THE NOVELS OF 
 FRANK SWINNERTON 
 
 THE HAPPY PAMIL 
 ON THE STAIRCASE 
 THE CHASTE WIFE
 
 7x , 
 3~
 
 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 FRANK SWINNERTON 
 
 OP C1LIP. LIBRARY, LOS
 
 BY FRANK SWINNERTON 
 
 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 NOCTURNE 
 
 THE CHASTE WIFE 
 
 ON THE STAIRCASE 
 
 THE HAPPY FAMILY 
 
 GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
 
 SHOPS 
 AND HOUSES 
 
 BY 
 
 FRANK SWINNERTON 
 
 AUTHOR OF "NOCTURNE," ETC. 
 
 NEW XBir YORK 
 GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1918, 
 BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 
 
 
 PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OP AMERICA
 
 TO 
 
 HELEN 
 
 A LITTLE KEEPSAKE 
 
 2133089
 
 L' inconvenient du regne de I'opinion, qui d'ailleurs procure 
 la liberty c'est qu'elle se mele de ce dont elle n'a que faire; par 
 exemple: la vie privee. De la la tristesse de I'Amerique et 
 de VAngletene" STENDHAL.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER BOOK ONE: FRIENDS PAGE 
 
 I. BECKWITH n 
 
 II. APPLE HOUSE 33 
 
 III. Louis 43 
 
 IV. THE PARTY 56 
 
 V. OVER THE SHOP 93 
 
 VI. WOMEN 102 
 
 VII. AN ENCOUNTER 119 
 
 VIII. IN THE TRAIN 130 
 
 IX. VERONICA 142 
 
 X. DOROTHY 154 
 
 XL THE BREAK 165 
 
 XII. VERONICA'S BID 175 
 
 XIII. NADIR 189 
 
 BOOK TWO: LOVERS 
 
 XIV. THE REBEL 207 
 
 XV. BELOW THE SURFACE 220 
 
 XVI. THE CONCERT 230 
 
 XVII. SEARCH 240 
 
 XVIII. A NEW FRIEND 245 
 
 XIX. PAIN 254 
 
 XX. BECKWITH IN THE DOCK 267 
 
 XXL BECKWITH ON THE BENCH 276 
 
 XXII. SUNDAY MORNING 289 
 
 XXIII. SUNDAY AFTERNOON 297 
 
 XXIV. SUNDAY NIGHT . 307 
 
 EPILOGUE 317 
 
 vii
 
 BOOK ONE: FRIENDS

 
 CHAPTER I: BECKWITH 
 
 UPON the south side of London, about fifteen miles 
 from the city, and upon the nearest borders of 
 Kent and Surrey, lies a small town which combines the 
 characteristics of a suburb with those of a country village. 
 Tt has some factories, and, near the railway, many poor 
 little ugly houses; but the town itself is built around a 
 really beautiful common, and the houses one sees from 
 this common belong to a time when building was rather 
 a fine art. The country upon all hands is wide and open, 
 rippling with hedges and small clusters of wood; and 
 Beckwith stands so high that from chosen spots one can 
 enjoy the most lovely stretches of green, full of a brim- 
 ming vitality that is moving in its simplicity. Within 
 the town are roads of various widths and lengths, some 
 finished and some unfinished, bedecked with houses of all 
 sizes; and upon one side of the central common there are 
 a few very decorous shops which are not much altered 
 in appearance from older days when Beckwith was still 
 a remote village. There are also a church and an hotel 
 with the sign of a rampant lion. The railway has changed 
 the town. It has given it new classes and even a new 
 district. It has given it a new society. The station has 
 had to be enlarged and its sidings increased in number 
 within the last few years owing to the growth of goods 
 traffic; and there is a cluster of mean-looking shops in a 
 side street called "Station Road." They look a though 
 
 11
 
 12 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 they had been hastily and half-heartedly built to meet a 
 sudden emergency. Between some of them may still be 
 seen plots of grassy land sprinkled with thistle and large- 
 leaved weeds and bearing dilapidated sale boards. From 
 a village to a small country town, from a country town 
 to a suburb, Beckwith has progressed steadily in the 
 direction of prosperity; and has forsaken the peace of 
 its earlier existence. But at its silent heart, away from 
 the factories and the railway-station, it remains lovely 
 yet, and a home of sedate restfulness in spite of every- 
 thing. 
 
 The principal person in Beckwith should be Lord Days- 
 combe; but Lord Dayscombe can hardly be said to be a 
 Beckwithian, as he lives most of the time abroad. His 
 lordship pretends to have forgotten his native language, 
 and prefers to speak a rather harsh Italian. So Beckwith 
 sees very little of him, and the Vechantors are the only 
 family in the district to dine at Dayscombe when its 
 owner is at home. Apart, therefore, from this aristocrat, 
 the good society of Beckwith consists of the Vechantors, 
 who are an old family of some standing, the Derricks, 
 the Misses Ferris, Mrs. Jebolt and her valetudinarian hus- 
 band, the Dauntons, the Grenvilles, the Dumaresques, the 
 Peabodys, Miss Lampe, old Mr. Chator, Mrs. Dunton, 
 the Hugheses, the Deadwoods, the Toppetts, the Greens, 
 the Marches, the Corntofts, and Mrs. Callum. The Top- 
 pets are the Vicar and his wife and three children one 
 of whom wears round goggling spectacles, one of whom 
 has a sort of bit in her mouth to restrain wildly-growing 
 teeth, and one of whom obtrudes no defect at all upon the 
 beholding eye. Kindly persons suppose the Toppetts to 
 have profited by experience, because the perfect Toppett 
 is the youngest. Mrs. Jebolt, however, cannot help won- 
 dering what secret malady the child suffers from. It is a 
 constant preoccupation of hers one of the things that
 
 BECKWITH ia 
 
 animate her to an extreme point. Fortunately Mrs. Jebolt 
 is such a good-natured person that nobody supposes she 
 means what she says, and so the young Toppett is every- 
 where treated as relatively sound. Only Mrs. Jebolt 
 puts searching questions. 
 
 Below these families, who are known to the surround- 
 ing poor as "gentry," there is a slightly lower order of 
 society, mostly Noncomformists, very good and kind, 
 but not especially remarkable. They have their own 
 events and visitings; but they do not freely mix with 
 the class above. In a class below these are the trades- 
 people. Lowest of all comes the uncouth throng that 
 labours locally. It is a very matter-of-fact class, restless 
 and improvident, and is just upon the point of being spoilt 
 by what it calls "pleasure," which consists in the expendi- 
 ture of all surplus earnings upon cheap entertainments, 
 from kinemas at a larger town three miles away, to ciga- 
 rettes, brooches, etc., purchased in Station Road. The 
 town is on the whole happy and contented; but as its 
 population increases it is losing corporate sense. It is 
 less individualistic than indifferent. The classes are 
 becoming very clearly separated, and the feeling of 
 common interest in the well-doing of Beckwith is 
 diminishing. This is because the majority of ordi- 
 nary women are egoists in good-fortune, and only share 
 their sorrows. 
 
 In the town are shops of various kinds, in addition 
 to those lined so prettily upon one side of the common. 
 There is, in the wider road leading away from the green, 
 a series of quite large shops, and these large shops are 
 the ones at which the real Beckwithians deal. No real 
 Beckwithian has anything sent from the Stores, for the 
 real Beckwithian preserves his ancient motto of noblesse 
 oblige. So while there is a little old chemist's shop, and 
 the post-office, and a butcher's, and a baker's, overlook-
 
 14 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 ing the common, Peel's, the big grocer's shop, is in the 
 High Street, and so is the jeweller's, and the oilman's, 
 and the bookseller's and stationer's. They are large 
 shops, well-stocked, modern; their prices are carefully 
 measured, and their prosperity seems to be all that can 
 be desired. 
 
 Out of the High Street are roads of medium-sized 
 houses, rather new, with gravelled paths and lawns and 
 geraniums in front of them. These are inhabited by the 
 second-class people of Beckwith. They are red houses 
 with slate roofs, and the points of the roofs are decorated 
 with little red tiles like cockscombs. The best houses are 
 round the common, including some of the smallest, which 
 contain, in a few cases, only seven or eight rooms; but 
 there are one or two at a distance from the common, and 
 Miss Lampe even lives quite near the railway-station, so 
 that she knows altogether by heart what trains are caught 
 by what residents in the town. This situation is very 
 fortunate for Miss Lampe, who passionately cares for 
 such facts and is dependent upon them for her casual 
 conversation. 
 
 ii 
 
 Naturally the society of Beckwith, cut off from any 
 general communication with the outer world, is very 
 close: its moral scrutiny, the surest safeguard of man- 
 ners in the modern universe, is so exacting that any slight- 
 est infringement is observed and quietly punished. There 
 is no account made of "I didn't know." "Didn't know 
 was made to know," as somebody once said. These la- 
 dies are Roman or is it Spartan? in their severity to 
 each other. One would think that a quite special piece 
 of righteousness had been dealt out to each of them at 
 birth by a benign fairy. They do not fo much love one 
 another as guard one another. In no place is the "cut"
 
 BECKWITH 15 
 
 more noticeable, the chilling of welcome more adroitly 
 managed. Ah, the guilty know! All the ladies are 
 very sensitive. The cut accidental is followed with ap- 
 palling speed by the retaliatory cut deliberate. It takes 
 quite a long time to be quite sure whether the accident is 
 altogether forgiven ; and a repetition will certainly involve 
 ignominious exclusion from more than one house in the 
 neighbourhood. The wrong thing said or done flies 
 like ill-tidings from lip to lip, from eye to eye, very 
 secretly, very finally. Living in Beckwith is like living 
 upon glass. It is both slippery and brittle. 
 
 The cause of this is that when one lives in Beckwith 
 one has very little wider life. The consideration in which 
 one is held by one's neighbours (in default of special 
 talent, which is rare in Beckwith, and which raises a bar- 
 rier of constraint) is the only consideration which one 
 can enjoy. It must therefore be conserved, augmented, 
 by more or less adroit revelations made in talk. And 
 the uplifting of one's own importance brings about, in 
 one's acquaintance, the desire for equal uplif tings of 
 importance. Badly managed, it may estrange them. In- 
 considerate exaggeration is known as "swank." Swank 
 is met by swank, coldness, satirical gossip. . . . One 
 speaks, let us for example say, of an eminent person 
 whom one has encountered by happy accident; and this 
 suit is grimly followed. One says, perhaps, "I went into 
 that delightful place in Panton Street don't you know 
 it? I thought everybody knew it! and saw Bubb, the 
 ex-Cabinet Minister, simply gorging himself on steak 
 and onions." Hardly has one spoken before Mrs. Gren- 
 ville blurts out: "How nice! I remember being intro- 
 duced to the Bishop of Tanganwego one day when I was 
 in town. At the Berkeley. It isn't often I go. ... One 
 really is so tied when one lives in the country. Such a nice 
 little man. He told me quite a lot of things about his
 
 16 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 . . . It was delightful!" One sees that the connection 
 is supplied, not by any peculiarity in diet, but solely by 
 the worldly distinction of the person named. This has its 
 further illustrations, steadily rising in a scale of notability 
 or affluence. A canon is eclipsed by a dean, a cartoonist 
 by an R. A. Higher than a dean or an R.A. one can 
 hardly go in Beckwith. A visit to Paris or Paris-Plage 
 is less effective than a holiday in the Ardennes, the Jura, 
 Italy. . . . Any pretence to foreign experience, there- 
 fore, is instantly countered or exceeded. It is very 
 quietly done not noisily, as it would be by flat-dwellers 
 or the wives of military men but it is rather bitter; 
 and afterwards the justice-administering wives tell their 
 husbands, or the friends their friends. "I really had to 
 tell her we'd been to Genoa, and had met Lady Bander- 
 mere. . . . She was so unspeakably intolerable with her 
 tales of Trouville . . . the idea ! Nasty common place ! 
 Everybody goes there!" 
 
 But these stirs are momentary. They are accidental; 
 merely the challenging pummelling spirit which produces 
 the survival of the fittest. What wit does in circles where 
 wit is current coin, such bludgeon rivalry does in Beck- 
 with. One settles down, also, to a very fair system of 
 free give and take, because of course the exact degree of 
 consideration due to each person is bound sooner or 
 later to be established. It may vary with breeze or 
 tide; but its fundamental laws are unchangeable. Thus 
 and thus is the immutable order; and if one were alto- 
 gether too exclusive, and demanded excessive respect, 
 without repaying it in kind, there would be no social 
 life in Beckwith at all. Besides, there are flatteries. 
 . . . One is gladly deferred to about Italy (whether 
 song-birds are to be heard there or whether they are 
 killed for food) if one is ready to waive a right to speak 
 of the social life of bishops. If one accepts Mrs.
 
 BECKWITH 17 
 
 Callum's authority upon the moral defects of authors 
 this is a very special topic indeed Mrs. Callum will be 
 ready to interrupt any conversation whatever with "Oh 
 Russia. You must ask Mrs. Corntoft about Russia. 
 Her sister's lived there." 
 
 The Vechantors have no need of all this measuring, 
 which is common to almost all the residents in Beckwith ; 
 but then perhaps the Vechantors are rather apart from 
 the generality of their neighbours. They have always 
 lived in Beckwith; and they are well-to-do, and have no 
 tracks to cover, because they have always been well-to-do 
 and extremely domesticated. They are so artlessly sure 
 of being first in the town that they do not seem at any 
 time to be on the watch for those slights and favouritisms 
 that become important in any small community. The 
 others are not ridiculous or merely foolish. They are 
 reacting normally to their environment, to the intensive 
 culture which is produced by any form of human segrega- 
 tion. They suffer with a kind of dull and aching forti- 
 tude from their limited physical horizons and from that 
 instinctive human craving for something that will assure 
 them of their right to live. It is a form of ill-breeding, 
 but it is pathetic rather than contemptible. It arises 
 from overmuch time unoccupied or falsely occupied with 
 trivial and inessential things, which gives opportunity 
 for morbid thoughts; and it arises from that passionate 
 desire felt by every individual for love. The desire to 
 be loved, when it sours, becomes the desire to be con- 
 sidered. If we are not by nature important to others, 
 as few can be, we become important to ourselves, and 
 that kind of egoism is so little based upon self-reliance 
 that it suffers from a kind of eating diabetes, so constant 
 is its need for nourishment. Nearly all, but not quite 
 all, of the women in Beckwith suffer from this aimless- 
 ness of life, this insatiable egomania. Some of the men
 
 r 
 
 18 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 are empoisoned with it. Several women and most of 
 the men are free from all such trouble. The Vechantors, 
 who pronounce the "ch" as if it were "k," and accent 
 the middle syllable of their name, are altogether above 
 it. They appear to live a kind of life apart, a humane 
 life, which is nourished from within. 
 
 in 
 
 The present occupants of Apple House are Emanuel 
 Vechantor and his wife and son. Emanuel's grandfather 
 began life in the house of certain wholesale importers of 
 tea. He increased his power in that business and ulti- 
 mately controlled its fortunes. When he was able to 
 do so he sold the business and invested the greater part 
 of his money in a newly-formed mercantile bank which 
 he also made a success; and it is from this bank that 
 subsequent Vechantors have drawn their ample subsis- 
 tence. The grandfather had a younger, brother, a fail- 
 ure, who disappeared from polite society, and was re- 
 ported to have emigrated. He was supposed to be dead 
 long before he did die the wish that he might be dead 
 assisting to bury him alive; but that was years ago, and 
 nobody has thought about him for fifty or sixty years. 
 It has always been felt that he was best forgotten. Ac- 
 cordingly it may be said that from Stephen Vechantor 
 the grandfather there has descended the sole line of 
 Vechantors; and the family has been so unprolific that 
 both Emanuel and his father were only sons. This rule 
 applies also to the present generation, for Emanuel has 
 no more than two children. Beatrice, the elder, is mar- 
 ried; and Louis, after an elaborate education by private 
 tutors and afterwards at Oxford, is the active partner 
 in the business of Vechantor & Co. His father visits 
 the office once a week : Louis goes every day.
 
 BECKWITH 19 
 
 The Vechantors live at the house that hides behind 
 large gates at the extreme western edge of the common. 
 It runs beside the road which goes west, towards the 
 Kentish main roads; but it is protected by a beautiful 
 old red wall, ivy grown and adorable. Through the 
 large gates one sees from the common's edge a garden 
 opening and spreading beyond the first lawn upon the 
 right of the house an apparently limitless wealth of 
 green, studded in summer time with a glorious jewel-like 
 mass of crimson rambler. The front door is at the left 
 of the entry to the garden : it reveals a lofty porch and 
 a wide hall beyond, which suggests to the caller comfort 
 inexpressible, and which is warm in winter and deli- 
 ciously cool in summer time. 
 
 Everything is very quiet in the house. Quiet as Beck- 
 with is in general there is a calm about Apple House 
 which one cannot help noticing. The floors are thickly 
 carpeted, so that no footfall is heard. When the clock 
 in the drawing-room chimes dimly the silver notes throb 
 the air and echo for a perceptible time after they have 
 been struck. The grandfather clock in the entrance hall 
 is hardly heard : it seems to tell the hours to itself, like 
 a parrot repeating inaudible conversation. The house, 
 besides being very quiet, is very spacious and beautiful. 
 The Vechantors have always been people of taste, it 
 seems; for the furnishing of the house contains nothing 
 that could distress even the most modern eye. That 
 is a thing which Louis had observed at once on returning 
 from Oxford. Fresh from the fashion of the world, 
 and from a society of which fashion is exigent, he was 
 surprised to find that his own home was not grotesque. 
 After all, the Vechantors, it might have occurred to him 
 to think, as the Duke of Plaza-Toro did upon another 
 occasion, do not follow fashions : they lead them ! The 
 truth being that they take no notice of them.
 
 20 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 Living as they do, in an assured position, without 
 cares of any galling kind, the Vechantors feel none of 
 the frenetic anxiety about "standing" which riddles the 
 lives of their neighbours. It has not occurred to them, 
 for so many years, to think of improving their social 
 position, that they have little sympathy with those who 
 are, socially, standing upon tiptoe. It can never occur 
 to them to envy anybody, and they are much too well- 
 bred to wish to make other people fall into their ways, 
 or imitate them, in order that they may dominate a 
 clique. They are at Beckwith; they are kind and cour- 
 teous; Mrs. Vechantor has no hostilities or jealousies. 
 She leads a simple, happy life. Her husband leads a 
 life that is rather less happy although it is almost equally 
 simple. Her daughter Beatrice, who lives with her hus- 
 band in Hertfordshire, forty miles away, leads a life 
 that is ever so much less simple and that might be a 
 very happy one if her restless temperament allowed. 
 The life of Louis, Mrs. Vechantor's only son, and the 
 peculiarities of his character, are to be described at more 
 length in the pages that follow. 
 
 IV 
 
 Louis Vechantor, standing upon this Autumn evening 
 before the drawing-room fire, waiting for the dinner- 
 gong, seems to his mother to be rather like what she 
 remembers her husband to have been at the same age. 
 He is rather tall, extremely dark, and he wears pince-nez 
 and a small black moustache. His dress the Vechan- 
 tors dress for dinner every evening, unless they have 
 certain visitors is that of a young man of some pre- 
 tensions to fashion. His hair is glossy and black, his 
 nose long and thin, his mouth moderately small and 
 gravely closed. His face is thin and pale, but his body
 
 BECKWITH 21 
 
 is well developed and full of grace. He is between 
 twenty-six and twenty-seven. At first sight one looks 
 with disappointment for that sparkle of cordiality which 
 in a young man creates at once an air of charm. The 
 sparkle is not there. Louis is distinctly cold. Then one 
 wonders, still rather disappointedly, whether some 
 strength of character lies behind his impassivity; and 
 while this scrutiny is in progress one is rather discon- 
 certed to find that it is being returned from behind 
 the pince-nez by a pair of steel-grey eyes. There is 
 no suggestion of harshness about the face. It is even 
 handsome. But one thinks that perhaps Mrs. Vechantor, 
 whose affection is palpable, must be suffering from the 
 mother-complaint, and that her swan is perhaps a sober 
 enough gander for Beckwith and a domesticated future. 
 
 As a relief from such doubts one turns to Mrs. 
 Vechantor herself, a white-haired lady of sixty, with a 
 calm, ivory face, hardly wrinkled, and a slim figure which 
 suggests continued youth. As she sits in the shadow of 
 a tall screen, Mrs. Vechantor seems to make one think 
 of beautiful, imperishable tones in pictures by the Dutch 
 artists. One sees how the quietness of this house sur- 
 rounds her and belongs to her. In her kind, grave old 
 eyes one finds the graceful authority from which flows 
 the perfect order of the house. Life must have passed 
 very pleasantly, one thinks, for this lady: she can have 
 had no miseries. And that is really true. Mrs. Vechan- 
 tor has been happily married, happy in her motherhood, 
 and she is now happy in her measured and occupied 
 elderly age. She is especially happy in her only son, 
 who is waiting for his dinner with a kind of pleasant 
 thoughtfulness. 
 
 The door opens, and the parlourmaid admits new ar- 
 rivals. 
 
 "Mr. and Mrs. Toppett, ma'am. Miss Lampe . . ."
 
 22 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 The room is instantly in a flutter and a wonderful 
 uproar. The Vicar and his wife stand quietly beaming; 
 but their fellow-traveller has begun in an extraordinarily 
 shrill voice to address her hostess for the evening. Miss 
 Lampe is a shrivelled little lady with bead-like eyes, 
 who dresses eternally in a black poplin cut upon such 
 an antique model that she always looks the same and as 
 if she had worn black poplin since her birth. She has 
 advanced at a kind of run, speaking continuously. Even 
 while Mrs. Vechantor is welcoming the Toppetts, Miss 
 Lampe is still lavishing her conversation with the fine 
 carelessness of Nature. 
 
 Supposing one had been present at this scene one would 
 have noticed that with the entrance of these visitors 
 Louis and his mother, although perfectly unchanged in 
 manner, had separated themselves finally from the normal 
 standards of Beckwith. Speaking to Mr. Toppett, Louis 
 had become by contrast more distinguished. His atti- 
 tude was still lacking in animation; but his movements 
 were perfect and his breeding perceptible. Mr. Toppett 
 seemed provincial beside him. The Toppetts beamed; 
 Miss Lampe was over-emphatic. They were almost con- 
 strained, all three. Yet it was not through any failure 
 of tact or courtesy on the part of the Vechantors. They 
 were perfectly at ease; entirely without pretentiousness. 
 Perhaps the difference lay in that fact? One saw that 
 Louis was not, as a first glance had seemed to indicate, 
 the sleek, well-groomed young man of the City. He was 
 something else. He had the air of shining from within. 
 It was curious that the nearness of the clergyman should 
 have created such a clear impression by contrast. Mr. 
 Toppett was far from being an ignoramus; his knowl-
 
 BECKWITH 23 
 
 edge of Church History was considerable: upon the 
 subject of his Church he could show himself well- 
 informed and eloquent. He was a Churchman, as irrev- 
 erent observers might have remarked, before he was a 
 Christian: doctrine, history, the innumerable points at 
 which approved practice departs from impulsive ob- 
 servance, were for him matters of unsurpassed moment. 
 There was no Low Church rapprochement with Dissent 
 in Beck with. Cordial to all, Mr. Toppett was iron where 
 conformity was engaged in its battle for supremacy. 
 He was far from Rome; but his jaw stiffened abruptly, 
 and he became parochial, at any serious theological 
 backsliding. He was a well-built man with a common, 
 bull-dog face. He wore his hair cropped short, and 
 his mouth was the ugly mouth of a public speaker, 
 dropped at one corner. His way of looking and turning 
 was blunt, rather pressingly bluff. One had the sense 
 of large hands and a narrow, efficient judgment. He 
 was well-trained, practical, warm-hearted; but if any- 
 body in Beckwith had known what imagination was she 
 would have sought vainly for it in Mr. Toppett's ser- 
 mons or in his everyday attitude to worldly things. For 
 him the material world represented reality : his teaching 
 was one of accommodation with materialism, not hos- 
 tility to it. He was in fact a materialist with a belief 
 in a practicable hereafter of rewards and punishments. 
 In his way of coming to the point Mr. Toppett eschewed! 
 finesse : he had no use for it because it would not have 
 availed him in Beckwith. His retorts to neurasthenic 
 parishioners were well known for their outrightness : he 
 would stand no nonsense from others, just as he would 
 stand no nonsense from himself. This and this was the 
 doctrine of the Church : one either conformed to it or one 
 left the Church alone. From the pulpit he gave each 
 week, not ghostly counsel, but good ethical instruction
 
 24 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 in which the teaching of the Church, at its most orthodox, 
 was implicit. It was also frequently explicit: Mr. Top- 
 pett told his congregation what they must do. He was 
 not a begging-parson, and he was not an evangelical 
 dealer in exhortation. He was rough, hard-hitting, col- 
 loquial; but he satisfied the men by his acceptance of 
 common sense as the guiding light in ordinary affairs, 
 and attracted the women by his robustness, his manly 
 grappling with things near at hand. On Saturday after- 
 noons he played for the excellent town cricket team. 
 The women who wished to worship emotionally walked 
 to a village church a mile and a half away, or they 
 indulged in another denomination. 
 
 Louis, listening to Mr. Toppett's competent account 
 of a political crisis in progress at that time, heard the 
 ugly voice and saw the cold eyes of his companion with 
 some appreciation. He liked the man for his honesty 
 or his apparent honesty; and he respected his power to 
 grasp very clearly, if ordinarily, the details of political 
 forays. Mr. Toppett was a moderate politician, a Con^ 
 servative with an interest in social amelioration, a patriot, 
 a believer in strong government. He was only offensive 
 to those with vehement views, who thought that he 
 regarded the two-party system too much as if its purity 
 and its God-given efficaciousness were above question. 
 He honestly did think that the social order was moving 
 steadily to perfection. And in this moment he was 
 speaking of the political clash in terms of the House of 
 Commons and of grave political correspondents. He 
 took it for granted that the House of Commons repre- 
 sented the country. It was a saying with him that a 
 nation generally has the government it deserves. His 
 hatred of advanced political views, of anarchy, was such 
 that he would often say, "A nation ... we must be a 
 nation, not a mob." He feared democracy, and he was
 
 BECKWITH 25 
 
 not afraid to proclaim the fear. "Good government," 
 he would explain, "is strong government. Put the mob 
 in power; and stability is gone. You are at the mercy 
 of unpractical idealists and designing demagogues." He 
 had a profound dislike of Mr. Bernard Shaw. "A 
 harlequin," he thought him. Mr. Toppett could speak 
 freely of all these matters to his parishioners, because all 
 the men in Beckwith, whether Liberal or Conservative, 
 were at one upon such points of policy. At elections 
 they voted one way or the other because they had grown 
 up calling themselves Liberals or Conservatives, bora 
 to it, as W. S. Gilbert's sentry realised in his reflective- 
 ness; but in fact they were all a part of the backbone 
 of the country, all sound as bells upon the question of 
 property, the party-system, a strong navy, no conscrip- 
 tion, limited monarchy; divided only about Home Rule 
 for Ireland and Making the Foreigner Pay. They had 
 for years concentrated upon these beliefs, and none of 
 them would budge upon any point which he had accepted 
 in more tender years. The close, slow beliefs of men 
 do not change : Mr. Toppett could not have kept pace 
 with a changeable Beckwith. With the Beckwith of 
 reality he was in close touch. He really did represent 
 the men of Beckwith and was the right man to give them 
 each Sunday his thoughts of the week upon questions of 
 conduct. He never thundered : he made his auditors 
 respect him from the front pews to those at the back of 
 his bare and beautiful church. He had the world well 
 in hand; and he believed that the doctrine of the Chris- 
 tian Church supplied an answer to all spiritual dubitations. 
 He thought it the only intellectual system for which as 
 much could be claimed. He was no mystic. 
 
 And yet one felt that Louis was subtly different from 
 Mr. Toppett. Not that he was wiser or more admirable* 
 but just that he was more distinguished and capable o]
 
 26 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 perhaps finer insights. That is not a capacity of much 
 use in practical affairs, where the practical man is essen- 
 tial; but the existence from time to time of men like 
 Louis Vechantor is not without its significance. He was 
 a less typically useful person than Mr. Toppett; but he 
 was rather more intriguing to the imagination. 
 
 VI 
 
 Miss Lampe was terribly eager with her news. She 
 could hardly wait until they were all at the dinner-table 
 (for Mr. Vechantor arrived two minutes before the 
 gong), so keen was she upon making her statement. 
 She was like a cabinet minister who has been forced to 
 resign. The desire to impart the truth washed out all 
 her horizons. But even Miss Lampe felt herself con- 
 trolled by events and by the arrival of Mr. Vechantor 
 and the ringing of the gong; and so the news did not 
 lose its effectiveness through being blurted out to half 
 the party. It was kept back. It simmered in her mind, 
 so that she could not pay attention to what was being 
 said around her. How provoking Louis was, thought 
 Miss Lampe. It almost seemed as though he were en- 
 couraging Mr. Toppett to speak interminably of the 
 political crisis. Mr. Toppett was crumbling bread and 
 speaking as to broad-minded equals. His voice went on 
 and on, like the voice of Freedom on the heights of old. 
 Really, Miss Lampe could not bear it any longer! She 
 turned rudely to her host. 
 
 "This political crisis," said she to Mr. Vechantor. "It 
 seems very serious, doesn't it? Dreadfully!" 
 
 Mr. Vechantor agreed. He smiled at Miss Lampe, 
 who bored him. 
 
 "Yes," he said, rather dryly, forking a glance at her 
 from beneath his bushy grey brows. "Yes. Very
 
 BECKWITH 27 
 
 serious. It will make a great difference to Beckwith." 
 
 Miss Lampe did not pause to read his remark which 
 was one reason why she bored Mr. Vechantor, who was 
 one of those elderly gentlemen who like their words 
 (especially their ironical words) to be as deliberately 
 weighed by hearers as they have been by the speaker. 
 She was too eager to get her conversational "liaison." 
 
 "So true," she said. "Everywhere, of course, but 
 especially in Beckwith. Dear me, in matters of 
 change " 
 
 "We stand on the verge of a great issue," said Mr. 
 Toppett, barely interrupted by this impatient explosion. 
 "There is a revolutionary ferment in this country that 
 may lead in time to chaos, to anarchy. Not yet. Not 
 to-morrow; but one looks, I hope, politically, beyond 
 to-morrow. The mass of the people are excellent; but 
 there is a dangerous intellectual element of a rather su- 
 perior class that I fear. . . . Men, and women, born 
 poor, or born idealistic, which is even more dangerous, 
 who are so intoxicated with the power to think for 
 themselves that they are irresponsibly carrying the right 
 of private judgment to a perilous excess." 
 
 Louis gravely assented to this proposition. Miss 
 Lampe looked chagrined. 
 
 "Very dangerous," she said. "And indeed any change 
 is unsettling. ... I was " 
 
 "Have you decided if you'll be at home for Christmas, 
 Miss Lampe?" asked Mrs. Toppett. 
 
 "Ah, Beckwith for me," said Miss Lampe. "I only 
 went away last Christmas for a very special reason. An 
 old friend very ill. . . . I'm not like some people. 
 Beckwith's been my home for twenty-two years; and I 
 was very surprised to hear " 
 
 How unfortunate Miss Lampe was! At that moment 
 she had to help herself to vegetables, and she was not
 
 28 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 one of those people who can talk coolly while they are 
 performing this act. The dishes wobble so if they are 
 impatiently attacked ! It really seemed as though every- 
 thing presented itself as an obstacle to her. During the 
 meal she was foiled again and again. It was only by 
 refusing fruit that she could make sure of her oppor- 
 tunity. She then, while the others were bent upon 
 difficult tasks, seized the table with her fingers and 
 thumbs (to give herself support) and directed a shril? 
 outcr>' to the ceiling. She did not look at anybody. She 
 simply said, very loudly : 
 
 "Such a piece of news! Mr. Peel has sold his busi- 
 ness; and they're going to leave Beckwith and move to 
 Croydon !" 
 
 "Ah yes," said Mr. Toppett, stupidly and callously. 
 "So I heard to-day. We shall miss Peel." 
 
 vn 
 
 "Peel," said Mr. Vechantor. "He's the grocer, isn't 
 he? Oh, of course I remember. He's a member of 
 your congregation, isn't he, Toppett?" 
 
 "A very good sort of man," Mr. Toppett affirmed. 
 
 "His groceries are very good," said Mrs. Vechantor. 
 "Though some of them seem to me a little dear." 
 
 "Do you know who's bought the business?" asked 
 Louis. So it was he, after all, who gave Miss Lampe 
 her opportunity of distended explanation. She would 
 have beamed upon him if there had been time. 
 
 "No. I don't know that much. I just happened to 
 meet Mrs. Peel, who was coming away from the station 
 she'd come back by the three o'clock train and I stopped 
 her you know I always do, ever since I was able to help 
 her when she had that little girl ill and asked after 
 the little girl. And so she said she was just back from
 
 BECKWITH 29 
 
 going to Croydon, and she'd been there to see a house 
 Mr. Peel had bought, and how Mr. Peel had sold his 
 business. I asked her if she knew who had bought it 
 I was so afraid it might be one of those big firms of 
 purveyors, because it would be such a pity if one of them 
 came to spoil dear little Beckwith ; but she didn't know. 
 She said it had all been done through an agent, and she 
 thought the whole sale had been carried through pri- 
 vately. So she couldn't tell me anything, except that 
 they expected to be going at the end of the year and 
 the new people coming on the first of January. I said I 
 hoped the new people would be just as satisfactory as 
 Mr. Peel had been, but that we should miss his cheery 
 face and his obligingness . . ." 
 
 "Oh, certainly," said Mrs. Toppett agreeably. "But 
 it will be nice to have a change. I always thought Mr. 
 Peel's . . , beard was rather red." She had been going 
 to say "whiskers" ; but Mr. Vechantor wore a grey beard, 
 and the memory of this, or perhaps the sight of it, saved 
 her from indiscretion. "Really, it's very red, you know. 
 Perhaps I'm fastidious." 
 
 "It's the redness of his face," Louis explained. "The 
 two reds clash rather. As a rule red hair goes with a 
 pale complexion; but Peel is abnormal. I wonder what 
 makes his face so red." 
 
 Miss Lampe's mouth became pinched. She was a 
 prude, and couldn't proclaim her intuitions. Had she 
 been with Mrs. Callum she would have said, simply, "he 
 drinks"; but she could not say such a thing before the 
 Vechantors and the Vicar. It would have seemed rather 
 outrageous, even to Miss Lampe. 
 
 "Well, the only thing to do is to hope that his suc- 
 cessor will be a good grocer," said Mrs. Vechantor. "At 
 any rate, it's to be hoped that he will be as good a grocer 
 as Mr. Peel."
 
 30 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 "And as good a man," added Mr. Toppett urbanely. 
 
 "That, of course," she retorted. "But I'm just being 
 selfish, because it would be so very inconvenient if the 
 local grocer were a cheat, or supplied bad goods. One 
 can't be too careful." 
 
 "As soon as I hear anything, I'll let you know," said 
 Miss Lampe. "I always say," she supplemented, with 
 dreadful naivete, "that half the pleasure of hearing a 
 thing is the thought of repeating it. Don't you think it 
 is?" She gave a sort of nervous titter and swept Louis's 
 face with her shrewd examining eyes. 
 
 viii 
 
 It was afterwards, when Miss Lampe was being accom- 
 panied upon her way home by the Vicar and his wife, 
 that there occurred between the three of them a singular 
 conversation about the people with whom they had so 
 amicably been dining. 
 
 "How nice it is," Mrs. Toppett suddenly observed, "to 
 meet such people as the Vechantors. There's something 
 so ... I don't exactly know what it is ... something 
 ... as if they'd never had anything at all troublesome 
 or uncomfortable in their lives . . ." 
 
 "Mrs. Vechantor's the perfect lady," said her husband 
 gravely. "Quite perfect. There's " 
 
 "So charming," said Miss Lampe. "One feels one's 
 with people . . . who really matter." 
 
 "Yes : doesn't one. Not a bit of side." Mrs. Toppett 
 was quite frankly enthusiastic. "I like going there. 
 It's like going among human beings." 
 
 "My dear!" protested Mr. Toppett. 
 
 "No, Harold ; it really is ! One feels at least, I do," 
 she added, with charming ingenuousness, "as though 
 . . . Well, everybody in Beckwith is awfully nice and 
 kind . ."
 
 BECKWITH 31 
 
 "But the Vechantors . . ." supplemented Miss Lampe. 
 
 "Of course," Mr. Toppett explained, "it's quite true 
 that they've always been rather wealthy. One has to 
 remember that. It's not as though they weren't quite 
 at the head of our little society." 
 
 They were passing at this moment down a dark lane 
 which led towards the station, and a fresh breeze rustled 
 the few remaining leaves of trees invisible to them in 
 this opaque darkness of late Autumn. Mrs. Toppett 
 shivered slightly. A sudden gust of wind had chilled 
 her and made her think of her three babies. 
 
 "It's not that altogether," she persisted. "I like Mrs. 
 Vechantor so much. I feel that she's . . . you know 
 . . . really sympathetic with what one feels." 
 
 "I'm afraid you're giving Miss Lampe a wrong im- 
 pression," suggested her husband "There's a great deal 
 of real sympathy in Beck with." He was much too 
 shrewd a man not to see that a confidence, however 
 innocent, is dangerous in such darkness, in such a mood 
 of enthusiasm, when one's hearer is a lady with a tongue 
 and ears and a very quick sense of the unpleasant. 
 
 "Miss Lampe knows what I mean," said Mrs. Toppett 
 warmly. "It's nothing at all to be confused about. I'm 
 sure I have many friends in Beckwith. They are charm- 
 ing people. No, I can't quite express what I feel. It's 
 just that I feel so happy at Apple House. . . . It's 
 like a holiday. . . ." 
 
 She was being horribly indiscreet; but her tongue was 
 out of control, and she was easily moved by darkness, 
 and might then have confided things which she would 
 afterwards regret having said. Miss Lampe was avidly 
 listening, her eyes well-open, and her lips parted. 
 
 "Oh, quite" she said. "It's a change . . ." 
 
 "I'm never quite sure how far Mr. Vechantor is sym- 
 pathetic," said Mr. Toppett guardedly. "He is always
 
 32 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 most considerate. He's quite the grand man of affairs, 
 
 I feel." 
 
 "Yes. I wish I understood Louis, too, exclaimed 
 his wife. "I must admit he rather mystifies me/' 
 
 "That's strange ... I never feel that . . ." said her 
 husband. "Possibly it's because I've known him so long. 
 I always feel he's . . . well, if that weren't rather an 
 odd word to apply to a young man, I think I should 
 describe him as 'sound.' With so many young men of 
 our day there's a kind of forced levity a self -conscious- 
 ness that won't allow them to be serious. . . ." 
 
 "He's very serious," said Mrs. Toppett. 
 
 "Well, . . . if he?" suddenly demanded Miss Lampe. 
 "I sometimes wonder." 
 
 "Oh, do tell us what you mean !" begged Mrs. Toppett. 
 "It sounds so mysterious!" 
 
 "Perhaps I ought not to say it; but sometimes I 
 wonder ... I wonder if Louis is quite all that we think 
 him . . ." hinted Miss Lampe. She also was rather 
 moved to expansiveness by their complete concealment 
 from each other. 
 
 "Of course, he's a young man; and we know that 
 young men ..." Mr. Toppett was disposed to recon- 
 cile matters in this way. "But, speaking for myself, I've 
 always found Louis very attentive, very much inclined 
 as few young men are to hear what his elders have got 
 to say." 
 
 "Ye-es," hesitated Miss Lampe. "Yes ... I sup- 
 pose he is. ... And yet I've sometimes thought ... I 
 can't help feeling that he's apt to over-value himself. 
 You see ... as though he was . . . just a little . . . 
 just a little amused at anything we say !" 
 
 They were all rather silent until they reached Miss 
 Lampe's house. It was such an odd idea.
 
 CHAPTER II: APPLE HOUSE 
 
 IT was not until the week before Christmas that 
 thing further happened at Beckwith; for events go 
 slowly in ^ that town. Daily the society of the district 
 wound yet more tightly the never-ending ball of its 
 general relation. Visiting days hurried by ; thick skeins 
 of talk were unravelled to make the general resource of 
 local life : marketing was done, meals eaten, parties given, 
 songs sung, dresses brought out and laid away again; 
 and still nothing really happened in Beckwith. Nothing 
 serious ever did happen there. That was a part of its 
 charm. It was like a backwater. A writer with a gift 
 for sentimental fantasy could have made it the scene of a 
 thousand delightful unrealities. Only time was con- 
 sumed. Nothing could have increased the eagerness with 
 which precious time was consumed. As if time were 
 not so valuable! Yet Beckwith was a cormorant in its 
 consumption of time. No dragon of old could more 
 ravenously have demanded its feasts of young virgins. 
 Kill time! Watch this affair and that, bring blushes to 
 maiden cheeks, stiltedness to young male manners; eat, 
 drink, and be ever engaged in the consumption of pre- 
 cious time ! That was the secret, terrible aim of dwellers 
 in Beckwith. To eat a day and look forward to the next 
 with insatiable appetite ! Little concerts in half-warmed 
 Church Rooms, little amateur theatricals and dances in 
 the shabby Town Hall anything to destroy the danger 
 
 33
 
 34 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 that lurks in unoccupied time. Never mind if the things 
 are useless, if hours of planning are wasted upon a futile 
 ceremony of some sort! Dress your children in flimsy 
 clothes and let them take cold; but force them into the 
 paths of emulation and excitement so that they shall 
 thoroughly enjoy life, and get the most out of it. It is 
 necessary: restlessness demands an outlet, not in con- 
 structive action, not in clear-thinking, nor in real festi- 
 vals or the cultivation of growth; but solely in the de- 
 struction of time and the resuscitation of exhausting 
 excitements. Satan finds work for idle hands to do, and 
 Satan must be foiled. How the brave ladies of Beck- 
 with kept Satan at bay! They talked and performed 
 their local duties from hour to hour, unhesitatingly put- 
 ting away any thought for the future if only the to- 
 morrow might be measurably occupied. And so the 
 weeks passed, and Christmas came about. There would 
 be waits (they began to moan like dead leaves in the 
 porches from the beginning of December, each batch 
 driven to begin earlier so as to forestall for economic 
 reasons the other batches, who received smaller rewards) ; 
 there were puddings to be made and presents to be 
 planned, and the churches to be decorated, and invita- 
 tions to be given. A thousand bizarre manifestations 
 of modesty and jealousy were necessary for the creation 
 of a social atmosphere of seasonable gaiety. Miss 
 Lampe must see and record parcels brought from the 
 station ; Mrs. Jebolt must watch from the window to see 
 what Mrs. March was doing in the opposite house in her 
 working pinafore at twelve o'clock in the day; Mrs. 
 Derrick must hear the truth about Mrs. Daunton's son 
 and his affair with a most unfortunate young woman 
 who worked somewhere in the City; Mrs. Callum must 
 observe the Deadwoods' maid walking with a young man 
 in the Station Road, and laugh because he had squeaky
 
 APPLE HOUSE 35 
 
 boots and cleared his throat rather proudly as if, poor 
 being, he thought he was "in love"! So funny that 
 people of that sort . . . So, consumed in activities, these 
 cheerful Beckwithians prepared for the festival before 
 them. It was the way they had always lived. It "suited" 
 them; and as the days drew to a close they exclaimed 
 with relish: "How the time goes! I must do this and 
 this to-morrow, or I shall never be finished by Christ- 
 mas!" There seemed to be a general busy-ness in the 
 air. Even good friends passed each other, beaming, in 
 the street, as speechless as if they were still holding pins 
 or pieces of string in their mouths. They all under- 
 stood: it was a part of life: the season was giving them 
 rare occupation and concern with the needs of others. 
 They even smiled when they heard the waits in the 
 porches, although the waits sometimes distracted their 
 thoughts and made their husbands rather irritable. . . . 
 
 ii 
 
 At Apple House the Vechantors seemed to be as peace- 
 ful as usual. Mrs. Vechantor had made or bought all 
 her presents, and the puddings were standing in splendid 
 rows in a special section of the store-room. At Apple 
 House everything was prepared so gradually that the 
 maids hardly knew how much extra work had been done 
 until they saw the visible evidence of it before their 
 astonished eyes. They then admired Mrs. Vechantor. 
 She had few servant troubles. All the other Beckwith 
 ladies had them; but once at Apple House maids were 
 not attracted elsewhere. They met other maids, and 
 discoursed ; and the other maids went home discontented. 
 If the Vechantors had not been so well established in 
 the district there might even have been some feeling 
 against them among the puzzled mistresses of the town.
 
 36 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 But these, vaguely understanding the attractions of su- 
 perior service, more clearly defined work, and the gen- 
 eral charm of Apple House, merely sighed and talked 
 among themselves, rather helplessly, as a Cabinet must 
 do about Labour Troubles and the Revolutionary Fer- 
 ment which from time to time arises among the lower 
 orders. 
 
 Upon an evening about a week before Christmas the 
 Vechantors were dining alone. The evening was very 
 cold, and there was snow outside. Upon every bare 
 branch it stood like a thick white rim, and the ground was 
 laden with its heavy carpeting. Lights across the com- 
 mon had a pretty frozen air, for the wind was shrewd. 
 It carried the snowflakes that fell crisply from invisible 
 clouds far above the farthest point of vision. All the 
 common was white. The windows themselves had little 
 drifts of melting snow upon the panes, snow that began 
 to trickle down in streams of mottled wet as the warmth! 
 of the rooms dissolved the driven flakes. It was a winter 
 night, that made rooms more cheerfully cosy than ever. 
 Except for the indefatigable waits the streets of Beckwith 
 were empty. At Apple House the gong had gone, and 
 dinner was ready to be served. Only Mr. Vechantor, 
 who always stayed in his room until the last minute, 
 reading Gibbon's "Decline and Fall of the Roman Em- 
 pire," was awaited. 
 
 At last he too came, having for the twentieth time 
 savoured the wonderful account of Julian the Apostate, 
 and the party was complete. With a good deal of 
 manner Mr. Vechantor took the head of the table a tall 
 old man with grey hair and beard and a rather fine face. 
 He had long and very thin hands, with which he smoothed 
 back his moustaches ; and every now and then he would 
 throw about him a quick glance from under his bushy 
 eyebrows, so that he seemed periodically to see every-
 
 APPLE HOUSE 87 
 
 thing, corrosively. It was not known how much he saw, 
 or what he saw, for Mr. Vechantor did not say a great 
 deal. Perhaps not more than five thousand words in a 
 day. Yet the speed of his black eyes in their lightning 
 darts was immeasurable. It suggested a retention of an 
 altogether unusual amount of intellectual youth and 
 energy. 
 
 Opposite to Mr. Vechantor sat his wife, clothed in a 
 beautiful dress of amber silk, with real old lace at her 
 breast and wrists. The dress heightened the clear beauty 
 of her face. She looked all the more delicate (though, 
 of course, not at all fragile) because of the soft contrast 
 of her dress and its lace trimmings. She too had a very 
 clear glance; but it was not sudden, as her husband's 
 was, and it saw a great deal without seeming to do so. 
 She lived in a curious world of thought which was almost 
 understanding. She was always speculating about char- 
 acter, not watchfully, but as if she lived in a fairy story 
 or a saga, and sang out the secrets of those who were 
 in her company. Only she sang them, as it were, to her- 
 self ; and the ladies of Beckwith never knew. That was 
 why they admired her so much, and were mystified by 
 her. She never told what she saw. 
 
 Between them sat Louis, very well-groomed and rather 
 too spotless. He had his mother's clear glance, but it 
 was obviously more scrutinising ; and his pince-nez helped 
 both to conceal this and, when it was discovered, to em- 
 phasise it. He had a very beautifully shaped mouth, 
 and the carriage of his dark head was sensitive and 
 noticeable. His nostrils were thin and fine, and he had 
 smaller hands than his father. If he had not worn the 
 little black moustache he would have seemed more hand- 
 some and less sleek, for his hair had a slight curl, and he 
 did not use any kind of pomade. But the little black 
 moustache, which in itself thrilled many of the younger
 
 38 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 ladies in Beckwith, was a grave decorative mistake. It 
 may have been a concession to his bearded father, or a 
 belated survival from the days of his nascent manhood; 
 but it was not a characteristic of his present stage of 
 growth, and it was still regrettable. 
 3 These three Vechantors, then, sat round their own 
 dinner-table, and were solemnly served with dinner at 
 one of the most extraordinary moments of their common 
 life. They did not know it was extraordinary; and 
 were all quite unable to see that a crisis was threatening 
 their domestic comfort; but in bringing in the coffee 
 Rosemary, the well-tried parlour-maid at Apple House, 
 brought also a long white envelope, which she placed be- 
 fore her mistress, just beside the tray bearing the coffee 
 pot and coffee cups. This was the crisis, or at least its 
 proximate cause. 
 
 "It's just been left, ma'am," Rosemary said in her 
 hushed voice; and with a quick flirr of petticoats she 
 was gone. 
 
 iii 
 
 Mrs. Vechantor, looking idly at the envelope, saw that 
 it was addressed to herself in a handwriting unknown to 
 her. For some moments, therefore, she did not raise it 
 from the table; but served the coffee and affectionately 
 watched her son dab his cigarette in the ash-tray. She 
 always smiled in looking at him, because she could not 
 see him sitting there, a man, without having strange, 
 charming glimpses of him as a baby and a boy. Just as a 
 popular monthly used to print photographs of celebrated 
 persons at different stages of growth, so Mrs. Vechantor, 
 much less mechanically and horribly, had these quick 
 living portraits of her two children. And so Louis ap- 
 peared to her to be still the little child she had dressed
 
 APPLE HOUSE 39 
 
 in a scarlet pelisse, and the little boy she had known in 
 a sailor suit, and the older boy who had come home from 
 the local cricket- and football-fields with proud tales of 
 great deeds performed by the men of Beckwith. He was 
 never simply the polished young man who handled a 
 cigarette so fastidiously. He was still her baby, a source 
 of wondrous delights. 
 
 That was how the letter came to be overlooked for a 
 time. It lay unheeded upon the table, a long envelope 
 with a damp edge where the snow had caught it and 
 melted in the warmth of the kitchen. Almost absent- 
 mindedly Mrs. Vechantor at last, still thinking about her 
 son and reading below his manner into memory of his 
 experiences as a little boy, tore the envelope and ex- 
 tracted its contents. These proved to be two sheets of 
 quarto paper, folded ; and the communications they bore 
 had been printed at Messrs. Platt's, the local press. 
 They were very badly printed, and ugly, and obviously 
 boring. For a moment Mrs. Vechantor smiled at the 
 solemnity of the upper communication. Then, as she 
 turned to the other one, her smile disappeared; and her 
 eyes grew round with astonishment. It was her ex- 
 clamation that first drew upon her the interested eyes of 
 her two companions. 
 
 "Good gracious!" said Mrs. Vechantor, in a breath- 
 less voice. Perhaps she had never before, in all her 
 life, had such an unexpected and overwhelming shock. 
 Her eyes were fixed upon the paper which she held in her 
 hand. She seemed altogether incredulous. "Good gra- 
 cious!" she said again. "How awful!" 
 
 iv 
 
 These were the two letters which Mrs. Vechantor held 
 in her hand, printed in small pica type upon stiff shiny
 
 40 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 paper, with headings in the curly capital letters which are 
 now rarely found outside the offices of local printers. 
 The first ran : 
 
 12 HIGH STREET, BECKWITH 
 
 December 
 DEAR MADAM, 
 
 Having disposed of my business I am leaving Beckwith 
 at the end of the year after a long period in which I have 
 enjoyed the favour of your custom. It is with great 
 regret that I leave Beckwith, but it is my desire to devote 
 the remaining years of my life to duties less strenuous 
 and arduous than those of the past. In retiring from 
 business, however, I beg to assure you of the unchanged 
 policy of my successor, who has bought the business as 
 it stands. I therefore solicit, on behalf of my successor, 
 a continuance of the favour of your custom. 
 
 With compliments and grateful thanks for your con- 
 sideration in the past, I am, dear Madam, Respectfully 
 yours, JAMES PEEL 
 
 There was nothing the matter with such a letter. It 
 was the letter of one who had prospered and earned a 
 right to spend the rest of his days in a red-brick villa 
 with geraniums in the front garden. It was in the sup- 
 plement to Mr. Peel's letter that the astounding news 
 was conveyed. 
 
 The second printed communication read thus: 
 
 12 HIGH STREET, BECKWITH 
 
 December 
 DEAR MADAM, 
 
 In succession to Mr. James Peel Having bought the 
 above business I beg to solicit a continuance of your 
 custom. The establishment will be continued upon the 
 lines laid down by Mr. Peel in the past. The same high
 
 APPLE HOUSE 41 
 
 quality will be maintained in every branch of the busi- 
 ness. I trust therefore that I may receive a continuance 4 
 of the patronage kindly accorded to Mr. Peel, which 
 patronage I shall study to deserve. I shall have much 
 pleasure in waiting upon you if desired. 
 
 With assurances of my close attention to your interests, 
 I am, Madam, Respectfully yours, 
 
 WILLIAM VECHANTOR 
 
 As she read out this name Mrs. Vechantor could not 
 help looking up to observe the emotional effect its pro- 
 nunciation made upon her two hearers. Mr. Vechan- 
 tor's face perceptibly fell. Louis's expression lightened 
 in an amazed smile. It was the first time for years that 
 he had been surprised. There was a moment's silence, 
 while all three groped their way carefully back through 
 the sparse foliage of the Vechantor family tree. Perched 
 there, only two generations behind them, they found in 
 that disappeared younger brother of Stephen Vechantor 
 the answer to this riddle. The glances of Mr. and MrsJ 
 Vechantor met in a very significant fashion as Louis said 
 quickly : 
 
 "This must be a legacy from your shady old great- 
 uncle, Dad. Cousin William ! Of course he's a cousin ! 
 Unless it's a pseudonym ! Now, why on earth should he 
 have come to Beckwith!" 
 
 "Beckwith!" exclaimed his mother. Then she began 
 to laugh very quietly. "Just imagine! Everybody in 
 Beckwith must have read these circulars just as we've 
 been doing it! What a sensation it will be for them! 
 It will be like warning fires !" 
 
 Mr. Vechantor rose violently from his chair and stood 
 by the table, smoothing his moustaches away from his 
 mouth. Such an action showed that he was unusually
 
 4* SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 excited. Before speaking, however, he sat down again 
 and impatiently pushed away his napkin. 
 
 "It's very serious," he said. "It's very unfortunate. 
 It's disastrous." 
 
 Louis drew down his mouth in a comical grimace and 
 glanced mischievously sideways at the perplexed face 
 of his mother. 
 
 "You'll have an influx of callers to-morrow," he sug- 
 gested dryly. "And I know who'll be the first among 
 them all. Miss Lampe." He even glanced at the clock, 
 wondering if she would be able to resist the impulse to 
 run out in her goloshes that same evening. 
 
 "Yes, but don't you see," interrupted Mr. Vechantor, 
 rather passionately. "This isn't the end of it. It's not 
 a thing to smile over and dismiss. There's more to 
 come. There's no end to what it may lead to !" 
 
 They all looked at each other, in some consternation
 
 CHAPTER III: LOUIS 
 
 THEY continued to sit at the dinner-table, as if 
 petrified, all eyes upon the two badly-printed cir- 
 culars which had disturbed their tranquillity. The clock 
 upon the mantelpiece ticked gently, the fire murmured 
 and huskily rearranged its formations. And across the 
 dazzling tablecloth the Vechantors were realising the 
 monstrous news. Mr. Vechantor was frowning; his 
 long hands made nervous movements. Mrs. Vechantor 
 fingered the edge of her saucer. Louis, his eyes con- 
 tracted, and a little whimsical nick or perpendicular 
 crease showing in his clear forehead, studied his char- 
 ring cigarette, from which a faint drift of blue smoke 
 was trailing away into nothing. Mr. Vechantor was 
 easily, of the three, the most discomposed. He was gen- 
 uinely distressed. It made him impatient. It made him 
 exclaim. 
 
 "Tchah!" said he, fidgeting. "Tut tut tut." He 
 clucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. Again 
 he muttered: "Disastrous." 
 
 "It's rather awful," agreed his wife. "What ever 
 shall we do!" They both relapsed into gloom. The 
 shadow of Beckwith was upon them. There was silence. 
 
 "I really don't think it's as bad as all that," Louis 
 said, after a long pause. "I mean, it doesn't concern 
 us. People like Miss Lampe will gape and nudge and 
 gobble for a week or two; and after that perhaps 
 
 43
 
 44 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 strangers coming across the name may be curious. But 
 it's over then. An anomaly ; but not a fatal thing at all. 
 Not even like a forgery. It's nothing at all. At least, 
 if our name were Smith or even Bannerman, or Camp- 
 bell it would be nothing at all." 
 
 His father looked impatiently at him, not weighing the 
 argument. 
 
 "That's perfectly true," he said. "Perfectly. But it's 
 got nothing to do with it. Our name is neither Smith 
 nor Campbell. It's Vechantor. It's a peculiar name. 
 No, no; I'm afraid it's going to be a difficulty. We're 
 not in London. It would matter less in a city. You 
 see, they're obviously cousins of ours. There's no get- 
 ting away from that however you may try to blink 
 the fact." 
 
 "I'm not " began Louis, surprised. 
 
 "Remember, Louis," added his mother. "The rela- 
 tionship is close. If they were anywhere else but on 
 our doorstep. . . . But it is so dreadful to order your 
 groceries from a cousin, to owe him money . . ." 
 
 "There's no need to do that" hastily remarked Mr. 
 Vechantor, moved by his irritation. "I don't think we 
 need study such a possibility." Mrs. Vechantor smiled 
 at his rapidity in misunderstanding her remark. 
 
 "And most people would be glad to have a cousin in 
 the provision trade," Louis said. "It would be such a 
 convenience in case of a food-shortage. That's a very 
 small matter. It isn't as though we were aristocrats." 
 
 Mr. Vechantor winced. He had always been sorry 
 that his grandfather had started life in the tea trade, 
 although until now he had never been ashamed of it. 
 Until now there had been no present circumstance to 
 prevent him from smiling grimly at the memory. Mrs. 
 Vechantor was also displeased at the apparent flippancy 
 >f Louis's remark and its plain suggestion.
 
 LOUIS 45 
 
 "This is what I'm thinking," she said steadily. "If a 
 cousin of ours came to Beckwith just to live I should 
 be overjoyed; because I miss the satisfaction that your 
 own kin can give. I should immediately call upon her 
 and do all I could to help her. All my friends would 
 call upon her. Everybody, for our sake, would know her, 
 do you see ; and without any of the bother of building up 
 acquaintance she would take her place in the town." 
 
 Louis gave a little scornful laugh. 
 
 "That might be a reason for not coming to Beckwith," 
 he dryly suggested. 
 
 "For a misanthropical person, yes; but don't you see 
 ... I don't want to be a snob. I hope I'm not one) 
 . . . though one can never tell, of course. But this 
 is my quandary. If I don't call on our cousins I shan't 
 be able to forgive myself; and if I do call on the new 
 grocer's family I shall very likely throw the town into 
 a state of social anarchy. All the desirable boundaries 
 will be upset . . ." Mrs. Vechantor was quietly smiling 
 as she said this, and of course her listeners did not take 
 seriously the accoupt she gave of her perplexities. But 
 she may have spoken truly, so far as the effect on Beck- 
 with was concerned. 
 
 "Would that matter? Jolly good job to upset the 
 cliques," said Louis. This saying exasperated his already 
 impatient father. 
 
 "Nonsense. Nonsense," said Mr. Vechantor. "One 
 must respect the convenances." 
 
 "You can't think it matters, Dad !" 
 
 "Not in a large sense. To us, and to Beckwith, it 
 matters a great deal. It's not as though we were even 
 a five-hundred a year family . . ." Mr. Vechantor was 
 really excited. "We must think of our position in the 
 town. You can't abdicate thoughtlessly . . ." 
 
 "Oh, we're monarchs!" Louis was again scornful.
 
 46 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 "Think of the grocer himself. He probably wants to 
 stick to his business to make money. If our account's 
 big enough he won't worry about a name. After all, 
 he's come to Beckwith as a grocer, not as our cousin. 
 The only communication we've had from him is a cir- 
 cular asking for our custom. Why be so dreadfully 
 self-conscious about it? If he were a grocer at Seven- 
 oaks we shouldn't bother about him. He's nothing to 
 us. He never has been anything. Just because he's 
 dropped from the clouds! It's too absurd! Why not 
 take the whole thing it's the only practical way as 
 people of the world? Recognise the difference of social 
 position, or ignore Beckwith altogether and take him to 
 our bosoms?" 
 
 Mr. Vechantor started up. He could no longer keep 
 still. The discussion had become intolerable. 
 
 "We'll go into the drawing-room," he said. "I find 
 this sort of talk more than I can bear." He led the 
 way across the wide hall, and stood moodily looking 
 down into the fire. The glances he shot at Louis were 
 filled with repulsion. All his movements were sudden 
 and convulsive with nervous irritation. But some dim 
 sense of this hostility only chilled Louis's imagination 
 and forced him back upon a kind of arid, obstinate 
 development of his theme. 
 
 "If you reverse the positions," he continued. "Take 
 it from his side. Say I've come into a district to make 
 money, and I find a family with my name occupying a 
 fairly prominent position in the town " 
 
 "Fairly prominent!" exclaimed Mr. Vechantor. 
 "That's a curious phrase." 
 
 Louis proceeded in a rather constrained voice, ignor- 
 ing his father's objection : 
 
 "If I were in ... my cousin's place," he said coolly, 
 "I should laugh; but I should want to stick to my last.
 
