressed, was rushing from his mouth. Then he struggled with words; his excitement choked him. He looked down at her through his tears. "The bit poem, lassie! You remember it. The poem you recited, and when I sent you the big basket o' posies! All the time since yesterday it has been running in my head. I sat alone in the State House last night and all I could remember was, 'But I will marry my own first love!' I tried to say it out like a man, believing that God has meant you for me. But I couldn't think I'd be forgiven!" Lana took his hand between her palms and stopped him at the edge of the screen. She quoted, meeting his adoring eyes with full understanding: "And I think, in the lives of most women and men, There's a moment when all would go smooth and even--" She drew him gently with her when she stepped backward. She had heard the Senator's voice in the corridor; he was escorting Governor North. On the panels of the screen were embroidered some particularly grotesque Japanese countenances. Those pictured personages seemed to be making up faces at the dignitaries who passed the open door. "But I must go to your father, sweetheart," Stewart insisted. "I'd best do it this morning and have it all over with." This declaration as to duty and deference was not made while Senator Corson was passing the door; nor was it made with anything like the promptitude the Senator might have expected in a matter which was so vitally concerned with a father's interests. In fact it was a long, long time before Stewart had anything to say on that subject. If Senator Corson had been listening again on the other side of the screen, he, no doubt, would have been mightily offended by a delay which seemed to make the father an afterthought in the whole business. If he had been eavesdropping he would not have heard much, anyway, of an informing nature. He would have heard two voices, tenderly low and incoherent, interrupting eagerly, breaking in on each other to explain and protest and plead. If Stewart's protracted neglect of the interests of a father would have availed to rouse resentment, Lana's reply to Stewart's rueful declaration more surely would have exasperated the Senator; she emphatically commanded Stewart to say not one word on the subject to her father. "Why, Stewart Morrison, for twenty-four hours you have been taking away my breath by doing the unexpected! You have been grand. Now are you going to spoil everything by dropping right back into the conventional, every-day way of doing things? You shall not! You shall not spoil my new worship of a hero!" "Well, I won't seem much like a hero if I act as though I'm afraid of your father!" She raised her voice in amazed query. "For mercy's sake, haven't you been proving that you're not afraid of him?" Once more, jubilantly, teasingly, wrought upon by the revived spirit of the intimacy of the old days, she assumed a playful pose with him, but this time her sincerity of soul was behind the situation. "Don't you realize, sir, that the calendar of the Hon. Jodrey Wadsworth Corson, on this day and date, is crowded with strictly new business? He is due at the State House very soon. Do you think he can afford to be bothered with unfinished business?" He worshiped her with silence and a smile. "Yes, Mister Mayor of Marion, unfinished business--yours and mine! Our business of the old days. But the honorable Senator is perfectly well aware that the business aforesaid is on the calendar. He had been supposing that we had forgotten it. I see a big question in your eyes, Stewart dear! Well, now that you're a party to the action and interested in the matter to be presented, I'll say that after Senator Corson had done his talking to me last evening, or very early this morning, to be more exact, I called on my family grit of which he's so proud and I did a little talking to Senator Corson. And he knows that the business is unfinished--he knows it will be brought duly to his attention--and he'll be in a better frame of mind after his present petulance has worn off." "Petulance!" Morrison was rather skeptical. "Exactly! He's just as much of a big child as most men are when another big child tries to take away a plaything. Oh, he was furious, Stewart! But let me tell you something for your comfort. He dwelt most savagely on the fact that you had grabbed in single-handed and beaten a Governor and a United States Senator at their own game! Wonderful, isn't it--admission like that? He has always patronized you as a countryman who knew how to make good cloth and who didn't amount to anything else in the world. Why, in a few days he'll be admitting that he admires you and respects you!" She paused. After a few moments she went on, her tones low and thrilling. "I've been trying to explain myself to you, Stewart. You know, now, that I have always loved you. I have told you so in a way that leaves no doubts in a man such as you are. You have forgiven me for being simply human and silly before I woke up to understand you. And you don't misunderstand me any more, do you?" she pleaded, wistfully. "Last night I saw--your big _self_!" "Lana, it was a wonderful night--more wonderful than I realized till now!" After a time they became aware of a stir below-stairs and they came out from behind the screen where the Japanese faces grinned knowingly. "Please obey me, Stewart; you must! It's really my trial of you to see if you're obedient when I know it's for your own good. Go down and wait for me." She left him in the corridor and ran away. He marched down the stairs with as much self-possession as he could command. Below him he saw Senator Corson, Mrs. Stanton, Silas Daunt, and the banker's son. All were garbed for outdoors and the Senator was inquiring of Mrs. Stanton why Lana was not ready. From the landing down to the hall Stewart found the ordeal an exacting one. Those below surveyed him with an open astonishment that was more disconcerting than hostility; he was in a mood to fight for himself and his own; but to deal in mere polite explanations, after Lana's imperious command to keep silent on an important matter, was beyond any sagacity he possessed in that period of abashed wonder what to say or do. It was his thought that Miss Corson, in her efforts to avoid an anticlimax of conventional procedure, was making a rather too severe test of him in forcing him to endure the unusual. He did manage to say, "Good morning!" and smiled at them in a deprecatory way. Coventry Daunt amiably responded as a spokesman for the group; but he had waited deferentially for his elders to make some response. The Senator held a packet of telegrams in his hand. After Stewart had halted in the hall, putting on the best face he could and evincing a determination to stick the thing out, Senator Corson walked over and offered to give the mayor the telegrams. "They're beginning to arrive from Washington, sir. Better read 'em. They'll afford you a great deal of joy, I'm sure." Stewart shook his head, declining to receive the missives. He wanted to tell the Senator that more joy right at that moment would overtask the Morrison capacity. "I wish I were younger and more of an opportunist," Corson avowed. "In these guessing times among the booms, here is gas enough to inflate a pretty good-sized presidential balloon." He waved the papers. The Senator's tone was still rather ironical, but Stewart was seeking for straws to buoy his new hopes; whether he was so recently away from Lana's dark eyes that the encouragement in them lingered with him, he was not sure. He felt, however, that the Senator's eyes did seem a little less hard than the polished ebony they had resembled. An awkward silence ensued. The Senator stood in front of the caller and queried uncompromisingly with those eyes. The caller, having been enjoined from babbling about the business that had been transacted behind the screen in the library, had no excuse to offer for hanging around there. "I--I suppose you're going to the State House," he suggested, after he decided that the weather called for no comments. "We are! We are waiting for my daughter," stated Corson, with a severity which indicated that he was determined, then and there, to rebuke the cause of her delay. "I'm so sorry you have waited!" Lana called to them from the landing, and came hurrying down, fastening the clasp of her furs. She went to Mrs. Stanton, her face expressing apologetic distress. "It's so comforting, Doris, to know that you and I don't need to bother with all these guest and hostess niceties. You'll understand--because you're a dear friend! Father will make the doors of the Capitol fly open for his party--and you'll be looked after wonderfully." She bestowed her gracious glances on the others of the Daunt family, "I know you'll all forgive me if I don't come along." She did not allow her amazed father to embarrass the situation by the outburst that he threatened. She fled past him, patting his arm with a swift caress. "I'm going with Stewart--over to Jeanie Mac Dougal Morrison's house. It's really dreadfully important. You know why, father. I'll tell you all about it later. Come, Stewart! We must hurry!" Young Mr. Daunt was near the door. He opened it for her. When Stewart passed, following the girl closely, the volunteer door-tender qualified as a good sport. He whispered, "Good luck, old man!" When Coventry closed the door he gave his sister a prolonged and pregnant stare of actual triumph. It was only a look, but he put into it more significance than sufficed for Doris's perspicacity. He had confided to his sister, the evening before, his hopeful reliance on a girl's heart. But the Lana Corson who came down the stairs, who confronted them, who had fearlessly chosen her mate before their hostile eyes, was a woman. And Coventry's gaze told his sister boastingly that he had made good in one respect--he had called the turn in his estimate of a woman. THE END 
5164	----	THE BEETLE: A MYSTERY BY RICHARD MARSH WITH FOUR ILLUSTRATIONS BY JOHN WILLIAMSON CONTENTS BOOK I The House with the Open Window CHAPTER I, OUTSIDE CHAPTER II, INSIDE CHAPTER III, THE MAN IN THE BED CHAPTER IV, A LONELY VIGIL CHAPTER V, AN INSTRUCTION TO COMMIT BURGLARY CHAPTER VI, A SINGULAR FELONY CHAPTER VII, THE GREAT PAUL LESSINGHAM CHAPTER VIII, THE MAN IN THE STREET CHAPTER IX, THE CONTENTS OF THE PACKET BOOK II The Haunted Man CHAPTER X, REJECTED CHAPTER XI, A MIDNIGHT EPISODE CHAPTER XII, A MORNING VISITOR CHAPTER XIII, THE PICTURE CHAPTER XIV, THE DUCHESS' BALL CHAPTER XV, MR LESSINGHAM SPEAKS CHAPTER XVI, ATHERTON'S MAGIC VAPOUR CHAPTER XVII, MAGIC?--OR MIRACLE? CHAPTER XVIII, THE APOTHEOSIS OF THE BEETLE CHAPTER XIX, THE LADY RAGES CHAPTER XX, A HEAVY FATHER CHAPTER XXI, THE TERROR IN THE NIGHT CHAPTER XXII, THE HAUNTED MAN BOOK III The Terror By Night and the Terror by Day CHAPTER XXIII, THE WAY HE TOLD HER CHAPTER XXIV, A WOMAN'S VIEW CHAPTER XXV, THE MAN IN THE STREET CHAPTER XXVI, A FATHER'S NO CHAPTER XXVII, THE TERROR BY NIGHT CHAPTER XXVIII, THE STRANGE STORY OF THE MAN IN THE STREET CHAPTER XXIX, THE HOUSE ON THE ROAD FROM THE WORKHOUSE CHAPTER XXX, THE SINGULAR BEHAVIOUR OF MR HOLT CHAPTER XXXI, THE TERROR BY DAY BOOK IV In Pursuit CHAPTER XXXII, A NEW CLIENT CHAPTER XXXIII, WHAT CAME OF LOOKING THROUGH A LATTICE CHAPTER XXXIV, AFTER TWENTY YEARS CHAPTER XXXV, A BRINGER OF TIDINGS CHAPTER XXXVI, WHAT THE TIDINGS WERE CHAPTER XXXVII, WHAT WAS HIDDEN UNDER THE FLOOR CHAPTER XXXVIII, THE REST OF THE FIND CHAPTER XXXIX, MISS LOUISA COLEMAN CHAPTER XL, WHAT MISS COLEMAN SAW THROUGH THE WINDOW CHAPTER XLI, THE CONSTABLE,--HIS CLUE,--AND THE CAB CHAPTER XLII, THE QUARRY DOUBLES CHAPTER XLIII, THE MURDER AT MRS 'ENDERSON'S CHAPTER XLIV, THE MAN WHO WAS MURDERED CHAPTER XLV, ALL THAT MRS 'ENDERSON KNEW CHAPTER XLVI, THE SUDDEN STOPPING CHAPTER XLVII, THE CONTENTS OF THE THIRD-CLASS CARRIAGE CHAPTER XLVIII, THE CONCLUSION OF THE MATTER BOOK I The House with the Open Window The Surprising Narration of Robert Holt CHAPTER I OUTSIDE 'No room!--Full up!' He banged the door in my face. That was the final blow. To have tramped about all day looking for work; to have begged even for a job which would give me money enough to buy a little food; and to have tramped and to have begged in vain,--that was bad. But, sick at heart, depressed in mind and in body, exhausted by hunger and fatigue, to have been compelled to pocket any little pride I might have left, and solicit, as the penniless, homeless tramp which indeed I was, a night's lodging in the casual ward,--and to solicit it in vain!--that was worse. Much worse. About as bad as bad could be. I stared, stupidly, at the door which had just been banged in my face. I could scarcely believe that the thing was possible. I had hardly expected to figure as a tramp; but, supposing it conceivable that I could become a tramp, that I should be refused admission to that abode of all ignominy, the tramp's ward, was to have attained a depth of misery of which never even in nightmares I had dreamed. As I stood wondering what I should do, a man slouched towards me out of the shadow of the wall. 'Won't 'e let yer in?' 'He says it's full.' 'Says it's full, does 'e? That's the lay at Fulham,--they always says it's full. They wants to keep the number down.' I looked at the man askance. His head hung forward; his hands were in his trouser pockets; his clothes were rags; his tone was husky. 'Do you mean that they say it's full when it isn't,--that they won't let me in although there's room?' 'That's it,--bloke's a-kiddin' yer.' 'But, if there's room, aren't they bound to let me in?' 'Course they are,--and, blimey, if I was you I'd make 'em. Blimey I would!' He broke into a volley of execrations. 'But what am I to do?' 'Why, give 'em another rouser--let 'em know as you won't be kidded!' I hesitated; then, acting on his suggestion, for the second time I rang the bell. The door was flung wide open, and the grizzled pauper, who had previously responded to my summons, stood in the open doorway. Had he been the Chairman of the Board of Guardians himself he could not have addressed me with greater scorn. 'What, here again! What's your little game? Think I've nothing better to do than to wait upon the likes of you?' 'I want to be admitted.' 'Then you won't be admitted!' 'I want to see someone in authority.' 'Ain't yer seein' someone in authority?' 'I want to see someone besides you,--I want to see the master.' 'Then you won't see the master!' He moved the door swiftly to; but, prepared for such a manoeuvre, I thrust my foot sufficiently inside to prevent his shutting it. I continued to address him. 'Are you sure that the ward is full?' 'Full two hours ago!' 'But what am I to do?' 'I don't know what you're to do!' 'Which is the next nearest workhouse?' 'Kensington.' Suddenly opening the door, as he answered me, putting out his arm he thrust me backwards. Before I could recover the door was closed. The man in rags had continued a grim spectator of the scene. Now he spoke. 'Nice bloke, ain't he?' 'He's only one of the paupers,--has he any right to act as one of the officials?' 'I tell yer some of them paupers is wuss than the orficers,--a long sight wuss! They thinks they owns the 'ouses, blimey they do. Oh it's a----fine world, this is!' He paused. I hesitated. For some time there had been a suspicion of rain in the air. Now it was commencing to fall in a fine but soaking drizzle. It only needed that to fill my cup to overflowing. My companion was regarding me with a sort of sullen curiosity. 'Ain't you got no money?' 'Not a farthing.' 'Done much of this sort of thing?' 'It's the first time I've been to a casual ward,--and it doesn't seem as if I'm going to get in now.' 'I thought you looked as if you was a bit fresh.--What are yer goin' to do?' 'How far is it to Kensington?' 'Work'us?--about three mile;--but, if I was you, I'd try St George's.' 'Where's that?' 'In the Fulham Road. Kensington's only a small place, they do you well there, and it's always full as soon as the door's opened;--you'd 'ave more chawnce at St George's.' He was silent. I turned his words over in my mind, feeling as little disposed to try the one place as the other. Presently he began again. 'I've travelled from Reading this----day, I 'ave,--tramped every----foot!--and all the way as I come along, I'll 'ave a shakedown at 'Ammersmith, I says,--and now I'm as fur off from it as ever! This is a----fine country, this is,--I wish every----soul in it was swept into the----sea, blimey I do! But I ain't goin' to go no further,--I'll 'ave a bed in 'Ammersmith or I'll know the reason why.' 'How are you going to manage it,--have you got any money?' 'Got any money?--My crikey!--I look as though I 'ad,--I sound as though I 'ad too! I ain't 'ad no brads, 'cept now and then a brown, this larst six months.' 'How are you going to get a bed then?' 'Ow am I going to?--why, like this way.' He picked up two stones, one in either hand. The one in his left he flung at the glass which was over the door of the casual ward. It crashed through it, and through the lamp beyond. 'That's 'ow I'm goin' to get a bed.' The door was hastily opened. The grizzled pauper reappeared. He shouted, as he peered at us in the darkness, 'Who done that?' 'I done it, guvnor,--and, if you like, you can see me do the other. It might do your eyesight good.' Before the grizzled pauper could interfere, he had hurled the stone in his right hand through another pane. I felt that it was time for me to go. He was earning a night's rest at a price which, even in my extremity, I was not disposed to pay. When I left two or three other persons had appeared upon the scene, and the man in rags was addressing them with a degree of frankness, which, in that direction, left little to be desired. I slunk away unnoticed. But had not gone far before I had almost decided that I might as well have thrown in my fortune with the bolder wretch, and smashed a window too. Indeed, more than once my feet faltered, as I all but returned to do the feat which I had left undone. A more miserable night for an out-of-door excursion I could hardly have chosen. The rain was like a mist, and was not only drenching me to the skin, but it was rendering it difficult to see more than a little distance in any direction. The neighbourhood was badly lighted. It was one in which I was a stranger, I had come to Hammersmith as a last resource. It had seemed to me that I had tried to find some occupation which would enable me to keep body and soul together in every other part of London, and that now only Hammersmith was left. And, at Hammersmith, even the workhouse would have none of me! Retreating from the inhospitable portal of the casual ward, I had taken the first turning to the left,--and, at the moment, had been glad to take it. In the darkness and the rain, the locality which I was entering appeared unfinished. I seemed to be leaving civilisation behind me. The path was unpaved; the road rough and uneven, as if it had never been properly made. Houses were few and far between. Those which I did encounter, seemed, in the imperfect light, amid the general desolation, to be cottages which were crumbling to decay. Exactly where I was I could not tell. I had a faint notion that, if I only kept on long enough, I should strike some part of Walham Green. How long I should have to keep on I could only guess. Not a creature seemed to be about of whom I could make inquiries. It was as if I was in a land of desolation. I suppose it was between eleven o'clock and midnight. I had not given up my quest for work till all the shops were closed,--and in Hammersmith, that night, at any rate, they were not early closers. Then I had lounged about dispiritedly, wondering what was the next thing I could do. It was only because I feared that if I attempted to spend the night in the open air, without food, when the morning came I should be broken up, and fit for nothing, that I sought a night's free board and lodging. It was really hunger which drove me to the workhouse door. That was Wednesday. Since the Sunday night preceding nothing had passed my lips save water from the public fountains,--with the exception of a crust of bread which a man had given me whom I had found crouching at the root of a tree in Holland Park. For three days I had been fasting,--practically all the time upon my feet. It seemed to me that if I had to go hungry till the morning I should collapse,--there would be an end. Yet, in that strange and inhospitable place, where was I to get food at that time of night, and how? I do not know how far I went. Every yard I covered, my feet dragged more. I was dead beat, inside and out. I had neither strength nor courage left. And within there was that frightful craving, which was as though it shrieked aloud. I leant against some palings, dazed and giddy. If only death had come upon me quickly, painlessly, how true a friend I should have thought it! It was the agony of dying inch by inch which was so hard to bear. It was some minutes before I could collect myself sufficiently to withdraw from the support of the railings, and to start afresh. I stumbled blindly over the uneven road. Once, like a drunken man, I lurched forward, and fell upon my knees. Such was my backboneless state that for some seconds I remained where I was, half disposed to let things slide, accept the good the gods had sent me, and make a night of it just there. A long night, I fancy, it would have been, stretching from time unto eternity. Having regained my feet, I had gone perhaps another couple of hundred yards along the road--Heaven knows that it seemed to me just then a couple of miles!--when there came over me again that overpowering giddiness which, I take it, was born of my agony of hunger. I staggered, helplessly, against a low wall which, just there, was at the side of the path. Without it I should have fallen in a heap. The attack appeared to last for hours; I suppose it was only seconds; and, when I came to myself, it was as though I had been aroused from a swoon of sleep,--aroused, to an extremity of pain. I exclaimed aloud, 'For a loaf of bread what wouldn't I do!' I looked about me, in a kind of frenzy. As I did so I for the first time became conscious that behind me was a house. It was not a large one. It was one of those so-called villas which are springing up in multitudes all round London, and which are let at rentals of from twenty-five to forty pounds a year. It was detached. So far as I could see, in the imperfect light, there was not another building within twenty or thirty yards of either side of it. It was in two storeys. There were three windows in the upper storey. Behind each the blinds were closely drawn. The hall door was on my right. It was approached by a little wooden gate. The house itself was so close to the public road that by leaning over the wall I could have touched either of the windows on the lower floor. There were two of them. One of them was a bow window. The bow window was open. The bottom centre sash was raised about six inches. CHAPTER II INSIDE I realised, and, so to speak, mentally photographed all the little details of the house in front of which I was standing with what almost amounted to a gleam of preternatural perception. An instant before, the world swam before my eyes. I saw nothing. Now I saw everything, with a clearness which, as it were, was shocking. Above all, I saw the open window. I stared at it, conscious, as I did so, of a curious catching of the breath. It was so near to me; so very near. I had but to stretch out my hand to thrust it through the aperture. Once inside, my hand would at least be dry. How it rained out there! My scanty clothing was soaked; I was wet to the skin! I was shivering. And, each second, it seemed to rain still faster. My teeth were chattering. The damp was liquefying the very marrow in my bones. And, inside that open window, it was, it must be, so warm, so dry! There was not a soul in sight. Not a human being anywhere near. I listened; there was not a sound. I alone was at the mercy of the sodden night. Of all God's creatures the only one unsheltered from the fountains of Heaven which He had opened. There was not one to see what I might do; not one to care. I need fear no spy. Perhaps the house was empty; nay, probably. It was my plain duty to knock at the door, rouse the inmates, and call attention to their oversight,--the open window. The least they could do would be to reward me for my pains. But, suppose the place was empty, what would be the use of knocking? It would be to make a useless clatter. Possibly to disturb the neighbourhood, for nothing. And, even if the people were at home, I might go unrewarded. I had learned, in a hard school, the world's ingratitude. To have caused the window to be closed--the inviting window, the tempting window, the convenient window!--and then to be no better for it after all, but still to be penniless, hopeless, hungry, out in the cold and the rain--better anything than that. In such a situation, too late, I should say to myself that mine had been the conduct of a fool. And I should say it justly too. To be sure. Leaning over the low wall I found that I could very easily put my hand inside the room. How warm it was in there! I could feel the difference of temperature in my fingertips. Very quietly I stepped right over the wall. There was just room to stand in comfort between the window and the wall. The ground felt to the foot as if it were cemented. Stooping down, I peered through the opening. I could see nothing. It was black as pitch inside. The blind was drawn right up; it seemed incredible that anyone could be at home, and have gone to bed, leaving the blind up, and the window open. I placed my ear to the crevice. How still it was! Beyond doubt, the place was empty. I decided to push the window up another inch or two, so as to enable me to reconnoitre. If anyone caught me in the act, then there would be an opportunity to describe the circumstances, and to explain how I was just on the point of giving the alarm. Only, I must go carefully. In such damp weather it was probable that the sash would creak. Not a bit of it. It moved as readily and as noiselessly as if it had been oiled. This silence of the sash so emboldened me that I raised it more than I intended. In fact, as far as it would go. Not by a sound did it betray me. Bending over the sill I put my head and half my body into the room. But I was no forwarder. I could see nothing. Not a thing. For all I could tell the room might be unfurnished. Indeed, the likelihood of such an explanation began to occur to me. I might have chanced upon an empty house. In the darkness there was nothing to suggest the contrary. What was I to do? Well, if the house was empty, in such a plight as mine I might be said to have a moral, if not a legal, right, to its bare shelter. Who, with a heart in his bosom, would deny it me? Hardly the most punctilious landlord. Raising myself by means of the sill I slipped my legs into the room. The moment I did so I became conscious that, at any rate, the room was not entirely unfurnished. The floor was carpeted. I have had my feet on some good carpets in my time; I know what carpets are; but never did I stand upon a softer one than that. It reminded me, somehow, even then, of the turf in Richmond Park,--it caressed my instep, and sprang beneath my tread. To my poor, travel-worn feet, it was luxury after the puddly, uneven road. Should I, now I had ascertained that--the room was, at least, partially furnished, beat a retreat? Or should I push my researches further? It would have been rapture to have thrown off my clothes, and to have sunk down, on the carpet, then and there, to sleep. But,--I was so hungry; so famine-goaded; what would I not have given to have lighted on something good to eat! I moved a step or two forward, gingerly, reaching out with my hands, lest I struck, unawares, against some unseen thing. When I had taken three or four such steps, without encountering an obstacle, or, indeed, anything at all, I began, all at once, to wish I had not seen the house; that I had passed it by; that I had not come through the window; that I were safely out of it again. I became, on a sudden, aware, that something was with me in the room. There was nothing, ostensible, to lead me to such a conviction; it may be that my faculties were unnaturally keen; but, all at once, I knew that there was something there. What was more, I had a horrible persuasion that, though unseeing, I was seen; that my every movement was being watched. What it was that was with me I could not tell; I could not even guess. It was as though something in my mental organisation had been stricken by a sudden paralysis. It may seem childish to use such language; but I was overwrought, played out; physically speaking, at my last counter; and, in an instant, without the slightest warning, I was conscious of a very curious sensation, the like of which I had never felt before, and the like of which I pray that I never may feel again,--a sensation of panic fear. I remained rooted to the spot on which I stood, not daring to move, fearing to draw my breath. I felt that the presence with me in the room was something strange, something evil. I do not know how long I stood there, spell-bound, but certainly for some considerable space of time. By degrees, as nothing moved, nothing was seen, nothing was heard, and nothing happened, I made an effort to better play the man. I knew that, at the moment, I played the cur. And endeavoured to ask myself of what it was I was afraid. I was shivering at my own imaginings. What could be in the room, to have suffered me to open the window and to enter unopposed? Whatever it was, was surely to the full as great a coward as I was, or why permit, unchecked, my burglarious entry. Since I had been allowed to enter, the probability was that I should be at liberty to retreat,--and I was sensible of a much keener desire to retreat than I had ever had to enter. I had to put the greatest amount of pressure upon myself before I could summon up sufficient courage to enable me to even turn my head upon my shoulders,--and the moment I did so I turned it back again. What constrained me, to save my soul I could not have said,--but I was constrained. My heart was palpitating in my bosom; I could hear it beat. I was trembling so that I could scarcely stand. I was overwhelmed by a fresh flood of terror. I stared in front of me with eyes in which, had it been light, would have been seen the frenzy of unreasoning fear. My ears were strained so that I listened with an acuteness of tension which was painful. Something moved. Slightly, with so slight a sound, that it would scarcely have been audible to other ears save mine. But I heard. I was looking in the direction from which the movement came, and, as I looked, I saw in front of me two specks of light. They had not been there a moment before, that I would swear. They were there now. They were eyes,--I told myself they were eyes. I had heard how cats' eyes gleam in the dark, though I had never seen them, and I said to myself that these were cats' eyes; that the thing in front of me was nothing but a cat. But I knew I lied. I knew that these were eyes, and I knew they were not cats' eyes, but what eyes they were I did not know,--nor dared to think. They moved,--towards me. The creature to which the eyes belonged was coming closer. So intense was my desire to fly that I would much rather have died than stood there still; yet I could not control a limb; my limbs were as if they were not mine. The eyes came on,--noiselessly. At first they were between two and three feet from the ground; but, on a sudden, there was a squelching sound, as if some yielding body had been squashed upon the floor. The eyes vanished,--to reappear, a moment afterwards, at what I judged to be a distance of some six inches from the floor. And they again came on. So it seemed that the creature, whatever it was to which the eyes belonged, was, after all, but small. Why I did not obey the frantic longing which I had to flee from it, I cannot tell; I only know, I could not. I take it that the stress and privations which I had lately undergone, and which I was, even then, still undergoing, had much to do with my conduct at that moment, and with the part I played in all that followed. Ordinarily I believe that I have as high a spirit as the average man, and as solid a resolution; but when one has been dragged through the Valley of Humiliation, and plunged, again and again, into the Waters of Bitterness and Privation, a man can be constrained to a course of action of which, in his happier moments, he would have deemed himself incapable. I know this of my own knowledge. Slowly the eyes came on, with a strange slowness, and as they came they moved from side to side as if their owner walked unevenly. Nothing could have exceeded the horror with which I awaited their approach,--except my incapacity to escape them. Not for an instant did my glance pass from them,--I could not have shut my eyes for all the gold the world contains!--so that as they came closer I had to look right down to what seemed to be almost the level of my feet. And, at last, they reached my feet. They never paused. On a sudden I felt something on my boot, and, with a sense of shrinking, horror, nausea, rendering me momentarily more helpless, I realised that the creature was beginning to ascend my legs, to climb my body. Even then what it was I could not tell,--it mounted me, apparently, with as much ease as if I had been horizontal instead of perpendicular. It was as though it were some gigantic spider,--a spider of the nightmares; a monstrous conception of some dreadful vision. It pressed lightly against my clothing with what might, for all the world, have been spider's legs. There was an amazing host of them,--I felt the pressure of each separate one. They embraced me softly, stickily, as if the creature glued and unglued them, each time it moved. Higher and higher! It had gained my loins. It was moving towards the pit of my stomach. The helplessness with which I suffered its invasion was not the least part of my agony,--it was that helplessness which we know in dreadful dreams. I understood, quite well, that if I did but give myself a hearty shake, the creature would fall off; but I had not a muscle at my command. As the creature mounted its eyes began to play the part of two small lamps; they positively emitted rays of light. By their rays I began to perceive faint outlines of its body. It seemed larger than I had supposed. Either the body itself was slightly phosphorescent, or it was of a peculiar yellow hue. It gleamed in the darkness. What it was there was still nothing to positively show, but the impression grew upon me that it was some member of the spider family, some monstrous member, of the like of which I had never heard or read. It was heavy, so heavy indeed, that I wondered how, with so slight a pressure, it managed to retain its hold,--that it did so by the aid of some adhesive substance at the end of its legs I was sure,--I could feel it stick. Its weight increased as it ascended,--and it smelt! I had been for some time aware that it emitted an unpleasant, foetid odour; as it neared my face it became so intense as to be unbearable. It was at my chest. I became more and more conscious of an uncomfortable wobbling motion, as if each time it breathed its body heaved. Its forelegs touched the bare skin about the base of my neck; they stuck to it,--shall I ever forget the feeling? I have it often in my dreams. While it hung on with those in front it seemed to draw its other legs up after it. It crawled up my neck, with hideous slowness, a quarter of an inch at a time, its weight compelling me to brace the muscles of my back. It reached my chin, it touched my lips,--and I stood still and bore it all, while it enveloped my face with its huge, slimy, evil-smelling body, and embraced me with its myriad legs. The horror of it made me mad. I shook myself like one stricken by the shaking ague. I shook the creature off. It squashed upon the floor. Shrieking like some lost spirit, turning, I dashed towards the window. As I went, my foot, catching in some obstacle, I fell headlong to the floor. Picking myself up as quickly as I could I resumed my flight,--rain or no rain, oh to get out of that room! I already had my hand upon the sill, in another instant I should have been over it,--then, despite my hunger, my fatigues, let anyone have stopped me if they could!--when someone behind me struck a light. CHAPTER III THE MAN IN THE BED The illumination which instantly followed was unexpected. It startled me, causing a moment's check, from which I was just recovering when a voice said, 'Keep still!' There was a quality in the voice which I cannot describe. Not only an accent of command, but a something malicious, a something saturnine. It was a little guttural, though whether it was a man speaking I could not have positively said; but I had no doubt it was a foreigner. It was the most disagreeable voice I had ever heard, and it had on me the most disagreeable effect; for when it said, 'Keep still!' I kept still. It was as though there was nothing else for me to do. 'Turn round!' I turned round, mechanically, like an automaton. Such passivity was worse than undignified, it was galling; I knew that well. I resented it with secret rage. But in that room, in that presence, I was invertebrate. When I turned I found myself confronting someone who was lying in bed. At the head of the bed was a shelf. On the shelf was a small lamp which gave the most brilliant light I had ever seen. It caught me full in the eyes, having on me such a blinding effect that for some seconds I could see nothing. Throughout the whole of that strange interview I cannot affirm that I saw clearly; the dazzling glare caused dancing specks to obscure my vision. Yet, after an interval of time, I did see something; and what I did see I had rather have left unseen. I saw someone in front of me lying in a bed. I could not at once decide if it was a man or a woman. Indeed at first I doubted if it was anything human. But, afterwards, I knew it to be a man,--for this reason, if for no other, that it was impossible such a creature could be feminine. The bedclothes were drawn up to his shoulders; only his head was visible. He lay on his left side, his head resting on his left hand; motionless, eyeing me as if he sought to read my inmost soul. And, in very truth, I believe he read it. His age I could not guess; such a look of age I had never imagined. Had he asserted that he had been living through the ages, I should have been forced to admit that, at least, he looked it. And yet I felt that it was quite within the range of possibility that he was no older than myself,--there was a vitality in his eyes which was startling. It might have been that he had been afflicted by some terrible disease, and it was that which had made him so supernaturally ugly. There was not a hair upon his face or head, but, to make up for it, the skin, which was a saffron yellow, was an amazing mass of wrinkles. The cranium, and, indeed, the whole skull, was so small as to be disagreeably suggestive of something animal. The nose, on the other hand, was abnormally large; so extravagant were its dimensions, and so peculiar its shape, it resembled the beak of some bird of prey. A characteristic of the face--and an uncomfortable one!--was that, practically, it stopped short at the mouth. The mouth, with its blubber lips, came immediately underneath the nose, and chin, to all intents and purposes, there was none. This deformity--for the absence of chin amounted to that--it was which gave to the face the appearance of something not human,--that, and the eyes. For so marked a feature of the man were his eyes, that, ere long, it seemed to me that he was nothing but eyes. His eyes ran, literally, across the whole of the upper portion of his face,--remember, the face was unwontedly small, and the columna of the nose was razor-edged. They were long, and they looked out of narrow windows, and they seemed to be lighted by some internal radiance, for they shone out like lamps in a lighthouse tower. Escape them I could not, while, as I endeavoured to meet them, it was as if I shrivelled into nothingness. Never before had I realised what was meant by the power of the eye. They held me enchained, helpless, spell-bound. I felt that they could do with me as they would; and they did. Their gaze was unfaltering, having the bird-like trick of never blinking; this man could have glared at me for hours and never moved an eyelid. It was he who broke the silence. I was speechless. 'Shut the window.' I did as he bade me. 'Pull down the blind.' I obeyed. 'Turn round again.' I was still obedient. 'What is your name?' Then I spoke,--to answer him. There was this odd thing about the words I uttered, that they came from me, not in response to my will power, but in response to his. It was not I who willed that I should speak; it was he. What he willed that I should say, I said. Just that, and nothing more. For the time I was no longer a man; my manhood was merged in his. I was, in the extremest sense, an example of passive obedience. 'Robert Holt.' 'What are you?' 'A clerk.' 'You look as if you were a clerk.' There was a flame of scorn in his voice which scorched me even then. 'What sort of a clerk are you?' 'I am out of a situation.' 'You look as if you were out of a situation.' Again the scorn. 'Are you the sort of clerk who is always out of a situation? You are a thief.' 'I am not a thief.' 'Do clerks come through the window?' I was still,--he putting no constraint on me to speak. 'Why did you come through the window?' 'Because it was open.' 'So!--Do you always come through a window which is open?' 'No.' 'Then why through this?' 'Because I was wet--and cold--and hungry--and tired.' The words came from me as if he had dragged them one by one,--which, in fact, he did. 'Have you no home?' 'No.' 'Money?' 'No.' 'Friends?' 'No.' 'Then what sort of a clerk are you?' I did not answer him,--I did not know what it was he wished me to say. I was the victim of bad luck, nothing else,--I swear it. Misfortune had followed hard upon misfortune. The firm by whom I had been employed for years suspended payment. I obtained a situation with one of their creditors, at a lower salary. They reduced their staff, which entailed my going. After an interval I obtained a temporary engagement; the occasion which required my services passed, and I with it. After another, and a longer interval, I again found temporary employment, the pay for which was but a pittance. When that was over I could find nothing. That was nine months ago, and since then I had not earned a penny. It is so easy to grow shabby, when you are on the everlasting tramp, and are living on your stock of clothes. I had trudged all over London in search of work,--work of any kind would have been welcome, so long as it would have enabled me to keep body and soul together. And I had trudged in vain. Now I had been refused admittance as a casual,--how easy is the descent! But I did not tell the man lying on the bed all this. He did not wish to hear,--had he wished he would have made me tell him. It may be that he read my story, unspoken though it was,--it is conceivable. His eyes had powers of penetration which were peculiarly their own,--that I know. 'Undress!' When he spoke again that was what he said, in those guttural tones of his in which there was a reminiscence of some foreign land. I obeyed, letting my sodden, shabby clothes fall anyhow upon the floor. A look came on his face, as I stood naked in front of him, which, if it was meant for a smile, was a satyr's smile, and which filled me with a sensation of shuddering repulsion. 'What a white skin you have,--how white! What would I not give for a skin as white as that,--ah yes!' He paused, devouring me with his glances; then continued. 'Go to the cupboard; you will find a cloak; put it on.' I went to a cupboard which was in a corner of the room, his eyes following me as I moved. It was full of clothing,--garments which might have formed the stock-in-trade of a costumier whose speciality was providing costumes for masquerades. A long dark cloak hung on a peg. My hand moved towards it, apparently of its own volition. I put it on, its ample folds falling to my feet. 'In the other cupboard you will find meat, and bread, and wine. Eat and drink.' On the opposite side of the room, near the head of his bed, there was a second cupboard. In this, upon a shelf, I found what looked like pressed beef, several round cakes of what tasted like rye bread, and some thin, sour wine, in a straw-covered flask. But I was in no mood to criticise; I crammed myself, I believe, like some famished wolf, he watching me, in silence, all the time. When I had done, which was when I had eaten and drunk as much as I could hold, there returned to his face that satyr's grin. 'I would that I could eat and drink like that,--ah yes!--Put back what is left.' I put it back,--which seemed an unnecessary exertion, there was so little to put. 'Look me in the face.' I looked him in the face,--and immediately became conscious, as I did so, that something was going from me,--the capacity, as it were, to be myself. His eyes grew larger and larger, till they seemed to fill all space--till I became lost in their immensity. He moved his hand, doing something to me, I know not what, as it passed through the air--cutting the solid ground from underneath my feet, so that I fell headlong to the ground. Where I fell, there I lay, like a log. And the light went out. CHAPTER IV A LONELY VIGIL I knew that the light went out. For not the least singular, nor, indeed, the least distressing part of my condition was the fact that, to the best of my knowledge and belief, I never once lost consciousness during the long hours which followed. I was aware of the extinction of the lamp, and of the black darkness which ensued. I heard a rustling sound, as if the man in the bed was settling himself between the sheets. Then all was still. And throughout that interminable night I remained, my brain awake, my body dead, waiting, watching, for the day. What had happened to me I could not guess. That I probably wore some of the external evidences of death my instinct told me,--I knew I did. Paradoxical though it may sound, I felt as a man might feel who had actually died,--as, in moments of speculation, in the days gone by, I had imagined it as quite possible that he would feel. It is very far from certain that feeling necessarily expires with what we call life. I continually asked myself if I could be dead,--the inquiry pressed itself on me with awful iteration. Does the body die, and the brain--the I, the ego--still live on? God only knows. But, then! the agony of the thought. The hours passed. By slow degrees, the silence was eclipsed. Sounds of traffic, of hurrying footsteps,--life!--were ushers of the morn. Outside the window sparrows twittered,--a cat mewed, a dog barked--there was the clatter of a milk can. Shafts of light stole past the blind, increasing in intensity. It still rained, now and again it pattered against the pane. The wind must have shifted, because, for the first time, there came, on a sudden, the clang of a distant clock striking the hour,--seven. Then, with the interval of a lifetime between each chiming, eight,--nine,--ten. So far, in the room itself there had not been a sound. When the clock had struck ten, as it seemed to me, years ago, there came a rustling noise, from the direction of the bed. Feet stepped upon the floor,--moving towards where I was lying. It was, of course, now broad day, and I, presently, perceived that a figure, clad in some queer coloured garment, was standing at my side, looking down at me. It stooped, then knelt. My only covering was unceremoniously thrown from off me, so that I lay there in my nakedness. Fingers prodded me then and there, as if I had been some beast ready for the butcher's stall. A face looked into mine, and, in front of me, were those dreadful eyes. Then, whether I was dead or living, I said to myself that this could be nothing human,--nothing fashioned in God's image could wear such a shape as that. Fingers were pressed into my cheeks, they were thrust into my mouth, they touched my staring eyes, shut my eyelids, then opened them again, and--horror of horrors!--the blubber lips were pressed to mine--the soul of something evil entered into me in the guise of a kiss. Then this travesty of manhood reascended to his feet, and said, whether speaking to me or to himself I could not tell, 'Dead!--dead!--as good as dead!--and better! We'll have him buried.' He moved away from me. I heard a door open and shut, and knew that he was gone. And he continued gone throughout the day. I had no actual knowledge of his issuing out into the street, but he must have done so, because the house appeared deserted. What had become of the dreadful creature of the night before I could not guess. My first fear was that he had left it behind him in the room with me,--it might be, as a sort of watchdog. But, as the minutes and the hours passed, and there was still no sign or sound of anything living, I concluded that, if the thing was there, it was, possibly, as helpless as myself, and that during its owner's absence, at any rate, I had nothing to fear from its too pressing attentions. That, with the exception of myself, the house held nothing human, I had strong presumptive proof more than once in the course of the day. Several times, both in the morning and the afternoon, people without endeavoured to attract the attention of whoever was within. Vehicles--probably tradesmen's carts--drew up in front, their stopping being followed by more or less assiduous assaults upon the knocker and the bell. But in every case their appeals remained unheeded. Whatever it was they wanted, they had to go unsatisfied away. Lying there, torpid, with nothing to do but listen, I was, possibly, struck by very little, but it did occur to me that one among the callers was more persistent than the rest. The distant clock had just struck noon when I heard the gate open, and someone approached the front door. Since nothing but silence followed, I supposed that the occupant of the place had returned, and had chosen to do so as silently as he had gone. Presently, however, there came from the doorstep a slight but peculiar call, as if a rat was squeaking. It was repeated three times, and then there was the sound of footsteps quietly retreating, and the gate re-closing. Between one and two the caller came again; there was a repetition of the same signal,--that it was a signal I did not doubt; followed by the same retreat. About three the mysterious visitant returned. The signal was repeated, and, when there was no response, fingers tapped softly against the panels of the front door. When there was still no answer, footsteps stole softly round the side of the house, and there came the signal from the rear,--and then, again, tapping of fingers against what was, apparently, the back door. No notice being taken of these various proceedings, the footsteps returned the way they went, and, as before, the gate was closed. Shortly after darkness had fallen this assiduous caller returned, to make a fourth and more resolute attempt to call attention to his presence. From the peculiar character of his manoeuvres it seemed that he suspected that whoever was within had particular reasons for ignoring him without. He went through the familiar pantomime of the three squeaky calls both at the front door and the back,--followed by the tapping of the fingers on the panels. This time, however, he also tried the window panes,--I could hear, quite distinctly, the clear, yet distinct, noise of what seemed like knuckles rapping against the windows behind. Disappointed there, he renewed his efforts at the front. The curiously quiet footsteps came round the house, to pause before the window of the room in which I lay,--and then something singular occurred. While I waited for the tapping, there came, instead, the sound of someone or something, scrambling on to the window-sill,--as if some creature, unable to reach the window from the ground, was endeavouring to gain the vantage of the sill. Some ungainly creature, unskilled in surmounting such an obstacle as a perpendicular brick wall. There was the noise of what seemed to be the scratching of claws, as if it experienced considerable difficulty in obtaining a hold on the unyielding surface. What kind of creature it was I could not think,--I was astonished to find that it was a creature at all. I had taken it for granted that the persevering visitor was either a woman or a man. If, however, as now seemed likely, it was some sort of animal, the fact explained the squeaking sounds,--though what, except a rat, did squeak like that was more than I could say--and the absence of any knocking or ringing. Whatever it was, it had gained the summit of its desires,--the window-sill. It panted as if its efforts at climbing had made it short of breath. Then began the tapping. In the light of my new discovery, I perceived, clearly enough, that the tapping was hardly that which was likely to be the product of human fingers,--it was sharp and definite, rather resembling the striking of the point of a nail against the glass. It was not loud, but in time--it continued with much persistency--it became plainly vicious. It was accompanied by what I can only describe as the most extraordinary noises. There were squeaks, growing angrier and shriller as the minutes passed; what seemed like gaspings for breath; and a peculiar buzzing sound like, yet unlike, the purring of a cat. The creature's resentment at its want of success in attracting attention was unmistakable. The tapping became like the clattering of hailstones; it kept up a continuous noise with its cries and pantings; there was the sound as of some large body being rubbed against the glass, as if it were extending itself against the window, and endeavouring, by force of pressure, to gain an entrance through the pane. So violent did its contortions become that I momentarily anticipated the yielding of the glass, and the excited assailant coming crashing through. Considerably to my relief the window proved more impregnable than seemed at one time likely. The stolid resistance proved, in the end, to be too much either for its endurance or its patience. Just as I was looking for some fresh manifestation of fury, it seemed rather to tumble than to spring off the sill; then came, once more, the same sound of quietly retreating footsteps; and what, under the circumstances, seemed odder still, the same closing of the gate. During the two or three hours which immediately ensued nothing happened at all out of the way,--and then took place the most surprising incident of all. The clock had struck ten some time before. Since before the striking of the hour nothing and no one had passed along what was evidently the little frequented road in front of that uncanny house. On a sudden two sounds broke the stillness without,--of someone running, and of cries. Judging from his hurrying steps someone seemed to be flying for his life,--to the accompaniment of curious cries. It was only when the runner reached the front of the house that, in the cries, I recognised the squeaks of the persistent caller. I imagined that he had returned, as before, alone, to renew his attacks upon the window,--until it was made plain, as it quickly was, that, with him, was some sort of a companion. Immediately there arose, from without, the noise of battle. Two creatures, whose cries were, to me, of so unusual a character, that I found it impossible to even guess at their identity, seemed to be waging war to the knife upon the doorstep. After a minute or two of furious contention, victory seemed to rest with one of the combatants, for the other fled, squeaking as with pain. While I listened, with strained attention, for the next episode in this queer drama, expecting that now would come another assault upon the window, to my unbounded surprise I heard a key thrust in the keyhole, the lock turned, and the front door thrown open with a furious bang. It was closed as loudly as it was opened. Then the door of the room in which I was, was dashed open, with the same display of excitement, and of clamour, footsteps came hurrying in, the door was slammed to with a force which shook the house to its foundations, there was a rustling as of bed-clothes, the brilliant illumination of the night before, and a voice, which I had only too good reason to remember said, 'Stand up.' I stood up, automatically, at the word of command, facing towards the bed. There, between the sheets, with his head resting on his hand, in the attitude in which I had seen him last, was the being I had made acquaintance with under circumstances which I was never likely to forget,--the same, yet not the same. CHAPTER V AN INSTRUCTION TO COMMIT BURGLARY That the man in the bed was the one whom, to my cost, I had suffered myself to stumble on the night before, there could, of course, not be the faintest doubt. And yet, directly I saw him, I recognised that some astonishing alteration had taken place in his appearance. To begin with, he seemed younger,--the decrepitude of age had given place to something very like the fire of youth. His features had undergone some subtle change. His nose, for instance, was not by any means so grotesque; its beak-like quality was less conspicuous. The most part of his wrinkles had disappeared, as if by magic. And, though his skin was still as yellow as saffron, his contours had rounded,--he had even come into possession of a modest allowance of chin. But the most astounding novelty was that about the face there was something which was essentially feminine; so feminine, indeed, that I wondered if I could by any possibility have blundered, and mistaken a woman for a man; some ghoulish example of her sex, who had so yielded to her depraved instincts as to have become nothing but a ghastly reminiscence of womanhood. The effect of the changes which had come about in his appearance--for, after all, I told myself that it was impossible that I could have been such a simpleton as to have been mistaken on such a question as gender--was heightened by the self-evident fact that, very recently, he had been engaged in some pitched battle; some hand to hand, and, probably, discreditable encounter, from which he had borne away uncomfortable proofs of his opponent's prowess. His antagonist could hardly have been a chivalrous fighter, for his countenance was marked by a dozen different scratches which seemed to suggest that the weapons used had been someone's finger-nails. It was, perhaps, because the heat of the battle was still in his veins that he was in such a state of excitement. He seemed to be almost overwhelmed by the strength of his own feelings. His eyes seemed literally to flame with fire. The muscles of his face were working as if they were wholly beyond his own control. When he spoke his accent was markedly foreign; the words rushed from his lips in an inarticulate torrent; he kept repeating the same thing over and over again in a fashion which was not a little suggestive of insanity. 'So you're not dead!--you're not dead:--you're alive!--you're alive! Well,--how does it feel to be dead? I ask you!--Is it not good to be dead? To keep dead is better,--it is the best of all! To have made an end of all things, to cease to strive and to cease to weep, to cease to want and to cease to have, to cease to annoy and to cease to long, to no more care,--no!--not for anything, to put from you the curse of life,--forever!--is that not the best? Oh yes!--I tell you!--do I not know? But for you such knowledge is not yet. For you there is the return to life, the coming out of death,--you shall live on!--for me!--Live on!' He made a movement with his hand, and, directly he did so, it happened as on the previous evening, that a metamorphosis took place in the very abysses of my being. I woke from my torpor, as he put it, I came out of death, and was alive again. I was far, yet, from being my own man; I realised that he exercised on me a degree of mesmeric force which I had never dreamed that one creature could exercise on another; but, at least, I was no longer in doubt as to whether I was or was not dead. I knew I was alive. He lay, watching me, as if he was reading the thoughts which occupied my brain,--and, for all I know, he was. 'Robert Holt, you are a thief.' 'I am not.' My own voice, as I heard it, startled me,--it was so long since it had sounded in my ears. 'You are a thief! Only thieves come through windows,--did you not come through the window?' I was still,--what would my contradiction have availed me? 'But it is well that you came through the window,--well you are a thief,--well for me! for me! It is you that I am wanting,--at the happy moment you have dropped yourself into my hands,--in the nick of time. For you are my slave,--at my beck and call,--my familiar spirit, to do with as I will,--you know this,--eh?' I did know it, and the knowledge of my impotence was terrible. I felt that if I could only get away from him; only release myself from the bonds with which he had bound me about; only remove myself from the horrible glamour of his near neighbourhood; only get one or two square meals and have an opportunity of recovering from the enervating stress of mental and bodily fatigue;--I felt that then I might be something like his match, and that, a second time, he would endeavour in vain to bring me within the compass of his magic. But, as it was, I was conscious that I was helpless, and the consciousness was agony. He persisted in reiterating his former falsehood. 'I say you are a thief!--a thief, Robert Holt, a thief! You came through a window for your own pleasure, now you will go through a window for mine,--not this window, but another.' Where the jest lay I did not perceive; but it tickled him, for a grating sound came from his throat which was meant for laughter. 'This time it is as a thief that you will go,--oh yes, be sure.' He paused, as it seemed, to transfix me with his gaze. His unblinking eyes never for an instant quitted my face. With what a frightful fascination they constrained me,--and how I loathed them! When he spoke again there was a new intonation in his speech,--something bitter, cruel, unrelenting. 'Do you know Paul Lessingham?' He pronounced the name as if he hated it,--and yet as if he loved to have it on his tongue. 'What Paul Lessingham?' 'There is only one Paul Lessingham! THE Paul Lessingham,--the GREAT Paul Lessingham!' He shrieked, rather than said this, with an outburst of rage so frenzied that I thought, for the moment, that he was going to spring on me and rend me. I shook all over. I do not doubt that, as I replied, my voice was sufficiently tremulous. 'All the world knows Paul Lessingham,--the politician,--the statesman.' As he glared at me his eyes dilated. I still stood in expectation of a physical assault. But, for the present, he contented himself with words. 'To-night you are going through his window like a thief!' I had no inkling of his meaning,--and, apparently, judging from his next words, I looked something of the bewilderment I felt. 'You do not understand?--no!--it is simple!--what could be simpler? I say that to-night--to-night!--you are going through his window like a thief. You came through my window,--why not through the window of Paul Lessingham, the politician--the statesman.' He repeated my words as if in mockery. I am--I make it my boast!--of that great multitude which regards Paul Lessingham as the greatest living force in practical politics; and which looks to him, with confidence, to carry through that great work of constitutional and social reform which he has set himself to do. I daresay that my tone, in speaking of him, savoured of laudation,--which, plainly, the man in the bed resented. What he meant by his wild words about my going through Paul Lessingham's window like a thief, I still had not the faintest notion. They sounded like the ravings of a madman. As I continued silent, and he yet stared, there came into his tone another note,--a note of tenderness,--a note of which I had not deemed him capable. 'He is good to look at, Paul Lessingham,--is he not good to look at?' I was aware that, physically, Mr Lessingham was a fine specimen of manhood, but I was not prepared for the assertion of the fact in such a quarter,--nor for the manner in which the temporary master of my fate continued to harp and enlarge upon the theme. 'He is straight,--straight as the mast of a ship,--he is tall,--his skin is white; he is strong--do I not know that he is strong--how strong!--oh yes! Is there a better thing than to be his wife? his well-beloved? the light of his eyes? Is there for a woman a happier chance? Oh no, not one! His wife!--Paul Lessingham!' As, with soft cadences, he gave vent to these unlooked-for sentiments, the fashion of his countenance was changed. A look of longing came into his face--of savage, frantic longing--which, unalluring though it was, for the moment transfigured him. But the mood was transient. 'To be his wife,--oh yes!--the wife of his scorn! the despised and rejected!' The return to the venom of his former bitterness was rapid,--I could not but feel that this was the natural man. Though why a creature such as he was should go out of his way to apostrophise, in such a manner, a publicist of Mr Lessingham's eminence, surpassed my comprehension. Yet he stuck to his subject like a leech,--as if it had been one in which he had an engrossing personal interest. 'He is a devil,--hard as the granite rock,--cold as the snows of Ararat. In him there is none of life's warm blood,--he is accursed! He is false,--ay, false as the fables of those who lie for love of lies,--he is all treachery. Her whom he has taken to his bosom he would put away from him as if she had never been,--he would steal from her like a thief in the night,--he would forget she ever was! But the avenger follows after, lurking in the shadows, hiding among the rocks, waiting, watching, till his time shall come. And it shall come!--the day of the avenger!--ay, the day!' Raising himself to a sitting posture, he threw his arms above his head, and shrieked with a demoniac fury. Presently he became a trifle calmer. Reverting to his recumbent position, resting his head upon his hand, he eyed me steadily; then asked me a question which struck me as being, under the circumstances, more than a little singular. 'You know his house,--the house of the great Paul Lessingham,--the politician,--the statesman?' 'I do not.' 'You lie!--you do!' The words came from him with a sort of snarl,--as if he would have lashed me across the face with them. 'I do not. Men in my position are not acquainted with the residences of men in his. I may, at some time, have seen his address in print; but, if so, I have forgotten it.' He looked at me intently, for some moments, as if to learn if I spoke the truth; and apparently, at last, was satisfied that I did. 'You do not know it?--Well!--I will show it you,--I will show the house of the great Paul Lessingham.' What he meant I did not know; but I was soon to learn,--an astounding revelation it proved to be. There was about his manner something hardly human; something which, for want of a better phrase, I would call vulpine. In his tone there was a mixture of mockery and bitterness, as if he wished his words to have the effect of corrosive sublimate, and to sear me as he uttered them. 'Listen with all your ears. Give me your whole attention. Hearken to my bidding, so that you may do as I bid you. Not that I fear your obedience,--oh no!' He paused,--as if to enable me to fully realise the picture of my helplessness conjured up by his jibes. 'You came through my window, like a thief. You will go through my window, like a fool. You will go to the house of the great Paul Lessingham. You say you do not know it? Well, I will show it you. I will be your guide. Unseen, in the darkness and the night, I will stalk beside you, and will lead you to where I would have you go.--You will go just as you are, with bare feet, and head uncovered, and with but a single garment to hide your nakedness. You will be cold, your feet will be cut and bleeding,--but what better does a thief deserve? If any see you, at the least they will take you for a madman; there will be trouble. But have no fear; bear a bold heart. None shall see you while I stalk at your side. I will cover you with the cloak of invisibility,--so that you may come in safety to the house of the great Paul Lessingham.' He paused again. What he said, wild and wanton though it was, was beginning to fill me with a sense of the most extreme discomfort. His sentences, in some strange, indescribable way, seemed, as they came from his lips, to warp my limbs; to enwrap themselves about me; to confine me, tighter and tighter, within, as it were, swaddling clothes; to make me more and more helpless. I was already conscious that whatever mad freak he chose to set me on, I should have no option but to carry it through. 'When you come to the house, you will stand, and look, and seek for a window convenient for entry. It may be that you will find one open, as you did mine; if not, you will open one. How,--that is your affair, not mine. You will practise the arts of a thief to steal into his house.' The monstrosity of his suggestion fought against the spell which he again was casting upon me, and forced me into speech,--endowed me with the power to show that there still was in me something of a man; though every second the strands of my manhood, as it seemed, were slipping faster through the fingers which were strained to clutch them. 'I will not.' He was silent. He looked at me. The pupils of his eyes dilated,--until they seemed all pupil. 'You will.--Do you hear?--I say you will.' 'I am not a thief, I am an honest man,--why should I do this thing?' 'Because I bid you.' 'Have mercy!' 'On whom--on you, or on Paul Lessingham?--Who, at any time, has shown mercy unto me, that I should show mercy unto any?' He stopped, and then again went on,--reiterating his former incredible suggestion with an emphasis which seemed to eat its way into my brain. 'You will practise the arts of a thief to steal into his house; and, being in, will listen. If all be still, you will make your way to the room he calls his study.' 'How shall I find it? I know nothing of his house.' The question was wrung from me; I felt that the sweat was standing in great drops upon my brow. 'I will show it you.' 'Shall you go with me?' 'Ay,--I shall go with you. All the time I shall be with you. You will not see me, but I shall be there. Be not afraid.' His claim to supernatural powers, for what he said amounted to nothing less, was, on the face of it, preposterous, but, then, I was in no condition to even hint at its absurdity. He continued. 'When you have gained the study, you will go to a certain drawer, which is in a certain bureau, in a corner of the room--I see it now; when you are there you shall see it too--and you will open it.' 'Should it be locked?' 'You still will open it.' 'But how shall I open it if it is locked?' 'By those arts in which a thief is skilled. I say to you again that that is your affair, not mine.' I made no attempt to answer him. Even supposing that he forced me, by the wicked, and unconscionable exercise of what, I presumed, were the hypnotic powers with which nature had to such a dangerous degree endowed him, to carry the adventure to a certain stage, since he could hardly, at an instant's notice, endow me with the knack of picking locks, should the drawer he alluded to be locked--which might Providence permit!--nothing serious might issue from it after all. He read my thoughts. 'You will open it,--though it be doubly and trebly locked, I say that you will open it.--In it you will find--' he hesitated, as if to reflect--'some letters; it may be two or three,--I know not just how many,--they are bound about by a silken ribbon. You will take them out of the drawer, and, having taken them, you will make the best of your way out of the house, and bear them back to me.' 'And should anyone come upon me while engaged in these nefarious proceedings,--for instance, should I encounter Mr Lessingham himself, what then?' 'Paul Lessingham?--You need have no fear if you encounter him.' 'I need have no fear!--If he finds me, in his own house, at dead of night, committing burglary!' 'You need have no fear of him.' 'On your account, or on my own?--At least he will have me haled to gaol.' 'I say you need have no fear of him. I say what I mean.' 'How, then, shall I escape his righteous vengeance? He is not the man to suffer a midnight robber to escape him scatheless,--shall I have to kill him?' 'You will not touch him with a finger,--nor will he touch you.' 'By what spell shall I prevent him?' 'By the spell of two words.' 'What words are they?' 'Should Paul Lessingham chance to come upon you, and find you in his house, a thief, and should seek to stay you from whatever it is you may be at, you will not flinch nor flee from him, but you will stand still, and you will say--' Something in the crescendo accents of his voice, something weird and ominous, caused my heart to press against my ribs, so that when he stopped, in my eagerness I cried out, 'What?' 'THE BEETLE!' As the words came from him in a kind of screech, the lamp went out, and the place was all in darkness, and I knew, so that the knowledge filled me with a sense of loathing, that with me, in the room, was the evil presence of the night before. Two bright specks gleamed in front of me; something flopped from off the bed on to the ground; the thing was coming towards me across the floor. It came slowly on, and on, and on. I stood still, speechless in the sickness of my horror. Until, on my bare feet, it touched me with slimy feelers, and my terror lest it should creep up my naked body lent me voice, and I fell shrieking like a soul in agony. It may be that my shrieking drove it from me. At least, it went. I knew it went. And all was still. Until, on a sudden, the lamp flamed out again, and there, lying, as before, in bed, glaring at me with his baleful eyes, was the being whom, in my folly, or in my wisdom,--whichever it was!--I was beginning to credit with the possession of unhallowed, unlawful powers. 'You will say that to him; those two words; they only; no more. And you will see what you will see. But Paul Lessingham is a man of resolution. Should he still persist in interference, or seek to hinder you, you will say those two words again. You need do no more. Twice will suffice, I promise you.--Now go.--Draw up the blind; open the window; climb through it. Hasten to do what I have bidden you. I wait here for your return,--and all the way I shall be with you.' CHAPTER VI A SINGULAR FELONY I went to the window; I drew up the blind, unlatching the sash, I threw it open; and clad, or, rather, unclad as I was, I clambered through it into the open air. I was not only incapable of resistance, I was incapable of distinctly formulating the desire to offer resistance. Some compelling influence moved me hither and hither, with completest disregard of whether I would or would not. And yet, when I found myself without, I was conscious of a sense of exultation at having escaped from the miasmic atmosphere of that room of unholy memories. And a faint hope began to dawn within my bosom that, as I increased the distance between myself and it, I might shake off something of the nightmare helplessness which numbed and tortured me. I lingered for a moment by the window; then stepped over the short dividing wall into the street; and then again I lingered. My condition was one of dual personality,--while, physically, I was bound, mentally, to a considerable extent, I was free. But this measure of freedom on my mental side made my plight no better. For, among other things, I realised what a ridiculous figure I must be cutting, barefooted and bareheaded, abroad, at such an hour of the night, in such a boisterous breeze,--for I quickly discovered that the wind amounted to something like a gale. Apart from all other considerations, the notion of parading the streets in such a condition filled me with profound disgust. And I do believe that if my tyrannical oppressor had only permitted me to attire myself in my own garments, I should have started with a comparatively light heart on the felonious mission on which he apparently was sending me. I believe, too, that the consciousness of the incongruity of my attire increased my sense of helplessness, and that, had I been dressed as Englishmen are wont to be, who take their walks abroad, he would not have found in me, on that occasion, the facile instrument which, in fact, he did. There was a moment, in which the gravelled pathway first made itself known to my naked feet, and the cutting wind to my naked flesh, when I think it possible that, had I gritted my teeth, and strained my every nerve, I might have shaken myself free from the bonds which shackled me, and bade defiance to the ancient sinner who, for all I knew, was peeping at me through the window. But so depressed was I by the knowledge of the ridiculous appearance I presented that, before I could take advantage of it the moment passed,--not to return again that night. I did catch, as it were, at its fringe, as it was flying past me, making a hurried movement to one side,--the first I had made, of my own initiative, for hours. But it was too late. My tormentor,--as if, though unseen, he saw--tightened his grip, I was whirled round, and sped hastily onwards in a direction in which I certainly had no desire of travelling. All the way I never met a soul. I have since wondered whether in that respect my experience was not a normal one; whether it might not have happened to any. If so, there are streets in London, long lines of streets, which, at a certain period of the night, in a certain sort of weather--probably the weather had something to do with it--are clean deserted; in which there is neither foot-passenger nor vehicle,--not even a policeman. The greater part of the route along which I was driven--I know no juster word--was one with which I had some sort of acquaintance. It led, at first, through what, I take it, was some part of Walham Green; then along the Lillie Road, through Brompton, across the Fulham Road, through the network of streets leading to Sloane Street, across Sloane Street into Lowndes Square. Who goes that way goes some distance, and goes through some important thorough fares; yet not a creature did I see, nor, I imagine, was there a creature who saw me. As I crossed Sloane Street, I fancied that I heard the distant rumbling of a vehicle along the Knightsbridge Road, but that was the only sound I heard. It is painful even to recollect the plight in which I was when I was stopped,--for stopped I was, as shortly and as sharply, as the beast of burden, with a bridle in its mouth, whose driver puts a period to his career. I was wet,--intermittent gusts of rain were borne on the scurrying wind; in spite of the pace at which I had been brought, I was chilled to the bone; and--worst of all!--my mud-stained feet, all cut and bleeding, were so painful--for, unfortunately, I was still susceptible enough to pain--that it was agony to have them come into contact with the cold and the slime of the hard, unyielding pavement. I had been stopped on the opposite side of the square,--that nearest to the hospital; in front of a house which struck me as being somewhat smaller than the rest. It was a house with a portico; about the pillars of this portico was trelliswork, and on the trelliswork was trained some climbing plant. As I stood, shivering, wondering what would happen next, some strange impulse mastered me, and, immediately, to my own unbounded amazement, I found myself scrambling up the trellis towards the verandah above. I am no gymnast, either by nature or by education; I doubt whether, previously, I had ever attempted to climb anything more difficult than a step ladder. The result was, that, though the impulse might be given me, the skill could not, and I had only ascended a yard or so when, losing my footing, I came slithering down upon my back. Bruised and shaken though I was, I was not allowed to inquire into my injuries. In a moment I was on my feet again, and again I was impelled to climb,--only, however, again to come to grief. This time the demon, or whatever it was, that had entered into me, seeming to appreciate the impossibility of getting me to the top of that verandah, directed me to try another way. I mounted the steps leading to the front door, got on to the low parapet which was at one side, thence on to the sill of the adjacent window,--had I slipped then I should have fallen a sheer descent of at least twenty feet to the bottom of the deep area down below. But the sill was broad, and--if it is proper to use such language in connection with a transaction of the sort in which I was engaged--fortune favoured me. I did not fall. In my clenched fist I had a stone. With this I struck the pane of glass, as with a hammer. Through the hole which resulted, I could just insert my hand, and reach the latch within. In another minute the sash was raised, and I was in the house,--I had committed burglary. As I look back and reflect upon the audacity of the whole proceeding, even now I tremble. Hapless slave of another's will although in very truth I was, I cannot repeat too often that I realised to the full just what it was that I was being compelled to do--a fact which was very far from rendering my situation less distressful!--and every detail of my involuntary actions was projected upon my brain in a series of pictures, whose clear-cut outlines, so long as memory endures, will never fade. Certainly no professional burglar, nor, indeed, any creature in his senses, would have ventured to emulate my surprising rashness. The process of smashing the pane of glass--it was plate glass--was anything but a noiseless one. There was, first, the blow itself, then the shivering of the glass, then the clattering of fragments into the area beneath. One would have thought that the whole thing would have made din enough to have roused the Seven Sleepers. But, here, again the weather was on my side. About that time the wind was howling wildly,--it came shrieking across the square. It is possible that the tumult which it made deadened all other sounds. Anyhow, as I stood within the room which I had violated, listening for signs of someone being on the alert, I could hear nothing. Within the house there seemed to be the silence of the grave. I drew down the window, and made for the door. It proved by no means easy to find. The windows were obscured by heavy curtains, so that the room inside was dark as pitch. It appeared to be unusually full of furniture,--an appearance due, perhaps, to my being a stranger in the midst of such Cimmerian blackness. I had to feel my way, very gingerly indeed, among the various impedimenta. As it was I seemed to come into contact with most of the obstacles there were to come into contact with, stumbling more than once over footstools, and over what seemed to be dwarf chairs. It was a miracle that my movements still continued to be unheard,--but I believe that the explanation was, that the house was well built; that the servants were the only persons in it at the time; that their bedrooms were on the top floor; that they were fast asleep; and that they were little likely to be disturbed by anything that might occur in the room which I had entered. Reaching the door at last, I opened it,--listening for any promise of being interrupted--and--to adapt a hackneyed phrase--directed by the power which shaped my end, I went across the hall and up the stairs. I passed up the first landing, and, on the second, moved to a door upon the right. I turned the handle, it yielded, the door opened, I entered, closing it behind me. I went to the wall just inside the door, found a handle, jerked it, and switched on the electric light,--doing, I make no doubt, all these things, from a spectator's point of view, so naturally, that a judge and jury would have been with difficulty persuaded that they were not the product of my own volition. In the brilliant glow of the electric light I took a leisurely survey of the contents of the room. It was, as the man in the bed had said it would be, a study,--a fine, spacious apartment, evidently intended rather for work than for show. There were three separate writing-tables, one very large and two smaller ones, all covered with an orderly array of manuscripts and papers. A typewriter stood at the side of one. On the floor, under and about them, were piles of books, portfolios, and official-looking documents. Every available foot of wall space on three sides of the room was lined with shelves, full as they could hold with books. On the fourth side, facing the door, was a large lock-up oak bookcase, and, in the farther corner, a quaint old bureau. So soon as I saw this bureau I went for it, straight as an arrow from a bow,--indeed, it would be no abuse of metaphor to say that I was propelled towards it like an arrow from a bow. It had drawers below, glass doors above, and between the drawers and the doors was a flap to let down. It was to this flap my attention was directed. I put out my hand to open it; it was locked at the top. I pulled at it with both hands; it refused to budge. So this was the lock I was, if necessary, to practise the arts of a thief to open. I was no picklock; I had flattered myself that nothing, and no one, could make me such a thing. Yet now that I found myself confronted by that unyielding flap, I found that pressure, irresistible pressure, was being put upon me to gain, by any and every means, access to its interior. I had no option but to yield. I looked about me in search of some convenient tool with which to ply the felon's trade. I found it close beside me. Leaning against the wall, within a yard of where I stood, were examples of various kinds of weapons,--among them, spear-heads. Taking one of these spear-heads, with much difficulty I forced the point between the flap and the bureau. Using the leverage thus obtained, I attempted to prise it open. The flap held fast; the spear-head snapped in two. I tried another, with the same result; a third, to fail again. There were no more. The most convenient thing remaining was a queer, heavy-headed, sharp-edged hatchet. This I took, brought the sharp edge down with all my force upon the refractory flap. The hatchet went through,--before I had done with it, it was open with a vengeance. But I was destined on the occasion of my first--and, I trust, last--experience of the burglar's calling, to carry the part completely through. I had gained access to the flap itself only to find that at the back were several small drawers, on one of which my observation was brought to bear in a fashion which it was quite impossible to disregard. As a matter of course it was locked, and, once more, I had to search for something which would serve as a rough-and-ready substitute for the missing key. There was nothing at all suitable among the weapons,--I could hardly for such a purpose use the hatchet; the drawer in question was such a little one that to have done so would have been to shiver it to splinters. On the mantelshelf, in an open leather case, were a pair of revolvers. Statesmen, nowadays, sometimes stand in actual peril of their lives. It is possible that Mr Lessingham, conscious of continually threatened danger, carried them about with him as a necessary protection. They were serviceable weapons, large, and somewhat weighty,--of the type with which, I believe, upon occasion the police are armed. Not only were all the barrels loaded, but, in the case itself there was a supply of cartridges more than sufficient to charge them all again. I was handling the weapons, wondering--if, in my condition, the word was applicable--what use I could make of them to enable me to gain admission to that drawer, when there came, on a sudden, from the street without, the sound of approaching wheels. There was a whirring within my brain, as if someone was endeavouring to explain to me to what service to apply the revolvers, and I, perforce, strained every nerve to grasp the meaning of my invisible mentor. While I did so, the wheels drew rapidly nearer, and, just as I was expecting them to go whirling by, stopped,--in front of the house. My heart leapt in my bosom. In a convulsion of frantic terror, again, during the passage of one frenzied moment, I all but burst the bonds that held me, and fled, haphazard, from the imminent peril. But the bonds were stronger than I,--it was as if I had been rooted to the ground. A key was inserted in the keyhole of the front door, the lock was turned, the door thrown open, firm footsteps entered the house. If I could I would not have stood upon the order of my going, but gone at once, anywhere, anyhow; but, at that moment, my comings and goings were not matters in which I was consulted. Panic fear raging within, outwardly I was calm as possible, and stood, turning the revolvers over and over, asking myself what it could be that I was intended to do with them. All at once it came to me in an illuminating flash,--I was to fire at the lock of the drawer, and blow it open. A madder scheme it would have been impossible to hit upon. The servants had slept through a good deal, but they would hardly sleep through the discharge of a revolver in a room below them,--not to speak of the person who had just entered the premises, and whose footsteps were already audible as he came up the stairs. I struggled to make a dumb protest against the insensate folly which was hurrying me to infallible destruction, without success. For me there was only obedience. With a revolver in either hand I marched towards the bureau as unconcernedly as if I would not have given my life to have escaped the denouement which I needed but a slight modicum of common sense to be aware was close at hand. I placed the muzzle of one of the revolvers against the keyhole of the drawer to which my unseen guide had previously directed me, and pulled the trigger. The lock was shattered, the contents of the drawer were at my mercy. I snatched up a bundle of letters, about which a pink ribbon was wrapped. Startled by a noise behind me, immediately following the report of the pistol, I glanced over my shoulder. The room door was open, and Mr Lessingham was standing with the handle in his hand. CHAPTER VII THE GREAT PAUL LESSINGHAM He was in evening dress. He carried a small portfolio in his left hand. If the discovery of my presence startled him, as it could scarcely have failed to do, he allowed no sign of surprise to escape him. Paul Lessingham's impenetrability is proverbial. Whether on platforms addressing excited crowds, or in the midst of heated discussion in the House of Commons, all the world knows that his coolness remains unruffled. It is generally understood that he owes his success in the political arena in no slight measure to the adroitness which is born of his invulnerable presence of mind. He gave me a taste of its quality then. Standing in the attitude which has been familiarised to us by caricaturists, his feet apart, his broad shoulders well set back, his handsome head a little advanced, his keen blue eyes having in them something suggestive of a bird of prey considering just when, where, and how to pounce, he regarded me for some seconds in perfect silence,--whether outwardly I flinched I cannot say; inwardly I know I did. When he spoke, it was without moving from where he stood, and in the calm, airy tones in which he might have addressed an acquaintance who had just dropped in. 'May I ask, sir, to what I am indebted for the pleasure of your company?' He paused, as if waiting for my answer. When none came, he put his question in another form. 'Pray, sir, who are you, and on whose invitation do I find you here?' As I still stood speechless, motionless, meeting his glance without a twitching of an eyebrow, nor a tremor of the hand, I imagine that he began to consider me with an even closer intentness than before. And that the--to say the least of it--peculiarity of my appearance, caused him to suspect that he was face to face with an adventure of a peculiar kind. Whether he took me for a lunatic I cannot certainly say; but, from his manner, I think it possible he did. He began to move towards me from across the room, addressing me with the utmost suavity and courtesy. 'Be so good as to give me the revolver, and the papers you are holding in your hand.' As he came on, something entered into me, and forced itself from between my lips, so that I said, in a low, hissing voice, which I vow was never mine, 'THE BEETLE!' Whether it was, or was not, owing, in some degree, to a trick of my imagination, I cannot determine, but, as the words were spoken, it seemed to me that the lights went low, so that the place was all in darkness, and I again was filled with the nauseous consciousness of the presence of something evil in the room. But if, in that matter, my abnormally strained imagination played me a trick, there could be no doubt whatever as to the effect which the words had on Mr Lessingham. When the mist of the blackness--real or supposititious--had passed from before my eyes, I found that he had retreated to the extremest limits of the room, and was crouching, his back against the bookshelves, clutching at them, in the attitude of a man who has received a staggering blow, from which, as yet, he has had no opportunity of recovering. A most extraordinary change had taken place in the expression of his face; in his countenance amazement, fear, and horror seemed struggling for the mastery. I was filled with a most discomforting qualm, as I gazed at the frightened figure in front of me, and realised that it was that of the great Paul Lessingham, the god of my political idolatry. 'Who are you?--In God's name, who are you?' His very voice seemed changed; his frenzied, choking accents would hardly have been recognised by either friend or foe. 'Who are you?--Do you hear me ask, who are you? In the name of God, I bid you say!' As he perceived that I was still, he began to show a species of excitement which it was unpleasant to witness, especially as he continued to crouch against the bookshelf, as if he was afraid to stand up straight. So far from exhibiting the impassivity for which he was renowned, all the muscles in his face and all the limbs in his body seemed to be in motion at once; he was like a man afflicted with the shivering ague,--his very fingers were twitching aimlessly, as they were stretched out on either side of him, as if seeking for support from the shelves against which he leaned. 'Where have you come from? what do you want? who sent you here? what concern have you with me? is it necessary that you should come and play these childish tricks with me? why? why?' The questions came from him with astonishing rapidity. When he saw that I continued silent, they came still faster, mingled with what sounded to me like a stream of inchoate abuse. 'Why do you stand there in that extraordinary garment,--it's worse than nakedness, yes, worse than nakedness! For that alone I could have you punished, and I will!--and try to play the fool? Do you think I am a boy to be bamboozled by every bogey a blunderer may try to conjure up? If so, you're wrong, as whoever sent you might have had sense enough to let you know. If you tell me who you are, and who sent you here, and what it is you want, I will be merciful; if not, the police shall be sent for, and the law shall take its course,--to the bitter end!--I warn you.--Do you hear? You fool! tell me who you are?' The last words came from him in what was very like a burst of childish fury. He himself seemed conscious, the moment after, that his passion was sadly lacking in dignity, and to be ashamed of it. He drew himself straight up. With a pocket-handkerchief which he took from an inner pocket of his coat, he wiped his lips. Then, clutching it tightly in his hand, he eyed me with a fixedness which, under any other circumstances, I should have found unbearable. 'Well, sir, is your continued silence part of the business of the role you have set yourself to play?' His tone was firmer, and his bearing more in keeping with his character. 'If it be so, I presume that I, at least have liberty to speak. When I find a gentleman, even one gifted with your eloquence of silence, playing the part of burglar, I think you will grant that a few words on my part cannot justly be considered to be out of place.' Again he paused. I could not but feel that he was employing the vehicle of somewhat cumbrous sarcasm to gain time, and to give himself the opportunity of recovering, if the thing was possible, his pristine courage. That, for some cause wholly hidden from me, the mysterious utterance had shaken his nature to its deepest foundations, was made plainer by his endeavour to treat the whole business with a sort of cynical levity. 'To commence with, may I ask if you have come through London, or through any portion of it, in that costume,--or, rather, in that want of costume? It would seem out of place in a Cairene street,--would it not?--even in the Rue de Rabagas,--was it not the Rue de Rabagas?' He asked the question with an emphasis the meaning of which was wholly lost on me. What he referred to either then, or in what immediately followed, I, of course, knew no more than the man in the moon,--though I should probably have found great difficulty in convincing him of my ignorance. 'I take it that you are a reminiscence of the Rue de Rabagas,--that, of course;--is it not of course? The little house with the blue-grey Venetians, and the piano with the F sharp missing? Is there still the piano? with the tinny treble,--indeed, the whole atmosphere, was it not tinny?--You agree with me?--I have not forgotten. I am not even afraid to remember,--you perceive it?' A new idea seemed to strike him,--born, perhaps, of my continued silence. 'You look English,--is it possible that you are not English? What are you then--French? We shall see!' He addressed me in a tongue which I recognised as French, but with which I was not sufficiently acquainted to understand. Although, I flatter myself that,--as the present narrative should show--I have not made an ill-use of the opportunities which I have had to improve my, originally, modest education, I regret that I have never had so much as a ghost of a chance to acquire an even rudimentary knowledge of any language except my own. Recognising, I suppose, from my looks, that he was addressing me in a tongue to which I was a stranger, after a time he stopped, added something with a smile, and then began to talk to me in a lingo to which, in a manner of speaking, I was even stranger, for this time I had not the faintest notion what it was,--it might have been gibberish for all that I could tell. Quickly perceiving that he had succeeded no better than before, he returned to English. 'You do not know French?--nor the patois of the Rue de Rabagas? Very good,--then what is it that you do know? Are you under a vow of silence, or are you dumb,--except upon occasion? Your face is English,--what can be seen of it, and I will take it, therefore, that English spoken words convey some meaning to your brain. So listen, sir, to what I have to say,--do me the favour to listen carefully.' He was becoming more and more his former self. In his clear, modulated tones there was a ring of something like a threat,--a something which went very far beyond his words. 'You know something of a period which I choose to have forgotten,--that is plain; you come from a person who, probably, knows still more. Go back to that person and say that what I have forgotten I have forgotten; nothing will be gained by anyone by an endeavour to induce me to remember,--be very sure upon that point, say that nothing will be gained by anyone. That time was one of mirage, of delusion, of disease. I was in a condition, mentally and bodily, in which pranks could have been played upon me by any trickster. Such pranks were played. I know that now quite well. I do not pretend to be proficient in the modus operandi of the hankey-pankey man, but I know that he has a method, all the same,--one susceptible, too, of facile explanation. Go back to your friend, and tell him that I am not again likely to be made the butt of his old method,--nor of his new one either.--You hear me, sir?' I remained motionless and silent,--an attitude which, plainly, he resented. 'Are you deaf and dumb? You certainly are not dumb, for you spoke to me just now. Be advised by me, and do not compel me to resort to measures which will be the cause to you of serious discomfort.--You hear me, sir?' Still, from me, not a sign of comprehension,--to his increased annoyance. 'So be it. Keep your own counsel, if you choose. Yours will be the bitterness, not mine. You may play the lunatic, and play it excellently well, but that you do understand what is said to you is clear.--Come to business, sir. Give me that revolver, and the packet of letters which you have stolen from my desk.' He had been speaking with the air of one who desired to convince himself as much as me,--and about his last words there was almost a flavour of braggadocio. I remained unheeding. 'Are you going to do as I require, or are you insane enough to refuse?--in which case I shall summon assistance, and there will quickly be an end of it. Pray do not imagine that you can trick me into supposing that you do not grasp the situation. I know better.--Once more, are you going to give me that revolver and those letters?' Yet no reply. His anger was growing momentarily greater,--and his agitation too. On my first introduction to Paul Lessingham I was not destined to discover in him any one of those qualities of which the world held him to be the undisputed possessor. He showed himself to be as unlike the statesman I had conceived, and esteemed, as he easily could have done. 'Do you think I stand in awe of you?--you!--of such a thing as you! Do as I tell you, or I myself will make you,--and, at the same time, teach you a much-needed lesson.' He raised his voice. In his bearing there was a would-be defiance. He might not have been aware of it, but the repetitions of the threats were, in themselves, confessions of weakness. He came a step or two forward,--then, stopping short, began to tremble. The perspiration broke out upon his brow; he made spasmodic little dabs at it with his crumpled-up handkerchief. His eyes wandered hither and thither, as if searching for something which they feared to see yet were constrained to seek. He began to talk to himself, out loud, in odd disconnected sentences,--apparently ignoring me entirely. 'What was that?--It was nothing.--It was my imagination.--My nerves are out of order.--I have been working too hard.--I am not well.--WHAT'S THAT?' This last inquiry came from him in a half-stifled shriek,--as the door opened to admit the head and body of an elderly man in a state of considerable undress. He had the tousled appearance of one who had been unexpectedly roused out of slumber, and unwillingly dragged from bed. Mr Lessingham stared at him as if he had been a ghost, while he stared back at Mr Lessingham as if he found a difficulty in crediting the evidence of his own eyes. It was he who broke the silence,--stutteringly. 'I am sure I beg your pardon, sir, but one of the maids thought that she heard the sound of a shot, and we came down to see if there was anything the matter,--I had no idea, sir, that you were here.' His eyes travelled from Mr Lessingham towards me,--suddenly increasing, when they saw me, to about twice their previous size. 'God save us!--who is that?' The man's self-evident cowardice possibly impressed Mr Lessingham with the conviction that he himself was not cutting the most dignified of figures. At any rate, he made a notable effort to, once more, assume a bearing of greater determination. 'You are quite right, Matthews, quite right. I am obliged by your watchfulness. At present you may leave the room--I propose to deal with this fellow myself,--only remain with the other men upon the landing, so that, if I call, you may come to my assistance.' Matthews did as he was told, he left the room,--with, I fancy, more rapidity than he had entered it. Mr Lessingham returned to me, his manner distinctly more determined, as if he found his resolution reinforced by the near neighbourhood of his retainers, 'Now, my man, you see how the case stands, at a word from me you will be overpowered and doomed to undergo a long period of imprisonment. Yet I am still willing to listen to the dictates of mercy. Put down that revolver, give me those letters,--you will not find me disposed to treat you hardly.' For all the attention I paid him, I might have been a graven image. He misunderstood, or pretended to misunderstand, the cause of my silence. 'Come, I see that you suppose my intentions to be harsher than they really are,--do not let us have a scandal, and a scene,--be sensible!--give me those letters!' Again he moved in my direction; again, after he had taken a step or two, to stumble and stop, and look about him with frightened eyes; again to begin to mumble to himself aloud. 'It's a conjurer's trick!--Of course!--Nothing more,--What else could it be?--I'm not to be fooled.--I'm older than I was. I've been overdoing it,--that's all.' Suddenly he broke into cries. 'Matthews! Matthews!--Help! help!' Matthews entered the room, followed by three other men, younger than himself. Evidently all had slipped into the first articles of clothing they could lay their hands upon, and each carried a stick, or some similar rudimentary weapon. Their master spurred them on. 'Strike the revolver out of his hand, Matthews!--knock him down!--take the letters from him!--don't be afraid!--I'm not afraid!' In proof of it, he rushed at me, as it seemed half blindly. As he did so I was constrained to shout out, in tones which I should not have recognised as mine, 'THE BEETLE!' And that moment the room was all in darkness, and there were screams as of someone in an agony of terror or of pain. I felt that something had come into the room, I knew not whence nor how,--something of horror. And the next action of which I was conscious was, that under cover of the darkness, I was flying from the room, propelled by I knew not what. CHAPTER VIII THE MAN IN THE STREET Whether anyone pursued I cannot say. I have some dim recollection, as I came out of the room, of women being huddled against the wall upon the landing, and of their screaming as I went past. But whether any effort was made to arrest my progress I cannot tell. My own impression is that not the slightest attempt to impede my headlong flight was made by anyone. In what direction I was going I did not know. I was like a man flying through the phantasmagoric happenings of a dream, knowing neither how nor whither. I tore along what I suppose was a broad passage, through a door at the end into what, I fancy, was a drawing-room. Across this room I dashed, helter-skelter, bringing down, in the gloom, unseen articles of furniture, with myself sometimes on top, and sometimes under them. In a trice, each time I fell, I was on my feet again,--until I went crashing against a window which was concealed by curtains. It would not have been strange had I crashed through it,--but I was spared that. Thrusting aside the curtains, I fumbled for the fastening of the window. It was a tall French casement, extending, so far as I could judge, from floor to ceiling. When I had it open I stepped through it on to the verandah without,--to find that I was on the top of the portico which I had vainly essayed to ascend from below. I tried the road down which I had tried up,--proceeding with a breakneck recklessness of which now I shudder to think. It was, probably, some thirty feet above the pavement, yet I rushed at the descent with as much disregard for the safety of life and limb as if it had been only three. Over the edge of the parapet I went, obtaining, with my naked feet, a precarious foothold on the latticework,--then down I commenced to scramble. I never did get a proper hold, and when I had descended, perhaps, rather more than half the distance--scraping, as it seemed to me, every scrap of skin off my body in the process--I lost what little hold I had. Down to the bottom I went tumbling, rolling right across the pavement into the muddy road. It was a miracle I was not seriously injured,--but in that sense, certainly, that night the miracles were on my side. Hardly was I down, than I was up again,--mud and all. Just as I was getting on to my feet I felt a firm hand grip me by the shoulder. Turning I found myself confronted by a tall, slenderly built man, with a long, drooping moustache, and an overcoat buttoned up to the chin, who held me with a grasp of steel. He looked at me,--and I looked back at him. 'After the ball,--eh?' Even then I was struck by something pleasant in his voice, and some quality as of sunshine in his handsome face. Seeing that I said nothing he went on,--with a curious, half mocking smile. 'Is that the way to come slithering down the Apostle's pillar?--Is it simple burglary, or simpler murder?--Tell me the glad tidings that you've killed St Paul, and I'll let you go.' Whether he was mad or not I cannot say,--there was some excuse for thinking so. He did not look mad, though his words and actions alike were strange. 'Although you have confined yourself to gentle felony, shall I not shower blessings on the head of him who has been robbing Paul?--Away with you!' He removed his grip, giving me a gentle push as he did so,--and I was away. I neither stayed nor paused. I knew little of records, but if anyone has made a better record than I did that night between Lowndes Square and Walham Green I should like to know just what it was,--I should, too, like to have seen it done. In an incredibly short space of time I was once more in front of the house with the open window,--the packet of letters--which were like to have cost me so dear!--gripped tightly in my hand. CHAPTER IX THE CONTENTS OF THE PACKET I pulled up sharply,--as if a brake had been suddenly, and even mercilessly, applied to bring me to a standstill. In front of the window I stood shivering. A shower had recently commenced,--the falling rain was being blown before the breeze. I was in a terrible sweat,--yet tremulous as with cold; covered with mud; bruised, and cut, and bleeding,--as piteous an object as you would care to see. Every limb in my body ached; every muscle was exhausted; mentally and physically I was done; had I not been held up, willy nilly, by the spell which was upon me, I should have sunk down, then and there, in a hopeless, helpless, hapless heap. But my tormentor was not yet at an end with me. As I stood there, like some broken and beaten hack, waiting for the word of command, it came. It was as if some strong magnetic current had been switched on to me through the window to draw me into the room. Over the low wall I went, over the sill,--once more I stood in that chamber of my humiliation and my shame. And once again I was conscious of that awful sense of the presence of an evil thing. How much of it was fact, and how much of it was the product of imagination I cannot say; but, looking back, it seems to me that it was as if I had been taken out of the corporeal body to be plunged into the inner chambers of all nameless sin. There was the sound of something flopping from off the bed on to the ground, and I knew that the thing was coming at me across the floor. My stomach quaked, my heart melted within me,--the very anguish of my terror gave me strength to scream,--and scream! Sometimes, even now, I seem to hear those screams of mine ringing through the night, and I bury my face in the pillow, and it is as though I was passing through the very Valley of the Shadow. The thing went back,--I could hear it slipping and sliding across the floor. There was silence. And, presently, the lamp was lit, and the room was all in brightness. There, on the bed, in the familiar attitude between the sheets, his head resting on his hand, his eyes blazing like living coals, was the dreadful cause of all my agonies. He looked at me with his unpitying, unblinking glance. 'So!--Through the window again!--like a thief!--Is it always through that door that you come into a house?' He paused,--as if to give me time to digest his gibe. 'You saw Paul Lessingham,--well?--the great Paul Lessingham!--Was he, then, so great?' His rasping voice, with its queer foreign twang, reminded me, in some uncomfortable way, of a rusty saw,--the things he said, and the manner in which he said them, were alike intended to add to my discomfort. It was solely because the feat was barely possible that he only partially succeeded. 'Like a thief you went into his house,--did I not tell you that you would? Like a thief he found you,--were you not ashamed? Since, like a thief he found you, how comes it that you have escaped,--by what robber's artifice have you saved yourself from gaol?' His manner changed,--so that, all at once, he seemed to snarl at me. 'Is he great?--well!--is he great,--Paul Lessingham? You are small, but he is smaller,--your great Paul Lessingham!--Was there ever a man so less than nothing?' With the recollection fresh upon me of Mr Lessingham as I had so lately seen him I could not but feel that there might be a modicum of truth in what, with such an intensity of bitterness, the speaker suggested. The picture which, in my mental gallery, I had hung in the place of honour, seemed, to say the least, to have become a trifle smudged. As usual, the man in the bed seemed to experience not the slightest difficulty in deciphering what was passing through my mind. 'That is so,--you and he, you are a pair,--the great Paul Lessingham is as great a thief as you,--and greater!--for, at least, than you he has more courage.' For some moments he was still; then exclaimed, with sudden fierceness, 'Give me what you have stolen!' I moved towards the bed--most unwillingly--and held out to him the packet of letters which I had abstracted from the little drawer. Perceiving my disinclination to his near neighbourhood, he set himself to play with it. Ignoring my outstretched hand, he stared me straight in the face. 'What ails you? Are you not well? Is it not sweet to stand close at my side? You, with your white skin, if I were a woman, would you not take me for a wife?' There was something about the manner in which this was said which was so essentially feminine that once more I wondered if I could possibly be mistaken in the creature's sex. I would have given much to have been able to strike him across the face,--or, better, to have taken him by the neck, and thrown him through the window, and rolled him in the mud. He condescended to notice what I was holding out to him. 'So!--that is what you have stolen!--That is what you have taken from the drawer in the bureau--the drawer which was locked--and which you used the arts in which a thief is skilled to enter. Give it to me,--thief!' He snatched the packet from me, scratching the back of my hand as he did so, as if his nails had been talons. He turned the packet over and over, glaring at it as he did so,--it was strange what a relief it was to have his glance removed from off my face. 'You kept it in your inner drawer, Paul Lessingham, where none but you could see it,--did you? You hid it as one hides treasure. There should be something here worth having, worth seeing, worth knowing,--yes, worth knowing!--since you found it worth your while to hide it up so closely.' As I have said, the packet was bound about by a string of pink ribbon,--a fact on which he presently began to comment. 'With what a pretty string you have encircled it,--and how neatly it is tied! Surely only a woman's hand could tie a knot like that,--who would have guessed yours were such agile fingers?--So! An endorsement on the cover! What's this?--let's see what's written!--"The letters of my dear love, Marjorie Lindon."' As he read these words, which, as he said, were endorsed upon the outer sheet of paper which served as a cover for the letters which were enclosed within, his face became transfigured. Never did I suppose that rage could have so possessed a human countenance. His jaw dropped open so that his yellow fangs gleamed though his parted lips,--he held his breath so long that each moment I looked to see him fall down in a fit; the veins stood out all over his face and head like seams of blood. I know not how long he continued speechless. When his breath returned, it was with chokings and gaspings, in the midst of which he hissed out his words, as if their mere passage through his throat brought him near to strangulation. 'The letters of his dear love!--of his dear love!--his!--Paul Lessingham's!--So!--It is as I guessed,--as I knew,--as I saw!--Marjorie Lindon!--Sweet Marjorie!--His dear love!--Paul Lessingham's dear love!--She with the lily face, the corn-hued hair!--What is it his dear love has found in her fond heart to write Paul Lessingham?' Sitting up in bed he tore the packet open. It contained, perhaps, eight or nine letters,--some mere notes, some long epistles. But, short or long, he devoured them with equal appetite, each one over and over again, till I thought he never would have done re-reading them. They were on thick white paper, of a peculiar shade of whiteness, with untrimmed edges, On each sheet a crest and an address were stamped in gold, and all the sheets were of the same shape and size. I told myself that if anywhere, at any time, I saw writing paper like that again, I should not fail to know it. The caligraphy was, like the paper, unusual, bold, decided, and, I should have guessed, produced by a J pen. All the time that he was reading he kept emitting sounds, more resembling yelps and snarls than anything more human,--like some savage beast nursing its pent-up rage. When he had made an end of reading,--for the season,--he let his passion have full vent. 'So!--That is what his dear love has found it in her heart to write Paul Lessingham!--Paul Lessingham!' Pen cannot describe the concentrated frenzy of hatred with which the speaker dwelt upon the name,--it was demoniac. 'It is enough!--it is the end!--it is his doom! He shall be ground between the upper and the nether stones in the towers of anguish, and all that is left of him shall be cast on the accursed stream of the bitter waters, to stink under the blood-grimed sun! And for her--for Marjorie Lindon!--for his dear love!--it shall come to pass that she shall wish that she was never born,--nor he!--and the gods of the shadows shall smell the sweet incense of her suffering!--It shall be! it shall be! It is I that say it,--even I!' In the madness of his rhapsodical frenzy I believe that he had actually forgotten I was there. But, on a sudden, glancing aside, he saw me, and remembered,--and was prompt to take advantage of an opportunity to wreak his rage upon a tangible object. 'It is you!--you thief!--you still live!--to make a mock of one of the children of the gods!' He leaped, shrieking, off the bed, and sprang at me, clasping my throat with his horrid hands, bearing me backwards on to the floor; I felt his breath mingle with mine * * * and then God, in His mercy, sent oblivion. BOOK II The Haunted Man The Story according to Sydney Atherton, Esquire CHAPTER X REJECTED It was after our second waltz I did it. In the usual quiet corner--which, that time, was in the shadow of a palm in the hall. Before I had got into my stride she checked me,--touching my sleeve with her fan, turning towards me with startled eyes. 'Stop, please!' But I was not to be stopped. Cliff Challoner passed, with Gerty Cazell. I fancy that, as he passed, he nodded. I did not care. I was wound up to go, and I went it. No man knows how he can talk till he does talk,--to the girl he wants to marry. It is my impression that I gave her recollections of the Restoration poets. She seemed surprised,--not having previously detected in me the poetic strain, and insisted on cutting in. 'Mr Atherton, I am so sorry.' Then I did let fly. 'Sorry that I love you!--why? Why should you be sorry that you have become the one thing needful in any man's eyes,--even in mine? The one thing precious,--the one thing to be altogether esteemed! Is it so common for a woman to come across a man who would be willing to lay down his life for her that she should be sorry when she finds him?' 'I did not know that you felt like this, though I confess that I have had my--my doubts.' 'Doubts!--I thank you.' 'You are quite aware, Mr Atherton, that I like you very much.' 'Like me!--Bah!' 'I cannot help liking you,--though it may be "bah."' 'I don't want you to like me,--I want you to love me.' 'Precisely,--that is your mistake.' 'My mistake!--in wanting you to love me!--when I love you--' 'Then you shouldn't,--though I can't help thinking that you are mistaken even there.' 'Mistaken!--in supposing that I love you!--when I assert and reassert it with the whole force of my being! What do you want me to do to prove I love you,--take you in my arms and crush you to my bosom, and make a spectacle of you before every creature in the place?' 'I'd rather you wouldn't, and perhaps you wouldn't mind not talking quite so loud. Mr Challoner seems to be wondering what you're shouting about.' 'You shouldn't torture me.' She opened and shut her fan,--as she looked down at it I am disposed to suspect that she smiled. 'I am glad we have had this little explanation, because, of course, you are my friend.' 'I am not your friend.' 'Pardon me, you are.' 'I say I'm not,--if I can't be something else, I'll be no friend.' She went on,--calmly ignoring me,--playing with her fan. 'As it happens, I am, just now, in rather a delicate position, in which a friend is welcome.' 'What's the matter? Who's been worrying you,--your father?' 'Well,--he has not,--as yet; but he may be soon.' 'What's in the wind?' 'Mr Lessingham.' She dropped her voice,--and her eyes. For the moment I did not catch her meaning. 'What?' 'Your friend, Mr Lessingham.' 'Excuse me, Miss Lindon, but I am by no means sure that anyone is entitled to call Mr Lessingham a friend of mine.' 'What!--Not when I am going to be his wife?' That took me aback. I had had my suspicions that Paul Lessingham was more with Marjorie than he had any right to be, but I had never supposed that she could see anything desirable in a stick of a man like that. Not to speak of a hundred and one other considerations,--Lessingham on one side of the House, and her father on the other; and old Lindon girding at him anywhere and everywhere--with his high-dried Tory notions of his family importance,--to say nothing of his fortune. I don't know if I looked what I felt,--if I did, I looked uncommonly blank. 'You have chosen an appropriate moment, Miss Lindon, to make to me such a communication.' She chose to disregard my irony. 'I am glad you think so, because now you will understand what a difficult position I am in.' 'I offer you my hearty congratulations.' 'And I thank you for them, Mr Atherton, in the spirit in which they are offered, because from you I know they mean so much.' I bit my lip,--for the life of me I could not tell how she wished me to read her words. 'Do I understand that this announcement has been made to me as one of the public?' 'You do not. It is made to you, in confidence, as my friend,--as my greatest friend; because a husband is something more than friend.' My pulses tingled. 'You will be on my side?' She had paused,--and I stayed silent. 'On your side,--or Mr Lessingham's?' 'His side is my side, and my side is his side;--you will be on our side?' 'I am not sure that I altogether follow you.' 'You are the first I have told. When papa hears it is possible that there will be trouble,--as you know. He thinks so much of you and of your opinion; when that trouble comes I want you to be on our side,--on my side.' 'Why should I?--what does it matter? You are stronger than your father,--it is just possible that Lessingham is stronger than you; together, from your father's point of view, you will be invincible.' 'You are my friend,--are you not my friend?' 'In effect, you offer me an Apple of Sodom.' 'Thank you;--I did not think you so unkind.' 'And you,--are you kind? I make you an avowal of my love, and, straightway, you ask me to act as chorus to the love of another.' 'How could I tell you loved me,--as you say! I had no notion. You have known me all your life, yet you have not breathed a word of it till now.' 'If I had spoken before?' I imagine that there was a slight movement of her shoulders,--almost amounting to a shrug. 'I do not know that it would have made any difference.--I do not pretend that it would. But I do know this, I believe that you yourself have only discovered the state of your own mind within the last half-hour.' If she had slapped my face she could not have startled me more. I had no notion if her words were uttered at random, but they came so near the truth they held me breathless. It was a fact that only during the last few minutes had I really realised how things were with me,--only since the end of that first waltz that the flame had burst out in my soul which was now consuming me. She had read me by what seemed so like a flash of inspiration that I hardly knew what to say to her. I tried to be stinging. 'You flatter me, Miss Lindon, you flatter me at every point. Had you only discovered to me the state of your mind a little sooner I should not have discovered to you the state of mine at all.' 'We will consider it terra incognita.' 'Since you wish it.' Her provoking calmness stung me,--and the suspicion that she was laughing at me in her sleeve. I gave her a glimpse of the cloven hoof. 'But, at the same time, since you assert that you have so long been innocent, I beg that you will continue so no more. At least, your innocence shall be without excuse. For I wish you to understand that I love you, that I have loved you, that I shall love you. Any understanding you may have with Mr Lessingham will not make the slightest difference. I warn you, Miss Lindon, that, until death, you will have to write me down your lover.' She looked at me, with wide open eyes,--as if I almost frightened her. To be frank, that was what I wished to do. 'Mr Atherton!' 'Miss Lindon?' 'That is not like you at all.' 'We seem to be making each other's acquaintance for the first time.' She continued to gaze at me with her big eyes,--which, to be candid, I found it difficult to meet. On a sudden her face was lighted by a smile,--which I resented. 'Not after all these years,--not after all these years! I know you, and though I daresay you're not flawless, I fancy you'll be found to ring pretty true.' Her manner was almost sisterly,--elder-sisterly. I could have shaken her. Hartridge coming to claim his dance gave me an opportunity to escape with such remnants of dignity as I could gather about me. He dawdled up,--his thumbs, as usual, in his waistcoat pockets. 'I believe, Miss Lindon, this is our dance.' She acknowledged it with a bow, and rose to take his arm. I got up, and left her, without a word. As I crossed the hall I chanced on Percy Woodville. He was in his familiar state of fluster, and was gaping about him as if he had mislaid the Koh-i-noor, and wondered where in thunder it had got to. When he saw it was I he caught me by the arm. 'I say, Atherton, have you seen Miss Lindon?' 'I have.' 'No!--Have you?--By Jove!--Where? I've been looking for her all over the place, except in the cellars and the attics,--and I was just going to commence on them. This is our dance.' 'In that case, she's shunted you.' 'No!--Impossible!' His mouth went like an O,--and his eyes ditto, his eyeglass clattering down on to his shirt front. 'I expect the mistake's mine. Fact is, I've made a mess of my programme. It's either the last dance, or this dance, or the next, that I've booked with her, but I'm hanged if I know which. Just take a squint at it, there's a good chap, and tell me which one you think it is.' I 'took a squint'--since he held the thing within an inch of my nose I could hardly help it; one 'squint,' and that was enough--and more. Some men's ball programmes are studies in impressionism, Percy's seemed to me to be a study in madness. It was covered with hieroglyphics, but what they meant, or what they did there anyhow, it was absurd to suppose that I could tell,--I never put them there!--Proverbially, the man's a champion hasher. 'I regret, my dear Percy, that I am not an expert in cuneiform writing. If you have any doubt as to which dance is yours, you'd better ask the lady,--she'll feel flattered.' Leaving him to do his own addling I went to find my coat,--I panted to get into the open air; as for dancing I felt that I loathed it. Just as I neared the cloak-room someone stopped me. It was Dora Grayling. 'Have you forgotten that this is our dance?' I had forgotten,--clean. And I was not obliged by her remembering. Though as I looked at her sweet, grey eyes, and at the soft contours of her gentle face, I felt that I deserved well kicking. She is an angel,--one of the best!--but I was in no mood for angels. Not for a very great deal would I have gone through that dance just then, nor, with Dora Grayling, of all women in the world, would I have sat it out.--So I was a brute and blundered. 'You must forgive me, Miss Grayling, but--I am not feeling very well, and--I don't think I'm up to any more dancing.--Good-night.' CHAPTER XI A MIDNIGHT EPISODE The weather out of doors was in tune with my frame of mind,--I was in a deuce of a temper, and it was a deuce of a night. A keen north-east wind, warranted to take the skin right off you, was playing catch-who-catch-can with intermittent gusts of blinding rain. Since it was not fit for a dog to walk, none of your cabs for me,--nothing would serve but pedestrian exercise. So I had it. I went down Park Lane,--and the wind and rain went with me,--also, thoughts of Dora Grayling. What a bounder I had been,--and was! If there is anything in worse taste than to book a lady for a dance, and then to leave her in the lurch, I should like to know what that thing is,--when found it ought to be made a note of. If any man of my acquaintance allowed himself to be guilty of such a felony in the first degree, I should cut him. I wished someone would try to cut me,--I should like to see him at it. It was all Marjorie's fault,--everything! past, present, and to come. I had known that girl when she was in long frocks--I had, at that period of our acquaintance, pretty recently got out of them; when she was advanced to short ones; and when, once more, she returned to long. And all that time,--well, I was nearly persuaded that the whole of the time I had loved her. If I had not mentioned it, it was because I had suffered my affection, 'like the worm, to lie hidden in the bud,'--or whatever it is the fellow says. At any rate, I was perfectly positive that if I had had the faintest notion that she would ever seriously consider such a man as Lessingham I should have loved her long ago. Lessingham! Why, he was old enough to be her father,--at least he was a good many years older than I was. And a wretched Radical! It is true that on certain points I, also, am what some people would call a Radical,--but not a Radical of the kind he is. Thank Heaven, no! No doubt I have admired traits in his character, until I learnt this thing of him. I am even prepared to admit that he is a man of ability,--in his way! which is, emphatically, not mine. But to think of him in connection with such a girl as Marjorie Lindon,--preposterous! Why, the man's as dry as a stick,--drier! And cold as an iceberg. Nothing but a politician, absolutely. He a lover!--how I could fancy such a stroke of humour setting all the benches in a roar. Both by education, and by nature, he was incapable of even playing such a part; as for being the thing,--absurd! If you were to sink a shaft from the crown of his head to the soles of his feet, you would find inside him nothing but the dry bones of parties and of politics. What my Marjorie--if everyone had his own, she is mine, and, in that sense, she always will be mine--what my Marjorie could see in such a dry-as-dust out of which even to construct the rudiments of a husband was beyond my fathoming. Suchlike agreeable reflections were fit company for the wind and the wet, so they bore me company all down the lane. I crossed at the corner, going round the hospital towards the square. This brought me to the abiding-place of Paul the Apostle. Like the idiot I was, I went out into the middle of the street, and stood awhile in the mud to curse him and his house,--on the whole, when one considers that that is the kind of man I can be, it is, perhaps, not surprising that Marjorie disdained me. 'May your following,' I cried,--it is an absolute fact that the words were shouted!--'both in the House and out of it, no longer regard you as a leader! May your party follow after other gods! May your political aspirations wither, and your speeches be listened to by empty benches! May the Speaker persistently and strenuously refuse to allow you to catch his eye, and, at the next election, may your constituency reject you!--Jehoram!--what's that?' I might well ask. Until that moment I had appeared to be the only lunatic at large, either outside the house or in it, but, on a sudden, a second lunatic came on the scene, and that with a vengeance. A window was crashed open from within,--the one over the front door, and someone came plunging through it on to the top of the portico. That it was a case of intended suicide I made sure,--and I began to be in hopes that I was about to witness the suicide of Paul. But I was not so assured of the intention when the individual in question began to scramble down the pillar of the porch in the most extraordinary fashion I ever witnessed,--I was not even convinced of a suicidal purpose when he came tumbling down, and lay sprawling in the mud at my feet. I fancy, if I had performed that portion of the act I should have lain quiet for a second or two, to consider whereabouts I was, and which end of me was uppermost. But there was no nonsense of that sort about that singularly agile stranger,--if he was not made of india-rubber he ought to have been. So to speak, before he was down he was up,--it was all I could do to grab at him before he was off like a rocket. Such a figure as he presented is seldom seen,--at least, in the streets of London. What he had done with the rest of his apparel I am not in a position to say,--all that was left of it was a long, dark cloak which he strove to wrap round him. Save for that,--and mud!--he was bare as the palm of my hand, Yet it was his face that held me. In my time I have seen strange expressions on men's faces, but never before one such as I saw on his. He looked like a man might look who, after living a life of undiluted crime, at last finds himself face to face with the devil. It was not the look of a madman,--far from it; it was something worse. It was the expression on the man's countenance, as much as anything else, which made me behave as I did. I said something to him,--some nonsense, I know not what. He regarded me with a silence which was supernatural. I spoke to him again;--not a word issued from those rigid lips; there was not a tremor of those awful eyes,--eyes which I was tolerably convinced saw something which I had never seen, or ever should. Then I took my hand from off his shoulder, and let him go. I know not why,--I did. He had remained as motionless as a statue while I held him,--indeed, for any evidence of life he gave, he might have been a statue; but, when my grasp was loosed, how he ran! He had turned the corner and was out of sight before I could say, 'How do!' It was only then,--when he had gone, and I had realised the extra-double-express-flash-of-lightning rate at which he had taken his departure--that it occurred to me of what an extremely sensible act I had been guilty in letting him go at all. Here was an individual who had been committing burglary, or something very like it, in the house of a budding cabinet minister, and who had tumbled plump into my arms, so that all I had to do was to call a policeman and get him quodded,--and all that I had done was something of a totally different kind. 'You're a nice type of an ideal citizen!' I was addressing myself, 'A first chop specimen of a low-down idiot,--to connive at the escape of the robber who's been robbing Paul. Since you've let the villain go, the least you can do is to leave a card on the Apostle, and inquire how he's feeling.' I went to Lessingham's front door and knocked,--I knocked once, I knocked twice, I knocked thrice, and the third time, I give you my word, I made the echoes ring,--but still there was not a soul that answered. 'If this is a case of a seven or seventy-fold murder, and the gentleman in the cloak has made a fair clearance of every living creature the house contains, perhaps it's just as well I've chanced upon the scene,--still I do think that one of the corpses might get up to answer the door. If it is possible to make noise enough to waken the dead, you bet I'm on to it.' And I was,--I punished that knocker! until I warrant the pounding I gave it was audible on the other side of Green Park. And, at last, I woke the dead,--or, rather, I roused Matthews to a consciousness that something was going on. Opening the door about six inches, through the interstice he protruded his ancient nose. 'Who's there?' 'Nothing, my dear sir, nothing and no one. It must have been your vigorous imagination which induced you to suppose that there was,--you let it run away with you.' Then he knew me,--and opened the door about two feet. 'Oh, it's you, Mr Atherton. I beg your pardon, sir,--I thought it might have been the police.' 'What then? Do you stand in terror of the minions of the law,--at last?' A most discreet servant, Matthews,--just the fellow for a budding cabinet minister. He glanced over his shoulder,--I had suspected the presence of a colleague at his back, now I was assured. He put his hand up to his mouth,--and I thought how exceedingly discreet he looked, in his trousers and his stockinged feet, and with his hair all rumpled, and his braces dangling behind, and his nightshirt creased. 'Well, sir, I have received instructions not to admit the police.' 'The deuce you have!--From whom?' Coughing behind his hand, leaning forward, he addressed me with an air which was flatteringly confidential. 'From Mr Lessingham, sir.' 'Possibly Mr Lessingham is not aware that a robbery has been committed on his premises, that the burglar has just come out of his drawing-room window with a hop, skip, and a jump, bounded out of the window like a tennis-ball, flashed round the corner like a rocket,' Again Matthews glanced over his shoulder, as if not clear which way discretion lay, whether fore or aft. 'Thank you, sir. I believe that Mr Lessingham is aware of something of the kind.' He seemed to come to a sudden resolution, dropping his voice to a whisper. 'The fact is, sir, that I fancy Mr Lessingham's a good deal upset.' 'Upset?' I stared at him. There was something in his manner I did not understand. 'What do you mean by upset? Has the scoundrel attempted violence?' 'Who's there?' The voice was Lessingham's, calling to Matthews from the staircase, though, for an instant, I hardly recognised it, it was so curiously petulant. Pushing past Matthews, I stepped into the hall. A young man, I suppose a footman, in the same undress as Matthews, was holding a candle,--it seemed the only light about the place. By its glimmer I perceived Lessingham standing half-way up the stairs. He was in full war paint,--as he is not the sort of man who dresses for the House, I took it that he had been mixing pleasure with business. 'It's I, Lessingham,--Atherton. Do you know that a fellow has jumped out of your drawing-room window?' It was a second or two before he answered. When he did, his voice had lost its petulance. 'Has he escaped?' 'Clean,--he's a mile away by now.' It seemed to me that in his tone, when he spoke again, there was a note of relief. 'I wondered if he had. Poor fellow! more sinned against than sinning! Take my advice, Atherton, and keep out of politics. They bring you into contact with all the lunatics at large. Good night! I am much obliged to you for knocking us up. Matthews, shut the door.' Tolerably cool, on my honour,--a man who brings news big with the fate of Rome does not expect to receive such treatment. He expects to be listened to with deference, and to hear all that there is to hear, and not to be sent to the right-about before he has had a chance of really opening his lips. Before I knew it--almost!--the door was shut, and I was on the doorstep. Confound the Apostle's impudence! next time he might have his house burnt down--and him in it!--before I took the trouble to touch his dirty knocker. What did he mean by his allusion to lunatics in politics,--did he think to fool me? There was more in the business than met the eye,--and a good deal more than he wished to meet mine,--hence his insolence. The creature. What Marjorie Lindon could see in such an opusculum surpassed my comprehension; especially when there was a man of my sort walking about, who adored the very ground she trod upon. CHAPTER XII A MORNING VISITOR All through the night, waking and sleeping, and in my dreams, I wondered what Marjorie could see in him! In those same dreams I satisfied myself that she could, and did, see nothing in him, but everything in me,--oh the comfort! The misfortune was that when I awoke I knew it was the other way round,--so that it was a sad awakening. An awakening to thoughts of murder. So, swallowing a mouthful and a peg, I went into my laboratory to plan murder--legalised murder--on the biggest scale it ever has been planned. I was on the track of a weapon which would make war not only an affair of a single campaign, but of a single half-hour. It would not want an army to work it either. Once let an individual, or two or three at most, in possession of my weapon-that-was-to-be, get within a mile or so of even the largest body of disciplined troops that ever yet a nation put into the field, and--pouf!--in about the time it takes you to say that they would be all dead men. If weapons of precision, which may be relied upon to slay, are preservers of the peace--and the man is a fool who says that they are not!--then I was within reach of the finest preserver of the peace imagination ever yet conceived. What a sublime thought to think that in the hollow of your own hand lies the life and death of nations,--and it was almost in mine. I had in front of me some of the finest destructive agents you could wish to light upon--carbon-monoxide, chlorine-trioxide, mercuric-oxide, conine, potassamide, potassium-carboxide, cyanogen--when Edwards entered. I was wearing a mask of my own invention, a thing that covered ears and head and everything, something like a diver's helmet--I was dealing with gases a sniff of which meant death; only a few days before, unmasked, I had been doing some fool's trick with a couple of acids--sulphuric and cyanide of potassium--when, somehow, my hand slipped, and, before I knew it, minute portions of them combined. By the mercy of Providence I fell backwards instead of forwards;--sequel, about an hour afterwards Edwards found me on the floor, and it took the remainder of that day, and most of the doctors in town, to bring me back to life again. Edwards announced his presence by touching me on the shoulder,--when I am wearing that mask it isn't always easy to make me hear. 'Someone wishes to see you, sir.' 'Then tell someone that I don't wish to see him.' Well-trained servant, Edwards,--he walked off with the message as decorously as you please. And then I thought there was an end,--but there wasn't. I was regulating the valve of a cylinder in which I was fusing some oxides when, once more, someone touched me on the shoulder. Without turning I took it for granted it was Edwards back again. 'I have only to give a tiny twist to this tap, my good fellow, and you will be in the land where the bogies bloom. Why will you come where you're not wanted?' Then I looked round. 'Who the devil are you?' For it was not Edwards at all, but quite a different class of character. I found myself confronting an individual who might almost have sat for one of the bogies I had just alluded to. His costume was reminiscent of the 'Algerians' whom one finds all over France, and who are the most persistent, insolent and amusing of pedlars. I remember one who used to haunt the repetitions at the Alcazar at Tours,--but there! This individual was like the originals, yet unlike,--he was less gaudy, and a good deal dingier, than his Gallic prototypes are apt to be. Then he wore a burnoose,--the yellow, grimy-looking article of the Arab of the Soudan, not the spick and span Arab of the boulevard. Chief difference of all, his face was clean shaven,--and whoever saw an Algerian of Paris whose chiefest glory was not his well-trimmed moustache and beard? I expected that he would address me in the lingo which these gentlemen call French,--but he didn't. 'You are Mr Atherton?' 'And you are Mr--Who?--how did you come here? Where's my servant?' The fellow held up his hand. As he did so, as if in accordance with a pre-arranged signal, Edwards came into the room looking excessively startled. I turned to him. 'Is this the person who wished to see me?' 'Yes, sir.' 'Didn't I tell you to say that I didn't wish to see him?' 'Yes, sir.' 'Then why didn't you do as I told you?' 'I did, sir.' 'Then how comes he here?' 'Really, sir,'--Edwards put his hand up to his head as if he was half asleep--'I don't quite know.' 'What do you mean by you don't know? Why didn't you stop him?' 'I think, sir, that I must have had a touch of sudden faintness, because I tried to put out my hand to stop him, and--I couldn't.' 'You're an idiot.--Go!' And he went. I turned to the stranger. 'Pray, sir, are you a magician?' He replied to my question with another. 'You, Mr Atherton,--are you also a magician?' He was staring at my mask with an evident lack of comprehension. 'I wear this because, in this place, death lurks in so many subtle forms, that, without it, I dare not breathe,' He inclined his head--though I doubt if he understood. 'Be so good as to tell me, briefly, what it is you wish with me.' He slipped his hand into the folds of his burnoose, and, taking out a slip of paper, laid it on the shelf by which we were standing. I glanced at it, expecting to find on it a petition, or a testimonial, or a true statement of his sad case; instead it contained two words only,--'Marjorie Lindon.' The unlooked-for sight of that well-loved name brought the blood into my cheeks. 'You come from Miss Lindon?' He narrowed his shoulders, brought his finger-tips together, inclined his head, in a fashion which was peculiarly Oriental, but not particularly explanatory,--so I repeated my question. 'Do you wish me to understand that you do come from Miss Lindon?' Again he slipped his hand into his burnoose, again he produced a slip of paper, again he laid it on the shelf, again I glanced at it, again nothing was written on it but a name,--'Paul Lessingham.' 'Well?--I see,--Paul Lessingham.--What then?' 'She is good,--he is bad,--is it not so?' He touched first one scrap of paper, then the other. I stared. 'Pray how do you happen to know?' 'He shall never have her,--eh?' 'What on earth do you mean?' 'Ah!--what do I mean!' 'Precisely, what do you mean? And also, and at the same time, who the devil are you?' 'It is as a friend I come to you.' 'Then in that case you may go; I happen to be over-stocked in that line just now.' 'Not with the kind of friend I am!' 'The saints forefend!' 'You love her,--you love Miss Lindon! Can you bear to think of him in her arms?' I took off my mask,--feeling that the occasion required it. As I did so he brushed aside the hanging folds of the hood of his burnoose, so that I saw more of his face. I was immediately conscious that in his eyes there was, in an especial degree, what, for want of a better term, one may call the mesmeric quality. That his was one of those morbid organisations which are oftener found, thank goodness, in the east than in the west, and which are apt to exercise an uncanny influence over the weak and the foolish folk with whom they come in contact,--the kind of creature for whom it is always just as well to keep a seasoned rope close handy. I was, also, conscious that he was taking advantage of the removal of my mask to try his strength on me,--than which he could not have found a tougher job. The sensitive something which is found in the hypnotic subject happens, in me, to be wholly absent. 'I see you are a mesmerist.' He started. 'I am nothing,--a shadow!' 'And I'm a scientist. I should like, with your permission--or without it!--to try an experiment or two on you.' He moved further back. There came a gleam into his eyes which suggested that he possessed his hideous power to an unusual degree,--that, in the estimation of his own people, he was qualified to take his standing as a regular devil-doctor. 'We will try experiments together, you and I,--on Paul Lessingham.' 'Why on him?' 'You do not know?' 'I do not.' 'Why do you lie to me?' 'I don't lie to you,--I haven't the faintest notion what is the nature of your interest in Mr Lessingham.' 'My interest?--that is another thing; it is your interest of which we are speaking.' 'Pardon me,--it is yours.' 'Listen! you love her,--and he! But at a word from you he shall not have her,--never! It is I who say it,--I!' 'And, once more, sir, who are you?' 'I am of the children of Isis!' 'Is that so?--It occurs to me that you have made a slight mistake,--this is London, not a dog-hole in the desert.' 'Do I not know?--what does it matter?--you shall see! There will come a time when you will want me,--you will find that you cannot bear to think of him in her arms,--her whom you love! You will call to me, and I shall come, and of Paul Lessingham there shall be an end.' While I was wondering whether he was really as mad as he sounded, or whether he was some impudent charlatan who had an axe of his own to grind, and thought that he had found in me a grindstone, he had vanished from the room. I moved after him. 'Hang it all!--stop!' I cried. He must have made pretty good travelling, because, before I had a foot in the hall, I heard the front door slam, and, when I reached the street, intent on calling him back, neither to the right nor to the left was there a sign of him to be seen. CHAPTER XIII THE PICTURE 'I wonder what that nice-looking beggar really means, and who he happens to be?' That was what I said to myself when I returned to the laboratory. 'If it is true that, now and again, Providence does write a man's character on his face, then there can't be the slightest shred of a doubt that a curious one's been written on his. I wonder what his connection has been with the Apostle,--or if it's only part of his game of bluff.' I strode up and down,--for the moment my interest in the experiments I was conducting had waned. 'If it was all bluff I never saw a better piece of acting,--and yet what sort of finger can such a precisian as St Paul have in such a pie? The fellow seemed to squirm at the mere mention of the rising-hope-of-the-Radicals' name. Can the objection be political? Let me consider,--what has Lessingham done which could offend the religious or patriotic susceptibilities of the most fanatical of Orientals? Politically, I can recall nothing. Foreign affairs, as a rule, he has carefully eschewed. If he has offended--and if he hasn't the seeming was uncommonly good!--the cause will have to be sought upon some other track. But, then, what track?' The more I strove to puzzle it out, the greater the puzzlement grew. 'Absurd!--The rascal has had no more connection with St Paul than St Peter. The probability is that he's a crackpot; and if he isn't, he has some little game on foot--in close association with the hunt of the oof-bird!--which he tried to work off on me, but couldn't. As for--for Marjorie--my Marjorie!--only she isn't mine, confound it!--if I had had my senses about me, I should have broken his head in several places for daring to allow her name to pass his lips,--the unbaptised Mohammedan!--Now to return to the chase of splendid murder!' I snatched up my mask--one of the most ingenious inventions, by the way, of recent years; if the armies of the future wear my mask they will defy my weapon!--and was about to re-adjust it in its place, when someone knocked at the door. 'Who's there?--Come in!' It was Edwards. He looked round him as if surprised. 'I beg your pardon, sir,--I thought you were engaged. I didn't know that--that gentleman had gone.' 'He went up the chimney, as all that kind of gentlemen do.--Why the deuce did you let him in when I told you not to?' 'Really, sir, I don't know. I gave him your message, and--he looked at me, and--that is all I remember till I found myself standing in this room.' Had it not been Edwards I might have suspected him of having had his palm well greased,--but, in his case, I knew better. It was as I thought,--my visitor was a mesmerist of the first class; he had actually played some of his tricks, in broad daylight, on my servant, at my own front door,--a man worth studying. Edwards continued. 'There is someone else, sir, who wishes to see you,--Mr Lessingham.' 'Mr Lessingham!' At that moment the juxtaposition seemed odd, though I daresay it was so rather in appearance than in reality. 'Show him in.' Presently in came Paul. I am free to confess,--I have owned it before!--that, in a sense, I admire that man,--so long as he does not presume to thrust himself into a certain position. He possesses physical qualities which please my eye--speaking as a mere biologist like the suggestion conveyed by his every pose, his every movement, of a tenacious hold on life,--of reserve force, of a repository of bone and gristle on which he can fall back at pleasure. The fellow's lithe and active; not hasty, yet agile; clean built, well hung,--the sort of man who might be relied upon to make a good recovery. You might beat him in a sprint,--mental or physical--though to do that you would have to be spry!--but in a staying race he would see you out. I do not know that he is exactly the kind of man whom I would trust,--unless I knew that he was on the job,--which knowledge, in his case, would be uncommonly hard to attain. He is too calm; too self-contained; with the knack of looking all round him even in moments of extremest peril,--and for whatever he does he has a good excuse. He has the reputation, both in the House and out of it, of being a man of iron nerve,--and with some reason; yet I am not so sure. Unless I read him wrongly his is one of those individualities which, confronted by certain eventualities, collapse,--to rise, the moment of trial having passed, like Phoenix from her ashes. However it might be with his adherents, he would show no trace of his disaster. And this was the man whom Marjorie loved. Well, she could show some cause. He was a man of position,--destined, probably, to rise much higher; a man of parts,--with capacity to make the most of them; not ill-looking; with agreeable manners,--when he chose; and he came within the lady's definition of a gentleman, 'he always did the right thing, at the right time, in the right way.' And yet--! Well, I take it that we are all cads, and that we most of us are prigs; for mercy's sake do not let us all give ourselves away. He was dressed as a gentleman should be dressed,--black frock coat, black vest, dark grey trousers, stand-up collar, smartly-tied bow, gloves of the proper shade, neatly brushed hair, and a smile, which if was not childlike, at any rate was bland. 'I am not disturbing you?' 'Not at all.' 'Sure?--I never enter a place like this, where a man is matching himself with nature, to wrest from her her secrets, without feeling that I am crossing the threshold of the unknown. The last time I was in this room was just after you had taken out the final patents for your System of Telegraphy at Sea, which the Admiralty purchased,--wisely--What is it, now?' 'Death.' 'No?--really?--what do you mean?' 'If you are a member of the next government, you will possibly learn; I may offer them the refusal of a new wrinkle in the art of murder.' 'I see,--a new projectile.--How long is this race to continue between attack and defence?' 'Until the sun grows cold.' 'And then?' 'There'll be no defence,--nothing to defend.' He looked at me with his calm, grave eyes. 'The theory of the Age of Ice towards which we are advancing is not a cheerful one.' He began to finger a glass retort which lay upon a table. 'By the way, it was very good of you to give me a look in last night. I am afraid you thought me peremptory,--I have come to apologise.' 'I don't know that I thought you peremptory; I thought you--queer.' 'Yes.' He glanced at me with that expressionless look upon his face which he could summon at will, and which is at the bottom of the superstition about his iron nerve. 'I was worried, and not well. Besides, one doesn't care to be burgled, even by a maniac.' 'Was he a maniac?' 'Did you see him?' 'Very clearly.' 'Where?' 'In the street.' 'How close were you to him?' 'Closer than I am to you.' 'Indeed. I didn't know you were so close to him as that. Did you try to stop him?' 'Easier said than done,--he was off at such a rate.' 'Did you see how he was dressed,--or, rather, undressed?' 'I did.' 'In nothing but a cloak on such a night. Who but a fanatic would have attempted burglary in such a costume?' 'Did he take anything?' 'Absolutely nothing.' 'It seems to have been a curious episode.' He moved his eyebrows,--according to members of the House the only gesture in which he has been known to indulge. 'We become accustomed to curious episodes. Oblige me by not mentioning it to anyone,--to anyone.' He repeated the last two words, as if to give them emphasis. I wondered if he was thinking of Marjorie. 'I am communicating with the police. Until they move I don't want it to get into the papers,--or to be talked about. It's a worry,--you understand?' I nodded. He changed the theme. 'This that you're engaged upon,--is it a projectile or a weapon?' 'If you are a member of the next government you will possibly know; if you aren't you possibly won't.' 'I suppose you have to keep this sort of thing secret?' 'I do. It seems that matters of much less moment you wish to keep secret.' 'You mean that business of last night? If a trifle of that sort gets into the papers, or gets talked about,--which is the same thing!--you have no notion how we are pestered. It becomes an almost unbearable nuisance. Jones the Unknown can commit murder with less inconvenience to himself than Jones the Notorious can have his pocket picked,--there is not so much exaggeration in that as there sounds.--Good-bye,--thanks for your promise.' I had given him no promise, but that was by the way. He turned as to go,--then stopped. 'There's another thing,--I believe you're a specialist on questions of ancient superstitions and extinct religions.' 'I am interested in such subjects, but I am not a specialist.' 'Can you tell me what were the exact tenets of the worshippers of Isis?' 'Neither I nor any man,--with scientific certainty. As you know, she had a brother; the cult of Osiris and Isis was one and the same. What, precisely, were its dogmas, or its practices, or anything about it, none, now, can tell. The Papyri, hieroglyphics, and so on, which remain are very far from being exhaustive, and our knowledge of those which do remain, is still less so.' 'I suppose that the marvels which are told of it are purely legendary?' 'To what marvels do you particularly refer?' 'Weren't supernatural powers attributed to the priests of Isis?' 'Broadly speaking, at that time, supernatural powers were attributed to all the priests of all the creeds.' 'I see.' Presently he continued. 'I presume that her cult is long since extinct,--that none of the worshippers of Isis exist to-day.' I hesitated,--I was wondering why he had hit on such a subject; if he really had a reason, or if he was merely asking questions as a cover for something else,--you see, I knew my Paul. 'That is not so sure.' He looked at me with that passionless, yet searching glance of his. 'You think that she still is worshipped? 'I think it possible, even probable, that, here and there, in Africa--Africa is a large order!--homage is paid to Isis, quite in the good old way.' 'Do you know that as a fact?' 'Excuse me, but do you know it as a fact?--Are you aware that you are treating me as if I was on the witness stand?--Have you any special purpose in making these inquiries?' He smiled. 'In a kind of a way I have. I have recently come across rather a curious story; I am trying to get to the bottom of it.' 'What is the story?' 'I am afraid that at present I am not at liberty to tell it you; when I am I will. You will find it interesting,--as an instance of a singular survival.--Didn't the followers of Isis believe in transmigration?' 'Some of them,--no doubt.' 'What did they understand by transmigration?' 'Transmigration.' 'Yes,--but of the soul or of the body?' 'How do you mean?--transmigration is transmigration. Are you driving at something in particular? If you'll tell me fairly and squarely what it is I'll do my best to give you the information you require; as it is, your questions are a bit perplexing.' 'Oh, it doesn't matter,--as you say, "transmigration is transmigration."' I was eyeing him keenly; I seemed to detect in his manner an odd reluctance to enlarge on the subject he himself had started. He continued to trifle with the retort upon the table. 'Hadn't the followers of Isis a--what shall I say?--a sacred emblem?' 'How?' 'Hadn't they an especial regard for some sort of a--wasn't it some sort of a--beetle?' 'You mean Scarabaeus sacer,--according to Latreille, Scarabaeus Egyptiorum? Undoubtedly,--the scarab was venerated throughout Egypt,--indeed, speaking generally, most things that had life, for instance, cats; as you know, Orisis continued among men in the figure of Apis, the bull.' 'Weren't the priests of Isis--or some of them--supposed to assume, after death, the form of a--scarabaeus?' 'I never heard of it.' 'Are you sure?--think!' 'I shouldn't like to answer such a question positively, offhand, but I don't, on the spur of the moment, recall any supposition of the kind.' 'Don't laugh at me--I'm not a lunatic!--but I understand that recent researches have shown that even in some of the most astounding of the ancient legends there was a substratum of fact. Is it absolutely certain that there could be no shred of truth in such a belief?' 'In what belief?' 'In the belief that a priest of Isis--or anyone--assumed after death the form of a scarabaeus?' 'It seems to me, Lessingham, that you have lately come across some uncommonly interesting data, of a kind, too, which it is your bounden duty to give to the world,--or, at any rate, to that portion of the world which is represented by me. Come,--tell us all about it!--what are you afraid of?' 'I am afraid of nothing,--and some day you shall be told,--but not now. At present, answer my question.' 'Then repeat your question,--clearly.' 'Is it absolutely certain that there could be no foundation of truth in the belief that a priest of Isis--or anyone--assumed after death the form of a beetle?' 'I know no more than the man in the moon,--how the dickens should I? Such a belief may have been symbolical. Christians believe that after death the body takes the shape of worms--and so, in a sense, it does,--and, sometimes, eels.' 'That is not what I mean.' 'Then what do you mean?' 'Listen. If a person, of whose veracity there could not be a vestige of a doubt, assured you that he had seen such a transformation actually take place, could it conceivably be explained on natural grounds?' 'Seen a priest of Isis assume the form of a beetle?' 'Or a follower of Isis?' 'Before, or after death?' He hesitated. I had seldom seen him wear such an appearance of interest,--to be frank, I was keenly interested too!--but, on a sudden there came into his eyes a glint of something that was almost terror. When he spoke, it was with the most unwonted awkwardness. 'In--in the very act of dying.' 'In the very act of dying?' 'If--he had seen a follower of Isis in--the very act of dying, assume--the form of a--a beetle, on any conceivable grounds would such a transformation be susceptible of a natural explanation?' I stared,--as who would not? Such an extraordinary question was rendered more extraordinary by coming from such a man,--yet I was almost beginning to suspect that there was something behind it more extraordinary still. 'Look here, Lessingham, I can see you've a capital tale to tell,--so tell it, man! Unless I'm mistaken, it's not the kind of tale in which ordinary scruples can have any part or parcel,--anyhow, it's hardly fair of you to set my curiosity all agog, and then to leave it unappeased.' He eyed me steadily, the appearance of interest fading more and more, until, presently, his face assumed its wonted expressionless mask,--somehow I was conscious that what he had seen in my face was not altogether to his liking. His voice was once more bland and self-contained. 'I perceive you are of opinion that I have been told a taradiddle. I suppose I have.' 'But what is the taradiddle?--don't you see I'm burning?' 'Unfortunately, Atherton, I am on my honour. Until I have permission to unloose it, my tongue is tied.' He picked up his hat and umbrella from where he had placed them on the table. Holding them in his left hand, he advanced to me with his right outstretched. 'It is very good of you to suffer my continued interruption; I know, to my sorrow, what such interruptions mean,--believe me, I am not ungrateful. What is this?' On the shelf, within a foot or so of where I stood, was a sheet of paper,--the size and shape of half a sheet of post note. At this he stooped to glance. As he did so, something surprising occurred. On the instant a look came on to his face which, literally, transfigured him. His hat and umbrella fell from his grasp on to the floor. He retreated, gibbering, his hands held out as if to ward something off from him, until he reached the wall on the other side of the room. A more amazing spectacle than he presented I never saw. 'Lessingham!' I exclaimed. 'What's wrong with you?' My first impression was that he was struck by a fit of epilepsy,--though anyone less like an epileptic subject it would be hard to find. In my bewilderment I looked round to see what could be the immediate cause. My eye fell upon the sheet of paper, I stared at it with considerable surprise. I had not noticed it there previously, I had not put it there,--where had it come from? The curious thing was that, on it, produced apparently by some process of photogravure, was an illustration of a species of beetle with which I felt that I ought to be acquainted, and yet was not. It was of a dull golden green; the colour was so well brought out,--even to the extent of seeming to scintillate, and the whole thing was so dexterously done that the creature seemed alive. The semblance of reality was, indeed, so vivid that it needed a second glance to be assured that it was a mere trick of the reproducer. Its presence there was odd,--after what we had been talking about it might seem to need explanation; but it was absurd to suppose that that alone could have had such an effect on a man like Lessingham. With the thing in my hand, I crossed to where he was,--pressing his back against the wall, he had shrunk lower inch by inch till he was actually crouching on his haunches. 'Lessingham!--come, man, what's wrong with you?' Taking him by the shoulder, I shook him with some vigour. My touch had on him the effect of seeming to wake him out of a dream, of restoring him to consciousness as against the nightmare horrors with which he was struggling. He gazed up at me with that look of cunning on his face which one associates with abject terror. 'Atherton?--Is it you?--It's all right,--quite right.--I'm well,--very well.' As he spoke, he slowly drew himself up, till he was standing erect. 'Then, in that case, all I can say is that you have a queer way of being very well.' He put his hand up to his mouth, as if to hide the trembling of his lips. 'It's the pressure of overwork,--I've had one or two attacks like this,--but it's nothing, only--a local lesion.' I observed him keenly; to my thinking there was something about him which was very odd indeed. 'Only a local lesion!--If you take my strongly-urged advice you'll get a medical opinion without delay,--if you haven't been wise enough to have done so already.' 'I'll go to-day;--at once; but I know it's only mental overstrain.' 'You're sure it's nothing to do with this?' I held out in front of him the photogravure of the beetle. As I did so he backed away from me, shrieking, trembling as with palsy. 'Take it away! take it away!' he screamed. I stared at him, for some seconds, astonished into speechlessness. Then I found my tongue. 'Lessingham!--It's only a picture!--Are you stark mad?' He persisted in his ejaculations. 'Take it away! take it away!--Tear it up!--Burn it!' His agitation was so unnatural,--from whatever cause it arose!--that, fearing the recurrence of the attack from which he had just recovered, I did as he bade me. I tore the sheet of paper into quarters, and, striking a match, set fire to each separate piece. He watched the process of incineration as if fascinated. When it was concluded, and nothing but ashes remained, he gave a gasp of relief. 'Lessingham,' I said, 'you're either mad already, or you're going mad,--which is it?' 'I think it's neither. I believe I am as sane as you. It's--it's that story of which I was speaking; it--it seems curious, but I'll tell you all about it--some day. As I observed, I think you will find it an interesting instance of a singular survival.' He made an obvious effort to become more like his usual self. 'It is extremely unfortunate, Atherton, that I should have troubled you with such a display of weakness,--especially as I am able to offer you so scant an explanation. One thing I would ask of you,--to observe strict confidence. What has taken place has been between ourselves. I am in your hands, but you are my friend, I know I can rely on you not to speak of it to anyone,--and, in particular, not to breathe a hint of it to Miss Lindon.' 'Why, in particular, not to Miss Lindon?' 'Can you not guess?' I hunched my shoulder. 'If what I guess is what you mean is not that a cause the more why silence would be unfair to her?' 'It is for me to speak, if for anyone. I shall not fail to do what should be done.--Give me your promise that you will not hint a word to her of what you have so unfortunately seen?' I gave him the promise he required. . . . . . . . There was no more work for me that day. The Apostle, his divagations, his example of the coleoptera, his Arabian friend,--these things were as microbes which, acting on a system already predisposed for their reception, produced high fever; I was in a fever,--of unrest. Brain in a whirl!--Marjorie, Paul, Isis, beetle, mesmerism, in delirious jumble. Love's upsetting!--in itself a sufficiently severe disease; but when complications intervene, suggestive of mystery and novelties, so that you do not know if you are moving in an atmosphere of dreams or of frozen facts,--if, then, your temperature does not rise, like that rocket of M. Verne's,--which reached the moon, then you are a freak of an entirely genuine kind, and if the surgeons do not preserve you, and place you on view, in pickle, they ought to, for the sake of historical doubters, for no one will believe that there ever was a man like you, unless you yourself are somewhere around to prove them Thomases. Myself,--I am not that kind of man. When I get warm I grow heated, and when I am heated there is likely to be a variety show of a gaudy kind. When Paul had gone I tried to think things out, and if I had kept on trying something would have happened--so I went on the river instead. CHAPTER XIV THE DUCHESS' BALL That night was the Duchess of Datchet's ball--the first person I saw as I entered the dancing-room was Dora Grayling. I went straight up to her. 'Miss Grayling, I behaved very badly to you last night, I have come to make to you my apologies,--to sue for your forgiveness!' 'My forgiveness?' Her head went back,--she has a pretty bird-like trick of cocking it a little on one side. 'You were not well. Are you better?' 'Quite.--You forgive me? Then grant me plenary absolution by giving me a dance for the one I lost last night.' She rose. A man came up,--a stranger to me; she's one of the best hunted women in England,--there's a million with her. 'This is my dance, Miss Grayling.' She looked at him. 'You must excuse me. I am afraid I have made a mistake. I had forgotten that I was already engaged.' I had not thought her capable of it. She took my arm, and away we went, and left him staring. 'It's he who's the sufferer now,' I whispered, as we went round,--she can waltz! 'You think so? It was I last night,--I did not mean, if I could help it, to suffer again. To me a dance with you means something.' She went all red,--adding, as an afterthought, 'Nowadays so few men really dance. I expect it's because you dance so well.' 'Thank you.' We danced the waltz right through, then we went to an impromptu shelter which had been rigged up on a balcony. And we talked. There's something sympathetic about Miss Grayling which leads one to talk about one's self,--before I was half aware of it I was telling her of all my plans and projects,--actually telling her of my latest notion which, ultimately, was to result in the destruction of whole armies as by a flash of lightning. She took an amount of interest in it which was surprising. 'What really stands in the way of things of this sort is not theory but practice,--one can prove one's facts on paper, or on a small scale in a room; what is wanted is proof on a large scale, by actual experiment. If, for instance, I could take my plant to one of the forests of South America, where there is plenty of animal life but no human, I could demonstrate the soundness of my position then and there.' 'Why don't you?' 'Think of the money it would cost.' 'I thought I was a friend of yours.' 'I had hoped you were.' 'Then why don't you let me help you?' 'Help me?--How?' 'By letting you have the money for your South American experiment;--it would be an investment on which I should expect to receive good interest.' I fidgeted. 'It is very good of you, Miss Grayling, to talk like that.' She became quite frigid. 'Please don't be absurd!--I perceive quite clearly that you are snubbing me, and that you are trying to do it as delicately as you know how.' 'Miss Grayling!' 'I understand that it was an impertinence on my part to volunteer assistance which was unasked; you have made that sufficiently plain.' 'I assure you--' 'Pray don't. Of course, if it had been Miss Lindon it would have been different; she would at least have received a civil answer. But we are not all Miss Lindon.' I was aghast. The outburst was so uncalled for,--I had not the faintest notion what I had said or done to cause it; she was in such a surprising passion--and it suited her!--I thought I had never seen her look prettier,--I could do nothing else but stare. So she went on,--with just as little reason. 'Here is someone coming to claim this dance,--I can't throw all my partners over. Have I offended you so irremediably that it will be impossible for you to dance with me again?' 'Miss Grayling!--I shall be only too delighted.' She handed me her card. 'Which may I have?' 'For your own sake you had better place it as far off as you possibly can.' 'They all seem taken.' 'That doesn't matter; strike off any name you please, anywhere and put your own instead.' It was giving me an almost embarrassingly free hand. I booked myself for the next waltz but two--who it was who would have to give way to me I did not trouble to inquire. 'Mr Atherton!--is that you?' It was,--it was also she. It was Marjorie! And so soon as I saw her I knew that there was only one woman in the world for me,--the mere sight of her sent the blood tingling through my veins. Turning to her attendant cavalier, she dismissed him with a bow. 'Is there an empty chair?' She seated herself in the one Miss Grayling had just vacated. I sat down beside her. She glanced at me, laughter in her eyes. I was all in a stupid tremblement. 'You remember that last night I told you that I might require your friendly services in diplomatic intervention?' I nodded,--I felt that the allusion was unfair. 'Well, the occasion's come,--or, at least, it's very near.' She was still,--and I said nothing to help her. 'You know how unreasonable papa can be.' I did,--never a more pig-headed man in England than Geoffrey Lindon,--or, in a sense, a duller. But, just then, I was not prepared to admit it to his child. 'You know what an absurd objection he has to--Paul.' There was an appreciative hesitation before she uttered the fellow's Christian name,--when it came it was with an accent of tenderness which stung me like a gadfly. To speak to me--of all men,--of the fellow in such a tone was--like a woman. 'Has Mr Lindon no notion of how things stand between you?' 'Except what he suspects. That is just where you are to come in, papa thinks so much of you--I want you to sound Paul's praises in his ear--to prepare him for what must come.' Was ever rejected lover burdened with such a task? Its enormity kept me still. 'Sydney, you have always been my friend,--my truest, dearest friend. When I was a little girl you used to come between papa and me, to shield me from his wrath. Now that I am a big girl I want you to be on my side once more, and to shield me still.' Her voice softened. She laid her hand upon my arm. How, under her touch, I burned. 'But I don't understand what cause there has been for secrecy,--why should there have been any secrecy from the first?' 'It was Paul's wish that papa should not be told.' 'Is Mr Lessingham ashamed of you?' 'Sydney!' 'Or does he fear your father?' 'You are unkind. You know perfectly well that papa has been prejudiced against him all along, you know that his political position is just now one of the greatest difficulty, that every nerve and muscle is kept on the continual strain, that it is in the highest degree essential that further complications of every and any sort should be avoided. He is quite aware that his suit will not be approved of by papa, and he simply wishes that nothing shall be said about it till the end of the session,--that is all' 'I see! Mr Lessingham is cautious even in love-making,--politician first, and lover afterwards.' 'Well!--why not?--would you have him injure the cause he has at heart for want of a little patience?' 'It depends what cause it is he has at heart.' 'What is the matter with you?--why do you speak to me like that?--it is not like you at all.' She looked at me shrewdly, with flashing eyes. 'Is it possible that you are--jealous?--that you were in earnest in what you said last night?--I thought that was the sort of thing you said to every girl.' I would have given a great deal to take her in my arms, and press her to my bosom then and there,--to think that she should taunt me with having said to her the sort of thing I said to every girl. 'What do you know of Mr Lessingham?' 'What all the world knows,--that history will be made by him.' 'There are kinds of history in the making of which one would not desire to be associated. What do you know of his private life,--it was to that that I was referring.' 'Really,--you go too far. I know that he is one of the best, just as he is one of the greatest, of men; for me, that is sufficient.' 'If you do know that, it is sufficient.' 'I do know it,--all the world knows it. Everyone with whom he comes in contact is aware--must be aware, that he is incapable of a dishonourable thought or action.' 'Take my advice, don't appreciate any man too highly. In the book of every man's life there is a page which he would wish to keep turned down.' 'There is no such page in Paul's,--there may be in yours; I think that probable.' 'Thank you. I fear it is more than probable. I fear that, in my case, the page may extend to several. There is nothing Apostolic about me,--not even the name.' 'Sydney!--you are unendurable!--It is the more strange to hear you talk like this since Paul regards you as his friend.' 'He flatters me.' 'Are you not his friend?' 'Is it not sufficient to be yours?' 'No,--who is against Paul is against me.' 'That is hard.' 'How is it hard? Who is against the husband can hardly be for the wife,--when the husband and the wife are one.' 'But as yet you are not one.--Is my cause so hopeless?' 'What do you call your cause?--are you thinking of that nonsense you were talking about last night?' She laughed! 'You call it nonsense.--You ask for sympathy, and give--so much!' 'I will give you all the sympathy you stand in need of,--I promise it! My poor, dear Sydney!--don't be so absurd! Do you think that I don't know you? You're the best of friends, and the worst of lovers,--as the one, so true; so fickle as the other. To my certain knowledge, with how many girls have you been in love,--and out again. It is true that, to the best of my knowledge and belief, you have never been in love with me before,--but that's the merest accident. Believe me, my dear, dear Sydney, you'll be in love with someone else tomorrow,--if you're not half-way there to-night. I confess, quite frankly, that, in that direction, all the experience I have had of you has in nowise strengthened my prophetic instinct. Cheer up!--one never knows!--Who is this that's coming?' It was Dora Grayling who was coming,--I went off with her without a word,--we were half-way through the dance before she spoke to me. 'I am sorry that I was cross to you just now, and--disagreeable. Somehow I always seem destined to show to you my most unpleasant side.' 'The blame was mine,--what sort of side do I show you? You are far kinder to me than I deserve,--now, and always. 'That is what you say.' 'Pardon me, it's true,--else how comes it that, at this time of day, I'm without a friend in all the world?' 'You!--without a friend!--I never knew a man who had so many!--I never knew a person of whom so many men and women join in speaking well!' 'Miss Grayling!' 'As for never having done anything worth doing, think of what you have done. Think of your discoveries, think of your inventions, think of--but never mind! The world knows you have done great things, and it confidently looks to you to do still greater. You talk of being friendless, and yet when I ask, as a favour--as a great favour!--to be allowed to do something to show my friendship, you--well, you snub me.' 'I snub you!' 'You know you snubbed me.' 'Do you really mean that you take an interest in--in my work?' 'You know I mean it.' She turned to me, her face all glowing,--and I did know it. 'Will you come to my laboratory to-morrow morning?' 'Will I!--won't I!' 'With your aunt?' 'Yes, with my aunt.' 'I'll show you round, and tell you all there is to be told, and then if you still think there's anything in it, I'll accept your offer about that South American experiment,--that is, if it still holds good.' 'Of course it still holds good.' 'And we'll be partners.' 'Partners?--Yes,--we will be partners.' 'It will cost a terrific sum.' 'There are some things which never can cost too much.' 'That's not my experience.' 'I hope it will be mine.' 'It's a bargain?' 'On my side, I promise you that it's a bargain.' When I got outside the room I found that Percy Woodville was at my side. His round face was, in a manner of speaking as long as my arm. He took his glass out of his eye, and rubbed it with his handkerchief,--and directly he put it back he took it out and rubbed it again, I believe that I never saw him in such a state of fluster,--and, when one speaks of Woodville, that means something. 'Atherton, I am in a devil of a stew.' He looked it. 'All of a heap!--I've had a blow which I shall never get over!' 'Then get under.' Woodville is one of those fellows who will insist on telling me their most private matters,--even to what they owe their washerwomen for the ruination of their shirts. Why, goodness alone can tell,--heaven knows I am not sympathetic. 'Don't be an idiot!--you don't know what I'm suffering!--I'm as nearly as possible stark mad.' 'That's all right, old chap,--I've seen you that way more than once before.' 'Don't talk like that,--you're not a perfect brute!' 'I bet you a shilling that I am.' 'Don't torture me,--you're not. Atherton!' He seized me by the lapels of my coat, seeming half beside himself,--fortunately he had drawn me into a recess, so that we were noticed by few observers. 'What do you think has happened?' 'My dear chap, how on earth am I to know?' 'She's refused me!' 'Has she!--Well I never!--Buck up,--try some other address,--there are quite as good fish in the sea as ever came out of it.' 'Atherton, you're a blackguard.' He had crumpled his handkerchief into a ball, and was actually bobbing at his eyes with it,--the idea of Percy Woodville being dissolved in tears was excruciatingly funny,--but, just then, I could hardly tell him so. 'There's not a doubt of it,--it's my way of being sympathetic. Don't be so down, man,--try her again!' 'It's not the slightest use--I know it isn't--from the way she treated me.' 'Don't be so sure--women often say what they mean least. Who's the lady?' 'Who?--Is there more women in the world than one for me, or has there ever been? You ask me who! What does the word mean to me but Marjorie Lindon!' 'Marjorie Lindon?' I fancy that my jaw dropped open,--that, to use his own vernacular, I was 'all of a heap.' I felt like it. I strode away--leaving him mazed--and all but ran into Marjorie's arms. 'I'm just leaving. Will you see me to the carriage, Mr Atherton?' I saw her to the carriage. 'Are you off?--can I give you a lift?' 'Thank you,--I am not thinking of being off.' 'I'm going to the House of Commons,--won't you come?' 'What are you going there for?' Directly she spoke of it I knew why she was going,--and she knew that I knew, as her words showed. 'You are quite well aware of what the magnet is. You are not so ignorant as not to know that the Agricultural Amendment Act is on to-night, and that Paul is to speak. I always try to be there when Paul is to speak, and I mean to always keep on trying.' 'He is a fortunate man.' 'Indeed,--and again indeed. A man with such gifts as his is inadequately described as fortunate.--But I must be off. He expected to be up before, but I heard from him a few minutes ago that there has been a delay, but that he will be up within half-an-hour.--Till our next meeting.' As I returned into the house, in the hall I met Percy Woodville. He had his hat on. 'Where are you off to?' 'I'm off to the House.' 'To hear Paul Lessingham?' 'Damn Paul Lessingham!' 'With all my heart!' 'There's a division expected,--I've got to go.' 'Someone else has gone to hear Paul Lessingham,--Marjorie Lindon.' 'No!--you don't say so!--by Jove!--I say, Atherton, I wish I could make a speech,--I never can. When I'm electioneering I have to have my speeches written for me, and then I have to read 'em. But, by Jove, if I knew Miss Lindon was in the gallery, and if I knew anything about the thing, or could get someone to tell me something, hang me if I wouldn't speak,--I'd show her I'm not the fool she thinks I am!' 'Speak, Percy, speak!--you'd knock 'em silly, sir!--I tell you what I'll do,--I'll come with you! I'll to the House as well!--Paul Lessingham shall have an audience of three.' CHAPTER XV MR LESSINGHAM SPEAKS The House was full. Percy and I went upstairs,--to the gallery which is theoretically supposed to be reserved for what are called 'distinguished strangers,'--those curious animals. Trumperton was up, hammering out those sentences which smell, not so much of the lamp as of the dunderhead. Nobody was listening,--except the men in the Press Gallery; where is the brain of the House, and ninety per cent, of its wisdom. It was not till Trumperton had finished that I discovered Lessingham. The tedious ancient resumed his seat amidst a murmur of sounds which, I have no doubt, some of the press-men interpreted next day as 'loud and continued applause.' There was movement in the House, possibly expressive of relief; a hum of voices; men came flocking in. Then, from the Opposition benches, there rose a sound which was applause,--and I perceived that, on a cross bench close to the gangway, Paul Lessingham was standing up bareheaded. I eyed him critically,--as a collector might eye a valuable specimen, or a pathologist a curious subject. During the last four and twenty hours my interest in him had grown apace. Just then, to me, he was the most interesting man the world contained. When I remembered how I had seen him that same morning, a nerveless, terror-stricken wretch, grovelling, like some craven cur, upon the floor, frightened, to the verge of imbecility, by a shadow, and less than a shadow, I was confronted by two hypotheses. Either I had exaggerated his condition then, or I exaggerated his condition now. So far as appearance went, it was incredible that this man could be that one. I confess that my feeling rapidly became one of admiration. I love the fighter. I quickly recognised that here we had him in perfection. There was no seeming about him then,--the man was to the manner born. To his finger-tips a fighting man. I had never realised it so clearly before. He was coolness itself. He had all his faculties under complete command. While never, for a moment, really exposing himself, he would be swift in perceiving the slightest weakness in his opponents' defence, and, so soon as he saw it, like lightning, he would slip in a telling blow. Though defeated, he would hardly be disgraced; and one might easily believe that their very victories would be so expensive to his assailants, that, in the end, they would actually conduce to his own triumph. 'Hang me!' I told myself, 'if, after all, I am surprised if Marjorie does see something in him.' For I perceived how a clever and imaginative young woman, seeing him at his best, holding his own, like a gallant knight, against overwhelming odds, in the lists in which he was so much at home, might come to think of him as if he were always and only there, ignoring altogether the kind of man he was when the joust was finished. It did me good to hear him, I do know that,--and I could easily imagine the effect he had on one particular auditor who was in the Ladies' Cage. It was very far from being an 'oration' in the American sense; it had little or nothing of the fire and fury of the French Tribune; it was marked neither by the ponderosity nor the sentiment of the eloquent German; yet it was as satisfying as are the efforts of either of the three, producing, without doubt, precisely the effect which the speaker intended. His voice was clear and calm, not exactly musical, yet distinctly pleasant, and it was so managed that each word he uttered was as audible to every person present as if it had been addressed particularly to him. His sentences were short and crisp; the words which he used were not big ones, but they came from him with an agreeable ease; and he spoke just fast enough to keep one's interest alert without invoking a strain on the attention. He commenced by making, in the quietest and most courteous manner, sarcastic comments on the speeches and methods of Trumperton and his friends which tickled the House amazingly. But he did not make the mistake of pushing his personalities too far. To a speaker of a certain sort nothing is easier than to sting to madness. If he likes, his every word is barbed. Wounds so given fester; they are not easily forgiven;--it is essential to a politician that he should have his firmest friends among the fools; or his climbing days will soon be over. Soon his sarcasms were at an end. He began to exchange them for sweet-sounding phrases. He actually began to say pleasant things to his opponents; apparently to mean them. To put them in a good conceit with themselves. He pointed out how much truth there was in what they said; and then, as if by accident, with what ease and at how little cost, amendments might be made. He found their arguments, and took them for his own, and flattered them, whether they would or would not, by showing how firmly they were founded upon fact; and grafted other arguments upon them, which seemed their natural sequelae; and transformed them, and drove them hither and thither; and brought them--their own arguments!--to a round, irrefragable conclusion, which was diametrically the reverse of that to which they themselves had brought them. And he did it all with an aptness, a readiness, a grace, which was incontestable. So that, when he sat down, he had performed that most difficult of all feats, he had delivered what, in a House of Commons' sense, was a practical, statesmanlike speech, and yet one which left his hearers in an excellent humour. It was a great success,--an immense success. A parliamentary triumph of almost the highest order. Paul Lessingham had been coming on by leaps and bounds. When he resumed his seat, amidst applause which, this time, really was applause, there were, probably, few who doubted that he was destined to go still farther. How much farther it is true that time alone could tell; but, so far as appearances went, all the prizes, which are as the crown and climax of a statesman's career, were well within his reach. For my part, I was delighted. I had enjoyed an intellectual exercise,--a species of enjoyment not so common as it might be. The Apostle had almost persuaded me that the political game was one worth playing, and that its triumphs were things to be desired. It is something, after all, to be able to appeal successfully to the passions and aspirations of your peers; to gain their plaudits; to prove your skill at the game you yourself have chosen; to be looked up to and admired. And when a woman's eyes look down on you, and her ears drink in your every word, and her heart beats time with yours,--each man to his own temperament, but when that woman is the woman whom you love, to know that your triumph means her glory, and her gladness, to me that would be the best part of it all. In that hour,--the Apostle's hour!--I almost wished that I were a politician too! The division was over. The business of the night was practically done. I was back again in the lobby! The theme of conversation was the Apostle's speech,--on every side they talked of it. Suddenly Marjorie was at my side. Her face was glowing. I never saw her look more beautiful,--or happier. She seemed to be alone. 'So you have come, after all!--Wasn't it splendid?--wasn't it magnificent? Isn't it grand to have such great gifts, and to use them to such good purpose?--Speak, Sydney! Don't feign a coolness which is foreign to your nature!' I saw that she was hungry for me to praise the man whom she delighted to honour. But, somehow, her enthusiasm cooled mine. 'It was not a bad speech, of a kind.' 'Of a kind!' How her eyes flashed fire! With what disdain she treated me! 'What do you mean by "of a kind?" My dear Sydney, are you not aware that it is an attribute of small minds to attempt to belittle those which are greater? Even if you are conscious of inferiority, it's unwise to show it. Mr Lessingham's was a great speech, of any kind; your incapacity to recognise the fact simply reveals your lack of the critical faculty.' 'It is fortunate for Mr Lessingham that there is at least one person in whom the critical faculty is so bountifully developed. Apparently, in your judgment, he who discriminates is lost.' I thought she was going to burst into passion. But, instead, laughing, she placed her hand upon my shoulder. 'Poor Sydney!--I understand!--It is so sad!--Do you know you are like a little boy who, when he is beaten, declares that the victor has cheated him. Never mind! as you grow older, you will learn better.' She stung me almost beyond bearing,--I cared not what I said. 'You, unless I am mistaken, will learn better before you are older.' 'What do you mean?' Before I could have told her--if I had meant to tell; which I did not--Lessingham came up. 'I hope I have not kept you waiting; I have been delayed longer than I expected.' 'Not at all,--though I am quite ready to get away; it's a little tiresome waiting here.' This with a mischievous glance towards me,--a glance which compelled Lessingham to notice me. 'You do not often favour us.' 'I don't. I find better employment for my time.' 'You are wrong. It's the cant of the day to underrate the House of Commons, and the work which it performs; don't you suffer yourself to join in the chorus of the simpletons. Your time cannot be better employed than in endeavouring to improve the body politic.' 'I am obliged to you.--I hope you are feeling better than when I saw you last.' A gleam came into his eyes, fading as quickly as it came. He showed no other sign of comprehension, surprise, or resentment. 'Thank you.--I am very well.' Marjorie perceived that I meant more than met the eye, and that what I meant was meant unpleasantly. 'Come,--let us be off. It is Mr Atherton to-night who is not well.' She had just slipped her arm through Lessingham's when her father approached. Old Lindon stared at her on the Apostle's arm, as if he could hardly believe that it was she. 'I thought that you were at the Duchess'?' 'So I have been, papa; and now I'm here.' 'Here!' Old Lindon began to stutter and stammer, and to grow red in the face, as is his wont when at all excited. 'W--what do you mean by here?--wh--where's the carriage?' 'Where should it be, except waiting for me outside,--unless the horses have run away.' 'I--I--I'll take you down to it. I--I don't approve of y--your w--w--waiting in a place like this.' 'Thank you, papa, but Mr Lessingham is going to take me down.--I shall see you afterwards.--Good bye.' Anything cooler than the way in which she walked off I do not think I ever saw. This is the age of feminine advancement. Young women think nothing of twisting their mothers round their fingers, let alone their fathers; but the fashion in which that young woman walked off, on the Apostle's arm, and left her father standing there, was, in its way, a study. Lindon seemed scarcely able to realise that the pair of them had gone. Even after they had disappeared in the crowd he stood staring after them, growing redder and redder, till the veins stood out upon his face, and I thought that an apoplectic seizure threatened. Then, with a gasp, he turned to me. 'Damned scoundrel!' I took it for granted that he alluded to the gentleman,--even though his following words hardly suggested it. 'Only this morning I forbade her to have anything to do with him, and n--now he's w--walked off with her! C--confounded adventurer! That's what he is, an adventurer, and before many hours have passed I'll take the liberty to tell him so!' Jamming his fists into his pockets, and puffing like a grampus in distress, he took himself away,--and it was time he did, for his words were as audible as they were pointed, and already people were wondering what the matter was. Woodville came up as Lindon was going,--just as sorely distressed as ever. 'She went away with Lessingham,--did you see her?' 'Of course I saw her. When a man makes a speech like Lessingham's any girl would go away with him,--and be proud to. When you are endowed with such great powers as he is, and use them for such lofty purposes, she'll walk away with you,--but, till then, never.' He was at his old trick of polishing his eyeglass. 'It's bitter hard. When I knew that she was there, I'd half a mind to make a speech myself, upon my word I had, only I didn't know what to speak about, and I can't speak anyhow,--how can a fellow speak when he's shoved into the gallery?' 'As you say, how can he?--he can't stand on the railing and shout,--even with a friend holding him behind.' 'I know I shall speak one day,--bound to; and then she won't be there.' 'It'll be better for you if she isn't.' 'Think so?--Perhaps you're right. I'd be safe to make a mess of it, and then, if she were to see me at it, it'd be the devil! 'Pon my word, I've been wishing, lately, I was clever.' He rubbed his nose with the rim of his eyeglass, looking the most comically disconsolate figure. 'Put black care behind you, Percy!--buck up, my boy! The division's over--you are free--now we'll go "on the fly."' And we did 'go on the fly.' CHAPTER XVI ATHERTON'S MAGIC VAPOUR I bore him off to supper at the Helicon. All the way in the cab he was trying to tell me the story of how he proposed to Marjorie,--and he was very far from being through with it when we reached the club. There was the usual crowd of supperites, but we got a little table to ourselves, in a corner of the room, and before anything was brought for us to eat he was at it again. A good many of the people were pretty near to shouting, and as they seemed to be all speaking at once, and the band was playing, and as the Helicon supper band is not piano, Percy did not have it quite all to himself, but, considering the delicacy of his subject, he talked as loudly as was decent,--getting more so as he went on. But Percy is peculiar. 'I don't know how many times I've tried to tell her,--over and over again.' 'Have you now?' 'Yes, pretty near every time I met her,--but I never seemed to get quite to it, don't you know.' 'How was that?' 'Why, just as I was going to say, "Miss Lindon, may I offer you the gift of my affection---"' 'Was that how you invariably intended to begin?' 'Well, not always--one time like that, another time another way. Fact is, I got off a little speech by heart, but I never got a chance to reel it off, so I made up my mind to just say anything.' 'And what did you say?' 'Well, nothing,--you see, I never got there. Just as I was feeling my way, she'd ask me if I preferred big sleeves to little ones, or top hats to billycocks, or some nonsense of the kind.' 'Would she now?' 'Yes,--of course I had to answer, and by the time I'd answered the chance was lost.' Percy was polishing his eye-glass. 'I tried to get there so many times, and she choked me off so often, that I can't help thinking that she suspected what it was that I was after.' 'You think she did?' 'She must have done. Once I followed her down Piccadilly, and chivied her into a glove shop in the Burlington Arcade. I meant to propose to her in there,--I hadn't had a wink of sleep all night through dreaming of her, and I was just about desperate.' 'And did you propose?' 'The girl behind the counter made me buy a dozen pairs of gloves instead. They turned out to be three sizes too large for me when they came home. I believe she thought I'd gone to spoon the glove girl,--she went out and left me there. That girl loaded me with all sorts of things when she was gone,--I couldn't get away. She held me with her blessed eye. I believe it was a glass one.' 'Miss Linden's--or the glove girl's?' 'The glove girl's. She sent me home a whole cartload of green ties, and declared I'd ordered them. I shall never forget that day. I've never been up the Arcade since, and never mean to.' 'You gave Miss Lindon a wrong impression.' 'I don't know. I was always giving her wrong impressions. Once she said that she knew I was not a marrying man, that I was the sort of chap who never would marry, because she saw it in my face.' 'Under the circumstances, that was trying.' 'Bitter hard.' Percy sighed again. 'I shouldn't mind if I wasn't so gone. I'm not a fellow who does get gone, but when I do get gone, I get so beastly gone.' 'I tell you what, Percy,--have a drink!' 'I'm a teetotaler,--you know I am.' 'You talk of your heart being broken, and of your being a teetotaler in the same breath,--if your heart were really broken you'd throw teetotalism to the winds.' 'Do you think so,--why?' 'Because you would,--men whose hearts are broken always do,--you'd swallow a magnum at the least.' Percy groaned. 'When I drink I'm always ill,--but I'll have a try.' He had a try,--making a good beginning by emptying at a draught the glass which the waiter had just now filled. Then he relapsed into melancholy. 'Tell me, Percy,--honest Indian!--do you really love her?' 'Love her?' His eyes grew round as saucers. 'Don't I tell you that I love her?' 'I know you tell me, but that sort of thing is easy telling. What does it make you feel like, this love you talk so much about?' 'Feel like?--Just anyhow,--and nohow. You should look inside me, and then you'd know.' 'I see.--It's like that, is it?--Suppose she loved another man, what sort of feeling would you feel towards him?' 'Does she love another man?' 'I say, suppose.' 'I dare say she does. I expect that's it.--What an idiot I am not to have thought of that before.' He sighed,--and refilled his glass. 'He's a lucky chap, whoever he is. I'd--I'd like to tell him so.' 'You'd like to tell him so?' 'He's such a jolly lucky chap, you know.' 'Possibly,--but his jolly good luck is your jolly bad luck. Would you be willing to resign her to him without a word?' 'If she loves him.' 'But you say you love her.' 'Of course I do.' 'Well then?' 'You don't suppose that, because I love her, I shouldn't like to see her happy?--I'm not such a beast!--I'd sooner see her happy than anything else in all the world.' 'I see,--Even happy with another?--I'm afraid that my philosophy is not like yours. If I loved Miss Lindon, and she loved, say, Jones, I'm afraid I shouldn't feel like that towards Jones at all.' 'What would you feel like?' 'Murder.--Percy, you come home with me,--we've begun the night together, let's end it together,--and I'll show you one of the finest notions for committing murder on a scale of real magnificence you ever dreamed of. I should like to make use of it to show my feelings towards the supposititious Jones,--he'd know what I felt for him when once he had been introduced to it.' Percy went with me without a word. He had not had much to drink, but it had been too much for him, and he was in a condition of maundering sentimentality. I got him into a cab. We dashed along Piccadilly. He was silent, and sat looking in front of him with an air of vacuous sullenness which ill-became his cast of countenance. I bade the cabman pass though Lowndes Square. As we passed the Apostle's I pulled him up. I pointed out the place to Woodville. 'You see, Percy, that's Lessingham's house!--that's the house of the man who went away with Marjorie!' 'Yes.' Words came from him slowly, with a quite unnecessary stress on each. 'Because he made a speech.--I'd like to make a speech.--One day I'll make a speech.' 'Because he made a speech,--only that, and nothing more! When a man speaks with an Apostle's tongue, he can witch any woman in the land.--Hallo, who's that?--Lessingham, is that you?' I saw, or thought I saw, someone, or something, glide up the steps, and withdraw into the shadow of the doorway, as if unwilling to be seen. When I hailed no one answered. I called again. 'Don't be shy, my friend!' I sprang out of the cab, ran across the pavement, and up the steps. To my surprise, there was no one in the doorway. It seemed incredible, but the place was empty. I felt about me with my hands, as if I had been playing at blind man's buff, and grasped at vacancy. I came down a step or two. 'Ostensibly, there's a vacuum,--which nature abhors.--I say, driver, didn't you see someone come up the steps?' 'I thought I did, sir,--I could have sworn I did.' 'So could I.--It's very odd.' 'Perhaps whoever it was has gone into the 'ouse, sir.' 'I don't see how. We should have heard the door open, if we hadn't seen it,--and we should have seen it, it's not so dark as that.--I've half a mind to ring the bell and inquire.' 'I shouldn't do that if I was you, sir,--you jump in, and I'll get along. This is Mr Lessingham's,--the great Mr Lessingham's.' I believe the cabman thought that I was drunk,--and not respectable enough to claim acquaintance with the great Mr Lessingham. 'Wake up, Woodville! Do you know I believe there's some mystery about this place,--I feel assured of it. I feel as if I were in the presence of something uncanny,--something which I can neither see, nor touch, nor hear.' The cabman bent down from his seat, wheedling me. 'Jump in, sir, and we'll be getting along.' I jumped in, and we got along,--but not far. Before we had gone a dozen yards, I was out again, without troubling the driver to stop. He pulled up, aggrieved. 'Well, sir, what's the matter now? You'll be damaging yourself before you've done, and then you'll be blaming me.' I had caught sight of a cat crouching in the shadow of the railings,--a black one. That cat was my quarry. Either the creature was unusually sleepy, or slow, or stupid, or it had lost its wits--which a cat seldom does lose!--anyhow, without making an attempt to escape it allowed me to grab it by the nape of the neck. So soon as we were inside my laboratory, I put the cat into my glass box. Percy stared. 'What have you put it there for?' 'That, my dear Percy, is what you are shortly about to see. You are about to be the witness of an experiment which, to a legislator--such as you are!--ought to be of the greatest possible interest. I am going to demonstrate, on a small scale, the action of the force which, on a large scale, I propose to employ on behalf of my native land.' He showed no signs of being interested. Sinking into a chair, he recommenced his wearisome reiteration. 'I hate cats!--Do let it go!--I'm always miserable when there's a cat in the room.' 'Nonsense,--that's your fancy! What you want's a taste of whisky--you'll be as chirpy as a cricket.' 'I don't want anything more to drink!--I've had too much already!' I paid no heed to what he said. I poured two stiff doses into a couple of tumblers. Without seeming to be aware of what it was that he was doing he disposed of the better half of the one I gave him at a draught. Putting his glass upon the table, he dropped his head upon his hands, and groaned. 'What would Marjorie think of me if she saw me now?' 'Think?--nothing. Why should she think of a man like you, when she has so much better fish to fry?' 'I'm feeling frightfully ill!--I'll be drunk before I've done!' 'Then be drunk!--only, for gracious sake, be lively drunk, not deadly doleful.--Cheer up, Percy!' I clapped him on the shoulder,--almost knocking him off his seat on to the floor. 'I am now going to show you that little experiment of which I was speaking!--You see that cat?' 'Of course I see it!--the beast!--I wish you'd let it go!' 'Why should I let it go?--Do you know whose cat that is? That cat's Paul Lessingham's.' 'Paul Lessingham's?' 'Yes, Paul Lessingham's,--the man who made the speech,--the man whom Marjorie went away with.' 'How do you know it's his?' 'I don't know it is, but I believe it is,--I choose to believe it is!--I intend to believe it is!--It was outside his house, therefore it's his cat,--that's how I argue. I can't get Lessingham inside that box, so I get his cat instead.' 'Whatever for?' 'You shall see.--You observe how happy it is?' 'It don't seem happy.' 'We've all our ways of seeming happy,--that's its way,' The creature was behaving like a cat gone mad, dashing itself against the sides of its glass prison, leaping to and fro, and from side to side, squealing with rage, or with terror, or with both. Perhaps it foresaw what was coming,--there is no fathoming the intelligence of what we call the lower animals. 'It's a funny way.' 'We some of us have funny ways, beside cats. Now, attention! Observe this little toy,--you've seen something of its kind before. It's a spring gun; you pull the spring-drop the charge into the barrel--release the spring--and the charge is fired. I'll unlock this safe, which is built into the wall. It's a letter lock, the combination just now, is "whisky,"--you see, that's a hint to you. You'll notice the safe is strongly made,--it's air-tight, fire-proof, the outer casing is of triple-plated drill-proof steel,--the contents are valuable--to me!--and devilish dangerous,--I'd pity the thief who, in his innocent ignorance, broke in to steal. Look inside--you see it's full of balls,--glass balls, each in its own little separate nest; light as feathers; transparent,--you can see right through them. Here are a couple, like tiny pills. They contain neither dynamite, nor cordite, nor anything of the kind, yet, given a fair field and no favour, they'll work more mischief than all the explosives man has fashioned. Take hold of one--you say your heart is broken!--squeeze this under your nose--it wants but a gentle pressure--and in less time than no time you'll be in the land where they say there are no broken hearts.' He shrunk back. 'I don't know what you're talking about.--I don't want the thing.--Take it away.' 'Think twice,--the chance may not recur.' 'I tell you I don't want it.' 'Sure?--Consider!' 'Of course I'm sure!' 'Then the cat shall have it.' 'Let the poor brute go!' 'The poor brute's going,--to the land which is so near, and yet so far. Once more, if you please, attention. Notice what I do with this toy gun. I pull back the spring; I insert this small glass pellet; I thrust the muzzle of the gun through the opening in the glass box which contains the Apostle's cat,--you'll observe it fits quite close, which, on the whole, is perhaps as well for us.--I am about to release the spring.--Close attention, please.--Notice the effect.' 'Atherton, let the brute go!' 'The brute's gone! I've released the spring--the pellet has been discharged--it has struck against the roof of the glass box--it has been broken by the contact,--and, hey presto! the cat lies dead,--and that in face of its nine lives. You perceive how still it is,--how still! Let's hope that, now, it's really happy. The cat which I choose to believe is Paul Lessingham's has received its quietus; in the morning I'll send it back to him, with my respectful compliments. He'll miss it if I don't.--Reflect! think of a huge bomb, filled with what we'll call Atherton's Magic Vapour, fired, say, from a hundred and twenty ton gun, bursting at a given elevation over the heads of an opposing force. Properly managed, in less than an instant of time, a hundred thousand men,--quite possibly more!--would drop down dead, as if smitten by the lightning of the skies. Isn't that something like a weapon, sir?' 'I'm not well!--I want to get away!--I wish I'd never come!' That was all Woodville had to say. 'Rubbish!--You're adding to your stock of information every second, and, in these days, when a member of Parliament is supposed to know all about everything, information's the one thing wanted. Empty your glass, man,--that's the time of day for you!' I handed him his tumbler. He drained what was left of its contents, then, in a fit of tipsy, childish temper he flung the tumbler from him. I had placed--carelessly enough--the second pellet within a foot of the edge of the table. The shock of the heavy beaker striking the board close to it, set it rolling. I was at the other side. I started forward to stop its motion, but I was too late. Before I could reach the crystal globule, it had fallen off the edge of the table on to the floor at Woodville's feet, and smashed in falling. As it smashed, he was looking down, wondering, no doubt, in his stupidity, what the pother was about,--for I was shouting, and making something of a clatter in my efforts to prevent the catastrophe which I saw was coming. On the instant, as the vapour secreted in the broken pellet gained access to the air, he fell forward on to his face. Rushing to him, I snatched his senseless body from the ground, and dragged it, staggeringly, towards the door which opened on to the yard. Flinging the door open, I got him into the open air. As I did so, I found myself confronted by someone who stood outside. It was Lessingham's mysterious Egypto-Arabian friend,--my morning's visitor. CHAPTER XVII MAGIC?--OR MIRACLE? The passage into the yard from the electrically lit laboratory was a passage from brilliancy to gloom. The shrouded figure, standing in the shadow, was like some object in a dream. My own senses reeled. It was only because I had resolutely held my breath, and kept my face averted that I had not succumbed to the fate which had overtaken Woodville. Had I been a moment longer in gaining the open air, it would have been too late. As it was, in placing Woodville on the ground, I stumbled over him. My senses left me. Even as they went I was conscious of exclaiming,--remembering the saying about the engineer being hoist by his own petard, 'Atherton's Magic Vapour!' My sensations on returning to consciousness were curious. I found myself being supported in someone's arms, a stranger's face was bending over me, and the most extraordinary pair of eyes I had ever seen were looking into mine. 'Who the deuce are you?' I asked. Then, understanding that it was my uninvited visitor, with scant ceremony I drew myself away from him. By the light which was streaming through the laboratory door I saw that Woodville was lying close beside me,--stark and still. 'Is he dead?' I cried. 'Percy.--speak, man!--it's not so bad with you as that!' But it was pretty bad,--so bad that, as I bent down and looked at him, my heart beat uncomfortably fast lest it was as bad as it could be. His heart seemed still,--the vapour took effect directly on the cardiac centres. To revive their action and that instantly, was indispensable. Yet my brain was in such a whirl that I could not even think of how to set about beginning. Had I been alone, it is more than probable Woodville would have died. As I stared at him, senselessly, aimlessly, the stranger, passing his arms beneath his body, extended himself at full length upon his motionless form. Putting his lips to Percy's, he seemed to be pumping life from his own body into the unconscious man's. As I gazed bewildered, surprised, presently there came a movement of Percy's body. His limbs twitched, as if he was in pain. By degrees, the motions became convulsive,--till on a sudden he bestirred himself to such effect that the stranger was rolled right off him. I bent down,--to find that the young gentleman's condition still seemed very far from satisfactory. There was a rigidity about the muscles of his face, a clamminess about his skin, a disagreeable suggestiveness about the way in which his teeth and the whites of his eyes were exposed, which was uncomfortable to contemplate. The stranger must have seen what was passing through my mind,--not a very difficult thing to see. Pointing to the recumbent Percy, he said, with that queer foreign twang of his, which, whatever it had seemed like in the morning, sounded musical enough just then. 'All will be well with him.' 'I am not so sure.' The stranger did not deign to answer. He was kneeling on one side of the victim of modern science, I on the other. Passing his hand to and fro in front of the unconscious countenance, as if by magic all semblance of discomfort vanished from Percy's features, and, to all appearances, he was placidly asleep. 'Have you hypnotised him?' 'What does it matter?' If it was a case of hypnotism, it was very neatly done. The conditions were both unusual and trying, the effect produced seemed all that could be desired,--the change brought about in half a dozen seconds was quite remarkable. I began to be aware of a feeling of quasi-respect for Paul Lessingham's friend. His morals might be peculiar, and manners he might have none, but in this case, at any rate, the end seemed to have justified the means. He went on. 'He sleeps. When he awakes he will remember nothing that has been. Leave him,--the night is warm,--all will be well.' As he said, the night was warm,--and it was dry. Percy would come to little harm by being allowed to enjoy, for a while, the pleasant breezes. So I acted on the stranger's advice, and left him lying in the yard, while I had a little interview with the impromptu physician. CHAPTER XVIII THE APOTHEOSIS OF THE BEETLE The laboratory door was closed. The stranger was standing a foot or two away from it. I was further within the room, and was subjecting him to as keen a scrutiny as circumstances permitted. Beyond doubt he was conscious of my observation, yet he bore himself with an air of indifference, which was suggestive of perfect unconcern. The fellow was oriental to the finger-tips,--that much was certain; yet in spite of a pretty wide personal knowledge of oriental people I could not make up my mind as to the exact part of the east from which he came. He was hardly an Arab, he was not a fellah,--he was not, unless I erred, a Mohammedan at all. There was something about him which was distinctly not Mussulmanic. So far as looks were concerned, he was not a flattering example of his race, whatever his race might be. The portentous size of his beak-like nose would have been, in itself, sufficient to damn him in any court of beauty. His lips were thick and shapeless,--and this, joined to another peculiarity in his appearance, seemed to suggest that, in his veins there ran more than a streak of negro blood. The peculiarity alluded to was his semblance of great age. As one eyed him one was reminded of the legends told of people who have been supposed to have retained something of their pristine vigour after having lived for centuries. As, however, one continued to gaze, one began to wonder if he really was so old as he seemed,--if, indeed, he was exceptionally old at all. Negroes, and especially negresses, are apt to age with extreme rapidity. Among coloured folk one sometimes encounters women whose faces seem to have been lined by the passage of centuries, yet whose actual tale of years would entitle them to regard themselves, here in England, as in the prime of life. The senility of the fellow's countenance, besides, was contradicted by the juvenescence of his eyes. No really old man could have had eyes like that. They were curiously shaped, reminding me of the elongated, faceted eyes of some queer creature, with whose appearance I was familiar, although I could not, at the instant, recall its name. They glowed not only with the force and fire, but, also, with the frenzy of youth. More uncanny-looking eyes I had never encountered,--their possessor could not be, in any sense of the word, a clubable person. Owing, probably, to some peculiar formation of the optic-nerve one felt, as one met his gaze, that he was looking right through you. More obvious danger signals never yet were placed in a creature's head. The individual who, having once caught sight of him, still sought to cultivate their owner's acquaintance, had only himself to thank if the very worst results of frequenting evil company promptly ensued. It happens that I am myself endowed with an unusual tenacity of vision. I could, for instance, easily outstare any man I ever met. Yet, as I continued to stare at this man, I was conscious that it was only by an effort of will that I was able to resist a baleful something which seemed to be passing from his eyes to mine. It might have been imagination, but, in that sense, I am not an imaginative man; and, if it was, it was imagination of an unpleasantly vivid kind. I could understand how, in the case of a nervous, or a sensitive temperament, the fellow might exercise, by means of the peculiar quality of his glance alone, an influence of a most disastrous sort, which given an appropriate subject in the manifestation of its power might approach almost to the supernatural. If ever man was endowed with the traditional evil eye, in which Italians, among modern nations, are such profound believers, it was he. When we had stared at each other for, I daresay, quite five minutes, I began to think I had had about enough of it. So, by way of breaking the ice, I put to him a question. 'May I ask how you found your way into my back yard?' He did not reply in words, but, raising his hands he lowered them, palms downward, with a gesture which was peculiarly oriental. 'Indeed?--Is that so?--Your meaning may be lucidity itself to you, but, for my benefit, perhaps you would not mind translating it into words. Once more I ask, how did you find your way into my back yard?' Again nothing but the gesture. 'Possibly you are not sufficiently acquainted with English manners and customs to be aware that you have placed yourself within reach of the pains and penalties of the law. Were I to call in the police you would find yourself in an awkward situation,--and, unless you are presently more explanatory, called in they will be.' By way of answer he indulged in a distortion of the countenance which might have been meant for a smile,--and which seemed to suggest that he regarded the police with a contempt which was too great for words. 'Why do you laugh--do you think that being threatened with the police is a joke? You are not likely to find it so.--Have you suddenly been bereft of the use of your tongue?' He proved that he had not by using it. 'I have still the use of my tongue.' 'That, at least, is something. Perhaps, since the subject of how you got into my back yard seems to be a delicate one, you will tell me why you got there.' 'You know why I have come.' 'Pardon me if I appear to flatly contradict you, but that is precisely what I do not know.' 'You do know.' 'Do I?--Then, in that case, I presume that you are here for the reason which appears upon the surface,--to commit a felony.' 'You call me thief?' 'What else are you?' 'I am no thief.--You know why I have come.' He raised his head a little. A look came into his eyes which I felt that I ought to understand, yet to the meaning of which I seemed, for the instant, to have mislaid the key. I shrugged my shoulders. 'I have come because you wanted me.' 'Because I wanted you!--On my word!--That's sublime!' 'All night you have wanted me,--do I not know? When she talked to you of him, and the blood boiled in your veins; when he spoke, and all the people listened, and you hated him, because he had honour in her eyes.' I was startled. Either he meant what it appeared incredible that he could mean, or--there was confusion somewhere. 'Take my advice, my friend, and don't try to come the bunco-steerer over me,--I'm a bit in that line myself, you know.' This time the score was mine,--he was puzzled. 'I know not what you talk of.' 'In that case, we're equal,--I know not what you talk of either.' His manner, for him, was childlike and bland. 'What is it you do not know? This morning did I not say,--if you want me, then I come?' 'I fancy I have some faint recollection of your being so good as to say something of the kind, but--where's the application?' 'Do you not feel for him the same as I?' 'Who's the him?' 'Paul Lessingham.' It was spoken quietly, but with a degree of--to put it gently--spitefulness which showed that at least the will to do the Apostle harm would not be lacking. 'And, pray, what is the common feeling which we have for him?' 'Hate.' Plainly, with this gentleman, hate meant hate,--in the solid oriental sense. I should hardly have been surprised if the mere utterance of the words had seared his lips. 'I am by no means prepared to admit that I have this feeling which you attribute to me, but, even granting that I have, what then?' 'Those who hate are kin.' 'That, also, I should be slow to admit; but--to go a step farther--what has all this to do with your presence on my premises at this hour of the night?' 'You love her.' This time I did not ask him to supply the name,--being unwilling that it should be soiled by the traffic of his lips. 'She loves him,--that is not well. If you choose, she shall love you,--that will be well.' 'Indeed.--And pray how is this consummation which is so devoutly to be desired to be brought about?' 'Put your hand into mine. Say that you wish it. It shall be done.' Moving a step forward, he stretched out his hand towards me. I hesitated. There was that in the fellow's manner which, for the moment, had for me an unwholesome fascination. Memories flashed through my mind of stupid stories which have been told of compacts made with the devil. I almost felt as if I was standing in the actual presence of one of the powers of evil. I thought of my love for Marjorie,--which had revealed itself after all these years; of the delight of holding her in my arms, of feeling the pressure of her lips to mine. As my gaze met his, the lower side of what the conquest of this fair lady would mean, burned in my brain; fierce imaginings blazed before my eyes. To win her,--only to win her! What nonsense he was talking! What empty brag it was! Suppose, just for the sake of the joke, I did put my hand in his, and did wish, right out, what it was plain he knew. If I wished, what harm would it do! It would be the purest jest. Out of his own mouth he would be confounded, for it was certain that nothing would come of it. Why should I not do it then? I would act on his suggestion,--I would carry the thing right through. Already I was advancing towards him, when--I stopped. I don't know why. On the instant, my thoughts went off at a tangent. What sort of a blackguard did I call myself that I should take a woman's name in vain for the sake of playing fool's tricks with such scum of the earth as the hideous vagabond in front of me,--and that the name of the woman whom I loved? Rage took hold of me. 'You hound!' I cried. In my sudden passage from one mood to another, I was filled with the desire to shake the life half out of him. But so soon as I moved a step in his direction, intending war instead of peace, he altered the position of his hand, holding it out towards me as if forbidding my approach. Directly he did so, quite involuntarily, I pulled up dead,--as if my progress had been stayed by bars of iron and walls of steel. For the moment, I was astonished to the verge of stupefaction. The sensation was peculiar. I was as incapable of advancing another inch in his direction as if I had lost the use of my limbs,--I was even incapable of attempting to attempt to advance. At first I could only stare and gape. Presently I began to have an inkling of what had happened. The scoundrel had almost succeeded in hypnotising me. That was a nice thing to happen to a man of my sort at my time of life. A shiver went down my back,--what might have occurred if I had not pulled up in time! What pranks might a creature of that character not have been disposed to play. It was the old story of the peril of playing with edged tools; I had made the dangerous mistake of underrating the enemy's strength. Evidently, in his own line, the fellow was altogether something out of the usual way. I believe that even as it was he thought he had me. As I turned away, and leaned against the table at my back, I fancy that he shivered,--as if this proof of my being still my own master was unexpected. I was silent,--it took some seconds to enable me to recover from the shock of the discovery of the peril in which I had been standing. Then I resolved that I would endeavour to do something which should make me equal to this gentleman of many talents. 'Take my advice, my friend, and don't attempt to play that hankey pankey off on to me again.' 'I don't know what you talk of.' 'Don't lie to me,--or I'll burn you into ashes.' Behind me was an electrical machine, giving an eighteen inch spark. It was set in motion by a lever fitted into the table, which I could easily reach from where I sat. As I spoke the visitor was treated to a little exhibition of electricity. The change in his bearing was amusing. He shook with terror. He salaamed down to the ground. 'My lord!--my lord!--have mercy, oh my lord!' 'Then you be careful, that's all. You may suppose yourself to be something of a magician, but it happens, unfortunately for you, that I can do a bit in that line myself,--perhaps I'm a trifle better at the game than you are. Especially as you have ventured into my stronghold, which contains magic enough to make a show of a hundred thousand such as you.' Taking down a bottle from a shelf, I sprinkled a drop or two of its contents on the floor. Immediately flames arose, accompanied by a blinding vapour. It was a sufficiently simple illustration of one of the qualities of phosphorous-bromide, but its effect upon my visitor was as startling as it was unexpected. If I could believe the evidence of my own eyesight, in the very act of giving utterance to a scream of terror he disappeared, how, or why, or whither, there was nothing to show,--in his place, where he had been standing, there seemed to be a dim object of some sort in a state of frenzied agitation on the floor. The phosphorescent vapour was confusing; the lights appeared to be suddenly burning low; before I had sense enough to go and see if there was anything there, and, if so, what, the flames had vanished, the man himself had reappeared, and, prostrated on his knees, was salaaming in a condition of abject terror. 'My lord! my lord!' he whined. 'I entreat you, my lord, to use me as your slave!' 'I'll use you as my slave!' Whether he or I was the more agitated it would have been difficult to say,--but, at least, it would not have done to betray my feelings as he did his. 'Stand up!' He stood up. I eyed him as he did with an interest which, so far as I was concerned, was of a distinctly new and original sort. Whether or not I had been the victim of an ocular delusion I could not be sure. It was incredible to suppose that he could have disappeared as he had seemed to disappear,--it was also incredible that I could have imagined his disappearance. If the thing had been a trick, I had not the faintest notion how it had been worked; and, if it was not a trick, then what was it? Was it something new in scientific marvels? Could he give me as much instruction in the qualities of unknown forces as I could him? In the meanwhile he stood in an attitude of complete submission, with downcast eyes, and hands crossed upon his breast. I started to cross-examine him. 'I am going to ask you some questions. So long as you answer them promptly, truthfully, you will be safe. Otherwise you had best beware.' 'Ask, oh my lord.' 'What is the nature of your objection to Mr Lessingham?' 'Revenge.' 'What has he done to you that you should wish to be revenged on him?' 'It is the feud of the innocent blood.' 'What do you mean by that?' 'On his hands is the blood of my kin. It cries aloud for vengeance.' 'Who has he killed?' 'That, my lord, is for me,--and for him.' 'I see.--Am I to understand that you do not choose to answer me, and that I am again to use my--magic?' I saw that he quivered. 'My lord, he has spilled the blood of her who has lain upon his breast.' I hesitated. What he meant appeared clear enough. Perhaps it would be as well not to press for further details. The words pointed to what it might be courteous to call an Eastern Romance,--though it was hard to conceive of the Apostle figuring as the hero of such a theme. It was the old tale retold, that to the life of every man there is a background,--that it is precisely in the unlikeliest cases that the background's darkest. What would that penny-plain-and-twopence-coloured bogey, the Nonconformist Conscience, make of such a story if it were blazoned through the land. Would Paul not come down with a run? '"Spilling blood" is a figure of speech; pretty, perhaps, but vague. If you mean that Mr Lessingham has been killing someone, your surest and most effectual revenge would be gained by an appeal to the law.' 'What has the Englishman's law to do with me?' 'If you can prove that he has been guilty of murder it would have a great deal to do with you. I assure you that at any rate, in that sense, the Englishman's law is no respecter of persons. Show him to be guilty, and it would hang Paul Lessingham as indifferently, and as cheerfully, as it would hang Bill Brown.' 'Is that so?' 'It is so, as, if you choose, you will be easily able to prove to your own entire satisfaction.' He had raised his head, and was looking at something which he seemed to see in front of him with a maleficent glare in his sensitive eyes which it was not nice to see. 'He would be shamed?' 'Indeed he would be shamed.' 'Before all men?' 'Before all men,--and, I take it, before all women too.' 'And he would hang?' 'If shown to have been guilty of wilful murder,--yes.' His hideous face was lighted up by a sort of diabolical exultation which made it, if that were possible, more hideous still. I had apparently given him a wrinkle which pleased him most consummately. 'Perhaps I will do that in the end,--in the end!' He opened his eyes to their widest limits, then shut them tight,--as if to gloat on the picture which his fancy painted. Then reopened them. 'In the meantime I will have vengeance in my own fashion. He knows already that the avenger is upon him,--he has good reason to know it. And through the days and the nights the knowledge shall be with him still, and it shall be to him as the bitterness of death,--aye, of many deaths. For he will know that escape there is none, and that for him there shall be no more sun in the sky, and that the terror shall be with him by night and by day, at his rising up and at his lying down, wherever his eyes shall turn it shall be there,--yet, behold, the sap and the juice of my vengeance is in this, in that though he shall be very sure that the days that are, are as the days of his death, yet shall he know that THE DEATH, THE GREAT DEATH, is coming--coming--and shall be on him--when I will!' The fellow spoke like an inspired maniac. If he meant half what he said,--and if he did not then his looks and his tones belied him!--then a promising future bade fair to be in store for Mr Lessingham,--and, also, circumstances being as they were, for Marjorie. It was this latter reflection which gave me pause. Either this imprecatory fanatic would have to be disposed of, by Lessingham himself, or by someone acting on his behalf, and, so far as their power of doing mischief went, his big words proved empty windbags, or Marjorie would have to be warned that there was at least one passage in her suitor's life, into which, ere it was too late, it was advisable that inquiry should be made. To allow Marjorie to irrevocably link her fate with the Apostle's, without being first of all made aware that he was, to all intents and purposes, a haunted man--that was not to be thought of. 'You employ large phrases.' My words cooled the other's heated blood. Once more his eyes were cast down, his hands crossed upon his breast 'I crave my lord's pardon. My wound is ever new.' 'By the way, what was the secret history, this morning, of that little incident of the cockroach?' He glanced up quickly. 'Cockroach?--I know not what you say.' 'Well,--was it beetle, then?' 'Beetle!' He seemed, all at once, to have lost his voice,--the word was gasped. 'After you went we found, upon a sheet of paper, a capitally executed drawing of a beetle, which, I fancy, you must have left behind you,--Scaraboeus sacer, wasn't it?' 'I know not what you talk of.' 'Its discovery seemed to have quite a singular effect on Mr Lessingham. Now, why was that?' 'I know nothing.' 'Oh yes you do,--and, before you go, I mean to know something too.' The man was trembling, looking this way and that, showing signs of marked discomfiture. That there was something about that ancient scarab, which figures so largely in the still unravelled tangles of the Egyptian mythologies, and the effect which the mere sight of its cartouch--for the drawing had resembled something of the kind--had had on such a seasoned vessel as Paul Lessingham, which might be well worth my finding out, I felt convinced,--the man's demeanour, on my recurring to the matter, told its own plain tale. I made up my mind, if possible, to probe the business to the bottom, then and there. 'Listen to me, my friend. I am a plain man, and I use plain speech,--it's a kind of hobby I have. You will give me the information I require, and that at once, or I will pit my magic against yours,--in which case I think it extremely probable that you will come off worst from the encounter.' I reached out for the lever, and the exhibition of electricity recommenced. Immediately his tremors were redoubled. 'My lord, I know not of what you talk.' 'None of your lies for me.--Tell me why, at the sight of the thing on that sheet of paper, Paul Lessingham went green and yellow.' 'Ask him, my lord.' 'Probably, later on, that is what I shall do. In the meantime, I am asking you. Answer,--or look out for squalls.' The electrical exhibition was going on. He was glaring at it as if he wished that it would stop. As if ashamed of his cowardice, plainly, on a sudden, he made a desperate effort to get the better of his fears,--and succeeded better than I had expected or desired. He drew himself up with what, in him, amounted to an air of dignity. 'I am a child of Isis!' It struck me that he made this remark, not so much to impress me, as with a view of elevating his own low spirits, 'Are you?--Then, in that case, I regret that I am unable to congratulate the lady on her offspring.' When I said that, a ring came into his voice which I had not heard before. 'Silence!--You know not of what you speak!--I warn you, as I warned Paul Lessingham, be careful not to go too far. Be not like him,--heed my warning.' 'What is it I am being warned against,--the beetle?' 'Yes,--the beetle!' Were I upon oath, and this statement being made, in the presence of witnesses, say, in a solicitor's office, I standing in fear of pains and penalties, I think that, at this point, I should leave the paper blank. No man likes to own himself a fool, or that he ever was a fool,--and ever since I have been wondering whether, on that occasion, that 'child of Isis' did, or did not, play the fool with me. His performance was realistic enough at the time, heaven knows. But, as it gets farther and farther away, I ask myself, more and more confidently, as time effluxes, whether, after all, it was not clever juggling,--superhumanly clever juggling, if you will; that, and nothing more. If it was something more, then, with a vengeance! there is more in heaven and earth than is dreamed of in our philosophy. The mere possibility opens vistas which the sane mind fears to contemplate. Since, then, I am not on oath, and, should I fall short of verbal accuracy, I do not need to fear the engines of the law, what seemed to happen was this. He was standing within about ten feet of where I leaned against the edge of the table. The light was full on, so that it was difficult to suppose that I could make a mistake as to what took place in front of me. As he replied to my mocking allusion to the beetle by echoing my own words, he vanished,--or, rather, I saw him taking a different shape before my eyes. His loose draperies all fell off him, and, as they were in the very act of falling, there issued, or there seemed to issue out of them, a monstrous creature of the beetle type,--the man himself was gone. On the point of size I wish to make myself clear. My impression, when I saw it first, was that it was as large as the man had been, and that it was, in some way, standing up on end, the legs towards me. But, the moment it came in view, it began to dwindle, and that so rapidly that, in a couple of seconds at most, a little heap of drapery was lying on the floor, on which was a truly astonishing example of the coleoptera. It appeared to be a beetle. It was, perhaps, six or seven inches high, and about a foot in length. Its scales were of a vivid golden green. I could distinctly see where the wings were sheathed along the back, and, as they seemed to be slightly agitated, I looked, every moment, to see them opened, and the thing take wing. I was so astonished,--as who would not have been?--that for an appreciable space of time I was practically in a state of stupefaction. I could do nothing but stare. I was acquainted with the legendary transmigrations of Isis, and with the story of the beetle which issues from the woman's womb through all eternity, and with the other pretty tales, but this, of which I was an actual spectator, was something new, even in legends. If the man, with whom I had just been speaking, was gone, where had he gone to? If this glittering creature was there, in his stead, whence had it come? I do protest this much, that, after the first shock of surprise had passed, I retained my presence of mind. I felt as an investigator might feel, who has stumbled, haphazard, on some astounding, some epoch-making, discovery. I was conscious that I should have to make the best use of my mental faculties if I was to take full advantage of so astonishing an accident. I kept my glance riveted on the creature, with the idea of photographing it on my brain. I believe that if it were possible to take a retinal print--which it someday will be--you would have a perfect picture of what it was I saw, Beyond doubt it was a lamellicorn, one of the copridae. With the one exception of its monstrous size, there were the characteristics in plain view;--the convex body, the large head, the projecting clypeus. More, its smooth head and throat seemed to suggest that it was a female. Equally beyond a doubt, apart from its size, there were unusual features present too. The eyes were not only unwontedly conspicuous, they gleamed as if they were lighted by internal flames,--in some indescribable fashion they reminded me of my vanished visitor. The colouring was superb, and the creature appeared to have the chameleon-like faculty of lightening and darkening the shades at will. Its not least curious feature was its restlessness. It was in a state of continual agitation; and, as if it resented my inspection, the more I looked at it the more its agitation grew. As I have said, I expected every moment to see it take wing and circle through the air. All the while I was casting about in my mind as to what means I could use to effect its capture. I did think of killing it, and, on the whole, I rather wish that I had at any rate attempted slaughter,--there were dozens of things, lying ready to my hand, any one of which would have severely tried its constitution;--but, on the spur of the moment, the only method of taking it alive which occurred to me, was to pop over it a big tin canister which had contained soda-lime. This canister was on the floor to my left. I moved towards it, as nonchalantly as I could, keeping an eye on that shining wonder all the time. Directly I moved, its agitation perceptibly increased,--it was, so to speak, all one whirr of tremblement; it scintillated, as if its coloured scales had been so many prisms; it began to unsheath its wings, as if it had finally decided that it would make use of them. Picking up the tin, disembarrassing it of its lid, I sprang towards my intended victim. Its wings opened wide; obviously it was about to rise; but it was too late. Before it had cleared the ground, the tin was over it. It remained over it, however, for an instant only. I had stumbled, in my haste, and, in my effort to save myself from falling face foremost on to the floor, I was compelled to remove my hands from the tin. Before I was able to replace them, the tin was sent flying, and, while I was still partially recumbent, within eighteen inches of me, that beetle swelled and swelled, until it had assumed its former portentous dimensions, when, as it seemed, it was enveloped by a human shape, and in less time than no time, there stood in front of me, naked from top to toe, my truly versatile oriental friend. One startling fact nudity revealed,--that I had been egregiously mistaken on the question of sex. My visitor was not a man, but a woman, and, judging from the brief glimpse which I had of her body, by no means old or ill-shaped either. If that transformation was not a bewildering one, then two and two make five. The most level-headed scientist would temporarily have lost his mental equipoise on witnessing such a quick change as that within a span or two of his own nose I was not only witless, I was breathless too,--I could only gape. And, while I gaped, the woman, stooping down, picking up her draperies, began to huddle them on her anyhow,--and, also, to skeddadle towards the door which led into the yard. When I observed this last manoeuvre, to some extent I did rise to the requirements of the situation. Leaping up, I rushed to stay her flight. 'Stop!' I shouted. But she was too quick for me. Ere I could reach her, she had opened the door, and was through it,--and, what was more, she had slammed it in my face. In my excitement, I did some fumbling with the handle. When, in my turn, I was in the yard, she was out of sight. I did fancy I saw a dim form disappearing over the wall at the further side, and I made for it as fast as I knew how. I clambered on to the wall, looking this way and that, but there was nothing and no one to be seen. I listened for the sound of retreating footsteps, but all was still. Apparently I had the entire neighbourhood to my own sweet self. My visitor had vanished. Time devoted to pursuit I felt would be time ill-spent. As I returned across the yard, Woodville, who still was taking his rest under the open canopy of heaven, sat up. Seemingly my approach had roused him out of slumber. At sight of me he rubbed his eyes, and yawned, and blinked. 'I say,' he remarked, not at all unreasonably, 'where am I?' 'You're on holy--or on haunted ground,--hang me if I quite know which!--but that's where you are, my boy.' 'By Jove!--I am feeling queer!--I have got a headache, don't you know.' 'I shouldn't be in the least surprised at anything you have, or haven't,--I'm beyond surprise. It's a drop of whisky you are wanting,--and what I'm wanting too,--only, for goodness sake, drop me none of your drops! Mine is a case for a bottle at the least.' I put my arm through his, and went with him into the laboratory. And, when we were in, I shut, and locked, and barred the door. CHAPTER XIX THE LADY RAGES Dora Grayling stood in the doorway. 'I told your servant he need not trouble to show me in,--and I've come without my aunt. I hope I'm not intruding.' She was--confoundedly; and it was on the tip of my tongue to tell her so. She came into the room, with twinkling eyes, looking radiantly happy,--that sort of look which makes even a plain young woman prepossessing. 'Am I intruding?--I believe I am.' She held out her hand, while she was still a dozen feet away, and when I did not at once dash forward to make a clutch at it, she shook her head and made a little mouth at me. 'What's the matter with you?--Aren't you well?' I was not well,--I was very far from well. I was as unwell as I could be without being positively ill, and any person of common discernment would have perceived it at a glance. At the same time I was not going to admit anything of the kind to her. 'Thank you,--I am perfectly well.' 'Then, if I were you, I would endeavour to become imperfectly well; a little imperfection in that direction might make you appear to more advantage.' 'I am afraid that that I am not one of those persons who ever do appear to much advantage,--did I not tell you so last night?' 'I believe you did say something of the kind,--it's very good of you to remember. Have you forgotten something else which you said to me last night?' 'You can hardly expect me to keep fresh in my memory all the follies of which my tongue is guilty.' 'Thank you.--That is quite enough.--Good-day.' She turned as if to go. 'Miss Grayling!' 'Mr Atherton?' 'What's the matter?--What have I been saying now?' 'Last night you invited me to come and see you this morning,--is that one of the follies of which your tongue was guilty?' The engagement had escaped my recollection--it is a fact--and my face betrayed me. 'You had forgotten?' Her cheeks flamed; her eyes sparkled. 'You must pardon my stupidity for not having understood that the imitation was of that general kind which is never meant to be acted on.' She was half way to the door before I stopped her,--I had to take her by the shoulder to do it. 'Miss Grayling!--You are hard on me.' 'I suppose I am.--Is anything harder than to be intruded on by an undesired, and unexpected, guest?' 'Now you are harder still.--If you knew what I have gone through since our conversation of last night, in your strength you would be merciful.' 'Indeed?--What have you gone through?' I hesitated. What I actually had gone through I certainly did not propose to tell her. Other reasons apart I did not desire to seem madder than I admittedly am,--and I lacked sufficient plausibility to enable me to concoct, on the spur of the moment, a plain tale of the doings of my midnight visitor which would have suggested that the narrator was perfectly sane. So I fenced,--or tried to. 'For one thing,--I have had no sleep.' I had not,--not one single wink. When I did get between the sheets, 'all night I lay in agony,' I suffered from that worst form of nightmare,--the nightmare of the man who is wide awake. There was continually before my fevered eyes the strange figure of that Nameless Thing. I had often smiled at tales of haunted folk,--here was I one of them. My feelings were not rendered more agreeable by a strengthening conviction that if I had only retained the normal attitude of a scientific observer I should, in all probability, have solved the mystery of my oriental friend, and that his example of the genus of copridae might have been pinned,--by a very large pin!--on a piece--a monstrous piece!--of cork. It was galling to reflect that he and I had played together a game of bluff,--a game at which civilisation was once more proved to be a failure. She could not have seen all this in my face; but she saw something--because her own look softened. 'You do look tired.' She seemed to be casting about in her own mind for a cause. 'You have been worrying.' She glanced round the big laboratory. 'Have you been spending the night in this--wizard's cave?' 'Pretty well' 'Oh!' The monosyllable, as she uttered it, was big with meaning. Uninvited, she seated herself in an arm-chair, a huge old thing, of shagreen leather, which would have held half a dozen of her. Demure in it she looked, like an agreeable reminiscence, alive, and a little up-to-date, of the women of long ago. Her dove grey eyes seemed to perceive so much more than they cared to show. 'How is it that you have forgotten that you asked me to come?--didn't you mean it?' 'Of course I meant it.' 'Then how is it you've forgotten?' 'I didn't forget.' 'Don't tell fibs.--Something is the matter,--tell me what it is.--Is it that I am too early?' 'Nothing of the sort,--you couldn't be too early.' 'Thank you.--When you pay a compliment, even so neat an one as that, sometimes, you should look as if you meant it.--It is early,--I know it's early, but afterwards I want you to come to lunch. I told aunt that I would bring you back with me.' 'You are much better to me than I deserve.' 'Perhaps.' A tone came into her voice which was almost pathetic. 'I think that to some men women are almost better than they deserve. I don't know why. I suppose it pleases them. It is odd.' There was a different intonation,--a dryness. 'Have you forgotten what I came for?' 'Not a bit of it,--I am not quite the brute I seem. You came to see an illustration of that pleasant little fancy of mine for slaughtering my fellows. The fact is, I'm hardly in a mood for that just now,--I've been illustrating it too much already.' 'What do you mean?' 'Well, for one thing it's been murdering Lessingham's cat.' 'Mr Lessingham's cat?' 'Then it almost murdered Percy Woodville.' 'Mr Atherton!--I wish you wouldn't talk like that.' 'It's a fact. It was a question of a little matter in a wrong place, and, if it hadn't been for something very like a miracle, he'd be dead.' 'I wish you wouldn't have anything to do with such things--I hate them.' I stared. 'Hate them?--I thought you'd come to see an illustration.' 'And pray what was your notion of an illustration?' 'Well, another cat would have had to be killed, at least.' 'And do you suppose that I would have sat still while a cat was being killed for my--edification?' 'It needn't necessarily have been a cat, but something would have had to be killed,--how are you going to illustrate the death-dealing propensities of a weapon of that sort without it?' 'Is it possible that you imagine that I came here to see something killed?' 'Then for what did you come?' I do not know what there was about the question which was startling, but as soon as it was out, she went a fiery red. 'Because I was a fool.' I was bewildered. Either she had got out of the wrong side of bed, or I had,--or we both had. Here she was, assailing me, hammer and tongs, so far as I could see, for absolutely nothing. 'You are pleased to be satirical at my expense.' 'I should not dare. Your detection of me would be so painfully rapid.' I was in no mood for jangling. I turned a little away from her. Immediately she was at my elbow. 'Mr Atherton?' 'Miss Grayling.' 'Are you cross with me?' 'Why should I be? If it pleases you to laugh at my stupidity you are completely justified.' 'But you are not stupid.' 'No?--Nor you satirical.' 'You are not stupid,--you know you are not stupid; it was only stupidity on my part to pretend that you were.' 'It is very good of you to say so.--But I fear that I am an indifferent host. Although you would not care for an illustration, there may be other things which you might find amusing.' 'Why do you keep on snubbing me?' 'I keep on snubbing you!' 'You are always snubbing me,--you know you are. Some times I feel as if I hated you.' 'Miss Grayling!' 'I do! I do! I do!' 'After all, it is only natural.' 'That is how you talk,--as if I were a child, and you were,--oh I don't know what.--Well, Mr Atherton, I am sorry to be obliged to leave you. I have enjoyed my visit very much. I only hope I have not seemed too intrusive.' She flounced--'flounce' was the only appropriate word!--out of the room before I could stop her. I caught her in the passage. 'Miss Grayling, I entreat you--' 'Pray do not entreat me, Mr Atherton.' Standing still she turned to me. 'I would rather show myself to the door as I showed myself in, but, if that is impossible, might I ask you not to speak to me between this and the street?' The hint was broad enough, even for me. I escorted her through the hall without a word,--in perfect silence she shook the dust of my abode from off her feet. I had made a pretty mess of things. I felt it as I stood on the top of the steps and watched her going,--she was walking off at four miles an hour; I had not even ventured to ask to be allowed to call a hansom. It was beginning to occur to me that this was a case in which another blow upon the river might be, to say the least of it, advisable--and I was just returning into the house with the intention of putting myself into my flannels, when a cab drew up, and old Lindon got out of it. CHAPTER XX A HEAVY FATHER Mr Lindon was excited,--there is no mistaking it when he is, because with him excitement means perspiration, and as soon as he was out of the cab he took off his hat and began to wipe the lining. 'Atherton, I want to speak to you--most particularly--somewhere in private.' I took him into my laboratory. It is my rule to take no one there; it is a workshop, not a playroom,--the place is private; but, recently, my rules had become dead letters. Directly he was inside, Lindon began puffing and stewing, wiping his forehead, throwing out his chest, as if he were oppressed by a sense of his own importance. Then he started off talking at the top of his voice,--and it is not a low one either. 'Atherton, I--I've always looked on you as a--a kind of a son.' 'That's very kind of you.' 'I've always regarded you as a--a level-headed fellow; a man from whom sound advice can be obtained when sound advice--is--is most to be desired.' 'That also is very kind of you.' 'And therefore I make no apology for coming to you at--at what may be regarded as a--a strictly domestic crisis; at a moment in the history of the Lindons when delicacy and common sense are--are essentially required.' This time I contented myself with nodding. Already I perceived what was coming; somehow, when I am with a man I feel so much more clear-headed than I do when I am with a woman,--realise so much better the nature of the ground on which I am standing. 'What do you know of this man Lessingham?' I knew it was coming. 'What all the world knows.' 'And what does all the world know of him?--I ask you that! A flashy, plausible, shallow-pated, carpet-bagger,--that is what all the world knows of him. The man's a political adventurer,--he snatches a precarious, and criminal, notoriety, by trading on the follies of his fellow-countrymen. He is devoid of decency, destitute of principle, and impervious to all the feelings of a gentleman. What do you know of him besides this?' 'I am not prepared to admit that I do know that.' 'Oh yes you do!--don't talk nonsense!--you choose to screen the fellow! I say what I mean,--I always have said, and I always shall say.--What do you know of him outside politics,--of his family--of his private life?' 'Well,--not very much.' 'Of course you don't!--nor does anybody else! The man's a mushroom,--or a toadstool, rather!--sprung up in the course of a single night, apparently out of some dirty ditch.--Why, sir, not only is he without ordinary intelligence, he is even without a Brummagen substitute for manners.' He had worked himself into a state of heat in which his countenance presented a not too agreeable assortment of scarlets and purples. He flung himself into a chair, threw his coat wide open, and his arms too, and started off again. 'The family of the Lindons is, at this moment, represented by a--a young woman,--by my daughter, sir. She represents me, and it's her duty to represent me adequately--adequately, sir! And what's more, between ourselves, sir, it's her duty to marry. My property's my own, and I wouldn't have it pass to either of my confounded brothers on any account. They're next door to fools, and--and they don't represent me in any possible sense of the word. My daughter, sir, can marry whom she pleases,--whom she pleases! There's no one in England, peer or commoner, who would not esteem it an honour to have her for his wife--I've told her so,--yes, sir, I've told her, though you--you'd think that she, of all people in the world, wouldn't require telling. Yet what do you think she does? She--she actually carries on what I--I can't help calling a--a compromising acquaintance with this man Lessingham!' 'No!' 'But I say yes!--and I wish to heaven I didn't. I--I've warned her against the scoundrel more than once; I--I've told her to cut him dead. And yet, as--as you saw yourself, last night, in--in the face of the assembled House of Commons, after that twaddling clap-trap speech of his, in which there was not one sound sentiment, nor an idea which--which would hold water, she positively went away with him, in--in the most ostentatious and--and disgraceful fashion, on--on his arm, and--and actually snubbed her father.--It is monstrous that a parent--a father!--should be subjected to such treatment by his child.' The poor old boy polished his brow with his pocket-handkerchief. 'When I got home I--I told her what I thought of her, I promise you that,--and I told her what I thought of him,--I didn't mince my words with her. There are occasions when plain speaking is demanded,--and that was one. I positively forbade her to speak to the fellow again, or to recognise him if she met him in the street. I pointed out to her, with perfect candour, that the fellow was an infernal scoundrel,--that and nothing else!--and that he would bring disgrace on whoever came into contact with him, even with the end of a barge pole.--And what do you think she said?' 'She promised to obey you, I make no doubt.' 'Did she, sir!--By gad, did she!--That shows how much you know her!--She said, and, by gad, by her manner, and--and the way she went on, you'd--you'd have thought that she was the parent and I was the child--she said that I--I grieved her, that she was disappointed in me, that times have changed,--yes, sir, she said that times have changed!--that, nowadays, parents weren't Russian autocrats--no, sir, not Russian autocrats!--that--that she was sorry she couldn't oblige me,--yes, sir, that was how she put it,--she was sorry she couldn't oblige me, but it was altogether out of the question to suppose that she could put a period to a friendship which she valued, simply on account of-of my unreasonable prejudices,--and--and--and, in short, she--she told me to go the devil, sir!' 'And did you--' I was on the point of asking him if he went,--but I checked myself in time. 'Let us look at the matter as men of the world. What do you know against Lessingham, apart from his politics?' 'That's just it,--I know nothing.' 'In a sense, isn't that in his favour?' 'I don't see how you make that out. I--I don't mind telling you that I--I've had inquiries made. He's not been in the House six years--this is his second Parliament--he's jumped up like a Jack-in-the-box. His first constituency was Harwich--they've got him still, and much good may he do 'em!--but how he came to stand for the place,--or who, or what, or where he was before he stood for the place, no one seems to have the faintest notion.' 'Hasn't he been a great traveller?' 'I never heard of it.' 'Not in the East?' 'Has he told you so?' 'No,--I was only wondering. Well, it seems to me that to find out that nothing is known against him is something in his favour!' 'My dear Sydney, don't talk nonsense. What it proves is simply,--that he's a nothing and a nobody. Had he been anything or anyone, something would have been known about him, either for or against. I don't want my daughter to marry a man who--who--who's shot up through a trap, simply because nothing is known against him. Ha-hang me, if I wouldn't ten times sooner she should marry you.' When he said that, my heart leaped in my bosom. I had to turn away. 'I am afraid that is out of the question.' He stopped in his tramping, and looked at me askance. 'Why?' I felt that, if I was not careful, I should be done for,--and, probably, in his present mood, Marjorie too. 'My dear Lindon, I cannot tell you how grateful I am to you for your suggestion, but I can only repeat that--unfortunately, anything of the kind is out of the question.' 'I don't see why.' 'Perhaps not.' 'You--you're a pretty lot, upon my word!' 'I'm afraid we are.' 'I--I want you to tell her that Lessingham is a damned scoundrel.' 'I see.--But I would suggest that if I am to use the influence with which you credit me to the best advantage, or to preserve a shred of it, I had hardly better state the fact quite so bluntly as that.' 'I don't care how you state it,--state it as you like. Only--only I want you to soak her mind with a loathing of the fellow; I--I--I want you to paint him in his true colours; in--in--in fact, I--I want you to choke him off.' While he still struggled with his words, and with the perspiration on his brow, Edwards entered. I turned to him. 'What is it?' 'Miss Lindon, sir, wishes to see you particularly, and at once.' At that moment I found the announcement a trifle perplexing,--it delighted Lindon. He began to stutter and to stammer. 'T-the very thing!--c-couldn't have been better!--show her in here! H--hide me somewhere,--I don't care where,--behind that screen! Y-you use your influence with her;--g-give her a good talking to;--t-tell her what I've told you; and at--at the critical moment I'll come in, and then--then if we can't manage her between us, it'll be a wonder.' The proposition staggered me. 'But, my dear Mr Lindon, I fear that I cannot--' He cut me short. 'Here she comes!' Ere I could stop him he was behind the screen,--I had not seen him move with such agility before!--and before I could expostulate Marjorie was in the room. Something which was in her bearing, in her face, in her eyes, quickened the beating of my pulses,--she looked as if something had come into her life, and taken the joy clean out of it. CHAPTER XXI THE TERROR IN THE NIGHT 'Sydney!' she cried, 'I'm so glad that I can see you!' She might be,--but, at that moment, I could scarcely assert that I was a sharer of her joy. 'I told you that if trouble overtook me I should come to you, and--I'm in trouble now. Such strange trouble.' So was I,--and in perplexity as well. An idea occurred to me,--I would outwit her eavesdropping father. 'Come with me into the house,--tell me all about it there.' She refused to budge. 'No,--I will tell you all about it here.' She looked about her,--as it struck me queerly. 'This is just the sort of place in which to unfold a tale like mine. It looks uncanny.' 'But--' '"But me no buts!" Sydney, don't torture me,--let me stop here where I am,--don't you see I'm haunted?' She had seated herself. Now she stood up, holding her hands out in front of her in a state of extraordinary agitation, her manner as wild as her words. 'Why are you staring at me like that? Do you think I'm mad?--I wonder if I'm going mad.--Sydney, do people suddenly go mad? You're a bit of everything, you're a bit of a doctor too, feel my pulse,--there it is!--tell me if I'm ill!' I felt her pulse,--it did not need its swift beating to inform me that fever of some sort was in her veins. I gave her something in a glass. She held it up to the level of her eyes. 'What's this?' 'It's a decoction of my own. You might not think it, but my brain sometimes gets into a whirl. I use it as a sedative. It will do you good.' She drained the glass. 'It's done me good already,--I believe it has; that's being something like a doctor.--Well, Sydney, the storm has almost burst. Last night papa forbade me to speak to Paul Lessingham--by way of a prelude.' 'Exactly. Mr Lindon---' 'Yes, Mr Lindon,--that's papa. I fancy we almost quarrelled. I know papa said some surprising things,--but it's a way he has,--he's apt to say surprising things. He's the best father in the world, but--it's not in his nature to like a really clever person; your good high dried old Tory never can;--I've always thought that that's why he's so fond of you.' 'Thank you, I presume that is the reason, though it had not occurred to me before.' Since her entry, I had, to the best of my ability, been turning the position over in my mind. I came to the conclusion that, all things considered, her father had probably as much right to be a sharer of his daughter's confidence as I had, even from the vantage of the screen,--and that for him to hear a few home truths proceeding from her lips might serve to clear the air. From such a clearance the lady would not be likely to come off worst. I had not the faintest inkling of what was the actual purport of her visit. She started off, as it seemed to me, at a tangent. 'Did I tell you last night about what took place yesterday morning,--about the adventure of my finding the man?' 'Not a word.' 'I believe I meant to,--I'm half disposed to think he's brought me trouble. Isn't there some superstition about evil befalling whoever shelters a homeless stranger?' 'We'll hope not, for humanity's sake.' 'I fancy there is,--I feel sure there is.--Anyhow, listen to my story. Yesterday morning, before breakfast,--to be accurate, between eight and nine, I looked out of the window, and I saw a crowd in the street. I sent Peter out to see what was the matter. He came back and said there was a man in a fit. I went out to look at the man in the fit. I found, lying on the ground, in the centre of the crowd, a man who, but for the tattered remnants of what had apparently once been a cloak, would have been stark naked. He was covered with dust, and dirt, and blood,--a dreadful sight. As you know, I have had my smattering of instruction in First Aid to the Injured, and that kind of thing, so, as no one else seemed to have any sense, and the man seemed as good as dead, I thought I would try my hand. Directly I knelt down beside him, what do you think he said?' 'Thank you.' 'Nonsense.--He said, in such a queer, hollow, croaking voice, "Paul Lessingham." I was dreadfully startled. To hear a perfect stranger, a man in his condition, utter that name in such a fashion--to me, of all people in the world!--took me aback. The policeman who was holding his head remarked, "That's the first time he's opened his mouth. I thought he was dead." He opened his mouth a second time. A convulsive movement went all over him, and he exclaimed, with the strangest earnestness, and so loudly that you might have heard him at the other end of the street, "Be warned, Paul Lessingham, be warned!" It was very silly of me, perhaps, but I cannot tell you how his words, and his manner--the two together--affected me.--Well, the long and the short of it was, that I had him taken into the house, and washed, and put to bed,--and I had the doctor sent for. The doctor could make nothing of it at all. He reported that the man seemed to be suffering from some sort of cataleptic seizure,--I could see that he thought it likely to turn out almost as interesting a case as I did.' 'Did you acquaint your father with the addition to his household?' She looked at me, quizzically. 'You see, when one has such a father as mine one cannot tell him everything, at once. There are occasions on which one requires time.' I felt that this would be wholesome hearing for old Lindon. 'Last night, after papa and I had exchanged our little courtesies,--which, it is to be hoped, were to papa's satisfaction, since they were not to be mine--I went to see the patient. I was told that he had neither eaten nor drunk, moved nor spoken. But, so soon as I approached his bed, he showed signs of agitation. He half raised himself upon his pillow, and he called out, as if he had been addressing some large assembly--I can't describe to you the dreadful something which was in his voice, and on his face,--"Paul Lessingham!--Beware!--The Beetle!"' When she said that, I was startled. 'Are you sure those were the words he used?' 'Quite sure. Do you think I could mistake them,--especially after what has happened since? I hear them singing in my ears,--they haunt me all the time.' She put her hands up to her face, as if to veil something from her eyes. I was becoming more and more convinced that there was something about the Apostle's connection with his Oriental friend which needed probing to the bottom. 'What sort of a man is he to look at, this patient of yours?' I had my doubts as to the gentleman's identity,--which her words dissolved; only, however, to increase my mystification in another direction. 'He seems to be between thirty and forty. He has light hair, and straggling sandy whiskers. He is so thin as to be nothing but skin and bone,--the doctor says it's a case of starvation.' 'You say he has light hair, and sandy whiskers. Are you sure the whiskers are real?' She opened her eyes. 'Of course they're real. Why shouldn't they be real?' 'Does he strike you as being a--foreigner?' 'Certainly not. He looks like an Englishman, and he speaks like one, and not, I should say, of the lowest class. It is true that there is a very curious, a weird, quality in his voice, what I have heard of it, but it is not un-English. If it is catalepsy he is suffering from, then it is a kind of catalepsy I never heard of. Have you ever seen a clairvoyant?' I nodded. 'He seems to me to be in a state of clairvoyance. Of course the doctor laughed when I told him so, but we know what doctors are, and I still believe that he is in some condition of the kind. When he said that last night he struck me as being under what those sort of people call 'influence,' and that whoever had him under influence was forcing him to speak against his will, for the words came from his lips as if they had been wrung from him in agony.' Knowing what I did know, that struck me as being rather a remarkable conclusion for her to have reached, by the exercise of her own unaided powers of intuition,--but I did not choose to let her know I thought so. 'My dear Marjorie!--you who pride yourself on having your imagination so strictly under control!--on suffering it to take no errant flights!' 'Is not the fact that I do so pride myself proof that I am not likely to make assertions wildly,--proof, at any rate, to you? Listen to me. When I left that unfortunate creature's room,--I had had a nurse sent for, I left him in her charge--and reached my own bedroom, I was possessed by a profound conviction that some appalling, intangible, but very real danger, was at that moment threatening Paul.' 'Remember,--you had had an exciting evening; and a discussion with your father. Your patient's words came as a climax.' 'That is what I told myself,--or, rather, that was what I tried to tell myself; because, in some extraordinary fashion, I had lost the command of my powers of reflection.' 'Precisely.' 'It was not precisely,--or, at least, it was not precisely in the sense you mean. You may laugh at me, Sydney, but I had an altogether indescribable feeling, a feeling which amounted to knowledge, that I was in the presence of the supernatural.' 'Nonsense!' 'It was not nonsense,--I wish it had been nonsense. As I have said, I was conscious, completely conscious, that some frightful peril was assailing Paul. I did not know what it was, but I did know that it was something altogether awful, of which merely to think was to shudder. I wanted to go to his assistance, I tried to, more than once; but I couldn't, and I knew that I couldn't,--I knew that I couldn't move as much as a finger to help him.--Stop,--let me finish!--I told myself that it was absurd, but it wouldn't do; absurd or not, there was the terror with me in the room. I knelt down, and I prayed, but the words wouldn't come. I tried to ask God to remove this burden from my brain, but my longings wouldn't shape themselves into words, and my tongue was palsied. I don't know how long I struggled, but, at last, I came to understand that, for some cause, God had chosen to leave me to fight the fight alone. So I got up, and undressed, and went to bed,--and that was the worst of all. I had sent my maid away in the first rush of my terror, afraid, and, I think, ashamed, to let her see my fear. Now I would have given anything to summon her back again, but I couldn't do it, I couldn't even ring the bell. So, as I say, I got into bed.' She paused, as if to collect her thoughts. To listen to her words, and to think of the suffering which they meant to her, was almost more than I could endure. I would have thrown away the world to have been able to take her in my arms, and soothe her fears. I knew her to be, in general, the least hysterical of young women; little wont to become the prey of mere delusions; and, incredible though it sounded, I had an innate conviction that, even in its wildest periods, her story had some sort of basis in solid fact. What that basis amounted to, it would be my business, at any and every cost, quickly to determine. 'You know how you have always laughed at me because of my objection to--cockroaches, and how, in spring, the neighbourhood of May-bugs has always made me uneasy. As soon as I got into bed I felt that something of the kind was in the room.' 'Something of what kind?' 'Some kind of--beetle. I could hear the whirring of its wings; I could hear its droning in the air; I knew that it was hovering above my head; that it was coming lower and lower, nearer and nearer. I hid myself; I covered myself all over with the clothes,--then I felt it bumping against the coverlet. And, Sydney!' She drew closer. Her blanched cheeks and frightened eyes made my heart bleed. Her voice became but an echo of itself. 'It followed me.' 'Marjorie!' 'It got into the bed.' 'You imagined it.' 'I didn't imagine it. I heard it crawl along the sheets, till it found a way between them, and then it crawled towards me. And I felt it--against my face.--And it's there now.' 'Where?' She raised the forefinger of her left hand. 'There!--Can't you hear it droning?' She listened, intently. I listened too. Oddly enough, at that instant the droning of an insect did become audible. 'It's only a bee, child, which has found its way through the open window.' 'I wish it were only a bee, I wish it were.--Sydney, don't you feel as if you were in the presence of evil? Don't you want to get away from it, back into the presence of God?' 'Marjorie!' 'Pray, Sydney, pray!--I can't!--I don't know why, but I can't! She flung her arms about my neck, and pressed herself against me in paroxysmal agitation. The violence of her emotion bade fair to unman me too. It was so unlike Marjorie,--and I would have given my life to save her from a toothache. She kept repeating her own words,--as if she could not help it. 'Pray, Sydney, pray!' At last I did as she wished me. At least, there is no harm in praying,--I never heard of its bringing hurt to anyone. I repeated aloud the Lord's Prayer,---the first time for I know not how long. As the divine sentences came from my lips, hesitatingly enough, I make no doubt, her tremors ceased. She became calmer. Until, as I reached the last great petition, 'Deliver us from evil,' she loosed her arms from about my neck, and dropped upon her knees, close to my feet. And she joined me in the closing words, as a sort of chorus. 'For Thine is the Kingdom, the Power, and the Glory, for ever and ever. Amen.' When the prayer was ended, we both of us were still. She with her head bowed, and her hands clasped; and I with something tugging at my heart-strings which I had not felt there for many and many a year, almost as if it had been my mother's hand;--I daresay that sometimes she does stretch out her hand, from her place among the angels, to touch my heart-strings, and I know nothing of it all the while. As the silence still continued, I chanced to glance up, and there was old Lindon peeping at us from his hiding-place behind the screen. The look of amazed perplexity which was on his big red face struck me with such a keen sense of the incongruous that it was all I could do to keep from laughter. Apparently the sight of us did nothing to lighten the fog which was in his brain, for he stammered out, in what was possibly intended for a whisper, 'Is--is she m-mad?' The whisper,--if it was meant for a whisper--was more than sufficiently audible to catch his daughter's ears. She started--raised her head--sprang to her feet--turned--and saw her father. 'Papa!' Immediately her sire was seized with an access of stuttering. 'W-w-what the d-devil's the--the m-m-meaning of this?' Her utterance was clear enough,--I fancy her parent found it almost painfully clear. 'Rather it is for me to ask, what is the meaning of this! Is it possible, that, all the time, you have actually been concealed behind that--screen?' Unless I am mistaken the old gentleman cowered before the directness of his daughter's gaze,--and endeavoured to conceal the fact by an explosion of passion. Do-don't you s-speak to me li-like that, you un-undutiful girl! I--I'm your father!' 'You certainly are my father; though I was unaware until now that my father was capable of playing the part of eavesdropper.' Rage rendered him speechless,--or, at any rate, he chose to let us believe that that was the determining cause of his continuing silence. So Marjorie turned to me,--and, on the whole, I had rather she had not. Her manner was very different from what it had been just now,--it was more than civil, it was freezing. 'Am I to understand, Mr Atherton, that this has been done with your cognisance? That while you suffered me to pour out my heart to you unchecked, you were aware, all the time, that there was a listener behind the screen?' I became keenly aware, on a sudden, that I had borne my share in playing her a very shabby trick,--I should have liked to throw old Lindon through the window. 'The thing was not of my contriving. Had I had the opportunity I would have compelled Mr Lindon to face you when you came in. But your distress caused me to lose my balance. And you will do me the justice to remember that I endeavoured to induce you to come with me into another room.' 'But I do not seem to remember your hinting at there being any particular reason why I should have gone.' 'You never gave me a chance.' 'Sydney!--I had not thought you would have played me such a trick!' When she said that--in such a tone!--the woman whom I loved!--I could have hammered my head against the wall. The hound I was to have treated her so scurvily! Perceiving I was crushed she turned again to face her father, cool, calm, stately;--she was, on a sudden, once more, the Marjorie with whom I was familiar. The demeanour of parent and child was in striking contrast. If appearances went for aught, the odds were heavy that in any encounter which might be coming the senior would suffer. 'I hope, papa, that you are going to tell me that there has been some curious mistake, and that nothing was farther from your intention than to listen at a keyhole. What would you have thought--and said--if I had attempted to play the spy on you? And I have always understood that men were so particular on points of honour.' Old Lindon was still hardly fit to do much else than splutter,--certainly not qualified to chop phrases with this sharp-tongued maiden. 'D-don't talk to me li-like that, girl!--I--I believe you're s-stark mad!' He turned to me. 'W-what was that tomfoolery she was talking to you about?' 'To what do you allude?' 'About a rub-rubbishing b-beetle, and g-goodness alone knows what,--d-diseased and m-morbid imagination,--r-reared on the literature of the gutter!--I never thought that a child of mine could have s-sunk to such a depth!--Now, Atherton, I ask you to t-tell me frankly,--what do you think of a child who behaves as she has done? Who t-takes a nameless vagabond into the house and con-conceals his presence from her father? And m-mark the sequel! even the vagabond warns her against the r-rascal Lessingham!--Now, Atherton, tell me what you think of a girl who behaves like that?' I shrugged my shoulders. 'I--I know very well what you d-do think of her,--don't be afraid to say it out because she's present.' 'No; Sydney, don't be afraid.' I saw that her eyes were dancing,--in a manner of speaking, her looks brightened under the sunshine of her father's displeasure. 'Let's hear what you think of her as a--as a m-man of the world!' 'Pray, Sydney, do!' 'What you feel for her in your--your heart of hearts!' 'Yes, Sydney, what do you feel for me in your heart of hearts?' The baggage beamed with heartless sweetness,--she was making a mock of me. Her father turned as if he would have rent her. 'D-don't you speak until you're spoken to! Atherton, I--I hope I'm not deceived in you; I--I hope you're the man I--I took you for; that you're willing and--and ready to play the part of a-a-an honest friend to this mis-misguided simpleton. T-this is not the time for mincing words, it--it's the time for candid speech. Tell this--this weak minded young woman, right out, whether this man Lessingham is, or is not, a damned scoundrel.' 'Papa!--Do you really think that Sydney's opinion, or your opinion, is likely to alter facts?' 'Do you hear, Atherton, tell this wretched girl the truth!' 'My dear Mr Lindon, I have already told you that I know nothing either for or against Mr Lessingham except what is known to all the world.' 'Exactly,--and all the world knows him to be a miserable adventurer who is scheming to entrap my daughter.' 'I am bound to say, since you press me, that your language appears to me to be unnecessarily strong.' 'Atherton, I--I'm ashamed of you!' 'You see, Sydney, even papa is ashamed of you; now you are outside the pale.--My dear papa, if you will allow me to speak, I will tell you what I know to be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.--That Mr Lessingham is a man with great gifts goes without saying,--permit me, papa! He is a man of genius. He is a man of honour. He is a man of the loftiest ambitions, of the highest aims. He has dedicated his whole life to the improvement of the conditions amidst which the less fortunate of his fellow countrymen are at present compelled to exist. That seems to me to be an object well worth having. He has asked me to share his life-work, and I have told him that I will; when, and where, and how, he wants me to. And I will. I do not suppose his life has been free from peccadilloes. I have no delusion on the point. What man's life has? Who among men can claim to be without sin? Even the members of our highest families sometimes hide behind screens. But I know that he is, at least, as good a man as I ever met, I am persuaded that I shall never meet a better; and I thank God that I have found favour in his eyes.--Good-bye, Sydney.--I suppose I shall see you again, papa.' With the merest inclination of her head to both of us she straightway left the room. Lindon would have stopped her. 'S-stay, y-y-y-you--' he stuttered. But I caught him by the arm. 'If you will be advised by me, you will let her go. No good purpose will be served by a multiplication of words.' 'Atherton, I--I'm disappointed in you. You--you haven't behaved as I expected. I--I haven't received from you the assistance which I looked for.' 'My dear Lindon, it seems to me that your method of diverting the young lady from the path which she has set herself to tread is calculated to send her furiously along it.' 'C-confound the women! c-confound the women! I don't mind telling you, in c-confidence, that at--at times, her mother was the devil, and I'll be--I'll be hanged if her daughter isn't worse.--What was the tomfoolery she was talking to you about? Is she mad?' 'No,--I don't think she's mad.' 'I never heard such stuff, it made my blood run cold to hear her. What's the matter with the girl?' 'Well,--you must excuse my saying that I don't fancy you quite understand women.' 'I--I don't,--and I--I--I don't want to either.' I hesitated; then resolved on a taradiddle,--in Marjorie's interest. 'Marjorie is high-strung,--extremely sensitive. Her imagination is quickly aflame. Perhaps, last night, you drove her as far as was safe. You heard for yourself how, in consequence, she suffered. You don't want people to say you have driven her into a lunatic asylum.' 'I--good heavens, no! I--I'll send for the doctor directly I get home,--I--I'll have the best opinion in town.' 'You'll do nothing of the kind,--you'll only make her worse. What you have to do is to be patient with her, and let her have peace.--As for this affair of Lessingham's, I have a suspicion that it may not be all such plain sailing as she supposes.' 'What do you mean?' 'I mean nothing. I only wish you to understand that until you hear from me again you had better let matters slide. Give the girl her head.' 'Give the girl her head! H-haven't I--I g-given the g-girl her h-head all her l-life!' He looked at his watch. 'Why, the day's half gone!' He began scurrying towards the front door, I following at his heels. 'I've got a committee meeting on at the club,--m-most important! For weeks they've been giving us the worst food you ever tasted in your life,--p-played havoc with my digestion, and I--I'm going to tell them if--things aren't changed, they--they'll have to pay my doctor's bills.--As for that man, Lessingham--' As he spoke, he himself opened the hall door, and there, standing on the step was 'that man Lessingham' himself. Lindon was a picture. The Apostle was as cool as a cucumber. He held out his hand. 'Good morning, Mr Lindon. What delightful weather we are having.' Lindon put his hand behind his back,--and behaved as stupidly as he very well could have done. 'You will understand, Mr Lessingham, that, in future, I don't know you, and that I shall decline to recognise you anywhere; and that what I say applies equally to any member of my family.' With his hat very much on the back of his head he went down the steps like an inflated turkeycock. CHAPTER XXII THE HAUNTED MAN To have received the cut discourteous from his future father-in-law might have been the most commonplace of incidents,--Lessingham evinced not a trace of discomposure. So far as I could judge, he took no notice of the episode whatever, behaving exactly as if nothing had happened. He merely waited till Mr Lindon was well off the steps; then, turning to me, he placidly observed, 'Interrupting you again, you see.--May I?' The sight of him had set up such a turmoil in my veins, that, for the moment, I could not trust myself to speak. I felt, acutely, that an explanation with him was, of all things, the thing most to be desired,--and that quickly. Providence could not have thrown him more opportunely in the way. If, before he went away, we did not understand each other a good deal more clearly, upon certain points, the fault should not be mine. Without a responsive word, turning on my heels, I led the way into the laboratory. Whether he noticed anything peculiar in my demeanour, I could not tell. Within he looked about him with that purely facial smile, the sight of which had always engendered in me a certain distrust of him. 'Do you always receive visitors in here?' 'By no means.' 'What is this?' Stooping down, he picked up something from the floor. It was a lady's purse,--a gorgeous affair, of crimson leather and gleaming gold. Whether it was Marjorie's or Miss Grayling's I could not tell. He watched me as I examined it. 'Is it yours?' 'No. It is not mine.' Placing his hat and umbrella on one chair, he placed himself upon another,--very leisurely. Crossing his legs, laying his folded hands upon his knees, he sat and looked at me. I was quite conscious of his observation; but endured it in silence, being a little wishful that he should begin. Presently he had, as I suppose, enough of looking at me, and spoke. 'Atherton, what is the matter with you?--Have I done something to offend you too?' 'Why do you ask?' 'Your manner seems a little singular.' 'You think so?' 'I do.' 'What have you come to see me about?' 'Just now, nothing.--I like to know where I stand.' His manner was courteous, easy, even graceful. I was outmanoeuvred. I understood the man sufficiently well to be aware that when once he was on the defensive, the first blow would have to come from me. So I struck it. 'I, also, like to know where I stand.--Lessingham, I am aware, and you know that I am aware, that you have made certain overtures to Miss Lindon. That is a fact in which I am keenly interested.' 'As--how?' 'The Lindons and the Athertons are not the acquaintances of one generation only. Marjorie Lindon and I have been friends since childhood. She looks upon me as a brother--' 'As a brother?' 'As a brother.' 'Yes.' 'Mr Lindon regains me as a son. He has given me his confidence; as I believe you are aware, Marjorie has given me hers; and now I want you to give me yours.' 'What do you want to know?' 'I wish to explain my position before I say what I have to say, because I want you to understand me clearly.--I believe, honestly, that the thing I most desire in this world is to see Marjorie Lindon happy. If I thought she would be happy with you, I should say, God speed you both! and I should congratulate you with all my heart, because I think that you would have won the best girl in the whole world to be your wife.' 'I think so too.' 'But, before I did that, I should have to see, at least, some reasonable probability that she would be happy with you.' 'Why should she not?' 'Will you answer a question?' 'What is the question?' 'What is the story in your life of which you stand in such hideous terror?' There was a perceptible pause before he answered. 'Explain yourself.' 'No explanation is needed,--you know perfectly well what I mean.' 'You credit me with miraculous acumen.' 'Don't juggle, Lessingham,--be frank!' 'The frankness should not be all on one side.--There is that in your frankness, although you may be unconscious of it, which some men might not unreasonably resent.' 'Do you resent it?' 'That depends. If you are arrogating to yourself the right to place yourself between Miss Lindon and me, I do resent it, strongly.' 'Answer my question!' 'I answer no question which is addressed to me in such a tone.' He was as calm as you please. I recognised that already I was in peril of losing my temper,--which was not at all what I desired. I eyed him intently, he returning me look for look. His countenance betrayed no sign of a guilty conscience; I had not seen him more completely at his ease. He smiled,--facially, and also, as it seemed to me, a little derisively. I am bound to admit that his bearing showed not the faintest shadow of resentment, and that in his eyes there was a gentleness, a softness, which I had not observed in them before,--I could almost have suspected him of being sympathetic. 'In this matter, you must know, I stand in the place of Mr Lindon.' 'Well?' 'Surely you must understand that before anyone is allowed to think of marriage with Marjorie Lindon he will have to show that his past, as the advertisements have it, will bear the fullest investigation.' 'Is that so?--Will your past bear the fullest investigation?' I winced. 'At any rate, it is known to all the world.' 'Is it?--Forgive me if I say, I doubt it. I doubt if, of any wise man, that can be said with truth. In all our lives there are episodes which we keep to ourselves.' I felt that that was so true that, for the instant, I hardly knew what to say. 'But there are episodes and episodes, and when it comes to a man being haunted one draws the line.' 'Haunted?' 'As you are.' He got up. 'Atherton, I think that I understand you, but I fear that you do not understand me.' He went to where a self-acting mercurial air-pump was standing on a shelf. 'What is this curious arrangement of glass tubes and bulbs?' 'I do not think that you do understand me, or you would know that I am in no mood to be trifled with.' 'Is it some kind of an exhauster?' 'My dear Lessingham, I am entirely at your service. I intend to have an answer to my question before you leave this room, but, in the meanwhile, your convenience is mine. There are some very interesting things here which you might care to see.' 'Marvellous, is it not, how the human intellect progresses,--from conquest unto conquest.' 'Among the ancients the progression had proceeded farther than with us.' 'In what respect?' 'For instance, in the affair of the Apotheosis of the Beetle;--I saw it take place last night.' 'Where?' 'Here,--within a few feet of where you are standing.' 'Are you serious?' 'Perfectly.' 'What did you see?' 'I saw the legendary Apotheosis of the Beetle performed, last night, before my eyes, with a gaudy magnificence at which the legends never hinted.' 'That is odd. I once thought that I saw something of the kind myself.' 'So I understand.' 'From whom?' 'From a friend of yours.' 'From a friend of mine?--Are you sure it was from a friend of mine?' The man's attempt at coolness did him credit,--but it did not deceive me. That he thought I was endeavouring to bluff him out of his secret I perceived quite clearly; that it was a secret which he would only render with his life I was beginning to suspect. Had it not been for Marjorie, I should have cared nothing,--his affairs were his affairs; though I realised perfectly well that there was something about the man which, from the scientific explorer's point of view, might be well worth finding out. Still, as I say, if it had not been for Marjorie, I should have let it go; but, since she was so intimately concerned in it, I wondered more and more what it could be. My attitude towards what is called the supernatural is an open one. That all things are possible I unhesitatingly believe,--I have, even in my short time, seen so many so-called impossibilities proved possible. That we know everything, I doubt;--that our great-great-great-great-grandsires, our forebears of thousands of years ago, of the extinct civilisations, knew more on some subjects than we do, I think is, at least, probable. All the legends can hardly be false. Because men claimed to be able to do things in those days which we cannot do, and which we do not know how they did we profess to think that their claims are finally dismissed by exclaiming--lies! But it is not so sure. For my part, what I had seen I had seen. I had seen some devil's trick played before my very eyes. Some trick of the same sort seemed to have been played upon my Marjorie,--I repeat that I write 'my Marjorie' because, to me, she will always be 'my' Marjorie! It had driven her half out of her senses. As I looked at Lessingham, I seemed to see her at his side, as I had seen her not long ago, with her white, drawn face, and staring eyes, dumb with an agony of fear. Her life was bidding fair to be knit with his,--what Upas tree of horror was rooted in his very bones? The thought that her sweet purity was likely to be engulfed in a devil's slough in which he was wallowing was not to be endured. As I realised that the man was more than my match at the game which I was playing--in which such vital interests were at stake!--my hands itched to clutch him by the throat, and try another way. Doubtless my face revealed my feelings, because, presently, he said, 'Are you aware how strangely you are looking at me, Atherton? Were my countenance a mirror I think you would be surprised to see in it your own.' I drew back from him,--I daresay, sullenly. 'Not so surprised as, yesterday morning, you would have been to have seen yours,--at the mere sight of a pictured scarab.' 'How easily you quarrel.' 'I do not quarrel.' 'Then perhaps it's I. If that is so, then, at once, the quarrel's ended,--pouf! it's done. Mr Lindon, I fear, because, politically, we differ, regards me as anathema. Has he put some of his spirit into you?--You are a wiser man.' 'I am aware that you are an adept with words. But this is a case in which words only will not serve.' 'Then what will serve?' 'I am myself beginning to wonder.' 'And I.' 'As you so courteously suggest, I believe I am wiser than Lindon. I do not care for your politics, or for what you call your politics, one fig. I do not care if you are as other men are, as I am,--not unspotted from the world! But I do care if you are leprous. And I believe you are.' 'Atherton!' 'Ever since I have known you I have been conscious of there being something about you which I found it difficult to diagnose;--in an unwholesome sense, something out of the common, non-natural; an atmosphere of your own. Events, so far as you are concerned, have, during the last few days moved quickly. They have thrown an uncomfortably lurid light on that peculiarity of yours which I have noticed. Unless you can explain them to my satisfaction, you will withdraw your pretensions to Miss Lindon's hand, or I shall place certain facts before that lady, and, if necessary, publish them to the world.' He grew visibly paler but he smiled--facially. 'You have your own way of conducting a conversation, Mr Atherton.--What are the events to whose rapid transit you are alluding?' 'Who was the individual, practically stark naked, who came out of your house, in such singular fashion, at dead of night?' 'Is that one of the facts with which you propose to tickle the public ear?' 'Is that the only explanation which you have to offer?' 'Proceed, for the present, with your indictment.' 'I am not so unobservant as you appear to imagine. There were features about the episode which struck me forcibly at the time, and which have struck me more forcibly since. To suggest, as you did yesterday morning, that it was an ordinary case of burglary, or that the man was a lunatic, is an absurdity. 'Pardon me,--I did nothing of the kind.' 'Then what do you suggest?' 'I suggested, and do suggest, nothing. All the suggestions come from you.' 'You went very much out of your way to beg me to keep the matter quiet. There is an appearance of suggestion about that.' 'You take a jaundiced view of all my actions, Mr Atherton. Nothing, to me, could seem more natural.--However,--proceed.' He had his hands behind his back, and rested them on the edge of the table against which he was leaning. He was undoubtedly ill at ease; but so far I had not made the impression on him, either mentally or morally, which I desired. 'Who is your Oriental friend?' 'I do not follow you.' 'Are you sure?' 'I am certain. Repeat your question.' 'Who is your Oriental friend?' 'I was not aware that I had one.' 'Do you swear that?' He laughed, a strange laugh. 'Do you seek to catch me tripping? You conduct your case with too much animus. You must allow me to grasp the exact purport of your inquiry before I can undertake to reply to it on oath.' 'Are you not aware that at present there is in London an individual who claims to have had a very close, and a very curious, acquaintance with you in the East?' 'I am not.' 'That you swear?' 'That I do swear.' 'That is singular.' 'Why is it singular?' 'Because I fancy that that individual haunts you.' 'Haunts me?' 'Haunts you.' 'You jest.' 'You think so?--You remember that picture of the scarabaeus which, yesterday morning, frightened you into a state of semi-idiocy.' 'You use strong language.--I know what you allude to.' 'Do you mean to say that you don't know that you were indebted for that to your Oriental friend?' 'I don't understand you.' 'Are you sure?' 'Certainly I am sure.--It occurs to me, Mr Atherton, that an explanation is demanded from you rather than from me. Are you aware that the purport of my presence here is to ask you how that picture found its way into your room?' 'It was projected by the Lord of the Beetle.' The words were chance ones,--but they struck a mark. 'The Lord--' He faltered,--and stopped. He showed signs of discomposure. 'I will be frank with you,--since frankness is what you ask.' His smile, that time, was obviously forced. 'Recently I have been the victim of delusions;' there was a pause before the word, 'of a singular kind. I have feared that they were the result of mental overstrain. Is it possible that you can enlighten me as to their source?' I was silent. He was putting a great strain upon himself, but the twitching of his lips betrayed him. A little more, and I should reach the other side of Mr Lessingham,--the side which he kept hidden from the world. 'Who is this--individual whom you speak of as my--Oriental friend?' 'Being your friend, you should know better than I do.' 'What sort of man is he to look at?' 'I did not say it was a man.' 'But I presume it is a man.' 'I did not say so.' He seemed, for a moment, to hold his breath,--and he looked at me with eyes which were not friendly. Then, with a display of self-command which did him credit, he drew himself upright, with an air of dignity which well became him. 'Atherton, consciously, or unconsciously, you are doing me a serious injustice. I do not know what conception it is which you have formed of me, or on what the conception is founded, but I protest that, to the best of my knowledge and belief, I am as reputable, as honest, and as clean a man as you are.' 'But you're haunted.' 'Haunted?' He held himself erect, looking me straight in the face. Then a shiver went all over him; the muscles of his mouth twitched; and, in an instant, he was livid. He staggered against the table. 'Yes, God knows it's true,--I'm haunted.' 'So either you're mad, and therefore unfit to marry; or else you've done something which places you outside the tolerably generous boundaries of civilised society, and are therefore still more unfit to marry. You're on the horns of a dilemma.' 'I--I'm the victim of a delusion.' 'What is the nature of the delusion? Does it take the shape of a--beetle?' 'Atherton!' Without the slightest warning, he collapsed,--was transformed; I can describe the change which took place in him in no other way. He sank in a heap on the floor; he held up his hands above his head; and he gibbered,--like some frenzied animal. A more uncomfortable spectacle than he presented it would be difficult to find. I have seen it matched in the padded rooms of lunatic asylums, but nowhere else. The sight of him set every nerve of my body on edge. 'In Heaven's name, what is the matter with you, man? Are you stark, staring mad? Here,--drink this!' Filling a tumbler with brandy, I forced it between his quivering fingers. Then it was some moments before I could get him to understand what it was I wanted him to do. When he did get the glass to his lips, he swallowed its contents as if they were so much water. By degrees his senses returned to him. He stood up. He looked about him, with a smile which was positively ghastly. 'It's--it's a delusion.' 'It's a very queer kind of a delusion, if it is.' I eyed him, curiously. He was evidently making the most strenuous efforts to regain his self-control,--all the while with that horrible smile about his lips. 'Atherton, you--you take me at an advantage.' I was still. 'Who--who's your Oriental friend?' 'My Oriental friend?--you mean yours. I supposed, at first, that the individual in question was a man; but it appears that she's a woman.' 'A woman?--Oh.--How do you mean?' 'Well, the face is a man's--of an uncommonly disagreeable type, of which the powers forbid that there are many!--and the voice is a man's,--also of a kind!--but the body, as, last night, I chanced to discover, is a woman's.' 'That sounds very odd.' He closed his eyes. I could see that his cheeks were clammy. 'Do you--do you believe in witchcraft?' 'That depends.' 'Have you heard of Obi?' 'I have.' 'I have been told that an Obeah man can put a spell upon a person which compels a person to see whatever he--the Obeah man--may please. Do you think that's possible?' 'It is not a question to which I should be disposed to answer either yes or no.' He looked at me out of his half-closed eyes. It struck me that he was making conversation,--saying anything for the sake of gaining time. 'I remember reading a book entitled "Obscure Diseases of the Brain." It contained some interesting data on the subject of hallucinations.' 'Possibly.' 'Now, candidly, would you recommend me to place myself in the hands of a mental pathologist?' 'I don't think that you're insane, if that's what you mean.' 'No?--That is good hearing. Of all diseases insanity is the most to be dreaded.--Well, Atherton, I'm keeping you. The truth is that, insane or not, I am very far from well. I think I must give myself a holiday.' He moved towards his hat and umbrella. 'There is something else which you must do.' 'What is that?' 'You must resign your pretensions to Miss Lindon's hand. 'My dear Atherton, if my health is really failing me, I shall resign everything,--everything!' He repeated his own word with a little movement of his hands which was pathetic. 'Understand me, Lessingham. What else you do is no affair of mine. I am concerned only with Miss Lindon. You must give me your definite promise, before you leave this room, to terminate your engagement with her before to-night.' His back was towards me. 'There will come a time when your conscience will prick you because of your treatment of me; when you will realise that I am the most unfortunate of men.' 'I realise that now. It is because I realise it that I am so desirous that the shadow of your evil fortune shall not fall upon an innocent girl.' He turned. 'Atherton, what is your actual position with reference to Marjorie Lindon?' 'She regards me as a brother.' 'And do you regard her as a sister? Are your sentiments towards her purely fraternal?' 'You know that I love her.' 'And do you suppose that my removal will clear the path for you?' 'I suppose nothing of the kind. You may believe me or not, but my one desire is for her happiness, and surely, if you love her, that is your desire too.' 'That is so.' He paused. An expression of sadness stole over his face of which I had not thought it capable. 'That is so to an extent of which you do not dream. No man likes to have his hand forced, especially by one whom he regards--may I say it?--as a possible rival. But I will tell you this much. If the blight which has fallen on my life is likely to continue, I would not wish,--God forbid that I should wish to join her fate with mine,--not for all that the world could offer me.' He stopped. And I was still. Presently he continued. 'When I was younger I was subject to a--similar delusion. But it vanished,--I saw no trace of it for years,--I thought that I had done with it for good. Recently, however, it has returned,--as you have witnessed. I shall institute inquiries into the cause of its reappearance; if it seems likely to be irremovable, or even if it bids fair to be prolonged, I shall not only, as you phrase it, withdraw my pretensions to Miss Linden's hand, but to all my other ambitions. In the interim, as regards Miss Lindon I shall be careful to hold myself on the footing of a mere acquaintance.' 'You promise me?' 'I do.--And on your side, Atherton, in the meantime, deal with me more gently. Judgment in my case has still to be given. You will find that I am not the guilty wretch you apparently imagine. And there are few things more disagreeable to one's self-esteem than to learn, too late, that one has persisted in judging another man too harshly. Think of all that the world has, at this moment, to offer me, and what it will mean if I have to turn my back on it,--owing to a mischievous twist of fortune's wheel.' He turned, is if to go. Then stopped, and looked round, in an attitude of listening. 'What's that?' There was a sound of droning,--I recalled what Marjorie had said of her experiences of the night before, it was like the droning of a beetle. The instant the Apostle heard it, the fashion of his countenance began to change,--it was pitiable to witness. I rushed to him. 'Lessingham!--don't be a fool!--play the man!' He gripped my left arm with his right hand till it felt as if it were being compressed in a vice. 'Then--I shall have to have some more brandy.' Fortunately the bottle was within reach from where I stood, otherwise I doubt if he would have released my arm to let me get at it. I gave him the decanter and the glass. He helped himself to a copious libation. By the time that he had swallowed it the droning sound had gone. He put down the empty tumbler. 'When a man has to resort to alcohol to keep his nerves up to concert pitch, things are in a bad way with him, you may be sure of that,--but then you have never known what it is to stand in momentary expectation of a tete-a-tete with the devil.' Again he turned to leave the room,--and this time he actually went. I let him go alone. I heard his footsteps passing along the passage, and the hall-door close. Then I sat in an arm-chair, stretched my legs out in front of me, thrust my hands in my trouser pockets, and--I wondered. I had been there, perhaps, four or five minutes, when there was a slight noise at my side. Glancing round, I saw a sheet of paper come fluttering through the open window. It fell almost at my feet. I picked it up. It was a picture of a beetle,--a facsimile of the one which had had such an extraordinary effect on Mr Lessingham the day before. 'If this was intended for St Paul, it's a trifle late;--unless--' I could hear that someone was approaching along the corridor. I looked up, expecting to see the Apostle reappear;--in which expectation I was agreeably disappointed. The newcomer was feminine. It was Miss Grayling. As she stood in the open doorway, I saw that her cheeks were red as roses. 'I hope I am not interrupting you again, but--I left my purse here.' She stopped; then added, as if it were an afterthought, 'And--I want you to come and lunch with me.' I locked the picture of the beetle in the drawer,--and I lunched with Dora Grayling. BOOK III The Terror by Night and the Terror by Day Miss Marjorie Lindon tells the Tale CHAPTER XXIII THE WAY HE TOLD HER I am the happiest woman in the world! I wonder how many women have said that of themselves in their time,--but I am. Paul has told me that he loves me. How long I have made inward confession of my love for him, I should be ashamed to say. It sounds prosaic, but I believe it is a fact that the first stirring of my pulses was caused by the report of a speech of his which I read in the Times. It was on the Eight Hours' Bill. Papa was most unflattering. He said that he was an oily spouter, an ignorant agitator, an irresponsible firebrand, and a good deal more to the same effect. I remember very well how papa fidgeted with the paper, declaring that it read even worse than it had sounded, and goodness knew that it had sounded bad enough. He was so very emphatic that when he had gone I thought I would see what all the pother was about, and read the speech for myself. So I read it. It affected me quite differently. The speaker's words showed such knowledge, charity, and sympathy that they went straight to my heart. After that I read everything of Paul Lessingham's which I came across. And the more I read the more I was impressed. But it was some time before we met. Considering what papa's opinions were, it was not likely that he would go out of his way to facilitate a meeting. To him, the mere mention of the name was like a red rag to a bull. But at last we did meet. And then I knew that he was stronger, greater, better even than his words. It is so often the other way; one finds that men, and women too, are so apt to put their best, as it were, into their shop windows, that the discovery was as novel as it was delightful. When the ice was once broken, we often met. I do not know how it was. We did not plan our meetings,--at first, at any rate. Yet we seemed always meeting. Seldom a day passed on which we did not meet,--sometimes twice or thrice. It was odd how we were always coming across each other in the most unlikely places. I believe we did not notice it at the time, but looking back I can see that we must have managed our engagements so that somewhere, somehow, we should be certain to have an opportunity of exchanging half a dozen words. Those constant encounters could not have all been chance ones. But I never supposed he loved me,--never. I am not even sure that, for some time, I was aware that I loved him. We were great on friendship, both of us.--I was quite aware that I was his friend,--that he regarded me as his friend; he told me so more than once. 'I tell you this,' he would say, referring to this, that, or the other, 'because I know that, in speaking to you, I am speaking to a friend.' With him those were not empty words. All kinds of people talk to one like that,--especially men; it is a kind of formula which they use with every woman who shows herself disposed to listen. But Paul is not like that. He is chary of speech; not by any means a woman's man. I tell him that is his weakest point. If legend does not lie more even than is common, few politicians have achieved prosperity without the aid of women. He replies that he is not a politician; that he never means to be a politician. He simply wishes to work for his country; if his country does not need his services--well, let it be. Papa's political friends have always so many axes of their own to grind, that, at first, to hear a member of Parliament talk like that was almost disquieting. I had dreamed of men like that; but I never encountered one till I met Paul Lessingham. Our friendship was a pleasant one. It became pleasanter and pleasanter. Until there came a time when he told me everything; the dreams he dreamed; the plans which he had planned; the great purposes which, if health and strength were given him, he intended to carry to a great fulfilment. And, at last, he told me something else. It was after a meeting at a Working Women's Club in Westminster. He had spoken, and I had spoken too. I don't know what papa would have said, if he had known, but I had. A formal resolution had been proposed, and I had seconded it,--in perhaps a couple of hundred words; but that would have been quite enough for papa to have regarded me as an Abandoned Wretch,--papa always puts those sort of words into capitals. Papa regards a speechifying woman as a thing of horror,--I have known him look askance at a Primrose Dame. The night was fine. Paul proposed that I should walk with him down the Westminster Bridge Road, until we reached the House, and then he would see me into a cab. I did as he suggested. It was still early, not yet ten, and the streets were alive with people. Our conversation, as we went, was entirely political. The Agricultural Amendment Act was then before the Commons, and Paul felt very strongly that it was one of those measures which give with one hand, while taking with the other. The committee stage was at hand, and already several amendments were threatened, the effect of which would be to strengthen the landlord at the expense of the tenant. More than one of these, and they not the most moderate, were to be proposed by papa. Paul was pointing out how it would be his duty to oppose these tooth and nail, when, all at once, he stopped. 'I sometimes wonder how you really feel upon this matter.' 'What matter?' 'On the difference of opinion, in political matters, which exists between your father and myself. I am conscious that Mr Lindon regards my action as a personal question, and resents it so keenly, that I am sometimes moved to wonder if at least a portion of his resentment is not shared by you.' 'I have explained; I consider papa the politician as one person, and papa the father as quite another.' 'You are his daughter.' 'Certainly I am;--but would you, on that account, wish me to share his political opinions, even though I believe them to be wrong?' 'You love him.' 'Of course I do,--he is the best of fathers.' 'Your defection will be a grievous disappointment.' I looked at him out of the corner of my eye. I wondered what was passing through his mind. The subject of my relations with papa was one which, without saying anything at all about it, we had consented to taboo. 'I am not so sure. I am permeated with a suspicion that papa has no politics.' 'Miss Lindon!--I fancy that I can adduce proof to the contrary.' 'I believe that if papa were to marry again, say, a Home Ruler, within three weeks his wife's politics would be his own.' Paul thought before he spoke; then he smiled. 'I suppose that men sometimes do change their coats to please their wives,--even their political ones.' 'Papa's opinions are the opinions of those with whom he mixes. The reason why he consorts with Tories of the crusted school is because he fears that if he associated with anybody else--with Radicals, say,--before he knew it, he would be a Radical too. With him, association is synonymus with logic.' Paul laughed outright. By this time we had reached Westminster Bridge. Standing, we looked down upon the river. A long line of lanterns was gliding mysteriously over the waters; it was a tug towing a string of barges. For some moments neither spoke. Then Paul recurred to what I had just been saying. 'And you,--do you think marriage would colour your convictions?' 'Would it yours?' 'That depends.' He was silent. Then he said, in that tone which I had learned to look for when he was most in earnest, 'It depends on whether you would marry me.' I was still. His words were so unexpected that they took my breath away. I knew not what to make of them. My head was in a whirl. Then he addressed to me a monosyllabic interrogation. 'Well?' 'I found my voice,--or a part of it. 'Well?--to what?' He came a little closer. 'Will you be my wife?' The part of my voice which I had found, was lost again. Tears came into my eyes. I shivered. I had not thought that I could be so absurd. Just then the moon came from behind a cloud; the rippling waters were tipped with silver. He spoke again, so gently that his words just reached my ears. 'You know that I love you.' Then I knew that I loved him too. That what I had fancied was a feeling of friendship was something very different. It was as if somebody, in tearing a veil from before my eyes, had revealed a spectacle which dazzled me. I was speechless. He misconstrued my silence. 'Have I offended you?' 'No.' I fancy that he noted the tremor which was in my voice, and read it rightly. For he too was still. Presently his hand stole along the parapet, and fastened upon mine, and held it tight. And that was how it came about. Other things were said; but they were hardly of the first importance. Though I believe we took some time in saying them. Of myself I can say with truth, that my heart was too full for copious speech; I was dumb with a great happiness. And, I believe, I can say the same of Paul. He told me as much when we were parting. It seemed that we had only just come there when Paul started. Turning, he stared up at Big Ben. 'Midnight!--The House up!--Impossible!' But it was more than possible, it was fact. We had actually been on the Bridge two hours, and it had not seemed ten minutes. Never had I supposed that the flight of time could have been so entirely unnoticed. Paul was considerably taken aback. His legislative conscience pricked him. He excused himself--in his own fashion. 'Fortunately, for once in a way, my business in the House was not so important as my business out of it.' He had his arm through mine. We were standing face to face. 'So you call this business!' He laughed. He not only saw me into a cab, but he saw me home in it. And in the cab he kissed me. I fancy I was a little out of sorts that night. My nervous system was, perhaps, demoralised. Because, when he kissed me, I did a thing which I never do,--I have my own standard of behaviour, and that sort of thing is quite outside of it; I behaved like a sentimental chit. I cried. And it took him all the way to my father's door to comfort me. I can only hope that, perceiving the singularity of the occasion, he consented to excuse me. CHAPTER XXIV A WOMAN'S VIEW Sydney Atherton has asked me to be his wife. It is not only annoying; worse, it is absurd. This is the result of Paul's wish that our engagement should not be announced. He is afraid of papa;--not really, but for the moment. The atmosphere of the House is charged with electricity. Party feeling runs high. They are at each other, hammer and tongs, about this Agricultural Amendment Act. The strain on Paul is tremendous. I am beginning to feel positively concerned. Little things which I have noticed about him lately convince me that he is being overwrought. I suspect him of having sleepless nights. The amount of work which he has been getting through lately has been too much for any single human being, I care not who he is. He himself admits that he shall be glad when the session is at an end. So shall I. In the meantime, it is his desire that nothing shall be said about our engagement until the House rises. It is reasonable enough. Papa is sure to be violent,--lately, the barest allusion to Paul's name has been enough to make him explode. When the discovery does come, he will be unmanageable,--I foresee it clearly. From little incidents which have happened recently I predict the worst. He will be capable of making a scene within the precincts of the House. And, as Paul says, there is some truth in the saying that the last straw breaks the camel's back. He will be better able to face papa's wild wrath when the House has risen. So the news is to bide a wee. Of course Paul is right. And what he wishes I wish too. Still, it is not all such plain sailing for me as he perhaps thinks. The domestic atmosphere is almost as electrical as that in the House. Papa is like the terrier who scents a rat,--he is always sniffing the air. He has not actually forbidden me to speak to Paul,--his courage is not quite at the sticking point; but he is constantly making uncomfortable allusions to persons who number among their acquaintance 'political adventurers,' 'grasping carpet-baggers,' 'Radical riff-raff,' and that kind of thing. Sometimes I venture to call my soul my own; but such a tempest invariably follows that I become discreet again as soon as I possibly can. So, as a rule, I suffer in silence. Still, I would with all my heart that the concealment were at an end. No one need imagine that I am ashamed of being about to marry Paul,--papa least of all. On the contrary, I am as proud of it as a woman can be. Sometimes, when he has said or done something unusually wonderful, I fear that my pride will out,--I do feel it so strong within me. I should be delighted to have a trial of strength with papa; anywhere, at any time,--I should not be so rude to him as he would be to me. At the bottom of his heart papa knows that I am the more sensible of the two; after a pitched battle or so he would understand it better still. I know papa! I have not been his daughter for all these years in vain. I feel like hot-blooded soldiers must feel, who, burning to attack the enemy in the open field, are ordered to skulk behind hedges, and be shot at. One result is that Sydney has actually made a proposal of marriage,--he of all people! It is too comical. The best of it was that he took himself quite seriously. I do not know how many times he has confided to me the sufferings which he has endured for love of other women--some of them, I am sorry to say, decent married women too; but this is the first occasion on which the theme has been a personal one. He was so frantic, as he is wont to be, that, to calm him, I told him about Paul,--which, under the circumstances, to him I felt myself at liberty to do. In return, he was melodramatic; hinting darkly at I know not what, I was almost cross with him. He is a curious person, Sydney Atherton. I suppose it is because I have known him all my life, and have always looked upon him, in cases of necessity, as a capital substitute for a brother, that I criticise him with so much frankness. In some respects, he is a genius; in others--I will not write fool, for that he never is, though he has often done some extremely foolish things. The fame of his inventions is in the mouths of all men; though the half of them has never been told. He is the most extraordinary mixture. The things which most people would like to have proclaimed in the street, he keeps tightly locked in his own bosom; while those which the same persons would be only too glad to conceal, he shouts from the roofs. A very famous man once told me that if Mr Atherton chose to become a specialist, to take up one branch of inquiry, and devote his life to it, his fame, before he died, would bridge the spheres. But sticking to one thing is not in Sydney's line at all. He prefers, like the bee, to roam from flower to flower. As for his being in love with me, it is ridiculous. He is as much in love with the moon. I cannot think what has put the idea into his head. Some girl must have been ill-using him, or he imagines that she has. The girl whom he ought to marry, and whom he ultimately will marry, is Dora Grayling. She is young, charming, immensely rich, and over head and ears in love with him;--if she were not, then he would be over head and ears in love with her. I believe he is very near it as it is,--sometimes he is so very rude to her. It is a characteristic of Sydney's, that he is apt to be rude to a girl whom he really likes. As for Dora, I suspect she dreams of him. He is tall, straight, very handsome, with a big moustache, and the most extraordinary eyes;--I fancy that those eyes of his have as much to do with Dora's state as anything. I have heard it said that he possesses the hypnotic power to an unusual degree, and that, if he chose to exercise it, he might become a danger to society. I believe he has hypnotised Dora. He makes an excellent brother. I have gone to him, many and many a time, for help,--and some excellent advice I have received. I daresay I shall consult him still. There are matters of which one would hardly dare to talk to Paul. In all things he is the great man. He could hardly condescend to chiffons. Now Sydney can and does. When he is in the mood, on the vital subject of trimmings a woman could not appeal to a sounder authority. I tell him, if he had been a dressmaker, he would have been magnificent. I am sure he would. CHAPTER XXV THE MAN IN THE STREET This morning I had an adventure. I was in the breakfast-room. Papa, as usual, was late for breakfast, and I was wondering whether I should begin without him, when, chancing to look round, something caught my eye in the street. I went to the window to see what it was. A small crowd of people was in the middle of the road, and they were all staring at something which, apparently, was lying on the ground. What it was I could not see. The butler happened to be in the room. I spoke to him. 'Peter, what is the matter in the street? Go and see.' He went and saw; and, presently, he returned. Peter is an excellent servant; but the fashion of his speech, even when conveying the most trivial information, is slightly sesquipedalian. He would have made a capital cabinet minister at question time,--he wraps up the smallest petitions of meaning in the largest possible words. 'An unfortunate individual appears to have been the victim of a catastrophe. I am informed that he is dead. The constable asserts that he is drunk.' 'Drunk?--dead? Do you mean that he is dead drunk?--at this hour!' 'He is either one or the other. I did not behold the individual myself. I derived my information from a bystander.' That was not sufficiently explicit for me. I gave way to a, seemingly, quite causeless impulse of curiosity, I went out into the street, just as I was, to see for myself. It was, perhaps, not the most sensible thing I could have done, and papa would have been shocked; but I am always shocking papa. It had been raining in the night, and the shoes which I had on were not so well suited as they might have been for an encounter with the mud. I made my way to the point of interest. 'What's the matter?' I asked. A workman, with a bag of tools over his shoulder, answered me. 'There's something wrong with someone. Policeman says he's drunk, but he looks to me as if he was something worse.' 'Will you let me pass, please?' When they saw I was a woman, they permitted me to reach the centre of the crowd. A man was lying on his back, in the grease and dirt of the road. He was so plastered with mud, that it was difficult, at first, to be sure that he really was a man. His head and feet were bare. His body was partially covered by a long ragged cloak. It was obvious that that one wretched, dirt-stained, sopping wet rag was all the clothing he had on. A huge constable was holding his shoulders in his hands, and was regarding him as if he could not make him out at all. He seemed uncertain as to whether it was or was not a case of shamming. He spoke to him as if he had been some refractory child. 'Come, my lad, this won't do!--Wake up!--What's the matter?' But he neither woke up, nor explained what was the matter. I took hold of his hand. It was icy cold. Apparently the wrist was pulseless. Clearly this was no ordinary case of drunkenness. 'There is something seriously wrong, officer. Medical assistance ought to be had at once.' 'Do you think he's in a fit, miss?' 'That a doctor should be able to tell you better than I can. There seems to be no pulse. I should not be surprised to find that he was--' The word 'dead' was actually on my lips, when the stranger saved me from making a glaring exposure of my ignorance by snatching his wrist away from me, and sitting up in the mud. He held out his hands in front of him, opened his eyes, and exclaimed, in a loud, but painfully raucous tone of voice, as if he was suffering from a very bad cold, 'Paul Lessingham!' I was so surprised that I all but sat down in the mud. To hear Paul--my Paul!--apostrophised by an individual of his appearance, in that fashion, was something which I had not expected. Directly the words were uttered, he closed his eyes again, sank backward, and seemingly relapsed into unconsciousness,--the constable gripping him by the shoulder just in time to prevent him banging the back of his head against the road. The officer shook him,--scarcely gently. 'Now, my lad, it's plain that you're not dead!--What's the meaning of this?--Move yourself!' Looking round I found that Peter was close behind. Apparently he had been struck by the singularity of his mistress' behaviour, and had followed to see that it did not meet with the reward which it deserved. I spoke to him. 'Peter, let someone go at once for Dr Cotes!' Dr Cotes lives just round the corner, and since it was evident that the man's lapse into consciousness had made the policeman sceptical as to his case being so serious as it seemed, I thought it might be advisable that a competent opinion should be obtained without delay. Peter was starting, when again the stranger returned to consciousness,--that is, if it really was consciousness, as to which I was more than a little in doubt. He repeated his previous pantomime; sat up in the mud, stretched out his arms, opened his eyes unnaturally wide,--and yet they appeared unseeing!--a sort of convulsion went all over him, and he shrieked--it really amounted to shrieking--as a man might shriek who was in mortal terror. 'Be warned, Paul Lessingham--be warned!' For my part, that settled it. There was a mystery here which needed to be unravelled. Twice had he called upon Paul's name,--and in the strangest fashion! It was for me to learn the why and the wherefore; to ascertain what connection there was between this lifeless creature and Paul Lessingham. Providence might have cast him there before my door. I might be entertaining an angel unawares. My mind was made up on the instant. 'Peter, hasten for Dr Cotes.' Peter passed the word, and immediately a footman started running as fast as his legs would carry him. 'Officer, I will have this man taken into my father's house.--Will some of you men help to carry him?' There were volunteers enough, and to spare. I spoke to Peter in the hall. 'Is papa down yet?' 'Mr Lindon has sent down to say that you will please not wait for him for breakfast. He has issued instructions to have his breakfast conveyed to him upstairs.' 'That's all right.' I nodded towards the poor wretch who was being carried through the hall. 'You will say nothing to him about this unless he particularly asks. You understand?' Peter bowed. He is discretion itself. He knows I have my vagaries, and it is not his fault if the savour of them travels to papa. The doctor was in the house almost as soon as the stranger. 'Wants washing,' he remarked, directly he saw him. And that certainly was true,--I never saw a man who stood more obviously in need of the good offices of soap and water. Then he went through the usual medical formula, I watching all the while. So far as I could see the man showed not the slightest sign of life. 'Is he dead?' 'He will be soon, if he doesn't have something to eat. The fellow's starving.' The doctor asked the policeman what he knew of him. That sagacious officer's reply was vague. A boy had run up to him crying that a man was lying dead in the street. He had straightway followed the boy, and discovered the stranger. That was all he knew. 'What is the matter with the man?' I inquired of the doctor, when the constable had gone. 'Don't know.--It may be catalepsy, and it mayn't.--When I do know, you may ask again.' Dr Cotes' manner was a trifle brusque,--particularly, I believe, to me. I remember that once he threatened to box my ears. When I was a small child I used to think nothing of boxing his. Realising that no satisfaction was to be got out of a speechless man--particularly as regards his mysterious references to Paul--I went upstairs. I found that papa was under the impression that he was suffering from a severe attack of gout. But as he was eating a capital breakfast, and apparently enjoying it,--while I was still fasting--I ventured to hope that the matter was not so serious as he feared. I mentioned nothing to him about the person whom I had found in the street,--lest it should aggravate his gout. When he is like that, the slightest thing does. CHAPTER XXVI A FATHER'S NO Paul has stormed the House of Commons with one of the greatest speeches which even he has delivered, and I have quarrelled with papa. And, also, I have very nearly quarrelled with Sydney. Sydney's little affair is nothing. He actually still persists in thinking himself in love with me,--as if, since last night, when he what he calls 'proposed' to me, he has not time to fall out of love, and in again, half a dozen times; and, on the strength of it, he seems to consider himself entitled to make himself as disagreeable as he can. That I should not mind,--for Sydney disagreeable is about as nice as Sydney any other way; but when it comes to his shooting poisoned shafts at Paul, I object. If he imagines that anything he can say, or hint, will lessen my estimation of Paul Lessingham by one hair's breadth, he has less wisdom even than I gave him credit for. By the way, Percy Woodville asked me to be his wife tonight,--which, also, is nothing; he has been trying to do it for the last three years,--though, under the circumstances, it is a little trying; but he would not spit venom merely because I preferred another man,--and he, I believe, does care for me. Papa's affair is serious. It is the first clashing of the foils,--and this time, I imagine, the buttons are really off. This morning he said a few words, not so much to, as at me. He informed me that Paul was expected to speak to-night,--as if I did not know it!--and availed himself of the opening to load him with the abuse which, in his case, he thinks is not unbecoming to a gentleman. I don't know--or, rather, I do know what he would think, if he heard another man use, in the presence of a woman, the kind of language which he habitually employs. However, I said nothing. I had a motive for allowing the chaff to fly before the wind. But, to-night, issue was joined. I, of course, went to hear Paul speak,--as I have done over and over again before. Afterwards, Paul came and fetched me from the cage. He had to leave me for a moment, while he gave somebody a message; and in the lobby, there was Sydney,--all sneers! I could have pinched him. Just as I was coming to the conclusion that I should have to stick a pin into his arm, Paul returned,--and, positively, Sydney was rude to him. I was ashamed, if Mr Atherton was not. As if it was not enough that he should be insulted by a mere popinjay, at the very moment when he had been adding another stone to the fabric of his country's glory,--papa came up. He actually wanted to take me away from Paul. I should have liked to see him do it. Of course I went down with Paul to the carriage, leaving papa to follow if he chose. He did not choose,--but, none the less, he managed to be home within three minutes after I had myself returned. Then the battle began. It is impossible for me to give an idea of papa in a rage. There may be men who look well when they lose their temper, but, if there are, papa is certainly not one. He is always talking about the magnificence, and the high breeding of the Lindons, but anything less high-bred than the head of the Lindons, in his moments of wrath, it would be hard to conceive. His language I will not attempt to portray,--but his observations consisted, mainly, of abuse of Paul, glorification of the Lindons, and orders to me. 'I forbid you--I forbid you--' when papa wishes to be impressive he repeats his own words three or four times over; I don't know if he imagines that they are improved by repetition; if he does, he is wrong--'I forbid you ever again to speak to that--that--that--' Here followed language. I was silent. My cue was to keep cool. I believe that, with the exception, perhaps, of being a little white, and exceedingly sorry that papa should so forget himself, I was about the same as I generally am. 'Do you hear me?--do you hear what I say?--do you hear me, miss?' 'Yes, papa; I hear you.' 'Then--then--then promise me!--promise that you will do as I tell you!--mark my words, my girl, you shall promise before you leave this room!' 'My dear papa!--do you intend me to spend the remainder of my life in the drawing-room?' 'Don't you be impertinent!--do-do-don't you speak to me like that!--I--I--I won't have it!' 'I tell you what it is, papa, if you don't take care you'll have another attack of gout.' 'Damn gout.' That was the most sensible thing he said; if such a tormentor as gout can be consigned to the nether regions by the mere utterance of a word, by all means let the word be uttered. Off he went again. 'The man's a ruffianly, rascally,--' and so on. 'There's not such a villainous vagabond--' and all the rest of it. 'And I order you,--I'm a Lindon, and I order you! I'm your father, and I order you!--I order you never to speak to such a--such a'--various vain repetitions--'again, and--and--and I order you never to look at him!' 'Listen to me, papa. I will promise you never to speak to Paul Lessingham again, if you will promise me never to speak to Lord Cantilever again,--or to recognise him if you meet him in the street.' 'You should have seen how papa glared. Lord Cantilever is the head of his party. Its august, and, I presume, reverenced leader. He is papa's particular fetish. I am not sure that he does regard him as being any lower than the angels, but if he does it is certainly something in decimals. My suggestion seemed as outrageous to him as his suggestion seemed to me. But it is papa's misfortune that he can only see one side of a question,--and that's his own.' 'You--you dare to compare Lord Cantilever to--to that--that--that--!' 'I am not comparing them. I am not aware of there being anything in particular against Lord Cantilever,--that is against his character. But, of course, I should not dream of comparing a man of his calibre, with one of real ability, like Paul Lessingham. It would be to treat his lordship with too much severity.' I could not help it,--but that did it. The rest of papa's conversation was a jumble of explosions. It was all so sad. Papa poured all the vials of his wrath upon Paul,--to his own sore disfigurement. He threatened me with all the pains and penalties of the inquisition if I did not immediately promise to hold no further communication with Mr Lessingham,--of course I did nothing of the kind. He cursed me, in default, by bell, book, and candle,--and by ever so many other things beside. He called me the most dreadful names,--me! his only child. He warned me that I should find myself in prison before I had done,--I am not sure that he did not hint darkly at the gallows. Finally, he drove me from the room in a whirlwind of anathemas. CHAPTER XXVII THE TERROR BY NIGHT When I left papa,--or, rather, when papa had driven me from him--I went straight to the man whom I had found in the street. It was late, and I was feeling both tired and worried, so that I only thought of seeing for myself how he was. In some way, he seemed to be a link between Paul and myself, and as, at that moment, links of that kind were precious, I could not have gone to bed without learning something of his condition. The nurse received me at the door. 'Well, nurse, how's the patient?' Nurse was a plump, motherly woman, who had attended more than one odd protege of mine, and whom I kept pretty constantly at my beck and call. She held out her hands. 'It's hard to tell. He hasn't moved since I came.' 'Not moved?--Is he still insensible?' 'He seems to me to be in some sort of trance. He does not appear to breathe, and I can detect no pulsation, but the doctor says he's still alive,--it's the queerest case I ever saw.' I went farther into the room. Directly I did so the man in the bed gave signs of life which were sufficiently unmistakable. Nurse hastened to him. 'Why,' she exclaimed, 'he's moving!--he might have heard you enter!' He not only might have done, but it seemed possible that that was what he actually had done. As I approached the bed, he raised himself to a sitting posture, as, in the morning, he had done in the street, and he exclaimed, as if he addressed himself to someone whom he saw in front of him,--I cannot describe the almost more than human agony which was in his voice, 'Paul Lessingham!--Beware!--The Beetle!' What he meant I had not the slightest notion. Probably that was why what seemed more like a pronouncement of delirium than anything else had such an extraordinary effect upon my nerves. No sooner had he spoken than a sort of blank horror seemed to settle down upon my mind. I actually found myself trembling at the knees. I felt, all at once, as if I was standing in the immediate presence of something awful yet unseen. As for the speaker, no sooner were the words out of his lips, than, as was the case in the morning, he relapsed into a condition of trance. Nurse, bending over him, announced the fact. 'He's gone off again!--What an extraordinary thing!--I suppose it is real.' It was clear, from the tone of her voice, that she shared the doubt which had troubled the policeman, 'There's not a trace of a pulse. From the look of things he might be dead. Of one thing I'm sure, that there's something unnatural about the man. No natural illness I ever heard of, takes hold of a man like this.' Glancing up, she saw that there was something unusual in my face; an appearance which startled her. 'Why, Miss Marjorie, what's the matter!--You look quite ill!' I felt ill, and worse than ill; but, at the same time, I was quite incapable of describing what I felt to nurse. For some inscrutable reason I had even lost the control of my tongue,--I stammered. 'I--I--I'm not feeling very well, nurse; I--I--I think I'll be better in bed.' As I spoke, I staggered towards the door, conscious, all the while, that nurse was staring at me with eyes wide open, When I got out of the room, it seemed, in some incomprehensible fashion, as if something had left it with me, and that It and I were alone together in the corridor. So overcome was I by the consciousness of its immediate propinquity, that, all at once, I found myself cowering against the wall,--as if I expected something or someone to strike me. How I reached my bedroom I do not know. I found Fanchette awaiting me. For the moment her presence was a positive comfort,--until I realised the amazement with which she was regarding me. 'Mademoiselle is not well?' 'Thank you, Fanchette, I--I am rather tired. I will undress myself to-night--you can go to bed.' 'But if mademoiselle is so tired, will she not permit me to assist her?' The suggestion was reasonable enough,--and kindly too; for, to say the least of it, she had as much cause for fatigue as I had. I hesitated. I should have liked to throw my arms about her neck, and beg her not to leave me; but, the plain truth is, I was ashamed. In my inner consciousness I was persuaded that the sense of terror which had suddenly come over me was so absolutely causeless, that I could not bear the notion of playing the craven in my maid's eyes. While I hesitated, something seemed to sweep past me through the air, and to brush against my cheek in passing. I caught at Fanchette's arm. 'Fanchette!--Is there something with us in the room?' 'Something with us in the room?--Mademoiselle?--What does mademoiselle mean?' She looked disturbed,--which was, on the whole, excusable. Fanchette is not exactly a strong-minded person, and not likely to be much of a support when a support was most required. If I was going to play the fool, I would be my own audience. So I sent her off. 'Did you not hear me tell you that I will undress myself?--you are to go to bed.' She went to bed,--with quite sufficient willingness. The instant that she was out of the room I wished that she was back again. Such a paroxysm of fear came over me, that I was incapable of stirring from the spot on which I stood, and it was all I could do to prevent myself from collapsing in heap on the floor. I had never, till then, had reason to suppose that I was a coward. Nor to suspect myself of being the possessor of 'nerves.' I was as little likely as anyone to be frightened by shadows. I told myself that the whole thing was sheer absurdity, and that I should be thoroughly ashamed of my own conduct when the morning came. 'If you don't want to be self-branded as a contemptible idiot, Marjorie Lindon, you will call up your courage, and these foolish fears will fly.' But it would not do. Instead of flying, they grew worse. I became convinced,--and the process of conviction was terrible beyond words!--that there actually was something with me in the room, some invisible horror,--which, at any moment, might become visible. I seemed to understand--with a sense of agony which nothing can describe!--that this thing which was with me was with Paul. That we were linked together by the bond of a common, and a dreadful terror. That, at that moment, that same awful peril which was threatening me, was threatening him, and that I was powerless to move a finger in his aid. As with a sort of second sight, I saw out of the room in which I was, into another, in which Paul was crouching on the floor, covering his face with his hands, and shrieking. The vision came again and again with a degree of vividness of which I cannot give the least conception. At last the horror, and the reality of it, goaded me to frenzy. 