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 A Matter 
 
 of 
 
 Sentiment 
 
 By 
 
 JOHN STRANGE WINTER 
 
 Author of 
 
 ' Booties' Baby* ' A Magnificent Young Man! 
 
 'Heart and Sword,' ' The Truth-Tellers,' 
 . • The Career of a Beauty,* ' The Man I Loved,* Etc., Etc 
 
 FIFTH EDITION 
 
 LONDON 
 
 F. V. WHITE & CO., LTD 
 14 BEDFORD STREET, STRAND, W.C 
 
 ... 1902 ■ -
 
 PRINTED BV KELI>T'S DIRBCTORIES LIM. 
 LONDON AND KINGSTON.
 
 1^0 '2. 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAP. 
 I. 
 
 — Luck 
 
 page 
 I 
 
 II. 
 
 —A Revelation .... 
 
 10 
 
 III. 
 
 —Temptation 
 
 21 
 
 IV. 
 
 — The End of It . 
 
 32 
 
 V.- 
 
 —Good Advice 
 
 44 
 
 VI. 
 
 —Waiting 
 
 53 
 
 VII. 
 
 —Home Again 
 
 63 
 
 VIII.- 
 
 —A Spell of Family Life 
 
 73 
 
 IX.- 
 
 —A Resolve 
 
 83 
 
 X.- 
 
 —The First Link in the Chain . 
 
 94 
 
 XI.- 
 
 — G.\tehouses 
 
 103 
 
 XII.- 
 
 —Told at Last 
 
 112 
 
 XIII.- 
 
 -Cynthia 
 
 121 
 
 XIV.- 
 
 —The Voice of Reason . . . . 
 
 129 
 
 XV.- 
 
 -The Old Regiment . . . , 
 
 138 
 
 XVI.- 
 
 -The Voice of the Charmer 
 
 147 
 
 XVII.- 
 
 -Mrs. Vincent's Fears . 
 
 156 
 
 XVIII.- 
 
 -Something Calling . . . . 
 
 166 

 
 VI 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAP. 
 
 
 
 
 
 PAGE 
 
 XIX.- 
 
 — A Time of Indecision 
 
 . 175 
 
 XX.- 
 
 —The Old Squire and the New 
 
 • 185 
 
 XXL- 
 
 —The Centre of the World 
 
 . 195 
 
 XXII.- 
 
 —The Hand to the Plough 
 
 
 204 
 
 XXIII.- 
 
 —An Engagement Ring 
 
 
 214 
 
 XXIV.- 
 
 —Her Own Way . 
 
 
 
 ■ 223 
 
 XXV.- 
 
 —Across the Ocean 
 
 
 
 
 232 
 
 XXVL- 
 
 —A New Idea 
 
 
 
 
 241 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 —Nothing More . 
 
 
 
 
 250 
 
 XXVIII.- 
 
 —A Terrible Week 
 
 
 
 
 259 
 
 XXIX.- 
 
 —Dick's Way 
 
 
 
 
 26S 
 
 XXX. 
 
 —Disillusionised . 
 
 
 
 
 276 
 
 XXXI.- 
 
 —Valentine Clegg 
 
 
 
 
 285 
 
 XXXIL- 
 
 —Touch and Go . 
 
 
 
 
 294
 
 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT
 
 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 LUCK. 
 
 " What are you going to do with it ? " said one. 
 
 " Invest it," replied the other. 
 
 " Out here ? " 
 
 " No, at home. It isn't wanted out here. I don't 
 want to increase my stake in this country. I shall 
 have to go home in the end, and my old dad writes to 
 me that there is a certain farm adjoining our place 
 that he has coveted ever since I was a little chap in 
 petticoats. It's for sale — I don't mean that there is 
 going to be an auction, but it is for sale to any private 
 bidder, I can get it for a bit less than the five 
 thousand pounds that you and I have each got to 
 play with. 'Twill round off the estate, make my old 
 dad deliriously happy, and be a perfectly safe invest- 
 ment for the money. As soon as I can get down to 
 the town I shall cable to the dad to secure it, within 
 certain limits. What are you going to do with 
 yours ? " 
 
 "Mine?" said the other man, "mine?" He cast 
 his eyes over the glowing Californian landscape, 
 looked slowly round over the familiar scene, and 
 then, fixing his eyes on the distant hills, he apparently 
 fell into deep thought.
 
 2 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 The younger of the two men looked at him with 
 an expression of curiosity. They had been com- 
 panions and partners for more than seven years ; 
 from the time that Dick Vincent had given up life 
 in the Service for the sake of wintering in Cali- 
 fornia. They had met by chance, the young fellow 
 of three-and-twenty, the older one of some five or 
 six and forty years of age. So far as worldly posses- 
 sions went they were at that moment about equal. 
 Dick's father had put a sum of five hundred pounds 
 into an American bank for his son's use ; Roger 
 Meredith had but a few pounds short of that sum, 
 as the result of a venture to which he had given 
 several years of assiduous toil. 
 
 What drew the one to the other neither ever 
 knew ; perhaps the fact that both were gentlemen 
 by birth, and that Meredith had been in his youth 
 in the same regiment as Vincent had just left. Any- 
 way, after their first meeting in a small hotel on the 
 way West, they had seemed instinctively to chum 
 together, and after a day or two of long talks and 
 mutual inquiries as to the details of the past and 
 hopes of the future, Dick Vincent suggested that 
 they should put their money together and go into 
 partnership. 
 
 The older man was nothing loth. " I like you, 
 my lad," he said, in his bluff and outspoken way, 
 " and I am willing to go in with you if you wish it. 
 We are different ages, and we are different tempera- 
 ments. I have had a rough and tumble existence 
 since I came out here. I was unlucky at home. I 
 fancy you will help me to keep square ; I know I
 
 LUCK. 3 
 
 shall keep you from being robbed. Here's my hand ; 
 I'm willing, and something more than willing, to go 
 into partnership with you." 
 
 From that day the pair had been but little apart ; 
 from that day not one single cloud had ever come 
 between them which in any way could mar the 
 simple directness of their friendship. Dick, who had 
 great respect for Meredith's opinion in all matters of 
 business, never failed from first to last to give full 
 value for his experience and maturer judgment ; 
 Meredith, on the other hand, never forgot that what- 
 ever Dick lacked in ^experience and judgment he 
 gained in the consciousness of a clean and wholesome 
 life. 
 
 As Meredith had said in the beginning, the part- 
 nership was calculated to keep him straight — he 
 should have added " if anything could " — but there 
 had been times when he had disappeared from the 
 ranche on some flimsy pretext, and Dick Vincent 
 had scoured the country in search of him, generally 
 finding him in the most unlikely spot, in a state 
 bordering on delirium tremens. For that was Roger 
 Meredith's let-down — drink. Not the steady, soak- 
 ing drinking which drags its victim into his grave 
 and out of the road, but wild bursts of furious ex- 
 cess which would have wrecked the constitution of 
 a less magnificent physique years before, and which 
 would probably have brought Roger Meredith's tur- 
 bulent life to a close long ago had it not been for his 
 marvellous power of holding off for months at a time. 
 
 " Why," Dick said to him over and over again, 
 " can't you be strong-minded enough to keep off it 
 
 1*
 
 4 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 altogether ? You can go for six or seven months at 
 a stretch and never let a drop of liquor pass your 
 lips. Then you break out. And look at you now — 
 a wreck! — ^your nerves smashed, can't sleep, can't 
 eat, can't do anything. You are a strong man, you 
 are a gentleman, you have a strong will ; why don't 
 you swear off it altogether ^ " 
 
 And always the reply was the same. " Yes ; last 
 time, my boy, last time. Never again as long as 1 
 live. This has taught me a lesson ; seventeen days 
 without a wink of sleep. Gad! it's enough to break 
 down the strongest man that ever God put the breath 
 of life into ! " 
 
 " But is it really a swear-off? " Dick said to him on 
 one occasion. 
 
 " Yes, old fellow ; really a swear-off this time, 
 damn me if it ain't! " 
 
 " It will damn you if you don't," said Dick. 
 
 " I know it — I know it — I know it, old fellow. 
 You can't tell me anything I don't know. I lie 
 awake at night, and I think of the past, and I think 
 of the present, and I think of the future ; and it's 
 all black and dark. It's as if a devil had got hold of 
 me. I never drink for pleasure — I don't take the 
 least pleasure in it ; but I go down on business, and 
 I meet some pal that I have known years ago. It 
 looks so churlish to refuse a drink as a sign of good 
 fellowship, and when I've taken one I forget and 
 take two, and when I've taken two I want three, and 
 when I've had three I must have a fourth, and when 
 I've had four — I don't know what happens ; then, I 
 suppose I go on. I don't sleep that night, and the
 
 LUCK. 5 
 
 next day I go pn again, and again, and you come 
 and find me. It's always the same, but it isn't 
 pleasure. However, I've got off it this time, and it 
 shall be the last, I promise you ; I give you my 
 sacred word of honour. And you must help me, 
 Dick. You are a good lad — perhaps you don't 
 understand the temptation — but you can help me if 
 you will. Don't let me go down to the town ; don't 
 let me out of your sight. If I begin to wander, come 
 after me." 
 
 " I always do," said Dick. 
 
 " Yes, I know. You are a good lad ; it will come 
 home to you one of these days." 
 
 " Besides," Dick went on, " if you have a mind to 
 wander, how am I going to stop you? You stand 
 five inches taller than I do ; you are like a Hercules 
 compared to me ; I have got no more than a small 
 influence over you, Roger, old fellow, and when you 
 are determined to go to the bad it's no use preaching 
 to you. If I were you and you me I could take you 
 by the throat and say, ' You shan't stir a step ! * 
 But what chance should I have against you ? 
 Why, you would just get your finger and thumb on 
 my windpipe, and it would be all U P with me ! " 
 
 From his long armchair Roger Meredith laughed. 
 Compared with the mighty volume of sound which 
 usually constituted a laugh from him it was no more 
 than a feeble and cracked cachinnation. 
 
 " It's the last time, my boy. I've sworn off for 
 good and all. 'Pon my word and honour, as I was 
 once a gentleman." 
 
 " Don't talk rot! " said Dick. " You are a gentle-
 
 6 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 man still ; you'll always be a gentleman. Kings and 
 princes have been befooled with the demon of drink 
 before now." 
 
 " Yes, I know they have. Don't make any ex- 
 cuse for me ; there isn't any excuse for me. It 
 makes me sick when I think of all I've chucked away 
 in the past, just because a devil I put into my mouth 
 steals away my brains and my nerve, and makes a 
 besotted beast of me. Don't talk about its being 
 rot ; I tell you drink's the hell upon earth. When 
 we get to a hell afterwards, it will be a hell where we 
 shall drink and drink and drink, and there will be no 
 sleep ; there will be nothing but drink — no food. 
 Ugh ! Ugh ! Ugh ! Keep me from it, Dick. We 
 have been pals for seven years now ; keep me from 
 it if you have to tie me down to a chair." 
 
 " All right, old chap ; next time I see you getting 
 restless I'll chain a log to your leg, or something of 
 that kind. But you might give me a hint. You see, 
 you always go off with such a deuced amount of 
 secrecy ; and you are so wily that I never know 
 when the fit's coming on. If you would only give 
 me a hint that you are beginning to feel like break- 
 ing out I could be up-sides with you." 
 
 " I jiever feel it," Meredith cried ; " it comes on 
 me all of a sudden. I go down town on business ; 
 I meet some fellow I know ; naturally he says, 
 ' Come and have a drink, old chap ! ' I can't say 
 ' No ' — men out here think you such an ass — and 
 then I take a glass, swear to myself I won't take a 
 second, and — somehow, I alwajs forget. Then the 
 mischief's done."
 
 LUCK. 7 
 
 " Old fellow," said Dick, " I shouldn't like to pro- 
 pose this if you hadn't broached the subject to me 
 yourself, but don't trust yourself down in the town 
 without me. When there's business to be done, let's 
 go together and do it." 
 
 " Right you are, Dick ! I'll not go to town again 
 without you. I can't say fairer than that. I mean 
 it when I say I want to get out of this thraldom. I 
 hate to feel that I am weak-minded and can't trust 
 even myself. I won't go down the town again with- 
 out you," 
 
 Now it happened that going down the town meant 
 a road journey, I might more correctly say a land 
 journey, of about forty miles. It was not much of a 
 town even at that ; and consisted of no more than a 
 few wooden huts and sheds, and a corrugated iron 
 drinking saloon. Did the friends want to go further 
 afield and take a trip to San Francisco, or in the 
 direction of New York, they had a still further 
 journey of forty miles before they could get aboard 
 the cars of the Great Pacific Railway. 
 
 After Roger Meredith had given the promise that 
 he would not go down into the town without Dick, 
 things had gone much more smoothly. For several 
 months he had not shown any signs of wishing to 
 turn his back, even for a moment, on the ranche. 
 Then they went several times down to Freeman's 
 Rock together, and once took a fortnight's holiday 
 in 'Frisco itself. 
 
 After that came a great run of luck. Up to that 
 time they had done well enough, but not more than 
 that. Then, one happy day, they made a discovery
 
 8 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 of oil upon their land — not in such quantities as made 
 them or was likely to make them millionaires, but 
 on the evening on which my story opens they had 
 had a great reckoning up, and had the pleasure of 
 looking in one another's faces and congratulating 
 each other upon a balance of ten thousand in solid 
 pounds to their credit, over and above their profit- 
 able estate. 
 
 Dick Vincent had already given his friend an idea 
 of Jiow he meant to invest his share of the luck. 
 " And now, old fellow," he said, " what are you 
 going to do with yours ? " 
 
 Roger Meredith did not reply for a moment, and 
 Dick sat looking at him in interested expectation. 
 " I am going to invest mine, too," he said at last. 
 
 "Here?" Dick asked. 
 
 " No ; not here. Over there ! " jerking his thumb 
 in the direction which to both of them meant the old 
 country. " I have been thinking — I have been think- 
 ing a lot lately. I want you to do something for me 
 when you go home, old fellow. You will be gone 
 three months ? " 
 
 " Well, I think I have earned a three months' 
 holiday, haven't I ? " 
 
 " Yes, you have earned it ; you have earned every- 
 thing that you've got. But, old chap, I wish you 
 weren't going home." 
 
 "Why don't you come with me? It's perfectly 
 safe for us both to go over for three months ; every- 
 thing is in fettle for the autumn, and Jack Frogg is 
 such a splendid fellow we can safely leave it all to 
 him. Come home, Roger, old fellow ; come home
 
 LUCK. 9 
 
 and see my people, who have heard such a lot about 
 you. They'll give you a v^'elcome, no fear of that ! " 
 
 "I am not afraid of that," said Meredith. "I'd 
 like to go home for some things ; I've not set foot in 
 old England since I came out here fifteen years ago." 
 
 " What are you afraid of ? " 
 
 " What makes you think I am afraid at all ? " 
 
 Dick smiled. " I know you pretty well, old chap." 
 
 " Yes, and you are right. I am afraid of what I 
 might find when I got there. It doesn't do when 
 you've cut yourself adrift to turn up again without 
 knowing what sort of a smash your presence may 
 make." 
 
 " Old fellow .? " said Dick. 
 
 " Yes. I never told you that I had a wife and 
 child in the old country, did I ? " 
 
 " Never breathed it ; never hinted at it." 
 
 " But I have — or I had. I might go home later 
 on, when you come back for three months. I don't 
 feel like going this time. Later on. And besides 
 that I don't feel sure, till you've left pie for three 
 months by myself, whether I'm safe to be let loose 
 in ordinary cities among ordinary temptations." 
 
 Dick stretched out a hand and clasped his friend 
 hard upon the shoulder. " Safe as a church, old 
 chap! Why, you've never had a breakdown for 
 nearly two years! You will keep it up when I am 
 gone, won't you } You won't let yourself go ? " 
 
 "No, I'll try not. I intend to live the life of a 
 hermit ; and if I weather the three months when I've 
 not got you to watchdog me, I shall be pretty safe 
 for the rest of my life ! "
 
 lO 
 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 
 A REVELATION. 
 
 " Dick," said Roger Meredith, looking out from a 
 great cloud of blue smoke, " were you astonished to 
 hear that I am married ? " 
 
 " Yes, I was a bit," said Dick. " Why have you 
 kept so close about it ? " 
 
 " Oh, it was one of the things I couldn't talk about." 
 
 " Didn't you get on with her ? " Dick asked. 
 
 " Yes, I always used to. But things went wrong 
 somehow. I came out here determined to make a 
 home for her and to get myself pulled straight again. 
 I had a sort of crazy notion that I should find fewer 
 temptations in a new country than I had done in the 
 old one. Never was a greater fallacy ! All countries 
 are full of temptations, and I drank worse out here 
 than I had done over there. I was a handsome man 
 when I came West " 
 
 " Oh, well, I don't know that you are exactly ugly 
 now, old chap." 
 
 " No ; I know exactly what I am like. I was a fine 
 man once. As far as my carcase goes I am a fine 
 man now ; I appear as well as ever I did, but I carry 
 the marks of what's gone down my throat on my face. 
 I shall carry them till I die. When you get like that, 
 and your wife is pretty, and dainty, and fastidious, I
 
 A REVELATION. II 
 
 tell you, old chap, it makes you shirk going home and 
 showing yourself changed so that she might turn 
 from you in disgust. I want to go home ; I've been 
 wanting to go home ever since I came out here ; but 
 I don't want to go home poor. I came out to make a 
 fortune ; I have made a living, and that's all. If she 
 had come with me, as she wanted to, with the child, 
 I should have made a better living perhaps. I might 
 have kept straighter — not since I knew you, old chap, 
 but before that. Remember I had been out here 
 eight years when you came across me ; if I hadn't 
 had a constitution like iron, I should have gone under 
 long before you turned your back on the old regi- 
 ment." 
 
 " But did your wife want to come out ? " 
 
 " She wanted to come out when I left her. I gave 
 her all the money I could scrape together — she had 
 a few pounds of her own, some fifty pounds a year — ■ 
 I gave her what I had, I took what would barely 
 carry me into a likely neighbourhood for work, and 
 I never wrote home again." 
 
 " What ? " 
 
 " I didn't. Oh, I'll make a clean breast of it. I 
 acted like a brute — I did worse, I acted like a fool, 
 I said to her, ' If I don't succeed, you'll hear nothing 
 of me again.' Ah, how well I remember the tears 
 coming into her eyes, and how she put her little head 
 back and said, ' I shall hear of you again, Roger. 
 You are bound to do well.' But, old fellow, it's taken 
 me fifteen years to do it ; and although five thousand 
 pounds is a decent sum of money, it's nothing to 
 swagger about."
 
 12 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 " Ah, well, we're worth a great deal more than that. 
 We have the ranche to the good ; and where that five 
 thousand pounds came from there will come another 
 five thousand pounds ; and perhaps another, and yet 
 another. Don't be downhearted, Roger, you are in 
 the beginning of better things ; so am I, and it's 
 very pleasant for both of us. Then you are going to 
 invest it in England .'' " 
 
 " I am going to send it home to England. I want 
 you to be my instrument ; I want you to go and find 
 my wife — I will pay the money into the bank to your 
 order — and I want you to see whether she wants it ; 
 to find out how she feels towards me, and if she is 
 just the same ; to tell her the kind of life I've lived ; 
 to give her an idea of what I am like to-day ; to let 
 her know that I've never supplanted her or forgotten 
 her. Find out if there is any chance left for me." 
 
 " You had better get your photograph taken." 
 
 " My photograph ? " 
 
 " Yes. Come down with me as far as New York 
 and get a first-rate photograph taken ; that will help 
 you better than anything." 
 
 " I might ; I'm looking pretty fit — yes, I might. 
 It would take me out of the loneliness that I am 
 dreading, for part of the time at all events." 
 
 " Supposing she wants to come out here ? " 
 
 " The ranche is wide enough," said Meredith, " the 
 house is big enough. We can add to it, if necessary, 
 only you must make her clearly understand that I've 
 had fifteen years of a rough life, a hard life. I am 
 not the Roger Meredith who went away ; my English 
 tailor wouldn't know me."
 
 A REVELATION. 1 3 
 
 " Oh, my dear chap, I don't think, married man that 
 you are, that you understand women. I'll tell her 
 what sort of a fellow you are now ; I'll make her 
 understand the exact situation — leave it to me ; and 
 perhaps her first thought will be that her complexion 
 is not what it was, her waist less tiny, and all the rest 
 of it. I suppose I can satisfy her on that score ? " 
 
 " Why, yes. There's no fear that she will have 
 altered as I have done. Time works ravages upon us 
 all, but the ravages of time produce one effect, and 
 the ravages of drink another." 
 
 " Well, never mind, old chap, you don't drink now, 
 you've quite given it up ; you've not touched a drop 
 for nearly two years past. You look as fit as a fiddle, 
 you are as hard as iron and as strong as a horse. 
 Don't get brooding too much over yourself, but leave 
 it to me, old fellow — leave it to me." 
 
 " But there's another thing," said Meredith. 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 " I have been away fifteen years." 
 
 " Yes ; so you say." 
 
 " I have fiever written home ; she may think me 
 dead. Supposing when you've traced her out you 
 fmd that she has taken my death for granted, and she 
 is married again ? " 
 
 "Well? What then?" 
 
 " I shouldn't feel," Meredith went on in a hard set 
 voice, while his eyes wandered away to the distant 
 hills, " I shouldn't feel justified in disclosing myself 
 to her. Dick, it cuts me to the very heart to think 
 such a thing; it makes me sick with fear that it may 
 be so. I have kept silent all these years, even to you,
 
 14 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 because I'd failed in what I came out to do; and 
 now that I have done it I can talk more freely. 1 
 had better tell you everything that's in my mind, and 
 then you'll know how to deal with the situation as 
 you find it. If Clara " 
 
 " So that's why you called the ranche ' Santa 
 Clara'?" 
 
 " Of course. If Clara is married again she must be 
 left in ignorance, and I shall stay out here for the rest 
 of my life. I shall never go home again. I always 
 thought that chap, Enoch Arden, was a weak fool to 
 come back and disturb that wretched woman's peace 
 and happiness. There were two Enoch Ardens, you 
 know, Dick ; there was one who was a man, and one 
 who was a snivelling sort of a chap that was better 
 out of the way — better dead. I don't want to be like 
 him." 
 
 For a moment or two there was silence between 
 the friends. 
 
 " I don't think, somehow, that I shall find her 
 married," said Dick at last. 
 
 " You may do, and it's best to be prepared for any 
 contingency, isn't it, Dick .? I've got a photograph 
 of her here. Would you like to see it ? " 
 
 " I should" 
 
 Meredith dived down into an inner pocket and 
 brought to view a small leather case bound with 
 silver. 
 
 " Hullo ! " said Dick, " I never saw that before." 
 
 " I know you didn't. I've always had it in my 
 pocket here, so that I could carry it without anyone 
 else being the wiser. There she is. It was taken
 
 A REVELATION. 1$ 
 
 only a few months before I came away. She was a 
 pretty girl, she must be a pretty woman still ; too 
 pretty to have passed unnoticed all these years." 
 
 Dick Vincent stretched out his hand and took the 
 portrait from his chum. I think when one first sees 
 the portrait of a person who has been very much 
 praised by another, one is always conscious of a 
 feeling of disappointment. For a moment Dick's 
 only feeling was to hide from his companion the 
 astonishment and blank dismay that he felt. Before 
 him he saw the picture of a young woman, small and 
 inclined to be plump, very fair, with wide-open blue 
 eyes, a perky little nose, and a round innocent-looking 
 face. Not a young woman whom he would at any 
 time have called even passably pretty, and in marked 
 contrast to the square, heavy, passionate face of the 
 man sitting opposite to him. 
 
 "Is she little?" he asked, more by way of gaining^ 
 time than from curiosity. 
 
 "A little tiny thing, barely up to my elbow," said 
 Meredith. " A little soft plump thing with pretty 
 ways. I don't know how I had the heart to leave 
 her ; I have never known ; I was desperate. It 
 seemed the only thing to do — to take my great 
 hulking self out of it and leave her what there was to 
 keep the child alive on." 
 
 " And you are her lover still .^ " 
 
 " I have never been anything else," said Meredith. 
 
 " And I never even guessed." 
 
 Meredith stretched out his hand to take the picture 
 again. " I am not the kind of man who talks and 
 makes confidences," he said, taking a long satisfied
 
 l6 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 look at the pictured face, " I am a reserved sort of 
 fellow — never was one more so. I have tried to tell 
 you all the same, more than once, but until now I 
 never had the heart to speak of her, or the face." 
 
 " I can't see that I can't think why you didn't 
 send for her to come out." 
 
 " Because I had been out here eight years before I 
 made five hundred pounds. I had kept body and 
 soul together, it's true. When I met you I was 
 about five hundred pounds to the good ; we've done 
 fairly well, old chap, but it's been nothing to boast 
 about until now, nothing to write home about with a 
 flourish of trumpets and say, ' See ! I've made a 
 fortune ; I am flourishing ! ' No, no ; I had kept 
 silent for eight years, and it was best to go on." 
 
 " Perhaps it wasn't best for her." 
 
 " Perhaps it wasn't ; perhaps it was. Time will 
 show, and you will know before I shall. Then you 
 will do that for me, old fellow.^ You will go and 
 look her up? " 
 
 " But you don't expect she is still in the same 
 place where you left her ? " 
 
 " She might be. I left her in London. Anyway, 
 the trustee of her little property is bound to be in 
 the same place, or he'll have left traces behind him. 
 I shall give you his address and his name, and you can 
 go and see him and casually find out about her and 
 about the child, without giving me away the least little 
 bit in the world." 
 
 " I don't quite see how." 
 
 " No, neither do I, but you must." 
 
 " All right," said Dick, " I'll do my best."
 
 A REVELATION. I7 
 
 " And if you find there's a ' Philip ' in the case, then 
 you just come back as mum as I've been all these 
 years, and I'll go on for the rest of my life at Santa 
 Clara." 
 
 " All right, old fellow. And if there is a ' Philip,' 
 what am I to do with the money ? " 
 
 " Oh, the money ? Well, you can use your dis- 
 cretion about that. You see, there was a little kid ; 
 she was just three when I came away ; she may want 
 a dot. Use your discretion, old chap, and you'll 
 satisfy me. You know me well enough by this time 
 to know what I should do if I were there in your 
 shoes." 
 
 " And supposing," said Dick, drawing rather hard 
 at his pipe and speaking in jerks between the puffs, 
 " supposing there's no ' Philip ' — just supposing, old 
 fellow, on the off chance — well, supposing I find that 
 the little woman has been looking for you back all 
 these years — more than willing to come out — am I to 
 use my discretion then .? " 
 
 For a moment Meredith did not speak. " Bring 
 her out here .? " he said at last, " here ? "—and he 
 looked round at the corrugated iron hut, for it was 
 little more, with its broad veranda, its rough chairs, 
 its wholly unadorned bachelor appearance, and then 
 he looked back at Dick. " Don't you think," he said 
 slowly, " that it would scare any woman to come out 
 to this .? " 
 
 " No, I don't," said Dick, stoutly ; " not any woman 
 that was worth bringing." 
 
 " But think of this — this bare, beggarly place, com- 
 pared with Frith's place for instance." 
 
 2
 
 l8 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 " Well, the house is just as good as Frith's house, 
 and the verandah is wider ; our chairs are bigger. It 
 isn't got up inside as Frith's house is, but then Frith's 
 wife is with, him. When your wife has been with you 
 three months, old fellow, you'll not know this hut, and 
 you and I won't know each other. Remember you 
 have got money enough now to bring up any things 
 that are necessary to make the place habitable and 
 fit for a lady ; and then, of course, don't forget that 
 it was only a supposition. Perhaps I shall find a 
 ' Philip '." 
 
 Meredith's square face sank ; his great beetling 
 brows bent themselves down over his fierce eyes, and 
 his huge moustache bristled up on either side of his 
 great hook nose. 
 
 " You are right," he said. " For a minute or so I 
 let my thoughts run on too fast. I almost fancied 
 that I saw her here already. It only shows," he went 
 on with a reckless kind of laugh, " what havoc a little 
 sentiment can play with a man, even a man as hard, 
 and practical, and commonplace as I am." 
 
 " You are practical, that is perfectly true ; but I 
 have never known you either hard or commonplace," 
 said Dick. " I know when I had that go of fever 
 you nursed me like a woman." 
 
 " Oh, stop that ! " cried Meredith. 
 
 " And when Lassie got her foot crushed " 
 
 " Shut up ! " growled the other. 
 
 " Yes, I'll shut up, but you know what I mean." 
 
 A groan from Meredith was the only reply which 
 he vouchsafed to this real Englishman's eulogy. The 
 two puffed away in the gathering darkness for
 
 A REVELATION. I9 
 
 a few minutes. Then Dick Vincent broke the 
 silence. 
 
 " I have a sort of idea, Roger," he said, " that there 
 is going to be a change. I feel it all round me ; not 
 from what you've told me to-night, but for days past. 
 I feel that you and I are both of us on the brink of 
 a change ; things are going to be better with us, old 
 fellow. If we are not millionaires, we are going to 
 be comfortably off; and I don't know that that isn't 
 the happier position of the two. I have felt ever so 
 many times lately that we should be happier and 
 better off if we were both married. Life's a miserable 
 thing for a man without some womenkind. I feel 
 that there are going to be great results from this trip 
 home of mine ; I have a conviction of it." 
 
 " My dear Dick," said the other, " you have put new 
 hope and new life into me to-night ; you have given 
 me a new incentive to keep straight while you are 
 away. If it happens that you are able to bring her 
 back again, well and good. She'll come out here, 
 and afterwards, when you see somebody that you 
 fancy, we can build another house on the ranche, for 
 there's plenty of room, and there will be plenty of 
 money." 
 
 " But supposing I find a ' Philip ' ? " 
 
 " Well, I've told you what will happen to me, there- 
 fore you need not let any thoughts of me stop you 
 from bringing a wife out here as soon as you like — 
 only in that case let's add to this house. Don't turn 
 out, or turn me out into another; I couldn't stand 
 living by myself. I shouldn't last three months." 
 
 " Old fellow," said Dick, stretching out his hand 
 
 2*
 
 20 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 towards the glow of the other's pipe, " I understand 
 you perfectly, and I shall never forget as long as I 
 live how entirely unselfish you are and always have 
 been to me. I don't know," he went on, in a lighter 
 tone, " that I shall ever avail myself of your generosity, 
 for I have never seen the girl yet that I would thank 
 you to put in command over me. Still, there's no 
 knowing ; and a ranche with a woman on it is not 
 half as forlorn a business as one that is run only by 
 men. So, for both our sakes, old fellow, you may rest 
 assured that ,1 shall do my level best to bring a 
 mistress home to Santa Clara."
 
 21 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 TEMPTATION. 
 
 A FEW days later Meredith and Dick Vincent turned 
 their backs upon Santa Clara and set off towards the 
 great cities. Both men had discarded the flannel shirts 
 and moleskin trousers which was their habitual wear 
 on the ranche, both were dressed in the ordinary tweed 
 suits of Englishmen, and if Meredith had looked a 
 magnificent animal, as he did, in his working clothes, 
 he showed to supreme advantage in a rough brown 
 suit of excellent cut which showed off his massive 
 proportions extremely well. 
 
 " Old fellow," said Dick, when he first encountered 
 him dressed for the journey, " I believe it's worth 
 while to wear moleskins and red flannel shirts as a 
 regular habit, if it is only to see the difference that 
 it makes when one gets into regular clothes. You 
 look as fit as a fiddle in that kit. You had better 
 change your mind and go the whole way with me." 
 
 "No, I can't do that," said Meredith, rather 
 gloomily. 
 
 " You can keep out of sight, you know, whilst I 
 prosecute inquiries. You can stay at my place while 
 I go and find out whether there is a ' Philip ' or there 
 isn't." 
 
 " No, I am not fit for civilised society," Meredith 
 returned, " and I wish I hadn't promised to go down
 
 22 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 as far as New York with you — indeed, I don't know 
 that I shall." 
 
 " Nonsense, old chap ! You don't know what's 
 good for you. I shan't go down to New York unless 
 you do go. I'm not going to have you brooding 
 alone here. You had much better make up your 
 mind to go all the way, and lie low until I have done 
 all the necessary detective business." 
 
 " No, no ; second thoughts are never best, it's the 
 greatest fallacy in the world to say that they are — 
 put forward by some ass who wanted a good excuse 
 for breaking a promise or indulging himself in some- 
 thing or other." 
 
 " But you have not made a promise that you won't 
 go to England." 
 
 " No, I have not, but I have made up my mind ; 
 and although I don't say my mind is any great shakes 
 as a mind, at the same time, such as it is I am going 
 to stick to it." 
 
 So the two friends went down to Freeman's Rock 
 together, accompanied so far by Jack Frogg, who 
 had various business to do in the little town, and 
 who, after parting with them, would bring the wagon 
 and horses back to Santa Clara. 
 
 " You will be down every week ? " said Meredith 
 the last thing to the manager. 
 
 " Yes, every week ; every Saturday," was the reply. 
 
 " Then I shall write to you to Ainslie's to let you 
 know what day I shall come back. Then you can 
 either wait for me or come down again, as it suits 
 you." 
 
 " Right you are. Boss," was the reply.
 
 TEMPTATION. 23 
 
 " Better change your mind and go on to England 
 with me," put in Dick at this juncture. 
 