 LOUIS 47 
 
 I shouldn't want anything to do with him. I should 
 feel proud of my independence; and down with power 
 and privilege ! If he or his wife came to see me assum- 
 ing I were the shop-keeper I should certainly resent hi^ 
 patronage. I should very likely insult him." 
 
 "He's probably got a wife," urged Mrs. Vechantor. 
 "It's she who is the difficulty." 
 
 "Why? If you run into her you can be quite ami- 
 able." 
 
 "I'm afraid I'm thinking of Beckwith," said Mrs. 
 Vechantor frankly. "I don't want Beckwith to judge 
 me wrongly. It's not a thing I generally consider, I 
 admit; but I want to do what is best for these other 
 Vechantors and for ourselves. And at the moment I 
 can't see what that is." 
 
 "Beckwith!" said Louis. "What a tyranny the place 
 is! Ignore it. Ignore the grocer. Ignore everything; 
 but don't put yourself about, mother dear." 
 
 Mr. Vechantor, less superficially impatient than he had 
 been, was plunged in gloom. 
 
 "Louis sees it all as a modern young man half a 
 snob, half a Socialist," he at last pronounced in a melan- 
 choly voice. "That's really the whole difficulty with 
 him." It was an unexpected frontal attack. 
 
 "Socialist!" exclaimed Louis incredulously. "Snob!" 
 
 "That's what they taught you to be at Oxford, isn't 
 it? Isn't that the curriculum? Intellectual and ethical 
 snobbery? A sort of logic-chopping pseudo-Socialism?" 
 Mr. Vechantor continued to speak rather fiercely in 
 presence of his amazed hearers. "Religiosity, of course, 
 and the worship of emotionalism one understands and 
 expects that from Oxford ; but this sort of shallow demo- 
 cratic snobbery. . . . It's neither one thing nor the other 
 this modern poison in our young men."
 
 48 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 Louis was deeply moved. His faced had sharpened 
 and paled. 
 
 "Really, Dad . . ." he began. "I'd no idea of this 
 cleavage between us." 
 
 "There's no cleavage, dear," Mrs. Vechantor inter- 
 rupted, looking with surprised entreaty at her husband. 
 He, with his face now warmly coloured, and his eyes 
 angry and suffused, replied to this glance. 
 
 "I think Louis wants waking up," he said quickly. 
 "I've been thinking it for some time. This evening's 
 talk points the need of it. Louis thinks, as all clever 
 young men do, that by talking in generalisations you can 
 avert the plain issue of facts. His talk is full of terms 
 such as 'Oligarchy,' 'Plutocracy,' 'Medievalism,' 'La- 
 bour/ and so on, which he's picked up at Oxford because 
 that's the terminology of his set. He's got no conception 
 of realities at all only of terms. His pseudo-Socialism 
 a sort of sterile intellectualism is shown in his wish 
 to ignore the difficulty here. His Romanticism is shown 
 in his belief that you can ignore the society you live in. 
 All that is taught at Oxford, where the State is wor- 
 shipped and the commonweal overlooked. He accepts 
 his cousin as his cousin theoretically ; but he accepts the 
 provision-dealer as a provision-dealer practically. The 
 two things don't conflict in his mind because his mind is 
 a mind of conceptions not of realities. He's faithful to 
 his training in thinking that by stating a relation you can 
 shirk the need for dealing with it." 
 
 "My word, Dad! There's some fine confused think- 
 ing there!" said Louis, with a rather superior manner. 
 He was terribly hurt; his hands were trembling, and his 
 lips were set in the smile of one who has failed and is 
 too proud to show his despair. His father's unexpected 
 and undignified tirade had wounded his pride. It was 
 with a painful effort that he sought still to control his
 
 LOUIS 49 
 
 voice. "I thought I was talking horse sense neither 
 emotionalism nor intellectualism. I really don't under- 
 stand you. Mother's only afraid of the Lampes and the 
 Calumnies not of any decent Beckwithians, like that 
 nice little Toppett woman. I wasn't laying down a gen- 
 eral law. Though I do think, I admit, that general laws 
 can be stated I mean, I don't understand your dislike 
 of general propositions, so long as they're not the usual 
 Oxford tosh . . ." 
 
 "Yes . . . It's I who am being the weak person," Mrs. 
 Vechantor said apologetically, overwhelmed by this sud- 
 den irruption of temperament on the part of her men- 
 folk. "I shall find a way. Of course I shall find one." 
 
 "Not by means," said her husband, "of Louis's eluci- 
 dations." He was clouded. His colour had gone down. 
 A quick angry shame had risen in his heart. He was 
 ashamed of himself because he had offended his own 
 taste. He had been cantankerous; and he wished he had 
 not been so. But his hostility to Louis remained. Louis, 
 bereft of his coolness by the passionate emotion lying 
 deep and burning in his indignant heart, blundered on, 
 trying with a boy's obstinate pride not to show his hurt. 
 
 "You see, mother's thinking that as a woman, and as 
 a cousin, she wants to do all she can for . . . cousin 
 William's wife . . ." 
 
 Every time Louis said, with a kind of bravado that was 
 offensive to his parents, the name "cousin William," 
 both his father and his mother winced. He continued r 
 
 "But with a grocer's wife she has to face all sorts of 
 impertinences from every side. That's why I say: 'Do 
 nothing.' As for my snobbery we're all three of us 
 snobs this evening; but that's because this has taken us 
 by surprise. Individually we could manage it all right. 
 I'm sure we could each one of us! Even Dad! As 
 I've said : there's no real difficulty. Mother simply has
 
 50 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 to make up her mind that these Vechantors are here in 
 quality of grocers; and their social or family relation- 
 ships don't arise. There's neither Socialism nor religi- 
 osity in that, as far as I can see." He was still trembling, 
 and his voice warmed and quivered as he deliberately 
 steered once more into the zone of danger. 
 
 "There's the vicious separation of constituents," 
 grumbled his father awkwardly. "I never said you were 
 a sentimentalist. That you've been saved from, I hope. 
 But you think that by analysing a difficulty you have 
 solved it." 
 
 "Oh, that's Cambridge; not Oxford," Louis could noti 
 resist saying. 
 
 "It's common to educated young men," retorted his 
 father. "Your mother sees that William Vechantor is 
 a man before he's a Vechantor or a grocer. That's 
 what you believe your own discovery to be. But she 
 sees also that in all probability he and his wife will have 1 
 great difficulties when they move into a new country 
 district." 
 
 "They'd have exactly the same difficulties if their 
 name was Jones," obstinately said Louis. 
 
 "Quite so. But if their name were Jones they wouldn't 
 be our cousins." 
 
 "Well, that's sentimentality!" Louis exclaimed. "If 
 ever anything was !" 
 
 "Not at all. Noblesse oblige." 
 
 Mrs. Vechantor shook her pretty old head reprovingly 
 at them, dreading another combat. 
 
 I don't think either of you is coming very well out 
 of this squabbling," she said gently. "You'd far better 
 give it up. I think, Emanuel, that you're in the wrong, 
 because you attacked Louis. Besides, you're the elder." 
 
 Emanuel turned sharply to his son, shooting that 
 dark glance at him from beneath sullen brows.
 
 LOUIS 51 
 
 "Very well," he said. "We'll discuss your shortcom- 
 ings at another time." And he seated himself at last by 
 the fire and picked up the evening paper that had been 
 warming there. As he read there was heard from him, 
 from time to time, so that they knew the problem still 
 to be working in his mind, a sharp sigh that once or 
 twice developed into a yawn. 
 
 ii 
 
 At last it was night. The long evening in the warm 
 drawing-room was at an end. Louis was free to be 
 alone. He was left there when the others went to bed, 
 standing by the fire and looking at his rather strikingly- 
 embroidered slippers. His attitude then was one of 
 perfect nonchalance, which deceived his parents; but it 
 changed as soon as they were gone. He followed them 
 almost immediately, going to his own bedroom upon 
 the first floor. From the window he could see that the 
 snowfall had ceased. The garden lay before him buried 
 in white. Above, seeming very near, was a lowering 
 opacity of blue-black cloud. Across open ground a 
 strong wind blew, shaking little tufts and douches of 
 snow from the arms of the trees. There was no light 
 except the reflection from his own room as he drew 
 up the blind and looked out of the window. All in 
 Beckwith was sleeping or was behind closed doors. 
 There was no sound but the faint whir of the seeking 
 wind, and sometimes a fluttering thud as the wind over- 
 threw a large deposit of snow. The scene had a strange 
 beauty, without comfort or tenderness. It chilled him. 
 
 Yet his heart was burning, passionate ejaculations 
 were framing themselves in his mind and upon his 
 tongue. Turning quickly from the window he went to 
 stand moodily by the fire, smoking cigarette after ciga-
 
 52 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 rette in a vague state of revolt. His father's biting words 
 had been hard enough to bear, because they shattered the 
 fabric of his own self-respect ; but still harder was the 
 fact that these words were the expression of thoughts 
 long held. That was what hurt ! 
 
 Louis at the age of twenty-six could look back upon 
 a very contented and uneventful life. He had never 
 been, physically, very strong; and although he had never 
 shirked games and boy friends he had never been very 
 adventurous. The house, the garden, his lessons, his 
 after-reading, had filled his days and developed his love 
 of home. He had not been to a public-school; but at 
 nineteen he had been sent to Oxford, where he made a 
 number of not very permanent friendships, fell into and 
 out of successive fashions in talk and mental attitude, 
 took his degree, and spent his time with a kind of care- 
 less happiness. He had not to think of future career, be- 
 cause it was inevitable that he should take his place in 
 his father's business. So he had written a few poems, 
 collected a few prints, read the works of a good many 
 modern authors, and dabbled pleasantly in whatever at- 
 tracted him. Since his entry into the business three 
 years before, Louis had continued to dabble in political 
 literature and in general literature. He could give rea- 
 sons for liking or disliking a picture or a poem, went to 
 the theatre (where he preferred to see plays with some 
 literary interest), talked a good deal with such of his 
 surviving Oxford acquaintances as fell in his path, ob- 
 served rather acutely, and continued to be without ambi- 
 tion. At home he talked little. He was a different 
 young man altogether. In Beckwith he was quiet, and 
 was considered by the young persons of the district to 
 be "deep." And as he was thoughtful, but not intro- 
 spective, he knew very little about himself. 
 
 Suddenly to be called a parrot, therefore, and the
 
 LOUIS 53 
 
 product of successive environments, was the greatest 
 shock he could have had. The blow had come from an 
 unexpected hand. He had thought that no understand- 
 ing could be more perfect than that existing between his! 
 father and himself. That had been proved to be a false 
 idea, and he had the feeling of being lost. For a time 
 he was quite bewildered, aching with the sense of failure. 
 
 Louis began slowly to realise the true sources of his 
 father's exasperation. His father was a solid Conserva- 
 tive, disbelieving in political aims, supporting the locaf 
 Conservative member but all the time knowing that when 
 a man gets to the club at Westminster its pervasive 
 warmth reconciles all differences of belief. His father, 
 in fact, was at his age essentially a Pyrrhonist. He be 4 
 lieved in nothing at all. He had come to regard as im- 
 portant only his own status in Beckwith, because that 
 flattered his vanity. He was as contemptuous of Beck- 
 with as anybody could have been; but he prized the 
 respect to which he was accustomed. While he despised 
 them, he conformed with rigid punctiliousness to Beck- 
 with's standards of behaviour. Louis saw that clearly 
 at last. 
 
 Had Louis been so agnostic as to view all things with 
 unconcern, excepting only this one question of local 
 status, he would, he felt, have commended himself wholly 
 to his father. Instead, he had learnt to prize certain 
 principles, with all the naive velocity of youth. That 
 readiness for illusion irritated his father. It struck him, 
 evidently, as callow, enthusiastic. He despised it. The 
 very silences in which Louis had buried his ideals had 
 given offence, as indicating stubbornness and fanaticism. 
 Louis's blood stirred. Again and again he came round 
 to a fresh recognition of the real nature of the shock he 
 had received the understanding for the first time in his 
 life that his father was a completely different person
 
 54 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 from himself. A less fine and perceptive person than he 
 had believed. He had felt such perfect trust and such a 
 candid love and admiration for this older man with more 
 than his own comprehension. And now he saw that his 
 father, like any other commonplace critic, busily adding 
 this little piece of ingenuousness or disingenuousness to 
 that, always at face value, had misread his whole char- 
 acter. Where Louis had counted upon his father's love 
 and understanding as a solvent he now felt that there 
 had been all the time only cold point-to-point criticism 
 the criticism of a shrewd but unperceptive spirit. It was 
 a blow. 
 
 The loneliness that seized Louis at this moment was 
 terrible. He was shaken and mortified. Wherever he 
 turned he saw at this moment only stupid misunderstand- 
 ing. In all Beckwith there was not a man or a woman 
 to whom he could confide his present chagrin and thereby 
 obtain relief. In all England, he felt. That quick reali- 
 sation, which all very sensitive men and women feel inter- 
 mittently throughout their lives, had an extraordinary 
 effect upon Louis's whole attitude to his neighbours. 
 The kindness, which perhaps was only indifference, that 
 he had hitherto felt for those surrounding him, was 
 suddenly and passionately destroyed. Hatred, bizarre 
 and without measure, sprang up in his heart for Beck- 
 with and for all it represented in his life. It was a dread- 1 
 ful moment of realisation, of change. A deep sigh shook 
 Louis. He closed his eyes. His face was white and 
 strained. Hereafter he would feel differently. Never, 
 never would he again feel as he had felt until this evening. 
 
 "Oh God!" he cried. "What a fool . . . what a fool 
 I've been not to see it before!" 
 
 Ashamed of having been carried to such vehemence, 
 he shrugged his shoulders, stooping and knocking at the
 
 LOUIS 55 
 
 log that burned upon his fire. Dull, heavy sparks flew; 
 and the log's nest was quite black. It was past one 
 o'clock. He was very pale, and was trembling slightly; 
 but his mouth was firmly closed.
 
 CHAPTER IV: THE PARTY 
 
 IN the morning Louis slept late. He had slept like 
 a stone, and he awoke unrefreshed; for the nervous 
 strain of his suppressed rage and its sequel of embittered 
 dismay had exhausted him as nothing else could have 
 done. Upon arising, he felt heavy and stifled; for a 
 thaw had set in and the morning was humid. From 
 his window he saw the sunken black spots in the melting 
 snow, the trees clear of whiteness, the hedges and bushes 
 dingy. With burning eyes he gazed upon the scene, 
 finding it repulsive. It intensified his mood of disquiet. 
 He was glad he would not see his father at breakfast. 
 Such a meeting, such a journey as they made together 
 once a week, would have been a further distress. Louis 
 was morbid with his distaste, hating everything. 
 
 From breakfast he hurried to catch his train, his feet 
 slushing through the snow, and leaving as a track sod- 
 den impressions of his boots. There seemed to be no 
 wind, but only a soft, shivering humidity in the air 
 neither cold nor warm. As he ran down the path to 
 the station his train was coming in, grinding and rum- 
 bling over the low bridge across the road; and he was 
 glad to take advantage of this fact and avoid his cus- 
 tomary fellow-travellers. Nevertheless, once he was in 
 the train his unhappiness continued, for the surprise of 
 his father's criticism had been too great to pass off in a 
 
 56
 
 THE PARTY 57 
 
 night or to be distracted by newspaper headlines, however 
 ingenious. 
 
 Louis turned and looked out of the window. While 
 his thoughts had been busy the train had neared the out- 
 skirts of London. Already it was trundling past the 
 familiar districts, ugly and melancholy, overhung with 
 a drab snow-mist, saturated with the melted snow, and 
 miserable with its general disastrous air of porous bricks 
 and leaky drain-pipes. It made a lamentable back- 
 ground for his own harassed recollections. It drove them 
 in. He began to feel the first slow gropings of a head- 
 ache. His burning lids dropped in long stupefying 
 reliefs over his eyes. 
 
 And all for a few words ! Yes ; but words that brought, 
 an unpleasant awakening and made a difference to his 
 whole life, because they awoke new impulses and new 
 recognitions within him. Louis did not seem to the 
 clerks at his office to be an older man than the Louis they 
 had seen the night before. They bobbed up at his ar- 
 rival, signalling to each other with jerked heads the 
 fact that he was there, called "Good morning," and fell 
 back to their work like so many mechanical toys. They 
 would only have noticed a violent change in his outward 
 appearance ; and there was no sign of that, although Louis 
 to himself felt aged by immeasurable time. Seeing them 
 so clearly the same as usual, so unremarking of the crisis 
 which had occurred in his own life, Louis had a curious 
 thought. It came to him to think, "I suppose I look 
 the same. I suppose I am the same, though I feel so 
 different. How entirely unknown they are to me. Be- 
 tween last night and this morning any of them might 
 have forged a name, or seduced a girl, or killed some- 
 body. . . . And nobody here could tell. We should 
 never hear of it until long afterwards. There's nothing
 
 58 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 to judge by. ... How little one really knows about 
 people one sees like this every day !" 
 
 He felt a stranger to all men, solitary within himself. 
 
 11 
 
 That mood lasted several days the mood of rather 
 morbid self -discovery; but it grew weaker as nature 
 reasserted itself. Louis was not built to continue for long 
 in such a state of mind. But he did change inwardly 
 thenceforward. He was quite right in thinking that he 
 would never again be as he had been before; but the 
 awakening had been salutary. His manner had always 
 been reserved; and there was no outward change. But 
 for a time he was much more emotional than he had been 
 inwardly emotional and outwardly ironic. He was 
 more ironic, more observant, less juvenile; and was yet 
 sometimes quickly moved by things which earlier would 
 have left him merely interested. He became impatient; 
 but his perception constrained his impatience, and it there- 
 fore was rarely seen. 
 
 Only his mother saw the change, and saw the sudden 
 exasperations, without linking them on to the scene with 
 his father. She had thought that a passing disagreement 
 and had not been a witness of Louis's suffering. During 
 the days preceding Christmas she noticed this impatience 
 of his, and anxiously observed his colour rise and ebb at 
 passing difficulties. She understood very swiftly that 
 he was in an abnormal state; but with all her sympathy 
 she went astray in her interpretation; so that, instead 
 of learning the truth by a memory of that peculiar eve- 
 ning, she cast little glances among the three Hughes girls 
 who had walked across the common on the afternoon of 
 Boxing-day to ask Louis to come to tea, to their party. 
 That was why Mrs. Vechantor went wrong in her read-
 
 THE PARTY 59 
 
 ing of the situation. She looked at Adela Hughes and 
 Judith Hughes and Veronica Hughes, and she thought 
 all of them so attractive that Louis's slight air of embar- 
 rassment might have been due to a cause generally reck- 
 oned with in youthful distempers. 
 
 Mrs. Vechantor hoped it might be Veronica Hughes. 
 She preferred Veronica, who was very fair and very 
 dainty, and who looked delightful in her fur cap and 
 short fur coat. There was a lovely dainty flush upon 
 her cheeks, and her eyes sparkled and her teeth 
 glistened as she spoke. She was altogether charming. 
 From Veronica Mrs. Vechantor turned to Judith, who, 
 like her father, was dark. Judith's were those polished 
 chocolate brown eyes which are hard to read; and Mrs. 
 Vechantor was not wholly at ease with her because she 
 thought Judith possibly rather secretive. She thought 
 Judith might be a girl to have clandestine meetings with 
 an unsuitable young man, or to read those books by Have- 
 lock Ellis which are generally ignored in Beckwith. 
 There remained Adela, who was as fair as Veronica, 
 but less piquante : Veronica had round dimpling cheeks ; 
 but Adela was thin in face, more dignified, rather older 
 (for Veronica was the youngest). Mrs. Vechantor 
 would have preferred Adela to Judith; for Adela had a 
 very pretty laugh, and seemed extremely candid and with- 
 out artifice. Such was Mrs. Vechantor's first thought of 
 these three girls. She began hereafter to observe them 
 more narrowly. She looked from one to the other, now, 
 trying to fathom the depths of each. It was impossible. 
 Each had the Beckwithian air of jovial frankness with 
 young males, a kind of modern camaraderie that deceives 
 only the very elderly woman, and sometimes doesn't even 
 succeed with her. They presented an unreadable front 
 now to Mrs. Vechantor. All were more vivacious in
 
 60 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 Louis's presence ; not one of them seemed more than the 
 others to attract him or to wish to do so. They all 
 laughed and chattered and teased him in a sort of pretty 
 boyishness that was always a long distance from over- 
 familiarity, and that was warranted by a long acquain- 
 tance dating from days of childhood. It was as though 
 they acted together, with a corporate interest in him. 
 
 Could she be wrong? Mrs. Vechantor asked herself. 
 "Dear me !" she thought. "How unlike girls are nowa- 
 days to what they were. It's as if they . . . And yet it's 
 quite impossible that they should really do that . . ." 
 She put aside an unpleasant thought. Surely they 
 only led a different, a physically more healthy, kind of life. 
 The convention was different. Perhaps, thought Mrs. 
 Vechantor, girls didn't tru^t women as they used to do. 
 That brought her round again to the uncomfortable 
 thought which she had dismissed earlier. She felt that 
 perhaps the exercise, in hardening the body, might pos- 
 sibly have hardened the soul. To her for she would not 
 pursue her doubt to the uncomfortable end from which 
 she had shied to her, then, it came to make a remark 
 that Louis had made a week earlier. "How mysterious 
 people are !" she thought timidly. "How hard it is nowa- 
 days to get past that . . ." The horrible word flashed 
 into her mind again. It seemed to her that the three 
 Hughes girls, in shaking hands with her as they carried 
 Louis off with them, all offered the same curious hard 
 inner surface. In their eyes she read lively pleasure, and 
 triumph; and then that common, universal "something" 
 which she did not dare to define even to herself. 
 
 When they had gone, and Mrs. Vechantor had heard 
 the gate shut behind them, she sat still in her chair, smiling 
 with pleasure at the gaiety of their visit, and her pleasure 
 in the change for Louis. And then, gradually, a little
 
 THE PARTY 61 
 
 chill began to spread through her; and she felt vaguely 
 unhappy. 
 
 "I'm an absurd old thing," she said to herself. "Shame- 
 fully absurd, and contemptibly old-fashioned and senti- 
 mental." She moved again, and sat nearer the fire. The 
 old clock chimed its beautiful silvery "ting" for half- 
 past three; and Mrs. Vechantor sat looking into the red 
 glow. Her face had grown serious. She was thinking 
 intently. "I can't keep him always," she was thinking. 
 "And I shouldn't want to. I want to see him happy. If 
 he were happy I shouldn't mind who his wife was. But 
 I wish . . ." For a time she was lost in reveries. All 
 sorts of memories and hopes came and went like little 
 Spring airs as she sat listening to the subdued cracking 
 and whispering of the fire. The fire seemed to tell her so 
 much, like a busy, rapid, inexhaustible book of thoughts 
 and echoes. It told her of her own childhood, and of 
 her marriage ; it told her of Louis from his earliest days. 
 The memories brought the tears to her eyes. They were 
 so many, so crowded, so sweet to con over in her hours 
 of solitude. And the fire helped Mrs. Vechantor to 
 recall the three girls in whose company Louis was now 
 crossing the common. It was as though, sitting here in 
 the fire's hushing, she could see those three faces at 
 leisure, and look deep into those mystifying eyes. Ana 
 she turned from each in turn, puzzled and vaguely un- 
 happy, back to the others, to and fro among the three 
 sisters. The fire whispered on, and Mrs. Vechantor's 
 memories and far-flung wonderings continued. A fear 
 had clutched her heart, a fear that was born of this re- 
 newed contemplation of the three faces. Mrs. Vechantor 
 tremblingly raised her handkerchief to her eyes, and tried 
 to smile to herself. "I do so hope he'll be happy . . . my 
 dearie . . ." she thought; not framing the words, but 
 hearing them, it seemed, in the movement of the fire's
 
 32 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 steady consumption. "If only I could be sure about 
 them . . . about one of them. But all ... all the 
 same!" She couldn't bear the thought. In each pair of 
 eyes, down below the emotion of the moment, it seemed 
 to her that she came to impassable places ; not reserves, 
 not the lovely shrinking shynesses that she would so 
 have adored; but something she could not bear to think 
 of in association with Louis. The dreadful word re- 
 curred to her. "If only there didn't seem something 
 ... I don't like to call it ... watchful . . . rather 
 calculating!" cried the unhappy woman aloud. "In all 
 of them. Coldly watching, and shrewd . . . Oh, if I 
 could only read down deep into hearts!" she thought. 
 "What I'd give!" 
 
 She was shaken by a sudden spasm of hatred for the 
 three girls. Especially she hated Veronica, whose smile 
 had become, in memory, so fixed that the bright eyes 
 seemed bright with hardness. 
 
 iii 
 
 As they went across the common, already misty at the 
 farther edge in the premature dusk of a winter after- 
 noon, Louis had Veronica upon his left and Adela upon 
 his right. Judith was farther away, upon the other side 
 of Adela, seeming to walk by herself, although she was 
 turned towards the others and threw a word into the 
 conversation from time to time. With such a bevy Louis 
 could hardly have failed to show vivacity, to forget en- 
 tirely the gnawing pride and discontent in his bosom. He 
 looked from one pretty smiling face to the other, and .-> 
 was as cheerful as they. 
 
 "It's really a great score for us," Veronica said, "to be 
 bringing you home like this. We were afraid our party 
 would be very dull, because our cousins, the Verulam-
 
 THE PARTY 63 
 
 Pinks, had sent us word this morning that they all had 
 the mumps, and couldn't come." 
 
 "Isn't it a dreadful thing to have . . ." Adela was 
 saying; when Judith added: 
 
 "At Christmas-time, especially." 
 
 "I've no doubt they deserved it," Veronica continued. 
 
 "Oh, Vera !" protested Adela. "That's too bad !" 
 
 "No; really, I expect they've been eating too much, 
 or something. What is it causes mumps, I wonder? 
 D'you know, Louis?" He didn't. Judith supplied a 
 sort of information. 
 
 "It's generally infection, my child." 
 
 "They haven't been near us !" Adela hastened to assure 
 Louis. "I mean, there's no danger from us. We're quite 
 free from any tendency to mumps. Aren't we, Judy?" 
 
 "Yes ; it doesn't spread to cousins. However, they've 
 all got it, right enough." 
 
 "Of course, it may not be true at all. Perhaps they 
 didn't want to come!" Veronica gaily said. "There's 
 always that sort of thing in families. I mean, cousins. 
 They always hate each other. Have you noticed?" 
 
 "Oh, Vera!" protested Adela. "You are a beast! 
 They're really most awfully nice people, Louis, and 
 they're frightfully fond of coming over to see us. Haven't 
 you ever seen them? They're all a sort of sandy col- 
 our. But you see they couldn't very well come and give 
 our party the mumps. It wouldn't be fair." 
 
 "Still, you'll admit," added Judith, following up the 
 malign suggestion of her younger sister, "it's rather pe- 
 culiar that they should all have it at the same time. 
 These things generally take a day or two to get about, 
 don't they ? I must say I think it's a bit suspicious . . . 
 happening so suddenly !" 
 
 "It depends on who your visitors are," Louis said 
 gently, as he was wondering himself.
 
 64 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 "Well: there's . . . Who shall we tell him first?" 
 They consulted each other, laughing, with raised brows, 
 and framed initials. "Well, there's Alice Deadwood. 
 She's home for Christmas, so we had to ask her. D'you 
 like her?" 
 
 "Oh !" interrupted Judith, before Louis could commit 
 himself to a liking, and while he was trying to recall Alice 
 Deadwood. "She's so stuck up. She thinks nobody's 
 good enough for her. She interrupts you all the time 
 
 w ith " Her voice trailed off, apparently at some 
 
 warning glance. 
 
 "Judy !" cried Adela. "Don't be beastly !" 
 
 "I hardly know her," Louis remarked, having com- 
 pleted the ransacking of his memory. "You don't seem 
 to have begun very well." 
 
 "Well : and then there's the Daunton boy . . ." 
 
 "But he's been doing someth " Again Judith was 
 
 apparently checked. She broke into a laugh. They all 
 began to walk with a more rapid, more virtuous, step 
 across the darkening common. "Well," Judith added 
 defiantly. "So he has!" 
 
 "I think you're perfectly disgusting, Judy," Veronica 
 said, a little steely glint in her bright eyes which Louis 
 did not notice. "He's done nothing bad. Only weak and 
 silly." 
 
 "No," added Adela. "He's been caught by somebody. 
 Somebody not nice." 
 
 "I hadn't heard of that," Louis remarked interestedly. 
 
 "It's not nice," Veronica said. "You oughtn't to talk 
 about it." 
 
 "Ph ! He's only a kid," Judith put in. "Some girl in 
 a tea-place or an office has made him propose to her. 
 That's all it is, Louis. Only Vera's such a little prig." 
 
 "You know I'm not!" Veronica's teeth closed with a 
 snap.
 
 THE PARTY 65 
 
 "But that's most awfully fascinating," Louis said. 
 
 "It's hardly a thing to talk about." Adela held her 
 head virtuously high. "Oh, but it's too funny to hear 
 mother and Mrs. Daunton talking about it. You see, 
 she found a letter from this girl . . ." 
 
 "Full of swarmy sentiment!" Judith interpolated. 
 
 "Saying . . . what was it? Awfully funny ! Saying 
 nobody had ever loved her before, and he was all her 
 whole soul. Eric Daunton! Fancy telling a boy that!" 
 
 "Perhaps it was true!" Louis felt suddenly indignant. 
 A little hot fire shot through him at Adela's tone of con-' 
 tempt for such candour. There was an amazed protest. 
 
 "True!" cried Adela. "Not with a girl of that sort. 
 Of course, you wouldn't understand. That's the way 
 men get caught. A waitress, I think she was ... or in 
 a sh . . . I forget what she was. But just fancy what 
 an absurd thing to say. That nobody had ever . . . 
 cared for her. . . ." 
 
 "Tell me, why absurd?" begged Louis. 
 
 The girls exchanged glances of amused pity for his 
 ignorance. To them it was quite altogether too ridicu- 
 lous. They seemed curiously robust, experienced, mature 
 in the nuances of sex relationship. In Beckwith unmar- 
 ried girls know that there are things men should not know 
 about them. One of these things is the extent of their 
 personal experience of love, and lovers. Louis wondered 
 if he would ever be so consumedly wise in affairs as they. 
 How could he have been ? He was not a woman, judging 
 another woman in the light of an established Beckwith 
 convention. To him it was not disgraceful to admit 
 that one has not been loved before, that one is ignorant 
 of the implications of love. 
 
 "My poor lad!" Veronica said, in a pitying voice of 
 sententiousness. "You don't seem to understand these 
 things. It's not to be expected. You're only a boy.
 
 66 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 But it's not a nice subject, and we'd better go on with our 
 tale. Well, then, there's Mabel and Sydney Dumar- 
 esque. You know them. Mabel's a very nice girl . . ." 
 
 "She's not very pretty, is she?" objected Louis, rather 
 grumblingly. 
 
 "She's-a-ctear !" said the three Hughes girls in one 
 voice of passionate loyalty to the unprepossessing de- 
 spised. Then Judith added candidly: "Of course, she 
 has got rather protruding teeth." 
 
 Veronica resumed: 
 
 "And then there's your friend Miss Lampe." Louis 
 stopped dead. "What's the matter?" he was asked. 
 
 "Miss Lampe !" he cried confusedly. Then, recovering 
 himself, and blustering : "Isn't she enough to make a man 
 pull up suddenly?" 
 
 "I don't know what you mean !" Adela protested. "I 
 suppose you think it's clever ! She's most awfully good- 
 natured . . ." As Louis remained silent under this pre- 
 posterous claim, Adela hurried on. "And little Irene 
 Corntoft. She's only sixteen; but she's a perfect darling, 
 and she plays like an angel on the clarinet." 
 
 "But what a horrible instrument for an angel to 
 choose," Louis whispered. "I thought they had harps." 
 He was ignored. 
 
 "And Mrs. Callum," pursued Adela. 
 
 "As well as Miss Lampe?" gasped Louis, with a shiver. 
 "Of course I know she's a most wonderfully sweet-na- 
 tured person." 
 
 "Isn't he perfectly dreadful !" they said. Adela added : 
 "He's so critical." That is in Beckwith a very deadly 
 thing to say about anybody. It is like saying that he is 
 a vegetarian. 
 
 "Oh, I don't know," explained Veronica. "They 
 really are a pair of old cats, you know." She was quite
 
 THE PARTY 67 
 
 marvellously frank, because she knew that there could be 
 no harm in admitting before Louis a thing that every- 
 body in Beckwith secretly knew. 
 
 "Oh, Vera !" Adela cried. "Upon my word !" Adela 
 was upon an altogether different tack. Her role in the 
 Hughes family was that of the kind eldest sister, very 
 sweet and gentle, who never said a thoughtlessly bitter 
 thing. Beckwith ladies said : "Adela's so gentle : one 
 never hears her say an unkind thing." It had become her 
 private vanity: she went to monstrous lengths to retain 
 such saintly repute. 
 
 Veronica laughed a lovely trilling laugh that seemed 
 to turn Adela's rebuke into something naively ridiculous. 
 The sound of her laugh shot through and through Louis, 
 as unexpected music, at night, across water, might have 
 done. His lips parted in the darkness. 
 
 They all appeared thoroughly to have enjoyed their 
 walk across the common to the Hughes's home; and 
 they tramped into the house in boisterous high-spirits. 
 Without taking off her hat and coat, Veronica went into 
 the drawing-room, crying : "He's come ! We've brought 
 him!" 
 
 Mrs. Hughes hurried to greet Louis a stout lady with 
 a florid face, her gown a purple silk which made one 
 sightless after a moment's paralysed contemplation. She 
 welcomed Louis with a raised forefinger of rebuke. 
 
 "Such a stranger!" she exclaimed, laughing a hearty 
 clucking laugh which came only from the throat. "Where 
 have you been hiding all this time ? It's too bad of you ! 
 Really it is !" With a lowered voice, still holding his hand, 
 she went on : "Here's Vera been wondering what's come 
 to you after all this long time! No music, no talk! 
 .We've missed you. I do so wish you'd come over more 
 often.
 
 68 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 IV 
 
 The drawing-room, as Louis entered, was half-full of 
 Beckwithians of various ages. It was a characteristic 
 gathering. Behind, with deep cuffs showing, were the 
 older men, friends of Mr. Hughes or friends of the fam- 
 ily, grave or rubicund men, for the most part of middle- 
 age. Grouped about the room were the more individu- 
 alised guests Mrs. Callum, and Miss Lampe, and the 
 Dumaresques, the Dauntons, little Irene Corntoft, and 
 so on. Louis gave a swift glance round the room. All 
 eyes were upon him, and he had a rather grim pleasure 
 in thinking that he heard Miss Lampe smother the word 
 "shop-keeper" as he passed the open door. There was 
 no doubt in his mind that the advent of this party of 
 four, walking sturdily across the common, had been re- 
 corded; and that the sight of himself had led to a hur- 
 ried re-canvassing of the Vechantor sensation among 
 those present. Standing there in the centre of all these 
 figures, well-groomed and debonair, he gratified their 
 sight and moved them all to a higher kind of pleasure. 
 They saw in him the embodiment of all that was most 
 distinguished in Beckwith social circles. All of them 
 acknowledged the Vechantors. 
 
 After the record given by the Hughes girls the actual 
 party gave him no surprises. He singled out Mrs. Callum, 
 a rather thin woman of fifty-five, a widow, who wore 
 spectacles and seemed always upon the verge of com- 
 mitting herself to a calculated indiscretion. She was,* 
 very angular, with a severe face, and she had a way of 
 saying in a harsh, swan-like voice :- "I'm afraid I've . . . 
 said more than I ought." It generally happened that she 
 spoke truly, and her tongue was a good deal feared. She 
 had ( a most unpleasant trick of seeing everything from
 
 THE PARTY 69 
 
 a blush to a cracked cup that any hostess might keep to 
 herself behind the tea-cosy. She was in the habit of 
 saying: "There's not much that escapes my eye." She 
 was, Louis thought, a most unpleasant woman. He had 
 never by any chance heard her say a kind word, with- 
 out qualification, about anybody. 
 
 Next to Mrs. Callum sat Miss Lampe, in her black 
 poplin dress, wearing a thin gold chain and a black and 
 white cameo brooch. She was very small, and wrinkled, 
 with close-pursed lips and eyes like boot-buttons which 
 had caught the sun. She and Mrs. Callum were true 
 cronies. They knew together, in secret (and not always, 
 unfortunately, in secret), all about everybody in Beck- 
 with. They were always together, great tea-drinkers and 
 gossips, and their interest was insatiable. They con- 
 stantly turned to each other, seeing the same things, and 
 marking them as one marks linen, with a little hot pres- 
 sure to bring out the full significance of the lettering. 
 That was the way they managed to miss nothing that 
 went on, for they never were overcome by a babble of 
 voices, but kept their heads and their nerve in every cir- 
 cumstance. 
 
 Behind them, at a distance, talking to an ugly girl with 
 protruding teeth, was a young man of about five-and- 
 twenty, rather boyish-looking, with a white face and a 
 furtive look. This was Eric Daunton, who had com- 
 mitted an indiscretion in falling wrongly in love. Louis 
 looked at him with a new interest, and was pleased with 
 his appearance, but not with his manner. Daunton had 
 a high brow, and a good face; but his eyes were guilty, 
 and his mouth petulant. He looked as if he might be 
 easily "rattled," and his moody expression made Louis 
 shake his head. Poor devil ! He'd been having a rough 
 time, and his nerve was going. He looked as though he 
 were all the time swearing under his breath.
 
 70 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 Young Dumaresque was a very different person. He 
 was short and stout, Jewish-looking and subtly vulgar. 
 His tie was bright; he wore rings; his dark face, with 
 thick features and a cast of complacency, was not at first 
 sight attractive. He had none of Daunton's air of young- 
 manly pathos. Nevertheless, Louis believed him to be a 
 good sort, and he had money, which he did not ostenta- 
 tiously throw about. Daunton, Dumaresque, and Louis 
 were the three most presentable young men in Beckwith. 
 
 Miss Dead wood and Irene Corntoft, with Mabel Duma- 
 resque, the ugly girl with the heart of gold, completed the 
 foreign representatives of youth at the Hughes party. 
 Miss Deadwood was a refined-looking girl without any 
 distinction. Irene Corntoft, a conceited little creature 
 with a plump buff-coloured face and a short tail of dis- 
 agreeable hair, was only invited on account of her virtu- 
 osity as a clarinetist, and she was trying to behave as a 
 grown-up. She retained the attributes of childhood 
 greediness and bad-manners naively exhibited and 
 Louis did not care to look at her for more than a passing 
 instant, as she made him feel rather sick. 
 
 That was the personnel of the Hughes party. 
 
 The Hughes girls, having hurried upstairs to throw off 
 their out-of-door clothes, were returned by the time Louis 
 had completed his inventory of those present; and a 
 few minutes later everybody trooped into a much colder 
 back room, where tea was laid out with Beckwithian 
 sumptuousness. There was now a general rearrangement 
 of partners. Louis, standing idly .aside, and watching 
 certain manoeuvres, noticed that Daunton was unsuccess- 
 fully trying to evade Judith Hughes. Judy, the dark 
 sister, was almost coaxingly showing him a chair beside
 
 THE PARTY 71 
 
 her own, which he at last ungraciously took. Mrs. Daun- 
 ton watched the arrangement with sharp interest, and 
 Louis saw her harsh expression give place to a motherly 
 beam. 
 
 Dumaresque, upon the other hand, wanted, it appeared, 
 to sit near Veronica. Louis saw this with interest; but 
 he thought it singular that Dumaresque should be placed 
 upon the other side of Judy and next to Irene Corntoft. 
 Such manipulation, or such accident (as he supposed it), 
 made his own position, when that was subtly indicated, 
 all the more fortunate. He found himself between Adela 
 and Veronica. He had not the least notion of the means 
 by which this happy circumstance had been reached. All 
 he knew was that Veronica glanced at him and then 
 quickly at the empty chair beside herself. 
 
 Louis thought it all very strange and interesting. He 
 was pleased to see that Miss Lampe had been engaged in 
 the same observation as himself. "There's a lot of sim- 
 ilarity between Miss Lampe and myself!" he thought. 
 "How pleasant that both of us should be satisfied." But 
 Miss Lampe's cogitations went much farther than his 
 own. Compared with Miss Lampe, Louis was a child. 
 He could only envy himself for good-fortune, whereas 
 Miss Lampe was engaged in settling his destiny and cal- 
 culating the matrimonial chances of his two neighbours. 
 
 Seated between two such partners, Louis forgot every 
 part of his gloom. He was so near to them that he could 
 turn from one delicate fair face to the other. He could 
 see their wrists and their hands, and was physically con- 
 scious of the nearness of the two prettiest girls in the 
 room. He was very happy, carelessly happy, as though 
 all life was before him, as though all this were just part 
 of a pleasant, innocent game, in which one took the 
 chances of the moment and had no thought at all for the 
 morrow. Working, however, in his consciousness were
 
 72 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 subtle influences which were to show later. Adela and 
 Veronica were wiser than he. 
 
 Across the room Judith tried vainly to thaw young 
 Daunton by artless grace. Louis watched them at odd 
 moments. He had no thoughts linking them in his mind. 
 He simply looked at them as two young people at cross- 
 purposes. He was feeling very sorry for Daunton, sitting 
 there under the benevolent eye of Mrs. Daunton. He 
 began to dislike Mrs. Daunton. He felt there was some- 
 thing sinister about her benevolence. He imagined her 
 as an iron hand within a clumsy crimson plush glove. 
 While he was thinking that, he seemed for a moment to 
 lose consciousness. The tea-table chatter sounded like 
 the confused roaring of a crowd some distance away. It 
 was in that moment of unconsciousness that Louis saw 
 the party with hostility. Their laughter seemed to him 
 like the grinning of skulls. He had a horror of them. 
 And then all the sounds once again disentangled them- 
 selves, became staccato; and he was not a disembodied 
 and cruel spectator but Louis Vechantor at a party of 
 Beckwithians. 
 
 But it had been a very odd experience, that moment 
 of hallucination. Louis had never fainted, or he would 
 have known that a curious sweet remoteness precedes the 
 total loss of sensation. It was just that feeling of being 
 apart and contemplative that had assailed him. He never 
 again had it in the course of his life: it was a tiny aber- 
 ration, like a singing in the ears, or what some mystical 
 people have taken for a moment of spiritual revelation. 
 Louis remembered it all his days. 
 
 VI 
 
 One inconvenience felt by several people was the pres- 
 ence at this party of both Louis and young Daunton. It
 
 THE PARTY 73 
 
 prevented them from discussing the two really important' 
 topics of Beckwith. So they fell back upon the Verulam- 
 Pinks and their catastrophic mumps-attack. Everybody 
 laughed tumultuously. All the girls felt their pretty 
 throats. Louis had never seen so many pretty throats. 
 He wished, though, that some of the hands had been 
 smaller. He looked down. Adela's hands were not bad 
 . . . Veronica's fingers were rather square-tipped. Lean- 
 ing back a little he caught a glimpse of the delicate line 
 of her cheek and throat. She really was tremendously 
 pretty. Her blouse was pretty; and the way her hair 
 grew and was brushed . . . Louis thought she was by 
 far the prettiest girl there. Adela was pretty, too; but 
 she had not the piquancy of Veronica. Her part was less 
 shining, less radiant ; she was the quieter girl, the gentle 
 companion. While he was looking not obtrusively 
 at Adela, Veronica turned to him with a perfectly gem- 
 like smile that took his breath away. She put her head 
 nearer, and he bent his. It gave him a curious tingling 
 sensation to feel that their faces were so close. 
 
 "Do look at Mrs. Callum," she whispered. "Not now 
 ... in a minute." 
 
 He felt a faint disappointment at the fact that the 
 message delivered by the smiling lips should have been 
 so unromantic; but he looked. Mrs. Callum had taken 
 a chocolate that contained a piece of nougat, and this 
 was causing all her teeth to move about at one time in 
 a very disconcerting manner. She could not quite close 
 her mouth, and was publicly being punished for a piece 
 of reckless greediness. Louis, frowning hastily, looked 
 away; but he felt the little tremour of convulsive merri- 
 ment that ran through Veronica. To her it was a clear 
 source of amusement. It satisfied her instinctive ani- 
 mosity for Mrs. Callum, who had once done Veronica a 
 bad turn over an early flirtation. It was like a piece of
 
 74 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 justice. Louis turned quickly to Adela, who was de- 
 murely looking down at her plate. He felt sure that Adela 
 also had observed Mrs. Callum's tragedy, and he was 
 puzzled at her inscrutable expression. In fact both his 
 neighbours a little perplexed him. He had no power to 
 judge them in moods to which he was unused. 
 
 The table continued to rattle with the sound of plates 
 and knives and spoons; and the merry voices went on 
 and on; and at last the clock struck six. That was the 
 sign for a return to the drawing-room. They all rose. 
 Veronica was pressed against Louis as they went forward. 
 Looking down, he saw again how extremely dainty she 
 was, how long her lashes were, how the bright eyes glis- 
 tened. It seemed to him that her every movement was 
 marked with vivacity. He felt a wish that she should 
 take his arm; but as they passed out of the door she was 
 turned to him again, smiling mischievously and whisper- 
 ing "Wasn't it awful!" so that her shoulder was once 
 more against his breast and her elbow for the merest 
 instant in the hollow of his protecting hand. 
 
 vii 
 
 In the drawing-room music was instantly begun. There 
 were some slight frownings among the three Hughes 
 girls, who all played the piano; and at last Veronica, 
 placing her handkerchief upon bass notes that she would 
 never need, made an undersong for the conversation. 
 Louis did not know what it was that she played, and it 
 did not greatly interest him; so he watched the pianist's 
 slender figure instead of listening with all his attention. 
 He was glad she was so straight, even at the piano; 
 she sat upon the piano-stool as erect as ever. Her touch 
 was good: she had "attack." And'then, when the piece 
 was finished and voices were lowered, Veronica swung 
 round upon the stool and looked at him with so droll
 
 THE PARTY 75 
 
 an air of mischievousness that he smiled involuntarily. 
 The next ten minutes were given to the clarinet, with 
 Adela accompanying. 
 
 "She's a better accompanist than I am," Veronica said 
 to Louis. 
 
 "You don't try, perhaps," he answered, half -seriously. 
 "You ought to." 
 
 "Well, bring some songs over one evening. . . . Will 
 you ?" asked Veronica. "It's so long since you've been." 
 
 Louis reddened faintly. 
 
 "All right," he said. "It's very nice of you." There 
 really seemed nothing else to be done in face of so direct 
 a request. 
 
 Veronica made no reply, but her face showed that his 
 response, however lacking in eagerness, was acceptable 
 and expected. He felt that she was pleased with him, 
 and he wanted to please her now. She was not looking 
 at Louis. She was looking at Judith, who was talking 
 interestedly to the boy Dumaresque. A curious fixity 
 came into Veronica's expression, something like the 
 slightest possible frown, or air of disapproval of such a 
 conference. She had become quieter, more thoughtful: 
 her voice was lower, meant only for Louis. 
 
 "Have you heard about Mr. Dumaresque?" she went 
 on, as though they had not spoken of accompaniments. 
 "Mabel told us. He's been told he's dying. ... A 
 cheerful sort of thing, isn't it?" 
 
 "That chap?" Louis indicated the youth who was 
 talking to Judith. 
 
 "No, his father. He's not here. I should think Syd 
 Dumaresque would live for ever. I never did like that 
 boy, somehow. There's something wooden about him. 
 If you went mad he'd simply kick a hassock. He wouldn't 
 know what to do." 
 
 Louis was pleased by the flattery of her intimate tone.
 
 76 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 He thought, however, that the youth might have some 
 good points, such as honesty and its kindred dulnesses, 
 so he demurred to her implied disparagement. 
 
 "I don't know that I should know myself," he said. 
 "So I hope you won't. ... I thought he looked quite 
 amiable and decent !" Then, hastening to get away f rorrt 
 the curious topic, he proceeded. "I rather like Daunton." 
 
 "Do you?" Veronica opened her eyes a little, as if in 
 surprise, and as if it were necessary to her that his liking- 
 should be questioned. She shifted her glance to the 
 object of his remark. They seemed very much alone now, 
 sitting there away from the other people, while music 
 went endlessly on at the piano. Louis, following her eyes, 
 also contemplated Daunton, and felt pleasantly at rest 
 sitting beside Veronica. She had a very great attractive- 
 ness for him this evening, for he had been heart-sick for 
 days, and she was consoling him. Veronica, after this 
 silence, returned to the subject of Daunton. "I'm sorry 
 for him," she continued; "but he must have been an 
 absolute idiot to get entangled with that girl." 
 
 "Have you seen her?" persisted Louis challengingly. 
 
 "Good gracious, no! You don't have to. I didn't 
 know you were so romantic, Louis." 
 
 "I am, rather," he said. 
 
 "I can tell. Or you wouldn't be so silly. You don't 
 know anything about life." 
 
 "I should have thought, as much as you do." He was 
 not impatient, but his eyes hardened. She retorted. 
 
 "Girls always know more than boys . . . about life." 
 
 Louis made a little laughing sound that made her turn 
 slightly away from him. 
 
 "They hear a lot of subterranean gossip," he suggested. 
 "Do they know anything at all?" 
 
 "They know what you can do, and what you can't do. 
 They know how easily boys can be caught."
 
 THE PARTY 77 
 
 "By other girls?" 
 
 "By girls who aren't nice girls." 
 
 "Why shouldn't this girl love Daunton? And if he 
 wants her why shouldn't he have her?" 
 
 Veronica became rather ruffled at his persistent stupid- 
 ity. 
 
 "Because . . ." she said. Then, quickly: "Oh, it 
 doesn't matter. If you like, because I don't want him to." 
 
 A shock ran through Louis, almost imperceptibly. 
 What did she mean? And what did his own feeling of 
 shock mean ? 
 
 "But," he proceeded, in a level tone, "it isn't any action 
 of yours that's preventing him. . . . It's that benevolent 
 old mother who steps in and puts a stop to it. And that's 
 an interference with his freedom." 
 
 "You can't do what you like," Veronica said obsti- 
 nately. "Nobody can. It wouldn't be good for them." 
 
 "I wish we might be allowed to try, sometimes," he 
 ventured. "Just supposing you were wrong about that 
 girl. Supposing she were a good girl. Supposing she'd 
 make Daunton happy. Put yourself in her place I mean, 
 suppose you lived in other circumstances. . . . D'you 
 think your heart wouldn't matter?" 
 
 Veronica turned back. She seemed moved to a kind of 
 sincerity. 
 
 "D'you think we're not all wanting something that's not 
 good for us?" she said thickly. "It's the wickedness of 
 our natures. And supposing after a year he found out 
 he'd made a mistake, that she was just pretty and stupid, 
 or that she drank ..." 
 
 "What I want to know," Louis said, with equal ur- 
 gency, "is why one always assumes in Beckwith that girls 
 of a slightly lower class are stupid, or dishonest, or drunk- 
 en. ... Why should we suppose that? Do you really
 
 78 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 think Beckwith girls are all above stupidity and dis- 
 honesty ?" 
 
 Veronica went white. 
 
 "It's no good talking about it," she whispered unstead- 
 ily. "You oughtn't to talk like that, anyway. If mother 
 heard you she'd . . . Besides, it's not right to mix 
 classes. They can't understand each other. Very likely 
 it wouldn't be her fault, if she did drink. He'd neglect 
 her, very likely; and go after . . . another girl." 
 
 There was a little pause. Both were ruffled, and a 
 hostility had crept into their bearing. 
 
 "Would another girl what you call a 'nice girl' 
 take him up after he'd . . . well, shall we say 'lost' 
 this one? Would her pride allow her to take over his 
 affection as a going concern?" 
 
 Louis observed the resentment in Veronica's eyes. He 
 was recovering his own temper. She was so extremely 
 pretty, and the play of her expression fascinated him. 
 When she was at all moved her lips seemed to tighten 
 over her little teeth. 
 
 "I shall begin to hate you in a minute," she whispered, 
 half in earnest. He reassured her. 
 
 "No you won't ; because you know there's nobody else 
 here that I could talk to like this." 
 
 Veronica's face changed again, electrically. It was as 
 though a spark made her eyes flame. 
 
 "Not Adela?" she demanded abruptly. Louis ob- 
 served her with wonderment. It seemed such an odd 
 inquiry to come after their talk of this evening. What 
 had Adela to do with it? 
 
 "Oh no," he answered. "I'm quite sure she's made up 
 her mind." 
 
 "What about?" 
 
 "Daunton. Everything." It was Veronica's turn to 
 smile at a naivete. She was quite recovered.
 
 THE PARTY 79 
 
 "Silly boy. So have I," she retorted. "There's no 
 shaking me. Because I know I'm right." 
 
 "Well," said Louis frankly. "I think you might be 
 shaken. . . ." 
 
 "Is that what you're counting on?" Veronica was 
 sparkling now, daring him, using all her charm. 
 
 "Not altogether," he admitted. "But you haven't 
 answered my question about what the nice girl would do." 
 
 Veronica began to frown again. She remembered, per- 
 haps, the indiscretion of allowing oneself too great a 
 warmth of feeling in sight of so many curious Beck- 
 withians. 
 
 "I forget what you said," she answered untruthfully. 
 "But, anyway, a nice girl . . ." There was a pause. 
 
 "Well ?" asked Louis. "Do tell me what she'd do. I'm 
 all impatience to hear." 
 
 "Oh, don't let's talk any more about it. Or him. It's 
 no good arguing. You only get excited, and you don't 
 change anything. If people all thought for themselves it 
 would be too dreadfully unsettling. Of course Eric must 
 do what his people want him to. He owes them every- 
 thing. Besides . . . I'm sure he will do what he's told. 
 He always has done, all his life . . ." Her mouth was 
 rather bitterly curved at the last words. 
 
 "I wonder what you mean," Louis said venturesomely. 
 "I know so little about him." 
 
 Veronica, in reply, looked directly at Louis for an 
 linstant. Their eyes met not quite full, but in an ex- 
 changed glance still more suggestive in its intimacy and 
 perilousness. 
 
 "Perhaps I'll tell you . . . some day," Veronica said, 
 in a curious voice.
 
 80 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 vin 
 
 What did she mean? He could not guess; but his 
 pulses quickened at the implication. As she sat at the 
 piano, or moved about the room, or stood within his view, 
 there was no doubt that he felt her challenge. She had 
 something in her nature that piqued and intrigued him. 
 Was there any kind of relation between Veronica and 
 Daunton? She had almost suggested it. Was that to 
 rouse a first vague jealousy in himself? He strove to 
 remember if the names of Veronica and Daunton had ever 
 been coupled. It was then that his aloofness from the 
 general life of Beckwith hampered him. He did not* 
 know. Did she want to marry Daunton? Was she a 
 girl so bent upon marriage that she would not too scrupu- 
 lously examine the integrity of her lover's affection ? And 
 if she wanted to marry Daunton, were not her confidences 
 to himself, the over-eager invitations of Mrs. Hughes, the 
 personal invitation to music-practice, marks of another 
 inclination? What had her inquiry her sharp inquiry 
 about Adela indicated? Really, Louis was quite puz- 
 zled at his own interrogations ! They drove him to Miss 
 Lampe ! 
 
 "Well, Miss Lampe," he said. "What a lot has hap- 
 pened since you came to dinner with us!" 
 
 Miss Lampe, sitting in her black dress in an easy chair 
 far away from the fire, looked from her shrivelled face 
 with those alert eyes that he so much suspected. But 
 those eyes were now suspicious of him, of his tone. 
 
 "Yes, indeed," Miss Lampe said, in her voluble man- 
 ner. "Such a lot of things . . ." 
 
 "This party, and the new grocer with the curious 
 name, and Mr. Dumaresque, and the Daunton affair," 
 Louis proceeded, in his low, dry voice.
 
 THE PARTY 81 
 
 Miss Lampe quailed at his allusion to the grocer, and 
 she surveyed him hungrily. 
 
 "Poor Mr. Dumaresque," she said, singling out that 
 name as momentarily safe. "But how did you hear about 
 him? I thought it was quite a secret . . . quite a secret." 
 
 "Ah, Miss Lampe," Louis said. "You'd hardly believe 
 how much I know about Beckwith." 
 
 "Really . . . really!" said Miss Lampe expectantly. 
 "It's such a change for me to hear anything about the 
 neighbourhood. Living so far away from the com- 
 mon . . ." 
 
 "Why, everything must pass your house, Miss Lampe !" 
 
 Miss Lampe knew that. She wanted to know some- 
 thing else. 
 
 "I should so much like to know how you heard about 
 Mr. Dumaresque, poor dear man! Did Veronica tell 
 you?" 
 
 "Ah, you mustn't guess!" Louis said. 
 
 "What a dear girl she is . . ." hinted Miss Lampe. 
 
 "She's charming, isn't she !" Instinctively wary, in such 
 company, he added : "All three of them are charming." 
 
 "Yes . . . yes ..." Miss Lampe said, as though she 
 were reserving judgment upon the faults of all. "All 
 of them, of -course, all of them. I thought it might have 
 been Veronica who told you, because you've been talking 
 to her. ... I think she's so sweet. . . . One of the 
 sweetest natures in our little town, I always say." 
 
 "I'm sure she would like to hear that you thought so," 
 observed Louis. "But Mr. Dumaresque is not the only 
 person I have heard about. I'm very sorry for him, of 
 course; or rather, I should be, if I knew him. But I'm 
 really more interested in Eric Daunton. Can you tell me 
 exactly what it is he's done?" 
 
 "Oh, very dreadful . . . very painful. . . . But you're 
 quite a gossip, Mr. Louis !"
 
 82 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 "Aren't I ! Do tell me all about it. Who is the young 
 woman ?" 
 
 "She's a ... Her name is Ethel ... I don't know 
 her surname. Ethel . . . And she is the daughter of 
 a ... H'm, h'm . . . Her father is a ... a small 
 . . . tradesman at Penge. ... It seems that poor Eric 
 met her quite by accident; so she can't be at all a nice 
 girl; and he's written some most foolish letters. Mrs. 
 Daunton is quite anxious, because if the girl is ... 
 you understand ... It might mean ..." Miss Lampe 
 whispered. "A law case, for breach of promise. . . ." 
 Her eyes glistened at such a feverish prospect 
 
 "Is Mrs. Daunton's objection to the girl, or to the 
 fact that her father's a tradesman ?" asked Louis. 
 , "Oh, it's quite impossible, Mr. Louis. . . . And Mrs. 
 Daunton had so set her heart on a match with some suit- 
 able girl in the neighbourhood. It would steady him so 
 much. Poor boy, I'm afraid he needs ballast." 
 
 "D'you mean he's always been weak-kneed?" 
 
 "Oh yes. He's always been fancying himself in love." 
 
 "I suppose with other unsuitable girls . . ." 
 
 "Well, so young, you know. Or else not what I call 
 nice girls. D'you know what I mean?" 
 
 "Not his social equals." 
 
 "Well, and then," said Miss Lampe, in a very low voice. 
 "Of course the Hughes girls are very nice, they're dear 
 girls. But you know there was that silly business with 
 dear Vera ..." 
 
 For a second time that evening Louis's heart gave a 
 bound. He did not, however, move. 
 
 "You mean, with Daunton . . ." he said, as casually 
 as he could. 
 
 "Oh yes ... of course you remember. She was only 
 sixteen; and he was about nineteen. They planned an 
 elopement. So foolish and romantic. I remember crying
 
 THE PARTY 83 
 
 at the time. Mrs. Callum and I were sitting in my front 
 room, and you know there's a lamp-post outside. And 
 we saw the two of them go by to catch the eleven-thirty 
 train at night. And Mrs. Callum said to me : 'Where are 
 those children going together at this time of night . . . 
 together?' We just saw their faces as they hurried past. 
 It seemed so strange! So Mrs. Callum went to the station 
 while I hurried up the lane to Mrs. Hughes. Mr. Hughes 
 came down and caught them just in time ; for Mrs. Cal- 
 lum walked up and down the platform and prevented them 
 from coming out of the waiting-room, where they were 
 hiding. So just as the train was coming in Mr. Hughes 
 arrived I stayed behind, because I didn't want to seem to 
 know anything about it. And he caught them, and took 
 Veronica home. It was very hard on her, but it taught 
 her a lesson. What a dear girl she is !" 
 
 "But what a sensational affair !" Louis said, not look- 
 ing at Miss Lampe. 
 
 "And you see how weak poor Eric Daunton is." 
 "He does seem to be unlucky in his affairs," com- 
 mented Louis. At which Miss Lampe laughed, "He, he, 
 he !" and looked affectionately across the room at Veron- 
 ica, who was wondering what story Louis was hearing. 
 
 ' 
 
 IX 
 
 At ten o'clock the party was over. Beckwith is always 
 early, and supper was at half -past eight. Miss Lampe 
 had to seek her home near the railway station. Mrs. 
 Callum was going back to her cottage along the common, 
 just past the High Street. The Dumaresques were going 
 to their big red-brick house in the centre of the town. 
 Miss Deadwood and the young player upon the clarinet 
 had still farther to go. Eric Daunton and his mother 
 lived almost next door to the Hughes family. There was
 
 84 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 a general dispersal. Fortunately an old gentleman was 
 going to see Miss Lampe home, as he lived even farther 
 away than she did, upon the farther side of the railway; 
 so Louis and Daunton took possession of Miss Deadwood 
 and Irene Corntoft, and their music-cases; and all gath- 
 ered laughing and talking in the big hall. Louis had no 
 further direct speech with Veronica, and she did not 
 offer to shake hands with him. He noticed that she 
 shook hands with Daunton, and supposed the difference 
 to indicate some greater familiarity at this time with 
 himself. As he came away Mrs. Hughes stopped him. 
 "Now mind," she said. "You're to come over one eve- 
 ning soon. We shall be very glad to see you any eve- 
 ning. That's a promise, isn't it!" 
 
