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CORNELL
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DRAMATIC LIBRARY

THE GIFT OF
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OF CorNELL UNIVERSITY

1934

 

 

 

 

 

 
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PANSY MEARES

THE STORY OF A LONDON SHOP GIRL
 

 

BY THE SAME AUTHOR

THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN:
A Stupy IN SoctaL VALUES $1.50

Tue Soctatist CouNTESS . $1.30 net

THe Eatinc MrractE . . $1.25 net

 

 
PANSY MEARES

The Story of a Wondon Sbop Girl

BY

HORACE W. C. NEWTE

AUTHOR OF “SPARROWS,”
“THE EALING MIRACLE,” ETC.

NEW YORK
JOHN LANE COMPANY
MCMxII :
FE VA}
CopyricHt, 1912, By
JOHN LANE COMPANY

a
‘oop }
EATPe.
ma

Aes rag

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ey
Oh had I wist before I kissed
That love had been sae ill to win.

OLD COUPLET
CHAPTER

I.

a<38

VI.
Vir.

i i

XIII.

XV.
XVI.
XVII.
XVIII.

XXI.
XXII.
XXIII.
XXIV.
XXV.
XXVI.
XXVII.
XXVIII.

CONTENTS

PART I

THE BLOOM OF YOUTH

Earth to Earth 7 é
Baked Meats .

Heavy George

Half Moon Farm

The Unexpected r
Abel Gorm. s .
Pansy Leaves Home

“Tlfracombe”’

The ‘X. Y. Z.’
Stocktaking .

A Fateful Pin .
Gerald Nepean

The Primrose Path .
The Sequel

PART IT

THE TREE OF KNOWLEDGE

{Mowker & Bleet’s’ .
Aftermath Z

The ‘Bullet’

The Stars in Their Courses
A Fateful Laugh

The Pitiless

“Mrs. Simpson”

Lena’s Call

Smart George .
Undercurrents

To Write or Not to Write
Adrift

The Way of a Worn

The Way of a Man

Peril .
George Sees Red

PAGE
Ir
18
25
37
49

75
85
97
IIL
121
132
145
160

181
198
213
226
239
255
266
280
293
3°7
317
327
339
352
365
375
PART I
THE BLOOM OF YOUTH
CHAPTER I

EARTH TO EARTH

Irene) dried her eyes and set about putting
on the mourning that had arrived from the
dressmaker’s.

It had been delivered late and there was need for
haste, as her mother’s extremity would prevent her
from being ready to receive those who had been bid-
den to her husband’s funeral.

What with grief at her father’s loss and the lit-
tle food she had eaten, Pansy feared she had not the
strength to get into the black frock; before she at-
tempted to put it on, she believed it was too big;
her anxiety on this score excited an interest that made
her forgetful of her bereavement and awakened suf-
ficient energy to enable her to take off the dress she
was wearing and substitute the mourning.

The order had been executed in haste and it
would not be surprising if Miss Willett had bungled:
to Pansy’s relief the garments fitted, but immediately
her apprehensions were allayed, she was again sensi-
ble of her anguish.

It was a good father she had lost, and over and
above his lovingkindness to wife and daughter he
had been a fine figure of a man.

Joseph Meares had stood well over six feet in his
socks; his regular features, drooping tawny mous-
tache and dreamy eyes had made him a conspicuous
figure among the slouching inhabitants of the Essex
village of Billingham, where, after leaving the coun-

II

Prvece MEARES (her Christian name was
12 PANSY MEARES

try of his birth in the West of England, he had made
a decent living as a small builder. ad

He came of a short-lived stock; after a brief ill-
ness he had unexpectedly died of an affection of the
heart.

Pansy’s grief would have again expressed itself
in tears had not she held them back in order to see
in the glass how black suited her.

She had always avoided the colour as she was
very dark, taking after her mother, also a West coun-
try woman, and of the Spanish type often to be met
with in Devonshire sea-coast towns and villages.

Much to Pansy’s surprise, she looked better than
she had expected, the black having the effect of re-
ducing her well-developed figure to slighter propor-
tions.

After watching her reflection and noticing how
her fine eyes were red with sleeplessness and tears,
she wondered if George Tarling would be in church;
directly the possibility of his being there occurred to
her, she went to the washstand and pouring water
into the basin carefully bathed her face.

She was interrupted in this proceeding by a
gentle tap on the door. ’

“Come in,” she said.

Mrs. Gutteridge, who had laid her father out, and
had since helped in the house, filled the doorway;
she was a stout timid woman and Pansy numbered
her among her earliest recollections of Billingham.

“Ain’t you ready yet?” asked Mrs, Gutteridge.

“Not quite. What is it you want?”

“There ain’t no ‘creases’.”

““Creases’?”’ asked Pansy blankly.

“Water creases for tea. They’ve been forgot.”

“What if they have!”

“You don’t honour the dead if you don’t have
‘creases’ for tea when you come back from a
funeral.”
EARTH TO EARTH 13

“Indeed !”

“No, dear.”

“T can’t think of such things now,” declared Pansy.
“Tl be down as soon as I can.”

Mrs. Gutteridge made as if she would go, but
leaned against the doorpost and shed tears.

“Don’t!” said Pansy as she bridled an inclination
to follow her example.

Then as the grief-stricken girl knew a need for
sympathy, she was about to approach and comfort
Mrs. Gutteridge but the latter said:

“T’m sure to see him to-night.”

“Who?” asked Pansy quickly.

“Gutteridge.”

“Oh {?

“An’ he’s sure to black my eyes. He always does
when I’ve been away from home.”

Pansy was jarred by the fact of Mrs. Gutteridge
being concerned with her own affairs at such a time;
the hurt her sensibilities received enabled her to fin-
ish dressing without breaking down.

She descended to the parlour, where sherry and
cake were set out, as a subdued knock was heard on
the front door.

This heralded the first arrival, a Mr. Posson whom
Pansy disliked because he had patronised her father.

Posson was a plumber, had a talent for painting,
and had several times been employed to decorate
church interiors: he thought the world of himself and
of his work and was consequently one of the happiest
of men.

The nature of what was toward did not pre-
vent him from telling Pansy of his recent artistic
doings, but the occasion that was responsible for
his presence urged him to subdue his normally loud
voice.

She was relieved by the arrival of Mr. Nosworthy,
who was a man of financial standing in Billingham.
14 PANSY MEARES

He was a butcher by trade and a few years back his
wife had come in for money.

He surprised and pleased his envious neighbours
by keeping on the shop, by being hail-fellow-well-
met with everybody and by his unassuming manners:
beyond an occasional visit to a race meeting, he at-
tended to his business.

Pansy liked him because he had once put a shilling
for her upon a horse; he had told her it had won and
had paid her her winnings; it was not till some time
after that she learned that the horse had been
“scratched” at the last moment.

Immediately after Nosworthy had expressed him-
self quietly and appropriately, wheels stopping out-
side announced further arrivals.

The little room speedily filled and the atmosphere
became so oppressive that Pansy resisted an incli-
nation to fly into the air and get far away from the
black-coated, sombre assembly.

There was her close-fisted Uncle Perrott from
“Half Moon” farm, his heavy son who looked more
loutish, if that were possible, in black clothes than his
everyday attire, and her mother’s angular and rather
eccentric sister, who had married Perrott.

Then there was Mrs. Dynes, a round-faced, un-
pleasant-looking woman who had driven all the way
from Black Roding to the funeral.

She was a cousin by marriage and was what is lo-
cally called a “Peculiar,” which means that she was
an adherent of the sect of “Peculiar People.”

Mrs. Dynes owned the freehold of the Black Ro-
ding chapel; to turn an honest penny she did a nig-
gling business in fruits and nuts, and retailed the
honey of bee-keepers in her neighbourhood.

She was reported to be well off, and as the Meares
were the only relations she acknowledged, a diffident
acquaintance had been cultivated.

Believing that all who had been invited had ar-
EARTH TO EARTH 15

rived, Pansy was about to go upstairs to see what
had become of her mother when another subdued
knock was heard on the front door.

She wondered whom it could be and half expected
that George Tarling had come, although he had not
received an invitation; a moment or two later, she
was dismayed to see the doorway filled by the last
man she expected to make his appearance and one she
detested.

This was Mr. Gorm, who was both hated and
feared by nearly everyone in Billingham.

He was a big, burly man who had developed a
stomach; he had a Mongolian type of face and his
manner was a compound of surliness and contempt:
there was no denying that he had a personality, but
it was one that inspired instinctive dislike.

Gorm had buried three wives, whom he had mar-
ried for their possessions, had a small general shop,
kept himself to himself, was reputed to be rich (ac-
cording to village standards), and by fair means or
foul had possessed himself of a considerable frac-
tion of his unbusinesslike neighbours’ goods.

He had not been asked to the funeral and carried
a wreath.

After shaking hands with Pansy (she shuddered at
his touch) he asked for her mother and handed the
girl his tribute to her father’s memory.

Pansy took the flowers; before leaving the room
to carry the wreath upstairs, she requested the others
to help themselves to the sherry and cake, an invita-
tion they stoutly declined.

In the passage, she had not the courage to ascend
to the death chamber, so gave the wreath into the
keeping of Mrs. Gutteridge, who was glad of the ex-
cuse for a final look at the polished oak coffin with
brass decorations which was the talk and admiration
of the villagers.

Pansy, who was divided between surprise at Mr.
16 PANSY MEARES

Gorm’s presence and the tribulation excited by the
sickly sweet scent of the hot-house blossoms, was
about to ask Mrs. Gutteridge what had become of her
mother as sobs announced her approach: these fell
painfully on Pansy’s ears and mingled with the clink
of glasses in the parlour.

Mrs. Meares had been a good-looking woman in
her day; the passing of the years had not affected
her magnificent black hair or the fineness of her
features: just now, however, she presented a pitiful
sight, her eyes being red from weeping, her face
drawn by grief.

As she descended the stairs, she paused to look
stupidly at Mr. Gorm’s wreath; after slowly realising
the nature of the offering, she clung to the banister
for support.

Pansy sought to console her and presently sup-
ported her mother to the door of the parlour.

“Who—who sent it?” asked the widow.

“Mr. Gorm.”

“Who?”

“Mr. Gorm.”

“But he wasn’t asked.”

“T know, mother dear, but he’s here.”

The hum of conversation was hushed as the two
women entered the parlour, the mourners putting
down their glasses and attempting to express in their
respective faces the sympathy they more or less knew.

Mrs. Meares sought to greet them, but at once broke
down ; she made no further effort to restrain her tears
although Pansy did her best to comfort her.

A dismal pause ensued, until a further noise of
wheels announced the arrival of the village Shilla-
bear which would carry Joseph Meares to his last
rest, together with as many of the mourners as could
squeeze themselves into that portion of the vehicle
reserved for their accommodation.

The tramp of feet was heard in the passage and
EARTH TO EARTH 17

upon the stairs, at which Mrs. Meares’ sobs were more
unrestrained, while her brother-in-law and Mr. Pos-
son made an obvious effort to carry on a conversa-
tion.

There followed an interval of waiting which Pansy
thought would never come to an end.

This was at last broken by the measured tread of
footsteps on the stairs: some moments later, the jolly
red face of Mr. Tibbits, the undertaker, appeared in
the doorway which was the signal for the mourners
to set forth.

Perrott offered his arm to the widow, who had in-
sisted on going to the church; the latter, declining his
assistance, clung to Pansy who, after endeavouring
to sustain her mother with brave words, assisted her
along the passage, where the latter’s husband had
passed for the last time, across the pavement on
which a knot of curious villagers had gathered, and
into the Shillabear with its decoration of rusty dwarf
plumes.

The sorrowing twain were followed by their re-
lations while Mr. Posson, Mr. Nosworthy and Mr.
Gorm clambered into a brougham that waited be-
hind.
CHAPTER II

BAKED MEATS

dolorous procession started: the movement

(which was as deliberate as jolly-looking Mr.
Tibbits could make it) providing a welcome distrac-
tion for her mind.

As they went, the tokens of sympathy which were
evident on every hand did something to ease her pain:
nearly every shop had put up its shutters; many of
the houses had drawn their blinds; Mr. Button, the
Billingham poet and pork-butcher, who retailed cooked
ham and beef by weight, had, as was his wont should
any event of local importance inspire his muse, sung
the loss the village had sustained.

His effusion was affixed to a shutter of the shop
and was as follows:

[ anything, Pansy was thankful when the little,

“Put up your shutters and scatter your tears,
The last has been seen of poor Joseph Meares,
To-day he’s conducted into his last rest,
Whom we shall remember as one of the best.

He’d numberless friends and never a foe,

And ask where you will and wherever you go,
You'll hear on all sides he’d a spotless name
As one who succeeded in ‘playing the game,’

So put up your shutters and let fall your tears
To honour the passing of poor Joseph Meares,
Who henceforth will slumber beneath the sod,
Until we all meet in the presence of God.”

—Jas. Button.
18
BAKED MEATS 19

The tolling of the funeral bell fell dully on Pansy’s
ear. It was just tolerable at first but as they neared
the church, each recurring sound smote her nerves
more and more violently: very soon, she found her-
self dreading the next stroke, and as the procession
turned into the church yard, she was on the point of
stuffing her fingers in her ears, when the bell was
mercifully silent.

Sure enough there was George Tarling in church
among other acquaintances of the family; although
Pansy did not reciprocate his affection for her, his
presence was a stay on which she could figuratively
lean for support.

Pansy’s eyes clung hungrily to the ark that con-
tained all that was mortal of her father; she was en-
raged at the ruthless passing of the moments which
remained before he was put away for ever.

Then, as she stood with the others beside his rest-
ing place which yawned at her feet, she and her
mother gripped each other as if nothing would ever
part them.

Tighter and tighter became their grasp and their
eyes sought to take a greedy farewell look of what
lay so far below them in order to store in their mem-
ories: this intention was frustrated by blinding tears.

The voice of the clergyman sounded remotely in
their ears, to be interrupted by the percussion taps
of the earth thrown by the sexton on the coffin.

A sense of wondering what to do next was ar-
rested by her uncle’s touch upon her arm; it was with
a sense of relief of which she was at heart ashamed
that she allowed herself to be led from the graveside.

Her first impulse on reaching home was to search
the house for her father; she knew she would not
find him but was curiously eager to realise that he
had gone for good; she bridled this inclination in
order to do her duty to the mourners.

She and her mother led the way to the dining-room
20 PANSY MEARES

where a repast with tea for the women and something
stronger for the men had been set out by Mrs. Gut-

teridge, whose elation at what was toward was marred

by the absence of the “creases” which honoured the

dead. :
This apartment was oak panelled and contained |
queer nooks and ponderous corner cupboards; it was

much used by the Meares’: its low rafters were re-

sponsible for Pansy’s slight stoop.

The widow took one end of the table and Pansy
was about to face her at the other; but to the lat-
ter’s relief, her uncle volunteered to take her place.

Neither Pansy nor her mother would partake of
ham, beef or cold chicken; their refusal depressed the
others who needed refreshment after their ordeal, .
and hesitated to eat while the widow and her daugh-
ter refrained.

Perrott did the carving; as if to make a conces-
sion to his sister-in-law and Pansy, he cut meagrely,
although he was minded to help himself and his fam-
ily liberally in order to spare his own supper joint.

The meal promised to be, and would have been, as
depressing as the funeral had not a diversion been
made by an unexpected caller.

This was a Mrs. Norton, who had heard of the be-
reavement the family had sustained, and insisted on
condoling with Mrs. Meares; and incidentally on sit-
ting down to the good things provided.

Mrs. Norton was socially far removed from the
Meares’ and their friends; she came of a good family °
and had a son who was in the Church and a daugh-
ter who had married a barrister. ,

She lived in one small room over a chandler’s, and
stich was her passion for economy that she paid pro-
tracted visits to her acquaintances on winter eve-
ane in order, it was whispered, to save lights and

uel.

It was also said that she lived on next to nothing :
BAKED MEATS 21

and kept body and soul together on one good meal a
day, which she procured by calling on any and every
one at dinner, tea or supper time.

Her radius of operations extended for many miles;
her vagaries in this respect were on the whole good-
naturedly tolerated by those whom she took advan-
tage of.

If Pansy had not been weighed down by grief, she
would have opined that Mrs. Norton must have been
hard put to it to covet funeral baked meats. Ap-
parently this reflection occurred to many of those pres-
ent, for broad grins were indifferently concealed.

Whether or not these were perceived by Mrs. Nor-
ton, she, after repeated apologies for the intrusion,
and many touching references to the departed, set
about making the tactical openings (they almost
amounted to a formula) by which she obtained an in-
vitation to the table.

“What lovely tea!” she exclaimed. ‘Where do you
get it? I’ve been having mine from London and want
to make a change, and one may as well give one’s
custom locally if one can. I was only saying to my
landlady this morning that Would you mind if
I had the merest drop, just to taste?” she broke off to
ask of Mrs. Meares.

As the widow poured out the tea, she went on:

“What lovely large cups! They make one thirsty
to look at. And when one’s thirsty, there’s nothing
more satisfying than a large cup of tea!”

After sipping her tea, she surveyed the table; a
little later, she again sympathised with Mrs. Meares
before‘ saying :

“Would you mind telling me where you get that
ham!”

“Mr. Button,” replied the widow.

“Are you sure?”

“Quite.”

“T had some from him last night and it was any-

 
22 PANSY MEARES

thing but fresh. Surely that excellent ham isn’t from
Button?”

“T’m sure it is.”

“And I thought I knew his ham at a glance. Of
course I don’t wish to contradict you but, if only to
please myself, would you mind if I had a tiny bit
on a fork!”

Mrs. Norton’s tiny bit on a fork ultimately resolved
itself into a big plateful (“It was really so delicious,
might I have a small piece more?” she had asked),
and her unrestrained appetite set an example that the
others, excepting Pansy and her mother, followed.
Drink, food, Mrs. Norton’s chatter, unloosed tongues;
as the men’s voices were loud and rather coarse and
contrasted with the previous silence, it seemed to
Pansy as if Babel had been let loose.

The table’s preoccupation in fleshly appetites had
the effect of isolating her in a world of her own and
far removed from the one she rather contemptuously
surveyed.

On the face of it, her horizon was bounded by an-
guish; at the same time, her suffering bestowed unc-
tion on her soul inasmuch as it told her that the fact
of feeling her father’s loss so keenly singled her out
from the ruck of commonplace mortals who were in-
capable of sharing or appreciating her emotion.

Presently, she looked at her mother in the hope of
obtaining an understanding glance; the widow was too
dazed by her loss to notice anything or any one.

Then the stuffiness of the room brought about a
dizziness that Pansy feared would result in a faint;
to save herself from losing consciousness, she drank
from the glass which first came to hand.

This happened to be Uncle Perrott’s and contained
more whisky than water. ie. *

The spirit brought her sharply to her senses; also,
it seemed to fly to her head.

In order to counteract its effects, she picked the
BAKED MEATS 23

wing (her uncle had reserved the liver wing for him-
self) of the chicken which had been placed before
her, and she had not taken many mouthfuls before
she ate with appetite; she finished what was on her
plate and did not object when her uncle cut her
some ham.

Food heartened her and brought her back to the
world of every-day reality; she presently found her-
self paying attention to the conversation.

Cousin Reuben, his great mouth full of beef and
ham, was talking to an uninterested Posson of a
smart deal he had recently made in pigs while Mrs.
Dynes, the “Peculiar”, was giving Mrs. Norton a
recital of the principles of her faith.

Not a little self-consciously she was saying:

“We don’t have nothing to do with doctors. No,
not we. An’ why! God loves us and is very good to
we. If we are ill, it don’t cost us anything for medi-
cine and rubbish; we just prays, and if that don’t heal
us, nothing will. But we always is cured because
God loves we.”

Then Pansy was aware that Mr. Gorm was stealth-
ily watching her, and for no reason at all fear invaded
her heart.

In ‘spite of herself, she more than once glanced in
his direction; as he steadily met her eyes, she kept
hers on her plate.

She instinctively shared the dislike of Billingham
for Mr. Gorm; on the few occasions on which she
had spoken to him, his forbidding personality had
seemingly chilled her to the marrow and made her
appear stupid and foolish tongued, and feel that she
was displaying herself to the worst advantage.

The fact of Mr. Gorm’s being interested in her
threw her back on herself and made her dread the
time when the mourners would have gone and left
the widow and daughter to the isolation of their grief.

Later, she found herself taking practical thought
24 PANSY MEARES

for the morrow and wondering why she was possessed
by fear.

So far as she knew anything of family affairs, her
father had been a thrifty man who had put his sav-
ings into a lucky investment yielding good interest,
on which she and her mother could live almost com-
fortably and keep the wolf permanently from the
door.

Possibly she had lost heart because she had begun
to appraise the changes the loss of her father would
make in her life: these might interfere with her am-
‘bitions, of which she had no small share.

She was aware that her mother was a weak, good-
natured woman, and one easily influenced by a per-
suasive tongue; perhaps this was why she did not
regard the future with the confidence with which she
had hitherto faced life.

Whatever the reason (Mr. Gorm’s eyes were still
upon her) she did not seek to conceal from herself
that she was afraid.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a general rising
from the table; the next thing she was conscious of
was that Reuben was going out of his way to pay her
clumsy attention; that his father and mother were
pressing her to visit them at “Half Moon” farm and
to stay as long as she listed and the longer the bet-
ter, an invitation that, at any other time than the
present, would have surprised her by reason of its
generosity.

All too soon, the time she had dreaded arrived:
Pansy and her mother were alone in the insistently
silent house.

They sat near to each other, much as if their physi-
cal contact provided comfort.

Even then Pansy was uneasy: try as she might, she
could not rid herself of the impression that Mr.
Gorm’s eyes were watching her from every nook and
cranny.
CHAPTER III

HEAVY GEORGE

AVEN’T we come a long way?”
George nodded.
“It’s quite six miles.”

George moved his head affirmatively.

“Don’t you think you’re very lucky?”

George was of the same opinion if the inclination
of his head was any indication of his thoughts.

“Now we can just see the sea,” declared Pansy
as her little feet stood on a heap of stones by the road-
way.

Upon George saying nothing, she added:

“Don’t you want to see the sea?”

“Not perticularly.”

“Not particularly!’ exclaimed Pansy, unduly em-
phasizing the accepted pronunciation of the first syl-
lable of the word George had spoken incorrectly.
“Can’t say as I du!”

“Indeed! Don’t you like the sea?”

“The sea’s right enough.”

“Don’t you think it romantic!”

“Can’t say as I du.”

“Perhaps you’re not romantic.” |

“Can’t say as I be.”

Pansy made a gesture of annoyance which her com-
panion, for all his outward stolidity, was quick to
notice.

“T don’t like a man who isn’t romantic,” said Pansy
as they resumed their walk.

“That so!”

25
26 PANSY MEARES

“Not a bit.”

They had not gone far before Pansy dropped her
handkerchief, which deliberate act was ignored by
George.

“Oh dear!” cried Pansy.

“What?” from George.

“T’ve dropped my handkerchief.”

“Have yu!”

“Would you mind picking it up?”

George did as he was bid.

“T shouldn’t have had to ask any one else,” she
indignantly told him.

“Eh !”

“Any one who had any pretensions to behave as a
gentleman would have done it without having to be
told.”

George’s healthy, honest face expressed such whole-
hearted contrition that Pansy’s heart softened.

“Perhaps you didn’t notice it,” she said.

George made as if he would reply, changed his
mind and contentedly smiled, which tribute to the
domination she exercised flattered her no inconsider-
able stock of feminine vanity.

“Much further?” he presently asked.

“Are you tired?”

“T was thinking fer yu.”

“Thinking of me?”

“Course. ’Tis a long way fer yu.”

“We've come rather farther than I intended. Shall
we sit down?”

“Please yerself.”’

They walked until they came to a gate on the left-
hand side of the way, and climbing over this with
George’s assistance (he held her longer than was nec-
essary) Pansy made herself comfortable on the shady ©
side of a hedge, her companion sitting beside her.

They were on a slight eminence which commanded
an extensive view of marshes, or “saltings” as they -

4
HEAVY GEORGE 27

are called locally, these being finally bordered by
the blue of the sea.

The cottages dotted about the “saltings” looked
tiny and squat, while the rank vegetation bordering
the long straight dykes, together with an infrequent
tree, afforded a welcome contrast to the prevailing
flatness.

“You can smoke if you like,” said Pansy gra-
ciously.

George hastily fumbled in his pockets and produced
pipe, tobacco pouch and matches.

“Why don’t you smoke cigarettes?” she asked.

George stared in wide-eyed astonishment.

“At least, when you’re with me. They’re more
gentlemanly.”

George made as if he would put away his pipe.

“T don’t mind for once, as no one’s about. But a
pipe isn’t the thing to smoke when you're with a
lady.”

George shamefacedly lit his pipe; as he puffed,
Pansy lazily watched two or three couples taking a
Sunday afternoon stroll across the field, the men hav-
ing discarded their blue jerseys, week-day evidence
of the proximity of the sea, for ill-fitting black, their
sweethearts self-consciously clad in a fifth-rate imi-
tation of the fashions of the year before last.

The glory of the sky (there was not a cloud to be
seen) and the peace of the afternoon made no appeal
to Pansy; she was bored with herself, her companion,
with all the world.

The splendid content of the country irked her; she
thought her companion a boor; so far as she could
see there was not the remotest prospect of her getting
any of the things for which her soul ached.

“Damn!” she suddenly exclaimed.

George looked at her in surprise.

“Damn! Damn!.-Damn!” she went on, pleased she

had shocked George.
28 PANSY MEARES

“What’s the matter?”

“Everything.”

She waited for him to question her, but upon his
maintaining silence she watched him out of the cor-
ners of her eyes.

It pleased her to see that his pipe went out and that
he fidgeted uncomfortably.

Presently he shyly stole an arm about her waist.

“Don’t!’’ she cried, gratified by this evidence of
his devotion.

His grasp tightened.

“Some one might see.”

“Don’t care if they du.”

“Don’t you know it’s very vulgar to do that sort
of thing in public?”

George withdrew his arm and became such an ex-
pression of abject misery that she was once more
moved to take pity on him.

“How far is Virwell from here, George?” she
asked graciously.

“Not such a ‘wonnerful’ distance.”

“Tt’s where all those ‘wonnerful’ mounds are.”

For all Pansy’s superior airs and graces, the Es-
sex vernacular for wonderful came trippingly to her
tongue.

“T’ve never noticed ’em.”

“You never notice anything.”

“What’s there to notice?”

“They’re ever so old: they were there before the
Norman Conquest and are supposed to be the refuse.
of Saxon pottery works, although Professor Brown
declares they’re nothing of the kind, but caused by
the constant discharge of the ballast of Saxon ships.”

Pansy, whose passion for improving her mind had
moved her to borrow a book on the antiquities of
Essex from the library attached to the church, had
read this overnight; nevertheless she imparted it as
if it were a detail of every-day knowledge.
HEAVY GEORGE 29

George was impressed by her erudition, for after
he had absorbed her information he asked:

“Where did you learn all that?”

“I thought every one knew it.”

“Can’t say as I did.”

“T didn’t suppose so,” she replied disdainfully.

This retort crushed George; during the ensuing
silence, she wondered why she had kept her promise
and accompanied him for a long Sunday afternoon
walk.

Six months had passed since the death of her
father, and Pansy had already planned the frock that
was to succeed her mourning.

At the time of her father’s death she had believed
she would never get over the grief occasioned by his
loss; with the incapacity for warm-blooded, healthy
youth to feel bereavement deeply, she had recovered
her normal good spirits with an alacrity that had sur-
prised her, and in spite of her mother’s prolonged
depression and tears.

Her father’s business had been sold, and the pro-
ceeds added to the savings he had so fortunately in-
vested enabled mother and daughter to live in much
the same comfort they had always known.

Perhaps Pansy would have been less discontented
if she had had to do something for a living.

As it was, she was displeased with her lot and fre-
quently pained her mother with her complaints, the
sum of her dissatisfaction being that she had not suf-
ficient scope for her parts and ambitions.

‘Possibly she rather overvalued her accomplish-
ments, these being accentuated by the prevailing dul-
ness of the Billingham girls of her own age, but she
could accompany a song with very few mistakes, had
won two prizes at an elocution class and had once or
twice been taken up by two or three families in the
neighbourhood with whom she could not otherwise
have expected to mix.
30 PANSY MEARES

Also, she was a well-made, tall, handsome girl,
and this fact, together with her attainments, had as-
sisted her to convince herself that she was thrown
away in a remote Essex village.

She believed that, given the necessary opportuni-
ties, she, with her mental and physical endowments,
which were weighted by her solid common sense,
would be enabled to make a success of her life and
give her the love, happiness and social position for
which her soul craved.

Perhaps her uneasiness of mind was a symptom of
the world disease of present-day unrest which had
even penetrated to the corner of Essex in which she
lived; whatever the cause, Pansy was woefully ig-
norant of the obstacles that stood in the way of the
attainment of her desires.

One of the chief of these, although she would have
been surprised if she had known, was her sense of
honesty of which, for a woman, she had a remark-
able, if not a morbid, endowment. She had been dis-
tinguished by this quality as a child, and in later
years, when its edge had been blunted by the rough
usage of the world, she recalled with mingled amuse-
ment and reverence how her conscience had tortured
her for having taken a mangold that had fallen from
an overladen cart with which to feed her rabbits.

Just now, this embarrassing quality would not per-
mit her to disguise her feelings for George; this
was of no particular moment in her present circum-
stance, as she did not care for him: it would have
been another matter if their emotional situation had
been reversed and if in spite of herself she had be-
trayed her liking for a man who was insensible to
her attractions.

She was anxious to marry well, not so much from
a craving to enjoy the fleshpots of existence, although
she did not seek to deny the manifold attractions of
these, as to obtain for herself a congenial social en-
HEAVY GEORGE 31

vironment which, in the nature of things, would be
well removed from that of the narrow and cramping
atmosphere in which she moved and had her being.

She had known George Tarling from childhood,
and as a boy he had been made fun of for his dog-
like attachment to her.

Now she had come to woman’s estate, his devotion
had stood the test of years and the snubs she con-
stantly administered. _

He came of a long line of yeoman farmers who had
tilled the soil of a county famous for two thousand
years for the quality and quantity of the corn that
was grown on its heavy soil: the repeal of the Corn
laws had struck at the roots of agricultural prosperity
and George’s forebears had been the first to suffer.

From being well-to-do farmers they had fallen
from their comfortable estate; lacking the initiative
to take advantage of altered conditions, they had con-
tinued to grow corn for a dwindling market until at
last George’s father had been compelled to dispose
of the land that had been identified with his family
for so long.

It had been bought by one of the many Scotch
farmers who had invaded the Eastern counties with
the will to succeed; by the irony of events George
now earned his living by being employed for a weekly
wage on the land tilled by his ancestors.

This was now one of the cow farms which supplied
the town of Circhester with milk; George saw to
the running of the agricultural machine which en-
sured the getting of the milk and its punctual dis-
patch by train in order that it might be delivered at
the door.in time for breakfast.

Among his other qualifications (he was noted for
his strength, was a dead shot and could break in the
most obstinate of horses) he had a genius for doctor-
ing animals, and in cases of emergency he was in re-
quest for miles around.
32 PANSY MEARES

Unhappily for him, these qualities made no appeal
to Pansy, who, from the nature of things, was blind
to such pastoral accomplishments.

She liked him well enough for his steadiness, but
did not one whit appreciate his fidelity: no other per-
sonable young man being available in Billingham, she
on occasion permitted him to walk out with her in
order to prevent other girls from getting him and
to give evidence of her attractiveness.

Although George had several times asked her to
marry him, it never occurred to her to accede to his
request. If George had been a bit wild and had
flirted outrageously with the young women of the
neighbourhood, he might have had a chance; his un-
deviating affection, which had been so easily retained,
made her value it at the indifferent price at which
the things that are readily obtained are estimated.

To-day she had suffered him to accompany her on
a long walk and already regretted her complaisance:
she knew to a surety what he would say before he
opened his lips and was jarred by his turns of speech;
these smacked of a place of which she was heartily
sick.

More than once she had been on the point of crush-
ing him cruelly, finally: she relented on seeing how
acutely any unkindness she exhibited affected him.

She hoped her forbearance would last until they
got back.

“Which way is London?” she asked.

“Behind us.”

Pansy sighed.

“What's up?”

“You've been there, haven’t you?”

“Once.”

“You are lucky.”

Pansy had never so much as travelled the sixty-odd
miles which separated Billingham from the metropo-
lis.
HEAVY GEORGE 33

“I didn’t think so.’

“Why, in heaven’s name, not?”

“Yu go up and see.”

“I only wish I’d the chance.”

“Yu don’t mean that!’

Pansy sighed meaningly.

“London’s no place for yu.”

“And why not, pray?”

“Shouldn’t like yu to go to London.”

“Don’t be absurd.”

“Shouldn’t like yu to go to London.”

“You talk as if I were a silly child!”

“Shouldn’t like yu to go to London,” persisted
George, who was angrily excited by Pansy’s craving
for town.

“Do you know what you're talking about?”

“That I du.”

“You seem to think this wretched Essex is the
world.”

“They’re worse places.”

“Are there?” asked Pansy, with an irritating in-
credulity.

“That there be. And worse folks than yu find
here, tu.”
“Not really?” asked Pansy as before. “I should

have thought that was impossible.”’

“No yu don’t and if yu say so, yu be not speaking
truly.”

“I think it’s time we went back.”

“So du I,” assented George with an unusual dis-
play of spirit.

They got up and turning their backs on the sunlit
saltings, with their edging of blue sea, climbed the
gate (this time Pansy disdained George’s offer of as-
sistance) and set out in the direction of home.

Neither of them spoke for quite a long time until
Pansy impatiently asked:

“How much farther?’
34 PANSY MEARES

“Not so very fur.”

“T wish I’d never come.”

“°Tis shorter if we ‘skew’ these fields.”

“Why do you say ‘skew’?” she asked.

“Tt’s what every one says.”

“Nothing of the kind. It’s only Essex people who
don’t know any better. When you’re with me, please
remember to say ‘cross’.”

“You're getting wonnerful pertikelar.”

“No wonder.”

It had been more or less arranged that George
should take tea with Pansy and her mother before
accompanying the former to church, but as each
weary mile seemed longer and more tedious than the
last she decided she had had more than enough of her
swain for one day, and that she would dismiss him
as soon as they reached home.

Perhaps George divined her antagonism, for he
tried to lighten her depression by speaking of mat-
ters that he thought might interest her.

“Seen anything of your uncle Perrott?”

“Nothing.”

“Thought yu might be going over to Half Moon
farm.”

“Aunt is always writing and bothering me to go.
I expect I shall have to sooner or later.”

“Don’t you want to?”

“What a question!”

“Eh p2

“It’s duller than Billingham if that’s possible.”

A little later she remarked:

“Strange you should ask that.”

“Ask what?”

“About Uncle Perrott,” she replied impatiently. “I
was asked the same question this morning.”

“Was yu?”

“By Mr. Gorm.”

“What’s it to do with him?” asked George angrily;
HEAVY GEORGE 35

in common with the rest of Billingham he had not
a good word for Mr. Gorm.

“How should I know?”

“Don’t come in to tea, George,” she said, as the
all too familiar picturesque outlines of Billingham
came into view. “Not to-night. I don’t feel like tallk-
ing to any one.”

He did not reply, and she put down his silence to
sulkiness: she was unaware that her expressed desire
to go to London was profoundly troubling him. Sud-
denly he laid a retaining hand upon her arm.

“What is it?” she asked petulantly.

“Don’t go,” he pleaded.

“To uncle’s?”

“To London.”

“T haven’t the chance,” she remarked bitterly.

“Tt be no place for yu,” he went on, “and much as
I love yu, I b’lieve I’d rather see yu in your grave
than in London by yourself.”

“Don’t be absurd,” said Pansy, who, in spite of
herself, was moved by his earnestness. “One would
think I couldn’t take care of myself.”

“Many’s the girl has said that and had believed it
till—till Don’t go, Pansy. It’s not so much be-
cause I love yu, but because I wish yu well I don’t
want yu to go.” i
“T haven’t the chance of going even if I wanted
“Then put it from your mind, as folks make chances
for what they want. Put it from your mind, Pansy,
for it’s one as wishes yu well as tells yu.”

“Am I to waste my life in Billingham?”

“’Twas good enough for your poor father.”

“It’s dull enough as it is and every day it seems
worse. A nice prospect to look forward to.”

“If you only cared for I as I love yu, Pansy!’

“Indeed!” she remarked noncommittally.

“Onny say the word and I'll work for ’ee as I’ve

 

to.
36 PANSY MEARES

never worked before, an’ you'll get what every girl
doesn’t easily find, a loving, faithful man, who’ll love
you till death do us part,” said George with a sim-
plicity that touched Pansy’s heart.

She was silent for a few moments, and he watched

her anxiously: when she spoke, she said:
' “Tt’s no use, George. JI know you mean what you
say and that you’re a good man; very good: but if I
did what you wish, I shouldn’t make you happy. I
should always be discontented and it wouldn’t be fair
to you.”

He did not speak, at which she said:

“There are plenty of other nice girls in Billing-
ham. There’s Hetty Lazell’’ (this was the name of a
girl she disliked) ; “she would make you a splendid
wife.”

“T shall never love but yu, Pansy,” he told her.

“What did you say?”

She had heard well enough, but her woman’s vanity
urged her to obtain a repetition of his words.

“T shall never love but yu.”

He did not come any farther; as she walked the
short distance which separated her from her home,
she told herself that, however it might be with others
of his fickle sex, he, in saying he would never love
any one else, was speaking nothing but the truth.
CHAPTER IV

HALF MOON FARM

It was painted blue and red, and looked as
if made for a purpose evilly removed from
being a labour-saving appliance in the hayfield.

All the farm with one exception had turned out to
honour the monster and escort it in triumph to where
the grass was being cut.

The exception was Pansy who, during the visit
she had at last been prevailed upon to pay to her re-
lations, had heard enough of the elevator to last her
a lifetime.

Its cost had been a wrench to a stingy man like
her uncle; of an evening, he and Reuben had cud-
gelled their scanty arithmetic into convincing them-
selves how much they would be in pocket should they
complete the purchase they had in mind: their cal-
culations had become so involved that Pansy had been
prevailed upon to make straight the crooked ways
of their subtraction and division.

She had been undecided whether or not to come
to “Half Moon” farm until her mother had made up
her mind for her; to her daughter’s surprise, she had
urged Pansy not only to go but to make a long stay.

This desire to be rid of her was so alien to her
mother’s habit of mind that it perplexed Pansy; she
could only ascribe it to idiosyncrasies her mother had
exhibited of late, idiosyncrasies of irritability and of
a desire to be alone.

T HE elevator had arrived from Thetford.

37
38 PANSY MEARES

Pansy had been driven over in a vehicle George
had borrowed for the occasion; he had sworn she
should not be fetched by Reuben as had originally
been arranged, and she could not help noticing that
the mare’s skin and the brass on the harness shone
with a brilliance eloquent of painstaking attention on
George’s part.

For any one in search of a restful change no more
seemly spot could be discovered than Half Moon
farm.

It was an ancient but comfortable homestead built |
of lathe and plaster, its venerable tiled roof support- :
ing colonies of houseleek; the many rooms, of which
not one had a horizontal floor, were of all shapes
and sizes; wide oak staircases seemed to lead no-
where in particular, and the upper windows over-
looked miles of wholesome pasture, the borders of
which were clothed in summer raiment.

A stream, lovingly sentinelled by pollard willows,
made music across the “hoppet”, or small field, behind
the house, and in its progress did not neglect an or-
chard away on the left, where apples and pears sol-
emnly ripened, and where blackbirds and thrushes —
welcomed the uprising and going down of the sun.

But Pansy cared for none of these things.

Her heart was bitter with discontent at what she
conceived to be the dulness of her lot and her dissat-
isfaction was reinforced by the atmosphere of mean-
ness which pervaded the farm.

Her uncle and Reuben lived to scrape money and
no desire was too paltry to achieve their ends.

They paid the lowest wages for miles around; ate
no more than was necessary to sustain themselves -
for the hard work they daily performed, and haggled
over everything they sold until the uttermost farthing
was obtained. i

The unprintable Essex saying which represents to
the bucolic mind the utmost a man will stoop to in
HALF MOON FARM 39

order to get a half-penny was applied to them in
neighbouring beerhouses and skittle alleys.

Her uncle’s one weakness was whisky; he hated
himself for surrendering to such an expensive habit
and constantly made up his mind to limit himself to
one glass: this, however, went to his head, at which
his resolution was forgotten and the rest of the bot-
tle consumed: Reuben’s relaxation in winter time was
to attend a dancing class at a small town some seven
miles away, to which he would drive in all weathers,
and where his big, clumsy feet were the terror of mis-
tress and pupils.

In Pansy’s present condition of mind her relations’
miserliness irked her; quite apart from the fact that,
from her point of view, they misused money with
which she could do much, their ignoble passion for
saving was vulgar, and this in her eyes was the un-
forgivable sin.

She had borne herself with what civility she might,
more particularly for her aunt’s sake, whom she
thought hardly treated by her uncle; also, Pansy was
a little flattered by Reuben’s attentions.

She despised him for a mean lout, but at the same
time she was instinct with the feminine love of con-
quest and any tribute to her power of fascination
served to confirm her hopes of success in the larger
and more civilised world in which she was aching to
bear her part.

To-day she had pleaded a headache as an excuse
to avoid assisting in the triumphal progress of the
elevator and was devouring one of the sloppy six-
penny novels her aunt surreptitiously bought on the
rare occasions she had the opportunity.

A repeated knock on the kitchen door constrained
her to put down the book and see who it was, at
which she found an unhealthy-looking, elderly woman
standing on the threshold and carrying something
tied up in a coloured handkerchief.
40 PANSY MEARES

“It’s you,” said Pansy, as she recognised Mrs,
Beard, the mother of one of the cowmen. ;

“Good morning, miss. I’ve brought ‘Fatty’s’ din-
ner.”

“Tsn’t he in the barns?”

“No, miss, so I thought I’d take the liberty of leav-
ing it here.”

“Perhaps he’s in the hayfield,” said Pansy shortly;
she was anxious to get back to her book.

Mrs. Beard came from that portion of Essex which
is corrupted by contact with “retired” and working
East London; she was eager to gossip, but her de-
sire was frustrated by the arrival of her first born,
who, whatever his mental limitations (he just es-
caped being what is locally called “shanny”), had a
scent for food which was responsible for his nick-
name.

He was a pallid youth who in all weathers wore
a scarf about his neck, and somehow was an exact
counterfeit of the farm hand in the latter-day musical
comedy : he spoke with a sing-song deliberation which
jarred Pansy’s nerves.

“Here you be,” cried his mother. “Say good morn-
ing to the lady if you ain’t a’ready done so.”

“Fatty” pulled his forelock to Pansy for the third
time that day and all but sang:

“T’ve jess been down to th’ hayfield tu see the new
elevator.”

“Ain’t it wonnerful!” replied his mother. ‘It must
’a’ cost a tidy lot.”

“T doan’t ’xactly know what it cost, but ’twould ’a’
bought a rare lot to eat,” said “Fatty,” with his eyes
on the bundle which his mother had brought and now
untied.

It contained bread, Canadian cheese and coarse
suet pudding, and represented self-denial on his
mother’s part, for her dinner had consisted, as
it usually did, of boiled potatoes on which a little
HALF MOON FARM 41

melted lard had been poured in order to give them
savour.

“Fatty” at once fell to, his cheeks bulging and his
eyes starting out of his head by reason of the big bites
he made; he ate audibly and his open mouth displayed
the processes of mastication.

“Haymaking this arternoon, ‘Fatty’?” asked his
mother.

“Can’t say as I be. ‘Crippen’ were took bad in the
night.”

“Oh, dear!” from his mother.

“Tf she ain’t better, we’ll have to have the doctor
over to see her.”

““Charley Peace’ awright?”

“She be a sight better than she were.”

“Isn’t ‘Fatty’ clever?” said his mother to Pansy.
“He’s learned all the names of the cows.”

This feat of memory argued greater mental effort
than appeared on the face of it, for there were many
cows on the farm and they had been named after no-
torious murderers by the head cowman, an elderly,
reserved, God-fearing man named Lancaster, who had
never married and expended his affection on his stock,
to which he was warmly attached.

“Is he!” replied Pansy noncommittally.

“T s’pose you know most of ’em by name, Miss.”

“T’m afraid I don’t,” said Pansy, who was burning
to get back to her book.

“Not! I knows ‘Crippen’, ‘Dougall’, ‘Mrs. Berry’,
‘Deeming’, and ‘Neil Cream’, but there I stop. You
go along, ‘Fatty’, as p’r’aps the young lady hasn’t had
her dinner and the sight of you eating’ll make her
hungry.”

“Fatty” was about to take his departure, when a
child, who carried a chicken by the legs, came tim-
idly to the door of the farm.

“What is it, my dear?” asked Mrs. Beard, with
an affectation of cordiality.
42 PANSY MEARES

“Please, muvver says will ‘Fatty’ kill this, as she’s
hurt her wrist,” replied the child.

Without saying a word, “Fatty” took a further
bite of his food and the bird from the child;
holding the body of the hen under his left arm,
he dexterously broke its neck with his right
hand before throwing the quivering bird on the
ground.

“?Fe didn’t say much,” he remarked laconically.

The child went away with the carcass and “Fatty”,
again bidden by his mother, went into a barn: if
Pansy had counted on speedily ridding herself of Mrs.
Beard, she was mistaken.

Ignoring her anxiety to get away, Mrs. Beard, who
was longing for a glass of beer, continued :

“Some call ‘Fatty’ shanny, but me as knows him
knows better,” she declared.

“No doubt!” yawned Pansy.

“Would you believe it, miss, if I calls him of a
morning at five, as I do, he answers back right
enough, but he gets the better o’ me.”

“Tndeed !”

“I goes downstairs to make a cup o’ tea, and if I
calls up, ‘Be you a getting up, “Fatty”? for answer
I hears his foot upon the floor.”

“T know, but i?

“D’ye think he’s getting up, miss! Bless yer heart,
you don’t know ‘Fatty’ if you think he be. He keeps
one leg out o’ bed and when I calls ‘Be you a getting
up, “Fatty” ?’ he bangs his foot on the floor and goes
to sleep again, and if that doesn’t show he’s all there
I don’t know what does!”

When, at last, Pansy got rid of Mrs. Beard, she
returned to her book and was presently interrupted by
her Aunt Jane’s return for dinner, Uncle Perrott and
Reuben having a hurried snack in the hayfield in order
to save precious time.

Pansy was not surprised to see her aunt, as she

 
HALF MOON FARM 43

knew the latter would take advantage of the prevail-
ing excitement to escape the haymaking.

Mrs. Perrott was a vain, highly strung woman
who, hungering for what she conceived to be the
joys of a town life, had been ruthlessly repressed by
her husband.

She worked as hard as any servant, but directly
she was free of her lord and master’s supervision she
would mount to an attic that commanded a fraction
of the lane leading to the farm, where she kept pa-
tient watch for passersby and would retail the infor-
mation she thus gleaned of local movements to any
she could get to listen, and as if they were happen-
ings of social importance.

Upon infrequent visits to neighbouring towns on
market days, she would, if Perrott, as she called her
husband, were not about, spend any money she might
have on cheap fiction and penny society journals.
These last she studied with an eye to gaining conse-
quence by retailing her information to eager ears;
unhappily for this design, she had an indifferent mem-
ory, and hopelessly jumbled names, environment and
events.

She was a kindly woman at heart and had a dimly
sympathetic understanding of her niece’s dissatis-
faction.

On the rare occasions on which Mrs. Norton for-
aged so far afield as Half Moon farm she received
short shrift if Perrott were about; on the other hand,
should he be out of the way, there was always a good
cup of tea and the best of anything in the larder,
which Mrs. Perrott took upon herself to provide for
the welcome caller.

“I know a lady when I sees one,” she would say.
“And as they don’t often come to ‘Half Moon’ farm,
I’m pleased to see ’em if they do, and pay ’em in kind
for their trouble.”

After Mrs. Perrott came in, Pansy assisted her to
44 PANSY MEARES

lay the table in the big kitchen; during the meal of
cold boiled beef and rice pudding the younger woman
was too occupied with her thoughts to pay overmuch
attention to her aunt who gravely informed her niece
that “Ellen Terry, a young Gaiety actress, had mar-
ried the heir to a peerage’’; that “Lady Warwick had
pawned her diamonds in order to give a helping hand
to the Tariff Reform League”; that “the Bishop of
London had attended the Theatrical Garden Party in
Burlington House in order to meet Maude Allan,
with whom he was secretly in love.”

When the dinner was cleared away and the things
washed up, work Pansy hated, she took advantage
of her aunt’s retirement to her spyhole to pass the
afternoon in the seclusion of her bedroom where
her nostrils disdained the scent of the newly made hay
which made the air fragrant with its sweetness.

The continuous rattle of the grass-cutter jarred
her already irritated nerves, and she was too ill at
ease to finish the book that had fascinated her during
the morning: she restlessly paced the room, now and
again stopping by the window and gazing hungrily in
the direction in which she believed London to be.

It was as if the intervening miles of country sep-
arated her from an enchanted garden of delights,
and one there was no possibility of her entering.

The fact of her being denied admittance increased
its attractions a thousandfold; the thought of her
immense deprivation in being compelled for ever to
forego its joys made her sick with longing while her
head was racked with pain.

It was to relieve her throbbing brain that she took
up pencil and paper and wrote to an imaginary friend
a make-believe account of the fine times she was en-
joying, fine times by reason of her having surmounted
the many obstacles which strewed the way to London
and the social distractions for which she sighed.

It was a string of gay doings which she pencilled,
HALF MOON FARM 45

dances, theatregoing, dinners, suppers and “At
Homes” being mingled in bewildering profusion.
Nor were swains lacking, for she described at length
two who were competing for her favours.

Doubtless it was a primitive picture that Pansy
drew of what she called “life’’ in London, and one
in which nothing ever palled, each event appealing to
her with the charm and freshness with which, in her
present mood, she would welcome any of the hap-
penings she depicted; but the writing of it, and the
effort of adding to her common stock of adulatory
adjectives eased her mind and quickly passed the time
so that she was pleasantly surprised at being sum-
moned downstairs to tea to which her uncle and Reu-
ben had returned.

Their faces were streaming with perspiration, they
had worked so hard and were so pleased with the
saving of labour effected by the elevator that they
allowed themselves more time over this meal than
they would otherwise have done: after gulping down
cups of steaming tea and swallowing hunks of bread
and butter, they were in conversational mood and

_ turned their attention to Pansy.

“Haymaking, Pansy?” asked Perrott.

“No, uncle.”

“Heh ?

“T’d a- headache.”

“An’ played the young lady!”

“Why shouldn’t she play the young lady?” loudly
put in Reuben, and with a suggestion of significance
in his voice which was not lost on Pansy. “Why
shouldn’t she if she’ve a mind to!”

“Haymakin’s haymakin’.”

“An’ if Pansy can afford to play the young lady,
you can’t blame her for doing it.”

The old man snorted, which was his way if an
unexpected point of view were presented to him, and
Reuben, in endeavoring to smile a tender encourage-
46 PANSY MEARES

ment to Pansy, merely succeeded in exhibiting the
meanness of his eyes and the width of his mouth.

His hint to his father set going a train of thought
in Perrott’s brain; this presently resulted in an in-
terrogatory to which Pansy had become accustomed
since her stay at “Half Moon” farm and which the
old man adjudged to be a tactful inquiry into his sis-
ter-in-law’s financial condition.

“Heard from your mother lately?”

“No, uncle.”

“Not grieving is she?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Sure?”

“Quite.”

“Sad loss, your father

“Very, uncle.”

“And these things is worse if the widder is left
badly.” ’

Pansy signified assent.

“Jo didn’t do so badly in business.”

“I don’t suppose so.”

“Or your mother wouldn’t go on living in the old
place and you with her!’

“No doubt.”

“She don’t seem to want for nothing.”

“No.”

“Nor you?”

“Tm fairly content,” smiled Pansy.

“But you don’t want for nothing!”

“Nothing very much.”

aoe haven’t got to turn to and work for a liv-
ing!’

“Oh dear no.”

“That’s what I mean. Your father made a lucky
investment, didn’t he?”

“T understand so.”

“A safe seven per cent.”

“TI believe so,”

”
!
HALF MOON FARM 47

“In the ‘Kings Cross’ Bank?”

“I believe so.”

“Ah!”

Perrott and his son exchanged meaning glances
which, in the innocence of their hearts, they believed
were not perceived by Pansy.

They pressed cake and watered tea upon her and
Reuben was not satisfied until she had promised to
spend the evening in the hayfield. There, in order to
conceal her unutterable boredom, she finicked with
a rake: neither the glory of the evening nor the pas-
toral simplicity of her surroundings made any appeal
to her sympathies.

She was impatient for bed, but it seemed as if
it were impossible to appease the greedy elevator; as
if the wagons with their fragrant burdens would
never stop lumbering to the rick. Even after the last
load had been consumed and the elevator was sullenly
reposing by a hedge, it was necessary to spread the
great tilt over the rick in order to provide against
possible rain in the night.

When, at last, she reached the homestead, Pansy
was worn out and irritable, and would at once have
gone to bed had she not been constrained by her aunt
who wished her to help with the supper.

Uncle Perrott and Reuben ate voraciously; almost
directly after they were satisfied, they were so weary
with the day’s labour that they fell asleep where they
sat and snored loudly.

Pansy would have stuck her fingers in her sensitive
ears to deaden the objectionable sounds, but her aunt
persisted in talking, and common civility compelled
her to listen; but not for long: directly the elder
woman commenced her farrago of society and theat-
rical events, Pansy could bear it no longer; she wished
her aunt a hasty “good night”, lit her candle and went
up to her room.

Here she made no attempt to undress, as she knew
48 PANSY MEARES

full well that, in her present mood, she could not hope
to sleep; instead, she stood by the window and looked
out on the night. It seemed that everything con-
spired just then to embitter her with her lot.

The squealing of pigs came from one of the sties:
a young bull, shut up for the night, was bewailing his
isolation; the chained dog in the yard barked at any
and every sound.

Pansy knew well enough that, even if she went to
bed and fell asleep, should her uncle hear a noise in
the cow-houses at night, he would instantly awaken,
call Reuben, and go down to see what was amiss, in-
different to whose slumbers he disturbed.

“How vulgar it all is!’ reflected Pansy. “It’s
worse: it’s loz.”

She despised her hard-working relatives, and in her
heart of hearts was ashamed that they were of the
same blood as herself.

Then she caught sight of, and commenced to read,
the imaginary letter she had pencilled before tea, de-
tailing a sequence of make-believe doings in a world
far removed from the one in which her lot was cast.

She had only read a few lines before she realised
the great gulf fixed between the life she craved for
and the one she was compelled to live.

She was morbidly conscious of her humble cir-
cumstances, and in an access of humiliation she threw
herself on the bed and wept bitter tears before she
found oblivion in sleep.
CHAPTER V
THE UNEXPECTED

3 Jubilee Terrace,

Billingham.
Sunday.
Y dearest Pansy:
M I hope this finds you well as it leaves me
at present.

This being Sunday, and no letter from you all the
time you have been gone, I write a few lines to my
sweetheart.

Well, dearest Pansy, it is not the same here, you
being away, and I am longing for you to come back.

I sometimes see your mother and ask her when she
expects you, but she does not seem to know.

There is no news, at least not much.

Mrs. Adams had a third baby on Saturday and Bill
Willett’s dog fought Abe’s retriever on Friday. I
came in at the finish. The evening before I saw a
stoat in Parish Lane.

I think you should know Mr. Gorm is a lot with
your mother. There is a lot of talk about it in Bil-
lingham. You know, Pansy, your poor dear father
could not bear the sight of Mr. Gorm, and I don’t
like him neither. He’s never done any one any good
he’s had to do with.

I always think of you when my work is done and
hope and pray you have given up all thoughts of Lon-
don.

Mrs. Blake is having her shop front painted.

I shot twelve young rooks yesterday.

49
50 PANSY MEARES

Your mother has given up church and taken to
going to chapel—the Ebenezer, where Mr. Gorm hands

the plate. .
Well, dearest Pansy, I must now conclude, and with
much love from GEORGE.

P. S.—If you write and say the word I will hit
Mr. Gorm hard. Once will last him a long time.

P. P. S—Love, dear, and God bless you always,
, G.

Pansy read and reread the above.

George’s devotion was taken as a matter of course,
but she was disturbed by the information respecting
her mother and Mr. Gorm.

Their association seemed so preposterous that she
could hardly believe it to be true; on the other hand,
she was compelled to realise that George, if he were
nothing else, was the soul of truthfulness, and that
from a desire to spare her feelings he had, if any-
thing, understated the facts of the case.

She recalled her mother’s humours and irritability
before she had come away; also, that in the infre-
quent letters she had received from home there was
no suggestion of the visit to “Half Moon” farm being
curtailed.

Pansy was familiar with Mr. Gorm’s reputation
for marrying money, and as he was for the third time
a widower she suspected that her father’s fortunate
investment had much the same fascination for him
as it possessed for her uncle and cousin.

She was, if anything, rather innocent than other-
wise of the considerable part money played in the
making of marriages, consequently she could scarcely
credit Mr. Gorm with wholly sordid motives: she be-
lieved that her still comely mother had made some ap-
peal to his heart and that her little all was a secondary
inspiration of his attentions. .

She knew her mother to be sentimental and weak,
THE UNEXPECTED 51

but she was also aware that she had dearly loved her
husband and was tenderly devoted to his memory.

This last consideration was Pansy’s stay; her father
had not been dead a year and she could not bring her-
self to think that he would be so far forgotten by his
widow for the latter to contemplate matrimony with
Mr. Gorm.

For all the confidence begotten of this reflection,
Pansy was sufficiently practical to take immediate
action.

She wrote two letters, one to George thanking him
for all he had told her and asking him to keep her
informed of everything that went on; the other to
her home saying that she was tired of being at “Half
Moon” farm, which was certainly the case, and that
unless her mother wished her to stay longer, she was
returning in two days’ time: she made no reference
to Mr. Gorm.

She anxiously awaited her mother’s reply and was
greatly surprised at this telling her to postpone com-
ing back for some time longer as the change was prob-
ably doing her good; that she was in need of a holi-
day herself, and to this end was starting the day she
was writing for Southend-on-Sea, where she would
stay for a week or ten days, and from which place
she would write again. The letter concluded with
fervent expressions of love for her daughter.

This outburst of affection contributed to Pansy’s
uneasiness of mind as on the occasions on which her
mother had written to her during previous separa-
tions her letters had been compact of matter-of-fact-
ness: it was as if this outpouring of her mother’s
heart were a symptom of an emotional crisis in her
life,

Pansy turned over many schemes in her mind, but
dismissed each one as impracticable: she could only
possess her soul in what patience she might until she
heard further from George or her mother.
52 PANSY MEARES

If Pansy had hoped that the post would elucidate
the mystery of her mother’s friendship with Mr.
Gorm and attendance at chapel in preference to
church, she was disappointed: three picture postcards
arrived from her mother exhibiting views of South-
end pier but giving no news of her doings or where
she was staying. George also wrote and said he
would not be in a position to supply further informa-
tion for a few days as he was attending cattle sales
some distance away for his employer.

Thus circumstance conspired to keep Pansy in sus-
pense until her mother returned to Billitgham and
communicated with her.

Paradoxical as it may appear, anxiety did Pansy
a world of good, she having something of moment to
occupy her mind; her discontent was forgotten, and
excepting the times she was weighed down by dis-
quietude she was again much of her even-tempered,
sensible self.

She did her best to please and to assist on the farm,
the more so as she found that occupation enabled her
to forget her apprehensions.

She fed the poultry morning and evening, and in-
sisted on looking after the setting hens and young
ducks; she also persuaded old Lancaster to instruct
her in the mysteries of milking, information he was
willing to impart, although he was hurt at his pupil’s
lack of enthusiasm for learning the names of his stock.

Her liking for work endeared her to Reuben, who
greeted her efforts with smiles that stretched his
mouth from ear to ear.

At last, a letter arrived from her mother, and with
the Billingham postmark; to Pansy’s annoyance, it not
only said nothing of her return home, but suggested
she should stay at “Half Moon” farm for as long as
possible, and that as her prospects in life were indefi-
nite, she should do her best to humour Uncle Perrott,
he being rich and having but one son to provide for.

 
THE UNEXPECTED 53

Pansy’s mind was immediately made up; she re-
solved to return home at once and without betraying
her intention.

To this end, she told Reuben she wanted to see
about some new frocks (a suggestion of prosperity
that delighted him) and asked him the earliest he
could drive her to Billingham.

The morning of the day after the next was fixed,
and Pansy congratulated herself upon the resource she
had displayed; at breakfast time, however, before her
intended departure, Reuben was told by his father he
wanted the “barleys bottomed,’ and as fourpence
apiece could be saved on each “barley” that was made
whole, Pansy was compelled to put off her visit to a
more convenient occasion.

This “bottoming” of the barleys was a typical bit of
meanness on her uncle’s part, as hitherto they had
paid a jobbing carpenter fourpence for each article
mended, Perrott providing the wood.

The latter had watched the man at work; seeing
how it was done, he gave instructions to Reuben, who
cheerfully fell in with his father’s suggestion of doing
them himself, in order to save a few coppers.

Pansy ill-concealed her impatience, and knew no
peace of mind until she was seated by Reuben in the
cart and the horse’s head was turned in the direction
of home.

Even then her nerves were on edge, by reason of
her cousin’s evident desire to drive slowly in order to
improve the shining hour by pressing his clumsy suit
upon Pansy.

He loosely held the reins, and as often as was possi-
ble fixed his little eyes upon her; more than once he
essayed to support her with his arm, an embrace she
contrived to evade.

“?Tisn’t often I drive a young lady like you, Cousin
Pansy,” he said.

“Indeed ?”
54 PANSY MEARES

“That’s a fact.”

“It’s your fault if you don’t, Reuben.”

“Hey P”

“It’s your fault if you don’t.” :

“Maybe,” he said complacently, “but young ladies
cost a lot of money.”

“Is that your experience?”

“T should think it was.”

“Indeed!”

“T had a young lady once, and would you b’leeve,
every time I took her out for a walk, it cost me a
threepenny bag of sweeties!”

“Poor man.”

“Fac’. But there be some young ladies one wouldn't
mind buying sweeties,” he declared amorously, to add
as a precautionary afterthought: “ ’Casionally.”

As she was too occupied with her thoughts to say
any more just then, he remarked:

“You be one of them.”

“Indeed !”’

“That you be, Pansy.”

Then, after many variations of this theme, he
asked :

“Ever thought about getting married, Pansy?’