'Paul! Paul!' I screamed. As soon as I found my voice, the vision faded. Once more I understood that, as a matter of simple fact, I was standing in my own bedroom; that the lights were burning brightly; that I had not yet commenced to remove a particle of dress. 'Am I going mad?' I wondered. I had heard of insanity taking extraordinary forms, but what could have caused softening of the brain in me I had not the faintest notion. Surely that sort of thing does not come on one--in such a wholly unmitigated form!--without the slightest notice,--and that my mental faculties were sound enough a few minutes back I was certain. The first premonition of anything of the kind had come upon me with the melodramatic utterance of the man I had found in the street. 'Paul Lessingham!--Beware!--The Beetle!' The words were ringing in my ears.--What was that?--. There was a buzzing sound behind me. I turned to see what it was. It moved as I moved, so that it was still at my back. I swung, swiftly, right round on my heels. It still eluded me,--it was still behind. I stood and listened,--what was it that hovered so persistently at my back? The buzzing was distinctly audible. It was like the humming of a bee. Or--could it be a beetle? My whole life long I have had an antipathy to beetles,--of any sort or kind. I have objected neither to rats nor mice, nor cows, nor bulls, nor snakes, nor spiders, nor toads, nor lizards, nor any of the thousand and one other creatures, animate or otherwise, to which so many people have a rooted, and, apparently, illogical dislike. My pet--and only--horror has been beetles. The mere suspicion of a harmless, and, I am told, necessary cockroach, being within several feet has always made me seriously uneasy. The thought that a great, winged beetle--to me, a flying beetle is the horror of horrors!--was with me in my bedroom,--goodness alone knew how it had got there!--was unendurable. Anyone who had beheld me during the next few moments would certainly have supposed I was deranged. I turned and twisted, sprang from side to side, screwed myself into impossible positions, in order to obtain a glimpse of the detested visitant,--but in vain. I could hear it all the time; but see it--never! The buzzing sound was continually behind. The terror returned,--I began to think that my brain must be softening. I dashed to the bed. Flinging myself on my knees, I tried to pray. But I was speechless,--words would not come; my thoughts would not take shape. I all at once became conscious, as I struggled to ask help of God, that I was wrestling with something evil,--that if I only could ask kelp of Him, evil would flee. But I could not. I was helpless,--overmastered. I hid my face in the bedclothes, cramming my fingers into my ears. But the buzzing was behind me all the time. I sprang up, striking out, blindly, wildly, right and left, hitting nothing,--the buzzing always came from a point at which, at the moment, I was not aiming. I tore off my clothes. I had on a lovely frock which I had worn for the first time that night; I had had it specially made for the occasion of the Duchess' ball, and--more especially--in honour of Paul's great speech. I had said to myself, when I saw my image in a mirror, that it was the most exquisite gown I had ever had, that it suited me to perfection, and that it should continue in my wardrobe for many a day, if only as a souvenir of a memorable night. Now, in the madness of my terror, all reflections of that sort were forgotten. My only desire was to away with it. I tore it off anyhow, letting it fall in rags on the floor at my feet. All else that I had on I flung in the same way after it; it was a veritable holocaust of dainty garments,--I acting as relentless executioner who am, as a rule, so tender with my things. I leaped upon the bed, switched off the electric light, hurried into bed, burying myself, over head and all, deep down between the sheets. I had hoped that by shutting out the light, I might regain my senses. That in the darkness I might have opportunity for sane reflection. But I had made a grievous error. I had exchanged bad for worse. The darkness lent added terrors. The light had not been out five seconds before I would have given all that I was worth to be able to switch it on again. As I cowered beneath the bedclothes I heard the buzzing sound above my head,--the sudden silence of the darkness had rendered it more audible than it had been before. The thing, whatever it was, was hovering above the bed. It came nearer and nearer; it grew clearer and clearer. I felt it alight upon the coverlet;--shall I ever forget the sensations with which I did feel it? It weighed upon me like a ton of lead. How much of the seeming weight was real, and how much imaginary, I cannot pretend to say; but that it was much heavier than any beetle I have ever seen or heard of, I am sure. For a time it was still,--and during that time I doubt if I even drew my breath. Then I felt it begin to move, in wobbling fashion, with awkward, ungainly gait, stopping every now and then, as if for rest. I was conscious that it was progressing, slowly, yet surely, towards the head of the bed. The emotion of horror with which I realised what this progression might mean, will be, I fear, with me to the end of my life,--not only in dreams, but too often, also, in my waking hours. My heart, as the Psalmist has it, melted like wax within me, I was incapable of movement,--dominated by something as hideous as, and infinitely more powerful than, the fascination of the serpent. When it reached the head of the bed, what I feared--with what a fear!--would happen, did happen. It began to find its way inside,--to creep between the sheets; the wonder is I did not die! I felt it coming nearer and nearer, inch by inch; I knew that it was upon me, that escape there was none; I felt something touch my hair. And then oblivion did come to my aid. For the first time in my life I swooned. CHAPTER XXVIII THE STRANGE STORY OF THE MAN IN THE STREET I have been anticipating for some weeks past, that things would become exciting,--and they have. But hardly in the way which I foresaw. It is the old story of the unexpected happening. Suddenly events of the most extraordinary nature have come crowding on me from the most unlooked-for quarters. Let me try to take them in something like their proper order. To begin with, Sydney has behaved very badly. So badly that it seems likely that I shall have to re-cast my whole conception of his character. It was nearly nine o'clock this morning when I,--I cannot say woke up, because I do not believe that I had really been asleep--but when I returned to consciousness. I found myself sitting up in bed, trembling like some frightened child. What had actually happened to me I did not know,--could not guess. I was conscious of an overwhelming sense of nausea, and, generally, I was feeling very far from well. I endeavoured to arrange my thoughts, and to decide upon some plan of action. Finally, I decided to go for advice and help where I had so often gone before,--to Sydney Atherton. I went to him. I told him the whole gruesome story. He saw, he could not help but see what a deep impress the events of the night had made on me. He heard me to the end with every appearance of sympathy,--and then all at once I discovered that all the time papa had been concealed behind a large screen which was in the room, listening to every word I had been uttering. That I was dumfoundered, goes without saying. It was bad enough in papa, but in Sydney it seemed, and it was, such treachery. He and I have told each other secrets all our lives; it has never entered my imagination, as he very well knows, to play him false, in one jot or tittle; and I have always understood that, in this sort of matter, men pride themselves on their sense of honour being so much keener than women's. I told them some plain truths; and I fancy that I left them both feeling heartily ashamed of themselves. One result the experience had on me,--it wound me up. It had on me the revivifying effect of a cold douche. I realised that mine was a situation in which I should have to help myself. When I returned home I learned that the man whom I had found in the street was himself again, and was as conscious as he was ever likely to be. Burning with curiosity to learn the nature of the connection which existed between Paul and him, and what was the meaning of his oracular apostrophes, I merely paused to remove my hat before hastening into his apartment. When he saw me, and heard who I was, the expressions of his gratitude were painful in their intensity. The tears streamed down his cheeks. He looked to me like a man who had very little life left in him. He looked weak, and white, and worn to a shadow. Probably he never had been robust, and it was only too plain that privation had robbed him of what little strength he had ever had. He was nothing else but skin and bone. Physical and mental debility was written large all over him. He was not bad-looking,--in a milk and watery sort of way. He had pale blue eyes and very fair hair, and, I daresay, at one time, had been a spruce enough clerk. It was difficult to guess his age, one ages so rapidly under the stress of misfortune, but I should have set him down as being about forty. His voice, though faint enough at first, was that of an educated man, and as he went on, and gathered courage, and became more and more in earnest, he spoke with a simple directness which was close akin to eloquence. It was a curious story which he had to tell. So curious, so astounding indeed, that, by the time it was finished, I was in such a state of mind, that I could perceive no alternative but to forgive Sydney, and, in spite of his recent, and scandalous misbehaviour, again appeal to him for assistance. It seemed, if the story told by the man whom I had found in the street was true,--and incredible though it sounded, he spoke like a truthful man!--that Paul was threatened by some dreadful, and, to me, wholly incomprehensible danger; that it was a case in which even moments were precious; and I felt that, with the best will in the world, it was a position in which I could not move alone. The shadow of the terror of the night was with me still, and with that fresh in my recollection how could I hope, single-handed, to act effectually against the mysterious being of whom this amazing tale was told? No! I believed that Sydney did care for me, in his own peculiar way; I knew that he was quick, and cool, and fertile in resource, and that he showed to most advantage in a difficult situation; it was possible that he had a conscience, of a sort, and that, this time, I might not appeal to it in vain. So I sent a servant off to fetch him, helter skelter. As luck would have it, the servant returned with him within five minutes. It appeared that he had been lunching with Dora Grayling, who lives just at the end of the street, and the footman had met him coming down the steps. I had him shown into my own room. 'I want you to go to the man whom I found in the street, and listen to what he has to say.' 'With pleasure.' 'Can I trust you?' 'To listen to what he has to say?--I believe so.' 'Can I trust you to respect my confidence?' He was not at all abashed,--I never saw Sydney Atherton when he was abashed. Whatever the offence of which he has been guilty, he always seems completely at his ease. His eyes twinkled. 'You can,--I will not breathe a syllable even to papa.' 'In that case, come! But, you understand, I am going to put to the test the affirmations which you have made during all these years, and to prove if you have any of the feeling for me which you pretend.' Directly we were in the stranger's room, Sydney marched straight up to the bed, stared at the man who was lying in it, crammed his hands into his trouser pockets, and whistled. I was amazed. 'So!' he exclaimed. 'It's you!' 'Do you know this man?' I asked. 'I am hardly prepared to go so far as to say that I know him, but, I chance to have a memory for faces, and it happens that I have met this gentleman on at least one previous occasion. Perhaps he remembers me.--Do you?' The stranger seemed uneasy,--as if he found Sidney's tone and manner disconcerting. 'I do. You are the man in the street.' 'Precisely. I am that--individual. And you are the man who came through the window. And in a much more comfortable condition you appear to be than when first I saw you.' Sydney turned to me. 'It is just possible, Miss Lindon, that I may have a few remarks to make to this gentleman which would be better made in private,--if you don't mind.' 'But I do mind,--I mind very much. What do you suppose I sent for you here for?' Sydney smiled that absurd, provoking smile of his,--as if the occasion were not sufficiently serious. 'To show that you still repose in me a vestige of your confidence.' 'Don't talk nonsense. This man has told me a most extraordinary story, and I have sent for you--as you may believe, not too willingly'--Sydney bowed--'in order that he may repeat it in your presence, and in mine.' 'Is that so?--Well!-Permit me to offer you a chair,--this tale may turn out to be a trifle long.' To humour him I accepted the chair he offered, though I should have preferred to stand;--he seated himself on the side of the bed, fixing on the stranger those keen, quizzical, not too merciful, eyes of his. 'Well, sir, we are at your service,--if you will be so good as to favour us with a second edition of that pleasant yarn you have been spinning. But--let us begin at the right end!--what's your name?' 'My name is Robert Holt.' 'That so?--Then, Mr Robert Holt,--let her go!' Thus encouraged, Mr Holt repeated the tale which he had told me, only in more connected fashion than before. I fancy that Sydney's glances exercised on him a sort of hypnotic effect, and this kept him to the point,--he scarcely needed a word of prompting from the first syllable to the last. He told how, tired, wet, hungry, desperate, despairing, he had been refused admittance to the casual ward,--that unfailing resource, as one would have supposed, of those who had abandoned even hope. How he had come upon an open window in an apparently empty house, and, thinking of nothing but shelter from the inclement night, he had clambered through it. How he had found himself in the presence of an extraordinary being, who, in his debilitated and nervous state, had seemed to him to be only half human. How this dreadful creature had given utterance to wild sentiments of hatred towards Paul Lessingham,--my Paul! How he had taken advantage of Holt's enfeebled state to gain over him the most complete, horrible, and, indeed, almost incredible ascendency. How he actually had sent Holt, practically naked, into the storm-driven streets, to commit burglary at Paul's house,--and how he,--Holt,--had actually gone without being able to offer even a shadow of opposition. How Paul, suddenly returning home, had come upon Holt engaged in the very act of committing burglary, and how, on his hearing Holt make a cabalistic reference to some mysterious beetle, the manhood had gone out of him, and he had suffered the intruder to make good his escape without an effort to detain him. The story had seemed sufficiently astonishing the first time, it seemed still more astonishing the second,--but, as I watched Sydney listening, what struck me chiefly was the conviction that he had heard it all before. I charged him with it directly Holt had finished. 'This is not the first time you have been told this tale.' 'Pardon me,--but it is. Do you suppose I live in an atmosphere of fairy tales?' Something in his manner made me feel sure he was deceiving me. 'Sydney!--Don't tell me a story!--Paul has told you!' 'I am not telling you a story,--at least, on this occasion; and Mr Lessingham has not told me. Suppose we postpone these details to a little later. And perhaps, in the interim, you will permit me to put a question or two to Mr Holt.' I let him have his way,--though I knew he was concealing something from me; that he had a more intimate acquaintance with Mr Holt's strange tale than he chose to confess. And, for some cause, his reticence annoyed me. He looked at Mr Holt in silence for a second or two. Then he said, with the quizzical little air of bland impertinence which is peculiarly his own, 'I presume, Mr Holt, you have been entertaining us with a novelty in fables, and that we are not expected to believe this pleasant little yarn of yours.' 'I expect nothing. But I have told you the truth. And you know it.' This seemed to take Sydney aback. 'I protest that, like Miss Lindon, you credit me with a more extensive knowledge than I possess. However, we will let that pass.--I take it that you paid particular attention to this mysterious habitant of this mysterious dwelling.' I saw that Mr Holt shuddered. 'I am not likely ever to forget him.' 'Then, in that case, you will be able to describe him to us.' 'To do so adequately would be beyond my powers. But I will do my best.' If the original was more remarkable than the description which he gave of him, then he must have been remarkable indeed. The impression conveyed to my mind was rather of a monster than a human being. I watched Sydney attentively as he followed Mr Holt's somewhat lurid language, and there was something in his demeanour which made me more and more persuaded that he was more behind the scenes in this strange business than he pretended, or than the speaker suspected. He put a question which seemed uncalled for by anything which Mr Holt had said. 'You are sure this thing of beauty was a man?' 'No, sir, that is exactly what I am not sure.' There was a note in Sydney's voice which suggested that he had received precisely the answer which he had expected. 'Did you think it was a woman?' 'I did think so, more than once. Though I can hardly explain what made me think so. There was certainly nothing womanly about the face.' He paused, as if to reflect. Then added, 'I suppose it was a question of instinct.' 'I see.--Just so.--It occurs to me, Mr Holt, that you are rather strong on questions of instinct.' Sydney got off the bed. He stretched himself, as if fatigued,--which is a way he has. 'I will not do you the injustice to hint that I do not believe a word of your charming, and simple, narrative. On the contrary, I will demonstrate my perfect credence by remarking that I have not the slightest doubt that you will be able to point out to me, for my particular satisfaction, the delightful residence on which the whole is founded.' Mr Holt coloured,--Sydney's tone could scarcely have been more significant. 'You must remember, sir, that it was a dark night, that I had never been in that neighbourhood before, and that I was not in a condition to pay much attention to locality.' 'All of which is granted, but--how far was it from Hammersmith Workhouse?' 'Possibly under half a mile.' 'Then, in that case, surely you can remember which turning you took on leaving Hammersmith Workhouse,--I suppose there are not many turnings you could have taken.' 'I think I could remember.' 'Then you shall have an opportunity to try. It isn't a very far cry to Hammersmith,--don't you think you are well enough to drive there now, just you and I together in a cab?' 'I should say so. I wished to get up this morning. It is by the doctor's orders I have stayed in bed.' 'Then, for once in a while, the doctor's orders shall be ignored,--I prescribe fresh air.' Sydney turned to me. 'Since Mr Holt's wardrobe seems rather to seek, don't you think a suit of one of the men might fit him,--if Mr Holt wouldn't mind making shift for the moment?--Then, by the time you've finished dressing, Mr Holt, I shall be ready.' While they were ascertaining which suit of clothes would be best adapted to his figure, I went with Sydney to my room. So soon as we were in, I let him know that this was not a matter in which I intended to be trifled with. 'Of course you understand, Sydney, that I am coming with you.' He pretended not to know what I meant. 'Coming with me?--I am delighted to hear it,--but where?' 'To the house of which Mr Holt has been speaking.' 'Nothing could give me greater pleasure, but--might I point out?--Mr Holt has to find it yet?' 'I will come to help you to help him find it.' Sydney laughed,--but I could see he did not altogether relish the suggestion. 'Three in a hansom?' 'There is such a thing as a four-wheeled cab,--or I could order a carriage if you'd like one.' Sydney looked at me out of the corners of his eyes; then began to walk up and down the room, with his hands in his trouser pockets. Presently he began to talk nonsense. 'I need not say with what a sensation of joy I should anticipate the delights of a drive with you,--even in a four-wheeled cab; but, were I in your place, I fancy that I should allow Holt and your humble servant to go hunting out this house of his alone. It may prove a more tedious business than you imagine. I promise that, after the hunt is over, I will describe the proceedings to you with the most literal accuracy.' 'I daresay.--Do you think I don't know you've been deceiving me all the time?' 'Deceiving you?--I!' 'Yes,--you! Do you think I'm quite an idiot?' 'My dear Marjorie!' 'Do you think I can't see that you know all about what Mr Holt has been telling us,--perhaps more about it than he knows himself?' 'On my word!--With what an amount of knowledge you do credit me.' 'Yes, I do,--or discredit you, rather. If I were to trust you, you would tell me just as much as you chose,--which would be nothing. I'm coming with you,--so there's an end.' 'Very well.--Do you happen to know if there are any revolvers in the house?' 'Revolvers?--whatever for?' 'Because I should like to borrow one. I will not conceal from you--since you press me--that this is a case in which a revolver is quite likely to be required.' 'You are trying to frighten me.' 'I am doing nothing of the kind, only, under the circumstances, I am bound to point out to you what it is you may expect.' 'Oh, you think that you're bound to point that out, do you,--then now your bounden duty's done. As for there being any revolvers in the house, papa has a perfect arsenal,--would you like to take them all?' 'Thanks, but I daresay I shall be able to manage with one,--unless you would like one too. You may find yourself in need of it.' 'I am obliged to you, but, on this occasion, I don't think I'll trouble. I'll run the risk.--Oh, Sydney, what a hypocrite you are!' 'It's for your sake, if I seem to be. I tell you most seriously, that I earnestly advise you to allow Mr Holt and I to manage this affair alone. I don't mind going so far as to say that this is a matter with which, in days to come, you will wish that you had not allowed yourself to be associated.' 'What do you mean by that? Do you dare to insinuate anything against--Paul?' 'I insinuate nothing. What I mean, I say right out; and, my dear Marjorie, what I actually do mean is this,--that if, in spite of my urgent solicitations, you will persist in accompanying us, the expedition, so far as I am concerned, will be postponed.' 'That is what you do mean, is it? Then that's settled.' I rang the bell. The servant came. 'Order a four-wheeled cab at once. And let me know the moment Mr Holt is ready.' The servant went. I turned to Sydney. 'If you will excuse me, I will go and put my hat on. You are, of course, at liberty to please yourself as to whether you will or will not go, but, if you don't, then I shall go with Mr Holt alone.' I moved to the door. He stopped me. 'My dear Marjorie, why will you persist in treating me with such injustice? Believe me, you have no idea what sort of adventure this is which you are setting out upon,--or you would hear reason. I assure you that you are gratuitously proposing to thrust yourself into imminent peril.' 'What sort of peril? Why do you beat about the bush,--why don't you speak right out?' 'I can't speak right out, there are circumstances which render it practically impossible--and that's the plain truth,--but the danger is none the less real on that account. I am not jesting,--I am in earnest; won't you take my word for it?' 'It is not a question of taking your word only,--it is a question of something else beside. I have not forgotten my adventures of last night,--and Mr Holt's story is mysterious enough in itself; but there is something more mysterious still at the back of it,--something which you appear to suggest points unpleasantly at Paul. My duty is clear, and nothing you can say will turn me from it. Paul, as you are very well aware, is already over-weighted with affairs of state, pretty nearly borne down by them,--or I would take the tale to him, and he would talk to you after a fashion of his own. Things being as they are, I propose to show you that, although I am not yet Paul's wife, I can make his interests my own as completely as though I were. I can, therefore, only repeat that it is for you to decide what you intend to do; but, if you prefer to stay, I shall go with Mr Holt,--alone.' 'Understand that, when the time for regret comes--as it will come!--you are not to blame me for having done what I advised you not to do.' 'My dear Mr Atherton, I will undertake to do my utmost to guard your spotless reputation; I should be sorry that anyone should hold you responsible for anything I either said or did.' 'Very well!--Your blood be on your own head!' 'My blood?' 'Yes,--your blood. I shouldn't be surprised if it comes to blood before we're through.--Perhaps you'll oblige me with the loan of one of that arsenal of revolvers of which you spoke.' I let him have his old revolver,--or, rather, I let him have one of papa's new ones. He put it in the hip pocket in his trousers. And the expedition started,--in a four-wheeled car. CHAPTER XXIX THE HOUSE ON THE ROAD FROM THE WORKHOUSE Mr Holt looked as if he was in somebody else's garments. He was so thin, and worn, and wasted, that the suit of clothes which one of the men had lent him hung upon him as on a scarecrow. I was almost ashamed of myself for having incurred a share of the responsibility of taking him out of bed. He seemed so weak and bloodless that I should not have been surprised if he had fainted on the road. I had taken care that he should eat as much as he could eat before we started--the suggestion of starvation which he had conveyed to one's mind was dreadful!--and I had brought a flask of brandy in case of accidents, but, in spite of everything, I could not conceal from myself that he would be more at home in a sick-bed than in a jolting cab. It was not a cheerful drive. There was in Sydney's manner towards me an air of protection which I instinctively resented,--he appeared to be regarding me as a careful, and anxious, nurse might regard a wrong-headed and disobedient child. Conversation distinctly languished. Since Sydney seemed disposed to patronise me, I was bent on snubbing him. The result was, that the majority of the remarks which were uttered were addressed to Mr Holt. The cab stopped,--after what had appeared to me to be an interminable journey. I was rejoiced at the prospect of its being at an end. Sydney put his head out of the window. A short parley with the driver ensued. 'This is 'Ammersmith Workhouse, it's a large place, sir,--which part of it might you be wanting?' Sydney appealed to Mr Holt. He put his head out of the window in his turn,--he did not seem to recognise our surroundings at all. 'We have come a different way,--this is not the way I went; I went through Hammersmith,--and to the casual ward; I don't see that here.' Sydney spoke to the cabman. 'Driver, where's the casual ward?' 'That's the other end, sir.' 'Then take us there.' He took us there. Then Sydney appealed again to Mr Holt. 'Shall I dismiss the cabman,--or don't you feel equal to walking?' 'Thank you, I feel quite equal to walking,--I think the exercise will do me good.' So the cabman was dismissed,--a step which we--and I, in particular--had subsequent cause to regret. Mr Holt took his bearings. He pointed to a door which was just in front of us. 'That's the entrance to the casual ward, and that, over it, is the window through which the other man threw a stone. I went to the right,--back the way I had come.' We went to the right. 'I reached this corner.' We had reached a corner. Mr Holt looked about him, endeavouring to recall the way he had gone. A good many roads appeared to converge at that point, so that he might have wandered in either of several directions. Presently he arrived at something like a decision. 'I think this is the way I went,--I am nearly sure it is.' He led the way, with something of an air of dubitation, and we followed. The road he had chosen seemed to lead to nothing and nowhere. We had not gone many yards from the workhouse gates before we were confronted by something like chaos. In front and on either side of us were large spaces of waste land. At some more or less remote period attempts appeared to have been made at brick-making,--there were untidy stacks of bilious-looking bricks in evidence. Here and there enormous weather-stained boards announced that 'This Desirable Land was to be Let for Building Purposes.' The road itself was unfinished. There was no pavement, and we had the bare uneven ground for sidewalk. It seemed, so far as I could judge, to lose itself in space, and to be swallowed up by the wilderness of 'Desirable Land' which lay beyond. In the near distance there were houses enough, and to spare--of a kind. But they were in other roads. In the one in which we actually were, on the right, at the end, there was a row of unfurnished carcases, but only two buildings which were in anything like a fit state for occupation. One stood on either side, not facing each other,--there was a distance between them of perhaps fifty yards. The sight of them had a more exciting effect on Mr Holt than it had on me. He moved rapidly forward,--coming to a standstill in front of the one upon our left, which was the nearer of the pair. 'This is the house!' he exclaimed. He seemed almost exhilarated,--I confess that I was depressed. A more dismal-looking habitation one could hardly imagine. It was one of those dreadful jerry-built houses which, while they are still new, look old. It had quite possibly only been built a year or two, and yet, owing to neglect, or to poverty of construction, or to a combination of the two, it was already threatening to tumble down. It was a small place, a couple of storeys high, and would have been dear--I should think!--at thirty pounds a year. The windows had surely never been washed since the house was built,--those on the upper floor seemed all either cracked or broken. The only sign of occupancy consisted in the fact that a blind was down behind the window of the room on the ground floor. Curtains there were none. A low wall ran in front, which had apparently at one time been surmounted by something in the shape of an iron railing,--a rusty piece of metal still remained on one end; but, since there was only about a foot between it and the building, which was practically built upon the road,--whether the wall was intended to ensure privacy, or was merely for ornament, was not clear. 'This is the house!' repeated Mr Holt, showing more signs of life than I had hitherto seen in him. Sydney looked it up and down,--it apparently appealed to his aesthetic sense as little as it did to mine. 'Are you sure?' 'I am certain.' 'It seems empty.' 'It seemed empty to me that night,--that is why I got into it in search of shelter.' 'Which is the window which served you as a door?' 'This one.' Mr Holt pointed to the window on the ground floor,--the one which was screened by a blind. 'There was no sign of a blind when I first saw it, and the sash was up,--it was that which caught my eye.' Once more Sydney surveyed the place, in comprehensive fashion, from roof to basement,--then he scrutinisingly regarded Mr Holt. 'You are quite sure this is the house? It might be awkward if you proved mistaken. I am going to knock at the door, and if it turns out that that mysterious acquaintance of yours does not, and never has lived here, we might find an explanation difficult.' 'I am sure it is the house,--certain! I know it,--I feel it here,--and here.' Mr Holt touched his breast, and his forehead. His manner was distinctly odd. He was trembling, and a fevered expression had come into his eyes. Sydney glanced at him, for a moment, in silence. Then he bestowed his attention upon me. 'May I ask if I may rely upon your preserving your presence of mind?' The mere question ruffled my plumes. 'What do you mean?' 'What I say. I am going to knock at that door, and I am going to get through it, somehow. It is quite within the range of possibility that, when I am through, there will be some strange happenings,--as you have heard from Mr Holt. The house is commonplace enough without; you may not find it so commonplace within. You may find yourself in a position in which it will be in the highest degree essential that you should keep your wits about you.' 'I am not likely to let them stray.' 'Then that's all right.--Do I understand that you propose to come in with me?' 'Of course I do,--what do you suppose I've come for? What nonsense you are talking. 'I hope that you will still continue to consider it nonsense by the time this little adventure's done.' That I resented his impertinence goes without saying--to be talked to in such a strain by Sydney Atherton, whom I had kept in subjection ever since he was in knickerbockers, was a little trying,--but I am forced to admit that I was more impressed by his manner, or his words, or by Mr Holt's manner, or something, than I should have cared to own. I had not the least notion what was going to happen, or what horrors that woebegone-looking dwelling contained. But Mr Holt's story had been of the most astonishing sort, my experiences of the previous night were still fresh, and, altogether, now that I was in such close neighbourhood with the Unknown--with a capital U!--although it was broad daylight, it loomed before me in a shape for which,--candidly!--I was not prepared. A more disreputable-looking front door I have not seen,--it was in perfect harmony with the remainder of the establishment. The paint was off; the woodwork was scratched and dented; the knocker was red with rust. When Sydney took it in his hand I was conscious of quite a little thrill. As he brought it down with a sharp rat-tat, I half expected to see the door fly open, and disclose some gruesome object glaring out at us. Nothing of the kind took place; the door did not budge,--nothing happened. Sydney waited a second or two, then knocked again; another second or two, then another knock. There was still no sign of any notice being taken of our presence. Sydney turned to Mr Holt. 'Seems as if the place was empty.' Mr Holt was in the most singular condition of agitation,--it made me uncomfortable to look at him. 'You do not know,--you cannot tell; there may be someone there who hears and pays no heed.' 'I'll give them another chance.' Sydney brought down the knocker with thundering reverberations. The din must have been audible half a mile away. But from within the house there was still no sign that any heard. Sydney came down the step. 'I'll try another way,--I may have better fortune at the back.' He led the way round to the rear, Mr Holt and I following in single file. There the place seemed in worse case even than in the front. There were two empty rooms on the ground floor at the back,--there was no mistake about their being empty, without the slightest difficulty we could see right into them. One was apparently intended for a kitchen and wash-house combined, the other for a sitting-room. There was not a stick of furniture in either, nor the slightest sign of human habitation. Sydney commented on the fact. 'Not only is it plain that no one lives in these charming apartments, but it looks to me uncommonly as if no one ever had lived in them.' To my thinking Mr Holt's agitation was increasing every moment. For some reason of his own, Sydney took no notice of it whatever,--possibly because he judged that to do so would only tend to make it worse. An odd change had even taken place in Mr Holt's voice,--he spoke in a sort of tremulous falsetto. 'It was only the front room which I saw.' 'Very good; then, before very long, you shall see that front room again.' Sydney rapped with his knuckles on the glass panels of the back door. He tried the handle; when it refused to yield he gave it a vigorous shaking. He saluted the dirty windows,--so far as succeeding in attracting attention was concerned, entirely in vain. Then he turned again to Mr Holt,--half mockingly. 'I call you to witness that I have used every lawful means to gain the favourable notice of your mysterious friend. I must therefore beg to stand excused if I try something slightly unlawful for a change. It is true that you found the window already open; but, in my case, it soon will be.' He took a knife out of his pocket, and, with the open blade, forced back the catch,--as I am told that burglars do. Then he lifted the sash. 'Behold!' he exclaimed. 'What did I tell you?--Now, my dear Marjorie, if I get in first and Mr Holt gets in after me, we shall be in a position to open the door for you.' I immediately saw through his design. 'No, Mr Atherton; you will get in first, and I will get in after you, through the window,--before Mr Holt. I don't intend to wait for you to open the door.' Sydney raised his hands and opened his eyes, as if grieved at my want of confidence. But I did not mean to be left in the lurch, to wait their pleasure, while on pretence of opening the door, they searched the house. So Sydney climbed in first, and I second,--it was not a difficult operation, since the window-sill was under three feet from the ground--and Mr Holt last. Directly we were in, Sydney put his hand up to his mouth, and shouted. 'Is there anybody in this house? If so, will he kindly step this way, as there is someone wishes to see him.' His words went echoing through the empty rooms in a way which was almost uncanny. I suddenly realised that if, after all, there did happen to be somebody in the house, and he was at all disagreeable, our presence on his premises might prove rather difficult to explain. However, no one answered. While I was waiting for Sydney to make the next move, he diverted my attention to Mr Holt. 'Hollo, Holt, what's the matter with you? Man, don't play the fool like that!' Something was the matter with Mr Holt. He was trembling all over as if attacked by a shaking palsy. Every muscle in his body seemed twitching at once. A strained look had come on his face, which was not nice to see. He spoke as with an effort. 'I'm all right.--It's nothing.' 'Oh, is it nothing? Then perhaps you'll drop it. Where's that brandy?' I handed Sydney the flask. 'Here, swallow this.' Mr Holt swallowed the cupful of neat spirit which Sydney offered without an attempt at parley. Beyond bringing some remnants of colour to his ashen cheeks it seemed to have no effect on him whatever. Sydney eyed him with a meaning in his glance which I was at a loss to understand. 'Listen to me, my lad. Don't think you can deceive me by playing any of your fool tricks, and don't delude yourself into supposing that I shall treat you as anything but dangerous if you do. I've got this.' He showed the revolver of papa's which I had lent him. 'Don't imagine that Miss Lindon's presence will deter me from using it.' Why he addressed Mr Holt in such a strain surpassed my comprehension. Mr Holt, however, evinced not the faintest symptoms of resentment,--he had become, on a sudden, more like an automaton than a man. Sydney continued to gaze at him as if he would have liked his glance to penetrate to his inmost soul. 'Keep in front of me, if you please, Mr Holt, and lead the way to this mysterious apartment in which you claim to have had such a remarkable experience.' Of me he asked in a whisper, 'Did you bring a revolver?' I was startled. 'A revolver?--The idea!--How absurd you are!' Sydney said something which was so rude--and so uncalled for!--that it was worthy of papa in his most violent moments. 'I'd sooner be absurd than a fool in petticoats.' I was so angry that I did not know what to say,--and before I could say it he went on. 'Keep your eyes and ears well open; be surprised at nothing you see or hear. Stick close to me. And for goodness sake remain mistress of as many of your senses as you conveniently can.' I had not the least idea what was the meaning of it all. To me there seemed nothing to make such a pother about. And yet I was conscious of a fluttering of the heart as if there soon might be something, I knew Sydney sufficiently well to be aware that he was one of the last men in the world to make a fuss without reason,--and that he was as little likely to suppose that there was a reason when as a matter of fact there was none. Mr Holt led the way, as Sydney desired--or, rather, commanded, to the door of the room which was in front of the house. The door was closed. Sydney tapped on a panel. All was silence. He tapped again. 'Anyone in there?' he demanded. As there was still no answer, he tried the handle. The door was locked. 'The first sign of the presence of a human being we have had,--doors don't lock themselves. It's just possible that there may have been someone or something about the place, at some time or other, after all.' Grasping the handle firmly, he shook it with all his might,--as he had done with the door at the back. So flimsily was the place constructed that he made even the walls to tremble. 'Within there!--if anyone is in there!--if you don't open this door, I shall.' There was no response. So be it!--I'm going to pursue my wild career of defiance of established law and order, and gain admission in one way, if I can't in another.' Putting his right shoulder against the door, he pushed with his whole force. Sydney is a big man, and very strong, and the door was weak. Shortly, the lock yielded before the continuous pressure, and the door flew open. Sydney whistled. 'So!--It begins to occur to me, Mr Holt, that that story of yours may not have been such pure romance as it seemed.' It was plain enough that, at any rate, this room had been occupied, and that recently,--and, if his taste in furniture could be taken as a test, by an eccentric occupant to boot. My own first impression was that there was someone, or something, living in it still,--an uncomfortable odour greeted our nostrils, which was suggestive of some evil-smelling animal. Sydney seemed to share my thought. 'A pretty perfume, on my word! Let's shed a little more light on the subject, and see what causes it. Marjorie, stop where you are until I tell you.' I had noticed nothing, from without, peculiar about the appearance of the blind which screened the window, but it must have been made of some unusually thick material, for, within, the room was strangely dark. Sydney entered, with the intention of drawing up the blind, but he had scarcely taken a couple of steps when he stopped. 'What's that?' 'It's it,' said Mr Holt, in a voice which was so unlike his own that it was scarcely recognisable. 'It?--What do you mean by it?' 'The Beetle!' Judging from the sound of his voice Sydney was all at once in a state of odd excitement. 'Oh, is it!--Then, if this time I don't find out the how and the why and the wherefore of that charming conjuring trick, I'll give you leave to write me down an ass,--with a great, big A.' He rushed farther into the room,--apparently his efforts to lighten it did not meet with the immediate success which he desired. 'What's the matter with this confounded blind? There's no cord! How do you pull it up?--What the--' In the middle of his sentence Sydney ceased speaking. Suddenly Mr Holt, who was standing by my side on the threshold of the door, was seized with such a fit of trembling, that, fearing he was going to fall, I caught him by the arm. A most extraordinary look was on his face. His eyes were distended to their fullest width, as if with horror at what they saw in front of them. Great beads of perspiration were on his forehead. 'It's coming!' he screamed. Exactly what happened I do not know. But, as he spoke, I heard, proceeding from the room, the sound of the buzzing of wings. Instantly it recalled my experiences of the night before,--as it did so I was conscious of a most unpleasant qualm. Sydney swore a great oath, as if he were beside himself with rage. 'If you won't go up, you shall come down.' I suppose, failing to find a cord, he seized the blind from below, and dragged it down,--it came, roller and all, clattering to the floor. The room was all in light. I hurried in. Sydney was standing by the window, with a look of perplexity upon his face which, under any other circumstances, would have been comical. He was holding papa's revolver in his hand, and was glaring round and round the room, as if wholly at a loss to understand how it was he did not see what he was looking for. 'Marjorie!' he exclaimed. 'Did you hear anything?' 'Of course I did. It was that which I heard last night,--which so frightened me.' 'Oh, was it? Then, by--' in his excitement he must have been completely oblivious of my presence, for he used the most terrible language, 'when I find it there'll be a small discussion. It can't have got out of the room,--I know the creature's here; I not only heard it, I felt it brush against my face.--Holt, come inside and shut that door.' Mr Holt raised his arms, as if he were exerting himself to make a forward movement,--but he remained rooted to the spot on which he stood. 'I can't!' he cried. 'You can't.'--Why?' 'It won't let me.' 'What won't let you?' 'The Beetle!' Sydney moved till he was close in front of him. He surveyed him with eager eyes. I was just at his back. I heard him murmur,--possibly to me. 'By George!--It's just as I thought!--The beggar's hypnotised!' Then he said aloud, 'Can you see it now?' 'Yes.' 'Where?' 'Behind you.' As Mr Holt spoke, I again heard, quite close to me, that buzzing sound. Sydney seemed to hear it too,--it caused him to swing round so quickly that he all but whirled me off my feet. 'I beg your pardon, Marjorie, but this is of the nature of an unparalleled experience,--didn't you hear something then?' 'I did,--distinctly; it was close to me,--within an inch or two of my face.' We stared about us, then back at each other,--there was nothing else to be seen. Sydney laughed, doubtfully. 'It's uncommonly queer. I don't want to suggest that there are visions about, or I might suspect myself of softening of the brain. But--it's queer. There's a trick about it somewhere, I am convinced; and no doubt it's simple enough when you know how it's done,--but the difficulty is to find that out.--Do you think our friend over there is acting?' 'He looks to me as if he were ill.' 'He does look ill. He also looks as if he were hypnotised. If he is, it must be by suggestion,--and that's what makes me doubtful, because it will be the first plainly established case of hypnotism by suggestion I've encountered.--Holt!' 'Yes.' 'That,' said Sydney in my ear, 'is the voice and that is the manner of a hypnotised man, but, on the other hand, a person under influence generally responds only to the hypnotist,--which is another feature about our peculiar friend which arouses my suspicions.' Then, aloud, 'Don't stand there like an idiot,--come inside.' Again Mr Holt made an apparently futile effort to do as he was bid. It was painful to look at him,--he was like a feeble, frightened, tottering child, who would come on, but cannot. 'I can't.' 'No nonsense, my man! Do you think that this is a performance in a booth, and that I am to be taken in by all the humbug of the professional mesmerist? Do as I tell you,--come into the room.' There was a repetition, on Mr Holt's part, of his previous pitiful struggle; this time it was longer sustained than before,--but the result was the same. 'I can't!' he wailed. 'Then I say you can,--and shall! If I pick you up, and carry you, perhaps you will not find yourself so helpless as you wish me to suppose.' Sydney moved forward to put his threat into execution. As he did so, a strange alteration took place in Mr Holt's demeanour. CHAPTER XXX THE SINGULAR BEHAVIOUR OF MR HOLT I was standing in the middle of the room, Sydney was between the door and me; Mr Holt was in the hall, just outside the doorway, in which he, so to speak, was framed. As Sydney advanced towards him he was seized with a kind of convulsion,--he had to lean against the side of the door to save himself from falling. Sydney paused, and watched. The spasm went as suddenly as it came,--Mr Holt became as motionless as he had just now been the other way. He stood in an attitude of febrile expectancy,--his chin raised, his head thrown back, his eyes glancing upwards,--with the dreadful fixed glare which had come into them ever since we had entered the house. He looked to me as if his every faculty was strained in the act of listening,--not a muscle in his body seemed to move; he was as rigid as a figure carved in stone. Presently the rigidity gave place to what, to an onlooker, seemed causeless agitation. 'I hear!' he exclaimed, in the most curious voice I had ever heard. 'I come!' It was as though he was speaking to someone who was far away. Turning, he walked down the passage to the front door. 'Hollo!' cried Sydney. 'Where are you off to?' We both of us hastened to see. He was fumbling with the latch; before we could reach him, the door was open, and he was through it. Sydney, rushing after him, caught him on the step and held him by the arm. 'What's the meaning of this little caper?--Where do you think you're going now?' Mr Holt did not condescend to turn and look at him. He said, in the same dreamy, faraway, unnatural tone of voice,--and he kept his unwavering gaze fixed on what was apparently some distant object which was visible only to himself. 'I am going to him. He calls me.' 'Who calls you?' 'The Lord of the Beetle.' Whether Sydney released his arm or not I cannot say. As he spoke, he seemed to me to slip away from Sydney's grasp. Passing through the gateway, turning to the right, he commenced to retrace his steps in the direction we had come. Sydney stared after him in unequivocal amazement. Then he looked at me. 'Well!--this is a pretty fix!--now what's to be done?' 'What's the matter with him?' I inquired. 'Is he mad?' 'There's method in his madness if he is. He's in the same condition in which he was that night I saw him come out of the Apostle's window.' Sydney has a horrible habit of calling Paul 'the Apostle'; I have spoken to him about it over and over again,--but my words have not made much impression. 'He ought to be followed,--he may be sailing off to that mysterious friend of his this instant.--But, on the other hand, he mayn't, and it may be nothing but a trick of our friend the conjurer's to get us away from this elegant abode of his. He's done me twice already, I don't want to be done again,--and I distinctly do not want him to return and find me missing. He's quite capable of taking the hint, and removing himself into the Ewigkeit,--when the clue to as pretty a mystery as ever I came across will have vanished.' 'I can stay,' I said. 'You?--Alone?' He eyed me doubtingly,--evidently not altogether relishing the proposition. 'Why not? You might send the first person you meet,--policeman, cabman, or whoever it is--to keep me company. It seems a pity now that we dismissed that cab.' 'Yes, it does seem a pity.' Sydney was biting his lip. 'Confound that fellow! how fast he moves.' Mr Holt was already nearing the end of the road. 'If you think it necessary, by all means follow to see where he goes,--you are sure to meet somebody whom you will be able to send before you have gone very far.' 'I suppose I shall.--You won't mind being left alone?' 'Why should I?--I'm not a child.' Mr Holt, reaching the corner, turned it, and vanished out of sight. Sydney gave an exclamation of impatience. 'If I don't make haste I shall lose him. I'll do as you suggest--dispatch the first individual I come across to hold watch and ward with you.' 'That'll be all right.' He started off at a run,--shouting to me as he went. 'It won't be five minutes before somebody comes!' I waved my hand to him. I watched him till he reached the end of the road. Turning, he waved his hand to me. Then he vanished, as Mr Holt had done. And I was alone. CHAPTER XXXI THE TERROR BY DAY My first impulse, after Sydney's disappearance, was to laugh. Why should he display anxiety on my behalf merely because I was to be the sole occupant of an otherwise empty house for a few minutes more or less,--and in broad daylight too! To say the least, the anxiety seemed unwarranted. I lingered at the gate, for a moment or two, wondering what was at the bottom of Mr Holt's singular proceedings, and what Sydney really proposed to gain by acting as a spy upon his wanderings. Then I turned to re-enter the house. As I did so, another problem suggested itself to my mind,--what connection, of the slightest importance, could a man in Paul Lessingham's position have with the eccentric being who had established himself in such an unsatisfactory dwelling-place? Mr Holt's story I had only dimly understood,--it struck me that it would require a deal of understanding. It was more like a farrago of nonsense, an outcome of delirium, than a plain statement of solid facts. To tell the truth, Sydney had taken it more seriously than I expected. He seemed to see something in it which I emphatically did not. What was double Dutch to me, seemed clear as print to him. So far as I could judge, he actually had the presumption to imagine that Paul--my Paul!--Paul Lessingham!--the great Paul Lessingham!--was mixed up in the very mysterious adventures of poor, weak-minded, hysterical Mr Holt, in a manner which was hardly to his credit. Of course, any idea of the kind was purely and simply balderdash. Exactly what bee Sydney had got in his bonnet, I could not guess. But I did know Paul. Only let me find myself face to face with the fantastic author of Mr Holt's weird tribulations, and I, a woman, single-handed, would do my best to show him that whoever played pranks with Paul Lessingham trifled with edged tools. I had returned to that historical front room which, according to Mr Holt, had been the scene of his most disastrous burglarious entry. Whoever had furnished it had had original notions of the resources of modern upholstery. There was not a table in the place,--no chair or couch, nothing to sit down upon except the bed. On the floor there was a marvellous carpet which was apparently of eastern manufacture. It was so thick, and so pliant to the tread, that moving over it was like walking on thousand-year-old turf. It was woven in gorgeous colours, and covered with-- When I discovered what it actually was covered with, I was conscious of a disagreeable sense of surprise. It was covered with beetles! All over it, with only a few inches of space between each, were representations of some peculiar kind of beetle,--it was the same beetle, over, and over, and over. The artist had woven his undesirable subject into the warp and woof of the material with such cunning skill that, as one continued to gaze, one began to wonder if by any possibility the creatures could be alive. In spite of the softness of the texture, and the art--of a kind!--which had been displayed in the workmanship, I rapidly arrived at the conclusion that it was the most uncomfortable carpet I had ever seen. I wagged my finger at the repeated portrayals of the--to me!--unspeakable insect. 'If I had discovered that you were there before Sydney went, I think it just possible that I should have hesitated before I let him go.' Then there came a revulsion of feeling. I shook myself. 'You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Marjorie Lindon, to even think such nonsense. Are you all nerves and morbid imaginings,--you who have prided yourself on being so strong-minded! A pretty sort you are to do battle for anyone.--Why, they're only make-believes!' Half involuntarily, I drew my foot over one of the creatures. Of course, it was nothing but imagination; but I seemed to feel it squelch beneath my shoe. It was disgusting. 'Come!' I cried. 'This won't do! As Sydney would phrase it,--am I going to make an idiot of myself?' I turned to the window,--looking at my watch. 'It's more than five minutes ago since Sydney went. That companion of mine ought to be already on the way. I'll go and see if he is coming.' I went to the gate. There was not a soul in sight. It was with such a distinct sense of disappointment that I perceived this was so, that I was in two minds what to do. To remain where I was, looking, with gaping eyes, for the policeman, or the cabman, or whoever it was Sydney was dispatching to act as my temporary associate, was tantamount to acknowledging myself a simpleton,--while I was conscious of a most unmistakable reluctance to return within the house. Common sense, or what I took for common sense, however, triumphed, and, after loitering for another five minutes, I did go in again. This time, ignoring, to the best of my ability, the beetles on the floor, I proceeded to expend my curiosity--and occupy my thoughts--in an examination of the bed. It only needed a very cursory examination, however, to show that the seeming bed was, in reality, none at all,--or if it was a bed after the manner of the Easterns it certainly was not after the fashion of the Britons. There was no framework,--nothing to represent the bedstead. It was simply a heap of rugs piled apparently indiscriminately upon the floor. A huge mass of them there seemed to be; of all sorts, and shapes, and sizes,--and materials too. The top one was of white silk,--in quality, exquisite. It was of huge size, yet, with a little compression, one might almost have passed it through the proverbial wedding ring. So far as space admitted I spread it out in front of me. In the middle was a picture,--whether it was embroidered on the substance or woven in it, I could not quite make out. Nor, at first, could I gather what it was the artist had intended to depict,--there was a brilliancy about it which was rather dazzling. By degrees, I realised that the lurid hues were meant for flames,--and, when one had got so far, one perceived that they were by no means badly imitated either. Then the meaning of the thing dawned on me,--it was a representation of a human sacrifice. In its way, as ghastly a piece of realism as one could see. On the right was the majestic seated figure of a goddess. Her hands were crossed upon her knees, and she was naked from her waist upwards. I fancied it was meant for Isis. On her brow was perched a gaily-apparelled beetle--that ubiquitous beetle!--forming a bright spot of colour against her coppery skin,--it was an exact reproduction of the creatures which were imaged on the carpet. In front of the idol was an enormous fiery furnace. In the very heart of the flames was an altar. On the altar was a naked white woman being burned alive. There could be no doubt as to her being alive, for she was secured by chains in such a fashion that she was permitted a certain amount of freedom, of which she was availing herself to contort and twist her body into shapes which were horribly suggestive of the agony which she was enduring,--the artist, indeed, seemed to have exhausted his powers in his efforts to convey a vivid impression of the pains which were tormenting her. 'A pretty picture, on my word! A pleasant taste in art the garnitures of this establishment suggest! The person who likes to live with this kind of thing, especially as a covering to his bed, must have his own notions as to what constitute agreeable surroundings.' As I continued staring at the thing, all at once it seemed as if the woman on the altar moved. It was preposterous, but she appeared to gather her limbs together, and turn half over. 'What can be the matter with me? Am I going mad? She can't be moving!' If she wasn't, then certainly something was,--she was lifted right into the air. An idea occurred to me. I snatched the rug aside. The mystery was explained! A thin, yellow, wrinkled hand was protruding from amidst the heap of rugs,--it was its action which had caused the seeming movement of the figure on the altar. I stared, confounded. The hand was followed by an arm; the arm by a shoulder; the shoulder by a head,--and the most awful, hideous, wicked-looking face I had ever pictured even in my most dreadful dreams. A pair of baleful eyes were glaring up at mine. I understood the position in a flash of startled amazement. Sydney, in following Mr Holt, had started on a wild goose chase after all. I was alone with the occupant of that mysterious house,--the chief actor in Mr Holt's astounding tale. He had been hidden in the heap of rugs all the while. BOOK IV In Pursuit The Conclusion of the Matter is extracted from the Case-Book of the Hon. Augustus Champnell, Confidential Agent. CHAPTER XXXII A NEW CLIENT On the afternoon of Friday, June 2, 18--, I was entering in my case-book some memoranda having reference to the very curious matter of the Duchess of Datchet's Deed-box. It was about two o'clock. Andrews came in and laid a card upon my desk. On it was inscribed 'Mr Paul Lessingham.' 'Show Mr Lessingham in.' Andrews showed him in. I was, of course, familiar with Mr Lessingham's appearance, but it was the first time I had had with him any personal communication. He held out his hand to me. 'You are Mr Champnell?' 'I am.' 'I believe that I have not had the honour of meeting you before, Mr Champnell, but with your father, the Earl of Glenlivet, I have the pleasure of some acquaintance.' I bowed. He looked at me, fixedly, as if he were trying to make out what sort of man I was. 'You are very young, Mr Champnell.' 'I have been told that an eminent offender in that respect once asserted that youth is not of necessity a crime.' 'And you have chosen a singular profession,--one in which one hardly looks for juvenility.' 'You yourself, Mr Lessingham, are not old. In a statesman one expects grey hairs.--I trust that I am sufficiently ancient to be able to do you service.' He smiled. 'I think it possible. I have heard of you more than once, Mr Champnell, always to your advantage. My friend, Sir John Seymour, was telling me, only the other day, that you have recently conducted for him some business, of a very delicate nature, with much skill and tact; and he warmly advised me, if ever I found myself in a predicament, to come to you. I find myself in a predicament now.' Again I bowed. 'A predicament, I fancy, of an altogether unparalleled sort. I take it that anything I may say to you will be as though it were said to a father confessor.' 'You may rest assured of that.' 'Good.--Then, to make the matter clear to you I must begin by telling you a story,--if I may trespass on your patience to that extent. I will endeavour not to be more verbose than the occasion requires.' I offered him a chair, placing it in such a position that the light from the window would have shone full upon his face. With the calmest possible air, as if unconscious of my design, he carried the chair to the other side of my desk, twisting it right round before he sat on it,--so that now the light was at his back and on my face. Crossing his legs, clasping his hands about his knee, he sat in silence for some moments, as if turning something over in his mind. He glanced round the room. 'I suppose, Mr Champnell, that some singular tales have been told in here.' 'Some very singular tales indeed. I am never appalled by singularity. It is my normal atmosphere.' 'And yet I should be disposed to wager that you have never listened to so strange a story as that which I am about to tell you now. So astonishing, indeed, is the chapter in my life which I am about to open out to you, that I have more than once had to take myself to task, and fit the incidents together with mathematical accuracy in order to assure myself of its perfect truth.' He paused. There was about his demeanour that suggestion of reluctance which I not uncommonly discover in individuals who are about to take the skeletons from their cupboards and parade them before my eyes. His next remark seemed to point to the fact that he perceived what was passing through my thoughts. 'My position is not rendered easier by the circumstance that I am not of a communicative nature. I am not in sympathy with the spirit of the age which craves for personal advertisement. I hold that the private life even of a public man should be held inviolate. I resent, with peculiar bitterness, the attempts of prying eyes to peer into matters which, as it seems to me, concern myself alone. You must, therefore, bear with me, Mr Champnell, if I seem awkward in disclosing to you certain incidents in my career which I had hoped would continue locked in the secret depository of my own bosom, at any rate till I was carried to the grave. I am sure you will suffer me to stand excused if I frankly admit that it is only an irresistible chain of incidents which has constrained me to make of you a confidant.' 'My experience tells me, Mr Lessingham, that no one ever does come to me until they are compelled. In that respect I am regarded as something worse even than a medical man.' A wintry smile flitted across his features,--it was clear that he regarded me as a good deal worse than a medical man. Presently he began to tell me one of the most remarkable tales which even I had heard. As he proceeded I understood how strong, and how natural, had been his desire for reticence. On the mere score of credibility he must have greatly preferred to have kept his own counsel. For my part I own, unreservedly, that I should have deemed the tale incredible had it been told me by Tom, Dick, or Harry, instead of by Paul Lessingham. CHAPTER XXXIII WHAT CAME OF LOOKING THROUGH A LATTICE He began in accents which halted not a little. By degrees his voice grew firmer. Words came from him with greater fluency. 'I am not yet forty. So when I tell you that twenty years ago I was a mere youth I am stating what is a sufficiently obvious truth. It is twenty years ago since the events of which I am going to speak transpired. 'I lost both my parents when I was quite a lad, and by their death I was left in a position in which I was, to an unusual extent in one so young, my own master. I was ever of a rambling turn of mind, and when, at the mature age of eighteen, I left school, I decided that I should learn more from travel than from sojourn at a university. So, since there was no one to say me nay, instead of going either to Oxford or Cambridge, I went abroad. After a few months I found myself in Egypt,--I was down with fever at Shepheard's Hotel in Cairo. I had caught it by drinking polluted water during an excursion with some Bedouins to Palmyra. 'When the fever had left me I went out one night into the town in search of amusement. I went, unaccompanied, into the native quarter, not a wise thing to do, especially at night, but at eighteen one is not always wise, and I was weary of the monotony of the sick-room, and eager for something which had in it a spice of adventure, I found myself in a street which I have reason to believe is no longer existing. It had a French name, and was called the Rue de Rabagas,--I saw the name on the corner as I turned into it, and it has left an impress on the tablets of my memory which is never likely to be obliterated. 'It was a narrow street, and, of course, a dirty one, ill-lit, and, apparently, at the moment of my appearance, deserted. I had gone, perhaps, half-way down its tortuous length, blundering more than once into the kennel, wondering what fantastic whim had brought me into such unsavoury quarters, and what would happen to me if, as seemed extremely possible, I lost my way. On a sudden my ears were saluted by sounds which proceeded from a house which I was passing,--sounds of music and of singing. 'I paused. I stood awhile to listen. 'There was an open window on my right, which was screened by latticed blinds. From the room which was behind these blinds the sounds were coming. Someone was singing, accompanied by an instrument resembling a guitar,--singing uncommonly well.' Mr Lessingham stopped. A stream of recollection seemed to come flooding over him. A dreamy look came into his eyes. 'I remember it all as clearly as if it were yesterday. How it all comes back,--the dirty street, the evil smells, the imperfect light, the girl's voice filling all at once the air. It was a girl's voice,--full, and round, and sweet; an organ seldom met with, especially in such a place as that. She sang a little chansonnette, which, just then, half Europe was humming,--it occurred in an opera which they were acting at one of the Boulevard theatres,--"La P'tite Voyageuse." The effect, coming so unexpectedly, was startling. I stood and heard her to an end. 'Inspired by I know not what impulse of curiosity, when the song was finished, I moved one of the lattice blinds a little aside, so as to enable me to get a glimpse of the singer. I found myself looking into what seemed to be a sort of cafe,--one of those places which are found all over the Continent, in which women sing in order to attract custom. There was a low platform at one end of the room, and on it were seated three women. One of them had evidently just been accompanying her own song,--she still had an instrument of music in her hands, and was striking a few idle notes. The other two had been acting as audience. They were attired in the fantastic apparel which the women who are found in such places generally wear. An old woman was sitting knitting in a corner, whom I took to be the inevitable patronne. With the exception of these four the place was empty. 'They must have heard me touch the lattice, or seen it moving, for no sooner did I glance within than the three pairs of eyes on the platform were raised and fixed on mine. The old woman in the corner alone showed no consciousness of my neighbourhood. We eyed one another in silence for a second or two. Then the girl with the harp,--the instrument she was manipulating proved to be fashioned more like a harp than a guitar--called out to me, '"Entrez, monsieur!--Soye le bienvenu!" 'I was a little tired. Rather curious as to whereabouts I was,--the place struck me, even at that first momentary glimpse, as hardly in the ordinary line of that kind of thing. And not unwilling to listen to a repetition of the former song, or to another sung by the same singer. '"On condition," I replied, "that you sing me another song." '"Ah, monsieur, with the greatest pleasure in the world I will sing you twenty." 'She was almost, if not quite, as good as her word. She entertained me with song after song. I may safely say that I have seldom if ever heard melody more enchanting. All languages seemed to be the same to her. She sang in French and Italian, German and English,--in tongues with which I was unfamiliar. It was in these Eastern harmonies that she was most successful. They were indescribably weird and thrilling, and she delivered them with a verve and sweetness which was amazing. I sat at one of the little tables with which the room was dotted, listening entranced. 'Time passed more rapidly than I supposed. While she sang I sipped the liquor with which the old woman had supplied me. So enthralled was I by the display of the girl's astonishing gifts that I did not notice what it was I was drinking. Looking back I can only surmise that it was some poisonous concoction of the creature's own. That one small glass had on me the strangest effect. I was still weak from the fever which I had only just succeeded in shaking off, and that, no doubt, had something to do with the result. But, as I continued to sit, I was conscious that I was sinking into a lethargic condition, against which I was incapable of struggling. 'After a while the original performer ceased her efforts, and, her companions taking her place, she came and joined me at the little table. Looking at my watch I was surprised to perceive the lateness of the hour. I rose to leave. She caught me by the wrist. '"Do not go," she said;--she spoke English of a sort, and with the queerest accent. "All is well with you. Rest awhile." 'You will smile,--I should smile, perhaps, were I the listener instead of you, but it is the simple truth that her touch had on me what I can only describe as a magnetic influence. As her fingers closed upon my wrist, I felt as powerless in her grasp as if she held me with bands of steel. What seemed an invitation was virtually a command. I had to stay whether I would or wouldn't. She called for more liquor, and at what again was really her command I drank of it. I do not think that after she touched my wrist I uttered a word. She did all the talking. And, while she talked, she kept her eyes fixed on my face. Those eyes of hers! They were a devil's. I can positively affirm that they had on me a diabolical effect. They robbed me of my consciousness, of my power of volition, of my capacity to think,--they made me as wax in her hands. My last recollection of that fatal night is of her sitting in front of me, bending over the table, stroking my wrist with her extended fingers, staring at me with her awful eyes. After that, a curtain seems to descend. There comes a period of oblivion.' Mr Lessingham ceased. His manner was calm and self-contained enough; but, in spite of that I could see that the mere recollection of the things which he told me moved his nature to its foundations. There was eloquence in the drawn lines about his mouth, and in the strained expression of his eyes. So far his tale was sufficiently commonplace. Places such as the one which he described abound in the Cairo of to-day; and many are the Englishmen who have entered them to their exceeding bitter cost. With that keen intuition which has done him yeoman's service in the political arena, Mr Lessingham at once perceived the direction my thoughts were taking. 'You have heard this tale before?--No doubt. And often. The traps are many, and the fools and the unwary are not a few. The singularity of my experience is still to come. You must forgive me if I seem to stumble in the telling. I am anxious to present my case as baldly, and with as little appearance of exaggeration as possible. I say with as little appearance, for some appearance of exaggeration I fear is unavoidable. My case is so unique, and so out of the common run of our every-day experience, that the plainest possible statement must smack of the sensational. 'As, I fancy, you have guessed, when understanding returned to me, I found myself in an apartment with which I was unfamiliar. I was lying, undressed, on a heap of rugs in a corner of a low-pitched room which was furnished in a fashion which, when I grasped the details, filled me with amazement. By my side knelt the Woman of the Songs. Leaning over, she wooed my mouth with kisses. I cannot describe to you the sense of horror and of loathing with which the contact of her lips oppressed me. There was about her something so unnatural, so inhuman, that I believe even then I could have destroyed her with as little sense of moral turpitude as if she had been some noxious insect. '"Where am I?" I exclaimed. '"You are with the children of Isis," she replied. What she meant I did not know, and do not to this hour. "You are in the hands of the great goddess,--of the mother of men." '"How did I come here?" '"By the loving kindness of the great mother." 'I do not, of course, pretend to give you the exact text of her words, but they were to that effect. 'Half raising myself on the heap of rugs, I gazed about me,--and was astounded at what I saw. 'The place in which I was, though the reverse of lofty, was of considerable size,--I could not conceive whereabouts it could be. The walls and roof were of bare stone,--as though the whole had been hewed out of the solid rock. It seemed to be some sort of temple, and was redolent with the most extraordinary odour. An altar stood about the centre, fashioned out of a single block of stone. On it a fire burned with a faint blue flame,--the fumes which rose from it were no doubt chiefly responsible for the prevailing perfumes. Behind it was a huge bronze figure, more than life size. It was in a sitting posture, and represented a woman. Although it resembled no portrayal of her I have seen either before or since, I came afterwards to understand that it was meant for Isis. On the idol's brow was poised a beetle. That the creature was alive seemed clear, for, as I looked at it, it opened and shut its wings. 'If the one on the forehead of the goddess was the only live beetle which the place contained, it was not the only representation. It was modelled in the solid stone of the roof, and depicted in flaming colours on hangings which here and there were hung against the walls. Wherever the eye turned it rested on a scarab. The effect was bewildering. It was as though one saw things through the distorted glamour of a nightmare. I asked myself if I were not still dreaming; if my appearance of consciousness were not after all a mere delusion; if I had really regained my senses. 'And, here, Mr Champnell, I wish to point out, and to emphasise the fact, that I am not prepared to positively affirm what portion of my adventures in that extraordinary, and horrible place, was actuality, and what the product of a feverish imagination. Had I been persuaded that all I thought I saw, I really did see, I should have opened my lips long ago, let the consequences to myself have been what they might. But there is the crux. The happenings were of such an incredible character, and my condition was such an abnormal one,--I was never really myself from the first moment to the last--that I have hesitated, and still do hesitate, to assert where, precisely, fiction ended and fact began. 'With some misty notion of testing my actual condition I endeavoured to get off the heap of rugs on which I reclined. As I did so the woman at my side laid her hand against my chest, lightly. But, had her gentle pressure been the equivalent of a ton of iron, it could not have been more effectual. I collapsed, sank back upon the rugs, and lay there, panting for breath, wondering if I had crossed the border line which divides madness from sanity. '"Let me get up!--let me go!" I gasped. '"Nay," she murmured, "stay with me yet awhile, O my beloved." 'And again she kissed me.' Once more Mr Lessingham paused. An involuntary shudder went all over him. In spite of the evidently great effort which he was making to retain his self-control his features were contorted by an anguished spasm. For some seconds he seemed at a loss to find words to enable him to continue. When he did go on, his voice was harsh and strained. 'I am altogether incapable of even hinting to you the nauseous nature of that woman's kisses. They filled me with an indescribable repulsion. I look back at them with a feeling of physical, mental, and moral horror, across an interval of twenty years. The most dreadful part of it was that I was wholly incapable of offering even the faintest resistance to her caresses. I lay there like a log. She did with me as she would, and in dumb agony I endured.' He took his handkerchief from his pocket, and, although the day was cool, with it he wiped the perspiration from his brow. 'To dwell in detail on what occurred during my involuntary sojourn in that fearful place is beyond my power. I cannot even venture to attempt it. The attempt, were it made, would be futile, and, to me, painful beyond measure. I seem to have seen all that happened as in a glass darkly,--with about it all an element of unreality. As I have already remarked, the things which revealed themselves, dimly, to my perception, seemed too bizarre, too hideous, to be true. 'It was only afterwards, when I was in a position to compare dates, that I was enabled to determine what had been the length of my imprisonment. It appears that I was in that horrible den more than two months,--two unspeakable months. And the whole time there were comings and goings, a phantasmagoric array of eerie figures continually passed to and fro before my hazy eyes. What I judge to have been religious services took place; in which the altar, the bronze image, and the beetle on its brow, figure largely. Not only were they conducted with a bewildering confusion of mysterious rites, but, if my memory is in the least degree trustworthy, they were orgies of nameless horrors. I seem to have seen things take place at them at the mere thought of which the brain reels and trembles. 'Indeed it is in connection with the cult of the obscene deity to whom these wretched creatures paid their scandalous vows that my most awful memories seem to have been associated. It may have been--I hope it was, a mirage born of my half delirious state, but it seemed to me that they offered human sacrifices.' When Mr Lessingham said this, I pricked up my ears. For reasons of my own, which will immediately transpire, I had been wondering if he would make any reference to a human sacrifice. He noted my display of interest,--but misapprehended the cause. 'I see you start, I do not wonder. But I repeat that unless I was the victim of some extraordinary species of double sight--in which case the whole business would resolve itself into the fabric of a dream, and I should indeed thank God!--I saw, on more than one occasion, a human sacrifice offered on that stone altar, presumably to the grim image which looked down on it. And, unless I err, in each case the sacrificial object was a woman, stripped to the skin, as white as you or I,--and before they burned her they subjected her to every variety of outrage of which even the minds of demons could conceive. More than once since then I have seemed to hear the shrieks of the victims ringing through the air, mingled with the triumphant cries of her frenzied murderers, and the music of their harps. 'It was the cumulative horrors of such a scene which gave me the strength, or the courage, or the madness, I know not which it was, to burst the bonds which bound me, and which, even in the bursting, made of me, even to this hour, a haunted man. 'There had been a sacrifice,--unless, as I have repeatedly observed, the whole was nothing but a dream. A woman--a young and lovely Englishwoman, if I could believe the evidence of my own eyes, had been outraged, and burnt alive, while I lay there helpless, looking on. The business was concluded. The ashes of the victim had been consumed by the participants. The worshippers had departed. I was left alone with the woman of the songs, who apparently acted as the guardian of that worse than slaughterhouse. She was, as usual after such an orgie, rather a devil than a human being, drunk with an insensate frenzy, delirious with inhuman longings. As she approached to offer to me her loathed caresses, I was on a sudden conscious of something which I had not felt before when in her company. It was as though something had slipped away from me,--some weight which had oppressed me, some bond by which I had been bound. I was aroused, all at once, to a sense of freedom; to a knowledge that the blood which coursed through my veins was after all my own, that I was master of my own honour. 'I can only suppose that through all those weeks she had kept me there in a state of mesmeric stupor. That, taking advantage of the weakness which the fever had left behind, by the exercise of her diabolical arts, she had not allowed me to pass out of a condition of hypnotic trance. Now, for some reason, the cord was loosed. Possibly her absorption in her religious duties had caused her to forget to tighten it. Anyhow, as she approached me, she approached a man, and one who, for the first time for many a day, was his own man. She herself seemed wholly unconscious of anything of the kind. As she drew nearer to me, and nearer, she appeared to be entirely oblivious of the fact that I was anything but the fibreless, emasculated creature which, up to that moment, she had made of me. 'But she knew it when she touched me,--when she stooped to press her lips to mine. At that instant the accumulating rage which had been smouldering in my breast through all those leaden torturing hours, sprang into flame. Leaping off my couch of rugs, I flung my hands about her throat,--and then she knew I was awake. Then she strove to tighten the cord which she had suffered to become unduly loose. Her baleful eyes were fixed on mine. I knew that she was putting out her utmost force to trick me of my manhood. But I fought with her like one possessed, and I conquered--in a fashion. I compressed her throat with my two hands as with an iron vice. I knew that I was struggling for more than life, that the odds were all against me, that I was staking my all upon the casting of a die,--I stuck at nothing which could make me victor. 'Tighter and tighter my pressure grew,--I did not stay to think if I was killing her--till on a sudden--' Mr Lessingham stopped. He stared with fixed, glassy eyes, as if the whole was being re-enacted in front of him. His voice faltered. I thought he would break down. But, with an effort, he continued. 'On a sudden, I felt her slipping from between my fingers. Without the slightest warning, in an instant she had vanished, and where, not a moment before, she herself had been, I found myself confronting a monstrous beetle,--a huge, writhing creation of some wild nightmare. 'At first the creature stood as high as I did. But, as I stared at it, in stupefied amazement,--as you may easily imagine,--the thing dwindled while I gazed. I did not stop to see how far the process of dwindling continued,--a stark raving madman for the nonce, I fled as if all the fiends in hell were at my heels.' CHAPTER XXXIV AFTER TWENTY YEARS 'How I reached the open air I cannot tell you,--I do not know. I have a confused recollection of rushing through vaulted passages, through endless corridors, of trampling over people who tried to arrest my passage,--and the rest is blank. 'When I again came to myself I was lying in the house of an American missionary named Clements. I had been found, at early dawn, stark naked, in a Cairo street, and picked up for dead. Judging from appearances I must have wandered for miles, all through the night. Whence I had come, or whither I was going, none could tell,--I could not tell myself. For weeks I hovered between life and death. The kindness of Mr and Mrs Clements was not to be measured by words. I was brought to their house a penniless, helpless, battered stranger, and they gave me all they had to offer, without money and without price,--with no expectation of an earthly reward. Let no one pretend that there is no Christian charity under the sun. The debt I owed that man and woman I was never able to repay. Before I was properly myself again, and in a position to offer some adequate testimony of the gratitude I felt, Mrs Clements was dead, drowned during an excursion on the Nile, and her husband had departed on a missionary expedition into Central Africa, from which he never returned. 'Although, in a measure, my physical health returned, for months after I had left the roof of my hospitable hosts, I was in a state of semi-imbecility. I suffered from a species of aphasia. For days together I was speechless, and could remember nothing,--not even my own name. And, when that stage had passed, and I began to move more freely among my fellows, for years I was but a wreck of my former self. I was visited, at all hours of the day and night, by frightful--I know not whether to call them visions, they were real enough to me, but since they were visible to no one but myself, perhaps that is the word which best describes them. Their presence invariably plunged me into a state of abject terror, against which I was unable to even make a show of fighting. To such an extent did they embitter my existence, that I voluntarily placed myself under the treatment of an expert in mental pathology. For a considerable period of time I was under his constant supervision, but the visitations were as inexplicable to him as they were to me. 'By degrees, however, they became rarer and rarer, until at last I flattered myself that I had once more become as other men. After an interval, to make sure, I devoted myself to politics. Thenceforward I have lived, as they phrase it, in the public eye. Private life, in any peculiar sense of the term, I have had none.' Mr Lessingham ceased. His tale was not uninteresting, and, to say the least of it, was curious. But I still was at a loss to understand what it had to do with me, or what was the purport of his presence in my room. Since he remained silent, as if the matter, so far as he was concerned, was at an end, I told him so. 'I presume, Mr Lessingham, that all this is but a prelude to the play. At present I do not see where it is that I come in.' Still for some seconds he was silent. When he spoke his voice was grave and sombre, as if he were burdened by a weight of woe. 'Unfortunately, as you put it, all this has been but a prelude to the play. Were it not so I should not now stand in such pressing want of the services of a confidential agent,--that is, of an experienced man of the world, who has been endowed by nature with phenomenal perceptive faculties, and in whose capacity and honour I can place the completest confidence.' I smiled,--the compliment was a pointed one. 'I hope your estimate of me is not too high.' 'I hope not,--for my sake, as well as for your own. I have heard great things of you. If ever man stood in need of all that human skill and acumen can do for him, I certainly am he.' His words aroused my curiosity. I was conscious of feeling more interested than heretofore. 'I will do my best for you. Man can do no more. Only give my best a trial.' 'I will. At once.' He looked at me long and earnestly. Then, leaning forward, he said, lowering his voice perhaps unconsciously, 'The fact is, Mr Champnell, that quite recently events have happened which threaten to bridge the chasm of twenty years, and to place me face to face with that plague spot of the past. At this moment I stand in imminent peril of becoming again the wretched thing I was when I fled from that den of all the devils. It is to guard me against this that I have come to you. I want you to unravel the tangled thread which threatens to drag me to my doom,--and, when unravelled to sunder it--for ever, if God wills!--in twain.' 'Explain.' To be frank, for the moment I thought him mad. He went on. 'Three weeks ago, when I returned late one night from a sitting in the House of Commons, I found, on my study table, a sheet of paper on which there was a representation--marvellously like!--of the creature into which, as it seemed to me, the woman of the songs was transformed as I clutched her throat between my hands. The mere sight of it brought back one of those visitations of which I have told you, and which I thought I had done with for ever,--I was convulsed by an agony of fear, thrown into a state approximating to a paralysis both of mind and body.' 'But why?' 'I cannot tell you. I only know that I have never dared to allow my thoughts to recur to that last dread scene, lest the mere recurrence should drive me mad.' 'What was this you found upon your study table,--merely a drawing?' 'It was a representation, produced by what process I cannot say, which was so wonderfully, so diabolically, like the original, that for a moment I thought the thing itself was on my table.' 'Who put it there?' 'That is precisely what I wish you to find out,--what I wish you to make it your instant business to ascertain. I have found the thing, under similar circumstances, on three separate occasions, on my study table,--and each time it has had on me the same hideous effect.' 'Each time after you have returned from a late sitting in the House of Commons?' 'Exactly.' 'Where are these--what shall I call them--delineations?' 'That, again, I cannot tell you.' 'What do you mean?' 'What I say. Each time, when I recovered, the thing had vanished.' 'Sheet of paper and all?' 'Apparently,--though on that point I could not be positive. You will understand that my study table is apt to be littered with sheets of paper, and I could not absolutely determine that the thing had not stared at me from one of those. The delineation itself, to use your word, certainly had vanished.' I began to suspect that this was a case rather for a doctor than for a man of my profession. And hinted as much. 'Don't you think it is possible, Mr Lessingham, that you have been overworking yourself--that you have been driving your brain too hard, and that you have been the victim of an optical delusion?' 'I thought so myself; I may say that I almost hoped so. But wait till I have finished. You will find that there is no loophole in that direction.' He appeared to be recalling events in their due order. His manner was studiously cold,--as if he were endeavouring, despite the strangeness of his story, to impress me with the literal accuracy of each syllable he uttered. 'The night before last, on returning home, I found in my study a stranger.' 'A stranger?' 'Yes.--In other words, a burglar.' 'A burglar?--I see.--Go on.' He had paused. His demeanour was becoming odder and odder. 'On my entry he was engaged in forcing an entry into my bureau. I need hardly say that I advanced to seize him. But--I could not.' 'You could not?--How do you mean you could not?' 'I mean simply what I say. You must understand that this was no ordinary felon. Of what nationality he was I cannot tell you. He only uttered two words, and they were certainly in English, but apart from that he was dumb. He wore no covering on his head or feet. Indeed, his only garment was a long dark flowing cloak which, as it fluttered about him, revealed that his limbs were bare.' 'An unique costume for a burglar.' 'The instant I saw him I realised that he was in some way connected with that adventure in the Rue de Rabagas. What he said and did, proved it to the hilt.' 'What did he say and do?' 'As I approached to effect his capture, he pronounced aloud two words which recalled that awful scene the recollection of which always lingers in my brain, and of which I never dare to permit myself to think. Their very utterance threw me into a sort of convulsion.' 'What were the words?' Mr Lessingham opened his mouth,--and shut it. A marked change took place in the expression of his countenance. His eyes became fixed and staring,--resembling the glassy orbs of the somnambulist. For a moment I feared that he was going to give me an object lesson in the 'visitations' of which I had heard so much. I rose, with a view of offering him assistance. He motioned me back. 'Thank you.--It will pass away.' His voice was dry and husky,--unlike his usual silvern tones. After an uncomfortable interval he managed to continue. 'You see for yourself, Mr Champnell, what a miserable weakling, when this subject is broached, I still remain. I cannot utter the words the stranger uttered, I cannot even write them down. For some inscrutable reason they have on me an effect similar to that which spells and incantations had on people in tales of witchcraft.' 'I suppose, Mr Lessingham, that there is no doubt that this mysterious stranger was not himself an optical delusion?' 'Scarcely. There is the evidence of my servants to prove the contrary.' 'Did your servants see him?' 'Some of them,--yes. Then there is the evidence of the bureau. The fellow had smashed the top right in two. When I came to examine the contents I learned that a packet of letters was missing. They were letters which I had received from Miss Lindon, a lady whom I hope to make my wife. This, also, I state to you in confidence.' 'What use would he be likely to make of them?' 'If matters stand as I fear they do, he might make a very serious misuse of them. If the object of these wretches, after all these years, is a wild revenge, they would be capable, having discovered what she is to me, of working Miss Lindon a fatal mischief,--or, at the very least, of poisoning her mind.' 'I see.--How did the thief escape,--did he, like the delineation, vanish into air?' 'He escaped by the much more prosaic method of dashing through the drawing-room window, and clambering down from the verandah into the street, where he ran right into someone's arms.' 'Into whose arms,--a constable's?' 'No; into Mr Atherton's,--Sydney Atherton's.' 'The inventor?' 'The same.--Do you know him?' 'I do. Sydney Atherton and I are friends of a good many years' standing.--But Atherton must have seen where he came from;--and, anyhow, if he was in the state of undress which you have described, why didn't he stop him?' 'Mr Atherton's reasons were his own. He did not stop him, and, so far as I can learn, he did not attempt to stop him. Instead, he knocked at my hall door to inform me that he had seen a man climb out of my window.' 'I happen to know that, at certain seasons, Atherton is a queer fish,--but that sounds very queer indeed.' 'The truth is, Mr Champnell, that, if it were not for Mr Atherton, I doubt if I should have troubled you even now. The accident of his being an acquaintance of yours makes my task easier.' He drew his chair closer to me with an air of briskness which had been foreign to him before. For some reason, which I was unable to fathom, the introduction of Atherton's name seemed to have enlivened him. However, I was not long to remain in darkness. In half a dozen sentences he threw more light on the real cause of his visit to me than he had done in all that had gone before. His bearing, too, was more businesslike and to the point. For the first time I had some glimmerings of the politician,--alert, keen, eager,--as he is known to all the world. 'Mr Atherton, like myself, has been a postulant for Miss Lindon's hand. Because I have succeeded where he has failed, he has chosen to be angry. It seems that he has had dealings, either with my visitor of Tuesday night, or with some other his acquaintance, and he proposes to use what he has gleaned from him to the disadvantage of my character. I have just come from Mr Atherton. From hints he dropped I conclude that, probably during the last few hours, he has had an interview with someone who was connected in some way with that lurid patch in my career; that this person made so-called revelations, which were nothing but a series of monstrous lies; and these so-called revelations Mr Atherton has threatened, in so many words, to place before Miss Lindon. That is an eventuality which I wish to avoid. My own conviction is that there is at this moment in London an emissary from that den in the whilom Rue de Rabagas--for all I know it may be the Woman of the Songs herself. Whether the sole purport of this individual's presence is to do me injury, I am, as yet, in no position to say, but that it is proposed to work me mischief, at any rate, by the way, is plain. I believe that Mr Atherton knows more about this person's individuality and whereabouts than he has been willing, so far, to admit. I want you, therefore, to ascertain these things on my behalf; to find out what, and where, this person is, to drag her!--or him;--out into the light of day. In short, I want you to effectually protect me from the terrorism which threatens once more to overwhelm my mental and my physical powers,--which bids fair to destroy my intellect, my career, my life, my all.' 'What reason have you for suspecting that Mr Atherton has seen this individual of whom you speak,--has he told you so?' 'Practically,--yes.' 'I know Atherton well. In his not infrequent moments of excitement he is apt to use strong language, but it goes no further. I believe him to be the last person in the world to do anyone an intentional injustice, under any circumstances whatever. If I go to him, armed with credentials from you, when he understands the real gravity of the situation,--which it will be my business to make him do, I believe that, spontaneously, of his own accord, he will tell me as much about this mysterious individual as he knows himself.' 'Then go to him at once.' 'Good. I will. The result I will communicate to you.' I rose from my seat. As I did so, someone rushed into the outer office with a din and a clatter. Andrews' voice, and another, became distinctly audible,--Andrews' apparently raised in vigorous expostulation. Raised, seemingly, in vain, for presently the door of my own particular sanctum was thrown open with a crash, and Mr Sydney Atherton himself came dashing in,--evidently conspicuously under the influence of one of those not infrequent 'moments of excitement' of which I had just been speaking. CHAPTER XXXV A BRINGER OF TIDINGS Atherton did not wait to see who might or might not be present, but, without even pausing to take breath, he broke into full cry on the instant,--as is occasionally his wont. 'Champnell!--Thank goodness I've found you in!--I want you!--At once!--Don't stop to talk, but stick your hat on, and put your best foot forward,--I'll tell you all about it in the cab.' I endeavoured to call his attention to Mr Lessingham's presence,--but without success. 'My dear fellow--' When I had got as far as that he cut me short. 'Don't "dear fellow" me!--None of your jabber! And none of your excuses either! I don't care if you've got an engagement with the Queen, you'll have to chuck it. Where's that dashed hat of yours,--or are you going without it? Don't I tell you that every second cut to waste may mean the difference between life and death?--Do you want me to drag you down to the cab by the hair of your head?' 'I will try not to constrain you to quite so drastic a resource,--and I was coming to you at once in any case. I only want to call your attention to the fact that I am not alone.--Here is Mr Lessingham.' In his harum-scarum haste Mr Lessingham had gone unnoticed. Now that his observation was particularly directed to him, Atherton started, turned, and glared at my latest client in a fashion which was scarcely flattering. 'Oh!--It's you, is it?--What the deuce are you doing here?' Before Lessingham could reply to this most unceremonious query, Atherton, rushing forward, gripped him by the arm. 'Have you seen her?' Lessingham, not unnaturally nonplussed by the other's curious conduct, stared at him in unmistakable amazement. 'Have I seen whom?' 'Marjorie Lindon!' 'Marjorie Lindon?' Lessingham paused. He was evidently asking himself what the inquiry meant. 'I have not seen Miss Lindon since last night. Why do you ask?' 'Then Heaven help us!--As I'm a living man I believe he, she, or it has got her!' His words were incomprehensible enough to stand in copious need of explanation,--as Mr Lessingham plainly thought. 'What is it that you mean, sir?' 'What I say,--I believe that that Oriental friend of yours has got her in her clutches,--if it is a "her;" goodness alone knows what the infernal conjurer's real sex may be.' 'Atherton!--Explain yourself!' On a sudden Lessingham's tones rang out like a trumpet call. 'If damage comes to her I shall be fit to cut my throat,--and yours!' Mr Lessingham's next proceeding surprised me,--I imagine it surprised Atherton still more. Springing at Sydney like a tiger, he caught him by the throat. 'You--you hound! Of what wretched folly have you been guilty? If so much as a hair of her head is injured you shall repay it me ten thousandfold!--You mischief-making, intermeddling, jealous fool!' He shook Sydney as if he had been a rat,--then flung him from him headlong on to the floor. It reminded me of nothing so much as Othello's treatment of Iago. Never had I seen a man so transformed by rage. Lessingham seemed to have positively increased in stature. As he stood glowering down at the prostrate Sydney, he might have stood for a materialistic conception of human retribution. Sydney, I take it, was rather surprised than hurt. For a moment or two he lay quite still. Then, lifting his head, he looked up his assailant. Then, raising himself to his feet, he shook himself,--as if with a view of learning if all his bones were whole. Putting his hands up to his neck, he rubbed it, gently. And he grinned. 'By God, Lessingham, there's more in you than I thought. After all, you are a man. There's some holding power in those wrists of yours,--they've nearly broken my neck. When this business is finished, I should like to put on the gloves with you, and fight it out. You're clean wasted upon politics,--Damn it, man, give me your hand!' Mr Lessingham did not give him his hand. Atherton took it,--and gave it a hearty shake with both of his. If the first paroxysm of his passion had passed, Lessingham was still sufficiently stern. 'Be so good as not to trifle, Mr Atherton. If what you say is correct, and the wretch to whom you allude really has Miss Lindon at her mercy, then the woman I love--and whom you also pretend to love!--stands in imminent peril not only of a ghastly death, but of what is infinitely worse than death.' 'The deuce she does!' Atherton wheeled round towards me. 'Champnell, haven't you got that dashed hat of yours yet? Don't stand there like a tailor's dummy, keeping me on tenter-hooks,--move yourself! I'll tell you all about it in the cab.--And, Lessingham, if you'll come with us I'll tell you too.' CHAPTER XXXVI WHAT THE TIDINGS WERE Three in a hansom cab is not, under all circumstances, the most comfortable method of conveyance,--when one of the trio happens to be Sydney Atherton in one of his 'moments of excitement' it is distinctly the opposite; as, on that occasion, Mr Lessingham and I both quickly found. Sometimes he sat on my knees, sometimes on Lessingham's, and frequently, when he unexpectedly stood up, and all but precipitated himself on to the horse's back, on nobody's. In the eagerness of his gesticulations, first he knocked off my hat, then he knocked off Lessingham's, then his own, then all three together,--once, his own hat rolling into the mud, he sprang into the road, without previously going through the empty form of advising the driver of his intention, to pick it up. When he turned to speak to Lessingham, he thrust his elbow into my eye; and when he turned to speak to me, he thrust it into Lessingham's. Never, for one solitary instant, was he at rest, or either of us at ease. The wonder is that the gymnastics in which he incessantly indulged did not sufficiently attract public notice to induce a policeman to put at least a momentary period to our progress. Had speed not been of primary importance I should have insisted on the transference of the expedition to the somewhat wider limits of a four-wheeler. His elucidation of the causes of his agitation was apparently more comprehensible to Lessingham than it was to me. I had to piece this and that together under considerable difficulties. By degrees I did arrive at something like a clear notion of what had actually taken place. He commenced by addressing Lessingham,--and thrusting his elbow into my eye. 'Did Marjorie tell you about the fellow she found in the street?' Up went his arm to force the trap-door open overhead,--and off went my hat. 'Now then, William Henry!--let her go!--if you kill the horse I'll buy you another!' We were already going much faster than, legally, we ought to have done,--but that, seemingly to him was not a matter of the slightest consequence. Lessingham replied to his inquiry. 'She did not.' 'You know the fellow I saw coming out of your drawing-room window?' 'Yes.' 'Well, Marjorie found him the morning after in front of her breakfast-room window--in the middle of the street. Seems he had been wandering about all night, unclothed,--in the rain and the mud, and all the rest of it,--in a condition of hypnotic trance.' 'Who is the----gentleman you are alluding to?' 'Says his name's Holt, Robert Holt.' 'Holt?--Is he an Englishman?' 'Very much so,--City quill-driver out of a shop,--stony broke absolutely! Got the chuck from the casual ward,--wouldn't let him in,--house full, and that sort of thing,--poor devil! Pretty passes you politicians bring men to!' 'Are you sure?' 'Of what?' 'Are you sure that this man, Robert Holt, is the same person whom, as you put it, you saw coming out of my drawing-room window?' 'Sure!--Of course I'm sure!--Think I didn't recognise him?--Besides, there was the man's own tale,--owned to it himself,--besides all the rest, which sent one rushing Fulham way.' 'You must remember, Mr Atherton, that I am wholly in the dark as to what has happened. What has the man, Holt, to do with the errand on which we are bound?' 'Am I not coming to it? If you would let me tell the tale in my own way I should get there in less than no time, but you will keep on cutting in,--how the deuce do you suppose Champnell is to make head or tail of the business if you will persist in interrupting?--Marjorie took the beggar in,--he told his tale to her,--she sent for me--that was just now; caught me on the steps after I had been lunching with Dora Grayling. Holt re-dished his yarn--I smelt a rat--saw that a connection possibly existed between the thief who'd been playing confounded conjuring tricks off on to me and this interesting party down Fulham way--' 'What party down Fulham way?' 'This friend of Holt's--am I not telling you? There you are, you see,--won't let me finish! When Holt slipped through the window--which is the most sensible thing he seems to have done; if I'd been in his shoes I'd have slipped through forty windows!--dusky coloured charmer caught him on the hop,--doctored him--sent him out to commit burglary by deputy. I said to Holt, "Show us this agreeable little crib, young man." Holt was game--then Marjorie chipped in--she wanted to go and see it too. I said, "You'll be sorry if you do,"--that settled it! After that she'd have gone if she'd died,--I never did have a persuasive way with women. So off we toddled, Marjorie, Holt, and I, in a growler,--spotted the crib in less than no time,--invited ourselves in by the kitchen window--house seemed empty. Presently Holt became hypnotised before my eyes,--the best established case of hypnotism by suggestion I ever yet encountered--started off on a pilgrimage of one. Like an idiot I followed, leaving Marjorie to wait for me--' 'Alone?' 'Alone!--Am I not telling you?--Great Scott, Lessingham, in the House of Commons they must be hazy to think you smart! I said, "I'll send the first sane soul I meet to keep you company." As luck would have it, I never met one,--only kids, and a baker, who wouldn't leave his cart, or take it with him either. I'd covered pretty nearly two miles before I came across a peeler,--and when I did the man was cracked--and he thought me mad, or drunk, or both. By the time I'd got myself within nodding distance of being run in for obstructing the police in the execution of their duty, without inducing him to move a single one of his twenty-four-inch feet, Holt was out of sight. So, since all my pains in his direction were clean thrown away, there was nothing left for me but to scurry back to Marjorie,--so I scurried, and I found the house empty, no one there, and Marjorie gone.' 'But, I don't quite follow--' Atherton impetuously declined to allow Mr Lessingham to conclude. 'Of course you don't quite follow, and you'll follow still less if you will keep getting in front. I went upstairs and downstairs, inside and out--shouted myself hoarse as a crow--nothing was to be seen of Marjorie,--or heard; until, as I was coming down the stairs for about the five-and-fiftieth time, I stepped on something hard which was lying in the passage. I picked it up,--it was a ring; this ring. Its shape is not just what it was,--I'm not as light as gossamer, especially when I come jumping downstairs six at a time,--but what's left of it is here.' Sydney held something in front of him. Mr Lessingham wriggled to one side to enable him to see. Then he made a snatch at it. 'It's mine!' Sydney dodged it out of his reach. 'What do you mean, it's yours?' 'It's the ring I gave Marjorie for an engagement ring. Give it me, you hound!--unless you wish me to do you violence in the cab.' With complete disregard of the limitations of space,--or of my comfort,--Lessingham thrust him vigorously aside. Then gripping Sydney by the wrist, he seized the gaud,--Sydney yielding it just in time to save himself from being precipitated into the street. Ravished of his treasure, Sydney turned and surveyed the ravisher with something like a glance of admiration. 'Hang me, Lessingham, if I don't believe there is some warm blood in those fishlike veins of yours. Please the piper, I'll live to fight you after all,--with the bare ones, sir, as a gentleman should do.' Lessingham seemed to pay no attention to him whatever. He was surveying the ring, which Sydney had trampled out of shape, with looks of the deepest concern. 'Marjorie's ring!--The one I gave her! Something serious must have happened to her before she would have dropped my ring, and left it lying where it fell.' Atherton went on. 'That's it!--What has happened to her!--I'll be dashed if I know!--When it was clear that there she wasn't, I tore off to find out where she was. Came across old Lindon,--he knew nothing;--I rather fancy I startled him in the middle of Pall Mall, when I left he stared after me like one possessed, and his hat was lying in the gutter. Went home,--she wasn't there. Asked Dora Grayling,--she'd seen nothing of her. No one had seen anything of her,--she had vanished into air. Then I said to myself, "You're a first-class idiot, on my honour! While you're looking for her, like a lost sheep, the betting is that the girl's in Holt's friend's house the whole jolly time. When you were there, the chances are that she'd just stepped out for a stroll, and that now she's back again, and wondering where on earth you've gone!" So I made up my mind that I'd fly back and see,--because the idea of her standing on the front doorstep looking for me, while I was going off my nut looking for her, commended itself to what I call my sense of humour; and on my way it struck me that it would be the part of wisdom to pick up Champnell, because if there is a man who can be backed to find a needle in any amount of hay-stacks it is the great Augustus.--That horse has moved itself after all, because here we are. Now, cabman, don't go driving further on,--you'll have to put a girdle round the earth if you do; because you'll have to reach this point again before you get your fare.--This is the magician's house!' CHAPTER XXXVII WHAT WAS HIDDEN UNDER THE FLOOR The cab pulled up in front of a tumbledown cheap 'villa' in an unfinished cheap neighbourhood,--the whole place a living monument of the defeat of the speculative builder. Atherton leaped out on to the grass-grown rubble which was meant for a footpath. 'I don't see Marjorie looking for me on the doorstep.' Nor did I,--I saw nothing but what appeared to be an unoccupied ramshackle brick abomination. Suddenly Sydney gave an exclamation. 'Hullo!--The front door's closed!' I was hard at his heels. 'What do you mean?' 'Why, when I went I left the front door open. It looks as if I've made an idiot of myself after all, and Marjorie's returned,--let's hope to goodness that I have.' He knocked. While we waited for a response I questioned him. 'Why did you leave the door open when you went?' 'I hardly know,--I imagine that it was with some dim idea of Marjorie's being able to get in if she returned while I was absent,--but the truth is I was in such a condition of helter skelter that I am not prepared to swear that I had any reasonable reason.' 'I suppose there is no doubt that you did leave it open?' 'Absolutely none,--on that I'll stake my life.' 'Was it open when you returned from your pursuit of Holt?' 'Wide open,--I walked straight in expecting to find her waiting for me in the front room,--I was struck all of a heap when I found she wasn't there.' 'Were there any signs of a struggle?' 'None,--there were no signs of anything. Everything was just as I had left it, with the exception of the ring which I trod on in the passage, and which Lessingham has.' 'If Miss Lindon has returned, it does not look as if she were in the house at present.' It did not,--unless silence had such meaning. Atherton had knocked loudly three times without succeeding in attracting the slightest notice from within. 'It strikes me that this is another case of seeking admission through that hospitable window at the back.' Atherton led the way to the rear. Lessingham and I followed. There was not even an apology for a yard, still less a garden,--there was not even a fence of any sort, to serve as an enclosure, and to shut off the house from the wilderness of waste land. The kitchen window was open. I asked Sydney if he had left it so. 'I don't know,--I dare say we did; I don't fancy that either of us stood on the order of his coming.' While he spoke, he scrambled over the sill. We followed. When he was in, he shouted at the top of his voice, 'Marjorie! Marjorie! Speak to me, Marjorie,--it is I,--Sydney!' The words echoed through the house. Only silence answered. He led the way to the front room. Suddenly he stopped. 'Hollo!' he cried. 'The blind's down!' I had noticed, when we were outside, that the blind was down at the front room window. 'It was up when I went, that I'll swear. That someone has been here is pretty plain,--let's hope it's Marjorie.' He had only taken a step forward into the room when he again stopped short to exclaim. 'My stars!--here's a sudden clearance!--Why, the place is empty,--everything's clean gone!' 'What do you mean?--was it furnished when you left?' The room was empty enough then. 'Furnished?--I don't know that it was exactly what you'd call furnished,--the party who ran this establishment had a taste in upholstery which was all his own,--but there was a carpet, and a bed, and--and lots of things,--for the most part, I should have said, distinctly Eastern curiosities. They seem to have evaporated into smoke,--which may be a way which is common enough among Eastern curiosities, though it's queer to me.' Atherton was staring about him as if he found it difficult to credit the evidence of his own eyes. 'How long ago is it since you left?' He referred to his watch. 'Something over an hour,--possibly an hour and a half; I couldn't swear to the exact moment, but it certainly isn't more.' 'Did you notice any signs of packing up?' 'Not a sign.' Going to the window he drew up the blind,--speaking as he did so. 'The queer thing about this business is that when we first got in this blind wouldn't draw up a little bit, so, since it wouldn't go up I pulled it down, roller and all, now it draws up as easily and smoothly as if it had always been the best blind that ever lived.' Standing at Sydney's back I saw that the cabman on his box was signalling to us with his outstretched hand. Sydney perceived him too. He threw up the sash. 'What's the matter with you?' 'Excuse me, sir, but who's the old gent?' 'What old gent?' 'Why the old gent peeping through the window of the room upstairs?' The words were hardly out of the driver's mouth when Sydney was through the door and flying up the staircase. I followed rather more soberly,--his methods were a little too flighty for me. When I reached the landing, dashing out of the front room he rushed into the one at the back,--then through a door at the side. He came out shouting. 'What's the idiot mean!--with his old gent! I'd old gent him if I got him!--There's not a creature about the place!' He returned into the front room,--I at his heels. That certainly was empty,--and not only empty, but it showed no traces of recent occupation. The dust lay thick upon the floor,--there was that mouldy, earthy smell which is so frequently found in apartments which have been long untenanted. 'Are you sure, Atherton, that there is no one at the back?' 'Of course I'm sure,--you can go and see for yourself if you like; do you think I'm blind? Jehu's drunk.' Throwing up the sash he addressed the driver. 'What do you mean with your old gent at the window?--what window?' 'That window, sir.' 'Go to!--you're dreaming, man!--there's no one here.' 'Begging your pardon, sir, but there was someone there not a minute ago.' 'Imagination, cabman,--the slant of the light on the glass,--or your eyesight's defective.' 'Excuse me, sir, but it's not my imagination, and my eyesight's as good as any man's in England,--and as for the slant of the light on the glass, there ain't much glass for the light to slant on. I saw him peeping through that bottom broken pane on your left hand as plainly as I see you. He must be somewhere about,--he can't have got away,--he's at the back. Ain't there a cupboard nor nothing where he could hide?' The cabman's manner was so extremely earnest that I went myself to see. There was a cupboard on the landing, but the door of that stood wide open, and that obviously was bare. The room behind was small, and, despite the splintered glass in the window frame, stuffy. Fragments of glass kept company with the dust on the floor, together with a choice collection of stones, brickbats, and other missiles,--which not improbably were the cause of their being there. In the corner stood a cupboard,--but a momentary examination showed that that was as bare as the other. The door at the side, which Sydney had left wide open, opened on to a closet, and that was empty. I glanced up,--there was no trap door which led to the roof. No practicable nook or cranny, in which a living being could lie concealed, was anywhere at hand. I returned to Sydney's shoulder to tell the cabman so. 'There is no place in which anyone could hide, and there is no one in either of the rooms,--you must have been mistaken, driver.' The man waxed wroth. 'Don't tell me! How could I come to think I saw something when I didn't?' 'One's eyes are apt to play us tricks;--how could you see what wasn't there?' 'That's what I want to know. As I drove up, before you told me to stop, I saw him looking through the window,--the one at which you are. He'd got his nose glued to the broken pane, and was staring as hard as he could stare. When I pulled up, off he started,--I saw him get up off his knees, and go to the back of the room. When the gentleman took to knocking, back he came,--to the same old spot, and flopped down on his knees. I didn't know what caper you was up to,--you might be bum bailiffs for all I knew!--and I supposed that he wasn't so anxious to let you in as you might be to get inside, and that was why he didn't take no notice of your knocking, while all the while he kept a eye on what was going on. When you goes round to the back, up he gets again, and I reckoned that he was going to meet yer, and perhaps give yer a bit of his mind, and that presently I should hear a shindy, or that something would happen. But when you pulls up the blind downstairs, to my surprise back he come once more. He shoves his old nose right through the smash in the pane, and wags his old head at me like a chattering magpie. That didn't seem to me quite the civil thing to do,--I hadn't done no harm to him; so I gives you the office, and lets you know that he was there. But for you to say that he wasn't there, and never had been,--blimey! that cops the biscuit. If he wasn't there, all I can say is I ain't here, and my 'orse ain't here, and my cab ain't neither,--damn it!--the house ain't here, and nothing ain't!' He settled himself on his perch with an air of the most extreme ill usage,--he had been standing up to tell his tale. That the man was serious was unmistakable. As he himself suggested, what inducement could he have had to tell a lie like that? That he believed himself to have seen what he declared he saw was plain. But, on the other hand, what could have become--in the space of fifty seconds!--of his 'old gent'? Atherton put a question. 'What did he look like,--this old gent of yours?' 'Well, that I shouldn't hardly like to say. It wasn't much of his face I could see, only his face and his eyes,--and they wasn't pretty. He kept a thing over his head all the time, as if he didn't want too much to be seen.' 'What sort of a thing?' 'Why,--one of them cloak sort of things, like them Arab blokes used to wear what used to be at Earl's Court Exhibition,--you know!' This piece of information seemed to interest my companions more than anything he had said before. 'A burnoose do you mean?' 'How am I to know what the thing's called? I ain't up in foreign languages,--'tain't likely! All I know that them Arab blokes what was at Earl's Court used to walk about in them all over the place,--sometimes they wore them over their heads, and sometimes they didn't. In fact if you'd asked me, instead of trying to make out as I sees double, or things what was only inside my own noddle, or something or other, I should have said this here old gent what I've been telling you about was a Arab bloke,--when he gets off his knees to sneak away from the window, I could see that he had his cloak thing, what was over his head, wrapped all round him.' Mr Lessingham turned to me, all quivering with excitement. 'I believe that what he says is true!' 'Then where can this mysterious old gentleman have got to,--can you suggest an explanation? It is strange, to say the least of it, that the cabman should be the only person to see or hear anything of him.' 'Some devil's trick has been played,--I know it, I feel it!--my instinct tells me so!' I stared. In such a matter one hardly expects a man of Paul Lessingham's stamp to talk of 'instinct.' Atherton stared too. Then, on a sudden, he burst out, 'By the Lord, I believe the Apostle's right,--the whole place reeks to me of hankey-pankey,--it did as soon as I put my nose inside. In matters of prestidigitation, Champnell, we Westerns are among the rudiments,--we've everything to learn,--Orientals leave us at the post. If their civilisation's what we're pleased to call extinct, their conjuring--when you get to know it!--is all alive oh!' He moved towards the door. As he went he slipped, or seemed to, all but stumbling on to his knees. 'Something tripped me up,--what's this?' He was stamping on the floor with his foot. 'Here's a board loose. Come and lend me a hand, one of you fellows, to get it up. Who knows what mystery's beneath?' I went to his aid. As he said, a board in the floor was loose. His stepping on it unawares had caused his stumble. Together we prised it out of its place,--Lessingham standing by and watching us the while. Having removed it, we peered into the cavity it disclosed. There was something there. 'Why,' cried Atherton 'it's a woman's clothing!' CHAPTER XXXVIII THE REST OF THE FIND It was a woman's clothing, beyond a doubt, all thrown in anyhow,--as if the person who had placed it there had been in a desperate hurry. An entire outfit was there, shoes, stockings, body linen, corsets, and all,--even to hat, gloves, and hairpins;--these latter were mixed up with the rest of the garments in strange confusion. It seemed plain that whoever had worn those clothes had been stripped to the skin. Lessingham and Sydney stared at me in silence as I dragged them out and laid them on the floor. The dress was at the bottom,--it was an alpaca, of a pretty shade in blue, bedecked with lace and ribbons, as is the fashion of the hour, and lined with sea-green silk. It had perhaps been a 'charming confection' once--and that a very recent one!--but now it was all soiled and creased and torn and tumbled. The two spectators made a simultaneous pounce at it as I brought it to the light. 'My God!' cried Sydney, 'it's Marjorie's!--she was wearing it when I saw her last!' 'It's Marjorie's!' gasped Lessingham,--he was clutching at the ruined costume, staring at it like a man who has just received sentence of death. 'She wore it when she was with me yesterday,--I told her how it suited her, and how pretty it was!' There was silence,--it was an eloquent find; it spoke for itself. The two men gazed at the heap of feminine glories,--it might have been the most wonderful sight they ever had seen. Lessingham was the first to speak,--his face had all at once grown grey and haggard. 'What has happened to her?' I replied to his question with another. 'Are you sure this is Miss Linden's dress?' 'I am sure,--and were proof needed, here it is.' He had found the pocket, and was turning out the contents. There was a purse, which contained money and some visiting cards on which were her name and address; a small bunch of keys, with her nameplate attached; a handkerchief, with her initials in a corner. The question of ownership was placed beyond a doubt. 'You see,' said Lessingham, exhibiting the money which was in the purse, 'it is not robbery which has been attempted. Here are two ten-pound notes, and one for five, besides gold and silver,--over thirty pounds in all.' Atherton, who had been turning over the accumulation of rubbish between the joists, proclaimed another find. 'Here are her rings, and watch, and a bracelet,--no, it certainly does not look as if theft had been an object.' Lessingham was glowering at him with knitted brows. 'I have to thank you for this.' Sydney was unwontedly meek. 'You are hard on me, Lessingham, harder than I deserve,--I had rather have thrown away my own life than have suffered misadventure to have come to her.' 'Yours are idle words. Had you not meddled this would not have happened. A fool works more mischief with his folly than of malice prepense. If hurt has befallen Marjorie Lindon you shall account for it to me with your life's blood.' 'Let it be so,' said Sydney. 'I am content. If hurt has come to Marjorie, God knows that I am willing enough that death should come to me.' While they wrangled, I continued to search. A little to one side, under the flooring which was still intact, I saw something gleam. By stretching out my hand, I could just manage to reach it,--it was a long plait of woman's hair. It had been cut off at the roots,--so close to the head in one place that the scalp itself had been cut, so that the hair was clotted with blood. They were so occupied with each other that they took no notice of me. I had to call their attention to my discovery. 'Gentlemen, I fear that I have here something which will distress you,--is not this Miss Lindon's hair?' They recognised it on the instant. Lessingham, snatching it from my hands, pressed it to his lips. 'This is mine,--I shall at least have something.' He spoke with a grimness which was a little startling. He held the silken tresses at arm's length. 'This points to murder,--foul, cruel, causeless murder. As I live, I will devote my all,--money, time, reputation!--to gaining vengeance on the wretch who did this deed.' Atherton chimed in. 'To that I say, Amen!' He lifted his hand. 'God is my witness!' 'It seems to me, gentlemen, that we move too fast,--to my mind it does not by any means of necessity point to murder. On the contrary, I doubt if murder has been done. Indeed, I don't mind owning that I have a theory of my own which points all the other way.' Lessingham caught me by the sleeve. 'Mr Champnell, tell me your theory.' 'I will, a little later. Of course it may be altogether wrong;--though I fancy it is not; I will explain my reasons when we come to talk of it. But, at present, there are things which must be done.' 'I vote for tearing up every board in the house!' cried Sydney. 'And for pulling the whole infernal place to pieces. It's a conjurer's den.--I shouldn't be surprised if cabby's old gent is staring at us all the while from some peephole of his own.' We examined the entire house, methodically, so far as we were able, inch by inch. Not another board proved loose,--to lift those which were nailed down required tools, and those we were without. We sounded all the walls,--with the exception of the party walls they were the usual lath and plaster constructions, and showed no signs of having been tampered with. The ceilings were intact; if anything was concealed in them it must have been there some time,--the cement was old and dirty. We took the closet to pieces; examined the chimneys; peered into the kitchen oven and the copper;--in short, we pried into everything which, with the limited means at our disposal, could be pried into,--without result. At the end we found ourselves dusty, dirty, and discomfited. The cabman's 'old gent' remained as much a mystery as ever, and no further trace had been discovered of Miss Lindon. Atherton made no effort to disguise his chagrin. 'Now what's to be done? There seems to be just nothing in the place at all, and yet that there is, and that it's the key to the whole confounded business I should be disposed to swear.' 'In that case I would suggest that you should stay and look for it. The cabman can go and look for the requisite tools, or a workman to assist you, if you like. For my part it appears to me that evidence of another sort is, for the moment, of paramount importance; and I propose to commence my search for it by making a call at the house which is over the way.' I had observed, on our arrival, that the road only contained two houses which were in anything like a finished state,--that which we were in, and another, some fifty or sixty yards further down, on the opposite side. It was to this I referred. The twain immediately proffered their companionship. 'I will come with you,' said Mr Lessingham. 'And I,' echoed Sydney. 'We'll leave this sweet homestead in charge of the cabman,--I'll pull it to pieces afterwards.' He went out and spoke to the driver. 'Cabby, we're going to pay a visit to the little crib over there,--you keep an eye on this one. And if you see a sign of anyone being about the place,--living, or dead, or anyhow--you give me a yell. I shall be on the lookout, and I'll be with you before you can say Jack Robinson.' 'You bet I'll yell,--I'll raise the hair right off you.' The fellow grinned. 'But I don't know if you gents are hiring me by the day,--I want to change my horse; he ought to have been in his stable a couple of hours ago.' 'Never mind your horse,--let him rest a couple of hours extra to-morrow to make up for those he has lost to-day. I'll take care you don't lose anything by this little job,--or your horse either.--By the way, look here,--this will be better than yelling.' Taking a revolver out of his trousers' pocket he handed it up to the grinning driver. 'If that old gent of yours does appear, you have a pop at him,--I shall hear that easier than a yell. You can put a bullet through him if you like,--I give you my word it won't be murder.' 'I don't care if it is,' declared the cabman, handling the weapon like one who was familiar with arms of precision. 'I used to fancy my revolver shooting when I was with the colours, and if I do get a chance I'll put a shot through the old hunks, if only to prove to you that I'm no liar.' Whether the man was in earnest or not I could not tell,--nor whether Atherton meant what he said in answer. 'If you shoot him I'll give you fifty pounds.' 'All right!' The driver laughed. 'I'll do my best to earn that fifty!' CHAPTER XXXIX MISS LOUISA COLEMAN That the house over the way was tenanted was plain to all the world,--at least one occupant sat gazing through the window of the first floor front room. An old woman in a cap,--one of those large old-fashioned caps which our grandmothers used to wear, tied with strings under the chin. It was a bow window, and as she was seated in the bay looking right in our direction she could hardly have failed to see us as we advanced,--indeed she continued to stare at us all the while with placid calmness. Yet I knocked once, twice, and yet again without the slightest notice being taken of my summons. Sydney gave expression to his impatience in his own peculiar vein. 'Knockers in this part of the world seem intended for ornament only,--nobody seems to pay any attention to them when they're used. The old lady upstairs must be either deaf or dotty.' He went out into the road to see if she still was there. 'She's looking at me as calmly as you please,--what does she think we're doing here, I wonder; playing a tune on her front door by way of a little amusement?--Madam!' He took off his hat and waved it to her. 'Madam! might I observe that if you won't condescend to notice that we're here your front door will run the risk of being severely injured!--She don't care for me any more than if I was nothing at all,--sound another tattoo upon that knocker. Perhaps she's so deaf that nothing short of a cataclysmal uproar will reach her auditory nerves.' She immediately proved, however, that she was nothing of the sort. Hardly had the sounds of my further knocking died away than, throwing up the window, she thrust out her head and addressed me in a fashion which, under the circumstances, was as unexpected as it was uncalled for. 'Now, young man, you needn't be in such a hurry!' Sydney explained. 'Pardon me, madam, it's not so much a hurry we're in as pressed for time,--this is a matter of life and death.' She turned her attention to Sydney,--speaking with a frankness for which, I imagine, he was unprepared. 'I don't want none of your imperence, young man. I've seen you before,--you've been hanging about here the whole day long!--and I don't like the looks of you, and so I'll let you know. That's my front door, and that's my knocker,--I'll come down and open when I like, but I'm not going to be hurried, and if the knocker's so much as touched again, I won't come down at all.' She closed the window with a bang. Sydney seemed divided between mirth and indignation. 'That's a nice old lady, on my honour,--one of the good old crusty sort. Agreeable characters this neighbourhood seems to grow,--a sojourn hereabouts should do one good. Unfortunately I don't feel disposed just now to stand and kick my heels in the road.' Again saluting the old dame by raising his hat he shouted to her at the top of his voice. 'Madam, I beg ten thousand pardons for troubling you, but this is a matter in which every second is of vital importance,--would you allow me to ask you one or two questions?' Up went the window; out came the old lady's head. 'Now, young man, you needn't put yourself out to holler at me,--I won't be hollered at! I'll come down and open that door in five minutes by the clock on my mantelpiece, and not a moment before.' The fiat delivered, down came the window. Sydney looked rueful,--he consulted his watch. 'I don't know what you think, Champnell, but I really doubt if this comfortable creature can tell us anything worth waiting another five minutes to hear. We mustn't let the grass grow under our feet, and time is getting on.' I was of a different opinion,--and said so. 'I'm afraid, Atherton, that I can't agree with you. She seems to have noticed you hanging about all day; and it is at least possible that she has noticed a good deal which would be well worth our hearing. What more promising witness are we likely to find?--her house is the only one which overlooks the one we have just quitted. I am of opinion that it may not only prove well worth our while to wait five minutes, but also that it would be as well, if possible, not to offend her by the way. She's not likely to afford us the information we require if you do.' 'Good. If that's what you think I'm sure I'm willing to wait,--only it's to be hoped that that clock upon her mantelpiece moves quicker than its mistress.' Presently, when about a minute had gone, he called to the cabman. 'Seen a sign of anything?' The cabman shouted back. 'Ne'er a sign,--you'll hear a sound of popguns when I do.' Those five minutes did seem long ones. But at last Sydney, from his post of vantage in the road, informed us that the old lady was moving. 'She's getting up;--she's leaving the window;--let's hope to goodness she's coming down to open the door. That's been the longest five minutes I've known.' I could hear uncertain footsteps descending the stairs. They came along the passage. The door was opened--'on the chain.' The old lady peered at us through an aperture of about six inches. 'I don't know what you young men think you're after, but have all three of you in my house I won't. I'll have him and you'--a skinny finger was pointed to Lessingham and me; then it was directed towards Atherton--'but have him I won't. So if it's anything particular you want to say to me, you'll just tell him to go away.' On hearing this Sydney's humility was abject. His hat was in his hand,--he bent himself double. 'Suffer me to make you a million apologies, madam, if I have in any way offended you; nothing, I assure you, could have been farther from my intention, or from my thoughts.' 'I don't want none of your apologies, and I don't want none of you neither; I don't like the looks of you, and so I tell you. Before I let anybody into my house you'll have to sling your hook.' The door was banged in our faces. I turned to Sydney. 'The sooner you go the better it will be for us. You can wait for us over the way.' He shrugged his shoulders, and groaned,--half in jest, half in earnest. 'If I must I suppose I must,--it's the first time I've been refused admittance to a lady's house in all my life! What have I done to deserve this thing?--If you keep me waiting long I'll tear that infernal den to pieces!' He sauntered across the road, viciously kicking the stones as he went. The door reopened. 'Has that other young man gone?' 'He has.' 'Then now I'll let you in. Have him inside my house I won't.' The chain was removed. Lessingham and I entered. Then the door was refastened and the chain replaced. Our hostess showed us into the front room on the ground floor; it was sparsely furnished and not too clean,--but there were chairs enough for us to sit upon; which she insisted on our occupying. 'Sit down, do,--I can't abide to see folks standing; it gives me the fidgets.' So soon as we were seated, without any overture on our parts she plunged in medias res. 'I know what it is you've come about,--I know! You want me to tell you who it is as lives in the house over the road. Well, I can tell you,--and I dare bet a shilling that I'm about the only one who can.' I inclined my head. 'Indeed. Is that so, madam?' She was huffed at once. 'Don't madam me,--I can't bear none of your lip service. I'm a plain-spoken woman, that's what I am, and I like other people's tongues to be as plain as mine. My name's Miss Louisa Coleman; but I'm generally called Miss Coleman,--I'm only called Louisa by my relatives.' Since she was apparently between seventy and eighty--and looked every year of her apparent age--I deemed that possible. Miss Coleman was evidently a character. If one was desirous of getting information out of her it would be necessary to allow her to impart it in her own manner,--to endeavour to induce her to impart it in anybody else's would be time clean wasted. We had Sydney's fate before our eyes. She started with a sort of roundabout preamble. 'This property is mine; it was left me by my uncle, the late George Henry Jobson,--he's buried in Hammersmith Cemetery just over the way,--he left me the whole of it. It's one of the finest building sites near London, and it increases in value every year, and I'm not going to let it for another twenty, by which time the value will have more than trebled,--so if that is what you've come about, as heaps of people do, you might have saved yourselves the trouble. I keep the boards standing, just to let people know that the ground is to let,--though, as I say, it won't be for another twenty years, when it'll be for the erection of high-class mansions only, same as there is in Grosvenor Square,--no shops or public houses, and none of your shanties. I live in this place just to keep an eye upon the property,--and as for the house over the way, I've never tried to let it, and it never has been let, not until a month ago, when, one morning, I had this letter. You can see it if you like.' She handed me a greasy envelope which she ferreted out of a capacious pocket which was suspended from her waist, and which she had to lift up her skirt to reach. The envelope was addressed, in unformed characters, 'Miss Louisa Coleman, The Rhododendrons, Convolvulus Avenue, High Oaks Park, West Kensington.'--I felt, if the writer had not been of a humorous turn of mind, and drawn on his imagination, and this really was the lady's correct address, then there must be something in a name. The letter within was written in the same straggling, characterless caligraphy,--I should have said, had I been asked offhand, that the whole thing was the composition of a servant girl. The composition was about on a par with the writing. 'The undersigned would be oblidged if Miss Coleman would let her emptey house. I do not know the rent but send fifty pounds. If more will send. Please address, Mohamed el Kheir, Post Office, Sligo Street, London.' It struck me as being as singular an application for a tenancy as I remembered to have encountered. When I passed it on to Lessingham, he seemed to think so too. 'This is a curious letter, Miss Coleman.' 'So I thought,--and still more so when I found the fifty pounds inside. There were five ten-pound notes, all loose, and the letter not even registered. If I had been asked what was the rent of the house, I should have said, at the most, not more than twenty pounds,--because, between you and me, it wants a good bit of doing up, and is hardly fit to live in as it stands.' I had had sufficient evidence of the truth of this altogether apart from the landlady's frank admission. 'Why, for all he could have done to help himself I might have kept the money, and only sent him a receipt for a quarter. And some folks would have done,--but I'm not one of that sort myself, and shouldn't care to be. So I sent this here party,--I never could pronounce his name, and never shall--a receipt for a year.' Miss Coleman paused to smooth her apron, and consider. 'Well, the receipt should have reached this here party on the Thursday morning, as it were,--I posted it on the Wednesday night, and on the Thursday, after breakfast, I thought I'd go over the way to see if there was any little thing I could do,--because there wasn't hardly a whole pane of glass in the place,--when I all but went all of a heap. When I looked across the road, blessed it the party wasn't in already,--at least as much as he ever was in, which, so far as I can make out, never has been anything particular,--though how he had got in, unless it was through a window in the middle of the night, is more than I should care to say,--there was nobody in the house when I went to bed, that I could pretty nearly take my Bible oath,--yet there was the blind up at the parlour, and, what's more, it was down, and it's been down pretty nearly ever since. '"Well," I says to myself, "for right down imperence this beats anything,--why he's in the place before he knows if I'll let him have it. Perhaps he thinks I haven't got a word to say in the matter,--fifty pounds or no fifty pounds, I'll soon show him." So I slips on my bonnet, and I walks over the road, and I hammers at the door. 'Well, I have seen people hammering since then, many a one, and how they've kept it up has puzzled me,--for an hour, some of them,--but I was the first one as begun it. I hammers, and I hammers, and I kept on hammering, but it wasn't no more use than if I'd been hammering at a tombstone. So I starts rapping at the window, but that wasn't no use neither. So I goes round behind, and I hammers at the back door,--but there, I couldn't make anyone hear nohow. So I says to myself, "Perhaps the party as is in, ain't in, in a manner of speaking; but I'll keep an eye on the house, and when he is in I'll take care that he ain't out again before I've had a word to say." 'So I come back home, and as I said I would, I kept an eye on the house the whole of that livelong day, but never a soul went either out or in. But the next day, which it was a Friday, I got out of bed about five o'clock, to see if it was raining, through my having an idea of taking a little excursion if the weather was fine, when I see a party coming down the road. He had on one of them dirty-coloured bed-cover sort of things, and it was wrapped all over his head and round his body, like, as I have been told, them there Arabs wear,--and, indeed, I've seen them in them myself at West Brompton, when they was in the exhibition there. It was quite fine, and broad day, and I see him as plainly as I see you,--he comes skimming along at a tear of a pace, pulls up at the house over the way, opens the front door, and lets himself in. '"So," I says to myself, "there you are. Well, Mr Arab, or whatever, or whoever, you may be, I'll take good care that you don't go out again before you've had a word from me. I'll show you that landladies have their rights, like other Christians, in this country, however it may be in yours." So I kept an eye on the house, to see that he didn't go out again, and nobody never didn't, and between seven and eight I goes and I knocks at the door,--because I thought to myself that the earlier I was the better it might be. 'If you'll believe me, no more notice was taken of me than if I was one of the dead. I hammers, and I hammers, till my wrist was aching, I daresay I hammered twenty times,--and then I went round to the back door, and I hammers at that,--but it wasn't the least good in the world. I was that provoked to think I should be treated as if I was nothing and nobody, by a dirty foreigner, who went about in a bed-gown through the public streets, that it was all I could do to hold myself. 'I comes round to the front again, and I starts hammering at the window, with every knuckle on my hands, and I calls out, "I'm Miss Louisa Coleman, and I'm the owner of this house, and you can't deceive me,--I saw you come in, and you're in now, and if you don't come and speak to me this moment I'll have the police." 'All of a sudden, when I was least expecting it, and was hammering my very hardest at the pane, up goes the blind, and up goes the window too, and the most awful-looking creature ever I heard of, not to mention seeing, puts his head right into my face,--he was more like a hideous baboon than anything else, let alone a man. I was struck all of a heap, and plumps down on the little wall, and all but tumbles head over heels backwards, And he starts shrieking, in a sort of a kind of English, and in such a voice as I'd never heard the like,--it was like a rusty steam engine. '"Go away! go away! I don't want you! I will not have you,--never! You have your fifty pounds,--you have your money,--that is the whole of you,--that is all you want! You come to me no more!--never!--never no more!--or you be sorry!--Go away!" 'I did go away, and that as fast as ever my legs would carry me,--what with his looks, and what with his voice, and what with the way that he went on, I was nothing but a mass of trembling. As for answering him back, or giving him a piece of my mind, as I had meant to, I wouldn't have done it not for a thousand pounds. I don't mind confessing, between you and me, that I had to swallow four cups of tea, right straight away, before my nerves was steady. '"Well," I says to myself, when I did feel, as it might be, a little more easy, "you never have let that house before, and now you've let it with a vengeance,--so you have. If that there new tenant of yours isn't the greatest villain that ever went unhung it must be because he's got near relations what's as bad as himself,--because two families like his I'm sure there can't be. A nice sort of Arab party to have sleeping over the road he is!" 'But after a time I cools down, as it were,--because I'm one of them sort as likes to see on both sides of a question. "After all," I says to myself, "he has paid his rent, and fifty pounds is fifty pounds,--I doubt if the whole house is worth much more, and he can't do much damage to it whatever he does." 'I shouldn't have minded, so far as that went, if he'd set fire to the place, for, between ourselves, it's insured for a good bit over its value. So I decided that I'd let things be as they were, and see how they went on. But from that hour to this I've never spoken to the man, and never wanted to, and wouldn't, not of my own free will, not for a shilling a time,--that face of his will haunt me if I live till Noah, as the saying is. I've seen him going in and out at all hours of the day and night,--that Arab party's a mystery if ever there was one,--he always goes tearing along as if he's flying for his life. Lots of people have come to the house, all sorts and kinds, men and women--they've been mostly women, and even little children. I've seen them hammer and hammer at that front door, but never a one have I seen let in,--or yet seen taken any notice of, and I think I may say, and yet tell no lie, that I've scarcely took my eye off the house since he's been inside it, over and over again in the middle of the night have I got up to have a look, so that I've not missed much that has took place. 'What's puzzled me is the noises that's come from the house. Sometimes for days together there's not been a sound, it might have been a house of the dead; and then, all through the night, there've been yells and screeches, squawks and screams,--I never heard nothing like it. I have thought, and more than once, that the devil himself must be in that front room, let alone all the rest of his demons. And as for cats!--where they've come from I can't think. I didn't use to notice hardly a cat in the neighbourhood till that there Arab party came,--there isn't much to attract them; but since he came there's been regiments. Sometimes at night there's been troops about the place, screeching like mad,--I've wished them farther, I can tell you. That Arab party must be fond of 'em. I've seen them inside the house, at the windows, upstairs and downstairs, as it seemed to me, a dozen at a time. CHAPTER XL WHAT MISS COLEMAN SAW THROUGH THE WINDOW As Miss Coleman had paused, as if her narrative was approaching a conclusion, I judged it expedient to make an attempt to bring the record as quickly as possible up to date. 'I take it, Miss Coleman, that you have observed what has occurred in the house to-day.' She tightened her nut-cracker jaws and glared at me disdainfully,--her dignity was ruffled. 'I'm coming to it, aren't I?--if you'll let me. If you've got no manners I'll learn you some. One doesn't like to be hurried at my time of life, young man.' I was meekly silent;--plainly, if she was to talk, every one else must listen. 'During the last few days there have been some queer goings on over the road,--out of the common queer, I mean, for goodness knows that they always have been queer enough. That Arab party has been flitting about like a creature possessed,--I've seen him going in and out twenty times a day. This morning--' She paused,--to fix her eyes on Lessingham. She apparently observed his growing interest as she approached the subject which had brought us there,--and resented it. 'Don't look at me like that, young man, because I won't have it. And as for questions, I may answer questions when I'm done, but don't you dare to ask me one before, because I won't be interrupted.' Up to then Lessingham had not spoken a word,--but it seemed as if she was endowed with the faculty of perceiving the huge volume of the words which he had left unuttered. 'This morning--as I've said already,--' she glanced at Lessingham as if she defied his contradiction--'when that Arab party came home it was just on the stroke of seven. I know what was the exact time because, when I went to the door to the milkman, my clock was striking the half hour, and I always keep it thirty minutes fast. As I was taking the milk, the man said to me, "Hollo, Miss Coleman, here's your friend coming along." "What friend?" I says,--for I ain't got no friends, as I know, round here, nor yet, I hope no enemies neither. 'And I looks round, and there was the Arab party coming tearing down the road, his bedcover thing all flying in the wind, and his arms straight out in front of him,--I never did see anyone go at such a pace. "My goodness," I says, "I wonder he don't do himself an injury." "I wonder someone else don't do him an injury," says the milkman. "The very sight of him is enough to make my milk go sour." And he picked up his pail and went away quite grumpy,--though what that Arab party's done to him is more than I can say.--I have always noticed that milkman's temper's short like his measure. I wasn't best pleased with him for speaking of that Arab party as my friend, which he never has been, and never won't be, and never could be neither. 'Five persons went to the house after the milkman was gone, and that there Arab party was safe inside,--three of them was commercials, that I know, because afterwards they came to me. But of course they none of them got no chance with that there Arab party except of hammering at his front door, which ain't what you might call a paying game, nor nice for the temper but for that I don't blame him, for if once those commercials do begin talking they'll talk for ever. 'Now I'm coming to this afternoon.' I thought it was about time,--though for the life of me, I did not dare to hint as much. 'Well, it might have been three, or it might have been half past, anyhow it was thereabouts, when up there comes two men and a woman, which one of the men was that young man what's a friend of yours. "Oh," I says to myself, "here's something new in callers, I wonder what it is they're wanting." That young man what was a friend of yours, he starts hammering, and hammering, as the custom was with every one who came, and, as usual, no more notice was taken of him than nothing,--though I knew that all the time the Arab party was indoors.' At this point I felt that at all hazards I must interpose a question. 'You are sure he was indoors?' She took it better than I feared she might. 'Of course I'm sure,--hadn't I seen him come in at seven, and he never hadn't gone out since, for I don't believe that I'd taken my eyes off the place not for two minutes together, and I'd never had a sight of him. If he wasn't indoors, where was he then?' For the moment, so far as I was concerned, the query was unanswerable. She triumphantly continued: 'Instead of doing what most did, when they'd had enough of hammering, and going away, these three they went round to the back, and I'm blessed if they mustn't have got through the kitchen window, woman and all, for all of a sudden the blind in the front room was pulled not up, but down--dragged down it was, and there was that young man what's a friend of yours standing with it in his hand. '"Well," I says to myself, "if that ain't cool I should like to know what is. If, when you ain't let in, you can let yourself in, and that without so much as saying by your leave, or with your leave, things is coming to a pretty pass. Wherever can that Arab party be, and whatever can he be thinking of, to let them go on like that because that he's the sort to allow a liberty to be took with him, and say nothing, I don't believe." 'Every moment I expects to hear a noise and see a row begin, but, so far as I could make out, all was quiet and there wasn't nothing of the kind. So I says to myself, "There's more in this than meets the eye, and them three parties must have right upon their side, or they wouldn't be doing what they are doing in the way they are, there'd be a shindy." 'Presently, in about five minutes, the front door opens, and a young man--not the one what's your friend, but the other--comes sailing out, and through the gate, and down the road, as stiff and upright as a grenadier,--I never see anyone walk more upright, and few as fast. At his heels comes the young man what is your friend, and it seems to me that he couldn't make out what this other was a-doing of. I says to myself, "There's been a quarrel between them two, and him as has gone has hooked it." This young man what is your friend he stood at the gate, all of a fidget, staring after the other with all his eyes, as if he couldn't think what to make of him, and the young woman, she stood on the doorstep, staring after him too. 'As the young man what had hooked it turned the corner, and was out of sight, all at once your friend he seemed to make up his mind, and he started off running as hard as he could pelt,--and the young woman was left alone. I expected, every minute, to see him come back with the other young man, and the young woman, by the way she hung about the gate, she seemed to expect it too. But no, nothing of the kind. So when, as I expect, she'd had enough of waiting, she went into the house again, and I see her pass the front room window. After a while, back she comes to the gate, and stands looking and looking, but nothing was to be seen of either of them young men. When she'd been at the gate, I daresay five minutes, back she goes into the house,--and I never saw nothing of her again.' 'You never saw anything of her again?--Are you sure she went back into the house?' 'As sure as I am that I see you.' 'I suppose that you didn't keep a constant watch upon the premises?' 'But that's just what I did do. I felt something queer was going on, and I made up my mind to see it through. And when I make up my mind to a thing like that I'm not easy to turn aside. I never moved off the chair at my bedroom window, and I never took my eyes off the house, not till you come knocking at my front door.' 'But, since the young lady is certainly not in the house at present, she must have eluded your observation, and, in some manner, have left it without your seeing her.' 'I don't believe she did, I don't see how she could have done,--there's something queer about that house, since that Arab party's been inside it. But though I didn't see her, I did see someone else.' 'Who was that?' 'A young man.' 'A young man?' 'Yes, a young man, and that's what puzzled me, and what's been puzzling me ever since, for see him go in I never did do.' 'Can you describe him?' 'Not as to the face, for he wore a dirty cloth cap pulled down right over it, and he walked so quickly that I never had a proper look. But I should know him anywhere if I saw him, if only because of his clothes and his walk.' 'What was there peculiar about his clothes and his walk?' 'Why, his clothes were that old, and torn, and dirty, that a ragman wouldn't have given a thank you for them,--and as for fit,--there wasn't none, they hung upon him like a scarecrow--he was a regular figure of fun; I should think the boys would call after him if they saw him in the street. As for his walk, he walked off just like the first young man had done, he strutted along with his shoulders back, and his head in the air, and that stiff and straight that my kitchen poker would have looked crooked beside of him.' 'Did nothing happen to attract your attention between the young lady's going back into the house and the coming out of this young man?' Miss Coleman cogitated. 'Now you mention it there did,--though I should have forgotten all about it if you hadn't asked me,--that comes of your not letting me tell the tale in my own way. About twenty minutes after the young woman had gone in someone put up the blind in the front room, which that young man had dragged right down, I couldn't see who it was for the blind was between us, and it was about ten minutes after that that young man came marching out.' 'And then what followed?' 'Why, in about another ten minutes that Arab party himself comes scooting through the door.' 'The Arab party?' 'Yes, the Arab party! The sight of him took me clean aback. Where he'd been, and what he'd been doing with himself while them there people played hi-spy-hi about his premises I'd have given a shilling out of my pocket to have known, but there he was, as large as life, and carrying a bundle.' 'A bundle?' 'A bundle, on his head, like a muffin-man carries his tray. It was a great thing, you never would have thought he could have carried it, and it was easy to see that it was as much as he could manage; it bent him nearly double, and he went crawling along like a snail,--it took him quite a time to get to the end of the road.' Mr Lessingham leaped up from his seat, crying, 'Marjorie was in that bundle!' 'I doubt it,' I said. He moved about the room distractedly, wringing his hands. 'She was! she must have been! God help us all!' 'I repeat that I doubt it. If you will be advised by me you will wait awhile before you arrive at any such conclusion.' All at once there was a tapping at the window pane. Atherton was staring at us from without. He shouted through the glass, 'Come out of that, you fossils!--I've news for you!' CHAPTER XLI THE CONSTABLE,--HIS CLUE,--AND THE CAB Miss Coleman, getting up in a fluster, went hurrying to the door. 'I won't have that young man in my house. I won't have him! Don't let him dare to put his nose across my doorstep.' I endeavoured to appease her perturbation. 'I promise you that he shall not come in, Miss Coleman. My friend here, and I, will go and speak to him outside.' She held the front door open just wide enough to enable Lessingham and me to slip through, then she shut it after us with a bang. She evidently had a strong objection to any intrusion on Sydney's part. Standing just without the gate he saluted us with a characteristic vigour which was scarcely flattering to our late hostess. Behind him was a constable. 'I hope you two have been mewed in with that old pussy long enough. While you've been tittle-tattling I've been doing,--listen to what this bobby's got to say.' The constable, his thumbs thrust inside his belt, wore an indulgent smile upon his countenance. He seemed to find Sydney amusing. He spoke in a deep bass voice,--as if it issued from his boots. 'I don't know that I've got anything to say. It was plain that Sydney thought otherwise. 'You wait till I've given this pretty pair of gossips a lead, officer, then I'll trot you out.' He turned to us. 'After I'd poked my nose into every dashed hole in that infernal den, and been rewarded with nothing but a pain in the back for my trouble, I stood cooling my heels on the doorstep, wondering if I should fight the cabman, or get him to fight me, just to pass the time away,--for he says he can box, and he looks it,--when who should come strolling along but this magnificent example of the metropolitan constabulary.' He waved his hand towards the policeman, whose grin grew wider. 'I looked at him, and he looked at me, and then when we'd had enough of admiring each other's fine features and striking proportions, he said to me, "Has he gone?" I said, "Who?--Baxter?--or Bob Brown?" He said, "No, the Arab." I said, "What do you know about any Arab?" He said, "Well, I saw him in the Broadway about three-quarters of an hour ago, and then, seeing you here, and the house all open, I wondered if he had gone for good." With that I almost jumped out of my skin, though you can bet your life I never showed it. I said, "How do you know it was he?" He said, "It was him right enough, there's no doubt about that. If you've seen him once, you're not likely to forget him." "Where was he going?" "He was talking to a cabman,--four-wheeler. He'd got a great bundle on his head,--wanted to take it inside with him. Cabman didn't seem to see it." That was enough for me,--I picked this most deserving officer up in my arms, and carried him across the road to you two fellows like a flash of lightning.' Since the policeman was six feet three or four, and more than sufficiently broad in proportion, his scarcely seemed the kind of figure to be picked up in anybody's arms and carried like a 'flash of lightning,' which,--as his smile grew more indulgent, he himself appeared to think. Still, even allowing for Atherton's exaggeration, the news which he had brought was sufficiently important. I questioned the constable upon my own account. 'There is my card, officer, probably, before the day is over, a charge of a very serious character will be preferred against the person who has been residing in the house over the way. In the meantime it is of the utmost importance that a watch should be kept upon his movements. I suppose you have no sort of doubt that the person you saw in the Broadway was the one in question?' 'Not a morsel. I know him as well as I do my own brother,--we all do upon this beat. He's known amongst us as the Arab. I've had my eye on him ever since he came to the place. A queer fish he is. I always have said that he's up to some game or other. I never came across one like him for flying about in all sorts of weather, at all hours of the night, always tearing along as if for his life. As I was telling this gentleman I saw him in the Broadway,--well, now it's about an hour since, perhaps a little more. I was coming on duty when I saw a crowd in front of the District Railway Station,--and there was the Arab, having a sort of argument with the cabman. He had a great bundle on his head, five or six feet long, perhaps longer. He wanted to take this great bundle with him into the cab, and the cabman, he didn't see it.' 'You didn't wait to see him drive off.' 'No,--I hadn't time. I was due at the station,--I was cutting it pretty fine as it was.' 'You didn't speak to him,--or to the cabman?' 'No, it wasn't any business of mine you understand. The whole thing just caught my eye as I was passing.' 'And you didn't take the cabman's number?' 'No, well, as far as that goes it wasn't needful. I know the cabman, his name and all about him, his stable's in Bradmore.' I whipped out my note-book. 'Give me his address.' 'I don't know what his Christian name is, Tom, I believe, but I'm not sure. Anyhow his surname's Ellis and his address is Church Mews, St John's Road, Bradmore,--I don't know his number, but any one will tell you which is his place, if you ask for Four-Wheel Ellis,--that's the name he's known by among his pals because of his driving a four-wheeler.' 'Thank you, officer. I am obliged to you.' Two half-crowns changed hands. 'If you will keep an eye on the house and advise me at the address which you will find on my card, of any thing which takes place there during the next few days, you will do me a service.' We had clambered back into the hansom, the driver was just about to start, when the constable was struck by a sudden thought. 'One moment, sir,--blessed if I wasn't going to forget the most important bit of all. I did hear him tell Ellis where to drive him to,--he kept saying it over and over again, in that queer lingo of his. "Waterloo Railway Station, Waterloo Railway Station." "All right," said Ellis, "I'll drive you to Waterloo Railway Station right enough, only I'm not going to have that bundle of yours inside my cab. There isn't room for it, so you put it on the roof." "To Waterloo Railway Station," said the Arab, "I take my bundle with me to Waterloo Railway Station,--I take it with me." "Who says you don't take it with you?" said Ellis. "You can take it, and twenty more besides, for all I care, only you don't take it inside my cab,--put it on the roof." "I take it with me to Waterloo Railway Station," said the Arab, and there they were, wrangling and jangling, and neither seeming to be able to make out what the other was after, and the people all laughing.' 'Waterloo Railway Station,--you are sure that was what he said?' 'I'll take my oath to it, because I said to myself, when I heard it, "I wonder what you'll have to pay for that little lot, for the District Railway Station's outside the four-mile radius."' As we drove off I was inclined to ask myself, a little bitterly--and perhaps unjustly--if it were not characteristic of the average London policeman to almost forget the most important part of his information,--at any rate to leave it to the last and only to bring it to the front on having his palm crossed with silver. As the hansom bowled along we three had what occasionally approached a warm discussion. 'Marjorie was in that bundle,' began Lessingham, in the most lugubrious of tones, and with the most woe-begone of faces. 'I doubt it,' I observed. 'She was,--I feel it,--I know it. She was either dead and mutilated, or gagged and drugged and helpless. All that remains is vengeance.' 'I repeat that I doubt it.' Atherton struck in. 'I am bound to say, with the best will in the world to think otherwise, that I agree with Lessingham.' 'You are wrong.' 'It's all very well for you to talk in that cock-sure way, but it's easier for you to say I'm wrong than to prove it. If I am wrong, and if Lessingham's wrong, how do you explain his extraordinary insistance on taking it inside the cab with him, which the bobby describes? If there wasn't something horrible, awful in that bundle of his, of which he feared the discovery, why was he so reluctant to have it placed upon the roof?' 'There probably was something in it which he was particularly anxious should not be discovered, but I doubt if it was anything of the kind which you suggest.' 'Here is Marjorie in a house alone--nothing has been seen of her since,--her clothing, her hair, is found hidden away under the floor. This scoundrel sallies forth with a huge bundle on his head,--the bobby speaks of it being five or six feet long, or longer,--a bundle which he regards with so much solicitude that he insists on never allowing it to go, for a single instant, out of his sight and reach. What is in the thing? don't all the facts most unfortunately point in one direction?' Mr Lessingham covered his face with his hands, and groaned. 'I fear that Mr Atherton is right.' 'I differ from you both.' Sydney at once became heated. 'Then perhaps you can tell us what was in the bundle?' 'I fancy I could make a guess at the contents.' 'Oh you could, could you, then, perhaps, for our sakes, you'll make it,--and not play the oracular owl!--Lessingham and I are interested in this business, after all.' 'It contained the bearer's personal property: that, and nothing more. Stay! before you jeer at me, suffer me to finish. If I am not mistaken as to the identity of the person whom the constable describes as the Arab, I apprehend that the contents of that bundle were of much more importance to him than if they had consisted of Miss Lindon, either dead or living. More. I am inclined to suspect that if the bundle was placed on the roof of the cab, and if the driver did meddle with it, and did find out the contents, and understand them, he would have been driven, out of hand, stark staring mad.' Sydney was silent, as if he reflected. I imagine he perceived there was something in what I said. 'But what has become of Miss Lindon?' 'I fancy that Miss Lindon, at this moment, is--somewhere; I don't, just now, know exactly where, but I hope very shortly to be able to give you a clearer notion,--attired in a rotten, dirty pair of boots; a filthy, tattered pair of trousers; a ragged, unwashed apology for a shirt; a greasy, ancient, shapeless coat; and a frowsy peaked cloth cap.' They stared at me, opened-eyed. Atherton was the first to speak. 'What on earth do you mean?' 'I mean that it seems to me that the facts point in the direction of my conclusions rather than yours--and that very strongly too. Miss Coleman asserts that she saw Miss London return into the house; that within a few minutes the blind was replaced at the front window; and that shortly after a young man, attired in the costume I have described, came walking out of the front door. I believe that young man was Miss Marjorie Lindon.' Lessingham and Atherton both broke out into interrogations, with Sydney, as usual, loudest. 'But--man alive! what on earth should make her do a thing like that? Marjorie, the most retiring, modest girl on all God's earth, walk about in broad daylight, in such a costume, and for no reason at all! my dear Champnell, you are suggesting that she first of all went mad.' 'She was in a state of trance.' 'Good God!--Champnell!' 'Well?' 'Then you think that--juggling villain did get hold of her?' 'Undoubtedly. Here is my view of the case, mind it is only a hypothesis and you must take it for what it is worth. It seems to me quite clear that the Arab, as we will call the person for the sake of identification, was somewhere about the premises when you thought he wasn't.' 'But--where? We looked upstairs, and downstairs, and everywhere--where could he have been?' 'That, as at present advised, I am not prepared to say, but I think you may take it for granted that he was there. He hypnotised the man Holt, and sent him away, intending you to go after him, and so being rid of you both--' 'The deuce he did, Champnell! You write me down an ass!' 'As soon as the coast was clear he discovered himself to Miss Lindon, who, I expect, was disagreeably surprised, and hypnotised her.' 'The hound!' 'The devil!' The first exclamation was Lessingham's, the second Sydney's. 'He then constrained her to strip herself to the skin--' 'The wretch!' 'The fiend!' 'He cut off her hair; he hid it and her clothes under the floor where we found them--where I think it probable that he had already some ancient masculine garments concealed--' 'By Jove! I shouldn't be surprised if they were Holt's. I remember the man saying that that nice joker stripped him of his duds,--and certainly when I saw him,--and when Marjorie found him!--he had absolutely nothing on but a queer sort of cloak. Can it be possible that that humorous professor of hankey-pankey--may all the maledictions of the accursed alight upon his head!--can have sent Marjorie Lindon, the daintiest damsel in the land!--into the streets of London rigged out in Holt's old togs!' 'As to that, I am not able to give an authoritative opinion, but, if I understand you aright, it at least is possible. Anyhow I am disposed to think that he sent Miss Lindon after the man Holt, taking it for granted that he had eluded you.--' 'That's it. Write me down an ass again!' 'That he did elude you, you have yourself admitted.' 'That's because I stopped talking with that mutton-headed bobby,--I'd have followed the man to the ends of the earth if it hadn't been for that.' 'Precisely; the reason is immaterial, it is the fact with which we are immediately concerned. He did elude you. And I think you will find that Miss Lindon and Mr Holt are together at this moment.' 'In men's clothing?' 'Both in men's clothing, or, rather, Miss Lindon is in a man's rags.' 'Great Potiphar! To think of Marjorie like that!' 'And where they are, the Arab is not very far off either.' Lessingham caught me by the arm. 'And what diabolical mischief do you imagine that he proposes to do to her?' I shirked the question. 'Whatever it is, it is our business to prevent his doing it.' 'And where do you think they have been taken?' 'That it will be our immediate business to endeavour to discover,--and here, at any rate, we are at Waterloo.' CHAPTER XLII THE QUARRY DOUBLES I turned towards the booking-office on the main departure platform. As I went, the chief platform inspector, George Bellingham, with whom I had some acquaintance, came out of his office. I stopped him. 'Mr Bellingham, will you be so good as to step with me to the booking-office, and instruct the clerk in charge to answer one or two questions which I wish to put to him. I will explain to you afterwards what is their exact import, but you know me sufficiently to be able to believe me when I say that they refer to a matter in which every moment is of the first importance.' He turned and accompanied us into the interior of the booking-case. 'To which of the clerks, Mr Champnell, do you wish to put your questions?' 'To the one who issues third-class tickets to Southampton.' Bellingham beckoned to a man who was counting a heap of money, and apparently seeking to make it tally with the entries in a huge ledger which lay open before him,--he was a short, slightly-built young fellow, with a pleasant face and smiling eyes. 'Mr Stone, this gentleman wishes to ask you one or two questions.' 'I am at his service.' I put my questions. 'I want to know, Mr Stone, if, in the course of the day, you have issued any tickets to a person dressed in Arab costume?' His reply was prompt. 'I have--by the last train, the 7.25,--three singles.' Three singles! Then my instinct had told me rightly. 'Can you describe the person?' Mr Stone's eyes twinkled. 'I don't know that I can, except in a general way,--he was uncommonly old and uncommonly ugly, and he had a pair of the most extraordinary eyes I ever saw,--they gave me a sort of all-overish feeling when I saw them glaring at me through the pigeon hole. But I can tell you one thing about him, he had a great bundle on his head, which he steadied with one hand, and as it bulged out in all directions it's presence didn't make him popular with other people who wanted tickets too.' Undoubtedly this was our man. 'You are sure he asked for three tickets?' 'Certain. He said three tickets to Southampton; laid down the exact fare,--nineteen and six--and held up three fingers--like that. Three nasty looking fingers they were, with nails as long as talons.' 'You didn't see who were his companions?' 'I didn't,--I didn't try to look. I gave him his tickets and off he went,--with the people grumbling at him because that bundle of his kept getting in their way.' Bellingham touched me on the arm. 'I can tell you about the Arab of whom Mr Stone speaks. My attention was called to him by his insisting on taking his bundle with him into the carriage,--it was an enormous thing, he could hardly squeeze it through the door; it occupied the entire seat. But as there weren't as many passengers as usual, and he wouldn't or couldn't be made to understand that his precious bundle would be safe in the luggage van along with the rest of the luggage, and as he wasn't the sort of person you could argue with to any advantage, I had him put into an empty compartment, bundle and all.' 'Was he alone then?' 'I thought so at the time, he said nothing about having more than one ticket, or any companions, but just before the train started two other men--English men--got into his compartment; and as I came down the platform, the ticket inspector at the barrier informed me that these two men were with him, because he held tickets for the three, which, as he was a foreigner, and they seemed English, struck the inspector as odd.' 'Could you describe the two men?' 'I couldn't, not particularly, but the man who had charge of the barrier might. I was at the other end of the train when they got in. All I noticed was that one seemed to be a commonplace looking individual and that the other was dressed like a tramp, all rags and tatters, a disreputable looking object he appeared to be.' 'That,' I said to myself, 'was Miss Marjorie Lindon, the lovely daughter of a famous house; the wife-elect of a coming statesman.' To Bellingham I remarked aloud: 'I want you to strain a point, Mr Bellingham, and to do me a service which I assure you you shall never have any cause to regret. I want you to wire instructions down the line to detain this Arab and his companions and to keep them in custody until the receipt of further instructions. They are not wanted by the police as yet, but they will be as soon as I am able to give certain information to the authorities at Scotland Yard,--and wanted very badly. But, as you will perceive for yourself, until I am able to give that information every moment is important.--Where's the Station Superintendent?' 'He's gone. At present I'm in charge.' 'Then will you do this for me? I repeat that you shall never have any reason to regret it.' 'I will if you'll accept all responsibility.' 'I'll do that with the greatest pleasure.' Bellingham looked at his watch. 'It's about twenty minutes to nine. The train's scheduled for Basingstoke at 9.6. If we wire to Basingstoke at once they ought to be ready for them when they come.' 'Good!' The wire was sent. We were shown into Bellingham's office to await results Lessingham paced agitatedly to and fro; he seemed to have reached the limits of his self-control, and to be in a condition in which movement of some sort was an absolute necessity. The mercurial Sydney, on the contrary, leaned back in a chair, his legs stretched out in front of him, his hands thrust deep into his trouser pockets, and stared at Lessingham, as if he found relief to his feelings in watching his companion's restlessness. I, for my part, drew up as full a precis of the case as I deemed advisable, and as time permitted, which I despatched by one of the company's police to Scotland Yard. Then I turned to my associates. 'Now, gentlemen, it's past dinner time. We may have a journey in front of us. If you take my advice you'll have something to eat.' Lessingham shook his head. 'I want nothing.' 'Nor I,' echoed Sydney. I started up. 'You must pardon my saying nonsense, but surely you of all men, Mr Lessingham, should be aware that you will not improve the situation by rendering yourself incapable of seeing it through. Come and dine.' I haled them off with me, willy nilly, to the refreshment room, I dined,--after a fashion; Mr Lessingham swallowed with difficulty, a plate of soup; Sydney nibbled at a plate of the most unpromising looking 'chicken and ham,'--he proved, indeed, more intractable than Lessingham, and was not to be persuaded to tackle anything easier of digestion. I was just about to take cheese after chop when Bellingham came hastening in, in his hand an open telegram. 'The birds have flown,' he cried. 'Flown!--How?' In reply he gave me the telegram. I glanced at it. It ran: 'Persons described not in the train. Guard says they got out at Vauxhall. Have wired Vauxhall to advise you.' 'That's a level-headed chap,' said Bellingham. 'The man who sent that telegram. His wiring to Vauxhall should save us a lot of time,--we ought to hear from there directly. Hollo! what's this? I shouldn't be surprised if this is it.' As he spoke a porter entered,--he handed an envelope to Bellingham. We all three kept our eyes fixed on the inspector's face as he opened it. When he perceived the contents he gave an exclamation of surprise. 'This Arab of yours, and his two friends, seem rather a curious lot, Mr Champnell.' He passed the paper on to me. It took the form of a report. Lessingham and Sydney, regardless of forms and ceremonies, leaned over my shoulder as I read it. 'Passengers by 7.30 Southampton, on arrival of train, complained of noises coming from a compartment in coach 8964. Stated that there had been shrieks and yells ever since the train left Waterloo, as if someone was being murdered. An Arab and two Englishmen got out of the compartment in question, apparently the party referred to in wire just to hand from Basingstoke. All three declared that there was nothing the matter. That they had been shouting for fun. Arab gave up three third singles for Southampton, saying, in reply to questions, that they had changed their minds, and did not want to go any farther. As there were no signs of a struggle or of violence, nor, apparently, any definite cause for detention, they were allowed to pass. They took a four-wheeler, No. 09435. The Arab and one man went inside, and the other man on the box. They asked to be driven to Commercial Road, Limehouse. The cab has since returned. Driver says he put the three men down, at their request, in Commercial Road, at the corner of Sutcliffe Street, near the East India Docks. They walked up Sutcliffe Street, the Englishmen in front, and the Arab behind, took the first turning to the right, and after that he saw nothing of them. The driver further states that all the way the Englishman inside, who was so ragged and dirty that he was reluctant to carry him, kept up a sort of wailing noise which so attracted his attention that he twice got off his box to see what was the matter, and each time he said it was nothing. The cabman is of opinion that both the Englishmen were of weak intellect. We were of the same impression here. They said nothing, except at the seeming instigation of the Arab, but when spoken to stared and gaped like lunatics. 'It may be mentioned that the Arab had with him an enormous bundle, which he persisted, in spite of all remonstrances, on taking with him inside the cab.' As soon as I had mastered the contents of the report, and perceived what I believed to be--unknown to the writer himself--its hideous inner meaning, I turned to Bellingham. 'With your permission, Mr Bellingham, I will keep this communication,--it will be safe in my hands, you will be able to get a copy, and it may be necessary that I should have the original to show to the police. If any inquiries are made for me from Scotland Yard, tell them that I have gone to the Commercial Road, and that I will report my movements from Limehouse Police Station.' In another minute we were once more traversing the streets of London,--three in a hansom cab. CHAPTER XLIII THE MURDER AT MRS 'ENDERSON'S It is something of a drive from Waterloo to Limehouse,--it seems longer when all your nerves are tingling with anxiety to reach your journey's end; and the cab I had hit upon proved to be not the fastest I might have chosen. For some time after our start, we were silent. Each was occupied with his own thoughts. Then Lessingham, who was sitting at my side, said to me, 'Mr Champnell, you have that report.' 'I have.' 'Will you let me see it once more?' I gave it to him. He read it once, twice,--and I fancy yet again. I purposely avoided looking at him as he did so. Yet all the while I was conscious of his pallid cheeks, the twitched muscles of his mouth, the feverish glitter of his eyes,--this Leader of Men, whose predominate characteristic in the House of Commons was immobility, was rapidly approximating to the condition of a hysterical woman. The mental strain which he had been recently undergoing was proving too much for his physical strength. This disappearance of the woman he loved bade fair to be the final straw. I felt convinced that unless something was done quickly to relieve the strain upon his mind he was nearer to a state of complete mental and moral collapse than he himself imagined. Had he been under my orders I should have commanded him to at once return home, and not to think; but conscious that, as things were, such a direction would be simply futile, I decided to do something else instead. Feeling that suspense was for him the worst possible form of suffering I resolved to explain, so far as I was able, precisely what it was I feared, and how I proposed to prevent it. Presently there came the question for which I had been waiting, in a harsh, broken voice which no one who had heard him speak on a public platform, or in the House of Commons, would have recognised as his. 'Mr Champnell,--who do you think this person is of whom the report from Vauxhall Station speaks as being all in rags and tatters?' He knew perfectly well,--but I understood the mental attitude which induced him to prefer that the information should seem to come from me. 'I hope that it will prove to be Miss Lindon.' 'Hope!' He gave a sort of gasp. 'Yes, hope,--because if it is I think it possible, nay probable, that within a few hours you will have her again enfolded in your arms.' 'Pray God that it may be so! pray God!--pray the good God!' I did not dare to look round for, from the tremor which was in his tone, I was persuaded that in the speaker's eyes were tears. Atherton continued silent. He was leaning half out of the cab, staring straight ahead, as if he saw in front a young girl's face, from which he could not remove his glance, and which beckoned him on. After a while Lessingham spoke again, as if half to himself and half to me. 'This mention of the shrieks on the railway, and of the wailing noise in the cab,--what must this wretch have done to her? How my darling must have suffered!' That was a theme on which I myself scarcely ventured to allow my thoughts to rest. The notion of a gently-nurtured girl being at the mercy of that fiend incarnate, possessed--as I believed that so-called Arab to be possessed--of all the paraphernalia of horror and of dread, was one which caused me tangible shrinkings of the body. Whence had come those shrieks and yells, of which the writer of the report spoke, which had caused the Arab's fellow-passengers to think that murder was being done? What unimaginable agony had caused them? what speechless torture? And the 'wailing noise,' which had induced the prosaic, indurated London cabman to get twice off his box to see what was the matter, what anguish had been provocative of that? The helpless girl who had already endured so much, endured, perhaps, that to which death would have been preferred!--shut up in that rattling, jolting box on wheels, alone with that diabolical Asiatic, with the enormous bundle, which was but the lurking place of nameless terrors,--what might she not, while being borne through the heart of civilised London, have been made to suffer? What had she not been made to suffer to have kept up that continued 'wailing noise'? It was not a theme on which it was wise to permit one's thoughts to linger,--and particularly was it clear that it was one from which Lessingham's thoughts should have been kept as far as possible away. 'Come, Mr Lessingham, neither you nor I will do himself any good by permitting his reflections to flow in a morbid channel. Let us talk of something else. By the way, weren't you due to speak in the House to-night?' 'Due!--Yes, I was due,--but what does it matter?' 'But have you acquainted no one with the cause of your non-attendance?' 'Acquaint!--whom should I acquaint?' 'My good sir! Listen to me, Mr Lessingham. Let me entreat you very earnestly, to follow my advice. Call another cab,--or take this! and go at once to the House. It is not too late. Play the man, deliver the speech you have undertaken to deliver, perform your political duties. By coming with me you will be a hindrance rather than a help, and you may do your reputation an injury from which it never may recover. Do as I counsel you, and I will undertake to do my very utmost to let you have good news by the time your speech is finished.' He turned on me with a bitterness for which I was unprepared. 'If I were to go down to the House, and try to speak in the state in which I am now, they would laugh at me, I should be ruined.' 'Do you not run an equally great risk of being ruined by staying away?' He gripped me by the arm. 'Mr Champnell, do you know that I am on the verge of madness? Do you know that as I am sitting here by your side I am living in a dual world? I am going on and on to catch that--that fiend, and I am back again in that Egyptian den, upon that couch of rugs, with the Woman of the Songs beside me, and Marjorie is being torn and tortured, and burnt before my eyes! God help me! Her shrieks are ringing in my ears!' He did not speak loudly, but his voice was none the less impressive on that account. I endeavoured my hardest to be stern. 'I confess that you disappoint me, Mr Lessingham. I have always understood that you were a man of unusual strength; you appear instead, to be a man of extraordinary weakness; with an imagination so ill-governed that its ebullitions remind me of nothing so much as feminine hysterics, Your wild language is not warranted by circumstances. I repeat that I think it quite possible that by to-morrow morning she will be returned to you.' 'Yes,--but how? as the Marjorie I have known, as I saw her last,--or how?' That was the question which I had already asked myself, in what condition would she be when we had succeeded in snatching her from her captor's grip? It was a question to which I had refused to supply an answer. To him I lied by implication. 'Let us hope that, with the exception of being a trifle scared, she will be as sound and hale and hearty as even in her life.' 'Do you yourself believe that she'll be like that,--untouched, unchanged, unstained?' Then I lied right out,--it seemed to me necessary to calm his growing excitement. 'I do.' 'You don't!' 'Mr Lessingham!' 'Do you think that I can't see your face and read in it the same thoughts which trouble me? As a man of honour do you care to deny that when Marjorie Lindon is restored to me,--if she ever is!--you fear she will be but the mere soiled husk of the Marjorie whom I knew and loved?' 'Even supposing that there may be a modicum of truth in what you say,--which I am far from being disposed to admit--what good purpose do you propose to serve by talking in such a strain?' 'None,--no good purpose,--unless it be the desire of looking the truth in the face. For, Mr Champnell, you must not seek to play with me the hypocrite, nor try to hide things from me as if I were a child. If my life is ruined--it is ruined,--let me know it, and look the knowledge in the face. That, to me, is to play the man.' I was silent. The wild tale he had told me of that Cairene inferno, oddly enough--yet why oddly, for the world is all coincidence!--had thrown a flood of light on certain events which had happened some three years previously and which ever since had remained shrouded in mystery. The conduct of the business afterwards came into my hands,--and briefly, what had occurred was this: Three persons,--two sisters and their brother, who was younger than themselves, members of a decent English family, were going on a trip round the world. They were young, adventurous, and--not to put too fine a point on it--foolhardy. The evening after their arrival in Cairo, by way of what is called 'a lark,' in spite of the protestations of people who were better informed than themselves, they insisted on going, alone, for a ramble through the native quarter. They went,--but they never returned. Or, rather the two girls never returned. After an interval the young man was found again,--what was left of him. A fuss was made when there were no signs of their re-appearance, but as there were no relations, nor even friends of theirs, but only casual acquaintances on board the ship by which they had travelled, perhaps not so great a fuss as might have been was made. Anyhow, nothing was discovered. Their widowed mother, alone in England, wondering how it was that beyond the receipt of a brief wire, acquainting her with their arrival at Cairo, she had heard nothing further of their wanderings, placed herself in communication with the diplomatic people over there,--to learn that, to all appearances, her three children had vanished from off the face of the earth. Then a fuss was made,--with a vengeance. So far as one can judge the whole town and neighbourhood was turned pretty well upside down. But nothing came of it,--so far as any results were concerned, the authorities might just as well have left the mystery of their vanishment alone. It continued where it was in spite of them. However, some three months afterwards a youth was brought to the British Embassy by a party of friendly Arabs who asserted that they had found him naked and nearly dying in some remote spot in the Wady Haifa desert. It was the brother of the two lost girls. He was as nearly dying as he very well could be without being actually dead when they brought him to the Embassy,--and in a state of indescribable mutilation. He seemed to rally for a time under careful treatment, but he never again uttered a coherent word. It was only from his delirious ravings that any idea was formed of what had really occurred. Shorthand notes were taken of some of the utterances of his delirium. Afterwards they were submitted to me. I remembered the substance of them quite well, and when Mr Lessingham began to tell me of his own hideous experiences they came back to me more clearly still. Had I laid those notes before him I have little doubt but that he would have immediately perceived that seventeen years after the adventure which had left such an indelible scar upon his own life, this youth--he was little more than a boy--had seen the things which he had seen, and suffered the nameless agonies and degradations which he had suffered. The young man was perpetually raving about some indescribable den of horror which was own brother to Lessingham's temple and about some female monster, whom he regarded with such fear and horror that every allusion he made to her was followed by a convulsive paroxysm which taxed all the ingenuity of his medical attendants to bring him out of. He frequently called upon his sisters by name, speaking of them in a manner which inevitably suggested that he had been an unwilling and helpless witness of hideous tortures which they had undergone; and then he would rise in bed, screaming, 'They're burning them! they're burning them! Devils! devils!' And at those times it required all the strength of those who were in attendance to restrain his maddened frenzy. The youth died in one of these fits of great preternatural excitement, without, as I have previously written, having given utterance to one single coherent word, and by some of those who were best able to judge it was held to have been a mercy that he did die without having been restored to consciousness. And, presently, tales began to be whispered, about some idolatrous sect, which was stated to have its headquarters somewhere in the interior of the country--some located it in this neighbourhood, and some in that--which was stated to still practise, and to always have practised, in unbroken historical continuity, the debased, unclean, mystic, and bloody rites, of a form of idolatry which had had its birth in a period of the world's story which was so remote, that to all intents and purposes it might be described as pre-historic. While the ferment was still at its height, a man came to the British Embassy who said that he was a member of a tribe which had its habitat on the banks of the White Nile. He asserted that he was in association with this very idolatrous sect,--though he denied that he was one of the actual sectaries. He did admit, however, that he had assisted more than once at their orgies, and declared that it was their constant practice to offer young women as sacrifices--preferably white Christian women, with a special preference, if they could get them, to young English women. He vowed that he himself had seen with his own eyes, English girls burnt alive. The description which he gave of what preceded and followed these foul murders appalled those who listened. He finally wound up by offering, on payment of a stipulated sum of money, to guide a troop of soldiers to this den of demons, so that they should arrive there at a moment when it was filled with worshippers, who were preparing to participate in an orgie which was to take place during the next few days. His offer was conditionally accepted. He was confined in an apartment with one man on guard inside and another on guard outside the room. That night the sentinel without was startled by hearing a great noise and frightful screams issuing from the chamber in which the native was interned. He summoned assistance. The door was opened. The soldier on guard within was stark, staring mad,--he died within a few months, a gibbering maniac to the end. The native was dead. The window, which was a very small one, was securely fastened inside and strongly barred without. There was nothing to show by what means entry had been gained. Yet it was the general opinion of those who saw the corpse that the man had been destroyed by some wild beast. A photograph was taken of the body after death, a copy of which is still in my possession. In it are distinctly shown lacerations about the neck and the lower portion of the abdomen, as if they had been produced by the claws of some huge and ferocious animal. The skull is splintered in half-a-dozen places, and the face is torn to rags. That was more than three years ago. The whole business has remained as great a mystery as ever. But my attention has once or twice been caught by trifling incidents, which have caused me to more than suspect that the wild tale told by that murdered native had in it at least the elements of truth; and which have even led me to wonder if the trade in kidnapping was not being carried on to this very hour, and if women of my own flesh and blood were not still being offered up on that infernal altar. And now, here was Paul Lessingham, a man of world-wide reputation, of great intellect, of undoubted honour, who had come to me with a wholly unconscious verification of all my worst suspicions! That the creature spoken of as an Arab,--and who was probably no more an Arab than I was, and whose name was certainly not Mohamed el Kheir!--was an emissary from that den of demons, I had no doubt. What was the exact purport of the creature's presence in England was another question, Possibly part of the intention was the destruction of Paul Lessingham, body, soul and spirit; possibly another part was the procuration of fresh victims for that long-drawn-out holocaust. That this latter object explained the disappearance of Miss Lindon I felt persuaded. That she was designed by the personification of evil who was her captor, to suffer all the horrors at which the stories pointed, and then to be burned alive, amidst the triumphant yells of the attendant demons, I was certain. That the wretch, aware that the pursuit was in full cry, was tearing, twisting, doubling, and would stick at nothing which would facilitate the smuggling of the victim out of England, was clear. My interest in the quest was already far other than a merely professional one. The blood in my veins tingled at the thought of such a woman as Miss Lindon being in the power of such a monster. I may assuredly claim that throughout the whole business I was urged forward by no thought of fee or of reward. To have had a share in rescuing that unfortunate girl, and in the destruction of her noxious persecutor, would have been reward enough for me. One is not always, even in strictly professional matters, influenced by strictly professional instincts. The cab slowed. A voice descended through the trap door. 'This is Commercial Road, sir,--what part of it do you want?' 'Drive me to Limehouse Police Station.' We were driven there. I made my way to the usual inspector behind the usual pigeon-hole. 'My name is Champnell. Have you received any communication from Scotland Yard to-night having reference to a matter in which I am interested?' 'Do you mean about the Arab? We received a telephonic message about half an hour ago.' 'Since communicating with Scotland Yard this has come to hand from the authorities at Vauxhall Station. Can you tell me if anything has been seen of the person in question by the men of your division?' I handed the Inspector the 'report.' His reply was laconic. 'I will inquire.' He passed through a door into an inner room and the 'report' went with him. 'Beg pardon, sir, but was that a Harab you was a-talking about to the Hinspector?' The speaker was a gentleman unmistakably of the gutter-snipe class. He was seated on a form. Close at hand hovered a policeman whose special duty it seemed to be to keep an eye upon his movements. 'Why do you ask?' 'I beg your pardon, sir, but I saw a Harab myself about a hour ago,--leastways he looked like as if he was a Harab.' 'What sort of a looking person was he?' 'I can't 'ardly tell you that, sir, because I didn't never have a proper look at him,--but I know he had a bloomin' great bundle on 'is 'ead. ... It was like this, 'ere. I was comin' round the corner, as he was passin', I never see 'im till I was right atop of 'im, so that I haccidentally run agin 'im,--my heye! didn't 'e give me a downer! I was down on the back of my 'ead in the middle of the road before I knew where I was and 'e was at the other end of the street. If 'e 'adn't knocked me more'n 'arf silly I'd been after 'im, sharp,--I tell you! and hasked 'im what 'e thought 'e was a-doin' of, but afore my senses was back agin 'e was out o' sight,--clean!' 'You are sure he had a bundle on his head?' 'I noticed it most particular.' 'How long ago do you say this was? and where?' 'About a hour ago,--perhaps more, perhaps less.' 'Was he alone?' 'It seemed to me as if a cove was a follerin' 'im, leastways there was a bloke as was a-keepin' close at 'is 'eels,--though I don't know what 'is little game was, I'm sure. Ask the pleesman--he knows, he knows everything the pleesman do.' I turned to the 'pleesman.' 'Who is this man?' The 'pleesman' put his hands behind his back, and threw out his chest. His manner was distinctly affable. 'Well,--he's being detained upon suspicion. He's given us an address at which to make inquiries, and inquiries are being made. I shouldn't pay too much attention to what he says if I were you. I don't suppose he'd be particular about a lie or two.' This frank expression of opinion re-aroused the indignation of the gentleman on the form. 'There you hare! at it again! That's just like you peelers,--you're all the same! What do you know about me?--Nuffink! This gen'leman ain't got no call to believe me, not as I knows on,--it's all the same to me if 'e do or don't, but it's trewth what I'm sayin', all the same.' At this point the Inspector re-appeared at the pigeon-hole. He cut short the flow of eloquence. 'Now then, not so much noise outside there!' He addressed me. 'None of our men have seen anything of the person you're inquiring for, so far as we're aware. But, if you like, I will place a man at your disposal, and he will go round with you, and you will be able to make your own inquiries.' A capless, wildly excited young ragamuffin came dashing in at the street door. He gasped out, as clearly as he could for the speed which he had made: 'There's been murder done, Mr Pleesman,--a Harab's killed a bloke.' 'Mr Pleesman' gripped him by the shoulder. 'What's that?' The youngster put up his arm, and ducked his head, instinctively, as if to ward off a blow. 'Leave me alone! I don't want none of your 'andling!--I ain't done nuffink to you! I tell you 'e 'as!' The Inspector spoke through the pigeon-hole. 'He has what, my lad? What do you say has happened?' 'There's been murder done--it's right enough!--there 'as!--up at Mrs 'Enderson's, in Paradise Place,--a Harab's been and killed a bloke!' CHAPTER XLIV THE MAN WHO WAS MURDERED The Inspector spoke to me. 'If what the boy says is correct it sounds as if the person whom you are seeking may have had a finger in the pie.' I was of the same opinion, as, apparently, were Lessingham and Sidney. Atherton collared the youth by the shoulder which Mr Pleesman had left disengaged. 'What sort of looking bloke is it who's been murdered?' 'I dunno! I 'aven't seen 'im! Mrs 'Enderson, she says to me! "'Gustus Barley," she says, "a bloke's been murdered. That there Harab what I chucked out 'alf a hour ago been and murdered 'im, and left 'im behind up in my back room. You run as 'ard as you can tear and tell them there dratted pleese what's so fond of shovin' their dirty noses into respectable people's 'ouses." So I comes and tells yer. That's all I knows about it.' We went four in the hansom which had been waiting in the street to Mrs Henderson's in Paradise Place,--the Inspector and we three. 'Mr Pleesman' and ''Gustus Barley' followed on foot. The Inspector was explanatory. 'Mrs Henderson keeps a sort of lodging-house,--a "Sailors' Home" she calls it, but no one could call it sweet. It doesn't bear the best of characters, and if you asked me what I thought of it, I should say in plain English that it was a disorderly house.' Paradise Place proved to be within three or four hundred yards of the Station House. So far as could be seen in the dark it consisted of a row of houses of considerable dimensions,--and also of considerable antiquity. They opened on to two or three stone steps which led directly into the street. At one of the doors stood an old lady with a shawl drawn over her head. This was Mrs Henderson. She greeted us with garrulous volubility. 'So you 'ave come, 'ave you? I thought you never was a-comin' that I did.' She recognised the Inspector. 'It's you, Mr Phillips, is it?' Perceiving us, she drew a little back 'Who's them 'ere parties? They ain't coppers?' Mr Phillips dismissed her inquiry, curtly. 'Never you mind who they are. What's this about someone being murdered.' 'Ssh!' The old lady glanced round. 'Don't you speak so loud, Mr Phillips. No one don't know nothing about it as yet. The parties what's in my 'ouse is most respectable,--most! and they couldn't abide the notion of there being police about the place.' 'We quite believe that, Mrs Henderson.' The Inspector's tone was grim. Mrs Henderson led the way up a staircase which would have been distinctly the better for repairs. It was necessary to pick one's way as one went, and as the light was defective stumbles were not infrequent. Our guide paused outside a door on the topmost landing. From some mysterious recess in her apparel she produced a key. 'It's in 'ere. I locked the door so that nothing mightn't be disturbed. I knows 'ow particular you pleesmen is.' She turned the key. We all went in--we, this time, in front, and she behind. A candle was guttering on a broken and dilapidated single washhand stand. A small iron bedstead stood by its side, the clothes on which were all tumbled and tossed. There was a rush-seated chair with a hole in the seat,--and that, with the exception of one or two chipped pieces of stoneware, and a small round mirror which was hung on a nail against the wall, seemed to be all that the room contained. I could see nothing in the shape of a murdered man. Nor, it appeared, could the Inspector either. 'What's the meaning of this, Mrs Henderson? I don't see anything here.' 'It's be'ind the bed, Mr Phillips. I left 'im just where I found 'im, I wouldn't 'ave touched 'im not for nothing, nor yet 'ave let nobody else 'ave touched 'im neither, because, as I say, I know 'ow particular you pleesmen is.' We all four went hastily forward. Atherton and I went to the head of the bed, Lessingham and the Inspector, leaning right across the bed, peeped over the side. There, on the floor in the space which was between the bed and the wall, lay the murdered man. At sight of him an exclamation burst from Sydney's lips. 'It's Holt!' 'Thank God!' cried Lessingham. 'It isn't Marjorie!' The relief in his tone was unmistakable. That the one was gone was plainly nothing to him in comparison with the fact that the other was left. Thrusting the bed more into the centre of the room I knelt down beside the man on the floor. A more deplorable spectacle than he presented I have seldom witnessed. He was decently clad in a grey tweed suit, white hat, collar and necktie, and it was perhaps that fact which made his extreme attenuation the more conspicuous. I doubt if there was an ounce of flesh on the whole of his body. His cheeks and the sockets of his eyes were hollow. The skin was drawn tightly over his cheek bones,--the bones themselves were staring through. Even his nose was wasted, so that nothing but a ridge of cartilage remained. I put my arm beneath his shoulder and raised him from the floor; no resistance was offered by the body's gravity,--he was as light as a little child. 'I doubt,' I said, 'if this man has been murdered. It looks to me like a case of starvation, or exhaustion,--possibly a combination of both.' 'What's that on his neck?' asked the Inspector,--he was kneeling at my side. He referred to two abrasions of the skin,--one on either side of the man's neck. 'They look to me like scratches. They seem pretty deep, but I don't think they're sufficient in themselves to cause death.' 'They might be, joined to an already weakened constitution. Is there anything in his pockets?--let's lift him on to the bed.' We lifted him on to the bed,--a featherweight he was to lift. While the Inspector was examining his pockets--to find them empty--a tall man with a big black beard came bustling in. He proved to be Dr Glossop, the local police surgeon, who had been sent for before our quitting the Station House. His first pronouncement, made as soon as he commenced his examination, was, under the circumstances, sufficiently startling. 'I don't believe the man's dead. Why didn't you send for me directly you found him?' The question was put to Mrs Henderson. 'Well, Dr Glossop, I wouldn't touch 'im myself, and I wouldn't 'ave 'im touched by no one else, because, as I've said afore, I know 'ow particular them pleesmen is.' 'Then in that case, if he does die you'll have had a hand in murdering him,--that's all' The lady sniggered. 'Of course Dr Glossop, we all knows that you'll always 'ave your joke.' 'You'll find it a joke if you have to hang, as you ought to, you--' The doctor said what he did say to himself, under his breath. I doubt if it was flattering to Mrs Henderson. 'Have you got any brandy in the house?' 'We've got everythink in the 'ouse for them as likes to pay for it,--everythink.' Then, suddenly remembering that the police were present, and that hers were not exactly licensed premises, 'Leastways we can send out for it for them parties as gives us the money, being, as is well known, always willing to oblige.' 'Then send for some,--to the tap downstairs, if that's the nearest! If this man dies before you've brought it I'll have you locked up as sure as you're a living woman.' The arrival of the brandy was not long delayed,--but the man on the bed had regained consciousness before it came. Opening his eyes he looked up at the doctor bending over him. 'Hollo, my man! that's more like the time of day! How are you feeling?' The patient stared hazily up at the doctor, as if his sense of perception was not yet completely restored,--as if this big bearded man was something altogether strange. Atherton bent down beside the doctor. 'I'm glad to see you looking better, Mr Holt. You know me don't you? I've been running about after you all day long.' 'You are--you are--' The man's eyes closed, as if the effort at recollection exhausted him. He kept them closed as he continued to speak. 'I know who you are. You are--the gentleman.' 'Yes, that's it, I'm the gentleman,--name of Atherton.--Miss Lindon's friend. And I daresay you're feeling pretty well done up, and in want of something to eat and drink,--here's some brandy for you.' The doctor had some in a tumbler. He raised the patient's head, allowing it to trickle down his throat. The man swallowed it mechanically, motionless, as if unconscious what it was that he was doing. His cheeks flushed, the passing glow of colour caused their condition of extraordinary, and, indeed, extravagant attentuation, to be more prominent than ever. The doctor laid him back upon the bed, feeling his pulse with one hand, while he stood and regarded him in silence. Then, turning to the Inspector, he said to him in an undertone; 'If you want him to make a statement he'll have to make it now, he's going fast. You won't be able to get much out of him,--he's too far gone, and I shouldn't bustle him, but get what you can.' The Inspector came to the front, a notebook in his hand. 'I understand from this gentleman--' signifying Atherton--'that your name's Robert Holt. I'm an Inspector of police, and I want you to tell me what has brought you into this condition. Has anyone been assaulting you?' Holt, opening his eyes, glanced up at the speaker mistily, as if he could not see him clearly,--still less understand what it was that he was saying. Sydney, stooping over him, endeavoured to explain. 'The Inspector wants to know how you got here, has anyone been doing anything to you? Has anyone been hurting you?' The man's eyelids were partially closed. Then they opened wider and wider. His mouth opened too. On his skeleton features there came a look of panic fear. He was evidently struggling to speak. At last words came. 'The beetle!' He stopped. Then, after an effort, spoke again. 'The beetle!' 'What's he mean?' asked the Inspector. 'I think I understand,' Sydney answered; then turning again to the man in the bed. 'Yes, I hear what you say,--the beetle. Well, has the beetle done anything to you?' 'It took me by the throat!' 'Is that the meaning of the marks upon your neck?' 'The beetle killed me.' The lids closed. The man relapsed into a state of lethargy. The Inspector was puzzled;--and said so. 'What's he mean about a beetle?' Atherton replied. 'I think I understand what he means,--and my friends do too. We'll explain afterwards. In the meantime I think I'd better get as much out of him as I can,--while there's time.' 'Yes,' said the doctor, his hand upon the patient's pulse, 'while there's time. There isn't much--only seconds.' Sydney endeavoured to rouse the man from his stupor. 'You've been with Miss Lindon all the afternoon and evening, haven't you, Mr Holt?' Atherton had reached a chord in the man's consciousness. His lips moved,--in painful articulation. 'Yes--all the afternoon--and evening--God help me!' 'I hope God will help you my poor fellow; you've been in need of His help if ever man was. Miss Lindon is disguised in your old clothes, isn't she?' 'Yes,--in my old clothes. My God!' 'And where is Miss Lindon now?' The man had been speaking with his eyes closed. Now he opened them, wide; there came into them the former staring horror. He became possessed by uncontrollable agitation,--half raising himself in bed. Words came from his quivering lips as if they were only drawn from him by the force of his anguish. 'The beetle's going to kill Miss Lindon.' A momentary paroxysm seemed to shake the very foundations of his being. His whole frame quivered. He fell back on to the bed,--ominously. The doctor examined him in silence--while we too were still. 'This time he's gone for good, there'll be no conjuring him back again.' I felt a sudden pressure on my arm, and found that Lessingham was clutching me with probably unconscious violence. The muscles of his face were twitching. He trembled. I turned to the doctor. 'Doctor, if there is any of that brandy left will you let me have it for my friend?' Lessingham disposed of the remainder of the 'shillings worth.' I rather fancy it saved us from a scene. The Inspector was speaking to the woman of the house. 'Now, Mrs Henderson, perhaps you'll tell us what all this means. Who is this man, and how did he come in here, and who came in with him, and what do you know about it altogether? If you've got anything to say, say it, only you'd better be careful, because it's my duty to warn you that anything you do say may be used against you.' CHAPTER XLV ALL THAT MRS 'ENDERSON KNEW Mrs Henderson put her hands under her apron and smirked. 'Well, Mr Phillips, it do sound strange to 'ear you talkin' to me like that. Anybody'd think I'd done something as I didn't ought to 'a' done to 'ear you going on. As for what's 'appened, I'll tell you all I know with the greatest willingness on earth. And as for bein' careful, there ain't no call for you to tell me to be that, for that I always am, as by now you ought to know.' 'Yes,--I do know. Is that all you have to say?' 'Rilly, Mr Phillips, what a man you are for catching people up, you rilly are. O' course that ain't all I've got to say,--ain't I just a-comin' to it?' 'Then come.' 'If you presses me so you'll muddle of me up, and then if I do 'appen to make a herror, you'll say I'm a liar, when goodness knows there ain't no more truthful woman not in Limehouse.' Words plainly trembled on the Inspector's lips,--which he refrained from uttering. Mrs Henderson cast her eyes upwards, as if she sought for inspiration from the filthy ceiling. 'So far as I can swear it might 'ave been a hour ago, or it might 'ave been a hour and a quarter, or it might 'ave been a hour and twenty minutes--' 'We're not particular as to the seconds.' 'When I 'ears a knockin' at my front door, and when I comes to open it, there was a Harab party, with a great bundle on 'is 'ead, bigger nor 'isself, and two other parties along with him. This Harab party says, in that queer foreign way them Harab parties 'as of talkin', "A room for the night, a room." Now I don't much care for foreigners, and never did, especially them Harabs, which their 'abits ain't my own,--so I as much 'ints the same. But this 'ere Harab party, he didn't seem to quite foller of my meaning, for all he done was to say as he said afore, "A room for the night, a room." And he shoves a couple of 'arf crowns into my 'and. Now it's always been a motter o' mine, that money is money, and one man's money is as good as another man's. So, not wishing to be disagreeable--which other people would have taken 'em if I 'adn't, I shows 'em up 'ere. I'd been downstairs it might 'ave been 'arf a hour, when I 'ears a shindy a-coming from this room--' 'What sort of a shindy?' 'Yelling and shrieking--oh my gracious, it was enough to set your blood all curdled,--for ear-piercingness I never did 'ear nothing like it. We do 'ave troublesome parties in 'ere, like they do elsewhere, but I never did 'ear nothing like that before. I stood it for about a minute, but it kep' on, and kep' on, and every moment I expected as the other parties as was in the 'ouse would be complainin', so up I comes and I thumps at the door, and it seemed that thump I might for all the notice that was took of me.' 'Did the noise keep on?' 'Keep on! I should think it did keep on! Lord love you! shriek after shriek, I expected to see the roof took off.' 'Were there any other noises? For instance, were there any sounds of struggling, or of blows?' 'There weren't no sounds except of the party hollering.' 'One party only?' 'One party only. As I says afore, shriek after shriek,--when you put your ear to the panel there was a noise like some other party blubbering, but that weren't nothing, as for the hollering you wouldn't have thought that nothing what you might call 'umin could 'ave kep' up such a screechin'. I thumps and thumps and at last when I did think that I should 'ave to 'ave the door broke down, the Harab says to me from inside, "Go away! I pay for the room! go away!" I did think that pretty good, I tell you that. So I says, "Pay for the room or not pay for the room, you didn't pay to make that shindy!" And what's more I says, "If I 'ear it again," I says, "out you goes! And if you don't go quiet I'll 'ave somebody in as'll pretty quickly make you!"' 'Then was there silence?' 'So to speak there was,--only there was this sound as if some party was a-blubbering, and another sound as if a party was a-panting for his breath.' 'Then what happened?' 'Seeing that, so to speak, all was quiet, down I went again. And in another quarter of a hour, or it might 'ave been twenty minutes, I went to the front door to get a mouthful of hair. And Mrs Barker, what lives over the road, at No. 24, she comes to me and says, "That there Arab party of yours didn't stop long." I looks at 'er, "I don't quite foller you," I says,--which I didn't. "I saw him come in," she says, "and then, a few minutes back, I see 'im go again, with a great bundle on 'is 'ead he couldn't 'ardly stagger under!" "Oh," I says, "that's news to me, I didn't know 'e'd gone, nor see him neither---" which I didn't. So, up I comes again, and, sure enough, the door was open, and it seems to me that the room was empty, till I come upon this pore young man what was lying be'ind the bed,' There was a growl from the doctor. 'If you'd had any sense, and sent for me at once, he might have been alive at this moment.' ''Ow was I to know that, Dr Glossop? I couldn't tell. My finding 'im there murdered was quite enough for me. So I runs downstairs, and I nips 'old of 'Gustus Barley, what was leaning against the wall, and I says to him, "'Gustus Barley, run to the station as fast as you can and tell 'em that a man's been murdered,--that Harab's been and killed a bloke." And that's all I know about it, and I couldn't tell you no more, Mr Phillips, not if you was to keep on asking me questions not for hours and hours' 'Then you think it was this man'--with a motion towards the bed--'who was shrieking?' 'To tell you the truth, Mr Phillips, about that I don't 'ardly know what to think. If you 'ad asked me I should 'ave said it was a woman. I ought to know a woman's holler when I 'ear it, if any one does, I've 'eard enough of 'em in my time, goodness knows. And I should 'ave said that only a woman could 'ave hollered like that and only 'er when she was raving mad. But there weren't no woman with him. There was only this man what's murdered, and the other man,--and as for the other man I will say this, that 'e 'adn't got twopennyworth of clothes to cover 'im. But, Mr Phillips, howsomever that may be, that's the last Harab I'll 'ave under my roof, no matter what they pays, and you may mark my words I'll 'ave no more.' Mrs Henderson, once more glancing upward, as if she imagined herself to have made some declaration of a religious nature, shook her head with much solemnity. CHAPTER XLVI THE SUDDEN STOPPING As we were leaving the house a constable gave the Inspector a note. Having read it he passed it to me. It was from the local office. 'Message received that an Arab with a big bundle on his head has been noticed loitering about the neighbourhood of St Pancras Station. He seemed to be accompanied by a young man who had the appearance of a tramp. Young man seemed ill. They appeared to be waiting for a train, probably to the North. Shall I advise detention?' I scribbled on the flyleaf of the note. 'Have them detained. If they have gone by train have a special in readiness.' In a minute we were again in the cab. I endeavoured to persuade Lessingham and Atherton to allow me to conduct the pursuit alone,--in vain. I had no fear of Atherton's succumbing, but I was afraid for Lessingham. What was more almost than the expectation of his collapse was the fact that his looks and manner, his whole bearing, so eloquent of the agony and agitation of his mind, was beginning to tell upon my nerves. A catastrophe of some sort I foresaw. Of the curtain's fall upon one tragedy we had just been witnesses. That there was worse--much worse, to follow I did not doubt. Optimistic anticipations were out of the question,--that the creature we were chasing would relinquish the prey uninjured, no one, after what we had seen and heard, could by any possibility suppose. Should a necessity suddenly arise for prompt and immediate action, that Lessingham would prove a hindrance rather than a help I felt persuaded. But since moments were precious, and Lessingham was not to be persuaded to allow the matter to proceed without him, all that remained was to make the best of his presence. The great arch of St Pancras was in darkness. An occasional light seemed to make the darkness still more visible. The station seemed deserted. I thought, at first, that there was not a soul about the place, that our errand was in vain, that the only thing for us to do was to drive to the police station and to pursue our inquiries there. But as we turned towards the booking-office, our footsteps ringing out clearly through the silence and the night, a door opened, a light shone out from the room within, and a voice inquired: 'Who's that?' 'My name's Champnell. Has a message been received from me from the Limehouse Police Station?' 'Step this way.' We stepped that way,--into a snug enough office, of which one of the railway inspectors was apparently in charge. He was a big man, with a fair beard. He looked me up and down, as if doubtfully. Lessingham he recognised at once. He took off his cap to him. 'Mr Lessingham, I believe?' 'I am Mr Lessingham. Have you any news for me? I fancy, by his looks,--that the official was struck by the pallor of the speaker's face,--and by his tremulous voice. 'I am instructed to give certain information to a Mr Augustus Champnell.' 'I am Mr Champnell. What's your information?' 'With reference to the Arab about whom you have been making inquiries. A foreigner, dressed like an Arab, with a great bundle on his head, took two single thirds for Hull by the midnight express.' 'Was he alone?' 'It is believed that he was accompanied by a young man of very disreputable appearance. They were not together at the booking-office, but they had been seen together previously. A minute or so after the Arab had entered the train this young man got into the same compartment--they were in the front waggon.' 'Why were they not detained?' 'We had no authority to detain them, nor any reason, until your message was received a few minutes ago we at this station were not aware that inquiries were being made for them.' 'You say he booked to Hull,--does the train run through to Hull?' 'No--it doesn't go to Hull at all. Part of it's the Liverpool and Manchester Express, and part of it's for Carlisle. It divides at Derby. The man you're looking for will change either at Sheffield or at Cudworth Junction and go on to Hull by the first train in the morning. There's a local service.' I looked at my watch. 'You say the train left at midnight. It's now nearly five-and-twenty past. Where's it now?' 'Nearing St Albans, it's due there 12.35.' 'Would there be time for a wire to reach St Albans?' 'Hardly,--and anyhow there'll only be enough railway officials about the place to receive and despatch the train. They'll be fully occupied with their ordinary duties. There won't be time to get the police there.' 'You could wire to St Albans to inquire if they were still in the train?' 'That could be done,--certainly. I'll have it done at once if you like. 'Then where's the next stoppage?' 'Well, they're at Luton at 12.51. But that's another case of St Albans. You see there won't be much more than twenty minutes by the time you've got your wire off, and I don't expect there'll be many people awake at Luton. At these country places sometimes there's a policeman hanging about the station to see the express go through, but, on the other hand, very often there isn't, and if there isn't, probably at this time of night it'll take a good bit of time to get the police on the premises. I tell you what I should advise.' 'What's that?' 'The train is due at Bedford at 1.29--send your wire there. There ought to be plenty of people about at Bedford, and anyhow there'll be time to get the police to the station.' 'Very good. I instructed them to tell you to have a special ready,--have you got one?' 'There's an engine with steam up in the shed,--we'll have all ready for you in less than ten minutes. And I tell you what,--you'll have about fifty minutes before the train is due at Bedford. It's a fifty mile run. With luck you ought to get there pretty nearly as soon as the express does.--Shall I tell them to get ready?' 'At once.' While he issued directions through a telephone to what, I presume, was the engine shed, I drew up a couple of telegrams. Having completed his orders he turned to me. 'They're coming out of the siding now--they'll be ready in less than ten minutes. I'll see that the line's kept clear. Have you got those wires?' 'Here is one,--this is for Bedford.' It ran: 'Arrest the Arab who is in train due at 1.29. When leaving St Pancras he was in a third-class compartment in front waggon. He has a large bundle, which detain. He took two third singles for Hull. Also detain his companion, who is dressed like a tramp. This is a young lady whom the Arab has disguised and kidnapped while in a condition of hypnotic trance. Let her have medical assistance and be taken to a hotel. All expenses will be paid on the arrival of the undersigned who is following by special train. As the Arab will probably be very violent a sufficient force of police should be in waiting. 'AUGUSTUS CHAMPNELL.' 'And this is the other. It is probably too late to be of any use at St Albans,--but send it there, and also to Luton.' 'Is Arab with companion in train which left St Pancras at 13.0? If so, do not let them get out till train reaches Bedford, where instructions are being wired for arrest.' The Inspector rapidly scanned them both. 'They ought to do your business, I should think. Come along with me--I'll have them sent at once, and we'll see if your train's ready.' The train was not ready,--nor was it ready within the prescribed ten minutes. There was some hitch, I fancy, about a saloon. Finally we had to be content with an ordinary old-fashioned first-class carriage. The delay, however, was not altogether time lost. Just as the engine with its solitary coach was approaching the platform someone came running up with an envelope in his hand. 'Telegram from St Albans.' I tore it open. It was brief and to the point. 'Arab with companion was in train when it left here. Am wiring Luton.' 'That's all right. Now unless something wholly unforeseen takes place, we ought to have them.' That unforeseen! I went forward with the Inspector and the guard of our train to exchange a few final words with the driver. The Inspector explained what instructions he had given. 'I've told the driver not to spare his coal but to take you into Bedford within five minutes after the arrival of the express. He says he thinks that he can do it.' The driver leaned over his engine, rubbing his hands with the usual oily rag. He was a short, wiry man with grey hair and a grizzled moustache, with about him that bearing of semi-humorous, frank-faced resolution which one notes about engine-drivers as a class. 'We ought to do it, the gradients are against us, but it's a clear night and there's no wind. The only thing that will stop us will be if there's any shunting on the road, or any luggage trains; of course, if we are blocked, we are blocked, but the Inspector says he'll clear the way for us.' 'Yes,' said the Inspector, 'I'll clear the way. I've wired down the road already.' Atherton broke in. 'Driver, if you get us into Bedford within five minutes of the arrival of the mail there'll be a five-pound note to divide between your mate and you.' The driver grinned. 'We'll get you there in time, sir, if we have to go clear through the shunters. It isn't often we get a chance of a five-pound note for a run to Bedford, and we'll do our best to earn it.' The fireman waved his hand in the rear. 'That's right, sir!' he cried. 'We'll have to trouble you for that five-pound note.' So soon as we were clear of the station it began to seem probable that, as the fireman put it, Atherton would be 'troubled.' Journeying in a train which consists of a single carriage attached to an engine which is flying at topmost speed is a very different business from being an occupant of an ordinary train which is travelling at ordinary express rates. I had discovered that for myself before. That night it was impressed on me more than ever. A tyro--or even a nervous 'season'--might have been excused for expecting at every moment we were going to be derailed. It was hard to believe that the carriage had any springs,--it rocked and swung, and jogged and jolted. Of smooth travelling had we none. Talking was out of the question;--and for that, I, personally, was grateful. Quite apart from the difficulty we experienced in keeping our seats--and when every moment our position was being altered and we were jerked backwards and forwards up and down, this way and that, that was a business which required care,--the noise was deafening. It was as though we were being pursued by a legion of shrieking, bellowing, raging demons. 'George!' shrieked Atherton, 'he does mean to earn that fiver. I hope I'll be alive to pay it him!' He was only at the other end of the carriage, but though I could see by the distortion of his visage that he was shouting at the top of his voice,--and he has a voice,--I only caught here and there a word or two of what he was saying. I had to make sense of the whole. Lessingham's contortions were a study. Few of that large multitude of persons who are acquainted with him only by means of the portraits which have appeared in the illustrated papers, would then have recognised the rising statesman. Yet I believe that few things could have better fallen in with his mood than that wild travelling. He might have been almost shaken to pieces,--but the very severity of the shaking served to divert his thoughts from the one dread topic which threatened to absorb them to the exclusion of all else beside. Then there was the tonic influence of the element of risk. The pick-me-up effect of a spice of peril. Actual danger there quite probably was none; but there very really seemed to be. And one thing was absolutely certain, that if we did come to smash while going at that speed we should come to as everlasting smash as the heart of man could by any possibility desire. It is probable that the knowledge that this was so warmed the blood in Lessingham's veins. At any rate as--to use what in this case, was simply a form of speech--I sat and watched him, it seemed to me that he was getting a firmer hold of the strength which had all but escaped him, and that with every jog and jolt he was becoming more and more of a man. On and on we went dashing, clashing, smashing, roaring, rumbling. Atherton, who had been endeavouring to peer through the window, strained his lungs again in the effort to make himself audible. 'Where the devil are we?' Looking at my watch I screamed back at him. 'It's nearly one, so I suppose we're somewhere in the neighbourhood of Luton.--Hollo! What's the matter?' That something was the matter seemed certain. There was a shrill whistle from the engine. In a second we were conscious--almost too conscious--of the application of the Westinghouse brake. Of all the jolting that was ever jolted! the mere reverberation of the carriage threatened to resolve our bodies into their component parts. Feeling what we felt then helped us to realise the retardatory force which that vacuum brake must be exerting,--it did not seem at all surprising that the train should have been brought to an almost instant stand-still. Simultaneously all three of us were on our feet. I let down my window and Atherton let down his,--he shouting out, 'I should think that Inspector's wire hasn't had it's proper effect, looks as if we're blocked--or else we've stopped at Luton. It can't be Bedford.' It wasn't Bedford--so much seemed clear. Though at first from my window I could make out nothing. I was feeling more than a trifle dazed,--there was a singing in my ears,--the sudden darkness was impenetrable. Then I became conscious that the guard was opening the door of his compartment. He stood on the step for a moment, seeming to hesitate. Then, with a lamp in his hand, he descended on to the line. 'What's the matter?' I asked. 'Don't know, sir. Seems as if there was something on the road. What's up there?' This was to the man on the engine. The fireman replied: 'Someone in front there's waving a red light like mad,--lucky I caught sight of him, we should have been clean on top of him in another moment. Looks as if there was something wrong. Here he comes.' As my eyes grew more accustomed to the darkness I became aware that someone was making what haste he could along the six-foot way, swinging a red light as he came. Our guard advanced to meet him, shouting as he went: 'What's the matter! Who's that?' A voice replied, 'My God! Is that George Hewett. I thought you were coming right on top of us!' Our guard again. 'What! Jim Branson! What the devil are you doing here, what's wrong? I thought you were on the twelve out, we're chasing you.' 'Are you? Then you've caught us. Thank God for it!--We're a wreck.' I had already opened the carriage door. With that we all three clambered out on to the line. CHAPTER XLVII THE CONTENTS OF THE THIRD-CLASS CARRIAGE I moved to the stranger who was holding the lamp. He was in official uniform. 'Are you the guard of the 12.0 out from St Pancras?' 'I am.' 'Where's your train? What's happened?' 'As for where it is, there it is, right in front of you, what's left of it. As to what's happened, why, we're wrecked.' 'What do you mean by you're wrecked?' 'Some heavy loaded trucks broke loose from a goods in front and came running down the hill on top of us.' 'How long ago was it?' 'Not ten minutes. I was just starting off down the road to the signal box, it's a good two miles away, when I saw you coming. My God! I thought there was going to be another smash.' 'Much damage done?' 'Seems to me as if we're all smashed up. As far as I can make out they're matchboxed up in front. I feel as if I was all broken up inside of me. I've been in the service going on for thirty years, and this is the first accident I've been in.' It was too dark to see the man's face, but judging from his tone he was either crying or very near to it. Our guard turned and shouted back to our engine, 'You'd better go back to the box and let 'em know!' 'All right!' came echoing back. The special immediately commenced retreating, whistling continually as it went. All the country side must have heard the engine shrieking, and all who did hear must have understood that on the line something was seriously wrong. The smashed train was all in darkness, the force of the collision had put out all the carriage lamps. Here was a flickering candle, there the glimmer of a match, these were all the lights which shone upon the scene. People were piling up debris by the side of the line, for the purpose of making a fire,--more for illumination than for warmth. Many of the passengers had succeeded in freeing themselves, and were moving hither and thither about the line. But the majority appeared to be still imprisoned. The carriage doors were jammed. Without the necessary tools it was impossible to open them. Every step we took our ears were saluted by piteous cries. Men, women, children, appealed to us for help. 'Open the door, sir!' 'In the name of God, sir, open the door!' Over and over again, in all sorts of tones, with all degrees of violence, the supplication was repeated. The guards vainly endeavoured to appease the, in many cases, half-frenzied creatures. 'All right, sir! If you'll only wait a minute or two, madam! We can't get the doors open without tools, a special train's just started off to get them. If you'll only have patience there'll be plenty of help for everyone of you directly. You'll be quite safe in there, if you'll only keep still.' But that was just what they found it most difficult to do--keep still! In the front of the train all was chaos. The trucks which had done the mischief--there were afterwards shown to be six of them, together with two guards' vans--appeared to have been laden with bags of Portland cement. The bags had burst, and everything was covered with what seemed gritty dust. The air was full of the stuff, it got into our eyes, half blinding us. The engine of the express had turned a complete somersault. It vomited forth smoke, and steam, and flames,--every moment it seemed as if the woodwork of the carriages immediately behind and beneath would catch fire. The front coaches were, as the guard had put it, 'match-boxed.' They were nothing but a heap of debris,--telescoped into one another in a state of apparently inextricable confusion. It was broad daylight before access was gained to what had once been the interiors. The condition of the first third-class compartment revealed an extraordinary state of things. Scattered all over it were pieces of what looked like partially burnt rags, and fragments of silk and linen. I have those fragments now. Experts have assured me that they are actually neither of silk nor linen! but of some material--animal rather than vegetable--with which they are wholly unacquainted. On the cushions and woodwork--especially on the woodwork of the floor--were huge blotches,--stains of some sort. When first noticed they were damp, and gave out a most unpleasant smell. One of the pieces of woodwork is yet in my possession,--with the stain still on it. Experts have pronounced upon it too,--with the result that opinions are divided. Some maintain that the stain was produced by human blood, which had been subjected to a great heat, and, so to speak, parboiled. Others declare that it is the blood of some wild animal,--possibly of some creature of the cat species. Yet others affirm that it is not blood at all, but merely paint. While a fourth describes it as--I quote the written opinion which lies in front of me--'caused apparently by a deposit of some sort of viscid matter, probably the excretion of some variety of lizard.' In a corner of the carriage was the body of what seemed a young man costumed like a tramp. It was Marjorie Lindon. So far as a most careful search revealed, that was all the compartment contained. CHAPTER XLVIII THE CONCLUSION OF THE MATTER It is several years since I bore my part in the events which I have rapidly sketched,--or I should not have felt justified in giving them publicity. Exactly how many years, for reasons which should be sufficiently obvious, I must decline to say. Marjorie Lindon still lives. The spark of life which was left in her, when she was extricated from among the debris of the wrecked express, was fanned again into flame. Her restoration was, however, not merely an affair of weeks or months, it was a matter of years. I believe that, even after her physical powers were completely restored--in itself a tedious task--she was for something like three years under medical supervision as a lunatic. But all that skill and money could do was done, and in course of time--the great healer--the results were entirely satisfactory. Her father is dead,--and has left her in possession of the family estates. She is married to the individual who, in these pages, has been known as Paul Lessingham. Were his real name divulged she would be recognised as the popular and universally reverenced wife of one of the greatest statesmen the age has seen. Nothing has been said to her about the fateful day on which she was--consciously or unconsciously--paraded through London in the tattered masculine habiliments of a vagabond. She herself has never once alluded to it. With the return of reason the affair seems to have passed from her memory as wholly as if it had never been, which, although she may not know it, is not the least cause she has for thankfulness. Therefore what actually transpired will never, in all human probability, be certainly known and particularly what precisely occurred in the railway carriage during that dreadful moment of sudden passing from life unto death. What became of the creature who all but did her to death; who he was--if it was a 'he,' which is extremely doubtful; whence he came; whither he went; what was the purport of his presence here,--to this hour these things are puzzles. Paul Lessingham has not since been troubled by his old tormentor. He has ceased to be a haunted man. None the less he continues to have what seems to be a constitutional disrelish for the subject of beetles, nor can he himself be induced to speak of them. Should they be mentioned in a general conversation, should he be unable to immediately bring about a change of theme, he will, if possible, get up and leave the room. More, on this point he and his wife are one. The fact may not be generally known, but it is so. Also I have reason to believe that there still are moments in which he harks back, with something like physical shrinking, to that awful nightmare of the past, and in which he prays God, that as it is distant from him now so may it be kept far off from him for ever. Before closing, one matter may be casually mentioned. The tale has never been told, but I have unimpeachable authority for its authenticity. During the recent expeditionary advance towards Dongola, a body of native troops which was encamped at a remote spot in the desert was aroused one night by what seemed to be the sound of a loud explosion. The next morning, at a distance of about a couple of miles from the camp, a huge hole was discovered in the ground,--as if blasting operations, on an enormous scale, had recently been carried on. In the hole itself, and round about it, were found fragments of what seemed bodies; credible witnesses have assured me that they were bodies neither of men nor women, but of creatures of some monstrous growth. I prefer to believe, since no scientific examination of the remains took place, that these witnesses ignorantly, though innocently, erred. One thing is sure. Numerous pieces, both of stone and of metal, were seen, which went far to suggest that some curious subterranean building had been blown up by the force of the explosion. Especially were there portions of moulded metal which seemed to belong to what must have been an immense bronze statue. There were picked up also, more than a dozen replicas in bronze of the whilom sacred scarabaeus. That the den of demons described by Paul Lessingham, had, that night, at last come to an end, and that these things which lay scattered, here and there, on that treeless plain, were the evidences of its final destruction, is not a hypothesis which I should care to advance with any degree of certainty. But, putting this and that together, the facts seem to point that way,--and it is a consummation devoutly to be desired. By-the-bye, Sydney Atherton has married Miss Dora Grayling. Her wealth has made him one of the richest men in England. She began, the story goes, by loving him immensely; I can answer for the fact that he has ended by loving her as much. Their devotion to each other contradicts the pessimistic nonsense which supposes that every marriage must be of necessity a failure. He continues his career of an inventor. His investigations into the subject of aerial flight, which have brought the flying machine within the range of practical politics, are on everybody's tongue. The best man at Atherton's wedding was Percy Woodville, now the Earl of Barnes. Within six months afterwards he married one of Mrs Atherton's bridesmaids. It was never certainly shown how Robert Holt came to his end. At the inquest the coroner's jury was content to return a verdict of 'Died of exhaustion.' He lies buried in Kensal Green Cemetery, under a handsome tombstone, the cost of which, had he had it in his pockets, might have indefinitely prolonged his days. It should be mentioned that that portion of this strange history which purports to be The Surprising Narration of Robert Holt was compiled from the statements which Holt made to Atherton, and to Miss Lindon, as she then was, when, a mud-stained, shattered derelict he lay at the lady's father's house. Miss Linden's contribution towards the elucidation of the mystery was written with her own hand. After her physical strength had come back to her, and, while mentally, she still hovered between the darkness and the light, her one relaxation was writing. Although she would never speak of what she had written, it was found that her theme was always the same. She confided to pen and paper what she would not speak of with her lips. She told, and re-told, and re-told again, the story of her love, and of her tribulation so far as it is contained in the present volume. Her MSS. invariably began and ended at the same point. They have all of them been destroyed, with one exception. That exception is herein placed before the reader. On the subject of the Mystery of the Beetle I do not propose to pronounce a confident opinion. Atherton and I have talked it over many and many a time, and at the end we have got no 'forrarder.' So far as I am personally concerned, experience has taught me that there are indeed more things in heaven and earth than are dreamed of in our philosophy, and I am quite prepared to believe that the so-called Beetle, which others saw, but I never, was--or is, for it cannot be certainly shown that the thing is not still existing--a creature born neither of God nor man. 
41130	----	The Stolen Statesman Being the Story of a Hushed Up Mystery. By William Le Queux Published by Skeffington and Son Ltd, London. The Stolen Statesman, by William Le Queux. ________________________________________________________________________ ________________________________________________________________________ THE STOLEN STATESMAN, BY WILLIAM LE QUEUX. CHAPTER ONE. CONCERNING SHEILA MONKTON. As the Right Honourable Reginald Monkton walked towards Charing Cross on that June morning his fifty-odd years appeared to weigh lightly upon him True, his hair was tinged with grey, yet that was but natural after over twenty years of political strife and Party bickering, of hard-fought divisions in the House, and of campaigns of various sorts up and down the country. His career had been a brilliantly outstanding one ever since he had graduated at Cambridge. He had risen to be a Bencher of the Inner Temple; had been, among other things, Quain Professor of Law at University College, London. In Parliament he had sat for North-West Manchester for ten years, afterwards for East Huntingdon, and later for the Govan Division of Glasgow. Among other political appointments he had held was that of a Junior Lord of the Treasury, afterwards that of Parliamentary Under-Secretary to the Home Office, and now in the latest Administration he had been given the portfolio of Colonial Secretary. His one regret was that while he loved the country, and more especially Fydinge, that fine old Elizabethan manor house in Leicestershire, not far from Melton Mowbray, yet he was compelled to live in London and endure the fevered political and social life of the metropolis. That morning, as he turned from Charing Cross towards Pall Mall, he was in a pensive mood. True, that little knot of people had spontaneously expressed their approval, and perhaps he was secretly gratified. Whatever popular men may say to the contrary, it is always the small appreciations that please. Reginald Monkton was far more gratified by a schoolgirl asking for his autograph in her well-thumbed album, than by the roars of applause that greeted his open and fearless speeches in the huge halls of Manchester, Birmingham, or Glasgow. The millions of Britain knew him. His portrait appeared regularly in the illustrated papers, sometimes in declamatory attitude with his mouth open, his right fist in the palm of his left hand, addressing a great audience. But that morning, as he passed the "Senior"--as the United Service Club is known to officialdom--his thoughts were serious. He had tasted most of the sweets of life, and all the delights of popularity. Yet that day, the eighth of June, was the fourth anniversary of the death of Sheila, his beloved wife, the fine, self-sacrificing helpmate of his early days, the woman who had moulded his career and seen him through many hours of disappointment and tribulation, and who, with her woman's amazing intuition and tact, had at the crisis of his life given him that sound advice which had swept him high upon the crest of the wave of popularity. He recollected that it was on a bright sunny June day--just as that was--when, in that little villa amid the feathery palms at Mentone, he had held his dear one's wasted hard while her eyes had slowly closed in her last long sleep. A lump arose in his throat as he turned into Cockspur Street, heedless of the busy bustle of London life, or that two honourable Members had nodded to him. So absorbed was he that he had only stared at them blankly and passed on. Like many another man whose name is a household word in Britain to-day, all his popularity counted as nothing to him, and even though he led the busy life of a Cabinet Minister, yet he was very lonely at heart. For a second he held his breath, then, setting his wide jaws in hard determination to put aside those bitter thoughts of the past, and still unaware that he was being followed, he crossed the road and entered the Carlton Hotel. The young woman in plain navy blue who had followed him from Downing Street passed by, and continued until she reached the corner of Waterloo Place, when she turned, retraced her steps, and, entering the hotel by the door in Pall Mall, glanced into the palm-court with quick, furtive eyes. Then, apparently satisfying herself, she went along the narrow corridor and emerged into the Haymarket. Again turning the corner into Pall Mall she drew out her handkerchief to dab her nose again, and afterwards hailed a taxi and drove away. On the kerb opposite stood the thick-set young man, who, having seen her signal, watched her leave, and then crossed and entered the hotel. Reginald Monkton, on entering the palm-court after leaving his hat and cane, found his daughter Sheila seated at one of the little tables with a spruce, well-set-up, refined young man, awaiting him. The young man sprang up eagerly, and, putting out his hand, exclaimed: "It's awfully good of you to come, Mr Monkton! I know how terribly busy you must be." "Delighted, my dear Austin," declared the statesman. "Delighted! The Cabinet was just over in time, so I've walked along. Well, Sheila," he asked merrily, turning to his daughter, "what have you been doing this morning?" "Oh!" replied the pretty, fair-haired girl, who was very daintily, yet not showily, dressed. "I've not been doing much, father. I went to Bond Street for you, and then I called on Cicely Wheeler. She and her husband are off to Dinard to-morrow. I've asked them to dine with us to-night." "Ah! Then you will have to entertain them, I fear, as I must be down at the House." "What a pity!" replied the girl in disappointment. "I thought you said you would dine at home to-night!" "I intended to do so, but find it will be impossible," declared her father as the trio made a move into the restaurant, filled as it was with a gay London throng who were lunching to the well-modulated strains of the Roumanian orchestra. Of the many pretty girls seated at the tables certainly none could compare with Sheila Monkton. Indeed, more than one young man turned to admire her as she seated herself and drew off her gloves, and they envied the good-looking young fellow with whom she was laughing so happily. She had just turned twenty. Her clear-cut features were flawless; her healthy complexion, her clear hazel eyes, her soft fair hair, and her small mouth combined to impart to her sweetness and daintiness that were both peculiarly attractive. Her black velvet hat trimmed with saxe blue suited her soft countenance admirably, while the graceful poise of her head had often been admired by artists; indeed, she was at that very period sitting to Howe, the R.A., for her portrait for next year's Academy. As for Austin Wingate, her companion, he was about twenty-four, and if not exactly an Adonis he was handsome enough, clean-shaven, with black hair, eyes of a dark grey, and a mouth which needed no moustache to hide it. His figure was that of the young man of pre-war days whom you met by the dozen in the High at Oxford, broad-shouldered, muscular, and full of natural energy and grace. Women who met Austin Wingate for the first time usually thought him an ordinary easy-going fellow of that type known as a "nut," who was careless as long as he lived his own go-ahead town life, the centre of which was the Automobile Club. Yet they would soon discern a certain deep thoughtful expression in his eyes and a gravity about the lips which at once upset the first estimate they had made of his character. It was true that young Wingate was a merry, careless young fellow. He lived in cosy chambers in Half Moon Street, and his circle of friends, young men of his own age, were a rather wild lot. Most of them were ardent motorists, and nearly all were habitues of that centre of motoring in Pall Mall. Of late Monkton's daughter had been seen about with him a good deal, and in the select little world of politicians' wives there had been many whisperings over teacups. That day, however, Monkton was lunching openly with the pair, and several people in the restaurant, recognising the trio, put together their heads and gossiped. While the two young people chattered merrily, Monkton, who had tried to crush down those ghosts of the past that had obsessed him while he walked along Whitehall, glanced across at his pretty daughter and sighed as he commenced his meal. Ah! how complete was the image of his dead wife. It was as though she sat there before him in those long-ago days of over twenty-five years ago, when she was the daughter of a country vicar and he was on the threshold of his career. He saw how happy Sheila was with the young man who had so recently come into her life. Sometimes he had resented their acquaintance, yet to resent it was, he reflected, only jealousy after all. He himself had but little to live for. As a member of the Cabinet he had gained his goal. He would, he knew, never fulfil the prophecy of his humble admirer standing in Downing Street. He could never become Premier. There were abler men than he, men with greater influence with the nation, men who had schemed for the office for half a lifetime. No. Death might come to him soon--how soon he knew not. And then Sheila should marry. Therefore, even though the wrench would be a great one, personally he, honest man that he was, felt that he should make a sacrifice, and promote a union between the pair. Sheila was his only home companion and comfort. True, she scolded him severely sometimes. Sometimes she pouted, put on airs, and betrayed defiance. But do not all young girls? If they did not they would be devoid of that true spirit of independence which every woman should possess. Again he glanced at her while she laughed happily with the young man who loved her, but who had never admitted it. Then he looked across the room, where sat Benyon, a well-known member of the Opposition, with his fat, opulent wife, who had, until recently, been his housekeeper. The eyes of the two men met, and the Cabinet Minister waved his hand in recognition, while the stout, over-dressed woman stared. Half the people in the restaurant had, by this time, recognised Reginald Monkton by the many photographs which appeared almost daily, for was he not the popular idol of his Party, and did not the _Court Circular_ inform the nation of the frequent audiences he had of His Majesty the King? "Well, Austin?" asked the Minister, when the waiter had served an exquisitely cooked entree. "How are things out at Hendon?" "Oh! we are all very busy, sir. Wilcox is experimenting with his new airship. At last he has had some encouragement from the Government, and we are all delighted. My shops are busy. We sent three planes to Spain yesterday. King Alphonso ordered them when he was over in the early spring." "Austin has promised to take me up for a flight one day, dad!" exclaimed the girl enthusiastically. "He wants to ask you if he may." Her father did not reply for some moments. Then he said judiciously: "Well, dear, we must see. Perhaps he might take you just a little way-- once round the aerodrome--eh?" "Of course not far," said his daughter, glancing significantly at her lover. "There is no risk, Mr Monkton, I assure you. Miss Sheila is very anxious to go up, and I shall be most delighted to take her--with your consent, of course," Wingate said. "My suggestion is just a circuit or two around the aerodrome. We are completing a new machine this week, and after I've tried her to see all is safe. I'd like to take Sheila up." "We must see--we must see," replied her indulgent father, assuming a non-committal attitude. He, however, knew that in all England no man knew more of aerial dynamics than Austin Wingate, and, further, that beneath his apparently careless exterior with his immaculate clothes and his perfectly-brushed hair was a keen and scientific mind, and that he was working night and day directing the young and rising firm of aeroplane makers at Hendon, of which he was already managing director. Sheila's meeting with him had been the outcome of one of his experiments. One afternoon in the previous summer he had been driving a new hydroplane along the Thames, over the Henley course, when he had accidentally collided with a punt which Sheila, in a white cotton dress, was manipulating with her pole. In an instant the punt was smashed and sunk, and Miss Monkton and her two girl companions were flung into the water. After a few minutes of excitement all three were rescued, and the young inventor, on presenting himself to express his deep regret, found himself face to face with "Monkton's daughter," as Sheila was known in Society. The girl with her two friends, after changing their clothes at the Red Lion, had had tea with the author of the disaster, who was unaware of their names, and who later on returned to London, his hydroplane being badly damaged by the collision. Six months went past, yet the girl's face did not fade from Austin Wingate's memory. He had been a fool, he told himself, not to ascertain her name and address. He had given one of the girls his card, and she had told him her name was Norris. That was all he knew. On purpose to ascertain who they were he had been down to Henley a fortnight after the accident, but as the girls had not stayed at the Red Lion, but were evidently living in some riverside house or bungalow, farther up the river, he could obtain no knowledge or trace of her. One bright Saturday afternoon in November the usual gay crowd had assembled at the aerodrome at Hendon to watch the aviation, a science not nearly so well developed in 1912 as it is to-day. At the Wingate works, on the farther side of the great open grass lands, Austin was busy in the long shed directing the final touches to a new machine, which was afterwards wheeled out, and in which he made an experimental flight around the aerodrome, which the public, many of them seated at tea-tables on the lawn, watched with interest. After making several circles and performing a number of evolutions, he came to earth close to a row of smart motor-cars drawn up on the lawn reserved for subscribers, and unstrapping himself sprang gaily out. As he did so he saw, seated in the driver's seat of a fine limousine straight before him, a girl in motoring kit chatting with an elderly man who stood beside the car. The girl's eyes met his, and the recognition was instantly mutual. She smiled merrily across to him, whereupon he crossed to her, just as he was, in his mechanic's rather greasy brown overalls, and bowing before her exclaimed: "How fortunate! Fancy meeting again like this!" Whereupon, with her cheeks flushed with undisguised pleasure, she shook his hand, and then turning to the tall elderly man explained: "This is the gentleman who smashed our punt at Henley, father! We have not met since." "I fear it was very careless of me, sir," Wingate said. "But I offer a thousand apologies." "The accident might have been far worse," declared the girl's father, smiling. "So let it rest at that." "I had no idea that it was you in the air just now," exclaimed the girl, and then for ten minutes or so the trio stood chatting, during which time he explained that his works were on the opposite side of the aerodrome, after which he shook hands and left them. "Whose car is that big grey one, third in the row yonder?" he asked eagerly of one of the gatekeepers, a few moments later. "Oh, that, sir? Why, that belongs to Mr Reginald Monkton, the Colonial Secretary. There he is--with his daughter." So his sweet, dainty friend of the river was daughter of the popular Cabinet Minister! He drew a long breath and bit his lip. Then climbing back into his machine, he waved father and daughter adieu and was soon skimming across to the row of long sheds which comprised the Wingate Aeroplane Factory. The young man was sensible enough to know that he could never aspire to the hand of the Cabinet Minister's daughter, yet a true and close friendship had quickly sprung up between her father and himself, with the result that Wingate was now a frequent and welcome visitor to the cosy old-world house in Mayfair, and as proof the well-known statesman had accepted Austin's invitation to lunch at the Carlton on that well-remembered day of the Cabinet meeting, the true importance of which is only known to those who were present at the deliberations in Downing Street that morning. Curious, indeed, were the events that were to follow, events known only to a few, and here chronicled for the first time. CHAPTER TWO. THE DISCOVERY IN CHESTERFIELD STREET. In the absence of her father, Sheila Monkton was compelled to entertain her guests at dinner alone. There were three: Sir Pemberton Wheeler and his young dark-haired wife Cicely, an old schoolfellow of Sheila's, and Austin Wingate. They were a merry quartette as they sat in the cosy dining-room in Chesterfield Street, a few doors from Curzon Street, waited on by Grant, the white-headed, smooth-faced old butler who had been in the service of Monkton's father before him. The house was an old-fashioned Georgian one. Upon the iron railings was a huge extinguisher, recalling the days of linkmen and coaches, while within was a long, rather narrow hall and a spiral staircase of stone worn hollow by the tread of five generations. The rooms were not large, but very tastefully, even luxuriously, furnished, with many fine paintings, pieces of beautiful statuary, and magnificent bronzes, while everywhere were soft carpets upon which one's feet fell noiselessly. In that house, indeed in that very room wherein the four sat laughing in the June twilight, the pale-pink shades of the lamps shedding a soft glow over the table with its flowers and silver, many of the most prominent British statesmen had been entertained by the Colonial Secretary, and many a State secret had been discussed within those four dark-painted walls. "The Prime Minister dined with us last Thursday," Sheila remarked to Cicely Wheeler. "Lord Horsham came in later, and they had one of their private conferences." "Which meant that you were left to amuse yourself alone, eh?" laughed Sir Pemberton Wheeler, and he glanced mischievously towards Austin on the other side of the table. "Yes. That is quite true." Sheila laughed, instantly grasping his meaning. "Mr Wingate did not happen to be here. When father has a political dinner no ladies are invited. Some of those dinners are horribly boring, I can assure you," declared the girl. "Their eternal discussion of this measure and the other measure, and-- oh! how they all intrigue, one Party against the other! Do you know that I've sat here and heard some most remarkable schemes." "Secrets, I suppose?" remarked Austin, twisting the stem of his windlass between his fingers. "Yes--I've heard them discuss what they call matters of policy which, to me, appear merely to be the most ingenious methods of gulling the public." "Ah! my dear Miss Monkton, few politicians are so straight and open as your father. That is why the Opposition are so deadly in fear of him. His speech last week regarding the recent trouble in the Malay States was an eye-opener. He lifted the veil from a very disconcerting state of affairs, much to the chagrin and annoyance of those to whose advantage it was to hush-up the matter." "That is what father is always saying," declared Sheila. "He often sighs when going through despatches which the messengers bring, and exclaims aloud `Ah! if the public only knew!--if they only knew! What would they think--what would they say?'" "Then something is being concealed from the nation?" Austin remarked. "Something!" echoed the girl. "Why, a very great deal. Of that I am quite certain." "You know nothing of its nature?" asked her friend Cicely, with her woman's eagerness to inquire. "Of course not, dear. Father never confides any secrets to me," she replied. "He always says that women gossip too much, and that it is through the chattering wives of Members of the House, whom he calls the jays, that much mischief is done." "The jays!" laughed Sir Pemberton. "Very good! I suppose he has given them that name because of their fine feathers. Personally I shall be glad to get to Dinard out of it all for a while." "We always enjoy Dinard, Sheila," declared his wife. "You really must get your father to bring you to the Royal this summer. We shall be there all the season. We sent the car over a week ago." Cicely, or Lady Wheeler to give her her title, was a giddy little woman who, after being a confirmed flirt and known in Mayfair as one of its prettiest butterflies, had married a man more than double her age, for Wheeler was fifty, interested in spinning-mills in Yorkshire, and sat in Parliament for the constituency in which his mills were situated. At the last moment she had jilted young Stenhouse, of the Grenadier Guards, for the more alluring prospect of Wheeler's title and his money. Hence the _Morning Post_ had one day announced to the world that her marriage with the good-looking young Captain would "not take place," and a week later her photograph had appeared as the future Lady Wheeler. She had joined that large circle of London society who are what is known in their own particular jargon as "spooky." She attended seances, consulted mediums, and believed in the statements of those who pretended to have made psychic discoveries. Yet Sheila, who was far too level-headed to follow London's latest craze, was devoted to her, and had been ever since they studied together at that fashionable school near Beachy Head. "I spoke to father to-day about a little trip across to you," Sheila replied, "and he thinks he may be able to do it when the House is up." "That's good," declared Sir Pemberton in his plethoric voice. "Get him to bring his car over too, and we'll have a tour together through Brittany and down to Nantes and the Touraine." "I'd love to see the old chateaux there," Sheila declared. "There's a big illustrated book about them in the library--Blois, Chenonceaux, Chinon, Loches, and the rest." "Well, your father certainly requires a rest after all the stress of this session." "Certainly he does," declared Cicely. "Get round dear old Macalister, the doctor, to order him a rest and suggest a motor-tour as relaxation." "Besides, it always delights the public to know that a Cabinet Minister has gone away on holiday. It shows that he is overworked in the interests of the nation," laughed Austin, who was nothing if not matter-of-fact. At last, the dinner having ended, Sheila and Cicely rose and left the men, after which Grant sedately served them with coffee, two glasses of triple-sec, and cigarettes. For ten minutes or so they gossiped, after which they rejoined the ladies in the long, old-fashioned drawing-room upstairs. At Wheeler's suggestion Sheila went to the piano and sang one of those gay chansons of the Paris cafes which she had so often sung at charity concerts. She had begun to learn French at eight years of age, and after her school at Eastbourne had been at Neuilly for three years before coming out. She chose "Mon p'tit Poylt," that gay song to which Lasaigues had written the music and which was at the moment being sung at half the cafe concerts in France. Playing her own accompaniment in almost the professional style of the entertainer, she began to sing the merry tuneful song, with its catchy refrain: "On s'aimait, on n'etait pas rosse. On s'frolait gentiment l'museau; On rigolait comme des gosses. On s'becotait comm' des moineaux." The trio listening laughed merrily, for she played and sang with all the verve of a Parisian chanteuse. Besides, both music and words were full of a gay abandon which was quite unexpected, and which charmed young Wingate, who knew that, though the Cabinet Minister held him in high esteem as a friend, yet to marry Sheila was entirely out of the question. He realised always that he was a mere designer of aeroplanes, "a glorified motor-mechanic" some jealous enemies had declared him to be. How could he ever aspire to the hand of "Monkton's daughter?" Level-headed and calm as he always was, he had from the first realised his position and retained it. Mr Monkton had admitted him to his friendship, and though always extremely polite and courteous to Sheila, he remained just a friend of her father. At last she concluded, and, rising, made a mock bow to her three listeners, all of whom congratulated her, the mill-owner declaring: "You really ought to give a turn at the Palace Theatre, Sheila! I've heard lots of worse songs there!" "`Tiny Tentoes, the Cabinet Minister's daughter' would certainly be a good draw!" declared Cicely. "Oh! well, I know you all like French songs, so I sang it. That's all," answered their sprightly young hostess. "But look! it's past eleven, and father said he would be back before ten to see you before you left. I'll telephone to the House." And she descended to the small library on the ground floor, where she quickly "got on" to the House of Commons. When she re-entered the drawing-room she exclaimed: "He left the House more than an hour ago. I wonder where he is? He ought to have been back long before this." Then at her guests' request she sang another French chanson--which, through the half-open window, could have been heard out in Curzon Street--greatly to the delight of the little party. At last, just before midnight. Cicely, pleading that they had to leave by the Continental mail early next morning, excused herself and her husband, and left in a taxi, for which Grant had whistled, after which Sheila and Austin found themselves alone. When two people of the opposite sex, and kindred spirits as they were, find themselves alone the usual thing happens. It did in their case. While Sheila looked over her music, in response to Austin's request to sing another song while awaiting the return of her father, their hands touched. He grasped hers and gazed straight into her face. In those hazel eyes he saw that love-look--that one expression which no woman can ever disguise, or make pretence; that look which most men know. It is seldom in their lives they see it, and when once it is observed it is never forgotten, even though the man may live to be a grandfather. At that instant of the unconscious contact of the hands, so well-remembered afterwards by both of them, Sheila flushed, withdrew her hand forcibly, and rose, exclaiming with pretended resentment: "Don't, Austin--please." Meanwhile there had been what the newspapers term a "scene" in the House of Commons that evening. An important debate had taken place upon the policy of the Imperial Government towards Canada, a policy which the Opposition had severely criticised in an attempt to belittle the splendid statesmanship of the Colonial Secretary, who, having been absent during greater part of the debate, entered and took his seat just as it was concluding. At last, before a crowded House, Reginald Monkton, who, his friends noticed, was looking unusually pale and worn, rose and replied in one of those brief, well-modulated, but caustic speeches of his in which he turned the arguments of the Opposition against themselves. He heaped coals of fire upon their heads, and denounced them as "enemies of Imperialism and destroyers of Empire." The House listened enthralled. He spoke for no more than a quarter of an hour, but it was one of the most brilliant oratorical efforts ever heard in the Lower Chamber, and when he reseated himself, amid a roar of applause from the Government benches, it was felt that the tide had been turned and the Opposition had once more been defeated. Hardly had Monkton sat down when, remembering that he had guests at home, he rose and walked out. He passed out into Palace Yard just before ten o'clock and turned his steps homeward, the night being bright and starlit and the air refreshing. So he decided to walk. Half-an-hour after Cicely and her husband had left Chesterfield Street Sheila again rang up the House and made further inquiry, with the same result, namely, that the Colonial Minister had left Westminster just before ten o'clock. Monkton had been seen in St Stephen's Hall chatting for a moment with Horace Powell, the fiery Member for East Islington, whom he had wished "good-night" and then left. So for still a further half-hour Sheila, though growing very uneasy, sat chatting with Austin, who, be it said, had made no further advances. He longed to grasp her slim white hand and press it to his lips. But he dared not. "I can't think where father can be!" exclaimed the girl presently, rising and handing her companion the glass box of cigarettes. "Look! it is already one o'clock, and he promised most faithfully he would be back to wish the Wheelers farewell." "Oh! he may have been delayed--met somebody and gone to the club perhaps," Austin suggested. "You know how terribly busy he is." "I know, of course--but he always rings me up if he is delayed, so that I need not sit up for him, and Grant goes to bed." "Well, I don't see any necessity for uneasiness," declared the young man. "He'll be here in a moment, no doubt. But if he is not here very soon I'll have to be getting along to Half Moon Street." Through the next ten minutes the eyes of both were constantly upon the clock until, at a quarter-past one, Wingate rose, excusing himself, and saying: "If I were you I shouldn't wait up any longer. You've had a long day. Grant will wait up for your father." "The good old fellow is just as tired as I am--perhaps more so," remarked the girl sympathetically. And then the pair descended to the hall, where Sheila helped him on with his coat. "Well--good-night--and don't worry," Austin urged cheerfully as their hands met. The contact sent a thrill through him. Yes. No woman had ever stirred his soul in that manner before. He loved her--yes, loved her honestly, truly, devotedly, and at that instant he knew, by some strange intuition, that their lives were linked by some mysterious inexplicable bond. He could not account for it, but it was so. He knew it. By this time Grant had arrived in the hall to let out Miss Sheila's visitor, and indeed he had opened the door for him, when at that same moment a taxi, turning in from Curzon Street, slowly drew up at the kerb before the house. The driver alighted quickly and, crossing hurriedly to Austin, said: "I've got a gentleman inside what lives 'ere, sir. 'E ain't very well, I think." Startled by the news Austin and Grant rushed to the cab, and with the assistance of the driver succeeded in getting out the unconscious form of the Colonial Secretary. "I'd send the lady away, sir--if I were you," whispered the taxi-driver to Wingate. "I fancy the gentleman 'as 'ad just a drop too much wine at dinner. 'E seems as if 'e 'as!" Amazed at such a circumstance Sheila, overhearing the man's words, stood horrified. Her father was one of the most temperate of men. Such a home-coming as that was astounding! The three men carried the prostrate statesman inside into the small sitting-room on the right, after which Austin, completely upset, handed the taxi-man five shillings, and with a brief word of thanks dismissed him. Meanwhile Sheila had rushed into the dining-room to obtain a glass of water, hoping to revive her father. Old Grant, faithful servant that he was, had thrown himself upon his knees by the couch whereon his master had been placed. He peered into his pale face, which was turned away from the silk-shaded electric light, and then suddenly gasped to Wingate: "Why! It isn't Mr Reginald at all, sir! He's wearing his clothes, his watch and chain-- and everything! But he's a stranger--it isn't Mr Reginald! Look for yourself!" CHAPTER THREE. THE WHISPERED NAME. Austin Wingate approached the unconscious man, and scrutinised the white, drawn features closely. When Grant had uttered those words, he could hardly believe his ears. Had the shock been too much for the old man's reason? But as he gazed intently, the conviction grew upon him that Grant was right. There was a little resemblance between the Cabinet Minister and the insensible man lying there. Their figures were much the same, and in the half-light a mere cursory glance could not have detected them apart. But to those who, like Grant and Austin, knew Reginald Monkton intimately, there were striking points of difference at once apparent. Wingate drew a deep sigh of relief. "You are right. Grant, it is not your master! He looks ghastly, doesn't he? The driver said that he was drunk, but I don't believe it. The man, whoever he is, seems to me as if he were dying." At that moment, Sheila, her cheeks pale, her hand trembling so that she spilled the glass of water she was carrying, came into the sitting-room. Austin rushed towards her and, taking the glass from her, pressed her trembling hand. At a moment of acute tension like that, he knew she would not resent the action. "Sheila, for God's sake keep calm. It is not what we thought. The man we carried in here is not your father. He is a stranger, wearing your father's clothes. Look for yourself, and you will see where the likeness ends." "Not my father?" she repeated mechanically, and flung herself down beside Grant. A moment's inspection was enough to convince her. She rose from her knees. "Thank God!" she cried, fervently. It had cut her to the heart to think that the father whom she so loved and revered should be brought home in such a condition. She was grateful that none but those three had been present. But to her gratitude succeeded a sudden wave of fear, and her face went paler than before. "But, Austin, there must be some terrible mystery behind this. Why is this man wearing father's clothes? And why--" she broke suddenly into a low wail--"is father not home?" Austin could make no answer; the same thought had occurred to him. "My poor child, there is a mystery, but you must summon all your courage till we can discover more," he murmured soothingly. "Now I must go and 'phone for the doctor. In my opinion, this man is not suffering from excess, as that driver led us to believe. He appears to be in a dying state." When he had gone to ring up the family doctor, who lived close by in Curzon Street, Sheila again knelt down beside the prostrate form. Presently the man's lips began to move and faint sounds issued from them. He seemed trying to utter a name, and stumbling over the first syllable. They strained their ears, and thought they caught the word "Moly" repeated three times. There was silence for a few seconds, and then the muttering grew louder and they thought they heard the name "Molyneux." "Oh, if only he could wake from his sleep or lethargy!" Sheila exclaimed impatiently. "If he could only throw some light upon this awful mystery?" He relapsed into silence again, and then presently recommenced his mutterings. This time, he pronounced the syllables even less clearly than before. And now they fancied the name was more like "Mulliner." Would he come back to consciousness and be able to answer questions, or would those be his last words on earth? They could not tell. His form had relapsed into its previous rigidity and his face had grown more waxen in its hue. What was the explanation of his being dressed in her father's clothes? Sheila was sure they were the same Reginald Monkton had won on setting out that evening. A sudden thought struck her. She inserted her hand gently in his waistcoat pocket, and drew out a gold watch. It was her father's; she had given it to him on his last birthday. She felt in the breast pocket of his coat, but it was empty. That told her little, for she did not know if he had taken any papers with him. She felt in his pockets one by one, but only discovered a little loose silver. It was her father's habit always to carry a few banknotes in a leather case. If he had done so to-night these had been abstracted. But if the money had been taken, why not the watch? And then she recollected it was inscribed with his name. While she was pondering these disturbing queries. Doctor Macalister entered the room with Austin, who had imparted to him the startling news in a few words. He bent over the quiet form, murmuring as he did so: "He is dressed in Mr Monkton's clothes, certainly. I might have been deceived at the first glance myself." He unbuttoned the waistcoat and shirt, and laid his stethoscope on the chest of the inanimate body. "Dead!" he said briefly, when he had made his examination. "One cannot, of course, at present tell the cause of death, although the appearances point to heart-failure." Sheila looked up at him, her lovely eyes heavy with grief and foreboding. "He spoke a little before you came in," she said. "He seemed to utter two names, Molyneux and Mulliner. He repeated them three times." The kindly old doctor who had brought her into the world looked at her with compassionate eyes. "The part he bore in this mystery, whether he was a victim or accomplice, will never be revealed by him. He must have been near death when he was put into that taxi. I suppose you did not notice the number?" No, neither Grant nor Austin had thought of it. They had been too much perturbed at the time. "Well, I have no doubt the driver can be found. Now I must telephone for the police, and have the body removed." He drew young Wingate aside for a moment. "You say you have inquired at the House of Commons. Have you rung up Monkton's clubs? He has only two. No; well, better do so. It is a forlorn hope; I knew the man so well. He would never keep Sheila waiting like this if he were with means of communication. There has been foul play--we can draw no other conclusion." It was the one Wingate had drawn himself, and he quite agreed it was a forlorn hope. Still, he would make sure. He rang up the Travellers' and the Carlton. The answer was the same from both places. Mr Monkton had not been at either club since the previous day. The police arrived in due course, and bore away the body of the man who wore the clothes of the well-known and popular Cabinet Minister. And, at their heels, came the inspector of the division, accompanied by Mr Smeaton, the famous detective, one of the pillars of Scotland Yard, and the terror of every criminal. Smeaton was a self-made man, risen from the ranks, but he had the manners of a gentleman and a diplomatist. He bowed gravely to the pale-faced girl, who was so bravely keeping back her tears. With Austin he had a slight acquaintance. "I am more than grieved to distress you at such a time. Miss Monkton, but the sooner we get on the track of this mystery the better. Will you tell me, as briefly as you like, and in your own time, what you know of your father's habits?" In tones that broke now and then from her deep emotion, Sheila imparted the information he asked for. She laid especial emphasis on the fact that, before leaving home in the evening, he outlined to her the programme of his movements. If anything happened that altered his plans he invariably telephoned to her, or sent a letter by special messenger. The keen-eyed detective listened attentively to her recital. "Can you recall any occasion on which he failed to notify you?" he asked when she had finished. "No," she answered firmly. Then she recollected. "Stay! There was one occasion. He was walking home from the House on a foggy night, and was knocked down by a taxi, and slightly injured. They took him to a hospital, and I was telephoned from there, and went to him." A gleam of hope shone in Austin's eyes. "We never thought of that." The great detective shook his head. "But _we_ thought of it, Mr Wingate. My friend here has had every hospital in the radius rung up. No solution there." There was silence for a long time. It seemed that the last hope had vanished. Smeaton stood for a long time lost in thought. Then he roused himself from his reverie. "It's no use blinking the fact that we are confronted with a more than usually difficult case," he said, at length. "Still, it is our business to solve problems, and we shall put our keenest wits to work. I wish it were possible, for Miss Monkton's sake, to keep it from the Press." "But would that be impossible?" cried Wingate. "I fear so. If a little servant-maid disappears from her native village, the newspaper-men get hold of it in twenty-four hours. Here, instead of an obscure little domestic, you have a man, popular, well-known to half the population of England, whose portrait has been in every illustrated paper in the three Kingdoms. I fear it would be impossible. But I will do my best. The Home Secretary may give certain instructions in this case." Then turning to Sheila he said: "Good-night, Miss Monkton. Rely upon it, we will leave no stone unturned to find your father, and bring him back to you." He was gone with those comforting words. But with his departure, hope seemed to die away, and Sheila was left to confront the misery of the present. The faithful Grant, who had been hovering in the background, came forward, and spoke to her in the coaxing tone he had used when she was a child. "Now, Miss Sheila, you must go and rest." "Oh, no!" she cried wildly. "What is the use of resting? I could not sleep. I can never rest until father comes back to me." She broke into a low wail of despair. Grant looked at Wingate, with a glance that implored him to use his influence. The faithful old man feared for her reason. "Sheila, Grant is right," said Austin gravely. "You must rest, even if you cannot sleep. You will need all your strength for to-morrow, perhaps for many days yet, before we get to the heart of this mystery. Let the servants go back to bed. Grant and I will wait through the night, in case good news may come to us." There were times when, as the old butler remembered, she had been a very wilful Sheila, but she showed no signs of wilfulness now. The grave tones and words of Austin moved her to obedience. "I will do as you tell me," she said in a hushed and broken voice. "I will go and rest--not to sleep, till I have news of my darling father." Through the weary hours of the night, the two men watched and dozed by turns, waiting in the vain hope of word or sign of Reginald Monkton. None came, and in the early morning Sheila stole down and joined them. Her bearing was more composed, and she had washed away the traces of her tears. "I intend to be very brave," she told them. "I have roused the maids, and I am going to give you breakfast directly, after your long vigil." Impulsively she stretched out a hand to each, the youthful lover and the aged servitor. "You are both dear, good friends, and my father will thank you for your care when he comes back to me." Moved by a common impulse the two men, the young and the old, bent and imprinted a reverent kiss on the slender hands she extended to them. It was a moment of exquisite pathos, the fair, slim girl, resplendent yesterday in the full promise of her youth and beauty; to-day stricken with grief and consumed with the direst forebodings of the fate of a beloved father. CHAPTER FOUR. THE MAN WHO KNEW. Three days had gone by, and the mystery of Reginald Monkton's disappearance remained as insoluble as ever. Well, it might be so, since there did not seem a single clue, with the exception of the name muttered by the dying man, which at first had sounded like Molyneux, and afterwards like Mulliner. Neither Sheila nor Grant, who had listened to those faint sounds issuing from the dying lips, could be certain which of the two was correct. Wingate had seen Smeaton twice, and that astute person assured him that the keenest brains at Scotland Yard were working on the case. But he was very reticent, and from his manner the young man was forced to draw the conclusion that the prospects of success were very slight. If it had been simply a case of disappearance, uncomplicated by other circumstances, many theories could have been formed. There were plenty of instances of men whose reason had become temporarily unhinged, and who had lost consciousness of their own identity. Again, men have disappeared voluntarily because they have been threatened with exposure of some shameful secret of the past, and will willingly pay the penalty of separation from their own kith and kin to avoid it. But no such theories seemed tenable in this instance. Monkton's life, in the opinion of all who knew him, had been a well-ordered and blameless one. He had been a devoted husband; and he was a devoted father, wrapped up in his charming daughter, the sole legacy of that happy marriage. In the case of such a man, with so stainless a record, it was unthinkable that anything could leap to light from the past which could shame him to such an extent that he would, of his own act, abandon his office, and isolate himself from his child. Even granting such an hypothesis for a moment, and brushing aside all the evidences of his past life and all the knowledge of him gained through years by his relatives and intimate friends, how did such a theory fit in with the appearance on the scene of the stranger now dead? "You fear the worst?" queried Wingate one day, as Smeaton sat with him in his cosy rooms in Half Moon Street. "It is too early yet to give a decided opinion, if, in a case of such complexity, one could ever give a decided opinion at all," was the detective's answer. "But at present things point that way. What was the motive underlying the scheme? You can give the answer quickly--that all inquiries as to the real man are being stifled." "In other words, that Mr Monkton has been done away with, for motives we do not know, by the person or persons who put the man into the taxi?" Smeaton nodded. "That's what it seems to be at the moment, Mr Wingate. But we should be poor detectives if we pinned ourselves to any one theory, especially on such evidence--or rather want of evidence--as we have got at present. Cases as mysterious as this--and there was never one more mysterious--have been solved by unexpected means. If we can get hold of that driver who brought the dying man to Chesterfield Street, we may light upon something useful." "If he was an accomplice, as seems possible, he will never turn up," said Wingate gloomily. "Accomplice or not, I think the reward will tempt him," replied Smeaton, "even if he has to make up his tale before he comes. I expected he would come forward before now. But one of two things may have happened. Either he may be cogitating over what he shall say when he does come, or he may be an ignorant sort of fellow, who hardly ever reads the newspapers." "Anyway," resumed Smeaton, after a thoughtful pause, "if and when he does turn up, we shall know, with our long experience, what sort of a customer he is. You may rely upon it that if there is anything to be got out of him, we shall get it, whether it proves valuable or not." It was not a very cheering interview, certainly, but how could there be any chance of hopefulness at present? During the few days, however, the police had not been idle. They had made a few discoveries, although they were of a nature to intensify rather than tend to a solution of the mystery. They had established one most important fact. Monkton had excused himself from dining at home on the plea that he must be down at the House, the inference being that he would snatch a hasty meal there, in the pause of his Ministerial work. Instead of that, he had dined about seven o'clock in an obscure little Italian restaurant in Soho. Luigi, the proprietor, had at once recognised him from his portraits in the illustrated papers, and from having seen him at the Ritz, where he had been a waiter. He had entered the cafe a few minutes before seven, and had looked round, as if expecting to find somebody waiting for him. Luigi had taken him the menu, and he had said he would wait a few minutes before giving his order, as a guest would arrive. On the stroke of seven a tall, bearded man, evidently a foreigner, who walked with a limp, joined him. Questioned by Smeaton as to the nationality of the man, the proprietor replied that he could not be sure. He would take him for a Russian. He was quite certain that he was neither French nor Italian. And he was equally certain that he was not a German. The new arrival joined Mr Monkton, who at once ordered the dinner. Neither of the men ate much, but consumed a bottle of wine between them. They talked earnestly, and in low tones, during the progress of the meal, which was finished in about half-an-hour. Cigars, coffee, and liqueurs were then ordered, and over these they sat till half-past eight, conversing in the same low tones all the time. Luigi added that the Russian--if he was of that nationality, as he suspected--seemed to bear the chief burden of the conversation. Mr Monkton played the part of listener most of the time, interjecting remarks now and again. Asked if he overheard any of the talk between them, he replied that he did not catch a syllable. When he approached the table they remained silent, and did not speak again until he was well out of earshot. "And you are quite positive it was Mr Monkton?" Smeaton had questioned, when Luigi had finished his recital. It had struck him that Luigi might have been mistaken after all. Luigi was quite sure. He reminded Smeaton that before taking on the little restaurant in Soho he had been a waiter at the Ritz, where he had often seen the Cabinet Minister. It was impossible he could be mistaken. He added in his excellent English, for he was one of those foreigners who are very clever linguists. "Besides, there is one other thing that proves it, even supposing I was misled by a chance likeness--though Mr Monkton's is not a face you would easily forget--as I helped him on with his light overcoat he remarked to his friend, `I must hurry on as fast as I can. I am overdue at the House.'" That seemed to settle the point. There might be a dozen men walking about London with sufficient superficial resemblance to deceive an ordinary observer, but there was no Member of the House of Commons who could pass for Monkton. It was evident, then, that he had gone to that little, out-of-the-way restaurant to keep an appointment. The man he met was his guest, as Monkton paid for the dinner. The excuse he made for not dining at home was a subterfuge. The appointment was therefore one that he wished to conceal from his daughter, unless he did not deem it a matter of sufficient importance to warrant an explanation. Monkton's secretary was also interrogated by the detective. He was a fat-faced, rather pompous young man, with a somewhat plausible and ingratiating manner. He had been with Monkton three years. Sheila had seen very little of him, but what little she had seen did not impress her in his favour. And her father had owned that he liked him least of any one of the numerous secretaries who had served him. This young man, James Farloe by name, had very little to tell. He was at the House at eight o'clock, according to Monkton's instructions, and expected, him at that hour. He did not come in till after half-past, and he noticed that his manner was strange and abrupt, as if he had been disturbed by something. At a few minutes before ten he left, presumably for home. When he bade Farloe good-night he still seemed preoccupied. In these terrible days Austin Wingate's business occupied but second place in his thoughts. He was prepared to devote every moment he could snatch to cheer and sustain the sorrowing Sheila. A week had gone by, but thanks to certain instructions given by the authorities, at the instance of the Prime Minister, who deplored the loss of his valuable colleague, the matter was being carefully hushed-up. Late one afternoon, while Smeaton was seated in his bare official room on the second floor at Scotland Yard, the window of which overlooked Westminster Bridge, a constable ushered in a taxi-driver, saying: "This man has come to see you, sir, regarding a fare he drove to Chesterfield Street the other night." "Excellent!" exclaimed Smeaton, lounging back in his chair, having been busy writing reports. "Sit down. What is your name?" "Davies, sir--George Davies," replied the man, twisting his cap awkwardly in his hands as he seated himself. Smeaton could not sum him up. There was no apparent look of dishonesty about him, but he would not like to have said that he conveyed the idea of absolute honesty. There was something a little bit foxy in his expression, and he was decidedly nervous. But then Scotland Yard is an awe-inspiring place to the humbler classes, and nervousness is quite as often a symptom of innocence as of guilt. "I only 'eard about this advertisement from a pal this morning. I never reads the papers," the taxi-driver said. "Well, now you have come, we want to hear all you can tell us. That gentleman died, you know!" The man shifted uneasily, and then said in a deep, husky voice: "I've come 'ere, sir, to tell you the truth. I'll tell you all I know," he added, "providing I'm not going to get into any trouble." "Not if you are not an accomplice," Smeaton said, his keen eyes fixed upon his visitor. The man paused and then with considerable apprehension said: "Well--I don't know 'ow I can be really an accomplice. All I know about it is that I was passin' into Victoria Street goin' towards the station, when three gentlemen standin' under a lamp just opposite the entrance to Dean's Yard hailed me. I pulls up when I sees that two of 'em 'ad got another gentleman by the arms. `Look 'ere, driver,' says one of 'em, `this friend of ours 'as 'ad a drop too much wine, and we don't want to go 'ome with 'im because of 'is wife. Will you take 'im? 'E lives in Chesterfield Street, just off Curzon Street,' and 'e gives me the number." "Yes," said Smeaton anxiously. "And what then?" "Well, sir, 'e gives me five bob and puts the gentleman into my cab, and I drove 'im to the address, where 'is servant took charge of 'im. Did 'e really die afterwards?" he asked eagerly. "Yes--unfortunately he did," was the police official's reply. "But tell me, Davies. Did you get a good look at the faces of the two men?" "Yes, sir. They were all three under the lamp." "Do you think you could recognise both of them again--eh?" "Of course I could. Why, one of 'em I've seen about lots o' times. Indeed, only yesterday, about three o'clock, while I was waitin' on the rank in the Strand, opposite the Savoy, I saw 'im come out with a lady, and drive away in a big grey car. If I'd a known then, sir, I could 'ave stopped 'im!" CHAPTER FIVE. CONTAINS SOME CURIOUS FACTS. At the beginning of the interview, the demeanour of the taxi-driver had betrayed signs of nervousness and trepidation. He had hesitated and stumbled in his speech, so much so that Smeaton, the detective, was still in doubt as to his honesty. Smeaton, however, was a past-master in the art of dealing with a difficult witness. So reassuring was his manner that at the end of five minutes he had succeeded in inspiring the taxi-driver with confidence. His nervousness and hesitation were succeeded by loquacity. Urged to give a description of the two men, he explained, with amplitude of detail, that the man who had come out of the Savoy was of medium height and clean-shaven, with angular features and piercing dark eyes. He was of striking appearance, the kind of man you would be sure to recognise anywhere. The lady with him was smartly dressed and appeared to be about thirty or under. "Seems to me I've known 'im about London for years, although I can't remember as I ever drove 'im," he added. The other man was, Davies said, tall and bearded, and certainly a foreigner, although he could not pretend to fix his nationality. A tall, bearded man, and a foreigner! Smeaton pricked up his ears. The description tallied somewhat with that of the person who had dined with Monkton in the little restaurant in Soho. Davies was dismissed with encouraging words and a liberal _douceur_. Given Smeaton the semblance of a clue, and he was on the track like a bloodhound. Within twenty minutes of the taxi-driver's departure, he was interviewing one of the hall-porters at the Savoy, an imposing functionary, and an old friend. Smeaton had a large and extensive acquaintance among people who could be useful. He knew the hall-porters of all the big hotels. They were men of quick intelligence, keen powers of observation, and gathered much important information. He had unravelled many a mystery with their assistance. The detective, standing aside in the hall, described the man as he had been featured by Davies. Did the hall-porter recognise him? The answer was in the affirmative. "He's not a man you would be likely to forget, Mr Smeaton," he said. "He is a pretty frequent visitor here. He lunches two or three times a week, and is popular with the waiters, through being pretty free with his tips. Most times he comes alone. Now and again he brings a guest, but nobody we know." "And his name?" questioned Smeaton eagerly. "Well, that's the funny part of it," explained the other man. "We get to know the names of the habitues sooner or later, but none of us have ever heard his. He never seems to meet anybody here that he knows, and none of the waiters have ever heard one of his guests address him by name. The maitre d'hotel and I have often talked him over, and wondered who and what he was." Smeaton showed his disappointment. "That is unfortunate. Let us see if we can be more successful in another direction. Yesterday afternoon, about three o'clock, this man, whose name we don't know, drove away from this place in a taxi, accompanied by a lady. My informant tells me she was smartly dressed, and he puts her age at about thirty, or perhaps less." The hall-porter indulged in a smile of satisfaction. "I think I can help you there, Mr Smeaton. I was passing through the palm-court at the time, and saw them go out together. We all know the lady very well. She is here pretty often. Sometimes she comes with a big party, sometimes with a lady friend, sometimes with a gentleman. Her name is Saxton, and she has a flat in Hyde Park Mansions. One of her friends told me she is a widow." "What sort of a person is she? How would you class her? She seems to dress well, and is, I suppose, attractive." The hall-porter mused a moment before he replied. Like most of his class, he was an expert at social classification. "Not one of the `nobs,' certainly," he answered at length, with a smile. "Semi-fashionable, I should say; moves in society with a small `s.' Her friends seem of two sorts, high-class Bohemians--you know the sort I mean,--and rich middle-class who spend money like water." "I see," said Smeaton. "And she lives in Hyde Park Mansions off the Edgware Road, or, to be more correct, Lisson Grove. She is evidently not rich." They bade each other a cordial good-day, Smeaton having first expressed his gratitude for the information, and left in the hall-porter's capacious palm a more substantial proof of his satisfaction. The next thing to be done was to interview the attractive widow. Before doing so, he looked in at Chesterfield Street, and, as he expected, found Wingate and Sheila together. He told them of the visit of Davies, and his subsequent conversation with the hall-porter at the Savoy. When he mentioned the name of Saxton, Sheila uttered an exclamation. "Why, Mr Farloe has a sister of the name of Saxton, a widow! He brought her once to one of our parties, and I remember she was very gushing. She begged me to go and see her at her flat, and I am pretty certain Hyde Park Mansions was the place she named, although I can't be positive." "Did you go. Miss Monkton?" "No. As I have told you, I never liked Mr Farloe, and I liked his sister less. She was pretty, and I think men would find her attractive. But there seemed to me an under-current of slyness and insincerity about her." It was rather a weakness of Wingate's that he credited himself with great analytical powers, and believed he was eminently suited to detective work. So he broke in: "Perhaps Miss Monkton and I could help you a bit, by keeping a watch on this woman. I have time to spare, and it would take her out of herself." Smeaton repressed a smile. Like most professionals, he had little faith in the amateur. But it would not be polite to say so. "By all means, Mr Wingate. We can do with assistance. 'Phone me up or call at Scotland Yard whenever you have anything to communicate. Now, I think I will be off to Hyde Park Mansions and see what sort of a customer Mrs Saxton is." A taxi bore him to his destination, and in a few moments he was ringing at the door of the flat. A neat maid admitted him, and in answer to his inquiries said her mistress was at home. "What name shall I say, please?" she asked in a hesitating voice. He produced his case and handed the girl a card. "Of course, you know I am a stranger," he explained. "Will you kindly take this to Mrs Saxton, and tell her that I will take up as little of her time as possible." After the delay of a few moments, he was shown into a pretty drawing-room, tastefully furnished. The lady was sitting at a tea-table, and alone. "Please sit down," she said; her tones were quite affable. She did not in the least appear to resent this sudden intrusion into her domestic life. "Lily, bring another cup. You will let me offer you some tea?" She was certainly a most agreeable person--on the right side of thirty, he judged. Smeaton was somewhat susceptible to female influence, although, to do him justice, he never allowed this weakness to interfere with business. He explained that tea was a meal of which he never partook. Mrs Saxton, it appeared, was a most hospitable person, and promptly suggested a whisky-and-soda. He must take something, she protested, or she would feel embarrassed. The detective accepted, and felt that things had begun very smoothly. The velvet glove was very obvious, even if, later, he should catch a glimpse of the iron hand encased within. "I must apologise for intruding upon you, Mrs Saxton, in this fashion. But I am in want of a little information, and I believe you can furnish me with it, if you are disposed to." Mrs Saxton smiled at him very sweetly, and regarded him with eyes of mild surprise. Very fine eyes they were, he thought. It was a pity that she had taken the trouble to enhance their brilliancy by the aid of art. She was quite good-looking enough to rely upon her attractions, without surreptitious assistance. "How very interesting," she said in a prettily modulated, but rather affected voice. "I am all curiosity." She was purring perhaps a little bit too much for absolute sincerity, but it was pleasant to be met with such apparent cordiality. Smeaton came to the point at once. "I am at the present moment considerably interested in the gentleman with whom you left the Savoy yesterday afternoon in a taxi-cab." There was just a moment's pause before she replied. But there were no signs of confusion about her. Her eyes never left his face, and there was no change in her voice when she spoke. She was either perfectly straightforward, or as cool a hand as he had ever met. "You are interested in Mr Stent? How strange! Gentlemen of your profession do not generally interest themselves in other persons without some strong motive, I presume?" "The motive is a pretty strong one. At present, other interests require that I do not divulge it," replied Smeaton gravely. He was pleased with one thing, he had already got the name of the man; he preferred not to confess that he did not know it. And her frank allusion to him as Mr Stent seemed to show that she had nothing to hide. Unless, of course, it was a slip. "I know I am asking something that you may consider an impertinence," he went on. "But, if you are at liberty to do so, I should like you to tell me all you know of this gentleman; in short, who and what he is." She laughed quite naturally. "But I really fear I can tell you very little. I suppose going away together in a taxi appears to argue a certain amount of intimacy. But in this case it is not so. I know next to nothing of Mr Stent. He is not even a friend, only a man whose acquaintance I made in the most casual manner. And, apart from two occasions about which I will tell you presently, I don't suppose I have been in his company a dozen times." It was a disappointment, certainly, and this time Smeaton did not believe she was speaking the truth. In spite of the silvery laugh and the apparently frank manner. But he must put up with what she chose to give him. "Do you mind telling me how you first made his acquaintance, Mrs Saxton?" "Not in the least," she replied graciously. "Two years ago I was staying in the Hotel Royal at Dinard. Mr Stent was there too. He seemed a very reserved, silent sort of man, and kept himself very much aloof from the others, myself included, although, as I daresay you have guessed, I am of a gregarious and unconventional disposition." She gave him a flashing smile, and Smeaton bowed gallantly. "I should say you were immensely popular," he observed judiciously. "Thanks for the compliment; without vanity, I think I may say most people take to me. Well, one day Mr Stent and I found ourselves alone in the drawing-room, and the ice was broken. After that we talked together a good deal, and occasionally went to the Casino, and took walks together. He left before I did, and I did not meet him again till next year at Monte Carlo." "Did you learn anything about his private affairs, his profession or occupation?" "Not a word. The conversation was always general. He was the last man in the world to talk about himself. He was at Monte Carlo about a week. I did not see very much of him then, as I was staying with a party in Mentone; he was by himself, as before." "Did he give you the impression of a man of means?" "On the whole, I should say, yes. One night he lost a big sum in the Rooms, but appeared quite unconcerned. Since then I have met him about a dozen times, or perhaps less, at different places, mostly restaurants. Yesterday he came through the palm-court, as I was sitting there after lunch, and we exchanged a few words." "Did you not see him at lunch; you were both there?" questioned Smeaton quickly. "I saw him at a table some distance from mine, but he did not see me. I mentioned that I was going back to Hyde Park Mansions. He said he was driving in the direction of St John's Wood, and would drop me on his way. He left me at the entrance to the flats." Smeaton rose. He knew that if he stopped there for another hour he would get nothing more out of her. "Thanks very much, Mrs Saxton, for what you have told me. One last question, and I have done. Do you know where he lives?" There was just a moment's hesitation. Did she once know, and had she forgotten? Or was she debating whether she would feign ignorance? He fancied the latter was the correct reason. "I don't remember, if I ever knew, the exact address, but it is somewhere in the direction of St Albans." Smeaton bowed himself out, and meditated deeply. "She's an artful customer, for all her innocent air, and knows more than she will tell, till she's forced," was his inward comment. "Now for two things--one, to find out what there is to be found at St Albans; two, to get on the track of the bearded man." CHAPTER SIX. JUST TOO LATE. Mr Smeaton was not a man to waste time. Within ten minutes of his arrival at Scotland Yard he had sent two sergeants of the C.I. Department to keep Mrs Saxton under close surveillance, and to note the coming and going of all visitors. As her flat was on the ground floor, observation would be rendered comparatively easy. The evening's report was barren of incident. Mrs Saxton had remained at home. The only visitor had been a young man, answering to the description of James Farloe, her brother. He had called about dinner-time, and left a couple of hours later. For the moment Smeaton did not take Farloe very seriously into his calculations. Mrs Saxton would tell her brother all about his visit, and to interrogate him would be a waste of time. He would tell him nothing more about Stent than he had already learned. He had noticed, with his trained powers of observation which took in every detail at a glance, that there was a telephone in a corner of the small hall. If her connection with the mysterious Stent were less innocent than she had led him to believe, she would have plenty of time to communicate with this gentleman by means of that useful little instrument. Later, he instructed a third skilled subordinate to proceed the next morning in a car to St Albans, and institute discreet inquiries on the way. Afterwards, he thought of the two amateur detectives in Chesterfield Street, and smiled. Sheila was a charming girl, pathetically beautiful in her distress, and Wingate was a pleasant young fellow. So he would give them some encouragement. He wrote a charming little note, explaining what he had done with regard to Mrs Saxton. He suggested they should establish their headquarters at a small restaurant close by, lunch and dine there as often as they could. If occasion arose, they could co-operate with his own men, who would recognise them from his description. He concluded his letter with a brief resume of his conversation with Mrs Saxton. Poor souls, he thought, nothing was likely to come out of their zeal. But it would please them to think they were at least doing something towards the unravelling of the mystery. In this supposition he was destined to be agreeably disappointed in the next few hours. Wingate, after reading the letter, escorted Sheila on a small shopping expedition in the West End. They were going to lunch afterwards at the restaurant in close proximity to Hyde Park Mansions. The shopping finished, Wingate suddenly recollected he must send a wire to the works at Hendon, and they proceeded to the nearest post-office in Edgware Road. It was now a quarter to one, and they had settled to lunch at one o'clock, so they walked along quickly. When within a few yards of the post-office, Sheila laid her hand upon his arm. "Stop a second!" she said in an excited voice. "You see that woman getting out of a taxi. It is Mrs Saxton. Let her get in before we go on." He obeyed. The elegant, fashionably-attired young woman paid the driver, and disappeared within the door. The pair of amateur detectives followed on her heels. Sheila's quick eyes picked her out at once, although the office was full of people. Mrs Saxton was already in one of the little pens, writing a telegram. Unobserved by the woman so busily engaged, Sheila stepped softly behind her, and waited till she had finished. She had splendid eyesight, and she read the words distinctly. They ran as follows: "Herbert. Poste Restante, Brighton. Exercise discretion. Maude." Then she glided away, and, with Wingate, hid herself behind a group of people. She had only met the woman once, but it was just possible she might remember her if their glances met. Mrs Saxton took the telegram to the counter, and they heard her ask how long it would take to get to Brighton. Then, having received an answer to the query, which they could not catch, she went out. They looked at each other eagerly. They had made a discovery, but what were they to do with it? "Ring up Smeaton at once, and tell him," suggested Sheila. "He will know what to do." After a moment's reflection, Wingate agreed that this was the proper course. While they were discussing the point, the man himself hurried in. His quick eye detected them at once, and he joined them. "I've just missed Mrs Saxton--eh?" he queried. Sheila explained to him how they had arrived there by accident, and had seen her stepping out of the taxi. Smeaton went on to explain. "I looked round this morning to see how my men were getting on, and found a taxi waiting before the door. I had to hide when she came out, but one of my men heard her give the address of this office. I picked up another taxi, and drove as hard as I could. My fellow kept the other well in sight, but just as we were gaining on her, I was blocked, and lost three minutes. She came here, of course, to send a wire. But it is only a little delay. I can get hold of that wire very shortly." "But there is no need," cried Sheila triumphantly. "At any rate, for the present. I looked over her shoulder, and read every word of it. I will tell it you." She repeated the words. He had showed obvious signs of vexation at having just missed the woman he was hunting, and now his brow cleared. "Very clever of you. Miss Monkton--very clever," he said in appreciative tones. "Now, who is Herbert, that's the question?" "Stent, no doubt," suggested Wingate, with a certain amount of rashness. The detective regarded him with his kindly but somewhat quizzical smile. "I very much doubt if it is Stent, Mr Wingate. I sent a man down early this morning to St Albans, where I believe he lives. I should say Herbert is another man altogether." The young people readily accepted the professional's theory. They recognised that they were only amateurs. There was a long pause. They stood humbly waiting for the great man to speak, this man of lightning intuition and strategic resource. It seemed an interminable time to the expectant listeners before he again opened his lips. Before he did speak, he pulled out his watch and noted the time. "This may be important, and we cannot afford to lose a moment," he said at length. "How do you stand, Mr Wingate, as regards time? Can you spare me the whole of the day?" "The whole of to-day, to-morrow, and the next day, if it will help," cried the young man fervently. "There is a fairly fast train from Victoria in forty minutes from now. You have plenty of time to catch it. I want you to go to the post-office in Brighton, and get hold of that telegram." "But it is addressed to the name of Herbert." "No matter," said Smeaton, a little impatiently. "If the real Herbert has not been before you--and I should guess it is an unexpected message--they will hand it to you; they are too busy to be particular. If he has already been, trump up a tale that he is a friend of yours, and not being sure that he would be able to call himself, had asked you to look in for it, so as to make sure." "I see," said Wingate. He felt an increased admiration for the professional detective. He was not quite sure that he would have been ready with this glib explanation. "I should love to go too," said Sheila, looking wistfully at the ever-resourceful Smeaton, whom she now frankly accepted as the disposer of their destinies. "Forgive me if I oppose you this once, my dear Miss Monkton," he said in his kindest and most diplomatic manner. "Two are not always company in detective business, unless they've been trained to work together. Besides, I shall want Mr Wingate to keep in close touch with me on the 'phone, and he will have no time to look after a lady." Having settled that matter, he turned to Wingate. "First of all, here are a couple of my cards; one to show the post-office if there is anything awkward--this for the chief constable of Brighton if you have need of his assistance. I will scribble an introduction on it." He suited the action to the word. "Now, the sooner you are off the better. I will put Miss Monkton into a taxi. You be off, and try to get hold of that wire." There was no resisting his powerful personality. He controlled the situation like an autocrat. "Stay, just one thing more. I shall be at Scotland Yard till seven, and at home about eight. Here is my private 'phone number, if unseen developments arise." He thought of everything, he foresaw the improbable. They were lost in admiration. At the moment of departing, he rather damped their enthusiasm by muttering, almost to himself: "If I could put my hand on one of my own men, I wouldn't trouble you, but there is no time, and delay is dangerous." A hasty hand-shake to Sheila, a fond lover's look into her eyes, and Wingate was out of the post-office, and into a taxi, en route for Victoria. He thought of her all the time he was travelling to Brighton. In these last few days her great sorrow had brought her very near to him. He had read her disappointment when Smeaton had forbidden her to accompany him. But she would not resent that on him; she knew he was working in her interests, that his one thought was to help in solving the tragic mystery that was clouding her young life. The train arrived at Brighton punctual to the minute, and mindful of Smeaton's remark that delay was dangerous, he drove straight to the post-office. He was, in a certain sense, elated with the mission that had been entrusted him, through the mere accident of Smeaton not having had time to put his hand on an experienced man. But he felt some trepidation as he walked through the swing-doors. Surely people who set forth on detective work must have nerves of steel and foreheads of triple brass. He bought some stamps first, not because he wanted them, but in order to screw up his courage to sticking-point. A sharp-featured, not too amiable-looking young woman served him. When he had completed his purchase, he asked in as cordial a voice as he could assume: "Are there any letters or telegrams for the name of Herbert?" The young woman regarded him with a suspicious glance. "Is your name Herbert, may I ask?" At that moment, he blessed Smeaton for the lie which he had made him a present of at starting. He proceeded to retail it for the young woman's benefit. She smiled a sour smile, and he felt his face flush. Decidedly he wanted more experience. "Nothing doing this time," she said insolently, in a rasping cockney voice. "You'd better hurry up next time. The real owner of the telegram took it away half-an-hour ago!" CHAPTER SEVEN. THE MYSTERIOUS MRS SAXTON. After Wingate's hurried departure, Smeaton put Sheila into a taxi, and quickly took his way back to Scotland Yard. Here he found a note awaiting him from the Home Secretary, requesting him to step round to the Home Office. They knew each other well, these two men, and had been brought together several times on affairs of public importance. Before he had thrown all his energies into politics Mr Carlingford had been one of the most successful barristers of the day. His intellect was of the keen and subtle order. He was, of course, profoundly interested in the mysterious disappearance of his colleague, the Colonial Secretary, and had sent for the detective to talk over the matter. "Sit down, Smeaton. Have you any news? I know you are not a man to let the grass grow under your feet." Smeaton explained the situation as it stood at present. "We have partly identified one, and in my opinion the more important, of the two men who put him in the taxi. His name is given to me as Stent, and he is supposed to have a house somewhere in the neighbourhood of St Albans. One of my best sergeants is down there to-day, making inquiries. I fancy we are also on the track of the second man." He added that it was to Farloe's sister, Mrs Saxton, that he was indebted for the somewhat scanty information he possessed. "I met that lady last winter at Mentone," remarked the Home Secretary. "She was an attractive young woman, with ingratiating manners. I remember she introduced herself to me, telling me that her brother was Monkton's secretary. My impression at the time, although I don't know that I had any particular evidence to go on, was that there was just a little touch of the adventuress about her." "Precisely my impression," agreed the man from "over the way." "I never took to that fellow, Farloe, either," continued the statesman. "I don't think Monkton was particularly attached to him, although he admitted he was the best secretary he ever had. I always thought there was something shifty and underhand about him." They talked for a few moments longer, exchanging probable and possible theories, and then Smeaton rose to take his leave. "Well, Mr Carlingford, thanks to your kind help we have been able to keep it out of the Press so far. I hope our inquiries will soon bear some fruit," he said, and then left the room. Sheila had gone home feeling very sad and lonely. All her plans for the day had been upset by Wingate's sudden journey to Brighton. She had looked forward to spending some hours in the society of her lover. The excitement of the detective business in which they proposed to engage for the rest of the day would have taken her out of herself, and kept alive the courage which flagged sorely now and again, as she confronted the apparently insoluble problem of her beloved father's disappearance. Her luncheon finished, she went into her own dainty little sitting-room and tried to read. But she could not focus her attention. Her thoughts strayed away from the printed page, and at last she flung down the book impatiently. "I wish that I had insisted on going down to Brighton with Austin," she said to herself. "I think I must get out. I shall go mad if I stop within these four walls." As she was making up her mind, the door opened, and old Grant entered. "A lady would like to see you. Miss," he said. "She says her name is Saxton and that you know her, as she is Mr Farloe's sister. She says she has been here once, but I don't seem to remember her." Sheila was immediately interested. Their acquaintance was of the slightest. She recalled the incident at the post-office, and wondered what was the object of the visit. "Yes, she came once to a big party. Grant. You have shown her into the drawing-room, I suppose? I will see her." She went at once to the drawing-room. Mrs Saxton rose as she entered, and advanced towards her with outstretched hand, her pretty, rather hard features subdued to an expression of deep sympathy. "My dear Miss Monkton, I do hope you will not regard my visit as an intrusion," she exclaimed fussily. "But, owing to my brother's connection with your family, I was bound to know something of what has happened. And I feel so deeply for you." Sheila replied with some conventional phrase, but her manner was constrained and cold. Mrs Saxton was acting, no doubt to the best of her capacity, but there was an absence of sincerity in voice and glance. She had come, not out of sympathy, but for her own ends. Sheila remembered what Smeaton had said, namely, that she knew a good deal more than she chose to tell. She also remembered the telegram which had been despatched a few hours ago. Was it possible Mrs Saxton had caught sight of her at the post-office in Edgware Road after all, and had come with the intention of pumping her? Whatever the motives might be, Sheila made up her mind to one thing-- that she would say as little as possible, and ask questions rather than answer them. "What has Mr Farloe told you?" "Oh, as little as he possibly could. But although it has been very cleverly kept from the Press, rumours are flying about at the clubs, in the House of Commons, everywhere. Your father has not been seen for several days, and he is much too important a man not to be missed." Sheila made no answer. She was resolved to take a very passive _role_ in this interview which had been thrust upon her. She looked steadily at Mrs Saxton, who bore the scrutiny of those candid young eyes with absolute composure, and waited for her to resume the conversation. "A rather strange thing happened the other day," went on her visitor, after a somewhat lengthy pause. "I had a visit from a Scotland Yard official, of the name of Smeaton. He told me he was very much interested in a Mr Stent, whose acquaintance I happened to make abroad a couple of years ago. I wonder if this Mr Stent happens to be a friend of yours, or your father's?" This time Sheila felt she could make a direct answer without committing herself. "I certainly do not know the man myself. For my father I cannot, of course, speak positively. In his position he must have known heaps of people, more or less intimately. But, as I have never seen him in this house, he could not have been a friend." Mrs Saxton spoke again in her well-bred, but somewhat artificial voice: "I hope you will excuse me for having put the question. But it struck me after he had left that his visit might have been connected with the sad events that have happened here, and that he believed Mr Stent to have been mixed up with them." "Were you able to give him any information?" asked Sheila quickly. She thought it was her turn to question now. "Nothing, I am afraid, of any value. I had simply met him abroad at an hotel, in the first place, and came across him about a dozen times afterwards. You know what a lot of people one picks up in that casual sort of way, people you know absolutely nothing about." Sheila agreed that this was a common experience, and after the interchange of a few commonplaces, Mrs Saxton took leave. She renewed her expressions of sympathy, and begged Miss Monkton to make use of her in any way, if she thought she could render assistance. What had been the motive of her visit? To reiterate the slenderness of her knowledge of the man Stent, so that the fact would be communicated to Smeaton? Or had she hoped to find an artless and impressionable girl, who would confide to her all that had been done, up to the present, to unravel the mystery of Monkton's disappearance? If so, she had signally failed. She had gone away, having learned nothing. And Sheila had put no questions herself, although she was burning to ask her: "Who is that man at Brighton to whom you sent the telegram of warning?" It had been a day of surprises, and events proceeded very rapidly, mostly in the direction of disappointments. In the first place, Smeaton was rung up from Brighton by Wingate, who reported the failure of his attempt to get hold of the telegram, and asked for further instructions. The detective mused a few moments before replying. He placed little or no reliance on the efforts of amateurs, however full of zeal. Still, the young man was there, and he might as well make use of him. "Would it be inconveniencing you to spend a few more hours down there?" he asked at length over the wire from his room at Scotland Yard. The reply was what might be expected. Wingate would be only too happy to place himself entirely at Smeaton's disposal. "Thanks. In that case, I would ask you to keep a watch on the post-office for as long as you think worth while. This fellow will be pretty certain to call again in an hour or two for another wire. You may depend their correspondence has not finished with that first telegram." So that was settled; it was a toss-up whether or not anything would result from Wingate's observations. A little later one of the two men who were watching Hyde Park Mansions reported that Mrs Saxton had driven to Chesterfield Street, and remained in Monkton's house for some twenty minutes. Smeaton at once rang up Sheila Monkton, and obtained particulars of the brief interview, which confirmed his opinion that Farloe's attractive sister was engaged in some deep game. This opinion was further corroborated by the arrival of the detective he had sent down to St Albans at an early hour that morning. This man had scoured the neighbourhood on his motor-cycle within a radius of twelve miles from the city of St Albans. Nobody of the name of Stent was known, and so far as his information went, which he had picked up at various shops and local inns, nobody of that name had ever been a resident, at any rate within the last four or five or six years. Smeaton cursed Mrs Saxton heartily. A really innocent woman might have made a mistake. But he was sure in his own mind that this innocent-looking young person with the charming manners and the well-bred voice had deliberately put him on a wrong scent. And for what motive? Perhaps in order to gain time. Well, he had lost a few hours, but he intended to run Mr Stent to earth yet, without her assistance. CHAPTER EIGHT. THE MAN FROM BOUNDARY ROAD. Austin Wingate's feelings as he left the post-office in Brighton can easily be imagined. He had failed ignominiously in his mission, and the sarcastic young woman who had spoken so insolently to him was laughing at his discomfiture. It was some moments before he could sufficiently recover his composure to go to the nearest telephone--he did not dare to re-enter the post-office so soon--and communicate with Smeaton. He was fortified by the detective's request to remain at his post for some time longer, in the hope of turning a failure into something of a partial success. He lit a big cigar and prepared for a long vigil. He began to think there were certain discomforts attached to detective work. He found himself commiserating the two unfortunate creatures who had been appointed to keep watch at Hyde Park Mansions. He was better off than they in one important particular. They only worked for pay, not, probably, of a very munificent description. If he succeeded, he would not only earn the praises of Smeaton, but he would be rewarded with the tender light of gratitude in the beautiful eyes of his beloved Sheila. So he kept resolutely at his post, lounging up and down the street, with his glance ever alert for any likely stranger who should come along. An hour passed, and then the minutes went very slowly. He kept looking at his watch. Smeaton was sure the strange man would come back for a further communication. Putting himself in the man's place, he reasoned that he had wired a reply to Mrs Saxton, and that he would allow himself a certain time for his wire to reach London, and the return wire to get to Brighton. Calculating on this basis--and he felt rather proud of the process-- Austin reckoned that the man would be back in a couple of hours from when he left the post-office. The insolent young woman had told him that the wire had been fetched away half-an-hour before Wingate's arrival. If this reasoning was correct, the man he was in search of would make his appearance in about another ten minutes from the last time Austin had looked at his watch. He felt his nerves quivering as the moment drew near and then passed. The street was very busy, many people entering and leaving the post-office. Another ten minutes had elapsed, and then a tall, bearded man came along. There was something peculiar in his gait: he seemed to walk stiffly with one leg. He proceeded slowly in the direction of the post-office, and entered the swing-doors. A chill came over the ardent Wingate as he recognised that the man might be merely going in to buy stamps, or send a wire--not to receive one. He stole across from the opposite side of the street, where he had been marching up and down for such an interminable time, and peered through the glass door. A thrill of exultation swept through him as he saw the young woman hand the stranger a telegram, which he opened, read rapidly, and then thrust in his breast pocket. Wingate at once darted back to his previous post. At a respectful distance he followed the stranger with the peculiar limping walk. They came on to the sea front, and his quarry finally disappeared into that well-known hostelry, "The Old Ship." It was now much more than an even chance, taking all the circumstances into consideration, that this was the man who was in communication with Mrs Saxton, and that the telegram he had seen him read was from her. The man, further, answered to the description given by Davies of one of the two men who had hailed his taxi at Dean's Yard. The taxi-driver had said nothing about the peculiarity in his walk, which had impressed Wingate at once, probably for the obvious reason that Davies had not had an opportunity of observing it. He had only seen him for a couple of minutes, during which time he was occupied in taking instructions for the disposal of his fare. "The Old Ship" had been a favourite resort of Wingate's for some years. In fact, until within the last few months, when his business occupations had permitted less leisure, there was hardly a week in which he had not motored down there. The manager he knew well, also the head-waiter, and two or three of his subordinates. If the man he was tracking was staying there, it would be the easiest thing in the world to make a few judicious inquiries ere he again 'phoned Smeaton. The first person he met, as he stepped into the hall, was Bayfield, the portly and rubicund head-waiter himself. "Good-day, Mr Wingate. Very pleased to see you, sir. We were saying only the other day that you had quite deserted us." "Been awfully busy, Bayfield; couldn't get away. But it was such a lovely day that I made up my mind I would rush down for a breath of fresh air." "Quite right, sir," cried the cheerful Bayfield, in an approving voice. "It will do you good. All work and no play--you know the old proverb, sir--eh? You are staying the night, I hope?" Wingate hesitated. "I didn't intend to when I started from town. Anyway, I will have dinner, and make plans afterwards. Have you many people stopping here?" "Never knew the house so empty, although, of course, we don't expect to have many this time of year. A lot of people come in to the _table d'hote_, but at the moment, in the house itself, we've only an elderly couple, a few stray people, and a foreign gentleman, who has been a visitor, on and off, for the last few months." It was a fine opportunity to engage Bayfield in conversation upon the subject of the "foreign" gentleman, and pick up what he could. Bayfield was a chatty, old-fashioned creature nearly seventy, and could be trusted not to exhibit undue reticence when unfolding himself to a customer whom he had known for some years. But Wingate made up his mind not to press matters too much. He would prospect a little on his own account first, before he availed himself of the head-waiter's loquacity. A minute later he entered the smoking-room, lit another cigar, and prepared to cogitate over matters. At the moment of his entrance there was nobody else in the apartment. A few seconds later the bearded stranger came in, rang the bell, ordered something, and seated himself before a small writing-table in the corner of the room. Then he pulled from his breast pocket a bundle of papers. He read through some of them, various letters and memoranda they seemed to be, slowly and carefully, and laid them aside after perusal, making notes meanwhile. Then, almost, but not quite, at the end of the packet, came the telegram which he had received at the post-office. He placed this on the top of the little pile, and went on with what remained. It was a tantalising moment for Austin. There was the telegram within six feet of him. Wild thoughts coursed through his brain. An idea occurred to him. He stumped his cigar upon the ash-tray, till it failed to emit the feeblest glow. He had already observed that, through carelessness, nearly every match-box in the room was empty. Noiselessly he stole across the few feet of space that divided him from the stranger, and stood on his right hand. Another document had been laid upon the pile, and only the corner of the telegram was peeping forth. A second or two sooner, and he could have read it. He was full of chagrin. "Excuse me, sir, but can you oblige me with a match? They don't seem to provide them in this establishment." The visitor turned, and for a moment regarded him keenly. What he saw seemed to impress him favourably: an open, honest English face, perfectly candid eyes that looked into his own, without a suspicion of guile in their direct gaze. "With pleasure, sir. They seem very remiss." He spoke with a slight foreign accent, but his tones were cultivated, and his manner was courtesy itself. He held out his match-box. Wingate fancied his glance travelled uneasily to the pile of papers upon the table. The young man turned half round to strike the match. There was hardly anything of the telegram to read, so obscured was it by the letter lying on the top of it, in which he was not interested. But what he could see, with his abnormally quick vision, was sufficient. The signature showed distinctly, the same that had appeared on the previous wire--the name MAUDE! He bowed and withdrew. The foreigner finished his examination of the pile of correspondence he had produced, gathered it up, and transferred it to his breast pocket. Then, with a courteous smile to Wingate, he quitted the room. The young man breathed a sigh of relief. He was both astonished and delighted at his own resource, at the extent of his discovery. The contents of the telegram could be obtained by Smeaton at his leisure. What he, Austin Wingate, amateur detective, had proved was that the mysterious man who was staying there was the same person who was in communication with Maude, otherwise Mrs Saxton, of Hyde Park Mansions. He had done good spade work. Of that he was sure. It was now half-past seven. Plenty of time to 'phone Smeaton, tell him what he had discovered, and inquire how he was to proceed. The detective decided on his campaign without a moment's hesitation. "Well done, Mr Wingate, an excellent result," he said over the wire. "Stay the night and keep the fellow under observation. We must have him identified. I will send Davies down by the first train to-morrow morning. I will 'phone you full instructions, say, in a couple of hours. Meet him at the station in the morning, smuggle him into the hotel as quickly as you can; I leave the details to you. Let him see our foreign friend, and say if he is the man we think him to be." He paused a moment, then added: "You say the manager and Bayfield are well-known to you. They are also old friends of mine. I have unearthed more than one mystery with their help. Mention my name, show them my card, if you think it will ease matters. They will give you any assistance you want. Once again, bravo, and well-done. I'll ring you up as soon as I have fixed Davies." Wingate felt he was walking on air as he returned to the hotel. With his new-born cunning he had not 'phoned from "The Old Ship," but from the post-office. The dining-room was not at all full. The elderly couple and the foreigner sat at their respective tables. A few other people were dotted about. At the end of an hour Wingate had the room to himself, with the head-waiter, his old friend, hovering around, ready for a prolonged chat. "I'm rather interested in that foreign chap, Bayfield," he said carelessly. "What do you know about him? Is he a quiet sort of Anarchist, or what?" Bayfield was quite ready to communicate all he knew, in confidential whispers, for Wingate was always very popular with his inferiors. He gave himself no airs, and he was more than liberal with tips. "He's a bit of a mystery, sir, but he's a very quiet sort of a gentleman. He began coming here about three months ago. I should say, since he started, he has stayed two or three days out of every week. He has heaps of letters. Sometimes he goes off at a minute's notice, and then we have to send his letters after him." "Where does he live, and what's his name?" "He lives in the Boundary Road, St John's Wood, and his name is Bolinski; a Russian, I suppose. All their names seem to end in `ski' or `off.'" So his name was Bolinski, and he lived in Boundary Road, St John's Wood. Here was valuable information for Smeaton. Wingate chatted a little longer with Bayfield, and then went for a walk along the front, returning in time to receive the detective's message 'phoned to the hotel. At this juncture he thought it was wise policy to take both the manager and Bayfield into his confidence. He showed them Smeaton's card, and explained that for reasons he was not at liberty to disclose, he wanted to identify Bolinski. A man was coming down for that purpose by an early train to-morrow morning, and he wanted to smuggle him into the hotel as early as possible. The manager smiled. "That's all right, Mr Wingate. Inspector Smeaton is an old friend of mine, and I have helped him a bit here, and more in London. Our friend breakfasts on the stroke of half-past nine. Get your man in here a little before nine, and Bayfield will take him in charge, and give him a glimpse of the distinguished foreigner." Next morning the taxi-driver Davies arrived, attired in a brand new suit, and looking eminently respectable in mufti. Wingate met him at the station, piloted him to "The Old Ship," and handed him over to the careful guardianship of the astute Bayfield. At nine-thirty, Bolinski, fresh and smart, came down to his breakfast, seating himself at his usual table. Davies crept in, and took a good look at him, unobserved by the object of his scrutiny. Wingate was waiting in the hall, with the manager. The face of Davies was purple with emotion and the pleasurable anticipation of further and substantial reward. "That's the man, right enough, sir!" he said in an excited whisper. "I'd swear to him out of a thousand if they was all standin' before me." CHAPTER NINE. RUMOURS IN LONDON. Some few days had elapsed, and the Monkton mystery remained in the same deep obscurity. The inquest had been resumed, and an "open verdict" was returned by the jury. But nothing as yet had been published in the Press. All that the public knew was by an obscure paragraph which stated that the Colonial Secretary had been suffering from ill-health, and, having been ordered complete rest by his doctor, he had gone abroad. The body of the dead man had not been identified. There was nothing to prove conclusively the cause of death, so the matter was left in the hands of the police for investigation. Some little progress had been made in the direction of Bolinski. Luigi, the proprietor of the restaurant in Soho, had been taken to the Boundary Road in St John's Wood, and had waited for the mysterious foreigner to come out of the house. When he appeared, limping along with that peculiar gait of his, Luigi unhesitatingly declared that he was the man who had dined on the eventful night with the missing Mr Monkton. He could have identified him anyway by his features and figure, but the dragging walk left no room for doubt. Luigi, like Wingate, had noticed it at once. A few facts about him were established. He was either a bachelor or a widower, as the only other occupants of the house were a married couple, also foreigners, who looked after the establishment. Inquiries in the neighbourhood proved that he spent about half the week there, going up to business every morning. They tracked him to his office in the city, a couple of rooms on the second floor of a big block of recently erected buildings in the vicinity of Liverpool Street Station. His staff was small, consisting of a young clerk of about eighteen, and a woman of about thirty-five, by her appearance a Jewess of foreign, probably Polish, nationality. The name Bolinski was inscribed in large latters on a plate outside the door. No business or profession was stated. Patient investigation revealed the fact that he was supposed to be a financial agent, was connected with certain small, but more or less profitable, enterprises abroad, and had a banking account at the head office of one of the biggest banks in England. Such facts as these rather deepened the mystery. What circumstances had produced an even momentary association between Reginald Monkton, a statesman of more than ordinary eminence, a man of considerable fortune, with a financier of fifth or sixth rate standing, who lived in a small house in St John's Wood. While the Russian was being subjected to these investigations, the other man. Stent, had suddenly absented himself from the Savoy. This was annoying, as Smeaton had sworn to hunt him to his lair, with the aid of his old ally, the hall-porter. Mrs Saxton was still being kept under strict surveillance, but she, too, was lying very low. She left the flat very seldom, and her movements had in them nothing suspicious. Her brother, James Farloe, went there every day, but she did not appear to be in further communication with Bolinski. Nothing had come to light since those two telegrams despatched to Brighton. In the meantime rumour was growing in every direction, more especially in political and club circles. What had become of Monkton? Why was he no longer in his place in the House of Commons? Why had his name disappeared from the Parliamentary reports? Was he really ill and abroad? At no place was the subject discussed with greater interest than at that celebrated resort of intellectual Bohemianism, the Savage Club. Here were gathered together the brightest spirits of the stage, the Bar, and modern journalism with its insatiable appetite for sensational news and thrilling headlines. Prominent amongst the journalistic section was Roderick Varney, a brilliant young man of twenty-eight, of whom his friends predicted great things. After a most successful career at Oxford, he had entered the Middle Temple, and in due course been called to the Bar. Having no connection among solicitors, briefs did not flow in, and he turned his attention to the Press. Here he speedily found his true vocation. He was now on the staff of a powerful syndicate which controlled an important group of daily and weekly newspapers. The bent of his mind lay in the direction of criminal investigation. On behalf of one of the syndicated newspapers, he had helped to solve a mystery which had puzzled the trained detectives of Scotland Yard. Thinking over the Monkton matter, he had come to the conclusion that there might be a great "scoop" in it. Unfortunately, he knew so little of the actual facts; there were such slender premises to start from. Rumours, more or less exaggerated, were not of much use to him, and those were all that he had at his disposal. And then, as he sat in the smoking-room of the Savage, overlooking the Thames, a big idea occurred to him. He would go to headquarters at once, to Chesterfield Street, and ask for Miss Monkton. He would send in a brief note first, explaining his errand. He had dined, and it was getting on for half-past eight. No time to lose. In under ten minutes from the time the idea had struck him, he was at the door of Reginald Monkton's house. Grant showed him into the library, and took in the note. Sheila and Wingate had dined together, and were sitting in the drawing-room. The sad events had drawn them so closely together that they might now be said to be acknowledged lovers. Austin had never made any pretence of his regard for her, and Sheila was no longer reserved or elusive. She handed him the letter, and Wingate read it carefully. "I know the man a little," he said, when he had gathered the contents. "I belong to the Savage, and go there occasionally. He has the reputation of a brilliant journalist, and has written one or two quite good books on the subject of criminology. Suppose we have him in, and see what he wants. Smeaton is a first-class man, no doubt, but this chap unearthed the Balham mystery that baffled Scotland Yard; all London rang with it, at the time. A fresh brain might help us." Sheila yielded to her lover's suggestion. Privately, she thought etiquette demanded that they should first ring up to consult Smeaton as to whether the newcomer should be shown the door or not. But Wingate had been so good, so tender to her in her hour of trial, that she did not like to oppose him. Varney came in and at once made a good impression upon her. He was quite a gentleman; his voice and manner showed unmistakable signs of cultivation. He plunged at once into the matter without insincere apologies. Plenty of rumours were flying about, he explained, many of them, no doubt, quite baseless; most, or all of them, exaggerated. He had a faculty for this kind of investigation, and had been successful in a very complicated and baffling case at Balham. If they would give him first-hand information he would be pleased to place his services at their disposal. "You know, of course, that nothing will be allowed to appear in the Press," said Wingate, when the young journalist had finished. "The Home Secretary has given instructions to that effect." Varney admitted he was under the impression something of the kind had occurred. Otherwise his chief would have sent for him at once. "So you see I am not out for immediate kudos," he said, with a very frank smile. "Under different circumstances I daresay I should act very much like any other enterprising journalist anxious to establish a reputation." There was a moment's pause. Wingate looked at Sheila, and she returned his glance of inquiry. Should they trust this singular young man, who spoke with such apparent frankness? Or should they refer him to the detective-inspector who had the case in hand? Varney perceived their natural hesitation, and hastened to turn it in his favour. "Let us make a bargain," he said, in a voice of real heartiness. "Forget for the moment that I am a predatory journalist, on the prowl for sensational news. Just consider me as a man who has a bent for this particular form of investigation, and takes a delight in it. Treat me as a friend, and I will prove myself worthy of your confidence, and help you as far as my brains and resources will permit." It was Sheila who spoke first, with her woman's impulse. "Austin," she said, "I think we may trust Mr Varney." The journalist bowed. "Many thanks. Miss Monkton," He smiled a little as he added: "Ring up my old friend Smeaton, who, I know, has charge of the case, and get his permission if you like. You know, that was your first thought--was it not?" Sheila blushed. "Yes, you are quite right, it was. How did you guess?" "Very easily. By putting myself in your place, and imagining how I should think and act under similar circumstances." Then Wingate followed his sweetheart's lead. "Well, Mr Varney, I agree with Miss Monkton. We accept you as an ally, without reference to Smeaton. What do you want us to do?" "I want you to tell me, as fully as you can, everything that has happened, in the minutest detail, from the night of Mr Monkton's strange disappearance until the present moment." It was a long recital. Varney listened attentively and made notes from time to time, as some point struck him. But he did not make many. He seemed to possess a marvellous and retentive memory. The narrative finished, Varney rose. "Thanks, I have got it all clear. Now, all this will want thinking over, and it will take me some hours. As soon as I have established something to work upon I will communicate with you. We don't often see you at the Savage, Mr Wingate, or we might meet there." "I have not much leisure," was Wingate's reply, "and all I have at my disposal is at Miss Monkton's service for the present." "I quite understand." He could not fail to read in the slight glow on Sheila's cheek that the pair were lovers. "Well, good-night. Many thanks for the cordial reception you have given me. I shall do my best. I shall hope to earn the compliments of my old friend Smeaton once again." It was close upon ten o'clock when he left the house in Chesterfield Street. Though it was summer time, the night was a dark one. There was no moon, and heavy clouds obscured the stars. A man stepped out from under the street lamp nearly opposite, and walked quickly in the direction of Curzon Street. Varney had seen him many times in the House of Commons, and recognised him at once. It was James Farloe, the secretary. Varney followed him up Curzon Street, through the narrow passage that runs past Lansdowne House. For a moment Farloe halted, as if undecided which direction to take. Then, his mind made up, he turned northward, and made his way into Oxford Street. He walked along there for a little while, then crossed over to the north side, and, turning up one of the numerous side streets, took a devious route into Edgware Road. It immediately struck Varney that he was going to visit Mrs Saxton at Hyde Park Mansions. In that case, he would have had his hunt for nothing. Smeaton had his men stationed there, and he was not wanted. However, he would make sure, before he gave up the chase, and he was afterwards glad that he had not jumped too readily at conclusions. It soon became apparent that this was not Farloe's destination, for he passed Chapel Street, and continued straight along the Edgware Road till he came to where it joins on to Maida Vale. Here he turned to the right, and was immediately in the St John's Wood district. Varney was now pretty certain in his own mind as to the secretary's goal, and a few moments more confirmed his conjectures. He halted at a house in the Boundary Road, and knocked gently at the door. It was opened by a tall man, whom Varney at once recognised as Bolinski, from the description given of him by Wingate. He waited about for an hour, but Farloe did not come out. Theirs was evidently a long conference. The secretary was apparently the channel of communication between the Russian and Mrs Saxton. This accounted for the sudden cessation of telegrams. The astute lady had found out she was being watched. Varney walked back to Baker Street Station, where he took a ticket for Charing Cross, the nearest halting-place for the Savage Club in the Adelphi. "I wonder if Smeaton has left Farloe altogether out of his calculations," was his inward comment on the night's proceedings. "But it can't be; he is too old a bird for that. Well, it's evident he is in with the gang, whoever they are--as well as his sister." CHAPTER TEN. IN THE LOBBY OF THE HOUSE. The weeks had slipped by. Smeaton was not at all satisfied with the progress he was making. His inquiries had led him into a _cul-de-sac_. The absence of the man Stent from the Savoy worried him. It looked as though the man had received a hint from Mrs Saxton, and taken the alarm. In addition, he had constant inquiries from the Home Secretary as to what progress he was making. He paid a visit to Chesterfield Street to talk over matters. Before he left, Sheila screwed up her courage to tell him of Varney's visit, and their acquiescence in his proposal to investigate on his own account. She had expected that he would display resentment at their having taken such a step before consulting him. But, to her relief, he did nothing of the kind. "Varney is a rather clever young chap," he admitted, "and if he devoted himself entirely to detective work, and acquired plenty of experience, I believe he would be as good as, if not better than, many of us. In the Caxley mystery he certainly got on the right track, while we went blundering on wrong lines altogether. And the revelations in the Balham affair were entirely due to him." "He spoke very highly of you," said Sheila, with woman's _finesse_. "I am glad you don't think we did wrong." "Not at all, my dear young lady. Tell him not to hesitate to come to me--if he is in need of any special facilities that I can give." "No news of Mrs Saxton, I suppose?" asked Sheila, as Smeaton was on the point of leaving the drawing-room. "None at all. She is at home, and nobody seems to go near her but her brother. I told you how she put me on the wrong scent about Stent. Once or twice I have thought of going there again and taxing her with it. But what would be the good? She would still stick to her story that she knew next to nothing about him. In giving me the St Albans clue she would swear she had mixed him up with somebody else. My men seem cooling their heels to no purpose. She knows she is being watched, and she won't give us a chance. I expect she does all her necessary work on the telephone, and we must attend to that point at once." Next morning Mrs Saxton aroused herself from her apparent inactivity, and gave her watchers a big surprise, which added to Smeaton's growing dissatisfaction with the state of affairs. At about eleven o'clock her maid whistled up a taxi. Mason, the head detective on duty, immediately communicated with his own taxi-driver, waiting in readiness round the corner, and entered the cab, giving instructions to follow the other when it started. She came out without any luggage, simply carrying a small vanity bag. She might be going shopping, to pay a visit, to send a telegram, or a hundred-and-one things. His duty was to follow her. The woman's cab drove down the Edgware Road, crossed the Park, and stopped at the Hyde Park Tube Station. Here Mrs Saxton paid the fare, and went into the booking-office. Mason at her heels. She took a ticket to Piccadilly Circus, and Mason did the same. They went down together in the same lift, Mrs Saxton near the door of exit, he at the other end of the lift. He was puzzled as to her movements. If she wanted to get to Piccadilly Circus, why had she taken this roundabout route? The taxi would have taken her there direct. The train was full. For a few seconds he was separated from her by a surging and struggling crowd blocking the entrances to the long cars. By dint of hard fighting he managed to get in the same carriage. So far, luck seemed in his favour. It was a non-stop train, and went past Down Street. At the next station, Dover Street, he saw her turn half round, and cast a furtive glance in his direction. She was evidently debating within herself if she would chance getting out there. While thus deliberating, the train re-started. At Piccadilly Circus there was a considerable exodus, as there always is. The process of disembarking was slow, owing to the number of passengers. They both emerged into Jermyn Street, and went along to the Haymarket. Here she looked round, apparently for a taxi, but there was not one in sight. It struck him, as he caught a side glimpse of her features, that she was looking worried and harassed. Evidently his persistent dogging had shaken her nerves. She walked slowly, with the deliberate gait of a person who was perturbed, and thinking hard. She entered a big drapery shop, where Mason was compelled to follow her for reasons. Had it been an ordinary kind of shop, he would have waited outside, till she came out. This particular establishment, however, had two entrances, one in Regent Street and one in Piccadilly. She knew this, of course, and would slip out of the one he was not watching. So he followed her in. Having bought a pair of long cream gloves she glanced furtively around, and then left the shop, passing into Regent Street. Afterwards she spent some time looking into the shop windows up and down that busy thoroughfare, ultimately returning to the Piccadilly Tube Station, where she took a ticket for Knightsbridge, Mason following all the while. Her face was wan and haggard with the relentless chase, but her eyes expressed indomitable resolution. They seemed to flash across at him as they sat in the same car the unspoken message: "I will outwit you yet." At Knightsbridge both watcher and watched ascended in the same lift, with its clanging lattice gate, and it was quite plain that Mrs Saxton was now in a quandary how to escape. In a careless attitude she passed from the street back into the booking-hall, where she pretended to idle up and down, as though awaiting someone. Now and then she looked up at the clock as though anxious and impatient. Mason believed her anxiety to be merely a ruse, but was both surprised and interested when a small ragged urchin entering the place suddenly recognised her, and handed her a note. She took it eagerly, and without examining it crushed it hurriedly into her little black silk bag, giving the little fellow a shilling, whereupon he thanked her and ran merrily out. Next instant Mason slipped forth after the lad in order to question him, leaving the woman safely in the booking-hall. In a few seconds he stopped the boy and asked good-humouredly who had given him the letter. "A gentleman in Notting 'Ill," was the urchin's prompt reply. "I don't know 'im. 