 " Right you are there," was the free and easy 
 remark of the manager. " There's nothing doing 
 here now, and there won't be anything until early 
 fall. The Boss can be spared perfectly well. And 
 he knows me," Jack Frogg went on, "he knows I 
 am a square man who would look after his interests 
 properly." 
 
 " Yes, I know you are. Jack," rejoined Meredith, 
 promptly, " I know you are. You are a good sort, 
 but it don't suit my book to think of going home this 
 trip, so don't either of you say another word about it." 
 
 The three men spent the rest of the day together 
 in Freeman's Rock, and in the early morning Jack 
 Frogg saw his two employers off by the coach which 
 runs from Freeman's Rock down to Midas Creek. 
 Frogg himself was going to start on his homeward 
 journey an hour or two later. It was part of the 
 creed of the management of Santa Clara that unless 
 absolutely necessary the animals on the estate, es- 
 pecially the horses, should never be over-pressed. 
 He would drive half way home, stop for a couple of 
 hours' rest and feed at a house half way, and arrive 
 at Santa Clara in the early evening. 
 
 The ride from Freeman's Rock to Midas Creek 
 was one of a little over forty miles. The roads were 
 bad, and the coach crowded. Dick soon found that 
 Meredith was not inclined for talk, and suffered him 
 to relapse into silence ; and so he sat in his corner, 
 smoking hard and staring gloomily right ahead of 
 him, taking no notice of the rough fun that was
 
 24 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 bandied from one to another. One or two of the 
 passengers made efforts to draw him out, but when 
 at last, goaded into speech, he repUed to their salUes, 
 it was with such savage brevity that their efforts 
 at cheery friendhness soon ceased, and he was left 
 entirely to himself. 
 
 At last they reached Midas Creek. It was a 
 somewhat larger place than Freeman's Rock, and 
 better worthy of being called a town. The coach 
 drew up at the principal hotel, a long, rambling 
 building which had begun as a shanty and had been 
 added to as the needs of the place grew. The land- 
 lord came out to receive the coach and its freight 
 of passengers, an Englishman, cheery, and smooth 
 of voice. He told them collectively that a good 
 dinner was waiting within, and bade them all a genial 
 welcome. 
 
 Meredith swung into the house without a word ; 
 Vincent paused to pass the time of day in return to 
 the landlord's greeting. Ten minutes later they were 
 settled at the table along with all the other pas- 
 sengers. 
 
 " I will take rye w^hiskey," said Meredith. 
 
 Dick looked up. Meredith carefully avoided his 
 eye. 
 
 " Blingee whiskley," said the Chinese boy, who 
 was attending to the wants of the various diners. 
 " Blingee d'lectly." 
 
 " I say, Roger," said Dick in an undertone. 
 
 Meredith took no notice. Dick gave him a vigor- 
 ous nudge with his knee. 
 
 " Roger ! "
 
 TEMPTATION. 25 
 
 " What the devil do you want ? " 
 
 " I say, old chap," he muttered into his ear, " don't 
 start on whiskey. You are put out." 
 
 " What the is that to you ? " 
 
 " Don't do it, old chap." 
 
 " D it all ! Can't I do as I like ? Am I to 
 
 be kept in leading-strings by a little whipper-snapper 
 like you ? I'll drink what I like — and do what I Uke." 
 
 "All right. I wasn't thinking of trying to coerce 
 you by ph}sical means. A man of five-foot-ten of 
 my build wouldn't have much of a chance against a 
 giant like you. I speak for your own sake. It won't 
 make much difference to me." 
 
 " Very well, then ; shut up and hold your row. 
 It's mv affair, not vours." 
 
 Thus rebuffed, Dick turned his attention to his 
 right-hand neighbour, and began talking to him in 
 cool and measured tones. For a minute or two 
 Meredith sat without turning his head. Then he 
 stealthily glanced in Dick's direction, saw that he was 
 absolutely unruffled, so turned his eyes to his plate 
 again ; but when the Chinese boy brought the 
 whiskey he helped himself liberally and dashed in a 
 modicum of cold water. 
 
 Then he pushed the bottle to Dick. " Whiskey, 
 Dick ? " 
 
 " Thanks," said Dick, " thanks," and he, too, helped 
 himself, though much more moderately than Meredith 
 had done. 
 
 They were all more or less tired after the long 
 drive, and when the dinner had been cleared away, 
 every one of the men dropped out and took up their
 
 26 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 positions in various parts of what the landlord, witli 
 a remembrance of his English country home, always 
 spoke of as the " house place." Here Meredith 
 settled himself down in a great rocking-chair. Dick 
 followed him by a sort of protective instinct Mere- 
 dith, upon whom the several glasses of rye whiskey 
 which he had taken during the course of dinner had 
 begun to tell, looked up suspiciously at him. 
 
 " Are you afraid I can't be trusted, Dick ? " he 
 asked. 
 
 " For the matter of that," answered Dick, " I know 
 you can't. Old chap, you are moody and upset at 
 my going away from Santa Clara. Take my advice ; 
 send a line back to Frogg and come on all the way 
 with me. You will be better for it — I shall be better 
 for it. But for goodness' sake, don't drink any more 
 v/hiskey to-night." 
 
 " Look here, young 'un," said Meredith, " it strikes 
 me I have been in leading-strings long enough to 
 you. I am sick of it. I have lived the life of a dog 
 these last few months. I am going to end it now for 
 good and all." 
 
 " You are not going to quarrel with me, are you .'' " 
 asked Dick. 
 
 " Quarrel with you ? No, I am not going to quarrel 
 with anybody ; but there is too much supervision 
 about you — too much superiority." 
 
 "Oh, Roger! Why, old fellow " 
 
 " Yes, I know, I know. You know what's going to 
 happen as well as I do. I've got another drinking 
 fit coming on. You know it's no good to stop me ; 
 wild horses couldn't do it. I didn't sleep last night.
 
 TEMPTATION. 2/ 
 
 I felt as soon as I got on to that coach that I should 
 start drinking as soon as I got here. Spare your 
 breath. I'm hard on for a regular burst." 
 
 " What about Santa Clara ? " 
 
 " Santa Clara ? " 
 
 " And the mistress that I've got to bring back if 
 
 come .'' 
 
 " Ha! ha ! You'll find another ' Philip,' " Meredith 
 cried with a wild sneer. " At all events, a glass or 
 two to-night won't make much difference. If there 
 isn't a ' Philip,' you can send me a cable and I'll put 
 myself into training to receive a lady." 
 
 One or two other men came up, and Dick turned 
 away. He knew from old experience that it was 
 perfectly useless to argue the point any further ; on 
 the contrary he stepped straight out in search of the 
 landlord. 
 
 " Look here, landlord," he said, drawing him aside 
 from the rest of the company, " I want you to do me 
 a favour." 
 
 " Why, yes, if I can, sir, of course I will." 
 
 " My friend, Mr. Meredith, I am afraid, is going 
 on the drink. I want to stop it. I have the most 
 urgent reasons for wanting him to keep straight just 
 now. He is perfectly unmanageable when he is drink- 
 ing ; he hasn't touched a thing for nearly two years 
 until to-night. Can't you help me by watering his 
 whiskey or something ? " 
 
 " Yes, I can do that, provided he doesn't help him- 
 self to the bottles of any of the others." 
 
 " I wisJi you would, you'd be such a good chap. 
 He is one of the sort that drink maddens ; it takes
 
 28 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 away all chance of sleep, and I shan't be able to go 
 forward on my journey if he gets on the rampage 
 here. Do your best, landlord." 
 
 " I will that same, sir. Boy, whose orders are you 
 going for now .' " 
 
 " Big gen'l'man — Meledith," answered the boy. 
 
 " What has he ordered ? " 
 
 " Bottle whiskley. Velly quick." 
 
 "All right, I'll come. I'll make it half-and-half," 
 he added in an undertone to Dick. 
 
 Dick turned back into the more crowded part of 
 the "house place." What would have happened if 
 Meredith had received the bottle of whiskey un- 
 doctored it is impossible to say ; as it was, he sat 
 drinking far into the night, and when at last he 
 reeled off to bed, he was as royally drunk as ever 
 he had been in his Hfe. 
 
 To Dick he was amiability and apology itself. 
 " Old chap," he said, as Dick helped him up from 
 the rocking-chair, " I've broken out to-night. I'm 
 awfully sorry. To tell you the truth, old fellow, I — 
 I feel — at least I felt depressed and morose ; and — 
 fact was I dreaded your going away — fact was, old 
 chap, you are — ^you are a sort of drag on the wheel. 
 See > " 
 
 " Yes, I see," said Dick, " but what about Santa 
 Clara and the mistress } " 
 
 " Oh, well, she won't mind. Just once, you know. 
 Have a cold pump on my head to-morrow morning — 
 and we'll get on the cars and be out of this. Fact 
 is, old chap, I'm a poor sort of tool, take me all round. 
 You've got the patience of Job with me."
 
 TEMPTATION. 29 
 
 " Don't take any more to-morrow," said Dick, hold- 
 ing him tight by the arm and looking at him anxiously, 
 " don't do it, old fellow. Every burst you make you 
 slip back years. Promise me you won't take any 
 
 more." 
 
 " Oh, promise ? Anything — anything. Put my 
 name to it if I could see to write." 
 
 " Give me your word — that will be quite enough," 
 returned Dick. 
 
 " Give you a hundred and fifty words. Gad, I 
 would that same! Haven't enjoyed it — feel much 
 worse for it — be chippy in the morning. Help a chap 
 to bed." 
 
 So Dick helped him to bed, and saw him safely 
 asleep. Truth to tell, he was utterly tired himself. 
 The anxiety and strain of trying to keep his partner 
 straight had taken as much out of him as a long day's 
 work would have done. As soon as he had seen 
 Meredith safely asleep, he turned in himself, and 
 slept a sound and dreamless sleep until the day was 
 far advanced. 
 
 When he awoke he opened his eyes with a start, 
 glanced across to the other bed, and saw that it was 
 empty. He got up and began hastily dressing. 
 
 " By Jove ! " his thoughts ran. " What did I want 
 to sleep like this for? AH because of being so in- 
 fernally easily knocked up. Now that chap's gone 
 out, and goodness knows what has happened to 
 him." 
 
 He hustled into his clothes, making a very scanty 
 toilet, and hied him in search of Meredith. Alack, 
 and alas, he found him sitting in the bar, a bottle of
 
 30 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 rye whiskey in front of him, his glass three-parts full. 
 It looked to Dick as if it was neat. 
 
 As he perceived his friend standing at the door, 
 Meredith caught up the glass and tossed off the con- 
 tents at a single gulp. Dick strode up to him. 
 
 " What did you promise me ? " he asked in a furious 
 voice. 
 
 " I don't know," said Meredith, " and I don't care." 
 
 " You promised me you wouldn't touch another 
 drop." 
 
 " Did I ? What a fool I must have been ! My 
 
 dear old boy, I've had nearly a bottle full this morn- 
 ing. It's bad whiskey, as I've been telling the land- 
 lord ; one has to drink quarts of it before it has any 
 effect." ^ 
 
 " Roger, you promised." 
 
 " Was I drunk when I promised } " 
 
 " Yes, you were drunk." 
 
 " Well, my dear fellow, you couldn't expect a 
 drunken man to keep his promise. I know I went 
 off to bed last night in a good temper with every- 
 body, and I'm pretty good-tempered this morning; 
 but if I'm roused " 
 
 " Oh, come, don't give me any of that rot ! You 
 made me a promise, and you've broken it — that's the 
 long and the short of it" 
 
 "Yes," said Meredith, "that's the long and the 
 short of it." 
 
 He stretched out his hand and poured out nearly 
 a tumblerful of the raw spirit. 
 
 " I'm d d if you shall drink that," said Dick, 
 
 snatching at the glass.
 
 TEMPTATION. 3 1 
 
 In an instant Meredith was on his feet, the bottle 
 in his hand. " You think," he cried, flourishing it 
 around, " that you are going to bully over me — over 
 me ? Why, I could squeeze your windpipe for ever 
 with a twist of my finger and thumb. Put that glass 
 down ! " 
 
 "No!" said Dick. 
 
 " Put that glass down, I tell you." 
 
 " No, not if you brain me ! " said Dick, fixing him 
 v.'ith his steady blue eyes. 
 
 Meredith sat down again. " Very well, then, do 
 the other thing. I don't like drinking out of the 
 bottle, it isn't gentlemanly ; but since you drive me 
 to it, there's no choice." And then he raised the 
 bottle to his lips and took a long drink.
 
 32 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE END OF IT. 
 
 From the moment that Roger Meredith raised the 
 bottle to his hps Dick Vincent completely lost control 
 over him. Beyond arranging with the landlord to 
 water the whiskey, he was powerless to do more than 
 sit down and wait the issue of events. For one thing 
 Meredith was, as I have said, a man of enormous 
 stature and of immensely powerful physique ; it would 
 have been impossible to use force, at all events useless 
 for Dick to do so, and Dick was the only person in 
 the hotel who was deeply interested in keeping^ 
 Meredith straight. 
 
 He gave up all idea of proceeding further on his 
 journey, and determined to sit down and wait, with 
 what patience he could, the usual issue of the drinking 
 bout. Meredith's drinking bouts had always gone on 
 the same lines — a few days of mad drinking, then a 
 period of sleeplessness with fits of uncontrollable 
 frenzy. Between the inability to sleep, and the in- 
 ability to eat, even Meredith's magnificent strength 
 would break down in time, and with the helplessness 
 of weakness would come the chance to knock off 
 drink entirely and start life again with the diet of a 
 little child. Then Dick would get him back to Santa 
 Clara again, and begin anew the task of building him 
 up into a steady-going reputable character. 
 
 Dick was terribly downcast at the turn which events
 
 THE END OF IT. 33 
 
 had taken. He blamed himself for not making some 
 excuses and turning back when he first perceived how 
 gloomy and depressed Meredith had become. " He 
 has thro\\Ti himself back years ! " his thoughts ran on 
 the second day after they reached Midas Creek, when 
 Meredith was sitting in a corner of the " house place," 
 no longer a man, but a mere whiskey-consuming 
 animal. His great frame seemed to have shrunk 
 somewhat ; his eyes, fixed on the fire or some part 
 of the room where there were no people, were blood- 
 shot and lack-lustre, his hands were shaky, and when 
 he managed to reel from one place to another his 
 knees visibly gave under his weight. He was a piti- 
 able object, and Dick determined, as he found that 
 they were strangely enough unknown to any of the 
 people in the hotel, that he would, as far as possible, 
 keep his identity a secret. His friend's name he had 
 already mentioned to the landlord, who was compara- 
 tively a newcomer to the neighbourhood ; his own 
 he was careful not to tell. 
 
 Life in the Far West is very free and easy. Those 
 v.ho frequented the hotel kept as much as possible 
 out of the way of Meredith, whom they regarded as a 
 dangerous brute, too far gone in drink even to quarrel 
 with. Some of them had no idea that the two were 
 travelling together ; others, v.'ith scarce more than a 
 passing thought, wondered that a smart young fellow 
 like Dick could trouble himself to try to keep such a 
 brute straight. And Meredith, mind you, had de- 
 generated into a mere brute. Those who had known 
 him in his sober days would hardly have recognised 
 the sodden, inert mass which he had now become. 
 
 3
 
 34 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 So three or four days went by. Dick did not keep 
 very closely to the hotel, but prospected the immediate 
 neighbourhood — thus quite unwittingly giving an im- 
 pression that he was thinking of buying land and 
 establishing himself near by. In truth, Dick was so 
 miserable that he kept as much out of the hotel as 
 possible, in order that he might not see the degrading 
 process which would, he hoped, eventually bring 
 Meredith once more under his control and influence. 
 
 So four days had gone by. It happened on the 
 evening of the fourth day that Dick returned from a 
 prowl round the little town. He was met at the door 
 by the landlord, who wore an anxious face. 
 
 " We've had a most awful time," he exclaimed. 
 " Your friend has gone clean off his head. Oh, yes, 
 completely. The fact is he came into the bar for 
 another bottle of whiskey, and he had gone through 
 the other so fast, and he came upon me so suddenly 
 for it, that I hadn't time to doctor it. In fact, he 
 took it off the shelf himself." 
 
 " And of course the raw spirit finished the business," 
 said Dick, with a groan. " What are you going to do ? " 
 
 "Do?" said the landlord. "Well, he is like a 
 dangerous lunatic at present. We look to you to do 
 something." 
 
 " I can't do anything," said Dick. " I am a mere 
 thread-paper compared to him. Where is he ? " 
 
 " Oh, he is up in that corner of the ' house place ' 
 by the window, jibbering like an ape, and muttering 
 and talking to himself and hurling threats at some- 
 body or other. I wish he was safe out of the place." 
 
 " So do I," said Dick. " He hasn't had a bout of
 
 THE END OF IT. 35 
 
 this kind for over two years. I suppose it's something 
 in the atmosphere of the place that lias started him on 
 again. Anyway, there is nothing for it now but doing 
 the best we can for him. I will go and see what he 
 says to me ; sometimes he will let me do as I like with 
 him. Anyhow, this sort of thing cannot last long, be- 
 cause he never sleeps and he never eats, and of course 
 his strength gets reduced very quickly. He will be all 
 right when once he gets the turn, you know." 
 
 " I hope he will ! " said the landlord ; " I don't like 
 having a wild beast in my place at all. I am not used 
 to it." 
 
 Dick laughed. " You will have to get used to some 
 very queer things if you stay out here long," he re- 
 turned. 
 
 4 
 
 " Ay," said the landlord ; " poverty makes us ac- 
 quainted with strange bedfellows." 
 
 Dick turned round and looked at him. " You had 
 a better position in the old country ? " 
 
 " I had that same," said the landlord. " I needn't 
 say that I don't carry the same name here that I did 
 at home. I am doing well enough, I am able to 
 make a living here, and a good one. I was a failure 
 at it over there, but if my people could see me 
 serving out whiskey to such fellows as that, well — 
 I think those that are dead would turn in their 
 graves, and those that are living would never get 
 their hair to lie straight again." 
 
 " Ah, well, life's a queer riddle," said Dick, " and 
 that poor chap in there has found it as queer a riddle 
 as most people. He's a good sort at the bottom, 
 when he hasn't got these drinking fits." 
 
 3*
 
 36 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 " Ah, me, that's the case with a good many men," 
 said the landlord. " But I do wish you would go in 
 and see what you can make of him." 
 
 Dick turned on his heel and went into the " house 
 place." It was practically deserted, although in a 
 very short time dinner would be spread on the long 
 table which ran from end to end of it. In a huge 
 armchair near the fireplace a man sat, half-asleep. 
 He was a stranger, who had arrived a short time be- 
 fore by the coach, and had settled himself down to 
 wait until dinner should be ready. At a table further 
 on two men were playing cards, with pipes in their 
 mouths, and each with a glass of rye whiskey at his 
 elbow. In the corner, near to the " big window," as 
 it was called, in contradistinction to two small win- 
 dows on the opposite side of the room, sat Roger 
 Meredith. He had turned his chair so that his back 
 was towards the room, and the bottle of whiskey 
 which he had seized from the landlord was 
 standing on the table beside him. Standing? No, 
 I should say lying in such a way as clearly showed 
 that it was empty. His long legs were stretched 
 out in front of him, his chin was sunk upon his 
 breast, his glaring eyes were fixed on the window, 
 and his helpless hands hung over the arms of his 
 chair. 
 
 " Death ! " he was saying, as Dick softly approached 
 him, " Death ! I will be even with him yet. I 
 have owed him a grudge these nine years ; I will 
 pay it with interest. Psalm-singing devil ! He 
 thought to come over me with his Bible quotations. 
 Roger Meredith ain't that sort. Roger Meredith
 
 THE END OF IT. 37 
 
 never forgets. Roger Meredith never forgives. 
 Roger Meredith pays his debts. So I will pay this 
 debt. Boy ! Boy, more whiskey ! " 
 
 The Chinese boy came rmining at the sound of his 
 name. " More whiskley ? BHngee d'lectly." He 
 seized the bottle and ran away back to the bar. 
 
 Meredith went on muttering. " I know what it 
 all meant. He wanted her — and that was at the 
 bottom of it. He had seen her; he thought if I 
 could get her out here that he'd get hold of her. 
 The hound ! So he offered to lend me the money ; 
 and now I've plenty of money — heaps of it — piles 
 of it. I could run my fingers through it hke a miser 
 • — I could let it fall like a shower of golden rain. 
 Boy ! More whiskey ! " 
 
 At this moment Dick went for\vard and laid his 
 hand upon Meredith's shoulder. "Old chap," he 
 said, " don't have any more whiskey." 
 
 Meredith looked up. " Who the devil are you ? " 
 he asked with a ludicrous attempt at dignity. " What 
 the deuce do you mean by interfering with me ? 
 Can't a gentleman — staying in an hotel — order what 
 he likes? I — I resent your interference, sir." 
 
 " Meredith ! IMeredith ! Roger ! " 
 
 " Do you want to borrow money of me .? " Meredith 
 demanded. " Landlord ! Landlord ! " 
 
 The landlord came hastily across the " house place." 
 " What is the matter now .? " he asked. 
 
 " The matter is this — counterjumper is interfering 
 with me. Put him out. Do you hear? Put him 
 out. Send me some more whiskey." 
 
 Dick shrugged his shoulders and turned away.
 
 38 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 " Am I to give him more whiskey ? " said the land- 
 lord. 
 
 " Well, there's no keeping him off it till he gets 
 to a certain point, and then it will cure itself, but 
 for God's sake water it." 
 
 "Oh, I'll water it," said the landlord. "But you 
 know the score is running up pretty much." 
 
 " Oh, I'll come into the bar and settle the score. 
 I'll pay up to to-night, and then you can make me 
 out a fresh bill in a day or two's time." 
 
 Thus authorised, the Chinese boy carried yet an- 
 other bottle of rye whiskey, or what purported to be 
 rye whiskey, to Roger Meredith. 
 
 " I don't think," said Dick to the landlord, " that 
 he'll go on very much longer. When he gets to this 
 stage of talking utter rot he always collapses a bit, 
 and then he's in for a good howl and is amenable 
 enough. If I could give him a strong opiate now I 
 should be glad." 
 
 " Have you got anything with you ? " said the land- 
 lord. 
 
 " No, I haven't. I suppose I could get something 
 at the chemist's. Is there a chemist's store in the 
 street?" 
 
 " Oh, yes, there's a chemist's store, and a very 
 good one. There's almost anything." 
 
 " Then I'll go down and get a good dose of the 
 stuff that I usually give him. Now, landlord, that 
 settles both accounts right up to to-night — doesn't 
 it .? " 
 
 " Yes, it does that same, sir. Very much obliged 
 to you. You see, when a man has such a vast
 
 THE END OF IT. 39 
 
 quantity of stuff he might repudiate it when he 
 comes to." 
 
 " Oh, he wouldn't do that ; he isn't that sort at 
 all. Now I'll be off down the street." 
 
 He left the hotel, and went at a brisk pace down 
 the steep village street — for although they called it 
 a town, Midas Creek was no larger than we at home 
 would call a village. About half-way down the 
 street he came to the store of which the landlord had 
 told him, and there purchased a generous sleeping 
 draught. As he came hurriedly out of the store he 
 cannoned against a man passing by. 
 
 " I'm sure I beg your pardon," said Dick. 
 
 " Don't menti®n it, stranger ! " said the other. 
 "It was an accident. Am I going right for Rutter's 
 Hotel?" 
 
 " Yes, I am going back there. We can go up 
 together if you like." 
 
 " Why, certainly. I'll be glad of your company. 
 It seems durned queer for the hotel to be a quarter 
 of a mile from the cars." 
 
 " It is queer," said Dick. " However, there it is. 
 I suppose Rutter took it as he found it." 
 
 " Is it a decent place ^ " 
 
 " Oh, yes." 
 
 " Well, oddly enough, though I know this part of 
 the country well, I have never been in Midas Creek 
 before," said the stranger. " I've got a pretty im- 
 portant business to come about now that I have 
 come." 
 
 "Have you?" said Dick. "Well, it's good to 
 hear of important business. I always like to do so.
 
 40 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 It isn't a bad little place, but, I must say, I would 
 rather be farther up myself." 
 
 " Yes," said the stranger, " there's all sorts of 
 temptations in a town that you don't get on the 
 ranches." 
 
 " That's the hotel," said Dick, as they came in sight 
 of the lights of Rutter's. 
 
 " Oh, that's it, is it } " said the stranger. " It looks 
 an English enough billet." 
 
 " Oh, it's English enough," said Dick, " He does 
 it very well as an Englishman." 
 
 " Oh, yes, they do it very well in a small way, but 
 if you want to run a big hotel, you must get a 
 Yankee to do it ; but for this sort of little home-by- 
 the -wayside business, Britishers do well enough." 
 
 As they turned into the hotel, Dick piloted his new 
 friend to the bar, where the landlord was generally 
 to be found. 
 
 " Here's a new guest for you, landlord," he said, 
 cheerily. He felt, somehow, with that comfortable 
 sleeping draught in his pocket, that his troubles with 
 Meredith were fast coming to a close; indeed, he 
 little thought how fast. 
 
 The landlord came out of the bar and greeted the 
 stranger with his usual cordial geniality, and showed 
 him the door into the " house place." As he crossed 
 the large room, the stranger turned with an astonished 
 air to Dick. 
 
 " Why," said he, " that's Meredith ! I haven't seen 
 him for years and years and years. He's at his old 
 game ! " 
 
 " He's been on the drink for several days," said
 
 THE END OF IT. 4I 
 
 Dick ; " drinking — hard drinking ; raw — except when 
 the landlord doctored it." 
 
 "Ah! I shouldn't have thought that he would 
 have lasted so long, though he had a constitution of 
 iron. I've known him for years. He's a brute ; an 
 unmitigated brute. What a stroke of bad luck for a 
 decent man like Rutter to have Meredith pitch upon 
 his place as a likely spot for a booze. Yes, I call 
 that a stroke of downright bad luck." 
 
 " It's bad luck for everybody where drink is con- 
 cerned," said Dick. " The landlord makes out of 
 drink, but he has had enough of it, and more than 
 enough of it." * 
 
 As the words left Dick's lips Meredith lunged out 
 of his chair on to his feet, wheeled round, and saw 
 the two men crossing the room together. As his 
 eyes fell upon Dick his whole person seemed to be 
 transformed ; his face fairly lighted up with demo- 
 niacal rage. He was no longer shrunken and en- 
 feebled, his splendid frame seemed to-be swollen with 
 fury to even more than its normal size. 
 
 " Is it you? " he said. " Is it you? I've been look- 
 ing for you these nine years. You devil ! So you 
 have come in my path at last ! " 
 
 " Why, what on earth are you talking about ? " 
 asked Dick. 
 
 " What am I talking about ? You dare to bandy 
 words with me? I've prayed every time I thought 
 of you, for nine yeari past, that you might be de- 
 livered up into my hands, and now — now I've got 
 you, and there's no escape for you ! " 
 
 " Don't talk rot ! " said Dick.
 
 42 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 " Rot ? Is it rot ? Yes— it's rot that you'll be pre- 
 sently. You've known all along that when I got you, 
 when I once got my fingers on you, I'd shake the 
 life out of you like a dog ! " 
 
 He made a rush forward to seize Dick by the 
 throat. Dick parried the blow and stepped quickly 
 to one side. The next moment Meredith had 
 whipped his revolver out of his hip pocket. 
 
 " Look out ! He's got a six-shooter ! " cried the 
 Yankee. 
 
 Up went Dick's arm again in a vain attempt to 
 knock the weapon out of Meredith's hand. The next 
 moment the two men had closed together. Knowing 
 Meredith as well as he did, Dick had a fair idea of 
 what would be his method, and every moment he 
 expected to feel the muzzle of the revolver against 
 his temple. In a flash he made up his mind that he 
 would sell his life dearly. If only he could knock the 
 weapon out of Meredith's hand, he felt that he would 
 not have the strength to continue the struggle very 
 long. 
 
 But, heavens, how strong he was! He tried time 
 and again to overthrow him, but although Meredith 
 had drunk himself into a frenzy during the past few 
 days, Dick had no more power to move him than he 
 would have had to move the side of a house. The 
 great muscles stood out upon his legs like knots of 
 steel ; the grip upon his right shoulder made Dick 
 sick with pain. His left hand was all that he really 
 had to defend himself with; and at last, when he 
 felt his strength going, when he felt Meredith's hot 
 breath upon his face, and then the touch of the cold
 
 THE END OF IT. 43 
 
 steel upon his left cheek, he flung up his arm in a 
 last desperate effort to protect himself. There was a 
 puff of smoke and the sharp crack of a pistol shot, a 
 further onslaught from ;Meredith, and then, as a last 
 hope, Dick contrived to WTench his right arm free, 
 and get at his own revolver. 
 
 It was the work of a moment. A fresh rush from 
 Meredith, the crack of Dick's revolver, a scream, and 
 then the giant liands relaxed their hold, and Meredith 
 tumbled to the ground with a sickening thud, and lay 
 there absolutely motionless.
 
 44 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 GOOD ADVICE. 
 
 As Meredith fell to the floor, the hubbub of voices 
 which had accompanied the struggle died away into 
 silence. 
 
 " He's done for," said the landlord, kneeling down 
 beside the huge prostrate form. 
 
 Dick Vincent stood by, his nerveless hands still 
 holding his revolver, his face filled with horror and 
 dismay. " You don't mean that he is — dead .'' " he 
 burst out. 
 
 " I do ; dead as a door-nail," answered the landlord. 
 
 " Did I do it ? " 
 
 " Well, it got done. There's little blame attached 
 to anyone." 
 
 " You don't think it was his revolver that went off .'' " 
 
 " We can soon settle that point," said the man who 
 had walked up the street with Dick. " Let's have 
 a look at your play-toy. Ah, one shot missing. Was 
 it fully loaded .? " 
 
 " Yes, it was." 
 
 There was no thought in Dick's mind of keeping 
 any of the truth back. 
 
 " Let's look at Meredith's six-shooter, landlord," 
 the stranger went on. 
 
 " Meredith was his name ? " said the landlord, gently
 
 GOOD ADVICE. 45 
 
 disengaging the weapon from Meredith's nerveless 
 fingers. 
 
 " Yes, Meredith. I've not seen him for years. Ah, 
 you see ! Only one shot. That was the shot he fired 
 when you threw his arm up. Well, stranger, I am 
 afraid you must put him down to your account. You 
 have done many a worse deed in your life than 
 putting that chap out of the road." 
 
 "I didn't wilfully put him out of the road," said 
 Vincent. "It was his life or mine." 
 
 " I don't know you, sir, but I'll lay long odds that 
 yours was the better life of the two. It couldn't be 
 worse than his, anyhow. And whatever country you 
 live in, there's one law that always holds good : when 
 your life's threatened, sell it as dear as you can. The 
 best thing you can do is to clear out." 
 
 "Oh, I can't do that," said Dick. "I must stay 
 and see the inquiry through." 
 
 " Well," said the stranger, " I advise you to clear out. 
 It will be the easiest way for you and for everybody 
 concerned. You don't know anybody here, do you ^ " 
 
 " Not a soul ! " said Dick. 
 
 " Then clear out." 
 
 While this conversation was going on the landlord, 
 with the help of several men, was busy removing the 
 inert mass that had once been Roger Meredith into 
 an outer chamber. It was a room next to the 
 stables that had been used for such a purpose before ; 
 in fact, they called it the " inquest room." 
 
 " I suppose he is really dead ? " said one of the 
 men, when they had lifted him on to the great table 
 where accidents usually were deposited.
 
 46 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 " Dead as a door-nail ! " answered the landlord ; 
 "and there's no chance of getting a doctor to him 
 either. Jericho has gone off to Barnes Drift — to at- 
 tend to Barnes's wife. Not the slightest chance of 
 getting at him under several hours. Besides, he is 
 dead. Look at him." 
 
 The stranger who had foregathered with Dick came 
 in just in time to hear the landlord's words. 
 
 " Well, I'm a doctor myself— at least, I was once," 
 he remarked. " The man's dead enough, but if you 
 have any doubt I'll make a regular examination." 
 
 " Yes, I think it would be as well," said the land- 
 lord. " We haven't a chance of getting Jericho here 
 for some hours. It would be a satisfaction to the 
 young gentleman that settled his business for him." 
 
 " It would be a satisfaction to everybody who has 
 ever had the pleasure — or the misfortune— to come 
 across Meredith," said the stranger, with uncompro- 
 mising directness. 
 
 " Do you speak intimately of him ? " said the land- 
 lord. " Did you know him well ? " 
 
 " I have known him for years — at least, I knew 
 him for years, a long time ago. I haven't seen him 
 for many a long day ; didn't want." 
 
 " Did he always drink .? " 
 
 " Always. Always drunk, always quarrelsome, al- 
 ways getting the horrors badly. I've seen him kill 
 two men when he was on the drink. He was a lucky 
 chap, too. He always slipped out of everything. 
 However, he's met his match at last, and a very good 
 job for everybody concerned. If I were you, land- 
 lord, I should make as little fuss as I could. So far
 
 GOOD ADVICE. 47 
 
 as I ever knew, Meredith was a man without a friend. 
 Never met anybody that didn't execrate him. He 
 was a coward and a bully ; an out-and-out black- 
 guard that was a detriment to any part of the world 
 that he happened to be in." 
 
 At this point Dick, who had followed the group 
 of men, by a sort of natural instinct that he would 
 not seem to be trying to sneak out of the responsi- 
 bility of what he had done, opened his mouth to 
 speak. The stranger stopped him. 
 