“Can’t say as I have.”

“Waiting for Mr. ‘Right’ to come along?”

“Perhaps.”

“And if the truth were known, he might not be so
very far away.”

“Ts that so?” she exclaimed, as before.

Perhaps Reuben thought he had been too reckless,
for he said:

“Your mother’s lucky to be left so comfortable.”

“Ts she?”

“°T was the ‘King’s Cross’ Bank Uncle Jo put his
money in.”

“T believe so.”

“And your mother’s scarcely like to marry again?”
THE UNEXPECTED 55

“Do you know anything?” asked Pansy, who was
taken off her guard.

“What do you mean, Pansy?” exclaimed Reuben.

“Nothing.”

“Sure?”

“Quite. What should I mean?’

“You took me up so sharp.”

“Did I?” she asked, with an assumption of indiffer-
ence which would have done credit to a town-bred
girl.

Her coolness lulled the suspicions that were part
and parcel of his peasant blood, and in a very little
while Pansy’s desirability as a wife was again the pre-
occupation of his mind.

“Once upon a time I thort I should never marry,”
he remarked.

“Oh? exclaimed Pansy, her eyes on the lookout
for the milestones that seemed to have disappeared
from the road, so infrequent was their appearance.

“Till I met you, Pansy.”

“Oh 1

“Feyther likes you, too,” continued Reuben, whose
emulation was excited by Pansy’s indifference to his
wooing, her behaviour being far removed from the
forwardness of neighbouring farmers’ daughters who
knew an eligible husband when they saw one.

“Does he?”

“And when feyther likes the girl that I like, it’s as
good as settled.”

Pansy not replying, Reuben dropped the reins and
made as if he would hug the girl at his side.

Pansy awoke from her preoccupation and to a sense
of what was toward.

“Is that a motor-car coming?” she cried quickly.

Reuben, mindful of his belongings and himself,
snatched at the reins and drove with care; upon his
presently declaring that Pansy was mistaken, she
lamely replied that she supposed she was,
56 PANSY MEARES

Perhaps the fright Reuben had received made him
cautious, for it was some time before he opened his
lips; indeed, Billingham was already in sight as he
said:

“The King’s Cross Bank is as safe as the Bank of
England! Eh, Pansy?”

“T hope so.”

A little later:

“We're in time for tea.”

Then:

“T can do with a cup, as I want to speak to aunt.”

Pansy scarcely heeded his words; she was eager to
end the anxiety her mother’s behaviour had caused,
while she was a little fearful of how her unannounced
return would be taken.

Reuben assisted her to alight with the arm that was
free, but she scarcely needed his help, as she all but
jumped from the cart and tried the front door of her
home.

This was usually unfastened; to-day she found it
locked, which not a little contributed to her dis-
quietude.

She vigorously pulled the bell, and paid no attention
to Reuben, who was bawling to a group of boys, he
wishing one of them to hold the horse.

No one answering the door, Pansy was about to
ring again, but she desisted on hearing her mother’s
familiar footfall in the hall.

Her heart was abeat as the bolt was drawn; im-
mediately she caught sight of her mother, she was
conscious that something of moment had happened.

It was not so much that Mrs. Meares was dismayed
by her daughter’s unexpected return as by something
indefinable in her manner, which as good as told Pansy
that their hitherto intimate relations were now on a
different plane.

“It’s you!” said Mrs. Meares, and none too gra-
ciously—at least so Pansy thought.
THE UNEXPECTED 57

“Ves, mother.”

“You didn’t say you were coming!”

“Didn’t I?”

“Ts that Reuben?”

“Yes, mother.”

“What does he want?” she asked in an undertone.

“He'll tell you,” replied Pansy, scarcely knowing
what she was saying.

Her mother took her words in all seriousness; she
glanced curiously at her daughter, sharply at Reuben,
who now advanced to greet his aunt, and then, much
as if a weight were lifted from her mind, she said:

“You’re just in time for tea.”

Pansy followed her mother into the house; directly
she was inside her now preternaturally acute sensi-
bilities were aware of an alien influence in her home
and one that would be exerted to her detriment.

Ignoring Reuben’s presence (she had forgotten his
existence), Pansy entered the dining parlour, where
a strange sight met her eyes.

The table was elaborately laid for what is known as
“high tea’; beef, ham, pickles, radishes, and lettuces
decorated the table; at the head, and invested with an
atmosphere of proprietorship, sat Mr. Gorm, seeming
to Pansy’s eyes grosser, more almond-eyed, and more
menacing looking than ever.

She waited in an immense suspense for her mother
to speak, and much to her relief, Mrs. Meares said:

“You know Mr. Gorm. He’s just dropped in to
tea.”

Pansy was so delighted at learning that her mother
and Mr. Gorm were merely friends, that she offered
her hand to the latter; he took and held it as in a
vise, the while his evil eyes appraisingly regarded
her face and figure in a manner Pansy thought ex-
ceedingly offensive.

“I wonder you can spare the time from business,”
she remarked.
58 PANSY MEARES

“There’s Martha,” said Mrs. Meares, referring to
a daughter Mr. Gorm had had by his second wife.

“Can she be trusted?” asked Pansy.

“I think so,” replied Mr. Gorm in his heavy, even
voice.

Places were laid for Pansy and Reuben; the latter
was hungry after his drive, and devoured everything
his aunt put on his plate with his big mouth, and
his pretty cousin with his eyes.

Pansy ate nothing; although the worst had not hap-
pened so far as her mother was concerned, she was
disturbed by Mr. Gorm’s presence in the housz; the
fact of her finding the front door bolted (which she
now recalled), the information George had given in
his letter: as if this were not enough to take away her
normally healthy appetite, she was aware that Mr.
Gorm was furtively regarding her with his almond
eyes.

Her mother, also, was ill at ease: she would sud-
denly start a subject, to drop it as quickly; she made
a great but futile pretense of looking after everyone’s
needs; she constantly eyed Mr. Gorm, much as if she
were eager to do right in his sight.

“Why did you come over to-day?” he asked.

“To see mother.”

“You didn’t say you were coming.”

“Didn’t I?” she remarked diffidently.

“No.”

“How do you know?”

“Pansy, dear,” remonstrated her mother.

“Pansy’s awright,” said Reuben, his mouth full of
beef and pickles and bread. “Me and Pansy had a
talk coming along, and I’ll speak about it later.”

Apparently Mr. Gorm was pleased by Reuben’s inti-
mation, for he abandoned the somewhat truculent atti-
tude he had taken up with Pansy, and stolidly went
on with his tea.

The alien atmosphere in her home was again appar-
THE UNEXPECTED 59

ent to Pansy, and made her feel that she was anything
but welcome; the impression was contrasted in her
mind with the tenderness and loving kindness with
which her dear father had surrounded her; she was
restraining an inclination to shed tears as a double
knock was heard on the front door.

Mrs. Meares rose, as if to answer it, but was fore-
stalled by Pansy, who was anxious to be alone if only
for a few moments.

She purposely loitered in the hall, and, upon
opening the door, she found Mrs. Norton on the
threshold.

Pansy did not know if she were pleased or sorry
that Mrs. Norton had called; she asked her in and
was too occupied with her thoughts to pay attention
to the familiar methods by which the caller secured
liberal helpings to the best of everything on the
table.

Then Pansy was aware that Reuben had taken
advantage of Mrs. Norton’s gossip to seat himself
beside her; as if to proclaim his intention to all and
sundry who had eyes to see, he ostentatiously put his
big hand on Pansy’s small one.

She was again aware that Mr. Gorm was stealthily
watching her, and, to forget the annoyance he caused,
she paid some attention to the conversation. At the
same time, she sought to release her captured hand,
but Reuben, fortified by the “high” tea, resisted her
intention.

Mrs. Norton, much as if she were making some
return for her meal, did most of the talking, telling
at length items of local gossip which she thought
would interest her hearers.

The rumour that two local branches of well-known
banks were shortly to be established at Billingham
occupied her during her first helping of beef, and, as
she was making a fine show of reluctance to being
coaxed into a second, she said:
60 PANSY MEARES

“Talking of banks, have you heard about the
‘King’s Cross’ ?”

Reuben’s hand tightened on Pansy’s.

“What about it?” asked Mr. Gorm.

“Still, it doesn’t matter to us, as we’re all poor
people, and are not likely to have any money
in Tt.”

“What about the ‘King’s Cross’ Bank?” asked Mr.
Gorm.

Pansy would have been annoyed at his interest in a
matter that alone concerned her mother and herself,
had not her attention been distracted by Reuben’s be-
haviour. He shifted uneasily on his seat; coughed
uncomfortably; became purple in the face, but all the
time (probably without knowing it) he tightly
grasped his cousin’s hand.

Meantime, Mrs. Norton, having found a subject
that, contrary to expectation, interested the table, had
been keeping it waiting, the while she helped herself
to more radishes and lettuce than she would otherwise
have taken.

“What about the ‘King’s Cross’ Bank?” repeated
Mr. Gorm.

“You surely don’t mean to say that you have money
in it?’ asked Mrs. Norton.

She would have been delighted if this had been the
case, as he was one of the few people in Billingham
and neighbourhood who had withstood her blandish-
ments.

“What about the ‘King’s Cross’ Bank?” he insisted.

“It’s closed its doors.”

“What!”

“T only heard of it this afternoon. Mr. Eastwood
told me on his way from the station.”

Pansy’s concern on hearing this information, the
purport of which she dimly comprehended, was for
her mother; as she glanced sympathetically in her
direction, she saw that the other woman had only eyes
THE UNEXPECTED 61

for Mr. Gorm, on whom they rested with unmistakable
apprehension.

Then followed an interval of tense suspense, which
was broken by Mr. Gorm bringing his fist on the
table with a force that shook the room.

At the same moment, Reuben became aware of his
compromising physical contact with Pansy; he
roughly withdrew his hand.

Pansy was scarcely aware of this repudiation; her
attention was absorbed by her mother’s distress at
Mr. Gorm’s violence.

The latter was looking straight before him, his
face livid with anger.

“Dear!” exclaimed Mrs. Meares timidly.

Mr. Gorm took no notice.

“Dear!” she repeated; this time, she gently touched
his arm.

He became aware of her presence: turning roughly
on her, he cried:

“Vou ”

“It will make no difference! Tell me it will make
no difference!’ she pleaded.

“Hell!” exclaimed Mr. Gorm, his fists clenchmg
tighter.

Pansy was not so much concerned with this exhibi-
tion of mortification as with her mother’s distress, the
meaning of which she feared to divine.

She knew she would have to know sooner or later,
but she summoned all her courage, and asked:

“What’s it mean, mother?”

Mrs. Meares stupidly turned her head in her
daughter’s direction.

“What’s it all mean, mother? Surely I’ve a right
to know! What is Mr. Gorm to you?”

It seemed a long interval before her mother replied :

“Mean! Mean! Mr. Gorm is my husband.”

“Mother!”

“Your new father, Pansy. Isn’t that so, dear?”
62 PANSY MEARES

“Curse it, yes,’ replied the man addressed.

But Pansy did not heed the brutal insult: she was
passionately alive to the wrong her mother had done
her father’s memory and his daughter. Familiar
scenes and incidents of the old home life crowded into
her memory and fired her blood.

With blazing eyes and flushed cheeks, she rose to
her feet, and cried:

“Mother! Mother!”

“Yes, Pansy?”

“Have you forgotten?”

“Forgotten!”

“Father. He’s not been dead a year.”

Mrs. Meares dropped her head.

“Is your heart dead, too?”

“T couldn’t help it,” faltered Mrs. Gorm.

“Tt’s shameful.”

“He made me.”

“Shameful! Shameful! How could you?”

“He made me. I was helpless.”

“How could you! How could you!”
CHAPTER VI

ABEL GORM

nished kitchen of her new home: this was at

the back of the shop where her stepfather
meticulously scraped and weighed and measured and
counted pretty well everything he sold.

The characteristic smell of the establishment was
mice and stale cheese; to-night, this contended with
the odour of the few onions which the fourth Mrs.
Gorm was frying as a treat for supper.

Martha, Mr. Gorm’s repulsive looking daughter,
was noisily laying the table.

From without came the noise made by the putting
up of the shutters (these were perforated with curious,
heart-shaped holes) by the master of the establish-
ment; after he had fitted the last one and had fastened
the clamp that held them in position, he would bring
his account books into the kitchen and busy himself
with these as he ate his evening meal.

Pansy was too dispirited to help her sad-faced
mother; she had only sufficient interest in life to
avoid looking at Martha.

Mr. Gorm’s daughter looked like a monkey with a
broad forehead; she had big, prominent teeth, which
stuck out from her gums and prevented her closing
her lips.

She had broad shoulders, tiny hips and short arms
and legs; her presence jarred Pansy’s nerves, although
in her heart she was sorry for the girl by reason of
Martha’s hard life.

P ANSY sat on a Windsor chair in the barely fur-

63
64 PANSY MEARES

She was hated by her father, who rarely spoke
to her, and then rudely; whenever the opportunity pre-
sented itself she went into service, but her appearance
and incompetence were such that she usually returned
within the week she had set out: once she had kept a
situation for a month, a fact of which she was proud.

Perhaps Pansy’s sympathy was thrown away, for,
with the compensation that nature provides, Martha
was dowered with an illimitable vanity which con-
vinced her that she was shapely, comely and compe-
tent; that she had only to show complacence for any
man to marry her; that she was sent home so fre-
quently because her many mistresses were jealous of
the attentions shown her by their respective husbands.

She was amorous, and was the terror of a married
curate’s life; whenever she was out of doors she either
loitered near his house, or dogged his footsteps during
his walks abroad.

“Tell your father supper’s ready,” said Mrs. Gorm
to Martha, as, with a wan smile at Pansy, she poured
the steaming mess on a dish she had previously
warmed ; seizing it with a tea-cloth, so that she should
not burn her fingers, she placed it on the table.

Martha was about to seek her father as the latter
entered the room; he carried his ledgers, and, after
glancing in his stepdaughter’s direction (he ignored
his wife), he seated himself before the dish of onions
and examined an account.

“Supper, dear!” urged his wife timidly.

“Any one speak?” he asked, without glancing up.

“Supper’s ready, dear. It’s onions, and—and
they'll get cold.”

He looked at her sharply through his spectacles,
and again glanced at Pansy before helping himself
to the onions; then he put some on a plate that he
handed to his stepdaughter, and without so much as
a word or a look for his wife, he pushed the dish.in
her direction, turned his back on her, so that he could

”)

Sy
ABEL GORM 65

get full advantage of the light from the paraffin lamp,
and resumed his examination of a ledger. He neither
knew nor cared if Martha had any supper.

Thereupon his wife sought to conceal and perhaps
ease the pangs of neglect by talking to her daughter;
but to-night Pansy had no heart for conversation, even
to cheer her mother’s despondency: she replied to the
commonplace remarks in monosyllables, and picked at
the onions on her plate which Martha was wolfishly
regarding.

Although Pansy studiously kept her eyes from her
bulky, almond-eyed stepfather, she was conscious of
everything he did: with his eyes on his book, he would
dab at the onions with his fork until he secured a bit,
and, conveying it to his mouth, the margerine in which
they had been boiled dropped on to his lap; now and
again, he would make a note in a book with the pencil
that ordinarily rested behind his ear: occasionally
Pansy was aware he was furtively glancing in her
direction.

At last, after many unsuccessful proddings, he
realised that he had eaten all the onions; seeing there
were no more on the dish, he carefully and thoroughly
cleaned his plate with a crust of bread; after he had
swallowed this, he cut himself a small piece of the
red Canadian cheese, which Pansy loathed.

He worked at his accounts till after the others had
finished, the while Pansy wondered how long it would
be before she could forget her troubles in sleep.

She was despairing of his ever leaving off when
he put down the book he was examining, scowled
angrily round the table, yawned, pulled himself to-
gether, and signed to Martha to hand him the Bible,
it being his custom to read a chapter before the family
retired for the night.

Pansy disliked this advertisement of Godliness: not
only was it a hypocritical performance for such an
one as her stepfather, but of late he had distressed her
66 PANSY MEARES

mother and herself by selecting those passages
in Holy Writ which are remarkable for their
frankness.

To-night he read the story of David and Bathsheba,
unnecessarily emphasizing David’s desire for the
wife of Uriah, the Hittite, at least so it seemed to his
stepdaughter.

Heads were then bowed in prayer for some min-
utes, and it was with a sigh of relief that Pansy kissed
her mother, who for a moment clung helplessly to her
daughter, nodded to Mr. Gorm and Martha (without
looking at either more than she could help) and light-
ing the candle end, nightly supplied by her stepfather,
she left the kitchen for bed.

She was momentarily overpowered outside by the
smell of mice and stale cheese which assailed her nos-
trils; it left her as she went up the stairs, and in its
stead was substituted a reek of drains, which were
responsible for the headaches that sometimes afflicted
Pansy and her mother.

They had complained of this to Mr. Gorm, who
knew well enough that the drains were defective; as
the house was his own, and as he had influence on the
local council, he had no intention of incurring the
expense of their repair.

Pansy was thankful to reach the isolation of her
room; fearing she would be unable to sleep, she did
not immediately undress; after putting out the bit
of candle, she threw herself on the bed in an agony of
despair.

If Pansy had had nebulous ideas of the value of
money, they would have taken practical shape during
the events following upon the loss of her mother’s
fortune.

A board had exhibited the announcement: “This
desirable old-world house, with about an acre of gar-
den and orchard is to let,” and posters displayed
on walls and windows of Billingham, gave details of
ABEL GORM 67

the forthcoming sale of the “household effects of the
late Joseph Meares.”

Pansy and her mother had been helpless with re-
gard to the letting of the house, and were equally at
Mr. Gorm’s mercy respecting the disposal of their
goods, he threatening his wife with violence if she
did not comply with his wishes.

Pansy had persuaded her mother to give way for
the sake of peace, and much valuable old furniture
had been snapped up by a London dealer who had got
wind of what was toward.

Pansy realised that henceforth she was dependent
on her hated stepfather for food, raiment and a roof
over her head, which knowledge, added to the decep-
tion that had been practised on her mother, took all
the savour out of her life.

And this was only the material aspect of her de-
clension.

She had undoubtedly lost caste in the village by her
mother’s remarriage so soon after her husband’s
death and to one regarded with such antipathy as was
Mr. Gorm: moreover, the latter being “chapel,” he
expected his wife and stepdaughter to worship be-
neath the same roof as himself, and as Pansy’s friends
attended church, which was a socially superior form
of worship, she was morbidly conscious of the change
that had taken place to her detriment.

To avoid unpleasant meetings, she rarely went out
of doors, and then only after dark in paths where she
would not be likely to come upon any one she knew.

The leaving of the old home, the change from its
associations and comfort to the bareness and short-
comings at Mr. Gorm’s, had been a further lesson, if
one were needed, in the stony ways those who are
penniless are compelled to tread; for a time Pansy had
been, as it were, stunned by the unforeseen change in
her fortunes ; these were reflected in the aloofness with
which the Perrotts at “Half Moon” farm exhibited
68 PANSY MEARES

their coldness, as good as telling her that there was
an end to their former relations.

Pansy, who, until the death of her father, had
scarcely a care in the world, was weighed down by
these misfortunes, and was convinced that life was
barren, cruel, and not worth the living. Her step-
father’s behaviour added to her embarrassments.

Although he had never resumed the mask of affec-
tion he had worn during his wooing of, and the early
days of his marriage to her mother, he treating his
wife with a callous indifference which was slowly
breaking her heart, he went out of his way to make
himself agreeable to Pansy, according to his lights.

He would strive to engage her in conversation;
would roughly tell Martha to assist her in household
tasks, and should he abuse his wife, as not infrequently
happened, he would curb his tongue if Pansy were
about.

Her pride made his bread bitter to the taste; she
would have welcomed an opportunity of going out
into the world in some capacity or another, but if ever
she suggested such a proceeding to her mother, the
latter tearfully begged her to stay, a request she was
compelled to grant, since she perceived that her pres-
ence made the other’s burden easier to bear.

Perhaps the only mitigation of her troubles was one
she scarcely appreciated at the time, this, George Tar-
ling’s single-hearted devotion.

He met Pansy as often as she would see him, when,
partly guessing and otherwise divining from her an-
swers to his questioning the dismal course her life
was taking, he offered to marry her offhand and to
give her mother a home for the remainder of her
days.

Pansy might have fallen in with this suggestion
for her mother’s sake; upon broaching the matter,
Mrs. Gorm displayed all the weak woman’s infatua-
tion for a brutal husband, and declared she would not
ABEL GORM 69

go back on her vows: thus, one, perhaps the chief,
incentive to Pansy’s marriage to George was removed.

She might have wedded him as a means of escape
from her extremity, had not her mind been warped
by her mother’s experience with her second husband:
she condemned all men as mean. self-seeking, and
despotic.

To-night she was worn out, both in body and mind;
her wounded nerves denied her the sleep that would
have brought temporary forgetfulness of her sor-
rows. She lay prone on the bed and surrendered to
despair.

She believed she was equal to bearing a great and
unexpected grief; but feared her health was being
undermined by the attrition of her sordid environ-
ment.

She thought of her dear father, and fervently
hoped that those in the other world (which such a
good man as he had assuredly earned the right to
inhabit) could not be aware of the griefs the dear
ones they had left behind were compelled to suffer;
as her imagination pictured his anguish if such
knowledge were possible, she vaguely wondered if
hell itself contained the torments that would be his
if this possibility were a reality.

She recalled how persistently her stepfather
watched her with his eyes; how he went out of his
way to propitiate her, in spite of the fact that he was
never anything other than surly to his wife.

Apart from the repulsion he excited, she dreaded
being alone with him; should he ever seek her com-
pany, as he not infrequently did, she would leave him
as soon as possible. :

To-night, it was as it had been upon the evening of
her father’s burial, and it was as if his eyes were look-
ing at her from every nook and cranny. This obses-
sion excited such terror that she sprang from the bed
and locked the door: even the sense of security that
70 PANSY MEARES

this proceeding engendered did not remove her fears.

His malignity seemingly had the power to harm
her in the isolation of her room; more than once she
was seized with a trembling that she thought would
never stop. Even when she fell asleep, she slumbered
fitfully, the horror of some dream causing her to
awake with a start and sit upright in bed, at which
life was so abhorrent to her that she preferred the
nightmare existence to her world of reality.

Ten days later her mother took advantage of “early
closing” (a practice with which her husband regret-
fully complied), and of his having arranged an inter-
view with his lawyer at Southminster, to visit an old
friend who was sick unto death.

The latter lived in a cottage some two miles from
Billingham, and, upon Mrs. Gorm asking her daughter
to accompany her, Pansy declined; she was usually
eager to fall in with her mother’s wishes, but her
youthful instinct urged her to avoid the sight of ill-
ness, and she had enough troubles of her own to
justify her refusal.

She resolved to have a quiet afternoon by herself
and endeavour to forget her sorrows in a book a
neighbour had lent her.

She was in rather better spirits, having been cheered
by a letter from George; this had arrived by the
morning’s post, and had told her how he was away
for the rest of the week and was looking forward
to taking Pansy out on the forthcoming Sunday
afternoon.

Much to her relief, her stepfather went directly
after dinner; as soon as her mother had gone Pansy
settled herself to read.

But not for long; very soon, she was obsessed by
the stillness in the house; try as she might, she could
not fix her mind on her book.

She found herself continually listening and both
hoping and dreading that the silence would be broken:
ABEL GORM 40

at last she was so mentally ill at ease that she was con-
strained to walk from room to room.

Then she nervously laughed at her shadowy
fears; she resolutely took up the book she had laid
aside, and again sought to interest herself in its
contents.

She had barely read a page when, in a sudden access
of fright, she dropped the volume, and looked fear-
fully about her.

On the face of it the room presented its normal,
uncomfortable aspect, but she had the impression that
she was being watched by Mr. Gorm’s eyes.

She tried to put aside this suggestion, as she knew
and repeatedly told herself that he was miles away;
she all but succeeded, and stooped to pick up the book,
when, the original terror seized her and with a firmer
grip than before.

It seemed to hold her by the throat; in her eager-
ness to breathe freely, she ran to her bedroom, caught
up the first hat which came to hand, and ran down-
stairs as fast as her legs would carry her.

She made for the shop, that being the quickest way
out, and was about to unbar the door as powerful
arms seized her from behind: she would have shrieked
from terror had not a large hand closed over her
mouth.

She tried to struggle, but, strong as she was, at once
realised her efforts were bootless; then she was vio-
lently turned about, and found herself held close to
the portly form of her stepfather.

He was dressed in his Sunday black; his evil, al-
mond-shaped eyes gleamed with triumph.

Directly Pansy realised how she had been trapped
she perceived the danger that menaced her. Although
her brain reeled from a sense of helplessness, she
realised the necessity of retaining her senses: she
sought to look him steadfastly in the face.

In spite of herself, his expression, physical contact
72 PANSY MEARES

with his body, maddened her: she savagely bit the
hand that closed her mouth.

He cried out with pain; she had barely time to call
for help when his other hand seized her throat.

“Another word, and I'll strangle you,” he muttered:
as if to show he meant what he said, he released her
mouth, held her two hands in one of his, and placed
the other about her neck.

Thus they stood for quite a long time, Pansy
trembling in his grip, her stepfather evilly beholding
her.

The tense silence was broken by his saying, rather
to himself than to his victim:

“T had my eye on her for a long time. Now I’ve
got her.”

A little later:

“Them I married I took for what they had. Now
it’s her I want.”

Then:

“T were done over the last, but no one does me
twice. This makes up.”

There was another long silence, during which Pansy
vainly tried to descry a means of escape.

Her thoughts flew to George, and of how gladly
and thoroughly he would tackle Mr. Gorm if he were
only on the spot. But George was ever so many miles
away, and it was only in romantic books that the good
man turned up in the nick of time to protect virtue in
distress.

The silence persisting, and her stepfather making
no movement, she intently regarded him; his impas-
sivity was such that it was if he were turned into
stone.

She endeavoured to collect her thoughts, at which
she could not believe he was wholly bad, he being a
regular attendant at chapel, where he handed round

the plate, first putting in a shilling, which local gossip
said he took back later.
ABEL GORM 73

She resolved to appeal to his better instincts.

“Don’t harm me,” she pleaded. ‘Don’t harm me.
I’m in trouble enough as it is, and I don’t believe
you’re bad enough for that.

“You've done me harm enough, as it is, breaking
up my home and treating mother as you do. Don’t
make it worse by this.

“And then there’s mother. Think what it means.
It’s too dreadful to think of. It’s wrong to her, and
wrong to me, and she and I have had trouble enough.
And it’s deadly sin, and if you’re not punished now,
God will punish you hereafter; and please, please, let
me go.”

She said more in the same strain, sometimes plead-
ing coherently; otherwise wildly, hysterically, much
as if she scarcely knew what she was saying.

At last she made such a heartfelt appeal that she
believed it must move his compassion.

But, as she looked at him with eager eyes, hope
turned to bitterness; he was taking a subtle enjoyment
in her extremity.

The realisation that the forlorn hope of softening
her stepfather’s heart had miserably failed struck
coldly on her understanding.

She again fought with faintness, and upon proving
successful, she was dismayed by a curious manifesta-
tion of her mind.

She was aware that she was being physically domi-
nated by the grip of the man who held her; that, in
spite of the loathing with which his conduct had in-
spired her, she was surrendering to a conviction of
helplessness.

Perhaps he was conscious of her weakening resist-
ance, for he caught her up and made to bear her from
the shop.

In so doing one of her arms swung free: in being
carried past the counter, her hand chanced to light on
a two-pound weight. With the energy of despair, her
74 PANSY MEARES

fingers closed on this: a moment later she had brought
it with all the strength of which she was capable upon
Abel Gorm’s jaw.

She struck better than she knew, for, with a cry
of pain, he released his hold, at which, with rare good
luck, she dropped on her feet.

For all the anguish he was suffering, he would have
seized her once more, had not her eye fallen on the
big, sharp knife which was used to cut butter.

Grasping the handle of this, she stood on the de-
fensive, and cried:

“Come a step nearer, and [’ll stick this into you.”

They warily watched each other for some minutes.
Several times he was on the point of advancing upon
her, but was restrained by the murderous gleam in
her eyes.

It was well for her he did not realise that she was
so exhausted by all she had endured that she had
no strength left to make good her words.
CHAPTER VII

PANSY LEAVES HOME

HEN Mrs. Gorm returned, she found her
W daughter in hysterics on her bed and her
husband bathing his jaw in the scullery.

She could get nothing out of Pansy, while her hus-
band was unable to speak for pain.

She guessed something of what had occurred, and
her suspicions were strengthened by Pansy’s beha-
viour: the latter ate next to nothing, refused to leave
her room, and if she heard her stepfather’s voice
would cry out with terror.

Her condition became so alarming that the doctor
was called in, and as he said change of surroundings
were imperative, mother and daughter left Billing-
ham for a fortnight’s stay at Southend-on-Sea.

Their departure was objected to by Mr. Gorm, who
hated to part with the cost of the trip, but Pansy’s
neurasthenia, the doctor’s emphatic warnings, and a
sudden display of spirit by his wife contrived to un-
loosen his purse-strings.

At Southend, where Pansy quickly revived,. she
had serious talks with her mother on the immediate
future; although she did not satisfy the other’s curi-
osity with regard to what had transpired during her
absence from home, she made it plain that she in-
tended to leave Billingham on the earliest opportunity.

Her mother’s tears and reproaches were of no avail;
seeing that Pansy’s mind was made up, Mrs. Gorm
reluctantly fell in with her daughter’s intention, and
discussed possibilities of employment.

75
76 PANSY MEARES

Unfortunately, Pansy had no marketable accom-
plishments; consequently, their talks led them into
blind ways: it was ultimately decided how nothing
should be settled till their return to Billmgham, when
Mrs. Gorm would take counsel with one or two
friends.

The only one of these who suggested anything
practical was a Miss Deakin, who was a fellow wor-
shipper with Mrs. Gorm at the Billingham chapel.

Miss Deakin was a plain, sentimental, good-hearted
young lady, who spent herself in doing kindnesses
which were often barely acknowledged by those she
benefited.

Directly she heard that Pansy wished to leave home
for work of a light, pleasant nature, she wrote to a
friend in London, who knew some one who was ac-
quainted with a manager in a well-known firm of tea
shops; by resolutely setting to work, she obtained a
letter from this man, who requested an interview with
Pansy, and promised to engage her if he considered
her suitable. The wages were eight shillings, with
prospects of promotion, and dinner and tea were sup-
plied for one and six a week.

Pansy had hazy ideas of the cost of living in Lon-
don; fearing she could not keep body and soul to-
gether on her wage, she was wondering what else she
could do, when her mother promised her twelve pounds
she was shortly to receive as her share of the realisa-
tion of the assets of the “King’s Cross” Bank.

Mrs. Gorm had perceived that there was no chang-
ing her daughter’s mind; she was anxious for Pansy
to work in a genteel atmosphere, and gladly gave her
money for which she had no use, and which would
otherwise find its way into her husband’s closely but-
toned pockets.

It being settled that Pansy was to try the tea shop,
the next question that arose was where she was to
live.
PANSY LEAVES HOME 77

Here, again, Miss Deakin was invaluable; she wrote
to a cousin, who lived in the suburb of Seven Kings,
to see what she could do for her friend.

A letter came almost by return, the writer, a Mrs.
Tidd, saying that, for the present, she could let Pansy
a small room and supply her with a cup of tea in the
morning for five shillings a week, but only on condi-
tion that the utmost secrecy was observed over this
arrangement; she insisted that she would be socially
lost if it once got about among her friends that she
took in “visitors.”

Thus the path was smooth for Pansy’s employment
in London, and an early day was fixed for her de-
parture.

As the time approached for her to leave home, her
spirits rose: she was sorry to leave her mother, but
hoped, if she did not believe, that her absence might
make things easier for her, and reconcile Mr. Gorm
to his bad matrimonial speculation.

Her old ambitions, chastened somewhat by her re-
cent breakdown, revived; she believed that work in
London would sooner or later provide her with the
things for which her soul craved.

Also she was eager to regain the esteem of Billing-
ham, and looked forward to a time when she would
be envied for the prizes she was to draw in the lottery
of London life.

She was disposed to think that, after all, things
were not so black as her morbid fancy had painted
them, and that her misfortunes might yet prove bless-
ings in disguise.

The day before her departure her elation received
something of a set-back.

First of all, her mother spoke to her long and seri-
ously of the temptations which would beset her path
in town, and gave her good counsel, coupled with a
tearful request that she (Pansy) would not do any-
thing to load further her mother’s burden of sorrow.
78 PANSY MEARES

Pansy, in her heart, rather resented this advice,
which savoured of grandmotherliness, and suggested
she was more than capable of looking after her-
self.

She was certain she knew as much of life as it was
possible to learn, and, after the manner of callow
youth, she believed that in advising her for the best
her mother had forgotten her daughter was grown up.

Also, her stepfather had watched her with a look
of sneering triumph, much as if her escape from his
attentions was foredoomed to failure, and would re-
sult in an ignominious return to the general shop at
Billingham.

The suggestion conveyed by his expression was
reinforced at the supper table, where husband, wife,
stepdaughter, and Martha (who had been speedily
sent home from a recent situation), were assembled,
and where Mrs. Gorm tried to sustain her grief at
losing her daughter by attempting to make conversa-
tion.

“T shall be thinking of you this time to-morrow,”
she said to Pansy.

“Will you, mother ?”

“T wonder if you'll be sorry you left home.”

“It will be rather early to judge.”

“How long will it be before you come down and
see us?”

“One ’ud think she was going for good,” sneered
Martha.

“She may be,” snuffled Mrs. Gorm.

“Girls don’t keep situations any time nowadays,”
declared Martha.

“Tt depends.”

“Look at me!”

“There’s several advertisements for girls in this
week’s Gazette. One might mean a permanency for
you,” urged Mrs. Gorm.

“Anyway, they can’t all have me,” remarked Mar-
PANSY LEAVES HOME 79

tha, with a toss of her head, which in happier circum-
stances would have made Pansy smile.

“Aren’t you sorry Pansy’s going?” asked Mrs.
Gorm of her husband, who, as usual during supper,
was stolidly eating, the while he examined his account
books.

She had to repeat her question before he replied:

“Not partic’lery.”

“Not!” exclaimed his wife in surprise.

“No.”

“Abel !”

“She'll come back.’
“Of course. But——Y!’

“An’ sooner than you ’spect, an’ for good.”

“You don’t think——”

“I don’t think anything. Pansy’ll come back. Mark
my words.”

This remark was accompanied by a glance at his
stepdaughter, in which admiration and malignity were
mingled; which seemed to tell her that although
baulked of his desire he had by no means despaired
of success.

That night he read from the Bible the parable of
the “Prodigal Son,” and, as on the occasion when he
had selected the story of “David and Bathsheba,”’ it
was as if he were making particular reference to her-
self.

Alone in the security of the room in which she
would spend her last night at Billingham before ven-
turing into the great world of London, it was as if she
were pursued by her stepfather’s forebodings of
failure.

She found herself reflecting that, perhaps, after all
it would have been better to bear patiently the ills she
knew of than to court failure in exploring wider hori-
zons.

Now that she was committed to leaving home, it
seemed a more desirable haven than it had ever
80 PANSY MEARES

appeared before, the fact of her losing its protection
(such as it was) seemingly enhancing its value.

She was considerably appalled by the dangers that
her mother had painted in no uncertain colours, and
upon presently going to the window that looked in the
direction of the destination whither she was bound
on the morrow, she wondered what those would be
like with whom her lot would be thrown, and if they
would be as well disposed to the lonely country girl
as she was to the world at large,

Her gaze wandered to the serene autumn night,
which was profusely gemmed with stars.

She had never particularly regarded them before;
to-night, it was as if their self-possessed tranquillity
suggested a quiet confidence which was not a little
reproachful of her faint-heartedness.

She was not of a particularly devotional nature,
but she believed that, in the last resource, the Deity
would interfere in the things of this world to right a
glaring wrong and to punish flagrant injustice.

Just now, the stars appeared to be His messengers,
and to tell Pansy to be of good courage on the jour-
ney on which she was about to set out.

Before she got into bed she fervently prayed for
divine protection; she was mentally strengthened by
her appeal, which she was convinced would not fall
on deaf ears, and slept peacefully until she was called
by her mother in the morning.

As on the occasion of her visit to “Half Moon’
farm, George insisted on driving Pansy to the sta-
tion: he left work at midday and was waiting outside
the shop before the family had finished their dinner,
so that there should be plenty of time to catch the
three o’clock train to Southminster.

He refused Mr. Gorm’s half-hearted invitation to
come in, and did not stir from his seat in the cart un-
til he fetched Pansy’s trunk from her rooms; despite
its weight, he handled it as if it were a bandbox.
PANSY LEAVES HOME 81

Then Pansy took a hurried farewell of her mother,
during which little was said, the two women clinging
to each other in a last desperate embrace.

“God bless you and watch over you, and never put
on anything damp,” were her mother’s parting words.

Pansy kissed Martha on the cheek, shutting her
eyes as she did so, and went out through the shop,
where Mr. Gorm was selling candles to a customer.

“Good-bye,” said Pansy, without looking at her
step-father.

“Just a minute,” he replied.

“Tl be late if I stop.”

“Never.”

“Good-bye.”

Pansy clambered up beside George, waved her hand
to her mother, who was watching her with tear-
dimmed eyes from the window, and whispered to her
companion :

“Drive on.”

Even then she did not go without a final glimpse
of her stepfather, for the mare, which was young and
fresh, backed before starting; in clinging to the side
of the cart, she once more saw the man who was
responsible for her leaving home: he was calmly
weighing out coffee (the appealing scent of which
smote Pansy’s nostrils), and glanced at her with the
hateful look in which admiration and malignity were
mingled.

She was aware her mother’s eyes were straining
after her, but did not once look back: she was obsessed
by the evil confidence with which Mr. Gorm looked
forward to her ignominious return, and feared that
her catching sight of her step-father after she had
believed she had seen the last of him was a presage
of misfortune.

George’s voice interrupted her thoughts.

“There’s Hetty Knightbridge.”

“Oh
82 PANSY MEARES

“She’s waving her hand to you.”

“Oh 1

“And there’s Mrs. Lazell acalling after you.”

“Oh ”

“Upset at going?”

“A little.”

“Not at leaving me?”

Pansy shook her head, as if to intimate that she
was not in the mood for conversation.

It was not till they had left Billingham behind them,
and were heading for the marshes that the morbid
apprehensions inspired by Mr. Gorm were lifted from
her mind.

She was concerned for George, he being the last
human link which joined her to the life she was
leaving.

Perhaps this was the reason she regarded him with
more tenderness than she had done hitherto.

“You won’t forget me, will you, George?”

“T’'m likely to, aren’t I, Pansy?”

“And you'll write and tell me all the news?”

“If yu write to me.”

“And you won’t worry about me, will you?”

“T can’t promise that.”

“I don’t want to go away and you to be wretched
for no reason at all. If there’s a girl who respects
herself and knows how to look after herself, it’s me,
George.”

“Many’s the girl has said that.”

“Don’t you think I mean it?” she asked angrily.

“T only wish yu well, Pansy, and that I was always
with yu to look after yu.”

Upon reaching the station, George would not suf-
fer the porter to handle her trunk, but carried
it on to the platform and saw to the labelling of it
himself.

Then he brought from beneath the seat of the cart
two large packets of sweets, a big cake, and a basket
PANSY LEAVES HOME 83

of carefully picked plums, in case, as he made haste
to explain, Pansy was hungry on her journey.

She thanked him for the gifts, but was heedless of
the boundless love of which they were the humble ex-
pression; indeed, it was as if their relations were a
further evidence, if one were needed, of the eternal
truth of the maxim that in all love affairs there is one
who loves while the other is loved.

There was over half an hour before the train was
due; after pacing the empty platform, they went into
the deserted waiting-room, where Pansy’s attention
was attracted by a conspicuously framed notice which
warned girls who travelled alone of the dangers beset-
ting them, and told them that, if they required to be
met at their destination, to communicate with a Miss
Hubble, who was the local honorary secretary of the
“Young Women’s Christian Association.”

“As if girls couldn’t look after themselves,” was
Pansy’s comment after reading the warning.

She glanced at George, who was self-consciously
staring before him; upon her repeating her remark, he
clumsily and obviously changed the subject.

At last the train drew up, and George insisted on
finding a vacant carriage for his charge: he glared
angrily at an elderly man who was interested in
Pansy’s trim figure.

“Thank you, George, and don’t forget me,’ she
said, as she put out her little hand.

By way of reply, he seized her in his strong em-
brace; careless of who might be observing them, he
soundly kissed her many times.

Put out by this demonstrative leave-taking, she
struggled from his arms, and, in entering the train,
that started just then, she sat on the basket of plums
which George had placed on the seat.

The sight of it recalled the forethought that had
inspired the gift; she leaned from the window and
waved and kissed her hand to the faithful lover, who
84 PANSY MEARES

was standing on the platform ruefully watching the
departing train.

Thus Pansy set out to enlist in the great undisci-
plined army of women wage-earners, whose ranks, as
in many a world-famous service, have stern necessity
for recruiting sergeants. The commissariat is indif-
ferent; the uniform often weather-soiled; and its ill-
shod ranks decimated by privation, sickness and disas-
ter; and promotion is frequently alone obtainable by
questionable means.

There is no historian to write the story of its dumb
valour; neither is there any distribution of medals for
those who have displayed conspicuous heroism.

It’s the part to fight uncomplainingly, suffer without
murmuring, and be duly thankful for the trumpery
blessings which are infrequently vouchsafed.

Doubtless much of the enterprise it exhibited was
owing to the fact of many of the units being ignorant
of the forces with which they had to contend; it was
this absence of knowledge which, in enabling them to
hope, provided much of the happiness they were per-
mitted to enjoy.

Thus it was in Pansy’s case, and just now, as with
many another country recruit, her imagination was
aflame with the excitements of life in barracks in the
chief garrison town.
CHAPTER VIII
“ILFRACOMBE”

T was a fast train, and Pansy’s soft eyes were
seeking for the first signs of London long be-
fore there was any suggestion of gracious fields

being defiled by bricks and mortar; such was her
anxiety to behold the beginnings of the great city that
the plums, cake and sweets were forgotten.

After she had passed Romford, hedges, trees and
sward assumed a meaner aspect; lamp-posts persist-
ently bordered a road that ran parallel to the railway.

Then she passed a succession of long, villa-built
streets, which began and left off suddenly, for no
apparent reason at all; now and again she caught
glimpses of electric tramway standards and of an in-
frequent tram.

She believed she was passing some forlorn Essex
town, but there being no cessation of the bricks and
mortar, unless to make room for a cemetery, she con-
cluded that she had at last reached the goal of her
desires.

Long before the train was threading the wilderness
of squalor between Manor Park and Liverpool Street,
she had collected her belongings, and was prepared
to leave the carriage: her impatience to arrive at her
destination made the remainder of her journey tedi-
ously lengthy.

Pansy was dismayed by the spaciousness and extent
of Liverpool Street Station, or “Liverpool,” as it is
almost invariably called by natives of Essex; she told
a porter to take her trunk to the platform from which

85
846 PANSY MEARES

a local train would convey her to “Seven Kings,” a
suburb her fast train had passed.

She had some twenty minutes to wait outside the
barrier, and occupied herself in looking at the lucky
folk who were privileged to live in London.

She was surprised at the pallid faces of many of
the men and women she saw, and was distressed to
perceive that her short country skirt and plain blouse
looked homely compared to what appeared the smartly
cut, fashionable garments of those of her own sex.

She was unaware that her shining eyes and sweet
complexion made her seem a being of another and
more wholesome world.

Then she was aware that one or two men were
closely regarding her, and flushed as she reflected how
their curiosity was attracted by her odd appearance;
she was thinking of retiring into a waiting-room, but
desisted at noticing an expensively dressed, middle-
aged woman, who was seemingly looking for some
one she expected. ms

Pansy’s unsophisticated eyes were fascinated by the
splendour of this person’s attire, by the quantity of
jewelry which decorated her ample person; she mar-
velled who she could be, and was greatly surprised as
the woman caught sight of her (apparently for the
first time), and, approaching her, said:

“Excuse me, are you Miss Wilson?”

“No,” replied Pansy.

“I’m so sorry. But I’m expecting some one from
the country, where I suppose you’ve come from.”

“That is so,” said Patisy, who was flattered at being
addressed by such a fine ‘creature.

“T was to meet a Miss: Wilson, who was coming to
be my companion. I did so hope it was you.”

“Indeed !” 2

“I saw you standing about, and took a liking to
you at once.”

“I’m not Miss Wilson,” almost sighed Pansy.
“TLFRACOMBE” 87

_ “What a pity!”

Pansy looked at her inquiringly.

“I’m very kind to those I take a liking to,” con-
tinued the woman. “And if you care for motoring
and travel, you’d have had a lovely time.”

Pansy’s eyes expressed the envy she knew.

“As the other girl hasn’t troubled to come, I should
like to have considered engaging you. But perhaps
you have work?”

“Not exactly. I’ve come to London in hopes of
getting in a tea shop.”

“A pretty girl like you thrown away in a tea shop!
With me, you would have everything found; a real
good time; thirty pounds a year, and prospects.”’

Pansy figuratively gasped for breath at her good
fortune in having such splendid prospects dangled be-
fore her eyes.

“But, as you’ve something else in your mind, I must
look for some one else.”

Bi”

“And perhaps your parents want you to go in a
tea shop?”

“T’m my own mistress, so far as that is concerned.”

“But since you don’t care about considering it 2

“TI hardly know what to do,” remarked Pansy help-
lessly.

“Are you in a hurry to get to where you were
going?”

“Not exactly.”

“T live only a short way from here. If you would
care to see my house, we could get there and back in
a taxicab in no time.”

“T should like to—onl i

“Only what, dear?”

“T don’t know,” said Pansy, who was divided be-
tween eagerness to fall in with the woman’s sugges-
tion and the need for caution which her mother had
urged before her departure.

 

 
88 PANSY MEARES

“You may as well come. And here is my husband.
T’ll get him to call a cab.’

Pansy saw a well-dressed man approaching whom
she believed she had observed before she had been
spoken to,

He was stout and red-faced, and was apparently de-
lighted to be introduced to her.

He shook hands warmly, and the two seemed to
be urging her from the station, when a strange thing
happened.

An elderly, sharp-featured woman, who was not
particularly smartly turned out, excitedly approached
Pansy, and said:

“Are you Miss Meares?”

“Yes,” replied Pansy.

“I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Leave
those people at once.”

“But——”

“They’re two of the worst people in London, and
if they don’t leave you alone, I'll call the police.”

Pansy, startled by this information, turned to look
at the couple; she was greatly surprised to see they
were beating a hasty retreat, each hurrying in a con-
trary direction.

“What did I tell you?” cried her benefactor.

“What does it all mean?’ asked Pansy, who re-
strained an inclination to tears.

“That you're a silly little goose of a country girl,
and if Mr. George Tarling hadn’t written to Miss
Hubble, our local representative at Southminster, who
communicated with us, you’d have got into very seri-
ous trouble.”

“I—TI don’t understand at all.”

“T suppose you’ve never heard of the ‘White Slave
Traffic’! But you will some day, and then you'll
understand. In the meantime, have nothing whatever
to do with smooth-tongued strangers, or you will be
ruined for life. What time is your train?”
“ILFRACOMBE” 89

Pansy’s rescuer saw her into the train, and refused
the offer of plums with which the terrified girl sought
to substantiate her thanks.

She was grateful to George for what had proved
a necessary interposition, but at the same time was
annoyed with him, inasmuch as the fact of his appre-
hensions regarding her proving to be justified, argued
defective common sense on her part.

The adventure, coming on top of her leaving home
and journey from Billingham, exhausted her; she was
tired and irritable at finding herself on the platform
of Seven Kings’ Station, and longed for a cup of tea.

Mrs. Tidd’s address was “Ilfracombe,” Granville
Road; telling a porter to bring on her trunk, she left
the station, and asked to be directed to her destina-
tion.

Her first glimpse of Seven Kings was depressing,
an impression that was strengthened by further ac-
quaintance.

There was a high road, along which were the elec-
tric tram lines and standards; at right angles to this
were very long and straight rows of tiny red-brick
villas, each the counterpart of the other; she discov-
ered on reaching Granville Road that the fanlights of
every house displayed a pretentious name in gold let-
tering, numbers being considered “common” in this
genteel suburb.

As Pansy had not the remotest idea in what part of
Granville Road “Ilfracombe” was situated, she had
to walk the length of one side and a good part of the
other before her eyes were gratified by the name she
sought.

An undersized, flat-chested, anemic woman an-
swered the door; directly she caught sight of Pansy,
her plain face fell, perhaps by reason of seeing such a
prepossessing girl.

“Mrs. Tidd?” asked Pansy.

“Mrs. Russell Tidd. Are you Miss Meares?’
90 PANSY MEARES

“Yes. <A porter is bringing on my trunk.”

“Your room is almost ready. Perhaps you'd like
to wait in the drawing-room ?”

“Anywhere. I’m rather tired,” replied Pansy, who
had already divined that she and Mrs. Russell Tidd
would never be the best of friends.

Pansy was shown into a stuffy little drawing-room
the chairs of which were on their best behaviour, with
silk bows decorating their backs: cheap religious prints
decorated the walls, and the apartment had the formal
atmosphere of a room that is rarely used.

Pansy, who had been left to her own devices, had
barely had time to look about her, before Mrs. Rus-
sell Tidd appeared and said:

“Perhaps you’d rather wait in the dining-room?”

Pansy assenting, she was forthwith conducted to
another small room, and, if she were disposed to feel
homesick at again being left alone by Mrs. Russell
Tidd, she could console herself with overhearing the
conversation that was being carried on in the next
house, and which was audible through the thin party
wall.

Weariness, the shock of leaving home, her experi-
ence at Liverpool Street, her unfamiliar and unsym-
pathetic surroundings cumulated in a distress that all
but reduced her to tears: she did not want to break
down so soon after leaving Billingham, and was sum-
moning her courage to ask Mrs. Russell Tidd for a
cup of tea, when the latter entered the room and told
her that if she wanted tea it was ready in the kitchen.

This unexpected consideration affected Pansy in her
present depression of mind, and she had much ado to
stop herself from weeping: she controlled herself with
an effort, and followed Mrs. Russell Tidd to the
kitchen, which was the most home-like room she had
so far entered in “Ilfracombe.”

Tea and bread and butter heartened her consider-
ably; she gladdened the landlady’s heart by insisting
“TLFRACOMBE” gI

on her helping herself to the plums, cake and sweets
George had provided.

“Perhaps you would like to see your room?” sug-
gested Mrs. Russell Tidd presently; upon Pansy as-
senting, she was conducted upstairs, where she noticed
that whereas the first flight facing the front door was
covered by a gay carpet held in position with square
brass rods, the landing and passage were bare save
for a strip of cheap matting.

“What do you think of ‘Ilfracombe’? asked Mrs.
Russell Tidd, on arriving at the top of the house.

“T like it very much,” replied Pansy.

“And. you'll like it more when you realise what a
‘select’ road this is.”

“No doubt.”

“Seven Kings is ‘select,’ as every one knows, and
‘Ilfracombe’ is quite the most ‘select’ house and on the
best side.”

“Indeed !”

“Quite a different class to those who live on the
other, as you'll soon see for yourself.”

“Which is my room?” asked Pansy.

“There’s our bedroom; that’s Mr. and Mrs. Hut-
ters’, and here is yours,” said Mrs. Russell Tidd, as
she opened the door of a small, plainly furnished,
scrupulously clean bedroom.

Then, as a single knock was heard on the front
door, she added:

“That must be your trunk. I'll tell the man to bring
it up.”

After the trunk had been brought up, and the man
paid, Mrs. Russell Tidd said:

“Before you unpack, we’d better come to terms, but
however long or short a time you stay, I must ask
you not to let Mr. and Mrs. Hutter know that you’re
a lodg—you’re paying for your room.”

“Who are they?” asked Pansy. “I think you men-
tioned them before.”
92 PANSY MEARES

“They're vis—friends who’re staying here. Mr.
Hutter’s gone to see a football match, and Mrs. Hutter
comes from business at six. Now, about terms.”

“It’s as well to get everything settled,” replied
Pansy. =.

“We arranged about the room for five shillings a
week, which is very cheap, considering how ‘select’
we are: what about your meals?”

They discussed charges, and, upon Pansy demur-
ring to one or two suggestions of the landlady, Mrs.
Russell Tidd was at once amenable, she being evi-
dently anxious to make sure of her “visitor.” As
soon as everything was settled and she was about to
go downstairs, Mrs. Russell Tidd said:

“May I again ask you not to let Mr. and Mrs. Hut-
ter know you’re paying for being here; and sup—late
dinner, is at eight.”

Left to herself, Pansy unpacked her things, and
made her little room as homelike as possible; she had
all but arranged her belongings to her satisfaction,
when the landlady knocked on the door, and, entering
the room, said:

“Mr. Russell Tidd is home and would like to meet
you.”

Pansy’s hands involuntarily went to her hair; as
she descended the stairs, there came into her mind a
big, imposing, aristocratic-looking man.

Her anticipations were falsified, for the occupier
of “Ilfracombe” was diminutive, snubnosed, and owl-
eyed; he did his best to make up for his insignificance
by wearing a frock coat, and white vest slip; he still
held the tall hat in which he had come from the city:
it was evident that he was greatly surprised by Pansy’s
winsome appearance, which fact his wife was quick to
notice.

“This is Mr. Russell Tidd,” she informed Pansy.
Upon telling her ‘He was pleased to meet her,” Mrs.
Russell Tidd said:
“ILFRACOMBE” 93

“Give Miss Meares one of your cards, Russell.”

Russell looked blank; recovering himself, he
searched in his pockets, but without finding what he
sought.

“Just like you, Russell,” sharply complained his
wife, “you’re always losing things.”

“Very sorry, I’m sure, dear,” replied her husband
humbly, before asking of Pansy:

“And what do you think of our village of ‘Seven
Kings’ ?”

“Village!” exclaimed Pansy.

“Why not, Miss Meares?”

“I thought this was London.”

“Indeed, no. We flatter ourselves we’re quite in
the country, don’t we, dear?”

“Of course. If Miss Meares thinks this country, I
wonder what she will think of the next village of
Ilford.”

Russell, being a well-meaning little man, was anx-
ious to make the “visitor” feel at home, and offered
to show her round the garden: his wife resented this
attention; she pointedly suggested to Pansy that she
should complete her unpacking, and added that she
had business to discuss with her husband.

Pansy went upstairs; upon descending some few
minutes later to ask for matches, she overheard a frag-
ment of conversation which told her that Russell was
accounting to his wife for his day’s meagre expendi-
ture, and was being reprimanded for having had a
large cup of coffee for his luncheon instead of a small
one.

Punctually at eight, the bell rang for supper,—late
dinner Mrs. Russell Tidd called it—the meal consist-
ing of bread, cheese and cocoa, with beer (of which
Mrs. Russell Tidd, a strict teetotaler, strongly disap-
proved) for Mr. Hutter, to whom Pansy was intro-
duced,

Mr. Hutter was a good-looking, youngish man,
94 PANSY MEARES

who was dressed in a decayed flannel suit; he opened
wide his weak blue eyes, on seeing Pansy, and his
manner gave her the impression that he preferred
loafing to work, which indeed was the case.

‘“‘Where’s Mrs. Hutter?” asked Mrs. Russell Tidd,
on seeing how he was attracted by the “visitor.”
“Does she know late dinner is ready?”

Mr. Hutter went to the door and called up the
stairs:

““Where’s my dear little girl? What has happened
to little childie?”

Heavy footsteps descended the stairs, and Pansy’s
vagrant fancy pictured some pretty young thing, but
again her anticipations were at fault, Mrs. Hutter be-
ing plain, very large, elderly, and ponderous on her
feet.

She was a hard-working woman, and clever with
her pencil, with which, as a designer of costumes, she
made enough to keep herself and her feckless hus-
band, with whom she was pathetically in love, this
blinding her to his faults.

She admired youth, grace and comeliness in one of
her own sex. consequently she was genuinely pleased
to meet Pansy, to whom she took a liking.

“Now, little girl!’ cried Mr. Hutter. “Don’t stand
all night talking to Miss Meares, or the cheese will
crawl away.”

“It was brought fresh this morning,”’ declared mat-
ter-of-fact Mrs. Russell Tidd.

“T’m sure!” replied Mr. Hutter, and forthwith they
all sat down to supper.

It was rather a dull meal, Mrs. Russell Tidd and
Mrs. Hutter discussing eligible localities in which to
live, and frequently coming to the conclusion that of
all places “Seven Kings” was the most “select,” and
Granville Road the best thoroughfare in the
“village.”

Pansy’s boredom was mitigated at noticing how the
“ILFRACOMBE” 95

two husbands furtively admired her, and by Mr. Hut-
ter’s behaviour after he had swallowed his glass of
beer.

He told one or two fairly funny stories, and Mr.
Russell Tidd sought to follow his example; upon his
forgetting the point, he was roundly taken to task
by his wife.

Presently Mr. Hutter called the master of “Ilfra-
combe” “Tiddly” and “Hi tiddley—hiti,” and once
“Tiddly Push.”

Pansy expected Mrs. Russell Tidd to be vexed by
these familiarities; with the inconsistency of the femi-
nine mind, she rather liked Mr. Hutter, although she
would not for one moment have tolerated any one of
his vagaries in her husband.

Since his wife kept him in idleness, beer and to-
bacco for the best part of the year, Mr. Hutter con-
tinually flattered her vanity.

He repeatedly called her “Dear little girl,” and told
Pansy how his wife was “playful as a kitten,” which
remark urged the latter to justify this description with
antics that would have been ridiculous but for their
underlying pathos.

Pansy quickly divined that the Hutters were lodgers
like herself; to pander to Mrs. Russell Tidd’s passion
for “selectness,” the fiction was sedulously supported
that they and Pansy were friends on a visit, despite
the fact of their all being respectively cognisant of the
state of affairs.

After supper there was a round game of cards,
when Mr. Hutter was put out by the landlady’s re-
fusal to play for anything but “love.”

Also, upon Mr. and Mrs. Russell Tidd’s leaving the
room to look for mislaid counters, Pansy was amused
to hear Mr. Hutter complain to his wife’s sympathetic
ears of the quality of the cheese they had had for
supper.

Pansy went to bed soon after ten: although very
96 PANSY MEARES

tired, she did not sleep before she had appraised the
day’s events.

She thought of her mother and George in far
away Billingham; of her startling adventure at Liver-
pool Street; finally of her new acquaintances at “Ilfra-
combe.”

On the whole she was disappointed with her new
environment, but, luckily for her, as with many an-
other young woman commencing life in earnest with
little or no advantages, she had a big account at the
bank of hope, which enabled her to face confidently
the future.
CHAPTER IX

THE “x. Y. Z.”

HAT for you, please?”
“Scone and butter, and a glass of hot
milk.”

Pansy approached another customer with the same
formula.

“Small coffee and Osborne biscuits.”

“What for you, please?” she said to a third.

“The usual, miss.”

“What is that?”

“You ought to know by this time,” he smiled. “It’s
toast, honey, and a small cocoa.”

Pansy stood by an elderly woman.

“What for you, please?” she asked.

The customer addressed looked disdainfully at the
pretty waitress, who, in spite of the stringent rules
of the establishment with regard to the wearing of
any personal adornment, and the severe way in which
the hair was to be brushed back from the forehead,
was remarkable in her black dress with collar and
cuffs.

“Roll and butter and glass of milk, and if you are
as long as you were yesterday, I shall complain to
the management.”

“Tt wasn’t my fault. We were short of milk.”

“If I have any impertinence I'll complain now.”

Pansy bridled the reply that flew to her red lips,
and moved towards the elderly man who was reading
a newspaper.

“Was yours Ceylon or China tea, please?”

97
98 PANSY MEARES

“I forget, my darling,” he said in an undertone,
and without looking up.

“I’m sorry I’ve forgotten, but——’

“Bring me anything you like, my sweet.’

“T believe it was China tea,” hazarded Pansy.

“That and a smile, my own.”

Pansy, who was now well used to endearing words,
advanced to the counter, striving as she went to re-
member her orders, which she detailed to Miss Black,
the grim-faced manageress.

“Large or small coffee?” asked the latter sharply.

“L—large,” faltered Pansy.

“Sure?”

“S—small.”

“Which is it?”

“Small, my sweet.”

“Eh !?

“Sorry, Miss Black. I get so muddled.”

“That’s no reason why you should repeat the rub-
bish of those who ought to know better.”

Pansy’s confusion was such that she hung her head.
Miss Black went on:

“T never let them say such things to me.”

“I’m sure of that, Miss Black.”

“Indeed, they know better than to try it on.”

“Of course, Miss Black.”

“And if any of them annoy you, you refer them to
me.”

“TI will, Miss Black.”

“And before you serve that milk, take out that fly,”
said ‘the manageress, who put up with the new wait-
ress’ lack of experience on account of the custom that
her looks attracted to the Southampton Street depot,
where, before her arrival, business had been on the
decline.

Pansy contrived to execute her orders without mak-
ing mistakes; she then gave each customer a tiny
ticket recording the sum due, which she tore from a

’
THE “X. ¥. 2.” 99

book supplied for this purpose, after entering the
amount on a counterfoil.

There being no one to attend to for the moment,
it being the slack time of the morning between the
breakfasts and the lunches, she sat on one of the chairs
provided at the end of the counter farthest from the
door, and talked in an undertone to Miss Pillar, a
fellow waitress, with whom she had struck up some-
thing of a friendship, she being the only other young
lady in the shop who made any sort of appeal to
Pansy. \

She came from a Devonshire village, and lived by
herself in a London lodging on her small wage sup-
plemented by occasional presents from an uncle who
was a successful undertaker.

She was a nice-looking girl, and quite commonplace
with the exception of her views on marriage, which
were in marked contrast to those of the other young
ladies in the tea shop.

Instead of looking upon a husband as a permanent
means of escape from industrial servitude, Miss Pil-
lar derided matrimony as bondage, and family life as
worse; in a confidential moment she had told Pansy
that her secret ambition was to have a good time; that
when she was too elderly to be attractive she would
take her own life.

She had caught the London accent, but in moments
of excitement would speak with a West Country
accent.

“What was old Blacky saying to you?” asked Miss
Pillar.

“Her usual jaw.”

“What sauce!”

“I said ‘my sweet’ to her by mistake.”

“My ied

“And she said she never allowed any man to say
such things.”

“Doesn’t she wish she’d the chance!”
100 PANSY MEARES

“She’s not a bad sort at heart.”

“Isn’t that a lovely boy?” asked Miss Pillar.

“The one with the moustache?”

“The clean-shaven one.”