 Veronica said, close beside him in the doorway : 
 "Don't forget to bring some songs to practise!" He 
 looked down, but the words had been spoken in a low 
 tone, and she was already turning away from him. He 
 stepped out into the chilly air, under a clear moon that 
 made the grass stand up silver against the black earth. 
 The door was closed behind him. The others were wait- 
 ing. What a curious evening it had been ! And it was 
 as yet by no means over, for the church clock was only 
 then chiming a quarter-past ten in a sharp brazen tone. 
 The notes cut the air, so still was Beckwith, and so wind- 
 less the night. He hurried after Daunton and the two 
 girls. 
 
 It was on the way back from the centre of the town 
 that Daunton spoke directly to Louis. They had hitherto 
 been walking in almost complete silence along the deserted 
 streets. 
 
 "These damned people !" he said. "I'm sick of them 
 all."
 
 THE PARTY 85 
 
 "I expect you are!" agreed Louis cordially. "You 
 must have reason." 
 
 Daunton walked beside him a few paces without ac- 
 knowledging this remark. Then, suddenly, he forsook 
 silence, and in a shaky, boyish voice he blurted out what 
 was in his tormented mind. 
 
 "You've heard all about me, I expect," he said. "It's 
 simply damnable. I'd cut the whole thing and clear out, 
 only I'm in my father's business and I shouldn't have a 
 shilling. They treat me as if I was a kid. I'm not! I 
 know this time what I'm doing. I tell you, I'm half 
 mad." 
 
 "Is there anything I can do?" Louis asked. "I'm 
 awfully sorry. I can guess what a rotten time you're 
 having. You mustn't let yourself be overborne by all 
 this clatter. That is ... I suppose you're strong 
 enough to follow your own course, if you've made up 
 your mind to it." 
 
 "Of course it's the mater," cried Daunton. "She some- 
 how found a letter. Well, I know there were spelling 
 mistakes in it. What does that matter? All the girls in 
 Beckwith spell venomous with two e's. It's a thing 
 they know all about . . . the little cats. She's a real 
 girl ... I mean, somebody. ... I can't explain it to 
 you. Oh, I'm mad! I'm mad! Just because I met her 
 in the train, and spoke to her! She's so lovely . . . 
 and beastly unhappy at home, because she's not under- 
 stood. They think she's an adventuress. They say I'm a 
 boy who's taken in. Mater talks about the disgrace of it. 
 . . . My word, she's an actress ! To hear her talk about 
 the duty one owes, the bitterest day of her life, and so 
 on. ... And there's not a soul in Beckwith who cares 
 two straws about me or about Ethel as human beings. 
 We're to do as we're told. In case, I suppose, the won- 
 derful Daunton blood is contaminated. Why, good God!
 
 86 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 you know that we're a part of the coal firm Daunton, 
 Daunton, and Dare don't you ? Everybody knows. But 
 because we've washed the sweat off our faces we're 
 more select than the Cecils. And she's a real girl . . . 
 not like these stupid puppets here . . . doing what their 
 mothers tell them ! Except on the sly. I could tell you 
 things about them. . . . She's a friend, and a mistress, 
 and a wife. All in one. She'd give the Beckwith girls 
 points and beat them at anything they like to name. Any- 
 thing ! I don't care what anybody says ! But no ! Mater 
 says it's 'quite too impossible' ; and she's pretending that 
 Ethel's a common tart, who's snared me ! The vulgarity 
 of it ! It makes me sick to hear her !" 
 
 "But look here, old chap," said Louis. "You're of 
 age; your mother can do nothing at all. You've got it 
 all in your own hands. You can do just exactly what you 
 like." 
 
 "I know. And she knows. That's what makes her so 
 virulent. I tell you the difference between the two of 
 them! But I couldn't tell you. It makes me ashamed. 
 But all that doesn't make it any better. Surely you know 
 that things aren't done by force. Practically they never 
 are. They're done by making you feel uncomfortable. 
 You feel you ought not to do it. You're 'cut,' or you're 
 ruined, or humiliated. You're not punished. They can't 
 do it. They'd like to put you in gaol; but it isn't done. 
 They can only compel you by their opinion. So they 
 make you feel an outsider. I could fight against an order ; 
 but this is different. I've always been at home. I've 
 got no resources. I owe everything to my pater. And 
 that's what they work on! My debt. I feel as if there 
 were chains on me. I feel hopeless !" 
 
 "I should get another job at once," Louis said. "Any 
 sort of job, whatever it is." 
 
 "Would you?" Daunton eagerly clutched at that.
 
 THE PARTY 87 
 
 "Look here, Vechantor I know I'm a soft sort of chap. 
 Things have always been too much for me. But I've got 
 nobody to stand by me . . . except Ethel. I've got no- 
 body who's said a kind word to me for three weeks. It's 
 been going on since three weeks ago. I can't live with- 
 out . . . well, without feeling somebody believes in me. 
 I go crazy, and give in. And I've sulked at home; and 
 felt mad and blustering. I've heard myself talking . . . 
 and not believed what I was saying. As though it was 
 all false. I've meant it all about not giving in. Every 
 word. It's been true; but I've felt it wasn't true. I've 
 felt it was just grizzling. Even when I was saying the 
 finest, staunchest things. But I've felt hopeless felt I 
 should have to give in at the end, simply because I've al- 
 ways had to give in. ... That's the worst of it." 
 
 Louis nodded, forgetting that he could not be seen. 
 
 "Will she marry you at once ?" he demanded. 
 
 "She won't until she's quite sure I mean it. She saw 
 at once I was wobbling. I couldn't hide it from her, 
 though I tried. She's stronger than I am. She's got me 
 sized-up. The first time I saw her . . . after this . . . 
 after the letter, she said: 'What's the matter?' Not 
 like that more gently than that. She knew at once. 
 Of course I raved. I said nothing should come between 
 us. That was silly, and she knew it. She cut right 
 through all my heroics. She offered to let me chuck her. 
 She went all different not cold, but as though I was a 
 child ... as though she was years older. Oh, she's a 
 sport! She says she's just as fond of me; but she doesn't 
 want anything I don't want with all my heart. I feel 
 they're both as hard as nails ; but it's come to be a ques- 
 tion of choosing between them. It's my mother or her; 
 and she won't have me unless I make a clean choice. 
 That's what she says, and I believe her. She's never told
 
 88 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 me a lie, though she might have, lots of times. . . . Oh, 
 lots of times !" 
 
 Daunton's strained voice, the absolute sincerity of his 
 confession, and the dreadful air of truth in his account of 
 the girl's attitude, struck Louis like a poniard. He was 
 carried away. He saw Daunton as fighting for something 
 more precious than his own life. He was struggling to 
 deserve the love of the girl he truly loved. With a 
 cowardice that had run through his whole life still check- 
 ing him from being outright, he yet aspired to an ideal 
 courage that was not his own. 
 
 "Well, you stick to her!" cried Louis, in a thick, angry 
 voice. "Stick to her. If she's strong enough not to lose 
 her head when she sees you wobbling not to get hysteri- 
 cal and threatening, I mean you ought to make sure 
 of her. She's a woman in a thousand. She'll be the mak- 
 ing of you." He was answering passionate sincerity with 
 a sincerity as urgent. A wave of liking for Daunton, lik- 
 ing and pity, swept him into vehement response to this 
 appeal for his help. He was arrogant to all the world in 
 his sympathy with Daunton. 
 
 "I say!" exclaimed Daunton, stopping in the quiet 
 street. "What a brick you are!" They were shy, but 
 exultant, both of them moved. In daylight they could 
 not have been so intimate. Both were transfigured. 
 
 "No," said Louis, ashamed to receive such thanks. 
 "I'm not. I wish I were! Only I'm just for the first 
 time beginning to look about me and take notice. I wish 
 I had your chance of standing to my guns. I envy you. 
 I wish I could help you. Really help you." 
 
 "Look here . . ." Daunton drew him under a lamp- 
 post and brought from his pocket a leather case. Within 
 it was a midget photograph of a pretty girl. It did not 
 seem to Louis that she was exceptionally attractive. The 
 face was one which would not have caught his attention
 
 89 
 
 But he found there the honesty he was prepared to see. 
 He was in the mood to see only the priceless candour of a 
 good woman. The two young men pored upon the photo- 
 graph in the light of the street lamp, the one devotedly, 
 the other with a kind of angry anti-social delight in 
 supporting personal rebellion. 
 
 "You're not a boy," Louis said at last, his voice still 
 thrilling with temper and the ardour of his new cham- 
 pionship. "If you make a mistake I mean, if it shouldn't 
 turn out exactly as you planned at any rate you'll have 
 followed your own conviction. Not somebody else's 
 prejudice. Don't budge! Don't budge an inch!" 
 
 "I say!" cried Daunton delightedly. "You're a real 
 pal! I can't tell you what it's meant to me to be able 
 to talk to you like this to have you so decent about it. 
 If you were in love you'd know how I feel. But you'd 
 never be a coward, as I am. You're not like that. I've 
 . . . I know I'm a fool; but I've . . . I've always ad- 
 mired you no end, Vechantor. ..." He wavered there 
 in the half-light, his eyes glistening, looking away with 
 involuntary shame at such frankness. For a moment they 
 stood awkwardly without speech, Louis wonderstruck at 
 such an avowal, but not quite master enough of himself 
 to be anything but moved by it. Then Daunton blurted 
 out, like an ashamed schoolboy : "I say . . . excuse me 
 . . . I'm ever so grateful . . . Don't think of me as 
 anything but that. I'd like to go on telling you . . . 
 I'd like you to tell me something about yourself . . . 
 Only I must get off somewhere and gloat over it a bit!" 
 He hung still, trembling, and his eyes shining. Then, 
 with an effort, he pulled himself together. With a fierce 
 handshake he disappeared into the darkness, walking 
 swiftly, with his head erect and his arms swinging.
 
 90 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 XI 
 
 It was then that Louis, in an exalted flurry of high 
 spirits, no less fervent because his own happiness was not 
 involved, noticed where they had been standing. They 
 had been standing directly opposite the shop of Peel the 
 grocer. It gave him a curious sensation to look across 
 and see the drab-coloured blinds and the elaborate gilt 
 lettering over the shop-front. He continued quite still, 
 his heart beating quickly from the excitement of the 
 scene which had just concluded. And then, to his aston- 
 ishment, as he raised his eyes above the shop-front, he 
 saw that the dwelling-room immediately over the shop 
 was faintly illumined. The light, which moved about, 
 and which cast long pale shadows, appeared to be that of 
 a candle held by somebody who was also in motion. He 
 could see that the walls of the room were quite bare. He 
 remembered, then, that somebody had spoken of Peel as 
 removing first thing on Boxing-morning at six o'clock ; 
 and that he expected to be away by midday. Then the 
 living part of Peel's business premises was now altogether 
 empty. Who was walking there, with a candle, at this 
 time of night? 
 
 Could it be Peel ? Had the removal been a longer job 
 than had been expected? Was it Peel and his wife who 
 remained, carefully examining their emptied rooms and 
 perhaps collecting the last fragments for personal re- 
 moval to their new home ? Or could it ... could it pos- 
 sibly be that the candle was held at this moment by the 
 new owner of the business, his own cousin, the man 
 whose arrival in Beckwith had seemed such a calamity, 
 had brought upon Louis that attack from his father which 
 had begun the change in his outlook upon things in gen-
 
 THE PARTY 91 
 
 eral ? Louis put his hand to his mouth, standing there in 
 deep thought. He was in quite a curious excitement. If 
 this were Peel, the matter had no interest for him. If, 
 upon the other hand, it were his cousin, what should he 
 do? It was no sentimentality that moved him; it was a 
 conviction that lay deep in his heart. He did not know 
 what action his mother had taken or would take concern- 
 ing these undesirable relatives. He only knew that at this 
 moment, fresh from the Hughes' s party and all the un- 
 usual feelings to which it had given rise, he felt in him 
 a determination to do what he considered right, to force 
 his mother's hand, to shame his father. All that had 
 been said during the evening took its part in this resolve. 
 He was filled with defiant contempt for Beckwith. He 
 stepped down from the pavement, and across the road; 
 and he found the knocker of the door beside the shop. 
 Should he? What was the hesitation? Why should he 
 hesitate ? 
 
 Louis knocked. 
 
 The knock went echoing gently up the bare boards of 
 the staircase. He could imagine the startled silence in 
 the room above. He waited. After a few moments he 
 heard heavy steps upon the stairs. In the glass fanlight 
 above the door he saw dim jerking lights and shadows 
 which showed that the candle or a candle was being 
 cautiously brought to the door. He braced himself. 
 
 A man in his shirt-sleeves, a smallish stout man with a 
 chubby face and a grey moustache, a man with a broad 
 silver watch chain and a coloured shirt, and a pleasant air 
 of moderate prosperity, stood in the doorway. He had 
 raised the candle to the level of his face so that it might 
 shine upon the face of the caller. 
 
 "Good evening, sir," he said, with civility. 
 
 "Good evening." Louis was now very nervous and
 
 92 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 hurried. "Are you . . . are you Mr. William Vechan- 
 
 tor?" 
 
 "Yes, sir," the man said. "That is my name." 
 "Oh, look here," cried Louis. "Can I come in half-a- 
 
 minute? I'm your cousin. I'm Louis Vechantor."
 
 CHAPTER V: OVER THE SHOP 
 
 AND when he had said these words Louis was struck 
 for an instant with a kind of marvel, at finding 
 himself upon the doorsteps of Peel's shop, at such an 
 hour, introducing himself to the cousin whose coming to 
 Beckwith had appeared such a disaster. His marvel, 
 however, disappeared at once; and he felt that there 
 had never in all his life been a moment so natural and 
 so right. The man with the candle did not make any mo- 
 tion of surprise, except to raise his candle a little higher. 
 Then, after a pause that neither could have noticed, he 
 said in a quite ordinary and unbewildered voice : 
 
 "So you're Louis, are you? Come upstairs . . . I'm 
 afraid it's a bit bare yet." 
 
 He closed the door as Louis entered, and stamped 
 towards the stair, holding the candle so that it gave his 
 cousin some help in finding his way. Together they 
 mounted to the first floor. 
 
 "Mum," called William Vechantor. "Here's a visitor 
 for you." 
 
 As he spoke he ushered Louis into a back room, where 
 there was a meagre fire, and where a glass lamp stood 
 shedding its light beam. The room was unfurnished, but 
 three people were sitting round the fire upon the three 
 up-turned drawers of a kitchen dresser. They all looked 
 up with, as Louis thought, an air of constraint almost of 
 consternation at such an intruder. Louis stood in the 
 
 93
 
 94 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 doorway, and William, having blown out and snuffed the 
 candle, shut this door, facing them all. 
 
 In the dim light Louis could see very little of the group 
 by the fire. The walls rose naked, in a covering of dark, 
 rather soiled paper. The mantelpiece was empty, the 
 floor bare. The lamp, standing upon a big box by the 
 window, was behind his cousins, and their faces were 
 lighted only by flickerings from the fire. One of them, 
 he saw, was a small plump woman of middle age clearly 
 William's wife; and he distinguished a girl and a boy 
 who stared at him in a startled way. Both of them rose 
 after a moment. The boy, he thought, might be sixteen ; 
 the girl was rather older. Neither was very tall. So 
 these five people looked at each other in the semi-dark- 
 ness. 
 
 "I'm afraid it's a strange time to come," Louis began 
 awkwardly. ''But I saw a light; and I couldn't resist 
 knocking. My name's Louis Vechantor, and I think you 
 must all be my cousins." 
 
 "That's all right, Louis," said William cheerfully. 
 "Take a drawer, will you?" 
 
 He went to the window and brought the lamp, which 
 he placed upon the mantelpiece. 
 
 "Well, it's a surprise," said his wife. "And a pleasure, 
 I'm sure." But the last words followed rather mechani- 
 cally, so that it needed a further remark to give it sup- 
 port. "A great pleasure," she insisted. 
 
 "Yes," added William. "To tell you the truth, Louis, 
 when Doll there turned up your name in the day-book 
 we got a nasty jar. Mum was in a bit of a fright . . . 
 weren't you, my dear? Thought we'd put our foot in 
 it." He turned suddenly to Louis. "Perhaps we have?" 
 he added, in a sort of inquiry. Louis gave a little nervous 
 laugh.
 
 OVER THE SHOP 95 
 
 "Well," he admitted. "I believe you have, as a mat- 
 ter of fact." 
 
 The other four exchanged a look. Only the boy squared 
 his jaw. 
 
 "We're as good as you," he muttered. 
 
 "Bob down, Reg.," said his father. Louis turned with 
 a smile to William. 
 
 "It's given them something to talk about," he explained. 
 
 "But your pa and ma," Mrs. William said. "I wish we 
 hadn't come !" 
 
 Louis began to laugh. His two elder cousins smiled 
 at his expression. 
 
 "It's really awfully funny," he cried. "Mind, I ought 
 to tell you ... I don't know what made me come to- 
 night. When we first heard the news I said we oughtn't 
 to take any notice of you. I mean, that we ought to let 
 all question of relationship be ignored. But you see I'm 
 the first tc go against that. I just couldn't help coming. 
 I've been to a party, and I'm on my way home. And I 
 saw a candle, so I simply crossed the street. . . . And 
 here I am." 
 
 "Well, sit down, now you're here," William urged. 
 Louis sat, and the girl moved away into the shadow. 
 "Go on, Doll," her father said sharply. 
 
 "No, you . . ." she cried; but after a hesitation re- 
 sumed her seat upon the only remaining drawer. 
 
 Louis looked across at Mrs. William. 
 
 "It was very kind of you," she said; "but I think you 
 were right. I've been in an awful taking ever since I 
 knew." 
 
 "You have, Mum ; you have," William agreed. "Well, 
 Louis; you know as well as I do that you can't draw 
 back at this stage. Doesn't do. And of course the kids 
 are both upstarts, and they wanted banners all round the
 
 96 SHOPS AND PIOUSES 
 
 town for a start off. But we're going to do without that, 
 for Alum's sake." 
 
 At this it seemed to Louis that the girl, who sat upon 
 the third dresser-drawer immediately upon his left, gave 
 a slight and scornful laugh. The thought ran through 
 him: "The older ones are all right; the children are little 
 beasts"; but he did not say anything or give any sign 
 that he had heard the sound. 
 
 "But all the same," plaintively remarked William's 
 wife, still crushed by her understanding of the scandal 
 they had created in Beckwith, "it's very hard on Mr. and 
 Mrs. Vechantor. I wish we hadn't come." 
 
 "You've been saying that all the time, Mum," said her 
 husband. 
 
 "It's true," she retorted. "That's why I say it, Will." 
 
 "Try another record, old girl," said William. 
 
 "Or a fresh needle," added Reginald, clumsily over- 
 emphasising his father's figure of speech. But Reginald 
 was not to go unpunished for this rudeness to the visitor. 
 
 "Bob down, Reg.," his father said. "Had enough of 
 little boys. He's only sixteen, Louis ; and a bit bumptious. 
 Well, now; where do we stand, eh? Just about where 
 we were, isn't it ?" Louis looked at him gratefully. 
 
 "I'm afraid so," he said. "May I say what I think? 
 It's this. As far as I'm concerned my cousins can have 
 their banners. They can plaster the whole town with 
 bills. But they won't hurt my mother or myself. They'll 
 simply injure the business and drive away custom; be- 
 cause everybody will be offended. But that's got noth- 
 ing to do with the main question. I'm glad you've come. . - 
 My father won't be. My mother will be the one to 
 suffer." 
 
 "She mustn't!" cried Mrs. William. "It's not fair on 
 her."
 
 OVER THE SHOP 97 
 
 "Oh, you can't stop it now. It's too late. And you 
 mustn't think I've come from her ... or to pry on you ; 
 for that wouldn't be true. Nor to complain. I should 
 like to come again, if I may. I mean, when you've moved 
 in. May I?" 
 
 "May he!" exclaimed William, in his cheerful voice. 
 "That's the tone, isn't it, Mum ?" 
 
 "I don't think he ought to," pathetically said Mrs. 
 William, in a humble voice. 
 
 "Mum!" came in a bitter whisper from beside Louis. 
 "Oh! . . . Why don't you tell him at once that we 
 don't want to have anything . . ." 
 
 Louis turned to the girl, whose face he could see in the 
 lamplight. It was flushed and mutinous. Her lips were 
 curved in an angry way, as though she were exasperated 
 beyond bearing. He essayed to finish her broken sen- 
 tence. 
 
 "... to do with me ?" he asked quietly. 
 
 "They're both tired out," said Mrs. William in eager 
 apology. "Both of them are." 
 
 "I'm not !" cried Dorothy. 
 
 "Well, then, you're very ill-mannered." Her mother's 
 voice took a quick turn. 
 
 "We were quite happy before he came!" Dorothy said 
 in a suppressed voice not of shame, but of unbearable 
 anger. 
 
 Louis rose at once. William put a hand upon his arm. 
 
 "Sit down, lad," he begged. "Just because we've been 
 gentle with your young cousins they're both a bit bump- 
 tious. As I told you. Doll's a good girl; but she's 
 one to make a fuss. Can't be helped. It's nature. 
 Take no notice. Now . . . whenever you like to drop in 
 and see us, I shall be glad. So'll Mum. And your mother 
 and father any time. But if you don't come . . . See 
 what I mean? We shan't feel huffy. We're sociable,
 
 98 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 but not social, if you understand the distinction. Mum 
 here can tell you all .about the royal marriages who 
 married who and whose daughter and sister the Princess 
 Christian is. She loves gossip. She's got a proper respect 
 for gentry, has Mum. But the kids haven't. They're . . . 
 well, they're a bit trying. Too big for their boots, if you 
 know what I mean. And I've knocked about a bit. I've 
 seen the world. And I'm a provision-dealer and don't 
 call myself a grocer outside the family circle. And if 
 you're a man you'll find me one. . . ." 
 
 "That was what I was thinking, cousin William," said 
 Louis, with a quick smile and a nod that showed his lik- 
 ing. He was delighted with both of his elder cousins; 
 but was not at all pleased with the others. 
 
 11 
 
 After a moment, in which quick perceptions of these 
 likings and distastes made themselves felt in his question- 
 ing mind, he turned to his girl-cousin, whom her father 
 called Doll. 
 
 "I don't see why you should be so angry with me," he 
 said directly. "I haven't hurt you . . ." It was a cry 
 of impatience at misunderstanding of his nature. 
 
 "What I was going to say," continued William, press- 
 ing down the rising head of discontent, "was that Mum's 
 got gentry on the brain. She's morbid about them. Her 
 father kept a village shop ; and she was taught to curtesy 
 before she could walk. And she'll simply make a fool of 
 herself if your mother comes to buy a pound of lard. 
 She'd better keep away. But if your mother is a real 
 lady, as I should think she was, by the look of you, Mum 
 here's as good a lady as ever wore furs. You can see 
 her any Sunday. She's Church of England. You'll see 
 us sitting under the Parson every Sunday morning; and
 
 OVER THE SHOP 99 
 
 you'd never be able to tell she'd ever done a stroke of 
 work in her life. As for me ... in ten years' time, now 
 my Holloway shop's established, as you may say, there's 
 no reason why I shouldn't be half a gentleman myself. 
 I mean, smoking cigars and jingling coppers in my pocket. 
 The pity is, the kids are growing up fidgety. Things 
 aren't good enough for them. They're touchy. They don't 
 like to see me in an apron, so they shout the odds against 
 the people who never wore aprons . . ." 
 
 "We don't !" cried both the delinquents. 
 
 "To hear them talk, it's a sin not to keep a shop. That's 
 the way they get their own back for having been brought 
 up in one. It's a common error, Louis. . . . You'll find 
 it out in good time. What you were born is the best . . . 
 till you become something else. When Reg. here gets 
 what he's after he'll think nobody's any good but a civil 
 engineer . . ." 
 
 "You don't understand !" impatiently cried Dorothy. 
 "It's the idea that because you're a grocer you haven't as 
 much right here as ... these other people!" Her voice 
 trembled with indignation. 
 
 Louis exchanged a long glance with William. They 
 understood each other very well, and from that moment 
 they were friends. 
 
 "I now understand," Louis remarked to his friend, 
 "what the Parson here means when he talks about the 
 Revolutionary Ferment. This is it. I never understood 
 before." 
 
 iii 
 
 Dorothy had turned away, and was looking into the 
 meagre fire. Nothing could so have estranged her as this 
 slight ridicule. Louis knew now that she was unlike her 
 mother and father. She was dark not as dark as him-
 
 100 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 self, but dark and pale. Her nose had an independent 
 tilt; her lips were full (but that might have been because 
 she was indignant). He could not see her eyes. They 
 were averted from him. She had hardly cared to see her 
 cousin, once the fact of his relationship had been estab- 
 lished. She was brusque, and sudden in her movements, 
 like somebody with a quick temper and a grievance. He 
 could tell that she was slim, but not thin; but he could 
 not tell whether she was graceful, because dresser-draw- 
 ers, although useful in an emergency, are not the most 
 suitable of seats. Upor. the whole Louis saw no reason 
 to revise his earlier judgment. He was very much drawn 
 to William, liked Mrs. William because she seemed to him 
 to be motherly and kind, and felt a fairly strong antipathy 
 towards both the children. They seemed to him to be ill- 
 bred and ill-mannered. Nevertheless, he thought William 
 atoned; since William and he were become friends. It 
 was as though he made a forgiving, annihilating gesture 
 with his hand, to make Dorothy's indignant blood boil 
 afresh at his insufferable courtesy. 
 
 "Now I really must go," Louis said. "And if you're 
 going to catch a train to-night you ought to go, too." 
 
 "Hey, hey!" cried William. "That's true. Not that 
 we're catching a train, because we're at the Red Lion, or 
 the Golden Lion, or whatever it's called, to-night. I was 
 almost afraid to give my name there. But I reckon the 
 name of Vechantor is a bit of a draw in these parts from 
 the way the laddies skip round at it. When I went in with 
 the troupe they looked at us rather old-fashioned, as the 
 saying is; but Piff! When they heard the name!" 
 
 "It makes me sick !" Dorothy said, half aloud. 
 
 What a disagreeable girl ! thought Louis as he was let 
 out at the front door. He made his way across the com- 
 mon smiling at recollections of William, but frowning 
 when he thought of the two rude young ones and especial-
 
 OVER THE SHOP 101 
 
 ly when he thought of the girl, who was, being the elder, 
 the more unforgivably rude of the two. As he crossed the 
 common he looked back at the Hughes's house. In an up- 
 per window he could see, as well as upon the first floor, 
 an illumination. The Hughes family was going to bed. 
 Was that upper window Veronica's room by any chance? 
 He wondered. Wondering, he sighed sharply. What an 
 evening it had been! And what a lot it had given him 
 to think about ! Daunton's affair and Veronica's manner. 
 And what Miss Lampe had told him . . . about Daunton 
 and Veronica . . . and then his cousins, William and 
 Mrs. William, and the boy . . . and that disagreeable 
 girl with the modern, aggressive manner. Hey ho! He 
 yawned. 
 
 "I don't mind how soon I'm in bed," Louis said to 
 himself. "But all the same, it's been rather a lark, this 
 evening. A lark . . ." His mind drifted off. He 
 wondered what Veronica's quick "not Adela?" had 
 meant. And one or two other little half-memories of 
 Veronica's movements or expressions darted waywardly 
 in his mind. "Yes," he thought. "I bet the name did 
 make a sensation at the Lion. By George! Of course, 
 that's what's made her so sick !" 
 
 He was still smiling as he entered the house.
 
 CHAPTER VI: WOMEN 
 
 FOR some days after this Louis had plenty of material 
 for his private thoughts. In general his life went 
 quietly on. He met his mother and father at dinner in/ 
 the evening, or he was in town, at theatres or with his 
 personal acquaintances; and his superficial attention was 
 occupied with daily affairs. But underneath his atten- 
 tion, flying every now and then up to the surface after 
 the fashion of air bubbles, went on those more profound, 
 more secret musings which composed his real mental 
 life. They were vague; they had rapidities unperceived, 
 and influences upon his character which none could cal- 
 culate. They were like that stealthy and unnoticed physi- 
 cal change which is all the time in progress within us and 
 which leads to the perpetual renewal of physical force 
 in our bodies. In his ordinary behaviour Louis did not 
 alter; those who saw him every day even his mother, 
 for all her care had no notion of the interior develop- 
 ment which was going on. She did not know he had been 
 to see William. She did not know of his talk with 
 Daunton. She could only speculate as to the effects fol- 
 lowing upon his walk across the common with Adela and 
 Judith and Veronica. Louis himself hardly knew what 
 had happened to him. He felt differently, but he was not 
 aware of the daily change. Nevertheless, he lived 
 a good deal in the days following the party. 
 
 Adela and Veronica, of course, were much in his mind. 
 
 102
 
 WOMEN 103 
 
 When he thought of their prettiness he unconsciously 
 smiled with delight. When he thought that Veronica 
 had deliberately wanted to charm him, to attract him 
 by her nearness, her intimate, coaxing turnings to himself, 
 her lowered voice in giving that double invitation (as 
 though it were a private understanding between them) 
 he still, by a kind of wilful blindness, wished to be suc- 
 cessfully charmed. To be doped by her charm. The 
 two feelings, not expressed, but deep in his conscious- 
 ness, were mingled and diffused. To say right out that 
 Veronica was willing to marry him, willing to go rather 
 more than half-way to meet him in such an ambition, was 
 quite impossible to Louis. And yet some faint feeling 
 of that kind, far back, lulling with primitive complacency 
 his scrutinising spirit, did persistently add to his com- 
 mencing desire for her. The thought that she liked him 
 was beautifully sweet. The thought of her pretty, soft 
 cheeks, her temptingly veiled eyes, the white throat and 
 the tender curve of her breast, was often with him, tan- 
 talising him. Above all, the thought of her bewitching 
 mouth, the tiny gleaming teeth, and the imagination of 
 touching such soft warm lips, came dancing into his mind 
 with a mischievous persistency. 
 
 What, then, was it that gave him that curious feeling 
 which confused itself with these more delectable thoughts 
 of Veronica? It was the feeling that he saw through 
 her and found her shallow and selfish; and yet that she 
 was sweet, na'ive, exquisitely simple ; that he did not wish 
 to see through her; that she was calculatingly ready to 
 marry him, as she would have been to marry any other 
 young man of equal position and attractiveness if there 
 had been one in the district; that she thought nothing 
 at all of marriage, but was eager to vary the sameness of 
 her days and evenings; that she was innocent, cynical, 
 wanton, inexpressibly fragile, tough, warm as love itself,
 
 104 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 cold as steel, pure, treacherous, inscrutable; now un- 
 consciously, now with the deepest cunning of her sex, 
 provocative. . . . One day he would come to a conclu- 
 sion; would deliberately choose which road he would as 
 deliberately follow in thinking of her. He would decide 
 whether he loved her or not. There was no other cri- 
 terion. If one loved, one thrust far back, away from one, 
 thoughts of a girl's basenesses. And if one didn't love 
 . . . Oh, it wasn't a question of truth at all. Only of 
 illusion. In the last resort, of cultivated illusion. What 
 was love itself but the egregious name given to a tumult 
 of desires and illusions? Why should one shut one's 
 eyes to that? Louis hurled all the discoveries of youth 
 at the moralists. They were ignorant, cowardly, material- 
 ist under a fawning profession of idealism. The women 
 even more than the men, because their pretensions were 
 greater. Hypocrites ! 
 
 And through all his torment his mother remain sacro- 
 sanct to Louis. 
 
 11 
 
 Mrs. Hughes was fifty. She had married when she 
 was twenty; and four years afterwards she had given 
 birth to Adela. Adela, therefore, was twenty-six. 
 Judith was twenty-four. Veronica was twenty-three. 
 Mr. Hughes was the manager of one of the city branches 
 of a large bank ; and he sometimes said at home that he 
 thought it would be a good thing if his daughters were 
 married. When Adela had a birthday he raised his 
 eyebrows. Each year brought her nearer to the danger- 
 ous age past which a girl could hardly go in Beckwith. 
 What was a passing thought to Mr. Hughes had become 
 a commonplace and a cause of active concern to Miss 
 Lampe, and Mrs. Callum, and Mrs. Deadwood, and Mrs.
 
 WOMEN 105 
 
 Dumaresque, and Mrs. Grenville, and Mrs. March, and 
 Mrs. Daunton, and all the other ladies in Beckwith. 
 She was such a dear girl, they said. What a pity some 
 young - man did not see her excellent qualities in the 
 proper light! So much Louis could not help knowing. 
 He had known first when she was twenty-one that some- 
 body had thought what a good wife she would be for 
 the right man. At the time it had not struck him as a 
 funny remark, but it might now have struck him as a 
 rather tragic remark. It was like a fatal saying, doom- 
 ing the poor girl to maidenhood. 
 
 As a girl Adela had been given rather to affectations, 
 and so Louis had not cared for her greatly. She had 
 worn her hair eccentrically, and had early taken to tight 
 lacing. She had been "grown-up" before her time, and 
 he remembered that she had looked at him with sophisti- 
 cated eyes in days when he had become self-conscious 
 about his sex. She had known other boys better than 
 he. He had seen her, at fourteen or fifteen, riding upon 
 bicycles, and had met her at small distances, always with 
 two or three rather croaking juvenile cavaliers, who 
 smoked cigarettes and had their hair greatly brushed 
 and heavily watered. He remembered that he had never 
 formed one of her party, but had been commented upon 
 by it. He even thought that Adela had made some ad- 
 vances to him at that time, but they were half -forgotten. 
 Among his intuitions had been the belief that Adela's 
 journey ings involved the telling of small fibs, such as 
 that she had cycled to such and such a place with another 
 girl, a friend. The other girl had been not absolutely 
 an invention, but an accomplice, with her own cavaliers. 
 Louis remembered her pasty face and harsh voice. He 
 had not liked either of them. Nor had he liked the boys, 
 who wore school caps upon the backs of their watered 
 heads and who held their cigarettes in such a way that
 
 106 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 the burning ends were palm-inwards, ready for conceal- 
 ment in case any adult should by chance come that way. 
 It had all ended, whether by discovery or through natural 
 causes, he did not know; and Adela, who, he thought, 
 must have known a good deal about boys before she had 
 grown out of them, had become a prim maiden by the 
 Hme he went to Oxford. 
 
 Judith, the second girl, Louis knew very little about. 
 He was not much attracted to her, because she had such 
 an odd air of concerning herself with things that she 
 would not publicly own. She was the sort of girl who 
 locked herself in her bedroom and smoked cigarettes out 
 of the window before she was sixteen; but she did not 
 do that now, and Louis had lost touch with her activities. 
 He knew her less well than either of the others. She 
 was a great reader, and was getting short-sighted. She 
 had a sharp tongue, and laughed, as at a double entente, 
 at many things which Louis did not himself perfectly 
 understand. Her conversation was always very much 
 the same, and she often rebuked her sisters for priggish- 
 ness. But in talk she was not herself very daring. 
 
 Veronica was much fresher than either of the others. 
 He was certain of that. In all his thoughts of her Louis 
 was convinced that she was the gem of the family. She 
 was the youngest princess of the fairy-stories, wilful and 
 charming. She had always, from childhood, been his 
 little friend, although latterly they had been less intimate. 
 Louis thought of her a great deal, even when he did not 
 see her. His failure to call at the Hughes's had been 
 weighing upon him, and after the party he felt bound 
 to go there in response to the repeated invitations that 
 had been given. So one evening he walked across the 
 common and knocked at the door in quite a sparkle 
 of curiosity as to his reception and all those unguessable 
 sequels that lay in the intoxicatingly unknown future.
 
 WOMEN 107 
 
 The door of the house was opened not by a maid, but 
 by a charming figure that silhouetted itself against a back- 
 ground of bright light. 
 
 "Hullo, Louis !" cried Adela. "Come along in ! Glad 
 to see you! Is it snowing? No, I see it isn't. Stupid 
 of me to ask!" She stood back, ushering him into the 
 room; and Louis felt the warmth from that hearty fire 
 like a gust of cheerfulness. The girls were all there, 
 and Mrs. Hughes was reading a book in a red cover. 
 It was a peaceful, comfortable scene. Judith was 
 sprawling upon a couch away from the light and the heat, 
 reading a book that contained diagrams; and she now 
 sat up, yawning, and pulled her skirt from under her 
 so as to cover too-exposed ankles. As she yawned she 
 covered her mouth with the back of her hand : her body 
 stiffened with the abandonment to such a yawn. 
 
 Veronica was crocheting directly under a light. She 
 did not look straight at Louis as he entered ; but he saw 
 her give a side glance at him as he shook hands with her 
 mother. Even that pleased him, because it was a flattery. 
 He did not know whether she did it deliberately or be- 
 cause she did not want him to read her expression. 
 Young men who are rather in love often receive this per- 
 turbing delight when, at meeting, a girl does not raise 
 her eyes. It always leaves them guessing. Veronica 
 was this evening specially charming, for she wore a pale 
 blue blouse cut slightly low at the neck, so as to show 
 her pretty throat. Her beautiful fair hair, catching 
 sparkles from the light above, shone like gold. Her 
 fingers were extended to support her work, and the 
 attitude in which she sat her head down and her slender 
 shoulders a little bowed made her look almost like a 
 young girl. Louis felt a warm pulse of feeling, a kind 
 of catching of the breath, at such a picture. Her neck 
 was so milk-white, and its curves so delicate, from her
 
 108 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 shoulder to her ear, and again to her throat, that he 
 could imagine nothing more charming. He was quite 
 lost in admiration, and had to snatch his eyes away in 
 order that his preoccupation with Veronica's loveliness 
 should not be observed. 
 
 in 
 
 Louis had been seated only a few minutes when he 
 became aware that Judith had silently closed her book 
 and stolen from the room. The talk disturbed her, and 
 she had gone upstairs to a little room which led to an 
 upper conservatory. Here she would cultivate chilblains 
 over an oil stove and continue her researches among the 
 diagrams. Louis was left with Mrs. Hughes and her 
 two other daughters. 
 
 "You've not been here for so long, Louis," said Mrs. 
 Hughes, clucking her arch laugh, "that I'm afraid you've 
 been leading a dissipated life in London. Have you?" 
 
 "Very dissipated," agreed Louis. "I've been reading 
 a great deal; and I've been to three theatres in the last 
 month." 
 
 "Yes, Miss Lampe said you hadn't caught your usual 
 train several times," agreed Mrs. Hughes. 
 
 Veronica peeped at Louis, who was peeping at her. 
 
 "Anything good?" Adela carelessly asked, sitting on 
 the arm of Veronica's chair. 
 
 "Don't, Adela!" cried Veronica. "You're in my 
 light. . . ." She peered at Louis round Adela until her 
 sister moved languidly away again. There was a scru- 
 tinising expression upon her face, that puckered her 
 brow. 
 
 "No ... I don't think I've seen many good plays," 
 Louis said conversationally. "You don't, nowadays. 
 Not in the commercial theatre."
 
 WOMEN 109 
 
 "What's the commercial theatre?" asked Veronica, in 
 rather a pouting voice. 
 
 "Oh, Vera, what ignorance!" cried Adela. "Of 
 course she knows, Louis!" 
 
 Veronica gave a sudden annoyed jerk, and made a 
 knot in her crochet cotton. 
 
 "All right, clever!" she murmured, under her breath. 
 Louis did not hear. 
 
 "Oh, dear me!" cried Mrs. Hughes. "I forgot that 
 wretched thing!" She jumped up, threw down her book, 
 and hurried from the room. At their laughter, she called 
 over her shoulder : "Excuse me, Louis !" 
 
 "Poor old mother!" said Adela. "She's always got 
 things that she has to see to herself. It's not as though 
 we couldn't do them. . . . But she will do them herself, 
 in her own way. . . ." 
 
 Veronica, probing at the knot in her cotton with the 
 delicate point of her crochet hook, looked up at her 
 sister over this operation with a very singular expres- 
 sion. No word passed between them; but there seemed 
 to be some slight exchange of hostility that mystified 
 Louis. 
 
 "I'm beginning to think the commercial theatre's 
 played out," he went on, not because he wanted to talk 
 about it but because he thought Adela looked rather 
 glum. She had been bright at his entry, but there was 
 a hardness in her manner that he could not understand. 
 Her nose looked quite sharp, even pinched as he had 
 never before noticed it, and she was almost haggard. 
 He had not thought before that she was paying the 
 penalty for too-early maturity; but she was certainly 
 far from her best. In contrast, Veronica was exquisitely 
 dainty. She easily bore the palm, and some awareness 
 of that made her subtly impudent to Adela. At any 
 rate, he thought he scented the possibilities of disagree-
 
 110 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 ment between the sisters. Accordingly he persisted in 
 his uncongenial theme: "I haven't seen anything good 
 in the commercial theatre for years since I was old 
 enough to understand anything about plays." 
 
 "Hark at him!" jeered Veronica. "Talking about 
 'commercial' theatre as if it was a patent. Louis, when 
 did you become old enough to understand a play?" 
 
 "About six months after coming down from Oxford," 
 he said, with a grimacing nod of reproof. "And as for 
 'commercial/ it's a distinction. It means that you gamble 
 for high stakes." 
 
 "Clever !" ejaculated Veronica. 
 
 Adela rose from her chair with a sort of majestic im- 
 patience. 
 
 "I don't know what's the matter with you, this evening, 
 Vera," she said, in a thin voice. "Anybody would 
 think you wanted to be smart." 
 
 A faint pink came into Veronica's cheeks. 
 
 "How silly of them!" she remarked. "But you 
 wouldn't think anything unkind, I know." 
 
 Adela's mouth closed sharply. Louis saw that 
 shadowed look pass again over her face, and he puzzled 
 again over it. He knew of no reason for any quarrel 
 between the sisters; but of course it might be just a 
 passing breeze. Nevertheless, it made him rather un- 
 comfortable, and he cast a little appealing look at Ver- 
 onica. She continued inscrutably to crochet under the 
 light, while Adela sat nearer the fire. Veronica did 
 not look at Louis. She sat perfectly quiet, and he saw 
 her two hands moving with electrifying swiftness at their 
 work. He continued aimlessly to talk about the plays 
 he had seen, describing parts of them; and at length 
 mentioned the work of a dramatic society which pro- 
 duced works considered unsuitable for production in the 
 "commercial" theatre. Quite unintentionally he had
 
 WOMEN 111 
 
 chosen an inopportune theme, with the result that he 
 became embroiled with Adela on the subject of plays 
 written by adults for adults. Louis had forgotten such 
 views as she held, and was appalled to find them still in 
 being. He was still too young not to take his own 
 opinions and tastes seriously, and this was his present 
 undoing. She had not seen any of the productions of 
 the society he had been praising, but she had read the 
 criticisms of them in her father's respectable daily paper, 
 and she had heard more than enough of them. She 
 seemed rather contemptuously puzzled about the aims of 
 such a society. 
 
 "Yes," she said. "But what do they want to produce 
 such plays for?" 
 
 "How d'you mean?" Louis asked, rather pleased to 
 have found a topic of discussion upon which he could 
 enlarge. "You see, the members subscribe to the society, 
 and these are plays that the committee thinks should be 
 produced privately although they either wouldn't pass 
 the censor or perhaps wouldn't pay if they were produced 
 in the ordinary way." 
 
 "But they're not nice plays," said Adela. "There's no 
 reason why they should be produced." 
 
 "Oh, but the subscribers want to see them," Louis ex- 
 plained, rather puzzled. "That's what they belong to 
 the society for." 
 
 "They oughtn't to be allowed," Adela said. "They 
 only do harm." 
 
 "One wants to know what other people are thinking." 
 Louis was rather patient. His white lids fell as he 
 continued. "The people who go to these plays aren't 
 children, of course." 
 
 "They must be very morbid," Adela remarked. "The 
 plays are morbid." 
 
 "Not all of them. Some of them, of course. But you
 
 112 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 can't help that at times. I mean, if you want plays about 
 life . . ." he persisted. Adela, exasperated, retorted 
 upon him. 
 
 "You think they're about life," she said, with a superior 
 air. "Besides, they're unhealthy. You go to the theatre 
 to be amused. If a play isn't amusing it's got no right 
 to exist." 
 
 "Amusing to whom?" Louis asked. "Lots of plays, 
 of course, are failures." 
 
 "No; but these plays. . . . They do a lot of harm." 
 
 "I don't think I agree with you," he said mildly. 
 "Some of them are boring; but some of them are most 
 frightfully interesting. I mean, even to me. I want to 
 know as much as I can about everything." 
 
 Adela's lip curled. She looked at him with a bitter, 
 far-away air of condescension. 
 
 "Yes; I know that people think they're awfully mod- 
 ern, and emancipated," she said, "going to see such plays. 
 But if they only do harm " 
 
 "Which I don't agree that they do," Louis interrupted, 
 rather warmly. 
 
 "They do!" Adela became suddenly defiant Her 
 eyes glittered ; her nostrils were drawn. 
 
 "How d'you know ? You've never seen one. And to 
 whom ?" 
 
 "They do! I can't tell you; but I know they do. I 
 mean, I can't tell you, because you're a man. But they 
 aren't nice, and they do a tremendous lot of harm to 
 weak silly girls . . . and young men." 
 
 "But I'm not weak and silly." Louis did not want 
 to continue the wrangle; but his rather obstinate nature 
 forced him to a mild protest. He was not at all petulant. 
 "Really, I'm not." 
 
 Adela shrugged. Her whole face sparkled with ani- 
 mation, with anger.
 
 WOMEN 113 
 
 "You're very young," she said bitingly. "If you 
 were older, you'd think differently." She seemed quite 
 unlike herself, not the calm Adela of Beckwith legend, 
 but another girl who had extreme difficulty in restraining 
 her anger. 
 
 "But " Louis was beginning; when Adela, appar- 
 ently carried beyond control, suddenly bent her head, 
 crimsoned, bit her lip, and hurried from the room. Louis 
 saw her go with astonishment. He looked at Veronica, 
 who had laid down her crochet and was regarding him. 
 Veronica was smiling in a strange way. 
 
 "Where's she gone?" Louis asked. 
 
 "Upstairs ... to cry," Veronica dryly told him. "I 
 wondered how long it would be before that happened." 
 
 "Good gracious!" he exclaimed. "I'm so very sorry. 
 Was I rude?" 
 
 "No," Veronica said, with a repetition of her curious 
 smile. "Only silly. And Adela's always hysterical like 
 that. Didn't you know?" 
 
 iv 
 
 There was such a curious triumph in her expression, 
 although she seemed to be trying to hide it, that Louis 
 was still more astonished than he had been. 
 
 "I wouldn't have persisted," he cried, "if I'd guessed 
 that I was worrying her. I didn't want to talk about 
 that. I thought it might interest her. The plays do 
 interest me ... I mean, I'm curious to see them; and 
 I don't see why Adela should mind." 
 
 Veronica came closer to him. Her elbow almost 
 brushed against his. 
 
 "Don't worry," she said. "I shouldn't." Then, with 
 an astounding change, a change which, with her lowered 
 voice, gave him a shock of familiarity with another side
 
 114 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 of her nature, she went on : "It's not only the plays . . . 
 Besides, everybody knows they're . . . Oh, well, Louis, 
 you're awfully dense ; and perhaps it's just as well. Now 
 I suppose I've got to play your accompaniments." 
 
 She moved towards the piano, and picked up his songs, 
 grimacing over them. They certainly were not very 
 modern. He was thrilling with admiration of her pretti- 
 ness and a sort of excitement at her last words. Still 
 more at the tone, the movement, which had given him 
 a sense of their intimacy. Veronica looked at him over 
 her shoulder. 
 
 "If you want to know," she said, still in that low voice, 
 "Adela's upset we all are about . . . the new people. 
 And you, and your father and mother. We know how 
 beastly it is for you. I'm really very sorry about it. 
 It's so uncomfortable." There was a curious note of 
 falseness in her sympathetic voice. 
 
 "D'you mean our cousins?" Louis asked, mystified. 
 Veronica frowned quickly. 
 
 "Don't call them that!" she protested. 
 
 "But they are\ What's the harm in it?" That 
 seemed to bring her up sharply. She looked at him to 
 see how far from genuine was his bravado. He could 
 see that she was puzzled, as though she had made up her 
 mind that his attitude would be different or had made 
 up her mind to pretend that his attitude must be different. 
 
 "You are funny!" she said at last. "I should have 
 thought you'd be awfully waxy about them." Her soft 
 voice was a flattery, cajoling him into acceptance of the 
 Hughes view. Louis did not budge. 
 
 "Have you been to the shop yet?" he demanded. 
 
 "No. Rather not! Miss Lampe's been telling us all 
 about them. There are two young ones, you know. A 
 boy, and a stuck-up girl ... horribly ugly ..."
 
 WOMEN 115 
 
 "Oh!" cried Louis swiftly. "Nobody could call her 
 ugly!" 
 
 Veronica stared at him open-mouthed. 
 
 "You've seen her?" she exclaimed. Her surprise 
 made Louis cautious. 
 
 "Why not?" he demanded in return, facing her down 
 with an imperious determination. 
 
 "Oh, but Louis! It's too dreadful! Really, it is! 
 The whole town's in a stir about them! Coming here 
 and setting up shop. . . . And Miss Lampe says the girl 
 insulted her over the counter!" 
 
 Louis laughed at the picture. He could imagine such 
 a scene. Miss Lampe ! 
 
 "What had Miss Lampe been doing?" he asked. 
 
 "Oh, I know she's an old tabby. But still . . . people 
 like that!" 
 
 Their eyes met ; and Louis was smiling, so that Veron- 
 ica turned quickly away. She seemed to him to be 
 still more puzzled, a little angry with him. 
 
 "You know, you make me a terrific Socialist when you 
 talk like that," he said earnestly really in a friendly 
 way, and not at all as he had spoken hitherto. "I think 
 it's a nuisance that they should have come; but they're 
 very decent. . . . And after all it's no business of Miss 
 Lampe's . . ." 
 
 "Or mine!" Veronica suddenly cried. "I suppose 
 that's what you mean." 
 
 "Look here . . . I've had one row this evening, with 
 Adela," Louis wisely said. "I don't want to be left 
 alone altogether . . ." She looked at him demurely, 
 almost archly. 
 
 "I'm tougher than Adela," she remarked. "So you 
 needn't be afraid. Still, perhaps we'd better have some 
 music. Or you'll think we're a quarrelsome family 
 Perhaps you do already. Do you?"
 
 116 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 "A little ready to get excited about things that don't 
 interest you much," he suggested. 
 
 Without answering, Veronica seated herself at the 
 piano. It was not until she had struck several chords, 
 and taken the uppermost song from Louis's meagre col- 
 lection, that she spoke again. Then: 
 
 "What sort of girl is she?" asked Veronica in a critical 
 voice as if she hadn't made up her mind ! , 
 
 But such a question was too much for Louis. He had 
 a very distinct impression of his cousin ; but he was not 
 at all prepared to describe her to anybody. Least of all, 
 to Veronica. 
 
 "I couldn't say," he said. "I admit I didn't like her 
 much; but I'm sure she isn't ugly. She's very dark, and 
 I think she's got a good deal of expression. No, I'm 
 sure she's not ugly." 
 
 "How old?" Veronica's face had quite changed; but 
 he could only see half of it. 
 
 "Nineteen, twenty? I couldn't say. She's not very 
 tall. Her hair's up." 
 
 "Silly boy! That's nothing. Miss Lampe said she 
 was twenty-five . . . and a bad complexion swarthy, 
 like a gipsy. I don't expect you could see her. Was it 
 in the daytime you saw her?" 
 
 "No. I admit it was at night." 
 
 "Ah, well! Besides, I don't expect you could tell 
 anyway." 
 
 "I wish I'd known you were likely to ask me," Louis 
 ventured, with deliberate resentment; "I'd have made 
 sure of all the details for you." 
 
 "Oh, you needn't worry! I'm not interested in her. 
 I only wondered what she was like . . . and what you
 
 WOMEN 117 
 
 thought of her. Still, it's not nice for you to have them 
 coming here. I shouldn't like it if . . ." 
 
 Veronica broke off. The break made what she had 
 been going to say more significant than it would have 
 been if the sentence had been completed. She struck 
 further chords upon the piano. As they resembled those 
 indicated in the music before her Louis assumed that 
 she had played the prelude; and by starting lustily to 
 sing his song forced Veronica from her questionings into 
 his accompaniment. By the time the song was finished, 
 both Mrs. Hughes and Adela had reappeared in the 
 room. Louis turned to look at Adela. In appearance 
 she was quite as usual. There was no suggestion of 
 the late storm, or of any discomposure, as far as his inex- 
 perienced eye could judge. In Mrs. Hughes there was 
 only a kind of determined benevolence, behind which 
 anything might lie, from stupidity to tyranny. But 
 Adela was to him the mystery! Her sudden exit, the 
 cool, scornful remarks of Veronica . . . And this ordi- 
 nary calm in such a hasty reappearance. What was 
 the explanation of it? What strange girls the 
 girls of Beckwith were! They were so tough, and so 
 superficially emotional, that they played perpetual April. 
 They seemed to live for excitement, and to make it for 
 themselves, out of nothing. He was truly puzzled. So 
 he sang another song, in response to their entreaties. 
 
 "We couldn't resist the song!" said Mrs. Hughes. 
 And then, when the second one was finished, she turned 
 to Adela. "Sing that new one of yours, dear," she 
 added. "The one about the flowers and the birds. I'm 
 so fond of it." 
 
 Veronica rose from the piano at these words. Her 
 work was over for the moment. 
 
 "Oh, Vera! You are a beast!" Adela cried. "You 
 might play it for me!"
 
 118 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 "Tired!" Veronica explained, grimacing. 
 
 Adela seated herself and played her own accompani- 
 ment, making mistakes in it. When she had finished the 
 song she left the piano, tossing aside her music and sink- 
 ing limply into a chair. Her face was not at this moment 
 very agreeable; but Louis felt sympathetic towards her, 
 and so he praised the song. 
 
 "Vera knows I can't play and sing at the same time," 
 Adela said. 
 
 "You try very hard," put in Veronica in rather a chal- 
 lenging voice. "That's so devoted of you!" 
 
 "Pig!" Adela cried, laughing. "That's what you 
 are!" 
 
 "Oh! Oh!" cried Mrs. Hughes. "There's a thing!" 
 
 They were all laughing at such a little battle. Louis 
 would have laughed also if he had not caught the glance 
 which Adela sent hurtling over to Veronica. It made 
 him jump, it was so full of hatred. It was as though a 
 battle had been going on of whose progress he had been 
 unaware. He was quite unable to probe the mystery; 
 he was completely baffled. But he was sure that there 
 was hatred between them.
 
 CHAPTER VII: AN ENCOUNTER 
 
 THE recollection of Adela, whose curious behaviour 
 caused him a good deal of concern, and of Miss 
 Lampe's description of Dorothy as ugly, recurred to 
 Louis several times during the days that followed. They 
 came to him always as little fleeting absurdities, and made 
 him grin. He grinned, however, with a good deal of 
 shrewdness, and not altogether from enjoyment. In 
 Miss Lampe's condemnation he read the ready partisan 
 comment so usual in Beckwith, because it took so little 
 to make opinions grotesque in the town. Everything 
 from girls to books was so quickly dismissed as "nice," 
 "not nice," "nasty," "ugly," "unnecessary." A thing 
 "not nice" was also "unnecessary." "One doesn't want 
 to have unpleasant things mentioned," "Of course one 
 knows it's true, but it's so unnecessary," "One wants 
 to be taken away from the sordid realities of life," and 
 so on, were cries constantly raised. A thousand false 
 issues were raised. Becau.se Dorothy had not received 
 Miss Lampe with becoming humility she was "not nice," 
 she was "unnecessary" ; she had become "ugly." He had 
 no doubt that she had become "immodest," and even 
 "odd." . . . 
 
 Adela's sudden abandonment to tears the tears of 
 somebody quite tough, Louis assured himself, who had 
 allowed her temper to conquer her for a few moments 
 was a curious phenomenon. There was also her quarrel, 
 
 119
 
 120 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 simmering through the whole evening, with Veronica. 
 Veronica had somehow triumphed over Adela, and 
 Adela was sore. He tried to understand that, and tried 
 to remember her of old, so as to find a key to her char- 
 acter. He could only recall her as the juvenile minx, 
 dishonest and flirtatious, with a great deal more knowl- 
 edge of boys, and perhaps even of "fellows," than was 
 good for her. It was hard to reconcile the prim Adela 
 of to-day with such early maturity as she had shown. 
 Yet it gave him a subtle horror of her to think of those 
 old days. It made her seem to him a prude, hiding 
 base knowledge under a false shocked modesty. 
 
 Had Veronica been as she? The thought was ab- 
 horrent to him. He so much wanted to shut his 
 mind to any thought of her that affected his admiration 
 and his budding love that he could not bear to face his 
 own doubts. If he had dared to force that veil of his 
 own delicacy he would have had to account for the 
 mixture in her of real innocence an inquisitive ignorance 
 with, upon some subjects, her quite definite but concealed 
 sophistication. She had, he instinctively knew, a hard 
 underlying contempt for sensitiveness in a man really, 
 for inexperience. He knew that to betray timidity be- 
 fore her would be fatal. Weakness of any kind would 
 make her ruthless, but even such a minor timidity as the 
 kind of idealistic chivalry of the sensitive young man 
 would arouse her contempt. To keep her love one would 
 need to preserve one's "manliness." That was sophisti- 
 cation, surely? He remembered that he had once seen 
 her watching the struggles of a bleeding bird, which had 
 been horribly maimed by some accident. She had 
 watched it, fascinated, had tried to prevent him from 
 killing it; and then, seeing that his face had paled with 
 the passionate sympathy the horror he had felt, she 
 had been as full of callous surprise as any sportsman
 
 AN ENCOUNTER 
 
 could have been. She had despised him, and thought 
 him a muff. That was another odd reminiscence. It 
 came rushing into his mind. How he had argued with 
 her! He had tried to show her that hatred of pain for 
 others was not necessarily a weakness : Veronica had been 
 unconvinced. She had looked at him with scorn. He 
 had hated her. He had said he was then thirteen 
 that he was afraid of nothing. He had thrust his hand, 
 to prove it, into a prickly hedge, withdrawing it all 
 bleeding and covered with thorny points. She had held 
 her head high, outwardly scorning him; but she had 
 been impressed. In passing cows she had clung to his 
 arm; and he had whistled and walked slowly. No: that 
 was something different. She had enjoyed the spectacle 
 of the tortured bird. It was not his courage she had 
 questioned, but his hardness. Even in remembering the 
 scene Louis trembled with quick anger. Sex-hatred arose 
 in his heart. He could hate bitterly the sex that was 
 so filled with a kind of insensitive cruelty. Men were 
 cruel; but a sort of decency worked in them. They 
 faced pain, and cared little for the pain of others; but 
 few of them could have watched with such absorbed 
 gloating the agonised flutterings of that bleeding bird. 
 Even those would have been religious sensualists or men 
 deformed. That a normal person should so gloat was 
 surely a feminine peculiarity? 
 
 And then, "ugly"! What would Miss Lampe, that 
 light of her sex, be guilty of saying after this? If 
 Dorothy was ugly, Miss Lampe was what? He saw 
 Miss Lampe's thin face, her sharp mouth and long upper 
 lip ; he saw the squalid wrinkles in her skinny neck. Her 
 tasteless dresse's, her silly hasty prim walk; her bead- 
 like eyes, bright, mean, watchful. And yet she was 
 only absurd, only an occasion for smiles. She was not 
 even fabulously comic, as some other Beckwith ladies
 
 122 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 were. She was only absurd, like a dried leaf, contorted 
 by the action of wind and sun, withered and barren; as 
 useless as an old leaf and as bleached and shrivelled. 
 Her mind was dead. Having no life of her own, she 
 lived, like a Christian, for others; only her concern was 
 not to sacrifice herself, but only to scrutinise the lives 
 of other people. She was microscopic, meticulous. . . . 
 Miss Lampe's motto, Louis felt, was : "Watch and pry !" 
 "Beastly woman!" he cried; and laughed aloud. 
 "Poor Miss Lampe!" he added after a moment. "So 
 humble and officious!" But as Louis thought of Miss 
 Lampe he was restrained by no such scruple as he felt 
 in considering Veronica. Miss Lampe was old, and ex- 
 hausted. Veronica was young. Veronica, of all the 
 girls he knew, alone had the power to move him. With 
 her he was conscious of excitement, of a kind of dancing 
 wonderment, and an unceasing curiosity. There was no 
 end to Veronica's possibilities. Particularly as his mind 
 became blurred when he thought of them. 
 
 H 
 
 It was upon the following Sunday afternoon that 
 Louis, walking for his delight, went far afield. He first 
 walked south, down and up, along a beautiful road that 
 was overhung with the bare arms of mighty trees. In 
 summer, with its grassy borders and unbounded depths 
 of thicket upon each side, this road was one for the 
 marvelling eye. In the branches above one heard the 
 sweet noises of the woodland, and at every turn lay the 
 secret beauties of colour and form in bark and leaf and 
 mould. Even in winter it was lovely, for the treeboles 
 were still exquisite, and the crossings of the boughs and 
 smaller branches made a tracery bewildering in its in-
 
 AN ENCOUNTER 123 
 
 tricacy. The wind came sharply through the wood, now 
 so meagre. It was a bleak northern wind, but not so 
 strong as to arouse the hushing and pattering of the 
 lightly swaying branches. Everything was quiet. 
 Louis's steps echoed sharply; his stick clicked upon the 
 roadway. He walked easily and with elasticity, welcom- 
 ing the breeze, observant and tranquil. 
 