 " Now, listen to me ! " he said. " I never saw you 
 until to-day ; I don't know your name, or where you 
 come from ; I don't want to know it." 
 
 " As a matter of fact, none of us know it," said the 
 landlord. 
 
 " Then don't ask it. As for }'ou, stranger, if you 
 know anything about Meredith, keep it dark. The 
 man's dead ; he was killed in a fair fight — at least, 
 he was killed in a fight that was obviously unfair to 
 you, for you are half his size. Anyway, fair or un- 
 fair, the man's dead, and nothing will bring him back 
 to life again. Take my advice, and clear out of this. 
 You have nothing to gain by remaining; you have 
 nothing to gain by facing it out. Don't tell your 
 name, or where you have come from, or anything 
 about yourself. Clear out ! " 
 
 By this time the other men, who were well used to 
 little accidents of the sort, had all trooped away out of 
 the room, leaving the landlord, Dick and the stranger 
 alone with the dead man. The announcement that 
 he was a doctor, or, as he had put it, "by way of 
 being a doctor," had helped to this end. In spite of
 
 48 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 the fearful object lesson which they had helped to 
 remove, every man of them felt in immediate need of 
 a drink. 
 
 As the quick, decided words of advice left the 
 stranger's lips, Dick stood irresolute, looking first upon 
 the landlord, and then upon his new friend. " It 
 isn't like me to turn my back on a danger," he said 
 at last. 
 
 " Oh, turning your back on a danger — fiddle ! It 
 isn't that at all. There's nothing to be gained by 
 facing it out." 
 
 " Look here ! " said the landlord, taking him by 
 the arm and drawing him away towards the door. 
 " The last time a man was shot here the Sheriff swore 
 that he would make an example of the next one. 
 You are the next one. Do you want to be made 
 an example of.' If you make a bolt for it in the 
 confusion of the moment — well, nobody can blame 
 any of us. I like you ; you squared up his drinks 
 without a word, and they were heavy enough to make 
 most people open their eyes and sit up. I'd like to 
 see you out of this. Take my advice ; take that 
 lantern-jawed chap's advice. Git! " 
 
 The sound commonsense of this argument appealed 
 to Dick with irresistible force. After all, he had com- 
 mitted no sin. The whole affair had been more or 
 less an accident, entirely an accident so far as he 
 had been concerned. It had been a question of his 
 life or Meredith's. He had honestly done his best 
 to keep Meredith straight — indeed, he had kept Mere- 
 dith straight for years on end ; but this time he had 
 broken out beyond all power of any ordinary man
 
 GOOD ADVICE. 49 
 
 to control. And, after all, why, having killed the 
 man, should he remain to be sacrificed, from a false 
 sense of honour? If he were hanged or lynched 
 twenty times over, that would not bring Meredith 
 back to life again ; and if nothing was to be gained 
 by remaining, why should he not go ? 
 
 " You really think I had better go ? " he said, look- 
 ing the man fair and square in the eyes. 
 
 " Yes, I really do. You have no very great amount 
 of time to lose. I must send down for the Sheriff-— 
 I know he happfcns to be away, but I must send for 
 him all the same — ^and the moment I have done so, 
 I must forbid anybody to leave the house. There's a 
 train," taking out his watch and looking at it, " in a 
 quarter of an hour from now. Don't say a word to 
 anybody. Take your bag, for that might lead to 
 identification, and go." 
 
 " Thank you, landlord, I will. I see that you are 
 perfectly right, and I am very much obliged to you." 
 
 He turned back to the stranger, who was standing 
 looking down on Meredith's dead face. " Sir," he 
 said, " I don't know your name any more than you 
 know mine, but I am infinitely obliged to you for 
 the advice you have given me." 
 
 " I am sure," said the stranger, " that it is the wisest 
 course for you to take. Look here ! I like you ; I like 
 your nice and generous English face. You will natur- 
 ally feel some anxiety about the outcome of all this ; 
 here's my name and my home address. Write to 
 me in a week's time, and I'll tell you how things 
 have gone. I'll send you the local paper; there's 
 sure to be an account in it. Then you can possess 
 
 4
 
 50 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 your soul in peace, and know whether it is safe to 
 come within a hundred miles of this or not." 
 
 " Thank you a dozen times," said Dick. " You 
 are a good friend, if ever a man had one. Perhaps 
 some day I may be able to repay the genuine friend- 
 ship you have shown me to-day." 
 
 " Don't speak of it," said the stranger. " I am only 
 too glad to have been able to do it. A man might 
 be forgiven for not keeping his head cool under such 
 circumstances as these. By the way, you needn't tell 
 me your name when you write to me ; it isn't in the 
 least necessary. Call yourself Robert Martin ; that 
 name is as good a name as any other, and I can as 
 easily write to Robert Martin at some post office as 
 I can write to you in your own name and to your 
 home, wherever it is." 
 
 Dick put out his hand and took the stranger's in 
 a mighty grip. " God bless you ! " he said. " You 
 have done me a good turn, and you have done it in 
 a gentlemanly way. I can't thank you any better 
 than I have tried to do already. Good-bye ! " 
 
 " Good-bye ! " said the stranger. 
 
 Then Dick Vincent turned to take a last farewell 
 of the man who had been his comrade and chum for 
 more than seven years. " Old fellow," he said, " I 
 little thought ever to take a man's life, let alone 
 yours. If you are up there, or anywhere about, you'll 
 know that I didn't mean it." He bent down and 
 touched the nerveless hand. " Good-bye, old chap," 
 he whispered, " good-bye ! " 
 
 Then, without another word, he turned and went 
 quickly to his room in search of the small bag which
 
 GOOD ADVICE. §1 
 
 was all that he had taken to the hotel with him. It 
 merely contained a change of clothing and his neces- 
 sary toilet requisites. Clothes were not so plentiful 
 at Santa Clara as to be worth carrying about from 
 place to place. 
 
 Meredith's second coat and waistcoat were lying 
 on his bed. As quick as thought Dick Vincent 
 caught up the waistcoat and thrust his hand into the 
 inner pocket. As he expected, in his unhinged state 
 of mind, Meredith, in changing his clothes, had for- 
 gotten to transfer the portrait of his wife from one 
 pocket to the other. The little case was there, and 
 Dick thrust it into his own breast pocket. Then 
 he glanced round the room to see that there was 
 nothing of his that he had left behind. No, not a 
 thing ; all that there was belonged to Meredith. 
 
 He opened the door quietly, looked out and saw 
 that the coast was clear, ran down the stairs, and 
 passing the door of the " house place " on tiptoe, he 
 noiselessly left the house and plunged into the fast 
 gathering gloom of evening. He glanced at his watch 
 as he passed the first light in the street. Ten 
 minutes to catch the train ; ample time, provided 
 that nobody came to stop him. He swung steadily 
 along, down the narrow, irregular street, past the 
 different stores with their flaring lights, round the 
 corner, up the narrow dark lane, and under the rough 
 portico of the railway depot. 
 
 A ticket for the next station was soon taken ; he 
 had thought it out while coming down the road, and 
 if enquiries were made for him it would be just as 
 well not to leave behind evidence that he was going 
 
 A*
 
 52 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 straight for New York. He saw with satisfaction as 
 he passed on to the miserable and ill-hghted platform 
 that there were a good many passengers of about his 
 own age and appearance. 
 
 Then a bright thought struck him. He slipped into 
 his great travelling ulster, turned up the collar, pulled 
 his cap well over his eyes, and went back to the 
 ticket office. There he took a ticket for New York. 
 He felt sure that the clerk had not recognised him as 
 the man who had taken a ticket for the next station 
 a few minutes previously. 
 
 Then the train came majestically in, some passen- 
 gers alighted, and the waiting ones boarded the cars, 
 the whistle sounded, and Dick Vincent had begun 
 the second stage of his flight.
 
 53 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 WAITING. 
 
 At first when Dick Vincent found himself speeding 
 away as fast as the cars could take him from Midas 
 Creek, his only feeling was one of regret that he had 
 not stayed behind to face out what he had done. 
 
 " Hang it all ! " his thoughts ran, " this is coward's 
 work — to run away. I never turned my back on a 
 scrape in my life ; in fact, my scrapes up to now have 
 been few and far between. It is true I shot the poor 
 dear old fellow, but he wasn't himself at the time, 
 and if I hadn't shot him, he would have shot me. 
 -Then, perhaps, he w-ould have run amok and taken 
 half-a-dozen other lives. I had to do it. I'd far 
 rather have faced it out. I hate this fugitive kind 
 of business, and it will look awfully bad, and will go 
 hard against me if they take the trouble to trace me 
 out and follow me up. I've a good mind to go back. 
 Yes, I'll get off at tlie next stopping-place, and I'll 
 take tlie first train back again." 
 
 In this frame of mind he travelled for some miles. 
 Then a coloured gentleman came round and informed 
 him that supper was ready. Dick thought he might 
 as well have supper, because under any circumstances 
 it was no use going without food, and he had, of 
 course, had no supper at the hotel. The exhaustion
 
 54 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 and excitement through which he had passed, and 
 the awful revulsion of feeling which had overcome 
 him on finding that he had talcen the life of his 
 greatest friend, had all combined to produce in him 
 a most frantic hunger. So he made his way to the 
 dining car, and put away as good a supper as any 
 man ever sat down to ; and when supper was over 
 and he went off for a smoke, his thoughts naturally 
 reverted to his scheme for getting back again to 
 Midas Creek. 
 
 " It seems rather a tomfool thing to do when I've 
 got clear away, and they do not know my name or 
 anything about me," commonsense said to him. 
 
 " It seems a very cowardly thing to make a bolt of 
 it, as if you were a murderer," said his sense of honour. 
 
 " Go back and see the last of poor old Roger," said 
 sentiment. 
 
 And so his thoughts ran — " Pull devil, pull baker " 
 — until at last commonsense put an everyday sugges- 
 tion into his mind. 
 
 " It shall be tails I go back, heads I go forward ! " 
 he said to himself. 
 
 So Dick pulled a coin out of his pocket — a gold 
 coin, for luck — and spun it deftly up, as high as the 
 height of the car would permit. He held it a mo- 
 ment between his palms, before looking to see how 
 it had fallen, and so meet his fate. " But whatever 
 it comes, I'll abide by it," he said. Then he opened 
 his hand and looked at the coin as it lay shining in 
 the palm of his left hand. 
 
 It was heads! 
 
 So he must go forward. He had promised himself
 
 WAITING. 55 
 
 that he would abide by the throw of the coin. 
 Chance, bHnd chance, had told him to go forward, 
 not to turn back. A thought came to him of how 
 Lot's wife had suffered by turning back in the hour 
 of danger. And then a few lines of a poem came 
 into his head, for, let me tell you, it was not very 
 easy to get books of any kind at Santa Clara, and 
 many and many a winter's night Dick had conned 
 over a little collection of thumb-marked and worn 
 books of poetry : — • 
 
 " Let not him that putteth his hand to the plough look backwards ; 
 Though the ploughshare cut through the flowers of life to its 
 
 fountains. 
 Though it pass o'er the graves of the dead and the hearths of the 
 
 living. 
 It is the will of the Lord ; and His mercy endurcth for ever ! " 
 
 Well, he had put his hand to the plough, and it was 
 no use looking back. Practically it had already passed 
 over the " graves of the dead," and it would rest with 
 him whether, in the future, it would pass over the 
 " hearths of the living." 
 
 He was very sad, very dejected, as the train 
 whirled him away from difficulty and danger into 
 safety. Self-preservation is the first instinct of hu- 
 manity, but now that the excitement was over, now 
 that he had nothing to do but think over the events 
 of that eventful day, his thoughts were all sad. Poor 
 old Roger ! Good friend and chum ; nobody's enemy 
 but his own. How hard he had tried to keep him 
 straight. How full of hope he had been, when they 
 set out together from Santa Clara, that he would 
 succeed in his mission ; that he would find the long-
 
 56 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 neglected wife, and that she would come back with 
 him to enjoy the good times that had set in for the 
 owners of the Californian ranche. 
 
 Well, that dream was over and shattered for ever. 
 Poor old Roger was lying in that outer room at the 
 hotel at Midas Creek, his splendid strength brought 
 to an end by the hand of his own friend. Not 
 maliciously, they all held him free of blame, Dick 
 thought wretchedly. " After all," he mused, " if I 
 hadn't done what I did, I should be lying in that 
 outer room instead of him. Life is ' Every man for 
 himself ' — it must be so — and if poor old Roger knows, 
 he will hold me as free of blame as those that were 
 looking on." 
 
 And yet — his friend was gone. The partnership 
 had come to an end, a sad, miserable, v/retched end, 
 to which he had never looked. The unexpected al- 
 ways happens, and he had certainly never expected 
 such an end as this. In this life it is the one who 
 stays behind who thinks the most. It is always so. 
 The lover who goes away to the other side of the 
 world is more likely to forget the girl he leaves be- 
 hind than the girl, who merely continues her ordinary 
 daily round, rendered more blank by the absence of 
 the loved one, is likely to forget him. 
 
 So in the case of Dick Vincent. He passed day 
 after day in the luxurious cars, sleeping, dining, read- 
 ing, smoking, talking, and with every hour that went 
 by the horror of the scene through which he had 
 passed at Midas Creek seemed to fade away. He was 
 not callous, far from it ; but he was being taken 
 swiftly and easily away into fresh scenes, and the
 
 WAITING. 57 
 
 change of life and movement round about him all 
 tended to blot out from his mind the first vivid im- 
 pression of Roger Meredith's tragic death. 
 
 So by the time he reached New York he had made 
 up his mind that it was no use fretting over what 
 was done and could not be undone. It was no use 
 regarding himself as a murderer, or even as a fugitive. 
 If the worst came to the worst, he had taken the 
 advice of those who had seen the whole affray from 
 beginning to end, and doubtless, if necessary, they 
 would back him up to the extent of owning that he 
 had acted by their advice. 
 
 He determined to remain a few da)-s in New York 
 so as to communicate with his unknown friend at 
 Midas Creek. Therefore, as soon as he got settled 
 down in his hotel, he wrote a letter to the friendly 
 stranger. It was a manly letter, telling him that he 
 had more than half repented turning his back on 
 the scrape in which he had found himself. He told 
 him how he had reasoned tilings out with himself, 
 and how, finally, he had tossed for guidance as to 
 the best line of conduct. Then he thanked him for 
 having so completely stood his friend, and begged 
 him to send him the result of the inquest to a certain 
 post office in New York. He signed the letter, 
 "Robert Martin." 
 
 " I feel rather mean," his thoughts ran, " but it was 
 the chap's own suggestion, after all, and he seemed 
 to have a long head on him. So I daresay he was 
 perfectly right in his suggestion that it is no use ex- 
 posing my own name." 
 
 When his letter was safely deposited in the post
 
 58 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 office, Dick Vincent felt happier. He knew that from 
 Valentine Clegg — for such was the stranger's name — 
 he would obtain authentic information as to the last 
 details concerning poor Meredith. But he must pa- 
 tiently await a reply, and, as all the world knows, a 
 letter cannot go from New York to California and 
 the reply cover the same distance without a weari' 
 some wait of many days. 
 
 I am bound to say that the two weeks which fol- 
 lowed Dick Vincent's arrival in New York was the 
 most wearisome period that he had ever passed in 
 the whole of his life. He did everything to occupy 
 himself that a stranger in the land could do. He 
 visited the tlieatres and other places of amusement, 
 he went the round of the best restaurants and feasted 
 royally, like a king, but all the same, it was a miser- 
 able hangdog existence. He began to understand 
 how it is that men give themselves up to justice years 
 after they have committed a murder. He began to 
 go over the scene again ; he began to fidget and 
 worry as to whether, if he had done just the opposite 
 of what he had done, he would have exercised a dif- 
 ferent influence over Roger Meredith. He began to 
 blame himself. He could not sleep at nights for 
 visions of Roger Meredith which visited him He was 
 all right during the day time, he could occupy him- 
 self ; he could keep that worrying brain of his quiet 
 by giving it plenty of other things to think about ; 
 but when it came to the lonely watches of the night, 
 it was another matter altogether. He took to going 
 to the large public reading rooms, and there he in- 
 dustriously looked over hundreds of newspapers, but
 
 WAITING. 59 
 
 without finding any. one from the district around Midas 
 Creek which ever mentioned the affair. He became 
 haggard and wan and weary. 
 
 And so the slow days dragged their interminable 
 course along, until at last he received, on application 
 at the post office, a letter addressed to " Robert 
 Martin." He took it from the clerk with fingers 
 which trembled in spite of' his nerve and resolution. 
 He didn't open it until he had seated himself in the 
 restaurant where he was going to eat his lunch ; then, 
 having given his order for the meal, he at last ven- 
 tured to open the letter. 
 
 " Dear Robert Martin," it began, " I was very 
 pleased to hear from you, and to find by chance I 
 had strengthened my opinion that it was perfectly 
 useless for you to remain here. Meredith was 
 buried in the little cemetery at the back of the 
 chapel in Midas Creek. A good many people 
 turned out to give him a last salute, but the manner 
 of his death has not interested many people, as he 
 was absolutely unknown to everybody but myself, 
 and I had nothing good to say about him. I pri- 
 vately saw some of the jury, and also said a word 
 or two to the coroner, with the result that you will 
 not even be inquired for. 
 
 " I hope that you will not allow this wretched 
 affair to weigh on your mind, or in any way over- 
 shadow your life. You looked to me young, 
 straight and honest, and it would indeed be a thou- 
 sand pities if your life were in any way spoiled for 
 a worthless blackguard such as I well knew Mere-
 
 6o A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 dith to be. Take my advice, and for the future 
 force yourself to think of the affair as a pure acci- 
 dent, which in truth it was. 
 
 " I am sending you by this mail a newspaper 
 giving an account of the inquest. I can add that 
 the verdict gave universal satisfaction. The ways 
 of juries are very wonderful in all parts of the 
 world — at least, that has been my experience, and 
 I have lived in almost all countries, 
 
 " With every good wish, believe me, cordially 
 yours, 
 
 "Valentine Clegg." 
 
 It was with a certain feeling of dismay that Dick 
 Vincent realised that he must go back to the post 
 office and find out whether there was a newspaper 
 waiting for him. Perhaps it had come by a later mail. 
 
 He finished his lunch, drank his black coffee, and 
 smoked a cigarette before he allowed himself to think 
 about going back to the post office. Even then, 
 although he had spun the time out, the clerk told 
 him that there was no other communication for him. 
 So he must put off yet another day ; he must get 
 through another evening and another night. How- 
 ever, he filled in that afternoon by making enquiries 
 about his passage for Liverpool, and buying some 
 few necessaries that he would require for the voyage. 
 Then he dined and went off to a theatre, and after 
 that he looked in at another restaurant for some 
 supper, going to bed at last so dogged tired that for 
 the first time since he had reached New York he slept 
 a sound, dreamless sleep until late in the morning.
 
 WAITING. 6l 
 
 He went twice to the post office before he re- 
 ceived the paper of which Valentine Clegg had spoken. 
 It was then late in the afternoon, very near to dinner 
 time, and as he walked slowly down the street he 
 tore off the wrapper, being too impatient to wait until 
 he reached the restaurant where he went to dine 
 
 Yes, here it was, a full account of the affray, but 
 so garbled in the telling that, he, although the prin- 
 cipal actor in the scene, could hardly recognise it. 
 It described how Meredith was an irredeemable black- 
 guard, well-known to persons staying in the hotel, 
 who had drunk himself into a state of delirium, in 
 spite of everything that could be done to stop and 
 even doctor his supply of whiskey. Then it went 
 on to say that on the afternoon in question he had 
 made a murderous attack upon a young man resident 
 in the hotel ; that in endeavouring to save his own 
 life Aleredith had been accidentally shot, and that 
 in the opinion of all the onlookers there was not 
 the slightest blame to be attached to anybody but 
 the unfortunate man himself. 
 
 The account then went on to relate that the jury 
 had unanimously agreed on the verdict of " Death 
 by the visitation of God," and that, when mildly re- 
 monstrated with by the coroner, had firmly expressed 
 their desire that the verdict should stand. " The man 
 was delirious," the foreman of the jury explained, 
 " and an unintentional shot put an end to his existence 
 before he had time to murder the object of his fury 
 or other persons. We consider his career was cut 
 short by the visitation of God." " Gentlemen, it is 
 for you to give what verdict you think best," was the
 
 63 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 reply of the coroner. And Dick Vincent, as he folded 
 the newspaper and thrust it into his pocket, mentally 
 echoed the words of Valentine Clegg : " Truly the 
 ways of juries are very wonderful." 
 
 So the chapter had come to an end. He was safe. 
 Nobody who knew his name would connect him in 
 any way with the tragic end of Roger Meredith. He 
 was free to go on board the great liner which would 
 sail the following day. But before doing so, he felt 
 that a very unpleasant duty lay before him ; he must 
 write to Santa Clara and apprise the manager, Jack 
 Frogg, that Roger Meredith was dead. He must tell 
 him how, when, and why he died, only suppressing 
 that one little fact, that he had died by the hand of his 
 greatest friend.
 
 63 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 HOME AGAIN. 
 
 Even after what he had learned from Valentine 
 Clegg's letter and from the little journal which cir- 
 culated news in and around the neighbourhood of 
 Midas Creek, Dick Vincent did not feel himself per- 
 fectly free to leave New York and take the great 
 steamer which would land him once more on his 
 native shores. In the first place he felt that he must 
 write to Jack Frogg, whom he and Roger Meredith 
 had left in charge of affairs at Santa Clara. 
 
 The letter was easy enough to write. He told the 
 manager that he had just received news from an 
 acquaintance of his in Midas Creek that Roger 
 Meredith had come to an untimely end. " He was, 
 as you know, very moody and gloomy before we left 
 home ; and his depression seemed to increase until 
 we got to Midas Creek, from whence I took the cars. 
 I could not induce him to go any further on the 
 journey. He seems to have drunk hard from that 
 time. Eventually he completely lost his head, and 
 drew his revolver on those who tried to restrain him, 
 with the result than in the scrimmage he was shot 
 dead. I send you herewith a paper which gives an 
 account of the inquest. I am fearfully cut up about 
 the whole business, but as I have got this far, and 
 every arrangement has been made for my going home
 
 64 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 for a few months, I do not see that I should do any 
 good by coming back before the time originally in- 
 tended. Let me have a wire as soon as you receive 
 this, to say I can leave everything safely with you. 
 I shall remain here until I hear from you." 
 
 When the letter and the newspaper were safely 
 despatched, Dick felt more easy in his mind, and he 
 set himself down to wait with what patience he could 
 the arrival of Frogg's telegram confirming the 
 arrangement that he had made with him. He also 
 at the same time took steps to provide himself with 
 other copies of the Midas Creek " Free Press," but 
 these he directed to be sent to an address in Eng- 
 land. 
 
 It was a weary time of waiting, but Dick Vincent 
 was an indomitable young man, who never swerved 
 from a path on which he had once set his feet. 
 Having taken up the burden of a secret, he deter- 
 mined to carry out any work which it might entail to 
 the very end — the bitter end if need be ; and as com- 
 munication with Frogg necessitated a few more weari- 
 some days to be spent in New York, he set himself to 
 endure them. But as all things, good and bad alike, 
 come to an end in time, so did the time of Dick's 
 weary waiting come to an end also, and he one morn- 
 ing received over the telegraph wires a message direct 
 from Jack Frogg. 
 
 " Grieved at news," it said, " and will do my level 
 best during your absence. You know you can trust 
 me. Let me have English address." 
 
 It was as Frogg had said ; Dick knew that he could 
 trust him. H^ vas a rough, untutored man, but
 
 HOME AGAIN. 65 
 
 honest as the day. Dick recalled with a sigh how 
 poor Roger had said as much when they first pro- 
 posed leaving the ranche in charge of Frogg during 
 their absence. " And poor old Roger knew them 
 when he saw 'em," was Dick's final thought. " I'd 
 back R.oger's judgment in the matter of a phiz before 
 anybody I ever knew in my life. Dear old chap ! 
 He had a good opinion of Jack, and Jack's a good 
 fellow all round. I'd trust him witli untold gold." 
 
 He therefore wrote again to Frogg, telling him that 
 he was going to start the next day for England ; and 
 he gave him his address at his father's house. In 
 concluding the second letter he said : 
 
 " I may as well tell you that I am going to Eng- 
 land partly on business connected with Mr. 
 Meredith. He placed some money in my hands 
 with instructions as to its disposition in England, 
 and I should like to carry out his wishes before I 
 go into the question of his property and share of 
 Santa Clara. Mr. Meredith made his will just be- 
 fore we left Santa Clara ; it is in safe keeping at 
 Freeman's Rock. The final disposition of his pro- 
 perty will depend upon what I arrange in England." 
 
 He added one or two more instructions as to certain 
 favourite animals on the ranche, and then closed the 
 letter feeling that he was really free at last. And the 
 following day Dick went on board the great steamer 
 which would take him home. 
 
 With the details of the voyage we have nothing to 
 do. With every mile that the great steamer carried 
 
 5
 
 66 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 Dick Vincent away from the New World to the Old, 
 so did the tragedy of Roger Meredith's death fade 
 into the insignificance of a mere incident. Every day 
 Dick felt more and more that he had been but an 
 instrument of Fate ; that poor Roger had to come to 
 his end, and that he personally was not in any way 
 responsible for what had happened. He regretted 
 him as keenly as ever ; for, mind you, the two men 
 had loved one another with a great and abiding affec- 
 tion, such as neither men nor women often know. 
 
 At times it made him feel sick and cold to think 
 that when he returned to Santa Clara there would be 
 no Roger Meredith. But, on the whole, as the days 
 went by he thought about him less and less, and he 
 accepted the inevitable as inevitable. So by the time 
 the shores of his native land came into view he had 
 ceased to have any haunting feeling about the fatal 
 shot which had brought Meredith's turbulent life to 
 an end. And there was no reason why he should have 
 thought otherwise. He well knew that if Roger could 
 come back he would be the last person on earth to 
 blame him in the smallest degree. There was no 
 reason then, why, once the first shock was over, he 
 should continue to blame himself. 
 
 It was in this eminently comfortable frame of mind 
 that Dick Vincent once more found himself in his 
 native country. It was all very delightful to him ; 
 the smooth and easy life which a man who is not 
 short of money can enjoy in old England was pleasant 
 and soothing to him. 
 
 From Liverpool he went to London — where he 
 stayed long enough only to pay a visit to his tailor's
 
 HOME AGAIN. 6/ 
 
 and to lay in a stock of accessories to the masculine 
 toilet. Then he went off, without further delay, to 
 the old manor house where he had been born. 
 
 How pleasant it was to find himself once more in 
 the old Kentish home which he had not seen for 
 seven years ! There was so much to do, so many 
 people to see ; early in the morning to walk round 
 the place, when the cheery old squire had tight hold 
 of his arm, while he pointed out this little improve- 
 ment and that little innovation ; then to go through 
 the hothouses, round the stables, to speak a word to 
 each man and woman on the estate who had been 
 there before he went away ; then to go down the 
 village with his handsome sisters to pay a special visit 
 to his old nurse, married long years now, but with 
 ever a tender spot in her heart for the boy who was 
 the pride of the Vincent family and the joy of every 
 man, woman and child connected with the Vincent 
 estate. Then he had to ride over to Foxborough, 
 where his eldest sister, who had during his absence 
 been married to a neighbouring squire, lived and had 
 two or three olive branches, who bid fair to be as 
 handsome as herself. Dick had stood godfather to 
 one of these, a young Dick — a sturdy fellow who rode 
 about the gardens on the back of a huge St. Bernard, 
 tumbled off half-a-dozen times a day, picked himself 
 up, rubbed the place, and swore that he wasn't hurt. 
 You know the kind of child — just such a boy as Dick 
 had been two-and-twenty years before. Then there 
 were long talks with his mother, and visits to pay all 
 over the neip-hbourhood ; and then Dick carried 
 off his Iwo sisters to town with him, and as 
 
 5*
 
 6S A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 they were joined on all occasions by the fiance of the 
 elder one, they made a nice little " partie carree." 
 
 After a gay week in town, during which Dick spent 
 his mornings at his tailor's, and began, in his own 
 words, " to feel and look like a gentleman once more," 
 he went back to the old Kentish home again, and 
 there found awaiting him the copies of the Midas 
 Creek " Free Press," which he had ordered before he 
 left New York. The sight of the limp little news- 
 paper served to bring him back with a jerk once 
 more to a realisation of the duty that lay before 
 him. 
 
 His letters had been taken into his mother's own 
 sitting-room, which had always gone by the name of 
 the " Red Parlour." 
 
 " There are ever so many letters for you, Dick," 
 she said, as the four young people tripped into the 
 room, for Winifred's young man had slipped away 
 from his briefs and come down to Hollingridge for 
 the week-end. " But don't read them now," she said, 
 putting up a warning hand, " because tea will be here 
 in a minute, and cook has made you an immense pile 
 of pikelets. You must eat them v/hile they are hot, 
 or I am sure she will break her heart." 
 
 " My dear mother," said Dick, " in this country one 
 does not fly at letters as one does on a Californian 
 ranche. There one would let pikelets, or muffins, or 
 foie gras, or an omelet, or anything else in the eating 
 line go to perdition for the sake of a letter. Here one 
 feels quite difterent ; and my distinguished corre- 
 spondence can wait most comfortably until I have 
 demolished cook's pikelets,"
 
 HOME AGAIN. 69 
 
 Winifred's young mm looked up in alarm. " Are 
 you not going to let us have any ? " 
 
 " I don't know," said Dick. " If you are quick — 
 perhaps. But you have been having pikelets on and 
 off all the time I have been doing my own cooking 
 on a Californian ranche." 
 
 " Dick, did you do all the cooking? " asked Laura. 
 
 " No, not all the cooking ; we turned and turned 
 about." 
 
 " Week in, week out ? " asked Winifred. 
 
 " No, not week in, week out. It depended on what 
 we had to cook and on what work had to be done. 
 Some things I could cook and Meredith couldn't ; 
 some things he excelled in that I was a duffer at. 
 And it was the same with work ; and between the two 
 we made it fit." 
 
 " And never quarrelled ? " 
 
 " I never quarrelled with Meredith," said Dick, 
 rather shortly. 
 
 " Never in seven years ? " put in George Drummond. 
 
 " Never in seven years. I never had a wrong word 
 with the dear old chap in my life, from first to last." 
 
 And then his heart gave a great sick throb as he 
 remembered the last scene, when Roger Meredith's 
 drink-maddened eyes had glared into his with murder 
 in them. 
 
 He sat in his chair and took a cup of tea from his 
 mother's hand, stirring it round and round to the utter 
 neglect of the tempting pile of cook's pikelets which 
 reposed on a little table just in front of him. 
 
 " What is the matter, Dick ? " said Laura in an 
 undertone.
 
 70 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 " Nothing." 
 
 " You don't look as if nothing were the matter," 
 she persisted. 
 
 " Don't I ? I hate to think about Meredith ; that's 
 all." 
 
 " You liked him very much ? " 
 
 " Yes, I think I did more than like him ; I am sure 
 I did. He was such a good sort. If it hadn't been 
 for drink, Meredith could have gone anywhere, done 
 anything, filled any place. I tried so hard to keep 
 him from it, and to think he could come to an end like 
 that — in a drunken brawl ! Ah^ I cannot bear to 
 think about it." 
 
 " I wouldn't think about it if I were you," said 
 Laura, speaking in a rapid undertone, for the others 
 were all talking nineteen to the dozen, " I wouldn't 
 think about it, Dick, if I were you. It wasn't as if 
 you could help it." 
 
 " No, it wasn't as if I could help it, was it ? " 
 
 " Of course not. And if men do take to drink, it 
 really is their own fault." 
 
 " Yes, I suppose it was his own fault, poor old chap. 
 I can't bear to think about him." 
 
 " I wouldn't think about him if I were you, Dick," 
 she said tenderly, " that I wouldn't." 
 
 All the same, it is one thing to make up your mind 
 that you will follow a certain course, and it is another 
 thing to follow it. 
 
 " Have another pikelet, Dick ? " said his mother, 
 handing him the plate. 
 
 " Not another, thanks, mater." 
 
 " Oh, do, dear, or cook will be so upset if she thinks
 
 HOME AGAIN. 7 1 
 
 you do not like them. She will be sure to think 
 there is something wrong with the pikelets. You 
 always used to be so fond of them." 
 
 " Yes, I know, but I don't feel like eating to-day. 
 Oh, well, here — I'll take one," he said, impatiently. 
 
 He took another of the little rich cakes and choked 
 it down with an evident effort. " George," he said, 
 handing him the dish, " here ! You have got a maw 
 like a shark. Get ready, and have a dozen of these, 
 there's a good old chap." 
 
 " So strange," said Mrs. Vincent to Laura, when 
 the others had strolled away, " I never knew Dick 
 refuse pikelets in my life before ! And he seemed 
 so hungry when he came in ; he wouldn't even open 
 his letters — and they are not opened now. I wonder 
 if he doesn't feel well. Have you been overdoing it 
 in London ? " 
 
 " Not a bit of it, mother. Something recalled Mr. 
 Meredith to his mind, and it knocked him over com- 
 pletely. I don't think you half realise how fond Dick 
 was of him." 
 
 " No, I daresay not. But still, the poor man is dead 
 and gone, and, after all, he came to a most disreput- 
 able end, and it's no use Dick brooding over it. He 
 couldn't help it, poor boy, and pikelets always 
 were " 
 
 " Oh, mother, don't worry about it. After all, it's 
 a very little time ago, and it must have been a 
 dreadful shock to Dick. Hasn't he opened his 
 letters ? " 
 
 " No, he hasn't." 
 