“He’s so round-shouldered.”

“He always is till he’s had his lunch. That seems
to buck him up and make him stand up.”

“He asked me to go out with him yesterday.”

“Why didn’t you?”

Before Pansy could reply, she was summoned to
one of her tables by the rapping of a knife upon a
plate by a customer who wanted gingerbeer.

Upon returning to her seat, Miss Pillar was called
to one of her tables, and Pansy found herself sitting
by a Miss Tilly, a typical “X. Y. Z.” young lady.
Plain, anemic, flat-chested, colourless in face as in
mind, Miss Tilly preferred to tramp to the tea shop in
all weathers and work long hours on a pitiful wage,
rather than enter into domestic service, the material
advantages of which were outweighed in her opinion
by the stigma attaching to such an occupation. The
only self-assertion she appeared capable of was on oc-
casions on which, as now, a well-dressed woman came
into the shop.

“Look at ’er,” she remarked to Pansy.

“Who pe

“That in the picture hat.”

“TIsn’t it sweet?”

“I wouldn’t be seen in such a thing.”

“Why ?”?

“You know,” said the other insinuatingly.

“But I don’t!”

“She’s no better than she should be.”

“Really!”

“That she isn’t,” asserted Miss Tilly virtuously.
“Trust me for knowing what’s what.”

Then, with self-conscious rectitude, she went on,
as she fixed her eyes on a poached egg, which another

2
THE “X. Y. Z.” 101

of the young ladies had placed before a customer on
an adjacent table:

“Tm not a bit like that. If I couldn’t afford a
thing, and didn’t come by it honest, I wouldn’t
wear it.”

“No doubt,” said Pansy, who concealed a yawn.

“T should blush to be seen in it, I should. I’m not
that sort of girl at all.”

Pansy offering no contradiction, Miss Tilly seemed
to think it incumbent on her to proclaim further the
principles by which she was inspired, for she con-
tinued :

“No one, not any one in the world, can say I’m a
bit fast. I respect myself, I do; and it would be a
good thing if every other young lady did the same.”

Pansy, who thought the girl who had inspired
Miss Tilly’s indignation to be nothing other than an
ordinary, well-behaved young woman, held her peace,
and shifted her position, in order to escape the admir-
ing glances of some men at an adjacent table.

A few moments later she was reprimanded by Miss
Black for neglecting to observe a customer; upon
again being at liberty, she had a further conversation
with Miss Pillar.

“Old Blacky going for you again?’ asked the
latter.

“Yes,” sighed Pansy.

“Isn’t she a terror! But don’t you mind.”

“IT can’t help minding.”

“Frightened you'll ‘get the bullet’ ?”

“She’s always ‘going for’ me.”

“So she was for me till I got the right side of
her.”

“How did you manage that?’

“Asking after her ‘boy’.”

“What!”

“Fact.”

“She hasn’t got one,”
102 PANSY MEARES

“She thinks she has.”

“Who re?

“That middle-aged gentleman who sometimes comes
in and speaks to her. He’s a widower with two chil-
dren, and knows her people, and often goes home with
her to supper. She’s quite certain he’s going to marry
her some time or other.”

“Perhaps he is.”

“Don’t you b’leeve it. Whenever I get into a scrape,
I ask after Mr. Charles, and she’s all smiles at once,
and tells me that if he isn’t taking her out that even-
ing he’s kept late at business.”

“Tsn’t he?”

“T’m sure,” replied Miss Pillar. “Jest you try it
on, and ask after Mr. Charles next time she ‘goes for’
you.”

Between half-past eleven and twelve Pansy went
down to dinner; she, with the other young ladies,
dined early, in order to be free to devote her time to
the rush that set in about half-past twelve and lasted
till after two.

This morning she found herself seated next to Miss
Doe, who had pale red hair, a clear complexion and
greenish eyes, with fair eyelashes. She suffered from
chronic dyspepsia, and wore an engagement ring.

Pansy, who was heartened by the food, attempted
to engage her in conversation, but all she got for her
pains were monosyllables, until the conclusion of the
meal, when Miss Doe exhibited symptoms of vitality.

“You live in Dalston, don’t you?” asked Pansy.

Yes.”

“What's it like?”

“All right.”

“Don’t you like it?”

“T think so.”

“What do you do in the evening?’

“Needlework, if I’m not tired.”

“Ts that all?”
ELE "2S Me Ze” 103

“Once a week I go to my boy’s to supper.”

“You're engaged, aren’t you?”

“Ves,”

“When are you going to be married?”

“In seven years.”

“Seven what?”

: “Years. My ‘boy’ has his mother and aunt to
eep.”

“How can you stand doing needlework?”

“It’s for my ‘bottom drawer’,” said Miss Doe list-
ee which manner of replying caused Pansy to
ask:

“Aren’t you fond of him?”

“T—I think so.”

“Aren’t you sure?”

“T think Iam. Haven’t you a ‘boy’ ?”

“No.”

“Mr. Right’ll come along some day,” said Miss
Doe as she rose from her seat.

During the next few hours, there were many occa-
sions on which Pansy was tempted to take Miss Pil-
lar’s advice, for it seemed as if the manageress had
forgotten the custom her pretty assistant had attracted
to the branch and had a lively sense of her sins of
commission and omission.

Once or twice it was on the tip of Pansy’s tongue
to make some mention of Mr. Charles, but she was re-
strained by her native honesty, which objected to
stooping to such a device, and by the fear excited by
Miss Black.

There was no denying that the latter had a person-
ality: as Pansy watched her stately, self-possessed
progress about the shop, she could not believe that
such a formidable woman could have a soft place in
her heart.

The branch at which Pansy worked had lately made
a specialty of serving a three-course midday dinner
for a shilling; it was over the hurry entailed by the
104 PANSY MEARES

serving of this that she incurred the manageress’
wrath.

She kept a prim shopping party waiting, and Miss
Black happened to come along as its eyes were im-
patiently looking for the waitress who was behind-
hand with the joint.

Then, in full sight of Miss Black, she spilled the
best part of a glass of milk down a customer’s back,
and after this disaster her trepidation was such that
she let fall a cup, saucer and plate which smashed to,
pieces on the floor.

She avould have despaired more than she did if it
had not been for the cheery greetings of her “regu-
lars,’ who made a point of crowding the tables to
which she attended.

These had long since learned her name, and the
more venturesome among them invested her with a
fantastic history to which they were always referring.

The jokes were perhaps thin and daily repetition
doubtless dulled any point they may once have pos-
sessed, but the comradeship they implied went a con-
siderable way towards lessening the petty annoyances
to which she was always subject.

Deeply conscious that she had incurred Miss Black’s
displeasure, she timidly approached her on trivial ex-
cuses; the manageress’ curt replies increased her ap-
prehensions.

She was disconsolately taking advantage of the wel-
come lull existing between the dinners and lunches,
and early teas to have a well-earned rest on one of the
chairs provided for this purpose when a waitress
named Miss Peck seated herself beside her.

Miss Peck had puffy eyes, a large open mouth and
indifferent teeth, and represented the joy of life among
the waitresses, as she not only belonged to a tennis
club at Peckham where she lived, but played there on
her one free evening in the week.

She had a sister who had once visited what she
THE: “Xe Xe 2." 105

called “Parry” (she meant Paris) and to which city
she frequently alluded to the annoyance of the other
girls who looked upon a week at Southend-on-Sea
as a fine holiday.

“What’s up with you, Miss Meares?” asked Miss
Peck.

“Why, Miss Peck!”

“You look so “distray.’ ”

“Do I>?”

“Has Miss Black been going for you?”

“Perhaps.”

“I heard her telling Miss Smith she had lost all
patience with you.”

“When was that?” asked Pansy quickly.

“Just now. Has she said much to you?”

“Not more than usual.”

“Keep out of her way, dear.”

“T wish I could.”

“What you want is a week in ‘Parry’, dear.”

“Chance is a fine thing,” replied Pansy, who had
picked up this popular stock retort to a desirable but
impossible achievement.

“I’m looking forward to a week in the gay capital.”

“When?”

“It may be next year and it may be the year after.
But I'll send you a picture postcard when I go.”

Before Pansy could thank Miss Peck for this prom-
ise (she did her best to keep friendly, often in trying
circumstances, with the other young ladies with whom
she worked) she was told that Miss Black wished to
see her.

Pansy had been long enough in London to know
the difficulty of obtaining work, even of the illpaid na-
ture of that she was now performing, consequently
she was anxious not to get what was vulgarly known
amongst the young ladies as “the bullet”; her limbs
trembled as she approached the manageress, who was
standing at the end of the counter adjacent to the win-
106 PANSY MEARES

dow, and she was sadly tempted to summon her cour-
age and take advantage of the hint supplied by Miss
Pillar.

She had a few moments’ respite, for Miss Black was
exchanging a few words with an elderly customer;
upon his departure, the manageress looked with hard
eyes at the delinquent.
~ “Ves, Miss Black,” said Pansy humbly.

* “How long have you been here?”
' “Three months, Miss Black.”

“One would think you'd only been here a week by
the bother you cause.”

“T’m very sorry, Miss Black.”

“What’s the use of being sorry! I’ve made up my
mind what to do. No one can say I’m hard What
is it, Miss Pillar?” asked Miss Black as the young
lady in question stood demurely by her side.

“We're nearly out of milk, Miss Black.”

“What of it?”

“What am I to do?”

“You know well enough: send round to the nearest
depot to see if they can let us have any. As I was
saying, no one can say I’m hard, can they, Miss Pil-
lar?”

“Indeed no, Miss Black.”

“Do you know what I’m telling Miss Meares?”

“About Mr. Charles, Miss Black?” asked Miss Pil-
lar.

“Mr. Charles!” exclaimed the manageress.

“Yes, Miss Black.”

“What has Mr. Charles to do with Miss Meares?”
asked Miss Black tartly.

“She was only saying the other day how much she
admired him.”

“Indeed!”

“And how devoted he seemed to you.”

“Really!”

“Didn’t you, Pansy?”

 
THE. SX. Ys Z." 107

Pansy hung her head, an action which was taken by
the manageress to signify assent.

“As it happens, I was speaking to Miss Meares of
nothing of the kind,’”’ said Miss Black in a mollified
voice.

Miss Pillar was profuse in her apologies, saying:
“T am so orfully sorry, reely I am, Miss Black,” and
withdrew at the earliest moment.

Pansy waited in suspense for Miss Black’s pro-
nouncement, and was agreeably surprised at her say-
ing:
“Do please be careful in future, Miss Meares, or
I shall be compelled to go to extremes.”

Pansy thanked her for her clemency and upon the
first opportunity said to Miss Pillar:

“You are a dear.”

“That’s all right. I was sure you’d never do it
for yourself.”

“T’d no idea she’d ‘climb down’ like that.”

“It’s the men, you see.”

“Tt was kind of you.”

“Oh well, I might want something in return.”

“What have I to give any one?” asked Pansy help-
lessly.

“I mayn’t go home for Xmas and I shall tell my
people I’m staying with you.”

“What do you mean?”

“What I say. I want to go somewhere else. See?”

Before Pansy could solicit an explanation from
Miss Pillar, they were summoned to their respective
tables.

Pansy, despite every effort to the contrary, and per-
haps from over anxiety to do well, made further mis-
takes during the afternoon and these came to Miss
Black’s ears: much to her relief, the manageress was
blind to her blunders.

Five days of the week Pansy commenced work about
ten in the morning and did not leave till eight in the
108 PANSY MEARES

evening; the sixth day she reached the depot at eight
and got away at something after five.

This being one of her late nights, she was kept
busy with the teas till half past six, after which oc-
casional customers straggled in, many of whom being
aware of her presence in the tea shop made a point
of sitting at her table.

While this devotion flattered her vanity, it meant
more work attending to their needs and the likelihood
of exciting the jealous hostility of the other young
ladies.

Now and again she would glance at the clock and
wonder if eight would ever arrive, although she knew
from experience that, after she was free, she had no
appreciation of her liberty.

At a quarter to eight she and the other waitresses
were hard at work putting away the bread, biscuits,
pastries and various species of cakes in tins and boxes,
and on the stroke of the hour the blinds were drawn,
and the door fastened, while some minutes before the
chairs had been put on corner tables and sweeping
had already commenced. ,

When Pansy and the other young women had got
into their outdoor things they all, with the exception
of the manageress, stood outside the door and took a
prolonged leave-taking of each other, much as if they
were dear friends separating for a lengthy absence
instead of with the certainty of meeting early on the
morrow.

They nightly kissed and embraced and exchanged
tender good-byes in this fashion, and no bickerings
that had occurred during the day were suffered to
interfere with these ardent farewells.

Free of her friends, Pansy hurried in the direction
of Liverpool Street, passing on her way a grocer’s
where the fragrant smell of coffee now, as always, at
once took her mind back to the occasion of her leav-
ing home when her step-father, as he weighed out cof-
THE PK Vo Ze 109

fee, had looked at her as if confident she would some
day fall into his clutches.

She was very tired, but could not afford a penny
for a ’bus; as she went, she avoided the more or less
furtive attentions of divers males.

She was now well used to their tactics and gave
the civil spoken stranger, who lifted his hat and was
certain he had met her before, short shrift, while many
a man who dogged her footsteps for a long way ex-
pended a lot of energy for nothing.

Arrived at Liverpool Street, she got into a crowded
carriage of six a side, and often as many standing,
where beyond her looks there was nothing to distin-
guish her from the rest of the exhausted work-girls.

She produced from her bag one of the cheap novel
reprints one of the young ladies had lent her, and ob-
tained some of the colour, romance and excitement of
which her life was barren from its crudely exciting
pages.

Now and again, her brain was so weary that she
stopped reading, but even then she had not sufficient
energy to look about her, and kept unseeing eyes on
her book.

She got out at Seven Kings and walked to “Tlfra-
combe”, Granville Road, in the hope of finding one
of the infrequent letters from her mother or George
awaiting her return.

There was nothing for her to-night, and after look-
ing in the glass and noticing how rapidly the colour
was fading from her cheeks, she went downstairs to
the supper of bread, cheese and cocoa which had been
put by for her.

Mr. and Mrs. Hutter had gone out, Mrs. Russell
Tidd was either too tired or too irritable to say much,
and her husband had been so frequently reprimanded
for his innocent attentions to Pansy that he was
frightened to speak.

Pansy rose from the table as soon as she decently
110 PANSY MEARES

could and went upstairs to bed, where, after she had
said her prayers, she, at the risk of incurring her land-
lady’s displeasure by wasting gas, read the novel until
she had reached the inevitable and impossible climax.

Her one concern was to avoid thinking of the life

she was compelled to live.
CHAPTER X

STOCKTAKING

in the “X. Y. Z.”

The manager it had been necessary to inter-
view was a grave, bearded, elderly, little man whose
name was Pillett.

He had not been long in Pansy’s company before
he became greatly excited and almost danced about
her in his anxiety to be of service.

It was the first of many lessons she received in Lon-
don of the influence a pretty face and figure exert
on the masculine mind.

He promised to do all he could for her and told
her not to fail to apply to him if she were in difficulty.

Directly she had commenced work she had discov-
ered that her looks were a disadvantage where her
own sex was concerned and particularly with those
ill-favoured young ladies with whom she daily as-
sociated: on the other hand, they were mostly too
anemic to express over-much resentment and were
mollified by the new waitress’ unassuming manner.

Responsibility, the fact of her being what she called
“on her own”, the change and excitement of working
in London had had at first a remarkable effect upon
her spirits, making her cheerful, contented and light-
hearted where before she had been disconsolate.

Also, she found pleasure in the fact of being re-
ferred to by her fellow workers as a young lady, and
in the atmosphere of “mistering’” and “missing” in
which she lived.

P*ss had had no difficulty in obtaining work

lit
112 PANSY MEARES

She was badly off from a financial point of view,
but was in some measure compensated by believing
she had been promoted socially.

She had delighted her mother and correspondingly.
depressed George by her early letters, and had deter-
mined to make a success of her life now that the op-
portunity for which she had craved was within reach.
* This was in the early days of her coming to town.

All too soon she had discovered that the path that
had seemed easy to tread and which had appeared
to lead to pleasant places, was strewn with obstacles.

She was now confronted with two and these were
practically insurmountable.

The first was economic, it being impossible to live
on her scanty wage, indeed she would have been un-
able to make two ends meet unless she had not made
frequent inroads into the money her mother had given
her on leaving home: she dared not think of how she
would fare when her reserve was exhausted.

She received eight shillings a week, from which was
deducted one and six for dinners and other small sums
should she be responsible for breakages.

There were strict orders against the waitresses help-
ing themselves to food, and while Miss Black was
about there was little or no pilfering; should Miss
Snapper, the assistant manageress, be in charge, it was
another matter, for this young woman, after reading
the circulars of a certain patent pill, was convinced she
was afflicted with a fell disease; she regularly swal-
lowed the advertised remedy and was so intent on ex-
amining herself in the mirrors decorating the shop
to see how she was faring, that cakes and buns and
milk disappeared from under her nose without her
noticing their abstraction.

Pansy, having brought a country appetite to town,
was frequently hungry and fought against a desire
to take food until she perceived that the rule was
more honoured in the breach than in the observance,
STOCKTAKING 113

at which, with many qualms of conscience, she fol-
lowed the example of the other young ladies when
opportunity offered.

Most of the customers were men, and as her looks
made her popular with these, she could have received
a welcome addition to her wage in tips that were dis-
creetly concealed under plates despite the framed rule
to the contrary which was prominently displayed in
the shop: her native honesty compelled her to put
this money in the box provided for gratuities which
was opened at stated intervals, and divided among the
staff.

She had commenced work with the conviction that
life in the metropolis would provide a career worthy
of her mental and physical parts; she quickly learned
that she was but one among innumerable smart young
women, and that she was handicapped in the race for
success by the necessity of being compelled to take
continual and anxious thought for the morrow.

For those with friends and plenty of money to
spend, London was doubtless a city of delights; but
for a girl who had to think of every penny she parted
with, she was irked by the stream of pleasure which
flowed before her eyes and from which she was not
permitted to drink the merest drop.

She had had thoughts of bettering herself but aban-
doned the design on learning of the hopelessness of
such an enterprise, the supply of unskilled female
labour far exceeding the demand.

It was always open to her to return home; apart
from her reluctance to confess her enterprise a fail-
ure, there was the menace of her step-father’s atten-
tions which compelled her to put up with her lot for
so long as it was humanly possible.

She fell to wondering how the hundreds of other
girls who were in a like predicament to herself con-
trived.

The solution of the problem was beyond her com-
114 PANSY MEARES

prehension and at last she was driven to take counsel
of worldly wise Miss Pillar.

“You are a silly! Don’t you know?” asked this
young woman in reply to Pansy’s questions.

“Should I ask if I did?’

“They have ‘boys’. Didn’t you know?”

6c ‘Boys’ V2

“How could they manage without?” asked Miss
Pillar after explaining what she meant.

“You don’t mean to say that girls take money and
things from men?”

“Of course they do.”

“But—— ”

“You must be a silly to think they lived on their
‘screw’. Besides, how can they! How could I if I
hadn’t help from uncle?’

Miss Pillar entered into further particulars of the
questionable means to which ill-paid female labour
was compelled to resort in order to pay its way; with
the exaggeration with which those who are not free
from reproach employ, doubtless in order to palliate
their own conduct, she laid it down as axiomatic that
every girl in business who did not live at home or
who was without private means was, in the very na-
ture of things, compelled to seek assistance from the
opposite sex.

As with many another honest-minded girl to whom
was revealed this dark side of industrial life, Pansy
was aglow with wrath.

“Do people know?” she asked.

“Tf they care about knowing, it’s there to see.”

“But if it’s known at all, why isn’t it stopped?”

“Who’s to stop it?”

“Girls can be paid enough to live on.”

“You can see ’em doing it.”

“But surely if they knew Y

“What do employers and shareholders care so long
as they get their ‘whack’? All the worrying in the

 
STOCKTAKING 115

world won’t alter it. The thing is to find some one
nice and have a jolly good time while you can. I
often wish I’d your chances.”’

Thus was a new peril revealed to Pansy’s ken, and
while she economised more strenuously than before
she strove to ease her mind by trying to convince her-
self that as such things were wrong they could not
exist in a divinely appointed world.

Miss Pillar’s revelations again made Pansy think a
return to Billingham to be within the region of pos-
sibility, to dismiss the project from her mind at real-
ising the evils it entailed.

About this time she heard that a certain firm of tea
shops paid their waitresses a pound a week: without
consulting Miss Pillar, she.applied for a situation and
received a reply requesting her to call upon one of the
managers at a certain time.

She contrived to get leave from Miss Black, and
presenting herself at the smart tea shop, where music
was provided by a ladies’ orchestra at stated hours,
was conducted into an office where a frock-coated,
heavy-faced, clean-shaven man was seated at a
desk.

She at once perceived that he was interested in her ;
after questioning her with regard to her qualifications,
he seemed disposed to engage her.

“There’s only one thing,” he said, after hesitating
and dropping his eyes.

Pansy’s heart sank.

“The waitresses in our concern aren’t like the girls
in the *X. ¥..27”

“Oh ?

“There, I understand, they’re very particular as to
appearance and conduct. With us, it’s different.”

“In what way?”

“We cater for quite a different class of customer,
a smarter kind of business altogether. We like to see
the waitresses make themselves agreeable to young
116 PANSY MEARES

gentlemen and we don’t much care about hearing com-
plaints of their conduct.”

“Am I—am I to understand Y

Not caring to complete the sentence, Pansy stopped
short. :

“It’s simply this: If you’re prepared to be very
agreeable to our customers, I’ll engage you at once.
If you want to keep on as you're going, you'd better
not come.”

He put such a wealth of meaning into his words
that Pansy was enabled to read what was in his mind:
she curtly declined the offer and left the shop, her
heart sinking at what appeared a confirmation of all
that Miss Pillar had told her.

She fully realised the dangers that beset her and
since to all intents and purposes she was prevented
from returning home, her mind became occupied with
the one legitimate and permanent escape from her dif-
ficulties: this brought her to her second obstacle.

Marriage promised a solution of her perplexities,
and in the innocence of her heart she, in the early days
of her coming to London, believed the attentions she
received from the men in the shop and when out and
about were inspired by honourable motives.

She speedily realised that, whereas any and all of
these were prepared to take her about and give her
what Miss Pillar called “a jolly good time”, matri-
mony was not in their minds, indeed many of her ad-
mirers unblushingly informed her of the existence of
wives and families.

This knowledge had been a further shock to her
country-bred susceptibilities and had insisted on the
depravity of a heartless world which had no use for
well meaning but penniless young women unless to
sweat them in industrial enterprise, or to make play-
Eee of them for those who profited by their servi-
tude.

At the same time, there were other men, chiefly

 
STOCKTAKING Try

friends of the young ladies in the shop, who as good
as told Pansy that they were prepared to marry her
if she could wait some years; apart from the economic
objections to a prolonged engagement, not one of
them made any appeal to her heart.

This then was the second difficulty which faced
Pansy, as it ever has, does, and ever will confront
attractive, penniless young women, and it is this eter-
nal situation, namely, that the men they are eager to
marry have no such desire, while those who would
gladly wed them are unacceptable, which provides
a considerable proportion of the ironic procession of
life.

She had an ardent temperament and longed to love,
but only on condition she was loved entirely for her-
self in return.

The baser attributes of the male’s interest in the
female, which were constantly forced on her notice,
filled her with loathing; it was sufficient for a man
to pay her a compliment to make her regard him with
aversion, and this in turn excited a self pity as such
attentions insisted upon her helplessness.

There was always George to fall back upon, but
since Pansy had come to London and contrasted him
in her mind’s eyes with the smart, well-spoken,
smooth-tongued men with whom she came in contact,
he was less possible as a lover than he had ever been.

Possibly it was her natural honesty which pre-
cluded her from ending her troubles by marrying him;
or perhaps it was the impossibility of bestowing her-
self where her heart did not show the way.

She still lodged with Mrs. Russell Tidd at “Tlfra-
combe”, Granville Road, Seven Kings, notwithstand-
ing that relations were somewhat strained between
the two women.

Pansy’s quick perceptions had speedily discovered
the value of the social pretensions of Seven Kings;
it was her inability to appreciate its genteel atmos-
118 PANSY MEARES

phere which was responsible for any differences that
occurred between landlady and “visitor.”

Pansy had perceived that the red-brick-faced, pre-
tentiously named villas were mostly occupied by mean
little people whose abiding ambition was to be taken
for persons of refinement (“selectness” was the word
invariably employed), and to this end they scraped,
economised and contrived in order to pay rents they
could not afford and thus appear of local consequence.

Nearly every household took in at least one lodger,
but it was a point of honour that the paying status
of these was never acknowledged, they being invari-
ably referred to as either “visitors” or “friends.”

It was the same necessity for economy that pre-
cluded entertaining of any description; indeed, upon
Pansy’s return from work on the first evening she left
the tea shop at six, she had been merged in a stream
of top-hatted, black-coated men which had its source
in the station. .

A tributary flowed into Granville Road and trick-
led into villas in driblets; it finally disappeared and
was seen no more until it issued punctually the next
morning and joined the river that ran to the station,
and was absorbed by an early train to town.

About nine, Pansy had gone out to post a letter
and had been astonished by the quiet obtaining in the
road.

There was not a soul about; many of the houses
were innocent of lights in the front rooms; the silence
had made her fearful of the sound of her footfalls.

It was as if she were walking in a dead city, the life
of which had been sacrificed on the altar of “select-
ness”’.

It was in Seven Kings that she had met one of the
men who wished to marry her, and Mrs. Russell Tidd
could not understand her “visitor’s” aloofness in the
matter.

He was a Mr. Ronald Harris and was the catch of
STOCKTAKING 11g

the season (he earned two pounds a week in a stock-
broker’s office) at the local tennis club.

Mr. Harris was very tall, held himself as if fully
conscious of his economic standing, while the features
of his pallid face expressed nothing in particular.

He had been attracted to Pansy on seeing her going
to and from the station; discovering she was living at
“Ilfracombe”, he asked Mr. Russell Tidd, whom he
knew, for an introduction.

His ardour was cooled somewhat at learning his
heart’s desire was merely a young lady in a tea shop,
but Pansy’s coolness fanned his passion into a white
heat and it was not long before he offered her
his hand and heart, to be dumfounded by her
refusal.

Pansy sometimes thought of seeking a lodging in
town; she would save by doing this, but hesitated to
leave “Ilfracombe”? as she had been recommended
there by a friend at Billingham, and such a proceed-
ing savoured of setting herself definitely adrift on un-
charted seas of adventure.

Apart from a chance of economising, she would
have liked to live at a place where, in going and re-
turning, she would not be compelled to pass the gro-
cer’s where the fragrant smell of coffee at once took
her mind back to the occasion of her leaving home
when her step-father, as he had weighed out coffee,
had looked at her as if confident she would one day
fall into his clutches.

Sometimes Pansy would recall the occasions at
“Half Moon” farm on which her soul had ached for
London as a place that promised to provide the things
for which she craved.

Now that she had entered the city of enchantment,
spied its barrenness and dangers, experienced its hu-
miliations, and perceived how she was debarred from
enjoying its delights, she smiled grimly at the falsifi-
catidn of her hopes.
120 PANSY MEARES

Since acquaintance with the thing she had coveted
had revealed its repulsive nakedness, she fell to won-
dering if the gratification of every other desire
brought a like disillusionment.
CHAPTER XI

A FATEFUL PIN

ing the winter months her life had not been
innocent of further experience.

Two or three times she had got so low with insuf-
ficient food (the one good meal that was supplied, to-
gether with occasional pilferings, not being enough
to sustain her strength) that she had been on the point
of surrendering and returning home; on each occasion
that she was about to give notice, money had arrived
from her mother which enabled her to keep going.

It was as if it were written in the book of her in-
significant fate that she was to be bound in ‘the toils
of London.

She wondered where her mother had obtained the
few pounds she sent: Pansy did not know and did
not suspect it had been provided by George, who
feared for his sweetheart’s wellbeing in London on a
scanty wage.

In spite of the fact that Pansy was ever more or less
confronted with money troubles (she never knew
where badly wanted boots, and stockings and gloves
were coming from) she was on the whole more con-
tented with her lot.

Her struggles inspired a will to live and gave a
zest to existence which she had lacked before: she was
more than ever resolved not to hoist the white flag
unless compelled by hunger or illness, and for no
reason at all that she could think of, she was ardently

121

Sie! found Pansy still at the tea shop; dur-
122 PANSY MEARES

looking forward to the fine weather promised by the
lengthening days.

She was hard worked, wretchedly paid, had few, if
any, compensating joys, yet the blood was coursing
joyously in her veins; trifling things gave her pleas-
ure; she found herself facing the future with a stout
heart much as if she were confident that better things
were in store.

Her ever-present hopes of improving her position
rested on slender foundations inasmuch as they con-
sisted of a promise from Mrs. Hutter, with whom she
had struck up something of a friendship, that she
would see if she could get her into a show room where
the wage would be at least a pound, a remuneration
that seemed opulence to Pansy in comparison with
her eight shillings a week.

With the passing of the months, Mr. Hutter had
more than ever fallen into slack ways; to keep
his wife in good countenance, he had persuaded her
to take singing lessons and to practise vocal scales
at “Ilfracombe”, although she had nothing of a
voice.

Whether it was a distaste for these performances,
or a passion of restlessness which possessed Pansy,
the fact remains that, instead of promptly returning
to Seven Kings on her one free evening a week, she
wandered about the West of London and for choice
the less fashionable side of the Park.

There she would idly listen to the converted, elderly
nigger whose vigorous protestations of righteousness
did not prevent his pestering his scanty congregation
with the hat; the unfortunate litigant who nightly
declaimed, seemingly on the flimsiest evidence,
against unjust judges, for having deprived him of
his inheritance; the dear old gentlemen of the Chris-
tian Evidence Society who, on sultry evenings, found
it necessary to warm their fragile bodies with thick
mufflers and closely buttoned overcoats.
A FATEFUL PIN 123

For all that Pansy’s apparent interest was a device
to kill time, she cared for none of these things.

If she had been frank with herself, she would
have admitted that she was more attracted by the
couples who, with linked arms, strolled upon the grass, .
and in a direction away from frequented paths.

She would watch them with shining eyes while her
heart envied their happiness: should a man seek to
speak to her on these occasions, as not infrequently
happened, she would make an angry gesture and walk
away, and the more attractive the one who had ad-
dressed her, the quicker would be her steps.

Sometimes she would find herself at that portion
of the Park where the fashionable world congregated,
at which she would hastily turn back, its fatness and
well-being sharply reminding her of her poverty.

But she was always pleased to see the shabby old
lady (who had riches indelibly stamped on her per-
sonality) who nightly took her fat spaniel for an
airing on the yellow cart which she drove herself, her
pet by her side, a retainer in plum coloured livery be-
hind.

Then, as the evening drew in, Pansy, if she had a
shilling to spare, would spend the best part of it at
“Billings” in Oxford Street; this was a popular eat-
ing house, much frequented by young ladies employed
in the neighbourhood, where the food was good and
cheap, the attendance sufficient, the service clean.

If, at these times, Pansy had put her thoughts
into words, she would have expressed displeasure at
the fact of her days being innocent of love, all
unaware that romance was shortly to colour her
existence.

And as seemingly trivial events have fateful con-
sequences, a pin upon the floor of the shop was the
inconsiderable cause of momentous happenings in her
life.

It was near the door and glittered in the sunlight ;
124 PANSY MEARES

for a long time she could not make up her mind
whether or not to pick it up. ;
The saw came into her mind which says:

“See a pin and pick it up
All that day you'll have good luck.”

Pansy lightheartedly made up her mind to obtain
what happy fortune she might; upon her next journey
to the counter, which happened to be for a pot of
China tea (it was in the afternoon) and toasted tea
cake, she gave the order for tea to Miss Black, and be-
fore returning to the lift at the back of the shop to call
“toasted tea cake” to the kitchen below, she looked
for the pin.

It was nowhere to be seen; she was bending to dis-
cover what had become of it when she was aware
that she was being watched from the doorway.

She glanced up and on seeing it was a man her
expression hardened, but only for a moment, for some-
thing about his face and personality arrested her at-
tention: in spite of herself, her eyes held his until she
realised what she was doing, at which she blushed and
turned away.

Even then she was so flustered by the occurrence
and by the beating of her heart that she stood irreso-
lute, her mind trying to appraise what had happened,
until she was sharply called to her senses by the voice
of the manageress.

Later, after she had recovered herself, she was
ashamed of her weakness; at the same time, she found
herself constantly thinking of the man who had capti-
vated her fancy.

She tried to recall what he was like; beyond that
he had blue eyes, closely cut dark hair and a clean-
shaven face, her mind was a blank.

Ten minutes later, Pansy was going to the counter
to fetch half a milk cake and two pats of butter when

i,
A FATEFUL PIN 125

she all but stopped dead: the man who had interested
her entered the shop and sat at one of her tables.

It was some moments before she could bring herself
to ask for his order; upon her doing so, he was silent
for some moments, before looking up and saying as
he looked at her with humorous eyes:

“Tea please, little girl.”

“Anything else?” murmured Pansy.

“And toast.”

Pansy ordered the toast and wished she could make
it herself; so that his tea should not be cold before the
toast would be ready, she did not ask Miss Black for
it at once, as any of the other unthinking young ladies
would have done, but waited till she adjudged the
toast was all but ready.

“Clever little girl!’ he remarked as she placed the
tea and toast before him.

Instinctively realising that she was being admired,
the means that she, with other young ladies, employed
to curb familiarity involuntarily flew to her lips.

“Sir!” she exclaimed.

“Clever little girl!” he repeated.

“In what way, sir?”

“Not ordering the tea till the toast was ready.
Brainy girl.”

She tried to look severe and failed lamentably: in
spite of herself, his humorous blue eyes made her
smile.

As if to atone for this display of weakness, she
quickly filled in and gave him his ticket before betak-
ing herself to one of the chairs at the end of the
counter.

More than once she looked in his direction and told
herself she was pleased he was not regarding her but
reading a letter he had taken from his pocket.

These glances enabled her to perceive how he dif-
fered from the ordinary frequenters of the shop, he
having a distinction of bearing, an ease of manner
126 PANSY MEARES

which told Pansy he was what the young ladies called
a “nut.”

Pansy was still agitated by his presence as Miss
Pillar’s voice fell on her ear.

“Tsn’t he a lovely boy?”

“Who ?

“You ought to know. He’s at one of your
tables.”

“The gentleman with the moustache?”

“The clean-shaven boy with the blue eyes.”

“Do you think he’s handsome?”

“He’s lovely. I’d like to kiss him.”

“What!” asked Pansy sharply.

“Wouldn’t you?”

“Of course not.”

“You can’t be well. Isn’t he a ‘nut’ ?”

“Ts he?”

“T wish he’d take notice of me,” sighed Miss Pillar.

As if to materialise her wishes, Miss Pillar passed
and repassed the table at which the interesting man
was sitting, Pansy watching her with resentful eyes:
much to her relief, her friend’s manceuvres were of
no avail, the object of her admiration being apparently
unaware of her existence.

Presently, he rose to go, and although Pansy re-
solved not to glance at him,itheir eyes somehow met,
at which she noticed that his held the humorous look
which appealed to her in spite of herself.

On clearing away his tea things she found sixpence
under the plate, which she conscientiously put into
the box.

He was in her thoughts for the rest of the day and
more than once she found herself imagining romantic
situations in which they two were concerned.

She repeatedly told herself that such fancies were
foolish, and impossible of realisation; that he was not
of her world; that she would never be likely to see
him again: for all these common-sense suggestions,
A FATEFUL PIN 127

she anxiously watched the door of the shop the fol-
lowing afternoon to see if he would come.

She had given up hope of seeing him when he lazily
entered, and without looking about him made for
where he had sat the day before.

Again Pansy tremulously awaited his order; upon
his asking for tea and toast, she once more arranged
so that Miss Black did not make the tea until the
toast was almost ready.

During the time he was in the tea shop, it seemed
another place to Pansy, the surroundings that she had
schooled herself to tolerate appearing a joyous en-
vironment for the gladness in her heart.

A cloud, however, darkened the sky of her ela-
tion; although she frequently looked in his direction,
he appeared unconscious of her presence: neither did
he glance at her on leaving the shop.

As on the occasion of his previous visit, she found
sixpence under his plate.

Every working day for the next fortnight he came
at some time during the afternoon and made a point
of sitting in the same seat. Usually he stayed for
about twenty minutes, but twice or thrice he remained
for the best part of an hour.

It was the rule of the establishment that the young
ladies waited at certain tables in rotation, consequently
Pansy could not always attend to his needs.

The first time that she was unable to bring him his
tea and toast, she was greatly disappointed; a few
days later, when she was on duty in the smoking room
below, she kept on running upstairs on any and every
pretext to see if he were still there and to learn if
he were attracted by any of the other attendants.

If he had been fascinated by Pansy from the first,
and was doing his best to inspire her with a deep
interest in him, he -was playing his cards with
skill.

She was accustomed to men who leered at her
128 PANSY MEARES

and payed her extravagant compliments almost at
sight.

“The fact of a man, and a personable one at that,
who ignored her existence, challenged her vanity and
compelled her thoughts in his direction.

She had infrequent intervals of commonsense dur-
ing which she told herself that since he ignored her
she could not be accountable for his undeviating at-
tendance at the tea shop; yet, in her heart of hearts,
she instinctively knew that she was responsible for his
visits.

The afternoon of the day she was due to leave at
six, Miss Black honoured her with a few minutes’
conversation.

Pansy had long since got over her awe of the man-
ageress and was now almost friendly with her; this
in spite of the fact that the custom Pansy had at-
tracted to the branch had fallen off, it having been
discovered by certain enterprising males that the
pretty waitress at the “X. Y. Z.” was, to quote their
vernacular, “no good.”

“You're from the country, aren’t you, Miss
Meares?” began Miss Black.

“Yes, Miss Black.”

“Do you happen to know a nice place for a honey-
moon? Not too quiet and not too fashionable.”

“There is Southend, Miss Black.”

“Tf you mean Southend-on-Sea, it’s not ‘class’
enough.”

“T mean the Westcliff end.”

“What’s that like?”

“Very select.”

“Tl speak to Mr. Charles about it.”

“Really ?”

Miss Black smiled enigmatically.

“T am so glad,” declared Pansy.

“T knew you'd be.”

“Ts the day fixed, Miss Black?”
A FATEFUL PIN 129

“Not—not exactly.”

“I hope you'll be very happy anyway.”

“Thank you, Miss Meares. I can’t tell Mr. Charles
about Westcliff to-night. He was going to meet me
and take me somewhere, but I’ve just had a postcard
saying he’ll be kept late at business.”

“What a pity!”

“JT don’t mind, as it’s all for me,” declared Miss
Black complacently. “But I’ll certainly mention West-
cliff next time I see him.”

At that moment, the man who had captivated
Pansy’s fancy entered the shop and without looking at
her proceeded to his accustomed seat.

“Who’s he?” asked Miss Black.

“T—I don’t know.”

“Haven't you seen him before?”

“T may have done, Miss Black.”

“Tsn’t he handsome ?”

“Ts he?”

“He comes here every afternoon and his style re-
minds me of Mr. Charles.”

This time, the subject of the two women’s conver-
sation took more notice of Pansy than he had done
before; he repeatedly glanced in her direction, which
attention made music in her heart.

Even after he had gone she did not recover herself
but was clumsy with her work, absentminded if ad-
dressed.

She left the tea shop at six and for no reason at
all hurried in the direction of the Park.

She had arranged to return to Seven Kings and
go for a walk with Mrs. Hutter; to-night, however,
she could not have endured the woman’s commonplace
conversation. .

Her mind ached for a loneliness in which she could
muse in peace; but directly she found solitude, she
was impatient to be with her species.

Pansy did not realise how long she was in the
130 PANSY MEARES

Park, but feeling mentally and physically exhausted,
she retraced her steps to Oxford Street, resolving
to spend money she could ill afford at “Billings.”

She was within a hundred yards of this place when
she believed she saw the man who was responsible
for her unrest on the further side of the road.

Possessed by a desire to avoid him, she sped up a
side street, and did not return until many minutes
had elapsed, at which she hastened to “Billings” re-
peatedly telling herself as she went how thankful she
was to have escaped what might have been an awk-
ward meeting.

She entered the door of the eating house, which was
guarded by a commissionaire who, in looking mild
mannered and domesticated, seemed to be attuned
to the unpretending homeliness which character-
ised the restaurant, and proceeded to one of the
tables.

Here, she gave her simple order of soup (two-
pence) and veal cutlet, bacon and potatoes (ninepence )
to the kindly attendant who, knowing where Pansy
was employed, made a point of waiting on her with
a deference that was contrasted with the mixture of
friendliness and patronage she employed to, and was
much appreciated by, the other customers; many of
whom considered a meal at “Billings” in the nature
of a smart experience. :

While she waited for the soup to be brought, Pansy,
= if still fearing pursuit, kept her eyes on the bill of

are.

She was lost in meditation, and such was her ab-
straction that when the soup was presently set before
her, she started violently.

Her sleeve came in contact with an uncorked bot-
tle of sauce; this it upset with the consequence that
its contents flowed across the table and on to the gar-
ments of a customer seated opposite.

Seeing what she had done, an apology flew to her
A FATEFUL PIN 131

lips; it got no further: she perceived that the sauce
had been spilled on the clothes of the man whom, she
had repeatedly told herself, she had been lucky to es-
cape.
CHAPTER XII

GERALD NEPEAN

all but bereft of sense: she stared stupidly
at the damage she had wrought.

As she slowly recovered herself, morttfication,
amazement, resentment, possessed her; these were
presently forgotten in a passion of self-reproach for
her clumsiness.

She was eager to prove she was not the ninny she
appeared, but was prevented from doing anything
practical, as her handkerchief was too small and no
napkin was available (serviette 1d was an item in the
bill of fare); moreover, the waitress, who was well
used to such unhandiness as Pansy had exhibited, was
vigorously rendering first aid to tablecloth and gar-
ments, before concealing the stain on the former with
a couple of napkins.

Pansy contended with a desire to fly from “Billings”
as she stammered:

“TI am so sorry.”

“Dreadful, wasn’t it?” replied the man.

“J—I shall never forgive myself.”

“T am so glad.”

Pansy looked in surprise.

“Then you'll never forget me,” he continued.

Pansy tried to think of a severe retort, failed and
ignominiously blushed.

“Now [ve given you so much trouble, perhaps
you'll do me a favour.”

| ”

B EYOND being deprived of speech, Pansy was

 

132
GERALD NEPEAN 133

“And that is, have something to eat with me.”

“T shouldn’t think of it.”

“Then perhaps you'll let me have something with
you. I don’t mind who pays so I can sit with you.”

“N—no,” faltered Pansy.

“Ah! You think I might eat too much.”

Pansy, in spite of herself, smiled.

“Isn’t that so?”

Pansy, ashamed of her weakness, did not reply.

“Isn't that so?” he persisted.

“Perhaps.”

“Then it’s only fair that I should pay.”

CBiit—— 1”

He summoned the waitress who, during the fore-
going, had been attending at other tables; after ex-
amining the bill of fare, he ordered for Pansy and
himself the best of everything that was to be had: he,
also, asked for a bottle of wine, which having to be
fetched from outside had to be paid for in advance.

“How cheap everything is,” he remarked as soon
as the woman had gone.

“But—but——!”

“But what ye

“I mustn’t have all these things.”

“Why not?”

“T can’t afford them,” she said in a low voice.

“And don’t forget the sauce. You'll probably have
to pay for that.”

Pansy repressed an inclination to laugh, did her
best to think of what she should do under the circum-
stances and upon the still small voice of conscience
telling her that she should at once leave “Billings”, she
calmly took off her gloves and made up her mind to
enjoy the adventure that had befallen her.

The man facing her was quick to notice her surren-
der, but wisely abstained from comment.

“Do you mind if I go on?” asked Pansy.

“Not a bit. Only——!’

 
134 PANSY MEARES

“Only what?”

“Much better have some of the soup I ordered.
That must be quite cold.”

“But I like cold soup.”

“Since when?”

“Really I do.”

He beckoned to the waitress and disregarding
Pansy’s protests told her to take away the soup.

Pansy had hoped that she would be able to carry
her point; upon the waitress doing as the man told her,
she looked at him in petulant surprise.

“‘What’s the matter?” he asked.

“Do you always get your own way?”

“Why shouldn’t I, if it’s for your good?”

His masterfulness, which she told herself was ex-
erted for her welfare, delighted her; in order to con-
ceal her pleasure from his knowledge, she strove to
look displeased.

“Angry!” he exclaimed.

“Of course.”

“That’s all right.”

“Why PY

“Tt tells me there’s hope.”

“Hope of what?”

“Never mind.”

“But I do mind. Hope of what?”

“Soup. And here it is.”

Pansy was thankful for the distraction provided by
the food, that, in some measure, enabled her to sort
out her varied emotions at meeting the man who had
been so much in her thoughts for the last two weeks.

The fact of his interesting her from the first; his
regular visits to the tea shop; the manner in which
he had ignored her while there; her fear of meeting
him in Oxford Street; her awkwardness with the
sauce bottle having been the means of soiling his
clothes and cultivating his acquaintance, all seemed vio-
lently contrasted with her humdrum, workaday exist-
GERALD NEPEAN 135

ence, and in consequence appealed to her imagination.

Also, there seemed an inevitability about the whole
business which appeared to tell her that it was useless
to struggle against the decrees of fate and at the same
ae justified her in following where her inclinations
ed.

Her complacency was interrupted by a sense of
shame inasmuch as she had omitted to make adequate
apology for upsetting the sauce and spoiling his weli-
cut garments.

“What must you think of me?” she began.

iL shouldn’t like to tell you,” he replied in a low
voice.

“Don’t be absurd! I mean for what I did. Have
I spoiled your clothes?”

“Absolutely.”

“T am—lI really am so sorry.”

“It was very careless of you.”

“T know, and

“And it was Anchovy. I wouldn’t have minded so
much if it had been ‘Worcester’ or ‘Ar.’ ”

“I wish you wouldn’t laugh at me,” protested
Pansy.

“Why ?”?

“Tt looks as if you didn’t take me seriously.”

He looked at her quickly, dropped his eyes and said,
much as if he were talking to himself:

“Perhaps it would be better for me if I didn’t.”

Pansy, who was disturbed by this translation from
light-heartedness to seriousness, was about to ask him
what he meant: she curbed her tongue, being at that
moment possessed by a tender melancholy which con-
strained her to silence.

The placing before her of a specially grilled sole
recalled her to the fascinating present, and as she
ate she watched the nervous ceremony with which the
waitress poured out the burgundy that had been ob-
tained from a neighbouring wine merchant’s.

 
136 PANSY MEARES

“None for me,” said Pansy as her glass was about
to be filled.

“Why not?”

“I never drink anything.”

“But——!”

“Really I don’t. Please.”

“You're responsible for the consequences if I drink
it all myself.”

“I’m responsible for myself and that’s enough to
go on with,” she replied with a suggestion of sadness
in her voice. :

Neither of them spoke for a time, and although
she kept her eyes upon her plate so far as it was
possible, she knew that he was intently regarding
her.

“Are you very unhappy?” he asked presently.

His question startled her, but not nearly so much
as his voice, which expressed a sympathy his banter-
ing manner had not led her to expect.

“Not very,” she said.

“T thought so. That’s what made me interested
in you.”

Pansy put down her knife and fork.

“What’s the matter?”

“What you said.”

“Mayn’t I be interested in you?”

“Are you?” she asked with a fine assumption of
astonishment.

“Didn’t you know I was?”

“How should I?”

“By coming so regularly to that wretched tea
shop.”

Pansy frowned.

“I shouldn’t have said that. No place could be
wretched where you are.”

“That wasn’t in my mind. When you said you
came because—because

“I was interested in you,” he prompted,

 
GERALD NEPEAN 137

“It was that which——!”

“Yes?” he asked as she hesitated.

“Never mind.”

She did not care about telling him she was a little
dismayed by the emotions his pursuit had excited.

“What part of the country do you come from?”
he asked.

“How do you know I’m a country girl?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“I’m sorry.”

“You needn’t be.”

She raised her eyes.

“It probably means you’re unspoiled,” he continued.

“Have you had so much experience of London
girls?” she asked, and waited in some suspense for
his reply.

“Not more than other men.”

“Isn’t that a great deal?”

“Not necessarily. Do you live with your
people?”

“In lodgings.”

“How do your parents like you being alone in Lon-
don?”

“IT haven’t a father, and mother—mother has
enough trouble of her own.”

Then, and for some time before Pansy knew what
he was at, she was being apparently carelessly but in
reality searchingly examined with regard to her past
and present life, prospects, leanings, and her views of
life generally.

Perhaps she replied as artlessly as she did because
she was more than a little flattered by his curiosity,
and by reason of her normal stock of defensive com-
monsens¢ scattered by the occurrences of the
evening.

A little latu. he remarked:

“I suppose an attractive girl like you comes across
a lot of temptation!”
138 PANSY MEARES

“Tf I liked to listen!” she replied; at the same time,
it was borne in upon her understanding how closely
she was being questioned.

“And of course you don’t!’

“T should hope not.”

“Good little girl.”

“You think so?”

“And because you’re so good, I hope they'll give
you plenty of bread sauce with that chicken they’re
such a long time bringing.”

“T really can’t eat any more,” protested Pansy.

“What do you usually do with yourself in the eve-
nings?”

“Go home.”

“Comfortable there?”

“Fairly.”

“Why don’t you move to town?”

“T’ve been thinking of doing so.”

“Going to?”

“How many more questions?”

“Have I been questioning you?” he asked care-
lessly.

“All the time. Suppose I ask you a few about
yourself ?”

“Fire away.”

“Do you mind?”

“Delighted.”

“What is your name?”

“Nepean.”

“Nepean!”

“Gerald Nepean.”

“What do you do?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing at all?”

“Worse luck.”

“Where do you live?”

“All over the place.”

“Don’t you wish to tell me?”
GERALD NEPEAN 139

“Why shouldn’t 1? When I’m in town, I’ve cham-
bers in St. James’ Street. Number five.”

“Then you’re what the men who lecture in the
‘Park’ call a bloated aristocrat?’

“I often wish I could change places with those
tub thumpers.”’

“Why?”

“Not often. But they’ve something to interest them,
and with nothing to do one has lots of time on one’s
hands.”

“You could take up something.”

“T shall—some day.”

At any other time Pansy would have envied the
boundless opportunities for enjoyment of the man
facing her; just now, she was summoning her cour-
age to put a question she was burning to ask.

Her anxiety got the better of her hesitation and
she suddenly blurted out:

“Are you married?”

“No.”

“Honour ?”

“Really not. Why?”

“So many gentlemen who speak to young ladies
are.”

“It isn’t always the man’s fault.”

“Anyway, it isn’t right,” she sighed.

“It’s constantly done, and all the worrying in the
world won’t alter it.”

“It was a great shock to me when I first came to
London.”

“And now?”

“T suppose I’m used to it.”

“I suppose one gets used to everything, even to
waiting so long for one’s grub.” ;

He had hardly spoken before the waitress arrived
with a chicken which she placed before them with
profuse apologies for the delay. .

Pansy, despite her protestations of not being hun-
140 PANSY MEARES

gry, was about to eat but desisted at noticing that
her companion was examining the limb upon her
plate.

“What’s the matter?” she asked.

“That won’t do. Where’s the waitress got to?”

“Don’t bother.”

“That’s not fit to eat. They’ve no business to serve
such stuff.”

He summoned the waitress and Pansy, who had
never in her life had the courage to complain of any-
thing with which she had been served, was surprised
and gratified at the assurance with which he told the
young woman to bring another and very different por-
tion.

“What about you?” she asked after the waitress had
disappeared.

“Never mind me. This is your night out.”

“T’m not used to being spoiled.”

“It’s time you were.”

“Why ne

“Don’t ask questions that require answers that
might offend you.”

“I want to ask one more, about yourself.”

“What is it?”

“Do you know many girls?”

“Lots.”

“Oh !?

The exclamation escaped her in spite of herself.

He hastened to reassure her.

“Friends of my relations and other friends. As for
women in the lump, I hate them.”

“What!”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

“Are you a woman hater?” asked Pansy, who was
anxious to know if she had come upon this genus of
her species which has such an abiding fascination to
the female mind, perhaps by reason of its directly
challenging individual feminine personalities.
GERALD NEPEAN 141

“That is my profession if I have one.”

“Then why are you talking to me?”

“Inconsistency is the privilege of the dogmatic, my
dear Miss Meares.”

“How did you know my name?” she asked quickly.

“One of the girls at the shop told me.”

“One of the young ladies! Which?”

“The one I asked.”

Pansy was sorely puzzled and at the same time im-
mensely flattered by the fact of a declared woman
hater going out of his way to make her acquaintance.

She had never met a man like Nepean, whose like
was adumbrated in the pages of the romantic fiction
she devoured in her spare time.

And such an one had daily, and for a fortnight,
visited an unfashionable tea shop to see her; had fol-
lowed her into “Billings”, as she concluded he had
done, in order not to miss an opportunity of speaking
to her.

She was wilfully blind to the dangers attending a
friendship with a man of whom she knew nothing be-
yond what he chose to tell her, and was aglow with a
curious elation she had not known before.

After she had eaten of the fowl the waitress had
brought, which Nepean had previously appraised and
approved, she lay back in her chair and surveyed the
familiar outlines of the restaurant: she involuntarily
fell to contrasting her present happiness with the more
or less despondent humours which had oppressed her
on former visits to the place.

The eating house seemed infected with her mood;
instead of being a rather down-at-heel establishment,
which gave good value for the hard-earned money of
its frequenters, it possessed a gay atmosphere which
embraced the workaday customers and the happy-go-
lucky attendants.

Nepean’s voice interrupted her thoughts.

“Who’s that man who keeps on looking at you?”
’

142 PANSY MEARES

“No one that I know.”

“Sure!”

“I don’t know any one. Where is he sitting?”

“At the next table but one on the left.”

Pansy glanced in the direction indicated, and per-
ceived “Mr. Charles”, who was accompanied by a
buxom young woman. .

He knew Pansy by sight as one of the young ladies
employed at the “X. Y. Z.” and had evidently noticed
her presence at “Billings” ; even as her eyes were upon
him, he looked evasively at her much as if he were
fearful of being recognized by an acquaintance of Miss
Black’s.

“Fancy!” exclaimed Pansy.

“What is the matter!”

“There’s Mr. Charles, who told Miss Black he
couldn’t take her out as he was to be kept late at busi-
ness.”

“I’m utterly in the dark.”

Pansy forthwith explained who Miss Black and Mr.
Charles were, besides giving an account of their sen-
timental relations; her sense of humour was tickled
by this discovery of his inconstancy, consequently she
was rather taken back as he said in all sincerity:

“T’m sorry.”

“Sorry !?

“It’s very hard on her; and a woman of that age
feels things more deeply than a girl. And it’s probably
her last chance.”

His grave-heartedness reproved her levity while
her heart warmed to him for his sensibility: she told
herself how kindly natured he must be (and this con-
viction loosened her anchorage to her normal caution)
unaware that those who are sharply sensitive to the
woes of others are liable to have their sympathy blot-
ted out by new impressions.

When Pansy had finished the chicken, Nepean
pressed all manner of things upon her; she declared
GERALD NEPEAN 143

she had had more than enough and that she must really
see about getting to Liverpool Street, at which he told
her he would only let her go on condition she permit-
ted him to accompany her to the station.

She made unconvincing objections before leaving
“Billings”, and going into Oxford Street, where Ne-
pean waited on the curb.

“What are you stopping for?” she asked.

“Something to take us,” he replied.

“Lots of buses have passed. There’s one now.”

“T’m looking for a taxi.”

“I'd prefer a ’bus: really I would.”

“Really?”

“Really. Please me this time.”

“Here we are. This will do us,” he cried a little
later.

Seizing her arm, he pulled her into the roadway and
in the direction of an approaching ’bus: almost before
she knew what he was doing, he had piloted her into
a taxi-cab and given the driver their destination.

She would have liked to have displayed resentment
but was secretly pleased at his determination to have
his own way.

“Am I forgiven?” he asked.

“No.”

“T am so sorry,” he declared.

A moment or two later, his hand sought hers.

She evaded the caress, and upon his insisting on
taking her hand she would have protested had not the
physical contact given her such pleasurable sensations
that she was helpless.

“Well——!” he said.

“Do you always get your own way?” she murmured.

Thus they sped to Liverpool Street, Pansy enjoying
to the full the unaccustomed motion and her proximity
to the man who so powerfully attracted her.

The journey was cruelly short: almost before she
was aware of it, he was standing at the railway car-
144 PANSY MEARES

riage door, and as the train began to move, he was
venturing to hope she would take pity on his loneli-
ness and spend one more evening with him.

There were two letters awaiting her at “Ilfra-
combe”: one was from George, the other was ad-
dressed in her mother’s handwriting, which had lost
much of its firmness.

She was such a stranger to the rare, new, happi-
ness she was enjoying that she did not wish to mar it
by learning any bad news from home.

She put off opening them till the morrow, and went
to bed with her heart aglow with a rapture that seemed
to fill the universe.

ase
CHAPTER XIII

THE PRIMROSE PATH

“Tt’s a nickname.”
“Who gave you that name?”

“T’ve had it almost ever since I can remember.”

“Any reason for it?”

“I believe it was because I was so dark and some
one said I was like a black pansy.”

“You are. What is your other name?”

“Trene.”

She concealed the fact of her second name being
Bethiah.

“T like Pansy better.”

“Why ?”?

“It’s the name I first knew you by, and it’s more
unusual.”

“T am glad you like it.”

“Whether I did or not, I don’t believe it would
make much difference.”

“Why?”

“Because it would be very difficult for me to do
anything wrong in your eyes. Isn’t that so, little
Pansy ?”

“There’s only one thing that would be wrong.”

“And that!”

“To forget all about me.”

“Tm scarcely likely to.”

“Sure!” she asked anxiously.

“Quite.”

“You must meet so many girls.”

145

I S Pansy really your name?”
146 PANSY MEARES

“Of a type.”

“What do you mean?”

“They’re very charming, very nice and all the rest
of it. But they’ve all got such an eye to the main
chance.”

“Haven't [?”

“If you care for me at all, and I’m proud to believe
you do, you lo— like me for myself.”

Pansy sighed.

“Don’t you, dear little Pansy!”

“T’m afraid I do.”

“Why afraid?”

 [ —— {??

“Yes,” he urged as she hesitated.

“T seem so helpless.”

Pansy spoke nothing but the truth.

During the early days of her friendship with Ne-
pean, she had resolved merely to paddle in the shal-
lows of sentiment; she was aware that she might be
carried into deeper water and enjoyed the sensation
of danger, but trusted that at the worst her native
commonsense would provide a foothold.

Before she was aware of what had happened, she
was swept off her feet and was, as it were, now float-
ing helplessly remote from sight of land.

In plain words, her intense interest in the man who
had attracted her from the first had blossomed into
a love, the intensity of which both surprised and
alarmed Pansy.

She was well acquainted with the vapourings of
the sentimental heroines of fifth-rate fiction, and after
the manner of unsophisticated womanhood had once
envied their raptures: now, the passion that possessed
her made their wire-drawn sentiments appear ridicu-
lous, and she sometimes marvelled if the Spanish blood
which her father had told her flowed in her mother’s
veins were responsible for the violence of her emo-
tion.
CELED

THE PRIMROSE PATH 147

She did not strive to hide from herself that she
loved Nepean mentally and physically: compared to
the sum of her desire, nothing else in the world seemed
to matter. Love had broadened and at the same time
had narrowed her horizon.

She seemed to have been miraculously endowed with
a preternatural knowledge of things of which she had
been innocent before: with the faith of a little child
she was confident that love would provide a happy
issue from all her afflictions.

No longer did Pansy wander disconsolately in the
Park in her spare time and idly listen to the converted
nigger, the disappointed litigant, the dear old gen-
tlemen of the Christian Evidence Society who on sul-
try evenings warmed their frail bodies with mufflers
and closely-buttoned overcoats.

Soon after eight, or one evening in the week at six,
a distinguished-looking, fresh-coloured man, and a
well-grown, deep-bosomed, comely dark girl might be
seen crossing the Park arm in arm and ardently en-
grossed in each other.

They were so artlessly happy that they attracted
the attention of passers-by, many of whom regarded
them enviously as they sought a secluded seat.

These meetings provided an abiding ecstasy for
Pansy: how she got through her day at the tea shop
she neither knew nor cared: when she was not glanc-
ing at the clock, which seemed obstinately resolved to
delay her evening’s happiness, she mechanically per-
formed her daily routine, her mind entirely occupied
with the recollection of the words, gestures, and facial
expressions of the loved one.

Beyond the elemental attraction Nepean possessed
for her, her love was greatly stimulated by the punc-
tilious propriety with which he treated her: had he
done otherwise she, while resenting such behaviour,
would have forgiven him out of the great love she
bore him; the fact of his appreciation of her being ap-
148 PANSY MEARES

parently other than merely physical caused her to
idealise him and to place him on an altar before which
she humbly abased herself.

Also, his admirable conduct permitted her to sur-
render utterly to the promptings of her heart, where
otherwise she would have found need for caution.

She was immensely flattered that this rich, attrac-
tive man of the fashionable world, who had travelled
much, who was acquainted with, and related to, the
great ones of the earth was fascinated by her: and
because of his social consequence, the fact of his find-
ing pleasure in simple things rendered him adorable in
her eyes.

He loved to watch the pretty children they met with
in their walks; a tree in full leaf, sunset, a clear blue
sky made him appreciatively silent: once when they
came upon four girls who played and sang in the
street, he waited and listened to their homely melo-
dies, and did not forget to reward them lavishly.

Thus Pansy trod the golden ways of virginal love.

If Nepean had set himself out to win Pansy’s love,
he could not have played his cards with more consum-
mate skill.

He had commenced by interesting Pansy before
stimulating this curiosity by ignoring her on his sub-
sequent visits to the tea shop: upon making her ac-
quaintance, he had amused her, and after opening the
siege by this stereotyped if promising device, he had
won her confidence by treating her with deference and
revealing his single-heartedness.

Whatever design he had in mind, there was no
doubting the dominion she exercised over him.

Again and again he sincerely thanked her for what
he called renewing his youth, and convincing him that
life was not a sordid, self-seeking squabble.

Pansy had only to say the word and he would have
delighted to have given her a good time such as Miss
Pillar in her wildest flights never so much as dreamed;
THE PRIMROSE PATH 149

for all his bounteous offers of jewels, fine raiment and
costly entertainment, to which no debasing conditions
were attached, Pansy, beyond an occasional dinner
or an infrequent theatre, pleased her lover by reso-
lutely declining to accept of his plenty, her refusals
arguing that she loved him for himself.