'E only said that a lady in a big black 'at, and dressed all in black and carryin' a bag, would be waitin' for me, and that I were to give the note to 'er." "Is that all you know, my good lad?" Mason inquired quickly, giving him another shilling. "Yus. That's all I knows, sir," he replied. While speaking, the detective had kept his eye upon the booking-hall, and swiftly returned to it, only, however, to find that the woman was not there. The descending lift was full, the lattice gates were closed and it had just started down when he peered within. In the lift was Mrs Saxton, who, with a smile of triumph, disappeared from his view. Mason, in a sorry and chastened frame of mind, took the next lift, which, as always happens under such circumstances, was unusually long in arriving. To him, it seemed an eternity. He got down to the platform, in time to see the tail of a departing train. Mrs Saxton had not waited in the booking-hall in vain. She had two minutes' start of him, and he might hunt London over before he would again find her. Only one thing was certain: Mrs Saxton was certainly a very clever woman, who, no doubt, had prepared that very clever ruse of the arrival of the letter, well-knowing that the messenger must draw off the detective's attention, and thus give her time to slip away. That same evening James Farloe, who had been chatting in the Lobby of the House of Commons with a couple of Members of the Opposition, was suddenly called aside by Sir Archibald Turtrell, Member for North Canterbury, who, in a low, mysterious whisper, asked: "Look here, Farloe, is this rumour true?" "What rumour?" inquired the private secretary, who was a well-known figure about the House, as are those of all secretaries to Ministers of the Crown. "Why, that Mr Monkton is missing, and that he is not at Cannes as the papers say. Everyone is discussing it." The sleek, well-dressed young man in a morning suit with a white slip within his waistcoat, laughed sarcastically, as he replied: "I wonder. Sir Archibald, who it is who spreads such ridiculous rumours. I had a letter from Mr Monkton only this morning from Cannes. That's all I know." "And yet a telegram that I sent to the Beau Site yesterday has been returned to-night undelivered!" For a second Farloe held his breath. Serious inquiry was apparently being made by Members of the House, in spite of all the precautions of the Home Secretary. "Oh," he replied, with well-feigned carelessness. "The Colonial Secretary left the Beau Site over a fortnight ago. People were worrying him, so his doctor sent him to a furnished villa." "What is his address?" "I'm very sorry. Sir Archibald, but I am unable to give it. I have instructions to that effect," was the secretary's cautious reply. "If you give me your note, or write to his club, I will see that it is attended to. Doctor Monier wrote me three days ago asking me not to send his patient any matters concerning public affairs that might worry him." "But his daughter still remains in Chesterfield Street," observed the Baronet. "It is strange she is not with him. The rumour is growing that Monkton has disappeared, and that the police are searching for him." "I know," laughed the other. "I have heard so. It is all too ridiculous. The truth has already been published in the Press. Mr Monkton has had a very serious nervous breakdown, and is on the Riviera--even though it is summer." "You are quite certain of that--eh, Farloe?" "Why should I tell you an untruth?" asked the secretary blandly. They were standing near the Members' post-office, and the Baronet, having exchanged a nod with the Under-Secretary for Foreign Affairs, who was just passing into the House itself, gazed full into the secretary's eyes. "Tell me, Farloe--tell me in strict confidence," he urged. "I'll not whisper a word, but--well, do you happen to know anyone of the name of Stent?" The young man hesitated, though he preserved the most complete and remarkable control. "Stent? Stent?" he repeated. "No. The name is quite unfamiliar to me." "Are you quite certain? Think." "I have already thought. I have never heard that name," was the reply. "You are quite positive that he is not acquainted with Mr Monkton in some peculiar and mysterious way?" "How should I possibly know? All the Colonial Minister's friends are not known to me. Mr Monkton is a very popular man, remember. But why," he added, "do you ask about this man Stent?" "Because it is told to me that he is a mysterious friend of Monkton's." "Not as far as I am aware," declared Farloe. "I certainly have no knowledge of their friendship, and the name is so unusual that one would certainly recollect it." The Baronet smiled. Farloe, seeing that he was unconvinced, was eager to escape from any further awkward cross-examination. "I really wish that you would be frank with me," said Sir Archibald, who was one of Britain's business magnates and a great friend of Monkton's. "I am informed that this person Stent is in possession of the true and actual facts concerning the Minister's curious disappearance." Farloe realised that something was leaking out, yet he maintained a firm attitude of pretended resentment. "Well, Sir Archibald," he protested. "I cannot well see how I can be more frank with you. I've never heard of this mysterious person." "H'm!" grunted the Baronet, unconvinced. "Perhaps one day, my dear Farloe, you will regret this attempt to wriggle out of a very awkward situation." Then, after a pause, he added: "You know quite as well as I, with others, know, that my friend Monkton is missing!" and the Baronet turned abruptly, leaving Farloe standing in the Lobby. He passed the two police constables and the idling detective, and entered the House itself. Farloe, utterly aghast at Sir Archibald's remarks and the knowledge he evidently possessed, walked blindly out of St Stephen's full of grave thoughts. Not only were the police hot upon the trail which might lead them to the astounding truth concerning the death of the man who, dressed in the Colonial Minister's clothes, had expired in the house in Chesterfield Street, but the facts were being rumoured that night in the world of politics, and to-morrow the chattering little world which revolves in the square mile around Piccadilly and calls itself Society, would also be agog with the sinister story. At the corner of Dean's Yard, not a hundred yards from where the taxi-man Davies had been hailed and the unidentified stranger had been put into his cab, Farloe found a passing taxi and in it drove to his rooms, a cosy little first-floor flat in Ryder Street, St James's. So eager was he that, without taking off his hat, he went at once to the telephone on his writing-table and asked for "trunk." Ten minutes later he spoke to somebody. "Get in your car, and come here at once!" he said. "There's not an instant to be lost. I'll wait up for you, but don't delay a moment. I can't talk over the 'phone, but the situation is very serious. Bring a suit-case. You may have to go to the Continent by the nine o'clock train in the morning." He listened attentively to the reply. "Eh--what? Oh!--yes. I sent a boy with a letter to Knightsbridge station. She's got away all right. Do get here as quickly as you can-- won't you? Leave your car in some garage, and walk here. Don't stop the car outside. I'll leave the hall-door ajar for you. No--I can't tell you anything more over the 'phone--I really can't." CHAPTER ELEVEN. MAINLY CONCERNS MR STENT. James Farloe hung up the telephone receiver, and, lighting a cigar, sat down to think, while wailing for his visitor. He was rather a good-looking young fellow, but, examined closely, his face was not prepossessing. There was a certain furtive expression about him, as of a man continually on the watch lest he should betray himself, and the eyes were shifty. His sister was probably as insincere as himself, but, on the whole, she made a better impression. He was too perturbed to sit for long, for, truth to tell, his thoughts were not pleasant company. Two or three times he got up and paced the room, with a noiseless stealthy tread that was characteristic of him. Then, tired of the monotony of waiting, he selected a book from the limited store in a small revolving bookcase, and tried to read. But the words danced before his unquiet eyes, and conveyed no meaning. Again and again he had to resort to his noiseless pacings of the thickly-carpeted room, to allay the tedium of waiting. But the slow minutes passed at last. He drew out his watch, noted the time, and drew a sigh of relief. It was one-thirty a.m. "He can't be long now," he muttered. "At this hour of the night he can put on any speed he likes. He's an obstinate devil, but he would be pretty sure to start straight away, after my urgent summons." Even as he spoke, the figure of a man in a motor-cap and heavy overcoat was stealing quietly along Ryder Street. A moment more, and footsteps were heard on the stairs. Farloe hastened to open the hall-door of his cosy little suite, and closed it noiselessly after the entrance of his visitor. They nodded to each other. The man advanced, and stood under the electric light suspended from the middle of the ceiling. He was of medium height, well-dressed, and of gentlemanly appearance. He had aquiline features, and piercing dark eyes. He was the man who had been identified by Davies the driver as one of the two who had put the dying man in his taxi at Dean's Yard, with instructions to drive him to Chesterfield Street--the man known to the police, through the information given by Mrs Saxton, by the name of Stent. They did not waste time in preliminary remarks or greetings; they were probably too old acquaintances to indulge in such trivial formalities, but proceeded to business at once. "So she got clear away?" remarked the man known as Stent. "I always said she was one of the smartest women in England. How did she outwit the detective?" Farloe smiled. "It was beautifully simple," he replied. "She 'phoned me up in the morning to say she was starting in a few moments, and that she was sure this fellow would hang on to her as long as he could. She asked me if I could suggest any way of outwitting him. At the moment I couldn't." Stent darted a glance at his companion which was not exactly one of appreciation. "Your sister is quicker at that sort of thing than you," he said briefly. Farloe did not appear to notice the slight conveyed in the words and tone, and went on in his smooth voice: "I expect so. Anyway, she had it cut and dried. She was going to lead him a nice little dance till it was time to get rid of him. She would take him down to Piccadilly Circus, trot him about there for some little time, and then get back to the Knightsbridge Tube Station." "Yes--and then?" "I was to send a boy with a note to the Tube station at a certain time. I picked up a boy, giving him a full description of her, and packed him off. All happened as she expected. The man was tempted away by the boy, out of whom he could get nothing that would be of any use to him, and for a few moments left her unwatched. Hers was a bold stroke. While he was interviewing the urchin, she slipped into a descending lift, and left Mr Detective glaring at her from outside." Stent laughed appreciatively. "Well done!" he remarked. "But I have no doubt she would have hit upon something else had that failed." Farloe assented briefly. He was very fond of his sister, but it had always been rather a sore point with him to know that she had impressed everybody with the fact that she was much the cleverer and subtler of the two. There was a brief pause. Then Farloe pointed to the table, upon which stood glasses, a decanter of whisky, and a syphon of soda-water. "Help yourself, and sit down while we chat," he said pleasantly. "I'm sorry to have brought you out so late." Stent helped himself liberally to the spirit, took a long draught, and sat down in one of the two big saddle-bag chairs. When he had entered the room, Farloe had noticed certain signs of irritation. Perhaps the soothing influence of the whisky helped to restore him to a more equable frame of mind. Anyway, when he answered Farloe his voice was quite smooth and amiable. "Yes, I was deucedly put out at having to start off at a minute's notice. If I hadn't said good-bye to nerves long ago, you would have made me feel quite jumpy, with your talk about bringing a suit-case with me, and having to cross the Channel. Now let me know the meaning of it all. I've brought the suit-case in the car. Tell me," he urged, fixing the younger man with his keen piercing gaze. Farloe shifted a little uneasily under that intense glance. Somehow, he never felt quite at his ease in Stent's presence. "I haven't your nerves, or, rather the want of them, that I admit. And perhaps I take fright a little too easily. Still, I think you ought to be informed of this: that certain people are beginning to know--well--a bit too much." Stent's hard, resolute mouth curved in a smile that was half incredulous, half contemptuous. "Certain people always know too much--or too little. In this case, I should say it was the latter." But Farloe stuck to his guns. "I was tackled to-night at the House by Sir Archibald Turtrell. You know of him, of course?" The other nodded. There was vindictiveness in his tone, as he replied: "A regular old cackler and bore." "I don't dispute he is both, but that doesn't alter the fact that he pushed me very hard with some searching questions. I parried them as best I could, but from his last remarks I could see he didn't believe a word I was saying." Stent shifted uneasily in his chair; his ill-humour was evidently returning. "My dear Farloe, you must excuse me for saying that you don't always act with the greatest discretion. Why the devil do you want to go to the House at all for, laying yourself open to be cross-examined by anybody and everybody you meet? Look how differently your sister has acted; she has lain as low as possible, and finally shown them a clean pair of heels. I don't advise you to do exactly the same, for obvious reasons, but it would be advisable to keep very much out of the way till things have blown over." The younger man was evidently not thin-skinned, or he would have indulged in some outburst at those very candid remarks. Stent went on, in his hard, but not altogether unpleasant voice: "It has often struck me that this sort of thing is not quite suitable to a man of your temperament. But now you are in it, you must cultivate the art of keeping your nerves in better order, as I have done. Don't start at shadows. What you have told me doesn't disturb me in the least; it is just what might be expected." "You haven't forgotten that young beggar Varney is on the track?" put in Farloe quietly. "I saw him go into Monkton's house as late as yesterday. He is more to be feared than Smeaton, in my opinion." "I don't care a snap of the finger for the young pup," cried the other, in his most obstinate voice, and a tightening of the resolute jaw that was so well-matched with the dark, piercing eyes. Farloe waited till his companion's momentary irritation had subsided, then he put a question. "You are quite sure that the police have not traced you yet?" "Absolutely," came Stent's reply. He added, in his grimmest manner; "I've not given them a chance." They talked on for a long time, the elder man combating sometimes half humorously, sometimes with ill-concealed irritation, the pessimism of the other. At length when he rose it was nearly three o'clock. "You will let me put you up for the night," urged Farloe. "To be in time for the Paris train in the morning?" laughed the other. "No, thanks, my friend. I want to be somewhere else about that time." He had drunk a good deal during the interview, and Farloe knew that he was getting into one of those dare-devil moods, in which it was rather dangerous to play with him, or to cross him. "As you please," he said, a little sullenly. "I hope you are quite right in your confidence that they have not got on our tracks yet." "Make your mind easy, my dear chap. Your sister took care of that by putting our friend Smeaton on a wrong scent. I have often laughed when I thought of them hunting every nook and corner around St Albans for the gentleman with whom she had only a casual acquaintance." Farloe made no reply. Stent held out one hand, and with the other clapped the young man on the shoulder with rough good humour. "Good-night, old man. Go to bed and sleep soundly, for I'm going. And, I say, don't bring me out again on a midnight ride like this unless there is very strong reason. Now, just a last word--and I say it in all seriousness--I am not a bit discouraged by what you have told me. Let them smell about, but they'll find nothing." He turned to the door, and fired a parting shot: "Now, you follow my advice not to give way to idle fancies, and you'll turn out as well as any of us. And we shall all be proud of you. Once again, good-night." As he spoke the last word, the telephone bell rang, and he paused, and turned round. Farloe looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. "Past three, by Jove! There's only one person would ring me up at this time of night. It's Maude. Perhaps it is important; you had better stay a moment," he said. Stent stayed. Farloe took off the receiver, and listened for a little time to the voice at the other end. Although Stent could not distinguish the words, now and then he caught an inflection that he recognised. Farloe's conjecture was right. It was Mrs Saxton who had rung him up. Then Stent heard the young man's reply. "Hold on a minute, he is here. He was just going when you rang." He beckoned to Stent. "She wanted me to send you word that she wished to meet you. You can arrange it with her yourself." They talked for a few seconds. At one of her remarks Stent laughed heartily. He turned to Farloe. "She is suggesting that we don't make it the Knightsbridge Tube Station." Then he turned again to the instrument. "That was a capital move of yours; your brother has just been telling me about it. Really, I think just now it might be as convenient a place as any; they would never think you would have the cheek to go there again so soon. Let us meet at the old spot. That's safe enough. To-morrow then. All right. Good-bye." CHAPTER TWELVE. THE OCCUPIER OF FOREST VIEW. When Mason, Detective-Sergeant, C.I.D., with crestfallen air narrated the history of his adventures with the elusive Mrs Saxton, he had expected his chief to indulge in a few sarcastic comments. But Smeaton only shrugged his shoulders expressively. After all, he had come off only second best in his encounter with her himself. "A very clever woman, Mason," he said, after some hesitation. "I found that out at the start. It means she has made a bolt of it. It will be some time before Hyde Park Mansions sees her again." He was right. Three days elapsed, and the fugitive did not return. On the fourth, Mason, acting in accordance with instructions, went boldly up to the flat and rang the bell. The neat-looking maid told him that her mistress had gone abroad. Mason affected to be very much put out. "Dear me, it's very annoying. I wanted to see her on most urgent business. Can you oblige me with her address?" "She didn't leave one, sir. She said she would be back in a month or six weeks, and would be travelling about from place to place all the time. She told us that any letters could wait till her return." Mason observed her sharply while she gave this information in quite a natural manner. She seemed a simple, innocent kind of girl. Of course, she might be in league with the escaped woman, but he was rather inclined to believe she was telling the truth. Mrs Saxton had begun to find the atmosphere a trifle uncomfortable, and had duped her servants with this story of going abroad, he reasoned with himself. She might give London itself a wide berth, but she was somewhere near where she could be in pretty close touch with her friends. Of that he was certain. Things, therefore, were at a deadlock as concerned Stent and this woman. Meanwhile, young Varney, confident that Farloe was a mysterious and important connecting link, kept a steady watch upon the chambers in Ryder Street. For the first three days his exertions went unrewarded. But on the fourth he followed Farloe in a taxi to the Great Eastern Hotel, in Liverpool Street, where he was joined by a man whom, by his strongly marked aquiline features and piercing eyes, he suspected to be the elusive Stent. When the pair left the hotel, he followed them. It was the luncheon hour, and the city streets were crowded. For full five minutes he kept them in sight, and then he became separated and lost them. On the second occasion he was more fortunate. About three o'clock one afternoon the pair came forth from Farloe's chambers, and together walked leisurely, talking earnestly the while. As far as Victoria Station they went together to the Brighton line. There they parted. The elder man entered the booking-hall of the London and Brighton line, and asked for a ticket to Horsham. Varney did the same. It was a slow train, and half-empty. When Horsham was reached, only three passengers alighted: himself, the man he was watching, and a young woman. He inquired of the ticket-collector if at any place near he could hire a cycle, as he thought of coming down for a week's holiday, and would like to explore the country for an hour or so. The man directed him to a shop close by. He seemed a very civil young fellow, and Varney chatted with him for a few seconds. "By the way," he said, as he moved away. "That gentleman who went out just now--isn't he Mr Emerson, the well-known barrister?" The young man shook his head. "No, sir. Mr Strange has recently come to live here, about five months ago. He's taken Forest View, an old-fashioned house a mile and a half away." "Curious," remarked the amateur detective, in a voice of well-feigned surprise. "Really, how very easily one may be mistaken. I see Mr Emerson three or four times each week, and I could have sworn it was he." The ticket-collector smiled civilly, but made no reply. He was not interested in this sudden creation of Varney's lively imagination. The journalist crossed to the cycle shop and there hired a machine, paying down the usual deposit. He wheeled it until he met a small boy, from whom he inquired the whereabouts of Forest View. He was on the right road, the boy informed him. The house with green iron gates lay on the left-hand side. His machine would take him there in a few minutes. However, he did not mount it, as in that case he would quickly overtake Mr Strange, who was proceeding there on foot. He preferred that this gentleman should get there first, so as to give him an opportunity of having a good look round. Twenty minutes' easy walking brought him to the big iron gates of Forest View. He had seen the man disappear within, about a couple of hundred yards in front of him. There was not a soul in sight; he could reconnoitre at his leisure. The house, old-fashioned, low and rather rambling, lay well back from the white high road, at right angles to it. A thick hedge led up to within a few feet of the entrance. It seemed to boast a fair piece of ground, at least three acres. The entrance to some rather dilapidated stabling was lower down the road. He felt a sense of triumph. Smeaton, he knew, was still searching for Stent, and he, the amateur, had forestalled him. Was he right, after all, in his surmise that by some curious lapse the man of wider experience had left Farloe out of his calculations, and the man Stent was identical with the man Strange? His survey finished, he mounted his machine, and rode along, thinking out his plans. "Find a nice comfortable inn somewhere near, but not too close, pose as an artist out for a brief holiday, and find out all there is to be found about the mysterious Mr Strange," was the result of his meditations. A mile lower down the road he came upon a small, old-fashioned inn, with a swinging sign, and trailing roses over the porch and walls. There he entered, and called for some refreshment. "Thirsty with your ride--eh, sir?" asked the landlord pleasantly. "A bit, although I haven't ridden very far yet. I hired a machine in the town in order to have a look round. I want a week's holiday badly, and I should like to hit upon some quiet quarters about here. It seems a nice piece of country." The landlord pricked up his ears. "Perhaps it's the George in Horsham you might prefer." "Oh dear no! I want an old-fashioned inn, like this. But I suppose you don't take guests?" The fat landlord glanced at him hesitatingly. Varney was attired in a well-cut Norfolk suit, and his plush Homburg hat must have hailed from Bond Street. He looked the sort of man for a fashionable hotel, not an obscure bacon-and-egg inn. "Well, sir, we do now and again. We don't pretend to do you like the big places with French dishes and that sort of thing. But my wife is a good plain cook, and you won't get better meat and chickens than we have." Terms were soon arranged. Varney--or Mr Franks as he announced himself to the landlord--would come down to-morrow, bringing with him a few sketching materials. Next day Varney returned with a portable easel, and other paraphernalia appertaining to his supposed art. He had not been in the house half-an-hour before he engaged the landlord in a conversation about the local gentry. And it was soon deftly focussed upon the owner of Forest View. Mr Peter Chawley was by nature a gregarious and communicative soul. He was only reticent when policy or prudence counselled such a course of action. "Mr Strange has been here about five months," he informed young Varney, in his fat, somewhat wheezy voice, "but we don't know very much about him. When he first came, he used to go up to London pretty often, but for some time he has hardly stirred out of the house." "Has he any acquaintances in the place?" Mr Chawley shook his head. "Doesn't want any, so he told the Vicar when he called upon him. Said he had come here for a quiet life, and wanted to get away from his business in London and the friends he had already. Of course, that was a pretty broad hint--so nobody called. He doesn't deal with anybody here for a pennyworth of matches. Gets everything from London." "What household has he? And is he a widower, or bachelor, or married?" "Told the Vicar he was a widower. He has three maids: the cook, a middle-aged woman, housemaid, and parlourmaid--all three he brought with him. The gardener's a local man, a young chap, and comes in here once in a while; but he knows no more than the rest of us. He hardly ever enters the house, and the maids don't chatter." Forest View was a household that evidently kept its own secrets. The maids did not chatter, even to the young local gardener. Mystery here, thought Varney, without a doubt. It was his business to fathom it. Was he really Stent? That was the point. "He got the house pretty cheap," went on Mr Chawley, who was not easily stopped when he indulged in reminiscence, "because it had been unlet for five years. It's a funny old place, all nooks and corners, without any modern convenience. Some people say it's haunted, and I've heard that there is a secret room in it, like what they used to hide the priests in in the old days." A mysterious house, with a mysterious owner, truly, thought Varney, as the landlord rambled on. "Does he have anybody to see him?" "He never seems to have had but one visitor, a gentleman rather older than himself. He used to run down for two or three days at a time. For some time now he's been staying with him altogether." Varney pricked up his ears. Was he going to discover anything useful? "Do you know his friend's name?" he asked eagerly. "No, sir. The gardener has never heard it, but then, as I say, he hardly ever goes inside the house." The next day, and the day after, Varney watched Forest View closely. From the roadway he had a fairly clear view of the sloping lawn. But neither its occupier nor his visitor were tempted out by the beautiful weather. They were certainly an extraordinary pair to shut themselves up in a gloomy house on these bright sunshiny days. On the third day, however, both emerged from their seclusion, and sauntered on to the lawn. The visitor seemed to stoop slightly, and walk with the languid air of a man who had recently recovered from an illness. They walked about only for a little while, and, as they went back into the house, Varney, from his hiding-place behind the hedge, heard Mr Strange say: "Well, if you think you feel fit enough, we will walk into Horsham after lunch. We can drive back. It may do you good." An idea had formed itself in Varney's brain, fitting in with one of the theories he had formed about this remarkable case. A little after one o'clock the supposed artist stole through the door of the inn, a basket in one hand, a good-sized bag in the other. A few yards down the road he disappeared up a side road, crossed a field, and advanced towards an old disused barn which he had noted on the previous day, and slipped inside. A few moments later there issued a strange and shabbily dressed figure, with a slouching walk. On his left arm hung a basket, full of roses, which had been bought a short time ago from Mrs Chawley. They were so beautiful, Varney told her, that he must paint them. In the guise of a decrepit flower-seller he limped along to the narrow main street of Horsham, and hung about till the pair from Forest View arrived, when he faced them and advancing towards them with his basket before him, he whined when he had got up to them: "Buy a bunch of roses, sir. Threepence a bunch. All fresh picked, sir." "No," said Strange gruffly, "we don't want any, got lots of them," and the pair turned away in ignorance that within that basket, concealed by the flowers, was a small detective camera by which a snapshot of both of them had already been cleverly secured in secret. Varney made his way back at once to the old barn, where he discarded his shabby jacket and cap. Early next morning he was on his way to Smeaton. He had a hope that his investigations had been fruitful, but he could not be sure. Certainly the face and figure of the man Strange answered to the description of the person named Stent whom Scotland Yard had been unable to trace. Having developed and printed the photograph at his own rooms, he was shown into Smeaton's bare official sanctum which overlooked Westminster Bridge, when the celebrated official rose and gripped his hand. "Well, Varney?" he asked, "have you done anything in the Monkton mystery--eh?" "Yes. A bit. Look here. Is this Stent--or not? If it is. I've found him." The detective took the damp print and examined it curiously in the light by the window. "Well--the only man who can really identify it is our friend at the Savoy Hotel. Let's take a taxi and go and see him." CHAPTER THIRTEEN. CONTAINS FURTHER DISCOVERIES. They found the hall-porter at the Savoy hotel, and showed him the print. It was not a very wonderful specimen of the photographer's art, but it was enough for Smeaton's old friend. "That's him--right enough!" the man in uniform exclaimed. "And you say that you were told his name was Stent by the lady we spoke about, and this gentleman has discovered him under another name. Well, I always thought there was something mysterious about him." After such confirmation it could no longer be doubted that Varney had run the supposed Stent to earth. He felt a distinct sense of triumph. He had hoped his exertions might have produced some startling results, but still, he had done something. Smeaton was not an envious man, and congratulated him heartily. "It's really a feather in your cap, my dear Varney," he said amiably. "You got on the right track this time." Varney thanked him for his encouraging words. "Now, what's the next move? I leave it to you." Smeaton thought a few seconds before he answered. When he spoke, he voiced the man's inmost thoughts. "I think the best thing you can do is to go back and keep up the sketching business. We want to find out all we can about that house and its mysterious inmates. And we especially want to know something about that invalid visitor. There is just a chance, of course, that you may find Mrs Saxton popping up there." As all this exactly coincided with his own theory, Varney acquiesced readily. He would go back to Horsham the next day, and resume his watch on Forest View. "You can't be watching in two places at once," added Smeaton presently. "So we will take up Farloe." So it was decided. Mrs Saxton having disappeared, with small likelihood of her return, there remained three people to be shadowed: the secretary, Bolinski, and the man who went by the name of Strange, and who, for reasons of his own, was keeping away from the Savoy, and coming to London as seldom as possible. Varney's discovery, of which he was not a little proud, was duly reported to Sheila by the young man himself, who called upon her as soon as he had left Smeaton. She could not but admire his energy and determination, and she told him so, in no measured terms. But when he had gone, she could not help thinking how futile it all seemed. "They all find a little something, and then they seem to come up against a dead end," she said to Wingate, when he paid her his usual daily visit. "Weeks have gone by, and the mystery is as deep as ever. How can it be otherwise? What have they got to go upon?" And Wingate, taking her slender hand in his and pressing it, agreed that it was so. He felt, as she did, that anything would be better than this horrible uncertainty. They had grown very dear to each other in these dark and dismal days. She had liked him from the first, and recognised in him one of those straight, clean-living young Englishmen to whom a girl might safely entrust her life and happiness. He was so tender, so chivalrous, so sympathetic. If, for a few moments, she threw off the heavy load of sorrow weighing upon her, and showed some semblance of her former bright spirit, he fell at once into her mood. And if she preferred silence, her sorrow-laden eyes filled with tears, he sat silent too, only evincing by a glance, or the pressure of her hand, that he understood and sympathised. It was not a time for ardent love-making. But for this tragedy in her life, he might never have summoned courage to make love to her at all. The daughter of Reginald Monkton, the rich and popular statesman, seemed so far out of his reach. With her beauty and her advantages, she could aspire to a brilliant match. Her position now, that of a lonely and orphaned girl, had altered everything, and swept away social barriers. Insensibly, she had been drawn to him, till it seemed he was part of her life. And a time came when he could tell her of the desire of his heart. One evening, when they had been saying good-bye, she had suddenly broken down, and burst into bitter sobbing. He had taken her in his arms, and whispered soothing words, while his pulses beat at the contact of her slender form. She had lain in the big chair, crying more quietly as he strove to comfort her. And then she had lifted up her pitiful face to his, and said: "Oh! Austin, how good and gentle you are with me. How could I have borne it without you?" He took heart of grace at those tender words. His clasp round her tightened. "I have been of some help to you, then, dearest?" "The greatest," she answered fervently. "If you did not come to me every day, I think I should go mad." He bent down and laid his lips upon her bowed head. "Dearest, if I have been able to comfort you now, could you let me comfort and cherish you all my life? It is hardly a time to speak of such things, but I have loved you from the first moment we met--do you remember that day on the river, and afterwards, when I saw you at Hendon, and you asked me to call?" "Yes, I remember," she said in a low whisper. "Well, dearest, even if the worst should befall, you will want somebody to share your grief with you till time heals your sorrow. I shall not press you till the first bitterness has passed. Then, when you feel you can take up your life again, may I come to you, and repeat what I have said to-night?" "Yes. Come again some day when my tears have had time to dry, and I will answer as you wish." Reverently he kissed the lips that were still trembling from her recent emotion. That night he seemed to walk on air when he left the house, where he had spent so many happy hours before this terrible tragedy had overtaken them. He had loved her in the bloom and brightness of her youthful beauty, courted and caressed by all who knew her, the idol of her father, the light of his home, moving like a young princess among her subjects. But he loved her ten times more now--pale and sad, with sorrow for her companion day and night. Meanwhile, down at Forest View things were going very quietly. Varney had long chats with the landlord, and of an evening he picked up a few acquaintances in the inn, and talked with them, always leading the conversation round to the subject of Mr Strange. But he could discover nothing of any value. Nobody knew anything of the man's antecedents. As a matter of fact, he did not seem to interest anybody in the place. They simply regarded him as an eccentric sort of person who wished to have nothing to do with his neighbours. He learned that, immediately on his arrival. Strange had ordered a telephone to be installed. He also gathered from the local postman, whose acquaintance he cultivated, that very few letters were received. Further, that most of them were in a feminine hand. And these had been coming rather more frequently of late. He at once jumped to the conclusion that the female correspondent was Mrs Saxton. But that did not help him much. They knew already that Strange and she were closely connected. The two maids walked down to Horsham occasionally. So far he had not set eyes upon the cook, who, apparently, did not require any change of scene. He was a presentable young fellow enough, and he imagined it would not be difficult to scrape up an acquaintance with the young women. The one whom he took to be the parlourmaid, by her superior bearing, was a good-looking girl. He tried her first. He opened his campaign by overtaking her on the road, and remarking on the pleasantness of the weather. If she resembled the majority of her class, she would not object to exchanging a few remarks with a decent-looking member of the other sex. For himself, he was quite prepared to indulge in a flirtation, even a little mild love-making, if it would enable him to worm something out of her about the mysterious inmates of Forest View. But the parlourmaid was one too many for him. She made no answer to his remark, and when he continued to walk along beside her, in the hope that her silence was only meant for coquetry, she stopped suddenly and faced him. "Look here, young man," she said, regarding him with a distinctly hostile countenance; "I'll thank you not to address any more remarks to me. I suppose you think yourself a gentleman, and because I'm in service I shall be flattered by your taking notice of me. Well, just understand I'm not that sort. When you meet me again, perhaps you'll remember it." She quickened her footsteps, and left Varney feeling very foolish. It was a rebuff alike to the man and the amateur detective. Yes, he had blundered. She had a good figure, and she carried herself well, walking with a light springy step. She was dressed plainly in neat but evidently inexpensive clothes, such as were suitable to her class. If she had been attired in proper garments, she would have been taken for a young lady immediately. The thing that puzzled him most was her voice. She had addressed him as "young man," and there was a certain blunt insolence in her remarks which negatived the idea of refinement. But even if her speech had been absolutely vulgar, the voice was unmistakably high-bred and cultivated; in a word, the voice of a lady. How came it that Mr Strange's parlourmaid wore the clothes of a servant, and spoke in the tones of a highly educated young woman? It was one more mystery. Nothing daunted, he pursued the same tactics with the housemaid when he met her walking alone. She was a plain girl, evidently of a different class. At the start she was more civil, but after a minute or two, during which she had given the briefest answers to his ingratiating questions, she had turned upon him like the other, only in a less hostile manner, and explained to him that she did not desire either his conversation or his company. She was a little more polite than the parlourmaid, but that was all. She addressed him respectfully but firmly. "Excuse me, sir, but if it's the same to you, I'd rather walk alone. I'm not fond of making the acquaintance of gentlemen I know nothing about." Poor Varney felt he was not a success with the fair sex. Or did they suspect him? A further piece of information, however, he got from his friend the postman. He had asked Wingate and Sheila to occasionally put a blank sheet of paper in an envelope, and address it to him under the name of Franks, to keep up appearances. He met the man one morning outside Forest View and asked if there were any letters for him. "None by this post, sir. Never had such a light round. This is the last; it's for Mr Gregory, at Forest View, the gentleman what's staying there." So Gregory was the name of the invalid, who kept so closely to the house. But Gregory, no doubt, was an assumed name, like Stent alias Strange. CHAPTER FOURTEEN. THE CIPHER OF THE TWO C'S. "I am going to ask you a question, dearest; I fear it is a painful one, but I think it ought to be put." It was Austin Wingate who spoke. He had dined with Sheila at Chesterfield Street, and after dinner the lovers had gone to her own sitting-room, which was on the first floor. She looked at him steadfastly. "Painful or not, Austin, please put it. You would not hurt me, I know, unless you felt it was absolutely necessary." "Of course not, Sheila," answered the young man fervently. "In our anxiety to solve this mystery concerning your father we must shrink from nothing. The question I am going to ask you, dear, is this: Have you ever had any cause to suspect there was some hidden mystery in your father's life? Do not be offended--will you?" She smiled faintly. "What is called a skeleton in the cupboard, you mean--eh? It seems impossible when one comes to consider the kind of man he was. In political matters he was reserved; that was natural. I have heard him laugh often over the efforts of people to draw him. But, in every other respect he seemed as frank and open as the day." "He gave me that impression certainly," assented Wingate. "During my mother's lifetime I don't know that I counted greatly in his life. He was so wrapped up in her that he seemed to have no room for anybody else," went on the girl, in a musing voice. "Then, after her death, and when his first passionate grief died down, he listened to me. I could not hope to fill her place, but I became very necessary to him. He has told me many times that but for me he would have been the most miserable man on earth. I gave him new interests, and weaned him away from his sad thoughts." Wingate leaned forward, and kissed her tenderly upon the brow. "You were born for the _role_ of ministering angel, my darling," he declared. She thanked him with a grateful glance for the pretty compliment. "You ask me if I ever had cause to suspect that there was some hidden mystery in his life. I can only answer, none. His life seemed to me like an open book, that all who ran might read." Wingate was silent for a little time. This was the impression made upon his daughter, an only child, who would have the most intimate opportunity of judging him. It was the impression he had made upon close friends and casual acquaintances alike. And yet who could be sure? A man trained to the law, versed in public affairs, was he likely to wear his heart upon his sleeve? When he spoke, it was in a hesitating voice: "I agree that intuition is a very safe guide in many instances. And I believe with you that your father's life was a blameless one. Still, there is one little thing we must not overlook." "And that little thing?" she questioned in a low voice. "What was the connection between him and the man whom they have identified as Bolinski? Why does a man in his position make an appointment with a person so evidently not of his own world, unless to discuss something of a secret and mysterious nature? Remember where they met, in a little hole-and-corner restaurant in Soho." "It has puzzled me, I admit," replied Sheila. "It is strange, too, that he told me nothing of the appointment, for he used to inform me of his most trivial movements. Thinking over it, as I have over every other incident, I believe it was connected with politics--there are plenty of under-currents in them, as we know. He would not say anything to me about this meeting for fear I might drop an incautious word to some of our friends." "It is evident that he apprehended no treachery from this man," was Wingate's next remark, "or he would have taken some means to safeguard himself. I mean, for one thing, he would not have left the House of Commons alone. It may be, as you suggest, that this curious meeting, in an out-of-the-way and obscure restaurant, may have had some political motive. But I can hardly bring myself to believe it. I am sure that what brought such a strangely assorted couple together was a private and personal matter." "And that we have no means of knowing," said Sheila sadly. He was glad that she had not resented his question, and the suggestions that arose from it. It emboldened him to proceed. "As I have said, it is our duty to leave no stone unturned, to look even in unlikely places for any fresh evidence which might afford a clue. There must be a mass of papers in this house I think you ought to go through them, darling." She gave a little cry. "Oh!" she said in a tearful voice. "It seems almost like sacrilege." "If such a search were conducted by other hands, it might be so, but assuredly not in your case." She thought a little, and her common-sense came to her aid. "You are quite right, Austin, as you always are. It will be a terrible task, but, as you say, we must leave no stone unturned. I will begin to-morrow, and keep on till I have finished." He called late next day, and found that she had got about half-way through the various piles. But so far she had found nothing of importance. "I came across a few diaries. He seems to have kept them for the best part of five years, and then dropped the practice. They contain records of appointments, whom he met, and political events, but there's not a single entry that throws any light upon this affair." "I wonder if Farloe has any of his papers, or, more likely still, has abstracted any?" said Wingate in a musing voice. Sheila shuddered at the name. "No wonder that I always hated him," she cried vehemently. "Shall we ever learn the part he played in this mystery?" It took her a few days to go through her task, for she was fearful of missing a line in those carefully docketed piles of papers. But it was all to no purpose. If there had been a secret in Reginald Monkton's life, no evidence had been preserved in these documents. "Newsom-Perry is pretty sure to have some papers in his possession," said Wingate, when she had finished her futile task. "I want to spare you everything I can, dear. Will you give me a note to him, and I will ask him to hand them over to you?" Mr Newsom-Perry was Monkton's solicitor, the head of the firm which had acted for the missing statesman, and his father before him. Wingate presented himself at Lincoln's Inn Fields, and sent in his sweetheart's note. The solicitor, a genial, kindly-looking man of fifty or thereabouts, welcomed the young man cordially. "Pleased to see you, Mr Wingate," he said, as they shook hands. "Poor Monkton has spoken to me several times of you, in warm terms. I understand that you were a frequent visitor at the house before the sad event." Wingate explained that he was with Sheila awaiting her father, on the night when the dying man was brought to Chesterfield Street. The shrewd, kindly eyes watched him as he made the explanation. Mr Newsom-Perry had his own ideas as to how matters stood between the young couple. "And what can I do for you, Mr Wingate?" "We thought it pretty certain that you would have some papers of Mr Monkton's here. If that is the case, would you let his daughter look through them, in the hope of finding something that might throw a light upon the case?" "Under the circumstances, by all means, Mr Wingate. Of course, we have got all his business documents, leases, and that kind of thing. Those would be useless for your purpose?" "I should say, quite useless." "But I have a couple of boxes of private papers which he brought about two years ago. He had been sorting out, he said, and his own house was as full as it could hold. Knowing we had plenty of room, he thought we would not mind storing them. I will send them round some time to-day. When she has gone through them perhaps Miss Monkton will let me have them back until, until--" He laughed, and did not finish the sentence. "I quite understand. Now I will take up as little time as possible, but there are one or two questions I should like to ask you, if I may." The solicitor nodded genially. "Go on, sir." "I take it that, having known Mr Monkton all your life, and your firm having acted for his father, you were entirely in your client's confidence." "That is so. Monkton and I were personal friends, as well as solicitor and client. We were at Cambridge together, before either of us commenced our respective careers." "Has he, to your knowledge, ever made any active enemies?" "Not that I know of. Political enemies, no doubt, he has by the score-- myself included. But you know what English politics are. It's a fair stand-up fight, and the loser grumbles a bit, but bears no rancour. Men abuse each other across the floor of the House, and are good friends again in the smoking-room." "One other question, a somewhat delicate one, and I have done. Had he ever an entanglement of any kind, the effects of which might pursue him in later life?" The solicitor rubbed his chin, and quite frankly replied: "Not to my knowledge. That does not, however, conclusively prove a negative." "But you were close personal friends, in addition to your business relation. Would it not be natural that, under such circumstances, he would come to you for advice?" There seemed an extra gleam of shrewdness in the solicitor's eyes as he answered: "In such circumstances as you suggest it is by no means easy to predict what course a man would take. If Monkton had got into some entanglement that, to put it bluntly--although, mind you, I don't believe such a thing occurred--reflected some doubt either on his character or on his intelligence, it is just as likely as not that his old friend would be the last person to whom he would care to expose himself. He would be equally likely to go to a stranger." Wingate was fain to admit the force of the argument. "One can never be sure of any man, even if you have known him all your life," he added, as they shook hands. "Nobody knows that better than our profession. But I would stake my existence that there were no skeletons in Monkton's cupboard. The man was as straight as a die, and he was passionately attached to his beautiful wife. Well, Mr Wingate, give my best regards to dear Miss Sheila. I will send those boxes round to-day." He was as good as his word. Late in the afternoon they arrived, and Sheila at once set to work reading the various papers, not, it must be confessed, in a very hopeful spirit. But when Wingate came round in the evening he found her in a state of greatest excitement. She took from an envelope a letter containing only a few words and passed it to him. "Read that, and tell me what you make of it," she said. "There is no formal beginning, and no signature. But you see it is addressed to my father, and was evidently delivered by hand." Upon the flap of the faded envelope Wingate saw some initials, two C's in a cipher scroll embossed in black, an old-fashioned monogram such as was in vogue in the early "sixties." Then he read upon the half-sheet of notepaper, traced in a bold hand in ink that was brown, as follows: "You have ruined and disgraced me, and forced me to fly the country and become a wanderer on the face of the earth. Well, I will be even with you. I will wait, if necessary all my life, till my turn comes. Then, when it does, I will strike you at the zenith of your career, and mete out to you the suffering you have dealt to me." CHAPTER FIFTEEN. IN WHICH SMEATON MAKES A DISCOVERY. Wingate laid down the letter and looked at Sheila, who was regarding him expectantly. "What do you make of it?" she repeated. "It is evident that he had an enemy, and a very bitter one," answered her lover. "The sentences are deliberate, but they appear to have been written by a man who was in a white heat of passion when he penned them." "Smeaton ought to see that letter, without loss of time, dear," she said. "I quite agree. His trained intelligence may get more out of it than we can. I will make an appointment with him for to-morrow morning, and I will be here when he comes." Smeaton arrived next morning, hoping that at last he might discover a substantial clue. He read the brief note carefully and deliberately. "Is it important, do you think?" inquired Sheila eagerly. "In my opinion it is of very considerable importance. Miss Monkton," he replied. "I think it will help us." "It certainly proves that he had a secret enemy," interjected Wingate, "and one who would hesitate at nothing that would secure him revenge." "I quite agree, sir. The letter breathes the most intense hatred in every line. The motive of that hatred we have got to discover." Then the detective, turning to Sheila, said: "Now, Miss Monkton, there is a little information that I am sure you will be able to give us. I am not so well posted in your father's biography as I ought to be. But, before he became a prominent politician, I understand that he was a barrister with an extensive and lucrative practice." "That is so," corroborated Sheila. "He did not often talk about those times, but I have always understood that he made quite a big income at the Bar." "And when did he retire from his profession?" "About fifteen years ago." "And he resolved to say good-bye to the Bar and devote himself entirely to politics?" Sheila nodded. "That is quite true. He had a very firm opinion that a man could not serve two masters." "Was he on the Chancery or the Common Law side?" was Smeaton's next question. "On the Common Law," replied Sheila. "But why do you ask that question?" "You shall know in good time. Miss Monkton. Well, we may take it, then, that this vindictive letter was written more than fifteen years ago." "While he was still at the Bar," interrupted Wingate, who was beginning to realise the point of the detective's reasoning. "You are assuming that this venomous epistle did not come from a political enemy." "It is an assumption for which I have reasonable grounds," was Smeaton's answer. "There has been no bitterness in party politics ever since Mr Monkton became a conspicuous figure in the House. And we know that, while he was most popular with his own side, he was respected and liked by his political opponents." "Is it too much to ask you to give us the benefit of any theory you have formed, Mr Smeaton?" suggested Sheila, in her pretty, gracious way. "With all the pleasure in life, my dear young lady. This letter goes back, in my opinion, to your father's barrister days, when he was one of the foremost counsel in England. I asked you just now whether he was on the Equity or the Common Law side, and you wondered why I asked the question." "I am still wondering," said Sheila simply. "On the Equity side they try all sorts of cases concerned with points of law, the majority of them of a very dry and uninteresting character. I should not look in an Equity case for a defeated litigant who would turn into a vindictive enemy of the type of the writer of this letter." The young people began to see, as yet very dimly, whither he was leading them. "On the Common Law side, on the contrary, we are brought into the world of human passion and emotion; one in which the issues of life or death are at stake. We will suppose that your father, in the plenitude of his powers, is retained as counsel against some adroit rogue, some swindling company promoter, for example, who up to that moment had managed to keep himself well on the right side of the law." They began to see light, and listened with the closest attention. "We will say this swindler, a more than usually clever rascal, is living in luxury with his ill-gotten gains, when he makes a slip that brings him within reach of the long arm of justice. One of his victims (or perhaps several in combination) brings an action against him for the return of the money he has inveigled out of him by his lying prospectuses. He employs big counsel to defend him, but your father wins his case. The wealthy rogue is forced to disgorge, finds his occupation gone, and is reduced to penury." Sheila nodded to show that she was following his argument. "I am assuming for a moment that it is a civil action, and that it disclosed sufficient evidence to justify his arrest on a criminal charge later on. I deduce that from the fact that he was not a convicted felon at the time of writing that letter, otherwise he would not have been able to write and send it to your father. The meaning of the words `forced me to fly the country' indicate, in my opinion, that he was in hourly fear of arrest." "It seems a very feasible theory," remarked Wingate. "The rest is easy to understand. He nourishes a morbid hatred for the man who has been the means of menacing his liberty, and driving him from the society he polluted. He regards him as a personal enemy, not merely the instrument of the justice he has defied. While smarting under this, to his distorted ideas, sense of wrong, he pens the letter and has it conveyed to your father by some trusted confederate. As there is no stamp or postmark on it, it was conveyed by hand." Wingate looked at Sheila, and she returned his glance. They were both greatly impressed by the detective's clear reasoning. Smeaton took up the half-sheet of notepaper, and submitted it to a close observation. "The man who wrote it is, I should judge, a keen business man of methodical habits, inclined to neatness, of a strong but not impulsive character. An impulsive man would have torn the sheet across, leaving a rough and jagged edge. It has been pressed down with the finger and thumb, and then carefully cut." He held the small sheet up to the light, and made further observations. "A peculiar paper, peculiar, I mean, as to the texture. The watermark, in its entirety, is, fortunately for us, on this half-sheet. That enables us to trace where it comes from. Come here for a moment and stand beside me." They did so, followed his pointing finger, and saw a shield bearing a coat-of-arms, and beneath, the words: "Westford Mill." "That will help you," cried Sheila eagerly. "I hope so. It is, as I said, a paper of peculiar texture, and doubtless many tons of it have been sold. If, as I guess, it is now off the market, I shall be compelled to fix a date. If I do that, it would considerably narrow the field of my inquiries." After a little further conversation, Smeaton took his leave with the letter in his possession. Sheila and Wingate, when they were alone, indulged in mutual admiration of his powers of analysis and deduction. The detective, an hour later, looked in upon Mr Newsom-Perry, with whom he was slightly acquainted, and handed him the document. "We found this amongst the papers you sent to Miss Monkton," he explained. "I called on the chance of finding that your client had spoken to you, at one time or another, of some man who sent him a threatening letter. I may say that we have found no allusion to it amongst the other papers." "Which seems to show that Monkton did not attach any importance to it himself, I should say," remarked the solicitor. "No, so far as I am concerned he never alluded to the matter. You attach some importance to it--eh?" "Some," replied Smeaton guardedly. "Of course, you have a wider experience of these things than I, and you are wise to neglect no possible clue. Still, I should think that any big counsel in extensive practice has many letters of this kind from impulsive and angry litigants, who regard him as the author of their ruin." Smeaton rose. "It may be so," he said quietly. "This man was angry, but he was not impulsive; the handwriting alone proves that. He wrote the letter at white heat, but he is of a resolute and determined character." Even though the writer of the anonymous threat had overlooked the fact that a watermark was on the paper, the latter point was not half so easy to clear up as Sheila and Wingate expected. To the chief firms of paper makers and paper agents in the City Smeaton, through the following days, showed a tracing of the watermark, but without result. Nobody could identify it. The managing director of one firm of paper agents in Queen Victoria Street declared it to be a foreign paper, even though it was marked "Westford Mill." "The vogue for English notepaper on the Continent has led French and German mills to produce so-called `English writing paper'," he added. "And if I am not mistaken this is a specimen." For nearly a week Smeaton prosecuted his inquiries of stationers, wholesale and retail, in all parts of the metropolis, taking with him always the tracing of the watermark. He did not carry the letter, for obvious reasons. One day at a small retail stationer's in the Tottenham Court Road, when he showed the tracing to the elderly shopkeeper, the man exclaimed: "Oh, yes! I've seen that before. It's foreign. When I was an assistant at Grimmel and Grice's in Bond Street, Mr Grice bought a quantity of it from Paris because of its unusual colour and texture. It was quite in vogue for a time, and it could only be obtained from us." "Then all of this particular paper came from Grimmel and Grice's?" "Certainly, sir, I recollect the `Westford Mill' well. We supplied it to half the aristocracy of London." Smeaton, much pleased with his discovery, took a taxi to Bond Street, and entering the fashionable stationers' addressed himself to the first person he saw, a young man of about twenty-five. "Do you make this paper nowadays?" he asked. The shopman examined it, and shook his head. "No, sir, that paper has not been sold here since I've been in the business." "And how long would that be?" "A matter of six years or so." "I am anxious to make some further inquiries," said Smeaton, after a moment's pause. "Who is the oldest assistant in the shop?" "Mr Morgan, sir. He's been with Grimmel and Grice a matter of nearly fifty years, man and boy. He's on the other side. I will take you to him." Smeaton was introduced to the veteran Mr Morgan, an alert-looking man, in spite of his years. Smeaton explained his name and errand, adding that he was from Scotland Yard. Morgan at once became interested. He looked at the watermark. "I remember that paper well," he said at length. "It had a tremendous vogue for a little time; we couldn't get it over from Paris fast enough. Then it went as suddenly out of fashion." "I suppose you can't help me with any dates?" "Oh, but indeed I can, Mr Smeaton. I have a wonderful memory for everything connected with the business. Old Mr Grice used to say that my memory was as good as the firm's books. The paper started just twenty-five years ago, and it ran for five years. After that, no more was made." Smeaton expressed his gratitude. Mr Morgan's excellent memory would shorten his labours considerably. "Can you give me any clue to these letters on the envelope, I wonder?" But here Mr Morgan was at fault. "We supplied hundreds upon hundreds of customers at the time. And all our old ledgers were burnt in our fire fifteen years ago. But I think I recognise the workmanship of the cipher. I should say that stamp was cut by Millingtons in Clerkenwell Road. They made a speciality of that kind of thing years ago. If you go there, they may have some record. They're new people there now; old Mr Millington is my senior by ten years or more. He sold the business about fifteen years ago. But he is still alive, and lives somewhere in the Camberwell direction." Smeaton entered the address in his notebook, and shook Mr Morgan cordially by the hand. He would go to the Clerkenwell Road, and, if necessary, hunt up the ancient Mr Millington. If he possessed as good a memory as his friend some very useful information might be gathered. CHAPTER SIXTEEN. WHO WAS MONKTON'S ENEMY? At the dingy little shop in Clerkenwell Smeaton received a check. The proprietor was out, and a stupid-looking youth who was in charge could give no information. He turned the envelope listlessly in his fingers, handed it back to the detective, and suggested that he should call later in the day, when his master would be in. The business bore the appearance of decay, Smeaton thought, and if the master should prove no more intelligent than his assistant, it would only be a waste of time to question him. Subsequently he called and saw the head of the declining firm, and from him learnt that the last he had heard of old Mr Millington was that he was living in New Church Road, Camberwell. He at once took a taxi there, but on arrival was sadly disappointed to see that the house was to let, and that inquiries were to be made of a firm of house-agents. He was soon at their office, and here he found an intelligent clerk, to whom he explained that he wished to make a few inquiries. "I seem to remember the name," said the clerk at length. "I believe he was the tenant when I first came into this business; a nice, quiet old man, who paid his rent on the day. The house has been let to two people since then." "Do you know where Millington went when he left?" But the clerk's mind was a blank on the subject. A bright idea, however, struck him, which, in a moment, would have occurred to Smeaton. "Look here, sir. Why don't you go and see the landlord, Mr Clarke? His house is in the Camberwell Road, only five minutes' walk from here." The detective thanked him, and armed with the address set forth on a fresh pilgrimage. In a few moments he was interviewing the landlord, a retired builder who had invested his savings in small property. "Pleased to give you any help I can," he said heartily, when the detective had explained the object of his visit. "I remember Millington well; very decent old chap he was too; paid his rent punctually. He moved away some years ago. I don't know where he went. But I don't think it matters much. I heard about twelve months ago that the old man was dead." Smeaton's face clouded. So all his inquiries had been waste of time. Millington would never throw any light upon the anonymous and threatening letter. He went back to Bond Street and saw Mr Morgan. "I am told that Mr Millington is dead," he said to him. "I suppose you had not heard of it?" Morgan looked surprised. "When did he die, sir?" "My informant told me he heard of it about a year ago." "A mistake, sir, a mistake, somebody of the same name," cried Mr Morgan. "Two months ago I met him in the Strand, and we chatted for a few seconds. We didn't say much to each other for I was in a hurry to get back to the shop." "He never mentioned to you that he had left Camberwell?" "No; as he said nothing about it I took it for granted that he was still there. But I don't suppose we exchanged a couple of dozen words altogether. I remember I told him he was looking as well as ever, and he laughed, and said he came of a long-lived family." Smeaton breathed again. An hour later he was back again at Camberwell, on the track of the retired engraver. A man cannot move a houseful of furniture without leaving some traces. After visits to half-a-dozen moving establishments, he hit upon the right one in the Walworth Road. The proprietor referred to his books, and gave Smeaton the information he wanted. The goods had been taken down by road to Beech Cottage, Lower Halliford, a little village in the Thames Valley. So far, so good. Unless he had been seized with another desire for change, Millington would be found at Beech Cottage, Lower Halliford. It was too late to pursue the affair further that day. Smeaton would run down the next morning. Millington was an old man; his wits would probably be brighter in the early hours. The morning found him knocking at the door of Beech Cottage, a pretty little cottage overhung with climbing roses, facing the river. The door was opened by a stout, pleasant-faced woman, whom he at once discovered to be Millington's niece and housekeeper. "My uncle is not very well this morning," she told him; "he suffers a good deal from asthma. But if you'll come into the parlour, I'll take your card in. He likes to see people when he can, for it's terribly dull down here." A moment later she reappeared. "My uncle will be glad to see you, sir. I was afraid he was a bit too poorly, but a visitor brightens him up at once. Please step this way." Mr Millington was seated in a small room overlooking a somewhat rough and uncultivated piece of garden at the back. He was a bright-looking old man, of small stature, with a wonderfully pink complexion, and small twinkling eyes. He was dressed in a nondescript sort of attire, a long frock-coat, a skullcap, and a pair of carpet slippers. "Sit down, sir, please," he said, in a voice that was cordial, if a trifle wheezy. "I see by your card you are from Scotland Yard--eh? What can I do for you?" Smeaton went to the point at once. "I heard of you from Morgan, of Grimmel and Grice. I went there to make a few inquiries, and he recommended me to you." Mr Millington nodded his head. "A very good fellow, Morgan; he always put as much business in my way as he could." "He directed me to you," Smeaton said, and he pulled out the envelope and handed it to Millington. "This kind of cipher Mr Morgan tells me was in great vogue between twenty and twenty-five years ago. He thinks that you cut it. Will you kindly examine it, and tell me if you recognise it as your handiwork?" The answer came readily: "It's mine, sure enough." "Good. The envelope itself is quite an ordinary one, as you see. Now, can you carry your mind back, and give me any particulars of the transaction? Can you tell for whom those letters were cut, and what they stand for?" Mr Millington put his hand to his forehead. "Let me think a moment," he said in the quavering voice of old age. "Let me think for a moment, and something will come back to me. At my time of life it's a good way to go back." Smeaton waited in silence for some little time, and then it seemed the old man had struck some chord of memory. Suddenly he sat upright in his easy-chair, and his eyes sparkled. "It is coming back by degrees," he said in his thin, husky voice; "it is coming back." There was another pause, in which it seemed he was trying to arrange his ideas clearly. Then he spoke slowly but distinctly. "I remember I had a lot of trouble over the job. The order was first given to some stationers in the City, but the gentleman was so fussy and confused in his instructions that they sent him down straight to me. I thought I understood what he wanted, but I had to engrave it three times before he was satisfied. That's why I happen to remember it so well." "Now, do you remember, or did you ever know, the name of this fussy person who was so hard to please?" "I ought to remember it," said Millington plaintively. "It was not an uncommon name either; I should recall it in a moment if I heard it. But it has escaped me." Smeaton's face clouded. "That's unfortunate, but it may come back to you presently. Proper names are the hardest things to remember as we get on in life." Millington struggled for a little time longer with the ebbing tide of reminiscence, but to no purpose. Smeaton went on another tack. "Did you bring away from your business any documents or memoranda that would throw light upon this particular transaction?" The old man reflected for a little while. "I'm afraid I was a very poor man of business, sir," he said at length. "I made rough notes from time to time as I received and executed orders, but that was all. I trusted to my memory, which in those days was a good one." "Have you any of those old note-books left?" "Yes, I've got some of them upstairs in a couple of boxes which have never been opened since I left the Clerkenwell Road. Would you like me to run through them? It would only mean half-a-day's work, or less." "I should be infinitely obliged if you would, Mr Millington. I will run down here about the same time to-morrow morning. Just one thing more before I go. Were you acquainted with your customer's handwriting? Did you ever receive any letters from him?" "He wrote me several times with regard to the work I did for him, but I shouldn't be able to recognise his hand, even if I saw it." Smeaton left, very much chagrined at the result of his visit. Next morning he, however, presented himself at Beech Cottage. Millington received him with an apologetic air. He explained that he had searched his note-books diligently, but he could find nothing that referred to the cipher letters, the two C's entwined, or the man who had ordered them. "I've a notion," he said, when he had finished his rather rambling statement, "that the gentleman who gave the order came from Manchester or Liverpool. But there I may be mixing it up with something else." And Smeaton left, knowing that nothing more could be got out of him. The identity of the writer of the threatening letter had yet to be discovered. Another point had suddenly occurred to him. Was the man who had had the cipher engraved the actual writer of the letter? And the greatest point of all was the whereabouts of the Stolen Statesman: was he dead, or was he still living? Smeaton ascended in the lift to his room at Scotland Yard, where a surprise awaited him, in the shape of a telegram from Varney, handed in at a village five miles from Horsham, in Sussex, three hours before. It read: "Come down here at once. Something unexpected.--Varney." CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. THE ROOM OF SECRETS. Smeaton at once hunted up the time-table. There was a fast train to Horsham in twenty minutes and he could just catch it. He ordered a telegram to be despatched to Varney at the inn which he had given as a rendezvous, stating the time at which he would arrive, and later found the young man at the door, awaiting him. "Thought I had better stop here till you arrived," he said as they shook hands, "otherwise I would have come to Horsham Station. But the Forest View people know me now, and I didn't want one of them to see me talking to a stranger. They might put two and two together." The two men ordered some refreshment, and adjourned to the snug little parlour, which was empty. "No fear of being disturbed here, Smeaton, at this time of day; I know the place well. There will be nobody near for hours, except a passing carter for a glass of beer, and he won't disturb us." "I was glad to have your wire," said the detective, "for I was beginning to get a bit anxious. For several hours now I have been on the track of what I thought was a warm scent, only to find it a cold one. I'll tell you about it when you have had your say." Varney plunged at once into his narrative. And certainly the story he had to tell was a very thrilling one. The main points were these. Having been in the neighbourhood for some time, and being of a gregarious disposition, he had picked up a few acquaintances, with whom he indulged in an occasional chat when the opportunity offered. All these people, he was sure, accepted his own explanation of his presence there, and did not for a moment suspect in the _soi-disant_ artist who rambled about with his sketching materials the young journalist so well-known in Fleet Street. He had become acquainted with a local doctor, Mr Janson, a man a few years older than himself, who had bought a practice in the neighbourhood quite recently. They had met, in the first instance, at the inn where Varney was staying, the doctor having been called in by the landlady to prescribe for some trifling ailment from which she was suffering. The two men had exchanged a few commonplace remarks, and bidden each other good-bye. Next day Varney overtook him on the road, and they walked into Horsham together. In the course of their journey a little personal history was exchanged, of course utterly fictitious on the side of the pretended artist. From the casual conversation there emerged certain facts. Mr Janson was a man of considerable culture, and of strong artistic leanings. More especially was he an ardent worshipper of the Old Masters. For several years his annual holiday had been spent in Italy, for which country, its galleries, and its associations he expressed the most fervent admiration. Varney, little knowing what was to come out of this chance acquaintance, soon established common grounds of interest. His mother had been an Italian, and he had spent ten years of his boyhood in that delightful land. He could speak the language like a native. Janson, who was a poor linguist, expressed his envy of the other's accomplishment. "I can read any Italian book you put before me, and I can make them understand what I want," he had told Varney. "But when they talk to me, I am lost. I can't catch the words, because the accent baffles me. If an Englishman were to talk Italian, I daresay I could follow him." They met several times afterwards, and the acquaintance ripened to such an extent that the doctor asked the young stranger to come round to his house, after the day's round was over, for a chat and a smoke. Janson was a bachelor; he had only been a few months in the neighbourhood, and had not as yet made many friends. A man who knew a good deal about the subject which interested him most, and could talk fairly well on art--for Varney was a connoisseur of no mean order--was a godsend to the man of medicine, sitting by himself in his lonely house. All this was the prelude to the startling facts which were the cause of Varney's urgent telegram. The previous morning just before his dinner hour, the gardener had looked in at the inn for his morning glass of beer, and informed the landlord that a visitor was expected at Forest View. "Mr Strange comes to me after breakfast, and tells me to take in a picking of some special peas we planted, for lunch. He ain't much of a one to talk at the best of times, but he was quite affable and chatty this morning. He tells me he is expecting a foreign gentleman who's very particular about his food, and he wants to show him what we can do." This piece of news was retailed to Varney, who was, of course, immediately interested. According to local report, this was only the second occasion on which Forest View had received a visitor. He kept a hidden watch on the house. A few minutes past twelve. Strange, to give him the name he was known by down there, drove his motor-car in the direction of Horsham. Evidently he was going to meet the visitor at the station. In due course the car came back with its two occupants. The stranger was a man of small stature, with grey moustache and beard, of a dark complexion, and unmistakably a foreigner. They dismounted at the gate, the garage being approached by an entrance a little lower down. Varney noticed that the foreigner got out very slowly, leaning heavily on his host's arm as he did so. It was plain that this visitor, like the other, was in indifferent health. Varney hung about during the greater part of the day, but he saw nobody. All the inmates of this singular establishment seemed to prefer the seclusion of the house. After the inn had closed, he smoked a last pipe, and then went to bed. He was rather wakeful that night, and did not go to sleep for an hour or so. Suddenly he was awakened by a loud knocking. Jumping up, he looked at his watch--it was two o'clock. He was evidently the first to hear it, for he could distinguish no sounds from the room at the other end of the passage, where the landlord and his wife slept. He flung up his window and called out: "Hullo! Who's that?" He was answered by the familiar voice of Janson. "Sorry to disturb you like this, Mr Franks," cried the doctor, addressing him by his assumed name. "But I want your help. A foreign gentleman, an Italian, arrived at Forest View this morning, and he was taken alarmingly ill about half-an-hour ago. The poor chap's hours are numbered. I have been trying to talk to him in his own language; he seems to understand me all right, but I can hardly follow a sentence of his, and there's nobody in the house who understands him either." The incongruity of the situation forced itself upon Varney immediately. "What in the world makes a man come to a house where he can understand nobody, and nobody can understand him," he whispered down. "The same thought occurred to me," came the answering whisper. "Mr Strange explained it. He said that their parlourmaid understood Italian perfectly, having lived in Italy for some years. She had gone up to London early yesterday morning and would not be back till late to-morrow." It flashed instantly across Varney's mind that his suspicions about the young woman were correct: that she belonged to a different class from that which furnishes parlourmaids. She was a lady masquerading as a servant. Strange's fiction of her having lived abroad was invented to keep up appearances. "He is very rambling, but I ran gather this much," went on Janson in low tones. "He wants to leave some instructions before he dies. I thought of you at once." "Right; I will be with you in a couple of minutes." By this time the landlord and his wife were awake, and he heard the man's heavy footsteps along the passage. He opened his door, and briefly explained the situation. In a very short time he and the doctor were in the bedroom of the dying man. Strange was at the bedside, looking intently at the prostrate figure, without a trace of emotion in his sharp, inscrutable features. He withdrew a little distance as Janson approached, and murmured something in a low voice to the other. It was an apology for disturbing him. The man lay motionless for some few minutes, the pallor of death settling deeper over the once swarthy features. Janson turned to Varney. "I'm afraid it is too late, Mr Franks. He is sinking rapidly. If you could have been here when I first came." Was it fancy, or did he see an expression of relief steal across Strange's impenetrable mask? If so, he was doomed to disappointment. The dying man stirred, and his lips moved. Varney leaned over, and his quick ear caught some muttered words, growing fainter and fainter with the waning of the flickering strength. The words were in the bastard tongue of Piedmont, difficult to understand by anyone who has not lived in Northern Italy. "_Dio_!" gasped the dying man. "Forgive me. The doctors have long ago told me I should die suddenly, but--I--I never expected this. Oh, that somebody here could understand me?" he whispered to himself. "I do. Signore," said Varney, as he leaned over him. In the dying man's eyes came a gleam of satisfaction and hope. "Ah! Thank Heaven! Then listen," he said. "I want you to do something for me--something--" and he halted as though in reflection. "Well," he went on, "twenty years ago I did a great wrong in conjunction with another man. Go to him and tell him that Giovanni Roselli, his old comrade, implores him, from his deathbed, to make reparation. You will find him in Manchester. He was the head of the Compagnia Corezzo, and his name is James--" The surname was never told. As he strove to utter it, the end came. Giovanni Roselli had delivered his message, but he had gone into the shadows, before he could utter the full name of the man to whom it was conveyed. Varney translated the dying man's message to Strange, but he made no comment. Smeaton sat in silence for a long time when the recital was finished. "A house of sinister inmates with sinister secrets," he said at length. "What you have told me may have a bearing upon something that has gone before." Briefly he narrated to Varney the discovery of the threatening letter, and his visit to the engraver and stationer. Varney saw at once what had occurred to him. "The Compagnia Corezzo gives us a clue--eh?--the initials `C.C.,' which are the initials on the envelope. Was it an envelope from the company's office? You say that the old engraver thought the man who ordered the cipher came from Manchester or Liverpool. Roselli tells us we can find his man in Manchester?" Smeaton rose. "I'm in hopes that something may come out of it all," he said, as they shook hands. "Anyway, stay down here, and keep a close watch on the place. An inquest will be held and sooner or later something of importance will happen. I've kept the taxi waiting; shall I give you a lift to Horsham? But I noticed a bike outside the inn-door. I suppose it is yours." Varney nodded. "Yes, it is part of my machinery. I shall go for a good long spin, and think over all that has happened." As Smeaton put his foot on the step of the taxi a sudden thought struck him. He turned back, and drew the young man aside. "Keep your eye on the parlourmaid especially," he whispered. "If we ever get to the bottom of it, we shall find she plays an important part in this mystery." "I quite agree," was Varney's answer, as the two men finally parted. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN. ANOTHER MYSTERY. Next day Smeaton sat in his official room, puzzling over the Monkton case, and sorely perplexed. He had followed several trails now, but all, it seemed, to no purpose. Farloe and his sister had been shadowed without any result. The visit to Millington had ended in failure. Varney had discovered something, and he would follow the clue with the pertinacity of a bloodhound pursuing a faint and elusive scent. But he himself was thoroughly disheartened. There suddenly came a tap at the door, and a constable entered. "A very old gentleman wants to see you, sir. He says you will remember him," and he handed the detective a slip of paper on which was written "Mr Millington." "The gentleman seems to have one foot in the grave, and half of the other, to judge by appearances," the constable went on. "The journey has tried him terribly. He's wheezing so, that you'd think each moment would be his last. I made him sit down, and he's trying to recover himself and get his breath." Smeaton sprang up. It was with difficulty he could retain his official calm. This plucky old man had not made the journey up to town for nothing. He had remembered something, or discovered something. "That's right. Baker," he said. "Give him time, and when he is ready, show him in." It was a full five minutes before Millington was in a fit state to present himself. At last he entered, still husky of voice, but with a beaming aspect. Smeaton greeted him cordially. "Mr Millington, this is indeed good of you. But why did you distress yourself with the journey? If you had sent me a wire, I would have run down to you," he said. "I owe you some amends, sir, for my failure yesterday. And besides, a little jaunt does me good." He smiled cheerfully, evidently wishing to convey that, at his time of life, an excursion up to London was a tonic. "Again many thanks," cried the grateful Smeaton. "Well, you came to see me, because you have remembered something--or found something fresh-- eh?" The old man spoke earnestly. "All day after you left, sir, I was wild with myself to think what a useless old cumber-ground I was; me that used to have such a good memory, too. I thought and thought again, hoping that something would come back from that twenty or twenty-five years ago." "There was no need to distress yourself," said Smeaton kindly. "And then in a flash I remembered another box in which I had stuffed a lot of odd papers. Well, sir, I opened that box, went over those papers one by one, and this is what I found." He held out in his shaking hand an old letter. Smeaton took it from him. "Before you read it, Mr Smeaton, I must explain that this gentleman always treated me in a very friendly way. We were both very fond of heraldry, and he used often to come to my shop and chat over our hobby. That accounts for the familiar way in which he addresses me." This is what Smeaton read: "Dear Mr Millington,--I enclose you a cheque for the last work you did for me, which is as satisfactory as ever. It will be news to you that my company, the Compagnia Corezzo, is about to go into voluntary liquidation. I have accepted the position of manager of a big firm in Manchester, and shall take up my new post in the course of a few weeks. If I can possibly find time between now and then, I shall run in to say good-bye. "I may have an opportunity of putting further work in your way. If that opportunity arises, I shall have the greatest pleasure in availing myself of it. I am afraid I shall not come across anybody who takes such a keen interest in my favourite hobby.--Yours truly, James Whyman." Over Smeaton's face came a glow of satisfaction. He had got the name he wanted. Was he on the right track at last? He took the threatening letter out of his pocket, and compared the handwritings. But here disappointment awaited him. They were totally dissimilar. Whyman wrote a small and niggling hand, the hand of a mean man. The other calligraphy was large, bold and free. One thing was clear: James Whyman was not the writer of the threatening letter. That letter had been put in an envelope which belonged to the Compagnia Corezzo. Mr Whyman was, at that period, connected with that company, and the man who had given instructions for the cutting of the cipher. A visit to Manchester was the next item on the programme. "It all came back to me with that letter," remarked the old man presently. "I can see him standing in my shop, as if it were yesterday, quite a young man, not a day over thirty, I should say; very fussy, very precise, and always beating you down to the last farthing. But very pleasant withal." He was thirty at that time; he would, then, be in the 'fifties now, reasoned Smeaton. The odds therefore were that Mr James Whyman was still in the land of the living. "Mr Millington, you have helped me very much," said the detective, as the old gentleman rose to go. "Now, in your state of health I am not going to allow you to fatigue yourself by catching 'buses and trains. I shall get a taxi here, and it will drive you straight to Lower Halliford, at my expense." Poor Millington's frugal soul cried out aloud at such wanton expenditure, but he was overborne by Smeaton. He departed in the vehicle, beaming with the sense of his own importance, and conscious that he was still of some use in the world. The evening of that same day found the detective at the Queen's Hotel, Manchester. It was pleasant to him to find that his investigations produced a speedy result. Mr Whyman was a well-known citizen, so the head-waiter informed him. He had been first manager and then director of one of the largest businesses there. Two years ago he had retired from active participation in the concern, and had, he believed, taken a big house at Southport. He was a widower with two children. The son had a post in Hong-Kong. The daughter had married and was living in Cheshire. The waiter added that he was popular, and highly respected by all who knew him, perhaps a bit close-fisted, and hard at a bargain. Since his retirement he was often a visitor at the Hotel. The next morning Smeaton, having found Mr Whyman's address in the telephone directory, rang him up. He announced his name and profession, explaining that some documents had me into his possession which he would like to submit for inspection. Might he take the liberty of coming over to Southport during the day at some hour convenient to himself? Mr Whyman's reply was given cordially and unhesitatingly. "With pleasure, Mr Smeaton. Shall we say five o'clock? I am afraid I cannot make it earlier, as I have got a very full day in front of me. I am retired from business in a sense, but I am still interested in a lot of things that require personal attention." At five o'clock to the minute Smeaton was at the fine house of Mr Whyman, near the end of the Esplanade at Southport, commanding a splendid view of the Welsh and Cumberland hills. It was evident that Mr Whyman had prospered in a worldly sense. The house was an imposing one. A butler opened the door, and ushered him into the morning-room, a square, lofty apartment, solidly and handsomely furnished. A moment later the owner entered. He was a tall, finely-built man, with regular, handsome features. Smeaton regarded him closely as they shook hands. There was an obvious frankness and geniality about his manner that fully accounted, for his general popularity. The face was honest, its expression open. His eyes met yours unwaveringly. And yet this was the man who, according to the dead man, Giovanni Roselli, had been the perpetrator of a great wrong to some person or persons unknown. Well, Smeaton had too vast an experience to trust overmuch to outside appearances. Still, he had never seen anybody who looked less like a rogue than Mr James Whyman, as he stood smiling at him with the most cordial expression in his clear blue eyes. If he was, or had been at some period of his career, a rogue. Nature had taken the greatest pains to disarm the suspicions of those on whom he practised his rascality. Whyman pointed to the table, on which were laid glasses, a decanter of whisky, soda-water, and cigars. "Let me offer you some refreshment after your journey. You smoke? Good. I think you will like those cigars. Let me help you. Now, sir, sit down, and we will get at once to the matter which brings you here." Smeaton produced the envelope, and handed it to his genial host. "I think you will recognise those entwined letters, Mr Whyman. I may tell you that I traced the man who cut them--a man named Millington." Whyman interrupted him in his brisk, bluff way, and there was not a shade of embarrassment in voice or manner: "Ah, my dear old friend Millington! Why, he must be quite ancient by now, for he wasn't a chicken when I knew him." "A very old man, and his memory is treacherous. At first he could remember very little. But later on he found a letter from you which brought it all back to him. I was then able to establish the two things I wanted: your own name, and the name of the Italian company you represented." Whyman turned the envelope in his hand, after having cast a glance at the cipher. The candid blue eyes regarded the detective steadily as he spoke. "Yes, that die was cut by my instructions, certainly. Now, in what way can I assist you, Mr Smeaton, beyond confirming that fact?" Smeaton passed him the threatening letter. "There is no question the envelope came out of your office. Now, do you recognise this handwriting?" The other man read it carefully, and then passed it back, without a trace of confusion. "I am certain that I have never seen that handwriting before. How the envelope was obtained I cannot pretend to guess. Hundreds of people, of course, were in and out of my office during the time I was with the company." "I presume you had several clerks in your employ?" Mr Whyman smiled. "Quite the opposite. It was a small and struggling concern, unprosperous from the start. I only had three assistants at the London branch: an elderly man, and two juniors. I should recognise the writing of any one of those if it were put before me." Was he speaking the truth or not? Was he honestly puzzled as he appeared, or shielding the writer of that threatening epistle with his assumption of ignorance? Smeaton could not be sure. The only evidence he possessed as to character was that furnished by the deathbed revelations of Roselli, and that was unfavourable. He resolved to try a random shot. "I think at one time you were acquainted with a man of the name of Giovanni Roselli, an Italian." The shot went home. There was a flicker in the steady blue eyes, the voice had lost its bluff and genial ring. He spoke hesitatingly, picking his words. "Ah, yes. Many years ago I knew a fellow named Roselli, in Turin--not very intimately; we did a little deal in marble together on one occasion. What do you know about him?" Smeaton shrugged his shoulders carelessly. "Not much. In our business we come across many little things that we have not set out to find, but which emerge from greater issues. However, I did not come here to talk about this foreigner, but in the hope that you might be able to help me with that letter." When Whyman spoke again all traces of his momentary embarrassment had passed. "I am only too sorry that I cannot. I should say that envelope must have been stolen from my office." "Very likely," said Smeaton quietly. Then he rose to go. Whyman at once became effusively hospitable. "I wish you would dine and stay the night with me. I should be most delighted to have a good long chat with you, especially if you could tell me some of your experiences which are no longer secrets. To-morrow, perhaps, I could take you for a spin in the country in my car." Smeaton hesitated. Why did this man, whom he suspected of being a rogue under all this genial veneer, suddenly develop such a partiality for the society of an utter stranger? Did he want to pump him as to what he knew concerning Roselli, whom of course, he did not know was dead? He decided he would stay. If it came to pumping, Smeaton flattered himself he would prove the better of the two at that particular game. He might even make Whyman betray himself in an unguarded moment. They spent quite a pleasant time together. Smeaton was shown over the house and grounds. The dinner was good, the wines and cigars excellent. The detective entertained his host with reminiscences of work at "the Yard" that involved no indiscretion. They sat up chatting till past midnight. But the name of Roselli was not mentioned again on either side. "Good-night, Mr Smeaton, good-night. I have enjoyed your company immensely. Breakfast at half-past nine--eh?" He might be a rogue at bottom, and his wealth might not have been acquired honestly, but he was a very pleasant one. And as a host he was beyond reproach. When Smeaton entered the dining-room the next morning, the butler was waiting for him with a letter in his hand. "Mr Whyman was called away early this morning, sir. He has left this note for you." "Dear Mr Smeaton," ran the brief epistle. "A thousand apologies for treating you in this discourteous fashion. I received a letter just now calling me abroad on urgent business that brooks no delay. I may be absent some few weeks. Trusting we shall meet again--Yours sincerely, James Whyman." Smeaton was too accustomed to surprises to exhibit any emotion. He sat down and ate an ample breakfast, and cogitated over the sudden departure of his host. The one obvious fact was that Whyman had flown. He need not waste time over that. The important thing remained: what was the reason of his hurried flight? Before he left the room Smeaton crossed over to a writing-desk in the window, and peered into the waste-paper basket at the side. A forlorn hope--it was empty. A torn-up envelope might have revealed the postmark. But Mr Whyman was evidently too old a bird to leave anything behind him that would enlighten one of the keenest detectives in England. CHAPTER NINETEEN. STILL ANOTHER CLUB. "Now that we are alone, sir, permit me to present myself in proper form. My name is Caleb Boyle, profession gentleman, educated at that glorious old school, Winchester, and graduate of Trinity College. Cambridge." Mr Boyle made a low bow as he completed his self-introduction, which took place in Smeaton's room at Scotland Yard. He was full of gesture, employing a pantomime of arms, hands and face to accentuate his remarks. Smeaton bowed, pointed to a chair, and examined him with minute attention. He was a tall, angular man, thin almost to emaciation. Judging by his figure, you might have put him at forty, but the lines on his face suggested another ten or fifteen years. "I intended no discourtesy to you personally when I declined to give my card to your satellites or subordinates, or whatever name you give to the hangers-on of a great man." Here the fluent Mr Boyle made another of his grotesque bows to lend point to the compliment, and again Smeaton inclined his head politely. He had not as yet quite taken his bearings with regard to this extraordinary creature. "To such persons, Mr Smeaton, I do not take the trouble to reveal my identity; it would be a waste of time. It is my invariable practice to go straight to the fountain-head when I have anything of importance to communicate." Here Mr Boyle swelled out his chest, and said in a voice of intense conviction: "I have no toleration for whipper-snappers, and those, sir, are what one finds, spreading like a fungus, in every department of our public life." It seemed to the police official's well-balanced mind that his visitor was a pompous ass, with a slight suspicion of insanity thrown in. He was not a man to suffer fools gladly, but this particular fool had called on him for some purpose, and he must exercise patience till the purpose was revealed. He must bear with him and coax him. For he felt intuitively that Boyle was one of those men who take a long time in coming to the point. "We are always happy to receive information here," he said courteously. "You will understand that I am a very busy man." If he thought such a direct hint would arrest the flow of his visitor's fatal fluency, he was grievously mistaken. Boyle raised an arresting hand, and indulged in some more contortions of arms and hands. "I recognise the fact, sir, I fully recognise it. A man in your responsible position must find the working hours all too short for what you have to do. You bear upon your shoulders, capable as they are, the weight of Atlas, if I may say so." Smeaton had to smile, in spite of himself, at the fanciful imagery. "Not quite so bad as that, Mr Boyle. But a lot has to be got into a limited time, and therefore--" But his sentence was not allowed to finish. "Say no more, sir, on that head. I can understand that the time of a valuable official is not to be wasted; in short, that you wish me to come to the point." Smeaton nodded his head vigorously. Perhaps there was some remnant of common-sense in the creature after all. Mr Boyle gracefully threw one leg over the other, bestowed upon the detective an affable but somewhat mechanical smile, and resumed his discourse. "Before coming to the reason of my visit, I must trouble you with a few details of my family history, in order that you may know something of the person you are dealing with. I promise you I shall not be prolix." Smeaton groaned inwardly, but he knew he was helpless. As well try to stop a cataract in full flood as arrest the resistless flow of Mr Boyle's glib fluency. "I may tell you I am something of an athlete. I played two years in the Winchester Eleven. I rowed in my College boat. If I had stopped on a year longer I should have rowed for the `Varsity.'" He paused, probably to ascertain the effect produced upon his listener by these deeds of prowess. Smeaton exhorted him to proceed, in a faint voice. "Enough of those early days, when the youthful blood ran in one's veins like some potent wine. Manhood succeeded the school and college days. I am telling you all this because, as you will perceive presently, it has some bearing upon my visit to you." He paused again, to mark the effect of his glowing periods. And again Smeaton, in a voice grown fainter, bade him get on with his story. Suddenly the weird visitor rose, stretched himself to his full height, and with a dramatic gesture pointed a long, lean finger at the harassed detective. His voice rose and fell with the fervour of his pent-up feelings. "The man you look upon to-day is only the shadow of what he was in his early prime. The name of Caleb Boyle was well-known about town, in the busy haunts of men. I have sat at great men's tables, I have partaken of delicate fare, I have quaffed rare wines, fair ladies have favoured me with their smiles." He paused for a moment, dropped the pointing hand, and sat down again on his chair, seemingly overcome with his own rhetoric. Smeaton regarded him steadily, uncertain as to what new form his eccentricity would take, but spoke no word. In a few seconds he had recovered himself, and smiled wanly at his companion. "Enough of that. You are a man of vast experience, and you have seen men and cities. But I bet you would never guess that not so many years ago I was one of the young bloods of this town, one of what our neighbours across the Channel call the _jeunesse doree_." And at last Smeaton was moved to speech. He looked at the well-cut but worn clothes; he remembered Winchester and Cambridge; he recognised the flamboyant and ill-controlled temperament. He drew his deductions swiftly. "You were born with a silver spoon in your mouth," he said bluntly; "you had every advantage that birth and education could give you. Through some fatal tendency, perhaps inherited, you threw away all your chances, and are living on your memories--and very little else." So far from being offended with this plain exposition of facts, Mr Boyle smiled affably, and, leaning forward, patted the detective approvingly on the shoulder. "You're a man after my own heart, sir; you go to the very marrow of things. You have hit it off correctly. But mark you, I regret nothing; I would alter nothing if the time came over again. I have lived, sir: warmed both hands at the fire of life; filled the cup of enjoyment to the brim. Nothing has daunted me, nothing ever will daunt me. Old as I am, derelict as I may be, I still look the world in the face, and, in the words of the poet, `Stand four-square to all the winds that blow.'" Smeaton stirred uncomfortably. Was the man simply an original kind of beggar, and was all this the preface to a request for a modest loan? He had assurance enough for anything! "Mr Boyle, my time is really very much occupied. May I beg you to come to the point, and state the object of your visit? These personal reminiscences and reflections are, of course, highly interesting, but--" He made an eloquent pause. "I have transgressed, I have abused your patience," observed this singular man, in a voice of contrition; "I came to ask you a simple question, and here it is, plain, straight, and put as briefly as possible: _What is at the bottom of Reginald Monkton's disappearance_?" Smeaton looked up sharply. "Who says that he has disappeared?" he asked with some asperity. Mr Boyle smiled blandly. "Why beat about the bush? Monkton is not in his place in the House. There is not a line in the papers about his movements, except that he is on the Riviera. The public may not yet have tumbled to it. But Fleet Street knows. The House of Commons knows. The clubs know. And last--you and I know. I still have some connection with the world in which I was once not an insignificant figure." Smeaton hardly knew what to answer. The man had every quality that offended his well-ordered mind, but he was not the absolute fool he had taken him for. "Cannot a statesman, worn out and weary with hard work, take a brief holiday without letting loose all these absurd rumours?" he asked with pretended petulance. Mr Boyle shrugged his shoulders. "My dear sir, I know as well as you do that this matter is in your hands, and you are hushing it up in the hopes that you will find a solution, and avoid a scandal. So far you have failed. If you had succeeded, either Monkton would have been back by now, or you would know of his death, and there would have been a public explanation. You have failed, and do you know why?" "I shall be very glad to know why," Smeaton replied, goaded into a half-admission by the contemptuous tone of the other man. "Because, although you have some very clever men here you want a leavening of men of different calibre. It is good to know every corner of the slums, to be acquainted with every incident in the career of burglar Bill and light-fingered Jack, to know the haunts of all the international thieves and forgers and anarchists. That is sound and useful knowledge." "I am glad you think so," said Smeaton sarcastically. "In a case like this, however, you want another sort of knowledge altogether," pursued Mr Boyle, callously indifferent to the detective's sarcasm. "You want a man who has mixed in the big world from his boyhood, who knows all the ins and outs, all the intrigue of social life, all the gossip, all the scandal that has been going round the clubs and drawing-rooms for the last forty years." "In other words, men like yourself--eh? We have plenty such in our pay." "But they are not a recognised part of your official organisation," rejoined Mr Boyle quickly. "As you are kind enough to suggest myself," he added modestly, "I think I may say that in certain cases I should earn my salary. But I admit that at the burglar business I should be no use at all." There was a long silence. Smeaton was trying to smother his indignation. He had taken a dislike to the man from the first moment he had set eyes upon him. His long-windedness, his self-conceit, his grotesque gestures, his assumption of superiority, his gibes at Scotland Yard methods, had added to it. But he must bear with him; he was sure that Boyle had something more to say before he took his leave. Mr Boyle pursued his discourse, quite unconscious of the other's antipathy. "In spite of troubles that would have crushed a weaker man, I think I have worn well: I am frequently taken for ten years younger than I am. As a fact, there is only one year's difference between Monkton and myself. We were at a tutor's together, and we went up to Cambridge in the same year." Smeaton breathed a sigh of relief. He had an intuition that at last this exasperating person was coming to the point. "The Monkton of those days was very different from the Monkton of later years--the keen politician, the statesman conscious of the grave responsibilities of office. He was full of fun and go, one of a band of choice spirits who kept things lively, and, as a matter of course, got into many scrapes, and came more than once into conflict with the authorities." Smeaton listened intently. This was certainly not the prevalent idea of the statesman who had so mysteriously disappeared. "I saw a great deal of him afterwards. We moved in much the same set. He married early, and everybody said that he was devotedly attached to his wife. So, no doubt, he was. At the same time, he had been a great admirer of the fair sex, and it was rumoured that there had been tender passages between him and several well-known ladies occupying high positions in society." The flamboyant manner had departed. For the moment he seemed an ordinary, sensible man, setting forth a sober statement of actual fact. "There was one lady, in particular, with whom his name was especially connected. She was at that time some live or six years younger than Monkton, and married--people said, against her will--to a very unpopular nobleman much older than herself, who was madly jealous of her. It was reported at the clubs that the husband strongly resented Monkton's attentions, and that on one occasion a _fracas_ had taken place between the two men, in which Monkton had been severely handled. Some corroboration was lent to the statement by the fact that he did not appear in the Courts for a week after the occurrence was supposed to have taken place." "Did this _fracas_ to which you allude take place before or after his marriage?" asked the detective. "Speaking from memory, I should say about a year before." And at this point Mr Boyle rose, drew a pair of faded gloves from his pocket, and put them on preparatory to his departure. "In a case of this kind, Mr Smeaton, it is well to remember the French proverb, `Look out for the woman.' You, no doubt, have followed several clues, and evidently to no purpose. Well, I will give you one gratis-- keep your eye upon Lady Wrenwyck, now a middle-aged woman, but, at the time to which I refer, one of the most celebrated beauties of her day, and, according to rumour, wildly in love with Reginald Monkton. It may lead to nothing, of course, but I think the tip is worth following." "I am obliged to you, and will certainly act upon your advice," said Smeaton gravely, as he held out his hand. As Mr Boyle took it his former eccentricities of manner returned. He bowed profoundly, and spoke in his high, artificial voice. "Sir, I am more than flattered. I shall go later on to Miss Monkton. I should much like to make the acquaintance of my old friend's daughter." Smeaton was aghast at this declaration. He had a shrewd suspicion that his real object in interviewing Sheila was to trade on his old acquaintance with her father, and probably obtain a loan. It was a hundred to one that such a mercurial creature would drop some disquieting hints about Lady Wrenwyck. "I would beg of you to postpone your call, Mr Boyle. Miss Monkton is, naturally, in a state of great depression and anxiety. I should, however, very much like you to see Mr Austin Wingate, who is her best friend. If you will favour me with your address, I will arrange a meeting." Mr Boyle, indulged in another of his grotesque bows. He scribbled on a piece of paper, and handed it to the detective. "I should be glad to have that meeting arranged as soon as possible, Mr Smeaton." There was a shade of anxiety in his voice. Smeaton was sure that philanthropy was not the sole motive of his visit. "Once more, good-bye." He advanced to the door, hesitated, with his hand upon the knob, and half turned round, as if about to say something more. Apparently he changed his mind. "A random thought occurred to me, but it is nothing--not worth pursuing," he said airily, and passed out. But Smeaton knew instinctively the reason of that pause. Boyle had screwed up his courage to borrow money, but he could not bring it to the sticking-point. Had he told the truth or were his statements pure invention? CHAPTER TWENTY. A CONFERENCE AT DOWNING STREET. "He's a blatant idiot, with lucid moments. And in one of those rare moments of lucidity he told me about Lady Wrenwyck. You agree with me, I am sure, that, at any cost, he must be kept from Miss Monkton." Such was Smeaton's pithy summing-up of his late visitor to Austin Wingate, who had hurried round on receipt of an urgent note from the detective. "I agree absolutely," was Wingate's emphatic response. "She believes in her father so utterly that it would cut her to the heart to think he was anything short of immaculate, that he had ever shared the weaknesses of ordinary men. You know all good women make idols of their male-folk. Now, tell me a little more about this person Boyle. Is he what we should call a gentleman?" Smeaton shrugged his shoulders. "I have nothing but his own statement to go upon, you understand. But I should say you might have described him as such once. Now, he is broken down, slightly shabby, has got the `seen-better-days' look, and is, I surmise, hard-up. You will see him, of course, and I give you this hint beforehand: I think he will want to borrow money. I'm sure he was within an ace of tapping me." "He can borrow what he likes, in reason, so long as I can keep him away from Chesterfield Street," said Austin fervently. Smeaton looked at him approvingly. He was a gallant young lover. No wonder that the girl's heart had gone out to him in her loneliness and misery. Wingate scribbled a brief but polite note to Boyle, inviting him to dinner the following day at a Bohemian club in Shaftesbury Avenue of which he was a member. In this tolerant atmosphere his guest's eccentricities of manner and shabbiness of attire were less likely to provoke comment. Having arranged this, he took his leave of Smeaton, whom he left cogitating over the new development of affairs. The detective had no doubt in his own mind that Boyle, flighty and feather-brained as he seemed, could be level-headed on occasions. The story he told him about Lady Wrenwyck certainly bore the impress of truth, but it was impossible for a man of such peculiar mentality to avoid exaggeration. Before going further into the matter, he would like some corroboration. To whom could he apply? And at once he thought of Mr Chesterton, the Prime Minister. He and Monkton were life-long friends, had been at Cambridge together. Although not actually "born in the purple," having come from commercial stock, he had been adopted into society from his earliest youth. His rare eloquence and commanding gifts had done the rest, and raised him to his present high position. An hour later he was closeted with the Premier in the big, heavily-furnished room at Downing Street. Mr Chesterton received him with that easy and graceful cordiality which was one of his greatest charms. "I have ventured to intrude upon your time, sir, with reference to the matter which is still baffling us--the mysterious disappearance of your colleague Mr Monkton, the Colonial Secretary. I have had a visit from a peculiar person who calls himself Caleb Boyle, and he has given me some information that may or may not prove valuable. He says he knew Mr Monkton intimately. I am aware that you were life-long friends. Do you happen to know anything of the man Boyle?" An amused smile flitted over the Prime Minister's features. "I remember him well, a harum-scarum, chattering, frothy fellow--utterly devoid of brains. Stay, I think perhaps I do him an injustice. I would rather say he suffered from an excess of brain--of the ill-balanced sort. So he has turned up again--eh? I thought he had disappeared for good." "I take it, from that remark, that he has had a somewhat chequered career?" queried Smeaton. "Most chequered," was Mr Chesterton's reply. In a few brief sentences he gave the history of Caleb Boyle, so far as he had known it. He was a man of good family, and possessed of some small fortune. These advantages were nullified by the possession of nearly every quality that made for failure in life. He was headstrong, prodigal, full of an overwhelming conceit in his own capacity. He dabbled a little in everything--and could do nothing well. He fancied himself an orator, and spouted on politics till he bored everybody to death. Believed himself a poet, and wrote execrable verses. Flattered himself he was an artist of a high order, and painted daubs that moved his friends to mirth. The Premier paused. Then proceeding, he said: "He came to London after leaving Cambridge, and went the pace. In a few years he had run through his money. Then began the downward progress. He became a sponger and a leech, borrowed money in every likely quarter--cadged for his luncheons and dinners. He had been very generous and hospitable in his day, and his friends put up with him as long as they could. One by one, they fell away, wearied by his importunities. Then he came to the last stage--he took to drinking to excess. Through the influence of the stauncher of his acquaintance, who still pitied him, he had secured three or four good positions. One after another he had to relinquish them, owing to his intemperate habits. That was the actual finish. He disappeared from a world in which he had once held a very decent footing, and joined the great army of degenerates who live nobody knows where, and Heaven knows how." "I take it he is not speaking the truth when he says that he knew Mr Monkton intimately?" asked Smeaton, when Mr Chesterton had finished the brief narrative. The Premier shrugged his shoulders. "We were all at Cambridge together. He knew Monkton and he knew me, in the way that undergraduates know each other. We met afterwards, occasionally, in some of the many sets that constitute Society. But I am sure that Monkton was never intimate with him. He was one of dozens of men that he had known at school and college. Boyle always built up his supposed friendships on very slender material. It used to be said that if he knocked against an Archbishop by accident, and begged his pardon, he would swear afterwards that he was on terms of intimacy with him." There was a pause before Smeaton put his next question. "This man tells me that at one time there was a scandal about Mr Monkton and a certain Lady Wrenwyck--a woman of fashion and a noted beauty. I take the liberty of asking you to confirm or refute that." Mr Chesterton frowned slightly. "I take it, Mr Smeaton, you have a good reason for asking me this. But, frankly, I am not fond of raising old ghosts." Smeaton answered him a little stiffly. "In my calling, sir. we are often compelled to put inconvenient questions, but only when, in our judgment, they are absolutely necessary." "I accept your statement on that head, unreservedly, Mr Smeaton." The frown cleared from the Premier's brow, and his tone was marked with that fine courtesy which had secured him so many friends. He paused a moment, drew a sigh, and resumed. "I will be quite frank with you, Smeaton. That chatterbox Boyle has told you the truth. He was not in our particular set, but of course the common rumours reached him. There was a scandal--a very considerable scandal. It distressed his friends greatly, especially those who, like myself, appreciated his exceptional talents, and predicted for him a great career." Again he paused. Then he resumed: "I am glad to say our counsels and influence prevailed in the end. We weaned him from this fascinating lady--who fought very hard for him, I must tell you. In the end we won. A year later he married a very charming girl, who made him the best of wives, and to whom, I have every reason to believe, he was devotedly attached." Smeaton rose, and expressed his thanks for the candid way in which Mr Chesterton had treated him. "One last question, sir, and I have done," he said. "What would be the present age of this lady?" "She is ten years or so Monkton's junior, and looks ten years younger than that. At least, she did the last time I saw her, and that was a few months ago." As he walked across back to Scotland Yard, Smeaton turned it all over in his mind. Lady Wrenwyck was ten years younger than Monkton, and looked ten years younger than her real age. Therefore, without doubt, she was a beautiful and fascinating woman, and still dangerous. Had he cared to question the Prime Minister more closely, he could have gleaned more information about the Wrenwyck household. But Mr Chesterton was obviously disinclined to raise "old ghosts," as he called them. He would obtain what he wanted by other methods. He hunted up Lord Wrenwyck in the peerage, and found him to be a person of some importance, who possessed three houses in the country, and lived in Park Lane. He was also twelfth Baron. Smeaton summoned one of his subordinates, a promising young fellow, keen at this particular kind of work, and showed him the page in the peerage. "I want you to find out as quickly as possible all you can about this family. You understand, Johnson--every detail you can pick up." Detective-sergeant Johnson, qualifying for promotion, smiled at his chief and gave him his assurance. "I've had more difficult jobs, and perhaps a few easier ones, Mr Smeaton. I'll get on it at once, and I don't think you'll be disappointed," he said. Mr Johnson omitted to mention, with a reticence that must be commended, that a cousin of his was a footman next door to the Wrenwyck establishment, and accustomed to look in of an evening at a select hostelry adjacent to Park Lane. That same evening--for Johnson's methods were swift and sure--he waited on his chief at Smeaton's house, with an unmistakable air of triumph on his usually impassive features. "I have got up some facts, sir. I will read you from my notes. Lady Wrenwyck was a girl when she married; her husband some twenty years older. She was forced into the marriage by her parents, who were of good family, but poor as church mice. Her ladyship was a beautiful girl, she soon went the pace, and had heaps of admirers, young and old. The husband, horribly jealous, thought he had bought her with his money. Terrible scenes between the pair, in which her ladyship held her own." Smeaton offered the subordinate his rare meed of praise. "You have done devilish well, Johnson. Go on." Sergeant Johnson proceeded, refreshing himself from his notes. "For several years past they have lived in a sort of armed truce. They live together, that is to say, in the same house, but they never exchange a word with each other, except before guests. If they have to hold communication, it is by means of notes, conveyed through the valet and the lady's maid." "An extraordinary house, Johnson--eh?" interjected Smeaton, thinking of his own little comfortable household. "It's a bit funny, sir, to ordinary people, but in Society nothing is uncommon," replied Johnson. "Shall I go on with my notes?" "Please do," said Smeaton cordially. Johnson was of the younger generation, but he was shaping well. Perhaps it is possible that youngsters have a wider outlook than their elders. Mr Johnson read on, in a deferential voice: "His lordship is an invalid--suffers from some affection of the joints, an aggravated form of rheumatism, walks with a stick. Has been absent from Park Lane for a little time. Nobody knows where he is. His confidential man of business, steward or secretary or something, runs the house in his absence." "And her ladyship?" queried Smeaton eagerly. "I'm coming to that, sir. Her ladyship has been away for some time; travelling abroad they think. My informant gave me the date of her departure. Here it is, sir." Smeaton looked at the little pencilled note. He rose, and shook his subordinate cordially by the hand, saying: "Really you've done more than well. You forget nothing, I see. I shall watch your career with great interest. If I can push you I will. You may rely on that." Johnson bowed low at the great man's praise. "A word here from you, Mr Smeaton, and I'm made in the Service." His voice faltered skilfully here, and he withdrew, leaving Smeaton to his reflections. The great detective meditated long and carefully. He was not a person to jump hastily at conclusions. He sifted the actual from the obvious. One fact emerged clearly, and it was this: Lady Wrenwyck had left her home, to which she had not returned, two days before the mysterious disappearance of Reginald Monkton--_two days_. That feather-headed fool, Caleb Boyle, had told him to "find the woman." Was the feather-headed fool right, and he, Smeaton, upon the wrong road? CHAPTER TWENTY ONE. SHADES OF SOHO. Wingate smiled as he read the flamboyant note from Caleb Boyle, accepting his invitation to dinner. It concluded with a characteristic flourish. "Trusting that our meeting may prove as agreeable to you, as it is in anticipation to myself. Yours sincerely, C. Boyle." It was a beautiful summer morning. His thoughts flew to his well-beloved. What was she doing at this particular moment? He could guess too well. Sitting, with that far-away look in her dear eyes, brooding and lonely amid the ruins of her once happy home. He did not usually call so early, but to-day must be an exception. A brilliant idea had occurred to the fond young lover; he hastened to put it into execution. She sprang up when he entered, and the light in her beautiful eyes, the faint flush on her cheek, told him that he was welcome. The soft lips returned his fervent kiss. "We are going to take a holiday, darling," he cried gaily. "This is a perfect day; it's a shame to be stifled in London. We will run down by train to Shepperton. I'll get a boat and pull you to Hampton Court. We'll lunch there, and afterwards stroll round the gardens. Then I will bring you back home, I wonder if you remember that day--it seems such a little while ago--when we first met?" "Shall I ever forget it?" she whispered softly. "I think, perhaps, I fell a little bit in love with you then. And afterwards we met at Hendon, and you came to call on us at Chesterfield Street. And my dear father took a great fancy to you. And now--" she looked at him shyly, and did not finish the sentence. He took her in his arms and kissed her. "And now, my darling, we are sweethearts for ever and ever." A couple of hours later they were on the river. The beauty of the warm summer day, the pleasurable excitement of the journey, the change of scene, had momentarily lifted the shadows and induced forgetfulness. For that brief space she was her old joyous self, a girl in the glorious fulness of her youth, living and beloved. Her thoughts were such as come to pure girls in such moments. As they glided down the placid stream, the golden afternoon warm and odorous with the mingled scents of the summer air, so would they journey through life together. She remembered how her father had adored her mother. Austin would be such another true lover to the end of his days. They returned to Chesterfield Street. She was loth to part with him and pressed him to stay to dinner. He pleaded a business engagement. He could not break faith with Boyle, although he was sorely tempted to do so. "You will be sure to come to-morrow?" she said, as she kissed him good-night. It cut him to the quick to leave her alone in that sad house, but he had no choice. At all costs, he must keep Boyle away from her. "Quite sure, my darling. You love me a little?" he whispered as they parted. "Oh! so much," she answered with a sweet smile. "Didn't I tell you this morning that I fell in love with you a long time ago? You have been so kind, so patient, so good. I fear I am a very sad sweetheart, but I know you understand. The ties between my dear father and myself were so close. We were all the world to each other." He hastened away, more firmly resolved than ever that Caleb Boyle should never put his foot in Chesterfield Street. That trusting heart must never be pierced by doubts of her father's rectitude. Wingate was a few minutes late at the club that evening. He found Mr Boyle awaiting him, in the full glory of evening attire. His host could not help observing that the suit had seen good service, and that the shirt was frayed and dingy as to colour. But Boyle's ready assurance was not in the least dashed by these circumstances. He advanced with outstretched hand, and greeted Wingate in his usual fulsome manner. "I am sorry you troubled to dress, Mr Boyle. This is quite a Bohemian club. I ought to have told you." Boyle waved a deprecatory hand. And his self-satisfied manner seemed to imply that, at this hour, evening attire was natural to him, and that he would have assumed it in any case. They went in to dinner. Boyle began talking at once. He admired the dining-room, the service, the club and its arrangements generally. "It is some years since I entered these portals," he remarked in his pompous, affected manner. "I used to know some good fellows in the old days." He named Jimmy this, Dicky that, and Tommy the other. Wingate noted that all the members with whom he boasted acquaintance had joined the majority. "I belonged to a lot of Bohemian clubs when I first started my London career," he explained. "I was a member of the Garrick, and at the Savage I believe I am still remembered. Ah! that those good old days could come again." He heaved a deep sigh, and for a few minutes applied himself to the very excellent meal that was set before him. He ate heartily, consuming big portions of each dish. His host had a shrewd notion that he had economised in the matter of lunch. When dinner was over, they passed to the smoking-room, where Mr Boyle very speedily disposed of a few whiskies, taking two to the other's one. It was here that Wingate touched lightly and delicately upon the visit to Smeaton. "I would like to impress upon you, Mr Boyle, that, under ordinary circumstances. Miss Monkton would be delighted to receive any old friend of her father's; but I fear such a visit at present would pain her very much." Boyle rose to the occasion. "It is I who am in fault. It was a thoughtless suggestion on my part, made on the spur of the moment, and prompted, I assure you, by the sincerest feelings of sympathy for her, and esteem for my dear old friend." If his motives been of the nature suggested by Smeaton, he was certainly taking it very well. Wingate pressed on him another whisky-and-soda. The offer was accepted with his usual alacrity. His powers of absorption appeared to be unbounded. Wingate proposed a change of scene. "What do you say to an hour or two at the Empire? We'll stroll round and get a couple of stalls." Mr Boyle was delighted at the suggestion. "Excellent," he cried, with the glee of a schoolboy. "Dear old Empire, dear old mad and sad Empire, what visions it conjures up! Let us go at once. I will tread again the merry lounge, forget all gnawing care, and summon back the light-heartedness of youth." He revelled in it all so much that it was eleven o'clock before Wingate could get him away. And then he had not exhausted his capacity for enjoyment. "Let us make a night of it," he cried cheerfully. "You don't know what a delight it is to mix for a few hours with a man of my own world, like yourself. We had an excellent dinner, but I am sure we could do a little supper together." Wingate would have preferred to decline, but, if he did so, Boyle might be offended. And it was, above all things, necessary to keep him in good humour. "Good man," cried Mr Boyle, with one of his sweeping gestures. "The night is young. A few paces from here is a snug little restaurant, presided over by my old and excellent friend, Luigi. You will be my guest." Wingate started at the name. It was the little house in Soho where Monkton had dined with the bearded Russian on the night of his disappearance. The smiling proprietor welcomed Boyle with extreme cordiality. They were very well acquainted. They had a light supper, and at the conclusion Boyle drew aside the waiter, and whispered something in his ear. Wingate caught the words: "Put it down. I'll call and pay to-morrow." The gentleman in the worn evening suit and the dingy shirt was evidently short of cash. Wingate took advantage of the opportunity. Smeaton had taken a dislike to the man, but what the poor broken-down creature had told him might be of service. "Pardon me, Boyle," he said, dropping the formal prefix, "but I could not help overhearing. If you have come out without money, please let me be your banker for the time being." There was a long pause. Boyle seized the tumbler of whisky-and-soda that stood at his elbow, and drained it at a draught. For a few seconds he seemed struggling with some hidden emotion. Then his usual flamboyancy returned. He hailed the waiter in a loud voice, and ordered more refreshment. Then he laid his long, lean hand on the other's shoulder, and spoke in his deep, rolling tones. "Why should I play the hypocrite to a good fellow like yourself, Wingate. I'm as poor as a church-rat--you can guess that from my clothes. I asked you to supper on the spur of the moment with eighteenpence in my pocket, knowing that my old friend Luigi would give me credit. I have a roof over my head for the rest of the week. Next week I may not have that. But I don't moan and whine; I set my teeth and smile, as I am smiling now. Whatever men may think of me, they shall never say that Caleb Boyle showed the white feather." He took another deep draught as he finished the pathetic outburst. Wingate felt in his pockets. "I haven't much with me, only a couple of sovereigns. But you can square the bill with that. I have a cheque-book with me, and I shall be delighted to tide you over immediate difficulties, if you will name a sum." "Would ten pounds be too much?" asked Boyle, in a strangely hesitating voice. For the moment, his assurance seemed to have forsaken him; he seemed to realise to what he had fallen. "Not at all." The cheque was written and handed to the poor derelict, together with the two pounds in cash. For once, the usual flow of words did not come. It was a quiet and subdued Boyle who called the waiter, and bade him bring the bill. "I cannot find words to thank you," he told his benefactor, "I can only say, God bless you. I have done the same to many a poor devil myself, in olden days, but never in a more kindly and generous fashion. I should like, if I may, to tell you a little bit of history." Wingate nodded. He could not but feel sorry for the poor broken-down creature, who tried to hide his sorrows under this brave and pompous front. "I was ruined by a devil whom I first met here, before Luigi took the place. He called himself Bellamy, but that was not his real name. He was a foreign fraudulent company promoter by profession. I was young and gullible. He dazzled me with his swindling schemes, until he had stripped me of every penny." Wingate murmured his sympathy. He surmised that Boyle was exaggerating when he accused the foreigner of having been the sole cause of his ruin. There was no doubt he had contributed pretty considerably towards his own downfall. But was there ever a spendthrift yet who would admit as much? "But thank Heaven, he was trapped at last. He went a step too far, and was beggared by a lawsuit brought against him by the shareholders of a company he had promoted, and which never paid a dividend. Our old friend Monkton led against him, and trounced him thoroughly, I can tell you. Every penny he possessed was seized, and he fled the country for fear of arrest." Wingate pricked up his ears. "You say this man was a foreigner. Would you recognise his handwriting, if you saw it?" "Certainly. I have more than a dozen of his letters in my possession. If you would care to come round to my rooms, I will show you them to-night." Wingate rose quickly. "Is it far?" Boyle answered without a shade of embarrassment, "Shepherd's Bush. Not, I regret to say, what you would call a fashionable suburb." In another two minutes they were in a taxi speeding towards Boyle's residence. CHAPTER TWENTY TWO. ONE FACT IS ESTABLISHED. Boyle had directed the driver to stop at Uxbridge Road Station, where the two roads branch off, the one on the left leading into Chiswick, that on the right passing through Hanwell and Uxbridge. He got out, and insisted on paying the fare, out of his newly-acquired wealth. "We are now at the beginning of Shepherd's Bush. The Carthorne road, where I live--I should rather say exist--is a few minutes' walk from here. It would have been impossible to direct the driver. It would require the exploring instinct of a Stanley or a Livingstone to track me to my lair," he laughed. He led Wingate through various mean streets, consisting of two long rows of narrow three-storied houses. Several of them were to let. Most of them bore cards in their windows with the words "Furnished apartments." Poverty everywhere betrayed its ugly features. Boyle paused before the door of one of these ill-favoured tenements, and applied a latchkey. Wingate stepped into a narrow hall, covered by a strip of oil-cloth, full of holes, the pattern worn away with hard wear. An evil-smelling lamp hung from the ceiling, shedding a feeble light that was little removed from darkness. Boyle led him to the end of the passage, and took him into a chamber that extended the width of the house. Quickly he struck a match, and lit a lamp. Wingate felt terribly depressed. But Boyle, fortified, no doubt, by the unexpected possession of those few providential sovereigns, had recovered his accustomed buoyancy. He waved his hand round the faded apartment with a theatrical air. "Welcome to my poor abode, the present _pied-a-terre_ of Caleb Boyle, once a member of exclusive clubs, and not an unknown figure in London society." Wingate looked round and shuddered inwardly at what he saw. A horsehair sofa, black and stained with age, a carpet, worn threadbare and full of holes, three cane chairs, one easy-chair, worn and bulged out of shape, a cheap chest of drawers, with half the knobs missing. And at the side of the wall opposite the fire-place, a low, narrow single bedstead covered with a darned and patched counterpane. This was flanked by a yellow deal washstand. Was it possible that anybody who had once lived decently, could draw a breath in this musty and abominable hole? Certainly there was a courage and power of endurance in the man that compelled Wingate's admiration. Boyle pushed one of the rickety chairs towards his guest, and crossed to a small hanging cupboard, from the recesses of which he produced a black bottle, which he held up to the lamp. "There is corn in Egypt," he cried gaily; he seemed in the highest spirits amid these depressing surroundings. "We will carouse while the night is still young. I am sorry I have no soda, and I fear all the houses are shut. But the whisky is good." He poured out two liberal portions, added some water, and drained his off at a draught. Then he stooped, and lifted the lid of a dilapidated tin box. "Now for the letters," he said. In a few moments he had found them, tied together in a packet with a thin piece of twine. On a strip of paper within was: "Letters from Charles Bellamy to Caleb Boyle." Wingate took them, and rapidly scanned the contents of the first two. There were about a dozen in all. They related to purely business matters, dwelling upon the magnificent prospects of a certain company in which Boyle had taken shares, and exhorting him to patience under the present non-payment of dividends. Read by the light of subsequent events, they were obviously the letters of a swindler to the victim he had entrapped in his financial meshes. But, of course, to Wingate the supreme matter of interest was the handwriting. And here, he could not be positive. He had read the threatening letter, and he knew the contents of it by heart. But that was some time ago, and he could not form a mental picture of it. "Can you trust me with one of those, Mr Boyle, to show to our friend Smeaton, so that he may compare it with a letter in his possession. I think, so far as my memory serves me, they were written by the same man, but I want to see the two together. If you would rather not part with it, bring it down yourself to-morrow to Scotland Yard, and I will meet you there." Boyle was hurt at the suggestion. "My dear Wingate, take the whole packet, if you wish. After the noble way in which you have behaved to-night, is it likely I should refuse such a trifling thing?" "Thanks, they shall be returned to you directly Smeaton has done with them. A thousand thanks, and now I will say good-night. I have to be up betimes to-morrow morning." He left, after refusing Boyle's earnest request to join him in a final whisky. He fancied there would not be much left in that bottle when the poor broken-down gentleman stumbled into his uninviting bed. Wingate took the precious packet round to Smeaton next morning. And the detective, after a minute and lengthy examination, declared there could be no doubt that Charles Bellamy was the writer of the threatening letter. "I will put all the documents in the hands of an expert for confirmation," he said, "but I am quite certain in my own mind, and I shall follow up the clue at once." "You have also another clue, that concerning Lady Wrenwyck," observed Austin. "Strange that we should be indebted to this peculiar creature, Boyle, for both!" "He seems to grow more useful as we cultivate his further acquaintance," said the detective, a humorous smile softening for a moment his rather harsh features. "To which of the two do you attach the greater importance?" was Wingate's next question. "It is hard to say. But by following both we may arrive at a solution. They must be pursued simultaneously and that requires two men. Personally I think the Bellamy track may produce the better result, and naturally I should like to choose that for myself. On the other hand, the Wrenwyck one requires some experience and _finesse_, both of which qualities I flatter myself I possess. Anyway, I must trust one of the two to a subordinate." He passed, and remained silent for a few moments, then made up his mind. He rang the bell, and requested that Johnson should come to him at once. "I have resolved to take the Bellamy clue," he explained to Wingate. "It will require some research, possibly lengthy communications with the police of other countries. Here I shall be better equipped than a comparatively new man. Johnson has so far acted with great promptitude in the Wrenwyck matter." Detective-sergeant Johnson appeared almost immediately, and to him Smeaton issued brief instructions. "About Lady Wrenwyck. You have lost no time over this, and I want you to follow it up. This is Mr Wingate, before whom we can speak quite freely. Find out where the lady is and, equally important, if she is alone, or with a companion. I exclude, of course, her maid." Mr Johnson bowed. "I quite understand, sir. I know, as a fact, her maid left with her. She was with her ladyship before her marriage, and is, no doubt, entirely in her mistress's confidence." The detective paused a second, and then added a little touch of his own which, he was sure, would not be lost on his chief. Besides, it showed his knowledge of high society, and of the ways of ladies who were a trifle unconventional. "Of course, sir, in circumstances of a delicate nature, ladies have been known to give their maids a holiday." "I quite appreciate that point, Johnson. Well, get on to the job at once, and confer with me when necessary." Johnson withdrew, well pleased that his chief had entrusted him with so important a mission. Smeaton turned to his visitor. "Well, Mr Wingate, we ought to find out something in the next few days. I will get on to the track of Bellamy at once. Kindly drop a note to Boyle that I will keep his letters for a little time. Good-bye for the present. I will communicate with you the moment there is anything worth telling." He set to work at once on the Bellamy _dossier_. Up to a certain point the task was comparatively easy. The man was of Polish origin, his real name being Ivan Bolinski. A little further investigation revealed the fact that he was the elder brother of the Bolinski who lived in the Boundary Road, St John's Wood, the man who had dined with Monkton at the Soho restaurant, and according to the evidence of Davies, the taxi-driver, one of the pair who had hailed his vehicle for the conveyance of the dying man to Chesterfield Street. So far, the scent seemed a warm one. Bellamy, to give him his assumed name, was born of an English mother, and, in marked contrast to his brother, betrayed very little of the foreigner in his appearance. He spoke English with a perfect accent. He had started his career as a money-lender, his operations, which were on a small scale, being confined chiefly to his compatriots. He next blossomed out, in conjunction with a couple of scoundrels of the same kidney, into a promoter of small and shady concerns. Success attended his efforts, and he then flew at higher game. But although he amassed money he was never connected with a single flourishing company. He made thousands out of his victims, but they never saw a penny of their money back until just at the end. And at this point Smeaton came to the trial at which Monkton had appeared and obtained a verdict for the restitution of the sums acquired by fraudulent misrepresentation. Although only a civil action, the evidence against Bellamy was so damaging that a criminal prosecution was bound to follow. This he himself recognised, with the result that within twenty-four hours after the verdict had been given he escaped from England under an assumed name. Five years later he was convicted in America, and sentenced to a long term of imprisonment, under this assumed name. At the trial it was conclusively proved that he was the same man, Ivan Bolinski, alias Bellamy, who had previously figured in the English Courts, and been driven from the pursuit of his nefarious occupation by the skill and eloquence of Monkton. He was tracked through a series of wanderings in different countries, where no doubt he still pursued his profession of _chevalier d'industrie_, although he seemed during that period to have escaped the active interference of justice till about five years ago. At that date he was living at a small village in Cornwall, either on his private means, or perhaps on money allowed him by his brother. Against this brother, so far as his commercial career was concerned, nothing of a suspicious nature was known. Here Smeaton came to a _cul-de-sac_. At that date Ivan Bolinski was living in this remote Cornish village, under the name of Charlton. Twenty years or so had elapsed since, in a moment of burning hatred, he had penned that threatening letter to the man who had brought to an abrupt close his nefarious career in this country. To that remote fishing hamlet went Smeaton. He found the quaint little house which had sheltered Bellamy; which he hoped still sheltered him. The door was opened by an elderly woman. "I have come to inquire about a man named Charlton who came to live here five years ago," he said, going to the point at once. She was evidently an honest creature who knew nothing of what was going on in the big world outside her little corner of earth. "Please come in, sir. A gentleman of that name came to lodge here about that time." She led him into the tiny parlour, and asked him to be seated. At Smeaton's request she told him all about her lodger. "He was in very poor health, sir, when he came here, and he seemed to gradually get worse. He was a very quiet gentleman; spent most of his time reading. When he first came he took long walks, but latterly he had to give these up. He lived a most solitary life, hardly ever wrote or received a letter, and had only one visitor, who came from London to see him occasionally." "Can you describe this visitor to me?" asked Smeaton. "A tall, bearded man, who walked with a limp, and looked like a foreigner. He told me he was his brother. I remarked once how unlike they were, and he smiled and said he took after his mother, and the other after his father. Once he told me that Charlton was not his proper name, that he had taken it for the sake of property." A somewhat indiscreet admission, thought Smeaton. But after all those years there was little to fear. He had been forgotten by now, and this simple woman could do him no harm. The landlady went on with her narrative. "As I told you, sir, he got worse and worse, and Doctor Mayhew, who lives a little way beyond the village, was always in and out. It must have cost a small fortune, that long illness. Then one night, just before the end, he sent me with a telegram to his brother--it was a long foreign name, and I can't remember it." "Bolinski," suggested Smeaton. The woman looked puzzled. "Very likely, sir; I know it began with a B. Next day the brother came down, and stayed with him till he died, a matter of a week. I remember when the doctor was going to give the certificate he told him the right name to put on it. I remember his words: `The name of Charlton was assumed, doctor. On the certificate we will have the real one. It doesn't matter now. It was assumed for reasons I do not wish to explain, and they would not interest you.'" "When did he die?" asked Smeaton eagerly. "A little over two years ago, sir, this very month." Then, as the detective rose, she added: "If you would like to step round to Doctor Mayhew's he is sure to be in at this time. He could give you full particulars of the end." "Thanks," said Smeaton absently, as he bade her good-day. There was no need to visit the doctor. The woman's tale had been simple and convincing. What he knew for a certainty was that Ivan Bolinski, alias Bellamy, alias Charlton, the writer of the threatening letter, had died more than two years before Reginald Monkton's disappearance. Was Reginald Monkton dead, or still alive? CHAPTER TWENTY THREE. WHICH MAKES ONE FACT PLAIN. Mr Johnson felt a pleasurable sense of elation when he embarked on the mission assigned him by his chief. If he could discover anything that would help to elucidate or solve what was known amongst the select few as "the Monkton Mystery," rapid promotion was assured. Smeaton was not a jealous man, and besides, if Johnson did score a success, it was his senior who had given him the materials to work upon. Still, although pleasantly elated, he did not disguise from himself the difficulties of his task. He had to find out where Lady Wrenwyck was hiding--she was hiding, of course, or her whereabouts would have been known to her household. And he did not know the woman by sight. He grappled with the smaller difficulty first, when he met his cousin the footman, at their usual meeting-place. "Any chance of getting a peep at a photograph of her ladyship?" he asked. He had told Willet, such was his name, as much as it was good for him to know, and no more. "I'm very friendly with several of the Wrenwyck lot," was Willet's reply. "I daresay I could smuggle one out for you for half-an-hour, but it's exciting suspicion, isn't it? And I suppose you don't want to take too many people into your confidence?" Johnson agreed with this sentiment emphatically. He could swallow any amount of confidence himself, but he hated reciprocity. Hear everything, and tell nothing, or, at the worst, as little as you can. That was his motto. "It would lead to gossip, and we should have to fudge up some tale or other, Dick. We'll let it alone for the present, and only use it as a last resource." Mr Willet reflected, and then he remembered. "Look here. I've just thought of the very thing! I've a lot of old illustrated newspapers by me. Not very long ago there was a full-page portrait of her, in fancy dress at the Devonshire House ball--Queen of Sheba or something. It's a splendid likeness. If you once see it, you'd pick her out from a thousand. Stay here for ten minutes, and I'll hunt it out and bring it round." Willet was as good as his word. In a little over the time he had stated, the portrait was in Johnson's hands, and carefully scrutinised. In the words of his cousin, wherever he met Lady Wrenwyck he would "pick her out of a thousand." That little difficulty was solved without any loss of time. The important one remained: where was she at the present moment? On this point Willet could give no information. Her maid had packed her boxes, and they had started off one afternoon when her husband was absent, without a hint of their destination from either of them. "Doesn't Lord Wrenwyck know? Surely she must have given him some information, even if it was misleading." "I doubt if Wrenwyck knows any more than we do," replied Willet, alluding to this highly-descended peer with the easy familiarity of his class. "She's disappeared half-a-dozen times since her marriage in this way, and come back when it suited her, just as if nothing had happened." "A rum household," observed Johnson, who was not so used to high-class ways as his cousin. "But you told me that she had no money when she married him. You can't travel about for weeks on nothing. What does she do for cash on these jaunts?" Mr Willet shrugged his shoulders. "Not so difficult as you think. The old man made a handsome settlement on her, and I suppose she times her journeys when she's got plenty in hand, and comes back when she's broke. Besides, her bank would let her overdraw, if she wrote to them." "You're right, I didn't think of that. Her bankers have got her address right enough, and, of course, they wouldn't give it. They would forward a letter though, if one could write one that would draw her." There was a pause after this. Johnson was pondering as to how it was possible to utilise her bankers--somebody in the household would be sure to know who they were. Willet was pondering too, and, as it appeared, to some purpose. "Look here, you haven't told me too much, and I don't blame you either, under the circumstances, but I see you want to get on her track. I've an idea I'll tell you." "You're full of 'em," said Johnson appreciatively. "You may take my word for it, nobody at the Wrenwyck house knows; anyway, nobody I can get hold of. Now, she's got a bosom friend, a Mrs Adair, rather rapid like herself, and married to just such another grumpy, half-cracked old chap as Wrenwyck himself." "I didn't know he was half-cracked," interposed Johnson, who never missed the smallest piece of information. "They all say he is. Wheeler, his valet, tells me he has frightful fits of rage, and after they are over, sits growling and gnashing his teeth-- most of 'em false, by the way." Mr Willet paused for a moment to accept his cousin's offer of another drink, and then resumed. "I don't want to raise your hopes too high, old man. If she's on the strict q.t. it's long odds she won't let a soul know where she is. But if she has told anybody, it's Mrs Adair, who, if necessary, would help her with money if she's short. They've been bosom friends for years; when in town they see each other every day." Johnson nodded his head judiciously. "It's an even chance that Mrs Adair knows, if everybody else is in the dark. But how the devil are we to get at Mrs Adair? If we could, she wouldn't give her away." Mr Willet grinned triumphantly. "Of course not, I see that as well as you do; I'm not a juggins. Now this is just where I come in to help the great London detective." "You are priceless, Dick," murmured Mr Johnson in a voice of unfeigned admiration. "Mrs Adair's maid is a girl I've long had a sneaking regard for. But I had to lie low because she was keeping company with an infernal rotter, who she thought was everything her fancy painted. Two months ago, she found him out, and gave him the chuck. Then I stepped in. We're not formally engaged as yet, but I think she's made up her mind she might do worse. It's a little early yet. I'm taking her out to-morrow night. I'll pump her and see if Mrs Adair receives any letters from Lady Wrenwyck. My young woman knows the handwriting, and the postmark will tell you what you want--eh?" Johnson again expressed his admiration of his cousin's resource, suggested a little _douceur_ for his trouble, and gallantly invited him and his sweetheart to take a bit of dinner with him. But Willet, who was of a jealous disposition, waved him sternly away. "After marriage, if you like, my lad, not before. You're too good-looking, and not old enough. Never introduce your young lady to a pal. No offence, of course. You'd do the same in my place, or you haven't got the headpiece I give you credit for." Johnson admitted meekly that in the case of an attractive young woman it was wise to take precautions. They parted on the understanding that they would meet at the same place two nights later. They met at the time appointed, and there was an almost offensive air of triumph about Mr Willet's demeanour that argued good things. He started by ordering refreshment. "Now to business," he said, in his sharp, slangy way. "I've pumped Lily all right, and this job seems as easy as falling off a house. No letters have come from the lady, or gone to her, since she left, but--" he made a long pause here. "Every week a letter comes to Mrs Adair with the Weymouth postmark on it and every week Mrs Adair writes to a Mrs Marsh, whom Lily never heard of, and the letter is addressed to the Weymouth post-office. The writing on the envelope that comes to Mrs Adair is not Lady W.'s. Do you tumble?" "It's a hundred chances to one that her ladyship is at Weymouth, and her maid addresses the envelope," was Johnson's answer. "I say ditto. Mrs Adair's letter is posted every Thursday. To-day is Wednesday. Put yourself in the Weymouth train to-morrow, keep a watch on the post-office next morning, and the odds are that letter will be fetched by Lady Wrenwyck, or her maid." "Thanks to the portrait I know the mistress, but I don't know the maid. Describe her to me." Mr Willet produced a piece of paper and pencil. "I'm a bit of an artist in my spare time. I'll draw her for you so exactly that you can't mistake her." He completed the sketch and handed it to his cousin. Later, they parted with mutual expressions of good will. Friday morning saw Johnson prowling round the Weymouth post-office. He had to wait some time, but his patience was rewarded--he saw both Lady Wrenwyck and her maid. After issuing from the post-office, they went together to several shops, strolled for a few minutes up and down the sea front, and then returned home. He had not expected to find them at a hotel, for obvious reasons. He was not therefore surprised when they entered one of the bigger houses facing the sea. They wanted privacy, and their only chance of getting that was in lodgings. He snatched a hasty lunch, and kept observation on the house till about six o'clock, in the hope that her ladyship would come out again with a companion. But he was disappointed in this expectation. He made up his mind to force matters a little. He went up boldly to the door and knocked. "Is Mrs Marsh at home?" he asked the servant who answered the summons. The girl answered in the affirmative. "Who shall I say, please?" she added. "Wait a moment. Is she alone?" It was a random shot, but it had the effect he intended. "Quite alone. Mr Williams is very bad again to-day. He's in bed." Mr Williams! Just the sort of ordinary name a man would assume under the circumstances. "She won't know my name. Just say a Mr Johnson from London wishes to see her on urgent private business." As he waited in the hall, he wondered whether she would refuse to see him? Well, if she did, it only meant delay. He would stay on at Weymouth till his business was done. The maid interrupted his reflections by calling over the banisters, "Will you come up, please?" The next moment, he was bowing to Lady Wrenwyck, who was seated in an easy-chair, a book, which she had just laid down, on her lap. She was a very beautiful woman still, and although she sat in a strong light, did not look over thirty-five. She received him a little haughtily. "I do not remember to have seen you before. What is your business with me?" Johnson fired his first shot boldly. "I believe I have the honour of addressing Lady Wrenwyck?" Her face went a shade paler. "I do not deny it. Please explain your object in seeking me out. Will you sit down?" The detective took a chair. "You have no doubt, madam, heard of the mysterious disappearance of an old friend of yours, Mr Monkton." He had expected to see her start, or show some signs of embarrassment. She did nothing of the kind. Her voice, as she answered him, was quite calm. "I have heard something of it--some wild rumour. I am sorry for his daughter and his friends, for himself, if anything terrible has happened. But why do you come to me about this?" It was Johnson's turn to feel embarrassment now. Her fine eyes looked at him unwaveringly, and there was just the suspicion of a contemptuous smile on her beautiful face. "I knew you were close friends once," he stammered. "It struck me you might know something--he might have confided something to you." He broke down, and there was a long pause. For a space Lady Wrenwyck turned her face away, and looked out on the sea front. Suddenly she divined his errand, and a low ripple of laughter escaped her. "I think I see the meaning of it all now. You have picked up some ancient rumours of my friendship with Mr Monkton, and you think he is with me here; that I am responsible for his disappearance." The detective was too embarrassed to answer her. He was thankful that she had seen things so quickly. "I don't know why I should admit anything to you," she went on, in a contemptuous voice, "but I will admit this much. There was a time when I was passionately in love with him. At that time, if he had lifted up his little finger I would have followed him to the end of the world. He never asked me--he had water in his veins, not blood. That was in the long ago. To-day he is nothing to me--barely a memory. Go back to London, my good man. You will not find Reginald Monkton here." Her scornful tone braced the detective, and dispelled his momentary embarrassment. "Who then is Mr Williams?" he asked doggedly. "Oh, you know that, do you?--you seem full of useless knowledge. Mr Williams, an assumed name like my own, is my youngest and favourite brother. There is a tragic family history which I shall not tell you. It suffices to say I am the only member of his family who has not severed relations with him. He is very ill. I am here to nurse him back to health and strength." Johnson looked dubious. She spoke with the ring of truth, but these women of the world could be consummate actresses when they chose. She rose from her chair, a smile half contemptuous half amused upon her charming face. "You don't believe me. Wait a moment, and I will convince you." She left the room, returning after a moment's absence. "Follow me and see for yourself," she said coldly, and led the way into a bedroom adjoining the room in which they had been talking. "Look here," she pointed to the bed. "He is asleep; I gave him a composing draught an hour ago." Johnson looked. A man of about thirty-five, bearing a remarkable likeness to herself, was lying on his side, his hand supporting his head. The worn, drawn features spoke of pain and suffering from which, for the moment, he was relieved. The detective stole from the room on tiptoe, followed by Lady Wrenwyck. "You know Mr Monkton by sight, I presume? Have you seen enough? If so, I beg you to relieve me of your presence and your insulting suspicions." She pointed to the stairs with an imperious hand. Johnson had never felt a bigger fool in his life--he would have liked the earth to open and swallow him. "I humbly apologise," he faltered, and sneaked down the stairs, feeling like a whipped mongrel. CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR. THE MYSTERY OF THE MAID-SERVANT. When Johnson reported himself to his chief at Scotland Yard he had in a great measure recovered his self-possession. He had only failure to his credit, but that was not his fault. He had followed up the clue given to him with exemplary speed. The weakness lay in the unsubstantial nature of the clue. Smeaton listened to his recital, and made no caustic or petulant comment. He was a kindly man, and seldom reproached his subordinates, except for instances of sheer stupidity. He never inquired into their methods. Whether they obtained their results by luck or judgment was no concern of his, so long as the results were obtained. "Sit down. Let us talk this over," he said genially. "It was a clue worth following, wasn't it?" "Undoubtedly, sir," replied Johnson. "It was one of the few alternatives possible in such a case. I assure you, sir, I set out with high hopes." "It's a failure, Johnson, but that's no fault of yours; you did all that could be expected. I have had my rebuff, too. I have tracked the writer of the threatening letter, only to find he died two years before Monkton's disappearance. That was a nasty knock also. And yet that was a good clue too--of the two, a trifle better perhaps than yours." Detective-sergeant Johnson made no answer. Smeaton looked at him sharply. "You would say that was something to work on, wouldn't you?" Johnson reflected a moment. When you are going to exalt your own intelligence at the expense of your superior's intellect, it demands diplomacy. He spoke deferentially. "May I speak my mind plainly?" he asked. "I desire perfect frankness." Smeaton was not a little man. He knew that elderly men, in spite of their experience, grow stale, and often lose their swiftness of thought. It was well to incline their ears to the rising generation. "It was a clue worth following, sir, but personally I don't attach great importance to it." "Give me your reasons, Johnson. I know you have an analytical turn of mind. I shall be delighted to hear them." And Johnson gave his reasons. "This was a threatening letter. I daresay every big counsel receives them by the dozen. Now, let us construct for a moment the mentality of the writer; we will call him by his real name, Bolinski. A man of keen business instincts, or he would not have been the successful rogue he was. Naturally, therefore, a man of equable temperament." "It was not the letter of a man of equable temperament," interposed Smeaton grimly. "A temporary aberration," rejoined the scientific detective. "Even men of calm temperament get into uncontrollable rages occasionally. He wrote it at white heat, strung to momentary madness by the ruin that confronted him. That is understandable. What is _not_ understandable is that a man of that well-balanced mind should cherish rancour for a period of twenty-odd years." "There is something in what you say, Johnson. I confess that you are more subtle than I am." Johnson pursued his advantage. "After the lapse of twelve months, by which time he had probably found his feet again, he would recognise it, to use a phrase we both know well, sir, as `a fair cop.' He had defied the law; the law had got the better of him. He would take off his hat, and say to the law: `I give you best. You are the better man, and you won.'" Smeaton regarded his subordinate with genuine admiration. "I am not too old to learn, Johnson; you have taught me something to-night." He paused a moment, and added slowly: "You have taught me to distinguish the probable from the possible." Johnson rose, feeling he had done well and impressed his sagacity upon his chief. "I believe, sir, when you think it over you will admit that such a delayed scheme of vengeance would not be carried out, after the lapse of so many years, by a man of ordinary sanity. I admit it might be carried out by a lunatic, or a person half-demented, on the borderland--a man who had brooded over an ancient wrong till he became obsessed." Smeaton nodded, in comprehension. His subordinate was developing unsuspected powers. "Wait a moment, Johnson. We know certain things. We know Bolinski--who wrote the threatening letter--is out of it, so far as active participation is concerned. Lady Wrenwyck is out of it. We know the two who put the dying man in the cab. We know about Farloe and Saxton. We know about the Italian who died at Forest View. We know about the man Whyman, who invited me to stay the night, and disappeared before I was up next morning. You know all these things, everything that has taken place since I took up the case. You have thought it all over." "I have thought it all over," replied Johnson, always deferential and always imperturbable. "Don't go yet," said Smeaton. "Frankly, we seem to have come to a dead end. Have _you_ anything to suggest?" Johnson's triumph was complete. That the great Smeaton should seek the advice of a lieutenant, except in the most casual and non-committal way, was a thing unprecedented. But, following the example of other great men, he did not lose his head. He spoke with his accustomed deliberation, his usual deference. "The mystery, if it ever is solved, sir, will be solved at Forest View. Keep a watch on that house, day and night." He emphasised the last word, and looked squarely at his chief. Smeaton gave a sudden start. "You know Varney is watching it." "A clever fellow, sir; relies upon intuition largely and has little patience with our slower methods. He watches it by day--well, no doubt--but he doesn't watch it by night. Many strange things happen when the sun has gone down." Smeaton smiled a little uneasily. "You are relying on intuition now yourself, Johnson. But this conversation has given me food for thought. I will carry out your suggestion. In the meantime understand that, in this last mission, you have done all that is possible. I shall send in a report to that effect." Johnson withdrew, well pleased with the interview. He had greatly advanced himself in his chief's estimation and he had skilfully avoided wounding Smeaton's _amour propre_. The day was fated to be one of unpleasant surprises. A few hours later Varney dashed into his room, in a state of great excitement. "Astounding news--infernal news!" he cried, dashing his hat down on the table. "But first look at this, and see if you recognise the original." He handed Smeaton a snapshot. The detective examined it carefully. Truth to tell, it was not a very brilliant specimen of photographic art. "The cap and apron puzzled me a little at first," he said at length. "But it is certainly Mrs Saxton; in other words, I take it, the parlourmaid at Forest View." "Just what I suspected," cried Varney. "I was thinking about the woman, firmly convinced in my own mind that she was different from what she pretended to be. In a flash I thought of Mrs Saxton. I got a snap at her in the garden yesterday morning, without her seeing me, so as to bring it to you for identification." "Forest View seems to be the centre of the mystery," said Smeaton slowly. "Well, this is not the infernal news, I suppose? There is something more to come." And Varney blurted out the astonishing tale. "Forest View is empty. They made tracks in the night--while we were all sound asleep." Smeaton thought of Johnson's recommendation to watch the house by night as well as day. He reproached himself for his own carelessness when dealing with such wary adversaries. "Tell me all about it," he said sharply. Varney went on with his story. "It has been my custom to stroll round there every night about eleven o'clock, when the lights are put out, generally to the minute," he said. "I did the same thing last evening; they were extinguished a few minutes later than usual, but I did not attach any importance to that." "They were packing up, I suppose, and got a little over their time," observed Smeaton. "No doubt. I am usually a light sleeper, but I had taken a long cycle ride in the afternoon, and slept heavily till late in the morning. I took my usual stroll after breakfast. The gate was closed, but there were marks of heavy wheels on the gravel, and all the blinds were down. I went up to the door, and rang the bell. Nobody answered." "Did they take all the furniture?" queried Smeaton. "No, they could not have moved it in the time." "I am certain, from the marks, only one van had gone in and come out. They only removed what was valuable and important. I questioned the local constable. He saw a van pass, going in the direction of London, but had no idea of where it had come from. Some of them, I expect, got into the van, and the others took a circuitous route in the motor." Smeaton listened to all this with profound chagrin. He rose and paced the room. "I am fed up with the whole thing, Varney," he said, in a despondent voice. "I have followed two clues already that seemed promising, and they turn into will-o'-the-wisps. And now we've got to begin all over again with this Forest View lot." Varney agreed. As a relief from the strain and tension of this most baffling case, he suggested that Smeaton should dine with him at the Savage Club that night, to talk things over. After an excellent dinner, they recovered somewhat from the depression caused by the recent untoward events. They went into the Alhambra for an hour, and then strolled up Coventry Street. They waited at the corner of the Haymarket to cross the street. The traffic from the theatres was very congested, and the vehicles were crawling slowly westward. Suddenly Smeaton clutched at his companion's arm, and pointed to a taxi that was slowly passing them beneath the glare of the street lamps. "Look inside," he cried excitedly. Varney took a few quick paces forward, and peered through the closed window. He returned to Smeaton, his face aglow. "The parlourmaid at Forest View, otherwise Mrs Saxton, by all that's wonderful!" "Did you notice the man?" "No, I hadn't time. The driver started on at proper speed before I could focus him." "Do you know, the face in that gleam of light looked wonderfully like that of Reginald Monkton!" he said. "I committed the number of the taxi to memory. To-morrow, we shall know where it took them." Next morning, the taxi-driver was found, and told his tale simply and straightforwardly. "I picked them up in the Strand, sir, an elderly gent and a youngish lady. I was standing by the kerb, having just put down a fare. They had stepped out of another taxi a few yards below, they waited till it drove away, and then they came up and got into mine. I thought it a bit peculiar." "Where did you put them down?" "At the corner of Chesterfield Street, Mayfair. I asked them if I should wait, but the lady shook her head. The gentleman seemed ailing like; he walked very slow, and leaned heavily on her arm." Smeaton tipped the man, who in a few moments left his room. If it was Monkton, as he believed, why had he gone to Chesterfield Street? And having gone there, why had he alighted at the corner, instead of driving up to the house? In a few moments he took up the telephone receiver and asked for the number of Mr Monkton's house. CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE. STILL MORE MYSTERY. Grant answered the 'phone in Chesterfield Street. To Smeaton's inquiry, he replied that Miss Monkton had just left the house with Mr Wingate. They were lunching out somewhere, but she had left word that she would be back about three o'clock. "Any message, sir?" he concluded. "No, thank you. Grant. I want to see her rather particularly. I'll look round about three o'clock. I suppose she's likely to be pretty punctual?" Grant replied that, as a rule, she kept her time. He added, with the privileged freedom of an old servant: "But you know, sir, when young folk get together, they are not in a great hurry to part. And poor Miss Sheila hasn't much brightness in her life now. I don't know what she would do if it wasn't for Mr Wingate." About two o'clock Varney walked into Smeaton's room at Scotland Yard. He had taken an early morning train to Forest View, to find out what he could concerning the mysterious flitting. He had interviewed the house-agent at Horsham, and had learned a few facts which he communicated to the detective. There had been mystery about the man who called himself Strange from the beginning. When he proposed to take the house, he had been asked for references, according to the usual custom. He had demurred to this, explained that he did not care to trouble his friends on such a matter, and made a counter-proposition. He would pay a quarter's rent at once, and every three months pay in advance. The landlord and the house-agent both thought this a queer proceeding, and were half inclined to insist upon references. But the house had been to let for some time, and the loss of rent was a consideration. The man Strange might be an eccentric sort of person, who disliked putting himself under an obligation, even of such a trifling kind. They gave him the benefit of the doubt, feeling so far as the money was concerned that they were on the safe side. Another peculiar thing about Mr Strange was that, during the whole of his residence at Forest View, he had never been known to give a cheque. The landlord's rent was paid in banknotes, the tradesmen's accounts in gold and silver. Smeaton put an obvious question: "Have they heard anything from Stent?" "I am coming to that now, and here is more mystery, as might naturally be expected," was Varney's answer. "A young man called at the house-agent's late yesterday afternoon. He was described to me as a youngish, well-dressed fellow, rather thick-set and swarthy. I take it, we know nothing of him in connection with this case?" Varney looked at Smeaton interrogatively. The detective shook his head. "No; you have been told of everybody I know." "Well, this chap came with a queer sort of story," Varney went on. "He explained that he was a friend of Stent, I should say Strange. Two or three days ago Strange had received an urgent summons from abroad, which admitted of no delay. He had posted off at once to Croydon, got hold of a furniture dealer there, brought him back, and sold the furniture to him. He was to fetch it before the end of the week. Strange had given this fellow a letter to the agent, authorising him to let the dealer have the furniture, and hand him the proceeds, less a sum of twenty-five pounds which had been paid as deposit. Out of these proceeds the agent was to deduct the sum accruing for rent, the tenancy being up in four months' time--and keep the balance till Strange sent for it, or gave instructions for it to be sent to him!" "And, of course, nothing more will be heard of Stent," interrupted Smeaton. "The balance will lie in the agent's hands unclaimed." "It looks like it," said Varney. "The agent thought it all sounded very fishy, although this young fellow carried it off in a pretty natural manner. It was only when he was asked to give his name and address that he showed any signs of embarrassment. But, after a moment's hesitation, it came out pat enough. He was a Mr James Blake, of Verbena Road, Brixton, by profession an insurance agent." "A false name and address, of course?" queried Smeaton. "Yes and no," replied Varney. "I got up to Victoria about twelve o'clock, and hurried at once to Verbena Road. There, sure enough, was a plate on the door, `James Blake, Insurance Agent.' I rang the bell and asked to see him; I had prepared a story for him on my way there. Fortunately he was in." "And he was not the swarthy, thick-set young man who had gone to Horsham?" "Certainly not. He was a man of about forty-five with a black beard. In five minutes he told me all about himself, and his family, a wife and two daughters. One was a typist in the city, the other an assistant in a West End hat shop. Our dark-faced friend apparently picked the name out of the directory at random, or knew something of the neighbourhood and its residents. We may be quite sure Horsham will not see him again for a very long time. By the way, I forgot to tell you that Stent went round the day before, and paid up all the tradespeople." "No want of money," observed Smeaton. "They evidently didn't `shoot the moon' on account of poverty. There's no doubt they spotted you, and guessed they were under observation." "It looks like it," admitted Varney reluctantly. Smeaton had uttered no word of reproach, but it was a blow to the young man's pride to know that he had allowed his quarry to escape. "Well, we must think this over a bit, before we can decide on further steps," said the detective at length, in a desponding tone. "I am off to Chesterfield Street in a few moments, to see if I can learn anything fresh there. We know that Mrs Saxton was at the corner of the street last night, if we are not positive about her companion." Grant opened the door to him when, on the stroke of three, he alighted from a taxi. Half-an-hour went by, and still Sheila did not make her appearance. Smeaton began to fidget and walk up and down the dining-room, for he hated waiting for anybody. Then the door-bell rang. He rose and hastened into the hall, just as Grant opened the door. He saw a dark-haired young woman, neatly dressed in navy blue, standing there. He thought there was a slight tremor of nervousness in her voice as she asked if Miss Monkton was at home. Grant explained that she was out, but he expected her back every minute. Would she come in and wait? Apparently she was on the point of doing so, when she caught sight of Smeaton standing in the background. Her face flushed, and then went pale. She drew back, and her nervousness seemed to increase. It was impossible for her to keep her voice steady. "No--no, thank you," she stammered, as she edged back. "It is of really no importance. I will call another day--to-morrow perhaps." "What name shall I say?" asked Grant, surprised at her agitation. She grew more confused than ever. "I won't trouble you; it doesn't matter in the least. I mean. Miss Monkton would not know my name, if I told it you." With a swift gesture, she turned and fled. She had been nervous to start with, but Smeaton's steady and penetrating gaze seemed to have scared her out of her wits. The detective chatted for a moment or two with Grant, but made no comment upon the strange visitor. Still, it struck him as a curious thing, as one more of the many mysteries of which this house was so full. Would the young woman come back to-morrow, he wondered? Five minutes later Sheila and her lover arrived. They had spent the best part of the morning in each other's company, and had lingered long over their lunch. But Wingate was loth to part from her, and insisted upon seeing her home. She was puzzled, too, at the advent of this dark-haired young woman. "Oh, how I wish I had been a few minutes earlier," she cried. "I shall worry about it all night." "Strange things seem to happen every day," grumbled Smeaton. "A very mysterious thing happened at the corner of this street last night." Then he told them briefly of the midnight move from Forest View, of his dinner with Varney, and how they had seen Mrs Saxton in the taxi-cab in Coventry Street; of the taxi-driver's story that he had driven her to the corner of Chesterfield Street, where she had got out, and dismissed the cab. "But surely she was not alone," cried Sheila. "A man was with her, but the cab passed too rapidly for us to get a look at him," replied Smeaton evasively. After all, it was only a suspicion, he could not be positive. He paused a second, and went on hesitatingly. "I can't imagine what her motive could be in coming so near. I came round to-day because I had an idea that she might have called here on some pretext." "But, if she had done so, of course I should have rung you up," said Sheila quickly. "Well, I could have been sure of that too, if I had thought it out." Smeaton's manner was strangely hesitating, it seemed to them, not knowing that he was only revealing half of what was in his mind. "I hardly know why I came at all. I think the case is getting on my nerves. Well, I won't keep you any longer. Let me know if that young woman calls again, and if her visit concerns me in any way." He left, and when he had gone Sheila turned to her lover. "Mr Smeaton was very peculiar to-day, wasn't he, Austin? He gave me the impression of keeping something back--something that he wanted to tell and was afraid." Austin agreed with his well-beloved. There was certainly something mysterious about the great detective that afternoon. Meanwhile Smeaton walked back to his office, more puzzled and baffled than ever. Why on earth had Mrs Saxton and her companion driven to Chesterfield Street? And what had become of the other inmates of Forest View? CHAPTER TWENTY SIX. THE SECRET PICTURE. Sheila Monkton spent a restless night; truth to tell, her nights were never very peaceful. Even when she snatched her fitful sleep, the sinister figures of Stent, Farloe, and all the others who had become part of that haunting tragedy, flitted through her dreams, and made her welcome the daylight. And now she had still more perturbing food for thought. Why had Mrs Saxton, object of suspicion as she knew herself to be, ventured so near her? What did that surreptitious excursion portend? And who was that strange female who had called, and who would leave neither name nor message and had fled precipitately at sight of Smeaton in the hall? She made up her mind, when she wakened in the morning, to remain at home all day. It might turn out to be nothing, but she felt sure that this woman had some object in calling upon her. The air had been thick with mystery for many weeks; she was convinced there was still more in store, and it would be brought by this strange visitor. Yet she waited in vain; the young woman dressed in the navy blue costume, as described by the old manservant, did not make a second call. And poor Sheila spent still another night as wakeful as the preceding one. She came down to breakfast languid and heavy-eyed. She opened her letters listlessly, till she came to one larger than the rest, out of which dropped a photograph. At sight of it she exclaimed warmly to herself: "What a charming likeness. It is the image of dear Gladys. How sweet of her to send it to me!" She threw away the envelopes, and took the photo to the window to examine it more closely. It was a picture of her greatest friend, a girl a year older than herself, the Lady Gladys Rainham, only daughter of the Earl of Marshlands. Her father had been intimate with the Earl since boyhood, and the passing years had intensified their friendship, which had extended to their families. Until this great sorrow had fallen upon Sheila, hardly a day passed without the two girls getting a glimpse of each other. The Rainhams were amongst the few friends who knew the true facts of Monkton's disappearance. And, in almost morbid sensitiveness, Sheila had withdrawn a little from them. Even sympathy hurt her at such a time. But the sudden arrival of this photo of the young Society beauty brought old memories of friendship and affection. They had played together as children; they had told their girlish secrets to each other, and it struck her that she had been wrong, and a little unkind, in withdrawing herself from the sympathy of those who were so interested in her welfare. Gladys, no doubt, had been hurt by this attitude. She had written no note, she had not even signed the photograph. She had just sent it to recall herself to her old friend and companion. It had been sent as signal that if Sheila chose to make the smallest advance, the old relations would be at once re-established. On the spur of the moment, she wrote a warm and impulsive note, begging Gladys to come and lunch with her that day. "Forgive me for my long silence and absorption," she concluded. "But I know you will understand what I have lately suffered." She sent the note round to Eaton Square by her maid, with instructions to wait for an answer. It came, and Sheila's face flushed with pleasure as she read it. "I quite understand, and I have nothing to forgive," wrote the warm-hearted girl. "But it will be heavenly to see you again and talk together as we used." She came round half-an-hour before lunch-time, and the pair reunited, kissed, and clung together, and cried a little, after the manner of women. Then Sheila thanked her for the present of the photo, which, she declared, did not make her look half as beautiful as she was. Gladys looked puzzled. "But I never sent any photo to you, Sheila! Which one is it? Let me see it." Sheila handed it to her friend, who exclaimed, after examining it: "It is the one they took of me at the Grandcourt House Bazaar; I think it is quite a good one. But, Sheila darling, if I had sent it to you I should have written a note, at least have signed it. All this is strange--very strange! What does it mean?" Miss Monkton coloured a little as she answered: "Yes, I did think it strange that you did not write. I thought it so far as I am capable of thinking. But I know I have been very difficult lately, and I fancied perhaps you didn't want to make advances, and that you just sent that as a reminder of old times, trusting to me to respond." Lady Gladys kissed her warmly. "Ah! you poor darling, I quite see," she said. "But who could have sent it? That is the puzzle." They both discussed it, at intervals, at table, and could arrive at no solution. When Lady Gladys had left, Sheila puzzled over it all by herself, with no better result. Then, at last, weary of thinking, she telephoned to Wingate. Austin, who was in his office, agreed that the thing was very mysterious, and that he was as much mystified as she was. He ended the brief conversation by advising her to go to Smeaton. "Our brains are no good at this sort of thing," he said candidly. "The atmosphere of mystery seems to suit them at Scotland Yard--they breathe it every day." She drove at once to Scotland Yard, where they knew her well by now. Smeaton was disengaged, and she was taken to his room at once. "Any news. Miss Monkton?" he asked eagerly. "Has that young woman called?" The girl shook her head. "No, I waited in all day yesterday, but to no purpose. Now another strange thing has happened," and she told him briefly of the receipt of the photograph from some unknown person. "You didn't look at the envelope, I suppose?" "No, Mr Smeaton. I hardly ever do look at envelopes. I threw it away with the rest. It would have given you a clue, of course." "It might," returned Smeaton, who was nothing if not cautious. He ruminated for a few moments, and then said, abruptly, "You have brought it with you?" Sheila, who had taken that precaution, handed it to him. He turned it over, peering at it in that slow, deliberate fashion of a man who examines with the microscopic detail everything submitted to him. "Taken, I see, by the well-known firm of Kester and Treeton in Dover Street. Well, somebody ordered it, so we've got to find out who that somebody was. I will go to them at once, and let you know the result in due course." Sheila looked at him eagerly. She had great faith in him, although so far he had had nothing but failure to report. "Have you formed any opinion about it?" she asked timidly. Smeaton smiled grimly, but he answered her very kindly. "My dear Miss Monkton, I have formed many theories about your father's disappearance, and, alas! they have all been wrong. I am leaning to distrust my own judgment. I will say no more than this. This curious incident may end as everything else has done, but I think it is worth following up. I will put you into your car, and go on to the photographers." "Let me drive you there, and wait," urged Sheila eagerly. "I shall know the result so much quicker." The photographers in Dover Street had palatial premises. Smeaton was ushered from one apartment to another, till he reached the private sanctum of the head of the firm, where he produced his card, and explained his errand. Mr Kester was very obliging; he would do all he could to help, and it would only be a matter of a few moments. They kept a record of every transaction, and in all probability this was quite a recent one. He returned very shortly. It seemed that a young lady had called a couple of days ago, and asked for half-a-dozen portraits of Lady Gladys. On account of the Grandcourt House Bazaar, there had been a great run on the photos of the various stallholders, he explained. They happened to have a few copies of this particular picture in stock. The lady purchased six and took them away with her, saying that "they were for reproduction in the illustrated newspapers and the usual copyright fee would be paid." "Can you give me a description of the person who bought them?" was Smeaton's first question, when Mr Kester had concluded his story. "My assistant who served her is a very intelligent girl. Let us have her in." Kester 'phoned and requested Miss Jerningham to be sent to him. The fluffy-haired young lady remembered the incident perfectly, and described the dress and appearance of the young woman who had bought the photographs. If her description was to be trusted, it was the same person who had asked to see Miss Monkton and refused to leave her name. Smeaton, who had grown so utterly tired of theories and clues, began to believe he was on something tangible at last. He rejoined Sheila, but he did not say much. "I shall follow this clue," he told her. "The photo was sent for a purpose, and that woman knows why it was sent. I believe you will hear from her again, unless I scared her away." "Mr Smeaton, do tell me what you really think. I am sure there is something curious in your mind," implored the agitated Sheila. But the detective was not to be charmed from his reserve. "I must think over it a lot more yet. Miss Monkton, before I can hazard any opinion," he told her in his grave, deliberate way. "If I were to reveal any half-formed idea that is running through my brain, it is one I should have to dismiss as inapplicable to the circumstances as I see them at present." From that he would not budge. Sheila drove away with a heavy heart. Wingate came round to dinner that night, and they talked about nothing else. The only thing they could arrive at with any certainty was that the mysterious visitor, the young woman dressed in navy blue serge costume, was the sender of the photo. But that did not help them to discover the reason she had sent it. That night Sheila lay awake, very depressed and anxious, still puzzling over this latest mystery. Presently she dozed, and then, after a few moments of fitful sleep, woke with a start. Was it in that brief dream that some chords of memory had been suddenly stirred of a conversation held long ago between her father and a young man named Jack Wendover, a second secretary in the diplomatic service at Madrid? Jack Wendover had told him of an ingenious method of communication invented by a married couple, who were spies in the pay of a foreign Government. She could hear him explaining it to Reginald Monkton, as she sat up in the dark, in that semiconscious state between dreaming and waking. "They were clever. They wouldn't trust to ciphers or anything of that sort, when they were separated; it was much too commonplace. They sent each other photographs. The receiver cut the photograph down, and found between the two thicknesses of cardboard a piece of tissue paper, upon which was written the message that the sender wished to convey." She could hear her father's hearty laughter, as he said: "Truly, a most ingenious method. Has that really been done?" She had not been reminded of that for nothing, she felt sure. Why had this sudden recollection of an old conversation come to her in the dead of the night, if not for some purpose? The photo was still lying upon her desk in the morning-room. The house was quite quiet. Grant slept in the basement and the maids and the footman were at the top of the house. She rose, slipped on a dressing-gown, and lighted a candle. Then noiselessly she descended the stairs and reached the morning-room. She took a small penknife from the drawer of her desk, and carefully split the mount of the photograph. When she had finished, a piece of tissue paper fluttered to the floor, and upon that paper was a message. As she read it she held her breath. Her beautiful eyes grew soft and misty, while a lovely flush crept over her fair features. Tenderly, almost reverently, she raised the flimsy paper to her lips. "Not even to Austin," she murmured, in a voice that was half a sob. "Not even to Austin--dear as he is to me--not even to him." CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE STORY OF THE PORTRAITS. Austin Wingate was sitting in his office the next morning. The post had been unusually heavy, and he had a busy day in front of him. In view of the pressure of business which he saw was impending, he was about to ring up Sheila to tell her that he would not come to Chesterfield Street to dinner, as had been arranged, but would see her later in the evening. She, however, rang him up first. "I want to see you as soon as you can possibly get away," she told him. "Something very wonderful has happened; I can't tell you over the 'phone. Can you come to lunch--or before, if possible?" No true lover puts his business before his sweetheart. He replied unhesitatingly that he would be with her inside a couple of hours. That would give him time to attend to his most pressing correspondence. The rest, or that portion of it which could not be delegated to his subordinate, must wait till to-morrow. Sheila had changed her mind. Overnight she had resolved not to communicate that wonderful message even to him. Had it not enjoined her to the strictest secrecy? But on calmer reflection other thoughts had prevailed. The sender of that message did not know of the relations between them. Austin was a part of her life, her second self. How could she keep such an important thing from him, from the lover who had encompassed her with such tender devotion through this terrible time? "Dear, kind Austin," she murmured, as she thought of the readiness with which he had acceded to her request. "He never fails me in the slightest thing. No girl could ever have a truer lover." In two hours he would be here, and she could show him the paper on which was written that mysterious message. How should she get through the interval? The minutes seemed as if they would never pass. She was sitting in the cosy library where her father had spent most of his time when at home. What long chats they had enjoyed together in that dear old room. Her eyes filled with tears as she recalled those happy days, which, alas! seemed so far away. She was aroused from her reveries by the entrance of Grant. "The young person who called the other day, and refused to leave her name, is here. Miss," he told her. "She won't give any name now; merely says she would like to see you for a few minutes. I have shown her into the drawing-room." Sheila's face flushed with excitement. Hurriedly she went upstairs to her mysterious visitor. The dark-haired young woman rose at Sheila's entrance. It was easy to see she was terribly nervous. "I am speaking to Miss Monkton, am I not? I must apologise for intruding upon you, but I shall not keep you more than a few seconds. I came just to ask you, to know if--if--" she stammered so that she could hardly get her words out. "You wanted to know if--?" repeated Sheila encouragingly. She was terribly excited herself, but the calmer of the two. "Did you receive a portrait of a friend of yours, Lady Gladys Rainham, the envelope containing it directed in a strange handwriting?" "I did receive that portrait. At the time I did not notice the handwriting. I concluded it had been sent me by Lady Gladys herself." A sudden light dawned upon Sheila, as she spoke. "It was you who sent it, was it not?" "Yes, it was I, acting upon instructions." "By whom were those instructions given?" asked Sheila eagerly. The young woman's manner was more embarrassed than ever. "I am very sorry, but that I must not tell you. Later on, I daresay you will know all." "But you have something more to tell me, surely?" "Yes. That photograph was sent for a purpose. I called the other day, but you were out. It contains a message. Cut it in two, and you will find a letter inside." "I have already done so," was Sheila's reply. "When my friend Lady Gladys denied having sent it to me, I puzzled and puzzled over it. And then, I think it must have been in a dream, I recalled something that had happened long ago which set me on the right track. I went downstairs in the night, cut the photograph as you suggested, and found the message inside." The mysterious visitor looked towards the door, and made a movement of departure. "My task is done then, and I will detain you no longer." But Sheila stayed her impetuously. "But you will not leave me so abruptly. You can understand my terrible anxiety. You will relieve it by telling me what you know." In her agitation, she laid her hand upon the arm of her strange visitor, but the young woman freed herself, and advanced towards the door. "I can understand and sympathise with you," she said in a faltering voice. "But please do not press me, it is useless. I am under the most solemn promise to say no more. You must wait and be patient." In another moment she had left the room, leaving poor Sheila bewildered and tearful. Austin Wingate came later, was told of the strange visitor, and shown the message which had been contained in the photograph. He took her in his aims and kissed her fondly. "My darling, you must still be brave and patient," he said tenderly. She looked up at him with her sweet smile. "I have waited so long, Austin, I can wait a little longer, always providing that you are here to comfort me." Wingate did not leave her till late in the afternoon. The day was too far advanced for him to return to his office. He strolled to the Wellington Club. Just as he was going in, he caught sight of Farloe. He took a sudden resolve, and went up to the secretary, who did not seem too pleased to see him. "Good-day, Mr Farloe. May I walk with you a little way? There is something I should like to ask you." The young man assented, but by no means with a good grace. They had taken an instinctive dislike to each other from the first. They walked together in silence for a few paces, and then Wingate suddenly blurted out: "What has become of Reginald Monkton? I know you could tell us, if you chose." The secretary's face blanched to the lips. He tried to smile, but the smile was a very forced one. "Your question, and your manner of putting it, Mr Wingate, are both very offensive. I know no more of Monkton's whereabouts than you do. It is generally reported that he is abroad." "And you know as well as I do that it is not the fact," answered Wingate sternly. "Have a care, Mr Farloe. We know a good deal about you." The secretary assumed an air of extreme _hauteur_, but his face was whiter than ever. "It is extremely kind of you to interest yourself in my affairs, but I am afraid they will hardly repay the trouble of investigation. Perhaps you will allow me to bid you good-day." "Please give me another moment or two, Mr Farloe. We know this much about you, that you are in close communication with Stent and Bolinski, the two men who sent that dying man in the taxi to Chesterfield Street." For a moment the two men glared at each other, Wingate's face aflame with anger, the other with an expression half of fear, half of defiance, stealing over his white mask. "You refuse to tell me anything?" asked Wingate at length. "I have nothing to tell you," answered the other, in a voice that he could not keep quite steady. "Once again, good-day." He turned on his heel, and walked rapidly away. For fully five minutes he walked quickly in an easterly direction. Then he turned round, and cast stealthy glances backwards. Apparently he could not get it out of his mind that Wingate might be pursuing him. But he scanned the faces of the hurrying foot-passengers, and he could discern no hostile countenance. Well-dressed loungers, women intent on shopping and bargains, a man dressed in working costume, walking with a slouching gait. These were all he saw. He hailed a taxi, and shouted in a loud voice: "Broad Street Station." He had to shout loudly, for the roar of the traffic was deafening. The working-man with the slouching gait caught the words. A second taxi was just behind. He opened the door and jumped in, after having whispered in the ear of the driver, "Follow that fellow." At Broad Street Station Farloe alighted, needless to say the man who had pursued him close on his heels. Two tickets were taken for Hackney Station, one first-class, the other third-class. The disguised working-man, otherwise Varney, had been considerably chagrined at the disappearance of the Forest View household, and had sworn to be even with them. He had watched Farloe ever since, knowing that through him he would get at the whereabouts of Stent and Bolinski. Farloe alighted at Hackney Station, and after walking for about a quarter of a mile, turned up one of the many mean streets that abound in that neighbourhood. The secretary knocked at the door of one of the dingiest houses in the row, and disappeared inside. Varney kept his watch. At the end of an hour or so three men emerged from the shabby dwelling. As he expected, the two others were Stent and Bolinski. The three men made their way into Mare Street, and turned into the saloon bar of a big public-house. Something of importance was evidently in progress. Varney reflected. They would be some minutes before they had finished their drinks and their conversation. In the meantime, he had taken the name of the street and the number of the house. He could allow himself five minutes to ring up Scotland Yard. Smeaton was fortunately in. In a few brief words he told the detective of his discovery. Smeaton's reply come back. "Things are happening. I will send at once a couple of sergeants to help you. Hold on till my men arrive and then come straight on to me." It is a far cry from Scotland Yard to Mare Street, Hackney. But, occupied with his own thoughts, it seemed only a few minutes to Varney when the two detectives drove up, and alighted at the door of the public-house. A swift taxi can do wonders in annihilating space. The elder of the two men, whom Varney knew slightly, advanced towards him. "Good-day, Mr Varney. We struck here first, as being the nearest. They're still inside, eh?" "I should have left, if not. Well, I suppose you will take up my job." "That's about it, sir. Mr Smeaton told me he would like to see you as soon as possible. I think he has got something important to communicate. We'll wait for these two gentlemen. Stent and the Russian, to come out--Farloe we have nothing against at present--and then we'll clap the darbies on them in a twinkling." Varney, for a moment, looked incredulous. "But on what charge?" The detective grinned. "One that we only knew of yesterday. A charge of fraud in connection with certain rubber property. Another man of the name of Whyman is in it, but he seems to have got clear away." Varney, his brain in a whirl, took his way back to Scotland Yard, still in his costume of a working-man. "Well, what does it all mean?" he gasped, when he got into Smeaton's room. The great detective smiled genially. "It means, my dear Varney, that we are nearing the end of the Monkton mystery which has baffled us so long." "And the solution?" queried the other eagerly. "That I cannot tell you yet. But when it does come, I am afraid neither you nor I will reap much glory out of it." And Varney could get nothing out of him except those few cryptic words. "Something has happened quite recently?" he hazarded. The detective answered with that same slow, wise smile of his. "Perhaps. I can tell you nothing more now. Wait a moment, till I answer that telephone." A few words passed, and then he turned to Varney. "My men report they have laid Stent and Bolinski by the heels on the charge of fraud." CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT. IN THE MISTS. Detective-sergeant Johnson stood in Smeaton's room, listening to the final instructions of his chief with his usual respectful air. "Be as diplomatic as possible, Johnson. Let him suspect that we know everything, without committing yourself to any actual statement. Above all, impress upon him the fact that he must come. We would prefer he did so voluntarily. If he should prove obstinate, give him clearly to understand that we have other means at our disposal." Johnson spoke with quiet confidence. "I think you may safely leave it to me. After what you have told me, I am sure I can persuade the gentleman to accompany me. But, of course, I shall say nothing openly, simply confine myself to broad hints that ran only bear one meaning." Smeaton regarded Johnson approvingly. For some time past he had discerned in this comparatively young man qualities that bade fair to secure him a high position in his profession. He was level-headed, quick at instructions, possessed of considerable initiative, cautious, yet daring on occasion, confident without being boastful. "One last word before you leave. You will make quite sure he is in the house before you enter it; in other words, that he has returned to London." "I heard yesterday from my cousin, who had met his valet, that his lordship arrived late the previous evening. But to make sure, I have appointed to meet Willet this afternoon, so as to get the latest news." "Quite right, Johnson, quite right," said the great detective in his most cordial tones. "Never leave anything to chance." The subordinate bowed himself out, well pleased that he was advancing himself so steadily in his chief's favour. An hour later he was in the saloon bar of the exclusive establishment which was patronised by the upper servants of Mayfair. Here he found his cousin awaiting him, who greeted him heartily. The two men had corresponded a few times, but they had not met since the day when Willet had produced the portrait of Lady Wrenwyck. "Glad to see you, old chap," cried the footman heartily. "I've been longing to hear how you got on with that little job at Weymouth. No difficulty in finding her ladyship, I suppose?" "Tumbled to her at once," answered Johnson, who adapted his tone and language to those of the company in which he found himself for the time being. "Took a walk down to the post-office, and she and the maid fell into my arms in a manner o' speaking." Johnson paused, not quite knowing what to say next. Willet looked at him inquiringly, but meeting with no response exhibited signs of injured dignity. "Look here, old man, it ain't my business to pry into secrets that don't concern me. But I helped you a goodish bit in that quarter, and I don't think you need be so devilish close." Johnson goaded himself to speech; if he was to retain his cousin's friendship he must say something. And the man spoke the truth; he had helped him to the extent of making the preliminaries very easy. "Now, look here, laddie, I should like to tell you everything. You helped me a lot, but on my honour I can't do it. Large interests and great people are affected in the matter. But I will tell you this much, and you must believe me or not, as you please: I found her ladyship right enough, only to discover that I was on the wrong scent. Now and again, you know, we do make bloomers at the Yard." Mr Willet's affability was at once restored by this frank and manly statement. "Say no more, old man; mum's the word. Fill up, to show there's no ill-feeling." Johnson filled up, and drank his relative's health with becoming cordiality. He wanted something more out of him yet. "So far as Lady Wrenwyck is concerned. I've no further use for her. But I haven't quite done with all the people in the Wrenwyck house itself. Only this time I'm on another track altogether." Willet's eyes bulged out of his head with curiosity, but he knew from experience that wild horses would not drag out of Johnson anything that astute detective had made up his mind to conceal. "I suppose it's the old man you're after, this time?" he hazarded. "Guessed right the first time, old chap. I want to have a few minutes' conversation with his lordship. That's why I wrote asking you if you knew anything of his movements." "By gad! you are a deep 'un," cried Willet admiringly. "Thanks," said Johnson easily, but it was plain to see the compliment had not fallen on deaf ears. "Well, now, you say he's back in town. If I knock at the door in the course of half-an-hour or so, do you think I'm likely to find him in?" "It's a pretty safe find. He hardly ever goes out when in London, drives down to the Carlton once or twice a week, and stays a couple of hours. But anyway. I'm pretty sure you'll find him in to-day, and I'll tell you for why." "Yes?" interrupted Johnson eagerly. Willet was certainly invaluable in the way of giving information. "Her ladyship is giving a big party this afternoon--I think it's a philanthropic sort of hustle, in aid of some charity. On these occasions he usually shuts himself up in his own den till the last carriage has driven away. Then he comes out growling and cursing because his house has been turned upside down, and everybody gives him as wide a berth as possible." "He seems an amiable sort of person," observed Johnson. "Touched, my dear boy, touched," replied Willet, tapping his somewhat retreating forehead. "And getting worse, so I'm told. Triggs, his valet, told me yesterday it can't be long before they'll have to put him under restraint." "You've no idea where he's been the last few weeks, I suppose," was Johnson's next question. "Nobody has. He seems to have done the same sort of disappearance as his wife, with this difference, that she did take her maid, and he left Triggs behind. But he came back in the devil's own rage; been carrying on like a madman ever since. Triggs is going to give him notice; says flesh and blood can't stand it." Johnson parted from his cousin with mutual expressions of esteem and good-will. A few minutes later he was standing outside the open portals of Wrenwyck House, one of the finest mansions in Park Lane. A big party was evidently in progress. Carriages were driving up every moment to take up and set down the guests. Johnson could picture the beautiful hostess, standing at the top of the stairs, a regal and smiling figure. A humorous smile crossed his countenance as he recalled the one and only occasion on which they had met in the unpretentious lodgings on the Weymouth front. Well, that was one of the things that never would be revealed to her circle, unless she chose to confide it to her bosom friend, Mrs Adair. He took advantage of a momentary lull in the restless tide of traffic, to accost a tall footman. "I want particularly to see Lord Wrenwyck, if he is at home," he said boldly. "I daresay he will be at leisure, as I understand he shuts himself up when this sort of function is going on." The footman's manner showed that he was half contemptuous, half impressed. With the unerring eye of his class he saw at once that Johnson was not of the class from which the guests of Wrenwyck House were recruited. On the other hand, he seemed to possess an intimate knowledge of the private habits of its owner. "His lordship is in, but I should very much doubt if he will see you," he said with just a touch of insolence. "If you tell me your name and business, I will inquire." Johnson slipped a card into an envelope and handed it to this tall and important person. "I'm afraid my business is of too private a nature to communicate to a third party," he said quietly. "If you'll have the goodness to hand that envelope to his lordship, and tell him my card is inside, I think it's very probable he will see me." Five minutes later the astonished menial returned, and the contempt of his bearing was somewhat abated. "Please follow me," he said, in a voice that was almost civil. A moment later the detective was in the presence of the wealthy and eccentric peer. His immediate thought was that he had never met a more forbidding personality. Hard, angry eyes, that shot forth their baleful fire at the slightest provocation, a long hawk nose, a cruel, sensual mouth, were the salient features of a face that instinctively gave you the impression of evil. His greeting was in accord with his appearance. "Explain at once, if you please, the reason of this extraordinary intrusion. I see you come from Scotland Yard. What the devil have I to do with such a place?" Johnson did not allow himself to be disturbed by the other's rough and insolent manner. "I have brought you a message from my chief, Mr Smeaton," he said, in his most urbane manner. "I have no doubt you have heard of him." Lord Wrenwyck looked on the point of indulging in another angry explosion, but something in the steady gaze of the self-possessed young man seemed to momentarily disconcert him. He only growled, and muttered something too low for Johnson to catch. "My chief, Mr Smeaton, occupies a very special position," resumed the imperturbable detective. "In virtue of that position, he becomes acquainted with many curious facts, some of them connected with persons in high positions. Some of these facts he has to make known, in accordance with his sense of public duty. There are others which never go beyond his own cognisance and that of a few of his trusted subordinates. I trust your lordship gathers my meaning, which I am trying to convey as pleasantly as possible." Lord Wrenwyck stirred his crippled limbs, and shook his fist vindictively at the other. "Come to the point, curse you, and spare me all this rigmarole." "To come to the point, my lord, Mr Smeaton requests your attendance at Scotland Yard, where he proposes to give himself the pleasure of a short conversation with you." The hard, angry eyes were now sullen and overcast, but they were no longer defiant. "Suppose I tell you and your precious Mr Smeaton to go to the devil! What then?" "I don't think either of us will hasten our journey in that direction on account of your lordship's intervention," replied Johnson with ready humour. He paused a moment, and then added with a gravity that could not be mistaken: "The arm of the law is very long, and can reach a great nobleman like yourself. Take my advice. Lord Wrenwyck. Let me convey you in a taxi to Scotland Yard, to interview my chief. Come voluntarily while you can," he paused and added in significant terms: "Believe me, you won't have the option after to-day." Cursing and growling, the crippled peer stood up, and announced his readiness to accompany this imperturbable young man. A few minutes later, he and Smeaton were face to face. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ On the evening of that day, Sheila and Wingate dined together at a small restaurant far removed from the haunts of the fashionable world. Thanks to the strange and unexampled circumstances, their courtship had been conducted on very unconventional lines. But to-night an unobtrusive maiden aunt of Wingate's played propriety. At an early hour, they left the restaurant. The maiden aunt was first dropped at her modest house in Kensington, and then the car took them to Chesterfield Street. When Grant had opened the door, Wingate had put out his hand in farewell. He was always punctilious and solicitous about the conventions, in Sheila's unprotected position. But she demurred to this early parting. "It is only a little after nine," she told him. "You must come in for five minutes' chat before you go." What lover could refuse such an invitation, proffered by such sweet lips? As they were going up the staircase to the drawing-room. Grant handed her a letter. "It was left about an hour ago by that young person. Miss; the one who wouldn't leave her name." She opened it, and, after perusal, handed it to her betrothed. "Oh, Austin, what can this mean?" Austin Wingate read the brief words: "There is a great surprise in store. It may come at any moment." They sat down in silence, not trusting themselves to speak, to hazard a conjecture as to this mysterious message. At such a moment, so tense with possibilities, they almost forgot they were lovers. And while trying to read in their mutual glances the inmost thoughts of each other, there came the faint tinkle of the door-bell. Sheila started up as her ears caught the sound. "Listen, Austin! Who's that?" she asked breathlessly. A few moments later they heard old Grant open the door. Next second a loud cry of alarm rang through the house. The voice was Grant's. Austin, hearing it, dashed from the room and down the stairs. CHAPTER TWENTY NINE. CONTAINS MANY SURPRISES. Wingate, hearing Grant's cry as he opened the hall-door, had only reached the head of the stairs, followed by Sheila, when he met the faithful old butler rushing towards him, crying--"Oh, Miss Sheila, we have--we have a visitor! Come down." _In the hall stood Reginald Monkton_! He was sadly and woefully changed from the alert, vigorous man from whom his daughter had parted on that fateful night which seemed so far distant. The once upright figure was stooping with fatigue and weariness, his face was thin and shrunken, his fine eyes, that used to flash forth scorn on his opponents, had lost their brilliant fire. Behind him stood Mrs Saxton, dressed in a sober garb of grey. As he caught sight of Sheila, a broken cry escaped from him: "At last, at last, my beloved child." Sheila sprang forward, and in a moment they were locked in each other's arms, tears of happiness raining down her face. For some seconds nobody spoke a word. Austin Wingate was trying hard to control his emotion. Grant, in the background, was crying like a child. Then Mrs Saxton advanced, her own eyes dim with the pathos of the scene--of this sudden reunion of father and daughter. "I have brought him back to you," she said, in a voice that trembled. "But he is very weak and ill. Let us take him to the library at once. You shall learn everything from me." Tenderly, the two, Sheila and her lover, led the poor, worn man to the room in which he had spent so many happy hours, Mrs Saxton following. They placed him in the big arm-chair, and his daughter knelt beside him. Wingate standing in front. Then suddenly, the girl pointed a trembling finger at the woman gowned in grey, and her eyes took on a hard, steely look. "What has she to do with it?" she asked, hoarsely. Almost in a whisper came her father's words: "Everything; she had to do with it from the beginning. But listen to her; for without her aid I should not be here to-night; perhaps I should never have been here, or, if so, such a hopeless wreck that life would have been no blessing." His voice broke as he ended, and he raised Sheila's hand to his lips. And then Mrs Saxton spoke, at first hesitatingly, and in tones that trembled with her terrible emotion. But as she went on her courage came back, and she enunciated her words clearly and distinctly. "I know you must hate me. Miss Monkton, and I deserve your hatred. Perhaps, later on, you will judge me a little less harshly, in consideration of the fact that I repented at the eleventh hour, and saved him from these fiends who were bent upon his undoing." Sheila and Wingate regarded her intently, but neither spoke a word to relieve her embarrassment, or give any indication that they regarded her with anything but the deepest loathing. "Mr Monkton and I have been to Scotland Yard, and seen Smeaton, the detective. I know from him that you are acquainted with all the actors in this tragedy, including myself. He has told me of your coming across me at the post-office, of your reading the telegram which I sent to Brighton to the man known as Bolinski, who is now in the hands of justice, along with the partner of his crime." She paused a moment, and then resumed her narrative in the midst of a chilling and hostile silence. "My connection with it all arose from my intimate acquaintance with the man Stent. It would not interest you to know how I fell under his influence and domination; it would reflect too much discredit on both-- on him who persuaded, on me who yielded. You know already that Stent and Bolinski were the two men who abducted your father. What you do not know is that this plan was maturing for, at least, a couple of years. Further, you do not know that they were not the instigators, but the instruments of this outrage." "And their motive?" questioned Wingate sharply. A bitter smile crossed the young woman's face. "A motive ever dear to men of their criminal and rapacious type--greed! Offer them a big enough bribe, and they are the willing tools of the man who lures them. Scruples they have none." "And who was the instigator?" questioned Wingate again. "I will come to that all in due course. But more than half-a-dozen times they tried to put their scheme into execution, and failed on every occasion but the last, through a series of accidents. I did not know this for some time after I came upon the scene, when it was revealed to me by Stent, in a moment of unusual confidence." Here Sheila interrupted. "We know that these two put the dying man dressed in my father's clothes in the taxi. Presently you shall tell us who that man was, and why he was sent. But first let us go back a little before that. Why did my father dine at the Italian restaurant with Bolinski?" Reginald Monkton lifted his hand. "I will explain that, if you please, Mrs Saxton. I received a letter from this man, signed with an assumed name, stating that he could supply me with some important information that would be of the greatest possible use to the Government. He insisted that absolute secrecy must be observed on his part for fear of unpleasant consequences, and suggested Luigi's restaurant in Soho as the rendezvous. I have had information offered me in this way before, and did not entertain any suspicions. I guessed him to be a needy adventurer who would sell his friends for a consideration, and walked into the trap." "He kept up the _role_ of the informer I suppose?" queried Wingate. He was perhaps just a little surprised that a man of the world and an astute lawyer should not have had his doubts as to the genuineness of the letter. "Perfectly, to all appearance. He told me various things about well-known people which, if they were true, would most certainly be useful. He assumed perfect frankness; he did not suggest that I should credit his statements till I had fully investigated them, and named a fairly modest sum in the event of my being satisfied. Of course, I now see that the whole thing was a pretence. He invented a lot of so-called facts to justify his having invited me to meet him." Both Sheila and Wingate looked puzzled. Mrs Saxton broke in: "Of course, I see what is presenting itself to your minds. What object had he in meeting your father at all, when to all appearances they had carefully laid their plans in another direction? Well, their first idea was this, that, given a proper amount of luck, they might effect his capture outside the restaurant. But there were too many people about, and Mr Monkton was too quick for them. I told you just now they had tried to carry out their plan before in half-a-dozen likely places." Wingate nodded. "Yes, I see. It was one, probably, of several alternative schemes which they had ready for the same evening. Now, Mrs Saxton, will you tell us who was the dying man they put into the taxi and what was their object in putting him into Mr Monkton's clothes?" He looked at her steadily; it was with difficulty he could put any civility into his tones as he spoke. But she had turned King's evidence, and he was bound to recognise the fact. The less he showed his hostility, the more he would get out of her. "It was not for a long time that I was able to piece together certain facts which enable me to answer your question," replied the woman, who had now perfectly recovered her composure. "He was. I believe, an Irishman by birth, with no friends or relatives in the world. He had been mixed up with Stent and Bolinski for years, and he knew too much. They knew he was a dying man when they put him into the cab. Their object was to get him off their hands, to let him die elsewhere." "But why did they dress him up in Mr Monkton's clothes," queried Wingate. "I suppose, in order that the superficial likeness might enable him to be earned into the house, where he was bound to collapse. He had been an inmate of Bolinski's house for some time, and I expect for his own reason Bolinski did not wish him to die there." Wingate shuddered at a sudden idea that had occurred to him. "Do you think they gave him anything, any drug to hasten his death?" he asked hesitatingly. "Who ran tell? They had no scruples, though I cannot honestly say I know of any instance in which their callousness led them to take human life." "Can you account for his repeating the word `Moly' before he died?" Mrs Saxton shook her head. "Perhaps you did not catch the word aright. I know he had been privy to this scheme. Perhaps, in his wandering state, he was trying to pronounce the name Monkton, and you mistook the first syllable. I can offer no other explanation." There was a brief pause before Wingate spoke again. "You were on very early in the scene, were you not?" Mrs Saxton bowed her head in assent. "To my shame I was. Stent made out to me at first that they were getting Mr Monkton away for a brief space to render him harmless. They were connected with some schemes abroad, so he said, which Mr Monkton was using his powerful influence to thwart. I believed him, not knowing the real instigator. I called on Miss Monkton, as you will remember, for the purpose of pumping her, of finding in what quarter suspicion was directed." "Yes, we know that. And what part did your brother play in it all?" A shade of embarrassment crept into her manner. She was willing to sacrifice Stent and Bolinski, but it was natural she should shield her brother as far as she could. "He believed the first story they told him, which at the beginning imposed upon me. He kept watch for them in a way, told them what he could pick up of the various rumours flying about. He was in a state of great alarm one night, when some Member of the House of Commons had told him that Mr Monkton was acquainted with a man of the name of Stent." Reginald Monkton lifted his head. "It is true. I had known him slightly for some years, as a man connected with one or two companies, respectable ones, in which I had shares. I had no idea that he made the greater part of his money by fraud." "And what became of Mr Monkton that night?" asked Wingate, turning to Mrs Saxton. "They caught him unawares, as he was walking from the House, threw a cloth, saturated with a stupefying drug, over his face, put him in a cab, driven by a confederate, and took him to Bolinski's house. They then took off his outer clothes, put them on the person you call the dying man, who could only just walk, and rushed back to Westminster. There they got out, waited a few seconds, hailed a taxi, put him inside, and directed the driver to take him to Chesterfield Street. The rest of that episode you know." "And when was it that you went to Forest View, and masqueraded in the guise of a parlourmaid?" A burning colour crept into her face at the question. It was easy to see that she was feeling her position acutely. It was some seconds before she could control herself sufficiently to order her speech. "They had moved him very speedily from Bolinski's to the house of one of their confederates. Then they took him down to Horsham, where Stent had a house. He came to me one day and said the affairs in which they were interested were maturing slowly. He had hoped to release Mr Monkton very quickly, but owing to the delay it was absolutely necessary they should keep him in custody until the _coup_ came off. They kept him in a secret room there--what is called the priest's room. A woman they trusted had been obliged to go abroad. Would I take her place? He said it would only be for a short time." "And you went?" cried Sheila, with a withering glance. The woman's voice was almost inaudible, as she answered with bowed head: "Yes, I went, but I swear that when I did so I did not know what was really meditated." They looked at her in horror, and Wingate repeated the words, "what was really meditated." "Yes," she said, almost in a whisper. "It was a refined cruelty, the invention of a cunning and malignant mind. Their object was to break down his reason, to reduce him to a condition worse than that of death itself, and then to restore him to his home and child, shattered in health, mind and reputation." CHAPTER THIRTY. THE MYSTERY SOLVED. At those dreadful words, spoken in a low, vibrating voice, a shudder ran through the listeners. Sheila laid her head upon her father's shoulder, and sobbed unrestrainedly. Wingate uttered a cry of horror. "And whose was the devilish mind that conceived this awful thing, and what was the motive?" he cried, when he had recovered from his stupefaction. "You will know directly, but it is best I should tell the story in my own way, and in proper sequence. Well, I went to Forest View, to look after Mr Monkton. I may say that Stent never went near him himself, for fear of recognition. I found that he was being treated with drugs, so as to keep him more or less in a state of torpor. When I saw what was being done, I was horrified, and remonstrated. But Stent was always plausible, told me the effect was temporary, and that as soon as he could fix the time for his release, he would give him antidotes that would speedily restore him to his normal state. "I very shortly conceived the idea of liberating him, but the means were hard to discover. Stent distrusted everybody, and it was only by acceding to all his humours that I was able to worm anything out of him. Half-a-dozen times he permitted me to administer the drug during his absence. It was one of his own preparation--for he was among other things a most skilled chemist. On these occasions I gave your father but a small portion of the dose intended for him. By these means I revived his benumbed faculties, and was able to assure him that I was his friend, and was eagerly seeking the means of restoring him to freedom. "Then one day, when Stent was in an unusually good temper, he came to me, with that evil smile on his face which I had learned to know and dread. `A curious thing is going to happen to-morrow. A man is coming here to stay for a little time. Can you guess what he is coming for?' Of course, I answered I could not. "`He will stay here under an assumed name, but he is rather a great personage in his own world. He will want, if I know him aright, to go to Monkton's room every day, and gloat over his handiwork.' "It was imprudent of me, but I could not help blurting out, `Yours as well as his.' "His smile grew more evil as he said, `I am afraid you are a little too tender-hearted for this world, my dear. Anyway, I am paid a big price for the job, and you know I never refuse money.' "I saw my mistake, and pretended to fall in with his mood, and succeeded in winning him back to amiability. I expressed great curiosity to know the real name of the man who, to use his own expression, was coming down `to gloat over his handiwork.' To this day I shall never know what caused him to satisfy it. But at last he told me." Sheila and her lover gazed at the pale-faced woman intently. In their eagerness they almost forgot their loathing. "The instigator of his abduction, the man who hired this fiend to carry out his deadly, malignant revenge, is a man well-known, wealthy, a peer of the realm. I daresay you have heard of him. He is called Lord Wrenwyck." Sheila gasped at this astounding revelation. "The husband of the popular Lady Wrenwyck, who in her youth was a celebrated beauty?" Then she turned to her father, whose pale, worn face cut her to the heart. "But, dearest, what was his motive for such a dastardly deed?" Monkton spoke in a low voice, but he did not meet his daughter's eyes. "A fancied wrong, my child. We crossed each other many years ago, and he has brooded over it till he grew half insane, and thought of this scheme of vengeance." "But you will have him punished," cried his daughter loudly. "You must! You cannot mete out to him what he has done to you, but you will deal with him as the law allows you." Monkton turned uneasily in his chair. "It is the dearest wish of my heart to bring him low, but, in my position, one cannot afford scandal. In a few weeks I shall be restored to my old place, to my old strength. That there has been a mystery is only known to a few. To the public, Reginald Monkton has recovered from a brief illness induced by overstrain and over-work. It is better so." Sheila gazed at him almost wildly. "That is your resolve. But it seems to me folly; forgive me if I question your decision, if I criticise you." For a moment the glances of Wingate and Mrs Saxton met, and they read each other's thoughts. Monkton must let Lord Wrenwyck go unpunished; it would be political death to him to have that old folly brought into public gaze. He interposed hastily. "Dearest Sheila, your father is right. I understand his reasons perfectly. He is not an ordinary man. If he is to keep his position, he must forgo the revenge to which he is so justly entitled." Sheila looked at him with puzzled eyes. Austin was wise beyond his years, but surely he was wrong in this. She pressed her hand to her head, and murmured faintly, "I do not understand. But I suppose it must be as you say." Mrs Saxton went on swiftly with her story. "According to all accounts. Lord Wrenwyck is half insane. He had been mixed up with some financial transactions with Stent, and had taken the man's measure, had satisfied himself that he would carry out any villainous scheme, so long as he was well paid for the risk. He it was who suggested the abduction of Mr Monkton, the systematic drugging at Forest View, where he would come in while his unhappy prisoner was asleep, and watch him with a fiendish smile spreading over his repulsive countenance." At this point Sheila raised her hands with a gesture of despair. "And yet this fiend is to go scot-free, and live to work further evil." "He will not do that," said Mrs Saxton quickly. "Smeaton, after our interview, compelled him to go to Scotland Yard. Depend upon it. Lord Wrenwyck will not risk his fate a second time. He will be rendered powerless by the fact that his cunningly laid scheme was frustrated, and also that it is known to those who could set the law in motion at any moment they chose." And again Sheila murmured, "You may be right, but I cannot understand." "I am coming now to the end of my story," Mrs Saxton continued, after this interruption. "I was walking one day into Horsham, and was accosted by a young man who seemed desirous of striking up an acquaintance. I rebuffed him, of course, and learned afterwards that he made similar advances to the young woman who was supposed to be my fellow-servant. At once it struck me that he was spying upon us. He lodged at a small inn a little distance away, and gave out that he was an artist. I mentioned the matter to Stent, but he rather laughed at the idea; told me I had got detectives on the brain. He was destitute of nerves himself, and had an exaggerated belief in his own capacity to outwit everybody. "Pondering upon the means by which I could extricate my patient--if I may call him so--from a position which I felt convinced was growing more perilous, the idea of using this young man came into my mind. Day after day I impressed upon Stent that my fears were well grounded, and that at any moment he might be faced with discovery. At last I invented a story that I had seen this man who called himself Franks standing outside the house with another person, obviously a detective, and had heard the latter say distinctly; `Smeaton himself thinks we have given them rope enough.' "You know the story of the removal in the dead of night?" She addressed her question to Wingate, appreciating the fact that he showed his hostility less plainly than did his sweetheart. The young man nodded. "Yes, we know that." "Stent was at last impressed, and agreed that we must leave Forest View as quickly and secretly as possible. Stent and the other maid--Lord Wrenwyck had left us by then--travelled in the van. I drove Mr Monkton in the motor by a roundabout route--I may tell you I am an expert driver. My destination was supposed to be the house of the confederate where he had first been taken. "The game was now in my hands, and I knew I could play it. I drove to a different place altogether, some miles from London. I had, fortunately, plenty of money with me. We stayed at an hotel for the night. Next morning we came up to London and took up our quarters in a small inn at Hampstead." "What did you do with the car?" asked Wingate. "We left it at a garage close to the hotel where we stayed the first night, promising to come back for it in a couple of hours. There, no doubt, it is still." "And the next step when you got to London?" was Wingate's next question. "Owing to the cessation of the drugs, Mr Monkton's faculties were swiftly restored. He was weak and ill from his long confinement, but he could think clearly. His first impulse was to come home at once. I dissuaded him from this till he had gone to Smeaton and sought his advice. I felt also it was imperative to get rid of Stent and Bolinski in case they meditated further mischief. It happened that the means were in my power, means which I should not have used except in an extreme case. Information in my possession, which I placed at the disposal of Scotland Yard, enabled the authorities to arrest them on a criminal charge. That you have heard, or will hear." She paused a moment, and Sheila spoke. "You drove up to Chesterfield Street the other night with a companion." "Your father. He was longing to come back, and to humour him I suggested we should come for a few minutes as far as the house." "And the portrait of Lady Gladys that was sent me? That was my father's idea, of course. And to make sure, you sent that young woman to tell me what to do. But I had guessed before she came." "That young woman was a friend of mine, who knows nothing about the general circumstances. I simply made use of her for this particular purpose." There was a long pause. Wingate was the first to break it. He had no kindly feelings towards this woman who was ready to betray her old associates when it suited her own interests. Still, he could dissemble better than Sheila. "You have cleared up all except one thing, Mrs Saxton. What of the Italian who died at Forest View, and the man Whyman who disappeared after Smeaton's visit to him at Southport?" "They were both members of a rather wide fraudulent partnership which included Stent and Bolinski. Roselli was evidently seized with remorse on his deathbed, and, much to Stent's chagrin, conveyed a message in Italian which the young man Franks in his turn conveyed to Smeaton. Had Stent guessed the nature of that message, he would have found some means to keep Franks out of the house. In consequence of my information, the police are searching for Whyman now." This extraordinary woman was, by now, perfectly calm and collected. What her inmost feelings were, it would be impossible to guess, but apparently she felt no shame in avowing that she had betrayed her old friends. There was an embarrassing silence till she spoke again. "I have now concluded my story. If there is nothing more you wish to ask me, I will go." Sheila rose, her face cold and hard. "Nothing more, Mrs Saxton. My father will, of course, reward you for the help you gave him, as you have put it yourself, at the eleventh hour. He has no doubt arranged that with you already. You will understand that now I want him to myself." "I quite understand." Without another word, she bowed and left the room, her bearing not devoid of a certain dignity, which might, or might not, have been the result of callousness. Left to themselves, Sheila breathed a sigh of relief. "The air is sweeter for her departure," she said simply. Then she knelt down again, and laid one hand tenderly on her father's shoulder. The other she extended to Wingate, and drew him towards her. "Father, dearest," she said in her sweet, low voice, "I have a secret to tell you, and I could not tell it on a better night than this. Austin and I love each other. You do not know what he has been to me during this terrible time. You will let us be happy?" Very gentle and kindly was the smile that met her upturned face. "My darling, you are the dearest thing on earth to me. Could I refuse you anything on such a night as this?" He turned to the young man. "Austin--give me your hand." He placed it in Sheila's, and drawing his daughter to his breast, kissed her. "Dearest, I wish you to follow where your heart leads you. And I think you have chosen well." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ THREE MONTHS LATER. Reginald Monkton, restored to his normal health and strength by the devoted ministrations of his daughter, resumed his place in the House. And six months after that happy event the wedding bells rang for Sheila and Austin Wingate, heralding the dawn of a bright future for these sorely tried lovers. Of the other personages in the story but little remains to be told. Stent and Bolinski, with their accomplice, Whyman, were tried at the Old Bailey and found guilty of extensive and far-reaching frauds, and condemned to a long term of penal servitude. Mrs Saxton, enriched by the handsome reward bestowed upon her by Monkton, left England for abroad. Farloe disappeared also, and doubtless rejoined his sister under another name. Varney still retains his _penchant_ for the detection of crime, but so far has not achieved any notable success. The beautiful Lady Wrenwyck was speedily relieved from the yoke that had galled her for so many years. A few months after the failure of his diabolical scheme to revenge himself upon his hated rival, her husband's mind, already tottering became unhinged. He developed symptoms of homicidal mania, and was placed under restraint. The doctors pronounced it an incurable case. Caleb Boyle, thanks to the kindness of Wingate, who had taken a great fancy to him, fell upon his feet. He was offered and accepted a post in the big aeroplane works, at a salary that placed him far above the reach of want. For, reviewing all the efforts made by himself, Varney, and the trained detectives of Scotland Yard, Austin felt that some reward was due to the man, erratic and ill-balanced as he might be, who had come nearest to the solution of the mystery of "The Stolen Statesman." The End. 
45666	----	A CHRISTMAS MORALITY [Illustration: Remember my ears are so quick I can hear the grass grow. _Frontispiece._] [Illustration] LITTLE PETER A Christmas Morality for Children of any Age By LUCAS MALET AUTHOR OF 'COLONEL ENDERBY'S WIFE' ETC. [Illustration] WITH NUMEROUS ILLUSTRATIONS BY PAUL HARDY LONDON KEGAN PAUL, TRENCH, & CO., 1 PATERNOSTER SQUARE 1888 TO CECILY IN TOKEN OF AFFECTION TOWARDS HERSELF, HER MOTHER, AND HER STATELY HOME THIS LITTLE STORY IS DEDICATED BY HER OBEDIENT SERVANT LUCAS MALET CONTENTS. CHAPTER PAGE I. Which deals with the opinions of a Cat, and the sorrows of a Charcoal-burner 1 II. Which introduces the Reader to an Admirer of the Ancient Romans 19 III. Which improves our acquaintance with the Grasshopper-man 36 IV. Which leaves some at Home, and takes some to Church 50 V. Which is both Social and Religious 68 VI. Which attempts to show why the Skies fall 84 VII. Which describes a pleasant Dinner Party, and an unpleasant Walk 95 VIII. Which proves that even Philosophic Politicians may have to admit themselves in the wrong 115 IX. Which is very short because, in some ways, it is rather sad 132 X. Which ends the Story 143 _ILLUSTRATIONS._ 'Remember my ears are so quick I can hear the grass grow' _Frontispiece_ 'What will happen? please tell me' _To face p._ 10 'Go to bed when you are told' " 34 'You all despise me' " 66 Going to Church " 72 Lost " 110 Waiting " 120 Found " 138 The Charcoal-burner visits Little Peter " 150 [Illustration: Little Peter.] CHAPTER I. WHICH DEALS WITH THE OPINIONS OF A CAT, AND THE SORROWS OF A CHARCOAL BURNER. The pine forest is a wonderful place. The pine-trees stand in ranks like the soldiers of some vast army, side by side, mile after mile, in companies and regiments and battalions, all clothed in a sober uniform of green and grey. But they are unlike soldiers in this, that they are of all ages and sizes; some so small that the rabbits easily jump over them in their play, and some so tall and stately that the fall of them is like the falling of a high tower. And the pine-trees are put to many different uses. They are made into masts for the gallant ships that sail out and away to distant ports across the great ocean. Others are sawn into planks, and used for the building of sheds; for the rafters and flooring, and clap-boards and woodwork of our houses; for railway-sleepers, and scaffoldings, and hoardings. Others are polished and fashioned into articles of furniture. Turpentine comes from them, which the artist uses with his colours, and the doctor in his medicines; which is used, too, in the cleaning of stuffs and in a hundred different ways. While the pine-cones, and broken branches and waste wood, make bright crackling fires by which to warm ourselves on a winter's day. But there is something more than just this I should like you to think about in connection with the pine forest; for it, like everything else that is fair and noble in nature, has a strange and precious secret of its own. You may learn the many uses of the trees in your school books, when men have cut them down or grubbed them up, or poked holes in their poor sides to let the turpentine run out. But you can only learn the secret of the forest itself by listening humbly and reverently for it to speak to you. For Nature is a very great lady, grander and more magnificent than all the queens who have lived in sumptuous palaces and reigned over famous kingdoms since the world began; and though she will be very kind and gracious to children who come and ask her questions modestly and prettily, and will show them the most lovely sights and tell them the most delicious fairy tales that ever were seen or heard, she makes very short work with conceited and impudent persons. She covers their eyes and stops their ears, so that they can never see her wonderful treasures or hear her charming stories, but live, all their lives long, shut up in the dark fusty cupboard of their own ignorance, and stupid self-love, and self-satisfaction, thinking they know all about everything as well as if they had made it themselves, when they do not really know anything at all. And because you and I dislike fusty cupboards, and because we want to know anything and everything that Nature is condescending enough to teach us, we will listen, to begin with, to what the pine forest has to tell. When the rough winds are up and at play, and the pine-trees shout and sing together in a mighty chorus, while the hoarse voice of them is like the roar of the sea upon a rocky coast, then you may learn the secret of the forest. It sings first of the winged seed; and then of the birth of the tiny tree; of sunrise and sunset, and the tranquil warmth of noon-day, and of the soft, refreshing rain, and the kindly, nourishing earth, and of the white moonlight, and pale, moist garments of the mist, all helping the tree to grow up tall and straight, to strike root deep and spread wide its green branches. It sings, too, of the biting frost, and the still, dumb snow, and the hurrying storm, all trying and testing the tree, to prove if it can stand firm and show a brave face in time of danger and trouble. Then it sings of the happy spring-time, when the forest is girdled about with a band of flowers; while the birds build and call to each other among the high branches; and the squirrel helps his wife to make her snug nest for the little, brown squirrel-babies that are to be; and the dormice wake up from their long winter sleep, and sit in the sunshine and comb their whiskers with their dainty, little paws. And then the forest sings of man--how he comes with axe and saw, and hammer and iron wedges, and lays low the tallest of its children, and binds them with ropes and chains, and hauls them away to be his bond-servants and slaves. And, last of all, it sings slowly and very gently of old age and decay and death; of the seed that falls on hard, dry places and never springs up; of the tree that is broken by the tempest or scathed by the lightning flash, and stands bare and barren and unsightly; sings how, in the end, all things shrink and crumble, and how the dust of them returns and is mingled with the fruitful soil from which at first they came. This is the song of the pine forest, and from it you may learn this lesson: that the life of the tree and of beast and bird are subject to the same three great laws as the life of man--the law of growth, of obedience, and of self-sacrifice. And perhaps, when you are older, if you take care to avoid that spirit of conceit and impudence which, as we have already said, gets people into such trouble with Nature, you may come to see that these three laws are after all but one, bound for ever together by the golden cord of love. Once upon a time, just on the edge of the pine forest, there lived a little boy. He lived in a big, brown, wooden house, with overhanging eaves and a very deep roof to it, which swept down from the high middle gable like the wings of a hen covering her chickens. The wood-sheds, and hay-barn, and the stable where the brown-eyed, sweet-breathed cows lay at night, and the clean, cool dairy, and the cheese-room with its heavy presses were all under this same wide sheltering roof. Before the house a meadow of rich grass stretched down to a stream, that hurried along over rocky limestone ledges, or slipped away over flat sandy places where you might see the little fishes playing at hide-and-seek or puss in the corner among the bright pebbles at the bottom. While on the shallow, marshy puddles by the stream side, where the forget-me-not and brook-lime and rushes grow, the water-spiders would dance quadrilles and jigs and reels all day long in the sunshine, and the frogs would croak by hundreds in the still spring evenings, when the sunset was red behind the pine-trees to the west. And in this pleasant place little Peter lived, as I say, once upon a time, with his father and mother, and his two brothers, and Eliza the servant-maid, and Gustavus the cowherd. He was the youngest of the children by a number of years, and was such a small fellow that Susan Lepage, his mother, could make him quite a smart blouse and pair of trousers out of Antony's cast-off garments, even when all the patches and thin places had been cut out. He had a black, curly head, and very round eyes--for many things surprised him, and surprise makes the eyes grow round as everybody knows--and a dear, little, red mouth, that was sweet to kiss, and nice, fat cheeks, which began to look rather cold and blue, by the way, as he stood on the threshold one evening about Christmas time, with Cincinnatus, the old, tabby tom-cat, under his arm. He was waiting for his brother Antony to come home from the neighbouring market-town of Nullepart. It was growing dusk, yet the sky was very clear. The sound of the wind in the pine branches and of the chattering stream was strange in the frosty evening air; so that little Peter felt rather creepy, as the saying is, and held on very tight to Cincinnatus for fear of--he didn't quite know what. 'Come in, little man, come in,' cried his mother, as she moved to and fro in the ruddy firelight, helping Eliza to get ready the supper. 'You will be frozen standing there outside; and we shall be frozen, too, sitting here with the door open. Antony will get home none the quicker for your watching. That which is looked for hardest, they say, comes last.' But Peter only hugged Cincinnatus a little closer--thereby making that long-suffering animal kick spasmodically with his hind legs, as a rabbit does when you hold it up by the ears--and looked more earnestly than ever down the forest path into the dimness of the pines. Just then John Paqualin, the charcoal-burner, came up to the open door, with a couple of empty sacks across his shoulders. Now the charcoal-burner was a great friend of little Peter's, though he was a queer figure to look at. For his red hair hung in wild locks down over his shoulders, and his eyes glowed red too--as red as his own smouldering charcoal fires--and his back was bent and crooked; while his legs were so inordinately long and thin, that all the naughty little boys in Nullepart, when he went down there to sell his sacks of charcoal, used to run after him up the street, shouting:-- 'Hurrah, hurrah! here's the grasshopper man again! Hey, ho! grasshopper, give us a tune--haven't you brought your fiddle?' But when Paqualin got annoyed, as he sometimes did, and turned round upon them with his glowing eyes, they would all scuttle away as hard as their legs could carry them. For, like a good many other people, they were particularly courageous when they could only see the enemy's back. You may be sure our little Peter never called the charcoal-burner by any offensive names, and therefore, having a good conscience, had no cause to be afraid of him. 'Eh! but what is this?' he cried, in his high cracked voice as he flung down the sacks, and stood by the little lad in the doorway. 'Remember my ears are so quick I can hear the grass grow. Just now I heard the best mother in the world call her little boy to go indoors, and here he stands still on the threshold. If you do not go in do you know what will happen, eh?' 'No; what will happen? Please tell me,' said Peter. [Illustration: 'WHAT WILL HAPPEN? PLEASE TELL ME.' _Page 10._] The charcoal-burner stretched out one long arm and pointed away into the forest, and sunk his voice to a whisper:-- 'The old, grey she-wolf will assuredly come pit-a-pat, pit-a-pat over the moss and the stones, pit-a-pat over the pine-needles and the fallen twigs and branches, pit-a-pat out of the wood, and--snap!--like that, catch your poor Cincinnatus by the tail and carry him off to make into soup for her little ones. Picture to yourself poor Cincinnatus in the wolf's great, black, steaming soup-pot, and all the wolf-cubs with their wicked, little mouths wide open, sitting round, with their wooden spoons in their hands, all ready to begin.' Peter retreated hastily into the kitchen, cat and all, and took up his stand rather close to his mother. 'Is it true, mother?' he said. 'But where do the wolves buy their wooden spoons, do you think--in the shop at Nullepart?' 'Nay, how should I know?' said Susan Lepage, as she stooped down and kissed the child, and then looking up kindly nodded to the charcoal-burner. 'You must ask the old she-wolf herself if you want to know where she buys her spoons, and her soup pot too for that matter. She is no friend of mine, little one.' After a moment's pause, she added:-- 'You will stay to supper, John Paqualin? My husband and sons will be in soon, and there is plenty for all, thank God. You will be welcome.' But Paqualin shook his head, and the light died away in those strange eyes of his. 'Welcome?' he said. 'The pretty, false word has little meaning for me. And yet perhaps in your mouth it is honest, Susan Lepage, for you are gentle and merciful as a saint in heaven, and the child, here, takes after you. But, for the rest, who welcomes a mad, mis-shapen, half-finished creature on whom Nature herself has had no mercy? Master Lepage will come in hungry. Will he like to have his stomach turned by the sight of the hump-backed charcoal-burner? No, no, I go home to my hut. Good-night, little Peter. I will tell the grey wolf to look elsewhere for her supper.--Ah! I see wonderful things though sometimes, for all that I live alone and in squalor. The red fire and the white moon tell me stories, turn by turn, all the night through.' And with that he swung the empty sacks across his back again and shambled away into the growing darkness. [Illustration] 'A good riddance,' muttered Eliza, as she set the cheese on the table. 'It is an absolute indignity to ask a respectable servant to wait at table on a wild animal like that.' But Susan Lepage sighed as she turned from the doorway. 'Poor, unhappy one,' she said. 'God gave thee thy fair soul, but who gave thee thy ungainly body?' Then she reproved Eliza for her conduct in various matters which had nothing in the world to do with her remarks upon the charcoal-burner. Even the best of women are not always quite logical. Meanwhile little Peter had sat down on his stool by the fire. For a little while he sat very still, for he was thinking over the visit of his friend John Paqualin. He felt rather unhappy about him, he could not quite have said why. But when we are children it is not easy to think of any one person or one thing for long together. There are such lots of things to think about, that one chases another out of our heads very quickly. And so Peter soon gave up puzzling himself about the charcoal-burner, and began counting the sparks as they flew out of the blazing, crackling, pine logs up the wide chimney. Unfortunately, however, he was not a great arithmetician; and though he began over and over again at plain one, two, three, he always got wrong among the fifteens and sixteens; and never succeeded in counting up to twenty at all. Nothing is more tedious than making frequent mistakes. So he got off his stool, and began hopping from one stone quarry in the kitchen floor to the next. Suddenly he became entangled in Eliza's full petticoats--she was whirling them about a good deal, it is true, being in rather a bad temper--and nearly tumbled down on his poor, little nose. 'Bless the child, what possesses him?' cried Eliza. Peter retired to his stool again, in a hurry; and after thinking for a minute pulled a long bit of string, with a cross-bar of stick at the end of it, out of the bulging side pocket of his short trousers, and drew it backwards and forwards, and bobbed it up and down just in front of Cincinnatus' nose. But Cincinnatus would not play. Cincinnatus sat up very stiff and straight, with all his four paws in a row and his tail curled very tight over them, blinking his yellow eyes at the fire. For Cincinnatus was offended! Even cats have feelings. And on thinking it over, he came to the conclusion that he had not been treated with sufficient respect. 'Soup-pots and wooden spoons--fiddledee-dee,' he said to himself in the cat-language. 'Why pervert a child's mind with such inane fictions?' For you see Cincinnatus was not a common cat; being first cousin once removed, indeed, to the Sacristan's cat at Nullepart--who knew all the feast and fast days in the church calendar as well as the Sacristan himself, and had not eaten a mouse on a Friday for I cannot say how long. When you have a scholar in the family it obliges you to be dignified. And so poor little Peter, as nothing and nobody would help to amuse him and pass away the time, pressed his two fat, little hands together in a sort of despair, and gave a terrible sigh. 'Bless the child, what possesses him?' cried Eliza again. 'Ah, my heart! How you made me jump!' 'What is the matter, Peter?' asked his mother. 'Oh! I don't believe Antony will ever come home,' said the boy, while the great tears began to run down over his chubby cheeks. 'And I am so tired of waiting. And I want so badly to know whether they have dressed the stable in the big church at Nullepart; and whether we shall really go there on Sunday, to see the dear baby Jesus, and the blessed Virgin, and good St. Joseph, and the donkeys and cows, you told me about. I have never seen them yet. And I want so dreadfully to go.' Then his mother took up Peter in her arms, and sat down in the wooden chair in the chimney-corner, and held him gently on her lap. 'There, there,' she said, as she stroked his pretty hair, 'what cause have you to fret? The stable will be dressed all in good time; and the donkeys and cows certainly won't run away before Sunday. And St. Joseph and the blessed Virgin will be glad that a little lad like you should come and burn a candle before them--never fear. If the day is fair we will certainly all go to church on Sunday. What is to be will be, and Antony's coming late or early can make no difference. Patience is a great virtue, dear, little one--you cannot learn that too soon.' But Cincinnatus sat up very stiff, though he was growing slightly sleepy; and still winked his yellow eyes at the fire. He was not at all sure that it was not incumbent upon him to spit at the charcoal-burner next time he saw him. It was an extreme measure certainly, and before adopting it he would have been glad to take his cousin the Sacristan's cat's opinion on the matter. Social position brings its responsibilities. Yet all the same, it is a fine thing to have a scholar in the family. [Illustration] CHAPTER II. WHICH INTRODUCES THE READER TO AN ADMIRER OF THE ANCIENT ROMANS. Now, Peter's father was a person of some consequence, or, to speak quite correctly, thought himself of some consequence, which, as you will probably find when you grow older, often comes to much the same thing. He had his own piece of land, and his own herd of cows, which the boys, in the spring time, would help Gustavus to drive, along with the cows of their neighbours, to the wide, grass lands that border the forest on the west, where the blue salvias, and gentians, and campanulas, and St. Bruno's white lilies grow in the long grass. But years ago Peter's father had been a soldier in the French army, and had fought in great battles, and had been in Italy, and even across the sea to Africa. He could tell surprising stories of sandy deserts, and camels, and lions, and Arabs, and a number of other remarkable things that he had seen during his travels. And when he went down, as he frequently did, and sat in the wine shop at Nullepart, everybody treated him with deference and distinction, and called him not plain Lepage, but Master Lepage, and listened respectfully to all that he had to say. Then Master Lepage was very well pleased, and he would take his pipe out of his mouth, and spread out his hands like some celebrated orator, and give the company the benefit of his views upon any subject--even those he did not very well understand. For the great thing is to talk, if you want to make an impression upon society--the sense of that which you say is quite a secondary consideration. Lepage was a handsome man; with a bright, grey eye, and a nose like a hawk's beak; and a fine, grey moustache, the ends of which curled up till they nearly touched his eyebrows. He held himself very erect, so that even in his blue blouse and peg-top trousers, with a great, brown umbrella under his arm, he still looked every inch a soldier. [Illustration] But Master Lepage, notwithstanding his superior knowledge of the world, did not always contrive to please his friends and companions. For he was--so he said--a philosophic politician; and, like most other philosophers and politicians, he sometimes became both tedious and irritable. On such occasions his voice would grow loud, and he would thump the table with his fist till the plates danced and the glasses rattled again; and the more the person with whom he was conversing smiled and apologised, while he differed from him in opinion, the louder his voice would grow, and the more he would thump the table, and stamp and violently declare that all who did not agree with him were idiots and dolts, and traitors. He had two fixed ideas. He venerated the republican form of government, and he despised the Prussians. If one of his sons was idle, loitering over his work or complaining that he had too much to do, Master Lepage would say to him sternly:--'Sluggard, you are unworthy to be the child of a glorious republic.' Or if one of the cows kicked, when Gustavus was milking her, he would cry out:--'Hey then, thou blue imbecile, recollect that thou art the cow of a free citizen, and do not behave like a cut-throat Prussian!' And during the long evenings of all the winters that little Peter could remember--they were not so very many, though, after all--when the supper was cleared away and the hearth swept, his father, after putting on a big pair of gold-rimmed spectacles, and drawing his chair close up to the table so that the lamp-light might fall full on his book, would read to himself the history of the famous Roman Republic. And always once or twice, during the course of the evening, he would lay down the book and take off his spectacles, and as he rubbed the glasses of them with his red pocket-handkerchief, would sigh to himself and say quite gently:--'Ah! but those were times worth living in! They had men worth looking at in those days.' The elder of little Peter's brothers was named Antony. He was a smart, brisk young fellow. He was always in a little bit of a hurry and full of business. He liked to go down to the town to market. He liked to drive a sharp bargain, and when he had nothing else to do he would roam away to the railway station, and hang over the blue wooden railings at the back of the platform, staring at the crowded passenger or heavily laden freight trains going through to Paris, or over the frontier into Switzerland. And if he ever happened to catch sight of any soldiers on the trains, his eyes grew bright and his face eager, and he would whistle a stirring march as he walked home through the forest, and would chatter all the evening about the glorious fun he meant to have when the time came for him to serve his term in the army. And, at that, Master Lepage would look up from the pages of his Roman history book, and nod confidentially to his wife, and say:-- 'Eh! our Antony is a fine fellow. He will help some day to thrash those rascally Prussians.' But she would answer rather sadly:-- 'That will be as the Lord pleases. There is sorrow and sin enough in the world already, it seems to me, without war to make it greater.' Then Lepage would shrug his shoulders with an air of slight disgust, and say:-- 'My wife, you are no doubt an excellent woman. But your mind is narrow. Only a secular education, and, above all, a careful study of ancient history, can enable us to speak intelligently on these great questions.' Then he would wipe his spectacles and return once again to the campaigns of the Romans. [Illustration] Paul, the second boy, was very different to his brother. He was tall and lanky, with quiet, brown eyes and straight, black hair. He had a great turn for mechanics, and made little Peter all manner of charming toys--mill-wheels that turned all splashing and sparkling in the clear water of the stream; or windmills, to set up in the garden, and scare the birds away from the fruit with their clatter, and many other pretty ingenious things. Paul did not talk much about himself; he was a quiet, silent fellow, but he was always busy with his fingers making little models of all the machinery he could see or get pictures of, and, though his father was not quite so partial to him as to Antony, he would sometimes say:-- 'Eh! our Paul, too, will distinguish himself, and bring credit upon his family and country.' Now on the particular evening that I was telling you about in the last chapter, Antony did not come in till quite late. The rest of the family had had their supper, and Eliza was grumbling to Gustavus as she rummaged about in the back kitchen. 'Why can't people be punctual?' she said. 'It would vex a saint to be kept muddling about till just upon bed-time unable to complete the day's work and wash up the plates and dishes. Those who come in late should go to bed supperless if I had my way.' 'Umph,' said Gustavus--which was a remarkably safe answer, since it meant chiefly nothing at all. Master Lepage sat studying the story of the gallant Horatius, how he and two others defended the falling bridge over the river Tiber against all the host of Clusium and the allied cities. Paul, with a pocket-knife and a number of bits of wood on the table before him, was making a model of a force-pump. And Susan Lepage sat in the chimney corner knitting, little Peter on a stool at her feet resting his head against her knees. He was getting so sleepy that his eyes would shut though he tried very hard to keep them open. Sometimes his poor, little head nodded over all on one side; and then he woke up with a great start, dreaming that he had tumbled out of the old pear-tree in the garden, bump, on to the ground. And the dream was so vivid that it took him quite a minute and a half to remember where he was, and to realise that he was sitting on his own little stool in the kitchen, instead of lying on the asparagus bed under the pear-tree. But sleepy or not, Peter was determined not to go to bed till he had heard the news from Nullepart. The longest waiting must needs end at last. There was a sound of brisk footsteps, the door was thrown open, and Antony entered the kitchen, with the rush and bustle of a healthy, young whirlwind. Peter was wide awake in a moment. He jumped up and caught hold of the skirt of his brother's blouse. 'Oh, tell me, tell me,' he cried, 'have they dressed the stable in the church, and can I go on Sunday and see it?' Now, it is always a great mistake to rush at people with questions when they are full of their own affairs; and so little Peter found in this case. For Antony had some money to pay over to his father, and a great many things to say on his own account; and then, too, he was very hungry and wanted his supper, so he pushed poor Peter aside rather roughly, and told him to get out of the way and mind his own business, and intimated generally that he was an inconvenient and superfluous person. Peter retired to his stool again feeling very small. Between sleepiness and disappointment he was very much inclined to cry. Perhaps, indeed, he would have done so, had not Cincinnatus got up and rubbed gently against his legs, with a high back and a very upstanding tail, purring very loud, too, and saying as plain as cat-language could say it:-- 'Console yourself. I, Cincinnatus, regret what has occurred. I am your friend. Confide in me. All will yet go well.' For Cincinnatus was a cat of feeling, and never lost an opportunity of making himself agreeable if he could do it without loss of dignity. However, when Antony had transacted his business, and eaten his supper, and bragged a little about his own performances of one sort and another, he became a trifle ashamed of having behaved so roughly to his little brother. He did not say so, for few people have courage to make a public confession of their faults. But he described, with great animation, how the workmen and the good sisters were busy in the church; how bright everybody said the Virgin's blue mantle would be, how there was real straw in the stable, how charmingly natural the cattle and the donkey looked, and how ingeniously a lamp would be arranged--just like the star, in fact--to shine above the manger. Peter felt satisfied again. But he was still a little hurt; so he sat quiet and rubbed Cincinnatus' head in silence, though there were a hundred and one questions he was longing to ask. 'You will come with us, _mon ami_?' said Susan Lepage, looking across at her husband, who had just laid down his book, and was wiping his spectacles with his red handkerchief. 'Your sons will take good care of you,' he answered. 'As for me, I will keep house.' 'It is the first time we take our little Peter,' she said, and there was a pleading tone in her voice. The little boy loved both his father and mother; though perhaps he loved his mother best, for he was rather afraid of his father sometimes. But now for some reason he grew very bold. He jumped up and trotted across the kitchen, and climbed up on his father's knee. 'Oh, it will be so beautiful,' he said--'And we shall all be so happy--do come, father, do come too.' Master Lepage looked at him very kindly out of his shrewd, grey eyes, and gently pinched his cheek. [Illustration] 'No, no, my son,' he answered, 'go with your mother and your brothers. These shows are admirable for pious women and for the young. But you see I am no longer very young, and they no longer greatly interest me. Those who think deeply upon politics and philosophy outgrow the satisfaction that others derive from such devout illusions. Every age has its appropriate pastimes. Go, my children. As for me, I will remain at home, read the newspaper, and pursue my studies in ancient history.' 'Cannot you think of something better than the doings of those unhappy, old heathens for one day in the week, _mon ami_?' asked his wife. Little Peter looked up at her quickly. She had laid aside her knitting, and coming across the room placed her hand lightly on her husband's shoulder. Master Lepage made a grimace, moved a little in his chair, and smiled good-humouredly at her. 'Ah! my dear, you are the best of women,' he said. 'Then why will you not oblige me?' Lepage pressed his lips together and put up his eyebrows. 'There are points,' he said, 'on which compliance would be a mere manifestation of weakness. We will not discuss the situation. About those small matters upon which we do not, unfortunately, quite agree, it is wise to maintain silence. There are your three sons--an escort worthy of a Roman matron! Be contented, then. I remain at home.' Susan Lepage turned away, and calling to Eliza bade her clear the table. 'Indeed, is it worth while? It will be breakfast time directly,' replied Eliza, who was still in a bad temper at Antony having been late for supper. Susan Lepage looked up at the cuckoo clock in the corner. 'It is late,' she said. 'Come, come, Peter, we will go upstairs; it is long past your bedtime.' But the boy did not want to go to bed. He felt a little disturbed and unhappy, and wanted Lepage more than ever to go with the rest of the family on Sunday to church at Nullepart. So he rubbed his black head against his father's shoulder coaxingly:-- 'Mother wants you to go, and we all want it. Do please go with us to the church on Sunday.' Master Lepage took the child and stood him down on the floor in front of him. 'Go to bed, when you are told to,' he said. 'Obedience was a virtue greatly prized by those grand old Romans.' [Illustration: 'GO TO BED WHEN YOU ARE TOLD.' _Page 34._] 'Out of the mouth of babes--' murmured Susan Lepage, gently. For some reason this observation appeared to incense her husband. 'Ten thousand plagues!' he burst out vehemently. 'Twenty thousand cut-throat Prussians! This is a conspiracy. Can I not stay at home when I please? Can I not sit peaceably in my own kitchen, without cabals and flagrant acts of insubordination? The rights of a husband and father are supreme and without limit, I tell you--read the domestic history of the ancient Romans.' Susan Lepage waited till her husband had finished speaking; and then taking poor, frightened, little Peter by the hand, she said calmly:-- 'Do not trouble your father any more, my child. He has his reasons for remaining at home, and doubtless they are good ones.' Perhaps it was a dream--for Peter was very tired and sleepy, and it came to him when he was snugly tucked up in his little bed, just before his mother put out the candle and left him alone with a faint glimmer of starlight coming in at the uncurtained window at the end of the room. Perhaps it was a dream; but certainly he seemed to hear Master Lepage's voice saying softly:-- 'Forgive me, my wife. I was over hasty. Your path appears to lie in one direction and mine in another, at present; but let us both be tolerant. Who knows but that they may yet meet in the end!' Then someone stooped down over the little boy's bed and kissed him. Yes, it must have been his father, for on his forehead he felt the rough scrape of a thick moustache. CHAPTER III. WHICH IMPROVES OUR ACQUAINTANCE WITH THE GRASSHOPPER MAN. 'I am going to Nullepart on Sunday,' cried little Peter. '_Pfui!_ what a traveller,' answered the charcoal-burner. 'And how do you go? In a coach and four, on the back of a fiery dragon, in the giant's seven-league boots, or flying through the air with the wild ducks, there, crying "Quack, quack, quack, we are all going south because the snow is coming? "' 'I shall walk, of course, like a big boy,' said little Peter. 'But the snow isn't coming just yet, is it?' 'They all say it will be here in a day or two.' John Paqualin shook his head, and looked up at the sky. He was sitting on the rough, wooden bench set against the southern wall of his hut, with his back bent, and his elbows resting on his thin knees. Little Peter climbed up on to the bench beside him. It was rather difficult, you see, because the bench was a very high one, to suit the length of the charcoal-burner's long legs. 'Who are they?' asked the boy, as soon as he had settled himself comfortably. He tried to lean forward with his elbows on his knees like his companion; but his short legs were dangling, and his feet were far off the ground, and he did not find it altogether easy to keep his balance. 'Who are they?' he asked. 'Oh, the earth spirits, who live underground, and the air spirits, who wander up and down the sky. Look at the great arc of white light they are setting up in the north-east as a signal. And the wild ducks, flying overhead. And the moaning in the pine-trees. And Madelon, the old sow there; see how she runs about with her mouth full of grass, wanting to make herself a lair, because she sees the storm-wind coming. They are all telling what will happen. They are wiser than men. They know beforehand. Men only know afterwards.' Paqualin paused a moment, and sat staring at Madelon, the old black sow, with her floppety ears, as she ran to and fro, and grouted about in the heaps of charcoal refuse and in the tumble-down garden fence--half smothered in tall withered grass and weeds--grunting and barking the while like one distracted. 'Everything in the world talks to me,' he continued, speaking slowly. 'All day long, all night long, the air is full of voices.' Peter wriggled himself a little further back on the bench, for, in the excitement of conversation, he had slipped very near the edge of it and was in great danger of falling head first on to the ground. 'I don't hear them,' he said presently. Paqualin laughed. His laugh was cracked and shrill, like his voice; and Peter was always a trifle startled by it somehow. 'Never hear them, little Peter,' he cried, 'never hear them. A few men will call you a poet, but most men will only call you mad, if you do.' 'What is mad?' asked Peter. He felt very much interested. 'Is it a good or a bad thing?' The charcoal-burner looked round at the boy sharply, with his mouth a little open. His strange eyes were glowing dull red. He waited a minute before replying. 'Eh,' he said, 'what an innocent! Why, it is a good thing, of course. An excellent, splendid, glorious thing. Look at me, little Peter. I'll tell you a secret. Can you keep it? Here--quite close--I'll whisper--I am mad--yes, that's the secret. A grand one. See all the blessings it brings me. I live alone in the wood and burn charcoal.' 'Yes,' said Peter, 'I should like that.' 'I have no wife or child to bother me. On feast-days, when I was a lad, the pretty girls never plagued me to dance with them, or asked me to steal kisses.' The charcoal-burner laughed again--'I am saved from all sins of pride and vanity. Think what a gain!--for as I go down the street, the very children tell me my faults, crying, "Look at the grasshopper legs, look at the crook-back;" and the women shut their eyes and turn their heads away, saying, "Heaven avert the bad omen! What a frightful fellow!" Such observations, little Peter, are sharp discipline; and teach humility more thoroughly than any penance the priest can lay on you. Oh, yes! no doubt it is a capital thing to be mad. It saves you a deal of trouble--nobody cares for you, nurses you when you're sick, feeds you when you're hungry, mourns for you when you die.' Paqualin laughed again, and getting up stretched his long, ungainly limbs, and shook himself till his hair hung like a red cloud about his stooping shoulders. 'Ah! ha, it's splendid,' he cried, 'all alone with the spirits and voices, with the beasts, and the trees, and the rain, and the starlight. No one to love you but the fire when you feed it with branches, or the swine when you drive them back to their stye in the twilight.' Now, to tell the truth, poor little Peter was becoming rather confused and nervous, with all this wild, incomprehensible talk of the charcoal-burner's. He had never seen his friend in this strange humour before. And he felt as much alarmed and embarrassed as he would have done if that well-conducted animal Cincinnatus had suddenly turned upon him, with bristling hair and a great tail, spitting and swearing, in the middle of their innocent games of play. He sat very still, staring anxiously at his companion. But when Paqualin threw himself down on the bench again, and putting his lean, brown face very close to little Peter's, said to him with a sort of cry:-- 'Think of it, think of it, child, nobody, day nor night, all through the long years of life, nobody ever to love you!'--the boy's embarrassment changed into absolute fear, and he scrambled down off the bench in a great hurry, hardly able to keep from sobbing. 'If you please, John Paqualin, I should like to go home to my mother,' he said; and then he trotted away as fast as he could along the black cinder-path across the little garden. 'Mother, mother,' echoed the charcoal-burner. 'Sweet, fair wife, and sweet mother! Have pity, dear Lord, on those who may have neither.' Then he got up, and walked after the child, in his awkward way, calling gently to him:-- 'Here, little mouse, come here. Don't run away so fast. There is nothing to hurt you.' Peter had nearly reached the garden gate; but there in the opening stood Madelon, the sow, grunting and snorting, her great jaws working, and her wicked, little eyes twinkling. 'Come, come,' called Paqualin again, coaxingly. 'There are no more disquieting secrets to tell you. Never fear. See now, I have a box of nuts indoors, under my bed--beauties--beauties; will you try them? Cr-r-rack go the shells, out pop the nice kernels--crunch, crunch, crunch, between sharp, white, little teeth eating them all up. Eh! nuts are appetising, are they? You will not run away just yet, then, will you, dear little mouse.' Now Peter would have felt a great deal safer at home it is true; but in the first place, there stood the hideous Madelon blocking the way, and he was very much afraid of her. And then in the second place, he did not wish to be uncivil to his old friend the charcoal-burner. So, finally, he went back, and climbed up the high bench again. 'I will not have any of those nuts, though, please,' he said decidedly. For he wished Paqualin to understand that it was not greediness but friendship that made him return. 'No nuts!' cried the charcoal-burner, smiling kindly at him. 'Eh, what a proud, little soul.' And then John Paqualin really became delightful. And as he and the little boy sat together in the shelter of the high pine-trees, and of the brown, wooden wall of the tumble-down dwelling-house behind them, he told many most interesting stories. For, you see, the charcoal-burner, perhaps from living so much alone, perhaps from being what some persons call 'mad,' knew a number of things which you could not find in the pages of the very largest Encyclopædia of Universal Information--though they really are every bit as true as half the information you would find there. He knew all about the elves who live in the fox-glove bells; and the water-nixies who haunt the stream side; and about the gnomes who work with tiny spades and pickaxes, searching for the precious metals underground. And he could tell where the will-of-the-wisp gets the light for his lantern, with which he dances over bogs and marshy places, trying to lead weak-minded and unscientific travellers astray; and he knew all about the pot of fairy gold that stands just where the base of the rainbow touches the earth, and which moves away and away as you run to find it, shifting its ground forever, so that those who will seek it in the end come home hot, and breathless, and angry, and empty handed, for all their pains. And he could also tell of the old black dwarf who lives in a cave in the heart of the forest, which no one can ever find, though they may search for it for a year and a day; and who, being a mischievous and ill-conditioned dwarf, bewitches the cows so that they go dry; and the hens so that they steal their nests and lay their eggs in all manner of holes and corners, instead of in the hen-roosts like right-minded, well-conducted fowls; and who rides the horses all night long in the stable, so that when the carter goes in, in the dewy morning, to give them their fodder, he finds them trembling and starting and bathed in sweat; and who turns the cream sour in summer, or sits on the handle of the churn--though you can't see him--so that though the good housewife turns and turns, till her arms and back ache, and the heat stands in drops on her forehead, the butter will not come and the day's work is well-nigh wasted. And Paqualin could tell the story, moreover, of the dirty little boy, Eli, who insisted on eating raw turnips and cabbages, and distressing his friends and relatives by picking bits out of the pig pail, instead of sitting up to table like a little gentleman, and who utterly refused to have his hair combed or his face washed:-- 'And, at last, one night,' said the charcoal-burner, 'as a punishment for all his nasty ways, the fairies came and turned him into a great black crow, which flew out of the bedroom window in the chilly dawn. You may often hear him now, little Peter, croaking in the tree-tops, or see him skulking about the farmyard and gardens looking out for scraps and refuse.' 'How long ago was he turned into a crow?' asked Peter. 'Eh, many and many a year ago,' answered the charcoal-burner. 'I saw him only yesterday, and he has grown quite old and grey. But the time of his probation will not be over yet awhile, for bad habits are slow to die, though quick enough to breed in us, little Peter. I throw him a crust of bread now and again, the poor old villain. I've a sort of fellow feeling for him, you see, for I am an ugly, old vagabond too.' 'Bless the child, there he is at last! Ah, my poor heart, how it beats with all this running.' The speaker was Eliza. She stood on the other side of the tumble-down garden fence, with her hand pressed to her side, and a shawl over her head. She was breathing very hard. Eliza was one of those persons who like to make the most of an injury. 'Come home, Peter, come at once,' she went on. 'Don't you know it's half an hour past dinner-time? Here have I been trapesing half over the country to find you--a pretty occupation for a respectable, young, servant woman like me, too. All the men were out, and nothing would do but that I must go racing about like a wild creature, wasting good shoe leather in looking for you. Ah! my poor heart.' Eliza leant up against the fence and panted a little. As Peter got down off the bench, Paqualin bent forward and patted the boy's curly head. 'Run away, little mouse,' he said, 'but come again some day and see me.' 'Am I to wait here all night,' cried Eliza, 'for you, Peter? Have you not had enough yet of the society of his highness the charcoal-burner? No, no, don't speak to me,' she added, addressing Paqualin. 'I have no desire to hold any communication with you. Why, merely seeing you as you pass makes me squint for an hour afterwards. Come along, child.' [Illustration] And seizing Peter's fat, pudgy hand in her large, red one, Eliza marched him off at a sharp pace down the forest path. 'Hey ho, hey ho, life is a bit long for some of us,' said the charcoal-burner. CHAPTER IV. WHICH LEAVES SOME AT HOME AND TAKES SOME TO CHURCH. Little Peter woke up very early on Sunday morning, feeling excited and glad. He sat up on end in bed, but he had to rub his eyes very hard and get the sleep out of them before he could remember exactly what there was to be so very glad about. When he did remember, he was so much delighted that he was compelled to express his feelings in some rather violent manner. He went on all fours and burrowed very quick, like a rabbit, head first, down under the clothes to the bottom of the bed, and then rushed up again, with very red cheeks, puffing, and pushing his curly hair out of his eyes. But it really was not light yet--only the rushlight his mother burnt at night glimmered feebly in the corner. Peter could hear Master Lepage snoring peacefully in his bed on the other side of the wooden partition which divided the big room into two unequal halves--the small half for little Peter and his little bed, and the large half for his father and mother and their large bed. It would be a long while yet before his mother got up and called him to her to help dress and wash him, for Gustavus, the cowherd, had only just gone downstairs from his attic, clumpety-clump with his big, heavy boots over the stairs, and he always got up long before anybody else. Peter wondered what he could do to amuse himself till it was time to dress. And then it struck him as just possible that when Gustavus went down into the kitchen he might have left the door open, and that in that case Cincinnatus, the cat, might have stepped upstairs and be waiting outside on the landing--it had happened so once before on a very delightful and never to be forgotten occasion. Peter waited a moment and held his breath listening, for it seemed to him extremely adventurous to be on the move so very early in the morning. He was not quite sure whether the little, hairy house-bogies and hobgoblins who undoubtedly, so Eliza said at least, wander about the empty rooms and chase each other up and down the silent passages and stairways every night, with impish frolic and laughter, when we are all safe in bed, might not still be holding their revels; and he knew, at least Eliza said so, that it was extremely unlucky for any person to see them, for they don't like to be looked at by mortal eyes, and will come and sit on your pillow, and tickle your nose with a feather out of the bedding, and squat on your chest, till you feel as though you lay under the weight of a mountain, and treat you in a number of other odious and disturbing ways. It made the cold shivers run down Peter's back as he sat up there, in his little, white night-shirt, even to think of coming face to face with the hairy goblins and bogies. But then, on the other hand, the society of Cincinnatus would be so very delightful. Peter slipped one sturdy, bare leg down over the side of the bed. Ah! how cold the smooth boards of the floor felt! However, the other leg very soon followed. Then he crept across the room very quietly, avoiding the oak chest, and the chairs, and the corner of the high cupboard, with his mother's initials and the date of her wedding-day carved on the doors of it; and, when he reached the door, paused, listening at the keyhole. Oh, dear me, there really was something outside on the landing moving about stealthily on small, soft feet. Little Peter's heart stood still. Was it dear, old Cincinnatus, or a dreadful, roundabout, hairy hobgoblin? At last he plucked up courage to put his lips close to the keyhole, and whisper in a rather trembling voice:-- 'Pussy, puss, Cincinnatus, oh, please, is that you?' 'Miau,' answered Cincinnatus, quite composedly and comfortably. In a great hurry little Peter opened a crack of the door. 'Oh! come in quick, please, Cincinnatus,' he said. [Illustration: "Oh! come in quick, please, Cincinnatus."] But cats of quality never permit themselves to be hurried. Cincinnatus came just half-way through the door, then he stopped and rubbed himself--very tall--up against the side-post and purred; and then, stretching out his fore legs as far as ever he could, sharpened his claws, crick, crack, crick, crack, on the boards of the bedroom flooring. 'Oh! do be quick, Cincinnatus,' said the little boy under his breath again; and to hasten matters, he gave the cat a poke in the ribs with his cold bare toes. 'Miau,' cried Cincinnatus quite sharply, jumping on one side, for he was taken rather by surprise. Subsequently he added in the cat language:--'Manners, my good child, manners! Let us before all things cultivate a polite address and a calm, unagitated exterior.' Meanwhile Peter had succeeded in shutting the door quietly, and that, to his great relief, without catching a single glimpse of one of the blobbety-bodied, spindle-legged house-bogies. He pattered across the room as fast as ever he could, and jumped into his warm bed again. 'He is young and inexperienced,' murmured Cincinnatus reflectively. 'I am magnanimous. I scorn to bear malice.' And he, too, jumped into the warm bed. Now, this was really charming. Little Peter pushed up the bedclothes in front, making them into a snug, little, dark cavern, inside which there was just room enough for himself and Cincinnatus. 'See,' he said, 'we will play at robbers. I will be the captain and you shall be my first lieutenant.' But unfortunately, Cincinnatus did not seem to care very much about that particular game. He had arrived at an age and temper of mind at which material comfort is far more valuable than pleasures derived from a lively exercise of the imagination. Perhaps you do not quite understand what that means? Well, so much the better. For my part, I hope you never may understand it. There are a number of things in this world that it is very much the best to be ignorant about if you can possibly manage it. Cincinnatus, anyway, understood it well enough, so he tucked his fore legs under his chest, until nothing was visible of them but just the furry elbows, and laid his tail neatly along his soft side, and settled himself down on the warm sheet, with his eyes more than half shut, purring all the while as loud as if he had got a small steam-engine inside him. 'That's not the way to play at robbers,' said little Peter. But Cincinnatus only purred a trifle louder. It was rather provoking. Still, Peter was too glad of the cat's comfortable company, and was, moreover, really too sweet-tempered a boy to get cross and angry. So he just lay down on his stomach, resting his chin in one hand, while with the other he gently rubbed Cincinnatus about the ears; and amused himself by thinking of the nice, new clothes that lay folded up on the chair at the bottom of his bed, and of the representation of the stable, and the manger in which the Infant Saviour was cradled, that he hoped to see in the great church in the town, before the day was done. And meanwhile, the pale dawn broadened over the dark stretches of the great pine forest, and the cows lowed as Gustavus drove them out to pasture, and Eliza bustled down stairs to begin dusting and sweeping, and making ready the savoury Sunday breakfast. And at last his mother, with her sweet, pale face, got up and washed and dressed him, listening as tenderly, as only mothers know how, to his happy, prattle, and his simple morning prayer. 'Ask the dear Lord to send a special blessing to us all to-day,' she said. 'May I ask Him to send a blessing to my friend John Paqualin, too?' asked Peter. 'He told me yesterday he should never have anybody to love him, and that it saved him a great deal of trouble. But he doesn't look as if it made him happy, does he, mother?' 'Alas, no, poor soul,' said Susan Lepage. 'Yes, pray for him, also, little one, pray that the long disgrace and lonely sorrow of his life here may be counted unto him for righteousness hereafter, and I will say Amen.' It must have been quite half-past eight o'clock before they were all ready to start for Nullepart. Eliza was going too, you see, and she was furiously busy up to the very last moment. Consequently she was rather late, and rushed out of the house after the rest of the party, pinning her blue shawl, and giving sundry pats to the crown of her stiff, white, muslin cap, to make sure it sat quite straight over her plaits of hair behind. 'Eh, but you are smart, Eliza,' said Gustavus, opening his eyes very wide, as he rested the two pails of water he was carrying on the ground for a moment, and rubbed his elbows, which ached a little with the weight. '_Imbécile!_ do not detain me!' cried Eliza, haughtily--though, in truth, she was prodigiously gratified by the cowherd's observation. 'Don't you see how breathless and flurried I am with all the work? Bless me, where's my prayer-book? Oh! thank you, yes, Gustavus, tied up in my pocket-handkerchief. Of course--I knew where it was--at least, I should have found out for myself directly. Good-bye, Gustavus, take care of yourself; and remember the evening's milk is to be set on the left-hand shelf, two from the bottom.' Eliza pursed up her mouth and nodded, as she walked away with a very impressive swinging of petticoats. 'Poor young man, his head is completely turned,' she said to herself. 'But then, what wonder? My appearance in my _fête_ day clothes has always been a subject of remark and respectful admiration!' 'Farewell, my wife; enjoy to the full the emotions called forth by the pious exhibition you are about to witness. They are becoming to your sex. Boys, take good care of your mother; and conduct yourselves in all things as worthy sons of our glorious Republic.' Master Lepage raised his soft felt hat from his head, as he spoke, with an elegant flourish; but whether in compliment to his wife or in honour of the democratic form of government, I really cannot say. At that moment the charcoal-burner came hurriedly from the narrow forest path, that led from his hut, on to the open space outside the farmhouse. Madelon, the sow, ran beside him, shaking her lean sides as she ran, and grunting now and then, apparently with pleasure at being taken out walking. Sometimes she bundled up against her master's long, thin legs, nearly knocking him over; sometimes she stopped and forced her ugly snout into a tuft of grass or weeds by the wayside. The charcoal-burner's red hair streamed out behind him as he came rapidly along; his strange eyes were dull and vacant as those of a sleep-walker. 'I have a message,' he cried hoarsely--'a message to you from the beasts, and the birds, from the pine-trees, and the storm-clouds and the voices. All night long they have told it me, over and over again.' Paqualin, a wild, ragged, unkempt figure, came up close to Master Lepage, who stood there erect and superior as a general officer on parade, surrounded with his family and servants--Gustavus had left his pails of water and joined the little company--in their Sunday best, and all animated with pleasant expectation of a holiday, in which amusement promised to be agreeably mingled with spiritual edification. 'Well, well, out with it quickly then, my good fellow, this wonderful message of yours,' Lepage said, in a bantering, patronising tone. 'You see my wife and my sons here are just ready to start on a long walk. I cannot have them delayed.' 'They must not go, or you must go with them,' cried the charcoal-burner. He stretched out his hands like a man in the dark groping for something he cannot find. 'My head is troubled,' he went on. 'I cannot tell you plainly; but I have an aching in all my bones which foretells misfortune. And I say, they must not go.' 'Pooh,' said Lepage. 'Your head is troubled, just so. But when people's heads are troubled they had best keep at home and not trouble their neighbours into the bargain with all their crazy fancies. Calm yourself, Paqualin. And as for you,' added Lepage, nodding encouragingly to his wife and the boys, 'forward, march. Do not let this untoward little incident affect the pleasures of the day.' But Susan Lepage looked kindly and compassionately at the charcoal-burner, and then turning to her husband, said:-- 'Have a moment's patience with him, _mon ami_; let us at least hear what he has to say.' 'Yes, give me time,' cried Paqualin imploringly. 'There are so many of you staring at me--Ah! I begin to remember. You must go with them if they go, for the snow is coming, Master Lepage. The storm hung out its streaming, white flag in the north-east yesterday, and the wild ducks flew south; there were signs in the earth and in the heavens, and in my ears the sound of many voices. Do not let your wife and children go. The snow will be here before evening, and the way will be difficult to find, and the house door will stand open long into the night before the feet of those you love cross the threshold.' The charcoal-burner spoke as though he was so certain of the truth of that which he said, and his voice sounded so sad, that poor little Peter felt quite dismayed. Even Eliza had no opprobrious observation to make, and as for Gustavus, he stood with his big mouth wide open, staring as if he saw a ghost. Master Lepage, however, remained quite unmoved; and his composure was very reassuring. 'Well, well, my good fellow,' he said, 'I for one need no further proof that your head is very much troubled, so much so indeed that if I had my way you should find a lodging for a time in the _Maison Dieu_ at Nullepart--an excellent institution, which is calculated to cure troubled heads, or at all events to restrain the possessors of them from being inconvenient to other people. But the worst of it is,' Lepage added, rather angrily, 'that this superstitious nonsense is infectious. You, for instance, my wife, begin to look quite disconcerted.' Lepage folded his arms, and nodded his head argumentatively, quite as though he had been addressing an audience in the wine shop. 'Now I put it to you,' he said, 'the day is mild and even sunshiny at present. And which, pray, is likely to be the best weather prophet? I, Francis Louis Lepage, householder, citizen, veteran, and I may add philosophic-politician and student of ancient history, or that poor half-wit--unsound, as anyone can see, both in mind and body?' 'Of course the grasshopper's afraid of the snow,' chimed in Antony, switching at Madelon, the sow, with the little stick he held in his hand. 'It puts his fiddle out of tune.' Then Antony laughed rather loud, as people do sometimes when they have made a joke they are not sure is a very good one. 'For shame, Antony,' said his mother quickly. And John Paqualin turned on the lad, his eyes glowing like live coals. 'Ah! it is noble and generous in a handsome fellow like you to taunt me and scoff at me! Heaven pay you back in your own coin.' Eliza gave a scream, and seized Gustavus by the arm as though she required protection from some most fearful danger. 'For the love of the saints, ma'am, let us go on, and get out of the way of this wild animal,' she said, in a very loud whisper. 'He looks wicked enough to commit a crime. Keep off, Gustavus! What are you thinking about, catching hold like that of a respectable, young, servant woman?' 'Why it was you who caught hold of me, Eliza,' answered the cowherd mildly. Paqualin, meanwhile, looked round the little group with a sort of despair in his poor ugly face. 'It is all useless,' he said; 'you will not listen to or believe me. I only get jeered at. You all despise me.' [Illustration: 'YOU ALL DESPISE ME.' _Page 66._] He turned away with a bitter cry, and shambled off into the forest. 'Good-bye, dear John Paqualin, good-bye.--No, I won't hush, Eliza. I love him, he is a very kind friend to me.--Good-bye, dear John Paqualin,' little Peter called after him. He felt very very sorry for the poor charcoal-burner. 'Whoof,' went Madelon, the sow, making a run at Cincinnatus--who sat washing his face on the clean flags just outside the door of the farm-house--and taking him so by surprise that he leapt up, with a prodigious tail, on to the window ledge, without even waiting to scratch. Then she cantered off, grunting and shaking her great bristly, floppety ears, after her master. 'Next time I see the charcoal-burner, it will undoubtedly be my duty to spit at him,' said Cincinnatus to himself in the cat-language. 'After that which has just occurred, I feel it is quite unnecessary to take any second opinion upon the subject.' 'Forward, march,' cried Master Lepage gaily. 'Enjoy yourselves. Let no thought of that unfortunate being's prognostications disturb you. The day will be charming.' And so, after all, they started for Nullepart. CHAPTER V. WHICH IS BOTH SOCIAL AND RELIGIOUS. Now, undoubtedly, it is extremely easy to most persons not to believe a thing if they do not wish to believe it. And very soon our friends, wending their way along the soft moist forest path, in the languid December sunshine, began to forget about John Paqualin and his alarming warning. 'It was all spite,' said Eliza, tossing her head, white muslin cap and all, with a great show of dignity. 'He hates me because I won't receive his advances and always keep him at a proper distance. It was just a trick to deprive a poor, hard-working, young woman of a well-earned holiday.' 'I think he was wrong about the weather,' remarked Paul quietly. 'It's generally colder before snow.' 'He ought to be shut up in the madhouse, as my father suggested,' said Antony, who was still smarting from the reproof his mother had given him. 'I'd have all those sort of fellows kept under lock and key. There ought to be a law about it. They've no right to be about loose.' 'You are young, my son,' said Susan Lepage, 'and the young, too often, are thoughtless and cruel. Perhaps life will teach you, among other lessons, to be merciful if you would obtain mercy.' Antony's handsome face grew very sulky. 'You're always scolding me for something or other,' he said crossly. [Illustration] Meanwhile our little Peter was very happy. He had been sorry for the charcoal-burner, it is true; but he would have been very much more sorry not to go to Nullepart. A light breeze ruffled the dark branches of the pine-trees; here and there a scarlet or yellow leaf still hung on the brambles that grew on the skirts of the wood; the little birds looked at him merrily with their round, bright eyes, as they flew chirping to and fro among the trees and bushes. As to the snow, Peter did not give it a thought, as he ran, just like a little dog, first a long way on in front of the rest of the party, and then dawdled ever so far behind them--looking at the quaint little huts, and houses, and castles that the pine needles make where they fall and gather on the small twigs and branches at the base of the younger trees; and then, seeing that his mother and brothers had got on a long way ahead of him, scuttled up to them again in a great fuss and hurry, with very red cheeks, and a curious bumping at his heart, what with excitement and exercise, and just a trifle of fright, too, lest the old dwarf whom John Paqualin had told him about should suddenly nod and grin at him from under the pine boughs, saying:-- 'Hey, my fine fellow, so we've met at last!' But I suppose the black dwarf was plotting mischief at home within the recesses of his mysterious cavern on that particular Sunday morning; for though he kept a very sharp look-out, little Peter saw no trace of his naughty, mocking face, even where the path was narrowest and the pine-trees thickest. Now the town of Nullepart is an exceedingly ancient place, as you will gather from its name if you are anything of a scholar. It lies down in a remote valley along the banks of a river, with hills on either hand clothed below with oak, and beech, chestnut, and walnut, and, at their summits, crowned with pine-trees, that make a dark, ragged, saw-like edge against the sky. Some of the houses in the main street are built of stone, and roofed with fine, red, fluted tiles; but the major part of them are of wood, like the farm-house in the forest, with deep eaves, and quaint gables and stairways, and galleries. And I am sorry to say that the good people of Nullepart are somewhat old-fashioned in their habits, and do not pay quite as strict a regard to cleanliness as might be desired; and permit their ducks, and chickens, and pigs to walk about the crooked streets along with the foot-passengers, in rather too friendly and confidential a manner. [Illustration: GOING TO CHURCH. _Page 72_] But little Peter, never having seen any other town, thought Nullepart a very fine place indeed; and quite believed that nowhere else in the world were there such grand houses, or such inviting shops, or so many people, or half so much chatter and bustle. You see the justice of our opinions is very much dependent upon the extent of our experience--a fact which few persons always manage to bear in mind, at least where their own opinions are concerned--with the opinions of their neighbours it is, of course, different. Little Peter clung rather tight to his mother's hand on one side, and to his brother Paul's on the other, for he was somewhat afraid of being lost in the crowd and never found again. Antony did not offer to hold the little boy's hand. He walked on the other side of his mother, with his cap set jauntily over one ear and his handsome face all smiles again. He nodded and said good-day to all his acquaintances, and stared hard at all the pretty girls when he passed them, as a young man should who has a good opinion of himself and who intends some day to be a soldier. But if little Peter thought Nullepart street dangerously full of people, what did he think when passing under the carved porch, and pushing aside the heavy, leathern curtain that hung across the doorway, he entered the church itself, still clinging tightly to his mother's hand? He could see nothing but trousers and petticoats, the broad backs of men, and the comfortable backs of women--it would be uncivil to call them broad, too, you know; you should select your adjectives carefully in speaking of ladies--and the straight backs of lads, and the slim, neat backs of young girls all around him; while the close, heavy air of the church was full of the hum of many voices, and the shuffling of many feet over the stone pavement. 'Ouf, how hot!' said Eliza, in a loud whisper, unpinning her blue shawl. 'Heaven forgive me, but it's like being in a saucepan with the lid on. Why, there's my cousin Ursula Jacqueline Lambert. Ah, my dear cousin! how have you been this long while? Yes, it is seldom we meet. And time passes and leaves its mark behind it. Not that I change much--no, the saints be praised, I keep my looks. But I see you have altered. Well, it cannot be helped. Your husband is a good, faithful soul, and I daresay he doesn't observe it. There's the advantage of having married an old man. His eyes grow dim just in time--now with me....' But Peter did not hear any more of Eliza's conversation, for his mother moved forward into the middle of the nave of the church, from whence it was possible to see the high altar, with its lights and flowers, and the great picture behind it, of which the people of Nullepart are very proud, for it was painted by a famous artist and is worth a great deal of money, and is, moreover, so dark with age, and, perhaps, with a proportion of dirt as well, that it affords an immense amount of interesting conversation, as nobody has ever yet discovered what subject it represents. Priests in rich vestments stood before the altar, their backs looking like those of great gold and silver beetles; and there were boys with tall candles, and boys chanting; and the plaintive sound of the organ; and many persons kneeling on low chairs or on the rough pavement saying their prayers. Susan Lepage knelt down too; and little Peter stood bare-headed close beside her. The church, somehow, seemed very different to what he had expected. It was very large and high, and the painted windows up in the roof let in but scanty light. It seemed to Peter a very mysterious place; and he felt a wee bit frightened. At last Susan rose again from her knees. 'Now for thy pleasure, little one,' she said, looking lovingly at the child. 'Where is the stable, Antony?' 'It is there,' he answered, pointing to the southern aisle of the church. 'I've just been to see; but the crowd is so thick about it we must wait awhile--we can't get through yet.' Susan Lepage sat down on one of the low, rush-bottomed chairs, and took Peter on her lap. 'All in good time,' she said. 'Antony will let us know when to be moving. Meanwhile, we will rest. Your poor, little legs must be tired.' Presently a stout, genial-looking, old gentleman, in a black cassock and funny, little, black cape, came up to them. He wore a black skull-cap, too, for the church was draughty, and his head was bald, save just at the back, where his short, bristly, white hair stood out like a neat trimming round the edge of his cap. 'Well, well, Susan Lepage, it isn't often that we see you here, now,' he said. 'Don't move, don't move, my good woman. Ah, yes! I know the walk is long and fatiguing; you would come oftener if you could. The spirit is willing, as it is written, but the flesh is weak. Yet you do well to come to-day, and bring these fine lads, your sons, with you. The good God remembers those who remember Him. But where is the husband?' [Illustration] Peter looked at his mother as the priest asked this question, and it seemed to him that for some reason she seemed troubled and sad. 'Ah, my father, he has remained at home to keep house. We live, as you know, in a lonely place.' The priest smiled and shook his head. 'Exactly,' he said, 'I understand. Politics have a word to say in the matter, though, haven't they?' But Susan Lepage did not smile in return. 'Alas, my father!' she said. Peter stared at both speakers wonderingly. He did not understand what they meant. But then it must be admitted there are a good many things we do not quite understand at five years old. 'Do not vex yourself,' answered the priest kindly. 'It is written that the faithful wife may save her husband. All times are in the hands of God. That which He has ordained cannot fail to be accomplished.' Then he laid his hand gently on little Peter's round, black head, saying:-- 'And this is your youngest, the autumn child, who brings the blessing to the house?' 'Yes,' she said. 'He has come for the first time to burn a candle before the Infant Jesus. But the worshippers are so many that as yet we have been unable to get a sight of the stable.' Just then Eliza bustled up. 'Ah,' she exclaimed, 'one thing is certain, my poor cousin's temper is sadly soured with age. I made myself agreeable to her, in the assurance that she would at least ask me in to dinner.--Forgive me, your reverence, I did not observe that you were conversing with my mistress'--Eliza curtsied to the priest.--'But not a bit of it. She has treated me with marked coldness, and not so much as hinted at an invitation. It seems to me--' 'My daughter,' said the priest, 'lower your voice. We do not discuss these things so shrilly in this sacred place. Turn your thoughts to religion. Think here of your own sins, not of the shortcomings of others.' Eliza got very red in the face. 'Believe me, I was not thinking of myself, your reverence,' she answered, quickly, 'but of my mistress. I wished to save her the expense of my dinner at the inn, by dining with my relations.--We ought to be going to the Red Horse soon, ma'am,' she added, 'or there will be no room for us.' 'Oh! but I haven't seen the stable yet,' cried little Peter, quite out loud, forgetting that he was in church. 'I don't want any dinner. But I can't go home till I have seen the stable, please.' The little boy had jumped down off his mother's lap and stood there with the big tears in his eyes, and with the corners of his mouth quivering. It seemed to him a terrible thing to have come this long way full of expectation and hope, and then to be disappointed after all. But the priest took his hand kindly, and led him towards the southern aisle of the church, where the crowd was, while Susan Lepage and Paul and Antony followed behind them. 'Room, my friends; have the amiability to make room,' said the priest, 'for a little lad who comes from a considerable distance to see this pious and instructive representation for the first time.' Then little Peter felt quite proud and distinguished, for the people, at the request of the priest, moved aside to the right hand and the left, making a narrow lane for him to pass along to the gilded railings in front of the chapel, where the stable was dressed. Once there, he stood quite still, staring with very round eyes, for the sight seemed to him very beautiful and strange, and his heart was filled with wonder and awe. In a rough, rocky cave, on the straw in a wooden manger, lay the image of the Infant Jesus, wrapped in swaddling clothes, with a golden circle above his baby head. On one side knelt the Virgin Mother, in a white robe and blue mantle, with her hands clasped meekly on her heart; and, as she bent towards her Babe, she seemed to little Peter to look at him with mild and loving eyes. On the other side stood St. Joseph, in a brown habit, leaning upon his staff. And in the dusky background the boy could just make out the form of an ass and some cows. While above the entrance of the cave shone a bright star. 'Ah, how beautiful!' said Susan Lepage softly. 'It should have been finer had we had more money,' answered the priest with a sigh. 'Not that I complain. The parish has been generous, and the good sisters have done their best. Still, I myself greatly desired to have the Three Kings offering treasures. It would have been an effective incident--but our means are limited. They would have been too expensive for us.' And little Peter was puzzled and could not quite comprehend what the priest meant; for he had often heard his father say that kings were old-fashioned rubbish, worth nothing at all, and that a republic was worth ten thousand of them any day in the week. 'Kneel down, my son,' said the priest to Peter presently:--'and pray to be kept pure, and innocent, and devout, so that, when your earthly warfare is accomplished--be it late or soon--you may behold the face of the Saviour in Heaven as you now behold this poor, unworthy image of Him on earth.' Then he turned and left them. Each of the boys bought a candle from the old woman who sat on the chapel steps, and stuck them in the round iron frame standing just by the gilded rails, and lighted them with the long taper she gave them. And Eliza bought one, too, though she was a little disposed to haggle with the old woman and accuse her of overcharging. But Susan Lepage bought three candles, and set them in the frame and lighted them. 'For,' she said, 'we must remember those who are absent--whether by choice or by misfortune--when we are in the house of God.' [Illustration] CHAPTER VI. WHICH ATTEMPTS TO SHOW WHY THE SKIES FALL. Do you know what the snow is and where it comes from? The Dictionary says it is 'a frozen moisture, which falls from the atmosphere in white flakes.' But that description doesn't seem to make us know very much more about it somehow. Some people say the snow is caused by the angels shaking the feather beds up in Heaven; but that, both scientifically and spiritually too, appears to me an improbable solution. Other people, again, say it is all the Time Spirit plucking his geese. And who are the Time Spirit's geese?--Well, if you really want to know, they are all the little poets, and little painters, and little musicians, and little players and all the little inventors of little theories, and little writers of little books, who spend their time in diligently trying to persuade themselves and others that they are great writers of great books, and discoverers of a universal panacea for the healing of the nations; and that, in short, they are not any of them geese at all, but as fine swans as you can see on any river or pond in the three kingdoms. And they come cackling, and hissing, and sidling, and waddling up to the Time Spirit every year--specially in the spring and about Christmastide--in great flocks, and all cry out together:-- 'Is it possible to deny, O Time Spirit, that we are every one of us swans?' And then, I am sorry to say--for though it is perfectly right and just, it isn't the least bit agreeable, as some of us know to our cost--the Time Spirit turns up his sleeves and sets to work with a will, and catches them, though they mostly make a terrible noise and fluster, and plucks them one by one--big feathers first and then small--and sends them away looking sadly bare and foolish, and thereby leaving the world in no doubt whatsoever that they are only geese after all. And some wise persons, who have a perfect right to speak on the matter, think that why we have had so much more snow than usual the last few winters, is because--what with higher education and women's colleges, and one thing and another--the flocks of geese grow larger and larger, so that the poor Time Spirit is getting worn to fiddle strings with everlasting plucking, and it seems not unlikely we may soon have snowstorms nine months in the year. But what if a real swan does come among the geese, once in a way?--Ah! that is quite another matter. For the Time Spirit discovers it in a very few minutes, and jumps up and pulls down his sleeves, and slips off his hat--he has to wear one, you know, to keep the goose down from lodging in his hair--and draws his heels together with a snap and makes a bow from the waist, like an accomplished courtier, and says:-- 'All hail to you, my master or my mistress!'--as the case may be.--'For you the stars shine by night, and the sun rises at morning. All the world is yours, or shall soon be, if you have patience, and faith, and daring, and are true to the voice of the dæmon within.' But there is yet another explanation of the snowfall besides this, and it is, perhaps, after all, the most reasonable one to believe in. For when the nights are long and the days are short, and the sunlight is feeble as a sick man's smile, the North Wind wakes from his summer sleep and calls to his brother the East Wind, and they go forth over the earth driving the heavy-laden snow-clouds before them, and the pale snow-fairies who do their will. Down from the ice floes, and the dim, silent, polar wastes, over land and sea, with a shout like the roar of a battle, and a laugh like the crackle of thunder, while the hills grow white with fear under his tread, and the forests bow themselves and shriek in his fierce breath as the planks and rigging of a ship shriek in a storm at sea, the North Wind comes. He was born hundreds of thousands of years ago, in the Ice Age, when the glaciers crawled out from the heart of the mountains, mile-long, grey-green monsters, over what are now fertile meadows and sunny plains--before man or beast, so vigorous was the keen-toothed frost, roamed over the surface of the earth. His eyes are blue and clear; and they dance as you may see the sky dance on a sharp winter's night; and his white beard hangs low on his chest, which is broad and firm as a hill-side; and he is in the full vigour of a lusty manhood still, and it promises to be a very long while yet before his eye grows dim or his limbs grow weak with age. Some think, indeed, that as he saw man first born into the world, he may live to see him die off it again--to see this great ball, which so long has been our human dwelling-place and home, rolling silent out into immeasurable space, a dead planet, locked in the arms of everlasting frost. But be that as it may, on the fair Sunday morning, when our friend little Peter, his mother, and brothers, and Eliza, were going through the pine forest to the church at Nullepart, the North Wind was up and walking southward, southward over Europe, with the great, grey snow-clouds hurrying on before, for he had hard work to do. And, as the day wore on, he gathered the clouds from east and west, and packed them together in a vast, dusky mass over the town, and the forest and the limestone crags and gorges, and the wide, flat meadows where the cows pasture in summer, and over little Peter's home. And then he bade the snow-fairies bestir themselves, and prick the clouds as full of holes as the top of a flour-dredge, and wrap all the country in a robe of spotless white. Now, it happened that among the snow-fairies there was one who was very young and tender-hearted. Indeed she was not really a snow-fairy at all, but a child of the soft South Wind, who, when all her sisters flew away--as the swallows fly in autumn--to the tropics, overslept herself and got left behind by mistake. And she had joined the snowfairies because she was dull and lonely, and could find no other playfellows, and nothing to do. But, for all that, she did not care to help them in their work, for she had not been brought up to it, you see, and it seemed to her a sad, chilly business. So instead of laughing and playing and flitting about, and easing the great lumbering clouds of their burden, she sat down by herself in a hollow of one of them and cried, and cried. For she could not help thinking of all the sheep on lonely hillsides; and of the small birds seeking food and finding none in the snow-buried fields, and lanes, and hedges; and of little neglected children, of whom, alas! there are always so many, in bare cottage or dreary, city cellar, with no warm clothes, or food, or firing; and of wayfarers on barren heaths and bleak moors; and of the beggars, and vagabonds, and outcasts, the sorry throng of refuse humanity, that tramps the high roads of every country of the civilised world, with neither home, nor hope, nor money, and as she thought of their frost-nipped hands, and bleeding feet, and scanty rags, she cried as if her little heart would break. But the snow-fairies were vexed with her, and scolded and flouted her, for it is, as you all know, a great nuisance to have somebody crying and sobbing and making a fuss, when you yourselves feel quite happy and comfortable. And at last, in their irritation against her, they made such a noise and clamour, and so pushed and plagued and hustled the poor little creature, that the squabbling and commotion reached the ears of the North Wind himself, and he asked what in the name of common-sense was the matter. Then the snow-fairies all pointed at her, and all began chattering at once, as you may hear a flock of starlings chattering in the tops of the beeches at sunset, on a mild March day. But the North Wind told them to go about their business; and he took up the little fairy and stood her in the hollow of his great hand, and asked her quite gently--for the stronger a man is the gentler he can be, as you will very likely find out some fine day--why she was so sad. Then, though she was horribly frightened and blushed up to the tips of her pretty ears, as a modest young maiden should, she looked the great North Wind bravely in the face and told him her little story--how she had been left behind, how she loved the sunshine and the summer, and how she grieved for the misery and famine that winter brings, too often, on man and bird and beast. 