 His idea being to follow this road and to leave it at 
 a large fork a mile farther on, he gave little heed to 
 what lay before him, more distantly upon his way. It 
 was not until he neared the fork, which would bring him 
 round once again, by a circuit of three miles, to the 
 neighbourhood of Beckwith, that Louis became aware of 
 two figures standing in perplexity at the parting of the 
 ways. Then, as he neared the two, he was puzzled to 
 account for their familiarity, until it flashed into his 
 mind that they were William and Dorothy. William had 
 turned back to ask for directions. Louis waited with 
 some amusement for recognition; and it was a pleasure 
 to see how William's face lighted up. 
 
 "Why, Louis!" he cried. "The very man!" They 
 shook hands. Louis looked beyond William, into the 
 rather gloomy face of Dorothy. How little pleased she 
 seemed at this encounter ! Her greeting was courteous 
 which was an improvement, Louis thought! but it was 
 not cordial. She had evidently wanted to be alone with 
 her father. 
 
 "This is the road," Louis explained. "At least, the 
 way I was going." 
 
 "Couldn't be better! Now, tell us all about the 
 neighbourhood, Louis. I suppose you know it like the 
 back of your hand, as one may say." 
 
 Spurred by this confidence, Louis enlarged upon the 
 features of the district. He pointed his arm, he indi- 
 cated directions, distances, rural features, landmarks,
 
 124 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 with all the gusto of a proprietor and with something 
 less than the stereotyped facetiousness of a professional 
 guide. He grew eloquent. From the district he turned 
 to the place, to the growth of its housing accommoda- 
 tion, the railway, the shops, the people, and the houses. 
 From the inhabitants in general he turned to the inhabi- 
 tants in particular, of whom he knew the majority. He 
 described them, and told of things they had done; his 
 portraits were directed to William's eye, and not at all 
 to Dorothy's amusement. He talked for William not 
 for Dorothy, who walked quietly beside him, intently 
 listening, but with an air of indifference. Louis did not 
 care very much whether she listened or not, but he con- 
 firmed his impression of her good looks by unobtrusive 
 glances. She was, there could be no doubt, extremely 
 pretty in a rather odd and baffling way. She was so dark 
 that relationship between them seemed to be proclaimed 
 even a nearer relationship than there was in fact; but 
 the unusual cut of her clothes set her apart again. She 
 was clearly a Londoner, careless of what was thought of 
 her by strangers. She looked like a tidy art-student. 
 Her arms hung naturally, without constraint or over- 
 swing. She walked well. She walked better than most 
 of the girls in Beckvvith, who shuffled or clumped; and 
 her clothes apparently fitted her better, since her skirt 
 was the same distance from the ground at all points, and 
 her overcoat was smart. Her hat Louis did not like. 
 Even to him it seemed rather peculiar. He could not 
 take his eyes off it for several seconds after the first 
 glimpse. It had red berries upon it, and it was green. 
 If her complexion had been less clear the hat would 
 had given her face a grey appearance; but Dorothy had 
 the most delicately beautiful complexion Louis had ever 
 seen. One thing he liked : she did not let her hair cover 
 her ears, perhaps because they were very charming ears.
 
 AN ENCOUNTER 125 
 
 It was drawn back from her temples, but not too scrupu- 
 lously, and it was almost black hair, fine and luxuriant. 
 On the whole Louis was pleased with his girl cousin's 
 superficial aspect. He was pleased to feel himself walk- 
 ing by her side. William also pleased him by his eager- 
 ness and attention, and by his recognition of all that 
 he was meant to recognise. There was something flat- 
 tering in William's attentiveness. If it had not been 
 for a few saving characteristics in himself and the con- 
 sciousness of difficult corners in Dorothy, Louis would 
 have been so pleased with himself and his company as 
 to reach the fringe of complacency. That ghastly acci- 
 dent fortunately did not occur. And if it did not, then 
 perhaps the unperturbed behaviour of Dorothy was 
 responsible. Every now and then Dorothy also stole a 
 glance at Louis. Her expression of gloom diminished 
 during his recital. She remained rather non-committal 
 still ; but she was not bored. Louis could tell that. He 
 was not at all afraid of her. He was even rather kind 
 to her, until he saw her eyes flash and her mouth harden. 
 No: kindness was not the proper line, decided Louis. 
 It was even worse than disdain. So he cast aside all 
 vanity and calculation, and became natural towards her. 
 In five minutes he had seen her smile, had seen her throw 
 at William a little quick radiant comment, unspoken but 
 readable. And still Louis was checked in his com- 
 placency. There was some quality in her that forbade 
 complacency. It was self-reliance. Dorothy did not 
 speak; but if Louis regarded her he saw that one reason 
 why Beckwith would not receive his cousin to its bosom 
 was that she had a mind of her own. Dreadful pos- 
 session !
 
 126 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 in 
 
 In Beckwith people do not have minds of their own. 
 That is why Beckwith society is so extremely pleasant 
 and consistent It is devout and it is worldly. All the 
 Beckwithians are devout and worldly. Louis quickly 
 guessed that Dorothy was neither. She was not at all 
 devout, because she had been brought up to take nothing 
 on trust. She was amused at the idea of anybody tak- 
 ing things on trust. But she did not strike Louis as 
 being worldly, either. She did not seem to want to know 
 who and what people were, or in what esteem they were 
 held. At least, she did not show any interest in that 
 aspect of social life. She did not seem very much to 
 want to know whether they were agreeable or disagree- 
 able. When Louis, bred to observe social differences, 
 alluded to some particular pretension, Dorothy did not 
 laugh, but, instead, she frowned; and he felt that she 
 was criticising him for being a snob. That made him 
 sensitive, in case she should think that he had expressed 
 his own opinion, when in reality he had only been illus- 
 trating the tone of Beckwith. There was a kind of 
 address about her, he decided, that was in harmony with 
 her strange hat. What was it she wanted to know about 
 people? Not their incomes, nor their origins, nor their 
 callings or social ambitions; not whether one "ought" 
 to know them or about them. She gave no sign of 
 her particular solvent. Perhaps she hadn't got one! 
 Well, in that case, taking every person on his or her 
 merits, she couldn't be worldly. She must be just a 
 child. Could a child have such decided opinions? 
 Dorothy aggravated Louis. She piqued him. She was 
 a silly, arrogant, opinionated girl who knew nothing at 
 all about life. He would not trouble about her. He
 
 AN ENCOUNTER 127 
 
 would forget her. And all the time, he was wondering 
 what lay behind what she really thought. It was his 
 own problem rising once more : the mysteriousness of 
 human demeanour. What was he looking for himself? 
 Yes; but Dorothy had no right to be so masculine. As 
 a man he resented it. The grievance came back to the 
 first point : she thought she could think and see for her- 
 self. She had a mind of her own. It exasperated him to 
 feel that he had not the remotest idea of what that mind 
 was teaching her to believe about Louis Vechantor. He 
 could only guess that it was something unfavourable. 
 The thought of being summed up with disfavour could 
 never be pleasant to anybody still young and self-con- 
 scious; but to Louis any such estimate on the part of 
 Dorothy was a gross misreading of his character. She 
 couldn't know anything about him : she was going right 
 off the line, and the fatal impression was being strength- 
 ened by his very efforts to rectify her mistake. Irri- 
 tating little thing! thought Louis. She's conceited. . . . 
 Why can't she say something, so that I can contradict 
 her? 
 
 iv 
 
 Louis had never cared so much before to "put himself 
 right." If he had been less well-bred he would have 
 challenged her directly, or even would have ventured 
 into self -exposition. He was restrained, however, by his 
 politeness and his sense of the ridiculous. He must leave 
 it to time to rehabilitate him in her eyes. If it were 
 worth while that he should be rehabilitated. Perhaps 
 it wasn't, after all ... 
 
 "Down that hill, where you can just see a bridge cross- 
 ing the road, is the house of a lady who watches over 
 Beckwith," he remarked, taking advantage of place to
 
 128 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 divert his own thoughts. "She isn't a very rich lady, 
 but she lives alone in a small house built very near the 
 road. And she knows everybody and everything in 
 Beckwith. I'm almost afraid to whisper a word about 
 her, for fear she hears it." 
 
 "Have you ever been inside her house ?" asked Dorothy. 
 
 "Not inside no. But as you go by you feel the 
 curtain moves. She has very dense lace curtains; but 
 I think she must stand very close against them." 
 
 "Pious?" asked William abruptly. 
 
 "Very. Oh, very! She sets a good example to the 
 whole town." 
 
 "I thought so," William admitted. "I don't like 
 pious people. They're never quite straight." 
 
 "Really . . . really . . ." Louis was exceedingly in- 
 terested in such a suggestion. It made him fall naturally 
 into one of the ways familiar in Beckwith for the elicit- 
 ing of further detail. 
 
 "I expect Louis is very religious himself," Dorothy 
 said. "So you'd better . . ." 
 
 "Oh, present company . . . present company . . ." 
 added William quickly. 
 
 "What makes you think I'm religious?" demanded 
 Louis. 
 
 "You're so uncharitable," she answered. Louis de- 
 murred. "Well, you don't get angry with stupid people ; 
 you say little malicious things about them . . ." Dorothy 
 explained. 
 
 "Oh; but I'm told a religious person never says mali- 
 cious things. He only thinks them. That's very dif- 
 ferent," explained Louis. "Beckwith makes me angry; 
 only I feel it's no good getting angry. It's only stupid 
 people who lose their tempers, and that's because they 
 haven't any knowledge to ground their arguments on. 
 They just have to shout. Now, I never shout."
 
 AN ENCOUNTER 129 
 
 Dorothy's lip curled. 
 
 "No. I suppose you think it's bad form," she said 
 dryly. 
 
 What could one do but snap one's fingers in exaspera- 
 tion? Louis looked at William, and William looked at 
 Louis. That exchange renewed the peace that Dorothy's 
 words might have broken. If Louis had been resolute 
 to take offence that speech of hers would have separated 
 them more effectively than any Beckwithian outside effort 
 could have done. But Louis was not conceited or not 
 very conceited so he took her rebuke in good part. 
 
 "I do, rather," he admitted coolly. "Don't you?" 
 
 There was no answer; and he knew that she was very 
 ashamed of herself, for having been unforgivably rude. 
 
 "She doesn't mean what she says!" cried William, 
 with a quick turn. "There's nobody kinder than our 
 little Doll. It's mere bumptiousness, you know. Noth- 
 ing behind it." 
 
 "I know," murmured Louis. 
 
 A very faint colour came into Dorothy's cheeks. 
 Louis saw her mouth open as if she were beginning to 
 speak; but no words came, and the effort was clearly 
 too much for her. He felt almost magnanimous. He 
 was presently rewarded by the knowledge that Dorothy 
 glanced quickly aside at him, and then, finding that he 
 did not seem to be conscious of the fact, prolonged her 
 scrutiny.
 
 CHAPTER VIII: IN THE TRAIN 
 
 A FEW days later, Louis, absorbed during the after- 
 noon by exacting work, was very late for his 
 homeward-bound train. He had an exciting run to 
 London Bridge station, and was only allowed to slip 
 through the barrier at the risk of losing the tails of his 
 overcoat. This hurry, and the fact that he boarded the 
 train after it had begun to move from the platform, con- 
 fused him at the moment of entering the last compart- 
 ment, and for some seconds he sat breathing hard, re- 
 covering his composure. Only when he had slightly 
 cooled after such violent exertion did he look round the 
 carriage. 
 
 It was a third-class smoking compartment, and besides 
 himself there were four people in it. Three men sat 
 with their backs to the engine, out of the draught, one a 
 middle-aged clerk, another a stout, rather oily railway- 
 man, the third a nondescript who was probably in the 
 building trade. Louis felt himself in very democratic 
 company. The fourth person was upon his left, in the 
 corner seat facing the engine. Louis had passed her in 
 getting into the carriage; and it was not until he was 
 in full possession of his breath that he noticed a girl's 
 presence. His eyes went first to the book she was read- 
 ing it seemed, of all books in the language, to be a 
 volume of Boswell's "J onnson " an d then to her face. 
 To his surprise, this studious reader was his cousin Doro- 
 
 130
 
 IN THE TRAIN 131 
 
 thy. She was absorbed in her book, and he would have 
 thought that she had not seen him, or at least not recog- 
 nised him, if he had not observed with surprise that a 
 faint colour of embarrassment was coming into her 
 cheeks as she read. 
 
 "It can hardly be anything in the book that is making 
 her blush," Louis said to himself. "As far as I remem- 
 ber, at any rate: so it clearly must be that she doesn't 
 know what to do. Perhaps she thinks I may not want 
 to recognise her. I suppose I do? It's now or never. 
 . . . Oh, of course, I must I It's absurd! Or doesn't 
 she want to recognise me ? Oh, I ought to have thought 
 that first, instead of the other way about. I'm a snob 
 a snob. A Vechantor, in fact! And I ought to be 
 made to feel it. . . ." 
 
 "Excuse me, cousin Dorothy," said Louis, cutting short 
 his ridiculous soliloquy and raising his hat; "I've only 
 just recognised you." 
 
 ii 
 
 Dorothy looked up from Boswell's "Johnson" as 
 though she had been surprised by his voice. 
 
 "Oh!" she valiantly said, pretending that she had not 
 seen him. The pretence did not deceive Louis for an 
 instant. Dorothy did not pretend very well : she had not 
 had very much practice in social affairs. 
 
 "I'm so glad to see you," Louis went on, pretending in 
 his turn to be more sure of himself than he really was. 
 "I've had such a run for this train; and the next one 
 isn't until a quarter-to-six. Do you catch this train as 
 a rule, or have you just been to town for the afternoon?" 
 
 "Only to-day," Dorothy said shyly. He could tell that 
 she did not want to talk. She cast a lingering look at 
 Boswell's "Johnson." Louis thought she was very likely 
 hating the laws of politeness, which make it necessary
 
 132 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 that slight acquaintances should stumble to talk to each 
 other in accidental railway meetings, instead of going on 
 with their real interests. He racked his brain to think of 
 a topic, because he was now determined to break down 
 her disinclination for him. 
 
 "Are you comfortably settled yet ? At home, I mean ?" 
 
 "Yes, thank you," Dorothy vouchsafed, with a full 
 stop. She did not employ suspensory dots, as our mod- 
 ern novelists so freely do in conversation. 
 
 "And the people nice to you?" 
 
 That kindled her. He saw the indignant flash of her 
 eyes in that pale face. She changed instantly from the 
 Dorothy of their first meeting, who had been sullen, to 
 the Dorothy of the walk, who had attracted him. 
 
 "Beastly!" she cried. "They've been trying to find 
 out all about us." 
 
 Louis nodded. 
 
 "Of course, they were bound to. That's what they 
 always do. But it won't continue." 
 
 He was trying to reassure her; but his words made 
 Dorothy's lip curl in an unpleasant manner. 
 
 "No," she remarked dryly. "It won't." 
 
 Again that full stop! Louis was filled with concern, 
 for her speech was sinister. 
 
 "You haven't spoken to them ... as you did to me," 
 he hoped. The memory came to him of something 
 Veronica had said. Something about an insult to Miss 
 Lampe. "They wouldn't all understand as well as I 
 did. Have you?" 
 
 Dorothy was constrained. She looked at the clerk in 
 the opposite corner, who was listening hard, trying to 
 hear what was said, in these low voices, scenting an 
 intrigue, even a quarrel, and full of that righteous moral 
 curiosity in these affairs which respectable English peo- 
 ple feel in any conversation between two young people.
 
 IN THE TRAIN 133 
 
 It is the moral police instinct. He had the face of one 
 tempted and critical and self-complacent; of one who 
 represents Society as against the philandering instinct. 
 
 Dorothy answered at last. 
 
 "When they began to be inquisitive . . ." she began, 
 and hesitated. Louis helped her. 
 
 "It's all they've got to live for," he explained. "Of 
 course, it's sometimes inconvenient." 
 
 "It makes me savage," Dorothy said. "I expect I've 
 been short with them. In fact I know I have." Then, 
 grimly, she added : "Still, they've found out a good deal. 
 They've found out that mother does her own washing, 
 and that I make the beds. . . . Where we came from, 
 and what our names are; and . . . Oh, it's disgusting. 
 I expect you know them all. I wish you'd make them 
 understand how ugly they are!" 
 
 Ugly! That was the word Miss Lampe had used in 
 describing Dorothy! Of course Miss Lampe must have 
 meant morally ugly! Just as Dorothy did! Louis had 
 an extraordinary feeling. 
 
 "You don't think I'm as ugly as they are?" Louis 
 asked interestedly. Dorothy did not reply. If they had 
 been alone in the carriage she might have done so. She 
 might even have been rude, Louis thought, with a sinking 
 of the spirits. Perhaps he was, in that sense, ugly? He 
 went on : "I've known them in a way all my life. I've 
 known their faces, and their voices. I don't really like 
 them, of course I can't think of anybody doing that; 
 but I suppose when you're used to them . . ." 
 
 "You belong to their class," Dorothy said candidly. 
 "To you it's natural . . . It's the kind of thing you're 
 used to. It's new and horrible to me. To find it the 
 only way people look at things. You couldn't feel as I 
 do." 
 
 "I do, rather." Louis was for a moment thoughtful.
 
 134 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 He added: "You've always been a little unfair to me, 
 haven't you !" 
 
 "No. I haven't." He saw that she was suffering 
 from that quick shame which a sense of her brusqueness 
 sometimes roused. The colour was again beginning to 
 steal into her cheeks. He felt a further leap of interest 
 in her. How candid she was! All the same, she had 
 always been unfair to him. 
 
 "Yes," Louis persisted. "We won't argue about it 
 before these men, because it would amuse them, and very 
 likely they would go home and tell their wives, and that 
 opens up such a prospect of aimless scandal that I'm 
 frightened to think about it. ... But it's quite true 
 that when I came to call that night I acted on a good 
 impulse, and I only wanted to be friendly, and helpful, 
 and . . . and cousinly, you know. I was dreadfully 
 nervous, though I don't expect you could tell that. . . . 
 You see, I didn't expect to see anybody but your father. 
 To come on a whole group of you ..." 
 . "Like a nest of mice," Dorothy said brusquely. 
 
 "Or like a family of cousins," he retorted, with equal 
 quickness. 
 
 "I don't think I'm awfully keen on cousins," said 
 Dorothy. 
 
 Louis turned upon her. 
 
 "Don't say you've got more of them!" he begged, in 
 a state of alarm. "What an awful thought!" 
 
 "There are . . . my mother's people. They're little 
 grocers, in country villages. But their name's Hop- 
 kins . . ." She had been going to say "Mum's people," 
 and that impulse, showing that she really accepted their 
 relationship, in spite of her first determination not to do 
 so, was extraordinarily pleasant to Louis. 
 
 "Many of them? Are they nice?" he asked with
 
 IN THE TRAIN 135 
 
 interest. Her face, which had been bright, darkened at 
 such a question. He hardly heard her next words. 
 
 "You're like our customers," she was murmuring, but 
 with a shy, rather child-like half -smile. 
 
 "I wish you wouldn't keep on thinking that," he urged. 
 "It wasn't inquisitiveness that made me ask." 
 
 As Louis spoke the train, with a jerk that shot every- 
 body forward in their seats, drew up at a station. Two 
 of their fellow-passengers got out. The third, hesitat- 
 ing, thought he would be more comfortable in another 
 carriage. He was not the moral special-constable; but 
 another kind of man, who felt a shyness at playing goose- 
 berry to the private negotiations of a courting-couple. 
 He plunged out of the carriage after his fellows. As the 
 carriage was the last in the train (and as front carriages 
 and final carriages are always avoided in case of colli- 
 sion), no other passengers appeared ; and the cousins were 
 alone together. So Louis re-modelled his protest, and 
 felt exhilarated at the notion that Dorothy would now 
 be able to be as rude as she wished. He even stretched 
 his legs slightly, across the floor of the carriage. 
 
 "Everything's a question of motive," he said. "If 
 you've got the mind of a patent carpet-sweeper, you can 
 be very objectionable. I know that. I hate people who 
 are inquisitive about me, or about my affairs. But I'm 
 not really like the customers. I do wish you'd believe 
 that. I'm really quite decent. . . . But you see I never 
 knew you existed, until now ; and to me it would be most 
 awfully interesting on that account to hear details 
 about you all." 
 
 Dorothy closed her book definitely, and looked out of 
 the window for a moment. 
 
 "I didn't really want to talk to you when you got in," 
 she slid slowly. "Only I didn't want to be rude." 
 
 "I knew you didn't," Louis admitted. "And I didn't
 
 136 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 want to ... thrust myself on you. Still, we are 
 cousins; and I shouldn't have thought I'd done anything 
 that deserved a snub." 
 
 "A snub !" Dorothy cried. "Oh, it's not that !" 
 
 "I've never pretended to be any better than you . . ." 
 he said, rather hurt. 
 
 "Haven't you, just a little ? Just in trying to be kind 
 to us?" At his demur, she went on: "I should have 
 thought there was a pleasure in it; and just because we're 
 cousins you feel we ought to like each other. I hate 
 cousins. I don't want any. I don't want any relations. 
 . . . They're only a nuisance." 
 
 "They can be," he agreed. "I quite admit. But why 
 should I be? I should have thought you'd be curious 
 about me. I mean, I'm somebody young, that you know 
 nothing at all about. I'm curious about you. I know 
 your name, and that you read for some reason Bos- 
 well's 'J onnson -' But that's everything. Except, of 
 course, that you're very quick-tempered and sensitive." 
 
 Dorothy was so surprised that she looked at him, as he 
 had meant her to do. 
 
 "Well !" she exclaimed, as if aghast at his audacity in 
 showing some judgment. 
 
 "Why shouldn't we be friends?" Louis urged. "Per- 
 haps I can help you." 
 
 "I don't want any help." 
 
 Louis sighed. What could one reply to such child- 
 like rudeness? 
 
 "I think you're rather difficult to get on with," he 
 announced in a helpless tone. 
 
 111 
 
 But by his frontal attack upon her Louis had strongly 
 awakened Dorothy's interest in him. So much was clear
 
 IN THE TRAIN 137 
 
 from the colour in her cheeks and the sparkle in her eyes. 
 She even gave a little laugh, that was only half due to 
 exasperation. Louis, turned to her, and watching for 
 some key to her character, saw the change and heard the 
 laugh with a feeling of relief. He laughed slightly 
 himself. 
 
 "For me," he said, "it's really jolly to have found a 
 cousin. My sister's older than I am, and she's been 
 married for so long that I hardly know her at all. She 
 lives in Hertfordshire. Her name is Beatrice. And I 
 can't help believing that cousins perhaps have something 
 . . . some sort of similarity. Taste . . . and so on. 
 Don't you think they have? Perhaps it's only a dream, 
 because you're the only cousin I've talked to at all. I'm 
 not like the people at Beckwith. Really, I'm not. Nor 
 is my mother, I think. I want you to know her. If 
 you'll help me I can manage it quite easily. But if you're 
 going to stand on your dignity, and refuse to be friendly, 
 we shall never get the two families knowing each other. 
 It's only a kind of vanity ... or something . . . that 
 makes people frightened of taking the first step. They're 
 afraid you're afraid of taking the first step, in case 
 the others don't respond, and you get a rebuff. You 
 can't stand rebuffs." 
 
 "And you won't take them !" cried Dorothy, flaming. 
 
 "I'm really very afraid of you," Louis answered. 
 "But it doesn't do to show it." 
 
 "Nobody would guess!" Dorothy interrupted, before 
 he had qualified his first assertion. 
 
 "I wish you would guess ; and admire my self-control," 
 urged Louis. "You see, you're putting me in the posi- 
 tion of somebody you dislike, who's forced himself on 
 you. You're making me seem a cad. But you don't 
 want to do that, do you?" He was appealing to her. 
 It was not without effect.
 
 138 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 "If I thought . . . that ... I should get out at the 
 next station," Dorothy said. "Or tell you to. I don't 
 feel that at all now. I feel you are my cousin. I don't 
 like you, of course . . ." 
 
 "No. I don't like you very much, either," Louis re- 
 marked, since it had come to that. 
 
 Dorothy flinched, and flushed. Then she laughed, her 
 eyes gleaming a little with pain. 
 
 "Don't you?" she said. "I didn't suppose you did. 
 Why should you? I expect you think it's your duty to 
 talk to me. To show me the way I ought to go. Like 
 that awful woman at Beckwith." 
 
 Louis whistled. He felt that he was upon the verge 
 of a discovery. 
 
 "Was it Miss Lampe?" he asked. "Or Mrs. 
 Callum?" 
 
 "I don't know. They all look alike, to me. If it 
 was one of two I expect Miss Lampe. She asked me 
 what religion I was. I said I was a Mormon. She left 
 a tract. She wanted subscriptions for half a dozen 
 charities." 
 
 "Miss Lampe," said Louis. "That's her line. Mrs. 
 Callum's is funds." 
 
 "She was a very stupid woman." 
 
 "Oh, that's no help to me," Louis admitted. "But if 
 it was charities it was Miss Lampe. You must be very 
 careful of her. She's a dangerous woman. She knows 
 all about everybody in Beckwith. She sees everything. 
 She is the one who lives at that house near the station. 
 That I told you about, you know. I think it must be 
 furnished with telescopes; for nothing goes on in Beck- 
 with that she doesn't know almost before everybody else. 
 Of course, in Beckwith everybody knows everything 
 sooner or later. It's only a question of time. But this 
 is a warning. Whatever you do, don't let Miss Lampe
 
 IN THE TRAIN 139 
 
 have an opportunity of making mischief about you." 
 
 "I'm not afraid of anybody," Dorothy said, with her 
 head high. "Miss Lampe or anybody else." 
 
 "You would be, if you knew her," warned Louis. 
 "I'm not joking." 
 
 "A spy like that!" Dorothy said incredulously. 
 
 "In a place like Beckwith. I assure you. She's mali- 
 cious. Don't you remember what we said? I showed 
 you her house, near the station." 
 
 Louis spoke so seriously that Dorothy's first vanity, 
 her contempt of what seemed unworthy, was shaken. 
 She began to remember forgotten truth. Her colour 
 diminished. She nodded quickly, now fully alive to the 
 danger which he was striving to bring home to her. 
 
 "Miss Lampe," she said. "I'll remember. And she 
 hates me already." 
 
 iv 
 
 Thereafter they began to talk with more friendliness. 
 Louis thought that Dorothy had forgotten her first sus- 
 picions of him, for she was completely at ease, and as 
 she had no affectation whatever, but only a touchiness 
 born of hatred of shops and hatred of those who patron- 
 ised shop-keepers, Dorothy was a very nice companion. 
 The hat which he had thought odd had disappeared. 
 Perhaps it was only a hat for country walks on Sunday. 
 She was dressed inconspicuously, in a deep crimson coat 
 with an astrakhan collar, and her hat was black with deep 
 crimson decoration. This combination of colour suited 
 very well her complexion. It heightened the refinement 
 of her face. When that face was not expressing dis- 
 approval it seemed to Louis very pretty indeed. Upon 
 further scrutiny, Dorothy was evidently not more than 
 twenty or twenty-one. Her conversation proclaimed her
 
 140 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 youthfulness; as did her readiness to be offended. In 
 two or three years she would learn to ignore or to despise 
 stupidity: at present it still had power to anger her. 
 But Louis felt that if she had been two or three years 
 older he might have found it more difficult to make her 
 accept his friendship as the result of a casual meeting in 
 the train. 
 
 "If I offer to come round one evening," he ventured, 
 "you won't say now that I'm not to come. Will you?" 
 Dorothy did not hesitate. She looked at him with frank 
 interest. 
 
 "No," she said. Her cheeks began faintly to glow, to 
 redden. Her lips parted. Her expression softened. 
 Then : "I hope you'll try and forget how rude I was." 
 
 "That's splendid!" exclaimed Louis, all alight with 
 such candour. Rather awkwardly, he went on : "I say, 
 do you mind also forgetting what I said about not liking 
 you ? It wasn't true. I only said it because I was rather 
 irritated at what you said. I didn't mean it." 
 
 Dorothy looked suddenly pleased. Her embarrass- 
 ment had subsided. She too sparkled. 
 
 "I'm so glad!" she said. "I meant mine; but I don't 
 mean it any longer." 
 
 "Well we're all right now?" he asked. "Will you 
 shake hands?" 
 
 As they shook hands the train drew up at the Beck- 
 with station. They walked together along the platform. 
 Louis knew that Dorothy saw old Tonks, the ticket-col- 
 lector, touch his hat to him ; and he imagined her squirm 
 of impatience at the feudal note. But he was pleased 
 to observe how well she walked. It was as though she 
 were perfectly elastic, but also without self-consciousness. 
 Those Beckwith girls who did not trip along without 
 any character at all swung their arms and moved their 
 shoulders, to show how much at ease they were. Doro-
 
 IN THE TRAIN 
 
 thy walked as though she did not think about her motions. 
 Looking aside at her, Louis thought that she must be 
 about the same height as Veronica. It was while he 
 was thinking this, and eagerly regarding her, that they 
 passed under the light just opposite Miss Lampe's house. 
 Dorothy, looking up at him with the friendliest of smiles, 
 said impulsively: 
 
 "I'm so glad we met to-day. It's made me feel quite 
 different."
 
 CHAPTER IX: VERONICA 
 
 HIS talk with Dorothy produced in Louis a curious 
 revulsion of feeling. For him she was changed. 
 She had become a tremendously desirable new friend. 
 In a world where friends were so scarce the establishment 
 of a new intimate relation was a notable event. If 
 Dorothy liked him, as it appeared, there was no end to 
 the interest such a friendship might provide. For one 
 thing, she was very natural : as far as he could see she 
 would always remain natural. He could imagine long 
 interchanges of talk, in which he might find limitless new 
 knowledges. Hitherto he had felt that friendship with 
 a girl could not be very close, and could not last, without 
 the arbitrary forcing of such friends into engagement 
 and marriage. In Beckwith it is so. Three meetings, 
 casual or planned; and, afterwards, eyebrows did their 
 work. Either the girl was forced to abandon friend- 
 ship, or she was forced to go beyond friendship. Friends 
 became lovers or acquaintances. Why? He had never 
 understood. It was because there was no social back- 
 ground. All the relations of the sexes were governed 
 by general opinion. Seen alone together for a few times 
 they must either announce an engagement or have it 
 very actively canvassed. Sooner or later general opinion 
 brought matters to a head. There were hints, blushes, 
 self -consciousness for a few days, a ring or a break. 
 It was the community that played providence. One had 
 
 142
 
 VERONICA 143 
 
 duties, it was explained. Now Dorothy, Louis felt, was 
 not like other girls in that respect. She was unconven- 
 tional she was what Miss Lampe and the servant-maids 
 of Beckwith would call "rather fast." Louis was greatly 
 pleased at such a recognition. She interested him. 
 
 Dorothy interested him. She seemed to Louis to be 
 less like a girl than a human being. It gave him a rare 
 delight to recognise a kindred spirit to feel aware of a 
 character to be explored. Yes; she was unusual. She 
 had reserves; she was strangely frank. He remembered 
 in a flash that reference to Daunton's Ethel, who had so 
 contemptibly betrayed her sex by saying that she had 
 never been loved before. Of course Dorothy would not 
 say such a thing hysterically, as perhaps Ethel had done ; 
 but Louis was swept with the knowledge that she would 
 tell him candidly what she thought and felt about a 
 number of things never mentioned by Beckwith girls. 
 She was not a hoarder; not a sentimental, callous girl- 
 of-the-world. There was about her something real, 
 something vital, that he could recognize and admire. 
 She was almost like a man. She was altogether unlike 
 Veronica Hughes. 
 
 How remarkable! Louis was struck again with the 
 difference. She was somebody as unlike Veronica as the 
 mind of man could conceive. Both, of course, were at- 
 tractive ; but how dissimilar ! That brought him back to 
 Veronica, whom he had momentarily forgotten in this 
 new preoccupation with his girl-grocer cousin Dorothy. 
 The next evening Louis went to call upon the Hughes 
 family, because he wanted to see Veronica. He only 
 wanted to see her. He dreaded meeting Mrs. Hughes; 
 he felt a disinclination for Judith ; and a persistent aver- 
 sion from Adela. But after all this thought of Dorothy 
 it had become a necessity to him to see Veronica. 
 
 Rather to his pleasure he found, upon reaching the
 
 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 house, that Veronica was alone ; and his carriage became 
 more buoyant when this fact was announced by the maid. 
 He was distinctly relieved. As he entered the drawing- 
 room Veronica stood listlessly turning over some music 
 which lay on the piano. His first thought was that she 
 looked and felt tired, and then that her smile was slightly 
 less cordial than usual. She cried "Hul-lo!" at seeing 
 him, but her manner was constrained and without its 
 general vividness ; so that Louis's buoyancy was checked 
 and his own mood appreciably lowered. A bright fire 
 was burning; but the room was not fully lighted, and so 
 it had a desolate air. A gloom seemed to be upon it, 
 and Veronica's quietness was as much of a surprise as 
 it was a disappointment. He had so counted upon her 
 gaiety! This dispirited air was new and unwelcome. 
 It was also infectious, for Louis began to feel at once 
 a corresponding and embarrassing constraint. 
 
 "All the others out?" he asked, in a friendly way. 
 
 "Father's in," Veronica said. "In his room. I'm sure 
 you'd like a chat with him. Wouldn't you ?" 
 
 "He's probably asleep," guardedly explained Louis. 
 "Shouldn't you think so?" 
 
 "Very likely. And anyway he's rather grumpy to- 
 night because he put a penny in a machine for some 
 matches and the matches scattered all over the platform." 
 
 Veronica spoke dryly, and was not amused at the 
 accident. Louis was puzzled at her tone, and at the 
 dull expression upon her face. 
 
 "It is those little things, of course," he admitted, 
 sympathising with Mr. Hughes. 
 
 "Being a man," Veronica said. "I suppose it is. 
 Poor dears! Mother and Adela are at the Corntofts'. 
 I was going ; but I had a headache." 
 
 "Real or diplomatic?" asked Louis. "I'm sorry you've 
 got a headache, any way."
 
 VERONICA 145 
 
 Veronica's blue eyes were fixed upon him. It was 
 with such a strange expression, as she stood so quietly 
 near him, that Louis felt almost uncomfortable, restless. 
 He was puzzled. There was so much unsaid between 
 them that he felt he had no clue to her feelings. She 
 was a mystery, an exquisite mystery, unfathomable. 
 
 "Real, of course," Veronica answered, in rather a chill- 
 ing voice. "Come and sit down by the fire." They sat, 
 and she was almost immediately opposite to him. The 
 fire flickered and the clock ticked. Outside everything 
 was quiet. Only within, alone with Veronica, Louis 
 touched an uneasy happiness, a constrained delight. He 
 saw again with that pervasive thrill her exquisite pretti- 
 ness, and the soft fair hair which he could imagine as 
 like silk against his hand. As Veronica lay back in her 
 chair, carelessly, with her legs crossed, the lifted skirt 
 revealed her pretty ankles. Her whole attitude, if list- 
 less, was charming. It seemed that his heart softened, 
 as though he were wholly filled with the sense of her 
 beauty. He could not resist the encroachment of a 
 languor similar to her own. When he spoke again it 
 was in a gentler voice. 
 
 "Is the headache still bad?" he asked. "I hope it isn't. 
 You'll tell me if you'd rather I didn't stay?" 
 
 Veronica's head was turned away. She was watching 
 the light-flames rising from the fire. 
 
 "What have you been doing?" she countered, ignoring 
 his suggestion. "Just working?" 
 
 "Practically nothing else," Louis admitted. "The be- 
 ginning of the year is a terribly busy time with us. 
 Though I'm feeling very lazy myself." They fell silent 
 for a minute. "No; but are you really better?" he went 
 on. Veronica moved restlessly. Her head was turned 
 towards him, and then away again. 
 
 "Oh yes," she said impatiently. "It comes and goes.
 
 146 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 I always have headaches. It makes me more interesting. 
 You have to have something the matter with you; or 
 you might get confused with somebody else." 
 
 "Only by somebody who didn't know you," he ven- 
 tured. A slight grimace appeared upon Veronica's lips. 
 Her tone had been half-serious, and Louis had been tak- 
 ing it as wholly bantering. He tried to cancel the bad 
 impression. "Are the Corntofts amusing?" he ques- 
 tioned. 
 
 "Deadly !" she assured him. "Why, their one idea is 
 to talk about their wretched kid." 
 
 "The little clarinetist? But I thought you liked her 
 so much !" 
 
 "Did you?" Veronica's tone was perfectly listless. 
 "She's all right . . ." 
 
 "But don't you remember ... at your party. In 
 telling me about her . . . ' 
 
 "You're thinking of Adela, aren't you?" Veronica in- 
 terrupted dryly. "She's always got a kind word to say 
 of everybody. Everybody thinks she's so intelligent for 
 seeing their good points almost as well as they can 
 themselves. If you want to know, I think the clarinet's a 
 beastly instrument." 
 
 "Perhaps you don't always say what you think?" sug- 
 gested Louis considerately, referring to her surprisingly 
 unkind praise of Adela. Veronica made a tiny laughing 
 noise that was not a laugh. She looked very far from 
 mirth : there was a bitter sadness in her expression, lying 
 beneath the air of apathy. 
 
 "Why don't you say what you mean ?" she said. "That 
 I'm a nasty little cat." 
 
 Louis did not answer that. He saw that her eyes were 
 full of tears. 
 
 "I didn't mean anything unkind," he said. "Veronica ! 
 You can't suppose I did?"
 
 VERONICA 147 
 
 "Can't I?" Veronica asked, as if it were innocently. 
 "I suppose you'd know. Well, mother's very keen on 
 Mrs. Corntoft; and the Corntofts have got a cousin who 
 knows somebody who conducts an orchestra. And so 
 Adela's been invited there to play accompaniments for 
 Irene and praise her so that this cousin can see 
 whether she's good enough to be introduced to his friend 
 who conducts the orchestra. And then they'll make a 
 child-marvel of her; and the Corntofts will go out of their 
 minds with joy. Pretty prospect, isn't it !" 
 
 He was really distressed at her tone, which was pa- 
 thetic in its strangely unkind flippancy. 
 
 "She's their transferred vanity," he said. "I expect 
 they find her success a justification of their own lives." 
 Veronica smiled satirically. 
 
 "How clever that sounds!" she said in a light voice. 
 "Only I don't know what it means." She threw him a 
 mocking glance. Her eyes were still bright, but he no 
 longer feared that she was going to cry. He stumbled 
 on. 
 
 "If the motive force of most people is vanity," he ex- 
 plained, "as I'm coming to believe it is; the desire to 
 push one's children must be a sort of indirect, or trans- 
 ferred . . . re-embodied . . ..vanity." 
 
 That shocked her. He could see that Veronica was 
 quite unready for such a doctrine. She was ready to re- 
 pulse it with horror. In Beckwith one scratches, but 
 one does not philosophise one's scratches, because that is 
 cynicism. And cynicism, which has no respect for discre- 
 tion, is in horribly bad taste. That was the cause of 
 Veronica's instinctive recoil. 
 
 "What a beastly idea !" she cried. "And of course it's 
 not true." 
 
 "You only mean, you don't like it," retorted Louis. 
 "But it mav be true, all the same."
 
 148 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 "Louis, it isn't true." She sat up in her chair, her face 
 quite alert, eyeing him with disapproval. "I think you're 
 perfectly beastly to say such a thing. If you really be- 
 lieved things like that, what would be the good of life, 
 and . . . and religion?" 
 
 Into Louis's mind there had come a curious fear ; and 
 at the same time a sort of confused happiness at her re- 
 buttal of his theory. He was glad to find her so little 
 cynical by conviction; but he was sorry to think that 
 her refusal even to pass his notion without protest might 
 be an indication of prudery. 
 
 "You think they're very good now ?" he asked. Veron- 
 ica shook her head. 
 
 "You oughtn't to talk like that," she protested. "It isn't 
 nice. Besides, if they weren't any good ... if people 
 didn't believe in something they'd . . . they'd . . ." Her 
 tongue could not find the words. 
 
 "I think they're vain," Louis said. "Besides, you don't 
 want to believe in anything that isn't true . . . just in 
 case it might be useful to believe in it. Do you ? That's 
 a very base kind of Christian utilitarianism." 
 
 "I don't know what you're talking about," Veronica 
 said, with energy. "I only know it's beastly and fright- 
 ening. So don't talk about it any more, there's a good 
 boy. You don't know anything at all about life; and you 
 only get these horrid cynical ideas from other peo- 
 ple. . . ." 
 
 Louis frowned. He was very exasperated at her tone 
 of condescension. 
 
 "You always pretend I'm such a kid," he cried sharply. 
 "I'm not. I've thought a good deal. I know what I'm 
 talking about. But if you're frightened to think a thing, 
 in case it might be rather unpleasant, you might just as 
 well have no brains at all."
 
 VERONICA 149 
 
 "Well, they only unsettle you," Veronica said. "And 
 make other people unhappy." 
 
 The old air, momentarily distracted, of a curious sad- 
 ness, returned to her. Louis was again puzzled. But he 
 was snuffing the air, like a war-horse. The light of battle 
 was in his eye. There is no means of knowing what 
 specious arguments he might have used to support his 
 views, if he had not noticed that Veronica's hand was 
 trembling. That sight changed him instantly. 
 
 "Vera, old girl, what's the racket?" he asked in a quiet 
 voice. "I won't argue if it makes you wretched; but 
 you've been a bit miserable all the evening, so I don't think 
 it can really be that. . . ." 
 
 "I'm quite all right. Nothing the matter. Silly boy!" 
 Veronica said, in a curious dry voice. 
 
 "Sure?" 
 
 "Of course! Sit where you are! I don't want you 
 fussing round me. I've got a cold coming on. That's all 
 that's the matter." She was so defiant that she half con- 
 vinced him. 
 
 "I'd just like to say this one thing," Louis said eagerly. 
 "And no more. If you've got brains, and you use them, 
 and that makes you think differently from other people, 
 who haven't got so many brains, or who don't use them, 
 are you in the wrong ? Mightn't it be the others who are 
 wrong ?" 
 
 Veronica stared at him, incapable of answering so sus- 
 piciously simple a doubt. 
 
 "I don't know," she petulantly answered. "I know 
 thinking makes you restless, and makes you do odd 
 things ; and that makes other people unhappy. So it can't 
 be right." She was triumphant at least in that. 
 
 "Why, unhappy?" he begged. 
 
 "I suppose . . . because they like you," Veronica said.
 
 150 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 Louis was astounded. Her voice had such a personal 
 ring. 
 
 "Are you talking about me?" he asked. "Me !" 
 
 "Weren't you? I thought you were? I thought it 
 was all your vanity !" 
 
 "Bad girl !" Louis cried. "Wicked girl ! Besides, what 
 I said had nothing to do with me." 
 
 "Hadn't it?" Veronica spoke indifferently. Then: 
 "Louis, you really oughtn't to do what you've been do- 
 ing," she startlingly began. "It makes it difficult all 
 round. You ought to think of other people. You might 
 know how silly it is. It's worried me all of us dread- 
 fully." He was amazed. What, then, had he been doing 
 that caused such distress? 
 
 "Exactly what is it," he begged, "that I've been mis- 
 doing? I don't remember anything specially bad." 
 
 Veronica looked away. He saw her raised foot moving 
 nervously, as though she would have tapped it upon the 
 floor. A frown appeared above her eyes and in her eyes. 
 
 "I suppose it doesn't occur to you . . ." she began. 
 Then she shrugged. "Oh, never mind! If you won't bear 
 in mind what it means to your real friends." 
 
 "To you ?" he asked, his heart beating faster. "Do you 
 mean, to you?" 
 
 "Yes." Veronica spoke very low. She was looking at 
 him again, searchingly. Louis racked his brains to dis- 
 cover some fault that he might have committed. At last 
 he shook his head. 
 
 "Sorry," he said quickly. "I wish I could think of 
 some crime. But I can't. You may be sure I haven't 
 meant to do anything that makes you of all people 
 miserable. Is that the cause of the headache?" 
 
 "You must know," Veronica protested. "I mean, think 
 of us, and . . . and everybody." 
 
 "Say it right out," he begged. "Tell me exactly what !"
 
 VERONICA 151 
 
 Veronica, subdued, seemed also astonished at what she 
 regarded as an evasion. When his face continued to ex- 
 press nothing but the most naive bewilderment she 
 shrugged her shoulders. 
 
 "Going about with that girl !" she at last declared, in a 
 strange voice. "It's too bad of you!" 
 
 "That girl ?" Louis thought. "Dorothy ? My cousin ?" 
 How on earth had Veronica learned about that casual 
 meeting? How had she been led to misread it and to 
 exaggerate its significance? He was for a moment so 
 completely baffled that he could not explain her obviously 
 unfeigned concern. 
 
 Quickly, Louis remembered that Dorothy and he had 
 passed within the ray of light opposite Miss Lampe's 
 house. He whistled. A blank look came into his face. 
 
 11 
 
 "I don't know what you mean by 'going about with 
 her,' " he said at last. "I suppose you do mean my 
 cousin? I've been 'going about' with nobody. But 
 I met Dorothy one evening in the train, coming home. 
 As I might have met you. I walked with her to the shop. 
 And I suppose Beckwith watched us all the way from 
 the station." 
 
 Veronica listened with a kind of horror. 
 
 "As you might have met me!" she cried. "Well!" 
 She seemed unable to believe. her ears. "D'you mean to 
 say . . . Oh, Louis ! You are an innocent !" 
 
 "I suppose it was Miss Lampe who hurried round Beck- 
 with . . . charitably!" Louis said, his temper rising 
 quickly. "How these people watch ! But to think of you 
 taking any notice of them !" He moved in his chair, un- 
 able to control the irritation which had seized him. "And 
 what is it, after all? Because I met my cousin!"
 
 152 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 "She's not your cousin!" Veronica exclaimed vehe- 
 mently. "She's a shop-girl !" 
 
 "My father keeps a money-shop," Louis said. "Don't 
 be so absurd ! I'm ashamed of you." 
 
 "It's you that's absurd!" cried Veronica. "Money- 
 shop, indeed ! Whoever heard of it !" 
 
 "They're only ways of making a living! Chemist's 
 shop and surgery, bank and grocery, coals and soap and 
 oatmeal. Serendipity and salvation! Even old Toppett 
 is paid !" 
 
 "Mr. Toppett! Oh, really, Louis!" Veronica, also 
 agitated beyond bearing, rose to her feet. Louis followed 
 her example. "You know it's wrong!" Veronica said 
 breathlessly. "You're only blustering." 
 
 "And you're only being conventional !" Louis retorted. 
 "You know that there's no harm in it. You'd talk to 
 Dorothy, and admire her, too, if she lived somewhere else. 
 Vou'd see that she's got brains, intelligence honesty, 
 Ivhich is more than Miss Lampe ever had. Mean, spying 
 Vvoman, who's got nothing better to do than backbite and 
 spoil. She ought to be ashamed of herself. She's worse 
 than Mrs. Daunton, because it's not her business." 
 
 Veronica was quite white. Her eyes seemed to have 
 become black. She breathed with difficulty. Her hands 
 were jerking; her face was averted, as though she could 
 not hold her head straight because of the anger and dis- 
 tress that consumed her. 
 
 "I wonder . . . why it is . . ." she gasped, "that 
 . . . common girls attract men so much!" 
 
 "Common girls !" Louis's voice was thick. "Dorothy ! 
 Why, she's a pearl in Beckwith. Miss Lampe feels her 
 own inferiority! That's why she's so malicious about 
 her. Now look here !" He tried to steady himself. "If 
 Daunton's girl is straight, he's going to marry her. Why 
 shouldn't he ? If she's the kind of girl he wants. We're
 
 VERONICA 153 
 
 not kings and queens, who have to marry the people chos- 
 en for them. We're human beings. We love by impulse." 
 
 "Oh ! Oh !" cried Veronica, suffocated. "I hope . . . 
 I hope you'll be happy. She's made sure of you, I see!" 
 
 Her hands were up to her face. Her body was shaken 
 with the dreadful sobs which she could no longer control. 
 But as Louis stepped towards her she moved quickly 
 away, her arm extended to repel him. Louis, his mind 
 overwhelmed with bitterness and chpgrin, looked down 
 at her, his fists clenched, his lips parted. He hated and 
 despised her. She was contemptible to him. 
 
 "You think that!" he said at last, in a very low voice. 
 "You say that!" 
 
 He slowly turned away, and towards the door. Veron- 
 ica, drying her eyes, and blowing her nose, followed him, 
 her head bent, stricken with panic. 
 
 "Louis !" she begged, in a thin wailing voice. "Don't 
 go! Don't leave me!" 
 
 "I'm too angry!" Louis cried. "I can't stay. I can't 
 bear to stay !" 
 
 In a white heat he left the house, chagrined and 
 ashamed. For the moment all his soft thoughts of Veron- 
 ica were expelled, their place taken only by a bitter sensa- 
 tion of resentfulness and disappointment. As he went, 
 Veronica groped her way to her chair, hysterically crying.
 
 CHAPTER X: DOROTHY 
 
 LOUIS was so moved and excited after his scene witV 
 Veronica that he strode along without thinking 
 where he would go. He was far too full of anger to 
 return home. At first he struck across the common, ex- 
 claiming aloud in his torment : then, suddenly, he checked 
 himself in the middle of the open space, turning in 
 the darkness and casting a wild glance about him. Veron- 
 ica to say that! Veronica to show him in herself the 
 vulgar heart of Beck with! And Dorothy to suffer! If 
 Beckwith could but know her ! Not Beckwith ! With the 
 muddled instinct of those birds that attack and destroy 
 a brilliant stranger among them, Beckwithians made their 
 own unforgivable persecution. Beasts ! 
 
 Then his anger passed, and he gave a little annoyed 
 laugh that held no merriment. There was only one pos- 
 sible destination for him, it was clear. He must go and 
 see Dorothy and William. He walked back straight 
 across the common, and into the High Street. Lights 
 were still showing behind the little shops fringing the 
 green space, but the shops themselves were closed. It 
 was after nine. The High Street was also in darkness, 
 but already a promenade was in progress, up and down 
 the street, and, to the bolder or more amorous, in the 
 direction of the common and the sheltered lanes beyond. 
 And of all the shops Louis saw only that one to which 
 his steps were directed. He saw none of the passers, and 
 
 154
 
 DOROTHY 155 
 
 heard none of them, although their steps upon the rough 
 road made a heavy clinking noise, like clogs upon cobbles, 
 and their voices, and the artificially heightened laughter 
 of the girls, echoed from shop-front to shop-front. 
 
 When the boy Reggie opened the door beside the shop 
 in answer to Louis's ring, he peered out with a frowning 
 face. His welcome was grudging; but he did not deny 
 that his mother and father were at home. So Louis 
 walked up the stairs and into the back room where he 
 had first seen his cousins. There, in the fire-glow, and 
 under the light of a bright gas, sat Mrs. William, darning 
 socks, with a pair of spectacles precariously resting very 
 far down towards the tip of her nose. At a table behind 
 her mother, with what seemed to be an enormous day- 
 book or ledger open before her, was Dorothy, one hand 
 supporting her white forehead and pushing back her 
 heavy hair. She had evidently guessed the visitor's iden- 
 tity and named Louis to her mother, for Mrs. William 
 was meditatively fingering her spectacles, and looking 
 embarrassed at being caught in a homely occupation. 
 William was not in the room ; but as Louis was advanc- 
 ing he heard his cousin's voice behind him. 
 
 "That's a real good lad!" William cried, as he came 
 into the room. "Reg. . . . just take your old muck off 
 this chair for your cousin, will you ? . . . Look at these, 
 Louis all these dummy diagram model fallals. Ever 
 see such things in your life? The boy's just brought 
 them down to show us. See, look at this. How does 
 it work, Reg. ?" 
 
 At first with self-conscious sulkiness, but gradually 
 with uncontrollable enthusiasm, Reggie showed how by 
 applying energy to one part of his erection which could 
 be done by certain mechanical means for the purchase 
 of which he demanded money all the other parts could 
 be set in motion and an interesting kinetic problem illus-
 
 156 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 trated. Dorothy left her account book; Mrs. William 
 bent forward, with the sock still sheathing her hand, 
 and looked with keen interest over the top of her spec- 
 tacles. They were all absorbed in the motion of this 
 contrivance, the final utility of which was hidden from 
 all except Reggie, whose invention it was. 
 
 "Marvellous where he gets it from," William re- 
 marked, turning to Louis. "None of your folk given 
 to this sort of thing ? No; nor Mum's here. Give Mum 
 a sock to mend, or a pudding to make none better. 
 But both these kids are all for using their brains. Here's 
 Reg. absolute mustard on engineering; and Doll, though 
 she's not practical never had the chance, poor kid 
 knows as much about the general theory of it as Reg. 
 himself. She keeps my books better than I can keep 
 them myself; she's an L.R.A.M. who can play your head 
 off; and she keeps her own head as no young person I 
 ever met has done. It's all the shop, you know. Mum's 
 folk are all in the grocery, as happy as wasps in mar- 
 malade; but these kids they turned against shops early. 
 Turned up their noses at bacon and tea. No; it's not 
 making anything, they say. If you want to be real, you 
 must make bridges, or nouses, or pictures, or revolu- 
 tions, or something of the kind. Otherwise, you're a 
 drone. Doll here is best on the elocutionary side. She'll 
 run you off the arguments. Reg. just scowls and shoves 
 his models under your nose." 
 
 During this speech Reg. had removed his model and 
 had returned to his own room. Mrs. William sat beam- 
 ing in her old seat, looking from William to Dorothy 
 and from Dorothy to Louis, her humour, and her pride, 
 and her interest in Louis all aroused. Dorothy alone 
 looked grim, candidly condemning her father's oratory 
 and his interpretations. 
 
 "Louis doesn't want to hear all that, Dad." she at last
 
 DOROTHY 157 
 
 said. "And it's not true, anyway. It's not Reg. and I 
 who mind about the shop. It's you and Mum. And 
 you don't mind about it for yourselves, but for Reg. 
 and me. And Louis doesn't mind about it, so there's no 
 need to apologise to him. When Louis comes, forget 
 all your . . ." She stopped short, for she had clearly 
 been going to say something rude, and unbecoming in 
 a speech to a loved one. 
 
 William looked shrewdly at Louis, who did his best 
 to back up and receive the glance appropriately. 
 
 "What I said was all true," William replied, in a 
 speech that was a proclamation, although it was ad- 
 dressed to Louis. "Take no notice of what Doll says. 
 She's a woman, and so she's unscrupulous. The shop's 
 been the iron in their souls, Louis. It's the shop that's 
 made them aspire. From the counter to the Bench, as 
 you may say. But we take off our hats to them. Don't 
 we, Mum ? We take off our hats to the younger genera- 
 tion." 
 
 "Don't be so silly!" said the younger generation; and 
 her pale face was lighted up with a smile so inexpres- 
 sibly beautiful that Louis caught his breath with sudden 
 wonder. 
 
 ii 
 
 "Take a seat, Louis!" pursued William. "And if you 
 want to smoke smoke. Both of them are inoculated. 
 I smoke shag myself. Used to smoke plug; but Mum 
 struck at it. So did my doctor. Very bad for the heart, 
 unless you're leading an open-air life. D'you smoke a 
 pipe, Louis?" 
 
 "I used to ; but I gave it up when I came home. Gas- 
 pers are more in my line now," Louis explained. "My 
 father's got a great dislike of pipes. He thinks they're 
 ... I don't know what. ."
 
 158 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 "I should like to smoke a hookah," Dorothy said. 
 "They sound so philosophic. And you read about them 
 in such beautiful books, like 'Eothen.' ' 
 
 "Ah, but give me a good cigar !" cried William, with 
 enthusiasm. "Nothing to beat it. I once had a box of 
 first-class cigars given to me; and I'll never forget that 
 box as long as I live." 
 
 "You gave them all away, Will," said Mrs. William. 
 
 "Eh?" He looked disconcerted for a moment. 
 "Well, I gave some of them away, I grant; but very far 
 from all of them, my dear. And they were all smoked 
 at home at Holloway." 
 
 "Holloway! Wish we were there now!" Dorothy 
 cried. 
 
 "Ee; so do I," chorused Mrs. William, looking over 
 the tops of her spectacles. 
 
 William ruffled his hair and glanced for aid at Louis. 
 
 "Think of it !" he cried. "I bring them down here for 
 the air; and that's what they tell me! Mind you, Louis; 
 Beckwith don't appear the easiest place in the world to 
 get on with. At Holloway all our customers came in 
 for their things. Used to wait at the counter for their 
 own parcels, and they were like human beings. But here 
 Mrs. So-and-so comes in and orders threepennorth of 
 biscuits, or a pot of jam, or some little thing that she's 
 forgotten when the boy called in the morning. And it's 
 to be sent home, if you please, in time for this meal or 
 the other, however far away it is. And such airs as they 
 give themselves! There may be one or two waiting; 
 but in walks my-lady, and starts shouting as soon as 
 she's inside the door. Can't stop a minute, so to speak. 
 The common people must stand aside. I feel like say- 
 ing, Take your turn, old dear' ; but if I did that, she'd 
 go off and tell all her friends what a rude man Mr. 
 Vechantor's cousin is. So independent . . . don't know
 
 DOROTHY 159 
 
 what shopkeepers are coming to. ... So I just have to 
 kiss my hand to her, so to speak, and pretend to be very 
 grateful. They tell me Peel always ran out and held 
 the door open. ... It doesn't do to lose a customer, 
 Louis. Not in this sort of business." 
 
 "You're doing it," Dorothy said, in her clear voice. 
 William's face became more serious. 
 
 "Yes. That's true," he admitted. "One or two. One 
 or two." 
 
 "Why is that?" Louis was startled. William hoisted 
 his shoulders in a wry shrug. 
 
 "Ah !" he said. "Now you have me. A bit shy of the 
 name, perhaps. Or meant to do it before and didn't 
 like to break with Peel. Can't say. I've had no com- 
 plaints. The goods are the same; and they're delivered 
 promptly by the same boys as before. It's just the up 
 and down, give and take of trade. There it is, Louis. 
 You can't account for it." 
 
 "People like Miss Lampe and Mrs. Callum?" sug- 
 gested Louis. 
 
 "Miss Lampe? Ph!" said Dorothy. "She's never 
 been a real customer here at all. She only buys her 
 odds and ends here. She gets everything she wants from 
 the Stores." 
 
 "Never !" cried Louis. "It's not done ! I've heard all 
 Beckwithians say over and over again that it's their duty 
 to support the local shops." 
 
 "Ah !" said William dryly. "You don't know the la- 
 dies, Louis. Some of their ways are very odd, I assure 
 you." 
 
 "And Miss Lampe lives so near the station," Dorothy 
 added, laughing, "that nobody can see what she has 
 down by train." 
 
 "Really!" exclaimed Louis. His indignation with
 
 160 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 Miss Lampe seemed to reach a point hitherto unimag- 
 inable. 
 
 111 
 
 "The truth is," Dorothy went on frankly, after a lit- 
 tle pause, "that Louis doesn't know very much about 
 anything. He's too trusting. He thinks people mean 
 what they say. Well, I learnt long ago that they don't 
 They wish they did! They spend their lives wishing 
 they did!" 
 
 "I'm glad they don't, sometimes," Louis protested, 
 with a significant emphasis. He had the satisfaction 
 of seeing Dorothy smile at his reproof. 
 
 "They're always pretending something or other. Pre- 
 tending to be modest, or good, or kind. But it's only a 
 pretence. They're really only inquisitive," Dorothy 
 went on. "That's the best you can say about them. All 
 the people who've been here including the clergyman 
 have come to find out about us. Not to love us, but 
 to see our furniture, and if our hands are dirty, and 
 how many spoons we've got, and if we do our own house- 
 work. Anything to make a tattle at the tea-parties." 
 
 Louis and William looked at each other. They could 
 not contradict Dorothy: they both may have wished to 
 do so. Louis, feeling so warm after his talk with Veron- 
 ica, even nodded with unwilling assent. Such a speech 
 made Louis remember what he had learnt from Veronica, 
 and he saw this differently. So far it had appeared to 
 him as an encroachment upon his own liberty. Now it 
 suddenly assumed a larger significance. Beckwith had 
 begun to resent the new-comers so strongly because it 
 had found them unmalleable. It was not that they were 
 his cousins, or that he visited them (though these things 
 counted) : it was that Beckwith had found them too busi- 
 ness-like. They were in Beckwith for purposes of trade ;
 
 DOROTHY 161 
 
 and Beckwith's standards are moral. Beckwith was irri- 
 tated with them. Even if they had not been Vechantors 
 they would have found Beckwith suspicious; but with 
 that added constituent the outlook suddenly appeared to 
 Louis to be darker than ever. 
 
 "I've been wondering," he said at last. And then he 
 stopped. They all regarded him with friendly, trust- 
 ful faces, towards which he looked in an unusual hesi- 
 tation. Encouraged thus, he went on : "The people 
 here are very 'funny.' You know that. They're very 
 angry it's no business of theirs, of course; but they 
 think everything is their business they're angry with 
 you for coming here. They feel it's something unfit- 
 ting . . . inopportune. And they're not content with 
 feeling that. They're genuinely angry, and worried, and 
 hostile. They'll want to drive you away. Some of 
 them may think that by taking away their custom they'll 
 show their displeasure and make you give up the shop. 
 Perhaps they don't mean that; but that's the impulse. 
 And I think they're specially angry with you for having 
 two . . . well, clever . . . children. You see, Reggie 
 wears a badge on his cap; and that offends them dread- 
 fully; and Dorothy looks as though she'd got too much 
 character for Beckwith ; and they feel they ought to snub 
 her. They'd feel that, anyhow. But as she takes no 
 notice of them, they think . . . something ... I can't 
 explain; but I think they feel helpless about it. Pres- 
 ently, of course, they'll settle down; but meanwhile 
 they're in a great flutter, and I expect they're wonder- 
 ing how they can bring their weight to bear on you. 
 If you'd come to live at an ordinary house they couldn't 
 touch you. You wouldn't have any friends among them ; 
 but you wouldn't want any. It's only because they can 
 attack you through your business that you're vulnerable, 
 I think."
 