She might even have objected to the customary cab
to the station had not this means of locomotion pro-
vided a welcome privacy.

In other circumstances she would have liked to
go out and about; in this instance she did not
wish the stream of her love to be defiled with the
least suspicion of receiving anything tangible in
return.

But as we are assured on unquestionable authority
that every rose has its thorn so also was there some-
thing wanting to complete Pansy’s happiness.

So far, Nepean had not mentioned the subject of
marriage.

In spite of this omission, she never doubted that he
would shortly ask her to be his wife.

Was not such a request the every-day consumma-
tion of romance, particularly in the pages of fiction
which were written by those who had first-hand know!-
edge of life? Was she not aware that he loved her
for herself alone? Since they were more to each other
than any other two in the wide world, was it not in-
evitable that their lives should be legally joined to-
gether till (hideous thought) they were parted by
death ?

To-night, they could spend little more than an hour
together in the coolness of the Park, Nepean having
to go to a dinner party for which he had dressed.

The fact of his shortly leaving her, and to spend
the rest of the evening in the society of his equals put
an edge on Pansy’s love for the man at her side: invol-
untarily, and careless of who might be about, she
clasped her hands about his arm.
150 PANSY MEARES

“Why should you feel helpless?” he asked; upon
Pansy remaining silent, he repeated his question.

“How could I be otherwise!” she exclaimed. “And
particularly to-night.”

“Why to-night, little sweetheart!”

“You're going to meet ladies in your own world.”

“What if I am!”

“You'll forget all about poor me,”

“Tt isn’t the first time I’ve met people since I’ve
known you, and I haven’t quite forgotten you.”

“Where is it you are going?”

“Cadogan Square. I shall be bored to death.”

“So you tell me.”

“Really I shall and wishing all the time I were
with my sweet little, dear, big Pansy.”

“Tf you don’t want to go, why do you?”

“Because I can’t get out of it.”

“Why pe

“It’s a sort of family affair. People from my part
of the world. Old geysers one can’t offend.”

“No young goslings?”

“There may be one or two,” he replied with a care-
lessness that to Pansy’s acute sensibilities seemed
hardly sincere.

“Who?”

“Why do you wish to know?”

“Who, who?”

“There’s a Miss Felips.”

“Pretty ?”

“So—so.”

“Fond of her?”

“T’ve known her all my life.”

“Of course she’s fond of you,” declared Pansy, who
believed that every other woman must be in love with
the man she adored.

Nepean laughed lightly.

“Ts she?”

“How on earth do I know?”
THE PRIMROSE PATH 151

‘Do you think she is?”

“I believe dear Pansy is jealous.”

“I’m sure I’m not.”

“Quite, quite sure?”

“Perhaps I am a little. If I thought you cared for
her, I don’t know what I’d do.”

“Even jealousy has its advantages. It keeps women
faithful.” :

“If they love, they can’t be anything else.”

His eyes left her face and sought the ground as
he said:

“I believe you do love me, little Pansy?”

She would have replied but something seemed to
get her by the throat.

“You do love me!”

“You know I do,” she cried impulsively ;

It was his turn to be silent, at which she said:

“Is there any reason why I shouldn’t?”

“A thousand.”

“Tell me one.”

“I’m not worthy of so great a gift,” he declared
simply.

“Why not? Why not?”

“Tt’s a difficult question to answer.”

“I know what it is,’ she said. “It’s because I care
for you more than you do for me.”

After a pause she added, “Isn’t that so?” and waited
in suspense for his reply.

“We are not on the same footing, little sweet-
heart.”

“Tell me I’m only a shop girl.”

“Don’t be an idiot. Whatever you were or what-
ever I might be, it’s no question of difference of sta-
tion; it resolves itself into a matter of mere man and
mere woman.”

“Then why are we not on the same footing ?”

He hesitated before replying:

“I’m older than you and have so—so many claims
152 PANSY MEARES

on me of one kind and another. As for my sweet
Pansy, she is young, inexperienced, and in love for
the first time in her life.”

“As if one ever loved twice!” she said scornfully.

“Tf I have the pleasure of knowing you in twenty
years’ time, I’ll recall your words.”

“Women aren’t like men.”

“Like men, they’re of all varieties and little Pansy
happens to be one of the rarest natured I’ve ever met.”

“You must have known lots of nice women!” she
remarked questioningly.

“Of a type. But so-called good women as a rule
aren’t overpoweringly attractive. They bore one al-
most as much as the bad ones. It’s rare to find a
girl like you with fine instincts and with the capacity
for a great passion.”

His failing to declare his love for her in stereo-
typed but ever welcome words excited a spirit of re-
sentment, which caused her to say:

“Whatever I’m capable of, I don’t suppose I shall
get much good out of it.”

“What do you mean?” he asked quickly.

“What have I to look forward to?”

“You've the priceless and ever enviable gift of
youth, charm and health. I don’t believe my little
Pansy knows how interesting she can be.”’

“I don’t seem to know anything at all to-night,”
she declared pettishly.

He appeared to reflect before saying:

“Lots of men must have wanted to marry you!”

“What if they have!”

“It’s a subject I want to go into.”

“Why ip?

je I want my little Pansy to be happy ever
after.”

“I don’t see what other men have to do with it.”

“Who was he?”

“Who Pp?
THE PRIMROSE PATH 153

“The man who wanted to marry you.”

“His name was George.”

“Some one in Billingham.”

*Yes,”

“Well——!”

“He’s loved me all his life: he’s very steady and
hard-working and didn’t want me to come to Lon-
don.”

“George seems a good sort.”

“He is a good man, only

“Only what. :

“It’s all impossible,” she declared petulantly.

“Does he ever write to you?”

“He did a lot at first. But lately, I—I haven’t re-
plied so he hasn’t written any more.”

“I suppose lately means since you’ve known me.”

“Per-perhaps.””

“So I’ve stood in the way of you and George!”

“Tt would have made no difference. Whatever hap-
pened, I should never, never marry George.”

“Why! Because you don’t love him?”

“Because I don’t love him,” she repeated.

“It’s such an old story,” began Nepean as he looked
at his watch; an action which made Pansy bite her
lip. “The men who would marry girls and make
them good husbands they despise, while they cast long-
ing eyes at some smooth-tongued rascal who can never
make them happy.”

“Are you—are you a smooth-tongued rascal?”

“Tm speaking generally. Why is it! Why is it!
Why can’t pretty Jill love honest Jack, and appreciate
him at his worth and both live happily ever after!”

“Because she doesn’t love him,” replied Pansy
shortly.

“Why is it the girl in love demands so much? She
not only wants a home and all the rest of it but life-
long romance as well! In every other condition of
life, one cannot get everything one wants and is sat-

”
!

 

 

3”
154 PANSY MEARES

isfied with a compromise. In love, it’s altogether dif-
ferent.”

“Of course, and !”

“And there’s a serious side to this crying for the
moon,” he interrupted. “Those who set their hearts
upon, and insist on having that to which the station in
life to which it has pleased God to call them does not
entitle them, sooner or later have to pay through the
nose for their temerity.”

“I don’t quite understand what you mean,” rejoined
Pansy.

“Never mind that now. We'll discuss one thing at
a time and we're speaking of why one won't admit
the faintest suggestion of compromise in things of
the heart. It’s responsible for half the world’s heart-
aches and most if its ironic comedy.”

Pansy was about to reply as he added as an after-
thought, and with which he was evidently pleased with
himself for lighting upon:

“T believe, little girl, it’s because love is so wholly
selfish.”

Pansy reflected a moment before replying:

“If a girl loves with every bit of her body and
every bit of her soul, she naturally wants to be loved
as much in return.”

Nepean glanced sharply at her and then drew closer
as he said in a low voice:

“Is that how my little Pansy loves me?”

She feared to reply; as if conscious that. an emo-
tional crisis were toward, and one of which he, also,
was a little afraid, he remarked after an interval of
silence :

“What have you been doing with yourself since I
last saw you?”

“Since last night?” she asked, quick to respond to,
and perhaps thankful for, his change of mood.

“Ves,”

“The usual.”

 
THE PRIMROSE PATH 155

“Work?”

“Hard work.”

“Poor Pansy! I only wish you would let me do
something for you.”

She shook her head.

“Tt’s your confounded pride that stands in your
way.”

“And a very proper pride too. Miss Tilly and
Miss Doe are away for their holidays and it means
extra work for the rest.”

“And when is little Pansy’s hard-earned holiday?”

“In a fortnight from now.”

“Where is she going?”

“T ought to go home, but—but——!”’

“But what?”

“T ought to see mother, but there are other reasons
why I don’t want to go home.”

“George?”

“Not George. It’s a long story and not a nice one.”

“Why don’t you go somewhere by yourself?”

“I should like to. I don’t know if I can afford it.”

“Poor little girl!’

“And if I could, I shouldn’t know where to go.”

“Supposing—supposing you could manage to go
away and to somewhere by the sea—I suppose you
wouldn’t like me to come down!”

“You wouldn’t come,” she replied.

“Try me.”

“I should love to spend a day by the sea with you,”
she declared artlessly.

“You would really?” he asked incredulously.

“What a question !”

Nepean became suddenly animated as he said:

“You go away, Pansy, and blow the expense.”

“Chance is a fine thing!’

“You don’t let me finish. I'll drive you there and
back in my car: you can get a room on the cheap, and
apart from that it would cost you next to nothing.”
156 PANSY MEARES

“Why?” she asked quickly. oe

“We would go about all day together, that is if you
could put up with me for a week.”

“It would be lovely!’ she remarked reflectively.

“You'll come?” he asked eagerly.

Pansy slowly shook her head.

“Not pe?

“Tt wouldn’t do,” she said.

“Why 2p

“To begin with, it wouldn’t be right.”

‘Nonsense!’

“Would it?”

“Where, on earth, is the harm?”

“There’s no harm because I know you'd behave as
a gentleman; but it doesn’t sound right.”

“You haven’t absolutely decided not to come?”

“Not exactly. But I don’t think I will.”

He spoke of other things for quite a long time until
he said:

“T don’t suppose you'll change your mind, but if you
do, Lowestoft would do you splendidly. It’s bright
and healthy and not too small so that we should not
be noticed going about together.”

“Tt would be lovely,” said Pansy, “but——!’

“Those ‘buts’ !’””

Pansy sighed.

“And it’s only about twenty miles from where I
was born and one day, if you went,—I don’t suppose
you will—I could run you over and see the old place.”

“Tt’s all too wonderful, but—but——!’

“T know, dear,” he remarked sympathetically.

He again changed the subject, but in the middle of
what he was saying, she interrupted him by asking:

“Tt wouldn’t be right, would it?”

“What?”

“Going to Lowestoft with you.”

“I can’t see where it’s wrong. How can it be, little
Pansy, loving each other as we do!”
THE PRIMROSE PATH 157

“Sure?”

“Quite, dearest Pansy. Would I ask you if it
were!”

“I don’t believe you would. And that is why I won’t
decide at once. Ill carefully think it over.’’

“And you'll let me know when you’ve decided?”

“Yes, Pll let you know.”

He left it at that and told her of amusing expe-
riences he had met with in out of the way places
abroad. Suddenly, he pulled out his watch and ex-
claimed :

“Do you know what time it is?”

“Must you go!”

“T don’t want to—but——!”

“Don’t go—don’t to please me.”

“You know I’d stay for ever if I could, but a

“You want to be with that Miss—Miss Felips,” she
said as he rose to his feet.

“Nothing of the kind.”

“So you tell me. If I thought you cared for her,
V’d——— {?

“What!”

“T don’t know what I wouldn’t do.”

“T believe you’d interrupt the highly respectable
dinner party and ‘go for’ her.”

“l’m quite capable of it,” she said passionately.

“T believe you are,” he laughed.

“Laugh at me! It’s a fine joke for you. You make
me fond of you, and go away to your swell friends
and forget all about me.”

“Pansy!” he cried, and with a world of reproach
in his voice.

“Oh yes, you do. You don’t care that for me.”

“Pansy! Pansy!”

“If you did, you’d give up your friends to be with
me.”

“If you talk like that, I shall have to.”

“Really?”

 
158 PANSY MEARES

“Really.” :

She searchingly regarded him to see if he were in
earnest: believing that he was, she was overwhelmed
with contrition as she said:

“Go, dear. Go and enjoy yourself.”

“You mean it?”

“You give up far too much time to me as it is,
Forgive me for wanting you to stay.”

He was moved by her consideration and stood ir-
resolute.

“Go, dear, go. I shall be quite content if you think
of me just once or twice.”

She looked at him with tenderly shining eyes which
kindled fire in his heart.

“I can’t leave you if you look at me like that, little
sweetheart.”

“Go, go now.”

“But——!”

“I wish you to, dear. Please go because your Pansy
wishes it.”

He moved away, turned and perceiving the yearning
in her eyes was irresistibly drawn to her.

“I’ve been a beast to-night,” he said. “But when
I’m gone, think I’ve only said this: “They loved each
other dearly and lived happily ever after.’ ”

She watched him out of sight before walking in the
direction of the Marble Arch, her heart aglow with
joyous expectation which was inspired by his parting
words.

These effaced all recollection of seeming luke-warm-
ness and enabled her to look forward confidently to
the realisation of her dearest wish.

She had barely reached Oxford Street when a famil-
iar voice jarred her ear.

“Tf it isn’t Miss Meares. Fancy meeting you!”

“Oh! It’s you, Miss Pillar.”

“Don’t look so funny at me. What have you been
up to?”
THE PRIMROSE PATH 159

“I’ve been for a walk.”

“T’m sure! I was going out for myself, but I’ve
had a ‘dis’.”

“A what!”

“A disappointment. I was going out to dinner
with my ‘boy’ but his wife turned up unexpectedly so
he had to wire and put me off.”

“You mean to say——!”

“Now I know you’ve got a ‘boy’——!”

“How did you know?” interrupted Pansy.

“I see him with you one night in the Park. Reelly
I did. It’s the ‘nut’ who used to come in regular.
Now you've ‘gone off’, I don’t mind telling you,
though I wouldn’t say a word to the other young
ladies.”

“Indeed!” remarked Pansy absently; her thoughts
were far afield.

“That I wouldn’t. Where do you think I met him?”

“Where!”

“At Margate, and we used to bathe together in one
of those double bathing machines. Margate’s a bit
of all right for that kind of thing.”

Miss Pillar continued confidences that her compan-
ion, so far as she paid any heed, was disposed to re-
sent, particularly as their nature implied that Pansy’s
secrecy was assured by reason of her being guilty of
like indiscretions.

A moment’s reflection, however, sufficed to tell
Pansy that her romance was on a plane wholly re-
moved from Miss Pillar’s vulgar intrigue, and that
to take offence would be in the nature of admitting
that they trod the same ways.
CHAPTER XIV

THE SEQUEL

AVE you a room to let?”
H The tall, raw-boned woman, who had
opened the door, scanned Pansy from head
to foot before deciding how much she could ask.

“How long would you want it for?”

“A week.”

“One room and for a week?” asked the woman dis-
dainfully.

“Ves.”

“One pound including attendance.”

“Thank you,” replied Pansy as she turned to go.

“Would you want much attendance?”

“T should be out most of the day.”

“That makes a difference as ladies at home want
such a lot. You can have it for fifteen shillings.”

“T only wanted to pay ten,” said Pansy.

“Perhaps you'd like to see it,’ suggested the woman,
whose name was Cotty.

Pansy, who was determined to pay no more than
the sum she had mentioned, followed Mrs. Cotty up
the stairs and into a small, neatly furnished room, the
walls of which were decorated with religious texts
and portraits of members of the Royal family.

Here, Mrs. Cotty sat bolt upright upon the bed and
folded her hands before saying:

“I don’t deny that you would get a room for the
sum you mention elsewhere, but my house has certain
advantages.”

160
THE SEQUEL 161

“Indeed!” said Pansy, who thought it quite far
enough from the sea.

“Social advantages. You see I’m a lady which oth-
ers who take in ‘visitors’ are not.”

Pansy resented the woman’s ridiculous pretensions
and turned to the window as she said:

“I am not going to pay more than ten.”

Rather to her surprise, Mrs. Cotty did not at once
close the interview, but continued:

“Next week, I might have taken you, but it’s a
question of attendance.”

“T tell you I don’t want any,” declared Pansy irri-
tably.

“Next week, I shall have assistance, but just now
I’ve only my daughter Matilda, and she resumes her
study of languages on Monday.”

“Thank you very much, but

“Since you recognise me for a lady and you look
tired [ll take ten.”

“Very well.”

“Only I warn you, I’m very particular, and if any-
thing upsets me, I get my ‘wild out’.”

“Tl get my things,” said Pansy, who had left her
wicker collapsible basket in the hall.

“If you wouldn’t mind. Me and Matilda isn’t used
to handling ‘heavies’.”

Pansy fetched her belongings and upon her shew-
ing Mrs. Cotty that she was not a bit impressed by the
landlady’s airs, the latter came down from the high
horse she had been riding, and sought to be friendly:
she bemoaned the rise in the price of hake and re-
gretted she could not introduce Pansy to her daughter
as Matilda was now taking her afternoon promenade
on the more fashionable side of the pier.

Pansy gave the landlady scant heed; indeed, she was
longing to be alone, in order to try and arrange her
thoughts, which had been disordered by her journey
from London to Lowestoft in one of Nepean’s motor-

 
162 PANSY MEARES

cars, and by a letter she had received from home by
the early morning post.

She had hastily read it on its arrival, but her excite-
ment on account of her approaching holiday, which,
after much flurried consideration, she had decided
could be safely spent in the daily society of the man
she loved, had been such that she had been unable to
appraise the significance of her mother’s disjointed
periods; these had since haunted her mind and pre-
vented her from appreciating as she otherwise might
the experience of travelling in a luxurious, high-pow-
ered automobile.

Directly she was alone she put off the ordeal until
she had bathed her face and tidied her hair; then she
sat down on the bed and took her mother’s letter from
her pocket.

“Dearest Pansy,” it began, and in a faltering hand-
writing.

“We, that is, Abel and me, did so hope you were
coming home, but if you prefer Lowestoft, as you say
in your last, it is God’s will, and that be done.

“Although it is wellnigh a year since you left,
Pansy, it seems a life-time, and some days but a week
since you left with George in the cart; time flies that
quickly.

“Abel asks after you often, and often he talks of
you in his sleep, saying you'll come back some day
and that for good. I think from what he says that
he married me his fourth to be a father to you, dearest
Pansy.

“Have you heard anything of George, dearest
Pansy, as he never comes here now to hear news of
you, and they say since you haven’t written to him for
so long he has left his work and gone wild, and some-
times sleeps ‘rough’, and all for love of you, dearest
Pansy, who he has loved all his life and no one better!

“Well, dear, I do hope things are well with you,
THE SEQUEL 163

they being often strange with me. Sometimes I see
dear Jo seated opposite me by the fire, same as he used,
and all the time speaking of you, loving you dearly,
no one better, as he did. Some say as true love never
dies, and if true love why not true lovers, Pansy dear,
and Joseph loved nothing better than me, unless it
were you, Pansy dear, which is the same thing, as you
were all our very own.

“Well, dear, I must now conclude, as there is much
to do, and strange things hinder one when one least
expects, at least so I find, and perhaps you will when
you have had as much trouble and are as old as I am.

“God bless you, dearest Pansy. I know you are
well because I often see you.

“Your loving mother,
“SARAH GORM.”

“P, S.—Abel does often talk of you in his sleep,
and when I told him of it, he threatened to turn me
out of the room. But in this, as in everything else,
God’s will be done.”

At any other time than the momentous (in a roman-
tic sense) present, Pansy would have been deeply dis-
tressed by her mother’s letter, and would have taken
an early opportunity of going to Billingham in order
to see what was toward.

Now, any recollection of her adored Gerald was
sufficient to make the sorrow of others, and even her
mother’s, appear hazy and unreal; it was as much as
she could do to bend her mind into giving the matter
cursory consideration.

It was evident that trouble, and doubtless this was
assisted by grief at her daughter’s prolonged absence,
was affecting her reason, and Pansy could only re-
peatedly tell herself that when everything was settled
with Gerald—her euphemism for marriage—things
would speedily right themselves, and she would be en-
164 PANSY MEARES

abled to give her mother the loving attention of which
she was in need.

Since the meeting in the park at which this visit to
Lowestoft was bruited, Pansy did not doubt that Ne-
pean intended making her his wife.

He had said nothing further to encourage such
hopes, but she continually told herself that the tender-
ness and devotion he had exhibited on subsequent occa-
sions could have no other result.

She was convinced that her aerial castles had sub-
stantial foundations, and had not hesitated to speculate
on the result, inasmuch as she had spent her little all,
together with what money she could borrow from
friends in the tea shop, for the purchase of frocks and
frills in which to look her best and to do her lover
credit.

With the female’s eagerness to capture once and for
all the male on whom she had set her heart, she was
intuitively aware that, if the best part of a week spent
together by the sea did not lead him to ask her the
question her ears were burning to hear, nothing else
would.

Here she would be free of the debasing atmosphere
of the tea shop, which must surely jar the suscepti-
bilities of a man like Nepean, and be something
other than the work-worn London waitress; in order
to effect as much of a transformation as she
might, she proceeded to put on a frock that had
made a formidable inroad into her resources before
joining Gerald at the hotel at which they were
to dine.

In London Pansy had set her face against making
a habit of visiting restaurants with Nepean; she told
herself it was another matter by the sea, where she
was determined to utilise to the full her wonderful
opportunities.

As she went down the stairs, Mrs. Cotty came into
the passage, and at that moment a slatternly young
THE SEQUEL 165

woman, who carried a string bag of small purchases,
entered the door.

“This is my daughter, Matilda,” remarked Mrs.
Cotty proudly.

“Good evening,” said Pansy.

“Enjoy your promenade, Matilda?”

“Yes, and I couldn’t get a cucumber under three-
pence.”

“Did you meet the ‘Reverend’ on the pier?”

“No. But I met Miss Gandy.”

“Did she give you any news?”

“She’s got faceache bad, and her sister’s down with
housemaid’s knee.”

Pansy did not hear any more as she was speeding
on her way to meet Gerald; as she went, such was her
abandonment to the love possessing her that she did
not once, or at any other time, for that matter, give a
thought to George, or to the wreck she had made of
his life.

“T suppose those who haven’t money think it’s the
finest thing in life to be well off!’ said Nepean, some
two hours later.

“Naturally,”’ replied Pansy.

“If they only knew!”

“Knew what?”

“That unless one is lucky enough to be infernally
stupid or ridiculously consequential, money, more
often than not, is the shortest of cuts to realising the
vanity and weariness of life.’

“I only wish I had money.”

“You know you can have it for the asking.”

“I mean money of my own. I should like to be
very, very rich, and you to be very, very poor, so I
could give it all to you.”

“All pe

“Every penny. Then perhaps you would realise how
much I love you.”

He pressed the hand that he had been holding, and

,
166 PANSY MEARES

for a time they were absorbed in the eloquent silence
of lovers; a silence in which they were radiantly happy
and the passage of time unnoticed.

They had dined at an hotel overlooking the harbour,
and now sat on a balcony; the rich food she had eaten,
the luxurious novelty of her surroundings, the prox-
imity of the man she loved, all combined to steep
Pansy’s senses in an intoxication of ecstasy, which was
all the more stimulating on account of the contrast be-
tween her present situation and the leanness of the
“X. Y. Z.” and “Ilfracombe,” Granville Road, Seven
Kings.

Also, she had been immensely cheered on reading in
a newspaper she had taken up while waiting for
Nepean in the vestibule of the hotel, of a theatrical
marriage, in which the heir to a famous title and a
great estate had married a Gaiety chorus girl.

She argued that since such marriages were possible
there was every reason for her to hope for a like re-
sult where she and Nepean were concerned, she con-
sidering herself many degrees socially removed from
a theatrical chorister.

The delicious silence was broken by Nepean inconse-
quentially remarking:

“What nonsense people talk about every one having
a soul.”

“Why nonsense?” said Pansy.

“The possession of a soul means depth, imagina-
tion, sympathy, humour, and an immense capacity for
loving. And how many of us have these things! The
thousand and one one comes across are brutally com-
monplace and matter-of-fact, and to credit them with
immortal souls, and not only them, but the offspring
of their material matings, is one of the humours of the
universe.”

Pansy, whose ears were itching to hear the world-
old commonplaces of love, was jarred by anything
alien; knowing Nepean’s fondness for idle speculation,
THE SEQUEL 167

she let him speak, and for her own comfort nestled
closer to his side.

“And the pains that are taken to foster this belief!
As if life were not sad enough already, without the
terror of its being prolonged indefinitely!’

“T don’t find life sad,” declared Pansy sharply.

“T’m speaking generally, and the love of woman is
essentially personal. As I was about to say, people
are complacent enough without eternal life being
held out to them as a reward for toeing the line of
moral mediocrity.”

“TI used to think Heaven was hereafter,” said Pansy.
“Now I know it is on earth and in every one’s heart,
if they are lucky enough to love and be loved.”

“Love dies.”

“Impossible.”

“In any case, one or the other has to pay for the
happiness, and generally the one who loves the most.”

“You're spoiling my evening,” cried Pansy. “Let
me be happy to-night. It’s my first night by the sea
with you.”

“That’s why I was speaking as I did. I’m so happy
myself that I wanted to get away from realities. Per-
fect happiness is very sensitive and is apt to be jarred
into discomfort.”

“Say anything you want to say. I want you
to be happy, too, even if it’s in a-way different to
mine.”

“You love me too much, little Pansy.”

“If you loved me as I love you, you would say I
never could love you enough.”

Nepean sighed.

“Why that?”

“For many reasons.”

“Tell me one.”

“Not to-night. Let us be happy while we can. And
as I was going to say, hereafter should be unlimited
food for the rich and picture palaces for the others,
168 PANSY MEARES

and there should be a special haven of rest for the
elect.”

“Do you mean the good?”

“For those such as you and J, who know how to
love.”

“There won’t be any such place. And if you're
good and don’t go to the naughty place, you'll have to
put up with the company of the stupid people you say
you despise.”

“They'll probably be amusing, as they'll take it all
as a matter of course, and with such perfect folk
there’s always the consolation of one’s own imperfec-
tions.”

Pansy, while not a little proud of her companion’s
unexpectedness, was eager to divert the conversation
into intimate channels; consequently she said:

“TI wonder where we shall be this time next year?”

“Where do you think?” ;

“Wherever I am, you'll have forgotten all about
me.”

“Never that, Pansy.”

“Oh, yes, you will. What is serious to me is amuse-
ment to you.”

“Pansy! Pansy!’ he cried reproachfully.

“I shouldn’t have said that: forgive me—forgive
me,’ she cried, in an access of remorse. “It’s very
good of you to care for me at all.”

“If anything, the thanks are due to you for giving
me an interest in life.”

“You, having so much, have no business to talk
like that.”

“Didn’t I tell you that riches are a short cut to dis-
illusion ?” ,

“Why have you never married?” she asked later.

“Eh e

“Why have you never married ?”

“T haven’t had time.”

It was on the tip of her tongue to reply that he
THE SEQUEL 169

had ample leisure now; she forebore, however, believ-
ing that such a hint, in savouring of vulgarity, would
offend his fastidious sensibilities.

Four days of a blissful week had passed, and Pansy
had not yet heard the words she was sure would ulti-
mately be spoken, otherwise there was provided a
feast of delights, which Pansy feared she had not the
capacity to appreciate to the full.

The weather was considerately fine, and each day
Pansy and Nepean went for long motor rides, some-
times returning in the peace of the late evening.

They would take their meals at all sorts of unex-
pected places, and once, when they lunched at a
ferry inn of one of the Norfolk rivers, they had
spent a long lazy afternoon sailing on the cool of the
water.

To-day he had driven her, with unnecessary rapidity
it had seemed, by the house where he was born, this a
long, low-lying building, of gray stone, which was
just discernible across a wealth of intervening park.

It was on returning from this excursion, and during
a stroll they took in the lanes after tea in a village,
that Pansy made mention of the “romantic theatrical
marriage” she had read of on the evening of her arri-
val at Lowestoft.

“TI know Stanhope. It’s the sort of thing he would
do,” said Nepean.

“What do you mean?” asked Pansy, and so sharply
that he looked at her in surprise.

“What I say. He comes of an old lot, and their
blood’s exhausted. Marrying a girl like that is what
one might expect.”

“You—you speak as if—as if that sort of marriage
was a calamity.”

“Isn’t it?”

“How can it be, if they love each other?”

“Unfortunately, dearest Pansy, the world isn’t run
on such romantic notions, and there are a thousand
170 PANSY MEARES

shibboleths it pays, from the point of view of ultimate
happiness, to consider.”

“What are shibboleths?” inquired Pansy.

“The ridiculous but highly respected altars of ma-
terialism.”

“I wish you’d give simple answers, sweetheart.”

“If a man marries out of the class’into which he
has the fortune or misfortune to be born, his blood be
on his own head.”

“Do you mean that he comes to regret it?”

“Sooner or later, and generally sooner. Her ways
are not his ways, and the habits and prejudices of one’s
own particular genus are a considerable factor in the
dismal procession we call life.”

“But—but—what if they love each other!”

“Fiction for the million rings down the curtain on
wedding bells, but the man who knows his business
and tells of life as it is, begins on the way to the sta-
tion for the honeymoon. And even if a man did his
best to find happiness in such a way as Stanhope, there
are always his womenfolk to see he doesn’t get it.”

“What do you mean?”

“That in a million ingenious ways they’ll remind
the woman who has married above her of her so-called
lowly origin, and make her life miserable, which in
turn reacts on her husband. There it is, little Pansy;
I could give you countless illustrations from life, and
all the arguing in the world won't alter it.”

Despite the trend of discouragement adumbrated
by these words of Nepean’s, Pansy by no means lost
heart, indeed, it was so essential to her happiness to
see a church in the distance that, in the manner of the
body when assailed by physiological disorder, her mind
set about repairing the damage that had been wrought.

In spite of any suggestions to the contrary, she re-
peatedly assured herself that Nepean would ask her to
be his wife before the week was out.

She had need for faith.
THE SEQUEL 171

Upon her return to her lodgings, she found Mrs.
Cotty in the mood for conversation, and happened to
mention where she had been.

“Did you say Erlingham?” asked the landlady, who
had forgotten the dignity with which she had origi-
nally greeted Pansy, and was more than disposed to
-be friendly with her.

Also, she had forgotten her daughter’s cultivation
of languages, perhaps because she could do little else,
for Tilda, as Mrs. Cotty now unblushingly called her,
was engaged in housework from morning to night.

“Yes, Erlingham,” replied Pansy. “We went by
Erlingham Manor, where the Nepeans live.”

“Did you say the Nepeanses ?”

“Why ?”?

“They be very high folk.”

“Do you know anything about them?”

“Only by hearsay. There’s a Miss Bunner, who
‘visits’ Mrs. Ditch, next door on the right: she comes
to Lowestoft for her week every year at this time,
and she come yesterday.”

“What has Miss Bunner-to do with the Nepeans?”

“She was in service for thirty year with Lady
Tours, nearby, and what she don’t know about all them
high folks isn’t worth telling.”

“Do you know Miss Bunner?’’ asked Pansy.

“Only in a manner of speaking. If you'd like to
meet her, I’ll ask her in for a cup of tea to-morrer.
She don’t often go out; she suffers from rheumatics.”

“Yes,” said Pansy thoughtfully, “I should very
much like to meet her.”

It was only then that Pansy realised how little she
knew of the man she loved.

Beyond being acquainted with his name, the address
of his chambers in London, and one of his clubs, she
was ignorant of anything concerning him beyond
what he chose to tell her, which amounted to very
little.
172 PANSY MEARES

She forthwith resolved to make a point of being in-
troduced to Miss Bunner on the morrow.

Mrs. Cotty was as good as her word. Miss Bunner
proved to be a stout, elderly women, with a masculine,
ruddy face, which was surmounted by a mop of untidy
gray hair.

She knew her value as a purveyor of servants’ hall
gossip concerning the families with whom she had
been associated, and treated Pansy with infinite con-
descension; it was not until she had swallowed four
large cups of tea and devoured a lot of bread and but-
ter and cake that she could be drawn, and this in spite
of Mrs. Cotty’s persistent efforts, which were doubtless
exercised to justify her advertisement of her acquaint-
ance’s knowledge.

It was not till Mrs. Cotty said: “This young lady
is very interested in the Nepeans of Erlingham
Manor,” that Miss Bunner replied:

“T know all about them. I saw the wedding of the
honourable Mrs, Nepean forty years ago: she was
the third daughter of Lord Shelford.”

“Indeed!” remarked Pansy, as indifferently as she
might.

“They used to visit where I was, and there’s few of
the family I haven’t spoken to at one time or another.”

“Tsn’t there, wasn’t there a Mr. Gerald!” asked
Pansy, after Miss Bunner had wandered to the sub-
ject of a neighbouring family.

“What do you know about him?”

“I—I knew some one who—who knew them.”

“Gerald is a family name, and there are two or
three of them. Mr. Gerald of Erlingham was very
wild in his youth, and caused his mother a lot of
trouble, but they say he’s settled now.”

“Settled!”

“Quite. One of his uncles, Sir Timothy Seven-
oaks, M. P., told him he wouldn’t leave him his money
unless he turned over a new leaf.”
THE SEQUEL 173

“Are—are you sure?”

“Sure as I’m sitting here. And it’s him as is going
to be married.”

“What!” cried Pansy, and so harshly as to be aston-
ished by the sound of her voice.

“Fact. An’ some time this year.”

“Is it to a Miss Felips?”

“I believe that is the name.”

“The—the Mr. Nepean I heard of is not going to
be married to—to any one like that,” declared Pansy
desperately.

“T don’t know quite for certain. I only read it in
the paper. If it isn’t that Mr. Nepean of Erlingham,
it must be one of the others.”

Pansy left the tea table as soon as she could; even
after she had realised the purport of all she had heard,
she continually told herself, and moreover believed,
that it was unthinkable that the Gerald she loved had
engaged himself to be married at an early date.

That evening (it was the Friday in her week of
delicious happiness) she met Nepean at seven, as had
previously been arranged.

He commented on her paleness, and later, when they
were seated at dinner, upon her indifferent appetite.

At the conclusion of the meal, she felt the need of
air, and objected to the spending of their usual hour
upon the balcony of the hotel.

“What has happened to you?” asked Nepean.

“Nothing. Why?”

“You’re so subdued. It was as if my sweet Pansy
had something on her mind.”

“Anything but. I believe to-night is the happiest
of a wonderful week.”

“Why to-night?”

“Because I believe in you to-night more than I have
ever done before.”

For all her confident words, Pansy glanced sharply
at Nepean.
174 PANSY MEARES

It seemed some time before he replied:

“Where do you want to go?”

“Anywhere, so long as it is out in the air.”

“Do you mind waiting a moment. There’s a letter
I want to post.”

“Put it in the box of the hotel.”

“T want to be certain it goes by to-night’s post,” he
told her.

“Who is your letter to?” she asked, upon his joining
her.

“A friend.”

“Why is it so important?”

“Tt’s about an investment.”

“And because of a wretched investment, you must
deprive poor me of five minutes of you!”

“I admit it’s already a bad speculation,” he laughed.

When he joined her, they turned in the direction of
the pier, and (perhaps possessed by fear of losing him)
she suddenly and involuntarily clutched his arm.

“Do you know what it means if a women takes a
man’s arm?”

“What, dearest ?”

“That she is the lover and he the loved.”

“What do you mean? That he doesn’t care for her
at all?”

“That she loves him more than he does her.”

“That would be impossible with my dearest.”

“Impossible!” he echoed.

She knew a great content, and as they were about
to pass the turnstile, she said:

“What about your letter?”

“You made me forget,” he told her.

They walked in the direction of the post-office, and
soon came upon a pillar box.

“This will do,” said Pansy, on looking at the in-
formation regarding the hours of collection, which the
nearness of a lamp-post enabled her to read. “It will
get the last post.”
THE SEQUEL 175

Nepean put his hand in his pocket, and, on hastily
withdrawing it, the letter inadvertently fell at Pansy’s
feet.

She stooped quickly to pick it up, and, in spite of his
eagerness to regain it, she read the superscription.

The envelope was addressed :

Miss Joan FE tps,
DyTCHINGHAMS,
Nr. Warwick.

Even then Pansy would have believed some expla-
nation possible, although he had lied with regard to
the nature of the letter, but a glance at his face, which
expressed wholehearted dismay, was sufficient to in-
form her of the extent of his duplicity.

Heedless of who might be about, Pansy confronted
her lover with accusing eyes: she trembled in every
limb, and it was a long time before she could speak.

Several times she tried to voice the words that
burned for utterance: her efforts resulted in inco-
herence.

Meantime, he said nothing, and stood irresolute.

“What—what’s it mean?” she was at last able to
‘say.
“TJ—I don’t understand.”

“Yes, you do. You've deceived me.”

“How ?”

“By making me love you so much, and all the time
arranging to marry one of your swell friends.”

“How—how do you know I’m going to be mar-
ried ?””

A pitiful ray of hope illumined her mind, but as she
was fiercely resolved not to be deceived further, she
asked: oy

“Aren’t you? Aren’t you? Don’t lie to me this
time.”
176; PANSY MEARES

He did not reply.

For the time being, Pansy forgot her love, and only
had knowledge of the cruel deception of which she
had been the victim.

Perhaps anger at her simplicity of mind, and at the
sorry toppling of the aerial love castles she had reared
contributed to the despair she exhibited.

“How could you! How could you!” she cried.

“Pansy! Pansy!”

“You had so much and I so little. And you must
take even that!”

“You don’t understand. It would be all right if

 

 

you were only sensible. And—an o

“You've no excuse at all. You made me love you
for your amusement. -

“No—no.”

“Then wh Mm

 

“T was helpless as you were. I couldn’t help myself.
And after all——”

“Ves 1?

“T might have behaved even worse to you. I haven’t
done that, and I suppose that must be my consolation.”

“But what about me?” she cried wildly.

ctpe

“What about me? You're going to marry a woman
you love.”

He made a gesture of protest, which she ignored.

“Oh, yes, you are: otherwise you wouldn’t marry
her. What about me? What about me?”

“Let us talk things over. If you would only be
sensible!”

“And listen to more of your lies and more of your:
pretty speeches, which are so easy to believe when one
loves as I do.”

“Pansy! Pansy! If you knew how much you
are——”

She placed her hands to her ears, and as he put his
hands upon her arms, in order to have further speech
THE SEQUEL 177

with her, she broke from him; talking incoherently to
herself, she ran lightly away.

Despite his persistent efforts to overtake her, she
contrived to escape.
PART II
THE TREE OF KNOWLEDGE
CHAPTER XV

“MOWKER & BLEET’S”

OOD morning.”
“How are you, dear?” asked Pansy; after

she had affectionately kissed the woman who
had addressed her, she added:

“You're down early.”

“Naturally. I’ve got to look for work.”

“But it’s rather early to go to town for that.”

“T’m going, first of all, to the Free Library in Ra-
venscourt Park. By looking through the advertise-
ments in the morning papers, I might find something.”

“But——”

“Tt occurred to me last night. I think it’s a splen-
did idea, don’t you?”

Pansy was about to reply that such a proceeding
was followed by hundreds in search of work; not
wishing to damp her friend’s ardour, she said:

“Splendid.”

As Pansy put on her rather worn gloves, prepara-
tory to leaving the house in Stowe Road, Shepherd’s
Bush, where she lodged, Miss Swallow asked:

“Have you ever had to look for work?”

“Have I?” echoed Pansy, with a mixture of light-
heartedness and bitterness.

“TI scarcely liked to ask, but I believe it would
comfort me if I knew that one with your courage and
resource had been—had been as I am.”

“Tf I were to tell you all I’ve gone through since I
came to London and started in a tea shop at eight shil-
lings a week, it would take so long that I should lose
my crib.”

181
182 PANSY MEARES

“You must tell me all your life one day, if you
will. It must be ever so interesting.”

“Some of it,” said Pansy, as her face fell; upon her
friend being sympathetically silent, she went on: “I
don’t know what time I shall get back to-night ; they’re
working us so hard just now, but I’ll stand you a seat
at the second ‘show’ of the Shepherd’s Bush Empire,
and if I can run to it, a shilling supper at that restau-
rant facing the Tube. It will cheer you up.”

“Thanks—but—but—I don’t care about music
halls.” :

“Sorry I spoke.”

“I mean, I’ve never been to one, and it is very, very
kind of you, but I don’t think I’ll begin.”

“Please yourself, dear; and now I’ll be off.”

“Good-bye, Miss Meares, and thank you!”

“T’m Pansy to you, please.”

“Very well. Good-bye, Pansy, and I’m glad I’ve
seen you this morning. You always cheer me up.”

“So long,’ and good luck.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I said ‘So long’.”

“What does that mean?”

_ “Slang for good-bye. I’m afraid I shock you some-
times.”

“I don’t know what we should do without you,”
sighed Lena Swallow.

“One day you may have an opportunity of finding
out.”

“Are you going to be married?”

“No,” said Pansy shortly.

“I should have thought you were just the girl to
marry.”

“My talking to you is wasting precious time,” said
Pansy, as she glanced at the clock on the mantel-piece,
which happened to be going, before hurrying from
the room.

While she journeyed by the Tube, she presently suc-
“MOWKER & BLEET’S” 183

ceeded in surrendering to the perplexity of mind
which confronted her where Miss Swallow, the re-
cent arrival at Miss Curtis’s house in Stowe Road,
was concerned.

Pansy had been largely responsible for her coming
to lodge in Shepherd’s Bush, for she had encountered
her on the threshold of Miss Curtis’s; and, taking a
liking to her on the spot, and learning she was looking
for a moderate priced room, had introduced her to the
sickly-faced, silent landlady with the wooden smile,
and after terms were arranged, to the other young
ladies upon their return from their respective day’s
work,

Pansy’s experience of London had, among many
other things, taught her that those who assiduously
danced to the piping of economic necessity were not
to be indiscriminately lumped together as “young
ladies,” but to the discerning eyes of observation, com-
bined with experience, were capable of being sorted
out into an infinite variety of social gradations.

These ranged from the daughters of the well-to-do
middle classes, who had been thrown on a cold-hearted
world. (occasionally there were girls of gentle birth),
to those young women who, in a less pretentious and
unsettled social organisation, would have found a meet
outlet for their mental and physical energies in domes-
tic service.

Miss Swallow did not come within any of these
categories.

It was much as if she were an angel, fallen from the
grace of prosperous estate, and owing to no fault of
her own.

She was ignorant of the shifts and expedients by
which those with whom she was associated contrived
to exist on an exigent wage, and was at present on the
lookout for a job, seemingly without possessing any
marketable qualifications.

She was dumb concerning her past, hopeless with
184 PANSY MEARES

regard to her future, and appeared to be friendless and
alone.

Physically, she was a fine, well-made woman, with
large, brown eyes, and a wealth of the same coloured
hair; it-was the look of patient suffering which Pansy
noticed in the former that had awakened her sym-
pathy.

The two women were attracted from the first, this
in spite of Pansy’s friendship with Ella Rutherford,
another of the five young women who found inex-
pensive harbourage in Miss Curtis’s shabby little house
with the cracked stucco facings.

Ella Rutherford was a shapely, dainty girl, who had
almond-shaped, expressive eyes: she was the daughter
of an impecunious artist of good family, and had
come to London in the vain hope of earning a living
by working in black and white: she now touched up
negatives for a fashionable photographer, and her
sensitive being revolted at the ignoble conditions of
life on a pitiful wage.

Perhaps one of the reasons why Pansy was drawn
to Lena Swallow, was that Ella had recently taken up
with some rich man, and, heedless of her friend’s
warnings, spent most of her evenings in his company.

The impingement of Lena upon Pansy’s horizon,
Ella’s petulant steps in one of the side turnings of the
Broad Way, the fortunate stupidity of the other two
lodgers, Miss Timpson and Miss Roberts, fortunate
because their dullness enabled them to be blind to the
hardness of their lot, filled Pansy’s mind, as she quitted
the Tube at Bond Street; turning sharply to the left,
she hurried to the show room of “Mowker & Bleet’s,”
where she earned twenty-four shillings a week, to-
gether with a trifling commission on sales.

Arrived there, she quickly ascended to the first floor,
and, after removing her out-of-door things, she
greeted the other young ladies and the models in the
show-room (Miss Eileen O’Hara, the strange-looking,
“MOWKER & BLEET’S” 185

cream-complexioned, red-haired Irish girl, was in a
bad temper and ignored Pansy’s salutation); then,
while the apprentices removed the covers from the cos-
tumes, the others gossiped until they could no longer
delay “dressin’”’ the “stands” and brass rails.

This proceeding was superintended by Miss Crick,
the white-faced, spectacled, anemic, kind-hearted
“first sales.”

Miss Crick suffered from chronic indigestion; was
fond of detailing her symptoms, and at some time or
another had confided to each girl in the showroom
that she was the victim of a hopeless passion for beefy,
unmarried Mr. Briggs, who “bought” for the depart-
ment. By reason of her position as “first sales” she
had the choice of possible customers.

Although the fame of Mowker & Bleet’s has been
dimmed by mammoth enterprises of recent growth,
the firm has still a considerable reputation with sober
folk of the older generation by reason of the philan-
thropic works of the proprietors and of their adher-
ence to evangelical doctrines. This allegiance was
frequently referred to in the journals of their sect.

An atmosphere of otherworldliness enveloped the
staff, and permeated the establishment from packing
cellars to servants’ garrets, so far as appearances were
concerned.

No matter how busy the season of the year, or how
much the time for breakfast allotted to those who
“lived in” was curtailed, the working day was not
permitted to commence till after lengthy, and often
extempore prayers had been offered up, and at least
one chapter read from the Bible.

When the long day’s work was over it was cus-
tomary to hold prayer meetings at which one or an-
other of the staff would be moved either to pray aloud
or to give an account of their conversion from wrong-
doing. As promotion was largely determined by such
fervour, and as those who did not attend were looked
186 PANSY MEARES

upon as moral backsliders and treated accordingly, it
was not surprising that there was a lot of artificial
zeal.

Mr. Mowker, the head of the firm, was a portly
white-whiskered, sanctimonious-looking man, whose
personality was redolent of an unctuous prosperity.

As Pansy sometimes watched him superintending
the supplying of the wants of certain privileged cus-
tomers, she often wondered if the latter were ever
moved to finger in their purses for sixpences to put on
the plate which she believed they must often suspect
Mr. Mowker was about to hold under their noses.

He looked so completely worthy that Pansy, upon
getting into Mowker & Bleet’s, owing to Mrs. Hut-
ter’s kindly influence, had congratulated herself on
her good fortune; she had believed that Mr. Mowker’s
reputation for unworldliness argued a kindly consid-
eration for the staff.

She was to “live in,” and in addition to board and
lodging was to receive ten shillings a week.

The night of her arrival she had gone to sleep
thinking she was in clover, and this in spite of the fact
that the room contained eight beds, whereas there was
barely room for four.

She had been speedily undeceived.

It would almost seem as if “Mowker & Bleet’s” con-
sidered the mortifying of the flesh as essential to their
assistants’ salvation.

The interminable prayers and graces before meals
proved a lengthy introduction to short commons, and
of a quality that was so bad as to be scarcely eatable.
Moreover, the work was exacting and continued till
long after the shop was closed for the night.

Nor were these the least of the evils that Pansy had
to put up with.

The staff, with few exceptions, wallowed in an ag-
gressive self-righteousness which found continual ex-
pression in spying, tale-bearing and backbiting. This
“MOWKER & BLEET’S” 187

made Pansy long for less parade of perfection and for
more of the practice of the Christian virtues of tolera-
tion and kind-heartedness.

The least infraction of the strict rules of the estab-
lishment was punished by a system of fines, which
were rigorously exacted.

Bad food, her uncongenial surroundings had af-
fected Pansy’s health. She was on the point of antici-
pating an eventual breakdown by looking out for
something else when the unexpected happened.

A government inspector had visited the shop with-
out giving notice of her intention, and had lodged
a formal complaint against the lack of proper bed-
room accommodation provided for the assistants.

“Mowker & Bleet’s” had escaped prosecution by the
skin of its sharp teeth, and Pansy had been one of the
lucky ones who had been selected to “live out.”

She enjoyed the comparative freedom of lodging
with Miss Curtis; was glad to escape most of the pray-
ers and was in considerably better health owing to
the better food she was able to purcnase.

“You don’t know of any ‘crib’ going?” asked Pansy
of Miss Crick in the course of the morning.

“For yourself, dear?”

“For a friend. She’s had no experience, but she’s
capable and quick.”

“If I were you, and know of anything good going,
I should take it myself.”

“Why?” asked Pansy quickly.

“Because ‘M. & B.’ is feeling the competition of
‘Northridges,’ and anything may happen.”

There was an incredulous chorus of “I’m sure!’
from the other young ladies in the room who had
overheard the “first sales.”

“Tt’s only what I think—really, it is,” continued
Miss Crick. “It kept on coming into my mind when
I was saying my prayers, and I had to say them over
and over again to get them right.”
188 PANSY MEARES

“I hope you prayed we should all keep our jobs,”
remarked Miss O’Hara, for whom, as did the other
assistants, Pansy felt a vague distrust, chiefly be-
cause of her uncertain temper; also on account of her
saying things of which one could never be certain of
the meaning.

“I always pray for everyone,” declared Miss Crick,
as her eyes blinked virtuously at the others behind the
thick lenses of her spectacles.

“Then none of us have anything to fear,” said
Miss O’Hara, but with such a suggestion of sar-
casm in her voice that Miss Crick was about to make
some sort of retort when the room was reduced to
a silence that could almost be heard by the appear-
ance of young Mr. Bleet, the only son of the junior
partner.

Mr. Bleet was a tall shadow of a round-shouldered
man, who seemed to have a superfluity of ungainly
limbs. He had -weak features and sore eyes, and for
some reason considered himself an authority on St.
Paul’s Epistles to the Galatians, on which he loved to
hold forth, should opportunity offer.

Notwithstanding that he was a married man with
a quiverful of offspring, he attended Sunday-school
treats and evening parties, where he initiated such
games as “Hunt the Slipper” and “Kiss in the Ring,”
in which last he was an adept, selecting the youngest
and plumpest girls for osculation.

His enthusiasm for kissing extended on occasion to
the young women employed in the shop, and by rea-
son of his reputation on this score, Pansy avoided
him so far as it was possible.

Since he was the son of the junior partner such be-
haviour was put down to an excess of Christian
charity.

He was conceited and fussy. By reason of his
quick, vain movements and his scarecrow appearance
he looked like a jaunty ascetic.
“MOWKER & BLEET’S” 189

He had a habit of dropping a piece of string on the
ground and watching to see if it were noticed.

Should an assistant discover and pick it up, Mr.
Bleet would beam upon whomsoever it might be with
watery eyes. If this duty were neglected, he would
storm and rage at the offender.

To-day he neglected his string test, but fussed about
and nervously found fault under the impression he
was what is known as “speeding up.” After exacer-
bating the girls’ nerves, he told Miss Crick, whom it
was rumoured he admired, that he wished to see her in
his office, a proceeding that was responsible for the
exchange of significant glances between those young
ladies who overheard the request.

It was hard and unsatisfactory work selling cos-
tumes to “Mowker & Bleet’s” customers, these being
chiefly dowdies from remote suburbs who wanted
what they believed to be a smart “turnout” for a forth-
coming chapel concert or tea fight.

They were civil spoken enough, indeed they were
often not a little awed by the fine appearance of
Pansy, Miss Bone, and Miss Moggridge, the good
figures of the models and by the uncanny beauty of
Miss O’ Hara.

Difficulties arose from the fact of garments look-
ing their best when worn for their inspection by
models and seeming another class of goods upon being
tried on by possible purchasers.

It needed all the eloquence and will power of
Pansy and the others to persuade them of the reality
of the thing that was not. On these occasions, the
young ladies wholeheartedly perjured their souls in
the interests of their employers.

While Pansy was trying to sell “winter novelties”
(the month was November) her heart was not in
what she was doing. Miss Crick’s hint that all was
not well with the firm troubled her mind and damped

her spirits.
190 PANSY MEARES

During the time Pansy had been in London, she had
more than realised the truth of what Miss Pillar had
told her upon her coming to town to drudge in the
"ie hae

Then, she had all but scouted Miss Pillar’s infor-
mation as contrary to the truth; she had since learned
in the bitter school of experience how men, who were
kind and indulgent in their domestic relations, would
not pay a halfpenny more than the current wage to the
female labour they employed, and notwithstanding
that they made large profits by such means, were in-
different to the temptations to which many of the
young women were exposed and the shameful shifts
they were put to in order to keep body and saul to-
gether.

It had also been borne upon her mind that ‘the
business men, together with smug shareholders in in-
dustrial concerns, often unconsciously recruited the
ranks of the oldest profession in the world, inasmuch
as starvation pay for a long day’s work started girls
on the flower-decked way, where there is no turning
back, and which ultimately leads to undreamed of
depths of vice and degradation.

So far as Pansy’s experiences were concerned, she
had often wanted employment; on two occasions, she
had all but starved.

Even with her experiences of looking for work, she
dreaded such a proceeding from the bottom of her
heart.

None knew better than she of the insults to which
a friendless, well-favoured girl was always liable; the
uncertainty as to how long her money would last; the
heart-breaking delays and disappointments, and the
overbearing brutality of those to whom she would
have to apply.

She recalled that on three occasions when she had
complained to the managers she had interviewed of
the insufficiency of the pay, she had been told “That
“MOWKER & BLEET’S” 1gI

there were other ways of making money in her spare
time.”

She knew that it might be just possible to get some-
thing now, owing to the approach of Christmas, but it
would be another matter after the dawn of the New
Year, when it was the custom of many large firms to
discharge superfluous “hands,” heedless of what hap-
pened to them.

She repeatedly told herself that Miss Crick was
an alarmist and had probably got hold of the wrong
end of one of the rumours which were always cir-
culating in the shop; she had all but succeeded in
reassuring herself as Miss Bone approached her and
said:

“When you’ve a moment I want to speak to you.”

Miss Bone had a tall, graceful figure, but her
comeliness ended at her neck, she having features that
made her resemble a hen, together with a fresh com-
plexion which, for some reason, had an unpleasant
effect upon the beholder.

Pansy, whose fidelity in that atmosphere of delation
had often been put to the test, was thoroughly trusted
by the other girls, including Miss Bone, who fre-
quently confided, under repeated promises of secrecy,
that she had secret leanings for the stage.

She collected picture post cards of actors and ac-
tresses, read the theatrical news in the papers, occa-
sionally went, in secret fear of being seen, to the gal-
leries of theatres (wearing a ridiculously thick veil in
the queue to avoid the possibility of detection), and
was saving up to pay the subscription to a local ama-
teur dramatic society.

“I’ve a moment now,” replied Pansy. “What is
it?”

“I want to wait till O’Hara’s out of sight. She’s
such a sneak.”

“She’s to go to ‘Hats & Bonnets’ directly. You can

tell me then.”
192 PANSY MEARES

After Miss O’Hara’s graceful form had disap-
peared, Miss Bone said:

“Well?”

“Well?”

“Aren’t you worried, too?”

“What about?”

“What Miss Crick said just now about reducing ex-
penses.”’

“To tell you the truth, I was a bit.”

“Has she said anything to you beyond what she
said to us?”

“Not a word.”

“She’s now with young Mr. Bleet, who may tell her
something. Pump her and find out if she knows any
more than what she said.”

“T will when I get a chance.”

“After all, it mayn’t be such a bad thing for me if
I do have to go. There’s always the stage.”

“Isn’t it difficult to get on?”

“When one has it in one and there’s the will to suc-
ceed, difficulties disappear.”

“Indeed ?”

Pansy resolved to take an early opportunity of con-
sulting Miss Crick. Before the latter returned, Miss
Moggridge also opened her heart to Pansy on the
same subject.

Miss Moggridge had the figure of a goddess
and a matter-of-fact, commonplace face; she was
a well-meaning, rather stupid, girl, whose spare
time was devoted to cultivating her muscles in a
gymnasium.

She was eager to have Pansy’s opinion of Miss
Crick’s hint of reductions in the staff and insinuated
that, as the latter attended the same chapel as young
Mr. Bleet, she probably had sources of information
denied to the others.

Pansy promised to do her best and, if only for her
own peace of mind, was as good as her word as soon
“MOWKER & BLEET’S” 193

after Miss Crick’s return from her interview with
Mr. Bleet as she could contrive to speak to her.

There was evidently something amiss with the
“first sales”: one moment she was laughing hysteric-
ally, the next she was dabbing her eyes with her hand-
kerchief. She neglected promising customers, and was
exceptionally sharp with the models, behaviour that
was responsible for winks and nudges on the part
of the other young ladies.

“Do talk to me, Miss Meares,” said Miss Crick
upon Pansy’s approach. “I’m so upset, but I wouldn’t
tell any one the reason for worlds, not even you.”

“I’m sorry,” remarked Pansy.

“What was it you wanted to say? Tell me, and I
shall forget what’s happened. I don’t know what my
mother would say if she knew!”

Then, in reply to Pansy’s enquiries, Miss Crick
said:

“I’ve heard so many rumours it’s difficult to know
what to believe. And even if I had heard anything,
I’m now so upset I shouldn’t know which was truth
and which wasn’t.”

“Have you heard anything from any one who’s
likely to know, Miss Crick?” persisted Pansy.

“I can’t say as I have, Miss Meares. Still, as you
know there’s no smoke without a certain amount of
fire, and if I was you, and you see another job going
as good as this, you jump.”

“Tt’s not a nice time of year to be thrown on the
street.”

“‘T’m sure.” When one’s ‘out’ in winter one’s more
likely to stay in bed where it’s warm than go out and
look for something.”

“It’s bad enough for girls who have homes, but it’s
another matter with us who haven't.”

“Perhaps Mr. Briggs will come along and want to
marry me. And if he does, I shall have to tell him.”

“Tell him what?”
194 PANSY MEARES

“That’s a secret that’ll never pass my lips.”

“I hope he does—for your sake.”’

“And Miss Moggridge is all right.”

“Why 2

“She’s engaged to be married.”

“She doesn’t wear a ring,” remarked Pansy, who
found herself envying Miss Moggridge’s good for-
tune.

“N-no. Her ‘boy’s’ gone to the wilds of Australia
for two years, and before he went away he told her
that for her sake he wouldn’t bind her to him in case
he never came back.”

Pansy concealed a smile.

“T do hope you'll be all right,” continued Miss
Crick. “This is such a funny place, you never know
what will happen next.”

Before Pansy could offer any remark the “first
sales” went on:

“T don’t mind telling you, as I know you can keep
your mouth shut. But what do you think Mr. Bleet
wanted me for?”

“Give it up.”

“Nothing at all. And just when I was going, he
put his arms round me and tried to kiss me.”

“Not really?”

“As true as true, Miss Meares. What do you think
of that?”

“What did you do?” asked Pansy.

“T held myself bolt upright away from him and
looked him ‘old-fashioned’ in the face. It isn’t the
first time he’s tried it on, either.”

“Great Scott!”

“It’s too bad—too bad of him!” exclaimed Miss
Crick, who, at the recollection of the insult that had
ae offered her, exhibited symptoms of breaking

own.

oe sought to comfort her, at which Miss Crick
said:
“MOWKER & BLEET’S” 195

“I don’t mind for myself, Miss Meares, hardly at
all. Who I am sorry for is Mr. Bleet’s poor wife and
children.”

Their conversation was interrupted by the entrance
of a customer known to Miss Crick; a little later, the
latter said to Pansy in an undertone:

“One never knows what all these rumours come to,
and if you will let me advise you, I should be very,
very careful in a place like this—every one watching
every one else, as you might say.”

“What do you mean, Miss Crick!”

“Well—well—they do say, Miss Meares, you’ve
sometimes been seen talking to a swell gentleman after
hours. They say you’ve been seen to meet him near
the Bond Street Tube.”

Pansy made as if she would speak, hesitated, and
held her peace, as Miss Crick went on:

“I’m sure it’s no business of mine or of any one
else’s. And I shouldn’t be surprised if that Miss
O’Hara set it about, such a cat as she is. She says
she’s related to Lord Ballymena, but she doesn’t quite
know how it is. And is it true that your friend has
beautiful blue eyes and grey hair?”

“I don’t know why Miss O’Hara should ‘have her
knife into me,’ ” remarked Pansy, who was anxious
to change the subject.

“She is like that with every one. Nothing is good
enough for her. She turns up her nose at the gentle-
men in the shop, and says nothing less than a toff
will satisfy her.”

There came into Pansy’s mind a recollection of cer-
tain words which were to the effect that “those who
set their hearts upon, and insist on having, that to
which the station in life to which it has pleased God
to call them does not entitle them, sooner or later
have to pay through the nose for their temerity.”

“But I do hope you will be careful,” said Miss
Crick, who was itching to hear full particulars of
196 PANSY MEARES

Pansy’s interesting gentleman friend. “Such dread-
ful things happen in London. Gentlemen actually pay
attention to young ladies without meaning to marry
them.”

“So I’ve heard,” remarked Pansy grimly.

“I only tell you this for your own sake, Miss
Meares. So far as I’m concerned, I’m perfectly
safe.”

“T’m very glad to hear it,” declared Pansy, who be-
lieved that Miss Crick’s lack of comeliness was her
greatest safeguard.

“And do you know what would keep me straight
in the day of temptation?”

“What?” asked Pansy, whose curiosity was begin-
ning to be aroused.

“T should always remember I was a young lady.”

Miss Crick’s remarks concerning Pansy’s occasional
meetings with a man awoke a long train of thought
in the latter’s mind which made her listless in her
work, inattentive if addressed, indeed they opened a
secret chamber in the edifice of her life that so far as
it was possible she kept resolutely closed, not only
from the prying eyes of her little world, but from her-
self.

Once again the wounds that she strove to believe
healed, although she knew that this could never be,
bled afresh; her suffering seemed to immerse her in
a vast loneliness in which she was ever condemned to
wander.

She well knew these paroxysms of anguish and re-
peatedly told herself how this would pass as many an-
other had done, but this afternoon it seemed unduly
prolonged.

She was aware, from long experience, of the use-
lessness of fighting against the prepossession that had
seized her in its ruthless grip and could only await
the hour of departure in the hope that fresh air would
bring her the alleviation she sought.
“MOWKER & BLEET’S” 197

On leaving the shop after the long day’s work was
concluded, she resolutely declined the other girls’ com-
pany (they were eager to discuss the threatening
menace) and set out in the direction of the Bond
Street Tube.

Arrived there, she was all but urged to walk a little
way along Bond Street, where, as likely as not, she
would meet the man who had played such a consid-
erable part in her life.