 " Oh, well, I wouldn't bother him with them. Dear
 
 72 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 old Dick ! I hate to think of him being down in the 
 mouth and miserable." 
 
 " So do I," said her mother. " And it isn't as if he 
 had come home for good. I suppose he's going back 
 to that horrid ranche, where he never gets anything 
 to eat that is fit to eat. It does seem hard that he 
 can't enjoy good things while he has the chance of 
 them." 
 
 " Don't worry, mother," said Laura, " don't worry. 
 Leave Dick to get over it and live his own life." 
 
 " But he's never even opened his letters ! " said Mrs. 
 Vincent, vexedly.
 
 71 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 A SPELL OF FAMILY LIFE. 
 
 " I WISH," said Mrs. Vincent, half-an-hour later, when 
 Dick had lounged into the " Red Parlour " again, " I 
 wish you wouldn't let your mind dwell on tliat poor 
 fellow, Dick." 
 
 " What poor fellow ? " said Dick. 
 
 " The poor fellow that was killed," said Mrs. 
 Vincent. 
 
 " Oh, you mean Meredith ? Well, mother, I can't 
 help thinking about him sometimes, and when any- 
 thing reminds me of him, I can't help getting a fit of 
 the blues. It's all right. I shall get over it after a 
 bit. Don't worr}^ about it." 
 
 " I can't help worr^^ing, my dear boy, when I see 
 you miserable, and you don't eat, and all those good 
 pikelets wasted." 
 
 " No, not wasted, for Drummond had a thundering 
 good feed of them." 
 
 " Yes, I know. But George comes continually ; 
 and George is never out of the road of English cook- 
 ing. I don't put myself out about George, I can 
 assure you." 
 
 " I daresay not. But cook won't know whether 
 George or I ate this particular lot of pikelets." 
 
 " You never opened your letters," Mrs. Vincent 
 went on.
 
 74 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 " By Jove ! No more I did. Really, mother, I beg 
 your pardon. You must forgive me this once." 
 
 " Forgive you ? Dear boy, you have come home to 
 enjoy yourself. All that I am anxious for is that you 
 shall have a really good time. It isn't a question of 
 forgiveness. How ridiculous! Well, here are your 
 letters. I'm sure I do hope there won't be anything 
 disagreeable in them." 
 
 " Not at all likely," said Dick, easily. 
 
 There was indeed a goodly batch of correspondence 
 — bills, letters, invitations, and communications on busi- 
 ness pure and simple — but Dick at last got through 
 them all, and there was only a bundle of newspapers 
 to be opened. This bundle contained the copies of 
 the Midas Creek " Free Press." He tore off the 
 wrapper with a sick throb at his heart ; he had already 
 seen a copy of the paper. " Here, mother," he said, 
 when he had turned to the place where he knew the 
 paragraph would be, " there's the account of poor old 
 Roger's death. It was a hideous business." 
 
 Mrs. Vincent took the paper from his hand with 
 a feeling of vexation in her inmost soul, just glanced 
 over the paragraph, and put the paper down on the 
 table beside her. " My dear Dick," she said, " if a 
 man could drink like that, drink himself mad, I really 
 don't think he could be much loss to anybody. And 
 after you had kept him straight for years, to be 
 tempted the moment you turned your back " 
 
 " Well, mother," said Dick, " we never know, any 
 of us, what we may do until we are tempted. Poor 
 old Roger had been as straight as a die for over 
 two years. Don't let yourself think of him as a be-
 
 A SPELL OF FAMILY LIFE. 75 
 
 sotted beast that had no good in him. He was the 
 kindest, gentlest, best fellow that ever lived. He took 
 me up when I was a mere tenderfoot — a youngster — 
 and he stuck to me through thick and thin right down 
 to the very last. I believe it was only the fact of 
 my coming away that made him take to the drink 
 at all." 
 
 " Then why did you go away, Dick .? " 
 
 " Well, for one thing I had made every arrange- 
 ment ; I wanted to come home. I thought you 
 wanted to see me." 
 
 " Of course, we did." 
 
 " I begged him to come." 
 
 " Why didn't he come ? " 
 
 " Well, mother, I can tell you, but keep it to your- 
 self until I have found out all there is to know. Mere- 
 dith was married." 
 
 " Married ? Where was his wife .' " 
 
 "That's what we don't know. He didn't know; 
 he wanted me to find out whether she was alive or 
 not ; whether there was any chance of her coming out 
 to him." 
 
 " He was fond of her then ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes ; always had been. It was only the 
 demon of drink that ever seems to have caused them 
 any trouble at all." 
 
 " But that needn't have prevented his coming to 
 England." 
 
 " Well, it needn't ; I did my best to persuade him. 
 The truth was he had got it into his head that she 
 might have married again ; and if she had he didn't 
 want to have her disturbed. He knew he had been
 
 ^6 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 a failure as her husband, and if she had found another 
 he would have stood aside in silence and remained 
 in America all the rest of his life." 
 
 " There was nobility in him," said Mrs. Vincent. 
 
 " Nobility in him! " echoed Jack. " I couldn't make 
 you or anybody else understand, unless they had 
 known him, that in spite of the drink Meredith was 
 all nobility. I don't believe I shall find her married ; 
 I believe if he had lived she would have gone out 
 there and been as happy as a queen for the rest of 
 the chapter. It's partly that that makes me so sad 
 when I think about it all. But there — I didn't come 
 home to worry you, mother ; I won't talk about it 
 a?ain." 
 
 " And you want to discover her } " 
 
 " I've got to discover her," said Dick. " I've got 
 a large sum of money to hand over to her ; and now, 
 if I can find her or the child alive, the half of the 
 ranche will belong to them." 
 
 " And if you don't find them ? " 
 If I don't find them, that is if I find absolute 
 proof of their death, it will all belong to me." 
 
 " He left a will ? " 
 
 " Yes, he made a will. He made it himself, only 
 a few days before we left Santa Clara. Of course, I 
 shall find them — I've got to find them, alive or dead." 
 
 " But you won't go away just yet ? " said his mother, 
 anxiously. 
 
 " No, not just yet." 
 
 " Hov/ will you know where to find them 1 " 
 
 " Oh, well, I know where Meredith left them." 
 
 " How long ago is that ? "
 
 A SPELL OF FAMILY LIFE. 'JJ 
 
 " Some fifteen or sixteen years." 
 
 " Oh, my dear boy, anything may have happened. 
 Has he never written to her .'* " 
 
 " I beUeve not. He left his wife, confident of 
 making a fortune ; he never had a shade of luck until 
 he met me. At first, as you know, we had only the 
 luck of being able to keep body and soul together. I 
 was able to get help from the governor ; Meredith had 
 no governor. Indeed, right down to now he never 
 felt that he could write to her as he would like to 
 do. So when I proposed to come home for a holiday 
 he asked me to find her — to institute enquiries, you 
 understand." 
 
 " And to take her back with you .' " said Mrs. 
 Vincent. 
 
 " That was his hope, poor old chap. Can't you 
 understand, mother, that I don't like even to think 
 about it .'' " 
 
 In her way Mrs. Vincent was a very wise woman. 
 From that moment she worried her son with no more 
 strictures on the life and character of his chum, Roger 
 Meredith. More than that, she spoke to her youngest 
 daughter on the subject. 
 
 " If I were you, Laura, she said, " I wouldn't speak 
 to Dick about that unfortunate man, Meredith, at all. 
 He has taken his death very much to heart indeed. 
 There seems to have been a great deal of good in him, 
 poor fellow. I'm quite sorry for Dick. He'll get 
 over it after a time, but for the present don't encou- 
 rage him either to talk about him or think about him. 
 He told me a good deal about it the other day. I 
 quite understand Dick feeling a little morbid on the
 
 78 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 subject. Poor fellow, it's very sad, just when they 
 were getting into smooth water, that things should 
 have gone so wrong. I feel very much for Dick in 
 the whole affair. And Dick was proud of him and 
 kept him straight. It's always the same with 
 drunkards — heart-breaking work trying to reclaim 
 them. I feel most sorry for Dick, and if we can do 
 anything to prevent him from even thinking about the 
 unfortunate man again, it will be quite the wisest 
 course we can take." 
 
 " Poor dear Dick ! Oh, I won't say a word, mother," 
 the girl replied. " I saw from the beginning, of 
 course, that he was brooding ver}^ much over the 
 whole affair, and quite enough to make him. It's a 
 horrible thing to see your friend murdered before your 
 very eyes." 
 
 " My dear, Dick didn't see it. Dick was in New 
 York." 
 
 " Oh, was he ? I thought he saw it. How do you 
 know .? " 
 
 " Well, Dick showed me the paper. It is here ; it 
 gives an account of the whole thing. Curious people 
 they are out there. Actually brought it in — ' Died 
 by the visitation of God.' Blasphemous, I call it." 
 
 " Ah, I suppose," rejoined Laura, " that it was their 
 way of saying that there was no blame attached to 
 anybody. But as you say, mother, they are queer 
 people." 
 
 " Juries, my dear, are queer all the world over. One 
 never knows what a jury may or may not do, I'm 
 sure. There was the case of that poor Edward Brown. 
 They found him in the first spinney at the Three-
 
 A SPELL OF FAMILY LIFE. 79 
 
 Mile-Bottom with his head hterally battered in, and 
 the jury brought it in — ' Found dead.' " 
 " Oh, he was killed by poachers." 
 " Ah, but would you imagine," cried Mrs. Vincent, 
 " that respectable jurymen are intimate with 
 poachers ? " 
 
 " It looked rather like it," said Laura, with a laugh. 
 " However, perhaps they'll put women on juries one 
 of these days, and perhaps then we shall get some- 
 thing approaching to commonsense and justice." 
 
 " Oh, my dear, my dear, pray don't allow any such 
 horrible ideas to dwell in your mind for an instant. 
 I hope the day will be far distant when women have 
 any more power than they have now ; married women 
 have all the power they want." 
 
 " And the unmarried women ^ " cried Laura, with 
 a laugh. 
 
 " The unmarried women ? Oh, it doesn't matter 
 what becomes of them. All the nice women get mar- 
 ried." 
 
 " You had better not tell Aunt Charlotte so," said 
 Laura, with an irrepressible giggle. 
 
 " Aunt Charlotte ? " Mrs. Vincent looked up in a 
 startled kind of way. " Well, rich maiden aunts — oh, 
 of course, yes — they form a sort of class by them- 
 selves, don't they, dear } That is rather different. 
 But you will remember what I say about poor Dick ? " 
 " Oh, I'll remember, mother. I am as sorry for poor 
 old Dick as you are. And from what he says Roger 
 Meredith must have been a good sort, with just that 
 one little weakness to ruin him." 
 
 But in spite of Mrs. Vincent's precautions that no-
 
 80 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 thing should be said to remind Dick of his lost chum, 
 Dick did not recover his natural spirits. Truth to 
 tell, the pilgrimage which he must make in search of 
 Roger Meredith's wife and child had come to weigh 
 upon his spirits like a lump of lead, or a bad dream. 
 Of course, he knew that there was no getting off the 
 quest, that he would have to go, he would have to 
 use every endeavour to find the woman who for fifteen 
 years had been utterly neglected by the man who all 
 the time was pining to see her again. 
 
 In a way he understood Mereditli's action. He 
 understood how he had left home in a blaze of 
 triumph and prophecy that in a new world he would 
 easily carve out a new career which should be the 
 means of providing for her and the child as lavishly 
 as the most loving husband could desire. But things 
 had gone wrong; and day after day went by until 
 Meredith's hope had fled, and he had not liked to 
 write ; he had been ashamed to write and admit his 
 failure. Then, after fifteen years had passed, it was 
 naturally most difficult to break the long silence. He 
 quite understood, if it were so difficult for him, what 
 it must have been for Meredith himself — practically 
 impossible. 
 
 However, he had accepted the trust, and he must 
 carry it through. It was a sacred trust — the last re- 
 quest of a dead and gone friend. Yes, he must make 
 up his mind to leave the pleasant Kentish home, the 
 handsome mother and sisters, the cheery father, and 
 the people round about, all keenly interested in the 
 doings of the much-longed-for son and heir to the 
 old place. Yes, he must leave them. He must go
 
 A SPELL OF FAMILY LIFE. 8l 
 
 down to Blankhampton, and he must set his wits to 
 work to find some trace of Roger Meredith's wife — 
 for when Roger Meredith had crossed the seas in 
 search of a career in the New World, his wife had 
 gone down to Blankhampton, desiring, for some 
 curious motive best known to herself, to cast her lines 
 among strangers. 
 
 " Of course," Meredith had said to her the night 
 before he left England, " of course you will go back 
 and live among your own people ? " 
 
 " No," she said, " I think not. I will write to you 
 in a short time. You had better leave me free ; 1 
 shall do better if I am not hampered in any way." 
 
 Then, after a few weeks, the news had reached him 
 that she had settled herself at Blankhampton. 
 
 " I don't know one soul in the place," she wrote to 
 him. " I have enough money, with what you gave 
 me, to establish myself, and although my poor little 
 pittance is not enough to keep us on, yet I am certain 
 that here I shall get some sort of work. I feel con- 
 vinced that the way will be made open to me. I like 
 Blankhampton very much. It is quiet and dull, ex- 
 cept you are in the Cathedral set or the Army set, 
 but the tone of the place is good ; it has an air of 
 sedateness and dignity about it which just now to 
 me is very comforting. I shall very contentedly stay 
 here, dearest Roger, until you send for me." 
 
 Was she, Dick wondered, still waiting the summons 
 or had she grown tired ? He could not tell which 
 course was the most likely one for her to have taken ; 
 whether she was still on the alert listening for the 
 postman's knock, whether she had dropped by the 
 
 6
 
 82 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 wayside, or whether she had formed new ties, new 
 interests, a new Hfe. He had written down in his 
 pocket-book the last address from which Meredith had 
 heard from her. He did not know Blankhampton, he 
 had never been there, so that he had not the slightest 
 inkling whether the address was a good or a bad one. 
 It was a very curious-sounding street — " Mrs. Roger 
 Meredith, ig, Ogledal, Blankhampton." Ogledal! 
 What an extraordinary name for a street ! It must be 
 a street, for the number of the house was nineteen. 
 Well, he would go down to Blankhampton, and he 
 would search round the street called Ogledal, and he 
 would prosecute enquiries. 
 
 But day after day went by and still Dick Vincent 
 did not leave Hollingridge, until at last one evening, 
 when he was sitting alone smoking on the western 
 side of the house, it suddenly came upon him like a 
 flash of light that he was grossly neglecting his best 
 friend's last request ; that it was not sufficient to say 
 to himself that he would set about Meredith's business 
 some day. Some day was no day ; and Dick Vincent 
 shook himself out of the atmosphere of doubt and 
 indecision in which he had been lingering for many 
 days, and told himself that he would set off on his 
 quest on the morrow.
 
 ^3 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 A RESOLVE. 
 
 " Going away to-morrow ? " said Mrs. Vincent, in a 
 tone of dismay. " Oh, well, I suppose we could not 
 expect to keep you here all the time." 
 
 She was sitting at the head of the dinner table ; 
 Dick was beside her. She leaned her elbows upon 
 the table and looked at him with her handsome eyes 
 full of regret. 
 
 " It isn't that, mother. I would rather stay here 
 altogether, until I have to go back to Santa Clara," 
 Dick replied. " But I have got some very important 
 business to carry through." 
 
 " Oh, have you ? Connected with Santa Clara ? " 
 
 " Well, it is and it isn't. It's private business of 
 Meredith's, poor old chap — for it's the last thing he 
 asked of me. I didn't see about it before, because, 
 to tell you the truth, I didn't feel equal to it ; but the 
 time is going on now, and the sooner I see it through 
 the better." 
 
 " Then you'll come back here when you're 
 through ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, mother, of course I shall." Then Dick 
 laughed a little laugh. " In a place like Santa Clara, 
 mother, it isn't so lively or so comfortable that a man 
 neglects a home like this to go gadding about, dining 
 
 at restaurants and visiting theatres." 
 
 6*
 
 84 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 " Dear boy ! " said Mrs. Vincent, laying her hand 
 affectionately upon his arm. 
 
 " So as soon as I am through I shall come back 
 again. I must stay a day or two in town, just to see 
 after a few things I want to take out with me. I 
 should like to get them ordered in time." 
 
 " And Dick, you'll not be seven years before you 
 come back again ? " 
 
 " Oh, no, mother. I shall come back every year 
 now, unless very unforeseen things should happen. 
 You see, I didn't want to come back a pauper, and the 
 governor had lent me a good bit of money, so I didn't 
 feel justified until we really began to make. But 
 now there is not likely to be any lack of money, 
 although it is quite true I may not make millions. 
 But I shall never stay seven years again, especially," 
 he added, " without poor old Roger." 
 
 " You will take another partner ? " asked his father 
 from the other end of the table. 
 
 " I don't think so. It isn't likely I shall meet 
 another man I feel just the same to as I did to Mere- 
 dith. And a partnership is a very close business ; it 
 is nearly as close as getting married." 
 
 Mrs. Vincent rose in her place at that moment. 
 " Come, girls," she said, " let us go into the drawing- 
 room." 
 
 So Dick and his father were left alone together, but 
 the conversation did not happen to be about Santa 
 Clara. Mrs. Vincent reverted to the subject, however, 
 when Dick joined them later in the drawing-room. 
 
 " I suppose," she said, in an undertone, as Dick 
 settled himself down on the sofa by her side, a very
 
 A RESOLVE. 85 
 
 favourite corner of his, " I suppose you are going to 
 look up Mr. Meredith's wife ? " 
 
 " I am going to try and find her, mother. I am 
 afraid," he added penitently, " that I have neglected 
 It too long." 
 
 " Oh, well, dear, it can make very little difference 
 to her, poor soul, after all these years of v/aiting. 
 And it was really necessary that you should relax 
 yourself a little after your long strain." 
 
 " Well, it's not a pleasant task, anyhow. But still, 
 I must go through with it." 
 
 " You won't be away longer than you can help ? " 
 
 " No, no ; I don't want to go at all." 
 
 " Dear boy ! " said Mrs. Vincent in her most 
 caressing tones. 
 
 So the following day Dick Vincent set off. He did 
 not go straight to Blankhampton, but stayed the rest 
 of the day and night in London ; and the day after 
 that, by a moderately early train, he continued his 
 journey, and in due course of time — other\vise about 
 five hours — he found himself in the well-known 
 cathedral city. 
 
 He turned his back upon the gaudy Station Hotel, 
 and enquired of the cabman which was the most com- 
 fortable hotel in the city itself. The Jehu, who was 
 ancient and well steeped in the traditions of Blank- 
 hampton, told him that at the Golden Swan he would 
 find excellent accommodation for both man and 
 beast. 
 
 " Well, you see, I haven't got a beast," said Dick, 
 " but the Golden Swan will do me very well. Drive 
 me there."
 
 86 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 And to the Golden Swan he was driven. He 
 thought St. Thomas's Street, in which it lay, seemed 
 rather narrow and antiquated ; he did not realise then 
 that in its narrowness lay its chief charm. He found 
 the Golden Swan an old-fashioned hostelry, where he 
 was given a warm welcome and conducted to a large 
 sleeping apartment, the furniture of which was very old 
 and solid. The hangings were very white and spot- 
 less, and the room, like the rest of the hotel, had an 
 indescribable air of long-established solidity. 
 
 " Will you take anything, sir ? " asked the chamber- 
 maid, as she stood watching the porter of the hotel 
 unstrap Dick's portmanteau. 
 
 " Yes, I will have a whiskey and soda when I come 
 downstairs." 
 
 " Will you dine here to-night, sir ? " 
 " Yes. I suppose there's a table d'hote ? " 
 " Yes, sir, there's dinner at seven to half-past." 
 " Very good. Tell them to keep a place for 
 me." 
 
 It was then nearly six o'clock in the evening. He 
 washed his hands and brushed off the dusty effects 
 of the journey. Then he went downstairs and had a 
 whiskey and soda. After that, he lighted a cigarette 
 and stood on the steps of the hotel watching the rank 
 and fashion of Blankhampton go up and down the 
 street. He had heard before that Blankhampton was 
 famous for its pretty girls, but he had not been pre- 
 pared for the panorama of beauty which spread itself 
 out that evening before his astonished eyes. They 
 came past in twos and threes, and each one seemed to 
 be prettier than the last.
 
 A RESOLVE. 87 
 
 " Gad ! this is the place to come to," he said to 
 himself. 
 
 He was a singularly uninflammable man ; had he 
 not been so he would certainly never have stayed 
 seven years at Santa Clara with no more than an 
 occasional jaunt down to the western towns, in which 
 beautiful women did not as a rule flourish. 
 
 " Now I come to think of it," his thoughts ran, " St. 
 Aubyn used to say what a jolly billet Blankhampton 
 was. And I remember he raved about the girls. It 
 seems to me that it has kept up its tradition ; these 
 girls are extraordinarily good-looking." 
 
 Then he looked back into the hotel. " What regi- 
 ment is quartered here now ? " he asked of the 
 barmaid, who was to be found behind a huge glass 
 screen opposite to the door. 
 
 " The Black Horse," the girl replied. 
 
 " The Black Horse ? You don't say so ! By 
 Jove ! " 
 
 " You seem pretty much astonished," said the girl. 
 
 " Well, I am. It was my old regiment." 
 
 "Really?" 
 
 " Yes. I must go and call to-morrow." 
 
 Then he turned back and took up his position on 
 the step once more. He did not, however, stay there 
 very long, for just as he was lighting a fresh cigarette, 
 a girl came along the street whose beauty so far out- 
 shone all others who had gone before her that Dick 
 was, figuratively speaking, knocked all of a heap. 
 She was very plainly and simply dressed, and she was 
 quite alone. For a moment Dick stood glaring 
 blankly after her, the match still in his hand. It was
 
 88 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 not, indeed, until the flame reached his fingers that 
 he reahsed how completely he had been astounded 
 and dumbfounded by this vision of beauty. Then, 
 as quick as thought, he descended the steps and gave 
 chase up the street. The girl herself was so uncon- 
 scious of his presence that Dick instinctively was all 
 carefulness not to attract her attention, but he had a 
 good satisfying stare at her ; noted the simple grey 
 coat and skirt, white sailor hat bound with white 
 ribbon, the neat grey gloves, and firm light footstep. 
 She was evidently out on business of some kind, for 
 she went into several shops and came out of them, 
 and set off down the street carrying some small parcels 
 and a library book under her arm. He followed her 
 no further than the end of the street ; she was not 
 the kind of girl that a man follows for very long. 
 Then he retraced his steps to the hotel, and once more 
 interviewed the pretty barmaid. 
 
 " Is there a street in Blankhampton called 
 Ogledal.?" 
 
 " Oh, yes," she replied. 
 
 " Is it far from here ? " 
 
 " Well, you go right up to the top of the street, 
 and then you come to a street which goes straight 
 down to the cathedral. You turn to the right when 
 you get to the bottom of the street, and go round the 
 cathedral to the right, and it's the third street you 
 come to leading out of the parish precincts." 
 
 " Oh, I see ; thank you very much. What sort of 
 a street is it? " 
 
 " Oh, a queer little old-fashioned street with a 
 double turning in it."
 
 A RESOLVE. 89 
 
 " What sort of people live there ? " 
 
 " Well, like all the old streets in Blankhampton," 
 the girl replied, " there are some big houses and some 
 little pokey houses. Some of the best people live in 
 houses that lead out of Ogledal." 
 
 ■■ Oh, I see ; thank you very much." And Dick 
 turned on his heel and was soon swinging away up 
 the street at a good rapid pace. 
 
 He found the cathedral easily enough, and by 
 following exactly the directions that had been given 
 to him soon saw the curious name of Ogledal put up 
 on a board at the end of a narrow street. So this was 
 where Roger's wife had found a shelter. 
 
 It was a queer street. At the end at which he 
 entered it there was to the right a low, old-fashioned 
 house such as you never find except in the neigh- 
 bourhood of a cathedral ; on the other was a long 
 garden wall. Then another wall on either side, 
 evidently the boundary of private gardens ; then a 
 wide old entrance into a great square, with a splendid 
 house, almost like the houses you see in the 
 older parts of French towns, and half-a-dozen small 
 houses on either side. Then a curious house with 
 " St. Giles's Rectory " written on the door-plate ; 
 then another v.-retched entrance into a court. Then 
 half-a-dozen commonplace houses, and opposite some 
 kind of manufactory — or rather some kind of works ; 
 then a brewer's yard and several tall chimneys ; then 
 some cottages. This Vv^as on the right side of the 
 street. As he walked on the left, with its common- 
 place modern houses, he came to two semi-mansions. 
 They were respectively numbers twenty-three and
 
 90 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 twenty-one. So he was close upon number nine- 
 teen. 
 
 Number nineteen was a small, old-fashioned house, 
 with a window full of plants, a framed plate of 
 fashions, and a sheet of blue glass in a gilt frame, on 
 which was written in letters of gold — " Miss Beazley, 
 Dress and Mantle Maker." Dick stood still for a 
 moment looking at the fuchsias and geraniums, at 
 the simpering fashion plate, and the blue glass with 
 its gilt letters. 
 
 " Miss Beazley," he muttered. " Well, she might 
 know something. I may as well ask." 
 
 Then he stepped to the door and rapped half-a- 
 dozen times with the little tin-pot knocker. At first 
 there was no response. He waited a few minutes, 
 and then knocked again. Then tliere was a scuffling 
 and a scurrying of feet within, and the door was 
 opened by a snub-nosed girl of about fourteen or 
 fifteen years old. 
 
 " Does Mrs. Meredith live here ? " inquired Dick. 
 
 The girl looked up in a scared kind of way at the 
 tall soldierly young man. " Mrs. Meredith? No, I don't 
 know that name," she said. " Miss Beazley lives here." 
 
 " Yes, I see she does by the plate in the window. 
 Has she lived here long? " 
 
 " I don't know, I'm sure. I have not been with 
 her very long." 
 
 " Is Miss Beazley at home ? " 
 
 " No, sir, she isn't at home. She's out." 
 
 " Oh ! When will she be at home ? " 
 
 " Well, she might be home about nine to-night. 
 She's gone up to Water Muggleston to fit on a lady."
 
 A RESOLVE. 91 
 
 "To fit on a lady? Oh! You think she'll be at 
 home about nine ? " 
 
 " Yes, I'm sure she'll be at home about nine, be- 
 cause the train gets in at twenty-five minutes before 
 nine." 
 
 " I see. If I came back at nine you think she would 
 see me ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, she'd see you." 
 
 " Or could I see her in the morning ? Nine o'clock 
 is rather late to answer enquiries." 
 
 " Yes, I daresay you could see her in the morning." 
 
 " Will she be at home at ten o'clock, do you think ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, I should think she'd be at home at ten 
 o'clock." 
 
 At this juncture another voice, proceeding from the 
 dim recesses of the little house, spoke to the girl. 
 " What does the gentleman want, Mary Ann ? " 
 
 " He wants ]\Iiss Beazley." 
 
 " Well, Miss Beazley is out. Is there anything I 
 can do ? " 
 
 The voice came nearer and nearer, and then a 
 stout elderly person, wiping a pair of wet hands upon 
 a not too clean apron, came round the corner and into 
 view. " I am Miss Beazley's mother," she said to 
 Dick Vincent. " May I ask what you want of her ? " 
 
 " Well, to tell you the truth," answered Dick, " I 
 don't know anything of Miss Beazley at all. I want 
 a Mrs. Meredith who lived here in this house about 
 fifteen years ago. I suppose you haven't been here 
 as long as that ? " 
 
 " Mrs. Meredith ? Would you please to walk in, 
 sir? Come into the parlour."
 
 92 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 So Dick strolled in and stood, looking very tall 
 indeed, in the little parlour with its wax flowers and 
 its crochet antimacassars. 
 
 " Thank you very much. I'm afraid I'm troubling 
 you, but the fact is I want to see Mrs. Meredith on 
 most important business, and with as little delay as 
 possible. If you can give me any information about 
 her I should be most grateful to you." 
 
 " No, I can't," said Mrs. Beazley, still wiping her 
 hands and gazing reflectively through the screen of 
 plants out into the street. " I can't. We've been 
 here three years come Michaelmas ; and before us 
 there was a Mr. Johnson used to live here. He was 
 a naturalist ; he used to — ^you know, sir, a naturalist 
 — stuff birds, and blow eggs, and mount butterflies 
 and things of that kind. He was here for a many 
 years." 
 
 "Oh! And where is he?" 
 
 " Well, Mr. Johnson, he's dead," said the old lady. 
 " Mrs. Johnson, his wife, likewise she's dead." 
 
 " Can't get any information out of them," said Dick. 
 
 " No, that you can't — not in this world, at least. 
 But they had a married daughter, and she used to 
 live in Briergate. She was married to a very clever 
 young fellow that sang in the parish choir. He sang 
 alto ; and then his voice cracked and he got a place 
 as organist out in the country somewhere, and took 
 pupils. Now she would know, if Mrs. Meredith 
 lodged with her father and mother, she would know 
 all about her." 
 
 " But where does she live ? " asked Dick. 
 
 " Ah, now, that's slipped my memory. But when
 
 A RESOLVE. 93 
 
 my daughter comes home — she's got a better memory 
 than I have, and she keeps going with people more ; 
 I think young people do. So if you could make it 
 convenient to call round to-morrow, sometime when 
 my daughter would be likely to be in — and that will 
 be all the morning — I daresay she could give you the 
 information you want." 
 
 " I am sure," said Dick, " I am much obliged to 
 you. If I were to come in between ten and eleven, 
 would that suit Miss Beazley, should you think ? " 
 
 " Well, sir, I should think it would. I've not heard 
 of anything particular that she's got to do at that 
 time. I know she's a lady coming to be fitted at 
 twelve." 
 
 "Well, I'll come before eleven," said Dick, "and 
 I'm extremely obliged to you." 
 
 " I haven't done nothing for you yet, sir," said Mrs. 
 Beazley, following him to the door. 
 
 " Well, you have shown willing," said Dick, taking 
 off his hat with a flourish.
 
 94 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE FIRST LINK IN THE CHAIN. 
 
 Between a very excellent dinner and the feeling 
 that he was on the high road to the discovery of Mrs. 
 Meredith, and the fact that he had seen the most 
 beautiful girl that day that he had ever seen in his 
 life, Dick Vincent passed the evening in a very much 
 happier frame of mind than he had imagined he could 
 possibly be in when he left London that morning. 
 
 He was up betimes — for life in California does not 
 tend to the formation of habits of laziness. He had 
 a regular Blankhampton breakfast too — and let me 
 tell you that Blankhampton hotels are famous for 
 their good cheer, especially in the earliest meal of the 
 day — and then about half-past ten, feeling very well 
 fortified for carrying on his quest, he sauntered up 
 the street, and once more knocked at the door of 
 number nineteen, Ogledal. 
 
 The little maid was ready, and answered his knock 
 promptly. " Yes, sir. Miss Beazley is in. Step this 
 way, please, sir." 
 
 Once more Dick found himself in the little parlour, 
 and almost immediately the old lady whom he had 
 seen the previous evening came beaming in. 
 
 " Good morning ! I knew my daughter would 
 know," she remarked. " She has such a much better 
 memory than I have. I can remember anything as
 
 THE FIRST LINK IN THE CHAIN. 95 
 
 happened when I was a httle girl, but when you ask 
 me about last week I'm done. Here she is. Now, 
 honey, this is the gentleman." 
 
 " My name is Vincent," said Dick, with a very polite 
 bow to the young dressmaker. 
 
 She was a pale, slim girl some three or four-and- 
 twenty, and she addressed herself directly to the 
 visitor. " You wanted to know about Mr. Johnson's 
 daughter — married daughter ? " 
 
 " Well, I did and I didn't. Your mother was kind 
 enough to tell me last night that she thought the lady 
 v/ould be able to give me the information I require. 
 I am really looking for a Mrs. Meredith — who lived 
 in this house fifteen years ago. Whether she rented 
 the house, or whether she lodged in it I have not the 
 least idea." 
 
 " Oh, she must have lodged in it," said Miss Beazley. 
 " because the Johnsons lived here for about five-and- 
 twenty years, and we took it of them — at least, we 
 took it after they left." 
 
 " Oh, I see. Then you think she must have lodged 
 with the Johnsons ? " 
 
 " I think she must have done. I don't know any- 
 thing about it myself, but I'm sure Mrs. Johnson's 
 daughter would know. She married a gentleman 
 called Pilkington. He was in the choir at the parish ; 
 in fact, he lodged with the Johnsons." 
 
 " Oh, I see. And do you happen to know where 
 they live now ? " 
 
 " Yes. His voice broke, and he got a place as or- 
 ganist at Bensehill, and he teaches music and so on. 
 I think they do very well."
 
 g6 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 " And where is Bensehill ? " 
 
 " Well, Bensehill is about three miles from Blank- 
 hampton." 
 
 " How does one get there ? You see, I am quite a 
 stranger to this neighourhood." 
 
 " Oh, it's easy enough to get there. You can take 
 a cab, or you can walk," smiling at him, " or you can 
 go by train." 
 
 " Oh, I see. I can go by train. That would be 
 the quickest, wouldn't it? " 
 
 " Yes. It's on the Rockferry line, and trains are 
 pretty frequent. Anybody in Bensehill will, of course, 
 tell you where the Pilkingtons live." 
 