 162 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 He broke off, reddening at such a long speech. He 
 found Mrs. William gazing at him over her spectacles 
 with an expression of inhuman wisdom; and William, 
 after looking down at the floor for a moment, nodded 
 quietly without replying. Dorothy was smiling, her 
 eyes dark. He glanced appealingly at her and was 
 warmed by her return glance of confidence. He went 
 on again. 
 
 "This evening what really brought me here was an 
 extraordinary conversation with somebody in Beckwith 
 who upbraided me with having anything to do with you. 
 Apparently somebody has been going round . . ." He 
 began to stammer. "Pretending that it's you who are 
 luring me into your wicked clutches, so as to establish 
 yourselves here. . . . That you're monsters, you under- 
 stand. Of course it is horribly perverse, and stupid, 
 and as far as I'm concerned it doesn't in the least mat- 
 ter. Don't think that. But when you say you've lost 
 custom I see ... or I think I see . . . that perhaps it 
 may be this venomous pettiness that is working in their 
 minds. I think you ought to know. . . ." 
 
 "Yes," William meditatively said. "Yes, Louis . . . 
 Yes." His tone was one of acquiescence. 
 
 "But we guessed it, didn't we, Dad?" Dorothy sup- 
 plemented. 
 
 "You did, my dear," he agreed. 
 
 "I've had a lady talking to me about it to-day," said 
 Mrs. William, in her quiet voice. "She was very anx- 
 ious she said for all our sakes, that 'such an unde- 
 sirable acquaintance' should be stopped. She said 'Mr. 
 Louis' held such a high position in the district. . . . And 
 that, after all, we were only shop-keepers. She said she 
 didn't want to hurt my feelings . . ." 
 
 "Mum!" cried Dorothy, flushing deeply. "Do you 
 mean you listened to her?"
 
 DOROTHY 163 
 
 "Yes, dear. I listened. There was nothing else to 
 do. She hadn't paid for her tea," said Mrs. William. 
 "I was waiting to remind her." 
 
 IV 
 
 There was a curious smile on William's face. He was 
 thinking of his wife. "Mum's very keen after the cop- 
 pers," he explained to Louis. "I've known her go after 
 somebody right down the street, just for fourpence- 
 ha'penny. Not here, of course." 
 
 "What else did she say?" demanded Dorothy, still 
 with that indignant colour in her cheeks. 
 
 "She said, my dear, that of course you couldn't be 
 expected to understand such things properly; but that 
 it was giving Mrs. Vechantor that's Louis's mother 
 a lot of anxiety. That she spoke for our own good. 
 Oh, a lot of other things she said . . ." 
 
 "What other things?" asked Dorothy. "As I come 
 into it." 
 
 "Things she'd no business to say, dear," Mrs. William 
 gently explained. 
 
 "It's simply scandalous!" cried Louis, as red as Dor- 
 othy, and again vehement with rage. 
 
 "What things?" persisted Dorothy. "What things, 
 Mum?" Mrs. William shook her head. She was even 
 more determined, it appeared, than her daughter. 
 
 "I wouldn't repeat them," she said. "Even if I could. 
 They ought never to have been thought, let alone said." 
 
 "Oh !" cried Dorothy. She turned upon Louis. "And 
 you've lived here all your life!" 
 
 "I've been away a good deal," he urged in extenua- 
 tion. "And what she said about mother is a fabrica- 
 tion. It's certainly not true. We're not like that. 
 Really, Dorothy!"
 
 164 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 "I was pitying you!" cried Dorothy. "But, Mum! 
 "Didn't you stop her?" 
 
 "No, dear. Nothing would have done that," said 
 Mrs. William. 
 
 "She'd got it off by heart, I expect," William added. 
 "There's no stopping them when they're that way in- 
 clined. I'd as soon try to stop a train by holding up 
 my hand." 
 
 "What did you do, then?" Dorothy asked. "Surely 
 you . . . Surely you were rude to her!" 
 
 "No, dear," Mrs. William answered. "What was the 
 good of that? I just waited till she'd said all she'd got to 
 say, and then I said, Thank you, ma'am. That'll be 
 fivepence three-farthings.' She didn't say anything 
 after that, and I put the money in the till. I haven't 
 thought of it since ; but of course I think it's a great pity, 
 and I'm very sorry for poor Mrs. Vechantor . . ." 
 
 Louis rose to his feet. He felt as though he were 
 choking with mingled anger and laughter. 
 
 "Look here," he said. "I'm going home to talk to 
 my mother about it. It can't go on like this !" 
 
 Mrs. William shook her head almost imperceptibly; 
 but Dorothy made a step forward. 
 
 "Louis," she said quickly, in a low voice. "I think 
 you're most awfully decent. Really." 
 
 "I'm as proud of you," Louis replied, in a similar low 
 voice, "as I'm ashamed of Beckwith. And I wish I 
 knew how I could show it. I will show it. You'll see!" 
 
 Louis was prophetic in this. He was embarked upon 
 an enterprise that, for all its oddness, or rather perhaps 
 because of its curious nature, threatened to be full of 
 grotesque difficulties. But as he spoke Louis did not 
 realise the full meaning of his promise, or the strength 
 of the instinct he was combating.
 
 CHAPTER XI: THE BREAK 
 
 HE walked home in a state of high excitement. All 
 that turbulent emotion which had been stirred 
 within him by the scene with Veronica, which had been 
 dissolved by his sense of communion with the simple peo- 
 ple he had been with, was revived and exacerbated by 
 the tale of the protesting lady. Once more he was quiv- 
 ering with a ridiculous rage. It was ridiculous, because 
 it was unavailing, and because it exhausted his nerves; 
 but it was in another sense not at all ridiculous. It was 
 the sign of his new passionate love of individual values. 
 It was the indignation of youth against the instinct of 
 oppression; and if the immediate occasion was small, 
 out of all proportion to Louis's vehemence, it must be 
 remembered that men are indignant not with incidents 
 but with the forces which they see, or think they see, 
 symbolised in such incidents. Miss Lampe, sitting cos- 
 ily by her fire, playing patience, whole-heartedly ab- 
 sorbed in the baffling chances of that inept and engross- 
 ing game, had as little the air of an oppressor as any 
 friend of tyranny could have desired. But Louis, going 
 behind the artless gamester, saw Miss Lampe as a dread- 
 ful and wicked irresponsible. Who shall judge between 
 Louis and Miss Lampe? Miss Lampe a true Christian, 
 collecting for charities, desiring that all should be driven 
 for their own good forcibly into the path of virtue and 
 social convenience, and kept there; Miss Lampe, full of 
 
 165
 
 166 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 conscious rectitude, scrupulously economical in her own 
 affairs, curious, interested in the life about her and de- 
 sirous of regulating it for its own good in accordance 
 with the strict teaching of the Church and the Beck with 
 standards. Louis, half Miss Lampe's age, full of half- 
 baked knowledges and theories of life, arrogant, scep- 
 tical, practically an unbeliever in all the doctrines by 
 which Miss Lampe regulated her life and for their own 
 good sought to regulate the lives of others, aspiring to 
 heights of feeling and vision that Miss Lampe was un- 
 conscious of shunning. Miss Lampe social and soci- 
 able; Louis passionately individualistic and perverse. 
 Miss Lampe resting comfortably in the middle of her 
 appropriate milieu; Louis, newly awakened, struggling 
 to antagonise himself with the community. And, when 
 they met, Louis coldly contemptuous, Miss Lampe bird- 
 like and suspicious, but flattered and talkative. If only 
 one could know which way is best to follow the way of 
 Miss Lampe, or the way of Louis how much simpler 
 life would be! 
 
 ii 
 
 It was still comparatively early it was not yet half- 
 past ten when he reached Apple House. The servants 
 of course were all in bed, because they had to rise early ; 
 but the Vechantors rarely went to bed before eleven or 
 half -past. Accordingly, Louis entered the drawing- 
 room with the expectation of seeing both his mother and 
 father. Only his father was there, smoking a cigar and 
 reading an old book. It was perhaps that fact the 
 fact that the two met alone that precipitated the crisis. 
 They merely nodded to each other, and Louis, sniffing 
 at his father's beautiful cigar, was reminded of Wil- 
 liam's reminiscence. An impulse came to him to send 
 William a box of such cigars as his father smoked.
 
 THE BREAK 167 
 
 Why should he not do so ? He made a mark in his note- 
 book so that he might be reminded on the morrow. The 
 thought of giving a pleasant surprise lightened his heart. 
 All the same, he was far from being at his ease. His 
 other emotions had prepared him to feel aware of his 
 father's suppressed disapproval of his whole outlook. 
 They were no longer friends. That link was broken. 
 His father was just a man not the oracle of former 
 days. Estrangement could go no further, because it 
 was common to both of them. Louis was restless, di- 
 vided between staying and going to bed. But as he hesi- 
 tated his father put aside the book and forked that sud- 
 den glance from Louis's face to his feet. He saw a slim 
 young man with carefully brushed black hair and mous- 
 tache, a young man with a troubled face, whose pallor 
 lent brightness to his eyes ; but he did not see the son of 
 his heart, upon whom his ambitions had been fixed for 
 six-and-twenty years. 
 
 "Louis," he said, "I want to speak to you. Sit down. 
 Toppett has been here this evening. He tells me an 
 extraordinary story. The man's a clumsy, practical bul- 
 lock; but he's not a fool." 
 
 Directly his father began to speak Louis realised what 
 was coming. The knowledge braced him as cold water 
 would have done. His anger, his restlessness, both dis- 
 appeared. He became once again Louis Vechantor, the 
 young man who at Oxford had learnt to control himself 
 and to regard evils ironically. For the first time that 
 evening he was talking to one who was his equal in edu- 
 cation. He had nothing to fear, because he knew he 
 would be able to speak without translating his thoughts 
 into another idiom. 
 
 "I've sometimes thought he sailed pretty near it," he 
 ventured nonchalantly. Again that forking glance from 
 under his father's bushy eyebrows.
 
 168 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 "At any rate," the older man explained; "he doesn't 
 lose his head. He's not hysterical. I think that's a 
 good deal to be able to say of a man in his position. In 
 these days. Well, now, he came about a variety of mat- 
 ters ... the Church Rooms, and so on. But after a 
 time he began to talk about you. I see you know what 
 he said. He told us I had no idea before that you've 
 been frequently seeing these people. It's all over Beck- 
 with. He saw you going there this evening. Now, as 
 he says, it's one thing for him to go there, because such 
 visits lie within the range of his parochial duties; but 
 it's quite another thing for you, considering your rela- 
 tion to me, and my relation to the district, to go. ... 
 He's been. He's seen the family. He's talked to them, 
 and he's also talked to others who have been as a mat- 
 ter of parochial business." 
 
 "That means Miss Lampe," Louis could not help say- 
 ing. 
 
 "That woman? Oh. I didn't realise it was she." 
 
 "I gather several people have been interfering a good 
 deal," Louis added. "But Miss Lampe has certainly 
 been very busy. I met Dorothy that's William's 
 daughter in the train one evening; and Miss Lampe has 
 been telling everybody that we go for long walks to- 
 gether. I once met them out. And I've been twice to 
 see them. That's the sum of my relation with them. 
 They're very good sorts, and I like them." 
 
 "Yes . . . yes," said his father. "You like them?" 
 
 "Very much. William and his wife are awfully de- 
 cent; the boy's clever, and going to be an engineer; 
 Dorothy's something quite unusual." 
 
 "H'm. Toppett takes a different view. He says 
 they're quite impossible." 
 
 "Then he's wrong." Louis kept his temper; but his 
 decision was summary.
 
 THE BREAK 169 
 
 "Well, then," said Mr. Vechantor. "I take it that you 
 intend to keep up the acquaintance?" 
 
 "I should be proud to," admitted Louis. "I should 
 say they're a good deal above the level of intelligence in 
 Beckwith." He met his father's eyes squarely, almost 
 with an air of defiance. 
 
 "Nonsense," said Mr. Vechantor. "You don't know 
 what you're talking about." 
 
 "After all," Louis remarked coldly, "I've seen them." 
 
 His father looked quickly away. There was a mo- 
 ment's silence. Mr. Vechantor resumed: 
 
 "Louis, you understand that we represent the soci- 
 ety of Beckwith. I suppose I'm the most important resi- 
 dent in the town. My name carries most weight, per- 
 haps. I'm accustomed to a good deal of deference. 
 One has to think of one's position in a place like this. 
 It has to be conserved, unless one is to be eccentric, and 
 regarded as such. I don't see my way to entering into 
 relations with these people. I've come to the conclusion 
 that we must regard them as having no claim upon us. 
 I don't wish you to see them. I wish you to explain to 
 them or, perhaps, not to explain, as that ought never 
 to have been necessary that you can't continue to see 
 them." His command was gently expressed; but he 
 spoke as one who had but to request. 
 
 Louis paled. He moved, so that he was looking di- 
 rectly away from his father. 
 
 "You don't mention an alternative," he said, rather 
 breathlessly. 
 
 "There is no alternative," said Mr. Vechantor. 
 
 "Oh," Louis answered. "You don't understand. I'm 
 not able to take that view. It's quite impossible for me 
 to give up seeing them. Unless, of course, they . . . de- 
 spise us all too much."
 
 170 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 Mr. Vechantor drew a deep breath. His brows were 
 drawn ironically. 
 
 "I recognise that such a position has its picturesque- 
 ness," he said quietly. "But I'm sorry to say that I 
 must insist on your doing as I said." 
 
 Louis suddenly laughed. It was not a bitter laugh, 
 but it was a nervous laugh. 
 
 "How antediluvian!" he exclaimed; and walking 
 quickly across the room he left his father alone, think- 
 ing, perhaps, of the prestige of the Vechantors of Beck- 
 with. 
 
 in 
 
 The door of his mother's room was open. She was 
 sitting by the fire, and would be going to bed as soon as 
 he had bidden her good-night. At his step upon the 
 threshold she looked over her shoulder, smiling and nod- 
 ding. 
 
 "Are you going to bed now ?" she asked. "I'm going 
 now." 
 
 "Are you? Yes; I shall go. ... I say, mother; you 
 know what father's been talking to me about. That 
 doesn't represent your view, does it?" He was different 
 again from what he had been with his father. His 
 mother's presence always soothed him ; his manner to her 
 was always more gentle, even, it might have appeared, 
 to some observers, more docile. Mrs. Vechantor looked 
 up into his face before answering. 
 
 "Well, dear . . . I'm told they're not very nice peo- 
 ple," she said quietly. 
 
 "But you don't believe that?" he urged. "Surely, 
 mother!" 
 
 "I'm afraid I ... You see, Louis, I've been told 
 certain things about them . . ."
 
 THE BREAK 171 
 
 "Why don't you go and see them for yourself? You'd 
 find that all these busybodies have . . . have taken with 
 them what they wanted to see." His mother still anx- 
 iously regarded him. "You'd believe me, wouldn't 
 you ?" Louis went on. "Rather than Miss Lampe, who's 
 a mischief-maker. And I can assure you that I know 
 them better than all the Lampes and Callums and Top- 
 petts in Beckwith." 
 
 "My dear old boy, you're not very old, you see. . . . 
 And a pretty face . . ." 
 
 "Mother!" cried Louis. "What do you mean?" 
 
 "Mr. Toppett has no reason at all to misrepresent them. 
 He's an extremely honest man." 
 
 "But he's been primed by the Lampes of Beck- 
 with. . . ." Louis was aghast at her attitude. He 
 might have cried "Et tu Brute!" It was the beginning 
 of his slow, bitter disappointment. 
 
 "I'm sorry, dear," his mother said. 
 
 "You refuse to go and see them? Let me ... let 
 me at least bring Dorothy to see you," he urged. 
 
 "I've seen her in church, Louis. I've seen all of them 
 in church." 
 
 "I always thought that was a passport!" he cried. 
 
 "Oh, Louis, you frighten me!" said Mrs. Vechantor. 
 "I've been very anxious about you. Really anxious. 
 You concealed the fact that you knew them at all. And 
 to hear that you're with them so often ! Do . . . please, 
 Louis . . . Do think a little of your mother!" 
 
 There had come into Louis's eyes an expression of 
 hopelessness. Well, he had no longer that illusion,' he 
 thought. His mother was not "different" after all. She 
 was the same. It was no good! One by one his con- 
 fidences had given. With a wooden face he stooped and 
 kissed her. His mother caught at his hand, and pressed 
 it, striving in this way to force the exchange of a lov-
 
 172 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 ing look which should cancel all their differences; but 
 his heart was chilled. 
 
 "Good night, mother," Louis said. "I'm very sorry 
 
 indeed." 
 
 He went slowly into his room, thinking deeply, stand- 
 ing long before the fireplace. 
 
 IV 
 
 This, then, was over. He had been instructed to drop 
 his cousirfs. Just as though he were a little boy still, 
 incapable of forming any judgment for himself. He 
 was no longer angry, but he was heart-sick. He loathed 
 Beckwith as he had never before loathed it. There was 
 no more impatience with it; there was a deep distaste. 
 The place was rank. It had no human standards; only 
 the stupid little spying, jealous taboos of a primitive 
 community. Totemism was rational compared with 
 such a beastly little faith. One must not disbelieve in 
 the faith of worldly goods and worldly position, because 
 if one disbelieved one produced a subtle discomfort. 
 And the William Vechantors were a foreign body. 
 They were to be expelled by the wonderful natural forces 
 governing Beckwith. There had been no attempt to 
 grapple with them. Only to get rid of them. First to 
 ignore them, and then to get rid of them. Make them 
 uncomfortable; make them go somewhere else! It was 
 not that they were better or worse than the Beckwithi- 
 ans; it was enough that they were different. Crucify 
 them! And himself? If he went on "knowing" his 
 cousins what was in store? Gossip. Malignant gos- 
 sip. Cold shouldering, cuts, disdain. . . . Until he re- 
 pented. Then, upon his repentance, a general revival 
 of heartiness and good cheer. The prettiest of their
 
 THE BREAK 173 
 
 daughters ... a comfortable home, the social whirl of 
 Beckwith, position, ease, slow decay . . . 
 
 But meanwhile he was to be punished by disapproval; 
 he was to be kneaded into conformity by the general 
 pressure of the herd. The William Vechantors were to 
 be expelled and he was to be talked or neglected into 
 submission. That was the way these things were done 
 in Beckwith. If he had been indifferent, if his heart 
 had not been torn, he could have ignored this pressure, 
 because he had no wish to be swallowed up by Beck- 
 with. But it meant his being cut off from Veronica; 
 and the funny persecution of the William Vechantors 
 would go on. He was in a difficulty. Beckwith was 
 stupid and contemptible ; but in the circumstances it was 
 not negligible. It had the power to say to the new gro- 
 cer: We do not like your name, and so we will not 
 deal of you. Either sell your business at once, or stay 
 here on peril of our displeasure. To Louis it had the 
 power to say: You belong to us, your family holds a 
 prominent position in the town as the result of our 
 opinion (upon whatever that opinion may be based), 
 and if you remain one of us we will recognise your right 
 to live and we will engulf you. But if you attempt to 
 play King Canute, and defy the inexorable oncoming 
 of our common strength, then shall we cast you derelict 
 upon the beach in the wreckage of your cousin's shop. 
 And the horrible part to Louis was that Beckwith did 
 not consciously say this. It felt its way, blind-mouthed, 
 and its leaders were wretched little people drawn on by 
 an itch for knowing irrelevant things and managing the 
 affairs of others. They were not leaders; they were 
 spies. 
 
 At last, at one o'clock in the morning, Louis went to 
 bed ; but it was not to sleep. It was to lie awake grind- 
 ing ever deeper into his heart the painful beliefs that
 
 174; SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 he had reached in these thoughts. He slowly made up 
 his mind as to his future action. His father forbade him 
 to see his cousins : well, he refused that command. His 
 pride and his self-respect were both involved. He would 
 not forsake them, unless his friendship should be found 
 to be injuring the business directly. In that case he 
 would act otherwise. But if he refused to obey his 
 father their relations would be intolerable. Very well: 
 he would leave home. He could very easily take rooms 
 in town and continue to work at the office. He could 
 visit his mother, and could visit his cousins. He could 
 no longer bear to live in Beckwith. He had come to feel 
 horror of it a sheer nervous repulsion. So he would 
 leave it. Was that a running away? No; because he 
 would be seen in Beckwith (at least every time he passed 
 Miss Lampe's house), visiting his cousins. He would 
 show Beckwithians that he could be staunch to his true 
 friends. But he could no longer stand their eternal pres- 
 ence. And above all this was a thing that Louis only 
 half admitted to himself his pride could not submit to 
 exclusion from the Hughes's house. He might be angry 
 with Veronica, or he might pity her; but his heart beat 
 faster every time he thought that Mrs. Hughes might 
 close the door of her house to him. 
 
 Louis was so far from estimating the facts truly that 
 he imagined such a thing possible. It was, of course, 
 absurd; but he was deeply moved and incapable of see- 
 ing things coolly. He was so moved that he could not 
 sleep at all, but turned from side to side, waiting only 
 for the daylight, so that he could leave Apple House and 
 no longer regard it as his home.
 
 CHAPTER XII: VERONICA'S BID 
 
 THE decision taken, it was perfectly easy for Louis 
 to establish himself in London, upon a third floor 
 near Finsbury Square. He was near the office and 
 within reach of the West End. Once the break with 
 Apple House had been made, the sense of new inde- 
 pendence came to his aid in dispelling the sense of de- 
 pression which had been caused by such a change. He 
 worked hard all day at the office, and in the evenings he 
 read or went to the theatre. Nothing could have 
 suited him better at this time. His rooms were large 
 and barely furnished, and as he took most of his meals 
 out he did not quickly discover the shortcomings of the 
 service. For a few days he was too much occupied with 
 his arrangements to feel lonely ; and with plenty of coals 
 and plenty of tobacco and books he could defy the win- 
 ter. He was happy. 
 
 And then began the work of his memory. Old days 
 rose again before him, joyous days of peace in the gar- 
 den, of cricket and football at school, of punting on the 
 Cherwell, and tremendous evenings of talking in his 
 Oxford rooms. He remembered all the most beloved 
 spots near Beckwith, all the happy discoveries of the dis- 
 trict; the tiled roofs of the oldest houses, the cobbles be- 
 fore the Lion, the glimpses from his bedroom window 
 at home. They assumed a new aching loveliness that 
 filled him at times with melancholy. For those things 
 
 175
 
 176 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 he had nothing but love. They were the permanent 
 things: the human beings passed, but the beauties of 
 place were indestructible. 
 
 Louis, however, was a human being ; and he could not 
 deny that his more exciting memories were human too. 
 The gentle thoughts of old happenings were sweet ; but 
 places without inhabitants would be desolate indeed. 
 Perhaps he could not have borne to recall the lines of the 
 Surrey Hills if at every turn he had not also remembered 
 human associations, the sight of men, the sound of their 
 voices. And if he longed for Beck with it was not sim- 
 ply for its own beauty or for that of its surroundings. 
 It was for Veronica's sake; since Veronica was more 
 constantly in his thoughts than ever. He could not for- 
 get her. His anger was gone; his pity had followed it; 
 there now remained only the residuum of all the feelings 
 she had inspired and that residuum took such tantalis- 
 ing form that his incessant craving was for the sight of 
 her. It ran like ichor in his veins, making his pulses 
 leap. In solitude he was very much more in love with 
 her than he had been at Beckwith. She was transfig- 
 ured in his musings, so that she became almost an ideal 
 creation of gentleness and love. 
 
 11 
 
 With such preoccupations he discovered that as he 
 read the words faded from his mind and gave place to 
 memories; that the voices of actors were like the bark- 
 ing of dogs. At the office, when he was not actively en- 
 gaged in the business of the day, Veronica was before 
 him. He longed to possess a photograph of her, so that 
 he might revivify his impressions of her beauty. Some- 
 where behind him she stood, not in that puzzling sad-
 
 VERONICA'S BID ITT 
 
 ness which had driven him from the house, but with 
 laughter and composure. Most of his doubts were 
 strained away. All that remained was pleasurable. Al- 
 most, he regretted leaving Beckwith. What was the im- 
 pulse that had so abruptly pitchforked him out of the 
 town, away from his happiness? It was already inex- 
 plicable to him. 
 
 Finally Louis made an effort to see Daunton. He 
 was introduced to the girl who had caused all the com- 
 motion in the Daunton family. She was quiet and as- 
 sured, and her quietness and assurance pleased him, 
 though other things about her did not. For one thing 
 she dressed without taste ; he felt she was practical rather 
 than dainty, as a wife should be. She had no allure. 
 When she looked at Daunton she screwed her eyes up, 
 and her smile was not pretty. It was hungry. But 
 Louis felt that in her capability she had the makings of 
 a staunch companion. She would exploit Daunton for 
 his own good. He was less her lover than her protege. 
 When he had left them, Louis felt that he had overrated 
 the romance of this affair, and yet he did not regret it 
 at all. Daunton's weakness was too apparent ; he would 
 be the instrument of any woman who should marry him. 
 So why not the instrument of Ethel ? Since that was his 
 paramount wish at the moment. 
 
 A week later, Louis assisted at their cheerless marriage 
 at a register office, gave them a lunch, and saw them off 
 from Victoria for a honeymoon that was to last no longer 
 than the week-end. This ceremony was the culmination 
 of his distress, for Daunton was helplessly nervous and 
 Ethel bright-eyed, silent, strangely sharp in feature. 
 They did not appear to be happy, or eager; but only as 
 if they were being driven into each other's arms by some 
 common misfortune or some wretched craving that 
 neither could withstand. Louis was depressed when he
 
 178 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 left them; and when he afterwards spent a lonely eve- 
 ning in his rooms he was all the more depressed. The 
 state in which he found himself was almost insupport- 
 able. Chilled at such unpromising nuptials, lonely, dis- 
 couraged, he found his sole happiness which, instead 
 of being restorative, only excited him and rendered him 
 still more dissatisfied in gnawing thoughts of Veron- 
 ica. He became morose and emotional, restlessly mov- 
 ing about the room, sitting down again, springing up, 
 talking aloud. Finally: "I can't stand this!" he ex- 
 claimed. "I really can't stand it. It's driving me mad. 
 Either I must see her, or write to her. I must do some- 
 thing.' But what shall I do?" 
 
 in 
 
 And then, on the following morning a Saturday 
 he found a private letter upon his desk at the office. It 
 was from Veronica. Even before he opened it he knew 
 that the letter could be from nobody else. His fingers 
 were slightly trembling as he slit the envelope. Within 
 was a small sheet of paper, covered with writing in a 
 small ill-formed hand, and, at the head, that embossed 
 address in brown lettering after the similitude of bare 
 twigs which the Hughes family always, in defiance of 
 taste, used upon their note-paper. 
 
 "Louis," the letter abruptly began, "You might at 
 least have said you were going. I was not well that 
 evening, and you were beastly. I feel I never want to 
 see you again. I don't know what I am doing, writing 
 to you; but I can't go on like this. One day you will 
 know how silly you have been. But then it will be too 
 late. You are so touchy, nobody can say a word to
 
 VERONICA'S BID 179 
 
 you. You don't care how unhappy you make anybody. 
 Oh, why am I writing like this? I am awfully un- 
 happy. You might at least write and say you are sorry. 
 Don't write here. Mother is too curious about letters. 
 I am coming up to London on Tuesday, to stay with 
 some friends at Stroud Green. I shall be at London 
 Bridge station at three o'clock. If I don't see you then 
 I shall know you don't want to see me any more, and 
 that you've thrown over all your old friends because of 
 this wretched thing that's happened. I wish they had 
 never come to Beckwith. Then we might have gone 
 on as we were, happily. Good-bye. 
 
 "VERA." 
 
 Louis read this letter with breathless attention, smil- 
 ing and half-despising, but also constrained and exhil- 
 arated. It fed his vanity; it made him feel ashamed 
 and exultant. But at least it never entered his head to 
 fail at the rendezvous. He began to plan the meeting, 
 and where they would go. Of course he must see her, 
 and explain something. Where could they go for tea, 
 so that they could talk? His mind was quickly made 
 up. He would meet her . . . his imagination was ac- 
 tive, picturing their meeting. . . . They would go to 
 the Sei strata Cafe, where, at that time in the afternoon, 
 there would be nobody but themselves in its warm 
 depths. One thing, the letter was a clarification. It car- 
 ried them very much farther. Veronica showed that 
 she was not indifferent to him. If he could convince 
 her of the Tightness of his action in leaving Beckwith! 
 Could he do that ? He did not like the idea of clandes- 
 tine interviews; it distressed him that Veronica should 
 make such an appointment. Yet it did not distress him 
 very much, for his blood was hot and he too eagerly 
 welcomed the meeting for any stir of puritanism greatly
 
 180 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 to affect him. The one discomfort was the thought that 
 Veronica should have suggested it. Even there he 
 found an excuse. If she were driven to appoint a secret 
 meeting, it was Beckwith that should be blamed. If 
 Beckwith found fault, then so much the better. Bed 
 with was cursed with the itch for fault-finding. 
 
 How long the day seemed ! How long the week-end ! 
 And, on Tuesday, would the hours never run their slow 
 course! He was on fire; he was half-demented with 
 the good fortune that had come to save him from the 
 agony of gradually encroaching despair. Veronica! 
 Veronica! Over and over again he read her precious 
 letter. 
 
 iv 
 
 Louis was on the platform at London Bridge station 
 long before the train was due. He walked up and down 
 that bleak strip of stone and cement, and was penetrated 
 by a rushing wind that foreboded snow. The time hung 
 as though it would never pass. The station clock and 
 his own watch were affected with the same disease : they 
 hardly moved their dilatory hands. Other trains came 
 round the bends and rattled their way out of the sta- 
 tion. Porters telescoped undistinguishable names in a 
 ridiculous chant. But Veronica's train dallied. It was 
 several minutes after three when at last a heavy signal 
 dropped, and at that moment Louis's impatience became 
 fever. He could no longer continue his promenade. 
 Instead, he took up his position near the stairs down to 
 the street, and stood trembling there. And then at 
 last! 
 
 Veronica jumped from a carriage. He moved for- 
 ward, his eyes on her face. She seemed paler than 
 usual; her manner, perfectly self-possessed, was cold 
 Neither spoke in the first minute, and Louis took he
 
 VERONICA'S BID 181 
 
 bag with a coldness as great as her own. They were 
 not constrained : they were frozen. Only when they 
 were upon the stairs did their arms touch, and Louis 
 gently took her elbow. 
 
 "You've had a rotten journey, I expect," he said; 
 and Veronica, shivering a very little, pressed his hand 
 to her side. 
 
 When they were out of the station Louis touched her 
 no longer. 
 
 "I thought we'd go and have tea at the Seistrata," he 
 explained, leading her across London Bridge. "It's quite 
 near the other side of the bridge." 
 
 She made no answer ; but walked on by his side. They 
 came out upon the bridge, and saw the heavy waters of 
 the river go swirling beneath them, noiseless in the rum- 
 ble of the traffic. Beneath their feet the pavement was 
 thick with greasy mud. Above the city hung a leaden 
 sky, blackened with smoke. All about them omnibuses 
 and cabs and drays made a common din, above which 
 voices could not be heard. It was like being in the midst 
 of thunder ; but no piercing arrows of lightning broke the 
 grimness. They were crushed by the noise and the 
 gloom, two moving atoms in the reverberate city. 
 
 Louis could not tell whether Veronica was timid or 
 thoughtful; if she dreaded their talk or awaited it. He 
 was lost in the sense of her nearness. Once, when he 
 looked down, she was looking up, and their interchange 
 ended in a smile before Veronica's head was turned aside. 
 A hope rose in his breast. He saw no coquetry, no 
 instinct of sullenness to bring about his abasement and 
 a protestation of his love. No resolve was evident to 
 him in her pallor. The words of Veronica's letter came 
 into Louis's mind, and he thought of them as the words
 
 182 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 of a girl, unformed, unused to expressing herself. Even 
 their stubborn, childish crudity increased his sense of 
 their value to him. He was sorry for Veronica, but full 
 also of something far more intricate than compassion, 
 because his emotions were engaged. His eyes were 
 glowing, and his heart too. If they had been truly re- 
 mote, as they only seemed to be, he would have been 
 as humble and as tractable as any lover before his 
 mistress's frown. He would have been all to her. But 
 they were not alone; and Louis was too simple and too 
 honest to think of intrigue. If she had not quite all 
 his heart (and that was because his own heart was as 
 mysterious to him as the heart of another), at least 
 Veronica had all his thoughts. Then pride came to 
 Louis. He was very proud to be with her, thus by her 
 side. She was so slim, so lovely, in spite of the trouble 
 that had pinched and whitened her face. What was 
 he going to say to her ? 
 
 They were at the Seistrata, and in a corner of its silent 
 depths. Upon the walls were heavy tapestries ; upon the 
 floor thick soundless carpets; between table and table 
 jutting screens or tall plants that half -concealed one party 
 from another. Everything was quiet, discreet. Inter- 
 posed, as it were, to keep them from the rest of the world 
 was the impalpable wall of each silence. The waitress 
 received their order and went away; and Veronica drew 
 off her gloves and opened the neck of her short fur coat. 
 Louis watched those slim fingers, marvelling at them. 
 He was extraordinarily conscious of what it would feel 
 like to touch them. Still Veronica did not speak and 
 would not meet his eyes. She seemed unconscious of 
 his gaze, though there was now a faint colour in her 
 cheeks, and a subtle air of relief in her whole demeanour. 
 
 "Are you going to be long away?" Louis desperately 
 asked.
 
 VERONICA'S BID 183 
 
 At last she spoke. 
 
 "I didn't think you'd come," she said. And he did not 
 believe her. Did she think he would do so? 
 
 vi 
 
 "I think you must have felt I should," Louis answered 
 seriously. "I should have written to say I'd come if you 
 hadn't told me not to write. I ought to have written 
 before; but I hadn't . . . hadn't thought of it. I hadn't 
 got so far." 
 
 "No," Veronica said. Louis was vaguely disappointed 
 at the reply. It enabled him to read nothing behind; 
 and he was in dire need of knowing what she wished 
 their relation to be. Well, at least he had told her the 
 truth. He hadn't used the obvious lie that business had 
 prevented him from writing. She resumed in a dry, 
 wounded tone: "I think you might have let me know 
 where you were." 
 
 "I thought you were too sick with me," he protested. 
 
 Their colloquy was interrupted by the waitress, who 
 brought their tea. Veronica moved forward in her chair, 
 her hands hovering. 
 
 "You might have been dead . . . anything," she went 
 on. That was so false that he made no reply; but only 
 looked at her rather wonderingly. "You didn't think 
 that we might be worried." 
 
 "No. I admit I didn't," Louis agreed. "Were you?" 
 
 Veronica drew a quick breath. 
 
 "Oh, I don't know," she said, in a sort of artificially 
 measured voice, deeper than usual. "I thought perhaps 
 you'd come round to apologise, you know . . ." 
 
 "What for?" asked Louis. There was a lightning ex- 
 change of glances. As he took his tea-cup from her 
 hand the tea flittered over into the saucer. Veronica's 
 hand was trembling. "What did you want me to apolo-
 
 184 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 gise for?" he asked again, quite astonished at the hard 
 defiance that had crept into his voice. "I didn't mean 
 to hurt you ; but I don't think I said anything to apologise 
 for, did I?" 
 
 "Well, then, perhaps to give me a chance of apologis- 
 ing," Veronica said, in the same curious voice. 
 
 "Of saying you'd been wrong?" 
 
 "Oh no!" She was answering hardness with hard- 
 ness. 
 
 "Well, I was very angry with you," Louis said. "I 
 didn't want to resume our argument, and yet, you see, 
 I couldn't promise to give my cousins up. In fact, I've 
 left Beckwith on that account." 
 
 "I see. Run away," commented Veronica. 
 
 "Not altogether that. . . . Don't you think you could 
 agree with me, Veronica?" Louis had suddenly, trap- 
 pingly, abandoned his hardness. He was appealing to 
 her. 
 
 "If you were right there'd be no need for me to agree," 
 Veronica prevaricated. 
 
 "Won't you let me explain how right I am?" 
 
 She cast a quick look round, to see that they were not 
 observed. Then, in an irritated tone, she refused his 
 appeal. 
 
 "It's no good beginning all over again," she said 
 sharply. "Besides, there's nothing to argue about." 
 
 "I want you to agree with me . . . Vera! I respect 
 your judgment." 
 
 Still she shook her head, stubborn to repel something 
 she could not imagine. 
 
 "Yes," she retorted. "You respect it when I agree 
 with you." 
 
 "Oh!" cried Louis, thinking. Then, suddenly, he 
 added: "I wonder if you've ever really agreed with me 
 about anything on earth?"
 
 VERONICA'S BID 185 
 
 vn 
 
 Nothing could have hurt Veronica more than that 
 doubt. Louis saw her flinch. She put down her cup, 
 looking away from him, as if she tried to retain com- 
 posure. The corners of her mouth pathetically drooped. 
 When she spoke her voice was unsteady. Tears were in 
 her eyes. 
 
 "Of course I have," she said quickly. "Don't be so 
 horrible! It's you who've changed." 
 
 "Well, then, won't you change, too?" 
 
 "Oh no !" It sounded final. "No !" 
 
 "I've set my heart on it. I want you to be big enough 
 to r.tand by yourself." 
 
 Veronica's cheeks slowly reddened. She appeared not 
 to be able to keep still. 
 
 "It isn't that," she said, in a melancholy way. "You 
 only want me to agree with you. That's all you want. 
 You don't care how much I suffer, so long as I agree 
 with you." 
 
 They both sighed ; and Louis's heart felt leaden within 
 him. 
 
 "I don't really know what I want," he admitted, with 
 a great effort after honesty. He only knew that he 
 wanted her to be kind. Without realising what he was 
 saying, he added eagerly: "But I'm so tired of feeling 
 that I'm hurting you and not doing them any good. Pm 
 just dissatisfied with myself with everything." In that 
 moment, at the slightest sign of self -forgetful love from 
 Veronica, he might have abandoned everything for her. 
 He did not know how far that unpremeditated crystalli- 
 sation of his secret chagrin had carried him beyond ordi- 
 nary self-control. It was a crucial instant, but the in- 
 stant passed, unheeded by either. As she did not reply,
 
 186 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 but, obeying another instinct, continued to look away, 
 determined to conquer that in him which was unconquer- 
 able, Louis went on in another tone. "How is Adela? 
 I hope she's well. And how's Judith? Judith still 
 studying diagrams?" 
 
 With a quick jerk Veronica looked sharply back into 
 Louis's face. Her face altered. It became exasperated, 
 and no longer as though she were intently listening. It 
 was because of the change in his tone, which had been 
 due to a striving after lightness and, for Louis, a neces- 
 sary relief. It almost seemed to him that she had in 
 some way been viciously enjoying their wrangle at least, 
 that she would have preferred to continue wrangling 
 rather than accept the opportunity of improving a topic 
 less personal. For a moment Veronica did not speak. 
 Clearly, she was forcing herself to something. Then : 
 
 "Oh, they're all right," she listlessly answered. "Noth- 
 ing ever changes in Beckwith." Rather indignantly, 
 catching her breath, she went on : "Judy doesn't study 
 diagrams. I don't know what you mean! She just 
 reads a lot. There's no harm in that, I suppose?" At 
 his smile, which was at her sudden warmth, and held no 
 baser significance, she lowered her lids. Agitatedly, she 
 began: "I don't know what you're thinking about us. 
 I'm sure it's not nice as though we weren't nice 
 girls. . . . You seem to think we're funny as if you 
 looked down on us in a lordly way. . . ." As she con- 
 cluded, her voice was trembling again with feeling. 
 
 "I ?" asked Louis, astounded. "Why, Vera ! This is 
 worse than ever !" 
 
 "You used to like us." 
 
 "I do still." 
 
 "No. You don't. I can see you don't. You despise 
 us. She's made you think differently." 
 
 "She?" He felt absolutely at the end of his knowl-
 
 VERONICA'S BID 187 
 
 edge of her. This savage, half -cry ing, defiant Veronica 
 was somebody wholly foreign to his conception of her 
 nature. "She? Who's 'she'?" 
 
 "That girl !" 
 
 "Why . . . Dorothy? How extraordinary this is!. 
 D'you see how . . . She? You do mean Dorothy? 
 Why, Vera; she's a young girl younger than you are. 
 How could she change me? It's absurd!" 
 
 "She has ! You're quite changed. Quite." Veronica 
 spoke almost sullenly. Then, in a fierce, strangled voice,, 
 she cried : "D'you think I can't tell !" 
 
 viii 
 
 Both were trembling vehemently. Louis was too as- 
 tounded to be master of himself; Veronica too madly 
 angry with him to be more than half -a ware of her own 
 folly. And yet the sense of that folly had begun to 
 work in her and to heighten her unhappiness. They 
 could not speak to each other; but, trembling, looked 
 with bent heads at the table-cloth, at the tea-things, at 
 their own clothing. Veronica seemed presently as 
 though she were listening. A knell might have rung in 
 her ears when Louis, violently constraining himself, re- 
 sumed in a dead voice : 
 
 "What time have you to be at your friends' house? 
 You go from Moorgate Street, I suppose?" 
 
 "Broad Street," Veronica said hurriedly. "I'd better 
 go now." 
 
 There seemed nothing for either to say. Both were 
 filled with a numbing pain that kept them, from sheer 
 hopelessness of relief, from going back to their conver- 
 sation. Veronica began to fasten her jacket, and Louis 
 to look at his watch. Long afterwards, when they were 
 half-way to Broad Street in a taxi-cab, Veronica began
 
 188 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 to wipe her eyes ; but Louis was looking out of the win- 
 dow and did not see her. Only when she was in the 
 train, standing at the window as the engine sent its first 
 two or three slow puffs of smoke thundering into the 
 air, Veronica said in a stifled voice : 
 
 "I needn't have gone yet, really. Louis!" 
 She made a motion to open the carriage door. It was 
 too late. And Louis, who had been turning away, hardly 
 knew that she had spoken. So while Veronica cried in 
 the railway carriage Louis walked back to his rooms, 
 coldly stupefied with a sense of failure and bitter disap- 
 pointment
 
 CHAPTER XIII: NADIR 
 
 AFTERWARDS, Louis found himself more restless 
 than he had ever been. The meeting had been a 
 failure; but it had not solved his difficulties. Instead, 
 it had aggravated them. When he thought of the part 
 he had himself played he was aghast. Was this, then, 
 firmness that he had shown? If Veronica had been un- 
 recognisable, so, surely, had he! Unrelenting, unyield- 
 ing, he had forced her to an admission of jealousy; but, 
 so far from exulting in that, he had repelled her, because 
 she had shown no sign of appreciating his position. Ap- 
 parently, he thought, he loved his own view of life 
 better than he loved Veronica ! He had not realised that 
 before. Did he love her at all? 
 
 The problem tormented him to the point of desperate 
 self-ridicule. She had been right: he only wanted her 
 to agree with him. And if Veronica was stubborn, so, 
 Louis now understood, was he. The sense of it made 
 him sigh. Was it simply obstinacy that held them both 
 back from a candid explanation? How difficult things 
 were! Why couldn't they agree? Why could not 
 Veronica see that he was right? Alternatively, why 
 could he not sink his loyalty to William and be happy 
 in a common set of standards with Veronica? Was the 
 cause truly, as Veronica had proclaimed, that he cared 
 more for Dorothy, after all, than for Veronica? He 
 was puzzled and impatient and unhappy. 
 
 189
 
 190 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 But he had been firm ! Oh, he had been firm ! He 
 had been like a man, and he had not known that he could 
 be firm against Veronica. She could not move him! 
 She must fear him ! The thought was palatable. Soon- 
 er or later, she would give in. She was bound to give 
 in, for her opposition was founded on jealousy. His 
 firmness, on the other hand, based itself upon conviction. 
 
 Even in the midst of this satisfactory reflection, Louis 
 felt his heart sinking. What if he lost Veronica? 
 
 ii 
 
 Yes, what if he lost Veronica? If Louis could have 
 seen himself he would have been surprised to notice how 
 pale and rigid were his lips, how deeply glowing his eyes. 
 When he shrugged away that question it was because he 
 could not make up his mind. Some secret tide of indif- 
 ference had set in, chilling him. Like an unhappy child 
 he was fighting to preserve an opinion of Veronica that 
 his perceptions were every minute corroding. The old 
 doubts of her were lurking ever-ready to destroy the fair 
 vision. It was not that his sense of power over her 
 had injured his loyalty, as it might have done if Louis 
 had been a male coquette. He was not withdrawing 
 triumphantly from a now pursuing victim. He was 
 angry and distressed, surprised, repetant, but resolved. 
 Veronica, instead of leaving all wilfully to love and 
 time, was demanding his submission as the price of her 
 love. It was intolerable. It would have been intoler- 
 able if he had been very much more in love than he was; 
 but the position was less favourable to her even than that. 
 In the very moment when she should have been mysteri- 
 ous in his eyes Veronica had lost dignity. She had 
 been driven by that jealousy which is the base metal of 
 love into an attempted tyranny. The love upon which
 
 NADIR 191 
 
 she had relied was not strong enough. Louis that night 
 slept not at all: he was still anxious, dispirited; but his 
 heart was not softened. In the morning, almost with- 
 out plan, he drew from his pocket the much-read note 
 of assignation, and tore it ruthlessly into shreds. He 
 sighed as he did so; but when the last shreds were trem- 
 bling in the fire, black, with little running sparks of dying 
 red still playing in the dead paper, Louis shuddered 
 slightly. It was a shudder in which hopelessness was 
 mingled with relief. All was not yet over; the next 
 days, the next weeks, might revive the emotion he had 
 felt; but for the present Veronica had lost. Aversion, 
 ever so slight, follows any woman's attempt to force the 
 pace in love; and Louis, morose and disappointed, did 
 not yet realise that an adverse current had set in. It 
 was a current which was carrying him, perhaps, a little 
 deeper into the understanding of his own life; but it was 
 also rendering nnnavigable one of the few channels still 
 open to him for any means of reconciliation with Beck- 
 with. 
 
 iii 
 
 And then a very curious thing happened. Mr. Ve- 
 chantor began to come every day to the office. He had 
 thrown aside his sloth, and had resumed work. He now 
 dealt personally with all those things which recently had 
 been in Louis's hands. In a week Louis, who saw his 
 father only in the most casual way, had become a cipher 
 in the firm. No longer were papers upon his desk each 
 morning for attention. They were all taken to Mr, 
 Vechantor's room. The clerks raised eyebrows: when 
 Mr. Vechantor made mistakes, which he did through 
 lack of acquaintance with current business, the clerks 
 came to Louis for their rectification. His father neither
 
 x92 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 came to him nor sent for him. From a position of 
 power, Louis fell in a single week to a position of 
 nothingness. Long hours of idle busy-ness upon unim- 
 portant details kept him at his desk ; but he did nothing 
 that a minor clerk might not have done. Thoughts of 
 expostulation occurred to him ; he planned speeches and 
 letters to his father; but the impossibility of making any 
 impression upon that stubborn mind was so evident that 
 he abandoned all these notions and fell back upon reserve. 
 
 At this time Louis's position was truly pitiable. He 
 was paralysed by his disappointed love for Veronica, 
 and his father's action, which otherwise he might have 
 countered by a protest as arbitrary, robbed him of that 
 occupation which might have distracted his mind. Be- 
 neath the quiet endurance which he imposed upon him- 
 self, Louis suffered the anguish of a sensitive nature. 
 At times he was in such mental agony that he became 
 really ill listless, overstrained, passionately nervous. 
 That made him incapable of action; and the sense of his 
 impotence increased his self-hatred. He saw himself as 
 useless the worst conception of a sick mind. Not only 
 was he useless, but he was even the cause of sorrow to 
 others. Stupid, helpless, useless . . . that was the bur- 
 den of Louis's thoughts. 
 
 Slowly he began to hate his father, to distort his char- 
 acter and his past acts. But in the midst of this distor- 
 tion came a return gust of self -contempt, and Louis re- 
 sumed his helpless baffled feeling of passive hatred. He 
 no longer sought to justify it by distortions. He ran 
 the lengths of all nervous reactions to his disappointment. 
 He could hardly have been more miserable, because he 
 was inactive inert ; and the feeling of defeat was heavy 
 upon him. Never, in all the moods of discouragement 
 which are the penalties paid by every nature capable of 
 feeling acutely, had Louis reached such depths of de-
 
 NADIR 193 
 
 spondency as he now touched. He had gone right down 
 into the trough. Only some startling event could save 
 him from a long period of despair. He seemed alto- 
 gether without objective. The first thrill of his loyalty 
 to Daunton and to his cousins had subsided. It was an 
 additional cause for depression, for he was unhappy 
 about Daunton's uncoloured marriage, and his support of 
 the William Vechantors, so far from helping them, had 
 only increased their difficulties and the hostility with 
 which they had been assailed. 
 
 i : iv ' ;M 
 
 f 
 
 It was at this point that he received a visit one evening 
 from Daunton. He was sitting by the fire in his room, 
 trying to read grave words that made no impression at 
 all upon his mind, when the door was suddenly opened 
 and Daunton made his appearance. Not a jaunty or 
 even a contented Daunton ; but a haggard figure in whose 
 every movement one could read discontent and a sort of 
 misery hard for another man to bear. Even in the first 
 glimpse Louis was moved to a feeling of contempt. 
 Daunton was not the excited young lover, or the deter- 
 mined rebel: he was distraught indeed, but in a weak 
 and undecided way that made sympathy from the outset 
 almost impossible. In Louis's own mood sympathy, so 
 much needed by both, was difficult to evoke. He was 
 himself too miserable to make any effort at identification 
 with the misery of another an easy thing. He started 
 up, drawing forward a second chair ; and then he offered 
 his tobacco pouch and a box of cigarettes with a gesture 
 as near as to that of bored acceptance as his instinctive 
 hospitality could allow. He did not want Daunton before 
 him in any light but that of a successful rebel. Failure 
 here was only another source of exasperation. It told
 
 194 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 him that he had meddled with Daunton's life also for 
 evil. There was no rest at all. Everything had gone 
 wrong. Oh, if he could but let things slide, as happy 
 people did! 
 
 Louis could not let things slide. His mind was too 
 alert to fall into the lethargic inattention that apes con- 
 templativeness. That was why he was now so unhappy. 
 He could not let Veronica go without a thought. He 
 was not coldly selfish, as is the successful amorist or the 
 successful man of business. When he looked at Daunton 
 it was with a sense of responsibility for evil that nothing 
 could have conquered. And that made him ashamed and 
 irritable and contemptuous. He saw in a flash that 
 Daunton, so far from being courageous, as he had be" 
 lieved, had slipped into a relation with Ethel, and a con- 
 fession to himself, and an act of apparent independence, 
 through sheer lack of will to battle with his first impulse. 
 Louis despised such weakness. He despised it all the 
 more because he knew himself to be weak. However he 
 might love freedom he knew he was not himself free. 
 Like Daunton, he was governed entirely by his impulses; 
 and the strongest, without reference to judgment, was 
 the impulse that triumphed. So he glowered at 
 Daunton, who sat with every muscle relaxed, in the arm- 
 chair corresponding to his own. The sight made Louis 
 instinctively stiffen. 
 
 Daunton filled his pipe, slowly puffing and stopping 
 the rising tobacco that curled out from the pipe's bowl. 
 In silence the two sat for several minutes looking at the 
 fire. That silence also was irksome to Louis. Every- 
 thing, in his present mood, would have been irksome to 
 him. When they had been sitting thus for a little while 
 he broke out into a protesting speech. 
 
 "What have you been doing?" he irritably asked. 
 "Are you in town for the evening ?"
 
 NADIR 195 
 
 Datmton roused himself, his long white face gloomily 
 set. 
 
 "Ethel's gone to see some friends. ... I tell you, 
 Vechantor, I can't stand this much longer." 
 
 "Stand what?" demanded Louis sharply. The sudden 
 burst of Daunton's egoism, as though he had planned the 
 opening, jarred him to an unbearable degree. "Aren't 
 you happy?" 
 
 "Happy !" laughed Daunton in a lugubrious voice. "I 
 know what you think of me. I can see it. But you 
 don't understand. You're not a weak chap, like 
 me. . . ." 
 
 "Aren't I !" Louis cried, turning his shoulder, his lids 
 dropping. "It's funny what a difference there is be- 
 tween things and appearances." His tone was dejected, 
 rather than angry; but his anger was appeased. 
 
 Daunton stared at him. To Louis the silence was 
 almost unbearable. He could have shouted savagely, 
 "For God's sake say something! Anything!" but pride 
 checked him. Daunton seemed to have no pride. He 
 had come to tell his woe. Louis could not tell of his 
 grief. It was too bitter. With Daunton the telling 
 lightened the load, and he would complain, perhaps, all 
 his life, in a voluptuous abandonment. 
 
 "Three weeks now since I left home," he resumed; 
 "and there hasn't been a word from them. I might as 
 well not exist. There's cruelty there. . . . Don't you 
 think there is?" He did not wait. "Yes ; there's cruelty 
 there. I'm shut out." 
 
 "But you did it yourself, man!" said Louis suddenly. 
 "You knew what it meant. You had your choice. You 
 chose Ethel. Isn't she worth it?" 
 
 "Ethel! She's a brick. You know, Vechantor, she 
 understands me. She does! And I'm making her mis- 
 erable." Daunton rose to his feet and took a couple of
 
 196 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 steps from the fire so that he could stand half-sitting 
 against a table. "Vechantor, old chap, do for God's 
 sake sympathise a bit. I ought to be as happy as any- 
 thing. She's a real girl. Nothing like anybody you 
 see in Beckwith. Nothing like those damned Hughes 
 girls. . . . But there's this awful craving for home I 
 can't forget it. I feel I've done wrong." 
 
 "You haven't!" cried Louis. "That is, if you're fond 
 of Ethel." 
 
 "Of course I'm fond of her. But we're both wretched 
 because no letter comes. She sees me waiting for it; 
 and she tries to cheer me up. Coaxes me; pretends to 
 be gay. . . . It's no good! I found her crying last 
 night. She said she felt queer; but I knew it was really 
 because I'd been an impatient pig. I don't seem able 
 to get my spirits going. I'm always wanting . . ." 
 
 "Oh, for ... Daunton, my dear chap, I can't stand 
 it! You decided to marry Ethel. You had to choose, 
 and you chose. But you want both things. . . ." 
 
 Daunton did not answer for a moment. At last he 
 said: 
 
 "I know it's too bad to worry you with it. But do you 
 know you're the only friend I've got? Perhaps I'm not 
 your friend. But you've been mine. Oh, you know it ! 
 I'm so devilish lonely. I can't go to anybody because 
 when they look down their noses at me I get flustered 
 and lose my temper. You don't do that. I can see you 
 despise me; but you don't do it as they do. You're 
 aggravated with me because you think I'm grizzling. 
 They only think I'm funny. That's the difference. 
 That's why I came up here to-night. I knew you'd be 
 ratty ; but anything's better than indifference. Anything. 
 It's just what I can't bear to think of them at home 
 cutting me right out of their lives, as if I was infec- 
 tious ... as if I was a leper. And of course they
 
 NADIR 197 
 
 know it. It's the same old game. It's the way they've 
 always done . . . always. ... I could give you instance 
 after instance, in my own life. . . .Vechantor, did you 
 ever hear about me and Vera Hughes . . ." 
 
 Louis felt the blood flush his cheeks. When he was 
 able to speak his voice was indistinct. He hoped it did 
 not give him away. 
 
 "Something," he said. 
 
 "Well, there's a thing . . ." Daunton stared at the 
 fire. "It was all her doing ... I mean, she worked on 
 me and said . . . Oh, she's a little cat. . . . D'you 
 know, Vechantor . . . it's a beast of a thing to say; 
 but I could have married any of those three girls. When 
 I was a kid I used to go with Adela. . . . Then, when 
 I was eighteen or nineteen there was the fuss with Vera. 
 My word, she was hot stuff! There's something in 
 them ... I don't know what it is. ... Now, of course, 
 it's Judith. Mater had fixed it all up. If it wasn't the 
 one it was to be the other. I can't stand Judith not 
 at any price. And I know the others too well. And 
 the funny thing is that it's Judith who's being pushed 
 off now. You couldn't see it, I expect; but to anybody 
 who knows the game it's screamingly comic. Look at 
 Dumaresque, now. He was mad about Veronica. . . . 
 But that didn't suit Mrs. Hughes. She'd got other plans 
 for Vera. Other plans, d'you see. But Dumaresque 
 was to be hooked elsewhere. It wasn't Adela this time. 
 I suppose she wouldn't. They were trying to put him 
 on to Judy. To transfer him from Vera to Judy. I 
 could see it all. I always did see it all ; but I never had 
 the courage to say so. ... It's that that makes mater 
 wild. She was in exactly the same taking about Vera, 
 and I was sent to Coventry for a month. It was mad, 
 I admit; and I know I'm a beast to talk about it. But 
 there it is. She was always getting squeezed up in cor-
 
 198 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 ners with me, and writing me notes, and meeting me in 
 the lanes. And I was drunk with a sort of feeling that 
 I was being flattered. I suppose I was in love with her. 
 I don't know what she was with me. . . . Somehow 
 that's what happens in Beckwith. They swaddle you 
 all up, and you're bound to break out on the quiet; and 
 then ... no, they don't beat you, or shut you up: 
 they're scandalised, and they show you you're not decent. 
 They cast you out. And the devil of it is, it's so effec- 
 tive. It's not effective to keep you from going wrong; 
 but it's effective for making you as miserable as hell 
 afterwards. It's the punishment , they're keen on. It 
 satisfies their cruelty. They're malignant with cruelty, 
 and instead of making you good they drive you away, 
 and break your nerve for life. Mater doesn't care what 
 happens to me, so long as I'm punished. They didn't 
 care not one of them what happened to Vera ; so long 
 as she was punished. What's the result? She hates me. 
 She's got the kind of nature that makes a girl get hold of 
 a weak chap like me and despise him. She hasn't got 
 the nerve herself to stand up to a real man : if she had, 
 she'd be some good. If she got hold of a man who'd 
 cut all meetings in the dark, all the hysterical little 
 smothered kisses and cowardly secrets, she'd very likely 
 fall in love with him and be a woman. Ach ! They're 
 all alike. All these Hughes girls. They've been forced 
 into it by that beast of a mother. She's like my mother. 
 They're a pair. Both as coarse and as cruel. . . . And 
 she's treating me as if I was a leper . . ." 
 
 "For God's sake . . . For God's sake!" groaned 
 Louis, stupefied with this incoherent raving, which was 
 all the time wounding and bruising. "What on earth 
 d'you think's the good of pouring all this out at me? 
 It only makes me sick, and doesn't help you." 
 
 "It does help me. Look here, Vechantor . . . No,
 
 NADIR 199 
 
 old man : listen ! I wrote to mother, telling her what I'd 
 done; saying what a good wife Ethel was, and all that. 
 I asked her to write and say she forgave me only that ! 
 Not a word has come. Then, a week ago, I wrote again 
 just a note saying how sorry I was not to have heard 
 anything. I'm afraid it was a bit of a wail. . . . Well, 
 I can't help it! But it wasn't abject !" 
 
 Louis groaned to himself. What was the good of 
 talking to this egomaniac? He turned round in his 
 chair, so that he could see Daunton, forcing himself to 
 speak. 
 
 "If you grizzle, it's not fair to Ethel," he said. 
 "You've no right to grizzle. And they're not worth it." 
 He felt unbearable excitement rising within his breast. 
 "I can't think what's the matter with you!" he cried. 
 "You get married as if you were being sentenced. D'you 
 think you don't owe something to your wife? Why, 
 it's intolerable that you should be making her wretched 
 because of these beastly people. Intolerable! She's 
 given up everything for you : why not you for her ? Why 
 not? You make me tired! You won't kick back! 
 Good God! You ought to be kicking me, and you're 
 just mulishly listening. You ought to be scorning your 
 home people making a new home for yourself ..." 
 He stopped, breathless. 
 
 "I know," eagerly answered Daunton. "I know I 
 ought about making a new life. You're absolutely 
 right, Vechantor. But then, you're different ! You can 
 do these things. You can live to yourself. I can't. 
 I've got no resources." 
 
 "You've got Ethel!" flashed Louis. "Think of her, 
 man!" 
 
 Daunton met his glance with lifeless, hopeless eyes. 
 He slowly shook his head. 
 
 "I've always been weak-kneed," he said slowly, with a
 
 200 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 hovering smile of distress. "I was brought up weak- 
 kneed. Because it made me easier to manage." 
 
 Suddenly he dropped his pipe and put both hands up 
 to his face, pressing them against his cheeks, his eyes 
 covered. 
 
 Louis moved uneasily under this silent confession of 
 shame. He could not look at Daunton. For Daunton 
 was showing the despair that Louis could only feel. 
 More volatile than Louis he was able to give expression 
 to his sorrow; while Louis, in greater agony because 
 misery, having no such outlet, went deeper and deeper 
 into his soul, was torn between envy and contempt. 
 
 At last Daunton's hands dropped. Mechanically, 
 ashamed of himself, he relighted his pipe and began once 
 more to smoke. When he spoke again it was in a more 
 ordinary voice. 
 
 "I'm not so badly off as she is," he said. "I'm too 
 selfish. She's not. I see her watching me, not thinking 
 about herself at all. I tell you, Vechantor: you ought 
 to get married yourself. You've no idea what it means." 
 
 Louis winced. When that was all dead. When 
 Daunton himself had added dreadful words to Louis's 
 dismay. With an ironic, insincere attempt to bluster, 
 insincere because his heart was closed against Daunton 
 and his despair was corroding his sympathies, he re- 
 torted : 
 
 "You're the ideal picture of married happiness." 
 