She stoutly resisted the inclination, telling herself
that she owed a duty to her friend, Miss Swal-
low, inasmuch as she had promised to take her out for
the evening, and was looking in her purse for the cop-
pers for her fare when she felt a touch upon her arm.

She turned quickly, to find herself face to face with
the man she was eager to meet and anxious to avoid.
CHAPTER XVI

AFTERMATH

she would fain have concealed.
“Angry?” he asked.

“Y-yes.”

“Not very?”

“Very.”

“T particularly wanted to speak to you to-night, and
when I saw you I could not help myself.”

“I wanted to see you, too; but if I had seen you
and you had not seen me, I should not have spoken.”

“Sure?”

“T—I think so.”

“Why? There’s no harm in our seeing each other
sometimes.”

“Not on the face of it. But it’s better we
shouldn’t.”

“T suppose you know best; but: ne

“And having seen each other, it’s now ‘Good
night.’ ”

“ ‘Good night!’ ”

“T’ve an appointment 4

“With some man?” he suggested in a hard voice.

“You know it isn’t that,” she replied reproachfully.

“Imagine wasting yourself on a woman!”

“She’s a dear friend of mine, and I’m very fond of
her.”

“Ella Rutherford?”

“A Miss Swallow. Cred ven

19

1 spite of herself, Pansy’s eyes expressed a delight

 

 
AFTERMATH 199

“Give me a minute. You'd give me longer if you
knew how anxious I’ve been to see you.”

“So you tell me. But you’d nothing to do so you
thought you’d look me up.”

“Pansy! Pansy! You don’t really think that?”

“Tt would be better for us both if I did.”

“Where on earth is the harm in our occasionally
meeting for a chat?”

“It’s unfair to—to someone else.”

“T’m the best judge of that.”

“Tt’s unfair to me.”

“How en

“It makes me think of you and I’m trying to for-
get you.” ,

“T almost think sometimes you’ve succeeded.”

Pansy shrugged her shoulders.

“Anyway, you've the laugh of me,” he went on.
“You have your freedom and are happy. I’ve lost
mine, and—and am scarcely so happy.”

“And supposing things had turned out differently
with you, where should I have been, then? All the
consolation I should have had would have been the
knowledge that you were so happy that you’d forgot-
ten me.”

“T should never forget you, Pansy,” he said gravely.

“Thanks. That doesn’t alter the fact that you
played on my feelings, took advantage of my worldly
innocence and made me head over ears in love with
you, and all the time you were arranging to marry
someone else.”

“But——”

“And that isn’t all. You had everything, I nothing,
yet you must take from me the one thing I possessed,
my independence of mind.”

“Admitting I behaved badly, haven’t I been repaid ?”
he asked quietly.

Once more she appraised his lined face and grey
hair, and there was no denying that he had aged much
200 PANSY MEARES

since those far-away days of irresponsible love-mak-
ing.
“Haven’t I been repaid?” he persisted.

She nodded her head.

Doubtless he adjudged it a propitious moment to
urge a request he had in mind, for he said:

“Instead of quarrelling among this crowd, wouldn’t
it be better to go where we can talk quietly?”

“But——”

“Tf it’s only for five minutes.”

She suffered herself to accompany him along
Oxford Street, but there was an end to her passivity
upon his making as if to enter an expensive eat-
ing house.

“What are you doing?” she asked quickly.

“T’m hungry,” he pleaded.

“Then go in and let me go home.”

She walked quickly in the direction of the Tube; it
was not long before there was a restraining hand upon
her arm.

“Don’t be cruel, Pansy,” said Nepean’s voice in her
ears,

“Then don’t be absurd. How can I afford to go
into a place like that?”

“T’ve a few shillings on me.”

“You know perfectly well I wouldn’t let you pay
for me.”

“Will this place do?” he asked, as they were about
to pass one of the popular refreshment houses which
have sprung up in London, and which in central dis-
tricts are open to a late hour.

“T should really go back,” she protested.

“Have a cup of coffee? You look as if you could
do with it.”

“T suppose I must,” she sighed, much as if she were
ashamed of her helplessness.

Involuntarily they sought a vacant table where they
sat facing each other while a waitress brought a bill
AFTERMATH 201

of fare on which the charges were astonishingly mod-
erate.

“TI think I’ll have some soup,” said Pansy.

“You can have the shop if you like,” laughed
Nepean, who was delighted he had prevailed against
Pansy’s apparent desire to go home.

“That only means that in the end I should have to
pay a heavier price than you.”

“In what way?”

“If nothing else, in want of self-respect.”

Pansy swallowed the warm soup, after which she
went to the extravagance of a plate of meat and a
small cup of coffee; in a very little while the effect of
the food was such that she looked a different being to
the tired shop girl she had appeared a few minutes
before.

The change for the better which had taken place in
her face corresponded to the happy alteration which,
as if by magic, had occurred in her mind, substituting
an approximation to content where previously there
had been weariness and irritability.

She sat back in her chair, and as she appreciated the
physical satisfaction provided by the nourishing of her
body, she watched from the corners of her eyes the
man who was responsible for her breaking her en-
gagement with Miss Swallow.

An overcoat and silk muffler concealed his evening
clothes, and Pansy could not help noticing how women
at the other tables were interested in her distinguished-
looking, well-turned-out companion.

It flattered her vanity to know that this man was
so devoted to her that he waited near the Bond
Street Tube in all weathers on the chance of
meeting her; that he still loved her in spite of
the fact of his having married in his own station
of life.

The pleasure she derived from this reflection did
something to atone for the anguish she had suffered
202 PANSY MEARES

upon entering her secret chamber of sorrow earlier in
the day.

“A farthing for your thoughts,” he said.

“They’re not worth it.”

“Why P?

“T was thinking of you.”

The words were hardly out of her mouth before
she regretted her frivolity; she was relieved to find
that he did not appear to notice what she had said, for
he gravely remarked:

“T’m very fortunate.”

“T was wondering why you were eating so little.”

“Time with you is precious.”

The depth of sincerity in his voice a little fright-
ened her; it awoke a tenderness in her heart and con-
strained her to silence.

“Any more news from home?” he asked presently.

“T heard a week ago.”

“Who wrote?”

“My step-father.”

“Mother any better ?”

“He didn’t say.”

“Tf it’s softening of the brain, she never will be any
better.”

“I’m afraid not,” sighed Pansy.

“What else did he say?”

“What he usually does. He’s always begging me to
go back and promises me all Don’t speak of him.
He’s hateful.”

“I understand,” said Nepean after a pause.

“T wonder if you do?”

“It’s all so obvious. Heard any more of George?”

“No,” replied Pansy shortly.

“No one knows what’s become of him?”

“No.”

‘“H’m ?

“What is in your mind?”

“I was thinking how much better it would have

 
AFTERMATH 203

been if you had married George and had never come
to London.”

It was on Pansy’s tongue to reply: “Then I should
never have known you,” but she refrained in time and
substituted :

“T did not love him.”

“Love often comes after marriage.”

“T didn’t care about taking the risk.”

There followed a silence that was broken by
Nepean’s remarking :

“After all, Pansy, I might have treated you worse
than I did.”

“How do you mean?”

“You know how some men behave to girls who love
them.”

“But then, however much you deceived me, you
loved me, at least, I believe you did, and therefore
you would not wish to harm me.”

“We've both that consolation.”

“Ts it a consolation to you?”

“So far as my love for you is unselfish, it is a great
one.”

“And otherwise?”

“T am a man, Pansy, and you are a very, very de-
sirable young woman.”

“We'll leave it at that. But I’m wise now, and
know more about life than I did in those days. And
when I see things sanely, as I do sometimes, I see I
was much to blame in thinking a man in your position
would ever marry a girl in mine.”

“Perhaps I should have been happier if I had.”

“Sure?” she asked quickly.

“In any case, my marriage could not have turned
out more unfortunately than it has.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Sorry ?”

“For your sake,’ she declared more or less hypo-
critically. “I should like you to be happy.”
204 PANSY MEARES

“Dear little Pansy!”

“Dear little Pansy is going to make you prove your
words.”

“What about ?”

“What you said just now. If you were free, would
you marry me?”

“Y-yes.”’

She was heedless of his hesitation as she said:

“Tt’s safe enough to say that now. But even if you
were free, I’ve no right to expect such a thing from

ou.”
“It’s no use discussing impossibilities,’ he re-
marked.

“Not a bit. Instead, I’m going to ask you another
question.”

“What is it now?”

“Am I—I don’t suppose you'll like my asking it—
am I in any way responsible for things going wrong
at home?”

He waited before replying:

“In a sense.”

“Oh |?

“In a qualified sense.”

It might have delighted Pansy to have learned that
his marriage was a failure owing to his passionate
love and longing for her; and if Nepean had been
wholly unscrupulous, he might have told her this to
his advantage: as he was in the mood to confine him-
self to facts, he said:

“In any case, for reasons it would be unprofitable to
discuss, my marriage has turned out unhappily. But
that doesn’t alter the fact that I’ve discovered I love
you far more than I ever believed I did.”

“It’s strange,” mused Pansy. ‘You had so much
and wanted more; and in getting it you’ve burned
your fingers.”

“To say nothing of the unhappiness I’ve brought on
you, who had so little.”
AFTERMATH 205 *-

Pansy slowly nodded her head before sighing
deeply.

“Was it so bad?” he asked in a low voice.

“Awful.”

“T’m sorry.”

“You've reason to be,” she declared, before saying:

“T was nearly out of my mind. I hardly slept for
days on end. And as for eating or caring what hap-
pened—that was out of the question. If it hadn’t been
that I lost my job at the ‘X. Y. Z.’ for not attending
to my work, and had to look about for something else
for fear of starving, I believe I should have gone
mad.”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“You've reason to be.”

“And when you met me again?”

“T shall never forget that either. I’d been thinking
of you all day, and although I wouldn’t speak to you
for a long time, I believed then that I loved you more
than I’d ever done before.”

“You thought my meeting you again was chance?”

“Wasn’t it?”

“No. I can tell you now. I was miserable on my
own account and on yours—I should have put you
first—and was anxious to find out what had become
of you.”

“How did you?”

“T went to the tea shop, but none of the girls could
tell me anything until I dropped on that little dark
girl with the fresh complexion.”

“Miss Pillar!”

“Tt was she who told me where I’d probably run
against you and ag

“T met her some time back and told her I was at
‘Mowker & Bleet’s’. What do you think of her!”

“So far as I recollect, her opinion on things seemed
to be that everything was ‘hot stuff’.”

“Girls talk a lot of slang.”

 
206 PANSY MEARES

“Stock phrases provide wit for the witless. But
there it is, dear Pansy, and for better or worse, we’ve
met each other again.”

“For better or worse,’ she repeated thoughtfully.

“For better or worse.”

“That depends what we make of it,” she replied
severely and after collecting her thoughts.

He looked at her with eyes in which there was a
hint of reproach and relapsed into silence.

“Why so quiet?” she asked presently.

“You do the talking.”

“What about?”

“Anything so long as I hear your voice.”

Thus encouraged, she told him of the recent com-
ings and goings of her little world in Stowe Road;
of her affection for her fellow lodgers; of the confi-
dence they reposed in her; of the mystery that en-
shrouded her latest friend, Lena Swallow, with re-
gard to whom she ended by saying:

“Although she’s much older than I am, I feel quite
a mother to her.”

If Pansy had but known, Nepean was a trifle bored
by her talk concerning her friends; he would have
preferred her to speak of their two selves, and to
throw some light upon their future relations so far as
she was concerned.

Notwithstanding this lack of interest, he said:

“All this trouble has made a great change in you.”

“I believe it has,’ assented Pansy.

Nepean spoke nothing but the truth in asserting that
suffering had brought about a considerable alteration
in Pansy.

In deepening her understanding, it had broadened
her horizons and endowed her with a sympathetic wis-
dom alien to her years. Compared to her own griefs,
the troubles of her friends in the Stowe Road lodging
house seemed of small account; nevertheless, she made
it her business, as she believed it to be her duty, to
AFTERMATH 207

endeavour to brighten their drab lives with words of
counsel and an example of stout-heartedness which she
was often remote from feeling.

Also, she had a great capacity for loving, and since
the natural outlet for this elemental force had been
dammed by untoward circumstance, the befriending of
her fellow lodgers provided some diversion for her
affections.

The fact of her having loved unwisely had imbued
her with the bitter-sweet philosophy of those who
have passed through the fires of suffering; perhaps
much of her sympathy was inspired by the secret pity
(at times, it was almost contempt) she knew for those
who had never been scorched by the flames of pas-
sion, and as if to make some amends for this disdain
she did much to smooth the rough ways of their
lives.

Presently she stopped short in her story of recent
happenings at Miss Curtis’: she had gradually realised
the waning of her companion’s interest; at the same
time, it was borne upon her understanding that the
trivial things she was narrating savoured of inaninity
when contrasted with the love that filled their respec-
tive hearts.

“Well!” he said.

“That’s all.”

“You were in the middle of something.”

“Was I?”

“Yes. You were telling me of

“Never mind now,” she interrupted a little irri-
tably.

They looked into each other’s eyes, and fearful of
betraying a helplessness that possessed her just then,
Pansy dropped. hers and kept them resolutely on her
plate. ‘

She was aware that he was inspired by a like
emotion; she half dreaded that he would voice his
mood.

1

 
208 PANSY MEARES

“How are things going at ‘Mowker & Bleet’s’?”
he asked.

“Why did you remind me of them?” she protested.

“Why! What’s gone wrong?”

“They’re talking of reductions in the staff and I’d
forgotten all about it till you mentioned it.”

Nepean was interested in the menace that threat-
ened Pansy: he asked many questions with regard to
what was likely to happen; upon her saying that she
really did not know how she would manage if she had
to leave, he said:

“Tf you would only let me help you!”

“What do you mean?” she asked sharply.

“What I say! If you would only let me help you,”
he repeated ; seeing her face harden, he added:

“T mean if the worst comes to the worst.”

Pansy shook her head.

“Why not?” he asked. “Why, on earth, not?’

“T could never consent to that,” she declared.

“But—— !”

“T could never consent to that. I know there are
lots of girls in business who do such things—I’ve
come across them myselfi—who take help from men,
and by leading them on to expect things.”

“But you wouldn’t be leading me on to expect
things, Pansy. We know each other too well, and
for all my faults, I’m not a blackguard.’*

“T shouldn’t know you if you were. But what I
mean is, it isn’t honest for a girl to take things from
a man without giving in return and. i

“Are you advocating immorality?” he laughed.

“I’m saying that a girl should do anything rather
than go for money to the man who loves her.”

“I think he should be the first she should go to as
it’s giving him pleasure to help her.”

“T should never do such a thing.”

“But if you were in actual want!”

“T tell you I shouldn’t do such a thing.”

 
AFTERMATH 209

“But assuming for the sake of argument that you
did!”

“I shouldn’t take without giving in return. I
couldn’t. It would not be honest.”

“Are you serious?”

“Absolutely.”

“Oh, Pansy! Get dismissed and come to me for
money,” he sighed.

“Do you want me to do wrong?”

“I love you so much I don’t know what I want,”
he said in a low voice.

Pansy collected her belongings.

“Going?” he asked.

“Isn’t it time?”

“What are you doing on Sunday?”

“The usual.”

“What is that?”

“Lying in bed in the morning. Getting up to Miss
Curtis’ stringy shoulder of mutton with cold onion
sauce and under-boiled potatoes, and treacle pudding.
After that, I may read the Sunday paper before going
to a Sunday League concert. And I may wind up the
evening at ‘Friffellis’ where, if you have a drink, you
can sit for ever so long and listen to the band and
watch the people.”

“Why not spend it with me?”

“Where ?”

“Brighton. Anywhere.”

“T should like to, as you know, but it wouldn’t do.”

“Why?”

“Tt wouldn’t be right.”

“Nonsense!”

“And it isn’t fair to me.”

“How can that be?’

“It only makes be fonde—fond of you. I shouldn’t
have seen you to-night.”

Despite evidences of her intention of going, she
stayed some time longer, the fact of the matter being
210 PANSY MEARES

that she was loth to leave the land of enchantment,
in which she was dwelling, for the sordid realities of
her existence.

When, at last, they left the tea shop, and got into
Oxford Street, they found the night had altered for
the worse: an east wind was driving sleet into their
faces; Nepean had much ado to shelter Pansy from
the jostling of umbrellas and their holders.

He besought her to let him send her home in a cab;
upon her steadfastly refusing, he set about conducting
her to the nearest Tube station.

The rawness of the night, the hurrying wayfarers
intent on seeking shelter brought home to Pansy her
isolation in the selfishness of London; as if to assure
herself of human sympathy, she involuntarily clutched
the arm of the man at her side.

Physical contact seemingly increased her depend-
ence upon him; she regretted she had not accepted.
Nepean’s offer and at the same time have permitted
him to accompany her.

Suddenly, and without warning, the storm increased.
in fury; it compelled them to take refuge in the en-
trance to a partly-covered-in court, which they had to
themselves.

“T’m sorry,” remarked Nepean.

Pansy said nothing.

“You will have to put up with me for longer than
you expected.”

Pansy held her peace.

“TIsn’t that so?”

Her silence compelled him to repeat his question.

It was only then that she looked at him, and there
was such a world of reproach in her shining eyes that
he was moved to grasp her hand which she was at no
pains to withdraw.

Apparently, her acceptance of his caress dissipated
his remaining self-control, for he said:

“Oh, Pansy! If you only loved me enough!”
AFTERMATH wes

“I don’t love you, do I!” she remarked bitterly.

“I know I’m saying things I shouldn’t, but you’ve
been so sweet to me to-night, I can’t help myself.”

He spoke nervously, much as if he were apprehen-
sive of reproof; gaining courage from her seeming
complaisance, he went on:

“Pansy, sweetheart, I love you more than anything
in the world, and I know you love me a little.”

Although she made no sound, her lips moved as if
they were repeating his last words to herself.

“If you would only let me take you from this hor-
rible life of work, and anxiety, and want! We should
be so happy together, and even if it’s wrong from
your point of view, we should have each other, and
love would sanctify the rest.”

He glanced anxiously at her to see if she were in
any way responsive to his pleading: she stood as if
she were turned into stone.

Undeterred by her passivity, he continued:

“I love you, Pansy, and I daren’t tell you how
much. All these months I’ve thought of nothing but
you, and if you only belonged to me, I should have
everything I wanted. I love you, Pansy; love you,
my sweetheart. Tell me that you love me, and that
neither of us need be miserable any more.”

He waited, but she stood stock still; at last, his
anxiety was such that he took hold of her head and,
turned it in his direction, to perceive that her eyes were
closed and that her mouth was rigidly set.

He supported her with an arm while with the other
he sought to open one of her eyelids.

Immediately he touched the flesh of her face, she
unclosed her eyes, started back as if she had been
struck, recovered herself, gently kissed the sleeve of
his coat, and with lowered head in order to escape
the worst of the blast, ran in the direction of the sta-

tion.
He did not seek to follow her, and if he were fear-
212 PANSY MEARES

ful that she had been revolted by his appeal, his ap-
prehensions were groundless.

Forty minutes later, Pansy, who, by now, repented
somewhat of having broken her appointment with
Lena Swallow, opened the door of Miss Curtis’ with
her latch key, and hastened into the lodgers’ common
sitting room where she expected to find her friend.

The apartment was unoccupied; Pansy concluded
Miss Swallow had gone to bed when she heard a knock
at the door; knowing that Lena, being the last ar-
rival, was unprovided with a key, Pansy hastened to
open it.

Sure enough, Miss Swallow entered the passage,
at which Pansy said:

“T am so sorry, dear.”

“What for?”

“Breaking our appointment.”

“T forgot all about it, but then I’ve every excuse.
DPve got work.”

“Splendid!” said Pansy, her mind striving to ap-
preciate Lena’s good news.

“With a firm in Camomile Street. I started work
to-day. I get a pound a week.”

“I’m so glad, dear.”

“And I was so pleased, I didn’t come straight home
but I—I went to—to—I can tell you—to evensong
at a church.”

“You what——!”

“To return thanks. But let me tell you how I got
work. It’s such a strange story.”

“Not to-night, dear, if you don’t mind.”

“But—— 1?

“T’ve—I’ve a bad headache and I’ve—lI’ve a lot
to think of. Do you very much mind?”

“Not at all, dear.”

“And I'll go to bed now. Goodnight, dear. I'll
hear all about it to-morrow.”

So saying, Pansy went upstairs to bed.
CHAPTER XVII

THE “BULLET”

tures of the spirit for Pansy.

She and Lena, who had secured work at
a pound a week with a firm of wholesale Text mer-
chants in Camomile Street, had both looked forward
to receiving Xmas boxes from their respective employ-
ers, and this addition to their wage would enable
them to spend the festival with some approximation
to the good living which is its chief characteristic.

They had arranged to meet in town on Xmas eve,
indeed Pansy welcomed every opportunity of being
with her friends, as this companionship diverted her
mind in a large measure from the man she loved, and
enabled her to bear their separation with more tran-
quillity than she might otherwise have done.

The place of appointment was St. Botolph’s church;
the two young women met with blank faces which
plainly told how they had been disappointed in their
hopes.

To ease their depression, they strolled along the
streets containing the gayest shops and Lena paid
for tea in an “X. Y. Z.” where, comforted by the food
and stuffiness, they talked over their present situa-
tion and prospects.

Moved by the need of unburdening her heart,
Pansy told her friend some of her unfortunate love
story; for all this confidence, Lena said nothing that
would enable the other to penetrate the mystery of her
life.

[ coming of Xmas provided further adven-

213
214 PANSY MEARES

Now, as ever, she was a complete enigma to Pansy.

Presently, they went home, resolved to make the
best of their bad luck and determined that high spir-
its and kindly feeling should take the place of the gen-
erous fare they had hoped would decorate Miss Cur-
tis’ meagre table.

A letter awaited Lena; directly she had opened and
read it, she hurried from the house without a word
for her friend.

During her absence, Pansy exchanged a few words
with Miss Timpson who, having been engaged in send-
ing Xmas cards to the “nice people” it was the joy and
stay of her life to scrape acquaintance with, went
out to post them.

Some minutes after she had gone, Ella Rutherford
entered the room, her face flushed, her eyes aglow
with excitement.

“Hullo, old girl!’ What’s up?” cried Pansy.

“Lots.”

“Had any luck?”

“Rather. But it’s nothing to what’s coming along.”

“What do you mean?”

“Eat, drink and be merry for to-morrow we grow
old. Now I’m going to get my things.”

“Not really.”

“Nothing’s real with us beyond hard work, no
money and rotten food. And I’ve had enough of
them. See you before I go.”

“You're not going to do anything foolish!”

“I’m sure,” said Ella as she took her graceful
person from the room.

Pansy apprehensively wondered what was toward
and tried to persuade herself that Ella was in one of
her more excitable moods; she was thoughtfully mak-
ing up the fire as Lena entered the room.

“Seen Ella?’ asked Pansy, still with her back to
Lena.

“Why oe
THE “BULLET” 215

“Something’s up. She’s going on in the most ex-
traordinary manner.”

“Where is she now?” asked Lena.

“Gone upstairs to her room,” replied Pansy who,
turning from the fire, saw a bulky rush basket and
a number of smaller packages upon the table.

“What, on earth, have you got there?” enquired
Pansy.

“J ad a little windfall. I bought this for you, if
you'll accept it,” said Lena as she offered her friend
something wrapped in paper which proved to be two
pairs of gloves.

“You are a dear,” declared Pansy in a voice broken
by emotion. Then, as Lena Bes a turkey from
the rush basket, she exclaimed:

“And a turkey! Good heavens! It will seem like
Xmas after all.”

Then Ella, dressed in her best, and carrying a col-
lapsible wicker basket, came into the room and pro-
ceeded to take an hysterical farewell of her friends.

“Hullo, girls!” she cried, as her abnormally bright
eyes caught sight of Pansy and Lena, “I’m going off
for a holiday!’

“Nonsense!” replied Pansy as she narrowly watched
Ella.

“Fact. Going for a good old time. No Miss Cur-
tis’ wooden grin: none of her boiled pork to-morrow
and cold for the rest of the week, but Life! Life!
Life!”

“See what Lena is standing us to-morrow,” said
Pansy.

Ella did not appear to see what was on the table,
for she went on:

“Of course, as you know, I’m not really going away
at all. I’m only doing a bit of make believe to keep
my ‘pecker’ up. Anyway, I’ve just looked in to say
‘Good-bye’ to my old pals and ask them to ‘wish me
luck’.”
216 PANSY MEARES

“Very nice of you,” said Pansy nervously.

“It’s you who are to be nice to me particularly as
you may not see me again. Hullo! What on earth’s
all that?”

“Some things Lena’s bought.”

“And I got you this broach if you'll take it,” added
Lena.

Ella suddenly became her normal self as she said:

“Tf I had known, I—I—I—but Miss Curtis and the
boiled pork scared me out of my wits. If I had seen
it cold and greasy, I should have gone mad.”

“That’s all right, dear,’ remarked Pansy sooth-
ingly. “Let’s sit down and have a quiet talk.”

Ignoring this suggestion, Ella continued as be-
fore:

“Well, having had my say, I’m off.”

“Where to?” asked Lena.

“That’s a little secret. Wish me luck.”

“But——_ pe

“Wish me luck,” she cried peremptorily.

“T wish you luck, dear,” said Lena weakly.

“And you,” Ella asked of Pansy.

“The best of good luck, old girl,” said Pansy.

“Thanks. Thanks. Now I'll be off as time flies
and I’ll be old before I know where I am.”

So saying, she made for the door, halted and looked
slowly round the shabby room, avoided glancing at
Pansy and Lena, and then went into the passage to the
front door, which she slammed after her.

“You know what that means?” said Pansy.

“What?”

“She’s off for good.”

“Not really?”

“Off with her boy.”

“Tmpossible. Why didn’t you stop her?”

“What would be the use! She’s desperate.”

Be mets be; it can’t be. I’ve so prayed for her
and——!”
THE “BULLET” 217

“Where are you going?” cried Pansy as Lena
caught up her hat.

“To bring her back. I’m certain she’s only outside
the door or the gate.”

So saying, Lena hastened from the house; Pansy
did not accompany her as she knew the futility of en-
deavouring to restrain the headstrong girl from tak-
ing her fate in her own hands once her mind was
made up.

Indeed Pansy’s situation was such that she found
herself envying her erring friend’s courage while she
was angry with herself for her own mental backslid-
ing: her condition of mind disposed her to inaction,
even if she had been persuaded that anything could
be done.

Lena presently returned, dispirited at heart but
striving to put a brave face on what had occurred,
declaring that Ella would assuredly return some
time during the evening.

The two women sat up hoping against hope till the
small hours and Ella’s continued absence (Pansy in

‘her heart had been certain Ella would never come
back) cast a dark shadow across their humble Xmas.

Ella’s disappearance, the fear it had engendered in
the two women’s hearts, drew Pansy and Lena closer
together and so far as the former was concerned she
clung the more to her friend much as if this affection
were in the nature of a safeguard from her love for
‘Nepean.

Pansy had not seen him since the night he had
pleaded to her to throw in her lot with his: as if to re-
mind her that he had meant all he had said he had sent
her his card on which was written the address of his
bachelor chambers in St. James’ Street.

Pansy was torn by conflicting emotions; one mo-
ment she would listen to the voice of the serpent; the
next, she shut her ears to the insinuations of the

tempter.
218 PANSY MEARES

With the few resources at her disposal, she tried
to divert her thoughts into other and less stimulat-
ing channels; the chief of these was to interest herself
in Lena, who had troubles of her own.

Pansy had often marvelled at Lena’s good fortune
in securing work, she having neither business qualifi-
cations nor experience ; and was not surprised to learn
that her elderly “governor” was paying attentions to
his lady clerk: such behaviour in Pansy’s sophisticated
eyes was a commonplace of casual female employment.

She had tried to tell Lena of her danger; her warn-
ings met with an incredulity that shewed how appall-
ingly ignorant was the latter of the perils besetting
the feet of unprotected womanhood in London.

In addition to the menace provided by the precari-
ous nature of her work, Lena’s health was not equal
to turning out in all weathers on insufficient food for
the day’s toil: she had a persistent cold; she suffered
from sleeplessness; as if these were not enough, she
appeared to have much on her mind.

Thus Pansy was threatened with the probability of
having a sick and penniless Lena on her hands.

In a sense, Pansy almost welcomed the prospect of
a further addition to her load of care: she feared the
love in her heart and was thankful for any distraction
that offered, even one that threatened to strain her
scanty resources to the utmost.

Also, there was another and a subtler reason why
she would not have despaired if she had had a sick
Lena on her hands; she was dismayed by the sugges-
tion and sought to ignore or deny it.

Interlaced with these emotions was the possibility
of losing her work at “Mowker & Bleet’s,” rumours
of impending changes becoming rife with the New
Year.

Enquiries among those likely to know elicited noth-
ing definite, but there was an atmosphere of unrest
which to one with Pansy’s experience portended trou-
THE “BULLET” 219

ble. Should discharges occur, she prayed to escape
dismissal yet, here again, as with her fears concern-
ing Lena Swallow, there was another and a more
subtle reason why she could not have despaired if her
worst fears materialised.

One evening, Pansy left “Mowker & Bleet’s” in
the greyest of moods.

The work had been unusually trying, young Mr.
Bleet, for no reason at all, worrying any and every-
body, while rumours of early changes were persist-
ently current.

Mr. Bleet had gone about the departments with his
precious bit of string; Pansy had been so unlucky as
to have seen it on the floor and to have been feeling
too inert to have done nothing other than stare stu-
pidly at the trap.

His censure had wounded her and to-night she was
unduly sensible of all and each of her griefs.

Her nerves were on edge and were further irritated
by a bitter east wind which seemed maliciously intent
on reminding her of the insufficiency of her clothing.

She knew she wanted thicker underwear but in the
present uncertainty existing at “Mowker & Bleet’s”,
she dare not part with the cost.

Of set purpose, she avoided the Bond Street Tube
where she was likely to meet Nepean and walked Ox-
ford Street in the direction of the Marble Arch Sta-
tion.

Notwithstanding her resolve, she was sorely tempted
to turn back; it was only by an effort of will that she
kept on her way.

On reaching the Marble Arch she had her hardest
tussle, hesitating for which station she should take
a ticket.

She was weary of herself and her colourless en-
vironment: her heart ached for the love, romance and
sympathy which could be hers for the asking. _

Even when, at last, the promptings of conscience
220 PANSY MEARES

prevailed and she was speeding to Shepherd’s Bush,
she bitterly reproached herself for her precipitancy,
telling herself that Nepean was assuredly awaiting her
and hungering for her society.

The foggy air of Shepherd’s Bush brought the light
of cold reason to her mind; she told herself as she
walked to Stowe Road how she had done what was
right, but this belief was qualified by reflecting that
the narrow path was hard to tread and led by thorny
ways.

een at Miss Curtis’, she found distraction for
her thoughts in Lena Swallow who had arrived home
in a state bordering on collapse.

She could hardly stand; her skin was hot and dry;
more than once, she rambled in her speech.

Pansy did all she could for her, which was little
enough; for such as it was, Lena was profoundly
grateful, although she flatly declined her friend’s coun-
sel to stay in bed on the morrow, saying that she
must not run the slightest risk of losing her employ-
ment.

Lena’s extremity interrupted Pansy’s sleep; she
hoped that the other would not be so foolish as to go
to work on an inclement day.

Lena left the house considerably earlier than did
Pansy, as she saved on her train travelling by taking
a workman’s ticket; consequently, upon Pansy hear-
ing her friend’s door open about seven and Lena’s
footsteps on the stairs, she jumped out of bed, found
her dressing gown in the dark, and after scrambling
into it, went to the door.

“How are you this morning, dear?” she asked.

“Not much better,” replied Lena.

“It’s a sharp east wind. You oughtn’t to go out.
Why not stay away for one day?”

“T daren’t.”

“Frightened of losing your job?”

“That’s the reason.”
THE “BULLET” 237

“Isn’t it hard! We work ourselves to death, and
if we’re ill, we daren’t lay up for fear of getting the
‘sack.’ ”

“Tt can’t be helped,” faltered Lena.

“Tt can’t be helped, I know, but it’s all damned un-
fair,” declared Pansy vehemently.

“Perhaps I shall be better to-morrow.”

“Anyway, come back as soon as you can, and I'll
look after you,” said Pansy as cheerfully as she was
able before returning for a further delicious half
hour in the snugness of her bed.

She was convinced that, sooner or later, Lena
would be compelled to lie up; as if in anticipation of
the strain an illness might make on her resources,
Pansy, on getting to the shop, bestirred herself to
some purpose, resolving, so far as it was possible, to
undo the effect of the previous day’s mishap.

During the morning, she was particularly fortunate,
effecting some satisfactory sales, the frequent absences
of Miss Crick enabling her to obtain some of the more
likely customers.

She was in high feather at her success; after her
frugal dinner, which she took at a tea shop, she re-
turned prepared to throw her heart into her work.

On entering the show room she came upon Miss
Crick who was excitedly talking to Miss O’Hara and
one or two of the other young ladies.

“There’s Miss Meares!” cried the “first sales”.
“Have you seen Mr. Briggs?”

Pansy replied that she had not.

_ ‘7m in such a state of mind, I don’t know what

I’m doing. He’s wearing a lovely new frock coat,
and splendid brown boots and i

“How smart!” interrupted Miss O’Hara.

“I can see that for myself,” declared Miss Crick in-
genuously. “And he’s a bunch of Parma vi'lets in
his buttonhole and is leaving early.”

“What of it!’ said Pansy.

 
222 PANSY MEARES

“What of it! It looks as if he were going out with
a young lady!”

“Poor dear man! He’s taking his landlady’s daugh-
ter to a picture theatre!” spitefully remarked Miss
O’Hara.

“And what’s the harm in that if she’s a lady, Miss
O’Hara!” sharply retorted Miss Crick who was re-
solved to defend her idol from criticism.

The words were hardly out of the “first sales’”
mouth when Pansy received a message to the effect
that young Mr. Bleet wished to speak with her at
four o’clock.

There ensued a period of nervous apprehension for
Pansy, and as the persistently reluctant big hand ap-
proached the hour of appointment, she was thankful
that one way or another there would be an end to
her suspense.

Even then her anxiety was lengthened for a further
ten minutes while Mr. Bleet was interviewing another
of the young ladies.

Upon the latter coming from the office, Pansy was
dismayed to perceive that her eyes were wet.

“Sit down, Miss Meares,” said Mr. Bleet, and as
she watched his eyes peering at her through his misty
glasses, she instinctively divined what was toward.

“I presume you believe in Providence!” suggested
Mr. Bleet somewhat nervously, at least so it appeared
to Pansy.

“T—I hope so, Mr. Bleet.”

“Tf you do, it will make a difference with what I
am going to say.”

“Tndeed !’”

“A great difference. Because when we have faith,
we trust.”

Pansy said nothing and strove to conceal her con-
cern.

Mr. Bleet seemed embarrassed; for some moments
he betrayed uneasiness before saying rather hurriedly:
THE “BULLET” 224

“We haven’t seen you at our prayer meetings, Miss
Meares.”

“T don’t ‘live in’ now and it’s some way to Shep-
herd’s Bush where I live.”

“One can always find time for devotion, Miss
Meares.”

“And recently, we’ve been often worked late, Mr.
Bleet.”

“No doubt. And there’s something else. Reports
have reached my ears that you have been seen walking
the West End of London in the company of a gen-
tleman.”

Pansy looked at Mr. Bleet with big, troubled eyes.

“And—and there’s something else,” he continued,
almost apologetically. “The string yesterday. You
forgot to pick it up. I mustn’t forget that.”

He appeared relieved to be rid of the sum of her
delinquencies and glanced at her with an odd mixture
of severity and commiseration.

He cut such a poor figure that Pansy was moved to
ask almost contemptuously :

“Is it that you wish me to go, Mr. Bleet?”

He started, much as if he had been stung and stam-
mered :

“I’m afraid—I’m very much afraid that owing to
bad times and the, yes—the reorganisation of the
staff—that that is so—and as you trust in Providence
you know as well as I that a sparrow cannot fall
without His knowledge.”

“I don’t think the Bible applies to girls in shops,”
said Pansy who, for all the depression inspired by
knowing she was dismissed, was conscious of a se-
cret jubilation and for a reason she dared not ac-
knowledge.

“Miss Meares! Really!” exclaimed Mr. Bleet.

“Well, it doesn’t seem like it.”

“IT was hoping that your belief would sustain you
in any disappointment you suffered; but since you as
224 PANSY MEARES

good as tell me that the example we have set you is
as nothing to you—I—really—well i

Mr. Bleet rose to his feet to signify that the inter-
view was at an end.

“When shall I go?” asked Pansy in a voice that
sounded remote to her ears.

“I’d forgotten—your extraordinary opinions made
me forget. I was going to suggest that, as you may—
may have a little difficulty in securing work, we would
give you a week’s notice and give you next week’s
money now, so that you could leave this evening,” said
Mr. Bleet in the manner of one making an unusual
concession. “And if you will sign this acknowledg-
ment!”

Pansy took the pen and affixed her signature to the
receipt. She pocketed her two weeks’ wage and was
about to go as Mr. Bleet said:

“I suppose you would not care to accept this—this
tract!”

Pansy was about to refuse; fearing to break
down, she took the pamphlet, hurried from the office,
and ran into Miss O’Hara, who was waiting to see
Mr. Bleet.

The news quickly spread that Miss Meares had
got what the young ladies called the “bullet”; Pansy
derived considerable satisfaction from being a centre
of attraction; but not for long: very soon, Miss
O’Hara, who was ordinarily reserved, appeared in
the show room with flaming cheeks and flashing eyes.

“Shure and didn’t I tell him what I thought of
him!’ she cried, careless of who might hear.

“Didn’t I tell him that he’d like to go wrong, if
only he had the pluck, and that he’d do better for his
soul if he practised more and preached less.”

Miss O’Hara’s spirited defiance made her the hero-
ine of the afternoon and rather eclipsed poor Pansy in
the estimation of the others.

The Irish girl was repeatedly beseeched to tell the

 
THE “BULLET” 225

story of the encounter and this did not lose in the re-
telling.

Also, she defiantly declared that she would no longer
drudge in a shop and was going to do well for her-
self; by what means she did not divulge.

The affectionate leavetakings somewhat heartened
Pansy, but out in the street, and on her way home, she
experienced a sharp declension of spirits.

A tide of humanity was setting westward and the
sight of the myriad units of both sexes which com-
posed this stream brought home to her how she, alone,
was workless: this realisation seemed to plunge her
in an isolation of despair.

On reaching Miss Curtis’, she moped before the
mean fire, and for all her extremity of mind, she was
conscious of a secret jubilation which she tried in
vain to suppress: she was fearful of appraising the
cause as she was abashed by its existence.

She did not know how long she was alone; she was
presentiy startled by some one touching her shoulder.

She started and turned, to perceive Lena, whom she
had completely forgotten, looking at her with wild
eyes.

“What—what has happened?” asked Lena.

“Happened! Happened!” replied Pansy, who was
surprised at the strangeness of her voice and essayed
to speak light-heartedly.

“I’ve got—lI’ve got the sack. That’s all there is
to worry about, dear.”

She was about to ask Lena how she was; the words
were on her tongue, when her friend swayed from
side to side, and would have fallen had not Pansy been
quick to support her.
CHAPTER XVIII

THE STARS IN THEIR COURSES

ously written in her school copy book: “It

never rains but it pours’’: the trend of her expe-
riences seemed designed to illustrate the truth of this
saying.

She had left “Mowker & Bleet’s’; Lena Swallow
was seriously ill with influenza, and with no one be-
yond Pansy to care what happened to her; try as she
might for work, she was unsuccessful in her search.

The morning following upon her friend’s collapse,
Pansy had gone to a doctor, and had told him that,
if he attended Lena, he might have to wait a consid-
erable time for his money: he had not hesitated to
come, but the things he declared necessary to keep
up the sick woman’s strength dismayed Pansy by rea-
son of their cost.

She quickly spent. the little Lena possessed; then,
her own scanty hoard; she had pawned everything on
which she could raise a few shillings, and was now
faced by the problem of where further money was to
come from.

After making Lena’s bed of a morning, Pansy
would place by her side anything she might want dur-
ing the next few hours, and would then trudge any
and everywhere in the hope of getting employment.

She had learned the futility of applying at chance
places, and concentrated her efforts to calling on busi-

ness acquaintances on the likelihood of their know-
ing of vacancies.

T° the days of her childhood, Pansy had labori-

226
STARS IN THEIR COURSES 227

By this means she heard of several openings, but ill
luck seemed ruthlessly determined to dog her foot-
steps. Either the manager or manageress she sought
was not in, or was laid up; and in the event of her
securing the coveted interview it chanced that she was
an hour too late, and some one else had been engaged.

It was a disheartened Pansy who returned to the
stucco-faced house in Stowe Road, where, after a
short but necessary rest, she would take her place by
the bedside of her sick friend with as brave a face as
she could wear in order to conceal her anxiety.

The evenings Pansy dreaded most.

Punctually at six Lena’s temperature would rise.
Where she had been intermittently light-headed, she
was now painfully delirious.

Pansy would sit in the room and do all she could for
the sick woman’s comfort. Now and again it was
necessary to exert all her strength to prevent Lena
from leaving her bed.

Pansy would have preferred to have waited in her
room, coming in from time to time to see how the
patient was faring. Apart from the hurt her nerves
received from listening to Lena’s imaginings, it ap-
peared unseemly to obtain the glimpses, that she did,
of her friend’s past days which, hitherto, had been
sedulously hidden.

It was of a comfortable and almost a gay life to
which Lena disjointedly referred, making frequent al-
lusions to books, theatres, music, church services and
servants. Often she would menticn some one she
called “Prince”; occasionally she would speak of a
certain miracle.

Nor was this all.

Pansy had always respected her friend on account
of her scrupulous rectitude and of her religious prac-
tices; consequently it was much of a shock to hear her
making references to a man she called Jain and in a
way that suggested a romantic intimacy.
228 PANSY MEARES

One moment she would address him in terms of
passionate endearment; the next she reproached him
for coming into her life.

The first effect of these disclosures upon Pansy’s
ill-nourished body was to afflict her with violent neu-
ralgia. It hurt her to know that she was inadvertently
spying on the secret places of her friend’s heart. The
very inconsequence of the revelations jarred nerves
that were already on edge.

After pain had sapped her remaining resolution,
Pansy would find her mind dwelling on a ready and
almost welcome means of escaping her troubles and
securing her ultimate happiness.

Perhaps, at these times, she magnified her difficul-
ties, much as if the contemplation of a mountain of ills
provided the better excuse for a questionable course
of action. The existence of this possibility engendered
a poorly disguised elation, her sense of resentment to
which had been blunted by familiarity.

Doubtless her tacit encouragement of this sugges-
tion was assisted by the knowledge she had unwit-
tingly obtained of a fall from moral grace in her
friend’s life, this persuading her that, since such an
apparently immaculate woman had made a false step,
it was not a venial offence for Pansy to tread the
same road.

Should she go out into the clean night air, either
to post a letter, or to fetch something necessary, she
fought with and conquered, for the time being, the
temptation assailing her.

On other occasions, it enveloped her as might a
miasma and, however she might try to escape its in-
fluence, she was, as it were, compelled to breathe the
tainted atmosphere.

A day came when Pansy was reduced to her last
five shillings; it was at a time that an abundance of
nourishment was necessary to keep up the patient’s
strength.
STARS IN THEIR COURSES "229

Tt was in the morning, and while Lena dozed, that
Pansy dropped the mask of cheerfulness she did her
best to wear in the sick room and surrendered, horse,
foot and guns, to the difficulties assailing her.

She and Lena both owed Miss Curtis rent, which
the landlady wanted. There was so much due at the
milk shop that Pansy had not the face to order any
more until she could pay something on account. Her
boots let in water, which meant that it was unwise to
go out and look for work in the prevailing wintry
weather.

There was but one means of getting assistance, one
that had long been present in her mind. For reasons
of her own, she had both welcomed and feared this
unravelling of her perplexities; now that the possi-
bility of seeking such help loomed larger on her over-
cast horizon, she could not decide whether she was de-
lighted or dismayed.

“What is the matter, dear?’ asked Lena.

Pansy started from her reverie, stared stupidly at
the sick woman in the bed before pulling herself to-
gether and wearing her wooden expression of cheer-
fulness, which practice had enabled her to assume at
short notice.

“What is the matter, dear?” repeated Lena. “I’ve
never seen you look so worried.”

“We're all in the dumps sometimes, and, as in my
case, usually over nothing at all.”

“T only wish you had nothing on your mind.”

“What do you mean?” asked Pansy, with feigned
surprise.

“Tt isn’t the first time I’ve watched you when you
haven’t suspected it.”

“You imagine things.”

“I wish it were imagination. But I’m more than
afraid you must be in terrible straits, being out of
work and——”

“That’s all right,” interrupted Pansy.

 
230 PANSY MEARES

“And having all the expenses of my illness on your
shoulders.”

“That’s my affair.”

“How have you managed, dear?”

“T always told you I’d put by for a rainy day.”

“Why should you spend it on me?”

“Tt isn’t in me to see a ‘pal’ go under and not do
anything to help her.”

“Tf it hadn’t been for you, I—I believe I should
have died.”

“Nonsense.”

“It’s true. Perhaps it would be the best thing that
—that——”’

Lena hesitated and Pansy saw that her eyes had
filled with tears.

“Cheer up, old girl,” cried Pansy. “You'll never
get well if you go on like that.”

“Do you—do you know why I—I was weak just
now ?” asked Lena a little later.

“Because you're ill.”

“Not that. Besides, I believe I’m feeling better.
I was wondering why, since I’ve mixed with those
-who’ve had to shift for themselves, I’ve met with so
much kindness.”

“Because those who’re on the world know what it
is to be down on their back, and that makes them
considerate.”

“T shall never forget what you’ve done for me.”

“You'd have done the same for me.”

“And some day—I don’t know when it will be—
J’ll pay you back over and over again.”

“Probably I shall be in your debt by then.”

“T hope not,” declared Lena, “for I don’t want you
to have trouble. You give me the impression of a girl
who feels things very deeply.”

In spite of herself, Pansy sighed.

“How are you off for money now?” asked Lena.

“Heaps.”

9
STARS IN THEIR COURSES 231

“Sure?”

“Why should I say so if I hadn’t!”

“So I shouldn’t be worried. Are you sure you're
telling the truth?”

“Quite.”

“Honour ?”

“H-honour.”

“If I thought you were in want on my account, I
wouldn’t stay in bed another second.”

“I should let you get up, shouldn’t I?”

one have to. And I should go out and look for
work.”

“You wouldn’t get very far.”

“T should try.”

“You've been talking quite long enough. It’s time
you tried to sleep.”

“There’s one other thing I want to ask you.”

“Be quick and get it over.”

“I’ve been delirious. What did I talk about ?”

“Nothing out of the way.”

“Sure, dear?”

“Of course I am.”

“Thank you. When one’s delirious one often
says things that have nothing to do with one’s
life.”

“Of course. What do you fancy for dinner?”

“Nothing.”

“Could you eat a bit of fish? Tl go down and cook
it myself as you know what a mess old Curtis would
make of it.”

“You are a dear.”

Pansy, with a stiff upper lip, made a hole in her
last five shillings. She bought a piece of lemon sole
and other things that were wanted, among these being
a bottle of medicine for which the doctor had written
a prescription. ;

On her way from the chemist she was planning how
to make one and tenpence half-penny go as far as pos-
232 PANSY MEARES

sible when she was seized by a passion of reckless-
ness.

“T’ll blow the lot,”’ she said to herself, ‘and chance
what happens. I may get a bit of luck.”

Pansy forthwith what she called “blowed” one and
sixpence on luxuries dear to the feminine heart: she
purchased a jar of juicy pickles, dusty-looking bis-
cuits offered at fourpence a pound, and some mixed
sweets.

As it has been a commonplace among philosophers
since the world began that the two chief tragedies in
life are the wanting of a thing, and the getting of it,
so it was in Pansy’s case.

Directly she had consumed a lot of the pickles, most
of the biscuits and shared the sweets with Lena, she
repented her extravagance, which remorse was doubt-
less stimulated by the indigestible nature of her meal.

She was plunged in gloom and marvelling what was
to become of her friend and herself, when she heard
the postman’s knock on the front door.

She ran downstairs to find a letter-card in a well-
known hand awaiting her on the mat, and one that set
her heart abeat.

She tore it open and read as follows:

“T have waited and waited, but have seen nothing
of you. I fear you are ill and am very, very anxious.
“I will be in the usual place at the usual time to-
night; if you get this in time, contrive to let me know
you are well. At least let me know this.
“G. N.”

In the twinkling of an eye, Pansy was transformed.
No longer was she the slave of depression, but was
as one who knew a great gladness, which completely
changed her outlook on her little world.

She had believed herself forgotten by everyone, in-
cluding the man who had played such a big part in her
STARS IN THEIR COURSES 233

life; now that she had evidence that she had been
much in his thoughts, she wondered how she could
ever have been blind to the joys of existence.

Lena noticed the alteration, and put it down to her
friend’s receiving good news; Pansy was reticent on
being questioned, and set about making the most of
her shabby garments long before it was time to set
out.

While making these preparations, and upon her way
to the Tube, she was intermittently seized with mis-
givings regarding the wisdom of her proceeding. She
might have changed her mind had she not repeatedly
told herself that since Lena was so ill, it was her duty
to keep in touch with some one who would befriend
her in the last resource.

On reaching the booking office of the Shepherd’s
Bush Tube, she put her hand in her pocket for the
fare. To her consternation, she discovered she was
penniless.

She was always accustomed to having some money
upon her, and could scarcely believe her extremity un-
til it came into her mind how she had spent her all dur-
ing her access of recklessness in the morning.

She was dazed by her helplessness. When she re-
covered some approach to her normal sense of things,
there came to her mind a picture of Nepean agitatedly
waiting by the Bond Street Tube, his mind full of
forebodings with regard to her absence.

The scruples that had urged her to retrace her steps
were dissipated to the four winds of heaven; her one
concern was to meet Nepean, which action, she told
herself, was fit, meet, and proper considering her deep
love for him.

She bitterly regretted her extravagance of the
morning, and set off in the direction of Stowe Road
as fast as her legs would take her, having resolved
to borrow her fare from Gladys, the maid-of-all-
work at the lodging house.
234 PANSY MEARES

Upon her arrival, hot and breathless from her exer-
tion, she learned that Gladys was out shopping, and as
neither Miss Timpson nor Miss Roberts were in, there
was nothing for it but for Pansy to visit various shops
in the neighbourhood on the chance of finding the
servant.

After a long and desperate search, during which
Pansy was acutely conscious of the passing of many
valuable minutes, she came upon her, only to be told
by Gladys that she had spent every farthing in her
possession.

Pansy returned with the girl, who could not walk
very fast by reason of her chronic toothache, to Miss
Curtis’, where the servant promised to try and bor-
row a few coppers from the landlady.

Even this sorry device failed, for, after an in-
terminable interval of suspense, Gladys came up
the stairs to say that Miss Curtis had no change
handy.

This was the last straw.

It was as much as Pansy could do to restrain her
tears.

Unable to bear the confinement of the four walls
of the lodging house, Pansy went out and disconso-
lately walked in the direction of the Goldhawk Road,
her heart heavy with the conviction that the fates were
arrayed against her.

She had not gone very far before she ran into the
man she was so keenly anxious to see. She stopped
dead; her agitation was such that she was unable to
speak.

“It is you? It is really my sweet Pansy?” he said
after a moment or two. Then, as she did not reply,
he went on:

“You were not there punctually, so I got in a funk
and came on. I was waiting on the chance of seeing
something of you.”

As she still did not open her lips he said:
STARS IN THEIR COURSES 235

“You don’t seem yourself, little sweetheart! Have
you been ill?”

She shook her head.

“You look awfully queer. Walk a little way. The
air will do you good.”

He supported her until they reached the Goldhawk
Road, where, fearing that such assistance might at-
tract attention, he withdrew his arm from her waist.

“Better now?” he asked a little later. ,

“Much. Only——”

“Only what?” ~

“Take me from this road. I can’t stand the noise.
It makes my head—TI shall be better soon.”

He conducted her along a side turning. Directly
they were free from observation he assisted her as
before.

“T’m better now,” she informed him. “It was silly
of me to be like that. But I’ve had trouble lately.
Not much, but a little. And not being able to go to
town and meet you, and then running into you like
that rather took it out of me.”

“That’s all right,” he said soothingly. “You'll be
quite all right soon, and then we’ll have a long chat.”

“Not very long. I must get back.”

“You always want to get back.”

“There’s some one who wants me—some one who’s
ill.”

“Stay out a little while. You've been overdoing it.
Air will do you good.”

As they walked, Pansy attempted to give heed to
her companion’s words; several times, and in spite of
herself, she found her attention wandering. More
than once he seerned to disappear from her side, and
it was as if he were speaking to her from a distance.

She did not know how long a time had elapsed be-
fore she stopped and said:

“I—I believe ’m—I’m fainting.”

The dull street, the shabby houses, the infrequent
236 PANSY MEARES

lamp-posts seemed to be swirling madly about her be-
fore being gradually blotted out. When Pansy was
again conscious of her surroundings, she found her-
self in the corner of the private bar of an obscure
public house. Nepean was holding brandy to her lips
and a sympathetic barmaid was peering beneath a
glass partition which surmounted the bar; otherwise
they had the place, that was stuffily cosy, to them-
selves.

“Thanks; I’m ever so much better now,” murmured
Pansy.

“Drink the rest,” urged Nepean. “It will quite pull
you round.”

Pansy did as she was bid; but for a sensation of
light-headedness (the effect of the raw spirit) she felt
momentarily getting better.

“Would you like anything to eat?” asked Nepean
of Pansy, who shook her head.

“Sure Pr”?

“Quite, thank you.”

He insisted on her having more brandy, this time
diluting it with water. Immediately she had taken it
she made as if to go.

“Hadn’t you better sit here?”

“T want air. I shall be better where I can breathe.”

He took her outside where the air refreshed and at
the same time confused Pansy.

He spoke light-heartedly much as if he were striv-
ing to cheer her and upon her replying she found her
tongue running away with her.

“Better now?” he asked after they had left the
public house some ten minutes.

“Much.”

“Quite sure?”

“Ever so much.”

“You mentioned trouble. Tell me what it is.”

The mention of trouble was responsible for the un-
doing of Pansy’s remaining self-control. She was
STARS IN THEIR COURSES 237

overwhelmed by a passionate longing to confide her
griefs into the ears of another, and one whom she
knew full well would give her sympathetic heed. If
she had known a desire for reticence she was incapable
of stemming the torrent of words which flowed from
her tongue.

“Trouble! Trouble!” she cried. ‘You don’t know
what trouble I’ve had since I last saw you! I’ve lost
my job, and at the worst time of year for getting any-
thing else, and try and try as I can, there’s nothing
doing anywhere at all. No one’s any use for me.”

“Don’t say that, little Pansy.”

“T must, and you would say the same if you knew
how ‘wonnerful’” (she relapsed into the Essex ver-
nacular) “hard I’ve tried. And that isn’t all. It’s
only a bit of it. There’s Lena Swallow; you’ve heard
me speak of Lena Swallow?”

“Often.”

“She’s ill in bed, and that means she’s lost her job,
too. She’s ever so ill. I’ve had to sit up with her
night and day, and once I thought it was all up with
her and that she was going to what Gladys calls ‘put
down her knife and fork.’ ”’

“Don’t excite yourself, dear. It will make you
worse.”

“I must tell you; I must tell some one and if it bores
you, you can leave me directly after. But don’t go,
don’t go for a moment,” she pleaded as she clutched
his arm with her two hands.

He placed a hand on hers as she continued :

“What I’ve told you is only part of it. We've run
dry—absolutely. I spent my last halfpenny, and
that’s why I couldn’t come and meet you, and now—
I’m stony broke to all the world. I’ve ‘spouted’
everything they would take; I owe all over the place;
and what we’re going to do next——”

She stopped short and waited before saying:

“Why am I telling you this? You're quite the last
238 PANSY MEARES

person in the world I should have told. Why did I?
Why did I?”

“I’m delighted you have, as now

Apparently she did not hear his words, for she in-
terrupted him by saying:

“I know why it is. It’s the brandy on top of the
pickles and sweets I had for dinner.”

“The what?”

“The pickles and sweets. I got reckless and went
a ‘buster.’ ”

His face exhibited a sympathy that touched her to
the quick.

Her hysterical outbreak following upon her faint-
ness left her weak and inert. She was helpless to pre-
vent the tears that fell out of her eyes quickly.

“Don’t cry: don’t cry, my sweet!”

“Forgive me. You shouldn’t have been kind.”

sey p?

“That’s finished me,” she sobbed. ‘Now go home
and forget all about me.”

She believed that her weakness had made her des-
picable in his eyes; so far as she was capable of emo-
tion, she was surprised that, instead of doing her bid-
ding, he fell to kissing away her tears and repeatedly
telling her that she had no longer any occasion to
worry.

a

 
CHAPTER XIX
A FATEFUL LAUGH

ANSY stood on the threshold of Nepean’s cham-
bers in St. James’ Street. Her hand trembled
as she pressed the button of the electric bell.

As she waited for the door to be opened, she shook
from her skirts the snow that had collected during the
short distance between the top of the street where
she had got out of a "bus and her destination.

The light in the hall was switched on before the
door was opened wide by an impassive-faced man-
servant.

“Is Mr. Nepean in?” asked Pansy in a voice she
strove to make free of emotion.

“No, Miss.”

“Ts he likely to be back to-night?”

“Yes, Miss; but I can’t say what time.”

“Thank you. J—I wanted to see him.”

“Ts it important, Miss?”

“It is rather.”

“Perhaps you would like to come in and wait.”

Pansy hesitated.

“He mightn’t be so very long, after all, Miss.”

“If that’s so, I—I might wait a little.”

Pansy followed the man across what appeared to
her eyes an over-furnished hall into a surprisingly .
large room, which was cosily warmed by a wood fire.

Save for the flickering illumination provided by the
flaming logs, the room was in darkness; upon the man
switching on the lights, she was surprised at the taste-
ful and luxurious comfort which prevailed.

, 239
240 PANSY MEARES

“As you're a little wet, you might like to sit here,
Miss,” said the man as he indicated a large, leather
Chesterfield couch which faced the fireplace.

“Thank you,” replied Pansy, who tried to conceal
her self-consciousness in her novel surroundings.

The man made up the fire and noiselessly brought
a pile of illustrated journals, and put them at her
elbow; in the same manner he placed a small table on
which was an electric reading lamp so that she should
get the benefit of the light without being incon-
venienced by its glare.

Then, almost before she was aware of it, the door
had closed and Pansy was alone.

Her first action on realising her privacy was to
stand and stare about her in undisguised amazement.

Pansy had never been in such a room.

The walls were decorated with a profusion of mel-
low-coloured prints representing sporting and rural
scenes, and here and there were reproductions of fa-
mous female portraits painted on glass; the furniture
was of a shapely design that she had not infrequently
perceived in country farmhouses and cottages in the
days of long ago, but carried out in a style which
seemed insistently to call attention to the exquisite
beauty of its lines.

It was not the finish and imagination exhibited in
the workmanship of the chairs and table which allured
Pansy so much as the prevailing atmosphere of the
room and its appointments.

This puzzled her for a time and almost made her
forget the nature of her errand. At first she ascribed
it to the fact of its being the frequent habitation of
the man she loved. As this explanation failed to suf-
fice, she cudgelled her mind until at last she hit upon
a solution that satisfied her.

The room was eloquent of a distinction that pro-
claimed to all who had eyes to see that it pertained to
one who was far removed from the ruck of humanity.
A FATEFUL LAUGH 241

Then Pansy gave a little gasp upon realising the
momentous consequences which might ensue from this
intrusion.

She had been so confused by the facility with which
she had gained admittance to Nepean’s chambers, in
spite of his absence, that it was necessary to marshal
her thoughts in face of the possibility of his early
return.

Much as she longed to see him, she hoped he would
defer coming for a little while longer, since, before
sorting out her whys and wherefores, she wished to
enjoy, if only for a few moments, the comfort and
companionship of the delicious wood fire which was
so glaringly contrasted in her mind’s eye with the
stony-hearted desolation without.

She stretched herself on the couch (it yielded lux-
uriously to her body), and with half-closed eyes tried
to believe that she had nothing at all on her mind,
and that her unusual surroundings were part and
parcel of her lot.

She did not know how long she lay in this sorry
make-believe, but realising that she was falling asleep,
she sat up and collected her thoughts.

A little later, she rose and arranged her hat and
hair in a mirror with a curiously flat bevelled edge (it
was Battersea glass); after producing several pieces
of carefully folded paper from her pocket, she reso-
lutely looked into the eyes of the verities of the mo-
ment.

Nepean had been as good as his word.

The morning after Pansy had confessed her griefs,
Gladys, the maid-of-all-work, together with Miss Cur-
tis, had been busy answering the door for the thou-
sand and one things which arrived addressed to Miss
Meares.

The midday post had brought a registered letter for
the same person. This contained a sufficiency of postal
orders to keep Pansy in comfort for many a long day.
242 PANSY MEARES

The recipient of these things stuffed Lena with a
varied profusion of delicacies which excited the pa-
tient’s surprise; paid Miss Curtis what was owing, the
doctor a substantial installment of his bill, and kept
careful account of her expenditure. So far as she was
concerned, she would not apply a sixpence to the relief
of manifold necessities.

This had been no easy self-denial, as Pansy was run
down, and in need of nourishing food herself; bearing
in mind her relations with Nepean, she was loyal to
her determination not to accept anything at his hands,

She had borne in mind her resolve not to accept
without giving in return and had long and anxiously
debated in her conscientious mind as to whether the
fact of her obtaining assistance for Lena Swallow
constituted a breach of her self-made bond.

She had been torn by opposing counsel and had ar-
rived at no definite conclusion; she had determined to
refer the matter to Nepean when a favourable oppor-
tunity occurred.

The inevitable passing of the days had introduced a
further complication into the problem.

Pansy had all but starved; this, in spite of the pro-
fusion of good things provided by the money the man
she loved had sent.

She had kept body and soul together on the exigent
supplies of food with which she had persuaded Miss
Curtis to supply her until, at last, she could no longer
bear the pangs of hunger.

Faithful to her instinctive belief that she may as
well suffer for a whole-hearted infringement of the
limitations she had imposed on herself, she had eaten
a hearty meal at Nepean’s expense, moreover, she had
known an unholy joy in so doing, an elation which
was in keeping with the barely admitted but intuitive
happiness she had experienced upon previous occa-
sions, when on the face of it, there had been only room
for anxiety.
A FATEFUL LAUGH 243

Almost immediately after she had known satiety,
there had followed a sharp revulsion of feeling; she
had told herself she had practically sold herself for a
mess of food which, just now, was repugnant to her,
and had figuratively abased herself in sackcloth and
ashes on account of her lack of restraint.