'And I don't see _why_ it should all happen,' she said; 'or why there cannot be summer all the year.' Still, though she spoke up so courageously, the poor, little fairy trembled, for she thought that the North Wind would be angry, as the snow-fairies had been, and that he might crush her tiny life into nothingness in the grasp of his great hand. But the North Wind did nothing of the kind. He looked at her till his clear, dancing eyes grew dim and misty; and when, at last, he spoke his voice was low and sweet and sad as church bells that the sailor hears far out at sea, as he sails at evening in sight of some fair, foreign coast. 'Ah, my child!' he said, 'all those who have once been happy, young and old, wise and foolish, mortal and immortal, mighty princes, prophets, psalmists, all living creatures, nay, the very earth herself, all that my eyes have looked on through unnumbered centuries, have asked and still ask that question in some form or other; but the answer is not granted yet. And so, knowing that till the end it may not be told us, we grow humble and grow wise; and learn that it is best to do the work that is appointed us without doubt or hesitation, careless whether it be known or unknown, pleasant or unpleasant, hard or soft, kind or cruel even, so that we get it well and honestly done. As for you, you have lost your way and have wandered from the business set for you to do, and therefore you are filled with sadness, and fears, and questionings. But have patience for a while, and have faith, too, that the mysterious purposes of the Almighty, your Master and mine, will certainly be made plain at last.--Meanwhile, go and help your cousins the snow-fairies. And then, because, though you are honest and brave, you still are frail and tender, when the night of my winter reign is over, I will give you back into the keeping of my kinsman the South Wind, who will find less sharp and cutting work for you to do.' And all this, though you may not at first see exactly how, has a great deal to do with the story of our friend, little Peter; and therefore, even at the risk of your thinking it somewhat dry and puzzling, it has seemed to me well to set it down for you to read here. CHAPTER VII. WHICH DESCRIBES A PLEASANT DINNER-PARTY, AND AN UNPLEASANT WALK. For when little Peter and his mother and brothers came out of the church at Nullepart, the sun had been hidden some time behind thick clouds. Fierce gusts of wind rushed down the street, blowing off hats, and blowing about petticoats, and making window-shutters rattle, and doors slam. 'Make haste, children, make haste,' cried Susan Lepage. 'We must get our dinner at the Red Horse and start homewards as quickly as we can.' 'Oh! I have been hearing something so terrible,' said Eliza, to her mistress, as she came down the church steps. 'Not that I am surprised at it--no, no, no. I have always suspected it. I am sure his appearance this morning was enough to confirm one's worst suspicions.' Eliza pursed up her lips and shook her head with an air of extreme wisdom. 'They do say that Paqualin is a wizard,' she went on. 'Take care, Peter; if you look one way and walk another, you will unquestionably tumble down. And you needn't stare at me so. I wasn't talking to you.--Joseph Berri, the watchmaker's brother, has just been telling me all about it. There is no doubt he overlooked one of Miller Georgeon's draught oxen three years ago, so that it would not eat, and grew daily thinner and thinner, and had, at last, to be killed.--Go on, Peter; your ears will grow as long as a donkey's if you are always listening like that.--And they do say he can call up evil spirits, and storms, and thunder and lightning, and whirlwinds, when he wants them for his own vicious purposes.' 'Nonsense, Eliza, nonsense,' said Susan Lepage. 'You are far too willing to listen to idle, ill-natured tales.' Eliza sighed profoundly and turned up her eyes. 'Ah!' she murmured, 'some day, ma'am, you will see who was in the right, and give credit where it is due. For my part, if it does snow to-day, I shall know what to think.' 'Make haste, children,' said Susan Lepage again. 'The time draws on, and we have no time to waste.' But it was not so easy to make haste. The large dining-room of the Red Horse, with its tall, white-curtained windows, was crowded. From up the valley and down the valley in their long, narrow, country carts--for all the world like tea-trays set on four wheels--with cracking whips and jangling bells, or on foot, from lonely hamlets in the forest, or solitary herdsmen's huts on the steep grass slopes beneath the grey limestone cliffs and crags, all the inhabitants of the district had gathered to attend the church, and see the show, and spend a merry Sunday. And among all these good people were many friends of Susan Lepage, who detained her with greetings and questions. Then, too, the places at the tables were already taken, and it was some time before the boys and their mother could get seats. Even so little Peter had to squeeze himself into a very small space between Madame Georgeon,--the stout, comely wife of Monsieur Georgeon, the miller at Oùdonc--and his mother. But little Peter thought it all delightful, though he was rather pinched as to elbow-room. He liked the rattle of the knives and forks, and the many voices, and the talk and laughter; and watched with great curiosity the active serving-maids, balancing in their hands--and indeed all up their arms, too, so it seemed--an incredible number of plates and dishes. Even the floor sprinkled with sawdust, and the not altogether spotless table-cloth, were interesting. For it was all new, you see, to little Peter; and even things not very nice in themselves are charming when they are new. Then, too, Peter was very hungry; and though Madame Georgeon's full skirts overflowed his small legs, and her handsome shawl, thrown gracefully back from her shoulders--the room was warm, what with the great, china stove in the corner and all the company--and though her shawl, I say, enveloped him entirely now and then in a cloud of many coloured cashmere, the miller's wife was very kind, and coaxed and petted him, and piled up his plate with all manner of dainty things. 'Eh, _par exemple_,' she said, smiling and nodding at him as she sipped her glass of red wine--'it is not every day we go into society, is it, to meet old friends and make new ones? You, Susan Lepage, from a child were of a serious turn of mind. That is an excellent thing, too, no doubt. It secures the future. But the present should not be despised either. The members of my family--the saints be praised--have ever possessed a little grain of gaiety in their composition. For my part I think it is only economical to make the most of this world while you are permitted to be in it. And I regard it as an actual impiety to neglect any opportunity of innocent entertainment. Eat, my child, eat then--a spoonful or so more of this admirable pastry. See, on my plate here. I was provident when the dish came round, and secured a double portion.' Then, turning, she smiled at Susan Lepage again:-- 'Do not alarm yourself. It will not injure him. He will walk it off. Exercise is a fine thing to prevent food lying heavy on the stomach.' 'Perhaps moderation is a finer one still,' answered the other gently. 'But are you not ready, my sons? We must not linger, though you in your kindness would tempt us to do so, good Madame Georgeon. We do not drive home by the high road as you do, but go on foot through the forest, and the days are short.--Antony, we should surely be moving.' But Antony was in no haste to be going, for he, too, was making the most of this opportunity of innocent enjoyment. He sat beside Marie Georgeon, the miller's pretty daughter, who certainly took after her mother's family in respect of gaiety. And, clean glasses being somewhat scarce at the Red Horse from the unusual number of guests, it happened that she and Antony shared one; and her brown eyes were as full of mischief as a May morning is full of sunshine as she glanced up at him over the rim of it, and laughed and talked, and fingered the gold and garnet necklace that fitted so neatly about her throat. And what with her pretty looks and merry words, the young fellow's head was completely turned--and if you do not quite understand what that means, you need only wait a little, for you are bound to find out clearly enough some day. And, as the inevitable consequence of his head being turned, he hardly heard his mother when she spoke to him, and made no haste in the world to finish his dinner, and loitered and dawdled about upon one excuse and another as long as possible; and, I am sorry to say, spoke quite snappishly to his brother Paul, when the latter pointed out to him that the clock had struck three already, and that it was high time to be going. You see, it is just as well not to understand--by experience, anyhow--what it is to have your head turned, since it leads to these deplorable errors both of manners and conduct. So it fell out that when at last our friends left the jovial company at the Red Horse, and came out from the steaming dining-room into the street, the snow-fairies had already been some half-hour at work, and the roadway and house-roofs were all lightly powdered with snow. To little Peter, warm with his dinner, this seemed the crowning piece of fun of a glorious day. He could hardly get along for turning to look at the marks his nailed boots made in the snow. But Susan Lepage thought very differently. She glanced up at the dull, clouded sky, and remembered the sad words of John Paqualin, the charcoal-burner, that everyone had treated so lightly some few hours ago. 'Will it last, do you think?' she asked of Antony. Antony, however, was still thinking of pretty Marie Georgeon, with whom he had shared the kernel of a double almond at parting, both wishing as they eat it. He was wishing his wish still, and it was such an agreeable one that he felt quite superior to all inconvenient incidents in the way of snowstorms and such like.--He cocked his cap more on one side than ever, and assumed quite a patronising air, even towards his mother, which, to say the least, was very silly of him. 'It may last or it may not,' he answered. 'But really, it doesn't very much matter.' 'I wish that your father was with us,' added Susan. 'Why?' cried Antony. 'He couldn't stop it snowing any more than I can. And pray remember, mother, that this isn't by any means the first time I have walked home from Nullepart in bad weather. I believe I could find my way back blindfold or at midnight for that matter.' 'I am not at all troubled about you, my son,' replied his mother quietly, 'but about our poor little Peter here, with his little short legs.' 'Oh, Peter will do well enough,' said the lad impatiently. Some find it difficult to make room in their hearts for more than one person at a time, you know; and Antony's heart was still pretty well occupied by Marie Georgeon. He walked along briskly humming the tune of _Partant pour la Syrie_, which is a song about a young soldier who was pious as well as brave; and a lucky fellow into the bargain, for when he came back from the war he married his master the count's daughter, and lived happily ever after. 'Never mind, mother,' said Paul; 'if the snow is deep, or Peter is tired, I can carry him pick-a-back. He's not very heavy, you know.' 'I shan't be tired. I like the snow,' cried little Peter, and he clapped his hands and pranced about, till Eliza--who was still rather cross because her cousin had neglected to invite her to dinner--caught hold of him and made him walk soberly. 'If you laugh so now there will be tears before night,' she said. 'Laugh at breakfast, cry at dinner, laugh at dinner, cry at supper-time. Ah, dear me! this cold wind; I wish I had thought to put some wool in my ears--I shall be martyred with the toothache.' So they passed down the main street. It was almost deserted now, for the storm had driven people to take shelter in the wine shops, or, which was far wiser, in their own houses. Even the pigs had gone to their styes, and the fowls to their roosts; and the goats, with their little tinkling bells, were safe housed, too, in their sheds, munching the dry, brown hay that in the summer-time had waved as green grass full of a rainbow of flowers. They passed by the smaller houses and out-buildings, and the great saw-mills where the pine logs from the mountains are cut up, that stand along the bank of the swift river; and crossed the bridge with the dark water rushing underneath; and began climbing the road that zig-zags up the long hill between the great, bare walnut-trees and stubble fields, and wild rocky pastures, to the edge of the pine forest--four tall straight figures, and one short roundabout one, showing black against the ever-deepening snow. [Illustration] For, alas! the snow was falling thicker and thicker--here in the open it was already up to the second lace-hole of little Peter's boots--scurrying and racing in wild confusion before the icy breath of the North Wind; twisting, and twirling, and dancing; clinging to grass blade, and bush, and branch, and tree stem; hiding the road so that you could no longer see the margin of it; covering the wheel tracks and marks of the horse hoofs; filling up hollows under the grey rocks and boulders, and blurring the jagged outline of the pine-trees where they rise against the sky. Hundreds of thousands of white, hurrying flakes, soft, silent multitudes, filling the air as far as eye could see. There was no fun now in turning round to look at the marks of his nailed boots, for Peter found the snow hid them again almost as soon as they were made; and it was hard work, too, struggling up the steep hill and battling with the wind. Still the little fellow trudged along without making any complaint. For, you see, he had often heard his father praise the virtues of the Ancient Romans, their courage and endurance; and so Peter had got the notion into his head that it is rather a grand thing not to mind what is uncomfortable and disagreeable, and that it is rather a shameful and unworthy thing to grumble and make a fuss, and cry when your chilblains itch, or you happen to bump your head against the table, or when your legs ache, as his legs began to ache now, with the length and steepness of the hill. More than once his mother stopped and called him to her, and told him he was a good, brave, little man, and pulled the collar of his overcoat up about his red, little ears. And Peter, though he would not have said so for three dozen baking apples, or half a washing-basket full of sugar pigs, did find it very comfortable to stand still in the shelter of her petticoats for a minute or two and get his breath. The town below was hidden in the driving snow, and the dark wall of the pine-trees loomed nearer and nearer. At last the forest path was reached, and here it was better walking. The snow was lighter, and there was shelter from the force of the wind. But they had taken so much time in climbing the hill that the dusk was coming on, and there was still a long way to go. Antony no longer whistled. He walked on steadily ahead of the others, turning round now and then with a fine air of superiority and command. Antony, indeed, was as yet not at all displeased with the adventure. He believed that this was an occasion on which he showed to great advantage. His mother followed him in silence. Little Peter came next. He had taken his brother Paul's hand now, and trotted along as fast as his sturdy little legs would carry him, for to tell the honest truth he was getting a trifle frightened. The birds had all hidden themselves away in the thick brushwood, and no longer welcomed him with their merry round eyes. The well-known path looked mysterious, almost awful, in the half-light, with the tall ranks of the pine-trees on either side of it swaying in the blast. Sometimes the snow would slip in great masses from the high branches and fall close to little Peter's feet, as if the black dwarf was throwing snowballs at him. Poor Peter began to feel very shivery and creepy, and did not the least care to look round lest _something_, he did not exactly know what--and that made it all the worse, perhaps--should be coming tripping, tripping, tripping over the white ground behind him. But the only person who really came behind little Peter was Eliza; and though I do not want to be rude to Eliza, who was a very worthy young woman in her way, I cannot pretend to say that she was doing anything so graceful as tripping over the snow. Not a bit of it. Eliza was extremely disgruntled by the events of the day, and was as full of complaints and lamentations as a hedgehog's back is full of spines. The wet snow had made her fine, white cap limp and drabbled; so that instead of standing up like the vizor of an ancient helmet, the big, lace frill of it tumbled in the most melancholy manner about her face. She had turned the skirt of her dress up over her head; and what with holding it, and her books tied up in her handkerchief, and what with the tightness of her boots, which were a pair of brand new ones and half a size too small for her into the bargain, Eliza came very much nearer floundering than tripping over the snow. The forest opens out in places into wide spaces of waste moorland. Across these by daylight or in fine weather it is easy enough to find the right road; but on such an evening as I am telling you about it is by no means easy. On the edge of the moorland, Susan Lepage called to Antony to stop. 'Go slowly,' she said, 'and pray be careful. If we once mistake the path we may find ourselves in a sad plight. I wish your father was with us! Go on in front,' she added, turning to Paul, 'and I will follow you.' Now his mother's words rather nettled Antony. [Illustration: LOST. _Page 110._] 'You haven't any real confidence in me,' he said sulkily; 'or you wouldn't be repeating all the while that you wish my father was here.' You see, Antony had been a good deal flattered and excited by his pretty companion at the Red Horse at Nullepart. And it often happens, unfortunately, that pleasure when it is past makes us quarrelsome. He kicked the snow about with his foot, and his handsome, young face looked quite rebellious and naughty. 'No, no, my son,' Susan Lepage answered gently. 'I have every confidence in your good intentions. But the way must needs be difficult to find. I merely caution you to be careful.' 'Of course I shall be careful,' said the lad angrily, as he stepped from the shelter of the pine trees into the dim, white waste beyond. For a time all went well; but, all of a sudden, the ground began to grow rough and uneven under foot. Peter stumbled and fell, and scrambled up again half smothered in snow, his poor, little mouth and eyes full of it, and his hands scratched with the harsh heath roots and stones beneath. 'Antony, Antony, we are wandering!' cried his mother, as she wiped the snow out of Peter's eyes and off his clothes, and kissed him. The little boy clung to her, for he felt very desolate and cheerless. He did not think it in the least amusing now to be out in the storm. He longed for the warm, cosy kitchen and for the society of Cincinnatus; but he choked down his tears as his mother kissed him, and tried to be very brave and not to mind his tumble. Antony turned back, he was a few steps ahead. 'We can only have missed the path by a yard or two,' he said hurriedly. 'You just stand still and I'll find it.' And he did find it. But, alas! he could not keep to it, for the light faded and darkness came on quicker and quicker, and still the snow fell in hundreds of thousands of soft white flakes. Eliza groaned and lamented, and our poor, little Peter's snow-clogged boots began to chill his feet through, and his hands grew as cold as frogs' paws, and he got more and more hungry and tired. But he did not grumble about it, for he knew his mother and brothers were cold and weary too; so he struggled on manfully through the ankle-deep snow. And, at last, he got too tired even to feel hungry, and began to cry quite gently to himself. [Illustration] 'Please, mother,' he said, 'I can't go any further.' Susan Lepage took him up in her arms and held him close against her bosom. She did not speak; but, if it had been light enough to see, I think Peter would have found that she was crying too. For the ground was all rough and uneven under foot again; and though Antony went first to the right hand and then to the left he could not make out the road at all. 'I've come all wrong, mother,' he said, and his voice trembled. 'I don't know where we are or which way we are walking. We are lost.' There was a silence before his mother answered him. 'You have done your best,' she said. 'The event is in the hands of God.' CHAPTER VIII. WHICH PROVES THAT EVEN PHILOSOPHIC POLITICIANS MAY HAVE TO ADMIT THEMSELVES IN THE WRONG. But now it is quite time for us to go back to the old, wooden farm-house on the edge of the forest, and see what Master Lepage, and Gustavus, and that intelligent and experienced person, Cincinnatus, are doing, while the rest of the household are wandering, alas! not without growing alarm, and even suffering, in the darkness and cold and snow. In point of fact, then, though Master Lepage had been so very determined to please himself by sitting at home, he had found the day uncommonly long and dull. For he was one of those sociable persons who are never quite happy without an audience to hold forth to and instruct, and convince of their own remarkable wisdom and the hearers' equally remarkable folly. And then, too, for all that he appeared somewhat dictatorial and high-handed, Lepage was at bottom an affectionate and warm-hearted man, who loved his wife and children tenderly. And so, as the afternoon drew on, and the wind rose and the clouds gathered, he began to get into a fine fume and fret. He walked up and down the warm, cosy kitchen as restless as a bear in a pit; and knocked double postman's knocks on the weather glass, and declared out loud that the mercury was going up, when he saw perfectly well that it was going down; and did a number of other useless things to try to persuade himself that he was not one bit anxious or uneasy. 'How inferior is the education of men to that of cats!' thought Cincinnatus. 'Before I was old enough to lap milk out of a saucer, my mother had taught me the vulgarity of giving way to purposeless agitation. "Calm," she would say, "is even a greater sign of good-breeding than a curl of hair inside the ears." In my poor master, there, calm and ear-curls alike are wanting. What a situation! Thank heaven, I at least was born a cat!' But, you see, Master Lepage had really some cause for his restlessness, for all this while he was struggling with an unseen enemy. Deep down in that innermost chamber of the heart--the door of which we most of us keep so tight shut because we know Truth sits within weighing and judging all our thoughts and actions, and letting us know from time to time just what she thinks about them in the very plainest language--in that innermost heart-chamber, I say, Lepage was aware that there was a busy, active feeling of shame and remorse. And while Truth pushed hard at the door inside to let the Feeling out, he pushed equally hard on the outside to keep the Feeling in. But when finally the snow began to fall, and the daylight lessen, and the storm grow fierce and fiercer, Truth pushed and bumped and banged upon the poor door so unmercifully that Master Lepage, sturdy veteran though he was, grew quite weary of opposing her. And so the busy Feeling popped out first its head, and then its two arms, and then squeezed itself out all together, and began racing up and down the whole length and breadth of the old soldier's heart in the most audacious manner. 'You were obstinate and conceited this morning,' said the Feeling; 'you wouldn't listen to John Paqualin, the charcoal-burner. Look at the snow!' 'The glass was rising,' answered Lepage. 'I am perfectly certain it was. And John Paqualin is a madman.' 'Madman yourself,' said the Feeling--for feelings are very free-spoken, you know, and don't mince matters--'madman yourself for letting your wife, who is a delicate woman, and that poor child, little Peter, run such a risk of cold, and fatigue, and perhaps worse.' 'Antony knows the way,' answered Lepage again. 'And he's an able fellow.' 'He is a boy, and like most boys is thoughtless and self-opinionated. He takes after you in that last, by the same token,' said the Feeling. 'I am a philosophic politician,' cried Lepage, somewhat hotly. 'I worship the goddess of Reason.' 'Do you?' said the Feeling. 'And these newspapers you were so anxious to sit at home and read to-day, full--as you perfectly well know--of garbled news, and one-sided statements, and of cheap party cries--they are the voice of Reason, are they?' 'Hang you!' answered Lepage--which was not at all a pretty way of answering. But then, you see, poor Master Lepage was getting very angry because he was very uncomfortable; and when persons are both uncomfortable and angry they are liable to make use of expressions which, very properly, are not printed in the French and English conversation books that you study in the schoolroom.--'I won't listen to you. So away with you. I have no doubt--' 'No doubt, haven't you?' said the Feeling. 'Well, I am glad to hear that.' 'No doubt at all--ten thousand plagues on you--no doubt at all, I say, that my wife and children will be home in ten minutes at the latest. Meanwhile I will read a little. I will improve my mind with the history of those grand, old Romans.' So Lepage got down the history book, and it fell open at one of his favourite passages--the account of the Consul, Marcus Attilius Regulus, who, rather than break his word, left his home and kindred and gave himself up to his pitiless enemies, and bore in silence all the cruel tortures to which they subjected him. 'There was a man!' cried Lepage, as he wiped his spectacles with his red pocket-handkerchief. 'Yes, indeed, a very different man to you, Francis Louis Lepage,' said the Feeling. 'Why, why what do you mean? Twenty thousand cut-throat Prussians!--at least I am no coward. No one has ever accused me of that before. What was I ever afraid of?' [Illustration: WAITING. _Page 120._] 'Of a little trouble,' answered the Feeling. 'Of a walk, for instance, when you felt inclined to sit at home smoking--of what one or two silly, feather-headed fellows, who fancy themselves mighty sharp and clever, might perhaps say about you, if you were seen kneeling down beside your wife and sons, in the church there, with your head uncovered, praying God to forgive you your sins.--Pooh, don't talk about your courage to me!' said the Feeling. Master Lepage sat very still for some time after that in the window-seat, with the Roman History wide open before him; but he did not care to go on reading about the Consul Regulus. He remembered how little Peter had climbed on his knee on Friday evening, and coaxed him to go to Nullepart to see the Infant Jesus and the stable; and had said--poor, little lad, what a nice, little face he had--Lepage rubbed the end of his hooked nose, and sniffed--that if only his father came with them they would all be so happy. 'Well, I hope they have been happy,' he said to himself. 'It is more than I have been, in any case.' He turned and looked out of window. Ah! how it snowed, and how dark it was growing. 'And with this wind, on the moorland the snow will drift. If they have the intelligence of a blue owl between them they will have started early!' he cried quite fiercely. 'Ten thousand plagues--poor dear souls,' he added, for Master Lepage was getting a little confused somehow. [Illustration] He hurried across the kitchen to the house-door and flung it wide open, and standing on the threshold, gazed long and earnestly down the dim forest path, drawing his shaggy eyebrows together till they stood out like _chevaux de frise_ above his keen, grey eyes. 'Ho-la, ho-la, hey!' he shouted. But there was no answer save the roaring of the wind among the pines and the soft 'hush, hush,' of the falling snow. Now for some time past Cincinnatus had been sitting very composedly staring with his great, yellow eyes into the glowing log fire, and meditating pleasantly on the inferiority of men to cats. But when Master Lepage, a prey to that remorseful Feeling which Truth had let loose to tramp where it would up and down his heart, threw the house-door wide open, the icy breath of the North Wind rushed wildly into the kitchen, and made our friend Cincinnatus feel uncommonly cool about the back. 'Neither calm nor ear-curls, dear me!' he murmured to himself as he rose slowly, stretching one fore leg and then the other, and then each hind leg in turn--shaking the last leg rapidly for a moment, too, because it was slightly cramped--and yawning the while so wide, that his pink tongue was curled up quite tight, like a rolling-pin, at the back of his mouth. Then he moved away with dignity, intending to take up his station upon the cushion of the big arm-chair that stood in the corner nicely out of the draught. But all of a sudden Cincinnatus heard something that made him jump all on one side with an arched back and a bristling tail, and say 'Pffzsh!' twice over, as loud as ever he had said it in his life. It was an unfamiliar sound that so startled Cincinnatus, for Master Lepage was pulling strongly at the rope of the big bell that hung under the centre gable of the old house, and the urgent clang of its iron voice rang through the thick, snow-laden air far over the forest. The bell had been placed there long years before to summon neighbours--the house standing in a solitary place--in case of fire or accident. And now Lepage rang it with a double purpose, trusting that even if its friendly tones failed to reach the ears of the poor wanderers, it might at least bring Gustavus, the cowherd, from his father's cottage on the edge of the pastures, where he was spending the Sunday, and that he might help him search for the wife and children whom he loved so well. 'By my great-grandmother's whiskers!' exclaimed Cincinnatus, as he settled himself down on the chair cushion, 'what with draughts, and bell-ringing, and one thing and another, this house will soon be impossible for a cat of any pretensions to gentility. Compare it with the Sacristan's establishment, now, where you can't tell one day from another except by the smell of the different soups for dinner.--Delightful!--With an occasional vocal evening, too, in the back garden, when the moon is full. Lots are strangely unequal in this world!--Pffzsh! and to add to everything else, if there actually is not that intolerable charcoal-burner.' John Paqualin stood on the threshold, a flaming torch of pine boughs in his hand; his long, unkempt hair was white with snow, and so was the tattered cloth cloak that hung in so many folds from his stooping shoulders. His eyes were bright and glowing. 'Ah! the wind,' he said, 'the glorious wind, the roar and the shout of it; the cry of the trees that strain, and the passionate snap of the branches--like heart-strings that snap under the blast of incurable sorrow. And the snow, soft and pure, and light as the coverlet a young mother lays on her first-born's cradle--getting a little too thick just now, though, that coverlet.--Eh! what's this? have you smothered the infant--laid it over the face as well? Be careful, then, with your--But the bell,' he added suddenly, interrupting himself, and catching hold of Master Lepage with his hard, thin fingers--'it called to me, while I was listening to the roll of the drums, and the blare of the trumpets, and the scream of the fifes in the forest there, and made me come hither whether I would or no. What do you want spoiling all my splendid wind-music with your infernal bell-clatter?' 'Want!' cried Lepage hoarsely; 'I want help.' Paqualin laughed aloud. 'Hey-ho,' he said. 'Times are changed, are they? I never heard you sing that song before.' Lepage let go the bell-rope, and raised his clenched fist. But he did not strike the blow. Something stopped him. Perhaps it was that same remorseful Feeling which Truth had let loose in his heart. 'Come inside, Paqualin,' he said quite quietly, after a moment or two. 'Now try to remember.--My wife and sons and our maid-servant went to church at Nullepart this morning. You did your best to prevent them going. You said the snow was coming, and it has come. They should have been back a good two hours ago, and they are not here yet.' 'Not here yet,' repeated the charcoal-burner slowly. 'No, not yet.' Lepage drew his hand across his eyes. 'Would to God,' he said, 'I had gone along with them.--But see now, I will light the lamp and leave the house-door open; and then will go out to search for them. You can find your way like a hound, they say, by night or day, through the forest. Will you come with me and help me?' Paqualin stood in front of the fire; the snow on his hair and cloak melted and ran down, forming a little pool of water about his ill-shod feet. 'I am not over and above fond of you, Francis Lepage,' he said presently, 'as you most likely know already. Love and hatred alike can tell their own story without much need of spoken words. I think you a vain man and a hard one; but your wife is as pitiful as the saints in heaven. You want me to help you to find her? You have not got a dog to do the work for you, and so you'll take me. Ah, well! I've known the dog's place pretty well all my life long;--the kicks and the cuffs, and the grudging crust from the master's table; and then the "Here! my good fellow, good cur, here! nose down, tail up, the scent's cold, but still you're sharp enough to find it; and sweat and faint to catch the hare that will make your owner a savoury supper, while you slink home to the dirty straw and the mouldy crust again." Yes, yes--to be sure, I'll go with you and find them and bring them home; your fair wife and your children, and leave you happy and go back to my hut and the voices--not for your sake though, mind you, but for hers--the only woman whose eyes have ever looked kindly upon me.' 'Come on your own terms,' said Lepage. Just then Gustavus, in his heavy boots, came clumping into the kitchen. 'The bell, master--has the red cow calved of a sudden?' he asked. For once in his life Gustavus appeared to be quite excited. He forgot to take off his hat or put down his big cotton umbrella, from off which the wet snow slipped in little avalanches, _sthlop_, on to the floor. 'Calf thyself, with thy great, stupid, cheese face!' cried the charcoal-burner. Then while Lepage gave the cowherd his orders, and got some things together to take with them, Paqualin stood murmuring to himself, with his head bent low, and his lean, grimy hands stretched out towards the comfortable blaze of the fire:-- [Illustration] 'You, the man, welcome, and brave, and beloved. I, the dog, to show the man the way. Gustavus, there, the ass, to trot behind loaded up with the blankets, and the food, and the brandy. And in the end, what? A bone for the dog, a thistle for the ass, and for the man kisses. Which has the best of it? Hardly fair, is it, eh?' 'Umph,' said Gustavus, as he got the big bundle on to his back. 'Perhaps she'll be a bit soft-hearted when she sees me. Maybe the snow will have taken some of the starch out of our Eliza.' CHAPTER IX. WHICH IS VERY SHORT, BECAUSE, IN SOME WAYS, IT IS RATHER SAD. Have you ever looked for something you cared for very much and failed to find it? A dolly, for instance, forgotten at play in the garden, swept up with the dead leaves, and never seen after. Or, still worse, a dear little kitten of an adventurous turn of mind, that went out in the woods for a walk by himself and never came home again, though you ran down the church-lane and up to the top of the pasture, crying, 'Puss, puss, puss!' till you were quite hoarse, and cross, and tired, and nurse said you must come in because it was past bed-time and the dew was rising, and a number of other things which were perfectly true, but which didn't throw any light on the whereabouts of the kitten. How did you feel? Why, just the most miserable little boy or girl in all the world, to be sure. Or supposing, on the other hand, that you found dolly at last, after all; but with all the red washed off her lips and cheeks, and the mould mixed up with her yellow hair, and her smart frock wet and torn, and one of her waxen legs squashed flat where the wheel of the gardener's barrow had gone over it. Or that the keeper brought back poor kitty some three or four days later, stiff and cold, and said:--'Bin poaching, bin caught in a gin; thought little missy 'ud like to know the end of 'er.' Well, did that make matters much better? I don't think so myself, and at one time of my life I had a good deal of experience in these things, so I have the right to speak. For it is a poor pleasure at best to play that dolly is sick of a fever, when you see that she does not get a bit better, even though you dose her ten times a day with an elaborate preparation of slate-pencil scrapings. And as to begging a candle-box of the housemaid for a coffin, and having a grand funeral in the shrubbery for the kitten, that is terrible work indeed, and makes your eyes so red with crying that you are quite ashamed to go down to dessert in the evening. Now, if you and I have felt so very unhappy over our dolls and kittens when we lost them--and found them again, maybe, but always a good deal the worse for the losing--how do you think Master Lepage felt as he went out that dark, stormy, snowy night, with the charcoal-burner and Gustavus, into the forest? He was very silent as he tramped through the snow, while the wind roared in the pines above him, and blew about the flame of his torch, making it twist and twirl, and flicker and glimmer, sometimes casting a red glare far over the white ground and the great, grey tree-stems and John Paqualin's crooked, uncouth form flitting on just ahead of him; and sometimes dying down till all the scene was wrapped in darkness. He was very silent, I say, and not a bit like vivacious, loquacious Master Lepage who used to sit and hold forth in the wine-shop, and thump the table and make the glasses ring; but more like Sergeant Lepage, who, with his teeth set and his face fierce and white, had marched up under fire of the enemies' guns in battle long ago in Italy or Africa. Lepage marched under fire now, and the battlefield was his own heart. And oh! dear me, how many of his most cherished ideas and beliefs the shot from those guns knocked over--his pride, his self-importance, his trust in his own intellect and insight and acuteness, his politics, his philosophy; nothing, in short, nothing was left standing, except a sense of remorse for his past folly and his love for his wife and his children. 'If they have been merely delayed by the storm, we shall meet them on the road here. If they are lost, they will have begun wandering on the first stretch of moorland,' said John Paqualin. 'See, the snow is ceasing, the stars begin to show in heaven. Eh! the frost, how it bites!' And so it did. As the snow stopped, the night grew colder and colder, for all the ice-fairies came tripping out far and wide over hill and valley, and built transparent piers and bridges across the streams and pools, and hung icicles from the rocks and from the overhanging eaves of the houses, and froze the breath on Lepage's long moustache, and made the earth like iron beneath his feet. Yet he and his two companions still marched on through the forest. They could go but slowly, for in the open spaces the snow had drifted deep, and where the forest paths crossed each other it required all the charcoal-burner's knowledge and skill to tell which was the right one. Now and again they would halt for a minute or two and call aloud, and then listen hoping for an answer; but it was close upon midnight, and they had walked more than half the way to Nullepart before they came upon any trace of those they so earnestly searched for. Here, as I have already told you, the path crosses a wide stretch of rolling moorland, covered with heather and stunted bushes, thorns and brambles and whortle-berry and juniper; while in places crop out large limestone blocks and boulders, some standing together and looking like the ruins of a giant's castle, others but just peeping above the rough soil and encrusted with stone-crop, and ferns and many kinds of mosses--a lovely play-place on a summer day, when the butterflies sport over the heath, and the dragon-flies over the pools in the marshes, but bleak and desolate enough on a December night, with the harsh north wind and the snowstorm. On the edge of this moorland, before leaving the shelter of the pines, Paqualin stopped. 'Shout,' he said, turning to the others, 'shout your loudest. The frost has caught me by the throat, and squeezed my crooked windpipe till I am as hoarse as a raven. But you are strong men. Shout, Lepage, for love of your wife. And you, good ass, there, for love of Eliza your sweetheart; she'll pay you in thistles, prickles and all, if you find her.' So they shouted, and this time there was an answer--a boy's voice half choked with crying. And with a pale, haggard face, and in his eyes a look of terror, from among the snow-laden pine-trees, came Antony. 'You alone!' cried Lepage. 'I trusted her to you; where are your mother and brothers?' 'She sent us on to try to get help. Paul is here just behind me. We lost ourselves, and wandered. She could get no further, and little Peter is dead asleep, under the big rocks, there to the right, out on the moor. Eliza does nothing but cry, and won't move.' The boy was utterly faint and disheartened. He threw himself down on the snow, and covered his face with his hands. 'I did my best, father,' he said, 'indeed, indeed I did; but I couldn't find the way. It was dark, and there was nothing to guide us, and I got bewildered with the cold. We were too late in starting, I know--that was my fault. But I did my best afterwards. Oh! father, I did try to take care of them. I couldn't help it. Say you forgive me.' Paqualin did not wait to hear more. 'The big rocks out to the right,' he repeated. [Illustration: FOUND. _Page 138._] His limbs were stiff with the sharp cold, which had penetrated his threadbare clothes, and his feet were numb with the snow that had worked its way in through the worn, cracked leather of his wretched boots. Oh, yes! I am afraid he was a very funny figure indeed; and that all the little boys in Nullepart would have hooted louder than ever if they could have seen him, as with his long grasshopper legs, wild red hair, and tattered cloak streaming out behind him, he shambled along, slipping and staggering, in the half darkness over that long half-mile of heath, and stone, and prickly bushes, and sly, deceitful snow-drifts that stretched between the edge of the forest and the rocks. 'Here is help,' he shrieked in his shrill voice. 'It is I--I, John Paqualin. Here is help.' As he passed round in front into the shelter of the tall, grey rocks, Susan Lepage rose up from the foot of them with a great cry. She flung her arms about him, and rested her fair head on his shoulder. 'Ah! God has sent you,' she sobbed. 'I called upon Him in the bitterness of my anguish, and He has heard me. Save us, John Paqualin; in mercy save me and my children.' The charcoal-burner's torch slipped from his grasp, and fell hissing upon the ground. 'The dog gets something more than his bone for once,' he said between his teeth. For a minute or so, in that mysterious, ghostly radiance of dancing star-light and white snow, he stood holding the weeping woman in his arms. 'God sent me, though, did He?' he murmured at last. 'Then I must do His good pleasure, not my own.' Paqualin spoke low, and quite softly, notwithstanding that queer crack in his voice. 'Look up, and take courage; there is better comfort than mine at hand. Your two boys are safely cared for already, and your husband is coming. The trouble is over. For you, at least, the morning begins to break.' Then, as he heard the crunch of hurried footsteps coming over the snow behind him, he turned and cried:-- 'Here, take your wife, Lepage!' Paqualin moved aside. 'For the man,' he said, half aloud--'well--what he's a right to. Get back to your kennel, you hound.' Now Eliza was sitting with her back against one of the rocks in the burrow, where the snow was lightest, and little Peter, closely wrapped in his mother's shawl, lay stupefied with sleep, with his head in her lap. As Paqualin turned round, she moaned out:-- 'No, no, don't come near me. I am dreadfully ill--probably I shall never recover. I think I shall die. But I won't give way, I won't listen to you. To the last I am true to Gustavus. Ah! my poor heart, how it beats. Yes, I should like to have bidden a last farewell to Gustavus.' 'Don't fret,' answered the charcoal-burner. 'Thy mooncalf is on the road. He'll be here in plenty of time to say a good deal besides good-bye to you, unless I am very much mistaken.' Eliza gave a prodigious sigh. 'He will be too late, I know it, I know it. Ah! how will he live without me, poor, faithful, broken-hearted Gustavus?' Whether it was his mother's cry that roused him, or the sudden lights and the voices, I do not know; but little Peter half awoke from the heavy torpor of sleep into which the cold and fatigue had plunged him. 'I will not hush, Eliza. I love John Paqualin. Yes, I love him,' he murmured. CHAPTER X. WHICH ENDS THE STORY. 'Something has gone very wrong,' said Cincinnatus to himself in the cat language. 'I don't pretend to understand it. This, is one of those many matters that I should be glad to take my cousin the Sacristan's cat's opinion upon. Dear me! what a misfortune it is to live here in the country, away from the centre of social intercourse and civilisation.' Then Cincinnatus fell to washing his face with his paws, for he had lately had his five o'clock saucer of milk, you see; and it is etiquette in cat-land always to wash after meals, not before them as we do. The yellow earthenware stove was lighted in the bedroom, and Cincinnatus sat opposite to the open door of it, and blinked at the heart of crimson wood embers, set in a fringe of flaky, grey ashes. It was very warm there, but Cincinnatus blinked and washed his face slowly. As to the heat, it soothed him, and inclined him to make a number of reflections. 'At the risk of repeating myself, I must observe that men are poor, improvident, thoughtless creatures,' he went on presently; 'subject to illness and accidents of all kinds. However, a thoughtful cat will not be hard upon them. _Noblesse oblige._ Those who have the advantage can afford to be generous. Fancy coming into this world, now, where the weather is so extremely uncertain, all pink and bare as they do, poor things, without any comfortable fur to cover them; and having to make up for it by enclosing themselves in all sorts of shapeless, foreign substances, prepared from sheep's wool or vegetables. And no tail either! Imagine being deprived of that most dignified and expressive member. Yet, you must give them their due. Necessity has certainly made them very ingenious.' Cincinnatus stretched himself lazily in the hot glow of the stove fire. 'But with all their ingenuity only one life,' he said yawning. 'And that one, as I observed just now, subject to all manner of illness and accident. We have nine lives! Who would be one of them if he could help it? Poor things, no wonder if they envy us.' Then Cincinnatus went across the boarded floor with his noiseless tread, and jumped up on to little Peter's bed, and began purring in the most amiable and engaging manner, sticking out all his claws and then drawing them in again and making a nice tight little fist, as he trampled on the bed-clothes, first with one fore-foot and then with the other. He even went so far as to rub his head along against the little boy's shoulder, which, considering his opinion of the relative position of cats and mankind in the universal scale of being, was really very condescending of him, to my thinking. But little Peter did not speak or pay any attention to Cincinnatus. He only sighed in his sleep, and turned his round, black head on the pillow. Poor little Peter had lain just like that, quite still and quiet, in bed ever since his father and the charcoal-burner had placed him there when they had got home from that terrible walk in the snow, about four o'clock in the morning. The ice-fairies, who really are very elegant people and not at all disagreeable when you know them, had come at sunrise and spread the most beautiful patterns--crowns and crosses, and stars and diamonds, and ice flowers of a hundred exquisite shapes--all over the window panes; but little Peter had been too tired and sleepy to get up and look at them. And when, in the afternoon, not without struggle and difficulty, for the road was dangerous with snow-drifts, the kind, old doctor, with his red nose and his snuffbox, had ridden over from Nullepart, and sat by the little boy's bed and felt his pulse, and examined him carefully, with a face as wise as an owl's, from behind his large spectacles, Peter had been too fired and sleepy to look at him either. The old doctor had taken an extra pinch of snuff, and shaken his head quite seriously, I am sorry to say, at leaving. Now it was past five o'clock, and Peter still lay in his little bed dozing and sleeping--dreaming too, but not of the snow and the pain of the winter. He dreamed of sunshine and of pleasant places, of the singing of birds and the sound of the cow-bells in the flowery fields in the spring-time. The elder boys and their father had gone to see the doctor safe part of his way home again. And Susan Lepage had sunk down in the big chair in the kitchen, and had fallen asleep, worn out with fatigue and anxiety. And Eliza, hearing Gustavus come into the back kitchen with the milk-pans, had slipped downstairs from watching beside the child, just to have a word with him. 'Poor fellow,' she said, 'he really is so over-joyed at my being restored to him, that there is no saying if he won't mix this evening's milk with this morning's, or ruin the cream by shaking it, or commit some other folly. He is not clever, and my family will certainly reproach me with having married beneath me; but he has a good heart, and I think he really appreciates me as he ought to, does Gustavus.' So it happened that little Peter was left quite alone, but for the society of the cat, up in the bedroom. John Paqualin came along the flagged path to the front of the house; and pressing his face close against the glass, for it was difficult to see through them, the panes being frosty, looked in at the kitchen window. Then he went to the house door, lifted the latch carefully, entered, and stood still, listening. There was no sound save the singing of the kettle, and Eliza's chatter in the distant dairy, with the clump of the cowherd's boots on the flags and the clink of the milk-pans. From the rows of copper kettles and saucepans, and the china high on the dresser, to the red tiled floor under the charcoal-burner's feet, the large kitchen actually shone with exquisite cleanliness. The light of the lamp on the table fell upon Susan Lepage's high, white cap, showing it and her pure, grave profile, as she leaned her head back in the arm-chair, clear cut against the ruddy dusk of the chimney corner behind her. [Illustration] Paqualin, as he stood there silent and watchful, with his sunken eyes, ungainly figure, and dilapidated garments, seemed strangely out of place. He shaded his eyes with his hand, for the light dazzled him, as he looked for a minute or two at the sleeping mother. Then he went quietly across the kitchen and up the wide, wooden staircase. 'The house is asleep,' he murmured in his high, cracked tones:--'or would be but for the voice of Eliza. Pah! the woman's tongue cuts like a whip. But her sweetheart, the ass, has a good thick hide of his own; he finds the lash only pleasantly tickling.' Paqualin went into the warm, dimly-lighted bedroom above. 'The house is asleep,' he repeated. 'Hey-ho, Sleep's a kindly fellow, with his turban of nodding poppies. He cures the heart-ache. But he's forgetful, sadly forgetful. He hasn't been near me these five nights; and God knows, I have had the heart-ache as badly as any of the others.' He knelt down by little Peter's bed, and looked closely at the child. [Illustration: THE CHARCOAL-BURNER VISITS LITTLE PETER. _Page 150._] 'Eh! Sleep is hardly a kind friend to you, I'm afraid, though,' he said under his breath. 'A little too much of the smell of the drowsy poppies here to be quite healthful.' As he spoke, Cincinnatus, who had been curled up comfortably in a nice, warm depression in the bed-clothes, jumped down on to the floor with glaring eyes and a great tail. 'I won't spit though,' he said. 'It really isn't worth the trouble. No, an air of absolute indifference will be even more impressive and chilling.' So he walked away very stiffly, and sat down opposite the open stove door again. The charcoal-burner placed one of his lean hands on the little boy's soft, pudgy one, that lay palm upward on the pillow, and with the other patted him tenderly on the cheek. 'Little Peter,' he said, 'wake up. Come back to us, dear, little mouse. You said you loved me--nobody ever said that to me before. Don't go away from me, do not desert me.' He paused a minute, and then went on pleadingly:-- 'Think of all the stories I have told you, remember the nuts and the apples.--Eh! wake up, little lad, and come back to poor, ugly John Paqualin, to whom his fellow men have shown such scant mercy.' But the child lay quite still; his long, black eyelashes resting on his pale cheeks, and his pretty, round mouth a wee bit open as he sighed softly in that strange stupor of sleep. Tears dimmed the charcoal-burner's eyes. He bent his wild shock head and rested it down on the white coverlet. 'Ah, great God!' he murmured, 'Thou who art all powerful, listen to me. See here, can't we make an exchange?--Take my poor, battered, weary, old soul instead of his fresh, innocent, white one. Let me give him my life for his mother's sake, the sweetest and most compassionate of women. She will grieve if she loses him, her darling, her baby; and kind as she is, she won't miss me very much. Why should she?--an outcast of nature, a shameful, misshapen mistake; one sorry sight the less in the world when I'm gone, that's all.--Death's dreadful, they say--yes, I know I am afraid of it. But, after all, it can't be so very much worse than life--at least for some of us.' He threw back his head, and clasped his hard hands together. 'Here, take me,' he cried. 'I will come. A trifle of suffering, more or less, what does it matter? Spare the little lamb, O Lord, and take me, John Paqualin, as ransom.' Now the charcoal-burner was not quite right in his head, you see, and that accounts for his eccentric prayer and very original behaviour. You had better bear this in mind. I won't tell you why; you will probably find out for yourselves when you have seen more of the world and grown rather older. Paqualin knelt on there for some time, looking up as though he expected a direct and visible answer to his singular petition. But nothing happened save that Eliza came upstairs on the tips of her toes--a way of stepping which she intended to be particularly quiet, but which was, in fact, particularly noisy--and peeped into the room. Seeing the charcoal-burner kneeling by the bed-side, she gave a fearful gasp, and sank down into the nearest chair. 'The saints help and preserve us!' she exclaimed in a loud whisper, holding her side, 'what next? Ah! how it startled me. The helpless, sick child in the arms of that ogre! Go away, John Paqualin, go away. How on earth did you get here? I've only been downstairs three minutes giving some necessary instructions to Gustavus.--He really is beside himself with joy, poor fellow.--Go away, I say; if Peter woke up suddenly he would have a fit at seeing you. Look at yourself in the looking-glass, and you'll understand why, fast enough. A rush of blood to the head from fright and the child would be dead. And if half the stories one hears of you are true, there is enough down on the wrong side of your account already without adding wilful murder. Go along with you.--Ah! I am so weak--my poor heart, how it beats.' Eliza advanced, creaking across the boarded floor, towards the charcoal-burner. He had risen to his feet. 'There is no answer,' he said, in a low voice. 'You fool, learn your lesson. God doesn't want your wretched, worthless soul, John Paqualin. Who are you, indeed, that you should try to strike a bargain with the Almighty, and offer such miserable refuse and offscourings as your life in place of that of the pure and sinless child there?' He looked back towards the bed. 'Good-bye,' he said, 'dear, little Peter. When you are gone there will be nothing left on earth to love me; and in heaven it's clear they can do very well without me yet awhile.' Then, as Eliza came close to him, whispering, pointing towards the door, and signing to him, he turned upon her with a terrible face. 'Woman, leave me alone,' he said. 'Have not I enough to bear already, without the maddening gnat-bites of your spiteful ignorance and cruel folly?' And the grasshopper man went out of the room, and down the stairs, and into the dark frosty night. [Illustration] Eliza leant up against the bottom of the bed, with her eyes half shut. 'Are you gone yet,' she murmured, 'you savage, wild animal?--If the child had woke up and screamed there would have been a fine fuss, and all the blame would have been laid on me, of course. It isn't fair that crazy men like that should be allowed to persecute respectable, young servant-women. I'll get Gustavus to lay an information against him at the police station at Nullepart for using threatening language to me. Of course it is all jealousy; but I can't help my good looks.' Eliza opened her eyes again, arranged the mauve silk handkerchief about her neck, and smiled complacently. 'It is a comfort to know that you have no cause to be ashamed of your face--or of your disposition, for that matter, either,' she added. Now this all happened on Monday evening, as no doubt you have made out already. Very early, before it was light on Wednesday morning, little Peter, who all that long time had lain sleeping unconscious of what went on around him, suddenly seemed to find himself very wide awake indeed. There was a strange light in the room, bright and yet soft like an early summer dawn. And as the little boy opened his eyes, he saw that at his bedside there stood a young man, with a calm, beautiful face and shining hair. He was clothed down to the feet in a long, white, linen garment. As Peter looked up wonderingly, the young man bent over him. There was something very still and gentle in his glance, and the little boy smiled, for it seemed to him that the young man's face was that of an old friend, though he could not remember ever to have seen him before. Then the young man spoke to him, and said:-- 'Little Peter, you have been sick and tired. Will you come away with me to a far-off country where there is no more sickness and trouble, and where the children play all the year round among blooming flowers in green, sunny pastures by the river-side?' Peter did not feel a bit afraid; but he thought of his parents and his brothers, and asked:-- 'But, please, will my mother, and father, and Paul, and Antony, and my cat Cincinnatus, come too? Paul is very kind, and he makes such nice mill-wheels to turn in the brook, and weathercocks to stick up in the pear-tree and show which way the wind blows. And Cincinnatus would be dull and lonely if I left him behind. He likes to come to bed with me in the morning, and the old grey wolf might come out of the wood and catch him, and make him into soup for little wolves when I was gone.' The young man smiled as he answered:--'Never fear. Your mother and father and Paul and Antony will certainly join you some day if they are good. Time seems very short while we wait in that happy country. And as to Cincinnatus, who knows but that he may come also? In any case, he will be quite safe, for our Heavenly Father loves all his living creatures--not only angels and men, but fish, and birds, and beasts as well. Will you come, little Peter?' 'Ah! but there's John Paqualin,' said the boy. 'You know whom I mean--the charcoal-burner. I can't leave him very well, you see, because he is often very unhappy; and he says nobody will ever care for him because he is rather odd and ugly-looking. And I do care for him very much indeed.' Then the young man bent lower and looked into little Peter's eyes. 'Why, why you are John Paqualin!' cried the child. 'Yes,' said the other, and his face was radiant with the peace that passes understanding. 'I am John Paqualin. God be praised.' 'But how you have changed!' little Peter said; for he was a good deal surprised, you know, and no wonder. 'With the Lord one day is as a thousand years,' answered the young man. 'Will you come with me now, little Peter?' Then Peter stretched out his hands and laughed out loud with joy; he was so very glad about quite a number of things--the thought of his playfellows in that fair and happy country, and of the coming of his parents and brothers, and of Cincinnatus the cat, and most of all at the delightful change for the better that had taken place in the personal appearance of his friend the charcoal-burner. 'Yes,' he said, 'I'll come.' So then the young man took him up very tenderly in his strong arms, and laid the little, tired head upon his breast and carried little Peter away. Now it happened, strangely enough, that though both Susan Lepage and her husband sat watching by their child's bedside, they neither of them saw the young man with the calm face and shining hair, or heard a word he said. They only saw that the little boy opened his eyes suddenly and seemed to gaze at something with a kind of glad wonder, and that he smiled, and that his dear, little lips moved, and then that he stretched out his hands and laughed joyfully. After that he lay very still. Susan Lepage waited a moment or two, then she rose and took a candle that stood on the oak chest near the bed's head. Shading it with her hand, she stooped down and looked closely at the child. 'Ah, my little one!' she cried. She put the candle back again, and coming round the foot of the bed, stood by Master Lepage, with her hand resting on his shoulder. 'My husband,' she said, 'our child will suffer no more. The dear Lord loved him and has called for him. A child has died on earth. A child is born in Paradise.' There was a long silence. Master Lepage sat bolt upright with his arms hanging down at his sides--more as though he was standing before the general officer on parade, than sitting in the rush-bottomed chair in his own bedroom. The big tears ran down over his cheeks and fell from his moustache on to his blue blouse as thick as a summer shower. 'My wife,' he said slowly, 'our paths have joined at last--joined beside an open grave, but better there than nowhere. There shall be no more silence between us. The God whom you have served so faithfully in time will surely heal the smart of your sorrow. And perhaps He will condescend to listen to the prayers of a foolish, vain-glorious, wrong-headed, old soldier, whom grief and repentance have humbled. Pardon me, my wife. I have been wrong and you right all along.' Lepage stood up, took her two hands in his, and kissed her. 'Ah, my dear, let us talk only of love and hope, not of pardon,' Susan Lepage answered gently. She turned and looked at little Peter, still and smiling, with his round, black head resting so cosily on the white pillow. 'The autumn child has brought a blessing to the house,' she murmured. 'Ten thousand plagues!' broke out Master Lepage hoarsely. 'Twenty thousand cut-throat Prussians!--but I loved the little one.' * * * * * And is that the end of the story? Well, yes, as far as a story can be said to have an end--most stories go on for ever, only we get tired or stupid and leave off reading them--if the story has an end, I say, I suppose this is it. Still there are just one or two little things I can mention which you might like to know. For instance, when next day Gustavus happened to pass the charcoal-burner's hut, he heard such a horrible barking, and yelling, that, though he was not of a very active or curious order of mind, he really had to go and see what was the matter. And on getting to the back of the hut he found Madelon, the sow, standing up on her hind legs in her sty, with her fore-feet resting on the rough, wooden door of it, her long, black snout high in the air, her floppety ears shaking, her great mouth wide open as she squealed aloud, and not a single scrap of food in her trough. This seemed to Gustavus such a singular thing, that though he had no great fancy for the society of the charcoal-burner, he thought he would just look inside the hut door, which stood half open. The snow had drifted in at it and lay thick on the mud floor within, there was no fire on the hearth, and the place was deathly chill. Yet Paqualin sat there sure enough, on a wooden bench, with his elbows on the table in front of him, and his head resting on his hands. His back was towards Gustavus. The cowherd did not quite like to go inside the hut somehow. He stood in the snow on the door-sill and called. At last he plucked up his courage, and going forward pulled at Paqualin's ragged sleeve. [Illustration] 'Umph,' said Gustavus, as he stumbled out again in a desperate hurry. He took off his hat and wiped his face round, for notwithstanding the frosty day, he felt quite uncomfortably warm. 'Here, I'll give you something, granny,' he called out to the sow. 'If you wait till your master brings it you'll wait a long time for your breakfast to-day. Bless me! but I shall have something to tell our Eliza this evening at supper that'll make her open her eyes!' Antony has gone to serve his time in the army; and when his time is up and he comes back again to the old, wooden farm-house in the forest, I think it is very likely that the wish he wished in the dining-room of the Red Horse at Nullepart, when he shared the double filbert kernel with pretty Marie Georgeon, may really come true. Paul is apprenticed to an engineer in Paris, and lives among whirling machines in the great, crowded workshops; and his employers are much impressed with his ability and talent, and prophesy that he will make a name for himself some day. Cincinnatus is quite an old cat now, and his whiskers are almost white; but he still sits opposite the glowing wood fire in the kitchen, and blinks his big, yellow eyes and reflects on the superiority of cats to men. And Master Lepage still reads the history of the famous Roman Republic in the winter evenings, and takes off his spectacles and wipes them with his red pocket-handkerchief; but he rarely talks politics now, and never sits in the wine-shop, though on fine Sundays he often walks with his gentle, sweet-faced wife through the forest, and kneels humbly beside her in the church, and prays God to guide and teach him, and forgive him all his sins. [Illustration] And is this a true story? Yes, as true as I can make it, and I have taken a good deal of pains. But did it all really happen? Ah! that is quite another question. For you will find as you grow older, that some of the very truest stories are those which, as most people in this world count happening, have never happened at all. And if you can't understand how that can be, I advise you, the first fine day, to ask your way to Nullepart and take the opinion of the Sacristan's cat upon the matter. He is a scholar, you know, so he is sure to be able to explain it. THE END. PRINTED BY SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE LONDON Transcriber's Note: Variations in hyphenation have been retain as in the original publication. Punctuation has been standardised. 
38796	----	Transcriber's Notes: The frontispiece illustration has been removed from text version. Italics in original are marked with _underscores_. Small caps have been changed to ALL CAPS. Punctuation has been regularized. The following typographical corrections were made: p. 517, "dumurely" changed to "demurely." (the Nun admitted demurely) p. 536, "that's he" changed to "that he's." (that he's terribly) p. 539, "thing" changed to "think," (think you're perfectly) SECOND STRING BY ANTHONY HOPE THOMAS NELSON AND SONS LONDON, EDINBURGH, DUBLIN, LEEDS, AND NEW YORK LEIPZIG: 35-37 Königstrasse. PARIS: 61 Rue des Saints Pères. First Published 1910. CONTENTS. I. HOME AGAIN 5 II. A VERY LITTLE HUNTING 27 III. THE POTENT VOICE 45 IV. SETTLED PROGRAMMES 66 V. BROADENING LIFE 87 VI. THE WORLDS OF MERITON 106 VII. ENTERING FOR THE RACE 128 VIII. WONDERFUL WORDS 148 IX. "INTERJECTION" 169 X. FRIENDS IN NEED 190 XI. THE SHAWL BY THE WINDOW 212 XII. CONCERNING A STOLEN KISS 235 XIII. A LOVER LOOKS PALE 256 XIV. SAVING THE NATION 278 XV. LOVE AND FEAR 300 XVI. A CHOICE OF EVILS 321 XVII. REFORMATION 342 XVIII. PENITENCE AND PROBLEMS 362 XIX. MARKED MONEY 384 XX. NO GOOD? 404 XXI. THE EMPTY PLACE 424 XXII. GRUBBING AWAY 446 XXIII. A STOP-GAP 468 XXIV. PRETTY MUCH THE SAME! 490 XXV. THE LAST FIGHT 512 XXVI. TALES OUT OF SCHOOL FOR ONCE 533 XXVII. NOT OF HIS SEEKING 555 SECOND STRING. Chapter I. HOME AGAIN. Jack Rock stood in his shop in High Street. He was not very often to be seen there nowadays; he bred and bought, but he no longer killed, and rarely sold, in person. These latter and lesser functions he left to his deputy, Simpson, for he had gradually developed a bye-trade which took up much of his time, and was no less profitable than his ostensible business. He bought horses, "made" them into hunters, and sold them again. He was a rare judge and a fine rider, and his heart was in this line of work. However to-day he was in his shop because the Christmas beef was on show. Here were splendid carcasses decked with blue rosettes, red rosettes, or cards of "Honourable Mention;" poor bodies sadly unconscious (as one may suppose all bodies are) of their posthumous glories. Jack Rock, a spruce spare little man with a thin red face and a get-up of the most "horsy" order, stood before them, expatiating to Simpson on their beauties. Simpson, who was as fat as his master was thin, and even redder in the face, chimed in; they were for all the world like a couple of critics hymning the praise of poets who have paid the debt of nature, but are decorated with the insignia of fame. Verily Jack Rock's shop in the days before Christmas might well seem an Abbey or a Pantheon of beasts. "Beef for me on Christmas Day," said Jack. "None of your turkeys or geese, or such-like truck. Beef!" He pointed to a blue-rosetted carcass. "Look at him; just look at him! I've known him since he was calved. Cuts up well, doesn't he? I'll have a joint off him for my own table, Simpson." "You couldn't do better, sir," said Simpson, just touching, careful not to bruise, the object of eulogy with his professional knife. A train of thought started suddenly in his brain. "Them vegetarians, sir!" he exclaimed. Was it wonder, or contempt, or such sheer horror as the devotee has for atheism? Or the depths of the first and the depths of the second poured into the depths of the third to make immeasurable profundity? A loud burst of laughter came from the door of the shop. Nothing startled Jack Rock. He possessed in perfection a certain cheerful seriousness which often marks the amateurs of the horse. These men are accustomed to take chances, to encounter the unforeseen, to endure disappointment, to withstand the temptations of high success. _Mens Aequa!_ Life, though a pleasant thing, is not a laughing matter. So Jack turned slowly and gravely round to see whence the irreverent interruption proceeded. But when he saw the intruder his face lit up, and he darted across the shop with outstretched hand. Simpson followed, hastily rubbing his right hand on the under side of his blue apron. "Welcome, my lad, welcome home!" cried Jack, as he greeted with a hard squeeze a young man who stood in the doorway. "First-rate you look too. He's filled out, eh, Simpson?" He tapped the young man's chest appreciatively, and surveyed his broad and massive shoulders with almost professional admiration. "Canada's agreed with you, Andy. Have you just got here?" "No; I got here two hours ago. You were out, so I left my bag and went for a walk round the old place. It seems funny to be in Meriton again." "Come into the office. We must drink your health. You too, Simpson. Come along." He led the way to a back room, where, amid more severe furniture and appliances, there stood a cask of beer. From this he filled three pint mugs, and Andy Hayes' health and safe return were duly honoured. Andy winked his eye. "Them teetotallers!" he ejaculated, with a very fair imitation of Simpson, who acknowledged the effort with an answering wink as he drained his mug and then left the other two to themselves. "Yes, I've been poking about everywhere--first up to have a look at the old house. Not much changed there--well, except that everything's changed by the dear old governor's not being there any more." "Ah, it was a black Christmas that year--four years ago now. First, the old gentleman; then poor Nancy, a month later. She caught the fever nursin' him; she would do it, and I couldn't stop her. Did you go to the churchyard, Andy?" "Yes, I went there." After a moment's grave pause his face brightened again. "And I went to the old school. Nobody there--it's holidays, of course--but how everything came back to me! There was my old seat, between Chinks and the Bird--you know? Wat Money, I mean, and young Tom Dove." "Oh, they're both in the place still. Tom Dove's helpin' his father at the Lion, and Wat Money's articled to old Mr. Foulkes the lawyer." "I sat down at my old desk, and, by Jove, I absolutely seemed to hear the old governor talking--talking about the Pentathlon. You've heard him talk about the Pentathlon? He was awfully keen on the Pentathlon; wanted to have it at the sports. I believe he thought I should win it." "I don't exactly remember what it was, but you'd have had a good go for it, Andy." "Leaping, running, wrestling, throwing the discus, hurling the spear--I think that's right. He was talking about it the very last day I sat at that desk--eight years ago! Yes, it's eight years since I went out to the war, and nearly five since I went to Canada. And I've never been back! Well, except for not seeing him and Nancy again, I'm glad of it. I've done better out there. There wasn't any opening here. I wasn't clever, and if I had been, there was no money to send me to Oxford, though the governor was always dreaming of that." "Naturally, seein' he was B.A. Oxon, and a gentleman himself," said Jack. He spoke in a tone of awe and admiration. Andy looked at him with a smile. Among the townsfolk of Meriton Andy's father had always been looked up to by reason of the letters after his name on the prospectus of the old grammar school, of which he had been for thirty years the hard-worked and very ill-paid headmaster. In Meriton eyes the letters carried an academical distinction great if obscure, a social distinction equally great and far more definite. They ranked Mr. Hayes with the gentry, and their existence had made his second marriage--with Jack Rock the butcher's sister--a _mésalliance_ of a pronounced order. Jack himself was quite of this mind. He had always treated his brother-in-law with profound respect; even his great affection for his sister had never quite persuaded him that she had not been guilty of gross presumption in winning Mr. Hayes' heart. He could not, even as the second Mrs. Hayes' brother, forget the first--Andy's mother; for she, though the gentlest of women, had always called Jack "Butcher." True, that was in days before Jack had won his sporting celebrity and set up his private gig; but none the less it would have seemed impossible to conceive of a family alliance--even a posthumous one--with a lady whose recognition of him was so exclusively commercial. "Well, I'm not a B.A.--Oxon. or otherwise," laughed Andy. "I don't know whether I'm a gentleman. If I am, so are you. Meriton Grammar School is responsible for us both. And if you're in trade, so am I. What's the difference between timber and meat?" "I expect there's a difference between Meriton and Canada, though," Jack Rock opined shrewdly. "Are you goin' to stay at home, or goin' back?" "I shall stay here if I can develop the thing enough to make it pay to have a man on this side. If not, pack up! But I shall be here for the next six months anyway, I expect." "What's it worth to you?" asked Jack. "Oh, nothing much just now. Two hundred a year guaranteed, and a commission--if it's earned. But it looks like improving. Only the orders must come in before the commission does! However it's not so bad; I'm lucky to have found a berth at all." "Yes, lucky thing you got pals with that Canadian fellow down in South Africa." "A real stroke of luck. It was a bit hard to make up my mind not to come home with the boys, but I'm sure I did the right thing. Only I'm sorry about the old governor and Nancy." "The old gentleman himself told me he thought you'd done right." "It was an opening; and it had to be taken or left, then and there. So here I am, and I'm going to start an office in London." Jack Rock nodded thoughtfully; he seemed to be revolving something in his mind. Andy's eyes rested affectionately on him. The two had been great friends all through Andy's boyhood. Jack had been "Jack" to him long before he became a family connection, and "Jack" he had continued to be. As for the _mésalliance_--well, looking back, Andy could not with candour deny that it had been a surprise, perhaps even a shock. It had to some degree robbed him of the exceptional position he held in the grammar school, where, among the sons of tradesmen, he alone, or almost alone, enjoyed a vague yet real social prestige. The son shared the father's fall. The feeling of caste is very persistent, even though it may be shamed into silence by modern doctrines, or by an environment in which it is an alien plant. But he had got over his boyish feeling now, and was delighted to come back to Meriton as Jack Rock's visitor, and to stay with him at the comfortable little red-brick house adjoining the shop in High Street. In fact he flattered himself that his service in the ranks and his Canadian experiences had taken the last of "that sort of nonsense" out of him. It was, perhaps, a little too soon to pronounce so confident a judgment. Andy was smitten with a sudden compunction. "Why, I've never asked after Harry Belfield!" he cried. He was astonished at his own disloyalty. Harry Belfield had been the hero of his youth, his ideal, his touchstone of excellence in all things, the standard by which he humbly measured his own sore deficiencies, and contemptuously assessed the demerits of his schoolfellows. Of these Harry had not been one. No grammar school for him! He was the son of Mr. Belfield of Halton Park--Harrow and Oxford were the programme for him. The same favourable conditions gave him the opportunity--which, of course, he took--of excelling in all the accomplishments that Andy lacked and envied--riding, shooting, games of skill that cost money. The difference of position set a gulf between the two boys. Meetings had been rare events--to Andy always notable events, occasions of pleasure and of excitement, landmarks in memory. The acquaintance between the houses had been of the slightest. In Andy's earliest days Mr. and the first Mrs. Hayes had dined once a year with Mr. and Mrs. Belfield; they were not expected to return the hospitality. After Andy's mother died and Nancy came on the scene, the annual dinner had gone on, but it had become a men's dinner; and Mrs. Belfield, though she bowed in the street, had not called on the second Mrs. Hayes--Nancy Rock that had been. It was not to be expected. Yet Mr. Belfield had recognized an equal in Andy's father; he also, perhaps, yielded some homage to the B.A. Oxon. And Harry, though he undoubtedly drew a line between himself and Andy, drew another between Andy and Andy's schoolfellows, Chinks, the Bird, and the rest. He was rewarded--and to his worship-loving nature it was a reward--by an adoration due as much, perhaps, to the first line as to the second. The more definite a line, the more graciousness lies in stepping over it. These boyish devotions are common, and commonly are short-lived. But Andy's habit of mind was stable and his affections tenacious. He still felt that a meeting with Harry Belfield would be an event. "He's all right," Jack Rock answered, his tone hardly responding to Andy's eagerness. "He's a barrister now, you know; but I don't fancy he does much at it. Better at spendin' money than makin' it! If you want to see him, you can do it to-night." "Can I? How?" "There's talk of him bein' candidate for the Division next election, and he's goin' to speak at a meeting in the Town Hall to-night, him and a chap in Parliament." "Good! Which side is he?" "You've been a good while away to ask that!" "I suppose I have. I say, Jack, let's go." "You can go; I shan't," said Jack Rock. "You'll get back in time for supper--and need it too, I should say. I never listen to speeches except when they put me on a jury at assizes. Then I do like to hear a chap fight for his man. That's racin', that is; and I like specially, Andy, to see him bring it off when the odds are against him. But this politics--in my opinion, if you put their names in a hat and drew 'em blindfolded, you'd get just as good a Gover'ment as you do now, or just as bad." "Oh, I'm not going for the politics. I'm going to hear Harry Belfield." "The only question as particularly interests me," said Jack, with one of his occasional lapses into doubtful grammar, "is the matter of chilled meat. But which of 'em does anything for me there? One says 'Free Trade--let it all come!' The other says, 'No chilled meat, certainly not, unless it comes from British possessions'--which is where it does come from mostly. And it's ruin to the meat, Andy, in my opinion. I hate to see it. Not that I lose much by it, havin' a high-class connection. Would you like to have another look in the shop?" "Suppose we say to-morrow morning?" laughed Andy. Jack shook his head; he seemed disappointed at this lack of enthusiasm. "I've got some beauties this Christmas," he said. "All the same I shan't be lookin' at 'em much to-morrow mornin'! I've got a young horse, and I want just to show him what a foxhound's like. The meet's at Fyfold to-morrow, Andy. I wish I could mount you. I expect you ride fourteen, eh?" "Hard on it, I fancy--and I'm a fool on a horse anyhow. But I shall go--on shanks' mare." "Will you now? Well, if you're as good on your legs as you used to be, it's odds you'll see a bit of the run. I recollect you in the old days, Andy; you were hard to shake off unless the goin' was uncommon good. Knew the country, you did, and where the fox was likely to make for. And I don't think you'll get the scent too good for you to-morrow. Come along and have tea. Oh, but you're a late-dinner man, eh?" "Dinner when, where, and how it comes! Tea sounds capital--with supper after my meeting. I say, Jack, it's good to see you again!" "Wish you'd stay here, lad. I'm much alone these days--with the old gentleman gone, and poor Nancy gone!" "Perhaps I shall. Anyhow I might stay here for the summer, and go up to town to the office." "Aye, you might do that, anyhow." Again Jack Rock seemed meditative, as though he had an idea and were half-minded to disclose it. But he was a man of caution; he bided his time. Andy--nobody had ever called him Andrew since the parson who christened him--seemed to himself to have got home again, very thoroughly home again. Montreal with its swelling hill, its mighty river, its winter snow, its Frenchness, its opposing self-defensive, therefore self-assertive, Britishness, was very remote. A talk with Jack Rock, a Conservative meeting with a squire in the chair (that was safely to be assumed), a meet of the hounds next morning--these and a tide of intimate personal memories stamped him as at home again. The long years in the little house at the extreme end of Highcroft--Highcroft led out of High Street, tending to the west, Fyfold way--in the old grammar school, in the peace of the sleepy town--had been a poignant memory in South Africa, a fading dream in the city by the great river. They sprang again into actuality. If he felt a certain contraction in his horizon he felt also a peace in his mind. Meriton might or might not admire "hustlers;" it did not hustle itself. It was a parasitic little town; it had no manufactures, no special industry. It lived on the country surrounding it--on the peasants, the farmers, the landowners. So it did not grow; neither did it die. It remained much as it had been for hundreds of years, save that it was seriously considering the introduction of electric light. The meeting was rather of an impromptu order; Christmas holidays are generally held sacred from such functions. But Mr. Foot, M.P., a rising young member and a friend of Harry Belfield's, happened to be staying at Halton Park for shooting. Why waste him? He liked to speak, and he spoke very well. The more Harry showed himself and got himself heard, the better. The young men would enjoy it. A real good dinner beforehand would send them down in rare spirits. A bit of supper, with a whisky-and-soda or two, and recollections of their own "scores," would end the evening pleasantly. Meriton would not be excited--it was not election time--but it would be amused, benevolent, and present in sufficiently large numbers to make the thing go with _éclat_. There was, indeed, one topic which, from a platform at all events, one could describe as "burning." A Bill dealing with the sale of intoxicating liquor had, the session before, been introduced as the minimum a self-respecting nation could do, abused as the maximum fanatics could clamour for, carried through a second reading considerably amended, and squeezed out by other matters. It was to be re-introduced. The nation was recommended to consider the question in the interval. Now the nation, though professing its entire desire to be sober--it could not well do anything else--was not sure that it desired to be made sober, was not quite clear as to the precise point at which it could or could not be held to be sober, and felt that the argument that it would, by the gradual progress of general culture, become sober in the next generation or so--without feeling the change, so to say, and with no violent break in the habits of this generation (certainly everybody must wish the next generation to be sober)--that this argument, which men of indisputable wisdom adduced, had great attractions. Also the nation was much afraid of the teetotallers, especially of the subtle ones who said that true freedom lay in freedom from temptation. The nation thought that sort of freedom not much worth having, whether in the matter of drink or of any other pleasure. So there were materials for a lively and congenial discussion, and Mr. Foot, M.P., was already in the thick of it when Andy Hayes, rather late by reason of having been lured into the stables to see the hunters after tea, reached the Town Hall and sidled his way to a place against the wall in good view of the platform and of the front benches where the big-wigs sat. The Town Hall was quite two-thirds full--very good indeed for the Christmas season! Andy Hayes was not much of a politician. Up to now he had been content with the politics of his _métier_, the politics of a man trying to build up a business. But it was impossible not to enjoy Mr. Foot. He riddled the enemy with epigram till he fell to the earth, then he jumped on to his prostrate form and chopped it to pieces with logic. He set his audience wondering--this always happens at political meetings, whichever party may be in power--by what odd freak of fate, by what inexplicable blunder, the twenty men chosen to rule the country should be not only the twenty most unprincipled but also the twenty stupidest in it. Mr. Foot demonstrated the indisputable truth of this strange fact so cogently before he had been on his legs twenty minutes that gradually Andy felt absolved from listening any longer to so plain a matter; his attention began to wander to the company. It was a well-to-do audience--there were not many poor in Meriton. A few old folk might have to go to "the house," but there were no distress or "unemployment" troubles. The tradesfolk, their families, and employees formed the bulk. They were presided over by Mr. Wellgood of Nutley, who might be considered to hold the place of second local magnate, after Mr. Belfield of Halton. He was a spare, strongly built man of two or three and forty; his hair was clipped very close to his head; he wore a bristly moustache just touched with gray, but it too was kept so short that the lines of his mouth, with its firm broad lips, were plain to see; his eyes were light-blue, hard, and wary; they seemed to keep a constant watch over the meeting, and once, when a scuffle arose among some children at the back of the hall, they gave out a fierce and formidable glance of rebuke. He had the reputation of being a strict master and a stern magistrate; but he was a good sportsman, and Jack Rock's nearest rival after the hounds. Beside him, waiting his turn to speak and seeming rather nervous--he was not such an old hand at the game as Mr. Foot--sat Andy's hero, Harry Belfield. He was the pet of the town for his gay manner, good looks, and cheery accessibility to every man--and even more to every woman. His youthful record was eminently promising, his career the subject of high hopes to his family and his fellow-citizens. Tall and slight, wearing his clothes with an elegance free from affectation, he suggested "class" and "blood" in every inch of him. He was rather pale, with thick, soft, dark hair; his blue eyes were vivacious and full of humour, his mouth a little small, but delicate and sensitive, the fingers of his hands long and tapering. "A thoroughbred" was the only possible verdict--evidently also a man full of sensibility, awake to the charms of life as well as to its labours; that was in keeping with all Andy's memories. The moment he rose it was obvious with what favour he was regarded; the audience was predisposed towards all he said. He was not so epigrammatic nor so cruelly logical as Mr. Foot; he was easier, more colloquial, more confidential; he had some chaff for his hearers as well as denunciation for his enemies; his speech was seasoned now by a local allusion, now by a sporting simile. A veteran might have found its strongest point of promise in its power of adaptation to the listeners, its gift of creating sympathy between them and the speaker by the grace of a very attractive personality. It was a success, perhaps, more of charm than of strength; but it may be doubted whether in the end the one does not carry as far as the other. On good terms as he was with them all, it soon became evident to so interested an onlooker as Andy Hayes that he was on specially good terms, or at any rate anxious to be, in one particular quarter. After he had made a point and was waiting for the applause to die down, not once but three or four times he smiled directly towards the front row, and towards that part of it where two young women sat side by side. They were among his most enthusiastic auditors, and Andy presently found himself, by a natural leaning towards any one who admired Harry Belfield, according to them a share of the attention which had hitherto been given exclusively to the hero himself. The pair made a strong contrast. There was a difference of six or seven years only in their ages, but while the one seemed scarcely more than a child, it was hard to think of the other as even a girl--there was about her such an air of self-possession, of conscious strength, of a maturity of faculties. Even in applauding she seemed also to judge and assess. Her favour was discriminating; she let the more easy hits go by with a slight, rather tolerant smile, while her neighbour greeted them with outright merry laughter. She was not much beyond medium height, but of full build, laid on ample lines; her features were rather large, and her face wore, in repose, a thoughtful tranquillity. The other, small, frail, and delicate, with large eyes that seemed to wonder even as she laughed, would turn to her friend with each laugh and appear to ask her sympathy--or even her permission to be pleased. Andy's scrutiny--somewhat prolonged since it yielded him all the above particulars--was ended by his becoming aware that he in his turn was the object of an attention not less thoroughgoing. Turning back to the platform, he found the chairman's hard and alert eyes fixed on him in a gaze that plainly asked who he was and why he was so much interested in the two girls. Andy blushed in confusion at being caught, but Mr. Wellgood made no haste to relieve him from his rebuking glance. He held him under it for full half a minute, turning away, indeed, only when Harry sat down among the cheers of the meeting. What business was it of Wellgood's if Andy did forget his manners and stare too hard at the girls? The next moment Andy laughed at himself for the question. In a sudden flash he remembered the younger girl. She was Wellgood's daughter Vivien. He recalled her now as a little child; he remembered the wondering eyes and the timidly mirthful curl of her lips. Was it really as long ago as that since he had been in Meriton? However childlike she might look, now she was grown-up! His thoughts, which carried him through the few sentences with which the chairman dismissed the meeting, were scattered by the sudden grasp of Harry Belfield's hand. The moment he saw Andy he ran down from the platform to him. His greeting was all his worshipper could ask. "Well now, I am glad to see you back!" he cried. "Oh, we all heard how well you'd done out at the front, and we thought it too bad of you not to come back and be lionized. But here you are at last, and it's all right. I must take Billy Foot home now--he's got to go to town at heaven knows what hour in the morning--but we must have a good jaw soon. Are you at the Lion?" "No," said Andy, "I'm staying a day or two with Jack Rock." "With Jack Rock?" Harry's voice sounded surprised. "Oh yes, of course, I remember! He's a capital chap, old Jack! But if you're going to stay--and I hope you are, old fellow--you'll want some sort of a place of your own, won't you? Well, good-night. I'll hunt you up some time in the next day or two, for certain. Did you like my speech?" "Yes, and I expected you to make a good one." "You shall hear me make better ones than that. Well, I really must--All right, Billy, I'm coming." With another clasp of the hand he rushed after Mr. Foot, who was undisguisedly in a hurry, shouting as he went, "Good-night, Wellgood! Good-night, Vivien! Good-night, Miss Vintry!" Miss Vintry--that was the other girl, the one with Vivien Wellgood. Andy was glad to know her name and docket her by it in her place among the impressions of the evening. So home to a splendid round of cold beef and another pint of that excellent beer at Jack Rock's. What days life sometimes gives--or used to! Chapter II. A VERY LITTLE HUNTING. If more were needed to make a man feel at home--more than old Meriton itself, Jack Rock with his beef, and the clasp of Harry Belfield's hand--the meet of the hounds supplied it. There were hunts in other lands; Andy could not persuade himself that there were meets like this, so entirely English it seemed in the manner of it. Everybody was there, high and low, rich and poor, young and old. An incredible coincidence of unplausible accidents had caused an extraordinary number of people to have occasion to pass by Fyfold Green that morning at that hour, let alone all the folk who chanced to have a "morning off" and proposed to see some of the run, on horseback or on foot. The tradesmen's carts were there in a cluster, among them two of Jack Rock's: his boys knew that a blind eye would be turned to half an hour's lateness in the delivery of the customers' joints. For centre of the scene were the waving tails, the glossy impatient horses, the red coats, the Master himself, Lord Meriton, in his glory and, it may be added, in the peremptory mood which is traditionally associated with his office. Andy Hayes moved about, meeting many old friends--more, indeed, than he recognized, till a reminiscence of old days established for them again a place in his memory. He saw Tom Dove--the Bird--mounted on a showy screw. Wat Money--Chinks--was one of those who "happened to be passing" on his way to a client's who lived in the opposite direction. He gave Andy a friendly greeting, and told him that if he thought of taking a house in Meriton, he should be careful about his lease: Foulkes, Foulkes, and Askew would look after it. Jack Rock was there, of course, keeping himself to himself, on the outskirts of the throng: the young horse was nervous. Harry Belfield, in perfect array, talked to Vivien Wellgood, her father on a raking hunter close beside them. A great swell of home-feeling assailed Andy; suddenly he had a passionate hope that the timber business would develop; he did not want to go back to Canada. It was a good hunting morning, cloudy and cool, with the wind veering to the north-east and dropping as it veered. No frost yet, but the weather-wise predicted one before long. The scent should be good--a bit too good, Andy reflected, for riders on shanks' mare. Their turn is best served by a scent somewhat variable and elusive. A check here and there, a fresh cast, the hounds feeling for the scent--these things, added to a cunning use of short cuts and a knowledge of the country shared by the fox, aid them to keep on terms and see something of the run--just as they aid the heavy old gentlemen on big horses and the small boys on fat ponies to get their humble share of the sport. But in truth Andy cared little so that he could run--run hard, fast, and long. His powerful body craved work, work, and work yet more abundantly. His way of indulging it was to call on it for all its energies; he exulted in feeling its brave response. Fatigue he never knew--at least not till he had changed and bathed; and then it was not real fatigue: it was no more than satiety. Now when they had found--and they had the luck to find directly--he revelled in the heavy going of a big ploughed field. He was at the game he loved. Yes, but the pace was good--distinctly good. The spirit was willing, but human legs are but human, and only two in number. Craft was required. The fox ran straight now--but had he never a thought in his mind? The field streamed off to the right, lengthening out as it went. Andy bore to his left: he remembered Croxton's Dip. Did the fox? That was the question. If he did, the hunt would describe the two sides of a triangle, while Andy cut across the base. He was out of sight of the field now, but he could hear the hounds giving tongue from time to time and the thud of the hoofs. The sounds grew nearer! A thrill of triumph ran through him; his old-time knowledge had not failed him. The fox had doubled back, making for Croxton's Dip. Over the edge of yonder hill it lay, half a mile off--a deep depression in the ground, covered with thick undergrowth. In the hope of catching up, Andy Hayes felt that he could run all day and grudge the falling of an over-hasty night. "Blown," indeed, but no more than a rest of a minute would put right, he reached the ledge whence the ground sloped down sharply to the Dip. He was in time to see the hunt race past him along the bottom--leaders, the ruck, stragglers. Jack Rock and Wellgood were with the Master in the van; he could not make out Harry Belfield; a forlorn figure looking like the Bird laboured far in the rear. They swept into the Dip as Andy started to race down the slope. But to his chagrin they swept out of it again, straight up a long slope which rose on his left, the fox running game, a near kill promising, a fast point-to-point secured. The going was too good for shanks' mare to-day. Before he got to the bottom even the Bird had galloped by, walloping his showy screw. To the left, then, and up that long slope! There was nothing else for it, if he were so much as to see the kill from afar. This was exercise, if you like! His heart throbbed like the engines of a great ship; the sweat broke out on him. Oh, it was fine! That slope must be won--then Heaven should send the issue! Suddenly--even as he braced himself to face the long ascent, as the last sounds from the hunt died away over its summit--he saw a derelict, and, amazed, came to a full stop. The girl was not on her pony; she was standing beside it. The pony appeared distressed, and the girl looked no whit more cheerful. With a pang to the very heart, Andy Hayes recognized a duty, and acknowledged it by a snatch at his cap. "I beg your pardon; anything wrong?" he asked. He had been interested in Vivien Wellgood the evening before, but he was much more than interested in the hunt. Still, she looked forlorn and desolate. "Would you mind looking at my pony's right front leg?" she asked. "I think he's gone lame." "I know nothing about horses, but he does seem to stand rather gingerly on his--er--right front leg. And he's certainly badly blown--worse than I am!" "We shall never catch them, shall we? It's not the least use going on, is it?" "Oh, I don't know. I know the country; if you'd let me pilot you--" "Harry Belfield was going to pilot me, but--well, I told him not to wait for me, and he didn't. You were at the meeting last night, weren't you? You're Mr. Hayes, aren't you? What did you think of the speeches?" "Really, you know, if we're to have a chance of seeing any more of the--" It was not the moment to discuss political speeches, however excellent. "I don't want to see any more of it. I'll go home; I'll risk it." "Risk what?" he asked. There seemed no risk in going home; and there was, by now, small profit in going on. She did not answer his question. "I think hunting's the most wretched amusement I've ever tried!" she broke out. "The pony's lame--yes, he is; I've torn my habit" (she exhibited a sore rent); "I've scratched my face" (her finger indicated the wound); "and here I am! All I hope is that they won't catch that poor fox. How far do you think it is to Nutley?" "Oh, about three miles, I should think. You could strike the road half a mile from here." "I'm sure the pony's lame. I shall go back." "Would you like me to come with you?" During their talk her eyes had wavered between indignation and piteousness--the one at the so-called sport of hunting, the other for her own woes. At Andy's question a gleam of welcome flashed into them, followed in an instant by a curious sort of veiling of all expression. She made a pathetic little figure, with her habit sorely rent and a nasty red scratch across her forehead. The pony lame too--if he were lame! Andy hit on the idea that it was a question whether he were lame enough to swear by: that was what she was going to risk--in a case to be tried before some tribunal to which she was amenable. "But don't you want to go on?" she asked. "You're enjoying it, aren't you?" The question carried no rebuke; it recognized as legitimate the widest differences of taste. "I haven't the least chance of catching up with them. I may as well come back with you." The curious expression--or rather eclipse of expression--was still in her eyes, a purely negative defensiveness that seemed as though it could spring only from an instinctive resolve to show nothing of her feelings. The eyes were a dark blue; but with Vivien's eyes colour never counted for much, nor their shape, nor what one would roughly call their beauty, were it more or less. Their meaning--that was what they set a man asking after. "It really would be very kind of you," she said. Andy mounted her on the suppositiously lame pony--her weight wouldn't hurt him much, anyhow--and they set out at a walk towards the highroad which led to Nutley and thence, half a mile farther on, to Meriton. She was silent till they reached the road. Then she asked abruptly, "Are you ever afraid?" "Well, you see," said Andy, with a laugh, "I never know whether I'm afraid or only excited--in fighting, I mean. Otherwise I don't fancy I'm either often." "Well, you're big," she observed. "I'm afraid of pretty nearly everything--horses, dogs, motor-cars--and I'm passionately afraid of hunting." "You're not big, you see," said Andy consolingly. Indeed her hand on the reins looked almost ridiculously small. "I've got to learn not to be afraid of things. My father's teaching me. You know who I am, don't you?" "Oh yes; why, I remember you years ago! Is that why you're out hunting?" "Yes." "And why you think that the pony--?" "Is lame enough to let me risk going home? Yes." There was a hint of defiance in her voice. "You must think what you like," she seemed to say. Andy considered the matter in his impartial, solid, rather slowly moving mind. It was foolish to be frightened at such things; it must be wholesome to be taught not to be. Still, hunting wasn't exactly a moral duty, and the girl looked very fragile. He had not arrived at any final decision on the case--on the issue whether the girl were silly or the father cruel (the alternatives might not be true alternatives, not strictly exclusive of one another)--before she spoke again. "And then I'm fastidious. Are you?" "I hope not!" said Andy, with an amused chuckle. A great lump of a fellow like him fastidious! "Father doesn't like that either, and I've got to get over it." "How does it--er--take you?" Andy made bold to inquire. "Oh, lots of ways. I hate dirt, and dust, and getting very hot, and going into butchers' shops, and--" "Butchers' shops!" exclaimed Andy, rather hit on the raw. "You eat meat, don't you?" "Things don't look half as dead when they're cooked. I couldn't touch a butcher!" Horror rang in her tones. "Oh, but I say, Jack Rock's a butcher, and he's about the best fellow in Meriton. You know him?" "I've seen him," she admitted reluctantly, the subject being evidently distasteful. For the second time Andy Hayes was conscious of a duty: he must not be--or seem--ashamed of Jack Rock, just because this girl was fastidious. "I'm related to him, you know. My stepmother was his sister. And I'm staying in his house." She glanced at him, a slight flush rising to her cheeks; he saw that her lips trembled a little. "It's no use trying to unsay things, is it?" she asked. "Not a bit," laughed Andy. "Don't think I'm hurt; but I should be a low-down fellow if I didn't stand up for old Jack." "I should rather like to have you to stand up for me sometimes," she said, and broke into a smile as she added, "You're so splendidly solid, you see, Mr. Hayes. Here we are at home--you may as well make a complete thing of it and see me as far as the stables." "I'd like to come in--I'm not exactly a stranger here. I've often been a trespasser. Don't tell Mr. Wellgood unless you think he'll forgive me, but as a boy I used to come and bathe in the lake early in the morning--before anybody was up. I used to undress in the bushes and slip in for my swim pretty nearly every morning in the summer. It's fine bathing, but you want to be able to swim; there's a strong undercurrent, where the stream runs through. Are you fond of bathing?" Andy was hardly surprised when she gave a little shudder. "No, I'm rather afraid of water." She added quickly, "Don't tell my father, or I expect I should have to try to learn to swim. He hasn't thought of that yet. No more has Isobel--Miss Vintry, my companion. You know? You saw her at the meeting. I have a companion now, instead of a governess. Isobel isn't afraid of anything, and she's here to teach me not to be." "You don't mind my asking your father to let me come and swim, if I'm here in the summer?" "I don't suppose I ought to mind that," she said doubtfully. The house stood with its side turned to the drive by which they approached it from the Meriton road. Its long, low, irregular front--it was a jumble of styles and periods--faced the lake, a stone terrace running between the façade and the water; it was backed by a thick wood; across the lake the bushes grew close down to the water's edge. The drive too ran close by the water, deep water as Andy was well aware, and was fenced from it by a wooden paling, green from damp. The place had a certain picturesqueness, but a sadness too. Water and trees--trees and water--and between them the long squat house. To Andy it seemed to brood there like a toad. But his healthy mind reverted to the fact that for a strong swimmer the bathing was really splendid. "Here comes Isobel! Now nothing about swimming, and say the pony's lame!" The injunction recalled Andy from his meditations and also served to direct his attention to Miss Vintry, who stood, apparently waiting for them, at the end of the drive, with the house on her right and the stables on her left. She was dressed in a business-like country frock, rather noticeably short, and carried a stick with a spike at the end of it. She looked very efficient and also very handsome. Vivien told her story: Andy, not claiming expert knowledge, yet stoutly maintained that the pony was--or anyhow had been--lame. "He seems to be getting over it," said Miss Vintry, with a smile that was not malicious but was, perhaps, rather annoyingly amused. "I'm afraid your having had to turn back will vex your father, but I suppose there was no help for it, and I'm sure he'll be much obliged to--" "Mr. Hayes." Vivien supplied the name, and Andy made his bow. "Oh yes, I've heard Mr. Harry Belfield speak of you." Her tone was gracious, and she smiled at Andy good-humouredly. If she confirmed his impression of capability, and perhaps added a new one of masterfulness, there was at least nothing to hint that her power would not be well used or that her sway would be other than benevolent. Vivien had dismounted, and a stable-boy was leading the pony away, after receiving instructions to submit the suspected off fore-leg to his chief's inspection. There seemed nothing to keep Andy, and he was about to take his leave when Miss Vintry called to the retreating stable-boy, "Oh, and let Curly out, will you? He hasn't had his run this afternoon." Vivien turned her head towards the stables with a quick apprehensive jerk. A big black retriever, released in obedience to Isobel Vintry's order, ran out, bounding joyously. He leapt up at Isobel, pawing her and barking in an ecstasy of delight. In passing Andy, the stranger, he gave him another bark of greeting and a hasty pawing; then he clumsily gambolled on to where Vivien stood. "He won't hurt you, Vivien. You know he won't hurt you, don't you?" The dog certainly seemed to warrant Isobel's assertion; he appeared a most good-natured animal, though his play was rough. "Yes, I know he won't hurt me," said Vivien. The dog leapt up at her, barking, frisking, pawing her, trying to reach her face to lick it. She made no effort to repel him; she had a little riding-whip in her hand, but she did not use it; her arms hung at her side; she was rather pale. "There! It's not so terrible after all, is it?" asked Isobel. "Down, Curly, down! Come here!" The dog obeyed her at her second bidding, and sat down at her feet. Andy was glad to see that the ordeal--for that was what it looked like--was over, and had been endured with tolerable fortitude; he had not enjoyed the scene. Somewhat to his surprise Vivien's lips curved in a smile. "Somehow I wasn't nearly so frightened to-day," she said. Apparently the ordeal was a daily one--perhaps one of several daily ones, for she had already been out hunting. "I didn't run away as I did yesterday, when Harry Belfield was here." "You are getting used to it," Isobel affirmed. "Mr. Wellgood's quite right. We shall have you as brave as a lion in a few months." Her tone was not unkind or hard, neither was it sympathetic. It was just extremely matter-of-fact. "It's all nerves," she added to Andy. "She overworked herself at school--she's very clever, aren't you, Vivien?--and now she's got to lead an open-air life. She must get used to things, mustn't she?" Andy had a shamefaced feeling that the ordeals or lessons, if they were necessary at all, had better be conducted in privacy. That had not apparently occurred to Mr. Wellgood or to Isobel Vintry. Indeed that aspect of the case did not seem to trouble Vivien herself either; she showed no signs of shame; she was smiling still, looking rather puzzled. "I wonder why I was so much less frightened." She turned her eyes suddenly to Andy. "I know. It was because you were there!" "You ran away, in spite of Mr. Harry's being here yesterday," Isobel reminded her. "Mr. Hayes is so splendidly big--so splendidly big and solid," said Vivien, thoughtfully regarding Andy's proportions. "When he's here, I don't think I shall be half so much afraid." "Oh, then Mr. Wellgood must ask him to come again," laughed Isobel. "You see how useful you'll be, Mr. Hayes!" "I shall be delighted to come again, anyhow, if I'm asked--whether I'm useful or not. And I think it was jolly plucky of you to stand still as you did, Miss Wellgood. If I were in a funk, I should cut and run for it, I know." "I thought you'd been a soldier," said Isobel. "Oh, well, it's different when there are a lot of you together. Besides--" He chuckled. "You're not going to get me to let on that I was in a funk then. Those are our secrets, Miss Vintry. Well now, I must go, unless--" "No, there are no more tests of courage to-day, Mr. Hayes," laughed Isobel. Vivien's eyes had relapsed into inexpressiveness; they told Andy nothing of her view of the trials, or of Miss Vintry, who had conducted the latest one; they told him no more of her view of himself as she gave him her hand in farewell. He left her still standing on the spot where she had endured Curly's violent though well-meant attentions--again rather a pathetic figure, in her torn habit, with the long red scratch (by-the-by Miss Vintry had made no inquiry about it--that was part of the system perhaps) on her forehead, and with the background, as it were, of ordeals, or tests, or whatever they were to be called. Andy wondered what they would try her with to-morrow, and found himself sorry that he would not be there--to help her with his bigness and solidity. It was difficult to say that Mr. Wellgood's system was wrong. It was absurd for a grown girl--a girl living in the country--to be frightened at horses, dogs, and motor-cars, to be disgusted by dirt and dust, by getting very hot--and by butchers' shops. All these were things which she would have to meet on her way through the world, as the world is at present constituted. Still he was sorry for her; she was so slight and frail. Andy would have liked to take on his broad shoulders all her worldly share of dogs and horses, of dust, of getting very hot (a thing he positively liked), and of butchers; these things would not have troubled him in the least; he would have borne them as easily as he could have carried Vivien herself in his arms. As he walked home he had a vision of her shuddering figure, with its pale face and reticent eyes, being led by Isobel Vintry's firm hand into Jack Rock's shop in High Street, and there being compelled to inspect, to touch, to smell, the blue-rosetted, red-rosetted, and honourably mentioned carcasses which adorned that Valhalla of beasts--nay, being forced, in spite of all horror, to touch Jack Rock the butcher himself! Isobel Vintry would, he thought, be capable of shutting her up alone with all those dead things, and with the man who, as she supposed, had butchered them. "I should have to break in the door!" thought Andy, his vanity flattered by remembering that she had seen in him a stand-by, and a security which apparently even Harry Belfield had been unable to afford. True it was that in order to win the rather humble compliment of being held a protection against an absolutely harmless retriever dog he had lost his day's hunting. Andy's heart was lowly; he did not repine. Chapter III. THE POTENT VOICE. After anxious consultation at Halton it had been decided that Harry Belfield was justified in adopting a political career and treating the profession of the Bar, to which he had been called, as nominal. The prospects of an opening--and an opening in his native Division--were rosy. His personal qualifications admitted of no dispute, his social standing was all that could be desired. The money was the only difficulty. Mr. Belfield's income, though still large, was not quite what it had been; he was barely rich enough to support his son in what is still, in spite of all that has been done in the cause of electoral purity, a costly career. However the old folk exercised economies, Harry promised them, and it was agreed that the thing could be managed. It was, perhaps, at the back of the father's mind that for a young man of his son's attractions there was one obvious way of increasing his income--quite obvious and quite proper for the future owner of Halton Park. For the moment political affairs were fairly quiet--next year it would be different--and Harry, ostensibly engaged on a course of historical and sociological reading, spent his time pleasantly between Meriton and his rooms in Jermyn Street. He had access to much society of one kind and another, and was universally popular; his frank delight in pleasing people made him pleasant to them. With women especially he was a great favourite, not for his looks only, though they were a passport to open the door of any drawing-room, but more because they felt that he was a man who appreciated them, valued them, needed them, to whom they were a very big and precious part of life. He had not a shred of that indifference--that independence of them--which is the worst offence in women's eyes. Knowing that they counted for so much to him, it was as fair as it was natural that they should let him count for a good deal with them. But even universal favourites have their particular ties. For the last few months Harry had been especially attached to Mrs. Freere, the wife of a member of Parliament of his own party who lived in Grosvenor Street. Mr. Freere was an exceedingly laborious person; he sat on more committees than any man in London, and had little leisure for the joys of home life. Mrs. Freere could take very good care of herself, and, all question of principles apart, had no idea of risking the position and the comforts she enjoyed. Subject to the limits thus clearly imposed on her, she had no objection at all to her friendship with Harry Belfield being as sentimental as Harry had been disposed to make it; indeed she had a taste for that kind of thing herself. Once or twice he had tried to overstep the limits, elastic as they were--he was impulsive, Mrs. Freere was handsome--but he had accepted her rebuke with frank penitence, and the friendship had been switched back on to its appointed lines without an accident. The situation was pleasant to her; she was convinced that it was good for Harry. Certainly he met at her house many people whom it was proper and useful for him to meet; and her partiality offered him every opportunity of making favourable impressions. If her conscience needed any other salve--it probably did not feel the need acutely--she could truthfully aver that she was in the constant habit of urging him to lose no time in looking out for a suitable wife. "A wife is such a help to a man in the House," she would say. "She can keep half the bores away from him. I don't do it because Wilson positively loves bores--being bored gives him a sense of serving his country--but I could if he'd let me." Harry had been accustomed to meet such prudent counsels with protests of a romantic order; but Mrs. Freere, a shrewd woman, had for some weeks past noticed that the protests were becoming rather less vehement, and decidedly more easy for her to control. When she repeated her advice one day, in the spring after Andy Hayes came back from Canada, Harry looked at her for a moment and said, "Would you drop me altogether if I did, Lily?" He called her Lily when they were alone. "I'm married; you haven't dropped me," said Mrs. Freere with a smile. "Oh, that's different. I shouldn't marry a woman unless I was awfully in love with her." "I don't think I ought to make that a reason for finally dropping you, because you'll probably be awfully in love with several. Put that difficulty--if it is one--out of your mind. We shall be friends." "And you wouldn't mind? You--you wouldn't think it--?" He wanted to ask her whether she would think it what, on previous occasions, he had said that he would think it. Mrs. Freere laughed. "Oh, of course your wife would be rather a bore--just at first, anyhow. But, you know, I can even contemplate my life without you altogether, Harry." She was really fond of him, but she was not a woman given to illusions either about her friends or about herself. Harry did not protest that he could not contemplate his life without Mrs. Freere, though he had protested that on more than one of those previous occasions. Mrs. Freere leant against the mantelpiece, smiling down at him in the armchair. "Seen somebody?" she asked. Harry blushed hotly. "You're an awfully good sort, Lily," he said. She laughed a little, then sighed a little. Well, it had been very agreeable to have this handsome boy at her beck and call, gracefully adoring, flattering her vanity, amusing her leisure, giving her the luxury of reflecting that she was behaving well in the face of considerable temptation--she really felt entitled to plume herself on this exploit. But such things could not last--Mrs. Freere knew that. The balance was too delicate; a topple over on one side or the other was bound to come; she had always meant that the toppling over, when it came, should be on the safe side--on to the level ground, not over the precipice. A bump is a bump, there's no denying it, but it's better than a broken neck. Mrs. Freere took her bump smiling, though it certainly hurt a little. "Is she very pretty?" He jumped up from the armchair. He was highly serious about the matter, and that, perhaps, may be counted a grace in him. "I suppose I shall do it--if I can. But I'm hanged if I can talk to you about it!" "That's rather nice of you. Thank you, Harry." He bowed his comely head, with its waving hair, over her hand and kissed it. "Good-bye, Harry," she said. He straightened himself and looked her in the face for an instant. He shrugged his shoulders; she understood and nodded. There was, in fact, no saying what one's emotions would be up to next--what would be the new commands of the Restless and Savage Master. Poor Harry! She knew his case. She herself had "taken him" from her dear friend Rosa Hinde. He was gone. She stood still by the mantelpiece a moment longer, shrugged shoulders in her turn--really that Savage Master!--crossed the room to a looking-glass--not much wrong there happily--and turned on the opening of the door. Mr. Freere came in--between committees. He had just time for a cup of tea. "Just time, Wilson?" "I've a committee at five, my dear." She rang the bell. "Talk of road-hogs! You're a committee-hog, you know." He rubbed his bald head perplexedly. "They accumulate," he pleaded in a puzzled voice. "I'm sorry to leave you so much alone, my dear." He came up to her and kissed her. "I always want to be with you, Lily." "I know," she said. She did know--and the knowledge was one of the odd things in life. "Goodness, I forgot to telephone!" He hurried out of the room again. "Serves me right, I suppose!" said Mrs. Freere; to which of recent incidents she referred must remain uncertain. Mr. Freere came back for his hasty cup of tea. The Park was gay in its spring bravery--a fine setting for the play of elegance and luxury which took place there on this as on every afternoon. Harry Belfield sought to occupy and to distract his mind by the spectacle, familiar though it was. He did not want to congratulate himself on the thing that had just happened, yet this was what he found himself doing if he allowed his thoughts to possess him. "That's over anyhow!" was the spontaneous utterance of his feelings. Yet he felt very mean. He did not see why, having done the right thing, he should feel so mean. It seemed somehow unfair--as though there were no pleasing conscience, whatever one did. Conscience might have retorted that in some situations there is no "right thing;" there is a bold but fatal thing, and there is a prudent but shabby thing; the right thing has vanished earlier in the proceedings. Still he had done the best thing open to him, and, reflecting on that, he began to pluck up his spirits. His sensuous nature turned to the pleasant side; his volatile emotions forsook the past for the future. As he walked along he began to hear more plainly and to listen with less self-reproach to the voice which had been calling him now for many days--ever since he had addressed that meeting in the Town Hall at Meriton. Meriton was calling him back with the voice of Vivien Wellgood, and with her eyes begging him to hearken. He had "seen somebody," in Mrs. Freere's sufficient phrase. Great and gay was London, full of lures and charms; many were they who were ready to pet, to spoil, and to idolize; many there were to play, to laugh, and to revel with. Potent must be the voice which could draw him from all this! Yet he was listening to it as he walked along. He was free to listen to it now--free since he had left Mrs. Freere's house in Grosvenor Street. Suddenly he found himself face to face with Andy Hayes--not a man he expected to meet in Hyde Park at four o'clock in the afternoon. But Andy explained that he had "knocked off early at the shop" and come west, to have a last look at the idle end of the town--everybody there seemed idle, even if all were not. "Because it's my last day in London. I'm going down to Meriton to-morrow for the summer. I've taken lodgings there--going to be an up-and-downer," Andy explained. "And I think I shall generally be able to get Friday to Monday down there." To Meriton to-morrow! Harry suffered a sharp and totally unmistakable pang of envy. "Upon my soul, I believe you're right!" he said. "I'm half sick of the racket of town. What's the good of it all? And one gets through the devil of a lot of money. And no time to do anything worth doing! I don't believe I've opened a book for a week." "Well, why don't you come down too? It would be awfully jolly if you did." "Oh, it's not altogether easy to chuck everything and everybody," Harry reminded his friend, who did not seem to have reflected what a gap would be caused by Mr. Harry Belfield's departure from the metropolis. "Still I shall think about it. I could get through a lot of work at home." The historical and sociological reading obligingly supplied an excellent motive for a flight from the too-engrossing gaieties of town. "And, of course, there's no harm in keeping an eye on the Division." The potent voice was gathering allies apace! Winning causes have that way. "I might do much worse," Harry concluded thoughtfully. Andy was delighted. Harry's presence would make Meriton a different place to him. He too, for what he was worth (it is not possible to say that he was worth very much in this matter), became another ally of the potent voice, urging the joys of country life and declaring that Harry already looked "fagged out" by the arduous pleasures of London life. "I shall think about it seriously," said Harry, knowing in himself that the voice had won. "Are you doing anything to-night? I happen for once to have an off evening." "No; only I'd thought of dropping into the pit somewhere. I haven't seen 'Hamlet' at the--" "Oh lord!" interrupted Harry. "Let's do something a bit more cheerful than that! Have you seen the girl at the Empire--the Nun? Not seen her? Oh, you must! We'll dine at the club and go; and I'll get her and another girl to come on to supper. I'll give you a little fling for your last night in town. Will you come?" "Will I come? I should rather think I would!" cried Andy. "All right; dinner at eight. We shall have lots of time--she doesn't come on till nearly ten. Meet me at the Artemis at eight. Till then, old chap!" Harry darted after a lady who had favoured him with a gracious bow as she passed by, a moment before. Here was an evening-out for Andy Hayes, whose conscience had suggested "Hamlet" and whose finances had dictated the pit. He went home to his lodgings off Russell Square all smiles, and spent a laborious hour trying to get the creases out of his dress coat. "Well, I shall enjoy an evening like that just for once," he said out loud as he laboured. "I've got her and another girl," Harry announced when Andy turned up at the Artemis. "The nuisance is that Billy Foot here insists on coming too, so we shall be a man over. I've told him I don't want him, but the fellow will come." "I'm certainly coming," said the tall long-faced young man--for Billy Foot was still several years short of forty--to whom Andy had listened with such admiration at Meriton. In private life he was not oppressively epigrammatic or logical, and not at all ruthless; and everybody called him "Billy," which in itself did much to deprive him of his terrors. The Artemis was a small and luxurious club in King Street. Why it was called the "Artemis" nobody knew. Billy Foot said that the name had been chosen just because nobody would know why it had been chosen--it was a bad thing, he maintained, to label a club. Harry, however, conjectured that the name indicated that the club was half-way between the Athenæum and the Turf--which you might take in the geographical sense or in any other you pleased. Andy ate of several foods that he had never tasted before and drank better wine than he had ever drunk before. His physique and his steady brain made any moderate quantity of wine no more than water to him. Harry Belfield, on the contrary, responded felicitously to even his first glass of champagne; his eyes grew bright and his spirit gay. Any shadow cast over him by his interview with Mrs. Freere was not long in vanishing. They enjoyed themselves so well that a cab had only just time to land them at their place of entertainment before the Nun, whose name was Miss Doris Flower, came on the stage. She was having a prodigious success because she did look like a nun and sang songs that a nun might really be supposed to sing--and these things, being quite different from what the public expected, delighted the public immensely. When Miss Flower, whose performance was of high artistic merit, sang about the baby which she might have had if she had not been a nun, and in the second song (she was on her death-bed in the second song, but this did not at all impair her vocal powers) about the angel whom she saw hovering over her bed, and the angel's likeness to her baby sister who had died in infancy, the public cried like a baby itself. "Jolly good!" said Billy Foot, taking his cigar out of his mouth and wiping away a furtive tear. "But there, she is a ripper, bless her!" His tone was distinctly affectionate. But supper was the great event to Andy: that was all new to him, and he took it in eagerly while they waited for the Nun and her friend. Such a din, such a chatter, such a lot of diamonds, such a lot of smoke--and the white walls, the gilding, the pink lampshades, the band ever and anon crashing into a new tune, and the people shouting to make themselves heard through it--Andy would have sat on happily watching, even though he had got no supper at all. Indeed he was no more hungry than most of the other people there. One does not go to supper there because one is hungry--that is a vulgar reason for eating. However supper he had, sitting between Billy Foot and the Nun's friend, a young woman named Miss Dutton, who had a critical, or even sardonic, manner, but was extremely pretty. The Nun herself contrived to be rather like a nun even off the stage; she did not talk much herself, but listened with an innocent smile to the sallies of Billy Foot and Harry Belfield. "Been to hear her?" Miss Dutton asked Andy. Andy said that they had, and uttered words of admiration. "Sort of thing they like, isn't it?" said Miss Dutton. "You can't put in too much rot for them." "But she sings it so--" Andy began to plead. "Yes, she can sing. It's a wonder she's succeeded. How sick one gets of this place!" "Do you come often?" "Every night--with her generally." "I've never been here before in my life." "Well, I hope you like the look of us!" Harry Belfield looked towards him. "Don't mind what she says, Andy. We call her Sulky Sally--don't we, Sally?--But she looks so nice that we have to put up with her ways." Miss Dutton smiled reluctantly, but evidently could not help smiling at Harry. "I know the value of your compliments," she remarked. "There are plenty of them going about the place to judge by!" "Mercy, Sally, mercy! Don't show me up before my friends!" Miss Dutton busied herself with her supper. The Nun ate little; most of the time she sat with her pretty hands clasped on the table in front of her. Suddenly she began to tell what proved to be a rather long story about a man named Tommy--everybody except Andy knew whom she meant. She told this story in a low, pleasant, but somewhat monotonous voice. In truth the Nun was a trifle prolix and prosy, but she also looked so nice that they were quite content to listen and to look. It appeared that Tommy had done what no man should do; he had made love to two girls at once. For a long time all went well; but one day Tommy, being away from the sources of supply of cash (as a rule he transacted all his business in notes), wrote two cheques--the Nun specified the amounts, one being considerably larger than the other--placed them in two envelopes, and proceeded to address them wrongly. Each lady got the other lady's cheque, and--"Well, they wanted to know about it," said the Nun, with a pensive smile. So, being acquaintances, they laid their heads together, and the next time Tommy (who had never discovered his mistake) asked lady number one to dinner, she asked lady number two, "and when Tommy arrived," said the Nun, "they told him he'd find it cheaper that way, because there'd only be one tip for the waiter!" The Nun, having reached her point, gave a curiously pretty little gurgle of laughter. "Rather neat!" said Billy Foot. "And did they chuck him?" "They'd agreed to, but Maud weakened on it. Nellie did." "Poor old Tommy!" mused Harry Belfield. It was not a story of surpassing merit whether it were regarded from the moral or from the artistic point of view; but the Nun had grown delighted with herself as she told it, and her delight made her look even more pretty. Andy could not keep his eyes off her; she perceived his honest admiration and smiled serenely at him across the table. "I suppose it was Nellie who was to have the small cheque?" Billy Foot suggested. "No; it was Maud." "Then I drink to Maud as a true woman and a forgiving creature!" Andy broke into a hearty enjoying laugh. Nothing had passed which would stand a critical examination in humour, much less in wit; but Andy was very happy. He had never had such a good time, never seen so many gay and pretty women, never been so in touch with the holiday side of life. The Nun delighted him; Miss Dutton was a pleasantly acid pickle to stimulate the palate for all this rich food. Billy Foot and Harry looked at him, looked at one another, and laughed. "They're laughing at you," said Miss Dutton in her most sardonic tone. "I don't mind. Of course they are! I'm such an outsider." "Worth a dozen of either of them," she remarked, with a calmly impersonal air that reduced her compliment to a mere statement of fact. "Oh, I heard!" cried Harry. "You don't think much of us, do you, Sally?" "I come here every night," said Miss Dutton. "Consequently I know." The pronouncement was so confident, so conclusive, that there was nothing to do but laugh at it. They all laughed. If you came there every night, "consequently" you would know many things! "We must eat somewhere," observed the Nun with placid resignation. "We must be as good as we can and hope for mercy," said Billy Foot. "You'll need it," commented Miss Dutton. "Let's hope the law of supply and demand will hold good!" laughed Harry. "How awfully jolly all this is!" said Andy. He had just time to observe Miss Dutton's witheringly patient smile before the lights went out. "Hullo!" cried Andy; and the rest laughed. Up again the lights went, but the Nun rose from her chair. "Had enough of it?" asked Harry. "Yes," said the Nun with her simple, candid, yet almost scornful directness. "Oh, it's been all right. I like your friend, Harry--not Billy, of course--the new one, I mean." When they had got their cloaks and coats and were waiting for the Nun's electric brougham, Harry made an announcement that filled Andy with joy and the rest of the company with amazement. "This is good-bye for a bit, Doris," he said. "I'm off to the country the day after to-morrow." "What have we done to you?" the Nun inquired with sedate anxiety. "I've got to work, and I can't do it in London. I've got a career to look after." The Nun gurgled again--for the second time only in the course of the evening. "Oh yes," she murmured with obvious scepticism. "Well, come and see me when you get back." She turned her eyes to Andy, and, to his great astonishment, asked, "Would you like to come too?" Andy could hardly believe that he was himself, but he had no doubt about his answer. The Nun interested him very much, and was so very pretty. "I should like to awfully," he replied. "Come alone--not with these men, or we shall only talk nonsense," said the Nun, as she got into her brougham. "Get in, Sally." "Where's the hurry?" asked Miss Dutton, getting in nevertheless. The Nun slapped her arm smartly; the two girls burst into a giggle, and so went off. "Where to now?" asked Harry. Andy wondered what other place there was. "Bed for me," said Billy Foot. "I've a consultation at half-past nine, and I haven't opened the papers yet." "Bed is best," Harry agreed, though rather reluctantly. "Going to take a cab, Billy?" "What else is there to take?" "Thought you might be walking." "Oh, walking be ----!" He climbed into a hansom. "I'll walk with you, Harry. I haven't had exercise enough." Harry suggested that they should go home by the Embankment. When they had cut down a narrow street to it, he put his arm in Andy's and led him across the road. They leant on the parapet, looking at the river. The night was fine, but hazy and still--a typical London night. "You've given me a splendid evening," said Andy. "And what a good sort those girls were!" "Yes," said Harry, rather absently, "not a bad sort. Doris has got her head on her shoulders, and she's quite straight. Poor Sally's come one awful cropper. She won't come another; she's had more than enough of it. So one doesn't mind her being a bit snarly." Poor Sally! Andy had had no idea of anything of the sort, but he had an instinct that people who come one cropper--and one only--feel that one badly. "I'm feeling happy to-night, old fellow," said Harry suddenly. "You may not happen to know it, but I've gone it a bit for the last two or three years, made rather a fool of myself, and--well, one gets led on. Now I've made up my mind to chuck all that. Some of it's all right--at any rate it seems to happen; but I've had enough. I really do want to work at the politics, you know." "It's all before you, if you do," said Andy in unquestioning loyalty. "I'm going to work, and to pull up a bit all round, and--" Harry broke off, but a smile was on his lips. There on the bank of the Thames, fresh from his party in the gay restaurant, he heard the potent voice calling. It seemed to him that the voice was potent enough not only to loose him from Mrs. Freere, to lure him from London delights, to carry him down to Meriton and peaceful country life; but potent enough, too, to transform him, to make him other than he was, to change the nature that had till now been his very self. He appealed from passion to passion; from the soiled to the clean, from the turgid to the clear. A new desire of his eyes was to make a new thing of his life. Chapter IV. SETTLED PROGRAMMES. Mark Wellgood of Nutley had a bugbear, an evil thing to which he gave the name of sentimentality. Wherever he saw it he hated it--and he saw it everywhere. No matter what was the sphere of life, there was the enemy ready to raise its head, and Mark Wellgood ready to hit that head. In business and in public affairs he warred against it unceasingly; in other people's religion--he had very little of his own--he was keen to denounce it; even from the most intimate family and personal relationships he had always been resolved to banish it, or, failing that, to suppress its manifestations. Himself a man of uncompromising temper and strong passions, he saw in this hated thing the root of all the vices with which he had least sympathy. It made people cowards who shrank from manfully taking their own parts; it made them hypocrites who would not face the facts of human nature and human society, but sought to cover up truths that they would have called "ugly" by specious names, by veils, screens, and fine paraphrases. It made men soft, women childish, and politicians flabby; it meant sheer ruin to a nation. Sentimentality was, of course, at the bottom of what was the matter with his daughter, of those things of which, with the aid of Isobel Vintry's example, he hoped to cure her--her timidity and her fastidiousness. But it was at the bottom of much more serious things than these--since to make too much fuss about a girl's nonsensical fancies would be sentimental in himself. Notably it was at the bottom of all shades of opinion from Liberalism to Socialism, both included. Harry Belfield, lunching at Nutley a week or so after his return to Meriton, had the benefit of these views, with which, as a prospective Conservative candidate, he was confidently expected to sympathise. "I've only one answer to make to a Socialist," said Wellgood. "I say to him, 'You can have my property when you're strong enough to take it. Until then, you can't.' Under democracy we count heads instead of breaking them. It's a bad system, but it's tolerable as long as the matter isn't worth fighting about. When you come to vital issues, it'll break down--it always has. We, the governing classes, shall keep our position and our property just as long as we're able and willing to defend them. If the Socialists mean business, they'd better stop talking and learn to shoot." "That might be awkward for us," said Harry, with a smile at Vivien opposite. "But if they think we're going to sit still and be voted out of everything, they're much mistaken. That's what I hope, at all events, though it needs a big effort not to despair of the country sometimes. People won't look at the facts of nature. All nature's a fight from beginning to end. All through, the strong hold down the weak; and the strong grow stronger by doing it--never mind whether they're men or beasts." "There's a lot of truth in that; but I don't know that it would be very popular on a platform--even on one of ours!" "You political fellows have to wrap it up, I suppose, but the cleverer heads among the working men know all about it--trust them! They're on the make themselves; they want to get where we are; gammoning the common run helps towards that. Oh, they're not sentimental! I do them the justice to believe that." "But isn't there a terrible lot of misery, father?" asked Vivien. "You can't cure misery by quackery, my dear," he answered concisely. "Half of it's their own fault, and for the rest--hasn't there always been? So long as some people are weaker than others, they'll fare worse. I don't see any particular attraction in the idea of making weaklings or cowards as comfortable as the strong and the brave." His glance at his daughter was stern. Vivien flushed a little; the particular ordeal of that morning, a cross-country ride with her father, had not been a brilliant success. "To him that hath shall be given, eh?" Harry suggested. "Matter of Scripture, Harry, and you can't get away from it!" said Wellgood with a laugh. Psychology is not the strong point of a mind like Wellgood's. To study his fellow-creatures curiously seems to such a man rather unnecessary and rather twaddling work; in its own sphere it corresponds to the hated thing itself, to an over-scrupulous worrying about other people's feelings or even about your own. It had not occurred to Wellgood to study Harry Belfield. He liked him, as everybody did, and he had no idea how vastly Harry's temperament differed from his own. Harry had many material guarantees against folly--his birth, the property that was to be his, the career opening before him. If Wellgood saw any signs of what he condemned, he set them down to youth and took up the task of a mentor with alacrity. Moreover he was glad to have Harry coming to the house; matters were still at an early stage, but if there were a purpose in his coming, there was nothing to be said against the project. He would welcome an alliance with Halton, and it would be an alliance on even terms; for Vivien had some money of her own, apart from what he could leave her. Whether she would have Nutley or not--well, that was uncertain. Wellgood was only forty-three and young for his years; he might yet marry and have a son. A second marriage was more than an idea in his head; it was an intention fully formed. The woman he meant to ask to be his wife at the suitable moment lived in his house and sat at his table with him--his daughter's companion, Isobel Vintry. Isobel had sat silent through Wellgood's talk, not keenly interested in the directly political aspect of it, but appreciating the view of human nature and of the way of the world which underlay it. She also was on the side of the efficient--of the people who knew what they wanted and at any rate made a good fight to get it. Yet while she listened to Wellgood, her eyes had often been on Harry; she too was beginning to ask why Harry came so much to Nutley; the obvious answer filled her with a vague stirring of discontent. An ambitious self-confident nature does not like to be "counted out," to be reckoned out of the running before the race is fairly begun. Why was the answer obvious? There was more than one marriageable young woman at Nutley. Her feeling of protest was still vague; but it was there, and when she looked at Harry's comely face, her eyes were thoughtful. Though Wellgood had business after lunch, Harry stayed on awhile, sitting out on the terrace by the lake, for the day was warm and fine. The coming of spring had mitigated the grimness of Nutley; the water that had looked dreary and dismal in the winter now sparkled in the sun. Harry was excellently well content with himself and his position. He told the two girls that things were shaping very well. Old Sir George Millington had decided to retire. He was to be the candidate; he would start his campaign through the villages of the Division in the late summer, when harvest was over; he could hardly be beaten; and he was "working like a horse" at his subjects. "The horse gets out of harness now and then!" said Isobel. "You don't want him to kill himself with work, Isobel?" asked Vivien reproachfully. "Visits to Nutley help the work; they inspire me," Harry declared, looking first at Vivien, then at Isobel. They were both, in their different ways, pleasant to look at. Their interest in him--in all he said and did, and in all he was going to do--was very pleasant also. "Oh yes, I'm working all right!" he laughed. "Really I have to, because of old Andy Hayes. He's getting quite keen on politics--reads all the evening after he gets back from town. Well, he's good enough to think I've read everything and know everything, and whenever we meet he pounds me with questions. I don't want Andy to catch me out, so I have to mug away." "That's your friend, Vivien," said Isobel, with a smile and a nod. "Yes, the solid man." "Oh, I know that story. Andy told me himself. He thought you behaved like a brick." "He did, anyhow. Why don't you bring him here, Harry?" "He's in town all day; I'll try and get him here some Saturday." "Does he still stay with the--with Mr. Rock?" asked Vivien. "No; he's taken lodgings. He's very thick with old Jack still, though. Of course it wouldn't do to tell him so, but it's rather a bore that he should be connected with Jack in that way. It doesn't make my mother any keener to have him at Halton, and it's a little difficult for me to press it." "It does make his position seem--just rather betwixt and between, doesn't it?" asked Isobel. "If only it wasn't a butcher!" protested Vivien. "O Vivien, the rules, the rules!" "Nothing against butchers," was one of the rules. "I know, but I would so much rather it had been a draper, or a stationer, or something--something clean of that sort." "I'm glad your father's not here. Be good, Vivien!" "However it's not so bad if he doesn't stay there any more," Harry charitably concluded. "Just going in for a drink with old Jack--everybody does that; and after all he's no blood relation." He laughed. "Though I dare say that's exactly what you'd call him, Vivien." Just as he made his little joke Vivien had risen. It was her time for "doing the flowers," one of the few congenial tasks allowed her. She smiled and blushed at Harry's hit at her, looking very charming. Harry indulged himself in a glance of bold admiration. It made her cheeks redder still as she turned away, Harry looking after her till she rounded the corner of the house. In answering the call of the voice he had found no disappointment. Closer and more intimate acquaintance revealed her as no less charming than she had promised to be. Harry was sure now of what he wanted, and remained quite sure of all the wonderful things that it was going to do for him and for his life. Suddenly on the top of all this legitimate and proper feeling--to which not even Mark Wellgood himself could object, since it was straight in the way of nature--there came on Harry Belfield a sensation rare, yet not unknown, in his career--a career still so short, yet already so emotionally eventful. Isobel Vintry was not looking at him--she was gazing over the lake--nor he at her; he was engaged in the process of lighting a cigarette. Yet he became intensely aware of her, not merely as one in his company, but as a being who influenced him, affected him, in some sense stretched out a hand to him. He gave a quick glance at her; she was motionless, her eyes still aloof from him. He stirred restlessly in his chair; the air seemed very close and heavy. He wanted to make some ordinary, some light remark; for the moment it did not come. A remembrance of the first time that Mrs. Freere and he had passed the bounds of ordinary friendship struck across his mind, unpleasantly, and surely without relevance! Isobel had said nothing, had done nothing, nor had he. Yet it was as though some mystic sign had passed from her to him--he could not tell whether from him to her also--a sign telling that, whatever circumstances might do, there was in essence a link between them, a reminder from her that she too was a woman, that she too had her power. He did not doubt that she was utterly unconscious, but neither did he believe that he was solely responsible, that he had merely imagined. There was an atmosphere suddenly formed--an atmosphere still and heavy as the afternoon air that brooded over the unruffled lake. Harry had no desire to abide in it. His mind was made up; his heart was single. He picked up a stone which had been swept from somewhere on to the terrace and pitched it into the lake. A plop, and many ripples. The heavy stillness was broken. Isobel turned to him with a start. "I thought you were going to sleep, Miss Vintry. I couldn't think of anything to say, so I threw a stone into the water. I'm afraid you were finding me awfully dull!" "You dull! You're a change from what sometimes does seem a little dull--life at Nutley. But perhaps you can't conceive life at Nutley being dull?" Her eyes mocked him with the hint that she had discovered his secret. "Well, I think I should be rather hard to please if I found Nutley dull," he said gaily. "But if you do, why do you stay?" "Perpetual amusement isn't in a companion's contract, Mr. Harry. Besides, I'm fond of Vivien. I should be sorry to leave her before the natural end of my stay comes." "The natural end?" "Oh, I think you understand that." She smiled with a good-humoured scorn at his homage to pretence. "Well, of course, girls do marry. It's been known to happen," said Harry, neither "cornered" nor embarrassed. "But perhaps"--he glanced at her, wondering whether to risk a snub. His charm, his gift of gay impudence, had so often stood him in stead and won him a liberty that a heavy-handed man could not hope to be allowed; he was not much afraid--"Perhaps you'd be asked to stay on--in another capacity, Miss Vintry." "It looks as if your thoughts were running on such things." She did not affect not to understand, but she was not easy to corner either. "I'm afraid they always have been," Harry confessed, a confession without much trace of penitence. "Mine don't often; and they're never supposed to--in my position." "Oh, nonsense! Really that doesn't go down, Miss Vintry. Why, a girl like you, with such--" "Don't attempt a catalogue, please, Mr. Harry." "You're right, quite right. I'm conscious how limited my powers are." Harry Belfield could no more help this sort of thing than a bird can help flying. In childhood he had probably lisped in compliments, as the poet in numbers. In itself it was harmless, even graceful, and quite devoid of serious meaning. Yet it was something new in his relations with Isobel Vintry; though it had arisen out of a desire to dispel that mysterious atmosphere, yet it was a sequel to it. Hitherto she had been Vivien's companion. In that brief session of theirs--alone together by the lake--she had assumed an independent existence for him, a vivid, distinctive, rather compelling one. The impressionable mind received a new impression, the plastic feelings suffered the moulding of a fresh hand. Harry, who was alert to watch himself and always knew when he was interested, was telling himself that she was such a notable foil to Vivien; that was why he was interested. Vivien was still the centre of gravity. The explanation vindicated his interest, preserved his loyalty, and left his resolve unshaken. These satisfactory effects were all on himself; the idea of effects on Isobel Vintry did not occur to him. He was not vain, he was hardly a conscious or intentional "lady-killer." He really suffered love affairs rather than sought them; he was driven into them by an overpowering instinct to prove his powers. He could not help "playing the game"--the rather hazardous game--to the full extent of his natural ability. That extent was very considerable. He said good-bye to her, laughingly declaring that after all he would prepare a catalogue, and send it to her by post. Then he went into the house, to find Vivien and pay another farewell. Left alone, Isobel rose from her chair with an abrupt and impatient movement. She was a woman of feelings not only more mature but far stronger than Vivien's; she had ambitious yearnings which never crossed Vivien's simple soul. But she was stern with herself. Perhaps she had caught and unconsciously copied some of Wellgood's anti-sentimental attitude. She often told herself that the feelings were merely dangerous and the yearnings silly. Yet when others seemed tacitly to accept that view, made no account of her, and assumed to regard her place in life as settled, she glowed with a deep resentment against them, crying that she would make herself felt. To-day she knew that somehow, to some degree however small, she had made herself felt by Harry Belfield. The discovery could not be said to bring pleasure, but it brought triumph--triumph and an oppressive restlessness. Wellgood strolled out of the house and joined her. "Where's Harry?" he asked. "He went into the house to say good-bye to Vivien; or perhaps he's gone altogether by now." Wellgood stood in thought, his hands in his pockets. "He's a bit inclined to be soft, but I think we shall make a man of him. He's got a great chance, anyhow. Vivien seems to like him, doesn't she?" "Oh, everybody must!" She smiled at him. "Are you thinking of match-making, like a good father?" "She might do worse, and I'd like her to marry a man we know all about. The poor child hasn't backbone to stand up for herself if she happened on a rascal." Isobel had a notion that Wellgood was over-confident if he assumed that he, or they, knew all about Harry Belfield. His parentage, his position, his prospects--yes. Did these exhaust the subject? But Wellgood's downright mind would have seen only "fancies" in such a suggestion. "If that's the programme, I must begin to think of packing up my trunks," she said with a laugh. He did not join in her laugh, but his stern lips relaxed into a smile. "Lots of time to think about that," he told her, his eyes seeming to make a careful inspection of her. "Nutley would hardly be itself without you, Isobel." She showed no sign of embarrassment under his scrutiny; she stood handsome and apparently serene in her composure. "Oh, poor Nutley would soon recover from the blow," she said. "But I shall be sorry to go. You've been very kind to me." "You've done your work very well. People who work well are well treated at Nutley; people who work badly--" "Aren't exactly petted? No, they're not, Mr. Wellgood, I know." "You'd always do your work, whatever it might be, well, so you'd always be well treated." "At any rate you'll give me a good character?" she asked mockingly. "Oh, I'll see that you get a good place," he answered her in the same tone, but with a hint of serious meaning in his eyes. His plan was quite definite, his confidence in the issue of it absolute. But "one thing at a time" was among his maxims. He would like to see Vivien's affair settled before his own was undertaken. His idea was that his declaration and acceptance should follow on his daughter's engagement. Isobel was not afraid of Mark Wellgood, as his daughter was, and as so many women would have been. She had a self-confidence equal to his own; she added to it a subtlety which would secure her a larger share of independence than it would be politic to claim openly. She had not feared him as a master, and would not fear him as a husband. Moreover she understood him far better than he read her. Understanding gives power. And she liked him; there was much that was congenial to her in his mind and modes of thought. He was a man, a strong man. But the prospect at which his words hinted--she was not blind to their meaning, and for some time back had felt little doubt of his design--did not enrapture her. At first sight it seemed that it ought. She had no money, her family were poor, marriage was her only chance of independence. Nutley meant both a comfort and a status beyond her reasonable hopes. But it meant also an end to the ambitious dreams. It was finality. Just this life she led now for all her life--or at least all Wellgood's! He was engrossed in the occupations of a country gentleman of moderate means, in his estate work and his public work. He hardly ever went to London; he never travelled farther afield; he visited little even among his neighbours. Some of these habits a wife might modify; the essentials of the life she would hardly be able to change. Yet, if she got the chance, there was no question but that she ought to take it. Common sense told her that, just as it told Wellgood that it would be absurd to doubt of her acceptance. Common sense might say what it liked. Her feelings were in revolt, and their insurrection gathered fresh strength to-day. It was not so much that Wellgood was nearly twenty years her senior. That counted, but not as heavily as perhaps might be expected, since his youthful vigour was still all his. It was the certainty with which his thoughts disposed of her, his assumption that his suit would be free from difficulty and from rivalry, his matter-of-course conclusion that Harry could come to Nutley only for Vivien's sake. If these things wounded her woman's pride, the softer side of her nature lamented the absence of romance, of the thrill of love, of being wooed and won in some poetic fashion, of everything--she found her thoughts insensibly taking this direction--that it would be for Harry Belfield's chosen mistress to enjoy. Nobody--least of all the man who was content to take her to wife himself--seemed to think of her as a choice even possible to Harry. He was, of course, for Vivien. All the joys of love, all the life of pleasure, the participation in his career, the moving many-coloured existence to be led by his side--all these were for Vivien. Her heart cried out in protest at the injustice; she might not even have her chance! It would be counted treachery if she strove for it, if she sought to attract Harry or allowed herself to be attracted by him. She had to stand aside; she was to be otherwise disposed of, her assent to the arrangement being asked so confidently that it could hardly be said to be asked at all. Suppose she did not assent? Suppose she fought for herself, treachery or no treachery? Suppose she followed the way of her feelings, if so be that they led her towards Harry Belfield? Suppose she put forth what strength she had to upset Wellgood's plan, to fight for herself? She played with these questions as she walked up and down the terrace by the lake. She declared to herself that she was only playing with them, but they would not leave her. Certainly the questions found no warrant in Harry Belfield's present mood. He had made up his mind, his eager blood was running apace. That very evening, as his father and he sat alone together after dinner, in the long room graced by the two Vandykes which were the boast of Halton, he broached the matter in confidence. Mr. Belfield was a frail man of sixty. He had always been delicate in health, a sufferer from asthma and prone to chills; but he was no acknowledged invalid, and would not submit to the _rôle_. He did his share of county work; his judgment was highly esteemed, his sense of honour strict and scrupulous. He had a dryly humorous strain in him, which found food for amusement in his son's exuberant feelings and dashing impulses, without blinding him to their dangers. "Well, it's not a great match, but it's quite satisfactory, Harry. You'll find no opposition here. I like her very much, and your mother does too, I know. But"--he smiled and lifted his brows--"it's a trifle sudden, isn't it?" "Sudden?" cried Harry. "Why, I've known her all my life!" "Yes, but you haven't been in love with her all your life. And, if report speaks true, you have been in love with some other women." Mr. Belfield was a man of the world; his tone was patient and not unduly severe as he referred to Harry's adventures of the heart, which had reached his ears from friends in London. "Yes, I know," said Harry; "but those were only--well, passing sort of things, you know." "And this isn't a passing sort of thing?" "Not a bit of it; I'm dead sure of it. Well, a fellow can't tell another--not even his father--what he feels." "No, no, don't try; keep all that for the lady. But if I were you I'd go a bit slow, and I wouldn't tell your mother yet. There's no particular hurry, is there?" Harry laughed. "Well, I suppose that depends on how one feels. I happen to feel rather in a hurry." "Go as slow as you can. Passing things pass: a wife's a more permanent affair. And undoing a mistake is neither a very easy nor a very savoury business." "I'm absolutely sure. Still I'll try to wait and see if I can manage to get a little bit surer still, just to please you, pater." "Thank you, old boy; I don't think you'll repent it. And, after all, it may be as well to give the lady time to get quite sure too--eh?" His eyes twinkled. He was fully aware that Harry would not think a great deal of time necessary for that. "Oh, by-the-bye," he went on, "I've a little bit of good news for you. I've interceded with your mother on Andy Hayes' behalf, and her heart is softened. She says she'll be very glad to see him here--" "Hurrah! That's very good of the mater." "--when we're alone, or have friends who we know won't object." He laughed a little, and Harry joined in the laugh. "A prudent woman's prudent provisoes, Harry! I wish both you and I were as wise as your mother is." "Dear old Andy--he's getting quite the fashion! I'm to take him to Nutley too." "Excellent! Because it looks as if Nutley would be coming here to a certain extent in the immediate future, and he'll be able to come when Nutley does." He rose from his chair. "My throat's bothersome to-night; I'll leave you alone with your cigarette." Harry smoked a cigarette that seemed to emit clouds of rosy smoke. All that lay in the past was forgotten; the future beckoned him to glittering joys. "Marriage is his best chance, but even that's a considerable chance with Master Harry!" thought his father as he sat down to his book. The one man who had serious fears--or at least doubts--about Harry Belfield's future was his own father. "I probably shan't live to see the trouble, if any comes," he thought. "And if his mother does--she won't believe it's his fault." Chapter V. BROADENING LIFE. "Five all, and deuce!" cried Wellgood, who had taken on himself the function of umpire. He turned to Isobel and Vivien, who sat by in wicker armchairs, watching the game. "I never thought it would be so close. Hayes has pulled up wonderfully!" "I think Mr. Hayes'll win now," said Vivien. An "exhibition single" was being played, by request, before the audience above indicated. Andy Hayes had protested that, though of course he would play if they wished, he could not give Harry a game--he had not played for more than a year. At first it looked as if he were right: Harry romped away with the first four games, so securely superior that he fired friendly chaff at Andy's futile rushes across the court in pursuit of a ball skilfully placed where he least expected it. But in the fifth game the rallies became very long; Andy was playing for safety--playing deadly safe. He did not try to kill; Harry did, but often committed suicide. The fifth, the sixth, the seventh game went to Andy. A flash of brilliancy gave Harry the eighth--five, three! The ninth was his service--he should have had it, and the set. Andy's returns were steady, low, all good length, possible to return, almost impossible to kill. But Harry tried to kill. Four, five. Andy served, and found a "spot"--at least Harry's malevolent glances at a particular piece of turf implied a theory that he had. Five all! And now "Deuce"! "He's going to lick me, see if he isn't!" cried Harry Belfield, perfectly good-natured, but not hiding his opinion that such a result would be paradoxical. Andy felt terribly ashamed of himself--he wanted to win so much. To play Harry Belfield on equal terms and beat him, just for once! This spirit of emulation was new to his soul; it seemed rather alarming when it threatened his old-time homage in all things to Harry. Where was ambition going to stop? None the less, eye and hand had no idea of not doing their best. A slashing return down the side line and a clever lob gave him the game--six, five! Harry Belfield was the least bit vexed--amusedly vexed. He remembered Andy's clumsy elephantine sprawlings (no other word for them) about the court when in their boyhood he had first undertaken to teach him the game. Andy must have played a lot in Canada. "Now I'll take three off you, Andy," he cried, and served a double fault. The "gallery" laughed. "Oh, damn it!" exclaimed Harry, indecorously loud, and served another. Andy could not help laughing--the first time he had ever laughed at Harry Belfield. Given a handicap of thirty, the game was, barring extraordinary accidents, his. So it proved. He won it at forty-fifteen, with a stroke that a child ought to have returned; Harry put it into the net. "Lost your nerve, Harry?" said the umpire. "The beggar's such a sticker!" grumbled Harry, laughing. "You think you've got him licked--and you haven't!" "I'm glad Mr. Hayes won." This from Vivien. "Not only defeated, but forsaken!" Harry cried. "Andy, I'll have your blood!" Andy Hayes laughed joyously. This victory came as an unlooked-for adornment to a day already notable. A Saturday half-holiday, down from town in time to lunch at Nutley, tennis and tea, and the prospect (not free from piquant alarm) of dinner at Halton--this was a day for Andy Hayes! With an honest vanity--a vanity based on true affection--he thought how the account of it would tickle Jack Rock. His life seemed broadening out before him, and he would like to tell dear old Jack all about it. Playing lawn-tennis at Nutley, dining at Halton--here were things just as delightful, just as enlightening, as supping at the great restaurant in the company of the Nun and pretty sardonic Miss Dutton. He owed them all to Harry--he almost wished he had lost the set. At any rate he felt that he ought to wish it. "It was an awful fluke!" he protested apologetically. "You'd beat him three times out of five," Wellgood asserted in that confident tone of his. Harry looked a little vexed. He bore an occasional defeat with admirable good-nature: to be judged consistently inferior was harder schooling to his temper. Triumphing in whatever the contest might be had grown into something of a custom with him. It brooked occasional breaches: abrogation was another matter. But "Oh no!" cried both the girls together. Harry was on his feet again in a moment. Women's praise was always sweet to him, and not the less sweet for being open to a suspicion of partiality--which is, after all, a testimony to achievement in other fields. Such a partiality accounted for the conviction of Harry's superiority in Vivien's case at least. She had grown up in the midst of the universal Meriton adoration of him as the most accomplished, the kindest, the merriest son of that soil, the child of promise, the present pride and the future glory of his native town. Any facts or reports not to the credit of the idol or reflecting on his divinity had not reached her cloistered ears. Wellgood, like Harry's own father, had heard some, but Wellgood held common-sense views even more fully than Mr. Belfield; facts were facts, and all men had to be young for a time. Now, if signs were to be trusted, if the idol's own words, eyes, and actions meant what she could not but deem they meant (or where stood the idol's honesty?), he proposed to ask her to share his throne; he, the adored, offered adoration--an adoration on a basis of reciprocity, be it understood. She did not grumble at that. To give was so easy, so inevitable; to receive--to be asked to accept--so wonderful. It could not enter her head or her heart to question the value of the gift or to doubt the whole-heartedness with which it was bestowed. It was to her so great a thing that she held it must be as great to Harry. Really at the present moment it was as great to Harry. His courtship of her seemed a very great thing, his absolute exclusive devotion a rare flower of romance. But she had been glad to see Andy win. Oh yes, she was compassionate. She knew so well what it was not to do things as cleverly as other people, and how oppressive it felt to be always inferior. Besides Andy had a stock of gratitude to draw on; somehow he had, by his solidity, caused Curly to appear far less terrible. With a genuine gladness she saw him pluck one leaf from Harry's wreath. It must mean so much to Mr. Hayes; it mattered nothing to Harry. Nay, rather, it was an added chance for his graces of manner to shine forth. They did shine forth. "Very good of you, ladies, but I think he holds me safe," said Harry. "I shouldn't if you'd only play steady," Andy observed in his reflective way. "Taking chances--that's your fault, Harry." "Taking chances--why, it's life!" cried Harry, any shadow of vexation utterly gone and leaving not the smallest memory. "Well, ordinary people can't look at it like that," Andy said, with no touch of sarcasm, amply acknowledging that Harry and the ordinary were things remote from one another. Was life taking chances? To one only of the party did that seem really true. Harry had said it, but he was not the one. He was possessed by a new triumphant certainty; Wellgood by the thought of a mastery he deemed already established, and waiting only for his word to be declared; Vivien by a dream that glowed and glittered, refusing too close a touch with earth; Andy by a stout conviction that he must not think about chances, but work away at his timber (he still called it lumber in his inner mind) and his books, pausing only to thank heaven for a wonderful Saturday holiday. But life was taking chances! Supine in her chair, silent since her one exclamation in championship of Harry Belfield, Isobel Vintry echoed the cry. Life was taking chances? Yes, any life worth having perhaps was. But what if the chances did not come one's way? Who can take what fate never offers? All the present party was to meet again at Halton in the evening. It seemed hardly a separation when Harry and Andy started off together towards Meriton, Harry, as usual, chattering briskly, Andy listening, considering, absorbing. At a turn of the road they passed two old friends of his, Wat Money, the lawyer's clerk, and Tom Dove, the budding publican--"Chinks" and "The Bird" of days of yore. "Good afternoon, Mr. Harry! Hullo, Andy!" said Chinks and the Bird. When they were past, the Bird nudged Chinks with his elbow and winked his eye. "Yes, he's getting no end of a swell, isn't he?" said Chinks. "Hand-and-glove with Harry Belfield!" "I suppose you don't see much of those chaps now?" Harry was asking Andy at the same moment. There was just a shadow of admonition in the question. "I'm afraid I don't. Well, we're all at work. And when I do get a day off--" "You don't need to spend it at the Lion!" laughed Harry. "As good drink and better company in other places!" There were certainly good things to drink and eat at Halton, and Andy could not be blamed if he found the company at least as well to his liking. He had not been there since he was quite a small boy--in the days before Nancy Rock migrated from the house next the butcher's shop in High Street to preside over his home--but he had never forgotten the handsome dining-room with its two Vandykes, nor the glass of sherry which Mr. Belfield had once given him there. Mrs. Belfield received him with graciousness, Mr. Belfield with cordiality. Of course he was the first to arrive, being very fearful of unpunctuality. Even Harry was not down yet. Not being able, for obvious reasons, to ask after her guest's relations--her invariable way, when it was possible, of opening a conversation--Mrs. Belfield expressed her pleasure at seeing him back in Meriton. "My husband thinks you're such a good companion for Harry," she added, showing that her pleasure was genuine, even if somewhat interested. "Yes, Hayes," said Mr. Belfield. "See all you can of him; we shall be grateful. He wants just what a steady-going sensible fellow, as everybody says you are, can give him--a bit of ballast, eh?" "Everybody" had been, in fact, Jack Rock, but--again for obvious reasons--the authority was not cited by name. "You may be sure I shall give him as much of my company as he'll take, sir," said Andy, infinitely pleased, enormously complimented. Placidity was Mrs. Belfield's dominant note--a soothing placidity. She was rather short and rather plump--by no means an imposing figure; but this quality gave her a certain dignity, and even a certain power in her little world. People let her have her own way because she was so placidly sure that they would, and it seemed almost profane to disturb the placidity. Even her husband's humour was careful to stop short of that. Her physical movements were in harmony with her temper--leisurely, smooth, noiseless; her voice was gentle, low, and even. She seemed to Andy to fit in well with the life she lived and always had lived, to be a good expression or embodiment of its sheltered luxury and sequestered tranquillity. Storms and stress and struggles--these things had nothing to do with Mrs. Belfield, and really ought to have none; they would be quite out of keeping with her. She seemed to have a right to ask that things about her should go straight and go quietly. There was perhaps a flavour of selfishness about this disposition; certainly an inaccessibility to strong feeling. For instance, while placidly assuming Harry's success and Harry's career, she was not excited nor what would be called enthusiastic about them--not half so excited and enthusiastic as Andy Hayes. The dinner in the fine old room, under the Vandykes, with Mrs. Belfield in her lavender silk and precious lace, the girls in their white frocks, the old silver, the wealth of flowers, seemed rather wonderful to Andy Hayes. His life in boyhood had been poor and meagre, in manhood hard and rough. Here was a side of existence he had not seen; as luxurious as the life of which he had caught a glimpse at the great restaurant, but far more serene, more dignified. His opening mind received another new impression and a rarely attractive one. But the centre of the scene for him was Vivien Wellgood. From his first sight of her in the drawing-room he could not deny that. He had never seen her in the evening before, and it was in the evening that her frail beauty showed forth. She was like a thing of gossamer that a touch would spoil. She was so white in her low-cut frock; all so white save for a little glow on the cheeks that excitement and pleasure brought, save for the brightness of her hair in the soft candle light, save for the dark blue eyes which seemed to keep watch and ward over her hidden thoughts. Yes, she was--why, she was good enough for Harry--good enough for Harry Belfield himself! And he, Andy, Harry's faithful follower and worshipper, would worship her too, if she would let him (Harry, he knew, would), if she would not be afraid of him, not dislike him or shrink from him. That was all he asked, having in his mind not only a bashful consciousness of his rude strength and massive frame--they seemed almost threatening beside her delicacy--but also a haunting recollection that she could not endure such a number of things, including butchers' shops. No thought for himself, no thought of trying to rival Harry, so much as crossed his mind. If it had, it would have been banished as rank treachery; but it could not, for the simple reason that his attitude towards Harry made such an idea utterly foreign to his thoughts. He was not asking, as Isobel Vintry had asked that afternoon, why he might not have his chance. It was not the way of his nature to put forward claims for himself--and, above all, claims that conflicted with Harry's claims. The bare notion was to him impossible. He sat by her, but for some time she gave herself wholly to listening to Harry, who had found, on getting home, a letter from Billy Foot, full of the latest political gossip from town. But presently, the conversation drifting into depths of politics where she could not follow, she turned to Andy and said, "I'm getting on much better with Curly. I pat him now!" "That's right. It's only his fun." "People's fun is sometimes the worst thing about them." "Well now, that's true," Andy acknowledged, rather surprised to hear the remark from her. "But I am getting on much better. And--well, rather better at riding." She smiled at him in confidence. "And nobody's said anything about swimming. Do you know, when I feel myself inclined to get frightened, I think about you!" "Do you find it helps?" asked Andy, much amused and rather pleased. "Yes, it's like thinking of a policeman in the middle of the night." "I suppose I do look rather like a policeman," said Andy reflectively. "Yes, you do! That's it, I think." The vague "it" seemed to signify the explanation of the confidence Andy inspired. "And how about dust and dirt, and getting very hot?" he inquired. "Isobel says I'm a bit better about courage, but not the least about fastidiousness." "Fastidiousness suits some people, Miss Wellgood." "It doesn't suit father, not in me," she murmured with a woeful smile. "Doesn't thinking about me help you there? On the same principle it ought to." "It doesn't," she murmured, with a trace of confusion, and suddenly her eyes went blank. Something was in her thoughts that she did not want Andy to see. Was it the butcher's shop? Andy's wits were not quick enough to ask the question; but he saw that her confidential mood had suffered a check. Her confidence had been very pleasant, but there were other things to listen to at the table. Andy was heart-whole and intellectually voracious. They, the rest of the company, had begun on politics--imperial politics--and had discussed them not without some friction. No Radical was present--_Procul, O procul este, profani!_--but Wellgood had the perversities of his anti-sentimental attitude. A Tory at home, why was he to be a democrat--or a Socialist--at the Antipodes? Competition and self-interest were the golden rule in England; was there to be another between England and her colonies? The tie of blood--one flag, one crown, one destiny--Wellgood suspected his bugbear in every one of these cries. Nothing for nothing--and for sixpence no more than the coin was worth--with a preference for five penn'orth if you could get out of it at that! He stood steady on his firmly-rooted narrow foundation. All of Harry was on fire against him. Was blood nothing--race, colour, memories, associations, the Flag, the Crown, and the Destiny? A destiny to rule, or at least to manage, the planet! Mother and Daughters--nothing in that? Things were getting hot, and the ladies, who always like to look on at the men fighting, much interested. Mr. Belfield, himself no politician, rather a student of human nature and addicted to the Socratic attitude (so justly vexatious to practical men who have to do something, good, bad, or if not better, at least more plausible, than nothing) interposed a suggestion. "Mother and daughters? Hasn't husband and wives become a more appropriate parallel?" He smiled across the table at his own wife. "No personal reference, my dear! But an attitude of independence, without any particular desire to pay the bills? Oh, I'm only asking questions!" Andy was listening hard now. So was Vivien, for she saw Harry's eyes alight and his mouth eager to utter truths that should save the nation. "If we could reach," said Harry, marvellously handsome, somewhat rhetorical for a small party, "if only we could once reach a true understanding between ourselves and the self-governing--" "Oh, but that's going beyond my parallel, my dear boy," his father interrupted. "If marriage demanded mutual understanding, what man or woman could risk it with eyes open?" "Doesn't it?" Isobel Vintry was the questioner. "Heavens, no, my dear Miss Vintry! Something much less, something much less fundamentally impossible. A good temper and a bad memory, that's all!" "Well done, pater!" cried Harry, readily switched off from his heated enthusiasm. "Which for the husband, which for the wife?" "Both for both, Harry. Toleration to-day, and an unlimited power of oblivion to-morrow." "What nonsense you're talking, dear," placidly smiled Mrs. Belfield. "I'm exactly defining your own characteristics," he replied. "If you do that to a woman, she always says you're talking nonsense." "An unlimited supply of the water of Lethe, pater? That does it?" "That's about it, Harry. If you mix it with a little sound Scotch whisky before you go to bed--" Andy burst into a good guffaw; the kindly mocking humour pleased him. Vivien was alert too; there was nothing to frighten, much to enjoy; the glow deepened on her cheeks. But Wellgood was not content; he was baulked of his argument, of his fight. "We've wandered from the point," he said dourly. ("As if wanderings were not the best things in the world!" thought more than one of the party, more or less explicitly.) "We give, they take." He was back to the United Kingdom and the Colonies. "Could anything be more nicely exact to my parallel?" asked Belfield, socratically smiling. "Did you ever know a marriage where each partner didn't say, 'I give, you take'? Some add that they're content with the arrangement, others don't." "Pater, you always mix up different things," Harry protested, laughing. "I'm always trying to find out whether there are any different things, Harry." He smiled at his son. "Wives, that's what they are! And several of them! Harry, we're in for all the difficulties of polygamy! A preference to one--oh no, I'm not spelling it with a big P! But--well, the ladies ought to be able to help us here. Could you share a heart, Miss Vintry?" Isobel's white was relieved with gold trimmings; she looked sumptuous. "I shouldn't like it," she answered. "What has all this got to do with the practical problem?" Wellgood demanded. "Our trade with the Colonies is no more than thirty per cent--" "I agree with you, Mr. Wellgood. The gentlemen had much better have kept to their politics," Mrs. Belfield interposed with suave placidity. "They understand them. When they begin to talk about women--" "Need of Lethe--whisky and Lethe-water!" chuckled Harry. "In a large glass, eh, Andy?" Wellgood turned suddenly on Andy. "You've lived in Canada. What do you say?" Andy had been far too much occupied in listening. Besides, he was no politician. He thought deeply for a moment. "A lot depends on whether you want to buy or to sell." He delivered himself of this truth quite solemnly. "A very far-reaching observation," said Mr. Belfield. "Goes to the root of human traffic, and, quite possibly, to that of both the institutions which we have been discussing. I wonder whether either will be permanent!" "Look here, pater, we're at dessert! Aren't you starting rather big subjects?" "Your father likes to amuse himself with curious ideas," Mrs. Belfield remarked. "So did my father; he once asked me what I thought would happen if I didn't say my prayers. Men like to ask questions like that, but I never pay much attention to them. Shall we go into the drawing-room, Vivien? It may be warm enough for a turn in the garden, perhaps." She addressed the men. "Bring your cigars and try." The men were left alone. "The garden would be jolly," said Harry. Mr. Belfield coughed, and suddenly wheezed. "Intimations of mortality!" he said apologetically. "We've talked of a variety of subjects--to little purpose, I suppose. But it's entertaining to survey the field of humanity. Your views were briefly expressed, Hayes." "Everybody else was talking such a lot, sir," said Andy. Belfield's humorous laugh was entangled in a cough. "You'll never get that obstacle out of the way of your oratory," he managed to stutter out. "They always are! Talk rules the world--eh, Wellgood?" He was maliciously provocative. "We wait till they've finished talking. Then we do what we want," said Wellgood. "Force rules in the end--the readiness to kill and be killed. That's the _ultima ratio_, the final argument." "The women say that's out of date." "The women!" exclaimed Wellgood contemptuously. "They'll be in the garden," Harry opined. "Shall we move, pater?" "We might as well," said Belfield. "Are you ready, Wellgood?" Wellgood was ready--in spite of his contempt. Chapter VI. THE WORLDS OF MERITON. The garden at Halton was a pleasant place on a fine evening, with a moon waxing, yet not obtrusively full, with billowing shrubberies, clear-cut walks, lawns spreading in a gentle drabness that would be bright green in to-morrow's sun--a place pleasant in its calm, its spaciousness and isolation. They all sat together in a ring for a while; smoke curled up; a servant brought glasses that clinked as they were set down with a cheery, yet not urgent, suggestion. "I suppose you're right to go in for it," said Wellgood to Harry. "It's your obvious line." (He was referring to a public career.) "But, after all, it's casting pearls before swine." "Swine!" The note of exclamation was large. "Our masters, Mr. Wellgood!" "A decent allowance of bran, and a ring through their noses--that's the thing for them!" "Has anybody got a copy--well, another copy of 'Coriolanus'?" Harry inquired in an affectation of eagerness. "Casting pearls before swine is bad business, of course," said Belfield in his husky voice--he was really unwise to be out of doors at all; "but there are degrees of badness. If your pearls are indifferent as pearls, and your swine admirable as swine? And that's often the truth of it." "My husband is sometimes perverse in his talk, my dear," said Mrs. Belfield, aside to Vivien, to whom she was being very kind. "You needn't notice what he says." "He's rather amusing," Vivien ventured, not quite sure whether the adjective were respectful enough. "Andy, pronounce!" cried Harry Belfield; for his friend sat in his usual meditative absorbing silence. "If I had to, I'd like to say a word from the point of view of the--swine." Had the moon been stronger, he might have been seen to blush. "I don't want to be--oh, well, serious. That's rot, I know--after dinner. But--well, you're all in it--insiders--I'm an outsider. And I say that what the swine want is--pearls!" "If we've got them?" The question, or insinuation, was Belfield's. He was looking at Andy with a real, if an only half-serious, interest. "Swine are swine," remarked Wellgood. "They mustn't forget it. Neither must we." "But pearls by no means always pearls?" Belfield suggested. "Though they may look the real thing if a pretty woman hangs them round her neck." Their talk went only for an embellishment of their general state--so comfortable, so serene, so exceptionally fortunate. Were not they pearls? Andy had seen something of the swine, had perhaps even been one of them. A vague protest stirred in him; were they not too serene, too comfortable, too fortunate? Yet he loved it all; it was beautiful. How many uglies go to make one beautiful? It is a bit of social arithmetic. When you have got the result, the deduction may well seem difficult. "It doesn't much matter whether they're real or not, if a really pretty woman hangs them round her neck," Harry laughed. "The neck carries the pearls!" "But we'd all rather they were real," said Isobel Vintry suddenly, the first of the women to intervene. "Other women guess, you see." "Does it hurt so much if they do?" Belfield asked. "The only thing that really does hurt," Isobel assured him, smiling. "Oh, my dear, how disproportionate!" sighed Mrs. Belfield. "I'd never have anything false about me--pearls, or lace, or hair, or--or anything about me," exclaimed Vivien. "I should hate it!" Feeling carried her into sudden unexpected speech. Very gradually, very tentatively, Andy was finding himself able to speak in this sort of company, to speak as an equal to equals, not socially only, but in an intellectual regard. "Riches seem to me all wrong, but what they produce, leaving out the wasters, all right." He let it out, apprehensive of a censuring silence. Belfield relieved him in a minute. "I'm with you. I always admire most the things to which I'm on principle opposed--a melancholy state of one's mental interior! Kings, lords, and bishops--crowns, coronets, and aprons--all very attractive and picturesque!" "We all know that the governor's a crypto-Radical," said Harry. "I thought Carlyle, among others, had taught that we were all Radicals when in our pyjamas--or less," said Belfield. "But that's not the point. The excellence of things that are wrong, the narrowness of the moral view!" "My dear! Oh, well, my dear!" murmured Mrs. Belfield. "I've got a touch of asthma--I must say what I like." Belfield humorously traded on his infirmity. "A dishonest fellow who won't pay his tradesmen, a flirtatious minx who will make mischief, a spoilt urchin who insists on doing what he shouldn't--all rather attractive, aren't they? If everybody behaved properly we should have no 'situations.' What would become of literature and the drama?" "And if nobody had any spare cash, what would become of them, either?" asked Harry. "Well, we could do with a good deal less of them. I'll go so far as to admit that," said Wellgood. Belfield laughed. "Even from Wellgood we've extracted one plea for the redistribution of wealth. A dialectical triumph! Let's leave it at that." Mrs. Belfield carried her husband off indoors; Wellgood went with them, challenging his host to a game of bezique; Harry invited Vivien to a stroll; Isobel Vintry and Andy were left together. She asked him a sudden question: "Do you think Harry Belfield a selfish man?" "Selfish! Harry? Heavens, no! He'd do anything for his friends." "I don't mean quite in that way. I daresay he would--and, of course, he's too well-mannered to be selfish about trifles. But I suppose even to ask questions about him is treason to you?" "Oh, well, a little bit," laughed Andy. "I'm an old follower, you see!" "Yes, and he thinks it natural you should be," she suggested quickly. "Well, if it is natural, why shouldn't he think so?" "It seems natural to him that he should always come first, and--and have the pick of things." "You mean he's spoilt? According to his father, that makes him more attractive." "Yes, I'm not saying it doesn't do that. Only--do you never mind it? Never mind playing second fiddle?" "Second fiddle seems rather a high position. I hardly reckon myself in the orchestra at all," he laughed. "You remember--I'm accustomed to following the hunt on foot." "While Harry Belfield rides! Yes! Vivien rides too--and doesn't like it!" She was bending forward in her chair, handsome, sumptuous in her white and gold (Wellgood had made her a present the quarter-day before), with her smile very bitter. The smile told that she spoke with a meaning more than literal. Andy surveyed, at his leisure, possible metaphorical bearings. "Oh yes, I think I see," he announced, after an interval fully perceptible. "You mean she doesn't really appreciate her advantages? By riding you mean--?" "Oh, really, Mr. Hayes!" She broke into vexed amused laughter. "I mustn't try it any more with you," she declared. "But I shall understand if you give me time to think it over," Andy protested. "Don't rush me, that's all, Miss Vintry." "As if I could rush any one or anything!" she said, handsome still, now handsomely despairing. To Andy she was a problem, needing time to think over; to Wellgood she was a postulate, assumed not proved, yet assumed to be proved; to Harry she was--save for that subtle momentary feeling on the terrace by the lake--Vivien's companion. She wanted to be something other than any of these. Follow the hounds on foot? She would know what it was to ride! Know and not like--in Vivien's fashion? Andy, slowly digesting, saw her lips curve in that bitter smile again. From a path near by, yet secluded behind a thick trim hedge of yew, there sounded a girl's nervous flutter of a laugh, a young man's exultant merriment. Harry and Vivien, not far away, seemed the space of a world apart--to Isobel; Andy was normally conscious that they were not more than twenty yards off, and almost within hearing if they spoke. But he had been getting at Isobel's meaning--slowly and surely. "Being able to ride--having the opportunity--and not caring--that's pearls before--?" "I congratulate you, Mr. Hayes. I can imagine you making a very good speech--after the election is over!" Andy laughed heartily, leaning back in his chair. "That's jolly good, Miss Vintry!" he said. "Ten minutes after the poll closed you'd begin to persuade the electors!" She spoke rather lower. "Ten minutes after a girl had taken another man, you'd--" "Give me time! I've never thought about myself like that," cried Andy. No more sounds from the path behind the yew hedge. She was impatient with Andy--would Harry never come back from that path? He came back the next moment--he and Vivien. Vivien's face was a confession, Harry's air a self-congratulation. "I hope you've been making yourself amusing, Andy?" asked Harry. His tone conveyed a touch of amusement at the idea of Andy being amusing. "Miss Vintry's been pitching into me like anything," said Andy, smiling broadly. "She says I'm always a day after the fair. I'm going to think it over--and try to get a move on." His good-nature, his simplicity, his serious intention to attempt self-improvement, tickled Harry intensely. Why, probably Isobel had wanted to flirt, and Andy had failed to play up to her! He burst into a laugh; Vivien's laugh followed as an applauding echo. "A lecture, was it, Miss Vintry?" Harry asked in banter. "I could give you one too," said Isobel, colouring a little. "She gives me plenty!" Vivien remarked, with a solemnly comic shake of her head. "It's my business in life," said Isobel. Just for a second Harry looked at her; an impish smile was on his lips. Did she think that, was she honest about it? Or was she provocative? It crossed Harry's mind--past experiences facilitating the transit of the idea--that she might be saying to him, "Is that all a young woman of my looks is good for? To give lectures?" "You shall give me one at the earliest opportunity, if you'll be so kind," he laughed, his eyes boldly conveying that he would enjoy the lesson. Vivien laughed again; it was great fun to see Harry chaffing Isobel! She liked Isobel, but was in awe of her. Had not Isobel all the difficult virtues which it was her own woeful task to learn? But Harry could chaff her--Harry could do anything. "If I do, I'll teach you something you don't know, Mr. Harry," Isobel said, letting her eyes meet his with a boldness equal to his own. Again that subtle feeling touched him, as it had on the terrace by the lake. "I'm ready to learn my lesson," he assured her, with a challenging gleam in his eye. She nodded rather scornfully, but accepting his challenge. There was a last bit of by-play between their eyes. "It's really time to go, if Mr. Wellgood has finished his game," said Isobel, rising. The insinuation of the words, the by-play of the eyes, had passed over Vivien's head and outside the limits of Andy's perspicacity. To both of them the bandying of words was but chaff; by both the exchange of glances went unmarked. Well, the whole thing was no more than chaff to Harry himself; such chaff as he was very good at, a practised hand--and not ignorant of why the chaff was pleasant. And Isobel? Oh yes, she knew! Harry was amused to find this knowledge in Vivien's companion--this provocation, this freemasonry of flirtation. Poor old Andy had, of course, seen none of it! Well, perhaps it needed a bit of experience--besides the temperament. Indoors, farewell was soon said--hours ruled early at Meriton. Soon said, yet not without some significance in the saying. Mrs. Belfield was openly affectionate to Vivien, and Belfield paternal in a courtly way; Harry very devoted to the same young lady, yet with a challenging "aside" of his eyes for Isobel; Andy brimming over with a vain effort to express adequately but without gush his thanks for the evening. Belfield, being two pounds the better of Wellgood over their bezique, was in more than his usual good-temper--it was spiced with malice, for the defeat of Wellgood (a bad loser) counted for more than the forty shillings--and gave Andy his hand and a pat on the back. "It's not often one has to tell a man not to undervalue himself," he remarked. "But I fancy I might say that to you. Well, I'm no prophet; but at any rate be sure you're always welcome at this house for your own sake, as well as for Harry's." Getting into the carriage with Isobel and her father, Vivien felt like going back to school. But in all likelihood she would see Harry's eyes again to-morrow. She did not forget to give a kindly glance to solid Andy Hayes--not exciting, nor bewildering, nor inflaming (as another was!), but somehow comforting and reassuring to think of. She sat down on the narrow seat, fronting her father and Isobel. Yes--but school wouldn't last much longer! And after school? Ineffable heaven! Being with Harry, loving Harry, being loved by--? That vaulting imagination seemed still almost--nay, it seemed quite--impossible. Yet if your own eyes assure you of things impossible--well, there's a good case for believing your eyes, and the belief is pleasant. Wellgood sore over his two pounds, Isobel dissatisfied with fate but challenging it, sat silent. The young girl's lips curved in sweet memories and triumphant anticipations. The best thing in the world--was it actually to be hers? Almost she knew it, though she would not own to the knowledge yet. Happy was she in the handkerchief flung by her hero! Happy was Harry Belfield in the ready devotion, the innocent happy surrender, of one girl, and the vexed challenge of another whom he had--whom he had at least meant to ignore; he could never answer for it that he would quite ignore a woman who displayed such a challenge in the lists of sex. But there was a happier being still among those who left Halton that night. It was Andy Hayes, before whom life had opened so, who had enjoyed such a wonderful day-off, who had been told not to undervalue himself, had been reproached with being a day after the fair, had undergone (as it seemed) an initiation into a life of which he had hardly dreamt, yet of which he appeared, in that one summer's day, to have been accepted as a part. Yes, Andy was on the whole the happiest--happier even than Harry, to whom content, triumph, and challenge were all too habitual; happier even than Vivien, who had still some schooling to endure, still some of love's finicking doubts, some of hope's artificially prudent incredulity, to overcome; beyond doubt happier than Wellgood, who had lost two pounds, or Isobel Vintry, who had challenged and had been told that her challenge should be taken up--some day! Mrs. Belfield was intent on sleeping well, as she always did; Mr. Belfield on not coughing too much--as he generally did. They were not competitors in happiness. Andy walked home. Halton lay half a mile outside the town; his lodgings were at the far end of High Street. All through the long, broad, familiar street--in old days he had known who lived in well-nigh every house--his road lay. He walked home under the stars. The day had been wonderful; they who had figured in it peopled his brain--delicate dainty Vivien first; with her, brilliant Harry; that puzzling Miss Vintry; Mr. Belfield, who talked so whimsically and had told him not to undervalue himself; Wellgood, grim, hard, merciless, yet somehow with the stamp of a man about him; Mrs. Belfield serenely matching with her house, her Vandykes, her garden, and the situation to which it had pleased Heaven to call her. Soberly now--soberly now--had he ever expected to be a part of all this? High Street lay dark and quiet. It was eleven o'clock. He passed the old grammar school with a thought of the dear old father--B.A. Oxon, which had something to do with his wonderful day. He passed the Lion, where "the Bird" officiated, and Mr. Foulkes' office, where "Chinks" aspired to become "gentleman, one etc."--so runs the formula that gives a solicitor his status. All dark! Now if by chance Jack Rock were up, and willing to listen to a little honest triumphing! It had been a day to talk about. Yes, Jack was up; his parlour lights glowed cosily behind red blinds. Yet Andy was not to have a clear field for the recital of his adventures; it was no moment for an exhibition of his honest pride, based on an unimpaired humility. Jack Rock had a party. The table was furnished with beer, whisky, gin, tobacco, and clay pipes. Round it sat old friends--Chinks and the Bird; the Bird's father, Mr. Dove, landlord of the Lion; and Cox, the veterinary surgeon. After the labours of the week they were having a little "fling" on Saturday night--convivially, yet in all reasonable temperance. The elder men--Jack, Mr. Dove, and Cox--greeted Andy with intimate and affectionate cordiality; a certain constraint marked the manner of Chinks and the Bird--they could not forget the afternoon's encounter. His evening coat too, and his shirt-front! Everybody marked them; but they had a notion that he might have caught that habit in London. Andy's welcome over, Mr. Dove of the Lion took up his tale at the point at which he had left it. Mr. Dove had not Jack Rock's education--he had never been at the grammar school but he was a shrewd sensible old fellow, who prided himself on the respectability of his "house" and felt his responsibilities as a publican without being too fond of the folk who were always dinning them into his ears. "I says to the girl, 'We don't want no carryings-on at the Lion.' That's what I says, Jack. She says, 'That wasn't nothing, Mr. Dove--only a give and take o' nonsense. The bar between us too! W'ere's the 'arm?' 'I don't like it, Miss Miles,' I says, 'I don't like it, that's all.' 'Oh, very good, Mr. Dove! You're master 'ere, o' course; only, if you won't 'ave that, you won't keep up your takings, that's all!' That's the way she put it, Jack." "Bit of truth in it, perhaps," Jack opined. "There's a lot of truth in it," said the Bird solemnly. "Fellers like to show off before a good-looking girl--whether she's behind a bar or whether she ain't." "If there never 'adn't been barmaids, I wouldn't be the one to begin it," said Mr. Dove. "I knows its difficulties. But there they are--all them nice girls bred to it! What are ye to do with 'em, Jack?" "A drink doesn't taste any worse for being 'anded--handed--to you by a pretty girl," said Chinks with a knowing chuckle. "Then you give 'er one--then you stand me one--then you 'ave another yourself--just to say 'Blow the expense!' Oh, the girl knew the way of it--I ain't saying she didn't!" Mr. Dove smoked fast, evidently puzzled in his mind. "And she's a good girl 'erself too, ain't she, Tom?" Tom blushed--blushed very visibly. Miss Miles was not a subject of indifference to the Bird. "She's very civil-spoken," he mumbled shamefacedly. "That she is--and a fine figure of a girl too," added Jack Rock. "Know her, Andy?" Well, no! Andy did not know her; he felt profoundly apologetic. Miss Miles was evidently a person whom one ought to know, if one would be in the world of Meriton. The world of Meriton? It came home to him that there was more than one. Mr. Cox was a man who listened--in that respect rather like Andy himself; but, when he did speak, he was in the habit of giving a verdict, therein deviating from Andy's humble way. "Barmaids oughtn't to a' come into existence," he said. "Being there, they're best left--under supervision." He nodded at old Dove, as though to say, "You won't get any further than that if you talk all night," and put his pipe back into his mouth. "The doctor's right, I daresay," said old Dove in a tone of relief. It is always something of a comfort to be told that one's problems are insoluble; the obligation of trying to solve them is thereby removed. Jack accepted this ending to the discussion. "And what have you been doing with yourself, Andy?" he asked. Andy found a curious difficulty in answering. Tea and tennis at Nutley, dinner at Halton--it seemed impossible to speak the words without self-consciousness. He felt that Chinks and the Bird had their eyes on him. "Been at work all the week, Jack. Had a day-off to-day." Luckily Jack fastened on the first part of his answer. He turned a keen glance on Andy. "Business doin' well?" "Not particularly," Andy confessed. "It's a bit hard for a new-comer to establish a connection." "You're right there, Andy," commented old Mr. Dove, serenely happy in the knowledge of an ancient and good connection attaching to the Lion. "Oh, not particularly well?" Jack nodded with an air of what looked like satisfaction, though it would not be kind to Andy to be satisfied. "Playing lawn-tennis at Nutley, weren't you?" asked Chinks suddenly. All faces turned to Andy. "Yes, I was, Chinks," he said. "Half expected you to supper, Andy," said Jack Rock. "Sorry, Jack. I would have come if I'd been free. But--" "Well, where were you?" There was no help for it. "I was dining out, Jack." Andy's tone became as airy as he could make it, as careless, as natural. His effort in this kind was not a great success. "Harry Belfield asked me to Halton." A short silence followed. They were good fellows, one and all of them; nobody had a jibe for him; the envy, if envy there were, was even as his own for Harry Belfield. Cox looked round and raised his glass. "'Ere's to you, Andy! You went to the war, you went to foreign parts. If you've learned a bit and got on a bit, nobody in Meriton's goin' to grudge it you--least of all them as knew your good father, who was a gentleman if ever there was one--and I've known some of the best, consequent on my business layin' mainly with 'orses." "Dined at Halton, did you?" Old Jack Rock beamed, then suddenly grew thoughtful. "Well, of course, I've always known Harry Belfield, and--" He was apologizing. "The old gentleman used to dine there--once a year reg'lar," Jack reminded him. "Quite right of 'em to keep it up with you." But still Jack looked thoughtful. Eleven-thirty sounded from the squat tower of the long low church which presided over the west end--the Fyfold end--of High Street. Old Cox knocked out his pipe decisively. "Bedtime!" he pronounced. Nobody contested the verdict. Only across Andy's mind flitted an outlandish memory that it was the hour at which one sat down to supper at the great restaurant--with Harry, the Nun, sardonic Miss Dutton, Billy Foot, and London at large--and at liberty. "You stop a bit, my lad," said Jack with affection, also with a touch of old-time authority. "I've something to say to you, Andy." Andy stayed willingly enough; he liked Jack, and he was loth to end that day. Jack filled and pressed, lit, pressed, and lit again, a fresh clay pipe. "You like all that sort of thing, Andy?" he asked. "Oh, you know what I mean--what you've been doin' to-day." "Yes, I like it, Jack." Andy saw that his dear old friend--dear Nancy's brother--had something of moment on his mind. "But it don't count in the end. It's not business, Andy." Jack's tone had become, suddenly and strangely, persuasive, reasonably persuasive--almost what one might call coaxing. "I've never considered it in the light of business, Jack." "Don't let it turn you from business, Andy. You said the timber was worth about two hundred a year to you?" "About that; it'll be more--or less--before I'm six months older. It's sink or swim, you know." "You've no call to sink," said Jack Rock with emphasis. "Your father's son ain't goin' to sink while Jack Rock can throw a lifebelt to him." "I know, Jack. I'd ask you for half your last crust, and you'd soak it in milk for me as you used to--if you had to steal the milk! But--well, what's up?" "I'm gettin' on in life, boy. I've enough to do with the horses. I do uncommon well with the horses. I've a mind to give myself to that. Not but what I like the meat. Still I've a mind to give myself to the horses. The meat's worth--Oh, I'll surprise you, Andy, and don't let it go outside o' this room--the meat's worth nigh on five hundred a year! Aye, nigh on that! The chilled meat don't touch me much, nor the London stores neither. Year in, year out, nigh on five hundred! Nancy loved you; the old gentleman never said a word as showed he knew a difference between me and him. Though he must have known it. I'm all alone, Andy. While I can I'll keep the horses--Lord, I love the horses! You drop your timber. Take over the meat, Andy. You're a learnin' chap; you'll soon pick it up from me and Simpson. Take over the meat, Andy. It's a safe five hundred a year!" So he pleaded to have his great benefaction accepted. He had meant to give in a manner perhaps somewhat magnificent; what he gave was to him great. The news of tea and tennis at Nutley, of dinner at Halton, induced a new note. Proud still, yet he pleaded. It was a fine business--the meat! Nor chilled meat, nor stores mattered seriously; his connection was so high-class. Five hundred a year! It was luxury, position, importance; it was all these in Meriton. His eyes waited anxiously for Andy's answer. Andy caught his hand across the table. "Dear old Jack, how splendid of you!" "Well, lad?" For the life of him Andy could say nothing more adequate, nothing less disappointing, less ungrateful, than "I'd like to think it over. And thanks, Jack!" Chapter VII. ENTERING FOR THE RACE. Andy Hayes had never supposed that he would be the victim of a problem, or exposed to the necessity of a momentous choice. Life had hitherto been very simple to him--doing his work, taking his pay, spending the money frugally and to the best advantage, sparing a small percentage for the Savings Bank, and reconciling with this programme the keen enjoyment of such leisure hours as fell to his lot. A reasonable, wholesome, manageable scheme of life! Or, rather, not a scheme at all--Andy was no schemer. That was the way life came--the way an average man saw it and accepted it. From first to last he never lost the conception of himself as an average man, having his capabilities, yet strictly conditioned by the limits of the practicable; free in his soul, by no means perfectly free in his activities. Andy never thought in terms of "environment" or such big words, but he always had a strong sense of what a fellow like himself could expect; the two phrases may, perhaps, come to much the same thing. In South Africa he had achieved his sergeant's stripes--not a commission, nor the Victoria Cross, nor anything brilliant. In Canada he had not become a millionaire, nor even a prosperous man or a dashing speculator; he had been thought a capable young fellow, who would, perhaps, be equal to developing the English side of the business. Andy might be justified in holding himself no fool: he had no ground for higher claims, no warrant for anything like ambition. Thus unaccustomed to problems, he had expected to toss uneasily (he had read of many heroes who "tossed uneasily") on his bed all night through. Lawn-tennis and a good dinner saved him from that romantic but uncomfortable ordeal; he slept profoundly till eight-thirty. Just before he was called--probably between his landlady's knock and her remark that it was eight-fifteen (she was late herself)--he had a brief vivid dream of selling a very red joint of beef to a very pallid Vivien Wellgood--a fantastic freak of the imagination which could have nothing to do with the grave matter in hand. Yet, on the top of this, as he lay abed awhile in the leisure of Sunday morning, with no train to catch, he remembered his father's B.A. Oxon; he recalled his mother's unvarying designation of old Jack as "the butcher;" he recollected Nancy's pride in marrying "out of her class"--it had been her own phrase, sometimes in boast, sometimes in apology. Though Nancy had a dowry of a hundred pounds a year--charged on the business, and now returned to Jack Rock since Nancy left no children--she never forgot that she had married out of her class. And into his father's? And into his own? "I'm a snob!" groaned Andy. He grew a little drowsy again, and in his drowsiness again played tennis at Nutley, again dined at Halton, again saw Vivien in the butcher's shop, and again was told by Mr. Belfield not to undervalue himself. But is to take nigh on five hundred pounds a year to undervalue yourself--you who are making a precarious two? And where lies the difference between selling wood and selling meat--wood from Canada and meat in Meriton? Andy's broad conception of the world told him that there was none; his narrow observation of the same sphere convinced him that the difference was, in its practical bearings, considerable. Nay, confine yourself to meat alone: was there no difference between importing cargoes of that questionable "chilled" article and disposing of joints of unquestionable "home-bred" over the counter? All the argument was for the home-bred. But to sell the home-bred joints one wore a blue apron and carried a knife and a steel--or, at all events, smacked of doing these things; whereas the wholesale cargoes of "chilled" involved no such implements or associations. Once again, Canada was Canada, New Zealand New Zealand, Meriton Meriton. With these considerations mingled two pictures--dinner at Halton, and Jack Rock's convivial party. "I'll get up," said Andy, too sore beset by his problem to lie abed any more. Church! The bells rang almost as soon as Andy--he had dawdled and lounged over dressing and breakfast in Sunday's beneficent leisure--was equipped for the day. In Meriton everybody went to Church, except an insignificant, tolerated, almost derided minority who frequented a very small, very ugly Methodist chapel in a by-street--for towns like Meriton are among the best preserves of the Establishment. Andy always went to church on a Sunday morning, answering the roll-call, attending parade, accepting the fruits of his fathers' wisdom, as his custom was. "Church, and a slice of that cold beef, and then a jolly long walk!" he said to himself. He had a notion that this typical English Sunday--the relative value of whose constituents he did not, and we need not, exactly assess--might help him to settle his problem. The cold beef and the long walk made part of the day's character--the "Church" completed it. This was Andy's feeling; it is not, of course, put forward as what he ought to have felt. So Andy went to church--in a cut-away coat and a tall hat, though it drizzled, and he would sooner have been in a felt hat, impervious to the rain. He sat just half-way down the nave, and it must be confessed that his attention wandered. He had such a very important thing to settle in this world; it would not go out of his mind, though he strove to address himself to the issues which the service suggested. He laboured under the disadvantage of not being conscious of flagrant iniquity, though he duly confessed himself a miserable offender. He looked round on the neighbours he knew so well; they were all confessing that they were miserable offenders. Andy believed it--it was in the book--but he considered most of them to be good and honest people, and he was almost glad to see that they did not look hopelessly distressed over their situation. The First Lesson caught and chained his wandering attention. It was about David and Jonathan; it contained the beautiful lament of friend for friend, the dirge of a brotherly love. The Rector's voice was rather sing-song, but it would have needed a worse delivery to spoil the words: "How are the mighty fallen in the midst of the battle! O Jonathan, thou wast slain in thine high places! I am distressed for thee, my brother Jonathan: very pleasant hast thou been unto me; thy love for me was wonderful, passing the love of women. How are the mighty fallen and the weapons of war perished!" Thus ended the song, so rich in splendour, so charged with sorrow. "Clinking!" was Andy's inward comment. Then in a flash came the thought, "Why, of course, I must ask Harry Belfield; he'll tell me what to do all right." The reference of his problem to Harry ought to have disposed of it for good, and left Andy free to perform his devotions with a single mind. But it only set him wondering what Harry would decide, wondering hard and--there was no escaping from it--jealously. His service in the ranks, his residence in communities at least professedly democratic, had not made him a thorough democrat, it seemed. He might have acquired the side of democracy the easier of the two to acquire; he might be ready to call any man his equal, whatever his station or his work. He stumbled at the harder task of seeing himself, whatever his work or station, as any man's equal--at claiming or assuming, not at according, equality. And in Meriton! To claim or assume equality with any and every man in Meriton would, if he accepted Jack Rock's offer, be to court ridicule from equals and unequals all alike, and most of all from his admitted inferiors. Surely Harry would never send him to the butcher's shop? That would mean that Harry thought of him (for all his kindness) as of Chinks or of the Bird. Could he risk discovering that, after all, Harry--and Harry's friends--thought of him like that? A sore pang struck him. Had he been at Nutley--at Halton--only on sufferance? He had an idea that Harry would send him to the butcher's shop--would do the thing ever so kindly, ever so considerately, but all the same would do it. "Well, it's the safe thing, isn't it, old chap?" he fancied Harry saying; and then returning to his own high ambitions, and being thereafter very friendly--whenever he chanced to pass the shop. Andy never deceived himself as to the quality of Harry's friendship: it lay, at the most, in appreciative acceptance of unbounded affection. It was not like Jonathan's for David. Andy was content. And must not acceptance, after all, breed some return? For whatever return came he was grateful. In this sphere there was no room even for theories of equality, let alone for its practice. For some little time back Andy had been surprised to observe a certain attribute of his own--that of pretty often turning out right. He accounted for it by saying that an average man, judging of average men and things, would fairly often be right--on an average; men would do what he expected, things would go as he expected--on an average. Such discernment as was implied in this Andy felt as no endowment, no clairvoyance; rather it was that his limitations qualified him to appreciate other people's. He would have liked to feel able to except Harry Belfield who should have no limitations--only he felt terribly sure of what Harry Belfield would say: Safety, and the shop! By this time the church service was ended, the cold beef eaten, most of the long walk achieved. For while these things went straight on to an end, Andy's thoughts rolled round and round, like a squirrel in a cage. "A man's only got one life," Andy was thinking to himself for the hundredth time as, having done his fifteen miles, he came opposite the entry to Nutley on his way home after his walk. What a lot of thoughts and memories there had been on that walk! Walking alone, a man is the victim--or the beneficiary--of any number of stray recollections, ideas, or fancies. He had even thought of--and smiled over--sardonic Miss Dutton's sardonic remark that he was worth ten of either Billy Foot or--Harry Belfield! Well, the poor girl had come one cropper; allowances must be made. Cool, serene, with what might appear to the eyes of less happy people an almost insolently secure possession of fortune's favour, Harry Belfield stood at Nutley gate. Andy, hot and dusty, winced at being seen by him; Harry was so remote from any disarray. Andy's heart leapt at the sight of his friend--and seemed to stand still in the presence of his judge. Because the thing--the problem--must come out directly. There was no more possibility of shirking it. Vivien was flitting--her touch of the ground seemed so light--down the drive, past the deep dark water, to join Harry for a stroll. His invitation to a stroll on that fine still Sunday afternoon had not been given without significance nor received without a thousand tremblings. So it would appear that it was Andy's ill-fortune to interrupt. Harry was smoking. He took his cigar out of his mouth to greet Andy. "Treadmill again, old boy? Getting the fat off?" "You're the one man I wanted to see." Then Andy's face fell; it was an awful moment. "I want to ask your advice." "Look sharp!" said Harry, smiling. "I've an appointment. She'll be here any minute." "Jack Rock's offered to turn the shop over to me, as soon as I learn the business. I say, I--I suppose I ought to accept? He says it's worth hard on five hundred a year. I say, keep that dark; he told me not to tell anybody." "Gad, is it?" said Harry, and whistled softly. Vivien came in sight of him, and walked more slowly, dallying with anticipation. "Splendid of him, isn't it? I say, I suppose I ought to--to think it over?" He had been doing nothing else for what seemed eternity. Harry laughed--that merry irresponsible laugh of his. "Blue suits your complexion, Andy. It seems damned funny--but five hundred a year! Worth that, is it now, really? And he'd probably leave you anything else he has." Silently-flitting Vivien was just behind Harry now. Andy saw her, Harry was unaware of her presence. She laid her finger on her lips, making a confidant of Andy, in her joy at a trick on her lover. "Of course it--well, it sort of defines matters--ties you down, eh?" Harry's laugh broke out again. "Andy, old boy, you'll look infernally funny, pricing joints to old Dove or Miss Pink! Oh, I say, I don't think you can do it, Andy!" "Don't you, Harry?" Andy's tone was eager, beseeching, full of hope. "But I suppose you ought." Harry tried to be grave, and chuckled again. "You'd look it uncommon well, you know. You'd soon develop the figure. Old Jack never has--doesn't look as if his own steaks did him any good. But you--we'd send you to Smithfield in no time!" "What are you two talking about?" asked Vivien suddenly. "Oh, there you are at last! Why, the funniest thing! Old Andy here wants to be a butcher." "I don't want--" Andy began. "A butcher! What nonsense you do talk sometimes, Harry!" She stood by Harry's side, so happy in him, so friendly to Andy. "Fact!" said Harry, and acquainted her with the situation. Vivien blushed red. "I--I'm very sorry I said what--what I did to you. You remember?" "Oh yes, I remember," said Andy. "Of course I--I never knew--I never thought--Of course, somebody must--Oh, do forgive me, Mr. Hayes!" Harry raised his brows in humorous astonishment. "All this is a secret to me." "I--I told Mr. Hayes I didn't like--well--places where they sold meat--raw meat, Harry." "What do you think really, Harry?" Andy asked. Harry shrugged his shoulders. "Your choice, old man," he said. "You've looked at all sides of it, of course. It's getting latish, Vivien." Andy would almost rather have had the verdict which he feared. "Your choice, old man"--and a shrug of the shoulders. Yet his loyalty intervened to tell him that Harry was right. It was his choice, and must be. He found Vivien's eyes on him--those distant, considering eyes. "I suppose you couldn't give me an opinion, Miss Wellgood?" he asked, mustering a smile with some difficulty. Vivien's lips drooped; her eyes grew rather sad and distinctly remote. She gave no judgment; she merely uttered a regret--a regret in which social and personal prejudice (it could not be acquitted of that) struggled with kindliness for Andy. "Oh, I thought you were going to be a friend of ours," she murmured sadly. She gave Andy a mournful little nod of farewell--of final farewell, as it seemed to his agitated mind--and walked off with Harry, who was still looking decidedly amused. That our great crises can have an amusing side even in the eyes of those who wish us well is one of life's painful discoveries. Andy had expected to be told that he must accept Jack Rock's offer, but he had not thought that Harry would chaff him about it. He tried, in justice to Harry and in anxiety not to feel sore with his hero, to see the humorous side for himself. He admitted that he could not. A butcher was no more ridiculous than any other tradesman. Well, the comic papers were rather fond of putting in butchers, for some inscrutable reason. Perhaps Harry happened to think of some funny picture. Could that idea give Andy a rag of comfort to wrap about his wound? The comfort was of indifferent quality; the dressing made the wound smart. He was alone in the road again, gay Harry and dainty Vivien gone, thinking little of him by now, no doubt. Yes, the choice must be his own. On one side lay safety for him and joy for old Jack; on the other a sore blow to Jack, and for himself the risk of looking a sad fool if he came to grief in London. So far the choice appeared easy. But that statement of the case left out everything that really tugged at Andy's heart. For the first time in his existence he was, vaguely and dimly, trying to conceive and to consider his life as a whole, and asking what he meant to do with it. Acutest self-reproach assailed him; he accused himself inwardly of many faults and follies--of ingratitude, of snobbishness, of a ridiculous self-conceit. Wasn't it enough for a chap like him to earn a good living honestly? Oughtn't he to be thankful for the chance? What did he expect anyhow? He was very scornful with himself, fiercely reproving all the new stirrings in him, yet at the same time trying to see what they came to; trying to make out what they, in their turn, asked, what they meant, what would content them. He could not satisfy himself what the stirrings meant nor whence they came. When he asked what would content them he could get only a negative answer; keeping the shop in Meriton would not. In regard neither to what it entailed nor to what it abandoned could the stirrings find contentment in that. He had been walking along slowly and moodily. Suddenly he quickened his pace; his steps became purposeful. He was going to Jack Rock's. Jack would be just having his tea, or smoking the pipe that always followed it. Jack sat in his armchair. Tea was finished, and his pipe already alight. When he saw Andy's face he chuckled. "Ah, that's how I like to see you look, lad!" he exclaimed joyfully. "Not as you did when you went away last night." "Why, how do I look?" asked Andy, amazed at this greeting. "As if you'd just picked up a thousand pound; and so you have, and better than that." All unknown to himself, Andy's face had answered to his feelings--to the sense of escape from bondage, of liberty restored, of possibilities once more within his reach. The renewed lightness of his heart had made his face happy and triumphant. But it fell with a vengeance now. "Well?" asked Jack, to whom the change of expression was bewildering. "I'm sorry--I've never been so sorry in my life--but I--I can't do it, Jack." Jack sat smoking silently for a while. "That was what you were lookin' so happy about, was it?" he asked at last, with a wry smile. "I've never afore seen a man so happy over chuckin' away five hundred a year. Where does the fun come in, Andy?" "O lord, Jack, I can't--I can't tell you about it. I--" "But if it does do you all that good, I suppose you've got to do it." Andy came up to him, holding out his hand. Jack took it and gave it a squeeze. "I reckon I know more about it than you think. I've been goin' over things since last night--and goin' back to old things too--about the old gentleman and Nancy." "It seems so awfully--Lord, it seems everything that's bad and rotten, Jack." "No, it don't," said old Jack quietly. "It's a bit of a facer for me--I tell you that straight--but it don't seem unnatural in you. Only I'm sorry like." "If there was anything in the world I could do, Jack! But there it is--there isn't." "I'm not so sure about that." He was smoking very slowly, and seemed to be thinking hard. Andy lit a cigarette. His joy was quenched in sympathy with Jack. "You've given me a disappointment, Andy. I'm not denyin' it. But there, I can't expect you to feel about the business as I do. Comin' to me from my father, and havin' been the work o' the best years of my life! And no better business in any town of the size o' Meriton all the country through--I'll wager that! No, you can't feel as I do. And you've a right to choose your own life. There's one thing you might do for me, Andy, though." "Well, if there's anything else in the world--" "I loved Nancy better than anybody, and the old gentleman--well, as I've told you, he never let me see a difference. I've got no kin--unless I can call you kin, Andy. If you want to make up for givin' me this bit of--of a facer, as I say, I'll tell you what you can do. There's times in a young chap's life when bein' able to put up a bit o' the ready makes all the difference, eh? If so be as you should find yourself placed like that, I want you to promise to ask me for it. Will you, lad?" Jack's voice faltered for a moment. "No call for you to go back across half the world for it. It's here, waitin' for you in Martin's bank in High Street. If you ever want to enter for an event, let me put up the stakes for you, Andy. Promise me that, and we'll say no more about the shop." Andy was touched to the heart. "I promise. There's my hand on it, Jack." "You'll come to me first--you won't go to any one before me?" old Jack insisted jealously. "I'll come to you first--and last," said Andy. "Aye, lad." The old fellow's eyes gleamed again. "Then it'll be our race. We'll both be in it, won't we, Andy? And if you pass the post first, I shall have a right to throw up my hat. And why shouldn't you? The favourite don't always win." "I'm not expecting to do anything remarkable, Jack. I'm not such a fool as that." "You're no fool, or you'd never have been put to the trouble of refusin' my shop," observed Jack with emphasis. "And in the end I'm not sure but what you're right. I've never tried to rise above where I was born; but I don't know as there's any call for you to step down. I don't know as I did my duty by the old gentleman in temptin' you. I'm not sure he'd have liked it, though he'd have said nothing; he'd never have let me see--not him!" He sighed and smiled over his reverential memories of the old gentleman, yet his eyes twinkled rather maliciously as he said to Andy, "Dinin' at Halton again to-night?" "No," laughed Andy, "I'm not. I'm coming to supper with you if you'll have me. What have you got?" "Cold boiled aitch-bone, and apple-pie, and a Cheshire in good condition." "Oh, that's prime! But I must go and change first. I've walked fifteen or sixteen miles, and I must get into a clean shirt." "We don't dress for supper--not o' Sundays," Jack informed him gravely. "Oh, get out, Jack!" called Andy from the door. "Supper at nine precise, carriages at eleven," Jack called after him, pursuing his joke to the end with keen relish. Andy walked back to his lodgings, in the old phrase "happy as a king," and infinitely the happier because old Jack had taken it so well, had understood, and, though disappointed, had not been hurt or wounded. There was no breach in their affection or in their mutual confidence. And now, he felt, he had to justify himself in Jack's eyes, to justify his refusal of a safe five hundred pounds a year. The refusal became, as he thought over it, a spur to effort, to action. "I must put my back into it," said Andy to himself, and made up his mind to most strenuous exertions to develop that rather shy and coy timber business of his in London. Yet, after he had changed, as he sat listening to the church bells ringing for evening service, a softer strain of meditation mingled with these stern resolves. Memories of his "Saturday-off" glided across his mind, echoes of this evening's encounter with Harry and Vivien sounded in his ears. There was, as old Jack Rock himself had ended by suggesting, no call for him to step down. He could take the place for which he was naturally fit. He need not renounce that side of life of which he had been allowed a glimpse so attractive and so full of interest. The shop in Meriton would have opened the door to one very comfortable little apartment. How many doors would it not have shut? All doors were open now. "I thought you were going to be a friend of ours." Andy, sitting in the twilight, listening to the bells, smiled at the echo of those regretful words. He cherished their kindliness, and smiled at their prejudice. The shop and Vivien were always connected in his mind since the first day he had met her. Her words came back to him now, summing up all that he would have lost by acceptance, hinting pregnantly at all that his refusal might save or bring. He stretched his arms and yawned; mind and body both enjoyed a happy relaxation after effort. "What a week-end it's been!" he thought. Indeed it had--a week-end that was the beginning of many things. Chapter VIII. WONDERFUL WORDS. Fully aware of his son's disposition and partly acquainted with his experiences, Mr. Belfield had urged Harry to "go slow" in his courting of Vivien Wellgood. An opinion that marriage was Harry's best chance was not inconsistent with advising that any particular marriage should be approached with caution and due consideration, that a solid basis of affection should be raised, calculated to stand even though the winds of time carried away the lighter and more fairy-like erections of Harry's romantic fancy. To do Harry justice, he did his best to obey the paternal counsel; but ideas of speed in such matters, and of cautious consideration, differ. What to Harry was sage delay would have seemed to many others lighthearted impetuosity. He waited a full fortnight after he was absolutely sure of--well, of the wonderful thing he was so sure of--a fortnight after he was absolutely sure that Vivien was absolutely sure also. (The fortnights ran concurrently.) Then he began to feel rather foolish. What on earth was he waiting for? A man could not be more than absolutely sure. Yet perhaps, in pure deference to his father, he would have waited a week longer, and so achieved, or sunk to, an almost cold-blooded deliberation. (He had known Mrs. Freere only a week before he declared--and abjured--a passion!) He was probably right; it was no good waiting. No greater security could be achieved by that. Whether the pursuit were deliberate or impetuous, an end must come to it. It was afterwards--when the chase was over and the quarry won--that the danger came for Harry and men like him. Sage delay and a solid basis of affection could not obviate that peril; the born hunter would still listen to the horn that sounded a new chase. Somewhere in the world--so the theory ran--there must live the woman who could deafen Harry's ears to a fresh blast of the horn. On that theory monogamy depends for its personal--as distinguished from its social--justification. So Mr. Belfield reasoned, with a smile, and counselled delay. But there were no means of ransacking the world, and even the theory itself was doubtful. Harry was an eager advocate of the theory, but thought that there was no need to search beyond little Meriton for the woman. At any rate, if Meriton did not hold her, she did not exist--the theory stood condemned. Still he would wait one week more--to please his father. A thing happened, a word was spoken, the like of which he had never anticipated. To defend himself laughingly against comparisons with the proverbial Lothario, to protest with burlesque earnestness against charges of susceptibility, fickleness, and extreme boldness of assault--Harry played that part well, and was well-accustomed to play it. But to suffer a challenge, to endure a taunt, to be subjected to a sneer, as a slow-coach, a faint-heart, a boy afraid to tell a girl he loved her, afraid to snatch what he desired! This was a new experience for Harry Belfield, new and unbearable. And when he had only been trying to please his father! Hang this pleasing of one's father, if it leads to things like that! He dashed up to Nutley one fine afternoon on his bicycle; he was teaching Vivien the exercise, and she was finding that even peril had its charms. But he was late for his appointment. Isobel Vintry sat alone on the terrace by the water. "How are you, Miss Vintry? I say, I'm afraid I'm late. Where's Vivien?" "You're nearly half an hour late." "Well, I know. I couldn't help it. Where is she?" "She got tired of waiting for you, and went for a walk in the wood." "She might have waited." "Well, yes. One would think she'd be accustomed to it by now," said Isobel. Her tone was lazily indolent, but her eyes were set on him in mockery. Harry looked at her with a sudden alertness. He looked at her hard. "Accustomed to waiting for me?" "Yes." She was exasperating in her malicious tranquillity, meaning more than she said, saying nothing that he could lay hold of, quite grave, and laughing at him. "Any hidden meanings, Miss Vintry?" For, as a fact, Harry had generally been punctual, and knew it. "Nothing but what's quite obvious," she retorted, dexterously fencing. "Or ought to be, to a man not so slow as I am?" "You slow, Mr. Harry! You're Meriton's ideal of reckless dash!" "Meriton's?" "That's the name of the town, isn't it? Or did you think I said London's?" Harry laughed, but he was stung; she put him on his mettle. "Oh no, I understood your emphasis." "You needn't keep her waiting any longer--while you talk about nothing to me. You'll find her in the west wood--if you want to. She left you that message." Harry had no doubt of what she meant, yet she had not spoken a word of it. The saying goes that words are given us to conceal our thoughts; has anybody ever ventured to say that lips and eyes are? Her meaning carried without speech; understanding it, Harry took fire. "I won't be late again, Miss Vintry," he said. "It would be a pity to disappoint Meriton in its ideal!" He would have liked to speak to her for a moment sincerely, to ask her if she really thought--But no, it could not be risked. She would make him feel and look ridiculous. Asking her opinion about the right moment to--to--to come up to the scratch (he could find no more dignified phrase)! Her eyes would never let him hear the end of that. "Still lingering?" she said, stifling a yawn. "While poor Vivien waits!" There are unregenerate atavistic impulses; Harry would dearly have liked to box her ears. "Meriton's ideal" rankled horribly. What business was it of hers? It could not concern her in the least--a conclusion which made matters worse, since disinterested criticism is much the more formidable. "I can find her in a few minutes." "Oh yes, if you look! Shall you be back to tea?" "Yes, we'll be back to tea, Miss Vintry. Both of us--together!" Isobel smiled lazily again. "Come, you are going to make an effort. Nothing of the laggard now!" "Oh, that's the word you've been thinking suits me?" "It really will if you don't get to the west wood soon." "I'll get there--and be back--in half an hour." The one thing he could not endure was that any woman--above all, an attractive woman--should find in him, Harry Belfield, anything that was ridiculous. She might chide, she might admire; laugh she must not, or her laugh should straightway be confounded. Isobel's hint that he had been a laggard in love banished, in a moment, the uncongenial prudence which he had been enforcing on himself. She watched him with a contemptuous smile as he strode off on his quest. Why had she mocked, why had she hinted? In part for pure mockery's sake. She found a malicious pleasure in giving his complacency a dig, in shaking up his settled good opinion of himself. In part from sheer impatience of the simple obvious love affair, to which she was called by her situation to play witness, chaperon, and practically accomplice. It was quite clear how it was going to end--better have the end at once! Her smile of contempt had been not so much for Harry as for the business on which he was engaged; yet Harry had his share of it, since her veiled banter had such power to move him. But that same thing in him had its fascination; there was a great temptation to exercise her power when the man succumbed to it so easily. In this case she had used it only to send him a little faster whither he was going already; but did that touch the limits of it? So she speculated within herself, yet not quite candidly. Her feeling for Harry was far from being all contempt. She mocked him with her "Meriton ideal," but she was not independent of the Meriton standard herself. To her as to the rest of his neighbours he was a bright star; to her as to them his looks, his charm, his accomplishments appealed. In her more than in most of them his emotions, so ready and quick to take fire, found a counterpart. To her more than to most of them indifference from him seemed in some sort a slight, a slur, a mark of failure. Unconsciously she had fallen into the Meriton way of thinking that notice from Harry Belfield was a distinction, his favour a thing marking off the recipient from less happy mortals. She had received little notice and little favour--a crumb or two of flirtation, flung from Vivien's rich table! To Vivien, after all the person most intimately concerned, Harry had seemed no laggard; she would have liked him none the worse if he had shown more of that quality. Nothing that he did could be wrong, but some things could be--and were--alarming. Her fastidiousness was not hurt, but her timidity was aroused. She feared crises, important moments, the crossing of Rubicons, even when the prospect looked fair and delightful on the other side of the stream. To-day, in the west wood, the crossing had to be made. It by no means follows that the man who falls in love lightly makes love lightly; he is as much possessed by the feeling he has come by so easily as though it were the one passion of a lifetime. In his short walk from Isobel Vintry's side to Vivien's, Harry's feelings had found full time to rise to boiling-point. Isobel was far out of his mind; already it seemed to him inconceivable that he should not, all along, have meant to make his proposal--to declare his love--to-day. How could he have thought to hold it in for an hour longer? "I know I was late, Vivien," he said. "I'm so sorry. But--well, I half believe I was on purpose." He was hardly saying what was untrue; he was coming to half-believe it--or very nearly. "On purpose! O Harry! Didn't you want to give me my lesson to-day?" "Not in bicycling," he answered, his eyes set ardently on her face. She was sitting on the trunk of a fallen tree, which had been stripped of its bark and shaped into a primitive bench. He sat down by her and took her hand. "Your hand shakes! What's the matter? You're not afraid of me?" "Not of you--no, not of you, Harry." "Of something then? Is it of something I might do--or say?" He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. It was no use trying to get answers out of her; she was past that; but she did not turn away from him, she let her eyes meet his in a silent appeal. "Vivien, I love you more than all my life!" "You--you can't," he could just hear her murmur, her lips scarcely parted. "More than everything in the world besides!" What wonderful words they were. "More than everything in the world besides!" "More than all my life!" Could there be such words? Could she have heard--and Harry uttered them? Her hands trembled violently in his; she was sore afraid amidst bewildering joy. Anything she had foreshadowed in her dreams seemed now so faint, so poor, against marvellous reality. Surely the echo of the wonderful words would be in her ears for all her life! She had none wherewith to answer them; her hands were his already; for the tears in her eyes she could hardly see his face, but she turned her lips up to his in mute consent. "That makes you mine," said Harry, "and me yours--yours only--for ever." She released her hands from his, and put her arm under his arm. Still she said nothing, but now she smiled beneath her dim eyes, and pressed his arm. "Not frightened now?" he asked softly. "You need never be frightened again." She spoke at last just to say "No" very softly, yet with a wealth of confident happiness. "The things we'll do, the things we'll see, the times we'll have!" cried Harry gaily. "And to think that it's only a month or two ago that the idea occurred to me!" He teased her. "Occurred to us, Vivien?" "Oh no, Harry. Well, then, yes." She laughed lightly, pressing his arm again. "But never that it could be like this." "Is this--nice?" he asked in banter. "Is it--real?" she whispered. "Yes, it's real and it's nice--real nice, in fact," laughed Harry. "Don't talk just for a little while," she begged, and he humoured her, watching her delicate face during the silence she entreated. "You must tell them," she said suddenly, with a return of her alarm. "Oh yes, I'll do all the hard work," he promised her, smiling. She fell into silence again, the wonderful words re-echoing in her ears--"More than everything in the world besides!" "More than all my life!" "I promised Miss Vintry we'd be back to tea. Do you think you can face her?" asked Harry. "Yes, with you. But you've got to tell. You promised." "You'll have somebody to help you over all the stiles--now and hereafter." The suggestion brought a radiant smile of happiness to her lips; it expressed to her the transformation of her life. So many things had been stiles to her, and her father's gospel was that people must get over their own stiles for themselves; that was the lesson he inculcated, with Isobel Vintry to help him. But now--well, if stiles were still possible things at all, with Harry to help her over they lost all their terrors. "We'll remember this old tree-trunk. In fact I think that the proper thing is to carve our initials on it--two hearts and our initials. That's real keeping company!" "Oh no," she protested with a merry little laugh. "Keeping company! Harry!" "Well, I'll let you off the hearts, but I must have the initials--very, very small. Do let me have the initials!" "Somewhere where nobody will look, nobody be likely to see them!" "Oh yes; I'll find a very secret place! And once a year--on the anniversary, if we're here--we'll come and freshen them up with a penknife." He had his out now, and set about his pleasant silly task, choosing one end of the tree-trunk, near to the ground, where, in fact, nobody who was not in the secret would find the record. "There you are--a beautiful monogram; 'H' and 'V' intertwined. I'm proud of that!" "So am I--very proud, Harry!" she said softly, taking his arm as they moved away. Was she not blessed among the daughters of women? To say nothing of being the envy of all Meriton! And for Harry the past was all over, the dead had buried its dead. The new life--and the life of the new man--had begun. Wellgood was back from a ride round his farms--a weekly observance with him. He had been grimly encouraging the good husbandmen, badly scaring the inefficient, advising them all to keep their labourers in order, and their womankind as near to reason as could be hoped for. Now he had his hour of relaxation over tea. He was a great tea-drinker--four or five cups made his allowance. Tea is often the libertinism of people otherwise severe. He leant back in his garden-chair, his gaitered legs outstretched, and drank his tea, Isobel Vintry replenishing the swiftly-emptied cup. She performed the office absent-mindedly--with an air of detachment which hinted that she would fulfil her duties, routine though they might be, but must not be expected to think about them. "Where's Vivien?" he asked abruptly. "In the west wood--with Mr. Harry. He said they'd be back for tea." "Oh!" He finished his third cup and handed the vessel over to her to be refilled. "Things getting on?" "Yes, I think so. Here's your tea." "Why do you think so? Give me another lump of sugar." "Sugar at that rate'll make you put on too much weight. Well, I gave him a hint that the pear was ripe." "You did? Well, I'm hanged!" "You think I'm very impudent?" "What did you say? But I daresay you said nothing. You've a trick with those eyes of yours, Isobel." "I've devoted them solely to supervising your daughter's education, Mr. Wellgood." "Oh yes!" he chuckled. He liked impudence from a woman; to primitive man--Wellgood had a good leaven of the primitive--it is an agreeable provocation. "I'll bet you," she said--with her challenging indolence that seemed to say "Disturb me if you can!"--"I'll bet you we hear of the engagement in ten minutes." "You know a lot about it! What'll you bet me?" "Anything you like--from a quarter's salary downwards!" said Isobel. She sat facing the path from the west wood. On it she saw two figures, arm in arm. Wellgood had his back turned that way. The situation was favourable for Isobel's bet. A light hand in flirtation could not be expected from a man to whom the heavy hand--the strong decisive grip--was gospel in matters public and private. Besides, he had grown impatient; his affair waited on Harry's. "From a quarter's salary downwards? Will you bet me a kiss?" "Yes," she smiled, "if losing means the kiss. Because I know I shall win, Mr. Wellgood." Harry and Vivien came near, still exalted in dreams, the new man and the girl transformed. Wellgood had not noticed them, perhaps would have forgotten them anyhow. "If winning meant the kiss?" he said. "I don't bet as high as that, except on a certainty," smiled Isobel. "Another cup?" "No, but I tell you, Isobel--" He leant over the table towards her. "Don't tell me, and don't touch me! They're just behind you, Mr. Wellgood." He swore under his breath. A plaguy mean trick this of women's--defying just when they are safe! He had to play the father--and the father-in-law to be; to seem calm, wise, benevolent, paternally affectionate, patronizing to young love from the sage eminence of years that he was just, a second ago, forgetting. Since she had come into his house, to be Vivien's companion and exemplar, a year ago, they had had many of these rough defiant flirtations. He was not easily snubbed, she not readily frightened. They had worked together over Vivien's rather severe training in a matter-of-fact way; but there had been this diversion for hours of leisure. Why not? Flirtation of this order was not the conventional thing between the girl's father and the girl's companion. No matter! They were both vigorously self-confident people; the flirtation suited the taste of at least one of them, and served the ends of both. The near approach of the lovers--the imminence of a declared engagement--made a change. Wellgood advanced more openly; Isobel challenged and repelled more impudently. The moment for which he had waited seemed near at hand; she suffered under an instinctive impulse to prove that she too had her woman's power and could use it. But, deep down in her mind, the proof was more for Harry's enlightenment than for Wellgood's subjugation. She had an overwhelming desire not to appear, in Harry's conquering eyes, a negligible neglected woman. She mocked the Meriton standard--but shared it. "Look round!" He obeyed her. "Arm in arm!" He started, and glowered at the approaching couple. Vivien hastily dropped Harry's arm. "Oh, that's nothing--she's just afraid! It's settled all the same. And within my ten minutes!" "Aye, you're a--!" He smiled in grim fierce admiration. "Shall I take three months' notice, Mr. Wellgood?" She was lying back in her chair again, insolent and serenely defiant. "I might have betted after all, and been quite safe," she said. Harry victorious in conquest, Vivien with her more precious conquest in surrender, were at Wellgood's elbow. He had to wrench himself away from his own devices. "Well, what have you got to say, Vivien?" he asked his daughter rather sharply. She was looking more than usually timid. What was there to be frightened at? "She hasn't got anything to say," Harry interposed gaily. "I'm going to do the talking. Are you feeling romantic to-day, Mr. Wellgood?" Wellgood smiled sourly. "You know better than to try that on me, Master Harry." "Yes! Well, I'll cut that, but I just want to mention--as a matter of business, which may affect your arrangements--that Vivien has promised to marry me." Vivien had stolen up to her father and now laid her hand lightly on his shoulder. He looked at her with a kindly sneer, then patted her hand. "You like the fellow, do you, Vivien?" "Yes, father." "Then I daresay we can fix matters up. Shake hands, Harry." Vivien kissed his forehead; the two men shook hands. "I daresay you're not exactly taken by surprise," said Harry, laughing. "I've been calling rather often!" "It had struck me that something was up." Wellgood was almost genial; he was really highly pleased. The match was an excellent one for his daughter; he liked Harry, despite a lurking suspicion that he was "soft;" and the way now lay open for his own plan. "You haven't asked me for my congratulations, Vivien," said Isobel. Vivien went over to her and kissed her, then sat down by the table, her eyes fixed on Harry. She was very quiet in her happiness; she felt so peaceful, so secure. Such was the efficacy of those wonderful words! "And I wish you all happiness too, Mr. Harry," Isobel went on with a smile. "Perhaps you'll forgive me if I say that I'm not altogether taken by surprise either?" Harry did not quite like her smile; there seemed to be a touch of ridicule about it. It covertly reminded him of their talk before tea, before he went to the west wood. "I never had much hope of blinding your eyes, so I didn't even try, Miss Vintry." "I was thinking it must come to a head soon," she remarked. Harry flushed ever so slightly. She was hinting at the laggard in love again; it almost seemed as if she were hinting that she had brought the affair to a head. In the west wood he had forgotten her subtle taunt; he had thought of nothing but his passion, and how impatient it was. Now he remembered, and knew that he was being derided, even in his hour of triumph. He felt another impulse of anger against her. This time it took the form of a desire to show her that he was no fool, not a man a woman could play with as she chose. He would like to show her what a dangerous game that was. He was glad when, having shot her tiny sharp-pointed dart, she rose and went into the house. "You'll want to talk it all over with Mr. Wellgood!" He did not want to think of her; only of Vivien. "Poor Isobel!" said Vivien. "She's very nice about it, isn't she? Because she can't really be pleased." Both men looked rather surprised; each was roused from his train of thought. Both had been thinking about Isobel, but the thoughts of neither consorted well with Vivien's "Poor Isobel!" "Why not?" asked Harry. "It means the loss of her situation, Harry." "Of course! I never thought of that." "Don't you young people be in too great a hurry," said Wellgood, with the satisfied smile of a man with a secret. "You're not going to be married the day after to-morrow! There's lots of time for something to turn up for Isobel. She needn't be pitied. Perhaps she may be tired of you and your ways, young woman, and glad to be rid of her job!" "Lucky there's somebody ready to take her place, then, isn't it?" laughed Harry. Wellgood laughed too as he rose. "It seems very lucky all round," he said, smiling again as he left them. He was quite secure that they would spend no time in thinking about good luck other than their own. The lovers sat on beside the water till twilight fell, talking of a thousand things, yet always of one thing--of one thing through which they saw all the thousand other things, and saw them transfigured with the radiance of the one. Even the bright hues of Harry's future grew a hundredfold brighter when beheld through this enchanted medium, while Vivien's simple ideal of life seemed heaven realized. Visions were their only facts, and dreams alone their truth. Neither from without nor from within could aught harm the airy fabric that they built--Vivien out of ignorance, Harry by help of that fine oblivion of his. For a long while Isobel Vintry--fled to her room lest Wellgood should seek her--watched them from her window with envious eyes. For them the dreams; for her, most uninspiring reality! At last she turned away with a weary impatient shrug. "Well, it's a good thing to have it over and done with, anyhow!" she exclaimed, and smiled once more to think how she had stung Harry Belfield with her insinuations and her "Meriton ideal." If we cannot be happy ourselves, it is a temptation to make happy people a little uncomfortable. In that lies an evidence of power consolatory to the otherwise unfortunate. Chapter IX. "INTERJECTION." Settling the question of the butcher's shop had seemed to Andy Hayes like a final solution of life's problems. Therein he showed the quality of his mind. One thing at a time, settle that. As he had learnt to say 'on the other side,' "Don't look for trouble!" He had yet to realize what the man of imagination knows instinctively--that the problems of life end only with life itself. An eight-ten train to town is not, however, favourable to such a large and leisurely survey as a consideration of life in its totality. It involved a half-hour's race for the station. And this morning the Bird--standing at the door of his father's hostelry--delayed a hard-pressed man who had absolutely no time to stop. "Heard the news about Mr. Harry?" cried the Bird across the street. Andy slowed down. "About Harry?" "Engaged to Miss Wellgood!" shouted the Bird. "No, is he?" yelled Andy in reply. "Hurrah!" It was but two days after the great event had happened. Recently Andy had seen nothing of his Meriton friends. He had been working early and late in town; down at seven-thirty, up to work again at eight-ten. He had been a very draught-horse, straining at a load which would not move--straining at it on a slippery slope. Business was so "quiet." Could not work command success? At present he had to be content with the meagre consolation proffered to Sempronius. He must be at the office not a second later than nine. If the American letters came in, replies could get off by the same day's mail. Yet the news of the engagement--he wished he could have had it from Harry's own lips--cut clean across his personal preoccupations. How right! How splendid! Dear old Harry! And how he would like to congratulate Miss Vivien! All that on Saturday afternoon or Sunday. Andy was one of the world's toilers; for them works of charity, friendship, and love have for the most part to wait for Saturday afternoon or Sunday; the other five days and a half--it's the struggle for life, grimly individual. He loved Harry Belfield, and stored up untold enthusiasm for Saturday afternoon or Sunday--those altruistic hours when we have time to consider our own souls and other people's fortunes. But to-day was only Thursday; Thursday is well in the zone of the struggle. Andy's timber business was--just turning the corner! So many businesses always are. Shops expensively installed, hotels over-built, newspapers--above all, newspapers--started with a mighty flourish of heavy dividends combined with national regeneration--they are all so often just turning the corner. The phrase signifies that you hope you are going to lose next year rather less than you lost last year. If somebody will go on supplying the deficit--in that sanguine spirit which is the strength of a commercial nation--or can succeed in inducing others to supply it in a similar spirit, the corner may in the end be turned. If not, you stay this side of the magical corner of success, and presently find yourself in another--to be described as "tight." A life-long experience of questions--of problems and riddles--was not, for Andy Hayes, to stop short at the felicitous solution of the puzzle about Jack Rock's butcher's shop in Meriton High Street. Andy had to postpone reflection on Harry Belfield's happiness and Vivien's emancipation. Yet he had a passing appreciation of the end of ordeals--of Curly, cross-country rides, and the like. Would the mail from Montreal bring a remittance for the rent of the London office? The other business men in the fast morning train were grumpy. Money was tight, the bank rate stiff, times bad. No moment to launch out! There were sounded all the familiar jeremiads of the City train. What could you expect with a Liberal Government in office? The stars in their courses fought against business. Nobody would trust anybody. It was not that nobody had the money--nobody ever has--but hardly anybody was believed to be able, in the last resort, to get it. That impression spells collapse. The men in the first-class carriage--Andy had decided that it was on the whole "good business" to stand himself a first-class "season"--seemed well-fed, affluent, possessed of good cigars; yet they were profoundly depressed, anticipative of little less than imminent starvation. One of them explicitly declared his envy of a platelayer whom the train passed on the line. "Twenty-two bob a week certain," he said. "Better than losing a couple of hundred pounds, Jack. Not much longer hours either, and an open-air life!" "Well, take it on," Jack, who had a cynical turn of humour, advised. "He (the platelayer he meant) couldn't very well lose more than you do; and you'll never make more than he does. Swap!" The first speaker retired behind the _Telegraph_ in some disgust. It is hard to meet a rival wit as early as eight-thirty in the morning. The American mail was not in when Andy reached Dowgate Hill, in which important locality he occupied an insignificant attic. A fog off the coast of Ireland accounted for the delay. But on his table, as indicated by the small boy who constituted his staff--the staff would, of course, be larger when that corner was turned--lay a cable. There was no other correspondence. Things were quiet. Andy could not suppress a reflection that a rather later train would have done as well. Still there was a cable; no doubt it advised the remittance. The remittance was a matter of peremptory necessity, unless Andy were to empty his private pocket. "Incontestable--Incubation--Ineffective." So ran the cable. Andy scratched his nose and reached for the code. If ever a digression were allowable, if expatiation on human fortune and vicissitudes were still the fashion, what a text lies in the cable code! This cold-blooded provision for all emergencies, this business-like abbreviation of tragedy! "Asbestos" means "Cannot remit." "Despairing" signifies "If you think it best." (Could despair sound more despairing?) "Patriotic--Who are the heaviest creditors?" Passing to other fields of life: "Risible--Doctor gives up hope." "Refreshing--Sinking steadily; prepare for the worst." "Resurrection--There is no hope of recovery." "Resurgam--Realization of estate proceeding satisfactorily." The cable code is a masterly epitome of life. However Andy Hayes was not given to digression or to expatiation. Patiently he turned the leaves to find the interpretation of his own three mystic words. The result was not encouraging. "Incontestable--Incubation--Ineffective." Which being interpreted ran: "Most essential to retrench all unnecessary expense. Cannot see prospects of your branch becoming paying proposition. Advise you to close up and return as soon as possible." There was a fourth word. The "operator"--Andy still chose in his mind the transatlantic term--had squeezed it into a corner, so that it did not at first catch the reader's notice. "Infusoria." Andy turned up "Infusoria." It was a hideously uncompromising word, as the code rendered it; the code makes a wonderful effort sometimes. "Infusoria" meant: "We expect you to act on this advice at once, and we cannot be responsible for expenditure beyond what is strictly necessary to wind up." Andy did not often smoke in his office in business hours, but he had a cigarette now. "Well, that's pretty straight," he thought. The instructions were certainly free from ambiguity. "Made a failure of it!" The cigarette tended to resignation. "Needed a cleverer fellow than I am to make it go." This was his usual sobriety of judgment. "Rather glad to be out of it." That was the draught-horse's instinctive cry of joy at being released from a hopeless effort. They were right on the other side--it was not a "paying proposition." He was good at seeing facts; they did not offend him. So many people are offended at facts--really a useless touchiness. "All right!" said Andy, flinging the end of the cigarette into the grate, and taking up that fateful code again. "Passionately" met his need: "Will act on instructions received without delay and with all possible saving of expense." "Yes," said Andy, his stylograph moving in mid-air. He turned over the pages again, seeking another word, thinking very hard whether he should send that other word when he found it. The word was "Interjection." It meant: "My personal movements uncertain. Will advise you of them at the earliest moment possible." To cable "Interjection" would mean an admission of considerable import, both to his principals in Montreal and to himself. It would imply that he was thinking of cutting adrift. Andy was thinking terribly hard about it. It might cause his principals to consider that he was taking too much on himself. Andy was not a partner; he was only on a salary, with a small contingent profit from commissions. It seemed complimentary--and delusive--now to call the profit contingent; the salary was all he had in the world. Such an independently minded word as "Interjection" incurred a risk. Before he had done thinking about cutting adrift, he might find himself cut adrift. The principals were peremptory men. In view of his failure to make the London branch a "paying proposition," perhaps he was lucky in that he had not been cut adrift already. There was a code word for that--"Seltzer." It meant, "We shall be able to dispense with your services on the ---- prox." "Seltzer thirtieth" would have thrown--and might still throw--Andy on the mercy of the world. Turning up the code (if you are not thoroughly familiar with it) may be interesting work--"as exciting as any novel," as reviewers kindly say of books of travel. Andy had suddenly, and with some surprise, become aware how very much he wished not to go back to Montreal, pleasant city as it is. When he was puzzling about the Meriton shop, Canada had stood for freedom, scope, and opportunity. Why should it not stand for them still, just as well as, or better than, London? Canada and London had ranked together then, in sharp opposition to the narrow limits of his native town. Nobody could deny the scope and the opportunities of Canada. But Andy did not want to go back. He was profoundly apologetic to himself about the feeling; he would not have ventured to justify it; it was wrong. But, after his long exile, his native land had laid hold on him--England with her ripe rich sweetness, London baited with a thousand lures. He had no pluck, no grit, no go; so he said to himself. There were fortunes to be made over there--a mighty nation to help in building up. That was all true, but he did not want to go. The stylograph hung longingly over the cable form; it wanted to write "Interjection." The fog had apparently been very persistent in the Irish Channel, for no mail came; the principals in Montreal seemed quite right about the London branch, for no business offered. At half-past twelve Andy determined to go out for lunch and a walk. By the time he got back the mail might have come--and he might have made up his mind whether or not to cable "Interjection." A man who has it in mind to risk his livelihood often decides that he may as well treat himself liberally at lunch or dinner. Monte Carlo is a terribly expensive place to stay at if you do not gamble; if you do, it costs nothing--at least, what it costs does not matter, which comes to the same thing. Andy decided that, having two hours off, he would go west for lunch. His thoughts were on the great restaurant by the river. If he were really leaving London in a week (obedient to "Infusoria"), it would be interesting to go there once again. Entering the grill-room, on his left as he came in from the Strand (at the last moment the main restaurant had struck him as absurd for his chop), he was impressed by the air of habituality worn by his fellow-guests. What was humdrum to them was a treat to him, their routine his adventure. They knew the waiters, knew the maître d'hôtel, and inquired after the cook. They knew one another too, marking who was there to-day, who was an absentee. Andy ate his chop, with his mouth healthily hungry, with his eyes voracious of what passed about him. He sat near a glass screen some six or seven feet high, dividing the room in two. Suddenly from the other side of it came a voice: "Hallo, is that you, Hayes? Come and have your coffee with us. Where have you been all this time?" There they sat--and there they might have been sitting ever since Andy parted from them, so much at home they looked--Billy Foot, the Nun, and Miss Dutton. Another young man was with them, completing the party. He was plump, while Billy was thin--placid, while Billy always suggested a reserve of excitement; but he had a likeness to Billy all the same. "Oh, I say, may I come?" cried Andy, boyishly loud; but the luck of meeting these friends again was too extraordinary. He trotted round the glass screen with his tumbler in his hand; he had not quite finished his lager beer. "Chair and coffee for Mr. Hayes," said Billy Foot. "You remember him, girls? My brother, Hayes--Gilly, Mr. Hayes. How did you leave Harry?" "How awfully funny I should meet you!" gasped Andy. "It's not funny if you ever come here," observed Miss Dutton; "because we come here nearly every day--with somebody." She was more sardonic than ever. The Nun--she was not, by the way, a Nun any longer, but a Quaker girl ("All in the same line," her manager said, with a fine indifference to the smaller theological distinctions), and now sang of how, owing to her having to wear sombre garments (expressed by a charming dove-tinted costume that sent the stalls mad), she had lost her first and only love--the Nun smiled at Andy in a most friendly fashion. "I'd quite forgotten you," she remarked, "but I'm glad to see you again. Let's see, you're--?" "Harry Belfield's friend." "Yes, you're Mr. Hayes. Oh, I remember you quite well. Been away since?" "No, I've been here. I mean--at work, and so on." "Oh, well!" sighed the Nun (Andy ventured to call her the Nun in his thoughts, though she had changed her persuasion). She seemed to express a gentle resignation to not being able to keep track of people; she met so many, coming every day to the restaurant. "I ask five, I want four, but with just the right fellow I'd take three," said Billy's brother Gilly, apparently continuing a conversation which seemed to interest nobody but himself; for the Nun was looking at neighbouring hats, Miss Dutton had relapsed into gloomy abstraction, and Billy was thoughtfully revolving a small quantity of old brandy round a very large glass. Gilly had an old brandy too, but his attitude towards it was one of studied neglect. His favourite vintage had given out the year before, so his life was rather desolate. "Harry's engaged," Andy volunteered to the Nun, glad to possess a remark of such commanding interest. "To a girl?" asked the Nun, absently and without turning her face towards him. "Well, of course!" said Andy. What else could one be engaged to? "Everybody comes to it," said Billy Foot. "Take three, if you must, Gilly." "At a push," said his brother sadly. "I hate that hat on that woman," said the Nun with a sudden vehemence, nodding her head at a fat woman in a large purple erection. Hats moved the Nun perhaps more than anything else in the world. "Rot, Doris," commented Miss Dutton. "It's what they're wearing." "But they aren't all as fat as that," the Nun objected. "Flourishing, Hayes?" asked Billy Foot. "Well, I rather think I've just lost my job," said Andy. "If you're looking out for a really sound way of investing five thousand pounds--" Gilly began. "Four to a gentleman," said Billy. "Three to a friend," corrected the Nun. "Oh, what the devil's the good of trying to talk business here?" cried Gilly in vexation. "Only a chance is a chance, you know." Billy Foot saw that Andy was puzzled. "Gilly--my brother, you know--I suppose I introduced you?--has unfortunately come here with a problem on his mind. I didn't know he had one, or I wouldn't have asked him, because problems bore the girls." "No, they don't. It interests me to see you trying to think." This, of course, from Miss Dutton. The Nun, now imbibing an iced green fluid through a straw, was sublimely abstracted. "My brother," Billy resumed, with a glance of protest towards his interruptor, "has, for some reason or another, become a publisher. That's all right. Not being an author, I don't complain. Having done pretty badly--" "The public's no good," said Gilly gloomily. "He wants to drag in some unfortunate person to be his partner. I understand, Gilly, that, if really well recommended, your accepted partner can lose his time, and the rest of his money, for no more than three thousand pounds--paid down on the nail without discount?" "You've a charming way of recommending the project to Mr. Hayes' consideration," said Gilly, in reproachful resignation. "To my consideration," Andy exclaimed, laughing. "What's it got to do with me?" "It's a real chance," Gilly persisted. "And if you're out of a job, and happen to be able to lay your hands on five--" "Three!" whispered Billy. "--thousand pounds, you might do worse than look into it. Now, I must go," and with no more than a nod to serve as farewell to all the party he rose and sauntered slowly away. He had not touched his brandy; his brother reached over thoughtfully and appropriated it. "I may as well, as I'm going to pay for it," he remarked. Suddenly Andy found himself telling the Nun all about his cable and his affairs. The other two listened; all three were very friendly and sympathetic; even Miss Dutton forbore to sneer. Andy expanded in the kindly atmosphere of interest. "I don't want to go back, you know," he said with a smile that appealed for understanding. "But I must, unless something turns up." "Well, why not talk to Gilly?" the Nun suggested. "Yes, you go round and talk to Gilly," agreed Billy. "Rotting apart, he's got a nice little business, and one or two very good schemes on, but he wants a bit more capital, as well as somebody to help him. He doesn't look clever, but in five years he's built up--yes, a tidy little business. You wouldn't come to grief with Gilly." "But I haven't got the money, or anything like it. I've got nothing." The Nun and Billy exchanged glances. The Nun nodded to Billy, but he shook his head. Miss Dutton watched them for a moment, then she smiled scornfully. "I don't mind saying it," she observed, and to Andy's astonishment she asked him, "What about your old friend the butcher?" "How did you hear of that?" "Harry Belfield was up one day last week lunching here, and--" "We were awfully amused," the Nun interrupted, with her pretty rare gurgle. "If you'd done it, we were all coming down to buy chops and give you a splendid send-off. I rather wish you had." The imagined scene amused the Nun very much. "Jack Rock? Oh, I couldn't possibly ask him, after refusing his offer!" "What did you say his name was?" the Nun inquired. Andy repeated the name, and the Nun nodded, smiling still. Andy became portentously thoughtful. "We have sown a seed!" said Billy Foot. "I'll drop a word to Gilly to keep the offer open. Now you must go, girls, because I've got some work to do in the world, though you never seem to believe it." "Heavens, I must go too!" cried Andy, with a horrified look at his watch. "All right, you go," said Miss Dutton. "We promised to meet a man here at half-past three and go motoring." "Did we? I don't believe we did," objected the Nun. "I don't think I want to go." "Then don't," said Miss Dutton. "I shall go anyhow." "Well, I'll wait and see the car," the Nun conceded. She did not appear to have any curiosity about its owner. "You really must come and see me--and don't go back to Canada!" she called after Andy. Then, when she was alone with her friend, she said, "No, I shan't come motoring, Sally, I shall go home and write a letter. So much trouble is caused in this world by people being afraid to do the obvious thing. Now I'm never afraid to do the obvious thing." "That's just what you said the night you found me--and took me home with you," said Miss Dutton. She spoke very low, and her voice was strangely soft. "It was the obvious thing to do, and I did it," the Nun pursued, shaking her head at Sally in mild rebuke of an uncalled-for touch of sentiment. "I shall do the obvious thing now. I shall write to Mr. Jack Rock." "You'll get yourself into a row, meddling with other people's business." "Oh no, I shan't," said the Nun serenely. "I shall insist on a personal interview before my action is condemned. I generally come out of personal interviews all right." "Arts and tricks!" said Sally scornfully. "Just an innocent and appealing manner," smiled the Nun. "At any rate, this very afternoon I write to Mr. Rock. He'll produce three thousand pounds, Gilly will get a good partner, Andy Hayes can stay in England, I shall feel I've done a sensible thing. All that just by a letter!" A thought struck her. "I may as well write it here." She called a waiter and asked for notepaper and the A B C railway guide. "Don't wait for me, Sally. This letter will take some time to write." "Not going to take it down yourself, are you?" asked Sally, pointing to the A B C. "Oh no. Messenger boy. With any luck, it'll get there before Andy Hayes does. Rather fun if Jack Rock plays up to me properly!"--and she allowed herself the second gurgle of the afternoon. Sally stood looking at her with an apparently unwilling smile. She loved her better than anybody in the world, and would have died for her at that or any other moment; but nothing of that sort was ever said between them. They were almost unsentimental enough to please Mark Wellgood himself. Only the Nun did like her little plans to be appreciated. Sally gave her all she wanted--a sharp little bark of a laugh in answer to the gurgle--before she walked away. The Nun settled to her task in demure serenity, seeming (yet not being) entirely unconscious of the extreme slowness with which most of the young men passed her table as they went out. Billy Foot had walked with Andy as far as the Temple and had reasoned with him. Yet Billy himself admitted that there was great difficulty in the case. Asked whether he himself would do what he advised, he was forced to admit that he would hesitate. Still he would not give up the idea; he would see Gilly about it; perhaps the payment could be "spread." "It would have to be spread very thin before I could pay it," smiled Andy ruefully. He gave Billy Foot's hand a hearty squeeze when they parted. "It's so awfully good of you to be so interested--and of those nice girls too." "Well, old chap, if we can help a pal!" said Billy with a laugh. "Besides, it's good business for Gilly too." Andy went back to Dowgate Hill and climbed up to his attic. The staff reported no callers in his absence; the baleful cable lay still in possession of the table. But Andy refused to be depressed. His lunch had done him good. Steady and sober as his mind was, yet he was a little infected by the gay confidence that had reigned among his company. They seemed all so sure that something would turn up, that what they wanted would get itself done somehow. Spoilt children of fate, the brothers Foot and the Nun! Things they wanted had come easily to them; they expected them to come easily to their friends. The Nun in particular appeared to treat fortune absolutely as a slave; she was not even grateful; it was all too much a matter of course that things should happen in the way she wanted. He did not appreciate yet the way in which the Nun assisted the course of events sometimes. Well, his reply to the cable must go. He took up the form and read "Passionately." It was significant of his changed mood--of what the atmosphere of the lunch-party had done for him--that he hesitated hardly more than one minute before he added the possibly fateful "Interjection," and sent off the despatch before he had time again to waver. "If they choose to take offence--well, I can make a living somehow, I suppose." Andy's confidence in himself was slowly but steadily ripening. Chapter X. FRIENDS IN NEED. Old Jack Rock was, in his own phrase, "fair tickled to death" at the whole thing. The messenger boy reached him soon after five, just as he was having his tea. It was not long before the boy was having tea too--such a tea as seldom came his way. Butter and jam together--why, jam on cake, if he liked--and cream in his tea! Something in that letter pleased the old gentleman uncommon, thought the boy, as he watched Jack chuckling over it, his forgotten bread-and-butter half-way between plate and mouth. "Doris Flower! Well now, that's a pretty name," murmured Jack. "And I'll lay she's a pretty girl!" He asked the boy whether she was a pretty girl. "'Er? Why, they're all mad about 'er," the boy told him. "She's out o' sight, she is!" "Writes a pretty letter too," said Jack, and started to read it all afresh. It was, indeed, a persuasive letter:-- "DEAR MR. ROCK,--I have heard so much that is nice about you from our friends Harry Belfield and your nephew (isn't he?) Mr. Hayes, that I feel quite sure you will not mind my writing to you. I know it is rather an unusual thing to do, but I don't mind doing unusual things when they're sensible, do you? Mr. Hayes was lunching with us to-day, and he told us that something had gone wrong with his business, and that he would have to go back to Canada. I'm sure you don't want him to go back to Canada any more than we do. We like him so much, and you must be very fond of him, aren't you? Well, by the most wonderful chance, Billy Foot's brother (you know Billy, don't you? He has been down to Meriton, I know) was at lunch too--Gilly Foot. Gilly has got a most tremendously good business as a publisher, and he wants a partner. Wasn't it lucky? Just as Mr. Hayes wants a new business, Gilly Foot wants a partner! It might have been arranged on purpose, mightn't it? And they took to one another directly. I'm sure Gilly will be delighted to take Mr. Hayes (That does sound stiff--I think I shall say 'Andy'), and Andy (!) would be delighted to join Gilly. There's only one thing--Gilly must have a partner with some money, and Andy says he hasn't got any. We knew about you and all you had wanted to do for him, so of course we said he must ask you to give it to him or lend it to him; but he said he couldn't possibly, as he had refused your previous offer. But I'm sure you don't feel like that about it, do you? I'm sure you would like to help him. And then we could keep him here instead of his going back to Canada; we should all be so pleased with that, and so would you, wouldn't you? Do please do it, dear Mr. Rock! "I wonder if you know who I am. Perhaps you've seen my picture in the papers? I'm generally done as a Nun. Have you? I wonder if you would ever care to hear me sing? If you would, _do_ let me know when you can come, and I will send you a box. And you won't forget to come round and see me in my dressing-room afterwards, will you? It is so pleasant to see one's friends afterwards; and I'll sing, oh, ever so much better than usual for you! "I told the boy to wait--just in case you wanted to send an answer. I'm very excited and anxious! It's three thousand pounds Gilly wants. It seems to me an awful lot, but I don't know much about publishing. Do forgive me, dear Mr. Rock, but I was sure you would like to know, and I don't believe Andy would have told you himself. Mind, when you come to town--don't forget!--I am, dear Mr. Rock, yours very sincerely, "DORIS FLOWER. _P.S._--Some day soon, when I'm out motoring, I may stop and see you--if you've been nice!" Jack Rock's heart was very soft; his vanity was also tickled. "Excited and anxious, is she? Bless her! There'll be a rare talk in Meriton if she comes to see old Jack!" He chuckled. "Me go and sit in a box, and hear her sing! Asked to her dressing-room too!" The novel picture of himself was altogether too much for Jack. "As soon as you've done your tea, my lad, you can take an answer." Jack's epistolary style was of a highly polite but rather unpractised order. He struggled between his punctilious recognition of his own station and the temptation of the Nun's friendliness--also (perhaps by consequence) between the third, second, and first grammatical persons:-- "Mr. John Rock presents his respectful compliments to Miss Doris Flower. Mr. Rock has the matter of which Miss Flower is good enough to write under his careful consideration. Mr. Rock begs to assure you that he will do his best to meet Miss Flower's wishes. There is nothing I would not do for Andy, and I am sure that the boy will prove himself deserving of Miss Flower's kind interest. When next visiting London, Mr. Rock will feel himself highly honoured by availing himself of Miss Flower's much-esteemed invitation. If Miss Flower should visit Meriton, he would be very proud to welcome you at his house, next door to the shop in High Street--anybody in Meriton knows where that is; and I beg to remain, dear madam, your most obedient servant to command, JOHN ROCK." "You can take it," said Jack to the messenger boy. "And here's half a crown for yourself." The messenger boy was a London boy; his professional belt was tight with tea; and half a crown for himself! He put on his cap and stood on the threshold. Escape was easy; he indulged his native humour. "From this"--he exhibited the half-crown--"and your looks, gov'nor," he said, "I gather that she's accepted ye! My best wishes for yer 'appiness!" "Damn the boy!" said Jack, charging for the door in an explosion of laughter. The boy was already half-way down the street. "Hope my letter was all right," Jack reflected, as he came back, baulked of his prey. "May stop and see me, may she! Bless her heart!" Jack Rock felt that he had the chance of his life. He also felt that he would like to obliterate what, in his humility, he now declared to have been a sad blunder--the offer of his butcher's shop. A man like Andy, a lad with friends like that--Mr. Harry Belfield, Mr. Foot, M.P., Mr. and Miss Wellgood, above all this dazzling Miss Doris Flower--to be the Meriton butcher! Perish the thought! Publishing was a gentleman's business. Aye, and his Andy should not go back to Canada. If he did, old Jack felt that the best part of his own life would be carried far away across the seas. The thing should be done dramatically. "I'd like Andy to have a story to tell her!" It was not at all doubtful whom he meant by "her." Nearly six--the bank was shut long ago. But George Croton was a friend as well as a bank manager; he would just have had tea. Jack crossed the street and dropped in. "Why, of course I can, Jack," said Mr. Croton, wiping his bald head with a red handkerchief. "You've securities lodged with us that more than cover it. Draw your cheque. We won't wrong you over the interest till you adjust the account. Going to buy a Derby winner?" "I ain't so sure I'm not goin' to enter one," said Jack. He wrote his cheque. "That'll be all right to-morrow morning?" "Unless our shutters are up, it will, Jack," Mr. Croton jestingly replied. "Thank God I've been a careful man," thought old Jack. "One that knows a horse too! Her talkin' about 'Andy'!" The Nun continued to amuse and delight him immensely. Why, he'd seen her picture on the hoardings last time he went up to Tattersall's, to sell that bay filly! Lord, not to have thought of that! That was her--the Nun! He thought much more about Miss Flower than about Andy as he took his way to Andy's lodgings. Andy was at home; he had been back from town nearly an hour. But his own concerns were quite out of his head. Harry Belfield had been waiting for him--actually waiting, Harry the Great!--and had hailed him with "I had to come and tell you all about it myself, old fellow!" In Andy's great devotion to Harry there was mingled an element which seemed to himself absurd, but which held its place obstinately--dim and denied, yet always there. It was a sense of something compassionate, something protective, not diminishing his admiration but qualifying it; making him not only believe that all would, but also urgently pray that all might, go well with Harry, that Harry might have everything that he wished, possibly that Harry might wish the things that he ought to have, though Andy's conscious analysis of the feeling did not reach as far as this. He would not only set his hero on a pedestal, he would have the pedestal securely fenced round, barricaded against danger, ensured against bombs; even a screen against strong and sudden winds might be useful to the statue. The statue, it now appeared, had taken all these precautions for itself. Vivien Wellgood was each and all of these things--fence, screen, and barricade. And many other things besides, such as an ideal, an incentive, an inspiration. It was among Harry's attractions that he was not in the least ashamed of his emotions or shy about them. "With the girls one meets in town it's a bargain," said Harry. "With her--oh, I can talk to you, old man!--it really does seem a sort of sacrament." "I know. I mean I can imagine." "Not things a fellow can talk about to everybody," Harry pursued. "Too--well, sacred, you know. But when for absolutely the first time in your life you feel the real thing, you know the difference. The pater told me not to be in a hurry about it; but a thing like that's just the same now or a thousand years hence. It's there--and that's all about it!" Andy felt a little out of his depth. He had had one fancy himself, but it had been nothing like so wonderful as this. It was Harry's privilege to be able to feel things in that marvellous way. Andy was not equal even to commenting on them. "When are you going to be married?" he asked, sticking to a matter-of-fact line of sympathy. "Going to wait till October--rather a bore! But here it's nearly July, and I've got my tour of the Division fixed for September. After all, things aren't so bad as they might be. And when I'm through with the campaign--a honeymoon in Italy! Pretty good, Andy?" "Sounds all right," laughed Andy. "I expect I shall have to send you my blessing from Montreal." "From Montreal? What--you're not going back?" "The business is a frost in London, Harry; and I've nothing else to look to." "Lord, now, what a pity! Well, I'm sorry. We shall miss you, Andy. Still, it's a ripping fine country, isn't it? Mind you cable us congratulations!" "I'm not quite certain about going yet," said Andy. He felt rather like being seen off by the train--very kindly. "Oh, well, I hope you won't have to, old chap, I really do. But it'll be better than the shop! I say--I told Billy and the girls about that. They roared." "I know they did--I met them at lunch to-day." "Had they heard about me?" Harry asked rather eagerly. "Or did you tell them? What did they say?" "Oh--er--awfully pleased," said Andy, rather confused. It seemed strange to remember how very little had been said on the wonderful topic. Somehow they had wandered off to other things. "I must give them all one more dinner," said Harry, smiling, "before I settle down." "Foot's brother was there--Gilly Foot--and--" "Did they ask what she was like?" "I--I don't quite remember--everybody was talking. Gilly Foot--" "I expect they were a bit surprised, weren't they?" "Oh yes, they seemed surprised." Andy was really trying to remember. "Yes, they did." "I don't think I've got the character of a marrying man," smiled Harry. "I hope you told them I meant business?" Harry rose to his feet with a laugh. "They used to rot a lot, you know." Harry was not to be got off the engrossing subject of himself, his past, and his future; evidently he could not imagine that the lunch-party had kept off these subjects either. With a smile Andy made up his mind not to trouble him with the matter of Gilly Foot. "I'll walk back with you as far as Halton gates," he said. "No, you won't, old chap," laughed Harry. "Vivien's been in the town and is going to call for me here, and I'm going to walk with her as far as Nutley gates--at least." Voices came from outside. "Wish you good evenin', miss!"--and a very timid "Good evening, Mr. Rock." Vivien and Jack! How was Vivien bearing the encounter? "There she is!" cried Harry, and ran out of the house, Andy following. "Ah, Jack, how are you? Why, you're looking like a two-year-old!" Jack indeed looked radiant as he made bold to offer his congratulations. He gave Harry his hand and a hearty squeeze, then looked at Vivien tentatively. She blushed, pulled herself together, and offered Jack her hand. The feat accomplished, she glanced quickly at Andy, blushing yet more deeply. He knew what was in her mind, and nodded his head at her in applause. In Harry's cause she had touched a butcher. "I like to see young folks happy. I like to see 'em get what they want, Mr. Harry." "You see before you one at least who has, Jack. I wonder if I may say two, Vivien? And I wish I could say three, Andy." "Maybe you wouldn't be so far wrong, Mr. Harry," chuckled Jack. "But that's neither here nor there, and I mustn't be keepin' you and your young lady." With blithe salutations the lovers went off. Andy watched them; they were good to see. He felt himself their friend--Vivien's as well as Harry's, for Vivien trusted him with her shy confidences. They were hard to leave--even as were the delights of London with its lunch-parties and the like. "Going for a walk, Jack?" "No, I want a talk with you, Andy." He led the way in, and sat down at the table. "I've been thinkin' a bit about you, Andy; so have some others, I reckon. Mr. Belfield--he speaks high of you--and there's others. There's no reason you shouldn't take your part with the best of 'em. Why, they feel that--they make you one of themselves. So you shall be. I can't make you a rich man, not as they reckon money, but I can help a bit." "O Jack, you're always at it," Andy groaned affectionately. The old fellow's eyes twinkled as he drew out a cheque and pushed it across the table. "Put that in your pocket, and go and talk to Mr. Foot's brother," he said. Andy's start was almost a jump; old Jack's pent-up mirth broke out explosively. "But this--this is supernatural!" cried Andy. "Looks like it, don't it? How did I find out about that? Well, it shows, Andy, that it's no use you thinkin' of tryin' not to keep a certain promise you made to me--because I find you out!" "Dear old Jack!" Andy was standing by him now, his hand on his shoulder. "I don't believe I could have kept the promise in this case. I think I should have gone back--since the thing's no go in London." "Yes, you'd have gone back--just like your obstinate ways. But I found out. I've my correspondents." "But there's been no time! Well, you are one too many for me, Jack!" Jack's pride in his cunning was even greater than his delight in his benevolence. "Perhaps I've had a wireless telegram?" he suggested, wagging his head. "Or a carrier pigeon? Who knows?" "But who was it told you?" "You've got some friends I didn't know of, up there in London. Havin' your fling, are you, Andy? That's right. And very good taste you seem to have too." He nodded approvingly. "Oh, I give it up," said Andy. "You're a wizard, Jack." "If you talk about a witch, you'll be a bit nearer the point, I reckon. Not meanin' me, I need hardly say! Well, I must let you into the secret." With enormous pride he produced Miss Doris Flower's letter. "Read that, my lad." "The Nun!" cried Andy, as his eye fell on the signature. "Who'd have thought of that?" He read the letter; he listened to Jack's enraptured story of how it had arrived. "And you're not goin' to shame her by refusin' the money now, are you?" asked cunning Jack. "If you do, you'll make her feel she's been meddlin'. Nice thing to make her feel that!" Andy saw through this little device, but he only patted Jack's shoulder again, saying quietly, "I'll take the money, Jack." All the kindness made his heart very full--whether it came from old-time friends or these new friends from a new world who made his cause theirs with so ready a sympathy. "You're launched now, lad--fair launched! And I know you'll float," said old Jack, grave at last, as he took his leave, his precious letter most carefully stowed away in his breast-pocket. It had been a great day for Jack, great for what he had done, great for the way in which his doing it had come about. Within less than twenty-four hours Montreal had been written to, Gilly Foot had been written to--and Andy was at the Nun's door. She dwelt with Miss Dutton in a big block of flats near Sloane Street, very high up. Her sitting-room was small and cosy, presenting, however, one marked peculiarity. On two of the walls the paper was red, on the other two green. Seeing Andy's eyes attracted by this phenomenon, the Nun explained: "We quarrelled over the colour to such an extent that at last I lost my temper, and, when Sally was away for a day, had it done like this--to spite her. Now she won't let me alter it, because it's a perpetual warning to me not to lose my temper. But it does look a little queer, doesn't it?" She had received him with her usual composure. "I knew you'd come, because I knew Mr. Jack Rock would do as I wanted, and I was sure he couldn't keep the letter to himself. Well, that's all right! It was only that the obvious thing wanted doing." "But I don't see--well, I don't see why you should care." She looked at him, a lurking laugh in her eye. "Oh, you needn't suppose that it was life and death to me! It was rather fun, just on its own account. You'll like Gilly; he's a good sort, though he's rather greedy. Did you notice that? Billy's really my friend. I'm very fond of Billy. Are you ambitious? Billy's very ambitious." "No, I don't think I am." The Nun lay back on a long chair; she was certainly wonderfully pretty as she smiled lazily at Andy. "You look a size too large for the room," she remarked. "Yes, Billy's ambitious. He'd like to marry me, only he's ambitious. It doesn't make any difference to me, because I'm not in love with him; but I'm afraid it's an awfully uncomfortable state of affairs for poor Billy." "Well, if he'd have no chance anyhow, couldn't you sort of let him know that?" Andy suggested, much amused at an innocent malice which marked her description of Billy's conflict of feeling. "No use at all. I've tried. But he's quite sure he could persuade me. In fact I don't think he believes I should refuse if it came to the point. So there he is, always just pulling up on the brink! He can't like it, but he goes on. Oh, but tell me all about Harry Belfield. Now I've got you off my mind, I'm awfully interested about that." Andy was not very ready at description. She assisted him by a detailed and skilful cross-examination, directed to eliciting full information about Vivien Wellgood's appearance, habits, and character--how old she was, where she had been, what she had seen. When the picture of Vivien had thus emerged--of Vivien's youth and secluded life, how she had been nowhere and seen nothing, how she was timid and shy, innocent and trustful, above all, how she idolized Harry--the Nun considered it for a moment in silence. "Poor girl!" she said at last. Andy looked sharply at her. She smiled. "Oh yes, you worship Harry, don't you? Well, he's a very charming man. I was rather inclined to fall in love with him once myself. Luckily for me I didn't." "I'm sure he'd have responded," Andy laughed. "Yes, that's just it; he would have! When did you say they were going to be married?" "October, I think Harry said." "Four months! And he dotes on her?" "I should think so. You should just hear him!" "I daresay I shall. He always likes talking to one girl about how much he's in love with another." The Nun's matter-of-fact way of speaking may have contributed to the effect, but in the end the effect of what she said was to give the impression that she regarded Harry Belfield's present passion as one of a series--far from the first, not at all likely to be the last. The inflection of tone with which she had exclaimed "Four months!" implied that it was a very long while to wait. "You'd understand it better if you saw them together," said Andy, eager, as always, to champion his friend. "You're very enthusiastic about her, anyhow," smiled the Nun. "It almost sounds as if you were a little in love with her yourself." "Such a thing never occurred to me." Then he laughed, for the Nun was laughing at him. "Well, she would make every man want to--well, sort of want to take care of her, you know." "Well, there's no harm in your doing that--in moderation; and she may come to want it. Have you ever been in love yourself?" "Yes, once," he confessed; "a long while ago, just before I left South Africa." "Got over it?" she inquired anxiously. "Yes, of course I have, long ago. It wasn't very fatal." "Fickle creature!" Andy gave one of his bursts of hearty laughter to hear himself thus described. "I like you," she said; "and I'm glad you're going in with Gilly, because we shall often see you at lunch-time." "Oh, but I can't afford to lunch at that place every day!" "You'll have to--with Gilly; because lunch is the only time he ever gets ideas--he always says so--and unless he can tell somebody else he forgets them again, and they're lost beyond recall. He used to tell them to me, but I always forgot them too. Now he'll tell you; so you'll have to be at lunch, and put it down as office expenses." Andy had risen to go. The Nun sat up. "I can only tell you once again how grateful I am for all your kindness," he said. She gave him a whimsically humorous look. "It's really time somebody told you," she said; "and as I feel rather responsible for you, after my letter to Mr. Jack Rock, I expect I'm the proper person to do it. If you're not told, you may go about doing a lot of mischief without knowing anything about it. Prepare for a surprise. You're attractive! Yes, you are. You're attractive to women, moreover. People don't do things for you out of mere kindness, as they might be kind to a little boy in the street or to a lost dog. They do them because you're attractive, because it gives them pleasure to please you. That sort of thing will go on happening to you; very likely it'll help you a good deal." She nodded at him wisely, then broke suddenly into her gurgle. "Oh, dear me, you do look so much astonished, and if you only knew how red you've got!" "Oh, I feel the redness all right; I know that's there," muttered Andy, whose confusion was indeed lamentable. "But when a--a person like you says that sort of thing to me--" "A person, like me?" She lifted her brows. "What am I? I'm the fashion for three or four seasons--that's what I am. Nobody knows where I come from; nobody knows where I'm going to; and nobody cares. I don't know myself, and I'm not sure I care. My small opinion doesn't count for much. Only, in this case, it happens to be true." "Where do you come from?" asked Andy, in a sudden impulse of great friendliness. She looked him straight in the face. "Nobody knows. Nobody must ask." "I've got no people belonging to me either. Even Jack Rock's no relation--or only a 'step.'" Her eyes grew a little clouded. "You mustn't make me silly. Only we're friends now, aren't we? We don't do what we can for one another out of kindness, but for love?" She daintily blew him a kiss, and smiled again. "And because we're both very attractive--aren't we?" "Oh, I'll accept the word if I'm promoted to share it with you. But I can't say I've got over the surprise yet." "You've stopped blushing, anyhow. That's something. Good-bye. I shall see you at lunch, I expect, to-morrow." Andy was very glad that she liked him, but he was glad of it because he liked her. His head was not turned by her assurance that he was attractive in a general sense: in the first place, because he remained distinctly sceptical as to the correctness of her opinion, sincere as it obviously was; in the second, because the matter did not appear to be one of much moment. No doubt folks sometimes did one a good turn for love's sake, but, taking the world broadly, a man had to make his way without relying on such help as that. That sort of help had given him a fair start now. He was not going to expect any more of it. It seemed to him that Jack Rock--or Jack and the Nun between them?--had already given him more than his share. It was curious to associate her with Jack Rock in the work; a queer freak of chance that she had come into it! But she had come into it--by chance and her own wilful fancy. Odd her share in it certainly was, but it was not unpleasant to him. He felt that he had gained a friend, as well as an opening in Gilly Foot's publishing house. "But I wish," he found himself reflecting as he travelled back in the Underground, "that she understood Harry better." Here he fell into an error unusual with him; he overrated his own judgment, led thereto by old love and admiration. The Nun had clear eyes; she had seen much of Harry Belfield, and no small amount of life. She had had to dodge many dangers. She knew what she was talking about. In all the side of things she knew so well, Andy, with his one attachment before he left South Africa long ago, was an innocent. Perhaps it was some dim consciousness of this, some half-realized feeling that he was on strange ground where she was on familiar, which made him find it difficult to get what she had said or hinted out of his head. It was apt to come back to him when he saw Vivien Wellgood; an unlooked-for association in his mind of people who seemed far remote from one another. Thus the Nun had come into the old circle of his thoughts; henceforward she too belonged, in a way, to the world of Meriton. Chapter XI. THE SHAWL BY THE WINDOW. Vivien and Isobel were alone at Nutley. It had been Wellgood's custom to go every summer to Norway by himself, leaving his daughter at school, to the care of her governess, or, for the last year or two, of her companion. He saw no reason against following his practice this year; indeed he was glad to go. The interval before the wedding dragged for him, as perhaps it did for others. He had carried matters with Isobel as far as he well could, unless he meant to carry them to the end--and it was not his intention to do that just yet. A last bachelor excursion--he told himself confidently that it was to be his last--had its attraction. Early in July he packed his portmanteau and went, leaving instructions with Isobel that her chaperonage was to be vigilant and strict. "Err on the safe side," he said. "No harm in that." "I shall bore them very much," Isobel suggested. "That's what you're here for." He added, with his hard confident smile, "Later on we'll try to give you a change from it." She knew well what he meant, and was glad to see the last of him for a while; nay, in her heart would have been glad to see the last of him for ever. She clung to what his words and acts promised, from no affection for him, but because it saved her from the common fate which her pride despised--being dismissed, turned off, now that she was to become superfluous. She had been in effect Vivien's governess, her schoolmistress, invested with power and authority. She hated to step down; it was open to her to step up. (A case not unlike Andy's.) Here was the secret which maintained her pride. In the strength of it she still ruled her charge with no lessening of prestige. It was no more in Vivien's nature than in her position to wonder at that; her eyes were set on a near sure liberty. Temporary restraint, though it might be irksome, seemed no more than a natural passing incident. Harry noticed and was amused. He thought that Wellgood must have said a word to Isobel; hinted perhaps that Vivien was wax in her lover's hands, and that her lover was impetuous. That Wellgood, or Isobel herself, or anybody else, should harbour that idea did not displease Harry Belfield; not to be able to resist him would be a venial sin, even in Vivien. It was an empty season in the little circle of Meriton society. Harry's father and mother were away, gone to Switzerland. Andy came down for week-ends generally; all the working days his nose was close to the grindstone in the office of Messrs. Gilbert Foot and Co. He was learning the business, delighting in his new activity. Harry would not have been in Meriton either, had he not been in love in Meriton. As it was, he had his early ride, then read his books, then went over to Nutley for lunch, and spent all the rest of the day there. Often the curate would come in and make a four at tennis, but he did not stay to dinner. Almost every evening the three were alone, in the house or on the terrace by the water. One night in the week Harry might be in town, one night perhaps he would bring Andy. Four or five nights those three would be together; and the question for Isobel was how often, for how long, how completely she was to leave the engaged couple to themselves. To put it more brutally--how much of a bore was she to make herself? To be a spy, a hindrance, a clog, to know that joy waited on the closing of the door behind her back, to listen to allusions half-intelligible, to turn a blind ear to words too tender, not to notice a furtive caress, to play the dragon of convention, the old-maid duenna--that was her function in Vivien's eyes. And the same in Harry's? Oh yes! the same in Harry Belfield's handsome, mischievous, deriding eyes! He laughed at her for what she did--for what she did in the discharge of her duty, earning her bread-and-butter. Earning more than he thought, though! Because of the derision in Harry's eyes, again she would not let Wellgood go. Vivien should awake to realize that she was more than a chaperon, tiresome for the moment, soon to be dismissed; Harry should understand that to one man she was no old-maid duenna, but the woman he wanted for wife. While she played chaperon at Nutley she wrote letters to Wellgood--letters keeping his passion alive, playing with his confidence, transparently feigning to ignore, hardly pretending to deny. They were letters a lover successful in the end would laugh at. If in the issue the man found himself jockeyed, they would furnish matter for fury as a great deceit. Harry Belfield was still looking forward to his marriage with ardour; it would not be fair even to say that he was getting tired of his engagement. But he would have been wise to imitate Wellgood--take a last bachelor holiday, and so come back again hungry for Vivien's society. Much as he liked the fare, he could not be said to hunger for it now, it came to him so easily and so constantly. The absence of his parents, the emptiness of the town, his own want of anything particular to do, prevented even the small hindrances and interruptions that might have whetted appetite by thwarting or delaying its satisfaction. Love-making became the business of his days, when it ought to have been the diversion. Harry must always have a diversion--by preference one with something of audacity, venture, or breaking of bounds in it. His relations with Vivien, legitimate though romantic, secure yet delightful, did not satisfy this requirement. His career might have served, and would serve in the future (so it was to be hoped), but the career was at a temporary halt till the autumn campaign began. He took the diversion which lay nearest to hand; that also was his way. Isobel Vintry possessed attractions; she had a temper too, as he knew very well. He found his amusement in teasing, chaffing, and challenging her, in forcing her to play duenna more and more conspicuously, and in laughing at her when she did it; in letting his handsome eyes rest on her in admiration for a second before he hastily turned them back to a renewed contemplation of their proper shrine; in seeming half-vexed when she left him alone with Vivien, not altogether sorry when she came back. He was up to a dozen such tricks; they were his diversion; they flavoured the sweetness of his love-making with the spice of mischief. He saw that Isobel felt, that she understood. Vivien noticed nothing, understood nothing. There was a secret set up between Isobel and himself; Vivien was a stranger to it. Harry enlarged his interests! His relations with Vivien were delightful, with Isobel they had a piquant flavour. Well, was not this a more agreeable state of things than that Isobel should be simply a bore to him, and he simply a bore to Isobel? The fact of being an engaged man did not reconcile Harry Belfield to being simply a bore to a handsome woman. Among Wellgood's orders there was one that Vivien should go to bed at ten o'clock sharp, and Harry depart at the same hour. Wherever they were, in house or garden, the lovers had to be found and parted--Vivien ordered upstairs, Harry sent about his business. Isobel's duty was to enforce this rule. Harry found a handle in it; his malice laid hold of it. "Here comes the strict governess!" he cried. Or, "Here's nurse! Bedtime! Won't you really let us have ten minutes more? I believe you sit with your watch in your hand." Vivien rebuked him. "It's not poor Isobel's fault, Harry. She's got to." "No, she likes doing it. She's a born martinet! She positively loves to separate us. You've no sympathy with the soft emotions, Miss Vintry. You're just a born dragon." "Please come, Vivien," Isobel said, flushing a little. "It's not my fault, you know." "Do you never break rules, Miss Vintry? It's what they're made for, you know." "We've not been taught to think that in this house, have we, Vivien?" "No, indeed," said Vivien with marked emphasis. Harry laughed. "A pattern child and a pattern governess! Well, we must kiss good-night. You and I, I mean, of course, Vivien. And I'm sent home too, as usual?" "You don't want to stay here alone, do you?" asked Isobel. "Well, no, that wouldn't be very lively." His eyes rested on her a moment, possibly--just possibly--hinting that, though Vivien left him, yet he need not be alone. One evening, a very fine one--when it seemed more absurd than usual to be ordered to bed or to be sent home so early--Harry chaffed Isobel in this fashion, yet with a touch of real contempt. He did feel a genuine contempt for people who kept rules just because they were rules. Vivien again interceded. "Isobel can't help it, Harry. It's father's orders." "Surely some discretion is left to the trusty guardian?" "It's no pleasure to me to be a nuisance, I assure you," said Isobel rather hotly. "Please come in, Vivien; it's well past ten o'clock." Vivien rose directly. "You've hurt Isobel, I think," she whispered to Harry. "Say something kind to her. Good-night, dear Harry!" She ran off, ahead of Isobel, who was about to follow, with no word to Harry. "Oh, wait a minute, please, Miss Vintry! I say, you know, I was only joking. Of course I know it's not your fault. I'm awfully sorry if I sounded rude. I thought you wouldn't mind a bit of chaff." She stood looking at him with a hostile air. "Why does it amuse you?" she asked. The square question puzzled Harry, but he was apt at an encounter. He found a good answer. "I suppose because what you do--what you have to do--seems somehow so incongruous, coming from you. I won't do it again, if you don't like it. Please forgive me--and walk with me to the gate to prove it. There's no rule against that!" For half a minute she stood, still looking at him. The moonlight was amply bright enough to let them see one another's faces. "Very well," she said. "Come along." Harry followed her with a pleasant feeling of curiosity. It was some little while before she spoke again. They had already reached the drive. "Why do you say that it's incongruous, coming from me?" she asked. "I'm afraid I can't answer that without being impertinent again," laughed Harry. She turned to him with a slight smile. "Risk that!" It was many days since he had been alone with her--so devoted had he been to Vivien. Now again he felt her power; again he did not know whether she put it forth consciously. "Well, then, you playing sheep-dog when you ought to be--" He broke off, leaving his eyes to finish for him. "So your teasing is to be considered as a compliment?" "I'll go on with it, if you'll take it like that." "Does Vivien take it like that, do you think?" "I don't believe she thinks anything about it--one way or the other. She's partial to my small efforts to be amusing, that's all." "Well, if it's a compliment, I don't want any more of it. I think you'd better, under the circumstances, keep all your compliments for Vivien--till you're married, at all events!" Harry lifted his brows. "Rules! Oh, those rules!" he said with mock ruefulness. "Is there any good in breaking them--for nothing?" He turned quickly towards her. She was smiling at him. "For nothing?" "Yes. Here we are at the gate. Good-night, Mr. Harry." "What do you mean by--?" "I really can't stay any longer." She was doing the mockery now; his eagerness had given her the advantage. "You can think over my meaning--if you like. Good-night!" Harry said good-night. When he had gone fifty yards he looked back. She was still there, holding the gate half open with her hand, looking along the road. After him? As he went on, his thoughts were not all of Vivien. Isobel Vintry was a puzzling girl! The next evening he brought Vivien into the drawing-room punctually at ten. "We're good children to-night!" he said gaily. "We've even said good-night to one another already, and Vivien's ready to run up to bed." "There, Isobel, aren't we good?" cried Vivien, with her good-night kiss to Isobel. "Any reward?" asked Harry, as the door closed behind his _fiancée_. "What do you ask?" "A walk to the gate. And--perhaps--an explanation." "Certainly no explanation. I don't mind five minutes' walk to the gate." This time very little was said on the way to the gate. A constraint seemed to fall on both of them. The night felt very silent, very still; the lake stretched silent and still too, mysteriously tranquil. At last Harry spoke. "You've forgiven me--quite?" "Oh yes. Naturally you didn't think how--how it seemed to me. It isn't always easy to--" She paused for a moment, looking over the water. "But it's my place in life--for the present, at all events." "It won't be for long. It can't be." He laughed. "But I must take care--compliments barred!" "From you to me--yes." Again her words--or the way she said them--stirred him to an eager curiosity. She half said things, or said things with half-meanings. Was that art or accident? She did not say "from an engaged man to his _fiancée's_ companion," but "from you to me." Was the concrete--the personal--form significant? No more passed, save only, at the gate, "Good-night." But with the word she gave him her hand and smiled at him--and ever so slightly shook her head. The next day, and the next, and the next, she left Vivien and him entirely to themselves, save when meals forced her to appear; and on none of the three nights would she walk with him to the gate, though he asked twice in words and the third time with his eyes. Was that what the little shake of her head had meant? But the two walks had left their mark. Harry chaffed and teased no more. Vivien praised his forbearance, adding, "I really think you hurt her feelings a little, Harry. But it was being rather absurdly touchy, wasn't it?" "She seems to be sensitive about her position." Vivien made a little grimace. She was thinking that Isobel's position in the house had been at least as pleasant as her own--till Harry came to woo. "Oh, confound this political business!" Harry suddenly broke out. "But for that we could get married in the middle of August--as soon as your father and my people are back. I hate this waiting till October, don't you? Now you know you do, Vivien!" She put her hand on his and pressed it gently. "Yes, but it's pleasant as it is. I'm not so very impatient--so long as I see you every day." But Harry was impatient now, and rather restless. The days had ceased to glide by so easily, almost imperceptibly, in the company of his lover. There was a feeling in him which did not make for peace--a recrudescence of those impulses of old days which his engagement was utterly to have banished. Marriage was invoked to banish them utterly now. The sooner marriage came, the better! Harry was ardent in his love-making that afternoon, and Vivien in a heaven of delight. If there was no chaff, there was no appeal to Isobel for a walk to the gate either. "I wish she wasn't there," he said to himself as he walked down, alone, to the gate at a punctual ten o'clock. Somehow his delight in his love for Vivien, and in hers for him, was being marred. Ever so little, ever so faintly, yet still a little, his romance was turning to duty. A delightful duty, of course, one in which his whole heart was engaged, but still no longer just the one thing--the spontaneous voluntary thing--which filled his life. It had now an opposite. Besides all else that it was, it had also--even now, even before that marriage so slow in coming--taken on the aspect of the right thing. In the remote corners of his mind--banished to those--hovered the shadowy image of its opposite. Quite impossible that the image should put on bones and flesh--should take life! Yes, Harry was sure of that. But even its phantom presence was disturbing. "I thought I'd got rid of all that!" Some such protest, yet even vaguer and less formulated, stirred in his thoughts. He conceived that he had become superior to temptation. Had he? For he was objecting to being tempted. Who tempted him? Did she--or only he himself, the man he was? The question hung doubtful, and thereby pressed him the closer. He flattered himself that he knew women. What else had he to show for a good deal of time--to say nothing of wear and tear of the emotions? Here was a woman whose meaning, whose feeling towards himself, he did not know. Andy Hayes was free the next afternoon--his half-holiday. Harry picked him up at his lodgings and carried him with him to Nutley. Harry was glad to have him, glad to hear all about Gilbert Foot and Co., even more glad to see his own position through Andy's eyes. Andy's vision was always so normal, so sane, so simple; his assumptions were always so right. A man really had only to live up to Andy's assumptions to be perfectly right. He assumed that a man was honest, straight, single-minded--unreservedly and exclusively in love with the girl he was going to marry. Why, of course a man was! Or why marry her? Even foolishly in love with her? Rather spoonily, as some might think? Andy, perhaps, went so far as to assume that. Well, it was a most healthy assumption--eminently right on the practical side; primitive perhaps, but tremendously right. "I'll take Miss Vintry off your hands. Don't be afraid about that!" laughed Andy. "I don't know that you'll be allowed to. You're no end of a favourite of Vivien's. She often talks about you. In fact I think I'm a bit jealous, Andy!" Andy's presence seemed to restore his balance, which had seemed shaken--even if very slightly. He found himself again dwelling on the charms of Vivien, recalling her pretty ways and the shy touches of humour that sometimes ornamented her timidity. "I asked her the other day--I was playing the fool, you know--what she would do if I forsook her. What do think she said?" Andy was prepared for anything brilliant, but, naturally, unable to suggest it. "She said, 'Drown myself in the lake, Harry--or else send for Andy Hayes.'" "Did she say that?" cried Andy, hugely delighted, blushing as red as he had when the Nun told him that he was attractive. If Andy's simplicity and ready enthusiasm were congenial to some minds and some moods, to others they could be very exasperating. To have it assumed that you are feeling just what you ought to feel--or even rather more than could in strictness be expected from you--may be a strain on your patience. Harry had welcomed in Andy an assumption of this order; at the moment it helped him. Isobel gave a similar assumption about her feelings a much less hearty welcome. While Harry and Vivien took a stroll by themselves after lunch, Andy sat by her and was enthusiastic about them; he had forgotten the Nun's unjust hints. Isobel chafed. "Oh, yes, it's all very ideal, I daresay, Mr. Hayes. Let's hope it'll last! But Mr. Harry's been in love before, hasn't he?" "Most people have had a fancy or two." (Even he himself had indulged in one.) "This is quite different to him, I know. And how could anybody help being fond of her?" "At any rate she's pretty free from the dangers of competition down here." She looked at Andy with a curious smile. He laughed heartily. "Yes, that's all right, anyhow! Not that it would make any difference, I'm sure." "If it were only to show this simpleton--" The angry thought was in her heart. But there was more. Harry's devotion was seeming very whole-hearted that day. Had she lost her power to disturb it? Was Andy in the end right in leaving her utterly out of consideration? Every day now and every hour it hurt her more to see Harry's handsome head ever bowed to Vivien, his eyes asking her love and receiving the loving answer. A wave of jealousy and of defiance swept over her. Andy need not know--she could afford to leave him in his folly. Vivien must not know--that would be too inconvenient. But Harry himself--was he quite to forget those two walks to the gate? She burned to use her power. A letter from Wellgood had reached her that morning; it was not a proposal of marriage, but by his talk of future plans--of what was to happen after Vivien left them--it assumed that she was still to be at Nutley. The implication was definite; matters only awaited his return. "I haven't had a single word with you--by ourselves--all day," said Vivien to Andy after dinner. "You'll walk with me, won't you?" "For my part I don't think I want to walk at all," said Harry. "It's rather chilly. Will you keep me company indoors, and forgive my cigar, Miss Vintry?" Isobel assented rather coldly, but her heart beat quicker. Now that the chance came--by no contrivance of hers and unexpectedly--she was suddenly afraid of it, and afraid of what seemed a sudden revelation of the strength of her feeling for Harry. She had meant to play with him, to show him that, if she was to be left out of the reckoning, it was by her own choice; to make him see her power fully for once before she hid it for ever. Could she carry out her dangerous programme? Harry had been at his gayest that night, just in the mood which had carried him to most of his conquests--gaily daring, skirting topics of gallantry with defiant ease, provoking, yet never offending. If his eyes spoke true, he was in the mood still. "Only a week more!" he said. "Then papa-in-law comes back, and I go electioneering. Well, I suppose we've had enough of what they call dalliance." He sank into an armchair by the fireplace, sighing in pleasant indolence, lolling gracefully. The long windows were open to the terrace; the evening air came in cool and sweet. She looked out on the terrace; Vivien and Andy had wandered away; they were not in sight. Vivien's wrap lay on a chair close to the window. "Vivien ought to have taken her wrap," said Isobel absently, as she came back and stood by the mantelpiece opposite Harry. Her cheeks were a little flushed and her eyes bright to-night; she responded to Harry's gaiety, his mood acted on hers. "What are you going to do after we're--after the break-up here?" he asked suddenly. She smiled down at him, pausing a moment before she answered. "You seem quite sure that there will be a complete break-up," she said. He looked hard at her; she smiled steadily. "Well, I know that Vivien won't be here," he said. "Oh, I know that much too, Mr. Harry. But I suppose her father will." "I suppose that too. Which leaves only one of the party unaccounted for." "Yes, only one of us unaccounted for." "One that may be Miss Wellgood's companion, but could hardly be Mr. Wellgood's. He can scarcely claim the privileges of old age yet." "You think I ought to be looking out for another situation? But supposing--merely supposing--Mr. Wellgood didn't agree?" Harry flung his cigar into the grate. "Do you mean--?" he said slowly. She gave a little laugh. He laughed too, rather uneasily. "I say, you can't mean--?" "Can't I? Well, I only said 'supposing.' And I think you chaffed me about it yourself once. You forget what you say to women, Mr. Harry." "Should you like it?" "Beggars mustn't be choosers. We can't all be as lucky as Vivien!" "Was I serious? No--I mean--are you? Wellgood!" "Why shouldn't I be? Or why shouldn't Mr. Wellgood? It seems absurd?" "Not in Wellgood, anyhow." "Beggars mustn't be choosers." "You a beggar! Why, you're--" "What am I?" "Shall I break the rules?" She gave him a long look before answering. "No, don't." Her voice shook a little, her composure was less perfect. Harry was no novice; the break in the voice did not escape him. He marked it with a thrill of triumph; it told him that she was not merely playing with him; he was holding his own, he had his power. The fight was equal. He rose to his feet and stood facing her, both of them by the mantelpiece. "I don't want you to say anything about this to Vivien, because it's not definite yet. If the opportunity were offered to me, don't you think I should be wise to accept?" "Are you in love with him?" He looked in her eyes. "No, you can't be!" "Your standard of romance is so high. I like him--and perhaps I don't like looking out for another situation." Her tone was lighter; she seemed mistress of herself again. But Harry had not forgotten the break in her voice. "Have you considered that this arrangement--" "Which we have supposed--" "Would make you my mother-in-law?" "Well, your stepmother-in-law. That doesn't sound quite so oppressive, I hope?" "They both sound to me considerably absurd." "I really can't see why they should." Their eyes met in confidence, mirthful and defiant. They fought their duel now, forgetful of everybody except themselves. His old spirit had seized on Harry; it carried him away. She gave herself up to the delight of her triumph and to the pleasure that his challenge gave her. Out of sight, out of mind, were Vivien and Andy. "But relationship has its consolations, its privileges," said Harry, leaning towards her, his face alight with mischievous merriment. He offered her his hand. "At all events, accept my congratulations." She gave him her hand. "You're premature, both with congratulations and with relationship." "Oh, I'm always in a hurry about things," laughed Harry, holding her hand. He leant closer yet; his face was very near hers now--his comely face with its laughing luring eyes. She did not retreat. Harry saw in her eyes, in her flushed cheeks and quickened breath, in her motionlessness, the permission that he sought. Bending, he kissed her cheek. She gave a little laugh, triumphant, yet deprecatory and nervous. Her face was all aflame. Harry's gaze was on her; slowly he released her hand. She stood an instant longer, then, with a shrug of her shoulders, walked across the room towards the windows. Harry stood watching her, exultant and merry still. Suddenly she came to a stand. She spoke without looking round. "Vivien's shawl was on that chair." The words hardly reached his preoccupied brain. "What? Whose shawl?" She turned round slowly. "Vivien's shawl was on that chair, and it's gone," she said. Harry darted past her to the window, and looked out. He came back to her on tiptoe and whispered, "Andy! He's about two-thirds of the way across the terrace with the thing now." "He must have come in just a moment ago," she whispered in return. Harry nodded. "Yes--just a moment ago. I wonder--!" He pursed up his lips, but still there was a laughing devil in his eye. "Lucky she didn't come for it herself!" he said. "But--well, I wonder!" She laid her finger on her lips. They heard steps approaching, and Vivien's merry voice. Harry made a queer, half-puzzled, half-amused grimace. Isobel walked quickly on to the terrace. Inside the light fell too mercilessly on her cheeks; she would meet them beneath the friendly cover of the night. Chapter XII. CONCERNING A STOLEN KISS. A stolen kiss may mean very different things--almost nothing (not quite nothing, or why steal it?), something yet not too much, or well-nigh everything. The two parties need not give it the same value; a witness of it is not, of necessity, bound by the valuation of either of them. It may be merely a jest, of such taste as charity can allow in the circumstances; it may be the crown and end of a slight and passing flirtation; it may be the first visible mark of a passion destined to grow to fierce intensity. Or it may seem utterly evasive in its significance at the moment, as it were indecipherable and imponderable, waiting to receive from the future its meaning and its weight. The last man to find his way through a maze of emotional analysis was Andy Hayes; his mind held no thread of experience whereby to track the path, his temperament no instinct to divine it. He could not assign a value--or values--to the incident of which chance had made him a witness; what Harry's impulse, Isobel's obvious acceptance of it, the intensity and absorption that marked the bearing of the two in the brief moment in which he saw them as he lifted Vivien's shawl, stood looking for a flash of time, and quickly turned away--what these things meant or amounted to he could not tell. But there was no uncertainty about his feelings; he was filled with deep distaste. He was not a man of impracticable ideals--his mind walked always in the mean--but he was naturally averse from intrigue, from underhand doings, from the playing of double parts. They were traitors in this thing; let it mean the least it could, even to mere levity or unbecoming jocularity (their faces rose in his mind to contradict this view even as he put it), still they were so far traitors. The first brunt of his censure fell on Isobel, but his allegiance to Harry was also so sorely shaken that it seemed as though it could never be the same again. The engagement had been to Andy a sacrosanct thing; it was now sacrilegiously defaced by the hands of the two most bound to guard it. "Very low-down!" was Andy's humble phrase of condemnation--at least very low-down; how much more he knew not but that in the best view of the case. At the moment his heart had gone out to Vivien in a great pang of compassion; it seemed such a shame to tamper with, even if not actually to betray, a trust like hers. His face, like Isobel's, had been red--but red with anger--under the cover of the night. He was echoing the Nun's "Poor girl!" which in loyalty to his friend he had before resented. His first impulse had been to shield Vivien from any suspicion; it taught him a new cunning, an hypocrisy not his own. If Isobel delayed their return to the brightly lighted room, he did not hurry it--let all the faces have time to recover! But his voice was calm and unmoved; for him he was even talkative and exuberant. When they went in, he met Harry with an unembarrassed air. Relief rose in Isobel; yet Harry doubted. So far as Harry could reason, he must have all but seen, probably had actually seen. And in one thing there was significance. He went on devoting himself to Vivien; he did not efface himself in Harry's favour, as his wont was. He seemed to make his presence a fence round her, forbidding her lover's approach. Harry, now talking trifles to Isobel, watched him keenly, hardly doubting, hardly venturing to hope. "Till lunch to-morrow, Harry," said Vivien gaily, when the time for good-night came. "You'll come too, won't you, Mr. Hayes?" "Thanks awfully, but I'm off for a big tramp." "To dinner then?" asked Isobel very graciously. "Thanks awfully, but I--I really must sup with old Jack." The quickest glance ran from Harry to Isobel. What was to be done? Take the chance--the bare chance--that he had not seen anything, or not seen all? Or confess the indiscretion and plead its triviality--with a vow of penitence, serious if Andy must be serious over such a trifle, light if he proved man of the world enough to join in laughing it off? No, Harry would take the chance, poor as it was. Even if Andy had seen, how could he interfere? To confess, however lightly, would be to give him a standing in the case, a right to put his oar in. It would be silly to do that; as matters stood now, his title could be denied if he sought to meddle. He knew Andy well enough to be sure that he would do nothing against him without fair warning. If he meant to tell tales to Vivien or to Wellgood, he would warn Harry first. Time enough to wrestle with him then! Meanwhile they--he was coupling Isobel with himself--would stand on the defensive; nothing should be admitted, everything should be ignored. So much for Andy! He was assessed--a possible danger, a certain cause for vigilance, also, it must be confessed, rather an uncomfortable presence, an embarrassing witness of his friend's orthodox love-making, as he had been an unwilling one of his heterodox. Meanwhile Harry's tact was equal to the walk back to Meriton, Andy proving inclined to silence but not unfriendly or morose, still less actively aggressive or reproachful. And he would not be at Meriton to-morrow. The word could be passed to Isobel--be careful but say nothing! Very careful in Andy's presence--but no admissions to be made! Aye, so much for Andy! But besides the witness there are the parties. Besides the person who catches you kissing, there is the person you kiss. There is also you, who kiss. All questions of value are not decided by the impression you chance to make on the witness. The bystander may see most of the game; the players settle the stakes. "Perverse!" was Harry's verdict on the whole affair, given from his own point of view; not only perverse that he should have been caught--if he had been--but no less perverse that he should have done the thing, that he should have wanted to do it, and that he should feel as he now did about it. Perhaps the last element was really the most perverse of all, because it set up in his mind an opposition to what was plainly the only course open to him from Isobel's point of view. (Here the question of the third value came in.) That was surely open and avowed penitence--a sincere apology, as serious or as light as was demanded or would be accepted. She could not pretend that she felt outraged. In truth they had shared in the indiscretion and been partners in the peccadillo. An apology not too abject, a hint at the temptation, gracefully put, to serve for excuse, a return to the safe ground of friendship--and a total oblivion of the incident! Or, if they must think of it at all, it would be without words--with a smile, maybe, in a few days' time; that is how we feel about some not serious, by no means unpleasant, little scrape that is well over. Harry had been in a good many such--perverse but not fatal, annoying at the time, not necessarily things on which the memory dwelt with pain in after days; far from it sometimes, in fact. That was the right thing to do, and the right way to regard the episode. But Harry was conscious of a complication--in the circumstances and in his own feelings. Owing to his engagement with Vivien he must go on frequenting Isobel's society; owing to the memory of his kiss the necessity was not distasteful. Well, these little complications must be unravelled; the first difficulty faced, the second ignored or overcome. He arrived at so clear, sound, and prudent a resolution thus to minimise the effects of his indiscretion that he felt almost more virtuous than if he had been discreet. So the parties, as well as the witness, were assessed. But who had put into his hand the standard whereby to assess Isobel? She might measure by another rule. The confession--and absolution--thus virtuously and comfortably planned did not take place the next day, for the simple reason that Miss Vintry afforded no opportunity for them; she was ill and invisible. On the following day she was on a sofa. Immediately on his appearance, Harry was sent home again, Vivien declaring that she must be in unremitting attendance on her friend. The third day matters seemed back on their usual footing; but still he got no private word with Isobel. Once or twice he caught her looking at him in what seemed a thoughtful way; when observed, she averted her glance, but without embarrassment. Perhaps this avoidance of all chance of private talk--of all possibility of referring to the incident--was her way of treating it; perhaps she meant to dispense with apology and go straight to oblivion. If that were her intention, she misjudged Harry's feelings. He felt baulked of his scheme of confession and absolution--baulked and tantalized. He felt almost insulted--did she not think him gentleman enough to apologise? He felt curious--did she not feel the desire for an apology herself? He felt amazed--had she no anxiety about Andy? The net result was that he could think of little else than of her and of the incident. And under these circumstances he had to carry on his orthodox love-making! The way of trangressors is said to be hard; at moments Harry felt his worse than that; it had a tendency to become ridiculous. Against this abhorred peril he struck back vigorously and instinctively on effective lines. He could hold his own in a duel of the sexes. His court of Vivien not only seemed but became more ardent--in these matters the distinction between being and seeming runs very thin, since the acting excites the reality. If one woman teased him, occupying his thoughts without satisfying his desire, he turned to the adoration of another, and gave her of his own that hers might be more complete. Adoring Vivien found herself adored; Harry's worship would break out even in Isobel's presence! He who had been rather too content to accept now asked; she could not do enough to witness her love. Half-unconsciously fighting for a victory he less than consciously desired, he struck at Isobel through Vivien--and made Vivien supremely happy. Happiness gave her confidence; confidence gave her new charm, a new vivacity, a daring to speak her gay and loving thoughts. Who should not listen if Harry loved to hear? Her growth in power to allure made Harry wonder that he could not love single-heartedly, why his recollection of the incident remained so fresh and so ever-present. If Isobel would give him a chance to wind it up! It was troublesome now only because it hung in a mystery created by her silence, because the memory of it was irritated by a curiosity which her evasion of him maintained. Did she think it nothing? Or could she not bear to speak of it, because it was so much more? At any rate she should see how he loved Vivien! The three had this week to themselves--Andy engulfed in town and Gilbert Foot and Co., Wellgood not due back till the Saturday. So they passed it--Vivien in a new ecstasy; Harry ardent, troubled, wondering; Isobel apart, thoughtful, impossible to read. Thus they came to the Friday. To-morrow Wellgood would be back. Harry, thinking on this, thought suddenly of what had led up to the incident--what had been the excuse, the avenue, for his venture. It had been absorbed in the incident itself. Wellgood's coming gave it back to independent life. If what Isobel had said were true, another lover entered on the scene--Isobel's! That night--when Harry had gone--Vivien came to Isobel and kissed her, saying, "It's wonderful, but to-night I'm sure!" Isobel was looking at an illustrated paper. She let her hand rest in Vivien's, but she did not raise her eyes from the pictures. "Silly child, you've been sure all along!" "Not as I am to-night. I've been sure I pleased him, that he liked me, that he liked my love. I've never been sure that he really wanted it till the last two or three days." She paused a moment, and added softly, "Never sure he must have it, as much as I must have his!" Isobel's paper slipped from her knees on to the floor, but still she did not look at Vivien. "It's a wonderful feeling that," the girl went on; "to feel he must have it--that he must have my love as I must have his. Before he seemed to be doing all the giving--and I could hardly believe! Now I'm giving too--we're sharing. Somehow it makes a woman of me." She playfully caressed Isobel's hand, running fingers lightly over fingers. "I don't believe I'm afraid even of you any more!" Her tone was gay, affectionately bantering. Now Isobel looked up at her as she leant over her shoulder. "It makes you look very pretty." "It makes me feel prettier still," laughed Vivien. She put her face close to her friend's and whispered, blushing, "He kisses me differently now." Isobel Vintry sharply drew her hand away. Vivien's blush grew painfully bright. "Oh, I--I oughtn't to have said that. You're right, Isobel. It's--it's too sacred. But I was so happy in it. Do forgive me, dear. I've got no mother to talk to, Isobel. Not even a sister! I know what you felt, but you must forgive me." "There's nothing to forgive, child. I meant nothing when I took my hand away. I was going to pick up the paper." "Then kiss me, Isobel." Isobel slowly turned her head and kissed the girl's cheek. "I know what you mean, Vivien," she said with a smile that to the girl seemed wistful, almost bitter. "You dear!" she whispered. "Some day you must be very happy too." Her voice carolled in song as she sped upstairs. "The good which I would I do not: but the evil which I would not, that I do." That--and possibly one other--reminiscence of the Scriptures came back to Isobel Vintry when, with a kiss, she had dismissed Vivien to her happy rest. There was another law, warring against the law of her mind--the law of the Restless and Savage Master. He broke friendship's power and blurred the mirror of loyalty. He drove her whither she would not go, commanded her to set her hand to what she would not touch, forced love to mate with loathing. "The child is so beautifully happy," her spirit cried. "Aye, in Harry Belfield's kisses," came the Master's answer. "Wouldn't she be? You've tasted them. You know." She knew. They were different now! From those he had given Vivien before? Yes. From the one he had given her? Or like that one? Her jealousy caught fresh flame from Vivien's shy revelation--fresh flame and new shame. Harry was repenting--with smiles of memory. She was sinning still, with groans, with all her cunning, and with all her might. Pass the theory that it is each man for himself in this fight, and each woman for her own hand. No doubt; but should not the fight be fair? The girl did not so much as know there was a fight, and should not and must not, unless and until it had gone irrevocably against her. "All's fair in love--and war." Yet traitors suffer death from their own side and the enemy's contempt. His kisses were different now--that set her aflame. Aye, and to mark how under their new charm Vivien opened into new power and took hold on new weapons! The new kisses somehow made a woman of her! It might be tolerable to see him make his marriage of convenience, doing no more than somewhat indolently allowing himself to be adored. But to see him adoring this other--that was to be worsted on the merits--not merely to be impossible, but to be undesired. Was that coming about? Had it come about--so soon after the stolen kiss? Then the kiss had been all failure, all shame; he had mocked while he kissed. She was cheapened, yet not aided. The cunning of the last six days had been bent to prove that she had been aided--her value not cheapened but enhanced. Looking again out of the window whence she had watched the pair at their love-making, looking over the terrace, now empty, across the water (water seems ever to answer to the onlooker's mood), she exclaimed against the absence of safeguards. Were she a wife--or were Vivien! That would be a fence, making for protection--a sturdy fence, which to break down or to leap over would be plain trespassing, a profanation, open offence. Were she--or were Vivien--a mother! The Savage Master himself must own a worthy foe in motherhood--one that gave him trouble, one that he vanquished only after hard fighting, and then saw his victory bitterly grudged, piteously wept over, deplored in a heart-rending fashion; you could see that in the morning's paper. She chanced to have read such a case a day or two before. The letter of confession was signed "Mother the outcast." To have to sign like that--if you let the Master beat you--was a deterrent, a safeguard, a shield. Such defences she had not. Vivien was neither wife nor mother; no more was she. The engagement seemed but victory in the first bout; was it forbidden to try the best of three? Nothing was irrevocable yet--on either side. "At lovers' vows--!" Or a stolen kiss! Or a stolen victory? Suddenly she remembered, and with the same quality of smile as Vivien had marked, that she had been an exemplary child, ever extolled, never punished; a pattern schoolgirl, with the highest marks, Queen on May-day (a throne not to be achieved without the Principal's _congé d'élire!