 "I'm ashamed of myself." 
 
 "I think you ought to be," Louis admitted. "For 
 hankering after old things." 
 
 Daunton left the table and returned to his chair. 
 
 "I shall be better now," he said. "You said you were
 
 NADIR 201 
 
 weak: you're not. I'll tell you why. There's some- 
 thing about you that makes me know you're straight. I 
 believe straightness is the finest thing on earth. You're 
 straight. I can say things to you . . . anything I feel; 
 and know that even if you despise me you do it not out 
 of conceitedness . . . but out of a sort of well-wishing- 
 ness. Oh, I wish I were you! I wish I had your 
 strength ! I'd be a man then !" 
 
 He was smiling now a light in his face that made its 
 haggardness disappear. 
 
 Still Louis could not confide. He did not respect 
 Daunton enough. He was chained to silence. 
 
 "It's all illusion," he said at last painfully. "I like 
 you. I'd like to help you. But what's the good of 
 wishing? If I try to help anybody I seem to push them 
 deeper in the mud. Besides, I'm impatient with you. I 
 see you trying your hardest to make a mess of things." 
 
 "It's true," Daunton ruefully assented. "You don't 
 like me very much, do you?" 
 
 "Oh, my dear chap !" protested Louis. 
 
 "Well, you're a good friend, anyway. You expect me 
 to do my best. That's what friendship is. You make 
 me want to get your good opinion. I mean, I think to 
 myself : 'Vechantor wouldn't do that . . .' or 'He 
 wouldn't think much of me if I did this.' If only you'd 
 believe in me a bit more, I believe I could . . ." 
 
 "You've got Ethel to believe in you," Louis cried 
 sharply. 
 
 Daunton hesitated. 
 
 "D'you think she's got any reason to do that?" he 
 asked. Louis shrugged, and Daunton went on : "She 
 knew I was weak. I'm disappointing her. I seem to 
 say the wrong thing and make her miserable make her 
 feel she's done me an injury. Oh God! What it is to 
 be a coward!"
 
 202 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 "Rubbish !" cried Louis. "Don't start it all over again. 
 Far better go home, say to Ethel that you're a fool but 
 that you're not going to be a fool any more. Forget 
 the people at home, and set yourself to make a new 
 home. Oh ... oh, be a man !" That was his savage 
 conclusion, in a voice that brought the colour to Daun- 
 ton's cheeks. Daunton rose again, and went to the door. 
 
 "I see," he said unsteadily. "All the same, you're a 
 brick. You make me feel I can do it. Can I come 
 again ?" 
 
 "Yes; when you're grown up!" Louis said bitterly. 
 He heard the door close. Then, as Daunton had done, 
 he put his hands to his face, his cool finger-tips upon his 
 burning eyelids, in unspeakable anguish. 
 
 VI 
 
 The next day saw the culmination of this phase of 
 Louis's life. A certain large account the largest in 
 which the firm engaged was periodically examined and 
 analysed. This work had for years been done in con- 
 junction by Louis and the firm's chief clerk. Upon this 
 day of the month the account was due for analysis, but 
 it was not as usual brought in to Louis. Meeting the 
 chief clerk, Louis said casually: 
 
 "Oh, isn't this the day for Marchants' account?" 
 
 "Yes, Mr. Louis. But your father has been going 
 through it with me himself," explained the clerk. "He 
 said I wasn't to trouble you with it." 
 
 "I see," said Louis steadily. "That's quite all right, 
 Mr. Steed. So long as it hasn't been overlooked." 
 
 He returned quietly to his room, his face the colour of 
 ashes, and his fists clenched. For a moment he stood 
 moodily by his desk. Then, with a bitter smile, he drew
 
 NADIR 203 
 
 from his pocket the bunch of small keys which he always 
 carried. These he laid upon the desk. From the prin- 
 cipal drawer of the desk he took some papers, which he 
 destroyed. His calendar was awry: he straightened it, 
 drawing his chair close against the desk. With no fur- 
 ther sound he took his hat and overcoat from their 
 pegs, donned them, and walked out of the room, closing 
 the door softly behind him. His brain was quite active, 
 searching in memory for any work left undone that 
 might cause inconvenience in the office if it were not re- 
 called; but then, as his work was always methodically 
 completed, and as he could think of nothing unfinished, 
 he left the building and was instantly lost in the crowd 
 that presses all day backwards and forwards along 
 Liverpool Street and Gracechurch Street.
 
 BOOK TWO: LOVERS
 
 CHAPTER XIV: THE REBEL 
 
 OUT in Beckwith the crocuses were just pushing 
 their first green above the earth. There was a 
 good deal of cold rain, and the earliest signs of the 
 turning year were apparent to those who could recognise 
 them. The days passed very slowly a little lighter each 
 morning and evening, a little more luminous while they 
 lasted. In the houses life went on as usual; in the shops 
 none as yet could tell the change of the season. Only 
 in two shops were changes apparent. Flisk's, near the 
 station, where the poor people dealt, was more crowded 
 than ever with goods, but they were goods of a higher 
 class than before. Peel's, in the High Street, although 
 still well stocked with goods, was empty of customers. 
 William Vechantor stood ever-ready behind his counter; 
 Flisk had a smart new young assistant who called each 
 morning for orders, mounted upon his bicycle and wear- 
 ing an apron of which one corner was folded back and 
 tucked into his waistband. What was loss to Peel's was 
 gain to Flisk's. Flisk counted his money in secret mar- 
 vel, and his books gave him a nightly delight. Already 
 he was making ambitious plans for extension of his 
 newly-prosperous business. 
 
 In the back room upon the first floor over William 
 Vechantor's shop sat Dorothy, frowning over some ac- 
 counts. Her face was very grave, her mouth drawn, 
 and her brow puckered. Over her neat dress she had a 
 
 207
 
 208 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 large dark overall that made her look like a child; in 
 her hand she held a pencil. She was alone, gloomily 
 surveying the wreckage of Peel's business. The bills 
 did not give much pleasure to Dorothy. She had no 
 need of her natural shrewdness to realise the position. 
 The days went on, and orders were few; accounts had 
 been closed ; casual customers were now the chief feature 
 of a business that had thrived upon its short-credit sys- 
 tem. The outlook was bad. William would not let it 
 appear so; but Dorothy and her mother, exchanging 
 quick clear glances, knew that even his cheery and reso- 
 lute spirit was showing signs of distress. As for Doro- 
 thy and her mother, they in private shook heavy heads, 
 seeing beyond this mood of discouragement other moods 
 of even greater difficulty. Already they were watching 
 William's face as he examined the weekly returns from 
 his Holloway shop. In that shop lay their hope, but 
 even there it became clear that there might be need of 
 greater energy, if returns were not to sink. More than 
 once, lately, had William been forced to spend an entire 
 Sunday with his manager, very seriously discussing the 
 steps to be taken for more persistent effort. 
 
 Dorothy knew all this. She knew an extraordinary 
 amount for her years. With her fierce, eager, ruthless 
 temperament, she surveyed Beckwith and Holloway alike, 
 summarily deciding their parts in the world of men and 
 women. Beckwith was snobbish and pretentious : Hollo- 
 way needy and drab. She walked in Beckwith's streets 
 and lanes, recognising the people she met, criticising 
 them, their taste, their bearing. Nothing was safe from 
 her alert and fearless eye. The streets, the houses, the 
 shops, the people she criticised them all : she knew how 
 she could improve all of them, and because of her youth 
 and unconscious arrogance she betrayed the nature of her 
 candid summaries. Beckwithians did not like her: they
 
 THE REBEL 209 
 
 froze, and looked sidewise at her with long retaliatory 
 glances of hostility. It seemed to them such impudence 
 that a grocer's daughter should dress like that and give 
 herself such airs as Dorothy appeared to do. Really, 
 what was one coming to! Well might Mr. Toppett 
 speak of the industrial ferment! Old gentlemen, hear- 
 ing their daughters so excited, shook their heads, saying : 
 "Ah, Jack's as good as his master now. ... It was dif- 
 ferent in the old days. You knew where you were, 
 then. . . ." Everywhere the same first resentful com- 
 ment persisted. It was almost as though the girl did not 
 realise that she was being ignored. Almost, one might 
 have said, it was she who carried her head highest of 
 all. The ladies of Beckwith were the people who most 
 resented Dorothy. They were often they said quite 
 amused at the airs she gave herself. And when one 
 says one is amused at anything, one generally indicates 
 another emotion altogether. They wondered how long 
 it would be before the shop was shut, or the business 
 sold. 
 
 Dorothy, indignantly conning bills, had a subconscious 
 awareness of this general suppressed malignance towards 
 herself. It was not present to her, for her mind was 
 busy otherwise. The lesson of the accounts was already 
 fully known to her, and she was lost in a reverie. In 
 that reverie was the strangest mingled yarn of a young 
 girl's thoughts ambitions, angers, sweetnesses, plans 
 for the morrow, plans for the distant future, thoughts of 
 clothes and beauties, music, food, and ideals, all were 
 involved in her dreams, inextricably curled about each 
 other as was the poet's love about the world. Dorothy's 
 face was sober, but there was a tenderness in her eyes 
 that softened her whole appearance. She was not thus 
 the self-possessed girl who riddled the pretensions of 
 Beckwith, but one much wiser and finer. Presently she
 
 210 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 put down her pencil, and, leaning forward, rested her 
 elbows upon the table and her chin within her two hands. 
 Her fingers crept up until they pinched her cheeks, so 
 deep in thought was Dorothy. She smiled to herself, 
 and frowned, and smiled again. 
 
 "Why doesn't he come?" she was thinking. "Why 
 doesn't he come ? I want him to come !" 
 
 11 
 
 And then her attention strayed. Often during her 
 walks she met three girls, smartly dressed in the Beck- 
 with fashion, which was almost, but not quite, the fashion 
 observed in the West End of London, speaking to each 
 other when they wished to be or were likely to be over- 
 heard in the drawling refinement of the suburbs. They 
 always omitted the "r" in words: they said "yaw" for 
 "your," and "faw-faive" for "four-or-five," and "eaou" 
 for "oh," and "thawt" for "thought," and emphasised 
 words such as "so sweet," in a superior way that made 
 them the linguistic equals of all the best people in Beck- 
 with, who observe this drawl with pathetic belief in tone 
 and inflection. And every time Dorothy met these three 
 girls, who were always together, and always wore these 
 almost fashionable and sometimes pretty and tasteful 
 clothes, she was conscious of limitless comparisons. She 
 spoke more correctly than they did, she dressed on the 
 whole more becomingly; but there was a spark of envy in 
 her contemplation. Like all those who are rather different 
 from their fellows she wished to have her cake and to eat 
 it at the same time. She envied them their complacent 
 conventionality, because, although she could not have so 
 expressed it, they had a tradition behind them. She saw 
 Adela and Judith and Veronica in their place in the
 
 THE REBEL 211 
 
 Beckwithian world. Only she was outside, something 
 different ; a girl, as they were girls, but a girl apart. Not 
 for worlds would she have exchanged the character of 
 Dorothy Vechantor for the character of any Hughes girl 
 in England; but she envied them their lack of oddness. 
 She wanted to be odd and not odd ; she wanted to be able 
 to say "Hullo !" to these girls, because she had no quarrel 
 with them; but when she saw their unfriendly eyes her 
 heart was hardened. She criticised them; the conven- 
 tionality she envied in one moment she despised in the 
 next. They seemed so content, and Dorothy so restless. 
 
 Thoughts of the Hughes girls pressed upon her. She 
 could mimic them in her own mind, piercing their silly 
 pretensions and scorning their unfriendliness. But the 
 refrain in her mind was always: "Why am I different? 
 Why do they think themselves better than I? When 
 they're not!" If she spoke about this thing to her 
 mother, Mum only tried to soothe her; so that Dorothy 
 was irritated. There was nobody with whom she could 
 so candidly discuss the problem as to bring to her 
 wounded heart the relief of being comprehended. She 
 was lonely: it is the penalty paid by oddness. Dorothy 
 would not have relinquished her oddness for all the re- 
 wards of Beckwith. 
 
 One day she had seen a dear old lady walking slowly 
 across the common. She thought to herself that she had 
 never seen such a dear old lady; and Dorothy liked old 
 ladies who were not moribund or malicious. This old 
 lady had white hair, and a soft pleasant colour in her 
 cheeks, and a sweet mouth and gentle eyes. At the first 
 glimpse of her Dorothy felt strangely friendly, and 
 wanted to nod and smile to the old lady. She walked 
 briskly on, filled with a sense of the lovely day and the 
 happy knowledge that in Beckwith there was one nice 
 person; and as she drew abreast of the old lady she
 
 212 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 looked sharply up, so as to smile at her. It was with 
 a shock that she saw the old lady's head averted, so that 
 their eyes did not meet. For many minutes Dorothy 
 trembled under that disappointment. She was a child 
 still, to be wounded by an unexpected and causeless lack 
 of response to her charm. She quickly guessed the iden- 
 tity of the old lady. 
 
 Of Mrs. Vechantor, therefore, she thought sometimes 
 in her musings. Of a puzzling Mrs. Vechantor who 
 would have been so beautiful to know if Dorothy had 
 not been her cousin! Of one who really would have 
 nodded and smiled to the daughter of the grocer, but who 
 would not risk giving encouragement to a possibly im- 
 portunate relative! Dorothy thought of her as "Louis's 
 mother," and in a sympathetic way was sorry for her; 
 but that did not prevent a little trembling of agitation, 
 of indignant pride, whenever she recalled that meeting. 
 
 And then back came Dorothy's thoughts to Louis. 
 Her heart swelled because he had been their champion. 
 All that weakness which Louis destructively saw in him- 
 self was hidden from Dorothy, or was transfigured in 
 her eyes. She felt that he had meant to stand by them ; 
 she was ashamed to have rebuffed him at first. She ex- 
 alted his loyalty, and even his resolution, which to Louis 
 in his sense of failure had become so inglorious. His 
 face appeared before her eyes. She reflected upon him, 
 shrewdly, kindly, seeing a weakness altogether unrealised 
 by Louis. She planned for him, as well as for herself. 
 She planned work for him, a future ; she was ambitious 
 for him. Louis was worthy of something better than 
 Beckwith, better than stagnation in his father's office. 
 And it was Dorothy who was to inspire him. Contrary 
 to all the canons of Beckwith, Dorothy, without waiting 
 for the thunder-clap of a proposal of marriage, had 
 fallen rather in love with her cousin. It was a love
 
 THE REBEL 
 
 different in kind from that of Beckwith girls. She did 
 not see a home, and babies, and silver, and little dinner- 
 parties. How odd! She saw Louis engaged in what 
 she called "doing something worth while." She saw 
 him using his brains, saw herself helping him, not for 
 any accession of social importance to herself or to Louis, 
 but for the love of the thing, an eager reaching-out to 
 infinite virtue. She had slipped into it unawares, in 
 the course of her broodings. It was a curious dream; 
 but it made Dorothy smile with happiness. It made her 
 forget Beckwith, and the Hughes girls, and Mrs. Ve- 
 chantor. All she needed was the presence of Louis, so 
 that her dreams might be put to the best of contact with 
 actual possibilities. But wasn't Louis going to receive 
 a surprise in this remarkable new crystallisation of his 
 character ! 
 
 iii 
 
 Dorothy sighed in the midst of her dreaming. After 
 all, she suddenly understood, she was only a silly, poorly- 
 educated girl. She knew she was intelligent: she could 
 not help knowing that. Her rebelliousness came from 
 the knowledge that she was better than her opportunities 
 gave her any chance of showing. But the thought of 
 Louis was not any ambitious hitching of her wagon to 
 a star : it was disinterested. It was only eager and 
 impulsive, not calculated. She had never met anybody 
 like Louis. His strangeness drew her strangeness: he 
 was odd, as she was odd. In her arrogance she almost 
 shouted, "Thank God for oddness!" never realising 
 that the exaltation of oddness is the exaltation of anarchy 
 and the beginning of a call for persecution. She was 
 in conflict with a natural law. She was a rebel, glorify- 
 ing rebellion. Is it any wonder that Beckwith instinc rf 
 tively felt Dorothy to be a dangerous person ?
 
 214, SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 Back came her eyes to the books upon the table before 
 her. Here were no dreams; but ugly illustrations of 
 facts still more ugly. Bills that were for small sums; 
 pages which were ruled off as things completed ; a few 
 bills that would never be paid. Another deep sigh shook 
 Dorothy. 
 
 "Oh!" she cried. "If there wasn't all this money- 
 grubbing in the world! If there were real love! In- 
 stead of this hatred! They call themselves Christians! 
 Virtuous people!" 
 
 For a few moments she was very cynical. And then 
 she heard the door beside the shop opened, and her 
 mother's voice upon the stairs, and another, unfamiliar 
 voice. Dorothy pricked up her ears. Not Louis ! Oh, 
 not Louis ! But whom could it be ? 
 
 iv 
 
 It was Mrs. Toppett, and Mrs. Toppett shy and smil- 
 ing. 
 
 "How d'you do," she said; and shook hands with a 
 Dorothy who was rather suspicious of this unexpected 
 visitor. The clergyman's wife was a small pale woman, 
 not very interestingly dressed, rather nervous in manner, 
 with strained eyes that made her seem to be always put- 
 ting the best face upon things in spite of incurable 
 melancholy and lack of stamina. Mrs. Toppett pro- 
 ceeded. "It was so nice of your mother to take such 
 lovely eatables to Mrs. Humphries. Poor old soul : she's 
 so grateful! And your mother said you had found out 
 about Mrs. Humphries and told about her; so I thought 
 I'd like to come in and thank you, Miss Vechantor. I've 
 been rather unwell, and so I haven!t been round to my 
 poor people for a week. And my husband's such a busy 
 man that he hasn't been able to go himself." 
 
 She spoke rather quickly, as if she were embarrassed.
 
 THE REBEL 215 
 
 Dorothy softened, stiffening again only at the mention of 
 Mr. Toppett, whom she had so often seen calling upon 
 his richer parishioners. 
 
 "Is Mrs. Humphries better?" she asked. 
 
 "Much better. She wants you to go and see her again. 
 She's been praising you to the skies." Mrs. Toppett 
 meant only to be amiable ; but Dorothy read patronage in 
 this eager flattery. Particularly when Mrs. Toppett 
 concluded : "She says you're better than all the doc- 
 tors . . ." 
 
 "And tracts," added Mrs. William. Mrs. Toppett 
 smiled ruefully. 
 
 "Yes: I'm afraid she did say that," she admitted. 
 "But I told her how naughty it was." 
 
 "Do you like tracts?" asked Dorothy bluntly. A 
 shadow crossed Mrs. Toppett's eyes. 
 
 "Well, I don't send them to Mrs. Humphries. The 
 distribution of tracts is . . ." She stopped suddenly, 
 and, with a charming ingenuousness, stepping a little 
 towards Dorothy, went on : "It's not quite in my line. 
 But you won't tell anybody I said that, will you, Miss 
 Vechantor?" 
 
 Dorothy smiled. 
 
 "I shan't see anybody to tell," she said dryly. Her 
 mother had gone out of the room, and she was alone 
 with Mrs. Toppett. "The whole of Beckwith, except 
 the poor people, thinks I'm poisonous." 
 
 Mrs. Toppett, with all the tact of the simple and good- 
 natured person, countered that. 
 
 "/ don't," she remarked. "And . . . well, it's not a 
 thing one can talk about, is it?" They stood looking at 
 each other. Then Mrs. Toppett sighed. "I'm as sorry 
 as I can say," she gently added. 
 
 "Is your husband sorry?" relentlessly asked Dorothy. 
 
 Mrs. Toppett did not answer. She looked pleadingly
 
 216 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 at Dorothy, and that glance, from a young woman to a 
 girl, touched Dorothy more than any protest could have 
 done. It was a request for tolerance, it was an apology, 
 a rebuke. It softened Dorothy because it showed her 
 the possibility that even a Christian might be a human 
 being, which, in the swift assumption that the unchar- 
 itableness of Beckwith was characteristically Christian, 
 Dorothy had been inclined hitherto to disbelieve. 
 
 "Are you going to have some tea?" Dorothy asked. 
 
 "Your mother was so kind ..." 
 
 "Do sit down. I'll just move these books. . . ." 
 Dorothy was all humility. Mrs. Toppett had shown her 
 the way. Dorothy thought: "What a dreadful thing to 
 be a clergyman's wife. And to love him!" Her eyes 
 shone with pity for Mrs. Toppett. 
 
 "D'you know, I wish something could be done," Mrs. 
 Toppett began. "It's so difficult . . ." 
 
 "About what?" Dorothy asked dangerously. 
 
 "I wanted you to come and play at our concerts. The 
 poor people like them so much. . . . You do play, don't 
 you? . . . Generally Adela Hughes comes. . . ." 
 
 Dorothy laughed slightly. 
 
 "I think the . . . the poor people would like comic 
 songs best," she said. 
 
 "Ah, but we're trying to educate them to better 
 things. . . ." . 
 
 "Ragtime?" 
 
 "Oh no. ... Ballads. ... Of course, an occasional 
 comic song. ... Of course! Mr. Bastable comes over 
 from Sevenoaks. He's so droll, and sings those charm- 
 ing songs of Albert Chevalier's. . . . And Mr. Dean 
 gives us readings from Dickens, or recites something like
 
 THE REBEL 217 
 
 'The Raven,' or something well-known. And little Miss 
 Corntoft plays on her clarinet. And Veronica Hughes 
 sings. She has a very pretty voice, you know. She's 
 such a nice girl." 
 
 "But you see, Mrs. Toppett, they're so frightened in 
 case I want to ... to pretend I'm not the grocer's 
 daughter. And of course I feel I'm rather like a human 
 being." 
 
 "Oh, Miss Vechantor !" Mrs. Toppett looked vaguely 
 distressed. "I don't like to hear you talk like that. 
 Surely we're not as ... in these democratic days . . ." 
 But she was constrained. 
 
 "I'm only judging by the way everybody has treated 
 me since we've been here. I haven't wanted to scrape 
 acquaintance with anybody; but I have felt rather sick 
 at the way everybody's drawn their skirts away from us. 
 I know it's principally because of our name. Still, when 
 you speak of my helping at the concerts I suppose they 
 are liked, I can't help feeling that if I were to come and 
 sing or play the other girls would make excuses not to 
 come . . ." 
 
 "I'm sure they wouldn't," cried Mrs. Toppett stoutly. 
 "They're not like that." 
 
 "And your husband wouldn't like it." 
 
 There was a silence, an exchanged glance. Mrs. Top- 
 pett knew that Dorothy was speaking the truth; but she 
 could not, in her impulsive wish that everybody should 
 be friends, accept the horrible truth that there was no 
 general atmosphere of friendliness outside the accepted 
 radius of geniality. 
 
 "If I can ... If I ask you to come. Will you?" 
 
 "I should like very much to come." 
 
 "And sing?" Mrs. Toppett's face brightened. "My 
 dear ... If everybody knew what a nice girl you were, 
 they'd . . ."
 
 218 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 "But I'm not a nice girl," Dorothy said. It gave Mrs, 
 Toppett a shock. 
 
 "I'm sure you are," she answered. "And I don't know 
 why you say you aren't. And you do think I'm . . . 
 well, sincere . . . don't you ?" She was very appealing. 
 
 "I think you're lovely," Dorothy cried sharply; and 
 the tears started to her eyes at Mrs. Toppett's flush of 
 pleasure. 
 
 "You see, I'm rather lonely, too, in Beckwith," said 
 Mrs. Toppett, in a very low voice. "I feel as though I'd 
 been buried alive ..." 
 
 She was as shocked with herself as any Beckwithian, 
 overhearing her, could have been. But Mrs. Toppett 
 had always been subject to these impulsive bursts of in- 
 discretion. She was one of those feeble women who 
 are sometimes attacked by social panic and the longing 
 for love that is more than peckish. And she had been 
 in Beckwith for six years without finding a single open 
 heart outside Apple House. 
 
 "That must be horrible !" said Dorothy in quick sym- 
 pathy. Mrs. Toppett recovered herself. 
 
 "Don't tell anybody !" she whispered, with a finger to 
 her lips. 
 
 Mrs. William appeared at the door, carrying a little 
 white tablecloth. 
 
 vi 
 
 For the remainder of Mrs. Toppett's visit they talked 
 of all sorts of indifferent matters, and the clergyman's 
 wife impressed both Dorothy and Mrs. William with a 
 sense of her extreme simplicity and good-nature. They 
 both liked her, and were both subtly sorry for her. She 
 was almost entirely without "manner" (Beckwith serv- 
 ants always doubted, because of this trait, whether she 
 were really "gentry" at all) ; and when she spoke of her-
 
 THE REBEL 219 
 
 self it was without any of that anxious deprecating 
 vanity that is so common in Beckwith. She referred to 
 no canon, no bishop, no social light. All her talk was 
 of her babies and her old home ; and she seemed to con- 
 vey the notion that she really liked sitting in a grocer's 
 parlour and talking with two undistinguished persons. 
 She left a very kind impression indeed. The little em- 
 phatic clinging of her hand to Dorothy's hand, and the 
 backward glance of liking and trust which she bestowed 
 at parting were as sweet and cordial as any sensitive 
 heart could have wished. 
 
 As she went upstairs again Dorothy felt her heart 
 mounting exultantly. 
 
 "How nice she is !" she cried. "How nice she is!" In 
 a flash her mind turned once more to Louis, wishing that 
 he could share this moment of happiness. Did Louis 
 like Mrs. Toppett? Did Mrs. Toppett like Louis? 
 Why, they had not once mentioned him ! And yet Louis 
 had been in Dorothy's heart all the time. She saw him 
 in her mind's eye, cool and handsome, and the picture 
 reassured her. 
 
 "Though I wish he'd take his moustache off," she shyly 
 thought. "Beastly glossy little thing!" 
 
 Her cheeks felt warm at such criticism. Louis would 
 not like such a thought in her. Would he mind it? 
 How careful she would have to be, so that his feelings 
 should never be hurt ! Louis ! Poor Louis ! But where 
 was he ? Why did he not come to see them ? 
 
 "I wish he'd come!" she thought. "I want him to 
 rome soon !"
 
 CHAPTER XV: BELOW THE SURFACE 
 
 BUT Louis did not come. He neither came nor 
 wrote, and his silence, occurring at that time, 
 deepened Dorothy's love for him as nothing else could 
 have done. Had she seen him each day, with their 
 comradeship established, love might have been a slow 
 growth : deprived of the sight of him, Dorothy was aware 
 of increasing desire, a preoccupation, a craving. She 
 became stiller, more silent. Her expression was graver. 
 She lived a great deal in a few days, thinking about him 
 during her walks and during silent evenings. As she 
 lay in bed, waiting for sleep, she turned restlessly, always 
 preoccupied with Louis and only Louis. She, like Ethel, 
 had never been in love before. She had had no juvenile 
 love-affairs, none of those girlish intrigues that are car- 
 ried on with so many little lies and subterfuges in every 
 quarter of the civilised world. The mingled sweetness 
 and anxiety of her thoughts, her extraordinary ignorance 
 of Louis, gave a new reflectiveness to her character. It 
 was not that she invented a new and romantic Louis : she 
 resembled, rather, one of those devoted men who decipher 
 ancient inscriptions. She "edited" Louis. She read 
 meanings, she linked odd memories. It was young love ; 
 but it was deep and sincere love, that would last. She 
 was very happy, with a curious pained happiness that 
 was half made up of longing. She laughed sometimes to 
 herself, only half-realising that she was in love, but 
 
 220
 
 BELOW THE SURFACE 221 
 
 finding this new experience very wonderful and a cause 
 of secret joy. It gave her life new significance, as 
 though she had hitherto been groping blindly, without 
 any clear aim. Now, that was all changed. All the 
 vague purposes that had filled her attention had been 
 synthesised. She saw life differently. It was not a 
 matter of quick feelings any more; but a definite waiting, 
 most sweet to endure. Ah, if Louis loved her! Even 
 that did not matter: if she could only be important to 
 him, such a value would be enough. How extraordinary 
 it was that she had existed for twenty-one years with- 
 out ever being aware of mystery in life! Mystery 
 why everything was shot and coloured with it! Every 
 smallest thing was a part of love ! 
 
 Sometimes she would feel deeply unhappy, as though 
 a weight of despair were upon her. At other times, 
 when the sun shone, when she heard lovely sounds in the 
 opening freshness of the year, her heart expanded and a 
 happiness that was wholly beautiful filled her being. 
 She sang while she walked alone in the wide roads about 
 Beckwith. She walked in the direction in which they 
 had all walked together, reviving her feelings, recalling 
 the sound of Louis's voice, and her own quickened in- 
 terest in him. The road was beautiful and unfre-i 
 quented : she had nothing to interfere with her memory. 
 All was perfect and in strange accord. She had not lived 
 until now. She had been deaf and blind. And 
 Louis ... A pity came stealing into her heart. Poor 
 Louis! Dear Louis! When she was very solitary she 
 spoke to him : it seemed to her that they had long slow 
 conversations, beautifully intimate and secret; and in 
 these imaginary conversations she learned new things 
 about her own nature. They were not all good things : 
 her reveries were never occupied with apologetics, be- 
 cause Dorothy was a realist, and had almost no senti-
 
 222 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 mentality in her temperament. She loved, but she did 
 not therefore hurry over the sense of her own defects. 
 She was faulty, and she knew it; but she honestly ex- 
 plained those faults to the supposed and beatified Louis, 
 so that, realising them more clearly, she found better 
 means of restraining her faults. She did not wish to 
 appear to him otherwise than as she was. But she 
 wanted him to love her in spite of her faults, because 
 that was the way she loved Louis. She wanted to say 
 I'm hard, and cruel, and selfish ; but you're my dear, and 
 if you'll love me and believe in me as I love and believe 
 in you I shall be wiser and kinder and more gentle simply 
 in trying to be worthy of your love. 
 
 It was a beautiful time to Dorothy, in spite of the 
 shop, in spite of the houses filled with unhappy and ill- 
 disposed people which she passed each day. Seeing her 
 smiling as she passed, the people felt more friendly to 
 her. They saw her cheeks flushed and her eyes spark- 
 ling, and the new clear happiness in her expression ; and 
 they did not dislike her so much. One or two of them 
 began to smile back at her, to nod and say "Good after- 
 noon." Mr. Toppett, primed by his wife, was one of 
 these. He even, by some involuntary movement, raised 
 his hat to her; and although on their next meeting he 
 avoided seeing her Mr. Toppett very quickly recovered 
 his coolness, and a friendly greeting between them be- 
 came quite customary. That did Dorothy a great deal 
 of good. It made her more charitable. Seeing Mr. 
 Toppett friendly, other Beckwithians stopped her in the 
 street. They were patronising, because they were self- 
 conscious; but they meant kindly, and Dorothy's resent- 
 ment faded. She was bright and merry in meeting them. 
 Quite a new air came into her relations with about a 
 dozen of them. Only the Hughes girls were still im- 
 placable. Dorothy could not understand why the pretti-
 
 BELOW THE SURFACE 
 
 est of them looked at her with such unfailing hostility. 
 At first she disliked her. Then, one day, she met 
 Veronica alone. They passed slowly, and Veronica 
 looked away, her face pale as marble, and her eyes glit- 
 tering. "Poor girl!" thought Dorothy. "She's ill." 
 She turned back as Veronica went on down the road, and 
 Veronica also was looking back. Dorothy continued her 
 walk, her head bent. "She's unhappy," was her next 
 thought. "Not ill; but unhappy. Oh, how dreadful it 
 is to be unhappy! Her eyes looked hungry. She hates 
 me. I'm sure she hates me. I wonder why she's un- 
 happy . . . Perhaps she . . . likes somebody . . ." 
 Swiftly, Dorothy's mind turned that impulsive guess into 
 a personal conviction. "I think she's in love and 
 doesn't know if he wants her. Perhaps she knows he 
 doesn't. Oh, poor girl !" 
 
 11 
 
 Young girls with their lives before them are often 
 more patient in love than older women can bear to be. 
 So Dorothy was able to live through those weeks of 
 Louis's silence without the dreadful anxiety which later 
 might have beset her. She was so modest, and yet so 
 confident of the power of love and of youth, that she did 
 not see the dark future with misgiving. It was enough 
 to live and to love. Time would complete love's work. 
 But once she had thought of Veronica as in love she felt 
 only a blessed pity for her. Generously, she desired for 
 Veronica the fulfilment of her dream. It seemed so 
 hard, so impossible, that a girl so pretty as Veronica 
 should vainly desire a precious gift. Dorothy watched 
 for Veronica, noticing that there was no difference in 
 her demeanour each day. Only a sort of cold contemptu-
 
 224 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 ousness came from Veronica as they passed, but Dorothy 
 read deeper, and saw envy. "She's unhappy. She sees 
 I'm happy. She wishes she were happy . . ." ran Doro- 
 thy's thoughts. "I don't expect I've got much to be 
 happy about. If she knew how little, she very likely 
 wouldn't envy me. Poor girl. Ah, but she looks as 
 though being unhappy hurt her more than it would hurt 
 me. I can bear to be unhappy. I'm stronger than she 
 is. She can't bear it ... I'm stronger than she 
 is . . ." 
 
 Dorothy had discovered a profound truth; but she 
 had nobody to commend her for it. There was nobody 
 in Beckwith who could have appreciated its profundity. 
 She had realised that pain can be borne by those who are 
 enriched by pain. Her pity for Veronica was based upon 
 a true instinct. She was an observer. If Veronica had 
 only known, Dorothy thought, she would have been less 
 contemptuous and would have smiled back at Dorothy and 
 begun a friendship. Instead, she began to avoid the roads 
 that Dorothy was likely to take, and when they accident- 
 ally met Dorothy saw Veronica turn down other roads 
 in order that they should not have to pass each other. 
 
 "I wonder if it's me she hates," she thought, "or just 
 meeting anybody who looks sympathetically at her. Per- 
 haps it annoys and troubles her. I wonder how I should 
 feel ... I should have thought unhappy people liked 
 sympathy. Perhaps not when they're very unhappy. 
 Perhaps she thinks it's rude of me to feel sorry for her. 
 Poor girl. When really I only wanted to show that I felt 
 kind. ... I expect it's only because I'm the grocer's 
 daughter. I wonder if Louis knows her. Perhaps she's 
 a friend of his. I must ask him. . . ." That thought 
 led to a quick sigh. How could she ask him, when he 
 came no longer to Beckwith ? A sharp restlessness seized 
 her. What if he never came? Wouldn't she then feel
 
 BELOW THE SURFACE 225 
 
 as unhappy as Veronica Hughes? Dorothy's eyes dark- 
 ened with distress. 
 
 iii 
 
 She was content to go on loving, for the present The 
 passion for certainty that besets most people was not yet 
 hers. She did not demand proofs. It may be that her 
 nature had no need of them. To live thus, in a dream of 
 happiness, was something so new that it was sufficient for 
 all her waking hours. Only when she slept did dreams 
 of Louis menace her contentment. Then came her hours 
 of secret pain, when the longings of her heart were no 
 more controlled by her eager interest in life. It was as 
 though she suffered and learned deeper truths about her 
 love, which otherwise was too sweet to be a cause of 
 wounding distress. She awoke sometimes with tears 
 upon her cheeks, and the memory of sadness. It made 
 her shy; so that she could not exchange those frank con- 
 fidences of old with her mother. Her mother had be- 
 come a stranger: perfect frankness was no longer pos- 
 sible between them. Dorothy saw a cautious anxiety in 
 Mrs. William's eye, hidden rapidly by a grotesquely tact- 
 ful smile that only emphasised the anxiety and deepened 
 the caution; and this new glimpse of her mother's love 
 brought daytime tears of a sort of exultant pity and grati- 
 tude. "Poor dear!" she thought. "She's so mystified. 
 . . . As if I were still a little girl. . . . She'll suggest 
 a poultice! Poor old dear!" 
 
 The days passed, and no Louis came: The date of the 
 concert approached; and Dorothy was formally asked 
 to take part in it. After she had agreed to do so she 
 saw outside the Church Rooms in which the concerts were 
 given a large board upon which a local amateur had set 
 forth in large script the large word "CONCERT" and, 
 in smaller lettering, the names of the undistinguished
 
 226 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 "artistes." Dorothy's breath caught at the sight. . . . 
 "Miss Irene Corntoft, Miss Veronica Hughes, Miss Dor- 
 othy Vechantor . . ." "Miss Dorothy Vechantor . . . 
 Miss Dorothy Vechantor." It seemed as though it were 
 not her name at all; but the name of a strange girl in 
 Beckwith in whom she felt a curious poignant interest. 
 "Miss Dorothy Vechantor" who was this girl? The 
 name was the name she had borne since childhood; but 
 the appearance of it in Beckwith struck her as an amaz- 
 ing phenomenon. She could imagine the inhabitants read- 
 ing it. They, too, would be surprised. They would 
 think "That girl!" They would be inquisitive; they 
 would perhaps come to hear her. What would Veronica 
 Hughes say and do ? Would she come at all ? How mys- 
 terious, how delightfully mysterious, it was! How 
 frightened she began to feel! It was the most daring 
 thing she had ever done. 
 
 iv 
 
 About this time, Dorothy had a surprising adventure, 
 which carried her still farther upon the wave which had 
 caught her up and was bearing her into the life of Beck- 
 with. She had gone out one morning, because her work 
 was finished and the day so tempting. She had walked 
 far beyond the railway station, watching the little red 
 shoots upon the trees showing faint traces of green. She 
 had welcomed the gusts of sweet Spring wind which came 
 sweeping gently through the still-black and hardly 
 speckled hedges beside the soft road. And as she walked, 
 catching glimpses of delicious white clouds driving be- 
 low a blue sky, she had been thinking of Louis and of 
 the approaching concert, and the beautiful weather, and 
 she was so happy that her spirits were all on tiptoe with 
 a kind of suppressed excitement. It was then that she 
 saw upon the roadway, corning towards her, a poor old
 
 BELOW THE SURFACE 227 
 
 woman who lived two miles down this road, in a small 
 lonely cottage that stood by itself. This old woman did 
 washing for a number of people in Beckwith, and she 
 called for it and brought it back each week on a little 
 four-wheeled barrow about the size of a perambulator. 
 On this day she was carrying the washing in a great bas- 
 ket under her arm, and panting as she walked ; changing 
 the basket from one arm to the other, and setting it down 
 in the roadway while she rested. She was a thin, bent 
 old woman, and she was poorly dressed, with a big straw 
 hat and brown bodice and skirt and a red kerchief. Doro- 
 thy, seeing her thus, hurried forward. 
 
 "Why, where's your wheelbarrow ?" she asked. "You 
 can't carry that washing!" 
 
 "It's broke, miss. The wheel's all bended in two by a 
 motor," said the old woman, looking out from her russet 
 face like an old gipsy. 
 
 "And didn't they stop? The wretches!" cried Doro- 
 thy. "How shameful ! What are you going to do about 
 getting it mended?" 
 
 The old woman shook her head. 
 
 "I'm going to ask Mr. Conrad, the wheelwright, this 
 afternoon," she said. "I'll ask him if he can mend it for 
 me. But I can't nohow wheel it, miss; for the wheel's 
 all bended double in two and it's too stiff to move, it is. 
 It's too stiff to move. But the washing's got to be took 
 home, and so I'm taking it. . . ." She panted once or 
 twice ; and Dorothy saw the perspiration round her eyes, 
 in the little creases there, and saw that her eyes were 
 humid with tiredness. 
 
 "But you mustn't carry it. It's too heavy for you. 
 I'll carry it," Dorothy began impetuously. 
 
 "Oh no, miss!" The old woman seized the basket. 
 Dorothy caught her arm. 
 
 "Please!" she cried.
 
 228 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 So each took a handle, and they walked with the 
 ket between them ; while the old woman talked about her 
 vast age and her rheumatism and about what people had 
 been saying to her for the last fifty years. And it was 
 while they were walking thus that Mrs. Vechantor, gently 
 rambling along the road, with the help of a stick, came 
 upon them. 
 
 v 
 
 Upon this afternoon Mrs. Vechantor, seeing Dorothy 
 smiling to the old woman, unconscious of observation, 
 felt differently from that other day. She stood still as 
 they approached, and Dorothy became grave, for she 
 knew that this was Louis's mother, and a shudder of 
 realisation ran through her. It was her first instant of 
 real dread. This was Louis's mother, and Louis was 
 silent. All her thoughts of him were a girl's dreams. This 
 was the reality. His mother, however kind, had scorned 
 her before. 
 
 She looked again at Mrs. Vechantor, who stood quite 
 still by the side of the road. 
 
 "How d'you do?" said Mrs. Vechantor. "Why, 
 Agatha; where's your little cart?" 
 
 The explanation began again. Dorothy stood, looking 
 critically from face to face. From the brown, wrinkled 
 face of Agatha to the pale and beautiful face of Louis's 
 mother. She had answered in surprise Mrs. Vechantor's 
 first greeting; but as Agatha's narrative proceeded she 
 became shy and restless, ashamed to be standing there 
 listening to the rigmarole for the second time. Then she 
 heard herself referred to as "this young lady." This 
 young lady had kindly helped to carry the basket from 
 the crossroads. . . . Dorothy turned her clear eyes upon 
 Mrs. Vechantor, and met a glance of slow scrutiny, not 
 kind, not unkind; but thoughtful almost, it seemed to
 
 BELOW THE SURFACE 229 
 
 her, pathetic. The basket was lifted again. They were 
 proceeding upon their way. Dorothy had smiled slightly, 
 almost coldly at Mrs. Vechantor, and was glad to have 
 left her behind; when suddenly she heard her name 
 spoken. 
 
 "Miss Vechantor . . ." 
 
 Ah, then Louis's mother knew her! The basket was 
 set down, and Dorothy turned back along the road. 
 
 "Did you call me ?" 
 
 Mrs. Vechantor drew a long breath. To Dorothy's 
 surprise she faltered : 
 
 "I'm . . . I'm going to ask you something. . . . I'm 
 Louis's mother. . . ." 
 
 "I know," Dorothy said, almost accusingly But Mrs. 
 Vechantor was clearly agitated, not at all the cold gentle- 
 woman of Beckwith society. She could not speak for an 
 instant. 
 
 "My boy . . ." she said, in a funny husky voice. "Can 
 you tell me . . . Do you know if he is well?" 
 
 "Louis?" Dorothy said. "Aren't you hearing from 
 him?" Her face blanched. "Oh . . . He hasn't been 
 to see us, or written. I've been waiting and waiting . . ." 
 
 Horrorstruck, she gazed at Mrs. Vechantor. Both were 
 filled with apprehensiveness. 
 
 "I've heard nothing . . ." said Louis's mother. 
 
 "Oh, he's ill!" cried Dorothy sharply, with such fear 
 and pain that Mrs. Vechantor's heart jerked and her 
 breath came quickly. 
 
 "You know?" she asked. 
 
 "No: I feel it!" Dorothy said. "Oh, what shall we 
 do; what shall we do!" 
 
 The old woman was still standing by her clothes-bas- 
 ket some distance up the road, while Mrs. Vechantor and 
 Dorothy, linked by their loving dread, faced each other 
 in this new sympathetic alliance.
 
 CHAPTER XVI: THE CONCERT 
 
 ONLY a few days after that memorable afternoon, 
 when Dorothy and Mrs. Vechantor, by a common 
 impulse, had tightly held each other's hands for an in- 
 stant in parting, the concert took place in Beckwith. For 
 Dorothy all interest in this event had lapsed. The ex- 
 citement, even the fear, had died down. Her cheerful- 
 ness, now that she had this conviction of Louis's illness, 
 had given way to heartache. The feeling of powerless- 
 ness, of being trapped, grew upon her whenever she 
 thought of the impossibility of finding Louis. Letters 
 had now been returned through the post office : his where- 
 abouts were unknown. Useless to search for him in 
 London. She was passionately helpless. Yet her days 
 had to be spent in customary tasks, and she was forced 
 to hide her dejection in case that should add to the con- 
 tinued difficulties of her home. She practised her music 
 mechanically, knowing that she was giving it no attention. 
 For her the birds had become mute, and the heavens 
 dark. No more was it worth while to be friendly to the 
 unfriendly Beckwithians. It was too great an effort, 
 when her heart was so sore. 
 
 But the evening of the concert came; and she and Mrs. 
 William walked to the Church Rooms together, seeing 
 with rather subdued cynical pleasure the troops of other 
 people ambling in the same direction. The Church Rooms 
 were very near the common. They were very plain and 
 
 230
 
 THE CONCERT 231 
 
 bare, lined with straight slips of varnished wood and 
 lighted by yellowed bulbs of electric light. A low plat- 
 form at the farther end was reached from the floor of the 
 hall by a few steps, and the piano stood upon the right- 
 hand side of the platform. A few potted evergreens and 
 flowers had been lent by one or two of those churchpeo- 
 pie who had greenhouses; and the green curtains, which 
 for children's entertainments were unsteadily hitched 
 across a sort of clothes line, had been drawn far to the 
 left and right of these flowers. The platform was bare, 
 covered with a faded carpet Sometimes, on less im- 
 portant occasions, the performers occupied the first row 
 of seats : to-night they were being all accommodated in a 
 real "green room" to the left of the platform, the pas- 
 sage from this room being concealed from the audience 
 by an extension of the platform-curtains. It was to this 
 room, accordingly, that Dorothy was taken, while her 
 mother was seated in the middle of the audience, obscure 
 and anxious for her daughter's welfare. And as Doro- 
 thy was among the first arrivals she was enabled to find 
 a retired seat in the room from which to observe those 
 who came after. The whole place had a stuffy or a 
 mouldy air she could not tell which as though no outer 
 breezes ever reached it and as though the shallow founda- 
 tions of the building left enough room below the flooring 
 for the growth of rank weeds and unpleasant herbage. 
 Dorothy's brows were lifted in a whimsical disgust. 
 Other things were bad enough ; but this graveyard atmos- 
 phere told immediately upon the spirits. Her heart sank, 
 a leaden heart that chilled her body and made her shiver 
 a little. In a perfect fright she looked wildly around, 
 her teeth slightly chattering. From nowhere in this dis- 
 mal room came a distressing draught, like the breath of 
 the dead, rising and choking her. The words of her 
 songs rushed away, forgotten; the thought of facing a
 
 232 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 crowd and singing such words brought warmth to her 
 cheeks and again made her shiver. It seemed impossible 
 for her to keep still. She had a horrible sense that noth- 
 ing was worth while, that everything was equally and 
 lamentably indifferent to her. She did not care if she 
 never sang, if the concert were a fiasco. All she wanted 
 was to go home, to have done with it. To make an end. 
 When she thought of Louis a long shuddering sigh 
 caught her and made her press together two unfeeling 
 hands. She was stupefied. 
 
 11 
 
 And then other people came into the room. Little 
 Irene Corntoft came first, with a long stupid-looking 
 leather case and a roll of music for her accompanist. She 
 was not a prepossessing child, and she carried herself 
 with an appearance of conceit that alienated Dorothy. 
 She shrank deeper into her corner. And then came 
 Adela and Veronica Hughes both fair, both chillingly 
 ready to ignore Dorothy for the whole evening. Their 
 coming did not improve the general festivity of this char- 
 nel-house. Dorothy watched them with unhesitating eyes, 
 noticing their self -consciousness, their raised and drawl- 
 ing voices, the little half -glances that they could not help 
 casting at her, in spite of their studied aloofness. To 
 Dorothy this was all pitiable. It was like the stiltedness 
 of those dull English people who will not speak until they 
 have been three times formally introduced. Only when 
 Veronica tried vainly to fasten long white gloves, while 
 Adela was otherwise engaged, did Dorothy slip forward 
 and perform the task. And when Veronica flinched and 
 half-withdrew Dorothy thought suddenly: "She hates 
 me. It's not only what I am: it's myself." She could
 
 THE CONCERT 233 
 
 nave told that anywhere, for she saw that Veronica really 
 recoiled, from a physical distaste, and not from any im- 
 pulse of pride. She would have said that Veronica had 
 shuddered; and as she thought that she caught sight of 
 Veronica's eyes, in which she read all that active dislike 
 that she had guessed from the earlier recoil. 
 
 "Yes, but why?" Dorothy demanded of herself. "What 
 have I ever done to her?" 
 
 iii 
 
 It was too much to decide in a moment. The sense 
 only made her more wretched, for her sensitive heart was 
 easily wounded and a slight rankled long in her bosom. 
 She was conscious of no offence, save the one of coming 
 to Beckwith. It was not as though she had sought 
 Veronica, or fawned upon her; then, indeed, she could 
 have understood a withdrawal, for she herself so with- 
 drew as if by instinct, and not through coquetry, from 
 any form of personal pursuit. Instead of pressing for- 
 ward from any base wish, she had merely wished to be 
 of use, to be commonly friendly. That was her nature. 
 Yet she was rebuffed, as if she had been presumptuous. 
 A little dry smile curved her lips, and her heart began 
 to beat faster, as she went back to her corner. 
 
 "Nasty girl!" thought Dorothy, puzzled. "Why?" It 
 was unanswerable. She had no clue. 
 
 Mrs. Corntoft bustled back into the room, exclaiming 
 at Irene's uncovered neck. She was an ugly, impertinent 
 woman, with a face like a peony, as though she suffered 
 from an apoplectic affection. 
 
 "The idea!" she cried. "The idea! To stand in this 
 cold without your fur ! My precious !" 
 
 "Silly woman!" thought Dorothy. "Silly woman! 
 How overdone!"
 
 234 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 There was a spare-looking accompanist, a Miss Sim- 
 mons, waiting with pathetic affability, ready to coax any 
 refrain from the piano half-a-bar behind the vocalist, 
 ready to struggle through any song to the bitter end, a 
 little slow, one of those pianists who inevitably miss the 
 exact moment for an emphatic chord. She kept a thin 
 shawl over her head, as if she were at the Opera, waiting 
 for her hired brougham. There was a middle-aged male 
 singer, who was to perform the Prologue from "Pagli- 
 acci" and a horrible song-drama called 'The Raft." It 
 was for him that Miss Simmons was there; it was his 
 doom that lay in the tips of her stumbling fingers. The 
 room became full of such people, including Mrs. Toppett, 
 fragile and excited about nothing, striving to be heard 
 above the general talk, and screaming in her effort. The 
 room was overcrowded. Its mournful staleness reached 
 a point of close suffocation. 
 
 Outside could be heard the movement of feet, the 
 squeaking of the legs of chairs. Laughter, and a loud 
 buzz, and already some impatient stamping from the 
 back seats . . . Dorothy held her hands close together, 
 her face pale, her eyes a glowing black. Distress was 
 visible in her whole demeanour, but the others continued 
 to ignore her. Oh, she thought, if only it were all over ! 
 How blessed to be home again, away from these unpleas- 
 ant people, alone with her grief. Louis! Louis! 
 
 A whistle arose from the hall, a long whistle made with 
 two fingers in the mouth. It was repeated. A great 
 stamping began, and a tick-tock clapping, to show that 
 the audience was impatient. A flurry ran through all 
 those in the green-room. Mrs. Toppett moved hither and 
 thither in a timid frenzy. It was painful, as though they 
 had no leader, as though suddenly they might all, through 
 panic, run away and leave Dorothy alone. She felt a 
 sense of unreality growing upon her: a faintness stole
 
 THE CONCERT 235 
 
 into her consciousness. Her face seemed to be clamped 
 with iron, and her lips trembled. If only something could 
 be done! The stamping, the whistling, the clapping, 
 began again. It was unbearable! Adela whisked a 
 piece of music from her pile and moved quickly to the 
 door. Then she dawdled Dorothy saw her quick change 
 from haste to a sort of public dawdle. The whistling 
 ceased, and the stamping; the tick-tock clapping gave 
 place to genuine applause. Then silence ... a grating 
 chair, a cough. At last a tinkle. 
 
 "Oh Golly!" muttered Dorothy. "What a piano!" 
 She rubbed her hands with her handkerchief. 
 
 "Miss Vechantor . . . Oh, there you are !" cried Mrs. 
 Toppett, darting towards her. They all stared curiously 
 at Dorothy. "You're number two. Miss Simmons . . ." 
 
 The spare-looking accompanist came forward, hugging 
 her shawl. At the touch of her bony hand Dorothy knew 
 that this woman, a teacher of the pianoforte to young 
 children, would be a melancholy accompanist, in spite of 
 every variety of goodwill. 
 
 "Oh please!" she beseechingly cried. "May I play my 
 own accompaniment? I'm used to doing it. I'd ever 
 so much rather !" 
 
 "It means moving the piano !" objected the male singer. 
 
 They all looked condemningly at Dorothy, whose 
 cheeks grew hot. 
 
 "Please!" she begged. Glancing up, she confronted a 
 hostile Veronica, whose lip was curled with contempt 
 that was half jealousy. It made Dorothy firm : they saw 
 the determination mark her new expression, and gave 
 way, frowning. From somewhere across the room, ap- 
 parently in answer to a whispered inquiry, came the sound 
 of a hushed voice that made Dorothy vehemently defiant. 
 
 "Grocer's daughter . . ." were the words she heard, 
 that made her suddenly like a queen among them all.
 
 236 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 IV 
 
 During the whole of the tinkling prelude, played by 
 Adela with a feverish speed that indicated a nervous 
 bravado as well as a contempt for the audience. Dorothy's 
 heart grew colder and colder, until it seemed like water 
 within her breast. Then came mild applause and a pain- 
 .ful silence, long before Adela had reached the harbour of 
 the dressing-room. That silence, so expected, but so 
 profound, affected all those who waited. It was as if 
 their teeth chattered. Surely with all their faults they 
 were to be pitied for the nervousness which assails all 
 who take part in amateur entertainments. They were 
 nerveless, crushed under the weight of their good inten- 
 tions and the rewards attending them. In such a panic 
 nobody had sufficient energy to do anything but look 
 angrily at Dorothy. She, just as Adela had done, looked 
 wildly round for music, remembered that she had brought 
 none, and walked out of the room and on to the platform. 
 There was no applause only a whispering, due to her 
 identity. Then one pair of hands clapped, and there was 
 a scattering attempt at welcome. Timidly Dorothy 
 walked forward. To her dismay the position of the piano 
 had not been altered; it stood so that she who sat before 
 it had her back to the audience. 
 
 What was to be done? Dorothy glanced back. Her 
 fellow-performers had gathered by common impulse at 
 the door of the dressing-room. Mrs. Toppett made a 
 wild gesture. No help was forthcoming. An anger 
 caught Dorothy and mounted to her brain. With an 
 energy altogether out of the usual she went to the piano, 
 seized it below the keyboard and by the little hand-hole 
 in the back, and tugged with all her might. It moved. 
 It wheeled upon its casters. It obeyed her touch as if it
 
 THE CONCERT 237 
 
 had been some mustang that a fine hand had tamed. In 
 an instant, with another tug, Dorothy had brought the 
 piano round so that when she sat she would be half turned 
 to the audience. A tumultuous applause, won by her de- 
 termination and her prowess, rang out from the farther 
 half of the hall even while the gentry in the front rows 
 drew up their eyebrows and grimaced expressively at 
 such an unmaidenly display of muscle. The applause was 
 as spontaneous as the wonderment. In a single instant 
 Dorothy had become the heroine of the evening. It 
 would not have mattered what she sang. She had shown 
 pluck, and the more common part of Beckwith had re- 
 sponded with its appreciation. When she sang "Home, 
 Sweet Home," without any of those trills which decayed 
 vocalists are in the habit of interpolating, the more unedu- 
 cated among those present, who loved their tawdry homes 
 with passion, lost their heads. It was a pretty sight to 
 them to see this little girl singing apparently with her 
 whole heart the song they loved the best of all. They 
 cheered and roared and stamped and whistled. The 
 concert was a success; for the second person upon the 
 programme to be encored with fury was a new experi- 
 ence in Beckwith. That her success should have been 
 due to a piece of simple angry vigour made no difference 
 to the audience. It was enough that they could have 
 listened to Dorothy for half-an-hour on end without 
 tiring. It was a great success; and Veronica Hughes, 
 although she scraped through to a second song by means 
 of extreme promptitude in return to the platform, must 
 have realised that she was not prime favourite that eve- 
 ning. 
 
 What a lucky accident that nobody should have moved 
 the piano!
 
 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 With her songs given at the opening of the second part 
 of the programme, Dorothy was free to rest or to leave 
 the hall. Mrs. Toppett was all smiles and gratitude to 
 her, pressing tepid coffee and cake in which stalks were 
 as common as currants ; but there had been no relenting 
 on the part of the Hughes girls, who continued bleakly to 
 regard the heroine. And then Miss Lampe came into the 
 dressing-room. She came primed and bursting with 
 news. 
 
 "Such a charming concert. So nice. Everything so 
 beautifully arranged, dear Mrs. Toppett. Quite the 
 nicest . . ." That was her prelude. There followed her 
 item. "And just fancy! Looking round just now, I 
 stood up in my place and saw everybody. And who 
 d'you think was at the back of the hall . . . so thin and 
 ill-looking ... I shall never forget it. ... Why, Louis 
 Vechantor!" 
 
 "Louis!" Dorothy's heart leapt. It felt as though 
 all the blood in her body had risen to her flaming cheeks 
 at that word. She moved forward, involuntarily. 
 
 "He's gone !" cried Miss Lampe. "He was going out 
 when I saw him. So strange ..." 
 
 Her bright, malicious eyes travelled from one to the 
 other, twinkling and glistening with triumph at her sen- 
 sation. Dorothy, suddenly aware of their insight, delib- 
 erately dropped upon the floor a sheet of music at which 
 she had been looking; but it was not at her that Miss 
 Lampe had directed the force of her challenge. It was 
 at Veronica. Very slowly Dorothy also found herself 
 staring at Veronica, who stood with the blood flushing and 
 leaving her face each instant, her eyes desperate, her 
 mouth uncontrollably trembling.
 
 THE CONCERT 239 
 
 Dorothy's heart stood still, and then began pounding. 
 Something seemed to shut tightly within her, in time to 
 prevent a scream from coming to her lips. She was 
 shaken by a dreadful certainty. So this this, after all, 
 was the secret of that hostility which hitherto had pained 
 her. The shrinking girl across the room, carrying the 
 wounds of her heart plainly written in her agonised ap- 
 pearance, was in love with Louis. 
 
 "She's in love with him !" whispered Dorothy sharply, 
 unable to keep the thought from escaping her lips. In 
 that moment she knew despair.
 
 CHAPTER XVII: SEARCH 
 
 THAT moment of stupefied despair contracted her 
 heart. She had no longer any hope in life. All her 
 buoyancy, all her enthusiasm, built so rapidly of 
 gossamer, vanished in a dream. She was alone in the 
 darkness, a faint roaring in her ears, magically remote and 
 unhappy, a little girl longing only for the shelter of her 
 mother's arms. Nothing was there to support her cour- 
 age. Around her were aliens, enemies. Only she, with 
 agony at her heart, stood staring across the room at this 
 equally unhappy rival for the love of the only man who 
 could solace her spirit. He was lost, as inevitably as if 
 the word of doom had been uttered. Never in her life 
 had Dorothy been so bitterly moved. 
 
 "Dear me!" tittered Miss Lampe, greedily devouring 
 Veronica's too patent emotion. "Dear Vera's been . . . 
 over-excited. ... By the success, of course. ... By 
 the success. . . ." 
 
 Such glee, such malicious glee, was insufferable. While 
 Veronica shrank farther back, white now as marble, ab- 
 ject before this comment upon her self -betrayal, Dorothy 
 felt her colour mount. She was burning and blazing 
 with indignation. Impossible to restrain herself. Love, 
 pride, pity, jealousy all these fighting excitements, like 
 flames upon her valiant heart rose tumultuously. She 
 could not stand still. Trembling from head to foot, be- 
 yond all control, she took a sudden step forward, facing 
 
 240
 
 SEARCH 241 
 
 Miss Lampe, carried to a height of anger that she had 
 never before known. 
 
 "You beast !" she cried, in a loud, sobbing voice. "You 
 venomous beast of a woman!" 
 
 "Oh ... oh ..." screamed everybody. Miss Lampe 
 withered under her rage. 
 
 "Oh!" she gasped, in a state of terror. Then, with a 
 kind of frenzy, she went on, wildly terrified, but still in- 
 exhaustibly malicious. "You too!" A nervous tittering 
 seized her, not at all willing or deliberate; but only 
 the over-drawn excitement of her shocked sensations. 
 "He-he-he!" 
 
 She ran a few paces away, physically afraid of Doro- 
 thy. Veronica clung to Adela, gulping with dry sobs, 
 quite abandoned to the hysteria of the moment. The 
 others were all in movement, trembling and pale, their 
 hands jerking as if with some dreadful malady. And 
 Dorothy pushed past them all, to the door of the room, 
 not knowing what she was doing, faltering and stumbling 
 in her hurried progress. Her head was down, her fists 
 clenched, her heart throbbing. . . Every thought had 
 given way in her to indignation and jealousy and bound- 
 less hatred. 
 
 ii 
 
 In face of the audience she halted, not sobered, but 
 deeply shocked at the confrontation. It so pointed the 
 contrast between her heightened feelings and the strange 
 setting for so bizarre a scene. Her anger did not so much 
 evaporate as struggle with another and now overmaster- 
 ing impulse. She felt it an absolute necessity to find 
 Louis, to reach him and learn instantly of his life, his 
 well-being. To think that he had been there, that he had 
 been present all the evening, without letting her know, 
 without her knowing instinctively that he was near ! Oh,
 
 242 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 how strange it was of him, of her! But he was gone, 
 they had said. That woman had said he had been going 
 when she saw him. But perhaps she had lied! There 
 was no truth in her only stupid malice, the malice of the 
 good and the malignant ! 
 