Her agitation of spirit had not, by any means, ended
there; she had again been torn by conflicting emotions.

The pricks of conscience had become so culminat-
ingly troublesome that she had decided once and for
all to end the suspense in which she moved and had her
indeterminate being.

She had resolved to call upon Nepean, confess what
she had done, and throw herself upon his mercy, trust-
ing that, from the great love he bore her, he would not
insist upon her paying the price she believed it to be
her duty to offer.

Hence her visit to his chambers.

It had been fairly fine when first she had set out,
taking with her the slips of paper on which were care-
fully recorded the minutest items of her expenditure
of a fraction of the postal orders.

She had walked in the direction of the Broadway,
Hammersmith, by way of the Grove, where a ’bus
would take her to the top of St. James’ Street, with a
failing of spirit, an eager heart, which last was re-
sponsible for a sense of romantic adventure, the un-
certain outcome of which appealed to her sporting in-
stincts.

She had not gone far before snow had commenced
to fall. By the time she had reached Kensington
Church, the housetops and sideways were clothed with
a thick white mantle, the exquisite purity of which
seemed to reproach Pansy for the errand on which she
was bound.

Now, she waited for her lover, striving her hardest
not to sleep before the seductive wood fire.

In order to keep awake, she fixed her eyes on a pair
244 PANSY MEARES

of shapely silver candlesticks, but in a very little while
they faded from her ken and it was as if she were
again padding the London streets in search of the
work that never came.

Then, while her heart ached with despair, her sor-
rowing turned to gladness at being introduced by
Miss Black, the manageress of the “X. Y. Z.” depot,
where she had once been employed, to Mr. Charles,
who was head shop walker in a superb shop. She was
looking at him to see if he recognised her; as he took
no notice, she advanced nearer to him.

Pansy sat up with a start. She trembled in every
limb at being aware that she was no longer alone. The
next moment, she was reassured at perceiving that
the man was making up the fire and was apparently
unconscious of her presence.

Hardly had he left the room before Pansy again
lost consciousness.

It was not long before she was possessed by fear;
Abel Gorm, her hated step-father, was ruthlessly stalk-
ing her across an expanse of Essex marsh land, which
was bordered by a distance of blue sea.

Her boots were sadly worn; now and again, she
would take them off and examine the soles in order to
discover how much longer they would last.

Her pursuer gained on her, and she looked about
her for possible succour, which she presently perceived
in the shape of a man who was not far away.

She hastened her weary feet in his direction; the
nearer she got the more uncertain was she whether the
object she was approaching was either George or a
scarecrow.

She was in a fever of trepidation and was about to
wipe the perspiration that had gathered on her fore-
head when a hand touched her arm.

The next moment she was conscious that Nepean
had entered the room and was standing over the couch
on which she reposed.
A FATEFUL LAUGH 245

He was in evening dress. His face betrayed an im-
mense delight at his unexpected visitor.

Pansy sprang to her feet. Her first impulse was to
put her hands to her hair.

“Little Pansy! Little Pansy!” he cried.

“Good evening!” she faltered.

“Tt is really you!”

“Ym—I’'m afraid it is.”

“Why afraid?”

She motioned her hand in the direction of the
piece of paper she had brought.

“I know all about that,” he said. “I read them
while you were asleep.”

“Well?” she said after a pause.

“Well?”

“T’ve come.”

“So I’m more than delighted to perceive. How long
have you been here?”

“T came soon after eight.”

“What!” he cried. “You've been here three hours?”

“Ts it so late?”

“Three precious hours wasted while I’ve been bored
by some idiot at the club. To think what I’ve missed.
Why, on earth, didn’t that fool telephone and tell
me! My luck’s out to-night, Pansy. No, it isn’t
because you're still here. But it’s late, and you'll
soon be going. But you are a dear to come on such
a night.”

His reference to her early departure heartened her
until she reflected that he was evidently unaware of the
sacrifice her conscience prompted her to offer and
which, if his misunderstanding persisted, it would be
incumbent on her to explain.

In her anxiety to avoid the suspense that was so ab-
horrent to her nature, she said:

“You don’t understand!”

“Understand ?”

“Why I’m here,” she replied mechanically.
246 PANSY MEARES

“But you are here. That’s enough for me. But
how, on earth, will you get back: ey

“That can wait,” she interrupted as before.

“Eh? What is on your mind?”

Pansy pointed to the slips of paper.

“T know all about that,’ he remarked carelessly,
“Tt’s what you spent on your friend. It’s what it was
sent for.”

“But there’s something else. I’d forgotten. It isn’t
put down. I had a meal at your expense.”

“What’s that?”

_ “I had a meal at your expense,” she repeated
tragically. “And a jolly good one, too, while I was
about it.”

Nepean laughed.

“Tt’s no laughing matter for me,” she told him.

“Why pe

“Don’t you know? Don’t you remember?”

Nepean shook his head.

She felt hurt as she said:

“That shews how much you mind what I say.”

“My sweet Pansy, what has happened to you?”

“T—I told you that—that—in the event of my being
in want I wouldn’t accept without giving.”

“What’s that ?”

“T was in want. You gave. I am here to pay.”

Nepean’s face at once became grave. He looked
at her to see if she were in earnest before nervously
pacing the room.

She watched him from the corners of her eyes and
perceived that he not infrequently cast a swift glance
in her direction.

Then he stopped and asked in a voice that surprised
her by reason of its quality of hardness:

“Do you know what you are saying?”

Pansy made a little, frightened gesture.

“Do you know what you are offering?”

“Y-yes.”

 
A FATEFUL LAUGH 247

“Are you remotely aware what opportunities you
would be giving to an unscrupulous man?”

“You are not unscrupulous.”

“Eh ?”?

“You are not unscrupulous,” she repeated.

Nepean reflected before saying:

“Maybe; but I am a man.”

Pansy involuntarily started.

“And one to whom you appeal more than any
woman I have ever met.”

Pansy hung her head.

“And since you are here and this question has
arisen, we'll find out exactly where we are.”

“It would—it might be as well,” faltered Pansy.

“Sit down. I’m going to question you.”

“Td prefer standing.”

“Why have you come?”

“T’m rather tired; I think I will sit down,” said
Pansy, who when she was once more seated on the
leather couch, asked: “What did you say?”

“IT asked you why you came.”

“T—I told you.”

“Do you mean that of your own free will you want
to throw in your lot with mine?”

Pansy almost rose from her seat in protest.

“Does it mean that you wish to throw in your lot
with mine?” he repeated. As she did not speak, he
added: “Answer me.”

“No,” she replied as firmly as she was able.

“Then you came to offer me yourself because I
gave a hand to your friend who is ill?”

“And to me. Don’t forget that.”

“I won't forget that. Because you have a trumpery
meal at my expense

“Tt wasn’t a trumpery meal to me,” she interjected.

“Very well, then. Because you have an excellent
meal at my expense, and because I assist your friend,
do you come to me and offer me yourself?”

 
248 PANSY MEARES

“You know why I do!”

“Is that the price at which you value yourself?”

“Tt isn’t that at all. If you remembered all I said,
you would know why I’m here. It’s because I told
you I would accept nothing from you without giving
and because I have accepted ie

“And because you have accepted, it’s, so far as
you are concerned, entirely a question of conscience?”

“Yes,” replied Pansy firmly.

“Then let me tell you at once that, if I loved you far
more than I do (which would be impossible), and if
you were the last woman in the world, I would not
accept you on such terms.”

Pansy’s eyes glowed with triumph as she cried:

“T knew it! I knew it!”

“Eh pee

“T knew you were different from all other men, and
it’s because of that I love you so.”

“There is no doubt of that?”

“You know it, dearie.”

“Because that brings me to another matter: I don’t
say so because I think it is, Pansy, but it’s—it’s just
possible that deep down in your heart you love me so
much, and are so weary of the life you are leading,
that you want to be more to me than you are; that you
deceived yourself in telling me that you came because
I helped your friend; and that you made that as an
excuse.”

“What's that?” she cried, alarmed.

“That your fine feelings about accepting assistance
from me might be nothing other than an excuse to
surrender to the dictates of your heart.”

He was about to bid her to go home and think
things over; before the words left his tongue he per-
ceived how profoundly she was disturbed by his sug-
gestion.

While he was closely regarding her, innumerable
recollections came to Pansy’s mind of occasions on

 
A FATEFUL LAUGH 249

which she had taken an unholy delight in her accumu-
lations of misfortune; she now divined that her ela-
tion was accounted for by the sorry resolution she had
made to Nepean inasmuch as the greater her load of
trouble, the nearer it brought her to him.

She had wilfully blinded herself to the cruder as-
pects of this possibility: Nepean’s words had torn the
scales from her eyes.

Pansy stood naked and ashamed before the judg-
ment of her better nature: she was revolted by the de-
ception she had practiced on herself.

Aghast at her weakness and duplicity where she had
believed herself self-reliant and honest, she was moved
to flee from the room and be alone with her thoughts.
She rose to her feet.

“Well?” he said.

“I’m going.”

“Then I’m to conclude this is a quixotic visit on
your part?”

“Y-yes.”’

She moved towards the door.

“Good night!” he called after her.

“T am a beast!” she exclaimed as she paused. “And
you've behaved so well to me. I’m not myself to-
night. We'll meet again soon, if you can stick any
more of me, and we'll have another talk.”

“T think I can put up with little Pansy once more,”
he smiled. “But how are you going to get home?”

“Bus.”

“T doubt if they’re running. The snow’s so thick.
But we’ll go and see if we can find a cab and you'd
better have something to keep the cold out.”

“Perhaps I’d better. I can’t afford to be ill. And
because you’ve been so good, [ll give you some-
thing.”

“What might that be, little Pansy?”

“A kiss.”

“Ah ”
250 PANSY MEARES

“But not here,” she added quickly and nervously.
“Wait till we get downstairs.”

“I suppose you'll ‘cry off’ when it comes to it?” he
said ruefully.

“T’'ll try and be honest for once.”

The words escaped her lips before she was aware of
it, and made him stop in his progress from a recess
with decanters and tumblers.

“What do you mean by that?” he asked.

“T don’t know,” she replied lamely.

She drank the spirit he poured out (it was strong
and burned her throat) and threw a longing look at
the wood fire before approaching the door.

“I'd better see you home,” he suggested as they left
the flat.

“How will you manage?”

“Somehow.”

They descended slowly, as if reluctant to go, and
perhaps their hearts were filled by a common regret.

Halfway down he said:

“Have you forgotten?”

“No,” she replied.

They reached the entrance hall which was now dark
and deserted when Nepean was suddenly surprised to
find two arms thrown about his neck and Pansy’s
warm lips pressed to his.

Before he had recovered from his astonishment,
Pansy had flown to the door, contrived to open it,
and was about to disappear into the night when she
was driven back by a blast of the blizzard that was
raging without.

She made a further attempt to brave the elements,
but this time she was held back by Nepean, who
said:

“You can’t go out in such a night. You would
never get anything to take you so far,”

“But what am I to do?”

“Stay here,”
A FATEFUL LAUGH 251

“But——”

“You don’t let me finish. I can go to my club; it’s
only a few doors from here.”

“It’s turning you out.”

“What does anything matter so long as morality is
satisfied?” he said grimly.

“T don’t know what to do,” remarked Pansy help-
lessly.

“You'd better make up your mind, as it’s getting
late.”

“T’d—I’d better have another look at the night,”
she declared.

She was as good as her word. Upon opening the
door she was confronted with a bleak desolation which
spiritually as well as physically chilled her to the mar-
row; even as she regarded the raging of the elements,
it was as if the night resembled her own storm-tossed
existence while the shelter and comfort of the prof-
fered hospitality stood for the life of love and luxury
which could be hers for the asking.

Nepean’s voice interrupted her thoughts.

“Well——” he said.

“T shouldn’t stay here if I didn’t want to,” she de-
clared defiantly.

Nepean shut the door before saying:

“T’m well aware of that.” ;

He hesitated before ascending the stairs, and Pansy
followed in silence.

They went up quicker than they came down.

“Wouldn’t you like something to eat?” asked Ne-
pean after they had entered his chambers and were
once more in the room with the wood fire, the flames
of which now leapt with a malicious satisfaction to
their work, at least, so it seemed to Pansy. “If you
would, I’ll call Rossler!”

“I’m not hungry, and I shan’t go to bed.”

“Why not?”

“T prefer to sleep here.”
“eee

as2 PANSY MEARES

“Please yourself. I'll see about getting a few
things.”

Alone, Pansy knew a great fear.

She was urged to fly from the flat; upon her at-
tempting to put her thoughts into action, she was in-
capable of effective movement.

More than once she got on to her feet, and was at
once possessed by an inertia against which she strove
in vain. Her helplessness increased her apprehensions:
she waited in a passion of suspense with her eyes on
the door by which Nepean had disappeared.

As soon as he entered the room, and carrying a
leather bag, her mind knew an immense relief: his
presence dissipated her forebodings, and substituted
a joyousness that possessed her utterly.

“If you want anything, dearest Pansy, don’t hesi-
tate to ring for Rossler. He'll get you anything you
want.”

“Anything ?”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Nothing.”

“Good night and God bless you,” he said as he
moved towards the door.

She was nettled by his seeming eagerness to leave
her, and remarked:

“You seem in a great hurry!”

“Naturally,” he replied quickly.

“Why naturally?”

“Little Pansy isn’t quite the plainest and most un-
attractive girl in the world.”

“T see. I thought you were sick of me.”

“Pansy 1?

“And as for you and I being here alone ”

“Well?” he exclaimed rather sharply.

Pansy, who hesitated before replying, thought she
was doing a fine thing in employing the shopgirls’
stock formula in a like situation.

“I know you'd behave as a gentleman.”

 
‘A FATEFUL LAUGH 253

“Eh?”

“I know you'd behave as a gentleman.”

She did not notice the annoyance Nepean’s face ex-
hibited; perhaps his mind was of such a fastidious
complexion that it was jarred by what she had said,
and the balance of his decision, so far as she was con-
cerned, was thus weighed in a direction inimical to
Pansy’s best interests.

He put down the bag and approached nearer ‘to
Pansy as he asked in a low voice:

“Would you rather I were not in such a hurry?”

Pansy hesitated.

“Answer truthfully,” he went on.

“T don’t know.”

“Would you very much mind if I stayed for a little
and talked things over?”

“I—I don’t know.”

He seated himself on the couch and Pansy, who had
been standing, followed his example.

“I won’t stay more than five minutes,” he assured
her.

“Not longer?”

“Not longer.”

Pansy laughed.

There was a world of meaning in this laugh, per-
haps it expressed conflicting emotions.

It told of irony, recklessness, hilarity, despair—it
may have been excited by a dim consciousness of Ne-
pean’s having been irked by her remark regarding his
behaviour, and was in the nature of derision at having
called attention to her place in the social scale.

Otherwise, it suggested being inspired by her semi-
humorous appreciation of the fact that her person-
ality was insufficiently seductive to retain one who
‘professed to love her more than five minutes at
her side and in such romantic circumstances as
the present.

In any case, it is fairly safe to assume that it never
254 PANSY MEARES

once occurred to Pansy to credit her love with a chiv-
alrous regard for her situation.

Whatever its significance, the laugh was a fatally
honest expression of her thoughts, and as such con-
tributed to her undoing.

Nepean got up and switched off the light.

Pansy half rose from the couch.

“We can talk better in the firelight,” he said.

Pansy resumed her seat.
CHAPTER XX
THE PITILESS

ANSY’S mind was a welter of many emotions
from which, when she was at Miss Curtis’, as
now, one salient trepidation was detached and

focussed in her mind, this, how Lena Swallow would
take the news of the momentous step Pansy had been
led into taking, news that sooner or later must come to
her friend’s knowledge.

Away from the familiar, shabby environment, and
in the company of her lover, Pansy’s understanding
was a blank so far as Lena was concerned; directly
she returned to Stowe Road, it was another matter.

Nepean was constantly urging her to sever herself
completely from her old life. Although she was
minded to listen to his persuasions, she still remained
in her lodging for the sake of her friend who, thanks
to Pansy’s unfailing attentions, was now well enough
to come downstairs and was already talking of going
out on the first fine day.

Pansy repeatedly told herself that, when Lena Swal-
low shared her secret, the latter would understand and
forgive.

It was several times on the tip of her tongue to
make confession, but upon its coming to the touch, she
was wanting in moral courage.

She hated herself for a cowardice for which there
was no discernible cause.

On a certain afternoon, she and Lena sat on oppo-
site sides of the sitting-room fire which Pansy now,

255
256 PANSY MEARES

regardless of cost, repeatedly and generously replen-
ished from the scuttle.

The heat of the room made her sleepy; it was as
much as she could do to keep awake.

She had expected to hear from Gerald in the morn-
ing and was disappointed at not receiving a letter.

He had seen her two days previously and had asked
her to go out with him on the evening of the present
afternoon; every moment she was hoping to hear the
double knock on the door which heralded the arrival
of a telegram.

She was wearing an expensive but simple new frock,
and this concealed a locket containing her lover’s por-
trait which she wore about her neck.

Since she had given so much, she had not hesitated
to accept in return.

She would have put on one of her shabby old
dresses, but trusted to her friend’s indifferent sense of
observation to escape comment or enquiry with re-
gard to the change.

Several times she tried to engage Lena in conversa-
tion; finding her friend indisposed to talk, she alter-
nately dozed and indulged in day dreams, which were
not uncoloured by recent experiences.

Presently, she surprised herself by sighing deeply:
a few moments later, she fell into a deep sleep, from
which she was sharply aroused by the knock she had
been awaiting.

She perceived Lena had already risen and was mak-
ing for the door. Quicker than her friend, she got in
front of her and hastened to get the telegram.

It was addressed to her (no one else at Miss Cur-
tis’, since Ella Rutherford had disappeared, received
such expensive means of communication) and made
an appointment with Pansy for that evening at eight.

Her spirits, that had been a little depressed, insen-
sibly rose many degrees. She returned to the dingy
room in the best of terms with herself and tore up
THE PITILESS o55

the flimsy paper into tiny pieces before depositing
them on the fire.

“For you?” enquired Lena.

“Yes, dear.”

“I was hoping it was for me.”

“Tt was from a friend of mine.”

“I did hope it was for me. I’m always expecting
my money.”

‘ “There’s nothing to worry about,” Pansy assured
er.

“There is. I shan’t be happy till I’ve repaid all
you've spent on me.”

é “I'm not worrying, so I don’t see why you should
e.””

“Not when I’m taking your savings?”

“Never mind about them,” said Pansy as she busied
herself with the fire which did not require attention.

“What a handsome locket!”’ exclaimed Lena sud-
denly.

Pansy glanced at her person and was annoyed to
perceive that somehow or another her blouse had be-
come undone. Not only was the locket revealed, but
the lid was unfastened.

“And it’s open!” continued Lena. ‘What an inter-
esting-looking man!”

Pansy sharply snapped the locket and put it out of
sight.

“Who is he?”

“That’s tellings,” replied Pansy evasively.

Lena persisted in her questioning, and Pansy, who
was now in no mood for confidences, was compelled to
tell her friend that she had never asked her about the
man of whom she had made mention during her de-
lirium.

This reminder had the desired effect. Lena went
out of her way repeatedly to insist that her life con-
tained nothing of which she had reason to be ashamed.

For the rest of the time they were together each,
258 PANSY MEARES

as if by tacit consent, avoided making references to
the secrets of the other’s heart.

Pansy prepared toast for tea during which she con-
sidered how best to get away without exciting sus-
picions.

In order to avoid being disturbed while she was
putting on her sumptuous evening frock of ivory satin,
she fetched a novel Gerald had given her and this oc-
casioned further curiosity on Lena’s part, as to where
she (Pansy) had obtained a new book.

So that her room should not be entered in her ab-
sence, and her changed circumstances be discovered,
Pansy locked her door; to-night she ordered, from a
surprised Gladys, a fire for her friend’s bedroom.

Then she set about preparing for her meeting with
her lover.

The recent shabby sparrow of the London streets
scarcely recognized herself in the magnificent plumage
in which she arrayed her stately form. It seemed to
add inches to her stature, dignity and depth to her
figure, indeed, her fine appearance made her exclaim:
“They may say what they like, but fine feathers do
make fine birds.”

Pansy found it trying and incongruous putting on
beautiful garments by the light of one candle, but after
she was dressed to her satisfaction, she took pleasure
in slipping costly rings on her fingers, and bracelets on
her white arms; then she donned a superb ermine cloak
(Gerald had showered expensive gifts upon her) and
drew on new white gloves before taking a last look in
the glass.

She was so enchanted by her semblance that she
threw herself a kiss, and was on the point of carefully
blowing out the candle, so she should get no grease
on her cloak, before listening at the door to discover
if any one were about, when something in her reflec-
tion made her pause and hold the light to her face.

Conscious of something unfamiliar, Pansy intently
THE PITILESS 259

examined her features; she soon detected a physical
and mental alteration, and this she proceeded to ap-
praise.

It was as if her countenance revealed a breadth of
understanding, and of sympathy which, hitherto, it
had lacked; as if it exhibited the knowledge of basic,
elemental things which, till now, had been withheld.

She had undoubtedly lost her atmosphere of vir-
ginal simplicity, but in the fruition of her beauty
there was a pride of womanhood, an ecstasy of love
and a conviction of triumph which were sweet to
behold.

It was as if Pansy had been made anew.

Intuitively divining the reason of the change, Pansy
reddened, blew out the light, and heedless of whom
she might encounter, ran lightly down the stairs and
along the passage. After hastening to the Goldhawk
Road, she took the first disengaged taxi-cab to the
place where she was to meet her lover.

During her ride, Pansy, who was insensibly affected
by the purple and fine linen which warmed and dec-
orated her body, lay back in the cab and surrendered
to a lazy appreciation of her progress.

She disregarded the work-worn crowds of men and
women who were dispiritedly doing their Saturday
night’s shopping; they seemed to have no part or lot
in her new world, the inhabitants of which did neither
toil nor spin. She had so quickly accustomed herself
to her new environment that just now it seemed as if
she had never known want, and as if it were the most
natural thing in the world for her to be swiftly borne
to her fascinating, wealthy and high-born lover.

A disappointment awaited Pansy on arriving at her
destination, and one that speedily dissipated the lux-
urious complacency with which she had surrounded
herself, and made her spirits sink to zero.

Gerald was nowhere to be seen. She waited for the
best part of forty minutes, driving a little way and
260 PANSY MEARES

then returning, but he did not keep the appointment
he had made.

It was the first time he had broken an engagement.
The fact of his doing so caused Pansy’s heart to be
heavy with dismal forebodings.

Feeling depressed and ill at ease, she paid the driver
without having any definite intention of what she
should do next.

She walked quickly and aimlessly. Upon realising
that she was being assiduously stalked by men she,
forgetting her changed circumstances, instinctively
looked for a ’bus that would carry her in the direction
of Shepherd’s Bush.

Arrived at Miss Curtis’, she opened he. door with
heart abeat, convinced that a telegram would be await-
ing her from Gerald to explain the reason of his ab-
sence,

There was nothing on the flap of the ricketty hall
stand, at which Pansy hastened upstairs resolved to
think things out in the seclusion of her room.

She lit the candle, and the sight of the familiar and
meagrely furnished apartment seemed to chill her to
the bone.

She threw off her cloak; as she did so she heard
the handle of Lena’s door turn (it was on the other
side of the landing) and footsteps approaching her
door.

Wondering what was toward, and fearing discov-
ery in her fine raiment, she blew out the candle. The
next moment her door was opened.

“Who is it?’ cried Pansy sharply. “Don’t come
in.”

As she spoke her nostrils were assailed by a fra-
grant scent of flowers.

“T must,” declared Lena’s voice, and with a serious-
ness that surprised her friend.

“Tt’s you, dear! What’s up?”

“Light the candle!’ demanded Lena.
THE PITILESS 261

“But——”’

“Light the candle,” she said as before.

“Are you ill?”

‘ “Unless you are ashamed of being seen,” continued
ena.

These words fired Pansy’s temper and perhaps the
more by reason of the evening’s happenings.

“What do you mean?” she cried.

“That some man came while you were out. He left
a message and chocolates and flowers.”

This information, telling Pansy she had not been
forgotten, filled her heart with gladness; at the same
time, she was well aware that Lena was no longer ig-
norant of her surrender.

For all the menace of reprehension conveyed by her
friend’s voice, she was convinced she had only to make
some explanation for Lena to comprehend and for-
give.

Pansy relit the candle. Directly she was accustomed
to the light, she perceived that Lena held a bouquet
of exotic flowers and a big, painted box of sweetmeats,
tied with silk ribbons, which called attention to the
meanness of the room and the shabbiness of Lena’s
frock.

She disregarded, for the moment, Gerald’s offerings
and regarded Lena’s eyes with a nervous defiance;
these gazed coldly at her, much as if they were accus-
ing and remorselessly judging her.

Pansy was about to justify her conduct when the
delicious fragrance of the flowers, the gaudy appear-
ance of the box claimed her attention.

Perhaps she was resentful that another woman
should so much as hold the gifts the man she loved
had left for her, or she believed that the fact of her
possessing these tokens of his devotion would be in
the nature of a stay for the contention that was im-
minent, for she suddenly cried:

“Give them to me.”
262 PANSY MEARES

Lena mechanically handed the flowers and the
chocolates.

“What was the message?” continued Pansy.

“He had an appointment with you this evening and
could not keep it at the last moment so came down in
a motor car,” said Lena in a low, even voice, which as
good as said that she hated the commission she had
been entrusted to execute. “He also left these with
his 1—kind regards.”

This further evidence, if such were needed, of
Gerald’s love and fidelity fed Pansy’s resentment at
what she called her friend’s narrow-minded presump-
tion, and this wrath was not a little stimulated by the
enervating scent of the flowers which affected Pansy
much as she had been influenced by the wearing of her
fine clothes during her drive to town.

“Now tell me this,” she cried. ‘‘How dare you sit
in judgment upon me?”

“You deceived me,” returned the other passionately.

“But——”

“You deceived me.”

“Listen ” interrupted Pansy, but Lena was not
to be denied.

“I thought you good and brave and pure,” she went
on. “You deceived me and spent money on me that—
that Oh, why did you? Why did you?’

Pansy, in spite of herself, was moved by her
friend’s grief. In order to curb her emotion, she bit
her lip.

Lena continued :

“T would rather anything had happened than that—
anything—anything! And as for the money, I can
give you most of it now. The rest I will send you
soon.”

So saying, she produced from a bulky envelope sev-
eral postal orders for a pound, seven of which she
counted the while the other was lost in troubled
thought.

 

 
THE PITILESS 263

Lena’s sorrow at Pansy’s backsliding deeply dis-
tressed the latter; for all her passion for Gerald, she
realised how large a part her friend had had in her
life; how her high-mindedness and spirituality had
been a support, however futile it had ultimately proved,
in the days when temptation had tugged at her heart-
strings.

She was hurt that Lena did not leniently judge her
from out of the love she bore her, and this hardness
of heart and narrowness of vision disposed Pansy to
be defiant.

She waived aside the postal orders Lena sought to
thrust upon her attention and said:

“T thought you’d be the last woman in the world to
be hard on me. Not for what I’ve done for you, but
because I thought and hoped you loved me.”

“I did. That’s what makes it so bad.”

“I was sure that, if you knew, your sense would
help you to understand; and your love would make
you forgive.”

“Never! never!”

“Sure, are you sure, dear? If you were like Timp-
son and Roberts, it wouldn’t matter. They’re colour-
less fools and scarcely alive. But you—you whom I
love ms

She hesitated as Lena dropped her eyes. Then, los-
ing her train of thought, she said:

“If I haven’t you, it will make him more to me.”

“Too bad! too bad! infamous!’ exclaimed Lena
more to herself than to the other.

Her words excited Pansy’s anger, for she cried:

“You, as a working woman, have no right to judge
me, as you know the rotten time we have; the things
we have to put up with; and the temptations we run
against, temptations because our lives are starved of
the ‘happiness that is the right of every one who is
young.”

“That doesn’t justify ——”

 
264 PANSY MEARES

“Let me speak. But you are not one of us. I knew
it from the first. But even you are not blameless. I
know it from what you let out when you were ill.”

“T am blameless. I am blameless. I’m not as——’

“Listen before you speak. You don’t know the hell
some of my life has been; yes, hell! hell! hell! I'll
tell you.”

“T don’t wish to hear. You've disappointed me—
bitterly; bitterly disappointed me, and———”

“You shall hear. I won't tell you of my early
troubles at home—it would take too long. But do you
know why I was thrown on the world? Because I’d
a step-father who was always making love to me.”

“That doesn’t excuse EB

“I’m the best judge of that. One day he laid a trap
for me, and—and—but it’s all too horrible to tell as
I’m trying to forget it. And that’s only part of it. I
came to London and worked in a tea shop and pigged
and starved on eight shillings a week; and that isn’t
all. What I’ve been through since, the hard times
I’ve had, the happiness I’ve been robbed of, the dan-
gers I’ve escaped, I alone know. It’s a fine thing for
a girl to despair of happiness before she’s twenty-one.”

She stopped from lack of breath, and defiantly re-
garded her accuser before asking:

“Are you aware why I did what I did?”

“Bat——”

“Tl tell you, as it concerns you. You were ill, and
after a day or two I had nothing to my name.”

“You should have let me die.”

“T could see myself doing it.”

“I would rather you had. I’ve so looked up to you.”

“Anyway, I didn’t, because I ran against him. I
told him the hole we were in and he helped me, helped
me generously like the dear he is. Yes, like the dear
he is,” repeated Pansy as Lena’s face had hardened,
to add defiantly: “And I love him! I love him! I love
him! and I don’t care who knows it.”’

ds

 
THE PITILESS 265

Lena, bereft of speech, could only make a gesture
of despair. Pansy went on:

“He gladly gave me money, and expected nothing
in return; but I was not so mean as that. I couldn’t
be, loving him asI do. And, although you look on me
-with contempt, I’m proud of what I’ve done.”

Lena, apparently for very shame, hid her face in
her hands.

“And T’ll tell you something else,” declared Pansy
with flashing eyes. “I’m by no means a fool, and I
know I may come down to rotting and dying in the
gutter. I’m also religious at heart, as you are, and I
believe in a hereafter. But in spite of these things,
and if I knew I was to come to a miserable end, and
if I could foresee I was to burn in hell for untold
millions of years, I’d willingly, gladly do what I’m
doing to get a little joy, a little happiness, a little love
while I can. I did it with my eyes open, and I
wouldn’t go back if I could. And if ever I suffer, I
shall have it all to look back upon.”

She was so possessed by the passion of her defiance,
which, in the other’s eyes, seemed to add inches to her
stature, that she barely noticed that Lena, in order not
to hear any more, had stuffed her fingers in her ears,
before hastening from the room.

That night Pansy cried herself to sleep, but it was
a grief in which a proud happiness was curiously
mingled.
CHAPTER XXI

“MRS. SIMPSON”

HAT is little Pansy reading?”
“A book, sweetheart.”

“Obviously. (What sort of book! Not
education this time?”

“I’m sorry to say it’s a novel.”

“Why sorry?”

“Wouldn’t you prefer me to improve my mind?”

“God forbid!”

“Gerald!” cried Pansy in alarm.

“We won't discuss that now.”

“But: ”

“Not if you don’t mind. How do you like what
you're reading?”

“Tf I’m to say what I really think, not at all.”

“Why shouldn’t Pansy say what she thinks?”

“The papers spoke so well of it—and—and e

“And you think, if they are right, you must be
wrong?”

“Naturally.”

“Anything but.”

“Really!” exclaimed Pansy, who was delighted to
discover that she had not been at fault in her lover’s
eyes.

“You do not understand British human nature,
which is a distinct genus of the human species, little
Pansy. For untold generations, we have taken our
pleasures sadly until it has long become recognised
that recreation, without ree one’s mind, or

=

 

 
“MRS. SIMPSON” 267

learning something, is considered flat, stale and un-
profitable.” /

' “Indeed!” said Pansy, who knew from experience
how Gerald loved to voice his imaginings.

“In truth. Thus it has come about that we free-
born Britons are the veriest slaves to duty, and this
being the case, even the humble book reviewer sees
to it that when we seek relaxation in fiction, it does
not profit us at all unless we bow the knee to dullness.”

“This book is deadly dull.”

“And dullness of such an estimable quality that it
is worth two or three thousand a year to the gifted
authoress,” said Gerald as he glanced at the name on
the back of the work in question.

“Two or three papers raved about it, and said noth-
ing finer had been written in this generation.”

“Tf you want to strike good books, don’t worry your
head about what the papers say, little Pansy. Trust
to the personal recommendation of those who know
what they’re talking about. Writers who are doing
their best work are usually neglected until they’re
turning out pot boilers and repeating themselves, and
then it seems to be necessary to cry their perfection
from the housetops.”

“Next time I order from the library, Ill get the
books that are severely criticised,” she laughed.

“You might do a lot worse, for, after all, little
Pansy, if I may say so before you, criticism contains
much of the eunuch’s spite.”

Pansy looked at Gerald with a puzzled expression.

“Anyway, we won't go into that,” he continued.
“And how has my little Pansy been all this long
time?”

“It has been a long time, hasn’t it?”

“Three days.”

“Any news?”

“None at all, except I’ve been thinking of you.”

“How much?”
268 PANSY MEARES

“Heaps.”

Gerald bent down and kissed her hair, at which
Pansy drew him to her side.

“T want to stand and watch you, if you don’t mind.”

“Tt’s not much use if I do,’’ she pouted as he made
good his words.

“T like to watch you, and think of the old days in
the tea shop and everything that’s happened since, and
realise things.”

Pansy’s face clouded. ;

“Do you mind?” he asked quickly:

“Of course not. But——”

“But what, sweetheart?” he said as she hesitated.

“T want to ask you something. I’ve often thought
of it, and what you said just now brought it to my
mind.”

“Out with it.”

“Were they—were they in your mind when you
first knew me?”

“Of course not, little Pansy?”

“T do so hope they weren’t. I don’t want to think
your love for me began like that.”

“Tf it had, it wouldn’t have lasted very long.”

“What did you think of me at first?”

“What T’ve thought since.”

“Well?” she said, as he did not speak.

“Oh! I was wondering how the experiences of the
last few months appealed to you.”

“To me?”

“Ves.”

“T—-I hardly know.”

“But you must. Tell me. It’s interesting.”

“T don’t know, really, I don’t. It would take me
months to think things out,” declared Pansy, and in
all sincerity. “I was trying to before you came.”

“Here?”

“Where else? I was sitting, looking into the fire.”

“It’s almost too warm for a fire to-day.”
“MRS. SIMPSON” 269

“I’m going to have them for so long as I can, al-
though they’re an extravagance,” said Pansy. “Really
they are,” she added as Gerald smiled. “TI love to see
things in the red coal.”

Pansy related nothing other than the truth in saying
that she loved to sit before a red fire.

During the afternoon, and while she had waited for
Gerald’s return, she had given orders that she was not
to be disturbed and had day dreams in the pretty draw-
ing-room of the flat Gerald had taken for her in Long
Acre, and in which she was known to her little world
as “Mrs. Simpson.”

Old memories, forgotten faces, fantastic shapes had
formed and faded before her eyes till, at last, she had
been occupied with recollections of a month’s motor
tour she and Gerald had taken across France.

This was so comparatively recent and had provided
such a superfluity of impressions that, as she thought
of it, her mind was blurred with the exception of cer-
tain unimportant incidents which had made a clear-cut
impression on her memory.

Perhaps these mental imprints were not a result of
caprice, but were a consequence of the unexpectedness
that Pansy had learned was the chief constituent of
happiness in her new life where the means for ample
satisfaction of the physical and mental needs of the
body existed in profusion and, therefore, were quickly
taken as a matter of course.

There had come to her the remembrance of a dull
town on a rainy day in Auvergne, where they were at
a loss to fill in the time necessitated by the repair of a
punctured inner tube.

They were a trifle bored, and each was dreading the
effect of this depression upon the other until they had
idly entered a Romanesque church.

As soon as they had passed the folding doors, they
knew a common surprise, for the walls and row of
double columns which supported the roof were of warm
270 PANSY MEARES

red marble which delighted their senses and coloured
the grey mood which had weighed them down.

Then she had recalled the figure of a lame ballad
singer who, with his thin, spectacled wife, bawled
popular ditties in the byways of Orange.

He had a kind, white-bearded face, and every other
minute he or his spouse would shoot into a doorway
to ask for alms. For want of a ferrule, the end of
his stick was plugged into a large beef bone.

Next, she thought of another surprise that had glad-
dened her ‘heart after a tedious drive along endless
straight roads in the rain, this, a delightful bedroom
of exquisite proportions and furnished with exquisite,
old French furniture.

This was succeeded in her dreamy mind’s eye by a
picture of an ancient town they had come upon in the
late evening.

The lovers had gone out after dinner and had stood
on a bridge that spanned one of the many streams
which sullenly flowed between the houses.

There was not a soul about, and they and their
great love seemed the only actuality in the world.

Their ecstasy was complete; at Gerald’s suggestion,
they forebore to ask the name of the town and con-
trived to leave in the morning without learning it;
they did not wish the sweet impression on the bridge
to be materialised by associations of locality.

Presently, it was as if she had been again standing
on the sentry’s walk of the ancient ramparts which
enclose Aigues-Mortes in distant Provence.

Gerald had bribed the guardian to give them access
during the prohibited hours of the late evening, and
away from the base of where they stood, dreary
lagoons stretched to the sea which was just visible on
the horizon.

A low moon sadly insisted on the medieval atmos-
phere of the place and unhinged Pansy’s sense of
time and everyday matter-of-factness; it was as if she
“MRS. SIMPSON” 271

were attached to no particular period in the history of
the world; that she was the expression of love of all
ages and of all time; that its and her very existence
oe upon her holding in thrall the man at her
side.

In an access of passion, she had flung herself upon
her lover and had beseeched him to love her for so
long as it was humanly possible, inasmuch as should
she prove unnecessary to him, she had no further part
or lot in life.

Lastly, she had visualised a certain English spinster
who, with a party of friends, was staying at an hotel
where Pansy and Gerald passed a couple of days.

This woman had had a passion for smelling any-
thing and everything ; one day at breakfast, in putting
her nose to the butter, some of the latter became at-
tached to this organ.

It had again amused Pansy to see the way in which
her compatriot had furtively removed the butter and
had looked up and down the table to discover if her
mishap had been perceived.

Pansy’s reverie had been interrupted by Gerald’s
return.

She had been eager to meet him at the station, but
the ever-present necessity for caution had made him
discourage this proceeding.

It was while he had gone into his room to change
after his journey that she had taken up the book that
had disappointed her expectations.

“Well!’’ she said as he continued to regard her. “I
can hardly believe it, even now.”

She returned his gaze until she felt irresistibly
drawn to him. She rose from where she was sitting,
approached him and after putting her arms about his
neck kissed him on the lips.

“And where would little Pansy like to go this even-
ing?” he asked presently.

“It’s all the same to me.”
272 PANSY MEARES

“Don’t you want to go somewhere?”

“I’m happy anywhere so long as I am with you.”

“Sure?”

The reproach her eyes expressed caused him to
say:
“Tt’s sometimes difficult to realise you care for me
as you do, sweetest Pansy.”

“T shouldn’t have thought further proof was neces-
sary,” she said, and with a note of bitterness in her
voice.

“In some men love induces a feeling of humility
which is often his worst enemy.”

“JT don’t like vain men,” declared Pansy.

“His worst enemy because it persuades him to un-
dervalue himself. And although it might not affect
our identical relations, I can conceive of instances
which would have unhappy consequences.”

“Never mind about others.”

“There m not with you. The disasters of others
often shew one the rocks and shoals in one’s own
course.”

“There are to be no rocks and shoals in ours,”
declared Pansy fervently. As he did not imme-
diately reply, she anxiously asked: “Are there? Are
there?”

He looked as if surprised at the confidence she ex-
hibited before replying:

“Who can say, dearest Pansy!”

“But surely our love is different from any one
else’s!”

“All lovers have thought that since the world be-
gan.”

“Then—then: e

“It’s no use anticipating troubles before they arise.
Where would you like to go this evening? You de-
serve to go wherever you please because I’ve been com-
pelled to leave you as I have done.”

“Anywhere you please, but 4

 

 
“MRS. SIMPSON” 2474

= ound out anything about your friend Lena Swal-
ae

“Have you tried?”

“Yes.”

“How oe

“What more can I do than go to the old address and
ask it she’s been and if my message has been given
her?”

“And with no result?’

“Absolutely none.”

“Tm sorry.”

“Why ee

“She seems to be a decent sort. She might have
been a companion for you when I’m away.”

“T don’t want a companion,” she remarked pettishly.

“You must feel lonely sometimes.”

“T’m lonely without you. Otherwise, I’m perfectly
happy.”

“But you must miss your old friends; having no
one to talk to, and all that.”

“Aren’t you always saying that no condition of life
is ideally perfect?”

“I was wondering how you passed the time.”

“Look at the lot I read.”

“Eh ?”?

“When I’m not out shopping or walking, I’m read-
1 ie

“Do you like it?”

“Y-yes.”

“Ah ”

“T think it’s my duty to read. I never had much
education and—and

Pansy hesitated. They were both so subtly attuned
to each other’s moods that in the twinkling of an eye
she was conscious that in some way or another she
had excited his displeasure.

“Well?’’ he said.

 
274 PANSY MEARES

“Don’t—don’t you like my trying to improve my-
self and trying to—to make myself more on a level
with you?”

It was some moments before he replied:

“Don’t you think that—that all that kind of thing
comes spontaneously and should never be forced?”

“You know best,” she said, and with a feeling of
humiliation at his veiled reproof which was all the
more bitter as she believed it to be wholly undeserved.

“And that people are much more interesting in be-
ing their charming, natural selves?’

Pansy said “Perhaps,” and bit her lip.

“T’ve annoyed you,” he remarked.

“T thought you would be pleased.”

“Spend your days, my sweet Pansy, in the reading
room of the British Museum, that is, when you're not
with me, if it so pleases you.”

He spoke of other things lightly, humorously,
while she made tea. Although :she was diverted by
his sallies, over and above the hurt she had received,
owing to the fact of his having thrown cold water on
her really serious efforts at self-improvement, another
and a weightier matter was rankling in her mind, this,
his assumption that the course on which they had
embarked was strewn with the commonplace perils
which beset ordinary voyagers.

For the fleshpots of her luxurious existence she
cared not at all, but she was well aware that a mishap
of the spirit would make violent and sudden shipwreck
of her life.

Sensitive to her misgivings, he said:

“You’ve something on your mind?”

Pansy shook her head.

“Tt’s no use telling me you have not. Out with it,
or it will spoil our evening. Is it what I said about
those wretched books?”

“Oh, no,” she replied quickly.

It was some time before she told him, indeed, he
“MRS. SIMPSON” 275

had to sit by her and coax her before she would con-
fess her heart.

He laughed outright upon her telling him, and as
she pouted her red lips, he repeatedly kissed them
before saying:

one you know what Balzac says on the sub-
ject?”

“Balzac?” she queried, and with an enquiring look
in her eyes.

“Never mind if you’ve never heard of him. But
he was a Frenchman, and was by way of being an au-
thority on the relations of the sexes as well as every-
thing else.”

“What does he say?”

“That all great passions end on a misunderstanding
as both are too proud to explain.”

Pansy reflected before replying:

“Can it be possible?”

“He knew what he was talking about.”

“That those who are everything to each other can
be so petty!”

“He observed life.”

“Tt will never be so with us.”

“Why worry about the future? Only fools do that.
And I often think that those who were censured for
eating, drinking and making merry were not so blame-
worthy as might appear at first sight.”

Pansy quickly rose from where she had been re-
clining and hastened in the direction of her room.

“Where are you going?” asked Gerald.

“To dress.” ;

“Why this haste?’ he asked as he looked at his
watch.

“Let’s go out. What you've said gives me the ‘blues.’
I want to forget.”

Later, when they were driving in the direction of
one of the palatial hotels in Piccadilly, Gerald said:

“If you and I were quite different from what we
276 PANSY MEARES

are, and were in our present situation, do you know
what, sooner or later, would inevitably happen ?”

“Tell me!”

“That the woman, in being left alone so much,
would take to intrigue to pass the time, and as soon
as that is discovered, it means the end so far as he is
concerned.”

She did not speak, but sat with set lips, at which,
after glancing at her, he said:

“Tsn’t that so?”

“How should I know?” she retorted with flashing
eyes.

“Pansy!”

“T do believe you suspect me!”

“Nonsense!”

“Tt isn’t nonsense at all. More than once this aft-
ernoon you've wanted to know how I passed my time
when you're away. If you’re cruel enough to suspect
me, let me get out and leave you forever.”

As if to make good her words, she half rose, but
upon his putting his arm about her to withhold her,
the physical contact with the man she loved made her
helpless.

Conscious of her weakness where he was concerned
she sank back in the vehicle and restrained an inclina-
tion to tears.

Perhaps, because she wished to avoid even nodding
acquaintance with care, Pansy abandoned herself to
the pleasure of the evening, and sought forgetfulness
concerning taking thought for a morrow that might
never dawn.

They ate in the big dining room, where Gerald di-
verted his companion by giving her humorous ver-
sions of those occupations, careers, follies and ex-
cesses of their fellow diners with which he was
acquainted.

Many of the men had names of repute in the world
of commerce; even as Pansy regarded them eating ex-
“MRS. SIMPSON” 297

pensive food and drinking wine with their richly ap-
parelled women folk, and in spite of her desire to
make merry, there came to her visions of work-rooms
containing underfed, anzmic toilers whose economic
plight made possible the wealth of their employers.

It, also, seemed that she no longer heard the sub-
dued hum of light-hearted conversation; instead, the
hacking coughs of those who suffered from weak
lungs troubled her ears.

And even the exquisitely frocked women who, sated
with rich meats and wine, were leaving the dining
room for further luxurious delights, were nothing
other than those workgirls who, to quote their own
vernacular, had “got the bullet,” and in the event of
having no friends to fall back upon, were likely to be
driven into the hideous underworld of sin and de-
pravity and disease, the existence of which appears
to have been forgotten by an All-Wise Providence.

Pansy vainly strove to rid herself of these fancies;
the wine she drank to efface them made the contrast
between the workers’ lot and their exploiters’ fat living
the more vivid in her mind.

Such was her passionate resentment of the industrial
conditions with which she was only too well ac-
quainted that she would have liked to have risen to
her feet and have denounced many of those present
for battening on the profits of what amounted to
veritable white slavery.

But such heroics were not for such an one as Pansy,
who, in the company of her Gerald, and particularly
when they were in public as now, was upon her best
behaviour and eager to make him proud of her.

The female workers and their privations presently
faded from her mind, and perhaps a consequence of
her impressions was to urge her to make the most of
the passing hour.

She was anxious that her lover should be at one
with her in this respect, and perceived, as she had done
278 PANSY MEARES

on other occasions, how he disregarded the champagne
that would assist her design; she called attention to his
abstinence, at which he said:

“T scarcely drink anything at all, little Pansy, and
when I’m not making merry with you, you’d be sur-
prised how simply I live.”

“Economising ?”’ she laughed.

Ves.”’

Pansy opened wide her dark eyes.

“My mental and physical health.”

“TI can understand physical. Why mental?”

“The lot I come from have had more money than
is good for them for ever so long. I’m sufficiently
sophisticated as it is, and it wouldn’t take much to
send me downhill.”

“You—you don’t mean insanity?”

“I do. I don’t mean strait-waistcoat, asylum in-
sanity, anything but; I mean decadence of sorts, and
the healthier the mind, the greater one’s happiness.
That’s why I’m so grateful to you, little girl.”

After dinner they went to a musical comedy; the
fact of their getting in late made no difference to their
comprehension of the piece.

If Pansy had had the ghost of an appetite, he would
have taken her out to supper; she insisted that all she
wanted was to get home and Gerald, being of the same
mind as herself, complied.

Immediately they leit the playhouse the night air
cooled Pansy’s heated brain; in an access of cold
commonsense, she recalled much of the conversation
of the afternoon.

She was disposed to suspect that Gerald sometimes
half doubted her; perhaps this was why she laid her
hand on his arm as they were being driven home and
said:

“Dear, whatever happens with us, however much
your love lessens, and you get weary, never, never
doubt me. I’m not a bit that sort of woman at all,
“MRS. SIMPSON” 279

and should never do anything underhand. It isn’t in
me.”

Gerald bent down and kissed her gloved hand.

“If—if I ever ceased to care for you, which is quite
inconceivable,’ she went on, “I should come to you
and honestly tell you, because I know that would be
the better way. But so long as I am under your roof
you can trust me absolutely.”

“Don't, Pansy!’ he protested. “It hurts me.”

She ignored his request, for she continued:

“You know, perhaps even better than I, how loving
you as I do and not being protected by law, I am at
your mercy. But there it is, and as all the crying in
the world won’t alter it, I must make the best of it.
Let me say this, dear” (he had put his hand upon her
mouth) “whatever the future has for me, I don’t
know, and don’t very much care, being so happy as I
am; but if it’s good or evil, happiness or sorrow, I al-
ways want to think we implicitly trusted each other.
Help me to do this, dear. It will be always something
to look back upon.”

Pansy’s artless appeal touched Gerald’s heart and
the days that followed were, perhaps, the happiest they
ever knew.
CHAPTER XXII

LENA’S CALL

plained myself concerning our talk, perhaps I

should rather say talks, on that somewhat vul-
gar habit of mind called jealousy to which all flesh
is reputed to be more or less prone.

“Tt is an accepted axiom with those who think they
know human nature that this specious product stimu-
lates, strengthens and restores a given love. So it
may be, sweetest Pansy, with the generality; but there
are exceptions, among which I venture to count my-
self, although one never really knows. Still, so far
as I can learn from a horrid and morbid habit of self-
analysis (which avoid, dearest Pansy, as you value
your happiness here on earth) I verily believe that,
were I placed in the situation that would ordinarily
be calculated to give rise to this emotion, with me it
would have a wholly opposite effect.

“T take leave to say that where I love, as I do you,
sweetest Pansy, I must, above all things, esteem, which
I rightly do; and were this appreciation wanting, my
love would be a thing of nought. Therefore, mine
own, if you still think of the matter at all, bear in
mind that my deep attachment to you argues that my
love is the love you rightly covet, and is not by any
means the mere sex instinct which dies almost as soon
as it is called into being.

“Let me always regard you as I do now and the
spell you exercise can ek be broken.”

280

I T has occurred to me that I have never quite ex-
LENA’S CALL 281

There was more in the letter, an unusually long one
for Gerald to write during one of his absences, but to
the rest Pansy, just now, paid little heed.

It had arrived in the late afternoon of a dull spring
day, and one which, with the exception of some after-
noon shopping, she had spent within doors and with-
out being able to make up her mind what to do next.

This uncertainty, allied to a dissatisfaction, for
which there was no discernible cause, had troubled her
for many days, and had taken much of the savour out
of her new life.

The root of the matter was that Pansy was un-
strung.

For many years she had been the victim of un-
satisfied desires and ambitions; since she had en-
listed in the ranks of the great army of ill-paid femi-
nine labour, she had fought and been the victor in
many an unequal contest, in which the spoils of war
had proved little more than enough to keep body and
soul together for the next encounter.

During this latter period, the natural longings of
her youth, ardent nature and sex had been consistently
starved; she had looked on the normal satisfaction of
these as providing the utmost that could be wrung
from the possibilities of existence.

The unhappy outcome of her earlier relations with
Gerald had provided an unlimited fund of suffering
and disillusion which had stabbed her sensitive nature
to the quick: luckily for her (she had not realised her
good fortune at the time) her extremity had been soft-
ened by the necessity for ceaseless taking thought for
the morrow which had prevented her from dwelling
unduly on her griefs.

As if with the wave of a magician’s wand, the con-
ditions of her life had been altered; where there had
been want, was now abundance; in place of her
starved affections, she was enabled to indulge her ex-
quisite capacity for loving to the full.
282 PANSY MEARES

In spite of these things, Pansy, as has been said,
was not happy; to-day she was striving to probe her
discontent.

Although Gerald was a man of moods, and although
his mental fastidiousness seemed to insist upon the
difference between their respective social planes, she
had nothing to say against his behaviour to her, un-
less, as she often prettily complained, he indulged her
too much.

But there was no denying that his absence sorely
tried her, her loneliness providing a dismal contrast to
the crowded days they enjoyed should he be with her.

Left much alone, she had little or nothing to occupy
her mind; she was waited on hand and foot by two
discreet, highly paid servants; she had more money
than she knew how to spend, and had all but given up
her efforts at improving her mind since she had been
discouraged by Gerald’s scarcely veiled disapproval.

All but given up, since there were occasions -on
which she made frantic endeavours to cultivate the
things of the spirit.

She would attend lectures, classical concerts, picture
galleries; and should she be alone of a Sunday she
made a point of going to the meetings of one of the
play-going clubs where second-rate celebrities could
be seen for nothing.

On all and each of these occasions she was dis-
tressed by having no one to speak to. She made a
point of ignoring the many men of all ages and condi-
tions who were eager to scrape acquaintance with the
handsome, expensively dressed woman who was al-
ways by herself. She was as solitary as if, instead of
being in London, she had been living in a wilderness;
the fact of her having plenty of money in her pocket
emphasised her gnawing isolation.

Her loneliness at times was such that she attempted
to be friendly with one of the maids, Pritchard by
name; for some reason or another, she did not suc-
LENA’S CALL 283

ceed in penetrating the respectful reserve which the
young woman maintained.

If Pansy had been of baser clay, she would prob-
ably have taken to secret drinking.

A consequence of her solitude was that, in spite of
Gerald’s warnings on the matter, she indulged in fre-
quent introspection. This habit of mind was assisted
by the studies of emotion and temperament which
were features of the better class fiction she devoured.

She was conscious of her weakness, but took a mor-
bid pleasure in her surrender.

Pansy told herself, and it was undoubtedly true,
how much of her disquietude was excited by the ab-
sence of the old, jolly comradeship which had obtained
at “Mowker & Bleet’s,” and at Stowe Road, indeed, in,
the latter place, she had derived much pleasure from
mothering the other girls in the house.

She discovered, perhaps because she had forgotten
many of the vicissitudes of her days of stress, how she
had then been much happier than she had believed to
be the case; this was why she made continued but un-
successful efforts to find out the whereabouts of Lena
Swallow whom she was anxious to assist with the
ample means at her disposal.

Also, for all that she was scarcely aware of the rea-
son, she was physically unsettled by the coming of
Spring.

Born and bred in the country, she had conceived a
violent distaste for humdrum Billingham and had de-
sired, before anything else, to taste the delights of
London.

Now that she was satiated with these, the corpuscles
in her blood were urging her to return to the joys of
field, budding hedgerow and great sun-swept spaces;
the fact of her being compelled to stay in town jarred
nerves that were already sufficiently on edge by reason
of her situation.

Nor was this all.
284 PANSY MEARES

Pansy’s irregular union had provided the semblance
of married life; but there was one deprivation, of
which she was keenly sensitive: she had strong do-
mestic instincts; deep down in her heart was a hungry,
passionate desire for children of her own; since, con-
sidering her position, she considered it would be crim-
inal to indulge this longing, her condemnation to life-
long barrenness hurt her more than she dare ac-
knowledge.

This, unconsciously, disturbed her love for Gerald,
which qualification of the perfection with which the
first transports of passion had endowed him was
strengthened by another factor, and one she constantly
sought to dissemble. If she had admitted the truth,
she would have perceived that the nature of their rela-
tions, unconsecrated as they were by Christian mar-
riage, had diminished the immense respect in which she
had formerly held him.

These and many like shadows followed each other
across Pansy’s uneasy mind on that afternoon; she
was not expecting her lover, but chiefly for want of
something to occupy her mind, she set about sumptu-
ously decorating her body for the dinner she had or-
dered in the morning.

To keep her thoughts from travelling dreary roads
which led nowhere at all, she put on her fine clothes
with every elaboration of artifice; she was yawningly
regretting that the labour of her hands was concluded,
when she heard a knock on the front door.

The answering of it was followed by something in
the nature of an altercation, at which she went into
the hall to see what was toward.

To her amazement, she perceived her old friend,
Lena Swallow, making as if she would enter; her as-
tonishment was not so much caused by the reappear-
ance of one she feared she had lost for good, as by
Lena’s pitiable appearance.

She was thinly clad in a shabby mud-stained frock;
LENA’S CALL 285

one of her mean boots had burst at the toes; she was
innocent of gloves.

But it was Lena’s face that moved Pansy’s com-
miseration, this being white and pinched and drawn;
only the big, brown eyes seemed alive and that with
a feverish brilliancy for which her friend believed
that want was responsible.

“So you’ve come at last, dear,” cried Pansy, to the
discreet maid’s unconcealed surprise. “I often won-
dered what had become of you. You're just in time
for dinner. Do come in.”

She was thankful for the distraction provided by
Lena’s unlooked-for, but welcome, impingement upon
her solitude, and advanced to greet her friend.

Lena appeared not to notice her, for she stared about
her much as if she were fearful of her strange sur-
roundings.

“What’s the matter?” enquired Pansy as Lena
stumbled into the hall.

Upon Lena continuing to ignore her, she added:

“You look utterly done, as if——”

She got no further; Lena reeled and would have
fallen had not Pansy been quick to support her.

It was the work of a few moments for Pansy, as-
sisted by Pritchard, the maid, who was obviously
averse to succouring the poverty-stricken intruder, to
carry Lena into the cosy dining-room, where the
table was laid for the dinner that was about to
be served.

Directly Lena was placed upon the couch, Pansy told
the maid to lay another place; then, believing that her
friend was starving, she set about soaking fingers of
bread in port wine and stuffing them into the uncon-
scious woman’s mouth.

There was a speedy response to her efforts for,
very soon, Lena’s lips involuntarily, almost greedily,
opened to admit the nourishment of which her body
was in need.
286 PANSY MEARES

Presently she opened her eyes, at which Pansy
asked :

“Better now, dear?”

The sound of her voice awakened Lena to further
consciousness, for she faltered:

“Stop! Please stop. I can take nothing from you.
I'll be—be better soon. Then I'll tell you why I
came.”

“But you’re not fit to speak. You're wet through
and have hardly anything on. By the way you've
swallowed this, you must have been starving.”

“T was starving! I was starving!” cried Lena hys-
terically.

“T thought as much. And that’s why you came to
me!”

Lena shook her head.

“Whatever the reason, you’re just in time to have
a nice dinner.”

“T shall go before that,” declared Lena resolutely.

“T should like to put you to bed. Yourre ill and

9

_—_

“No, no! I must go. Must!”

“There’s no must about it now you’re here. I’ve
told the servants to lay another place.”

“He is waiting for me,” declared Lena decisively.

“He ?”

“That is what I came to say.”

Pansy looked at the bedraggled figure on the couch
and wondered what man who looked for her coming
would allow her to get into such a sorry plight; she
could only conclude that the little wine Lena had
taken had affected a brain weak from starvation.

Then, as the maid came in to lay another place,
Lena gazed with wondering eyes at Pansy’s evening
frock; Pritchard; the elaborate table furniture; the
silver and flowers.

“What are you looking at?’ enquired Pansy after
the maid had gone. “My flat?”
LENA’S CALL 287

“Ves.”

“Tsn’t it sweet ?”’

“T expected to find you’d ‘come down.’ ”

“Not yet,” replied Pansy, as her face fell. “But it’s
no use anticipating trouble before it comes, and since
I’m not ‘down,’ it’s a good thing for you, as I mean
to set you on your feet.”

Pansy related how she had unsuccessfully tried to
find her friend; declared that Lena was frequently in
her thoughts; that now they had met again, she
(Pansy) did not mean to lose sight of her.

Suddenly Lena sat up.

“Are you happy, living as you are?” she asked of
Pansy. “Tell me!”

“Y-yes.”

“Not very?” persisted Lena.

“T must think before I tell you.”

Before Lena had made her pitiable appearance,
Pansy had told herself that she was anything but
happy. ;

The sight of the other’s plight that expressed de-
basing, hateful poverty told Pansy how fortunate she
was in being removed from the possibility of such
straits, which conviction made her forget the dubieties
that had troubled her as if they had never been, and
congratulate herself on her luxurious circumstances.

“T'll tell you,” said Pansy after reflectively appre-
ciating her lot.

“Tell me what?” asked Lena who had, also, been
lost in thought.

“What you asked me. If I were happy.”

“Well?”

“I’m as happy as I dare be.”

“What does that mean?”

“I’m happy; deliriously so. But I would be more
if I did not know that trouble waits on happiness such
as mine.”

“I—I scarcely understand.”
288 PANSY MEARES

Pansy, whose heart was now all loving gratitude to
the man who had rescued her from the slough of
economic despond, truthfully expressed the mood of
the moment in saying:

“You know my position! I love him—love him
more and more every day, and I know the time will
come when I shall have to fight to keep him, fight as
only a woman can, situated as I am.”

“Don’t talk about it any more,” continued Pansy,
after an interval of silence. “It gives me the ‘blues,’
And here’s dinner. It’s very simple—cutlets, a duck,
and a savoury—but it’s what you want.”

Lena made as if she were about to speak; the en-
trance of the maid with the cutlets disposed her to
forbear. ;

“Sit here,” said Pansy when they were again alone,

“No. Ill say what I came to say—I’m strong
enough now—then I’ll go.”

“T shan’t eat a thing unless you have something,
and I’m hungry, dear. I’ve been shopping: ee

“T won’t keep you long. It’s a confession,” inter-
rupted Lena.

“A confession ?”

“About myself. I owe it to you for what I said
that night in Stowe Road.”

“Which night?”

“The night I found out.”

“Be quick and get it over, or everything will be
cold.”

Lena stood and supported herself with one hand on
the table; although she strove to look Pansy in the
face, her eyes frequently sought the pink frilled cut-
lets which appetisingly decorated their silver dish.

“T’m not the woman you thought me,” she presently
began.

“T always thought you unusual,” retorted Pansy.

“And because I’m not so good as I made out, it’s
my duty to tell you.”

 
LENA’S CALL 289

“Whatever sin you’ve committed, you haven’t done
very well for yourself,” said Pansy as she glanced at
Lena.

“T’m stainless as yet; so far, it’s only my heart that
has sinned.”

“No doubt! But the cutlets °

“Listen!”

“You always were a ‘rum un,’ ” sighed Pansy.

“Tl make it short; I’m not very strong,” faltered
Lena. “I was not the girl I made out I was. I’m
marrie i

“Married?”

“Yes, married. Have been a long time,” declared
Lena.