 " Oh, yes. Well, Miss Eeazley, I must thank you, 
 and your mother too, very much indeed for your kind- 
 ness to a perfect stranger. You perhaps would hke 
 to know why I am so anxious to find Mrs. Meredith. 
 The truth is I have just come from California, and 
 some relatives of hers there — at least, a relative of 
 hers there — asked me to find her out if I could. So 
 you see, I am anxious to find her as quickly as pos- 
 sible." 
 
 " Well, I'm sure," said Miss Beazley, " if anybody can 
 tell you anything about her it will be Mrs. Pilkington." 
 
 " And to Mrs. Pilkington I will go by the first train 
 that will convey me. So good morning, and thank 
 you both a thousand times." 
 
 The old lady stood on the doorstep and watched 
 him go swinging away up the street. " That's a hand- 
 some young feller, Jenny," she said. " He's got the 
 same look as the officers have — so clean and so smart. 
 Well. I'm sure I hope he'll find his Mrs. Meredith."
 
 THE FIRST LINK IN THE CHAIN. 97 
 
 " So do I," said her daughter. " And I hope he's 
 brought good news to her, whoever she is." 
 
 " Hey dear," with a sigh, " it's a hard and weary- 
 world." 
 
 " Lor', mother, I wish we had a smart young man 
 coming and inquiring for us." 
 
 " Well, my dear," said Mrs. Beazley, " there's no 
 knowing what fate won't do for you ; but I'm afraid, 
 though you're so genteel, Jenny, with yer nice pale 
 face and yer slim figure, that if any smart young men 
 came after you, and they saw your poor old mother, 
 it would sort of give 'em the cold shivers." 
 
 " Go along with you, mother," said Miss Beazley. 
 
 Meantime Dick had gone briskly up the street, 
 across the cathedral precincts, and down St. Thomas's 
 Street to the Golden Swan. A fresh enquiry of the 
 buxom barmaid elicited the fact that there was a train 
 to Eenschill at five minutes to twelve. He deter- 
 mined to go by that. He filled in the time until the 
 train was due by taking a brisk walk round the city 
 walls, and walked into the station with just time to 
 buy a nev.'spaper and take his ticket. 
 
 He found Bensehill the usual little roadside station, 
 with a pompous little station master and one anti- 
 quated porter. 
 
 " How far is the village from here } " he inquired of 
 the latter as he took his ticket. 
 
 " The village .? Three-quarters of a mile," was the 
 reply. 
 
 " Can you tell me whether a Mr. Pilkington lives 
 in the village ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes. ]\Ir. Pilkington, he lives in the village, to 
 
 7
 
 98 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 be sure. Plays the music on Sunday, and teaches in 
 the week-day." 
 
 " Yes, that's the man," said Dick, cheerfully. 
 
 " Yes, he lives — well, I doubt if I could make 
 you understand, sir. You'd better ask at the Post 
 Office. You'll find that right in the centre of the 
 village." 
 
 " All right ; thank you very mucli. Good morning." 
 
 So Dick left the station with its oyster shells and 
 its glowing red geraniums behind him, and swung 
 steadily away in the direction of the village. The 
 Post Office was easy enough to find. The postmis- 
 tress was a garrulous old lady, who at once proceeded 
 to give him the proper directions for reaching the 
 Pilkingtons' house, and also as much of the Pilkington 
 history as she could cram into the two or three 
 minutes that Dick remained in the little shop. 
 
 " Ah, yes, sir, a clever man — what I may say a 
 genius ; thrown away on this little village, I must 
 confess, although I have lived in Bensehill all my 
 life — a clever man and a genius. We've brilliant ser- 
 vices on Sundays ; we never had before Mr. Pilking- 
 ton came. The rector, he said to me time and again, 
 ' Miss Jenkins,' said he, ' you can play the piano, why 
 can't you play the organ ? ' Which, as I told the 
 rector more than once, it isn't an organ but a har- 
 monium. ' Then,' said he, ' the easier for you to 
 play ; because it's the nearest approach to a piano.' 
 But it's one thing playing the piano for your own 
 pleasure and your friends' amusement, and it's quite 
 another thing playing in public and for the service 
 of the Almighty."
 
 THE FIRST LINK IN THE CHAIN. 99 
 
 " That's perfectly true ! " said Dick. " But still, if 
 one does one's best, you know." 
 
 " Ah, yes, yes ; that was the argument the others 
 used — particularly the rector. And then by some mer- 
 ciful chance, as far as I was concerned, Mr. Pilkington 
 came along. A first-class musician! Been years in 
 the parish choir — the parish, that is the cathedral, you 
 know, sir, at Blankhampton. Something had hap- 
 pened to his voice ; I don't know what, but he and 
 his wife wanted a country place where the air would 
 be pure, and where he could play the organ and pick 
 up a living in the neighbourhood. Oh, they had a 
 trifle. Mrs. Pilkington was a Miss Johnson. Her 
 father was a very clever man — not to say a learned 
 man — and she was an only child. Oh, she has a nice 
 little tidy income of her own, and you know a tidy 
 little income makes people independent." 
 
 " I'm sure it does. They showed their good sense 
 in coming here," said Dick. " And which is the way 
 to their house .' " 
 
 " Well, you go down this lane here, and you take 
 the second turning to the right, and you'll find the 
 house — like a little bower it is now, all smothered in 
 roses. Mrs. Pilkington is a very ladylike little person, 
 quite genteel." 
 
 " I see," said Dick, " down the lane, and second 
 turning to the right ? " 
 
 " Yes, that's it." 
 
 " Is there a name on the house ? " 
 
 " Well, there isn't a name on the house that I ever 
 saw myself, and their letters are simply addressed 
 ' Dead Man's Lane ' or just Bensehill ; but there are
 
 100 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 only three houses in that part of the lane, and the 
 Pilkingtons' house has a mulberry tree right in the 
 middle of the lawn." 
 
 " I shall find it," said Dick. " Thank you a thou- 
 sand times." 
 
 " Nice pleasant-spoken gentleman. I wonder if he's 
 an old lover of Mrs. Pilkington's come back again ? " 
 said the romantic old postmistress. 
 
 So Dick went down the lane and took the second 
 turning to the right, speedily coming into sight of a 
 small rose-wreathed house which boasted of a mul- 
 berry tree in the middle of the. little lawn which skirted 
 the road. Here he stopped, satisfied himself that it 
 was the house, thrust open the little gate, and strolled 
 up the gravelled pathway to the rose-covered porch. 
 
 A little maidservant came to the door in answer to 
 his summons. 
 
 " Does Mrs. Pilkington live here ? " asked Dick. 
 
 " Mrs. Pilkington she do live here," was the reply. 
 
 " Would you give her this card and ask her if she 
 would see me for a few minutes on business } " said 
 Dick. 
 
 He had been so long in California, and before that 
 his life had run in channels well away from suburban 
 London, that it never occurred to him that had he 
 been living in Clapton or East Croydon, it was the 
 last message he would have sent in to the unknown 
 mistress of a house. Bensehill was also, presumably, 
 too far removed from the beaten track of ladies and 
 gentlemen who pay visits of a business kind to take 
 fright at his message. The little maid left him stand- 
 ing at the door, and then came running back saying
 
 THE FIRST LINK IN THE CHAIN. lOI 
 
 with an eager gasp that " Mistress would be pleased 
 if you would walk into the parlour." 
 
 So into the parlour Dick walked. It was a neat 
 little room, a shade more rehned than the similar 
 apartment in the house of Mrs. Beazley. In one 
 corner there stood a piano ; some blooming plants 
 and some nice green ones stood in the window. There 
 was a broad couch covered with immaculately clean 
 chintz, and one or two illustrated papers on the table. 
 Dick decided in his own mind that Mr. or Mrs. Pil- 
 kington, or both of them, must be distinctly superior 
 in class to IMrs. Pilkington's original status. He had 
 just arrived at this conclusion when the door opened 
 and Mrs. Pilkington came into the room. In her 
 hand she held his card. 
 
 " You wanted to see me ? " she said. 
 
 " I wanted to ask you a question," he replied. " Did 
 you ever know a Mrs. Meredith ? " 
 
 She looked at him with an air of surprise. " Yes, 
 I did." 
 
 " Is she living .? " 
 
 " I believe she is." 
 
 " Is she married again ^ " 
 
 " Oh, no, certainly not. She never had any proof 
 of her husband's death." 
 
 " Can you give me her address ? " 
 
 " I think I can." 
 
 " I don't want it for any unpleasant purpose — in- 
 deed, rather the contrary," said Dick. " I shall at 
 least have the pleasure of bringing the mystery of 
 her husband's long silence to an end." 
 
 " You knew him } "
 
 102 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 " I knew him very well. We lived together for 
 seven years." 
 
 " In America ? " 
 
 " In California. We were partners. I never knew 
 until quite recently that Mr. Meredith was married. 
 I am looking for his wife on his behalf." 
 
 " Then," said Mrs. Pilkington, " I will give you her 
 address. You will find her at Gatehouses." 
 
 " Gatehouses ? Where is that ? " 
 
 " It is a village about a mile and a half from Blank- 
 hampton. Anybody in the town will tell you in 
 which direction." 
 
 " I thank you very much," said Dick. She lives 
 there ? " 
 
 " Yes, she has lived there for some years. Her 
 daughter is the mistress of the infant school." 
 
 " Oh, I see. Her daughter is not married then ? " 
 
 " No, she is not married. She is young." 
 
 " Yes, she must be young from what Meredith told 
 me," said Dick. " Well, Mrs. Pilkington," holding out 
 his hand, " I am extremely obliged to you — more than 
 I can say. I expected to have much more trouble in 
 finding my old friend's wife, and you have made the 
 way very easy for me. Good-bye. Thank you again." 
 
 So he was soon striding away down the lane again. 
 
 He found when he got to the Post Office that he 
 would have to wait an hour and a half for the next 
 train back to Blankhampton, so instead of going 
 straight back to the station, there to cool his heels 
 until the train should arrive, he went across the street 
 to the village inn and asked the apple-cheeked land- 
 lady what she could do for him in the way of lunch.
 
 103 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 GATEHOUSES. 
 
 When Dick Vincent found himself once more at 
 Blankhampton, he lost no time enquiring the road 
 to Gatehouses ; in fact, he got into a cab at the 
 station and told the man to drive him to Gatehouses. 
 It was then nearly three o'clock. 
 
 " How far is it? A mile and a half? " 
 
 " Thereabouts, sir." 
 
 To Dick it seemed a very short mile and a half ; 
 but then, although he was determined to find Mrs. 
 Meredith, he was not at all anxious for the interview 
 to begin. " Find out," said he to the cabman, when 
 they approached the village, " where Mrs. Meredith 
 lives." 
 
 " All right, sir." 
 
 The house of Mrs. Meredith was not difficult to 
 find, and before Dick knew where he was the cab- 
 man had drawn up at its door. 
 
 " You had better wait for me," he said. He felt 
 somehow as if he would not want to walk back into 
 the city again. 
 
 He knocked at the door. It was opened by a lady 
 whom he at once recognised as the original of the 
 portrait which Meredith had shown him. 
 
 " Are you Mrs. Meredith ? " said Dick, taking off 
 his hat. 
 
 " Yes, I am." Her tone was one of slight surprise.
 
 I04 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 " May I come in ? " 
 
 "Oh, certainly." 
 
 " My name is Vincent — Richard Vincent. I have 
 just come from Cahfornia." 
 
 Mrs. Meredith, who had preceded him into the 
 dainty httle sitting-room, turned with a start and a 
 gasp. " You have come from — him ? " she said, sharply. 
 
 " Yes," said Dick, simply, " I have." 
 
 " After all these years — after all these years ! " said 
 the little woman with a sob in her breath. " And he 
 hasn't forgotten me ! " 
 
 " He had never forgotten you," said Dick, 
 " although he had not spoken of you until the other 
 day to his best friend." 
 
 " That was you ? " she said. 
 
 Dick's nervous face relaxed into a half smile. 
 " Yes," he said. " For seven years Meredith and I 
 were partners. We lived together ; we were every- 
 thing to each other." 
 
 " And he spoke of me at last. Sit down, Mr. 
 Vincent. Tell me everything," she entreated in a 
 shaking voice. " This has come upon me very sud- 
 denly. I had begun to think that he had forgotten 
 me perhaps, and that he had formed new ties." 
 
 " Never ! " said Dick, " never ! I never knew him 
 look at a woman. It was a revelation to me when 
 he told me of your existence, when he showed me 
 your picture." 
 
 " My picture ? " 
 
 " Which he had carried about with him all these 
 years, and of which I never suspected the existence. 
 I'd better begin at the beginning, Mrs. Meredith ; it
 
 GATEHOUSES. 105 
 
 will make it easier. Meredith went out there to seek 
 his fortune." 
 
 "Yes, yes." 
 
 " He sought, God knows, poor chap, he sought it 
 earnestly enough, but he didn't find it. He had left 
 you in a cock-a-hoop sort of way, prophesying that 
 in a few months there would be a palace ready to 
 receive you. There has never been a palace, Mrs. 
 Meredith. There is a corrugated iron hut on the 
 ranche — which is called Santa Clara — but it is no 
 palace." 
 
 " It would have been a palace to me," said Mrs. 
 Meredith, in a broken voice. 
 
 " Well," Dick went on, " he took it to heart. He 
 was ashamed to write and own up that he had been 
 a failure out there as he had been a failure over here. 
 And he drank more than was good for him." 
 
 " My poor Roger! It was his one failing." 
 
 " Yes, he was his ovv^n enemy," said Dick. " So 
 he went on, year after year, and at the end of eight 
 years he had only managed to scrape together, just 
 at the end of that time, a poor little capital, that 
 wouldn't have been of much good to anyone unless 
 pure chance had come in and turned it into luck. 
 Then we met. I had been in a cavalry regiment— 
 my father is a squire down in Kent — my lungs were 
 dickey, the doctors told me if I didn't get into a 
 certain kind of climate I shouldn't live through a 
 second winter. They recommended California, and 
 I was never an idle beggar, and so I left home and 
 went to try a ranche. I was young, I was green. I 
 met your husband. He took a fancy to me, and I
 
 Io6 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 took a fancy to him. I put my bit of capital together 
 with his less bit of capital and his experience, and we 
 threw in our lot together. It's very hard work is 
 ranching-, Mrs. Meredith, it's a process of disillusion- 
 ment ; and we only kept body and soul together. I 
 had help once or twice from home, and at last we 
 turned the corner, and we began to think that one 
 day our ranche might be worth having — as a ranche, 
 you understand." 
 
 " Yes, yes," eagerly. " Go on." 
 
 " Well, that year we made a profit. It wasn't much 
 — any farmer at home would have turned up his nose 
 at it. We didn't ; and next year we made a better 
 profit ; and at the end of last year, when we had put 
 six years of hard work into our ranche all the year 
 round — work, mind you, not just riding about neatly 
 togged up and giving an order here and an eye there, 
 but hard, laborious, manual, back-breaking labour — 
 then Fortune smiled upon us. We discovered oil on 
 our ranche — or the oil discovered the ranche, I should 
 say, for it bubbled up one morning, a stink of paraffin, 
 and Meredith knew that our fortunes were made. I 
 don't say that the ranche is worth millions, but at the 
 end of that year we had ten thousand pounds to divide 
 between us." 
 
 " And then he thought of me ? " 
 
 " Then, Mrs. Meredith, I determined to come home. 
 I had been out seven years, I hadn't seen any of my 
 own people, and the way was perfectly clear for one 
 or both of us to come home for a spell. I begged 
 Meredith to come back and stay with my people, and 
 then he told me about you."
 
 GATEHOUSES. 10/ 
 
 The little woman shut her eyes and leaned her 
 head back against the chair in which she was sitting. 
 " He hadn't forgotten me," she said. 
 
 " No, he hadn't forgotten you. But I couldn't get 
 him to come back." 
 
 " But why not ? " 
 
 "I think," said Dick, hesitatingly, "that he felt a 
 certain amount of reluctance — or at least, not exactly 
 reluctance, Mrs. Meredith, but a sense that he had no 
 right to come home to claim you. You see, he had 
 been away fifteen years ; he hadn't written to you for 
 the greater part of that time, and it was more than 
 possible that you might have married again." 
 
 " I ? " she cried. " Oh, surely Roger knew mc 
 better than that." 
 
 " Well, he alternated between hopes and fears. He 
 felt somehow that you would be as he left you, and 
 yet again that you might have been tempted into 
 marrying once more." 
 
 •' And if I had ? " 
 
 " If you had, I was to hnd out if you were happy. 
 He had no wish to be a second Enoch Arden, making 
 things unpleasant after so long a silence. If you had 
 married again — and you were quite young enough to 
 have married many times over — he would have stayed 
 on the other side of the Atlantic for ever." 
 
 " But you see I am not married again," said Mrs. 
 Meredith, looking at him with a triumphant smile. 
 " I am a little older, but then so is he. I have not 
 altered towards him in the very least, and evidently 
 by what you tell me neither has he." 
 
 " He is older," said Dick. He felt that he was
 
 I08 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 getting very near to a disclosure. His heart beat to 
 suffocation. He did not like to look at her. " He 
 is older, Mrs. Meredith. You see, he has lived a hard 
 wild life out there ; not wild in the way of women, 
 but wild in the way of having no refinements, no com- 
 forts. From time to time he drank pretty hard." 
 
 " But the life hasn't told upon you, Mr. Vincent," 
 she said, deliberately. 
 
 " No, not much. But then I was only three-and- 
 twenty when I was out there ; Roger was over forty." 
 
 He thought that she would notice he spoke in the 
 past tense, but she did not do so. 
 
 " Then again," he went on, finding that she did not 
 take the cue from him as he had intended, " I have 
 always been a very temperate man ; drink was never 
 a temptation to me. Drink leaves its mark on a man ; 
 it left its mark upon him. Not as it would have done 
 if he had been a steady sort, and it was not as 
 apparent to others as it seemed to me. When he 
 began to think of the possibility of your seeing him 
 
 agam- 
 
 " Then he did think of the possibility ? " 
 " He did. He talked it over with me severaj times." 
 " He wanted me ? " said the little woman, eagerly. 
 " He always wanted you," said Dick. 
 " Then, Mr. Vincent, since my husband is now on 
 the high road to wealth, there is no reason why I 
 shouldn't sell up my things here and go out to Cali- 
 fornia to join him. I can easily raise the money for 
 the cost of our journey." 
 
 " So far as that goes, Mrs. Meredith," said Dick, 
 " there's no need for you to think twice about the
 
 GATEHOUSES. IO9 
 
 money. I told you that Roger and I had a sum of 
 ten thousand pounds to divide between us. His half 
 he paid over into a bank for transmission to England 
 in my name ; I have come over here empowered to 
 hand it to you — that is to say if I found you under 
 circumstances in which I could; if you were not 
 married again." 
 
 " Roger — my husband sent me five thousand 
 pounds ? " 
 
 " He sent you five thousand pounds. I've not got 
 the papers on me, because I don't think it quite safe 
 to carry them about with me ; but I can pay it over 
 into your — into any bank you like, in a few hours." 
 
 " I shall certainly go out to — what is the place 
 called?" 
 
 '■ It is called Santa Clara." 
 
 " Santa Clara ? My name is Clara," she said. 
 
 " Yes, it was called so after you." 
 
 " I shall certainly go out," said Mrs. Meredith. 
 " Oh, my dear sir," she burst out, " how am I ever to 
 thank you for the trouble you have taken in finding 
 me out, in coming so delicately to break the news of 
 my great joy? Do you think — ^you have been so 
 good, I can safely ask you a question I wouldn't put 
 to many others — do you think I shall find myself 
 welcome at Santa Clara ? " 
 
 " Meredith lived on the hope of your coming out 
 to him," said Dick. 
 
 Again he spoke in the past tense ; again Mrs. 
 Meredith failed to note the fact. By this time Dick 
 began to feel himself in desperate straits. Here was 
 this little woman, and a right pretty little woman she
 
 no A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 was, too, ready for any scheme which would result in 
 taking her back to the man who had basely — no, not 
 basely, but deliberately deserted her. 
 
 Dick Vincent had not had a very wide experience 
 of women, but he was quite certain that if his own 
 father had abandoned his mother to fifteen years of 
 absolute silence, and had shown himself at the end 
 of that time, his mother would have had none of him. 
 He felt that he might say the same of either of his 
 sisters. This little woman seemed to feel nothing 
 except that she was at one end of a journey and 
 Roger was at the other; that the sooner she could 
 make the two ends meet the better. He had to break 
 it to her somehow or other ; that it was no use her 
 going out to Santa Clara, that the money had come 
 too late, that there was no Meredith at the other end 
 of the journey. 
 
 " My daughter," Mrs. Meredith said, breaking in 
 upon his thoughts — " I have a daughter, you know ; 
 she is eighteen — nearly nineteen, in fact ; she will be 
 in presently. I am perfectly certain that she will be 
 as eager as I am to go out and begin an entirely new 
 life in a new country. We have been very happy 
 here ; I think we have the respect of everybody in 
 Gatehouses. We visit at the vicarage ; we are quite, 
 in a modest way, in society ; but when you have only 
 about three pounds a week, and you have to keep up 
 a decent appearance on that, it is very poor fun being 
 in a kind of society. It's a narrow life — a pinching 
 life. I don't say that we haven't been happy together, 
 because my girl is everything that the most exacting 
 mother could desire ; good as gold, and unselfish to a
 
 GATEHOUSES. 1 1 1 
 
 degree. She doesn't remember her father ; she will be 
 so glad to find him — almost, I think, as glad as I am." 
 
 " Mrs. Meredith," said Dick, " I haven't quite told 
 you everything." 
 
 " But you have told me enough," she rejoined, 
 " more than enough to make me eager and anxious 
 to go out and see my husband in his own home, in 
 the home that he has put together, he and you, with 
 years of hard, almost unrewarded toil." 
 
 " You wouldn't like it," said Dick. " Santa Clara 
 is no place for a lady." 
 
 His conscience smote him as the words passed his 
 lips, for he remembered how persistently he had 
 buoyed up Roger Meredith with his pictures of the 
 difference that a lady would make to Santa Clara. 
 
 " Oh, I should like it," she exclaimed. " So would 
 my girl. You mustn't misunderstand my life 
 here, we are not like two women who have lived in 
 the lap of luxury. And by all accounts Roger will 
 have plenty of money now from this oil well of yours, 
 so that the place, even if it is rather rough, can be 
 improved and made more like a home. I am not a 
 useless fine lady, Mr. Vincent. I can do anything. 
 I can cook, I can carpenter, I can house-paint, I can 
 do anything." 
 
 " I didn't quite mean that," said Dick. " There's 
 money enough and to spare now, but you think it's 
 a wild, free, happy, joyous, devil-may-care sort of life 
 out there. It isn't. It's very sordid ; it's hard work 
 all the time ; even at the best — even with an oil well. 
 There's nothing romantic about California; it's the 
 grave of all hopes ! "
 
 112 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 TOLD AT LAST. 
 
 As Dick uttered the words, " It's the grave of all 
 hopes," Mrs. Meredith looked at him fixedly. 
 
 " The grave of all hopes ! " she repeated. " Why, 
 wliat do you mean .' I don't say that some of my 
 hopes have not been buried there these fifteen years, 
 it wouldn't be true if I did ; but they are not all 
 buried, Mr. Vincent. Roger is there ; Roger has 
 ' struck ile ' ; Roger has sent home a fortune. Don't 
 say that it's the grave of all hopes." 
 
 " I do say it," said Dick. " I know that we shan't 
 want money in the future, whatever else we may 
 want." 
 
 " You are keeping something back from me. Is 
 — you don't want me to take this journey .-• " 
 
 " I don't ! " he said candidly. 
 
 " Why not ? Didn't you tell me Roger v/anted me .'' " 
 
 " I did." 
 
 " Mr. Vincent, did he come with you after all ? Is 
 he in England ? Is he in — Blankhampton .' Is he 
 in that cab that is waiting at the door .' " 
 
 " No, Mrs. Meredith, Roger is not in England. 
 Roger is not in California." 
 
 " What do you mean ? " 
 
 " I don't quite know how to tell you," he said, very 
 gravely.
 
 TOLD AT LAST. II3 
 
 " To tell me ? What ? Not that Roger is dead ? " 
 " I am afraid I can't tell you anything else." 
 " Dead ! " She repeated the word like one stunned. 
 " After all these years to find him only to lose him 
 again in the same moment. Oh, oh, how hard life 
 is ! When did he die ^ Tell me about it. Don't 
 leave out a single detail ; tell me everything." 
 
 " Well, I'll begin at the beginning. As I told you, 
 Roger was most anxious that I should trace you out ; 
 that I should find you, alive or dead. If alive, that 
 I should pay over the five thousand pounds of v/hich 
 I told you. I have told you that on his part he cared 
 as much as he had ever done, but that a sense of 
 shame held him back from coming to seek you out 
 himself. He loved you all these years, but was not 
 sure that he would find a welcome now. I assured 
 
 him to the contrary " 
 
 " Oh, you good fellow ! " she cried, stretching out 
 her hand. 
 
 Dick took the hand and held it within his own. 
 " I assured him. One look at your face was enough 
 when he showed me that portrait of you. I knew 
 that you wouldn't have changed ; you are not the 
 kind of woman that ever changes. I couldn't con- 
 vince him ; I couldn't persuade him to come home 
 and stay with my people while I made enquiries. 
 And at last I came without him. He saw me part 
 of the way down ; he was very moody, very unlike 
 himself from the time that we left Santa Clara. I 
 thought that he was upset with the anxiety of not 
 knowing whether you would be the same or not — 
 and I believe that I was right. 
 
 8
 
 114 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 " But when we got down to Freeman's Rock he 
 began drinking. I did everything I could to stop it ; 
 I offered to go back, but no, he came on with me to 
 Midas Creek. He— Oh, Mrs. Meredith, I did every- 
 thing I could. I took the landlord into my confi- 
 dence ; I coaxed and threatened and persuaded ; I 
 did everything possible. It was useless. For two 
 years he hadn't touched anything ; he had been living 
 entirely on the square. It might have been the ex- 
 citement, it might have been the temptation ; anyway, 
 one evening when I was down at the store getting 
 something, he went off his head. He drew his re- 
 volver on — those that tried to restrain him, and in the 
 scrimmage that followed he was shot dead." 
 
 " And he is dead .? " 
 
 " Mrs. Meredith, he is dead. You — ^you — I — words 
 cannot express what I feel in having to come and 
 tell you this. I don't know how to break it to you ; 
 I daresay I have bungled it ; we men are such fools." 
 
 " No, you have been everything that is good and 
 kind." 
 
 " I have tried to be," said Dick, " and I have suc- 
 ceeded none too well. It's true that I told Roger 
 himself that if you'd only come out to Santa Clara 
 — and I felt that I should find you just the same and 
 that I could easily persuade you to come back with 
 me — that you would be the making of the place, that 
 you would be the making of him and me, that it 
 would be a home, that it would be a totally different 
 place. But now — don't you understand ? Santa Clara 
 is no place for you. It would be like going to find 
 the husk when the kernel had been taken out of it."
 
 TOLD AT LAST. II5 
 
 He spoke excitedly. The little woman, whose 
 hand he still held, sat like a creature turned to stone. 
 
 " Dead ! " she murmured, " my Roger dead ! And 
 after all these wasted years, when we might have 
 begun life over again — been everything to each other ; 
 when the way had been made clear and easy. Oh, 
 it is hard! Oh, how hard! Oh, Mr. Vincent, Mr. 
 Vincent, when a woman loves you, have faith in her ; 
 that's the great thing. He hadn't faith enough in 
 me. He thought that I was like the woman of tradi- 
 tion — a creature who cared only for the loaves and 
 fishes, for the downy cushion, for the way made 
 smooth and clear. Oh, how mistaken! Didn't he 
 understand — had he lived with me for years not to 
 know how cheerfully I would have baked his bread 
 and cooked his meat, how I would have toiled to make 
 the bare iron hut pretty, how I would have coaxed 
 the flowers to grow, and kept birds, and loved the 
 dogs and the horses and everything that had life in 
 it .'' No, he never knew me. You knew me better 
 than he did. And yet — he cared." 
 
 " Oh, he cared," said Dick, " there's no doubt about 
 that ; from first to last you need never doubt that he 
 cared. I think that he cared so much that he was 
 afraid — his very love made him afraid ; it seemed too 
 great a thing to him that you should ever consent 
 to go half-across the world to find him." 
 
 The widow looked at him with tearless eyes, staring 
 out of her white face. " I would have gone ten times 
 round the world. I would have gone through fire 
 and water, to find my husband at the end of the 
 journey." 
 
 8*
 
 Il6 A MATTER OF SENTIx\IENT 
 
 For a moment Dick could not speak. He pressed 
 the hand that he still held within his own, then set 
 it free, and getting up from his chair strode to the 
 window, where he stood looking out over the wide 
 village street, at the shabby cab, the sleepy coachman 
 and still sleepier horse which was awaiting him at the 
 door. 
 
 At last he turned round. " Mrs. Meredith," he said, 
 " after all, isn't it much better that you should know 
 that all the time poor Roger was thinking about you, 
 that he had never forgotten you, that you had never 
 been supplanted in his heart by anyone ? It's hard 
 to find it out only when he is dead, but still, it's 
 better than not knowing, isn't it ? " 
 
 " Yes, it's better than not knowing." 
 
 " Oh, yes. And, of course," he went on, " you 
 needn't live such a narrow life now, because the half 
 of Santa Clara is yours, and there will be plenty of 
 money for all of us as time goes on. You can go 
 away from this, you can travel where you will ; every- 
 thing will be quite different to you now." 
 
 " I suppose so." She looked round the pretty little 
 room in a scared kind of way. " I wish," she said, 
 " I almost wish that Roger had not sent to me." 
 
 " Oh, but certainty is better than uncertainty any 
 day." 
 
 " Not when the certainty means the end of all your 
 hopes. Oh, Mr. Vincent, you were right when you 
 spoke of California as being the grave of all hopes. 
 It has proved itself the grave of mine. Oh, think of 
 the wives who go on living year after year, tied to 
 men that they have never cared for, men who have
 
 TOLD AT LAST, II/ 
 
 ceased to care for them ; think of the husbands and 
 wives fettered to each other Hke prisoners chained to 
 a log, while we, who only wanted each other, were 
 kept apart by circumstance — by Fate. Oh, it's cruel 
 — cruel ! And then, when we might be together, and 
 as happy as ever we had been, to find all one's hopes 
 dashed to the ground ; to find the cup of joy held 
 to one's lips, and dashed away before one could taste 
 the draught it contained. Oh, how hard life is ! " 
 
 She broke down and began to sob, with tears that 
 wrung Dick Vincent's heart, with sobs that pene- 
 trated his very soul. And then she stretched out her 
 poor trembling little hand and laid it upon his — the 
 hand that had brought Roger Meredith's life to a 
 close. 
 
 For a few minutes the little widow sobbed unre- 
 strainedly on, and Dick sat there watching her with 
 fascinated gaze, yet perfectly powerless to say or do 
 anything which would be a comfort to her. Then 
 she sat upright again and began to dab at her eyes 
 fiercely with her handkerchief, v.hich she had made 
 into a ball. 
 
 " I mustn't let Cynthia find me crying when she 
 comes in," she explained. " No, I mustn't let her 
 find me crying. Cynthia is such a good girl, and she 
 is always tired when she comes in at tea-time. Won't 
 you send that cab away and stay until she comes? 
 Won't you stop and have tea with us ? It's — ^what 
 is the time ^ " 
 
 " It's nearly four," said he. 
 
 " She will be home in a few minutes then. She 
 comes immediately the school closes. It closes at four.
 
 Il8 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 I should like you to see her. It won't be such a blow 
 to her as it has been to me, because she has never 
 really known her father. But you will stop, won't 
 you ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, certainly I will stay. But don't you 
 think, Mrs. Meredith, that if I stay and have a cup 
 of tea with you, you had better come back into the 
 town with me and have some dinner at my hotel ? " 
 
 " I cannot go out merry-making," said she, shrink- 
 ing back. 
 
 " Oh, it wouldn't be merry-making. And whatever 
 one's griefs, one must eat. I have photographs, of 
 a sort, of Santa Clara ; you would like to see them. 
 The change would be good for you. At all events, 
 I'll keep my old cabman, in case you want to go into 
 Blankhampton later on. I'll tell you what I'll do ; 
 I'll tell him to put up for an hour." 
 
 As soon as said carried into effect. Dick Vincent 
 went out and told the old cabman that he was to 
 go to the inn and get himself a drink, and a feed, 
 if necessary, for the horse. 
 
 " Come back at five o'clock," he said. " Come back 
 here. Here's the money for you. At five. Don't 
 be much later." 
 
 " All right, sir," said the old driver. " 111 give my 
 horse a bit of a feed, and, since your honour is so 
 generous, I'll take a bit of a snacls; myself." 
 
 Then Vincent turned and went back into the house 
 again. As he entered the sitting-room, something 
 reminded him of the newspaper which he had in his 
 breast pocket. 
 
 " You will perhaps like to see this, Mrs. Meredith,"
 
 TOLD AT LAST. 119 
 
 he said, taking it out and folding it so as to show the 
 account of Meredith's death. " It's tlie paper that 
 had the account of poor Meredith's end. I thought 
 you would like to see it." 
 