_), a model student at Cambridge. Hence the unexceptionable credentials which had introduced her to Nutley, had made her Vivien's preceptress, Vivien's bulwark against fear and weakness, Vivien's shield--and destined to be a shield to successive young ladies after Vivien. Who first had undermined that accepted view of destiny, had disordered that well-schooled, almost Sunday-schooled, scheme of her life? Vivien's father, who came back to-morrow. At whose challenge was the shaken fortress like to fall? Vivien's lover, who came yesterday and the day before, to-morrow and the day after, every day till he went out of life with Vivien. As with minds greatly preoccupied, the ordinary traffic of the hours passed unnoticed; bed, sleep, breakfast, were a moment. She found herself greeting Wellgood, newly arrived, ruddy and robust, confident, self-satisfied--as she saw in a moment, eager. His kiss to his daughter was carelessly kind, and with it he let her go, she not unwilling; Harry was due at the gate. Wellgood's real greeting was for the woman whom to see was his home-coming. He led her with him into his study; he laid his hand on her arm as he made her sit down near him. "Well, have the lovers bored you to death with their spooning since I've been away?" "There's been a good deal of it, and not much relief. Only Andy Hayes now and then." "Rather tiresome to be the onlooker all the time. Wouldn't you like a little on your own account?" "I'm in no hurry." She looked him straight in the face, rather defiantly. "I've made up my mind since I've been away. I'm not a good hand at speeches or at spooning, but I'm fond of you, Isobel. I'll make you a good husband--and it's for you to consider whether you'll ever get a better chance." "I should like more time to think it over." "Oh, come, don't tell me you haven't been thinking it over for weeks past. What's the difficulty?" "I'm not in love with you--that's all." "I don't expect to inspire a romantic passion, like young Harry." "Can't you leave Harry Belfield out of it?" she asked irritably. "I see he has bored you," chuckled Wellgood. "But you like me? We get on together?" "Yes, I like you, and we get on together. But I don't want to marry yet." "No more do I--just yet!" He rose and went to the mantelpiece to choose a pipe. "Have you got any friends you could stay a month with?" His back was to her; he was busy filling the pipe. He saw neither the sudden stiffening of her figure nor the fear in her eyes. Was he going to send her away--now? But she answered coolly, "Yes, I think I could arrange it, if you wish." "Somehow a man feels rather a fool, being engaged himself while his girl's getting married. We should have all the idiots in the neighbourhood buzzing about with their jokes and congratulations. I've made a plan to avoid all that. We keep it quite dark till Vivien's wedding; then you go off, ostensibly for good. I stay here and give the place an overhauling; then I'll join you in town, we'll be married there, and go for a jaunt. By the time we come back they'll have cooled down--and they'll be jolly glad to have shirked their wedding presents." By now he had turned round; the strain and the fear had passed from Isobel; the month's visit to friends was not to come now. "How do you like the scheme?" he asked. "I like the scheme very much, and I'm all for keeping it quiet till Vivien is disposed of." He stood before her, smoking his pipe, his hands in his pockets. "Shall we call it settled?" "I don't want to call it settled yet." He put down his pipe. "Look here, Isobel, because I can't make pretty speeches, don't you think I don't feel this thing. I want you, and I want the thing settled. You ought to know your mind by now. If you want to say no, you can say it now, but I don't believe you do. Then why can't you say yes? It's devilishly uncomfortable to go on living in the house with you while the thing's unsettled." Would the visit come into play after all, unless she consented? Isobel sat in thought. "Just understood between ourselves--that's what I mean. I shan't bother you with much love-making, as I daresay you can guess." She had cried out for a fence, a protection. Did not one offer itself now? It might prove of service. She saw that the man loved her in his rough way; his love might help her. For the time, at least, his honest sincerity of affection touched her heart. His "I want you" was grateful to her. That other thing--the thing to which the stolen kiss belonged--was madness. Surely she had resolution to withstand it and to do what was wise? Surely she could be honest? If only because, in all likelihood, dishonesty led nowhere. "Suppose I said yes--and changed my mind?" She was trying to be honest--or perhaps to put herself in a position to maintain that she had been honest, if need arose. "I must take my chance of that, like other men," laughed Wellgood. "But, like other men too, I don't suppose I should be very pleasant about it. Especially not if there was another fellow!" "No, I don't suppose you would." She smiled at him for a moment; he showed there a side of him that she liked--his courage, his self-confidence, his power to stand up for himself. "You leave it to me to keep you when once I've got you," he went on, smiling grimly. "That's my affair; you'll find I shall look after it." She smiled back at him--defiance in return for his grimness. "Very well, I'll leave it to you to keep me. After all, there's no reason to expect competition." "Not in Meriton, perhaps! But what of London, Miss Isobel? I must keep an eye on you there!" He took hold of her hands and pulled her to her feet. "It's a promise?" "In the way I've told you--yes." "Oh, that's good enough for me!" He drew her to him and kissed her. "We shan't have many chances of kissing--or we should give the thing away. But give me one now, Isobel!" She did as she was bid in a very friendly fashion. His kiss had been hearty but not passionate, and hers was an adequate response. It left Wellgood entirely content. "That's all right! Gad, I feel ten years younger! You shan't repent it. I'll look after you well--while I'm alive and after I'm gone too. Don't be afraid about that. Perhaps there'll be somebody else to look after you, by the time I get notice to quit. I'd like to leave a Wellgood of Nutley behind me." "Do you know, that's sentimental?" said Isobel. "Mere sentiment!" "Not a bit of it, miss. It's a sound natural instinct, and I'm proud of it." He kissed her again. "Now be off, there's a good girl. I've got a thousand things to do, and probably everything's been going to the devil while I've been away." "I rather pity everybody now you've come back!" "Don't you worry. I know I shall find your department in good order. Be off!" He took her by the shoulders in a rough playfulness and turned her towards the door. She left him chuckling to himself. He was very content with the issue of his suit. Was her department in good order? Her lips twisted in a wry smile. As she approached the drawing-room door, Harry Belfield came out of it. He started a little to see her--not that it was strange she should be there, but because he had not seen her alone since the night of the stolen kiss. He closed the door behind him and came to her. "Vivien"--a jerk of his head told that Vivien was in the drawing-room--"has sent me to say 'How do you do?' to Mr. Wellgood." "He's in his study, Mr. Harry. Don't stay long. He's very busy." She drew aside, to let him pass, but Harry stood still. "Are you never going to give me an opportunity?" he asked in a low voice. "An opportunity for what?" Harry jumped at the chance of his confession and absolution. "Why, of saying how awfully sorry and--and ashamed I am that I yielded--" "What's the use of saying anything about it? It's best forgotten." "Now Wellgood's back?" he whispered, with a flash of his eyes. "Certainly best forgotten, now that Vivien's father is back." He shook his head at her with a smile, owning her skilful parry. "You won't give me one chance?" "Does the dashing Mr. Harry Belfield need to have chances given him? I thought he made them for himself." Harry's eyes gleamed. "I'll take you at your word in that!" "You've been in no hurry about it up to now--and you seem in none to say 'How do you do?' to Mr. Wellgood." She motioned him to go on, adding, "It was very silly, but no harm's done. We'll forget." Harry gave her a long look. She met it with a steady smile. He held out his hand. "Thank you. We'll forget. There's my hand on it." She gave a little laugh, shook her head, and put her hands behind her back. "I seem to remember it began that way before," she said, and darted past him swiftly. That was how they set about forgetting the stolen kiss. Chapter XIII. A LOVER LOOKS PALE. It speedily appeared that Gilly Foot had other than pecuniary reasons for wanting a partner; he wanted a pair of hands to work for him. He was lazy, at times even lethargic; nothing could make him hurry. He hated details, and, above all other details, figures. His work was to hatch ideas; somebody else had to bring up the chickens. Andy could hardly have allowed the cool shuffling-off of all the practical business work on to his shoulders--which was what happened as soon as he had learnt even the rudiments of it--had it not been that the ideas were good. The indolent young man would sit all the morning--not that his morning began very early--apparently doing nothing, then spend two hours at lunch at the restaurant, come back smoking a large cigar, and after another hour's rumination be delivered of an idea. The budding business--Andy wondered how it had even budded under a gardener who no doubt planted but never watered--lay mainly with educational works; and here Gilly's ingenuity came in. He was marvellously good at guessing what would appeal to a schoolmaster; how or whence he got this instinct it was impossible to say; it seemed just a freak of genius. The prospectus of a new "series," or the "syllabus" of a new course of study (contained in Messrs. Gilbert Foot and Co.'s primers) became in his hands a most skilful bait. And if he hooked one schoolmaster, as he pointed out to Andy, it was equivalent to hooking scores, perhaps hundreds, conceivably thousands, of boys. Girls too perhaps! Gilly was all for the higher education of girls. Generations of the youth of both sexes rose before his prophetically sanguine eye, all brought up on Gilbert Foot and Co.'s primers. "A single really good idea for a series may mean a small fortune, Andy," he would say impressively. "And now I think I may as well go to lunch." Andy accepted the situation and did the hard work. He also provided his partner with a note-book, urging him to put down (or, failing that, to get somebody else to put down) any brilliant idea which occurred to him at lunch. For himself he made a rule--lunch at the restaurant not more than once a week. Only ideas justified lunch there every day. Lunch there might be good for ideas; it was not good for figures. So Andy was working hard, no less hard than when he was trying to drag his poor timber business out of the mud, but with far more heart, hope, and zest. He buckled to the figures; he bargained with the gentlemen who wrote the primers, with the printers, and the binders, and the advertisement canvassers; he tracked shy discounts to their lairs, and bagged them; his eye on office expenses was the eye of a lynx. The chickens hatched by Gilly found a loving and assiduous foster-mother. And in September, after the new primers had been packed off to meet the boys going back to school, Andy was to have a holiday; he was looking forward to it intensely. He meant to spend it in attending Harry Belfield on his autumn campaign in the Meriton Division--an odd idea of a holiday to most men's thinking, but Harry was still Harry, and Andy's appetite for new experiences had lost none of its voracity. Meanwhile, for recreation, there was Sunday with its old programme of church, a tramp, and supper with Jack Rock; there was lunch on Friday at the restaurant with the Nun--she never missed Andy's day--and other friends; and on both the Saturdays which followed the Belfields' return home he was bidden to dine at Halton. That the Nun had taken a fancy to him he had been informed by that candid young woman herself; her assurance that he was "attractive" held good as regarded Belfield at least; even Andy's modesty could not deny that. Belfield singled him out for especial attention, drew him out, listened to him, advised him. It was at the first of the two evenings at Halton that he kept Andy with him after dinner, while the rest went into the garden--Wellgood and Vivien were there, but not Isobel, who had pleaded a cold--and insisted on hearing all about his business, listening with evident interest to Andy's description of it and of his partner, Gilly Foot. "And in your holiday you're going to help Harry, I hear?" "Help him!" laughed Andy. "I'm going to listen to him." "I recommend you to try your own hand too. You couldn't have a better opportunity of learning the job than at these village meetings." "I could never do it. It never entered my head. Why, I know nothing!" "More than your audience; that's enough. If you do break down at first, it doesn't matter. After a month of it you wouldn't mind Trafalgar Square." "The--the idea's absolutely new to me." "So have a lot of things been lately, haven't they? And they're turning out well." A slow smile spread over Andy's face. "I should look a fool," he reflected. "Try it," said Belfield, quite content with the reception of his suggestion. He saw that Andy would turn it over in his mind, would give it full, careful, impartial consideration. He was coming to have no small idea of Andy's mind. He passed to another topic. "You were at Nutley two or three times when we were away, Harry tells me. Everything seems going on very pleasantly?" Andy recalled himself with a start from his rumination over a possible speech. "Oh, yes--er--it looks like it, Mr. Belfield." "And Harry's not been to town more than once or twice!" He smiled. "He really seems to have said farewell to the temptations of London. An exemplary swain!" "I think it's going on all right, sir," said Andy. Belfield was a little puzzled at his lack of enthusiasm. Andy showed no actual signs of embarrassment, but his tone was cold, and his interest seemed perfunctory. "I daresay you've been too busy to pay much attention to such frivolous affairs," he said; but to Andy's ears his voice sounded the least bit resentful. "No; I--I assure you I take the keenest interest in it. I'd give anything to have it go all right." Belfield's eyes were on him with a shrewd kindness. "No reason to suppose it won't, is there?" "None that I know of." Now Andy was frowning a little and smoking rather fast. Belfield said no more. He could not cross-examine Andy; indeed he had no materials, even if he had the right. But Andy's manner left him with a feeling of uneasiness. "Ah, well, there's only six weeks to wait for the wedding!" The next Saturday found him again at Halton. One of the six weeks had passed; a week of happy work, yet somewhat shadowed by the recollection of Belfield's questions and his own poor answers. Had he halted midway between honest truth and useful lying? In fact he knew nothing of what had been happening of late. He had not visited Nutley again--since that night. Suddenly it struck him that he had not been invited. Then--did they suspect? How could they have timed his entrance so exactly as to suspect? He did not know that Harry had seen his retreating figure. Still it would seem to them possible that he might have seen--possible, if unlikely. That might be enough to make him a less desired guest. The great campaign was to begin on the following Monday, though Andy would not be at leisure to devote himself to it till a week later. The talk ran on it. Wellgood, who seemed in excellent spirits, displayed keen interest in the line Harry meant to take, and was ready to be chairman whenever desired. Even Mrs. Belfield herself showed some mild excitement, and promised to attend one meeting. The girls were to go to as many as possible, Vivien being full of tremulous anticipation of Harry's triumph, Isobel almost as enthusiastic a partisan. She had met Andy with a perfection of composure which drove out of his head any idea that she suspected him of secret knowledge. "I'm afraid Harry's been overworking himself over it, poor boy," said Mrs. Belfield. "Don't you think he looks pale, Mr. Wellgood?" "I don't know where he's found the time to overwork," Wellgood answered, with a gruff laugh. "We can account for most of his time at Nutley." Harry burst into a laugh, and gulped down his wine. He was drinking a good deal of champagne. "I sigh as a lover, mother," he explained. "That's what makes me pale--if I am pale." His tone turned to sudden irritation. "Don't all look at me. There's nothing the matter." He laughed again; he seemed full of changes of mood to-night. "The speeches won't give me much trouble." "I'm sure you need have no other trouble, dear," said Mrs. Belfield, with an affectionate glance at Vivien. "He'll have much more trouble with me, won't he?" Vivien laughed. Andy stole a look at Isobel. He was filled with admiration; a smile of just the right degree of sympathy ornamented her lips. A profane idea that she must be in the habit of being kissed crossed his mind. It was difficult to see how she could be, though--at Nutley. Kissing takes two. He did not suspect Wellgood, and he was innocent himself. Another eye was watching--shrewder and more experienced than Andy's--watching Harry, watching Isobel, watching while Andy stole his glance at Isobel. It was easy to keep bluff Wellgood in the dark; his own self-confidence hoodwinked him. Belfield was harder to blind; for those who had anything to conceal, it was lucky that he did not live at Nutley. "Well, waiting for a wedding's tiresome work for all concerned, isn't it?" he said to Isobel, who sat next him. "Yes, even waiting for other people's. It's such a provisional sort of time, Mr. Belfield." "You've forsworn one set of pleasures, and haven't got the other yet. You've ceased to be a rover, and you haven't got a home." "You don't seem to consider being engaged a very joyful period?" she smiled. "On the whole, I don't, Miss Vintry, though Vivien there looks pretty happy. But it's telling on Harry, I'm sure." She looked across at Harry. "Yes, I think it is a little," came apparently as the result of a scrutiny suggested by Belfield's words. "I hadn't noticed it, but I'm afraid you're right." "If there's anything up, she's a cool hand," thought Belfield. "You must try to distract his thoughts," he told her. "I try to let them see as little of me as possible." "Too complete a realization of matrimonial solitude _à deux_ before marriage--Is that advisable?" "You put too difficult questions for a poor spinster to answer, Mr. Belfield." He got nothing out of her, but from the corner of his eye he saw Harry watching him as he talked to Isobel. Turning his head sharply, he met his son's glance full and straight. Harry dropped his eyes suddenly, and again drank off his champagne. Belfield looked sideways at the composed lady on his right, and pursed up his lips a little. Wellgood stayed with him to-night after dinner, the young men joining the ladies in the garden for coffee. "Our friend Miss Vintry's in great good looks to-night, Wellgood. Remarkably handsome girl!" "That dress suits her very well. I thought so myself," Wellgood agreed, well-pleased to have his secret choice thus endorsed. Belfield knew nothing of his secret, nothing of his plans. He was only trying to find out whether Vivien's father were fully at his ease; of Isobel's lover and his ease he took no account. "Upon my word," he laughed, "if I were engaged, even to a girl as charming as your Vivien, I should almost feel it an injury to have another as attractive about all day. 'How happy could I be with either--!' you know. The unregenerate man in one would feel that good material was being wasted; and my boy used to be rather unregenerate, I'm afraid." Wellgood smiled in a satisfied fashion. "Even if Master Harry was disposed to play tricks, I don't think he'd get much encouragement from--" "'T'other dear charmer?' Of course you've perfect confidence in her, or she wouldn't be where she is." "No, nor where she's going to be," thought Wellgood, enjoying his secret. "My licentious fancy has wronged my son. I must have felt a touch of the old Adam myself, Wellgood. Don't tell my wife." "You wouldn't tell me, if you knew a bit more," thought triumphant Wellgood. "I think Harry's constancy has stood a good trial. Oh, you'll think I don't appreciate Vivien! I do; but I know Harry." Wellgood answered him in kind, with a bludgeon-like wit. "You'll think I don't appreciate Harry. I do; but I know Miss Vintry, and she doesn't care a button about him." "We proud parents put one another in our places!" laughed Belfield. Wellgood saw no danger, and he had been home a fortnight! True, he had, before that, been away six weeks. But such mischief, if it existed, would have grown. If it had been there during the six weeks, it would have been there, in fuller growth, during the fortnight. Belfield felt reassured. He had found out what he wanted, and yet had given no hint to Vivien's father. But one or two of his remarks abode in the mind of Isobel's lover, to whom he did not know that he was speaking. Wellgood's secret position towards Isobel at once made Belfield's fears, if the fears were more than a humorous fancy, absurd, and made them, even though no more than a fancy, stick. He recked nothing of them as a father; he remembered them as a lover, yet remembered only to laugh in his robust security. He thought it would be a good joke to tell to Isobel, not realizing that it is never a good joke to tell a woman that she has been, without cause and ridiculously, considered a source of danger to legitimate affections. She may feel this or that about the charge; she will not feel its absurdity. She is generally right. Few women pass through the world without stirring in somebody once or twice an unruly impulse--a fact which should incline them all to circumspection in themselves, and to charity towards one another, if possible, and at any rate towards us. "And what," asked Belfield, with an air of turning to less important matters, "about the life of this Parliament?" Wellgood opined that it would prove much what a certain philosopher declared the life of man to be--nasty, short, and brutish. In the garden Mrs. Belfield, carefully enfolded in rugs, dozed the doze of the placid. Isobel and Harry whispered across her unconscious form. "You shouldn't drink so much champagne, Harry." "Hang it, I want it! I said nothing wrong, did I?" "You don't keep control of your eyes. I think your father noticed. Why look at me?" "You know I can't help it. And I can't stand it all much longer." "You can end it as soon as you like. Am I preventing you?" "I beg your pardon, Miss Vintry? I'm afraid I'm drowsy." "I was just saying I hoped I wasn't preventing Mr. Harry from strolling with Vivien, Mrs. Belfield." "Oh yes, my dear, of course!" The placid lids fell over the placid eyes again. "End it? How?" "By behaving as Vivien's _fiancé_ ought." "Or by not being Vivien's _fiancé_ any longer?" "What, Harry love? What's that about not being Vivien's _fiancé_ any longer?" Mrs. Belfield was roused by words admitting of so startling an interpretation. "Well, we shall be married soon, shan't we, mother?" "How stupid of me, Harry dear!" Sleep again descended. Harry swore softly; Isobel laughed low. "This is ridiculous!" she remarked. "Couldn't you take just one turn with Vivien's companion? Your mother might hear straight just once." "I'll be hanged if I chance it to-night," said Harry. "I'll take Wellgood on at billiards." "Yes, go and do that; it's much better. It may bring back your colour, Harry." Harry looked at her in exasperation--and in longing. "I wish there wasn't a woman in the world!" he growled. "It's men like you who say that," she retorted, smiling. "Go and forget us for an hour." He went without more words--with only such a shrug as he had given when he said good-bye to Mrs. Freere. Isobel sat on, by dozing Mrs. Belfield, the picture of a dutiful neglected companion, while Wellgood and Harry played billiards, and Belfield, wheezing over an unread evening paper, honoured her with a tribute of distrustful curiosity. Left alone in the flesh, she could boast that she occupied several minds that evening. Perhaps she knew it, as she sat silent, thoughtfully gazing across to where Vivien and Andy sat together, their dim figures just visible in enshrouding darkness. "He saw--but he won't speak!" she was thinking. "How funny of Harry to say he sighed as a lover!" Vivien remarked to Andy. Andy had the pride and pleasure of informing her that her lover was indulging in a quotation from another lover, more famous and more temperate. "'I sighed as a lover. I obeyed as a son.' I see! How funny! Do you think Gibbon was right, Mr. Hayes?" "The oldest question since men had sons and women had lovers, isn't it?" "Doesn't love come first--when once it has come?" "After honour, the poet tells us, Miss Wellgood." Vivien knew that quotation, anyhow. "It's beautiful, but isn't it--just a little priggish?" "I think we must admit that it's at least a very graceful apology," laughed Andy. Their pleasant banter bred intimacy; she was treating him as an old friend. He felt himself hardly audacious in saying "How you've grown!" She understood him--nay, thanked him with a smile and a flash, revealing pleasure, from her eyes, often so reticent. "Am I different from the days of the lame pony and Curly? Not altogether, I'm afraid, but I hope a little." She sat silent for a moment. "I love Harry--well, so do you." "Yes, I love Harry." But he had a sore grudge against Harry at that moment. Who at Halton had once talked about pearls and swine? And in what connection? "That's why I'm different." She laughed softly. "If you'd so far honoured me, Mr. Hayes, and I had--responded, I might never have become different. I should just have relied on the--policeman." "The Force is always ready to do its duty," said Andy. "Take care; you're nearly flirting!" she admonished him merrily; and Andy, rather proud of himself for a gallant remark, laughed and blushed in answer. She went on more seriously, yet still with her serene smile. "First I've got to please him; then I've got to help him. He must have both, you know." "Please him, oh, yes! Help him, how?" "I'm sure you know. Poor boy! His ups and downs! Sometimes he comes to me almost in despair. It's so hard to help then. Isobel can't either. He's not happy, you know, to-night." She had grown. This penetration was new; should he wish that it might become less or greater? Less for the sake of her peace, or greater for her enlightenment's? "It seems as if a darkness swept over him sometimes, and got between him and me." Her voice trembled a little. "I want to keep that darkness away from him; so I mustn't be afraid." "Whether you're afraid or not, you won't run away. Remember Curly!" She turned to him with affectionate friendliness. "But you'll be there in this too, so far as you can, won't you? Don't forsake me, will you? It's sometimes--very difficult." Her face lit up in a smile again. "I hope it'll make a man of me, as father used to say of that odious hunting." It had, at least, made an end of the mere child in her. The discernment of her lover's trouble, the ignorance of whence it came, the need of fighting it--she faced these things as part of her work. Her engagement was no more either amazement merely, or merely joy. She might still be afraid of dogs, or shrink from a butcher's shop. She knew a difficulty when she saw one, and for love's sake faced it. Andy thought it made the love dearer to her; with an inward groan he saw that it did. For he was afraid. What she told of Harry told more than she could fathom for herself. Andy was a partisan. He cried whole-heartedly, "The pity for Vivien!" He could say, "The pity for Harry!" for old Harry's sake, and more for Vivien's. No, "The pity for Isobel!" was breathed in his heart. The case seemed to him a plain one there; and he was not of the party who would have the Recording Angel as liberal with tears as with ink, sedulously obliterating everything that he punctiliously wrote--in the end, on that view, a somewhat ineffectual registrar, who might be spared both ink and tears, and provided with a retiring pension by triumphant believers in Necessity. It may come to that. "I think Harry may be wanting me." She rose in her slim grace, and held out a hand to him--not in formal farewell, but in an impulse of good-will. She had come into her heritage of womanhood, and bore it with a shy stateliness. "Thank you"--a pause rather merry than timid--"Thank you, policeman Andy." "No, but I thank you--and you seem to me rather like the queen of the fairies." She smiled, and sighed lightly. "If I can make the king think so always!" Then she was gone, a white shadow gliding over the grass--a woman now, still in a child's shape. She flitted past Isobel Vintry, kissing her hand, and so passed in to where "Harry wanted her." Politeness dictated that Andy, thus left to himself, should join his hostess; he did not know that she was asleep, quite sound asleep by now. Having sat down before he discovered this state of affairs, he found himself committed to a virtual _tête-à-tête_ with Isobel Vintry, quite the last thing he desired. He did not find it easy to open the conversation. "Oh, we can talk! We shan't disturb her," Miss Vintry hastened to assure him with a smile. "You've been quite a stranger at Nutley. Did you find the atmosphere too romantic? Too much love-making for your taste?" "I did feel rather in the way now and then." "Perhaps you were once or twice! When you attached yourself to Vivien after dinner, and left Mr. Harry no resource but poor me!" Surely if she spoke like that--actually recalling the critical occasion--she could have no suspicion? Either she must never have noticed the shawl at all, or feel sure that it had been removed before her talk with Harry reached the point of danger. "I'm sure you entertained him very well. I don't think he'd complain." "Well, sometimes people like talking over their affairs with a third person for a change--as I daresay Vivien has been doing with you just now! And, after all, because you're engaged, everybody else in the world needn't at once seem hopelessly stupid." Certainly Isobel Vintry could never seem hopelessly stupid, thought Andy. Rather she was superbly plausible. "And perhaps even Mr. Harry may like a rest from devotion--or will you be polite enough to suggest that a temporary change in its object is a better way of putting it?" Precisely what it had been in Andy's mind to suggest--but not exactly by way of politeness! It was disconcerting to have the sting drawn from his thoughts or his talk in this way. "That might be polite to you--in one sense; it might sound rather unjust to Harry," he answered. "Am I the first person who has ever dared to make such an insinuation? How shocking! But I've even dared to do it to Mr. Harry himself, and he hardly denied that he was an incorrigible flirt." Andy knew that he was no match for her. For any advantage he could ever win from her, he must thank chance or surprise. "Don't be so terribly strict, Mr. Hayes. If you were engaged, would you like every word--absolutely every word--you said to another girl to be repeated to your _fiancée_?" Andy, always honest, considered. "Perhaps I shouldn't--and a few pretty speeches hurt nobody." "Why, really you're becoming quite human! You encourage me to confess that Mr. Harry has made one or two to me--and I've not repeated them to Vivien. I'm relieved to find you don't think me a terrible sinner." She was skilfully pressing for an indication of what he knew, of how much he had seen--without letting him, if he did know too much, have a chance of confronting her openly with his knowledge. Must he be considered in the game she was playing, or could he safely be neglected? Andy's temper was rather tried. She talked of a few idle words, a few pretty speeches--ordinary gallantries. His memory was of two figures tense with passion, and of a lover's kiss accepted as though by a willing lover. "How far would you carry the doctrine?" he asked dryly. There was a pause before she answered; she was shaping her reply so that it might produce the result she wanted--information, yet not confrontation with his possible knowledge. "As far as a respectful kiss?" Peering through the darkness, she saw a quick movement of Andy's head. Instantly she added with a laugh, "On the hand, I mean, of course!" "You won't ask me to go any further, if I admit that?" asked Andy. "No. I'll agree with you on that," she said. Mrs. Belfield suddenly woke up. "Yes, I'm sure Harry's looking pale," she remarked. Isobel had got her information; she was sure now. The sudden movement of Andy's head had been too startled, too outraged, to have been elicited merely by an audacious suggestion put forward in discussion; it spoke of memories roused; it expressed wonder at shameless effrontery. Andy had revealed his knowledge, but he did not know that he had. He had parted with his secret; yet it had become no easier for him to meddle. If he had thought himself bound to say nothing, not to interfere, before, he would seem to himself so bound still. And if he tried to meddle, at least she would be fighting now with her eyes open. There might be danger--there could be no surprise. When Harry Belfield put on her cloak for her in the hall, she whispered to him: "Take care of Andy Hayes! He did see us that first night." Chapter XIV. SAVING THE NATION. On a fine afternoon Jack Rock stood smoking his pipe on the pavement of High Street. His back was towards the road, his face turned to his own shop-window, where was displayed a poster of such handsome dimensions that it covered nearly the whole of the plate glass, to the prejudice of Jack's usual display of mutton and beef. He took no account of that; he was surveying the intruding poster with enormous complacency. It announced that there would be held, under the auspices of the Meriton Conservative and Unionist Association, an open-air Public Meeting that evening on Fyfold Green. Chairman--The Rt. Hon. Lord Meriton (his lordship was rarely "drawn;" his name indicated a great occasion). Speakers--William Foot, Esq., K. C., M. P. (very large letters); Henry Belfield, Esq., Prospective Candidate etc. (letters not quite so large); and Andrew Hayes, Esq. (letters decidedly smaller, but still easily legible from across the street). Needless to say that it was the sight of the last name which caused Mr. Jack Rock's extreme complacency. He had put up the stakes; now he was telling himself that the "numbers" were up for the race. Andy was in good company--too good, of course, for a colt like him on the present occasion; but in Jack's mind the race comprised more than one meeting. There was plenty of time for the colt to train on! Meanwhile there he was, on a platform with Lord Meriton, with Mr. Foot, King's Counsel, Member of Parliament (Jack's thoughts rehearsed these titles--the former of which Billy had recently achieved--at full length, for all the world like the toastmaster at a public dinner), and Mr. Henry Belfield, Prospective Candidate etc. Mr. Rock hurled at himself many contemptuous and opprobrious epithets when he recollected the career which he had once offered for the grateful acceptance of Andrew Hayes, Esq. To him the poster was a first and splendid dividend on the three thousand pounds which Miss Doris Flower had so prettily extracted from his pocket. Here was his return; he willingly left to Andy the mere pecuniary fruits of the investment. Thus immensely gratified, Jack refused to own that he was surprised. The autumn campaign had now been in progress nearly three weeks, and, although Andy had not been heard before in Meriton, reports of his doings had come in from outlying villages with which Jack had business dealings. Nay, Mr. Belfield of Halton himself, who had braved the evening air by going to one meeting to hear his son, found time to stop at the shop and tell Jack that he had been favourably impressed by Andy. "No flowers of rhetoric, Jack," he said with twinkling eyes, "such as my boy indulges in, but good sound sense--knows his facts. I shouldn't wonder if the labourers like that better. He knows what their bacon costs 'em, and how many loaves a week go to a family of six, and so on. I heard one or two old fellows saying 'Aye, that's right!' half a dozen times while he was speaking. I wish our old friend at the grammar school could have heard him!" "Yes, Mr. Belfield; the old gentleman would have been proud, wouldn't he?" "And you've a right to be proud, Jack. I know what you've done for the lad." "He's a good lad, sir. He comes to supper with me every Sunday, punctual, when he's in Meriton." "You've every reason to hope he'll do very well--a sensible steady fellow! It'd be a good thing if there were more like him." Then Chinks and the Bird had made an excursion on their bicycles to hear Andy, and brought back laudatory accounts--this though Chinks was suspected of Radical leanings, which he was not allowed by his firm to obtrude. And old Cox had heard him and pronounced the verdict that, though he might be no flyer like Mr. Harry, yet he had the makings of a horse in him. "Wants work, and can stand as much as you give him," said Mr. Cox. Immersed in a contemplation of the placard and in the reflections it evoked, Mr. Rock stepped backwards into the road in order to get a new view of the relative size of the lettering. Thereby he nearly lost his life, and made Andy present possessor of a tidy bit of money for which, in the natural course, he would have to wait many years. (This is trenching on old Jack's darling secret.) The agitated hoot of a motor-car sent him on a jump back to the pavement, just in time. The car came to a standstill. "I didn't come all this way on purpose to kill you, Mr. Rock!" Jack had turned round already, in order to swear at his all but murderer, who might reasonably have pleaded contributory negligence. Angry words died away. A small figure, enveloped in a dust cloak, wrapped about the head with an infinite number of yards of soft fabric, sat alone in the back of the car. The driver yawned, surveying Meriton with a scornful air, appearing neither disturbed by Mr. Rock's danger nor gratified by his escape. "It's so convenient," the small figure proceeded to observe, "when people have their names written over their houses. Still I think I should have known you without that. Andy has described you to me, you see." "Why, it's never--?" The broadest smile spread on Jack Rock's face. "Oh yes, it is! I always keep my word. I'm taking a holiday, and I thought I'd combine my visit to you with--" She suddenly broke off her sentence, and gave a gurgle. Jack thought it a curiously pleasant sound. "Why, there it is!" the Nun gurgled, pointing a finger at the wonderful placard in Jack's window. "You're--you're Miss Flower?" gasped Jack. "Yes, yes--but look at it! Those three boys! Billy, and Harry--and Andy! Andy! Well, of course, one knows they do do things, but somehow it's so hard to realise. I shall certainly stay for the meeting! Seymour, let me out!" Seymour got down in a leisurely fashion, hiding a yawn with one hand and a cigarette in the other. "I suppose there isn't a hotel in this place, Miss Flower?" he remarked. (Seymour always called the Nun "Miss Flower," never merely "Miss.") "Oh yes; the Lion, Seymour. Excellent hotel, isn't it, Mr. Rock? Kept by Mr. Dove, who's got a son named the Bird; and the Bird's got a friend named Chinks, and--" "Well, you do beat creation!" cried Jack. "How do you--?" "Secret sources of information!" said the Nun gravely. "Have I got to go to the Lion, Mr. Rock? Or--or what time do you have tea?" "You'll have tea with me, miss?" cried Jack. "At what hour will you require the car, Miss Flower?" asked Seymour. "You're goin' to the meetin', miss? Tell the young chap to be round at six, and mind he's punctual." "Do as Mr. Rock says, Seymour," smiled the Nun. It was part of the day's fun to hear Seymour ordered about--and called a young chap!--by the butcher of Meriton. But she could not get into the house without another look at the poster. "Billy, Harry--and Andy! I wonder if those boys really imagine that what they say or think matters!" Miss Flower was already a privileged person. Jack had no rebuke for her profanity. She took his arm, saying, "I want to see the shop. You wanted Andy to have the shop, didn't you?" "I was an old fool. I--I meant it well, Miss Flower." The Nun squeezed his arm. "Were these nice animals when they were alive, Mr. Rock?" "Prime uns, alive or dead!" chuckled Jack. "You come back to supper, after the meetin', miss, and taste; but maybe you'll be goin' back to London, or takin' your supper at Halton?" "I'm sorry, but I've promised to take Billy Foot back to town. Oh, but tea now, Mr. Rock!" Not even the messenger boy whom she had sent enjoyed Jack Rock's tea more than the Nun herself. For a girl of her inches, she ate immensely; even more heartily she praised. Jack could hardly eat at all, she was so daintily wonderful, her being there at all so amazing. Seeking explanation of the marvel, the simple affectionate old fellow could come only on one. She must be very fond of Andy! She had written to plead for Andy; she came and had tea with the old butcher--because he had given Andy help. And now she was lauding Andy, telling him in her quiet way that his lad was much thought of by her and her smart friends in London. Jack had, of course, a very inadequate realisation of what "smartness" in London really meant--a view which some might have called both inadequate and charitable. "Yes, he's a fine lad, miss. I say, the girl as gets Andy'll be lucky!" (That "as" always tripped Jack up in moments of thoughtlessness.) The Nun deliberately disposed of a piece of plum cake and a sip of tea--the latter to wash the former down. "I don't fall in love myself," she observed, in a tone decided yet tolerant--as though she had said, "I don't take liqueurs myself--but if you like to risk it!" "You miss the best thing in life, miss," Jack cried. "And most of the worst too," added the Nun serenely. "Don't say it, miss. It don't come well from your pretty lips." "Have I put you on your mettle? I meant to, of course, Mr. Rock." Old Jack slapped his thigh, laughing immensely. Now wasn't this good--that she should be here, having tea, getting at him like that? It was a happy conjuncture, for the Nun was hardly less well pleased. She divided her life into two categories; one was "the mill," the other was "fun." The mill included making a hundred and eighty pounds by singing two silly songs eight times each every week, being much adored, and eating meals at that restaurant; "fun" meant anything rather different. Having tea with Jack Rock, the Meriton butcher, was rather different, and Miss Flower (as Seymour called her--almost the only person who did) was enjoying herself. "I should like to take a walk along the street before we go to the meeting, Jack." "Jack," casually dropped, with no more than a distant twinkle, finished Mr. Rock. "Your letter was pretty good, but you, miss--!" "I'm considered attractive on a postcard. It costs a penny," said the Nun, rising, fully refreshed, from the table. "Take me to the Lion, please. I must see that Seymour isn't dissatisfied. He's a gentleman by birth, you know, and a chauffeur by profession. So he rather alarms me, though his manner is always carefully indifferent." This remark of hers suddenly pleased the Nun. She gurgled; her own rare successes always gratified her--witness that somewhat stupid story about the two ladies and Tommy, told a long while ago. Accompanied by proud Jack Rock, she traversed Meriton High Street, greatly admiring the church, the grammar school, and that ancient and respectable hostelry, the Lion. Indeed she fell so much in love with the Lion that she questioned Jack as to the accommodation it provided, and was assured that it boasted a private sitting-room, with oak panelling and oak beams across the ceiling (always supposed to be irresistible attractions to London visitors), and bedrooms sufficient in case she and Miss Dutton should be minded to spend a part of their holiday there. Room also for a maid--and for Seymour and the motor. "It's rather a nice idea. I'll think it over," she said. Then it was time to think about the meeting; and Jack must come with her in the car, sit with her, and tell her all about it. "Oh yes, you must!" "I shall never hear the last of it, long as I live!" Jack protested, half in delight, half in a real shyness. Behold them, then, thus installed on the outskirts of the meeting, with a good view of the platform where "the boys" were seated, together with Wellgood, supporting the great Lord Meriton. Vivien and Isobel also had chairs at the back. The Nun produced a field-glass from a pocket in the car, and favoured these ladies with a steady inspection. "Which did you say was Harry's?" she asked. "The fair one, miss--that's Miss Wellgood." "The other's quite good-looking too," the Nun pronounced. The salient features of Mr. Foot's oratory have been indicated on a previous occasion. This evening he surpassed himself in epigram and logic; no doubt he desired to overcome the Nun's obstinate scepticism as to his career, no less than to maintain his popularity in Meriton. For the Nun he had a special treat--a surprise. He told them her story of Tommy and the two ladies, slightly adapting it to the taste of a general audience; the cheques were softened down to invitations to _tête-à-tête_ dinners, couched in highly affectionate language. In Billy's apologue the Ministry was Tommy, one of the ladies was Liberalism, the other Socialism. The apologue took on very well; Billy made great play with Tommy's double flirtation, and the Ministry's double flirtation, ending up, "Yes, gentlemen, there will be only one tip to pay the waiter, but that'll be a tip-over, if I'm not much mistaken!" (Cheers and laughter.) The Nun was smiling all over her face. "That really was rather clever of Billy." She felt herself shining with reflected glory. But Billy--astute electioneerer--meant to get more out of the Nun than just that Tommy story. When he had finished a wonderful peroration, in which he bade Meriton decide once and for all--it would probably never have another chance before it was too late--between Imperial greatness and Imperial decay, he slipped from the platform, and made his way round the skirts of the meeting to her motor-car. Lord Meriton's compliments, and would Miss Flower oblige him and delight the meeting by singing the National Anthem at the close of the proceedings? The Nun was so agitated by this request that she lost most of Andy's speech; he was sandwiched in between the more famous orators. As Andy--from what she did hear--appeared to be talking about loaves, and sugar, and bacon, and things of that sort, she was of opinion that she was not missing very much, and was surprised to see the men listening and the bareheaded women nodding approvingly and nudging one another in the ribs. "He's jolly good! Upon my word, he is," said Billy Foot suddenly, and old Jack chuckled delightedly. When Andy sat down, without any peroration, she said to Billy, "Was he good? It sounded rather dull to me. Yours was fine, Billy!" "Awfully glad you liked it. But they'll forget my jokes; they'll talk about old Andy's figures when they get home. Every woman in the place'll want to prove 'em right or wrong. Gad, how he must have mugged all that up!" Then came Harry; to him she listened, at him she looked. Whatever the difficulties of his private life might be, they did not avail to spoil his speaking; it is conceivable that they improved it, since nerves on the strain sometimes result in brilliant flashes. And he looked so handsome, with pale, eager, excited face. He could fall in love with a subject almost as deeply, almost as quickly, as with a woman, and for the moment be hardly less devoted to it, heart and soul. Perhaps he was a little over the heads of most of his audience, but they knew that it was a fine performance and were willing to take for granted some things which they did not understand. "That's talking, that is!" said a man near the car. "Mr. Harry's the one to give ye that." Of course the Nun was persuaded in the matter of the National Anthem. Billy led her round to the platform, where Lord Meriton welcomed her, and introduced her to the meeting as Miss Doris Flower, the famous London singer, who had kindly consented to sing the National Anthem. For once in her life the Nun was very nervous, but she sang. Her sweet voice and her remarkable prettiness stormed the meeting. They would have another song. The applause brought back her confidence. Before she had become a nun or a Quaker she had once been, in early days, a Cameron Highlander. A couple of martial and patriotic ditties remained in her memory; she gave them one, and excited enthusiasm. They cried for more--more! An encore was insisted upon. In spite of the brilliant speakers, the Nun was the heroine of the evening. She bowed, she smiled, she fell altogether in love with Meriton. Thoughts of the Lion rose strongly in her mind. "A great success, and we owe a great deal of it to you, Miss Flower," said the noble chairman. "You just put the crown on it all. I wish we could have you here at election time!" The whole platform besought the Nun to come down at election time with more patriotic songs. Most urgent was the pretty, slight, fair girl who was Harry Belfield's _fiancée_. Her eyes were so friendly and gentle that the Nun could refuse her nothing. "At one bound, Doris, you've become a personage in Meriton," laughed Billy Foot. "She's a personage wherever she goes," said Andy in frank and affectionate admiration. The Nun gurgled happily. But where was her old friend Harry with his congratulations? He had greeted her, but not with much enthusiasm; he was now talking to the other girl--Miss Vintry--in a low voice, with a frown on his face; he looked weary and spent. She moved over to him and laid her hand on his arm; he started violently. "I'll never laugh at you about your speeches again, Harry. But, poor old fellow, how done up you look!" "Doing this sort of thing every night's pretty tiring." "Besides all the other things you have to do just now! I think I must come and stay at the Lion and look after you." Harry looked at her with an expression that puzzled her; it almost seemed like resentment, though the idea was surely absurd. Miss Vintry said nothing; she stood by in silent composure. "You're thinking of--of coming to Meriton?" "I had an idea of it, for a week or two. I'm doing nothing, you know. Sally would come with me." "I should think you'd find it awfully dull," said Harry. The Nun could not make him out. Was he ashamed of her? Did he not want her to know Miss Wellgood, his _fiancée_? It almost looked like that. The Nun was a little hurt. She was aware that certain people held certain views; but Harry was an old, old friend. "Well, if I do come and find it dull, you needn't feel responsible. You haven't pressed me, have you?" and with a little laugh she went back to more expansive friends. "That'd make another of them, and she's infernally sharp!" Harry said to Isobel Vintry, in that low careful voice to which he was nowadays so much addicted. "Oh well, we can't keep it up this way long anyhow," she answered, and sauntered off to join Vivien. With Billy, with Andy, as with old Jack, the Nun found enthusiasm enough and to spare. "How perfectly ripping an idea!" cried Billy. "Because Harry's governor had asked me to stay a fortnight at Halton, and do half a dozen more meetings; and I'm going to. And Andy'll be down here too. Why, we shall all be together! You come, Doris!" Her hurt feelings found expression. "Harry didn't seem to want me when I spoke to him about it." Billy Foot looked at her curiously. "Oh, didn't he?" Andy had moved off with Jack Rock. "It's a funny thing, but I don't think he wants me at Halton. He was far from enthusiastic. If you ask me, Doris, there's something wrong with him. Overworked, I suppose. Oh, but he can't be; these little meetings are no trouble." "If I want to come, I shall. Only one doesn't like the idea that one's friends are ashamed--" "Oh, rot, it can't be that! That's not a bit like Harry." "He's engaged now, you know." "Well, I can't see why that should make any difference. He's got the blues over something or other; never mind him. You come, you and Sally." She lowered her voice. "Can it be because of poor old Sally?" "Oh, I don't think so. He's always been awfully kind about that wretched old business." "It's something," she persisted with a vexed frown. Vivien Wellgood came up to them with Andy. "Mr. Hayes tells me you may possibly come to Meriton for a stay, Miss Flower. I do hope you will. The Lion's quite good, and we'll all do all we can to amuse you, if only you'll sing to us just now and then. Do say you'll come; don't only think about it!" "Your being so kind makes me want to come more," said the Nun. "Oh, and I do congratulate you, Miss Wellgood. I hope you'll be ever so happy." "Thank you. I hope so," said Vivien softly, her eyes assuming their veiled look. The car was waiting; Seymour was yawning and looking at his watch. The Nun said her farewells, but not one to Harry Belfield, who had already strolled off along the road. Not very polite of Harry! "Did you like the speeches, Seymour?" she inquired. "Mr. Foot, of course, is a good speaker. The other gentlemen did very well for such a meeting as this, Miss Flower. Mr. Belfield is very promising." "Was I in good voice?" "Very fair. But you had better not use it much in the open air. Not good for the chords, Miss Flower." Meanwhile he had skilfully tucked her in with Billy Foot, and off they went, Billy comforting himself after his labours with a pull at his flask and a very big cigar. "I've made you do some work for the good cause to-night, Doris," he remarked. "A song or two goes jolly well at a meeting." "Thinking of enlisting me in your own service?" she asked. "You'd be uncommon valuable. The man they're putting up against me has got a pretty wife." Billy allowed himself a glance; it met with inadequate appreciation. "Oh, I'll come and sing for you if you ask me, Billy." Her voice sounded absent. She was enjoying the motion and the air, but her thoughts were with Vivien Wellgood, the girl who had been so kind, and whose eyes had gone blank when the Nun wished her happiness. "Yes, Harry's off colour," said Billy, puffing away with much enjoyment. "He can't take anything right; didn't even like your story!" "Why, you brought it in so cleverly, Billy!" "Harry asked me what I thought they'd make of that kind of rot. It seemed to me they took it all right. Rather liked it, didn't they?" The Nun turned to him suddenly. "That girl isn't happy." "There's something up!" Billy concluded. "Do you know that Miss Vintry well?" Billy took his cigar out of his mouth and looked at her. "You do jump to conclusions." "Oh, I know Harry better than any of you." "Do you?" he asked, seeming just a little disturbed. The Nun marked his disturbance with a side glance of amusement, but she was not diverted from the main line of her thoughts. "He doesn't want me to come to Meriton--" "I say, Doris, did Harry Belfield ever try to--?" "Tales out of school? I thought you knew me, Billy." The reproach carried home to Billy. There had been one occasion when, over-night, his career had seemed not so imperative, and Doris had seemed very imperative indeed, demanding vows and protestations of high fervour, bearing only one legitimate interpretation. This happened long before Billy was K.C. or M.P., and when his income was still meagre. The morning had brought back counsel, and thoughts of the career. Billy had written a letter. The next time they met, she had taken occasion to observe that she always burnt letters, just as she never fell in love. The episode was not among Billy's proudest recollections. In telling Andy that Billy had always pulled himself up on the brink, the Nun had been guilty of just this one suppression. No tales out of school was always her motto. "If he does come to grief, it'll be over a woman," said Billy. He took a big puff. "That's the only thing worth coming to grief over, either," he added, looking into his companion's eyes. "What about the great cause I sang for?" she asked, serenely evasive. Sentiment in a motor-car at night really does not count. Billy laughed. "I do my best for my client." "But you believe it?" "Honestly, I believe we've got, say, seven points out of ten. So we ought to get the verdict." "I suppose that's honest enough. You leave the other side to put their three points?" "That oughtn't to be over-straining them," Billy opined. "Politics are rather curious. I might go to another meeting or two while I'm at Meriton; but I won't sing out of doors any more. Seymour doesn't approve of it." "You're really going to take rooms there?" "Yes, if Sally consents." She turned round to him. "Do you know what it is to see somebody asking for help?" "To me they always call it temporary assistance." "Yes. Well, I think I saw that to-night." She was silent a minute, then she gurgled. "And really they're all great fun, you know." "I look forward to our stay at Meriton with the gravest apprehension," said Billy Foot. The Nun looked at him, smiled, looked away, looked back once more. "Well, I shall have nothing else to do--in the way of recreation," she said. A long silence followed. Billy threw away the stump of his cigar. "Hang it, he's got the style, that fellow has!" "Who's got what style?" asked the Nun. Her voice sounded drowsy. "What the House likes--Andy." "What house?" drawled the Nun, terribly and happily sleepy. "Oh, you're a lively girl to drive home with in a motor at night!" Her eyes were closed, her lips ever so little parted. Half asleep, still she smiled. He made a trumpet of his hands and shouted into her ear. "The House of Commons, stupid!" "Don't tickle my ear," said the Nun. "And try if you can't be quiet!" Chapter XV. LOVE AND FEAR. Well might Harry Belfield be subject to fits of temper and impatience! Well might he show signs of wear and tear not to be accounted for by the labours of a mild political campaign, carried on under circumstances of great amenity! He had fallen into a state of feeling which forbade peace within, and made security from without impossible. He was terribly at war in his soul. If he could have put the case so simply as that, being pledged to one girl, he had fallen in love with another, he would have had a plain solution open to him: he could break the engagement, facing the pain that he gave and the discredit that he suffered. His feelings admitted of no such straightforward remedy. The beliefs and the aspirations with which he had wooed Vivien were not dead; they were struggling for life against their old and mighty enemy. For him Vivien still meant happiness, and more than happiness--a haven for anything that was good in him, a refuge from all that was bad. With all his instincts of pure affection, of loyalty and chivalry, still he loved her and clung to her. She it was still who had power to comfort and soothe him, to send him forth able to do his work again. She was the best thing in his life; she seemed to him well-nigh his only chance against himself. Was he to throw the last chance away? Then why not be true? Why deceive when he loved? Every day, nay, every hour, that question had to be asked in scorn and answered in bitterness. His happiness lay with one; the present desire of his eyes was for another. His mind towards Isobel was strange: often he hardly liked her; sometimes his hatred for what she was doing to his life made him almost hate her; always his passion for her was strong and compelling. Since the stolen kiss had set it aflame, it had spread and spread through him, fed by their secret interviews, till it seemed now to consume all his being in one fierce blaze. How could affectionate and loyal instincts stand against it? Yet he hated it. All the good of his nature his kindliness, his amiability, his chivalry--hated it. He was become as it were two men; and the one reviled the other. But when he reviled the passion in him as the murderer of all his happiness, it answered with a fell insinuation. Why these heroics and this despair? Why talk of happiness being murdered? There was another way. "Don't murder happiness for me," passion urged slyly. "I am violent, but I am a passing thing. You know how often I have come to you, and raged, and passed by. There's another way." That whisper was ever in his ears, and would not be silenced. That it might gain its end, his passion subtly minimized itself; it sought to enter into an unnatural alliance with his better part; it prayed in aid his purer love, his tottering loyalty, his old-time chivalry. A permanent reconciliation with these it could not, and dared not, ask; but a _modus vivendi_ till it, transitory thing as it was, should pass away? So the tempter tempted with all his cunning. Avoiding plain words for what that way was, he was seduced into asking whether it were open. He could not answer. Through all the stolen interviews, through other stolen kisses, he had never come to the knowledge of Isobel's heart and mind. He could read no more than she chose to let him read. She allowed his flirtation and his kisses, but almost scornfully. When he declared his state to be intolerable, she told him it was easy to end it--easy to end either the engagement or the flirtation at his option. She had not owned to love. A certain sour amusement seemed to lie for her in the affair. "We're a pair of fools," her eyes seemed to say when he embraced her, "but it doesn't much matter; nothing can come of it, and it'll soon be all over." When he saw that look, his old desire for conquest came over him; he was impelled at any cost to break down this indifference, to make his sway complete. Of her relations towards Wellgood she had flatly refused to say another word. "The less we talk about that just now the better." In some such phrase she always forbade the topic. There again he was left in an uncertainty which stung his pride and bred a fierce jealousy. By what she gave and what she withheld, by her silence no less than by her words, she inflamed his passion. She yielded enough to fill him with desire and hope of a full triumph; but even though she yielded, though her voice might falter and her eyes drop, she did not own love's mastery yet. Thus torn and rent within, from without he seemed ringed round with enemies. Eyes that must needs be watchful were all about him. There was Andy Hayes with his chance knowledge of the first false step; Wellgood, who must have a jealous vigilance for the woman whom he had at least thought of making his wife; his own father, with his shrewd estimate of his son and acquaintance with past histories; Vivien herself, to whom he must still play devoted lover, with whom most spare hours must still be spent. To add to all these, now there came this girl from London! She had knowledge of past histories too; she had the sharpest of eyes; he feared even the directness of her tongue. Andy had seen, but not spoken; he did not trust Doris, if she saw, not to speak. He was terribly afraid of her. Small wonder that the suggestion of her stay at the Lion had called forth no enthusiasm from him! She took rank as an enemy the more. And Billy Foot was to be at Halton! She and Billy would lay their heads together and talk. Out of talk would come suspicion, out of suspicion more watchfulness. It was no business of theirs, but they would watch. Political campaigning amidst all this! Well, in part it was a relief. The speeches and their preparation perforce occupied his mind for the time; on his platforms he forgot. Yet to go away--to leave Nutley for so many hours--seemed to his overwrought fancy a sore danger. What might happen while he was away? To what state of things might he any evening come back? Vivien might have revealed suspicions to Wellgood, or Wellgood might have challenged Isobel and compelled an answer. Once when Andy did not come to the meeting, he made sure that he had stayed behind on purpose to reveal his knowledge to Vivien or her father, and the evening was a long torture which no speeches could deaden, no applause allay. In this fever of conflict and of fear his days passed. At this cost he bought the joy of the stolen interviews--that joy so mixed with doubt, so tainted by pain, so assailed by remorse. Yet for him so tense, so keen, so surcharged with the great primitive struggle. Ten minutes stolen once a day--it seldom came to more than that. Now and then, when he had no political excursion, a second ten, late at night, after his ostensible departure from Nutley. When he had "gone home," when Vivien had been sent to bed, and Wellgood had repaired to his pipe in the study, Isobel would chance to wander down the drive, looking into the waters of the lake, and he, lingering by the gate, see her and come back. Whether she would saunter out or not he never knew. Waiting to see whether she would seemed waiting for the fate of a lifetime. One night--a week after the Fyfold Green meeting, a day after the Nun had taken possession of her quarters at the Lion--Harry had dined at Nutley and--gone home. Isobel stole stealthily out; she had a quarter of an hour before doors would be locked. She strolled down the drive, a long dark cloak hiding the white dress which would have shown too conspicuously. As she went she dropped a letter; coming back she would pick it up. If any one asked why she had come out, the answer was--to find that letter, accidentally dropped. There had never been need of the excuse yet; it was still available. Harry came swiftly, yet warily, back from the gate. For a fleeting instant all his being seemed satisfied. But she stretched out her arms, holding him off. "No, I want to say something, Harry. This--this has gone on long enough. To-morrow I want you to know--only Miss Vintry!" There was the break in her voice; it was too dark to see her eyes. "That's impossible," he answered, very low. "Everything else is impossible, you mean." Her voice faltered again--into a tenderness new to him, filling him with rapture. "You're dying of it, poor boy! End it, Harry! I watched you to-night. Oh, you're tired to death--do you ever sleep? End it, Harry--because I can't." So she had broken at last, her long fencing ended, her strong composure gone. "I can't bear it for you any longer. Have the strength. Go back to--" She broke into tremulous laughter. "Go back to duty, Harry--and forget this nonsense." "Come to me, Isobel!" "No, I daren't. From to-morrow there is--nothing." He caught the arms that would have defended her face. "You love me?" Her smile was piteous. "Not after to-night!" His triumph rose on the crest of passion. "Ah, you do!" He kissed her. "That's good-bye," she said. "I shall go through it all right, Harry. You'll see no signs. Or would you rather I went away?" "What made you tell me you loved me to-night?" "So many things are tormenting you, poor boy! Must I go on doing it? Oh, I have done it, I know. It was my self-defence. Now my self-defence must be forgetfulness." The clock over the stables struck a quarter past ten. "I must go back. I've told you." "Do you see Wellgood before you go to bed?" "Yes, always." "What happens?" "Don't, don't, Harry! What does it matter?" "Are you going to marry him?" "You're going to marry Vivien! I must go--or the door will be locked." A smile wavered at him in the darkness. "It's back to the house or into the lake!" "Swear you'll manage to see me to-morrow!" "Yes, yes, anything. And--good-bye." He let her go--without another kiss. His mind was all of a whirl. She sped swiftly up the avenue. He made for the gate with furtive haste. Isobel came to a stop. As the shawl had gone once, the letter had gone. Whither? Had the wind taken it? She had heard no tread, but what could she have heard save the beating of her own heart? No use looking for it. "Ah, miss," said the butler, who had just come to lock up, "so you'd missed it? I saw it blowing about, and went and picked it up. And you've been searching for it, miss?" "Yes, Fellowes. Thanks. I must have dropped it this afternoon. Good-night." She went in; the hall door was bolted behind her. The letter had served its purpose, but she was hardly awake to the fact that anything had happened about the letter. She had told Harry! The great secret was out. Oh, such bad tactics! Such a dangerous thing to do! But everybody had a breaking-point. Hers had been reached that night--for herself as well as for his sake. Nobody could live like this any longer. Now it was good-night to Wellgood; another ten minutes there--the one brief space of time in which he played the lover, masterfully, roughly, secure from interruption. "I can't do it to-night!" she groaned, leaning against the wall of the passage between drawing-room and study, as though stricken by a failure of the heart. There she rested for minutes. The lights were left for Wellgood to find his way by when he went to bed; Fellowes would not come to put them out. And there the truth came to her. She could not play that deep-laid game. She could no more try for Harry, and yet keep Wellgood in reserve. It was too hard, too hideous, too unnatural. She dared not try any more for Harry; she had lost confidence in herself. She could not keep Wellgood--it was too odious. Then what to do? To tell Wellgood, too, that from to-morrow there was only Miss Vintry? Yes! And to try to tell Harry so again to-morrow? Yes! She had sought to make puppets and to pull the strings. Vivien, Wellgood, Harry--all the puppets of her cool, clever, contriving brain. It had been a fine scheme, bound to end well for her. Now she was revealed as a puppet herself; she danced to the string. The great scheme broke down--because Harry had looked tired and worried, because Wellgood's rough fondness had grown so odious. "I won't go to him to-night. He can't follow me if I go straight upstairs." The thought came as an inspiration; at least it offered a reprieve till to-morrow. The study door opened, and Wellgood looked out. Isobel was behind her time; he was waiting for his secret ten minutes, his stolen interview. "Isobel! What the deuce are you doing there? Why didn't you come in?" The part she had been trying to play, and had backed herself to play, seemed to have become this evening, of a sudden on this evening, more than hopeless. It had turned ridiculous; it must have been caught from some melodrama. She had been playing the scheming dazzling villain of a woman, heartless, with never a feeling, intent only on the title, or the money, or the diamonds, or whatever it might be, single in purpose, desperate in action, glitteringly hard, glitteringly fearless. What nonsense! How away from human nature! She was now terribly afraid. Playing that part, which seemed now so ridiculous because it assumed that there was no real woman in her, she had brought herself into a perilous pass--between one man's love and another man's wrath. She knew which she feared the more; but she feared both. Somehow her confession to Harry had taken all the courage out of her. She felt as if she could not stand any more by herself. She wanted Harry. She could not tell Wellgood that henceforth there was to be only his daughter's companion, only Miss Vintry; she could not tell him that to-night. Neither could she play the old part to-night--suffer his fondness, and defend herself with the shining weapons of her wit and her provocative parries. "I--I think I turned faint. I was coming in, but I turned faint. My heart, I think." "I never heard of anything being the matter with your heart." His voice sounded impatient rather than solicitous. "Please let me go straight to bed to-night. I'm really not well." He came along the passage to her. He took her by the shoulders and looked hard in her face. Now she summoned her old courage to its last stand and met his gaze steadily. "You look all right," he said with a sneer, yet smiling at her handsomeness. "Oh, of course, yes! At least I shall be to-morrow morning. Let me go now." Really, at the moment, to be let go was her only desire. "Be off with you, then," he said, smartly tapping--almost slapping--her cheek. "But you'll have to give me twice as long to-morrow." He turned on his heel. With a smarting cheek she fled down the passage. Though disappointed of his ten minutes, Wellgood was on the whole not ill-pleased. The calm composure, the suppression of emotion which he admired so much in theory--and as exhibited in Vivien's companion--he had begun to find a little overdone for his taste in his own lover. To-night there was a softness about her, a gentleness--signs of fear. The signs of fear were welcome to his nature. He felt that he had taken a step towards asserting his proper position, and she one towards acknowledging it. He was also more than ever sure that he need pay no heed to Belfield's silly hints. The old fellow seemed to assume that his precious son was irresistible! Wellgood chuckled over that. He chuckled again over the thought that, if Isobel were going to be like this, they might have a difficulty in keeping their secret till the proper time. Isobel's confession to Harry was a confession to herself also. If it left her with one great excuse, it stripped her of all others. She could no longer say that she was making her woman's protest against being reckoned of no account, or that she was merely punishing Harry for daring to think that he could play with her and come off scathless himself. Even the great excuse found its force impaired, because she had brought her state upon herself. Led by those impulses of pride or of spite, she had set herself to tamper with Vivien's happiness; in the attempt she had fatally involved her own. Some of her old courage--her old hardness--remained, not altogether swept away by the new current. "I shall get over it in time," she told herself impatiently. "These things don't last a lifetime." True, perhaps! But meanwhile--the time before the wedding? To-morrow, when she had promised to meet Harry? Every day after that--when he must come to woo Vivien? There had been protection for her in pretences. Pretences were over with Harry; they had to go on with Vivien and with Wellgood. On both sides of her position she felt herself now in a sore peril; it had become so much harder to blind the others, so infinitely harder to hold Harry back, if it were his mind to advance. Tasks like these perhaps needed the zest of pride and spite to make them possible--to make them tolerable anyhow. She loathed them now. Next day she kept her room. Courage failed. Wellgood grumbled about women's vapours, but in his caution asked no questions and showed no concern. Harry, coming in the afternoon, in his caution risked no more than a polite inquiry and a polite expression of regret. Yet he had come hot of heart, resolved--resolved on what? To break his engagement? No, he was not resolved on that. To know in future only Vivien's companion, Miss Vintry? No. He had been resolved on nothing, save to see Isobel again, and to hear once more her love. To what lay beyond he was blind; his heart was obstinately set on the one desire, and had eyes for nothing else. But Isobel was not to be seen; he accused her of her old tactics--making advances, then drawing back. The whole thing had begun that way; she was at it again! Was he never to feel quite sure of her? She paid the price of past cunning, she who now lay in simple fear. Vivien watched her lover's pale face and fretful gestures. Harry seemed always on a strain now, and the means he adopted to relieve it would not be permanently beneficial to his nerves; whisky-and-soda and cigarettes in quick succession were his prescription this afternoon. In vain she tried to soothe him, as she still sometimes could. He was now merry, now moody, often amusing, gay, gallant. He was everything except the contented man he had been in the early days. "The dear old Rector's a little tiresome, Harry, isn't he? He won't fix the date of his return within a week. And I couldn't be married by anybody else, he'd be so hurt. Naturally he doesn't think a few days one way or the other matter. He doesn't think of my frocks!" "Nor of my feelings either," said Harry, gallantly kissing her hand. "Do you mind very much?" she asked shyly. "I'll do anything you like about it." He caressed her hand gently, kindly. He had at least the grace to feel shame for himself, pity for her--when he was with her. "Harry, are you quite--quite happy?" He made his effort. "I should be as happy as the day's long if it weren't for those wretched meetings that take up half my time." His voice grew fretful. "And they worry me to death." "They'll soon be over now, and then we can have all the time to ourselves together." She looked at him with a smile. "If only you won't get tired of that!" He made his protest. Suddenly a memory of other protests swept over him--of how they had begun by being wholehearted and vehement, and had sunk first to weakness, then to insincerity, at last to silence. He hoped his present protest sounded all right. "Oh, you needn't be too vehement!" she laughed, with a little shake of her head. "I know myself, and I believe I know more about you than you think. I'm quite aware that you'll sometimes be bored with me, Harry." "Who's put that idea in your head?" he asked rather sharply. His mind was on those enemies, that ring of watching eyes. "Nobody except yourself--who else should?" she asked in surprise. "After all I've seen of you, I ought to know that you have your moods--I suppose clever men have--and that I don't suit all the moods equally well." She squeezed his hand for a second. "But I'm going to be very wise--Isobel's taught me to be wise, among other things, you know--I'm going to be very wise, and not mind that!" The true affection rose in him. "Poor little sweetheart!" he murmured. "I'm afraid you haven't taken on an easy job." "No, I don't think I have," she laughed. "All the more credit if I bring it off! There'd be nothing to be proud of in making--oh, well, Andy Hayes, for instance--happy. He just is happy as long as he can be working at something or walking somewhere--it doesn't matter where--at five miles an hour--in the dust by preference. A girl would have nothing to do but just smile at him and send him for a walk. But you're different, aren't you, Harry?" "By Jove, I am! Andy's one of the best fellows in the world." "Yes, but I think--oh, it's only my view--that you're more interesting, Harry. Only, when you are bored, I want you--" "Now don't say you want me to tell you so! Do let us be decently polite, even if I am your husband." She laughed. "I won't strain your manners so far as that; I'm proud of their being so good myself. No, I want you just to go away and amuse yourself somewhere else till the fit's over. You may even flirt just a little, if you feel it really necessary, Harry! You needn't be quite so religiously strict all your life as you've been lately." "Religiously strict? How do you mean?" "Well, all this time I don't believe you've allowed yourself one good look at Isobel, though she's very good-looking; and I know you haven't called at the Lion yet, though Miss Flower has been there two days, and she such an old friend of yours in London." "Have you called there?" "Yes, I went yesterday. I like her so much, and I like that odd friend of hers too." "Oh, Sally Dutton! I suppose she got her knife into me, didn't she?" "She got her knife, as you call it, into everybody who was mentioned. Oh yes, including you!" Vivien laughed merrily. "It's rather a bore--those girls coming down here. I hope we shan't see too much of them." He rose. "I'm afraid I must go, Vivien. We're due at Medfold Crossways to-night, and it's a good long drive, even with the motor. I've got to have some abominable hybrid of a meal at five." She too rose and came to him, putting her hands in his. Her laughing face grew grave and tender. "Dear, you really are happy?" she asked softly, yet rather insistently. He looked into her eyes; they were not veiled or remote for him. "Honestly I believe you're the only chance of happiness I've got in the world, Vivien. Is that enough?" "I think it's really more than being happy, or than being sure you will be happy." She smiled. "It gives me more to do, at all events." "And if I made you unhappy?" "Don't be hurt, please don't be hurt, but just a little of that wouldn't surprise me. Oh, my dear, you don't think I should change to you just because of a little unhappiness? When you've given me all the happiness I've ever had!" "All you've ever had? Poor child!" "It wasn't quite loyal to let that slip out. And it was my own fault, of course, mostly. But they--they were sometimes rather hard on me." She smiled piteously. "For my good? Perhaps it was. Without it, you mightn't have cared for me." "Is it as much to you as that?" he asked, a note of fear, almost of distress, in his voice. She marked it, and answered gaily, "It wouldn't be worth having if it wasn't, Harry!" He kissed her fondly and tenderly, praying in his heart that he might not turn all her happiness to grief. Her presence had wrought on him at last in its old way; if it had not given him peace, yet it had shown him where the chance of peace lay, if he would take it. It had again made him hate the thing he had been doing, and himself for doing it; again it had made him almost hate the woman whom and whom only he had, in truth, that day come to see. It had made the right thing seem again within his reach, made the idea of giving up Vivien look both impossibly cruel to her and impossibly foolish for himself. Yet he was, like Isobel, in great fear--in almost hopeless fear. These two, with their imperious desire for one another, became, each to the other, a terror--in themselves terrors, and the source of every danger threatening from outside. "She gave me the chance of ending it last night. If only I could take her at her word!" "Not after to-night!" she had said. He remembered the words in a flash of hope. But he remembered also that his answer had been, "Ah, you do!" and a kiss. If she said again, "Not after to-night!"--aye, said it again and again--would not the answer always be, "Ah, but to-night at least!" Such words ever promised salvation, but brought none; they were worse than useless. Under a specious pledge of the future, they abandoned the present hour. Chapter XVI. A CHOICE OF EVILS. The best parlour--the private sitting-room--at the Lion was on the ground floor, just opposite the private bar, and boasted a large bay window, commanding a full view of High Street. A low broad bench, comfortably cushioned, ran round the window, and afforded to Miss Flower a favourable station from which to observe what was doing in the town. On fine days, such as ruled just now, when the window was thrown up, the position also served as a rendezvous to which her growing band of friends and admirers could resort to exchange compliments, to post her in the latest news, or just to get a sight of her. Jack Rock would stroll across from his shop three or four times a day; Andy would stop a few minutes on his way to or from his lodgings; Billy would stretch his long legs over the sill and effect an entry; Vivien ask if she might come in for a few minutes; Chinks cast an eye as he hurried to his office; the Bird find an incredible number of occasions for passing on his daily duties. There the Nun sat, surveying the traffic of Meriton, and fully aware that Meriton, in its turn, honoured her with a flattering attention. Within the Lion itself she already reigned supreme; old Mr. Dove was at her feet, so was old Cox and the other _habitués_ of the private bar; the Bird, as already hinted, was "knocked silly"--this contemptuous phrase for a sudden passion was Miss Miles'. Yet even Miss Miles was affable, and quite content to avenge herself for the Bird's desertion (which she justly conceived to be temporary) by a marked increase in those across-the-counter pleasantries which she had once assured her employer were carried on wholly and solely for the benefit of his business. The fact was that Miss Miles had once officiated at the bar of a "theatre of varieties," and this constituted a professional tie between the Nun and herself, strong enough to defy any trifling awkwardness caused by a wavering in the Bird's affections. But the Nun's most notable and complete conquest was over Mr. Belfield. Billy Foot had brought him--not his son Harry--and speedily thereafter he called on his own account, full of courtly excuses because his wife, owing to a touch of cold, was not with him; he hoped that she would be able to come very soon. (Mr. Belfield was engaged on another small domestic struggle, such as had preceded Andy Hayes' first dinner at Halton.) Serenely indifferent to the minutiæ of etiquette, Miss Flower allowed it to appear that she would just as soon receive Mr. Belfield by himself. He interpreted her permission as applying to more than one visit; somehow or other, most days found him by the bay window, and generally, on being pressed, at leisure to come in and rest. They would chat over all manner of things together, each imparting to the other from a store of experiences strange to the listener; or together they would discuss their common friends in Meriton. She liked his shrewd and humorous wisdom; her directness and simplicity charmed him no less than the extreme prettiness of her face. "Well, Miss Flower," he said one morning, "the boys finish their speechifying to-morrow, and then they'll be more at liberty to amuse you, instead of leaving it so much to the old stagers." "And then you'll all be getting busy about the wedding. In three weeks now, isn't it?" "Just a few days over three weeks. Individually I shall be glad when it's over." "Have they done well with their speeches?" she asked. "After all my good intentions, I only went once." "They think they've made the seat absolutely safe for Harry. Parliament and marriage--the boy's taking on responsibilities!" "It seems funny, when one's just played about with them! It's a funny thing to be just one of people's amusements--off the stage as well as on it." "Oh, come!" He smiled. "Is that all you claim to be--to any of those boys?" "That's the way they look at me--in their sober moments. Except Andy; he's quite different. He's never been about town, you see. For him girls and women are all in the same class." "I was once about town myself," Belfield remarked thoughtfully. "Yes, and you take your son's view--and Billy Foot's." He smiled again, and she smiled too, meeting his glance directly. "Oh yes, Billy too--though he may have his temptations! Squarely now, Mr. Belfield, if--for the sake of argument--your son treated Miss Wellgood badly, or even Miss Vintry, it would seem a different thing from treating Sally or me badly, wouldn't it?" "You do put it pretty squarely," said Belfield, twisting his lips. "A glass of beer gives you the right to flirt with poor Miss Miles. It's supposed to be champagne with us. When you were about town--don't you remember?" "I suppose it was. It's not a tradition to be proud of." "There are compensations--which some of us like. If Sally or I behave badly, who cares? But if Miss Wellgood or Miss Vintry--! Oh, dear me, the heavens would fall in Meriton!" "By the way, I'm afraid I drive your friend away? Miss Dutton always disappears when I call." "She generally disappears when people come. Sally's shy of strangers. Well, you know, as I was saying, Andy Hayes hasn't got that tradition. I think if I ever fell in love--I never do, Mr. Belfield--I should fall in love with a man who hadn't that tradition. But they're very hard to find." "Let's suppose it's one of those thousand things that are going to change," he suggested, with his sceptical smile. "Do things between men and women change much, in spite of all the talk? You've read history, I haven't." "Yes, I have to a certain extent. I don't know that I'm inclined to give you the result of my researches. Not very cheerful! And, meanwhile, there's Andy Hayes!" "I never do it," the Nun repeated firmly. "Besides, in this case I've not been asked. I'm not the sort of girl he would fall in love with." "Will you forgive an old man's compliment, Miss Flower, if I say I don't know the sort of man who wouldn't--I'll put it mildly, I'll say mightn't--fall in love with the sort of girl you are?" "I forgive it, but it's not as clever as you generally are. Andy always wants to help. Well, I don't want anybody to help me, you see." "The delight of the eyes?" he suggested. "What? That doesn't count? Only such as you can afford to say so!" "I don't think it counts much with Andy. He appreciates, oh yes! He almost stared me out of countenance the first time we met; and that's supposed to be difficult--in London! But I don't think it really counts for a great deal. Andy's not a love-making man; he's emphatically a marrying man." "You draw that distinction? But the love-making men marry?" "In the end perhaps--generally rather by accident. They haven't the instinct." "You've thought about these things a good deal, Miss Flower." "I live almost entirely among men, you see," she answered simply. "And they show me more than they show girls of--of that other class. Shall I call again on your reminiscences?" She smiled suddenly and brightly. "Miss Wellgood's being awfully nice to me. She's been here twice, and I'm going to tea at Nutley to-morrow." "She's one of the dearest girls in the world," said Belfield. "Harry's a lucky fellow." He glanced at the Nun. "I hope he appreciates it properly. I believe he does." She offered no comment, and a rather blank silence followed. If Belfield had sought a reassurance, he had not received it. On the other hand she gave away no secrets. She, like the silence, was blank, looking away from him, down High Street. The Bird passed the window; Jack Rock trotted by on a young horse; one of his business equipages clattered along not far behind him; the quiet old street basked and dozed in the sun. "What a dear rest it is--this little town!" said the Nun softly. "Surely nothing but what's happy and peaceful and pleasant can ever happen here?" Sally Dutton came by, returning from a stroll to which she had betaken herself on Belfield's arrival. "Well, Sally, been amusing yourself?" the Nun called. "The streets present their usual gay and animated aspect," observed Miss Dutton, as she entered the Lion. "There are the two sides of the question," laughed Belfield. "The line between peace and dullness--each man draws it for himself--in pencil--with india-rubber handy! I'm really afraid we're not amusing Miss Dutton?" "Oh yes, she's all right. That's only her way." She smiled reflectively; Sally always amused her. Belfield rose to take leave. "We can't let Nutley beat us," he said. "We must have you at Halton too!" He was led into assuming that his little domestic struggle would end in victory. She looked at him, still smiling. "Wait and see how I behave at Nutley first. If Harry gives a good report of me--I suppose he'll be there?--ask me to Halton!" He laughed, and so let the question go. After all, it would not do to be too sudden with his wife. "You needn't be afraid of Harry. But Wellgood's rather a formidable character." "And Miss Vintry? Is she alarming?" He pursed up his lips. "I think she might be called a little--alarming." "I'll have a good look at her--and perhaps I'll let you know what I think of her," said the Nun, with no more than the slightest twinkle in her eyes. It was enough for Belfield's quickness; it was much more informing than the blank silence--though even that had set him thinking. But the Nun's account of her first visit to Nutley chanced--or perhaps it was not chance--to be rendered not to Belfield, but to Andy Hayes. After the last meeting of the campaign, he had gone round to smoke a pipe with Jack Rock. Leaving him hard on midnight--there had been much to be wormed out of Andy concerning his speeches, their reception, the applause--he saw a light still burning in the window at the Lion. As he drew near, he perceived that the window was open, and he heard a voice crooning softly. He made bold to look in. The Nun was alone; she sat in the window, doing nothing, singing to herself. "Boo!" said Andy, putting his big head in at the window. "Andy!" she cried, her face lighting up. "Jump in! You've come to scare the devils! There are a hundred of them, and they won't go away for all my singing. And Sally's gone to bed, prophesying a breaking of at least six out of the Ten Commandments! And only yesterday I told Mr. Belfield that nothing unpleasant could happen in Meriton! Where is one to go for quiet if things happen in Meriton?" An outburst like this was most unusual with the Nun. It produced on Andy's face such a look of mild wonder as may be seen on a St. Bernard's when a toy-terrier barks furiously. "What's happened?" "I've been at Nutley." "Oh yes! Harry came on from there in the car--got to the meeting rather late." "Something's happened--or is happening--in that house." She looked at him sharply. "You've been here longer than I have--do you know anything? Go on with your pipe." Andy considered long, smoking his pipe. "You do know something!" she exclaimed. "I've ground for some uneasiness," he admitted. She nodded. "It was all sort of underground," she said. "Really most uncomfortable! They'd try to get away from it, and yet come back to it--those three--Mr. Wellgood, Harry, and that Miss Vintry. Poor Vivien seemed quite outside of it all, but somehow conscious of it--and unhappy. She saw there was--what shall I say?--antagonism, you know. And she didn't know why. Have you seen anything that would make Mr. Wellgood savage if he saw it?" "He didn't see what I saw." "Not that time anyhow!" she amended quickly. Andy frowned. "That time, I mean, of course. If he's seen anything of that sort, or suspected it, naturally, as Vivien Wellgood's father--" "Vivien's father!" Her tone was full of impatience for his stupidity. "I suppose no woman has ever been to Nutley lately? Oh, Vivien's not one; she's a saint--and that's neither male nor female. Vivien's father!" "I've been there off and on," said Andy. "You! Have you ever seen--not that I suppose you'd notice it--a woman keeping two men from one another's throats, trying to make them think there's nothing to quarrel about, trying to say things that one could take in one way, and the other in the other--and third persons not take in any way at all? Oh, it's a pretty game, and I'm bound to say she plays it finely. But she's on thin ice, that woman, and she knows it. Vivien's father!" "Why do you go on repeating 'Vivien's father'?" "I won't." She leant forward and laid her small hand on his arm. "Isobel Vintry's lover, then! The man's in love with her, Andy, as sure as we sit here. In love--and furious!" "I'd never thought of that. Do you feel sure of it?" "You have thought of the other thing--and you're sure of that?" "You know Harry. I hoped it would all--all come to nothing. How much do you think Wellgood knows, or suspects?" "Hard to say. I think he's groping in the dark. He's had a check, I expect, or a set-back. Men always think that's due to another man--I suppose it generally is. Well, it's not you, and it's not Billy. Who else sees her--who else goes to Nutley?" "But he'd never suspect his own daughter's--" "You do!" "I had the evidence of my eyes." "Jealousy's quicker than the eyes, Andy." She leant forward again. "What did you see?" "It seems disloyal to tell--disloyal to Harry." "My loyalty's for Vivien!" she said. "What about yours?" "Take it that what I saw justifies your fears about Harry," said Andy slowly. "I think--I'm not sure--I think he suspects I saw. I don't know whether she does." He was not aware that Isobel had made herself quite certain of his knowledge. "But it's nearly a month ago. You know Harry. I hoped it was all over. Only he seemed a little--queer." "'Come and spend a quiet afternoon in the garden'--that was her invitation. Poor girl!" "That's what you called her the first time I told you of their engagement." "A nice quiet afternoon--sitting on the top of a volcano! With an eruption overdue!" "It isn't possible to feel quite comfortable about it, is it?" said Andy. The Nun laughed a little scornfully. "Not quite. Going to do anything about it?" Andy raised his eyes to hers. "I owe almost everything I value most in the world to Harry, directly or indirectly; even what I owe to you and Jack came in a way through him." "And he's never taken ten minutes' real trouble about you in his life." "I'm not sure that makes any difference--even if it's true. He stands for all those things to me. As for Miss Vintry--" He shrugged his ponderous shoulders. "Oh, by all means to blazes with Miss Vintry!" the Nun agreed pleasantly. Miss Dutton put her head in at the door--her hair about her shoulders. "Ever coming to bed?" "Not yet. I'm talking to Andy. Don't you see him, Sally?" "It's not respectable." "The window's open, there's a street lamp opposite, and a policeman standing under it. Good-night." "Well, don't come into my room and wake me up jawing." Miss Dutton withdrew. The Nun looked at Andy. "I wonder if it's quite fair to say 'To blazes with Miss Vintry!'" "You said it with a good deal of conviction a moment ago. What makes you--?" His eyes met hers. "Who told you about Sally? I never did," the Nun exclaimed. "Harry, after our first supper." "Here was rather the same case--only, of course, she never knew the other girl. I think that makes a difference. And she never really had a chance. That makes no difference, I suppose. The policeman's gone. I expect you'd better go too, Andy." Andy swung his legs over the window-sill. "Are you going to try and put your oar in?" he asked. "Would you think me wrong if I did?" Andy sat quite a long while on the window-sill, dangling his legs over the pavement of High Street. "I've thought about it a good deal," he answered. "Especially lately." She knelt on the broad low bench just behind him. "Yes, and the result--when you're ready?" "I think a row would be the best thing that could happen." He turned his face round to her as he spoke. The Nun gasped. "That's thorough," she remarked. "So much for your opinion about Harry!" "Yes, so much for that," Andy admitted. "If there is a row, I hope you'll be there." "Oh, I don't!" exclaimed Andy with a natural and human sincerity. "To prevent bloodshed!" She laid her hand on his arm. "I'm not altogether joking. I didn't like Mr. Wellgood's eyes this afternoon." She patted his arm gently before she withdrew her hand. "Good-night, dear old Andy. You're terribly right as a rule. But about this--" She broke off, impatiently jerking her head. With a clasp of her hand and a doleful smile, Andy let his legs drop on the pavement and departed. So that was his verdict, given with all his deliberation, with all the weight of his leisurely broad-viewing judgment. The real thing to avoid was not the "row;" that was his conclusion. There was a thing, then, worse than the "row"--the thing for which Halton and Nutley--nay, all Meriton, would soon be making joyful preparation. His calm face had not moved even at her word "bloodshed." Oh yes, Andy was thorough! Not even that word swayed his mind. Perhaps he did not believe in her fears. But his look had not been scornful; it had been thoughtfully interrogative. He had possessed that knowledge of his for a long while; he had never used it. At first from loyalty to Harry--even now that would, she thought, be enough to make him very loth to use it. But another reason was predominant, born of his long silent brooding. He had come to a conclusion about his hero; the court had taken time for consideration; the judgment was advised. There was no helping some people. They must be left to their own ways, their own devices, their own doom. To help them was to harm others; to fight for them was to serve under the banner of wrong and of injustice. Friendship and loyalty could not justify that. The conclusion seemed a hard one. She stood long at the big window--a dainty little figure thrown up by the light behind her--painfully reaching forward to the understanding of how what seems hardness may be a broader, a truer, a better-directed sympathy, how it may be a duty to leave a wastrel to waste, how not every drowning man is worth the labour that it takes to get him out of the water--for that once. At all events, not worth the risk of another, a more valuable life. And that was his conclusion about his hero, the man to whom he owed, as he had said, almost everything he prized? Had he, then, any right to the conclusion, right in the abstract though it might be? It was a hard world that drove men to such hard conclusions. The case was hard--and the conclusion. But not, of necessity, the man who painfully arrived at it. Yet the man might be biassed; sympathy for the deceived might paint the deceiver's conduct in colours even blacker than the truth demanded. Doris did not think of this, in part because the judgment had seemed too calm and too reluctant to be the offspring of bias, more because, if there were any partiality in it, she herself had become a no less strong, and a more impetuous, adherent of the same cause. Vivien had won all her fealty. The one pleasant feature of the afternoon had been when Vivien walked home with her and, wrought upon by the troubled atmosphere of Nutley even though ignorant of its cause, had opened her heart to Harry's old friend, to a girl who, as she felt, must know more of the world than she did, and perhaps, out of her experience, could comfort and even guide. With sweet and simple gravity, with a delicacy that made her confidence seem still reserved although it was well-nigh complete, she showed to her companion her love and her apprehension--a love so pure in quality, an apprehension based on so rare an understanding of the man she loved. She did not know the things he had done, nor the thing he was now doing; but the man himself she knew, and envisaged dimly the perils by which he was beset. Her loving sympathy tried to leap across the wide chasm that separated her life and her nature from his, and came wonderfully little short of its mark. "I really knew hardly anything about him when I accepted him; he was just a girl's hero to me. But I have watched and watched, and now I know a good deal." An excellent mood for a wife, no doubt--or for a husband--excellent, and, it may be, inevitable. But for a lover yet unmated, a bride still to be, a girl in her first love? Should she not leave reverend seniors to prate to her--quite vainly--of difficulties and dangers, while her fancy is roaming far afield in dreamy lands of golden joy? To endeavour, by an affectionate study of and consideration for your partner, to avoid unhappiness and to give comfort--such is wont to be the text of the officiating minister's little homily at a wedding. Is it to be supposed that bride and bridegroom are putting the matter quite that way in their hearts? If they were, a progressive diminution in the marriage-rate might be expected. So ran the Nun's criticism, full of sympathy with the girl, not perhaps quite so full of sympathy for what seemed to her an over-saintly abnegation of her sex's right. The bitterest anti-feminist will agree that a girl should be worshipped while she is betrothed; he will allow her that respite of dominion in a life which, according to his opponents, his theories reduce, for all its remaining years, to servitude. Vivien was already serving--serving and watching anxiously--amid all her love. At this Doris rebelled--she who never fell in love. But she was quicker to grow fond of people than to criticize their points of view. Vivien's over-saintliness did sinful Harry's cause no service. If this were Vivien's mood in the light of her study of what her lover was, how would she stand towards the knowledge of what he did? Yet Andy Hayes thought that the best thing now possible was that she should come to the knowledge of it--that was what he meant by there being a "row." That opinion of his was a mightily strong endorsement of Vivien's anxiety. "Don't you now and then feel like backing out of it?" the Nun had asked with her usual directness. Vivien's answer came with a laugh, suddenly scornful, suddenly merry, "Why, it's all my life!" The Nun shook her sage little head; these things were not all people's lives--oh dear, no! She knew better than that, did Doris! But then the foolish obstinate folk would go on believing that they were, and thereby, for the time, made the trouble just as great as though their delusion were gospel truth. Then Vivien had turned penitent about her fears, and remorseful for the expression of them. By an easy process penitence led to triumph, and she fell to singing Harry's praises, to painting again that brightly coloured future--the marvellous things to be seen and done by Harry's side. She smiled gently, rather mysteriously; the sound of the wonderful words was echoing in her ears. Doris saw her face, and pressed her hand in a holy silence. The result of her various conversations, of her own reflections, and of her personal inspection of the situation at Nutley was to throw Miss Doris Flower into perhaps the gravest perplexity under which she had ever suffered. When you are accustomed to rule your life--and other people's, on occasion--by the simple rule of doing the obvious thing, it is disconcerting to be confronted with a case in which there appears to be no obvious thing to do, where there is only a choice of evils, and the choice seems balanced with a perverse and malicious equality. From Vivien's side of the matter--Doris troubled herself no more with her old friend Harry's--the marriage was risky far beyond the average of matrimonial risks; but the "row" was terribly risky too, with the girl in that mood about "all her life." If she had that mood badly upon her, she might do--well, girls did do all sorts of things sometimes, holding that life had nothing left in it. Though there was nothing obvious, there must be something sensible; at least one thing must be more sensible than the other. Was it more sensible to do nothing--which was to favour the "row"--or to attempt something--which was to work for the marriage? Her temperament asserted itself, and led her to a conclusion in conflict with Andy's. She was by nature inclined always to do something. In the end the "row" was a certain evil; the marriage only a risk. Men do settle down--sometimes! (She wrinkled her nose as she propounded, and qualified, this proposition.) The risk was preferable to the certainty. After all, her practical sense whispered, in these days even marriage is not wholly irrevocable. Yes, she would be for the marriage and against the "row"--and she would tell Andy that. Something was to be done then. But what? That seemed to the Nun a much easier question--a welcome reappearance of the obvious thing. "I must find out what the woman really wants. Until we know that, it's simply working in the dark." So she concluded, and at last turned on her side and went to sleep. Chapter XVII. REFORMATION. In very truth the atmosphere at Nutley was heavy with threatening clouds; unless a fair wind came to scatter them, the storm must soon break. Isobel had fled within her feminine barricades--the barricades which women are so clever at constructing and at persuading the conventions of life to help them to defend. A woman's solitudes may not be stormed; with address she can escape private encounters. In sore fear of Harry because sore afraid of herself, she gave him no opportunity. In sore fear of Wellgood, she shrank from facing him with a rupture of their secret arrangement. Both men were tricked out of their stolen interviews--Wellgood out of his legitimate privilege, Harry out of his trespassing. Each asked why; in each jealousy harked back to its one definite starting-point--Harry's to her suggestions about her relations with Vivien's father, Wellgood's to Belfield's hints that, as a companion, Isobel was needlessly good looking. To each of them matter of amusement at the time when they were made, they took on now a new significance; so irony loves to confront our past and present moods. But Wellgood held a card that was not in Harry's hand--a card which could not win the game, but could at least secure an opening. He was employer as well as lover. Vivien's father could command the presence of Vivien's companion--not indeed late at night, for that would be a scarcely judicious straining of his powers, but at any reputable business-transacting hour of the day. For two nights--and that day of which the Nun had been a witness--he suffered the evasion of his rights; then, with a suavity dangerous in a man so rough, he prayed Miss Vintry's presence in the study for ten minutes (the established period!) before dinner; there were ways and means to be discussed, he said, matters touching the _trousseau_ and the wedding entertainment. Vivien was bidden to run away and dress. "We're preparing one or two surprises for you, my dear," he said to her, with a grim smile which carried for Isobel a hidden reference. Thus commanded in Vivien's presence, Isobel was cleverly caught between the duty of obedience and the abandonment of her ostensible position in the house. Her barricade was being outflanked; she was forced into the open. She was in fear of him, almost actual physical fear; whether more of his fondness or of his roughness she could not tell; she felt that she could hardly bear either. Since her avowal to Harry, her courage had never returned, her weapons seemed blunted, she was no more mistress of all her resources. Yet in the end she feared the fondness more, and would at all costs avoid that. She summoned the remnants of her once brilliant array of bravery. Alone with her, he wasted no time on the artifice which had secured him privacy. "What's this new fad, Isobel? You're wilfully avoiding me. One evening you turn faint; another you dodge me, and are off to bed! Though I don't think I've ever made exacting claims on your time, considering!" "I've been afraid--you'd better hear the truth--to speak to you." "I should like the truth, certainly, if I can get it. What have you been afraid to speak to me about?" "Our engagement." She made the plunge, her eyes fixed apprehensively on his face. "I--I can't go on with it, Mr. Wellgood." He had schooled himself for this answer; he made no outburst. His tone was mild; the cunning of jealousy gave him an alien smoothness. "Sit down, my dear, and tell me why." She sat facing him, his writing-table between them. "My feelings haven't--haven't developed as I hoped they would." "Oh, your feelings haven't developed?" he repeated slowly. "Towards me?" "I reserved the right to change my mind--you remember?" "And I the right to be unpleasant about it." He smiled under intent eyes. "I'll leave the house to-morrow, if you like," she cried, eager now to accept a banishment she had once dreaded. "Oh, no! I'm not going to be unpleasant. We needn't do things like that." "I--I think I should prefer it." "I'm sorry you should feel that. There's no need; you shan't be annoyed." "That's good of you. I thought you'd be very, very hard to me." "Would that be the best way to win you back? I don't know--at any rate I don't feel like following it. But really you can't go off at a moment's notice--and just now! What would Vivien think? What are we to say to her? What would everybody think? And how are Vivien and I to get through all this business of the wedding?" "I know it would be awkward, and look odd, but it might be better. Your feelings--" "Never mind my feelings; you know they're not my weak spot. Come, Isobel, you see now you've no cause to be afraid of me, don't you?" "You're behaving very kindly--more kindly than perhaps I could expect." Down in her mind there was latent distrust of this unwonted uncharacteristic kindness. Yet it looked genuine enough. There was no reference to the name she dreaded; no hint, no sneer, about Harry Belfield. She rose to a hope that her tricks and her fencing had been successful, that he was quite in the dark, that the issue was to his mind between their two selves alone, with no intruder. Wellgood's jealousy bade him be proud of his effort, and encouraged him to persevere. The natural temper of the man might be raging, almost to the laying of hands on her; it must be kept down; the time for it was not yet. Rudeness or roughness would give her an excuse for flight; he would not have her fly. A plausible kindness, a considerate smoothness--that was the card jealousy selected for him to play. "You shan't be troubled, you shan't be annoyed. I'll give up my evening treat. We'll go back to our old footing--before I spoke to you about this. I'll ask nothing of you as a lover--well, except not to decide finally against me till the wedding. Only three weeks! But as my friend, and Vivien's, I do ask you not to leave us in the lurch now--at this particular moment--and not to risk setting everybody talking. If you insist on leaving me, go after the wedding. That means no change in our plan, except that you won't come back. That'll seem quite natural; it's what they all expect." Still never a word of Harry, no hint of resentment, nothing that could alarm her or give her a handle for offence! Whether from friend or lover, his request sounded most moderate and reasonable. Not to leave the friend in the lurch, not to decide with harsh haste against a patient lover who had been given cause for confident hope, almost for certainty! He left her no plausible answer, for she could adduce no grievance against him. He had but taken what for her own purposes she had been content to allow--first in his bluff flirtation, then in his ill-restrained endearments. There was no plausibility in turning round and pretending to resent these things now. She dared not take false points in an encounter so perilous; that would be to expose herself to a crushing reply. "If you go now--all of a sudden, at this moment--I can't help thinking you'll put yourself under a slur, or else put me under one. People know the position you've been in here--practically mistress of the house, with Vivien in your entire charge. Very queer to leave three weeks before her wedding! You may invent excuses, or we may. An aunt dying--something of that sort! Nobody ever believes in those dying aunts!" It was all true; people did not believe in those dying aunts, not when sudden departures of handsome young women were in question. People would talk; the thing would look odd. His plausible cunning left her no loophole. "If you wish it, I'll stay till the wedding, on our old footing--as we were before all this, I mean. But you mustn't think there's any chance of my--my changing again." "Thank you." He put out his hand across the table. She could not but take it. Though he seemed so cool and quiet, the hand was very hot. He held hers for a long while, his eyes intently fixed on her in a regard which she could not fathom, but which filled her anew with fear. She fell into a tremble; her lips quivered. "Let me go now, please," she entreated, her eyes unable to meet his any longer. He released her hand, and leant back in his chair. He smiled at her again, as he said, "Yes, go now. I'm afraid this interview has been rather trying to you--perhaps to us both." Of all the passions, the sufferings, the undergoings of mankind, none has so relentlessly been put to run the gauntlet of ridicule as jealousy. It is the sport of the composer of light verses, the born material of the writer of farce--especially when it is well founded. It is perhaps strange to remark--could any strangeness outlast familiarity--that the supreme study of it treats of it as utterly unfounded, and finds its highest tragedy in its baselessness. Ridiculous when justifiable, tragic when all a delusion! Is that nature's view, even as it is so often art's? Certainly the race is obstinate in holding real failure in the conflict of sex as small recommendation in a hero, imagined as the opportunity for his highest effect. King Arthur hardly bears the burden of being deceived; on the baseless suspicion of it the Moor rides through murder to a triumphant death--and a general sympathy--unless nowadays women have anything to say on the latter point. Yet this poor passion--commonly so ridiculous, even more commonly, among the polite, held ill-bred--must be allowed its features of interest. It is remarkably alert, acute, ingenious, even laborious, in its sweeping of details into its net. It works up its brief very industriously, be the instructions never so meagre--somehow it invites legal metaphor, being always plaintiff in the court of sex, always with its grievance to prove, generally faced with singularly hard swearing in the witness box. It has its successes, as witnessed by notable phrases; there is the "unwritten law," and there are "extenuating circumstances." The phrases throw back a rather startling illumination on the sport of versifiers and the material of farce. But the exceptional cases have a trick of stamping themselves on phraseology. Most of us are jealous with no very momentous results. We grumble a little, watch a little, sulk a little, and decide that there is nothing in it. Often there is not. Likewise we are ambitious without convulsing the world--or even our own family circle. So with our lives, our loves, our deaths--history, poetry, elegy find no place for them. Only nature has and keeps a mother's love for the ordinary man, and holds his doings legitimate matter for her interest, nay, essential to her eternal unresting plan. She may be figured as investing the bulk of her fortune in him, as in three per cents.--genius being her occasional "flutter." Mark Wellgood was an ordinary man, and he was proud of the fact; that must, perhaps, be considered a circumstance of aggravation. He refused the suggestions of civilization to modify, and of sentiment to soften, his primitive instincts; he was proud of them just as they were. If any man had come between him and his woman--primitive also were the terms his thoughts used--that man should pay for it. If there were any man at all, who could it be but Harry Belfield? If it were Harry Belfield, Wellgood refused to hold him innocent of an inkling of how matters stood between Isobel and Vivien's father--he must have pretty nearly guessed, even if she had not told him. At least there were relations between Vivien herself and the suspected trespasser. Did they not give cause enough for a father's anger, deep and righteous, demanding vengeance? They gave cause--and they gave cover. The jealous suitor could use the indignant father's plea, the indignant father's weapons. The lover's revenge would make the father's duty sweet. He was not indifferent to the wrong done to Vivien; yet he almost prized it for the advantage it gave him in his own quarrel. It was not often that jealousy could plume itself on so honourable and so useful an ally! Single-hearted concern for Vivien would have let Isobel go, as she prayed, and given Harry either his dismissal or the chance to mend his ways in the absence of temptation. Jealousy imperiously vetoed such suggestions. Isobel should not go. Harry should neither be dismissed nor given a fair chance and a fresh start. If he could, Wellgood would still keep Isobel; at least he would punish Harry, if he caught him. For the sake of these things he compromised his daughter's cause, and made her an instrument for his own purposes. And he did this with no sense of wrong-doing. So masterful was his self-regarding passion that his daughter's claim fell to the status of his pretext. So he smoothed his face and watched. But Isobel too was now on the alert. She was no longer merely resolved that she would behave herself because she ought; she saw that perforce she must. At least, no more secret dealings! Harry must be told that. The hidden hope that his answer would be, "Open dealings, then, at any cost," beat still in her heart, faintly, yet without ceasing. But if that answer came not, then all must be over. Word must go to him of that before he next came to Nutley. Such consolation as lay in knowing that she would not marry Wellgood should be his also. Then, perhaps, things would go a little easier, and these terrible three weeks slip past without disaster. Terrible--yes; but, alas, the end of them seemed more terrible yet. Even had the post seemed safe, there was none which could reach Harry before he was due at Nutley again. She had to find a messenger. She decided on Andy Hayes. He was a safe man; he would not forget to fulfil his charge. The very fact of that bit of knowledge he possessed made him in her eyes the safest messenger; if he had not talked about that other thing, he was not likely to talk about the letter; unlikely to mention it in malice, certain not to refer to it in innocence or inadvertence. And she knew where to find him. Andy had, with Wellgood's permission, resumed his practice of bathing before breakfast in Nutley lake. The stripes of his bathing-suit were a familiar object to her as he emerged from the bushes or plunged into the water; from her window she could watch his powerful strokes. His hour was half-past seven; before eight nobody but servants would be about. Andy, then, emerging from the shrubbery dressed after his dip, found Miss Vintry strolling up and down. "You're surprised to see me out so early, Mr. Hayes? But I know your habits. My window looks out this way." "I'm awfully careful to keep well hidden in the bushes." "Oh yes!" she laughed. "I've not come to warn you off. Are you likely to see Mr. Harry this morning?" "I easily can; I shall be passing Halton." "I specially want this note to reach him early in the morning. It's rather important. I should be so much obliged if you'd take it; and will you give it to him yourself?" Andy stood silent for a moment, not offering to take the letter from her hand. She had foreseen that he might hesitate, knowing what he did; she had even thought that his hesitation might give her an opportunity. Feigning to notice nothing in his manner, she went on, "I must add that I shall be glad if you'll give it to him when he's alone, and if you won't mention it. It relates to a private matter." Andy spoke slowly. "I'm not sure you'd choose me to carry it if you knew--" "I do know; at least I never had much doubt, and I've had none since a talk we had together at Halton. Do you remember?" "I didn't say anything about it then, did I?" asked Andy. She smiled. "Not in so many words. You saw a great piece of foolishness--the first and last, I need hardly tell you. I'm very much ashamed of it. In that letter I ask Mr. Harry to forget all about it, and to remember only that I am, and want to go on being, Vivien's friend." It sounded well, but Andy was not quite convinced. "It's some time ago now. Mightn't you just ignore it?" "As far as he's concerned, no doubt I might; but I rather want to get it off my own conscience, Mr. Hayes. It'll make me happier in meeting him. I shall be happier in meeting you too, after this little talk. Somehow that wretched bit of silliness seems to have made an awkwardness between us, and I want to leave Nutley good friends with every one." She sounded very sincere; nay, in a sense she was sincere. She was ashamed; she did want to end the whole matter--unless that unexpected answer came. At any rate she was--or sounded--sincere enough to make Andy hold out his hand for the letter. "I'll take it and give it to him as you wish, Miss Vintry. I'm bound to say, though, that, if apologies are being made, I think Harry's the one to make them." "We women are taught to think such things worse in ourselves than in men. Men get carried away; they're allowed to, now and then. We mustn't." The appeal to his chivalry--another wrong to woman!--touched Andy. "That's infernally unfair!" "It sometimes seems so, just a little. I'm sincerely grateful to you, Mr. Hayes." She held out her hand to him. "You won't think it necessary to mention to Mr. Harry all I've told you? I don't think he was so sure as I was about--about your presence. And somehow it makes it seem worse if he knew that you--" "I shall say nothing whatever, if he doesn't," said Andy, as he shook hands. "Thank you again. I don't think I dare risk asking you to be friends--real friends--yet; but I may, perhaps, on the wedding day." "I've never been your enemy, Miss Vintry." "No; you've been kind, considerate"--her voice dropped--"merciful. Thank you. Good-bye." She left Andy with her letter in his hands, and her humble thanks echoing in his ears--words that, in thanking him for his silence, bound him to a continuance of it. Andy felt most of the guilt suddenly transferred to his shoulders, because he had told the Nun--well, very nearly all about it! That could not be helped now. After all, it was Miss Vintry's own fault; she should have done sooner what she had done now. "All the same," thought chivalrous Andy, "I might give Doris a hint that things look a good bit better." Certainly Isobel Vintry had cause to congratulate herself on a useful morning's work--Harry safely warned, Andy in great measure conciliated. She felt more able to face Wellgood over the teapot. The first round had gone in her favour; the zone of danger was appreciably contracted. Her courage rose; her conscience, too, was quieter. She felt comparatively honest. With Wellgood she had gone as near to absolute honesty as the circumstances permitted. She had broken the engagement; she had even prayed to be allowed to go away, with all that meant to her. Wellgood made her stay. Then, so far as he was concerned, the issue must be on his own head. If that unexpected answer should come in the course of the weeks still left for it, it would be Wellgood's own lookout. As for Vivien--well, she was perceptibly more honest even in regard to Vivien. If she fought still, in desperate hope, for Vivien's lover, she fought now in fairer fashion, by refusing, not by accepting, his society, his attentions, his kisses. She would be nothing to him unless he found himself forced to cry, "Be everything!" She would abide no longer on that half-way ground; there were to be no more sly tricks and secret meetings. The kisses, if kisses came, would not be stolen, but ravished in conquest from a rival's lips. If sin, that was sin in the grand manner. At lunch-time a note came for Vivien, brought by a groom on a bicycle. "Oh, from Harry!" she exclaimed, tearing it open. Isobel, sitting opposite Wellgood, set her face. She had expected a note to come for Vivien from Harry. She was on her mettle, fighting warily, risking no points. No note should come to her from Harry, to be opened perhaps under Wellgood's eyes; he had been known to ask to see letters, in his matter-of-course way assuming that there could be nothing private in them. Harry's answer to the note Andy delivered was to come to Isobel through Vivien, and to come in terms dictated by Isobel, terms that she alone would understand. She could always contrive to see Vivien's letters; generally they were left about. "He's so sorry he can't bring Mr. Foot to tennis with him this afternoon; they're going to play golf," Vivien announced, rather disappointed. But she cheered up. "Oh well, it's rather hot for tennis; and I shall see him to-night, at dinner at Halton." "Does he say anything else?" asked Isobel carelessly. "Only that he's bored to death with politics." She laughed. "What's worrying him, I wonder?" For a moment Isobel sat with eyes lowered; then she raised them and looked across to Wellgood. He was not looking at her; he was carving beef. Then it did not matter if her face had changed a little when she heard that Harry was bored with politics. Neither Wellgood nor Vivien had seen any change there might possibly have been in her face. That trivial observation about politics was the answer--the expected answer, not that unexpected one. It meant, "I accept your decision." Oddly enough her first feeling, the one that rose instinctively in her mind, was of triumph over Wellgood. Had she expressed it with the primitive simplicity on which he prided himself, she would have cried, "Sold again!" She had got out of her great peril; she had settled the whole thing. He had not scored a single point against her. She had regained her independence of him, and without cost. There was no longer anything for him to discover. He had no more rights over her; he had to renew his wooing, again to court, to conciliate. He had no way of finding out the past; Andy Hayes was safe. The future was again in her hands. Her smile at Wellgood was serene and confident. She was retreating in perfect order, after fighting a brilliantly successful rearguard action. Even of the retreat itself she was, for the moment at least, half glad. Fear and longing had so mingled in her dreams of that unexpected answer. To be free from that crisis and that revelation! They would have meant flight for her, pursued by a chorus of condemning voices. They would have meant at least days, perhaps weeks, of straining vigilance, of harrowing suspense--never sure of her ground, never sure of herself; above all, never sure of Harry. Who, if not she, should know that you never could be sure of Harry? Who, if not she, should know that neither his plighted word nor his hottest impulse could be relied upon to last? Yes, she was--half glad; almost more than half glad, when she looked at Vivien. In the back of her mind, save maybe when passion ran at full flood for those rare minutes, the stolen ten that had come for so few days, had been the feeling that it would be a terrible thing to be--to be "shown up" to Vivien. The sage adviser, the firm preceptress, the model of the virtues of self-control--how would she have looked in the eyes of Vivien, even had the open, the triumphant victory come to pass? Really that hardly bore thinking of, if she had still any self-respect to lose. She walked alone in the drive after lunch--where she had been wont to meet him. Let it all go! At least it had done one thing for her--it had saved her from Wellgood. It had taught her love, and made the pretence of love impossible--the suffering of unwelcome caresses a thing unholy. Then it was not all to the bad? It left her with a dream, a vision, a thing unrealized yet real; something to take with her into that new, cold, unknown world of strange people into which, for a livelihood's sake, she must soon plunge--must plunge as soon as she had seen Harry married to Vivien! The sun was on the lake that afternoon; the water looked peaceful, friendly, consoling. She sat down by the margin of it, and gave herself to memories. They came thick and fast, repeating themselves endlessly out of scant material--full of shame, full of woe; but also full of triumph, for she had been loved--at least for the time desired--by the man of her love and desire. Bought at a great cost? Yes. And never ought to have been bought? No. But now by no means to be forgotten. She was alone; everything was still, in the calm of a September afternoon. She bowed her head to her hands and wept. The Nun walked up the drive and saw the figure of a woman weeping. Chapter XVIII. PENITENCE AND PROBLEMS. The Nun stopped, walked on a few paces, came to a stand again. She was visiting Nutley in pursuance of her plan of doing, if not that undiscoverable obvious, yet the more sensible thing--of preventing the "row" and, incidentally thereto, of finding out "what the woman really wanted." Here was the woman. Whatever she might really want, apparently she was very far from having got it yet. She also looked very different from the adversary with whom Miss Flower had pictured herself as conducting a contest of wits--quite unlike the cool, wary, dexterous woman who had played her difficult game between the two men so finely, and who might be trusted to treat her opponent to a very pretty display of fencing. The position seemed so changed that the Nun had thoughts of going back. To discover a new, and what one has considered rather a hostile, acquaintance in tears is embarrassing; and the acquaintance may well share the embarrassment. Fortunately Isobel stopped crying. She dried her eyes and tucked away her handkerchief. The Nun advanced again. Isobel sat looking drearily over the lake. "Dropped your sixpence in the pond, Miss Vintry?" the Nun asked. Isobel turned round sharply. "Because--I mean--you're not looking very cheerful." Isobel's eyes hardened a little. "Have you been there long?" "I saw you were crying, if that's what you mean. I'm sorry. I couldn't help it. People should cry in their own rooms if they want to keep it quiet." "Oh, never mind; it doesn't matter whether you saw or not. Every woman is entitled to cry sometimes." "I don't cry myself," observed the Nun, "but of course a great many girls do." "I daresay I shouldn't cry if I were the great Miss Doris Flower." The Nun gurgled. That ebullition could usually be brought about by any reference to the greatness of her position, not precisely because the position was not great--rather because it was funny that it should be. She sat down beside Isobel. "Please don't tell Vivien what you saw. I don't want her to know I've been crying. She's remorseful enough as it is about her marriage costing me my 'place.'" "Was that what you were crying about?" "It seems silly, doesn't it? But I've been happy here, and--and they've got fond of me. And finding a new one--well, it seems like plunging into this lake on a cold day. So quite suddenly I got terribly dreary." "Well, you've had it out, haven't you?" suggested the Nun consolingly. "Yes; and much good it's done to the situation!" laughed Isobel ruefully. "Oh, well, I suppose my feelings are the situation--at any rate there's no other." "Then if you feel better, things are better too." The Nun did not feel that she was getting on much with the secret object of her visit; she even felt the impulse to get on with it weakened. She was more inclined just to have a friendly, a consoling chat. However business was business. To get on she must take a little risk. She dug the earth on the edge of the pond with the point of her sunshade and observed carelessly, "If you very particularly wanted to stay at Nutley, I should have thought you might have the chance." "Oh, are people gossiping about that? Poor Mr. Wellgood!" "It was the observation of my own eyes," said the Nun sedately. "Oh, of course you can deny it if you like, though I don't see why you should--and I shan't believe you." "If you've such confidence in your own eyes as that, Miss Flower, it would be wasting my breath to try to convince you. Have it your own way. But even that would be--a new place. And I've told you that I'm afraid of new places." "All plunges aren't into cold water," the Nun observed reflectively. "That one would be colder, I think, than a quite strange plunge--away from Nutley." "It's a great pity we're not built so as to fall in love conveniently. It would have been so nice for you to stay--in the new place." "I'm only letting you have it your own way, Miss Flower. I've admitted nothing." "All that appears at present is that you needn't go if you don't like--and yet you cry about going!" Isobel smiled. "I might cry at leaving all my friends, especially at leaving Vivien, without wanting to stop--with Mr. Wellgood, as you insist on having it. Is that comprehensible?" "Well, I expect I've asked enough questions," said the cunning Nun, wondering hard how she could contrive to ask another--and get an answer to it. "But in Meriton there's nothing to do but gossip to and about one's friends. That's what makes it so jolly. Why, this wedding is simply occupation for all of us! What shall we do when it's over? Oh, well, I shall be gone, I suppose." "And so shall I--so we needn't trouble about that." The Nun was baffled. A strange impassivity seemed to fall on her companion the moment that the talk was of Harry's wedding. She tried once again. "I do hope it'll turn out well." Isobel offered no comment whatever. In truth she was not sure of herself; her agitation was too recent and had been too violent--it might return. "I've known Harry for so long--and I like Miss Wellgood so much." She gave as interrogative a note as she could to her remarks--without asking direct questions. "I think he really is in love at last!" Surely, that ought to draw some question or remark--that "at last"? It drew nothing. "But--well, we used to say one never knew with poor Harry!" ("Further than that," thought the Nun, "without telling tales, I cannot go.") Isobel sat silent. The result was meagre. Isobel would talk about Wellgood, evasively but without embarrassment; references to Harry Belfield reduced her to silence. It was a little new light on the past; its bearing on the future, if any, was negative. She would not, it seemed, stay at Nutley with Wellgood. She would not talk of Harry. She had been crying. The crying was the satisfactory feature in the case. The Nun rose. "I must go in and see Miss Wellgood." "She's gone out with her father, I'm afraid. That's how I happen to be off duty." "And able to cry?" "Oh, I hope you'll forget that nonsense. I'm quite resigned to everything, really." She too rose, smiling at her companion. "Only I rather wish it was all over--and the plunge made!" The Nun reported the fact of her interview--and the results, such as they were--to Miss Dutton when she returned home. "Her crying shows that she doesn't think she's got much chance," said the Nun hopefully. "It shows she'd take a chance, if she got one," Miss Dutton opined acutely. "You mean it all depends on Harry, then?" "In my opinion it always has." That indeed seemed the net result. It all depended on Harry--not at first sight a very satisfactory conclusion for those who knew Harry. However, Andy, who came into the Lion later in the afternoon, was hopeful--nay, confident. He had mysterious reasons for this frame of mind--information which he declared himself unable to disclose; he could not even indicate the source from which it proceeded, but he might say that there were two sources. He really could not say more--which annoyed the Nun extremely. "But I think we may consider all the trouble over," he ended. For had not Harry, when he got his note, dealt quite frankly with Andy--well, with very considerable frankness as to the past, with complete as to the future? He admitted that he had "more or less made a fool of himself," but declared that it had been mere nonsense, and was altogether over. Absolutely done with! He gave Andy his hand on that, begged his pardon for having been sulky with him, and told him that henceforward all his thoughts would be where his heart had been all through--with Vivien. If Isobel had convinced Andy, Harry convinced him ten times more. Andy had such a habit of believing people. He was not, indeed, easily or stupidly deceived by a wilful liar; but he fell a victim to people who believed in themselves, who thought they were telling the truth. It was so hard for him to understand that people would not go on feeling and meaning what they were sincerely feeling and meaning at the moment. They could convince him, if only they were convinced themselves. "Let's think no more about it, and then we can all be happy," he said to the Nun. It really made a great difference to his happiness how Harry was behaving. After all, it was rather hard--and rather hard-hearted--not to believe in Harry, when Harry believed so thoroughly in himself. The strongest proof of his regained self-confidence was the visit he paid to the Nun--a visit long overdue in friendship and even in courtesy. Harry asked for no forgiveness; he seemed to assume that she would understand how, having been troubled in his mind of late, he had not been in the mood for visits. He was quite his old self when he came, so much his old self that he scarcely cared to disguise the fact that he had given some cause for anxiety--any more than he expected to be met with doubt when he implied that all cause for anxiety was past. He had quite got over that attack, and his constitution was really the stronger for it. Illnesses are nature's curative processes, so the doctors tell us. Harry was always more virtuous after a moral seizure. The seizure being the effective cause of his improvement, he could not be expected to regard it with unmixed regret. If, incidentally, it witnessed to his conquering charms, he could not help that. Of course he would not talk about the thing; he did not so much mind other people implying, assuming, or hinting at it. If the Nun obliged him at all in this way, she chose the difficult method of irony--in which not her greatest admirer could claim that she was very subtle. "My dear Harry, I quite understand your not calling. How could you think of me when you were quite wrapped up in Vivien Wellgood? I was really glad!" Now that Harry had come, he found himself delighted with his visit. "Country air's agreeing with you, Doris. You look splendid." His eyes spoke undisguised admiration. "Thank you, Harry. I know you thought me good-looking once." The Nun was meek and grateful. Harry laughed, by no means resenting the allusion. That had been an illness, a curative process, also--though her curative measures had been rather too summary for his taste. "Whose peace of mind are you destroying down here?" "I've a right to destroy peace of mind if I want to. It's not as if I were engaged to be married--as you are. I think Jack Rock's in most danger--or perhaps your father." "The pater inherits some of my weaknesses," said Harry. "Or shares my tastes, anyhow." "Yes, I know he's devoted to Vivien." "You never look prettier than when you're trying to say nasty things." "I'll stop, or in another moment you'll be offering to kiss me." "Should you object?" "Hardly worth while. It would mean nothing at all to either of us. Still--I'm not a poacher." "You don't seem to me to be able to take a joke either." Harry's voice sounded annoyed. "But we won't quarrel. I've been through one of my fits of the blues, Doris. Don't be hard on a fellow." "It would be so much better for you if people could be hard on you, Harry. Still you'll have to pay for it somehow. We all have to pay for being what we are--somehow. Perhaps you won't know you're paying--you'll call it by some other name; perhaps you won't care. But you'll have to pay somehow." The Nun made a queer figure of a moralist; she was really far too pretty. But her words got home to Harry--the new, the recovered, Harry. "I have paid," he said. "Oh yes, you don't believe it, but I have! The bill's paid, and receipted. I'm starting fair now. But you never did do me justice." "I've always done justice to what you care most about--Harry the Irresistible!" "Oh, stop that rot!" he implored. "I'm serious, you know, Doris." "I know all the symptoms of your seriousness. The first is wanting to flirt with somebody fresh." Harry's laugh was vexed--but not of bitter vexation. "Give a fellow a chance!" "The whole world's in league to do it--again and again!" "This time the world is going to find me appreciative. You don't know what a splendid girl Vivien is! If you did, you'd understand how--how--well, how things look different." The Nun relented. "I really think it may last you over the wedding--and perhaps the honeymoon," she said. The extraordinary thing to her--indeed to all his friends who did not share his most mercurial temperament--was that this change of mood was entirely sincere in Harry, and his satisfaction with it not less genuine. For two painful hours--from his receipt of Isobel's note to his dispatching of that sentence about being bored with politics--he had struggled, keeping Andy in an adjoining room solaced by newspapers and tobacco, in case counsel should be needed. Then the right had won--and all was over! When all was over, it was with Harry exactly as if nothing had ever begun; his belief in the virtue of penitence beggared theology itself. What he had been doing presented itself as not merely finished, not merely repented of, but as hardly real; at the most as an aberration, at the least as a delusion. Certainly he felt hardly responsible for it. An excellent comfortable doctrine--for Harry. It rather left out of account the other party to the transaction. What a right he had to be proud of his return to loyalty! Because Isobel Vintry was really a most attractive girl; it would be unjust and ungrateful to deny that, since she had--well, it was better not to go back to that! With which reflection he went back to it, recovering some of the emotions of that culminating evening in the drive; recovering them not to any dangerous extent--Isobel was not there, the thrill of her voice not in his ears, nor the light of her eyes visible through the darkness--but enough to make him pat his virtue on the back again, and again excuse the aberration. Oh, they had all made too much of it! A mere flirtation! Oh, very wrong! Yes, yes; or where lay the marvel of this repentance? But not so bad as all that! They had been prejudiced to think it so serious--prejudiced by Vivien's charms, her trust, her simplicity, her appeal. Yes, he certainly had been a villain even to flirt when engaged to a girl like that. However he thoroughly appreciated that aspect of the case now; it had needed this little--adventure--to make him appreciate it. Perhaps it had all been for the best. Well, that was going too far, because Isobel felt it deeply, as her words in the drive had shown. Yet perhaps--Harry achieved his climax in the thought that even for her it might have been for the best if it stopped her from marrying Wellgood. By how different a path, in how different a mood, had poor Isobel attained to laying the same unction to her smarting soul! Wellgood did not know at all how quickly matters had moved. He was still asking about the sin--the aberration; he was not up to date with Isobel's renunciation or Harry's comfortable penitence. Nor was he of the school that accepts such things without sound proof. "Lead us not into temptation" was all very well in church; in secular life, if you suspected a servant of dishonesty, you marked a florin and left it on the mantelpiece. Had Isobel been already his wife, he would have locked her up in the nearest approach to a tower of brass that modern conditions permit; if Vivien had been already Harry's wife, he would no doubt have been in favour of Harry's being kept out of the way of dangerous seductions. But now, whether as father or as lover--and the father continued to afford the lover most valuable aid, most specious cover--he had first to know, to test, and to try. He had to leave his marked florin on the mantelpiece. It must not, however, be supposed that Meriton lacked problems because Harry Belfield seemed, for the moment at all events, to cease to present one. For days past Billy Foot had been grappling with a most momentous one, and Mrs. Belfield's mind was occupied, and almost disturbed, by another of equal gravity. Curiously enough, the two related to the same person, and were to some degree of a kindred nature. Both involved the serious question of the social status--or perhaps the social desirability would be a better term--of Miss Doris Flower. In the leisure hours and the autumn sunshine of Meriton--an atmosphere remote from courts, whether of law or of royalty, and inimical to ambition--Billy was in danger of forgetting the paramount claims of his career and of remembering only the remarkable prettiness of Miss Flower. He was once more "on the brink"; the metaphor of a plunge found a place in his thoughts as well as in Isobel Vintry's; some metaphors are very maids-of-all-work. He was deplorably perturbed. Now that the great campaign was over he abandoned himself to the great question. He even went up to London to talk it over with Gilly, entertaining his brother to lunch--by no means a casual or haphazard hospitality, for Gilly's meals were serious business--in order to obtain his most inspired counsel. But Gilly had been abominably, nay, cruelly disappointing. "I shouldn't waste any more time thinking about that, old chap," said Gilly, delicately dissecting a young partridge. "You're not going out of your way to be flattering. It appears to me at least to be a matter of some importance whom I marry. I thought perhaps my brother might take that view too." "Oh, I do, old chap. I know it's devilish important to you. All I mean is that in this particular case you needn't go about weighing the question. Ask the Nun right off." "You really advise it?" Billy demanded, wrinkling his brow in judicial gravity, but inwardly rather delighted. "I do," Gilly rejoined. "Ask her right off--get it off your mind! It doesn't matter a hang, because she's sure to refuse you." He smiled at his brother across the table--a table spread by that brother's bounty--in a fat and comfortable fashion. Billy preserved his temper with some difficulty. "Purely for the sake of argument, assume that I am a person whom she might possibly accept." "Can't. There are limits to hypothesis, beyond which discussion is unprofitable. I merely ask you to note how much time and worry you'll be saved if you adopt my suggestion." "You'll look a particular fool if I do--and she says yes." "Are you quite sure they brought the claret you ordered, Billy?--What's that you said?" "I'm sure it's the claret, and I'm sure you're an idiot!" Billy crossly retorted. His journey to London, to say nothing of a decidedly expensive lunch, brought poor Billy no comfort and no enlightenment, since he refused his brother's plan without hesitation. His problem became no less harassing when brought into contact with Mrs. Belfield's problem at Halton. She also discussed it at lunch, Harry being an absentee, and Andy Hayes the only other guest. She had forgotten by now that a similar question had once arisen about Andy himself; his present position would have made the memory seem ridiculous; it had become indisputably equal to dinner at Halton, even in Mrs. Belfield's most conservative eyes. "I have written the note you wished me to, my dear," she remarked to her husband. "To Miss Flower, you know, for Wednesday night. And I apologized for my informality in not having called, and said that I hoped Miss--Miss--well, the friend, you know, would come too." "Thank you, my dear, thank you." Belfield sounded really grateful; the struggle had, in fact, been rather more severe than he had anticipated. "It's not that I'm a snob," the lady went on, now addressing herself to Billy Foot, "or prejudiced, or in any way illiberal. Nobody could say that of me. But it's just that I doubt how far it's wise to attempt to mix different sections of society. I mean whether there's not a certain danger in it. You see what I mean, Mr. Foot?" Belfield winked covertly at Andy; both had some suspicion of Billy's feelings, and were maliciously enjoying the situation. "Oh yes, Mrs. Belfield, I--er--see what you mean, of course. In ordinary cases there might be--yes--a sort of--well, a sort of danger to--to--well, to something we all value, Mrs. Belfield. But in this case I don't think--" "So Mr. Belfield says. But then he's always so adventurous." Belfield could not repress a snigger; Andy made an unusually prolonged use of his napkin; Billy was rather red in the face. Mrs. Belfield gazed at Billy, not at all understanding his feelings, but thinking that he was looking very warm. "Well, Harry's engaged!" she added with a sigh of thanksgiving. Billy grew redder still; the other two welcomed an opportunity for open laughter. "They may laugh, Mr. Foot, but I'm sure your mother would feel as I do." A bereavement several years old saved Billy from the suggested complication, but he glared fiercely across the table at Andy, who assumed, with difficulty, an apologetic gravity. "All my wife's fears will vanish as soon as she knows the lady," said Belfield, also anxious to make his peace with Billy. "I always yield to Mr. Belfield, but you can't deny that it's an experiment, Mr. Foot." She rose from the table, having defined the position with her usual serene and gentle self-satisfaction. Billy rose too, announcing that he would finish his cigar in the garden. His face was still red, and he was not well pleased with his host and Andy. Why will people make our own most reasonable thoughts ridiculous by their silly way of putting them? And why will other stupid people laugh at them when so presented? These reflections accompanied poor Billy as he walked and smoked. Belfield smiled. "More sentimental complications! I hope Billy Foot keeps his face better than that when he's in court. Do you think he'll rush on his fate? And what will it be?" "Oh, I don't know, sir," Andy answered. "I really haven't thought about it. I don't think she cares for him in that sort of way, though they're awfully good friends." "You seem to manage to keep heart-whole, Andy?" "Oh, I've no time to do anything else," he laughed. "Take care; Cupid resents defiance. I've a notion you stand very well with the lady in question yourself." "I? Oh, the idea's never entered my head." "I don't say it's entered hers. The pretty rogue told me she never fell in love, and made me wish I was thirty years younger, and free to test her. But she's very fond of you, Andy." "I think what she told you about herself is true. She said something like it to me too. But I'm glad you think she likes me. I like her immensely. Outside this house, she's my best friend, I think, not counting old Jack Rock, of course." "I believe Vivien would dispute the title with her. She thinks the world of you." "I say, Mr. Belfield, you'll turn my head. Seriously, I should be awfully happy to think that true. There's nobody--well, nobody in the world I'd rather be liked by." "Yes, I think I know that," said Belfield. "And I'm glad to think she's got such a friend, if she ever needs one." A silence followed. Belfield was thinking of Vivien, thinking that she would have been in safer hands with Andy than with his son Harry; glad, as he had said, to know that she would have such a friend left to her after his own precarious lease of life was done. Andy was thinking too, but not of Vivien, not of sentimental complications--not even of Harry's. Yet the thought which he was pursuing in his mind was not altogether out of relation to Harry, though the relation was one that he did not consciously trace. "Back to work next week, sir!" he said. "Gilly's clamouring for me. I've had a splendid holiday." "You've put in some very good work in your holiday. Your speeches are thought good." "I somehow feel that I'm on my own legs now," said Andy slowly. "I hope I've not grown bumptious, but I'm not afraid now to think for myself and to say what I think. I often find people agree with me more or less." "Perhaps you persuade them," Belfield suggested; he was listening with interest, for he had watched from outside the growth of Andy's mind, and liked to hear Andy's own account of it. "Well, I never set out to do that. I just give them the facts, and what the facts seem to me to point to. If they've got facts pointing the other way, I like to listen. Of course lots of questions are very difficult, but by going at it like that, and taking time, and not being afraid to chuck up your first opinion, you can get forward--or so it seems to me at least." "Chucking up first opinions is hard work, both about things and about people." "Yes, but it's the way a man's mind grows, isn't it?" He spoke slowly and thoughtfully. "Unless you can do that, you're not really your own mental master, any more than you're your own physical master if you can't break off a bad habit." "You've got to be a bit ruthless with yourself in both cases, and with the opinions, and--with the people." "You've got to see," said Andy. "You must see--that's it. You mustn't shut your eyes, or turn your head away, or let anybody else look for you." "You've come into your kingdom," said Belfield with a nod. "Perhaps I may claim to have got my eyes open, to be grown up." He was grown up; he stood on his own legs; he sat no more at Harry's feet and leant no more on Harry's arm. Harry came into his life there, as he had in so many ways. Harry's weakness had thrown him back on his own strength, and forced him to rely on it. Relying on it in life, he had found it trustworthy, and now did not fear to rely on it in thought also. His chosen master and leader had forfeited his allegiance, though never his love. He would choose no other; he would think for himself. Looking at his capacious head, at his calm broad brow, and hearing him slowly hammer out his mental creed, Belfield fancied that his thinking might carry him far. The kingdom he had come into might prove a spacious realm. Chapter XIX. MARKED MONEY. So far as she could and dared, Isobel Vintry withdrew herself from the company of Harry Belfield. She relaxed her supervision of the lovers when they were together; she tried to avoid any risk of being alone with Harry. She knew that Wellgood was watching her, and was determined to give no new handle to his suspicion. Her own feelings agreed in dictating her line of action. In ordinary intercourse she was sure of herself; she was not anxious to seek extraordinary temptation. She had more resolution than Harry, but not the same power of self-delusion, not the same faculty of imagining that an enemy was finally conquered because he had been once defeated or defied. She was careful not to expose herself to danger, either from herself or from Wellgood. Harry had decided that all chance of danger was over; he laughed at it now, almost literally laughed. Yet while he derided the notion of peril, he liked the flavour of memory. He kept turning the thing over in a mood nicely compounded of remorse and self-esteem; of penitence for the folly, and self-congratulation over the end that had been put to it; of wonder at his aberration, and excuse of it in view of Isobel's attractions. Gone as it all was in fact, it was not banished from retrospect. Wellgood grew easier in his mind. He had marked some florins--opportunities for private meetings rather clumsily offered; they had not been taken. His suspicions of the past remained, but he thought that he had effectually frightened Isobel. He had good hopes for his own scheme again. If she did not come round before the wedding--now only a fortnight off--he believed that she would afterwards. Harry finally out of reach, his turn would come. He continued his smoothness, and did not relax his vigilance; but, as the days passed by, his hopes rose to confidence again. The dinner-party at Halton in the Nun's honour went off with great success; she comported herself with such decorum and ease that Mrs. Belfield felt her problem solved, while Billy Foot found his even more pressing. Vivien was the only representative of Nutley. Wellgood had gone to the county town to attend a meeting of the County Council; the trains ran awkwardly, and, unless the business proved very brief, he would have to dine at the hotel, and would not reach home till late at night. Isobel had excused herself, pursuant to her policy of seeing as little as possible of Harry. But the party was reinforced by Gilly Foot, who had come down for a couple of days' rest, and was staying at the Lion--the great publishing house being left to take care of itself for this short space. The party was pleasant--Belfield flirting with the Nun, Gilly discoursing in company with Mrs. Belfield, who thought him a most intelligent young man (as he was), Harry and Billy both in high spirits and full of sallies, for which Vivien and Andy, both ever choosing the modest _rôle_, made an applauding audience. Yet for most of the company dinner was but a prelude to the real business of the evening. The Nun had no opinion of evenings which ended at ten-thirty. For this reason, and in order to welcome Gilly and, if possible, please his palate, she had organized a supper at the Lion, and exhorted Mr. Dove, and Chinks, and the cook--in a word, everybody concerned--to a great effort. One thing only marred the anticipations of this feast; Vivien had failed to win leave to attend it. "What do you want with supper after a good dinner?" asked Wellgood brusquely. "Come home and go to bed, like a sensible girl." So Harry was to take Vivien home, and come back to supper with all reasonable speed. The Nun pressed Mr. Belfield to join her party after his own was over, but gained nothing thereby, save a disquisition on the pleasures appropriate to youth and age respectively. "Among the latter I rank going early to bed very high." "Going to bed early is a low calculating sort of thing to do," said Harry. "It always means that you intend to try to take advantage of somebody else the next morning." "In the hope that he'll have been up late," said Billy. "And eaten too much," added Gilly sadly. "Or even drunk too much?" suggested Belfield. "Anyhow, being sent to bed is horrid," lamented unhappy Vivien. "You've a life of suppers before you, if you choose," Billy assured her consolingly. "When I was a girl, we always had supper," said Mrs. Belfield. "Quite right, Mrs. Belfield," said Gilly, in high approval. "Instead of late dinner, I mean, Mr. Foot." Gilly could do no more than look at her, finding no adequate comment. "Supper should be a mere flirtation with one's food," said Billy. "A post-matrimonial flirtation?" asked Belfield. "Because dinner must be wedlock! We come back to its demoralizing character." "Having established that it's wrong, we've given it the final charm, and we'll go and do it," laughed Billy. Mrs. Belfield had already looked once at the clock. Amid much merriment Vivien and Harry were put into the Nutley brougham, and the rest started to walk to the Lion, no more than half a mile from the gates of Halton. Belfield turned back into the house, smiling and shaking his head. The old, old moralizing was upon him again, in its hoary antiquity, its eternal power of striking the mind afresh. How good it all is--and how short! Elderly he said good-night to his elderly wife, and in elderly fashion packed himself off to bed. He was "sent" there under a sanction stronger, more ruthless, less to be evaded, than that which poor Vivien reluctantly obeyed. He chid himself; nobody but a poet has a right to abandon his mind to universal inevitable regrets, since only a poet's hand can fashion a fresh garland for the tomb of youth. Half Harry's charm lay in--perhaps half his dangers sprang from--an instinctive adaptability; he was seldom out of tune with his company. With the bold he was bold; towards the timid he displayed a chivalrous reserve. This latter had always been his bearing towards Vivien, even in the early days of impulsive single-hearted devotion. It did not desert him even to-night, although there was a stirring in his blood, roused perhaps by the mimic reproduction of old-time gaieties with which the Nun proposed to enliven Meriton--a spirit of riot and revolt, of risk and adventure in the realm of feeling. He had little prospect of satisfying that impulse, but he might find some solace in merry revelry with his friends. Somehow, when more closely considered, the revelry did not satisfy. Good-fellowship was not what his mood was asking; for him at least the entertainment at the Lion offered no more, whatever tinge of romance might adorn it for Billy Foot. But he talked gaily to Vivien as they drove to Nutley--of the trip they were to make, of the house they were to hire for the winter and the ensuing season (he would in all likelihood be in Parliament by then), of their future life together. There was no woman save Vivien in his mind, neither Isobel nor another. He had no doubts of his recovered loyalty; but he was in some danger of recognizing it ruefully, as obligation and necessity, rather than as satisfaction or even as achievement. Vivien had grown knowing about him. She knew when she, or something, or things in general, did not satisfy his mood. "I'm glad you're going to have a merry evening to-night," she said. "And I'm almost glad I'm sent to bed! It'll do you good to forget all about me for a few hours." "You think I shall?" he protested gallantly. "Oh yes!" she answered, laughing. "But I shall expect you to be all the more glad to see me again to-morrow." He laughed rather absently. "I expect those fellows will rather wake up the old Lion." They had passed through Nutley gates and were in the drive. Harry was next to the water, and turned his head to look at it. Suddenly he gave the slightest start, then looked quickly round at his companion. She was leaning back, she had not looked out of the window. Harry frowned and smiled. When they stopped at the door, the coachman said, "Beg pardon, sir, but I've only just time to take you back, and then go on to the station to meet Mr. Wellgood. He didn't come by the eight-o'clock, so I must meet the eleven-thirty." For one moment Harry considered. "All right. I'll walk." "Very good, sir. I'll start directly and take the mare down quietly." The station lay on the other side of Meriton, two miles and a half from Nutley. The man drove off. "Oh, Harry, you might as well have driven, because I daren't ask you in! Father's not back, and Isobel is sure to have gone to bed." The rules were still strict at Nutley. For a moment again Harry seemed to consider. "I thought a walk would do me good. I may even be able to eat some supper!" he said with a laugh. "I shall get you into trouble if I come in, shall I? Then I won't. Good-night." "Father won't be here for an hour, nearly--but he might ask." "And you're incorrigibly truthful!" "Am I? Anyhow I rather think you want to go back to supper." She would have yielded him admission--risking her father's questions and perhaps her own answer to them--if he had pressed. Harry did not press; in his refraining she saw renewed evidence of his chivalry. She gave him her cheek to kiss; he kissed it lightly, saying, "Till to-morrow--what there's left of me after a night of dissipation!" She opened the door with her key, waved a last good-night to him, and disappeared into the dimly lighted hall. She was gone; the carriage was gone; Wellgood would not come for nearly an hour. Harry had not told what he had seen in the drive, nor disputed Vivien's assurance that Isobel Vintry would have gone to bed. Chance had put a marked florin on the mantelpiece for Wellgood; what were the chances of its being stolen, and of the theft being traced? To have moods is to be exposed to chances. Many moods come and go harmlessly--free, at least, from external consequences. Sometimes opportunity comes pat on the mood, and the mood is swift to lay all the blame on opportunity. "Well, it's not my fault this time," thought Harry. "And if I meet her, I can hardly walk by without saying good-night." The little adventure, with its sentimental background, had just the flavour that his spirit had been asking, just what the evening lacked. A brief scene of reserved feeling, more hinted than said, a becoming word of sorrow, and so farewell! No harm in that, and, under the circumstances, less from Harry would be hardly decent. Isobel did not seem minded even for so much. She came up to him with a quick resolute step. She wore a low-cut black gown, and a black lace scarf twisted round her neck. She bent her head slightly, saying, "Good-night, Mr. Harry." He stepped up to her, holding out his hand, but she made no motion to take it. "I've no key--I'll go in by the back door. It's sure to be open, because Fellowes is up, waiting for Mr. Wellgood." "He won't be here for ever so long. Won't you give me just three minutes?" The lamp over the hall door showed him her face; it was pale and tense, her lips were parted. "I think I'd sooner go in at once." "I want you to know that I didn't send that answer lightly. It--it wasn't easy to obey you." "Please don't let us say a single word more about it. If you have any feeling, any consideration for me, you'll let me go at once." The moment was a bad one for her too. She had spent an evening alone with bitter thoughts; she had strolled out in a miserable restlessness. Seeing the carriage pass, feeling sure that Harry was in it, she had first thought that she would hide herself till he had gone, then decided to try to reach the house before he had parted from Vivien. Her wavering landed her there at the one wrong minute. Harry glanced up at the house; every window was dark. Vivien's room looked over the lake, the servants' quarters to the back. There was danger, of course; somebody might come; but nobody was there to see now. The danger was enough to incite, not enough to deter. And what he had to say was very short. "I only want to tell you how deeply sorry I am, and to ask you to forgive me." "That's soon said--and soon answered. I forgive you, if I have anything to forgive." Her voice was very low, it broke and trembled on the last words of the sentence. "I had lost the right to love you, and I hadn't the courage to regain my freedom, with all that meant to--to poor Vivien and--others. But at least I was sincere. I didn't pretend--" "Please, please!" Her tones sank to a whisper; he strained forward to catch it. "Have some mercy on me, Harry!" The old exultation and the old recklessness seized on him. He suffered a very intoxication of the senses. Her strength made weakness, her stateliness turned to trembling for his sake--the spectacle swept away his good resolves as the wind blows the loose petals from a fading rose. Springing forward, he tried to grasp her hands. She put them behind her back, and stood thus, her face upturned to his, her eyes set on him intently. He spoke in a low hoarse voice. "I can't stand any more of it. I've tried and tried. I love Vivien in a way, and I hate to hurt her. And I hate all the fuss too. But I can't do it any more. You're the girl for me, Isobel! It comes home to me--right home--every time I see you. Let's face it--it'll soon be over! A minute with you is worth an hour with her. I tell you I love you, Isobel." He stooped suddenly and kissed the upturned lips. "You think that to-night. You won't to-morrow. The--the other side of it will come back." "Face the other side with me, and I can stand it. You love me--you know you do!" The trees swayed, murmured, and creaked under the wind; the water lapped on the edge of the lake. The footsteps of a man walking up the drive passed unheard by the engrossed lovers. The man came to where he could see their figures. A sudden stop; then he glided into the cover of the bushes which fringed the lake, and began to crawl cautiously and noiselessly towards the house. To save Wellgood from kicking his heels for an idle hour after dinner in the hotel, and again for an idle half-hour at the station where he had to change, Lord Meriton had performed, at the cost of a _détour_ of seven or eight miles, the friendly office of bringing his colleague home in his motor-car. It is to little accidents like this that impetuous lovers are exposed. So natural when they have happened--this thing had even happened once before--so unlikely to be thought of beforehand, they are indeed florins marked by the cunning hand of chance. Isobel made no effort to deny Harry's challenge. "Yes, I love you, and you know it. If I didn't, I should be the most treacherous creature on earth, and the worst! Even as it is, I've nothing to boast about. But I love you, and if there were no to-morrow I'd do anything you wish or ask." "There is no to-morrow now; it will always be like to-night." He bent again and softly kissed her. "I daren't think so, Harry! I daren't believe it." Unconsciously she raised her voice in a little wail. The words reached Wellgood, where he was now crouching behind a bush. He dared come no nearer, lest they should hear his movements. Harry had lost all hold on himself now. The pale image of Vivien was obliterated from his mind. He had no doubt about to-morrow--how had he ever doubted?--and he pleaded his cause with a passion eloquent and infectious. It was hard to meet passion like that with denial and doubt; sorely hard when belief would bring such joy and triumph! "If you do think so to-morrow--" She slowly put her hands out to him, a happy tremulous smile on her face. But before he could take her to his arms, a rapid change came into her eyes. She held up a hand in warning. The handle of the door had turned. Both faced round, the door opened, and Vivien looked out. "Oh, there you are, Isobel!" she exclaimed in a tone of relief. "I couldn't think what had become of you. I went into your room to tell you about the dinner." "I saw the carriage pass as I was strolling in the drive, but when I got to the door you'd gone in." Her voice shook a little, but her face was now composed. "It's my fault. I kept Miss Vintry talking on the doorstep." "I must go in now," said Isobel. "Good-night, Mr. Harry." Vivien looked at them in some curiosity, but without any suspicion. A thought struck her. "I believe I caught you talking about me," she said with a laugh. "And not much good about me either--because you both look a little flustered." Wellgood stepped out from behind his bush. "I think I can tell you what they've been talking about, Vivien, and I will. I've had the pleasure of listening to the last part of it." He stood there stern and threatening, struggling to keep within bounds the rage that nearly mastered him--the rage of the deceived lover trying still to masquerade as a father's indignation. The father should have sent his daughter away; the lover was minded at all costs to heap shame and humiliation on his favoured rival and on the woman who had deceived him. "Not before Vivien!" Harry cried impulsively. Vivien turned eyes of wonder on him for a moment, then the old look of remoteness settled on her face. She stood holding on to the door, for support perhaps, looking now at none of them, looking out into the night. "This man, your lover, was making love to this woman, whom I employed to look after you." He laughed scornfully. "Oh yes, a rare fool I look! But don't they look fools too? They're nicely caught at last. I daresay they've had a good run, a lot of 'I love you's,' a lot of kisses like the one I saw to-night. But they're caught at last." Vivien spoke in a low voice. "Is it true, Isobel?" For Harry she had neither words nor eyes. "It's true," said Isobel; now her voice was calm. "There's no use saying anything about it." "And you let him do it!" cried Wellgood, his voice rising in passion. "You her friend, you her guardian, you who--" His words seemed nearly to choke him. He turned his fury on to Harry. "You scoundrel, you shall pay for this! I'll make Meriton too hot to hold you! You try to swagger about this place as you've been doing, you try to open your mouth in public, and I'll be there with this pretty story! I'll make an end of your chances in Meriton! You shall find out what it is to make a fool of Mark Wellgood! Yes, you shall pay for it!" From the beginning Harry had found nothing to say; what was there? His face was sunk in a dull despair, his eyes set on the ground. He shrugged his shoulders now, murmuring hoarsely, "You must do as you like." Suddenly Isobel spoke out. "This is your doing. If you had let me go, as I wanted to, this wouldn't have happened. You suspected it, and yet you kept me here. I begged you to let me go. You wouldn't. I tried to do the honest thing--to end it all and go. You wouldn't let me--you know why." "You wanted to go, Isobel?" asked Vivien gently. "And father wouldn't let you?" "Yes. If he likes to tell you the reason, he can. But I say this is his doing--his! He's been waiting and watching for it. Well, he's got it now, and he must deal with it." Her taunts broke down the last of Wellgood's self-control. "Yes, I'll deal with it!" The lover forgot the father, the father forgot his daughter. "And I'll deal with him--the blackguard who's interfered between me and you!" Vivien turned her head towards her father with a quick motion. His eyes were set on Isobel in a furious jealousy. Vivien gave a sharp indrawing of her breath. Now she understood. "He shall pay for it!" cried Wellgood, and made a dart towards Harry, raising the stick which he had in his hand. In an instant Vivien was across his path, and caught his uplifted arm in both of hers. "Not that way, father!" "Go into the house, Vivien." "For my sake, father!" "Go into the house, I say. Let me alone." "Not till you promise me you won't do that." He looked down into her pleading face. His own softened a little. "Very well, my girl, I promise you I won't do that." Neither Isobel nor Harry had moved; they made no sign now. Vivien slowly loosed her grasp of her father's arm and turned back towards the door. Suddenly Harry spoke in a hoarse whisper. "I'm sorry, Vivien, awfully sorry." Then she looked at him for a moment; a smile of sad wistfulness came on her lips. "Yes, I'm sure you're awfully sorry, Harry." She passed into the house, leaving the door open behind her. Harry heard her slow steps crossing the hall. "There's no more to be said to-night," said Isobel, and moved towards the door. Wellgood was beforehand with her; he barred the way, standing in the entrance. "Yes, there's one more thing to be said." He was calmer now, but not a whit less angry or less vicious. "From to-night I've done with both of you--I and my house. If you want her, take her. If you can get him, take him--and keep him if you can. Let him remember what I've said. I keep my word. Let him remember! If he doesn't want this story told, let him make himself scarce in Meriton. If he doesn't, as God's above us, he shall hear it wherever he goes. It shall never leave him while I live." He turned back to Isobel. "And I've done with you--I and my house. Do what you like, go where you like. You've set your foot for the last time within my threshold." Harry looked up with a quick jerk of his head. "You don't mean to-night?" A grim smile of triumph came on Wellgood's face. "Ah, but I do mean to-night. You're in love with her--you can look after her. I'll leave you the privilege of lodging her to-night. Rather late to get quarters for a lady, but that's your lookout." "You won't do that, Mr. Wellgood?" said Isobel, the first touch of entreaty in her voice. With an oath he answered, "I will, and this very minute." He stood there, with his back to the door, a moment longer, his angry eyes travelling from one to the other, showing his teeth in his vicious smile. He had thought of a good revenge; humiliation, ignominy, ridicule should be the portion of the woman who had cheated him and of the man who took her from him. There was little thought of his daughter in his heart, or he might have shown mercy to this other girl. "I wish you both a pleasant night," he said with a sneering laugh, then turned, went in, and banged the door behind him. They heard the bolt run into its socket. Isobel came up to Harry. Stretching out her arms, she laid her hands on his shoulders. Her composure, so long maintained, gave way at last. She broke into hysterical sobbing as she stammered out, "O Harry, my dear, my dear, I'm so sorry! Do forgive!" Harry Belfield took her face between his two hands and kissed it; but under her embracing hands she felt his shoulders give a little shrug. It was his old protest against those emotions. They had played him another scurvy trick! The bolt was shot back again, the door opened. Fellowes, the butler, stood there. He held a hat and a long cloak in his hand. "Miss Vivien told me to give you these, miss, and to say that she wasn't allowed to bring them herself, and that she has done her best." Harry took the things from him, handed the hat to Isobel, and wrapped her in the cloak. Fellowes was an old family servant, who had known Harry from a boy. "I dare do nothing, sir," he said, and went in, and shut the door again. "It was good of Vivien," said Isobel, with a choking sob. Harry shrugged his shoulders again. "Well, we must go--somewhere," he said. Chapter XX. NO GOOD? At supper the fun waxed fast and harmlessly furious. The party had received an unexpected accession in the person of Jack Rock. He had been caught surveying the "spread" in company with Miss Dutton (she had declined the alarming hospitality of Halton), old Mr. Dove, and the Bird--a trio who had been working for its perfection most of the day and all the evening. Having caught Jack, the Nun would by no means let him go. She made him sit down by her in Harry's vacant place, declaring that room could be found for Harry somewhere when he turned up, and in this honourable position Jack was enjoying himself--honestly, simply, knowing that they were "up to their fun," neither spoilt nor embarrassed. Old Mr. Dove, the Bird, and Miss Miles (when the bar closed she condescended to help at table, because she too had been in the profession) humoured the joke, and served Jack with a slyly exaggerated deference. Billy Foot referred to him as "the eminent sportsman," and affected to believe that he belonged to the Jockey Club. Gilly, who knew not Jack, perceiving the sportsman but missing the butcher, had a success the origin of which he did not understand when he proceeded to explain to Jack what points were of really vital importance in a sweetbread. "You gentlemen from London seem to study everything!" exclaimed Jack admiringly. "This one does credit to the local butcher," said Gilly solemnly, and looked round amazed when all glasses were lifted in honour of Jack Rock. "Food is the only thing Gilly studies," remarked Miss Dutton. The supper proving satisfactory, she felt at liberty to indulge her one social gift of a sardonic humour. "Quite right, Sally," Billy agreed. "Food for his own body and for the minds of children. What he makes out of the latter he spends on the former. That both are good you may see at a glance." "I find myself with something like an appetite," Gilly announced. "That's how I likes to see folks at the Lion," said old Mr. Dove, easily interposing from behind his chair. "A trifle more, sir?--Miss Miles, your eye seems to have missed Mr. Gilbert Foot's glass." "La, now, I was looking at Miss Flower's frock!" "Why, you helped to put it on me! You ought to know it." "It sets that sweet on you, Miss Flower." All was merry and gay and easy--a pleasant ending to a pleasant holiday. They all hoped to come back for the wedding, to run down for that eventful day, but work claimed them on the morrow. London clamoured for the Nun--new songs to be rehearsed now and sung in ten days. Billy Foot had a heavy appeal at Quarter Sessions; Gilbert Foot and Co. demanded the attention of its constituent members. "Harry's a long time getting back," Andy remarked, looking at his watch. "He's dallying," said Billy. "I should dally myself if I had the chance." "Perhaps he found Wellgood back; I know he wanted to speak to him--something about the settlements." "And what might you be going to sing in London next, miss?" asked Jack, gratefully accepting a tankard of beer which Mr. Dove, in silent understanding of his secret wishes, had placed beside him. "I'm going to be Joan of Arc," said the Nun. "Know much about her, Mr. Rock?" "Surely, miss! Heard of her at school. The old gentleman used to talk about her too, Andy. Burnt to death for a witch, poor girl, wasn't she?" "It seems a most appropriate part for our hostess," remarked Billy Foot. "Silly!" Miss Dutton shot out contemptously. "It's rather daring, but the Management put perfect reliance in my good taste," the Nun pursued serenely. "In the first song I'm just the peasant girl at--at--well, I forget the name of the village, somewhere in France--it'll be on the programme. In the second I'm in armour--silver armour--exhorting the King of France. They wanted me to be on a horse, but I wouldn't." "The horse might be heard neighing?" Billy suggested. "Off, you know." "Then the horse would be where I was afraid of being," said the Nun, and suddenly gurgled. "Silver armour! My! Don't you want to take me up to see her?" This came, in a perfectly audible aside, from Miss Miles to the Bird. Old Mr. Dove coughed, yet benevolently. "Much armour?" asked Gilly, suddenly emerging from a deep attention to his plate. His hopes obviously running towards what may be styled a classical entertainment, the question was received with merriment. "Completely encased, Gilly. I shall look like a lobster. Still, Mr. Rock will come and see me, if the rest of you don't." "There are possibilities about Joan of Arc," Gilly pursued. "Not at all bad to lead off with Joan of Arc. Andy, you might make a note of Joan." "If a frontispiece is of any use to you, Gilly--?" the Nun suggested politely. "What can have become of Harry?" Again it was Andy Hayes who asked. The Nun turned to him and, under cover of Billy's imaginative description of the frontispiece, said softly, "Can't you be happy unless you know Harry Belfield's all right?" "He's a very long time," said Andy. "And they're early at Nutley, you know. Perhaps he's decided to go straight home to bed." She looked at him for a moment, but said nothing. The tide of merry empty talk--gone in the speaking, like the wine in the drinking, yet not less pleasant--flowed on; only now Miss Flower to some degree shared Andy's taciturnity. She was not apprehensive or gloomy; it seemed merely that some sense of the real, the ordinary, course of life had come back to her; the hour of careless gaiety was no longer, like Joan of Arc, "completely encased" in silver armour. Jack Rock turned to her, bashful, humble, yet sure of her kindness. "I must be goin', miss; I've to be up and about by seven. But--would you sing to us, miss, same as you did at that meetin'?" It was against etiquette to ask the Nun to sing on private occasions; if she chose, she volunteered. But Jack was, naturally, innocent of the etiquette. "Of course I'll sing for you. Any favourite song, Jack?" "What pleases you'll please me, miss," said old Jack. "I'll sing you an old Scotch one I happen to know." Silence obtained--from Billy Foot with some difficulty, since he had got into an argument with Sally Dutton--the Nun began to sing:-- "My Jeany and I have toiled The livelong Summer's Day: Till we were almost spoil'd At making of the Hay. Her Kerchy was of holland clear, Tied to her bonny brow, I whispered something in her ear; But what is that to you?" The Bird, who had been dispatched to get Gilly Foot a whisky-and-soda, came in, set it down, and moved towards Andy. "Be still with you, Tom!" said Jack Rock imperiously. "Her stockings were of Kersey green, And tight as ony silk; O, sic a leg was never seen! Her skin was white as milk. Her hair was black as ane could wish, And sweet, sweet was her mou'! Ah! Jeany daintily can kiss; But what is that to you?" "She has a way of giving those two wretched last lines which is simply an outrage," Billy Foot complained to the now silent Sally Dutton. Again the Bird tried to edge towards Andy. Jack Rock forbade. "But I've a message," the Bird whispered protestingly. "Damn your message! She's singin' to us!" "The Rose and Lily baith combine To make my Jeany fair; There is no Benison like mine, I have a'maist no care, But when another swain, my fair, Shall say 'You're fair to view,' Let Jeany whisper in his ear, 'Pray, what is that to you?'" There was loud applause. "I only sang it for Mr. Rock," said the Nun, relapsing into a demureness which had not consistently marked her rendering of the song. Released from Jack's imprisoning eye, the Bird darted to Andy and delivered his delayed message. "Mr. Harry--Andy, if you'd step into the street, sir--Andy, I mean--(the Bird was confused as to social distinctions)--he's waiting--and looking infernally put out!" "He wants me--outside? Why doesn't he come in? Well, I'll go." Andy rose to his feet. "You've fired his imagination!" remarked Gilly to the Nun. "He goes to seek adventures. Yet your song was that of a moralist." "A moralist somewhat too curious about a stocking," Billy opined. "Oh, well, I never think anything of a girl who lets her stockings get into wrinkles," the Nun observed, as she resumed her seat. "Do you, Jack?" Her eyes had followed Andy as he went out. To tell the truth, they had chanced to fall on him once or twice as she sang her song. But Andy had looked a little preoccupied; that fact had not made her sing worse--and at last Andy had gently drummed three fingers on the table. "You've a wonderful way of puttin' it, miss," said old Jack Rock. She laid her hand on his arm, saucily affectionate. "Pray what is that to you?" she asked. "I'm off, miss. Thank you kindly. It's been an evenin' for me!" She let him go, with the kindest of farewells. A salvo of applause from the company honoured his exit. She rested her chin in her hands, her elbows on the table. Jack Rock was to be heard saying his good-nights--merry chaff with old Dove, with the Bird, with Miss Miles. Why had Andy gone out--and Harry Belfield not come in? Billy Foot rose, moved round the table, and sat by her. "Where did you find it?" "In an old book a friend gave me." "I like it." Billy sounded quite convinced of the song's merit. "It has got a little bit of--of the feeling, hasn't it?" "The feeling which I've always understood you never felt?" She was securely evasive. "It's supposed to be a man who sings it, Billy." "That accounts for the foolishness of the sentiments?" "Makes them sound familiar, anyhow," said the Nun, preferring experience to theory. Andy came in. He went quickly to the Nun and bent down over her chair. "Harry's outside--with Miss Vintry. He wants to know if he may bring her in," he said, speaking very low. Surprise got the better of the Nun's discretion. Her voice was audible to them all, as she exclaimed: "Miss Vintry with him! At this time of night!" "I think perhaps--as we've finished supper--we'd better break up," said Andy, apologetically addressing the company. "Why? Has anything happened?" asked Billy Foot. "I think so." He bent down to the Nun again. "Miss Vintry has got to sleep here to-night." His voice was low, but they were all very still, and the voice carried. "There's no room for her--with Gilly here as well as us," the Nun protested rather fretfully. "You must make room somehow," he returned firmly. "I'm going to bring them in now." He looked significantly at Billy Foot. "We're rather a large party." Billy turned to his brother. "I'm off home. Will you stroll with me as far as Halton?" Gilly nodded in a bewildered fashion--he was not up in Meriton affairs--and slowly rose. "And when I come back I'll go straight to bed," he said, looking at Andy to see whether what he suggested met with acceptance. Andy nodded approval; Gilly would be best in bed. With the briefest farewell the brothers passed out. As they went, they saw Harry Belfield, with a woman on his arm, walking slowly up and down on the other side of the street. Sally Dutton rose. "I'll go to bed too." As she reached the door she turned round and said, "At least I'll wait in my room. She--she can come in with me, if she likes, Andy." "Thank you," said Andy gravely. "What is it, Andy?" the Nun asked. "A general break-up," he answered briefly, as he followed Sally Dutton out of the room. The Nun sat on amidst the relics of her feast--the fruit, the flowers, the empty bottles. Somehow they all looked rather ghastly. She gave a little shiver of disgust. Andy came in with Isobel Vintry clinging to his arm, Harry following and carefully closing the door. Andy made Isobel sit down at the table and offered her some wine from a half-emptied bottle. She refused with a gesture and laid her head between her hands on the table. Harry threw his hat on a chair and stood helplessly in the middle of the room. The Nun sat in a hostile silence. "She'd better go straight to bed," said Andy. "She can have my room. I'll go in with Sally." He looked at her. "She'd better have somebody with her, I think. Will you call Sally?" The Nun obeyed, and Sally came. As she passed Harry, she smiled in her queer derisive fashion, but her voice was kind as she took hold of Isobel's arm and raised her, saying, "Come, you're upset to-night. It won't look half so bad in the morning." Harry met Isobel and clasped her hands. Then she and Sally Dutton went out together. Harry sat down heavily in a chair by the table and poured out a glass of wine. "Do you two men want to be alone together?" the Nun asked. Harry shook his head. "I'm just off home." "It's all arranged," said Andy. "Harry goes to London by the early train to-morrow. I shall get her things from Nutley directly after breakfast and bring them here. You and Sally will look after her till twelve o'clock. Then I'll take her to the station. Harry will meet her at the other end, and--well, they've made their plans." Harry lit a cigarette and smoked it very quickly, between gulps of wine. Andy had begun to smoke too. His air was calm, though grave; he seemed to have taken charge of the whole affair. "Are you going to marry her?" the Nun suddenly inquired, with her usual directness. "You might have gathered that much from what Andy said," Harry grumbled in an injured tone. "Does Vivien know yet?" He dropped his cigarette-end into his emptied glass. "Yes," he answered, frowning. "For God's sake, don't put me through a catechism, Doris!" He rose from his chair, looking round for his hat. "Shall I walk back with you?" Andy asked. "No, thanks. I'd rather be alone." His tone was still very injured, as though the two were in league with one another, and with all the world, to persecute him. He came up to the Nun. "I shan't see you again for a bit, I expect. Good-bye, Doris." He held out his hand to her. The Nun interlaced her hands on the table in front of her. "I won't!" she said. "I won't shake hands with you to-night, Harry Belfield. You've broken the heart of the sweetest girl I ever met. You've brought shame and misery on her--you who aren't fit to black her shoes! You've brought shame on your people. I suppose you've pretty well done for yourself in Meriton. And all for what? Because you must philander, must have your conquests, must always be proving to yourself that nobody can resist you!" Harry looked morosely resentful at the indictment. "Oh, you can't understand. Nobody can understand who--who isn't made that way. You talk as if I'd meant to do it!" "I think I'd rather you had meant to do it. That'd be rather less contemptible, I think." "Gently, gently, Doris!" Andy interposed. She turned on him. "Oh yes, it's always 'Gently, gently!' with Harry Belfield. He's to be indulged, and excused, and forgiven, and all the rest of it. Let him hear the truth for once, Andy. Even if it doesn't do him any good to hear it, it does me good to say it--lots of good!" "You'd better go, Harry. You won't find her good company to-night. I'll be at the station to see you off to-morrow--before I see about the things at Nutley." "I'm going; and I'm much obliged to Doris for her abuse. She's always been the same about me--sneering and snarling!" "I've never made a fool of myself about you. That's what you can't forgive, Harry." "Go, my dear fellow, go," said Andy. "What's the use of this?" Harry moved off towards the door. As he went out, he said over his shoulder, "At any rate you can't say I'm not doing the square thing now!" They heard the "Boots" open the door of the inn for him; a moment later his step passed the window. Andy came and sat down by the Nun; she caught his big hand in hers. "I'm trying hard not to cry. I don't want to break my record. How did it all happen?" "Wellgood came back before they expected him. Harry met her--by chance, he says--after he'd left Vivien, and he was carried away, he says. Somehow or other--I don't quite understand how--Vivien came on the scene again. Then Wellgood was on to them, and had the whole thing out, before his daughter. It seems that he's in love with Miss Vintry himself--so I understood Harry. That, of course, didn't make him any kinder." "It's cruel, cruel, cruel!" "Yes, but do you remember a talk we had about it once?" "Yes. You thought this--this sort of thing would really be the best." "I was thinking of Miss Wellgood. Of course, for poor Harry--Wellgood's a dangerous enemy!" He paused a moment. "And the thing's so bad. He wasn't square with either of them, and they're both in love with him, I suppose!" "This woman here in love with him? Really? Not only for the match?" "I think so." "I'm sorry for her then. She'd much better not be! Oh, I daresay he'll marry her. How much will that mean with Harry Belfield?" Feeling in less danger of breaking her record, she loosed her hold of Andy's hand. He rose. "I must be off. I've a lot to do to-morrow. Gilly'll have to look after the office. I've got to see Mr. Belfield among other things; and Harry wants me to see Vivien Wellgood--and, well, try to say something for him." "Just like him! He breaks the pitcher and leaves you to sweep up the pieces!" "Well, he can't see her himself, can he?" "He'd make love to her again if he did. You may be sure of that!" The door opened, and Sally Dutton came in in her dressing-gown, with her pretty hair all about her shoulders. "She's asleep--sound asleep. So I--may I stay a few minutes with you, Doris? I--I've got the blues awfully badly." She came to the Nun and knelt down beside her. Suddenly she broke into a torrent of sobs. Andy heard her say through them, "Oh, it reminds me--!" Doris looked at him and nodded. "I shall see you soon in London, Andy?" He pressed her hand and left the two girls together. Gilly Foot was smoking a reflective pipe outside the door; he had possessed himself of the key and sent the sleepy "Boots" to bed. Andy obtained leave of absence for the morrow. "Rather a disturbed evening, eh, Andy?" said Gilly, smoking thoughtfully. "Lucky it didn't happen till we'd done supper! Fact is one doesn't like to say it of an old friend--but Harry Belfield's no good." Andy had a whimsical idea that at such a sentiment the stones of Meriton High Street would cry out. The pet and the pride of the town, the man of all accomplishments, the man who was to have that wonderful career--here he was being cavalierly and curtly dismissed as "no good." "Come, we must give him another chance," Andy urged. Gilly knocked out his pipe with an air of decision. "Rotten--rotten at the core, old boy, that's it," he said, as with a nod of good-night he entered the precincts of the Lion. Andy Hayes was sore to the heart. He had thought that a catastrophe such as this, a "row," would be the best thing--the best for Vivien Wellgood. He was even surer of it now--even now, when to think of the pain she suffered sent a pang through his heart. But what a light that increased certainty of his threw on Harry Belfield! And, as he said to himself, trudging home from the Lion, Harry had always been a part of his life--in early days a very big part--and one of the most cherished. Harry's hand had been the source whence benefits flowed; Harry's example had been an inspiration. Whatever Harry had done now, or might do in the future--that future now suddenly become so much less assured, so much harder to foresee--the great debt remained. Andy did not grudge "sweeping up the pieces." Alas, that he could not mend the broken pitcher! Sore as his heart was for the blow that had fallen on Vivien--on her so frail that the lightest touch of adversity seemed cruel--yet his sorest pain was that the blow came from Harry Belfield's hand. That filled him with a shame almost personal. He had so identified himself with his friend and hero, he had so shared in and profited by the good in him--his kindness, his generosity, his championship--that he could not rid himself of a feeling of sharing also in the evil. In the sullying of Harry's honour he saw his own stained--even as by Harry's high achievements he would have felt his own friendship glorified. "Without Harry I should never have been where or what I am." That was the thought in his mind, and it was a sure verity. Harry had opened the doors, he had walked through. Whatever Harry had done or would do with his own life, he had done much for his friend's, and done it gaily and gladly. Doris Flower might chide and despair; Gilly Foot's contemptuous verdict might dismiss Harry to his fate. That could not be Andy's mood nor Andy's attitude. Gratitude forbade despair; it must be his part still to work, to aid, to shelter; always, above all, to forgive, and to try--at least to try--to comprehend. Love or friendship can set no higher or harder task than in demanding the comprehension of a temperament utterly diverse, alien, and incompatible. That was the task Andy's heart laid on his brain. "You must not give up," was its command. Others might take their pleasure in Harry's gifts, might enjoy his brilliance, or reap benefit from his ready kindness--and then, when trouble came, pass by on the other side. There was every excuse for them; in the common traffic of life no more is asked or expected; men, even brilliant men, must behave themselves at their peril. Andy did not stand so. It was his to try to assess Harry's weakness, and to see if anywhere there could be found a remedy, a buttress for the weak wall in that charming edifice. Such a pity if it fell down, with all its beauties, just because of that one weak wall! But, alas, poor Andy was ill-fitted for this exacting task of love's. He might tell himself where his duty lay; he might argue that he could and did understand how a man might have a weak spot, and yet be a good man--one capable of useful and high things. But his instinct, the native colour of his mind, was all against these arguments. The shame that such a man should do such things was stronger. The weak spot seemed to spread in ever-widening circles; the evil seemed more and more to invade and infect the system; the weak wall doomed the whole edifice. Reason, argue, and pray for his friend as he might, in his inmost mind a voice declared that this day had witnessed the beginning of the end of the Harry Belfield whom he had loved. "Harry Belfield's no good!" "How are the mighty fallen and the weapons of war perished!" Chapter XXI. THE EMPTY PLACE. Belfield rubbed his hands against one another with a rueful smile. "Yes, yes, he's a hard fellow. He's hard on us; hard in taking a course that makes scandal inevitable. Meriton High Street will be breast-high in gossip about the midnight expulsion in a few hours. And hard in this--I suppose I'm not entitled to call it persecution--this punishment with which he threatens Harry. Still, if a man had treated my daughter in that way, and that daughter Vivien--" He spread out his hands, and added, "But then he's always been as hard as nails to the poor girl herself. You think there's that other motive? If you're right there, I put my foot in it once." He was thinking of certain hints he had given Wellgood at dinner one evening. "There's no doubt about it, I think, sir, but it doesn't help us much. It may show that Wellgood's motives aren't purely paternal, but it doesn't make matters better for Harry." "It's terribly awkward--with us at one end of the town and Nutley at the other. Most things blow over, but"--he screwed up his face wryly--"meeting's awkward! And there's the politics! Wellgood's chairman of his Association. Oh, Harry, Harry, you have made a mess of it! I think I'll go and talk it over with Meriton--make a clean breast of it and see what he says. He might be able to keep Wellgood quiet. You don't look as if you thought there was much chance of it." "I don't know whether Harry would come back and face it, even if Wellgood were managed. A tough morsel for his pride to swallow! And if he did, could he bring her--at all events so long as Miss Wellgood's at Nutley? Yet if they marry--and I suppose they will--" "I think we may take it that he'll marry her. The boy's ungoverned and untrustworthy, but he's not shabby, Andy." A note of pleading for his son crept into his voice. "It's the right thing for him to do, but it'll make it still more difficult to go on as if nothing had happened. However I hope you will see Lord Meriton and get his opinion." "I should like you to talk to Wellgood and find out what his terms really are. I can't ask favours of him, but I want to know exactly where we stand. And Vivien--no, I must write to her myself, poor dear girl. Not a pleasant letter to write." He paused a moment and asked, with an air of being rather ashamed of the question, "Is the sinner himself very desperate?" "Last night he was, I think; at any rate terribly angry with himself, and--I'm afraid I must add--with his bad luck. When I saw him off this morning he was in one of his defiant moods, saying he could get on without Meriton's approval, and wishing the whole place at the devil." "Yes, yes, that's Harry! Because he's made a fool--and worse--of himself, you and I and Meriton are to go to the devil! Well, I suppose it's not peculiar to poor Harry. And you saw him off? I can't thank you for all your kindness, Andy." "Well, sir, if a man can feel that way, I'd almost rather have done the thing myself! I've got to ask her to see me on his behalf." Belfield shook his head. "Not much to be said there. And I've got to tell my wife. Not much there either." "I'm afraid Mrs. Belfield will be terribly distressed." "Yes, yes; but mothers wear special spectacles, you know. She'll think it very deplorable, but it's quite likely that she'll find out it's somebody else's fault. Wellgood's, probably, because she never much liked him. If it helps her, let her think so." "It was partly his fault. Why didn't he own up about Miss Vintry?" "Not much excuse, even if you'd been the trespasser. With Harry engaged to Vivien, no excuse at all. How could it be in any legitimate way Harry's business what Wellgood wanted of Isobel Vintry? Still it may be that the argument'll be good enough for his mother." "Well, sir, I'll see Wellgood to-day, and let you know the result. And Miss Wellgood too, if she'll see me. I positively must go to London to-morrow." "Yes, yes. You go back to work, Andy. You've your own life. And that pretty girl, Miss Flower--does she go back too?" "She goes this afternoon. And Billy Foot with them, I think." "Yes, so he does. I forgot. Give her my love. I'd come and give her a nosegay at the station, only I don't feel like facing people to-day." He sighed wearily. "A man's pride is easily hit through his children. And I suppose we've cracked Harry up to the skies! Nemesis, Andy, Nemesis! There, good-bye. You're a thorough good fellow." Billy Foot waylaid Andy as he left Halton. Billy's view of the matter was not ideal or exalted, but it went to a practical point. "Did you ever know such a fool?" cried Billy. "What does he want to do it down here for? He's got all London to play the fool in, if he must play the fool! Nobody knows there, or if they do they don't care. Or if A cares B doesn't, and B's just as amusing to dine with--probably more so. But in this little hen-roost of a place! All the fowls'll cackle, and all to the same tune. I'll lay you six to four he's dished himself for good in Meriton. Where are you off to?" "I've got to see Miss Vintry off, then I'm going to Nutley. By-the-bye, how did you hear about it?" "It wasn't hard to guess, last night, was it? However, to inform my mind better, Andy, I took occasion to call at the Lion. I didn't see Miss Vintry, but I did see Miss Flower. Also I saw old Dove, and young Dove, and Miss Miles, all with faces as long as your arm--and enjoying themselves immensely! You can no more keep it dark in a place like this than you can hide the parish church under your pocket-handkerchief. They'll all know there was a row at Nutley; they'll all know Miss Vintry was turned out and slept at the Lion; they'll all know that Harry and she have gone to London, and, of course, they'll know the engagement's broken. They're not clever, I admit--I've made speeches to them--but I suppose they're not born idiots! They must have a rudimentary inductive faculty." The truth of these words was clearly shown to Andy's mind when he called at the Lion to pick up Isobel. She was alone in the Nun's sitting-room; the two girls had already said good-bye to her and gone out for a last walk in Meriton. When she came into the hall to meet him she was confronted by a phalanx of hostile eyes--Miss Miles', old Dove's, the Bird's, two chambermaids', the very "Boots" who had officiated at the door on the previous night. Nobody spoke to her. Her luggage, sent down from Nutley in answer to Andy's messenger, was already on the cab. Andy was left himself to open the door. Nobody even wanted a tip from her. Could unpopularity go further or take any form more glaring? Before the hostile eyes (she included Andy's among them) Isobel was herself again--calm, haughty, unabashed, her feelings under full control. There were no signs of the tempest she had passed through; she was again the Miss Vintry who had given lessons in courage and the other manly virtues. Andy was unfeignedly glad that this was her condition; his practical equipment included small aptitude for dealing with hysterics. For the better part of the way to the station she said nothing. At last she looked across at Andy, who sat opposite to her, and remarked, "Well, Mr. Hayes, you saw the beginning; now you see the end." "Since it has happened, I can only hope the end will be happy--for you and for him." "I'm getting what I wanted. If you want a thing and get it, you can hardly complain, whatever happens." "That sounds very reasonable, but--" "The best thing to hope about reason is to hope you won't need it? Yes!" It seemed that the news had not yet spread so far afield as to reach the station. The old stationmaster was friendly and loquacious. "Quite a break-up of you all to-day, sir," he said. "Mr. 'Arry gone by the first train, the stout gentleman by the next, now Miss Vintry, and a carriage engaged for Miss Flower's party and Mr. Foot this afternoon! A real break-up, I call it!" "That's about what it comes to, Mr. Parsons," said Andy, as he handed Isobel into the train. "Well, 'olidays must 'ave an end. A pleasant journey and a safe return, miss." Isobel smiled at Andy. "You'd stop at the first part of the wish, Mr. Hayes?" Andy put out his hand to her. With the slightest air of surprise she took it. "We must make the best of it. Do what you can for him." "I'll do all he'll let me." Her eyes met his; she smiled. "I know all that as well as you do. Surely I, if anybody, ought to know it?" It seemed to Andy as if that were what her eyes and her smile said. "I want you to deliver one message for me," she went on. "Don't be alarmed, I'm not daring to send a message to anybody who belongs to Meriton. But when you next see Miss Dutton, will you tell her I shan't forget her kindness? I've already thanked Miss Flower for the use of her sitting-room. Ah, we're moving! Good-bye!" She was smiling as she went. Andy was smiling too; the degree of her gratitude to Sally Dutton and to the Nun respectively had been admirably defined. The fire of Wellgood's wrath was still smouldering hotly, ready to break out at any moment if the slightest breath of passion fanned it. He received Andy civilly enough, but at the first hint that he came in some sort as an ambassador from Harry's father, his back stiffened. His position was perfectly clear, and seemed unalterable. So far as it lay in his power he would banish Harry Belfield from Meriton and put an end to any career he might have there. He repeated to Andy more calmly, but not less forcibly, what he had shouted in his fury the evening before. "Of course I want it kept as quiet as possible; but I don't want it kept quiet at the cost of that fellow's going unpunished--getting off scot-free! We've nothing to be ashamed of. Publicity won't hurt us, little as we may like it. But it'll hurt him, and he shall have it in full measure--straight in the face. Is it a possible state of things that he should be here, living in the place, taking part in our public affairs, being our Member, while my daughter is at Nutley? I say no, and I think Belfield--his father, I mean--ought to be able to see it for himself. What then? Are we to be driven out of our home?" "That would be absurd, of course," Andy had to admit. "It seems to me the only alternative." He rose from his chair, and walked up and down like an angry tiger. He faced round on Andy. "For a beginning, the first step he takes in regard to the seat, I shall resign from the committee of the Association, and state my reasons for my action in plain language--and I think you know I can speak plainly. I shall do the same about any other public work which involves meeting him. I shall do the same about the hunt, the same about everything. And I'll ask my friends--I'll ask decent people--to choose between Harry Belfield and me. To please my daughter, I didn't break his head, as I should have liked to, but, by heaven, I'll spoil his game in Meriton! I'm afraid that's the only message I can give you to take to Halton." "In fact you'll do your best to get him boycotted?" Andy liked compendious statements. "That's exactly what I mean to do, Hayes. A man going to be married to my daughter in a fortnight--parted from her the moment before on the footing of her lover--found making violent love to another inmate of my house, her companion, almost within my very house itself--sounds well, doesn't it? Calculated to recommend him to his friends, and to the constituency?" Andy tried a last shot. "Is this action of yours really best for Miss Wellgood, or what she would wish?" Wellgood flushed in anger, conscious of his secret motives, by no means sure that he was not suspected of them. "I judge for my daughter. And it's not what she may wish, but what is proper in regard to her that I consider. On the other hand, if he lets Meriton alone, he may do what he likes. That's not my affair. I'm not going to hunt him over the whole country." "Well, that's something," said Andy with a patient smile. "I'll communicate your terms to Mr. Belfield." He paused, glancing doubtfully at his most unconciliatory companion. "Do you think it would be painful to Miss Wellgood to see me?" He stopped suddenly in his prowling up and down the room. "That's funny! She was just saying she would like to see you." "I'm glad to hear that. I want to be quite frank. Harry has asked me to express to her his bitter regret." "Nothing more than that?" "Nothing more, on my honour." "She wants to say something to you." He frowned in hesitation. "If I thought there was the smallest chance of her being induced to enter into direct communication with him, I'd say no at once. But there's no chance of that. And she wants to see you. Yes, you can see her, if you like. She's in the garden, by the lake, I think. She's taken this well, Hayes; she's showing a thousand times more pluck than I ever thought she had." His voice grew gentle. "Poor little girl! Yes, go! She wants to see you." Andy had taken nothing by his first mission; he felt quite hopelessly unfit for his second. To offer the apologies of a faithless swain was no more in his line than to be a faithless swain himself; the fleeting relics of Harry's authority had imposed a last uncongenial task. Perhaps his very mum-chanceness was his saving. Glib protestations would have smacked too strongly of the principal to commend the agent. Vivien heard his stammering words in silence, seeming wrapped in an aloofness that she took for her sole remaining protection. She bowed her head gravely at the "bitter regret," at the "unguarded moment," at the "fatal irresolution"--Andy's memory held fast to the phrases, but refused to weld them into one of Harry's shapely periods. On "fatal irresolution" he came to a full stop. He dared not look at her--it would seem an intrusion, a brutality; he stared steadily over the lake. "I knew he had moods like that," she said after a long silence. "I never realized what they could do to a man. I daresay it would be hard for me to realize. I'm glad he wanted to--to say a word of regret. There's one thing I should like you to tell him; that's why I wanted to see you." Now Andy turned to her, for her voice commanded his attention. "How fagged-out you look, Miss Wellgood!" he exclaimed impulsively. "Things aren't easy," she said in a low steady voice. "If I could have silence! But I have to listen to denunciation. You'll understand. Did he tell you what--what passed?" "The gist of it, I think." "Then you'll understand that I mayn't have the power to stop the denunciations, or--or the other steps that may be threatened or taken. I should like him to know that they're not my doing. And I should like him to know too that I would a thousand times sooner this had happened than that other thing which I believe he meant to happen--honestly meant to happen--but for--this accident." "I'm with you in that, Miss Wellgood. It's far better." "I accept what he says--an unguarded moment. But I--I thought he had a guard." She sat silent again for a minute. "There's one other thing I should like to say to him, through you. But you'll know best whether to say it or not, I think. I should like to tell him that he can't make me forget--almost that he can't make me ungrateful. He gave me, in our early days together, the first real joy I'd ever had--I expect the only perfect joy I ever shall have. What he gave then, he can't wholly take away." She looked at Andy with a faint melancholy smile. "Shall you tell him that?" "If you leave it to me, I shan't tell him that." "Why not?" "You want it all over, don't you?" he asked bluntly. "Yes, yes, a thousand times yes!" "Then don't tell Harry Belfield that. Think it, if you like. Don't tell him." A look of sheer wonder came into her eyes. "He's like that?" she murmured. "Yes, like that. That's the trouble. He'd better think you're--hopelessly disgusted." "I'm hopelessly at sea, anyhow," she said, turning her eyes to the lake again. But she turned back to him quickly, still with her faint smile. "Disgusted? Oh, you're thinking of the fastidiousness? Ah, that seems a long time ago! You were very kind then; you're very kind now." She laid her hand lightly on his arm; for the first time her voice shook. "You and I can sometimes talk about him as he used to be--just we two together!" "Or as we thought he was?" Andy's tones were blunt still, and now rather bitter. "Or as we thought he was--and, by thinking it, were so happy! Yes, we'd better not talk about him at all. I don't think I really could. You'll be seeing Mr. Belfield soon? Give him my dear love, and say I'll come and see him and Mrs. Belfield as soon as they want me. He sent me a note this morning. I can't answer it just yet." "I'll tell him." Andy rose to go. "Oh, but must you go just yet? I don't want you to." She glanced up at him, with a sad humour. "Curly's out, you know, and terribly big and rampageous!" "But you're not running away now, any more than you did then." "I'm trying to stand still, and--and look at it--at what it means about life." "You mustn't think all life's like that--or all men either." "That's the temptation--to think that." "Men are tempted to think it about women too, sometimes." She nodded. "Yes, of course, that's true. I'm glad you said that. You are good against Curly!" They had Wellgood in their minds. It was grievance against grievance at Nutley; the charge of inconstancy is eternally bandied to and fro between the sexes--_Varium et mutabile semper Femina_ against "Men were deceivers ever"--_Souvent femme varie_ against the sorrowfully ridiculous chronicles of breach of promise of marriage cases. Plenty of matter for both sides! Probably both sides would be wise to say as little as possible about it. If misogyny is bad, is misandry any better? At all events the knowledge of Wellgood's grievance might help to prevent Vivien's from warping her mind. Hers was the greater, but his was of the same order. The world incarnated itself to her in the image of the big retriever dog, being so alarming, meaning no harm consciously, meaning indeed affection--with its likelihood of paws soiling white raiment. Andy again stood dressed as the guardian, the policeman. He was to be "good against Curly." "And Isobel?" she asked. "I saw her off all right by the twelve-fifteen, Miss Wellgood--to London, you know." "Yes, to London." To both of them London might have been spelt "Harry." "She was never really unkind to me," said Vivien thoughtfully. "I expect it did me good." "Never a favourite of mine--even before this," Andy pronounced, rather ponderously. She shot a side glance at him. "I believe you thought she beat me!" "I think I thought that sometimes you'd sooner she had done that than stand there smiling." "Oh, you're prejudiced! She wasn't unkind; and in this thing, you see, I know her temptation. Surely that ought to bring sympathy? Tell me--you saw her off--well--how?" She spoke in jerks, now seeming agitated. "Very calm--quite her own mistress--seeming to know what her job was. Confound it, Miss Wellgood, I'd sooner not talk about her any more!" "Shall you see Harry?" "I don't want to till--till things have settled down a bit. I shall write about what you've said." "About part of what I've said," she reminded him. "You've convinced me about that." Andy rose again, and this time she did not seek to hinder him. "I'm off to town to-morrow; back to work." He paused a moment, then added, "If I get down for a week-end, may I come and see you?" "Do--always, if you can. And remember me to Miss Flower and to Billy Foot; and tell them that I am"--she seemed to seek a word, but ended lamely--"very well, please." Andy nodded. She wanted them to know that her courage was not broken. On his way out he met Wellgood again, moodily sauntering in the drive by the lake. "Well, what do you think of her?" Wellgood asked abruptly. "She's feels it terribly, but she's taking it splendidly." Wellgood nodded emphatically, saying again, "I never thought she had such pluck." "I should think, you know," said Andy, in his candid way, "that you could help her a bit, Mr. Wellgood. It does her no good to be taken over it again and again. Least said, soonest mended." Wellgood looked at him suspiciously. "I'm not going back on my terms." "Wait and see if they are accepted. Let him alone till then. She'd thank you for that." "I want to help her," said Wellgood. His tone was rather surly, rather ashamed, but it seemed to carry a confession that he had not helped his daughter much in the past. "You're right, Hayes. Let's be done with the fellow for good, if we can!" From all sides came the same sentiment: from Wellgood as a hope, from Vivien as a sorrowful but steadfast resolution, from Billy Foot as a considered verdict on the facts of the case. Andy's own reflections had even anticipated these other voices. An end of Harry Belfield, so far as regarded the circle of which he had been the centre and the ornament! Would Harry accept the conclusion? He might tell Meriton to "go to the devil" in a moment of irritated defiance; but to abandon Meriton would be a great rooting-up, a sore break with all his life past, and with his life in the future as he had planned it and his friends had pictured it for him. Must he accept it whether he would or not? Wellgood's pistol was at his head. Would he brave the shot, or what hand would turn away the threatening barrel? Not Lord Meriton's. When Belfield, possessed of Wellgood's terms, laid them before him, together with an adequate statement of the facts, the great man disclaimed the power. Though he softened his opinion for Harry's father, it was very doubtful if he had the wish. "I'm sorry, Belfield, uncommon sorry--well, you know that--both for you and for Mrs. Belfield. I hope she's not too much cut up?" "She's distressed; but she blames Wellgood and the other woman most. I'm glad she does." Meriton nodded. "But it's most infernally awkward; there's no disguising it. You may say that any man--at any rate, many a man--is liable to come a mucker like this. But happening just now--and with Wellgood's daughter! Wellgood's our right hand man, in this part of the Division at all events. And he's as stubborn a dog as lives! Said he'd resign from the hunt if your boy showed up, did he? By Jove, he'd do it, you know! That's the deuce of it! I suppose the question is how much opinion he'd carry with him. He's not popular--that's something; but a father fighting in his daughter's cause! They won't know the other side of it you've told me about; and if Harry marries the woman, he can't very well tell them. Then is she to come with him? Awkward again if Wellgood, or somebody put up by him, interrupts! If she doesn't come, that's at once admitting something fishy." "The woman's certainly a serious added difficulty. Meriton, we're old friends. Tell me your own opinion." "I don't give an opinion for all time. The affair will die down, as all affairs do. The girl'll marry somebody else in time, I suppose. Wellgood will get over his feelings. I'm not saying your son can't succeed you at Halton in due course. That would be making altogether too much of it. But now, if the moment comes anywhere, say, in the next twelve months--well, I question if a change of air--and another constituency--wouldn't be wiser." "I think so too--in his own interest. And I rather think that I, at least, owe it to Vivien to throw my weight on the side that will save her from annoyance." "That was in my mind too, Belfield; but I knew you'd think of it without my saying it." "I believe--I do really believe--that he will look at it in that light himself. Any gentleman would; and he's that, outside his plaguy love affairs." "I know he is; I know it. They bring such a lot of good fellows to grief--and pretty women too." "Well, I must write to him; and you must look out for another candidate." "By Jove, we must, and in quick time too! Apart from a General Election, I hear old Millington's sadly shaky. Well, good-bye, Belfield. My regards to your wife." He shook hands warmly. "This is hard luck on you; but he's got lots of time to pick up again. He'll end in the first flight yet. Cheer up. Better have a Prodigal than no son at all, like me!" "I imagine a good deal might be said on both sides in that debate." "Oh, stuff and nonsense! You wouldn't dare to say that to his mother!" "No; and I don't suppose I really think it myself. But this sort of thing does make a man a bit nervous, Meriton." "If the lady's attractions have led him astray, perhaps they'll be able now to keep him straight." "They won't be so great in one particular. They won't be forbidden fruit." "Aye, the best fox is always in the covert you mayn't draw. Human nature!" "At all events, my boy Harry's." And for that nature Harry had to pay. The present price was an end of his career in Meriton. One more voice joined the chorus, a powerful voice. Belfield bowed his head to the decision. It was final for the moment; in his depression of spirit he felt as though it were final for all time, as though his native town would know Harry no more. At any rate, now his place was vacant--the place from which he by transgression fell. It must be given to another. Only in Vivien's memory had he still his niche. Chapter XXII. GRUBBING AWAY. Gilly Foot's mind was so inventive, and his demand for ministerial assistance in carrying out his inventions so urgent, during the next three weeks that Andy had little leisure for his own or anybody else's private affairs. The week-ends at Meriton had to be temporarily suspended, and Meriton news reached him now by a word from Billy, who seemed to be in touch with Belfield, now through Jack Rock. Thus he heard from Billy that Harry Belfield was married and had gone abroad; while Jack sent him a copy of the local paper, with a paragraph (heavily marked in blue pencil) to the effect that Mr. Harry Belfield, being advised by his doctor to take a prolonged rest, had resigned his position as prospective candidate for the Meriton Division. Decorous expressions of regret followed, and it was added that probably Mr. Mark Wellgood, Chairman of the Conservative Association, would be approached in the matter. Jack had emphasized his pencil-mark with a large note of exclamation, in which Andy felt himself at liberty to see crystallized the opinion of Harry's fellow-citizens. Still, though Meriton had for the time to be relegated mainly to memory, there it had a specially precious pigeon-hole. It had regained for him all its old status of home. When he thought of holidays, it was of holidays at Meriton. When his thoughts grew ambitious--the progress of Gilbert Foot and Co. began to justify modest ambitions--they pictured a small house for himself in or near Meriton, and a leisure devoted to that ancient town's local affairs. To himself he was a citizen of Meriton more than of London; for to Andy London was, foremost of all, a place of work. Its gaieties were for him occasional delights, rather than a habitual part of the life it offered. Talks with Jack Rock and other old friends, visits to Halton and Nutley, completed the picture of his future life at home. He was not a man much given to analysing his thoughts or feelings, and perhaps did not realize how very essential the setting was to the attractiveness of the picture, nor that one part of the setting gave the picture more charm than all the rest. Yet when Andy's fancy painted him as enjoying well-earned hours of repose at Meriton, the terrace by the lake at Nutley was usually to be seen in the foreground. Let Gilly clamour never so wildly for figures to be ready for him by the next morning, in order that he might know whether the latest child of his genius could be reared in this hard world or must be considered merely as an ideal laid up in the heavens, an evening had to be found to go and see the Nun as Joan of Arc--first as the rustic maid in that village in France (its name was on the programme), and then, in silver armour, exhorting the King of France (who was supposed to be on horseback in the wings). The question of the Nun's horse was solved by an elderly white animal being discovered on the stage when the curtain rose--the Nun was assumed to have just dismounted (voluntarily)--and being led off to the blare of trumpets. This was for the second song, of course, and it was the second song which brought Miss Doris Flower the greatest triumph that she had ever yet achieved. Its passing references to the favour of Heaven were unexceptionable in taste--so all the papers declared; its martial spirit stirred the house; its tune caught on immensely; and, by a happy inspiration, Joan of Arc had (as she was historically quite entitled to have) a prophetic vision of a time when the relations between her own country and England would be infinitely happier than they were in the days of Charles VII. and Henry VI. This vision having fortunately been verified, the public applauded Joan of Arc's sentiments to the echo, while the author and the management were very proud of their skill in imparting this touch of "actuality" to the proceedings. Finally, the Nun was in excellent voice, and the silver armour suited her figure prodigiously well. "Yes, it's a great go," said Miss Flower contentedly, when Andy went round to her room to see her. She draped a Japanese dressing-gown over the silver armour, laid her helmet on the table, and lit a cigarette. "It knocks the Quaker into a cocked hat, and makes even the Nun look silly. The booking's enormous; and it's something to draw them here, with that Venus-rising-from-the-foam girl across the Square. I'm told, too, that she appears to have chosen a beach where there are no by-laws in force, Andy." Andy explained that he had not much leisure for even the most attractive entertainments. "Do you know," she proceeded, "that something very funny--I shan't want you for ten minutes, Mrs. Milsom" (this to her dresser, who discreetly withdrew)--"has happened about Billy Foot? I don't mind telling you, in confidence, that at Meriton I thought he was going to break out. With half an opportunity he would have. Since we came back I've only seen him twice, and then he tried to avoid me. His usual haunts, Andy, know him only occasionally, and then in company which, to my mind, undoubtedly has its home in Kensington." "What's the matter with him, I wonder? Now you remind me, I've hardly seen him either." "He was here the other night, in a box, with Kensington; but he didn't come round. Took Kensington on to supper, I suppose." "What have you against Kensington?" Andy inquired curiously. "Nothing at all. Only I've observed, Andy, that taking Kensington out is a prelude to matrimony. I could tell you a dozen cases in my own knowledge. You hadn't thought of that? In certain fields my experience is still superior to yours." "Oh, very much so! Do you suspect any particular Kensingtonian?" "There was a tall dark girl, rather pretty; but I couldn't look much. Well, we shall miss Billy if it comes off, but I imagine we can rely implicitly on Gilly." "You've heard that Harry's married to Miss Vintry?" "Serve her right!" said the Nun severely. "I never had any pity for that woman." "And he's chucked the candidature. So our great campaign was all for nothing!" "Well, Billy must always be talking somewhere, anyhow. And I should think it did you good?" "Oh yes, it did. I was thinking of Harry." "In my opinion it's about time you got out of that habit. Now you must go, or you'll make me too late to get anything to eat. As you may guess, wearing this shell involves a fundamental reconstruction before I can present myself at supper." Andy took her hand and pressed it. "I'm so jolly glad you've got such a success, Doris. And the armour's ripping!" There followed three weeks of what Gilly Foot, over his lunch at the restaurant and his dinner at the Artemis, used to describe as "incredible grind for both of us." Then a day of triumph! The outcome of the latest brilliant idea, the new scientific primer, was accepted as the text-book in the County Council secondary schools. Gilly wore a _Nunc Dimittis_ air. "Eton and Harrow! Pooh!" said he. "A couple of hundred copies a year apiece, perhaps. Give me the County Council schools! The young masses being bred on Gilbert Foot and Co.--that's what I want. The proletariat is our game! If this spreads over the country, and I believe it will, we shall be rich men in no time, Andy." Andy was smiling broadly--not that he had any particular wish to be rich, but because successful labour is marvellously sweet. "Do you happen to remember that it was you who gave me the germ of that idea?" "No, surely I didn't? I don't remember. I can't have, Gilly." "Oh yes, you did. That arrangement of the tables of comparison?" "Oh, ah! Yes--well, I do remember something about that. But that's only a trifle. You did all the rest." "That's what's fetched them, though; I know it is." He gave a sigh. "Andy, I shall grudge you that all the rest of my life." He put his head on one side, and regarded his partner with a peaceful smile. "You're a remarkable chap, you know. Some day or other I believe you'll end by making me work! Sometimes I kind of feel the infection creeping over me. I distinctly hurried lunch to-day to come back and talk about this." "I believe we have got our foot in this time," said Andy. "I shan't, however, do anything more to-day," Gilly announced, rising and putting on his hat. "My nerves are somewhat over-stimulated. A walk in the park, a game of bridge, and a quiet little dinner are indicated. You'll attend to anything that turns up, won't you, old chap?" Slowly and gradually Andy Hayes was growing not only into his strength but also into the consciousness of it. He was measuring his powers--slowly, suspiciously, distrustfully. His common sense refused to ignore what he had done and was doing, but his modesty ever declined to go a step beyond the facts. All through his life this characteristic abode with him--a sort of surprise that the simple qualities he recognised in himself should stand him in such good stead, combined with an unwillingness rashly to pledge their efficacy in the greater labours of the future. Thus it came about that he was, so to say, a day behind the world's estimate in his estimate of himself. When the people about him were already sure, he was gradually reaching confidence--never the imperious self-confidence of commanding genius, which makes no question but that the future will be as obedient to its sway as the past, but a very sober trust in a proved ability, a trust based on no inner instinct of power, but solely on the plain experience that hitherto he had shown himself equal to the business which came his way--equal to it if he worked very hard at it, took it seriously, and gave all he had to give to it. The degree of self-confidence thus achieved was never sufficient to make him seek adventures; by slow growth it became enough to prevent him from turning his back on any task, however heavy, which the course of his life and the judgment of his fellows laid upon him. So step by step he moved on in his development and in his knowledge of it. He recognised now that it would have been a pity to pass his life as a butcher in Meriton--that it would have been waste of material. But he was still quite content to regard as a sufficient occupation, and triumph, of that life the building-up of Gilbert Foot and Co.'s educational publishing connection; and he was still surprised to be reminded that he had contributed anything more than hard work to that task, that it owed to him even the smallest scintilla of original suggestion. Still there it was. Perhaps he would never do a thing like that again. Very likely not. Still he had done it once. It passed from the impossibles to the possibles--a possible under strict and distrustful observation, but a possible that should be put to the proof. Nothing in the business line turned up after Gilly had departed to recruit his nerves. Having made one bold and successful leap, the educational publishing concern of Gilbert Foot and Co. seemed disposed to sit awhile on its haunches. Andy was the last man to quarrel with it for that; he had all the primitive man's fear of things looking too rosy. Things had looked too rosy with Harry. And "Nemesis! Nemesis!" old Belfield had cried. By all means let the educational publishing concern rest on its haunches for awhile; the new scientific primer, with the quite original arrangement of its comparative tables, supplied a comfortable cushion. It was five o'clock; Andy made bold to light his pipe. "Mr. Belfield!" announced the office-boy, twisting his head between the door and the jamb with a questioning air. What brought Belfield to town? "Oh, show him in!" said Andy, laying down his pipe. Not Harry's father, as Andy had concluded, but Harry himself was the visitor--Harry radiantly handsome, in a homespun suit of delicate gray with a blue stripe in it, a white felt hat, a light blue tie--a look of perfect health and happiness about him. "I was passing by--been in the City--and thought I must look you up, old chap," said Harry, clasping Andy's hand in unmistakably genuine affection. "Seems years since we met! Well, a lot's happened to me, you see. You didn't know I was in town, did you? Only passing through; Isobel and I have been in Paris--went there after the event, you know--and we're off to Scotland to-morrow for some golf. She's got all the makings of a player, Andy. And how are you? Grubbing away?" "Grubbing away" most decidedly failed to express Gilbert Foot and Co.'s idea of what had happened in their office that day, but Andy found no leisure to dwell on any wound to his firm's corporate vanity. Here was the old Harry! Harry as he had been in the early days of his engagement! The Harry of that brief spell of good resolution, after Andy had delivered to him a certain note! There was no trace at all--by way either of woe or of shame--of the Harry who had come to the Lion, seeking a place where Isobel Vintry might lay her head, craving for her the charity of a night's lodging, and no questions asked! Andy's intelligence was brought to a full stop--sheer up against the difficult question of whether it is worth while to worry about people who are not worrying about themselves. Theologically, socially, politically, it is correct to say yes; faced with an individual case, the affirmative answer seems sometimes almost ridiculous; rather like pressing an overcoat--or half your cloak, after the example of St. Martin of Tours--on a vagabond of exceptionally caloric temperament. He is naked, and neither ashamed nor cold. Must you shiver, or blush, for him? "I--er--ought to congratulate you, Harry." "Thanks, old chap! Yes, it's very much all right. Things one's sorry for, of course--oh, don't think I'm not sorry!--but the right road found at last, Andy! I suppose a fellow has to go through things like that. I'm not justifying myself, of course; I know I'm apt to--well, to put off doing the necessary thing if it's likely to cause pain to anybody. That's a mistake, though an amiable one perhaps. But all that's over--no use talking about it. When we get back to town, you must come and see us." Andy remembered an old-time conversation about Lethe water. Harry seemed disposed to stand treat for a bottle. "I'm awfully sorry about--about the seat, Harry," he said. A faint frown of vexation marred Harry's comely contentment. "Yes, but I don't know that one isn't best out of it. A lot of grind, making yourself pleasant to a lot of fools! Oh, perhaps it's a duty; but it'll wait a bit." "You're not looking out elsewhere?" Andy asked. "Give a fellow time!" Harry expostulated. "I've only been married a fortnight! You must let me have a bit of a holiday. Oh, you needn't be afraid I shan't tackle it again soon--Isobel's awfully keen! And I hope to find a rather less dead-alive hole than Meriton." The faint frown persisted on his face; it seemed to hint that his mind harboured a grudge against Meriton--something unpleasant had happened there. A perceptible, though slight, movement of his shoulders dismissed the ungrateful subject. In a moment he had found a more pleasant one--a theme for his kindliness to play on, secure from perturbing recollections. His old friendly smile of encouragement and patronage beamed on Andy. "So you and Gilly are making it go? That's right! He's a lazy devil, Gilly, but not a fool. And you're a good plodder. You remember I always said you'd make your way? I thought you would, even if you'd taken on old Jack's shop. But I expect you've got a better game here. Gilly pleased with you?" He laughed in his pleasantly conscious impudence. "He hasn't given me the sack yet," said Andy. "You did a lot of work for me, old fellow," Harry pursued. "Sorry that, owing to circumstances, it's all wasted! Still it taught you a thing or two, I daresay?" "That's just what the Nun was saying the other night, when I went to see her show." Harry's faint frown showed again. His recollection of Miss Flower's behaviour at Meriton accused her of a want of real sympathy. "Ah yes! I don't know who they'll get; but I must have made the seat safe. Just the way one works for another fellow sometimes! It doesn't do to complain." The office-boy put his head in again--and his hand in front of his head. "Wire just come, sir," he said to Andy, delivered the yellow envelope, and disappeared. "Open it, old fellow," said Harry, putting an exquisitely shod foot on the table. "Yes, another fellow will take my place; I've done the work, he'll reap the reward. And he'll probably think he's done it all himself!" Andy fingered his telegram absently, not in impatience; nothing very urgent was to be expected, the great _coup_ had already been made. He laid it down and listened again to Harry Belfield. "Upon my soul," Harry went on, "I rather envy you your life. A good steady straight job--and only got to stick to it. Now I'm no sooner out of one thing--well out of it--than they begin to kick at me to start another. The pater and Isobel are in the same story about it." Harry's face was now seriously clouded and his voice peevish. He had been through a great deal of trouble lately; he seemed to himself to be entitled to a rest, to a reasonable interval of undisturbed enjoyment. And he was being bothered about that career of his! "Well, I suppose you oughtn't to miss the next election. The sooner you go in the better, isn't it?" "It's not so easy to find a safe seat." Harry assumed that the constituency which he honoured should be one certain properly to appreciate the compliment. "I sometimes think I'd like to chuck the whole thing, and enjoy my life in my own way. Oh, I'm only joking, of course; but when they nag, I jib, you know." Andy nodded, relit his pipe, and opened his telegram. "That's why I think you're rather lucky to have it all cut and dried for you. Saves a lot of thinking!" Andy had been reading his telegram, not listening to Harry for the moment. "I beg pardon, Harry?" he said. "Oh, read it. I'm only gassing," said Harry good-humouredly. Andy read again; he always liked to read important documents twice. He laid it down on the office table, looking very thoughtful. "That's funny!" he observed. "It's from your father." "Well, I don't see why the pater shouldn't send you a telegram, if he wants to," smiled Harry. "Asking me to go down to Meriton on Saturday and meet Lord Meriton, Wigram, and himself." He took up the telegram and read the rest of the message--"to discuss important suggestion of public nature affecting yourself. Personal discussion necessary." "To meet Meriton and Wigram?" Wigram was the Conservative agent in the Division. "What the devil can they want?" "I don't know," said Andy, "unless--unless it's about the candidature." "About what?" Harry sharply withdrew the shapely foot from the table and sat upright in his chair. "Sounds ridiculous, doesn't it? Still I don't see what else it can be about. What else can there be of a public nature affecting me? 'Affecting yourself' doesn't sound as if they only wanted my advice. Besides, why should they want my advice?" "Let's see the thing." Harry took it, read it, and flung it down peevishly. "Why the deuce can't he say what he means?" "Well, a wire's not always absolute secrecy in small towns, is it? And I daresay they'd want the matter kept quiet till it was settled." Harry's mood of gay contentment, clouded once or twice before, seemed now eclipsed. He sat tapping his boot impatiently with his stick. His father's telegram--or Andy's interpretation of it--clearly did not please him. In the abstract, of course, he had known that he would have a successor in the place which he had given up, or from which he had fallen. It had never entered his head that anybody would suggest Andy Hayes, his old-time worshipper and humble follower. He was not an ungenerous man, but this idea demanded a radical readjustment of his estimate of the relative positions of Andy and himself. If Andy were to succeed to what he had lost, it brought what he had lost very sharply before his eyes. "Well, if that is the meaning of it, it certainly seems rather--rather a rum start, eh, Andy? New sort of game for you!" He tried to make his voice pleasant. "It is--it would be--awfully kind of them to think of it," said Andy, now smiling in candid gratification. "And Wigram, as well as your father, was highly complimentary about some of my speeches. But it would be quite out of the question. I've neither the time nor the money." "It's a deuced expensive game," Harry remarked. "And, of course, no end of work, especially in the next few months. And when you're in, it's not much good in these days, unless you can give all your time to it." "I know," said Andy, nodding grave appreciation of all these difficulties. "It seems to me quite out of the question. Still, if that is what they mean, I can hardly refuse to discuss it. You see, it's a considerable compliment, anyhow." He was thinking the idea over in his steady way, and had not paid heed to Harry's altered mood. The objections Harry put forward were so in tune with his own mind that it did not strike him as at all odd that his friend should urge them even zealously. "In any event," he added, "I should have to be guided entirely by what Gilly Foot thought." "What Gilly thought?" "I mean whether he thought it would be compatible with the claims of the business." "What, you'd really think of it?" There was such unmistakable vexation, even scorn, in his voice now that Andy could not altogether miss the significance of the tone. He looked across at Harry with an air of surprise. "There's no harm in thinking a thing over. I always like to do that." "Well, of all the men I thought of as likely to step into my shoes, I never thought of you." "It's the last thing I should ever have thought of either. You've something in your mind, haven't you? I hope you'll say anything you think quite candidly." "Oh well, since you ask me, old fellow, from the party point of view I think there are--er--certain objections. I mean, in a place like Meriton family connections and so on still count for a good deal--on our side, anyhow." Andy nodded, again comprehending and admitting. "Yes, I'm nobody; and my father was nobody, from that point of view." He smiled. "And then there's Jack Rock!" "Don't be hurt with me, but I call myself a Tory, and I am one. Such things do count, and I'm not ashamed to say I think they ought to. I've never let them count in personal relations." "I know that, Harry. You may be sure I recognise that. And you're right to mention them now. I suppose they must have reckoned with them, though, before they determined--if they have determined--to make me this offer." "Well, thank heaven I'm out of it, and I wish you joy of it," said Harry, rising and clapping on his hat. "Oh, it's not at all likely it'll come to anything. Must you go, Harry?" "Yes, I'm off." He paused for a moment. "If it is what you think, you'd better look at it carefully. Don't let them persuade you against your own judgment. I consider Wigram an ass, and old Meriton is quite out of touch with the Division." He forbore to comment on his own father, and with a curt "Good-bye" departed, shutting the door rather loudly behind him. This great day--the day which had both witnessed the triumph of the new text-book and brought the telegram from Meriton--was a Thursday. Andy sent his answer that he would be at Halton on Saturday afternoon. He could find no other possible interpretation of the summons, surprising as his first interpretation was. He was honestly pleased; it could not be said that he was much puzzled. His answer seemed pretty plain--the thing was impossible. What did surprise him rather was the instinctive regret with which he greeted this conclusion. Such an idea had never occurred to his mind; when it was presented to him, he could not turn away without regret--nay, not without a certain vague feeling of self-reproach. If he seemed to them a possible leader, ought he to turn his back on the battle? But of course they did not know his private circumstances or the business claims upon him. Harry had been quite right about those, just as he had been about the desirability of family connections--but not of family connections with Jack Rock. It was quite out of the question; but, Andy being human and no more business offering itself, he indulged in half an hour's reverie over it. He shook his head at himself with a reproving smile for this vanity. But it would be pleasant to have the offer, and pleasant if they let him mention it to one or two friends. Jack Rock would be proud of it, and he could not help thinking that perhaps Vivien Wellgood would be pleased. His brow knit when he remembered that Harry Belfield had not seemed pleased. Well, could he be expected to be pleased? "To step into my shoes" had been his phrase. Well, if men choose to take off fine new shoes and leave them lying about? Somebody will step into them. Why not a friend? So he argued. A friend in regard to whom Harry had never allowed anything to interfere with his personal relations. That was just it. If a friend, he had also been a _protégé_, the recipient of a kindly generous patronage, an equal by grace and not by right. Credit Harry Belfield with a generosity above the average, and yet he might feel a pang at the idea of his former humble friend stepping into his shoes, taking his place, becoming successor to what his folly had left vacant. Andy understood; and from that point of view he felt it was rather a relief that the thing was in itself an impossibility. There was a triple impossibility--the money, the time--and Gilly Foot! Still the text-book and the telegram had given him an interesting day. Chapter XXIII. A STOP-GAP. Andy felt that he ought not to go to Meriton without having possessed himself of his partner's views. Any reluctance--even a reluctant assent--from Gilly would put an immediate end to the project. He was rather nervous about bringing the matter forward, fearing lest the mere idea of it, entertained by the junior partner, might seem treason in the eyes of his senior in the growing business of Gilbert Foot and Co. The interview held one or two surprises for him. In this affair Andy was to learn the worth of a band of resolute friends, and to begin to understand how much men will do for a man who has convinced them that he can do things for himself also. For such a man the way is cleared of all but inevitable difficulties. There is a conspiracy, partly self-interested, partly based on appreciation, to set him free to do the work for which he is fitted; the conspirators both want the work done and are glad to help a fine worker. The first surprise was that Gilly Foot was not at all surprised when Andy put before him a contingent case--in terms carefully hypothetical. Indeed his first words went far to abolish any contingent or hypothetical character in the discussion. "So they've done it, have they?" he drawled out. "I thought they would, from something Billy said." "What does Billy know about it?" "Oh yes, Billy knows. I expect they consulted him, in fact." "I want to be able to tell them that you agree with me; that's why I've spoken to you about it." "By all means tell them I agree with you," yawned Gilly; he seemed more than ordinarily lazy that morning--the reaction from the triumph of the text-book still on him, no doubt. Yet there was a lurking gleam of amusement in his eye. "Apart from the money--and I haven't got it--it would take far too much time. I'm pretty hard worked as it is, with the business opening up in this way. I'm quite clear that it wouldn't be fair to the business--and not fair to you either. I've slept on it, and I'm quite clear about it." "Oh, are you? Then by no means tell them I agree with you." Surprise the second! "You don't?" Andy ejaculated; there was a note of pleasure in his voice. "I'm a lazy hound, I know," Gilly pursued. "If there is another fellow to do the work, I let him do it. Perhaps some day, if we go on booming, we can take in another fellow. If so, I shall certainly incite him to do the work. Meanwhile I'm not such a lazy beast as to let you miss this chance on my account. My word, I should get it hot from Billy--and Doris!" He stretched himself luxuriously. "There's a perfectly plain way out of this; I must work." He looked up at his partner humorously. "Though you mayn't believe it, I can work, when I want a thing very much." "But what is there for you to want here?" asked Andy. "Well, in the first place, we believe in you--perhaps we're wrong, but we do. In the second--and there's no mistake about this--we think you're a good chap, and we want you to have your chance. I shouldn't forgive myself if I stood in your way here, Andy--and the others wouldn't forgive me either." Andy was standing by him; he laid his hand on his shoulder. "You're a good chap yourself, Gilly." "So, as far as Gilbert Foot and Co. are concerned, you may consider the matter settled. It's for you to tackle the other end of it--the Meriton end. And since you are here to-day, at all events, perhaps you won't take it ill if I linger a little longer than usual over lunch--for which meal it seems to me to be nearly time? I feel to-day a barely perceptible stirring of the brain which, properly treated, encouraged by adequate nourishment, might produce an idea. You wouldn't like to come too?" "No, no. I've really got more than enough to do here." Gilly strolled off, smiling serenely. He was ready to do himself violence in the way of work when the time came, but there was really no need to anticipate matters. Gilly's knowledge and assent--it was more than assent; it was advocacy--made the project real and present. Only the question of ways and means and of his own inclination remained. As to the latter Andy was no longer able to doubt. His pleasure at Gilly's attitude was indeed due in part to the affection for himself which it displayed, but it had been too eager to be accounted for wholly by that. His heart rejoiced because Gilly set him free, so far as the business was concerned, to follow his desire. Only that little book from the bank still held up its finger in its wonted gesture of cautious admonition. When it reckoned the figures involved, the little white book might be imagined to turn paler still. At Meriton--where Andy arranged to spend the Saturday night with Jack Rock--the conspiracy ruled, even as in London. Lord Meriton, Belfield, and Wigram met him with the air of men who had already considered and overcome all difficulties. "The fact is, Mr. Hayes," said his lordship, "we were fools over this business, till Foot put us right. We tried the three or four possible men in the Division, and for one reason or another none of them could accept. So, much against my will--indeed against my vote; I hate a carpet-bagger--it was decided to approach headquarters and ask for a man. Luckily Belfield wrote first to Foot--" "And Billy Foot wrote back, asking what the dickens we wanted a man from London for, when we had the very man for the job under our noses down here!" He smiled rather sadly. "Meriton has more than one string to its bow, Andy." "I've taken every pains to sound opinion, Mr. Hayes," said Wigram. "It's most favourable. Your speeches made an excellent impression. There will be no difficulty in obtaining adoption by the Association, if you come forward under the proper auspices." "Oh, we'll look after the auspices," said Meriton. "That'll be all right." "But I've no influence, no connections, no standing--" "We haven't flattered you, Mr. Hayes," Meriton interrupted, smiling. "We've told you that we made efforts in other quarters." "If it pleases you, Andy, you shall regard yourself as Hobson's choice," said Belfield, with a chuckle. "Better than an outsider, anyhow!" Mr. Wigram chimed in. Andy's modesty was again defeated. The Jack Rock difficulty, which had seemed so serious to Harry Belfield, was acknowledged--but acknowledged only to be brushed on one side by a determined zeal. "But I--I can't possibly afford it!" Andy was in his last ditch, but then it was a wide and formidable one. The conspirators, however, attacked it without the least dismay. "Ah, now we can get down to business!" said Belfield in a tone of relief. "This conversation is, of course, entirely confidential. We've looked at matters from that point of view, and--er--taken some advice. Wigram here says it can be done comfortably for twelve hundred--that's two hundred within the maximum. You needn't shake your head before I've finished! We think you ought to put up some of it, and to guarantee a certain sum annually towards Wigram's expenses. I'll tell you what we've decided to ask you for--two-fifty for the contest, and a hundred a year." "Now just think it over, Mr. Hayes, and tell us if you see your way to that." "But the rest?" asked Andy, half-bewildered; for the last great ditch looked as if it were being stormed and crossed. Because--yes, he might be able to--yes, with care, and prosperity at Gilbert Foot and Co.'s, he could manage that! Belfield wrote on a bit of paper: "Meriton, £250; Rock, £250; Belfield, £500." He pushed it across the table. "That leaves a little margin. We can easily raise the balance of the annual expenses." "Oh, but I couldn't possibly--!" "My dear Andy, it's constantly being done," Belfield expostulated. "Our friend Belfield, for reasons that you'll appreciate, feels that he would like to bear a share of the expenses of this fight, which under--well, other circumstances--would naturally have fallen entirely on him. My contribution is given for public reasons, Mr. Hayes, though I'm very glad that it should be of service to you personally." Meriton broke into a smile. "I expect I needn't tell you why old Jack Rock's name is there. We should have got into pretty hot water if we hadn't let him into it!" Belfield leant over to Andy, and said in a lowered voice, "Atonement's too strong a word, Andy, but I don't want the party to suffer through anything that's occurred. I don't want it left in the lurch. I think you'd like to help me there, wouldn't you?" Harry's father was against Harry. Harry's father urged him to step into Harry's shoes. "I think we've made you a practical proposition; it tides us over the next election anyhow, Mr. Hayes. By the time another Parliament has run its course, I hope you'll be in a position where ways and means will present no difficulty. Soon enough to think about that when the time comes, anyhow." "I think I can guarantee you success, Mr. Hayes," said Wigram. All the difficulties seemed to have vanished--if only he could take the offered help. "I feel rather overwhelmed," he said slowly. Meriton shrugged his shoulders. "We must hold the seat. If you don't let us do this for you we shall probably have to do it for some fellow we never saw, or else put up with some bounder who's got nothing to recommend him except his money. I don't want to press you unduly, Mr. Hayes, but in my opinion, if your private affairs don't make it impossible, it's your duty to accept. Would you like time to consider?" "Just five minutes, if you don't mind, Lord Meriton." Belfield winked at Meriton. If he had asked for a week! Five minutes meant a favourable answer. All the factors were before him; they could be judged in five minutes. It was a venture, but Meriton said it was his duty. Nobody could tell where it would lead, but it was honourable work, for which responsible men thought him fitted. It was Harry's shoes, but they were empty. That last thought made him speak. "If I accept, and win, I hold the seat at the disposal of those who've chosen me for it." Half-consciously he addressed himself especially to Belfield. "If at any time--" "I knew you'd feel that way about it; but at present, at all events, it's not a practical question, Andy." "I'm grateful for your confidence," Andy said, now turning to Meriton. "Since you think me fit for it, I'll take it and do my best with it, Lord Meriton." "Capital!" his lordship exclaimed. Wigram's face was wreathed in smiles. Belfield patted Andy on the shoulder affectionately. "I don't believe either party to the bargain will regret it." "I know Mr. Hayes will have an honourable, and I believe he will have a distinguished, career," Meriton said, and, rising from his chair, broke up the council. Andy lingered for a little while alone with Belfield, to thank him again, to make some arrangements for the future, to tell him that he had seen Harry, and that Harry was well and in good spirits. "You saw him on Thursday? After you got my wire? Did you say anything about it?" "It came while he was there, and I showed it to him. He was surprised." "You mean he wasn't pleased?" "I can understand how he must feel. I feel just the same thing myself--terribly strongly sometimes." Belfield pressed his arm. "You mustn't give way to that feeling. It's loyal, but it's not reasonable. Never let that weigh with you in anything." The feeling might not be reasonable; it seemed to Andy inevitable. It must weigh with him. Yet it could not outweigh his natural and legitimate satisfaction that day. His mind reached forth to the new work, fortified by the confidence that his friends gave him. The thought of Harry seemed now rather a sobering reminder that this thing had come to him, in part at least, by accident. He was the more bound to do well with it, that the evil effects of the accident might be minimized. He made for Jack Rock's house in High Street, where he was to lodge. Jack had just got off his horse at the door, and was standing facing his shop, apparently regarding his sign. Andy came up and clapped him on the back. "I know what you've been doing," he said. "At it again, Jack!" "You've not refused?" "No; I've accepted." Jack wrung his hand hard. "That takes a weight off my mind," he said with a sigh. "But it seems a low-down thing to take all that money--more of yours too!" Jack smiled triumphantly. "Well, I happen to be a bit flush o' cash just now--that's the truth, Andy--so you needn't mind. D'ye see that sign?" "Of course I do, Jack. What's the matter with it?" "Well, in a month that sign'll come down." He cocked his head on one side as he regarded it. "Yes, down in a month! Seems strange, don't it? Been there sixty year." His sigh was evenly compounded of sorrow and pride. "What, are you going to retire, Jack?" "No, I'm not pressin' it on you again! Don't be afraid. To think of my havin' done that! You as are goin' to Parliament! Lord, it's a great day, Andy! Come in and have a glass o' beer." He led the way to his back room, and the cask was called upon to do its duty. "I've sold out, Andy," Jack announced. "Sold out to a concern that calls itself the National, Colonial, and International Purveyors, Limited. That'll look well on the sign, won't it? Four thousand pound they're payin' me, down on the nail, besides pensionin' off old Simpson. Well, it's worth the money, if they can do as well with it as I've done. The house here is thrown in--they mean to enlarge the shop." "But where are you going to set up house, Jack?" Jack winked in great enjoyment. "Know of a certain house where a certain old gentleman used to live--him as kept the grammar school--Mr. Hayes, B.A. Oxon? The old house in Highcroft, Andy! It's on the market, and I'm goin' to buy it--to say nothin' of a nice range of stablin' opposite. And there, if you'll accept of 'em, Andy, you'll have your own pair o' rooms always ready for you, when you're down at Meriton over your politics. Parlour and bedroom, there they'll be, and I shan't disturb you. And when I'm gone, there's the old house for you. There's nobody poor Nancy would have been so glad to see in it." There was a lump in Andy's throat, and he was not ashamed of it. The regard and love of his friends seemed to have been very much with him in the last few days, and to have done great things for him. Old Jack Rock's affectionate cunning touched him closely. "I really think I'm the luckiest beggar alive!" he exclaimed. "Folks mostly make their luck," said Jack. "You've made yours. There was no call on any of us to fret ourselves about you. You could have gone back to Canada and made your way for yourself--if it hadn't been that we got to want to keep you, Andy." He paused, drank his beer, and added, "Aye, but I shall feel a bit strange the day that sign comes down, and I've no more to say to the meat--only the horses! I've lived with the meat, man and boy, nigh on sixty year." With a promise to return in good time for supper--for no risks must be run with what might be one of the last of Mr. Rock's own joints of beef that he would ever be privileged to eat--Andy left him and took the road to Nutley. He remembered Vivien's invitation; he looked forward to telling her his news, the great things that had been happening to him in the last three days. But he wanted yet more to meet her again; he had not seen her since the day after the catastrophe. Harry he had seen, and Harry had been happy, in high spirits, quite self-contented, until that untoward telegram eclipsed his gaiety. Would the interval of a few brief weeks have wrought a like change in her? It could not be looked for. Harry effected such transformations with a celerity peculiar to himself. Still there was room to hope for some lightening of her sorrow. Andy hoped to find it, and would approve of it. His mind was for the mean, for moderation, in all emotions. If he resented Harry's gaiety, unending unlifting woe was hardly more congenial to his temper, and certainly much more troublesome to deal with tactfully. Harry's implicit negation of responsibility had at least the merit of inviting other people not to make too much of his mischances. What his changing moods--his faculty of emotional oblivion--did in truth for Harry, pride effected in outward seeming for Vivien. Some credit, too, must be given to Wellgood's training and Isobel's able co-operation. The discipline of the stiff upper lip redeemed some of its harshness by coming to her rescue now. Never had she held her head so high in Meriton as in the days that followed the announcement of Harry Belfield's marriage with Isobel Vintry. A poor, maimed, stunted announcement, compared with the column and a half of description, guests, presents, and felicitations which would have chronicled her wedding! Five lines in the corner of the local paper--an item of news for such of the population as did not see the London papers--it was enough to make Vivien fence herself about against any show of pity. To do Meriton justice, it understood which of the pair had suffered the greater loss. That Miss Wellgood was "well out of it," but that Mr. Harry had "done for himself," was the prevailing verdict; somewhat affected, it is to be feared, by the adventitious circumstance that Isobel was "the companion"--a drop to obscurity for brilliant Mr. Harry! But the marriage dug deeper than to affect mere seeming. Besides erecting the useful barrier of impossibility, it raised the fence of an inward pride--or, rather, of that fastidiousness which Wellgood and Isobel had striven to eradicate. In that matter it was good for Vivien that they had failed. To allow herself to remember, to muse, to long--for whom? No more simply for Harry Belfield. In that name there were allurements for musing and for longing. But the bearer of it had contracted for himself now a new designation. It did him and his memory no good. Isobel Vintry's husband! The new character did much to strip him of his romantic habiliments. He was brought down to earth; he could no more float before the eyes, a dazzling though unprofitable figure, proceeding in a brilliant callousness to the wrecking of other hearts. There is always a touch of the ridiculous about Don Juan married, or Sir Gawain Light-of-Love bound in chains in whose forging the Church has lent a hand to Cupid. And married to Isobel Vintry, who had stolen kisses behind the door! In a moral regard perhaps it is sad to say, but we easier forgive our own romantic wrongs when they may be supposed to form but a link in a series. She would have found it harder to despise Harry, if he had served Isobel after the same fashion as he had served herself. She knew it not, but perhaps Harry was entitled to ask her to wait for just a little while! As the case stood--to weep for Isobel's husband! The stiff upper lip which had been inculcated joined forces with the fastidiousness that had never been uprooted. She chid herself for every memory of Harry; every pang of envy for Isobel demanded from herself a discipline more stern than Isobel's own had ever supplied to meet Wellgood's theories of a manly training. Wellgood was proud of his daughter and of his theories, readily claiming for his system of education the joint result of its success and of its failure--of the courage and of the fastidiousness alike. But the plague of it was that the thought of the training brought with it the memory of the preceptress who had so ably carried out his orders. Wellgood admired his daughter--and envied her. He burned still with a fierce jealousy; for him no appeasement lay in the marriage. Yet between Vivien and Andy Hayes silence about the past could be no more than silence--merely a refraining from words, no real forgetfulness, no true putting aside. For with that past would go their old relationship to one another; its roots had grown from that soil, and it flourished still by the strength of it. At the start their common memories could envisage no picture without Isobel's face finding a place on the canvas; later, Harry was inevitably the central figure of the composition. If Andy had pitied and sought to comfort, if Vivien had given confidence and accepted sympathy, it had always, in some sort or another, been in regard to one of these two figures--in the later days, to both of them. Still they met, as it were, encumbered by these memories, she to him Isobel's pupil, Harry's lover, he to her Harry's follower, even though her own partisan against Isobel. It was hard to get their relations on to an independent footing; to be interested in one another for one another's sake, without that outside reference, which had now become mere matter of memory--and best not remembered; to find in one another and not elsewhere the motive of their intercourse and the source of a new friendship. The old kindliness must be transplanted to a fresh soil if it were to blossom into a life self-sufficient and underived. The line of thought was hers rather than his, at least more explicit and realized for her than for him. When he thought of Harry--or of Isobel and Harry--it was with intent to avoid giving pain by an incautious reference; her mind demanded a direct assertion that the pair of them were done with, and that she and he met on the ground of a new and strictly mutual interest. She had no thought, no dream, of more than friendship. The past was too recent, her heart still too sore. Yet the sore heart instinctively seeks balm; the wounded flower of pride will raise its head in grateful answer to a gleam of sunshine or a drop of rain. Andy's shy surety that she would rejoice in his luck, because aforetime he had grieved for her tribulation, struck home to a heart hungry for comradeship. Thus by her pride, and by her will answering the call of her pride, she was different. She no longer merely suffered, was no longer passive to, kindness or cruelty. He knew the change as soon as she came to him, in that very room which had witnessed the first stolen kiss, and, holding her hand out to him, cried, "Mr. Andy, you've not refused? There's no welcome for you in this house if you've refused. Father and I are quite agreed about it!" Andy pressed her hand--Harry would have kissed it. "You know? I couldn't refuse their kindness. If I had, yours would have made me sorry." "It's good of you to spare time to come and tell us." Andy's answer had the compelling power of unconscious sincerity. "That seemed about the first thing to do," he said, with a simple unembarrassed laugh. The girl blushed, a faint yet vivid colour came on her cheeks. She drew back a little. Andy's words were, in their simplicity, bolder far than his thoughts. Yet in drawing back she smiled. But Andy had seen the blush. Successful man as he had now become--big with promise as he was, at all events--in this field he was a novice. His blush answered hers--and was of a deeper tint. "I'm afraid that's awfully presumptuous?" he stammered. "Why, we've all been waiting to hear the news! Father had the offer--you know that? But he couldn't stand London. Then they asked Mr. Foot's advice. He said it ought to be you. You do your best to prevent people thinking of you, but as soon as you're suggested--why, it's obvious." "You really think I shan't make a fool of myself?" asked Andy. The delicate flush was still on her cheeks. "You'll make me very much ashamed of myself if you do," she answered. "Is my opinion to be as wrong as all that? Haven't I always trusted you?" His surroundings suddenly laid hold on him. It was the very room--she stood on the very spot--where he had witnessed Harry's first defection, her earliest betrayal. "It seems--it seems"--he stammered--"it seems treason." She was silent for a minute. The colour glowed brighter on her cheeks. "I don't care to hear you say that," she told him, daintily haughty. "I was waiting here to congratulate you--yes, I hoped you'd come. I've nothing to do with anybody except the best candidate! They say you're that. I had my good wishes ready for you. Will you take them--without reserve?" "I--I say things wrong," pleaded poor Andy. "I'll take anything you'll give." Her face flashed into a smile. "Your wrong things are--well, one can forgive them. It's all settled then--and you're to be the M.P.?" Andy was still apologetic. "They know what to do, I suppose. It seems curious. Wigram says it's a certainty too. They've all joined in to help--Lord Meriton, Mr. Belfield, and old Jack. I'm much too poor by myself, you know." "The man who makes friends makes riches." She gave a light laugh. "May I be a little bit of your riches?" Andy's answer was his own. "Well, I always remember that morning--the hunt and Curly." "I'm still that to you?" she asked quickly, her colour rising yet. He looked at her. "No, of course not, but I had a sort of idea that then you liked me a bit." She looked across the room at him--Andy was a man who kept his distance. "You've been a refuge in time of trouble," she said. Her voice was soft, her eyes bright. "We won't talk of the old things any more, will we?" Wellgood stood in the window. "Well, is it all right?" he asked. "He's said yes, father!" she cried with a glad merriment. "I thought he would. It's a change for the better!" His blunt words--in truth they were brutal according to his brutality--brought silence. Andy flushed into a painful red--not for his own sake only. "I've got to try to be as good a stop-gap as I can," he said. "Something better than that!" Vivien murmured softly. Chapter XXIV. PRETTY MUCH THE SAME! In the spring of the following year Miss Doris Flower returned from an extensive professional tour in America. She had enjoyed great success. The Nun and the Quaker proved thoroughly to the taste of transatlantic audiences; Joan of Arc did not at first create the same enthusiasm in the United States as she had in London, the allusion to the happier relations between France and England naturally not exciting quite equal interest. However an ingenious gentleman supplied the Maid with a vision of General Lafayette instead; though not quite so up-to-date, it more than answered expectations. Across the Canadian border-line the original vision was, of course, restored, and went immensely. It was all one to Miss Flower what visions she had, so that they were to the liking of the public. She came back much pleased with herself, distinctly affluent, and minded to enjoy for awhile a well-earned leisure. Miss Sally Dutton returned with her, charged with a wealth of comment on American ways and institutions, the great bulk of which sensible people could attribute only to the blackest prejudice. The lapse of six months is potent to smooth small causes of awkwardness and to make little changes of feeling or of attitude seem quite natural. Billy Foot had undoubtedly avoided the Nun for the last few weeks before her departure; he saw no reason now why he should not be among the earliest to call and welcome his old friend. It was rather with a humorous twinkle than with any embarrassment that, when they settled down to talk, he asked her if she happened to know the Macquart-Smiths. "Of Kensington?" asked the Nun in a tone of polite interest. "Yes, Kensington Palace Gardens," Billy replied, tranquilly unconscious of any other than the obvious bearing of the question. "I thought you must have heard of them." (The Nun never had, though she had seen at least one of them.) "The old man made a pile out in Mexico. They're very good sort of people." "You brought one of the girls to hear me one night, didn't you?" "Yes. Well, she's the only girl, in fact--Amaranth's her name. Rather silly, but that's not her fault, is it?" He seemed anxious to forestall criticism. "You can call her Amy--or even Aimée," suggested the Nun consolingly. Billy laughed. "Have you heard it, or did you guess, Doris?" "Guessed it. I can guess any conundrum, however baffling. I'm awfully glad, Billy. I'm sure you'll be tremendously happy. When did it happen--and when is it going to happen?" "About a month ago--and in about three months' time. Didn't you think her pretty?" "Very pretty," said the Nun, presuming on a somewhat cursory inspection of Miss Amaranth. "And I suppose that since the old man made his pile--?" "Oh, well, there are two sons. Still--yes, that's all right." "It all sounds splendid. I don't fall in love myself, as I've told you--" "Oh, I know that very well," said Billy. "Nobody knows it better." Her eyes danced as she shook her head at him demurely. "But I like to see young people settling down happily." "You are rather a queer girl in that way, Doris. Never feel that way?" The Nun considered. "I might go so far as to admit that I've an ideal." "Rather a silly thing to have in this world, isn't it?" "Happiness makes you unsympathetic, Billy. There's no harm in an ideal if you're careful to keep it as an ideal. Of course if you try to make it practical there are awful risks." "And what, or who, is your ideal?" "'Pray what is that to you?'" the Nun quoted, under the circumstances rather maliciously. "I find having an ideal a most comfortable arrangement. It doesn't worry either him or me--and Sally can't possibly object to it. How are things at Meriton? Andy wrote me his great news, and of course I never answered. But isn't it splendid?" "I haven't had time to go down lately." "Oh, of course not--now!" "But I hear he's doing magnificently. Sure to get in. But Gilly's the best fun. When Andy is off electioneering, Gilly works like a horse. Sandwiches in the office for lunch, with a glass of sherry from the pub round the corner! I caught him at it once; he was awfully disgusted." "Gilly lunching on sandwiches and a glass of sherry from the pub!" Her voice was full of wondering amazement. "Yes, he won't hear the last of that in a hurry! When he did come to lunch the other day, we all went early and had a nice little pile of ham sandwiches and a liqueur glass of Marsala ready for him when he came in. You should have seen his face--and not heard his language!" The unnatural brother laughed. "You see, Andy didn't want to stand because of neglecting the business, and Gilly backed himself to take on the work so as not to stand in Andy's way. And he's doing it." "But that's awfully fine of Gilly, I think." "So it is, of course. That's why he gets so riled when anybody says anything about it." The Nun nodded in understanding. "And Harry?" she asked. "They were abroad or in Scotland all the winter; came back to town about a month ago. They've taken a flat in Clarges Street for the season, I believe." "Have you been to call on Mrs. Harry Belfield?" "Well, no, I haven't. I don't know what he wants. I think I'll leave him to begin. It seems to be the same old game with him. One sees him everywhere." "With her?" "Sometimes with her. I don't think he's doing anything about another constituency; seems to have chucked it for the present. But he does appear to be having a very good time in London." "Is he friendly when you meet?" "Yes, he's friendly and jolly enough." Billy smiled. "It's true that he's generally in a hurry. When I met him with her once, he was in too much of a hurry to stop!" "It's very sad, but I'm afraid his memories of us are not those of unmixed pleasure." "I'm afraid not. Andy says he never goes down to Meriton." "Well, really I don't very well see how he could--with her!" "I suppose he and his people have some understanding about it. One's sorry for them, you know." "I think I shall go down to Meriton again this autumn. Any chance of your being there--as a family man?" "I've promised to speak for Andy, so we may put in a few days there. Most of the time I shall have to be preaching to my own flock. I say, will you come and meet Amaranth?" "Of course I will. But really I think I should make it 'Amy'!" "It's worth considering; but I don't know how she'll feel about it," said Billy cautiously. "Oh, said in the way you'll say it, it'll sound sweet," remarked the Nun flippantly. Billy still looked doubtful; perhaps "Amaranth" already sounded sweet. When left alone, Miss Flower indulged herself for awhile in a reverie of a pensive, hardly melancholy, character--not unpleasant, rather philosophical. Billy Foot's new state was the peg from which it hung, its theme the balance of advantage between the single and the married state. It was in some degree a drawback to the former that other people would embrace the latter. Old coteries were thus broken up; old friendships, if not severed, yet rendered less intimate. New comrades had to be found, not always an easy task. There was a danger of loneliness. On the other hand, there were worse things than loneliness; enforced companionship, where companionship had become distasteful, seemed to her distinctly one of them. Being so very much in another person's hands also was a formidable thing; it involved such a liability to be hurt. The balance thus inclined in favour of the single life, in spite of its liability to loneliness. The Nun gave her adhesion to it, with a mental reservation as to the case of an ideal. And even then--the attempt to make it practical? She shook her head with a little sigh, then smiled. "I wonder if Billy had any idea whom I had in my head!" she thought. Sally Dutton came in and found her friend in this ruminative mood. Doris roused herself to communicate the news of Billy Foot's engagement. It was received in Sally's usual caustic manner. "Came to tell you about it, did he? I wonder how much he's told her about you!" "I can't complain if my want of responsiveness hasn't been emphasised, Sally. You couldn't expect him to." "I've been having a talk with Mrs. Harry Belfield," said Sally, taking off her hat. This announcement came rather pat on the Nun's reflections. She was interested. "Well, how is she? What happened?" "In my opinion it's just another of them," Sally pronounced. Being engaged in shopping at certain "stores" which she frequented, she had gone into the tea-room to refresh her jaded energies, and had found herself at the next table to Isobel. Friendly greetings had passed; the two had drunk their tea together--with other company, as presently appeared. "What made you think that?" There was no need to inquire what it was that Sally thought when she spoke of "another of them;" she did not refer to ideally successful unions. Sally wrinkled her brow. "She said they'd had a delightful winter, travelling and so on, and that she was having a very gay time in London, going everywhere and making a heap of friends. She said they liked their flat, but were looking out for a house. She said Harry was very well and jolly." "Well, that sounds all right. What's the matter, Sally? Not that I pretend to be particularly anxious for her unruffled happiness. I don't want anything really bad, of course, but--" "Set your mind at ease; she won't be too happy to please you--and she knows it." Miss Dutton considered. "At least she's a fool if she doesn't know it. Who do you think came in while we were at tea?" "Harry?" suggested the Nun, in an obviously insincere shot at the answer. "Harry at Harrod's! Mrs. Freere! You remember Mrs. Freere?--Mrs. Freere, and a woman Mrs. Freere called 'Dear Lady Lucy.'" Sally's sarcastic emphasis on the latter lady's title--surely a harmless social distinction?--was absolutely savage. "Did they join you?" asked the Nun, by now much interested. "Join us? They swallowed us! Of course they didn't take much notice of me. They'd never heard of 'Miss Dutton,' and I didn't suppose I should make a much better impression if I told them that I lived with you." "No, of course not, Sally," said the Nun, and drew up on the edge of an ill-timed gurgle. "Mrs. Freere's an old story. Who's Lady Lucy? One of the heap of friends Mrs. Harry is making?" "Lady Lucy's young--younger than Isobel. Mrs. Freere isn't young--not so young as Isobel. Mrs. Freere's the old friend, Lady Lucy's the new one." "Did you gather whether Lady Lucy was a married woman?" "Oh yes. She referred to 'our money troubles,' and 'my motor-car.' She's married all right! But nobody bothered to tell me her name. Well, as I say, Mrs. Freere's the old friend, and she's the new friend. They're fighting which of them shall run the Belfields--I don't know what else they may be fighting about! But they unite in sitting on Isobel. Harry's given her away, I gathered--told them what she was before he married her. So, of course, she hasn't got a chance! The only good thing is that they obviously hate one another like poison. In fact I don't think I ever sat at a table with three women who hated one another more--though I've had some experience in that line." "She hates them both, you think? Well, I shouldn't have thought she was the kind of woman to like being sat upon by anybody." "Oh, she's fighting; she's putting up a good fight for him." "Well, we know she can do that!" observed the Nun with a rather acid demureness. "I'm not asking you to sympathise. I'm just telling you how it is. 'Harry likes this,' says Mrs. Freere. 'He always did.' 'Did he, dear? He tells me he likes the other now,' says Lady Lucy. 'I don't think he's really fond of either of them,' says Isobel. 'Oh yes, my dear. Besides, you must, if you want to do the right thing,' say both of them. I suppose that, when they once get her out of the way, they'll fight it out between themselves." "Will they get her out of the way? It's rather soon to talk about that." "They'll probably both of them be bowled over by some newcomer in a few months, and Isobel go with them--if she hasn't gone already." "Your views are always uncompromising, Sally." "I only wish you'd heard those two women this afternoon. And, in the end, off they all three went together in the motor-car. Going to pick up Harry somewhere!" "Rather too much of a good thing for most men. And it might have been Vivien!" "It's a woman, and one of God's creatures, anyhow," said Sally with some temper. "Yes," the Nun agreed serenely. "And Mrs. Freere's a woman--and so, I presume from your description, is Lady Lucy. And I gather that they have husbands? God's creatures too, we may suppose!" Sally declined the implied challenge to weigh, in the scales of an impartial judgment, the iniquities of the two sexes. Her sympathies, born on the night when she had given shelter to Isobel at the Lion, were with the woman who was fighting for her husband, who had a plain right to him now, though she had used questionable means to get him. If Doris asked her to discern a Nemesis in Isobel's plight--as Belfield had in the fall of his too well admired son--to see Vivien avenged by Mrs. Freere and Lady Lucy, Sally retorted on the philosophic counsel by declaring that Doris, a partisan of Vivien's, lacked human pity for Vivien's successful rival, whose real success seemed now so dubious. Whatever the relative merit of these views, and whatever the truth as to the wider question of the iniquities of the sexes, Sally's encounter at least provided for her friend's contemplation an excellent little picture of the man whose name had been so bandied about among the three women at the tea-table. Her dislike of Isobel enabled the Nun to contemplate it rather with a scornful amusement than with the hot indignation with which she had lashed Vivien's treacherous lover. Her feelings not being engaged in this case, she was able to regain her favourite attitude of a tolerant, yet open-eyed, onlooker, and to ask what, after all, was the use of expecting anything else from Harry Belfield. What Mrs. Freere--nay, what prehistoric Rosa Hinde--had found out, what Vivien had found out, what Isobel was finding out, that, in due time, Lady Lucy would find out also. Perhaps some women did not much mind finding out. Vivien had renounced him utterly, but here was Mrs. Freere back again! And no doubt Lady Lucy had her own ideas about Mrs. Freere--besides the knowledge, shared by the world in general, of the brief engagement to Vivien and the hurried marriage with Isobel. Some of them did not mind, or at least thought that the game was worth the candle. That was the only possible conclusion. In some cases, perhaps, they were the same sort of people themselves; in others, Harry's appeal was too potent to be resisted, even though they knew that sorrow would be the ultimate issue. That was intelligible enough. For the moment, to the woman of the moment, his charm was well-nigh irresistible. His power to conquer lay in the completeness with which he was conquered. He had the name of being a great flirt; in the exact sense of words, he did not flirt save as a mere introduction of the subject; he always made love--to the woman of the moment. He did not pay attentions; he was swept into a passion--for the woman of the moment. It was afterwards, when that particular moment and that particular woman had gone by, that Harry's feelings passed a retrospective Act by which the love-making and passion became, and were to be deemed always to have been, flirtation and attention. Amply accepting this legislation for himself, and quite convinced of its justice, he seemed to have power to impose it--for the moment--on others also. And he would go on like that indefinitely? There seemed no particular reason why he should stop. He would go on loving for a while, being loved for a while; deserting and being despaired of; sometimes, perhaps, coming back and beginning the process over again; living the life of the emotions so long as it would last, making it last, perhaps, longer than it ought or really could, because he had no other life adequate to fill its place. The Nun's remorseless fancy skipped the years, and pictured him, Harry the Irresistible, Harry the Incorrigible, still pursuing the old round, still on his way from the woman of the last moment to the woman of the next; getting perhaps rather gray, rather fat, a trifle inclined to coarseness, but preserving all his ardour and all his art in wooing, like a great singer grown old, whose voice is feeble and spent, but whose skill is still triumphant over his audiences--still convinced that each affair was "bigger" than any of the others, still persuading his partner of the same thing, still suffering pangs of pity for himself when he fell away, still responding to the stimulus of a new pursuit. A few days later chance threw him in her way; in truth it could scarcely be called chance, since both, returned from their wanderings, had resumed their habit of frequenting that famous restaurant, and had been received with enthusiasm by the presiding officials. Waiting for her party in the outer room, suddenly she found him standing beside her, looking very handsome and gay, with a mischievous sparkle in his eye. "May I speak to you--or am I no better than one of the wicked?" he said, sitting down beside her. "You're looking very well, Harry. I hope Mrs. Belfield is all right?" "Oh yes, Isobel's first-rate, thank you. So am I. How London agrees with a man! I was out of sorts half the time down at Meriton. A country life doesn't agree with me. I shall chuck it." "You seemed very well down there--physically," the Nun observed. "Sleepy, wasn't it? Sleepy beyond anything. Now here a man feels alive, and awake!" It was not in the least what he had thought about Meriton, it was what he was feeling about Meriton now. He had passed a retrospective Act about Meriton; it was to be deemed to have been always sleepy and dull. "No," he pursued, "when I come into Halton--I hope it won't be for a long while--I think I shall sell it. I can't settle down as a country squire. It's not my line. Too stodgy!" "What about Parliament? Going to find another place?" "If I do, it'll be a town constituency. When I think of those beastly villages! Really couldn't go through with it again! The fact is, I'm rather doubtful about the whole of that game, Doris. No end of a grind--and what do you get out of it? More kicks than ha'pence, as a rule. Your own side doesn't thank you, and the other abuses you like a pickpocket." She nodded. "I think you're quite right. Let it alone." He turned to her quite eagerly. "Do you really think so? Well, I'm more than half inclined to believe you're right. Isobel's always worrying me about it--talks about letting chances slip away, and time slip away, and I don't know what the devil else slip away--till, hang it, my only desire is to imitate time and chances, and slip away myself!" He laughed merrily. The old charm was still there, the power to make his companion take his point of view and sympathise with him, even when the merits were all against him. "You see now what it is to give a woman the right to lecture you, Harry!" "Oh, it's kind of her to be ambitious for me," said Harry good-naturedly. "I quite appreciate that. But--" His eyes twinkled again, and his voice fell to a confidential whisper. "Well, you've been behind the scenes, haven't you? My last shot in that direction has put me a bit off." It was his first reference to the catastrophe; she was curious to see whether he would develop it. This Harry proceeded to do. "You were precious hard on me about that business, Doris," he said in a gentle reproach. "Of course I don't justify what happened. But my dear old pater and Wellgood pressed matters a bit too quick--oh, not Vivien, I don't mean that for a moment. There's such a thing as making the game too easy for a fellow. I didn't see it at the time, but I see it now. They had their plan. Well, I fell in with it too readily. It looked pleasant enough. The result was that I mistook the strength of my feelings. That was the beginning of all the trouble." Vastly amused, the Nun nodded gravely. "I ought to have thought of that before I was so down on you." He looked at her in a merry suspicion. "I'm not sure you're not pulling my leg, Doris; but all the same that's the truth about it. And at any rate I suppose you'll admit I did the right thing when--when the trouble came?" "Yes, you did the right thing then." "I'm glad you admit that much! I say--I suppose you--you haven't heard anything of Vivien Wellgood?" "I hear she's in excellent health and spirits." "I've never been so cut up about anything. Still, of course, she was a mere girl, and--well, things pass!" "Luckily things pass. I've no doubt she'll soon console herself." "He'll be a very lucky fellow," said Harry handsomely. After all, he himself had admired Vivien, and his taste was good. "He will. In fact I think I know only one man good enough for her--and that's Andy Hayes." Harry's face was suddenly transformed to a peevish amazement. "My dear girl, are you out of your mind? Don't say such silly things! Old Andy's a good chap, but the idea that Vivien would look at him! He's not her class; and she's the most fastidious little creature alive--as dainty and fastidious as can be!" He smiled again--probably at some reminiscence. "I don't see why her being fastidious should prevent her liking Andy." Harry broke into open impatience. "I like old Andy--well, I think I've done something to prove that--but, upon my soul, you all seem to have gone mad about him. You all ram him down a man's throat. It's possible to have too much of him, good fellow as he is. He and Vivien Wellgood! Well, it's simply damned ridiculous!" He took out his watch and, as he looked at it, exclaimed with great irritation, "Why the devil doesn't this woman come?" "I thought Mrs. Belfield was always so punctual?" "It's not Mrs. Belfield," Harry snapped out. "Well, don't be disagreeable to the poor woman simply because I said something you didn't like." "Something I didn't like? That's an absurd way of putting it. It's only that to be for ever hearing of nobody but--" "That tall young woman over there seems to be staring rather hard at you and me, Harry." "By gad, it is her! I must run." His smiles broke out again. "I say, Doris, I shall get into trouble over this! You're looking your best, my dear, and she's as jealous as--I must run! Au revoir!" "It's not Mrs. Freere--so I suppose it's Lady Lucy," thought the Nun. She was in high good temper at the result of her casual allusion to Andy Hayes. The shoe pinched there, did it? She was not vicious towards Harry; she wished him no harm--indeed she wished him more good than he would be likely to welcome--but the extreme complacency of his manner in the earlier part of their talk stirred her resentment. Her suggestion about Andy Hayes put a quick end to that. Lady Lucy had an impudent little face, with an impudent little turned-up nose. She settled herself cosily into her chair on the balcony and peeled off her gloves. "I'm so glad we're just by ourselves--I mean, since poor Mrs. Belfield wasn't well enough to come. I was afraid of finding Lily Freere!" "What made you afraid of that?" asked Harry, smiling. "Well, she is about with you a good deal, isn't she? Does your wife like being managed so much? Or is it your choice?" "Mrs. Freere's an old friend." "So I've always understood!" "You mustn't listen to ill-natured gossip. Just an old friend! But it's not very likely I should have asked her to come to-day." The Nun and her party entered, and sat down at the other end of the balcony. "There's that girl you were talking to. Look round; she's sitting facing me." "Oh yes, Doris Flower!" "An old friend too? You seemed to be having a very confidential conversation at least." "On the most strictly unsentimental footing. Really there you may believe me!" Harry's voice fell to an artistic whisper. "Did you come only to tease me?" "I don't think you care much whether I tease you or not," said Lady Lucy. He was helping her to wine; he held the bottle, she held the glass. Somehow it chanced that their hands touched. Lady Lucy blushed a little and glanced at Harry. "How shall I persuade you that I care?" asked Harry. The Nun's host--at the other end of the balcony--turned to her. "You're not very talkative to-day, Miss Doris!" "Oh, I'm sorry: There's always so much to look at at the other tables, isn't there?" "Pretty much the same old lot!" remarked the host--an experienced youth. "Pretty much!" agreed the Nun serenely. Chapter XXV. THE LAST FIGHT. On a fine Sunday evening in the following autumn Belfield and Andy Hayes sat over their wine, the ladies having, as usual, adjourned to the garden. Among their number were included the Nun and Sally Dutton; a second stay at Meriton had broken down Sally's shyness. Belfield and his wife were just back from London, whither they had gone to see their grandchild, Harry's first-born son. All had gone well, and Belfield was full of impressions of his visit. His natural pleasure in the birth of the child was damped by Harry's refusal to promise to take up his residence at Halton when his turn came. "But I did get him to promise not to sell--only to let; so his son may live here, though mine won't." He looked older and more frail; his mind moved in a near future which, near as it was, he would not see. "I sometimes think," he went on, "that the professional moralists, all or most of our preachers of one sort and another--and who doesn't preach nowadays?--take too narrow a view. Their table of virtues isn't comprehensive enough. Now my boy Harry, with all his faults, is never disagreeable. What an enormous virtue! Negative, if you like, but enormous! What a lot of pain and discomfort he doesn't give! All through this domestic business his behaviour has been admirable--so kind, so attentive, so genuinely concerned, so properly gratified. Upon my word, seeing him in his own home, you'd think he was a model! That's a good deal. His weakness comes in to save him there; he must be popular--even in his own house!" "Oh, this event'll do them no end of good, sir," said Andy, ever ready to clutch again at the elusive skirts of optimism. "Some, no doubt," Belfield cautiously agreed. "And she's a brave woman--I'll say that for her. She understands him, and she loves him. When I saw her, we had a reconciliation on that basis. We let the past alone--I wasn't anxious to meet her on that ground--and made up our minds to the future. Her work is to keep things going, to prevent a smash. She must shut her eyes sometimes--pretty often, I'm afraid. He'll always be very pleasant to her, if she'll do that. In fact, the worse he's behaving the pleasanter the rogue will be. I know him of old in that." "Has he any plans?" asked Andy. Belfield smiled. "Oh yes. He's got a plan for wintering in Algeria; they'll go as soon as she's well enough, stopping in Paris _en route_. Yes, he's really full of plans--for enjoying himself and meeting friends he likes. There's a Lady Lucy Somebody who's got the finest motor-car on earth. She's going to be in Paris. Oh, well, there it is! Plans of any other sort are dropped. He's dropped them; she's had to drop them--after a good deal of fighting, so she told me. He makes no definite refusals; he puts her off, laughs it off, shunts it, you know, and goes on his own way. One didn't understand how strong that had grown in him--the dislike of any responsibilities or limits. Being answerable to anybody seems to vex him. I think he even resents our great expectations, though we go out of our way to let him see that we've honestly abandoned them! A pleasant drifting over summer seas, with agreeable company, and plenty of variety in it! That's the programme. We shall probably be wise to add a few storms and a good many minor squalls to get a true idea of it." "It doesn't seem to lead to much." "Oh, the mistake's ours! For many men I say nothing against the life. I'm not one of the preachers, and there's something to be said for it for some people. We made our own idol, Andy; it's our fault. We saw the capacities, we didn't appreciate the weakness. I can't be hard on poor old Harry, can you? We parted capital friends, I'm glad to say--though he was distinctly in a hurry to keep an appointment at a tea-shop. Somebody passing through London, he said--and through his fancy too, I imagine." He looked across at Andy. "I suppose it all seems uncommon queer to you, Andy?" "It's a bit of a waste, isn't it?" "So we think, we at Meriton. That's our old idea, and we shan't get over it. Yes, a bit of a waste! But it's nature's way, I suppose. A fine fabric with one unsound patch! It does seem a waste, but she's lavish; and the fabric may be very pleasing to the eye all the same, and serve all right--so long as you don't strain it!" In the garden Mrs. Belfield discoursed placidly to Miss Doris Flower; it was perhaps fortunate that the veil of night rendered that young lady's face hard to read. "Yes, my dear, we must let bygones be bygones. I took a very strong view, a stronger view than I generally take, of her conduct down here--though I can't acquit Mr. Wellgood of a large part of the blame. But now she's trying to be a good wife to him, I'm sure she is. So I made up my mind to forgive her; it's a very fine boy, and like my family, I think. As for the politics and all that, I'm sure Harry is right, and his father is wrong to regret his withdrawal. Harry is not fit for that rough work; both his mind and his feelings are too fine and sensitive. I hope he will be firm and keep out of it all. Mr. Hayes is much more fit for it, much coarser in fibre, you know, dear Miss Flower; and though, of course, we can't expect from him what we did from Harry--if only his health had stood it--Mr. Wigram tells me he is doing really very well. The common people like him, I understand. Oh, not in the way they thought of Harry! That was admiration, almost worship, my dear. But they think he understands them, and naturally they feel on easy terms with him. His stepmother was an excellent woman, and I'm sure we all respect Mr. Rock. Of course in my young days he'd never have done for a county member; but we must move with the times, and I'm really glad that he's got this chance." The Nun listened to the kindly patronizing old dame in respectful silence. It was really a good thing that she could look at the matter like that--evidently aided by the fine boy and the fine boy's likeness to her family. It was hard to grudge Harry his last worshipper; yet Miss Flower's smile had not been very sympathetic under the veil of night. "Of course there's poor Vivien--such a sweet girl, and so nice to us! She's never let it make any difference as far as we're concerned. I am sorry for her, and her father's very wrong in keeping her all alone there at Nutley to brood over it. He ought to have given her a season in London or taken her abroad--somewhere where she could forget about it, and have her chance. What chance has she of forgetting Harry here at Meriton?" "You can never tell about that, can you, Mrs. Belfield? These things happen so oddly." "Oh, but, my dear, the poor child never sees anybody! Now you see quite a number of young men, I daresay?" "Yes, quite a number, Mrs. Belfield," the Nun admitted demurely. "She sees absolutely nobody, except Mr. Hayes and Mr. Gilly Foot. I don't think she's very likely to be taken with Mr. Gilly Foot! Oh no, my dear, it's a sad case." "You ought to talk to Mr. Wellgood about it." "I never talk to Mr. Wellgood at all now, my dear, if I can help it. I don't like him, and I think his attitude has been very hard--quite unlike dear Vivien's own! Well, Harry did no more than hint at it, and Isobel, of course, said nothing; but we may have our own opinions as to whether it's all for Vivien's sake!" Mrs. Belfield almost achieved viciousness in this remark. "And--it may seem selfish of me to say it--if she married and went away, Harry might be more inclined to come down here. As it is, he feels it would be awkward. He's so sensitive!" Belfield and Andy came out--the old man muffled in shawls and, even so, fearing his wife's rebuke, Andy drawing the fresh air eagerly into his lungs. He had dined for the first time since the Sunday before; the miles he had covered, the speeches he had made, defied calculation. He had hardly any voice left. His work was nearly done; the polling was on the morrow. But he was due in a neighbouring constituency the day after that--for one more week. Then back to Gilbert Foot and Co., to make up arrears. Surveying the work he had done and was about to do, he rejoiced in his strength, as formerly he had rejoiced to follow Lord Meriton's hounds on his legs and to anticipate the fox's wiles. He sat down by Mrs. Belfield. Vivien and Sally, who had been strolling, joined the group, of which he made the centre. "Yes, it looks all right," he said, continuing his talk with Belfield. "Wigram promises me a thousand. A strong candidate would get that. I hope for about six hundred." "You think it's safe, though, anyhow?" asked Vivien. "Yes, I think it's safe." He broke into a laugh. "If anybody had told me this!" They discussed the fight in all its aspects, especially the last great meeting in the Town Hall the night before. The Nun mimicked Andy's croaking notes with much success, and Miss Dutton commented on popular institutions with some severity. They were full of excitement as to the morrow, when the three girls meant to follow Andy's progress through the Division. Mrs. Belfield gave tokens of an inclination to doze. Belfield sat listening to the girls' voices, to their eager excited talk, and their constant appeals to the hero of the day. The hero of the day! It was Andy Hayes, son of old Mr. Hayes of the Grammar School, _protégé_, for his stepmother's sake, of Jack Rock the butcher. He had nearly gone back abroad in failure; he had nearly taken on the shop. He stood now the winner in the fight, triumphant in a contest which he had never sought, from the idea of which he would have shrunk as from rank folly and rank treason. Into that fight he had been drawn unconsciously, insensibly, irresistibly, by another man's doings and by his own, by another man's character and by the character that was his. His conscious part had always been to help his adversary; his adversary unconsciously worked all the while for him. What his adversary had bestowed in ready kindness stood as nothing beside what he had given unwittingly, by accident, never thinking that the results of what he did would transcend the limits of his own fortunes, and powerfully mould and shape another's life. Whom Andy loved he had conquered; whom he followed he had supplanted. The cheers and applause which had rung out for him last night had, a short year ago, been the property of another. His place was his by conquest. So mused Belfield, father of the vanquished, as he sat silent while the merry voices sounded in his ears. A notable example of how each man finds his place, in spite of all the starts, or weights, or handicaps with which he enters on the race! These things tell, but not enough to land an unsound horse at the post before a sound one. The unsound falters; slowly and surely the sound lessens the gap between them. At last he takes the lead. Then the cry of the crowd is changed, and he gallops on to victory amidst its plaudits. Jack Rock had made no mistake when he entered his horse and put up the stakes. The hero of that day, the victor in that fight, yes! Against his wishes, without premeditation, so he stood. There was another day of strife, another fight to be waged, one that could not be unmeant or unconscious. Here the antagonism must come into the open, must be revealed to the mind and heart of the fighter. Here he must not only follow, he must himself drive out; he must not only supplant, he must strive to banish, nay, to annihilate. There was a last citadel which, faithful to faithlessness and true against desertion, still flew the flag of that loved antagonist. Would the flag dip and the gates open at his summons? Or would the response to his parley be that, though the faithless might be faithless, yet the faithful must be faithful still? Before that answer his arm would be paralyzed. "Well, I'm sure you'll deserve your success, Mr. Hayes," said Mrs. Belfield, rising and preparing to retreat indoors. "I hear you've worked very hard and made an extremely good impression." A quiet smile ran round the circle. The speech, with its delicate, yet serenely sure, patronage would have sounded so natural a year before. In the darkness Andy found himself smiling too. A sense of strength stirred in him. The day for encouragement was past; he did not need it. Save for that last citadel! There still he feared and shrank. With his plain mind, in his strenuous days, he had done little idealising. Only two people had he ever treated in that flattering exacting fashion. His idealising stood in his path now. The weak spot of his sturdy common-sense had always been about Harry; it was so still, and he had an obstinate sense of trying to kick his old idol, now that it was overthrown. And for her--how if his approach seemed a rude intrusion, the invasion of a desolate yet still holy spot, sacrilege committed on a ruined shrine? On the one side was Harry, or the memory of Harry, stronger perhaps than Harry himself. On the other he himself stood, acutely conscious of his associations for her, remembering ever the butcher's shop, recollecting that what favour he had won had been in the capacity of a buffer against the attack of others. How if the buffer, forsaking its protective function, encroached on its own account? Yet in the course of the months past they had grown into so close a friendship, so firm an alliance. On his part there had been no wooing, on hers neither coquetry nor sentiment displayed. To Harry Belfield their relations to each other would have appeared extremely dull, unpermissibly stagnant, reflecting no credit on the dash of the man or the sensibility of the lady. Sally Dutton, suspecting Andy's hopes, had a caustic word of praise for his patience--the sort of remark which, repeated to Harry about himself, would have sent him straight off to a declaration (the like had happened once by the lake at Nutley). But through these long days, as Andy came and went on his twofold work, from Division to business, from business to Division, they had become wonderfully necessary to one another. For her not to expect him, for him not to find her, would have taken as it were half the heart out of life. Who else was there? Vivien had drawn a little nearer to that dour father of hers, but nearness to him carried the command for self-repression, for reticence. Andy seemed to have no other with whom to talk of himself and his life, as even the strongest feel a craving to talk sometimes. Perhaps there was one other ready to serve. He did not know it; she ranked for him among the cherished friends of his lighter hours. He craved an intimate companionship for the deeper moments, and seemed to find it only in one place. At his own game, his speciality, Harry Belfield could give away all the odds, and still be a formidable opponent. The incomparable love-maker could almost overcome his own treasons; he left such a memory, such a pattern. Isobel loved still; Mrs. Freere was ready to come back; Lady Lucy owned to herself that she was in danger of being very silly. Even the Nun was in the habit of congratulating herself on a certain escape, with the implication that the escape was an achievement. To resist him an achievement! To forget him--what could that be? To Andy it seemed that for any woman it must be an impossibility. In the veiled distance of Vivien's eyes, when the talk veered towards her unfaithful lover, he could find no dissent. Was oblivion a necessity? Here he was--in Harry's place. Did he forget? They let him rest--with his thoughts; they saw that the big fellow was weary. The old Belfields conducted one another into the house; Vivien took Sally off again with her. Only Doris Flower sat on by him, silent too, revolving in her mind the chronicles of Meriton, the little town with which her whim had brought her into such close touch, from which she was not now minded wholly to separate herself. It seemed like an anchorage in the wandering sea of her life. It offered some things very good--a few firm friends, a sense of home, a place where she was Doris Flower, not merely the Nun, the Quaker, or Joan of Arc. Did she wish that it offered yet more? Ah, there she paused! She was a worker born, as Andy himself was. No work for her lay in Meriton. Perhaps she desired incompatibles, like many of us; being clear-eyed, she saw the incompatibility. And she was not subjected to temptation. She was taken at the valuation which she so carefully put on herself--the good comrade of the lighter hours. No cause of complaint then? None! She did not cry, she did not fall in love. She did not break her records. There is small merit in records unless they are hard to make, and sometimes hard to keep. She stretched out her hand and laid it on his arm. He turned to her with a start, roused from his weariness and his reverie. "Dear Andy, have you learnt what we have, I wonder? Not yet, I expect!" "What do you mean, Doris?" "Trust in you. A certainty that you'll bring it off!" She laughed--a little nervously. "I've a professional eye for a situation. Try for a double victory to-morrow! Make a really fine day for yourself--one to remember always!" She drew her hand away with another nervous laugh; her clear soft voice had trembled. Andy's inward feelings leapt to utterance. "Have you any notion of what I feel? I--I'm up against him in everything! It's almost uncanny. And I think he'll beat me in this. At least I suppose you mean--?" "Yes, I mean that." Her voice was calm again, a little mocking. "But I shall say no more about it." Andy pressed her hand. "I like to have your good wishes more than anybody's in the world," he said, "unless, perhaps, it were his, Doris. Don't say I told you, but he grudges me the seat. He'd grudge me the other thing worse, much worse." "Oh, but that's quite morbid. It's all his own fault." "Yes, I suppose so. But he's never been to you what he has to me." He smiled. "We at Meriton still have to please Harry, and to have him pleased with us. The old habit's very strong." "Heavens, Andy, you wouldn't think of sacrificing yourself--and perhaps her--to an idea like that?" "No, that would be foolish, and wrong--as you say, morbid. But it can't be--whatever she says to me--it can't be as if he had never existed--as if it all hadn't happened." "Some people feel things too little, some feel them too much," the Nun observed. "Both bad habits!" "I daresay the thing's a bit more than usual on my mind to-night--because of to-morrow, you know." He was silent for a moment; then he broke into one of his simple hearty laughs. "And I am such an awful duffer at making love!" "You certainly have no great natural talent for it and, as you've told me, very little practice. Oh, I wonder how big your majority will be, Andy!" Andy readily turned back to the election. Yet even here the attitude she had reproved in him seemed to persist. "I expect, as I said, about six hundred. Harry would have got a thousand easily." Andy escorted Vivien back to Nutley. He had it in mind to speak his heart--at least to sound her feeling for him; but she forestalled his opening. "Mr. Belfield's been talking to me about Harry to-night, for the first time. He wrote me a letter once, but he has never spoken of him before. He was rather pathetic. Oh, Andy, why can't people think what they are doing to other people? And poor Isobel--I'm afraid she won't be happy. I used to feel very hard about her. I can't any more, now that the little child has come. That seems to make it all right somehow, whatever has happened before. At any rate she's got the best right now, hasn't she?" She was silent a moment. "It was like this that I came home with him that last evening. He was so gay and so kind. Then--in a flash--it happened!" "I've been thinking about him too to-night. It seemed natural to do it--over this election." They had reached Nutley, but Andy pleaded for a walk on the terrace by the lake before she bade him good-night. "Yes," she said, "I know what you must feel, because you loved him. I loved him, and I feel it too. But we must neither of us think about it too much. Because it's no use. What Mr. Belfield told me makes it quite clear that it's no use." She spoke very sadly. They had not to do with an accident or an episode; they had to recognise and reckon with the nature of a man. "When once we see that it's no use, it seems to me that there's something--well, almost something unworthy in giving way to it." She turned round to Andy. "At least I don't want you to go on doing it. You've made your own success. Take it whole-heartedly, Andy; don't have any regrets, any searchings of heart." "There may be other things besides the seat at Meriton that I should like to take. When I search my heart, Vivien, I find you there." Through the darkness he saw her eyes steadily fixed on his. "I wonder, Andy, I wonder! Or is it only pity, only chivalry? Is it the policeman again?" "Why shouldn't it be the policeman?" he asked. "Is it nothing if you think you could feel safe with me?" "So much, so much!" she murmured. "Andy, I'm still angry when I remember--still sore--and angry again with myself for being sore. I oughtn't still to feel that." "You'd guessed my feelings, Vivien? You're not surprised or--or shocked?" "I think I've known everything that has been in your heart--both about him and about me. No, I'm not surprised or shocked. But--I wonder!" She laughed sadly. "How perverse our hearts are--poor Harry's, and poor mine! And how unlucky we two should have hit on one another! That for him it should be so easy, and for me so sadly difficult!" "I won't ask you my question to-night," said Andy. "No, don't to-night." She laid her hand on his arm. "But you won't go away altogether, will you, Andy? You won't be sensible and firm, and tell me that you can't be at my beck and call, and that you won't be kept dangling about, and that if I'm a silly girl who doesn't know her own luck I must take the consequences? You'll go on being the old Andy we all know, who never makes any claims, who puts up with everybody's whims, who always expects to come last?" Her voice trembled as she laughed. "You won't upset all my notions of you, because you've become a great man now, will you, Andy?" "I don't quite recognise myself in the picture," said Andy with a laugh. "I thought I generally stood up for myself pretty well. But, anyhow, I've no intention of going away. I shall be there when--I mean if--you want me." She gave him her hand; he gripped it warmly. "You're--you're not very disappointed, Andy? Oh, I hate to cloud your day of triumph to-morrow!" Her voice rose a little, a note almost of despair in it. "But I can't help it! The old thing isn't gone yet, and, till it is, I can do nothing." Andy raised the hand he held to his lips and kissed it lightly. "I see that I'm asking for an even bigger thing than I thought," he said gently. "Don't worry, and don't hurry, my dear. I can wait. Perhaps it's too big for me to get at all. You'll tell me about that at your own time." They began to walk back towards the house, and presently came under the light of the lamp over the hall door. Her face now wore a troubled smile, amused yet sad. How obstinate that memory was! It was here that Harry had given her his last kiss--here that, only a few minutes later, she had seen him for the last time, and Isobel Vintry with him! Their phantoms rose before her eyes--and the angry shape of her father was there too, denouncing their crime, pronouncing by the same words sentence of death on the young happiness of her heart. "Good-night, Andy," she said softly. "And a great triumph to-morrow. Over a thousand!" A great triumph to-morrow, maybe. There was no great triumph to-night, only a long hard-fought battle--the last fight in that strangely-fated antagonism. Verily the enemy was on his own ground here. With everything against him, he was still dangerous, he was not yet put to the rout. The flag of the citadel was not yet dipped, the gates not opened, allegiance not transferred. Andy Hayes squared his shoulders for this last fight--with good courage and with a single mind. The revelation she had made of her heart moved him to the battle. It was a great love which Harry had so lightly taken and so lightly flung away. It was worth a long and a great struggle. And he could now enter on it with no searchings of his own heart. As he mused over her words, the appeal of memory--of old loyalty and friendship grew fainter. Harry had won all that, and thrown all that away--had been so insensible to what it really was, to what it meant, and what it offered. New and cogent proof indeed that he was "no good." The depths of Vivien's love made mean the shallows of his nature. He must go his ways; Andy would go his--from to-morrow. With sorrow, but now with clear conviction, he turned away from his broken idol. From the lips of the girl who could not forget his love had come Harry's final condemnation. The spell was broken for Andy Hayes; he was resolute that he would break it from the heart of Vivien. Loyalty should no more be for the disloyal, or faith for the faithless. There too Andy would come by his own--and now with no remorse. At last the spell was broken. But no double victory to-morrow! The loved antagonist retreated slowly, showing fight. The next day gave Andy a victory indeed, but did not yield the situation which the Nun's professional eye had craved for its satisfaction. Chapter XXVI. TALES OUT OF SCHOOL FOR ONCE. The inner circle of Andy Hayes' friends, who were gradually accustoming themselves to see him described as Mr. Andrew Hayes, M.P., included some of a sportive, or even malicious, turn of wit. It cannot be denied that to these the spectacle of Andy's wooing--it never occurred to him to conceal his suit--presented some material for amusement. All through his career, even after he had mounted to eminences great and imposing, it was his fate to bring smiles to the lips even of those who admired, supported, and followed him. To the comic papers, in those later days when the Press took account of him, he was always a slow man, almost a stupid man, inclined to charge a brick wall when he might walk round it, yet, when he charged, knocking a hole big enough to get through. For the cartoonists--when greatness bred cartoons, as by one of the world's kindly counterbalances it does--he was always stouter in body and more stolid in countenance than a faithful photograph would have recorded him. The idea of him thus presented did him no harm in the public mind. That a career is open to talent is a fact consolatory only to a minority; flatter mere common-sense with the same prospect, and every man feels himself fit for the Bench--of Judges, Bishops, or Ministers. But as a lover--a wooer? Passion, impetuosity, a total absorption, great eloquence in few words, the eyes beating the words in persuasion--such seemed, roughly, the requisites, as learnt by those who had sat at Harry Belfield's feet and marked his practical expositions of the subject. Andy was neither passionate nor eloquent, not even in glances. Nor was he absorbed. Gilbert Foot and Co. from nine-thirty to two-thirty: the House from two-thirty to eleven, with what Gilly contemptuously termed "stoking" slipped in anywhere: there was hardly time for real absorption. He was as hard-worked as Mr. Freere himself, and, had he married Mrs. Freere, would probably have made little better success of it. He was not trying to marry Mrs. Freere; but he was trying to win a girl who had listened to wonderful words from Harry Belfield's lips and suffered the persuasion of Harry Belfield's eyes. In varying fashion his friends made their jesting comments, with affection always at the back of the joke; nay more, with a confidence that the efforts they derided would succeed in face of their derision--like the comic papers of future days. "He wants to marry, so he must make love; but I believe he hates it all the time," said the Nun compassionately. "That shows his sense," remarked Sally Dutton. "He's a natural monogamist," opined Billy Foot, "and no natural monogamist knows anything about making love." "He ought to have been born married," Gilly yawned, "just as I ought to have been born retired from business." Mrs. Billy (_née_ Amaranth Macquart-Smith) was also of the party. Among these sallies she spread the new-fledged wings of her wit rather timidly. To say the truth, she was not witty, but felt bound to try--a case somewhat parallel to his at whom her shaft was aimed. She was liked well enough in the circle, yet would hardly have entered it without Billy's passport. "He waits to be accepted," she complained, "as a girl waits to be asked." "Used to!" briefly corrected Miss Dutton. Billy Foot cut deeper into the case. "He's never imagined before that he could have a chance against Harry. He's got the idea now, but it takes time to sink in." "Harry's out of it anyhow," drawled Gilly. "Out of what?" asked the Nun. Billy's nod acknowledged the import of the question. Out of reason, out of possibility, out of bounds! Not out of memory, of echo, of the mirror of things not to be forgotten. "He still thinks he can't compete with Harry," she went on, "and he's right as far as this game is concerned. But he'll win just by not competing. To be utterly different is his chance." With a glance round the table, she appealed to their experience. "Nobody ever begins by choosing Andy--well, except Jack Rock perhaps, and that was to be a butcher! But he ends by being indispensable." "You all like him," said Amaranth. "And yet you all give the impression that he's terribly dull!" Her voice complained of an enigma. "Well, don't you know, what would a fellow do without him?" asked Gilly, looking up from his _paté_. "Gilly has an enormous respect for him. He's shamed him into working," Billy explained to his wife. "That's it, by Jove!" Gilly acknowledged sadly. "And the worst of it is, work pays! Pays horribly well! We're getting rich. I've got to go on with it." He winked a leisurely moving eyelid at the Nun. "I wish the deuce I'd never met the fellow!" "I must admit he points the moral a bit too well," Billy confessed. "But I'm glad to say we have Harry to fall back upon. I met Harry in the street the other day, and he was absolutely radiant." "Who is she?" asked Sally Dutton. "Not a bit, Sally! He's just given up Lady Lucy. Going straight again, don't you know? Off to the seaside with his wife and kid." "How long has Lady Lucy lasted?" asked Gilly. The Nun gurgled. "I should like to have that set to music," she explained. "The alliteration is effective, Gilly, and I would give it a pleasing lilt." "I don't wish to hear you sing it," said Billy, in a voice none too loud. Amaranth was looking about the room, and an implied reference to bygones was harmlessly agreeable. "With his wife and his kid, to the Bedford at Brighton," Billy continued, after his aside. "From something he let fall, I gathered that the Freeres were going to be at the Norfolk." Amaranth did not see the point. "I don't know the Freeres," she remarked. "We do," said Gilly. "In fact we're in the habit of turning them to the uses of allegory, Amaranth. I may say that we are coming to regard Mrs. Freere as a comparative reformation--as the irreducible minimum. If only Harry wouldn't wander from Freere's wife!" "But the man's got a wife of his own!" cried Amaranth. "Yes, but we're dealing with practical possibilities," Gilly insisted. "And, from that point of view, his own wife really doesn't count." "And yet Vivien Wellgood--!" The Nun relapsed into a silence which was meant to express bewilderment, though she was not bewildered, having too keen a memory of her own achievement. "Oh, you really understand it better than that, Doris," said Billy. "Harry can make it seem a tremendous thing--while it lasts. Andy's fault is that he never makes things seem tremendous. He just makes them seem natural. His way is safer; it takes longer, but it lasts longer too. Neither of them is the ideal man, you know. Andy wants an occasional hour of Harry--" "Dangerously long!" the Nun opined. "And Harry ought to have seven years' penal servitude of Andy. Then you might achieve the perfectly balanced individual." "I think you're perfectly balanced, dear," said Amaranth, and thereby threw her husband into sorest confusion, and the rest of the company into uncontrolled mirth. Moreover the Nun must needs add, with her most innocent expression, "Just what I've always found him, Amaranth!" "Oh, hang it--when I was trying to talk sense!" poor Billy expostulated. His bride's remark--admirably bridal in character--choked Billy's philosophising in its hour of birth. The trend of the conversation was diverted, the picture of the perfectly balanced man never painted. Else there might have emerged the interesting and agreeable paradox that the perfectly balanced man was he who knew when to lose his balance, when to kick the scales away for an hour, when to stop thinking of anybody except himself, when to sink consideration in urgency, pity in desire, affection in love. All this, of course, only for an hour--and in the right company. It must be allowed that the perfect balance is a rare phenomenon. Isobel Vintry had not sought it; it is to her credit that she refrained from accusing fate because she had not found what she did not seek. Forgiving Harry over the Lady Lucy episode--his penitence was irresistibly sincere--and accepting Mrs. Freere as an orderly and ordinary background to married life, almost a friend, certainly an ally (for Mrs. Freere was now, as ever, a prudent woman), she recalled the courage that had made her a fit preceptress for Vivien, and Wellgood's ideal woman. She saw the trick her heart had played her, and knew--with Harry himself--that hearts would always be playing tricks. The poacher was made keeper, but the poaching did not stop. The thief was robbed, the raider raided. All a very pretty piece of poetical justice--with the unusual characteristic of being quite commonplace, an everyday affair, no matter of melodrama, but just what constantly happens. She and Wellgood had so often agreed that Vivien must be trained to face the rubs of life, its ups and downs, its rough and smooth; timidity and fastidiousness were out of place in a world like this. The two had taught the lesson to an unwilling pupil; they themselves had now to aspire to a greater aptitude in learning it. Wellgood conned his lesson ill. The gospel of anti-sentimentality fits other people's woes better than a man's own; his seem so real as to defeat the application of the doctrine. The first and loudest to proclaim that no man or woman is to be trusted, that he who does not suspect invites deception and has himself to thank if he is duped--that is the man who nurses bitterest wrath over the proving of his own theories. Aghast at having yourself the honour of proving your own theories! The world does funny things with us. To be taken at your word like that; really to find people about you as bad as you have declared humanity at large to be; to stumble and break your knees over a justification of your cynicism--it would seem a thing that should meet with acquiescence, perhaps even with a sombre satisfaction. Yet it does not happen so. The optimist fares better; he falls from a higher chair but on to a thicker carpet; and he himself is far more elastic. "With what measure you mete, it shall be measured to you again." Hard measure for hard people seems to fulfil the saying, and is not a just occasion for grumbling--even for internal grumbling, which is the hard man's only resource, since he has accustomed sympathy and confidence to hide their faces from his ridicule, and their tender hands to shrink from the grip of his contempt. Isobel Belfield possessed just what Isobel Vintry had stolen. Neither Church nor State, no, nor the more primitive sanction of the birth of a son, availed to give a higher validity to her title. In rebuking inconstancy she was out of court; she was estopped, as the lawyers call it. How could she refuse to forgive the thing which alone gave her the right to be aggrieved? Her possession was tainted in its origin. Or was she to arrogate to herself the privilege of being the only thief? Harry Belfield confessed new crimes to an old accomplice; severity would have merited a smile. Stolen kisses acknowledged recalled stolen kisses that had been a secret. Condemned by the tribunal of the present, Harry's offences appealed to the past. "See yourself as Vivien--see her (Lady Lucy, Mrs. Freere, or another) as yourself!" Harry's deprecatory smile seemed to threaten some such disarming suggestion. Church and State and the little boy might say, "There's all the difference!" Neither State nor Church nor little boy could deafen the echo of Wellgood's denunciation or blur the image of Vivien's stricken face. They were a pair of thieves; the court of conscience would not listen to her plea if she complained of an unfair division of the plunder. Hands held up in petition for justice must be clean--an old doctrine of equity; an account will not be taken between two highwaymen on Hounslow Heath. Origins are obstinate, leaving marks whatever variations time may bring. She had begun as one of two--and not the legitimate one. She was to be one of two always, so it appeared, through all the years until the Nun's pitiless vision worked itself out, and even Harry Belfield ceased to suffer new passions--or, at least, to inspire them; perhaps the latter ending of the matter was the more likely. He did nothing else than suffer passions and inspire them; that was the hardest rub. Where was the brilliant career? Where the great success of which Vivien had been wont to talk shyly? Isobel was a woman of hard mettle, of high ambition. She could have endured to be official queen, though queens unofficial came and went. But there was to be no kingdom! There was abdication of all realms save Harry's own. He grew more and more contented to specialise there. Irregularity in private conduct is partially condoned in useful men; as a discreetly hidden diversion, it is left to another jurisdiction--_deorum injuriae dis curae_--but as the occupation of a life? The widest stretch of philosophic contemplation of the whole is demanded to excuse or to justify. He made a strange thing of her life--a restless, unpeaceful, interesting, and unhappy thing. The old idea of reigning at Nutley, of skilfully managing stubborn Wellgood, of the seeming submission that was really rule (perhaps woman's commonest conception of triumph), did not serve the turn of this life. It was stranger work--living with Harry! Being so well treated--and so well deceived! So courted and so flouted! The change was violent from the days when Vivien's companion stole kisses that belonged to her unsuspecting charge. A pretty irony to find herself on the defensive! A prettier, perhaps, to see her best resource in an alliance with Mrs. Freere! But it came to that. Never in words, of course--tacitly, in lifted brows and shoulders shrugged. So long as there was nobody except Mrs. Freere--so long as there was nobody besides his wife--things were not very wrong for the allies. A sense of security regained, precariously regained--a current of silent but mutual congratulations--ran between the Bedford and the Norfolk hotels at Brighton when Lady Lucy had received her _congé_. Harry's degrees of penitence and of confession at the two houses of entertainment must remain uncertain; at both he was no doubt possessed by the determination to lead a new life; he had been possessed by that when first he heard the potent voice calling him to Meriton. Harry Belfield--the admired Harry of so many hopes--was in process of becoming a joke! It was the worst fate of all; yet what other refuge had the despair of his friends? Even to condemn with gravity was difficult; gravity seemed to accuse its wearer of making too much of the ridiculous--which was to be ridiculous himself. In old days they had laughed at Harry's love affairs as at his foible; he seemed all foible now--there was nothing else. His life and its possibilities had narrowed and dwindled down to that. Billy Foot had tried to be serious on the subject. What was the use, when there was only one question to be asked about him--who was the latest woman? An atmosphere of ridicule, kindly, tender, infinitely regretful, yet still ridicule, enveloped the figure of him who once had been a hero. This was a different quality of jest from that which found its occasion in Andy Hayes' patient wooing. Andy could afford to be patient; once again his opponent was doing his work for him. Spring saw the Nun installed in a hired house of her own at Meriton, Seymour being kept busy conveying her to and fro between her new home and London, as and when the claims of her profession called her. But Sunday was always marked by a gathering of friends--the Foots if they were at Halton, Andy, Vivien Wellgood from Nutley; often Belfield would drop in to see the younger folk. Jack Rock had his audiences to himself, for he sturdily refused to intrude on his "betters"--aye, even though his sign was down, though the National, Colonial, and International Purveyors reigned in his stead, though the Member for the Division occupied rooms in his house. To Jack life seemed to have done two wonderful things for him--one was the rise and triumph of Andy; the other was his friendship with Miss Doris Flower. He was, in fact, hopelessly in love with that young lady; the Nun was quite aware of it and returned his affection heartily. Jack delighted to sit with her, to look and listen, and sometimes to talk of Andy--of all that he had done, of all that he was going to do. Jack's hard-working, honest, and, it may be added, astute life was crowned by a very gracious evening. The Nun's new home stood in High Street, with a pretty little front garden, where she loved to sit and survey the doings of the town, even as had been her wont from her window at the Lion. Here she was one morning, and Jack Rock with her. She lay stretched on a long chair, with her tiny feet protruding from her white frock, her hair gleaming in the sun, her eyes looking at Jack with a merry affection. "You do make a picture, miss; you fair do make a picture!" said Jack. "Don't flirt, Jack," said the Nun in grave rebuke. "You ought to know by now that I don't go in for flirtation, and I can't let even you break the rules. Though I confess at once that you tempt me very much, because you do it so nicely. It's funny, Jack, that both you and I should have chosen the single life, isn't it?" Jack shook his head reproachfully. "Ah, miss, that's where you're wrong! I'm not sayin' anythin' against Miss Vivien--she's a sweet young lady." "What has Vivien got to do with single lives?" "Well, miss, no offence, I hope? But if it had been so as you'd laid yourself out--so to speak--for Andy." The Nun blushed just a little, and laughed just a little also. "Oh, that's your idea, Jack? You are a schemer!" "I've got nothin' to say against Miss Vivien. But I wish it had been you, miss," Jack persisted. "Oh, Jack, wouldn't you have been jealous? Do say you'd have been jealous!" "Keepin' him waitin' too the way she does!" Jack's voice grew rather indignant. "It don't look to me as if she put a proper value on him, miss." "Perhaps you're just a little bit partial to Andy?" the Nun suggested. "And not a proper value on herself either, if she's still hankerin' after Mr. Harry. Him as is after half the women in London, if you can trust all you hear." The Nun's face was towards the street, Jack's back towards it. The garden gate was open. "Hush!" said the Nun softly. "Here comes Vivien!" Poor old Jack was no diplomatist. He sprang to his feet, red as a turkey cock, and turned round to find Vivien at his elbow. "I--I beg your pardon, miss," he stammered, rushing at the conclusion that she had overheard. Vivien looked at him in amused surprise. "But what's the matter, Mr. Rock? Why, I believe you must have been talking about me!" She looked at the Nun. "Was he?" she asked merrily. "I don't know that it's much good trying to deny it, is it, Jack?" Jack was terribly ashamed of himself. "It wasn't my place to do it. I beg your pardon, miss." He stooped and picked up his hat, which he had taken off and laid on the ground by him. "Miss Flower's too kind to me, miss. She makes me forget my place--and my manners." Vivien held out her hand to him; she was grave now. "But we're all so fond of you, Mr. Rock. And I'm sure you weren't saying anything unkind about me. Was he, Doris?" Jack took her hand. "It wasn't my place to do it. I ask your pardon." Then he turned to the Nun. "You'll excuse me, miss?" The Nun smiled radiantly at him. "I hate your going, Jack. Perhaps you'd better, though. Only don't be unhappy. There's no harm done, you know." Jack shook his head again sadly, then put his hat on it with a rueful air. He regarded Vivien for a moment with a ponderous sorrow, lifted his hat again, shook his head again, and walked out of the garden. The Nun gave a short gurgle, and then regained a serene and silent composure. It was most certainly a case for allowing the other side to take first innings! Vivien sat down in the seat that Jack had vacated in such sad confusion. "It was about--Harry?" she asked slowly. "You all hear and know! I hear nothing, I know nothing. Nobody mentions him to me. Not Andy, not my father any more. Mr. Belfield said a word or two once--not happy words. Except for that--well, he might be dead! I don't see the use of treating me like that. I think I've a right to know." "What Jack said was more about you really. There's no fresh news about Harry." While saying these words, the Nun allowed her look at Vivien to be very direct. "You must accept that as final," the look seemed to say. "Lots of men, good men, make a mistake, one mistake, about things like that. He'll be all right now--with his boy." "He's had a love affair, repented of it--and probably started another since that event. The child, if I remember, is about five months old." Still with her gaze direct, the Nun laughed. Vivien flushed. "There's no other way to take it," the Nun assured her. Vivien spoke low; her cheeks red, her eyes dim. "I gave him all my heart, oh, so readily--and such trust! Doris, did he ever make love to you?" "As a general rule I don't tell tales. In this case I feel free to say that he did." Vivien's smile was woeful. "What, he wanted to marry you too once?" "Oh no, he never wanted to marry me, Vivien." It was drastic treatment--and the doctor paid for it as well as the patient. "But you went on being friends with him!" "I became friends with him again--presently," the Nun corrected. "I suppose I don't come well out of it, according to your views. I know the difference there is between us in that way. Look at your life and mine! That's bound to make a difference. Besides, it would have been taking him much too seriously." "I think you're rather hard, Doris." "Thank God, I am, my dear! I need it." "It's a terrible thing to make the mistake I did." "It's worse to go on with it." "I should have liked to go on with it. I feel as people must who've lost their religion." "Is that so sad, if the religion is proved not to be true?" "Yes, terribly sad." Vivien's back was to the street. She wept silently; none saw her tears save Doris. "I thought I had lost everything. It's worse to find that you never had anything, and have lost nothing." "It's good to find that out, when it's true," Doris persisted stoutly. "But I hope he won't happen on any more girls like you. With the proper people--his Mrs. Freeres and Lady Lucies--the thing's a farce. That's all right!" Her bitter ridicule pierced the armour of Vivien's recollection. With the proper people it was all a farce. She had taken it as a tragedy. Her tears ceased to flow, but her colour came hot again. "I don't know anything about those women--I never heard their names--but he seems to have insulted me almost as much as he insulted you." The Nun was relentless. "In both cases he considered, and still considers, that he paid a very high compliment. And he'll find lots of women to agree with him." "Doris, be kind to me. I've nobody else!" "The Lord forgive you for saying so! You've the luck of one girl in ten thousand." Now the Nun's colour grew a little hot; she raised herself on her elbow. "Here are your two men. One's going to lead a big life, while the other's chasing petticoats!" "You think the world of Andy, don't you, Doris?" "I'd think the universe of him if he'd give you a shaking." Vivien smiled, rose, came to the Nun, and kissed her. The Nun's lips quivered. "He's coming down at the end of the week," said Vivien. Her voice fell to a whisper. "He's not quite so patient as you think." With another kiss she was swiftly gone. The Nun sat on, gazing at Meriton High Street. Sally Dutton came out of the house and regarded the same prospect with an air of criticism or even of disfavour. "I think it's all coming right about Vivien and Andy," the Nun remarked. Sally turned her critical eyes on her friend. "Have you been helping?" "Just a little bit perhaps, Sally." She paused a moment. "I shall be rather glad to have it settled." The motor-car drew up at the door. "You'll not have more than enough time for lunch before your matinée, Miss Flower," Seymour observed, with his usual indifferent air. Not his business whether she were in time, but he might as well mention the matter! "My hat and cloak!" cried the Nun, springing up. She took Sally's arm and ran her into the house with her. "Hurrah for work, Sally!" Suddenly Sally threw her arms round her friend's neck and exclaimed, with something very like a sob, "Oh, my darling, if only you could have everything you want!" The Nun's lips quivered again; her bright eyes were a little dim. "But, Sally dear, I never fall in love!" Miss Dutton relapsed, with equal abruptness, into her habitual demeanour. "Well, he's a man--and a fool like all the rest of them!" she remarked. The Nun gurgled. A record was saved--at the last moment. Because she did not cry--any more than she fell in love. The Nun came out, equipped for the journey. She was smiling still. "Do I look all right, Seymour?" "At the best of your looks, if I may say so, Miss Flower." "Thank you very much, Seymour. Get in with you, Sally! You are a slow girl, always!" She pressed Sally's hand as the car started. "Much better like this, really. I have always Seymour's admiration." His name caught Seymour's ear. "I beg your pardon, Miss Flower?" "I only said you were an admirable driver, Seymour." "Naturally I drive carefully when you're in the car, Miss Flower." "There!" said the Nun triumphantly. "I told you so, Sally!" Chapter XXVII. NOT OF HIS SEEKING. Andy Hayes' _début_ in the House of Commons was not, of course, sensational; very few members witnessed it, and nobody outside took the smallest heed of it. Moreover, like other beginnings of his, it was unpremeditated, in a manner forced upon him. He had not intended to speak that afternoon, or indeed at all in his first session, but in Committee one day an honourable gentleman opposite went so glaringly astray as to the prices ruling for bacon in Wiltshire in the year nineteen hundred and something--which Andy considered a salient epoch in the chequered history of his pet commodity--that he was on his feet before he knew what he was doing, and set the matter right, adding illustrative figures for the year before and the year after, with a modestly worded forecast of the run of prices for the current year. Engrossed in the subject, he remembered that the House was a formidable place only after he had sat down; then he hurried home to his books, found that his figures were correct, and heaved a sigh of satisfaction. It was no small thing to get his maiden speech made without meaning to make it--and to find the figures correct! He attempted nothing more that session. He only listened. But how he listened! A man might talk the greatest nonsense, yet Andy's steady eyes would be on him, and Andy's big head untiringly poised at attention. What was the use of listening to so much nonsense? Well, first you had to be sure it was nonsense; then to see why it was nonsense; thirdly, to see how, being nonsense, it was received; fourthly, to revolve how it should be exposed. There were even other things that Andy found to ponder over in all the nonsense to which he listened--and many more, of course, in the sense. But even Andy took a holiday from public affairs sometimes, nay more, sometimes from the fortunes of Gilbert Foot and Co. He was in the office this morning--the Saturday before Whitsunday--finishing up some odd jobs which his partner had left to him (Gilly had still a trick of doing that), but his thoughts were on Meriton, whither he was to repair in the afternoon. As he mused on Meriton, he slowly shook the big head, thereby indicating not despair or even despondency, but a recognition that he was engaged on rather a difficult job, perhaps on a game that he was not very good at, but which had to be won all the same. This particular game certainly had to be won; his whole heart was in it. Yet now he was accusing himself of a mistake; he had been impatient--impatient that Vivien should still be less than happy, that she should still dwell in gloom with gloomy Wellgood, that she would not yet come into the sunshine. Well, he would put the mistake right that very day, for Vivien was to lunch with him, attended by the Nun, with whom she had been spending a night or two in town; and then the three of them were to go to Meriton in the motor-car together. The Nun was not singing at this time. "I must go slow," concluded Andy, whose friends were already smiling at the deliberate gait with which he trod the path of love. "Hullo, there's an hour before lunch! I may as well finish some of these accounts for Gilly." This satisfaction he was not destined to enjoy. He was interrupted by a visitor. Harry Belfield came in, really a vision to gladden an artist's eyes, in a summer suit of palest homespun--he affected that material--with his usual blue tie unusually bright--shirt and socks to match; a dazzlingly white panama hat crowned his wavy dark locks. He looked immensely handsome, and he was gay, happy, and affectionate. "Thought I might just find you, old chap, because you're always mugging when everybody else is having a holiday. Look here, I want you to do something for me, or rather for Isobel. I'm off yachting for three or four months--rather a jolly party--and Isobel's going to take a house in the country for herself and the boy. She doesn't know much about that sort of business, and I wanted to ask you to let her consult you about the terms, and so on, to see she's not done, you know. That'll be all right, won't it? Because I really haven't time to look after it." "Of course. Anything I can do--please tell her. She's not going with you?" "No," said Harry, putting his foot on the table and regarding it fondly, as he had at a previous interview in Andy's office. "No, not this trip, Andy. She doesn't care much for the sea." The slightest smile flickered on his lips. "Besides, it's 'Men only' on board." The smile broadened a little. "At least we're going to start that way, and they're taking me--a respectable married man--along with them to help them to keep their good resolutions. Well, old boy, how do you like it in the House? I haven't observed many orations put down to you!" "I've only spoken once--hardly a speech. But I'm working pretty well at it." "I'll bet you are! And at it here too, I suppose? Lazy beggar, Gilly Foot!" "Gilly's woken up wonderfully. You'd hardly know him." Harry yawned. "Well, I'm wanting a rest," he said. "I've had one or two worries lately. Oh, it's all over now, but I shall be glad to get away for a bit. By Jove, Andy, the great thing in life is to be able to go where you like, and when you like"--his smile flashed out again--"and with whom you like, isn't it? Are you off anywhere for Whitsuntide?" "Only down to Meriton." "Quiet!" But Harry had not always found it so; it was the quieter for his absence. "I like being there better than anywhere else," was Andy's simple explanation of his movements. A clerk came in and handed him a card. "I told the lady you had somebody with you, and asked her to take a seat in the outer room for a moment." Andy read the card. "I'll ring," he said absently, and looked across at Harry. "Lady? Eminent authoress? Or is this not business? Have her in--don't hide her, Andy!" "It's Vivien Wellgood." Harry turned his head sharply. "What brings her here?" "I don't know. I was to meet her and Doris Flower for lunch, and go down with them to Meriton afterwards. Perhaps something's happened to stop it, and she's come to tell me." A curious smile adorned Harry's handsome features. He looked doubtful, yet decidedly interested. "I'd better go out and see her," said Andy. "I mustn't keep her waiting." Harry broke into a laugh, half of amusement, half of impatience. "You needn't look so infernally solemn over it! It won't kill her to bow to me--or even to shake hands." Andy came to a sudden resolution. Since chance willed it this way, this way it should be. "As you please!" he said, and rang the bell. Harry rose to his feet, and took off the panama hat, which he had kept on during his talk with Andy. His eyes were bright; the smile flickered again on his lips. He had not seen Vivien since that night--and that night seemed a very long way off to Harry Belfield. In the brief space before the door reopened, a vision danced before Andy's eyes--a vision of Curly the retriever, and of a girl standing motionless in fear, and yet, because he was there, not so much afraid. In his mind was the idea which had suddenly taken shape under the impulsion of chance--that she had better face the present than dream of the past, better see the man who was nothing to her, than pore over the memory of him who had been everything. She might--nay, probably would--resent an encounter thus sprung upon her. Andy knew it; in this moment, with the choice suddenly presented, he chose to act for himself. Perhaps, for once in his life, he yielded to a sort of superstition, a feeling that the chance was not for nothing, that they three would not meet together again without result. Mingled with this was anger that Harry should take the encounter with his airy lightness, that his eyes should be bright and his lips bent in a smile. Andy was ready for the last round of the fight--and ready to take his chance. Suddenly under the pressure of his thoughts--perforce, as it were--he spoke out to Harry. "None of this has been of my seeking," he said. "None of what? What do you mean, old fellow?" There was no time for answer. Vivien was in the room, and the clerk closed the door after she had entered. She stood for a moment on the threshold and then moved quickly to Andy's side. "I knew," she said. "I heard your voices." "I'm just going," said Harry. "I won't interrupt you. I had a hope that you wouldn't mind just shaking hands with an old friend. I should like it--awfully!" His smile now was pleading, propitiatory, yet with the lurking hint that there was sentimental interest in the situation; possibly, though he could not be convicted of this idea--it was too elusively suggested--that there was, after all, a dash of the amusing. She paused long on her answer. At last she spoke quietly, in a friendly voice. "Yes, I'll shake hands with you, Harry. Because it's all over." She smiled faintly. "I'll shake hands with you if Andy will let me." "If Andy--?" "Yes; because my hand belongs to him now. I came here to tell him so this morning." She passed her left arm through Andy's and held out her right hand towards Harry. Her lips quivered as she looked up for a moment at Andy's face. He patted her hand gently, but his eyes were set on Harry Belfield. The hand she offered Harry did not take. He stretched out his for his hat, and picked it up from the table in a shaking grip. The smile had gone from his lips; his eyes were heavy and resentful; he found no more eloquent, appropriate words. "Oh, so that's it?" he said with a sullen sneer. "It's none of it been of my seeking," Andy protested again. In this last moment of the fight the old feeling came strong upon him. He pleaded that he had been loyal to Harry, that he was no usurper; it had never been in his mind. Harry stood in silence, fingering his hat. He cast a glance across at them--where they stood opposite to him, side by side, her arm in Andy's. Very fresh across his memory struck the look on her face--the trustful happiness which had followed on the tremulous joy evoked by his wonderful words. It was not his nor for him any more, that look. He hated that it should be Andy's. He gave the old impatient protesting shrug of his shoulders. What other comment was there to make? He was what he was--and these things happened! The Restless Master plays these disconcerting tricks on his devoted servants. "Well, good-bye," he mumbled. "Good-bye, Harry," said both, she in her clear soft voice, Andy in his weightier note, both with a grave pity which recognised, even as did his shrug of the shoulders, that there was no more to be said. It was just good-bye, just a parting of the ways, a severing of lives. Even good wishes would have seemed a mockery; from neither side were they offered. With one more look, another slightest shrug, Harry Belfield turned his back on them. They stood without moving till the door closed behind him. He was gone. Andy gave a deep sigh and dropped into the arm-chair by his office desk. Vivien bent over him, her hand on his shoulder. "Why did you let me meet him, Andy?" Andy was long in answering. He was revolving the processes of his own mind, the impulse under which he had acted, why he had exposed her to such an ordeal as had once been in the day's work at Nutley. "It was a chance, your coming while he was here, we three being here together. But since it happened like that"--he raised his eyes to hers--"well, I just thought that neither of us ought to funk him." The utterance seemed a simple result of so much cogitation. But Vivien laughed softly as she daintily and daringly laid her hand on Andy's big head. "If I 'funked him' still, I shouldn't have come at all," she said. "I think I'm just getting to know something about you, Andy. You're like some big thing in a dim light; one only sees you very gradually. I used to think of you as fetching and carrying, you know." Andy chuckled contentedly. "You thought about right," he said. "That's what I'm always doing, just what I'm fit for. I shall go on doing it all my life, fetching and carrying for you." "Not only for me, I think. For everybody; perhaps even for the nation--for the world, Andy!" He caught the little hand that was playing over his broad brow. "For you first. As for the rest of it--!" He broke into a laugh. "I say, Vivien, the first time I saw you I was following the hounds on foot! That's all I can do. The hunt gets out of sight, but sometimes you can tell where it's going. That's about my form. Now if I was a clever chap like Harry!" With a laugh that was half a sob she kissed his upturned face. "Keep me safe, keep me safe, Andy!" she whispered. Andy slowly rose to his feet, and, turning, faced her. He took her hands in his. "By Jove, you kissed me! You kissed me, Vivien!" She laughed merrily. "Well, of course I did! Isn't it--usual?" Andy smiled. "If things like that are going to be usual--well, life's looking a bit different!" he said. Suddenly there were wild sounds in the outer office--a door slammed, a furious sweet voice, a swish of skirts. The door of the inner office flew open. "What about lunch?" demanded the Nun accusingly. "I'd forgotten it!" Vivien exclaimed. "So had I, but I'm awfully hungry, now I come to think of it," said Andy. "The usual place?" "No," said the Nun. "Somewhere else. Harry's there--lunching alone! The first time I ever saw him do that!" She looked at the pair of them. Her remark seemed not to make the least impression. It did not matter where or how Harry Belfield lunched. She looked again from Vivien to Andy, from Andy to Vivien. "Oh!" she said. "Yes, Doris," said Vivien meekly. The Nun addressed Andy severely. "Mrs. Belfield will consider that you're marrying above your station, Andy." Andy scratched his big head. "Yes, Doris, and she'll be quite right," he said apologetically. "Of course she will! But a fellow can only--well, take things as they come." He broke into his hearty laugh. "What'll old Jack say?" The Nun knew what old Jack would say--very privately. "I wish it had been you, miss!" But she had no envy in her heart. "For people who do fall in love, it must be rather pleasant," she observed. "The worst of it is, I've got so little time," said Andy. The two girls laughed. "I only want you to have time to be in love with one girl," Vivien explained reassuringly. "And, perhaps, just friends with another," the Nun added. Andy joined in the laughter. "I shall fit those two things in all right!" he declared. The afternoon saw them back at Meriton; it was there that Andy Hayes truly tasted the flavour of his good fortune. There the winning of Vivien seemed no isolated achievement, not a bit of luck standing by itself, but the master-knot among the many ties that now bound him to his home. The old bonds held; the new came. In the greetings of friends of every degree--from Chinks, the Bird, and Miss Miles, up to the great Lord Meriton himself--in Wellgood's hard and curt, yet ready and in truth triumphant, endorsement of an arrangement that banned the very thought of the man he hated, in old Jack's satisfaction in the vision of Andy in due time reigning at Nutley itself (his bit of sentiment about the Nun was almost swallowed up in this)--most of all perhaps in Belfield's cordial yet sad acceptance of his son's supplanter--he found the completion of the first stage of his life's journey and the definition of its future course and of its goal. His face was set towards his destination; the love and confidence of the friends of a lifetime accompanied, cheered, and aided his steady progress. No high thoughts were in his mind. To find time for the work of the day, his own and what other people were always so ready to leave to him, and to move on a little--that was his task, that bounded his ambition. Anything else that came was, as he had said to Harry Belfield, not of his seeking--and never ceased rather to surprise him, to be received by him with the touch of simple wonder, which made men smile at him even while they admired and followed, which made women laugh, and in a sense pity, while they trusted and loved. He saw the smiles and laughter, and thought them natural. Slowly he came to rely on the love and trust, and in the strength of them found his own strength growing, his confidence gradually maturing. "With you beside me, and all the dear old set round me, and Meriton behind me, I ought to be able to get through," he said to Vivien as they walked together in the wood at Nutley before dinner. She stopped by a bench, rudely fashioned out of a tree trunk. "Lend me your knife, Andy, please." He gave it to her, and stood watching while she stooped and scratched with the knife on the side of the bench. Certain initials were scratched out. "What's that?" he asked, pointing to the spot where they had been. "Only a memorandum of something I don't want to remember any more," she answered. She came back to him, blushing a little, smiling, yet with tears in her eyes. "Yes, Meriton, and the old friends, and I--we're all with you now--all of us with all our hearts now, dear Andy!" Andy made his last protest. "I'd have been loyal to him all my life, if he'd have let me!" "I know it. And so would I. But he wouldn't let us." She took his arm as they turned away from the bench. "The sorrow must be in our hearts always, I think. But now it's sorrow for him, not for ourselves, Andy." In the hour of his own triumph, because of the greatness of his own joy, tenderness for his friend revived. "Dear old chap! How handsome he looked to-day!" Vivien pressed his arm. "You can say that as often as you like! There's no danger from him now!" The shadow passed from Andy Hayes' face as he turned to his own great joy. THE END. Notes on Nelson's New Novels. _No work of unwholesome character or of second-rate quality will be included in this Series._ The novel is to-day _the_ popular form of literary art. This is proved by the number of novels published, and by the enormous sales of fiction at popular prices. While _Reprints_ of fiction may be purchased for a few pence, _New Fiction_ is still a luxury. The author of a New Novel loses his larger audience, the public are denied the privilege of enjoying his latest work, because of the prohibitive price of 4s. 6d. demanded for the ordinary "six shilling" novel. In another way both author and public are badly served under the present publishing system. At certain seasons a flood of new novels pours from the press. Selection becomes almost impossible. The good novels are lost among the indifferent and the bad. Good service can be done to literature not only by reducing the price of fiction, but by sifting its quality. The number of publishers issuing new fiction is so great, that the entrance of another firm into the field demands almost an apology--at least, a word of explanation. Messrs. Nelson have been pioneers in the issue of reprints of fiction in Library Edition at Sevenpence. The success of _Nelson's Library_ has been due to the careful selection of books, regular publication throughout the whole year, and excellence of manufacture at a low cost, due to perfection of machinery. Nelson's Sevenpenny Library represents the best that can be given to the public in the way of _Reprints_ under present manufacturing conditions. Nelson's New Novels (of which this book is one of the first volumes) represents the same standard of careful selection, excellence of production, and lowest possible price applied to _New Fiction_. The list of authors of Nelson's New Novels for 1910 includes Anthony Hope, E. F. Benson, H. A. Vachell, H. G. Wells, "Q," G. A. Birmingham, John Masefield, Mrs. W. K. Clifford, J. C. Snaith, John Buchan, and Agnes and Egerton Castle. Arrangements for subsequent volumes have been made with other authors of equally high standing. Nelson's New Novels are of the ordinary "six shilling" size, but are produced with greater care than most of their competitors. They are printed in large, clear type, on a fine white paper. They are strongly bound in green cloth with a white and gold design. They are decorated with a pretty end-paper and a coloured frontispiece. All the volumes are issued in bright wrappers. The books are a happy combination of substantial and artistic qualities. A new volume is issued regularly every month. The price is the very lowest at which a large New Novel with good material and workmanship, and with an adequate return to author, bookseller, and publisher, can be offered to the public at the present time. _Descriptive Notes on the Volumes for 1910_:-- FORTUNE. _J. C. Snaith._ Mr. J. C. Snaith is already known to fame by his historical novels, his admirable cricketing story, his essay in Meredithan subtlety "Brooke of Covenden," and his most successful Victorian comedy "Araminta." In his new novel he breaks ground which has never before been touched by an English novelist. He follows no less a leader than Cervantes. His hero, Sir Richard Pendragon, is Sir John Falstaff grown athletic and courageous, with his imagination fired by much adventure in far countries and some converse with the knight of La Mancha. The doings of this monstrous Englishman are narrated by a young and scandalized Spanish squire, full of all the pedantry of chivalry. Sir Richard is a new type in literature--the Rabelaisian Paladin, whose foes flee not only from his sword but from his Gargantuan laughter. In Mr. Snaith's romance there are many delightful characters--a Spanish lady who dictates to armies, a French prince of the blood who has forsaken his birthright for the highroad. But all are dominated by the immense Sir Richard, who rights wrongs like an unruly Providence, and then rides away. THE HISTORY OF MR. POLLY. _H. G. Wells._ If the true aim of romance is to find beauty and laughter and heroism in odd places, then Mr. Wells is a great romantic. His heroes are not knights and adventurers, not even members of the quasi-romantic professions, but the ordinary small tradesmen, whom the world has hitherto neglected. The hero of the new book, Mr. Alfred Polly, is of the same school, but he is nearer Hoopdriver than Kipps. He is in the last resort the master of his fate, and squares himself defiantly against the Destinies. Unlike the others, he has a literary sense, and has a strange fantastic culture of his own. Mr. Wells has never written anything more human or more truly humorous than the adventures of Mr. Polly as haberdasher's apprentice, haberdasher, incendiary, and tramp. Mr. Polly discovers the great truth that, however black things may be, there is always a way out for a man if he is bold enough to take it, even though that way leads through fire and revolution. The last part of the book, where the hero discovers his courage, is a kind of saga. We leave him in the end at peace with his own soul, wondering dimly about the hereafter, having proved his manhood, and found his niche in life. DAISY'S AUNT. _E. F. Benson._ It is Mr. Benson's chief merit that, without losing the lightness of touch which makes good comedy, he keeps a firm hold upon the graver matters which make good fiction. The present book is a tale of conspiracy--the plot of a beautiful woman to save her young niece from a man whom she regards as a blackguard. None of Mr. Benson's women are more attractive than these two, who fight for long at cross-purposes, and end, as all honest natures must, with a truer understanding. THE OTHER SIDE. _H. A. Vachell._ In this remarkable book Mr. Vachell leaves the beaten highway of romance, and grapples with the deepest problems of human personality and the unseen. It is a story of a musical genius, in whose soul worldliness conquers spirituality. When he is at the height of his apparent success, there comes an accident, and for a little soul and body seem to separate. On his return to ordinary life he sees the world with other eyes, but his clearness of vision has come too late to save his art. He pays for his earlier folly in artistic impotence. The book is a profound moral allegory, and none the less a brilliant romance. SIR GEORGE'S OBJECTION. _Mrs. W. K. Clifford._ Mrs. Clifford raises the old problem of heredity, and gives it a very modern and scientific answer. It is the story of a woman who, after her husband's disgrace and death, settles with her only daughter upon the shore of one of the Italian lakes. The girl grows up in ignorance of her family history, but when the inevitable young man appears complications begin. As it happens, Sir George, the father of the lover, holds the old-fashioned cast-iron doctrine of heredity, and the story shows the conflict between his pedantry and the compulsion of fact. It is a book full of serious interest for all readers, and gives us in addition a charming love story. Mrs. Clifford has drawn many delightful women, but Kitty and her mother must stand first in her gallery. PRESTER JOHN. _John Buchan._ This is a story which, in opposition to all accepted canons of romance, possesses no kind of heroine. There is no woman from beginning to end in the book, unless we include a little Kaffir serving-girl. The hero is a Scottish lad, who goes as assistant to a store in the far north of the Transvaal. By a series of accidents he discovers a plot for a great Kaffir rising, and by a combination of luck and courage manages to frustrate it. From the beginning to end it is a book of stark adventure. The leader of the rising is a black missionary, who believes himself the incarnation of the mediæval Abyssinian emperor Prester John. By means of a perverted Christianity, and the possession of the ruby collar which for centuries has been the Kaffir fetish, he organizes the natives of Southern Africa into a great army. But a revolution depends upon small things, and by frustrating the leader in these small things, the young storekeeper wins his way to fame and fortune. It is a book for all who are young enough in heart to enjoy a record of straightforward adventure. LADY GOOD-FOR-NOTHING. "_Q._" Sir Oliver Vyell, a descendant of Oliver Cromwell, is the British Collector of Customs at the port of Boston in the days before the American Revolution. While there he runs his head against New England Puritanism, rescues a poor girl who has been put in the stocks for Sabbath-breaking, carries her off, and has her educated. The story deals with the development of Ruth Josselin from a half-starved castaway to a beautiful and subtle woman. Sir Oliver falls in love with his ward, and she becomes my Lady and the mistress of a great house; but to the New Englanders she remains a Sabbath-breaker and "Lady-Good-for-Nothing." The scene moves to Lisbon, whither Sir Oliver goes on Government service, and there is a wonderful picture of the famous earthquake. The book is a story of an act of folly, and its heavy penalties, and also the record of the growth of two characters--one from atheism to reverence, and the other from a bitter revolt against the world to a wiser philosophy. The tale is original in scheme and setting, and the atmosphere and thought of another age are brilliantly reproduced. No better historical romance has been written in our times. PANTHER'S CUB. _Agnes and Egerton Castle._ This is the story of a world-famed prima donna, whose only daughter has been brought up in a very different world from that in which her mother lives. When the child grows to womanhood she joins her mother, and the problem of the book is the conflict of the two temperaments--the one sophisticated and undisciplined, and the other simple and sincere. The scenes are laid in Vienna and London, amid all types of society--smart, artistic, and diplomatic. Against the Bohemian background the authors have worked out a very beautiful love story of a young diplomatist and the singer's daughter. The book is full of brilliant character-sketches and dramatic moments. TREPANNED. _John Masefield._ Mr. Masefield has already won high reputation as poet and dramatist, and his novel "Captain Margaret" showed him to be a romancer of a higher order. "Trepanned" is a story of adventure in Virginia and the Spanish Main. A Kentish boy is trepanned and carried off to sea, and finds his fill of adventure among Indians and buccaneers. The central episode of the book is a quest for the sacred Aztec temple. The swift drama of the narrative, and the poetry and imagination of the style, make the book in the highest sense literature. It should appeal not only to all lovers of good writing, but to all who care for the record of stirring deeds. THE SIMPKINS PLOT. _George A. Birmingham._ "Spanish Gold" has been the most mirth-provoking of Irish novels published in the last few years, and Mr. Birmingham's new book is a worthy successor. Once more the admirable red-haired curate, "J. J.," appears, and his wild energy turns a peaceful neighbourhood into a hotbed of intrigue and suspicion. The story tells how he discovers in a harmless lady novelist, seeking quiet for her work, a murderess whose trial had been a _cause célèbre_. He forms a scheme of marrying the lady to the local bore, in the hope that she may end his career. Once started on the wrong tack, he works out his evidence with convincing logic, and ties up the whole neighbourhood in the toils of his misconception. The book is full of the wittiest dialogue and the most farcical situations. It will be as certain to please all lovers of Irish humour as the immortal "Experiences of an Irish R. M." * * * * * THOMAS NELSON AND SONS, London, Edinburgh, Dublin, and New York. 