“Where is your husband ?”

“Tt would take too long to tell. And it’s so strange,
you wouldn’t believe if I did. No one will—not a
soul. But since I left him I’ve become interested in
another man; a man who loves me; a man who has a
wife.”

“They always have,” commented Pansy bitterly.

“T’ve fought for a long time; fought hard, and now
—now—now I’m done and—and— —”

Speech failed her. She looked at the cutlets with
wolfish eyes.

“What’s the matter?” cried Pansy.

“I’m starving.”

“Eat,” said Pansy, as she took a cutlet, and, after
placing it on a plate, thrust it in Lena’s face.

“N-no; it would choke me——”

She got no further, but took a bite at the cutlet; the
next moment she spat it out and threw the rest of the
meat into the grate.

Pansy, who was resolved to prevail over her friend’s
obstinacy, wondered how best to achieve her purpose ;
then she rang the bell, and upon its being answered by
Pritchard, said:

“Bring in the duck.”

 

 
290 PANSY MEARES

“Not that,” pleaded Lena. “Not that!”

“Tf that won’t tempt you, nothing will.”

“Not that—no i

Lena stopped short, and neither of them spoke until
the entrance of the duck.

“You needn’t wait,” said Pansy to the maid before
proceeding to carve the succulent brown carcass.

Suddenly, Lena, much as if she were fearful of giv-
ing way, retreated to a corner of the room where she
cried: :

“Let me finish and go.”

“Nonsense! You're going to have some duck.”

“Don’t—please don’t tempt me.”

“T’ve made up my mind,” rejoined Pansy; but Lena
went on:

“Tl finish what I came to say and go. It’s this:
Months back when I was married and had a comfort-
able home, I was what you would call hard. I be-
lieved and said every honest girl could get work
if she wished, and keep herself on her earnings.
I had something of that in my mind when I
blamed you.”

“Never mind that now, dear.”

“But I do mind—very, very much. I often said
that if I had to choose between death and sin, I’d
rather drown myself. That was then.”

“Why bother about dreadful things?” protested
Pansy.

“T can’t help myself. To-night I made up my mind
to die. I dragged myself to the river and—and——”

She stopped short, for Pansy, having heaped up the
plate she had destined for Lena, now advanced upon
her to force it upon her attention.

“Please! Please!’ protested Lena.

“Take the merest piece, if only to please me,” urged
Pansy.

Lena closed her eyes to shut out the appealing plate-
ful; upon her friend holding it to her face, she moved

 
LENA’S CALL 291

away from Pansy, who persisted in following her with
the duck.

It was not long before Lena opened her eyes; in
order that she should not surrender, she held her nose
with her fingers as she faced Pansy and said:

“I got as far as my resolve to die. But when it
came to doing it I—I hadn’t the pluck. I realise that
now. And rather than drown, I am going to him.”

“But——”

“Listen, and I shall feel happier for telling. And
T shall be as honest as you were with the man you
love. I shall not accept without giving. And because
of that, I came to tell you that I’m as bad as you are;
if anything, worse, because I was less honest. It was
wrong to blame you. It’s wrong to blame any one.”

“T know, dear. But never mind that now.”

“But I do mind. We both of us meant to run
straight, but we’re both giving our lives to a man.”

Pansy sighed.

“Why is it? Why is it?”

“We women are weak, dear,” replied Pansy sadly.

“Oh! So weak!”

“We clutch at straws to get a little sunlight before
we drown.”

“God have mercy upon us.”

“He will, dear, if we sin out of the fullness of our
loving hearts,” declared Pansy.

“Even such sin as ours?”

“If He is merciful.”

“So be it,” sighed Lena.

It seemed as if the latter had forgotten the tempta-
tion she was seeking to evade, for she released her
nostrils, .

Discovering the dangerous proximity of the duck,
she made as if she would pounce upon it; resisted, and
as if to escape surrender she turned tail, and sped to
the front door. Before. Pansy could prevent her, she
was on the landing and hastening down the stairs,
292 PANSY MEARES

while the other was prevented from following by the
fact of her wearing evening dress.

Pansy entreated Lena to stop; her words fell on
deaf ears. Determined not to lose sight of her new
found friend, if she could help it, she quickly entered
her bedroom, rapidly put on her simplest cloak, caught
up her hat, and pinning this on her head, hurried from
the flat.

She hastened down Long Acre in the direction of
Leicester Square; meeting with no success, she turned
in a contrary direction.

She was so eager to find Lena that she was careless
how she went, and presently, in turning a corner, ran
smartly into a person of considerable bulk.

She murmured an apology and was about to con-
tinue on her way, when something constrained her to
look at the man she had encountered.

The next moment she uttered a sharp little cry: she
was face to face with George Tarling.
CHAPTER XXIII

SMART GEORGE

taining hand, as of iron, had not been laid upon
her arm.

Her resentment of this proceeding gave place to
surprise at seeing George lift his hat well from his
head with the hand that was free.

“It is you, Pansy!” he exclaimed. She noticed that
his voice had lost most, if not all, of its bucolic inflec-
tion.

“Yes, George.”

“Didn’t you know me again?”

“Yes—no; at least, I wasn’t quite sure.”

“Have I changed so much?”

“T don’t know. It’s such a surprise seeing you
again, and in London, and—and after so long.”

“It’s getting on for three years.”

“Y-yes—it is a long time.”

“Seems so to you, Pansy?”

“Sometimes, George.”

“Then you hadn’t quite forgotten your old friend?”

“N-no.”’

“Here, what am I doing? I’m holding on to you as
if you’d picked my pocket, not but what you're wel-
come to everything I have, Pansy, that is to say, if you
wanted it.”

The ghost of a smile overspread Pansy’s face.

“And where were you going to when you ‘barged’
into me?”

“A walk.”

P ANSY would have continued on her way if a de-

293
294 PANSY MEARES

“Where?”

“Nowhere in particular.”

“Then it wouldn’t much matter if I came, too,
Pansy!” he said interrogatively.

It was in her mind to refuse (she did not want him
to probe too inquisitively into her life), but she was
lonely and her nerves had been so disordered by the
day’s self communings, Lena’s unexpected coming and
sudden disappearance, that she had not the strength
for self-assertion.

She disregarded her untasted dinner and allowed
herself to accompany her old sweetheart, perhaps be-
cause she was curious to discover how he had fared
since she had lost touch with him, and particularly
where his love for her was concerned.

They walked for some moments in silence until he
turned to look closely at her as he said:

“Tt’s really you?”

“Yes,” almost sighed Pansy.

“T could hardly believe it at first.”

“Have I altered so?”

“Ves.”’

“How ?”

“That’s difficult to answer all at once.”

“T suppose I’m looking older!”

“Neither of us are so young as we were, Pansy.”

“And uglier!”

“That’s a go6d joke, that is.”

“Not to me, if it’s true.”

“You needn’t vex your mind about that, Pansy.”

“That’s reassuring.”

“Fancy meeting you!”

“It’s only that we both happen to be in London.”

“London’s a big place.”

“Not so very big where people go for shopping and
amusement.”

“Quite the last person I expected to see, Pansy.”

“Tsn’t it always the unexpected that happens!”
SMART GEORGE 295

“That sounds as if you’d been to the theatre.”

“What?” she asked in surprise.

“Doesn’t it now?”

“What do you know about theatres?”

“I go sometimes when I don’t go to a music hall.”

“You—you go to such places?”

“I was going to one to-night.”

“A theatre!”

“A music hall. It’s my business.”

“Your what?”

“Only in a manner of speaking.”

Pansy was beginning to be interested in George;
apart from old associations, he was revealing a quality
of unexpectedness which was alien to her former ex-
perience of him.

“Tm keeping you from going,” she remarked, as
she hesitated in her progress.

“That won’t hurt for one night. It isn’t every day
I run against you, Pansy.”

“But I must be going back!”

“Where are you living?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“T’d see you back. This isn’t a place for you to be
out by yourself.”

“Indeed!”

“If you knew as much of London as I do, you’d say
the same, Pansy.”

She continued walking, and it hurt her, more than
she would acknowledge, to see how carefully he piloted
her, much as if she were some loved, simple thing who,
at all costs, must be sheltered from the perils of the
night.

“TI suppose you don’t happen to be hungry, Pansy?”
he said a little later.

“Why 2”?

“Tf you are, I was thinking of having a snack my-
self.” ,

“If you won’t be long, I’ll sit by you while you eat.”
296 PANSY MEARES

“You will?” he asked eagerly.

“If you won’t be long.”

“That's a bit of all right, Pansy. Besides, we can
talk better indoors. What’s the longest you can stay?”

“TI mustn’t be longer than an hour.”

“Time enough for what I want.”

He appeared to consider for a moment or two be-
fore setting off definitely, and as they had drifted in
a direction contrary to that in which Pansy had been
going when she ran into George, she soon perceived
that he was making for Piccadilly.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“That’s all right, Pansy. You leave that to me.”

“T don’t want to go anywhere where it’s the least
expensive.”

“Maybe. But it isn’t every night I’ve a chance of
taking out Pansy.”

He carefully conducted her across the Circus, and
on reaching the south side of Piccadilly, he asked:

“Ever been to the ‘Popular Café’ ?”’

“No.”

“I thought as much. That’s where you and I are
bound for to-night.”

He escorted her into that unapproachable object les-
son in middle-class table manners much as if he were
providing a treat for Pansy; upon his asking her if
she would like to ascend to the gallery, she said:

“T want to go where it’s very quiet. And choose a
place in a corner.”

wee

“As far away from people as we can get.”

Pansy was fearful that her superb evening frock
which the cloak she was wearing indifferently con-
cealed might attract feminine curiosity; this, in turn,
might awaken George to the fact of her being clothed
in fine raiment.

He marched self-consciously across the ground floor
of the marble walled establishment and after he had
SMART GEORGE 297

. found a vacant table behind the orchestra, he know-
ingly studied the list of eatables. This preoccupation
on his part gave Pansy an opportunity of studying
her companion.

There was no denying that he had greatly changed
from the loutish young man she had rather despised
in her Billingham days. He had lost his heavy ways,
and now carried himself in a manner that suggested
he had a comprehensive familiarity with the world
and its devious ways.

In addition to this evidence of sophistication, Pansy
observed his short hair, which was carefully plastered
on his head; his healthful, weather-stained face and
neck; his well-cut clothes; she was all agog to learn
the reason of this transformation.

His voice interrupted her thoughts.

“What’s it to be, Pansy? Table d’héte or a la
carte?”

“I only want something light.”’

“Sure? Because I’ve plenty of money on me!”

“Quite, thank you.”

“Then it’s a la carte,” he said, as he handed her the
bill of fare. “Table d’hdte is the green card.”

She was touched by his simple assumption of su-
perior knowledge, and more particularly as it argued
a belief that she was still the innocent village girl he
had seen off at the station at Billingham on the occa-
sion of her coming to town.

He called loudly to the waiter; after Pansy had
made known her simple wants, he ordered a point
steak for himself and gave particular instruction as
to how it was to be grilled.

This duty accomplished, he looked about him in the
manner of one who was about to do himself uncom-
monly well.

“Of course you’ve heard of this place?” he said a
little later.

“T think so.”
298 PANSY MEARES

“It’s a place to know. You see all sorts of ‘nuts’
here. It’s why I brought you, Pansy.”

“Thank you.”

“Although had I known I was ‘to have the pleas-
ure,’ I should have dressed.”

“What?”

“Fact,” he said complacently.

“You surprise me,” she declared.

“Thought I would. But you haven’t surprised me.”

“Why ?”

“Because you're just the same as you always were,
unless”

“Unless what?” she asked quickly as he hesitated.

“T can say it to you, Pansy—unless that you’re more
beautiful, if that’s possible.”

Pansy sighed relief.

“Where are you working now, might I ask?”

“T’m not working—just at present.”

She was prepared for this question, and had made
up her mind either to evade it or to say that she was
still hard at work, but the admission escaped her lips
in spite of herself.

“Not? Then how do you manage?”

“Tm staying with friends.”

“Nice friends?”

“Very.”

“Friends you’ve met since you’ve been in London?”

“Isn’t it time I asked you a few questions?”

“But———”

“I want to know all that’s happened to you.”

“Never mind me.”

“And how you manage to do yourself so well.”

“You think I’m doing that?” he asked self con-
sciously.

“Well, aren’t you?”

“Perhaps.”

“T naturally want to hear all about it.”

“That’s—that’s telling, Pansy.”
SMART GEORGE 299

“Won't you tell me?”

“I may some day.”

“But I mayn’t see you again.”

George’s face fell.

“But it’s possible.”

“We'll talk of that later,” he remarked gloomily.

The waiter brought her the cutlet she had ordered
at which George said:

“What about drink? Hi, waiter!”

“T won’t have anything, thank you.”

“Not even a ‘port’ ?”

“Not even a port.”

“You don’t mind if I have whiskey ?”

“Not at all.

He gave his order to the waiter and at the same
time told him to hurry up with the steak; until these
things were brought, he was moodily silent and Pansy,
who merely picked the food on her plate, sought to
divert her mind from inconvenient thoughts by ap-
praising her novel surroundings.

She was blind to the genius of the originator of
the establishment who deserved well of his species by
providing moderate priced outings for a class which,
hitherto, rarely left home of an evening; she was
merely conscious of the insistent atmosphere of incon-
gruity, this being provided by the sumptuous place
being mostly filled by those whom it was impossible to
identify with the habit of late dining.

For all that those about her looked like fish out of
water in their palatial surroundings, there was no de-
nying that they were keenly enjoying themselves, the
fact of their eating, as it were, in the public eye, pro-
viding a happy combination of luxury and rakishness.

One little party attracted her attention.

The men were self-conscious in evening clothes,
with made-up ties, while their women folk’s dress was
a makeshift compromise between everyday and festive
attire, white blouses being worn with tweed skirts.
300 PANSY MEARES

They were apparently celebrating some event, for a
bottle of champagne decorated the table and their be-
haviour was a combination of shyness and hilarity.

One of the women believed she was doing the cor-
rect thing in her unaccustomed environment by hold-
ing an animated conversation with the waiter.

Then, so far as Pansy was concerned, everything
was forgotten in the playing of the band.

Directly it commenced, George caught up the bill of
fare, compared the number displayed by the orchestra
with the programme of music printed on the ménu
and solemnly announced: _

“Dream Waltz. Cecil Cooke.”

Pansy was always susceptible to music; to-night it
made a profound appeal to her heart. Her unexpected
meeting with George had awakened long-forgotten
memories of her youth; these the melody assisted to
make more vivid in her mind.

She thought of her kindly father, who was sleep-
ing so soundly in Billingham churchyard; of the
brain-sick mother she had lately disregarded and al-
most forgotten; of the hopes and aspirations with
which she had been animated before she had set out
for the haven of her hopes; finally, of George and
his honest, abiding love.

The sincerity of this affection, which had always
been inspired by concern for her welfare, made her
regard him with a kindliness almost akin to tender-
ness; yet with the plurality of motives which is a fea-
ture of the mind, the recollection of his devotion, the
artless manner in which he had set her on a pedestal,
in calling attention to her questionable mode of life,
caused her bitterly to reproach herself and, in a sense,
made her resentful of his presence.

She was disposed either to appreciate his worthi-
ness or to be irritable with him on account of his moral
superiority to the man she loved.

It depended on George as to which mood she would
SMART GEORGE 301

display; at the same time, the atmosphere of incon-
gruity which surrounded her was in a measure respon-
sible for some hardening of heart. She looked at her
companion out of the corner of her eyes and per-
ceived that he was frowningly regarding the table-
cloth.

A little later the waiter brought the whiskey, at
which George tossed down the raw spirit without so
much as blinking.

“George!” she exclaimed.

“Well 2”?

“Do you know what you did?”

“What of it?”

“You drank it neat.”

“That’s nothing.”

“T’d no idea you drank like that.”

“Do you know what taught me to like it?”

“What?” she asked a little fearfully.

“Never mind.”

“T want to know.”

“T’m not going to tell you.”

“Was it—was it anything to do with me, George?”

“That’s my business.”

“You needn’t speak like that.”

“Then you shouldn’t -

“Shouldn’t what?” she asked sharply as he hesi-
tated.

“Never mind. And here’s the steak at last.”

Her vanity had been tickled by the possibility of his
having been driven to stimulants to escape the conse-
quences of her slighting behaviour; if this feminine
foible had counted on being fed by his neglecting his
food, it was disappointed; George manfully attacked
his steak and told the waiter to bring him more
whiskey.

His uncivil behaviour, by reason of its being proof
against the blandishments of her presence, disposed
Pansy in his favour and awoke the lust for conquest

 
302 PANSY MEARES

which more or less exists in every woman’s heart
where the male of her species is concerned. She had
always had her way with him, and his present ob-
stinacy seemed in the nature of a challenge; she be-
lieved it would be easy to bend him to her will.

“This reminds me of old times!’ she began.

“Because we're quarrelling ?”

“It’s your fault if we are.”

George shrugged his broad shoulders.

“How do you make that out?” she asked.

“There’s one thing about this place: they do know
how to grill a steak, that’s if the waiter knows he'll be
‘slanged’ if it isn’t ‘Ar.’ ”

For the moment, George’s complacency and use of
slang inclined Pansy’s thoughts in the direction of
Gerald.

Perhaps he noticed her preoccupation, for he said:

“Anyway, it’s no use quarrelling the first night
we've met again.”

“Not a bit,” she replied absently.

“Then why not have something to drink to keep me
company ?”

“Do you know, I think I will!”

“Port?”

“Please.”

When this was brought and Pansy was about to
raise it to her lips, her hand trembled so that she
spilled some of the wine upon the cloth.

“Look at what I’ve done!” she said.

“Shews you're not used to this sort of thing; and
a good job, too.”

Pansy bit her lip.

“Put something over it,” he went on.

“Why Pe

“Tt looks like blood, and when I see blood it—well
—it makes me savage.”

“George!”

“I don’t pretend to be a saint.”
SMART GEORGE 303

“It wouldn’t be much use if you did. And when are
you going to tell me what you are doing, and why you
go to music halls?”

“Next time we meet, Pansy,” he said with a scarcely
concealed grin.

“Why not now?”

“Because I don’t choose.”

She changed the subject, to return to it again; her
efforts were unavailing, however, for George persisted
in his refusal to satisfy her curiosity.

Presently, she was taken aback by his ignoring one
of her remarks, to ask:

“What’s the latest from home?”

“T beg your pardon.”

“What’s the latest from home?”

“Nothing more than usual. Have you heard
lately ?”

“How should I?”

“T didn’t know when last you were in Billingham.”

“Nearly six months back.”

“As long as that?”

“Your poor mother hardly knew me.”

“Is she so bad?” asked Pansy, with a catch at her
throat.

“Haven’t you seen her since?”

“I’m afraid not. I’ve been so busy.”

“She kept on about you, and told me how fond Abel
was of you, and was always speakiig of you.”

Pansy’s face clouded.

“You don’t have any ‘truck’ with him, Pansy!”

“What a question!”

“You hate the sight of him?

“Why ?”

“I know the sort of man he is. If I thought you—
you encouraged him, I’d—I’d—I don’t like to think
what I’d do.”

“Never worry about that. I hate the sight of him.”

“That’s all right. When are you next going home?”
304 PANSY MEARES

Pansy would have found a difficulty in giving a
straightforward reply to this question had not the or-
chestra come to her aid.

Directly it commenced to play, George, as before,
took up the programme; after identifying the piece by
means of the number, he said:

“Dance of Fairies, Braher.”

Just now Pansy was not moved by the music; in-
stead, she. watched the antics of the party that had
already attracted her attention; it seemed as if the
champagne had got into its head.

Also indifferent to the orchestra, it was talking and
laughing loudly with the exception of one member,
who looked as if he were falling asleep.

Upon the music ceasing, one of the women raised
her glass and cried:

“Here’s jolly good luck all round!’ As she caught
the eye of the waiter, to whom she had been chatting,
she added: “Same to you, old chap!”

Pansy made as if she would leave, at which George
beckoned to the waiter and, despite the printed and
conspicuously displayed prohibition to give tips, os-
‘tentatiously gave him sixpence.

“T’m so well known, I must do that sort of thing,”
he complacently explained to Pansy.

Out in Piccadilly, the traffic, the pleasure seekers,
the workers hurrying homeward, all the alien influ-
ences of the night insisted upon their mutual attrac-
tion by reason of their birth and bringing up having
taken place on the same bit of earth, which was as-
sociated with so many ineffaceable and tender recol-
lections of childhood and youth.

George was still tongue-tied regarding himself, but
exhibited a lively interest in Pansy’s recent doings; it
was as much as she could do to evade his questions
without seeming to avoid his legitimate anxiety te
know how she was faring.

She declared she had recently left “Mowker &
SMART GEORGE 305

Bleet’s,” and was staying with friends until a vacancy
she had been promised was due.

“What about men, Pansy?” he asked, as they were
walking Coventry Street.

“What about them?”

“You must have met some since you came to town.”

“A few.”

“What kind?”

“All kinds.”

“Well, whenever I’ve thought of you, Pansy, and
I have a good bit one way and another, I’ve always
told myself that you would run straight.”

“Indeed ?”

“JT know more of life than I did, Pansy; but I’m just
as certain, now as ever I was, that you’d too much re-
spect for yourself ever to ‘go wrong.’”

“T must leave you here, George.”

“A girl’s a fool to give in to a man, because he only
thinks the less of her for it.”

“That’s not a subject I care to discuss.”

“Pardon. I was forgetting who I was talking to.
Mayn’t I see you further ?”’

“People might talk.”

“You know best, de—Pansy. But if you want to
hear from me or see me again, write to me here, and
I’m there by return.”

He gravely produced a cardcase and handed her a
card; after she had wished him “Good night,” and was
speeding in the direction of her flat, she was sure that
he was standing and watching her until she was out of
sight.

She had barely got inside the door when Pritchard,
the maid, entered the flat; she was wearing her out-
door things.

Pansy, who was in the mood to escape her thoughts,
made a further effort to thaw the young woman’s re-
serve.

“Been out?”
306 PANSY MEARES

“Yes, Madam.”

“Rar ca

“Not very, Madam.”

“You can often go out for the evening if your mas-
ter isn’t in, as you must often feel lonely.”

“Thank you, Madam.”

“Do you read?”

“Not often.”

“Because I can lend you some books if you do.”

“Thank you, madam. Is there anything else you
want ?”

“No, thank you; I’m going straight to bed.”

Pansy soon fell asleep, but awoke in the small hours
and was unable to close her eyes for quite a long time.

Her meeting with George brought home to her, as
nothing had yet done, the nature of the momentous
step she had taken in throwing in her lot with Gerald.

Involuntarily, she recalled every incident of her
relations with the latter from the beginnings of their
friendship to their present intimacy; for the life of
her, and try as she might, she could not understand
how she had been brought to her present pass.

But there was no denying her wrongdoing, and
this, owing to the searchings of heart awakened by her
meeting with George, seemed inexcusably glaring.

She was filled with self-reproaches until with the
admirable philosophy of her sex she perceived the
futility of remorse where the thing that was done was
concerned.

Perhaps she dimly realised that her situation was
the outcome of the interplay of inevitable forces, as
indeed it was, and, therefore, comforted herself with
the assurance that she was scarcely to blame for being
the victim of untoward circumstance over which she
had no control.
CHAPTER XXIV

UNDERCURRENTS

matinée of “The Chorus Girl.’ ”
“Oh t?

“You wouldn't like to see it?”

“T don’t care for that kind of a piece.”

“It might cheer you up.”

“T don’t want cheering up.”

“You don’t seem over bright, Pansy. Perhaps I
leave you too much alone!”

“No.”

“Perhaps the converse is true and you see too much
of me!”

“How can that be!” she said indifferently.

“Tf I thought I wasn’t welcome, I’d stay away.”

Pansy did not reply at which Gerald asked:

“Didn’t you hear what I said?”

“I was reading.”

“I’m sorry,’ remarked Gerald as he took up the
paper he had made a pretence of looking at.

Pansy kept her eyes on her book but it was evident
to her companion, who was furtively watching her,
that she did not turn a page.

“Interesting!” he said, a little later.

“Very.”

“I thought so.”

“Why pe

“It holds your attention.”

“Tt bores me to death.”

“Why read it?”

307

So you wouldn’t like to go oui? There’s a
308 PANSY MEARES

“I don’t know,” said Pansy, as she put down the
book with a yawn she made no effort to conceal.

“T’m afraid something’s annoyed you,” he remarked
kindly.

“Nothing more than usual.”

“So long as I’m not the cause——!”

“Don’t keep on talking about it,” she interrupted.

“T understand,” he declared after a moment or two.

She glanced sharply at him, before saying:

“T wonder if you do!”

“We all have our grey moods and apparently for
no rhyme or reason. The best thing to do is to go
out for a long walk by yourself.”

“You want to be rid of me,” cried Pansy.

“Pansy!”

“Oh yes, you do. I bore you to death and you want
to be alone.”

“Dearest!”

“It’s no use trying to deceive me. You hate the
sight of me and wish you had never met me.”

“Tt’s only women who can be so unjust.”

“T’ve noticed you've been changing for a long time,
and you—you can’t deny it.”

“Pansy! Pansy!” he cried reproachfully.

Rejoicing that it was in her power to lacerate his
feelings, she went on:

“T know I’m nothing to you at all and that you took
me up only to amuse yourself: now you’ve done with
me you’re burning to be rid of me.”

Gerald made a gesture of despair.

Pansy continued :

“You've only to say the word and I'll go now and
never trouble you again. Then, perhaps, you'll be
happy.”

“T don’t believe you really mean what you say.”

“Oh! One never means anything: it doesn’t do.
Life’s all horrid and one pretends to take an interest
in stupid things in order to forget.”
UNDERCURRENTS 309

She looked so pitifully wretched that Gerald, in
spite of her cruel words, could not forbear approach-
ing her and kissing her gently on the hair.

Pansy experienced a sharp revulsion of feeling: in
order that he might not witness the humiliating tears
which filled her eyes, she got up and hastened from
the room.

Much water had flowed under the bridge so far as
Pansy was concerned during the many weeks that
had passed since she had met George: some of its ed-
dies and cross-currents were responsible for the irra-
tional outburst which had vexed her lover and tor-
mented herself.

It had been an explosion, and one among many,
which of late had disturbed the tender relations hith-
erto existing between them: these eruptions of tem-
per were a necessary consequence of the pent emotions
possessing her.

Pansy, foolishly for her peace of mind, had written
to George some ten days after seeing him: she had
been bored with herself and piqued by a prolonged ab-
sence of Gerald who, she had reason to believe, was
staying with his wife.

She had had many searchings of heart before she
had posted the letter and had told herself, which was
certainly true, that more than anything else she was
moved by avidity to discover the reason for the as-
tonishing change in her old lover from an Essex

-lout to a worldly wise man who was doing well for
himself.

It was obviously impossible to have the reply sent
to her flat, so she told him to write to an address she
furnished, which was that of a papershop where a
business was made of taking in letters: here, Pansy
shamefacedly called some two days later, where she
was kept waiting while an overdressed, painted
woman, who reeked of patchouli, learned if there
were anything for Miss Hastings Lancaster.
310 PANSY MEARES

Sure enough there was a letter for Pansy: it merely
made mention of George being in town on the fol-
lowing Saturday and said that he would be pleased to
see her if she would be at Charing Cross underground
station punctually at seven.

She was both annoyed and pleased at his intimation
that she should not be late; her curiosity was further
stimulated by the stamped heading of his irreproach-
able notepaper, which was: ‘“Blackacre Manor, Ashel-
den, near Dunton-juxta-mare.”

Pansy had all but made up her mind that it would
be unwise to keep the appointment, until the last mo-
ment; then she had impulsively put on her outdoor
things, hastened from her flat and taken a taxicab in
order not to be late.

George surprised Pansy by appearing in evening
dress over which he wore a smartly cut overcoat; a
crush hat and patent boots completed his equipment.

He greeted her somewhat curtly, at least, so it
had appeared to Pansy; hailing a cab, he assisted her
into the vehicle and told the driver to take them to
the Adelaide Gallery.

His masculine resolution, which was contrasted in
her mind with her old ascendancy over him, influenced
her in spite of herself: she had not bargained for again
dining with him in public but his quiet forcefulness
prevailed over any objections she was disposed to
offer.

Also, he insisted on having his way in small mat-
ters such as which table they occupied, and the wine
they drank; these further instances of having his own
way disposed her in his favour.

This was the first of several meetings which Pansy
told herself she was entitled to arrange since she was
left so much alone and since she repeatedly assured
herself that nothing could interfere with her love for
Gerald.

The evening dress and the Adelaide Gallery were in
UNDERCURRENTS 311

the nature of an exceptional dissipation; afterwards,
George appeared in his ordinary tweeds and escorted
Pansy to humbler places of entertainment where he
bore himself much as if he were providing unusual
experiences for an unsophisticated country girl.

_Pansy soon learned the particulars of George’s mys-
terious occupation.

It appeared that, after she had ceased writing to
him, he had thrown up his work and taken to loose
ways of which drink was his chief aberration. Upon
his savings giving out, he had done odd jobs varied
with periods of unemployment during which he had
got along as best he could. Ultimately he had fallen
on his feet by the fact of his being mixed up in a music
hall disturbance and unwittingly protecting a moneyed
man, who was no fighter, from personal violence.

This was a Mr. Hans Lowenstein who had retired
from business and being wishful to lead the life of
a country gentleman had bought a sporting estate in
Essex.

Finding time heavy on his hands, and having lost
in speculation, it had occurred to him how money was
to be made by running a private hotel for would-be
sportsmen, these last being heavily charged for shoot-
ing over Mr. Lowenstein’s indifferently preserved cov-
erts.

George’s function in the business was to play the
part of a country yeoman in town for a spree and to
get into conversation with men in the more highly
priced promenades at music halls; should opportunity
offer, he was to dilate on the advantages to be derived
from a stay at Mr. Lowenstein’s place in the country.

The scheme worked admirably: George was invalu-
able to his employer as he not only looked what he
was supposed to be but was an admirable shot and
superintended the shoots where, on the whole, indif-
ferent ravages were made on his employer’s partridges
and rabbits,
312 PANSY MEARES

Thus George was well supplied with money, and
was attracted by the sporting element in his work.

Pansy had been not a little affected by her renewed
friendship with George.

Since she had been in London, she had associated
exclusively with townsfolk, and Gerald was a prod-
uct of a complex civilisation.

Of late, every fibre in her being had ached for na-
ture and its influences; her meeting with George had
in a measure satisfied this longing by reason of his
robust, manly personality which, if only from old as-
sociations, was suggestive of her native soil.

In addition to this prepossession in his favour, his
old characteristic, chivalrous devotion (she could not
determine whether or no it still survived) appealed
to all that was best in her and consequently their grow-
ing intimacy became in the nature of a reproach to
her irregular life.

Conscious that all was not well with her love for
Gerald, she was also aware that there were occasional
symptoms of an alteration in his affection for her.

Although tenderly considerate for her welfare and
happiness, there were times when he was moody and
depressed, at which he would closely question her
with regard to her comings and goings.

She marvelled if he were aware of her evenings
with George, and such knowledge was possible since,
three nights back, she had been walking with him and
had encountered Pritchard, her maid.

She did not know if the latter had recognised her,
but the incident had given Pansy pause, and had almost
determined her to have nothing more to do with her
lover of the Billingham days.

On the occasion of Gerald’s return, , She had offered
her lips; she had been hurt at his mérely kissing her
cheek.

The fact of her being possibly to blame for his cold-
ness had, with feminine inconsequence, exasperated
UNDERCURRENTS 313

her against him for not being at fault: also, her habit
of introspection had enabled her to discover that when-
soever as then, he displayed luke-warmness, love for
him flamed in her heart.

Torn by conflicting emotions, she had reproached
him for conduct of which he was guiltless.

Now she sat miserably in her bedroom, her mind
full of forebodings regarding the upshot of their dif-
ference for which she was primarily responsible; she
regretted her friendship with George; so far as she
was able debated whether it would not be as well to
ease her conscience and start afresh by making a clean
breast of the matter.

She bathed her face and eyes: then, full of contri-
tion for her behaviour, she sought Gerald.

As she approached him, she wondered if he were in
the mood to judge leniently the admission regarding
George she had all but determined to make.

“Here you are,” he said lightheartedly on seeing
Pansy. “Put on your best hat and we'll go out and
get tea somewhere.”

“You really want to!”

“Tf you'll come too.”

“Sure you’d rather not go by yourself!”

“Almost,” he laughed. “You'll come?”

“I—I think so.”

“That’s right, Pansy. I’ve had a miserable half
hour while you’ve been away.”

She looked at him with tremulous eyes.

“Don’t you believe me?” he asked.

She regarded his carelined face before saying:

“Y-yes.”

“That's why I love you, Pansy. You're full of
what someone calls a sweet reasonableness.”

“Not always. Just now i

“We'll say no more about that,” he interrupted. “T
want to forget it ever happened. And after tea, will
talk over where we'll go this evening.”

 
314 PANSY MEARES

He seemed so genuinely relieved that the sky of
their happiness was no longer darkened by storm
clouds that Pansy had not the heart to destroy his
present elation by telling him of her meetings with
George.

They left the flat and took tea at one of the in-
numerable highly priced tea shops, which have sprung
up in the neighbourhood of Bond Street, where the
walls are panelled with Wardour Street old oak, and
the needs of the customers are attended to by quaintly
garbed, silent-footed waitresses.

Pansy and Gerald had been talking lightheartedly
for some time when the former’s attention was at-
tracted by a beautiful and intelligent looking child
who was seated at an adjacent table with her mother
and father.

Pansy forgot the presence of her lover and was

consumed with envy of the parents by reason of their
possession.
’ It was not long before the child caught her eye
and repeatedly smiled at Pansy who forthwith knew a
revival of her fierce heart-hunger for a little one of
her own. Apprehensive that Gerald might notice her
preoccupation, she glanced at him, to perceive that he,
too, was gravely regarding the little one, at which she
marvelled if he were troubled by a like longing to her
own.

“What are you thinking of?” she asked in a low
voice.

“Eh 1"

Pansy repeated her question.

“I—I was thinking of—of the awful responsibility
of having children.”

“S-so was I.”

“And how—how lucky those people are who are
without them.”

“Aren’t they?” said Pansy hypocritically.

“You think so too?” he asked in some surprise,
UNDERCURRENTS 315

“Q-of course.”

“They’re a tie and a responsibility and all the rest
of it. Still—I’m ready to go when you are, sweet-
heart,” he sighed.

They left the tea shop, and Pansy believed that he
had no more voiced his inmost thoughts concerning
the advantages of childlessness than she had.

Perhaps it was to sustain this probably mutual in-
sincerity that they decided to dine out and finish the
evening at a music hall.

Pansy felt the need of movement; Gerald being of
the same mind, they walked Oxford Street for some
distance and turned into the Charing Cross Road
where they amused themselves by looking in the win-
dows of the print and curio dealers.

They went up a side street and presently lost their
bearings; in seeking to regain them, they walked a
narrow thoroughfare which was almost entirely bor-
dered by shops and stalls where cheap second-hand
furniture and odds and ends were displayed.

In one of these, and placed in a conspicuous position,
were two framed photographs of a boy and a girl;
as these caught Pansy’s eye, she stopped short.

“Look!” she cried.

“What at!” asked Gerald.

“Those poor children.”

“You'll have the dealer wanting you to buy them
directly.”

“They must have made a home happy once,” she
went on. “And now they’re out for sale like that.”

“If you feel like that, you’d better buy them.”

“Would you mind if I did?”

“Why should I!’

“I didn’t know. I should so like to have them.”

Pansy was as good as her word.

Gerald watched her with curious eyes as she spoke
to the dealer; upon her coming away with the photo-
graphs carelessly wrapped in soiled newspaper he said:
316 PANSY MEARES

“What are you going to do with them?”

“Burn them I suppose.”

“Then what was the point of buying them?”

“Anything was better than leaving them there like
that.”

They returned to the flat to dress and nine o’clock
found them in a box of the Alhambra music hall.

They had dined well and happily, and were on the
best of terms with the world, themselves and each
other ; perhaps they were another example of the Latin
proverb which says that “lovers’ quarrels are the re-
newal of love’, for Pansy had forgotten George and
the perturbations of spirit to which their foolish
friendship had given rise and was completely enjoying
herself.

Her hand rested in her lover’s, and she regretted
that the fact of their being overlooked by the box fac-
ing theirs prevented her from kissing him.

Suddenly, Pansy’s face grew hard: the love that
welled in her heart was chilled: the hand that gripped
Nepean’s relaxed its grasp.

She had caught sight of George in the stalls; he
was accompanied by a woman who bore a remarkable
resemblance to Eileen O’Hara, the uncannily beauti-
ful Irish girl she had worked with at “Mowker &
Bleet’s.”

Even as Pansy watched them, they got up and left
the music hall. The next thing she was conscious
of was that Gerald was regarding her with cold eyes.
CHAPTER XXV
TO WRITE OR NOT TO WRITE

ANSY, who was wearily obsessed by emotions

Pp that were at issue, sat at her writing table:

she was debating in her mind the advisability

of penning a letter which, for a time, would end her
present relations with Gerald.

She had been brought to this pass by her friendship
with George; this had been violently renewed since
seeing him at the music hall in the company of an
attractive young woman.

As has already been mentioned, she had practically
made up her mind to drop the acquaintance ; something
akin to jealousy, however, had weakened this reso-
lution, and she decided to see George once more if
only to learn if his companion were Miss O’Hara.

Upon arranging a meeting she had treated him
distantly and was much put out at noticing that he
disregarded her coldness.

She had severely questioned him with regard to the
incident she had witnessed and had learned that his
friend was none other than her fellow worker at
“Mowker & Bleet’s.”

She was not at all interested to discover what had
happened to Miss O’Hara but it was altogether an-
other matter where George was concerned.

If she had been surprised at his conduct, she was
even more taken aback at the manner in which he
greeted her strictures on his behaviour, he telling her
that if he were guilty of an innocent (he was em-
phatic on this point) flirtation with the Irish girl, it

317
318 PANSY MEARES

was entirely Pansy’s fault by reason of the aloofness
with which she had treated him since they had met
again.

He had hinted that he might have been eager to
marry Pansy if she had responded to his advances and
had declared that if Pansy did not continue occa-
sionally to see him, he was in danger of succumbing
to the fascinations of Miss O’Hara.

Upon Pansy, to use a vulgar expression, “rather
giving Eileen away” where her disposition was con-
cerned, George shrugged his broad shoulders and told
her that as far as he was concerned, it must be either
one or the other.

Pansy, in order to wean George from such a dan-
gerous woman (at least, this was the reason she re-
peated to herself) consented to continue her friend-
ship, with the result that her affection for Gerald had
been diminished.

It was not that George had supplanted the latter
in her heart so much as that her acquaintance with
him had lessened her love for Gerald until she had
been able to view her surrender and subsequent con-
duct with the eyes of reason rather than with those
which had had their normal keenness of vision dimmed
by passion.

Gerald had contributed to Pansy’s instability of
mind: he had doubtless divined something in the na-
ture of what was toward; and as he had correctly de-
scribed his nature in telling her how he would be ad-
versely influenced against his heart’s idol should she
deviate from his original estimate of her character,
he had become distant and occasionally morose. At
all times, however, he ardently responded should
Pansy shew him any of her original tenderness.

If he had been made of coarser and stronger clay
and had fiercely upbraided her and had made threats
of physical violence if she continued to meet any
other male in whom she might be interested, he would
TO WRITE OR NOT TO WRITE 319

have completely dominated her and regained her de-
votion.

As it was, they were slowly, but none the less surely,
drifting apart; it was in Pansy’s mind to write him
a letter, he being now away, honestly confessing her
indecision and suggesting that she should go away
by herself for a month or six weeks and endeavour to
make up her mind with regard to the right course to
pursue.

She was eager to have the matter settled one way
or another.

Her disposition was such that it irked her to eat
the luxurious bread of one to whom she was not men-
tally as she was physically loyal.

Perhaps this was why she disregarded the well-
known advice of a famous French wit and statesman,
which Gerald had once repeated, to those who are in
doubt as to the wisdom of writing a given letter, and
set down the words that interpreted her uncertainty
of mind.

Even when this sorry task was completed, and the
missive addressed and stamped, she had not the heart
to post it: she was possessed by an access of affection,
if not of love, for Gerald and stood irresolute with
the letter in her hand. The consequences of its de-
spatch might be so momentous that she resolved to
take a long walk in order to attempt to consider the
matter in all its many bearings; to this end, she put
on a costly new hat and left the flat, first concealing
the letter beneath the blotting paper on her writing
table.

It was a fine May day; for all her resolve to sub-
ject herself to a rigid self-examination, she very soon
found herself indisposed to burden herself with her
doubts and hesitations and surrendered to the joy of
healthy exercise.

Walking in the glad sunshine, the distractions of-
fered by the shops, many of which were displaying
320 PANSY MEARES

summer fashions, dissipated the morbid humours in
her blood: she saw things from a more normal stand-
point and could not understand her previous mental
unrest.

Presently, she had tea in a tea shop and returned
to her flat about six, profoundly thankful that she
had not posted her letter to Gerald, and resolving to
destroy it at once.

Directly she opened the door, she encountered
Pritchard.

“The master’s in, Madam,” the maid informed her.

“Surely not!” cried Pansy.

“He’s been in half-an-hour, madam, and has been
asking for you.”

Pansy’s fears, which had been aroused by the maid’s
information, were allayed somewhat at recalling how
she had hidden the letter under her blotting paper : she
could only devoutly hope it had not been discovered.

With heart abeat, she entered the drawing room
where Gerald sat at her writing table; directly he
heard her footsteps, he rose to greet her; she was
greatly relieved to learn by the expression of delight
which overspread his face on seeing her that he had
not chanced upon her communication.

“Here is my sweetest Pansy!’ he began.

“T’m so sorry I was out.”

“But you'd no idea I was coming.”

“T had a ‘fit of the blues’ so went for a walk as
far as ig

“Never mind about that.”

“But I want to tell you where I went.”

“But I don’t wish to know.”

“Doesn’t it interest you?” she pouted.

“Tt isn’t that, sweetheart. It seemed as if you
thought it necessary to explain your doings in my
absence.”

“You often want to know.”

“That’s all over and done with now, Pansy.”

 
TO WRITE OR NOT TO WRITE 321

“What do you mean?” she asked quickly and with
a note of alarm in her voice.

“That’s all over and done with now.”

“But——!”

“And that’s why, coming across London, I made
time to have half an hour with you.”

“Tt isn’t very long,” she remarked inconsequently.

“But there’s compensation.”

“Seeing me?”

“Partly, and there’s something else; but that can
wait.’

Gerald’s face became serious as he continued:

“T want to put an end, dearest Pansy, to our mis-
trust and doubts which, I don’t mind freely confess-
ing, only make me miserable.”

“They’re mostly my fault,” she cried impulsively.

“Not altogether. I know perfect, endless happiness
is not to be expected. If we had it, it would soon
cease to be happiness and therefore would turn to
ashes in our mouths. Happiness for people con-
stituted like you and me comes from unexpected hap-
penings and is seized and enjoyed because we know
trouble is always waiting for us round the corner.”

“Prose away,” she laughed: she was ever so thank-
ful he had not lighted upon her letter.

“Tt’s a harmless enough vice, that is to say if it
doesn’t bore you overmuch.”’

“T thought you had only half an hour.”

“I’m so happy, I let my tongue run away with me.
This is my idea to make us happy (more or less) for
ever and a day. I don’t think London’s the place for
you, Pansy. You don’t know a soul, and when I’m
away you only mope and bore yourself, and it’s enough
to drive you to drink or female suffrage.”

“Well!” she exclaimed impatiently as he paused.

“What do you say to a farm in the country, Pansy!”

“A farm,” she cried: she could scarcely believe she
had heard aright.
322 PANSY MEARES

“You are a country girl and nothing I should love
better myself and all the time I should know you'd
something to amuse you when I’m away.”

“You dear, kind darling!’ she cried effusively.
“It’s what I should love more than anything in the
world.”

“Tve the very place. It’s in Kent and on a hill
overlooking Romney Marsh, with the sea beyond. I’m
engaging a stockman who'll see to everything, and
you'll go in for fine stock and win prizes at cattle
shows. I’m getting it ready and when it’s finished,
I'll take you down.”

Pansy was profuse with affectionate thanks.

“Wasn't that worth coming to tell you?”

“T should think it was, my own.”

“So the simple life has attractions for blackeyed
Pansy!”

“Tf it’s lived with you.”

“That was a sweet remark, little Pansy.”

“Better, a true one.”

“And having made Pansy and myself happy, I’ll
tear myself away.”

“For how long?”

“A week at most.”

“A whole week!”

“Tt’ll seem years to me,” he declared.

“But I’ll make it up to you when you come back,”
she assured him.

“You'll come with me to the station!”

“May J?”

“We'll chance it this time.”

“Tm thinking of you.”

“One must take risks sometimes.”’

aoe were on the point of setting out when he
said:

“Tl kiss you here, Pansy. It’ll be our last chance.”

“Not in the cab!”

“Your kisses are too precious to waste in cabs.”
TO WRITE OR NOT TO WRITE 323

“You take my breath away,” she said after they
had ardently kissed.

“Ever heard of a johnny called ‘Marcus Aurelius’ ?”’

“Who was he?” ,

“A philosopher who said live each hour of life as
if it were your last. I was taking his advice.”

“Don’t!” she cried.

“Don’t what?”

“So much as suggest it was our last kiss.”

“God forbid that I should,” he said fervently. “But
we must go now or [ll miss the train.”

“Think of me, won’t you?” she whispered as they
descended the stairs.

“What a question! But I’ve compensations for our
separation.”

“You spoke of that before.”

“There’s the knowledge that you’re happy at the
prospect of the country, and then there’s the letter.”

“The letter!”

“The letter I found under the blotting paper
stamped and addressed to me.”

“You—you opened it?”

“Not yet. I was going to as you came in. I’m
keeping it to read in the train.”

Pansy stopped dead.

“What's the matter, little Pansy?”

“That—that letter!” she faltered.

“What of it?”

“You—you found it?”

“Yes. Wasn’t it meant for me?”

“No—yes. I mean——!’

“Tf we don’t start at once, I shall miss the train.”

Pansy was so taken aback by her illfortune that
she was incapable of formulating a plan of action: she
was vaguely aware of the necessity of recovering the
letter but when it came to thinking of a means of ob-
taining it without exciting suspicion, it was another
matter.
324 PANSY MEARES

One moment, she all but made up her mind to con-
fess its contents and throw herself on Gerald’s mercy;
the next, her courage failed her and she wondered
what stratagem would best achieve her purpose.

Meantime, they were rapidly approaching Waterloo
in a taxi-cab: to add to her embarrassment Gerald,
with his arm about her waist and holding one of her
hands in his, was enlarging on the joys of the country
life they would appreciate together and colouring their
future in roseate hues.

“We shan’t know each other, little Pansy,” he said.
“And you'll lose the worried look you sometimes wear,
and you'll get so pretty I shall be in danger of falling
head over ears in love with you. Good heavens!
We're already at Waterloo Bridge.”

Pansy’s distress was such that she could almost
have jumped from the cab and thrown herself into the
sullen blackness of the river.

Gerald, wholly ignorant of his companion’s extrem-
ity, went on:

“T don’t suppose, for one moment, you’ll believe
what I’m going to say, but it’s none the less true.
I’ve often thought I was a fool not to marry you and
find happiness in my own way.”

He appeared surprised at the silence with which
she greeted this information, before continuing:

“For my little twopenny halfpenny world of so-
ciety, I care not at all. The only genuine happiness
I’ve ever known is what you have brought into my
life.”

A little later, he asked:

“Didn’t you hear me, sweetheart ?”

“Yes, but——!”

“But what!”

“T'll tell you when we get on the platform.”

“Do you remember our night in that old French
town, where we decided we wouldn’t find out where
we were, and where we stood on the bridge in the

TE
TO WRITE OR NOT TO WRITE 325

moonlight. I shall never forget it, and I don’t think
that you will, either.”

Pansy, in spite of her disordered thoughts, laughed.

“What is amusing you?”

“T was thinking of that woman who smelt the but-
ter and got some on her nose. I couldn’t help it.”

“I’m glad you’ve some tender recollections of
France. But that’s nothing to where we'll go, if we
get tired of farming; we’ve the whole world to amuse
ourselves in, and even if we hadn’t it would be heaven
with you.”

While Gerald had been speaking, Pansy, who had
bridled an inclination to laugh and to weep, desper-
ately resolved to ask for the letter as he was getting
into the train on the plea of seeing if she had inserted
something she feared she had forgotten: she might
contrive to avoid returning it and thus prevent him
learning its contents.

But it was as if the stars in their courses again
fought against Pansy.

Directly they reached the station, Gerald glanced
at the clock and exclaimed:

“Tt’s later than I thought. My watch must have
lost.”

Pansy sharply put her hand to her side where her
heart seemed to have stopped beating.

They hastened (Pansy with an effort) in the direc-
tion of his train, and she was about to beseech him
for her letter when Gerald met a man who warmly
greeted him and detained him for the best part of
two minutes during which Pansy stared wildly about
her and resisted a disposition to scream.

“We were at Eton and Oxford together,” Gerald
told Pansy after he had left his friend. “He’s one
of the few men I know who are happily married.”

The train was full and Gerald had some difficulty
in finding a seat even in a first-class compartment.

“Goodbye, little Pansy,” he said as the guards were
326 PANSY MEARES

shutting the doors preparatory to the departure of
the train.

“Why! What’s the matter!’

“That letter!” she cried.

“Which ?”

“The one you found.”

“What of it!”

“Give it to me. There’s something I forgot. Give
it to me.”

“Certainly.”

Pansy’s heart leapt with hope.

Gerald fumbled in his pockets; as he did not come
upon the missive Pansy knew a suspense that made
her faint and sick.

“T—I can’t find it,’ he said as the guard waved
his flag.

“You must—you: .

“I can’t have lost it. What a nuisance there’s not
more time,” he said.

The train began to move, at which Pansy cried:

“Always, always remember that I left something
out.”

‘ She was uncertain whether or no he heard.

Slowly, inevitably the last carriage of the train
passed where she stood; and as she helplessly watched
the rear light disappear into the distance, it was as
if the life-blood were being drawn from her body.

 
CHAPTER XXVI

ADRIFT

women who live alone, was drifting.
Following upon her rupture with Gerald,
which was an immediate consequence of the letter
she had vainly endeavoured to get back, she had left
her cosy flat and was now lodging in Finborough
Road, West Brompton.

Here, conspicuous among her belongings were the
derelict photographs of the two children Pansy had
rescued from the second-hand shop in the neighbour-
hood of the Charing Cross Road.

On leaving Long Acre, she had been about to de-
stroy them; relenting at the last moment, she had
brought them with her and set them up on the mantel-
piece much as if the originals pertained to her life.

Generous to the end, Nepean had beseeched her
to accept a handsome settlement which Pansy had
firmly refused: at present she was living on the pro-
ceeds of the sale of her jewels, a source of support
which sooner or later must come to an end.

Immediately she had realised she had lost Gerald,
she had known a violent revulsion of feeling in his
favour: George was forgotten, or if remembered at
all, she thought of him with rancour for being the
cause of her separation from the man she loved and
to whom she had given so much: she suffered deeply
and although she told herself that her anguish was
deserved for the precipitancy with which she had

327

Pore: after the manner of many attractive
328 PANSY MEARES

revealed a passing mental phase, this reflection pro-
vided no relief for her extremity.

Gerald had taken her letter as tantamount to
her insisting that she wished their intercourse to
end,

Many times she had been on the point of writing to
tell him that their parting was all a mistake and that
she was his from the bottom of her heart; on each
occasion, pride withheld the despatch of the letter,
and she unconsciously provided an illustration of the
reason for the separation of lovers he had once re-
peated from the pages of Balzac.

Her torments were increased by her believing that
Gerald was out and about enjoying himself, oblivious
of her very existence: she little knew how profoundly
he felt her loss and the wounds that he believed to
be her inconstancy had made in his heart.

She spent long days and sleepless nights either in
a stupor of despair or in an access of mental energy
in which she would repeatedly go over in her mind
every trifling incident which led up to her parting with
Gerald and tell herself how but for first one thing
and then another, she would now be living happily
with him on a farm in the country.

Since she had lost him beyond recall, his value was
increased a thousand fold.

Once or twice she had steeped herself in temporary
forgetfulness with the aid of strong drink; here, how-
ever, her good sense had come to her assistance and
warned her that there was no turning back on the road
she was being tempted to take.

To divert her thoughts from her griefs, also, as a
means of support, she had determined to look for
work until she realised that the luxurious days she
had known made it impossible for her to return to
the conditions of her life before her intimacy with
Gerald.

Thoughts of the stage had obsessed her for a time
ADRIFT 329

but were abandoned since she had no idea of how to
set about obtaining an engagement.

Then she had been minded to go home and seek to
comfort her sick mother; here, again, the fatness she
had enjoyed had sapped her strength of character;
she was now too soft to endure the spectacle of
chronic illness.

A time came when she got into the habit of taking
long walks about London: on some occasions, she
permitted the men who dogged her footsteps to speak
to her: she justified such questionable proceedings by
the temporary relief she enjoyed from the gnawing
at her heart.

One day, the chance taking up of a newspaper
brought grievous temptation to Pansy.

She had begun to take serious thought for the mor-
row, and although she believed she could never again
know the meaning of happiness she realised the neces-
sity of doing something practical for herself, if only
to obtain a measure of relief from the periods of de-
spondency she experienced.

She glanced down the advertisement columns and
took an idle pleasure in determining which were traps
for the unwary (no difficult matter for one with her
experience) when she lighted on one that attracted
her attention.

“Wanted, companion housekeeper,” it ran. “Duties
light and good salary to suitable applicant. Apply
giving full particulars to Box F. 6530.”

After some demur, Pansy answered the advertise-
ment; she knew in her inmost heart that comfortable
jobs such as this appeared to be were not going beg-
ging, but she was bored with herself and all the world,
and hoped that, if she received a reply, it would pro-
vide distraction for her thoughts.

She heard from the advertiser with suspicious alac-
rity; he said he was taken by Miss Meares’ handwrit-
ing and way of expressing herself; and if she would
330 PANSY MEARES

permit him to call, he would welcome the opportunity
of explaining exactly what he wanted, which it was
difficult to do in a letter.

He wrote from the “Junior British Club’, which
was in the neighbourhood of Piccadilly; the letter was
signed J. Batson Wisbey.

This communication was more suspect than the
advertisement: Pansy was in two minds with regard
to giving the required permission: one moment, she
was resolved to have nothing to do with Mr. Wisbey
and his explanations; the next, she told herself she
might as well see him as she was wholly indifferent
what became of her.

She put off replying, but on the second evening
of the day after she had received the letter, her
landlady, a Mrs. Swing, informed her that a
gentleman was below and wished to speak with
her.

Wondering if it were George (she had not written
to him since she had left her flat) and if he had
traced her to her present lodging, she asked the land-
lady, who had talked a lot about respectability and
references upon Pansy’s coming about rooms, if she
would mind her seeing the caller.

“Not me, my dear. I was never a spoil-sport,” re-
plied Mrs. Swing. “Tl ask him up and good luck to
him.”

Two minutes later, Pansy was not a little dismayed
at being confronted with an elderly, welldressed
stranger; whosoever he might be, a glance sufficed
to tell her that she would never like him.

It was evident that he was more pleased with her
appearance for, as he stared at her, his prominent,
hard eyes looked about to fall from his head.

“Miss Meares!” he began.

EVs yes. ”

OAS. I did not hear from you, I took the liberty of
calling.”
ADRIFT. 331

“Are you Mr..——!”

“Wisbey. That’s my name. I presume you got my
letter!”

“Oh yes, I received it, but p

“One moment. Before deciding whether or not
you will accept my offer, I should like you to learn
the advantages of the situation.”

“It’s very kind of you. I’ve scarcely decided what
I’m going to do,” declared Pansy, who resented the
fact of Mr. Wisbey’s intrusion.

“Of course you know your own affairs best. And
if you don’t want the place, I’m only wasting your
time and I’ve many other applicants.”

“T suppose so,” said Pansy lamely.

“Lots.”

Pansy was silent.

“And as I’ve four or five others to interview, I
wish you good evening.”

“One moment!” said Pansy, whose resolution had
weakened at hearing there were many candidates for
the job, this making it more desirable than it had
hitherto appeared.

Mr. Wisbey paused on his way to the door.

“Won’t you sit down?” she faltered.

“Thank you.”

“Perhaps you would not mind giving me full par-
ticulars.”

“Delighted. It’s very good of you to listen.”

“Girls in want of work are not often considered
like that,” she said grimly.

“But this is not work.”

“What!” she asked sharply.

“Scarcely. At least: Y

“Well——!”

“N-not hard work.”

“Indeed !”

“Perhaps you would let me explain!”

“It would be as well,” she remarked wearily.

 

 
332 PANSY MEARES

With little or no circumlocution, Mr. Wisbey told
Pansy that he had taken a flat in Victoria Street; that
he was not often there but wanted a housekeeper, who
would be a companion; that he was willing to pay
handsomely if he found one he considered suitable
for the post.

He also informed Pansy that he was furnishing the
flat which would be ready for occupation in a fort-
night and that if she were willing, he would engage
her on the spot.

“But you don’t know anything about me. Don't
you want references?” she asked.

Mr. Wisbey declared that, in her case, testimonials
were superfluous.

“But I might be anything for all you know to the
contrary!”

Mr. Wisbey was a man of the world and judged a
woman by instinct.

Before Pansy could reply, he went off at a tangent
and spoke of anything other than the subject that had
brought him to Finborough Road; in a very little
while, something of the reserve with which she had
originally greeted him disappeared.

Although he had declared how he considered ref-
erences unnecessary, she perceived that now and again
he diverted the conversation in order to discover any-
thing he might of her past life.

She adroitly withstood this inquisitiveness and sud-
denly surprised him by asking:

“Are you married, Mr. Wisbey ?”

“T beg your pardon!’

“T asked you if you were married.”

“TI wish to be quite candid with you. I am.”

Pansy smiled ironically.

“That fact seems to amuse you,” he remarked.

“I don’t know whether it does or whether it does
not,” she remarked with a suggestion of bitterness in
her voice.
ADRIFT 333

: Mr. Wisbey picked up his glossy hat and rose to his
eet.

“T think T’ve said all I can say,” he remarked.

“Quite.”

“And perhaps you'll think over the matter. I'll give
you three days.”

“T believe I’ve——!”

“Don’t decide now. It’s thirty pounds a year and
next to nothing to do. Let me have an answer within
three days.”

It was in her mind to give him a definite re-
fusal there and then; the fact of his keeping his
offensively (in a physical sense) prominent eyes to
the ground disposed her to postpone her rejection of
his offer.

“What confounded cheek!’ was Pansy’s first com-
ment on Mr. Wisbey’s visit.

For the ensuing three days, Pansy knew an uncer-
tainty of spirit like to when she had been unable to
make up her mind with regard to answering Mr. Wis-
bey’s advertisement.

Sometimes she was convinced that he had obvious
designs upon her and on these occasions she told
herself she would have no more to do with him: oth-
etwise, she told herself that she had nothing to fear
in accepting his offer and that considering the diff-
culties in getting, and the objections to, ordinary
work, she was a fool not to jump at this chance in
a thousand which had presented itself.

Her mental controversy ended in the somewhat ig-
noble compromise of her deciding to see him once
more when she would ask him pointblank what his
intentions were.

Mr. Wisbey promptly called in reply to Pansy’s sug-
gestion for a further interview before giving a deci-
sion; this time, his manner was so deferential, seemly
and plausible that she had not the courage to put the
question she had decided to ask,
334 PANSY MEARES

The arrangement was concluded and she agreed
to take up her duties in a fortnight.

Pansy had several meetings with her future em-
ployer during the interval, he wishing to consult her
with regard to the decorations and hangings: on all
and each of these occasions, he took Pansy’s advice
without demur.

Apart from the faint interest aroused by these con-
sultations, Pansy was in a bad way.

Her fits of despondency became frequent, deeper,
and more prolonged: also, and this was a more signifi-
cant symptom of nervous undoing, should she believe,
as she sometimes did, that she was running unneces-
sary risks in taking Mr. Wisbey’s handsome salary
for indifferent work, she was wholly callous of the
consequences.

She gave the usual notice to Mrs. Swing, packed
her belongings, including the photographs of the two
children, paid the little she owed in the neighbourhood
and made every preparation for taking up her new
quarters in Victoria Street.

The day before her departure from Finborough
Road, she was depressed by the bare aspect of
her lodging, since it was deprived of the trifling
decoration with which she had contrived to mitigate
its ugliness, and went out of her way to see Mr.
Wisbey.

She took tea with him and afterwards they paid
a visit of inspection to their future abode.

Perhaps Mr. Wisbey lost his head or he was now
so triumphantly sure of his prey that he was no longer
careful to conceal his aspirations: for one short mo-
ment, both by look and manner, he betrayed a sense of
proprietorship in Pansy.

She was quick to notice this manifestation but did
not resent it at the moment, she being possessed by
one of her less susceptible moods.

It was another matter on the following day and
ADRIFT 335

particularly as the hour approached for her to trans-
fer herself to her new home.

Even during the times in which she had hardened
her heart to the better instincts of her nature, he had
always inspired a greater or less repugnance: now
that his intention was nakedly revealed, every moment
appeared to increase her aversion from keeping to her
engagement.

At last, she decided that even if the matter were
more momentous than it was, nothing would induce
her to go; it was the act of a very few minutes for
Pansy to hasten to the telegraph office in the Rich-
mond Road and despatch a telegram saying that she
was not coming to-night and that a letter followed
to explain.

This latter communication was curt and to the
point: she went out to post it some two hours later
and on her return heard that Mr. Wisbey had called
in her absence and was awaiting her in her sitting
room.

Apprehensive that an awkward five minutes was
toward, Pansy went upstairs with beating heart.

She had barely got inside the room before Mr. Wis-
bey, who held her telegram in his hand, cried:

“What does this mean?”

“That telegram!”

“Yes, this telegram. How dare you play me such
a trick at such a time?”

“Dare!”

“Yes, Dare! Dare! Dare!”

Anger had transformed him so that Pansy hardly
recognised him: his features were distorted by wrath
and revealed the essential sensuality, brutality and
coarseness of the man; while she feared his resent-
ment she was, at heart, glad that, at the last moment,
the scales had fallen from her eyes.

“Leave the house,” she said with as much calmness
as she could muster.
336 PANSY MEARES

“What!”

“Leave the house.”

“The house! You mean this miserable lodging.”

“Whatever it is, I wish you to go. If you molest
me any more, I shall go to the police.”’

“You're a nice one to talk about police.”