 " Oh, yes, let me see it." She read it eagerly. " Oh, 
 what a verdict! How strange! What curious crea- 
 tures men are when they get on a jury. And they 
 called a death which was brought about by drink the 
 ' Visitation of God ' ! Mr. Vincent, somehow I can't 
 think of Roger like that. I have seen him a little 
 merry, you know, just a little, when he had a little 
 too much, but I never saw him drunk, never. By this 
 account he could not have known what he was doing ; 
 he must have been delirious." 
 
 " And so he was — delirious. He was mad for the 
 moment — he was out of his mind for the time." 
 
 " He must have been. It's dreadful to think of him 
 like that. Do you think, if I had gone out there, 
 that I should have kept him straight ? " 
 
 " For a time," said Dick. " Anybody who devoted 
 herself to him would and could for a time keep him 
 straight. I did as long as I Vv'as with him, as long as I 
 watched him, as long as I kept a tight hand over him. 
 So you would have done. But there is a fate in these 
 matters, Mrs. Meredith. I believe myself that Roger's 
 hour was come ; that it had to be ; and it was the 
 foreshadowing of the end that made him so strange 
 and so unlike himself from the moment that we 
 turned our backs upon Santa Clara." 
 
 The little woman was restless and excited. She 
 wandered about the room, put imaginary untidiness 
 into order, went several times to the window, and
 
 I20 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 • 
 finally, murmuring something about seeing after tea, 
 
 departed and left him alone. 
 
 That to Dick was worse than if she had remained 
 sobbing and crying ; because alone it suddenly oc- 
 curred to him that if Meredith's widow had accepted 
 his story without question, had indeed put no ques- 
 tions to him beyond the all-important one to her of 
 the state of Meredith's heart so far as she was con- 
 cerned, her daughter might prove to be a young 
 woman of a very different calibre. What if she were 
 to cross-question him as to the last details of her 
 father's life and the circumstances of his death ? What 
 if she were to put certain point-blank queries to him 
 concerning the fatal scrimmage ? How could he 
 answer } What could he say ? 
 
 Would the girl never come? The church clock — 
 he could hear it, although he could not see the church 
 — struck the quarter after the hour. She was never 
 so late as this. Stay ! what was that ? A step — a 
 lifting of the door-latch — and Roger Meredith's 
 daughter stood before him.
 
 121 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 CYNTHIA. 
 
 When the door opened to admit Roger Meredith's 
 daughter, Dick Vincent perceived with a great start 
 that she was no other than the girl who had so im- 
 pressed him the previous day in St. Thomas's Street. 
 
 " Oh, I beg your pardon," she stammered. 
 
 She, too, was evidently somewhat taken aback, 
 although Dick could not decide whether she had 
 noticed him the previous day or not. 
 
 " I beg your pardon. I am afraid I startled you," 
 said he. 
 
 " Oh, no. Of course I didn't know there was any- 
 body here." 
 
 She paused, looking at him as if expecting him to 
 say something more. 
 
 " I came to see your mother," said Dick ; " and to 
 see you, too." 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 At this moment the widow came back. As she 
 caught sight of her daughter she rushed up to her, 
 flung her arms, not about her neck, because she could 
 not reach so high — but about her shoulders. " Oh, 
 Cynthia, Cynthia, it has come at last ! " she said, 
 sobbing. 
 
 " What has come, mother ? The news about my 
 father ? "
 
 122 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 " Yes, dearest. The best news and the worst news ; 
 the worst news and the best. He is dead, Cynthia 
 —dead!" 
 
 " My father dead ? " The girl's voice was an echo 
 of her mother's. " Poor httle mother ! " she said. 
 "How do you know? Of course," turning to Dick, 
 "you brought the news. Oh, my mother has waited 
 so long. "Why didn't he come ? " 
 
 " Not for any fault, Cynthia," cried Mrs. Meredith. 
 " Not for any fault, my dear. Mr. Vincent says I was 
 as much to him, to the last day, as I had ever been. 
 And I don't know how to tell you all, but they lived 
 on in a struggle. Dear Mr. Vincent was his partner. 
 They fought and struggled against — against hope ; 
 and then, when the good fortune came and there was 
 money, your father didn't know — ^wasn't sure — 
 that I should have waited for him." 
 
 The girl put her arm protectingly about her 
 mother's shoulders and turned so as to confront Dick. 
 " Of course my mother waited. He ought to have 
 known that," she said, with a curious protective kind 
 of pity. " My mother is one of those women who 
 couldn't forget if she tried — fidelity itself. Did he 
 really think that ? " 
 
 " Your father thought," said Dick, " that it was not 
 impossible that your mother might have married 
 again. You see, so many years had gone by and he 
 had never written, and life isn't very safe in the wild 
 parts where he was. A man might be killed twenty 
 times over, and his relatives hear nothing except by 
 the purest chance. Nobody could have blamed your 
 mother if she had married again."
 
 CYNTHIA. 123 
 
 " I had my chances," remarked Mrs. Meredith, 
 plaintively. 
 
 "Of course. That was what Meredith felt. He 
 knew you wouldn't be without chances, being what 
 you are." 
 
 " Still," the girl burst out, " it would have been a 
 horrible thing if mother had married again. Of 
 course, you never thought of such a thing, did you, 
 mother ? " 
 
 " Never, my dear — never. There was only one 
 man in the world for me, and he loved me when I 
 was little more than a girl. And I shall never see him 
 again — never! " 
 
 The girl held her mother close for a minute or so. 
 " Tell me," she said, turning to Dick ; " how did my 
 father die ? Was he ill long ? " 
 
 " Your father was not ill," said Dick, " except in a 
 sense. He was — well, he was killed." 
 
 "How?" 
 
 " Well — I suppose you wish me to tell Miss Mere- 
 dith everything ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, I keep nothing back from Cynthia ; she 
 understands. I told her all that there was to know 
 in the past, and there's no reason why she should not 
 know all that there is to know in the present." 
 
 " Well, Miss Meredith, your father drank a good 
 deal ; not continuously, you know, but at times. 
 When I came away from Santa Clara " 
 
 " Santa Clara ? " said the girl, looking at her mother. 
 
 " Yes. We were partners on a ranche ; it was 
 named after your mother. I fancy that the mere fact 
 of being left alone for a few months, and the fact also
 
 124 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 that he had commissioned me to make inquiries about 
 your mother and you — to find out where you were, 
 if you were hving, whether your mother was still Mrs. 
 Meredith, and whether there was any chance of her 
 coming out to join him — proved too much for him, 
 for he went in for a fearful bout of heavy drinking, 
 
 and in spite of everything that we could do Well, 
 
 he ran amok ; in short, he tried to kill a man staying 
 in the hotel, who, in sheer self-defence, finding him- 
 self overpowered, shot him." 
 
 " What happened to the man ? " said the girl. 
 " Nothing happened to the man," replied Dick. 
 " Nothing could happen ; he was perfectly blameless 
 in the matter. It was a question of his life or your 
 father's ; and no man could be expected to give up his 
 life at the mad freak of a man delirious with drink." 
 
 " No, you are quite right. What is his name ? 
 Who is he ? " 
 
 " He disappeared from the hotel, by the advice of 
 the landlord and several other people. They thought 
 it would be the easiest v/ay out of the difficulty." 
 
 " Had you ever met him before ? Was he a 
 stranger ? Did you know him ? " 
 
 " I never met him," said Dick. " I was down the 
 town when the row began ; I only came in for the 
 tail-end of it. It was horrible ! " he said, " horrible ! 
 I brought your mother the paper with what I m.ay 
 call the official account of the affair, and I have also 
 with me a large sum which your father entrusted to 
 my care, to make over to your mother if I should find 
 her. I have also in safe keeping your father's will, 
 by which, in the event of my finding you, he leaves
 
 CYNTHIA. 125 
 
 the half of the ranche to your mother. To-morrow I 
 shall be able to transfer this money to your account, 
 Mrs. Meredith; to-day it is, of course, too late." 
 
 " He has been very kind, Cynthia, most considerate. 
 I'm sure if I had known him all his life he could not 
 have broken the news to me more gently and more 
 tenderly. I can't help breaking down a little ; it's a 
 blow to me, although I haven't seen Roger for fifteen 
 weary years — fifteen weary years." 
 
 Roger Meredith's daughter made no pretence of 
 being overcome with grief. She held her mother yet 
 closer to her, with the same protective air that had so 
 touched Dick before. " Dearest," she said, " I know 
 what this disappointment must be to you, and what a 
 grief ; but certainty is better than uncertainty all the 
 world over, and when you have got over it a little 
 you will be comforted to think that all the time, when 
 you thought he had forgotten, he hadn't forgotten 
 at all, that he remembered you to the very last, and 
 that his last reasonable act was to send you part of 
 the good fortune v/hich had come to him." 
 
 " Not a part of it, Cynthia, all of it," sobbed Mrs. 
 Meredith, hiding her face on the girl's shoulder. 
 
 " Yes, dear, all of it. That's twice as happy for you 
 as if he had sent you a part. It would have been very 
 different if he had merely sent you word that he had 
 come into luck and that you could go out and share 
 it. But to send it home, for you to do as you liked, 
 to give you all and leave you free, that's proof that he 
 must have loved you just the same all the time." 
 
 " There was no shadow of doubt about his love, 
 Miss Meredith," said Dick. "It was the fear that
 
 126 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 your mother wouldn't come out to him that sent him 
 off on that last fatal bout of drinking. Mind you, he 
 didn't drink as a regular thing ; he was a splendid fine 
 man to the end." 
 
 " I'm sure he was," said Cynthia. " If he hadn't 
 some good qualities, my mother wouldn't have loved 
 him as truly and as faithfully as she has done during 
 all these years of silence." 
 
 '■ Well, I am not so sure of that," said Dick. " I 
 have known some charming women who pinned their 
 whole faith to wretches in whom I could see no point 
 of good. And the worse they got the more their 
 women stuck to them and clung to them and bolstered 
 them up. You see a good deal of that sort of thing 
 out there, you know." 
 
 " But my father wasn't like that," said Cynthia, " no, 
 not at all hke that." 
 
 " Cynthia," said Mrs. Meredith, suddenly, " I came 
 in to tell Mr. Vincent that tea was ready. It will be 
 over-drawn." 
 
 " Never mind, dear, we'll brew a fresh pot." 
 
 It was perhaps natural that the girl should take the 
 lead in everything. Dick Vincent followed her into 
 the little dining-room, across the passage, with a feel- 
 ing that she was the dominant power in the house. 
 But he was mistaken. The same power and self- 
 control which had enabled a young and pretty woman 
 to remain faithful to the memory of a man who had, 
 to all intents and purposes, deliberately deserted her, 
 sufficed to make Mrs. Meredith the most important 
 factor in the little household. At the moment she was 
 overwhelmed, even crushed, by the news of her bus-
 
 CYNTHIA. 127 
 
 band's death, and by the important fact that from 
 that moment her circumstances would be entirely 
 different to what they had been since the beginning 
 of her married life. 
 
 " Cynthia," said Mrs. Aleredith, when she had been 
 somewhat pulled together by a good cup of tea, " we 
 will go out to Santa Clara." , 
 
 Dick's heart went down to zero, and he waited with 
 no small trepidation to hear what the girl would say. 
 
 " Just as you like, mother. I'd as soon go to Santa 
 Clara as to any other part of the world. We've lived 
 such a quiet life here in Gatehouses," she said, turning 
 to Dick, " that it would be no wrench to us to leave 
 the half-dozen friends who have never been much 
 more than acquaintances." 
 
 '■ You won't like it," said Dick to the widow. 
 
 " Oh, I should love it ! " she cried. " I should feci 
 as if I had gone to join Roger after all." 
 
 " I don't think you would. It's a ghastly life ; full 
 of hard work, very few recreations, no comfort." 
 
 " We shall be able to have comfort/' said Mrs. 
 Meredith, confidently. 
 
 " Yes, but it is not necessary to go to Santa Clara 
 to get it. As a ranche, it isn't worth having ; as an 
 oil well it doesn't need the presence of ladies to run it. 
 You would hate it. I have not any intention, now 
 that Meredith's gone, of going back permanently." 
 
 " But we should like it," persisted Mrs. Meredith. 
 " Cynthia isn't like the ordinary society girl ; she has 
 no society to leave behind here, nothing but a re- 
 collection of hard toil, many humiliations, and few 
 pleasures. Above all things we should like to go to
 
 128 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 Santa Clara and carry on the ranche, just as we should 
 have done if my dear Roger had hved and I had gone 
 out there to rejoin him." 
 
 " Mrs. Meredith," said Dick, and by this time he 
 was feehng no less than desperate, " it is absolutely 
 impossible for you to continue the ranche as my 
 partner. You are not fit for the life, and the life is 
 not fit for you. As IMeredith's wife it would have 
 been a different matter altogether ; as my partner it 
 is an impossibility." 
 
 " But I should like to go out," she persisted. 
 
 " We must leave that for the present," said Dick, 
 " because I am not going back for at least three 
 months. I have left an excellent manager there, a 
 good fellow, who was chosen mainly by your husband, 
 and in whom he had the greatest confidence. It is 
 not necessary for me to hurry back, and I have not 
 been home for seven years. My mother would break 
 her heart if I went back immediately. I shall never 
 stay seven years at Santa Clara again. I may not 
 give the ranche up ; I may come to some arrangement 
 with you by which we can continue it as a property — 
 an oil property ; but I shall never make Santa Clara 
 my home again — indeed, there will be no need."
 
 129 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 THE VOICE OF REASON. 
 
 It was Cynthia Meredith who brought the discussion 
 concerning the advisability of her mother and herself 
 going to Santa Clara to a close. 
 
 " One thing is very certain, dear mother," she said. 
 " We cannot go to California now ; we have every- 
 thing to settle up here ; for in any case you will not 
 care to remain in Gatehouses, or even in Blankhamp- 
 ton. You know, Mr. Vincent," she went on, " that I 
 am the mistress at the infant school here. The term 
 comes to an end this week, and then I am free. As, 
 naturally, I shall not continue the post, I shall be very 
 busy getting everything ready to leave, and I shall 
 give in my resignation to the Vicar at once." 
 
 " Of course ! of course ! " cried Mrs. Meredith. " I 
 always hated your doing it, Cynthia, as you know." 
 
 " There was no reason why you should, dearest," 
 said Cynthia. " It's not a hard way of making a 
 decent living — at least, darling, not of making a living, 
 but of supplementing a living." 
 
 " You have been very brave," cried Mrs. IMeredith, 
 sobs beginning to rise in her throat. 
 
 "Well, it's all over now, dear," said Cynthia, hur- 
 riedly, "and as we've got the half of an oil well to 
 depend upon, it needn't trouble you that I worked 
 for a few months among a lot of nice little children 
 
 9
 
 I30 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 like these Gatehouses mites. It will never trouble 
 me," she cried, looking from one to another with a 
 ringing laugh. 
 
 " I should think not," said Dick, half indignantly. 
 
 " But what does trouble me," said the girl, " or at 
 least what does concern me, is that I want to have 
 a long holiday. I vv^ant to get used to being well off 
 and to rest myself ; to — well, I'd like to go to some 
 nice, bright seaside place for a few weeks before I 
 even think about taking a journey half-way across 
 the world." 
 
 " I think you are most wise," said Dick. " And if 
 you will excuse me saying so. Miss Meredith, your 
 mother must need that kind of relaxation much more 
 than you do. So let us consider the question of your 
 going to Santa Clara as shelved for the present." 
 
 " I didn't mean to start to-night," said Mrs. Mere- 
 dith, with some show of spirit. 
 
 " No, dear, no ; of course we knew that," said 
 Cynthia. She was all tender compunction at having 
 seemed to be unkind to her mother. 
 
 " To-night," said Dick, " you are coming to dine 
 with me in Blankhampton. You promised, did you 
 not .? " 
 
 " I don't think I promised," said Mrs. Meredith. 
 
 " It would be better for you than brooding," said 
 Dick. 
 
 " Well," put in Cynthia, " dear mother, I think it 
 might take you out of yourself a little." 
 
 " After any sort of ill news," said Dick, " there's 
 nothing like a thoroughly good meal ; and no meal 
 taken in one's own house has the same effect upon
 
 THE VOICE OF REASON. 131 
 
 one as a meal which is taken outside. After all, Mrs. 
 Meredith, it will be a very quiet evening, and there 
 can be no more in your coming and dining quite 
 quietly with me at the Golden Swan than my taking 
 a cup of tea with you this afternoon. I have kept 
 the cab — at least, I told the driver to come back. If 
 you would rather, I will go up to the inn and tell 
 him to keep his horse in the stable for another hour ; 
 otherwise it will be here in a few minutes." 
 
 " Oh, well, we shall certainly not be ready in a few 
 minutes," said Cynthia. " I confess, mother, that I 
 should very much like to dine with Mr. Vincent to- 
 night ; I feel all unhinged — everything turned topsy- 
 turvy ; and I am quite sure that it would be the best 
 possible thing for you. And, indeed, I do think it 
 is most kind of J\Ir. Vincent to ask us." 
 
 " Oh, it isn't kind," said Dick. " On the contrary, 
 the kindness is yours in giving me the pleasure of 
 your society. You forget, Miss IMeredith, your father 
 and I lived together for seven years. We were the 
 greatest possible friends — regular pals. To me it is 
 the most natural thing in the world that I should see 
 as much of you now as I should have done if he had 
 lived, dear old fellow." 
 
 " I am sure," said Cynthia, simpl)', " that mother 
 and I are delighted to have your friendship. Of 
 course, we have not many friends. I think," she went 
 on, with a v/ise little air, " that v/hen people are poor 
 they do not have many friends, unless — unless they 
 belong to the quite poor classes ! I mean unless they 
 belong quite to the working class. Nobody wants 
 struggling poverty." 
 
 9*
 
 132 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 " I don't know," said Dick, " I think it depends a 
 good deal on the struggler." 
 
 As he spoke a sudden qualm shot through his heart, 
 a sudden realisation that this young girl, with her 
 limpid blue eyes and calm, self-reliant manner, would 
 be desirable to any man, and under any circumstances. 
 A sort of wonder passed through his mind that she 
 could have walked about the streets of Blankhampton, 
 as he had himself seen her the previous day, and 
 have remained unwooed, or at least unwon, in the 
 little cottage in Gatehouses in which they were now 
 sitting. Then he shook himself free of the dream, 
 and addressed himself once more to the mother. 
 
 " Then you will come and dine with me, Mrs. Mere- 
 dith ? " 
 
 " Well, since you and Cynthia both wish it, and, as 
 you say, the circumstances are exceptional," she re- 
 plied, " I don't mind, but we cannot go just now, can 
 we, Cynthia ? " 
 
 " Oh, no. We must have time to change our 
 dresses. You had better go up to the inn, as you said." 
 
 " Shall I say six o'clock ? " said Dick. 
 
 " Yes, that is nearly an hour. Oh," glancing to- 
 wards the window, " there he is." 
 
 Dick Vincent got up. " It doesn't in the least 
 matter. I will send him back to the hotel and tell him 
 to order dinner for us." 
 
 It was as quickly done as said. Dick went out, and 
 told the old driver to go back to the Golden Swan 
 and tell the people there that he would be bringing 
 two ladies back to dinner with him. " Tell them," 
 said Dick, " to give us a very nice dinner, the sort
 
 THE VOICE OF REASON. 1 33 
 
 of dinner ladies like ; and to get good fruit, and so 
 on. Stay, I'll give you a card. Then come back here 
 about half-past six." 
 
 " Very good, sir," said the cabman. 
 
 " You won't fail to come back .? " 
 
 " Lor', no, sir." 
 
 " Don't you go taking any other job. I'll pay for 
 your time." 
 
 " Right you are, sir." 
 
 And away he went, and Dick turned and went into 
 the house again. 
 
 If he had admired Cynthia in her little grey frock 
 of the previous day, and in the simple black skirt and 
 cotton blouse that she had been wearing that after- 
 noon, his admiration was increased tenfold when she 
 came down into the little sitting-room dressed in a 
 clean white muslin gown. 
 
 " Mr. Vincent," she said, " I am so glad you have 
 made mother go out to-night. She would only have 
 sat and cried and brooded over the past ; and, after 
 all, what good can it do .? " 
 
 " No good at all," said Dick. 
 
 " It's no use my pretending," the girl went on, " that 
 I am overwhelmed with grief. I am awfully sorry for 
 mother, but I don't remember my father at all ; and 
 the fact that one's got a father somewhere makes very 
 little difference to one's state of mind. I am sorry 
 for my poor darling, and yet in one way I am so 
 glad that she should know, that she should feel that 
 all the time he was just as fond of her as ever. It 
 seems a queer sort of way for a man to treat his wife, 
 doesn't it ? Ever>^body treat their wives differently."
 
 134 ^ MATTER OF SP:NTIMENT. 
 
 " Or their husbands," said Dick. " I mean every- 
 one of us looks at every situation of life from a dif- 
 ferent standpoint to everybody else. If I were mar- 
 ried now," he went on, " and I fell upon evil days, 
 I should stick to my wife, and I should expect my 
 wife to stick to me ; and if I were obliged to leave 
 her behind, as your father seems to have done, I 
 should write to her every mail ; and as soon as I 
 had scraped the money together to pay for her pas- 
 sage, I should say, ' Come along ; share what I have.' 
 But he was different. He had always that dreadful 
 temptation of strong drink. Before I. knew him, seven 
 years ago, he drank frightfully hard ; he drank every- 
 thing that he made : and I think he was asham.ed to 
 let her know just how things were. I am quite sure 
 that at the last he was afraid that he had so indelibly 
 written ' Drunkard ' on his face that it would turn 
 your mother against him if they met." 
 
 " And was he ? — did he look ? — I mean — ■ — " 
 
 " No, he didn't. He was weather-beaten. He was 
 a man who had lived hard. But was a splendid 
 man, and an intensely attractive man to the very last. 
 I don't believe she would have seen a flaw in him, 
 or noticed that he v/as the least little bit changed — 
 not now that I have seen her. I told him so. I went 
 by common-sense. But I couldn't convince him ; no, 
 poor chap, I couldn't convince him." 
 
 " Here's mother," said the girl, in an undertone. 
 
 Mrs. Meredith was dressed in black. For years she 
 had always worn black, as being both economical and 
 in accordance with her uncertainty concerning her 
 husband. She had bathed her eyes, and had made a
 
 THE VOICE OF REASON, 1 35 
 
 toilet with care, and it smote Dick to the heart that 
 so fair a little woman should not have had the chance 
 of showing how generous and how forgiving she could 
 be to the man whose heart was filled with her, but 
 to whom the temptation of drisk had ever stood as a 
 barrier between them. 
 
 The evening passed quietly and pleasantly. As 
 was but natural, they were very quiet and almost 
 solemn in their conversation, and when the clock 
 struck ten, Dick's old cabman came round and took 
 the ladies home. 
 
 Dick did not offer to go with them until the last 
 minute, when it suddenly occurred to him that per- 
 haps if they went without him they would think it 
 necessary to pay the cabman. He therefore sug- 
 gested that he should see them as far as their house. 
 Neither Mrs. Meredith nor Cynthia was unwilling, and 
 when they reached the door of the cottage, Mrs. 
 Meredith turned to Dick with quite the air of an old 
 friend. 
 
 " Shall I see you to-morrow .' " she said. 
 
 " Yes, you must see me to-morrow, Mrs. Meredith," 
 he replied. " I must see you, to hand over the money 
 for one thing, and to arrange various little business 
 matters." 
 
 " Will you come and take lunch with us .' " she in- 
 quired, half hesitatingly. 
 
 " I think not to-morrow," he replied, " because I 
 want to go to the cavalry barracks." 
 
 " Do you know anyone there .? " Mrs. Meredith 
 asked. 
 
 " Well, it's my own old regiment, you see ; and I
 
 136 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 must go and lunch with them, or I am afraid they 
 would be pretty furious with me. Couldn't I come 
 up later in the day ? " 
 
 Perhaps he had an eye to the fact that later in 
 the day Cynthia would be there. 
 
 Mrs. Meredith hesitated yet more. " We don't dine 
 late, Mr. Vincent," she said. " We have supper. 1 
 don't like to ask you to come to supper with us." 
 
 " Oh, why not ? " he exclaimed eagerly. " I should 
 be delighted to come to supper with you, if you would 
 put up with me." 
 
 "Put up with you! " she exclaimed. And Cynthia 
 laughed softly in a way which set Dick's heart beating 
 at double quick speed. " Then it's settled — isn't it ? 
 You'll come and eat a bit of supper with us to- 
 morrow night ? It will be very simple, very plain." 
 
 " But I've not been accustomed to such banquets 
 at Santa Clara, Mrs. Meredith, that the supper you 
 will give me will not be all that I could desire. I 
 can perhaps put you up to a wrinkle or two in the 
 way of cooking a supper." 
 
 " What .? You can cook .? " 
 
 " Ah, can't I ! I don't say that my pastry would be 
 anything to boast of, but my pancakes and my ome- 
 lettes are perfect; my curry's a dream. Mrs. Mere- 
 dith, before I go back, let me come and make you 
 a chicken curry. You can buy the oldest chicken, 
 and I'll back myself to make a good curry out of it." 
 
 " Well, you shall ; but not to-morrow. I would 
 like you to try my cooking, and then you will see," she 
 said, " what a very desirable person I shall be at 
 Santa Clara."
 
 THE VOICE OF REASON. 1 37 
 
 Dick bade the ladies a hurried good-night, and got 
 back into the cab with all his hopes dashed to the 
 ground. That one little sentence of Mrs. Meredith's 
 had served to bring back the events of the immediate 
 past with tenfold force. Here he was already on in- 
 timate terms with Meredith's widow and daughter. 
 In all his life he had never known what it was to feel 
 his pulses quicken under the touch of a girl's hand as 
 now ; and yet — yet — it was impossible ; although he 
 had held himself and those on the spot had held him 
 blameless for the accident of Meredith's death, the 
 cold voice of Reason told him that he must not dare 
 to think of taking Meredith's daughter for his wife.
 
 138 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 THE OLD REGIMENT. 
 
 It was just after half-past twelve the following morn- 
 ing when Dick Vincent walked into the cavalry 
 barracks. He found one or two subalterns gathered 
 in front of the mess rooms, who looked upon him 
 with enquiring eyes in which recognition was wholly 
 
 lacking. 
 
 " Is Captain Allison here this morning ? " he asked 
 
 of the first of these young gentlemen. 
 
 " Yes," he replied, in easy tones, " he was here a 
 minute or two ago. He will be in to lunch directly. 
 Are you a friend of his ? " 
 
 " Yes. I am." 
 
 At that moment an extremely handsome man came 
 along the side of the ofFicers* quarters and turned 
 the corner sharply upon the group. The youngsters 
 instinctively straightened themselves a little. 
 
 The newcomer uttered an exclamation of surprise 
 as his eyes fell upon Dick. " Why, Dick, my dear 
 fellow, how do you do ? What good wind has blown 
 you this way? I thought you were on the other side 
 of the world." 
 
 " California," said Dick. " But I've come home on 
 a few months' leave — I mean holiday." 
 
 " And you are staying in Blankhampton ? How 
 awfully jolly. Symonds, let me introduce you to Mr.
 
 THE OLD REGIMENT. 1 39 
 
 Vincent — whose name you have heard, of course. 
 And this is Mr. St. Aubyn ; this Mr. Paget. Vincent, my 
 dear fellow, you will have lunch with me, of course ? " 
 
 "Why, thank you, Brookes, I will," said Dick, as 
 he shook hands with the last of the three subalterns, 
 who were now regarding him with very different ex- 
 pressions of countenance to what they had met him 
 with in the first instance. For, let me tell you, Vin- 
 cent had left a reputation behind him in the Black 
 Horse, a reputation for being the most good-natured 
 daredevil to be found in the length and breadth of 
 the land. 
 
 Colonel Brookes took him affectionately by the 
 arm. " We missed you very much, Dick," he said ; 
 " far more than you will ever have any idea of. You 
 kept us alive. We've never had anybody to keep us 
 alive as you did." 
 
 Dick laughed outright. " Well, I daresay that if 
 you had stayed where I left you, which was senior 
 captain, you would have found several among the 
 subs, quite capable of throwing me entirely into the 
 shade. You see, you have gone up into that exalted 
 region which knows little or nothing about making 
 practical jokes and such like amusements. Well, now 
 tell me ; is there any news in the old regiment ? " 
 
 " News ? Well, I've got the command, of course ; 
 and you know Bethune is senior major, and Cockledon 
 junior to him. Allison comes next. And of those 
 that were here with you — ^well, there's Dawson." 
 
 "Ah, yes. Good old Dawson! Is he as serious 
 and as musical as ever ? " 
 
 " Worse, my dear chap ; he's married,"
 
 I40 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 " Married ? Worse might happen to a fellow than 
 that. And yourself?" 
 
 " Oh, I'm not married," said Brookes, shaking his 
 head. " I didn't get the right woman ; if you can't 
 get the right woman you had better go without." 
 
 " I'm with you there," said Dick. 
 
 " And here's Allison," rejoined Lester Brookes. 
 
 " Hullo, Dick ! " cried Allison. " What good wind 
 has blown you to Blankhampton ? " 
 
 " I had to come on business," rephed Dick. 
 
 " Business ? Oh, really. Where are you staying ? " 
 
 " At the Golden Swan." 
 
 " Oh, really. Well, it's a decent hotel. Come and 
 dine to-night, won't you? It's guest night." 
 
 " No, not to-night, old fellow. I'm engaged." 
 
 " Oh, dining out ? Anybody I know ? " 
 
 " I don't think so." 
 
 " Somebody I don't know in Blankhampton ? 
 That's funny. Where is it ? Who are they ? " 
 
 " Well, I'm quite sure that it's nobody you know," 
 replied Dick. " The fact is that I came home from 
 California charged with a mission from my partner — 
 I took a partner, you know, when I went into ranch- 
 ing, and he died, poor chap ; at least, he was killed. 
 And this is his widow and daughter." 
 
 " Oh ! What's their name ? " 
 
 " Their name is Meredith." 
 
 " Meredith ? Where do they live ? What's the 
 girl like ? " 
 
 " Oh, so— so," said Dick. 
 
 " Ah, you never had an eye for a woman, Dick. I 
 see you are not altered in that respect," said Allison.
 
 THE OLD REGIMENT. I4I 
 
 " Meredith ? Where do they live ? I never came 
 across them." 
 
 " Oh, they Hve at a httle village a short way from 
 the town." 
 
 " I know all the little villages a short way from the 
 town," Allison persisted, " which one do they hang 
 out in ? " 
 
 " It's called Gatehouses." 
 
 " Oh ! I thought I knew every girl in Gatehouses." 
 
 " They live very quietly, and they don't want to see 
 anybody." 
 
 " Oh, I wasn't fishing," cried Allison, " I wasn't 
 fishing, not a bit of it. It seemed curious, that's all. 
 By Jove ! " Allison went on, " there's one pretty girl 
 that lives somewhere on the road to Gatehouses. 
 Gad ! she is pretty ! I've followed her over and over 
 again, but I've never been able to track her home yet. 
 vShe always goes into some cottage or other, but when 
 I inquire they tell me that they don't know who she is." 
 
 '• Ah, that wouldn't be Miss Meredith," said Dick, 
 although his heart told him it certainly was. 
 
 " Well, you'll dine to-morrow night — won't you ? " 
 
 " Yes, I'll come up and dine to-morrow night with 
 pleasure," Dick replied. 
 
 It was late in the afternoon before he got away out 
 of the cavalry barracks. He had, of course, to make 
 a sort of tour, to see all the colonel's horses, all 
 Allison's horses, and, in fact, to go right through the 
 officers' stables. Then he inquired for the good lady 
 who had been accustomed to tidy his room and wash 
 his shirts, and finding that she was still following the 
 drum, he went round with Allison to pay her a visit. 
 
 Then at a little before five there was a rumour of
 
 142 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 tea and hot cakes soaked in butter — and if you don't 
 believe that they eat hot cakes or mufhns soaked in 
 butter in a cavalry barracks, you had better go and 
 find out for yourself, and you will discover that I am 
 perfectly right. And when the tea and cakes had 
 been disposed of, he and Allison went down the town 
 together, and he looked in at the Club, and was intro- 
 duced to half-a-dozen Blankhampton celebrities, and 
 then into the Winter Gardens, where the band of one 
 of the cavalry battalions was just playing " God Save 
 the Queen ! " 
 
 Allison managed to introduce his old friend to 
 several of the prettiest girls in Blankhampton — that 
 region where beautiful women flourish. There was 
 not one of them, however, who came anywhere near 
 to Cynthia Aleredith in Dick's estimation ; and at 
 last, at about twenty minutes to seven, he succeeded 
 in shaking himself free of his friend, and got into a 
 cab which would carry him once more to Gatehouses. 
 
 He did not, however, go quite direct. He stopped 
 at a flower shop and bought some lovely cut flowers ; 
 and then he stoppsd at a bookseller's and purchased 
 three or four of the leading illustrated papers. It was 
 laden vv-ith these that he once more found himself in 
 the little sitting-room which was stamped with the 
 impress of beautiful Cynthia Meredith. 
 
 He went away that night more hopelessly in love 
 with Cynthia than ever ; and instead of going straight 
 into the hotel and to bed, he tramped about the 
 narrow deserted streets of the old city for more than 
 an hour, wondering what would be the best course 
 for him to take, wondering whether if he made a clean
 
 THE OLD REGIMENT, I43 
 
 breast of the whole circumstances of Roger Meredith's 
 death, his daughter would ever bring herself to regard 
 the fatal shot which brought that ruined life to a close 
 in the light of a pure accident No, it was not to be 
 thought of. If Cynthia could be made to see that he 
 had merely acted in self-defence, Cynthia's mother 
 would certainly never hear reason on such a point. 
 No, he had begun a system of silence, he had begun 
 by withholding a certain amount of information, and 
 it was impossible now to do anything which would dis- 
 close the truth. 
 