40834	----	CHAPTER ONE. IS MAINLY ABOUT A MAN. Two o'clock--two o'clock in the morning. The bells had just chimed the hour. Big Ben had boomed forth its deep and solemn note over sleeping London. The patient constable on point-duty at the foot of Westminster Bridge had stamped his feet for the last time, and had been relieved by his colleague, who gave him the usual pass-word, "All right." The tumultuous roar of traffic, surging, beating, pulsating, had long ago ceased, but the crowd of smart broughams and private hansoms still stood in New Palace Yard, while from the summit of St. Stephen's tower the long ray of electricity streamed westward, showing that the House of Commons was still sitting. The giant Metropolis, the throbbing heart of the greatest empire the world has known, was silent. London, the city of varying moods, as easily pleased, as easily offended as a petted child; London, the dear, smoke-blackened old city, which every Englishman loves and every foreigner admires; London, that complex centre of the universe, humdrum and prosaic, yet ever mysterious, poetic and wonderful, the city full of the heart's secrets and of life's tragedies, slept calmly and in peace while her legislators discussed and decided the policy of the Empire. The long rows of light on the deserted terrace and along the opposite shore in front of St. Thomas's Hospital threw their shimmering reflection upon the black waters of the Thames; the cold wind swept roughly up the river, causing the gas-jets to flicker, so that the few shivering outcasts who had taken refuge on the steps of the closed doorway of Westminster Station, murmured as they pulled their rags more tightly round them. Only the low rumbling of a country waggon bearing vegetables to Covent Garden, or the sharp clip-clap of a cab-horse's feet upon the asphalt, broke the quiet. Except for these occasional disturbances all else was as silent on that dark and cloudy night in late October as if the world were dead. Over in the far corner of New Palace Yard horses were champing their bits, and coachmen and police were waiting patiently, knowing that with the Twelve o'clock Rule suspended the length of the sitting was quite uncertain. Wearied journalists from the Press Gallery, having finished their "turns," came out singly or in pairs from their own little side door in the opposite corner of the yard, wished a cheery "good-night" to the portly sergeant and the two idling detectives who acted as janitors, and then hurried on through the chill night over the bridge towards their homes in Brixton or Clapham. An autumn session is a weary one, and weighs quite as heavily upon the Parliamentary journalist as upon the Leader of the House himself. On the floor of the House honourable members might stretch themselves and doze; they might wander about St. Stephen's Hall with prominent constituents who sought admission to the Strangers' Gallery, entertain them in the dining-room, or take their ease across the way at St. Stephen's Club, ready to return by the underground passage on the ringing of the division-bell; but that gallery above the Speaker, the eye and ear of the world, was never anything else but a hive of industry from the moment after prayers until the House rose. Ever watchful, ever scribbling its hieroglyphics and deciphering them; ever covering ream upon ream of paper with the verbose and vapid utterances of ambitious but unimportant members, its telegraphs clicked on incessantly hour after hour, transmitting reports of the business accomplished to the farthermost recesses of the King's Empire. Truly, a strange life is that of both legislator and journalist within those sombre walls at Westminster. On this night a full House was occupied with serious business. Within St. Stephen's men collected in groups, talked anxiously, and awaited the doom of the Government; for the political horizon was black, and the storm, long threatened, was now to burst. Contrary to the usual course of things, the small band of Irish obstructionists, fluent orators, whose heckling of Ministers caused so many scenes, were silent, for a matter of foreign policy of the most vital importance had been debated ever since the dinner-hour. Member after member had risen from the Opposition Benches and beneath the soft glow of the electric light shining through the glass roof had, before a crowded and excited House, supported the vote of censure, denouncing the Government for its apathy, its neglect of warnings, and the failure of its diplomacy abroad. The scene would have been an ordinary one were it not for the fact that a five-line whip had been sent out. An important division was hourly expected, and as the defeat of the Government was believed to be close at hand, the excitement had risen to fever heat. The calmest man in the whole of that versatile House was, perhaps, he who was at that moment replying from the Treasury Bench. "Strangers" in the gallery were struck by his youthful appearance, for he did not seem to be much over thirty. Tall, dark-haired, with slightly aquiline features and a small black moustache, his face was refined, studious, and full of keen intelligence. Standing beside the clerk's table, upon the very spot where the late Mr. Gladstone had so often stood when delivering his masterpieces of oratory, he leaned easily upon his right hand while he addressed the House calmly and clearly in defence of Her Majesty's Government. All the world knew that the Right Honourable Dudley Waldegrave Chisholm, member for the Albury Division of Surrey and Parliamentary Under-Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, was a coming man. Five years ago, when he was still private secretary to the Marquess of Stockbridge, Her Majesty's Foreign Minister, the political paragraphists, as well as those journalists known as "lobbyists," had predicted for him a brilliant future; and he certainly had shown himself worthy the position he now held--a very high one for so young a man. Standing there, a well-groomed figure in evening-dress, the smart fencer with supplementary questions spoke fluently, without dramatic gesture or any straining after effect, his sweeping and polished eloquence annihilating the opponents against whom it had been set in motion. Deliberately he rebuked the Opposition for their unfounded allegations, and gave the lie direct to many of the statements that had been made in the course of the debate. The speech, a most brilliant and telling defence of the policy of the Government, recalled the greatness of Castlereagh. "And now," he said, in the same calm tone, slightly altering his position as he continued, and knitting his brows, "the Honourable Member for North Monmouthshire has hinted at the overthrow of Her Majesty's Government, and even at a Dissolution. Upon such a threat let all the voters in these islands reflect. The enfranchised public is really living in an unpractical paradise. It stands for nothing better than a puppet Czar. When the five millions of voters have with infinite pains been enabled to record their sovereign will and pleasure, and have succeeded in returning a majority on one side or another, they are apt to consider that they have returned a Liberal or a Conservative majority; but, to quote Hosea Biglow, they have done little else than change the holders of offices. The new Parliament meets, and the electors wait to see the results of their exertions. There is a new Ministry, no doubt, and, so far, that is to the good; but when the new Ministry gets to work, it finds itself in a very different position from that of a Minister charged with a Ukase from a real Czar. If the election has taken place upon one specific point, and the response of the electors has been decisive and overwhelming, then it is possible that a Bill embodying the views of the voters may pass into law; but that is only when the will of the electors has been unmistakably made known, not for the first time, but for the second, or even for the third." An enthusiastic chorus of "He-ah! He-ah!" arose from the crowded benches behind the speaker, but without a pause he went on fearlessly: "The Opposition may threaten Her Majesty's Government with overthrow and ignominy if it choose, but it cannot hoodwink the constituencies. Experience has taught the electors that they are mocked with a semblance of power, the real sceptre being held in permanence by the House of Lords, whose four hundred members appeal to no constituency, but sit by virtue of hereditary privilege and right of birth, with a perpetual mandate to veto any and every scheme submitted by this House which they do not like and which is not literally forced upon them by overwhelming popular pressure. The voting public, therefore, while it can make a statesman a prime minister, and can pass one bill, if it is very angry and has expressed its opinion with emphasis when appeal was made to it upon that specific question, has no more power than this." At these outspoken words, expressions of amazement arose from both sides of the House; but the Under-Secretary, heedless of all in the warmth of his defence, continued, reverting to the main question at issue--namely, the alleged Russian encroachments in the Far East, a subject upon which, owing to his own extensive journeys in Central Asia, Afghanistan and the Pamirs, he was a recognised authority. "It is excessively rare to find, even among educated Englishmen," he declared, "a perception of the simple fact that the landward expansion of Russia has been as natural, gradual and legitimate as the spread of British sea-power, and that the former process has been infinitely the less aggressive and violent of the two. Russophobia in this country rests upon the assumption that the devouring advance of the Muscovite has been exclusively dictated by a melodramatic and iniquitous design upon our dominion in India. There never was a stranger fallacy springing from jealous hallucinations. If our Indian Empire had never existed, if the continent-peninsula had disappeared at a remote geological epoch beneath the waves, and if the Indian Ocean had washed the base of the Himalayas for ages, Russian expansion would still have followed precisely the same course it has taken under existing circumstances at exactly the same rate." And so he continued, arguing, criticising, ridiculing and substantiating, thrusting the truth upon the Opposition; in his eyes a swift light which swept the House like an eagle's glance; on his lips the thin smile which his opponents dreaded, until he resumed his seat amid the wild outburst of cheers from the Government benches. He had thrilled the House. The victory of his party was virtually won. "The best speech Chisholm has ever delivered," declared one of Her Majesty's Ministers, a grey-haired old gentleman in black broadcloth, to his colleague, the Home Secretary, at his side. "Marvellous! magnificent!" "Yes," declared the other enthusiastically. "He has turned the tide. It was really excellent." Everywhere this verdict was accepted, even by the Opposition. Public opinion was certainly not wrong: Chisholm was a coming man--a man of the near future. But he sat entirely unmoved by the wild outburst of applause. He had taken some papers from the pocket of his dining-jacket and was busy examining them in a manner quite unconcerned. His dark face was serious. He never played "to the gallery," as he termed the Irish Nationalists opposite, and although he had chosen a public career, he was at heart a rather melancholy man, who regretted that on account of his travels and his official position he had become notable. The one thing he detested was the plaudits of the public; cheap advertisement he abominated. For that very reason he addressed his constituents down at Albury as rarely as possible. His enthusiastic electors were in the habit of cheering him to the echo, for by reason of his travels he was a popular hero. After a meeting the crowd would usually unharness the horses from his carriage and drag him triumphantly back to his hotel. From that sort of thing his retiring and studious nature shrank. Such enthusiasm might flatter the vanity of the brewer or cotton-spinner, who wished to get into the Carlton, or of the mushroom financier from the Stock Exchange, striving to thrust his way into the fringe of society and to be mentioned in the "social diaries" of the half-penny newspapers. There were men in the House, whom he could name, ready to descend to any ruse to obtain a little cheap notoriety; who would readily black the boots of the editor of the _Times_ in exchange for a twenty-line report of their speeches. But Dudley Chisholm was not one of the hungry mob of place-hunters. Heir to the Barony of Lynchmere, he was also a wealthy man by reason of the huge fortune left him by his uncle, the eccentric old Duke of Lincoln, together with Wroxeter Castle, the historic seat of the Chisholms up in Shropshire. Since his entry into political life he had not been idle. He had been sworn a Privy Councillor a year ago, was Deputy-Lieutenant and a Justice of the Peace for Shropshire, and upon him the Royal Geographical Society had conferred its highest award, the gold medal for his famous journey through the almost unknown territory of Bhutan. All these honours had been thrust upon him. He had sought none of them, for at no time had he been a political "log-roller." When he came down from Oxford, to find himself possessor of an almost princely income, he resolved to take up something with which to occupy his time. He had no inclination for the life of a sybarite about town; the drawingrooms of Mayfair and Belgravia had no attraction for him; the Sunday strutting in the park bored him. He therefore allowed himself to be nominated for the Guildford Division, and after a valiant fight was returned, subsequently being appointed by the Marquess of Stockbridge one of his private secretaries. Eight years had gone by since then. Twelve months after delivering his maiden speech in the House he had set forth to make himself personally acquainted with England's oversea possessions, for he declared that no legislator was competent to criticise a country he had never seen. To Australia, to China, and to India he proceeded in turn, and at last he made his remarkable journey through Central Asia, in order to ascertain the truth of the Russian advance towards India alleged by certain sensational journals. After this came the daring journey across Bhutan. Then, on his return to England on the eve of a general election, he was amazed to find himself famous--the man of the hour, as had been long ago predicted. Later changes in the Cabinet brought him his well-earned reward in the position he now held of Parliamentary Under-Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs. He sat there unmoved by the applause which greeted his speech, and when it had ceased he rose. The tellers were being named, and as he passed out into the lobby a few minutes later his name was on every tongue. Men saluted him, but he only bowed slightly on either side in acknowledgment with haughty courtesy; he held to the imperious, patrician code of his Norman race, and the plaudits of his fellows were almost as indifferent to him, almost as much disdained by him, as their censure. Dudley Chisholm had much of the despot, but nothing of the demagogue, in his character. He had come to the front quickly. Certainly no man was more surprised at his own success in the world of politics than he himself; and certainly no man in London was considered by mothers more eligible as a husband. Perhaps it is fortunate for Members of the House that their female friends are discreetly hidden away behind that heavy iron grille over the Press Gallery, so that they are invisible save for a neatly gloved hand which sometimes shows upon the ironwork, or a flash of bright colour in the deep shadow, caused by bobbing millinery. Many a husband or lover addressing the House would waver beneath the critical eyes of his womenkind. Indeed, on the night in question, Dudley Chisholm would certainly not have delivered his telling words so calmly had he been aware of the presence of certain persons hidden away behind that Byzantine grating. The Ladies' Gallery was crowded by Members' wives and daughters, enthusiastic Primrose League workers, dowagers, and a few of the smarter set. Among the latter, at the extreme end of the gallery, sat a well-preserved, elderly woman of rather aristocratic bearing, accompanied by a blue-eyed girl in lavender, wearing a costly opera cloak trimmed with sable, a girl with a countenance so charming that she would cause a sensation anywhere. The black toilette of the elder woman and the lavender "creation" worn by her daughter, spoke mutely to the other women near them of an _atelier_ in the Rue de la Paix, but as to their names, these were unknown to every person in the gallery. When Chisholm had risen to address the House the elder had bent to the younger and whispered something in her ear. Then both women had pressed their faces eagerly to the grille, and, sitting bent forward, listened to every word that fell so deliberately from the speaker's lips. Again the aristocratic-looking woman with the white hair whispered to the girl beside her, so low that no one overheard: "There, Muriel! That is the man. I have not exaggerated his qualities, have I? You must marry him, my dear--you must marry him!" CHAPTER TWO. CONCERNS CLAUDIA'S CAPRICE. The division had been taken, the position of the Government saved, and the House was "up." Dudley Chisholm, after driving back in a hansom to his chambers in St. James's Street, stretched himself before the fire with a weary sigh of relief, to rest himself after the struggle in which he had been so prominent a figure. His rooms, almost opposite the Naval and Military Club, were decorated in that modern style affected by the younger generation of bachelors, with rich brocade hangings, Turkey carpets, art pottery, and woodwork painted dead white. A single glance, however, showed it to be the abode of a man sufficiently wealthy to be able to indulge in costly works of art and fine old china; and although modern in every sense of the word, it was, nevertheless, a very snug, tasteful and well-arranged abode. The room in which he was sitting, deep in a big armchair of the "grandfather" type, was a study; not spacious, but lined completely with well-chosen books, while the centre was occupied by a large, workmanlike table littered by the many official documents which his secretary had, on the previous morning, brought to him from the Foreign Office. The electric lamp on the table was shaded by a cover of pale green silk and lace, so that he sat in the shadow, with the firelight playing upon his dark and serious features. Parsons, his bent, white-haired old servant in livery of an antiquated cut, had noiselessly entered with his master's whiskey and soda, and after placing it in its accustomed spot on a small table at his elbow, was about to retire, when the younger man, deep in reflection, stirred himself, asking: "Who brought that letter--the one I found here when I came in?" "A commissionaire, sir," was the old servitor's response. "It came about midnight. And somebody rang up on the telephone about an hour after, but I couldn't catch the name, as I'm always a bit flustered by the outlandish thing, sir." His master smiled. That telephone was, he knew, the bane of old Parsons' existence. "Ah!" he said. "You're not so young as you used to be, eh?" "No, Master Dudley," sighed the old fellow with the blanched hair and thin, white, mutton-chop whiskers. "When I think that I was his lordship's valet here in London nigh on fifty years ago, and that I've been in the family every since, I begin to feel that I'm gettin' on a bit in years." "Sitting up late every night like this isn't very good for one of your age," observed his master, mindful of the old fellow's faithful services. "I'll have Riggs up from Wroxeter, and he can attend to me at night." "You're very thoughtful of me, Master Dudley; but I'd rather serve you myself, sir. I can't abear young men about me. They're only in the way, and get a-flirtin' with the gals whenever they have a chance." "Very well, Parsons, just please yourself," answered Chisholm pleasantly. "But to-morrow morning first pack my bag and then wire to Wroxeter. I shall be going down there in the afternoon with two friends for a couple of days' shooting." "Very well, sir," replied the old fellow in the antique dress suit and narrow tie. He half turned to walk out, but hesitated and fidgeted; then, a moment later, he turned back and stood before his master. "Well, Parsons, anything more?" Chisholm asked. He was used to the old fellow's confidences and eccentricities, for more than once since he had come down from college his ancient retainer had given him words of sound advice, his half-century of service allowing him such licence as very few servants possessed. "There's one little matter I wanted to speak to you about, Master Dudley. I'm an old man, and a pretty blunt 'un at times, that you know." "Yes," laughed Dudley. "You can make very caustic remarks sometimes, Parsons. Well, who's been offending you now?" "No one, sir," he answered gravely. "It's about something that concerns yourself, Master Dudley." His master glanced up at him quickly, not without some surprise, saying: "Well, fire away, Parsons. Out with it. What have I done wrong this time?" "That woman was here this afternoon!" he blurted out. "What woman?" inquired his master, looking at him seriously. "Her ladyship." "Well, and what of that? She called at my invitation. I'm sorry I was not in." "And I'm very glad I had the satisfaction of sending that woman away," declared the ancient retainer bluntly. "Why, Parsons? Surely it's hardly the proper thing to speak of a lady as `that woman'?" "Master. Dudley," said the old man, "you'll forgive me for speaking plain, won't you? It would, I know, be called presumption in other houses for a servant to speak like this to his master, but you are thirty-three now, and for those thirty-three years I've advised you, just as I would my own son." "I know, Parsons, I know. My father trusted you implicitly, just as I have done. Speak quite plainly. I'm never offended by your criticisms." "Well, sir, that woman may have a title, but she's not at all a desirable acquaintance for you, a rising man." Chisholm smiled. Claudia Nevill was a smart woman, moving in the best set in London; something of a lion-hunter, it was true, but a really good sort, nevertheless. "She dresses too well to suit your old-fashioned tastes, eh? In your days women wore curls and crinolines." "No, Master Dudley. It isn't her dress, sir. I don't like the woman." "Why?" "Because--well, you'll permit me to speak quite frankly, sir--because to my mind it's dangerous for a young man like you to be so much in the company of an attractive young person. And, besides, she's playing some deep game, depend upon it." Dudley's dark brows contracted for a moment at the old man's words. It was quite true that he was very often in Claudia Nevill's society, because he found her both charming and amusing. But the suggestion of her playing some game caused him to prick up his ears in quick interest. Parsons was a shrewd old fellow, that he knew. "And what kind of double game is Lady Richard playing?" he asked in a rather hard voice. "Well, sir, you'll remember that she called here just after luncheon the day before yesterday, and had an elderly lady with her. You had gone down to the Foreign Office; but I expected you back every moment, so they waited. When they were together in the drawing-room with the door closed I heard that woman explain to her companion that you were the most eligible man in London. They had spoken of your income, of Wroxeter, of his lordship's failing health, and all the rest of it, when that woman made a suggestion to her companion--namely, that you might be induced to marry some woman they called Muriel." "Muriel? And who in the name of fortune is Muriel?" "I don't know, sir. That, however, was the name that was mentioned." "Who was the lady who accompanied her ladyship? Had you ever seen her before?" "No, sir, never. She didn't give a card. She was elderly, dressed in deep mourning. They waited best part of an hour for you, then drove away in her ladyship's brougham." "I wonder who she could have been," remarked Dudley Chisholm reflectively. "I haven't the honour of knowing any lady named Muriel, and, what's more, I have no desire to make her acquaintance. But how was it, Parsons, that if the door was closed, you overheard this very edifying conversation?" "I listened at the keyhole, sir. Old men have long ears, you know." His master laughed. "Slow at the telephone, quick at the keyhole, eh, Parsons?" he said. "Well, somehow, you don't like her ladyship. Why is it?" "I've already told you, Master Dudley. First, because you are too much with her. There's no woman more dangerous to men like yourself than a wealthy young person of her attractions; secondly, because she has some extraordinary design upon you on behalf of this mysterious Muriel-- whoever she is." What the old man had said was certainly puzzling. What possible object could Claudia have, he wondered, in bringing there a strange woman and suggesting to her that he should marry a third person? He would put the question point-blank to her to-morrow. Claudia Nevill and he were old friends--very old friends. Years ago, long before she had married his friend Dick Nevill, a noble lord who sat for Huntingdon, they had been close acquaintances, and now, Nevill having died two years after the marriage, leaving Claudia sole mistress of the huge estate, together with that princely house in Albert Gate, he had naturally become her confidant and adviser. She was now only twenty-six, one of the smartest women in London, and one of the prettiest. After a brief period of mourning, she had again thrown herself into all the dissipations of the following season, and was seen everywhere. She had been so often in the company of Dudley Chisholm that their close friendship had for months past been remarked. The Parliamentary Under-Secretary had, of course, heard the gossip, and laughed at it. He naturally admired her, and once, long before her marriage, he thought he was in love with her; but after a rigid self-examination he came to the conclusion that he had not been really desperately in love with any woman in his life, and promised himself not to commit any such folly now. Therefore, he laughed heartily at his old servant's ominous but well-meant warning. "I'm not the sort of man to marry, Parsons," he said. "Truth to tell, I'm too much of an old fogey for women to care for me. And as for this unknown Muriel, well, I don't think you need have much fear that I shall commit any matrimonial indiscretion with her. I expect her ladyship was only joking, and you took her words seriously." "No, she wasn't joking," declared the old man in all seriousness. "You mark my words, Master Dudley, that woman is not your friend." Again Chisholm laughed airily, and sipped his whiskey, while the old man, satisfied with his parting shot, went out, giving a grunt of dissatisfaction as he closed the door noiselessly behind him. "Poor old Parsons! He thinks I'm going to the devil! Well, I wonder what's in the wind?" observed Dudley aloud to himself when he was again alone. "I've noticed a curious change in Claudia's manner of late. What can be her object in bringing about my marriage, except that perhaps my alliance with one or other of the insipid young ladies who are so often passed before me for inspection, might stifle the ugly scandal that seems to have arisen about us. She's a clever woman--the cleverest woman in London, but horribly indiscreet. I wonder whether that's really the truth. But marriage! _Au grand jamais_!" and he raised his glass again and took a deep draught. "No," he went on, "Claudia is never so charming as when she has some little intrigue or other on hand; but I must really get at the bottom of this, and find out the _belle inconnue_. Parsons is no fool, but the old boy is a Methodist, and hates everything in petticoats," and he laughed lightly to himself as he recollected the old fellow's sage, and perhaps justifiable, reprimands in his wilder college days. "I know I've been a fool--an absolute, idiotic fool with Claudia--and she's been equally foolish. People have talked, but without any foundation for their impertinent gossip, and now she, of course, finds herself in a hole. Dick Nevill was the best of good fellows, but she never loved him. Her marriage was merely one of her _caprices de coeur_. I don't think she could really love anybody for longer than a week. Yes, Parsons is right. He always is. I've been an ass--a downright ass!" he added with sudden emphasis. "I must go and see her tomorrow, and end all this confounded folly." From the table he took up the letter he had received on his return home, and about which he had questioned his servant. Again he read it through, stroking his dark moustache thoughtfully, and knitting his brows. "Writing is woman's _metier_. I wonder what she wants to see me about so particularly," he went on, still speaking to himself. "I wired to her saying, `The House is sitting late,' so she surely couldn't be expecting me. But it's rather unusual for her to send out urgent notes at midnight. No, _la belle capricieuse_ has no discretion--she never will have." And although the great marble clock on the mantelshelf chimed four, he sat with his dark and serious eyes fixed upon the embers, reviewing the chapters of his past. He saw the folly of his dalliance at the side of Claudia Nevill _en plein jour_. He put to himself the question whether or not he really loved her, and somehow could not bring himself to return a distinct negative. She was graceful, charming and handsome, the centre of the smartest set in London, a _grande dame_ whose aid had been useful to him in more ways than one. As he sat there in the silence of the night, he recollected those pleasant hours spent with her at Albert Gate, where they so often dined together, and where she would afterwards sing to him those old Italian love-songs in her sweet contralto, beaming upon him with her coquettish smile, half languid, half _moquer_; those drives together in the park, and those long walks they had taken when, accompanied by her mother, she had visited him at Wroxeter Castle. Yes, all were pleasant memories, yet he felt that between him and her love was an impossibility. As this was the case, the less they saw of one another in the future, even _en bon camarade_, the better for them both. This was not a pleasant decision, for Dudley Chisholm made few friends, and was nothing of a ladies' man. He looked upon life around him as _contes pour rire_. His friends were mostly bachelors like himself, and in all the wide range of his acquaintances he had scarcely any women associates, and, except Claudia, not a single one in whom he could confide. Women courted him everywhere, of course. It was not to be supposed that a popular, good-looking man of his wealth and fame was not actively angled for in various directions; but to all attempted flirtations he gave a polite negative. Hence it was that these disappointed women revenged themselves by starting the ill-natured gossip about his relations with Claudia Nevill, the smart little widow, who was still young, who gave such lavish entertainments, who moved in the most select set in London, and at whose side he was so frequently to be seen. The old baron, his father, who lived the life of a recluse up at Dunkeld, had written to him upon the subject only a few weeks before, and to-night even his own servant had frankly expressed his opinion of her. _Dieu le veut_. Dudley Chisholm sighed. He was an honest man, and these thoughts troubled him greatly. He feared for her reputation more than for his own. As he was a man, what did it matter? It did not occur to him how much it flattered that voluptuous _reveuse_ to possess as her cavalier the man of the hour, the man about whom half England was at that moment talking. All he felt was that they had both been indiscreet--horribly indiscreet. Yes; to-morrow he must end it all. The tongue of scandal must be silenced at once and for ever. He had risen to stir the fire when the stillness was suddenly broken by the sharp ring of the telephone-bell outside the room. A moment later Parsons announced that some one desired to speak with him. As it was no uncommon occurrence for him to be rung up in the middle of the night by the Foreign Office officials, he walked up to the instrument and inquired who was there. "Is that you, Dudley?" asked the soft voice he knew so well. "I called this afternoon, and I've been waiting for you ever since half-past two, when the House rose. You've had my note, of course. Why don't you come? Justine will open the door to you. I know it's very indiscreet, but I must see you to-night on an important matter--at once. Do you understand, Dudley?" CHAPTER THREE. IN WHICH DUDLEY CHISHOLM IS FRANK. The mellow autumn sunlight streamed full into the bright morning-room at Albert Gate where Dudley Chisholm was standing before the great wood-fire with his hands behind his back. It was a handsome apartment, solidly furnished and fully in keeping with the rest of the rooms in the huge mansion, which was acknowledged to be one of the finest in the West End. Before him, nestling in the cosy depths of her luxurious chair, sat its owner, young, dark-haired, with soft languorous eyes, her long and radiant tresses bound carelessly and hanging in as loose and rippled a luxuriance as the hair of the _Venus a la Coquille_. No toilette was more becoming than her pale blue _neglige_ of softest Indian texture, with its profusion of chiffon about the arms and bosom, a robe the very negligence of which was the supreme perfection of art; no _chaussure_ more shapely than the little Cairene slipper fantastically broidered with gold and pearls, into which the tiny foot she held out to the fire to warm was slipped. At that moment, perhaps, Claudia Nevill, who was exquisitely beautiful at all hours, looked her freshest and loveliest. She sat there thinking, while the sunbeams shone on the dazzling whiteness of her skin, on the luminous depths of her wonderful eyes, on her loosely bound tresses, and on the plain gold circlet on her fair left hand--the badge of her alliance with a dead lord and the signet of her title to reign a Queen of Society. Sitting there among her soft cushions she was indeed a lovely woman, an almost girlish figure, with a face oval and perfect, a countenance sweet and winning, a true type of English beauty, who had been portrayed in a very notable picture by a famous Academician. Acknowledged on all hands to be one of the prettiest women in London, she was proud and splendid in the abundance of the power she exercised over her world, which was enchanted by her fascination and obedient to her magic, let her place her foot upon its neck and rule it as she would. There was swung for her the rich incense of worship wherever she moved; and she gave out life and death, as it were, with her smile and her frown, with a soft-whispered word or a _moue boudeuse_. From a station of comparative obscurity, where her existence had threatened to pass away in cotton blouses amid the monotony of a dull cathedral town, her beauty had lifted her to dazzling rank as wife of one of England's wealthiest men, and her tact had taught her to grace it so well that, forgetting to carp, high society agreed to bow before her. In the exclusive set in which she moved she created a _furore_; she became the mode; she gave the law and made the fashion. Thus by the double right of her own resistless fascination and the dignity of her late lord's name, Claudia Nevill was a power in smart London, and an acknowledged leader of her own spheres of _ton_, pleasure and coquetry. Her ladyship was herself, and was all-sufficient for herself. On her _debut_ she was murmured at, and society had been a little slow to receive her; but her delicate azure veins were her _sangre azul_, her white hands were her _seize quartiers_, her marvellous black tresses were her _bezants d'or_, and her splendidly luminous eyes her blazonry. Of a verity, Venus needs no Pursuivant's marshalling. As she sat gazing pensively into the fire a flush had spread over the fairness of her brow, her fingers played idly with her chiffons, and the corners of her lips twitched slightly. Her thoughts were not pleasing. The man who had been held to her by her magical witchery had been speaking, and she had shrunk slightly when she heard him. He had not obeyed her wilful caprice and visited her when she summoned him, but had waited until morning. The words he had just uttered, outspoken and manly, had been fraught with all she would willingly have buried in oblivion for ever: they awoke remembrances that caused her to wince; they were of a kind to fret and embitter her haughty life. With his calm words there came back to her all the shame she burned to ignore and put behind her, as though it never had been; they brought with them all the echoes of that early and innocent affection to which she had so soon been faithless and disloyal. She was cold, though she knew coldness to be base; she was restless under his eyes, though she knew that so much love looked at her from them; she was stung with impatience and with false pride, though she knew that in him she saw the very saviour of her existence. Her eyelids fell, her white forehead flushed, her soft cheeks burned as she heard him. She breathed quickly in agitation; at the sound of his voice the warm and reverent tenderness of long ago once more sprang to light in her heart. He watched her, accurately reading her emotions and gazing at the marvellous change wrought in her. She was superb; she was like a noble sculptor's dream of Aspasia. He looked at her for several minutes, while speechlessness held them both as captives. At last she raised her head, and with a sudden pang of unbearable agony, cried: "You are cruel, Dudley!--cruel! I cannot bear such words from you!" "I have only spoken the truth, Claudia," he replied in the same low, calm tone as he had before used. Their eyes met. She knew that he read her soul; she knew that he had not lied. She--now become keenly critical, scornfully indifferent, and very difficult to impress--was struck as she had never been before by the authority, the dignity, the pure accent of his voice, and his steady, thorough manliness. He stood gazing down at her with a look under which her dark eyes sank. There was a sternness in his words that moved her with a sense almost of fear. The greatness, the singularity, the mystery of this life, that had so long been interwoven with her own, bewildered her; she could not fully comprehend these qualities. Little by little she had been drawn away from him, till between them scarcely a bond remained. As he fixed his eyes upon her lovely face, it occurred to him to wonder whether, after all, he would have been so selfishly in error, so blind a traveller in the mists of passion, if he had kept her in his own hands, under his own law and love? Would he not have made her happiness far purer, her future safer, because nearer God, than they now were, brilliant, imperious, pampered, exquisite creature though she had become? She was great, she was lovely, she was popular, she entertained princes, she was unrivalled; but where was that "divine nature" with which he had once, in the bygone days, believed her to be dowered? Where was it now? "Your words are cruel, Dudley! That you should speak like this! My God! Tell me that you don't mean it!" she cried suddenly, after a long silence, restless beneath the fixed and melancholy look which she could not meet. "Listen, Claudia," he said, still quite calmly, standing erect with his back to the fire. "What I have just said I have long wanted to say, but have always put it off for fear of hurting your feelings--for fear of reproaching you for what is mainly my own folly." "But you have reproached me!" she cried in a hard voice. "You tell me this with such a _nonchalant_ air that it has at last awakened me to the bitter truth--you don't love me!" "I have spoken as much for your own good as for mine," he answered. "We must end this folly, Claudia--we--" "Folly! You call my love folly!" she exclaimed, starting forward. Life had been so fair with her. The years had gone by in one continual blaze of triumph. She was the smart Lady Richard Nevill, whose name was on everybody's tongue; she was satiated with offers of love. And yet this man had coldly exposed to her the naked truth. Intoxicated with homage, indulgence, extravagance and pleasure, her conscience had become stifled and her memory killed; her heart scarcely knew how to beat without the throbs of vanity or triumph. So she had lived her life in freedom-- absolute freedom. Vague rumours had been whispered in the boudoirs of Berkeley Square and Grosvenor Gardens concerning her, but with the sceptre of her matchless loveliness and the skill of a born tactician, she cleared all obstacles, overruled all opponents, bore down all hesitations, and silenced all sneers. "Folly?--you call my love folly, Dudley?" "We have both been foolish, Claudia--very foolish," he answered, facing her and looking gravely into her dark eyes, in which shone the light of unshed tears. "People are talking, and we must end our folly." "And you fear that the teacup tittle-tattle of my enemies may endanger your official position and retard your advancement, eh?" she asked, knitting her dark brows slightly. "Of late our names have been coupled far too frequently--mainly owing to our own indiscretions." "Well, and if they have?" she asked defiantly. "What matters? The amiable gossips have coupled my name quite falsely with a dozen different men during the past twelve months, and am I a penny the worse for it? Not in the least. No, my dear Dudley, you may just as well admit the truth. Your father has written to you about your too frequent presence in my society and our too frequent teas on the terrace--he told Lady Uppingham so, and she, of course, told me. He has asked you to cut me as a--well, as an undesirable acquaintance." "What my father has written is my own affair, Claudia," he answered. "You know me well, and we have hidden few secrets from one another. Surely we may part friends." "Then you actually mean what you've said?" she asked, opening her magnificent eyes to their full extent, as with a sigh she raised herself from her former attitude of luxurious laziness. "Most certainly! It has pained me to speak as I have done, and I can only crave your forgiveness if anything I've said has caused you annoyance. But we have to face the hard and melancholy fact that we must end it all." "Simply because you fear that a spiteful paragraph regarding us may appear in _Truth_, or some similar paper, and that your official chief may demand an explanation. Well, _mon cher_, I gave you credit for possessing the proverbial pluck and defiance of the Chisholms. It seems, however, that I was mistaken." He looked at her without making an immediate reply. He was thinking of what old Parsons had alleged on the previous night in regard to the mysterious Muriel. Should he mention it, or should he reserve to himself the knowledge of her inexplicable resolve to effect his marriage with an unknown girl? As became a discreet man, who dealt daily in the secrets of a nation, he reflected for a moment. He quickly came to the conclusion that silence, at least for the present, was the most judicious policy. He had once loved this woman, long ago in the golden days of youth, and their love had been of a purely platonic character. But during the past couple of years, now that she was released from the marital bond, Claudia's actions had exceeded all the bounds of discretion. And even now, when the silent passion which he had struggled against so long as merely a selfish and vain desire was conquered, he was, nevertheless, to a great extent still under the spell of her marvellous witchery. "I regret, Claudia, that you should upbraid me for speaking so frankly and for thus consulting our mutual interests," he said at last, as, crossing to the table and leaning against it easily, he regarded her with a melancholy expression upon his face. "We have been friends for a good many years; indeed, ever since you were a child and I was at college. Do you remember those days, long ago, when at Winchester we were boy and girl lovers? Do you remember?" he went on, advancing to her and placing his strong hand tenderly upon her shoulder. "Do you ever recall those sunny afternoons when we used to meet clandestinely, and go for long walks through the meadows round Abbots Barton in deadly terror of every one we met lest we should be recognised? Do you remember how, beneath the stars that sweet-scented night in July, we swore eternal friendship and eternal love?" She nodded in the affirmative, but no word passed the lips so tightly pressed together. "And what followed?" he continued. "We drifted apart, I to Oxford, and on into the world; and you, like myself, forgot. You married the man who was my best friend; but for what purpose? Claudia, let me speak plainly, as one who is still your friend, although no longer your lover. You married Dick Nevill in order to escape the deadly dulness of Abbots Barton and to enter the kingdom of omnipotence, pleasure and triumphant vanity, as a sure deliverance from all future chance of obscurity. You became at once the idol, the leader, the reigning beauty of your sphere. Poor Dick was the slave of your flimsiest caprice; he ministered to your wishes and was grateful for your slightest smile. He died--died while you were away enjoying yourself on the Riviera--and I--" "No!" she exclaimed wildly, rising to her feet and covering her face with her hands in deep remorse. "No, Dudley! Spare me all that! I know. My God! I know--I know, alas! too well! I never loved him!" "Then if you regard our folly in a proper light, Claudia," he said earnestly, with his hand placed again upon her shoulder, "you will at once see that my decision is for the best." "You intend to leave me?" she asked huskily. "It is the only way," he replied with a catch in his voice. "We have courted scandal sufficiently." "But you cannot cast me off, Dudley?" she cried, suddenly springing towards him and wildly flinging her beautiful arms about his neck. "You shall never leave me, because I love you. Are you blind? Don't you understand? Don't you see that I love you, Dudley?" "You loved me once, in those old days at Winchester," he said, slowly disengaging himself from her embrace. "But not now." "I do!" she cried. "I swear that I do! You are jealous of all those men who flatter me and hang about me wherever I go; but I care nothing for the whole crowd of them. You know me," she went on; "you know that I live only for you--for you." Her words did not correspond with the sentiments she expressed to the woman who had accompanied her to his chambers. He reflected for a moment; then he said: "Admiration I have for you, Claudia, as the most beautiful woman in London, but I think in this discussion we may both omit the word `love' as entirely superfluous. We are children no longer. Let us face the truth. Our acquaintanceship ripened into love while we were yet in our teens. Then in maturer years it faded out completely, the acquaintanceship being renewed only when, on the death of your husband, you wanted a friend--and found one in me." "And now?" she asked. "Now you have other friends--many others." "Ah! you are jealous! I knew you were!" she exclaimed in a reproachful tone of voice, her glorious eyes flashing. "You believe that I don't love you! You believe me capable of lying to you--to you, of all men!" Chisholm remained silent. CHAPTER FOUR. REVEALS A PECCANT PASSION. The brilliant woman, ignorant of his meaning, but comprehending only that he deemed her inconstant and unworthy, stood with tears in her eyes--tears which sprang partly from sorrow, partly from offence. She knew within herself that she was heartless and wrong; but, none the less, she felt herself aggrieved. "Claudia," he said at last, looking straight at her, "our mutual protestations of love ended long ago. We have been friends--close friends; but as for love, well, when a woman really loves a man she does not bestow her smiles upon a score of other admirers." "Ah! you reproach me for being smart," she cried. "I am a woman, and may surely be forgiven any little _caprices de coeur_." He shrugged his shoulders. "Your attachment to me was one of your caprices, Claudia." "Then you don't believe that I really have within my heart one atom of real affection for you?" she asked seriously. "Your love for me is dead," he answered gravely. "It died long ago. Since then you have made other conquests, and to-day half London is at your feet. I, Dudley Chisholm, am a man who has had an unwelcome popularity thrust upon him, and it is only in the natural order of things that I should follow in your train. But, as my place in your heart has long ago been usurped, why should we, intimate friends as we are, make a hollow pretence that it still exists?" His voice remained calm and unbroken during his speech, yet there was an accent in it that thrilled through her heart. As she listened, stirred at heart by a strange emotion, her truer nature told her that she had by her caprice and folly fallen in his esteem. She had left the greatness that was pure and lofty for the greatness which was nothing better than tinsel. "Once, Claudia, I loved you. In those days, before your marriage, you were my ideal--my all in all. You wedded Dick, and I--well, I can honestly say that during those two years of your married life I never entered your house. We met, here and there, at various functions, but I avoided you when I could, and never accepted your invitations. Why, you ask? Well, I'll tell you. Because I loved you." Her head was bowed; a stifled sob escaped her. "When you were free," he went on, "it was different. In your grief you wrote to me, and I at once came to you. At first you were mournful in your retirement; then of a sudden, after a few short months, you were seized by an overweening ambition to become a queen of society. I watched you; I saw your indiscretions; I spoke to you, and your answer was an open defiance. Then it was that my sympathy with you gradually diminished. You had become a smart woman, and had developed that irremediable disorder which every smart woman nowadays is bound sooner or later to develop--a callous heart. The crowd of men about you became as so many puppets ready to execute your imperious will, and soon, as I expected, the fiery breath of scandal seared your good name. You laughed, knowing well that the very fact of your being talked about added lustre to your popularity as a smart hostess. I regretted all this, because my belief in your honesty--that belief which had first come to me long ago in the green meadows round about Winchester--was utterly shattered. The naked truth become exposed--you were deceiving me." "No, Dudley!" the woman wailed beseechingly. "Spare me these reproaches! I cannot bear them--and least of all from you. I have been foolish--very foolish, I admit. Had you been my husband I should have been a different woman, leading a quiet and happy life, but as I am now--I--" She burst into a torrent of tears without finishing her confession. "If you acknowledge what I have said to be the truth, Claudia, we are agreed, and more need not be said," he observed, when, a few moments later, she had grown calm again. "You are tired of me, Dudley," she declared, suddenly raising her head and looking straight into his eyes. "We have been--close friends, shall I say? long enough. You have found some other woman who pleases you--a woman more charming, more graceful than myself. Now, confess to me the truth," she said with deep earnestness. "I will not upbraid you," she went on in a hard, strained voice. "No, I--I will be silent. I swear I will. Now, Dudley, tell me the truth." "I have met no woman more beautiful than yourself, Claudia," Chisholm answered in a deep tone. "You have no rival within my heart." "I don't believe it!" she cried fiercely. "You could never reproach me as you have done unless some woman who is my enemy had prompted you. Your father has written to you, that I know; but you are not the man to be the slave of paternal warnings. No," she said harshly, "it is a woman who has drawn you away from me. I swear not to rest till I have found out the truth!" When she showed her _griffes_, this bright _capricieuse_, the leader of the smartest set in town, was, he knew, merciless. But at that moment he only smiled at her sudden outburst of jealousy. "I have already spoken the truth," he said. "I have never yet lied to you." "Never, until to-day," was her sharp retort. "I suppose you think that, because of your responsible official position, you ought now to develop into the old fogey, marry some scraggy girl with red hair and half a million, and settle down to sober statesmanship and the Carlton. As you have found the future partner of your joys, you think it high time to drop an undesirable acquaintance." Her words were hard ones, spoken in a tone of biting sarcasm. In an instant his countenance grew serious. "No, Claudia," he protested quickly. "You entirely misjudge me. I have neither the intention nor the inclination to marry. Moreover, I confess to you that I am becoming rather tired of the everlasting monotony of the House. The scraggy female with the red hair, who, according to your gospel, is to be the _chatelaine_ of Wroxeter, is still unselected. No. You have not understood me, and have formed entirely wrong conclusions as to my motive in speaking as I have. I repeat that the step I am now taking is one for our mutual advantage. People may talk about us in Belgravia, but they must not in Battersea." "And you wish every one to know that we have quarrelled?" she said petulantly. He saw by her countenance that she was still puzzled. Was it possible that she was thinking of the unknown Muriel, whom she had declared he must marry? As a matchmaker, Claudia was certainly entering upon an entirely new _role_. "We shall not quarrel, I hope," he answered. "Why should we? By mutual consent we shall merely remain apart." There was another long and painful silence. Her chiffons slowly rose and fell as she sighed. What he had said had produced a greater impression upon her than he anticipated. No other man could have spoken to her as he had done, for every word of his brought back to her the long-forgotten days of their youthful love, and of those passionate kisses beneath the stars. In those brief moments she tried to examine her heart, but could not decide whether she still loved him, or whether his intention of leaving her had only aroused within her a sense of offended dignity. "And your determination is never to see me?" she asked him in a despondent tone of voice. "I shall only meet you upon chance occasions in society," was his answer. "And when people have forgotten--then you will return to me? Give me your promise, Dudley." "I cannot promise." "Ah!" she cried; "why not at once confess what I believe is the truth, that you have grown tired of me?" "No. I have not grown tired," he declared in a fervent voice. "We have always been firm friends, and I hope that our friendship will continue. For my own part, my regard for you, Claudia, is not in the least impaired. You are a woman, and the victim of circumstances. Hence, I shall always remain faithfully your friend." "Dudley," she said in a calmer tone, speaking very earnestly, "remember that women never change their natures, only their faces. So long have we been associated, and such intimate friends have we been, that I have grown to regard you as my own personal property. _C'est assez_." "I quite understand," answered the man in whom Her Majesty's Prime Minister possessed such complete confidence. "You should, for your own sake, Claudia, regard this matter in a proper light. If we do not by our actions give the lie direct to all this tittle-tattle, then an open scandal must result. Surely if we, by mutual consent, remain apart, we may still remain in _bon accord_?" "But you are mine, Dudley!" she cried, again throwing her snowy, half-bare arms around his neck and kissing him passionately. "Then since you hold me in such esteem, why not act in my interests?" he asked, for in argument he was as shrewd as a man could possibly be, and had passed with honours through that school of _finesse_, the Foreign Office. "I--well, I decline to release you, if your freedom is to be used in dallying at the side of another woman," she replied, heedless of his question. "But I have no intention of doing so. Surely you know my nature well enough? You know how fully occupied I am as Under-Secretary, and that my presence here from time to time has scarcely been in harmony with my duties at the Foreign Office and in the House. I have little leisure; and I do not possess that inclination for _amourettes_ which somehow appears to seize half the legislators sent to Westminster." "I know! I know!" she replied, still clinging to him, stroking the dark hair from his brow with the velvety hand which he had so often kissed. "I admit that you have always been loyal to me, Dudley. Sometimes, with a woman's quick jealousy, I have doubted you, and have watched you carefully, always, however, to find my suspicions utterly unfounded. Do you remember what you told me when we walked together in the park at Wroxeter that morning last summer? Do you recollect your vows of eternal friendship to me--unworthy though I may be?" She paused, and there was a slight catch in her voice. "Alas! I am fully aware of all my failings, of all my indiscretions, of all my caprices; but surely you do not heed this spiteful gossip which is going the rounds? You do not believe me so black as I am painted--do you?" and again she stroked his brow with her caressing hand. "I believe only what I have seen with my own eyes," he answered rather ambiguously. "You have been indiscreet--extremely indiscreet--and I have often told you so. But your ambition was to become the most _chic_ woman in town, and you have accomplished it. At what cost?" She made no response. Her head was bowed. "Shall I tell you at what cost?" he went on very gravely. "At the cost of your reputation--and of mine." "Ah! forgive me, Dudley!" she cried quickly. "I was blind then, dazzled by the compliments heaped upon me, bewildered by the wealth that had so suddenly become mine after poor Dick's death. I was rendered callous to everything by my foolish desire to shine as the smartest and most popular woman in London. I did not think of you." "Exactly," he said. "Your admission only clinches my argument that, although we have been close friends, no real affection has of later years existed between us. Frankly, had you loved me, you could not have acted with such reckless indiscretion as to risk my name, my position, and my honour." He spoke a truth which admitted of no question. "Now," he went on at last, slowly unclasping her clinging arms from his neck. "It is already late and I have an important appointment at the Foreign Office, for which I am overdue. We must part." "Never!" she cried wildly. "You shall not leave me like this! If you do, I shall call at your chambers every day, and compel you to see me." "Then I must give orders to Parsons not to admit you," he answered quite calmly. "That man of yours is an old bear. Why don't you get rid of him, and have some one less fossilised?" she exclaimed in a gust of fury. "When I called the other day with Lady Meldrum, he was positively rude." "Lady Meldrum!" exclaimed Chisholm, pricking up his ears. "Who's she?" "Oh, a woman who has rather come to the front of late--wife of old Sir Henry Meldrum, the great Glasgow iron-master. We were driving past, and I wanted to see you, so she came in with me, rather than wait in the cold. Quite a smart woman--you ought to know her." "Thanks," responded the Under-Secretary coldly. "I have no desire to have that pleasure. Smart women don't interest me in the least." "That is meant, I suppose, as a compliment," she observed. "You are certainly in a very delightful mood to-day, Dudley." "I have at least spoken the truth," he said, piqued by the knowledge that for some mysterious reason this woman was conniving with a new star in the social firmament, Lady Meldrum, wife of his pet abomination, a Jubilee knight, to effect his marriage with the unknown Muriel--her daughter, of course. "You have unearthed and placed before me all the most ugly phases of my career," cried the unhappy woman with a quick, defiant glance; "and now, after your flood of reproaches, you declare that in future we are to be as strangers." "For the sake of our reputations." "Our reputations? Rubbish!" she laughed cynically. "What reputation has either of us to lose?" He bit his lip. A hasty retort arose within him, but he succeeded in stifling it. "We need not, I think, discuss that point," he said very coldly. She stood in silence waiting for him to proceed. "Well," she asked at last, with an air of mingled defiance and sarcasm. "And what more?" "Nothing. I have finished. I have only to wish you adieu." "Then you really intend to abandon me?" she asked very gravely, her small hand trembling. "I have already explained my intentions. They were quite clear, I think." "And you decline to reconsider them?" "They admit of no reconsideration," he answered briefly. "Very well then, adieu," she said in a cold and bitter voice, for in those few moments her manner had changed, and she was now a frigid, imperious woman with a heart of stone. "Adieu, Claudia," he said, bending with a stiff courtliness over the hand she had extended to him. "You will one day see that this step of mine has saved us both from degradation and ruin. Good-bye. Recollect that even though we are apart, I remain still, as I have ever been, your devoted friend." Her hand dropped limply from his grasp as she stood there like a beautiful statue in the centre of the room. With a final glance at her he turned and walked straight out. For a moment after the door had closed, she still remained in the same position in which he had left her. Then, in a sudden frenzy of uncontrollable passion, she hooked her nervous fingers in her chiffons and tore them into shreds. "He has defied me!" she exclaimed wildly, bursting into a flood of hot tears. "He has defied me, and cast me off--_me, who love him_!" CHAPTER FIVE. DESCRIBES AN ENGLISH HOME. Three miles from the long white road that runs between sedate old Shrewsbury and the town of Wellington, there stood a prominent object in the landscape, high upon a wooded hill to the right. It was the ancient castle of Wroxeter, one of the best preserved and most historic of the Norman castles of England. Seen through the trees, golden in their autumn tints, it was an imposing grey pile, rich in turrets with narrow windows, whence, long ago, archers had showered their shafts, but which were now half concealed by an evergreen mantle. Closer inspection showed that it was a fortress no longer. The old moat, once fed from the winding Severn close by, was now a well-kept garden with gravelled walks and trees cut into fantastic shapes, while around the building were level lawns sweeping away to the great park beyond. One wing of the fine old feudal castle was in decay. The shattered state of the tower was due to a siege conducted by Cromwell, and the ivy had overgrown the ruins. All the other parts were in good order, stern and impressive in regard to the exterior, yet luxurious within. In the great courtyard, that had through the Middle Ages so often rung with the clank of sword and the tread of armed men, moss grew between the pebbles, and the echoes were only nowadays awakened by the wheels of the high dog-cart which conveyed its owner to and from the railway station at Shrewsbury. The old drawbridge had been replaced by a gravel drive a century ago; yet in the fine oak-panelled hall there still stood the rust-stained armour of the departed Chisholms, together with the faded and tattered banners carried by them in tournament and battle. Built on the site of the Roman city called Vriconium, whilst in the park and in neighbouring meadows traces of the city wall could still be seen, the fosse and the basilica were still visible. The history of Wroxeter began with the Norman survey, the account given of it in Domesday Book being as follows: "Chisholme holds a hide and three roodlands in Wroxeter in this manor, which was always included in the district of Haughmond, where the castle is situated. Roger had half a hide, and Ralph two roodlands. There is one plough and a half in the demesne, and seven villeins with ten bondmen have four ploughs and a half. The whole value in the time of the Confessor was six pounds, it has since been estimated at six: but it is now appreciated at nine pounds." The portion now ruined was standing in those early days of England's history, but it was not until the third year of Richard the Second's reign that the other portion of the old fortress was completed by Sir Robert Chisholm, who (together with Sir John Calveley of Chester and Sir John Hawkwood of Haughmond Castle), was a celebrated captain of those marauding bands that shared in the triumphs of Cressy and Poitiers. The following distich, by a mediaeval poet, records his prowess: "O Roberte Chisholme, per te fit Francia mollis, Ense tuo tollis praedas, dans vulnera collis." _O Robert Chisholm, the stubborn souls Of Frenchmen well you check; Your mighty blade has largely preyed, And wounded many a neck_. During those stormy days of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries Wroxeter withstood many a fierce assault and sheltered not a few of England's kings and queens as guests of the Chisholms, many of whom had been favourites at Court and held official positions of high importance. Queen Elizabeth was the last monarch to visit the castle, and the memory of that event was kept green by the name given to the old-world garden over-looking the Severn, which was known as the Queen's Garden. It was a grand old building, this feudal home to which Dudley Chisholm returned on the night following the farewell scene which had taken place between himself and the frivolous woman with whose name his own had been linked. He had invited for three days' shooting two men--Colonel Murray-Kerr, a retired military attache, and Henry Benthall, a man who had been at college with him, and who had, after being called to the bar, successfully contested East Glamorganshire. All three had travelled down from Euston together; but Dudley, after a sleepless night, had risen long before his guests and wandered through the vast and lonely chambers, full of melancholy musings. He would have put the men off, for he was in no mood to entertain, but there had been no time. So he spent an idle hour alone before his guests appeared for breakfast. He wandered through the great and gloomy hall, the vaulted ceiling of which had so often echoed to the laughter of the banquets held there in bygone days. It was now tenanted only by the many suits of armour that had belonged to his illustrious forefathers. His steps sounded in a grim fashion upon the floor of polished oak, and as he passed the huge fireplace, where once the oxen had been roasted whole to satisfy the Gargantuan appetites of mediaeval warriors, a servant threw open the door leading into the long picture gallery. What an array of fine pictures was there! For each member of this ancient family his or her arms had been painted in the right-hand corner of the canvas. The Chisholms were a handsome, stalwart race, the men strong and the women beautiful. In the features of nearly all, however, there was the same predominant characteristic, the stern gravity, which in Dudley was so often mistaken for actual asperity. Before the last portrait at the farther end of the gallery--the picture of a young and eminently beautiful woman--the young man paused. It was his mother. Deep in contemplation, he stood before it for a long time. His lips moved, but no sound escaped them. At last, with a deep sigh, he passed on, still walking at the same slow pace, plunged in his melancholy thoughts. He passed round the big quadrangle, through one great room after the other: the blue drawingroom, Anne Boleyn's sitting-room, the grand drawing-room, the library, each an apartment of fine dimensions, mostly panelled in oak dark with age and containing antique furniture, curios connected with the family history through eight unbroken centuries, with many other priceless works of art. Two or three of the smaller rooms, such as the breakfast-room, the dining-room, and his dead mother's boudoir, were alone furnished in modern style. In all the others there seemed to linger an atmosphere of bygone centuries. This was the fine old home which so many mothers coveted for their daughters. Indeed, there were a hundred pretty and well-born girls in London, each of whom was at that moment ready to become chatelaine of Wroxeter. But Dudley strolled on slowly, almost like a man in a dream. He was seldom at Wroxeter out of the shooting season. The place was to him something of a white elephant. He had spent his boyhood there, but recollections of the rather unhappy life and early death of that grave-faced woman, his mother, caused him to dislike the old place. One or two memories he would fain forget--memories of his mother's sorrow regarding her husband's mode of life and eccentricities. Truth to tell, husband and wife did not live happily together, and Dudley, knowing this, had been his mother's sympathiser and champion. These handsome rooms, with their ancient tapestries, wonderful carpets, exquisite carvings, old Venetian mirrors and time-darkened gilt, even in the gay light of morning seemed to him sombre and full of ghosts of the past. He only used the library and half a dozen of the smaller and more modern rooms in the eastern wing. The splendid state apartments which he had just passed through he seldom visited. No one entered them, except the servants to clean and open the windows, and the upholsterer who at fixed intervals came from Shrewsbury to examine the tapestries worked centuries ago by the fair hands of the Chisholm women. From the great drawing-room, a huge apartment with a rather low ceiling curiously carved, he passed on, and traversing one of the ante rooms, found himself in the long corridor which ran the whole length of the quadrangle. The stone flooring was worn hollow in the centre by the tramp of generations of armed men, and the quaint arched doors were heavy and studded with monstrous nails. He stood there for a few minutes, glancing through the diamond panes out into the ancient courtyard. His abstracted mood was suddenly disturbed by the sound of the breakfast gong. As his guests would be awaiting him, he must throw care to the dogs for a few hours and try to amuse them. Turning, he walked down the long corridor. As he did so he recollected the strange tradition which he had heard in his youth--namely, that in this passage had been seen at certain intervals a strange old lady, humpbacked and small, dressed in rusty black, who "walked" the corridor even in the middle of the day, and then suddenly disappeared through a door which for a full century past had been walled up. This legendary apparition was known to the family as Lady Margaret, and whenever she showed herself in the corridor it was a presage of evil to the Chisholms. Dudley laughed within himself as he remembered his childish terror when his old nurse used to relate those dramatic stories about her deformed ladyship and the evil influence she exerted upon his house. It is strange how deeply rooted become many of the convictions of our childhood, especially where a family superstition is concerned; and Chisholm, even though he was a level-headed man of the world, had in his more mature years found himself wondering whether, after all, there had been any foundation for the legend. Family ghosts do not, however, appear nowadays. They were all "laid" last century. So he laughed again to himself and continued on his way across the east wing to the bright breakfast-room, where his two guests were already awaiting him. "What a lazy beggar you are, Dudley!" cried Benthall, as his host greeted them and took his seat at the head of the table. "No, my dear fellow," protested the Under-Secretary. "I--oh, well, I've been up quite a long time, and have already consulted Marston about our sport to-day. He says there are some strong birds over in the Dean Copse, so we'll work that this morning." "Excellent! I recollect the splendid sport we got there last year!" exclaimed the colonel, a tall, white-haired, soldierly old fellow with a somewhat florid complexion and a well-trimmed moustache. He was a first-class shot, and now that he had retired from the Diplomatic Service, spent the whole of the shooting season at one house or another in different parts of the country. He was a popular, all-round sportsman, always welcome at any house-party, for he was full of droll stories, a bachelor, and a great favourite among the ladies. The announcement of a hostess to the effect that "Colonel Murray-Kerr will be here," was always received with satisfaction by both sexes. As he had graduated as military attache at the Embassies in Vienna, St. Petersburg, and, finally, in Rome, he was a cosmopolitan of cosmopolitans, though at the same time a thorough Englishman, and one of Dudley's most intimate friends. There were letters on the table for their host, two bulky ones marked "On His Majesty's Service," from the Foreign Office, and another, the handwriting on the envelope of which he saw at a glance to be Claudia's. He glanced at this, then placed it in his pocket unopened. "Oh, read it, my dear fellow," laughed the colonel, quickly divining that it was from a woman. "Don't mind us in the least." "Only tell us who's the lady," chimed in Benthall merrily. "Oh, it's nothing," Dudley assured them, rather annoyed, nevertheless. "From Lady Richard--eh?" suggested the old officer chaffingly. "By Jove!" he went on; "she's really charming. I was staying last week down at Fernhurst, the place old Meldrum has just bought in Sussex, and she was there. Quite a host of smart women were staying there, but she, of course, eclipsed them all. I fear she's a sad flirt, Dudley, my boy, even though they say she's a bit fond of you." "I know she's a flirt," Chisholm answered, rather thoughtfully. The mention of the name of Meldrum brought to his mind what Claudia had admitted, namely, that she had taken Lady Meldrum to his rooms. The old colonel, who always maintained a diplomatic smartness in his attire, was a terrible gossip. He was a living Debrett, and a guide to knowledge affecting social affairs in half the courts of Europe. He knew everybody, as well as everything worth knowing about them. This was his hobby. Perhaps he rode it all the more perseveringly because a natural talent for inquisitiveness had been steadily cultivated during his long service as an attache; for, as all the world knows, an official of this standing is little better than a spy. So, without any thought of hurting his young host's feelings, he continued his reminiscences of the house-party: "We had splendid sport down at Fernhurst. The birds were very strong, and there were several excellent shots. But Lady Richard was, of course, the centre of all the attractions. Every man Jack among the males was absolutely her slave, lock, stock and barrel! By Jove! I don't think in all my diplomatic career I've ever seen a woman play them off one against the other with such _finesse_. Meldrum seems to have got into society wonderfully well of late. The young Grand-Duke Stanislas was there, and he made desperate love to the pretty widow. Indeed, so marked were their flirtations, that several of the feminine contingent declared themselves scandalised, and left. But, of course, the real truth was that they knew themselves to be entirely out of the running. One thing, however, struck me as curious--very curious: the hostess, a rather matronly _bourgeoise_ person, seemed to throw the pair into one another's society as much as possible. At any rate, the extravagant flirtation nearly resulted in an open scandal. To my mind, Dudley, she's playing a decidedly dangerous game. Forgive me for saying so, if she's more to you than a jolly acquaintance; but you know the proverb about the pitcher going too often to the well." "Angling after a Grand-Duke sounds bold," observed Benthall, attacking his cutlet. "I always thought, Dudley, old chap, that she had set her mind on becoming mistress of Wroxeter." "Oh, I know," exclaimed their host impatiently, although trying to conceal his annoyance, "a lot of rot has been talked! I'm quite well aware of what you fellows mean. But I assure you that I'm a confirmed bachelor--just as confirmed as you, colonel--and, hang it! if report speaks correctly, you're one of the worst of the woman-haters in the whole of the Albany." "I've never had any necessity to marry," laughed the old officer, his cheeks flushing with good humour. "I've piloted some ripping ball-skirts and tailor-made gowns through half the courts of Europe, but I'm still heart-whole." "A fine record," observed Harry Benthall with his mouth full. At that breakfast-table there was no ceremony, and words were certainly not minced. "Well, every one seems to be linking my name with Claudia Nevill's," Dudley remarked, after commencing his breakfast, "I really can't see why." "But I can," declared the colonel bluntly. "You're a fool--if you'll forgive me for saying so." "Why?" "A fool for giving a second thought to a woman of her stamp," he answered. "Good heavens! if you knew half the tales about her, you'd cut her dead. I wonder why the Meldrums invited her? Suppose they couldn't help it--or something." "What tales?" asked Dudley, glancing inquiringly from one man to the other. "No. I'm not going to besmirch any woman's character, my dear fellow," replied the elder man. "Only, take my advice and have nothing more to do with her--that's all. She's no good to you, or indeed to any honest man." "Some foul scandal about her, I suppose," cried Chisholm, his brow darkening for an instant. As a matter of fact, he knew the scandal quite well. It was the common talk in every club in town. But he intended to champion her, even though he had escaped from her net. "Why don't you tell me?" "It is unnecessary--utterly unnecessary," the colonel answered, making as if breakfast were more important than gossip. "A pretty woman, smart and popular as she is, always gets talked about, and her enemies are sure to invent some cruel story or other. Half the women in London are envious of Claudia Nevill, hence all these absurd and scandalous tales," Chisholm declared. "Ah!" laughed the colonel, "as I said, you're gone on her, like the others, Dudley. You are old friends, every one knows. It's a pity that she's so reckless." "In what manner has she been reckless?" "Well, if you had been down at Fernhurst and seen her with the young Grand-Duke, you wouldn't defend her actions as you are now doing--well, by Jove! you couldn't. I'm a man of the world, you know, but I must say that the flirtation was a regular blizzard." "And is every woman who glances prettily at a man from behind her fan, or chats to a fellow in a conservatory, to be condemned?" asked his host. "If so, then society has suddenly become intensely puritanical. Remember that the licence not allowed to an unmarried girl may justifiably be employed by a widow." "Widow!" laughed Murray-Kerr adjusting his monocle. "My dear boy, I'm perfectly with you; but then the fair Claudia is one in ten millions. She's more like a girl of eighteen, in face, figure, and the choice of lovers, than the usual prim and stale relict with whom we are all more or less familiar." "Just because she's popular, all this confounded gossip buzzes here, there, and everywhere. My name is coupled with hers, and all kinds of ridiculous stories have been started about us. I know, for too many of them have come to my ears." "Then if you know, Dudley, why don't you take my advice and cut her?" asked the old officer, fixing his host with his keen eyes. CHAPTER SIX. IN WHICH THE COLONEL GROWS MYSTERIOUS. Chisholm was silent. The two men exchanged glances. Since they were his best and most confidential friends, he could not be offended in the least at what they had said, especially as he knew quite well that they had spoken plain, hard facts. "Well," he said at last, in a metallic tone of voice, "the truth is, we have parted." "Then I cordially congratulate you, my dear fellow," declared the red-faced old colonel bluntly. "Forgive me, but you've been a fool over her, an absolute fool, and couldn't see that she was deceiving you on every hand. Men had begun to sneer and laugh at you behind your back-- and, by Jove! you've had a narrow escape of making a complete ass of yourself." "I know. I'm well aware of it," his host replied in a low tone. "But between ourselves, it's all over." "Why between ourselves?" inquired Benthall. "The world should, I think, know, for your own sake? _Pourquoi non_?" "No. I intend to keep it a secret--for her sake." Both men were silent. The conversation had, indeed, been a strange one to take place between a host and his guests. But both men saw that although Claudia and her lover had parted, there still lingered in Dudley Chisholm's heart tender thoughts of that pretty, callous woman who was one of the leaders of smart society in London. "Very well," said Murray-Kerr at length, after a brief period of silence. "If you wish us to say nothing, we can only obey. But, nevertheless, my dear old chap, I, for one, congratulate you most heartily upon your resolution. A man in your shoes can't afford to risk his reputation any longer. Forgive me for speaking as I have done, won't you?" "Certainly, my dear fellow," he answered with a bitter smile. "You've both spoken as friends, and I've told you the plain truth, so what more need be said?" "Nothing," said the colonel. "Stick to your resolution, and let Claudia Nevill proceed at her own sweet will. She'll marry some foreign notability or other, I expect, now that she's in search of big game. Then you'll be entirely free of her." Dudley laughed again, and soon afterwards, much to his relief, the conversation drifted into an easier channel. Her letter, however, remained in his pocket unopened. What words of mad despair, he wondered, did it contain? He sat finishing his breakfast and chatting about various subjects. But his thoughts were of her--always of her. When they rose, his two guests went out to see after their guns, while he, remaining behind upon some pretext, tore open the letter. It was brief, and had evidently been penned in one of those moments of remorse which must come sooner or later to such a woman. "You are cruel to leave me like this," she wrote. "Surely, if you really loved me, you would not care what the world might say. I have been foolish, I know, but am now penitent. I see the folly of it all-- the folly of not keeping my secret and playing the hypocrite like other women. Surely love is not forbidden between us because you happen to hold an official position! Return to me, Dudley--for I love you!" He sighed, then, crushing the letter in his hand, he flung it into the fire, murmuring: "No. She's played me false--false!" He recollected what the colonel had said in regard to the Grand-Duke Stanislas, and saw with chagrin that the world was pitying him. Before the blazing logs he stood, watching the leaping flames consume the letter. When the last spark had died from the black crackling tinder, he sighed again, and reluctantly went out to join his guests. The morning was dull and grey. As they trudged on past the site of the old Roman cemetery, down through Altringham Wood, across the wide stretch of moorland known as Uckington Heath, at last crossing the old highway of Watling Street and entering the Dean Copse, the sportsmen agreed that October might have behaved in a handsomer fashion. The fierce north-east wind that had swept over the Welsh hills had died away the evening before in a tumbled sea of fiery crimson and dense jagged drift of sulphurous blue. For days and days it had torn and shaken the great elms in Wroxeter Park, until it had stripped them of the last vestige of their autumn foliage, and now in the calm morning the leaves in park and copse were lying in a deep, moist carpet of shimmering gold. Nothing but the oaks had been able to withstand the fury of the blast; these still bore their leafy flags bravely aloft, thousands and thousands of their family flying proofs of staunchness on the flanks of many a noble hill. On the grass by the lane-side the dew was held in uncomfortable abundance, and a few belated blackberries showed sodden in the hedgerows. On entering the copse the shooters trudged down the narrow path, which was covered thickly with decaying leaves, and a few moments later both dogs and guns got to work. During their walk the conversation had for the most part dealt with the condition of the birds. The colonel, keen sportsman that he was, telling of the execution effected by the six guns at Fernhurst; describing the big bags made up at Lord Morton's place in Cumberland, and how scarce the grouse had been in various districts in Scotland. As Marston, the head-keeper, had predicted, birds were plentiful in the Dean Copse. Although the ground was rather difficult to work, the guests had good reason to praise the Under-Secretary's preserves. As for the colonel, who scarcely ever missed, he was now in his element; the heavier the bag became, the more brightly the old warrior's eyes sparkled. So excellent had been the sport, and, in consequence, so quickly had the time passed, that the guests could hardly believe their ears when the interval for lunch was announced. Dudley, who was an excellent shot, and who, on an ordinary occasion, would have entered into the sport with becoming zest, throughout the morning had knocked down the birds in a merely mechanical way, more to please his friends than himself. Secretly he wished himself back at the castle, in the solitude of that old library which he used for his den at such times as he was all by himself at Wroxeter. "I think, sir, we ought to try the Holly Wood now," Marston suggested as soon as they had eaten their sandwiches and drunk their sherry. In accordance with this view, they tramped down into the valley by Upton Magna, and presently came to the spot indicated. For the past two seasons Dudley had been down at Wroxeter but seldom, one of the results being that birds were very plentiful. All three of the shooters were kept busy until nearly three o'clock, when, after enjoying a grand day's sport, the party turned towards the old inn at Uffington, where the dog-cart was to meet them. On the way across the brown fields, Benthall, deep in conversation with Marston, was somewhat ahead, and Dudley walked at the colonel's side, a smart, well-set-up figure in his drab shooting-clothes. He was hesitating whether to broach a subject that was puzzling him. Presently, however, unable longer to conceal his curiosity, he turned suddenly to his companion, saying: "You were speaking of Fernhurst at breakfast. Let's see, hasn't Lady Meldrum a daughter?" "A daughter?" observed the colonel, looking at him. "Certainly not. There's no family." "That's curious," Dudley said with an affected air of indifference. "Somebody said she had a daughter named Muriel." "A daughter named Muriel!" the old officer exclaimed. "No, she has a girl named Muriel who lives with her--a ward, I believe--and a confoundedly pretty girl she is, too. She wasn't much _en Evidence_ when I was down there. I have my suspicions that during the house-party she was sent away to the quieter atmosphere surrounding a maiden aunt." "Oh, she's a ward, is she?" remarked Chisholm. "What's her name?" "Muriel Mortimer." "A ward in Chancery, I suppose?" "I'm not certain," replied Murray-Kerr hesitatingly. "I only saw her once, on the day of my arrival at Fernhurst. She left for Hertfordshire next day. Lady Meldrum, however, seemed devoted to her--went up to town to see her off, and all that sort of thing. But who's been chattering to you about her?" "Oh, I heard her spoken of somewhere. The fellow who told me said she was rather pretty." "Yes," the other answered in rather a strange and hesitating manner, "she is--very pretty, and quite young." "Do you know absolutely nothing more concerning her?" Chisholm asked. "You always know everything about everybody when you're in the smoking-room at the Junior, you know." "In the club a man may open his mouth, but it isn't always wise when visiting friends," the colonel replied with a laugh. "I don't quite follow you," his companion said. "Surely Wroxeter is as free as Charles Street, isn't it?" "Well, no, not quite, my dear Dudley--not quite." "Why?" "Because there are some things that even I--plain-spoken as I am--would rather leave unsaid." Chisholm looked at him and saw the change upon the old fellow's countenance. "You're hiding something from me," the younger man said quickly. "I don't deny that," was the other's response. "But I really can't see why you should so suddenly become the victim of an intense desire to know the history of Lady Meldrum's ward. Have you met her?" "No, never." "Then don't, that's all," was the mysterious answer. "What the dickens do you mean, speaking in enigmas like this? Surely you can speak straight out?" "No, not in this case, Dudley," the colonel said in a rather softer tone. "I told you sufficient this morning about Claudia Nevill, and all I wish to urge is that you should avoid the pretty Muriel quite as assiduously as you will her ladyship in future." Chisholm was puzzled. His companion was evidently aware of some fact which, for a mysterious reason, he was reluctant to disclose. "But I can't see your object in mystifying me like this!" he protested. "We are friends--very old friends--surely you can at least tell me the truth?" "I've told you the truth, dear boy. Muriel Mortimer is an undesirable acquaintance for you. Is not that a friendly warning." "A warning, certainly--but hardly a friendly one," answered Dudley, swinging over a stile into the highroad. "I mention to you a woman I've heard about," he went on as the pair were walking side by side again, "and you at once give me these extraordinary warnings, without offering any explanation whatsoever. Who is this mysterious ward? What is she?" "I've already told you who she is," his companion replied, shifting his gun as he marched onward. "What she is I don't know. All I am sure about is that the less you see of her the better, Dudley--that's all." "And how do you know that?" "Because of something I've discovered," the elder man replied. "Something about her?" "Well--yes. Something about her." "But you speak as though we were intimate, my dear fellow, and as if I were about to lose my heart to her!" exclaimed Chisholm. "You'll probably know her soon, but when you are introduced, remember my warning, and drop her at once like a live coal." "You're in a delightfully prophetic vein this afternoon," laughed his host. "I suppose it's the dull weather." At this the elder man halted, turned upon him suddenly, placed his hand upon his shoulder, and said in a deep and earnest tone: "Recollect, Dudley, that what I told you this morning at breakfast was for your own good. I'm not a fellow given to preaching or moralising, that you know well. But I tell you straight to your face that before long you'll know Muriel Mortimer. All I urge upon you is not to allow yourself to be captivated." "Then you know something distinctly to her detriment?" Chisholm suggested, for what his friend had said had shown him plainly that this girl was mixed up in unsavoury matters. "I only say that she's not a desirable person for you to know." Dudley laughed uneasily. These words were all the more remarkable in the light of old Parsons' statement. "You speak just as though you feared I might marry her!" he said. "Well, there are many things more unlikely than that," was the elder man's reply. "We hear of strange matches nowadays." "And if I married this fair unknown, what then?" "Well, before you do that just take my advice and swallow an overdose of chloral, or something of that sort. It would be a far easier way out of this work-a-day world than marriage with her." Chisholm looked at him quickly. "My dear fellow," he said, "your words imply that marriage with her would be tantamount to suicide." "That was exactly the impression I meant to convey, Dudley," was the strange reply. "I can say no more--indeed, I have no intention of being more explicit, even were I free to make further explanation. Avoid her--that's all." CHAPTER SEVEN. UNITES REALITY WITH ROMANCE. The colonel's strange premonition was puzzling. Chisholm saw quite plainly that his friendship with Claudia Nevill had caused him to throw his usual carefulness to the winds. Her letter was but another proof of her insincerity; while the statement of the old colonel in respect of the house-party at Fernhurst angered him. He was furious that she should risk her reputation openly in such a manner. At the same time he was filled with regret that from the charming woman of four years ago she should have developed into a brilliant leader of society, acknowledged by all to be the smartest woman in London. It was dark when they drove into the quadrangle of the castle, and Dudley, excusing himself to his friends, dressed and retired to the great library for an hour before dinner in order to examine the official correspondence that had arrived in the morning. From the big Foreign Office envelopes he drew a mass of papers which required his endorsement, and several important letters which he at once answered. The duties of Under-Secretary for Foreign Affairs are multitudinous, and the office needs a man who does not hanker after a sinecure. Little leisure was Dudley Chisholm allowed, and seldom could he snatch a few days to run down into the country. His presence in or near town was required always for passing reports; he had to sign here, initial there, and control in a great measure one of the greatest and most important departments of the State. It is generally understood by Parliament that answers to questions put to the Foreign Under-secretary are prescribed by his Chief, His Majesty's Principal Secretary. Palmerston would never allow an Under-Secretary to answer a supplementary question until his superior had dictated the reply. But under the Gladstone _regime_ this rule was gradually relaxed; and such confidence did Lord Stockbridge place in Chisholm's discretion and power to fence with the Opposition, that, although he was required to meet his Chief at the Foreign Office between the hours of twelve and two each Parliamentary day, he was allowed a practically free hand. Years ago under-secretaries were but the mouthpieces of their chiefs. Old Parliamentary hands recollect seeing Sir William Harcourt at the far end of the Treasury Bench pass the word to Sir Edward Grey at the other end not to answer a supplementary question until he had consulted Lord Rosebery; and once when Lord Edmond Fitzmaurice asked for notice of a supplementary question so that he might consult Earl Granville, the Opposition jeered, and Mr. Gladstone jumped up to declare that Lord Edmond Fitzmaurice had done so by his orders. That, however, was all of the past. Dudley Chisholm was entirely in the confidence of the Marquess of Stockbridge. He relied upon him. In that sombre old room where the firelight danced upon the rows and rows of heavy volumes written in days long past, he sat within the zone of the green-shaded reading-lamp, his attention absorbed by some official reports. They were evidently of an unusual nature, for of a sudden an exclamation of profound surprise escaped him, and with growing eagerness he scanned page after page of those written lines. "I don't believe it!" he exclaimed, speaking to himself. "It can't be true! My secret is still safe. It cannot possibly be revealed any more than the dead can speak. And yet cock-and-bull stories do not usually emanate from that quarter. It's certainly startling enough--and if true--well--" He rose from his chair and thoughtfully paced the room, his hands locked behind his back, as was his habit when thinking deeply. The statement contained in the despatch had alarmed him. He scented danger, and his brow was clouded. The whole thing was so unexpected and so extraordinary that he could scarcely credit it, although the signature to the despatch was that of his Chief, Lord Stockbridge. The matter was one demanding his immediate attention, and yet he had allowed the despatch to remain unopened all day. Up and down the polished floor he paced, plunged in apprehensive reflections. It appeared that after he had left the Foreign Office on the previous day the Minister had attended there and had sent him that startling despatch under seal. He paused at the table, and taking up the envelope for the first time discovered that it had not been through the post. Then he touched the bell, and of the man who entered he asked: "Did a messenger from London leave anything for me this morning, Riggs?" "Yes, sir. Two official letters, sir. He arrived at six o'clock, and I placed the letters on the breakfast-table." "Oh, very well," his master answered. "You signed the receipt?" "Yes, sir. It was Mr. Forbes who brought them, sir. He said he couldn't wait till you came down as he was driving back to Shrewsbury to catch the eight-ten up to London." "He didn't say they were important, or make any remark?" "No, sir." "Very well." And then the man, a smart, middle-aged servant in the Chisholm livery, withdrew. "Curious--very curious!" exclaimed Dudley in a low, half-frightened whisper when the man had closed the door. "It's certainly a matter that requires the most searching investigation, otherwise we shall infallibly find ourselves checkmated, Lord Stockbridge writes. I wonder what it can all mean? Even Stockbridge himself doesn't see any light through it, apparently." Again he read the puzzling document, which bore the signature known to every court of Europe as that of the greatest of living statesmen. It bore a postscript also, written by his lordship's own quill: "When read, please destroy." He replaced it on the table, and, crossing to the ancient hearth where the big logs were burning, he stood motionless, gazing blankly at the fire. The words he read had aroused within him a suspicion--a grave, terrible, awful suspicion. In those moments of deep contemplation he looked fully ten years older. His hand rested upon the high overmantel of black oak, on which was a carved representation of the simple coat of the Shropshire Chisholms, azure, a chevron, or between three water-bougets argent. His brow rested upon his arm as he gazed at the glowing logs. Truth to tell, that confidential document had caused a flood of recollections to surge through his brain--recollections whose return he did not desire. He had vainly thought the past all buried, and had forgiven and forgotten his enemy. But, reading between the lines of that despatch, he saw that this ghost of the past had again arisen. Lord Stockbridge had, of course, no suspicion of the truth. The confidential communication had been made to him in the ordinary course of events, in order that he might institute secret inquiries in certain quarters, and ascertain the feeling of certain influential members in the House. But if the truth became known? He set his jaws hard, and a deep sigh escaped him. He dared not contemplate the result. It would mean for him ruin, ignominy, shame. He passed his hot hand wearily across his brow, pushing the thick dark hair from his forehead. The dead silence was broken by a low groan--a groan of despair and penitence. "God!" he gasped. "Surely the truth cannot possibly be known? How can it? No," he went on, murmuring to himself. "Bah! I'm timid--thoughts of it always unnerve me. And yet from this it seems very much as if some secret enemy had waited through these years until I had attained position and popularity in order to strike, to crush, to ruin me for ever!" He was silent again, silent for many minutes. He stood quite motionless, still gazing into the fire. "But dare I face exposure?" he asked himself, his hoarse whisper sounding strangely in that old room. "No. A thousand times no! No-- impossible! A thousand times no! I'd prefer death. Yes, suicide. It would be the only way. Death is far preferable to dishonour." He saw it all--he who could read between those lines. He detected the hand of some secret enemy uplifted against him--an enemy who, he did not doubt, held that secret which through the past six years had been the skeleton in his cupboard. In the esteem of men he had risen rapidly, until to-day he was declared to be one of the shrewdest of England's legislators, fulfilling all the traditions of his ancient and honourable house. And through out these six years he had striven, and striven, always with an idea of atonement for his cardinal sin; always working in the interests of the nation he had resolved to serve. How strange it was that His Majesty's Foreign Minister should have actually communicated this to him, of all men! But man works half his own doom, and circumstance the other half. _C'est toujours le destin_. In his despair there had arisen before him that grim and hideous ghost of the past which had always overshadowed the later years of his life; that incident which he constantly feared might come to light to destroy the position he had created, to wreck his popularity, and to cause his name to be synonymous with all that was base, treacherous, and ignominious. For the fault he had committed--a grave offence which he knew could never be humanly forgiven--he had endeavoured to atone to the best of his ability. Other young men of his wealth would have probably married and taken their ease; but with that secret deep in his heart he had worked and striven for his country's good, prompted by a desire not merely to become popular, but to accomplish something by means of which to make amends. Men had, of course, never rightly understood his motives. They had believed him to be one of a motley crowd of place-seekers, whose brilliant oratory had fortunately brought him into the front rank, though this was certainly far from being the case Popularity had been heaped upon him as an entirely unwelcome reward. He always declared within himself that he merited nothing--absolutely nothing; and this belief accounted for his utter indifference to the plaudits of the public or the praise bestowed upon him by his Party. He was endeavouring to work out his atonement and make reparation--that was all. Try as he would, however, he could not put aside the grave suggestion that some secret enemy was preparing a _coup_ beneath which he must fall. The disquieting despatch from Constantinople seemed to portend this. It was a presage of his downfall. To endeavour to prove his innocence, to try to withstand the storm of indignation that must certainly sweep over England, or to prevent exposure of the truth, spelt futility. He was helpless--utterly helpless against the onsweeping tide of retribution. The marquess urged that he--the very man concerned in the disreputable affair--should make secret inquiry into the truth of the report. Was not that a freak of Fate? Surely Nemesis was already upon him. What could he reply to that despatch? How could he act? Many men grudged him his position and the fame he had won. And yet, would they envy him if they were aware of the terrible truth--if they were aware of that awful secret ever burdening his conscience? Suddenly, as though some fresh thought had occurred to him, he crossed to the opposite side of the room, and, pressing against one of the shelves filled with old brown-covered folios, opened a part which concealed a small safe embedded deeply in the wall, hidden from even the keenest eyes in a manner that could scarcely have been improved. From his watch-chain he selected a key, opened the safe and took from one of its drawers a large official-looking envelope. Walking back to the light of the table, he drew out a piece of thin transparent tracing-paper which he opened and spread upon the blotting-pad. Upon this paper a letter in a strange, almost microscopic hand, had been traced. This he read carefully, apparently weighing every word. Twice he went over it, almost as though he wished to commit it to memory; then, with a hard look upon his dark features, he replaced it in the envelope, sealed it with a stick of black wax and put it once more in the safe. From the same drawer he extracted a second paper, folded in a small square. With this in his hand he walked toward the nearest window, so as to be in the best light for his purpose. When he was satisfied in this regard, he undid the packet. It contained a curl of fair hair bound together with sewing silk of a faded pink. As he looked upon it tears welled up into his eyes. That lock of hair brought back to him memories, bitter and tender memories which he always tried to forget, though in vain. Before him arose a woman's face, pale, fair, with eyes of that deep child-like blue which always proclaims purity of soul. He saw her before him in her simple dress of white linen--a vision of sweet and perfect beauty. The words she had spoken in her gentle voice seemed once again to fall upon his ears with the music that had so invariably charmed him. He remembered what she had said to him--he recollected the whole of that conversation, although years had passed since it had been held. He found it impossible to prevent his thoughts from wandering back to the tender grace of a day that was dead, when, beside the sea, he had for a few hours enjoyed a calm and sunny paradise, which had too quickly changed into a wilderness barren of both roses and angels. He sighed; and down his cheek there crept a single tear. Then he raised the tiny lock of hair to his lips. "May God cherish her always--always," he murmured. Twice he kissed the lock of hair before, with every sign of reluctance, returning it to the packet and replacing it in the steel drawer. Superstitious persons believe that ill-fortune follows the possession of hair; but Chisholm was never superstitious. This curl, which at rare intervals he was in the habit of taking from its secret hiding-place, always carried his memory back to those brief days when, for the second time in his life, he had experienced perfect happiness. It was an outward and visible sign of a love that had once burned fiercely within two hearts. He had just locked the safe and hidden it in the usual manner, when Benthall burst into the library, and said in a merry tone of voice: "I've come just to see what you're doing, old fellow. The gong went half an hour ago and the colonel says he's got a ravenous appetite. The soup will be cold." He had walked across to the table, and stood beside it ready dressed for dinner. "I--oh! I was busy," his host answered. "A lot of official correspondence from the Foreign Office, you know--things I ought to have seen to this morning instead of shooting. Correspondence always crowds upon me if I go out of town even for a couple of days." "But you've done now--haven't you?" asked his guest, glancing at the littered table. "Just finished. But I'm awfully sorry to have kept you fellows waiting. The colonel's so infernally prompt at feeding-time. They say at the Junior that he doesn't vary five minutes at dinner once in six months." "Well, come along, old fellow. Don't wait to finish." He seated himself on the edge of the big writing-table while Dudley busied himself in replacing some letters he had taken from the steel despatch-box which accompanied him everywhere. Smoking a cigarette, and swinging his legs easily, Benthall waited while his host--who had pointed out that he could not leave confidential documents open for the servants to pry into--straightened his papers, and put them together with the communications littering the table, in the box, afterwards locking it. Only one was left on the table, the despatch which Lord Stockbridge had ordered him to destroy. This he carried to the fire, lit one corner, and held it until it was all consumed, afterwards destroying the tinder with the poker. "What's that you're so careful to burn?" asked Benthall, interested. "Oh, nothing, my dear Harry--nothing," answered the Under-Secretary in a nonchalant manner. "Only a despatch." "From Stockbridge, or one of the other Ministers, I suppose?" "Yes." "But why did you burn it?" "In order that it shouldn't fall into anybody else's hands." "Something very confidential, then?" "Yes, something extremely confidential," answered Chisholm. "But come along, old fellow, let's go to dinner, or the colonel will never forgive me." CHAPTER EIGHT. SHOWS A POLITICIAN AND A POLICY. Dudley Chisholm, with the excuse that his presence was urgently required at the Foreign Office, returned to town by the first train on the following day, leaving the colonel and Benthall to continue their sport. He would probably return in a couple of days, he said, but Lord Stockbridge wished to explain to him the line of policy which he intended to adopt towards France, with a view to lessening the tension between the two nations, and to give him certain instructions as to the conduct of the forthcoming debate in the House. As both his guests understood that a man holding such a position was liable at any moment to be called up to town, they made the best of their disappointment, wished him good luck when the time came for his departure, and went out with the head-keeper for a day's sport in Parnholt Wood. That same afternoon, in the fading light, the Under-Secretary was closeted with his Chief, the Most Noble the Marquess of Stockbridge, K.G., Prime Minister of England, and Her Majesty's Principal Secretary of State, in his private room at Downing Street. Next to the Sovereign, this tall, thin-faced, grey-bearded man, with the rather ascetic, aquiline features and keen dark eyes that age had not dimmed, was the most potent personage in the British Empire. The room in which he was sitting at the big pedestal writing-table was on the first floor of the Foreign Office, a spacious apartment, solidly furnished and of a very business-like appearance. In that room Ambassadors and Envoys Plenipotentiary had discussed matters of such importance, in such a way, that if those walls had ears to listen and tongues to repeat, the whole of Europe would have been in arms on many an occasion. Placed as far from the door as possible, the most conspicuous object in the room was the Prime Minister's table, standing on the right, close to the fireplace of black and white marble, with a plain, gilt-framed mirror above, and one of those ordinary square marble clocks which may be found in almost every middle-class dining-room. In a small bookcase close to his lordship's left hand was a library of reference works; while to his right, in the centre of the apartment, was a round table covered with books, where the current issue of the _Times_ was lying. In front of the great statesman was a long lounge, upholstered in dark green leather, as was the rest of the furniture, and upon the wall behind the lounge a rack containing a large number of maps. Two or three deep armchairs, a couple of other tables and several revolving bookcases completed the furniture of the private room of the head of the Cabinet. At the table sat the marquess toying idly with his quill, while upon the leather-covered lounge before him sat Chisholm, the Under-secretary of State for Foreign Affairs. They were alone, with the door closed against intruders. The greyness of the short afternoon had become more and more pronounced during their conversation, and as neither had risen to switch on the electric light the room was in semi-darkness. Chisholm was thankful, for he was uneasy, and feared that his face might betray him to that keen and practised statesman beneath whose calm gaze many a diplomatist, whether British or foreign, had so often trembled. A rather cold, but exceedingly courteous man, Lord Stockbridge always spoke with slow deliberation, and with a gentleness that one would scarcely have expected from a man of such an austere manner. He was an autocrat both at the Foreign Office and in the Cabinet, always ruling with a firm hand, exhibiting a strange individualism in responsibility, bestowing but little praise upon any of Britain's hard-working representatives abroad; but he was a patriot, and every inch a gentleman. Representatives of certain of the Powers at the Court of St. James held him in dread--they even hated him, because of his integrity, his calm dignity, and his shrewd foresight. They knew that he was not a man to be tricked, and that in his anger the British lion showed its teeth. To this rather melancholy man with the grave face and the quick dark eyes the British nation chiefly owed the retention of its position as the first Power in the world. During his fifteen years of office the European outlook had, times without number, been of a grim blackness, and the war-cloud had hovered on the political horizon almost incessantly; yet, by means of his careful statesmanship and the marvellous tact and _finesse_ constantly exhibited by him, this splendid politician had succeeded in piloting the ship of state into quieter waters. Like his trusted Under-Secretary, he was a man who hated popularity, although he was equally popular in England and throughout the great Empire over-sea. He detested cheap notoriety; he always declared that he left that sort of thing to the Opposition benches. In a word, he was an honest, straightforward, patriotic Englishman, the most trusted of Her Majesty's Ministers, and the greatest living statesman in Europe. Had he not acted with firmness and discretion, as well as with quick foresight, Great Britain would a dozen times have been at war with her jealous neighbours. More than once conspiracies, deeply laid and skilfully engineered, had been in progress in some diplomatic circles for the purpose of inveigling England into hostilities; but his power of keen penetration and swift deduction had caused the efforts of our enemies to be thwarted and they themselves to be discomfited by some remarkable _coup_ in quite another direction. It was the cackling cry of certain leader-writers that English diplomacy was abortive, that other nations left us behind in the race, and that our Ambassadors and Ministers were merely bunglers. These prophets (hired at the rate of two guineas a column) always conveniently overlooked the fact that the world virtually owed its peace and consequent prosperity to the thin-faced, rather haggard-looking, man who was the personal friend, confidant and adviser of his venerated and peace-loving Sovereign. He sat there in the half light twisting his quill in his thin hands, a sign that he was puzzled. "The situation is undoubtedly critical, Chisholm," he said in a low voice. "I confess I cannot make it out in the least. The whole thing appears to me an enigma at present." "Have you received no further despatch from Vienna?" inquired the Under-Secretary. "Yes. One came through in cipher a couple of hours ago. But it tells us nothing. Farncombe is apparently without information." The younger man breathed more freely. He had feared that the truth was already known. Up to the present, then, he was safe; but the tension was terrible. He did not know from one moment to another by what avenue his exposure, which would mean his inevitable degradation and ruin, would come. A despatch from Lord Farncombe, the British Ambassador at Vienna, revealing the truth, would be his death-warrant, for he had determined to commit suicide rather than face the terrible exposure that would necessarily ensue were his secret to become known. By making a supreme effort he had succeeded in carrying on this private consultation with his chief without betraying undue apprehension. He had shown some alarm, it is true, but the marquess put this down to his natural anxiety in regard to the serious complications in Europe which, as it seemed, had been created by what had so mysteriously leaked out from Vienna and Constantinople. "I can't understand why Farncombe has not some information on the matter," his lordship went on deliberately, almost as though he were speaking to himself. "It's scandalous that we should be working entirely in the dark. But for the present we must wait. Our only chance of success is to keep our own counsel and not show our hand. We are weak in this affair, Chisholm, horribly weak. If the Opposition got wind of it we should have a poor chance, I'm afraid. It's just what they've been longing for these three years." "But they must know nothing!" exclaimed. Chisholm quickly. "If the secret of our weakness comes out, all Europe will be ablaze." "Exactly, that's just what I fear!" the Minister answered. "It must be kept from them at all hazards. You are the only man in London besides myself who has the slightest inkling of the situation. You will, of course, regard it as strictly confidential." "Absolutely." "And you destroyed the despatch I sent you to Wroxeter?" "I burnt it." "Good!" exclaimed the marquess, leaning both elbows upon the table and looking across again at the man sitting there in the falling darkness. "And now we must form some plan of action. We must save the situation. Have you anything to suggest?" "I really don't know what to suggest," Dudley faltered. "The whole affair is so mysterious, and we seem to have nothing to go upon. To me, it doesn't seem possible that our friends in Constantinople have suddenly turned antagonistic." "Certainly not. Our relations with the Porte are excellent--and you can tell the House so. It is that very fact which puzzles me. The only solution of the enigma, as far as I can see, is that it is the outcome of that dastardly betrayal to Russia of our policy towards the Porte a year or two ago. You will recollect it, and how nearly it resulted in war?" "Yes," answered Dudley in a faltering voice, "I remember it." Then he added quickly, as though to change the subject: "As far as I can see, the conspiracy is being worked from one of the other capitals." Her Majesty's Under-Secretary knew the truth, but made a clever pretence of being no less mystified than his chief. "Perhaps so, perhaps so," the great statesman remarked. "But this affair shows that there is once again a desperate attempt being made against us--from what quarter we are unable at present to detect." "Rome is not the centre of activity, I feel sure," Chisholm observed. "We only see its effect there." "An effect which may alienate us from Italy at any moment. With the Saracco Government in power there, matters are by no means upon a firm basis." "But Rathmore is one of our best men. He'll surely see that such a _contretemps_ does not occur." "Difficult--my dear Chisholm," replied the grey-haired Minister. "Diplomacy is often as difficult in Rome as it is in Petersburg. The undercurrents against us are quite as many. The Powers are jealous of Italy's friendship towards us and of her resolve to assist us in the Mediterranean if necessary. That is the whole _crux_ of the matter. Happily, they are not aware of the terms I made with Rudini two years ago, or the war-cloud would probably have burst some time back. We can't afford to risk hostilities while Italy is so weak. In two years her new armaments will be complete, and then--" "And then we shall be able to defy them," added the Under-Secretary with a smile. The great Minister rubbed his gold-framed glasses and nodded in the affirmative. "But the most curious aspect of this sudden development--if the information is correct, as we suppose it to be--is the apparent boldness of the diplomatic move on the part of the Porte," the elder man went on. "It is an absolute enigma how they dare to attempt such a _coup_ without being absolutely certain of success." "But how could they be?" queried the Under-secretary in a strained voice. "Only by the possession of secret information," the other replied. "It is the outcome of our base betrayal five years ago." "Surely nothing further has leaked out!" exclaimed the man seated upon the leather-covered lounge. "No. There are spies in London--a crowd of them. Melville from Scotland Yard handed me a list of twenty or so of the interesting gentlemen last week. But we have nothing to fear from them--absolutely nothing. What I dread is that there is a traitor here, in my own Department." "Then what is your private opinion?" "Well," said the great man, still slowly twisting his quill between his fingers, "it seems to me, Chisholm, very much as though the person who is responsible for this clever move to checkmate our influence in the Mediterranean, like the man who betrayed us before, knows our secret, and is possessed of absolute self-confidence. He evidently knows of the agreement made five years ago, or else he possesses influence in some quarter or other which may prove detrimental to us." Dudley Chisholm held his breath. Truth lived in the last words that had fallen from the lips of his chief. The man responsible for the remarkable _coup_ that had been forecasted from Vienna did indeed possess influence--over himself--an influence for life or death. After a great effort he contrived to remain calm, and, in a voice which to him sounded cavernous in that great room, he merely said: "Yes. I thoroughly agree with your theory--thoroughly." "Then in that case, Chisholm, you must make a distinct statement in the House to-morrow regarding our policy abroad and the defence of the Empire. If the _coup_ is really attempted, we must have public opinion entirely with us. This is not a party matter. You follow me?" "Entirely. I will have a supplementary question put to-morrow, and reply to it." "Speak fearlessly and straight to the point. Assure the House that at this moment we are in a stronger position than we ever were, and that our allies are eager to assist us whenever war may break out. Hint at certain secret understandings with regard to the Mediterranean, and also at an Anglo-American alliance. I detest to play this game, but it is necessary--highly necessary, having regard to the extreme gravity of the outlook." "Very well," replied Chisholm, rising, anxious to escape from that astute man's presence before his pallid face should confess a part of the truth. "I will carry out your instructions. I quite understand the line to be adopted--one of nonchalance and self-satisfaction." And then, after a brief conversation upon other topics, the Under-Secretary, when he had switched on the light for his chief, walked out, and went down the great staircase into Downing Street. CHAPTER NINE. DEFINES THE DAZZLING DEGRADATION. At "question-time" on the following afternoon Dudley Chisholm, as mouthpiece of the Foreign Office, rose to reply to a very pointed and seemingly awkward supplementary question put to him by an obscure Member. There was a big House, and owing to the continual allegations of England's unpreparedness made by the alarmist section of the Press, the answer was listened to with almost breathless interest. The man who stood there addressing the House affected a calmness which he certainly did not feel. He knew not but that at any moment some Member of the Opposition might rise and there publicly show him up as a political impostor, a man who was sailing under false colours, and who knew of England's danger yet dare not speak because to do so would be to expose his own crime. Nevertheless, even though the terrible tension had worked havoc with him throughout the long night, preventing him from sleeping and causing him to tramp for hours the deserted streets of London, he stood there speaking in his well-known deliberate manner, from time to time making home-thrusts at his political opponents, and eloquently assuring the House and the public that the Empire was safe from attack. In the course of his brilliant reply he deprecated the popular assumption that in diplomacy we were always left behind, and hinted, as Lord Stockbridge had instructed him to do, at certain secret agreements which, having been of late effected, placed England in an almost invulnerable position. Never during the century, he declared, had Great Britain been on more amicable terms with her neighbours, and never had her position as the first among nations been more secure. Then he went on to speak of the two great tasks Her Majesty's Ministers had themselves undertaken--the task of drawing all members of this vast Empire, all the dependencies of the crown in every quarter of the world, into a close and more organic unity, and the task of providing adequate defences for this great Empire. He admitted that it was sometimes held abroad that this awakening on our part to the obligations of Empire denoted a new spirit of antagonism in this country towards the legitimate aims and aspirations of European Powers. That was not so. The spirit in which we took up our portion of the task was not one of antagonism, but of generous emulation, with a view to seeing which of the favoured nations of the world could do most in the shortest time to perform the duty owed by them to the countries still oppressed by savagery, barbarism, or imperfect civilisation. That spirit was embodied in a certain secret agreement which he could not, of course, mention. The tasks he had spoken of could not be undertaken by their opponents, who in essential questions were distracted and apathetic. While the Government would foster true Imperialism, they would not neglect social and domestic legislation. The Opposition were living on the ghosts of the past and amid the tombs of dead policies. As he resumed his seat there was an outburst of applause. The country had long been waiting for some reassuring declaration from the Government, and this, flashed by the wires from the Press Gallery above, would in a few hours have the effect of allaying any public misgivings. But Chisholm, having performed his duty, gathered up his papers and at once left the House. In the Lobby one or two men congratulated him, but he only smiled that rather melancholy smile they knew so well. The House of Commons nowadays is not such an austere assembly as it was even a decade ago. True, Members are sometimes called to St. Stephen's in October and November, and thus have their vacation plans for Cairo or the Riviera considerably disarranged; yet the patriotic M.P. now finds the House the best and cheapest club in London, where he can, if he chooses, live upon ninepenny steaks and drink gin at twopence a glassful! Indeed, nowadays there seems more dining than politics, and more brilliant entertaining than brilliant oratory. There are many distinct coteries in the House, as there must always be among men divided in political opinion, but the coterie of entertainers is quite definite and distinct. Its members are those who have entered upon a Parliamentary career as a gentleman's due. They are the political drones. They rarely, if ever, speak, but with their many smart lady-guests support the social side of Parliament right royally. Harry Benthall was one of these butterflies among legislators. When he spoke, the subject was usually connected with the personal comfort of Members. Among the boiled-shirt brigade was a man who had sat in the House for thirty years, and had only spoken once--a speech that lasted one minute; while Mr. Kinnear, the Parliamentary diarist, has placed it on record that a certain gentleman representing a county division sat in three successive Governments without finding his way to the vote office! The whole life of such men is taken up in hunting for a "pair." It is one of the first duties he feels he owes to himself and to his friends of the dining-room, or of that latter-day annexe to Mayfair, the Terrace. Indeed, so popular became the Terrace a couple of seasons ago that each afternoon it was crowded by _grandes dames_ and young legislators, and flirting, tea-drinking, and strawberry-eating went on to such an extent that the merrymaking seriously threatened to stop legislation altogether. So that awe-inspiring functionary, the Serjeant-at-Arms, acting quietly but firmly, issued such orders that "at homes" in Parliament were suddenly discontinued, and the daily crush at Westminster became less of a public scandal. To put it plainly, a new House has grown up. The old austerity of legislation in the days of Palmerston and Beaconsfield has nearly disappeared, and to-day the gentlemen upon whom the right to add M.P. to their name is bestowed, find to their delight that legislation is really very largely an arrangement come to between the two front Benches. As Chisholm passed through the Lobby, pausing at Mr. Pike's office to obtain some letters, some one cried "Saunderson's up," and all the idlers knew that the debate upon another matter had commenced, and that "fun" might be expected. The Under-Secretary thrust the letters into his pocket, put on his overcoat, and walked back to the Foreign Office, where some documents were awaiting his signature, and where he had some instructions to give his secretary. On his way across Palace Yard and along Parliament Street his eyes were fixed upon the pavement, for he was deep in thought and heedless of all about him. He walked like a man in a dream. Before long the blow must fall, he told himself. How long would it be deferred? How many days of grace would his secret enemy give him? Hour after hour had he endeavoured to find some solution of the problem how to repel the threatened vengeance. But there seemed to be no satisfactory way--absolutely none. A word from him to his chief might save the situation. That would mean open and complete confession. No, he could not confess to the great statesman who had reposed such entire confidence in him, and who had given him the high and responsible office he now held. He could not; he dare not face the wrath of Lord Stockbridge, of all men. He had sinned, and must suffer. A dozen times during the past night as he had paced the silent streets of London the suggestion had occurred to him to resign everything and go abroad at once. Yet what would that avail him? To escape would be only to exhibit cowardice. The sleep from which there was no awakening was by far the best mode of release at which to aim. Upon a seat at the kerb in Piccadilly, with a ragged outcast as companion, he had sat a full hour in the most silent watch of the night thinking the matter over. After all, he told himself, he was little better than the shivering wretch beside him. And now, as he turned the corner of Downing Street, he sighed heavily, wondering on how many more occasions he would return to his official headquarters. Not many, alas! Nemesis was at his heels. That night he dined at his club, the Carlton, but returned to his chambers immediately afterwards. As he entered his sitting-room, a woman in a striking evening toilet of pale blue, turning from the fire, rose to greet him. It was Claudia Nevill. "My dear Dudley!" she cried, stretching forth both her hands to him. "I've been awaiting you for half an hour or more. Wherever have you been?" He had drawn back in annoyance at the moment when she faced him so unexpectedly. She was the last person he wished to meet at that moment. "Oh," he answered rather coldly, taking her hands in greeting, "I dined at the Club. I'm not very well," he added wearily. "But not too queer to go to the Duchess's ball?" "The Duchess's ball? I don't understand," he said, looking at her puzzled. "Why, surely you keep a note of your engagements, or Wrey does for you? It's quite three weeks ago since we arranged to go there together." "To go where?" "Why, to the Duchess of Penarth's ball. You of course remembered that she asked us both, and we promised. You had a card, no doubt." "Perhaps I had," he said blankly, for he received so many invitations that he always left it to Wrey, his private secretary, to attend to the resulting correspondence. He had gone little into society, except when Claudia Nevill took him as her escort. "Perhaps?" she exclaimed. "Why, whatever is the matter with you, Dudley? You've not been at all yourself for some days past. Now, tell me--do." He was silent for a few moments. "I told you when I was last at Albert Gate," he said at length very seriously. "I thought my words were quite plain, Claudia." "You spoke all sorts of absurd things about scandals and gossip," she laughed, reseating herself and motioning him to a chair on the opposite side of the fireplace. "But you were not yourself, so I didn't take any heed of it." "I told you exactly what I intended doing," he answered, standing before her, with his back to the fire. "I am surprised to find you here." "And who has been putting all these absurd ideas into your head, my dear Dudley?" asked the brilliant woman in the magnificent Doeuillet ball toilette. "You know that we love each other, so what's the use of kicking against the pricks? Now go and put on a dress coat and a pair of gloves and take me to Penarth House, there's a good fellow--the Duchess expects us." "Her Grace doesn't expect me, for I declined." "You declined!" cried his fair companion. "Why?" "Wrey declined. He has recently had orders from me to decline all such invitations. Dances only bore me. I'm too much occupied with official business." "Official business! Bosh! Leave it alone for a time and enjoy yourself. You are really becoming quite the old crony." "Better that than--well, than to be one of the set who were down at Fernhurst Abbey." She glanced at him swiftly, with a curious, half-apprehensive look. "At Fernhurst? What do you mean?" "I mean, Claudia, that there were certain incidents at Fernhurst which do not reflect much credit upon either the man or the woman." "And I am the woman, of course?" He nodded. "And the man? Name him." "A certain foreigner." "Ah!" she laughed lightly. "So you've heard all about it already. You mean the Grand-Duke. He was such fun, such a soft-headed fool. He actually thought himself in love with me." "And you allowed him to entertain that impression. I know the whole of the facts," he said harshly. "What you know is, I presume, some absurd tittle-tattle about us," she replied, a shadow of annoyance upon her face. "I know sufficient, Claudia, to cause me to alter my opinion regarding you," he answered very gravely. "Oh! so you would condemn me unheard? That is unlike you, Dudley. I cannot think chivalry and justice are dead in you." "I condemn you," he said quickly, looking straight at her. "I condemn you for casting aside all your womanly instincts in this mad craze of yours to lead society and retain your position as a so-called smart woman. You cannot see that smartness is merely a synonym for fastness, and that you are rapidly flinging your reputation to the winds." "That, my dear Dudley, is a stale story. You have already told me so before. Without offence to you, I would point out that my reputation is entirely my own affair." "It concerns me, as well as yourself," he blurted out. "You cannot afford to run the risks you are running. You love distinction, Claudia, and that is a passion of a deep and dangerous nature. In a man that passion is ambition. In a woman it is a selfish desire to stand apart from the many; to be, as far as is possible, unique; to enjoy what she does enjoy and to appropriate the tribute which society offers her, without caring a rap for the sisterhood to which she belongs. To be the idol of society is synonymous with being the butt of ridicule and of scandal, especially to all who have failed in the same career." "Oh," she laughed, "you are such a funny old philosopher, Dudley. You grow worse and worse." "I know this," he went on, "that no sooner does a woman begin to feel herself a leader of society, as you are at this moment, than she finds in her daily path innumerable temptations, of which she had never before dreamed. Her exalted position is maintained, not by the universal suffrage of her friends, for at least one-half of them would tear her down from her pedestal, if they were able, but by the indefatigable exercise of ingenuity in the way of evading, stooping, conciliating, deceiving; as well as by a continued series of efforts to be cheerful when depressed, witty when absolutely dull, and animated, brilliant, and amusing when disappointed, weary, or distressed." "Oh," she cried impatiently, "I thought we had enough of moralising the last time we met! And now you want to re-open the old question." "No, Claudia," he answered, placing his hand tenderly upon her shoulder, which was covered only by the strap of pale blue embroidered satin which held her handsome corsage. "I only want to show you plainly how in a woman simplicity of heart cannot be allied to ambition. The woman who aspires to be the idol of her fellows, as you do, must be satisfied to lose this lily from her wreath. And when a woman's simplicity of heart is gone, then she is no longer faithful as a wife or safe as a friend. Her fame is, after all, nothing more than dazzling degradation." CHAPTER TEN. MAKES PLAIN A WOMAN'S DUTY. "And all that philosophy is directed against me?" she asked, looking up at him seriously. "It is only just that you should see yourself, Claudia, as others see you," he said in a more sympathetic tone of voice. "It pains me to have to speak like this; to criticise your actions as though I were a man old enough to be your grandfather. But I merely want to point out what is the unvarnished truth." "All of us have our failings," she declared with a pout. "You tell me this because you want to sever your connection with me. Why not admit the truth?" "No. I tell you this because a woman who seeks to occupy the place you now occupy is exposed to the pitiless gaze of admiration; but little respect, and no love is blended with it. I speak frankly, and say that, however much you have gained in name, in rank, in fortune, you have suffered as a woman." "How?" "Shall I tell you the actual truth?" "Certainly. You will not offend me, I assure you," she replied in a cynical tone, coquettishly placing her small foot in its neat silk stocking upon the fender. "Well, Claudia," he said, "to tell you the truth, you are no longer the simple-hearted, intelligent, generous, frank and true woman I once knew." "Really? You are extremely flattering!" she exclaimed. She began to see that her ruse of boldly returning to him as she had done and waiting him there, even in defiance of old Parsons, was of no avail. "I do not speak with any desire to hurt your feelings, Claudia," he went on. "I know my words are harsh ones, but I cannot remain a spectator of your follies without reproving you." "You would compel me to return to the deadly dulness of tennis, tea-table gossip, church-decorating and country life in cotton blouses and home-made skirts--eh? Thank you; I object. I had quite sufficient of that at Winchester." "I have no right to compel you to do anything," he answered. "I only suggest moderation, in your own interests. On every side I hear scandalous stories into which your name is introduced." "And you believe them?" she asked quickly. "You, my friend, believe all these lying inventions of my enemies?" "I believe nothing of which I have no proof." "Then you believe in what is really proved?" "Yes." "In that case you must believe that, even though I possess all the defects which you have enumerated, I nevertheless love you?" "In woman's true love," he said slowly, emphasising every word, "there is mingled the trusting dependence of a child, for she always looks up to man as her protector and her guide. Man, let him love as he may, has an existence which lies outside the orbit of his affections. He has his worldly interests, his public character, his ambition, his competition with other men--but the woman of noble mind centres all in that one feeling of affection." "Really?" She laughed flippantly, toying with her bracelets. "This is a most erudite discourse. It would no doubt edify the House if one night you introduced the subject of love. You've grown of late to be quite a philosopher, my dear Dudley. Politics and that horrid old Foreign Office have entirely spoilt you." "No, you misunderstand me," he went on, deeply in earnest. "I merely want to place before you the utter folly of your present actions--all these flirtations about which people in our rank are always talking." "Ah!" she laughed; "because you're jealous. Somebody has been telling you, no doubt, that the Grand-Duke was always at my side at Fernhurst, and probably embellished the story until it forms a very nice little tit-bit of scandal." "Well, is it not true that this foreigner was with you so constantly that it became a matter of serious comment?" "I don't deny it. Why should I? He was very amusing, and if I found him so I cannot see why people should presume to criticise me. If I had a husband I might be called upon to answer to him, but as poor Dick is dead I consider myself perfectly free." "Yes, but not to make a fool of yourself by openly inviting people to cast mud at you," he burst forth impatiently. "Upon that point, Dudley, we shall never agree, so let us drop the subject," she replied, treating his criticisms airily and with utter indifference. "I shall please myself, just as I have always done." "I have no doubt you will. That is what I regret, for when a woman loses her integrity and self-respect, she is indeed pitiable and degraded." "Really!" she cried; "you are in a most delightful mood, I'm sure. What has upset you? Tell me, and then I'll forgive you." "Nothing has upset me--except your visit," he answered quite frankly. "Then I am unwelcome here?" "While you continue to follow the absurd course you have of late chosen, you are." "Thank you," she replied. "You are at least candid." "We have been friends, and you have, I think, always found me honest and outspoken, Claudia." "Yes, but I have never before known you to treat me in this manner," she answered with sudden _hauteur_. "The other day you declared your intention of severing our friendship, but I did not believe you." "Why?" "Because I knew that we loved each other." "No," he said in a hard tone, "do not let us speak of love. Speak of it to those men who dance attendance upon you everywhere, but with me, Claudia, be as frank as I am with you." "Dudley! It is cruel of you to speak like this!" she cried with a sudden outburst of emotion, for she now saw quite plainly that the power she once exerted over him had disappeared. Chisholm had been sadly disillusioned. During the past few weeks the bitter truth had gradually been forced upon him. Instead of remaining a real, dignified, high-minded woman of unblemished integrity, Claudia Nevill had grown callous and artificial, and in other ways hostile to true womanhood. But Dudley had always admired her, and once she had been his ideal. He had admired her simplicity of heart. Unquestionably that is a great charm in a woman, though not a charm so illuminating as integrity, because it consists more in the ignorance of evil, and, consequently, of temptation, than in the possession of principle strong enough to withstand both. In the days before her marriage her simplicity of heart was the child of that unruffled serenity of soul which suspects no mischief to be lurking beneath the fair surface of things--which trusts, confides and is happy in this confidence, because it has never been deceived, and because it has never learned that most fatal of all arts, the mystery of deceiving others. But all was now changed. She was no longer the Claudia of old. She had degenerated into a smart, brilliant woman, full of arts and subterfuges, with no thoughts beyond her engagements, her toilettes, and her vainglorious triumphs. "I have only spoken what I feel, Claudia!" exclaimed the man still standing before her. "I have no power to compel you to heed my warning." "Oh, do let us drop the subject, my dear Dudley!" she cried impatiently. "This lecture of yours upon my duty towards society may surely be continued on another occasion. Let us go along to the Duchess's. As I've already said, the House has entirely spoilt you." "I don't wish to continue the discussion. Indeed, I've said all that I intend saying. My only regret is that you are heedless of my words-- that you are blind to the truth, and have closed your ears to all this gossip." "Let them gossip. What does it matter to me? Now to you, of course, it matters considerably. You can't afford to imperil your official position by allowing all this chatter to go on. I quite understand that." "And yet you come here to-night and ask me to take you to the Duchess's?" he said. "For the last time, Dudley," she answered, looking up at him with that sweet, sympathetic look of old. "This is the last of our engagements, and it is an odd fancy of mine that you should take me to the ball--for the last time." "Yes," he repeated hoarsely, in a deep voice full of meaning; "for the last time, Claudia." "You speak as though you were doomed to some awful fate," she remarked, looking up at him with a puzzled expression on her face. Little did the giddy woman think that her words, like the sword of the angel at the entrance to Paradise, were double-edged. "Oh," he said, rousing himself and endeavouring to smile, "I didn't know. Forgive me." "You've changed somehow, Dudley," she said, rising. She went near to him and took his hand tenderly. "Why don't you tell me what is the matter? Something is troubling you. What is it?" "You are, for one thing," he answered promptly, looking straight into her splendid eyes. As she stood there in that beautiful gown, with the historic pearls of the Nevills upon her white neck, Dudley thought he had never seen her look so magnificent. Well might she be called the Empress of Mayfair. "But why trouble your head about me?" she asked in a low, musical voice, pressing his hand tenderly. "You have worries enough, no doubt." "The stories I hear on every hand vex me horribly." "You are jealous of that man who was at the Meldrums' house-party. It's useless to deny it. Well, perhaps I was foolish, but if I promise never to see him again, will you forgive me?" "It is not for me to forgive," he said in an earnest voice. "I have, I suppose, no right to criticise your actions, or to exact any promises." "Yes, Dudley, you, of all men, have that right," she answered, her beautiful breast, stirred by emotion, rising and falling quickly. "All that you have just said is, I know, just and honest; and it comes straight from your heart. You have spoken to me as you would to your own sister--and, well, I thank you for your good advice." "And will you not promise to follow it?" he asked, taking her other hand. "Will you not promise me, your oldest man friend, to cut all these people and return to the simple, dignified life you led when Dick was still alive? Promise me." "And if I promise, what do you promise me in exchange?" she asked. "Will you make me your wife?" The look of eagerness died out of his face; he stood as rigid as one turned to stone. What was she suggesting? Only a course that they had discussed, times without number, in happier days. And yet, what could he answer, knowing well that before a few hours passed he might be compelled to take his own life, so as to escape from the public scorn which would of necessity follow upon his exposure. "I--I can't promise that," he faltered, uttering his refusal with difficulty. She shrank from him, as if he had struck her a blow. "Then the truth is as I suspected. Some other woman has attracted you!" "No," he answered in a hard voice, his dark brow clouded, "no other woman has attracted me." "Then--well, to put it plainly--you believe all these scandalous tales that have been circulated about me of late? Because of these you've turned from me, and now abandon me like this!" "It is not that," he protested. "Then why do you refuse to repeat your promise, when you know, Dudley, that I love you?" "For a reason which I cannot tell you." She looked at him puzzled by his reticence. He was certainly not himself. His face was bloodless, and for the first time she noticed round his eyes the dark rings caused by the insomnia of the past two nights. "Tell me, Dudley," she implored, clinging to him in dismay. "Can't you see this coldness of yours is driving me to despair--killing me? Tell me the truth. What is it that troubles you?" "I regret, Claudia, that I cannot tell you." "But you always used to trust me. You have never had secrets from me." "No, only this one," he answered in a dull, monotonous manner. "And is it this secret which prevents you from making the compact I have just suggested?" "Yes." "It has nothing to do with any woman who has come into your life?" she demanded eagerly. "No." "Will you swear that?" "I swear it." "You only tell me that we cannot marry, that is all? Can I have no further explanation?" "No, none." "Your decision is not owing to the scandal which you say is talked everywhere? You give your word of honour that it is not?" "Yes, I give my word of honour," he answered. "My inability to renew my offer of marriage is owing to a circumstance which I am powerless to control." "And you refuse to tell me its nature?" "I regret, Claudia, that I must refuse," he said, pressing her hand. His lips twitched, and she saw that tears stood in his eyes. She knew that the man who had been her lover in the days of her girlhood spoke the truth when he added, "This circumstance must remain my own secret." CHAPTER ELEVEN. DISCLOSES AN UGLY TRUTH. With hands interlocked they stood together in silence for some minutes. Neither spoke. Their hearts were full to overflowing. This woman, whose remarkable beauty had made it possible for her to ride rough-shod over discretion, was in those moments of silence seized by remorse. She saw that he was suffering, and with a woman's quick sympathy strove to alleviate his distress. In a manner that was neither hysterical nor theatrical, she carried his hand to her soft lips. Then, with a sudden burst of affection, she raised her beautiful face to his, saying: "All the hard words you have spoken, Dudley, belong entirely to the past. I only know that I love you." He looked at her steadfastly for a few moments, then said: "No, Claudia. Our love must end. It is not fair to you that it should continue." "You desire that it should end?" she asked in a strained voice. "No. I am bound to leave you by force of circumstances," he replied. "We can never marry--never." "But why? I really can't understand you. Of late you have been so strange, so pre-occupied, and so unusually solicitous for my good name." "Yes," he admitted, "it must have struck you as strange. But I have been thinking of your future." "Did you never think of it in the past?" "Of the future--when you are alone, I mean," he said gravely. "What? Are you going abroad?" He was silent again, his eyes fixed blankly upon the carpet. "Perhaps," he said at last. "And may I not go with you?" she asked in a tender tone of voice. "No; that would be impossible--quite impossible." His strangely despondent state of mind puzzled her. She tried to penetrate the mystery which had so suddenly surrounded him, but was unable to see any light. She saw, however, that he was nervous and troubled, as though in fear of some dreadful catastrophe, and endeavoured by low words and soft caresses to induce him to lay bare his heart. She, who knew his every mood and every expression, had never seen him so utterly despondent or pathetic. At first she was inclined to attribute it to the failure of some move on the political chessboard; but he had assured her that such was not the case. She could only soothe him by making him feel the depth of her love. The words she uttered recalled to him memories of days long past, recollections of the hours when innocence and youth combined to make them happy. Her voice was the same, as sweet and tender as of old; her face not less beautiful, her lips not less soft, her form just as slim and supple. Ah! how madly he had loved her in the days beyond recall! He stood listening to her, but making no response. She was speaking of her devotion to him; of her regret that she had allowed herself to flirt with others. She did not know that her lover was hopeless and despairing--a man condemned to death by his own edict. As she stood there, the diamonds on her wrist flashing in the lamplight, he looked at her long and earnestly, and once again marvelled at the radiant completeness of her beauty. Was there any wonder that such a woman was the leader of the smart world, or that every fad or fancy of hers should become the mode? No. She was even more lovely than in the old days at Winchester. Her splendid toilettes, often the envy of other women, suited her handsome features better even than the prim dresses she used to wear during her girlhood, and she wore jewels with the easy air of one born to the purple. Their eyes met, and she with her woman's intuition saw that he was admiring her, not less ardently than had been his custom until a week ago. In his eyes she detected a wistful look, as though he wished to lay his secret before her, yet dare not. There was a sadness, a look of blank desolation, in his face that she had never before seen there. It set her wondering. She knew well the many grave official matters with which he was constantly called upon to deal at the Foreign Office; of the strain of speech-making in the House, and of the many weary hours spent in his private room with his secretary. Many a time he had confided to her the causes of his nervousness and gravity; and not infrequently she had been in possession of official secrets, which, unlike the majority of her sex, she always preserved, knowing well that to divulge them would seriously compromise him. Often and often, after an exhausting evening in the House, he had come to her at Albert Gate and cast himself wearily upon the blue sofa in her own cosy boudoir, while she, sitting at his side, had tenderly smoothed his brow. It was in those quiet hours that he had made her his confidante. She referred to those occasions, and asked him whether he believed her any less trustworthy now. "No, not at all, Claudia," he answered, speaking mechanically. "You cannot understand. The secret is mine--the secret of an incident of my past." She was silent. His words were surprising. She thought that she was aware of all his past--even of follies perpetrated when he was sowing his wild oats; but it appeared that there was one incident, the incident now troubling him, which he had always carefully concealed from her. "If the secret so closely concerns yourself," she said at last, "surely I am the person who may know." "No," he replied briefly. "But you have told me many other things of a delicate nature concerning yourself--why may I not know this, and help you to bear your trouble?" she asked coaxingly. "However much you may despise me for my frivolity and vanity, you surely do not think me capable of betraying your confidence, do you?" "No," he replied. "You have never betrayed any secret I have told you, Claudia, and I have no reason to suppose you would do so now. But this matter concerns myself--only myself." "And you will tell me absolutely nothing?" "I--I cannot," he declared brokenly. A long silence again fell between the pair whose names had so long been coupled by the gossips. They certainly looked well suited to each other--he, tall, dark-faced, and undoubtedly handsome; she, brilliant and beautiful. "Dudley, dear," she murmured after a pause, placing her hand tenderly upon his arm, "you are certainly not yourself to-night. You are in trouble over some small matter which your own apprehensions have unduly exaggerated. Probably you've been working too hard, or perhaps you've made a long speech to-day--have you?" "I spoke this afternoon," he replied. The tone of his voice was unusually harsh. "You want a little brightness and relaxation. Let us go on to the Duchess's together, and we will waltz--perhaps for the last time." Those words fell upon his ears with a terrible significance. Yes, it would be for the last time. In his gloomy state of mind her suggestion commended itself to him. What matter if people gossiped about them? They might surely enjoy one last evening in each other's society. And how many waltzes they had had together during the past two seasons! Yet this was to be the last--actually the last. She saw his indecision, and hastened to strengthen her argument. "Your words to-night, Dudley, have shown me plainly your intention is that we should drift apart. This being the case, you will not, I'm sure, refuse me the favour I ask. You will take me to the Duchess's. My brougham is below. I told Faulkes to return at eleven," she added, as she glanced at the clock. "Will you not have one last dance with me, if only as a tribute to the old happiness?" She spoke in the soft and persuasive voice that always charmed him. There were tears in her wonderful eyes. "I am really in no mood for a ballroom crush," he answered. "You know that I don't care for the Penarth set at any time." "I know that. But surely you will let me have my own way just once more?" "Very well," he answered reluctantly, with a deep sigh. "We will go, if you really wish it." "Of course!" she cried gladly. She flung her arms about his neck and kissed him fervently on the lips. Did she really love him? he wondered. And if she did, why did she act as it was reported that she had acted, flirting outrageously at all times and in all places with men whose companionship was detrimental to any woman's good name? Why had she been planning for him to marry a girl who was unknown to him? No. He could not understand her in the least. He touched the bell, and when Parsons came he ordered him to put out his dress-coat and gloves. The old man glared at the visitor, for whom he used a title no more distinguished than "that woman," and went off with a bad grace to do his master's bidding. "Parsons doesn't like me in the least," she said with a laugh. "I wonder why?" Though Chisholm knew the reason, he only smiled, and turned aside the rather awkward question. Then, when the old man had put his head into the room, announcing that his master's coat was ready, Claudia Nevill was left alone. "I wonder what's on his mind?" she mused, sinking into a low chair before the fire and resting her elbows upon her knees. "Something unusual has certainly occurred. I wonder what story has come to his ears?--something about me, of course." The white forehead so beautifully shaded by her dark hair, which had been well dressed by her French maid, Justine, clouded slightly, and she stared straight before her, plunged in a deep reverie; she was indeed a voluptuous _reveuse_. Life that was _comme il faut_ had no attraction for her. She was reflecting upon all that he had said; upon the harsh criticisms and the ominous warnings of this man whom she had once believed she would marry. Yes, what he had said was only too true. Her conscience told her that she had been at fault; that she had set his affection at nought, and had, in her mad struggle for supremacy in society, flung prudence to the winds. And those ugly scandals whispered here and there? What of them? The mere thought of them caused her teeth to set firmly, and her shapely hands to clasp her cheeks with sudden vehemence. "No," she said aloud in a mournful voice; "his affection for me has been killed by my own mad folly. It cannot have survived all this deception. To-night is our last night together--the death of our love." At that moment Dudley re-entered, having exchanged his dinner-jacket for a white vest and dress-coat, in the lappel of which was a gardenia. Claudia roused herself quickly, and when she turned towards him her face betrayed no sign of the _tristesse_ of a moment before. "I'm quite ready," he said, as, after buttoning his gloves and his coat, he turned towards the door to open it. "This is my last visit to you, Dudley," she said, sighing deeply and gazing round the room with a lingering glance. "My presence here is no longer welcome." What could he reply? He only looked at her in silence. She was standing close to him, her pale face anxiously raised to his. He divined her unuttered request, and slowly bent until his lips met hers. Then she burst suddenly into tears. He put his arm tenderly round her waist saying what he could to console her, for her emotion distressed him. Complex as was her character, he saw that his plain, outspoken words had had their effect. When he had told her of his decision that morning at Albert Gate she had been defiant, treating the matter with utter unconcern; but now, as the result apparently of full reflection, she had become filled by a bitter remorse, and was penitent enough to beseech forgiveness. How little we men know of the true hearts of women! Could we but follow the whole course of feeling in the feminine mind; could we trace accurately the links that connect certain consequences with remote causes, which often render what we most condemn a necessity from which there was never a single chance of escape; could we, in short, see as a whole, and see it clearly, what at present our lack of the right vision causes us to see in part, and obscurely--all that tempted to wrong, all that blinded to right--we should not then presume to theorise so glibly; to set ourselves up as accusers, judges, executioners, in such unbecoming haste. We should have mercy upon women, as befits honest men. At heart Dudley Chisholm loved the woman he was striving to comfort, even though his association with her had so nearly wrecked his chance of succeeding in an official career. But he hated the artificiality of the smarter set; he detested the fickleness of the flirt; and he had been sadly disillusioned by the gossip that had of late sprung up in connection with the woman who for so long had represented his ideal. He would have forgiven her without further parley had it not been for the knowledge that vengeance was already close behind him, and that before long she must be left without his love and protection. His secret caused him to preserve silence; but she, ignorant of the truth, believed that the spell she had exercised so long was at last broken. In the hour of her despair she uttered many passionate words of love, and many, many times their lips met in fervent kisses. Nevertheless, both felt that a gulf yawned between them--a wide gulf caused by her own folly and recklessness. At length she succeeded in stifling her emotion, drying her eyes, and concealing the traces of her tears by means of the eau de Cologne he handed her and a few dexterous dabs with her tiny powder-puff. Now that she was calmer, he kissed her upon the forehead, drew her cloak over the still tumultuous breast, and then led her below, where her brougham was awaiting them. During the drive to Penarth House, that old-fashioned but well-known mansion at the western end of Piccadilly, they sat together in silence. Their hands were clasped. Both hearts were too full for words. They, who had loved one another for so many years, were now together for the last time. A deep and bitter sigh escaped Chisholm. He was going to this ball, always one of the most brilliant entertainments in London--for the duchess was a political hostess and frequently entertained "for the Party"--to drink the cup of pleasure to the dregs, because on the morrow his place in English officialdom would be empty. CHAPTER TWELVE. IS DISTINCTLY ENIGMATICAL. Distinction among women is rapidly becoming a lost art. Woman nowadays is nothing if not modern in her views. After her presentation, her natural enthusiasm and charming high spirits usually cause her to take a too tolerant and rosy view of life, with the result that she degenerates into being merely smart. She becomes absorbed in Man and Millinery. Dress is her keynote. A lady's luggage has during the past ten years assumed alarming proportions, and a fashionable woman rushes eagerly to a house-party for the express purpose of airing the latest triumphs of Paquin or Lentheric. She is expected to make as many alterations in her costume as a quick-change artiste at the music-halls. In old times a tailor-made gown was worn for breakfast; but now a smart gown is put on for the morning meal, afterwards to be changed for a walking-costume or a suit for motor-driving. Luncheon demands another dainty gown, and tea brings out that luxurious and poetical garment, the tea-gown. At quite a small party this is sometimes retained for dinner, but for a big affair a magnificent dress is donned; and the same gown, whether designed for the morning or the evening, must never be worn twice. Except when she was entertaining for a political purpose, the Duchess of Penarth's functions were characterised by an exclusiveness which belonged more to the mid-Victorian period than to latter-day London. Her Grace was a well-known hostess, and as her house-parties in Derbyshire usually included a member of the royal family, her circle of guests was a small and exceedingly smart one. If any outsider was admitted to her balls, he or she was always a brilliant person. Every season, of course, sees a new recruit to the ranks of these distinguished strangers--the latest empire-builder, the newest millionaire, or the most recently discovered society beauty. Dudley Chisholm had several times accompanied Claudia to balls at Penarth House, and knew well that everything was most magnificently done. The carriage drew up in the long line that slowly filed into the old-fashioned courtyard, there to set down the guests. As Dudley looked out upon the lights of Piccadilly the rhymer's jingle recurred to him: Oh! the tales that you could tell, Piccadilly. (Fit for Heaven, fit for hell), Piccadilly. Of the folk who buy and sell, Of the merry marriage bell, Of the birthday, of the knell, Of the palace, of the cell, Of the beldame, and the belle, Of the rest of them who fell, Piccadilly. Yes, he hated it all. But it was the end--his last night with the woman who had for so long held him enthralled. He believed he had broken the spell when he left her at Albert Gate a few mornings before; but he now discovered that he had been mistaken. Her tears had moved him. Although she was much to blame, he could not bear to see her suffer. Up that wide staircase, well-known for its ancient handrail of crystal, they passed to the ballroom, which, as was usual at Penarth House, presented a most brilliant _coup d'oeil_. The women, all of them splendidly attired, ranged from the freshest _debutante_ to the painted brigade of frivolous fifty, the members of which exhibit all the pitiful paraphernalia of the womanhood which counterfeits the youth it has lost and wreathes the death's head in artificial smiles. The crush was great, but even before Dudley and Lady Richard Nevill had entered the ballroom his beautiful companion was receiving homage from every side. Her arrival was the _clou_ of the entertainment, and Her Grace, an elderly, rather stout person, wearing a magnificent tiara, came fussily forward to greet her. Chisholm was quick to notice that Claudia had no desire to dance with any of the host of partners who at once began to petition her. Many of the men he knew--and heartily hated. Young scions of noble houses, a bachelor millionaire with black, mutton-chop whiskers, a reckless young peer, in whose company Claudia had often of late been seen, all crowded about her, smiling, paying compliments, and bowing over her hand. But to all of these she excused herself. She was not feeling well, she declared, and as yet could not possibly dance. So by degrees her court slowly dissolved, and for a time she and Dudley were left alone. As may be imagined, there was much whispering in all quarters about her re-appearance in public with Chisholm. They sat out several dances in a cool anteroom, dimly lit and filled with palms. In the half darkness they clasped hands, but they spoke very little, fearing lest others might overhear. Chisholm sat as one dead to all around him. As he passed through the great ballroom with its myriad lights and restless crowd he had mechanically returned the salutes of those who knew him, without recognising a single man or woman. In his present mood friends and enemies were alike to him--all of them so many shapes from the past. To the woman at his side he clung, and to her alone. The memory of their bygone happiness he could not put aside. He would be compelled to make his _adieux_ to life very soon--perhaps, indeed, in a few hours-- and his only regret was for her. He could tell her nothing, and when he was dead she, like the others, would spurn his memory. That thought caused him to grip the small, white-gloved hand he held. His lips moved convulsively, but in that subdued light Claudia could not detect his agitation. He was unusually sad and apprehensive, fearful of some impending catastrophe--that was all she knew. She had tried to arouse him by making caustic and amusing criticisms regarding those about them, but all to no purpose. Her witticisms provoked no smile. He seemed utterly lost in his melancholy reflections. "Listen!" she said at last. "There's a waltz. Let us go." She rose and led him into the ballroom, where a moment later they were whirling along together in the smart crowd, compelling even jealous onlookers to describe them as splendidly matched. As Dudley steered his beautiful partner among the other dancers the music caused a flow of sad memories to surge through his brain--memories of the hundreds of balls at which they had been happy in each other's love. He laughed bitterly within himself as he saw her smile at a man she knew. Yes, when he was dead she would, he supposed, mourn for him for the first day and forget him on the second, just as completely as she had forgotten her indulgent husband. He saw that look of recognition exchanged between them; but the man's face was unfamiliar. He was young, rather sallow-faced, with a dark-brown beard. But he made no comment. As this waltz was their last, why should he spoil it? Upon her all argument was expended in vain, he declared to himself bitterly. The floor was perfect, the music excellent, and quickly the old flush of pleasure came back to her face. "You are enjoying it?" he whispered to her. "And why don't you, Dudley?" she asked. "You really ought to put on a more pleasant expression. People will remark upon it." "Let them say what they will," he replied in a hard tone. "They cannot hurt me now." "Well, dear, you look as grave as if you were at a funeral. Forgive me for speaking plainly, won't you?" "I am grave because I cannot take leave of all that I have learnt to love without a feeling of poignant regret," he answered. "In future I shall be debarred from all this." "Why? Are you going to enter a monastery, or something?" she asked, her old easy-going _insouciance_ now returning to her. "No, not exactly that!" he answered ambiguously. "Really, I can't make you out to-night, Dudley," she answered as, now that the waltz had ended, he was conducting her across the room. "I do wish you'd tell me this extraordinary secret which is oppressing you. Once you used to tell me everything. But now--" "Ah! it is different now," he said. "Because you mistrust me?" "No, because our love must end," he replied in a voice so low that none overheard. She looked at him swiftly with a pained expression, still unable to discover the reason of his extraordinary attitude of melancholy and despair. "Even if it must be as you have said, surely it is unnecessary to exhibit your heart upon your sleeve in public?" she argued. "Your words have placed upon me a heavy burden of sorrow, God knows! But I have learned to wear a mask, and only give myself up to wretchedness in the silence of my own room." She spoke the truth. Well-versed, indeed, was she in all the feminine artifices. He knew quite well that her gaiety was assumed, for he had noticed how her hand trembled, and he had seen how quickly her breast rose and fell beneath its lace. Though her heart was stirred to its very depths, to the smart world in which she delighted to move she betrayed not a single sign of grief. She was just the gay, reckless woman who was so popular as a host and so eagerly sought as guest, the pretty woman of the hour, the brilliant object of so much scandal. "Ah!" he said briefly, "you are a woman." "Yes," she answered in a deep, intense whisper. "A woman who has always loved you, Dudley, and who loves you still!" At that instant the Duchess of Penarth approached them and carried Claudia away to be introduced to some notable person--who was "dying to know" her. No sooner had she left him than Dudley found himself face to face with a tall, elderly man who sat for South Staffordshire and was one of the staunchest supporters of the Government. Naturally they exchanged greetings, and fell to chatting. While they were thus engaged the young brown-bearded man to whom Claudia had given a covert sign of recognition passed them. "Do you happen to know that fellow's name?" Chisholm asked, well aware that his friend was a popular figure in society and knew every one. "What, the young fellow now speaking to Lady Meldrum? Oh, don't you know? That's the Grand-Duke Stanislas." "The Grand-Duke?" echoed the Under-Secretary, as the truth at once became apparent. No doubt he had watched them separate and was now on his way in search of her. "And is that elderly woman with white hair Lady Meldrum? I've heard of her. Wife of a big iron-founder in Glasgow, isn't she?" "That's so," his friend answered. "But haven't you met their ward, Muriel Mortimer? She was presented last year. Awfully pretty girl. There she is, in cream, sitting close by Lady Meldrum. You should know her. Let me introduce you. I'm an old friend of the family, you know, and she's been wanting to know you for ever so long." At first he held back, declaring that he had to return to the House before it rose; but the Member for South Staffordshire would take no refusal, and a moment later the Under-Secretary found himself bowing before a fair-haired girl with a sweet, innocent-looking face, dimpled cheeks that blushed slightly as he was introduced, and a pair of large wide-open blue eyes that looked out upon him in wonder. About twenty-two he judged her to be, fragile, pretty, almost child-like in her artless grace. Her complexion was perfect, and her rather plainly made toilette of cream chiffon suited her beauty admirably. Indeed, demure and rather shy, she seemed out of place in that crowd of the more brilliant butterflies of fashion. A moment before, Dudley Chisholm had turned away from the dancers and had intended to drive down to the House in order to while away the rest of the night, but now this resolution was forgotten, because he had at once become interested in the girl with whom he had just made acquaintance, and all the more so when he recollected the colonel's strange warning down at Wroxeter. He was bending towards her, speaking in commonplaces, reflecting the while that there certainly was nothing in her outward appearance to cause him terror. And yet the colonel had prophesied correctly in regard to their meeting and had warned him to avoid her. Why? The mystery underlying the words of his friend was certainly remarkable. He was really attracted towards her by her childlike absence of artificiality. Though the shyness of the _debutante_ had scarcely worn off, she committed no errors of etiquette. As she slowly fanned herself, she talked to him with all the gravity and composure of a woman of the world. Lady Meldrum had also been introduced to him by the honourable Member for South Staffordshire, and she was, he discovered, a rather gushing, good-looking woman of the type prone to paying compliments quite indiscriminately. Women nowadays keep their good looks much longer than they used to do. The woman of forty, and even the woman of fifty, to-day is not so old as the woman of thirty was--well, thirty years ago. For this reason, no doubt, and because we are becoming so very Continental, the married women reign supreme, and appear to reign for ever. It seems absurd to read in the list of beauties at a ball, the names of mothers and daughters bracketed together; but, in several instances, if the truth were told, it should be the daughter's name, and and not the mother's, which ought to be left out. "Do you know, Mr. Chisholm, I have already paid a visit to your chambers," her ladyship laughed. "Lady Richard Nevill took me up with her, fearing that I should catch cold while waiting in the carriage. She has been staying with us down at Fernhurst. Perhaps you have heard?" "She told me so," the Under-Secretary answered, at once summing her up as a rather vulgar person who had opened the door of society by means of a key fashioned out of gold. "And now I must let you into another secret," she went on fussily. "I took Muriel to the House the other night, and we heard you speak." He smiled. "I don't know what subject you heard me speak upon, Miss Mortimer," he said, turning to the blue-eyed girl in cream, "but I hope you were edified." "I was intensely interested," the young girl said. "Mr. Blackwood," she added, indicating the Honourable Member who had introduced them,--"took us all through the House and showed us the library, the dining-rooms, the Lobby, and all the places that I'd read about. I had no idea the House of Commons was such a wonderful place and so full of creature comforts." "Its wonders are very often tiresome," he remarked with a little smile. "As a show-place, Miss Mortimer, it is one of the sights of England. As a place in which to spend half one's days it is not the most comfortable, I assure you." "Ah!" exclaimed Lady Meldrum; "of course; I quite understand. A man holding such an important position in the Government as you do can have but little time for leisure. I saw you with Lady Richard Nevill just now. She brought you here, of course." "Yes," he admitted. "I go out very little." "And she induced you to come here with her. Charming woman! She was the light and soul of our party at Fernhurst." And as the wife of the Jubilee knight continued to make claims upon Dudley's attention, he was prevented from exchanging more than a few words with the sweet-faced girl against whom he had been so strangely warned by the man who for so many years had been one of his closest friends. This plump wife of the estimable Scotch iron-founder was a recent importation into society. She had, he heard, been "taken up" by Claudia, and owed all her success to her ladyship's introductions. It is not given to every one to entertain a Grand-Duke for the shooting, and her fame as a hostess had been considerably increased by her good fortune in this respect. She chattered steadily until the tall, thin-faced Duke of Penarth himself strolled past, bowed on catching sight of her, and stayed to talk for a few moments. Lady Meldrum did not hesitate when it was necessary to choose between a sprat and a whale. She at once turned aside from Dudley, thus giving him a chance to improve the occasion with her ward. Yes, he decided, she was possessed of a charming ingenuousness; and yet at the same time there was nothing of the school-miss about her. She had given a very candid and amusing opinion regarding the controversy which had taken place in the House at the time of her visit, and had openly expressed her admiration of the determined and outspoken manner in which he had supported the Government and crushed the arguments of the Opposition. "I really suspect you to be a politician, Miss Mortimer," he laughed presently. "You seem well-versed in so many points of our foreign policy." "Oh," she answered with a smile. "I read the papers in preference to novels, that's the reason." Another waltz was commencing. As he turned to glance to the centre of the room, his eyes fell upon a couple gliding together among the dancers. He bit his lip, for he recognised them as the Grand-Duke and the woman who only an hour ago had vowed that she still loved him. He turned back again to that pale, childish face with the blue eyes, and saw truth, honesty, and purity mirrored there. Yet he had been distinctly and seriously warned against her--even her. Why, he wondered, had the colonel spoken in so forcible a fashion, and yet refused a single word of explanation? It was an enigma, to say the least of it. CHAPTER THIRTEEN. TAKES DUDLEY BY A BY-PATH. To love faithfully is to love with singleness of heart and sameness of purpose, through all the temptations which society presents, and under all the assaults of vanity both from within and without. It is so pleasant for a woman to be admired and so soothing to her to be loved, that the grand trial of female constancy is to refrain from adding one more conquest to her triumphs when it is evidently in her power to do so. Obviously her chief protection is to restrain the first indefinite thoughts which, if allowed to gain clearness and swiftness, may lead her fancy astray. Even the ideas which commonly float through the mind of woman are so rapid and so indistinctly shaped, that when the door is opened to such thoughts as these they pour in like a torrent. Then first will arise a sudden perception of deficiency in the object of her love, or some additional impression of his unkindness or neglect, with comparisons between him and other men, and regret that he has not some quality which they possess; sadness under a conviction of her future destiny, pining for sympathy under that sadness, and, lastly, the commencement of some other intimacy, which at first she has no idea of converting into love. Such is the manner in which, in thousands of cases, the faithfulness of woman's love has been destroyed, and destroyed far more effectually than if assailed by an open, and, apparently, more formidable foe. And what a wreck has followed! For when woman loses her integrity and her self-respect, she is indeed pitiable and degraded. While her faithfulness remains unshaken, it is true she may, and probably will, have much to suffer; but let her destiny in this life be what it may, she will walk through the world with a firm and upright step. To live solitary may be the cost of her noble behaviour; but often this solitude will represent a decoration more splendid than any to be received from the hands of queens and emperors. I may be accused of a cold philosophy in speaking of such consolation being efficacious under the suffering which arises from unkindness and desertion; but who would not rather be the one to bear injury than the one to inflict it? The very act of bearing it meekly and reverently, as from the hand of God, has a purifying and solemnising effect upon the soul, which the faithless and the fickle never can experience. Dudley Chisholm sat before the fire in his room until the dawn, trying to unravel a thousand knots, his mind filled with sad memories and with bitter regrets in plenty. Muriel Mortimer had interested him, just as a child sometimes interests the pedantic philosopher. He had found hers a frank, open, girlish nature, as yet unspoiled by its contact with the smart, well-dressed, vicious set into which the ambitious Lady Meldrum had seen fit to plunge her. He admired her as one standing apart from most of the women he knew, for she had displayed an intelligence and a knowledge of political affairs that surprised him. She, on her side, seemed to regard him rather fearfully, as one of the powers of the State. This amused him, and he assured her that he could not honestly claim to be more than the mouthpiece of the Foreign Office. Yes, she was as charming as she was ingenuous. And Claudia? He reflected upon all that he had said, and upon all her answers; yet somehow he could not make up his mind whether she were really false. When he recollected the quick passion of her caresses, the tenderness of her words, the gentle sympathy with which she had asked him to confide in her, he found it difficult to believe that she could actually forget him five minutes after leaving him in that ballroom, and waltz airily with the man with whose name her own was being everywhere coupled. To him, honest, upright man that he was, this seemed an absolute impossibility. He refused to believe it. Surely she loved him, in spite of her perplexing caprices; surely she had been seized by remorse for her own fickleness. He endeavoured to compare the two women, but the comparison caused him to start up in quick impatience. "No!" he cried aloud in a fierce voice. "A thousand times no! I love Claudia--no one else!--no one else in all the world!" Next day when he entered his room at Downing Street, Wrey, his secretary, put before him a quantity of documents requiring attention. He held the responsible office of superintending under-secretary of the Commercial Department of Her Majesty's Foreign Office, the business of which consisted of correspondence with our Ministers and Consuls abroad; with the representatives of the Foreign Powers in England, and with the Board of Trade and other departments of the Government. He had been absorbed in these papers for some hours, snatching only a few minutes for a glass of sherry and a biscuit at luncheon-time, when Wrey returned to remind him of a long-standing engagement that evening at the little town of Godalming, which was in his constituency, four miles from Albury. He glanced up from his writing and gave vent to a sharp ejaculation of annoyance. "Are you quite certain it is to-night?" he asked, for the reminder was to him a most unpleasant one. He avoided speaking in his constituency whenever he could. "Yes. I put it down in the diary a month ago--a dinner given by the Lodge of Odd Fellows in aid of a local charity." Dudley groaned. He knew too well those charity dinners given in a small room among his honest but rather uncouth supporters. He dreaded the tinned soups, the roast beef, the tough fowls, and the surreptitious tankards of ale in lieu of wine, to be followed by those post-prandial pipes and strong cigars. He shuddered. The dense atmosphere always turned him sick, so that he usually made his speech while it was still possible to see across the room. He was very fond of the working-man, and subscribed liberally to all charitable objects and associations, from those with a political aim down to the smallest coal club in the outlying villages; but why could not those honest sons of toil leave him in peace? His presence, of course, gave importance to the occasion, but if they had found it possible to spare him the ordeal of sitting through their dinner he would have been thankful. Out of fifty invitations to banquets of various kinds, openings of bazaars, flower-shows, lectures, concerts, entertainments and penny-readings, he usually declined forty-nine. As he could not absolutely cut himself aloof from his Division, on rare occasions he accepted, and spent an evening at Albury, or Godalming, or some of the less important local centres of political thought. The pot-house politician, who forms his ideas of current events from the ultra-patriotic screeches of certain popular newspapers, was a common object in his constituency; but in Godalming, at any rate, the great majority of his supporters were honest working-men. The little town is a quaint, old-world place with a long High Street of ancient houses, many of them displaying the oak-beams of the sixteenth century, and its politics were just as staunch and old-fashioned as the borough itself. True, a new town of comfortable villas has sprung up of late around it, and high upon the hill are to be seen the pinnacles of Charterhouse School; but, notwithstanding these innovations, Godalming has not marched with the times. Because of this the blatant reformer has but little chance there, and the Parliamentary Seat is always a safe one for the Conservatives. Much as he disliked the duty, he saw that it was absolutely necessary to go down and make pretence of having a meal with that estimable Society of Odd Fellows. He rose from his seat at the littered table, at once feeling a sudden desire for fresh air after the closeness of his room, and a few minutes later was driving in a cab to Waterloo. To dress for such a function was quite unnecessary. Working men do not approve of their Member wearing a dinner jacket when among them, for they look upon a starched shirt as a sign of superiority. He was always fond of the country round Godalming, where he had once spent a summer, and as it was a sunshiny afternoon saw in the occasion an opportunity of taking a walk through some of the most picturesque lanes in Surrey. He was tired, world-weary, utterly sick of life. The duties of his office pressed heavily upon him; but most burdensome of all was the ever-present dread that the threatened blow should fall and crush him. He wanted air: he wanted to be alone to think. And so, when that afternoon he alighted at Godalming and returned the salutes of the station-master and book-stall keeper, he started off up the steep road as far as the Charterhouse, and from that point struck off by a narrow footpath which led away across the brown ploughed fields to where the Hog's Back stretched before him in the blue distance. The autumn sun shone brightly in the clear, grey sky, and the trees in all their glory of brown and gold shed their leaves upon him as he passed. Save the station-master and the book-stall clerk, none had recognised him. This was fortunate, for now he was free, out in the open country with its rich meadows and picturesque hills and valleys, until the hour when he must dine with his supporters and utter some trite sayings regarding the work of the Government and its policy abroad. He was fond of walking, and was glad to escape from Downing Street and from the House for a single evening; so he strode along down the path with a swinging gait, though with a heart not light enough for the full enjoyment of his lovely surroundings. The by-path he had taken was that which leads over the hills from Godalming past Field Place to the little old-world village of Compton. Having crossed the ploughed lands, he entered a thick coppice, where the path began to run down with remarkable steepness into wide meadows, on the other side of which lay a dark wood. The narrow path running through the coppice terminated at a stile which gave entrance to the park-like meadow-land. Descending this path he halted at the stile, leaning against it. Alone in that rural solitude, far removed from the mad hurry of London life, he stood to think. Each gust of wind brought down a shower of brown leaves from the oaks above, and the only other sound was the cry of a pheasant in the wood. For at least five minutes he stood motionless. Then he suddenly roused himself, and some words escaped his lips: "How strange," he murmured, "that my footsteps should lead me to this very spot, of all others! Why, I wonder, has Fate directed me here?" He turned and gazed slowly round upon the scene spread before him, the green meadows, the dark wood, the sloping hill with its bare, brown fields, and the Hog's Back rising in the far distance, with the black line of the telegraph standing out against the sky. With slow deliberation he took in every feature of the landscape. Then, facing about, with his back to the stile, his eyes wandered up the steep path by which he had just descended from the crest of the hill. "No," he went on in a strange, low voice, speaking to himself, "it has not changed--not in the least. It is all just the same to-day, as then--just the same." He sighed heavily as he leaned back upon the wooden rail and gazed up the ascent, brown with its carpet of acorns and fallen leaves. "Yes," he continued at last, "it is destiny that has led me here, to this well-remembered spot for the last time before I die-- the justice which demands a life for a life." Throughout the district it would not have been easy to find a more secluded spot than the small belt of dense wood, half of which lay on either side of the footpath. So steep was this path that considerable care had to be exercised during its descent, especially in autumn, when the damp leaves and acorns were slippery, or in winter, when the rain-channels were frozen into precipitous slides. "A life for a life!" he repeated slowly with a strange curl of the lip. He permitted himself to speak aloud because in that rural, solitude he had no fear of eavesdroppers. "I have lived my life," he said, "and now it is ended. My attempted atonement is all to no purpose, for to-day, or to-morrow, a voice as from the grave will arise to condemn me--to drive me to take my life!" He glanced at his watch. "Yes," he sighed. "Four o'clock!--at this very spot--at this hour on a wet day in mid-winter--" And his eyes fixed themselves blankly upon the ground a couple of yards distant from where he was standing. "Six years have gone, and it has remained ever a mystery!" His face was pale, his brow contracted, his teeth firmly set. His eyes still rested upon that spot covered with dead brown leaves. Certainly it was strange that the steep and narrow pathway should possess such fascination for him, for he had wandered there quite involuntarily. It is not too much to say that he would have flown to any other part of England rather than stand upon the spot so closely associated with the chapter in his life's history that he hoped was closed for ever. Suddenly he roused himself, and, walking forward a couple of paces, marked with his stick a square in the dead leaves. Apparently he was deep in calculation, for after he had made the mark he carefully measured, by means of his cane, the distance between the square and the top of the short ascent. On either side of the path was a steep moss-grown bank surmounted by thick hazel-bushes, but on the left a little distance up was an old wooden fence, grey with lichen. He appeared to be deeply interested in this fence, for after going close up to it he measured by careful pacing the distance between it and the spot he had marked out. When this was done, he stood again motionless, his fevered brow bared to the breezes as though to him that spot were hallowed. Then, crossing the stile, he entered the meadow, passing and repassing the narrow lane as though for the purpose of discovering the exact position an observer would be compelled to take up in order to watch a person standing at the point he had marked. At last he returned, standing again with his back to the stile, his hat raised in reverence, gazing fixedly upon those dead and decaying leaves. "Yes," he murmured, "I was mad--mad! The devil tempted me, and I fell. Would to God that I could make amends! But I cannot--I dare not. No, I must suffer!" CHAPTER FOURTEEN. WHICH DEMANDS EXPLANATION. Chisholm dined that night in the upstairs room of that old-fashioned hostelry, the Angel, at Godalming, in company with the brethren of the banner. He sat at the right of the estimable, fat-handed butcher who presided, and was informed by him that as the gigantic roast sirloin that was served was his "own killing," he could recommend it. They ate, drank, and made merry, these men banded together by their sacred rites, until the heat grew so intense that the windows were opened, with the result that decorous High Street echoed to the volleys of their hearty laughter. As drink was included in the cost of the repast, those diners with the more rapacious appetites--who, indeed, made no secret that they had been existing in a state of semi-starvation all day in order to eat at night--drank indiscriminately of the lemonade, beer, wine and whiskey placed upon the table. Indeed, as is usual at such feasts, they ate and drank all within reach of their hands. But these bearded working-men and small tradesmen were merry and well-meaning with it all. After "The King" had been honoured, they toasted with boisterous enthusiasm "Our Honourable Member," and joined in the usual chorus of poetical praise, "For he's a jolly good fellow." Dudley sat bowing and smiling, yet at heart sick of the whole performance. He dreaded the pipes and cigars that would in a few moments appear. Shag and clays always turned him ill. He was no great smoker himself, and had never been able to withstand the smell of a strong cigar. His quick eyes observed a man who was beginning in an affectionate manner to fondle a well-coloured short clay. He bent at once to the chairman, saying that he would now deliver his speech. "Silence, please, gentlemen!" shouted the rotund butcher, rapping the table with his wooden mallet after their guest's health had been drunk. "Silence for our Honourable Member! Silence--_please_!" Then Dudley rose eagerly, happy in the knowledge that he was almost through the ordeal, and, with a preliminary "Mr. Chairman and Gentlemen," addressed the hundred or so of his faithful supporters, telling them this and that about the Government, and assuring them of the soundness of the policy adopted by Her Majesty's Ministers. It was not a very long speech, but it was upon a subject of the moment; and as there were two "gentlemen of the Press" representing the local advertisement sheets, the one a mere boy, and the other a melancholy, disappointed-looking man, with a sage and rather ascetic expression, the speech would appear in the papers, and the Godalming Lodge of Odd Fellows would receive the credit of having entertained one of England's most rising statesmen. The two representatives of the Press, each of whom took himself very seriously, had been regaled with a bottle of port and some cigars by the committee, who entertained a hope that they would thus be induced to give a lengthy and laudatory account of the function. While Dudley was on his legs the cloud of tobacco-smoke became thicker and thicker. Those triumphs of the tobacconist called "tuppenny smokes" are nauseous when in combination with the odour of food. Dudley sniffed them, coughed slightly, sipped some water, and then drew his speech to a close amid a terrific outburst of applause and a beating upon the tables which caused the glasses and crockery to jingle. While this oration was in full blast he noticed a committee-man uncovering the piano, by which he knew that "harmony" was to embellish the hot whiskey period. At last, however, he managed to excuse himself, upon the plea that he must return to the House for a Division that was expected; and as soon as he was out in the High Street he breathed more freely. Then he hurried to the train, and, entering the express from Portsmouth, tried to forget the spot he had visited in that small belt of forest--the scene that too often commanded the most vivid powers of his memory. "I was a fool ever to have gone there!--an absolute fool!" he murmured to himself, as he flung himself back in the first-class compartment when alone. "I ran an unnecessary risk. And that man who came so suddenly upon me just as I was leaving! What if he had watched and recognised me? If so, he would certainly gossip about my presence there, describe my actions--and then--" He was silent; his face became blanched and drawn. "Even though six years have passed, the affair is not forgotten," he went on in a hard voice. "It is still the local mystery which Scotland Yard failed to elucidate. Yes," he added, "I was a fool--a confounded fool! What absurd whim took me to that place of all others, I can't imagine. I'm mad--mad!" he cried in wild despair. "This madness is the shadow of suicide!" Instead of going down to the House he drove back at once to his chambers. Upon his table was a note from Claudia, affectionate as usual, and full of regret that they had not met again on the previous night--when they had been so suddenly separated at Penarth House. "What do you think of little Muriel Mortimer? I saw you speaking with her," she wrote. "She was full of you when I met her shopping in Bond Street this morning. You have made quite an impression, my dear Dudley. But don't altogether forget me, will you?" Forget? Could he ever forget the woman whom he loved, and yet despised? Strange that Claudia should have plotted with Lady Meldrum against his bachelor estate, and should have determined to bring about this marriage with Muriel Mortimer! In a frenzy of despair he cast her letter into the flames. He recollected the words she had uttered to him in that room on the previous night, the sweet words of love and tenderness that had held him spellbound. No, there was no other woman in all the world save her--and yet, she was false and fickle, as all the world knew. Life's comforts are its cares. He smiled bitterly as he reflected upon that phrase, which was an extract from one of his many brilliant speeches. If a person has no cares, that person must make them, or be wretched; care is actually an employment, an action; sometimes even a joy. And so it is with love. Life and love must have employment and action. There must be responsibility and a striving to reach a goal; for if not, both the power to endure and the power to give comfort are shrunken and crippled. When Dudley Chisholm was young he had long worshipped an ideal. But when he found his idol to be undeserving of the idolatry, madness fell upon him, and he accepted the creed of the prodigal. Raking over the ashes of the numerous bonfires he had made, for which his senses had been the fuel, he now found a revelation of his inner self. He recognised for the first time his weakness and his unworthiness. He wanted something better than he had known--not in others, but in himself. He had discovered a spot of tenderness in his heart that had, so to speak, remained virgin soil. "Could a really smart woman possess any nice sense of honour?" he asked himself for the hundredth time. If she is endowed with any particular intelligence, and the world discovers it, then society is prone to think that she is necessarily a "schemer," and, unless her friends know her very well, she is soon given a place upon society's black list as an "adventuress," a term which applies to the whole gamut of West End wickedness. No, after all, few women can be both honourable and smart. His thoughts wandered back into the past, as they so frequently did, and a moan came from his heart. He remembered Claudia as an ideal woman of whom a cruel Fate had robbed him in those days before he learned the world to be what it is. And he still loved her--even though this great gulf yawned between them. Dudley Chisholm was blind to Claudia's true character. He was attracted to her by her intellect and her physical magnetism. In these days of her freedom she had dared to be herself, and having knowledge of herself and of men, she had developed his admiration up to her own standpoint. She had taught him women as she knew them herself. She was playing with all the edged tools of daring because she felt that she was the stronger of the two, and that he would dare no further than she willed. She was charmed with the freedom she allowed herself; while he was, in a manner, flattered by her apparent constancy to him and by her finding in him anything that interested a woman of her attainments and popularity. Thus he had become thoroughly interested, madly infatuated, as well as honestly in love. Men so seldom understand the inner nature, the designing nature, if I may be forgiven the expression, of some women. Such women are unscrupulous in their dealings both with men and women. The West End is full of them. They live for what they can get out of their acquaintances, instead of for what they can do for them. They give as much love to all as to one, unless that one should happen to be more wealthy or distinguished than the others. Then the wealthy one will get the largest quantity of attention, while the others will be kept dangling on the string for use at odd times. Such women are shrewd. Mayfair has taught them the art of conversation. They have reduced it to a science. With the innocent face of a child, they learn never to let the left hand know what the right hand is doing. And, if the bare truth be stated, Claudia Nevill was one of these. She, in her shrewdness, had handled Dudley with light ribbons. She had intuitively understood what kind of woman he preferred, and she had been that woman--until now, when the bitter truth had been made plain to him. In this life of ours the tossing between the extremes of happiness and misery are terribly wearying. When once life's lessons begin they continue in a mad headlong rush of events. During the last few days Dudley Chisholm seemed to have lived a lifetime. Fate twisted and turned him through and round human follies and treachery. It laughed at him, beating up all that was false against all that was true in his own nature, until he found himself in such a _pot-pourri_ of sunshine and storm that life seemed suddenly too incomprehensible to be endured. The daintiness of women rivets and enchains men of Dudley's stamp--the perfume of the hair, the baby-smell of the skin, the frills, the laces, the violets exuding from the chiffons, the arched foot, the neat ankle, the clinging drapery--everything, in fact, that means delicate luxury not to be enjoyed save in the company of a woman. Awkwardness disenchants, but well-poised, graceful lines, added to a _chic_ in dress, hold for ever. To be essentially feminine places a woman in the holy of holies in a man's heart. As Claudia was essentially feminine, she still held Dudley safe, in spite of that sudden gust of scandal. Alone, seated in his familiar armchair, he cast aside the heavy thoughts that had so oppressed him ever since he had stood at that spot deep in rural Surrey, and looked upon the place every object of which was photographed upon his memory. He thought of Claudia, and, remembering the declaration of her love whispered in that room, felt regret at the hard words he had uttered. She had made mistakes and become entangled in the meshes of the net spread out for her. Was it not his duty to extricate her? He too had made a mistake in not paying respect, at least outwardly, to the social code, and now the time had come when he was forced to recognise that necessity. Yes, in his inner consciousness he fully realised the mistake he had made. He had all unconsciously aided and abetted her in becoming what was known as "a smart woman." Perhaps, however, his opinion of her would have been a different one had he been present at that moment in one of the smaller sitting-rooms of the great mansion at Albert Gate. It was a cosy apartment, with the lamplight mellowed to a half tone by the yellow shade; dull greyish blue was the colour of the silken walls, a cool, restful tint that seemed a fitting background for the cosy lounge draped with dark Egyptian red and suppressed greens and yellows. Upon the couch, in a handsome dinner gown of pale pink trimmed with black velvet, lazily lounged its mistress among her silken pillows, slowly waving her fan, while near her in one of the big saddle-bag chairs sat the Grand-Duke Stanislas smoking a cigarette, his eyes fixed upon her. At his throat he wore the ribbon of St. Andrew, one of the highest of the Russian orders, the splendid diamond cross glittering upon his shirt-front. He was on his way to a reception at the Austrian Embassy given in his honour by the ambassador, but at Claudia's invitation he had dined with her. "No, really," she was laughing, "it is not so in England. I quite admit that men make it a general accusation against us, as a sex, that we are ill-natured, unfair, pitiless, in judging one another. They say that when women get together, at every word a reputation dies; they say that as a savage proves his heroism by displaying in grim array the torn scalps of his enemies, so a woman thinks she proves her virtue by exhibiting the mangled reputations of her friends; they say--But there is no end to the witty impertinences and fag-ends of rhymes from Simonides to Pope, which they fling at us on this subject I have never heard men so eloquently satirical as when treating with utter scorn the idea that a woman can possibly elevate herself in the eyes of one of their sex by degrading, or suffering to be degraded, one of her own; and in their censure they are right--quite right; but wrong--quite wrong in attributing this, our worst propensity, to ill-nature and jealousy. Ignorance is the main cause: ignorance of ourselves and others." He laughed at her philosophy, and blew a cloud of smoke towards the ceiling. "I think, my dear madame, that you must be full of whims, _comme disent les Anglais_. A pretty woman like yourself always is," he said in his marked foreign accent. "And why not?" she inquired, for he had suddenly changed the channel of their conversation, and she much feared that he now intended to give her a _rechauffe_ of his sentimental nonsense. "Because you brought your friend to the duchess's last night. I saw him. _C'etait assez_." "You are jealous--eh?" "Not in the least, I assure you," he answered quite coolly. "Only it is pretty folly on madame's part--that is all." "Why folly? _O la belle idee_!" "Madame's _amities_ are of course friendships," he said, raising his dark eyebrows. "Nevertheless, she should be warned." "Of what?" "Of Monsieur the Under-Secretary," he replied, still regarding her quite calmly with his dark eyes. "For her own reputation madame should no longer be seen with him." She glanced at her guest quickly, for she was used to men's jealousies. Yet surely this scion of an Imperial House could not be jealous! "And for what reason, pray?" she asked, puzzled. "Because of a regrettable circumstance," he answered mysteriously. "Because of a forthcoming exposure which will be startling. In a certain _Chancellerie_ in a certain capital of Europe there reposes a document which must shortly be made public property." "Well, and what then?" she asked, not yet grasping his meaning. "Its publication will bring disgrace and ruin upon madame's friend," he answered simply. "That is why I warn you not to be seen again in his company." "What do you mean?" she cried, starting up with sudden _hauteur_. "You tell me this, in order to turn me from him." "No, _ma chere_, I tell you a secret which is known in the _Chancellerie_ of a certain Power antagonistic to your country," he responded. "I have told madame the truth for her own benefit." "You would try to poison my mind against Dudley Chisholm by hints such as these!" she cried, magnificent in her sudden fury. "You!--You! But let me tell you that I love him--that--that--" "That you refuse to believe my word!" he said, concluding her unfinished sentence. "Yes, that I absolutely refuse to believe you!" she declared emphatically, facing him boldly in a manner which showed that her nature had revolted against this attempt to denounce the man she loved. "_C'est assez_!" he laughed with an air of nonchalance the moment he had blown a cloud of smoke from his lips. "Madame has spoken!" CHAPTER FIFTEEN. IS TOLD IN THE GRASS COUNTRY. Throughout November Dudley remained in town tied to the House by his official duties, and saw little of Claudia, who had gone into Leicestershire for the hunting. Riding to hounds was her favourite sport, and she was one of the best horse-women within fifty miles of Market Harborough. Each season she went on a visit to Lady Atteridge, whose husband had a box right in the centre of the hunting-country, and at every meet she was a conspicuous figure. An acquaintance she made in the field with the late Empress of Austria, during a run with the Pytchley across the Grafton country, ripened into a warm friendship, and on many occasions she had entertained her now lamented Majesty at Albert Gate. Nearly every year some foreign royalty or other is the centre of hunting interest. Unable to enjoy the race over the grass in their own land, they come to England for healthful sport, and generally make Harborough their headquarters. That season it was the Grand-Duke Stanislas who rode to nearly every meet, always accompanied by his equerry. Hence Claudia and he frequently met, but since that evening when he had endeavoured to turn her from the man she loved she had avoided him. She purposely refrained from attending any function at which he might possibly be present, and when they were compelled to meet with the hounds she only bowed, and seldom, if ever, offered him her hand. On his part, he was always fussing about her, scolding her for her too reckless riding across boggy meadows, or at hedges made dangerous by barbed wires, and always holding himself prepared to render her any of those many little services which the hunting-man renders the fair sex in the field. But on her part she was absolutely indifferent to his attentions, and at the same time annoyed that he should thus publicly exhibit his admiration. Certainly no figure was more neat and _chic_ than hers in its well-cut habit, her dark hair tightly coiled beneath her becoming hunting-hat. In the saddle she looked as if she were part of the animal she rode, and her mare, "Tattie," was a splendid creature, which always came in for a full share of praise among those who could tell a good hunter when they saw one. The men who ride to hounds in the Harborough country are, as a rule, hard as nails, and as keen and outspoken critics of a woman as of a horse. But Claudia Nevill and "Tattie" were both pronounced first-class, the former because she was so extremely affable with one and all, even to the farmer's sons who followed the hounds, and blushed with a countryman's awkwardness when she, the woman of whom the papers spoke, addressed them. There was no pride about her ladyship, and the whole countryside, from Harborough right across to Peterborough, declared her to be "one of the right sort." Of course even in the villages there were whispers that she was very friendly with the Grand-Duke, and the usual deductions were made from the fact that the latest foreign star in the hunting-firmament was always riding near her. But in the country the people are very slow to give credence to scandal, and the gossip, though active, was not ill-natured; besides, it had long ago been known that the Foreign Under-Secretary was passionately attached to her. Last season Chisholm had hunted with the Pytchley and had been always at her side, so that the rustics, and even the members of the hunt had come to regard him as her future husband, and had pronounced them to be a well-matched pair. Late one afternoon towards the close of November the end of a busy day was drawing near. The meet was at Althorpe Park, Earl Spencer's seat, and the spinneys all around the park were drawn one after the other; but although plenty of pretty hunting took place, the hounds did not do any good. On drawing No-bottle Wood the greater portion of the large field managed to get away with the pack as the hounds raced away up wind in the direction of Harlestone. The first fox led his pursuers over fine grass country to a copse near Floore, where the sight of hounds in full cry, a rare occurrence, caused considerable excitement among the villagers. Continuing past Weedon Beck, the fugitive circled round in the direction of Pattishall, but he was so hotly pressed that he was obliged to take shelter in a drain near Bugbrook, where it was decided to leave him. The second fox, which was started from Dowsby Gorse, gave a fine run of an hour. He travelled first to Byfield, thence across the hilly country back to Weedon Beck, over almost the same district as his predecessor. Near Weedon reynard had an encounter with some terriers belonging to a rabbiting party, but got safely away and finally beat the pack close to the Nene. The run had been a very fast one, but both Claudia and Stanislas were among the few in at the finish. As many of the hunters jogged homeward along the Daventry road, the Grand-Duke managed to take up his position by the side of the beautiful woman whom he so greatly admired. Stanislas, who was an excellent rider, had left his equerry far behind in the mad race across hedges, ditches, stubble and ploughed land. Somewhat bespattered by mud, he sat his horse with perfect ease and with almost imperial dignity. To the casual observer there was nothing to distinguish him from any of the other hunters, for in his well-worn riding-breeches, gaiters and black coat his appearance was devoid of that elegance which had distinguished him in London society, and he looked more like a country squire than the son of an emperor. They were descending the slope towards a small hamlet of thatched cottages, when of a sudden he drew his horse closer to hers and, turning to her, exclaimed in English of rather a pleasant accent: "Madame is, I fear, fatigued--of my company?" "Oh dear no," she laughed, turning her fine dark eyes mischievously towards him. "Why should I be? When you are so self-sacrificing as to leave Muriel Mortimer to Captain Graydon's charge and ride with me, I surely ought not to complain." "Why do you speak of Mam'zelle Mortimer?" he asked, at once grown serious. "Because you have been flirting with her outrageously all day. You can't deny it," she declared, turning to him in her saddle. "I was merely pleasant to her," he admitted. "But you English declare that a man is a flirt if he merely extends the most commonplace courtesies to a woman. It is so different in other countries." "Yes," she laughed. "Here, in England, woman is fortunately respected, but it is not so on the Continent." "I trust that madame has not found me indiscreet," he said earnestly. "If I have been, I must crave forgiveness, because I am so unused to English manners." "I don't think any one need blame you for indiscretion, providing that Muriel does not object." "Object? I do not follow you," he said. "Well, she may object to her name being bandied about as a woman with whom you are carrying on an open flirtation." "You appear to blame me for common civility to her," he observed. "I cannot, somehow, understand madame of late. She has so changed." "Yes," she answered with a bitter smile; "I have grown older--and wiser." "Wisdom always adds charm to a woman," he replied, endeavouring to turn her sarcasm into a compliment. "And age commands respect," she answered. He laughed uneasily, for he knew well her quick and clever repartee. "I have been wishing to have a word with madame for a long time," he said, at last breaking a silence that had fallen between them. "You have pointedly avoided me for several weeks. Have I given you offence? If so, I beg a thousand pardons." She did not answer for some time. At heart she despised this Imperial Prince, before whom half the women in London bowed and curtsied. She had once allowed him to pay court to her in his fussy, foreign manner, amused and flattered that one of his degree should find her interesting; but all that was now of the past. In those brief moments as they rode together along the country road in the wintry twilight, recollections of summer days at Fernhurst came back to her, and she hated herself. In those days she had actually forgotten Dudley. And then she also remembered how this man had condemned her lover: how he had urged her to break off the acquaintance, and how he had hinted at some secret which, when exposed, must result in Dudley's ruin. Those enigmatical words of his had caused her much thought. At what had he hinted? A thousand times had she endeavoured to discover his meaning, but had utterly failed. If such a secret actually existed, and if its revelation could cause the downfall of Dudley Chisholm, then it was surely her duty to discover it and to seek its suppression. This latter thought caused her to hesitate, and to leave unsaid the hasty answer that had flashed into her mind. "Well," she said at length, "now that you have spoken plainly, I may as well confess that I have been annoyed--very much annoyed." "I regret that!" he exclaimed with quick concern. "If I have caused madame any annoyance, I assure her it was not in the least intentional. But tell me how I have annoyed you." "Oh, it was a small matter, quite a trivial one," she said with affected carelessness, settling her habit and glancing furtively at the man who had declared that he held her lover's secret. "But you will tell me," he urged. "Please do. I have already apologised." "Then that is sufficient," she replied. "No, it is not sufficient I must know my offence, to be fully cognisant of its gravity." Her brows contracted slightly, but in the fading light he did not notice the shadow of annoyance that passed across her countenance. "As I have told you, the offence was not a grave one," she declared. "I was merely annoyed, that is all." "Annoyed by my actions, or by my words?" "By your words." "On what occasion?" "On the last occasion you dined at my house." For a moment his face assumed a puzzled expression, then in an instant the truth flashed upon him. "Ah!" he cried; "I recollect, of course. Madame has been offended at what I said regarding her friend, the Under-Secretary. I can only repeat my apologies." "You repeat them because what you told me was untrue!" she exclaimed, turning and looking him full in the face. They had allowed their horses to walk, in order to be able to converse. "I much regret, madame, that it was true," he replied. "All of it?" "All of it." "And there exists somewhere or other a document which inculpates Dudley Chisholm?" "Yes, it inculpates him very gravely, I am sorry to say." "Sorry! Why?" "Well, because he is madame's friend--her very best friend, if report speaks the truth." There was a sarcastic ring in his words which she did not fail to detect, and it stung her to fury. "I cannot see why you should entertain the least sympathy for my friend," she remarked in a hard voice. "More especially for one unknown to you." "Oh, we have met!" her companion said. "We met in Paris long since on an occasion when I was travelling incognito, and I liked him. Indeed, he was dining at the Carlton a week ago at the next table to me." "And you are aware of the nature of this secret, which, according to what you tell me, must some day or other bring about his utter downfall?" "Ah, no. Madame misunderstands me entirely," he hastened to protest. "I am not a diplomatist, nor have I any connection, official or otherwise, with diplomacy. I merely told you of a matter which had come to my knowledge. Recollect, that a young man in Chisholm's position of responsibility must have a large number of jealous enemies. Perhaps it will be owing to one of these that the secret will leak out." "It will be used for a political purpose, you mean?" "Exactly," replied the Grand-Duke. "Your Government, what with the two or three contending parties, is always at war, as it were, and the Opposition, as you term it, may, as a _coup de grace_ to the Government, reveal the secret." "But you told me that it was a document, and that it reposed safely in one of the Chancelleries in a foreign capital, if I remember aright," she said. "Now, tell me honestly, is St. Petersburg the capital you refer to?" "No, it is not," he replied promptly. "And the Embassy in London that is aware of the truth is not in Chesham Place?" "Most assuredly not, madame," he replied. "Cannot you be more explicit," she urged. "Cannot you, if you are my friend, as you have more than once declared yourself to be, tell me more regarding this extraordinary matter which is to create such a terrible scandal?" "No, it is impossible--utterly impossible. If I could, I would tell madame everything. But my information really carries me no further than the bare fact that a certain Power antagonistic to England has been able to secure a document which must prove the ruin of the most brilliant and promising of the younger English statesmen." "And have you really no idea whatever as to the nature of the secret?" "None." "From what you tell me one would almost infer that Dudley Chisholm had been guilty of some crime. Have you no suspicion of its nature?" "Absolutely none," her companion declared. "The only other fact I know is the whereabouts of the document in question, and that I must keep a secret, according to my solemn promise." "You promised not to divulge the direction in which danger lies?" she said suspiciously. "Why did you do so? You surely must have had some motive!" "I had none. The affair was mentioned to me confidentially, and I was compelled to promise that I would give no indication as to what person held the incriminating paper. I told madame of its existence merely to warn her, and perhaps to prepare her for an unwelcome revelation." "You refuse to tell me more?" she asked quickly, "even though you must be aware how deeply this extraordinary matter affects me?" "I am compelled to refuse, madame," he answered in the same calm, unruffled tone. "I cannot break my word of honour." CHAPTER SIXTEEN. SUGGESTS A DOUBLE PROBLEM. Fashion, as we call it, is in these decadent days at the mercy of any millionaire pork-butcher, or any enterprising adventurer from across the seas. Victorian literature has declined into the "short story" and the "problem play," taking its heroines from among women with a past and its heroes from the slums. In prose, in verse, and in conversation, the favourite style is the Cockney slang of the costermonger, the betting-ring, and the barrack canteen. Is it not appalling that the reek of the pot-house, the music-hall, the turf, the share-market, the thieves' doss-house infects our literature, our manners, our amusements, and our ideals of life? Yet is it not the truth? Dudley, yielding to Claudia's persuasion, gave a large house-party at Wroxeter during the Christmas recess. As he was too much occupied with his public duties to be able to arrange the affair himself, she returned from Market Harborough and went down to Shropshire to make his arrangements. Truth to tell, he was wearied of the nightly discussions in the House and his daily work at the Foreign Office, and looked forward to a brief period of relaxation and gaiety, when he could entertain his friends. He left everything to her, just as he had done on several previous occasions. Very soon after his decision to ask his friends down to the old feudal castle, Wroxeter was the scene of much cleaning and garnishing. Claudia, whose charm of manner was unequalled, was an admirable hostess of striking individuality, and her own entertainments were always brilliant successes. Royalties came to her small parties, and every one who was any one was seen at her receptions. She it was who decided what guests should be asked to Wroxeter, and who sent out the invitations; then, after seeing that all was in complete readiness, she returned again to town. She was a born entertainer, and never so happy as when arranging a social function, whether it was a dinner, private theatricals, a bazaar, or a theatre supper at the Carlton. It follows that as regards the arrangement of Dudley's house-party at Wroxeter she was entirely in her element. A paragraph crept into the papers announcing how the popular Under-Secretary intended to spend the recess. This was copied into hundreds of papers all over the country with that rapidity with which the personal paragraph always travels. Of course the invitations were sent out in Dudley's name, and the fact that Claudia had arranged the whole matter was carefully concealed. As the relict of Dick Nevill she had a perfect right to act as hostess on Chisholm's behalf if she so desired, but Dudley had strenuously refused to allow this, for people might renew their ill-natured gossip. He had no desire to submit either Claudia or himself to a fresh burst of scandal. The House rose. Three days later the guests began to assemble at Wroxeter, making the old halls echo with their laughter in a manner in which they had not echoed for many years. Claudia herself did not arrive until a couple of days later, but the arrangements she had made with the housekeeper were perfect. The guests numbered thirty-three, nearly all of them Dudley's most intimate friends, including a Cabinet Minister and a sprinkling of political notabilities. Among them were, of course, some smart women and pretty girls; and with a perfect round of entertainment the Christmas festival was kept in a right royal manner, worthy the best traditions of the Chisholms. Holly boughs and mistletoe were suspended in the great oak-panelled hall, while a boar's head and other old-world dishes formed part of the fare on Christmas Day. Outside, the weather was intensely cold, for snow had fallen heavily and had now frozen, giving the park and the surrounding hills quite a fairy-like appearance. It was in every respect such a festival as we most of us desire, "an old-fashioned Christmas." The Grand-Duke was in Paris, and Dudley was secretly glad that on this account he could not be invited. But among the guests were the portly Lady Meldrum, whose black satin seemed a fixed part of her, her inoffensive husband, Sir Henry, and pretty, fair-haired Muriel Mortimer. Benthall, the Member for East Glamorganshire, was, of course, there, but the colonel, who had been his fellow-guest for the shooting, had gone to Cannes for the winter, in accordance with his usual habit. With such a party, a woman's directing influence was, of course, indispensable, but Claudia acted the part of hostess in a manner so unobtrusive that no one could demur. So skilfully planned was the whole affair that a perfect round of gaiety was enjoyed each day, with some amusement to attract everybody. Compelled to be civil and affable to everybody, Dudley somehow found himself more often in the company of Muriel Mortimer than in that of Claudia. Whether it was that Lady Meldrum's ward deliberately sought his society, or whether chance threw them together so often, he could not decide. At any rate, he played billiards with her, danced with her, and always found her seat close to his at the head of the table. On the morning following the revels of Christmas night most of the guests were late down to breakfast save Muriel, who was one of the first to appear. Dudley met her in the great old room and bent over her hand in salutation. She had been the prettiest woman at the dance on the previous night, and her unaffected manner had again attracted him. But as he stood before the big wood fire, chatting with her and awaiting the others, a curious thought crossed his mind. There, in that very room, a couple of months earlier, he had been warned against her by the blunt old colonel; and yet he was now entertaining her beneath his roof. Their eyes met as they were speaking, and he saw that hers were clear, blue, wide open, with an expression of perfect frankness. Yes, she was altogether charming in her simple morning gown. Why in the world had the colonel so distinctly warned him? What harm could there possibly be in their meeting? Claudia, who, strangely enough, evinced no jealousy because of his constant companionship with her, was standing near the window, handsomely and becomingly clad, chatting with old Sir Henry Meldrum, now and then glancing in the direction of the man for whom she had confessed her love. Dudley noticed these glances, but went on talking, though rather mechanically, with the sweet, ingenuous girl whom the colonel had declared he ought to avoid. Claudia herself had arranged her seat at table close to him; she had even suggested on the previous afternoon that as Muriel liked billiards, her host should play with her, and had herself whispered in his ear at the dance to invite Lady Meldrum's ward to be his partner in the "Washington Post." All this puzzled him, as the truth was slowly revealed to him. And, after all, who was this pretty Muriel? From a dozen different sources he had endeavoured to obtain some information regarding her birth and parentage, but all he could gather was of a contradictory nature. One old dowager had told him that she was the only daughter and heiress of the late Charles Mortimer, a great Liverpool ship-owner and intimate friend of Sir Henry's. From another source he learnt that she was the daughter of a man who had been for some years partner with the ironmaster; while a third person hinted mysteriously that her parentage was unknown, and that she had merely been adopted by Sir Henry and his wife, chiefly because they were childless. All this was perplexing, to say the least of it. He had laughed heartily when the old colonel had warned him against her, declaring that he had no desire to make the acquaintance of the pretty Unknown. But somehow the mystery surrounding her began to attract him, and he became eager to fathom it. Later that morning he met Claudia alone in one of the corridors, and took her aside to arrange the entertainment for the morrow. Then, when they had finished, he put a question to her, point-blank: "Who is Muriel Mortimer?" he asked. She glanced at him quickly, evidently taken somewhat aback by the suddenness of his question. "My dear Dudley," she laughed, "I should have thought you knew all about your guests by this time. She is Sir Henry Meldrum's ward." "I know that," he said, a trifle impatiently. "But who were her parents?" "I've never heard," she replied. "I don't think any one knows. Possibly it is some family secret. At least, I've always thought so." "Then you have already endeavoured to find out?" "Of course. Curiosity is woman's nature." "And have you discovered nothing of her birth, or who she is?" "Nothing whatever. A month ago I even went so far as to ask Lady Meldrum." "And what was her answer?" he inquired eagerly. "She said that her parentage was a matter that concerned only Muriel herself. Indeed, she seemed quite huffy that I should have dared to broach the subject. But you know how sore that kind of person is in regard to certain points." "Then Lady Meldrum gave no reason why Muriel was her husband's ward?" "No. Her reply was a polite negative to all inquiries." He was silent for a few minutes, leaning against the table and facing her. "How did you first become acquainted with this estimable pair, Claudia? Tell me, for they interest me." "You mean that Muriel interests you," she laughed mischievously. "No, I mean that the whole affair appears to me full of mystery." "I first met Lady Meldrum at a bazaar with which I was connected in aid of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children. We held a stall together." "You had never met her, or known her before?" "Never. She was the wife of a Glasgow knight, and quite unknown in London." "Was Muriel with her at the bazaar?" "I did, not see her. I believe she was away visiting somewhere. Lady Meldrum spoke of her, I recollect quite distinctly." "And it was you who afterwards introduced her in town. I presume she owes all her social success to you?" "Yes, I believe she does," she replied. "Then I consider it curious that she has never confided in you the secret of Muriel's birth. She surely could not expect you to stand sponsor for a girl of whom you knew nothing?" "Oh, how absurdly you talk, Dudley!" she laughed airily. "Whatever is in your mind? If Muriel Mortimer amuses you, as apparently she does, what does her parentage matter? Sir Henry and her ladyship are perfectly respectable persons, and even though they may be of somewhat plebeian origin they don't offend by bad manners. Can it be that your thirst for knowledge is due to a vague idea that Muriel might one day be the _chatelaine_ of this place, eh?" She looked him full in the face with the dark and brilliant eyes that had always held him spellbound. She was a clever woman, and with feminine intuition knew exactly the power she possessed over the man whom she loved with a passion so fierce and uncurbed that she had been led to overstep the conventionalities. "Muriel Mortimer will never be mistress here," he said in a hard voice, a trifle annoyed at her final remark. "You yourself have invited her here as my guest, and I am bound to be civil, but beyond that--well, I hope that we shall not meet again after this party breaks up." "And yet you want to know all about her, with the eagerness of an ardent lover!" she laughed sarcastically. "I have reasons--strong ones," he answered firmly. Again she raised her eyes to his, but rather furtively, as though she were seeking to discover the reason of this sudden anxiety and was not quite sure of how much he knew. "Then if you consider the matter of sufficient importance, why not ask Lady Meldrum herself?" she suggested. "To you she may perhaps give a more satisfactory answer." "How can I? Don't be ridiculous, my dear Claudia," said the Under-Secretary. "Then if the girl is really nothing to you, let the matter drop," she urged. "In what way does her parentage concern either you or me?" "It does concern me," he answered in a hard tone, his brow clouded by thought. "How?" "For reasons known only to myself," he responded enigmatically. He was thinking of the colonel's warning, which had been troubling him ever since breakfast. It was the irony of fate that he was now compelled to entertain the very woman against whom his best friend had uttered the strange words he recollected so well. He had broached the matter to Benthall, but it was evident that the latter was not aware of the colonel's reasons for denouncing her as an undesirable acquaintance. A silence had fallen between the pair, but it was at length broken by Claudia, who said: "Tell me, Dudley, what is it that is troubling you?" "Yes," he responded promptly, "I will tell you. I wish to know the reason why you invited this family beneath my roof. You had a motive, Claudia. Come now, confess it." She opened her eyes, startled by his words. "My dear Dudley," she cried. "Why, I only invited them because Lady Meldrum was my friend. They were extremely kind to me down at Fernhurst, and I thought that you would be pleased to offer them the hospitality of the Castle for Christmas. You had met them at the Duchess of Penarth's, and both Lady Meldrum and Muriel were never tired of singing your praises. They went one night to hear you address the House, I believe." "Yes, I know about it. She told me!" exclaimed the Under-Secretary petulantly. "But there's some hidden motive in their actions--of that I'm absolutely convinced." CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. RECOUNTS CURIOUS CIRCUMSTANCES. Even though the House stood prorogued for yet another ten days, formidable packets of documents continually reached Dudley Chisholm from the Foreign Office, sometimes through the post, and at others by special messenger. England's relations with the Powers were, as usual, not very reassuring, hence the Parliamentary Under-Secretary was kept busy, and every moment he could snatch from his guests was spent in the library among the heaps of papers with which his table was always littered. Wrey, his private secretary, was absent on leave, for the holidays, and, therefore, the whole of the work fell upon him. Each night, after the men had finished their whiskey and their gossip in the smoking-room, he would retire to the big, book-lined chamber, and plunge into the work, often difficult and tedious, which the nation expected of him. Usually during the half hour before dinner some of the guests would assemble in the great, brown, old room to gossip, and the cosy-corner beside the big wood fire was a favourite resting-place of Muriel's. She generally dressed early, and with one or other of the younger men would sit there and chat until the dinner-bell sounded. The fine old chamber, with its overmantel bearing the three water-bougets argent, its lining of books, and its oaken ceiling was quiet and secluded from the rest of the house, the ideal refuge of a studious man. Dudley, having occasion to enter there on the second evening following his conversation with Claudia, related in the foregoing chapter, found Sir Henry's ward sitting alone in the cosy-corner, half hidden by the draperies. The light from the green-shaded lamp, insufficient to illuminate the whole place, only revealed the table with its piles of papers, but upon her face the firelight danced, throwing her countenance into bold relief. As she sat there in her pale-blue dress she made a picture of a most contenting sort. "What! alone!" he exclaimed pleasantly as he advanced to meet her, settling his dress-tie with his hand, for he had just come in from a drive and had slipped into his clothes hurriedly. "Yes," she laughed, stretching forth her small foot coquettishly upon the red Turkey rug before the fire. "You men are so long making your toilette; and yet you blame us for all our fal-lals." "Haven't you been out?" "Yes," she answered; "I went this afternoon into Shrewsbury with Lady Richard to do some shopping. What a curious old town it is! I've never been there before, and was most interested." "True it's old-fashioned, and far behind the times, Miss Mortimer," he said, smiling, as he stood before her, his back to the fire. "But I always thought that you did not care for the antique." "The antique! Why, I adore it! This splendid castle of yours is unique. I confess to you that I've slipped away and wandered about it for hours, exploring all sorts of winding stairways and turret-chambers unknown to any one except the servants. I had no idea Wroxeter was so charming. One can imagine oneself back in the Middle Ages with men in armour, sentries, knights, lady-loves and all the rest of it." He laughed lightly, placed his hands behind his back, and looked straight at her. "I'm very glad the old place interests you," he replied. "Fernhurst is comparatively modern, is it not?" "Horribly modern as compared with Wroxeter," she said, leaning back and gazing up at him with her clear blue eyes. "Sir Henry was sadly imposed upon when he bought it three years ago--at least, so I believe." Dudley was at heart rather annoyed at finding her there alone, for a glance at his littered table caused him to recollect that among those papers there were several confidential documents which had reached him that morning, and which he had been in the act of examining when called to go out driving with two of his guests. Usually he locked the library door on such occasions, but with his friends in the house the act of securing the door of one of the most popular of the apartments was, he thought, a measure not less grave than a spoken insult. He was suspicious of the fair-eyed girl. Although he could not account for it in the least, the strange suspicion had grown upon him that she was not what she represented herself to be. And yet, on the other hand, neither in actions nor words was she at all obtrusive, but, on the contrary, extremely popular with every one, including Claudia, who had herself declared her to be charming. He wondered whether she had been amusing herself by prying into the heap of papers spread upon his blotting-pad, and glanced across at them. No. They lay there just in the same position, secured by the heavy paper-weight under which he had put them earlier in the afternoon. And yet, after all, he was a fool to run such risks, he told himself. To fear to offend the susceptibilities of his guests was all very well, but with the many confidential documents in his possession he ought in all conscience to be more careful. As the evening was biting cold and the keen north-east wind had caught his face while driving, in the warmth his cheeks were burning hot. Muriel, practised flirt that she was, believed their redness to be due to an inward turmoil caused by her presence. Hence she presumed to coquet with him, laughing, joking, chaffing in a manner which displayed her conversational, mobility to perfection. He, on his part, allowed her to proceed, eager to divine her motive. "We go south at the end of January," she said at last, in answer to his question. "Sir Henry thinks of taking a villa at Beaulieu this season. Last year we were in Nice, but found it too crowded and noisy at Carnival." "Beaulieu is charming," he said. "More especially that part known as _La Petite Afrique_." "That's where the villa is situated--facing the sea. One of those four white villas in the little bay." "The most charming spot on the whole Riviera. By the way," he added, "one of my old friends is already in Cannes, Colonel Murray-Kerr. Do you happen to know him? He was military attach at Vienna, Rome and Paris until he retired." A curious expression passed over her countenance as he mentioned the name. But it vanished instantly, as, glancing up, she looked at him with the frank look that was so characteristic. "No. I don't think we have ever met. Murray-Kerr? No. The name is not familiar. He was in the diplomatic service, you say?" "Yes, for about fifteen years. I had hoped he would have been one of the party here, but he slipped away a week ago, attracted, as usual in winter, by the charms of Cannes." "He gambles at Monte Carlo, I suppose?" "I think not. He's, nowadays, one of the old fogies of the Junior United Service, and thinks of nothing but the lustre of his patent-leather boots and the chance of shooting with friends. But he's so well known in town, I felt sure that you must have met him," added Dudley meaningly. "One meets so many people," she replied carelessly, "and so many are not introduced by name, that it is difficult to recollect. We haven't the least knowledge of the names of people we've known by sight for months. And I'm awfully bad at recollecting names. I always remember faces, but can't furnish them with names. The position is often extremely awkward and ludicrous." The false note in her explanation did not escape his sensitive hearing. Her sudden glances of surprise and annoyance when he had mentioned the colonel's name had roused suspicion in his mind, and he felt convinced that she was well acquainted with the man who had warned him against her in such mysterious terms. "If I remember aright," he said, "the colonel once mentioned you." "Mentioned me?" she exclaimed with undisguised surprise, and not without an expression of alarm. In an instant, however, she recovered her self-possession. "Did he say any nice things of me?" "Of course," he laughed. "Could he say otherwise?" "Ah! I don't know. He might if he was not acquainted with me." "Then he is acquainted with you?" exclaimed Dudley quickly. "No, why--how silly! I really do not know your friend. Indeed, I have never heard of him. It seems that if what you tell me is correct I have an unknown admirer." Dudley smiled. He was reflecting upon the colonel's warning, and her replies to his questions made it all the more plain that she was denying knowledge of a man with whom she was well acquainted. "Did he say when he had met me?" she asked. "I don't really recollect. The conversation took place while several other persons were talking loudly, and many of his words were lost to me." "He discussed my merits before we met at the duchess's, I presume?" "Yes. As I had not at that time the honour of your acquaintance, I took but little heed of the conversation." She looked at him with a covert glance, and with her fingers turned one of her rings round and round in a quick, nervous way. What, she was wondering, had Colonel Murray-Kerr said about her? The fact that she had been discussed by him was to her extremely disconcerting. "Well," she exclaimed a moment later, with a forced laugh, "as long as your friend did not speak ill of me, I suppose I ought not to complain of having my personal points openly discussed! Most smart women court the publicity of a smoking-room discussion." "Yes," he replied in a hard voice, wondering whether her words were directed against Claudia, "unfortunately they do. But there are smart women and smart women. I trust, Miss Mortimer, that you have no desire to develop into one of the latter." "Certainly not," she answered in all earnestness. Half rising, she put her hand into her dress pocket, ostensibly to obtain her handkerchief, but in reality to place there a small piece of paper which she had crushed into her palm and held concealed when Dudley entered. Her deft movement as she hid the paper was so swift that it entirely escaped his notice, while at the same moment Claudia, accompanied by two of the male guests, came into the library, thus putting an end to their _tete-a-tete_. Dudley, still standing before the burning logs, continued chatting to Sir Henry's ward, but, owing to the arrival of his other guests, it was no longer possible to keep the conversation in the same channel. As he sat at dinner he could not prevent his eyes from wandering across to Muriel and from allowing strange thoughts to flit through his mind. At what had the colonel hinted in that very room months ago, when he had warned him to beware of her? He knew Murray-Kerr to be an easy-going cosmopolitan, whose acquaintance with diplomatic Europe was perhaps more extensive than that of any other living man, yet what possible object could he have had in urging him to be careful when he met that innocent-looking woman scarcely out of her teens? Why Claudia had invited a woman who might become her rival in his affections was another enigma which was puzzling. There was some distinct object in this policy, but its real nature he was quite unable to fathom. That night there was, as usual, a dance in the old banqueting hall, the high-roofed chamber that had long ago echoed to the boisterous merrymaking of those armoured knights whose coats of mail now stood round, and whose tattered banners hung above. Until half a century back, the old stone flooring, worn hollow by the tramp of generations of retainers, still existed, but Dudley's grandfather had had an oak flooring placed over it, and it now served as the ballroom, even though at one end was the enormous hearth, where an ox could be roasted whole, while the wooden benches, at which the banqueters used to hold revel, served as seats for those who did not dance. Few of the guests, however, refrained from the waltzing, so delightful were the attendant circumstances. Once during the evening Dudley found himself taking a turn with Claudia. "I've wanted to speak to you for nearly an hour past," she whispered to him, so low that none could overhear. "Some man, apparently an undesirable person, has called to see you." "To see me--at this hour? Why, it's past midnight!" he exclaimed in astonishment. "He will not give any details regarding his business," she went on. "He only expressed a desire that none of the guests should be aware of his presence, and that he might have an interview alone with you." "A rather curious request at this time of night," her companion observed. She noticed that he had turned pale, and that the hand holding hers perceptibly trembled. Their glances met, and he saw in her dark and brilliant eyes the love-look of old that was so unmistakable. Upon her countenance there was a look of concern, and this he strove at once to dispel by saying airily: "I suppose it is some one who wants assistance or something. Where is he?" "In your secretary's room. I had him shown there, in order that his wish regarding the secrecy of his visit should be respected." "Then you have seen him?" "Yes. You were not to be found at the moment, so, hearing the message he had given the servant, I saw him myself. He's middle-aged, and rather shabbily dressed. From the state of his clothes I should think that he's walked over from Shrewsbury. He told me that the matter on which he desired to see you was of the greatest urgency, and apologised for calling at such an hour." "Well," he answered, "I suppose I'd better go and see the fellow, whoever he is. He may be some political crank or other. There are so many about." "Yes," Claudia urged; "if I were you I'd go at once, and get rid of him. It appears that Riggs told him you could not be seen until the morning, but he absolutely refused to be sent away." "Very well, I'll go and see who he is," replied the Under-Secretary, only remaining calm by dint of the most strenuous effort. Then, leading his partner to a seat, he bowed, took leave of her, and slipped away from the ball through several arched doors and down the two long corridors until he came to a door at the end. He was in the east wing of the castle, a part to which the visitors did not penetrate, for to do so it was necessary to cross the kitchen. Before the closed door he paused, held his breath, and placed his hand instinctively upon his heart, as though to still its beating. He dared not advance farther. Who, he wondered, was his visitor? Could it be that the blow which he had expected for so long had at length fallen? CHAPTER EIGHTEEN. INTRODUCES AN INTERESTING PERSON. He hesitated for a moment; then, setting his jaws hard in sudden resolution, he turned the door-handle and entered. Within, the long, low-ceilinged room was furnished as a kind of office. From an arm-chair near the fireless grate rose the spare figure of a grey-haired, grey-eyed, haggard-faced man of a type which might be described as shabby-genteel, a man who had without doubt seen better days. His features were refined, but his cheeks were sunken until the bones of the face showed plainly beneath the skin, and his hair and moustache, though grey, had prematurely lost their original colour. His tall, slim figure was straight, and he bowed to Chisholm with the easy manner of a gentleman. His overcoat of shabby grey Irish frieze was open, displaying a coat and vest much the worse for wear, while his up-turned trousers were sodden by the melting snow. "I understand that you wish, to see me," Chisholm began, glancing at the fellow keenly, and not half liking his appearance. "This is a rather unusual hour for a visit, is it not?" "Yes," the man replied. "For the lateness of the hour I must apologise, but my trains did not fit, and I was compelled to walk from Shrewsbury." He spoke in a refined voice, and his bearing was not that of a person who intended to ask assistance. Dudley possessed a quick insight into character, and could sum up a man as sharply and correctly as a lawyer with a wide experience of criminals. "And what may your business be with me?" asked the master of Wroxeter. The man glanced suspiciously at the door by which Dudley had entered, and asked: "Are we alone? Do you think there can possibly be any eavesdroppers?" "Certainly not. But I cannot understand why your business should be of such a purely private character. You are entirely unknown to me, and I understand that you refused to give a card." He uttered the last words with a slight touch of sarcasm, for the man's appearance was not such as would warrant the casual observer in believing him to be possessed of that mark of gentility. "Of course I am unknown to you, Mr. Chisholm. But although unknown to you in person, I am probably known to you by name." As he spoke, he selected from his rather shabby pocket-book a folded paper, which he handed to Dudley. "This credential will, I think, satisfy you." Dudley took it, glanced at it, and started quickly. Then he fixed his eyes upon his visitor in boundless surprise. The man before him smiled faintly at the impression which the sight of that document had caused. The paper was headed with the British arms in scarlet, and contained only three lines written over a signature he knew well--the signature of the Prime Minister of England. "And you are really Captain Cator?" exclaimed the Under-Secretary, looking at him in amazement, and handing him back his credential. "Yes, Archibald Cator, chief of Her Majesty's Secret Service," said the shrunken-faced man. "We have had correspondence on more than one occasion, but have never met, for the simple reason that I am seldom in England. Now you will at once recognise why I refused a card, and also why I wished my visit to you to remain a secret." "Of course, of course," answered Dudley. "I had no suspicion of your identity, and--well, if you will permit me to say so, your personal appearance at this moment is scarcely that which might be expected of Captain Archibald Cator, military attach in Rome." "Exactly! But I have been paying a call earlier in the day, and shabbiness was a necessity," he explained with a laugh. "Besides, I tramped all the way from Shrewsbury and--" "And you are wet and cold. You'll have a stiff whiskey and soda." Dudley pressed the bell and, when Riggs appeared, gave the necessary order. "You won't return to-night, of course," suggested Chisholm. "I'll tell them to get a room ready for you." "Thanks for your hospitality, but my return is absolutely imperative. There is a train from Shrewsbury to town at 4:25 in the morning. I must leave by that." Both men sank into chairs opposite each other in the chill, rather gloomy, room. The mysterious visitor who had called at that extraordinary hour was one of the most trusted and faithful servants at the disposal of the Foreign Office. Although nominally holding the appointment of military attach at the Embassy in Rome, he was in reality the chief of the British Secret Service on the Continent, a man whose career had been replete with extraordinary adventures, to whose marvellous tact, ready ingenuity, and careful methods of investigation, England was indebted for many of the diplomatic _coups_ she had made during the past dozen years or so. In the diplomatic circle, and in the British colony in Rome, every one knew Archie Cator, for he was popular everywhere, and a welcome visitor at the houses of the English and the wealthier Italians alike. It was often hinted that in the Foreign Office at home he possessed influential friends, for whenever he wished for leave he had only to wire to London to obtain a grant of absence. The supposition was that in summer he went to his pretty villa at Ardenza, on the Tuscan shore near Leghorn, there to enjoy the sea-breezes, or in winter over to Cairo or Algiers. None knew, save, of course, Her Majesty's Ambassador, that these frequent periods of leave were spent in flying visits to one or other of the capitals of Europe to direct the operations of the band of confidential agents under him, or that the attach so popular with the ladies was in reality the Prince of Spies. Spying is against an Englishman's notion of fair-play, but to such an extent have the other great Powers carried the operation of their various Intelligence Departments that to the Foreign Office the secret service has become a most necessary adjunct. Were it not for its operations, and the early intelligence it obtains, England would often be left out of the diplomatic game, and British interests would suffer to an extent that would soon become alarming, even to that puerile person, the Little Englander. Officially no person connected with the Secret Service is recognised, except its chief, and he, in order to cloak his real position, was at that moment holding the post of attache in Rome, where he had but little to do, since Italy was the Power most friendly towards England. Stories without number of the captain's prowess, of his absolute fearlessness, and of his marvellous ingenuity as a spy in the interests of his country, had already reached Chisholm. They were whispered within a certain circle at the Foreign Office when from time to time a copy of a secret document, or a piece of remarkable intelligence reached headquarters from Paris, Berlin, or Petersburg. They knew that it came from Archie Cator, the wiry, middle-aged attach who idled in the _salons_ of the Eternal City, drove in the Corso, and, especially as he was an easy-going bachelor, found remarkable favour in the eyes of the ladies. He lived two lives. In the one he was a diplomatist, smart, polished, courtly--the perfect model of all a British attach should be. In the other he was a shrewd, crafty spy, possessed of a tact unequalled by any detective officer at Scotland Yard, a brain fertile in invention and subterfuge, and nerves of iron. In Rome, in Paris and in Petersburg, only the ambassadors knew the secret of his real office. He transacted his business direct with them and with the chief in London, Her Majesty's Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs. Indeed, British diplomatic policy was often based upon his reports and suggestions. The utmost care was always exercised to conceal his real office from the staffs of the various Embassies. They only knew him as Archie Cator from Rome, the man with a friend high up in the Foreign Office who got him short leave whenever he chose to take it. The money annually voted by Parliament for secret service was entirely at his disposal, and the only account he rendered was to the chief himself. The department was a costly one, for often he was compelled to bribe heavily through his agents, men specially selected for the work of spying; and as these numbered nearly forty, distributed in the various capitals, the expenditure was by no means light. With such a director, for whose methods, indeed, the staff at Scotland Yard had the highest admiration, the successes were many. To Cator's untiring energy, skilful perception, and exhaustless ingenuity in worming out secrets, our diplomatic success in various matters, despite the conspiracies formed against us by certain of the Powers, was entirely due. The Foreign Secretary himself had, it was whispered, once remarked at a Cabinet meeting that if England possessed half a dozen Cators she would need no ambassadors. The marquess trusted him implicitly, relying as much upon his judgment as upon that of the oldest and most practised representative of Her Majesty at any of the European courts. If the truth were told, the secret of England's dominant influence in Central Africa was entirely due to the discovery of a diplomatic intrigue in Berlin by the omnipotent Cator, who, at risk of his life, secured a certain document which placed our Foreign Office in a position to dictate to the Powers. It was a master-stroke, and as a partial return for it the popular, cigarette-smoking attach in Rome, found one morning upon his table an autograph letter of thanks from Her Majesty's Prime Minister. When occupying his position as attach he was an idler about the Eternal City, an inveterate theatre-goer, and a well-known, and even ostentatious, figure in Roman society. But when at work he was patient, unobtrusive, and usually ill-dressed, moving quickly hither and thither, taking long night journeys by the various _rapides_, caring nothing for fatigue, and directing his corps of secret agents as a general does an army. Knowledge is power. Hence England is compelled to hold her place in the diplomatic intrigues of the world by the employment of secret agents. There are many doors to be unlocked, and to men like Cator, England does not grudge golden keys. Riggs had brought the whiskey and soda, and the man whose career would have perhaps made the finest romance ever written, had drained a tumblerful thirstily, with a laugh and a word of excuse that "the way had been long, and the wind cold." When they were alone again, he twisted the rather stubby ends of his grey moustache, and with his eyes fixed upon the Under-Secretary said: "I should not have disturbed you at this hour, Mr. Chisholm, were not the matter one of extreme urgency." Dudley sat eager and anxious, wondering what could have brought this man to England. A grave and horrible suspicion had seized him that the truth he dreaded was actually out--that the blow had fallen. No secret was safe from Cator. As he had obtained knowledge of the profoundest secrets of the various European Powers in a manner absolutely incredible, what chance was there to hide from him any information which he had set his mind to obtain. "Is the matter serious?" he asked vaguely. "For the present I cannot tell whether it is actually as serious as it appears to be," the other answered with a grave look. "As you are well aware, the outlook abroad at this moment is far from promising. There is more than one deep and dastardly intrigue against us. The diplomatic air on the Continent is full of rumours of antagonistic alliances against England, and even Mercier, in Paris, has actually gone the length of planning an invasion. But a fig for all the bumptious chatter of French invasions!" he said, snapping his finger and thumb. "What we have to regard at this moment is not menaces abroad, but perils at home." "I hardly follow you," observed the Under-secretary. "Well, I arrived in London from the Continent the night before last upon a confidential mission, and it is in order to obtain information from yourself that I am here to-night," he explained. "Perhaps the fact that I have not had my clothes off for the past five days, and that I have been in four of the capitals of Europe during the same period, will be sufficient to convince you of the urgency of the matter in hand. Besides, it may account for my somewhat unrepresentable appearance," he added with a good-humoured laugh. "But now let us get at once to the point, for I have but little time to spare if I'm to catch the early express back to London. The matter is strictly private, and all I ask, Mr. Chisholm, is that what passes between us goes no further than these four walls. Recollect that my position is one of constant and extreme peril. I am the confidential agent of the Foreign Office, and you are its Parliamentary Under-secretary. Therefore, in our mutual interests, no word must escape you either in regard to my visit here, or even to the fact that I have been in England. London to-day swarms with foreign spies, and if I am recognised all my chances of being successful in the present matter must at once vanish." "I am all attention," said Dudley, interested to hear something from this gatherer of the secrets of the nation. "If I can give you any assistance I shall be most ready to do so." "Then let me put a question to you, which please answer truthfully, for much depends upon it," he said slowly, his eyes fixed upon the man before him as he pensively twisted his moustache. "Were you ever acquainted with a man named Lennox?" The words fell upon Dudley Chisholm like a thunderclap. Yes, the blow had fallen! He started, then, gripping the arms of the chair, sat upright and motionless as a statue, his face blanched to the lips. He knew that the ghastly truth, so long concealed that he had believed the matter forgotten, was out. Ruin stood before him. His secret was known. CHAPTER NINETEEN. A MAN OF SECRETS SPEAKS. Archibald Cator's bony face was grave, serious, sphinx-like. His personality was strange and striking. He had detected in an instant the sudden alarm which his question had aroused within the mind of the man before him, but, pretending not to observe it, he added with a pleasant air: "You will, of course, forgive anything which may appear to be an impertinent cross-examination, Mr. Chisholm. Both of us are alike working in the interests of our country, and certain facts which I have recently unearthed are, to say the least, extremely curious. They even constitute a great danger. Do you happen to remember any one among your acquaintances named Lennox--Major Mayne Lennox?" Mayne Lennox! Mention of that name brought before Chisholm's eyes a grim and ghastly vision of the past--a past which he had fondly believed was long ago dead and buried. There arose the face that had haunted him so continuously, that white countenance which appeared to him in his dreams and haunted him even in the moments of his greatest triumphs, social and political. The shabbily attired man patiently awaited an answer, his eyes fixed upon the man before him. "Yes," answered Dudley at last, with a strenuous effort to calm the tumultuous beating of his heart. "I was once acquainted with a man of that name." His visitor slowly changed his position, and a strange half-smile played about the corners of his mouth, as though that admission was the sum of his desire. "May I ask under what circumstances you met this person?" he inquired, adding: "I am not asking through any idle motive of curiosity, but in order to complete a series of inquiries I have in hand, it is necessary for certain points to be absolutely clear." "We met at a card-party in a friend's rooms," Dudley said. "I saw something of him at Hastings, where he was spending the summer. Afterwards, I believe, he went abroad. But we have not met for years." "For how many years?" "Oh, seven, or perhaps eight! I really could not say exactly." "Are you certain that Mayne Lennox went abroad?" inquired Cator as though suddenly interested. "Yes. He told me that he had lived on the Continent for a great many years, mostly in Italy, I think. He often spoke of a villa he had outside Perugia, and I presume that he returned there." "Ah, exactly!" said his visitor, again twisting his moustache, as was his habit when deep in thought. "And you have not seen him for some years?" "No. But is it regarding Major Lennox that you are making inquiries? He surely had no political connections?" "My inquiries concern him indirectly," admitted the man with the hollow cheeks. "I am seeking to discover him." "Surely that will not be difficult. A retired officer is usually found with the utmost ease." "Yes. But from inquiries I have already made I have come to the conclusion that he returned to England again. If so, my difficulty increases." Dudley was silent for some moments. Was this man telling the truth? he wondered. "May I ask what is your object in discovering him?" he inquired, feeling that as he had now answered Cator's questions he might be permitted to ask some himself. "I desire to ascertain from him certain facts which will elucidate what remains at present a profound mystery," the other replied. "Indeed, a statement by him will place in our hands a weapon by which we can thwart certain of the Powers who are launching a powerful combination against us." Cator, who occupied the post that Colonel Murray-Kerr had once held, was himself a skilled diplomatist. As the confusion caused in the Under-Secretary's mind at his first question had shown how unlikely it was that he would get a clear statement of the truth, he proceeded to work for the information he wanted, and to work in a cautious and indirect manner. Chisholm, recollecting the confidential document which had passed through his hands some time before, and which had aroused his suspicions, said: "I think I know the combination to which you refer. Something regarding it leaked out to one of the newspapers a few weeks ago, and a question was asked in the House." Cator laughed. "Yes," he said, "a question to which you gave a very neat, but altogether unintelligible reply--eh? They were waiting that reply of yours in the French Ministry of Foreign Affairs with a good deal of anxiety, I can tell you. It was telephoned to Paris before you had delivered it." "Ah! copied from one of the sheets of replies given out to the Press Gallery, I expect," observed the Under-Secretary. "But I had no idea that our friends across the Channel were so watchful of my utterances." "Oh, aren't they? They are watchful of your movements, too," replied the Secret Agent of Her Majesty's Foreign Office. "Recollect, Mr. Chisholm, you as Parliamentary Under-Secretary are in the confidence of the Government, and frequently possess documents and information which to our enemies would be priceless. If I may be permitted to say so, you should be constantly on the alert against any of your papers falling into undesirable hands." "But surely none have?" Dudley gasped in alarm. "None have, to my knowledge," his visitor replied. "But information is gained by spies in a variety of ways. Perhaps few know better than myself the perfection of the secret service system of certain Powers who are our antagonists. Few diplomatic secrets are safe from them." "And few of the secrets of our rivals are safe from you, Captain Cator-- if all I've heard be true," observed Chisholm, smiling. "Ah!" the other laughed; "I believe I'm credited with performing all sorts of miracles in the way of espionage. I fear I possess a reputation which I in no way desire. But," he added, "can you tell me nothing more of this man Lennox--of his antecedents, I mean?" "Nothing. I know absolutely nothing of his people." "Can you direct me to the mutual friend at whose rooms you met him, for he might possibly be able to tell us his whereabouts?" "It was a man in the Worcestershire Regiment; he's out in Uganda now. Perhaps the War Office knows, for doubtless he draws his pension," Chisholm suggested. "No. That source of information has already been tried, but in vain." The visitor thrust his ungloved hands into the pockets of his shabby overcoat, stretched out his legs, and fixed his keen eyes upon the rising statesman, to interview whom he had travelled post-haste half across Europe. "If I knew more of the character of your inquiries and the point towards which they are directed I might possibly be able to render you further assistance," Dudley said after a short pause, hoping to obtain some information from the man who, as he was well aware, so completely possessed the confidence of the controller of England's destinies. "Well," said Cator, after some hesitation, "the matter forms a very tangled and complicated problem. By sheer chance I discovered, by means of a document which was copied in a certain _Chancellerie_ and found its way to me in secret a short time ago, that a movement was afoot in a most unexpected direction to counter-balance Britain's power on the sea, and oust us from China as a preliminary to a great and terrific war. The document contained extracts of confidential correspondence which had passed between the Foreign Ministers of the two nations implicated, and showed that the details of the conspiracy were arranged with such an exactitude and forethought that by certain means--which were actually given in one of the extracts in question, a grave Parliamentary crisis would be created in England, of which the Powers intended to take immediate advantage in order the better to aim their blow at British supremacy." Archibald Cator paused and glanced behind him half suspiciously, as if to make certain that the door was closed, while Chisholm sat erect, immovable, as though turned to stone. What his visitor had told him, confirmed the horrible suspicion which had crept upon him some weeks ago. "Yes. It was a very neat and very pretty scheme, all of it," went on the man with the hollow cheeks, giving vent to a short, dry laugh. "During my career I have known many schemes and intrigues with the same object, but never has one been formed with such open audacity, such cool forethought, and such clever ingenuity as the present." "Then it still exists?" exclaimed Chisholm quickly. "Most certainly. My present object is to expose and destroy it," answered the confidential agent. "That it has the support of two monarchs of known antipathy towards England is plain enough, but our would-be enemies have no idea that the details of their plot are already in my possession, nor that yesterday I placed the whole of them before the chief. By to-morrow every British Embassy in Europe will be in possession of a cypher despatch from his lordship warning Ministers of the intrigue in progress. The messengers left Charing Cross last night carrying confidential instructions to all the capitals." "And especially to Vienna, I presume?" "Yes, especially to Vienna," Cator said, adding, "That, I suppose, you guessed from the tenor of the confidential report from the Austrian capital which passed through your hands a short time back. Do you recollect that your answer to that embarrassing question in the House was supplied to you after a special meeting of the Cabinet?" "I recollect that was so." "Then perhaps it may interest you to know that I myself drafted the answer and suggested to the F.O. that it should be given exactly as I had written, it, in order to mislead those who were so ingeniously trying to undermine our prestige. It was our counter-stroke of diplomacy." This statement of Cator's was a revelation. He had been under the impression that the public reply to the Opposition was the composition of the Foreign Secretary himself. "Really," he said, "that is most interesting. I had not the least idea that you were responsible for that enigmatical answer. I must congratulate you. It was certainly extremely clever." The captain smiled, as though gratified by the other's compliment. As he sat there, a wan and very unimpressive figure, none would have believed him to be the great confidential agent who, if the truth were told, was the Foreign Secretary's trusted adviser upon the more delicate matters of European policy. This man with the muddy trousers and frayed suit was actually the intimate friend of princes; he knew reigning Sovereigns personally, had diplomatic Europe at his fingers' ends, and had often been the means of shaping the policy to be employed by England in Europe. "I must not conceal from you the fact that the present situation is extremely critical," the secret agent went on. "When Parliament reassembles you will find that a strenuous attempt will be made by the Opposition to force your hand. It is part of the game. All replies must be carefully guarded--most carefully." "That I quite understand." "It was certainly most fortunate for us that I, quite by accident, dropped upon the conspiracy," the other went on. "The man through whom I obtained the copy of the document was a person well-known to us. He was in a high position in his own government, but as his expenditure greatly exceeded his income, the bank drafts that mysteriously found their way into his pocket were most acceptable." "You speak in the past tense. Why?" "Because unfortunately the person in question fell into disgrace a few weeks ago, and was called upon to resign. Hence, our channel of information is, just at the moment when it would be so highly useful, suddenly closed." "Fortunate that it was not closed before you could obtain the document which gave you the clue to what was really taking place," remarked the Under-Secretary. "Cannot you tell me more regarding the plot? From which _Chancellerie_ did the document emanate?" "Ah, I regret that at this juncture I am not at liberty to say! The matter is still in the most confidential stage. The slightest betrayal of our knowledge may result in disaster. It is the chief's policy to retain the facts we have gathered and act upon them as soon as the inquiry is complete. For the past three weeks all my endeavours and those of my staff have been directed towards unravelling the mystery presented by the document I have mentioned. In every capital active searches have been made, copies of correspondence secured, prominent statesmen sounded as to their views, and photographs taken of certain letters and plans, all of which go to show the deep conspiracy that is in progress, with the object of striking a staggering blow at us. Yet, strangest of all, there is mention of a matter which is hinted at so vaguely that up to the present I have been unable to form any theory as to what it really is. To put it plainly," he added, with his eyes fixed upon Chisholm's face, "in certain parts of the correspondence the name of Mayne Lennox is mentioned in connection with your own." "In connection with my own!" gasped Dudley, his face blanching again in an instant. "What statements are made?" "Nothing is stated definitely," replied his shabby visitor. "There are only vague hints." "Of what?" "Of the existence of something that I have up to the present failed to discover." Dudley Chisholm breathed more freely, but beneath that cold, keen gaze of the man of secrets his eyes wavered. Nevertheless, the fact that Cator was still in ignorance of the truth reassured him, and in an instant he regained his self-possession. "Curious that I should be mentioned in the same breath, as it were, with a man whom I know so very slightly--very curious," he observed, as though reflecting. "It was because of this that I have sought you here to-night," the confidential agent explained. "I must find this man Lennox, for he alone can throw some light upon the strange hints contained in two of the letters. Then, as soon as we know the truth, the chief will act swiftly and fearlessly to expose and overthrow the dastardly plot. Until all the facts are quite plain it is impossible to move, for in this affair the game of bluff will avail nothing. We must be absolutely certain of our ground before making any attack. Then the whole of Europe will stand aghast, and England will awake one morning to discover how she has been within an ace of disaster." "But tell me more of this mention of myself in the confidential correspondence of our enemies," Dudley urged. "What you have told me has aroused my curiosity." "I have told you all that there is to tell at this stage," Cator replied. "It is most unfortunate that you can give me absolutely no information regarding this man; but I suppose I must seek for it elsewhere. He must be found and questioned, for the allegations are extremely grave, and the situation the most critical I have known in all my diplomatic career." "What are the allegations? I thought I understood you that there were only vague hints?" exclaimed Chisholm in suspicion. "In some letters the hints are vague, but in one there is a distinct and serious charge." "Of what?" "Of a certain matter which, together with the name of the Ministry from which the document was secured, must remain for the present a secret." "If the crisis is so very serious I think I, as Parliamentary Under-Secretary, have a right to know," protested Dudley. "No. I much regret my inability to reply to your questions, Mr. Chisholm," his visitor answered. "It is, moreover, not my habit to make any statement until an inquiry is concluded, and not even then if the chief imposes silence upon me, as he has done in the present case. Remember that I am in the public service, just as you are. All that has passed between us to-night has passed in the strictest confidence. Any communication made by the chief through you in the House will, in the nation's interest, be of a kind to mislead and mystify our enemies." "But the mention of my own name in these copied letters!" observed the Under-Secretary. "What you have told has only whetted my appetite for further information. I really can't understand it." "No, nor can I," replied Archibald Cator frankly. And he certainly spoke the honest truth, even though he knew a good deal more than he had thought it wise to admit. CHAPTER TWENTY. THROWS LIGHT ON THE PAST. Finding that his visitor was determined to travel back to London at once, Dudley gave orders for the dog-cart to be brought round to the servants' entrance, for Cator had expressed the strongest desire that his visit should remain unknown. "Among your guests are several persons who have wintered in Rome, with whom I am on friendly terms. Just now I'm too much occupied to meet them. You'll quite understand," he said. "Perfectly, my dear sir," replied the Under-secretary, mixing another glass of whiskey for each of them. "In this matter I shall be perfectly silent. From me not a soul will know that you have been in England." Dudley's spirits had risen, for he imagined that he had successfully evaded the man's inquiries and by that means had staved off the threatened exposure and ruin. "From what I've explained you will readily recognise how extremely critical is the present situation, and the urgent necessity that exists for a firm and defiant policy on our part. But until I discover the truth the chief is utterly unable to move, lest he should precipitate events and cause the bursting of the war-cloud." "Exactly. I see it all quite plainly," Dudley answered. "I trust you will experience little difficulty in discovering the man for whom you are searching. I need not say how extremely anxious I shall be to see the strange matter elucidated, so that the mystery may once and for all be cleared up." "I am working unceasingly towards that end, Mr. Chisholm," answered Cator with a meaning look in his quick grey eyes, as he drained his glass and rose. "And now I have only to apologise for intruding upon you at such an unearthly hour." "Apology is quite unnecessary," Dudley assured him. "It appears that the matter personally concerns me in some extraordinary manner." "Yes," replied the chief of the secret service. "So it seems. But we shall know more later, I hope. My staff are on the alert everywhere. As every confidential agent that England possesses on the Continent is at work endeavouring to unravel the mystery of Mayne Lennox, I am very hopeful of success. And success will allow England to make a counter-stroke that will paralyse our enemies and `frustrate their knavish tricks,' to quote a suppressed line from the National Anthem." "I wish you every luck," said the Under-Secretary, shaking the other's thin and chilly hand. "As I can't persuade you to remain the night, I hope you'll have a comfortable journey up to town." "Not very comfortable, I anticipate," the captain laughed, surveying himself. "I'm in an awful state--aren't I? It was so late when I got to Shrewsbury that I couldn't get a conveyance anywhere, so in desperation I tramped over here." "Well, Barton shall drive you back; you'll have plenty of time for your train. When do you return to the Continent?" "Perhaps at once--by the eleven from Charing Cross. It all depends upon a telegram which I shall receive on arrival in town. My future movements are extremely uncertain. They always are. From one hour to another I never know in which direction I shall be hurrying." Chisholm had heard of this man's rapidity of movement. Indeed, it was whispered in his own circle in the Foreign Office that Archie Cator would often retire to his bachelor rooms in Rome, and cause his man, Jewell, to give out that his master was indisposed, and confined to his bed; though, as a matter of fact, the chief of the Confidential Intelligence Department would be flying across to Berlin, Vienna, or Petersburg on a swift and secret mission. He lived two lives so completely that his ingenuity surpassed comprehension. In Rome, only his servant and the Ambassador knew the truth. Even at that moment the diplomatic circle in the Eternal City believed their popular member, Captain Archie Cator of the British Embassy, to be suffering from one of his acute and periodical attacks of the rheumatic gout which so often prostrated him. Dudley himself conducted his distinguished visitor down several stone corridors into the servants' quarters. In the courtyard outside stood Barton with the dog-cart, the light of the lamps showing that the snow was still thawing into thick slush. "Good-bye," cried the captain airily, when he had swung himself into the trap and turned up the collar of his shabby overcoat. "Good-bye, and good luck!" exclaimed the owner of Wroxeter, with a warmth that was far from being heart-felt. Then the trap turned, and disappeared swiftly through the old arched gateway into the black winter's night. Dudley, full of conflicting thoughts, paced slowly back through the echoing corridors until he reached the ancient banqueting hall, where the dancing had not long since been in progress. But all was silence, and on opening the door he found the place in darkness. The gaiety had ended, and his guests had retired. He crossed the great, gloomy hall, distinguished by its ghostly-looking stands of armour, on which the light from the corridor shone in gleaming patches, and, passing down another corridor of the rambling old place, entered the smoking-room, where half a dozen men were taking their whiskey and gossiping as was their habit before going to bed. "Hulloa, Dudley!" cried one man as he entered. "We've been looking for you for an hour past. We wanted you to take a hand at whist." "I had some little matters to attend to, so I slipped away," his host explained. "I know you will forgive me." "Of course," the man laughed, pulling forward a chair, into which Chisholm sank wearily. When he had allowed a servant to hand him some refreshment he joined? in the discussion which his entrance had interrupted. As it was incumbent upon him to spend an hour with his guests, he did so, but of the conversation he scarcely had any idea, for his mind was full of grave thoughts, and he spoke mechanically, heartily wishing that the men would retire, and leave him at liberty to return to his study. At last they all bade him good-night. As soon as they were gone he walked slowly to that old room in which he knew he would remain undisturbed. He threw himself down in the cosy corner beside the blazing logs, where he sat staring fixedly at the dancing flames. For a long time he remained immovable, his face hard and drawn, his eyes wide open and fixed, until of a sudden he passed his hand slowly across his brow, sighed heavily, and at last allowed bitter words to escape from his white lips. "My God!" he exclaimed in wild despair; "it's all over. That man Cator has discovered the clue which must sooner or later reveal the hideous truth. If it were any other person except him there might be just a chance of misleading the chase. But no secret is safe from him and his army of confidential agents. Ruin--nothing but ruin is before me! What can I do?" He rose and paced the room quickly with unequal steps. His face was blanched, his eyes were fixed, his clenched hands trembled. "Ah!" he cried bitterly to himself, "it would have been best to have resigned and gone abroad months ago, while there was yet time. Under another name I might have contrived to conceal my identity in one or other of the colonies, where they do not inquire too closely into a man's antecedents. But, alas! it is now too late. My movements are evidently watched, and I am under suspicion, owing to the discovery of my connection with that scoundrel Lennox. To resign my appointment is impossible. I can only remain and face the ruin, shame, and ignominy that are inevitable. I have sinned before God, and before man!" he cried wildly, his face upturned, his clenched hands held trembling above his head in blank despair. "For me there is no forgiveness--none!