Pansy turned her back on him.

“T should like to know who you are and what you
are with your fine clothes and taking an engagement
as housekeeper,” he went on.

Pansy held her peace with difficulty.

“T’m not a fool and I know what’s what. And for
you to arrange to come and then to throw me over
at the last moment after all the. expense you've put
me to is nothing short of impertinence!’

Pansy made as if she would speak but controlled
herself with an effort.

Unmindful of her gathering wrath, he spluttered:

“Any one can see at a glance what you are——!”

“Stop!” she interrupted.

“And—— ”

“Stop! Stop! Stop!” she cried as she advanced
upon him with flashing eyes. “And listen to me.”

Mr. Wisbey was cowed by her unexpected vehe-
mence, for he remained silent.

“Tt’s about time a man like you heard a few truths
and they'll come with all the more point from a
woman like me who knows what love is and has been
worshipped by one whose boots a common beast like
you is not fit to black.”

“What! You! You insult. ! How dare ns

“Yes, beast! beast! beast! You yourself and your
vulgar flat and your thirty pounds a year! Do you
know that women like myself are not to be bought
with untold gold! That we only give ourselves where
we love! And that such a love would never, never,
never be inspired by a crawling thing like you!”

Pansy paused for very breath.

 

 
As for Mr. Wisbey, he was first surprised by
Pansy’s outbreak and then so hurt by her words that,
after gazing at her in crestfallen astonishment, he be-
took himself from the room in ignominious flight.

Pansy’s passionate indignation exhausted her scanty
store of nerve force: the four walls of the room be-
came unendurable; she put on her hat and, going out,
took her seat on the first passing bus, in the hope of
the night air calming her agitated mind.

She was carried eastward; on arriving at Charing
Cross, she got down and walked aimlessly about the
streets.

After a time, she felt weak from lack of nourish-
ment (she had had no dinner) and not caring for
food she looked for a quiet place where she could get
a glass of stout.

With some misgivings, she went into the saloon
bar of a public house in a quiet turning near the
Strand and was astonished at discovering it to be
larger and more frequented than she had believed to
be the case upon entering.

Men and women were sitting about in twos and
threes; now and again, one of these females would
leave her companions and ascend a gaudily decorated
staircase leading from the bar.

Pansy ordered her glass of stout from a waiter in
attendance; to avoid embarrassing glances in her di-
rection she took up and pretended to read a theatri-
cal journal which lay handy to her elbow, but all the
time she was watching those about her.

One group she had not noticed before attracted her
attention.

It was that of three or four rather blowsy, middle-
aged, painted women whose clothing had a make-
believe smartness derived from tawdry materials. _

Each and all were seeking to attract the attention
of two men who were talking at an adjacent table:
they would laugh at the jokes of the latter, and if
338 PANSY MEARES

they could catch a masculine eye they would insinuat-
ingly move their empty glasses in its possessor’s direc-
tion.

Pansy appraised these women at a glance. They
were in what to them were the terrible forties, when
the figure metaphorically goes to pieces, the eyes lose
their lustre and the inevitable imprint of years and
evil living can no longer be concealed.

As Pansy regarded this feminine ullage from the
wine of life, its aspect held a personal interest.

Jt appeared quite possible that, if she continued her
rudderless course, a time must arrive when she, also,
would be in the same desperate case, and be driven to
employ the shifts resorted to by the human wreckage
in the bar.

Any expedient to escape such a fate appeared justi-
fiable: this was why she hastened to the Charing
Cross Post Office and sent a telegram to George fur-
nishing him with her address and asking him to call.
CHAPTER XXVII

THE WAY OF A WOMAN

Pansy, whose perusal of a book had been in-
terrupted by George’s precipitate entrance, rose
from her chair.

“Seven after it, but I came in an easy first. You
see, they knew me.”

“I am so glad,” declared Pansy.

“Just the place I wanted. A hundred and fifty
acres, and all light soil, and once I’ve started with
the stock, see if I don’t coin money.”

“I hope you won’t be disappointed.”

“When I shall have you, Pansy!”

“T’m afraid I’m not everything.”

“But you are to me, dear, now I’ve got you, and
after waiting so long: all my life as you might say.
And having brought this good news, don’t I deserve
a kiss?”

Pansy dutifully offered her lips.

“That’s a good girl. And how have you been all
this while?”

“These two days! Quite well, thank you, George.
And you?”

“Tm always ‘At’, particularly now I’ve got you.
I can’t get over my luck with Swallow farm, even
now. Ted Summers was bustin’ to get it and swore
cruel when I romped in.”

Pansy did not offer any comment, and George
puffed out his great chest with satisfaction at his good
fortune in obtaining the coveted holding.

339

|“ got it, Pansy; I’ve got it.”
340 PANSY MEARES

“And what about tea, Miss Pansy?” he said a little
later.

“Thirsty ?”

“T should just think I am since I’ve sworn off
everything except——!”

“Ah 2 .

“You don’t let me finish, Pansy: I was going to
say except stone gingers.”

“That won’t do you much harm,” said Pansy
as she rang the bell for Mrs. Swing to bring up
the tea.

After some delay, the tea pot and bread and butter
made their appearance, and while George ate and
drank with characteristic appetite, he talked inces-
santly of the golden future of which he was assured,
now Pansy had promised to be his wife.

Directly the meal was over, however, he lit a ciga-
rette and became reflectively silent.

Pansy fell in with his mood; for a long time noth-
ing was said until George remarked:

“Tt’s all ‘wonnerful’, Pansy.”

“What!”

“All too ‘wonnerful’ to be true.”

“The farm ?”

“Vou.”

Pansy repressed a sigh.

“I was going the pace when you wired. Hard, me
and one or two others, who were down on their luck,
were on the drink bad, and if I hadn’t heard from you,
I mightn’t have pulled up in time.”

“You don’t really mean that!”

“Don’t I!” said George with a world of meaning in
his voice.

“T’m sorry you were like that and glad I wrote.”

“You don’t look very cheerful over it.”

“There’s so—so much to think of.”

“I know; and your mother being so bad and all.”

“Q-of course.”
THE WAY OF A WOMAN 341

“And if anything happens to her, you never know
what games old Abel will be up to next.”

“True,” assented Pansy absently.

“He’s a rare old devil and I don’t think he fears
God nor man, and I’d as lief trust myself with old
Nick as with him. With old Nick, you do know where
you are and what to expect, but never with the other,
eh, Pansy!”

“True.”

“What are you thinking of?”

Pansy awoke to the fact that George was narrowly
watching her.

“Why ?”

“You never give Abel a thought ?”

“Good heavens!”

“Because I know how the wicked old beast thinks
of you.”

“And I know what I think of him,” declared Pansy
confidently.

“But you don’t like him the least bit?”

“What ever makes you ask such a question?”

“T hardly know.”

“You must.”

“Tt’s hard to explain. But when I was in drink
I used to think things, you being so young and inno-
cent, and he so crafty and bad, and you living in the
same house with him all those months.”

“You must have been in drink.”

“And when I was like that, I’d believe any-
thing and was that savage, I wanted to kill him and
you.”

“George!”

“Yes: you and him. It’s wicked I know and when
sober it’s bothered me a lot. Now I’m glad I’ve told
you without meaning to.”

“But you don’t think such things now?”

“Never, Pansy, never. How could I, loving you
asI do? And now you've promised.”
342 PANSY MEARES

Pansy was lost in troubled thought during which
she now and again glanced apprehensively at George.

“T wish I hadn’t seen him,” he declared.

“Who.”

“Him, Abel Gorm. But J had to go and say as
how I was going to marry you and it made me pleased
to give him ‘one in the eye’ as that was.”

“How did mother seem?”

“The sight of me did her good for the time and she
asked for your address meaning to write if she was
well enough.”

Pansy got up and went to the window: her eyes ap-
parently rested on the drearily commonplace houses,
which were replicas of the one where she lodged, fac-
ing her, and on the patch of glorious blue sky just
visible beyond the roofs, but she saw none of these
things; her mind was possessed by thoughts of the
sick mother she had neglected for so long.

She upbraided herself for her selfishness and tried
to excuse herself by reflecting her remissness was
partly owing to her recognition of the fact that her
mother’s infatuation for Abel Gorm, so soon after
her first husband’s death, was responsible for Pansy
being thrown on the world and for her subsequent
griefs.

The farm George had secured was within forty
miles of Billingham; Pansy assured herself that she
would make amends for her forgetfulness by visiting
her mother after she was married to George: perhaps
she would win his consent to having her to live with
them, a proceeding to which Gorm would be unlikely
to make objection.

A hand laid on Pansy’s shoulder startled her from
her reverie.

“TIsn’t it all ‘wonnerful’?” asked George.

“What do you mean?”

“This,” he replied glancing in the direction of the
patch of sky.
THE WAY OF A WOMAN 343

“Of course, George.”

“I always loved the air and the smell of the earth
and the stock, Pansy; but never so much as now. It’s
all because of you.”

Pansy edged away from the man at her side.

“It’s true, Pansy, as God is my judge. I don’t
like to speak of these things, but I thank Him for you
and the difference it’s made to me.”

“What time is it?’ enquired Pansy inconse-
quently.

“Never mind the time. There’s something else I’m
thankful for, Pansy. I know what London is better
than most and what traps there are for sweet-faced
country girls like my Pansy. I’m ‘wonnerful’ thank-
ful that you, my dear, true wife as is to be, has come
through safe and sound.”

“Don’t talk about it to-night, George.”

“Why not?”

“T don’t feel in the mood.”

“You was always unlike other girls. Where are
you going?”

“To put on my hat.”

“What for?”

“I want you to take me out.”

“Where?”

“Anywhere. I’ve been alone all day. I want cheer-
ing up.”

“You usually like staying in of an evening.”

“Please me to-night, George. I want to go where
it’s bright and lively. I want to be taken out of my-
self.”

“Please yourself,” said George with a suggestion of
reluctance in his voice.

“I’m going to, if you don’t mind.”

On returning to her sitting room, Pansy found
George regarding the photographs of the two chil-
dren; she had already told him how she had come by
them.
344 PANSY MEARES

“I can’t get over your getting these, Pansy,” he
remarked.

“So you’ve said before.”

“Shews you’re fond of children!”

Pansy was silent.

“Please God we'll have some of our very own
some day,” said George simply.

“You mean that?” she asked after a moment or
two.

“God knows I do,” he replied.

She looked at him with tremulous eyes: perhaps,
at that moment, she was nearer to loving him than
she had ever been before.

They went to the second “house” at the music hall
in the Kings Road, Chelsea; after this excellent en-
tertainment was over, Pansy complained of being
hungry, at which they had supper on the first floor of
a large public house on the opposite side of the way.

It being necessary for George to catch his last
train from Liverpool Street, Pansy went home alone;
on turning into Finborough Road from the Richmond
Road, something induced her to look round. In so
doing, she perceived a man who bore an astonishing
resemblance to her stepfather stop and board a bus
that was going in the direction of Piccadilly.

She repeatedly told herself she must have been mis-
taken, but the impression haunted her for long after
she reached home and until she fell asleep.

Pansy’s precipitate telegram to George had resulted
in a renewal of their friendship; it was not long be-
fore, encouraged by her tenderness, he had asked her
to become his wife: they had been engaged a month
and were to be married in three.

On the whole, Pansy was almost happy at the pros-
pect of wedding George: almost, because she did not
reciprocate his love.

She respected him for his manliness and his life-
long devotion to her, albeit, at the same time, she was
THE WAY OF A WOMAN 345

disposed to patronise him by reason of the wider so-
cial horizons she had explored.

She felt that her heart was his due and regretted her
inability to provide this meed of affection, yet she
was fully resolved to do her duty as his wife and
never to allow him so much as to suspect that his love
was not returned.

She had many misgivings with regard to her rela-
tions with Gerald, but told herself that, since George
was not everything to her, she did not see the neces-
sity of acquainting him with the flaw in her life which
she had resolved to forget as soon as she might.

This determination was not made any the easier
by a letter that had arrived in Gerald’s well-known
handwriting.

The sight of it had made her heart beat wildly, and
as she tore open the envelope with trembling hands,
she marvelled how he had obtained her address.

His communication was short and to the point: it
told her how utterly miserable he had been without
her; that she was more to him than he had ever
guessed ; that if she would return to her old allegiance,
he was willing to let bygones be bygones.

For many days after the arrival of this letter,
George’s prospects of marrying Pansy had trembled
in the balance.

She had wrestled long and obstinately with the lean-
ings of her heart: after a fierce tussle, she had de-
cided to keep faith with her sweetheart of the old
days.

Pai wrote a long letter to Gerald in which she
had told him that she had always been true to him and
that their separation was the result of a misunder-
standing. ;

She was deeply sorry for his sufferings, which she
assured him could not have been more acute than her
own; she added that as she had a prospect of lifelong
average happiness in marrying a good man, who was
346 PANSY MEARES

devoted to her, she believed she was doing the wise
thing in accepting it.

She had closed with many assurances of tender
regard and wishes for his wellbeing and contentment.

The rekindling of the flames of passion for Gerald
brought home to her the depth of the love she had
known for him: should this knowledge at any time
urge upon her the injustice she was doing George by
mating with him, she recalled the ullage from the
wine of life, which had excited her abhorrence (also,
her fears) in the saloon bar of the public house she
had visited in the neighbourhood of the Strand, and
hardened her heart.

She stilled the pangs of conscience where he was
concerned by telling herself there was no reason why,
some day, George would not be as much to her as
Gerald had been.

Meantime, Pansy still lodged at Mrs. Swing’s, and
unsuspicious George believed that she had saved
enough from her various situations to keep her until
they became man and wife.

If Pansy had believed that her future lot was cut
and dried, she was woefully mistaken.

An evening came when an experience befell her
which deflected the current of her days from the chan-
nels in which it was pursuing its uneventful course.

She was going out with George for the evening and
they were walking along the Brompton Road. A
taxicab passed them and almost immediately Pansy
noticed that it turned round and that the driver was
steering for the pavement on which she and her be-
trothed were walking.

As it passed, they both glanced within; Pansy per-
ceived it contained a woman in evening dress whose
features were familiar.

This impression had barely entered her mind when
George sharply exclaimed:

“This way, Pansy!”
THE WAY OF A WOMAN 347

“Why ?”

“T want to call in somewhere.”

“This leads nowhere.”

“Do as I wish, there’s a dear.”’

It was not so much a question of following her
inclinations as obeying his behest, for he seized
her arm and urged her in the direction he wished
to go.

“What’s it all mean?” she asked after they had gone
a little distance.

“It’s some one I didn’t want to see, if you must
know.”

“That woman in the cab?”

“What cab?”

“The taxi that passed and repassed us.”

“You must be dreaming, Pansy; that’s what you
must be doing.”

As the words left his lips, a taxicab passed and
stopped in front of them.

A radiantly dressed woman alighted and confronted
George and Pansy, the latter recognising her as Eileen
O’Hara, the Irish girl who had been her fellow worker
at “Mowker & Bleet’s.”

Miss O’Hara’s strangely beautiful face was aglow
with indignation: even as Pansy, with the lightning
eye of her sex, was appraising her showy apparel, the
Irish girl cried with more than a suspicion of brogue:

“What the divil do you mane by treating me like
this and after all I’ve done for you?”

“T beg your pardon!” said George with a theatrical
assumption of dignity.

“To come after me, and make a fuss of me and be

what you were to me and Y ; .
“I won't have you talking like that before this lady,

interrupted George. nae
“Lady! I know well enough who she is!
“This lady is Y ; :
“Don’t come the ‘heavy’ with me. This lady indeed!

 

 
348 PANSY MEARES

A poor wretched shop girl on a quid a week. I sup-
pose she would be a lady to you.”

“I wish you ‘good evening,’” said George, who
made as if to conduct Pansy across the road.

“You won’t shake me off so easily. I just wanted
to tell you what I thought of you and to see who
your latest fancy was.”

“Stop that!” cried George threateningly.

“Stop what!” sneered Miss O’Hara.

“That’s not the way to speak before ig

“Who the divil are you, a common, lowborn coun-
try lout to tell me to ‘stop that,’ me with the blood
of the O’Haras in me veins!”

“T tell you to stop. This lady is going to be my
wife.”

“That’s what it is, is it! You prefer marrying a
snivelling little shop girl to me!”

“Now you know, you can clear off,” said George.

“And you think I’m going to stand here and be
thrown over like that for a thing like this?”

“Don’t make me angry,” admonished George.

“Who cares for you!” she almost shrieked, before
asking of Pansy: “And what the divil do you mane
by taking away my fancy man?”

“Dry up,” urged George. “Don’t you see people
are listening ?”

“Let them and they’ll hear something before they’re
done. And simple Pansy Meares isn’t so simple as
you think. When she was at ‘Mowker & Bleet’s’

| id

She got no further, for George with a sudden ac-
cess of resolution seized the Irish girl’s arm as he
said:

“If you don’t stop your jaw and clear off, I'll give
you in charge.”

“You'll what!”

“Give you in charge. You know I mean what I
say when my blood’s up. Come along, Pansy.”

?

 
THE WAY OF A WOMAN 349

George took advantage of having momentarily
cowed Miss O’Hara to conduct his sweetheart past the
knot of people which had gathered and into the
Brompton Road where he hailed a cab and gave the
driver the address of Pansy’s lodging.

During the short drive Pansy, who had been curi-
ously moved by the encounter with Miss O’Hara, could
not help perceiving that George had lost the stout-
heartedness with which he had faced his old flame:
his limbs trembled; now and again, he cast an appre-
hensive glance in the direction of his companion.

Once or twice he nervously essayed to make re-
marks which would belie his trepidation of spirit.

“That’s the worst of the Irish. Upset them, and
they’re fighting devils ” he said.

Then:

“T soon shut her up, for all the lies she told.”

A little later:

“‘Wonnerful’ what lies some women tell when
they’ve got their knife into a man.”

Pansy did not reply; she was conscious of being
possessed by a new and strange emotion which she
was vainly endeavouring to appraise.

She was heedless of the stopping of the cab and
was not aware that George had got out until he
touched her arm.

She shivered at the physical contact and sighed:
“Qh, George!” before alighting and standing stock-
still on the pavement.

George paid the cabman and looked woefully at his
sweetheart.

It was some time before he summoned courage to
falter:

“I—I suppose——!”

“Yes, George,” she said softly.

“Tt’s—it’s all over between us!”

“George!” she exclaimed sharply.

“That you'll ‘turn me off’ for what she said

bd
350 PANSY MEARES

““Turn you off’ !”

“Chuck me. I know I’ve been a fool, but I didn’t
dream you'd ever marry me. But I know how girls
like you judge of such things,” he said miserably,
wholly unaware that Pansy was regarding him with
tenderly moist eyes.

“T suppose you won’t refuse to shake hands,” he
remarked after an interval of silence.

To George’s astonishment, Pansy seized the offered
hand much as if it were her sheet anchor from over-
whelming disaster as she whispered:

“You don’t mean it, George; tell me you don’t
mean it!”

“Mean what, Pansy.”

“That you'll go away and leave me! Surely-
surely you don’t mean that!’’

“Pansy!” he cried in amazement.

“You wouldn’t dream of such a thing, much less
mention it, if you knew what it would mean to me!”

“You—you forgive me?”

“T forgive you, darling!”

“And knowing all I was to her!”

“TI forgive you, sweetheart, but on one condition.”

“Yes—yes.”

“That you never—never—see or write to her
again.”

“As if I should——!”

“Swear.”

“Now I’ve got you——!”

“Swear—swear!” she cried fiercely.

“T swear.”

“Swear by our love.”

“T swear, by our |——!

Pansy’s lips, which were passionately pressed to his,
prevented the completion of his oath.

Two hours later, Pansy’s unquiet thoughts were im-
pinged upon by the sound of footsteps pacing up and
down in the street without.

”
THE WAY OF A WOMAN © 351

She gave them scant attention for a time until their
persistence insisted on holding her interest.

Presently, it occurred to her that it might be George,
who was reluctant to leave the abode of his beloved, at
which, with heart abeat, she approached the window
and peered from behind the curtain.

Moonlight flooded the street, consequently she had
small difficulty in descrying the identity of the one
who was walking to and fro without: it was none
other than Abel Gorm.

She had not the least doubt of his identity and she
watched him walk deliberately by the house for a short
distance before retracing his steps and glancing at her
window on repassing her lodging.

At any other time, Pansy might have been alarmed
by the menace of her step-father’s sinister presence in
London, and at this hour of the night: now, she
had only concern for the fact of the sudden and unex-
pected birth of love for George making it incumbent
on her to reveal to her future husband the secret chap-
ter in the otherwise unsullied book of her life.

She had no apprehension with regard to the result
of this admission.

Even as she had overlooked George’s relations with
Eileen O’Hara, she was confident that he would for-
give her intimacy with Nepean.
CHAPTER XXVIII

THE WAY OF A MAN

(she had dressed carefully for what was to-
ward) before turning down the gas and de-
scending to the sitting room.

She was expecting George, to whom she had de-
cided to admit that her life had not been free from
blemish since she had been in London.

Pansy slept on the floor above her sitting room, for
the reason that, on being shewn the vacant apart-
ments on the occasion of her seeking lodgings, she
had discovered how those at the back of the house
overlooked Brompton cemetery.

Pansy had offered objections to the proximity of
the graveyard, at which Mrs. Swing, the landlady, had
indignantly replied:

“Why, it’s like living over a park!”

The matter had been compromised by Pansy en-
gaging two rooms in the front of the lodging house.

As she went downstairs, she made a point of clos-
ing the open door halfway down the landing so that
she might run no risk of catching a glimpse of the in-
numerable gravestones; entering her sitting room, she
glanced impatiently at the clock: she was eager for
the forthcoming ordeal so that once it was over and
oe with there should be a definite end to her trou-

es.

She was confident of winning George’s forgiveness,
and repeatedly told herself there was really no neces-
sity to acquaint him with the fact of her wrongdoing:

352

Pree took a last look at herself in the glass
THE WAY OF A MAN 353

she was so sure of her ground where he was con-
\erned that her intended confession was scarcely so
much inspired by the duty she owed him as by the de-
sire to make a sacrifice on the altar of her morbid
sense of honesty.

To pass the heavy moments until George’s arrival,
she lit the paraffin lamp she had borrowed from the
landlady for the purposes of the profusion of needle-
work on which she spent so many hours, and opened
her work-basket: but she could not sew to-night; her
mind was agog with the trepidations inspired by the
forthcoming interview.

Apart from these, Pansy was supremely happy.

She had all but forgotten how she had seen her
hated step-father pacing without her lodging a week
ago: she was to be married in little short of a month,
and was confidently looking forward to a lifetime of
happiness with her heart’s desire.

She pictured herself in this blissful future as the
complete wife, joyously performing her duties on the
farm; blessed by the love of adoring husband and
children, to whom she would be the perfect mother:
thus she would speedily forget there was such a place
as London with its specious pitfalls for unprotected
girlhood, from the deepest of which she had just man-
aged to escape.

Her reverie was interrupted by a knock at the front
door which made her start from her seat and fall to
pacing nervously the room.

She was sure, ever so sure, that George, from the
great love he bore her, would overlook this one false
step she had made: and for this reason she could not
account for her involuntary apprehensions.

She heard the sound of a heavy footstep on the
stairs: this, although she was certain it did not per-
tain to George, was curiously familiar.

She had barely concluded how it must be some one
for one of the other lodgers in the house when the
354 PANSY MEARES

handle of her door was sharply turned: the next mc-
ment, Abel Gorm entered the room.

He was dressed in his ill-fitting Sunday black and
carried an umbrella: he had forgotten to remove his
round, soft felt hat.

“Tt’s all right, Pansy,” he said at noticing the alarm
depicted on her face.

“You!” she exclaimed.

“Me. I wanted a few words.”

““You’d no business to come,” she faltered.

“T had to, Pansy.”

“Had to!”

“Had to,” he said with a suggestion of absent-
mindedness in his voice.

“Ts it mother?” she asked quickly.

“No.”

“Then why are you here?”

“T had to come,” he said helplessly.

“T don’t understand.”

“TI had to see you, Pansy. I should ’a’ gone mad if
IT hadn't.”

He looked at her with eyes which were both hard
and pleading: their expression constrained her to say:

“You'd better go.”

He shook his head.

“I’m expecting George Tarling. He doesn’t like
you, and if he finds you, you'll have to look out for
yourself.”

“It’s ‘cause of George Tarling I came.”

“How can that be?”

“You're going to marry him?”

“Of course.”

“Are you?”

The menace of insulting hostility in his voice caused
her to say:

“What do you mean?”

‘ “That if you want to marry George, you'd better
isten.”
THE WAY OF A MAN ger

“How dare you!”

“T’d dare anything for you, Pansy.”

The quiet resolution in his voice made her blood
run cold.

“Tl have you turned out,” she cried, as she made
towards the door.

_ With an agility surprising in a man of his years, he
forestalled her and quickly turned the key in the lock.

Facing her, he said:

“Don’t scream, for your sake, Pansy. You don’t
know how desperate I am and a’most crazed for love
of you. Don’t scream ”

“But——_ ve

“An’ sit down and talk quietly.”

As she hesitated, he added:

“No harm shall come to ’ee then.”

Pansy, for time was on her side, after some demur
complied with this request.

They sat facing each other across the lamp on the
round table: it was some moments before Gorm spoke,
his voice trembling with base passion.

“D’ye know why I’m here, Pansy?”

“No.”’

“Why I’ve waited and watched for you all hours,
leaving the shop, and losing good money?”

Pansy, whose ears were greedily listening for
George’s footsteps, shook her head.

“You, Pansy.”

Pansy shuddered, a manifestation of aversion Gorm
was quick to notice.

“You don’t know what you is to me,” he went on,
much as if he were communing with himself rather
than appealing to her. “I’ve loved and wanted you
since you grew up an’ before; if I’d thought you’d
’a’ consented, I’d have married you.”

“Have you forgotten mother?’ she asked indig-
nantly, but ignoring her question, he went on:

“I want you more than money, an’ I’ve lots, Pansy ;

 
356 PANSY MEARES

more than any one in Billingham; more than any one
knows, and if you'll only say the word—I’d spend it
—most of it—on you.”

“You insult me! You. Ye

“T haven’t long to live, but since I’ve wanted you,
and you being away in London, I’ve seen things differ-
ent. All my savings, where moth and rust doth cor-
rupt, is naught beside you.”

Pansy made as if she would stop her ears with her
fingers. Gorm went on:

“Why! I’d face the hottest flames of hell fire for
you.”

In spite of the repugnance inspired by the man’s ig-
noble passion, Pansy was sensible of the contrast pro-
vided by this old country tradesman and the words
that fell from his lips: yet, even as she furtively
watched him, so as to be well on her guard for pos-
sible eventualities, she doubted if his speech came
from his heart; she suspected he was playing the part
that he believed might appeal to one of Pansy’s years
and temperament.

“No word, Pansy?”

“Why—why don’t you go?”

“Go 1}?

“You would, at once, if you knew how I hated you.
If you were the last man in the world Id rather.
Oh! Go! Go! Go! I feel ill when you're in the same
room.”

Gorm’s face hardened.

A tense silence was broken by his saying :

“Hate or love, ’tis all the same.”

Pansy restrained an inclination to hysterical laugh-
ter.

“Nothing’ll stand in my way.”

The evil conviction in his voice constrained her to
sit bolt upright.

“Going to marry George Tarling?” he queried.

“Yes,” she declared stoutly.

 

 
THE WAY OF A MAN Ry

“Be you!” he sneered.

“He'll speak for himself any moment now.”

“Soll I. So’ll 1.”

“What do you mean?”

“Do George Tarling know where you went after
‘Mowker & Bleet’s,’ an’ how you’re living here like a
lady on nothing a week?”

Pansy, for want of something to say, instinctively
acted in self-defence by laughing non-committally.

“Those laugh best who laugh last. Would George
Tarling a-marry you if he knew all about your ‘goings
on ?

Pansy was curious with regard to the extent of her
stepfather’s knowledge; this she sought to test by
declaring :

“There’s nothing to know.”

“B’aint there!”

“No.”’

“T know better.”

“How can you, ifi——!

“°Tain’t possible, is it, for one of the young ladies
to see you out and about in finery in cabs with a rich
swell who was always meeting you before you left the
shop ?”

“Even if there were anything, I should tell George
because I love him, and he would forgive me because
he loves me,” retorted Pansy.

“You would?”

“T would.”

“That you wouldn’t,” he said as his not over-quick
wits appraised her unexpected resolution.

“Indeed!”

Gorm was taken aback by this unexpected rebuff:
quick to profit by her advantage, she continued :

“Wait till George comes and see for yourself. He
won't be long now.”

Foiled in his attempt to intimidate Pansy, Gorm
fell to whining.

”
358 PANSY MEARES

“T’m not so bad as you think me, Pansy; that I’m
not, as God is my judge, and me done as I was ‘won- |
nerful’ crool over your mother’s money and all, and
me having to keep her as she is. If you knew how
Ive thought of you i

“Don’t!” she pleaded.

“Prayed for you and

“Don’t—don’t!”

“Won't nothing I say unbend ’ee?”

Pansy’s body shuddered, the while her eyes shut
tight.

She speedily opened them at feeling a grip upon
her wrist: Gorm had leaned across the table and
seized her arm.

His evil eyes were greedily regarding hers and
from the bottom of her heart she reproached George
for tarrying during his sweetheart’s extremity.

“Which—which is it to be?” he muttered.

“Let me go.”

“Friend or foe?”

“You beast.”

“Which ?”

“Let me go: let me go!”

“Then Y”

His grasp tightened; suspecting that any moment
he might spring upon her, she looked wildly about her
for possible means of succour.

She recalled how she had saved herself on a like
occasion before, and bitterly regretted there was no
weapon at hand until her eyes fell on the paraffin
lamp.

Even as Gorm half rose from his chair, she seized
the lamp with the hand that was free and cried:

“Leave go or Pll dash this in your face.”

“You wouldn’t!”

Pansy laughed and swung the lamp back to give
greater force to her blow: as she did so, Gorm sprang
back to avoid the missile.

 

?

 

 
THE WAY OF A MAN 359

Pansy was quick to seize her advantage: she
ae to the window, the lamp still in her hand, and
said:

“Come a step nearer and I’ll throw this and scream
the place down.”

She looked so resolute and appeared so capable of
fulfilling her threat that Abel Gorm, after gazing
at her for some moments in stupefied silence, retreated
to the door, muttering as he went:

“If Pd the chance, I’d swing for you.”

Ten minutes later, Pansy was convulsively sobbing
in George’s arms.

“What’s the matter, Pansy! What’s come over
you?” he asked.

“T thought you were never coming.”

“T know I’m late, but it’s soon explained.”

“Why! Why didn’t you come before?”

“What odds does a few minutes make?”

“Promise: promise you'll never leave me again.”

“You must wait twenty-six days for that, Pansy,
and every day it means one less. And as I’m living
near you: f

Pansy broke down in an access of weeping.

“What’s happened, little sweetheart! What’s
wrong with you?”

“He’s been,” she told him after much coaxing.

“Who ?” x

“Abel Gorm.”

“What for?”

“To see me.”

“Well——!” said George sharply.

“I hate him: I told him to go. Why didn’t you
come before!”

“Why didn’t I!” echoed George grimly.

“Promise me if ever he seeks to harm me that you'll
protect me!”

He gave the required assurance and repeated it at
her request; more than his words, the fact of feel-

 

4
360 PANSY MEARES

ing his powerful arms about her calmed Pansy’s hys-
terical fears and gave her confidence.

George, apart from his regrets that he had not
been in time to give Abel Gorm the thrashing he de-
served for disturbing Pansy’s peace of mind, was in
high good humour: he had backed a winning horse
at long odds and had bought Pansy a pearl ring with
the proceeds.

Success of any kind delighted his honest mind; after
comforting his sweetheart with kisses and brave
words, he talked and joked without ceasing.

Pansy’s heart became heavy as she watched his
wind-tanned face aglow with simple happiness: she
realised that the admission she was about to make,
and which she had almost forgotten after her expe-
rience with her step-father, would chasten, if only tem-
porarily, her future husband’s joy.

George, who was never susceptible to mental atmos-
pheres, presently noticed her abstraction and care-
worn expression: his solution of the matter was to
suggest that he should take her out.

“No—no: not to-night.”

“Tt’s not so very late, Pansy.”

“Not to-night: not to-night!” she pleaded and with
an appeal in her voice which was ill-proportioned to
her request.

“Why, Pansy!” he said in surprise.

“Tt’s all right: you'll understand directly.”

“Understand what!”

“And then we'll live happily ever after.”

“Eh p?

“Go and sit over there, George.”

“But—— !?

“Do as I wish. It'll make it easier.”

She had originally intended leading up to the mat-
ter that weighted her conscience by means of carefully
contrived circumlocutions; since the events of the
evening had blotted these from her mind, and un-
THE WAY OF A MAN 361

strung her nerves, she came sharply and awkwardly to
the point: she was eager to give George the oppor-
tunity of revelling in the virtue of forgiveness,

“That’s right, sit over there,” she said. “And
don’t look at me.”

“I can’t help it, Pansy,” he said, with an effort at
jocularity which was primarily inspired by a desire
to quiet a growing uneasiness of spirit excited by
Pansy’s words and behaviour.

“Don’t look at me: don’t look at me!” she pleaded.

George half turned and stared with unseeing eyes
at the once derelict photograph of the children.

“Tl get it over quickly and then you can come to
me again,” she said with a nervous little laugh.

“Do,” replied George.

“It’s this, George. One night, some time ago, you
said,—I don’t remember the exact words,—but it was
to the effect that you knew I’d—I’d always been good
ever since I came to London and—and——!”

Pansy paused and was appalled by the stillness that
prevailed: gathering her courage, she continued:

“I haven’t been altogether, George; not quite, but
it’s a thing you ought to know, and what I ought to
tell.”

The silence that ensued was even more intense, and
because it chilled her heart, Pansy continued :

“T was weak and was fond of a man-—or thought I
was. But it’s all over and done with now, and you,
knowing the life of a lonely girl in London, will at
once understand and forgive, particularly as I love
you so dearly.”

There was a further dread suspense which grew
tenser every moment: she stilled her apprehensions by
reflecting that George was intent on suitably express-
ing his sympathy.

“TI knew if I told you it would be all right,” she
faltered. ‘And I needn’t have spoken, but loving
you as I do, I couldn’t keep silent.”
362 PANSY MEARES

Still George did not speak: as she watched him with
painfully eager eyes, it was as if he were turned into
stone.

Her overstrung nerves were exacerbated by his ob-
stinate dumbness and the awful quiet; she wanted to
shriek aloud; over and above this desire was the ne-
cessity of thawing George into life and love.

“George! George! Don’t you hear me?” she cried.

There was no response: she fearfully rose to her
feet, timidly approached him and gently touched him
on the arm.

The physical contact awoke him from his passivity:
he turned on her a set face and hard eyes.

“G—George!’” she whispered.

“Damn yu!” he cried, his passion driving him to
make use of his native vernacular.

She sharply drew in her breath.

“Damn yu! Damn yu! Damn yu!”

She covered her eyes with her hand.

“T don’t know whether to spit at yu or kill yu.”

Pansy clutched at a chair to save herself from
falling.

“Yu be worse than Eileen O’Hara!”’

Then, after a moment or two:

“She never made out she was better than what she
should be. But yu V
. Pansy essayed to speak; her tongue refused its of-

ce.

“Who was it?” asked George as he rose to his feet.

Pansy shook her head.

“Abel Gorm?”

“No.”

“Who? If I thought it were he—!’

“Tt wasn’t; it wasn’t.”

“Swear!”

“T swear.”

A further silence was broken by a crash: with a
violent movement, George had cleared the best part

 
THE WAY OF A MAN 363

of the ornaments from the mantelpiece: the force he
had exerted deposited one of the children’s photo-
graphs on the table where it lay face upwards and
partly out of its frame.

The unexpected noise startled Pansy nearly out of
her wits: she gazed at George with the eyes of a
hunted animal.

For his part, he looked upon her coldly, imper-
sonally, which emotion, or lack of it, was magnified
a thousandfold by her mutilated nerves.

If he had found it in his heart to forgive her, she
would have adored the ground he walked on; if he
had beaten her, she would have grovelled in loving
abasement : as it was, his aloofness awoke an approach
of defiance in her heart.

“Perhaps it’s as well,” she said.

“Eh ?

“We should never have understood each other.”

“Speaking for myself, certainly not,” he replied.

After a further interval, during which nothing was
said, George awkwardly reached for his hat and made
for the door.

As he went, his eye fell on the photograph lying
upon the table, the which he intently regarded.

Then, he looked sneeringly at Pansy, but as he gazed
at her (and this cut her to the quick) his expression
changed to something akin to compassion.

She was conscious of the shutting of the front door,
which sound fell dully on her ears: otherwise, she was
immersed in a stupor of despair.

This must have lasted for quite a long time; when
she was again sensible of her surroundings, the lamp
had gone out, filling the room with an evil smell;
Pansy would have been in darkness but for the moon-
light.

SShe was shivering from cold and went upstairs,
meaning to go to bed.

Her energy was exhausted at the first flight of
364 PANSY MEARES

stairs, at which, careless of what she was doing, she
entered the vacant room on the right where, through
the uncurtained window, she saw the headstones of
the cemetery which for number seemed to exceed the
grains of sand on the seashore.

She would have left the room had she not been
fascinated by the morbidly mysterious appeal made
by this crowded City of the Dead.

The attraction it exercised was not mysterious for
long: even as she gazed on the last dwelling places
of those who had loved and wept, and laughed and
suffered as she had, it was borne upon her under-
standing that, henceforth, her life was as bare of the
joys for which her soul had craved as those silent
ones who slept so peacefully in the moonlight.
CHAPTER XXIX

PERIL

OW are you to-day, my dear?”
“Just the same,” replied Pansy.
“Still got the ‘pip’ ?”

“T suppose so.”

“You want cheering up, my dear,” declared Mrs.
Swing.

“Easy enough to say.”

“What are you doing with yourself this evening?”

“Same as usual.”

“How would you like to go to a music hall?” asked
the landlady; before Pansy could reply she went on:
“A friend gave me two ‘dress circles’ for the ‘Leices-
ter’ this evening, and as I can’t go, I thought you
might like to use ’em.”’

“Tt’s very kind of you. I’ve no one to go with.”

“Go by yourself.”

“Bit——= te?

“Go and get a seat and you won’t come to no ’arm.”

“I’m not likely to in any case.”

“An’ I'll leave some supper by when you get back.”

“Thank you.”

“So that’s settled,’ declared Mrs. Swing to Pansy,
who did not perceive how narrowly her landlady was
watching her.

“After all, I think you’d better give them to some
one else,” said Pansy after a moment or two’s re-

flection.

“Eh lag
“P’'m so uncertain. When the time comes, I don’t

suppose I shall go at all.”
365
366 PANSY MEARES

“That’s all right, my dear.”

“It seems a pity to waste them.”

“I’ve no one else to give ’em to. And I’ve set my
heart on you having a cheer up.”

Mrs. Swing stuck the tickets in the frame of the
looking glass (Pansy was reclining on her bed) and
left the room.

Immediately Pansy was alone, she felt the absence
of the landlady’s vulgar companionship: she sank into
the slough of despondency in which she spent most
of her days and the greater part of her nights since
she had lost George.

This blow had all but broken her moral stamina,
more particularly since her griefs had been caused by
her honesty in confessing that which it would have
been comparatively easy to conceal.

She continually and bitterly reflected that her pas-
sionate anxiety to act straightforwardly had proved
her undoing; she repeatedly told herself that the de-
sire of one’s heart, whatsoever this might be, was only
to be reached by crooked paths.

Her spirit was too crushed for her to repair her
fortunes by seeking work, this in spite of the fact of
her being short of money and reduced to pawning her
clothes in order to pay her way: what was even more
significant of her state of mind was that, whenever
she contemplated the possibility of the road she was
treading ultimately leading to devious ways, she was
indifferent to such a fate.

She was heartsick and life-weary: since George,
whom she loved, had turned against her, and no one
cared for her, nothing mattered at all.

Thoughts of suicide sometimes haunted her mind;
she was saved from this extremity by the fact of her
mental stupor paralysing her initiative: by a shadowy
curiosity as to what would be the upshot of her situa-
tion.

The trend of her imaginings was interrupted by a
PERIL 367

knock on the front door, and almost directly after it
had been answered she was conscious of a mental dis-
quiet which became more and more acute.

She could not rest on the bed and presently got up
and fell to pacing the room; at the same time she re-
called that on several other occasions on which she
had moped in her bedroom she had been the victim
of a like uneasiness, but never to the same extent as
that of which she was the victim to-day.

She resolved to discover, so far as it was possible,
who the caller might be, and to this end left her room
and descended the stairs, making as little noise as pos-
sible in her progress.

She had not reached the first landing before a whis-
pered conversation taking place in the hall was hushed
and some one hastily left the house: upon Pansy’s
coming in sight of the front door, she perceived Mrs.
Swing intently examining the letter box.

“Ts that you, Mrs. Swing?”

The landlady turned with a fine assumption of sur-
prise.

“You, my dear! You made me jump.”

“T’m sorry.”

“I thought you was in your room.”

“T heard a knock and wondered if it were any one
for me.”’

“Only a gentleman about rooms, my dear.”

“Ts he going to take them.”

“Ask me another. You can’t count on lodgers till
their luggage is in the ’ouse and they’ve swallered
their first meal, as you might say.”

Pansy was about to return to her room when Mrs.
Swing asked:

“Going to-night, my dear?”

“Where?”

“To the ‘Leicester’. They say it’s a good show.”

“T don’t know. You know what I am. I wish I

knew myself.”
368 PANSY MEARES

Eight o’clock that evening found Pansy in desperate
case; she had eaten little or nothing, having picked her
food with no appetite; she was sick to death of the
existence she was leading and told herself that any
distraction would be a welcome relief from days that
were a burden.

She was disposed to take advantage of the evening’s
distraction provided by her landlady’s forethought
but had not the energy to make ready and go to town.

Her indecision was terminated by Mrs. Swing, who
insisted at length on the good a change would accom-
plish in her lodger, and got out her things and as-
sisted her to dress.

Pansy was absorbed in her self-communings and
scarcely heeded her landlady’s evident anxiety that she
should visit the “Leicester”; she tamely did as she
was bid, and left the lodging house without any mis-
givings, believing that she was about to spend two or
three hours in attempting to forget her tribulations at
a music hall. She was unaware that the fates ruling
her life had, as it were, wearied of her uneventful do-
ings, and had mercilessly resolved to tug and knot
the threads of her destiny.

She took a bus to Piccadilly Circus, and on getting
out almost walked into a friend of the old days, this
Miss Pillar, who had befriended Pansy during her ex-
periences in the “X. Y. Z.”

“There now, if it isn’t Miss Meares! I am glad to
see you. How are you, dear? Fancy meeting you!”

“Quite well, thank you. And you?”

“T’m always all right. I’ve often thought of you;
reelly I have, and wondered what had become of you.
What a lovely hat! Where did you get it?”

“It’s so old I almost forget.”

“Oh! I say, you must be doing well for yourself and
earning good money to talk like that. I say! I can’t
get over meeting you: reelly I can’t.”

“What are you doing now ?”
PERIL 369

“I’m still in the ‘X. Y. Z.,’ or was till yesterday.
I’ve left.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Pansy indifferently.

“And I’ve lots of news. Miss Doe died last July of
the consumption. And Miss Black is still talking of
where she’ll go for her honeymoon when she marries
Mr. George; reelly she is. Isn’t it funny ?”

“And what are you going to do?”

“I’m going to get married!’

“Married!”

“Next week. I’ve had my fling and now I’m going
to settle down. When are you going to get married?”
“Some day. You're really going to be married?”

“T’ve had a lovely time: reelly I have. T’ll have to
be AI now.”

“Do you love him?”

“Who pe

“The man you’re going to marry?”

“I haven’t thought about it. They say love’s out of
fashion nowadays. It’s all ‘1s.d.’”

“Are you going to tell him of your fling ?”

“Oh, I say, you are funny: reelly you are. It’s
what they do in books, but I haven’t patience with such
mugs. Where are you off to?”

“T’ve an appointment. Good night.”

“Here, I say, don’t be in such a hurry.”

Before Miss Pillar could finish what she had to say,
Pansy had disappeared.

She was weighed down by her old friend’s informa-
tion which confirmed her latent belief that the honest
reaped a plenteous harvest of sorrow while those of a
different moral complexion waxed fat.

Five minutes later the doors admitting to the
“Leicester” Dress Circle and Promenade were thrown
open by a stalwart uniformed attendant, and Pansy
entered the music hall.

She found herself at the commencement of a wide
semi-circular sweep situated behind tiers of seats fac-
370 PANSY MEARES

ing the stage; the back of this promenade was fur-
nished with seats and lounges upholstered in green
Utrecht velvet, and the wall was decorated with a pro-
fusion of mirrors and framed designs of figures in
ballet costume.

The place was all but crowded with gorgeously
dressed, youngish women, who sat or stood about
where they could find room, and men of all ages,
with a predominance of grey beards.

Just now Pansy was heedless of the composition
of the audience; she elbowed her way to where she
could see the stage, on which a superbly mounted
ballet was in progress.

Her senses, that had been starved of enjoyment for
so long, took pleasure in feasting on the riot of colour,
the movement of gracious limbs, the seductive appeal
of many stringed instruments.

Even as Pansy’s capacity for enjoyment was fed
by these delights, she was aware of the contrast be-
tween the life depicted by the ballet and the drabness
of her days.

This knowledge depressed her. She wished from
the bottom of her heart that she had not come to the
music hall which, instead of taking her out of her- |
self, brought home to her the dreariness of her lot.

Presently, and in spite of herself, her volatile tem-
perament was affected by the lilt of the orchestra, the
costumes, the bewildering movement of shapely limbs.

She was possessed by the orgy of voluptuous sound
and colour and grace: her griefs were forgotten, and
she, also, was living in a world of enchantment where
nothing mattered beyond the pleasure of the moment.

She was intoxicated by the joys of this artificial ex-
istence: she stared before her with shining eyes, parted
lips, and with the blood coursing hotly in her veins.

The falling of the curtain, the final chord of the or-
chestra came as a shock, and one that awoke her to
the world of reality.
PERIL 371

She was under the impression that she was being
watched by some one who regarded her with ani-
mosity.

She turned sharply, and believed she saw Eileen
O’Hara, who was looking at her with hostile eyes:
believed, because the woman she had taken to be her
acquaintance was obscured by the press. A desire for
movement possessed her; she was in the mood to walk
about before finding a seat from which she could en-
joy the performance in comfort.

Pansy paraded the length of the promenade (in
which snug bars occupied recesses in unexpected
places), and it suddenly occurred to her how desirous
her landlady had been for her to visit the music hall.

She was marvelling if there were anything behind
this eagerness when she stopped dead: she feared she
had caught a fleeting glimpse of Abel Gorm in his ill-
cut Sabbath black, and round, soft-felt hat.

Pansy turned on her heel, and was undecided
whether to look for a seat or return to her lodging:
she walked a few steps before standing irresolute.

She was aware that she was being appraised by the
men who passed before her; they were much of a type
and one that offended her susceptibilities.

With the exception of common youths who looked
self-conscious in evening clothes, and infrequent
groups of distinguished-looking, sunburned men who
had come up to town from barracks and warships for
a spree, they had the hard expression of the profes-
sional pleasure seeker: now and again, one or two of
these last lifted their hats (a trifle furtively) to fe-
male acquaintances in the throng. ;

The women next attracted Pansy’s attention.

Some of them carried themselves with an assump-
tion of dignity; at the same time, it was evident that
it would not be difficult to thaw their aloofness;
others, these were in the majority, were eyeing the
men.
392 PANSY MEARES

Not one of the parading men and women took any
interest in what was happening on the stage.

Aware of the questionable company in which she
had unwittingly thrust herself, Pansy looked for a
seat: finding the circle was crowded, she spoke to an
attendant who told her she might find room in the
lounge downstairs to which her ticket procured ad-
mission.

She was following his directions in order to reach
this place when she caught sight of an undeniable
Abel Gorm who was drinking at one of the bars.

The fact of seeing him, and in the last place in the
world where she would have expected to find him, in-
spired her with a great fear, which urged her to speed
for safety down the staircase situated behind a row
of boxes, and force her way through the throng she
encountered in the direction of the nearest exit.

“Where are you going? Shure if it isn’t you, you
double-faced hypocrite!” cried a familiar voice. “If
it isn’t the girl who’s going to marry my ‘boy’!”

Pansy was confronted by an irate Miss O’Hara
and mobbed by expensively dressed women.

“Tm sorry,” said Pansy. “Let me pass.”

“Not if I know it. What the divil do you mane by
calling me names?”

“T haven't called you names.”

“You're a damn liar !”

“Let me go, please. I don’t want a scandal in such
a place.”

“Scandal! Scandal! D’ye hear her, girls?”

The women laughed derisively and hustled Pansy
this way and that.

Callow youths, attracted by Miss O’Hara’s raised
voice, scenting a row, speedily gathered and cried:

“Go it, both of you. Old Ireland forever.”

Pansy sought to escape, but was pursued by a clam-
orous Miss O’Hara; the young men barred her prog-
ress and impelled the two young women against each
PERIL 278

other, at which Pansy received a blow in the face from
her antagonist.

“T'll teach you to strike me!” screamed Eileen.

“T didn’t. I "

“You hadn’t the pluck. If you had, you’d fight
me.

Pansy was overwhelmed with shame at being mixed
up in a vulgar disturbance: her extremity was such
that she looked wildly about her in the hope of seeing
some one who would protect her.

Meantime, she was urged this way and that by the
women surrounding her; they were anxious to harass
Pansy without rendering Miss O’Hara amenable to
the law.

To Pansy’s relief, she perceived a gigantic, uni-
formed attendant forcing his way through the mob.

“Now, then, what’s this?” he cried as he approached
Pansy and Miss O’Hara.

“She struck me,” declared the former.

“Liar. She hit me first,” retorted the other.

“One of you is to go out. Which?”

Miss O’Hara slipped money into the attendant’s
hand; the next moment Pansy was seized by the arm
and was being ignominiously conducted from the
lounge amidst the jeers of her assailants.

Pansy all but fainted from very shame; with the
sense of which she was not bereft, she wished that the
floor would open and swallow her up.

But it was written in the book of her insignificant
fate that worse was to befall.

Upon reaching the folding doors, a man in ill-cut,
Sabbath black and round, soft-felt hat, approached the
attendant and giving him money took charge of Pansy.

Before she could either escape or protest, Abel Gorm
caught her arm and urged her down the steps.

Two impressions impinged upon her mind: one was
that the thoroughfare was unusually deserted; the
other that she believed she caught a glimpse of a hag-

 
374 PANSY MEARES

gard-looking George who was loitering on the further
side of the road.

The next thing she was cognisant of was that she
was being urged along the pavement by her captor.

Pansy would have called out, but fear tied her
tongue, and as she was being impelled up a side turn-
ing she marvelled if it were indeed George she had
seen.

There was little time for futile speculation; she was
being dragged in the direction of a waiting cab.
CHAPTER XXX
GEORGE SEES RED

HEY had reached the vehicle when Pansy made

/ an ineffectual struggle to free herself, inef-

fectual because Gorm held her two hands in
one of his while with the other he opened the door of
the cab.

He was on the point of bundling her in when she
heard a quick, heavy step behind.

There was a blow and her step-father was felled to
the pavement. He would have dragged Pansy with
him had she not been seized by powerful arms.

Upon recovering from her astonishment her heart
leapt at realising that she had been saved by George,
who was gazing at her with bloodshot eyes.

Gratitude welled into her heart; George’s romantic
rescue in the nick of time filled her with a great glad-
ness.

But not for long.

Instead of the tender caress, the words of loving
sympathy she expected, he put her roughly into the
cab, spoke a few words to the driver and took his seat
beside her.

The next moment they were speeding along the
thoroughfare, and so far as Pansy could tell in a west-
erly direction.

She spoke to George, who remained persistently
mute: she repeatedly glanced at him in order to divine
the meaning of his uncanny silence: his face was
grimly set. q

His impassivity terrified her and froze the blood in

375
376 PANSY MEARES

her veins: on the cab being held up by the press of the
traffic, she attempted to escape, to be thrust into her
seat by her companion.

Thus they rode for quite a long while: George
cruelly silent; Pansy a prey to varying emotions, chief
of which was an indefinite fear inspired by his strange
behaviour following upon his rescuing her from her
step-father’s clutches.

She marvelled if the experience had bereft him of
sense.

At other times, she was proud of the strength he
had displayed in felling Gorm, which evidence of
masculine virility awoke the innate admiration of the
female for the muscular male of her species.

Pansy thought the journey would last forever until,
at last, the cab stopped in a quiet London street and
George was holding the door open for her to alight.

He gripped her arm as she reached the pavement
and dragged her up the steps to one of the houses;
gaining admittance with a key, he pulled rather than
led her up the three flights of ill-lit and indifferently
carpeted stairs to a locked door which he opened.

Pansy was thrust within, and George immediately
fastened the door from the inside; so far as her terror
at these proceedings permitted her to be sensible of
her surroundings, she saw that she was in the ordi-
nary “combined” room of a fifth-rate lodging house.

There was a bed in the corner; a litter of clothes
on the chairs, and an oil lamp, the flame of which was
turned down, on a chest of drawers.

She paid little heed to these things; her attention
was held by George: he was steadfastly regarding her,
his arms folded across his chest.

A silence was broken by her exclaiming:

“George!”

“Well?”

She was surprised by the sternness of his voice.

“What’s it all mean?”
GEORGE SEES RED 377

_ He did not speak, at which she repeated her ques-
tion.

Still keeping cold eyes upon her he put his hand in
a breast pocket and produced a telegram. This he
handed to her as he said:

“Read.”

It was a telegram that had been sent to her step-
father at the lodging he occupied, and was as follows:

“Going Leicester Promenade to-night Finborough
Road.”

Pansy twice read what was written before looking
at George with wondering eyes.

“Don’t yu pretend innocence,” he cried.

“T don’t.”

“It wouldn’t be any use if yu did.”

“T don’t understand. Really I don’t.”

George laughed discordantly.

“Really, really I don’t,” she protested.

He turned on her fiercely.

“Don’t yu lie to me.”

“T’m not lying, George.”

“Lying only makes it worse. No, it don’t. Noth-
ing could be worse than what yu’ve done.”

Pansy, in all bewilderment, shook her head.

He made as if he were about to speak, changed his
mind, and went to the chest of drawers from which he
took a half-consumed bottle of brandy. He nearly
filled the washstand tumbler, and swallowed more than
half of the raw spirit he had poured out.

This, together with George’s haggard features and
bloodshot eyes, provided a possible explanation of his
behaviour.

“You shouldn’t, George; you shouldn’t,” she re-
monstrated.

He seemed not to hear her, for he said:

“Tt’s all plain to me.”

“What, George!”

“Your damn wickedness.”
378 PANSY MEARES

“But: 3”

“Shut your row.”

“George!”

He raised his arm threateningly, before saying:

“Time enough for that.”

“What do you mean?” she asked quickly.

“T'll tell yu, Pansy, ’cause I loved yu once.”

‘Don’t you now?”

His face twitched with pain: his eyes seemed to
start from his head.

It seemed a long time before he said:

“Yes, Pansy; and ’cause of that. v2

He did not complete his sentence, but opened and
shut his hands.

“You frighten me, George.”

“Maybe. I wish yu was not here, Pansy, and in my
hands. Since yu are a

“Yes, George!”

He appeared to pursue another train of thought and
said:

“Yes’day I met old Gorm. He told me all about yu.
Seemed he knowed everything, and now I see it must
be yu who told him.”

He ignored her hot denial of this statement and
went on:

“Tt seems yu had hard times in London, before—
before yu sinned, Pansy; hard, hard times. An’ ’cause
o’ that I came to yu to-night to say I couldn’t live
without yu; and if yu’d take me after what I done
that night yu told me——”

“You came to-night?”

“Yu had gone out.”

“You must have come after I had gone.”

“Then the devil put it in my mind yu’d gone to
Gorm’s. He was out, too; he left this telegram.”

“Then that’s——”

“Now I unnerstand,” he interrupted. “I unnerstand
what a ‘wonnerful’ fool I am and how bad yu be.”

 

 

 
GEORGE SEES RED 379

“Bad ee

“*Wonnerful’ bad. Yu aren’t fit to live.”

The menace in his voice caused her to gasp:

“George!”

“And yu ain’t going to,” he continued.

“George!”

“Not if I know it.”

“You—you wouldn’t k—harm me?”

George looked at her for a moment, averted his
eyes and gulped down the remainder of the brandy.

Crazed with fear, Pansy made for the door. She
was seized by George, who held her as in a vice.

“George! George!” she moaned.

His grip tightened.

“And I love you so!”

Her eyes melted with tenderness, but even as he re-
garded her, his face grew harder.

A moment or two later he avoided looking at her
face.

“T do, George; Ido. If you could see into my heart
you would know I was speaking truly.”

Then, as he made no sign of relenting, she cried:
“Oh! Why isn’t it made of stone!”

“Vu was fond of Gorm,” he cried, still averting his
gaze.

“Gorm?”

“Gorm. It’s plain to me. Too plain. That’s why

“T hate him. I hate him. I hate him. If I liked
him I’d deserve no mercy. But I only love you,
George, and more than anything in life.”

“Don’t tell damn lies.’

“They’re not lies: truth, George. Don’t be hasty:
don’t be mad. Isn’t it possible to have appearances
against me, and for me to be in the right?”

“Appearances!” he cried, and laughed hoarsely.

“Yes; appearances. I see it all now. He must have
got hold of my landlady, and she sent me to the music
380 PANSY MEARES

hall,” she informed him. Perceiving he did not ap-
pear to listen to this explanation, she desperately con-
tinued: “Think, think of the old days, George. How
you loved me: how you trusted me. Then you'll know
I could never be as bad as you think.”

The vehemence of her words caused him to relax his
hold; but there was no softening of the terrible ex-
pression on the face that was resolutely turned from
her; fearing that, any moment, the demon possessing
him might urge him to complete the fell work he had
in mind, she sank at his feet and desperately fondled |
his knees with her hands.

“Don’t kill me, George; don’t kill me. Let me live
and prove my love for you. You needn’t marry me.
IT don’t ask—expect that. But if you'll only let me
live, I'll do anything for you; work my fingers to the
bone, anything—anything in the world to prove what
you are to me.”

“Yu say that now!”

“Td prove it always. Think—think, George!
Could I care for an old man like that—my mother’s
husband—when I’ve a man like you to love? For you
are a man, George. I was never so proud of you as
when you knocked him down. And if you didn’t get
into trouble, I pray you killed him.”

“Yu say that now!’ he repeated dully.

“I say it always,” she declared, and added with a
proud defiance: “I love you so, whatever you are,
whatever you do, is right. You’re my man, and I
should like to see any one attack you.”

“Yu say that now,” he said as before.

Possessed by the passion of her words, together
with a frenzied desire for life, she cried:

“You don’t believe, but I can prove, yes, prove
what I say. If you'll only look at me, you'll
believe.” :

George dropped his eyes, to glance coldly at the
woman cringing at his feet.
GEORGE SEES RED 381

“Let me kiss you,” she demanded. “Let me kiss
you. If it’s only for the last time,” she pleaded.

Seeing that his eyes still held their dread, far-away
expression, she rose and fondled his face, and re-
peatedly kissed his hands and shoulders.

It was with a great delight that she noticed he was
about to speak.

She waited in a dread suspense for his words. But
all he said was:

“Yu say that now, Pansy.”

She thought she was going mad; in her extremity
she shrieked aloud.

He placed a hand upon her mouth: she continued
her cries, at which he threw her violently from
him.

She tripped and as she fell her head struck the
fender.

She was dazed for a time and all but unconscious;
when she recovered somewhat her face was wet;
something dripped on to her hand, and upon looking,
it was red with blood.

She dimly wondered if her hurt would excite
George’s pity.

Pansy’s eyes sought his face and her hopes were
confounded.

He was glowering at the blood upon her face and
hand much as if he were a famished and ruthless
beast of prey.

She instinctively divined that there was no hope;
that her hour had come.

Any moment now he might spring upon her and
crush the life from her body.

It was in her mind to plead once more: in spite of
herself, she was wholly occupied in the contemplation
of incidents in her life which sharply impinged upon
her brain.

Once more she was walking with George on the Es-
sex “saltings” with their distant view of the sea: he
382 PANSY MEARES

was all loutish ardour; she, impatient of his very
presence.

She was standing at her bedroom window at uncle
Perrott’s farm, her eyes straining in the direction of
the great city which was the haven of her desires.

She was strolling by the sea at Lowestoft with
Gerald Nepean, and marvelling why the words her
ears ached to hear tarried on his tongue.

She was at “Mowker & Bleet’s,” staring stupidly at
the piece of string young Mr. Bleet had dropped on
the floor with the design of trapping her.

Then she was standing on a bridge of an unknown
French town in the moonlight, Nepean at her side,
her heart swelling with ecstasy, the while she re-
garded the water flowing sullenly between the dark
houses.

Finally, she was sitting in the Salle 4 Manger of a
French hotel, and watching with unmeasured contempt
an elderly British spinster who, in smelling the butter,
had got some of it attached to her nose.

Her gaze was suddenly riveted upon George.

He was taking off his coat.

Although she divined the dread deed which was to-
ward, the vision of the woman with the butter on her
nose persisted in filling her mind.

Pansy had pitied her then; now she realised how,
for all her own youth and comeliness and charm, the
other had scored infinitely more than she had.

The elder woman was doubtless pursuing her un-
eventful, drab way; and Pansy was to be murdered by
the man she loved, who was convinced she had de-
ceived him with one she loathed.

The irony of it!

Meantime, George, as one possessed, was very, very
slowly advancing upon her, much as if he were en-
deavouring to withstand the demon possessing him.

One thing she was thankful for: she was spared the
inevitable descent of women who drift.
GEORGE SEES RED 383

She was grateful to George for this; perhaps it was
why she murmured:

“If we could die together!”

Apparently he did not hear: he was all but upon her
in his relentless approach.

The irony of her situation again flashed into her
mind: she was constrained to weep and to laugh, but
chiefly the latter.

She would have laughed had she not been worn out.

Tears fell out of her eyes, and at the same moment
Pansy lost consciousness.

These tears were her salvation: at the sight of them
George was awakened, and not a moment too soon,
from his blood lust.

He contemplated Pansy, now prone on the floor, a
tumbled mass of dark-blue frock, and white, and black,
and red, for quite a long time, before gently gathering
her in his arms, taking her on his knee, and tenderly
and repeatedly kissing her, much as if she were a
dearly loved child whom he had unwittingly hurt.

THE END
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