 He was standing in the very shadow of the grand 
 old cathedral when he came to the conclusion that, 
 under no circumstances, could Roger Meredith's 
 daughter be anything more to him than a regret. It 
 was hard, he pondered, that he should have grown to 
 be thirty years old without having before met a 
 woman whom he could love, and, having now met her, 
 that she should be for ever barred as one of the un- 
 attainable joys of life. 
 
 It would be impossible for him to avoid meeting 
 her again ; that was out of the question. He must 
 tread the road to his Gethsemane with unflinching 
 feet ; he must steel his soul against her. After all, 
 it was early days ; he must school himself to become 
 no more intimate than he had already become ; to 
 avoid those little familiarities, so sweet and so easily 
 taken up, so impossible to cut off when once acquired. 
 After all, he argued, drav/ing fiercely at his pipe — 
 after all, he had got along very comfortably for thirty 
 years without feeling especially in love, and he would 
 have to get along as comfortably for thirty years more.
 
 144 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 When he had got thus far, he went back through 
 the narrow streets and into his hotel. And then he 
 went to bed and dreamed all night of Cynthia Mere- 
 dith, waking up in the morning with tlie conviction 
 that she was everything to him, and that there was 
 very little reason why he should not be everything 
 to her. 
 
 He had promised that he would go up about eleven 
 o'clock that morning and fetch Mrs. Meredith, and 
 that they should go together to the bank, where he 
 would transfer the money to her which he had brought 
 from her husband. 
 
 " It's just as well that dear old Roger did give me 
 the money for you," said he, " because if it came to 
 you by inheritance, or by will even, they'd have 
 mulcted you of some of it. As it is, it was made over 
 to me in Roger's life-time, and therefore not a soul 
 but you and I know anything about it. To tell you 
 the truth, Mrs. Meredith, I am downright glad to get 
 it out of my hands ; because I couldn't tell anyone 
 that 1 had it until I found you, for had I done so, and 
 anything had happened to me, it might have frus- 
 trated all that Meredith was so anxious to have done. 
 However, now at last, in half an hour, it will be yours 
 to do what you like v/ith." 
 
 When they had settled their business at the bank, 
 he insisted upon Mrs. Meredith walking down as far 
 as Bonner's with him and having some sort of refresh- 
 ment. At first she refused ; but when he insisted she 
 was persuaded to take a sponge cake and cream and 
 curacoa. 
 
 " Mr. Vincent," she said, " I have made up my mind
 
 THE OLD REGIMENT. 145 
 
 that we must go to the seaside for a couple of months, 
 so that Cynthia may have a thorough change before 
 we enter upon any business tasks," 
 
 " 1 think you are wise," he said promptly. 
 
 " Oh, yes, it is absolutely necessary. We were talk- 
 ing last night. She wants to go to Brighton." 
 
 " You can't go to Brighton at this time of the year." 
 
 " But why ? " 
 
 " My dear lady, it is impossible. Brighton is awful 
 in hot weather, and very Jewish." 
 
 ■■ I don't think they would hurt me," said Mrs. Mere- 
 dith, " since, you see, I shouldn't know a soul." 
 
 " Well, I wouldn't go to Brighton. Brighton isn't 
 the place for this time of year. Try Folkestone ; 
 Folkestone is gay enough and smart enough ; not 
 Brighton." 
 
 " You think not ? " 
 
 " I don't think, I'm sure about it. Very good shops 
 at Brighton it's true ; but then if you are so near as 
 Folkestone or Brighton, you could easily run up to 
 town if you want a day's shopping." 
 
 " 1 don't think," said Mrs. Meredith, " that shopping 
 will be any particular temptation to us at present. 
 We have got to get used to having money to spend. 
 Up to now we've only shopped from necessity ; never 
 as a luxury, never as a pastime. I should be hope- 
 lessly lost in London now," she said pathetically. " I 
 should walk into the first shop I came to and let them 
 fleece me how they would." 
 
 " So they would in Brighton just the same." 
 
 " Well, I don't think so. You see, we have been 
 very dull ; we have led such a retired, I may say such 
 
 lo
 
 146 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 a narrow life, that the more busy and crowded the 
 place, the greater change it would be to us." 
 
 " Why don't you go abroad ? " 
 
 " No, not at present. You won't think us mad if 
 we go to Brighton, will you ? " 
 
 " No, I shan't think you mad, but I shall think you 
 are very mistaken people." 
 
 ■■ Well, they've got an old proverb up here, Mr, 
 Vincent, which says, ' Everybody knows their own 
 know best '." 
 
 Dick drew back instantly. " Oh, Mrs. Meredith, I 
 didn't mean — I didn't presume to dictate to you. You 
 know I wouldn't do such a thing." 
 
 " 1 know you wouldn't. But without dictating, or 
 wishing to dictate, or anything of the kind, you must 
 see that I understand my own temperament and my 
 daughter's better than you do ; and I do believe that 
 as Cynthia has set her heart upon going to Brighton, 
 that it will be the wisest if I keep to our original plan 
 — go down there, take comfortable rooms on the sea 
 front, and stay there just as long as it amuses us or is 
 beneficial to us." 
 
 " That, of course," said Dick, " must be according 
 to your own judgment ; and I daresay you are quite 
 right, Mrs. Meredith. Wherever you are I shall find 
 my way to see you. Indeed, there is so much busi- 
 ness to be done in the future between us that we must 
 keep in touch with each other." 
 
 The widow stretched out her little slim hand. 
 " You were Roger's friend," she said softly, " and as 
 long as I live nothing shall ever put you out of touch 
 with me."
 
 147 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 THE VOICE OF THE CHARMER. 
 
 For a whole fortnight Dick Vincent remained at the 
 Golden Swan in Blankhampton. He told himself 
 that he must see poor Roger's widow and child 
 through the difficulties of the move. Women, he 
 argued, needed a man to give them advice and show 
 them which way they were going. He forgot that 
 little I^Irs. Mereditli had proved herself very capable 
 of keeping her boat upright for fifteen years past. 
 He never admitted to himself that the httle lady, in 
 spite of her soft eyes and pleasant tongue, had never 
 taken his advice in any one particular. She made use 
 of him, oh yes, in a thousand ways — but they were 
 her ways, not his. 
 
 " That dear boy ! " she called him to Cynthia. 
 " Oh, if only your father had lived, what a joyful day 
 it would have been for me to go to the place he 
 called after me — to take up my broken life — to have 
 been a happy, friendly, delightful party. Oh, 
 Cynthia, Cynthia ! It has come too late — too late ! " 
 
 Dick was not by any means idle during the two 
 weeks which followed the finding of Mrs. Meredith. 
 He had naturally confided to his great friend, Alhson, 
 the bit of luck which had come to him in the shape 
 of an oil well, and Allison, being of a genial, talkative 
 
 lO*
 
 148 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 disposition, had carefully spread the news throughout 
 the better circles of Blankhampton society. Blank- 
 hampton mothers were therefore quite in a flutter over 
 the advent of this extremely handsome young man, 
 who had such a satisfactory piece of property as an 
 oil well at his back. 
 
 He had not been three days at the Golden Swan 
 when Allison came in one day whilst he was eating 
 his lunch, and sat himself down, a trim figure in un- 
 dress uniform. 
 
 " Hullo ! You'll have some lunch, old chap ? " 
 
 "Yes, thanks; I will." 
 
 " How came you to be about, this hour ? " 
 
 " Why, I came down to see you. Yes, I'll have 
 some soup, please. There's a little woman in town 
 called Manisty. She ain't a bad little sort. She 
 wants you to come to tea this afternoon." 
 
 " Me ? " exclaimed Dick. " Why, what does she 
 know about me ? " 
 
 " Oh, she's seen you about, you know. A chap of 
 your distinction cannot go without notice in a place 
 like this. You always did mash all the women." 
 
 " Me ? " repeated Dick. " I never mashed anybody 
 in my life." 
 
 '■ Well, you have this time, anyway ; and Mrs. 
 Manisty is giving a tea-fight this afternoon — and she 
 gives rather nice tea-fights — and she wants me to 
 bring you." 
 
 " Oh, I'm out of the way of tea-fights. I have been 
 hving in the wilds for seven years. I don't think she'll 
 really care for me, you know ; not if she is in her 
 senses."
 
 THE VOICE OF THE CHARMER. I49 
 
 " Oh, I'll answer for her, if not her senses. You'd 
 better come, because I said I'd take you." 
 
 " My dear chap, you shouldn't make promises for 
 me. You shouldn't make promises for other people 
 at all." 
 
 " I know I shouldn't, but I did all the same. You 
 might come. The little woman would be very 
 gratified." 
 
 "Well, I don't know the little woman," said Dick, 
 cold-bloodedly attacking the beef. 
 
 " Well, she's a good sort. And you'll come ? I'll 
 call for you about half-past four. Now don't go and 
 say you're engaged. I know there's some charmer 
 up at Gatehouses, but you can't want to be living 
 there." 
 
 " Oh, no, I'm not living there," said Dick. He went 
 rather red and bent his face down over his plate. 
 
 '■ You might take me up there," said Allison. 
 
 " Oh, no ; they are quite out of your line." 
 
 " Are they ? Are they ugly ? " 
 
 "Oh, no." 
 
 " Then they are good-looking. I know you, I know 
 you inside out, Dick ; nobody ever knew you better. 
 What are you doing to-night? Will you come and 
 dine?" 
 
 " No, I can't." 
 
 " Why not ? What are you doing ? You are going 
 to Gatehouses." 
 
 " No, I am not." 
 
 " Well, they are coming to dine with you." 
 
 "Yes, they are." 
 
 " Then you can ask me."
 
 I50 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 " No, I'd rather not." 
 
 " What ? Are you sweet on the girl ? You don't 
 think I'd go poaching on your preserves, do you? 
 Don't you know me better than that after all these 
 years ? " 
 
 " It would be a case of cut me out if you could, old 
 boy, if there was a question of cutting out, which there 
 isn't. But Mrs. Meredith has only just heard of the 
 death of her husband, and she mightn't like to meet a 
 perfect stranger." 
 
 " Oh ! How long has he been in California ? Fif- 
 teen years, didn't you tell me the other day? And 
 you were commissioned to go home and find her. I 
 should think she's about got over the parting by this 
 time. I shall come. What time are you dining ? " 
 
 " Never mind." 
 
 '■ Oh, that's all right. I shall turn up at about a 
 quarter-past seven ; if you are dining at seven, I shall 
 cut in ; if you are dining at half-past, I shall be in 
 plenty of time." 
 
 " Well, you can come if you like," said Dick. 
 
 " I will. Thank you very much. So kind of you 
 to ask me. I am delighted to accept." 
 
 Dick gave a grunt and a laugh. " What a humbug 
 you are! Never saw a chap so little changed in my 
 life." 
 
 " No, I am not changed, my dear fellow. I have 
 got nothing to change me. Life has gone on in one 
 unbroken round of field days and dances, and a few 
 entertainments thrown in. You can't change on a diet 
 like that." 
 
 " Why do you stick at it ? "
 
 THE VOICE OF THE CHARMER. 151 
 
 " Why do I stick at it? It suits me well enough. 
 I have not the brains for a more arduous profession. 
 And after all, if you come to that, I don't know that 
 there is anything elevating about planting vineyards 
 and growing fruit trees, as you have been doing for 
 seven years." 
 
 '■ Oh, it was a question of lungs with me. I 
 wouldn't have jacked up the old regiment to go and 
 bury myself alive out West, even for an oil well. If 
 a chap's lungs give out, what is he to do ? " 
 
 " No, true. Yes, \\'aiter, I'll have some more of 
 that salad. It's extremely good. It's the best salad 
 I've eaten for a long time. It's the one thing our 
 cook fails in — as I tell the mess president every day 
 of my life. He mixes a salad as if it were something 
 sour." 
 
 " I didn't notice anything wrong with it the other 
 day when I was lunching," said Dick, indifferently. 
 " But seven years on a ranche without a cook of any 
 kind doesn't make a man more fastidious. Well now, 
 look here, old chap ; I don't want to go to this party 
 this afternoon." 
 
 " Oh, but you must go. I've kind of staked my 
 professional honour on it ; and the little woman will 
 be furiously disappointed if you don't turn up ; she'd 
 take it as an insult. She hasn't any daughters, so 
 that needn't upset your apple-cart." 
 
 " Oh, all right. Well, I'll go. But since you have 
 been talking about me, I suppose you have thrown in 
 a mention of the oil well in the background. You 
 might spread the information that I'm not by way of 
 being a marrj'ing man."
 
 152 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 " All right, old chap, I'll warn 'em all off. And I'll 
 come for you about four, eh ? " 
 
 " Oh, all right." 
 
 The result of this first plunge into the vortex of 
 Blankhampton society was to make Dick Vincent the 
 most sought after young man in the neighbourhood ; 
 and this in spite of the frankly brutal way in which 
 Captain Allison spread the news far and wide that 
 Dick was a " gone coon " in the direction of his old 
 friend's daughter. 
 
 " My dear Mrs. Manisty," he said to the little lady 
 in question, who, although she had no daughters, was 
 reputed to be the cleverest matchmaker in the town, 
 " it isn't a bit of use wasting twopennorth of trouble 
 over Vincent, or his books, or his family, or his oil 
 well, or anything else. He's got a partner in the oil 
 well already — in the shape of Meredith's daughter ; 
 and if he doesn't end by making her a partner for life, 
 I'll eat my hat." 
 
 " And is she presentable ? " 
 
 " Presentable ! " echoed Allison. " No, Mrs. 
 Manisty, she's not presentable, she's the loveliest thing 
 I ever saw in my life. She's a lady born and bred — 
 although she's been poor up to now. Nobody else 
 will have a look in with Vincent, although he'd be fit 
 to bite my head off if he could hear me say so. But 
 I tell you, because I know how good-natured you are 
 in arranging these little matters. I am afraid you 
 won't do any business with Vincent." 
 
 " I should like to meet the young lady," said Mrs. 
 Manisty. 
 
 " Oh, I don't think you would — at least, I don't
 
 THE VOICE OF THE CHARMER. 1 53 
 
 think she would. They have lived a very retired life, 
 because they hadn't the money for anything else ; and 
 they are just on the eve of leaving the place. Besides, 
 Mrs. Meredith has only recently heard of her hus- 
 band's death, and she doesn't want to be visiting or 
 making new acquaintances at present." 
 
 But the Blankhampton matrons who had heard of 
 the oil well, and who had seen Dick, were not thus to 
 be warned off the chase, and Dick became the re- 
 cipient of so many invitations and so many smiles and 
 of so much friendliness that he began to think it would 
 be necessary to fly the country before Mrs. Meredith 
 and Cynthia were ready to go to Brighton. Every 
 moment that he could get away from the claims of 
 Society he spent in the little house at Gatehouses ; 
 and when the mother and daughter left it with their 
 few personal belongings, so that the auctioneer's 
 people might take possession, he seemed to be morn- 
 ing, noon, and night in their pleasant lodgings over- 
 looking St. Thomas's Street. 
 
 Once or twice he found himself perilously near to 
 telling Cynthia how completely she had taken posses- 
 sion of him, body and soul. One evening, when Mrs. 
 Meredith was suffering from a headache, he had taken 
 her up the street and into the Winter Garden — at all 
 hours of the day the most pleasant rendezvous in 
 Blankhampton. 
 
 The air of the summer evening was still and warm ; 
 behind them stretched the great glass houses wherein 
 Blankhampton disported itself during the winter 
 months ; around them lay the lovely lawns, on which 
 Blankhampton took the air during the summer ; above,
 
 154 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 a golden moon cast its light upon the winding river, 
 which flowed at the end of the terraces. They could 
 hear the sound of a piano floating across the gardens, 
 the sound of a piano and of a girl's fresh voice. It 
 was a night to make the most diffident man speak his 
 mind ; it was a night to make the most difficult girl 
 come like a bird to the hand of the tamer. 
 
 " It's jolly here, isn't it ? " 
 
 Cynthia turned her grave grey eyes upon him. 
 " Should you call it jolly ? " she asked. 
 
 Dick laughed. " It depends on the definition of 
 jolly. Perhaps if I had thought before I spoke, which 
 I didn't, I should have put it in another way ; but it's 
 very perfect sitting out here, in this still, tranquil 
 English air." 
 
 " Is it different to Californian air? " she asked, turn- 
 ing and looking at him. 
 
 Again the mention of California, and a certain look 
 in her eyes, suddenly brought Roger Meredith back 
 to his mind — not only Roger Meredith but that last 
 look in his eyes before he had drawn the trigger of his 
 revolver. 
 
 A cold chill settled down upon Dick, and he 
 shuddered visibly. " There is a great deal of rot 
 talked about California," he said, almost harshly. 
 " People here have an idea that California is literally 
 teeming with milk and honey. It is the greatest mis- 
 take in the world. There is nothing like this over 
 there. And, Miss Cynthia, it's very chilly, after all. 
 I think we had better go in." 
 
 He went back to his hotel that night with his whole 
 being in a tumult. He told himself savagely, over
 
 THE VOICE OF THE CHARMER. 1 55 
 
 and over again, that he was a fool — that he was play- 
 ing with edged tools — that he must get this girl out 
 of his mind before the damage was too late to undo. 
 " If she knew," he argued, " if she knew the truth, 
 why, neither she nor her mother would ever bring 
 themselves to look at me. They might in common 
 justice own that I hadn't any choice in the matter, but 
 the fact remains the same, that mine was the hand that 
 sent Roger Meredith out of this world into the next. 
 They are women. They'd never get over it. I must 
 clear out of this, and make up my mind that Roger 
 Meredith's daughter is not for me."
 
 156 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 MRS. VINCENT'S FEARS. 
 
 From the night when Dick Vincent came to the con- 
 clusion that under no circumstances could. Roger Mere- 
 dith's daughter ever become his wife, he kept himself 
 most carefully from any special intercourse with her. 
 He proposed no more evenings in the Winter Gar- 
 dens, he addressed all his conversation, or at least 
 a good deal of his conversation, to the little widow ; 
 he allowed himself no familiarities, and he permitted 
 himself to be drawn a little further into the vortex 
 of Blankhampton society than he would have dreamed 
 of doing under ordinary circumstances. Indeed, 
 during those few days in which he remained at the 
 Golden Swan, more than one mother in Blankhamp- 
 ton had visions of a proprietorial interest in the oil 
 well at Santa Clara. 
 
 But eventually Dick went away, leaving behind him 
 no promise of spring. He did not even travel up as 
 far as London with Mrs. Meredith and Cynthia, but 
 told them as an excuse for not doing so that he had 
 promised to dine at the Black Horse mess. 
 
 Then he went back to London, where he put in a 
 miserable week — so miserable that he more than once 
 caught himself wishing that he were back on the 
 ranche again. After that, he went home to Holling-
 
 MRS. VINCENT'S FEARS. 1 57 
 
 ridge, where his mother once more killed the fatted 
 calf in his honour, although the whole house was in a 
 tumult over the preparations for his sister's wedding. 
 
 " Now tell me, dear boy," said Mrs. Vincent, when 
 dinner was over the first evening, and the others had 
 wandered away to various amusements or occupa- 
 tions, " you found poor Mr. Meredith's widow .'' " 
 
 " Oh, yes, I found her," said Dick. 
 
 " Is she nice ? " 
 
 " Very nice." 
 
 " A lady > " 
 
 " Oh, a perfect lady," Dick answered. 
 
 " Was she upset ^ Do tell me about it. I am most 
 interested." 
 
 " Well, she was a bit knocked over at first, yes she 
 certainly was knocked over, because she has always 
 clung to the hope that he would turn up again." 
 
 " And the girl ? " 
 
 " Oh, well, the girl doesn't remember him ; she was 
 more philosophic about it." 
 
 " Well, dear, one could not expect her to be any- 
 thing else. Most trying, I consider, to go on year 
 after year, never sure from one minute to another 
 what might turn up or come out. Poor soul ! 1 have 
 thought about her so much whilst you have been 
 away. You paid over the money ; and what will be- 
 come of the ranche .-' " 
 
 " Well, I shall have to prove Meredith's will as 
 soon as I go back," Dick replied. 
 
 " Wouldn't you like me to ask them here for a little 
 while ? " 
 
 " Oh, no, mother, thank you. I don't think so ;
 
 158 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 not at present, at all events. You see — well, she's 
 had a great shock, and she's in very new mourning ; 
 and they have gone off for a long hohday for one 
 thing." 
 
 " Oh, for a long holiday. What sort of circum- 
 stances did you find them in .-' " 
 
 " Well, pretty narrow ; what one would call strait- 
 ened circumstances. And of course Mrs. Meredith's 
 first idea was to give her daughter a complete holiday 
 and change. That was only natural." 
 
 " Oh, it was natural enough, poor woman ; I can 
 quite see that. Had she money ^ " 
 
 " Mrs. Meredith had a little money." 
 
 " Yes. And did they live on that exclusively .' " 
 
 Mrs. Vincent was insistent. She meant to get to 
 the bottom of the Meredith story, and Dick knew 
 by long experience that it was useless for him to try 
 to wriggle out of giving tlie information which she 
 required. 
 
 " No. The girl was teaching." 
 
 " Oh." Mrs. Vincent's tone was comprehension it- 
 self. " Teaching, was she .'' And you say she's so 
 pretty." 
 
 " Oh, very pretty." 
 
 " And nice ? " 
 
 " Very nice. Charming." 
 
 " And teaching .? Dear me ! Ah, dear, well I sup- 
 pose there will be no fear of poverty in the future." 
 
 " Not the very smallest," said Dick. " She's an 
 heiress now — unless the oil well should dry up, which 
 is most unlikely," 
 
 " Oh, she'll marry, my dear. A pretty girl with half
 
 MRS. VINCENT'S FEARS. 1 59 
 
 an oil well is sure to marry. Perhaps her mother will 
 marry." 
 
 " I don't think so. She's absolutely faithful to poor 
 old Roger's memory. The only thing that hurt her 
 much was his notion that she might have married 
 somebody else, believing him to be dead." 
 
 " Poor thing ! " said Mrs. Vincent, feelingly. " I 
 can imagine nothing more dreadful than to live like 
 that. And all these years, poor soul, really living on 
 the edge of a razor." 
 
 " Yes, really living on the edge of a razor," said 
 Dick. " Great bore to think yourself free, and then 
 all at once find a husband turn up again." 
 
 " Oh, my dear boy," said Mrs. Vincent, " it was 
 just as well that your poor friend was taken out of 
 it. They would have had a dreadful time together." 
 
 " Do you think so .'' " said Dick. 
 
 " Yes, dear ; sure of it. It doesn't do for people to 
 go away and be parted like that. They are not the 
 same when they come together again." 
 
 " Oh, I don't know. I have been away seven years ; 
 you don't find me any different, do you .? " 
 
 " Well, I do," said Mrs. Vincent. " You have got 
 some queer, old-fashioned, bachelor ways of your 
 own." 
 
 " Have I .? " cried Dick. 
 
 " Well, yes, I must confess that you have." 
 
 " Not really .? " asked Dick. 
 
 " Yes, my dear boy, really," persisted his mother. 
 
 " How horrid ! " was Dick's rejoinder. 
 
 " Well, dear boy, perhaps you will be doing away 
 with your bachelorism."
 
 l60 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 " I don't think so," said Dick, shortly. 
 
 " No ? It seems a pity." 
 
 Mrs. Vincent meant that it would be a pity to let 
 somebody else take possession of the oil well ; but 
 Dick, who had once been as simple and open as the 
 day, was sufficiently changed for her to hesitate in 
 putting the thought into plain words. 
 
 " I don't see that there is any particular pity about 
 it," said Dick. 
 
 " Well, dear, it would be a sad thing if the old name 
 should die out." 
 
 " It won't die out," said Dick ; " there's Jack Vin- 
 cent — who can keep up the traditions of the old place 
 far better than I should." 
 
 " Jack Vincent ! " cried his mother, with an air of 
 disgust. " Jack Vincent indeed — to rule at Holling- 
 ridge ! Why your father would have a fit at the 
 very mention of it." 
 
 " Don't mention it, dearest," said Dick, easily. " If 
 I want to marry later on, I shall marry. If it pleases 
 Providence to send me an heir, well, that will do away 
 with Jack Vincent's chance. But if I don't want to 
 marry, I certainly shall not do so to keep Jack out of 
 the inheritance, to which he has quite as much right 
 as I have." 
 
 " No right in the world," cried Mrs. Vincent. 
 
 " Oh, come, come, you are prejudiced," said Dick. 
 " There's time enough, dear ; and any day the next 
 ten years will do to discuss that contingency. I'll 
 bet you the governor never worries his head about 
 it. 
 
 " More than you think," said Mrs. Vincent.
 
 MRS. VINCENT'S FEARS. l6l 
 
 " Does he ? Poor dear ! I am sorry. I wish he 
 wouldn't, and I wish you wouldn't. To tell you the 
 truth, mother, I hate to think of the time when there 
 will have to be a change of ownership. The governor 
 is in his right place as the squire, and you are in 
 your right place as mistress of Hollingridge. Why 
 }'0u should be anxious to bring somebody else in who 
 would eventually turn you out, I can't think." 
 
 " I hope I am not selfish," cried his mother. 
 
 " Selfish ! Never anybody less so." 
 
 " Then you wouldn't like me to ask Mrs. and Miss 
 Meredith down for a few days .'' " 
 
 " No, I don't think so." 
 
 The very thought of Cynthia at Hollingridge was 
 enough to set his pulse beating at double quick time. 
 With an insurmountable barrier between them, it 
 would indeed, his thoughts ran, be foolish if he al- 
 lowed his mother to foster any greater intimacy than 
 existed between them at present. Of course, he re- 
 minded himself, she, poor darling, did not know why 
 it was better he should see as little of Roger Mere- 
 dith's daughter as possible. 
 
 " I can't think," said Mrs. Vincent to Laura a few 
 hours later, " what has come over Dick." 
 
 " Dick's all right, mother," said Laura. 
 
 " No, he isn't all right. There's something on his 
 mind. He's quite changed from what he was before 
 he went away." 
 
 " Well, dear, seven years of isolation would change 
 any man." 
 
 " Yes ; but he has changed since he came back. I 
 don't know what has happened, but something is 
 
 II
 
 l62 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 weighing on Dick's mind. My dear, I do think we 
 might ask the St. John girls over." 
 
 " The St. John girls .? Why .? " 
 
 " Because they are bright and pretty — and Dick 
 might fall in love v/ith one of them." 
 
 " But you don't want Dick to fall in love with one 
 of them, surely ? " 
 
 " Yes, I do." 
 
 " But why ? " 
 
 " Because I think it would be better for him to be 
 married and have a nice wife of his own, who would 
 go to and fro between England and California, and 
 make life altogether different for Dick." 
 
 " I don't think you had better try interfering with 
 Dick's love affairs," said Laura, wisely. 
 
 " Not interfere, dear, no — not for the world ; that 
 I have never done with any of you. But to put nice 
 girls in his way, that is different. I am not like some 
 mothers," she went on, preening herself complacently, 
 " who can't bear to think of their sons marrying. I 
 want him to marry, I v/ant him to have a nice wife — 
 one of our own sort, to be one of ourselves. I like 
 the St. John girls." 
 
 " Yes. Would you like them as daughters-in-lav/, 
 do you think ? " 
 
 " Well, only one at a time, dear," said Mrs. Vincent, 
 with dignity. 
 
 " I see. I don't think 3'ou would like the St. John 
 girb at all. Dad can't bear them." 
 
 " I never heard him say so," cried Mrs. Vincent. 
 
 " I have, m.any a time," said Laura. " Oh, don't 
 worry, dear^ about Dick. Dick isn't feeling very well ;
 
 MRS. VINXEXT'S fears. 163 
 
 he's bothered about the Meredith affairs. Don't get 
 fancying things about him; he has quite enough on 
 his mind, poor dear, without you worrying. You 
 know, darhng mother, you can't worry without show- 
 ing it." 
 
 " My poor boy ! " said ]\Irs. Vincent, pathetically. 
 " I wish he would confide in me." 
 
 But Dick neither confided in his mother nor in 
 anyone else. He passed his time between Holling- 
 ridge and Foxborough, taking all that was to be had 
 in the way of shooting at either place. Then he re- 
 ceived a letter from Mrs. Meredith. 
 
 " We feel quite hurt," she wrote, " that you have 
 not yet been to see us. This isn't keeping your pro- 
 mise, dear Mr. Vincent. Do find time, when you have 
 killed all the poor birds in your neighbourhood, to 
 come and see us in our resting-place here. Cynthia 
 is as happy as a child, and is looking better every day. 
 For my own part, I particularly want to see you, that 
 I may consult you about various business matters 
 which are too much for me to decide alone. Do make 
 an effort and come down for a few days." 
 
 So she was as happy as a child ; and the little widow 
 could not get on without him any longer. He knew 
 that he had no choice but to go and take up at 
 Brighton the same terms of intimacy that he had 
 been on at Blankhampton. There was no getting out 
 of it ; he had no single excuse that could for a mo- 
 ment hold water with an astute little woman like 
 Cynthia's mother. Yes, he would have to go. 
 
 He broke the nev/s to his m.other, half-expecting 
 that she would grudge his absence, but Mrs. Vincent 
 
 II*
 
 l64 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 still had an eye to the other half of the oil well, and 
 she was instantly all sweet and friendly sympathy. 
 
 " Wants to consult you on business, does she ? " she 
 said. " Poor little woman ! Yes, you must go, dear 
 boy. You can't leave her in the lurch. I suppose 
 she wants to know how to invest the money you 
 brought over — or something of that kind. Poor little 
 soul! I wish you had let me have them here for a 
 bit." 
 
 " I didn't want them here," said Dick, shortly. 
 
 " No, no ; so you said, dear. But I wish you had. 
 I think it would have been kinder on our part." 
 
 " No kindness at all," said Dick. 
 
 " No ? " queried Mrs. Vincent, and dismissed the 
 subject from the conversation. 
 
 " Oh, how he does dislike that poor girl," she re- 
 marked to Laura afterwards. 
 
 " What poor girl ^ " asked Laura. 
 
 " Why, the girl — Meredith's daughter." 
 
 " I don't think he does." 
 
 " My dear child, I'm perfectly certain of it. I 
 wanted to have them here — it seems only a natural 
 thing v;hen Dick was her father's great friend that 
 — well, that the first visit should be to Dick's father 
 and mother. Dick wouldn't hear of it." 
 
 " Oh, wouldn't he ? I suppose Dick knows. What 
 makes you think he doesn't like her ? " 
 
 " I don't think about it, my dear child ; I am per- 
 fectly certain of it. He shut me up." 
 
 " Dick shut you up, mother ? " 
 
 " Yes, shut me up quite short." 
 
 " Oh, mother, what nonsense ! "
 
 MRS. VINCENT'S FEARS. l6$ 
 
 " It isn't nonsense, dear child ; it's fact.'' 
 
 " I suppose she's rich ? " said Laura. 
 
 " Rich ? She's got the other half of the oil well," 
 cried Mrs. Vincent, with what was almost a scream. 
 
 "Ah, and you are thinking of the oil well, are 
 you, darling? Well, if Dick likes her, he wouldn't 
 like her to think that he had an eye to the oil well." 
 
 " This is positively silly ! " cried Mrs. Vincent.
 
 i66 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 SOMETHING CALLING. 
 
 Probably a less conceited man than Dick Vincent 
 has never been born into the world. Nevertheless 
 he could not hide from himself, when he walked into 
 the Merediths' lodgings at Brighton, the fact that 
 Cynthia's grave grey eyes lighted up in a radiant 
 blaze of glory as he entered the room. 
 
 " Now you'll dine with us here to-night ? " said Mrs. 
 Meredith, when they had exchanged greetings and 
 she was pouring out a cup of tea for Dick. 
 
 " No, no. You'll dine with me at my hotel," said 
 he. 
 
 " I don't think that's right." 
 
 " Oh, yes, it is ; most right. I haven't been to 
 Brighton for years ; in fact, I doubt if I have been 
 here more than twice in my life ; and I shall be most 
 hideously disappointed if you don't take me to all the 
 sights and dine with me every night." 
 
 " Oh, but that is not fair." 
 
 "Yes, it is quite fair. You give me your 
 society " 
 
 " And you give us our dinner," laughed Cynthia, 
 
 " Well, if you like to put it that way, Miss Cynthia. 
 I don't in the least care how you put it, so long as I 
 have my own way."
 
 SOMETHING CALLING. \6^ 
 
 "Well, well," said Mrs. Meredith, making a great 
 show of yielding, " we won't quarrel over a point like 
 that." 
 
 " We won't quarrel about anything," said Dick. 
 And somehow, in spite of himself and of his wise reso- 
 lutions, his eyes sought Cynthia's, and on Cynthia's 
 soft round cheeks there rose a colour which turned 
 the faint peach-bloom of her natural tint to a fine 
 roseate hue. In a sense Dick lost his head. He was 
 intoxicated by the charming beauty of her presence, 
 by the charm of her manners, the thrill of her musical 
 voice, the ineffable delight of her presence. 
 