 Quickly, ignoring her mother, who half rose at so 
 hurried an exit, in spite of the singer on the platform, 
 Dorothy made for the back of the hall. For a moment 
 she stood, scanning the unknown faces near her, turned 
 now to observe her movements. Louis was not there. 
 Driven by necessity, she passed from the hall into the 
 dark night. A fine rain was falling. Clouds covered the 
 moon. All was black and forbidding. A breeze drifted 
 across the common, rustling the bare branches of the 
 trees by its edge. Everything was sodden with moisture. 
 Breathlessly, sobbing faintly, Dorothy went running on 
 beside the green. No conscious purpose had formed in 
 her mind : her feet slipped in the mud of the road. She 
 ran, sometimes splashing in water, sometimes treading 
 firmly upon gravel, the wet earth clinging to her light 
 shoes, soaking through to her stockings, to her feet. 
 Mud splashed above her ankles, soiling her skirt and her 
 petticoat She had headed for the railway station. Down 
 the long curling road she went, never stopping, borne by 
 the impetuous desire of her heart. 
 
 With the station reached, dark against the heavy sky, 
 with blurred lamps glistening out through the rain, and 
 thin curving metals, splashed also with rain, throwing 
 back the reflection of the station's many lights, Dorothy 
 halted, panting. Her steps echoed upon the boards of 
 the booking office, pattering as the wet soles of her shoes 
 clung at each step to the drier wood. Then up the steel- 
 shod stairs to the platform. All was dark except for 
 the lamps, shining desolately amid the blackness. Empty, 
 bare, cold, the station stood as if deserted. A gusty wind
 
 SEARCH 243 
 
 came plucking her dress and her dishevelled hair. She 
 ran from end to end of the platform, searching the 
 gloom, crying in a low voice at every few steps the 
 beloved name. Louis was not there. She was alone 
 upon the station; she was bereft of hope. Her impulse 
 had betrayed her. 
 
 With chill at her heart Dorothy stopped in the middle 
 of the platform, crying. She was like a child lost in the 
 darkness of an unfamiliar country. What should she do? 
 She had lost him for that night, for ever! What 
 should she do? What was there that she could do? 
 
 "Oh, Louis! Louis!" she cried to the wind and the 
 rain. 
 
 iii 
 
 Had he been in the hall all the time ? Had she missed 
 him there? No, no! He had not been there; his face 
 would have stood out from that white mist as her own 
 name would have stood among a crowd of names. She 
 was quite confident of that. Numbed as she was, Dorothy 
 had no doubt of that. He had left the hall. Whither 
 had he gone? Whither? Perhaps home; back to the 
 shop ? Never ! He would not have gone there ; if he had 
 dreamed of going he would first have come to her. She 
 knew it. There was no hesitation at all. To his own 
 home ? Ah ! That was it ! But she must see him, if only 
 for a moment. She must go there. She must satisfy her- 
 self. 
 
 Upon the instant of having that thought, Dorothy again 
 ran. She was away from the station, out into the driz- 
 zling rain, with the fleetness of a boy or a very young 
 girl, her little figure suddenly flashing under the lamps 
 and immediately lost in the darkness. The bare branches 
 caught her as she ran, sprinkling their burden of rain- 
 drops at the contact. She was unconscious: only she
 
 244 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 ran on, her heart beating fast, her cheeks hot with the 
 exertion; her hands and face wet with the rain. The 
 hedges rose up black and frightening around her; but 
 she had no fear. She had purpose. 
 
 Presently her energy failed, and she was forced to 
 stop, her hands to her throbbing breast, her mouth dry. 
 For a few instants she stood panting, the rain trick- 
 ling from her cheeks, from her hair, on to her thin dress 
 and within it, so that she felt it straying upon her burn- 
 ing neck. But still she could not stay : her need was too 
 imperative. After that forced rest, she hurried on once 
 more, no longer running, but walking as fast as her 
 trembling knees would allow. 
 
 "That beast!" she was murmuring to herself, among 
 the choking little sobs that hindered her breathing. "What 
 a beast! To say that . . . Oh, but she loves him; she 
 loves him !" Nothing more could enter her mind. Only 
 Veronica's face and Miss Lampe's vindictive betrayal. 
 A new horror of that sinister light shook Dorothy, weak- 
 ening her. There was no love, no charity, among these 
 people. . . . She did not think that; it was the burden 
 of her aching heart. And the memory of Veronica so 
 crushed her that at times she could not walk, but was 
 forced to totter aside and clutch some firm support by the 
 roadside, standing there in the rain, her pretty dress 
 spoiled, her limbs aching and unsteady. Then, on again, 
 cleaving the darkness, blindly and sobbingly directing 
 herself to the Vechantors' home. 
 
 IV 
 
 So at last she reached it, exhausted beyond anything 
 she had ever been. She had never been so tired, so mad 
 and exhausted with rapid motion and the agitation of her 
 feelings. She stumbled in at the gate, and half fell as she
 
 SEARCH 245 
 
 pressed against the door. Without knowledge she pulled 
 the bell so that a great billowing of sound echoed through 
 and through the passages of that silent house. She was 
 without sensation while the sound rolled away, while 
 she clung to the door in exhausted reaction from the ef- 
 fects of her frantic exertion. And then, when the door 
 was opened, she turned, all appeal, to Rosemary. 
 
 "Mrs. Vechantor!" she cried. "Oh, please!" 
 
 "Oh, miss ! How wet you are !" cried Rosemary, put- 
 ting forth a hand to stay her. 
 
 "I must see her!" Dorothy shrank from the hand. 
 It seemed to her that she would even now be prevented 
 from attaining her end. 
 
 "In the drawing-room. But " Rosemary was in- 
 capable of the quick thought that would successfully have 
 interposed her between this strange visitor and her peace- 
 ful mistress. 
 
 So it was that Dorothy appeared at the door of the 
 room where Mr. and Mrs. Vechantor sat together. Look- 
 ing up they saw her standing there, wet and muddy, her 
 face scarlet, her hair so entirely soaked by the rain and 
 loosened by the wind that it hung limply and heavily over 
 her brow. Her feet were wet, her skirt and stockings 
 soaked and thick with mud. Yet she was so evidently 
 distraught that both Mr. and Mrs. Vechantor rose im- 
 mediately and came towards her. Mr. Vechantor fal- 
 tered, recognising Dorothy and embarrassed both by her 
 appearance and her identity. Only Mrs. Vechantor, with 
 a quicker sense of realities, came unhesitatingly and 
 took both her hands. 
 
 "My dear!" she said. 
 
 "Oh, Louis!" cried Dorothy. "He's not here. He's 
 not been here?" 
 
 She had lost all her strength, and collapsed upon a 
 chair, trembling and crying. The disappointment was
 
 246 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 too great. She could no longer bear the dreadful strain 
 of her vehement journey. She did not faint; but she 
 lost for a few instants all sense of her surroundings. All 
 she knew was that her search had been vain, that he whom 
 she sought was not here, that she was shamed and dis- 
 mayed beyond bearing. In such collapse, she began again 
 to cry, sitting there before them, her sobs tearing their 
 hearts and echoing faintly in the silent room.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII: A NEW FRIEND 
 
 AGAIN it was Mrs. Vechantor who stepped for- 
 ward. Regardless of everything, she put her arm 
 round Dorothy's shoulders and drew Dorothy's head to 
 her breast. 
 
 "Poor child !" she murmured, too wise to misread such 
 abandonment, too unselfish to put her own pain fore- 
 most. She, a woman first, read deep into the heart of 
 another woman, pity drowning all her other emotions. 
 
 Slowly, Dorothy's passionate disappointment gave way 
 before such kindness. Her sobs were lower, less poig- 
 nantly heart-rending. She moved her head upon its 
 soft pillow, drawing away, shame growing ever stronger 
 as she realised where she was. Staring eyes sought those 
 of Mr. Vechantor, eyes in which fear had its dominant 
 place. At last she disengaged herself entirely. 
 
 "I'm so ashamed," she stammered, in a dreary, crying 
 voice. "Oh, I've spoilt your dress. I've made it all 
 wet." 
 
 That recognition made her look down, so that she first 
 saw her own dress, ruined and soaked by the unrelenting 
 rain. Unbelievingly she looked from her knees to her 
 shoes, aghast at the discovery. 
 
 "Never mind. Never mind," said Mrs. Vechantor, in 
 a broken voice. "Oh, my dear! As if it mattered!" 
 
 Their eyes met, Dorothy's afraid and shrinking; Mrs. 
 Vechantor's wholly candid with a sympathy that was 
 
 247
 
 248 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 true to her nature. They had no secrets now. Dorothy 
 began, very low, to tell why she had come. 
 
 "He's been here?" interrupted Mr. Vechantor, no 
 longer able to keep silent and conceal his love for Louis. 
 "He's not ill, then ? Thank God ! Thank God for that !" 
 
 To all of them it was a relief to find their common joy 
 expressed. 
 
 "You must go home and go to bed ... at once," Mrs. 
 Vechantor said. "Will you stay here?" 
 
 "No, no!" cried Dorothy. "I must go. I'm ashamed 
 to be here." 
 
 Louis's father and mother exchanged a glance. At 
 once, Mr. Vechantor went out of the room. He returned 
 in a moment dressed for going out-of-doors, carrying for 
 Dorothy's protection a hooded ulster belonging to his 
 wife. She, meanwhile, had kissed Dorothy's cheek, 
 warmly pressing her hands. 
 
 "Your mother will be anxious," she said. "But if you'll 
 stay my husband will go and tell her you're here." 
 
 "No. I must go. Oh . . . you mustn't come!" Doro- 
 thy was horrified at the plan for her escort. "Please 
 . . . please let me go alone !" 
 
 They would not do as she wished ; and they forced her 
 to wear the ulster. 
 
 "We must hurry. You mustn't take cold!" Mr. Ve- 
 chantor said, in a moved voice. "Come along quickly." 
 His hand was upon the door. He stood there, an erect 
 old man, entirely forgetful of his position in Beckwith. 
 
 "I shall come to-morrow to see how you are," his wife 
 added. "Good night, my dear; and God bless you!" 
 
 In a moment they were out of the house, Mr. Vechan- 
 tor tightly holding Dorothy's arm and half supporting her 
 across the common, back to her own home. That strange 
 encounter was over. Dorothy had broken the barriei. 
 It was down, and it could never again be raised.
 
 A NEW FRIEND 249 
 
 11 
 
 There remained her own family before that night 
 was ended. While several families in Beckwith engaged 
 themselves in repeated descriptions of the calamitous 
 happening, for they had been shaken to their depths by 
 the scene in the dressing-room ; while Miss Lampe prayed 
 that forgiveness should be accorded her young de- 
 nouncer; Dorothy was brought home and the two elder 
 male Vechantors met for the first time. Only for a mo- 
 ment did that greeting last, while Dorothy was introduced 
 once more to warmth and light; and then, with a hot 
 bath and clean dry clothes that mercifully enwrapped her 
 and produced sleep,Dorothy was put to bed, as if she had 
 been a wayward child who had run away and had been 
 brought back unharmed to her proper guardians. The 
 escapade was ended. Only its consequences were to be 
 endured. 
 
 In the morning Dorothy was stiff and rather feverish. 
 She could not get up, but was forced to lie in bed, her 
 little face showing above the coverlet like a flower just 
 peeping at the sunshine. It was thus she lay when her 
 mother first came into the room, trying hard to smile 
 reassuringly in spite of the dread of her girl's illness. 
 Mrs. William was a good mother: she moved quietly, 
 but not with that creepingness that is more irritating than 
 honest noise. She sat upon the side of the bed, and looked 
 at her daughter, and felt her warm hand. 
 
 "Have you got a sore throat?" she asked abruptly; 
 and made Dorothy laugh. 
 
 Dorothy's mind, emerging from heavy slumber, was 
 only beginning to revive the memories of the previous 
 night. The sick shame which was to come later had not 
 yet pierced to her consciousness. She was still drowsy
 
 250 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 and enervated, with too little strength to bear the agita- 
 tion of thought. Gropingly, she felt in memory for the 
 cause of her weariness. 
 
 "Louis?" she suddenly cried, in a voice the hoarseness 
 of which gave her mother fresh cause for her secret 
 anxiety. 
 
 "He came here two minutes after we'd started for the 
 concert," said Mrs. William, quite unconscious of her 
 momentous information. "Wasn't it a pity !" 
 
 in 
 
 Dorothy's eyes closed. It was too much! He had 
 been to see her. He had come at last, and unkind acci- 
 dent had provoked the rest. Ah, that brought all her 
 pain back with distressing vividness. The concert, the 
 piano, the dressing-room, Miss Lampe, Veronica. . . . 
 She was shaken from head to foot by the sense of calam- 
 ity. If only she had been at home, had not seen Veron- 
 ica, she would still have been happy, and free from the 
 intolerable sense of tragedy that froze her heart. She 
 would still have been so happy! 
 
 "He's been ill . . ." she said, in something hardly 
 above a whisper. It was not a question. 
 
 "Yes, your father says ... I wonder if you'd better 
 talk. . . ." Mrs. William was very dubious, afraid to 
 show her fear, and yet stirred by the sense that Dorothy 
 was ill. Only she could see the flush upon her daughter's 
 face and hear the quick, unsteady breathing. "You see,*' 
 dear, it's ... If you're not feeling quite well . . ." 
 
 "No, mother. I'm perfectly well. . . ." Dorothy 
 moved her head restlessly, irritated by this strange hesi- 
 tation. "I must know about it. Just tell me, dear." 
 
 "He's been ill for three weeks; but he's better."
 
 A NEW FRIEND 251 
 
 "How does he look ?" It was insistent. "Is he coming 
 again?" 
 
 Mrs. William looked at Dorothy with a new steadiness, 
 a new baffled concern. 
 
 "Your father didn't say ... I think he said he looked 
 poorly. He'll come again, my dearie. He'll come to- 
 night or to-morrow. But you must lie quiet now, and 
 be quite well. ..." 
 
 "Oh!" exclaimed Dorothy, in fretful annoyance. "It's 
 absurd to think I'm ill. I'm tired. But I want to see 
 Louis. Ask father if he's really better. . . . Oh, mother: 
 it was so awful last night. . . ." 
 
 "Don't talk of it, my dear. It only excites you. Tell 
 me later. Now I've got to go and get your Dad his 
 breakfast. I mustn't stay. I'll come and tell you about 
 Louis. . . . Do you think you could fancy an egg? 
 How'd you like a nice egg and toast?" She was beam- 
 ing now, back in the safety of her own true sphere of 
 nursing and unselfishness. Coaxing Dorothy with a 
 simple dish made her feel that she had her back again 
 as a little girl, the idealised little girl of memory. "I'll 
 get your Dad to come and tell you about Louis." 
 
 With a quick, gentle movement she smoothed the 
 coverlet and put a light hand upon Dorothy's brow. It 
 was such a pleasure to see her face full of tenderness, 
 and if the hand was hard and roughened it was none the 
 less as gently caressing as that of one who had never 
 worked with her hands. There was deep understanding 
 between these two, confidence and love, which no mo- 
 mentary concealment could ruffle. Mrs. William had 
 never forced any recital from Dorothy: she had never 
 any need to question the sagacity of her natural and in- 
 stinctive trust. She was not as intelligent as some 
 women, but she knew more.
 
 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 IV 
 
 An hour later, Mrs. Vechantor came to see Dorothy. 
 She walked across the common and was seen by Beckwith 
 to enter William Vechantor's shop. By the afternoon it 
 was all over the town, and the town was agog. Mrs. 
 Vechantor had entered the shop. She had no idea of the 
 effects of such a humane visit. She had come to see 
 Dorothy, and was led to her bedroom as if she had been 
 an ordinary visitor. 
 
 Dorothy, knowing that Mrs. Vechantor was there be- 
 fore she actually came into the room, slipped deeper 
 into her bed, overcome with embarrassment. What must 
 Louis's mother think of her? She had a sudden vision 
 of her bedraggled appearance of the previous night. She 
 saw none of the beauty of it. She could not tell that 
 even her ignorance of the rain and mud had made an 
 immediate appeal to Mrs. Vechantor, so entirely inno- 
 cent had been the devotion shown by such freedom from 
 self-consciousness. All Dorothy remembered was that she 
 had broken upon the pair in a dishevelled state, hyster- 
 ical and contemptible, lost to all superficial decency a 
 stranger without claim upon them, who cried and sobbed. 
 Who spoilt Mrs. Vechantor's dress ! Even her shoulders 
 burned, so deep was her shame. And when Louis's 
 mother sat beside the bed, and in her gentle way smiled so 
 kindly, Dorothy was lost in a limitless confusion. She 
 could not speak. 
 
 For a time Mrs. Vechantor talked a little to Mrs. Will- 
 iam, asking after the invalid's health as if it mattered! 
 thought Dorothy savagely. Then, as Mrs. William re- 
 tired, she turned to Dorothy, no longer speaking, but 
 looking as though she understood everything that was in 
 her young cousin's mind.
 
 A NEW FRIEND 253 
 
 "I think it was awfully brave and kind of you to come 
 last night," she began quietly. 
 
 Dorothy moved impatiently, unable to bear such kind- 
 ness. 
 
 "It was selfish," she said, in her hoarse voice. "You 
 don't know how ashamed I am." 
 
 "On the contrary," replied Mrs. Vechantor. "It wasn't 
 at all selfish. I'm not going to let you pretend that it 
 was. Most girls wouldn't have been brave enough to 
 do it." 
 
 "Most girls would have had more ..." What could 
 Dorothy say? She had thought "modesty." 
 
 "Oh, I can't be bothered with most girls," cried Mrs. 
 Vechantor, with a sudden, unlooked-for breathlessness. 
 
 "I can't tell you how bad I feel," said Dorothy. "As 
 if I couldn't face anybody." 
 
 "Suppose you tell me what happened," urged Mrs. 
 Vechantor. "Because, you see, I don't know. I didn't 
 properly understand what you said. All I know is that 
 you came last night ; and I'm sure that part of your feel- 
 ing was to reassure me about Louis. You may not 
 think it was; but most girls wouldn't have taken the risk 
 of seeming peculiar. So I know that you have nothing 
 to be ashamed about. I want you to believe that, because 
 it's quite true. I know what girls are; or, at least, I 
 think I know." 
 
 Dorothy listened, feeling healed at such words, but 
 shaking her head at the interpretation. 
 
 "No," she said, with pressing candour. "You don't 
 understand what happened. . . . She told the story of 
 Miss Lampe, and of her journey to the railway station, 
 and of her frantic run to Apple House. "You see, it was 
 all selfish," she concluded.
 
 254 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 Mrs. Vechantor looked at Dorothy with a singular 
 expression. 
 
 "It was certainly rather unconventional," she said after 
 a pause. "Perhaps, socially, it was unwise. I think it 
 was." 
 
 "Ah, you despise me!" cried Dorothy, in agony. "I 
 knew you would." 
 
 Mrs. Vechantor hesitated. 
 
 "No. I don't despise you," she answered, in a rather 
 thrilling voice. "Only I'm very ashamed of myself." 
 
 "You!" Dorothy was aghast. 
 
 "Because it's all my fault," Mrs. Vechantor claimed. 
 There were tears in her eyes. "It makes me feel very 
 uncomfortable." She sat, thinking deeply, and then 
 sharply sighed. Dorothy, now that Mrs. Vechantor was 
 not looking at her, was able to watch her expression. Al- 
 though deeply miserable, because of her own indiscretion, 
 Dorothy was not therefore bereft of the power to sym- 
 pathise with others. 
 
 "I'm so awfully sorry for you," she said impulsively. 
 "We've done nothing but make you uncomfortable ever 
 since we came here. You know we've all along been 
 sorry and ashamed about it." 
 
 Mrs. Vechantor was again deeply moved. 
 
 "My dear," she said. "I think you're a very honest 
 girl. I'd begun to think there weren't any left in the 
 world. I wish you'd try to think of me as ... as .. ." 
 She could not proceed. 
 
 It was Dorothy who withdrew her hand from under 
 the bedclothes and patted Mrs. Vechantor's hand. It 
 was an uncontrollable movement, full of pity that rose in ' 
 Dorothy's swelling heart. She who had come to sympa- 
 thise with an eager girl, carried by affection into tempes- 
 tuous activity, found herself enveloped in the strong little 
 love that lay hidden behind Dorothy's piquante pride.
 
 A NEW FRIEND 855 
 
 If she smiled, Mrs. Vechantor at least had a small sob in 
 her throat, partly from a naive response, partly from a 
 painful amused sense of incongruity. 
 
 "You're splendid!" said Mrs. Vechantor. "I'm sure 
 you are!" In her own mind she gravely added: "But 
 I'm so dreadfully sorry for you. Because you've started 
 Beckwith off afresh. I'm so dreadfully sorry for you. 
 Poor child!" 
 
 She had reason to be sorry for Dorothy. But Dorothy 
 had a new friend.
 
 CHAPTER XIX: PAIN 
 
 DOROTHY thought: How nice she is, and how 
 lucky I am to find her so nice when she might 
 have been so nasty. Because it was idiotic of me to go 
 running about like that. I must have been mad. Oh, 
 I'm mad . . . 
 
 Nothing could equal her shame. Nothing could ap- 
 pease it. She was swallowed up in shame. She saw 
 again the group in the dressing-room. She heard her own 
 voice saying : "You beast. . . . You venomous beast 
 of a woman !" The memory made her catch her breath, 
 so horrible was it. It was not only the folly of such vehe- 
 mence, although she now saw how useless it had been, 
 and how it must have diverted attention from Veronica 
 to herself. It was rather the unavailing anger of it that 
 was in retrospect so crushing. How, by any such means, 
 alter Miss Lampe, or hinder the growth of her malicious 
 interest in any girl or any girls who were in love with 
 a young man? 
 
 In love ! Why should this love be something so secret, 
 so shameworthy ? Ah, but it was rightly secret. And to 
 betray it was the worst thing a girl could do, so long as 
 human beings were as inquisitive and as spiteful as they 
 were. They didn't love ; they only spied out weaknesses, 
 because weaknesses were the only things they observed 
 with delight They wanted to see and to magnify weak- 
 nesses because the weaknesses of others in some dis- 
 gusting way enhanced their own self-complacency. Qual- 
 
 256
 
 PAIN 257 
 
 ities made them envious; defects gave them a sense of 
 power. Miss Lampe was like that. Her life was spent 
 in a venomous search for the weaknesses of others. It 
 was her sole interest. How Miss Lampe must be chuck- 
 ling, with two girls exposing their secrets to her eye! 
 It must have been a red-letter day in her life. Miss 
 Lampe! Perhaps, once, she was in love herself. Never I 
 Nobody could ever have loved her! Perhaps she had 
 found enough weaknesses in one man to mark him down 
 for her own; and then perhaps, after all, he had escaped? 
 No : it all lay deeper than that. Miss Lampe must always 
 have been ugly and envious, like Cinderella's wicked 
 sisters. She must have pried everywhere as a girl. All 
 her power in Beckwith was due to her malicious concern 
 with the affairs of other people. 
 
 Poor wretch! She couldn't be happy. She could 
 never have known what it was to love anybody at all. 
 Living there, and souring for want of love, she must have 
 gone out to seek it, and found everybody drawing sus- 
 piciously away from her; and so she must gradually 
 have fallen into spite and nastiness. Very likely she had 
 wanted to get married. When girls did not get married 
 they became unhappy, and unkind, and morbid ; and then 
 they watched other girls, other people, and envied them, 
 and scratched them. . . . Dorothy almost would have 
 pitied Miss Lampe if her own personal hostility had been 
 less great. As it was, she hated Miss Lampe. 
 
 And Veronica ? Dorothy's shame forsook her in think- 
 ing of Veronica. If she hated Miss Lampe as a base 
 woman, she hated and feared Veronica as a rival. She 
 was so pretty . . . Oh, she was so pretty. Veronica's 
 face was mirrored before her as she lay there with her 
 eyes closed. She could see the fair, wavy hair, so soft, 
 so powdered with lovely gold. She saw her delicate col- 
 our, her pretty mouth and teeth. He couldn't help loving
 
 258 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 her, just for her prettiness, and because she loved him. 
 Secretly, almost below her consciousness, Dorothy saw 
 Veronica with another vision. She saw hard eyes and a 
 hard thin mouth. She saw a horrible eager determina- 
 tion in Veronica, that was cat-like in its intensity. In 
 that vision Veronica's prettiness became a mask. She 
 became feline, soft and demure without, cruel and selfish 
 within. Dorothy saw two Veronicas. One was the 
 Veronica who suffered : the other was the Veronica who 
 would do anything however unscrupulous to avoid suf- 
 fering, to attain her happiness. Dorothy knew she need 
 expect no mercy from Veronica. Well, in thought, she 
 had none to give. Her thoughts were entirely cruel. She 
 saw Veronica laying little traps. She saw her dishonest 
 and treacherous . . . and Louis so guileless, completely 
 deceived by the outward show of pretty appealing humil- 
 ity. Oh, Veronica would win. She was the sort of 
 girl who did win. She was pretty, selfish, alluring. 
 
 Dorothy plunged at once to a sense of her own un- 
 worthiness. She did not deserve to be loved. She was 
 not pretty, or charming, or clever. She had no quality 
 to attract Louis. Only a sharp tongue and a rude man- 
 ner. Who could tell that under the surface lay her lov- 
 ing heart? She might try to reassure herself by claim- 
 ing to be honest, to be real, while Veronica was only a 
 sham; but the dreadful lack of self-confidence for such 
 a rivalry weighed her down. She had none of the 
 aplomb that a girl required to attract men. She was only 
 an ordinary girl, after all. Even without Veronica, 
 Louis would never have seen anything in her. There 
 was nothing to see : only an aching heart and that sort 
 of eagerness which she had thought to be character. She 
 wasn't any more real than Veronica. She was less real, 
 because she loved truth, and the love of truth was incom- 
 patible with the life of every day. If you loved truth
 
 PAIN 259 
 
 you were a prig; everybody disliked and despised you 
 because they felt you in some way superior to them- 
 selves . . . 
 
 Dorothy tossed and groaned upon her bed not with 
 bodily pain, or with any effect of chill from her escapade 
 in the storm ; but simply from the agonies of hatred and 
 jealousy and despair. She had slipped so happily into 
 love; and this was her awakening^ to the fact that love 
 is not all that is needed for happiness. Loving and giv- 
 ing, as an ideal, was useless, she felt in her distress, so 
 long as it was all upon one side. Unselfishness ah, she 
 knew her own selfishness. Only unselfish people know 
 how selfish they are: it is for the selfish ones to pro- 
 claim an uncommon virtue. 
 
 n 
 
 The day passed. Dorothy's thoughts made her fever- 
 ish, so that her temperature rose, and she lay flushed and 
 exhausted while Mrs. William went quietly about with a 
 sober face. William also came into the room, upon tip- 
 ioe, and looked at his daughter. To them she was price- 
 less, the unique treasure of their lives. Not even Reg., 
 proud though they were of him, was more beloved. Dor- 
 othy had been their first child, the child of their most 
 perfect happiness; and old joys were associated with 
 every thought of her. To them she was both beautiful 
 and precious. Her illness, or her unhappiness, these 
 alike concerned them as nothing else could have done. 
 They loved her. 
 
 When either of them came into the room, Dorothy, 
 terrified in case they should want her to speak, lay quite 
 still, watching them as a sick animal might have done, 
 her eyes strained and dark. Even the clear love that 
 radiated from them made her feel the more unhappy. She
 
 260 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 thought herself so unworthy of love. It touched her and 
 maddened her, in such a state of self -contempt as she 
 was. Over and over again she thought of all the hor- 
 rors her brain had conjured. She thought ceaselessly 
 of Veronica, picturing her as she had appeared at every 
 meeting. She imagined her with Louis, unhappy, happy ; 
 she saw her wooing him with a thousand little graces. 
 Only Dorothy could catch the falseness that lay behind : 
 Louis would never know. He would never know until 
 after marriage, when gradually the glamour would die, 
 when he would slowly awaken to the sense of such silken 
 threads wound about him unbreakably. Enmeshed, he 
 would lose his strength. He would find himself a pris- 
 oner. Dorothy could see him older, graver, steadfastly 
 loyal but all the time groping to a sense of Veronica's 
 evil. When she allowed her imagination thus painfully 
 to create the scenes of Louis's captivity, Dorothy could 
 hardly restrain herself from screaming. When she was 
 quite alone in the room, and nobody could hear her, she 
 could not help groaning, so great was her anguish. To 
 see him in love with Veronica how could she bear it! 
 When she herself loved him so. When she would have 
 sacrificed her own life to make him happy. 
 
 And Louis must never know that she had loved him. 
 Not for Dorothy's sake, though many girls suffered 
 deeply through their pride; but because if Louis learnt 
 the truth his chivalry would make him pity her so much. 
 She was not afraid of his scorn or his triumph in such 
 knowledge: she was afraid of his pity. Oh, she could 
 not bear it. Better death than such commiseration! It 
 would be intolerable. Then a horrible base thought stole 
 into her mind to show him her love, to win him through 
 pity, relying upon time and unswerving service to re- 
 establish her claim to his respect. So must many girls 
 have won their lovers by little appeals for pity, by
 
 PAIN 261 
 
 hints of unhappiness at home, and tales of being mis- 
 understood and ignored. Dorothy could not resist this 
 impulse, because she was ill, and wretchedly unhappy. 
 For a few minutes she was breathless under temptation, 
 lying there with her head covered, her heart beating 
 wildly in her throat, her temples throbbing. Her hands 
 stole to her lips, and she pressed them fiercely with the 
 tips of her burning fingers. . . . 
 
 111 
 
 It passed. The nightmare of wicked impulse died 
 away, leaving her trembling and shivering as if with 
 cold. Frantically she turned again, moaning with de- 
 spair. Her body felt as though it were on fire. When 
 she parted her lips to breathe deeply her tongue cracked 
 with dryness against the roof of her mouth. Whatever 
 pain she had felt hitherto was nothing to this new sense 
 of passionate humiliation. The anger with Miss Lampe, 
 the unsparing jealousy of Veronica, were nothing in com- 
 parison with her new fierce scorn of herself. She did 
 not deserve to be loved, or pitied: she deserved only to 
 be despised, for the base creature she had become in 
 imagination. Panting, Dorothy stared at the wall be- 
 side her bed, the flowers in its pattern weaving fantas- 
 tically into great eyes of disapproval. 
 
 How long her agony lasted she did not know. It was 
 a numbing torment that left her exhausted. When her 
 mother next came into the room Dorothy could not bear 
 her face to be seen. It was as though all the bitter, 
 abominable secrets of her tempted heart were written 
 plainly there, shamefully. She would never forget those 
 hours. They would haunt her.
 
 262 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 IV 
 
 Louis came at night, and Dorothy was too ill to get 
 up. At first the disappointment was so great that ter- 
 rible hysterical sobs shook her; but she conquered them, 
 her throat and eyes burning. Her hands felt wasted, 
 as they might have felt if she had kept them in water 
 in which soda had been dissolved. They were hot and 
 unpleasant, and when she touched her face with them 
 she had no feeling but one of shuddering repulsion. Her 
 mother, coming again a few minutes later, found Doro- 
 thy lying hopeless, staring at the ceiling; and with some 
 sort of faithful inspiration she brought Louis into the 
 room. So the two of them met again, when so much that 
 was distressing had happened to both; and they were 
 both so changed in mind and attitude from what they 
 had been at the first encounter. Dorothy was sightless. 
 She could not see Louis ; she dared not look at him. All 
 she knew was that he was there, and that he was talking 
 to her. What he said she could not tell. Her mind was 
 pounding out his name over and over again Louis, 
 Louis, Louis. . . . She lay silent, and it seemed to her 
 that some voice deep within her heart was uncontrollably 
 screaming. 
 
 But he was there. Later she would know what it meant 
 to her. Then the knowledge of his presence would as- 
 suage her shame. It was too soon for his nearness to 
 bring such blessed relief; but already the sick longing 
 of her heart had begun to be appeased. All the weeks 
 of waiting were summed up in her present sensation ; and 
 the quiet voice of Louis, and the feeling that he was there, 
 and the subtle tranquillity bestowed by the mere contact 
 with the beloved, would eventually bring rest to her 
 troubled spirit.
 
 PAIN 263 
 
 Mrs. William stood at the foot of the bed, her arms 
 resting upon the bed-rail ; and Louis sat on a little chair 
 from which he could see Dorothy's brow and her dark 
 eyes, which never moved, whether he spoke or was silent. 
 He seemed to go on talking ; but Dorothy could never tell 
 what he was saying, and only heard his voice as the most 
 soothing music in the world. She lay perfectly still, her 
 hands hidden, her face slightly turned. It was only at 
 the last that Mrs. William caught sight of glistening tears 
 in the sombre eyes ; but she was completely puzzled, and 
 did not know how to act or what to think. 
 
 "So I lay there," Louis was saying; "and they came 
 and looked at me and whispered and felt my pulse ; until 
 I began to feel quite frightened that they thought I was 
 going to die. I didn't want to die. It seemed so ridicu- 
 lous to think of dying . . ." 
 
 "I'm sure it did," Mrs. William put in hurriedly. 
 "What a thought to have!" She evidently did not like 
 the word "dying" : it sent a shudder through her, and she 
 would talk lengthily rather than have it repeated by Dor- 
 othy's bedside. If Dorothy should get the word into her 
 head ! It was a nasty, sticking word. But Dorothy was 
 not conscious of what Louis was saying. She did not 
 realise that Louis was talking of his own illness. Her 
 hearing was blurred ; there was a dancing in her head. 
 She was having to hold herself wholly rigid in order that 
 she should not begin to cry with a feeble causeless joy. 
 But still she could not bear to look at him, though the 
 blackness before her was giving way to a glimmering of 
 light and courage. 
 
 "I dare say you're still feeling very poorly," Mrs. 
 William proceeded. "You must take care to wrap your- 
 self up well, because it's when you're weak from lying 
 in bed all those days you're liable to take cold as 
 easy . . ."
 
 26* SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 "Oh, I'm well wrapped up," Louis said reassuringly. 
 
 "This room's none too warm . . ." Mrs. William bus- 
 ied herself suddenly with the fire. "Yes, we've often 
 spoken of you. . . . We couldn't understand why you 
 didn't come; and Dorothy's letter was returned " 
 
 "Did you write?" asked Louis. 
 
 "Well, after seeing your mother that time, she did," 
 answered Mrs. William, after the slightest pause. 
 
 "My mother?" Louis exclaimed, with an eager air. 
 "Poor mother! Did you meet my mother, then?" He 
 seemed bent on making Dorothy speak. "And you're 
 friends." 
 
 "Indeed, yes ; Mrs. Vechantor's been here to-day . . ." 
 cried Mrs. William. "Mr. Vechantor brought Dorothy 
 home last night . . ." 
 
 "My father?" Louis was completely mystified. "But 
 how excellent !" He looked from one to the other. "You 
 know, I'm so awfully sorry to find you so ill . . ." 
 
 "Oh, she's not what you'd call ill. Just a bit feverish 
 . . ." Mrs. William hastened to say. 
 
 "She looks ill," Louis unwisely ventured, and could 
 then have wished to withdraw the words, at her quickly 
 shaken head of warning. 
 
 Dorothy spoke at last, in a thick muffled voice that he 
 could not have recognised. 
 
 "You must go and see . . . your mother," she said. 
 
 "I'll go to-night. But I want to hear all your news; 
 and I can see you're not up to giving it this evening. I 
 must come again. I expect you're blessing me for . . ." 
 
 "The idea, Louis!" cried Mrs. William anxiously; but 
 evidently relieved by his movement. 
 
 "Don't go!" murmured Dorothy. "It's not . . . not 
 tiring me." 
 
 "Shall I?" He interrogated Mrs. William. " I don't 
 want to wear her out."
 
 PAIN 265 
 
 So he stayed a little longer ; but Dorothy, although now 
 flushing with secret happiness, and oblivious of every- 
 thing except his nearness, continued to lie there without 
 sign. Only her mother could see that the dark agony 
 which had appeared in her face was lessened, and its 
 place taken by an expression that, if not happy, was at 
 least free from the desperation which had earlier been 
 so disquieting. 
 
 At last Dorothy was alone, and Louis had gone; and 
 she was able to lie there with her precious memories of 
 his visit. She did not now think of anything, but as 
 tears stole gently from her eyes she felt that her wicked- 
 ness had vanished. She was not wicked any longer 
 wicked in a mean way, such as she had always despised. 
 She was unhappy, and unworthy ; but she was not wicked. 
 And nothing was so bad to bear as her self-scorn, 
 which had so humiliated her. After a time she even 
 began to be less unhappy, and once she smiled secretly to 
 herself not at anything, but just with a return of spirit 
 that was so welcome after her day of dejection. It was 
 the old Dorothy reasserting herself in that smile. It 
 meant nothing so far as the future was concerned, ex- 
 cepting that Dorothy's courage was returning. She was 
 feeling better. It was as though blood were flowing back 
 into a numbed limb. Thereafter she was able to move 
 freely, and to wipe her eyes. 
 
 "Oh Louis!" she said at last, very privately, to the 
 safe receptivity of the pillow. "If there should happen 
 to be a God, which after Beckwith I can't think . . . 
 I could wish there were, so that you might be blessed, 
 my dear. My dear!" She exulted in her daring at 
 calling him "my dear!" She could not have done it at
 
 266 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 any time earlier in the day. She went on thinking 
 loving thoughts of Louis. Then she was shaken by an 
 uncontrollable little laugh. "I'd so like to see his solemn 
 face if he knew I thought of him as a little ray of sun- 
 shine. I shall call him just to myself my little ray!" 
 And so, once or twice, she did call him, until she fell 
 peacefully asleep and remained deep in slumber through 
 all her mother's nocturnal visitings.
 
 CHAPTER XX: BECKWITH IN THE DOCK 
 
 MRS. VECHANTOR came the next day with a 
 very grave face; but her greeting was kind and 
 her bearing throughout her stay was beautifully con- 
 siderate. Dorothy was up again, and sat in a com- 
 fortable chair beside the fire, reading the "Pickwick 
 Papers" and eating apples. She was still reading the 
 "Pickwick Papers," but was no longer eating apples, 
 when Louis came in the evening. She had listened, it 
 seemed to her, for hours, waiting for his ring at the 
 door bell; and when he came he had entered by way of 
 the shop, so that the first notice she had of his arrival 
 was the opening of the sitting-room door. 
 
 Dorothy did not colour : she just felt her heart beating 
 louder, and was afraid he might notice it. She looked 
 straight across the room at him, so eager was she to see 
 if he looked well or ill. That was why her greeting was 
 a little cold; and yet, having been accidentally cold, she 
 found it impossible to change her manner. It was as 
 though a constraint, begun by chance, had seized upon 
 her. Timidly she strove to escape from it in vain. 
 She could hardly speak. 
 
 Louis came and sat down in a chair opposite to Doro- 
 thy's, and smiled at her. She saw his finely poised 
 head as of old, but his face was thinner, and when the 
 fire started into flame she could tell that he was un- 
 happy. He was unhappy, too. . . . Yes, but he would 
 soon be happy. How well she knew that! How it 
 
 267
 
 268 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 added to her unhappiness ! The weight was again upon 
 her heart. They sat looking at each other for a moment, 
 two rather huddled figures in the warm room. 
 
 "I can see you're ever so much better," Louis said at 
 last. "You're not the same." 
 
 "I'm very well," she told him. "I'm only being lazy. 
 But I wish you were quite well." 
 
 Her eyes seemed to pore upon his face. A strange 
 little shock ran through her. It was a faint incredulous 
 joy. Was it really could it be true that the one thing 
 which Dorothy had regarded as a blemish had disap- 
 peared ? It was true ! Even in that moment, when she 
 was, in spite of the "Pickwick Papers" and the presence 
 of Louis, so far from being cheerful, Dorothy could not 
 resist the consciousness of a small satisfaction. The 
 little moustache which Louis had worn, and which she 
 disliked, had disappeared. He was now clean-shaven, 
 and the fine lines of his mouth were no longer impaired. 
 It was to her the symbol of a subtle change in him. 
 
 "I've got a great deal to tell you," Louis mentioned. 
 "And I want to hear quite a lot from you. I went across 
 the common, as you told me to last night ; and my mother 
 was speaking awfully nicely about you. I'm so glad 
 of that. It's quite cheered me up to know that you and 
 she have become friends. I always knew you'd like each 
 other, you know. I didn't see my father; but I went in 
 to see him at the office to-day, and we've had a long talk. 
 That's all quite settled, and we've got over our quarrel. 
 We've both apologised very funnily, like two dogs, or 
 two gruff old clubmen. I'm going on to Apple House 
 again when I leave here. I'm going to stay there." 
 
 "To be in Beckwith ?" Dorothy did not know whether 
 it was joy or fear that made her heart beat so fiercely. 
 
 "Yes. So I shall often see you. And you must come 
 and see us."
 
 BECKWITH IN THE DOCK 269 
 
 Dorothy shook her head. 
 
 "Oh no ; you won't want me," she said quietly, with a 
 nervous movement of her hand. Louis frowned. She 
 knew that, without looking at him. Why had he 
 frowned ? 
 
 "What nonsense!" he said. "You're all coming. 
 We'll have a new order immediately. We shall come 
 here, and you'll come to Apple House. And Beckwith 
 will gibber. And the business will go up like a 
 rocket. . . ." 
 
 "Rather like that, I'm afraid," Dorothy could not help 
 saying dryly. "It can't go much farther down, as far as 
 I can see." 
 
 "I think things are going to be rather jolly," Louis 
 said, in a cheerful way. 
 
 "I wish they were," thought Dorothy soberly. 
 
 ii 
 
 However, in spite of the depression which she could 
 not altogether shake off, they went on talking very com- 
 fortably. Louis described how he had left his father's 
 office with the intention of never returning; and how, 
 after leaving the flat near Finsbury Square two days 
 later, he went to Camden Town, fell suddenly ill, was 
 taken to a nursing home, and there tended until he slowly 
 got better. He told how, on the night of the concert, 
 he had travelled down to Beckwith, had called at the 
 shop, and had followed to the Church Rooms. Then, 
 how, after Dorothy's appearance in the second part of the 
 programme, he had resolved to catch a train due a few 
 minutes later and had hurried from the hall. That train, 
 Dorothy guessed, must have been far out of sight by the 
 time she reached the station No wonder she had not 
 caught him up.
 
 270 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 She listened to the story with her eyes nearly closed, 
 loving the sound of his voice and the little pictures he 
 gave of the things that had happened to him ; but all the 
 while filled with a melancholy because she could see no 
 happy ending to all her thoughts. "It's no good. It's 
 no good," she kept saying to herself, thinking of the 
 future. And when he spoke of the concert she felt a 
 stab of pain as she recalled the details of the evening 
 not as separate events, but as one miserable clot of 
 distress. 
 
 "And now," Louis concluded ; "what about you ? How 
 did you get into this state ?" 
 
 iii 
 
 "Louis," said Dorothy suddenly. "I wish you hadn't 
 to go back to your father's business." 
 
 It was so unexpected, that Louis started. He thought 
 for an instant before answering. 
 
 "Well ... I wish I hadn't, too; but there's no getting 
 out of it. I can't give it up now. What did you mean, 
 though? Nothing about my father, of course." 
 
 "Oh no; though I think he was cruel. I wish you 
 could do something yourself. I mean, to step right out- 
 side money-making. I'm very vague about it; but . . . 
 something . . . Dad laughs at me when I say that word ; 
 but I don't know any other something 'real.' D'you 
 know, I don't think anybody in Beckwith is doing any- 
 thing real anything to make the world better or happier. 
 I always get stupid, I know. . . ." 
 
 Louis sighed, looking at the animation of her face, so 
 different from its earlier expression of a rather pinched 
 misery. 
 
 "I'm such an awful failure," he said. "I've been 
 thinking . . . You must excuse me, Dorothy; but if I
 
 BECKWITH IN THE DOCK 271 
 
 start talking about this there'll be no stopping me. 
 Everything I try to do myself simply goes wrong." 
 
 "It doesn't. It may seem to for a time !" cried Doro- 
 thy stoutly. 
 
 "Perhaps that's it," agreed Louis. "I wish I'd been 
 able to talk to you a month ago." 
 
 "You might have." It was only a murmur; but he 
 caught it. 
 
 "I know I might. But somehow . . . when you 
 want anybody to like you, you can't go to them and tell 
 all your rotten little miseries." 
 
 Dorothy drew a quick breath. A faint colour came 
 into her cheeks. 
 
 "I should have been so proud," she said quickly. 
 
 For two or three minutes they did not again speak. 
 Dorothy had been given a tiny spark of happiness by 
 his candour, and she was thrilling with it. Louis re- 
 mained still, looking at the fire, and thinking of Daunton 
 and Veronica and the shop. Presently he sighed again. 
 
 "What was it you wanted me to take up? The real 
 thing, I mean," he proceeded. 
 
 "No. That's where I'm vague. I hadn't thought of 
 anything. Only ever since we came to Beckwith I've 
 been looking at all the men getting fatter and the women 
 getting uglier, and the children getting more like their 
 fathers and mothers; and I've felt like screaming, and 
 saying: Tor goodness' sake, stop it! What's the good 
 of repeating yourselves all over and over again, and 
 making more men who grow fatter and women who grow 
 uglier, and children who grow up like their mothers and 
 fathers ?' I've felt like Alice at the trial, when she says 
 they're all only cards. But nothing happened to change 
 them. Don't you see? It's so horrible to see them 
 going on and on endlessly, like . . . like I don't know 
 what. That's what I've thought. Of course, your
 
 272 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 father hasn't got fat. I didn't mean he had. Or that 
 you'll get fat. I don't think you'll ever get that." 
 
 "Oh, the two diseases in Beckwith are fatty degenera- 
 tion and desiccation," Louis said. "I shall get desic- 
 cated. I've felt that I was going downhill. You see, 
 I've never had to worry about money. I've never had to 
 be ambitious. If you go to Oxford with money you 
 just get through your days very happily, and all you do 
 there unfits you for taking any work very seriously. 
 That is, unless you're naturally a worker. I'm not. I 
 never did anything much at Oxford, and I've never done 
 anything much in Beckwith." He thought a moment. 
 "I suppose you might say I've never tried to improve 
 Beckwith?" 
 
 "You couldn't," Dorothy said, in a clear voice. "No- 
 body could." 
 
 iv 
 
 "I wonder," objected Louis thoughtfully. 
 
 "Only a revolution could," Dorothy added. "A sud- 
 den upheaval. It might make them think. Oh, but 
 nothing could make them think. They've got nothing to 
 think with. It isn't a question of brains alone. It's 
 imagination they want. They can't put themselves in 
 other people's shoes." 
 
 "Can you, in theirs?" Louis wondered still. 
 
 Dorothy thought for a moment. Had she ever tried 
 to do that? Perhaps not: she had been eager in readi- 
 ness to be at one with them ; but in finding that they did 
 not share her wish for friendship she had shrunk into 
 a state of hostility. She had unsparingly criticised them 
 for stubborn refusal to meet her on level terms. 
 
 "I should have thought so," she claimed at last. "At 
 least, I've tried to understand what makes them so stupid.
 
 BECKWITH IN THE DOCK 273 
 
 I can only think it's natural to them to be stupid. Are 
 you defending them?" 
 
 "Good gracious!" exclaimed Louis, startled afresh by 
 her question. "I couldn't. I've become as hostile to 
 them as you could possibly be. No, I think they're in- 
 defensible." 
 
 "You see, when we came here they never tried to 
 wonder if we'd come innocently. They saw us as ene- 
 mies from the beginning. It was they who began the 
 trouble. We didn't. We only wanted to carry on the 
 business Dad wanted. Directly we found out about 
 you, we shivered and wanted to go away again; but it 
 was too late. They never asked what our feelings were. 
 They were beastly from the start. Oh, Louis; you don't 
 know what it's been to go out into this beautiful country 
 and always to meet frowns or sniffs, and to have the 
 girls turning away as if I should hurt them. When I 
 only wanted to be nice to everybody." 
 
 Unconsciously Dorothy had become pathetic, a forlorn 
 figure by the fireside, with the flames leaping upon her 
 dress and her pale face. She looked even younger than 
 she was a child who has been grievously disappointed. 
 Louis hastened to reassure her as to his own feeling. 
 
 "Don't think I haven't hated it," he said hurriedly. 
 "Why, that was one of the chief things that drove me 
 away." He laughed slightly, without enjoyment. "It's 
 been one of my chief horrors that I didn't stay and stand 
 by you. If I'd done that I shouldn't feel such a weak- 
 ling. I just left you in the lurch." 
 
 "It wasn't that that drove you away." 
 
 "It was the beginning. Did I ever tell you about the 
 first trouble with father?" He described the scene at 
 the dinner-table. "You couldn't understand how I felt," 
 he concluded. "Absolutely hopeless." 
 
 "I could," Dorothy said, very low, her eyes flashing.
 
 274 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 "I don't see how you could ever feel hopeless," Louis 
 protested. "You're so confident." 
 
 "I?" Dorothy was astounded. "Why, Louis . . . 
 How . . . Isn't it funny how people get wrong ideas 
 about others! You think you're weak; and I don't 
 think so at all. You think I'm confident ... I think 
 it's only because I was so rude to you at first. When I 
 think about myself I wonder why I'm alive what use 
 I am to anybody. I seem just to go on from day to 
 day . . . never to do anything worth while at all. If 
 anybody ever felt hopeless it's I. Sometimes I'm in de- 
 spair." 
 
 Both were very moved at such a mutual disclosure. It 
 made both of them very thoughtful for several minutes. 
 At last Louis said, with a quick nod that showed he had 
 understood her: 
 
 "This isn't much like our first talk, is it! We've both 
 grown a little since then." 
 
 They might have gone on endlessly. Nevertheless, the 
 disclosures had been made. They saw each other more 
 truly, which had been a necessity to them. He did nol 
 want to go ; but it was nine o'clock, and he had to see his 
 father; so their conversation was ended a few minutes 
 later. Louis held Dorothy's hand for a moment in 
 parting. 
 
 "I'll think about what you've said," he went on. 
 "Although I stay at the office there's no reason at all why 
 I shouldn't pull myself together and live a rather wider 
 life. I'm afraid I've got the Beckwith habit of mind. 
 I've lived here too long. It's a sort of parochialism. 
 But you'll help me get over it, won't you?" 
 
 "I do wish I wasn't so young!" cried Dorothy im- 
 pulsively. "It's such a hindrance." 
 
 "And so pretty?" he asked, with a pleasant look.
 
 BECKWITH IN THE DOCK 275 
 
 Did he think her pretty, then ? Dorothy's heart gave 
 a bound. 
 
 "I wish I was as beautiful as the stars," she said. "If 
 that would be any use." 
 
 When he had gone, Dorothy went back to the fire, and 
 Louis's words still rang in her ears. He thinks I'm 
 pretty ! she thought. It was extraordinarily comforting. 
 It started a wild hope in her mind. He thought her 
 pretty. Perhaps he didn't think Veronica was pretty? 
 Oh, but she was! Dorothy shook her head. There 
 could be no doubt which of them was the prettier. And 
 did her prettiness count for anything? She tried hard 
 to read any sort of feeling other than kindness in his 
 manner. 
 
 "Oh no, my dear," she said at last, addressing herself, 
 and her spirits sinking; "you may be pretty; but it's 
 Veronica who ..." A long vagueness beset her, in 
 which reveries drifted kaleidoscopically. Again she 
 shook her head. "He likes me as a friend. He can talk 
 to me. Well, I can talk to him. I feel extraordinarily 
 as though we had ever so much that's the same in us. 
 Perhaps too much. But he isn't in love with me. Why 
 should he be? Anyway, I'd rather be his friend than 
 nothing. I think ... I think I'd rather be his friend 
 than be Veronica Hughes. I'm sure I'd rather not be 
 her. Not at any price. Not for the sake of marrying 
 him. Not even for that. No ... Perhaps it's only 
 sour grapes. . . . Oh, but I don't think it is. . . ." 
 
 Even as she said that her heart froze ; because nothing 
 on earth could make her disbelieve altogether in miracles. 
 She was quite too young to have reached the point of 
 disbelieving in miracles where love is concerned. It 
 would have been too much to ask of her.
 
 CHAPTER XXI: BECKWITH ON THE BENCH 
 
 DOROTHY'S sleep that night was sweet and long; 
 and when she saw in the morning how the Febru- 
 ary sun had flooded her room with warm light her heart 
 was rejoiced. She parted the curtains and looked out 
 of the window. Their garden ran down to another 
 garden; but beyond that was a field in which on Satur- 
 days boys played football, and beyond that again were 
 trees that hid other, larger, gardens. The trees she saw 
 were fruit trees, for Beckwith was a great fruit-growing 
 district and every garden was an orchard. In a few 
 weeks the lovely white cherry blossom would transform 
 this view into a fairy vista, and later there would be the 
 faintly-coloured blossom of apple and pear. All the 
 scents and sounds of the happy seasons would come 
 gradually into being, and birds would chirrup and bees 
 would hum. She would awaken to the noises of Spring 
 and Summer; her heart would feel as though it were 
 bursting with joy. If she tried, she could imagine the 
 long beautiful evenings, with the sun sinking and light 
 breezes making the leaves whisper, and she could feel 
 upon her face the scented air, heavy and sweet. Even 
 now Dorothy could distinguish a new freshness that was 
 carried in at her open window a freshness that softened 
 her heart and made her stand upright with a passionate 
 outreaching to beauty. It would be so exquisite ... if 
 only she were happy. She knew that to sit in the garden 
 
 276
 
 BECKWITH ON THE BENCH 277 
 
 at Apple House, while the birds chattered and the roses 
 hung sleepily in the sunshine, must be to endure a perfect 
 sensation. It was peace that she so desired, the power to 
 rest for a moment in such content, as innocent of plan 
 or fear as a hovering butterfly. And whenever she had 
 passed Apple House it had been with the sense that here 
 was the true abode of peace. To be able to go there, 
 gently walking in the garden, hearing and seeing the 
 delights of such an arbour, was to Dorothy a dream, 
 something sweeter than she had ever known. 
 
 In a reverie, she stood looking out of the window, 
 until the duties of the moment called her to help her 
 mother. The day was begun. But for the outer world, 
 which had yet so incongruous a call to her active spirit, 
 Dorothy could have dreamed her way through the hours. 
 That thought fulness which had been brought by her love 
 for Louis endured from day to day, and she was less 
 impatient than she had been of inaction. But it did not 
 destroy her sense of immediate facts, and her help was 
 not less competent than it had been. She it was who 
 swept the room and laid the table, while her mother 
 prepared the meal. It was Dorothy who saw that 
 nothing was omitted, that her father had his newspaper 
 ready to hand, and her mother the particular knife with 
 the frizzled handle which she had used each morning for 
 fifteen years. No detail was lost; all was arranged 
 methodically and well. Dorothy had a clear head. So, 
 when William came into the room, rather short and 
 broad, his fresh face shining and clear, he knew at once 
 that his girl was better and in what he called good fight- 
 ing trim. So, when Reg. came tumbling down the 
 stairs, rather late, there was the satisfactory feeling all 
 through this cheerful family that things were as usual. 
 
 "I don't know what we should do without our little 
 Doll," cried William, rubbing his hands. "Now, where
 
 278 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 do we stand?" He proceeded to serve the bacon and 
 eggs. Only his two womenfolk knew that he was de- 
 pressed. At that moment William was cheerful; for 
 he had thrown off his worry in the pleasure at the family 
 reunion. But the sight of the bacon had reminded him 
 of business, and the sight of his face had made Dorothy 
 remember that her own trouble, although the most 
 poignant to her, was not the only anxious thing that had 
 to be endured at this juncture. 
 
 ii 
 
 And all the time, whether they were talking or not, 
 Dorothy did not care what happened about the shop. 
 Shops or houses, houses or shops what had they to do 
 with essential things? Why was it they became so un- 
 important when one was in love? She knew they could 
 not be ignored, that love must fade, and its bloom 
 vanish, if all sorts of things that went to make up the 
 details of life were not planned and foreseen; but with- 
 out love what did they matter? Nothing at all. One 
 lived, one existed; but life had no significance. It was 
 because life had no significance to them that the Beckwith 
 people roused her scorn. They had no reason to go on 
 being alive, for their hearts were dead. While she, so 
 full of love, and even so full of fear, had her profound 
 secret, the spring that moves character, the hidden power 
 that makes for righteousness. 
 
 She thought of what Louis had said. How patient he 
 had been with her! He had seen her ideal, but not her 
 love. She recalled his words, wondering over them as 
 if they had been treasures. But none of them had been 
 words of love only of friendship and confidence in her, 
 as though he felt that she could be trusted. He had 
 said, to explain why he had not told her earlier of his
 
 BECKWITH ON THE BENCH 279 
 
 discouragements, that he had wanted her to like him. 
 That was sweet to Dorothy. But only to like not to 
 love. Secretly, she thought with joy of his face, of his 
 gestures. Supposing he were rather in love with Veron- 
 ica excitedly pleased with her prettiness and her wish 
 to please him. Supposing he really turned to Dorothy, 
 as to one who could best understand him. . . . Shrewdly 
 and bitterly she shook her head. Men did not fall in 
 love with girls whom they thought wise and sympathetic. 
 The things that made them fall in love were quite differ- 
 ent. Coquetry, which flattered them; mysteriousness, 
 that attracted their curiosity . . . Those were what mat- 
 tered. Dorothy had no coquetry, and no mysterious- 
 ness. She shook her head again, sighing; and Mrs. 
 William pondered as she refilled William's cup, for she 
 had seen these two shakings of the head, and she was 
 deeply concerned with the thoughts that gave rise to 
 them. 
 
 in 
 
 Housework and the preparation of the midday meal 
 kept Dorothy busy during the morning. It was not until 
 after the meal that she was free to go out-of-doors. The 
 sun was then so bright, and the white clouds from the 
 north-west were travelling so quickly, dappling the earth 
 with their flying shadows, that the day was exquisite. 
 Noises echoed in the Spring-like air, and the voices from 
 the playing field rolled o-o-oh like incredulous cries in 
 billows of small sound. When Dorothy went out she 
 heard everything distinctly, and held her head high be- 
 cause the wind was so boisterous. All the upper 
 branches of the trees were swaying. Quick fingers of 
 bright sunshine chased each other across the common, 
 starting long patches of grass into glistening emerald and
 
 280 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 by contrast darkening the other parts of the green. 
 There was a sound in the air as of rushing water. Doro- 
 thy's heart seemed as though it had expanded, it felt 
 so soft, and ready to be easily moved. The roofs of the 
 houses besides the common shone. When one was in the 
 sun its warmth was perceptible. It was a beautiful day, 
 keen and fine, a day for long walks and for happiness, 
 brilliant and open. 
 
 Already the people of Beckwith were coming out of 
 their houses. Doors were slamming in the sudden gusts 
 of wind. The girls wore brighter clothes, and looked up 
 at the clouds as if they were all filled with the same 
 enthusiasm as Dorothy. She felt exalted. It was 
 Saturday, and there was a stir of activity in the town. 
 Carts dashed out beside the green and pulled up in front 
 of the houses. Boys with footballs were coming in little 
 groups, making their way from the town to the neigh- 
 bouring fields where they were going to pick up sides 
 and rush about in their shirt sleeves or their football 
 jerseys, shouting and happy. If it had not been for 
 Veronica and Miss Lampe Dorothy would have felt lov- 
 ing to all the world. 
 
 It was while she was walking thus beside the common, 
 hugging the treasure of her delight in all this sense of 
 growth and happy activity, that Dorothy saw approach- 
 ing her from the opposite direction the figure of Mr. 
 Toppett. Instantly she was aware of a slight shrinking, 
 for she remembered the scene in the dressing-room and 
 that this was her first time out-of-doors since that dread- 
 ful evening. She tried hard not to let her shrinking be 
 seen, although for an instant it paralysed her, and walked 
 on with her eyes bright and her cheeks a little flushed. 
 Mr. Toppett had his eldest child, a boy of four, who was 
 forced to wear large round black-rimmed spectacles, 
 walking beside him. It would have been so easy to stop
 
 BECKWITH ON THE BENCH 281 
 
 and make a little laughing introduction. It would have 
 meant nothing, but it would have shown charity and 
 kindness. The little boy was tightly holding Mr. Top- 
 pett's hand in his hot fist, and was dragging and wander- 
 ing about the path in his puppy-like curiosity at all he 
 saw. Dorothy shrank again. Mr. Toppett came nearer. 
 As he approached she heard him say to his little boy in 
 an irritated voice, "Come on, come on. ... You must 
 look where you're going." But he kept his eyes low, 
 pretending to be engrossed with the stumbling boy. 
 His broad ugly face was severe : he deliberately avoided 
 taking any notice of Dorothy. 
 
 IV 
 
 With her head up, and her cheeks sparkling, Dorothy 
 walked on. A strange little coldness stood in her breast, 
 like a fear, and her lips trembled into a smile of wounded 
 pride; but she kept upon her way. She was saying to 
 herself : "I see ... I see .. ." and pretending that she 
 didn't mind. But she was bitterly hurt. It was signifi- 
 cant. She perfectly understood that she had been out- 
 rageous and was to be punished She had been too 
 honest, and Beckwith was going to punish her. 
 
 Perhaps Dorothy's first impulse had been to go to 
 Apple House, but after this encounter that had become 
 impossible. She could not force herself upon Mrs. Ve- 
 chantor, who had been so kind, if she were once again 
 really in disgrace. Mrs. Vechantor would be em- 
 barrassed. She was bound to wish to withdraw. After 
 all, she had only been kind to a girl who was in the 
 extremity of distress. 
 
 "Oh, I'm no good," Dorothy thought, with a horrible 
 dismay. "I'm always wrong. I can't do right. There's
 
 282 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 something outrageous about me. I don't fit . . . I'm 
 no good." 
 