-- none! My only means of escape is suicide," he gasped with bated breath. "A few drops of liquid in a wine-glass full of innocent water, and all will be over--all the anguish, all the fever. No, it is not difficult-- not at all," and he laughed a hard, dry, sarcastic laugh. "And a final drastic step of that sort is far preferable to shame and ruin." He was silent for some time. His lips were still moving as he stood there in the centre of the room, but no sound came from them. In the awful agony he suffered he spoke to himself and heard words that were unuttered. The possibility which he had suspected and dreaded during so many dark weeks was now becoming horribly realised. His secret sin would before long be revealed in all its true hideousness, and he, England's rising statesman, the man of whom so much was prophesied, the man who was trusted by the Prime Minister, who held such a brilliant and responsible position, and who was envied by all the lesser fry in the House, would be rudely cast forth as unfit and unworthy, his name, honoured for generations, rendered odious. Truly his position was graver and more precarious than that of ninety-nine out of a hundred men. Condemnation was at hand. Cator, now that he knew the name of Mayne Lennox, would not be long in laying bare the whole of the facts. And then? He thought it all over, sighing heavily and clenching his hands in wild despair. To no single person could he look for assistance, for he dared not confide in any one. He could only suffer alone, and pay the penalty for his sin. How little the world knows of the inner life of its greatest men! The popular favourite, the chosen of fortune in the various walks of life, is too often an undeserving man, the skeleton in whose cupboard could not bear the light of day. Fortune never chooses the best men for the best places. Dishonesty grows fat, while virtue dies of starvation. The public are prone to envy the men who are popular, who are "boomed" by the newspapers, and whose doings are chronicled daily with the same assiduity as the movements of the Sovereign himself, yet in many cases these very men, as did Dudley Chisholm, shrink from the fierce light always beating upon them. They loathe the plaudits of the multitude, because of the inner voice of conscience that tells them they are charlatans and shams; and they are always promising themselves that one day, when they see a fitting opportunity, they will retire into private life. In every public assembly, from the smallest parish council up to Westminster itself, there are prominent members who live in daily fear of exposure. Although looked upon by the world as self-denying, upright citizens, they are, nevertheless, leading a life of awful tension and constant anxiety, knowing that their enemies may at any moment reveal the truth. Thus it was with Dudley Chisholm. That he was a man well fitted for the responsible post he occupied in the Government could not be denied, and that he had carefully and assiduously carried out the duties of his office was patent to all. Yet the past--that dark, grim past which had caused him to travel in the unfrequented tracks of the Far East--had never ceased to haunt him, until now he could plainly see that the end was very near. Exposure could not be long delayed. The turret-clock chimed the hour slowly, and its bells aroused him. "No," he cried hoarsely to himself, "no, it would not be just! Before taking the final step I must place things in order--I must go out of office with all the honour and dignity of the Chisholms," he added with a short and bitter laugh. "Out of office!" he repeated hoarsely to himself, "out of office--and out of the world!" CHAPTER TWENTY ONE. SOWS SEEDS OF SUSPICION. Chisholm with uneven steps walked back to the big writing-table, turned up the reading-lamp and, seating himself, began to put the many official papers quickly in order, signing some, destroying others, and now and then making marginal notes on those to be returned to the Foreign Office. Many of the more unimportant documents he consigned to the waste-paper basket, but the others he arranged carefully, sorted them, and placed them in several of the large official envelopes upon which the address was printed, together with the bold words "On Her Majesty's Service." The light of hope had died from his well-cut features. His countenance was changed, grey, anxious, with dark haggard eyes and trembling lips. When, at last, he had finished, he rose again with a strange smile of bitterness. He crossed to the portion of the book-lined wall that was merely imitation, opened it, and with the key upon his chain took from the small safe concealed there the envelope secured by the black seal, and the small piece of folded paper which contained the lock of fair hair--his most cherished possession. He opened the paper and stood with the golden curl in the palm of his hand, gazing upon it long and earnestly. "Her's!" he moaned in a voice that sounded suspiciously like a sob. "If she were here I wonder what would be her advice? I might long ago have confided in her, told her all, and asked her help. She would have given it. Yes, she was my friend, and would have sacrificed her very life to save me. But it is all over. I am alone--utterly alone." Tears stood in his eyes as he raised the love-token slowly and reverently to his lips. Then he spoke again: "For me there only remains the punishment of Heaven. And yet in those days how childishly happy we were--how perfect was our love! Is it an actual reality that I'm standing here to-night for the last time, or is it a dream? No," he added, his teeth clenched in firmness, "it's no dream. The end has come!" The stillness of the night remained unbroken for a long time, for he continued to stand beside the table with the fair curl in his nervous hand. Many times he had been sorely tempted to destroy it, and put an end to all the thoughts of the past that it conjured up. And yet he had grown to regard it as a talisman, and actually dare not cast it from him. "Little lock of hair," he said at last in a choking voice, his eyes fixed upon it, "throughout these years you have formed the single link that has connected me with those blissful days of fervent love. You are the only souvenir I possess of her, and you, emblem of her, fragile, exquisite, tender, were my faithful companion through those long journeys in far-off lands. In days of peril you have rested near my heart; you have been my talisman; you have, sweet and silent friend, cheered me often, telling me that even though long absent I was not forgotten. Yes--yes!" he exclaimed wildly; "you are part of her-- actually part of her!" and again he kissed the lock of hair in a burst of uncontrollable feeling. Suddenly he drew himself up. His manner instantly changed, as the stern reality again forced itself upon him. "Ah!" he sighed, "those days are long spent, and to me happiness can never return--never. My sin has risen against me; my one false step debars me from the pleasures of the world." His chin was sunk upon his breast, and he stood staring at the little curl, deep in reverie. At last, without another word, he raised it again to his hot, parched lips, and then folded it carefully in its wrapping. The envelope he broke open, took out the small piece of transparent paper, and spread it upon a piece of white foolscap in order to read it with greater ease. Slowly he pondered over every one of the almost microscopic words written there. As he read, his heavy brows were knit, as though some of the words puzzled him. He took a pencil from the inkstand and with it traced a kind of geometrical diagram of several straight lines upon the blotting-pad. These lines were similar to those he had traced with his stick in the dust when standing at the stile on that steep path in the lonely coppice near Godalming. Now and then he referred to the small document in the crabbed handwriting, and afterwards examined his diagram, as though to make certain of its correct proportions. Then, resting his chin upon his hands, he sat staring at the paper as it lay upon the blotting-pad within the zone of mellow lamplight. "It seems quite feasible," he said at last, speaking aloud. "Would that the suggestion were only true! But unfortunately it is merely a vague and ridiculous idea--a fantastic chimera of the imagination, after all. No," he added resolutely, "the hope is utterly false and misleading. It will not bear a second thought." With sad reluctance he refolded the piece of transparent paper, replaced it in the envelope, and put it back in the safe without resealing it. But from the same unlocked drawer he took a formidable-looking blue envelope, together with a tiny paper folded oblong, and sealed securely with white wax. The paper contained a powdered substance. The Parliamentary Under-Secretary carried them both back to his writing-table, and laid them before him. Upon the envelope was written in a bold legal hand, doubly underlined: "The Last Will and Testament of Dudley Waldegrave Chisholm, Esquire (Copy)." He smiled bitterly as he glanced at the superscription, then drew out the document and spread it before him, reading through clause after clause quite calmly. There were four pages of foolscap, engrossed with the usual legal margin and bound together with green silk. By it the Castle of Wroxeter and his extensive property in Shropshire were disposed of in a dozen words. The document was only lengthy by reason of the various bequests to old servants of the family and annuities to certain needy cousins. With the exception of the Castle and certain lands, the bulk of the great estate was, by that will, bequeathed to a well-known London hospital. Some words escaped him when, after completing its examination, during which he found nothing he wished to be altered, he refolded it. He then sealed it in another envelope and wrote in a big, bold hand: "My Will-- Dudley Chisholm." As the names of his solicitors, Messrs. Tarrant and Drew, of Lincoln's Inn Fields, were appended to the document, there was no necessity for him to superscribe them. "All is entirely in order," he murmured hoarsely. "And now I have to decide whether to await my doom, or take time by the forelock." As he spoke thus, his nervous hand toyed with the little paper packet before him. The room was in semi-darkness, for the logs had burned down and their red glow threw no light. At that moment the turret-clock struck a deep note, which echoed far away across the silent Severn. A strange look was in his eyes. The fire of insanity was burning there. As he glanced around in a strained and peculiar manner, he noticed upon a side table the whiskey, some soda-water, and a glass, all of which Riggs, according to custom, had placed there ready to his hand. Without hesitation he crossed to it, resolved on the last desperate step. He drew from the syphon until the glass was half-full. Then he added some whiskey, returned with it to his seat, and placed it upon the table. With care he opened the little packet that had been hoarded since the days of his journey in Central Asia, disclosing a small quantity of some yellowish powder, which he emptied into the glass, stirring it with the ivory paper-knife until all became dissolved. Then he sank into his chair with the tumbler set before him. He held it up to the light, examining it critically, with a sad smile playing about his thin white lips. Presently he put it down, and with both hands pushed the hair wearily from his fevered forehead. "Shall I write to Claudia?" he asked himself in a hoarse voice, scarcely louder than a whisper. "Shall I leave her a letter confessing all and asking forgiveness?" For a long time he pondered over the suggestion that had thus come to him. "No," he said at last, "it would be useless, and my sin would only cause my memory to be more hateful. Ah, no!" he murmured; "to leave the world in silence is far the best. The coroner's jury will return a verdict to the effect that I was of unsound mind. Juries don't return verdicts of _felo-de-se_ nowadays. The time of stakes and cross-roads has passed." And he laughed harshly again, for now that he had placed all his affairs in order a strange carelessness in regard to existence had come upon him. "To-morrow, when I am found, the papers--those same papers that have boomed me, as they term it--will discover in my end a startling sensation. All sorts of ridiculous rumours will be afloat. Parliament will gossip when it meets; but in a week my very name will be forgotten. One memorial alone will remain of me, my name engraved upon the tablet in the house of the Royal Geographical Society as its gold-medallist. And nothing else--absolutely nothing." Again he paused. After a few minutes had passed he stretched out his trembling hand and took the glass. "What will the world say of me, I wonder?" he exclaimed in a hoarse tone. "Will they declare that I was a coward?" "Yes," came an answering voice, low, but quite distinct within the old brown room, "the world will surely say that Dudley Chisholm was a coward--_a coward_!" He sprang to his feet in alarm, dashing the glass down on the table, and, turning quickly to the spot whence the answer had come, found himself face to face with an intruder who had evidently been concealed behind the heavy curtains of dark red velvet before the window, and who had heard everything and witnessed all his agony. The figure was lithe and of middle stature--the figure of a woman in a plain dark dress standing back in the deep shadow. At the first moment he could not distinguish the features; but when he had rushed forward a few paces, fierce resentment in his heart because his actions had been overlooked, he suddenly became aware of the women's identity. It was Muriel Mortimer. Since he had locked the door behind him as soon as he had entered the room, she must have been concealed behind the heavy curtains which were drawn across the deep recess of the old diamond-paned window. "You!" he gasped, white-faced and haggard. "You! Miss Mortimer! To what cause, pray, do I owe this nocturnal visit to my study?" he demanded in a stern and angry voice. "The reason of my presence here was the wish to find a novel to read in bed, Mr. Chisholm," she answered with extraordinary firmness. "Its result has been to save you from an ignominious death." Erect, almost defiant, she stood before him. Her face in the heavy shadow was as pale as his own, for she perceived his desperate mood and recognised the improbability of being able to grapple with the situation. He intended to end his life, while she, on her part, was just as determined that he should live. "You have been in this room the whole time?" he demanded, speaking quite unceremoniously. "Yes." "You have heard my words, and witnessed all my actions?" "I have." "You know, then, that I intend to drink the contents of that glass and end my life?" he said, looking straight at her. "That was your intention, but it is my duty towards you, and towards humanity, to prevent such a catastrophe." "Then you really intend to prevent me?" "That certainly is my intention," she answered. Her clear eyes were upon him, and beneath her steady gaze he shrank and trembled. "And if I live you will remain as witness of my agony, and of my degradation?" he said. "If I live you will gossip, and tell them of all that has escaped my lips, of my despair--of my contemplated suicide!" "I have seen all, and I have heard all," the girl answered. "But no word of it will pass my lips. With me your secret is sacred." "But how came you here at this hour?" he demanded in a fiercer tone. "As I've already told you, I came to get a book before retiring, and the moment I had entered you came in. Because I feared to be discovered I hid behind the curtains." "You came here to spy upon me?" he cried angrily. "Come, confess the truth!" The curious thought had crossed his mind that she had been sent there by Claudia. "I chanced to be present here entirely by accident," she answered. "But by good fortune I have been able to rescue you from death." He bowed to her with stiff politeness, for he suspected her of eavesdropping. He felt that he disliked her, and in no half-hearted fashion. Besides, he recollected the prophetic warning of the colonel. It was more than strange that he should discover her there, in that room where his valuable papers were lodged. He scented mystery in her action, and fiercely resented this unwarrantable intrusion upon his privacy. "My own behaviour is my own affair, Miss Mortimer," he said in a determined voice. "Yes, all but suicide," she assented. "That is an affair which concerns your friends." "Of whom you are scarcely one," he observed meaningly. "No," she replied, stretching forth her hand until it rested upon his arm. "You entirely misunderstand me, Mr. Chisholm. As in this affair you have already involuntarily confided in me, I beg of you to rely upon my discretion and secrecy, and to allow me to become your friend." CHAPTER TWENTY TWO. REQUIRES SOLUTION. With his face to the intruder, Chisholm stood leaning with his hand upon the back of a chair. "Friends are to me useless, Miss Mortimer," he answered her. "Others perhaps are useless, but I may prove to be the exception," she said very gravely. "You want a friend, and I am ready to become yours." "Your offer is a kind one," he replied, still regarding her with suspicion, for he could not divine the real reason of her visit there, or why she had concealed herself, unless she had done so to learn, if possible, his secret. "I thank you for it, but cannot accept it." "But, surely, you do not intend to perform such a cowardly act as to take your own life," she said in a measured tone of voice, looking at him with her wide-open eyes. "It is my duty to prevent you from committing such a mad action as that." "I quite admit that it would be mad," he said. "But the victim of circumstances can only accept the inevitable." "Why, how strangely and despondently you talk, Mr. Chisholm! From my hiding-place at the back of those curtains, I've been watching you this hour or more. Your nervousness has developed into madness, if you will permit me to criticise. Had it not been for my presence here you would by this time have taken your life. For what reason? Shall I tell you? Because, Mr. Chisholm, you are a coward. You are in terror of an exposure that you dare not face." "How do you know?" he cried fiercely, springing towards her in alarm. "Who told you?" "You told me yourself," she answered. "Your own lips denounced you." "What did I say? What foolish nonsense did I utter in my madness?" he demanded, the fact now being plain that she had heard all the wild words that had escaped him. The old colonel had warned him that this woman was not his friend. He reflected that, at all costs he must silence her. She paused for a few moments in hesitation. "Believing yourself to be here alone, you discussed aloud your secret in all its hideousness--the secret of your sin." "And if I did--what then?" he demanded defiantly. His courtliness towards her had been succeeded by an undisguised resentment. To think that she should have been brought into his house to act as eavesdropper, and to learn his secret! "Nothing, except that I am now in your confidence, and, having rescued you from an ignominious end, am anxious to become your friend," she answered in a quiet tone of voice. Her face was pale, but she was, nevertheless, firm and resolute. He was puzzled more than ever in regard to her. With his wild eyes full upon her, he tried to make out whether it was by design or by accident that she was there, locked in that room with him. That she was an inveterate novel-reader he knew, but her excuse that she had come there to obtain a book at so late an hour scarcely bore an air of probability. Besides, she had exchanged her smart dinner-gown for a dark stuff dress. No, she had spied upon him. The thought lashed him to fury. "To calculate the amount of profit likely to accrue to oneself as the result of a friend's misfortune is no sign of friendship," he said in a sarcastic voice. "No, Miss Mortimer, you have, by thus revealing your presence, prolonged my life by a few feverish minutes, but your words certainly do not establish the sincerity of your friendship. Besides," he added, "we scarcely know each other." "I admit that; but let us reconsider all the facts," she said, leaning a little toward him, across the back of a chair. "Your actions have shown that the matter is to you one of life or death. If so, it manifestly deserves careful and mature consideration." He nodded, but no word passed his lips. She seemed a strangely sage person, this girl with the fair hair, whose parentage was so obscure, and whose invitation to his house was due to some ridiculous _penchant_ felt for her by Claudia. Why she had ever been invited puzzled him. He would gladly have asked her to return to town on the day of her arrival if it had been possible to forget the laws of hospitality and chivalry. The whole matter had annoyed him greatly, and this was its climax. "Well, now," she went on, in a voice which proved her to be in no way excited, "I gather from your words and actions that you fear to face the truth--that your guilt is such that exposure will mean ruin. Is this so?" "Well, to speak plainly, it is so," he said mechanically, looking back at the glassful of death on the table. "You must avoid exposure." "How?" "By acting like a man, not like a coward." He looked at her sharply, without replying. She spoke with all the gravity of a woman twice her years, and he could not decide whether she were really in earnest in the expression of her readiness to become his friend. One thing was absolutely certain, namely, that she was acquainted with the innermost secrets of his heart. In the wild madness of despair he had blurted out his fear and agony of mind, and she had actually been the witness of those moments of sweet melancholy when, at the sight of that lock of hair, he had allowed his thoughts to wander back to the days long dead, when the world was to him so rosy and full of life. Should he conciliate her, or should he, on the other hand, defy her and refuse her assistance? That she, of all women, should in this fashion thrust herself into his life was strange indeed. But had she actually thrust herself upon him, or was her presence there, as she had alleged, a mere freak of fortune? "You say that I ought to act like a man, Miss Mortimer. Well, I am ready to hear your suggestion." "My suggestion is quite simple: it is that you should live, be bold, and face those who seek your downfall." He sighed despairingly. "In theory that's all very well, but in practice, impossible," he answered after a short pause. "Think! You are wealthy, you are famous, with hosts of friends who will come to your aid if you confide in them--" "Ah! but I cannot confide in them," he cried despondently, interrupting her. "You are the only person who knows the secret of my intention." "But surely you will not deliberately seek such an inglorious end--you, the pride and hope of a political party, and one of a race that has century after century been famous for producing noble Englishmen. It is madness--sheer madness!" "I know it," he admitted; "but to me birth, position, wealth, popularity are all nothing." "I can quite understand that all these qualities may count as nothing to you, Mr. Chisholm," she said in a tone of voice indicative of impatience, "but there is still one reason more why you should hesitate to take the step you have just been contemplating." "And what is that?" For a moment she remained silent, looking straight at him with her splendid eyes, as if to read the book of his heart. At length she made answer: "Because a woman worships you." He started, wondering quickly if his midnight visitor intended those words to convey a declaration of love. With an effort he smiled in a good-humoured way, but almost instantly his dark features regained their tragic expression. "And if a woman pays me that compliment, is it not a misfortune for her?" he asked. There was a motive in her concealment there. What could it be? "It surely should not be so, if the love is perfect, as it is in the present case." "Well," he said, smiling, "apparently you are better acquainted with my private affairs than I am myself, Miss Mortimer. But in any case the love of this woman whom you mention can be only a passing fancy. True, I was loved once, long ago. But that all belongs to the past." "And the only relic of the bygone romance is that lock of hair? Yes, I know all. I have seen all. And your secret is, I assure you, safe with me." "But this woman who--well, who is attracted towards me? What is her name?" he demanded, not without some interest. "You surely know her," she answered. "The woman who is your best and most devoted friend--the woman in whom you should surely confide before attempting to take such a step as you are contemplating to-night--Lady Richard Nevill." His lips again set themselves hard at the mention of that name. Was it uttered in sarcasm, or was she in real earnest? He regarded her keenly for a moment, and then inclined to the latter opinion. "The relations existing between Lady Richard and myself are our own affair," he said, vexed by her reference to a subject which of all others, next to the knowledge of his sin, perturbed him most. "But your secret concerns her," Muriel declared. "Many times you have confided in her and asked her help at the various crises in your career. Why not now? Her very life is yours." "Am I to understand that you wish to pay me compliments, Miss Mortimer?" "No. This is hardly the time for paying compliments. I speak the truth, Mr. Chisholm. She loves you." "Then if that is really so, it seems an additional misfortune has overtaken me," he replied hoarsely, unable as yet to grasp her motive. "All the world knows that she is madly in love with you, and would be ready to become your wife to-morrow. Under all the circumstances I must say that your indifference strikes me as almost unbelievable." She was pleading for Claudia, a fact which made the mystery surrounding her all the more perplexing. He did not notice that she was calmly watching the effect of her words upon him. "You hold a brief for Lady Richard, but I fail to see the reason why. We are friends, very old friends, but nothing else. Our future concerns no one but ourselves," he said. "Exactly. The future of each of you concerns the other," she answered triumphantly. "She loves you, and because of this all her thoughts are centred in you." "I must really confess, Miss Mortimer, that I do not see the drift of your argument," he said. "Lady Richard has no connection whatever with the present matter, which is my private affair alone." "But since she loves you as devotedly as she does, it concerns her deeply." "I repeat that we are friends, not lovers," he replied with some asperity. "And I repeat, just as emphatically, that she loves you, and that it is your duty to confide in her," answered Muriel, determined not to haul down her flag. "Love!" he cried bitterly, beginning to pace the room, for as soon as he thought of Claudia his attempt to remain calm was less and less effective; "what is love to me? There is no love for such as I." "No, Mr. Chisholm," she said earnestly, stretching forth her hand. "Pardon me, I pray, for speaking thus, but to every man and woman both love and happiness are given, if only they will accept it." He was thinking of Claudia, and of the fact that she had first seen Cator and had contrived to keep him aloof from the guests. She could surely suspect nothing, otherwise she would have waited to see him after the visitor's departure. Yes, he knew that everything said by this fair-haired girl was quite true. That was the unfortunate factor in the affair. She loved him. "Tell me, then," he demanded at last, "what do you advise? You know that I have a secret; that I intend deliberately to take my life and to trouble no one any further. As you have prevented me from doing so, it is to you I look for help and good counsel." "I am ready and eager to give both," she exclaimed, "only I very much fear that you do not trust me, Mr. Chisholm! Well, after all, that is not very remarkable when the short period of our acquaintanceship is borne in mind. Nevertheless, I am Claudia's friend, and consequently yours. You must really not do anything foolish. Think of your own position, and of the harsh judgment you will naturally provoke by your insane action!" "I know! I know!" he replied. "But to me the opinion of the world counts for absolutely nothing. I have sinned, and, like other men, must bear the penalty. For me there is no pardon on this side of the grave." "There is always pardon for the man who is loved." "A love that must turn to hate when the truth is discovered," he added bitterly, with a short, dry laugh. "No, I much prefer the alternative of death. I do not fear the end, I assure you. Indeed, I really welcome it," and he laughed again nervously, as though suicide were one of the humours of life. "No," she cried in earnestness, laying her hand gently on his arm. "Listen to reason, Mr. Chisholm. I know I have no right to speak to you like this--only the right of a fellow-creature who would prevent you from taking the rash step you contemplate. But I want you fully to realise your responsibility towards the woman who so dearly loves you." "Our love is ended," he blurted out, with a quick, furtive look at the glass upon the writing-table. "I have no further responsibility." "Has it really ended?" she asked anxiously. "Can you honestly and truthfully say before your Maker that you entertain no love for Lady Richard--that she is never in your thoughts?" Her question nonplussed him. A lie arose to his lips, but remained there unuttered. "You are thinking of that former love," she went on; "of that wild, impetuous affection of long ago, that madness which has resulted so disastrously, eh? Yes, I know. You still love Lady Richard, while she, for her part, entertains a loving thought for no other man but you. And yet there is a sad, sweet memory within you which you can neither stifle nor forget." There was a tone of distinct melancholy in her voice. "You have guessed aright," he answered in a strained tone. "The tragedy of it all is before me day and night, and it is that alone which holds me at a distance from Claudia." "Why not make full confession to her?" she suggested, after a short pause. Surely it was very strange, he thought, that she, who was little more than a mere girl, should venture to debate with him his private affairs. To him it appeared suspiciously as though she had already discussed the situation with the woman who had introduced her beneath his roof. Had they arranged all this between them? But if his madness had not blinded him, he would have detected the contemptuous curl of the lip when she uttered Claudia's name. "I have neither the wish nor the intention to confess anything," he answered. "You alone know my secret, Miss Mortimer, and I rely upon your honesty as a woman to divulge nothing." For answer she walked quickly to the table, took up the glass, and flung its contents upon the broad, old-fashioned hearthstone. "I solemnly promise you," she said, as she replaced the empty tumbler and confronted him again. "I promise you that as long as you hold back from this suicidal madness the world shall know nothing. Live, be brave, grapple with those who seek your downfall, and reciprocate the love of the woman who is both eager and ready to assist and defend you." It struck him that in the last words of this sentence she referred to herself. If so, hers was, indeed, a strange lovemaking. "No," replied the despondent man. "My position is hopeless--utterly hopeless." As his head was turned away, he did not notice the strange glint in her eyes. For a single instant the fierce fire of hatred burned there, but in a moment it had vanished, and she was once more the same calm, persuasive woman as throughout the conversation she had been. "But your position is really not so serious as you imagine," she declared. "If you will only place confidence in me I can help you ever so much. Indeed, I anticipate that, if I so wish, I can rescue you from the exposure and ruin that threatens you." "You?" he cried incredulously. "How can you hope to rescue me?" he demanded sharply, taking a step toward her in his eagerness to know what the answer to his question would be. "By means known only to myself," she said, watching him with panther-like intensity. She had changed her tactics. "From your words it would appear that my future is to be controlled in most respects by you, Miss Mortimer," he observed with a slight touch of sarcasm in his hard voice. "You have spoken correctly. It is." "And for what reason, pray?" he inquired, frowning in his perplexity. "Because I alone know the truth, Mr. Chisholm," she said distinctly. "I am aware of the secret of your sin. All of these hideous facts are in my possession." He started violently, glaring at her open-mouthed, as though she were some superhuman monstrosity. "You believe that I am lying to you, but I declare that I am not. I am in full possession of the secret of your sin, even to its smallest detail. If you wish, I will defend you, and show you a means by which you can defy those who are seeking to expose you. Shall I give you proof that I am cognisant of the truth?" He nodded in the affirmative, still too dumbfounded to articulate. Moving suddenly she stepped forward to the table, took up a pen, and wrote two words upon a piece of paper, which she handed to him in silence. He grasped it with trembling fingers. No sooner had his eyes fallen upon it than a horrible change swept over his countenance. "My God! Yes!" he gasped, his face blanched to the lips. "It was that name. Then you really know my terrible guilt. You--a comparative stranger!" "Yes," she answered. "I know everything, and can yet save you, if you will place your trust in me--even though I am little more than a stranger." "And if I did--if I allowed you to strive on my behalf? What then?" She looked straight at him. The deep silence of the night was again broken by the musical chimes high up in the ancient turret. "Shall I continue to speak frankly?" she asked at last. "Most certainly. In this affair there can be no concealment between us, Miss Mortimer, for it seems that my future is entirely in your hands." "It is," she answered, in a deep, intense voice. "And in return for my silence and defence of yourself I make one condition." "And that is?" She again placed her soft hand tenderly upon the arm of the nervous, haggard-faced man whom she had just rescued from self-destruction, and looked earnestly into his pallid face. "My sole condition is that you shall give me yourself," she answered in a wild, hoarse voice; "that you shall cast aside this other woman and give me your love." "Then you actually love me!" he exclaimed in his astonishment. "Yes," she cried fiercely, her clear eyes looking anxiously up into his face. "Yes, I frankly confess that I love you." CHAPTER TWENTY THREE. RECORDS SOME MATTERS OF FACT. The house-party at Wroxeter Castle had broken up, and Dudley Chisholm, having returned to town, had once more taken up his official duties. Every hour of his day, however, was haunted by the memory of that strange encounter in the library, and its astonishing sequel. That fair-haired girl, whose parentage was so mysterious, and against whom he had been so distinctly warned, was aware of his secret, and, moreover, had openly declared her love for him. Assuredly his was a most complicated and perilous position. Muriel Mortimer had at every point displayed marvellous tact and ingenuity. She was undoubtedly clever, for at breakfast on the morning following their interview, Lady Meldrum had announced the receipt of a letter which compelled them to leave by the midday train for Carlisle. All sorts of regrets were expressed in the usual conventional manner, but Muriel exchanged a glance with her host, and he understood. No word regarding the midnight interview passed between them; but when she entered the carriage to be driven into Shrewsbury with Sir Henry and his wife, and grasped his hands in farewell, he felt a slight pressure upon his fingers as their eyes met, and knew that it was intended as a mute repetition of her promise to rescue him. She alone knew the truth. If she so desired she herself could expose him and lay bare his secret. He was utterly helpless in her hands, and in order to save himself had been compelled to accept the strange condition she had so clearly and inexorably laid down. This fair-faced woman, about whom he knew next to nothing, had declared that she could save him by means known only to herself; and this she was now setting forth to do. Archibald Cator, the resourceful man whose success in learning the diplomatic secrets of foreign states was unequalled, was working towards his exposure, while she, an apparently simple woman, with a countenance full of child-like innocence, had pitted herself against his long experience and cunning mind. The match was unequal, he thought. Surely she must be vanquished. Yet she had saved him from suicide, and somehow, he knew not exactly how, her declarations and her sudden outburst of devotion had renewed the hope of happiness within him. Public life had never offered more brilliant prizes to a Canning, a Disraeli, or a Randolph Churchill than it did to Dudley Chisholm. To him, it seemed, the future belonged. England was in the mood to surrender herself, not necessarily to a prodigy of genius, a Napoleon of politics, but to a man of marked independence, faith, and capacity. And all these qualities were possessed by the present Parliamentary Under-Secretary--the unhappy man who so short a time before had sat with the fatal glass in front of him. He was in the hall when Muriel took leave of Claudia. The latter was inclined to be affectionate and bent to kiss her on the cheek, but Muriel pretended not to notice her intention, merely shaking her hand and expressing regret at being compelled to leave so suddenly. Their parting was most decidedly a strained one, and he fell to wondering whether, on his account, any high words had passed between them. But a fortnight had gone by, the House had reassembled, and he had resumed his duties. Has it ever occurred to you, my reader, what a terrible sameness marks the careers of front-bench men? Ancestors who toiled and spun, as some writer in a daily journal has it; Eton and Oxford; the charmed Commons at twenty-eight or thirty, an Under-Secretaryship of State two years later; high Government office three years after that, then a seat in the Cabinet, then the invariable Chief Secretaryship of Ireland, birthplace of reputations, where they take the place of colleagues physically prostrated by Irish _persiflage_. As Chief Secretary the typical front-bench man, of course, surprises friends and foes by his unshakable coolness. If he still has any hair, he never turns a particle of it while the Irish members are shrieking their loudest, and branding him with nicknames; which we are instructed to accept as examples of epoch-making humour. Well, we are bound to believe what we are told, but we cannot be described as cordial believers. Last scene of all, the ignoble, protesting tumble upstairs into the House of Lords; a coronet on the door panels of his brougham; his identity hidden under the name of a London suburb or an obscure village; while his eldest son who is now an "Honourable," and has always been a zany, remains down below to fritter away illustrious traditions. Once Dudley Waldegrave Chisholm had marked out for himself a similar career, but the events of the past few months had changed it all. Public life no longer attracted him. He hated the wearying monotony of the House, and each time he rose from the Treasury bench to speak, he trembled lest there should arise a figure from the Opposition to denounce him in scathing terms. The nervous tension of those days was awful. His friends of his own party, noticing his nervousness, put it down to the strain of office, and more than one idling politician of the dining-room had suggested that he should pair and leave town for a bit of a change. Would, he thought within himself, that he could leave the town for ever! He had arranged with the woman into whose hands he had given himself unreservedly, providing that she placed him in a position to overthrow his enemies, that she should write to him at his club, the Carlton; but as the weeks crept on and he received no letter he began to be uneasy at her silence. In the _Morning Post_ he had noticed two lines in the fashionable intelligence, which ran as follows: "Sir Henry and Lady Meldrum with Miss Muriel Mortimer have left Green Street for the Continent." The announcement was vague, but purposely so, he thought. He tried to calm himself by plunging with redoubled energy into the daily political struggle. Claudia after leaving the castle had gone to Paris with her almost inseparable friend, the Duchess of Penarth, gowns being the object of the visit. _Hors de Paris_, _hors du monde_ was Claudia's motto always. They usually went over together, without male encumbrances, twice or three times yearly, stayed at the Athenee, and spent the greater part of their time in the _ateliers_ of Doeuillet and Paquin, or shopping in the Vendome quarter, that little area of the gay city so dear to the feminine heart. The visit had lasted a fortnight, and Claudia was back again at Albert Gate. She had sent him a brief note announcing her arrival, but he had not called, for, truth to tell, because of the fresh development springing from Muriel Mortimer's policy he felt unable to continue his fervent protestations of love. The web of complications was drawing round him more tightly every moment. He tried to struggle against it, but the feeble effort was utterly hopeless. One evening, however, he accepted, under absolute compulsion, her invitation to dine. In that handsome, well-remembered room, with its snowy cloth, its shining glass, its heavy plate and big silver epergne of hot-house flowers, he sat with her _tete-a-tete_, listening to the story of her visit to the French capital, her account of the pretty evening gowns which were on their way to her--new and exclusive "models" for which she had been compelled to pay terribly dear--all about her meeting with the old Comtesse de Montigny while driving in the Avenue des Acacias, and the warm invitation, which she had accepted, to the latter's _salon_, one of the most exclusive in all Paris. Moreover, she and the Duchess had dined one evening with Madame Durand, one of her old companions at the pension at Enghien, and now wife of the newly appointed Minister of the Interior. Yes, in Paris she had, as usual, a most enjoyable time. And how had he fared? As Jackson, the solemn-faced and rather pompous butler, who had been in poor Dick Nevill's service for a good many years, was pouring out his wine, he hesitated to speak confidentially until he had left. Claudia certainly looked charming. She was dressed in black, and had a large bunch of Neapolitan violets in her low corsage. They were his favourite flowers, and he knew that she wore them in honour of his visit. "I wrote to you twice from Paris, and received no reply, Dudley," she said, leaning toward him when the man had gone. "Why didn't you answer?" "Forgive me, Claudia," he answered, placing his hand upon hers and looking into her handsome face. "I have been so very busy of late--and I expected you back in London every day." "You have only written to me once since I left Wroxeter," she said, pouting. "It is really too bad of you." "I can only plead heavy work and the grave responsibilities of office," he answered. "I've been literally driven to death. You've no doubt seen the papers." "Yes, I have seen them," she answered. "And my candid opinion is, Dudley, that the Government has not come out particularly well in regard to the question of Crete. I'm quite with you as to your declaration in the House last night, that we are not nearly strong enough in the Mediterranean." Jackson entered again, and, as their conversation was of necessity prevented from taking on an intimate tone, they kept to a discussion of matters upon which Dudley had been speaking in the House during the past week. She had always been his candid critic, and often pointed out to him his slips and shortcomings, just as she had criticised him in their youthful days and stirred within him the ambition to enter public life. If she knew of the secret compact that he had made with Muriel Mortimer what would she say? He dreaded to contemplate the exposure of the truth. "Have you heard anything of the Meldrums?" he inquired, as the thought flashed into his mind that from her very probably he might be able to learn their whereabouts. "Oh! they're abroad," she replied. "They left us very suddenly at the castle, for what reason I've not yet been able to make out. Do you know, I've a horrible suspicion that Lady Meldrum was offended, or something, but what it was I really have no idea. She was scarcely civil when we parted." "That's very strange," he said, pricking up his ears and looking at her in astonishment. "Who was the culprit? One of the guests, I suppose." "I suppose so," his hostess answered. "But at any rate, whatever the cause, she was gravely offended. The excuse to leave was a palpably false one, for there chanced to be no letters for her that morning." "Where are they now?" "They first went up to Dumfries, and then came to town and left for Brussels. I heard from Muriel a week ago from Florence." "From Muriel!" he exclaimed. "Then she is with them?" "Yes. Her letter says that they were contemplating taking a villa there for the winter, but were hesitating on account of Lady Meldrum's health. It appears that her London doctor did not recommend Florence on account of the cold winds along the Arno." In Florence! It was strange, he thought, that if she could write civilly to the woman who was her rival, whom she had scarcely saluted at parting, she did not send a single line to him. Then the strange thought flitted through his mind that Archibald Cator was attach in Rome. Could her visit to Italy have any connection with the task which she had taken upon herself to fulfil? In the blue drawing-room later, after they had taken their coffee and were alone, she rose slowly and stood with him before the tiled hearth. She saw by his heavy brow that he was preoccupied, and without a word she took his hand and raised it with infinite tenderness to her lips. He turned his eyes upon her, uttering no word, for he hated himself for his duplicity. Why had he been persuaded to visit her? How could he endure to feign an affection and fill her heart with unrealisable hopes? It was disloyal of him, and cruel to her. She, a woman of infinite tact and _finesse_, had suffered bitterly from the harsh words he had spoken weeks ago, yet she had never upbraided him. She had suffered in patience and in silence, as the true woman does when the man she loves causes her unhappiness. Jealousy may engender fury; but the woman whose soul is pure and whose heart is honest in her love is always patient and long-suffering, always willing to believe that her ideal is represented by the man she loves. And it was so with Claudia. Gossips had tried to injure her good name by alleging things that were untrue, yet she had never once complained. "Tiens!" she would exclaim. That was all. It was true that she had allowed herself to flirt with the young Russian because, being a woman, she could not resist that little piece of harmless coquetry. Nevertheless she had never for a single instant forgotten the sacred love of her youth. She was essentially a smart woman, whose doings were chronicled almost daily in the fashionable intelligence of the newspapers; and every woman of her stamp may always be sure of being persecuted by malignant gossips. Were she a saint she could not escape them. The eternal feminine is prolific of aspersions where a pretty member of its own sex is under examination, and especially if she be left lonely and unprotected while she is still quite young. It was so with Claudia Nevill. She allowed people to talk, and was even amused at the wild and often scandalous tales whispered about her, for she knew that the man she loved would give no credence to them. Dudley had loved her long ago in her schoolgirl days, and she knew that he loved her now. For her, that was all-sufficient. But his preoccupied manner that night caused her considerable apprehension. He was not his old self. Once, while at dinner, she had caught a strange, haunted look in his eyes. "Tell me, Dudley," she urged, holding his hand and looking earnestly up to him. "Be frank with me, and tell me what ails you." "Nothing," he laughed uneasily, carrying her soft hand to his lips. "But whatever made you ask such a question?" "Because you seem upset," she answered, smoothing his hair tenderly from his brow. "If there is any matter that is worrying you, why not confide in me, as you have done so often before, and let me help you." "No, really," he protested with a forced laugh. "Nothing worries me--only matters down at the House." She looked at him in silence. In those dark, brilliant eyes of hers was a love-look that was unmistakable. She was a woman believed by men to be utterly frivolous and heartless, yet she loved Dudley Chisholm with all the fierce passion possible to her ardent soul. His face told her that he had been suffering in her absence, and she strove to discover the reason. "Why, Dudley," she exclaimed at last, "now that I reflect, you have not been quite the same since the midnight visit paid you at the castle by the mysterious man who was so very careful that his presence should not be made known! You have never told me who he was, or what was his business." He started so quickly that she could not fail to notice it. This set her wondering. "Oh!" he replied with affected carelessness next moment, "the tall shabby man who called on the night of the dance you mean? He was a confidential messenger, that was all." "I suppose I was mistaken, but his face and voice both seemed quite familiar to me," she remarked. "I meant to tell you before, but it entirely slipped my memory. The likeness to some one I have met was very striking, but I cannot recollect where I've met him before. Is he an official messenger?" "Yes," answered her lover vaguely, although alarmed that she should so nearly have recognised Cator; "he's attached to the Foreign Office. I urged him to stay the night, but he was compelled to return at once to town." "And he brought you some bad news? Admit the truth, dear." "He certainly brought some official intelligence that was not altogether reassuring," her lover said. "Are you quite certain that it was official, and did not concern yourself?" she asked in a low voice which sounded to him full of suspicion. "Certain? Why, of course," he laughed. "Whatever strange ideas are you entertaining, Claudia?" "Well," she answered, "to tell the truth, Dudley, I have a notion that he came to see you on some private business, because ever since that night you have been a changed man." "I really had no idea that. I had changed," he said. "You surely don't mean that I have changed towards you?" "Yes," she answered gravely, her small hand trembling slightly in his nervous grasp,--"yes, I think you have changed--even towards me." CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR. CONTRASTS TWO LOVES. When a woman of Claudia Nevill's passionate temperament loves, it is with her whole soul. The women with dark flashing eyes, red lips, arched brows, and oval countenances can never do things by halves. They either love fiercely, or else are as cold as ice; they hate with all the vindictiveness of hell, or are patient, forbearing and forgiving to the end. Dudley Chisholm knew this well enough, and was aware how deep and devoted was the love of the true-hearted woman from whom he had tried to part, but without whom there seemed a void in his life. Because gossips had maligned them he had striven, for her sake as well as his own, to put an end to their affection. His words had pained him and had stabbed her cruelly, but they had turned out; to be inconclusive. Their lives were bound together, as she had so frequently declared. Now that she had approached the subject, he longed to tell her of the secret in his heart. But how could he when he had made that strange, unholy compact with that woman, her rival, who now held his future in her hands? With an effort he put such thoughts aside, and with feigned carelessness strove to assure her that he was in no wise changed. When, however, a woman really loves, it is difficult to deceive her. She reads man's innermost thoughts as clearly as though they were written upon an open page. The wavering of the eyes, the twitching of the lips, the slight movement of the muscles of the face, and the well nigh imperceptible swelling at the temples, although entirely unobserved by the woman who is not in love, are plain and open declarations of the truth to her who loves the face exhibiting these subtle signals. Truly the feminine intuition is marvellous and inexplicable. Dudley knew that to lie to her was impossible. Little by little he managed to convince her that his mysterious visitor had come from the Foreign Office. At length he succeeded in turning their conversation into a different channel. At his request she crossed to the grand piano at the end of the magnificent room in which there were so many signs of her exquisite taste, seated herself at the instrument, and played Mendelssohn's "Rondo capriccioso" and Chopin's "Valse Op. 70." Though he made an attempt to turn over the leaves of the music, he found it difficult to keep himself from becoming absorbed in reverie. What, he wondered, could she suspect? Surely the woman into whose hands he had given himself had told her nothing. No. Had she not promised in the most emphatic manner that no word of his terrible secret should pass her lips? As she had already exhibited marvellous cleverness and diplomatic _finesse_, he felt confident of her discretion and silence. He looked down at the dark-haired woman seated at the piano and thought how her loveliness would have delighted Greuze. As her slim fingers, laden with sparkling gems, ran swiftly and dexterously over the keys, her lawny bosom rose and fell, the diamonds at her throat glittered with iridescent fire, and the sweet odour of the violets added one more to the many charms thus spread for him. She had taken three or four of the flowers from her breast, and with a single leaf had made up a tiny bouquet, afterwards placing it in the lappel of his coat, as was her tender habit when they were alone. And he was actually deceiving this affectionate woman, who had been his friend, _confidante_, and adviser ever since their days of childhood! He stood behind her, clenching his teeth, hating himself for his duplicity. Did he really love her, he asked himself for the thousandth time? Yes, he did. She was all in all to him. Their love had always been idyllic. In his eyes no woman was half as fair to look upon; none so full of innate grace and _chic_; none so sweet in temperament or so full of charms. Fate had parted them, it was true, and she had married Dick Nevill, his best friend. Yet he had never ceased to love her--though to her dead lord she had been a model wife during their too brief period of wedded happiness. When Dick died he had, at Claudia's own request, gone back to her to become her platonic friend, to cheer her in her loneliness, and to advise her in the hundred and one matters which concerned her future. And again she had grown to love him; again she had worshipped him as her ideal. She had finished the valse, and, turning slowly, raised her perfect face, slightly tragic in its dark beauty, with a mute invitation for his caress. He placed his hand tenderly upon her shoulder and bent until his lips touched hers. And as he did so, he saw in her bright eyes that calm expression of tranquil content which comes to such a woman in the thrill engendered by her lover's kiss. She rose from the music-stool. Once more he held her in his arms, as he had so often done of old, while she, in that soft voice he knew so well, tried to teach him the height and breadth and depth of her love. "I know what people say, Dudley!" she exclaimed, hoarsely. "Tant mieux! I know that odious reports have reached you regarding me, but surely you will trust me? Cannot you see for yourself, dear, that I am yours-- entirely yours?" "Words are unnecessary, Claudia," he answered, kissing her. "That you love me I have never doubted; I give no credence to anything I hear. I trust in you implicitly." "Then if that is so, dear, why not be perfectly frank and tell me the reason of your sadness?" she urged. "I am not sad, Claudia," he protested with a feigned air of gaiety. "How can I be sorrowful when I know that I possess your love?" "It is not sufficient that you have my affection," she answered. "I wish to continue to be your _confidante_ and friend. Recollect that a woman's wit is often of value to a man engaged in public life as you are." "I know my debt to you is more than I can ever repay," he declared frankly. "To your good counsels and personal interest all my success is due. I owe all to you--everything." "And in return you have given me your love, the sum of my desire," she said contentedly, slowly raising her lips and kissing him. "You are mine, Dudley, and you will ever remain so--won't you?" He held his breath for an instant. Then, as he twined his arm round her slender waist, he said: "Of course, darling, I shall ever remain yours, always--always." He lied to her. Faugh! he hated himself. For the first time he had uttered a deliberate falsehood concerning their love; and he felt positive she knew that he had not spoken the truth. So close had been their association for many years, unbroken save for the few months of her married life, that they read each other's unuttered thought and knew each other's innermost secrets. Long ago she had laid bare her whole heart to him, concealing nothing, and not seeking to excuse herself for any of those flirtations which from time to time had been the talk of the town. He knew everything, and had in return repeated his declaration of love for her. Indeed, after that long friendship the life of each was void without the other. When parted from her by reason of her country visits, there somehow seemed a blank in his existence, and he found himself thinking of her night and day. Until her last absence in Paris it had been their custom to write to each other every second day. How; would she act if she knew the truth? What would she think of him if she were aware that he had promised himself to another woman, and one who had come into his life so suddenly, if she continued to shield him from the exposure of his guilty secret? Her dark eyes, those splendid eyes everywhere so greatly admired, were turned upon him. There was an air of sweet sadness in their expression. His eyes fell: he could not meet her gaze. "Do you know, Dudley," she exclaimed at last in the soft, sweet voice he was never tired of hearing, the voice that had so often consoled him and encouraged him to strive after high ideals,--"do you know, dear, I have lately thought that your people are endeavouring to part us. You recollect your sudden refusal to see me last autumn? Your cruel action put fear into my heart. I am dreading always that I may lose you--that you will listen to the well-meant counsels of your relations and cast my love aside." He saw by her countenance how terribly in earnest she was, and hastened to reassure her. "No, darling. All that is a foolish fancy. You may rest quite assured that as I have not already listened to the advice of people who are in ignorance of the platonic nature of our friendship, I shall never do so. We have been lovers ever since our teens, and we shall, I hope, always so remain." She sprang upon him, clasping her soft arms around his neck, and, kissing him with a fierce and fervent passion, exclaimed: "Thank you, Dudley! Thank you for those words! You know how fondly I love you--you know that I could not live without frequent sight of you, without your good counsels and guidance--for I am but a woman, after all." "The best and bravest little woman in all the world," he declared in words that came direct from his heart. Then, pressing her closer to him, he went on: "You surely know how deep and complete is my affection, Claudia. The test of it is shown by the fact that were it not for my love for you I should have forsaken you months ago in order to save my reputation--and yours." "It was a foul calumny!" she cried quickly. "The lie was probably started by some woman who envied me. But a scandal is like a snowball-- it increases as it is rolled along. We invited gossip, and lent colour to the report by being seen so much together. I know it too well, and I have regretted it bitterly for your sake. With a public man like yourself a scandal is very apt to put an end for ever to all chances of high position. Knowing that, I, too, tried hard to cut myself adrift from you. Ah! you cannot know, Dudley, what I suffered when I attempted self-sacrifice for your own dear sake. You can never know!" she went on, panting and trembling. "But you misjudged me--you believed me fickle. It was what I intended, for I wanted you to cast me aside and save yourself." "Well?" "They spoke of my flirtations _en plein jour_ at Fernhurst," she continued, looking up into his face with an expression full of passionate love. "The report, with exaggerations, reached you as I had hoped it would, but although it caused you pain it made no difference to your affection. Therefore, I failed, and we were compelled to accept the inevitable." "Yes, Claudia. What I heard from Fernhurst did pain me terribly," he answered very gravely. "Yet I could not believe without absolute proof that you, whom I knew to be an honest, upright woman, would deliberately create a scandal, knowing well that it would be reflected upon me. I knew that you loved me; I knew that our lives were firmly linked the one to the other, and that our mutual confidence and affection were based upon a sure foundation. That is why I refused to give credence to the scandalous gossip." Her small hands trembled with emotion, and as she pressed her lips to his, mutely thanking him for his forbearance and refusal to believe ill of her, she burst into tears. "I know, dearest, how terribly you have suffered," he said in a low voice as he tried to console her. "I know well that your position as a smart woman supplies your enemies with opportunities for wounding your reputation. In the clubs men will, with an idle word, take away a woman's good name, and often think it a huge joke when they hear the despicable calumny repeated. Indeed, it seems an unwritten law nowadays, that the woman who is not talked about and who does not hover between sacraments and scandals, is not to be considered smart. If she gives dinners and supper-parties at the Carlton or Prince's, her name is usually coupled with one of her favourite guests. No woman is really in the running without gossip having ungenerously given her a lover." "Yes," she answered, "that is only too true? Dudley. I know quite well that the happiness of many a smart woman, as well as her domestic comfort has been utterly wrecked by the eternal chatter which follows public entertaining. A short time ago we gave dinners in our own houses, as our mothers used to do; but that is all of the past. The glitter of the big restaurants has attracted us. To be _chic_ one must engage a table at Prince's or the Carlton, smother it with flowers, and dine with one's guests in the full glare of publicity in a hot and crowded room, where the chatter is so incessant that one can scarcely hear one's own voice. The Italian waiters rush through the courses as if they wish to get rid of you at the earliest possible moment; there is clatter, noise, an inordinate perfume of cooked food, and a hasty gobbling up of gastronomic masterpieces. I am compelled to give my dinners amid such surroundings, but how I hate it all! For me it is only an ordeal--just as are your political dinners with your friendly working-men." He smiled as he recollected what he had so often suffered from the "tuppenny smokes" of his constituents. "The restaurant dinner of Aristocrats and Anonymas is a terrible feast," he said. "I suppose the new fashion of entertaining was started by the _nouveaux riches_ because after the public feast there appeared in what are called the fashionable columns of the papers paragraphs, supplied by the restaurants, informing London's millions that Mrs. So-and-So had been entertaining a big party, among the guests at which were Lady Nobody, who was exquisitely dressed in black velvet and old lace, and Lord Somebody, who was looking younger than ever. You know the style." She laughed outright at his candid criticism, which was so thoroughly well deserved. Half the dinners, she declared, were given by adventurers from the City to needy men with titles, which were wanted to lend lustre to prospectuses. And the whole affair had been so cleverly engineered by the manager of the restaurants, who nightly gave paragraphs to the journalists, thus glorifying the givers of feasts and flattering the guests, that a _mode_ had actually been created, and even the most exclusive set had been compelled to follow it, royalty itself being often among the diners. At his request she re-seated herself at the piano, and to disperse the melancholy that had settled upon him she sang with infinite zest the latest song of the Paris cafe-concerts which had been made famous by the popular _chanteur_, Paulus, at the Ambassadeurs'. The chorus ran as follows: "Ah! Monsieur Chamberlain, ca n'etait pas malin, Les femmes de l'Angleterre ell's manqu'nt de militaires D'leur absenc' tout l'mond' se plaint. Car ils sont rigolos, avec leurs p'tits polos. A London je le confess' on admir' leur gentiless Quand ils march'nt entortillant, en entortillant leur... yes." The grave-faced Jackson entered and with pompous ceremony served him with a whiskey and soda, as was usual; then, after she had sung to him another _chanson_, he rose to go. As it was already late, and as he was obliged to return to the House, he was compelled to take leave of her. "You really love me, Dudley?" she asked in a low, intense voice, as they stood locked in each other's arms just before he left. "Tell me that you do. Somehow I am so apprehensive, foolishly so, perhaps; but your words always reassure me. I feel happier and a better woman after hearing them." "Love you, Claudia?" he cried, his hand stroking her beautiful hair; "how can you ever doubt me? I swear by all I hold most sacred that no tender thought of any woman save yourself ever enters my heart. I am wholly and entirely yours." And he kissed her with all the fervent passion of an ardent lover. "And you will never desert me--never? Promise!" she said, in tones breathing anxiety and earnestness. "I promise," he answered. His voice had lost a little of its resonance, but she did not notice the slight change. He made a promise which he himself knew to be incapable of fulfilment. Hers no longer, he was now helpless in the inexorable toils of that mysterious woman who alone held his secret. She kissed him again in fond farewell. Outside in the great hall, which was famous for its fine marble columns and statuary, the man helped him on with his coat, while Claudia stood above upon the terrace of the upper hall, laughing gaily and wishing him "good-bye" as was her wont. Then he went forth in a dazed condition, walking along Knightsbridge in search of a passing hansom to take him down to the House. As the door closed behind him when he emerged from the great portico into the foggy night, the short, dark figure of a rather thin man in a soft deer-stalker hat and dark overcoat slunk quickly out of the shadow of a doorway almost opposite, crossed the road, and hurried after him with laboured breath. Of a sudden as Dudley, having gone a hundred yards or so, turned to glance behind him for an approaching cab, he came face to face with the fellow who, if the truth were told, had for nearly two hours been patiently awaiting his appearance. "Pardon, signore!" exclaimed the black-haired, sharp-featured man, speaking with a decided Italian accent. He was somewhat taken aback by the abrupt termination of his rather clumsy efforts at espionage. "I beg the signore a thousand pardons, but may I be permitted to have a parolina [little word] with him?" CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE. IN WHICH THE STRANGER STATES HIS MISSION. "Well, what do you want?" Chisholm inquired sharply, glancing keenly at the foreigner, and not approving of his appearance. "I want a word with the signore," the man who had accosted him answered, with an air almost of authority. "I don't know you," replied the Under-Secretary, "and have no desire to hold intercourse with perfect strangers." "It is true that I am unknown to the signore," said the man in very fair English, "but I am here, in London, on purpose to speak with you. I ascertained that you were visiting at yonder palazzo; therefore, I waited." "And why do you wish to speak with me? Surely you might have found a more fitting opportunity than this--you could have waited until to-morrow." "No. The signore is watched," said the man as he began to walk at Dudley's side among the throngs of people, for in Knightsbridge there is always considerable movement after the theatres have closed and the tide of pleasure-seekers is flowing westward. "I have waited for this opportunity to ask the signore to make an appointment with me." "Can't you tell me your business now?" inquired Chisholm suspiciously, not half liking the fellow's look. He spoke English fairly well, but his rather narrow face was not a reassuring one. An Englishman is always apt, however, to judge the Italian physiognomy unjustly, for those who look the fiercest and the most like brigands are, in the experience of those who live in Italy, generally the most harmless persons. "To speak here is impossible," he declared, glancing about him. "I must not be seen with you. Even at this moment it is dangerous. Give me a rendezvous quickly, signore, and let me leave you. We may be seen. If so, my mission is futile." "You have a mission, then. Of what character?" "I will tell you everything, signore, when we meet. Where can I see you?" "At my house in St. James's Street--in an hour's time." "Not so. That is far too dangerous. Let us meet in some unfrequented cafe where we can talk without being overheard. I dare not, for certain reasons, be seen near the signore's abode." The man's mysterious manner was anything but convincing, but Dudley, perceiving that he was determined to have speech with him, told him at last to follow him. The stranger instantly dropped behind among the crowd without another word, while the master of Wroxeter continued on his way past Hyde Park Corner and along Piccadilly, where gaiety and recklessness were as plentiful as ever, until making a quick turn, he entered a narrow court to the left, which led to Vine Street, the home of the notorious police-station of the West End. Half-way up the court was a wine-bar, a kind of Bodega, patronised mostly by shopmen from the various establishments in Regent Street. This he entered, looked round to see which of the upturned barrels that served as tables was vacant, and then seated himself in a corner some distance away from the men and women who were drinking port, munching biscuits, and laughing more and more merrily as closing time drew near. Then, about ten minutes later, the stranger slunk in, cast a quick suspicious glance in the direction of the merrymakers, walked across the sanded floor and joined him. "I hope we have not been seen," were his opening words as he seated himself upon the stool opposite Chisholm. "I hope not, if the danger you describe really exists," Dudley replied. After he had ordered a glass of wine for his companion he scrutinised for a few seconds the narrow and rather sinister face in front of him. With the full light upon him, the stranger looked weary and worn. Chisholm judged him to be about fifty, a rather refined man with a grey, wiry moustache, well-bred manners, and a strange expression of superiority that struck Dudley as peculiar. "You are Tuscan," he said, looking at the man with a smile. The other returned his glance in undisguised wonderment. "How did the signore know when I have only spoken in my faulty English?" he asked in amazement. Chisholm laughed, affecting an air of mysterious penetration, with a view to impressing his visitor. The man's rather faded clothes were of foreign cut, and his wide felt hat was un-English, but he did not explain to him that the unmistakable stamp of the Tuscan was upon him in the tiny object suspended from his watch-chain, a small piece of twisted and pointed coral set in gold, which every Tuscan in every walk of life carries with him, either openly, or concealed upon his person, to counteract the influence of the Evil Eye. "It is true that I am Tuscan," the man said. "But I must confess that the signore surprises me by his quickness of perception." "I have travelled, and know Italy well," was all the explanation Dudley vouchsafed. "And I arrived from Italy this evening," said the stranger. "I have been sent to London expressly to see the signore." "Sent by whom?" "By the signore's friend--a signorina inglese." "Her name?" "The Signorina Mortimer." Mention of that name caused Dudley to start and fix his eyes upon the stranger with the sallow face. "She has sent you. Why?" "To deliver to you an urgent message," was the man's response. "I have here a credential." And fumbling in the breast pocket of his coat he produced an envelope, open and without superscription, which he handed to Chisholm. From it the latter drew forth a piece of folded white paper, which he opened carefully. What he saw struck him aghast. Within the folds was concealed an object, simple, it is true, but of a nature to cause him to hold his breath in sheer astonishment. The paper contained what Dudley had believed to be still reposing in the safe at Wroxeter. It was the revered relic of a day long past, the token of a love long dead--the little curl he had so faithfully treasured. The woman into whose hands he had so irretrievably given himself had stolen it. She had secured it by stealth on that night when, conversing with him in the library, she had confessed her knowledge of his secret, so that he had been forced by overwhelming circumstances to make the unholy compact which was driving him to despair. Time after time he had risked his life against fearful odds, snatched it from savage treachery, fought for it in open fight in wild regions where the foot of a white man had never before trod, plucked it from the heart of battle; but never had he cast it so recklessly upon the dice-board of Fate as on that night when she, the Devil's angel, had appeared to him in the guise of a saviour. His mouth grew hard as he thought of it. What did it matter? Life was sweet after all, and she had rescued him from suicide. Impulse rode roughshod over reason, as it so often does with impetuous men of Dudley Chisholm's stamp; his inborn love of adventure, which had carried him far afield into remote corners of the earth, was up in arms against sober thought. Upon the paper in which the lock of hair was wrapped were a few words, written in ink in a firm feminine hand. He spread the paper out and read them. The message was very brief, but very pointed: "The bearer, Francesco Marucci, is to be trusted implicitly.--Muriel Mortimer." That was all. Surely no better credential could there be than the return of the treasured love-token which she had so ingeniously secured. "Well?" he inquired, refolding the paper and replacing it in its envelope. "And your message? What is it?" "A confidential one," replied the Tuscan. "The Signorina ordered me to find you at once, the instant that I reached London. I left Florence the day before yesterday and travelled straight through, by way of Milan and Bale. She gave me the address of that palazzo where you have been visiting, and I waited in the street until you came out." "But you have told me that I am watched," said Dudley. "Who is taking an interest in my movements?" "That is the reason why I am in London. As the signore is watched by the most practised and experienced secret agents, it was with difficulty that I succeeded in approaching him. If those men track me down and discover who I am, then all will be lost--everything." The paper he held in his hand told him that this stranger could be trusted. He was essentially a man of the world, and was not in the habit of trusting those whom he did not know. And yet, what credential could be more convincing than that innocent-looking love-token of the past? "But why are these men, whoever they are, watching me? What interest can they possibly have in my movements? The day of the Irish agitation is over," he said in a somewhat incredulous tone. "The signorina in her message wishes to give you warning that you are in the deadliest peril," the man said in a low voice, bending towards him so that none should overhear. "Speak in Italian, if you wish," Dudley suggested. "I can understand, and it will be safer." The eyes of Francesco Marucci sparkled for a moment at this announcement, and he exclaimed in that soft Tuscan tongue which is so musical to English ears: "Benissimo! I had no idea the signore knew Italian. The signorina did not tell me so." It chanced that Chisholm knew Italian far better than French. As he had learnt it when, in his youth, he had spent two years in Siena, he spoke good Italian without that curious aspiration of the "c's" which is so characteristically Tuscan. "Perhaps the signorina did not know," he said in response. "The signore is to be congratulated on speaking so well our language!" the stranger exclaimed. "It makes things so much easier. Your English is so very difficult with its `w's' and its Greek `i's', and all the rest of the puzzles. We Italians can never speak it properly." "But the message," demanded Dudley rather impatiently. "Tell me quickly, for in five minutes or so this place will be closed, and we shall be turned out into the street." "The message of the signorina is a simple one," answered Marucci in Italian. "It is to warn you to leave England secretly and at once. To fly instantly--to-morrow--because the truth is known." "The truth known!" he gasped, half rising from his seat, then dropping back and glaring fixedly at the stranger. "Yes," the man replied. "It is unfortunately so." "How do you know that?" "How?" repeated the thin-faced Tuscan, bending towards Chisholm in a confidential manner. "Because I chance to be in the service of your enemies." "What? You are in the British Secret Service?" cried the Under-Secretary, amazed by this revelation. "Si, signore. I am under the Signor Capitano Cator." "And you are also in the service of the Signorina Mortimer?" "That is so," answered the man, smiling. "You are actually one of Cator's agents?" "The signore is correct," he answered. "I am an agent in the service of the British Government, mainly employed in France and Belgium. Indeed, if the Signor Sotto-Secretario reflects, he will remember a report upon the Toulon defences which reached the Intelligence Department a few months ago, and about which a rather awkward question was asked in the House of Commons." "Yes, I recollect. The elaborate report, which was produced confidentially, I myself saw at the time. It was by one Cuillini, if I remember right." "Exactly! Benvenuto Cuillini and Francesco Marucci are one and the same person." The young statesman sat speechless. This man Marucci was the most ingenious and faithful of all Cator's secret agents, and the manner in which he had obtained the plans of the defences of Toulon was, he knew, considered by the Intelligence Department to be little short of miraculous. The report was a most detailed and elaborate one, actually accompanied by snapshot photographs and a mass of information which would be of the greatest service if ever England fought France in the Mediterranean. "Then you, Signor Marucci, are really my friend?" he exclaimed at last. "I am the friend of the Signorina Mortimer," he replied, correcting him. "And who is the Signorina Mortimer," Chisholm demanded. "Who and what is she that you should be her intimate friend? Tell me." CHAPTER TWENTY SIX. SHOWS SIGNORI OF THE SUBURBS. The wiry Italian with the bristly moustache glanced at him half suspiciously; then a smile lit up his face for an instant. "The Signorina Mortimer is an English signorina whom I have known a long time. Francesco Marucci is a friend of all the English." "I know. But in this matter you are actually working against the efforts of your own department." "As I have already explained to the signore, I am but the signorina's messenger," he declared, in a tone which showed him to be a past-master in the art of evasion. "She urges you to pay an immediate visit to a certain person here in London, and to leave for the Continent to-morrow morning--for Italy." "To go to her? Why cannot she come to England?" "Because just at present that is impossible," the man replied. "And this visit you speak of. To whom is it?" The Italian drew from his pocket a small and shabby wallet, about six inches square, of the kind used in Italy to carry the paper money. From this he took a card, on which was written an address at Penge. "She asks you to call at the house indicated immediately this card comes into your possession," he said. "As your visit is expected, you had better go to-night." "For what reason?" "For reasons known to her alone," replied the messenger. "I am not in the possession of the motives of the signorina in this affair." "Speak candidly, Marucci," said Chisholm. "You, as confidential agent of the British Government, know all about this matter. You cannot deny that?" "I know the facts only so far as it is necessary for me to know them," answered the Italian warily. He was still much impressed by the manner in which the Signor Sotto-Secretario had pronounced his nationality. "You know the object of my visit to Penge, eh?" "No, signore, I assure you that I do not. I am merely obeying orders given me by the signorina, and I hope to leave Charing Cross at nine o'clock to-morrow morning on my return to Italy." "Did she explain to you the manner in which the truth had been revealed?" he inquired eagerly. "No, but I can guess," was his companion's answer, given in a low voice. "Some one has denounced you, and consequently your English police have received information which necessitates your flying the country and remaining hidden until you can prove an unshakeable _alibi_." Dudley was silent, thoughtfully polishing the silver handle of his cane with his glove. "Were no instructions given you as to the mode in which I should escape? If I am watched, as you allege, then the ordinary routes to the Continent are under observation and the Channel ports closed to me." "No instructions were given me," he replied. "You are to pay a visit to that address, and afterwards to leave for Florence, where I am to meet you at the Hotel Savoy. To-day is Thursday; I shall call for you at the hotel at midday on Monday." The hunted man reflected, for the position was both embarrassing and serious. Here were peremptory orders from the woman to whom he had sold himself as the price of his secret, to the effect that he should renounce everything, leave England, and become known at Scotland Yard as a criminal fugitive. He was to part from Claudia, whom he loved, and who loved him with all her soul; to leave her without farewell and without any words breathing patience and courage. And this, after his solemn declarations of an hour before! What would she think of him--she who had been just as much a part of his life as he of hers? In those brief moments he remembered the wild, uncurbed passion of her love; how that she had exalted him as her idol, as the one person who held her future in his hands, the one person whose kiss gave life to her. She was wealthy, almost beyond the wildest dreams of her youth; but riches availed her not. Her heart was bursting with the great and boundless love she bore him. He knew this; knew it all, and sighed as he faced the inevitable. What an ignominious ending to a brief and brilliant career! It had been a thousand times better if he had cast the offer of the temptress aside, and swallowed the fatal draught he had prepared! The jury would have pronounced him to be the victim of temporary insanity, and all the ugly story that was now in possession of Scotland Yard would have been hushed for ever, and the high honour of the Chisholms saved from public blemish. Bah! He had been weak, he told himself, and for his lack of courage he must now suffer. His thoughts turned again to suicide, but on reflection he saw that to take his own life was now unavailing. The truth was known at the Home Office, and the police would reveal it at the inquiry into the cause of his decease. He was helpless, utterly helpless, in the hands of a clever adventuress. Long and steadily he looked at the Italian. This man with the thin, haggard face, grey moustache and deeply furrowed brow, was actually the most daring and ingenious of all the confidential agents employed by the British Intelligence Department on the Continent. Known to the Department as Benvenuto Cuillini, it was owing to his astuteness, indomitable energy, and patient inquiry that the British Government were often put in possession of information of the highest possible value in the conduct of diplomacy or of war. There is, of course, in the Englishman's mind an emphatic dislike of the employment of spies, but we have nowadays to face hard facts, and must pander to no sentimentalities in dealing with avowed enemies. The recent Transvaal war has shown the hopeless inefficiency of our secret service in South Africa, and has taught every Englishman the lesson that, even though he may be disinclined to employ spies, he must keep pace with other nations. Furthermore, it has proved to him that knowledge is power and that it may often be the means of saving many valuable lives. The barman, feeling thankful that the end of his day's work was at last reached, shouted in a stentorian voice: "Time, gentlemen! Time!" This announcement caused every one to drain his glass and rise. "You will lose no time in visiting the house indicated upon the card, will you?" urged the secret agent. "And I shall meet you at the Savoy in Florence on Monday next at noon. That is a definite appointment." "If you wish," Chisholm replied mechanically. And both went out, walking slowly down the court. Before turning into Piccadilly, the Italian halted, declaring it was best that they should not be seen in company. He therefore wished Dudley good-night, and "_buon viaggio_." Should he return to Albert Gate and speak with Claudia for the last time? Ah! if only he dared to tell her the ghastly truth; to lay bare his innermost consciousness and expose to her the secret of his sin! Ah! if he only could! If he only dared to ask for her guidance, as he had so often done at the other crises of his life! She loved him; but would she love him any longer when she knew the appalling truth? No. It was quite impossible. Even to the passionate love of a woman there is a limit. He stood in hesitation on the crowded pavement, under the portico of the St. James's Restaurant. To go down to the House was out of the question. Should he return to Claudia? He glanced at his watch. No. It was too late. What excuse could he make for seeking an interview with her after she had retired for the night and the great house was closed. If he went there he must perforce tell her of his intended flight--that they must, in future, be apart. This would result in a scene; and he hated scenes. He would write to her. It was the only way. After to-morrow he, whose career had been so brilliant and full of promise, whose life was supposed by all to be so free from any cares, save those belonging to his political office, would be a fugitive upon whose track the police would raise a hue and cry throughout all the various countries which had treaties of extradition with England. "It is God's justice," he murmured. "I have sinned, and this is my punishment." Two rough-voiced women jostled him, making some silly remarks about his star-gazing. This roused him, and he permitted himself to drift with the crowd along to the Circus, where, having glanced at the address upon the card the spy had given him, he hailed one of the hansoms which were slowly filing past. When the man received orders to drive to Worthington Road, Penge, he was sarcastic, and seemed disinclined to take the fare. "It's a long way, gov'nor," said the driver, when Dudley had announced his intention of paying well. "I can't go there and back under a couple o' quid." "Very well, that's agreed," Chisholm said. He stepped into the cab, threw himself into a corner, and gave himself up to a long and serious train of thought. He loved Claudia, and hated the mysterious woman, who had in a manner so remarkable learned the truth regarding the one tragic event in his past. Muriel's innocent-looking face utterly belied her crafty and avaricious nature. Gifted with the countenance of a child, her active brain was that of an adventuress. A dangerous woman for any man to associate with. And he, Dudley Chisholm, who had so long prided himself upon his shrewd observance of men and women and his quick perception, had been utterly and completely deceived. The long drive across Westminster Bridge and along the wide and apparently endless thoroughfares with their rows of gas-lamps, through the suburbs of Walworth, Camberwell, Denmark Hill, and Sydenham, passed unnoticed. He was so much preoccupied that he did not realise his whereabouts until they were descending the hill past Sydenham Station, where they turned to the right by Venney Road, thus heading for Penge. The suburban roads were quiet and deserted; the horse's hoofs and the tinkling of the bell were the sole disturbers of the night. Presently the cabman pulled up to ask the solitary policeman the direction of the road which Dudley had mentioned; then he drove on again. At last, after making several turns, they passed down Green Lane and entered a road of small detached villas, rather artistically built, with red and white exteriors. Apparently they were only just finished, for in front of some there still were piles of bricks and building rubbish, while before others boards stood announcing that this or that "desirable residence" was "to be let or sold." The road was a _cul-de-sac_ which terminated in a newly worked brickfield. When nearly at the end of it, the cab suddenly pulled up before a house of exactly the same appearance as its unlet neighbour, save for the fact that the Venetian blinds were down, and that a gas-jet was burning behind the fan-light of the door. "This is it, sir," announced the cabman through the trap-door in the roof. Dudley left the cab and passed through the newly painted iron gate and up the short path to the door, at which he knocked with a firm and sounding rat-tat. There were signs of scuttling within. His quick eye noticed that one of the slats of the Venetian blind in the bay window of the parlour had been lifted for an instant by some person who had evidently been watching for him, and then dropped again quickly. The low-pitched voices of men sounded ominously within, but the door was not opened. He waited fully five minutes, listening attentively the while; he clearly heard a sound which was suspiciously like the despairing cry of a woman. Then he knocked loudly again. Dudley Chisholm was by no means a timid man. A dozen times he had faced death during his erratic wanderings in the almost unknown regions of the far east. He was of the type of athletic Englishman that prefers the fist as a weapon at close quarters to any knife or revolver. That whispering within, however, unnerved him; while the woman's ejaculation was also distinctly uncanny. The cabman was awaiting him, it was true, and could be relied upon to raise an alarm if there should be any attempt at foul play. The remembrance of this, to a certain degree, reassured him. He had come there in obedience to the orders of the woman who held his future in her hands, but he did not like the situation in the least. His second summons was answered tardily by an old woman, withered and bent, who came shuffling down the little hall grumbling to herself, and who, on throwing open the door, inquired what he wanted. "I think I am expected here," was all he could reply, handing her the card which the Italian had given him. The old hag took it in her claw-like fingers and examined it suspiciously. "Are you Mr. Chisholm?" she inquired. Dudley nodded in the affirmative. "Then come in--come in. They've been expecting you these two days." She closed the door behind and led the way through the barely furnished hall into a back sitting-room on the left, which contained a little furniture of a kind to suggest that it had been purchased on the instalment system. He seated himself, wondering who were the persons by whom he was expected. When his guide had gone he strained his ears to catch any sound of the woman's voice which he had heard raised in distress after his first knock at the door. But all was silent. Only the paraffin lamp on the table with its shade of crimson paper spluttered as it burned low, for it was now about half-past two in the morning. The association of ideas caused him to recollect all he had ever heard about strange nocturnal adventures met with by men in unknown houses in the suburbs; and as he sat awaiting the arrival of the persons who apparently took such a deep interest in his welfare he could not help becoming a prey to misgivings. Suddenly he heard low whisperings out in the hall, and some words, distinct and ominous reached him. "Well, if it must be, I suppose it must," he heard a voice say. "But recollect I am no party to such a thing." A low, sarcastic laugh was the sole answer to this protest. The next instant the door opened, and there entered two men, one young, tall, and muscular, with an ugly scar across his lower jaw, and the other very old, feeble, and white-haired. Both were foreigners. Chisholm knew they were Italians before either of them spoke. "Buona sera!" exclaimed the elder man, greeting the visitor in a squeaky voice. "You are the Signor Chisholm, and the English signorina in Florence has sent you to us. Benissimo! We have been awaiting you these two days. I presume our friend Marucci has only just arrived in London." "He arrived this evening," said Chisholm. "But before we go further may I not know who it is I have the pleasure of addressing?" "My name is Sisto Bernini. Our friend here," he added, indicating his companion, "is Tonio Rocchi." The younger man, a dark-eyed, black-haired, rather handsome fellow grinned with satisfaction. Chisholm glanced at him, but was not reassured. There was a strange mystery about the whole affair. "You have been sent to us because you desire to avoid the police, and escape from England," the old man continued. "To get you away is difficult, very difficult, because you are a man so extremely well-known. We often assist our own countrymen to get, safely back to Italy after any little fracas, but with you it is very different." "And by what means are you able to get them secretly out of the country?" inquired Chisholm, much interested in this newly discovered traffic. "By various means. Sometimes as stowaways; at others, in our own fishing-smack from one or other of the villages along the south coast. There are a dozen different ways." "And are none safe for me?" The old man shook his head dubiously. "For you, all are dangerous." "All, save one," chimed in the younger man, exchanging glances with his companion. "And what is that?" Chisholm asked. "It is our secret," the old man replied, shutting his thin lips tightly with a grin of self-satisfaction. "I was informed by Marucci that you were prepared to assist me!" exclaimed Chisholm in a tone of annoyance; "but if you are not, then I may as well wish you good-night." "If the signore will exercise a little patience, he shall hear our plan," the old man Bernini assured him. "I am all attention." "Then let us speak quite frankly," squeaked the old fellow. "You desire to escape from the police who, for all we know, are now watching you. That you have been watched during the past few days is evident. Tonio, here, has himself seen detectives following you. Well, we are prepared to undertake the risk--in exchange, of course, for a certain consideration." "To speak quite candidly you intend to blackmail me--eh? It isn't at all difficult to see your drift." "If the signore desires a service rendered, he must be prepared to pay," declared the younger man. "Sisto has a plan, but it is expensive." "And how much would it cost me?" inquired Chisholm, still preserving his outward calm, although he saw that he had fallen among a very undesirable and unscrupulous set. "Ten thousand pounds sterling," was the old man's prompt reply. CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. WHICH ASKS A QUESTION. "Ah!" exclaimed the Under-Secretary with affected nonchalance, "I merely asked out of curiosity. I have no intention whatever of paying such a sum." "For the amount I have named we will guarantee to place you ashore in Greece, or in any other of the few countries that remain open to fugitives from justice." "I have no doubt," Dudley answered with distinct sarcasm. "But as I have no intention of being blackmailed, or even of employing any of your efforts on my behalf, we may as well end this interview." He rose from his chair and drew himself up to his full height. The two men exchanged glances full of sinister meaning. "Our aid has been invoked by your friend, the English signorina," the young man exclaimed in a bullying tone, for the first time revealing his true character. "We have told you our terms--high, we admit, but not too exorbitant when you recollect the many bribes that have to be paid." "Ten thousand pounds, eh?" "That is the sum." "Well, I'll make a confession to you both," declared Chisholm defiantly. "It is this. My life isn't worth to me ten thousand pence. Now you can at once relinquish all hope of bleeding me in the manner you have arranged." "The signore is frank," remarked the old man. "Frankness saves so much argument in such matters. I will be frank also, and say that there is still another, and perhaps more pleasant mode of escape." "I shall be interested to hear it," said Dudley, folding his arms, and leaning carelessly back against the table. The man was silent for a moment, as though hesitating whether to tell his visitor the truth. At last he spoke, compressing his scheme into a couple of words. "By marriage." "With whom?" At that instant the door was flung open suddenly, and there advanced into the room the woman he believed to be far away in Italy--the woman who held his future in her hands, Muriel Mortimer. "Marriage with me," she said, answering his question. "You!" he cried, thoroughly taken aback at her sudden appearance. "What do you mean? Kindly explain all this." "It requires no explanation, Mr. Chisholm," she replied, her pale face hard-set and determined. "You are in the gravest peril, and I have come to you prepared to rescue you from the punishment which must otherwise fall upon you. To-night you have been with the woman who loves you--the witch-like woman who has half London at her feet. I know it all. You love her, and intend to marry her. But you will marry me--me!" and she struck her breast with her hand to emphasise her words. "Or," she added,--"or to-night you will be arrested as a common criminal." He looked her straight in the face without flinching. She was dressed plainly, even shabbily, in rusty black, as though, when out of doors, to avoid attention. Her countenance, pallid and drawn, showed how desperate she was. He, for his part, perceived that he had been tricked by her, and the thought lashed him to fury. "Listen!" he cried indignantly; "I have been enticed here to this place as part of a plot formed to obtain ten thousand pounds by blackmail, or else to drive me into becoming your husband, you well knowing that I should be prepared to pay any sum to be rid of the danger that threatens me. You promise me freedom if I consent to one or the other. The affection you pretended to feel for me was a sham of the worst kind. You and your precious myrmidons want money--only money. But from me you won't obtain a single halfpenny. Understand that, all three of you!" "You intend to marry her!" she said between her teeth. "But you shall never do that. She shall know the truth." "Tell her. To me, it is quite immaterial, I assure you," he declared in defiance. He saw that this woman, whom he had once believed so innocent, even childish in her simplicity, was an associate of an unscrupulous gang that, no doubt, existed by blackmailing those who desired to escape from England. He had heard vague rumours of the existence of this strange association, for it had long ago been a puzzle to the London police why so many foreigners were able to evade them and fly successfully from the country, while Englishmen, who knew well the various outlets, usually failed. "You made a solemn compact with me that night at Wroxeter," she said. "And you have broken it. On my part I have done all that was possible. Cator would have known the truth long ago had it not been for my presence in Italy, and for the counteracting efforts of his own lieutenant, Francesco Marucci. To my foresight all this is due, yet now you decline to save yourself!" "I refuse to be blackmailed." "You hope to escape and marry her," laughed the fair-haired woman defiantly. "I hope for nothing. My life is, to me, just as precious as it was that bitter night at Wroxeter." "And you absolutely refuse to accept the alternative?" "I will accept nothing either from you, or from your associates," he replied. "Then we are to be enemies?" "If you so desire." "You prefer the revelations that I intend to make?" "I do, most certainly," he answered with a forced laugh. "Shall I tell you one thing?" "Do, by all means." "Well, you shall never marry her. To-morrow she will hate the very mention of your name," she cried wildly. "My memory, you mean." "Why?" "Because to-morrow I shall be dead, and your chance of plucking the pigeon will have disappeared," he answered bitterly. She looked at him with a maddened and fiery glance, as though his defiance had aroused the spirit of murder within her. She saw that his determination to carry out his previous intention of suicide checkmated her. All her ingenious wiles had been conceived and operated in vain. While he still lived, there was a hope of securing the prize which an hour ago had seemed to be so well within her grasp. "So you refuse!" she cried in a frenzy of anger. "You intend to escape by self-destruction, miserable coward that you are!" "I am no coward!" he replied with fierce indignation. "If I were a coward I would accept the offer of your associates and pay willingly to be placed beyond the possibility of arrest. But I prefer to face the inevitable, and shall do so without flinching." Then, turning to the others, he added: "I wish all three of you more success in your next attempt to squeeze money from an unfortunate criminal--that is all." He turned to leave, but Tonio, the hot-headed young bully, instantly sprang forward and drew from his belt a glittering knife, one of those long, narrow-bladed weapons which the Italian of the South usually carries out of sight on his person, although his paternal government forbids him so to do. Quick as thought Dudley divined the Italian wished to prevent him from leaving the house, and, seeing the knife held down threateningly before him, he raised his fist and with a rapid, well-directed drive from the shoulder struck the fellow beneath the jaw with such force that he was lifted up and fell backwards upon the table, overturning the cheap paraffin lamp standing there. In an instant the place burst into flames. During the confusion that followed, while the woman rushed from the room screaming "Fire!" Dudley dashed out of the house, expecting, of course, to find his cab waiting for him. But it was not there. While he had been arguing, the old hag had evidently paid the fare and dismissed the conveyance, a fact which was in itself sufficient evidence that they had not intended him to leave the house. For a moment he hesitated. Then, recognising how narrowly he had escaped being struck down by an assassin, he turned and hurried away across the rough brick-field to which the unfinished road gave entrance. Shouts of alarm, and loud cries of "Fire!" sounded behind him, but without turning to look he continued on his way, stumbling along in the darkness, utterly dumbfounded at his strange adventure and the remarkable revelation of the true character of the pretty young woman known in West End drawingrooms as Muriel Mortimer. For most of the remainder of the night Dudley Chisholm, unnerved by the strange affair and haunted by the constant dread that he was already under police surveillance, wandered through the deserted streets of Penge and Lower Sydenham. He feared to inquire the way from any of the constables he met, lest he should be recognised. As he was entirely unacquainted with the district, he knew his position was hopeless till there should be light enough to show him the Crystal Palace. Once arrived there, he could easily make his way back to London, for in days gone by he had often driven down in his tandem from Westminster, once or twice with Claudia at his side. The night was dark, starless, and intensely cold. But he heeded not fatigue, for his mind was full of the gravest reflections. That the woman Mortimer, the mysterious ward of the Meldrums, had laid a very clever plot, into which he had fallen, was plainly apparent. But he had refused her demands, and she was now, of course, his most bitter enemy. That she would seek vengeance he had no doubt, for she had already shown herself to be a woman not to be thwarted. And what was worse than all--she knew his secret. Through the ill-lit suburban roads he wandered on and on, reflecting bitterly that with this woman as his enemy there only remained for him suicide, if he wished to avoid arrest and a criminal's trial. He came at last to a railway line running on a low embankment, through market gardens, and it occurred to him to climb up there and wait in patience for the approach of a train. All this time Dudley Chisholm was not in the least distraught; and yet of all his wishes none was so powerful as the wish to end his life. But Claudia's beautiful face arose before him. Her dear eyes, with that familiar expression of tenderness, a little sad, but sweet with a love-look not to be mistaken, seemed to gaze upon him just as they had done during that blissful hour before midnight, when he had held her in his arms and breathed into her ear the declaration of his love. Ah, how passionately he loved her! No, he could not take farewell of life without once again beholding her! He descended the embankment and walked along what seemed interminable miles of streets, until he met at last a bricklayer on his way to work, carrying his tin tea-bottle in his hand. This man proved communicative, and informed him that he was at Rushey Green, on the main road which led through Lewisham and Deptford, where it entered one of the arteries of London, the Old Kent Road. He glanced at his watch and found that it was close upon five o'clock. Roused by this discovery, he pushed forward at a quicker pace, at length finding a belated cab in front of a coffee-stall, at which its driver was refreshing himself. Then, thoroughly worn out, he got into the conveyance and was driven back to his chambers. Old Parsons had a message for him when he reached home. "A man called to see you during the night, master Dudley. He wished to see you very particularly, but would leave no card." "What kind of man?" inquired his master suspiciously. "I think he was a gentleman. At least he spoke like one. I had never seen him before. He wanted to know whether he would find you down at the House, and I said that it was most probable you were there." "He wasn't a foreigner?" "Oh no," the old man answered. "Some papers have also been brought by a messenger. They are on your table." Dudley passed through into his study, put down his hat, and broke open the usual sealed packet of Parliamentary papers which reached him each night, and which contained among others, the draft of the questions to be addressed to him on the following day in his capacity of Foreign Under-Secretary in the House. Without seating himself he took out the question paper and looked at it. He glanced rapidly from paragraph to paragraph. Suddenly his gaze became fixed, and he held his breath. He read in the precise handwriting of Wrey, the following words: "Mr. Gerald Oldfield (Antrim West) to ask the Under-Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs whether it is true that a certain member of this House, now a Member of Her Majesty's Government, has sold to the representative of a Foreign Power a copy of certain confidential diplomatic correspondence, and further whether it is not a fact that the Member of Her Majesty's Government referred to is guilty of the crime of wilful murder." The blue official paper fluttered from his nerveless fingers and fell to the ground. "My God!" he gasped, his jaws rigid, his eyes staring and fixed. "My secret is already known to my enemies!" CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT. CONFESSES THE TRUTH. The wintry dawn had scarcely broken; he would have to wait several hours before paying his last visit to Albert Gate. He threw off his great-coat and cast himself wearily into the big armchair, his mind full of conflicting thoughts. Despair had gripped his heart. It was hard that his career should thus be suddenly cut off, harder still that he must leave the sweet and tender woman whom he had loved so fondly for so many years. But he was guilty--yes, guilty; he must suffer the penalty exacted from all those who sin against their Maker. Parsons entered to inquire if he wanted anything; but he dismissed him, telling him to go and snatch some rest for an hour or two. The faithful old retainer never went to bed before the return of his master, no matter to what hour he might be detained in the House. When he had gone, Chisholm opened the heavy curtains, drew up the blind and watched the yellow London dawn slowly dispersing the mists over St. James's Park. Standing at the window he gazed out upon St. James's Street, dismal and deserted, with its strip of dull sky above. It was the last dawn that he would see, he told himself bitterly, From him all the attractions of the world would very soon be taken away. Well, he left them with only a single regret--Claudia. He fondly whispered her name. It sounded to him strange, almost unearthly, in that silent room. Yes, he must see her again for the last time, and confess to her the whole terrible truth. She would hate and despise him, for from the man whose hands are stained with the blood of a fellow-creature it would only be natural for her to shrink. The awful truth he had to confront was--that he was a murderer. The remembrance of the narrow path in the patch of forest near Godalming came back to him. In a single instant he lived again those terrible moments of his madness--the death-cry rang in his ears. He remembered how quickly he had slipped away through the wood; how at last he found himself standing on the high-road; how he reached a railway station and returned to London. Then, two days later, the papers were full of it. He recollected all the theories that had been put forward; the many mysterious facts that were produced at the inquest, and the grave suspicion that fell upon another. It was all like some horrible nightmare, so horrible, indeed, that he found himself wondering if he had really lived through it--if he were really an assassin. Alas! it was only too true. Cator had discovered the real facts, and the crime was now fixed upon him. He tried to rid himself of these hideous recollections of the past, to brace himself up boldly, and to face his condemnation and self-destruction. But it was too difficult; his strength failed him. Not only was his secret known to the Intelligence Department, but one, at least, of his fiercest political opponents, a wild-haired demagogue, knew the truth and intended to explode that question in the House, as if it were an infernal machine, in the hope of upsetting the Government by his action. From his breast-pocket he took the tiny talisman, the lock of hair which Muriel Mortimer had so ingeniously stolen, and at last returned to him. When he had opened the paper, he looked at the curl, long and wistfully. He was thinking--thinking deeply, while the yellow dawn struggled through the canopy of London fog and the hands of the clock before him were slowly creeping forward to mark the hour of his doom. There were several letters, which had been delivered by the last post on the previous night, awaiting his attention. Out of curiosity he took them up and one by one opened them, throwing them into the waste-paper basket when read, for, as he bitterly reflected, they would need no reply. One of the letters gave him pause. He re-read it several times, with brows knit and a puzzled expression upon his countenance. Dated from Boodle's it ran as follows: "Dear Sir,--_I have twice during the past two days endeavoured to see you, once at the House of Commons, and again at the Foreign Office, but have on both occasions been unsuccessful. I shall to-morrow do myself the honour of calling upon you at your chambers, and if you are not in, I shall esteem it a favour if you will kindly leave word with your servant at what hour you will return_. "_Yours truly_. "Ralph Brodie." His features relaxed into a hard smile. What a curious freak of Fate it was that caused this man, of all others, to write and ask for an appointment! He was a person with whom he had never before held any communication--the husband of the woman who, years before her marriage, had given him that lock of hair as a love-token. She had been one of the loves of his youth, and since her marriage he had never seen her. He knew that she had married a wealthy Anglo-Indian named Brodie, and that he had taken her back with him to India. When he was in that country, after his journey across Bhutan, he had been told they were living on their great estate at Kapurthala, near Jalandhar, in the Punjab; and there were whispers to the effect that the marriage had been anything but a happy one. Brodie neglected her, it was said, and at Simla she was flattered, so went the report, by a host of admirers, mostly military, in the usual manner. It was for that reason that he did not visit Simla. She had never once written to him after her marriage. Although he held her memory sacred, he had no wish to meet her and risk the chance of becoming disillusioned in regard to her character. He had always suspected that Brodie was aware of the affection which had nearly resulted in their engagement. Hence, he had entertained no desire to meet him. Strange, indeed, that he should so persistently seek him, just at the most critical moment in his life. "Well," he laughed at last, tearing up the letter and tossing it into the fire, "I've never met the fellow in all my life, and I don't see why I should put myself out to do so now. The brute treated May badly, infernally badly. If we met I couldn't be civil to the cad." He had loved May--the daughter of a retired colonel--in the days after he and Claudia had drifted apart, he to indulge his cynicism, she to marry Dick Nevill. But his love for her was not that passionate worship of the ideal which had marked his affection for the charming little friend of his youth. It was a mere midsummer madness, the pleasant memory of which lingered always in his mind. He thought over it all, and smiled bitterly when he recollected the past. Presently Parsons brought him a cup of black coffee. It was a habit of his, acquired abroad, to take it each morning in bed. When the old servitor, true to his clock-work precision, entered with the tiny Nankin cup upon the tray, Dudley was astonished. "What? Eight o'clock already?" he exclaimed, starting up. "Yes, Master Dudley," the old man replied. "Aren't you going to bed, sir?" "No. Well--at least, I don't know, Parsons," said the Under-Secretary. "I have several early appointments." At that moment the electric bell in the hall rang sharply, and the old man went out to answer the summons. "There's a gentleman, Master Dudley," was Parson's announcement. "He wishes to see you at once very particularly. He will give no card." "Well, show him in," his master answered with every sign of reluctance, swallowing his coffee at a gulp. As his doom was fixed, what did it matter who called upon him now? He smiled bitterly. Parsons disappeared for a moment. A few seconds later the heavy portico was drawn aside, and there stood before Dudley the tall, rather well-dressed, figure of a man, who halted upon the threshold without uttering a word. "You!" gasped Chisholm, springing from his chair. "You! Archibald Cator!" "Yes," answered the other gravely, closing the door behind him. "We have met before, and, doubtless, you know my errand." "I do," groaned the despairing man. "Alas! I do." "The truth is out, Mr. Chisholm!" exclaimed his visitor, in slow, deep tones. "Our inquiries are complete, and there has been discovered against you evidence so plain as to be altogether indisputable. There need be no ceremony between us. You, esteemed by the world, and held in high honour by the Government, are both a traitor and a murderer. Do you deny it?" There was a silence, deep and painful. "No, I do not," was the low, harsh rejoinder of the wretched man, who had sunk back into his chair with his chin upon his breast. His visitor deliberately drew from the inner pocket of his overcoat a big, official-looking envelope, out of which he took several unmounted photographs. These he spread before the man whose brilliant career had thus been so suddenly ended. "Do you recognise these as reproductions of documents handed by you to a certain friend of yours--copies of confidential despatches from Sir Henry Lygon, Her Majesty's Ambassador at Constantinople?" Chisholm, his face livid, nodded in the affirmative. Denials were, he knew, utterly useless. The whole ingenious network of the British Intelligence Department on the Continent had been diligently at work piecing together the evidence against him, and had, under the active direction of that prince of spies, Archibald Cator, at last succeeded in unravelling what had for years remained a profound mystery. His grave-faced, unwelcome visitor, well-satisfied by this admission, next drew a mounted cabinet photograph from his pocket, and, holding it out before his eyes, asked, in a low, distinct voice whether he knew the original. Chisholm's countenance turned ashen grey the instant his haggard eyes fell upon the pictured face. "God!" he cried, wildly starting up, "my God! Cator, spare me that! Hide it from my sight! hide it! I cannot bear it! It's his portrait--_his_!" ------------------------------------------------------------------------ The clock of St. Anne's, in Wilton Place, had just chimed eleven, and the yellow sun had now succeeded in struggling through the wintry mist. Claudia's carriage with its handsome pair of bays and her powdered footman, with the bearskin rug over his arm, stood awaiting her beneath the dark portico. As, warmly wrapped in her sables, she descended the wide marble staircase slowly, buttoning her glove, Jackson met her. "Mr. Chisholm has just called, m'lady. He has been shown into the morning-room." Her heart gave a quick bound. She dismissed the servant with a nod and walked to the apartment indicated. Dudley turned quickly from the window as she entered, and greeted her, raising her ungloved hand to his lips with infinite courtliness. In an instant, however, she detected the change in him, for his face was blanched to the lips, his voice hoarse and tremulous. "My dear Dudley!" she cried in alarm. "Why, whatever is the matter? You are ill." He closed the door behind her; then, still holding her hand, looked straight into her dark eyes, and said: "I have come to you, Claudia, to bid you farewell--to see you for the last time." "What do you mean?" she gasped, her cheeks turning pale in an instant at his announcement. "I mean that our love must end to-day. That in future, instead of entertaining affection for me, you must hate me, as one guilty and unworthy." "I really don't understand, dear," she answered, bewildered. "You are not yourself to-day." "Alas! I am too much myself," he answered in a low hoarse voice. "I am here, Claudia, to make confession to you. I would, indeed, crave your forgiveness, but I know that that is impossible." He was holding her hand in his convulsive grasp, and his eyes were riveted on hers in a fierce look full of a passionate devotion. "Confession?" she asked quickly. "What secrets have you from me? Has some other woman usurped my place in your heart? If so, tell me, Dudley. Do not hesitate." "No," he answered, trying to preserve an outward calm, "it is not that. I love no woman but your own dear self. Surely you do not doubt me?" "I have never doubted you. Sometimes I have been jealous--madly jealous, I confess--but always without reason, for you have always been loyal to me." "I was loyal because I loved no other woman save yourself," he cried, kissing her passionately upon the lips. "But all the joy must wither. I am here to make confession, to reveal a ghastly chapter in my life, and to take leave of you--and of life." She saw how terribly agitated he was, and her woman's solicitude for his welfare calmed her. "Come," she said tenderly, leading him towards a chair. "Sit down and remain quiet for a little. You are nervous and overworked." She placed her small, soft hand upon his hot brow, and brushed back the dark hair from his forehead. Refusing to sit, he stood before her, grasping the chair to steady himself. "No, Claudia; do not trouble about me. It is all useless now. The end has come. Let me confess all to you. I know that what I am about to disclose will turn your love to hatred; that my very memory will become repugnant to you, and that mere mention of my name will fill you with indignation and disgust. But hear the secret chapter of my life's history before you judge. Let me tell you all," he added hoarsely. "Let me lay bare the terrible secret that I have carried these six years buried within my heart. Let me confess to you, the woman I love." His words filled her with amazement. Her brows contracted, and her breath came and went in short, quick gasps. Was she actually to lose him? It seemed impossible. "I am all attention, Dudley," she replied in a low, mechanical voice. "Your confession, whatever its nature, shall find in me a safe guardian." "I cannot ask you to forgive, Claudia," he said, "I can only beg of you to think that I have hidden the truth from you because I dearly loved you and knew that exposure must result in the abrupt termination of our love-dream." "Tell me all," she urged. "Have no secrets from me." "Then hear me," he said, his hard face white and drawn, while with his strong hands he gripped the chair, striving valiantly to remain calm. "I will relate to you all the hideous facts in their proper sequence; you will see what a canker-worm of guilt has existed within me all these years. For me, there is now no life, no hope, no love--" "Except mine," she interrupted quickly. "Ah! yours must turn to hatred, Claudia! I cannot hope for the pardon of man or woman. I have suffered; I have repented deeply on my knees before my Maker. But God's judgment is upon me, and the end is near. My story is a tragic one indeed. I think you will recollect that, long ago, after I had come down from Oxford, it was our custom to take happy walks round Winchester, over to King's Worthy, across the Down to Hursley, or through the Crab Wood to Sparsholt--do you remember those still summer evenings in the golden sun-down, dearest, when youth was buoyant and careless, and our love was perfect?" "Remember them?" she cried. "Ah! yes. I live those happy hours over again very often in my day-dreams, when I am alone. They are the tenderest memories of all my past," she answered in a deep voice, tremulous with an emotion which stirred her to the very depths of her being. "Your marriage came as a natural sequence, Claudia, for as the old adage has it, the course of true love never did run smooth. We separated, and you carried my farewell kiss of benediction upon your brow. I became lonely and melancholy when you, the sun of my life, had gone out. In order to occupy myself, as you had urged me to do, I obtained by family influence the appointment of private secretary to Lord Stockbridge, Her Majesty's Foreign Minister. You were abroad with Dick, spending the winter at Cannes, when I became acquainted with a girl named May Lennox, the daughter of a retired officer who had spent much of the latter part of his life on the Continent. I missed you as my constant companion, and it was merely for the sake of her bright companionship that I allowed myself to become attracted by her. Father and daughter were devoted to each other, and as the colonel was a widower, the pair lived in furnished lodgings, a drawing-room floor in Hereford Road, which turns out of Westbourne Grove, close to Whiteley's. I rather liked the colonel. By reason of my frequent visits, we became very friendly. During the hot days of August they moved down to Hastings, taking up their quarters at the Queen's, to which place I often ran down to see them, for I must here confess that a midsummer madness grew upon me, and I at last found myself in love with her. From the first, however, I had been quick to perceive that although the colonel was a thoroughgoing cosmopolitan and a lighthearted fellow whose only occupation seemed to be the study of foreign politics from the newspapers--for knowing my official position he often discussed and criticised with me points in Lord Stockbridge's policy--yet he was nevertheless entirely opposed to my suit. I did my utmost to ingratiate myself with him, for at the time I believed myself to be hopelessly in love with May." He paused in hesitation, for he knew that his confession must be a cruel and terrible disillusionment for Claudia. But he had taken the initial step, and was now compelled to describe to the bitter end his downfall, and thus to lose the treasure of her esteem. CHAPTER TWENTY NINE. CONFIDES A MOTIVE AND A MYSTERY. "One Sunday evening early in September," Chisholm continued at last, in a hoarse, strained voice, low and yet distinct, "May had retired immediately after dinner, owing to a headache, and I agreed to accompany the colonel for a turn along the Esplanade, to smoke a cigar. The night was hot and close, prophetic of a thunderstorm. As we sat together on a seat close to the St. Leonard's Pier, chatting in the semi-darkness, he suddenly broached a subject and made a suggestion, the astounding audacity of which struck me absolutely dumb with horror. He explained to me in confidence that he knew there had arrived at the Foreign Office from Constantinople certain cipher despatches from Sir Henry Lygon, Her Majesty's Ambassador to the Porte, and that he was prepared to pay almost any price for copies of these documents. He pointed how easy it would be for me, as private secretary to Lord Stockbridge, to photograph them. He tempted me, saying that for such photographs I might name my own price. Wild indignation seized me; but he only laughed and calmly lit a fresh cigar, at the same time dropping a hint that my reward for this suggested service would be his daughter's hand. May was in ignorance of all this. She never knew that her father was a mean and despicable spy who had constant relations with a foreign Power. I refused, and we argued, he and I, until, what with his persuasions and his promise that May should be my wife, he induced me to comply with his audacious demand. He tempted me, and I fell. Next day, after the exercise of not a little ingenuity, I succeeded in obtaining possession of the despatches in question, took them to my rooms, and secured photographs of each, returning the originals to their place within half an hour. I developed the negatives in secret, made some hasty prints, and delivered them to Lennox at Hastings three days later. By aid of the powerful reading-glass which he had bought at an optician's in Robertson Street, the cipher of the confidential despatches could be distinctly read, a result which gave him the utmost satisfaction. I was young, inexperienced, and did not then fully appreciate the gravity of my offence. It was, However, certain that those into whose hands the photographs eventually passed possessed a copy of the decipher used by the British Foreign Office, for subsequent events proved that Tewfik Pasha, the Turkish Minister of Foreign Affairs, successfully used the information in his diplomatic juggling with Russia. I never dreamed that this untimely exposure of Britain's policy in the near East would result in such a serious crisis as eventually came to pass; for my theft was the cause of a grave misunderstanding between England, the Porte, and the Triple Alliance; so serious, indeed, that a European war was only narrowly averted by the tact of Lord Stockbridge, combined with that of Count Murieff, the Russian Foreign Minister." Chisholm paused again, with eyes downcast. "Go on," she said brokenly. "Tell me all, Dudley--everything." "I had believed that by doing this scoundrel Lennox a service I had ingratiated myself with him," the despairing man continued after a pause; "but, so far from this being the case, he told me on the following day that it would be better if I remained apart from them, as my too frequent visits might be suspected by the Foreign Office, especially after what had transpired. May was still my unsophisticated friend, and was quite unaware of the theft I had committed at her father's bidding; but even in her I fancied I detected a change. It required only this to tear down the last barrier between myself and my conscience; the knowledge that I was a traitor to my Queen and country began to pierce me like sword. Of a sudden, a fortnight after the photographs had passed into the possession of Lennox, the spy settled his daughter as a paying guest with a family living in Christchurch Road, Tulse Hill, and then disappeared as completely as though the earth had swallowed him; but not before he had written me a stiff letter formally refusing his consent to my marriage with May. Then I saw how cleverly I had been entrapped by the adventurer, who knew well that I dared not expose him, for the sake of my own reputation. Soon afterwards the general election was held, and, as a reward for my services, which were believed, of course, to have been faithfully rendered, I was given a safe seat at Albury. Then May and I drifted apart, for she went to live with an aunt up at Berwick-on-Tweed, while I entered enthusiastically upon a political career. The manner in which Sir Henry Lygon's despatches had leaked out to England's enemies was a puzzle to the Foreign Office and to the world; but as I possessed the entire confidence of my chief I remained unsuspected, although my treachery had cost the country dearly, for by it I had betrayed my benefactor, Lord Stockbridge, and given to the wily Turk the whip hand over Europe, enabling the Sultan to defy both England and Russia. England had held the trump card in the diplomatic game, but by the premature exposure of her hand all had been lost. Searching inquiries were, of course, made by the cleverest detectives and agents of the Intelligence Department, but the result was absolutely nil." "There was considerable comment in the papers at the time," remarked Claudia slowly. "I recollect Dick speaking of it as a mystery, and condemning the apparent laxity of Foreign Office rules." "Some months had gone by, and May's letters, which had been growing perceptibly colder, at last ceased altogether," he continued, heedless of her remark. "In order to become acquainted with my constituents I had taken up my residence in my Parliamentary Division, at Godalming to be exact, and it was my habit each afternoon to take long walks alone through the woods and over the hills of that delightful neighbourhood. The sequel to what I have already confessed to you," he said, after a moment's pause, "occurred one autumn day when the trees were almost bare and the woodland paths were covered with acorns and withered leaves. I had been for a long stretch over the Hog's Back, having paid a visit to my friend Machray, at Wanborough, and was returning by way of Compton, and then across the meadows and up the hill towards the Charterhouse at Godalming. The gusty wind was chilly and the wintry twilight was fading as I passed Field Place and struck across the wide grass-lands to a corner where the path was divided by a stile from a dense belt of wood, the most lonely and secluded spot in the neighbourhood, and a popular resort of rustic couples. As I leaped over the stile into the dark pathway which led up a very steep incline through the wood, I was startled by being suddenly confronted by a man whom, in an instant, I recognised as Lennox. He had evidently been awaiting me there, for he put his hand upon my shoulder, saying that he desired a few words with me. With disgust and hatred I shook him off; but he resolutely placed himself before me, saying that he desired of me one other service, namely, that I should secure for him a copy of a certain document which had that morning reached the Foreign Office by Queen's messenger from the British Embassy in Paris. This I flatly refused; whereupon this enemy of England, who had once held Her Majesty's commission, threatened me with exposure and ruin if I did not at once comply with his demand. My blood rose, and, by way of retort, I gave him to understand that I would inform the police of his presence in England. High words and bitter recriminations ensued. Suddenly, without the least warning, his hand went swiftly to his hip, and I saw him draw a gleaming knife with which next moment he rushed at me. The wild look in his face was sufficient to show his evil intent, and in a second I drew from my pocket the small revolver that I always carried. In the fierce and desperate struggle we were well matched, and for some minutes we fought for life. With wild and fearful oaths he tried time after time to plunge his weapon into my heart, but only succeeded in twice gashing my wrist. I carry the scars to this very day." He drew up his shirt-cuff and showed her where his assailant's knife had wounded him. "Suddenly I felt my strength failing," he went on in a low, hard tone, a wild look in his eyes. "Then, in a fury of hatred, I twisted my arm from his sinewy grasp, and fired my revolver full at him. I must, I think have emptied two, or even three, chambers. He fell forward dead-- with a curse upon his lips. I--I murdered him--in order to seal his lips!" "You, Dudley!" cried the pale, bewildered woman, swaying forward as though she had received a blow. "You?--you killed him!" "Yes, Claudia," said the guilty man, not daring to look her in the face, "I have confessed to you my double crime. The truth now stands revealed to you in all its naked hideousness. I, the man whom you have trusted and loved for all these years, am a traitor, and worse--a murderer!" She could not speak, her heart was too full of grief and suffering. She covered her white face with her hands; low sobs escaped her, the bitterest lamentations of a broken heart. "And now let me conclude my story," he went on, his own heart almost breaking because of her agony. "How I got away I cannot tell. I remember but little, save that I rushed from the spot, tore across the fields to Farncombe station, whence I took train to Waterloo. From the accounts in the papers it appears that an hour later the body, stiff and cold, was discovered by a pair of lovers walking together, and information was given to the county constabulary. Nothing was found upon the man to lead to his identification, and although the greatest sensation was caused by the tragedy, Scotland Yard was utterly puzzled. One miserable wretch, a tramp who had been seen loitering in the neighbourhood, was arrested on suspicion, but was afterwards released. Detectives searched diligently for some clue, but found nothing to help them in regard to the identity of the murderer or to that of his victim, who was buried in a nameless grave in Godalming Cemetery at the expense of the parish. Imagine the awful remorse I suffered! For a few weeks I remained in London with this terrible guilt weighing upon me, feverishly scanning the papers, and preparing for a journey to the Far East. You will recollect that you were in Pau, when I wrote announcing my sudden departure." "Yes," she murmured, "I remember. Dick's illness had then begun, and the doctors had ordered him abroad." "I feared to remain longer in England, and desired to place as great a distance as possible between myself and the scene of my crime. I, belauded by the newspapers as a coming man, was a traitor to my country and a murderer. My conscience drove me to madness. I could not get rid of the ever-recurring recollections of my crime. And so it has been during these later years, whether I have travelled through the eternal snows of the Himalayas, explored the forbidden lands of Bhutan or Nepal, or sat on the Treasury Bench of the House. I have lived in constant dread of denunciation and exposure. While in Calcutta, as the guest of the Viceroy on my return from Chinese Turkestan, I learnt that May Lennox had married a wealthy man named Brodie, and had gone to live up at Kapurthala, in the Punjab. Since that day I have heard nothing of her. Four years have passed since my return, years of awful anxiety and mental strain that have made me old before my time; yet at last Archibald Cator, the man from whom no state secret is safe--that midnight visitor at Wroxeter--has discovered the truth. His secret agents have penetrated to the archives of the Turkish Ministry of Foreign Affairs in Constantinople, and from them have secured those photographs, to which is attached a docket written in Turkish stating by what channel they were secured. Thus from the carefully-guarded storehouse of the Sultan's secrets has the evidence of my crime been exposed, and my accusation is now at hand. Guilty of treason and of murder I have lost your love, Claudia--I can hope for nothing, nothing. My very name will become a reproach, and the very people who have so often applauded me will now hate my memory as that of a betrayer. My punishment is complete!" he cried wildly, in hoarse despair. "I have sinned, and this is God's judgment!" CHAPTER THIRTY. TELLS A STRANGE TALE. "And your secret is known," said the pale, agitated woman despairingly, her dark eyes still fixed upon the guilty man before her. Her voice was scarcely raised above a whisper, for the wounded heart made it difficult for her to speak. He nodded in the affirmative. "To whom?" she asked. "To Cator, of the Secret Service; to many of his agents, no doubt; to one, at least, of my political opponents, and to a woman who is your friend--Muriel Mortimer!" "To Muriel?" she gasped in abject amazement. "Yes," he answered; "the woman who, if report speaks correctly, was suggested by you to Lady Meldrum as a fitting person to become my wife." "Ah, forgive me!" Claudia cried quickly. "I threw you into one another's society in order to test your love for me. I was, not certain whether you really loved me, or whether this younger and prettier woman might not attract you. Believe me, I invited her to the house-party at Wroxeter for the same purpose that I allowed my name to be associated with that of the Grand-Duke and others--to test the extent of your affection. I was foolish--very foolish, I know. But forgive me, Dudley, I was jealous." In answer to her request he related the ingenious manner in which he had been entrapped, precisely as in the foregoing pages it has already been described. "She wished to marry you in order to obtain money," declared the angry woman, upon whom these revelations had fallen as a crushing blow. "I never suspected her; yet now I see it all. Her ingenuity has been simply marvellous. She intended that you should buy from her a freedom which it was not within her power to sell. If you had become her husband she would, no doubt, either have tempted you to commit suicide rather than face arrest--first, of course, having induced you to make a will in her favour--or else have expected you to pay heavily for release from a woman of her stamp." "But who is she?" he demanded. "What do you know of her?" "Nothing, except what you already know, Dudley, that, although the ward of a respectable family, she is now proved to be an unscrupulous adventuress. But I myself will attempt to solve the mystery. She was abroad for about a year, she once told me, and she often goes to the Continent to visit friends there. There are many facts about her that are mysterious, and yet Lady Meldrum absolutely adores her. She cannot, however, know the truth of her association with these foreign ruffians who have attempted your life. Now that I recollect," she added, "I found one morning, concealed behind one of the cushions in the cosy-corner of the library, a piece of crumpled paper, which, when opened, I discovered to be the commencement of a letter in a woman's hand. It was in Italian, and began, `Mio adorato Tonio.' She must have gone there to write to the man, and, being interrupted, had evidently crushed the paper in her hand and hid it, and then forgotten it." "Yes," he said, "I recollect finding her alone there one evening, and that my entrance seemed to confuse her somewhat. But," he went on despondently, "had the scoundrels been successful it would perhaps have been better for me." He was no coward, but he saw that for him all life, all happiness, all love had ended. "No, Dudley," she answered in a sweet and tender voice, looking straight at him. "You are guilty, but both you and I have been the victims of this ingenious trickster. She first tried to rob me of your love, and then, finding herself unsuccessful, resorted to a foul and cunning strategy." "Yes," he said in a low voice, his chin still upon his breast. "I am guilty, and must suffer. But," he added, raising his head slowly until his eyes met hers, "promise me one thing, Claudia--promise that after to-day you will give no further thought to me. I have deceived you, and am unworthy; put me out of your mind for ever." "But you loved me, Dudley," she cried with a mournful tenderness. "How can I allow your memory to pass from me when for so many years you have been my all in all?" "In the future we must be parted," he answered huskily. "From the consequences of my crime there is no escape--none. But if I thought that you had forgotten the grave wrong I have done you, my mind would at least be easier." She did not answer for a few moments. Then, with the passion begotten of a changeless and profound affection she rushed towards him, threw her arms about his neck, and cried out: "No, Dudley, you are mine--mine! we must not part. I love you--you know that I do! You shall not leave me--you hear! _you shall not_!" "But I must," he replied gravely, a hardness appearing at the corners of his mouth as he slowly disengaged himself from her embrace. "I have given my word of honour to return to my chambers before midday." "To whom?" "To Archibald Cator. The man who, in the exercise of his profession as chief of our Secret Service, has discovered my secret." Chisholm, whatever might have been his follies in the past, was now a man of unflinching principle. He had given his word not to attempt to escape. "Then I will go with you," she said with resolution. "It is half-past eleven, and my carriage is outside. We will drive down to St. James's Street together." But in all earnestness he begged her not to accompany him. He did not desire that she should be a witness of his degradation and arrest. He could not bear the thought. He knew that the matter would be placed before Lord Stockbridge himself, and that, in company with Cator, he would be called into the presence of the grave-eyed Chief in whose confidence and regard he had for long held so high a place. "I shall go with you," she said decisively, now calm and composed after her agitation and flood of tears. She had braced herself up with what was, under the circumstances, a remarkable effort. By way of explanation she added, half breathlessly: "I love you, Dudley, and my place in the hour of trial is at your side." He raised her bejewelled hand tremblingly to his lips, and thanked her in a husky voice. He, the Discrowned, dared not kiss her lips. "Patience and courage," she said, laying her hand upon his shoulder tenderly, just as she had been wont to do in those early days of his career when she had so often given him advice. He shook his head sadly before answering. "Both are unavailing against the vengeance of Heaven!" She was silent. This man, whom she had loved as her own life, was a murderer. A gulf had opened between them, his arrest and denunciation were imminent. They could no longer be lovers. All was of the past. Her tender woman's sympathy for him in his hopeless despair was too deep for tears. Her countenance, usually so sweet and smiling, had grown hard, and her eyes large and serious. The caprice of her broken heart was that this last drive to his chambers should be taken in his company. Many and many a time he had driven with her hither and thither in London, but this was the last occasion. After that, then she would be alone, friendless, unloved--the queen of the silent kingdom, as she had so often termed the stately mansion, one of the finest in London, where the servants moved in silence and the huge marble hall and corridors echoed to the slightest whisper. They drove together past Apsley House and along Piccadilly without exchanging a single word. Once or twice Dudley raised his hat mechanically to passers-by who, now that the yellow sunlight had struggled through the clouds, were enjoying a stroll in London's gayest thoroughfare. Whenever there is any sunshine in the metropolis, it is always in Piccadilly. But the unwonted brightness of that morning jarred upon Dudley and Claudia. Few who passed the pair driving in that handsome carriage would ever have dreamed that the light of that beautiful woman's heart was extinguished, and that the well-groomed man at her side was going deliberately to his doom. Beneath the bear-skin rug their hands met--and clasped. Their hearts beat quickly, their eyes met, but no word passed between them. Both understood that all words were empty in face of the horrible truth. Archibald Cator, who had been sitting beside the fire in Chisholm's sitting-room, rose and bowed when they entered. He recognised Claudia at once, and darted a look of inquiry at the accused man. "Captain Cator, I believe?" she exclaimed, addressing him. "To apologise is quite unnecessary. I know everything. Mr. Chisholm has told me the whole terrible story. You have but done your duty in the service of your country, and as far as I am concerned your just behaviour will receive a just verdict." The tall, thin-faced man was expressing his regrets, when Claudia, turning to him again, asked: "In this affair there is still an element of mystery which should be at once cleared up. Through my own unpardonable folly in accepting as friend a woman whom I did not know, Mr. Chisholm has fallen the victim of a curious conspiracy. Do you chance to know in Italy a man named Marucci?" "Marucci?" repeated the captain; "Francesco Marruci, I presume you mean? Yes, I know him and have employed him in Rome, and elsewhere, to make confidential inquiries." "And do you chance to be acquainted with a woman named Mortimer--a young woman, Muriel Mortimer?" "Certainly," he replied quite frankly. "She is a fair-headed young person who poses as the ward of an English family named Meldrum. A couple of years ago, however, she married secretly an Italian named Biancheri, then a lieutenant of Artillery stationed at Florence, and she and her husband are now generally supposed to be agents employed in the secret service of Italy. This good-looking woman has been a successful spy. Her husband is a black-haired, evil-looking fellow with an ugly scar across his lower jaw." "His description is exact. He was the man who attempted to take my life last night!" exclaimed Chisholm, astonished at this revelation. "He called himself Tonio Rocchi." When Dudley had briefly described his adventure, Cator said: "I knew the woman Mortimer was a guest at Wroxeter, and that was the reason why I wished nobody to know of my visit there. We are acquainted, but at that moment I had no wish to meet her." "Then this woman, her husband, and the Italian Marucci have by some means learnt my secret, and are actually in agreement as regards this scheme of attempted blackmail?" "Most certainly," was Cator's response. "Biancheri, or Rocchi, as he calls himself, and his wife are as smart a pair of adventurers as any on the Continent, and it is well known to us that they have on several occasions levied huge sums in blackmail when diplomatic and family secrets have leaked out." "But the Meldrums!" exclaimed Claudia in astonishment. "Is it possible that they, a most respectable family, can actually be aware of this woman's fraud?" "I think not," was the captain's reply. "Muriel Mortimer, the daughter of a deceased station-master employed on the Great Northern Railway, is of age, and therefore, of course, her own mistress. In England she is still the ward of Sir Henry Meldrum--who had taken her out of charity-- and passes as a single woman, but she secretly married Biancheri while they were wintering in Florence, and her frequent journeys abroad have not been undertaken for the purpose of visiting friends, as she pretends but, in reality, to assist her husband in his ingenious and daring schemes of espionage and blackmail. She is an adventuress of the very worst type." "But how can she have learnt my secret?" demanded the melancholy man upon whom the all-reaching hand of justice had so heavily fallen. "Ah, that is utterly impossible to tell," answered Cator. "All that is certain is that she, together with her husband and confederates, will quickly clear out of England now that you have so determinedly withstood their efforts and defied their threats." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Archibald Cator had turned away, and was making a pretence of examining the titles of the books in the bookcase on the opposite side of the room while Claudia and Dudley stood silently hand in hand. The captain had an appointment to see the Marquess of Stockbridge in company with the Under-Secretary at the Foreign Office at one o'clock, when the serious charges were to be privately investigated. The hour was drawing near, and the white-faced, tearful woman was taking leave of the guilty man, whom she had so fondly and so truly loved. There was in her eyes an inexpressible sadness, and the quivering lips he had so often kissed with tender passion showed plainly the agony she was suffering. "Forgive me, Claudia, forgive me for the sake of the love of old!" he implored, whispering in her ear. "With your forgiveness I can face my fate unflinchingly, knowing that my punishment is just." "Dudley," she answered in a voice broken by emotion, as she uttered what was to her the dearest of all names, "I forgive you everything. A cruel, an inexorable fate tears us apart, but I shall never forget you-- never. May God forgive you as I forgive you." "Thank you, my heart, for those encouraging words," he cried, snatching up her hand and imprinting upon it a lingering kiss of farewell. As their eyes met for a single instant, in hers he saw a look of blank despair and mingled sympathy more expressive than any words could possibly be. "Farewell, Dudley!" was all she said. "I shall pray to Him for you." She turned slowly from him and walked across to the door, while Cator drew back the velvet _portiere_ and bowed in silence. At this moment the door was thrown open by Parsons, who carried a rather bulky letter and a card upon his salver. "The gentleman who called in the night has called again, sir," announced the old man. "I told him you were engaged, but he said he could not possibly wait, as he was sailing from London almost immediately. He regretted missing you, and left this letter." His master glanced at the card, and saw that it bore the name "Ralph Brodie," with the word "Boodle's" in the corner. With nervous fingers he quickly tore open the envelope and drew from it a note, together with a smaller envelope, rather soiled, sealed with black wax, and addressed to him in a woman's pointed hand. Claudia, who had halted, stood watching him. The note was a brief one, written by Brodie from his club, stating with regret that his wife had died of consumption a month ago. Among the papers which he found after her death was the enclosed, together with instructions that he should deliver it personally and unopened. This he did. As he had only been in London a few hours on urgent business, and was compelled to return to India by the _Caledonia_ that afternoon, he had written this note of explanation in case they could not meet. He broke the brittle wax of the dead woman's letter, and drew forth a sheet of thin foreign note-paper, the ink on which was somewhat faded. Swiftly he scanned the lines of brown ink; then, while looking for May Brodie's signature, he saw in addition to this another name at the bottom of of the document--"Muriel Mortimer." "Impossible!" he gasped. "Surely this is not a dream! Look! Read this!" He handed the missive to Cator, who, together with the woman who had just bidden him a last farewell, read it through eagerly. "It is the truth!" cried Claudia wildly, a moment later, rushing towards him, throwing her clinging arms about his neck, kissing him passionately, and shedding tears of joy. "You are innocent, Dudley! innocent! Think, think! The truth is written there in the presence of a witness. _You are innocent_!" Some time elapsed before Dudley could grasp the whole of the facts. What he held in his trembling fingers was a statement written by May Lennox three years before. It began in a somewhat rambling manner, was dated from Kapurthala, and had been written after the doctors had pronounced her to be suffering from incurable consumption. The important paragraph, however, penned in an unsteady hand and rather smeared, read as follows: "And now, as I know that before very long I must die, I have resolved to confess to you the whole truth. I knew too well of my father's relations with the Turkish and Italian Governments, and I knew how he induced you to procure for him photographs of the Anglo-Russian agreement in the East, offering myself to you as a bribe. I was helpless in his hands; he used me as his decoy in the various capitals, and often accomplished important _coups_ of espionage with my assistance. But the photographs you furnished to him proved to be those of quite unimportant despatches, and utterly valueless. The photographs of the actual despatches wanted by Tewfik were procured by a person named Peynton in the employ of the Foreign Office, who has since died. My father, however, believed that you wilfully endeavoured to mislead him and intended to expose him; hence his fierce antagonism, which caused him to lay in wait for you in that lonely path near Godalming. As I had gained knowledge of his intention to harm you, I went down there and watched his movements. I was present, hidden in the shadow behind a rail only a few paces from the spot--at the point where, you will remember, the police found the weeds down-trodden and other signs of the presence of a third person. I overheard his suggestion to you, and your refusal; I saw him draw his knife with intent to strike you. I watched your struggle, and in the course of the fracas his revolver fell unnoticed from his pocket. As you were both close to me at that moment I was enabled to reach the weapon. Then I saw that your strength was failing, and you fired at him. You missed. I believe I know the very tree in which your bullet lodged. Seeing your imminent peril, I also fired--and he fell. I saved you, but I killed the man whom I was compelled to call father, though I had good reasons to hate his memory. He killed my poor mother by sheer brutality and neglect, and made me his puppet and decoy in his nefarious schemes. When he fell, you rushed from the spot, believing that you had killed him, but if you will refer to the medical evidence you will find that he was struck by a single bullet beneath the left shoulder-blade. That shot was the one I fired, and could not possibly have been fired by you. In order to tell you the truth, and yet not commit myself, I sent you anonymously, a few weeks after the occurrence, a piece of tracing-paper with a diagram upon it, and a few words, which were purposely rather vague, hoping that the plan of the spot would show you that you were innocent, and that in case you were afterwards charged with the crime you would be able to use the plan in your defence. Confession I make calmly and of my own free will, in order that it may be signed by the woman who is my companion and my most intimate friend, and that it may be opened by your own hand when I am dead and beyond the reach of man's justice." There was nothing else. Only the signature, "May Beatrice Brodie," together with that of Muriel Mortimer. "This clearly explains how the woman Mortimer, or Biancheri, obtained possession of your secret," observed Cator in surprise, after he had read it through aloud. "My inquiries, I recollect, showed that she entered Mrs. Brodie's employ as companion and was in India for six months, but that she returned, owing to the climate, and again took up her abode with the Meldrums. The explanation given by the Meldrums to friends was that she had been out to India on a visit. Having obtained knowledge of your secret, she imparted it to Biancheri after her marriage, with the result that he and his associates made the clever attempt to blackmail you. She, no doubt, felt herself safe as long as her late employer was living, and is, of course, in ignorance of her death and the passing of this confession into your hands." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ An hour later Dudley Chisholm was closeted alone with the Marquess of Stockbridge in the latter's private room at the Foreign Office, where he related the whole story. That any man enjoying the confidence of Her Majesty's Government in any capacity should have Endeavoured to betray its secrets was a most heinous and unpardonable offence in the eyes of the stern old politician who was Her Majesty's chief adviser. Nevertheless, on carefully weighing all the facts, his lordship came to the conclusion that the man who had been his private secretary, and who now held responsible office, had proved himself deeply penitent, and had, during the intervening years, endeavoured to make every reparation in his power. The actual documents Chisholm had photographed were quite unimportant. It was manifest that from first to last he had been the victim of a cleverly arranged conspiracy. The interview was a long one, and all that passed between them will never be recorded. But at last the Marquess rose and generously extended to Dudley his thin, bony hand in forgiveness. He summed up the case as follows: "It is true that you photographed the despatches with intent to hand them to the man Lennox, and it is true that the present complications in Europe are the outcome of the betrayal of our policy, but it is not true, Chisholm, that you are a traitor. Your career has encouraged me to prophesy (and the indiscretion of which I am to-day aware for the first time has not caused me to alter my opinion) that you are one of the men who will rise after me to safeguard your country's interests. The question placed on the paper by the member for West Antrim must be expunged at once. I will see to that matter personally, for it is apparent that the member in question has either received information, or is himself associated with the unscrupulous persons who endeavoured to profit by their knowledge of your secret. Leave it to me. That question will never be printed in the paper nor asked in the House. Only a traitor in association with the representative of some foreign Power dare endeavour to create a political crisis at this moment by asking such a question." "Then I am actually forgiven?" Dudley asked in a low voice, scarcely realising the truth. "Yes, Chisholm," replied the Marquess gravely, pressing the hand of the younger man, "you are forgiven, and what is more, my confidence in you is not shaken, for you have been proved a man of sterling worth, and the unfortunate victim of as vile and ingenious a conspiracy as ever was formed against us by dastardly spies from across the Channel. You come of an ancient and honourable race, Chisholm. Recollect, therefore, that throughout the remainder of your life your first duty is always to your God, and the second to your country and your Queen." CHAPTER THIRTY ONE. CONTAINS THE CONCLUSION. The greyness of the short winter's afternoon was steadily growing darker and darker, and the lights were already beginning to appear in the shops and the vehicles in busy Knightsbridge; but within the pretty boudoir, where an old punch-bowl full of flowers poured sweetness into the air, two hearts beat in unison, full of new-found joy, full of hope, full of perfect confidence and love. Holding his queen in his strong arms, Dudley had asked her a question, to which she had made answer with all the fervour of her being: "Yes, I will gladly be your wife, Dudley," she said, in a tender voice. "As you well know, my heart has ever been yours, and ever will be--until the end." In the dim light, which had now become so dark that he could scarcely distinguish her face, he pressed her closely to him in a wild ecstasy of love, and as he kissed her on the lips, his heart full of gladness inexpressible, she fancied that she felt a tear-drop upon his hollow cheek. To recount facts already known to every reader of these pages would serve no purpose, but it will interest some to learn that Marucci subsequently confessed to Captain Cator that the plot against the Under-Secretary, devised by Biancheri and his wife, had long been in progress. It was certainly at the instigation of this woman that Marucci had succeeded in obtaining the incriminating documents from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs in Constantinople, which he had passed on to his employer, Archibald Cator; while she at the same time sent an anonymous letter to Mr. Gerald Oldfield, the Member for Antrim West, one of Dudley's bitterest political opponents, preferring against him a charge of murder. The Grand-Duke Stanislas knew the truth, of course, from what was told him at his own Embassy. The Meldrums, a worthy pair, had always remained in ignorance of the true character of the station-master's daughter, whom they had adopted out of charity. They were first told the truth by Claudia herself, and the blow was a terrible disillusion, for they had always treated her as their own child. To Colonel Murray-Kerr, while he was still attach in Rome, the secret of the marriage of Muriel Mortimer with Biancheri was imparted by Marucci, who explained that there was some deep and mysterious conspiracy on foot against Dudley Chisholm, that Biancheri had left the Italian army, and that he was undoubtedly a spy. For that reason the colonel had uttered his strange warning when shooting with Dudley, but he had unfortunately not taken Marucci's statement very seriously. Quite recently Archibald Cator ascertained that the woman Biancheri, who had so cleverly plotted the grand _coup_, had been deserted by her scoundrelly husband, and had died alone and in penury in a bare room on the fifth storey of a rickety house in the Montmartre quarter of Paris. Biancheri himself is at this moment languishing in prison at Grenoble, having been arrested by French gendarmes in the very act of making a plan of one of the Alpine frontier fortresses. All London is well aware how Dudley Chisholm's marriage, so long expected, took place, not with the _eclat_ common to a fashionable wedding in town, but quietly in the quaint old village church at Wroxeter, where the mellow-toned bells pealed merrily, and the school children strewed the roses of July in their path. And every one, both in society and out of it, knows that Lady Dudley Chisholm still retains her place as one of the smartest women in London; that all the scandals once whispered about her have been proved to be false inventions of her detractors; that as _chatelaine_ of Wroxeter she is one of the most popular among hostesses; and that her husband, whom she adores, and whose fame is of worldwide renown, will certainly have a seat in the next Cabinet. You, my reader, whom curiosity or necessity takes into Mayfair or Belgravia, must often have seen a slim, sweet-faced woman, remarkable for the most wonderful eyes, driving in her neat Victoria, her servants in dark green liveries, and with the three water-bougets of the Chisholms upon the silver harness. Beside her there not infrequently nestles a child with an exquisite face, dark hair, and great, wide-open eyes that look in wonder on the vast world of London. You are acquainted with their life-story. They are mother and daughter, the wife and child of one of the happiest of men, the Right Honourable Dudley Waldegrave Chisholm, the Under-Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs. The End. 
15278	----	Proofreading Team. THE RAMRODDERS BY HOLMAN DAY AUTHOR OF KING SPRUCE, ETC. 1910 CONTENTS CHAP. I. THE BAITING OF THE ANCIENT LION II. THE LINE-UP OF THE FIGHT III. DENNIS KAVANAGH'S GIRL IV. THE DUKE AT BAY V. A CAUCUS, AS IT WAS PLANNED VI. A CAUCUS, AND HOW IT WAS RUN VII. WITH THE KAVANAGH AT HOME VIII. THE MANTLE OF THELISMER THORNTON IX. IN THE CENTRE OF THE BIG STATE WEB X. A POLITICAL CONVERT XI. A MAN FROM THE SHADOWS XII. DEALS AND IDEALS XIII. THE DUKE'S DOUBLE CAMPAIGN XIV. THE BEES AND THE WOULD-BES XV. SITTING IN FOR THE DEAL XVI. THE HANDS ARE DEALT XVII. THE ODD TRICK XVIII. THE SHEPHERD AND THE SHEEP XIX. THE RAMRODDERS RAMPANT XX. A GIRL'S HEART XXI. STARTING A MULE TEAM XXII. FROM THE MOUTH OF A MAID XXIII. A TRUCE XXIV. A GOVERNOR AND A MAID XXV. WOMEN, AND ONE WOMAN XXVI. THE WAY OF A MAID WITH A MAID XXVII. THE EVERLASTING PROBLEM XXVIII. ONE PROBLEM SOLVED THE RAMRODDERS CHAPTER I THE BAITING OF THE ANCIENT LION War and Peace had swapped corners that morning in the village of Fort Canibas. War was muttering at the end where two meeting-houses placidly faced each other across the street. Peace brooded over the ancient blockhouse, relic of the "Bloodless War," and upon the structure that Thelismer Thornton had converted from officers' barracks to his own uses as a dwelling. At dawn a telegraph messenger jangled the bell in the dim hall of "The Barracks." It was an urgent cry from the chairman of the Republican State Committee. It announced his coming, and warned the autocrat of the North Country of the plot. The chairman knew. The plotters had been betrayed to him, and from his distance he enjoyed a perspective which is helpful in making political estimates. But Thelismer Thornton only chuckled over Luke Presson's fears. He went back to bed for another nap. When he came down and ate breakfast alone in the big mess-room, which he had not allowed the carpenters to narrow by an inch, he was still amused by the chairman's panic. As a politician older than any of them, a man who had served his district fifty years in the legislature, he refused to believe--intrenched there in his fortress in the north--that there was danger abroad in the State. "Reformers, eh?" He sneered the word aloud in the big room of echoes. "Well, I can show them one up here. There's Ivus Niles!" And at that moment Ivus Niles was marching into the village from the Jo Quacca hills, torch for the tinder that had been prepared. It is said that a cow kicked over a lantern that started the conflagration of its generation. In times when political tinder is dry there have been great men who have underestimated reform torches. It was a bland June morning. The Hon. Thelismer Thornton was bland, too, in agreement with the weather. A good politician always agrees with what cannot be helped. He stood in the door of "The Barracks" and gazed out upon the rolling St. John hills--a lofty, ponderous hulk of a man, thatched with white hair, his big, round face cherubic still in spite of its wrinkles. He lighted a cigar, and gazed up into the cloudless sky with the mental endorsement that it was good caucus weather. Then he trudged out across the grass-plot and climbed into his favorite seat. It was an arm-chair set high in the tangle of the roots of an overturned spruce-tree. The politicians of the county called that seat "The Throne," and for a quarter of a century the Hon. Thelismer Thornton had been nicknamed "The Duke of Fort Canibas." Add that the nicknames were not ill bestowed. Such was the Hon. Thelismer Thornton. He had brought newspapers in his pockets. He set his eyeglasses on his bulging nose, and began to read. In the highway below him teams went jogging into the village. There were fuzzy Canadian horses pulling buckboards sagging under the weight of all the men who could cling on. There were top carriages and even a hayrack well loaded with men. Occasionally the old man lifted his gaze from his reading and eyed the dusty wayfarers benignantly. He liked to know that the boys were turning out to the caucus. His perch was a lofty one. He could see that the one long street of Fort Canibas was well gridironed with teams--horses munching at hitching-posts, wagons thrusting their tails into the roadway. It was quiet at Thornton's end of the village. There was merely twitter of birds in the silver poplar that shaded his seat, busy chatter of swallows, who were plastering up their mud nests under the eaves of the old blockhouse across the road from him. It was so quiet that he could hear a tumult at the other end of the village; it _was_ a tumult for calm Fort Canibas. A raucous voice bellowed oratory of some sort, and yells and laughter and cheers punctuated the speech. Thornton knew the voice, even at that distance, for the voice of "War Eagle" Niles. He grinned, reading his paper. The sound of that voice salted the article that he was skimming: "--and the fight is beginning early this year. The reform leaders say they find the sentiment of the people to be with them, and so the reformers propose to do their effective work at the caucuses instead of waiting to lock horns with a legislature and lobby controlled by the old politicians of the State. There is a contest on even in that impregnable fortress of the old regime, the 'Duchy of Canibas.' It is said that the whole strength of the State reform movement is quietly behind the attempt to destroy Thelismer Thornton's control in the north country. His is one of the earliest caucuses, and the moral effect of the defeat of that ancient autocrat will be incalculable." Still more broadly did Thornton smile. "War Eagle" Niles, down there, was a reformer. For forty years he had been bellowing against despots and existing order, and, for the Duke of Fort Canibas, he typified "Reform!" Visionary, windy, snarling, impracticable attempts to smash the machine! Therefore, in his serene confidence--the confidence of an old man who has founded and knows the solidity of the foundations--Thelismer Thornton smoked peacefully at one end of the village of Fort Canibas, and allowed rebellion to roar at its pleasure in the other end. Then he saw them coming, heard the growing murmur of many voices, the cackle of occasional laughter, and took especial note of "War Eagle" Ivus Niles, who led the parade. A fuzzy and ancient silk hat topped his head, a rusty frock-coat flapped about his legs, and he tugged along at the end of a cord a dirty buck sheep. A big crowd followed; but when they shuffled into the yard of "The Barracks" most of the men were grinning, as though they had come merely to look on at a show. The old man in his aureole of roots gazed at them with composure, and noted no hostility. Niles and his buck sheep stood forth alone. The others were grouped in a half circle. Even upon the "War Eagle," Thornton gazed tolerantly. There was the glint of fun in his eyes when Niles formally removed his silk hat, balanced it, crown up, in the hook of his elbow, and prepared to deliver his message. "The dynasty of the house of Thornton must end to-day!" boomed Niles, in his best orotund. Thornton found eyes in the crowd that blinked appreciation. Quizzical wrinkles deepened in his broad face. He plucked a cigar from his waistcoat-pocket and held it down toward Mr. Niles. "No, sir!" roared that irreconcilable. "I ain't holding out my porringer to Power--never again!" "Power," repulsed, lighted the cigar from the one he was smoking, and snapped the butt at the sheep. "I'm a lover of good oratory, Ivus," he said, placidly, "and I know you've come here loaded. Fire!" He clasped his upcocked knee with his big hands, fingers interlaced, and leaned back. The crowd exchanged elbow-thrusts and winks. But the ripple of laughter behind did not take the edge off Mr. Niles's earnestness. "Honorable Thornton, I do not mind your sneers and slurs. When I see my duty I go for it. I'm here before you to-day as Protest walking erect, man-fashion, on two legs, and with a visible emblem that talks plainer than words can talk. The people need visible emblems to remind them. Like I'm leading this sheep, so you have been leading the voters of this legislative district. The ring has been in here"--Mr. Niles savagely pinched the cartilage of his nose--"and you have held the end of the cord. That's the way you've been led, you people!" The orator whirled and included his concourse of listeners as objects of arraignment. "Here's the picture of you as voters right before your eyes. Do you propose to be sheep any longer?" He put his hat on his head, and shook a hairy fist at the Duke of Fort Canibas. "This ain't a dynasty, and you can't make it into one. I call on you to take note of the signs and act accordingly; for the people are awake and arming for the fray. And when the people are once awake they can't any more be bamboozled by a political despot than the war eagle, screaming across the blue dome of the everlasting heavens, will turn tail when he hears the twittering of a pewee!" Mr. Niles closed, as he always closed a speech, with the metaphor that had given him his sobriquet. "That is real oratory, Ivus," stated Mr. Thornton, serenely; "I know it is, because a man who is listening to real oratory never understands what the orator is driving at." The Hon. Thelismer Thornton usually spoke with a slow, dry, half-quizzical drawl. That drawl was effective now. He came down from his chair, carefully stepping on the roots, and loomed above Mr. Niles, amiable, tolerant, serene. His wrinkled crash suit, in whose ample folds his mighty frame bulked, contrasted oddly with the dusty, rusty black in which Mr. Niles defied the heat of the summer day. "Now I am down where I can talk business, Ivus. What's the matter with you?" "Look into the depths of your own soul, if you've got the moral eyesight to look through mud," declaimed Mr. Niles, refusing to descend from polemics to plain business, "and you'll see what is the matter. You have made yourself the voice by which this district has spoken in the halls of state for fifty years, and that voice is not the voice of the people!" He stood on tiptoe and roared the charge. "It is certainly not your voice that I take down to the State House with me," broke in their representative. "Freight charges on it would more than eat up my mileage allowance. Now let's call off this bass-drum solo business. Pull down your kite. To business!" He snapped his fingers under Mr. Niles's nose. One of those in the throng who had not smiled stepped forth and spoke before the disconcerted "War Eagle" had recovered his voice. "Since I am no orator, perhaps I can talk business to you, Representative Thornton." He was a grave, repressed, earnest man, whose sunburned face, bowed shoulders, work-stained hands, and general air proclaimed the farmer. "We've come here on a matter of business, sir." "Led by a buck sheep and a human windmill, eh?" "Mr. Niles's notions of tactics are his own. I'm sorry to see him handle this thing as he has. It was coming up in the caucus this afternoon in the right way." Thornton was listening with interest, and the man went on with the boldness the humble often display after long and earnest pondering has made duty plain. "When I saw Niles pass through the street and the crowd following, I was afraid that a matter that's very serious to some of us would be turned into horseplay, and so I came along, too. But I am not led by a buck sheep, Mr. Thornton, nor are those who believe with me." "Believe what?" "That, after fifty years of honors at our hands, you should be willing to step aside." The Hon. Thelismer Thornton dragged up his huge figure into the stiffness of resentment. He ran searching eyes over the faces before him. All were grave now, for the sounding of the first note of revolt in a half century makes for gravity. The Duke of Fort Canibas could not distinguish adherents from foes at that moment, when all faces were masked with deep attention. His eyes came back to the stubborn spokesman. "Walt Davis," he said, "your grandfather put my name before the caucus that nominated me for the legislature fifty years ago, and your father and you have voted for me ever since. You and every other voter in this district know that I do not intend to run again. I have announced it. What do you mean, then, by coming here in this fashion?" "You have given out that you are going to make your grandson our next representative." "And this ain't a dynasty!" roared Mr. Niles. "Is there anything the matter with my grandson?" But Davis did not retreat before the bent brows of the district god. "The trouble with him is, that he's your grandson." "And what fault do you find with me after all these years?" There was wrathful wonderment in the tone. "If you're going to retire from office," returned Mr. Davis, doggedly, "there's no need of raking the thing over to make trouble and hard feelings. I've voted for you, like my folks did before me. You're welcome to all those votes, Representative Thornton, but neither you nor your grandson is going to get any more. And as I say, so say many others in this district." "No crowned heads, no rings in the noses of the people," declared Niles, yanking the cord and producing a bleat of fury from his emblematic captive. "I don't stand for Niles and his monkey business," protested Davis. "I'm on a different platform. All is, we propose to be represented from now on; not _mis_-represented!" Something like stupefaction succeeded the anger in the countenance of the Duke of Fort Canibas. Again he made careful scrutiny of the faces of his constituents. Then he turned his back on them and climbed up the twisted roots to his chair, sat down, faced them, caught his breath, and ejaculated, "Well, I'll be eternally d----d!" He studied their faces for some time. But he was too good a politician to put much value on those human documents upraised to him. There were grins, subtle or humorous. There were a few scowls. One or two, tittering while they did it, urged the "War Eagle" on to fresh tirade. It was a mob that hardly knew its own mind, that was plain. But revolt was there. He felt it. It was one of those queer rebellions, starting with a joke for an excuse, but ready to settle into something serious. It was not so much hostility that he saw at that moment as something more dangerous--lack of respect. "Look here, boys, I've been hearing that some of those cheap suckers from down State have been sneaking around this district. But I've never insulted you by believing you took any stock in that kind of cattle. We're neighbors here together. What's the matter with me? Out with your real grouch!" "Look at this emblem I've brought," began Niles, oracularly, but Thornton was no longer in the mood that humored cranks. He jumped down, yanked the cord away from Niles, kicked the sheep and sent it scampering off with frightened bleats. "If you fellows want an emblem, there's one," declared their indignant leader. "I'm all right for a joke--but the joke has got to stop when it has gone far enough." He had sobered them. His disgusted glance swept their faces, and grins were gone. He went among them. "Get around me, boys," he invited. "This isn't any stump speech. I'm going to talk business." They did crowd around him, most of them, but Mr. Niles was still intractable. "You're right, it was your emblem just now! It has always been a kick from you and the rest of the high and mighty ones when you didn't want our wool." "You're an infernal old liar and meddler, torched on by some one else!" retorted the Duke. "Now, boys, I see into this thing better than you do. Any time when I haven't used my district right, when I've betrayed you, or my word of advice isn't worth anything, I'll step out--and it won't need any bee of this kind to come around and serve notice on me. But I understand just what this shivaree means. Sneaks have come in here and lied behind my back and fooled some of you. Fools need to be saved from themselves. There are men in this State who would peel to their political shirts if they could lick Thelismer Thornton in his own district just now when the legislative caucuses are beginning. But I won't let you be fooled that way!" "The name of 'Duke' fits you all right," piped Niles from a safe distance. "This is a dynasty and I've said it was, and now you're showing the cloven foot!" Thornton disdained to reply. He continued to walk about among them. "They're trying to work you, boys," he went on. "I heard they were conniving to do business in this district, but I haven't insulted you by paying any attention to rumors. I want you to go down to that caucus this afternoon and vote for Harlan. You all know him. I'm an old man, and I want to see him started right before I get done. You all know what the Thorntons have done for you--and what they can do. I don't propose to see you swap horses while you're crossing the river." But they did not rally in the good old way. There was something the matter with them. Those who dared to meet his gaze scowled. Those who looked away from him kept their eyes averted as though they were afraid to show their new faith. They had dared to march up to him behind Niles and his buck sheep, masking revolt under their grins. But Thornton realized that whoever had infected them had used the poison well. They had come to laugh; they remained to sulk. And they who had baited him with the unspeakable Niles understood their business when dealing with such an old lion as he. "You need a guardian, you fellows," he said, contemptuously. "Your mutton marshal just fits you. But I'm going to keep you from buying the gold brick in politics you're reaching for now." "Wouldn't it be a good idea, Squire Thornton, to let us run our own business awhile? You've done it for fifty years." It was still another of the rebels that spoke. "If you had come to me like men, instead of playing hoodlums behind a lunatic and a sheep, I would have talked to you as men. But I say again you need a guardian." "We won't vote for you nor none you name. We've been woke up." The old man threw up both his hands and cracked his fingers into his palms. "And you're ready to take pap and paregoric from the first that come along, you infants!" "You're showing yourself now, Duke Thornton!" shouted Niles. "You've used us like you'd use school-boys for fifty years, but you ain't dared to brag of it till now!" Thornton strode out from among them. He tossed his big arms as though ridding himself of annoying insects. He had been stung out of self-control. It was not that he felt contempt for his people. He had always felt for them that sense of protection one assumes who has taken office from voters' hands for many years, has begged appropriations from the State treasury for them, has taken in hand their public affairs and administered them without bothering to ask advice. He realized all at once that jealousy and ingratitude must have been in their hearts for a long time. Now some influence had made them bold enough to display their feelings. Thornton had seen that sort of revolt many times before in the case of his friends in the public service. He had always felt pride in the belief that his own people were different--that his hold on them was that of the patriarch whom they loved and trusted. The shock of it! He kept his face from them as he toiled up the steps of the old house. Tears sparkled in his eyes, sudden tears that astonished him. For a moment he felt old and broken and childish, and was not surprised that they had detected the weakness of a failing old man. He would have gone into "The Barracks" without showing them his face, but on the porch he was forced to turn. Some one had arrived, and arrived tempestuously. It was the Hon. Luke Presson, Chairman of the State Committee. He stepped down out of his automobile and walked around the crowd, spatting his gloved hands together, and looking them over critically. So he came to Thelismer Thornton, waiting on the steps, and shook his hand. Mr. Presson was short and fat and rubicund, and, just now, plainly worried. "This was the last place I expected to have to jump into, Thelismer," he complained. "I know the bunch has been wanting to get at you, but I didn't believe they'd try. I see that you and your boys here realize that you're up against a fight!" He shuttled glances from face to face, and the general gloom impressed him. But it was plain that he did not understand that he was facing declared rebels. "They've slipped five thousand dollars in here, Thelismer," he went on, speaking low. "They'd rather lug off this caucus than any fifty districts in the State." "I don't believe there's men here that'll take money to vote against me," insisted Thornton. "But they've been lied to--that much I'll admit." "You've been king here too long, Thelismer. You take too much for granted. They're bunching their hits here, I tell you. There are fifty thousand straddlers in this State ready to jump into the camp of the men that can lick the Duke of Fort Canibas--it gives a h----l of a line on futures! I thought you had your eye out better." The deeper guile had masked itself behind such characters as Ivus Niles, and now Thornton realized it, and realized, too, to what a pass his trustful serenity, builded on the loyalty of the years, had brought him. That strained, strange look of grieved surprise went out of his face. He lighted a cigar, gazing at his constituents over his scooped hands that held the match. They stared at him, for his old poise had returned. "This is the chairman of our State Committee, boys," he said, "come up to look over the field. He says there's a rumor going that Thornton can't carry his caucus this year." The Duke dropped into his quizzical drawl now. "I was just telling my friend Luke that it's queer how rumors get started." He walked to the porch-rail and leaned over it, his shaggy head dominating them. And then he threw the challenge at them. "The caucus is going to be held in the other end of the village--not here in my front dooryard. You'd better get over there. I don't need any such clutter here. Get there quick. There may be some people that you'll want to warn. Tell 'em old Thornton hasn't lost his grip." He took Presson by the arm, and swung him hospitably in at the big door of "The Barracks." CHAPTER II THE LINE-UP OF THE FIGHT "That's too rough--too rough, that kind of talk, Thelismer," protested the State chairman. Thornton swung away from him and went to the window of the living-room and gazed out on his constituents. "You can't handle voters the way you used to--you've got to hair-oil 'em these days." Presson was no stranger in "The Barracks." But he walked around the big living-room with the fresh interest he always felt in the quaint place. Thornton stayed at the window, silent. The crowd had not left the yard--an additional insult to him. They were gathering around Niles and his sheep, and Niles was declaiming again. The broad room was low, its time-stained woods were dark, and the chairman wandered in its shadowy recesses like an uneasy ghost. "It isn't best to tongue-lash the boys that are for you," advised Presson, fretfully, "not this year, when reformers have got 'em filled up with a lot of skittish notions. Humor those that are _for_ you." "_For_ me?" snarled "the Duke," over his shoulder, and then he turned on Presson. "That bunch of mangy pups out there for _me?_ Why, Luke, that's opposition. And it's nasty, sneering, insulting opposition. I ought to go out there and blow them full of buckshot." He shook his fists at the gun-rack beside the moose head which flung its wide antlers above the fireplace. "Where's the crowd that's backing you--your own boys?" "Luke, I swear I don't know. I knew there was some growling in this district--there always is in a district. A man like Ivus Niles would growl about John the Baptist, if he came back to earth and went in for politics. But this thing, here, gets me!" He turned to the window once more. "There's men out there I thought I could reckon on like I'd tie to my own grandson, and they're standing with their mouths open, whooping on that old blatherskite." Chairman Presson went and stood with him at the window, hands in trousers pockets, chinking loose silver and staring gloomily through the dusty panes. "It's hell to pave this State, and no hot pitch ready," he observed. "I've known it was bad. I knew they meant you. I warned you they were going to get in early and hit hard in this district--but I didn't realize it was as bad as this. They're calling it reform, but I tell you, Thelismer, there's big money and big men sitting back in the dark and rubbing the ears of these prohibition pussies and tom-cats. It's a State overturn that they're playing for!" He began to stride around the big room. In two of the corners stuffed black bears reared and grinned at each other. In opposite corners loup-cerviers stared with unwinking eyes of glass, lips drawn over their teeth. "I'm running across something just as savage-looking in every political corner of this State," he muttered, "and the trouble is those outside of here are pretty blame much alive." Niles was shouting without, and men were cheering his harangue. "There used to be some sensible politics in this State," went on the disgusted chairman. "But it's got so now that a State committee is called on to consult a lot of cranks before drawing up the convention platform. Even a fellow in the legislature can't do what he wants to for the boys; cranks howling at him from home all the time. Candidates pumped for ante-election pledges, petitions rammed in ahead of every roll-call, lobby committees from the farmers' associations tramping around the State House in their cowhide boots, and a good government angel peeking in at every committee-room keyhole! Jeemsrollickins! Jim Blaine, himself, couldn't play the game these days." If Thornton listened, he gave no sign. He had his elbows on the window-sill and was glowering on his constituents. They seemed determined to keep up the hateful serenade. It was hard for the old man to understand. But he did understand human nature--how dependence breeds resentment, how favors bestowed hatch sullen ingratitude, how jealousy turns and rends as soon as Democracy hisses, "At him!" There was a dingy wall map beside him between the windows. A red line surrounded a section of it: two towns, a dozen plantations, and a score of unorganized townships--a thousand square miles of territory that composed his political barony. And on that section double red lines marked off half a million acres of timber-land, mountain, plain, and lake that Thelismer Thornton owned. Chairman Presson, walking off his indignation, came and stood in front of the map. "Between you and me, Thelismer, they've got quite a lot to grumble about, the farmers have. You wild-land fellows have grabbed a good deal, and you don't pay much taxes on it. You ought to have loosened a little earlier." "You feel the cold water on your feet and you lay it to me rocking the boat, hey?" returned the Duke. "This is no time to begin to call names, Luke. But I want to tell you that where there's one man in this State grumbling about wild-land taxes, there are a hundred up and howling against you and the rest of the gilt-edged hotel-keepers that are selling rum and running bars just as though there wasn't any prohibitory law in our constitution." He had turned from the window. "You're looking at that map, eh? You think I've stolen land, do you? Look here! I came down that river out there on a raft--just married--my wife and a few poor little housekeeping traps on it. We never had a comfort till we got to the age where most folks die. I've had to live to be eighty-five to get a little something out of life. And she worked herself to death in spite of all I could say to stop her. Why, when the bill of sale fell due on the first pair of oxen I owned, she gave me the three hundred old-fashioned cents that she--don't get me to talking, Presson! But, by the Jehovah, I've earned that land up there! Dollars don't pay up a man and a woman for being pioneers. I'm not twitting you nor some of the rest of the men in this State in regard to how you got your money--but you know how you did get it!" "We've stood by you on the tax question." "And I've stood by you against the prohibition ramrodders, who were foolish enough to think that rumshops ought to be shut up because the law said so; and I've stood with the corporations and I've stood with the politicians, and played the game according to the rules. From the minute you came into my dooryard to-day you've acted as though you thought I'd stirred this whole uproar in the State." "Did you ever know a man to get anywhere in politics if he didn't play the game--honesty or no honesty?" "Yes, a few--they got there, but they didn't stay there long," replied the Duke, a flicker of humor in his wistfulness. "You bet they didn't," agreed the chairman. "Thelismer, I'm just as honest as the world will let me be and succeed! But when a man gets to be perfectly honest in politics, and tries to lead his crowd at the same time, they turn around and swat him. I reckon he makes human nature ashamed of itself, and folks want to get him out of sight." "I know," agreed the old man, and he looked out again on Niles and his audience. "The tough part of it is, Presson, those men out there are right--at bottom. They're playing traitor to me and acting like infernal fools, and I wouldn't let them know that I thought them anything else. But I'd like to step out there, Luke, and say, 'Boys, you're right. I've been working you. I've done you a lot of favors, I've brought a lot of benefits home to this district, but I've been looking after myself, and standing in with the bunch that has got the best things of the State tied up in a small bundle. I've only done what every successful politician has done--played the game. But you're right. Now go ahead and clean the State.'" "You don't mean to say you'd do that?" demanded Presson, looking his old friend over pityingly. "Luke, _I mean_ that--but I don't intend to _do_ it, not by a blame sight! I don't believe you ever realized that I was really honest deep down. I have told you something from the bottom of my heart. But"--he held out his big hands and closed and unclosed them--"if I should ever let them loose that way they'd be picked up before they'd gone forty feet by some other fellow that might be hollering reform and not be half as honest as I am." He shoved his hands in his pockets and squinted shrewdly, and spoke with his satiric drawl. "There was old Lem Ferguson. Lem got to reading books about soul transmigration or something of the kind, and turned to and let all his critters loose. Said that one living being didn't have any right to enslave another living being. Told them to go and be free. And somebody put his steers in the pound, and vealed two calves and sold 'em, and milked his cows, and stole his sheep, and ripped the tags out of their ears and sheared 'em for what wool they had. Luke, I'm no relative of Lem Ferguson's when it comes to practical politics. I know just as well as you do who's trying to steal this State, a hunk at a time. They've had the nerve to tackle my district. But if they think that I'm going to ungrip and let them grab it they've got a wrong line on old Thornton's sheepfold." "What do you need in the way of help?" asked the State chairman. "Nothing." Thornton turned again to survey his unruly flock. It was plain that they were baiting their overlord. Presson's acumen in politics enlightened him. An angry man may be made to antagonize the neutrals and even to insult his friends--and Thelismer Thornton was not patient when provoked. There was shrewd management behind this revolt. Suddenly the yard was full of men, new arrivals. It was an orderly little army, woodsmen with meal-sack packs, an incoming crew on its march to the woods. A big man plodded ahead and marshalled them. Thornton hastened out upon the porch, and the chairman followed. The big man halted his crew, and leaned his elbows on the porch rail. "Thought I'd walk 'em early in the cool of the day," he explained, "and lay off here for dinner and a rest. Pretty good lot of gash-fiddlers, there, Mr. Thornton. I picked the market for you." "And I'll sample 'em right now," said the Duke, grimly. "Ben, tell 'em to drop those duffel-bags and rush that gang of steers out of my yard." He pointed at the flock of constituents. Niles had begun fresh harangue in regard to despots, addressing the new arrivals. They did not seem to be especially interested. There were a few long-legged Prince Edward Islanders, but most of them were wiry little French Canadians, who did not seem to understand much of the orator's tumultuous speech. "If you've got a crew that's any good on a log-landing, we'll find it out," added the Duke. "Get at 'em!" "Good gaddlemighty!" gasped Presson, "you ain't going to do anything like that!" "You watch." "Politics?" queried the big boss, swinging about to go to his crew. He grinned. It was evident that he considered that anything under that general head was in the Duke's supreme control, and that his employer's orders absolved him. "It's just what they've been trying to prod into you--it's their game," adjured Presson, beating expostulating palms upon Thornton's breast. "Then it has worked," the old man replied, calmly. He pushed the chairman aside. "Rush'em, Ben, and, if they don't go easy, toss 'em over the fence." The big boss sauntered among his crew and growled a few crisp commands. The smile he wore gave the affair the appearance of a lark, and the woodsmen took it in that spirit. But the mob was sullen. Those who were not active rebels had been stung by the contempt that their leader now displayed. Some resisted when the woodsmen pushed them half playfully. A burly fellow stood his ground. Ivus Niles lurked at his back. "The folks up in the Jo Quacca Mountains will snicker in good shape when I tell 'em that Fightin' MacCracken let himself be dumped out of Duke Thornton's dooryard by a pack of lard-eating Quedaws," he sneered in the giant's ear. MacCracken swept away the first three men with swinging cuffs. He was thinking of his reputation at home. The taunt pricked him. "Call 'em off--call 'em off, sir," pleaded Davis. "I've been trying to get these men out of your yard. I don't approve of Niles. Let's have our politics clean, Mr. Thornton. I'm willing to argue with you. But don't let's have it said outside that Fort Canibas' politics is run by plug-uglies." "He's right, Thelismer; you're letting them score a point on you," protested Presson. But Thornton had been too grievously wounded that day to be able to listen to peace measures. He strode down off the porch, shouting commands. His men were willing, and MacCracken's defiance gave them the provocation they wanted. "If it's fight you're looking for, you spike-horn stag," announced the boss, bursting through the press to reach the Jo Quacca champion, "we can open a full assortment, and no trouble to show goods." He knocked MacCracken flat, reaching over the heads of the smaller men, and the next moment the Canadians swarmed on the fallen gladiator like flies, lifted him and tossed him into the road. The rest of the mob escaped. Niles's emblematic buck sheep, cropping the grass in the fence corner, was tossed out behind the fugitives. "I was hoping there'd be a little more cayenne in it," complained the big boss, scrubbing his knuckles against his belted jacket. "Come out in the road where it ain't private ground owned by the old land-grabber," pleaded MacCracken. "I'll meet you somewhere, Ben Kyle, where it'll have to be a fair stand-up." But Kyle gave him no further attention. "Take the boys into the ram pasture," directed his employer. He pointed to a long, low addition in the rear of "The Barracks," the shelter that served for the housing of the Thorntons' crews, migratory to or from the big woods. "I'll bring out a present. I guess you've got a good, able crew there, Ben." Chairman Presson followed the old man back into the mansion. He was angry, and made his sentiment known, but Thornton was stubborn. "There may be another way of running this district just at this time, Luke, but this is _my_ way of running it, and I'm going to control that caucus. So what are you growling about?" He was opening a closet in the wall. "But you're starting a scandal--and they'll get so stirred up that they'll put an independent ticket into the field. You'll have to fight 'em all over again at the polls. You're rasping them too hard." "Luke, there are a lot of things you know about down-country politics, and perhaps you know more than I do about politics in general. But there's a rule in seafaring that holds good in politics. If you're trying to ratch off a lee shore it's no time to be pulling down your canvas." He took a jug out of the closet, and went to the low building. The chairman followed along, not comforted. The woodsmen had piled their duffel-bags in corners and were waiting. There were long tables up and down the centre of the room. They were flanked by benches. The tables were furnished with tin plates, tin pannikins, knives, and two-tined forks. The big boss had already given his orders. He and his crew had been expected. Men were hustling food onto the tables. There were great pans heaped with steaming baked beans, dark with molasses sweetening, gobbets of white pork flecking the mounds. Truncated cones of brownbread smoked here and there on platters. Cubes of gingerbread were heaped high in wooden bowls, and men went along the tables filling the pannikins with hot tea. The kitchen was in a leanto, and the cook was pulling tins of hot biscuits from the oven. There was not a woman in sight about "The Barracks." There had been none for years. Those men in the dirty canvas aprons were maids, cooks, and housekeepers. It was hospitality rude and lavish. That low, dark room with its tiers of bunks along the four sides, its heaped tables, its air of uncalculated plenty, housed the recrudescence of feudalism in Yankee surroundings. And the lord of the manor set his jug at one end of the table and ordered the big boss to pipe all hands to grog. "A pretty good lot, Ben," he commented as they crowded around. "And this here is something in the way of appreciation." "Mr. Harlan coming out here to meet me, or am I going in and hunt him up?" inquired Kyle. "I suppose he has located most of the operations for next season." "You'll take them in. Harlan won't be out for a while." He turned and walked away, the chairman with him. "Your grandson seems to be as much in love with the woods as ever," commented Presson. "But I shouldn't think you'd want him to associate with this kind of cattle all his life, herding Canuck goats on a logging operation. You've got money enough, the two of you. He ought to get out into the world, find an up-to-date girl for a wife, and get married." Thornton had led the way out into the sunshine, and was strolling about the yard, hands behind his back. "Luke," he confided after a few moments, "you've just tapped me where I'm tender. Look here, if it was just me and me only that this hoorah here to-day was hitting, I'd tell 'em to take their damnation nomination and make it a cock-horse for any reformer that wants to ride. I'd do it, party or no party! But the minute it leaked out that I was putting Harlan up for the caucus they turned on me. And now I propose to show 'em." The chairman stopped and stared at his friend. That piece of news had not reached him till then. "You don't mean to tell me," he demanded, "that you're going to take this time of all others to swap horses? Why, Harlan Thornton can't play politics! He doesn't know--" "He don't need to. I'll play it for him. Between you and me, Luke, he doesn't even know yet that he's going to run for the legislature. I'm keeping him up in the woods so that he won't know. He's one of those stiff-necked young colts that wants to do only what he wants to do in a good many things." He added the last with a growl of disgust. "And he won't allow that any old man can tell him a few things that he doesn't know." "Now, Thelismer," protested the chairman, "I don't know anything about what's going on in your family, here, and I don't care. I know your grandson is a straight and square young chap, a worker, and a good business man, but he's no politician. I'm not going to stand for his butting in at this stage of the game." "He isn't butting in. I'm throwing him in, like I'd train a puppy to swim," retorted the old man, calmly. "And, furthermore, what business of yours is it, anyway?" "I'm chairman of the State committee." "And I'm the boss of this legislative district. Now, hold on, Luke." He bent over and planted his two big hands on the chairman's shoulders. "Harlan is all I've got. He's always been a steady, hustling boy. But to get him out of these woods and smoothed up like I want him smoothed up has been worse than rooting up old Katahdin. I've been pioneer enough for both of us. I don't propose to have him spend the rest of his life here. First off, he thought it was his duty to me to take the business burden off my shoulders. Now he's got into the life, and won't stand for anything else. And the only thing I care for under God's heavens at my age is to have him be something in this State. He's got the looks and the brains and the money! And he's going to be something! And I'm going to see him started on the way. God knows where I'll be two years from now. You can't reckon on much after eighty. To-day I'm feeling pretty healthy." There was a bite in his tone. "And I'm going to nominate Harlan for the legislature, and then I'm going to elect him. I'm going to see him started right before I die." "And he doesn't want to go, and the voters don't want him to go," lamented Presson. "You're only trying to bull through a political slack-wire exhibition for your own amusement--and this whole State on the hair-trigger! By the mighty, it isn't right. I won't stand for it!" The Duke started for the front of the mansion. "And, furthermore, Thelismer, if you're willing to run a chance of tipping over the politics of this State for the sake of giving your grandson a course of sprouts, you're losing your mind in your old age, and ought to be taken care of." Thornton turned and bestowed a grim smile on his angry friend. "Presson, I've stood by the machine a good many years. Now, if I can't stand for a little business of my own without a riot, bring on your riot. I'll lick you in that caucus with one hand while I'm licking that dirty bunch of rebels with the other. I've got my reasons for what I'm doing." "Give me a good reason, then," begged the chairman. "Killing off your friends for the sake of giving Harlan Thornton a liberal education doesn't appeal to me." "My real reason wouldn't, either--not just now," returned the Duke, enigmatically. At that moment half a dozen gaunt hounds raced around the corner of "The Barracks." They leaped at Thornton playfully, daubing his crash suit with their dusty paws. He seemed to recognize them. He cursed them and kicked them away savagely. CHAPTER III DENNIS KAVANAGH'S GIRL A rangy roan horse followed the dogs, galloping so wildly that when his rider halted him his hoofs tore up the turf as he slid. A girl rode him. She was mounted astride, and Presson had to look twice at her to make sure she was a girl, for she wore knickerbockers and gaiters, and her copper-red hair curled so crisply that it seemed as short as a boy's. "Good-morning, Mr. Duke," she called. "Is Harlan down from the woods yet?" The old man turned to march off after a scornful glance at her. He kicked away another dog. Then he whirled and stepped back toward her. It was anger and not courtesy that impelled him. "He isn't here, and he won't be here. And how many times more have I got to tell you not to be impertinent to me?" "How, Mr. Duke?" "By that infernal nickname," he stormed. "Young woman, I've told you to stay on your side of the river, and you--" "Really you ought to be called 'Duke' if you order folks off the earth that way," she cried, saucily. "But I did not come to see you, Mr. Duke. I came to see Harlan. Has he got home yet?" She swung sideways on her horse and nursed her slender ankle across her knee. It was plain that she had expected this reception, and knew how to meet it. She gazed at him serenely from big, gray eyes. She smiled and held her head a little to one side, her nose tiptilted a bit, giving her an aggravatingly teasing expression. "I tell you he's not here, and he won't be here." "Oh yes, he will. For"--she smiled more broadly, and there was malice in her eyes--"I sent word to him to come, and he's coming." "You sent word to him, you red-headed Irish cat? What do you mean?" The lord of Fort Canibas strode close to her, passion on his face. Presson could see that this was no suddenly evoked quarrel between the two. It was hostility reawakened. "I mean that I'm looking out for the interests of Harlan when those at home are plotting against him. I hear the news. I listen to news for him, when he's away in the big woods. And I'm not going to let you send him off down to any old prison of a legislature, where he'll be spoiled for his friends up here. And he doesn't want to go. And he'll be here, Mr. Duke, to see that you don't trade him off into your politics." She delivered her little speech resolutely, and gave him back his blistering gaze without winking. "Oh, my God, if you were--were only Ivus Niles, or Beelzebub himself sitting there on that horse," Thornton gasped. "You--you--" he turned away from her maddening smile and stamped about on the turf. The hounds still played around him, persistent in their attentions. He kicked at them. "It suits me to be just Clare Kavanagh, Mr. Duke--and I'm not afraid of you!" "Kyle--ho there, Kyle!" The big boss came out of the "ram pasture," wiping food fragments from his beard. "Get a rifle and shoot these dogs. Clean 'em out! Take two men and ride this Irish imp across the river where she belongs." Kyle balked. His face showed it. Presson had never seen his old friend in such a fury. He menaced the girl with his fists as though about to forget that she was a woman. But she did not retreat. The picture was that of the kitten and the mastiff. Her sparkling eyes followed him. The scarlet of an anger as ready as his own leaped to the soft curves of her cheeks. "You've got my orders, Kyle. I stand behind them." Without taking her eyes off Thornton, the girl reached behind her and jerked a revolver from its holster. "You shoot my dogs, Kyle, and I'll shoot you." In her tones there was none of the hysteria that usually spices feminine threats. She was angry, but her voice was grimly level. She had the poise of one who had learned to depend on her own resolute spirit. But she displayed something more than that. It was recklessness that was bravado. In the eyes of the State chairman, friend of Thornton, and accustomed to a milder form of femininity, it was impudence. Yet her beauty made its appeal to him. The old man lunged toward her, but the politician seized his arm. "Thelismer," he protested, "you are going too far. I don't know the girl, or what the main trouble is, but you're acting like a ten-year-old." Thelismer Thornton knew it, and the knowledge added to his helpless rage. He pulled himself out of Presson's grasp. He began to revile the girl in language that made Presson set his little eyes open and purse his round mouth. "Damn it, you don't understand," roared the Duke, whirling on his friend. Presson had faced him at last with protest that stung. "I know it's no kind of talk to use to any one. I'm no ruffian. I'm ashamed to have to use it. But the other kind don't work--not with her. Land-pirate Kavanagh is welcome to the ten thousand acres of timber-land that he stole from me; but when his red-head daughter proposes to steal my grandson, and laugh at me to my face while she's doing it, she'll take what I have to give her if she wants to stay and listen. Look at her, Presson! Look at her! Is that the kind of a girl for any young chap? A rattlebrained imp with a horse between her knees from daylight to dark, riding the country wild, insulting old age, and laughing at me and putting the devil into the head of my grandson! Kyle, get your men and run her across the river into her Canuck country! She isn't even an American citizen, Luke. Do you hear me, Kyle?" Presson saw that the girl was not looking at her enemy then. From the back of her horse she could see farther up the road than they. She had spied a horseman coming. She recognized him. She uttered a shrill call that he understood, for he forced his horse into a gallop, and came into the yard before Thornton had gathered himself to continue his tirade. The Duke had seen his grandson almost as soon as she, and the passion went out of his face. He looked suddenly old and tired and troubled. There was appeal in the gaze he turned on his grandson. He stepped forward. "Don't let her make any more trouble between us, Harlan, not till you understand how she--" But the girl forestalled him. She had fought her battle alone until he came. She slid off her horse and ran across the yard, sobbing like a child. And now Presson saw how young she was. On her horse, defiant almost to the point of impudence, she had a manner that belied her years. But when she fled to her champion, she was revealed as only a little girl with a child's impulsiveness in speech and action. The young man slipped his foot from a stirrup and held his hand to her. She sprang to him, standing in the stirrup. "He called me wicked names, Harlan! I was only trying to help you. I wanted you to come, for I thought you ought to know! You've come. I knew you'd come. You won't let him send you away. You'll not let him call me those names ever again!" He gently swung her down, alighted and faced his grandfather. He had the stalwart frame of Thelismer Thornton, and with it the poise of youth, clean-limbed, bronzed, and erect. He flashed a pair of indignant brown eyes at the old man. The Duke recognized the Thornton challenge to battle in the sparkle of those eyes. "Let's talk this over by ourselves, Harlan," he advised. "Send the girl along about her business. She has messed things between us badly enough as it is." "Have you been talking to this poor little girl as she tells me you have talked?" demanded young Thornton, narrowing his eyes. "That isn't the tone to use to me, boy," warned the Duke. There had been appeal in his face and his voice at the beginning. But this disloyalty in the presence of the girl pricked him. She was still in the hook of Harlan's arm, and from that vantage-point flung a glance of childishly ingenuous triumph at him. "Not that tone from grandson to grandfather." "It's man to man just now, sir. You know how I feel toward this little friend of mine. If you have abused our friendship here at our home, you'll apologize, grandfather or no grandfather--and that's the first disrespectful word I ever gave you, sir. But this is a case where I have the right to speak." The Duke stiffened and his face was gray. "I talked to her the way Land-pirate Kavanagh's daughter ought to be talked to when she comes here mocking me. Now, Harlan, if you want this in the open instead of in private, where it ought to be, I'll give it to you straight from the shoulder. You're not going to marry that girl. She shan't steal you and spoil you. I've told you so before. I give it to you now before witnesses." The girl ran toward him. She was furious. It was evident that shame as well as anger possessed her. "Have I ever said I wanted to marry your grandson? Has he ever said he wanted to marry me? Is it because you have such a wicked old mind that you think we cannot always be the true friends we have been? I do not want a husband. But I have a friend, and you shall not take him away from me!" "You have heard, sir. Do you realize how you have insulted both of us? You shall apologize, Grandfather Thornton!" For reply the old man walked up to him, snapped the fingers of both hands under his nose, and walked away. "Give me ten words more of that talk and I'll take you across my knee," he called over his shoulder. "There are some men that never grow old enough to get beyond the spanking age." Presson, interested spectator, looked for the natural outburst of youth at that point. But he stared at the young man, and decided that he truly had inherited the Thornton grit and self-restraint which the Duke seemed now to have lost all at once after all the years. Harlan gazed after his grandfather, lips tightening. He was an embodiment of wholesome young manhood, as he stood there, struggling with the passion that prompted him to unfilial reproaches. Then he turned to the girl. He had a wistful smile for her. "I'm sorry, little Clare," he said, softly. She slipped her hands under the belt of his corduroy jacket and gazed up at him tearfully. "He had no right to say that I--that I--oh, he doesn't understand friendship!" she cried. "No, and we'll not try to explain--not now! But I have some serious matters to talk over with my grandfather. Ride home, dear; I'll see you before I go back to the woods again." "And you _are_ going back to the woods? You are not going to let them send you away where you'll forget your best friends?" "I never shall forget my friends. And I can't believe that you heard right, little girl. My grandfather will not put me in politics. Don't worry. I'll straighten it all out before I leave." He lifted her to her horse and sent her away with a pat. She went unprotesting, with a trustful smile. The hounds raced wildly after her. "Woof!" remarked the Hon. Luke Presson to himself, "there's a kitten that's been fed on plenty of raw meat!" And as he always compared all women with his daughter, reigning beauty of the State capital, he added: "I'd like to have Madeleine get a glimpse of that. She'd be glad that it's the style to bring girls up on a cream diet." He hurried away behind Harlan, who had given him rather curt greeting, and had followed the Duke around to the front of the house. The old man was tramping the porch from end to end. The boarding creaked under him as he strode, his gait a lurch that moved one side of his body at a time. The smoke from his cigar streamed past his ears. It was silent at the front of the big house, and in that silence the three of them could hear the occasional shouts that greeted demagogic oratory down in the village. The comment of the lord of Canibas was the anathema that he growled to himself. His grandson faced him twice on his turns along the porch, protest in his demeanor. But the old man brushed past. "Grandfather, I want a word with you," Harlan ventured at last. "You talk girl to me just now, young fellow, and you won't find it safe!" He marched on, and the grandson resolutely waited his return. "I'm going to talk business, sir. I want this thing understood. Is it true what I hear? Do you propose to put my name before that caucus? I want to say--" But the old man strode away from him again. "He says he's going to do it, and it's fool business," confided Presson. "You've got to stop him. There's no reason in it." "I've got _my_ reasons. If you don't know enough to see 'em, it isn't my fault," snapped the Duke, passing them and overhearing. "Then I've got this to say." The young man stopped his grandfather--as big, as determined, as passionate--Thornton against Thornton. "I'll not go to the legislature." The old man shouted his reply. "I don't know as you will, you tote-road mule, you! But, by the suffering Herod, they'll have to show _me_ first!" He elbowed his grandson aside and kept on pacing the porch. CHAPTER IV THE DUKE AT BAY After that outburst Presson went away by himself to sulk. Young Thornton made no further protest. He stared at his grandfather, trying to comprehend what it meant--this bitterness, this savage resentment, this arbitrary authority that took no heed of his own wishes. He had always known a calm, kindly, sometimes caustic, but never impatient Thelismer Thornton. This old man, surly, domineering, and unreasonable, was new to him. And after a little while, worried and saddened, he went away. His presence seemed to stir even more rancor as the moments passed. Presson understood better, but could not forgive the bullheadedness that seemed to be wrecking their political plans. His own political training had taught him the benefits of compromise. He was angry at this old man who proposed to go down fighting among the fallen props of a lifetime of power. And even though Presson now understood better some of the motives that prompted the Duke to force young Harlan out into the world, his political sensibilities were more acute than his sympathy. Therefore the beleaguered lord of Canibas was left to fight it out alone. He stood at the end of the porch and listened to the menacing sounds of the village. He glared down the long street and grunted, "Grinding their knives, eh?" Evidently the centrifugal motion of the political machine down there was violent enough to throw off one lively spark. A man came up the road at a brisk gait, stamped across the yard, and went direct to the Duke, who waited for him at the far end of the porch. He did not glance at Presson or at Harlan Thornton. "Did you ever _see_ anything like it, did you ever _hear_ anything like it, Honor'ble?" the new arrival demanded with heat. "They're goin' to make a caucus out of it--a _caucus_!" The man had a lower jaw edged with a roll of black whisker, a jaw that protruded like a bulldog's. With the familiarity of the long-time lieutenant, he pecked with thumb and forefinger at the end of a cigar protruding from his chief's waistcoat-pocket. He wrenched off the tip between snaggy teeth. He spat the tip far. "Yes, sir, by jehoshaphat, a caucus!" Chairman Presson's ear had caught the sound of politics. He felt that he was entitled, ex officio, to be present at any conference. He hurried to the end of the porch. "We ain't had a caucus in this district for more'n forty years," stated the new arrival, accepting the chairman as a friend of the cause. "Except as the chairman catches the seckertery somewhere and then hollers for some one to come in from the street and renominate the Honor'ble Thornton. But, dammit, this is going to be a _caucus_." The word seemed suddenly to have acquired novel meaning for him. "They must have been pussy-footin' for a month. You could have knocked me down with your cigar-butt, Squire, when I got in here to-day and found how she stood. If it hadn't been for War Eagle Ivus and his buck sheep breakin' out, they'd have ambuscaded ye, surer'n palm-leaf fans can't cool the kitchen o' hell. But even as it is--hoot and holler now, and tag-gool-I-see-ye, they say they've got you licked, and licked in the open--that's what they say!" The man's tone was that of one announcing the blotting-out of the stars. "Walt Davis bragged about it," said the old man, outwardly calm, but eyes ablaze. "It must be a pretty sure thing when he's got the courage to crawl out from under the wagon and yap." "Good God!" blurted the chairman of the State Committee, "you don't mean to tell _me_!" "It's the ramrodders! They've been up here, one or two of the old cock ones, workin' under cover," stated the unswerving one. "About once in so often the people are ripe to be picked. They've mebbe had drought, chilblains, lost a new milch cow, and had a note come due--and some one that's paid to do it tells 'em that it's all due to the political ring--and then they begin to club the tree! But standing here spittin' froth about it ain't convertin' the heathern nor cooperin' them that imagine vain things. Now here's what _I've_ done, grabbin' in so's to lose no time. I--" "No, just tell me what the _other_ side has done," commanded the Duke. "First place, they've got names in black and white of enough Republicans to down you in caucus. They've got 'em, them ramrodders have! I've hairpinned the truth out o' the cracks! They've been sayin' that you've only wanted your office so as to dicker and trade, and make yourself and them in your political bunch richer; they're showin' figgers to prove that much; sayin' you brag you carry our district in your vest-pocket; sayin' everything to stir up the bile that's in every man when you know how to stir for it. Furthermore, Squire, the fact that you're gettin' out yourself and proposin' to put your grandson in gives 'em their chance to say a lot. Next place, this is goin' to be a _caucus_. It ain't any imitation. They're goin' to use a marked check-list." "_What?_" roared the Honorable Thelismer, jarred out of his baleful calm. "Yes, sir! They've pulled the town clerk into camp and have had him mark a list. And you can imagine who they picked out as Republican voters in this town! And they'll stand and challenge every one else till their throats are sore. You and me has cut up a few little innocent tricks in politics in our time, Squire, but we never framed anything quite as tidy as this for a steal. If your friend, here, is in politics, he--" "I'm Presson, chairman of the State Committee," explained that gentleman. The Duke of Fort Canibas was too much absorbed to make presentations. "Hell! That so?" ripped out the other, frankly astonished. "Well, I'm glad you're here. You ought to be able to help us out." Presson was not cheerful or helpful. "They're slashing this whole State open from one end to the other with their devilish reform hullabaloo," he said. "I hear there _is_ quite a stir outside," agreed the agitator, blandly. He looked the chairman up and down with interest. "You may call me Sylvester--Talleyrand Sylvester. Yankee dickerer! Buy and sell everything from a clap o' thunder to a second-hand gravestone. It brings me round the country up here, and so I've been the Squire's right-hand man in the political game, such as there's been of it." He turned his back on the pondering Duke and continued, sotto voce: "I reckon if he'd stayed in himself, Colonel, they wouldn't have had the courage to tackle him. They might have hit him with that whole stockin'ful of mud they've been collectin', and he wouldn't have staggered. But when they go to hit the young feller, there, with it, he's down and out." "Eh!" barked the magnate of Canibas, catching the last words. "I am? Not by a--" He broke off, ashamed of wasting effort in mere boasts. "Presson," he went on, evidently now intent on proceeding according to the plan that he had been meditating, "you've got your own interest in seeing me keep this district in line, haven't you?" "You're the head of our row of bricks," bleated the chairman. "We've got to keep you standing--got to do it." "Then we'll get busy." The old man threw back his shoulders. "Carrying a caucus the way we've probably got to carry this one at the last gasp isn't going to be a genteel entertainment." He tapped a stubby finger on the honorable chairman's shirt-front. "I'm going to raise some very particular hell." He turned to his lieutenant. "The boys right in the village, here, our own bunch, are all right, of course, Sylvester?" "Stickin' to you like pitch in a spruce crack, as usual. It's the outsiders from the other sections in the district. They hadn't known what a caucus was till them ramrodders got after 'em." "Can't they be handled now that they're in here?" "Have been lied to already too skilful and thorough. Me and Whisperin' Urban and a few others of the boys blew the haydust out of their ears, and tried to inject the usual--but they can't hold any more. They've got to be unloaded first--and there ain't time to do it." "And you're pretty sure they can swing the organization when the caucus is called?" demanded the Duke. "Two to one--and our men ain't got a smell on that check-list they've doctored. Why, they've even got _me_ marked 'Socialist.' You can imagine what they've done to the rest of the boys. It's one o'clock now." (He had looked at four watches, one after the other, a part of his dickerer's stock-in-trade.) "In an hour and fifteen minutes they'll be organized and votin' by check-list. I ain't a man to give up easy, Squire, but I swear it looks as though they had us headed so far on the homestretch that we ain't near enough to trip 'em or bust a sulky wheel on 'em." "You've got more than an hour's leeway." It was a soft lisp of sound that startled the group. The man had come by devious ways through the gullies of the Thornton field, around the corner of "The Barracks," and upon the porch. Those who knew him declared that "Whispering Urban" Cobb never walked by the straight way when there was a crooked one by which he could dodge around. "No, they can't get a-goin' at no two o'clock," he assured them. A drooping gray mustache curtained his mouth, drooping gray eyebrows shaded his eyes, and he crowded very close to them and whispered, "I've stole the call for the caucus, and they'll hunt for it about half an hour, and then they'll have to round the committee up and get 'em to sign another, and have constables swear that the other call was posted--and, well, they won't get going much before four." The Duke looked at him indulgently. "I took it on myself to do it. I reckoned you might need the extra time, seein' that they was tryin' to spring a trap on you." He took the cigar that the Duke offered him in lieu of praise. "Bein' sure of that much time--if you'll see to it that they're regular about the call!" Mr. Cobb cocked inquiring eye at the old man. "I'll see to it," stated Thornton, grimly. "Well, then, bein' sure of that time, I'll--Mr. Thornton, would you object if I was to start in this afternoon on the contract of clearing up that slash where you operated on Jo Quacca last winter? Of course, this ain't just the best kind of weather for bonfires, but--the fire will certainly burn!" His whispering voice gave the suggestion ominous significance. The Hon. Thelismer Thornton stared for a moment at Cobb, and then looked up at the heights that shimmered in the beating sun. "You may start in, Cobb," he said at last. His perception of what the man meant came instantly. He had hesitated while he figured chances. "Take fifty of those men out behind there," his thumb jerked over his shoulder. "Give every man a shovel, and see that it doesn't get away from you. More smoke than fire, see!" Mr. Cobb hastened away. The duller comprehension of the chairman of the State Committee had not grasped the significance of the conversation. "I'd let business wait till politics are finished, Thelismer," he chided. "There is such a thing as running the two on a double track," returned Mr. Thornton, serene but non-committal. He whirled on Sylvester, his mien that of the commander-in-chief disposing his forces in the face of the enemy: "Talleyrand, you'll find fifty more quedaws out there after Cobb takes his pick. Take them down to Aunt Charette's and have her set out her best. And keep 'em well bunched and handy!" He reached through an open window and filled the pockets of his crash suit with cigars from a box on a stand. "Now, Luke," he invited, blandly, "let's go to a legislative district caucus. I haven't bothered to attend one for a good many years, but this one on the docket now gives signs of being interesting." They walked down the dusty road toward the village. The State chairman was silent, with the air of a man pondering matters he does not understand; but the Hon. Thelismer Thornton beamed upon all he met. Having a certainty to deal with, and a tangible enemy in sight, he seemed at ease. He felt like one who has recovered from dizzying blows and is on trail of the enemy who dealt them. He was himself again. A few of those he met he greeted with especial cordiality. To some he gave cigars, not with the air of one seeking favor, not with the cheap generosity of the professional politician, but with the manner of one taking paternal interest in the conduct of a good child. It was an act that seemed to go with his handclasp and smile. He caught the State chairman looking at him rather doubtfully on one of these occasions. "The folks understand this thing up here," he said. "When those chaps were young ones I used to give them a stick of candy. Now that they are grown up I hand 'em a cigar--got into the habit and can't stop. Or else I send 'em around to Aunt Charette's and have it put on my account. Wicked performance, I suppose, and so the old ladies tell me. But I was born in the old rum-and-molasses times, Luke, when the liquor thing sort of run itself, and didn't give so many cheap snoozers a job on one side or the other." "What's this Aunt Charette's you're talking about?" asked the chairman. "An institution!" The Duke enjoyed the puzzled stare the little man rolled up at him. "I reckon you think you've solved the liquor question in this prohibition State at that hotel bar of yours, Luke. I've solved it in my own way up here. Aunt Charette's is an institution that I've founded. Come and look at it." He led the way off the main street. There was a cottage at the end of a lane, tree-embowered, neat with fresh white paint and blinds of vivid green. An old man sat in an arm-chair under one of the trees. He wore gold earrings and an old-style coat with brass buttons. "Uncle Charette," explained the Duke, as they passed him. "Simply a lawn ornament." He led the way into the house without knocking. "And this is Aunt Charette," he volunteered. In the centre of the spotless fore-room a ponderous woman rocked in her huge chair and knitted placidly. She was a picture of peaceful prosperity in black silk gown and gold-bowed spectacles. "And here's the nature of Aunt Charette's institution." He pointed to an open cupboard in which there were many bottles. "Oh! your local liquor agency," hazarded the chairman. "No, sir! Aunt Charette's own dispensary for the ills of the mind and fatigues of the body, and run according to my own notions. It beats your bar and white jackets, Luke, or that solemn farce of cheap liquors and robber prices of the State agency system. You come in here, if you are not a drunkard or a minor or a pauper--and Aunt Charette knows 'em all--and you go to the cupboard and get your drink, or you go out there in the store-room and get your bottle, and hand the change to Aunt Charette and walk away. No other rumshop tolerated in the section, and pocket peddlers run out of town on a rail! No treating, no foolishness, no fraud. Pays her fine twice a year without going to court, the same as you. And no extras!" He smiled at the chairman significantly. "No extras, eh!" mused Mr. Presson, enviously. "You must have a different crowd of county officers than we've got down our way." "Perhaps so," admitted the old man, and then he allowed himself a bit of a boast; "but the secret is, you see, this little institution is something I've taken under my own wing." It was an ill-starred moment for that honest boast. There came a thumping of feet in the hall. The man who burst in was flushed and sweating and excited. "I'm glad you're here, Squire," he panted. "You're just in the nick o' time. They're going to jump on the old lady." "Who's going to jump?" "High Sheriff Niles and his posse. They ain't more'n ten rods behind, jigger wagon and all." The Duke of Fort Canibas stared a moment at the herald. Aunt Charette raised her eyes to her protector with the air of one secure under the wings of a patron saint, and went on knitting. "Gad!" hissed the State chairman. "They certainly do mean you this time, Thelismer! Discrediting your pull in county politics an hour before your caucus! Some one is showing brains!" Thornton did not answer. "How in blazes have they pulled over the sheriff?" demanded Presson. But the old man merely stared at the door. High Sheriff Niles entered at that moment. He stood on the threshold and scowled. He was a stocky man, who had been a butcher. His face was blotched by ruddiness resembling that of raw meat. Behind his cockaded silk hat pressed the faces of his aids. The little yard was filled with men who peered in at the windows. A big truck wagon was creaking as its horses backed it to the door. "What are you after here, Niles?" demanded Thornton. "After this stock of rum." The Duke took another swing across the room, licked his lips, and set his extinguished cigar hard between his teeth. He was striving to control the wrath that came boiling up into his purple face and blazing eyes. "There's the warrant!" The sheriff clapped the paper across his palm. "Take the stuff, boys!" He waved his hand at the cupboard. "But the most of it's in the cellar," shrilled the voice of a tattler in the hallway. "There's where she keeps it!" "I don't need any advice," growled the sheriff. His men trudged into the room and made for the cupboard. Now at last Aunt Charette understood that her stores were threatened. She did not leave her chair. She fumbled frantically at her big bag that hung at her waist. "Non, non!" she cried. "Yo' may not to'ch! I have pay! I have pay for nex' sax month." She flapped a paper at the sheriff. He took it perfunctorily. "That's all right, old woman, but it hasn't got anything to do with my business here. I'm after your stuff on a warrant." He gave back the paper and started for the stairs leading to the cellar. "But I have pay," she vociferated. "You tell them I have pay, M'sieu' Thornton! You' told me if I have pay twice in ye'r I have de privilege--de privilege!" The sheriff turned and grinned over his shoulder into the convulsed face of the Honorable Thelismer. "There's a lot of bargains in politics, marm," he stated, dryly, "that takes more'n two to put 'em through when the pinch comes." He enjoyed the discomfiture that her artless confession brought to the Duke. The old man looked him up and down. That this Niles whom he himself had helped into office, who had been taking private toll from the liquor interests of the county as his predecessors had before him, a procedure condoned by the party leaders of whom the Honorable Thelismer was one--that this person should whirl on him in such fashion was a performance that Thornton could not yet fully understand. But there was the fact to contend with. A man he had helped to elevate was engaged in humiliating him in the frankly wondering gaze of his own community. Those who peeped in at doors and windows were not, all of them, enemies. There were friends who sympathized and were astonished. Their murmurings told that. "You infernal Hereford bull!" roared Thornton; "don't you dare to slur me before my people. You're making this raid because I haven't buttered you with ten-dollar bills to keep your hands off. You've taken 'em from all the other rumsellers--but this isn't one of your regular rumshops." "That's right, Squire. Give it to him," muttered men at door and windows. "We all know how the sheriff's office is run in this county." This statement was made by Talleyrand Sylvester, who came thrusting through the jam of the hall into the fore-room. "Squire," he whispered, hoarsely, "I've brought down them quedaws as you told me to. They're outside. Say the word and we'll light on that old steer in the plug-hat!" For an instant there was a glint in the old man's eyes which hinted that the word would be given. But the impulse was merely the first reckless one of retaliation. Assault on law, even as represented by such an unworthy executive as he knew Niles to be, would make too wicked a story for slander to handle. Slander would be busy enough as it was. He pushed the eager Sylvester to one side. "Let me see your warrant, Niles," he requested. The officer passed it over, with a touch of sudden humility in his demeanor. "I'm only doing my duty as it's laid out by the statutes," he muttered. He quailed under the old man's eyes. He did not like the sound of the mumbling at the windows nor relish the looks of the men who had just come flocking into the yard at the heels of Sylvester. "'Twas sworn out and passed to me," stated the sheriff. "Sworn out on complaint of Tom Willy." He looked above the document and saw in the doorway the man who had cried information regarding the liquor in the cellar. "Tom Willy, the cheapest drunkard we've got in the town, taking sneaking revenge because he has been shut off from privileges here that decent men haven't abused! But I tell you, gentlemen, even Tom Willy isn't as cheap as the men who have sneaked behind him and prodded him on to do this. There's some one behind him, for Tom Willy hasn't got brains enough nor sprawl enough to do this all by himself." He gave the warrant back to the sheriff. He had recovered his self-possession. He was again their Duke of Fort Canibas, who could retire with dignity even from such a position as this. "Go ahead and train with your crowd, Sheriff Niles," he drawled, sarcastically--"Tom Willy, and whoever they are behind him that are too ashamed to show themselves!" He started for the door, Luke Presson at his heels. Aunt Charette, not exactly understanding, realized that the protecting aegis was departing. "But I have pay!" she wailed. "You have de power, M'sieu' Thornton! They take my properties!" He patted the shiny silk of the old woman's shoulder as he passed her. "Keep your sitting, Aunt Charette," he advised, "and let them take it. It will be a good investment for you--leave it to me." He lighted a fresh cigar out-of-doors. "Luke," he declared quietly between puffs, "this is developing into quite a caucus day--take all trimmings. I'm glad you are here to look on!" CHAPTER V A CAUCUS, AS IT WAS PLANNED The town house of Fort Canibas needed no guide-board that day. All roads led to it. Thelismer Thornton walked down the main street, his following at his heels. His hands were behind his back, and he sauntered along like one who was at peace with the world. His face was serene once more. He seemed to have recovered all the genial good-nature that men associated with Thelismer Thornton. The chairman trotted on short legs at his side, looking up at him sourly. Thornton smiled down at him. "Finding your old State campaign sicker than you thought for, hey, Luke?" He was now as Presson had always known him, but the little man did not seem to be consoled thereby. "I'd like to know what's come over you to-day?" he complained. "Giving a helpless little girl hell-an'-repeat, and then standing for what you did back there right now!" "Luke, both of us have seen a great many men lose their dignity fighting hornets. But I've come to myself, and I've stopped running and swatting. Well, Briggs, what is it?" The man who had brought the alarm to Aunt Charette's was crowding close, plainly with something to say. "I only wanted to tell you, Squire, that Sheriff Niles brought in word to the boys that high-uppers was back of him." "Thinks he's running with the pack, eh? Well, Briggs, that's hardly news about Bart Niles." "Thought I'd warn you, Squire. He says things ain't goin' on runnin' in this State the way they have been runnin'. Way he talks, him and them back of him think they've got you layin' with all four paws in the air. But we in the village here, that's behind you, don't understand it that way. Nor we can't figger what started it." "Don't bother your heads about it to-day, Briggs. Simply stand by and be ready to grab in, you and the boys. That's all." The post-office was in the lower story of the town house. The walls were brick to the second story. This upper part was a barn-like structure propped on the lower walls. Broad outside stairs led up to it. Thornton and Presson were obliged to push their way through a crowd to reach the foot of the stairway. They were stopped there by an obstruction. Some men were lifting off a low wagon a cripple in a wheel-chair. He had an in-door pallor that made him seem corpselike. A man in a frock-coat and with a ministerial white tie was bossing the job. The Duke stopped and gazed on the work amiably. The man of the white tie scowled. "Raising a few reliable Republicans from the dead, are you, elder?" inquired the Duke, pleasantly. The elder did not reply until he had started the cripple's chair bumping up the stairs. Then he turned on Thornton. He was not amiable. "It's time some of the voters with honest convictions got a chance to attend a caucus in this district, even if they have to be brought from beds of pain." Thelismer Thornton did not lose his smile. "I'd like to have you meet the Rev. Enoch Dudley, evangelist, Luke. This is Mr. Presson, chairman of the State Committee, elder. Now that you're getting into politics you'd ought to be acquainted with your chief priest." But Rev. Mr. Dudley, not approving the company that the State chairman was keeping, did not warm up. "I thank you for your pleasantries, Mr. Thornton," he returned, stiffly. "I hope your sneers may make you as many votes to-day as they have in the past." "Well, they won't," blurted a voice from a knot of men at the foot of the stairs. "We're getting woke up in this district. And it ain't going to be an empire any longer." "I'm rather too humble a man, sir, to associate with the high lords of politics," Mr. Dudley remarked to the chairman. "The Honorable Thornton has always been up there. I'm simply one of the plain people." "And it's time for the plain people to have their innings," declared another in the crowd. "The pack is off!" muttered the Duke in Presson's ear. "Why don't you introduce him right," called another. "Reverend Dudley is the next representative from this district, Mr. Chairman. And we know where _he_ stands!" "An humble little platform is mine," stated the minister. "But it's down where all can step aboard with me. That's all I can say." There was a growl of approval in chorus from the larger group at the foot of the stairs. Thornton's men were at one side and looked troubled. "War Eagle" Ivus Niles stepped forth then. He had recovered his buck sheep. He was hoarse, but still full of zeal. "I want to ask you this, Tyrant Thornton: You ain't quite so sure that you're Lord Gull, monarch of all you survey, since my brother Bartholomew showed you the power of the law triumphant, are you?" But the taunt did not alter the tolerant smile on the Duke's face. "Go ahead and get in all your yelps," he said, under his breath. "A hound loves company." "When we start in to purify, we propose to purify in good shape!" cried another. "And a reverend elder ain't a mite too good for us as representative to the legislature." "Some people think they are purifying when they burn a rag," observed the Duke, serenely. He lighted another cigar, beaming through the smoke on the glowering minister. "Don't take that wrong, elder. I respect decency in politics. I respect men who are trying to clean things up. But before I'll let you disinfect _me_, I'll have to see your license and know what system you're using." "You've got to fight the devil with fire!" roared the War Eagle. "You mustn't steal my own plan of campaigning, Ivus. I've got a copyright on that." He had been studying the situation there outside the town hall while he talked. Two men from the shire town, wearing the nickel badges of deputy sheriffs, stood at the foot of the stairs. A group of men that he knew to be his loyal supporters from his own village were standing at one side. He strolled over to them. "Squire Thornton," said one, "we're barred out of this caucus. They won't let us up." And still their leader was imperturbable. He turned inquiring gaze on the Reverend Dudley, and that gentleman declared himself with suspicious haste. "This is going to be a strictly Republican caucus, and the check-list has been marked," he said. "We don't propose to have Democrats come in and run our affairs for us." It was a challenge thrown down in good earnest. In spite of the warning that his scout had brought to him, the Duke had hardly believed that amateur politicians would go to this extreme. More than ever he realized that unscrupulous men higher up were using these tools. And it was plain that the instruments had been tutored to believe that the end justified the means. What Ivus Niles said about the devil and fire betrayed them. The Duke walked over to the minister, and took him by the lapels of his coat. "Elder," he protested, "I don't like to see a good man used for tongs in politics. There's a lot you don't know about this game. You're in wrong." "You're not the right man to tell me so, Mr. Thornton. I represent reform. It's time we had it. And _your_ gospel in politics isn't _my_ gospel." "You've got the revised version, Parson Dudley, if you find a text in it about splitting a caucus at the door of the hall." "The sheep shall be divided from the goats, sir." "You've got this caucus and the Judgment Day mixed, elder." He released the minister and stepped back. "I never yet talked rough to a parson. But you've cut loose from common sense. When you get down on a level with me at a caucus door you're no parson--you're a politician, and you'll have to let me say that you're a blasted poor one. You're Enoch Dudley, now. And I want to tell you, Enoch, that neither you nor any bunch of steers you happen to be teaming can keep legal voters out of that hall. As to whether this or that man can vote in the caucus, that will be settled when we get in there. But these men of mine are going in. It's up to you to decide whether they shall go in as lions or lambs." "Violence shall rest on your own head!" cried the minister. "I'll see that the world knows about it." "We'll see whose case shows up best when the report is made," retorted the Duke. "But I'm done arguing. Pull off those deputies." Sheriff Niles appeared at that moment. He had left his subalterns to store the confiscated liquors. "Niles, pull your men off the door, here," commanded the Duke. "Your county politics hasn't any business at our caucus here to-day." "I've been asked to keep this caucus regular, and I'm going to do it," insisted the sheriff. "So am I," agreed Thornton. "So when the story goes out it will have to be said that you and I were working together to keep politics pure." The faithful Sylvester was hovering on the outskirts of the crowd. Thornton beckoned to him and he came. The Duke had probed the scheme and understood the stubbornness of the opposition. He was ready to act now. "Sylvester, you're a constable of this town. Take those fifty woodsmen over there as a special posse. I'm going to stand here at the foot of these stairs, and see to it that this caucus isn't packed. If you see hand laid on me or on a respectable voter going up these stairs, you pile in with those men. Go ahead up, boys, one and all!" He stepped between the deputies and beckoned to the voters. He stood there like a lighthouse marking safe channel. He challenged both the sheriff and the minister with his gaze. "We've got peace in stock and fight on tap, gentlemen," he declared. "Full assortment, and no trouble to show goods." The village loyalists trooped forward promptly and flocked up. The deputies made no effort to stop them. Niles did not issue orders. Threats and badges might cow voters. But he knew woodsmen. He was not prepared to fight fifty of them. The opposition hurried up also. Men streamed past on both sides of the old man, looming there in his wrinkled suit of crash. "Let 'em go. We've got him licked in the caucus anyway," growled Niles to one of his deputies. "The back districts are here two to one against his village crowd." Chairman Presson stood at one side and waited. Harlan Thornton came to him, leading his horse through the crowd. "You have influence with my grandfather, Mr. Presson. You have told me yourself that it's folly to try to send me to the legislature. I'm not fitted for such duties. I am interested only in our business. You have had a chance to talk with him since you left the house. Haven't you made him change his mind?" "I don't know," confessed Mr. Presson. "He's got my opinion, but he doesn't seem to think it's worth much." "Well, there's only one thing to do." stated Harlan, resolutely. "I'll stand up here and let the voters of this district know how I feel about it. I've got my own rights in this thing, grandfather or no grandfather." "Harlan, my boy!" The State chairman laid his hand protestingly on the young man's arm. "You've got my sympathy in regard to your going to the legislature in this fashion. But let me say something to you. Thelismer Thornton is standing here to-day putting up as pretty a political fight as I ever looked on. I hope he'll change his mind about sending you. I'll talk with him again. But if you lift one finger now when he's got his back against the wall you'll be a disgrace to your family. Take that from me. You'd better hop on your horse and ride off where the air is better." After a moment of sombre reflection the young man swung himself to the back of his horse and galloped away. The look that he got from his grandfather when he departed did not enlighten or reassure him. The little square of the town house was pretty well cleared by this time. The voters had crowded into the hall. One of the last men to pass the Duke hesitated on the stairs and came back. He was a short, chunky, very much troubled gentleman. He had slunk rather than walked past. He came back with the air known as "meeching." "I'm afraid you're going to misunderstand me, Mr. Thornton." The Duke offered no opinion. "I hardly know how to go to work to explain myself in this matter," faltered the apologist. "Considering that I got your appropriation for your seminary doubled last session in the stingiest year since the grasshoppers ate up Egypt, I should think you'd find it just a little troublesome convincing me that Enoch Dudley has got any claim over my interests so far's you're concerned. What's the matter with you, Professor?" He invited the State chairman toward them by a toss of his head. His tone had been severe, but there was humor in his eyes. "This is Principal Tute, of the Canibas Seminary, Luke. You remember the cussing I got from the Finance Committee for holding up the bill till I got the Professor's appropriation doubled. He's trying to tell me how much obliged he is." Mr. Tute looked very miserable. "I've always said you were the best man this district ever had in the legislature. I've stood up and said that in the open, Mr. Thornton. You're an institution down to the capitol. When there was talk of a change for the sake of reform--and you know I'm teaching reform principles in my school, Mr. Thornton," he hastened on desperately; "I'm teaching sociological principles in accordance with the advanced movement, and if I don't practice what I preach I'm false to my pupils, and--" "You're going to vote against me to-day, are you, Tute?" "I've said right along we ought to bear with you so long as you lived and wanted to be elected." "Like the seven years' itch, eh?" "But you are trying to make us mere serfs in politics by dictating our choice, and what I teach of the principles of democracy--" Thornton tapped the little man on the shoulder. "What they've done, Tute, is come up here with a dose to fit the palate of every one of you fellows, and you don't know enough to understand that you're being handled. You're going to vote against me, are you?" "I call on this gentleman to witness that I say you're the best man for the place. You're able, you're efficient, and you have done an immense amount of good for your constituents, and you--" "But you won't vote for me to-day, eh?" reiterated the old man, pitilessly. Mr. Tute started again on his line of fulsome praise, but the Duke checked him brusquely. "That will do, Professor Tute. I like cake. I like it frosted. But I'll be d--d if I want it all frosting. Run up into the hall. Come along, Luke. We'll miss the text if we don't get in." The last of the stragglers followed them up the stairs. CHAPTER VI A CAUCUS, AND HOW IT WAS RUN The earlier arrivals had pushed the settees of the Fort Canibas town hall to one side. They were piled against an end wall. There were not enough of them to furnish seats for that mob. For that matter, voters seemed to have no inclination to sit down that day. There was barely enough standing-room when all had entered the hall. Through them, friends and foes jostling each other, the Duke took his leisurely way. Presson was close behind him. The rostrum, elevated a few feet above the main floor, was enclosed by boarding that came almost to the shoulders of those who stood within. Thornton, arrived at the front of the hall, put his shoulders against the boarding, shoved his hands into his trousers pockets, and gazed into the faces of his constituents. He was still amiable. But Presson sulked. It was hot in there, and the proletariat was unkempt and smoked rank tobacco. "It's worth your while just the same, Luke," advised Thornton, in an undertone. He was conscious of the chairman's disgust, and it amused him. "They're going to have real caucuses in this State this year, they tell me. And this seems to be a nice little working model of the real thing. Better study it. It'll give you points on 'popular unrest,' as the newspapers are calling it." The men in the pen above them were having an animated discussion. They were the members of the town committee. Thornton craned his neck and looked up at them. One of his loyal friends was there. "What's the matter, Tom? Why not call to order?" The man gave him a cautious wink before replying. "There don't seem to be any copy of the call here, Squire. Some of 'em says we'll waive the reading of it. I say no. I say we don't want any holler to go out that this caucus wasn't run regular." "It's only a 'technetical' point, anyway," protested one of the disputants. "Well, I wouldn't allow too many of those 'technetical' points to get by in a caucus that you're ready to advertise under your reform headlines," advised the Duke. He settled himself against the boarding again. "Better give us straight work, boys." It was not a threat. But it operated as effectually. A member of the town committee rapped for silence, and explained the situation rather shamefacedly. He asked the voters to be patient until the call could be prepared in the regular way. "And now comes War Eagle Niles to help us kill time," observed Thornton. The agitator was pushing toward them. Men were urging him forward. It was evident that baiting their autocrat had become the favorite diversion of Fort Canibas' voters that day. "Perhaps it was all right once for politicians to lead people by the nose, but it ain't all right now," stated Niles, as soon as he had squirmed into a favorable position for attack. "People didn't know, once. They didn't have newspapers, nor grange discussions, nor lecturers, nor anything to keep 'em posted. They let themselves be led." "Don't let yourself be led, Ivus. You're more interesting as you are now, bolting with your head and tail up. But I wonder whether you know just what it was you shied at?" "Know? You bet I know!" shouted the demagogue. "How about taxes? I'm paying more to-day on my little farm out back there than you're paying on a whole township of your wild lands. And don't you suppose I know how it's all arranged?" "Why, Ivus, I suppose the chaps that have paid you to go around this district shooting your mouth off about 'tyrants' have supplied you with plenty of ammunition. Go ahead! I'd like to know how it was arranged, according to their notions." "Who was that man that drove up to your house this morning in his devil machine, that cost more than my whole stand of farm buildings twice over--that man that's standing there beside you now, sneering at the voters of this State that he's been teaming? That's the Honor'ble Presson. He's chairman of the State Committee. He runs the big hotel down to the capital city. And where does he get money to buy automobiles with? I know. It's out of selling rum over his bar--and there's a law in the State constitution that makes selling rum a jail offence. But you don't see him in jail, do you?" Astonishment that changed to fury nearly paralyzed the honorable chairman's tongue while Niles proceeded that far. When he did find his voice to protest, the War Eagle turned from him to the Duke like one who finds a weapon in each hand and becomes reckless. "And no one sees you coming up and paying taxes on what you're really worth. It's all: 'You scratch my back, I'll scratch yours!' among the big fellows in this State. You can break all the laws you want to if you're in the right ring. And it's going to have a stop put to it!" "Go ahead, Ivus!" encouraged his object of attack. "If she's as sick as all that, she needs medicine quick. Get out your dose." "The people is going to be reckoned with now," declaimed Niles, banging his knotted fist against the boarding. "You mean of course The People--spelled with a capital T and a capital P, the same as you see it in those reform newspapers you've mentioned! Now, boys, I want you all to listen to me just one moment. You know I'm no hand to make speeches. But just let's talk this over. It'll take only a jiffy. There's a little time to kill while we're getting this caucus started _regular_. Now, some of these newspaper editors, who never get anywhere out of their offices except home to dinner, are writing a lot just now about THE PEOPLE--in capital letters, understand! Talking about 'em like as though they were a great force in politics--always organized and ready to support reform. Only needed to be called on. Fellows like Ivus here, that read and read and never bump up next to real things outside, get to think that The People make up an angel band that's all ready to march right up to the ballot-box and vote for just the right thing. Only have to be called on!" The voters were crowding closer and listening. There was a half-smile on his face while he talked. He was not patronizing. But he took them into his confidence with simple directness. "Boys, I don't know where you'll go to find that angel band!" "The people of this State are gettin' woke up enough to know!" cried a voice. The man stepped forward. It was Davis. "I say to you again, Mr. Thornton, don't put us all on the plane of Ivus Niles." The Duke was not ruffled by the interruption. "Walt, I've been in politics a good many years. I was in the House in this State when Jim Blaine was there reporting for his newspaper. I want to tell you that when you get next to the real thing in politics you'll find that this people thing--the capital-letter idea--is a dream. Yes, it is, now! Don't undertake to dispute me! Here in one town you'll find a man or a set of men handling a bunch. A county clique handles another one. Some especial local interest makes this crowd vote one way; same thing will make another bunch in another town mad and they'll vote against it. It's all factions and self-interest, and you can't make it over into anything different. That's practical politics. Get out and you'll see it for yourself. You can swap and steer--that's politics. But as for uniting 'em into The People--well, try to weld a cat's tail and a tallow candle, and see how you get along!" "It's high time we had less politics, then," cried Davis, "when politics lets the picked and chosen get rich selling rum or dodging taxes, and takes a poor man and pestles his head into the mortar till every cent is banged out of his pocket!" "Davis, I'm patient with ramrodders when they're having an acute attack like you're having. It's the chronic cases I get after, the ones who are in it for profit, and have been poking you fellows up because they're paid for doing it. All of a sudden all of you are yapping at me because I've played the game. I'm talking business with you now. I suppose I might spread-eagle to you about our grand old State, and the call of duty and the noble principles of reform; I might fly up on this fence here and crow just as loud as any of those reform roosters, and not have any more sense in what I was saying than they do. I see you've got hungry for that revival hoorah. But I'm not going to perch and crow for the sake of getting three cheers! I'm going to stay right down here on the gravel with you, boys, and scratch a few times, and show you a few kernels, and cluck a little business talk. This district--you and your folks before you--has been sending me to the legislature for a good many years. I'm an ordinary man, and I've been against ordinary men down there at the State House. I should have played the game different with angels, but I couldn't find the angels." He pointed through a window to a large building that occupied a hilltop just outside the village. "Half the counties in the State were after that training seminary," he went on. "I beat the lobby, and got it. How much money do you and your neighbors make boarding the scholars? I have pulled out State money for more than a thousand miles of State roads in this county. I got the State to pay every cent of the expense of that iron bridge across the river. I lugged off bigger appropriations for my district than any other man who has been in the House--because I know the ropes and have the pull. I could have played angel, and not brought home a plum. Would that suit you?" "I ain't detracting from what you got for us. But while you was dipping with your right hand for us, you was dipping with your left hand for yourself and them that trained with you," retorted Davis. "And I wasn't to take any ordinary, human, business precautions about looking out for myself in any way, then?" "You wasn't supposed to be representing yourself down there." "For one hundred and fifty dollars every two years, and my mileage, I was to give up all my own business and my interests, and play statesman, pure and holy, for you up here? Refuse to help those men down there who helped me when I wanted something, and go down in the rotunda twice a day and thumb my nose at the portraits of the fathers of the State because they played politics in their time? That what you wanted me to do?" "I've only got this to say," retorted Mr. Davis, afraid to argue: "You're proposing to jam your grandson down our throats, now that you've made your pile and got tired. You're going to have a man from this district that will do what you say and keep on flimflamming the people. I and them with me say no, and we'll show you as much in the caucus to-day." "For the sake of having your own stubborn way--like most of the others that are howling about 'The People' in this State just now--you are ready to tip over this district's apple-cart, are you? Is that what you are trying to do? You take what I have given you, legislation and money that I've paid for labor in this section, and then propose to kick my pride in the tenderest place? I'll show you, Davis!" "Well, show! We ain't a mite scared." For some moments the throng in the town hall had shown waning interest in this discussion. There seemed to be matters outside that distracted the attention of those near the windows. "There's a fire up Jo Quacca way!" called some one. The windows of town hall were high and uncurtained. All could see. Smoke, ominous and yellow, ballooned in huge volumes across the blue sky of the June day. "There ain't no bonfire in that, gents," declared a man. "That fire has got a start, and if it's in that slash from that logging operation, it ain't going to be put out with no pint dipperful." There was sudden hush in the big room. All men were gazing at the mounting masses that rolled into the heavens and blossomed bodefully over the wooded hills. Fat clouds of the smoke hung high and motionless. From the earth went up to them whirls and spirals and billowing discharges like smoke from noiseless artillery. A man had climbed upon a window-sill of the hall in order to see more clearly. "I tell you, boys," he shouted, "that's a racin' fire, and it's in that Jo Quacca slash! I, for one, have got a stand of buildin's in front of that fire." He jumped down and started for the door. Several men followed him. The chairman of the town committee began to shake a paper above his head. "It's no time to be leaving a caucus," he pleaded. "We've fixed up a new call. We'll get down to business now." "I know where my business is just this minute!" shouted the man who was leading the first volunteers. "And it ain't in politics." The chairman tried to put a motion to adjourn, but at that moment the meeting-house bell began to clang its alarm. "Save your property, you Jo Quacca fellows!" some one cried, and the crowd stampeded. Thornton remained in his place in front of the rostrum. He noted who were running away. The deserters were the back-district voters--the opposition among whom his enemies had prevailed. The villagers remained. Here and there among them walked Talleyrand Sylvester. He was unobtrusive and he spoke low, but he was earnest. When at last the chairman made his voice heard, Ivus Niles was shouting for recognition. That stern patriot had remained on guard. "Maybe my house is burning, gents, but I ain't going to desert my post of duty till a square deal has been given. I call on you to adjourn this caucus till evening." "Question!" was the chorus that assailed the chairman. The villagers crowded around the rostrum. The motion to adjourn was voted down with a viva voce vote there was no disputing. "It ain't just nor right!" squalled the War Eagle. "I'm here to protest! You ain't giving the voters a show! This thing shan't be bulled through this way!" But that caucus was out of the hands of Mr. Niles and such as he, though some of the staunchest of Thornton's opposition had remained to fight. Sylvester elbowed his way to the front, his followers at his back. "I move, Mr. Chairman, that the check-list be dispensed with. It ain't ever been used in this caucus, anyway. And I'm in favor of hustling this thing so that we can all get up there and fight that fire. I don't believe in staying here caucusing, and let folks' property burn up." The opposition howled their wrath. They understood all the hypocrisy of this bland assertion, but protest amounted to nothing. The voters were behind Sylvester. That gentleman promptly put in nomination the name of Harlan Thornton for representative to the legislature from the Canibas class of towns and plantations, and the choice was affirmed by a yell that made the protesting chorus seem only a feeble chirp. And then the caucus adjourned tumultuously. Through it all Thelismer Thornton stood with shoulders against the boarding, that quizzical half-smile on his face. He walked out of the hall past the outraged Ivus Niles without losing that smile, though the demagogue followed him to the door with frantic threats and taunts. The meeting-house bell still chattered its alarm, an excited ringer rolling the wheel over and over. Chairman Presson, who had found speech inadequate for some time, followed the Duke to the stairway outside, and stood beside him, gazing up at the conflagration. Smoke masked the hills. Fire-flashes, pallid in the afternoon light, shot up here and there in the yellow billows rolling nearest the ground. "I tell you, Thelismer, you'll never get across with this! It's too devilish rank!" Elder Dudley marched past, leading the last stragglers of his following from the hall. His face was flushed with passion, but he had neither word nor look for the Duke. Even Niles was silent, bringing up the rear of the retreat, pumped dry of invective. "You'll be up against Dudley, there, at the polls, running on an independent ticket. He's sure to do it!" went on Presson, watching them out of sight. "You don't know the district," said Thornton, serenely. "And what's more important, I've got almost three months to meet that possibility in. I had only three hours to-day. You needn't worry about the election, Luke." With his eyes still on the seething smoke vomiting up from the Jo Quacca hills he lighted a fresh cigar. "There's something up there that's worrying me more. Cobb has got fire enough to break up a State convention." Certain columns of smoke shot up, bearing knobs like hideous mushrooms. The knobs were black with cinders and spangled with sparks. The menace they bore could be descried even at that distance. A breeze wrenched off one of those knobs, and carried it out from the main conflagration. The roof of a barn half-way down the hillside began to smoke. Sparks had dropped there. After a time the two men could see trickles of fire running up the shingles. "There goes one stand of buildings," announced Thornton. "I swear, you take this thing cool enough!" "Well, I'm not a rain-storm or a pipe-line, Luke. There's nothing more I can do. When Sylvester gets there with his crowd I'll have a hundred men or so of my own fighting it. And if a man sets fire on his land the law makes him pay the neighbors if the fire gets away and damages them. I'm prepared to settle without beating down prices. Let's go over to The Barracks." Presson went along grumbling. "You ought to have stayed in this fight this year for yourself, Thelismer. There was no need of all this uproar in ticklish times. A proposition like this makes the general campaign all the harder." He kept casting apprehensive glances behind at the swelling smoke-clouds. "I'm paying the freight, Luke." "There'd have been no fight to it if you'd stayed in yourself. Even your old whooping cyclone of a Niles, there, said that much. You've gone to work and got your grandson nominated, but between him and the bunch and that fire up there it looks to me as though your troubles were just beginning. Say, look here, Thelismer, honest to gad, you're using our politics just to grind your own axes with!" "And you never heard of anybody except patriots in politics, eh?" "When you prejudice a State campaign in order to break up a spooning-match and to give your grandson a course of sprouts outside a lumbering operation, you're making it a little too personal--and a little too expensive for all concerned." The State chairman had his eyes on the fire again. "As far as my business goes--that's _my_ business," said the Duke, placidly. "As for the expense--well, I never got a great deal of fun out of anything except politics, and politics is always more or less expensive. When the bills get in for what has happened to-day I reckon I'll find the job was worth the price. You needn't worry about me, Luke--not about my failing to get my money's worth. For when I walk across the lobby of the State House, and they can say behind my back, 'There's old Thornton--a gone-by. Got licked in his district!' When they can say that, Luke, life won't be worth living, not if I've got thousand-dollar bills enough to wad a forty-foot driving-crew quilt!" CHAPTER VII WITH THE KAVANAGH AT HOME When Harlan Thornton rode away out of the yard of the town house he was the bitterest rebel in the Duke's dominions. But he realized fully the futility of standing there in public and wrangling with his grandfather. He understood pretty well the ambitious motive his grandfather had in forcing his will; Thelismer Thornton had urged the matter in the past. It had been the only question in dispute between them. And the young man had never resented the urgings. He appreciated what his grandfather hoped to accomplish for the only one who bore his name. But this high-handed attempt to shanghai him into politics outraged his independence. His protests had been unheeded. The old man had not even granted him an interview in private, where he could plead his own case. In business matters they had been co-workers, intimate on the level of partnership, with the grandfather asking for and obeying the suggestions the grandson made. On a sudden Harlan felt that he hardly knew this old man, who had shown himself contemptuous, harsh, and domineering. And then he thought of the girl who had been so grievously insulted in his presence, and he rode to find her. His way took him across the long bridge that spanned the river. The river marked the boundary-line of his country. After that day's taste of the politics of his native land he felt a queer sense of relief when he found himself on foreign soil. Beyond the little church and its burying-ground, with the tall cross in its centre, the road led up the river hill to the edge of the forest. Here was set Dennis Kavanagh's house, its back to the black growth, staring sullenly with its little windows out across the cleared farms of the river valley. To one who knew Kavanagh it seemed to typify his attitude toward the world. He had seen other men clutching and grabbing. He had clutched and grabbed with the best of them. When one deals with squatter claims, tax titles, forgotten land grants and other complications that tie up the public domain, it often happens that the man who waits for the right to prevail finds the more unscrupulous and impetuous rival in possession, and claiming rather more than the allowed nine points at that. So Dennis Kavanagh had played the game as the others had played it. When one looked up at the house, with its back against the woods, staring with its surly window-eyes, one saw the resoluteness of the intrenched Kavanagh put into visible form. The dogs came racing to meet Harlan. They knew him as their mistress's friend. She was sitting on the broad porch-rail when he rode up, and he swung his horse close and patted her cheek as one greets a child. She smiled wistfully at him. "Am I impudent, and all the things your grandfather said? I've been thinking it all over, Big Boy, as I was riding home." "You're only a little girl, and he talked to you as he'd talk to one of our lumber-jacks," he burst out, angrily. "It was shameful, Clare. I never saw my grandfather as he was to-day. He has used me just as shamefully." "I suppose I haven't had the bringing up a girl ought to have," she confessed. "I haven't thought much about it before. There was nothing ever happened to make me think about it. I was just Dennis Kavanagh's girl, without any mother to tell me better. I suppose it has been wrong for me to ride about with you. But you didn't have any mother and I didn't have any mother, and it--it sort of seemed to make us--I don't know how to say it, Big Boy! But it seemed to make us related--just as though I had a brother to keep me company. I suppose it has been wrong when you look at it the way girls have to look at such things." He gazed on her compassionately. A few ruthless words had broken the spell of childhood. There was shame in her eyes as she gazed up at him. He had seen the flush of youth and joy in her cheeks before--he had seen the happy color come and go as they had met and parted. But this hue that crept up over cheeks and brow made pity grow in him. "He said--but you know what he said! And it isn't true. You know it isn't true. He shamed and insulted me because I'm a girl--and can't a girl have a friend that's tender and good to her?" "A girl can," he said, gravely, "because I'm that friend, Clare. Perhaps my grandfather cannot understand. But I'll see that he does. We are to have some very serious talk together, he and I. I'm here to tell you, little girl, that I'm grateful because you sent that message into the woods to me. I'm not going to allow myself to be made a fool of in any such fashion; I'm not going to be sent to the legislature." "Oh, I've been thinking--thinking how it sounded--all that I said," she mourned. "It all came to me as I was riding home--after what your grandfather said. I didn't realize what kind of a girl I must seem to folks that didn't know. But you know. It sounded as though I was claiming you for myself, when I didn't want you to go away. I'm ashamed--ashamed!" She averted her eyes from him. The crimson in her cheeks was deeper. It was a vandal hand that had wrecked the little shrine of her childhood. His indignation against Thelismer Thornton blazed higher. But Dennis Kavanagh knew how to be even more brutal, for that was Dennis Kavanagh's style of attack. He came out upon the porch, a broad, stocky chunk of a man, with eyebrows sticking up like the horns on a snail, and the eyes beneath them keen with humor of the grim and pitiless sort. "And how do you do to-day, Harlan Thornton?" he asked. "And how is that old gorilla of a grandfather of yours? Though you needn't tell me, for I don't want to know--not unless you can lighten me up a bit by telling me that he's enjoying his last sickness. But right now while I think of it, I have something to say to you, young Thornton, sir." The young man stared hard at him. It was an unwonted tone for Kavanagh to employ. Clare's father, till now, had not included Harlan in his feud with the grandfather. He had always treated him with a brusqueness that had a sort of good-humor beneath it. His discourse with the young man had been curt and satiric and infrequent, and consisted usually in mock messages of defiance which he asked to have delivered by word of mouth to the grandfather. But his tone now was crisp and it had a straight business ring. "My girl will be sixteen to-morrow. She is done with childhood to-day. Children may ride cock-horse and play ring-around-a-rosy. I haven't drawn any particular line on playfellows up to now. But there isn't going to be any playing at love, sir." "I never have played at love with your daughter!" cried Harlan, shocked and indignant at this sudden attack. "Well, I'm fixing it so you won't. We won't argue about what has happened, nor we won't discuss what might happen. All is, I don't propose to have any grandson of old Thornton mixed up in my family. I don't like the breed. You take that word back to him. I hear he's been making talk. He made some talk to-day. You needn't look at Clare, young man. She didn't tell me. But it came across to me mighty sudden. Others heard, too. What I ought to do is go over there and stripe his old Yankee hide with a horsewhip. But you tell him for me that that would be taking too much stock in anything that a politician in your politics-ridden States could say. That's all. You've got it, blunt and straight. And, by-the-way, I understand he's making a politician out of you, too, to-day? I'm taking this thing just in time!" The young man and the girl looked at each other. It was a pitiful, appealing glance that they exchanged. Shame surged in both of them. In that gaze, also, was mutual apology for the ruthless ones who had dealt such insult that day in their hearing; there was hopelessness that any words from them to each other, just then, could help the situation. And in that gaze, too, there was proud denial, from one to the other, that anything except friendship, the true, honest comradeship of youth, had drawn them together. Kavanagh eyed them with grim relish. The thought that he was harrying one of the Thorntons overbore any consideration he felt for his daughter, even if he stopped to think that her affection was anything except the silliness of childhood. "Politics seems to be a good side-line for the Thornton family," Kavanagh remarked, maliciously. "If you can start where your grandfather is leaving off, you ought to be something big over in your country before you die!" "I'm not interested in politics, Mr. Kavanagh, nor in my grandfather's quarrels with you." "I am, though! Interested enough to advise you to keep to your own side of that river!" "I'll admit that you have the right to advise your daughter about the friends she makes. But I don't grant you the privilege of insulting me before her face and eyes by putting wrong constructions on our friendship." "Meaning that you're going to keep up this dilly-dally business whether I allow you to or not?" It was a cruel question at that moment. The girl was looking at him with her heart in her eyes. He had understood her pledge of loyalty given a moment before. Youth is not philosophic. She would misunderstand anything except loyalty in return. "Going to court my daughter, are you, according to the Thornton style of grabbing anything in sight that they want?" "Say, look here, Mr. Kavanagh," declared the young man, hotly, "I'm not going to answer any such questions. But I'm going to tell you something, and I'm going to tell it to you straight and right here where your daughter can hear me. I'm not the kind that goes around making love to any father's daughter behind his back. I've never made love to your daughter. Why, man she's only a child! And don't you give me any more sneers about it. That's man to man--understand? And I'm not going to let you nor my grandfather or any one else break up the innocent friendship between my little playmate here and myself. Now I hope you'll take that in the way I mean it. If you don't, it's your fault." He had spoken to answer the appeal in her eyes. He had backed his horse away so that he could face Kavanagh on the steps of the porch. The girl leaped down from the rail, her face alight, and ran to him and patted his hand. "By Saint Mike, do you think you'll tell me how to run my house?" demanded Kavanagh. He came down the steps. "I'll build a coffin for you and a cage for her before that!" "You stay where you are, father!" She faced him with spirit. "You have insulted me worse than you've insulted Harlan. You needn't worry about my going behind your back to make love to any one. But you shall not break up the dearest friendship I ever had." This was the Clare Kavanagh who had bearded even Thelismer Thornton that day--the imperious young beauty that the country-side knew. Her father had often tested that spirit before, and had allowed her to dominate, secretly proud that she was truly his own in violence of temper and in determination to have her own way. But just now he was lacking that tolerantly humorous mood which usually gave in to her. "To the devil with your fiddle-de-dee friendship!" he shouted. "You're sixteen, you young Jezebel; and you--you're old enough to know better, Thornton. I know what it's leading to, and it ain't going further. I'll not stand here and argue with you. But if you come meddling in my family after what I've said, you'll get hurt, young man." "That's right--we won't argue the question," Thornton retorted. "There's nothing to argue. You know where I stand in the matter, little girl. That's all there is to it, so far as we're concerned. I'm going now. I think I'm ready for that talk with my grandfather." He took leave of her with a frank handclasp. Kavanagh glowered, but did not comment. When Harlan whirled his horse he saw the conflagration on the Jo Quacca hills. He gasped something like an oath. "There goes the slash on our operation!" he said, aloud. "Your grandfather must have got you into politics in good shape by this time," observed Kavanagh, sarcastically. "At any rate, he seems to be celebrating with a good big bonfire." At that moment the three of them beheld the farm buildings burst into flame. "Offering up sacrifices, too!" commented the satirist. "Seems to me, Thornton, you ought to be there. They'll be calling for three cheers and a speech!" In one heartsick moment Thornton realized that this raging fire had something to do with the political affairs of that day. He had seen "Whispering" Urban Cobb at "The Barracks" in the forenoon, and knew that he had led away a crowd of woodsmen for some purpose of his own. Just what a dangerous conflagration on the Jo Quacca hills could accomplish in relation to that caucus, Harlan did not stop to ponder. He could see that a fire was rioting over his lands, and destroying the property of others. His horse had already begun to leap for the highway, but the girl cried after him so beseechingly that he reined the animal back. "Just one moment, Harlan! A little instant! I haven't unsaddled Zero yet. Wait!" She whistled, and the horse came cantering. The hounds, seeing him, leaped and gave tongue understandingly. "I'm going with you," she declared, swinging to her saddle. Her father came down off the steps, running at her. "No, you're not, you wild banshee. What did I just tell you?" "You told me that children may ride cock-horse--and I'm not sixteen till to-morrow!" she cried, jumping her horse just as her father's clutching fingers touched his bridle. She was out in the road before Harlan's horse had picked up his heels. She swung her little whip above her head. "Come on, Big Boy!" she urged at the top of her voice, crying above the clamor of the racing dogs. "We're playfellows to-day, and I can't fall in love till to-morrow!" The last words she lilted mockingly, flashing a look backward at Dennis Kavanagh. The old man did not shift his attitude, fingers curved to clutch, arms extended, until he heard the tattoo of their horses' hoofs on the long bridge. "Maybe Brian Boru might have been proud of her for a daughter," he muttered, as he trudged back up the steps, "but I'll be dammed if I know whether I am or not!" CHAPTER VIII THE MANTLE OF THELISMER THORNTON The fire on the Jo Quacca hills was checked at nightfall. Two hundred beaters and trenchers managed to fight it back and hold it in leash to feed on the slash of the timber operation. But, like a tiger confined in its cage, it had reached out through its bars and claimed victims. Three stands of farm buildings were in ruins. Harlan Thornton, sooty and weary, left the fire-line as soon as he knew that the monster had been subdued. He rode about to reassure the owners that their losses would be made up by himself and his grandfather. "Keep away from the lawyers," he counselled the losers. "They'll get half the money out of you if you hire them. We'll settle after appraisal." The men that he talked to seemed sullen in spite of his assurances. They seemed to be repressing taunts or reproaches merely in consideration of the fact that he was holding the purse-strings. He noted this demeanor, and feared to ask questions. Clare Kavanagh rode with him; she had not left his side, even when he led his crews into perilous places and entreated her to keep back. And they rode away together down the long stretch of highway from the hills to the village. Behind them, against the dusk, glowed the red, last signals of the dying fires: tree-trunks upraised like smouldering torches, the timbers of the falling buildings tumbling from their props and sending up showers of sparks. A pale sliver of new moon made the red of the fires even more baleful, and the two who rode together looked back and felt the obsession of something they had never experienced before. "I am unhappy, Big Boy," sighed the girl. "We have never come back from our rides like this." "It has been a wicked day for both of us, child." "And you cannot call me child after to-day--so my father says." Her voice was still plaintive, but there was a hint of the old mischief there. "I'll be sixteen to-morrow--and I didn't know until to-day that I'd be so sorry that it is so. Ever since I was ten I've been wishing I could be eighteen without waiting for the years. But I don't know, now, Harlan. It seemed as though I'd be getting more out of living. I thought so." Tears were in her voice now. "It seems as though I'd grown up all of a sudden; and things aren't beautiful and happy and--and as they used to be--not any more! I've lost something, Harlan. And if growing up is losing so much, I don't want to grow up." He listened indulgently and understood this protest of the child. Their horses walked slowly side by side, and the tired hounds trailed after them. "The grown-ups do lose a lot of things out of life, little girl--things that mean a great deal in childhood. But keep your heart open, and other things will come." "Perhaps when I get to be twenty-four years old and as big as you are I can talk that way, and believe it, too. But just now I'm only a girl that doesn't believe she's grown up, even if they do tell her so, and tell her she mustn't be a playmate any longer. And you are not to ride with me any more, and you are not to come to my house nor may I come to yours. That's what they say. What are we to do, then?" She cried her question passionately. He had no answer ready. Platitudes would not do for this child, he reflected, and to lecture her then even on the A B C's of the social code would be wounding her ingenuous faith. "If this is the way it all turns out, and I can't have your friendship any longer, what is it that you're going to do or I'm going to do?" she insisted. "That's losing too much, just because one is grown up." Tenderness surged in his heart toward this motherless girl--tenderness in which there was a new quality. But he had no answer for her just then. He did not understand his own emotions. He was as unsophisticated as she in the affairs of the heart. His man's life of the woods had kept him free from women. His friendship with this child, their rides, their companionship, had been almost on the plane of boy with boy; her character invited that kind of intimacy. And so he wondered what to say; for her demand had been explicit, and she demanded candor in return. At that moment he welcomed the appearance of even Ivus Niles. That sooty prophet of ill appeared around a bend in the road ahead. The twilight shrouded him, but there was no mistaking his stove-pipe hat and his frock-coat. He was leading his buck sheep, and the hounds rushed forward clamorously. Niles stopped in the middle of the road, and let them frolic about him and his emblematic captive. "The dogs won't hurt you, Niles," Harlan assured him, spurring forward. "I ain't afraid of dogs, I ain't afraid of wolves, not after what I've been through with the political Bengal tigers I've been up against to-day," Niles assured him, sourly. "And your grandfather is the old he one of the pack. You tell him--" "You can take your own messages to my grandfather, Niles." He swung his horse to pass, the girl at his side, but the War Eagle threw up his hand commandingly. "I've got a message for you, yourself, then, and you stay here and take it. He stole our caucus for you to-day, your grandfather did--" "You don't mean to say I was nominated!" "That's too polite a word, Mr. Harlan Thornton. I gave you the right one the first time. He stampeded our caucus by having that fire set on the Jo Quacca hills. Three sets of farm buildings offered up to the gods of rotten politics! That's a nice kind of sacrifice, Thornton's grandson! It goes well with the crowd you're in with. It will smell well in the nostrils of the people of this State. You ought to be proud of being made a lawmaker in that way." It was not reproach--it was insult, sneered in the agitator's bitterest tone. "The property of three poor toilers of the soil laid flat in ashes, a town terrified by danger rushing down through the heavens like the flight of the war eagle," shouted Niles, declaiming after his accustomed manner, "and all to put you into a seat in the State House, where you can keep stealing the few things that your grandfather ain't had time or strength to steal! You've had your bonfire and your celebration--now go down and hoist the Star-Spangled Banner over 'The Barracks'--but you'd better hoist it Union down!" Harlan dropped off his horse and strode to Niles. He seized him by the shoulder and shook him roughly, for the man had begun his oratory once more. "Enough of that, Niles! Was I chosen in the caucus to-day? I want yes or no." "Yes--and after three-quarters of the voters had been stampeded to fight that fire that was sweeping down on their property! And you--" Harlan pushed him to one side, leaped upon his horse, and rode away. The girl jumped her roan to his side. "It's wicked, Harlan," she gasped, "wicked! I heard him! What are you going to do?" That was another of her questions that he found it hard to answer. "I'm going to find my grandfather, Clare, and I'm going in a great hurry. Come, I can't talk now, little girl!" They galloped down the long hill to the bridge, their horses neck and neck. "The last ride as playmates!" she cried, as they started. Her voice broke, pathetically. He did not reply. He was too furiously angry to trust himself in conversation at that moment, and he rode like a madman, knowing that she could keep pace with him. They drew rein at the end of the bridge. "It's only a bit of a run for you now, little girl. I'll keep on home." She put her hand out to him and held him for a moment. "I'm afraid you'll go away to be a big man, after all, Harlan," she said, dolefully. "Go in this way? What are you talking about, child?" he demanded, choking, his fury getting possession of him. "I've been disgraced--abused. I'll--but I mustn't talk to you now--the wicked words might slip out." But she would not loose his hand just then. "I sent for you to come home because I heard father say that politics is wicked business. But I didn't know it was as wicked as this. It's no wonder they can't get the good men like you to go into it. If they could it would be better, wouldn't it?" Even in his distress it occurred to him that out of the mouth of this child was proceeding quaint and unconscious wisdom. "I wish it wasn't wicked," she went on, wistfully. "I've been thinking as I rode along that I've been selfish. I'd like to see you a big man like some of those I've read about. It was selfish of me to say I didn't want you to get out of the woods and be a big man." "I couldn't be one," he protested. "Even a foolish little girl up here in the woods has got faith that you can--and men who are really big don't forget their old friends. I don't want you mixed up in any wicked thing, Harlan, but I wouldn't want you to go away from me thinking I was selfish and jealous. That isn't the right kind of a friend for any one to have. I've been thinking it over." He stared at her through the dusk. This sudden flash of worldly wisdom, this unselfish loyalty in one so young, rather startled him. "That's real grown-up talk, child," he blurted. "Is it?" The wan little flicker of a smile that she mustered brought tears to his eyes. "Maybe it's because I'll be sixteen to-morrow. Good-night, Big Boy!" This new, womanly seriousness was full of infinite pathos. She had not released his hand. She bent forward suddenly, leaning from her saddle, and kissed his cheek. "And good-bye, my playmate!" she whispered. While his fingers still throbbed with the last pressure of her hand, the black mouth of the big bridge swallowed her. He listened to the ringing hoof-beats of her horse till sudden silence told him she had reached the soft soil on the other shore. He did not gallop to meet his grandfather. He walked his horse for the long mile past the scattered houses of the village till he came to "The Barracks." When he was still some distance away he saw in the gloom of the porch the red coal of the Duke's cigar. Even then he did not rush forward to protest and denounce. He slipped off his horse, and led him toward the porch. But before he could speak his grandfather hailed him. "Run in to your supper, bub. The boys are holding it hot for you. Luke and I were too hungry to wait." "I can't eat now--not with what's on _my_ mind." "Oh, bub--bub! Run along with you! There's plenty of time for talk. I'll be here when you come out. Get something to eat, now! That's a good boy!" Somehow he couldn't begin the attack just then. That tone was too affectionate, too matter-of-fact. And even then his hand seemed to feel the pressure of the little fingers that had released him at the bridge, and the choking feeling was still in his throat. He gave his horse over to the hostler, and went into the house. The lamp in the old mess-room thrust its beams only a little way into the gloom. It shone over the table and left the corners dark. The cookee brought the food from the kitchen, poured the tea, and then wiped his hands briskly on his canvas apron. "I want to shake with you, Mr. Harlan!" He put out his hand, so frankly confident that he was doing the proper thing that the young man grasped it. "It was done to 'em good and proper. They tried to pull too hot a kittle out of the bean-hole that time--sure they did! I congratulate you! I knowed you'd get into politics some day." Harlan pulled his hand away, and began to eat. "Served up hot to 'em--that mess was," chuckled the cookee, on the easy terms of the familiar in the household. "Nothing like a rousin' fire if you're going to make the political pot bile in good shape." He chuckled significantly. The man pushed the food nearer, for Harlan did not seem to be taking much interest in his supper. "I suppose you'll be boardin' at Mr. Presson's hotel when you get down to the legislature. I had a meal there once. They certainly do put it up fine. Say, Mr. Harlan, what do you say? Can't you use your pull, and get me a job as waiter or something down there for the session? Excuse me for gettin' at it so quick, but I thought I'd hop in ahead of the rush--they'll all be after you for something, now that you're nominated." The young man could not discuss with this cheerful suppliant his indignant resolve not to be a legislator. "You'll have to stay home here and look after Grandfather Thornton, Bob," he hedged. "Oh, thunder! He's goin' right down to spend the winter with you. Was tellin' Mr. Presson so when they et just now. Said you'd be needin' a steerin' committee of just his bigness!" Harlan got up and kicked his chair from under him. It went over with a clatter. To his infinite relief he had suddenly recovered some of that wrathful determination that Ivus Niles's sneers had given him earlier in the evening. Thelismer Thornton heard him coming. "Pretty heavy on his heels, the boy is!" he observed to the State chairman. "He's been licking his dander around in a circle till he's got it rearing." The young man halted, erect before his grandfather, but again the old man got in the first word. "I'm going to give you all the time to talk in you want, bub. I was a little short with you to-day, when I was stirred up, but no more of that! Say all you want to. And I'm going to give you a little advice about starting in. Now--now--now! Hold on. I know just how you feel. I don't blame you for feeling that way. But it had to be done just as I did it--all of it! Now you ought to start in with me just the way Sol Lurchin was advised to when he wanted to tackle Cola Jordan, who had done him on a horse-trade. Sol went to old Squire Bain, and says he to the Squire, 'I want to stay inside the law in this. I don't want him to get no legal hold on me. But I want to talk to him. Now, what'll I say so's to give him what's comin' and still be legal?' 'Well,' says old Squire, rubbing his hands together, 'you've got to start easy, you know. You want to start easy, so's to make the climax worth something. Now, let's see! Well, suppose you walk up to him and say, "You spawn of the pike-eyed sneak that Herod hired to kill babies, you low-down, contemptible son of a body-snatcher, you was born a murderer, but lacked the courage and became a horse-thief!" There, Sol, start in easy like that and gradually work up to a climax, and you'll have him going--and all inside the law. Two dollars, please!'" The Duke leaned back in his chair and nested his head in his big hands. He gazed up meekly at his chafing grandson. "Start in easy, bub, like that, and work up to your climax. I know just how you feel!" But just at that moment the chairman of the State Committee was laughing too loudly for any dignified protest to be heard. "For some reason, grandfather, you seem all at once to have taken me as a subject for a practical joke," said the young man, stiffly. The interlude had taken the sharp edge off his indignation, but he was still bitter. "It may seem a joke to you. To me it seems insult and persecution. I have attended to business, I've worked hard and made money for both of us. To-day you've held me up before this section to be laughed at by some and hated by the rest. I'm glad I've had half an hour to think it over since I first heard about what happened in that caucus. I won't say the things to you I intended to say. I'll simply say this: I'm going to write a letter declining this nomination. I'm going to publish that letter. And I'm going to say in that letter that I will not take any office that isn't come at honestly." "Harlan, sit down." His feet had been in one of the porch chairs. He pushed it toward his grandson. The young man sat down. "You don't know much about the practical end of politics, do you?" "I do not." "You'll allow that I do?" "You seem to, if that's what you call this sort of business that has been going on here to-day." "Bub, look at the thing from my standpoint for just one moment. I'll consider it from yours, too--you needn't worry. I want you to be something in this world besides a lumber-jack. You've got the right stuff in you. I tried argument with you. You'll have to own up that I did. It didn't work--now, did it?" "I told you I didn't want to get into politics. I don't want to get in. I don't like the company." "Politics is all right, Harlan, when the right men are in. You are the kind the people are calling for these days. You're clean, straight, open-minded, and--" "Clean and straight! And the people are calling for me!" The young man broke in wrathfully. "You say that to me after the sort of a caucus you sprung to-day? If that's what you consider a call from the people, I don't want to be called that way." "It was a call, but it had to be _shaded_ by _politics_ a little," returned the Duke, serenely. "If a good man is going into politics, he can go in square." "Sometimes. But not when the opposition is out to do him with every dirty trick that's laid down in the back of the political almanac." "If you wanted to start me, and start me fair and right, why didn't you let my name go before that caucus to-day, and then hold off your hands?" "Because if I had you'd have stood about the same chance as a worsted dog chasing an asbestos cat through hell. Look here, bub, I wish I had the time; I'd like to tell you how most of the good men I know got their start in politics. You can be a statesman after you've got your head up where the sun can shine on it, but you've got to be touching ground to keep your head up. And if you're touching ground in politics, you'll find that your shoes are muddy--and you can't help it." The grandson did not reply. Thornton relighted his cigar. The flare of the match showed disgust and stubbornness in the features opposite. "You know Enoch Dudley as well as I do, Harlan. That's the man they put up. And a man that has let two of his sons be bound out and has turned back his wife for her own people to support can't hide behind any white necktie, so far's I'm concerned. Luke and I know where the money came from that they've been putting in here. We know the men behind, and what their object is. We know what they are trying to do in the next legislature. You'll see it all for yourself when the time comes, Harlan. You'll be up against them. You understand men. I'll only be wasting time in telling you what you'll see for yourself. Do you want to see a man like Enoch Dudley representing this district? If you do, go ahead and write that letter!" "You'll not do that, Harlan," stated the chairman, with decision. "As it stands now, whatever they say about this caucus will be simply the whinings of a licked opposition. We know how to handle that kind of talk. There isn't a man on our side, from Sylvester to Urban Cobb, who will open his mouth, even if the thumb-screws are put to him. Harlan, are you the kind of a fellow that would hold your grandfather up before the people of this State in any such light? Of course you are not!" "No, I don't suppose I am," acknowledged the young man. "But I can decline to run." The State chairman pulled his chair close, and tapped emphasis on the candidate's knee. "No, you can't. It would give 'em the one fact that they need for a foundation to build their case on. What you've got to do, Harlan, is accept this nomination, just as it is handed to you. Stand up and fight for your election like a man. The thing may look rank to you. Politics usually looks rank to a beginner, who has to get down and fight on the level of the other fellow. But you'll understand things better after you get along a little further. If you back out now you're leaving your grandfather open to attack. Those dogs can only bark, now. If you let 'em past you they'll have a chance to set their teeth in. Harlan, you think too much of your grandfather to do such a thing as that, don't you?" The three of them sat in silence for a while. "I hate to say anything just now, my boy," said the old man, at last. He leaned forward, his elbows on the arms of his chair. "Luke has put it to you a little stronger than I should have done. I don't want to beg you or coax you. If you think it's too much of a sacrifice to stand by me--if you want to quit, and can't look at it in any other way, go ahead. I can fight it out alone. I've had a good many lone fights. I'm good for one more. But before you say what you're going to say, I've got a last word to drop in. You know how I've dealt with men in business matters, my boy." "But why can't you do the same in politics?" demanded his grandson, bitterly. "It's just on that point that I want to put you right. I know pretty well why you haven't hankered to get into politics, Harlan. You've heard some of the sneers, slurs, and the gossip. You didn't know much about it, but you sort of felt ashamed of me on account of politics. Hold on! I know. It has been a kind of shame and pity mixed, like one feels for a drunkard in the family. This caucus seemed to you like a spree--and you got mixed into it, and you're angry with me. Listen: there are people in this world who won't allow that a man is honest in politics unless he goes about hunting for all the measures that might help him personally and kills 'em. And the same yellow-skins that howl because he doesn't do that would turn around and cuss him for seventeen kinds of a fool if he did, and ruined himself by doing it. I haven't stolen, boy. I've given my time and my energies to developing this State. I've seen it prosper and grow big. And I've shared in the prosperity by seeing that my own interests got their rights along with the rest. I'm where I can look back. And I can't see where the reputation of being a saint who cut off his own fingers for a sacrifice would help me get endorsers at the bank or find friends I could borrow money from. Harlan, boy, I'm an old man. I can't live much longer. A little reputation of some kind or another will live after me. I want you to know the right of it. And the only way for you to find out is to be what I have been. Hearing about it won't inform you. I want you to meet the men and play the game. I want you to realize that when I say I've done the best I could, I'm telling you the truth. Harlan, stand up here with me. Give me your hand. Say that you'll stand by the old man in this one thing--the biggest he ever has asked of you. It's a matter between the Thorntons, boy!" There had been an appeal in his voice that was near wistfulness. And while he talked the wisdom that had come from the mouth of a child that evening threaded its own quaint appeal into the argument of the grandfather. Resentment and obstinacy, if they be tempered with youth, cannot fight long against affection and the ties of blood. Harlan took his grandfather's hand. "That's my boy!" cried the Duke, heartily, and he slipped his arm about his grandson's shoulders and patted him. "It straightens things out a good deal," observed Presson, with the practicality of the politician. "Harlan, you're going to find a winter at the State House worth while. With your grandfather to set you going right and post you up, you ought to make good." "I'd like to have a little light on one point," remarked the young man, curtly. He felt again the irritating prick of resentment. "What am I to be down to that legislature--myself, or Thelismer Thornton's grandson?" "You can't afford to throw good advice over your shoulder," protested the chairman--"not when it comes from a man that's had fifty years of experience." "Hold on, Luke, don't set the boy off on the wrong track. I know how he feels. Harlan, you're going down there just as I said you're going--with an open mind, clean hands, good, straight American spirit to do right just so far as a man in politics can do right! I want you to see for yourself. If you want my help in anything you shall have it. But it'll be Gramp advising his boy--not a boss, hectoring. Believe that!" "You needn't be afraid of the city fellows," advised Presson. Harlan stood up before them, earnest, intense, determined. "A fellow placed as I have been has this much advantage over city chaps, and I'm going to take courage from it," he said: "I've had a chance to read. There are long evenings in the woods, and I haven't been able or obliged to kill time at clubs and parties. I have read, Mr. Presson. I don't know how much good it has done me. That remains to be found out. Perhaps a fellow who reads and hasn't real experience gets a wrong viewpoint. But this much I do believe: a man can be honest, himself, in politics, and can find enough honest men to stand with him. I'm going to try, at any rate. For if there's any dependence to be put in what I read there's something serious the matter in public affairs." "Going to start a reform party, young man?" chuckled the State chairman. He had seen and tested youthful ideals before in his political experience. "I didn't mean it that way. I wasn't talking about myself. I'll be only a little spoke in the wheel, sir. But I mean to say that when I get to the State House I'm going to hunt up the men who believe in a square deal, and I'm going to train with 'em." He spoke a bit defiantly. It was youth declaring itself. It was a spark from the fire that Ivus Niles had kindled by his sneers. "Boy," said the old man, cheerfully, "you're prancing just a bit now. But you needn't be afraid of me, because I said I'd help you. The first thing I'll do will be to take you around and introduce you to the men down in the legislature who are proposing to reform the State. So you see I mean right!" The State chairman seemed much amused. He chuckled. The Duke walked to the end of the porch and gazed up at the Jo Quacca hills, where the dim, red glow still shone against the sky. "So it took down three stands of buildings, did it, Harlan?" he called. "Did you tell the boys we'd settle promptly, and for them to keep away from the lawyers?" "I arranged it the best I could and got their promise. But they seem to know the fire was set on purpose, and are pretty gruff about it." "Of course the fire was set on purpose--and I have a right to clear my own land when I want to. But I know how to settle, bub, so as to turn their vinegar to cream. For when I square a political debt, whether it's pay or collect, there's no scaling down! Full value--and then a little over!" He came back and as he passed he tweaked Harlan's ear. "It's been a hard day, boy! Come on, let's all three go to bed." CHAPTER IX IN THE CENTRE OF THE BIG STATE WEB Chairman Presson, going his way next morning, had to confess to himself that he did not have much to do with the workings of the Fort Canibas caucus. But it was worth while to see it. It revealed the character of the opposition throughout the State. And he did a notable job in the publicity line immediately. That was his opportunity of "rallying to the flag." The Duke had got his blow in first; the chairman of the State Committee got his news in first--for the State machine controlled the principal newspapers. First news, put right, wins. The caucus in Fort Canibas exposed the methods of "so-called reformers"--as the report of it was set forth in print. And that news was a tocsin for town committeemen who had been dozing. Thelismer Thornton, House leader, party boss, knight of the old regime, and representative of all that the reformers had been inveighing against, still controlled his district. That fact was impressed upon all. And the more vociferous the resulting complaints of the opposition, the more apparent it became that it was no mere skirmish party that had been sent out against him; he had whipped the generals themselves. His methods were mentioned discreetly; his results were made known to all men. The fact that it was his grandson who had been nominated was not emphasized as an item of general knowledge. That "Thornton had been nominated" was. It was the essential point. It was accepted as a tip by the many who were waiting and wondering just what this reform movement would accomplish in actual results--and that means ability to own and distribute plums. It shifted the complexion of many caucuses, or rather fixed that complexion, without any one being the wiser; for the managers of districts had been waiting for tips without saying anything in regard to their uncertainty. That's an essential in practical politics--being able to wait without letting any one know of the waiting. It gives a man his chance to cheer with the winner and declare himself an "original." The convert is never half as precious in politics as an "original." It is in heaven that the joy over the sinner who repenteth is comforting and extreme. In politics the first men on the band-wagon get the hand and what's in it. And yet, as the tide of caucuses swelled and reports of results flowed into State headquarters, Chairman Presson and his lieutenants found themselves unable to mark men with the old certitude of touch. There was a queer kind of slipperiness everywhere. It was evident that the Canibas result had stiffened backbones in many quarters, but more new men than usual were coming forward with nominations in their fists. Many of these men were not telling any one how they felt on the big questions that were agitating the State. Some announced themselves with the usual grandiloquent generalities. It is easy enough to say that one believes in reform and good citizenship, for one can construe that later to suit circumstances. The reformers were making a great deal of noise, mostly threats. They were passing to candidates specific questions as to their stand on the larger issues. Many candidates who had subscribed and declared themselves dodged up to headquarters on the sly and assured the State chairman that they had pledged their positions because it seemed to be a reform year, and they had to do something to shut up the yawp of the reformers. When they privately assured Presson that they would be found on the right side just the same after election, he took heart for a moment, and then was downcast after they were gone; it was tabulating liars--an uncertain job. Presson listened and took what courage he could, but the asterisks in his lists confessed his doubts. "There's a line of stars down those lists that would puzzle the man who invented political astronomy," he told his intimates. "But I don't dare to go looking for the trouble right now. It'll be like a man looking for measles in his family of thirteen; it'll break out if it's there--he won't have to hunt for it." The Republican State Convention was called for late June. The party managers believed that it would clarify the situation somewhat; "it would afford an opportunity for conference and free debate on the big questions where division of opinion existed," so the party organs assured their readers day by day. Chairman Presson asked them to drum this idea into the heads of the people. But what he told himself and the secret council was that there needed to be a round-up where some of the wild steers could be thrown and branded before they should succeed in stampeding the main herd. It was a situation that called for one of the good, old-fashioned "nights before." For a practical politician knows that speeches and band music do not make a convention; they merely ratify the real convention; the real convention is held "the night before," behind closed doors at the headquarters hotel. There were two candidates for the gubernatorial nomination. The natural legatee of the old regime in his party was in line, of course. He had been in line for ten years, as his predecessors had waited before him. He had served apprenticeship after the usual fashion: had given his money and his time; he had won the valuable title which only he who has suffered and has been bled can win, that of "the logical candidate." But that seemed not the halcyon year for "the logical candidate." The inevitable had happened in the matter of political succession. There had been too long a line of successors. The machine had become too close a corporation. A machine, over-long in power, by the approved process of making itself strong makes itself weak. It must pass around the offices. When it picks the best men it makes enemies of all those it disappoints. That includes principals and followers. For a time these "best men" have enough of a personal following to repel boarders. But party "best men" must make enemies in fortifying themselves and their friends. Every time a matter is decided between factions, or a political seeker wins a subordinate job, a rival and his friends are sent away to sulk. And so at last, in the process of making the fortress impregnable, the big wall falls and "the unders" come into the citadel. Chairman Presson would not allow that the situation in that year of reform unrest was as bad as the "unders" seemed to think. But he was worried because he was finding all men liars. And when men are lying and marking time in politics and glancing over their shoulders, look out for the stampede! In a stampede "a logical candidate" is the first one to be trampled on. This one was threatened in earnest. His opponent in his own party was Protest walking on two legs and thundering anathema through a mat of mustaches that made him a marked figure in any throng. His enemies called him "Fog-horn" Spinney; his admirers considered him a silver-tongued orator. As a professional organizer of leagues, clubs, orders, and societies he knew by their first names men enough to elect him if he could be nominated. And Arba Spinney's methods may be known from the fact that once he got enough votes to make him a State Senator by asking his auditors at each rally to feel of the lumps in the corners of their ready-made vests. A man who is fingering the sheddings of shoddy feels like voting for the candidate who declares that he will make a sheep a respectable member of society once more. As "a logical candidate," David Everett, ending his four years as a member of the Governor's executive council, was the refinement of political grooming. And he was "safe." A well-organized political machine has no use for any other sort! Arba Spinney, vociferous, rank outsider, apostrophizing the "tramp of the cowhide boots," reckless in his denunciation of every man who held office, promising everything that would catch a vote, urging overturn for the sake of overturn and a new deal, marked the other extreme. For the mass, Change, labelled Reform, seems wholly desirable. Political sagacity saw trouble ahead. And no one in the State was politically more sagacious than Thelismer Thornton, who had seen men come and seen men go, and knew all their moods and fancies. On the morning that the State chairman hurried out of Fort Canibas he discussed the matter of the rival candidates with the old man--that is to say, he talked and Thornton listened. And the more the chairman talked, the more his own declarations convinced him. "Why, the old bull fiddle can't fool the convention, Thelismer. He's running around the State now, and they're listening to him like they'd listen to a steam calliope, but what he says don't amount to anything for an argument. It's the pledged delegates that count." The old man drew a fat, black wallet from his hip pocket, and leisurely extracted a packet of newspaper clippings. "I've been watching the lists of delegates as they've been chosen, Luke. But I fail to see where you're getting pledged delegations." "They don't need to be pledged, not the men our town committees are picking." "Your town committees may be picking the men for delegates, but it is the caucus that does the pledging. And the delegates are being sent out without labels. You don't dare to insist on the pledges--now, do you?" "You know as well as I do, Thelismer, there's no need of shaking the red rag this year. We're making a different play. We've been having our newspapers drum hard on the tune: 'Leave it out to the people.' It'll be Everett all right in the convention, but we don't want to seem to be prying open their jaws and jamming him down their throats." Thornton fingered his clippings. "Luke, I thought you realized yesterday after that caucus of mine was over just how sick your State campaign is. But you've started in hollering now to try to convince yourself that it isn't so. You can't afford to do that. I've been in this thing longer than you have. I've seen the symptoms before. I recognize the signs of a stampede. That convention will be ripe for one. And you know what will happen to Dave Everett, once they get started! You and I know there ain't a thing that can be said for him except that he's the residuary legatee of all the machine politics that's been played in this State for the last twenty-five years. That's between us, and you and I might as well talk the thing as it is. She's balancing, Luke. She's right up on end. And there'll be enough old wind-bags in that convention to get up a devil of a breeze. They'll blow her over." The State chairman had started to leave, after his declaration. His automobile was purring at the foot of the steps. But he turned his back on the expectant chauffeur, and tramped onto the porch. "You don't mean to tell me that 'Fog-horn' Spinney is a dangerous candidate, do you?" "No, but Everett _is_! It happens once in so often, Luke--a situation like this. Everett is lugging too much. Last fire we had in the village here Ed Stilson tried to lug an old-fashioned bureau on his back and a feather tick in his teeth, but he couldn't get through the door." "Thelismer, why have you waited till now before saying this? I'd rather have your judgment in political futures than that of any other man in this State. But this is a damnation poor time to be getting around to me with it." "We had a caucus here yesterday, Luke, I'd only been suspecting till then. In politics I'm quite a fellow to judge the whole piece in the web by a sample. And I tell you Everett is going to make a dangerous proposition for us!" Presson stared at him for a full minute, blinking, thinking, knotting his brows, and chewing fiercely on a piece of gum. "Pull him out--that what you mean? Well, it can be done. There are plenty of men in the party that are all safe and right, but haven't been identified with the machine." "And what will you say to Dave Everett and his friends, all of whom you'll need at the polls?" "It's a party exigency, isn't it?" "It can be called that--and you can call a skunk 'Kitty' on your way home from the club, but that fact won't change your wife's opinion of you when you come in. You walk up to Dave Everett now with your political exigency in your hand, Luke, and it would turn to a political _ax_egency, and you'd have a pack of rebels on your back that would down you sure! No, sir! You can't afford to smash a man that way." "Then we'll ram him through the convention, reformers or no reformers!" "You haven't got your crowd." "Thelismer, you're right! I wouldn't have admitted it yesterday, but after seeing how they came roaring up against you, I'm scared. I'm going to pull Everett out of the fight and set up another man--one of the young and liberal fellows. I'll do it within twenty-four hours!" The Duke replaced his clippings and shoved the big wallet into his pocket. "Sudden remedies are sometimes good in extreme cases, Luke," he drawled, "but administering knockout drops to a sick party is not to be recommended." The chairman's patience left him then. "What kind of a trick is this, standing up here at the eleventh hour and putting the knife into your party?" he demanded, wrathfully. "I had a dog once, Luke, that was snapping at flies in general as he was lying on the porch here, and he snapped at a brown hackle fly that was hitched onto a fish-line. And he ran off down the road with a hook in his mouth and sixty yards of line and a pole following him. You'd better spit out that last fly, Luke. Now will you take a little advice from me, on the condition that I'll follow up that advice with some practical help?" "That's what I'm waiting for." "Then you get back onto your job, and leave Everett just where he is--not one word to him or his friends. That's the advice part. The help will come when I've got a few things straightened out a little more." "The convention is less than three weeks off. What's your plan? I want to know it now." "Well, you won't." "Do you think for a moment that I, the chairman of the Republican State Committee, am going into a convention with blinders on?" "You can go in any way you want to," retorted the Duke, calmly. "But that's all you're going to hear from me to-day, Luke. Faith without works is no good. You furnish the faith, and I'll furnish the works." "I never heard of any such devilish campaign management as this," grumbled the chairman. "You're talking to me as though I didn't know any more politics than a village hog-reeve." "Well, I'm the doctor in this case, providing I'm called," said the old man. "Just now I'm feeling of the pulse and making the diagnosis, and am getting ready to prescribe the dose. I'll call you into consultation, Luke, when the right time comes, and I'll guarantee that nothing will leak out to wound your pride or your political reputation. But I want to say that if you stand here to-day waiting to hear any more about what I intend to do, you'd better shut off that automobile. You won't be leaving for quite a spell." The chairman knew his man. He trotted down the steps and got into his car. "When you get ready to let me know how you're running this campaign, you'll find me at headquarters," he said, wrathfully, by way of farewell. Then he departed, with the news of how Thelismer Thornton was still boss of the northern principality--but that Thelismer Thornton, Nestor of State politicians, had calmly arrogated to himself the sole handling of the biggest question in State politics, the chairman kept to himself. He was in too desperate straits to rebel at that time. Furthermore, he knew that Thelismer Thornton in the years past had served as kedge for many a political craft that a lee shore threatened. He was measurably contented, after reflection, to have the old man take the thing into his own hands in that masterful fashion. The Duke pulled his chair to the end of the porch, where he could look across to the far hills beyond the river. He lighted one of his long cigars, put his feet on the rail, and began to smoke, squinting thoughtfully, pondering deeply. To all practical intents and purposes he was holding there on the porch of "The Barracks" the next State convention of the Republican party. The birds were busy about the old blockhouse opposite, coming and going. He seemed to be studying their movements through his half-open eyes, as though they were prospective delegates. And at last a grim smile of satisfaction fixed itself upon his face. His grandson found him in this amiable mood when he came with the losers by the Jo Quacca fire. Each man submitted his list rather defiantly. They sat down and scowled while Harlan told what he had discovered in his investigation of the circumstances. "I have not tried to beat them down," he concluded. "I even reminded them of a few items they had overlooked. What happened yesterday was enough to make almost any man forget things." He was inclined to be a little defiant, too, fighting the battles of the property owners, even though his own pocket must suffer by the settlement. But the Duke preserved his unruffled demeanor. He slowly made some figures on the bottoms of the papers and passed the sheets to his grandson. "Fill in the checks and bring them out here and I'll sign 'em," he directed. And as Harlan bent over him, he whispered: "You're playing good politics now, boy. Stand up for the under dog. I see you're remembering that you're a candidate." "I'm only doing what's right," protested the young man. "When you can be right and still play politics, you're getting ahead fast," murmured the Duke. "Fill in the checks!" "But you've increased their own appraisal! You're giving them more than they've asked for!" Harlan was careless of the presence of the three farmers. "Well, wasn't it your own suggestion that we use these men right?" demanded his grandfather. He gazed benignantly on the claimants. "I'm square, myself, when it comes to my debts, boys. You all know that. But Harlan argued your case last night in a way that's worth the extra money. If he can do that here at home, first crack out of the box, when it's our own money at stake, don't you think he'll do a pretty good job for you down at the State House, where it'll be a case of the public money?" His grandson had gone into the house. He had found himself at a loss for words, suddenly. "Harlan is as straight as a stilya'd, and allus has been," admitted one of the men, gratefully. He was wondering how much the Duke had added to the amount. "All of you think now that a fellow like that will make a pretty good sort of a representative, don't you?" They muttered assent. "Well, why did you back-district chaps come in here yesterday and try to lick him in the caucus?" They had no answer ready. They looked at the porch floor, and rasped their hard hands together and cracked their knuckles in embarrassment. The old man kept his complacency. "I'll tell you how it was, boys. You got fooled, now, didn't you? You let 'em use you like old Samson used the foxes. Now, the next time one of those disturber fellows ties a blazing pine knot to your tail, you sit right down and gnaw the string in two before you start to run. Because a man holds office it's no sign he's a renegade. You'll usually find the renegades standing outside and slandering him and trying to get his office away for their own use. They got you going, didn't they, when they went around telling that I thought I owned you in this district, body and soul? Got you jealous and suspicious and mad? Can you afford to be jealous and mad when you've got a fellow like Harlan Thornton willing to go down to the legislature and work for you? Do you want one of those blatherskites to represent you? Now tell me!" "Poor men that have to work all the time don't have the chance to look into public things as much as they ought to," said one of the men, apologetically. "And sometimes when a fellow comes around who can talk smooth we get fooled." "You've bought a lot of fake things from travelling agents in this county. Now don't buy fake politics," He took the checks from his grandson's hand. Harlan had brought them, and a pen. He cocked his knee and scrawled his signature. They came to him and took their checks. Each stood there, holding the slip of paper awkwardly pinched between thumb and forefinger. The Duke waited. "I want to say this," stammered the spokesman. "You get fooled sometimes. Most often in politics. But no one can fool us again--not about the Thornton family." "Pass that word around the district, boys," advised the Duke, complacently. "There's an election coming, you know." They departed, three new and promising evangelists. "Campaign expenses, bub," broke in the old man, when Harlan began; "campaign expenses! It's a soggy lump of dough out back there. That kind of yeast will lighten it." He looked across at the hills, squinting reflectively again, and at last glanced up at his grandson, who stood regarding him with thoughtful hesitation. "Say it, boy!" he counselled. "A little more bile left over from yesterday?" "No, sir! Not that. But I think I'll send Ben Kyle in with the crews and let him locate the new camps." "I didn't intend to have you go back--not if you'd listen to me. We've got men enough to attend to that sort of work, Harlan. I want you with me for a while. I've got some plans for you." "And I've got a few plans for myself. Now that I'm in this, I propose to be in it in earnest." "You wouldn't be a Thornton if you didn't get at it all over," commended the Duke. "You see, I understood you, boy!" "I'm going to call on every man in this district and tell him where I stand. I'm going to tell him that if there are honest men in that legislature I propose to be counted in with them. I may be a very humble helper, but I'm going to lift with all my strength, grandfather, on the square-deal end of every proposition that I find to lay hold of." "Good politics, boy, all good politics!" declared the old man. With humor that had a little malicious fun in it he avoided endorsing this impulsive zeal as anything except shrewd playing of his own game. But his eyes told the young man what his lips did not utter. There was pride in them, encouragement, joy that would not be hidden--and something else: wistful regret, perhaps; it seemed to be that--the regret that age feels when it has lost its illusions and beholds them springing again in the heart of fervent youth; regret conscious that in its turn this new faith in things present and things to come will be dead and cold, too. "I don't think we have to worry much about the election, Harlan. Go out and tackle the boys. You'll make good. Take two days. That'll be time enough. And then I want you." Harlan's eyes questioned him. "You know I opened up a little to you last night, bub. You're all I've got, you know. I've not been much of a hand to talk. I don't believe you've realized just how I've felt. But we'll let it stand as it is. I've got plans for you, boy, better than the little pancake politics of this district. I know a few things in politics. I'm old enough to understand how to put you in right. It's one thing to know how, and it's another thing to find occasion just ripe and ready." He rolled his cigar to the centre of his mouth and lifted the corners in an illuminating grin. "Bub, in two days be ready to come with me. I'm going to put you in right!" CHAPTER X A POLITICAL CONVERT For two days Harlan Thornton rode about over the Fort Canibas district. He talked to men at their doors, in their shops, over the fences of their fields. He knew that some sneered at him behind his back. Some even dared to arraign him, boldly and angrily, and flung his motives in his face, accusing the grandfather of inciting the grandson to this attempt to catch votes. He realized that most of the voters did not understand him aright. They did not understand sincerity in politics. But his own consciousness of rectitude supplied his consolation and provided his impetus. Till then he had employed the Thornton grit only in his business efforts; he employed it now with just as much vigor in his proselyting. Once in the fight, he was awake to what it meant. His frank earnestness impressed those with whom he talked. He did not lose his temper, when men assailed him and tried to discredit his protestations. Here and there, in neighborhoods, knots of farmers gathered about him and listened. He began to win his way, and he knew it. The knowledge that Harlan Thornton was a square man in business needed no herald in that section. That this integrity would extend to his politics grew into belief more and more as he went about. The distrust of him, because of his associations, a suspicion fostered by the paid agents of the opposition, began to give way before his calm, earnest young manhood. But in every knot of men he found a few bitter irreconcilables still. They were those whom change invites, and the established order offends. One man, unable to provoke him by vituperation, and in a frenzy of childish rage because Harlan's calm poise was not disturbed by his outpourings, ran at him and struck him. He was a little man, and though he leaped when he struck, the blow landed no higher than the shoulder that Harlan turned to him. And when he leaped again the young man caught him by the wrist and smiled down on him, unperturbed. "If that's the way you talk politics, Sam, I'll have to adjourn the debate," he said, quietly. And the story of that went the rounds, accompanied by much laughter, and the big, sturdy, serene young man who was master of his own passions met smiles wherever he went. Another story preceded him, too. "Fighting" MacCracken, of the Jo Quacca neighborhood, smarting ever since that day in the yard of "The Barracks," jealous of his prestige as a man of might, offered obscene and brutal insult to the name of Thelismer Thornton in the hearing of his grandson. It had been hinted previously along the border that the six-foot scion of the Thorntons was a handy man in a scrap, but now his prowess was surely established. MacCracken went about, a living advertisement of how effectually righteous anger can back up two good fists. Therefore, respect attended on good-humor and went with, or ahead of, the candidate. He wondered at himself sometimes. He hardly understood the zeal that now animated him, so sudden a convert. But the zest of youth was in him; the spirit of the toil of the big woods, of the race with drought when the drives are going down, the everlasting struggle with nature's forces, the rivalry between man and man where accomplishment that bulks large in the eyes of men is the only accomplishment that counts--all these spurred him to make good, now that he had begun. In the open arena of life his training had been that of man to man, and the best man taking the prize. And his reading during the long evenings had been more in the way of education in public matters than he had realized. As for ideals, he had followed the masterful men who preached a gospel that appealed to him, living the life of the open, battling for the weak against the selfishly strong--so it seemed to the one who studied their achievements on the printed page. With his own opportunity now thrust upon him, Harlan Thornton determined to make candor his code, honesty his system. He entertained no false ideas of his personal importance. But his lack of experience did not daunt him. He simply made up his mind that he would go forward, keeping soul and heart open, as well as eyes and ears. He believed that the square deal could not be hidden from those who entered public life in that manner. He did not discuss all this with his grandfather. If he had, Thelismer Thornton would have been vastly interested. He might have been amused. Probably he would have been more amused than interested, for hot youth and glowing ideals have humorous phases for the man who has lived among men for more than eighty years. But that he had unloosed a bottle imp in his own family would not have occurred to the old man, even after he had listened, for he still had the cynical belief that circumstances must control, interest convert, and personal profit kill the most glowing ardor in reform. Lacking the gift of divination, Thelismer Thornton watched the rapid development of this bottle imp with much complacency. "Whispering" Urban Cobb brought him reports from the field. Talleyrand Sylvester was trying to place bets on Harlan Thornton, but there were no takers. It was even stated that Enoch Dudley was finding it hard work to secure pledges enough to warrant his running as an independent candidate. Harlan Thornton, looking in from the outside, had found politics, as managed _for_ him, an abhorrent mess. Now, plunged in, he was embracing his opportunity, and finding good in the contest. On the other hand, Harlan Thornton, making his own plea and his own pledges as a candidate, was embraced by the voters. He was not a mere legatee forced on them by a boss--he was speaking for himself, and the sincerity of the young man made itself felt. At the end of the appointed two days he knew that his prospects were safe. One of the other towns in the district and three of the plantations had endorsed his name in caucus. If Thelismer Thornton had been responsible for his candidacy, so was his own personality responsible for this clearing away of difficulties. He felt his self-respect returning. That cruel wound to his pride was healing. He was riding home in the evening of the second day, past the end of the long bridge, finding comfort in this thought. A white figure, framed in the black mouth of the bridge, startled rider and horse. "It's only Clare," she said. "I heard you were up the river to-day, and I've been waiting for you." He rode closer. It was a new and strange Clare who was revealed to him in the dim light. She was gowned and gloved, and her broad hat hid her boyish curls. She walked out of the gloom and leaned against the bridge rail. "Ah, the little playmate did ride away from me forever!" he cried, looking her up and down. "But this young lady--why, she takes my breath away!" He took off his hat and bowed to the pommel. "You needn't make fun of me, Mr. Harlan Thornton," she returned, crisply. "And a real young lady wouldn't come down in this bridge and wait for you. I wanted to tell you I'm glad. I hear all about your success. When I was a little girl I didn't want you to go away and be a big man. But now that I'm a woman I'm glad you're going. I wanted you to realize, Mr. Harlan Thornton, that I'm a woman, so if you'll reach down your hand I'll shake it and congratulate you." He took her little hand in both his own. "You were a real little woman two days ago right here in this place," he said, gratefully. "I didn't realize it at that moment, but it was what you said to me that put some real sense into my head, after all. It set me to thinking." "What kind of laws are you going to make?" she demanded. "I don't think I'll have much to do with making laws, Clare. All I can do is listen and try to be on the right side when the voting comes." "Can't you make a law to oblige old men to stop fighting each other," she demanded, petulantly--"fighting each other, and making all their folks uncomfortable?" "I think it would be a good law, especially in one case I know about. But sometimes the best laws don't get passed." "I'll come down and make a speech for it. You said I talked like old folks the other evening." "A speech from you would convert them all," he returned, indulging her in this childish banter. "You see, you converted me with only a few words, and I was a hard case just then." "Then I'll come down to your legislature and we'll make it into a law, and the punishment shall be, if they don't make up and allow their folks to be comfortable and friends, they must have their old heads bumped together--bumped harder and harder till they shake hands and make up and live happy ever after. Old folks haven't any business to stay mad. They won't get into heaven if they do." She withdrew her hand, and went away into the black mouth of the bridge. "That's all, Big Boy!" she cried. "It was some business, you see, that I waited to talk over with you. And a grown-up young lady mustn't stay after her business is finished." "But I'll walk home with you!" he called. "No, I'll not be frightened at the dark until I get old enough to be called an old maid," she said, mischievously. "Good-night!" He waited by the side of the river until he saw her white figure safely through the dark bridge, and on its way up the quiet hillside past the church. Then he rode to "The Barracks," his mind dwelling a bit more particularly on the vagaries of womankind than it ever had before. He joined his grandfather on the porch after he had eaten his supper alone. "The fences, so I hear, Harlan, will pass the inspection of the most expert fence-viewers," he chuckled. "So I suppose you'll be ready to leave with me to-morrow." "If you think it's necessary to have me go anywhere with you, grandfather, I'll go." There was silence for a time. The young man was waiting. The old man smoked placidly. "Is there any reason why you can't tell me where we are going?" inquired Harlan. "No especial reason--only I'll be wasting time telling you. You'll see for yourself. We'll meet a big man or so--that's all!" "The man I'd like to meet," began the young man, fervently, "is one that every young chap in this country can follow and ought to follow, if he's got red blood and honesty in him. I wish I could meet him now when I'm starting out, if only to shake his hand." "You'd better not meet any man so long as he's wearing a halo, where you're concerned. You'll find political halos, bub, when you get too near to 'em, something like restaurant doughnuts--holes surrounded by poor cooking. Better keep away a spell. That's why I'm not going to tell you where we're going--not just now. I might go to cracking up the man too much. I'll let you build your own halo for him--and then maybe you can eat your own cooking, provided you find the halo a doughnut." They left Fort Canibas the next morning, travelling humbly by mail stage to the railroad terminus. The branch line took them to a populous junction, and by that time Harlan Thornton began to appreciate that his grandfather was rather more of a figure in State politics than he had dreamed. He had made many trips with him through the State in years past, but never before when men understood, some dimly, some fearfully, that a political crisis was on. Thelismer Thornton's seat in the train, his room at the hotel, was besieged by those who respectfully solicited his opinions. They seemed to realize that some of the wisdom of the fathers in State politics, of the patriarchs with whom he had trained, had fallen to him by natural inheritance. But though he listened patiently, he said but little. Harlan noticed, however, that he did take especial pains to deprecate some of the suppressive movements advised by the more hot-headed managers. "Let things swing as they're going," he advised. "She'll take care of herself, give her free run right now. But you can't pinch up a line gale by putting a clothespin on the nose of the tempest. Let her snort! Brace the party and face it like a hitching--post! Don't try to choke off Arba Spinney. Let him froth." His grandfather was so insistent on this point that Harlan took notice of its frequent repetition and the earnestness with which it was pressed. He began to understand that some plan lay back of his grandfather's silence to him and to others as to his private reasons for this appeal. He began to take lively interest in the ramifications of practical politics as played by the hand of a master. CHAPTER XI A MAN FROM THE SHADOWS There was a provoking flavor of mystery about Thelismer Thornton's early movements the next day. His grandson became still more interested. This element in politics appealed to him, for he was young. They left the city by an early train. The Duke secluded himself and his grandson in a drawing-room of the car. It was an express--train which did not stop at way stations. But when the conductor came for the tickets the old man inquired whether orders had been issued to have the train held up at a certain siding. "Yes, sir, to leave two passengers," said the conductor. He was courteous, but he winked at the old politician with the air of one who thought he understood something. He exhibited his telegram from the dispatcher. "Can't be much politics there, Mr. Thornton," he remarked, by way of jest. "I'm on a fishing-trip," explained the Duke, blandly. And the conductor, who knew that the siding had no fishing water within ten miles of it, went away chuckling in order to applaud the joke of a man of power. A few hours later the two were let off at the siding and the train hurried on. There was a farm-house near the railroad. They ate dinner with the farmer and his wife, who seemed to realize that they were entertaining some one out of the ordinary, and were much flustered thereby. Especially did the farmer struggle with his vague memory of personalities, asking many round-about questions and "supposing" many possibilities that the Duke placidly neglected to confirm. The only definite information the farmer received was that the big elderly man wanted himself and his companion conveyed to Burnside Village by wagon, starting in the late afternoon. "I'll take you," said the man; "but what sticks me is that you didn't stay right on board that train. It stops at Burnside regular, and it don't stop here at all." "But it stopped to-day," remarked the Duke. "I know it did, and that's what sticks me again." The old man rose from the table and smiled down on him. "Here's a good cigar, brother. I've often worked out many a puzzle while having a bang-up smoke." He invited Harlan by a nod of the head, and they went out and strolled in the maple grove behind the house. "I suppose you think by this time, bub, that I'm in my second childhood, and playing dime novel. But there are some things in politics that have to be done as gentle and careful as picking a rose petal off a school-ma'am's shoulder." The Duke chuckled and smoked for a time. "When I've had a job of that sort to do I haven't even talked to myself, Harlan. So you mustn't think I'm distrustful of you because I don't tell you what's on." "I'm willing to wait," said his grandson. "Learn your lesson, Harlan--the one I'm trying to teach you now. I never knew but one man who could keep his mouth shut under all circumstances when he felt it was his duty to do so. That was old Ben Holt. He's dead now. He fell off a bridge on his way to church and didn't holler 'Help!' for fear of breaking the Sabbath. You don't find any more of that kind in these days--not in political matters. I'm not distrusting you, I say, but I'm teaching you the lesson. Keep your mouth shut till it's time to open it. I'm drawing this thing here strong on you, so as to impress it. As for the other fellows--if I had got off the train at Burnside to-day the news would have been in every afternoon paper in the State. They'd only need that one fact to build fifty stories on--all different. _Most_ of those stories would have hurt; there'd have been one guess, at least, that would kill the scheme. Sit down here, and let's take it easy." He sat at the foot of a tree, his broad straw hat beside him. He leaned his head against the trunk, and gazed upward and away from his grandson. When the question came it was so irrelevant, so astonishing, that the young man gasped without replying. "Harlan, how do you stand with the Kavanagh girl?" The old man smoked on in the silence without removing his gaze from the leaves above his head. "I want to confess to you, my boy, that your old grandfather made rather a disgraceful exhibition of himself the other day. But as I said then, a man will thrash and swear at a hornet and make an ass of himself, generally, in the operation. The impudent little fool didn't realize what a big matter she was trifling with." "Grandfather," protested Harlan, manfully, "that's no way to speak of a young lady. You ask me how I stand? I stand this way--I'll not have the child mentioned in any such manner--not in my hearing; and that's with all respect to you, sir." "Young lady--child? Well, which is she?" "I don't know," confessed Harlan, ingenuously. "And it doesn't make much difference." "Sort of ashamed of me, aren't you?" inquired his grandfather. "A man that you've seen all the politicians catering to the last day or so, and small enough to bandy insults with a snippet of a girl! Well, bub, there's a lot of childishness in human nature. It breaks out once in a while. Cuss a tack, and grin and bear an amputation! We'll let the girl alone. I don't seem to get in right when she is mentioned. But I wanted to have you tell me that you don't intend to marry Dennis Kavanagh's daughter. You can't afford to do that, boy! Not with your prospects. And now I'm not saying anything against the girl. We'll leave her out, I say. It's just that she isn't the kind of a woman--when she gets to be a woman--that I want to see mated with you." He burst out: "Dammit, Harlan, I can see where you're going to land in this State if you'll let your old gramp have free rein! And the right kind of a wife is half the battle in what you're going into." "Have you got that right kind picked out for me--along with the rest? You talk as though you had." It was said almost in the tone of insult. It might have been the tone--it might have been that the taunt touched upon the truth: Thelismer Thornton's face flushed. He did not seem to find reply easy. "There's only this to say, grandfather. I know you're interested in me and in seeing me get ahead in the world. You pushed me into politics, and I'm trying to make good. I'm glad you did it--I'll say that now. I see opportunities ahead if I stay square and honest. But don't you try to push me into marriage. I'm going to do my own choosing there. And that doesn't mean that I'm in love with Clare Kavanagh, or intend to marry Clare Kavanagh, or want to marry her--or that she wants to marry me. That's straight, and I don't want to talk about it any more." He stood up, and his tone was defiant. "You'd better take a walk, bub," commended the Duke, quietly. "I'm going to nap for a little while. We may be up late to-night." He picked up his hat and canted it over his face. "Get back here as early as five o'clock," he said, from under its brim. They were away in the farmer's carryall at that hour, after a supper of bread-and-milk. In the edge of the village of Burnside the Duke ordered a halt, and stepped down from the carriage. The evening had settled in and it was dark under the elms. "Here's five dollars, brother. You've used us all right, and now so long to you." "But I hain't got you to nowhere yet!" protested the farmer. He had finally decided in his own mind that these were railroad managers planning projects, with an eye on his own farm. He wanted to carry them where he could exhibit them to some one who could inform him. But the Duke promptly drew Harlan along into the shadows, and a farmer hampered with a two-seated carriage is not equipped for the trail. They heard the complaining squeal of iron against iron as he turned to go back home. "We've come here to call on a man," stated the Duke, after they had walked for a little time. "On ex-Governor Waymouth, I suppose," Harlan suggested, quietly. The old man chuckled. "How long have you been suspecting that?" "Ever since I heard Burnside mentioned, of course." "Good! You guessed and kept still about it. You've got the makings of a politician, and you are learning fast. Now what do you suppose I'm sneaking up on Varden Waymouth in this way for?" "You said I'd see for myself when the time came. I'm in no hurry, grandfather." The Duke patted Harlan's shoulder. "You're one of my kind, that's sure, boy. I haven't got to put any patent time-lock onto your tongue. And I can't say that of many chaps in this State. You're a safe man to have along. Come on!" The house was back from the street a bit--a modest mansion of brick, dignifiedly old. Tall twin columns flanked the front door and supported the roof of the porch. Harlan had never seen the residence of General Waymouth before, but that exterior seemed fitted to the man, such as he knew him to be. He admitted them himself, when they had waited a few moments after sounding alarm with the ancient knocker. Framed in the door, he was a picturesque figure. His abundant white hair hung straight down over his ears, and curled outward at the ends; his short beard was snowy, but there was healthful ruddiness on his face, and though his figure, tall above the average, stooped a bit, he walked briskly ahead of them into the library, crying delighted welcome over his shoulder. His meeting with Thelismer Thornton had been almost an embrace. "And this boosting big chap is Harlan--my grand-baby, Vard! Guess you used to see him at 'The Barracks' when he was smaller. Since then he's been trying to outgrow one of our spruce-trees." The ex-Governor gave Harlan his left hand. The empty sleeve of the right arm was pinned to the shoulder. "The old Yankee stock doesn't need a step-ladder to stand on to light the moon, so they used to say." He rolled chairs close to each other and urged them to sit, with the anxious hospitality of the old man who has grown to prize the narrowing circle of his intimates. "Smoke, Thelismer," he pleaded. "Stretch out and smoke. I always like to see you smoke. You take so much comfort. I sometimes wish I'd learned to smoke. Old age gets lonely once in a while. Perhaps a good cigar might be a consolation." "So you do get lonesome sometimes, Vard?" inquired the Duke. "It's a lonesome age when you're eighty, comrade. You probably find it so yourself. There are so few of one's old friends that live to be eighty." Then they fell into discourse, eager, wistful reminiscences such as come to the lips of old friends who meet infrequently. The young man, sitting close in the circle, listened appreciatively. This courtly old soldier, lawyer, Governor, and kindly gentleman had been to him since boyhood, as he had to the understanding youth of his State, an ideal knight of the old régime. And so the hours slipped past, and he sat listening. The calm night outside was breathlessly still, except for the drone of insects at the screens, attracted by the glow of the library lamp. A steeple clock clanged its ten sonorous strokes, and still the old men chatted on, and the Duke had not hinted at his errand. The General suddenly remembered that he had in the cellar some home-made wine, and he asked the young man to come with him, as lamp-bearer. "The good wife would have thought of that little touch of hospitality long ago, my son," he said, as they walked down the stairs, "but a widower's house with grouchy hired help makes old age still more lonely." On their return they found the Duke, feet extended, head tipped back, eyes on the ceiling. He was deep in thought, and told Harlan to place his glass on the chair's arm. "Varden," he said, "eighty isn't old, not for a man like you; and it shouldn't be lonely, that age. I'm still older, and I propose to wear out instead of rust out." "I don't feel rusty, exactly," returned the General, smiling into his glass. "But when I think of all the marches, Thelismer, of the campaigns, the heartbreaking struggles of the war--of all the cases won and cases lost, the nights of study and days of labor in the law--the fuss and fury of politics--of all the years behind me, I feel as though I'd like to be used as my father used his old boots: Before he took his bed for the last time he went up into the garret of the old farm-house and laid his boots there on their sides. 