 She was in a sort of wounded despair. Some impulse 
 made her turn away from Apple House. She felt it was 
 forbidden to her. Instead, she turned down another 
 road, the road that led to the railway station. She would 
 go round by that way, and home again by the road in 
 which she and her father had met Louis that Sunday. 
 For a moment Dorothy did not realise that the way she 
 had impulsively chosen would take her past Miss Lampe's 
 house. Had she thought, she would have known this 
 and would have fled by any other road. As it was, she 
 went blindly on, her heart still beating with indignation 
 and chagrin, until she was almost abreast of the ugly 
 little house, and did not see that Miss Lampe was in 
 the act of slamming her front door. Nor did Miss 
 Lampe see Dorothy until they were quite close, and she 
 was stepping down backwards from her doorstep. The 
 sound of a step made Miss Lampe look over her shoulder. 
 The shock of seeing Dorothy confused her for a moment. 
 Her ankle turned; her foot slipped from the step into 
 the greasy mud of the footpath, and Miss Lampe sat 
 down abruptly in front of her own house, in a shallow 
 puddle of undrained water. 
 
 v 
 
 "Oh !" they both said, uncontrollably, with different * 
 inflections. Miss Lampe grew violently red, and Doro- 
 thy stopped dead in front of her. Then Dorothy ran 
 forward, holding out her hands to assist the fallen woman 
 who sat so uncomfortably before her. But Miss Lampe 
 waved her off. 
 
 "No!" she cried, in a sort of frenzy; and scrambled to 
 her feet, turning a muddy back upon Dorothy. She was 
 in a terrible state of excitement, trembling and talking
 
 BECKWITH ON THE BENCH 283 
 
 to herself. She could not wait to use her door-key, but 
 hammered violently at the door, so that her old and deaf 
 servant should admit her. She clung to the door-knob. 
 "Go away! Go away!" she cried to Dorothy, turning 
 over her shoulder a face distorted with all sorts of emo- 
 tions. "I won't have you touch me." 
 
 Miss Lampe could never have realised the grotesque 
 effect of her muddied black poplin dress, creased and 
 dirty, her wrinkled face, turned a carroty-red by her 
 excitement, her ugly bonnet thrown askew by the fall. 
 She was too filled with frantic distaste for Dorothy to 
 think of anything at all, and continued to hammer at 
 her front door with the fierceness of one demented. 
 
 "I'm so awfully sorry," Dorothy said subduedly. 
 
 "Go away. You bad girl !" cried Miss Lampe. "You 
 bad girl !" She strained her head away. 
 
 Dorothy stood helplessly for a moment. Then, with 
 a shrug which she could not help, she walked on. Long 
 after she had gone she heard the knocker still at work, 
 but she did not turn round. She felt shocked and irri- 
 tated at this extraordinary scene; both hurt and miser- 
 able. But when she had walked a little farther, and was 
 quite out of sight of the house, she was shaken by a fit 
 of nervous and almost hysterical laughter at the unex- 
 pected sight of Miss Lampe sitting in the muddy pathway 
 and Miss Lampe clinging to her own front door, with 
 thin streams of mud trickling piteously down her poplin 
 skirt. It was the height of the grotesque, because Miss 
 Lampe would rather have died than appear before Doro- 
 thy in any plight so ridiculous. 
 
 vi 
 
 That was not the last of Dorothy's encounters, for 
 when one goes out-of-doors in Beckwith it is impossible
 
 284 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 to avoid meeting one quarter of the residents in the town. 
 She had turned up an unfrequented road, that was sacred 
 upon summer evenings to those amorous couples who 
 love strolling under over-arching trees or sitting upon 
 mossy banks among the great straying roots of trees, 
 which lie above the surface of the ground like great 
 veins. Upon such evenings one could see the white tufts 
 of scampering rabbits like feathers in the dusk. The 
 ground hereabouts was full of rabbit-holes, into which 
 inquisitive dogs dived whining and scratching as they 
 were taken along the road. Now, however, the earth 
 was still bare. The undergrowth was just sparking into 
 faint bud, the moss was greening, the tiny fallen branches 
 from the previous year still cracked under the feet 
 Only above the trees interlaced, and their skeleton boughs 
 rattled in the wind. 
 
 It was a lonely road, and when the clouds obscured the 
 sun it was dark. A piece of glass sparkled once by the 
 roadside, and something it may have been a rat, or a 
 mouse, or a little bird made a slight noise among some 
 dead and sodden leaves as Dorothy passed. Otherwise 
 everything was still. Dorothy, recovered from her fit of 
 laughter, had tears in her eyes; her lips trembled again 
 at the feeling of desolateness. She became suddenly 
 oppressed with a sense of the road's gloom, frightened of 
 being alone. It made her hurry, to escape the dread, the 
 haunting unfathomable dread, that was upon her. The 
 trees were full of a thousand eyes, watching her distress, 
 and mocking her. For two or three steps she ran; but 
 when her nerves were again under control she tried to 
 reassure herself. 
 
 "It's nothing," she whispered. "I'm not well. I'm a 
 coward. Oh, but how aivful it is to be alone! I'm 
 frightened of being alone. If I were much alone I think 
 I should go mad. People do, you know. When they're
 
 285 
 
 imprisoned, or ... sent to Coventry. That's what I 
 am. And what have I done that's wicked? Nothing. 
 I've done nothing wicked. It was Miss Lampe who was 
 wicked. . . ." She puzzled over it for a long time. It 
 all seemed so wrong to her. Yes, but Miss Lampe had 
 fallen in the mud. She wouldn't have fallen in the mud 
 if she hadn't had a bad conscience. "She's got a bad 
 conscience," Dorothy assured herself. "I haven't 
 That's because I'm wicked. But I'm not wicked. I've 
 never been wicked. She's got a bad conscience, and it 
 made her fall in the mud. I can't help feeling rather 
 glad. . . . No, I'm not glad. How glad she'd have 
 been if it had been I who fell in the mud! She'd have 
 thought it a punishment. . . . Perhaps she'll say I did! 
 Perhaps she'll say I pushed her! Oh, how horrible to 
 be as wicked as Miss Lampe! Good, I mean. ... Of 
 course, I mean good!" 
 
 She had been thinking so much about Miss Lampe and 
 her fall in the mud that she did not notice Veronica 
 Hughes in the distance; but Veronica had seen her and 
 had turned hastily, walking quickly in the other direction. 
 Something in that abrupt turn drew Dorothy's attention 
 to the figure of Veronica. Her heart gave a jerk. It 
 was Veronica. Something made Dorothy begin to walk 
 more quickly. She did not gain upon Veronica. She 
 began to run, and so began to overtake her. As if 
 Veronica heard the steps behind she too increased her 
 pace. It almost seemed as if she too began to run; but 
 it was only that she walked with flying steps. Dorothy, 
 heated and excited by the run, lost heart suddenly, and 
 stopped about a dozen yards behind, panting. Veronica, 
 unable to resist the bidding of her curiosity, looked fear- 
 fully over her shoulder. 
 
 "Miss Hughes," cried Dorothy. 
 
 Veronica walked on. Dorothy repeated her cry. For
 
 286 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 a moment Veronica wavered. Then she turned, only 
 half -stopping. 
 
 "I don't want to speak to you," she said, in a breath- 
 less, choking voice. 
 
 "Oh, but . . . please tell me. . . . Do you think I'm 
 wicked for . . . being rude to Miss Lampe?" called 
 Dorothy. 
 
 Veronica made no reply, but walked quickly on. 
 Dorothy shrugged her shoulders, very red, and dropped 
 back. She had deliberately courted this discomfiture, 
 and she had been rewarded. What an idiot she had 
 been! To lay herself open to the snub. To invite it! 
 
 When Veronica was quite a long distance away she 
 again turned round. At first she could not speak; but 
 at last, with a great effort, she gained strength to call out 
 in a trembling voice. 
 
 "I think you're abominable!" she cried shrilly; and 
 resumed her headlong flight. 
 
 vii 
 
 Dorothy was quite taken aback at such a word. It 
 was such an odd word; and yet there could be no mis- 
 taking either the word or the venom with which it had 
 been uttered. Why should Veronica hate her? People 
 would say, because Dorothy knew Veronica's secret ; but 
 that was cynical absurdity. It was not true. Why 
 should Veronica hate her, and not Miss Lampe and the 
 others who had been there? It frightened her. When 
 she thought of her three meetings, her three horrible 
 meetings, she was overcome with terror. What did it 
 mean? What had she done? What did they think she 
 had done? 
 
 It was all very mysterious, and Dorothy drew her 
 breath sobbingly as she stumbled after Veronica. The
 
 BECKWITH ON THE BENCH 287 
 
 day had lost all its sweetness for her. She no longer 
 noticed the moving freshness of the opening Spring. 
 The sky had become overcast. No birds sang. All was 
 dark and melancholy. She was alone in that dreary 
 road, but in life she was still more completely alone. She 
 did not dare to think of seeing Mrs. Vechantor. The 
 new promising acquaintance with Mrs. Toppett was at 
 an end. Veronica, whom she so despised and pitied and 
 feared, thought her abominable. Miss Lampe was now 
 her declared enemy. Mr. Toppett ignored her Mr. 
 Toppett, who should have been the last, by his own 
 faith, to be lacking in charity. Of all others he should 
 have been the one to try to be kind to her. Instead, he 
 was the first to pass her with averted face. That was 
 his charity. Well for the world that all clergymen, all 
 teachers of mankind, were not as he! Mr. Toppett, as 
 barometric as anybody in Beckwith! 
 
 And Louis was lost to her. Sooner or later, now, he 
 would hear all about her. That frank talk was the last 
 they would have together. When he learned that she 
 had run through the rain, like a mad creature, forgetful 
 of all the dignity with which a girl must hide her feelings 
 from all human creatures, he would hate her. He, too, 
 if Veronica thought that, would find her abominable! 
 It was too much ! Dorothy paused in the deserted road, 
 wiping her eyes, her mouth drooping at the corners, worn 
 out with the weight of reproach which she was having to 
 carry. 
 
 She had hardly the courage to find her way back into 
 the town. She passed Apple House with her head down, 
 in case anybody there should see her. Deliberately, she 
 skirted the common by the less freely used road, hoping 
 thus to avoid further unkindness. Not wholly was she 
 successful. Two or three people, seeing her, looked an- 
 other way, and afterwards watched her with inquisitive,
 
 288 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 critical eyes. She made no attempt to obtain their recog- 
 nition. She felt as though she was finally, without ap- 
 peal, yet for what sin she did not yet know, an outcast. 
 Even when Dorothy reached the High Street, and was 
 about to enter the shop, she had not ended that after- 
 noon's ordeal, for she saw in the distance Mr. and Mrs. 
 Toppett and their little boy, all walking hand in hand. 
 She saw Mrs. Toppett falter, look at her husband, and 
 flush deeply. It was with a new kind of pain that Doro- 
 thy recognised Mrs. Toppett's kind impulse. She turned 
 away, but not before she had caught and acknowledged 
 the little bow that Mrs. Toppett, in defiance of all Beck- 
 with, had given in her direction. It made her heart 
 swell. But it made her go straight to her bedroom and 
 there relieve in a burst of passionate weeping the burden 
 of her over-charged heart. It was the one piece of 
 kindness shown her in the whole of that beautiful after- 
 noon, when all nature was radiant and only the occupants 
 of houses in Beckwith were showing still the chill effects 
 of winter.
 
 CHAPTER XXII: SUNDAY MORNING 
 
 THE next day was Sunday, another lovely day with 
 the wind from the north-west and high white 
 clouds swimming across the sky as if they had been swans 
 upon an illimitable lake. Dorothy was up early, al- 
 though N she was weary; and the breakfast was cleared 
 away and the housework half-done before the first church 
 bells began to ring. There was a sweet chime from Mr. 
 Toppett's church, and a dull "hell-hell-heH" from the 
 Congregational church, and a sharper, but equally 
 monotonous outcry from the Baptist chapel. Some- 
 where in the town there was also a braying Salvationist 
 band. All these loud noises combined with the general 
 stillness to remind everybody in Beckwith that this was 
 Sunday. The High Street was filled with people smartly 
 dressed and sedate, who carried prayer books and made 
 a regular hushing sound of feet in unison. Dorothy 
 looked out from the window in Reg.'s room, and sighed 
 to see everybody apparently so contented, while she alone 
 was heartsore. 
 
 Her mother and father had joined the throng. She 
 and Reg. remained in the house. She was going to cook 
 the dinner, and must presently hurry downstairs to mix 
 the ingredients for her pudding. Already the currants 
 were soaking in a big basin; and she was going to roll 
 them in a cloth, and pick away the stalks. Hey! she 
 thought- I mustn't stand idling here! It'll never do! 
 So she began to hurry, and Reg.'s room was quickly 
 
 289
 
 290 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 finished. He was already downstairs, boiling a kettle in 
 order to obtain steam for one of his models. 
 
 When everybody was in church, and when Dorothy, 
 with spotless sleeves rolled above her pretty elbows, had 
 stalked her currants and was mixing the pudding, Reg. 
 was at work, whistling and laughing, with all the in- 
 ventor's pride in a practicable device. He called down 
 from his room : "Doll ! Dollee ! Done it !" 
 
 "Hoo, good !" cried Dorothy, and continued mixing her 
 pudding. To herself she added: "I'm so glad!" Re- 
 flectively, as she continued thinking about the model, and 
 about her abstracted kettle, she thought: "He'll be in a 
 good temper all day. What a blessing! It'll be quite 
 like home!" 
 
 It was at that moment, when her arms were all floury, 
 that a ring came at the door. She thought it must be the 
 milkman, and so she took his bottle and a big jug, and 
 presented Louis, who stood without, with a new picture 
 of his cousin. 
 
 "Hullo, Dorothy !" he said, refusing the bottle and the 
 jug with a careless gesture. 
 
 So he had come. Well, why had he come? Dorothy 
 wondered. She looked frankly at him in surprise, and 
 with her apron wiped flour off the door-catch. Mutely 
 she admitted him, and they went together into the kitchen 
 behind the shop. 
 
 ii 
 
 "And now," said Louis. . . . "What I've really come 
 for is to ask whether you would all care to come over 
 to Apple House to tea. I've brought a letter from my 
 mother to Mrs. William, and if she's not in you're to 
 read it and tell me, if you can, whether you can come." 
 
 "But Louis!" cried Dorothy. She stood before him 
 very floury, having stood the milkman's property upon
 
 SUNDAY MORNING 291 
 
 the table beside her basin. A pucker of doubt stood in 
 her forehead. She did not attempt to take the offered 
 note. 
 
 "Why not?" Louis was unshaken. "I ought to say 
 that this is all my mother's own idea. It's not a com- 
 mand. It's just her first real attempt to be friendly. 
 I've had nothing to do with it . . ." 
 
 "No. I can't come." Dorothy seemed to awaken 
 from a dream. 
 
 "Angry?" 
 
 "No. Afraid." She met his question squarely. 
 Louis waited. Mechanically, she began again to stir 
 the flour and the currants together in her large pudding 
 basin. He saw her head shaken. 
 
 "What, then? Afraid of my father?" 
 
 Again Dorothy's head was shaken. She did not see 
 how she could go to Apple House when everybody in 
 Beckwith was trying to show her that she was some- 
 thing vile. 
 
 "It seems," she said at last, as he waited so patiently, 
 leaning against the table, with a slow smile crossing his 
 face a smile which was not at all amused, but only 
 kind. "It seems that I've been doing something very 
 wicked. I don't know what it is; but it's evidently 
 wicked. And I'm so afraid that when your mother hears 
 about it of course, it's not true . . . whatever it is 
 she'll feel I've taken advantage of her kindness. Miss 
 Lampe says I'm wicked. And Ver . . ." She stopped, 
 afraid now to mention that name. Then, her honesty, 
 and perhaps her jealousy, getting the upper hand, she 
 concluded: "And Veronica Hughes thinks I'm abom- 
 inable." 
 
 "Veronica!" A colour came into Louis's cheeks. 
 
 Dorothy stood there quiet silent, devouring that colour. 
 It was as though she had stabbed herself, for her heart
 
 292 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 raced. Every drop of blood seemed drained from her 
 face. She felt stifled. 
 
 iii 
 
 "Do you know Veronica Hughes, then ?" Louis asked, 
 almost carelessly. "Oh, I suppose you must, as she was 
 singing at the concert." He paused, looking down. 
 "D'you like her?" he suddenly asked. 
 
 Dorothy, her lips tightly closed, breathed rapidly. 
 Her hands were still again. With brooding eyes she 
 watched his averted face, and when he sharply turned, 
 waiting for her answer, she could not drop her lids in 
 time to hide her doubt. 
 
 "Oh, you don't !' r Louis said. His tone seemed to be 
 sharp. Dorothy tried to smile. 
 
 "I think she's most awfully pretty," she said. "No- 
 body could help thinking that. But when a girl has 
 called you abominable you'd hardly be expected to like 
 her very much. Or think of her justly. 
 
 "Why did she call you abominable?" asked Louis, in- 
 tently listening. 
 
 "I don't quite know. Because I asked if she thought 
 I was wicked." 
 
 "I didn't know you were so self-conscious," laughed 
 Louis. "Do you ask everybody that?" 
 
 "Not everybody," Dorothy said, with pain. "Never, 
 anybody, until I came to Beckwith." 
 
 "And what put wickedness into your head at all? I 
 mean, why did you ask her? It seems such a curious 
 gambit." 
 
 Dorothy drew a quick, rather sobbing breath. 
 
 "Louis, I can't go on talking about it. I'm unhappy 
 about it ; because it's so recent. But, you see, I shouldn't 
 like to come . . . and your mother to think I'm 
 wicked . ."
 
 SUNDAY MORNING 298 
 
 Louis put his hand upon her arm, above the elbow, not 
 so that his fingers touched her skin. His expression was 
 altogether kind and sympathetic. 
 
 "Don't be absurd," he said. "D'you suppose she cares 
 two carrots what these people say about you? Why, 
 where's your nerve, Dorothy? You're not losing it, are 
 you? I've no doubt all the pussies in Beck with have 
 hurried to my mother; and I'm absolutely sure she means 
 to stand by you. Besides, I'd trust your opinion of your- 
 self before anybody's. I would, really. And, another 
 thing: I don't think you could be particularly wicked. 
 You don't somehow manage to convey an impression of 
 wickedness. Of course," he was rather inclined to laugh, 
 because he could not take seriously anything so absurd 
 as this charge, "you're rather daring for Beckwith. 
 Rather honest. What Beckwith calls 'rather fast' And 
 God bless you for it !" 
 
 He said these last words in a curious, sudden voice, 
 and rose to his full height. Dorothy glowed a little, 
 looking trustfully at him, and feeling grateful; but not 
 yet convinced that her shocks of yesterday had been mat- 
 ter for laughter. Her heart was still too heavy for 
 laughter. 
 
 The sound of Reg.'s galloping feet upon the upper 
 stairs caused her to speak quickly. 
 
 "I don't know," she said. "About coming. ... It 
 would be so awful . . ." 
 
 Reg. burst into the room. 
 
 "It's working grand!" he cried. Then, seeing Louis, 
 he pulled up. There was a perceptible change in his 
 attitude to his cousin. "I say, could you both come up 
 and look at it?" he begged. "I'm so afraid it'll go off 
 the boil." 
 
 "My pudding !" gasped Dorothy. 
 
 They all made for the stairs, Reg. hastening on, with,
 
 294 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 from his room, shouts of a reassuring and hortatory 
 character. 
 
 iv 
 
 They stayed for only a minute. Then Dorothy was 
 forced to hurry back to the kitchen, and Louis followed 
 her as quickly as he dared. He stood by Reg.'s engine, 
 admiring the cleverness which had given rise to it. Reg. 
 discoursed for a few minutes; but was soon lost in ex- 
 periment, talking to himself, as boy-inventors do. Ac- 
 cordingly Louis was able to slip away almost unobserved. 
 He rejoined Dorothy. 
 
 "I must go now," he said. Impudently, he concluded : 
 "I shall say you're coming. I shall say you insist on dis- 
 cussing your wickedness with my mother. Shall I?" 
 Dorothy did not answer. "Or would you rather I used 
 the word abominableness ?" 
 
 "Oh, Louis!" she cried desperately. "Don't! Don't 
 joke! I can't bear it!" 
 
 A kind of horror had come into her face. Her eyes 
 were dilated. She was trembling. 
 
 "Dorothy!" he said quickly. "I never meant to hurt. 
 I was trying to cheer you up. Do forgive me! I was 
 a beast !" 
 
 "No. . . . But if you knew how it hurt!" 
 
 "These people?" he demanded incredulously. "De- 
 spise them ! I though you did." 
 
 Dorothy, still breathing quickly, watched him. 
 
 "Despise Veronica Hughes ?" she asked, in a smothered 
 voice. 
 
 Louis fell silent for an instant. His face had become 
 altogether grave. 
 
 "Well, shall we say . . . feel sorry for her . . ." he 
 suggested. "Because she forgot her own sweetness in 
 some fit of anger."
 
 SUNDAY MORNING 295 
 
 "Well, then," said Dorothy, with an air of spirit which 
 had no echo in her heart, "I'll try and feel sorry for her. 
 But I can't help feeling sorry for myself. I was sorry 
 for her. I am sorry. But she needn't have been so 
 cruel." 
 
 "Oh," said Louis. "People are, you know. Veron- 
 ica's always been rather cruel. I think perhaps we're all 
 rather cruel. . . . Don't you?" 
 
 "Yes," said Dorothy, in a sober voice. "Perhaps we 
 are." 
 
 A few moments later, with her arms still floury, she 
 went with him to the front door. His last words as he 
 turned away were : 
 
 "I shall expect you !" 
 
 Dorothy, looking up at the clock, was filled with panic. 
 That panic saved her from melancholy thoughts. It 
 made her concentrate upon the dinner, and work is a good 
 obstacle to oppose to painful reflection. This fact is 
 well known in Beckwith, which is never tired of the old 
 saw about Satan and idle hands. In his room at the top 
 of the house Reg. was defying Satan, and at the top of 
 his voice singing "Alexander's Rag-Time Band." In 
 the kitchen Dorothy was shaking her head and gently 
 lowering her pudding into a pot of water. She was shak- 
 ing her head over Louis. 
 
 "He didn't let me see what he felt about her," she was 
 thinking. "And like a silly jealous girl I tried to make 
 him think badly of her. Eh dear, he knows now that 
 I don't like her. One day she'll tell him the reason. Not 
 the true reason; but near enough ... for her. She'll 
 be sure of him then." Dorothy continued to stand by 
 the kitchen fire, hearing the muffled roar behind and be- 
 neath the iron enclosures. It came to her to think at 
 this moment: "But she isn't sure of him now. She's
 
 96 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 frightened." Suddenly her face became deadly pale, 
 and her hands rose, clenched and trembling. She cried 
 out in a loud voice : "It's something she's said about me. 
 Something she's invented. Oh, why didn't I see it be- 
 fore! Of course, that's what it is!" 
 
 For several minutes Dorothy was in a state of extreme 
 terror.
 
 CHAPTER XXIII: SUNDAY AFTERNOON 
 
 M 
 
 RS. VECHANTOR'S note was very short and 
 very cordial. It said: 
 
 "DEAR MRS. WILLIAM, Do you think you would all 
 care to come across the common this afternoon about 
 four o'clock to have tea at Apple House? We should 
 all be so glad if you could come. I want you to meet 
 my husband; and now that Louis is at home again and 
 we are all together it would be a nice way to bring our 
 two families together and make all the members known 
 to each other. I do hope you will come. It would be 
 very generous of you. Yours sincerely, 
 
 "ENID VECHANTOR." 
 
 "H'm," said Mrs. William interestedly. "Her name's 
 Enid. . . . Can't say that it's a name I was ever very 
 fond of. A pale name, I always thought it . . ." She 
 looked critically at her husband. "Will dear, that tie's 
 too bright to go out in again to-day . . ." 
 
 "Eh, eh, eh?" said William, trying to see over his chin. 
 "Go out ? What's the matter with my tie ?" 
 
 "Rotten!" cried Reg. "Like a sunset." 
 
 "No, Reg. It's not like a sunset," objected his mother 
 mildly. "It's too bright for going out to tea. It's very 
 nice for going to church, of course. . . . But in a house 
 it's different. You can't stand colours in a house like 
 you can in church. At least, I can't ; and I expect Mrs. 
 
 207
 
 298 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 Vechantor's the same as me in that respect." She was 
 very patient; but she was firm. 
 
 "Mum. . . . Don't let him wear a black tie," urged 
 Dorothy. 
 
 William looked round with affected indignation. 
 
 "It's taken for granted," he said, "that I'm going out. 
 I don't know that I am . . ." 
 
 "I think he'd do then," placidly remarked Mrs. 
 William. "Don't you, dear?" She turned to Dorothy. 
 "I must make sure he's got one of Reg.'s handkerchiefs." 
 
 "I say!" clamoured Reg. "I like that! He can't have 
 one of mine. I'm using them all. I want them all my- 
 self." 
 
 It was explained to Reg. that his father had no credit- 
 able handkerchiefs; and at last Reg. nodded his head, 
 giving consent to the use of a beautiful white handker- 
 chief with Reg.'s name embroidered by Dorothy in the 
 corner of it. All this time William had been rolling his 
 eyes. 
 
 "Here, give me the letter," he demanded at last; and 
 he read it attentively. Then he looked round at his 
 family. "Well," he said, "I must say that I'm ashamed 
 of my family. Ashamed of my family. Here was Reg. 
 here saying he'd never so much as look over the gate of 
 his cousins' house, and Doll saying they could keep their 
 old family pride in the dustbin, where it belonged. . . . 
 And Mum saying it was quite right to keep the two 
 families distinct. . . . Yet the first whistle; and you're 
 all after it, like cats after a herring. . . . I'm ashamed of 
 my family." 
 
 "Yes, dear," said Mrs. William. "I don't think you'd 
 better have any more pudding, because you'l 1 want to 
 go to sleep; and I don't expect your cousin would like 
 that, in his own house. It's not as if you were at 
 home. . . . Will dear, you're not listening . . ."
 
 SUNDAY AFTERNOON 299 
 
 11 
 
 At a quarter-to-four they were all ready to start. Mrs. 
 William inspected them. Dorothy she passed, as to 
 garments, without remark ; Reg.* and William had a more 
 prolonged examination. She herself turned slowly 
 round before them all, and each solemnly assured her 
 that everything was well. Handkerchiefs were shown 
 even flourished; and the family descended the stairs like 
 an Indian tribe, William leading the way. The High 
 Street was quiet. Only a few loiterers little boys, one 
 with a mortar-board hat, and one with a tight little 
 bowler, stood about, their boots brightly polished, and 
 their faces shining. A girl came quickly along from the 
 common, evidently a maidservant from one of the large 
 houses. It was a bright afternoon, and the sun was 
 warm in spite of the early season. 
 
 "All ready?" queried William; and then slammed the 
 front door. 
 
 At that moment a figure came close to them ; the figure 
 of a tall thin man with a line down each cheek like the 
 curly backward "S" in the face of a violin, and with 
 rather long side-whiskers. The man was clearly a 
 tradesman, though he was dressed in a frock-coat and tall 
 hat. He hurried up to William, and coughed, and took 
 off his hat to the ladies, coughing again behind his hand. 
 
 "Mr. Vechantor?" he asked, in a self-depreciating 
 voice. "Pardon me, Mr. Vechantor ; but could you . . . 
 is it too much to ask you to give me a few moments of 
 your valuable time? I wouldn't trouble you; but my 
 business is urgent. A few minutes. . . . My name's 
 Flisk Herbert Flisk. You may have noticed my little 
 shop in the Station Road . . . Flisk: Provision 
 Dealer . ."
 
 300 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Flisk," said William, with a quick scrutiny. 
 "Of course I know your name. Well, my dears, you'd 
 better go on alone . . . I'll come on later, when I've seen 
 what Mr. Flisk . . ." 
 
 "Very kind of you," said Mr. Flisk. "Very kind, I'm 
 sure." 
 
 He took off his hat with a flourish, and disappeared 
 into the doorway in company with William. The three 
 others went slowly towards the common. 
 
 "I wonder what he wants," said Mrs. William, voicing 
 the common thought. Dorothy added, in a moment : 
 
 "He's been getting all Dad's trade, I think . . ." 
 
 All were busy in thought with this unexpected incident 
 as they crossed the common. Dorothy had no eyes for 
 anybody they passed; and so she did not notice that 
 Veronica Hughes saw them all go into the gate of Apple 
 House. 
 
 in 
 
 Like any other visitors, they were ushered into the 
 drawing-room by Rosemary, whose whole face beamed 
 with the delighted surprise of one offered a tit-bit of 
 information. Rosemary, in fact, almost (but, fortu- 
 nately for her reputation as the finest parlourmaid in 
 Beckwith, she did not quite fail in the requisite com- 
 posure) slammed the door of the room in her eager haste 
 to rush away and impart the news to her fellow-servants. 
 From those servants to other servants, from servant to 
 mistress, from mistress to mistress, the advent of the 
 William Vechantors would spread like gorse-fire on the 
 morrow. 
 
 Meanwhile the new-comers were welcomed. Emanuel 
 Vechantor, very uncomfortable, but sustained by his 
 pride, grasped their hands in turn. He allowed his wife
 
 SUNDAY AFTERNOON 301 
 
 to receive Mrs. William, while Louis carried Reg. off to 
 look at a system of home-made incandescent light which 
 had its place in what had once been stables at the back of 
 the house. Emanuel accepted Dorothy as an old friend. 
 He was at first stately ; but presently he warmed, talking 
 to her, thawing at her pretty voice and her good be- 
 haviour. She was very timid with him until, when she 
 could raise her eyes, she found that he also was shy ; and 
 from that moment they were good friends. She had 
 been terrified at the thought that he would remember her 
 first bedraggled appearance in that room. To her, for 
 this reason, the visit had more terrors than to any of the 
 others. But the terror passed. She found herself sur- 
 prisedly talking to Emanuel about ancient Rome. She 
 knew nothing of ancient Rome: she was almost as igno- 
 rant of it as any girl could have been : yet, being ignorant, 
 she talked about it to Emanuel. That is to say, she 
 found herself asking him questions, and intelligently re- 
 ceiving answers to her questions. When tea was brought 
 in she felt a slight pressure upon her arm as Emanuel 
 drew her attention to an arm-chair nearer to the 
 table. ... It gave her an electrical thrill. She scanned 
 his face in doubt, reading there only kindness and liking. 
 She felt so extraordinarily grateful that her heart 
 softened. She forgave him for quarrelling with Louis. 
 She even wondered how it was that two such men should 
 ever have quarrelled. As if by instinct she looked across 
 the room to Louis, as if to say "Isn't it wonderful!" and 
 found him looking back with a pride that was still fur- 
 ther moving and wonderful. 
 
 Then Rosemary threw open the door again, this time 
 with pride, but with none of the amazed flourish that 
 she had used in announcing the first comers. 
 
 "Mr. and Mrs. Toppett," she said. 
 
 Dorothy felt her heart go cold.
 
 302 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 IV 
 
 How terrible that he should come! She saw Mrs. 
 Vechantor flush slightly, and wondered if this visit had 
 been expected. What did Louis think? His face was 
 inscrutable. Standing up to receive the visitors he 
 looked, she thought, more handsome than ever. With 
 secret delight she observed his grace, his beautiful easy 
 gestures. Nothing could have made her feel more proud. 
 The Toppetts came into the room. They seemed to be 
 brought up sharply at the sight of those present, and a 
 quick eager expression of pleasure lighted up Mrs. Top- 
 pett's face. She turned to Mrs. William as soon as she. 
 had greeted her hostess, and then smiled and nodded to 
 Dorothy. 
 
 It was Mr. Vechantor who took in hand the mention 
 of Dorothy. 
 
 "I think you know my young cousin, Toppett . . ." he 
 said. 
 
 Dorothy, with beating heart, saw Mr. Toppett bow to 
 herself. He came nearer for an instant. His ugly face 
 was expressionless. Dorothy thought he might have been 
 thinking anything of her. He might have thought her 
 wicked . . . She looked quickly to Louis, for support, 
 for protection. He came forward at once, and she stood 
 with Louis upon one side and Mr. Vechantor upon the 
 other solid enough support in Beckwith for any girl, 
 however her good name had been questioned. She thrilled 
 at the sense of safety. Ah, she was safe now with her 
 cousins beside her ! Even Mr. Toppett must understand 
 that! 
 
 It appeared that he did. He spoke courteously to her, 
 as he had never spoken before. That he was puzzled she 
 could not doubt. That he was confused she thought
 
 SUNDAY AFTERNOON 303 
 
 likely. But at last she was spoken to as a real girl, and 
 not as a person to be endured. Mr. Toppett -withdrew. 
 He went to talk to Mrs. Vechantor. It was all so quiet, 
 so pleasant; and the conversation of Louis and Mr. 
 Vechantor was so gentle and humane that she was ab- 
 sorbed; but some clairvoyance made Dorothy realise 
 deep in her heart that Mrs. Vechantor was talking to Mr. 
 Toppett about her. She knew it as well as she would 
 have done if they had constantly looked in her direction. 
 They were talking of her. And Mrs. Vechantor was her 
 friend. She did not think her wicked ! 
 
 Such cordiality was balm to Dorothy. She was al- 
 most happy, for the first time for weeks. It was a sig- 
 nificant afternoon. She understood then that Mrs. Ve- 
 chantor had been truly her friend, and that she was enlist- 
 ing Mr. Toppett as her cousin's champion at every tea- 
 table in Beckwith. Mrs. Vechantor not only thought 
 Dorothy not wicked ; but she had taken this means as one 
 of several. . . . Dorothy's defence had been put in train. 
 Dorothy's heart swelled. Miss Lampe and Veronica 
 might say what they pleased. Their spiteful tongues 
 would be unavailing. Very well. Dorothy could forgive 
 everything. She could even begin to forgive Veronica. 
 Not wholly could she do that; but even a beginning had 
 been impossible that morning. 
 
 It was a bright and cheerful tea-party. And when the 
 Toppetts were going, and Mrs. Toppett, holding Doro- 
 thy's hand, had bent, upon sudden impulse, and kissed 
 her, Dorothy looked steadfastly at Mrs. Toppett's hus- 
 band. He, too, was warm. 
 
 "Miss Vechantor," he said, in his harsh and resonant 
 voice, "I wish you'd let me thank you for your work at 
 our concert. It was a great success. Everybody's been 
 talking about it to me, and praising it. They all agree. I 
 hope you'll be persuaded to come and help us again. . . ."
 
 304 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 Dorothy's eyes closed. Her heart was beating in her 
 throat. Oh, it was sweet coming now, when she had 
 been so cruelly unhappy. And Louis? What did he 
 think? He was coming back into the room, his head 
 down, his hand still upon the door. But to her glance of 
 inquiry he returned a little smiling nod that was quite 
 sufficiently emphatic for Dorothy. If she had only been 
 able to read his heart ! 
 
 William did not arrive until five minutes later. He 
 was preoccupied. His heartiness was gone. He looked 
 small and out of place in the large drawing-room. A 
 whitish look in his generally fresh-coloured face showed 
 that he was discomposed. Something had excited him. 
 He was perfectly friendly to Emanuel, but he was sub- 
 dued. Dorothy easily read all that. But what had hap- 
 pened ? What had Flisk said or done ? She would have 
 to wait. 
 
 Not for long. William presently moved round to 
 where she was sitting, and where Louis was standing near 
 her. He drew a chair to her side. 
 
 "Louis, boy, don't move away. It's all right," said 
 William. To Dorothy he murmured : "I'll just tell him 
 how it arose. . . . Well, Louis; just as we were coming 
 over this afternoon a man came up and stopped me. 
 Flisk. Know Flisk's? Round in Station Road. He's 
 got a small shop there a grocer's shop. Very cramped 
 for room. Now, I've seen a young fellow about on a 
 bicycle, calling for orders. Most of the orders he got 
 were from my customers. Understand what I mean? 
 When the tide set against me, Flisk took the trade. He 
 was getting it all. Well, it was Flisk who stopped me. 
 I took him upstairs had a chat. He told me all about 
 his business. How he started, and what his profits were,
 
 SUNDAY AFTERNOON 805 
 
 and so on. And he told me the big jump he'd made since 
 Peel went. Finally he offered to buy my business. Well, 
 Louis, I don't mind telling you that things have gone 
 from bad to worse these last two months. I never knew 
 a business tumble down so quickly. The only big account 
 we'd kept in the whole place was your mother's. She 
 never deserted us. . . ." 
 
 "Good mother," agreed Louis. 
 
 "That was the only one. All the others piff. Closed 
 down or starved. Very well. What's the outlook? 
 Nil ! The takings have been smaller this week than ever. 
 Flisk told me that he'd been told by half-a-dozen people 
 that nobody was going to deal with me. I'd lost it for 
 good. Well, whether that's true or not makes no matter. 
 It looks like it. He offered to buy the business . . ." 
 
 "I hope you won't sell," cried Louis impulsively. 
 
 "He offered to buy it for less than I paid; but about 
 fifty times more than I should get on the present turn- 
 over. He'd take over the shop and the stock immedi- 
 ately. . . ." 
 
 "Oh, Dad !" cried Dorothy. 
 
 "I haven't closed. I wouldn't, without talking it over 
 with Mum here. But I've made up my mind. I've made 
 up my mind to sell. I'm going back to run my own shop 
 in Holloway, where I'm known and where I can make 
 my business pay. I'm not a young man, and I've got 
 nothing to fight for except peace and quiet. I've had just 
 about enough of Beckwith, Louis; and my own opinion 
 is that it's best to cut the loss and make the best of a 
 bad bargain. We'll see what Mum says. That's what 
 / say." 
 
 Dorothy and Louis looked mutely at each other. Dor- 
 othy's first personal thought, after a general excitement 
 and response to William's candid statement, was: "We 
 shall go. ... He'll come once or twice . . . and then,
 
 306 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 never. . . . Perhaps it's better : oh, perhaps it's better !" 
 
 VI 
 
 There seemed nothing else. Mrs. William moved 
 resolutely forward in her chair, perfectly conscious of 
 William's excitement, and determined to know the reason 
 of it. In her concern she once addressed Mrs. Vechantor 
 as "ma'am." That was her one lapse from propriety 
 during the whole afternoon. Otherwise she had been 
 perfect. Reg. was already upon his feet. William, put- 
 ting down his tea-cup, apologised to Mrs. Vechantor, both 
 for his lateness and for his early departure. 
 
 "The fact is," he explained, "Mum here won't be happy 
 till she gets home and has the whole story. She's got the 
 fidgets now, as you can see. . . ." 
 
 All rose, and Reg. was first out of the room. 
 
 "I wish you'd let Dorothy stay ... I wish you'd 
 stay, dear," said Mrs. Vechantor. "Wouldn't she stop to 
 dinner? Need she come now?" To Dorothy she added, 
 with an appealing air that was delightfully refreshing: 
 "We'd take great care of you, and . . . But I haven't 
 heard any music for months, and I want you to play a 
 little. And, besides, I don't want to lose you. . . ." 
 
 Dorothy, as red as a rose at such kindness, could think 
 only in terms of gratitude. So she stayed, with a brim- 
 ming heart and great tender eyes that made her mother 
 think of a little girl, years before, who had been her 
 mother's darling, and who had never ceased to be that, 
 in spite of her maturity and the passage of time.
 
 CHAPTER XXIV: SUNDAY NIGHT 
 
 THE dinner that followed was for Dorothy an excit- 
 ing experience. She had never seen so beautiful a 
 table. Round a display of flowers which could only 
 have been grown in perfect hothouses, the parlourmaid, 
 who had a natural talent for floral decoration, had laid 
 exquisitely-coloured berries and small leaves in a pattern. 
 The silver shone brilliantly. Candles reflected the light 
 downward and created a thousand soft sparkling glim- 
 merings wherever it caught and enhanced the glow of 
 metal or china. Above the table was a mellow darkness, 
 unpierced by any vehement ray. All was harmonious. 
 The sound of Rosemary's dress was the faintest rustle. 
 Stillness was everywhere. Dorothy was in a dream at 
 all the loveliness she felt and saw in this delightful room. 
 But her dream was not wholly happy, because it forced 
 into her mind the contrast between Louis's home and her 
 own. The William Vechantors, although happy and 
 vigorous, had less refinement than this; and to Dorothy, 
 who was naturally refined, but whose taste was bounded 
 by her experience of the possibilities of such craft in 
 display, the scheme of Apple House, so delicate and so 
 assured, came as something of a blow. How was it pos- 
 sible, she thought, that Louis, who had been in her home, 
 could ever imagine that she, given opportunity, could have 
 made a home as perfectly ordered as this? She could 
 not have made it. The knowledge pressed upon her 
 
 307
 
 308 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 heart. There was so much that she had never taken into 
 account. She had thought love was enough ; but love was 
 only a sort of child's nonsense as soon as one came into 
 touch with the realities of such things as these. It had 
 always been impossible to think of herself as living at 
 home with Louis. Only now did she realise it. She real- 
 ised again, as she had realised that other day, that her 
 thoughts of him had been the thoughts of an inexperi- 
 enced girl. Every sparkle that caught her eye quickened 
 Dorothy's sense of this. Deeply moved, she became timid, 
 ashamed; a sense of failure, of ignorance, weighed her 
 down. She was so easily affected by external surround- 
 ings, and so quickly aware of whatever was maculate in 
 herself, that she had not even the curiosity which a more 
 stubborn gir! would have brought to the examination of 
 the meal and its adornment. 
 
 And then, while she was still struggling with her too- 
 painful sensations, Dorothy looked at Mrs. Vechantor, 
 who was so beautiful and so much at ease amid the sur- 
 roundings of her peaceful home. Mrs. Vechantor was 
 smiling at her with so much affection that Dorothy, for 
 shame, grew bewildered. Her eyes fled miserably before 
 such kindness. And in that moment she had the strange 
 thrilling emotion that comes from a subtle knowledge. 
 She felt that they all liked her, that they were all ... 
 somehow, and without obtrusiveness, treating her as quite 
 perfectly one of themselves. She caught a glimpse of 
 Mr. Vechantor's approval of herself. He had noticed her 
 pretty hands, and the almost frightened inquiry that was 
 shown in her mouselike silence. At Louis Dorothy dared 
 not look. He was opposite to her fortunately behind the 
 spreading flowers, so that she was blessedly hidden. She 
 was hidden, and in all this quietness her heart was beating 
 as if it would never stop. A strange exultancy came into 
 Dorothy's heart. It was like a mysterious response to a
 
 SUNDAY NIGHT 309 
 
 rising ecstasy of understanding. The spirit that pervaded 
 this silence was understanding. . . . 
 
 All her fear gave way before a tide of unbelievable 
 happiness. Her pale face flushed. She found herself 
 talking quickly, eagerly, naturally. They were all so 
 kind. She could not feel afraid of them. They were 
 wiser and better than she; but because of the beauty of 
 their souls they bridged the distances by which they were 
 separated from her. Magically, they loved her. She was 
 alight with gratitude and shy answering love. She was 
 not Dorothy, not the girl who had been afraid ; she was 
 somebody in a fairy dream, a Cinderella with midnight 
 far distant, enjoyingly aware of her good fortune. She 
 was, for this little time, as she snatched at the pride of 
 this tremendous hour, a princess, transformed as beau- 
 tiful as they. Such trembling happiness Dorothy had 
 never known. She was carried upon the wings of her 
 fancy, up and up to unwonted heights of achievement. 
 Not hers to doubt for this evening. She was happy. She 
 was liberated, a bird carried upon the blessed winds of 
 love, right into the ecstasy of happiness. 
 
 n 
 
 It was no wonder that Dorothy played well that night. 
 She played with all her heart. She played only those 
 things that had a sweet meaning for herself ; and as she 
 played her eyes were alight with this new happiness that 
 had made her a queen. She did not think of her play- 
 ing; all she did was to make those who listened feel as 
 she herself felt. It seemed as though she could never be 
 tired, as though the piano sang to her. All its hardness 
 melted ; its cadences were as tender as the cadences of a 
 magic harp. If Dorothy was transfigured, so was her 
 instrument ; and Mrs. Vechantor. listening with such in-
 
 310 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 tentness, knew that it was Dorothy who sang when the 
 music sang. They all three sat with perfect attention, 
 so that it would in any case have been a pleasure to play. 
 Upon such a night it was a happiness almost unbearable 
 in its sweetness. Dorothy would never forget it: she 
 had never been so happy. 
 
 Exulting still, she afterwards sat and talked to Mrs. 
 Vechantor, vivid with this secret joy in their kindness, 
 in their love for her. The world was wholly changed. It 
 had become beautiful as they were beautiful. She was 
 standing upon tiptoe, bountifully bestowing her love upon 
 the immeasurable world. Life was different. She was 
 drunken with a sense of its difference, its new simplicity. 
 It was like the Spring, opening the treasures of the earth 
 to her adventurous command. The unhappiness, the 
 miseries she had known were shrunken, like candles be- 
 fore the dawn. She was alive, tingling with new-found 
 knowledge. It was all a part of this fairy gold of love. 
 
 iii 
 
 At parting she was trembling with her heightened emo- 
 tion, her cheeks bright; a new curve in the soft contour 
 of her face. She was soft as a little bird in Mrs. Vechan- 
 tor's quick embrace. And when Louis and she were out- 
 of-doors in the melting whiteness of the moonlight she 
 trembled still, looking up at the moon's face with an 
 exulting gravity that had no place in any memory of the 
 past. The moon was so clear that every part of the 
 garden was black or silver, frozen and beautified by the 
 clear radiance. The night was still. They could hear 
 nothing but the sound of their own footsteps. Upon the 
 common there was only the sense of this one sheet of un- 
 relieved quicksilver. The houses were picked out so 
 sharply that they stood out in definite lines against
 
 SUNDAY NIGHT 311 
 
 the sky. The black trees, motionless, were webs and 
 traceries more precious than any Dorothy had ever 
 seen. How silent, how full of emotion was everything 
 about them. The town was asleep, dreaming. It was a 
 fairyland. 
 
 Slowly that mood changed. She was walking beside 
 Louis in that wonderful world ; and she could see him and 
 hear his steps. She had an extraordinary desire that he 
 should touch her, that he should take her hand. She did 
 not want him to speak. She wanted nothing but the 
 knowledge that he loved her as she loved him. It was a 
 knowledge given best, not in words, but in a single glance, 
 when for once they should have no veil between their 
 two hearts. She wanted nothing. All was precious and 
 wonderful to her, and her trembling hesitation only the 
 fear that the spell should be broken. If it failed for one 
 moment, she felt that her heart must break. 
 
 Louis took her hand. He stooped a little and held it, 
 and drew it under his arm, bending towards her. Both 
 were trembling, but not with unhappiness. 
 
 "Funny . . . I've wanted to say it all the evening," 
 he stammered, in a thick voice. "Isn't it funny that I 
 can't say it. . . ." He was laughing a little, trying to 
 speak naturally, and afraid to speak at all. Dorothy 
 felt her heart leap, and then suddenly flutter in her throat. 
 
 "I knew ... I knew , . ." she began, the word long 
 and thrilling, as a mother speaks to her baby. 
 
 Louis took both her hands and slowly kissed them; 
 and she was gently in his arms, and happy, laughing with 
 a kind of nonsensical laughter at his trembling awkward- 
 ness and her own sense of something that was greater 
 than joy, greater than happiness. They stood embraced, 
 eyes reading eyes, eyes giving messages of love and trust, 
 both suddenly serious and passionate.
 
 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 v 
 
 Without meaning to do so, and quite unaware of the 
 direction of their steps, they went beyond the edge of the 
 common and down a winding lane that led to the east. 
 They now seemed so remote from the world in that starry 
 night that neither took account of time or place. It was 
 enough that they were happy and together. For a little 
 while they were silent, until their feelings surged up into 
 a bubbling of desire to talk and to exclaim aloud their 
 rapture and their naive amazement at the simplicity of 
 every aspect of life. 
 
 "Until this evening," Dorothy said at last, "I didn't see 
 how you could possibly love me. And yet that's not true. 
 I see it isn't true. I always believed it. I was unhappy, 
 and doubting; but I couldn't ever lose the stealthy hope 
 ... I hoped and hoped. . . . And then whenever I woke 
 up I got discouraged, and saw there was so much that 
 might keep you from loving me. I feel . . . Oh, Louis, 
 I feel so ignorant; such a common girl, in a way. . . . 
 Not common, but poor. As though . . ." 
 
 "Ah; but Dorothy . . . There are such thousands of 
 things to tell. Things for you to forgive . . ." 
 
 "Forgive!" she cried, exultingly incredulous. "As if 
 I should believe that, my dearest." 
 
 They both laughed a little, close together in the dark- 
 ness, and Dorothy's breast against Louis's arm, so that 
 they seemed to be walking together out into the unknown 
 distances. 
 
 "Nevertheless," Louis went on, "1 should like to tell 
 you ... I want to tell you all there is to tell. About, 
 for one thing, Veronica. Ah, you don't mind her name 
 now !" 
 
 "Not now !" Dorothy agreed, with a sublime conscious- 
 ness of pity.
 
 SUNDAY NIGHT 313 
 
 "You did this morning. You were jealous of her this 
 morning. And I was frightened of you." 
 
 "Hoo ! What nonsense !" 
 
 "Terrified. And I must tell you that . . . ever such a 
 little while ago I was trying to persuade myself that I 
 was in love with her. I didn't succeed don't ever think 
 that . . ." 
 
 Dorothy had a sharp pang. Her pity for Veronica 
 became a poignant reality ; not the lazy complacent con- 
 tempt she had felt at first. She thought suddenly of 
 Veronica standing before Miss Lampe. But she was 
 merciful. It was no jealous self-love that kept her from 
 revealing Veronica's secret. It was a treasure of kindness 
 that kept the truth unspoken. 
 
 "Louis ... I know you love me," she said quietly. 
 "I feel it. ... You needn't tell me about Veronica. I 
 know it better than you could tell . . ." 
 
 "Not the truth, my dear. I'd like you to hear that; 
 because I want to feel that I've told you. You needn't 
 listen . . ." 
 
 "Silly!" said Dorothy; and listened to his voice, and 
 not to his words, because she was in love with him, and 
 thinking about the marvel of it. So they both had their 
 satisfaction, and Dorothy never knew about Veronica. In 
 this she proved herself wise and odd, quite unlike other 
 girls, as in many respects she was. 
 
 The short recital of Louis's affair with Veronica was 
 quickly ended ; and they were once more in perfect com- 
 munion of spirit. They went on along the winding lane, 
 and stopped and hesitated about turning or going farther. 
 It was nearly eleven o'clock; and to be abroad at that 
 hour in Beckwith is unusual. They were about to turn, 
 therefore, when, close beside them, at the other side of 
 the hedge, they heard a quick fluttering, a little gasp, and 
 the sound of a kiss. Instinctively, Louis held Dorothy
 
 314 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 more tightly, in case she should be alarmed, and cry out ; 
 but she was perfectly still, secure in his nearness. And 
 then came a smothered voice, saying: "My God! Vera, 
 you madden me. You must tell me." 
 
 A shock ran through both. Both moved away, ashamed 
 and embarrassed. They heard Veronica's voice, very 
 clear in the silent night, say breathlessly : "Don't be an 
 idiot. Of course I will. I want to be married soon. . . . 
 Soon." There was another kiss. Dorothy and Louis, still 
 moving away from that place, hastened their steps, tread- 
 ing like mice along the soft roadway. Both had grown 
 suddenly pale, both were agitated not at peace, as they 
 had been together, but miserably excited at this unwel- 
 come eavesdropping. When they were at some distance 
 Dorothy, scourged by the knowledge which she alone 
 had of Veronica's real secret, chilled with horror of the 
 meaning of the words they had both overheard, whis- 
 pered : 
 
 "Oh, Louis! Who was it?" 
 
 "Dumaresque," he said briefly. 
 
 They walked quickly now, both feeling quite different, 
 anxious only for the parting, since the first bloom of their 
 joy had been spoiled by contact with a love-scene so un- 
 like their own, to which each in private had an uncom- 
 fortable key. 
 
 "Louis dear," Dorothy suddenly said. "When we're 
 married . . . let's go right away from Beckwith to live. 
 It's hateful. I couldn't bear . . . I've got a dread of 
 it . . ." 
 
 He pressed her arm, hearing the quiver in her voice. 
 
 "In London ?" he asked. "I don't like living in grime. 
 Do you?" 
 
 "No."
 
 SUNDAY NIGHT 315 
 
 "We'll go somewhere that's like Beckwith. But that 
 isn't Beckwith. That's different from Beckwith . . ." 
 He was earnestly coaxing. 
 
 Dorothy was silent for quite a long time. Before she 
 spoke they had almost reached the moon-drowned 
 common. 
 
 "I've been thinking, dear," she said at last, as though 
 she were rather unwilling to speak. "I've been thinking 
 whether perhaps Beckwith . . . that it isn't altogether a 
 place at all. I mean, whether it isn't a sort of disease. 
 If you live in London you hardly know your neighbours 
 one on the right, one on the left. We did, in Holloway. 
 And no more. You have your own friends. Nobody 
 else cares twopence about you. . . . That's in London. 
 But London isn't England. I've been wondering if, 
 directly you go to England to live, you don't find Beck- 
 with. Dear, I don't want to be cruel. I'm not cruel. But 
 I can't think of this place this dear, lovely place as 
 making its own people. Aren't people everywhere alike ? 
 This is what I thought : isn't Beckwith any small town in 
 England ? Isn't the choice between London that's heart- 
 less an( l Beckwith where your life's everybody's busi- 
 ness? If you have to choose, what will you choose? 
 Louis dear . . ." 
 
 Louis listened in silence to her painful speech, made 
 shrinkingly, and with many pauses; but full of the can- 
 dour that made him love her with all his heart. 
 
 "Oh, London !" he cried suddenly. "London, for God's 
 sake!" 
 
 They stood then upon the edge of the common, looking 
 over its clear expanse, at the houses and the little shops 
 that fringed its borders. Beckwith was asleep, and these 
 two lovers, standing in the moonlight, linked for ever 
 in a common sympathy, observed how still it lay in the 
 peace of that wonderful night of stars and clear air.
 
 316 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 "Lovely Beckwith," Dorothy said tenderly. Then, 
 with a slight shudder, as if the wind had become chill, she 
 added in a low voice: "Poor . . . poor people . . . 
 Shut up in their houses and their shops, and never seeing 
 outside . . ." Turning to Louis she raised her hands to 
 his breast and was held close to his heart. "My dearest !" 
 she went on soberly : "You mustn't think I'm so cruel. 
 I hope you won't. I'm not cruel. But I think I hate 
 stupidity worse than anything on earth, because it fright- 
 ens me and crushes me . ."
 
 EPILOGUE 
 
 A MONTH later Mrs. Jebolt and Mrs. Callum were 
 having tea with Miss Lampe in the little house 
 near Beckwith railway station. They had just seen Mr. 
 Chator, a very old gentleman of the neighbourhood, 
 hobble by the house to catch the quarter-past four train. 
 He was going to London, they knew, because a dispute 
 had arisen over a deed, and Mr. Chator was going to 
 see his lawyer at five o'clock and was then going on to 
 the home of his married daughter, who lived at Wands- 
 worth Common and had as many as six children. 
 
 The three ladies were sipping their tea with relish, and 
 they had all agreed that the Spring weather was promising 
 finely for the year. Already they had made each other 
 sundry communications of a parochial character, when 
 Mrs. Callum said: 
 
 "Do you know Nurse Clara-Smith?" 
 
 Mrs. Jebolt did not. 
 
 "She's such a nice woman," said both Miss Lampe and 
 Mrs. Callum. Miss Lampe added : "She's what I call a 
 really nice woman. So good and kind. ... To every- N 
 body, without exception." 
 
 "Of course, I've heard of her, and seen her," Mrs. 
 Jebolt hastened to assert. "I only meant . . ." 
 
 "Oh yes. ... Of course, everybody knows of her. 
 She's been attending a maternity case in the town ... a 
 Mrs. Cupples. . . . She lives in one of Mr. Ashton's 
 houses in the Maple Road. She's not a member of our 
 
 317
 
 318 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 church. You wouldn't know her. A most interesting 
 case, Nurse Clara-Smith was saying . . ." 
 
 Some details were given, of an intimate character, much 
 relished by all, particularly by Miss Lampe. 
 
 "I think it's such a pity Louis Vechantor married his 
 cousin," said Miss Lampe, following the course of the 
 conversation. "You know, I think it's positively sinful 
 for cousins to marry. The children are always born 
 blind, or deaf-and-dumb. It's wicked!" 
 
 "Oh," said Mrs. Jebolt. "It's only first cousins that 
 there's a danger . . ." 
 
 "I thought it was all. Really . . . really . . ." said 
 Miss Lampe, nodding and opening her eyes. "They're 
 not first cousins, of course. . . . But it's very, very dan- 
 gerous, I'm afraid . . ." 
 
 "It's not only deafness," pursued Mrs. Callum. "Not 
 only deafness, by any means. . . . Now you know the 
 Toppetts are related ..." 
 
 "Indeed!" cried Mrs. Jebolt, greatly interested. "I 
 never knew that. O oh, it explains such a lot !" 
 
 "Oh yes. She was a Miss Tebbs, and she lived with 
 her aunt at Earls wood. ... Mr. Toppett is the son of 
 her aunt's first cousin. . . . But I didn't think," Miss 
 Lampe ventured, "that the aunt was more than an aunt 
 by marriage. . . . No, I didn't think so." 
 
 "Well, anyway, Nurse Clara-Smith says all those Top- 
 pet children were born . . ." 
 
 All the ladies were horror-struck at the revelation. 
 
 "It just shows!" cried Mrs. Jebolt. "I was always 
 sure there was something the matter with the youngest 
 one. You know, of course, that Mrs. Toppett's going to 
 have another? What that poor woman will be like in 
 five years' time I can't think . . ." They shook their 
 heads in concert.
 
 EPILOGUE S19 
 
 "When is Vera going to be married?" asked Mrs. Cal- 
 lum. "You were going to find out." 
 
 "Ah yes ... Some time in June . . ." Miss Lampe 
 said. "It's really . . . Mind, this is quite private; 
 but that Hughes family ... It would be comical if it 
 weren't so tragic. Really, it's tragic. He-he-he !" She 
 tittered from nervousness, not from spite. "You see they 
 all thought he would marry Judith; and the poor girl's 
 let her feelings . . . She's jealous of dear Vera. But 
 you see Vera . . . and, well, Louis Vechantor. . . . And 
 I rather think it was the same with Adela, who's such a 
 sweet good girl. I rather think it was. I thought so 
 when the news of the wedding came. I'm afraid they're 
 all very unhappy. Truly, I am. They're so spiteful to 
 one another . . . I'm afraid Vera doesn't want Mr. 
 Dumaresque at all." 
 
 "There's one thing, he's got plenty of money," as- 
 serted Mrs. Callum. "You'll find they'll settle down all 
 right. Once Vera's got a house and servants . . . She'll 
 soon forget her little fancies. It'll do her good." 
 
 "Yes, of course," agreed Miss Lampe. "I quite agree. 
 Quite. But if it hadn't been for that girl catching Louis, 
 everything would have been different. Everybody would 
 have been happier . . . Excepting Adela, of course . . . 
 Excepting Adela, poor thing! And I'm not ... I 
 know it's wrong of me to say it. I know it is . . ." She 
 lowered her voice. "I'm not at all sure that I don't think 
 she had been living with him in London. She's a very 
 . . . such a bold, daring girl. Very fast, I thought. 
 That sort of girl doesn't see any harm in it, nowadays. 
 You see, they were seen . . . Vera saw them . . . Saw 
 him carrying a portmanteau, I believe . . ." 
 
 "Ph. Vera!" cried Mrs. Jebolt. "No, I don't 
 believe that at all. Vera would say anything about 
 her . ."
 
 320 SHOPS AND HOUSES 
 
 Momentarily defeated, Miss Lampe paused. 
 
 "Well, of course, I must say that I don't think she was 
 at all a nice girl. She used language to me that I never 
 expected to hear any girl use. . . . Did you know she 
 called me a ... a lady-dog ?" 
 
 "No!" Mrs. Jebolt was scandalised. "A girl to say 
 a thing like that ! Oh, Miss Lampe ! How awful!" 
 
 "Extraordinary!" cried Mrs. Callum. "Extraordinary! 
 I think it must have been some other word." 
 
 "No, no. A lady-dog. I heard her. Indeed she did. 
 Oh, a wicked girl! I could believe anything of her. I 
 hate to believe anything evil of anybody. I do. I do. . . . 
 It makes me quite unhappy . . . Just as I feel about Mrs. 
 Green's maid. Dreadful, isn't it! She seemed such a 
 nice girl. . . . She used to be in my Bible class. . . . 
 But I'm really glad," said Miss Lampe impressively; 
 "I'm really glad those people have left Beckwith. It's a 
 relief to get back to just ourselves once more . . ." 
 
 "Yes," agreed the others. Mrs. Callum went on : "It's 
 a real relief. They were unsettling. Of course, they 
 meant to be. They came here with that idea. It was so 
 stupid of them not to see that of course we should stand 
 by the Vechantors. And it's such a puzzle to me that Mr. 
 and Mrs. Vechantor don't seem to see through it. You 
 daren't say anything to Mrs. Vechantor about it. Or 
 about them." 
 
 "No," said Miss Lampe. "I tried once. Never again. 
 Oh, no. ... Of course, my dears, she's getting old. 
 Yes, getting old. . . . She isn't what she was. But at 
 least they've gone. It's such a comfort. While they were 
 here I felt all the time that they were spoiling our little 
 Cranford. I did, really! It's such a relief now they're 
 gone, and we're settled down again. They weren't at all 
 what I call really nice people." 
 
 THE END
 
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