'Let 'em lie down, now, and rest,' he said. And I've never allowed them to be disturbed." The Duke still stared at the ceiling. "Varden, you and I have known each other so long that you don't need as much talk from me as you would from a stranger. When I've asked a thing from you in the past I didn't have to sit down and talk to you an hour about the reasons why I wanted it. You understood that I had a good reason for asking. I'm going to ask just one more thing from you in this life. I'm going to ask it straight from the shoulder. You and I don't need to beat about the bush with each other. I want you to say 'yes,' for if you don't you're abandoning our old State as though she were a widow headed for the almshouse." Thornton leaned forward, grasped his glass and drained it at a gulp, and then looked the amazed General squarely in the eyes. "You're going to be nominated as Governor of this State in the next convention, and you've got to accept," he declared. "Now hold on! Just as you understand that I've got good reasons for asking you to do this, just so I understand all that you're going to say in objection. I discount all your objections in advance. I know you haven't lost run of affairs in this State--you know all the mix-up the party is in right now. They're going to beat Dave Everett in convention, General, just as sure as the devil can't freeze his own ice. It's going to be 'Seventy-two all over again. People gone crazy for a change and jumping the wrong way, like grasshoppers in front of a mowing machine. Spinney means the whole rotten thing over again--State treasury looted, tax rate reduced to get a popular hoorah, a floating debt that will make us stagger and keep enterprise out of this State for ten years, petty graft in every State office, and every strap on the party nag busted from snaffle to crupper. Now I want to ask you one question: Do you want Arba Spinney for the next Governor of this State--sitting in the chair that you honored? You know him! You've heard his mouth go. You understand his calibre. Do you want him?" "No," admitted General Waymouth. "Well, you're going to get him if you don't accept that nomination. You're going to get him, blab-mouth, mob-rule, mortification, and merry hell--the whole bagful! Do you want that for this State, Vard?" "Our State can't afford to have such a man," agreed General Waymouth, "but--" "I'd, myself, rather see a Democrat win at the polls!" shouted Thornton. "But the Democrat that they've got in line is worse than Spinney. It's a popocratic year, and they're all playing that game. But they can't overcome our natural plurality, Varden. It means Spinney if he goes to the polls! It's up to you to stop him. You've got to do it!" The General rose and walked around the room. His shoulders were stooped a bit more. Then he came and put his hand on Thelismer's shoulder. "Your faith in what I am and what I might do is worthy of you, my old comrade, even if it exalts my poor powers too much. And I thank you, Thelismer. But I know what I am. I'm only a stranded old man. The younger generation will not think as you do. Go and find some good man there. I'm too weary, Thelismer, too old and too weary--and almost forgotten. Find another man!" "What's that? Find a man for Governor of this State, groom him, work him out, score him down and shove him under the wire of State Convention a winner inside of two weeks? Varden, you know politics better than that! _You_ forgotten by the younger generation of this State? Harlan, what have you to say to that?" The young man stood up. He had listened well and listened long that evening. In the presence of this gracious old knight of the heroic days of history he had felt his heart swelling as he remembered the record that all men of his State knew. The fervor of his admiration showed so plainly in his glistening eyes that General Waymouth was touched, and waited indulgently. "General, it's only because my grandfather is your old friend and has commanded me that I dare to speak. I simply have a hope. It has become dear to me. I'm hoping for a privilege. I honestly believe that outside of all party preferences there are thousands of young men in this State who will feel proud to have that same privilege--will esteem it one of the honors of their lives. Their fathers had the same honor. And that's to go to the polls and cast a ballot for Gen. Varden Waymouth. It will make politics seem worth while to us, sir." "Good!" ejaculated the Duke. "You're hearing the voice of the young men of this State now, Varden." He stood up. "Here's my boy for your service. He'll be in the next legislature. Use him. Depend on him. You're old--you've earned your rest. I know it. But here's a loud call for a sacrifice. This boy and such as he can lift a lot of the load. Varden, give me your hand. Say that you'll do it!" "Let's sit down a moment," said the General, solemn gentleness in his tone. "I have something that it's in my heart to say." He drew his chair even closer to them. They waited a few moments for him to speak. In that room with its dignity of ancient things, with the silence of the summer night surrounding, that waiting was impressive. Harlan felt the thrill of it. Even his grandfather was gravely anxious. The General leaned forward and put his thin hand on the elder Thornton's knee. "Thelismer, you yourself link the past with the present, so far as the politics of this State go. You link them even more than I do, for you are active in the present. You have been a strong man--you are strong to-day. But I want to say to you, and this is as friend to friend, you haven't always used that strength right. I know what reply you'd make to that. We've talked it all over many times. You say that you've had to play the game. That's right. And I've played it myself, too. But in the years since then, while I've sat at one side of the arena and looked on, I've had a chance to meditate and a chance to observe. I don't think matters have been running right in this State--and now I'm not speaking of Arba Spinney or his ilk. You come to me to-night and you ask me to be the Governor of this State once more. You want me to come back into the game. You ask me to appeal to the suffrage of the young men who admire what little I've accomplished. I want to warn you. I may be putting it too strong when I call it a warning. I have some ideals to-day. You may not find them to your liking in politics." "I'm willing to trust in your good judgment and your sense of what is square for all concerned," protested the Duke, stoutly. "In the hot old days I was hot with the rest, Vard. I've mellowed some since." "You may not find me a safe man, Thelismer. I shall come back out of the shadows with a firm resolve to merit the approval of the young men of this State--and the young men see more clearly than their fathers did." "I'm not here to-night with bridle or bit or halter, Varden. We need you. The party has got to have you. I know what your name will accomplish in that convention. You shall be Governor of this State without making pledge or promise. Will you stand?" "I ask you again, Thelismer, if there is no other way?" "Any other way means Spinney and mob rule." General Waymouth turned to Harlan. "Go out and tell the honest young men of this State that I will try to satisfy their ideals. That's the only pledge I'll give. I'm afraid I haven't any promise for the old machine, Thelismer." He smiled. "We don't need any," returned the Duke, briskly. "We know Vard Waymouth. But there's one pledge I do want from you. This whole thing is to be left in my hands so far as announcement goes. My plan of campaign makes that much necessary. We don't want to flush that bunch of birds till we can give 'em both barrels." "I consent. I'll live in the lingering hope that at the last moment you'll find I won't be needed." He rose and gave his hand to each in turn, bringing them to their feet. "Now for bed. Of course, you'll remain here the night." "No," declared Thornton, decisively. "Out o' here on the midnight! I want to dodge out of Burnside in the dark. We'll walk down to the station now. It's settled. I'll keep you posted." At the door the General gave Harlan the last word, grasping his hand again. "You brought me a message from the young men that touched me." "I spoke for myself, but I believe that all of them would like to have the same opportunity that I had," faltered Harlan. "I know they would. Will you let us come to you at the right time and make it plain?" "I shall depend upon you in a great many ways in the months to come. You know it's to be a young man's administration by an old man made young again. I'm proud of my first volunteer!" "He's a good boy, and he's got the makings in him," declared the Duke. "I've been too long with men not to appreciate a good chief of staff when I see him," laughed the General. Framed in the big door, with the dim glow of light behind him, he watched them depart. The Duke walked in the far shadows of the station platform in silence, smoking, until the train whistled. "Bub, you remember that I told you I'd put you in right," he said, climbing the car steps. "Now follow your hand." But Harlan Thornton, fresh from that presence, understood that he had pledged a loyalty deeper than the loyalty of mere politics or preferment. CHAPTER XII DEALS AND IDEALS There was no one in the smoking-room of the car, so the Duke discovered with relief. It was late, and the passengers were in their berths. There was no one to spy, ask questions, or guess. "Complete!" he grunted, satisfiedly, as he sat down. "We've come through with the job in good shape, Harlan. It'll have to be a mind-reader that finds out what I've put up to-day." He swung his feet upon the seat opposite and sighed. "I'm a pretty old man to be tearing 'round nights in this fashion, bub, but I feel younger by twenty years just this minute. Now I didn't tell you my plans this morning. Reckoned I'd wait till I had a clear view ahead. I've got it now. I'll wire ahead to the junction for our baggage to be brought from the hotel and put on board this train. We'll stay on. State capital next. Down to Luke's place. We'll stay there till State Convention. Finger right on the pulse after this." He called the porter and arranged for his berths, and ordered the telegram sent from the next station. He began leisurely to unfasten his necktie and collar. "Got to tell Luke, you know. A close corporation of four--that's enough to know it. Can't trust the rest. We'll let 'em keep their old political hen sitting on their china egg. We'll hatch the good egg in our own nest. Then for a glorious old cackle! Vard Waymouth will be the next Governor of this State! Sure!" "And this State will have the right man on the job with him as Governor!" cried the young man, enthusiastically. "I'm proud of what you did to-night, grandfather. I don't believe he would have listened to anyone else." "Friendship, comradeship, mean something when you get old, my boy." "I hope they'll all know who did it when the time comes right. Some of the men who have been growling about you behind your back will have their mouths shut for them." "You've been hearing the old man cussed thoroughly and scientifically, eh?" drawled the Duke. He squinted, quizzically. "Well, a man who stays in politics fifty years and doesn't make enemies, stays too close to the ground to be worth anything. Good, healthy, vigorous enemies are a compliment." "I wonder whether his party will say that when General Waymouth starts out in his reforms." "What reforms?" demanded the old man, tugging off his collar. "You heard what he said--about what he intended to do--the warning, as he called it." Thornton looked at his grandson serenely and with a glint of humor in his eyes. "You don't have any idea, do you, that Vard Waymouth is going to play politics with sugar-plums instead of with the chips he finds on the table? Get your wisdom teeth cut, young chap. That's another branch of the science for you to learn." Harlan protested, his loyalty a bit shocked. "I believe that General Waymouth meant what he said." "Well, what did he say?" "You _know_ what he said. I saw you listening pretty closely, grandfather. He intends a square deal for this State. I may be young, and I probably don't understand politics, but I know an honest gentleman when I see one." "My boy, there's no question of dishonesty here. Don't pick up any of the patter that the demagogues are babbling--and they don't know just what they mean themselves. He _is_ an honest man. Have I known him all my life without finding that out? But he isn't going to start out and clinch any reputation for honesty by turning his back on his own party and its interests--not for the sake of having the cheap demagogues of the other side pat him on the back and pick his pockets at the same time. He knows politics too well. But we won't sit up here to-night and discuss that. Keep your faith in him. He's worth it." With his coat on his arm he started for his berth. "The idea is, then, the party is going to make him stand first of all for things that will help the party, without much regard for what will help the people of this State as a whole? That's politics according to the code, is it, grandfather?" "That's politics, my boy," stated the Duke with decision. "Once in a while you find a fellow splitting off and trying to play it different, but he doesn't last. Why the devil should he? It's his party, isn't it, that puts him on the job?" "It's the majority of the people that do it, if he's elected." "Don't get fooled on this 'people' idea, Harlan. The people are no good without organization--and organization _is_ the party. I don't want to discourage you, son. You'll see some opportunities where you can grab in and turn a trick for the general good of all hands. But you can't dump your friends. You've got to stand by your own party first. You do anything else, and you'll simply get the reputation of being a kicker and an insurgent. And then you can't spin a thread. Your own party doesn't want you and the other side is afraid of you. _Ideals_ are blasted good in their way, but in politics cut out the _I_ and attend to the _deals_. It's the only way you'll get anywhere." Harlan sat alone for a while and thought. Rebellion seethed in him. But it was rebellion against something vague--protest that was more instinct than actual understanding. He still lacked the prick of party enthusiasm; party, as he had seen its operations, stood for some pretty sordid actualities. One thing comforted him: he had not lost his faith in General Waymouth. His grandfather's cynicism had not destroyed that. He realized that his youth and his lack of experience would make him a very humble cog in the legislative machinery. But he had youth and high hopes, and his creed from boyhood had been to do everything that he had to do resolutely and to the full measure of his ability. When he looked at his watch he decided that he would not go to his berth. The train would reach the State capital shortly after four in the morning. He dozed in his seat, the grateful breath of the summer night fanning his face through the screen. The Duke found him there, appearing as he had departed, his coat on his arm, his collar in his hand. He was full of the briskness of the dawn in spite of his short rations of sleep. "You mustn't think because you've found sins in the party that you've been picked out for the atonement, boy," he chided, jocosely. "Get your sleep--always get your sleep. I wouldn't have been alive to-day if I'd been kept awake by worry and wonder." A cab took their luggage to the hotel. They walked up the hill. It was the old man's suggestion. "It'll do us good. This air beats any cocktail you can get over Luke's bar--and they serve as good a one as you'll get anywhere, even if this is a prohibition State." "Wasn't it Governor Waymouth who signed the first prohibition bill in this State?" asked Harlan. "Still dwelling on visions of reform, eh?" inquired his grandfather, smiling broadly. He did not reply immediately. He stepped ahead, for they were obliged to walk in single file past a man who was sweeping sawdust across the sidewalk. In the windows that flanked the open doors of his shop dusty cigar boxes were piled. The shelves within were empty. Harlan recognized the nature of the establishment. It was a grog-shop in its partial disguise. He got the odor of stale liquors from the open door as he passed. "I was present when he signed it," said the Duke, as soon as they were walking side by side once more. "Something had to be done politically with the Washingtonian movement, you know; it had cut the cranks out of the main herd. You'd think, nowadays, to hear some of the things that are said about conditions in the old times, that every man in this State picked up his rum-bottle and pipe and threw 'em to Tophet and got onto the wagon. You weren't born then. Let me tell you how it really happened. It was mostly politics. The disorganized mob of prohibitionists didn't do it--it was our party. We needed the cranks to swing the balance of power. They were all herded, ready to follow the bell. Needed a shepherd. Didn't know which one of the old parties to run to. It's a crime in politics not to grab in a bunch of the unbranded when it's that size. We put prohibition into the platform and carried the election. Then the boys went to the Governor and told him, privately, that they really didn't mean it, and framed it up that they'd pass the bill in the legislature all right and then he'd veto it--and the party would be saved, and he wouldn't be hurt, because every one knew that he couldn't be accused of acting in the interests of the rumsellers, but only stood on the constitutional law ground--and there was great talk those days, son, of personal liberty and inherent rights. But Vard picked up his pen and told us he wasn't much of a hand for playing practical jokes on the people. He signed it. And he was a license man, at that, those days. Guess he is now." "I don't see how you can say he has played politics--not after he stood out like that." Thelismer Thornton laughed silently. They were half-way up the long hill. The bland morning was already growing warm. The old man stopped for a moment, hat off, under a dewy maple. "Bub, do you think Vard Waymouth, lawyer that he is, didn't know just about how much that act would amount to after it got to operating? About all it did was to proclaim the rum business contraband. No teeth, no claws, not much machinery for enforcement--and public sentiment cussing it, after it began to hit men individually. Reform in politics is popular just so long as it doesn't hit individuals." "There's teeth enough in the law _now_", remarked Harlan. "Oh, it's easier to put 'em in than it is to fight the mouths of the professional ramrodders who come down to the legislature. We put in the teeth right along and leave off the enforcement muscle. The old thing can't chaw! Then the ramrodders have got the law to hoorah about and read over in the parlor, and they'll go right past such a place as we saw down the street there and not know it's a rumshop. After they get all the law they ask for, it's a part of their game to say that the rumshops aren't doing business. They're the kind that believe that just having the law makes every one good--they don't want to go back on their own scheme. Come along!" He went out into the sunshine. "I don't like to get talking prohibition. The play is not to talk it. It runs best when you don't talk about it. It's running good now. Saloons open, and all the prohibitory law-frills the old fuss-budgets can crochet and hang onto the original bush! Both sides satisfied!" "It may be good politics--it may seem all right to you, because you were in the thing from the start and saw how the tricks had to be played," grumbled the young man. "But I haven't had that kind of training. I've been brought up in business, grandfather. And a State that will do what this State is doing now--I'm not saying who's at fault--but the State that will handle a law in this way is a blackleg. I believe in General Waymouth. I believe he's got something up his sleeve in the way of real reform. I believe he meant what he said. I don't want to see you hurt personally in your plans, grandfather, but I want to tell you frankly I'm with the other side in this thing." The Duke glanced at him inquiringly. "I mean, politics or no politics, I want to see a law enforced so long as it's a law. If a party cannot hold together and keep on top with any other system, then the party is 'in' wrong. I don't believe General Waymouth intends to straddle. He'll enforce the law." "And kill his party?" inquired the old man, sarcastically. "Oh no, my boy. The party has looked out for that. It isn't taking any chances with a man who might get morally rambunctious. The Governor of this State hasn't anything to do with enforcing the prohibitory law. We've kept all the clubs out of his hands. When the W. C. T. U. converted old Governor Levett, he got ambitious and tried it on. And the only thing he found he could do was to issue a proclamation to the sheriffs 'to do their duty.' The most of 'em framed it and hung it up in their offices; it was too good a joke to keep hid." They walked on in silence. Harlan did not find it easy to continue that line of talk. His deameanor did not accord with the fair face of the morning. But the old man sauntered on under the trees, plainly contented with the world and all that was in it. "Let's see, you haven't met Madeleine, Luke's girl, since she was little, have you?" he inquired, stealing one of his shrewd side glances at his grandson. Harlan was occupied with his own thoughts and shook his head. "I was _thinking_ she'd been away at school whenever you've been down here with me. Beautiful girl, my boy. Brains, too. Polish up your thoughts. These college girls are pretty bright, you know." "I don't think she will notice whether I've got any thoughts or not," replied the young man, sourly. "She won't pay much attention to a woodsman--not that kind of a girl." "What kind of a girl?" "One that's full of society notions and college airs. I know the kind. Unless a fellow has wasted about half his life in dancing and loafing around summer resorts they treat him as though he were a cross between an Eskimo and a Fiji. Life is too short to play poodle for girls of that sort." "Well, you are certainly on the mourners' bench to-day, front row and an end seat," said the old man, disgustedly. "You'd better go up and take a nap till breakfast-time, and use sleep, soap, a razor, and common sense and smooth yourself off. I reckon I haven't got you out of those woods any too quick." Only the earliest birds of the hostelry roost were about the big house at that hour. The new arrivals dodged scrub-women and sweepers in the office and on the stairs, and went to their rooms. The Duke, leaving his grandson at his bedroom door, suggested a bit stiffly that he would "call around about eight o'clock and open the den and lead him down to a little raw meat, unless he smoothed up his manners and his appetite in the mean time." CHAPTER XIII THE DUKE'S DOUBLE CAMPAIGN Presson came in with the Duke at eight o'clock, bringing cordial morning greetings to Harlan's room. The old man found his grandson much improved, both in spirits and garb. In his fresh, cool, summer gray, erect, stalwart, and clear-eyed, he won a grunt of approval from his mentor. "There's nothing like being young, Luke! I was just telling you that the boy was getting into the dumps--bound to study all the seams before he put the coat on. But the world looks better now, doesn't it, son?" "It's the fit of the coat that counts in politics," observed the chairman, sagely. "And the one that was built last night fits like the paper on the wall. Don't bother with the seams, Harlan. The lining covers 'em." "Presson likes the frame-up, Harlan," said the Duke, smiling broadly. "He isn't even jealous because I thought of it first." "Who else could have pulled it off as you have, Thelismer? It would take more than straight politics to get Vard Waymouth out of his den. And I could have offered only politics." With an arm about each he pushed them to the door, saying that his wife and daughter were waiting below. When Harlan turned from his respectful greeting of the mother, whom he knew, he found Miss Presson looking at him with frank and smiling interest. He had heard vague reports that Madeleine Presson had blossomed into beautiful womanhood since he had seen her. He had been prepared to meet a rather vain and pampered young lady, conscious of her charms and attainments. He assumed a bit of reserve as armor for his sensitiveness. But this attitude responded so ill to her good-humored ease in renewing their acquaintanceship that he was momentarily embarrassed, remembering what he had said to his grandfather a few hours before. "I think I have a most distinct recollection of Mr. Harlan Thornton. When I was ten years old you brought me some lumps of spruce-gum in a birch-bark box and I declined it, saying that young ladies did not chew gum. But I took it when you looked so sad, and I carried it away to boarding-school, and I found out that young ladies do chew gum--when no one is watching them. That gift made me very popular, sir, and now I thank you. I fear I did not thank you then." "It's worth waiting all this time to hear you say that. I'm glad the gift found appreciation, for I culled the winter pickings of a whole logging crew for those red nuggets. I've been so distrustful of my good taste ever since that I've never dared to give anything to a young lady." "I'm afraid you didn't realize what you were doing when you snubbed him," put in the Duke. "I haven't been able to get him out of the woods since--till now, and I've had to bring him almost by main force." The carriage was at the door. The State chairman led the way to it. He had a home for his family apart from the big hotel, the mammoth hostelry of the State--one of his many business ventures. "We are on our way home from our morning ride--it's the real jolly part of the June day, the two hours before breakfast," explained the girl, as they went down the steps. "When we called here for father you may imagine how delighted we were to find your grandfather. I know you understand, Mr. Harlan Thornton, what a dear old man your grandfather is!" "He has been mother, father, brother, and sister and best friend--all those to me. He has seemed to have some of the elements of all. "I know of the good things he has done, and how ungrateful some of the folks are he has helped. Your grandfather would be a real saint if it were not for politics. You know we folks at the State capital hear politics talked all the time. I suppose my good father has the same wicked things said about him--though, of course, I don't hear them." "And I've been too deep in the woods to hear." Presson ushered his wife and the young people into the carriage. "Thelismer and I would rather walk," he said. "We have some more matters to talk over." And he sent them away. Harlan took his seat opposite the ladies, and now, in this close proximity, he realized how charming the young girl was. From the close braids of her brown hair to the tips of her bronze shoes she was womanly grace and refinement personified. There was a cordial frankness in her tone and eyes that attracted him, and put him at his ease. Yet there was no hint of coquetry. He liked her at once and instinctively, because somehow she seemed to meet him on a manly plane of good-fellowship--and yet she was so thoroughly and deliciously feminine. There was just a bit of a drawl in her voice, a suggestion of jocoseness, continual appreciation of the humor of life and living. And her laugh was an inspiration. He was a little surprised at himself when he found that he was chatting with her so easily. Later, when he reflected, he understood. She had almost a masculine breadth of view in addition to her culture. In that first day of their meeting she gave voice to some of his own unexpressed views regarding the trend of the times in public matters. She apologized, half-humorously. "But as I said to you a while ago, we hear politics talked much at the State capital." Following the after-breakfast chat, he walked back to the hotel with his grandfather. "By-the-way, I didn't lie to you any about Luke's girl, did I?" remarked the old man, casually, and as though the matter had occurred to him in default of better topic. "But she's too advanced in her ideas for a woman. She'll be suffragette-ing it next." When Harlan began to defend the right of women to interest themselves in the larger affairs, only a twinkle in the Duke's eye betrayed his amusement. If Harlan, in his first quick suspicions, had secretly accused his grandfather of planning a matrimonial campaign in conjunction with his political one, he was now ashamed of those suspicions, for they concerned Madeleine Presson. Having met her, he realized that if he should dare to connect her in his thoughts with anything that his grandfather might be scheming he was making of himself a very presumptuous and silly ass. Now that he had seen her, now when he was spending days of waiting at the State capital and seeing her frequently, he found that Madeleine Presson's personality eliminated possible matchmakers. He felt very humble in her presence--and still ashamed. He had never taken stock of his own deficiencies very particularly. His environment had not prompted it. He had been superior to the men he had ruled. He realized now that the little amenities of life which make for poise and ease must be lived, not simply learned. In taking thought lest he err he found himself proceeding awkwardly. His training in the past had led him to set work and achievement ahead of all the rest. He understood now that those essentials in a life that is to yield the most appear better as superstructure. Mere achievement may attract respect. Erected on culture, it wins still more. Respect feeds only one appetite of ambition. True ambition is hungry for affection and friends, placing lovers ahead of sycophants. And the finer qualities, the softer virtues, attract more surely than mere fame. These and similar reflections came to young Thornton rather incoherently. It was not that he desired the affection or the admiration of Madeleine Presson. But this young woman represented for him a new phase of the world he was meeting in its broader sense--and he was ambitious with the zest of youth. Often he was obliged to spur himself out of diffidence in her serene presence. At other times she put him at his ease with a tact which made him realize his own shortcomings. And under those circumstances ambition droops like a plant in a drought. He had time to think during the two weeks he was at the State capital waiting for the big convention. His grandfather made no demands upon him. Thelismer Thornton had quietly appointed himself the dominant figure in the back room at State headquarters. Under his big hand all the strings met. Even Luke Presson took subordinate post as a lieutenant. The Duke of Fort Canibas _knew_ that he was in control. The Hon. David Everett _believed_ that _he_ was. Thornton blandly cultivated that belief in Everett. When Everett talked he listened. When Everett counselled he agreed. He invited all the confidence of that gentleman; he made sure that "the logical candidate" used him as repository of all his political secrets; he was careful to assure himself that Everett's strength was entirely in his hands and under his control--for he intended to shatter that strength so instantly, so thoroughly, that not one fragment would be left to hamper his own plans. And yet day by day, word by word, hint by hint--his eye on the future loyalty of the Everett faction at the polls--he made the candidate understand that Arba Spinney was a man to be reckoned with--that the convention was not an open-and-shut certainty for the machine. Without realizing how it had come about, Everett found himself discussing "political exigencies." Without knowing that he had been selected as a martyr for his party, he committed himself in lofty sentiments regarding the duty of a man in a crisis. Not that he suspected that his chances were endangered. He felt that he was truly the man of destiny; he was urging other men to forget their slights and their disappointments and rally to him. But the fact remained that--thinking wholly of other men--he had committed himself, and in a way that he could be reminded of when the time came. The Duke planted that kedge well out, to serve in the stress of weather at the polls in the fall, should Everett and his men be silly enough to confound "party exigency" with treachery. All men are forgetful. The Duke feared that some men had forgotten the details of Gen. Varden Waymouth's notable life. The publicity bureau, obeying crafty suggestions and not understanding just what it was all about, began in the stress of that campaign to recall stories of the old days. And no man represented the old days as did Varden Waymouth, hero, scholar, and statesman. There were giants in the old days, and every machine newspaper in the State hailed General Waymouth as chief of the giants. They contrasted the present with the past. General Waymouth's picture gazed forth in stately benignity from every broadside--his life story filled the columns of newspapers and the mouths of men. With Arba Spinney's activities Thornton was in touch at all times. More than ever before Mr. Spinney merited his title "Fog-horn." He was striking the high places in the State, pouring language from under the mat of his mustache, warning all men off the political shoals of "the machine." From those shoals he was scooping up mud in both hands, and spattering all men and all measures. He found plenty of listeners, for protest was abroad. But the persistent defamer irritates even his friends. He offends the innate sense of patriotism and loyalty which slinks even in the breast of the rebel. The Duke noted with satisfaction the outward symptoms of Mr. Spinney's campaign; he was winning a following in those days of unrest. Through the columns of his newspapers the old politician exploited Mr. Spinney, seeing to it that he was well advertised as a man who persistently branded his own State as a den of infamy. Thus he made Spinney strong enough to play against Everett and weak enough to fall far in the estimation of men when the time came for him to fall. And then at last, in the latter days of June, all roads led to Rome. The Republican Convention was called for the twenty-eighth, in the big hall of the State's metropolis. On the day before, Thelismer Thornton emerged from the back room of headquarters at the State capital, and with Chairman Presson and Harlan journeyed to the scene of the conflict. Before their departure the Duke had been obliged, smilingly, to refuse a request of Mrs. Presson's. She had asked that young Mr. Thornton be delegated as squire of dames to accompany herself and her party to the convention. "I'm afraid you haven't realized for a week or so that the boy is in politics, Lucretia. I've let him run to pasture with a pretty long cord on him. He'll have to come in under the saddle now. We'll have one of the young beaus from the Governor's staff on the lookout for you at the hall. This fellow here"--he patted Harlan's arm--"he hasn't been broken to the society bridle yet. He was allowing to me the other day that he didn't propose to be, either." Miss Presson had overheard. Harlan, remembering, flashed a glance of rebuke and anger at the old man. It was a shock to him to have his own sentiments thrust back at him in that manner. "We haven't found Mr. Harlan ungallant," protested Mrs. Presson. She treated the matter in jest, though the young man's face did not indicate that he especially appreciated the humor. "Oh, he's probably just been playing 'possum--practising dissimulation, getting used to being a politician! You be watching out, Lucretia. He'll forget himself and make a bolt pretty soon. The test of the thing will be in seeing whether he holds out or not!" In his indignation, Harlan was too confused just then to grasp the fact that his tormentor was craftily handing him over to the Presson womenfolk, bound, branded, and supple--unless he proposed to merit his grandfather's label in their estimation. "Now, look here, grandfather"--he began, wrathfully; but the Duke pulled him away, drowning his protests in a laugh. "You have placed me in a ridiculous position, and that's a mighty mild way to put it," complained the indignant victim, when they were outside. "I don't understand, grandfather, why you do something to me every now and then that knocks all the props out from under me. It isn't decent--it's vulgar--it's shameful, the way you do some things!" "Operate in a queer way, do I?" inquired the old man, blandly. "You certainly do." "Did you ever stop to think, boy, that human nature is a queer thing?" "Whose human nature are you referring to--yours or mine?" "You know what the old Quaker said to his wife: 'All the world's queer, dear, except thee and me--and thee's a little queer!'" The angry young man would have liked to get a little more light on the question, but Chairman Presson was ready for them and hustled them into the carriage. And on the ride to the station, during the journey by train, at the convention city, there were other matters uppermost besides a young man's pique. CHAPTER XIV THE BEES AND THE WOULD-BES Men--a swarm of men--a hiveful of men. Lobbies, parlors, corridors, stairways of the big hotel packed with men. Men in knots, in groups, in throngs, pressing together, disintegrating to form new groups, revolving in the slow mass of the herd, shaking hands, crying greetings, mumbling confidential asides. An observer who did not understand would find it all as aimless as the activity of an ant-heap--as puzzling as the slow writhings of a swarm of bees. Clouds of cigar smoke over all--voices blended into one continual diapason; medley, and miasma of close human contact. After supper, in the crowded hotel dining-room, Harlan Thornton accompanied his grandfather through the press of jostling men. The night before a State Convention was a new experience for him. He walked behind the Duke, who made his slow, urbane way here and there, drawling good-humored replies to salutations. He had quip ready for jest, handclasp for his intimates, tactful word for the newer men who were dragged forward to meet him. Even the Governor of the State, a ponderous dignitary with a banner of beard, did not receive so hearty a welcome, for the Governor was accorded only the perfunctory adulation given to one whose reign was passing. "Governors come and Governors go, Thornton, but you've got where you're an institution!" cried one admirer. "I'll be sorry to miss you out of the legislature this winter." "But here's another Thornton--and you can see that he won't rattle 'round in the seat," returned the Duke, his arm affectionately about his grandson's shoulders. As he went about, in this unobtrusive way, varying his manner with different men, he presented his political heir. At that hour there was no surface hint of the factional spirit that divided the gathering which had flocked from the ends of the State. Jealousy, spite, apprehension, rivalry were hidden under the gayety of men meeting after long separation. The political kinship of party men dominated all else in those early hours. It was a reunion. Food nestled comfortably under the waistbands. Tobacco--cigars exchanged, lights borrowed from glowing tips--loaned its solace. Bickerings were in abeyance. Men were sizing up. Men were trying out each other. Courtesy invites confidences. The candidates had not "taken their corners." The suites that they had selected for headquarters were now occupied only by the lieutenants who were arranging the boxes of cigars and stacking the literature ready for distribution. The Hon. David Everett, serene in the consciousness of approval by his party machine, held preliminary court in one corner of the spacious office lobby. The State chairman was with him--his executioner skilfully disguised. Thelismer Thornton forged through the crowd in that direction. He paid his respects publicly and heartily. In that hour when congratulations sugared the surface of conditions, after he had pump-handled men until his arm ached, Everett forgot that he ever had entertained doubts. "There's nothing to this!" he had been assuring the State chairman over and over, catching opportunity for asides. "They're all coming into line. The sight of you and Thornton backing me has reminded them all that they can't afford to rip the party open. There's nothing to it!" Presson agreed amiably. But studying his men, searching for insincerity, he saw what Everett closed his eyes to. He exchanged a significant glance with the Duke as the latter turned to resume his promenade. Above the continual, distracting babble one sonorous voice rose insistently. Laughter and applause broke in upon it occasionally. There was a din in that corner of the lobby that attracted many of the curiosity-seekers in that direction. "There's Fog-horn Spinney holding forth," Thornton informed Harlan, ironically. "Come along. We mustn't slight any of the candidates." They made way for him. Men grinned up into his face as he passed. They scented possible entertainment when the big boss met the demagogue. Many of the men wore badges--long strips of ribbon with this legend printed thereon, running lengthwise of the ribbon: HONEST ARBA Candidate Spinney had a thick packet of ribbons in one of his gesticulating hands. He was flushed, vociferous, and somewhat insolent. Like Everett, he was not analyzing the acclamation that greeted everything he said; applause had made him drunk. But under the hilarity of his listeners there was considerable enthusiasm for the man himself. The Duke perceived it, for he realized what times had come upon the State. Spinney's bombast expressed the protest that was abroad. Rebellion, thirsty, does not seek the cold spring of Reason. It fuddles itself with hot speech, it riots--it dares not pause to ponder. "The men that are running this State to-day are running it for themselves," he declaimed, as Thornton and his grandson came into the front rank of his listeners. "They want it all. I brand 'em for what they are. I could take glue and a hair-brush and make hogs out of every one of 'em!" A shout of laughter! There was more zest for the mob in the point of Mr. Spinney's remarks, with the Duke of Fort Canibas, lord of the north country, present to listen. "I'm not ashamed of my platform. I'm willing to promulgate it. For I'm going to stand behind it. It ain't a platform fixed up in a back room of this hotel the night before convention, sprung at the last minute, and worded so that it reads the same backward and forward, and doesn't mean any more than whistling a tune! What kind of a system is it that taxes the poor man's family dog, the friend of his children, a dollar, and lets the rich man's wild lands off with two mills on a valuation screwed down to pinhead size?" Applause that indicated that the bystanders owned dogs! "If you're hunting for something to tax, pick out bachelors instead of dogs. Dogs can't earn money. Bachelors can. There are forty thousand old maids and widows in this State who can't find husbands. Tax the bachelors. Give the single women a pension. Hunt out the tax-dodgers. There are things enough to tax instead of the farms and cottages of the poor men." He now fixed the Duke with his gaze. "You don't dare to deny, do you, that the system in this State is screwing the last cent out of the exposed property and letting the dodgers go free? Tax the necessities of the poor, say you! I say, tax the luxuries of the rich!" "In some countries, I believe, they get quite a revenue by taxing mustaches," stated the Duke, thus appealed to. Spinney indignantly broke in on the laughter. "You've carried off oppression so far as a joke, but you can't do it any longer, Squire Thornton. The people are awake this time. They've got done electing lawyers and dudes and land-grabbers for Governors. They're going to have a Governor that will make State officials work for fair day's wages, as the farmers and artisans work. No more high-salaried loafers in public office! No more dynasties, Sir Duke of Fort Canibas! You'll be having a coat of arms next!" This last was said in rude jest--the public horseplay of a man anxious to win his laugh at any cost. "I've got a coat of arms, Arba; I won the decoration when I retired from hard work at the age of fifty. That was about the time you were starting in life by selling fake mining stock around this State. My coat of arms is two patches on a homespun background, surrounded by looped galluses. And I can show you the mile of stone walls I built before you were born." Spinney did not relish the merriment which followed that sally. "You've outgrown that coat of arms, then, in these days," he retorted. "They all know you by a different stripe since you set the other chap at work, Squire Thornton. And the pendulum of power is swinging the other way! The people are behind _me_. You'd better get aboard." His style of humor depended most on its effrontery. He held out one of his badges. "Better put it on," he advised. "Get aboard with the rush! They're all for 'Honest Arba.'" The Duke stepped forward and presented his breast. "Pin it on, Arba. When a man shifts his business and is introducing a brand-new line of goods, different from what he ever carried before, he needs all the advertising he can get. Pin it on!" But Mr. Spinney did not pin it on. He had been sure that the old man would indignantly refuse, and his discomfiture was evident. "You're showing your regular disposition, I see," he growled. "Grabbing everything you can get hold of. But a joke is a joke--let this one rest right here! Thornton, I say it here to your face, where all the boys can hear me: the people want a change in this State. I am not going behind a door to talk with you--that's been done too much! I stand in the open and say it! Open fighting after this--that's my code. I fight for the people. The people shall be put wise and kept wise to all that's going on." "It's a good plan," counselled the Duke, unperturbed. "I see I can't tell you anything about advertising." He tapped a badge on the breast of a man near him. "I'm for the people!" shouted Spinney. "The old wagon needs a new wheel-horse. I don't insist I'm the right one--or the only one. I merely say I'm willing to take hold and haul, if the people want me to. I offer myself, if no better one is found." The crowd applauded that sentiment generously. Thornton did not lose his amiability--his tolerant yet irritating good-humor. "Speaking of wheel-horses, Arba--a man up my way started out to buy a horse the other day. He found a black one that suited--but the man who owned that horse was mighty honest, as most of my constituents are. 'You don't want him,' he told the man. 'He's too blamed slow.' 'That doesn't hurt him a bit for me,' said the buyer. 'I want him to mate another black horse to haul my hearse. I'm an undertaker!' 'Then you certainly don't want him,' insisted the fellow. 'The _living_ can _wait_, but the _dead_ have got to be _buried_.'" The Duke had made his way out of the crowd before the laughter ceased. "Apply it to suit, Arba!" he called over his shoulder. Arm in arm with his grandson, the Duke traversed the lobby and went up the broad stairs to the State Committee headquarters--double parlors on the floor above. The men who were sitting in the main parlor saluted the old man in the offhand manner of intimates. He drew his grandson into the privacy of the rear room. "Now, my boy, get your hat, take a carriage and meet General Waymouth at the nine o'clock train. I've had him on the telephone. He's coming here to-night. Between us, he's grown lukewarm on our proposition. I want you to talk with him after you meet him. Take your time on the way from the station." "I'm a pretty poor agent to send on such a job as that," said Harlan, deprecatingly. "You're just the one," insisted the old man. "Don't you suppose I knew what I was doing when I took you with me that night? Talk for the young men of this State! He's tired of politics and politicians. I am, myself, sometimes. He's got to dwelling on the political side. Get it out of his mind. Thank God, you don't know enough politics to talk it to him! You can talk from your heart, boy. The younger generation in this State does want a change. I realize it. But that change has got to be tempered with political wisdom. It must be managed through politics. I'll attend to that part. It's your task to make Vard Waymouth see that he ought to stand. You can do it. Begin with him where you left off." Harlan hesitated. "Well?" inquired the Duke, a bit petulantly. "I've been used to talking straight out to you, grandfather. I'm willing to help as far as it's in my poor power. But I want you to tell me that I'm not being used as a decoy-duck in this thing." "I reckon you'd better explain that, son," said the Duke, stiffly. "It's your own fault that I'm saying a word about it. But you did some talking after we came away from General Waymouth's house. It wasn't so much what you said; it was what you intimated. I believe in General Waymouth. But if I'm any judge of what has been framed up, he isn't going to be allowed to do what he wants to do." "Did I say so?" "No. But you did say that he would play the game with the chips that are on the table, not with sugar-plums." "And you construe that to mean that I'm pulling him into this thing so as to be able to work him in the interests of the machine, eh?" inquired the Duke, putting into brutal speech even more than his grandson's vague suspicions suggested. "Now, look here! You remember Pod McClintock and his epileptic fits? You know he fell into a barbed-wire fence in a fit, and told around afterward how he had been to heaven, and the devil met him on his way back and clawed him for spite? Well, now don't you go to imitating Pod. There's more or less barbed wire in politics--any man gets afoul of it. But don't lay it to the devil. That will be elevating accidents onto too high a plane. If Vard Waymouth is the next Governor of this State there'll be some wire fences that he won't be able to sit on. There'll be too many barbs. We'll put top rails onto all the fences we can. But you can't make any fence safe for those that are bound to butt head-first into barbed wire. Waymouth isn't the kind to do any butting. I'll tell you this, Harlan, and it's straight: if I help to make Waymouth our next Governor, I'll help to make him a good one--provided he needs any of my help in that line. Now go and attend to your business." There were few at the railroad station, and those few paid little heed to General Waymouth when he stepped down from the train. The young man greeted him with eager respect, and explained why he was there. The General took his arm and walked to the carriage. "This is restful. I'm glad to see you here," he said. "But to-morrow," he added, bitterly, "if I am fool enough to be dragged back into politics, I'll be met wherever I go by men that fawn and men that seek--by that crowd I thought and hoped I had escaped forever. I was very hasty, Mr. Thornton, when I gave my word to your grandfather. I fear I must hold you responsible just because you were present." He smiled as the young man took his seat opposite. "But you constituted a new element in politics. I had been having my dreams in the peace of my home--and one of those dreams was to see the young men of this State breaking away from the political bondage of the fathers. But I'm afraid I am older than I thought. I have an old man's fears. I have had enough--too much--of the contact of men. Now this next idea is fanciful--another proof that I'm old--in my dotage, perhaps." His tone was gently playful. "I told you the other day that you seemed to typify the young strength of the State. So I'm going to appeal to you, young man--I cannot very well appeal to the rest, for they are not in the secret--I'm going to beg of you, Mr. Second Generation, to release me from my promise. What say you?--and remember that I'm an old man who has fought the good fight and is very weary." "I've got to confess there isn't much wit and humor in me--there doesn't seem to be just now," stammered Harlan, after groping some moments for suitable reply to what he accepted as badinage. "Oh, I don't want jest in answer to that, sir," protested the General. "I am in earnest." But his tone was still a bit whimsical. "You know, even so great a man as Caesar consulted the oracle and the omens and the soothsayers. Why should not I practice a little divination? Now answer me, young man--or I'll say, young _men_ of the State?" "Yet I can't think you really mean that, General," protested Harlan, wholly confused by this persistent banter. "Call it in fun, call it in earnest, still I demand my answer." General Waymouth was serious now. "I came here resolved to tell Thelismer, face to face, that I could not sacrifice the last strength of my life in the way he has asked. But when you met me at the station all my ambitions for this newer generation, as I have dreamed them, came up in me. My boy, this State of ours is in a bad way. In one respect it is especially bad. We have one solemn law in our constitution that is made our own political football and the laughing-stock of the nation. We forbid the sale of liquor. Look at that saloon we are passing at this moment! It is a law that affects nearly every person in our State--comes near to every one, directly or indirectly. The manner of its breaking, publicly and protected by politics, has bred disrespect for all law in the boys who are growing up. And they are the ones who will run our State when we oldsters are gone. I'll not say anything about the other reforms that conditions are calling for. There's _one_--the big one that flaunts itself in our faces. I'm of the old school, Mr. Thornton. I don't believe in the prohibitory principle as applied to the liquor question. It hasn't the right spirit behind it--it is invoked by bigots and fanatics who refuse helpful compromise. But it's a law--our law! Every day that passes under present conditions adds its little to the damnation of the moral principle in our boys and girls, growing up with eyes and ears open. God, I wish I were twenty years younger! But I'm old enough to have fantastic notions; old enough to insist on an answer to my question, in spite of what you may think of my mental condition. Will you release me from that promise? I made it to the young men of this State--in my disgust at conditions, in my passion to do something to clean out this nest!" The lights from the brilliant shop-windows shone into the carriage. Harlan leaned forward. The General's face was serious. "Still, I can't understand it!" he cried. "I'm only--" "I tell you, you typify for me at this moment the young men of my State! I choose to decide in this fashion. Do you feel that an honest Governor would help your self-respect?" "I can answer that question, sir. I believe in you. Ever since you promised my grandfather that you would accept the nomination I have depended on that promise. I know what you can do for our State. If you are not to be our next Governor the heart has gone out of me, and the young men of this State have lost their best hope." The carriage wheels had grated to a standstill against the curb in front of the big hotel. The buzz of the crowded hive came out to them through the open windows. General Waymouth glanced that way and frowned. But when he turned and looked into the glowing face of the young man opposite, his countenance cleared slowly. His smile returned. There was a hint of pathos in that smile, but his eyes shone. He put out his hand and took Harlan's in a firm clasp. "That sounds like my call to duty, Mr. Thornton," he declared. "I listen. I obey!" Then he dropped his earnestness. "Let this little talk remain a secret between us. These practical politicians wouldn't understand. A bit of an old man's weakness; perhaps that was it. A little eccentric, eh?" The driver had opened the carriage door. "I believe I understand, sir. I do now. And I'm sorry." The remark was a bit cryptic, but the General understood. "And you'll appreciate better what this means to me when you are as old as I. But that's the last of talk like this, my boy. There's one more fight still in me. We'll just go ahead and find out how much honesty is left in this State--and you shall help me hunt for it, for old eyes need the help of young ones, and I'm going outside the politicians to find honesty." He led the way across the pavement to a side door of the hotel. "We'll go in this way, quietly," he said. "I haven't any appetite for that kind of a stew just yet." CHAPTER XV SITTING IN FOR THE DEAL On the second floor of the hotel Thelismer Thornton was pacing the corridor, hands behind his back, puffing his cigar. He was paying no heed to the men who were streaming past him in both directions, going and coming from the rooms of the candidates. Everett and Spinney were in their suites, extending hospitality with questionable cigars and ice-water. Delegates were flocking up from the hotel bar in squads. They were meeting other delegates, forming new combinations which offered fresh opportunities for "setting 'em up," and after paying their respects were hustling back downstairs again to interview the gentlemen in white jackets. Out from open transoms over the doors of sleeping-rooms floated cigar smoke and voices. There were boys running with ice-water and glasses to the noisiest rooms. From some of these rooms the familiar bacchanalian songs were resounding even at that early hour of the evening. The chorus of "We're here because we're here" mingled with the words of that reminiscent old carol, "When we fit with Gineral Grant, by gosh." The Duke, towering, abstracted, swaying along ponderously, close to the wall of the corridor, eyes on the head of the stairway, was as indifferent to the uproar as he was to those who passed. A man who was somewhat flushed and a bit uncertain in his gait came out of the State Committee headquarters. He planted himself in front of Thornton. "Thelismer," he said, familiarly, "I've been trying to get something out of Luke. He won't say. Now what do you know about it? Is the party going to be honest? Are we going to get that resubmission plank in the platform this year?" "They haven't asked me to write the platform, Phon." "I tell you, the people want a chance to vote on this prohibitory question. It's been stuck into our constitution where the people can't get at it. I ain't arguing high license, but I tell you the people want a chance to vote on the question, and the Democrats are going to offer 'em a chance." "That's a Democratic privilege," said the Duke, calmly, preparing to push past his interlocutor. "The Republican party stands for prohibition, and hasn't had any trouble in rounding up the votes for the last twenty-five years." But the disputant caught hold of him when he started away. "Look here, Thelismer, you ain't so much of a hypocrite as the most of 'em. Why don't you help us make a break in this thing? Damn it, let's be decent about it! Rum enough running in that bar-room downstairs to drive the turbine-wheel in my woollen-mill! Half the delegates to this convention with a drink aboard, and a third of 'em pretty well slewed! I am myself. But I'm honest about it. They're drinking rum in about every room in this hotel. And they're going into convention to-morrow and nail that prohibitory plank into the platform with spikes. By Judas, I'm honest in my _business_; now I want to have a chance to be honest in my _politics_!" The Duke gazed down on him good-humoredly. He was accustomed to overlook the little delinquencies of his fellows on such festal occasions as State Conventions. "You're asking too much out of party politics, Phon," he declared. "There are drawbacks to all the best things; seeing that the National platform won't let you vote as you think, you can hardly ask the State platform to be perfect and let you vote as you drink." But his friend was not in the mood for jovial rallying. "By the gods, if you old bucks that have been running things ain't going to give us a show--if we ain't going to get our rights from our own party--I know what I can do! I can vote the Democratic ticket, and I know of a lot more that will. You're asleep, you managers!" "Well, Phon, when you vote as you drink--voting the Democratic ticket--you'll vote for a popocratic tax on corporations that will make your woollen-mill look sick. And that's only _one_ thing!" "I know what I will do," insisted the rebel. The Duke took him by his two shoulders. "So do I," he returned. "You'll have a bath, a shave, four hot towels, and a big bromo-seltzer--all in the morning, and you'll go into the State Convention and stick by the party, just as you always have done. But as for to-night--why, Phon, I wouldn't be surprised to see you pledge yourself to Arba Spinney." He gayly shoved the man to one side and went on. "Well, even Fog-horn is getting more votes corralled than you old blind mules realize!" shouted the other after him. "This party is sick! You're going to find it out, too!" "Sick it is, but I reckon here's the doctor," muttered the old man, hurrying toward the top of the stairs. General Waymouth had appeared there, Harlan close behind him. The Duke forestalled those who hastened to greet the veteran. Taking his arm, he marched him promptly across the corridor and into the rear room of State Committee headquarters. He locked the door behind them after Harlan had entered. "I don't think we're exactly ready for that public reception yet," he observed with a chuckle, turning from the door. He glanced at the General, anxious and keen in his scrutiny. "Vard!" he cried, heartily, noting the resolution in the countenance, the light in the old soldier's eyes, "you're looking better, here, than you sounded over the telephone a few hours ago. You're going to stand--of _course_ you're going to stand!" "I'll take the nomination, Thelismer--that is, providing you want me to stand as a candidate who will go into office without a single string hitched to him." "I guess the party isn't running into any desperate chances, Vard, with you in the big chair. Sit down now and take it easy. I'll call Luke in. After we've had our talk with him, we'll begin to enlarge our circle a little--it's a pretty close combination up to now." The porter at the door summoned the chairman of the State Committee. "The Senator is just in from Washington," he announced, after his enthusiastic greeting of the General. "I took him right up to Room 40, where the Committee on Resolutions is at work. He wanted to attend to that first. Then he'll be down here." The chairman was referring to the United States Senator who would, by party custom, preside at the convention next day for the purpose of tinkering his own fences. "Is Senator Pownal dictating the platform?" inquired the General, rather icily. "He's got a few little ideas of his own he wants to work in," affably explained the chairman. "Nothing drastic. A little endorsement of some things he's gunning for. It'll be all safe and sane. We backed those resubmission fellows out of the room." "By-the-way, keep a sharp eye out for those chaps, Luke," counselled the Duke. "I've been hearing around the hotel this evening that they're going to introduce a resubmission plank from the floor to-morrow." "I'll rush an early vote in the convention, providing that all resolutions shall be presented to the Committee on Resolutions without argument," stated the chairman. "All that foolishness can be killed right in the committee-room. We've got trouble enough on hand in the party this year without letting the convention express itself on the liquor question, even if the split only amounts to a sliver." He pulled his chair to the table, spread some papers there, and commanded attention by tapping his eyeglasses on the sheets. "Here's the programme for the routine: Called to order at ten-thirty by chairman of State Committee. Call read by secretary. On motion of Davis Bolton, of Hollis, proceed to effect temporary organization--Senator Walker Pownal, chairman--and so forth. On motion of Parker Blake, of Jay, ten minutes' recess declared for county delegations to choose vice-president, member of State Committee, and member of the Committee on Resolutions." As he read on, Harlan opened his eyes as well as his ears. The convention of the morrow had been blocked out to the last detail. Every motion that was to be made, every step that was to be taken, had its man assigned to it--and that man had already been notified and tagged. Fifteen hundred men, assembled presumably as free and independent agents to take counsel for the good of the party, were here bound to the narrowest routine, with programme cut and dried to such an extent that one who dared to lift his voice to interrupt would be considered an interloper. And he knew that even then, from what Presson had said, the little band of the select were formulating the resolutions that the committee would take in hand as delivered--accepting that platform as the dictum of the party, and free speech on the convention floor denied. "Now," said the chairman, at the close, "let's fill in the rest, and finish this thing now. Spinney's name will be presented by Watson, of his county, and seconded by three other counties. I'm limiting the seconding speeches to three. And you know the men Everett has picked out! Of course, I've left the--the big matter in your own hands, Thelismer." Presson glanced over his glasses at General Waymouth with a significant smile. "Have you decided? Are you going to let both the other candidates be put in nomination before you spring the trap?" "Sure!" snapped Thornton. "I want that convention to realize how little good can be said of either of them. By the time that gets through those fifteen hundred skulls, they'll be in a state of mind to appreciate the man of the hour!" General Waymouth was leaning back in his deep chair, his head on the rest, his eyes upturned to the ceiling, fingers tapping the chair's arm. He was offering no comment. "Vard," said the Duke, "we've got to let a few more into the case now. Overnight is short notice, at that, for a man to get his nominating speech ready. But we're safe. It won't be the speech that will take that convention off its feet. It'll be your name--and the fact that you're willing to stand. Who've you got in mind?" "No one," replied the General, briefly. "Any choice?" "No." "You're willing to leave it to me?" "I am." "Then I'll admit I've picked the men in my mind. One is Linton, that young lawyer that's been taking the lead in the referendum and the direct primaries campaigns--both of them devilish poor political policies; but that doesn't prevent him from being the most eloquent young chap in the State. And he'll tole along the liberals. We'll need only one other--that's old Colonel Wadsworth. You see the scheme of that combination, of course! We don't need any more. The convention will be off its feet before the old Colonel gets half through his seconding speech. Linton is a delegate, Luke, and I saw to it that the old Colonel was fixed out with a proxy after I got here. Now, Harlan, you go out and hunt up those two gentlemen, and bring them here quietly. They're in the hotel. Come to the private door, there. You say you haven't suggestions, Vard?" "Not now," said the General, not shifting his position. "The time for my suggestions has not come yet." Harlan went out into the throng, searching, asking questions. The first man of whom he made inquiry recognized him as Thelismer Thornton's grandson, and invited him to the bar to have a drink. "Busy?" he ejaculated when the young man declined. "H--l, there ain't any one really busy here to-night, except Senator Pownal and Luke Presson. They're running the convention. The delegates don't have to do anything--they are just here for a good time. Come on!" As Harlan walked away from him, he remembered what Chairman Presson had just delivered from his papers, and decided that truth often spoke from the depths of the wine-cup. He did not find either of his men in the Hon. David Everett's headquarters. The rooms were packed. Perspiring delegates were edging in and oozing out. Everett was industriously shaking hands, his rubicund face sweat-streaked, his voice hoarse after his hours of constant chatter in that smoke-drenched atmosphere. Harlan stood a moment, and looked at him with a sort of shamed pity. The plot seemed unworthy, in spite of its object. The sordid treachery of politics was turned up to him, all its seamy side displayed. Two men crowded past him, talking low; but in that press their mouths were near his ear. They were halted by the jam at the door. "What did you stab him for--how much?" asked one. "Got ten," said his companion--"ten on account. I get fifty for the caucus." "Too many machine Republicans in my town, and he knows it," said the other. "The best I could do was fool him out of twenty-five. But that's doing well--in these times. This Spinney stir has made it cost Everett more than it has cost any candidate for ten years. I really didn't have the heart to crowd him for any more. He's been jounced down good and hard as it is." Harlan took one more look at the unconscious and fatuous Everett, and went out of the room. Twenty feet away, as he knew, sat his grandfather, ready and able to smash the candidate's dreams and chances as a child bursts a soap-bubble. And the man's money--thrown to the winds when a word might have held his hand and closed his pocket-book! Harlan, grandson of Thelismer Thornton, tried to put the thing out of his mind. "Politics," said a man in the corridor in his hearing, "has got the pelt off'm second-story work, as they're running the political game in this State right now. But it's only petty larceny. And that's why the whole thing makes me sick." "Me too," said his listener. "You could brag some about a political safe-blowing, but we all have to turn to and hush up this sneak-thief work." Harlan, walking on, wondered whether the coup that was then in process of elaboration in State Committee headquarters would not be considered by Everett and his supporters as arising to the proper dignity of political crime. To his surprise Spinney's rooms were practically deserted. The candidate was there, perched on the edge of a table, nursing his knee in his clasped hands and talking vigorously to a few of his intimates. The defection was not bothering him, apparently. Harlan promptly understood why. As he stood for a moment, making sure that neither Linton nor Wadsworth was there, he heard the mellow blare of distant band music. Spinney jumped off the table. "The boys are coming!" cried one of his friends, and stepped out through the window upon a balcony. "Wait till after I call for the cheers, Arba!" he called back. "Step out when they strike up _Hail to the Chief_." "This will make the Everett bunch sit up and take notice," said a man at Harlan's elbow. "There'll be a thousand men in line behind that band when she swings into the square, here! And a Spinney badge on every one of 'em!" He was challenged promptly. The corridor was full of Everett men. "Ten dollars to a drink that your man Spinney pays for the band! And when a band starts up street you can get every yag, vag, and jag in the city to trail it! You can't fool doubtful delegates that way, Seth! Go hang your badges on a hickory limb. They're only good to scare crows. You can't scare us!" This speaker heard Harlan making inquiries for his men. "The Colonel is down in the office," was his information, "over in the farther corner, behind one of those palms, telling war stories to Herbert Linton. Just came past 'em." It seemed a rather happy augury to Harlan; that out of that throng his two men should have paired themselves struck him as an interesting coincidence. He found them, and quietly delivered his message. Colonel Wadsworth stood up, gaunt, straight, twisting his sparse imperial, and blinking a bit doubtfully at the messenger. But Linton was not so much at a loss for reasons. He was an earnest young man with slow, illuminating smile. "Has the committee seen new light regarding my two planks, Mr. Thornton?" he asked; and without waiting for answer, he led the way. The three were admitted at the private door. United States Senator Pownal was there, evidently newly arrived from the committee-room. The band was just coming into the square under their windows. Its deafening clamor beat in echoes between the high buildings, the mob was roaring huzzas. The bedlam blocked conversation. Thelismer Thornton pulled down the windows and twitched the curtains together. "Let 'em hoorah," he said. "With Spinney's band on tap, any fellows that try to listen at our keyholes will be bothered. I'm glad his band is out there. Now, gentlemen, I have something to say to you." They listened to him, all standing. Only General Waymouth kept his seat, his head tipped back, his finger-tips together. The Duke was brief, but he was cogent and he was emphatic. He explained what he had done and why he had done it. He was frank and free with that selected few. He delicately made known the General's reluctance, but stated in his behalf his willingness to step into the breach at this eleventh hour for the sake of his party. Then Thornton went first to Colonel Wadsworth, drew him along to Linton, and told them what their party asked of them. Senator Pownal did not wait for this explanation to be finished. He was the first to reach General Waymouth with congratulations and endorsement. "You cannot understand how immensely relieved I am to know this plan," he declared. "I have been here only a few hours, but I was just beginning to realize what the situation had developed into. I hadn't the proper perspective at Washington. Thornton is right. We're on the edge of an upheaval in this State; I'm afraid Everett would have plunged us straight into it." Thornton had made no mistake in his selection of advocates. Colonel Wadsworth rushed to the chair of his old commander, and Linton, with a young man's loyal zeal, followed. The lawyer came back to Harlan, his eyes shining. "We've got a _man_ to follow now, Mr. Thornton, not a political effigy nor a howl on two legs! I was down there hiding myself. I hadn't stomach for either of the others." There had been a brief silence outside. Then the band struck up _Hail to the Chief_, and the uproar broke out once more. "That's our tune, and they don't know it yet!" cried the Senator, gayly. "Let's have the benefit of that to spice our little celebration, now and here!" He started for the window to open it, but General Waymouth put out his hand and checked him. He had stood up to receive their handclasps. "One moment, Senator," he entreated. "I have a word to say for myself now. You have just come from Room 40. Have they finished drafting the platform?" "It's in shape--practically so." "Will you send for it?" The Duke nodded to Harlan, and the young man arose. "Tell Wasgatt I want him to come down here with the resolutions," he directed. And while he was gone there was no conversation in the parlor. It might have been because the band was playing too loudly; it might have been because General Waymouth's visage, grave, stern, almost forbidding, rather dampened the recent cordiality of the gathering. CHAPTER XVI THE HANDS ARE DEALT When Committeeman Wasgatt came into the room in tow of Harlan Thornton he found silence prevailing there. It was silence that was marked by a little restraint. The band outside was quiet now. A human voice was bellowing. It was Arba Spinney's voice--a voice without words. Wasgatt, short, stout, habitually pop-eyed and nervous, clutched his papers in one hand and held his eyeglasses at arm's-length in the other. The others were in their chairs now, ranged about the sides of the room. The General, alone, was standing near the table. Wasgatt turned to him after a rapid scrutiny of the make-up of the party. "I'd like to have the resolutions read," remarked the General, quietly. "Go ahead, Wasgatt," commanded Presson; and the committeeman advanced to the table under the chandelier and began to read. The preamble was after the usual stereotyped form; the first sections endorsed the cardinal principles of the party, and Mr. Wasgatt, getting into the spirit of the thing, began to deliver the rounded periods sonorously. General Waymouth leaned slightly over the table, propping himself on the knuckles of his one hand. The light flowed down upon his silvery hair, his features were set in the intentness of listening. "'We view without favor the demagogic attempts to throttle enterprise, check the proper development of our State, lock up the natural resources away from the fostering hands of commerce and labor, thereby preventing the establishment of industries that will extend their beneficent influence to the workingman, dependent upon his daily wage.'" "One moment, Wasgatt!" The General tapped a knuckle on the table, and the reader waited. Waymouth turned his gaze full upon the Senator when he spoke. "Gentlemen, understand me aright at the start. I'm not here to try to dictate. That would be presumptuous in me, for I am not yet your candidate. To-morrow is not here." Wasgatt's pop-eyes protruded still more. He stared from man to man, and it became necessary for Thelismer Thornton to take one more into the secret. He did it a bit ungraciously. He had not expected the General to be so blunt and precipitate. The candidate waited patiently until the brief explanation was concluded and Wasgatt had pledged fidelity. "I want you fully to understand my spirit in this," went on the General. "We'll be honest with each other; we know that the floor of a convention is not the place to discuss the platform frankly; I don't want to wash our linen in public. We'll settle it now between ourselves. That plank, there, comes out of the platform if you expect me to stand on it." The Senator, challenged by his eyes, spoke. "You don't take exceptions to honest efforts to develop our State, do you, General Waymouth?" "I do not. But that proposition, no matter how good it sounds, is the sugar-coated preface to an attempt to steal the undeveloped water-powers of this State." The Senator's fat neck reddened. "You may be inclined to modify that rather rash statement, General Waymouth, when I tell you that I suggested the insertion of that resolution." "I recognized it as yours, Senator. Some time ago my bankers gave me the personnel of the group behind the Universal Development Company. In making my statement, I understand perfectly what legislation that resolution is leading up to." "Vard," broke in the Duke, conciliatingly, "don't take so much for granted. Why, there are folks suspicious enough to accuse Saint Peter of starting Lent and ticking off Fridays from the meat programme simply because he was in the fish business. Let's not get to fussing about a set of convention resolutions. They're mostly wind, anyway." But General Waymouth was not appeased. "I know what resolutions stand for--how much and how little. I'm taking this occasion, gentlemen, to set myself right with you. That resolution will do for a text! I want no taunts later that I led you on into a trap." He struck the table with the flat of his hand. "I'm laying my cards face up. Here's my hand! I halt right here on that resolution. I'm certain I know what it means, no matter how it sounds. I'm willing to take my hat and walk out right now. But if I stay--if you promise to nominate me--I propose to have the saying of what kind of a Governor I shall be!" "That's rather blunt talk to make to gentlemen," protested the Senator, showing a spark of ire. "At my age there isn't time to make long speeches to shade the facts," returned General Waymouth. He was calm but intensely in earnest. "Then you are all for reform--one of the new reformers, eh?" inquired the Senator. He cast a look of reproach at Thornton, as though that trusted manager had loosed a tiger on their defenceless party. The General smiled--smiled so sweetly that he almost disarmed their resentment. "No, the Arba Spinneys of this State are the reformers. I'm not under salary to run round and make disturbances in settled order. I'm not a bigot with a single idea, nor a fanatic insisting that the world ought to follow the diet that my dyspepsia imposes upon me. I'm merely an old man, gentlemen, who has got past a lot of the follies of youth and the passions of manhood, and has had a chance to reflect for a few years. I have not asked to return to public life. But if I do return, if you put power into my hands, I propose to render unto the people the things that are the people's, and that term includes every man in this room. It is not a programme that should alarm honest gentlemen!" There was appeal in the tone--there was a hint of rebuke in that final sentence that troubled the conscience of even Senator Pownal. Thelismer Thornton was in a chair close to him. "Don't let a few little cranky notions about a platform scare you," he mumbled in the Senator's ear. "You know Vard Waymouth as well as I do. He's safe and all right. Give him his head. You don't want Spinney, do you?" "But that was devilish insulting," growled Pownal. "Tipping backward a little, trying to stand straight, that's all. Blast it, a Governor can't run the State. What are you afraid of? You've got a lobby and a legislature, haven't you?" If Waymouth noticed this _sotto voce_ conference he gave no sign. "General," said Pownal, getting hold of himself manfully, even desperately, "the resolution is not essential. I fear you misunderstand what it really means, but we'll not discuss it now. I withdraw it." The General bowed acknowledgment, and signed to Wasgatt to resume. "'We believe in dividing the burden of taxation equitably and justly, and will bend our efforts to that end.'" "That is simply empty vaporing!" cried the General. "And it has been in every platform for twenty years without meaning anything. The platform that I stand on this year must declare for a non-partisan tax commission, empowered to investigate conditions in this State--wild lands, corporations, and all--and report as a basis for new legislation." In the silence that ensued they could hear Arba Spinney continuing his harangue. "Gentlemen, you've got to do something in this party to stop the mouths of him and men like him," declared the General, solemnly. "You may make up your minds that you've either got to pay in money, or else you'll pay in votes that mean the bankruptcy of the party." "I suppose you have the resolution all drawn," suggested Thelismer Thornton, dryly. "I have, and drawn according to good constitutional law," replied the General. He drew the paper from his breast-pocket. "Incorporate it, Wasgatt, ready for the final draft, and we'll all go over the thing to-morrow morning." The Duke was grimly laconic. That resolution whacked his pet interests. Senator Pownal gave the proposer of this prompt surrender a glance of mutual sympathy out of the corner of his eye, but the Duke remained imperturbable. Wasgatt received the paper and went on. "'We reaffirm our belief in the principle of the prohibition of the liquor traffic, and pledge our earnest efforts to promote temperance.'" Across the corridor revellers were bawling over and over in chorus: "'Let's take a drink, Let's take it now, God only knows how dry I am!'" "That's a good thing to reaffirm--I don't mean the song they're singing in that room across there! It's a good thing to pledge ourselves to promote temperance," said the General, "but that isn't the point at issue. I have another plank that I've written for our platform." He drew a second paper from his pocket. "Gentlemen, some politicians, more than half a century ago, simply to use a temperance movement for bait in a political campaign, dragged into our party a moral, social, and economic question that belongs to the whole people--not merely to us as a party. Let the people, when the right time comes and they decide the matter differently, make a law that the majority desires and will stand behind. Just now we have in our constitution a law that forbids the manufacture and sale of intoxicating liquors in this State. There is no option in the matter. Just so long as our party, the dominant political power, uses that option, it is in disgrace with all decent men. I--" There was a knock at the door--the private door. Harlan started up, but his grandfather pulled him back into his chair. "Go on, General," he said. "I have drawn a resolution. Here it is: 'As a party, we deplore the fact that temperance, through the so-called prohibitory law, has become a matter of politics, its football to the extent that holders of public office, sworn to enforce the laws, turn from that enforcement in order to cater to public opinion which otherwise might deprive them of office. We declare against this intolerable system of protection of lawbreakers. Until the people shall repeal the law, we, the dominant party of the State and in control of enforcement, do pledge ourselves to faithfully enforce it, employing such law as we now have and invoking new powers through the legislature to assist us, so long as the prohibitory law shall remain in our constitution.'" It was now Chairman Presson's turn to look uncomfortable. "Look here, Vard," exploded Thornton, "I've been pretty patient while you've been amputating a few fingers and toes of the Republican party of this State, but I'll be damned if I propose to see you cut its throat." There was fresh knocking at the door, but the group within the parlor had enough to think about just then without entertaining callers. "Now you're talking simply about yourselves and your office-holders and your dirty profits. You're calling that mess of nasty confederacy 'Our Party,'" declared General Waymouth, passionately. "When honesty kills a party, let it die--let its men get out and organize another one. But I tell you, you can't kill it by being honest, Thelismer. The trouble is you're sitting here and building for to-night--for to-morrow. I'm a Republican--you can't take that name away from me. But the badge doesn't belong on men who are using that name to cover up a rum-selling business." Chairman Presson was livid. He leaped from his chair and drove his fist down on the table, "Now you're insulting me personally!" he shouted. "I deal in no personalities, sir. So long as I hide myself under the name of Republican and allow this thing to go on as it's going, I'm in the traffic myself; and I don't propose to continue in it--not when I have power placed in my hands." "By the eternal gods, you won't have the power placed there!" roared the chairman of the State Committee. Now some one called to them from outside the door, repeating the rapping. "When you say that, you're confessing that the Republican party is a sneak, Presson," declared the General. The Duke came along to the table. He ticked his forefinger against the paper that Waymouth was holding. "Vard, you're pledging yourself in advance of election to the most rabid of the prohibition fanatics." "I'm pledging myself to obey the one State law that occupies the most space in public attention, causes the most discussion, makes the most row. It's a damnable bloodsucker to be hitched on to any political party! But it's on ours, and I'm going to grab it with both hands!" "Hold a proxy from the ramrodders, eh?" sneered the State chairman, thoroughly a rebel. "No, nor from the State rumsellers. If the people of his State want to have rum sold, let 'em vote to have it sold. But as it now stands, they can't enlist me to head the lawbreakers and shield the lawbreaking. I'm through playing the hypocrite!" "We've got to set ourselves above petty bickerings and personal differences," interposed the Senator, cracking the party whip. "I'm a Republican, first of all!" "Talk sense, Pownal!" snapped the General, impatiently. "This isn't a political rally. We're grown men and friends that can talk plain. His principles make a Republican--or ought to--not his protestations! And establishing a system of low license and sheriff-made local option under a prohibitory law is unprincipled, and you know it!" Thelismer Thornton, god of that particular machine that was then grinding so ominously and rattling so badly, felt that he needed a few moments in which to mend belts and adjust cogs. He wanted an opportunity to think a little while. He had discovered a new Waymouth all of a sudden. He wanted to get acquainted with him. He wished to find out whether he would be really as dangerous as his astonishing threats indicated. The persistent man at the door was now clamorous. The Duke strode that way and flung it open. Whoever it might be, the interruption would give him time to think, to plan, to investigate. The intruder was the Hon. David Everett. He stepped in, and Thornton relocked the door after him. Mr. Everett was not amiable. His little eyes snapped from face to face suspiciously. It was immediately and perfectly plain to him that he had forced admission to a conference that had not expected him, did not want him, and was embarrassed at finding him present. In the state of mind they were in, the men in that room would have glowered at any one. Everett detected something more than mere personal resentment at his intrusion--he sniffed a plot against him. There was no hand outstretched to him, no welcome, no explanation offered why these leaders of the party had met thus without intimation to him that anything was afoot. Choleric red suffused his face--it had been gray with passion when he entered, because a corridor filled with curious men is not a happy arena for a candidate shut out of committee headquarters. He realized that he had been a spectacle inciting interest and some amusement while he was hammering on the door. One object of the Duke had been attained when he admitted Everett--the wrangling ceased. But the embarrassment was intensified. The situation was more complex. "I beg your pardon, gentlemen, if I am interrupting serious business," began Everett, intending to force some sort of explanation. He waited. No one spoke. The others were waiting, too. The candidate looked from one to the other, and then surveyed Wasgatt and the papers he was clutching. He eyed General Waymouth with much interest and some surprise. He had not been informed of that gentleman's presence in the hotel. The General returned the gaze with serenity, creasing his sheet of manuscript on the table with his thin fingers. "I expected to be called in when you were ready to go over the platform," continued Everett, sourly. "I'm supposed to know as early as any one, I presume, what it is I'm going to stand on." Thelismer Thornton decided that it was up to him to speak. He leaned against the table, half sitting on it, and swung his foot. "You have a perfect right, Dave, to inquire about any platform that you're going to stand on. And when we get your platform ready for you we'll call you in and submit it. But allow me to remind you that you haven't been nominated yet." The band was blaring again outside. "The convention is yet to be held, and has yet to declare its platform." "I don't expect you to call Arba Spinney in here and consult with him--if that's what your hints mean. But there's no need of your using that 'round-the-barn talk with me, Thelismer. You know that so far as the real Republican party is concerned Spinney is an outsider; I'm the logical candidate, and I demand to be taken into the conference. I don't recognize that there are two Republican candidates before the convention." "I do," said the Duke, firmly and with significance. He was preparing to resent this autocratic manner. "Well, I _don't_!" cried the State chairman. Secretly he had been offended by Thornton's high-handed assumption of control, ever since their talk on the morning after the Fort Canibas caucus. He had promptly recognized the political sagacity of the old man's plan. In his fear of the Spinney agitation--in his apprehension lest all control should be wrested from his faction of the party--he had been eager to compromise on General Waymouth, hoping that he would prove to be as amenable to party reason as he knew Everett already was. But this intractable old Spartan, with his dictation of party principles that meant the loss of policy, power, and profits, had angered him to his marrow. He was ready to declare himself now, Thornton or mo Thornton. He turned on the Duke. "Perhaps you can lick me--that's the only way you can get it!" he declared. "But you needn't expect me to stand here and grin and hand it over." Thornton stared at him understandingly, accepting the challenge. "There was a man up our way, Luke, who fought two highway robbers a whole hour, and when they had finally torn his clothes all off him, he only had two cents in his pockets. He told the robbers, then, that he hadn't fought to save his two cents, but because he didn't want his financial condition revealed." Candidate Everett was finding this conversation hard to follow. "There's something here that isn't on the level, and I suspected it the minute I came into this room. Presson, is the State Committee behind me?" "It is, and it's behind you to stay," declared the chairman. Again he turned to Thornton. "It's up to you, now, whether Arba Spinney gets the nomination or not. If you keep on and split us, he gets it; but I shall make it mighty plain to the boys as to whose fault it was, Thelismer." "What's all this about?" demanded Everett. Presson hesitated only a moment. "There was a movement on inside the party to run General Waymouth as a compromise candidate. It has been talked over. I declare myself now. I'm against it. The State Committee stands for you, Everett!" The candidate revolved slowly on his heels in order to study the faces of all of them. He did not find much enthusiasm to back up Presson's declaration. He realized that he was in the company of those who had been plotting to shelve him, and he had the wit to understand that only their quarrel over some issue had availed to save him from being knifed. His temper got away from him. "You've held your nose up pretty high in this world, General Waymouth! Do you call a trick to steal my nomination away from me at the last moment gentlemanly or decent? I've put in my time and my money and my efforts. I've made a campaign. And I've waited for this!" "You needn't insult the General in that fashion, Dave," broke in Thornton. "Address your talk to me. I'm responsible." "I think I'm the one that is responsible at this stage," insisted General Waymouth. "I'll talk to you, Mr. Everett, if you please. You addressed me. Any Republican in this State is entitled to seek nomination as Governor. It is a worthy and proper ambition. It is an honor that belongs to the people. It isn't a heritage to be passed on from one bunch of politicians to another. It isn't to be bought and bartered. I realize that precedent has given you that impression. But it's a pernicious precedent. It's time to do away with it. That's why I'm here to-night, dipping into slime that I hoped never to be soiled with again. I've been frank with these other gentlemen. I'm going to be frank with you, Mr. Everett. I know you stand for The System. I don't have to tell you what that is. You propose to continue the nullification programme, bar-rooms tolerated on payment of fines, tax reform slicked over, water powers and other State resources peddled out to favorites. It's useless to deny. We've all been in politics together too many years." Mr. Everett did not deny. It was too intimate a gathering for that. "This is not the way I'd like to be called to the Governor's chair of my State," went on the General, "but it's the way of politics. I've got to meet you on the politician's level, so far as securing the nomination goes. But I stand here and tell you, Mr. Everett"--he took two steps forward and stood close to the other candidate, and his voice rose--"that I can be a better Governor of this State than you--in the sort of days that are on us now. This is not egotism--it's truth. I say it because I know you and the men behind you as well as I know myself." "It's a sneak trick, just the same!" shouted Everett. "So are many tricks in politics--and, God help me, I'm back in politics!" returned the General. He looked them over there in the room, from face to face and eye to eye. "You cannot accuse me of vanity, self-seeking, or ambition at my age, gentlemen. I've been Governor of this State once. I didn't enjoy the experience. I'm going into this thing again simply because I believe that I can put some honesty into public affairs. This State is calling for it. And that object justifies me in what I'm doing. I am a candidate!" "By ----!" roared Everett, furious, realizing how this candidacy threatened his hopes, "run if you want to. But I'll see to it that these delegates know how you're running--cutting under a man that's made an honest canvass!" He started for the door, tossing his arms above his head--a politician beginning to run amuck. Presson grabbed his arm and held him back. "Don't be a lunatic, Dave," he buzzed in his ear. "If you go to advertising this around the hotel to-night you'll be giving Spinney the tip and starting Waymouth's boom for him. Damn it, you want to keep your teeth shut tight and your tongue behind them! There'll be no blabbers go out of this room--I'll see to that! I'll put a dozen members of the State Committee at work on the delegates to-night." He was walking Everett toward the door, getting him out of earshot of the others. "Weymouth has got a platform there that sounds as though it was drawn up by the House Committee of Paradise. He's got to be licked--great Judas, he's _got_ to be licked! I've got five thousand that the liquor crowd has sent into the State for the campaign, but this is the place to use it--right here now! And it'll be used. Don't you worry, Dave! And keep your mouth shut!" It was a colloquy that no one else in the room heard--Everett putting in suggestions as the chairman whispered hoarsely in his ear. Harlan Thornton, looking on, guessed what it might be. Linton, at his side, ironically hinted at the possibilities of that hurried conference in the corner. Senator Pownal walked about the room, chewing his short beard and incapable of a word--for his re-election came before the next legislature, and to jump the wrong way now in the gubernatorial matter was political suicide. Thelismer Thornton remained in his place on the corner of the table, staring reflectively at General Waymouth. Presson ended his whispered exhortations with a rather savage reference to the manner in which the Duke had involved the campaign. Everett shot a baleful glance at the man who had so cold-bloodedly planned his undoing. "Look here, Thornton," he called out, as he started for the door, "you and I will have our reckoning later. We use old horses for fox bait up our way, too, but we always make sure that the horses are dead first." He went out and slammed the door. Thornton did not turn his head. He kept his eyes on Waymouth. "Vard," he said, "I reckon I haven't been keeping my political charts up to date. I had you down as a peninsula, jutting out _some_ from the Republican party, but still hitched on to it. I find you're an island, standing all by yourself, and with pretty rocky shores." "Perhaps so," admitted the General. "This has been a sort of a heart-to-heart meeting here to-night. In the general honesty I'll be honest myself. I can't support you." "Then you lack honesty." "No, but your scheme of honesty takes you right into the king-row of the ramrodders, and I can't train with the bunch that will flock to you. Your theory is good--but the _practice_ will break your heart just as sure as God hasn't made humans perfect! You'll be up against it! You're going to test man to the limit of his professions--and it isn't a safe operation, if you want to come out with any of your ideals left unsmashed. If you start on that road you'll have to travel it without me." "Well, there's a little common sense left in the Republican party," snapped Presson. "General Waymouth, you've had considerable many honors in your life, and the party gave 'em to you. That calls for some gratitude. You can show it by keeping your hands off this thing." "That would have been an argument once, when I was a wheel-horse with my political blinders on; it has been an argument that has kept a good many decent men from doing their duty. It will not work with me now." He put his folded paper into his pocket, and reached and took the other document that he had handed to Wasgatt earlier in the evening. "I'll not disfigure the perfect structure of your platform now, Presson, but I'll see how these sound from the floor of the convention, in spite of your resolutions to shut off free speech! Good-night, gentlemen." He turned to leave, still serene with the poise of one who has experienced all and is prepared for all. "I used to have pretty good luck playing a lone hand in our old card-playing days, Thelismer. I'll see what I can do in politics." "General Waymouth, have you a few moments to give me if I come to your room now?" inquired Harlan Thornton. "I want to offer my services!" "I'll join the party too, if I may!" suggested Linton. Colonel Wadsworth was twisting his imperial with one hand and fingering his Loyal Legion button with the other. "I'm not the kind that waits for a draft, General," he said. "I didn't in '61. I volunteer now." General Waymouth smiled, bowed the three ahead of him through the door of the parlor, and softly closed it behind himself and his little party. "Well, Thelismer," raved the State chairman, "you can certainly take rank, at your time of life and after all you've been through, as a top-notch hell of a politician. You start out to run a State campaign, and you wind up by not being able to run even your grandson!" "What I started running seems to be still running," said the old man, undisturbed by the attack. "And it's costing the Republican party something, this mix-up," Presson went on. "You think it looks expensive, taking the thing right now at apparent face value?" "Look here! I don't relish humor--not now! I'm not in a humorous mood. You can see what it's costing--blast that infernal band!" Mr. Spinney's serenaders had not had their fill of music. There was din outside. The tune, "A Hot Time in the Old Town To-night," won a grunt of approval from Mr. Wasgatt, still holding his documents, more pop-eyed than ever. "Pretty expensive, eh?" said the Duke, lifting his knee between his hands and leaning back on the table. "You heard about--" "I don't want any more of your cussed stories! Not to-night!" Presson rushed out. He went into the main parlor, where the members of the State Committee were in informal session. Wasgatt was left with the Duke, and the latter fixed him with benevolent gaze. "Old Zavanna Dodge, up our way, got to courting two old maids, trying to make up his mind which he'd take--and the one he didn't take sued him for breach o' promise. After Zavanna put in his evidence in court, he sat across from the court-house in the tavern window, waiting for the arguments to be made and the case to be decided. Toward night Squire Enfield, his lawyer, came across. 'How did she end out?' says Zavanna. 'Agin ye--for eight hundred,' says the Squire. 'Pretty expensive, Zav!' Zavanna tucked a spill of whisker between his lips and chewed on it and rocked for a little while. 'Unh huh!' says he, figuring it over. And then he spoke up cheerful: 'Well, Squire, I reckon there's that much difference between the two women.'" Wasgatt chuckled. "The point to that is--but no matter! It was to Luke that I was going to show the point." The old man got his hat from the window-sill and trudged toward the private door, saying, partly to Wasgatt, partly to himself: "I reckon I'll go to bed! Just at this minute the campaign doesn't seem to be needing my help." CHAPTER XVII THE ODD TRICK Thelismer Thornton was one of the first to stir next morning in the big hotel. All night roisterers had flanked his room, there had been the buzz of eager argument overhead, riot of dispute below, and continual thudding of hurrying feet in the corridors. He had gone to sleep realizing that the hive was in a state of upheaval extraordinary, but he slept calmly in spite of it, and woke refreshed. He picked his way past cots in the corridors. Men were snoring there. His grandson had not returned to their apartments. But the Duke divined his whereabouts. He had ascertained by the house telephone the number of Linton's room. He tried the door when he arrived there. It was not locked. He entered. Linton was asleep on the bed. Harlan was on a cot. They had taken off only their coats and waistcoats. They did not wake when he came in. He pulled a chair to the centre of the room and sat astride it, his arms on its back. In a few moments both sleepers woke, stirring under his intent regard. They sat up and returned his gaze. "Well, my boys, what's the programme?" he inquired, pleasantly. Heavy with sleep, perturbed, a bit apprehensive, neither answered. "You didn't come back to your room last night, Harlan. You weren't afraid of this old chap, were you? Didn't think I'd be running around the room on all fours, eh, or climb the wall, or growl and try to bite you?" "I didn't want to disturb you, and Mr. Linton and I wanted to talk after we left General Waymouth," said Harlan. "It's all right if you weren't afraid of me, my boy. We can't afford to have politics put us in that state of mind. Now, own up! You thought I'd pitch in and pull you over to the machine--you were afraid of that, now, weren't you?" "To be perfectly honest, I didn't want any argument with you, grandfather, but I wasn't afraid you'd convert me. You couldn't do that." "Bub, 'politics before friendship' is all right for a code. I practice that myself, but it hurts me to have you put politics before relationship--the kind that's between us." "Grandfather," replied the young man, firmly, "you remember that you told me you were going to put me into politics right. I consider that you've done so. I'm going to stay where you put me." "Oh, you mean one thing and I mean another, my boy, as matters stand just now. You're in wrong. A man isn't in right when he's playing on the losing end." "I stay where you put me," insisted Harlan, doggedly. "I'm with General Waymouth." "General Waymouth was a winner till he committed hari-kari there last night. He had Luke's machine, and he had my scheme. He kicked over the machine, and the scheme won't work now; it could have been _snapped_ through, but it can't be _bulled_ through--not with the bunch forewarned and on the lookout. Your political chances with Vard Waymouth, Harlan, don't amount to that!" He clicked his finger smartly above his head. "You may as well go back up-country and boss the Quedaws." "And yet you know that General Waymouth is right, Mr. Thornton," broke in Linton, pausing in lacing his shoes. "There's no chance for argument about that. Why is it the big men of this State--men like you, that have the influence to set things straight--won't back the man that's honest and right?" "Linton, that's the kind of a question that's asked by the man whose experience in practical politics is limited to a term on the School Board and the ownership of a subscription edition of _American Statesmen_, bound in half morocco. I'll tell you why we don't: we're dealing with conditions, not theories. The chap who writes for the 'Kickers' Column' in the newspapers can tell you all about how politics should be run, but that's the only privilege he ever gets. It's the chap who keeps still and runs the politics that gets what's to be got out of it. And that's because mankind wants what it wants, and not what it says it wants." He went to the window, snapped up the shade, and let the morning light flood the room. "Wake up, my boys! Dreams are rosy--I've had 'em myself. But they don't buy the breakfast next morning. Martyrs get a devil of a reputation after they're dead. It doesn't do 'em a mite of good, not as human beings. As long as you're taking the curse that belongs with a human being, get some of the good, too. I tried to operate on a different plan long ago--about the time I had the dreams--but I had to give it up if I was to get anything out of life. Vard Waymouth can't build over the human nature in this State. I've had to drop him. I hadn't realized he was in such a bad way. Get aboard with the winners this trip! Then at least you can be in the swim--you can find some good to do on the side, and be able to do it. But you won't amount to anything sitting on the bank and bellowing." The vigils of the night had fortified their faith, the loyalty of youth was in them, and they were the disciples of one who had enlisted their enthusiasm. Linton, however, was less assertive than Harlan. The Duke did not lose his patience. "Boys," he said, at the end of his exhortations, "I see that you've got to have your little lesson (I'll have to be going now, for I've a few things to attend to), and I'll tell you frankly I propose to make that lesson a lasting one." A few hours later the young men went in to breakfast together. The early trains had brought other delegates and visitors. The great room was crowded with a chattering throng. The head waiter intercepted them; he seemed to be waiting for them. They followed obediently, and he led them to an alcove. Here a breakfast-party was already installed. Miss Presson was first to greet them, giving a hand to each--radiant, fresh, and altogether charming in her tailored perfection. "We left word at the door," she smiled, "for I wanted to behold you before the blood and dust of the arena settled over all." Mrs. Presson and her ladies were cordial. They did not seem to remark that the State chairman kept his seat and was brusque in his greeting. Political abstraction excused general disregard to conventions among the men-folks that morning. The Duke was there. He patronized them with a particularly amiable smile. "May I?" asked Linton, touching the chair next Madeleine. "Yes," said the girl. "You know, Herbert and I are very old friends, Mr. Thornton." There was a hint of apology to Harlan behind the brilliant smile she gave him. He had moved toward the chair. He flushed when he realized that he felt a queer sense of hurt at her choice. It was another new experience for him who had made the woods his mistress--a woman had chosen another, slighting him. As he took his seat beside his grandfather he was angry at himself--at the sudden boyish pique he felt. He had not been conscious till then that he had been interested especially in Madeleine Presson. It needed the presence of this other young man, selected over his head, to make him understand that one may not draw near beauty with impunity, even though one may be very certain--telling his own heart--that love is undreamed of. He wondered whether he might not be afflicted with asinine pride. He did not relish the glance that Linton bestowed on him; it seemed there was just a flash of triumph in it--that bit of a boast one sees in the eyes of a man who becomes, even briefly, the proprietor of a pretty woman. "We were just talking over the latest news--or, rather, it's a rumor," said Miss Presson. With quick intuition she felt that something, somehow, was not just right. She hastened to break the silence. "They are saying that Mr. Spinney has withdrawn, and that his name will not go before the convention. Of course, you've heard about it, Herbert--and Mr. Thornton!" They had not heard it. They looked guilty. They had been all the morning with Colonel Wadsworth, locked away from the throng, finishing matters of the night before. The expression on their faces was confession of their ignorance. "If you're going to be early political fishermen you'll have to look for your worms sharp in the morning or you'll fetch up short of bait," suggested the Duke, maliciously. "Three cheers and a snatch of band-music take on a hopeful color when they're lit up by red fire overnight," remarked the State chairman. "So do some other things. But a fellow with good eyesight usually comes to himself in the daylight." "Is that true about Spinney?" asked Harlan, scenting mischief and treachery, and not yet enough of a politician to understand instantly just what effect this would have on the situation. "I don't know anything about it," snapped Presson. "I don't care anything about it. It isn't important enough. The man's strength was overrated. It was mostly mouth. Just as soon as the delegates got together last night and shook themselves down it was plain enough where Spinney stood." "But you yourself and grandfather have been saying all along that he--" began Harlan. "We say a lot of things in politics," broke in the chairman, testily. "But it's only the final round-up that counts. And be prepared for sudden changes, as the almanac says! I tell you, I don't know anything about this Spinney rumor--nor I don't care. But it's probably true. Everett has got pledged delegates enough to nominate him by acclamation." "But last night--" persisted Harlan. His grandfather interrupted this time. "Don't you remember that old Brad Dunham wrote to New York one spring and asked a commission man if he would take a million frogs' legs? Commission man wrote that he'd take a hundred pairs; and the best old Brad could do, after wading in the swamp back of his house all day, was to get a dozen. Wrote to the commission man that he'd been estimating his frogs by sound and thought he had a million. That's been the way with Spinney and his delegates, Harlan." Mrs. Presson took advantage of the merriment to change the subject from politics. It was a topic that did not interest her, and she had learned from her husband's disgusted growlings that morning that there had been trouble the night before. Harlan did not join in the chatter that went about the table. Under cover of it his grandfather gave him a few words of compassionate counsel. "You'll have to swing in with the new deal, bub. You can't cut party sirloin too close to the horn, and that's what Vard did. He wants to sit on the mountain and slam us flat under a rock with the new ten commandments on it. We can't stand for it. I didn't dream that he had grown to be so impractical in his old age. No one wants any such deal as he's framing up for the State. As I told you, he's trying to build human nature over, and he can't do it. I'm sorry it's turned as it has--he could have been just a little diplomatic and made us a good Governor. But Everett will make a good one--you needn't be afraid of him. We'll put through a few measures that will smooth things down a little. Now you've got to remember that you're going to the legislature. You might just as well not be there if you don't stand clever with the administration. I haven't put you in just as I intended. But get into line now, quick. I can smooth it all right for you. I've squared myself with Everett--he needed me!" Harlan listened patiently, keeping his eyes on his food. "Right after breakfast Luke is going to have a talk with you and Linton." "It will do Mr. Presson no good to talk to me. I'm with General Waymouth." "But General Waymouth has been eliminated, you young idiot. It was the combination of circumstances that made him a candidate. But those circumstances have been changed. I can't explain to you how, Harlan--not here and now. But a brand-new trump has been turned. It had to be done. You stay behind here with Linton and talk with Luke." The ladies were rising from the table. Harlan did not reply. He did not remain. He stepped aside and allowed the ladies to pass, and followed them from the alcove. Presson stared after him angrily. Linton, obeying his request, sat down after Mrs. Presson and her party had retired. "You've got a fool, there, for a grandson, Thelismer," stated the chairman with decision. "He doesn't seem to be a politician," returned the old man, gazing after him. "There are a few joints in a man that he ought to be able to bend in politics, but Harlan seems to be afflicted with a sort of righteous ossification. He'll have to have his lesson, that's all!" The young man was not in the mood to accept Miss Presson's invitation to accompany them to the hotel parlor. In the corridor he refused so brusquely that she stood and gazed at him, allowing the others to go on without her. "You seem to be taking politics very seriously, Mr. Harlan Thornton." "I'm taking honesty and my pledges seriously, that's all." "Then your honesty puts you in opposition to my father, does it, sir?" It was said with a spark of resentment. "Do you realize how that sounds?" "I do not say so, Miss Presson." "But I have heard queer rumors this morning. Take a woman's advice once, Mr. Thornton: it may be worth something, because I have seen more of this game than you have. Don't kill your career at the outset by trying to realize an impossible ideal. It's bad enough in love, but it's much worse in politics!" She hurried away, joining the others. Harlan paced the corridor impatiently, waiting for Linton to come out. Few men of the hundreds thronging past recognized him, and he was not accosted. He caught fragments of talk. It was evident that the rumor concerning Spinney had found as many disbelievers as believers. Some charged that the story was started simply for the purpose of hurting the reform candidate by decrying his strength and inducing the wavering opportunists to come over to the winning side. Others said a trade had been effected, and that the story of it had leaked out prematurely. At any rate, the buzz of gossip showed that the situation was badly mixed. Linton came alone. He had left the Duke and the chairman in conference. He took Harlan by the arm, and walked to the end of the corridor. They were alone there. "Of course you know how I came to be in on the Waymouth side," he began, promptly. "Once I was in I didn't propose to quit so long as there was any hope. I did what mighty few young men in politics would do, Mr. Thornton--I stood out last night against Presson and your grandfather when they dropped the General. I just say that to show you I'm not a cur. But it's hopeless. The thing has turned completely over." "You're going to desert the General?" "It isn't desertion. That isn't a word that belongs in this situation. General Waymouth will not call it that after I've talked with him." Harlan did not speak. At the breakfast-table he had been ashamed of that little gnawing feeling of rancor when he looked across at the young couple who seemed so wholly contented with their conversation. Now he indulged himself. He began to hate this young man cordially. He excused the feeling, on the ground that it was proper resentment on behalf of the General. "I don't want you to think that I'm disloyal or a deserter in this matter, Mr. Thornton. But I'm going to the next legislature, and I'm interested in certain measures that will help this State if they're adopted. I can't help General Waymouth now; you can't help him. He has no one behind him, as the thing has turned." "He's got the square deal behind him!" "Meaning nothing in a political mix-up such as this is. I can't afford to dump all my future overboard and kill myself for the next legislature by an absolutely useless and quixotic splurge in to-day's convention. The General has made no canvass--he isn't even very much interested personally in the affair. I hope I stand straight with you now. I'm going up and tell the General exactly how I feel about the thing. I advise you to do the same. You'll be very foolish to butt your head against every political influence in this State that counts for anything. I told your grandfather--" "I don't want your advice in politics," blazed Harlan, letting his grudge have rein, "and I don't thank you to tell me how to get along with my own grandfather!" He hoped that young Mr. Linton would resent that manner of speech. Young Mr. Linton, as stalwart as he, raised his black eyebrows, pursed his lips, and was not daunted by the outburst. "I beg your pardon, Mr. Thornton," he said, "but I fear you did not have enough sleep last night." He started for General Waymouth's room, and Harlan followed him. There seemed to be no other haven for the latter just then. He was hung between the political sky and earth. He had no hope left that the General could prevail over the conditions that had so suddenly presented themselves. But his loyalty was not shaken. Now it had become unreasoning loyalty, dogged determination to stick to his choice; and as he looked at Linton's back preceding him along the corridor, he was more firmly determined than ever. Suddenly he was glad of the fact that this young man was on the other side, and he did not stop to analyze why he was glad it was so. General Waymouth's parlor was crowded with men. The size of that levee astonished the two new arrivals. The General was not in sight. He was closeted with some one in the bedroom. Harlan and Linton noted that the men in the parlor did not wear the demeanor of ordinary visitors calling to pay their respects to a "has been." Some of them were talking eagerly in bunches, some were waiting--all were serious and anxious. General Waymouth, coming to his bedroom door to usher out three men and admit others, saw his young lieutenants. He called them to him. He was straighter. He was stern. Fires within had given his eyes the flash of youth. All his usual gentle pensiveness was gone. "My boys," he said, earnestly, "a week ago I didn't think I wanted to be Governor of this State again. But I want that office now with the whole strength of my soul. The devil is running our State to-day through his agents. I've got a duty to perform. I haven't time now to tell you what I've discovered since you left my room. I want you to--" "I ask your pardon for interrupting, General," said Linton, manfully, "but I want to be as square with you as I can. Interests that belong to others will suffer if I continue with you--things being as they are. I make haste to speak before you tell me any more. I ask to be released." "As a soldier I might question a resignation on the eve of battle, but as a politician I want no half-heartedness in my ranks. Good-day, Mr. Linton." He stood very erect, and his air admitted no further explanation. Linton bowed, and went out of the room. "There is no half-heartedness here!" cried Harlan, passionately. "Is there anything I can do, General Waymouth?" "Go and bring Arba Spinney to this room at once. Understand the situation before you go: I have already sent men for him. He has refused to come. Tell him this is his last opportunity to save himself from such deep disgrace that it will drive him from his State. I wish I could tell you to take him by the collar and lug him here. I venture to say you have the muscle, young man. But minutes are valuable--bring him." Harlan hurried away. Mr. Spinney was not in evidence in the parlor of his suite, but Harlan heard his tremendous voice in the bedroom--that voice could not be softened even in an exigency. Several men whom Harlan recognized as members of the State Committee were seated near the door; and when he approached to knock, one of them informed him that Mr. Spinney was too busy to be seen. "But my business is important." "What sort of business is it?" "Is Mr. Spinney afraid of visitors?" demanded the young man. His mien impressed the men. They knew that he was Thelismer Thornton's grandson. They conversed among themselves in whispers. Without waiting, and before they could stay him, he flung open the door. Spinney stopped in his discourse with several men, and faced about apprehensively. He, too, recognized the young man, and was unable to decide whether to class him with friends or foes. "Mr. Spinney, I have been sent to bring you with me instantly. Will you come?" "Where?" "It's a matter for your ear, sir. But you must come." The men with Spinney promptly counselled him to remain where he was, but the candidate was impressed by the young man's determined appearance. Harlan strode to him, and took him by the arm. He had been used to the command of men since boyhood. "I have some very positive instructions. It will be a serious matter for you, Mr. Spinney, if you don't come--and you can't afford to take the advice of these men here." He propelled his man toward the door, and Mr. Spinney went. It is likely that he concluded that no very serious damage could come to him in the presence of Thelismer Thornton's grandson. But when they arrived near the door of General Waymouth's parlor, Spinney recognized what it meant and resisted. "It's a trap!" he gasped. "I thought your grandfather--" The State Committeemen were following along the corridor, growling threats. Now they understood that this was practically an abduction. They hastened up to the scene of the struggle. But the young man was not deterred. He was obeying orders without question. With him it was not a matter of politics; he did not pause to wonder how the affair would be looked upon. The man to whom all his loyalty had gone out had commanded; he was obeying. But the others were resolute too. They were about to interfere. At that moment Thelismer Thornton appeared in the corridor. "Let the boy alone," he commanded, thrusting himself among them. The diversion gave Harlan his opportunity. Clutching Spinney with one hand, he threw open the door and pushed him in, followed him, and closed the door. He locked it, and stood with his back against it. In that moment he did not reflect that in obeying General Waymouth so implicitly he might be playing traitor to his own flesh and blood. But the Duke, in his cynicism, had never attracted his grandson's political loyalty. That had seemed a matter apart from the family ties between them. His grandfather had set him on the trail of decency in politics, and had given him a leader to follow. The frankness with which his grandfather had exposed the code by which he and his ilk operated in politics, making tricks, subterfuge, and downright dishonesty an integral part of the game and entitled to absolution, had divorced Harlan's straightforward sympathies when the question came to issue between his own relative, complacently unscrupulous, and General Waymouth, heroically casting off bonds of friendship and political affiliations, and standing for what was obviously the right. It was chivalrous. It appealed to the youth in Harlan. His manhandling of the amazed Spinney was an unheard-of event among gentlemen at a political convention, but there was more than impulse behind it. Harlan Thornton was a woodsman. Social conventions make the muscles subservient, but in the more primitive conditions the muscles leap ahead of the mind. Therefore, he came with Mr. Spinney and tossed him into the presence of the chief, who had sent for him. Then he set his broad shoulders against the door, for fists had begun to hammer at it. It was evident at once that Spinney recognized the nature of the conference that had assembled in General Waymouth's room, and knew what the personnel of the group signified. He looked around him and started toward the door. "I've got witnesses to that assault, and you're going to suffer for it," he blustered. Harlan did not give way. "You can't leave here yet, Mr. Spinney--not until General Waymouth finishes his business with you." The General had viewed Mr. Spinney's headlong arrival with astonishment. He stepped forward to the centre of the room. There was a note in his voice that quelled the man as much as had Harlan's resolute demeanor at the door. "Spinney, it will be better for you if you listen." The candidate turned to face him, apprehensive and defiant at the same time. The panels of the door against which Harlan leaned were jarred by beating fists. Harlan heard the voice of his grandfather outside, calling to him impatiently. A moment more, and Chairman Presson added a more wrathful admonition to open. "Mr. Thornton, will you kindly inform those people at the door that this is my room, and that I command them to withdraw?" directed General Waymouth. Harlan flung the door open and filled the space with the bulk of his body. Both parties stood revealed to each other, the young man dividing them, and disdaining intrenchments. "What kind of a crazy-headed, lumber-jack performance are you perpetrating here?" demanded the elder Thornton. "You're not handling Canucks to-day, you young hyena!" "This is a scandal--a disgrace to this convention!" thundered Presson. He started to come in, but Harlan barred the doorway with body and arms. "Do you want any of these gentlemen inside, General?" he asked. "Neither Mr. Presson, nor Mr. Thornton, nor any of the rest," declared Waymouth. "And I want that disturbance at my door stopped." "You hear that!" cried the defender of the pass. "Now, Mr. Presson, if you intend to disgrace this convention by a riot, it's up to you to start it." And then the choler and the hot blood of his youth spoke. He did not pick his words. His opinion of them was seething within him. He talked as he would talk to a lumber-crew. "I'm keeping this door, and I'm man enough for all the pot-bellied politicians you can crowd into this corridor. And if there's any more hammering here, I'll step out and show you." He slammed the door, locked it, and set his shoulders against the panels. "Luke, keep away," counselled Thelismer. "The boy is just plain lumber-jack at the present moment, and he's a hard man in a scrap. We can't afford to have a scene." "They're going to turn wrongside-out that wad of cotton batting with two ounces of brains wrapped in it!" raved the State chairman. But the Duke pulled the politician away, whispering in his ear. Spinney faced the General, blinking, doubtful, sullen. The old soldier knew how to attack. He flung his accusation with fierce directness. "Spinney, you have sold out. You're a traitor. And you're a thief as well, for you've sold what didn't belong to you. You solicited honest men, in the name of reform, to put their cause into your hands. It was a trust. You've sold it." "I'll prosecute you for slander!" roared the candidate. He hoped his defiance would be heard by those outside. "You may do so, but I'll give you here and now the facts that you'll go up against. That's how sure I am of my ground!" He shook papers at the man. "Last night, or rather this morning at one o'clock, to be exact, you met Luke Presson and members of the State Committee, and for two thousand dollars, paid to you in one-hundred-dollar bills, you agreed to pull out. The secret was to be kept until it should be time for the nominating speeches to be made on the floor of the convention to-day. I have here affidavits signed by responsible parties who heard the entire transaction." It was accusation formal, couched in cold phrases, without passion. Spinney started. The perspiration began to stream down his face. But in spite of the staggering blow the fight was not out of him. He thought quickly, reassuring himself by the recollection that his bedroom door had been locked, and men were on guard in his parlor. There could have been no eavesdroppers. This must be a bluff. "That's a damnation lie!" he shouted. "Don't you bellow at me, sir! I'm not trying to extort any confession. But you're wasting time, denying. I'm sure of my ground, I repeat. That's why I'm talking now. I'm an old man, and I was in politics in this State before you were born. And there were tricks and tricksters in the old days. And I knew them. I played one of those tricks on you, sir, last night. It's the last one I hope I shall ever play, for tricks are to be taken out of the politics of this State. The god of good chance lodged you in 'Traitor's Room,' last night, Mr. Spinney." The man stared at him, frightened, not understanding. "There's a false door and a slide in the wall of that bedroom, Spinney, and the old politician who put it there years ago passed the knowledge on to me. I'm willing every one should know it now. When you go back I will have it shown to you. It will convince you that these affidavits I hold in my hand are not guess-work. These men in this room now--for your own men brought me word that you were hiding from them--made those affidavits. Look at them, and deny--deny once more, Spinney!" But the candidate had no voice now. He glanced furtively from face to face. "Spinney," one declared, bitterly, "we've got you dead to rights. There ain't any use in squirming. We suspected you when you hid away from us, and General Waymouth put us in the way of finding out just who was with you. You might as well give in." The General did not wait for Spinney to speak. He was in no mood then for listening. He was in command. He was issuing orders. The battle was on, and he was in the saddle. "I propose to have your name go before the convention, Spinney. You must walk out of this room and deny the rumors that are afloat. I propose to have two of these men go with you and stay with you. And if you deny half-heartedly, or if you attempt any more sneak tricks, or if your name is not put into nomination to-day, I'll stand out and declare what is in these affidavits. If you want to save yourself and the men who bribed you, obey my orders." "I don't understand why you want me to go ahead now," Spinney ventured to protest. "And I don't propose to take you into my confidence enough, sir, to inform you. I simply instruct you to do as I say, and if you obey, I and these men here will do all we can to cover up this nasty mess in our party. It's in your hands whether you go to jail or not." The General signalled to Harlan, and the young man opened the door. Spinney went out with his watchful guardians. "Now you ought to be able to hold your men together until we need them, gentlemen," said the General, addressing those who remained. "But you'd better get out among them and see that they stay in line. Defend Spinney! God knows, the words will stick in your throats, but show a bold front to the other side. Gather in your stragglers." They filed out, plain and stolid individuals from the rural sections. Harlan was left alone with the General. "There go the kind that the demagogues always catch, Mr. Thornton. The demagogues understand human nature. They prey on the radicals who will follow the man who promises--sets class against class and eternally promises! Promises the jealous ascetics to deprive other men of the indulgences they seem to enjoy--promises to correct things for the great majority which dimly understands that things are out of joint in their little affairs, and as dimly hope that laws and rulers can correct those things and make the income cover the grocery bills. Spinney had them by the ears, that he did! But the knave was shrewd enough to understand that the machine would probably whip him in convention. They used my name to scare him into selling out--threatened to stampede the convention for me. That's why I'm so angry." "Let me ask you something, General. It was Spinney, was it, Spinney and the kind I've seen training with him in this thing, that stirred up the opposition in this State--the kind of opposition we found at our Fort Canibas caucus?" "From all reports, yes. I know some of the agents that have been working in the State. The men behind have hidden themselves pretty well, and I'm not exactly certain where their money is coming from. But I suppose the liquor interests are putting in considerable, as usual." "The liquor interests! Backing reformers?" The General smiled. "Remember that I've had better chances to see the inside than you, young man. I've watched it operate from the start. In case of doubt you'll find the liquor interests on both sides. It's an evil that prohibition opens the door to. The saloons are to be tolerated and protected, or they are to be persecuted--the programme depends on the men who get control. If they are to be tolerated, the wholesale liquor men have to stand in right, so that they may have the privilege of doing business with the retailers. If the saloons are to be closed, the liquor men want to stand in right, so that they can do business direct with the consumer; and then there are the increased sales through the legalized city and town agencies when the saloons are closed--the liquor men need that business. The liquor is bound to come in anyway, whichever faction is in control. So the big rumsellers cater to both sides." "Isn't there any decency anywhere, in any man, General Waymouth, when he gets mixed into such things?" "Don't lose your faith that way, my boy! You see, I'm even playing a few political tricks myself. Your grandfather is more than half right--we have to play the game! But I'm trying a last experiment with human nature before I die. I haven't the things to lose that a young man has. I am forcing myself on my party--using some means that disgust me, but I have to do so in order to prevail. I want to be Governor of this State again, and I want to be Governor with more powers than I had before. You and I both know what the party managers want, I'd like to find out if the people are willing to be governed that way, after they've learned there's a better system. I want to find out if every man in this State is willing to pay his own just share of taxes, if the people will wake up and stand behind a man who shows them how to keep from private greed what belongs to the people. And most of all, young man, this State is in a condition of civil war over this infernal liquor question. The radicals are away off at one side, and the liberals as far away from them as they can get, and both sides plastering each other with mud. There's no common ground for a decent and honest man to stand on between; that is, he's too much disgusted with both sides to join either. I want to see whether there's good sense enough in this State to take the thing out of the hands of the fanatics so that we can get results that decent men can subscribe to--_results_ instead of the ruin and rottenness we're in now." He stopped suddenly with a word of apology. "You mustn't think I'm inflicting a rehearsal of my inauguration speech on you, Mr. Thornton. I talked more than I intended. But my feelings have been deeply stirred this morning." "It's wicked business, General Waymouth! I don't understand how you've kept so calm through it. But, thank God, you can show 'em all up now, as they deserve to be shown to the people of this State. I can hardly wait for that convention to open!" The General put his papers into his breast-pocket and buttoned his close frock-coat. He gazed on the young man's excitement indulgently. "My boy, you have yet to learn, I see, that what would make a good scene in a theatre would be a mighty bad move in politics. This, to-day, is a convention that a good many thousands of voters are waiting to hear from. If they should hear the whole truth, I'm thinking that the Democratic party would win at the polls. So, you see, I must continue to be a politician. We'll be going along to the hall, now, you and I. It's near the hour. I want to be the next Governor of this State" (he smiled wistfully), "so you and I will go out and hunt for enough honest men to make me Governor." The hotel was pretty well deserted as they walked down the stairs and through the lobby. "Ours doesn't seem to be the largest parade of the day, Mr. Thornton," said the veteran mildly, when they were on the street, "but we'll see--we'll see!" CHAPTER XVIII THE SHEPHERD AND THE SHEEP Like a beacon marking shoals, Thelismer Thornton stood at the head of the broad granite steps that led up to the convention hall. An unlighted cigar was set hard between his teeth. Men flocked past him with obsequious greetings, but he merely grunted replies. He was watching for some one. He swore under his breath when he saw his man. General Waymouth and Harlan came up the steps together. He swung between them, and went along into the hall. From open doors and windows band-music blared, welded with the roar of two thousand voices, each man shouting his conversation to be heard above his neighbors. It still lacked ten minutes of the hour set for the opening of the convention. Under the cover of the uproar, as they walked along, the Duke delivered some very vigorous opinions to his grandson, expressing himself as to the latter's state of intellect, judgment, and general fitness to be allowed loose among men. Harlan did not retort. He took his cue from the General, who smiled and listened. "I'll tell you what I ought to do with you, boy! I ought to skin you. I'd find a ready sale for the hide. They could use it to make bindings for New Testaments. Your're too d--n--d righteous, altogether! I've been easy and patient with you, but I don't propose to stand at one side now, and see you ruin yourself politically. Why are you letting the boy do it, Varden?" he demanded, turning on the General. "You're old enough to know better. He's no help to you now. I supposed I had a grandson until you got hold of him!" "You've still got a grandson, but you haven't got a political tool to use in prying open a new governorship deal every fifteen minutes," declared the young man. "You took me to General Waymouth, you pledged me to him--I pledged myself to him. I don't propose to discuss this matter any further. I'm my own man when it comes to politics!" "Thelismer, I wouldn't say any more just now," suggested the General. "You are angry, and I've told you many times in past years that your judgment is not good when you are angry. But this is no place for talking these matters!" The curious had already begun to throng about them. General Waymouth was a marked figure in a gathering. It had not become a matter of general knowledge that he was attending the convention. He had not appeared frequently in public since his retirement, and men were glad to see him. The early buzz that greeted his first appearance in the hall grew louder and louder, and swelled into an uproar as delegates turned in larger numbers and recognized him. The vast body of the auditorium was crowded with men. Posts supporting huge placards indicated the division of delegates into counties. The General's own county was nearest the door by which he had entered. At a call from some one these delegates climbed upon their settees. They gave three cheers for him. It was a spontaneous tribute to the one great man of the State--their county's favorite son. The word passed rapidly. Other counties came to their feet. The band was playing, the early enthusiasm of the day was fresh, men had not had opportunity to exercise their voices till then, and as the General passed down the side aisle of the hall he was cheered by every delegation. Harlan followed him closely, and the Duke was at their heels. Every man in the hall saw the little group. It seemed eminently fit that Thelismer Thornton should escort General Waymouth. But the Duke did not realize that the General was shrewdly using that opportunity of displaying Thornton, the elder, in his retinue. The accident fitted with some plans of his own. Spurred by the excitement of that tumultuous moment, Harlan could not restrain a bit of a boast. "How do you like the sound of that, grandfather?" he flung over his shoulder. "There's no politics in that, you young fool. A hoorah isn't a nomination." But he could not hide from himself the plain fact that Varden Waymouth was a tremendously strong figure in State affairs. There was sincerity behind that outburst. Eyes glistened. Faces glowed with admiration and respect. The Duke wondered bitterly how much of that extraordinary tribute was inspired by the publicity work for which the State Committee had spent its good money. The General led the way in at the side door that admitted to the stage. He was on familiar ground. Behind the stage there were several anterooms. He appropriated an empty one, hanging his hat on a hook. "Not an elaborate lay-out for a candidate, Thelismer," he remarked, pleasantly, "but headquarters to-day is where we hang up our hat." "Vard, you don't mean to tell me--seriously, at this hour--that you mean to be a candidate?" Thornton had put aside his anger. That had been bitter and quick ire, because his grandson had seemed so blind to his own personal interests. There was solicitude now in the old man's air. "I got you into this myself," he went on. "I coaxed you in, for the situation was right and ripe. You kicked it over yourself. I haven't any compunctions, Vard. I stayed with you just as long as I could stay. But I'll be dod-jimmed if I'll shove a Governor onto my party that's a hybrid of Socialist and angel. Now you can't swing this thing. Everett's got it buttoned. I tell you he has! You're too big a man, to-day, to get before that convention and be thrown down. I've got a better line on the situation than you have. Vard, let's not have this come up between us at our time of life. It's bad--it's bad!" "It _is_ bad," returned the General, quietly; "but not for me! And it's too late to stop. I'm going through with it, Thelismer." There was dignity--a finality of decision--that checked further argument. Thornton shifted gaze from Waymouth to his grandson, started to say more, snapped his jaws shut, and walked away. The door of the anteroom afforded a view across the stage. The hour had arrived. The secretary of the State Committee appeared from the wings and waited until the delegates were in their seats and quiet. He read the call, and then the temporary organization was promptly effected, the tagged delegates popping up here and there and making the motions that had been entrusted to them. A clergyman invoked Divine blessing, praying fulsomely and long, beseeching that the delegates would be guided by the higher will in their deliberations. "It's the only prayer I ever find amusing--God pardon me!" whispered the General at Harlan's side, watching the preliminaries. "To call a State convention, as the machine runs it, a deliberative body is a sad jest of some magnitude. The managers intend to hold the real convention the night before in the State Committee's headquarters at the hotel. But to-day I hope that prayer proves prophetic." He studied the faces on the platform. The United States Senator, smug and now satisfied that he had chosen aright for his personal interests, sat in the chairman's central seat, and studied his people from under eyelids half lowered while the parson prayed. After the prayer, the routine proceeded hurriedly. For five minutes the convention seemed to be in a state of riot. Men were bellowing and yelping, and standing on settees. The counties were holding simultaneous caucuses for the purpose of selecting, each its vice-president of convention, its State committeeman, and member of the Committee on Resolutions--the resolutions then reposing in the breast-pocket of the Hon. Luke Presson. The secretaries were announced, the temporary organization was made permanent, and, advancing against a blast of band-music and a salvo of applause, the Senator-chairman began his address. "Now," remarked General Waymouth, grimly, "I am ready to open headquarters in earnest. My boy, in that anteroom across the stage you'll find your grandfather and Mr. Presson, and certain members of the State Committee. David Everett will be there, too. Inform them I send my urgent request that they meet, at _once,_ the Hon. Arba Spinney and a delegation in my room here. I think that combination will suggest to guilty consciences that they'd better hurry. If they show any signs of hesitating, you may intimate as much to them." The plain and stolid men came in just then. They brought Mr. Spinney through the side door. The unhappy conspirator, jostled by his body-guard, was near collapse. He was now traitor to both sides. Circumstances hemmed him in. But more than he feared the recriminations of Luke Presson and his associates, he feared the papers in the breast-pocket of Varden Waymouth. Harlan went on his errand, crossing the stage behind a backdrop. Senator Pownal had got well under way, and was setting forth the sturdy principles of the Republican party with all the power of his lungs. Harlan did not knock at the anteroom door; he walked in, and for a moment he thought that the enraged chairman was about to leap at his throat. "Spinney, eh?" he blazed at the young man's first word. "Explain to me, Mr. Thornton, what is meant by your assault on a decent and honest citizen? What do you mean by teaming him from the hotel to this convention hall with a body-guard to insult men who have business with him?" The question was confession that the chairman had been unable to get at the political property he had paid dearly for. It indicated that he suspected but did not realize fully how deeply Spinney was in the toils. "Explain!" shouted Presson, standing on tiptoe to thrust features convulsed with rage into the young man's face. "General Waymouth is waiting to explain, sir. He's across the stage, there! And Mr. Spinney is with him. I'd advise you to hurry." "I don't need any of your advice! If you've got him on exhibition at last where the public can be admitted, I can't get there any too quick." He rushed out, charging like a bull, and the others followed. The State committeeman who closed file with Harlan did not appreciate the gravity of the situation. "You seem to be introducing new features into a State Convention to-day, cap'n," he observed, sarcastically. "The way you're handling Brother Spinney is like the song about "'Old Jud Cole, who went by freight To Newry Corner in this State; Packed him in a crate to get him there, With a two-cent stamp to pay his fare.'" He added, "Spinney is light enough to travel on that tariff, but you're going to find he's got friends that are heavier." Young Thornton waited till all had entered the anteroom, and again took his post as guard on the inside of the door. General Waymouth checked Presson at the first yelp of the outburst with which he had stormed into the room. Probably there was not another man in the State who could have prevailed by sheer force of dignity and carriage in that moment when the passions of his opponents were so white-hot. But he was, in intellect, birth, breeding, and position, above them all, and they knew it. There, boxed in that little room, they faced him, and anger, rancor, spite, itch for revenge gave way before his stern, cold, inexorable determination to prevail in the name of the right. "Gentlemen, I haven't called you here for the purpose of arguing or wrangling. You'll waste time by trying to do either. You are here to listen to what _must_ be done. You represent the warring factions. There are enough of us to straighten the matter out. There are not so many that the secret of this shameful mess cannot be kept, and our party saved at the polls." He paused to draw the fateful documents from his pocket. In the hush of the little room they heard Senator Pownal declaiming: "And it is upon these firm principles, bedrock of inalienable rights guaranteed to the people, upon the broad issues of reform, inculcation of temperance, and the virtues of civic life, that the Republican party is founded." Harlan, at the door, younger than the rest, found a suggestion of humor in what the orator was saying compared with what the party managers had met to hear. But there were no smiles on the faces of the group. The demeanor of the stricken Spinney, anger fairly distilling in his sweat-drops, hinted the truth to Presson. Thelismer Thornton tried to get near Spinney, understanding it all even better than the State chairman, but the plain and stolid men flanked their captive with determination. "I have here five affidavits from eye-witnesses, swearing that Arba Spinney was bribed to sell out his faction at the last moment to-day, leaving only David Everett in the field. I have no time to waste in giving the details of that transaction to men who know them just as well as I do. And I want no interruption, sir!" He brandished the papers under the nose of Presson, who attempted to speak. "I do not propose to have my intelligence insulted by denials from you or any one else. If you don't believe I have full proof of what I charge, you walk out of that door and put the matter to the test! And I hasten to assure you, sir, that you'll be eternally disgraced!" He waited a moment, because a roar of applause that greeted one of Senator Pownal's utterances resounded even in the remote anteroom. "It all means, gentlemen, that I'm to be the nominee of this convention to-day. It's time for a clean-up, and I'm going to start one. The men who are running our party are not fit to be in charge of it. The voters deserve a better show. I've called you here to give you an opportunity to save yourselves, personally. I'm willing to submit to a little by-play for that purpose. You are to allow Spinney's name to go before the convention, according to the regular programme. That's to divert the attention of the convention and the State-at-large from what otherwise would seem a split in the recognized management of the party. Spinney has been only a rank outsider, politically considered. We have to consider the campaign, gentlemen, and the material we may furnish our friends, the enemy. Then, you gentlemen of the State Committee, each in his county delegation, are to start a demonstration in my behalf. This is no time for me to be mock-modest. On the heels of that demonstration Everett's name is to be withdrawn with the explanation that such an apparently spontaneous demand from the voters should be recognized. Mr. Everett is to declare that under the circumstances he does not wish to stand in the way of popular choice, and he is to announce that much and present me to the convention. I assure you, Mr. Everett, that I ask this last with no intent of wounding your feelings or indulging in cheap triumph--it is necessary in order that the mouths of political gossips may be shut." A rather stupid silence followed that declaration of programme. The voice of the Senator rose and fell without. The General met their staring eyes calmly. "It may be a rather surprising development of the convention," he said. "But as soon as the surprise is over it will commend itself as a perfectly natural and graceful concession to public opinion--as public opinion can be set in motion by the members of the State Committee on the floor of the convention. In fact, the plan commended itself to my friend Thelismer, here, and Chairman Presson some weeks ago." The State chairman was stirred as though galvanically by that statement. The bitter memory of how he had groomed the dark horse that was now kicking his master's political brains out rose in him. "By the everlasting gods," he shouted, "I'll go down fighting! If the house has got to come down, I'll go down with it." "Samson had two arms. I have only one," returned General Waymouth. "But I've got that arm around the central pillar of your political roof, gentlemen--and I've got the strength to handle it! You've stated your position as a politician, Presson. Now I'll state mine. Rather than see the Republican temple made any longer a house of political ill-fame I'll pull it down on you prostitutes." It was bitter taunt--an insult delivered with calm determination to sting. Presson stamped about the room in his wrath. "I'm making no pact or promise," went on the General. "I declare that you are the men who are wrecking our party. Now if you propose to wreck it completely, we'll go smashing all together in the ruins. It may as well be wrecked now as later!" There was another hush in the room. "So I call upon you, men of office, shop, and farm, bone and sinew of our grand old party," exhorted Senator Pownal from the forum outside, "to forget the petty bickerings of faction and stand shoulder to shoulder in your march to the polls. Nail the principles of justice, truth, and honesty to the flagstaff, and follow behind that banner, winning the suffrages of those who believe in the right." "It sounds as though the Senator might be arriving close to his amen," suggested General Waymouth, ironically. "You have only a few minutes in which to decide. I hold the proxy of one of these delegates to the convention." He pointed to one of the stolid and plain men. "You know that I can get the ear of that convention--you can't work any gag-rule on me--I have been listened to too often by the men of this State when I've had something to say. And you know what effect these affidavits will have!" There was further silence, broken only by the voice of the Senator without and Presson within, who was scuffling about, babbling disjointed oaths. Suddenly a great outburst of applause signified that the Senator had concluded. "Go ahead out and kill your party!" barked Presson. "Give it your strychnine! It may as well die right now, in a spasm, as to have a lingering death later with you at the head of it, Waymouth. You can't team _me_!" "You let me say a word right here!" blustered Everett. "I wash my hands of any deal with Spinney. I've got the bulk of that convention behind me. I don't propose to be shunted." "I supposed you all remembered the details of what you did last evening," returned the General, coldly. "Is it necessary for me to remind you, Mr. Everett, that Chairman Presson turned over to Spinney a paper in which you agreed to appoint him to a State office? That transaction was noted along with the rest, sir." "I'll have as many witnesses as you," declared Presson, "I'll--" "Stop!" It was a tone that cowed the chairman, struggling with his guilty conscience. "I have warned you that I'm not here to argue this matter with you. I'll not be drawn into any discussion. What I have, I have!" He waved his papers above his head. "What I can do that I'll do! I would remind you, gentlemen, that the convention is waiting." Thelismer Thornton caught the secretary of the State Committee by the arm and propelled him toward the door, ordering Harlan to open it. "Signal that band! Start it to going!" he directed. "Keep those delegates easy." He turned on the chairman. "Now, Luke, you're licked. And it's your own deadfall that's caught you. I know just how you feel, but here's a laundry-bag that you've got to draw the puckering-strings on. Shut up! I'm going to save you from yourself. You're running amuck, now. You're a lunatic, and not responsible." He dragged the defiant chairman back into the room. He held him in firm grip. "There's a new bribery law in this State. You haven't forgotten it, have you! It's State prison!" "Look here, gentlemen," he went on, addressing the members of the State Committee, "you've got just five minutes leeway between a devilish good political walloping and striped suits. Get out on the floor. Get busy with those delegations. And the man of all of you who dares to say one word too much about what's been done here to-day will peek through bars and wish his tongue had been torn out by the roots before he talked! Presson, this thing is out of your hands. You shan't cut your own throat, I say! Get onto that floor, men!" They went. It was the rush of men to save themselves. Each man as he passed out cast a glance upon the papers that General Waymouth clutched, and a second glance at Harlan, brawny guard, at his side. "Take Everett across to the committee-room and call in the men who were to present him," directed the Duke, releasing the chairman. "And it's up to you two to give 'em a story that will hold 'em. It's short notice, but you've got General Waymouth for a text! Look here, Dave," he whirled on Everett, who was frantically protesting, "your strength was the strength the boys of the machine put behind you. It hasn't been personal strength. You can't afford to be a blasted fool now, even if you are crazy mad. You've been lecturing considerably the past few weeks on 'party exigencies.' This is one. It's an exigency that will put you before a grand jury if you don't tread careful. Get across there, you and Presson! I'm eating dirt myself. Get down on your hands and knees with me, and make believe you like it!" He hustled them out. The band was rioting through a jolly melange of popular melodies. The old man hesitated a moment, and then walked across to the General. "Vard, politics is most always a case of dog eat dog, but I want to assure you that I'm not hungry just now if you are not! And my grandson seems to have more political foresight than I gave him credit for. I'm getting old, I see!" He did not give them opportunity to answer. He swung about and went to Spinney. "I reckon they'll raise your guard, now, Arba," he said, nodding at the stolid and plain men. "There isn't much more that you can do, either to harm or help. You'd better pull a chair out to the edge of the stage there, and listen to what a h--l of a fellow you are when your orators nominate you. Then before the applause dies away, you'd better start for home. It'll be a good time to get away while Presson is busy!" It was plain that, lacking any other object, the Duke was venting the last of his spleen on this wretched victim of the game. "Before you go, give me one of those 'Honest Arba' ribbons. I keep a scrap-book of jokes!" The abject candidate had no word to offer in reply. He was white and trembling, for after Presson's early declaration it had seemed that the whole shameful story was to be thundered in the ears of those two thousand men sitting yonder. "You can suit yourself as to your further movements, Spinney," said the General, noting the man's distress. "There's a rear exit from this hall," remarked the Duke, significantly. Spinney went out, hanging his head. "Well, there's at least one cur eliminated from the politics of this State," blurted Harlan, gratefully. "Eliminated!" sneered his grandfather. "The first man you'll meet in the legislative lobby next winter, sugar on his speech and alum on his finger, so that he can get a good firm grip of your buttonhole, will be Arba Spinney, drawing his salary as the paid agent of half-a-dozen schemers. He may seem a little wilted just now, but he's a hardy perennial--you needn't worry about _him_." "I think you're the man to take these documents to the Committee on Resolutions, Thelismer," stated the General, drawing out the planks he had submitted the evening before. "You can explain why they should be inserted--and I have modified them somewhat. I have no desire to frighten the party at the outset." The Duke took the papers, and departed without a word. The men of the affidavits returned to their delegations on the floor of the convention, gratification in their faces, as well as a sense of the importance of the secret they were guarding. The band gave a final bellow, and the business of the convention proceeded. General Waymouth and Harlan took chairs into their little room and sat down to wait. The sounds came to them mellowed by distance, but distinct. They followed the procession of events. Spinney's name was presented by an up-country spellbinder who had copied logic, diction, and demagogic arguments from his chief. But all the thrill, swing, and excitement of the Spinney movement were gone. Red fire, hilarity, and stimulants could not be used to spice this daylight gathering of men ranged in orderly rows on their settees--and subtle suggestion had already gone abroad. Yet the undercurrent of opposition to the further dictation by the party ring was shown by the applause that greeted every reference by the speaker to the conditions that existed in the party. On the text of Spinney, personating Protest, the orator preached to willing converts who clamored for change, even though no better leader than Spinney offered. Spinney got perfunctory applause; suggested change was cheered tumultuously. The convention was ripe for revolution against dominant conditions, without exactly understanding how to rebel wisely and well. Suddenly a clarion voice raised itself from the convention floor. They in the little room could hear every word. "That's Linton," said the General, calmly. "He balked under my pat, but he's plunging into the traces handsomely under the whip!" "Linton! After refusing? Is he presenting your name?" "Oh, he's a politician, and one must allow a politician to weigh out his stock of goods on his own scales, and hope that he will give good measure. I'll be grateful in this instance, Mr. Thornton. They've picked out an able young speaker!" In spite of his resentful opinion of Linton, an opinion into which he would not admit to himself that jealousy entered, Harlan, as he listened, had to acknowledge the ability of the young lawyer. First he caught the attention of his auditors, then he skilfully suggested that he was preparing a surprise. With appealing frankness that won the interest and sympathy of the Spinney adherents, he agreed with them that the times demanded changes and reforms. He urged that these should be undertaken within the party, and then, earnestly but delicately, he hinted that the reformers had not picked the right leader. As delicately he suggested, next, that an extreme partisan, bound far in advance of nomination by factional pledges and trades that he must carry out, was not the right man to extricate the party, either. Lastly, he came to the crux of his speech, plunging into the theme with passionate eloquence that brought moisture to the eyes of Harlan. That young man was not thinking of the orator, then. His thoughts were on the old man at whose side he sat--the old man who listened in dignified patience. Now the delegates sniffed the truth. A word had put them on the trail. They were not sure. But they suspected. And mere suspicion sent them upon their settees, cheering wildly. Distrust of Spinney, sullen disloyalty to the machine-created Everett, furnished a soil in which hope for another solution of the tangle sprang with miraculous growth. Linton waited until the roar of voices died away. They again listened breathlessly, wondering whether their own hopes had beguiled them. "From the storied past, gentlemen of the convention, we draw precept and example, lesson and moral, hope and inspiration. As nature has stored in the bowels of the earth the oil that serves the lighthouse beacons of to-day, so life has stored in various reservoirs human experience that can light the path through troublous times in these latter days. Written on the scroll of history, limned on the page of law, we find the words of the fathers, sane and helpful thought and good counsel. In days of doubt and worry and despair we may meet the fathers on the written page. But, oh, how grand a blessing for the human race could we sit at their feet beholding them in the flesh and receive their teachings! If only they, the fathers, might take us by the hand and lead us through the devious tangles of public policy! To-day we meet here in perplexed division as to the standard-bearer for our next campaign. If up from that past of sage counsel and unfaltering faith there might come one who could stand forth and expound the lessons that we need, we might take heart and travel boldly on. But, gentlemen, I bring you a message of greater hope--more profound a blessing. Up from that past comes the standard-bearer _himself_! His wise kindliness meets every test of honest gentleman; scholarship crowns his brow, Law holds her torch aloft that his feet may tread the safe way; war from him has taken tribute, but to him has given a hero's deathless laurels. Once in her history this State welcomed him to her councils as her gracious overlord, and now--" There was no doubt in their minds now. A window-shaking demonstration bore down his voice. Linton seized upon the beginning of silence. "Now once again his State, groping for a hand to lead her forth to stability and progress, sees his hand and seeks to grasp it, supplicating him: 'O father, guide me! O wise man, teach me! O hero, save me!' And I name to you, gentlemen, for the candidate of the Republican party--" He leaped upon a settee and voiced the name of General Varden Waymouth with all the strength of his trumpet voice. But no one heard what he said. They all knew what he was to say. They did not need the spoken name. That convention had been ripening for a stampede. Its component delegates had contained the stampede fever for weeks before they assembled. Men leaped and screamed. It was a storm of enthusiasm; two thousand feet furnished the thunder-roar; hats went up and came down like pelting rain; and voices bellowed like the bursting wind volleys of the gale. Here and there, gesticulating men were trying to make seconding speeches, but the words were lost. The chairman of the convention, grim and pale and wondering just how much damage this overturn signified to his personal interests, nodded recognition to these speakers, and allowed them to waste their words upon the welter of mere sound. He also recognized other men who arose. He knew them for Spinney's adherents and divined what they were trying to say. And having divined it, he was promptly inspired to get in with the rush of those who were climbing aboard the band-wagon. He advanced to the edge of the platform, and by tossing his arms secured a moment of silence. He had his own salvation to look after. "I am glad, inexpressibly pleased, that as chairman of your convention I can now declare myself for General Waymouth; for the convention has but one name before it--the name of Arba Spinney has been withdrawn!" When the tumult began again--almost delirium this time--David Everett appeared from the wings, white, stricken, overwhelmed by the suddenness with which the prize had been snatched beyond his reach, driven out upon the stage by the State Committee like a whipped cur forced to perform his little trick in public. He began to speak, but the delegates did not listen--they knew what he was saying, and were cheering him. Not all of it was enthusiasm for General Waymouth; men instantly realized that a nasty split in the party had been bridged; men felt that in this new candidate both factions had the ownership that puts one "in right." A united party could now march to the polls. The nomination was by acclamation! They came to General Waymouth, where he stood patiently at the door of his room--the committee appointed to escort him before the convention. He signalled for them to precede him--his hand was inside the arm of Harlan Thornton, and he did not withdraw it even to shake the eager hands that were outstretched. He walked upon the stage with the young man, and, still holding his arm, faced the hurricane of enthusiasm until it had blown itself out. It was a breathless hush in which he spoke. "Our party, in State Convention assembled, has to-day declared for honesty." They did not exactly understand, but they gave voice like hounds unleashed. That sentiment complimented them. "I pledge the last strength of my old age to the task you have imposed upon me. Give me your pledge, man to man, in return. Shall it be for all of us: honesty in principle and unswerving obedience to every party profession we make? I await your 'Yes'!" It came like a thunderclap--two thousand voices shouting it. He stood there, his hand upraised, waiting again until the hush was upon them once more. They were ready for the usual speech of acceptance. But he said simply this: "I accept the trust!" He put his hand behind Harlan's guarding elbow and retired. "A carriage at once, Mr. Thornton," he directed. "I must save myself for performance, not parade." They were away before even the eager platform notables could intercept them. The cheering was still going on when the carriage started. From the open windows of the hall the riot of the convention--voices and music--pursued them until the racket of the busy street drowned it out. "At the present moment, Mr. Thornton, it is not likely that the Republican State Committee is in a mood for poetry," remarked General Waymouth. Gayety that was a bit wistful had succeeded his sombre earnestness. "But something in the sentiment of this old song might appeal to them while they are thinking of me just now: "'The mother may forget the child That smiles so sweetly on her knee; But I'll remember thee, Glencairn, And all that thou hast done to me.'" Harlan did not reply. At that moment, strangely enough, something besides the fury and the results of that tremendous convention occupied his thoughts. While he had stood beside General Waymouth he had not looked down into the pit of roaring humanity. He had looked straight up into the eyes of Madeleine Presson, whose gaze, by some chance, caught his the moment he stepped upon the platform. She had leaned on the gallery-rail and studied him intently. In spite of all else that had happened and was happening, he could not help wondering why. CHAPTER XIX THE RAMRODDERS RAMPANT Though Mrs. Luke Presson was not especially interested in the practical side of plain politics, yet it was a part of her social methods to make tame cats of men of State influence as far as she was able. She did this instinctively, rather from the social viewpoint than the political. Luke Presson did not take her into his confidence to the extent that he desired her to cultivate men of power for his own purposes. He only dimly and rather contemptuously recognized that women had any influence in political matters. But it did occur to him, after that State convention, that perhaps he needed his wife to assist him in beginning a reconciliation with General Waymouth. Mrs. Presson came to him, directly the convention had adjourned. The few men who were lingering in headquarters dodged out, for they perceived that the chairman's wife had something on her mind. He endured her indignant reproaches for some time. She taxed him with betrayal of her personal interests. "I've never tried to pry into your schemes. I don't care about them. But when you make a fool of me in regard to the next Governor of this State, you shall answer for it to me!" "I did no such thing," he protested, wanting to placate her for private reasons of his own. "I say you did. You're chairman of the State Committee. You knew which man would be nominated--you must have known it all along. You wouldn't be State chairman if you didn't know that!" The unhappy magnate was ashamed to tell her the bitter truth. "You allowed me to come here to-day with Mrs. Dave Everett and her daughters. Here is the bouquet I brought to present to her husband!" She shook it under his nose and tossed it into a corner. "You never told me a word about the plan to nominate General Waymouth. It was deliberate deceit on your part--for what reason I cannot understand." Presson tried to think of a story that would explain and shield him, but the convention had not been an affair to promote clear thinking. "Here's a legislative session at hand, and you've allowed me to stay entirely out of touch with the next first gentleman of the State! I'm like all the rest of the trailers, now. I haven't any prior social claim on him. And I can't even find him at this late hour to offer my congratulations." "I haven't been able to offer mine, either," said the chairman, grimly. "I'll endure no more of this foolery, Luke! If you propose to make a plaything of your own wife from now on--" "I'm telling you the truth. General Waymouth hurried out of the hall before I could get to him. That devilish Canibas bull moose picked him up, like he's been picking up--" But the astonishment in his wife's eyes stopped him. He was revealing too much of his secret. "Why, Harlan Thornton went away with him--Thelismer's grandson! Some one told me who saw them in the carriage together. What do you mean by Canibas moose?" "Can't you see that I'm all stirred up by the excitement of this convention?" he demanded. "I don't know what I'm saying. I'll explain to you later, Lucretia." "I think you'd better. Where did General Waymouth go?" "To the hotel, I suppose." "No, he's not there. I have telephoned. Luke, we must have him at lunch with us. It's his place to lunch with us--you're the chairman of the State Committee! It's a late start for me--and it's your own fault because it is so. But you must find the General and make him come to luncheon. I have arranged for the party in the English Room at the hotel. You _must_ have him there!" She hurried away to where the ladies were waiting for her. Presson, the politician's instinct of self-preservation now getting the better of his rancor, promptly determined that his own interests would be helped by his wife's luncheon-party, provided the victor could be cajoled and coralled. He put pride behind him. It was not so easy to do as much with his shame and the downright fear that assailed him when he reflected on his plot and its outcome. But he decided that although little might be gained for him by making up to the victorious General, a great deal would be surely lost if the antagonism were emphasized. He put on his hat and hurried to the street. Inquiry at the cab-stand afforded him the information that General Waymouth and his companion had not given a definite destination. "But there's the man who took them," said the manager. "He's just back. Ask him." The driver said that he had dropped them at the park, at their request, and the chairman jumped into the carriage, directing that he be conveyed to the same place. He found them sitting democratically on a bench, taking the air. Without preliminary the chairman extended Mrs. Presson's invitation. "There will be a very small party of us, and it may save you from the annoyances of the public rooms," added Chairman Presson, humbly. The General arose and accepted with cordiality, somewhat to Harlan's surprise, for his unbending youth could not yet understand how political hatchets could be buried so quickly. "I want to congratulate you, General," said the chairman on the way to the carriage. "And I want to tell you that the State Committee will swing into line behind you for the campaign. You'll find us loyal. There's a good deal more I'd like to say, but there'll be time enough for that later. I'll merely say this: both of us have been in politics years enough, I believe, to be able to wash a convention slate clean, when it's a question of a State campaign against the opposite party." "I'll meet you frankly on that plane, Mr. Presson. I have too much ahead of me to waste time in quarrels. It isn't my nature to retaliate. I have understood the situation better than some men would." Harlan, hoping that the chairman appreciated that magnanimity, gave Presson a look that expressed much. But in his new humility the latter was getting rid of ancient grudges as fast as he could. While the General was entering the carriage, the chairman offered rather embarrassed apology. "But you introduced some original specialties in politics that took me off my feet, young man!" he added, with a sickly smile. Harlan was still a little stiff. It was not easy for him to get into the state of political pliability that he saw others assume so readily. "I'm a countryman, and pretty awkward in most everything I undertake," he said. "I have no business meddling in the big affairs of this State. I'll take my place where I belong, after this, Mr. Presson. If I don't, I'll not have a friend left--not even my own grandfather." The chairman glanced at him curiously, scenting something like duplicity under this bitter frankness. He was not used to seeing men throw aside such advantages as this young man had gained. The three entered the hotel through the side door, and at the General's request the chairman accompanied him and his young lieutenant to their headquarters. It was near the luncheon hour, and Presson had suggested that he conduct them to Mrs. Presson. A party of men had taken possession of the General's suite. They rose when he entered. They paid no attention to Harlan, but surveyed Chairman Presson with disfavor that was very noticeable. Several of the men were clergymen, advertised as such by their white ties and frock-coats. Those who attended them had the unmistakable air of zealots. Their demeanor showed that they had come on business that they considered serious. General Waymouth knew them. He addressed one or two by name, and was gracious in his greeting of the others. "We wait on you," began their spokesman, one of the ministers, "as a committee from the United Temperance Societies." "My time is not my own just now, gentlemen," explained General Waymouth. "I have a luncheon engagement with Mr. and Mrs. Presson. I will see you at some other time." The faces of all of them grew saturnine at that announcement. For Chairman Presson was not recognized as the especial friend of prohibition by the fanatics of the State. The clergyman, following his line of duty, was not in a mood to accept delicate hints regarding social engagements. He stood his ground. "Our business will occupy but a short time, and I suggest that it will be for your personal interest to listen now, sir." It was an unfortunate bit of obstinacy. "I regulate my own hours for engagements, Mr. Prouty. You have come on your own business, and it must await my convenience." "It's _your_ business I come on, General Waymouth, and I advise you to listen! And I will add that it will not help you with the temperance people of this State if they are told that within two hours after your nomination you are consorting with the arch-enemy of temperance reform in our midst!" With two strides the General was back at his door. He opened it. "Be so kind as to leave the room, gentlemen," he invited, icily. "I'll not detain you even to have you apologize for your intrusion on my privacy or ask pardon of a guest whom you've insulted!" They obeyed him, sullenly. Even their effrontery could not withstand that dignity. But they muttered among themselves, and one man called back over his shoulder: "It isn't the first time, General, that a man brave enough to lead battle charges hasn't shown that he's got the spirit to declare for the right against the wrong, when politics stands by with open ears!" "There go some of the reformers you were asking your grandfather about a few weeks ago, Harlan," sneered the indignant chairman. "Those are the men who are holding themselves up as examples for all the rest of men to follow. Every one else is a rummy and a hellion, according to their ranking." "As bad an element as the rumsellers themselves," declared the General--"men of that type! I'm speaking now of the interests of true reform--reform that gets to the individual and is something else than this everlasting wrangle and racket between factions. I like fighting, but I like to have a natural fighter admit he's in it just for the sake of fighting--not claim it's all for morality's sake!" "Then what are you?" blurted Presson, but checked himself in evident confusion. "Eh?" inquired General Waymouth, mildly. "I--I don't know what it was I had in my mind--guess I was thinking about something else." But the General smiled as though he understood. Then he went into the inner room, explaining that he wished to make himself presentable to the ladies. The chairman took a crafty survey of Harlan. "Between you and me, my boy," he said, getting back upon his old-time footing with Thornton's grandson, "the General has got both of my eyes put out, so far's his politics go. Did you hear him just rip into those ramrodders? And yet he's been stiffer and straighter than the worst of 'em since he struck this city. I'd like to know who in thunder he _is_ playing with, anyway! What does he say to you, on the side?" "You'd better get General Waymouth's plans from himself, Mr. Presson." "I'm not asking you to betray anything. But he's got a policy, of course. I only want to know it, so that I can grab in with him. But I can't figure anything, so far." "I thought he made himself pretty plain last night." "He made himself plain, I'll admit that. Plain that he's against everything that the party management stands for. But now he turns around and kicks out the other crowd! He's got to pick his gait and take a position somewhere!" "That's something I know nothing about, sir." The chairman grew testy. He felt that he was being played with. "Seeing that you're in close to the Amalgamated Order of Angels, you'd better drop him a hint that running a political campaign isn't like stampeding a convention. The State Committee stands ready to help, and before he gets much further along he'll find he needs the help. You'd better make that plain to him." His guest of honor reappeared then, and the chairman led the way. Harlan had been included in his invitation, and attended his chief. With old-fashioned gallantry, General Waymouth made his compliments to the ladies whom Mrs. Presson had assembled to grace the occasion. Her little crust of social earth had been tossed alarmingly by the political earthquake, but she felt that now she was finding safe footing once more. Thelismer Thornton was there, so were Senator Pownal and the secretary of the State Committee, and a few other favored ones whom the hostess had sought as being close to the new order of things. She led forward Linton. "And now, General, we're all wondering just how nice a compliment you'll pay to the orator whose eloquence makes you the next Governor of our State," chattered the good lady, poorly informed as to real conditions, but anxious to force a situation for her favorite. "Herbert has been so modest about it! We've been telling him just how grand we thought it was." "I thank you, Linton, for what you said." The General took the young man's hand. "You have wonderful gifts of eloquence." But there did not seem to be the enthusiasm which the importunate Mrs. Presson desired. "With all due respect to your greatness, General, isn't it true that he turned the convention--has made you Governor?" she insisted, half in jest to cover her earnestness. "If it comes about that I'm the next Governor of this State," he returned, gently, "it will be due entirely to this young man." He patted Harlan's shoulder affectionately. "Just how he has accomplished it is a very deep political secret between us two. I present my grand vizier, ladies and gentlemen!" They understood that seriousness lay behind his whimsical manner of speech. Two very round eyes testified to Mrs. Presson's amazement. But once more she found her social feet after this echo of the main quake. She took Harlan's hand, and placed it on the chair next to that of her daughter. "You'll sit here, if you please, Mr. Thornton," she said, urbanely. For a little while a trifle of embarrassment shaded the few words the young couple addressed to each other, under cover of the general conversation about the board. Then Harlan, glancing down the table, saw Linton staring gloomily in his direction. And at that look his spirits leaped like a steed under the spur. What he had not dared, considering himself on his own merits, he ventured now. If vague, hidden sentiment, as he had thought of Clare Kavanagh, had restrained him in the past, it no longer restrained him now. The excitement of the day had given him a queer exaltation. He had been one of the chiefs in the arena where all the great State looked on at the combatants. The overlord had just given him soul-stirring proof of his affection, half in jest as Harlan realized, remembering the occasion for it, but it was none the less gratifying. Madeleine Presson had looked at him with strange, new interest in her gaze when the General spoke out. It had occurred to Harlan that it was not the same good-humored tolerance which she had so frequently shown in her past relations with the bashful woodsman. His unquiet grudge against Linton spiced the whole. He turned to the girl. She seemed altogether desirable. Something in her eyes responded to his own feelings. And after that he seemed to be listening to himself talking--and wondered at the new man he had become. When it was over, and the ladies rose from the table to follow Mrs. Presson, he tried, feeling guilty for a moment, to remember the look that Linton had given him and to excuse himself as one who had simply shown the proper spirit of revenge. But when he took her hand he said: "My grandfather carried me away from you and your mother in very ungallant fashion yesterday. And he tried to put ungallant words into my mouth. I trust you'll allow me to disprove them. I'd like the privilege of being your obedient squire on the trip home." "So now that you've become a very big man you've decided that grandfathers shall no longer be indulged in tyranny?" she asked, with a dash of malicious fun. "I view matters in a new light," he replied. "And there's a wonderful psychology in light, so they who have studied the matter tell us," she said, mischief in her eyes. "But we'll not go so deeply into the matter. Let it be a light that will guide your footsteps to our rooms at train-time. You will find us awaiting our squire!" General Waymouth excused himself as soon as the ladies had retired. The little group of men had promptly begun to canvass the outlook and plans, but he demurred politely when they desired to drag him into the discussion. "Not yet, gentlemen! We have had enough of talk in the last few hours. Let me escape to the old brick house up in Burnside for a while. My train goes shortly. Will you accompany me, Harlan?" It was the first time he had used the young man's christian-name Harlan flushed with pleasure. "I will see that you get back here in good season to bring that guiding light," he murmured, to the other's confusion. "I do not like to seem too exacting--too persistent in requiring your attendance," protested the General, as they returned along the corridor. The great hotel was nigh deserted. The delegates had hurried away on the convention specials. "But you have protected me from a great many annoyances, to put the situation mildly. I am calling you away now to make a very special request of you. We will speak of it on the way to the station." Ranged in front of the door of his suite was the delegation from the temperance societies, patiently waiting, more saturnine than before. The Reverend Mr. Prouty intercepted them with determination. "I do not like to seem too persistent in this matter, but we feel that we have a right to a few moments of your time, sir. You are accepting public office, and--" "I do not care to have any lessons in politics read to me, Mr. Prouty. State your business." "We prefer to see you in private." "And I prefer to have you talk before a reliable witness. Mr. Thornton is such, and he is entirely in my confidence." He did not invite them into his room. "We represent the united temperance societies of this State," began the clergyman. "I understand perfectly," put in the General. "And in order that we may thoroughly understand each other I will inform you that I know exactly what corporate interests are furnishing money to you and your campaign managers. I have been very careful to keep posted on these matters, gentlemen!" For a moment Mr. Prouty was visibly taken aback. "It is necessary to finance even righteousness," he said, at last. "Beyond question," admitted the General. "I only ask you to meet me on the business basis where you belong. I'll not allow you to mask factional interests behind religion or a moral issue. I don't mean to be curt or disobliging, gentlemen, but you must get out in the open. You have something to ask me? Ask it. You'll receive a plain answer." "Do you intend to enforce the prohibitory law?" "I question your good taste, Mr. Prouty, in selecting one law and asking a prospective Governor whether he intends to do his sworn duty in regard to it." "But other Governors have not done so. We propose to have pledges after this. We'll vote for no more nullifiers." "Other Governors have had no direct power to enforce the law, sir. I had no power when I was Governor. But I'll assure you that if I am the next Governor I shall demand that power from the legislature, and I'll enforce that law with all the resources of the State treasury. If it's in the power of man to accomplish it, the sale of liquor shall be stopped in this State." They plainly had not expected that. His attitude toward them, his association with the nullifier Presson had suggested that he intended to carry out the usual "let it alone" programme. They applauded. "One moment, gentlemen. That doesn't mean that I or any other man, or that the prohibitory law, as we have it, or any other mere law, can stop the drinking of liquor in this State. I'm speaking only of the open sale of it. I know perfectly well that my attempt to make men sober by law alone will fail miserably. As it is administered now, the law still caters to appetite and public demand for privileges, and the public goes along without especial disturbance. But as I shall enforce the prohibitory law, conditions will be so intolerable in this State that the way will be paved for a common-sense treatment of the liquor question. I shall enforce in order to show how wrong the prohibitory principles are. They have not been shown up so far, for the law has not been enforced." The delegates were disconcerted. The spokesman's face grew red. "Do you dare, sir, as a candidate for Governor of a prohibition State, to stand up here before these representatives of the temperance societies and say you are opposed to prohibition?" "I certainly do," declared the unruffled General. "For this State is not a prohibition State! It fatuously thinks it is when the citizens can get all the liquor they want without trouble. I merely propose to put it to the test of honesty." "You declare yourself an enemy, then, do you?" "Mr. Prouty, there you launch yourself into your usual intemperance! At the first word of another man's dignified difference of opinion you shout 'enemy' and prepare to fight! I want to ask you and your supporters here a question: Will you meet with representatives of all the interests concerned in this matter, including the liquor men and those who use liquor in its various forms, and endeavor to arrive at some compromise in this State which shall put a stop to what is practically civil war, in which we are expending all our energies without accomplishing any real betterment of conditions? Will you agree to some middle ground, if it can be shown that more men can be made sober and less men hypocrites?" "I stand solely for the principle of prohibition, unswerving till death," announced the clergyman. His partisans applauded. "You won't stop and listen to what may be for the actual best interests of our State, then?" "I'll not license crime nor compound felonies with criminals." "Mr. Prouty, as Governor I signed the first prohibition law passed in this State. It was on trial. I was liberal enough to bend my own personal views to give it that trial. When I'm thinking of my State I don't insist that _my_ way is the _only_ way. Now, sir, if you knew that, as citizens, not mere partisans, we could all get together and frame something better than a law that has bred evils of political corruption through all the years without altering the appetites of the people--if you knew that, wouldn't you remould some of your opinions and help us bring about the best good for the whole of us?" "I'll not abate my loyalty to prohibition one jot or tittle!" "In your case and in the case of the kind of fanatics who train with you," declared the General, with disgust in tone and mien, "that word 'prohibition' is simply a fetish--a rally-call for a fight. It is you, sir, and such as you, who are holding this State back from real progress. I'm not discussing the liquor question alone. I haven't patience to discuss it with you. I'm referring to the spirit that actuates you. Your kind sat as judges in the Inquisition. Prohibition now offers an opportunity for your bigotry--that's why you cling to it. You cling to it in spite of the fact that it has made more than drunkards--it has made liars and thieves and perjurers and grafters out of men who would not otherwise have been tempted. When men arise to tell the truth about it, you get behind your morality mask and accuse them of the basest motives and claim immunity for yourselves from attack in return. I fear I am a little severe, sir, but your attitude showed that you came to me with appetite for a quarrel." "I'll see to it," declared Mr. Prouty, hotly, "that five hundred ministers in this State denounce you from their pulpits as an enemy to temperance." "You don't know what temperance is!" General Waymouth brushed past them. "Your definition slanders the word. I shall be glad to have your support, gentlemen, at the polls. But I am for the State, not for your faction or any other faction. I know you are not used to hearing a candidate tell you the truth--it has not been the style in this State. If the truth from me has shocked you, blame the truth, not me." He ushered Harlan before him and closed his door upon the delegation. "It's a sad feature of public affairs in this State, my young friend," said he, when they were alone, "that so large a mass of the people, who naturally are sane and moderate, allow those paid agents of so-called reform to serve as popular mouth-pieces. Reform for reform's sake supersedes reform for the people's sake. Candidates have been afraid of those mouths. Such mouths as those outside there assert that they are talking for the whole people in the name of morality, but there are only a few mouths of that kind. It is time to test it out. I propose to see whether the people will not follow the real thing in honesty instead of the mere protestation of it." On the way to the station the General preferred his request. It was that Harlan become his executive officer in the approaching campaign--his chief of staff, his companion, his buffer, protecting him from the assaults of the politicians. "Before the campaign really opens there will be three weeks or so in which you may attend to your own affairs. You remember that it was you that dragged me into this, young man!" It was the old jest, but it had taken on meaning within twenty-four hours. "You have seen with your own eyes, heard with your ears, how I stand alone between factions which are willing to sacrifice the State in order to win for their own interests. I have planted my standard between 'em! I'll try to rally an army to it that will leave the extremists of both those sides hopelessly deserted by the rank and file of the honest citizens. I need you with me, for you have been with me from the start, and you have shown your fitness" (he smiled), "even to securing an audience with the Honorable Spinney. Is it yes, my young friend?" "It is yes, General Waymouth. I question my ability--I know it is poor. But of my loyalty there is no question." The General grasped his hand. They were at the car steps. "It shall be 'Boots and saddles!' three weeks from to-day!" Linton was in the parlors of the hotel with the Presson party when Harlan arrived, glowing with his new enthusiasm, confident in his new elevation in the affairs of men. In the affairs of women he was not quite as sure of his desires or his standing, but his mood was new, and he realized it. He went straight to Madeleine Presson. Twenty-four hours before the presence of Linton at her side would have held him aloof. He put out his hand to the young lawyer, and Linton took it. "I extend my congratulations rather late, but they are sincere. It was a noble speech. You put in words my own thoughts regarding a noble man." "Perhaps you could have expressed those thoughts just as well as I did." Linton was not cordial. "No, sir, not with a woodsman's vocabulary, though with such a text I certainly should have felt the true inspiration." "You'll have to claim considerable political foresight, even though you cast doubt on your eloquence," said Linton, rather sourly. "I'll confess that I jumped wrong. But I had my interests to protect. Let me ask you--is General Waymouth offended, very much so, because I withdrew my support this morning?" "General Waymouth has not made any comments on the matter in my hearing." "I know you can explain to him--" Harlan broke in, impatiently: "I am not cheeky enough to advise such a man about picking his political support. I beg your pardon, Miss Presson!" He bowed. He turned to Linton. "I hope you won't open this subject with me again, Mr. Linton. I am so loyal to General Waymouth that you cannot explain satisfactorily to me any reasons why you should have deserted him to-day! You will see now why the topic should not be referred to again between us." Linton bristled. "If you take such an unjust view of it as that, I certainly feel that the matter should be referred to again between us--at the proper time!" "I'd advise you to take my hint," retorted Harlan. They stared at each other, eye to eye, both plainly wishing with all heartiness that no feminine presence hampered them. The girl laughed. "Coffee and pistols for two! If each other's company makes you so impolite, I'll be compelled to separate you. Come, Mr. Harlan Thornton, baron of Fort Canibas, you have volunteered to see me safely home." He offered his arm, and they followed Mrs. Presson, who had already started for the carriage. He rode with them to the station, flushed and silent, and the girl studied his face covertly and with some curiosity. On the train, in the first of their tête-à-tête, she sounded him cautiously, trying to discover if his feelings toward Linton were inspired wholly by political differences. She seemed to suspect there was something more behind it, even at the risk of flattering herself. But she had detected certain suggestive symptoms in the demeanor of Harlan at the breakfast-table that morning. He did not betray himself under her deft questioning. But he promptly grew amiable, and before the end of their railroad ride that day she had proved to her own satisfaction that her ability to interest young men had not been thrown away upon him. The light in his eyes and the zest of his chatter with her told their own story. He left her at her home with a regret that he did not hide from her. And yet, when he was at last in his room at the hotel that night, he wrote to Clare Kavanagh the longest letter of all those he had written to her since he left Fort Canibas. It might have been because he had so much to write about. It might have been because a strange little feeling of compunction bothered him. But Harlan did not have the courage to examine his sentiments too closely. Only, after he had sealed the letter and inscribed it, he lay back in his chair awhile, and then, having reflected that after three weeks he would no longer be his own man, he decided that he'd better run up to Fort Canibas and attend to his business interests. And he departed hastily the next morning, in spite of the Duke's puzzled and rather indignant protests that business wasn't suffering beyond what the telephone and mails could cure, and that he himself would go home the next week and see to everything. There are some men who are strong enough to run away from weakness. Not that Harlan Thornton admitted that he was weak in the presence of Madeleine Presson. But he felt a sudden hunger for the big hills, the wide woods, the serene silences. He wanted to get his mental footing again. He had been swept off in a flood of new experiences. Just now he found himself in a state of mind that he did not understand. "I'll go back and let the old woods talk to me," he whispered to himself. Then he tore up the letter he had written to Clare Kavanagh. It had occurred to him that he could tell it to her so much better. So when he came to Fort Canibas in the evening of the second day he mounted his horse and rode across the big bridge. He went before he had read the letters piled on the table in the gloomy old mess-hall. And he brusquely told the waiting Ben Kyle to save his business talk until the morning. CHAPTER XX A GIRL'S HEART He walked his horse when he reached the farther shore. He was wondering just what he was to say to Dennis Kavanagh. They had not parted in a manner that invited further intimacy. From twin windows of the house on the hill lights glowed redly, as though they were Dennis Kavanagh's baleful little eyes. Fear was not the cause of the young man's hesitation. But he dreaded another scene in the presence of the girl. Kavanagh and his grandfather had brutally violated an innocent friendship. They had put into insulting words what neither he nor Clare had dreamed of--he hastily assured himself that they were not lovers. More than ever before he now felt infinite tenderness toward her--compassion, sympathy--an overpowering impulse to seek her. He had much to tell her. He could not think of any one in all the world who would listen as she would listen. The red eyes glowering out of the summer gloom did not daunt him; they suggested tyranny and insulting suspicion, and he pitied her the more. He rode on past the tall cross of the church-yard. A voice out of the silence startled him. A white figure stood in the shadow of the church porch. "Come here, Big Boy," she said. "I'm not a ghost. I'm only Clare. I've been waiting for you." He left his horse, and hurried to her. "Waiting for me? I did not write. Have you second sight, little Clare?" "No, only first news. This isn't one of the big cities where the crowds rush by and do not notice each other. It's only a lonesome little place, Harlan, and gossip travels fast. I heard you were home five minutes after the stage was in. So I came here and waited." He took both her hands between his broad palms, caressing them. "And you knew I'd hurry to come across the long bridge? That makes me happy, Clare, for you must have been thinking about me." "I haven't many things to do these days except think," she returned, wistfully. "You'll understand why I came down here. I'm not trying to hide away from my father, and I know you are not afraid of him. But lectures on the subject of not doing the things you don't have any idea of doing are not to my taste, and I know they don't suit you. So we'll sit here in peace and quietness, and you shall tell me all about it." He turned his back on the two red eyes of the Kavanagh house, and sat down on the step below her, and began his story, eagerly, volubly. Once in a while he looked up at her, and she gave wise little nods to show she understood. In relating the early episodes of his journey, he ventured to leave out details. But she insisted that he give them. "I want to know about the world--how they all look, and how they speak, and what they do. I've been lonely all these weeks. I've been wondering all the time what you were doing. Now I want it to seem that you've come to take me with you, back through it all. I want it to seem just as though I were travelling along with you--that will make me forget how lonely I've been, waiting here on the edge of the big woods." And he humored her whim, for he had always understood her child's ways. The woods had trained him to note the details of all he saw; his experiences had been fresh and stirring, and he told his story with zest. Then he came to his mention of Madeleine Presson. "Her father is the State chairman--the man you saw at 'The Barracks.' I was at their house a few times. Her mother--" "But about her! You are skipping again, Big Boy." "There is not much about her," he said, stammering a bit. "I saw her here and there, and talked with her, that's all." "But I'm seeing with your eyes and hearing with your ears as I go along with you," she insisted. "I want to know how other girls are in the world outside. I have been waiting to have some one tell me. You saw her, you heard her. Begin, Harlan: her looks, her clothes, her manners, what she said, what she talks about. I have only you to ask." His self-consciousness left him after he began. He drew his word-picture as best he could. "That makes her beautiful," she said, when he paused, searching his mind for some word of description. "I think I can see her with your eyes, Big Boy. Tell me what she knows; and how does she talk?" In the dusk he could not see the expression on her face. He knew that she listened intently, leaning above him. He was not conscious that he praised Madeleine Presson's gifts of mind or person. But as he had found her, so he portrayed her to the isolated girl of the north country, describing her attainments, her culture, her breadth of view, her grasp of the questions of the day, her ability to understand the big matters in which men were interested. She made no comment as he talked. She did not interrupt him when he had finished with Madeleine Presson and went on to relate how he had been forced into the forefront of the State's political situation. "So, then, you have become a great man," she faltered. "I remember. I was selfish. I did not want you to go away." "No, I am not a great man, little Clare," he protested, laughingly. "I'm only a little chap that a great man is using. And you were not selfish. It was you that first put the thought into my mind that I ought to use my opportunities. That night at the end of the bridge, you know! I was sullen and obstinate. But you talked to me like a wise little woman. All the time I was with my grandfather later that evening, trying to be angry with him, I kept remembering your advice." "I lied to you!" she cried, so passionately that he leaped to his feet and stared down on her. "I said it. I remember. But I lied. I was punishing myself because I had been selfish about you. But I didn't believe what I was saying--not deep in my heart. I wanted you to say you wouldn't go--but I didn't want you to look back ever and blame me for my selfishness. You see now how wicked and wrong and weak I am. I didn't want the world to take you away from--from us up here: from the woods and the plain folks. You'll hate me now. But I have to be truthful with you!" Her voice broke. "The world has not won me away from my friends, dear. You must know me too well for that suspicion to shame me." She crouched on the step before him. Her hands, fingers interlaced, gripped each other hard to quiet their trembling. In her girlish frailness, as she bent above her clasped hands, huddled there in the black shadow of the porch, she seemed pitifully little and helpless and forsaken. The woe in her tones thrilled him. She was trying hard to control her voice. "You see, Harlan, I can look ahead and understand how it will be. A woman does understand such things. That's the awful thing about being a woman--and looking ahead and knowing how it must be before it ever happens!" "Before what happens, Clare? I'm trying hard to understand you." He leaned forward, and could see her eyes. He had seen that look in the eyes of a stricken doe. "The world is all outside of this place, Harlan. You know we have always spoken of all other places than this as 'outside.' You have stepped through the great door. Now you see. You can't help seeing. It's all outspread before you. No one can blame you for not looking back here into the shadows. The great light is all ahead. I am--I ought not to speak about myself. I have no right to. But you'll forgive me. I didn't have any one to tell me! I didn't have any mother to advise me. I have played through all the long days, I don't know anything. Other girls--" "Clare! God save you, little Clare--don't--don't!" he pleaded. "You have been away only a few days, and yet you have found out the difference. You told me about her. She is beautiful, and she is wise. She has not wasted the long days. She can help you with knowledge. She can--" He put out his arms and tried to take her, cursing himself for his thoughtless cruelty. Infinite pity and something else--fervent, hungry desire to clasp her overmastered all the prudence of the past. But she eluded him. She sprang away. She retreated to the upper step of the church porch, and he paused, gazing up at her. "Oh, Blessed Virgin, put your fingers on my lips!" she gasped. "Why did I say it?" "Listen to me, Clare," he urged, holding his arms to her. "I know now that I've been waiting for you. I thought it was friendship, but now I--" She cried out so loudly, so bitterly, that he stopped. "If you say it--if you say it now, Harlan, it will shame me so that I can never lift my eyes to yours again. I realize what I have said. It is I that have put the thoughts into your mind--almost the words in your mouth. Don't speak to me now. Oh, you can see how little I know--what a fool I am, forward, shameless, ignorant about all that a girl should know! Do not come near me--not now!" He had started to come up the steps--he was crying out to her. "Oh, Harlan, don't you understand? Don't you see that I can't listen to you now? I have driven you to say something to save my pride. I say I _have_! You are good and honest, and you pity me--and my folly needs your pity. But if you should tell me now that you love me, I'd die of shame--I'd distrust that love! I couldn't help it--and I've brought it all on myself. Oh, my God, why have I grown up a fool--why have I wasted the long days?" She ran down past him. He did not try to stay her. He understood women not at all. He obeyed her cry to be silent--to keep away from her. She turned to him when she reached the ground. "I haven't even known enough to understand how it stands between us. Between us!" There was a wail in her voice. She sobbed the rest rather than spoke it: "That river out there is between us! I don't even belong to your country!" She pointed at the great cross of the church-yard. It stood outlined in the starlight. "Religion stands between us! My father and your grandfather are between us!" She came back two steps, her face tear-wet, her features quivering with grief. "But there's something else between us, Harlan, blacker and deeper than all the rest. Don't try to cross it to come to me. You will sink in it. Fools for wives have spoiled too many men in this world. I understand now! Your grandfather knew." She raised her eyes, and crossed herself reverently. "Mother Mary, help me in this, my temptation!" She turned, and ran away, sobbing. Harlan hurried a few steps after her, crying appeals. But he did not persist. Her passionate protests had come from her heart, he knew. He did not dare to force himself on her when she was in that mood. He sat down again on the church steps. He remained there in deep thought until the red eyes in Dennis Kavanagh's house blinked out. He did not find it easy to understand himself, exactly. His feelings had been played upon too powerfully to permit calm consideration. He felt confident in his affection for her. But her youth and the obstacles he understood so well put marriage so out of immediate consideration that he merely grieved rather than made definite plans for their future. With moist eyes he looked up at the dark house on the hill and pledged loyalty to the child-woman, knowing that he loved her. But that the love was the love that mates man and woman for the struggles, the prizes, the woes, and the contentment of life he was not sure--for he still looked on Clare Kavanagh as more child than woman. Marriage seemed yet a long way ahead of him. He rode slowly back to "The Barracks." His problem seemed to be riding double with him. The problem, one might say, was in the form of a maid on a pillion. But he did not look behind to see whether the maid bore the features of Clare Kavanagh or Madeleine Presson. At that moment he was sure that only Clare's image rode with him. But in thinking of her he understood his limitations. For, woodsman and unversed in the ways of women, he had not arrived at that point in life where he could analyze even a boy's love, much less a man's passion. The next morning he left Fort Canibas with big Ben Kyle, to make a tour of the Thornton camps. It was a trip that took in the cruising of a township for standing timber on short rations and in the height of the blackfly season, an experience not conducive to reflections on love and matrimony. But when he returned to Fort Canibas, on the eve of his departure to take up his duties as General Waymouth's chief of staff, he saddled his horse and rode across the long bridge. This time there was no white figure on the church porch and no wistful voice to call after him. He kept on up the hill. He was not thinking about what Dennis Kavanagh might say to him. He had resolved to ask Clare manfully if she would continue to trust him for a while until both could be certain that their boy and girl love signified to them the love that life needed for its bounty and its blessing. That seemed the honest way. It seemed the only way, as matters lay between them and their families. Dennis Kavanagh was seated on his veranda, smoking his short pipe and inhaling the freshness of the shower-cooled summer air along with the aroma of his tobacco. "I would like to see your daughter, Mr. Kavanagh," announced the young man, boldly. "And I have not come sneaking by the back way. It will be a good while before I can see her again." "That it will," responded Mr. Kavanagh, dryly, "and it will be a good long while before ye'll see her now--that may be mixed, but I reckon ye'll get the drift of it!" "It will be better for all our interests if I have a few words with her," persisted the young man, trying to keep his temper. "Will ye talk to her through the air or over the telephone?" inquired the father, sarcastically. "She is not here, she is not near here, and if ye wait for her to come back ye'll best arrange to have your meals brought." He did not pause for Harlan to ask any more questions. He came down from the porch on his stubby legs and handed up an envelope. The flap of the envelope had been opened. "She left this," he said; "and having opened it and seen that it held nothing but what ye might profitably know, Thornton's grandson, I here give it into your hand, and ye needn't thank me." Harlan, wondering, apprehensive, fearing something untoward, took out the single sheet of paper. He read: "BIG BOY,--Go on and let the world make you a great man. I'm groping. Perhaps I'll see my way some day and can follow. But just as there's a cure for ignorance, so there's a cure for hearts, maybe. Your friend, CLARE." Harlan looked over the edge of the paper into the twinkling little eyes of the father. Mr. Kavanagh seemed to be getting much satisfaction from the expression on his victim's face. "Can't you tell me what this means, Mr. Kavanagh? I beg of you humbly, and in all sincerity." "The Kavanaghs are never backward in politeness, Mr. Harlan Thornton. It means that my girl is done playing child and riding cock-horse. She's off to learn to be the finest and knowingest lady in all the land--she's off because she wanted to go, and she's got all of Dennis Kavanagh's fat wallet behind her!" He slapped his breast-pocket. "Off where?" "Where they know things and teach things better than they do over in your Yankeeland of airs and frills. And now good-day to ye!" He climbed the porch steps, and relighted his pipe, gazing with much relish past the flame of the match, studying Harlan's dismay. The young man suddenly came to himself, struck his horse, and galloped wildly away. The next morning he departed to offer political hand and sword in the cause of General Waymouth. CHAPTER XXI STARTING A MULE TEAM Some men are extremely good and loyal politicians so long as the machine runs smoothly, and they are not called upon to sacrifice their interests and their opinions. Luke Presson and his associates on the State Committee were of that sort. But Thelismer Thornton was a better politician than they. The Duke had saved the chairman and his committeemen from themselves at that critical moment in the little room off the convention stage, when they were ready to invite ruin by defying General Waymouth. It had been as bitter for Thornton as it had been for the others. Beyond question, he would have gone down fighting were the question a private or a personal one. But when the interests of his party were at stake he knew how to compromise, taking what he could get instead of what he had determined to get. After the convention he gave fatherly advice to the committee, and then Presson went up to Burnside village with the olive-branch. But while he extended that in one hand, he held out his little political porringer in the other. He couldn't help doing it. The chairman was no altruist in politics. He didn't propose to cultivate the spirit. He put it plainly to General Waymouth--that while he sympathized to some extent with the latter's desires for general reform, there were certain interests that propped the party and must be handled with discretion in the clean-up. He had already drawn some consolation from the fact that General Waymouth had modified in a measure the planks that he submitted for the party platform. He followed up this as a step that hinted a general compromise, and at last frankly presented his requests. He asked that tax reform be smoothed over, that the corporations be allowed an opportunity to "turn around," and finally that the prohibitory law should be let alone. He argued warmly that General Waymouth could not be criticised by either side if he left the law as he found it. The radicals were satisfied with the various enactments as they stood, and if there were infractions it became a matter of the police and sheriffs, and the Governor could not be held accountable. And he laid stress on the fact that the people did not want a Governor to tarnish the dignity of his office by fighting bar-rooms. But Chairman Presson found an inflexible old man who listened to all he said, and at the end declared his platform broadly and without details. Those details of proposed activity he kept to himself. The platform was: That it behooved all men in the State to be prompt and honest in obeying the law. That the man who did not obey the law would find himself in trouble. Moreover, position, personality, or purse could purchase no exceptions. That was a platform which Mr. Presson could not attack, of course. He listened to it sullenly, however. He was angry because common decency prevented him from expressing his opinion. He had heard other candidates pompously declare the same thing, but he had not been worried by fear that saints had come on earth. This calm old man from whose fibre of ambition the years had burned out selfishness, greed, graft, and chicanery was a different proposition. His words sounded as though he meant what he said. And when he asked the chairman if he had any objection to offer to a system of administration that carried out exactly what the party had put in its pledges to the people, Presson glowered at him with hatred in his soul and malice twinkling in his eyes, and could find no language that would not brand him as a conspirator against the honor of his State. But he went back to headquarters swearing and sulking. In this spirit did candidate and managers face the campaign. It is not easy to hide family squabbles of that magnitude. The men concerned in the principal secret of the State Convention kept their mouths shut for the sake of self-preservation. But unquiet suspicion was abroad. The Democrats nosed, figured, guessed, and acted with more duplicity than had characterized their usual campaigns against the dominant party. Their leaders gave their party a platform that invited every one to get aboard. Every question was straddled. It was a document of craft expressed in terms of apparent candor. It elevated a demagogue as candidate for Governor, and promised every reform on the calendar. These were the rash pledges of the minority, more reckless than usual. An united dominant party could have met the issues boldly and frankly without fear as to results. But General Waymouth promptly discovered that he had a loyal army with rebel officers. He was soldier enough to understand the peril. He had more faith in the inherent, unorganized honesty of "The People" than Thelismer Thornton had. But, with just as shrewd political knowledge as the Duke, he held with him that the "The People" amount to mighty little as a force in politics unless well and loyally officered. A campaign will not run itself. Left to run itself, the issues are not brought out to stir up the voting spirit. "The People" have to be poked into the fighting mood--their ears have to be scruffed--they need speakers, literature, marshals, inciters--hurrah of partisanship. It was the off year for the national campaign. No money came into the State from the Big Fellows. The State Committee was looked to by the county and town committees to start the ball rolling and guarantee the purse to push it. "The People" were, as usual, too busy getting daily bread to be spontaneous in political movements. General Waymouth sat in the old brick house in Burnside village, and did the best he could during the long hot days of July and the sultry first fortnight of August. Harlan Thornton worked with him. The library resounded with the click of typewriters, and men came and men went. But there was no up-and-moving spirit to the campaign. An old man writing letters--even such an old man as General Varden Waymouth was in the estimation of his State--is a small voice in the wilderness of politics. The Democrats had vociferous orators. Those orators had for text State extravagance, unjust taxation, and all the other charges "the unders" may bring against the reigning rulers. They were not answered on the stump. Even the Republican newspapers were listless and halfhearted. At last came Thelismer Thornton. It was one afternoon in middle August, barely three weeks before the day of the State election in September. It was his first visit to the brick house in Burnside. He had been sojourning at the State capitol. Men had told Harlan, from time to time, that he was spending his days sitting on the broad veranda of Luke Presson's hotel, apparently enjoying the summer with the same leisurely ease that the State chairman was displaying. Men were sometimes inquisitive when they mentioned this matter to Harlan. They did not presume to ask questions of the General. But the young man had nothing to say. It must be confessed that he did not know anything about it. He obeyed the instructions the General gave him and toiled as best he knew, but that the main campaign was hanging fire he did not realize. For the General, who knew politics, did not complain to him. The veteran was a little whiter, a bit more dignified, and directed the movements of his modest force of office assistants with a curtness he had not shown at first; but no other sign betrayed that he knew his State Committee had "lain down on him." The Duke sauntered up the walk, whipping off his hat and swinging it in his hand as soon as he arrived under the trees of the old garden. He came into the house without knocking. The front door was swung inward, and only a screen door, on the latch, closed the portal. "I'm making myself at home as usual, Vard," he said, walking to the General and stroking his shoulder as the veteran leaned over his table above his figures. "I've been waiting for an invitation to come up here. But I didn't dare to wait any longer. It's getting too near election." General Waymouth looked up at his old friend, studying his face. He found only the bland cordiality of the ancient days. "I've been waiting, myself, Thelismer," he returned. "And I'll add that I don't intend to wait much longer. I'm not referring to you, now. I refer to Presson and his gang. I presume you are still close to them. Will you inform them that I don't intend to wait much longer?" Thornton did not lose his smile. He sat down. He nodded across the room to Harlan with as much nonchalance as though he had been seeing him every day. "I would have run in before this, Varden, but somehow I got the impression from you and the boy that you were fully capable of operating things yourself. But with election only three weeks off I'm getting ready to change my mind. What are you going to do with that steer team--no, mule team--that's better?" "Meaning?" "Meaning Luke Presson and the members of the State Committee. I'm a politician, Varden. I'm out of a job just now. Both crowds of you seem to think you can get along all right without me. Probably you can. Luke knows _he_ can, so he says. He doesn't seem to like my management or my advice--not after that convention! But I can't help being a politician. I can't sit on that hotel piazza any longer and see this mess scorch. I'm too good a cook to stand it." He hitched forward in his chair and spoke low. "Varden, it sounds like the devil making a presentation copy of the Ten Commandments on asbestos, but I can't help that! I'm giving it to you straight. We've got body-snatchers for a State Committee. They'd rather see the Democrat the next Governor than you. That's how mad they are. That's how sure they are that you propose to put their noses to the grindstone. That's how rotten politics is in this State. The Democrat won't give us reform. They know it. They'd rather see the State officers go by the board than have the kind of reform you've promised 'em. They can get rid of their Democrat after two years. Your reform may hang on a good while, once get the laws chained. Now what are you going to do?" "I know exactly what I'm going to do." "Yes; but, grinning Jehosaphat, how much time have you got to do it in? Three weeks to election now!" "This campaign, Thelismer, will be started, as it ought to be started, within the next twenty-four hours. As to how it will be started I'll have you present as a witness, if you'll accept an invitation." The Duke was obliged to be contented with only that much assurance and information. "There's a train back to the State capital in half an hour, Thelismer," the General stated. "I'll be pleased to have you go along with Harlan and myself. If you'll excuse me now, I'll finish signing these letters." The old man was not disturbed by this abruptness. He rose. "I reckon you know how to play the game, Vard," he said. "I'm perfectly satisfied, now that I know you are playing it. But you'll excuse me for being a little uneasy about your starting in." He did not interrupt Harlan, who was busy at his desk. He picked up one of the newspapers that covered the General's table, and marched out into the garden. He joined them when they came out. The General's old-fashioned carryall conveyed them to the railroad station. They made the journey to the capital without a word of reference to the purpose of their trip. Unobtrusively chatting about the old times, the Duke and his friend made their way back to their old footing. It was mutual forbearance and forgiveness, for they were old enough to be philosophers, and especially did they understand the philosophy of politics. Chairman Presson was in his office at his hotel when they entered. He came out to greet General Waymouth, suave but circumspect, and furtively studied word and aspect of his visitor. "Mr. Presson," said the General, breaking in upon the chairman's vague gossip regarding the political situation, "this is short notice, but I presume you can reach a few members of the State Committee by telephone. I wish to meet them and you at my rooms in the hotel at nine this evening. It is important." They came. There were half a dozen of them--men who hurried in from such near points as the chairman could reach; and at the appointed hour Presson ushered them into the General's room. Harlan Thornton was waiting there with his chief. The Duke arrived in a few moments, alone. He sat down at one side of the room, bearing himself with an air of judicial impartiality. The chairman scowled at him. Judged by recent experience, Thelismer Thornton was a questionable quantity in a conference between the machine and General Waymouth. The committeemen took their cue from the chairman. They were sullen. They bristled with an obstinacy that betrayed itself in advance. The General got down to business promptly. It was not a gathering that invited any preamble of cheerful chat. He understood perfectly that the men were there only because they did not dare to stay away. "Chairman Presson, it is now close upon the election. I have canvassed the State as best I could through the mails. With Mr. Harlan Thornton's assistance and through my friends in various towns, I have secured a pretty complete list of doubtful voters. I will say in passing that I have tried to enlist the help of your town committeemen, but they seem to be asleep. I have thanked God daily that I have personal friends willing to help me. I have the names at last. I have accomplished alone the work that is usually attended to by the State Committee." Presson started to say something, but the General stopped him. "One moment, Mr. Chairman. Let me tell you what _I_ have done. One of us at a time! When I've told you what I've done, you can tell me what _you've_ attended to. I have those names, I have pledges of support, I have plans for getting out the vote. But I have no literature for distribution to those doubtful voters, I have no speakers assigned by the State Committee to help the men who are trying to get the vote out, I have no fund provided for the usual expenses. Now I will listen to you, Mr. Chairman. Will you tell me what you have done?" "It's an off year, General Waymouth," said Presson. "I asked the Congressional Committee for money, but I couldn't interest 'em. And I'll tell you frankly that the regular sources in this State are dry. There isn't the usual feeling. You're a good politician. Perhaps you know why it's so." "You haven't answered my question, sir. I asked you what your State Committee has done." "What is there we can do when every interest in this State sits back on its wallet like a hen squatting on the roost, and won't stand up and let go until some assurances are given out? It isn't my fault! I went to you! I laid the case down! You didn't give me anything to carry back to 'em." "I'm here to talk business, Mr. Chairman. You are too vague." "Well, I'll talk business, too." Presson snapped out of his chair. He stood up and wagged his finger. He was too angry to choose words or gloss brutal facts. "You want to be Governor, don't you? You're asking men to support you and back you with money? That's what it amounts to. Campaign funds don't come down like manna--there's nothing heavenly about 'em--and you know it as well as I do, General. You've scared Senator Pownal's crowd with that anti-water-power-trust talk; they've got money to put into the legislature, but none for you. The corporations won't do anything; your tax commission talk has given them cold feet as far's you're concerned. Even the office-holders are sore; you've been talking about abolishing fees, and if that's the case they'd just as soon give up the offices. And where's your party, then? You say you're going to enforce the prohibitory law! I can get a little money out of the express companies, the jobbers in gallon lots, and the fellows that get the promise of the State liquor agency contracts. But the big wholesalers, the liquor men's associations, the retailers--the whole bunch that's got the real money and is willing to spend it haven't a cent for you--they'll even back the Democrat against you! You wanted business talk. There it is." He strode up and down the centre of the room in agitation, and then sat down. The other committeemen sighed with relief. Their chairman had said what they wanted to say, said it bluntly and boldly, and they were glad it was over. "That is," drawled Thelismer Thornton, "the State Committee says, as the fork says to the cook: 'I'm willing to be used for all reasonable purposes, but not to pick your teeth with or pull out carpet tacks.'" The pleasantry did not relieve the gloom. "The State Committee can't do anything without money, General Waymouth," added the chairman, getting bolder as he allowed his rancor full play. "You've fixed it so that we can't get the money." "Then the State Committee would be able to go ahead and do what it ought to do if I should assure Senator Pownal that he and his crowd may help themselves to the water-powers of this State--if I let the rumsellers sell and the office-holders filch? It's on those terms, is it, that I'm to get the help of the men the Republican party has selected as its executives?" "That isn't a square way to put it," objected Mr. Presson, with heat. "I simply say it was all right to open this campaign with prayer, as we did at the State Convention, but as to carrying it through on the plane of a revival meeting, that's a different proposition! You've asked for business talk, General. I've given you straight business. You're asking something from some one else, just now. In politics it's nothing for nothing, and d--n-d little for a dollar! You know it just as well as I do. Now suppose we have some business talk from you!" There was a sneer in the last sentence. General Waymouth swung one thin leg over the knee of the other. He leaned back in his chair. His elbow rested on the chair-arm, his fingers were set, tips on his chin, and over them he surveyed his listeners with calmness. He did not raise his voice. It was his mild manner that made what he said sound so balefully savage. Bluster would have weakened it. "The legitimate expenses of a campaign are considerable, even when the party organization, from you, Mr. Presson, down to the humblest town committeeman, does full duty in time and effort. But if one has to buy it all, it needs a deep purse. From what you say, it is plain to me that I am now left to run my own campaign. I tell you very frankly, gentlemen, my means are limited. I have not made money out of politics. One course only is left open to me. I notify you that I shall issue a statement to the people of this State. I shall inform them that I have been abandoned by the State Committee and the party machine. I shall state the reasons very plainly. I shall say I am left to defeat because I refused to betray the people's interests. Then I shall appeal to the people as a whole--to Republicans and Democrats alike--for support at the polls. If there are enough honest men to elect me, very well. If the majority wants to hand the thing over to the looters and tricksters after the fair warning I give them, they will do so with their eyes open, and I'll accept the result and leave this State to itself." Chairman Presson pushed himself slowly up out of his chair, his arms propping him, his face shoved forward. "You mean to say, General Waymouth, that, being a Republican, a man who has had honors from our hands, you'll advertise your party management as crooks simply because we don't cut our own throats, politically and financially?" "I say, I shall state the facts." "Let me inform you that I've got a little publicity bureau of my own. I'll post you as a deserter and a sorehead. I'll fix it so you can't even throw your hat into the Republican party and follow in to get it. I'll--" "One moment, Luke," broke in the elder Thornton. "For some weeks now, when things have come to a crisis, you have set yourself up as the whole Republican party of this State. But when you get to talking that way you represent it about as much as Parson Prouty represents the real temperance sentiment. There's quite a bunch of us who are not in the ramrodding business. General Waymouth is the nominee of our convention. No one has delegated to you the job of deciding on his qualifications. It's your job to go ahead and elect him. If you don't propose to do it, then resign." "No, sir!" shouted Presson. "Then get busy--collect a campaign fund and make these last three weeks hum! This is largely a matter between friends, right here now. I've told Vard what I think of him, and I haven't minced words. It's bad enough for a man to try to be absolutely honest in politics. That's where he's making his mistake. But he can get past with the people--they'll think it more or less bluff, anyway, even it's Varden Waymouth talking. But the kind of dishonesty you're standing for, Luke, won't get past. They'll ride you out of this State on a rail--and I'll furnish the rail." "I'll furnish something more!" cried Harlan, unable to restrain himself any longer. "To-morrow morning I shall put ten thousand dollars into General Waymouth's campaign fund--my own money." "You see, Luke," drawled the Duke, "it really looks as though Vard would be elected anyway. I might subscribe a little myself if only I had a rich grandfather, the same as Harlan has." The unhappy chairman sat down in his chair again and struggled with his anger. He could not give it rein--he realized that. Party and personal interests were all jeopardized. But he knew he could not afford to have utter personal disgrace accompany his defeat. Desertion of the party candidate, if advertised in the fashion the General threatened, meant ruin of his name as well as his fortune. He could have sulked and excused himself, but there was no excuse for inaction after demand had been made upon him in this fashion. There was silence in the room. "Fellow up our way used to be a mighty good mule teamster," said Thelismer Thornton, tipping his great head back into clasped hands, and gazing meditatively at the ceiling. "Had a gad for the wheel mules, whip for the swing team, and a pocketful of rocks for the leaders. One day the rocks gave out just as the wagon sunk into a honey-pot on a March road. But being a good teamster, he yanked out his pipe and threw it at the nigh leader just at the critical second. Sparks skated from crupper to mane along the mule's back, and he gave a snort and a heave, and away they went." Chairman Presson, deep in his trouble, was disgusted by this levity, and growled under his breath. "If a fellow had been off ahead of the team with a bag of oats perhaps the pipe wouldn't have been needed," pursued the Duke, meditatively. "Anyway, gentlemen, I'll tell you what I'll do. I've been waiting to be called on for my contribution for the fund, but for some reason business hasn't been started in this campaign as soon as I hoped. Harlan was a little excited just now. I think, seeing that the State Committee is now going to take hold of the campaign, he'll be able to get out of it a little cheaper. A lot of the other boys will chip when they're asked. For the Thornton family I lead off subscriptions with a pledge of five thousand dollars. I'm that much interested in seeing my--my original choice for Governor elected by a good majority." Presson got up, and stamped down his trousers legs. "I know when I'm licked," he admitted. "And I've been licked in the whole seventeen rounds of this campaign. Look here, General Waymouth, I'm done fighting. I simply throw myself on your mercy. I know how you feel toward me. But I've got just this to say: it's a poor tool of a man that won't fight for his own interests and his friends. I've done it. And I'm no more of a renegade than the usual run of the men who have to play politics for results. I don't believe you are going to get results, General. But that's neither here nor there. There's no more squirm left in me. I'll take hold of this campaign and elect you. If there's any crumbs coming to me after that, all right! I'm at your mercy." "I tell you again I've no time or inclination for petty revenge. That is not my nature." General Waymouth was as cold and calm as inexorable Fate itself. "I accept your pledge, Chairman Presson. Not one interest of yours that is right will suffer at my hands. On the other hand, not one interest that is wrong will be protected. It's simply up to you!" "I don't suppose you care to go over the plans with me to night?" "I shall ask you to confer with Mr. Harlan Thornton on all matters. He knows my wishes and plans. He will remain here at headquarters as my representative." If the chairman felt that he was being put under guard and espionage, his face did not betray it. He took leave of the General, and escorted out his associate committeemen. "Reminds me of the time Uncle Stote Breed went with the boys on a fishing-trip," remarked the Duke, after they were gone. "They ate the sardines out of the tin before Uncle Stote got in off the pond, and put in raw chubs they'd been using for live bait. Uncle Stote ate 'em all. 'Boys, your ile is all right,' said he, when he cleaned 'em out, 'but it seems to me your leetle fish is a mite underdone.' But Luke will eat anything you hand him after this, Vard." He took his grandson by the arm, and started him toward the door. "Let the General get to bed," he advised, jocosely. "He ought to have pleasant dreams to-night." Harlan expected that his grandfather would have some rather serious talk for his ear. But he merely remarked, leaving him at the door of his room: "If you keep on, son, I'll be passed down to posterity simply as 'Harlan Thornton's grandfather.'" CHAPTER XXII FROM THE MOUTH OF A MAID Under a sudden stimulus of rallies, red fire, and band-music, the campaign blossomed promisingly. Democracy's dark hints that the dominant party had been rent by factional strife were suddenly answered by an outrush of spellbinders from Republican headquarters, a flood of literature, and an astonishing display of active harmony. Chairman Luke Presson received compliments for the manner in which he had held his fire until he "had seen the whites of the enemy's eyes." He replied to such compliments with fine display of modest reserve, and in private gritted his teeth and swore over the statement that General Waymouth issued to the voters of the State--a document that bound the party to a professed programme of honest reorganization. The treasurer of the State Committee drew checks amounting to more than fifteen thousand dollars to pay for the printing, postage, and mailing of those statements--a bitter expense, indeed, considering the nature of the promises. Presson saw only gratuitous stirring of trouble in the hateful declarations the General made. It was his theory that in politics voters never arose and demanded reforms until some disturber shook them up and reminded them that reforms were needed. General Waymouth did not take the stump. His age forbade. He remained away from headquarters. But Harlan Thornton was posted there, his vigilant representative and executive. In his attitude toward Harlan the State chairman ran the gamut of cajolery, spleen, wrath, and resentment--and final disgust. It was a situation almost intolerable for Presson. But a chain of circumstances--events unescapable and unique in politics--bound him to the wheel of the victor. Harlan understood the chairman's state of mind. Day by day he made his discourse with that gentleman as brief as possible, and he kept away from the Presson home. His action was dictated by a feeling of delicacy, in view of the father's sentiments. Presson treated him in business hours as a prisoner would treat his ball and chain. And Presson showed no desire to take that badge of his servitude home with him. Enduring Harlan in the committee headquarters strained his self-possession daily. So the young man lied brazenly in reply to the blandly courteous notes of invitation from Mrs. Presson, who continued alert to the promising social qualifications of General Waymouth's chief lieutenant. He pleaded work. It was true in a measure. The day was filled with duties to which he applied himself unflaggingly. But from the supper-table he hurried out each evening into the country, escaping from the city by the side streets, tramping miles of lane and highway and field. His muscles craved the exertion. The city oppressed him. His unwonted toil within four walls sapped his energy. One evening he stepped aside from the highway. A horse, trotting smartly, was overtaking him. But the horse did not pass him. It slowed down to his stride, and Madeleine Presson called him from her trap. She was alone. "As this is the campaign of 'honesty,' I'll be honest with you," she said. "This is not an accidental meeting. I have been guessing at the roads you might take, and have been on your trail for days. That's a bold confession for a girl to make; but I've got even a bolder request: please climb up here and ride." He climbed up. He went up with alacrity. From the first of their acquaintance the girl had interested him--and yet it was more than mere interest or feminine attraction. Her culture, her keen analysis of events and men, her knowledge of conditions informed and instructed him. Her subtle humor and droll insight into the characters of those who attempted to pose in the public eye entertained him, for he lacked humor. But, most of all, her satire gave him a truer perspective. Fresh from the north country, where his knowledge of public men had been limited to the information which newspapers had given him, he had classed them wrongly. His own gravity had given them too eminent qualities. The girl, knowing them, had pricked their assumptions with good-humored satire, and he looked at them again and found them as she said. As he sat beside her and the horse walked on, he was conscious that in avoiding her he had been depriving himself both of entertainment and valuable instruction. It was a rather selfish reflection, but he could not help it. "Now, Mr. Harlan Thornton, from what my father says about the house, when he's so angry that he really doesn't know what it is he's saying, I understand you're playing hob with all the traditions of politics. In order to be honest, do you find it necessary to oppose all the things my father wants to do? If you dare to say so you'll be called on to have some very serious conversation with my father's daughter!" "I don't want any differences with your father--or with you, Miss Presson," he declared, earnestly. "I honestly don't! It all seems to be a mighty mixed-up mess. I sometimes wish I'd stayed back home in the woods. I'm too little a fellow to be in such a big game. I'm afraid I'm so small I can only see one side of it." "You admit there are two sides?" "My grandfather and your father have impressed that on me pretty strongly." "Isn't there any good in the other side? Do you mean to tell me that all the men in politics in this State are wrong except you and old General Waymouth?" "No, but it's the way of doing things. I guess it's that." She drew her horse to a stop. The country road was quiet. The hush of the starry August night was over all. "Mr. Thornton," she said, looking him squarely in the eyes, "with all due respect to the mighty masculine, I believe you are in need of a few suggestions from a woman's standpoint. You haven't acquired the art of flattery. If so, you'd be gallant and say I have just as much acumen as you have honesty." "I'll say it! It's so!" he protested. "No, you're too late. I very unmodestly gave myself the compliment. Now I'm going to tell you where you are wrong in this whole matter, Mr. Thornton. You are reckoning without the human instruments that you must employ. I'll wait just a moment and let that remark sink into your mind. You are a bit slow about grasping the full purport of remarks, Mr. Harlan Thornton." There was a touch of her satiric humor in her tone. "Now, you don't fully understand, even yet. I think I'll have to illustrate. I've already told you that I've watched matters pretty closely at the capital. I like to see young men come here with ideals and succeed, but, alas, they do not." "They let themselves be bought or bribed or bossed, probably," blurted Harlan. "I'm not talking about that kind. They are too obvious and too common. I complimented my own self. Now you are insulting yourself by jumping at conclusions. You should have a better opinion of yourself, sir. I have. I do not believe you could be bought or bossed or even coaxed from what you considered your honest duty. You do not need to assure me. But you might be _convinced_, Mr. Thornton--convinced by good reasons--that it is not a young man's duty to ruin his own prospects and his own influence by undertaking something as impracticable as though he tried to be a meteor by holding a candle in his hand and jumping off a roof. I could praise his imagination, but not his judgment." She waited a moment. She gazed at him with sudden sympathy. "You are a straightforward young man, used to winning your way by direct means--axe to the tree, cant-dog to the rolling log, but that isn't the way in politics. I know this preachment from me sounds strange. It may offend you, but you mustn't allow yourself to be offended. You have simply quarrelled with the men who have tried to tell you--it's no use for your grandfather or my father to talk with you. Men do quarrel too easily. I am taking a woman's advantage of you, sir. I said I would illustrate. I will. One of the finest young men I ever knew came down to the legislature and started in to expose and hold up every appropriation measure that had the least appearance of being padded. Just straight-out and blunt honesty, you understand. A little affectation, too. A bit of self-advertising as well. But we all excuse a little self-consciousness in youth. Well, he simply became a red rag to the House. They sneered and hissed when he stood up. Just in blind rage they voted for every appropriation he opposed. He did much more harm than he did good. He didn't get his own appropriations for the district he represented. And it killed him in politics and in his law business. The happy people did not acclaim him as their faithful watchdog of the treasury. They merely pronounced him a bore with a swelled head. You see, I can talk political talk with all the phrases, Mr. Thornton." "But he was right, wasn't he--fundamentally right?" "He _meant_ to be right--that's the term to use. But he forgot that he must use human instruments in order to accomplish anything. And he just failed miserably." "What would you expect him to do--join in, and be just like the others? Where would any good come out of anything?" "Now, you are insisting again that there is good only on one side of the question. That's bigotry. It's what I'm trying to warn you against. Some one has said that life is compromise. It's true of politics, if you're going to get the most out of it. I know what you are undertaking. General Waymouth hasn't left much to the imagination in his letter. And I've talked with others. And so I know how visionary you are." "You've talked with Linton--that's the one you've talked with!" declared Harlan, indignantly. "And if he's told you what I have told him in confidence he's more of a sneak than I've already found him out to be." "Mr. Linton did not consider that you were making any secret of your principles. And you'll excuse me, but I think his principles are exactly as good as yours. You are talking now like the ramrodders. Their first retort to any one who differs with them is to call names." "But he deserted General Waymouth under fire. He promised, and went back on that promise." "According to all political good sense and in any other times but these, when men seem to be running wild, General Waymouth was politically out of the game. It's all fine and grand in story-books, Mr. Thornton, for the hero to sacrifice everything for his ideals, but in these very practical days he's only classed as a fool and kicked to one side." "You defend Linton, then? Is that the kind of a man you hold up as a success, Miss Presson?" His grudge showed in his tone. "You will please understand, sir, that we are not discussing theories just now. This isn't a question of what the world ought to be. It's the plain fact about what a man must be if he's to get results. You and I both have heard your grandfather say many times that he'd like to play politics with angels--if only he could find the angels. It's hard to own up, when you're young, that human nature is just as it is. I understand how you feel. I know you feel it's a very strange thing for me to do--talk to you like this. But I want you to understand that my father has had nothing to do with it." He turned to her accusingly. "But I know perfectly well," he said, bitterly, "that it isn't any personal interest you take in me that makes you say it. You don't think enough of me for that." It was resentment so naively boyish that her astonishment checked her remonstrance. He rushed on. "You hold up Linton for me to follow. That's the kind of a man you admire. He's an orator, and he's smart, and he wins. I'm only an accident. You meant that when you said that General Waymouth won out only because matters were mixed up in politics. You don't care anything about me, personally. But you're talking to me because my grandfather asked you to. That's it." He guessed shrewdly. That outburst betrayed him. This young man from the north country was very human after all, she decided. "I have said before, this is a campaign of honesty. Your grandfather did ask me to talk to you. I didn't have the heart to refuse him, for I'm very fond of him." It was an acknowledgment that stung his pride. But more than all, it stirred that vague rancor he had felt the first time he had seen Linton appropriate her. He did not choose gallant words for reply. "He has set you on me, has he, to pull me away from what I think is right? He wants me to be like the rest of 'em, eh? I can be an understudy for Herbert Linton and an errand boy for the State machine! I didn't think, Miss Presson, that you--" "You'd better not go any further, Mr. Harlan Thornton. My affection for an old man who has set his heart on your success has brought me into this affair, and I assure you I don't enjoy the situation. You are not asked to betray any one, or desert any high moral pinnacle, or do anything else that the moralists say all these fine things about without knowing what they mean half the time. You are reminded of this: that there's only one General Waymouth. There's a sudden big call for him because factions have got into a row with each other. Folks will rally around him for a little while--it's a sort of revival sentiment. But you are not a General Waymouth. He'll be excused by sentiment, you'll simply be branded as one of the common run of ramrodders who try to achieve the impossible with human nature--a disturbing element in State politics--and your career will be spoiled. Now I've delivered my message, and done what I promised your grandfather I'd do." She turned her horse, and started him back toward town. There was silence between them for a time. "So, if I weren't Thelismer Thornton's grandson you wouldn't take any interest in me at all?" he inquired, sourly. "A very impudent and unnecessary question, Mr. Harlan Thornton. I'm afraid your grandfather is right--you have stayed in the woods too long." Longer silence. He was more humble when he spoke again. "I don't want you to think I'm what I may seem to be, Miss Presson. But what is there I can do in politics, just now, different from what I'm doing? I have taken my side with the General. I propose to stay there, of course. But I do not want to have people think I'm a fool. And I haven't heard much else from any one since I started out." There was wistfulness in his voice. He suddenly felt drawn to her. He craved her counsel. It was the mastery of the woman, more worldly-wise. He was bewildered and ashamed. The image of Clare Kavanagh was not dimmed in his soul. She had been with him daily in his thoughts. He knew that he felt affection for her. It was tenderness, desire to protect, the real impulse of the man toward his mate. But the feeling was all unexpressed and incoherent. And yet Madeleine Presson, more than ever before, attracted him powerfully. She had the elements that he had never seen and experienced in womankind. Just at that moment she dominated, for his passion had betrayed him into a rather puerile outbreak. Subtle analysis of the emotions was beyond him. He did not understand. His life had trained him along more primitive lines of selection. But he realized now that he was trying to probe something in his soul that defied his rather limited powers of judging. He had not given his heart unreservedly, he had not pledged himself. Clare Kavanagh had repented of a child's weakness and had run away from him, vaguely hinting that she would forget him. This masterful young woman, driving him back to town, her determined profile outlined against the gloom as he gazed shyly at her, did not appear to be interested in him, except as a rebel to authority and needing chastisement. The child of the woods, as he thought of her, stirred all his tenderness, his sympathy, and the soft ties of long intimacy and understanding bound him. But this girl, with beauty and brains, on his own level of independence of thought, stirred new desires and ambitions in him. She was helpmate and counsellor. He wondered if newer times and conditions did not demand stronger qualities than mere womanhood in the wife who was to accompany a man into the vicissitudes of public life. Not that he felt that he was more than an humble instrument of the real power. But he fell to considering the subject from the general viewpoint. His own experiences had awakened new ideas that he pondered, having a very provocative suggestion at his side. Still more humbly he asked her: "If you have been thinking the matter over, Miss Presson, what advice do you give me?" "I advise you to have a serious talk with your grandfather. He has had much experience. Use your own judgment, too, but be ready to hear the evidence. You have not shown that willingness, yet, so far as I can determine. I haven't any advice of my own to offer. I'll not presume. Only this: be as honest as you can, but don't be so impractically honest that you chop down all your bridges behind you and neglect to gather timber for the bridges ahead of you." Even in the gloom she understood that he was puzzled. "Really, you know, I haven't written any handbook on practical politics, Mr. Thornton," she said, her humor coming to the rescue. "I have talked to you as though I had. But I've only talked to you with a woman's intuition in such matters--and you remember, too, I've seen much of legislative life. You can be good in politics--but, oh, don't be impractical! I want you to succeed." "You do?" "I most certainly do." She said it heartily. No other word passed between them until they arrived in front of the hotel. He reached up, after he had alighted, and grasped her hand. She had impulsively put out her own to meet his. "I'll try to be--" he began, and then hesitated. He had been pondering. But his thoughts were still so confused that he could not think of the word that expressed exactly what he desired to make himself. "Be human," she said, smiling down on him. "You won't find yourself of much use in the world unless you cultivate the faculty of personal contact, and you musn't try to leap into politics in this State right from the pedestal of a demigod. You may be able to elevate yourself later, but just now, my dear young friend, you should be _reasonable_. That's a word that means much in handling men and affairs. Now I hope I've softened you so that you will listen to your good grandfather when he has advice for you." She did not allow herself to be too serious. There was the delicious drawl in her tone that had attracted him at first. He went to his room and sat down to digest that political philosophy. If some one beside Madeleine Presson had said it, it would have seemed to him like the voice of the temptress. But she had already won his confidence in her sincerity. He wished that he could feel that her interest in him had more of a personal quality than she had admitted. He did not like to remember that it was simply affection for his grandfather that prompted her. He did not understand very well what he was to do to obey her suggestions. He did not understand himself exactly at that moment. But along with his loyalty to General Waymouth a new desire sprang into life within him. He wanted to show Luke Presson's daughter that Harlan Thornton could play the game of practical politics as well as Herbert Linton, and in the end would be more deserving of her respect. CHAPTER XXIII A TRUCE Gen. Varden Waymouth was elected Governor. In spite of the sullen torpor of his party managers and the snarls of the Reverend Prouty and his radical ilk, he surmounted by mere momentum of his party a certain bland and trustful and destructive indifference of the general public, and won at the polls. The narrow margin by which he won would have scared a really loyal and conscientious State Committee. But the before-and-after gloom of Chairman Presson and his intimates was not caused by any worriment over the size of the plurality. They were languid spectators. They felt like dispossessed tenants. They took little interest in the temple of the party faith. "When they buried old Zenas Bellew up our way (Zenas weighed three hundred and fifty, and lived in a cottage about the size of a wood-box) the undertaker found he couldn't get the coffin into the house or get Zenas out--not through doors or windows. A half-witted fellow we call 'Simpson's Rooster' spoke up, and said they'd better bury the old man in the house and move the family out into the coffin." That was Thelismer Thornton's comment on the political situation in the Republican party on the morning after the election. The chairman heard it with the gloom of a mourner. He could see nothing bright in the jest or the prospects. There was a frigid truce during the four months that elapsed between the election and the assembling of the legislature. General Waymouth retired to the brick house in Burnside, and gave ear to those who promptly made his home the Mecca of the State. There were office-holders who wanted to hold to their jobs, office-seekers who suspected that there would be a break in the plans of party patronage; there were officious gentlemen suggesting new legislation for the next administration to consider; there were crafty gentlemen trying to discover what the administration would recommend. The day was full of cares, duties, annoyances, and the nagging pleadings of persistent petitioners. Harlan Thornton, now representative-elect from the Fort Canibas district, became still more indispensable in General Waymouth's daily life. Duties at a desk had worn upon him. This everlasting mingling with men was more to his taste. He had natural adaptability. He was a good judge of human nature. He had serene good nature. Physique and manner made him master of many situations at the old brick house that otherwise would have sadly tried the General's strength and temper. Therefore, his chief placed greater dependence upon his lieutenant with every day that passed, solicited his opinions as his knowledge of men increased and his judgment became worth more, relied upon his instinctive estimates of character, and shifted many burdens to the broad shoulders that seemed so well fitted to carry them. Harlan Thornton was slow to realize what a tremendous power, as chamberlain, he really exercised in the State. He awoke to that fact more slowly than did the men who came to solicit. He did not try to use his power for his own ends. He promptly noted the deference that men paid him; as promptly he penetrated certain plans men made to corrupt him, if they could. These attempts were made slyly, and did not proceed very far. Something in his demeanor prevented the plotters from openly broaching their desires and their willingness to make their interests worth his while. They knew that one of the Thorntons could not be won by money, but they were rather surprised to find out that he could not be beguiled by other inducements. He was so big and manly, and he had rapidly become so self-poised, that they did not realize that in experience he was only a boy, with the ingenuous faith and simple aims and candor of boyhood. He perceived what he might win. But the pride of serving General Waymouth loyally was worth more to him than anything they could offer. His duties took him often to the State capital. The chairman of the State Committee was coolly courteous, often gloomily deferential, sometimes frankly cordial--uneasily trying to find the proper level to stand on in his intercourse with one who was the grandson of Thelismer Thornton, and also the chosen confidant of the man who had wrested from him control of State affairs. In the case of Madeleine Presson, there was none of this embarrassment. He saw her often. She met him half-way with a frank interest in his work and a sympathy which, in those days of truce, did not question his ideals. He became a welcome intimate of the Presson household. When he was there the master himself put aside all the brusqueness he displayed in their down-town discourse on politics. The girl welcomed him. There were many hours when they were alone together, in the home or on long drives into the country. She did not refer to their talk on that evening when she read to him his lesson on practical politics. He avoided that subject. He did not want to risk any further disagreement between them on the matter of ideals--or, for that matter, on any other subject. Association with her had become too delightful to be put to the test of discussions of political methods. He was still drawing upon her fund of worldly wisdom. There was a little touch of the cynic in her. He became secretly ashamed of some of his ingenuous beliefs, after she had deftly shown him the other side of things. She did show him the other side, quite in a matter-of-fact way. It was not that she was trying to break down his faith. There was nothing sly nor crafty in her methods of improving his views. But by informing him, she made him wiser, and, at the same time, more distrustful of motives, more searching in his investigations of methods. He began to doubt some of his earlier ideas of what a public man should be. He felt that his views were broadening. That was a comfortable way of excusing certain surrenderings to her ideas. The more he drew from her the more he was drawn to her. It was not the love that comes with a rush of the emotions and sweeps a man away. Through the intellect, through his hunger for information and wider views, she was making herself indispensable to his welfare and his ambitions. And yet Madeleine Presson was not trying to make this young man of the north country fall in love with her. Her interest in him was first of all based upon his winning earnestness and the elements of success that she divined in him, were they properly cultivated. She had studied men at the capital from childhood. The development of men in public life and service had been the one theme that she had heard most discussed. Her impulse of assistance had been directed toward this grandson of Thelismer Thornton. But as the days went by, and opportunity gave them their hours together, they were drawn more closely, each insisting in secret meditation that it was not love. He found himself gradually rebuilding his creed of living on the foundation she had laid in that first long talk of theirs. He had arrived at such a point of belief in her that he was glad that she had opened his eyes. He was finding men--meeting them by the hundred--even as she had pictured them to him: selfish, scheming, crafty, and not understanding in the least his occasional attempts to meet them on the upper level of perfect candor. For her part, she found more in this young man than she had expected to find. Harlan considered Herbert Linton the single jarring note in this new symphony of mutual interests. Linton came to the capital with more or less regularity, and called on the Pressons with fully as much appearance of being entirely at home as his newer rival. When they were together the girl treated both with impartial interest and attention. She listened to each in turn, and if they chose to sit and scowl at each other she did the talking for all three. Deftly she arranged that they should leave together, and they always promptly separated as soon as they reached the sidewalk, as though they were afraid to trust themselves in each other's company. So the new year came in, and the hordes of lawmakers, lobbyists, lookers-on, and laymen descended on the State capital. The first few days of a legislative session, though packed full of politics and business, rush, and routine, are festival days, after all. There are the old friends to greet and the new friends to meet. There are ten spectators to every legislator, and the spectators are on hand for a good time. Outside of the factional clinches of the House and Senate caucuses the early days have little serious business. Presson's great hotel and the lesser lights of the capital's houses of entertainment were packed to their roofs. The State House on the hill sent sparkling radiance at night from all its hundreds of windows out across the snow which loaded the broad lawns. Senator Pownal, renominated in joint caucus, spoke to crowded floor and galleries on the second evening. Harlan Thornton, in his seat in the House, listened and wondered if that convention had not been a dream. This later convocation seemed so entirely harmonious. The Republicans ruled House and Senate by safe majorities. Presson, sauntering about hotel or State House lobby, seemed bland and contented again. The wounds in the party seemed to have been healed. On inauguration day Governor Waymouth added to the general spirit of harmony. He came unobtrusively to the State House from the modest mansion he had leased in the capital city for the legislative winter and took his oath of office before an admiring throng. He had made a confidant of no one regarding his inaugural speech. There were vague rumors that the Governor would follow his hand, as he had shown it in his letter of acceptance, and deliver an inaugural address which would blister the ears of the politically unregenerate. In that ancient State House, its accommodations for spectators limited, there were no hard-and-fast rules regulating admission to the floor. Harlan Thornton had a chair placed in the aisle beside his seat, and entertained Madeleine Presson there. He had anticipated Linton, who came with a similar invitation. Harlan was still enough of a boy to feel delight in the discomfiture of his rival, and to be gratified by the open admiration his fellow-members showed for the girl at his side. He relished the sour looks which Linton sent in that direction. Under cover of the general buzz and bustle that accompanied the convening of the joint session of House and Senate for the purpose of the inauguration the girl rallied him a bit. "The beginning of the righteous reign seems to be sane and sweet, after all," she said. "Even my father is complacent and purring this morning. Which has he eaten, do you know--the raven of contention or the dove of peace?" "I think every one understands that Governor Waymouth has straightened matters out for all of us," he replied. "How? By simply talking about it? As one who should say, 'Let it be done,' and it was done, and just what was done nobody, nobody knew--but it was done--something was--and all the folks felt better and went on in the same old way! Is that it?" He smiled at her while she teased him; the nature of the armistice that prevailed, according to outward appearances, was not understood by him. For several weeks his intimacy with General Waymouth had not been as close as at the first. Not that there was distrust or even coolness between them. The veteran still depended on the young man for the services a trusted lieutenant could render. His plans, however, his future programme of reorganization--if he had any definite plans--the General kept to himself. It was not mere reticence. But there was an atmosphere about the old statesman as though he had withdrawn himself to a higher altitude to think his thoughts and formulate his plans alone. If he had heard of the intimacy of Harlan Thornton with the family of Luke Presson he made no comment on that fact. "Now what is he going to say in his address?" she asked. "Every one will know in a few moments. Tell me ahead--tell me the big utterance that will make the people sit up. I want to be ready to watch their faces!" "Why, I haven't a single idea what he will say," he blurted. "Oh, safe repository, I salute you!" "But I haven't! The Governor hasn't opened his mouth to me!" "Have a care! One very easily steps from polite diplomacy into very impolite falsehood. You must always be truthful with me, Harlan." His eyes grew brighter and his tanned cheeks warm. It was the first time she had addressed him without hateful formality. "I propose to tell you the truth, always," he assured her. "But I mean what I say--the Governor has kept his address to himself." "I should resent that. It would have been a delicate compliment, and he owed that much to you. I'm afraid he has been a politician long enough to be like all the rest--to walk up to power on men as one uses a flight of stairs, and then to put the stairs behind his back; for one doesn't walk up-stairs backward." He flushed more deeply. "I'm not that kind of a fellow--jealous, or petty, or expecting a great deal for what little service I can render." "Put a value on yourself, though," she advised him. "It really isn't human nature, you know, to pick up the things that are thrown away by the owners--to pick them up and keep them and value them, I mean. That applies to purses and all other possessions, including hearts and loyalty." He started to say something to her--even though the throng pressed about them he would have said it; but the voice of the crier at the door announced what all were waiting for. "His Excellency the Governor, the Honorable Council, and his Excellency the Governor-elect and party!" They filed along in dignified procession down the centre aisle, the uniforms of the officers of the staff giving a touch of color and brightness to the formal frock-coats. The Secretary of State announced the official figures of the vote electing Varden Waymouth as Governor, and after his sonorous final phrase, "God save the State of ------," Governor Waymouth repeated the oath of office administered by a gaunt, sallow lawyer who was the president of the Senate. The clerk of the House set a reading-desk on the Speaker's table and arranged the Governor's manuscript. As the old man read he made a striking picture. He stood very erect. His snowy hair, the empty sleeve across his breast, the lines the years had etched on cheeks and brow gave those who looked on him a little thrill of sympathetic regret that one so old should be called from the repose of his later years to take up such public burdens as he had assumed. But his voice was resonant, his eye was clear. Nature seemed to have given him new strength to meet what he was now facing. And yet, thought some of those who listened, it might be that he did not propose to make a martyr of himself, after all. His address did not threaten or complain. The radicals who sat there with set teeth and bent brows, hoping to hear denunciation after their own heart, were disappointed. The politicians who had feared now took new grip on their hope--it probably was not to be as bad as they had anticipated. Harlan Thornton listened to the calm, moderate statement of the State's general financial and political situation with growing sense of mingled disappointment and relief. His fighting spirit and his knowledge of conditions, as they had been revealed to him, made him hope that at last an honest man proposed to clean the temple--entering upon his task with bared arms and a clarion call. This mild old man, confining himself to the details of the State's progress and needs, was not exactly the leader he had expected him to be. And yet Harlan was relieved. He looked at the girl beside him, and that relief smoothed away his disappointment. As matters were shaping themselves he no longer anticipated that he would be driven into pitched battle, forced to fight intrenched enemies of reform--Luke Presson's face most conspicuous of all those behind the party wall of privilege. As he listened to the address he comforted himself with the thought that probably political disagreements loomed more blackly as a cloud on the horizon than their real consistency warranted. He was not in retreat--he would not admit that to himself as he listened. But he felt that compromise and a better understanding were in the air. There would be no more occasion for troubled arguments between himself and the girl at his side. He did not understand exactly in what way it would be done, but he felt that Governor Waymouth knew how to win his reforms without such party slaughter as the first engagements hinted at. He put himself into a very comfortable frame of mind, and the girl at his side, by her mere presence, added to his belief that this was a pretty good old world, after all. He had lost some of his respect for "reform." It had been exemplified for him mostly by such men as Prouty and his intolerant kind--by Spinney and his dupes. He felt that he might call decency by some other name, and arrive at results by the calm and dignified course which Governor Waymouth now seemed to be pointing out. He suddenly felt a warm appreciation of the wisdom of Madeleine Presson as she had made that good sense known to him in their talks. "For it is by my works, not my words, that I would be judged," concluded the Governor, solemnly, and bowed to the applause which greeted the end. Neither Harlan Thornton nor any other listener in the great assembly hall took those words as signifying anything more than the usual pledge of faithful performance. After the dissolving of the joint caucus he escorted Madeleine to the council-chamber, where the new Governor was holding his impromptu reception. There were no shadows on the faces which pressed closely around him. All the politicians of the State were there, eager to be the first to congratulate him. Their fears had been somewhat allayed. In political circles it was well understood that Waymouth stood for a clean-up. It had been hinted that his programme would be drastic. The members of the machine, more intimately in the secrets of the convention, had expected that the old Roman would sound the first blast of the charge in his inaugural address. His moderateness cheered them. Harlan found congratulation sweetening every comment. The General received the young couple with marked graciousness. "Governor Waymouth, you have convinced me to-day that you are the apostle of universal salvation for the wicked--in politics," said the girl. "I hope the doctrine will be accepted." "In that belief you are safe companion for my first disciple," he returned, humoring her jest. The crowd carried them on. "I believe that, too," Harlan murmured. "Universal salvation according to the new political creed?" "I'm not thinking about politics. I'm not thinking much about anything else just now except you. During the Governor's address it came over me suddenly what wise counsel you gave me. If I had you for an adviser all the rest of my life I could amount to more in the world than I ever can without you." She glanced at him sharply. "I mean that," he insisted. "Will you be my adviser for the rest of my life?" It was crude, blunt, and sudden proposal. The throngs were eddying about them. They were jostled at the moment by the Toms, Dicks, and Harrys of the legislative concourse. Curious eyes surveyed them. Ears were near by. "I can't help saying it here and now," he rushed on. "I--" "My dear Harlan, you don't mean to say that you are proposing to me here in the face and eyes of this crowd?" She said it with sudden amazed mirth dancing in her eyes, but with a note of satire in her tone. "I do mean it!" He cried it so loudly that men turned their heads to stare at this earnest young man who was protesting his faith to the handsome daughter of Luke Presson. "Hush!" she cried, sharply, and then pulled him along. She spoke low. "I don't think you have enough humor in you to realize just what you have done, Harlan. I have found humor lacking in you. You have picked out the lobby of the State House, in the middle of the biggest crowd of all the year, as the 'love's bower' for an offer of marriage. You say you mean it as an offer of marriage. But what you really did was to ask me to attach myself to you as general adviser. You can hire a clairvoyant who will do that much for you, and I doubt if you would engage the clairvoyant as publicly as you have just tried to engage me." "I understand just what a fool I made of myself," he muttered, huskily. "But I couldn't wait--and I mean it." "No, you don't realize just how much of a fool you are where women are concerned," she returned, judicially. "A woman--a young woman--is generally interested in hearing first of all a little about love and devotion and loyalty, all unselfish and uncalculating. Now be patient! Listen to me! A woman can detect real love. And real love seeks its opportunity sweetly and shyly. It doesn't preface itself with remarks about a woman's brain and advisory ability. I believe it has a lot to say about eyes and hair and lips and such things. However, since you admire me in my capacity as adviser, I'll advise you to be sure that you love a woman before you propose to her, and then when you propose pick out some place that's suitable for convincing her that you do love her. I see mother yonder. Take me to her." Turning away, flushed and angry, from her demure smile, he became bitterly conscious that even had they been alone, under most favorable circumstances, he would have lacked speech for real love-making. He felt that conviction inwardly. He wondered whether he had the capacity for loving as he had read of men loving. It made him a bit ashamed to think of himself as violently protesting, hungrily pleading. A moment before he had been angry because she doubted his love. He knew that he admired her, respected, desired her. Now he argued with himself, and convinced his soul that his emotions constituted love. And having convinced himself, he determined to seek further opportunity of convincing her. It was truly an academic way of settling matters so riotously impatient of calculation as affairs of the heart, and his determination would have appealed to Miss Presson's sense of the humorous more acutely still had he undertaken to explain his emotions of that moment. Thelismer Thornton, strolling amiably through the lobby throng, came and put his hand on Harlan's shoulder. "The best way to make good sugar is to simmer the sap slowly, my boy." Harlan glanced sharply at him, but the Duke was not discussing love. "Vard has got into the simmering stage at last. I reckoned he would. He's too good a politician to boil the kettle over as he started in doing. What's the matter with you? You look as though you'd been listening to a funeral oration instead of an address that has put the party back on Easy Street." His grandson was careful not to explain the cause of his gloom. He was willing to let politics be answerable. Chairman Presson, more cheerful than he had been for weeks, came and crowded between them in a cosey, confidential manner. "Say, the old fellow is getting smoothed down," he chuckled. "That address was milk for babes. He's got good sense. The thin edge of that plurality made him think twice. I reckon he's going to play a safe game after this. I don't know what he wanted to throw such a scare into us early in the game for! But as we get old we get cranky, I suppose. I may be that way myself when I grow older." "Vard preached the theory to us for all it was worth," commented the Duke, "but I reckon he's up against the practice end of the proposition now--and he was a politician before he was a preacher." "Hope he'll stay a politician after this. He got onto my nerves. It wasn't necessary to be so almighty emphatic about things going wrong in this State." "Old Pinkney up our way is always careful to keep an eye out for the drovers," said the Duke. "When he sees one coming he hustles out into the pasture and shifts the poker off'n the breachy critter onto the best one in the bunch. And that's the way he unloads the breachy one. Vard has been wearing the poker the last few weeks, but I don't believe he intends to hook down any fences." In the eyes of the politicians, therefore, Governor Waymouth had become safe and sane. They construed his earlier declarations as the ambitions of an old man dreaming a dream of perfection. The legislature swung into the routine of its first weeks in the usual fashion. The business consisted of the presentation of bills, acts, and resolves. The daily sessions lasted barely half an hour. The committee hearings had not begun, and the legislators found time hanging heavy on their hands. Harlan Thornton continued to be a frequent caller at the Presson home. But he did not seem to find an opportunity for a tête-à-tête with Madeleine. She did not show constraint in his presence. She did not avoid him. She treated him with the same frank familiarity. But he did not find himself alone with her. He did not try to force such a situation, in spite of the provocation she had given him once. He was not yet sure that he could command the words that real love might demand for expression. That was his vague excuse to his own heart for delaying--for his heart insisted that he did love her. He had to admit to himself that this was not the headlong passion the poets described, but he consoled himself with the reflection that he was not a poet. So he made the most of her cordial acceptance of him as he was, and felt sure that Herbert Linton had won no more from her. CHAPTER XXIV A GOVERNOR AND A MAID The Honorable Arba Spinney was in the lobby as usual that winter. The Duke's sarcastic prediction was fulfilled. He appeared promptly at the session's opening, and was the most insistent and persistent member of the "Third House," as the paid legislative agents were called. Most of the men who wormed their way here and there operated craftily and tried to be diplomatic. Spinney strove by effrontery. As usual, he made the country members his especial prey. The story of his knavery at the State Convention had been smothered in the interests of the party. He reappeared among men with as much assurance as ever. He even approached Harlan Thornton to solicit his support of one bill. It was a measure to grant State subsidy, through exemption of taxation, to assist a railroad to extend its lines into the timber-land country. Harlan checked him promptly. "I don't propose to discuss that question or any other with you, Mr. Spinney." "If that road is built it will double the value of half your lands," insisted the lobbyist. "It's business for you and it's business for us, and there's no reason why you shouldn't talk business, is there?" "It doesn't interest me, Mr. Spinney." He went on, hotly: "I know just as much about the matter as you do. It's an attempt to evade the State constitution, which forbids subsidizing railroads. Governor Waymouth has explained it to me. I don't propose to profit by any such methods. And I'll inform you, further, that it's just about the sort of a scheme I'd expect to find you working for. Do you understand me?" "I know what you're referring to. But that matter is over with. I got the worst end of it. You helped to pass it to me. You can't afford to carry on any quarrel with me, Thornton. Holding grudges is bad business; so is making a fool of yourself by playing little tin saint in public matters." "I hold no grudge against you. That would be getting down on your level. I'm simply disgusted with you as a man, Mr. Spinney. That's all. You know why. Now leave me alone." But Spinney boldly intercepted him. Harlan had started to leave. The lobbyist realized what a powerful foe young Thornton could be to his project, and he was desperate. "I've been up through your country, Mr. Thornton. I've been spending some time at Fort Canibas. I've been posting myself generally on railroad and other matters--_other_ matters! I don't want to say too much, but I'd like to have you run over in your mind what those other matters might be. Now, you and I can't afford to be enemies. I got the tough end, and I'm willing to overlook and forget. You owe me a little something. I hope you're going to square it. Let me remind you that I'm a bad man with my tongue. I'm free to say it, I depend on my tongue for what I get out of life." It occurred to Harlan that this brazen threat referred to the scandal of the Fort Canibas caucus. "Bring them on," he sneered: "Ivus Niles and his buck sheep and Enoch Dudley and the rest of the petty rogues that you hired with your corporation money to defeat me." "You're on the wrong trail," replied Spinney. "I can hit you harder than that, and in a tenderer spot." He returned Harlan's amazed stare. "I've been keeping my eyes open down here, Mr. Thornton, and I kept my ears open up in Fort Canibas." His face grew hard. "D--n you, I'll never forget what you did to me! I'm coming right out open with you. I'd like to do you in return. I can do it. But I'll give you a chance; it's for my interest to do so, providing you buy the let-off. If you don't stand by me in that tax rebate, I'll launch the story. What I lose in support I'll more than make up in seeing you squirm. I'm pretty frank, ain't I? Well, I play strong when I've got enough trumps under my thumb." "Spinney, I've had enough of that kind of talk. What do you mean?" "Don't you have the least idea?" "Not the slightest." "A good bluff! Well, I know about the girl up country! See? It's a bad story to be passed up to another girl. And I know how to get the details to my friend Presson's daughter in time to spoil your ambition in that quarter. Now, how about that?" They were in one corner of the State-House lobby, and the presence of a hundred men about them probably saved Spinney from a beating there and then. Harlan quivered with rage. He did not grasp the full purport of Spinney's hints. He only understood that the man had grossly intruded on his private affairs. He could not speak. He dared not trust his voice. "Now do you want to let it go further?" inquired the lobbyist. He felt that the proximity of others protected him. "I'll meet you alone--I'll hunt you out, and I'll mash that face of yours into pulp!" choked the young man, and hurried away before he lost control of himself. The most he could make out of the episode was that Spinney was seeking cheap revenge by offering insult to his face under circumstances that prevented him from retaliating. He did not understand the reference to Clare Kavanagh. His friendship for the girl was no secret in the north country. That Spinney had made so much account of it by his insinuations was the astonishing feature, in Harlan's estimation. Fortunately for his peace of mind at that moment, he was not allowed to dwell upon the matter. The Governor's messenger came seeking him. He followed the man into the presence of his Excellency. Harlan had not recovered his self-possession, and the Governor surveyed him with some interest. "Cares of State, young man?" he asked. "And the session still as calm as a millpond?" "That cur of a Spinney has just insulted me--no politics, sir, but just plain, personal insult. Why, he went out of his way to do it!" "You make much out of nothing if you allow that blatherskite to disturb you," said the Governor, with mild reproof. "Pay no attention to him. Now to my business with you! I'd like to have you dine with me this evening. I have some serious matters to talk over with you alone--and the executive chamber, here, is no place for a quiet talk." Harlan hesitated a moment. "Have you another engagement?" "I was to dine with the Pressons." "I am sorry to ask you to do it, my boy, but if it is merely a social engagement, will you not beg to be excused? I assure you that my business is such that it cannot well wait another twenty-four hours. I am ready to leave the State House now. We'll ride past the Presson door, and I'll wait while you present your regrets. Tell the fair Madeleine that duty calls." He smiled. "I hear interesting reports, young man. Again I say I'm sorry to keep you from your engagement, but Miss Presson has been near enough to politics to understand what a duty-call means. Come!" The young man flushed. Reply failed him. He followed the Governor to his carriage. It was late afternoon, and the State House was emptying. As Harlan ran up the steps of the Presson house, Spinney's ugly threat came to him. The man dealt in gossip. It was an incredible form of attack. It was slander of the innocent. He could not forewarn Madeleine Presson. That would be caddish. But he felt a sudden panic. The impulse of admiration; covetous desire to win her away from Linton, a desire pricked by his increasing dislike of that young rival in love and politics; the charm she possessed for him who had met in her his first woman of intellect and culture--all drove him to her. The other love was a vague something that troubled him. Madeleine Presson was near and visible, and he did not dissect the emotion which prompted him to seek her. She came down to the reception-room. He had sent up an urgent request. "No," she said, with a smile, after she had listened, "I think I'll put your loyalty to the test! If I'm always to be the minority report in your estimation, Mr. Legislator, it's time now to find it out. You put Governor Waymouth and your politics first, do you?" "But you haven't given me the right to put you first," he returned, boldly. "Just how was I to go about giving you that right?" she inquired, with demure sarcasm. "Memorialize you, Mr. Representative, or throw it at you from the House gallery, concealed in a bouquet?" In spite of the waiting Governor outside he started toward her, his arms outstretched, his heart rushing to his lips. Her taunt--it seemed like that--made him desperate. "Madeleine, I tried to tell you--I know it seemed a strange place, but I couldn't wait--I want to tell you now--" She eluded him, and stopped him with a word. He was not impetuous enough to persist. "Oh, you master of the art of love-making!" she cried. Pique mingled with mirth in her tone. "First, you propose to me in the midst of the mob; then you propose to me, bursting in like a messenger-boy, and yonder the Governor of this State, with anxious head out of his carriage window, scowling because you don't come along! Admirable occasions for pledging passion and life-long devotion! Dear Harlan, your ingenuity must be puzzled by this time. I'll make a suggestion: fly over our house in a balloon and shout your declaration down the chimney. I'll sit in the fireplace from two to four, afternoons." "I'll not be put off!" he cried. "You shall be put out, and I'll do it!" Laughing, she took him by his arm and led him out into the hall. Protesting, he went. "I have some respect for the feelings of our Governor on a chilly afternoon, even if you haven't. You are excused from our little dinner. Go, now, Harlan. I'm serious." "There's one thing you have given me," he said, red, half-angry, and thoroughly subdued, "and that's the promise that I may take you to the legislative ball. That's to-morrow night--and we'll see!" He bolted out upon the steps. "Delightful!" she cried after him. "What an opportunity the stage of City Hall will afford for another!" She shut the door before he could reply. The Governor rallied him a bit on his disturbed looks as they rode on, but Harlan was in no mood to relish jokes on that subject. Governor Waymouth had no other guests at dinner. He did not broach his business until they were seated in the little parlor of the modest mansion. The room had been converted into a study. "To date the session has hardly been what you hoped--perhaps that's too strong a word--what you expected it would be, has it?" inquired the Governor, his earnestness showing that he was ready to begin. He did not wait for a reply. "Matters have run in the old rut. Every one seems to be satisfied, eh--even the radicals in the prohibition movement? Isn't that so? Their men have introduced some new legislation, adding on more penalties that no officer will ever enforce--but the mere legislation satisfies 'em. Everybody satisfied, apparently." The Governor uttered that last sentence in meditative manner. Then he straightened, and slapped his hand upon his chair-arm so suddenly that Harlan started. "But I am not satisfied!" he shouted. "I have let them run along. I have let them introduce their bills. I have waited for the lawmakers of this State and for the people to take some initiative. I gave them their call last fall in my letter. I hoped that some part of this State was awake. But those few who have shown some signs of civic interest have only pecked around the edges of reform. Nothing has been done, Harlan Thornton. Not one sweeping bill has been introduced. I have waited, hoping. I hoped the people would arise and help me with this burden. But I've waited in vain. There are only two more days in this session allowed for the introduction of new business. "My boy, I talked first with you about my becoming Governor of this State. That's why I'm talking first with you about this matter. I shall call every man of this legislature to me and talk with him privately, and in that work I want your assistance. I want you to bring them to me. I called you here to-night because to-morrow night folly and fashion will rule all in this city, and I must be there with the rest. Let me tell you, my boy, that when the men of this legislature awake, after that night of frivolity, it will be to open their eyes on some serious business. Not one word about what I intend to do until then. The session has been a very sweet cake till now--let the ball sugar-coat it! There'll be bitter eating provided day after to-morrow!" He waited a moment, recovering from sudden passion. "Ah," he said, gentle once more, "that sounds like senile raving. Pardon me. But while I've waited for the politicians of this State to show some signs of decency, waiting in vain, I've been swallowing back a lot of bitterness. No more of it! To our business now. I want you to know what is coming. I depend on you, as I have depended before, to be my master of ceremonies--and rather grim ceremonies they will be. For I have prepared several bills. You will introduce the House measures. I can depend on Senator Borden, from my county, for what I choose to have originate in the Senate. They are bills that will put our party and this State to the test of honesty. It's strange, isn't it, that what sounds so innocent should be so bitter?" He opened a drawer in his desk. He took out papers and spread them before him. He selected one. "Abolishment of fees (a blow at every grafting officeholder); no more railroad passes for public officials; a bipartisan tax commission that shall haul the rich dodger out into the open--all these matters are covered here. But into your hands, young man, I put the one measure that is to be the most savage test of our honesty. I have put the most thought on it. Every lawyer in this State will try to find a flaw in it. But if I know anything about constitutional law it is framed to beat them all. I'll not bother to read it to you. Carry it away, and guard it and study it." He held it up, waving it. His heart was plainly full. He talked as one addressing the careless multitude--and talking, at the same time, to himself. "You may divine what it is. It handles the great topic in our State. The source of dishonor, corruption, perjury, and hypocrisy! The prohibitory law! Let me tell what it will do when it has been enacted into law. It will make the Governor of this State the grand high sheriff to enforce personally and actively this one law; it's in our constitution, and the State should enforce its own. He will have all the resources of the State treasury behind him. He shall have for the first time PROHIBITION. Prohibition enforced, prohibition as the statutes have ordered it, prohibition in actuality instead of its pretence. The pretence has satisfied the rumsellers who sold, the rum-drinkers who drank, and the radicals who have boasted of the law, for all have got out of it what results were desired: appetite was catered to, vanity was satisfied, and graft engendered for the benefit of the office-holding class. "I'm not going to predict what I think will be the result of this enforcement--not now. What I propose to do as an honest man is to put the prohibitory profession of this State to the test. When this is law, Luke Presson cannot pose as an honest man and continue to sell liquor to all-comers, he cannot bribe sheriff and police; I'll send my own men to smash every bottle in his place, and I'll put him into just as dark a cell as any Cheap John who peddles poison from his boot-leg. The rich man must stand on the level of the poor man. It's the test of our State's honesty--that bill is--and it shall be called 'The Thornton Law.'" He arose, and placed the document in Harlan's hand. The young man received it rather gingerly. He held it with somewhat the appearance of one who has the custody of a loaded weapon. His face expressed consternation rather than appreciation. "Study the measure. I think you'll find it interesting. Introduce it in the House day after to-morrow. Our gallant lawmakers will be sleepy after the ball. That will wake 'em up." The old man's nostrils dilated. He had the air of one who saw battle ahead and yearned for it. "Move that it be referred to the Committee on Temperance," the Governor went on. "The fight will be on then and there, just as soon as they get their breath. They'll want to get it before a _safer_ gang! Let 'em refer it to the Judiciary Committee if they've got the votes to do so. I'm not afraid they'll find any constitutional flaws. And that first vote will give me a line on the general situation. I'll find out just what men need to have the gospel put to 'em straight!" "Governor," stammered the young man, still holding the document at arm's-length, "wouldn't it be--don't you think a--a--some representative who has had more experience than I should be the one to see this bill through?" "I want that bill sponsored by a man that I can trust absolutely. I'm sure of you, Harlan! When once it is introduced I'll see that you have plenty of help before the committee and on the floor." It had come like a thunderclap on a moonlit night. It was sudden tempest prefaced by the lull of perfect calm. It was the signal to combat sounded when peace seemed assured. The young man perceived now how much of his early zeal had deserted him. He shrank from the task the Governor had assigned to him. It was a blow that was aimed at the tenderest point of his own party; it was obliging the party, as the dominant power, to thrust upon the mass of the people the radical execution of a law which public opinion secretly opposed--that opinion even slyly welcoming the breach of it. And Governor Waymouth had emphasized what that new measure meant by citing the name of Luke Presson. It set the situation before Harlan in a flash. He was summoned to carry out his pledge of loyalty to Governor Waymouth by attacking the pet policy of nullification that kept his own party off the shoals to which extreme radicalism would surely drive it. The first man who would be hit--both as chairman of the party State Committee and in his personal interests--would be the man whose daughter he was seeking. Harlan wondered how that marriage proposal would sound, either on the heels or on the eve of the introduction of "the Thornton bill." His uncertainty showed so plainly in his face that the Governor walked around his table and scrutinized him closely. "My boy," he asked, "has the enemy captured you while you've been resting on your arms? Remember, there are slick and specious ways of making the wrong seem right in politics! I hope you haven't been tampered with!" For a guilty moment Harlan remembered the admonitions of Madeleine Presson. He was promptly ashamed that they had come to his mind when the Governor spoke his fears. "I'm going to tell you just why I'm a bit slow in this matter," he said, manfully. "It may seem a trivial reason to you, Governor Waymouth. I stopped to wonder how it would affect my friendship with the Presson family if I should introduce that bill." "Oh, I see how the land lies! You can understand now how old I am--old and cold with all the romance burned out of me! I'd forgotten that there's anything except politics left in the world. So--" He paused, beaming kindly on the young man, and pursing his lips ready for the jocose supposition that Harlan foresaw and anticipated. "No," he declared, flushing, "it isn't that way. It hasn't gone that far, Governor. I ask your pardon for mentioning my personal affairs, especially an affair of this sort. But I should be very sorry to break off my friendship with the Pressons." The Governor went back to his chair, and sat down in it. He wrinkled his brows and took a long survey of his embarrassed caller. "I'm afraid I spoke of the case of our mutual friend Presson in rather harsh terms. It would not work like that. Of course, he would bow to the inevitable if such a law were passed. But if it becomes a personal matter in any respect, Mr. Thornton, do you believe that any member of Presson's family would be offended if Presson were made to obey the law?" "Well, if he persisted against the new law, it would be a pretty hard position for any fair person to defend," admitted the young man. "I think we may depend on it that this young person, admittedly 'fair'--at my age I can be allowed to bestow that compliment--will respect your integrity. I do not command you to do the service--I cannot do that. But I shall be disappointed if you allow personal reasons to interfere with your public duties. I have depended on you to do it. I have only a few that I can trust." At that instant, in the presence of this man who had sacrificed so much, Harlan felt that his own interests were too petty for consideration. He put the document into his pocket. "Forgive me for hesitating, Governor Waymouth. I'm afraid I'll never make a very good public servant. But I'll try to hold my eyes straight ahead after this." "Keep the paper in your pocket. Think it all over. You're at the place every man reaches. What you want to do and what you ought to do split very sharply sometimes. I'll let you decide. I have no more to say." Harlan walked back to the hotel, trying to adjust himself to this new phase of the question. Once more he had been called upon to lead the charge of the forlorn hope. He had not the same thrill of zealous loyalty as before. He was a little hurt because the Governor had made the affairs of his heart of so small importance. An old man's austerity could not understand, perhaps, but nevertheless Harlan felt that he was entitled to some consideration. He had not acquired an old man's calm poise--he was not entirely willing to put politics ahead of everything else, now that he found there were so many other things in life. Was it not true that the mass preferred to pay court to high ideals in the abstract, and bitterly resented any attempt by sincere individuals to enforce the actual? He understood rather vaguely that he would be applauded by the radicals--he had met their leaders and did not like them--he would get the applause the mob gives to "a well-meaning fellow," but more than all he would be sneered at behind his back as "a crank trying to reorganize human nature," and therefore to be shunned. He had been mingling intimately with the chief men of the State; he knew what kind of comment they had for others. Most of all, he knew that the mild applause of the mob would not be loud enough to drown out those familiar voices nearest him--he had heard those voices many times before: there was his grandfather, there was Luke Presson, there were the political associates with whom he had already begun to train on the basis of compromise. There was Luke Presson's daughter! He strode into the lobby of the hotel, his face gloomy and his thoughts dark. Linton stepped forward to meet him, hat and overcoat on. It was evident that he had been waiting. The sight of him did not improve Harlan's temper. From the first day of the session they had eyed each other malevolently. They had bristled at every possible point of contact. Linton's last exploit had been a speech favoring the railroad tax rebate, a speech in which he scored those who opposed it as enemies to the development of the State. The fervor of his eloquence had made even Harlan Thornton doubt, sourly, whether a constitution that was framed before the exigencies of progress were dreamed of should be too rigidly construed. That was still another point where he and his grandfather disagreed, and the cogent speech of Linton had been the cause of further dispute between them. The Duke was disgusted because his grandson could be so scrupulous that he could not be progressive. For Harlan the straight path of rectitude was fringed with signs set there by friends, every sign inscribed "Fool." From the first, Linton had seemed to aggravate his difficulties, politically and personally. "Can you give me a few minutes of your time?" he asked, stiffly. "If it's business, and important, yes," returned Harlan, scowling. "I should not bother you with anything except business. And as this is of a private nature, I must ask you to invite me to your room." Harlan led the way to the elevator. Linton did not remove his overcoat when they were closeted together. He stood with hat in his hand. "It may surprise you to learn that my business concerns Miss Presson and the legislative ball to-morrow evening," began Linton, but Harlan indignantly broke in. "You can have no possible business with me, sir, in which Miss Presson's name may be mentioned. Don't you use her name--not in any way. Do you understand?" "I understand this: I know what I'm talking about and exactly why I've come here, and you're going to listen. Miss Presson has accepted your escort to the ball to-morrow evening. Don't you know, Thornton, why you can't take Madeleine Presson into public, this whole State looking on? I hate to say any more than that. I don't think it's necessary for me to say any more than that!" His face was hard, his tone accusing. "I tell you, you have no right to mention Miss Presson to me!" cried the other. "I'm taking it on myself, and I'm giving you a chance by doing it," retorted Linton. "The story is bad enough now. But you'll be drummed out of this State if you insult an innocent girl in the way you plan to do." In his indignation Thornton had been slow to grasp the fact that his rival was making hints that both affronted and threatened. His conscience accused him of nothing. He felt the crackle of paper in his breast-pocket. He promptly suspected that Linton had gleaned a hint of the proposed legislation which would involve Madeleine's father. He tried to control his anger. "Will you kindly explain to me by just what right you say this," he sneered--"except, possibly, that you're jealous because Miss Presson chose me as her escort." "I have a right as a friend of her mother, if nothing else! I am keeping this thing as still as I can for your sake, for in this case protecting you means protecting her. I don't want to say any more! But sudden illness must prevent you from accompanying Miss Presson into public at that ball." Harlan beat a palm upon his own breast. "I've had enough of this, Linton. You tell me what you're driving at." It was plain that Linton hated to be more explicit. This culprit did not seem to quail before vague accusation, as he had expected him to do. He was faced by a young man whose face was lighted by wrath, curiosity, and kindred emotions that were obviously not those of guilt. "Let me say this in my own defence," pleaded Linton. "Spinney was going right to Mr. and Mrs. Presson with the story. I got it from him almost by accident. We were talking over our railroad bill this evening, and he mentioned your stand. Then he out with the story that he picked up when he was in Fort Canibas. I do not listen to gossip, Mr. Thornton, but it is plain that Spinney has facts. I have inquired in a prudent way of other men from your section. He has the story, but what they say confirms it." Harlan listened, his blank amazement depriving him of speech. "I've said enough now, haven't I?" asked Linton, significantly. "No, by God, you haven't!" shouted the other, coming out of his lethargy of astonishment. The recollection of Spinney's sinister hints came to him. "What do you mean?" "I mean that a man who will fool and throw over a girl in a way that drives her away from home and friends is no fit escort--" He got no further. He knew a thoroughly maddened and dangerous man when he saw one. He stepped back when Harlan dashed at him, and Thornton halted of his own accord. After a time he calmed himself enough to speak. "I'll not begin with you, Linton. I'll begin with the man who started that damnable lie. Oh, that--that--!" He flailed his arms about his head, unable to express himself. "You've been lied to. You don't know any better than to say that. If you hadn't been jealous you'd never have brought the story to me. I'll make allowances," he raved on; "but the man who started that story will swallow it with teeth and blood mixed." He stamped about the room. It was so horrible that he could not grasp the enormity of the lie all at once. Linton was impressed but not routed. He waited till Harlan was quieter. "I hope you'll get it straightened out," he said, coldly. "But with a story like that extant, of course you'll see the wisdom of the course I've suggested. You cannot afford to drag Miss Presson's name into your affair." "Into my affair! You dirty pup, do you dare to intimate--are you lunatic enough to take stock in any such story about me?" The epithets sent the color into Linton's face. But he restrained himself. "Your own grandfather had to take you in hand about the matter before you left Fort Canibas, Thornton. I heard him say that much myself. He gave no details. I don't care for any. I merely came to you to bring a hint as to what you ought to do. You don't seem to take the hint. If you haven't got manliness enough yourself to keep away from Miss Presson until this story--well, put it mildly, and say until this story is run down--then I propose to insist that you do so." "Look here, Linton, I've usually got pretty good control of myself. I'm trying to hold myself in now--trying as hard as I can. What you have told me is a lie--a damnable lie. See? I say it calmly." He was quivering. "You don't know what you're talking about. I haven't the patience to explain to you. It's none of your business. You keep away from me. Now don't put any more strain on my self-control--in God's name, don't do it, Linton!" "I am making no secret of my hopes in regard to Miss Presson," stated Linton, firmly. "I have been waiting until I could offer her what she has been accustomed to. You have the advantage of me in money, Thornton. But you're welcome to that! My hopes give me the right to guard her from scandal. I insist that you relieve her of your presence to-morrow evening!" Harlan, shaken, gray with passion, his teeth set over his lower lip, rushed to the door and threw it open. "D--n you, you get on the outside!" he panted. "I'm in the mood to kill you!" Linton went. By his visit and his warning he had thrown a sop to his conscience. He had approached Harlan Thornton with something like desperation. Under his calmness he had long-hidden, consuming passion for Madeleine Presson--a love that had grown through the years, and now waited a fitting time of expression and the endorsement of assured position. If he had any doubts of the truth of the shameful story he had brought he concealed those doubts--he would not admit them to himself. He proposed to win the girl. He chose any weapons that would rout the interloper. "I warn you that I shall protect her," he said, from the corridor. "Take a warning from me, too: you get into my affairs, and you'll find hell fires cooler!" "Your affairs do seem to have that flavor," declared Linton, walking away. Thornton hurried to the headquarters that the corporations maintained in the hotel for Spinney. Spinney was not there. He ran back to his room and telephoned to the clerk of the hotel. He was informed that Mr. Spinney had gone away for a few days. It was late, but he threw on his coat and hastened up street to the Presson home. The windows were dark. He did not have the assurance to arouse the family at that time of night. By that time, walking in the crisp air of the winter night, he had soothed, somewhat, his fever of anger, sorrow, and shame. Calmer, he had thoughts only for the bitter wrong that had been done Clare Kavanagh. Somehow it seemed that all were leagued against her--and him! Memory of her unselfishness, her simple faith in him, her abnegation, her true, little-woman trust in his career--it all rushed upon him. For a time he was almost ashamed to face what memory brought to him. Then manfully he set himself to read his heart--at least, he tried to. In the end, hidden in his room, he wept--honest tears of a strong man conscious that he was unable by his strength to hold disaster from an innocent. Even his attempt to find the rogue, Spinney, was futile. He wept, thinking of Clare Kavanagh--exiled from her home, bravely solving her problem of life alone. He went to sleep thinking of Clare Kavanagh. It was fortunate for his self-respect that she filled his mind so completely at that moment. Otherwise the reflection that he had led himself by degrees to covet the brains and beauty of Madeleine Presson would have convinced him that in his relations with women he was either fool or knave. Youth, untried in the ways of women and the wiles of loving and the everlasting problem of what the heart most truly desires, has wondered and wept the long ages through! CHAPTER XXV WOMEN, AND ONE WOMAN The next day brought the reign of woman. That festal day in mid-session which preceded the legislative ball had been made woman's field-day by long custom. The politicians arranged the programme in order to bunch events: for the women demanded that they be heard each session on the suffrage question; and the women pleaded for one opportunity to show their best gowns in parade for fashion's sake. So the politicians made one bite at the cherry; "took a double dose and had it over with," as Thelismer Thornton ungraciously expressed it. Frivolity was combined with feminine fervor on the suffrage question. One element was invited to neutralize the other. The politicians could endure the combination better than they could face each faction separately. The advocates of suffrage made their plea while their sisters promenaded the State House corridors to the music of the band. The festival spirit dominated. The members of the Judiciary Committee wore fresh waistcoats, pinks in their buttonholes, and a genial air--and had not the least idea of granting the suffragists anything except a benignant hearing. The report of "ought not to pass" was a foregone conclusion. But there were potted palms in the lobbies, decorations in the rotunda, and masses of flowers in the House chamber which was given over to the hearing. And sweet music softened legislative asperities. The women asked, smiling. The men refused, smiling. The federated women's clubs of the State had the suffrage matter in their keeping. The delegates were not hard-faced women clutching umbrellas. They were the strictly modern suffragists--radiant matrons, fresh-complexioned girls, women who led in culture and fashion in their respective communities. At the previous session the Legislative Committee had asked that the delegation of women be restricted to the usual number of persons that appeared at legislative hearings. When a dozen came with their petitions and arguments the Committee blandly stated that there seemed to be no general demand in the State for woman's suffrage--witness the attendance of women interested! This year the women proposed to disprove that assumption. Every woman's literary, social, art, and economic club in the State sent two delegates. The State was raked for women, even the schools were ransacked. At ten o'clock in the forenoon the State House was packed and women were still crowding in. The galleries, aisles, and standing-room of House and Senate were choked with silks, furs, and feathers which decorated the beauty and brains of the State. The routine was hurried through. Callous man, gasping for breath, wanted to escape. The few in the lobby who dared to smoke soon hid their cigars under their coat-tails and departed to the hotels. The cuspidors were hidden. Gay frocks swept cigar stubs out of sight. When the members of the Judiciary Committee attempted to enter the House chamber to conduct the hearing on suffrage, it required full ten minutes of persuasive eloquence and courteous pushing on the part of the messengers to break the jam of women that filled the door and packed the lobby floor adjacent. The fair lobbyists did not want to give up even that vantage-point in order to admit the men who were to listen. And after the committee had managed to wriggle its way in single file to the platform they had not the heart to expel the women who were occupying their chairs. They gallantly stood in a row against the rear wall of the Speaker's alcove and listened to the petitioners--each woman allowed two minutes! Not one member of the legislature, outside the committee, heard. It would have been an ungallant man, indeed, who did not surrender his place in the chamber to a woman who had come to present her cause. So the women amiably listened to themselves, and the committee listened to them in all politeness, and both sides understood that it was only a genial social diversion out of which nothing would come. In that gathering a suffragette would have been squelched by her own sex. Harlan Thornton came to the State House early. Morning had brought him wiser counsel. He felt no impulse to rush to the Presson house. He wondered now what he would have said if he had gained access to Madeleine Presson the night before. The astounding insult by Herbert Linton troubled him less. It had been a jealous outburst--Linton's confession of his love for the girl had revealed his animus. Probably Linton regretted it--in Harlan's calmer mood he trusted that such was the case. Conscious of his innocence, it did not seem to Harlan that any man would dare to deal further in such outrageous slander after what had been said in their interview. Harlan was one of the first to escape from the House through the press of women. There were too many of them. Officious gentlemen had begun to introduce him to wives and daughters and friends. He was not shy, but the presence of so many women--chattering, vivacious, exchanging repartee, challenging retort from him, was disquieting. He made his way to his committee-room. It was in a far corner of the building and was quiet. He had not been able to inspect the bill that Governor Waymouth had placed in his hands. He determined to put behind himself for a time the presence of women and the thoughts of women--even those thoughts which had so occupied him the night before. There was no one in the committee-room. The State House holiday had attracted his associates. He examined the measure that he was expected to sponsor. It provided for a commission of three men to be appointed by the Governor and to remain under his direct control--a bipartisan board. These men were to appoint special deputies to any number desired. To any county, city, or town these deputies were to be dispatched when it became apparent that police or sheriffs were lax or dishonest in enforcing the prohibitory law. No limits were placed on the number of these men empowered to kill saloons and put liquor-peddlers out of business. No special amount of money was to be asked of the legislature--the bill provided that the State treasury should stand behind the movement. The young man was quick to understand the tremendous power granted to the Governor by that bill. Under it no party management, no group of politicians, could club or coax the liquor interests into line at the polls by manipulation of the traffic. No sheriff could enrich himself by selling privileges. No city could govern itself in that respect--declaring that public opinion favored the saloons and making local law superior to the constitutional law of the State. The bill provided that a judge must impose both fines and imprisonment when convictions were secured, and, therefore, no judge could carry on any longer a practical system of low license by imposing fines alone. It was the principle of _enforced_ prohibition put on trial. In the past the Luke Pressons of the State had laughed at interference by a Governor. Local politics, easily handled, had controlled the actions of cities, and police had kept their hands off the traffic for years. Authority in liquor matters had been vested in the county high sheriffs, and these men were controlled from State headquarters wholly in the interests of politics. Harlan was sufficiently familiar with the old plan to know how this new system would upset the entire political machine of his State. That folio of document was a bombshell. He was holding it outspread in his hands when the door opened so suddenly that it startled him. Thelismer Thornton came in, shaking his shoulders disgustedly. "Feathers and cackle!" he muttered. "This State House turned into a poultry yard! And half of 'em braced back trying to crow! When a hen crows and a woman votes--well, it's all the same thing!" He relighted the cigar that he had brought through the press hidden in his big palm. He eyed his grandson keenly and with some disfavor as he puffed the cigar alight. "Look here, bub," he burst out, "there are enough women around here to-day to remind me that I want to have a word with you on the woman question. You intend to marry Madeleine Presson, don't you?" "_Intend_ to marry her!" blazed his grandson. "You talk as though it was the fashion to grab a girl and carry her off as they did in the Stone Age." "You know what I mean very well, sir. I take it you are still decent, and if you're decent you'll marry the girl you've beaued around for six months--providing she'll have you. That was the style in my day--and decency doesn't change much--at least, it ought not to." Had it been the day before, Harlan Thornton would have declared to his grandfather what his intentions were toward Madeleine Presson. The thoughts of the past night's vigil came upon him now--he hesitated. He was angry with himself--angry with this blunt and persistent old man. He did not know whether resentment held him back from acknowledging that he had been a suitor for the hand of Luke Presson's daughter or whether it was the strange, new feeling toward Clare Kavanagh since he had learned that her good name was in such piteous need of his protection and defence. "Have you asked her to marry you?" demanded the Duke. "Yes, I have--that is--" he paused. His air irritated still more the testy humor of the old man, plainly provoked by earlier matters. "'That is'!" he sneered. "'I have.' 'Perhaps I have!' 'Maybe I have--let's see what my notes say!' What in the devil is the matter with the young men nowadays, anyway? Blood in your veins about as thick as Porty Reek molasses! You say you have asked her to marry you? Well, if you've asked her and mean it, have you got anything to do with that Kavanagh girl being around this State House to-day?" Harlan sprang to his feet. He threw the document upon the table. His heart leaped within him. Even while his emotions bewildered him he found himself asking his conscience why he had not searched for her in spite of Dennis Kavanagh and her own plain desire to avoid him. The bare knowledge that she was near sent the blood into his face. Her coming to him seemed reproach for his acceptance of her flight. "Do you mean that?" "You are certainly giving me a fine imitation of a man who is surprised," stated his grandfather. "Maybe you are! I hope so. But she's here. She's with a bunch of girls from some school or other, paraded around by a hatchet-faced woman--another crowing hen that's trying to teach parliamentary law, I suppose. Harlan, I hope you've been square with me about that girl! Now, if you're honest, and don't know she's here, keep out of sight. I've given you the tip. She'll be speaking to you--and it will mix matters for you. She'd like nothing better than to do it!" "I'm sick of that kind of talk from you," protested the grandson, angrily. "Can't you mention the name of that innocent girl without a slur or an insult? And there's no reason why I cannot meet Clare Kavanagh any time and at any place." "Your political rule of out-and-open, as you've been tutored by Vard Waymouth, may work with men, but I'm telling you that it won't operate with girls," replied the Duke. "You may mean all right, but I'm suspicious of you. You sneaked back to Fort Canibas last summer to see her--now didn't you?" "I saw her." "You don't pay much attention to my wishes, do you, Harlan?" "I claim the right, in a few matters, to be my own master." "Even to making a devilish fool of yourself! You want Madeleine Presson. I can see that you want her. I've been watching. And I'm coming out now and say that I want you to have her. She's my idea of a wife. Now you needn't go to talking about that Kavanagh girl and _friendship!_ There's no such thing as that kind of friendship." Harlan had no time then to vent the anger that was seething in him. It seemed that every one who willed took the liberty to intrude upon the affairs which he tried to keep sacred. While that thought was uppermost in his troubled emotions, Linton, the other chief offender, came in, Presson with him. The chairman began briskly. He was serious, but he spoke kindly. "I don't usually interfere in these matters, but we'd better have this thing straightened out for the good of all of us. I'm glad you're here, Thelismer. I want you to stand by and listen. Here are two mighty good boys, these two--and now we'll leave out all political differences. We can afford to. We're all better friends than we were when the session opened." In spite of his absorption in his own affairs Harlan thought of the legislative morrow and its possibilities. "Now, this isn't politics! As I say, I don't usually meddle in my wife's or my daughter's--" "Just one moment, Mr. Presson!" Harlan strode forward. "Has this lying scoundrel dared to bring his dirty scandal to you?" He looked over the head of the chairman into the defiant face of his rival. The little man threw up his hands, standing between them. "Hold on! Hold on! You haven't come to me in the usual way, but as near as I can find out both of you are after my daughter. I know of my own knowledge, Harlan, that you have been interested up-country. I simply want to have a general understanding. I brought Linton here with me. No use in running between! Let's have our say face to face." Harlan controlled himself. "I think I understand just what prompts you, Mr. Presson," he said. "I respect your motives. You've been imposed upon. But you're not to blame. I know what you're going to ask me. I'll save you the trouble. I admire your daughter greatly. I have intended to ask her hand in marriage." He was suddenly conscious that the determination to persist in that suit was not acute. "That wasn't what I was going to ask you," said Presson with decision. "It's about the girl whom I saw--" "The name of no other person belongs in this discussion," broke in Harlan, firmly. "I refuse to permit that name to be dragged in, for it's insult and scandal." There was silence in the room. The chairman looked at Harlan, impressed by his demeanor. He knew the young man well enough to think twice before he persisted. Thelismer Thornton smoked hard, scowling. He was a little cautious about thrusting himself further into a matter that he knew would test the Thornton spirit in his grandson. But Linton was determined to win his point. He thought he saw his opportunity. He hoped he could force a break between Presson and the other suitor. "I'm interested in this matter as much as any one," he declared. "I have not told you the full story, Mr. Presson. But I'm here to see this matter straightened out for good and all, and unless you get an answer from this man, as a father ought to, I'll see that you have the facts to put you right." "Linton, didn't I tell you last night that you were circulating a lie?" Harlan's face was gray. "If it's a lie why are you afraid of telling Mr. Presson the whole truth and explaining the matter?" insisted Linton with a lawyer's pertinacity in extracting evidence. He realized that if young Thornton talked, even to admit the facts that information from the north country seemed to prove, a bit of impromptu cross-examination might yield results that would help the Linton cause. "I refuse because every word that is said on the subject is a gross insult to an innocent girl," declared Harlan, passionately. "And I warn you that if you open your mouth again you'll get the only thing a man can give you and remain a man!" "You'd better take the hint, Linton," advised the Duke. "I don't know exactly what you're driving at, but you're heading toward trouble. They don't do things up our way as they do in a city court-room." Linton was angry, desperate, and he was as stalwart as the other. He was not inclined to let that opportunity pass. Defiantly he plunged into the story that Spinney had reported. To his astonishment Harlan rushed for the door. He went out and slammed it behind him. A project had come to him, prompted by his furious rage which mocked common-sense. A man more accustomed to the conventions would not have attempted it. But all his north-country passion rioted in him at that moment. The night before he had wept because the peace and good name of Clare Kavanagh were threatened and he could only beat the ugly phantom of scandal helplessly. Now suddenly he found work for his hands--and his hands had always been his means of expressing his soul in toil, achievement, and in passion. He hurried down the stairs into the State House rotunda where the throngs were. The hearing before the committee was adjourned. The band was playing. He thrust himself through the press of the women. Maids and matrons stared after him. His face was pale, his lips made a straight-edge and his eyes swept every group with eagerness that was almost wild. It was search that was distracting. There were women, women. There were so many faces to scan! Chance led him to her--good fortune and the sudden thought that she would probably be found near some object of interest, were she escorted by a teacher. He saw the group near the great case that held the State's battle-flags. He caught her arm and her startled face was turned up to his. "Come," he whispered, hoarsely. "Come! Do not ask me why. Only come. Hurry!" With the trustfulness she had always shown in him she did not hesitate. She did not even offer excuses to the tall woman who stepped forward to inquire the intentions of this abrupt young man. She went, as she went in the north country when he called to her. Clinging to his arm she hurried up the broad marble stairway. She did not ask why. Her faith was complete. But his demeanor frightened her. "I was sorry after I got here," she gasped, as they hurried on. "But the others came from the school, and I thought it would be such a great place here that no one would notice me. I thought you would not see me, Harlan. But I wanted to learn about--about what you did--what the lawmakers did, so that--so that--" "Hurry," he urged her. He feared that they would be gone. This brusqueness, his haste, his sternness troubled her more and more. They were alone in the corridor that led to the committee-room. She stopped, holding him back with her strong young arms. He had hardly looked at her till then. She had changed in the months since he had seen her. Womanly dignity was mingled with the high spirit that had inspired the child. Her garb, her new mien made her beauty brilliant. "I never lied to you yet, Big Boy," she cried. "I came here because I was hungry for a sight of you. Then I would go back to my work comforted. Now my conscience is clear. Take me where you will." In that moment his heart was revealed to him. In the stress of new emotions he understood himself at last. He understood that the love which mates, which sweeps away all calculation, which welds, trusts, and never pauses to analyze or compute, is love that disdains mere admiration of intellect or lure of beauty. His quiet nature had depths. They had never been stirred till then. The child-love had been budding there ready for blossom. It had been fed by faith and ripened by association. Passion now brought it to fruition. Madeleine Presson had appealed only to one side of him. This girl rounded out the whole philosophy of love. She was not a divinity. His nature did not crave divinity. In his strength, sincerity, ingenuousness, his man's soul, primitive as the free woods, required the mate--one to be cherished and protected. And so, now, when all his soul was stirred, this girl, so bitterly in need of protection--the girl whom the years had endeared to him--came into his heart to reign there. Words, emotion choked him. But he could not wait, then. She saw something in his eyes she had never seen there till that moment. But before she could understand he carried her along with him. "Come! I can't wait!" he cried. When he flung open the door of the committee-room the men in it were standing in silence. Presson had picked up the "Thornton Bill" and was reading it, scowling. Whatever Linton had said, it was plain that the father of Madeleine Presson had just found something which diverted his attention from family matters. Harlan shut the door behind. He locked it. He stepped away from the girl, leaving her standing there. She was a picture to confute slander. The chairman gazed at her in astonishment. He had not expected such prompt incarnation of the topic. "I know what foul lies have just been uttered in this room by that fellow!" Harlan leaned forward and drove an accusatory finger at Linton. "Now here stands the woman you have insulted. Look at her, you lying hound! There's only one thing you can do! Acknowledge yourself a liar and apologize!" Linton did not speak. He raised his eyebrows; it was unspoken comment on the peculiar actions of this young savage from the woods. "Presson, get out of here and bring help," muttered the Duke. "Hell is going to break loose!" The chairman slipped the document into his pocket and tiptoed around the side of the room. Harlan paid no attention to him. His eyes were for Linton. "Are you going to apologize?" "I'll wait until--" began the lawyer, but he got no further. The Thornton temper had been strained beyond the breaking-point. Harlan was upon him. "Bring a dozen!" yelled the Duke after the chairman who had been tugging at the door, and now escaped. Linton was tall and muscular, but law-practice is not lumbering. He struck viciously at Harlan, ducking to and fro with the briskness of the trained boxer. But the woodsman merely leaped upon him, heedless of his blows. He bore him down. He drove resistless knees into his shoulders. He thrust Linton's face against the floor and ground it against the boards. Then he dragged the limp figure past the cursing Duke toward the girl. She had fled to a corner, covering her eyes and sobbing in terror. "D--n you, you'll apologize to the girl who's going to be my wife," raved Harlan. When Presson returned at the head of volunteers the victor was grinding the bleeding face on the floor once more and Linton was screaming appeals. There were enough of them to separate the men. They dragged Harlan away out of the room in spite of his struggles. The mere sight of the lawyer seemed to infuriate him more. The Duke hurried the girl out and away while the peacemakers were struggling with the young combatants. "Stop that blubbering," he commanded, roughly. "If you've got any grit left in you, brace up. Don't let people here notice!" He was trying to hide as much of the true reason for the affray as he could. He wanted to get the girl out of sight. "I didn't know--I did nothing--if it was about me I didn't--" He stopped her brutally. "About you, you little fool? Of course it wasn't about you! My grandson is going to marry Luke Presson's daughter." She stiffened in the hook of his arm. They were in the corridor and had not come into the view of the people. "Every one knows it," he hurried on. He saw an opportunity to get in a cruel blow at the romance he suspected and hated. "They have been going together for months. She'll be the right kind of a wife for him. They were fighting about her--those two young hyenas." She pulled away from him. The tears were on her cheeks, but she held herself straight and looked him in the eye. "That's a lie, Mr. Thornton!" "It's the truth. He'll marry her if you haven't spoiled it all for him--spoiled his good name and stirred up all this scandal for him just as he was getting ready to amount to something in the world, with a wife that could help him! You get away from here as quickly as you can. You hear me? If his career is spoiled you've done it. Don't stay around here and disgrace him any more. It's bad enough, as it is, for him and Miss Presson!" She stared at him, stricken and puzzled. Then she left him. "I don't need any further escort," she informed him, turning after she had gone a few steps. It was Dennis Kavanagh's girl speaking now. "I have been escorted by the Thorntons quite enough during the past ten minutes. I tell you again, I believe you lie. But I propose to understand something more about this--and I'll not disgrace you nor your grandson!" "Go ask some questions!" he called after her. He felt sure that gossip would confirm him. But to make sure that Harlan did not follow her and find her and discredit gossip he turned back down the corridor purposing to keep that belligerent young man under watch and ward for a time. CHAPTER XXVI THE WAY OF A MAID WITH A MAID The Duke found his grandson in an anteroom where the half dozen excited, wondering men had conveyed him. The old man and the young man stood for a few moments and gazed at each other. Harlan was breathless, disheveled, his knuckles were bleeding. "Where is she?" The Duke came close to him. "She went away. Now keep your mouth closed. You talk about disgracing a girl," he muttered in his grandson's ear; "if you haven't disgraced her and yourself and all of us here to-day it isn't because you haven't done your best! God only knows why I didn't leave you in the woods where you belong!" "I'm going out to find her," insisted his grandson. "This is my own business from now on." "You try to leave this room in the shape you're in and I'll have you committed to the insane asylum across the river. The girl has more sense than you've got." While he was speaking Presson came in. He pulled the House bill from his pocket. "Thornton," he said, walking up to Harlan, "I didn't think there could be anything more important just now than the damnable performance you've just been through and the part my family plays in it. But here's something I propose to take while it's hot!" He shook the document at the young man. Harlan swept it out of his grasp before he could prevent, and buttoned it in his breast-pocket. "That is mine," he stated, not flinching under the indignant protest. "If it's yours will you inform me what you intend to do with it?" "I intend to introduce it in the House at to-morrow's session and work for its passage." "He's got a bill there," roared the chairman, turning to the Duke, "that's written by the Devil himself! It makes old Waymouth archfiend of all the ramrodders in this State! Our sheriffs are made his deputies and the Russian Tsar becomes a hog-reeve beside him." He blurted out the purport of the measure, garnishing the recital with good, round oaths. "So you're loaded with that, are you?" inquired the elder Thornton. He was as careless of the presence of the listeners as the chairman had been. He began invective, but the young man broke in. "Grandfather," he said, firmly, "I've listened long enough to that kind of talk from you and Mr. Presson--I've listened to all kinds of reasons why a man should come here and sell his soul for the sake of getting ahead in politics." He was thinking of the temptation that had come to him in the form of Madeleine Presson. "I don't want any more of it. I don't know of any reason why this State shouldn't obey its laws so long as they remain laws. As to my private business, I suggest that the two of you keep still." They had no appetite for further discourse with this young madman just then. The Duke turned on his heel and walked out. Presson followed. "Gentlemen," said the young man to those who remained, "I have no quarrel with you. I do not want any. Do you understand?" He wiped his hands with his handkerchief, smoothed his hair, and walked past them. As calmly as he could he hurried through the lobbies and the rotunda of the State House. The crowds were thinning. The band had gone. The women had scattered to prepare for the ball of the evening. Among the few that were left he could not find her. He went back to his committee-room and pondered until dusk fell. One matter presented itself to his mood as a duty. He called a carriage and was driven to the Presson home. Madeleine came down in answer to his card. But as she entered the reception-room her father followed at her heels, beginning threats as he came in. "Father," she said, quietly, "I have just listened to you. You need not fear that I do not understand myself and my duty. I ask you to retire." He stood there a moment, still muttering his wrathful protest, but in the end her dignity mastered him. He went away. What she did next amazed the young man who stood there waiting. She came to him and patted his cheek. "My poor boy," she said, softly, and drew him down beside her on a couch. For a moment the words he had come prepared to say deserted him. He could not speak. He found sincere compassion in her eyes--sympathy and something else which he did not fathom. "I can do at least one decent thing to-day," he burst out. "I can come to you man-fashion and ask you to release me from our engagement of this evening. I know, of course, you wouldn't go to the ball with me after what has happened. But there's a deeper reason. I am going to tell it to you. Don't misunderstand me. I don't know the right words to use. Any way I put it may sound as though I were a cad. But understand me, Madeleine--as my friend, understand me--for God's sake, do! You have been wise. You have counselled me. I need a friend now!" His voice broke, and she waited. "I've come to my senses. Oh, it's no discredit to you that I thought I loved you. I thought so." "Your love would honor any woman, Harlan." He looked at her piteously. He understood how his confession would sound. Only his resolve to be honest with her availed to drive him to the confession he intended to make. "I couldn't say it to some girls," he cried. "They would not see how it was. But I can only tell you the truth!" "Wait a moment," she said, interrupting. "You are not just yourself. Let me talk to you. Only a little while ago a girl came to me." He started up, but she restrained him. "Listen! She had heard. There were plenty to tell her when she asked. We have given occasion for gossip. Gossip has eyes and ears and good imagination. It has even been reported that our engagement would be announced after the legislative ball. Wait! She heard all that from the first one she asked. She has told me so. She believes it!" "Believes it! What did you tell her?" "Wait, I say! I have shown patience this afternoon. I waited for her to speak. Let me tell you what she said while I waited. She said she wanted you to be a great man. She knew, so she told me, that she only brought trouble and distress to you. She wanted to see me so that she might know if I were the one who could help you in your career. I'll not tell you what she said to me about myself. She is a sweet and gracious girl, that little Clare, Harlan! She said she knew I could help you in your work in life. And she wanted to tell me the little story of you two--she wanted to forestall gossip that might hurt you in my eyes. And she gave you to me. Harlan, I have heard of that kind of love--but I didn't believe it existed. Did you?" Tears were on his cheeks. "I know her!" he choked. She understood his answer. She waited a little while. "And I love her above all the honors and treasures of this world!" She stood up. "I'm going to find her," he went on. "You understand me, don't you, Madeleine?" "I understand. But you shall not go to find her"--she smiled into his startled eyes--"for she is hidden in my room, waiting to tell me more--waiting until I tell her something that will take the burden from her heart. I had been listening to her when my father came in with his story; I had not made my confession. It would have comforted her--it will comfort her, for I can tell her truthfully I have not yet met the man I can love, Harlan--you were not the one!" She left with him the consolation of a smile and hastened away. She did not even reproach him because of his affair with Linton. He stood waiting at the door. He heard the steps on the stairs. He was ready to clasp her. But Madeleine Presson came in alone. "The girl has gone, Harlan. The maid said she ran away after I left her. I was a fool. I dropped your card!" He stood dumb and motionless. "Gone, believing that!" he gasped. She shook him. "But you can find her. Remember that she is young. She believed gossip too quickly. You must find her. Hurry! She will only have to see your eyes to know that they all lied." He rushed to the door. "Bring her to me," cried the girl. "I'll know how to help you." At the railroad station he was told that the special trains had gone with the visitors who were not in town for the ball. He did not even know the name of the school from which she had come. At the State House he at last found some one who had seen and known the group--an attaché of the State educational department. There was no train that way until midnight. He took it. How he passed the time of waiting he never knew. He was at the doors of the institution as early as decency permitted. He did not wish to compromise her. He was assured in a manner that left no room for doubt that Miss Kavanagh had not returned with the others. They were much worried and had notified her father. Harlan sent an appealing telegram to him, daring even to solicit that ogre of the North. But no word came to him. He wired orders to his caretaker at "The Barracks" to investigate at that end, and returned to the State capital, distracted, baffled, not knowing what step to take next. The session had not closed for the day when he arrived at the State House. Men in the lobby stared at him as he passed. It was evident that tongues had been busy with his affairs. His grandfather, striding up and down, tried to intercept him, but he kept on to his seat. All the eyes of the House were on him. Word of the "Thornton Bill" had gone abroad. Now, in spite of his mental distress, he remembered his duty. When he rose to ask the privilege of introducing a bill, interrupting the order of business, he anticipated objection. No objection was made. The opposition did not propose to waste effort on pettifogging preliminaries. The bill went in and on its way--and that night the capital buzzed with the discussion of it. Harlan Thornton spent half the night at the telegraph-office, his mind intent on something far from prospective legislation. But no word came to comfort him--no clew that he could pursue. Days grew into weeks. He did not attempt search in person. It would have been vague wandering about the country. He remained to hold up the hands of Governor Waymouth, finding relish for fight in the rancor that settled within him. He and Linton silently faced the gossip that beat about them in regard to their encounter--and kept away from each other. Theirs was a balanced account. And Madeleine Presson somewhat ostentatiously permitted the attentions of the young Secretary of State! CHAPTER XXVII THE EVERLASTING PROBLEM Day after day, during that session, an old man sat in the executive chamber of the State House. His face grew as white as his hair. There were deeper lines in his countenance than mere old age had tooled across the skin. One after the other the men of the two branches of the legislature came before him at his summons. He did not entreat of them. There was no more of that suave political diplomacy in the executive chamber, after the fashion of the old days of easy rule. This Governor declared himself to be the mouthpiece of the people of his State. He showed to the legislators their path toward absolute honesty. He ordered them to follow it. One or two of the first ones who were called upon the carpet dared to refuse--attempted to evade. He promptly issued statements to the press, holding those men up to the people of their State as traders and tricksters. Voters had always understood that trades and tricks were in progress in the legislature, and had never bothered their heads much about the matter. But this incisive showing up of individuals was new and startling and effective. It afforded no opportunity for the specious reasoning along mere political lines which had excused dishonesty in the past. Protests poured in on the would-be rebels. Their experience warned the others. The State was in a mood to try reform. The reform was promised on the usual broad lines. Individuals did not stop to reflect what effect the suggested legislation would have on their own interests. Every man was after "the other fellow." "I'll keep you here until you pass these laws," stated the grim old man in the executive chamber, "even if you stay here till snow flies again." Legislators are paid by the session, not by the week. The prospect of spending the summer fighting an obstinate old man, with the people behind him, was not alluring when personal expenses were considered. Even lobbyists and corporations and political considerations fail to hold sway under such conditions. The Governor's bills went through. "They've abolished fees," drawled Thelismer Thornton, one day in the lobby, "to get square with Constable Emerson Pike up my way. Em went down to replevin some hens, and after he'd chased each hen a dozen times around the barn he sat down and charged up mileage to the county. The rest of this legislation is on the same basis. Here's a legislature that's like Dave Darrington's hogs. After old Dave lost his voice and couldn't holler to the hogs, he used to rap on the trough with his cane at feeding-time. Then a woodpecker made his home in the pig-pen and the hogs went crazy. Vard Waymouth is all bill! I'd reckoned I'd go home. But I guess I'll stay and see just how far dam foolishness can go!" So he patrolled the lobby, puffing everlastingly at his cigar, watching the activity of Harlan with a disgust that he did not try to conceal and occasionally flinging a sour remark at that devoted young man. "A calf leaving the cow to chase a steer," he growled. "He'll know better when it comes supper-time!" One day a man halted him. "You may be interested in what's going on in the House, just now, Mr. Thornton. Your grandson is making a speech." "Then he _has_ lost his mind!" snapped the Duke. "I'd only suspected it up to now!" But when he edged in at the door he discovered that his grandson was not making the usual spectacle which the untried orator affords. The zeal which had driven him into the fight was supporting him as he faced the men who were his associates. He stood at his desk, pale--but unfaltering. He was talking to them, man to man. "It has met me to my face, it has followed at my back through all these weeks," he was saying. "I'm accused of helping to wreck my party. You know better than that, gentlemen. You know who did the wrecking. It has been going on for years. And we have been asked to hide the retreat of the wreckers. I refuse to allow those men who have wrecked our party to call themselves the true prophets and summon us to follow them. Our party is not simply the men who hold office for their personal gain. If making them honest or putting them out is destroying the party, then let's destroy and rebuild. "We need to rebuild. "Up in our woods it's dangerous to leave slash on the ground after a winter's cutting. The politicians have left a lot of slash in this State. The fire has got into it. It is burning up the old dead branches and tops, but it is hurting the standing timber, too--I understand that. Why not see to it after this that the men who leave political slash shall not be allowed to operate! "It's a bad litter, gentlemen, that has been left around the roots of our prohibitory law. I have introduced the bill that's now under consideration. It has nothing to do with the principle of prohibition--the theory of that was threshed out in these chambers before I was born. But isn't it time, gentlemen, to have a test of the _practice_ of prohibition? "I know little about politics. I am merely one of the hundreds of young men in this State who stand on the outside of politics and want the opportunity to be honest when we vote. We appeal to the older men of this State to drop the game for a little while and give us a chance to start fair. The biggest corporation in this State is the State itself, and I like to think that all of us, young or old, are partners or stockholders. I've been brought up in business. We know what we'd all do in straight business. Why can't we do it in State affairs? Too many influences surround a legislature to make its work really deliberative. After the heat and arguments of this session have died away we ought to have a meeting on a real business basis. "Let the churches, the grange, the radicals, the liberals, the hotel men, the liquor men, all send their delegates. Let that assemblage take thought on a plan which will lift out of politics a question that doesn't belong there. Let's end civil war on this question. Give the young men some other picture as their eyes open on the politics of this State." It was the earnest, ingenuous appeal of one crying out of the wilderness of human uncertainty--of one who saw the evils in those attempts of men to curb greed and appetite--of one earnestly seeking a remedy, but not clearly understanding that so long as the world shall endure, with men and women weak and human, some problems must remain unsettled. "I'll suggest a place for that convention," muttered Thelismer Thornton to those who stood about him. "Hold it in Purity Park in Paradise! Settle the rum question!" he sneered. "Noah hadn't been stamping around on dry ground long enough to get his quilts aired out before he was drunk on Noah's Three Star! And Japheth probably got mad and passed a prohibitory law and thought he had the trouble fixed forever." When the legislature finally adjourned the protestations that had been wrung out of it promised much in the way of honest reorganization. Harlan Thornton remained with Governor Waymouth for a time. His Excellency found him indispensable. The commissions were at work. Office-holders whined, taxpayers squirmed. Honesty was greeted everywhere by wry faces. But the "Thornton law," its deputies superseding county and city authority, was the bitterest political pill of all. The results discouraged the righteous--Governor Waymouth predicted them accurately with the old-age cynicism of one who understood human nature. The flagrantly open places were closed. But innumerable dives thereby secured the business which had gone to the open places in the days of toleration. An army could not have closed the dives--the proprietors of which, in most cases, carried their villanous concoctions on their persons. Express companies were organized for the sole purpose of dealing in liquors by the parcel system, and the State's liquor agencies, established under the protection of the prohibitory law itself, were besieged by patrons who stood in queues of humanity like buyers at a theatre ticket-window. Reformation of human nature by mere statute was a failure! But mere political disaster did not daunt the stern old man who held his commissioners to their task. The people themselves began to complain of the cost of the new system of enforcement--the money paid to make them obey their own laws. When their complaints were loudest the Governor allowed himself the luxury of a smile. Reform for the mass. Admirable! Reform for the individual. Atrocious infringement of personal liberty! "I cannot make them good," he said to Harlan. "But I can give them such a picture of their own iniquity that perhaps they'll realize it and make themselves good. You can't reform folks in this world on much of any basis except that!" It was late summer and they were in the garden of the brick house at Burnside. Harlan had been at his chief's side day after day, shielding him as much as possible from those who came to solicit, to threaten, to complain. In the opportunity given him to meet every man of importance in the State he had won respect, even regard. His personality removed him from the ranks of the radicals and relieved him from the imputation that attached to them. His sincerity was evident. He was frank to express his disappointment at the results of the legislation he had assisted in procuring. He listened attentively to the suggestions of others. He made it plain that he was not unalterably wedded to a law because he had been instrumental in adding it to the code. He made known to all his willingness to compromise on everything except honesty, and day by day he made men understand better the basis of the system advocated by his chief and himself. They had burnished the mirror of politics; they held its new and brighter surface up to the people that they might gaze on themselves. And in time the people came to realize what service had been done. And, as they realized it, the name of young Thornton went abroad in the State from mouth to mouth--men speaking of him as one who was entitled to the praise that attaches to honesty unsmirched by bigotry. His optimism softened the asperities which men found in the character of the Governor. He attracted to the grim old man the loyalty of the youth of the State, and at the same time won that loyalty for himself. He had come forward at a time when men were ready to accept new ideals, even if they were obliged to wade to them through such mire as now soiled the execution of the new laws. That proposed convention for the unprejudiced consideration of the liquor laws was taking form. The intemperate radicals were the only ones declaiming against "compromise with the devil." But the new conditions were revealing the real colors of those impractical zealots, and it was plain that their noisy minority would no longer be allowed to bluster down the truer and more equable spirit of "the best for all the people." The men and women of the State were taking time to analyze some of those high-sounding phrases with which so-called temperance had disguised vicious theories which left human nature out of the equation. The politicians of the old school remained aloof. They were pointing to "the wreck of the party." "And I'll be passed down to history as the wrecker," said the Governor, talking to Harlan under the big elm. "But you've got strong arms, my boy. I can see that you'll have much to do in building anew out of the wreck, you and those who are beginning to appreciate you. I can see a future of much promise for you, Harlan." "I'll be politely, but firmly, invited to go back to the woods," protested the young man. "You'll not be allowed to do it," replied the Governor, quietly. "You have been tested for your honesty. These newer times have eyes to recognize that quality. And the rogues are being smoked out. But remember that even the end of time will not find all questions solved. That thought will have to serve you for consolation." That was hardly the consolation that would satisfy impetuous youth and zeal in accomplishment. But Harlan had been learning lessons in consolation. The thought of Clare Kavanagh was with him night and day. In spite of all his searching she remained hidden. He did not confide his grief to any one. It brought pallor to his face and listlessness in the daily duties that bore upon him. Governor Waymouth took note at last. And when the young man asked for permission to go home to the north country for a time he reluctantly sent him away. On the eve of his departure, which had been announced by a press that now followed his movements with the attention accorded to a man of importance in State affairs, he obeyed a summons from Madeleine Presson. She put a letter into his hands. It was addressed to Clare Kavanagh. "You will find her, Harlan," she said, comfortingly. "Love will search her out. And when you find her, give her this letter. There are words from woman to woman that woman understands." Harlan found his grandfather sitting on the broad porch of "The Barracks," smoking and looking out across the river valley. The spirit in which he had left that hateful legislature seemed to have departed from the Duke. The old quizzical glint was in his eyes as he grasped Harlan's hand. After their greeting they sat together in silence. "It's a beautiful game, hey, my boy?" remarked the Duke, at last. "I see that some of the country papers have already begun to talk of you for Governor of the State. The editors haven't seen you, but from what they've heard they probably think you're a hundred years old and have grown to enormous size!" "Don't make game of me, grandfather," said Harlan, coloring. "Oh, I'm only expressing a wicked hope. There are some men in this State that I'd like to see punished to that extent." He chuckled. "Put me down for fifty thousand dollars, first subscriber to your campaign fund." "I can appreciate the humor of that joke," said Harlan. "For I've had a liberal education in the past year--I've found out just how little I know." He added wearily, "And I've found out how hard it is to be what you want to be." His grandfather tipped his head back into his clasped hands, his characteristic attitude. He squinted out across the hills. "Bub," he said, "I had the first real blow of my life the other day. A man pointed me out on the train and told another man, loud enough so that I overheard him, that I was Harlan Thornton's grandfather--'and I forget his first name,' he said, 'it begins with T.'" They ate supper together in the old mess-hall, back on their former footing. Word by word it came out of the Duke--his admiration for this boy who had made his own way. Every blow he had dealt his grandfather's personal pride had brought the reactionary glow of appreciation of this scion who could hit so hard and so surely. He watched him saddle his horse after supper. He did not ask where he was going. Harlan did not know. His longing drew him down the long street and across the big bridge, his horse walking slowly. CHAPTER XXVIII ONE PROBLEM SOLVED The dusk was cool and soft. Below him the current gurgled against the piers with sounds as though the river's fairies laughed there in the gloom. Doves nestled against the rafters of the bridge above, stirring with tired murmurings. When he came out under the stars he saw the red eyes of Dennis Kavanagh's house. The sight of them put the peace of the sky and fields out of his heart. He spurred his horse and galloped up the hill. Even as Thelismer Thornton found true haven on his porch in the summer evening, so Dennis Kavanagh had his solace in his own domain, smoking his pipe. He sat there when Harlan swung close to the steps. "Mr. Kavanagh," said the young man, sternly, "I am Harlan Thornton. Do you know any ill of me?" "I know that you're old Land-Grabber Thornton's grandson! I also know that you have shaken him in politics until his old teeth rattled. And I'm much obliged to you!" "I'm not here to talk about politics or my grandfather. I'm here on my own account. You know where your own daughter is. I've come to ask you honorably and fairly where she is. Will you tell me?" Mr. Kavanagh was silent a long time. He seemed to be struggling with some kind of surprise. "No, I'll not tell you," he declared at last. "Then I want to tell _you_ something, sir. I love your daughter. I love her so honestly--so devotedly that I propose to search for her through this world. And when I find her--" he hesitated. "If you find her?" "I stopped because I do not want to threaten or boast. But I will say, Mr. Kavanagh, that when I find her I'll beg of her to be my wife, and if she consents I promise you that no two sour old men are going to spoil our happiness! I want a fair understanding with you." "Queer notions you have of a fair understanding," retorted Mr. Kavanagh. "You'd call it a fair understanding, would you, to come here and tell me to get off my own doorstep because you claimed the place?" "I mean that no man has the right to refuse happiness to his own or to others simply to curry his own personal spite. That's all, sir." He whirled his horse and galloped away. He halted at the church, threw the reins over the animal's head and went and sat on the steps. He wanted to think. He wanted to calm himself. He hoped that the place would console him with its memories, afford him some hope, some suggestion. He wondered now why he had allowed anything to delay that search. Yet he understood vaguely that she had hidden herself from him by her own choice. She had fled with wounded heart. He had not dared to seek her too eagerly. The red eyes of Kavanagh's house mocked him. Suddenly he started up. A figure, flitting and wraith-like, was coming toward him from those eyes. It was running. He could hear the swift patter of feet. She came straight to him where he stood; he had not dared to run toward her. "I heard--I followed!" she gasped, and the next moment was sobbing in his arms. All his talk to her for a long time was incoherent babbling of love and remorse. Then he held her close. "Little girl," he said, "I've learned in the world outside. I've learned many things. But this--this I've learned bitterly and forever! There's love of fame and of power and of mere beauty--but there's only one love after all--that's the love that gives all, is all--that's my love for you and the love I think you have for me. It is ours--that love. Oh, my sweetheart, how we will cherish it all the years through!" After a time he drew her down on the steps and they sat in silence through long minutes, listening to the muted calling of the crickets in the grasses, the rustle of the river current, all the soft noises of the summer night. Then he bethought himself and drew Madeleine Presson's letter from his pocket. He gave it to her with a word of explanation. Looking into his eyes, her own eyes brilliant as stars, she slowly tore the letter to bits and scattered the snowy fragments upon the grass. "A woman does know," she said; "knows without reading what some other woman writes. I do not need her words, Big Boy. I know of my own heart. I knew long ago. I listened too readily to others. I have listened to my own love since. I have been waiting for you to come." After another silence which needed no words to interpret it, he rose and lifted her to her feet. With his arm about her he walked to his horse. He mounted and drew her up, and she clung to him, as maid to knight. "So, to your father now," he told her. "But not to speak to him harshly," she said, a ripple of merriment in her voice, "for I'll tell you a secret. He did not try to stop me when I ran away--he even called after me, 'He's turned in at the church, you wild banshee!' They have told him things that have given him new respect for Harlan Thornton. But your grandfather?" "He has learned that my love is my own affair, along with my politics." "Let me do my part, Harlan," she said, proudly. "Love will light the waiting, and it will not seem waiting. When I take my place at your side he shall not be able to say that I am not the wife for you." "It's enough for me to-night that I love you and you love me. The years must take care of themselves. Love will mark off the calendar for us, little sweetheart, not in months or in years, but in one dear summer of waiting that will make work worth while and life worth living." He patted the horse's neck and they went slowly up the road toward the Kavanagh house, their arms about each other, the gracious dusk hiding them. Life's future hid its problem. Love's present was enough. THE END