 Then memory pulled him up with a jerk once more, 
 and with a stifled sigh he turned to the little widow, 
 who looked most dainty in her becoming widow's cap. 
 " You wanted to consult me, Mrs. Meredith ? " he said, 
 with quite a change of tone. 
 
 "Ah, yes, but that will keep till to-morrow. We 
 won't talk business to-day. To-morrow morning I 
 will show you the papers that I wanted to consult you 
 about, and we will be as business-like as the most 
 business-like man could desire. To-day we will for- 
 get ; Vv'e will only be friends to-day." 
 
 " I am only too happy to be your friend," said Dick, 
 " and we v/ill leave all the business affairs until the 
 cold and calculating morn. Meantime I see that the 
 theatre is on. Shall we go to-night ? " 
 
 " It would be pleasant," said Mrs. Meredith. " We 
 have seen so little — Cynthia and I." 
 
 " We have seen nothing," put in Cynthia with a gay 
 laugh. " I think, darling mother, that would be 
 nearer the mark. We have seen nothing. You see,
 
 l68 A MAtTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 Mr. Vincent, dear and sweet as our vicar was at home, 
 I think he would have drawn the line at the school- 
 mistress going- to the theatre. So we never went — 
 except sometimes when we were at Rockferry for our 
 summer holiday. The theatre at Rockferry isn't 
 large." 
 
 " The theatre here at Brighton is a large one," said 
 Dick. " There is always a good company, and on 
 Thursday afternoons always a piece down from town. 
 I shall take tickets on my way back to the hotel ; or 
 stay — I can take them in the hotel itself." 
 
 It must be confessed that, even to Dick's masculine 
 eyes, Mrs. Meredith and Cynthia had done themselves 
 very well in the matter of mourning. It is true that 
 Mrs. Meredith was wearing weeds, but they were of 
 the most pronouncedly fashionable type. Her Marie 
 Stuart cap was an airy creation, more like an an- 
 nouncement that its wearer was a widow than any 
 symbol of grief. Her crape bodice was cut square, 
 and filled into the throat with white pleated lisse. If 
 she had looked to Dick very young at their first inter- 
 view, she certainly seemed ten years younger now that 
 he saw her well and fashionably dressed. As for 
 Cynthia, she was adorable. Her simple yet elegant 
 morning toilet was cut so as to show a httle of the 
 softly rounded throat and her round and slender 
 wrists. 
 
 " She is the image of her mother," Dick's thoughts 
 ran, " but, thank God, not so determined a character." 
 And then he remembered with a pang that he need 
 not thank God — that Cynthia Meredith would never 
 be anything to him.
 
 \ 
 
 Something calling. 169 
 
 He thought about her as he walked along the sea 
 front to his hotel. She would never be anything to 
 him — yes, always, always the one woman in the world 
 to him ; his heart would ever turn to her as the most 
 fair and perfect of her sex ; nothing could take that 
 away. She could never be his wife because of that 
 secret which lay hidden in his heart She could never 
 be his wife, but she always could and she always would 
 be his ideal. 
 
 He felt comforted as he turned into the hotel, and 
 it was with a cheerful heart after all that he ordered a 
 little table to be reserved for dinner, and then went 
 out to the bureau to see what places he could get for 
 the theatre. 
 
 This done, he went up to his room and dressed 
 with quite a light heart, and when the two ladies 
 arrived he met them with a beaming smile of welcome. 
 Poor Dick! It was so hard to remember when in 
 Cynthia's sweet presence that he must keep his heart 
 under lock and key, that he must not let himself go, 
 that he must watch every word that fell from his lips, 
 that he must never forget that between them there 
 was a great gulf fixed, a gulf which could never be 
 bridged over on this side the grave. Left to himself, 
 he might have forgotten — nay, it is safe to say he 
 would have forgotten — but that curious likeness to her 
 father in Cynthia's eyes brought him up every now 
 and again as if he were a bird tied by the leg to a 
 stone. It was curious, because Cynthia was so ab- 
 surdly like her mother ; it was only now and again, 
 only when Dick felt the most drawn towards her, that 
 that strange look of Roger Meredith would step in
 
 I/O A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 between them, of Roger Meredith as he had seen him 
 last. 
 
 Well, the morning after the dinner and the visit to 
 the theatre, Dick went round to the Merediths' 
 pleasant rooms in order to see what was the business 
 on which Mrs. Meredith desired to consult him. 
 
 " Ah, it is you," she said, in a tone of satisfaction. 
 " How good of you to come so early ! Cynthia has 
 gone out for a blow on the front, so we are quite alone. 
 Now, I am going to take you right into my confid- 
 ence." 
 
 " I hope so," said Dick. 
 
 " I daresay you won't be pleased," said the little 
 woman. 
 
 "Oh, why not?" 
 
 " Because I am going to tell you what, somehow, I 
 feel will vex you." 
 
 " Oh, no, Mrs. Meredith. Why should anything 
 you tell me vex me ? " 
 
 " Well, we like Brighton." 
 
 " You are thinking of taking a house here ? " 
 
 " Not at present. You know, all our treasures — 
 heaven knows they are not many ! " she said, with a 
 sigh and a smile, " I have left in safe keeping in 
 London." 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 " By and by we shall settle down somewhere, and 
 we shall make ourselves a home ; but not yet." 
 
 " No ? You desire to travel ? " 
 
 " Yes, that's just it. We desire to travel. Now we 
 want to know when you are going back to Santa 
 Clara."
 
 SOMETHING CALLING. 171 
 
 " I propose to go back in about six weeks' time," 
 he replied. 
 
 " Six weeks' time ? Now, I know you will be vexed 
 at what I am going to say." 
 
 " I will try not to be, Mrs. :Meredith." 
 
 " Well, we want to go over with you." 
 
 " Oh, but " 
 
 " Yes, I knew you would say ' but ' — yes, of course 
 I knew that ; but we want to go, do you see ? And 
 we mean to go." 
 
 " Of course, if you mean to go, if you have set your 
 minds on going," said Dick, " well, I suppose you will 
 go." 
 
 " I suppose we shall," said the little widow. 
 
 " I quite understand your wish to see the place, it's 
 a perfectly natural wish ; to you there is something 
 very fine and delightful in the idea, but you won't 
 enjoy it." 
 
 " No, perhaps not But I shall have satisfied my- 
 self." 
 
 " Satisfied yourself ! " His heart was beating so 
 that he could scarcely pronounce the words. 
 " Satisfied yourself ! " he echoed. 
 
 Mrs. Meredith nodded. "Yes," she said, "I have 
 set my heart on seeing the place where Roger passed 
 the last seven years of his life. I mean to go to his 
 grave. Oh, yes, I mean to go to the place where he 
 died." 
 
 " You must do as you like," said Dick, in a steady, 
 calm voice. 
 
 I am bound to confess that his calmness was the 
 calmness of despair. He felt assured that once Mrs.
 
 172 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 Meredith found herself at Midas Creek, in the very 
 hotel where Roger had died, she would spot — ^yes, 
 that was the word he used, remember gentle reader ; 
 do not think that I, his author, am using so unhterary 
 a word, I am but detailing his thoughts at the moment, 
 and that was the phrase as Dick Vincent put it in his 
 mind — she would spot the identity of the man who 
 had fled by the advice of the landlord and Valentine 
 Clegg ; she would root out Valentine Clegg ; she 
 would do a thousand things that would be incon- 
 venient and tiresome. Well, let her do it. Let the 
 worst come to the worst ; he could but own to it all 
 and explain that his only thought in concealment had 
 been to save her pain. After all, nobody could blame 
 him. It was a mere matter of sentiment, it could be 
 but a mere matter of sentiment that his happened to 
 be the hand on the revolver at the critical moment 
 when Meredith's brain gave out; there was nothing 
 personal about it. Oh, the woman was determined ; 
 she must do as she pleased. If she chose to go to 
 Santa Clara, she must go. 
 
 "What are you thinking of, Mr. Vincent?" said 
 Mrs. Meredith, looking at him fixedly. 
 
 " I was wondering how we could manage the 
 journey so that you would be tolerably comfortable," 
 he replied. 
 
 " Oh, as to that we are no feather-bed creatures, 
 sugar and salt, wrapped in cotton wool. You came 
 down ; where you came down we can go up." 
 
 " That doesn't follow," said Dick. 
 
 " Well, it doesn't ; but if we suffer, why, we suffer ; 
 and it will be no fault of yours, for I can honestly say
 
 SOMETHING CALLING. 1 73 
 
 that you genuinely tried to scare me off. But I am 
 not to be scared off. I want to see the place that was 
 called after me. I have never had a yard of earth in 
 my life — not so much as the freehold of a grave. I 
 have got a fine estate out there ; I want to see it." 
 
 "Yes, well, that is possible enough," said Dick. 
 " All that I am afraid of is that you will be hideously 
 disappointed when you do see it. Over here one 
 somehow thinks of California as a garden. There is 
 precious little of the garden about it, Mrs. Meredith. 
 However, if you have made up your mind to go, per- 
 haps it is better that you should go and get it done 
 with. You won't want to stay there very long, that's 
 certain. You think of the ranche as a fine estate ; as 
 far as money value goes it is a fine estate ; as far as 
 beauty goes, don't have any idea that you are going 
 to find the counterpart there of what you call a fine 
 estate here. If you go out there, if it is only for a 
 month, you will go out to a rough life, to rough work, 
 to a total want of convenience, to disappointment — 
 yes, I am certain to disappointment — but you will be 
 satisfied. I won't say another word against it." 
 
 " Now I never thought I could bring you round to 
 reason like that," said Mrs. Meredith, looking at him 
 with a quizzical air. " I told Cynthia to go out and 
 stop out till one o'clock, because I expected it would 
 be a long time before I should bring you to reason." 
 
 " But, my dear lady, there's no bringing me to 
 reason. You are free to do as you choose. You have 
 a perfect right to go out if you wish to do so. I only 
 have tried to dissuade you because I have been there, 
 and I know how beastly it all is to an English mind ;
 
 174 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 but if you have set your heart upon it, why, there's 
 nothing more to be said. I can't stop your going. 
 You won't want to go twice." 
 
 " That's as may be. I am dehghted that you have 
 come round, and that you are so sensible. I hate 
 people who are not sensible. Something tells me that 
 I ought to go ; something that's with me by day and 
 most of the nigTit, something that's always about me, 
 says : ' Go to Santa Clara. You will be happy when 
 you have been to Santa Clara.' Now, should I have 
 such a feeling for nothing ? " 
 
 " I don't know," said Dick. " You might. I don't 
 feel that you will be any happier for going. But then 
 I am not you, and you must do as you like. Do you 
 think he — do you wish me to think that — I mean, is it 
 that — that Meredith himself is calling you," he asked, 
 in a curious strained voice, " that Meredith is influenc- 
 ing you from where he may be, that he wants you to 
 go — is urging you to go? Do you think Meredith 
 wants you to clear up an}'thing connected with his 
 death?"
 
 1/5 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 A TIME OF INDECISION. 
 
 When Dick Vincent put the question straight to 
 Ron^cr Meredith's widow which asked whether she 
 had any feeUng that there might be some mystery to 
 clear up connected with his death, he felt exactly as 
 if he were signing his own death warrant. 
 
 " I don't know," she said. " It might be. I can 
 only tell you that ever since I knew that Roger was 
 dead, I have had the same curious feeling that I must 
 go to Santa Clara, the feeling of som.ebody calling 
 me. I don't know whether it is Roger, or not. I only 
 know that I must go." 
 
 " In that case," said Dick, " I think that you are 
 perfectly right to make up your mind and carry it 
 through. So, Mrs. J\Ieredith, we will consider it 
 settled. I will do my best to miake you feel the 
 journey as little as may be ; it's a very tedious journey, 
 and you will find but little comfort when you get to 
 the end of it ; except the comfort of having a mind 
 at ease." 
 
 " Yoa will stay and have lunch with us ? " said Mrs. 
 Meredith presently, when they had finished their busi- 
 ness talk. 
 
 " Oh, you are very kind. Yes, I'd like to— if it 
 doesn't inconvenience you."
 
 176 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 " Not the least. And Cynthia will be delighted. 
 She wanted to see you ; "^she has something that she 
 wants to ask you. No, I won't tell you what it is, 
 because I hate having things said for me. Oh, Mr. 
 Vincent, I can't tell you how delighted she will be 
 that you have consented to our going out with you." 
 
 " Consented ? I wish you wouldn't put it in that 
 way. The world is perfectly free to you, to do as 
 you like, and Miss Cynthia also. I had no business 
 to give an opinion even — let alone consent. Surely, 
 Mrs. Meredith, you understood that from the be- 
 ginning ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes ; but we shouldn't have gone dead against 
 you. We've too much faith in your judgment for that. 
 We quite see now what you meant about Brighton, 
 Mind, I think it was the best place under the circum- 
 stances — yes, I think it was quite the best place that 
 we could possibly have come to ; but I quite see why 
 you disapproved, and I think you were perfectly right. 
 I shouldn't like to live here, except in the winter ; I 
 shouldn't like to come here another year — another 
 summer. As it is, I fancy that it has served our turn 
 better than any of us know ; and I think when you 
 see Cynthia you will agree with me." 
 
 When Dick Vincent did see Cynthia Meredith he 
 was convinced of one thing — that she was the loveliest 
 girl he had ever seen in his life, and that if he should 
 live to be a hundred years old, no other woman would 
 ever have quite the same effect upon him as she. 
 She, on her side, was unmistakably delighted to see 
 him again, but in truth Dick himself was too over- 
 whelmingly in love to be able to read quite accu-
 
 A TIME OF INDECISION. I77 
 
 rately what her face ought to have told him. In his 
 self-abasement he put down the softly shining eyes, 
 the delicately blooming cheeks, the gay insouciant 
 manner to the benefit that she had received from 
 change of air. Without doubt the girl was better 
 for the rest and change and ease which had come 
 into her life ; she was the better for these things, as 
 her mother was indisputably better for being out of 
 anxiety at last ; but it was not change of air or ease 
 of circumstances that had made Cynthia look as she 
 looked at that moment. 
 
 " Now you see her in the daylight," cried Mrs. 
 Aleredith, who was as blind in her way as Dick was 
 in his ; " now you see what change has done for this 
 young lady." 
 
 " Ah, change is good for everybody," cried Cynthia. 
 " Well, have you two settled all your wonderful busi- 
 ness arrangements ■ " 
 
 " Yes, darling, we have settled everything. Mr. 
 Vincent is going to stay to lunch, and I have a great 
 piece of news for you." 
 
 She looked up quicldy at Dick, a sudden pallor 
 overspreading her countenance. " Why, w^hat has 
 happened '•! " she asked, in a tone of apprehension. 
 
 " Oh, nothing disagreeable, dearest ; nothing but 
 that Mr. Vincent has come round to my way of think- 
 ing. He has quite come to see, darling, that it would 
 be better if we go out to Santa Clara when he does." 
 
 " Oh, really. Why, what magic have you used to 
 make him change his opinion like this ? " 
 
 " I don't know that I have changed my opinion. 
 Miss Cynthia," said Dick. " As I said in the begin- 
 
 12
 
 178 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 ning, you will both be woefully disappointed with 
 Santa Clara. You will have a very long and tedious 
 journey, and you will suffer many and hideous incon- 
 veniences, but your mother will satisfy her mind, and, 
 after all, that is an important item." 
 
 Cynthia laughed, the colour rushing back to her 
 face again. " Mr. Vincent," she said, " to you who 
 have been half the world over, it must seem very 
 foolish that we should so persistently want this one 
 thing. To you a long journey is a bore ; to us it is 
 a novelty and an experience ; and the longer it is and 
 the more fatiguing, the more thoroughly we shall 
 enjoy it. Why, don't you remember the man in 
 ' Punch,' in a third-class carriage between Edinburgh 
 and London .^ He says, ' What a ghastly long drive 
 it is ! ' And his fellow-passenger, a canny Scotchman, 
 exclaims, ' Mun, the ticket cost one pun, twelve-and- 
 saxpence. Ye need hae something for your money.' " 
 
 " Oh, yes, yes," said Dick, " I see your point ; and 
 as long as you are not disappointed, I needn't say 
 that to me the presence of ladies at Santa Clara will 
 be a joy. I told poor Roger, your father, often 
 enough that you would come there and be perfectly 
 happy." He dropped his voice so that Mrs. Mere- 
 dith, who was speaking to the servant who had just 
 entered, could not hear what he said. 
 
 Cynthia dropped her voice to the same level. " It 
 is my mother's great wish," she said. " I have never 
 known her so entirely set upon anything. She would 
 have been wretched if you hadnt given way. Thank 
 you very much, Mr. Vincent. You have been so good 
 to us."'
 
 A TIME OF INDECISION. 1 79 
 
 " Don't say that," he said ; " the goodness is all the 
 other way." 
 
 Then Mrs. Meredith turned her back towards them 
 again, and the conversation passed into other and 
 lighter channels. 
 
 It is hard adequately to convey the state of Dick 
 Vincent's mind at this juncture. What he suffered 
 was not less than torture. With every day, every 
 hour, he became more and more hopelessly and pas- 
 sionately in love with Cynthia Meredith. There were 
 times when he made up his mind that he would risk 
 everything ; that he would ask her to marry him ; 
 others when he felt that there was no help for it but 
 mailing a clean breast of the whole story once for all ; 
 but, strange to say, so surely as he made up his mind 
 that he would risk all and ask Cynthia to marry him, 
 so did ahvays that curious look come into her eyes 
 which reminded him of her father. Of course it was 
 a natural thing that the girl should resemble her 
 father in some particular, and her deep, grey eyes 
 were almost the only feature in which there was any 
 likeness to Roger Meredith. Sometimes he would 
 make up his mind that he would tell the mother and 
 daughter that his was the hand which had sent Mere- 
 dith to his last account ; yet whenever he drew near 
 to the subject, by some chance Cynthia always con- 
 trived to check him. That was pure accident, of 
 course, and perhaps something to do with the fact 
 that it was not, naturally, a very palatable confession 
 for a young man to have to make. At such times he 
 would feel that he had been a fool ever to think of 
 upsetting their minds and their confidence in him by 
 
 12*
 
 l80 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 saying a single word of what was not actually neces- 
 sary to be told. " If I cannot stop her from going 
 to Midas Creek," his thoughts ran, " surely something 
 will happen so that she will not go ferreting every- 
 thmg out there. Perhaps it may not be the same 
 landlord ; perhaps we might go and not a soul recog- 
 nise me or remember much about Meredith's death. 
 It isn't such an uncommon thing for a man to get put 
 out of the way like that. I don't suppose the affair 
 made more than a stir of an hour or two ; and evi- 
 dently the jury sympathised with me, or they never 
 would have brought it in ' Died by the visitation of 
 God.' It was only their way of acquitting me of 
 blame." 
 
 Then he tore himself away from Brighton, and 
 went back to Hollingridge. That time he was fully 
 determined that, somehow or another, he must break 
 with the Merediths. Yes, he fully made up his mind 
 that life at this rate was not worth living, and that 
 anything would be better than the anguish of mind 
 to which he was now subject. 
 
 " Going down to Brighton again ? " said his mother, 
 when eight or ten days had gone by. 
 
 " Yes, I must go down. I have rather important 
 business. I shall be back in forty-eight hours." 
 
 He happened to meet Cynthia on his way from 
 his hotel to the Merediths' lodgings, and at the sight 
 of the speaking grey eyes, the quivering of the tremu- 
 lous lips, and the heightening of the lovely rose-bloom 
 on the face, it may as well be confessed that all his 
 good resolutions took unto themselves wings and flew 
 away.
 
 A TIME OF INDECISION. l8l 
 
 He stayed two days in Brighton that time, going 
 away more hopelessly in love than ever — more con- 
 vinced that the marriage could not be, and that 
 Cynthia was not for him. 
 
 " I am sure you are not well," said IMrs. Meredith 
 to him on the second day. 
 
 " No, I am not very well," he replied. " It's no- 
 thing ; don't worry about it, I beg." 
 
 So he went back to Hollingridge, where his mother 
 was much exercised in her mind, and though she did 
 not say a word to him, she several times confided her 
 doubts and fears to Laura, 
 
 " I cannot tell what is the matter with Dick. I 
 never saw anybody so changed in my life. He's like 
 a person who cannot rest." 
 
 " I suppose," said Laura, " that he has been doing 
 labourer's work for the last seven years, and now 
 finds a life of ease and idleness almost intolerable." 
 
 " I don't think it is that," said Mrs. Vincent, " and 
 yet I don't know what it is. There is something 
 that we do not know anything about." 
 
 " Then, my dear mother, you may be sure that we 
 shall never know," said Laura, wisely. 
 
 " He's in love ; that's what's the matter with 
 Dick." 
 
 " I don't think so," said Laura. 
 
 " I don't think ; I'm sure of it. Now is it that 
 Meredith girl, or isn't it ? " 
 
 " He says she's very pretty," was Laura's remark. 
 
 " Yes, but I begged him to let me ask them here 
 for a few days. I think it would be the only proper 
 thing for me to do. He wouldn't hear of it He
 
 1 83 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 says they are ladies. The girl is very pretty. He 
 seems to like them very much, and — and " 
 
 " Well .? " said Laura. 
 
 " Well, I'm looking ahead at the future a little." 
 
 " As how > " 
 
 " Miss Meredith is the heiress to half the oil well, 
 which last year yielded a little over ten thousand 
 pounds. Now it seems a pity to me, as she is young 
 and pretty, and a lady, and Dick is unmistakably 
 in love with her, that — well, that Dick doesn't marry 
 her." 
 
 " Perhaps she won't have Dick." 
 
 " So likely ! " said the mother, with dignified scorn. 
 " Where has she had the chance to meet such a man 
 as Dick ? " 
 
 " W^cll, dear, it isn't quite that. Girls, especially 
 when they are young, have their fancies — just as men 
 have. Perhaps Dick has already asked her. He went 
 down to Brigiiton and stayed two days." 
 
 " Well, he told me he should be back in forty-eight 
 hours." 
 
 " But he wasn't back in forty-eight hours, dearest." 
 
 " He was only there two days. The question is, 
 did Dick propose ? If so, did she refuse him .? " 
 
 " I don't know." 
 
 " I wish I could see the girl, then I should know 
 in a minute." 
 
 " Well, dearest, perhaps it is just as well that you 
 can't," was Laura's sensible reply, " Look here, 
 mother, take my advice. Don't say a word to 
 Dick." 
 
 "As if I should!"
 
 A TIME OF INDECISION. 183 
 
 "You might Try not to think about it. Leave 
 Dick to manage his own affairs by himself. If he 
 wants the girl, you may be sure that he will do his 
 best to win her. Meantime, it's no use asking other 
 girls over, because Dick will have none of them." 
 
 " I know that," said Mrs. Vincent, ruefully. 
 
 And it was quite true. Dick absolutely declined 
 to be fascinated by any of the young ladies in the 
 neighbourhood of Hollingridge. They might be rich, 
 or well born, or pretty, or charming, or possessed of 
 any other desirable quality that young men look for 
 in their wives ; it was all the same to Dick, and before 
 he had been at home a week he again took flight and 
 his way to Brighton, this time fully determined that 
 come what might he would not let " I dare not " wait 
 upon " I will." He would make the horrid plunge, 
 and put himself face to face with the truth, whether 
 when Cynthia knew that her father had died by his 
 hand, she would scorn him or not. He determined 
 that he would break the news first to Cynthia, that if 
 Cynthia took it in the wrong way he could quietly 
 efface himself without paining her mother by the dis- 
 closure. He would leave it to Cynthia whether she 
 chose to tell her or not. 
 
 It happened that he had some difficulty in finding 
 a suitable opportunity. He did not choose to tell her 
 in the lodgings, because they were never free from 
 the chance of being interrupted by her mother. He 
 planned out a long walk to some point of interest 
 which would offer a feasible excuse for such an ex- 
 cursion. Yes, he would tell her then ; and if she was 
 upset, they would be on a quiet country road and
 
 184 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 nobody would be the wiser if she gave way to 
 emotion. 
 
 But alack and alas! it poured for the better part 
 of three whole days ; and beyond going to a concert 
 at the Pavilion, to the theatre, and to one of the 
 hotels to dine, neither Mrs. Meredith nor Cynthia 
 ventured out of doors at all. Then, on the third 
 morning, he received a telegram from his sister 
 Laura : — " Father very ill. Fear hopeless. Come 
 home at once."
 
 i85 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 THE OLD SQUIRE AND THE NEW. 
 
 As fast as rail could take him Dick Vincent sped home 
 to the old house. He was terribly upset by his sister's 
 telegram. He and his father had always been de- 
 voted friends, and the news that he was lying ill of 
 what was probably a hopeless malady was very ter- 
 rible to him. The journey seemed interminable — as 
 journeys taken under such circumstances always do. 
 He said to himself, over and over again, that of course 
 in the face of such a message it would have been im- 
 possible for him to continue the confidence which he 
 was about to make to Cynthia Meredith. 
 
 " Perhaps it is a sign that I ought not to tell her ; 
 that it would be better not to tell her," his confused 
 thoughts ran. "If the dear old governor gets over 
 this, I'll take it as a warning that it would be better 
 not to tell Cynthia a single word of that episode. Per- 
 haps it was only sent to me as a means of getting me 
 away. I had better take it as a sign not to think of 
 her any more." 
 
 But he did continue to think of her during all the 
 rest of the journey ; and at last the train steamed into 
 Plollingridge station, and he thrust his head out 
 eagerly to see if there was anyone who could give him 
 news of his father's state. Almost the first person
 
 1 86 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 that he saw was his sister Laura, looking anxiously up 
 and down the station. He waved an eager hand to 
 her, and she came swiftly along the platform to meet 
 him. 
 
 " How is he ? " he asked. 
 
 " Oh, just the same. Horribly ill." 
 
 " But with what? " he asked, as he bent and kissed 
 her. 
 
 " Oh, a fit of apoplexy. He was all right this morn- 
 ing at breakfast, in fact he had been all round the 
 stables pottering about just as usual. He came in to 
 breakfast as brisk as a bee, and just as he was leaving 
 the table he slipped and fell. Mother called out to 
 him — she knew in a moment what it was. He just 
 said, ' I am very ill. Send for Dick.' Of course they 
 got him to bed, but he was unconscious then, and the 
 doctor has been with him most of the day since. 
 Dick, dear, he says it's quite hopeless ; there's nothing 
 to be done." 
 
 Dick turned his head away with a blurred mist in 
 front of his eyes. " Will he know me, do you think ? " 
 
 " I don't think so," Laura replied. " He hasn't 
 taken any notice of anybody. He just lies there, feel- 
 ing with his hand all over the bed as if he were search- 
 ing for something ; and now and then he'll seem to 
 brush a fly off his face. Oh, it's dreadful, Dick — it's 
 dreadful ! " 
 
 " And mother ? " Dick asked, in a choking voice. 
 
 " Mother ? Oh, she just sits there holding his 
 hand ; it's heart-breaking." 
 
 " Do you think he'll know me ? " 
 
 " I shouldn't think so."
 
 THE OLD SQUIRE AND THE NEW. 187 
 
 It gave Dick a shock as they drove up the avenue 
 to see that the house presented very much its usual 
 appearance. The dogs were lying out on the broad 
 steps, Laura's Persian cat was perched on the balu- 
 strade, the flowers all bloomed just as they had been 
 doing for weeks, and the white lace curtains stirred 
 idly in the evening breeze. 
 
 The old butler met him with a shake of the head. 
 " Eh, it's a sad home-coming, IMr. Dick," he said. 
 
 " Yes, Charles. Is there any news ? " 
 
 " No, sir, it's just the same. I was in there just 
 now. If you could persuade the mistress to eat some- 
 thing. Do get her out of the room, Mr. Dick. If it 
 was only a glass of old port and a biscuit, it would be 
 better than nothing. I know cook's made some 
 strong beef -tea. It may be days before the end 
 comes." 
 
 "All right," said Dick. 
 
 He turned and followed Laura into the dining-room, 
 feeling all at once cold and sick. It was horrible to 
 hear Charles speak of the end in that tone of certainty. 
 
 " I'd advise you, Mr. Dick," said old Charles, follow- 
 ing him into the room, " to take a nip of brandy before 
 you go in to see the mistress ; and then do try and 
 bring her out, Mr. Dick." 
 
 " All right," said Dick, " I will." 
 
 He went into his father's room a few minutes later, 
 and although the old man opened his eyes when Dick 
 spoke to him, there was no gleam of any real con- 
 sciousness in his face. 
 
 An old woman from the village, who had nursed 
 the young Vincents as children, was standing by the
 
 1 88 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 bed. " It's no use, Mr. Dick," she said, " he doesn't 
 know you. He hasn't known anyone really since 
 half an hour after he was taken. He'll never know 
 anyone again." 
 
 " How long have you been in this room, mother ? " 
 Dick asked, turning to Mrs. Vincent. 
 
 " I don't know, dear. Ever since " 
 
 " Come out with me for a few minutes ; you can 
 do no good here. Come, just for ten minutes." 
 
 With some difficulty she permitted herself to be 
 persuaded, and Dick got her into the dining-room. 
 
 " I don't really want anything to drink, Dick," she 
 cried. 
 
 " No, dearest, I know you don't want it, but you may 
 have a very long strain before you yet. Don't refuse 
 what will sustain and strengthen you. Charles has 
 got some port up for you ; it will do you so much 
 good." 
 
 " If the mistress would be persuaded to have a cup 
 of strong beef-tea," said Charles. 
 
 " No, I really can't." 
 
 " Well, you've had no lunch, have you ? " 
 
 " Not a mouthful, Mr. Dick," said Charles. 
 
 " I daresay my mother doesn't feel like it, Charles. 
 But she might take a cup of beef-tea. Come, darling, 
 do. Think of us a little ; think what it will mean to 
 us if you are laid up also." 
 
 " Oh, I'll do anything you like, Dick," said his 
 mother. " I never was stupid, and I wouldn't hurt 
 poor dear cook's feelings for the world." She took 
 the cup of beef-tea and drained it. " Yes, that is very 
 good," she said. "It doesn't take an effort to get it
 
 THE OLD SQUIRE AND THE NEW. 1 89 
 
 down. What, Charles? A little port? Oh, I don't 
 mind. 
 
 " Come outside for five minutes," said Dick. " It's 
 such a hot night, scarcely a breath stirring." 
 
 " No, not outside," said his mother, shrinking back. 
 
 " Well, just to the door. Let me put you a chair 
 on the drawing-room veranda for ten minutes. You 
 must think of yourself, dear." 
 
 " I don't like to leave him," said his mother, weakly. 
 
 " No, not to leave him. But old Goody is there, 
 and if he wanted you or anything, she would come 
 for you in a minute. It isn't like going out of the 
 house. Just you get a breath of air, dear." 
 
 Eventually she suffered herself to be coaxed out 
 into the veranda on to which several of the drawing- 
 room windows opened, and there they sat for a few 
 minutes while the soft summer shadows fell gently 
 around them, and late afternoon wore into evening as 
 softly, almost as imperceptibly, as the good genial life 
 upstairs was wearing away to eternity. 
 
 " I must go back," said Mrs. Vincent at last 
 
 Dick made no effort to detain her. He knew that 
 she would in any case be the better for the change of 
 air, and in truth time proved that he was right. Mrs. 
 Vincent had need of all her strength, for several days 
 went by, during which the squire lay in exactly the 
 same state, breathing stertorously, but taking no notice 
 of anyone or anything. Oh, the wretched time it was. 
 Mrs. Vincent spent most of her time at the bedside ; 
 even she, in the end, suffered herself to be drawn away 
 to lie down and rest under a distinct promise that she 
 should be called at the slightest change.
 
 1 90 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 Dick and the two girls wandered in and out of the 
 house, saw visitors who came to make inquiries, and 
 killed time as best they could, not liking to speak 
 above a whisper, unable to settle to any occupation. 
 And so the weary days dragged on and on, and on the 
 fifth evening the change for which they had been 
 watching came, and soon the squire was at rest. 
 
 To all it was a relief, although being excessively 
 sultry it was terrible to be in a house of which the 
 blinds were closely drawn. Then came four dreadful 
 days ere that of the funeral, and a terrible ordeal in 
 the fact that all sorts and conditions of men and 
 women came to pay their last tribute of respect to the 
 dead man. 
 
 There was a great collation after the ceremony, and 
 Dick sat at the head of the table and realised for the 
 first time that henceforth this was his own place. 
 Then he had to bid adieu to everyone, to receive 
 countless messages for his mother, and, most fre- 
 quently of all, to reply to the question would he ever 
 go back to California, or not ? 
 
 " Yes, I must go back," he said several times. " I 
 must go back, if it is only to settle things. Oh, there's 
 no fear of my chest now ; that's mended long ago. I 
 shall be obliged to go back for various reasons ; but 
 of course my mother and sisters will be here." 
 
 " 1 wonder how long the mother and sisters will be 
 there," said one country gentleman to another as they 
 drove away. " He's a fine, likely-looking lad is Dick." 
 
 " Oh, yes, a very fine lad. Why, he must be getting 
 on for thirty now." 
 
 " Thirty or odd, my dear chap. Same age as my
 
 THE OLD SQUIRE AND THE NEW. I9I 
 
 Tom. I remember his being born as well as yester- 
 day. And poor old Vincent was sixty-five, so he was 
 thirty-five when Dick was born." 
 
 " That's about it. J^Irs. Vincent was young, you 
 know. I don't believe she's nineteen years older than 
 Dick. Never thought the old squire would have gone 
 off like that, did you ? " 
 
 " Oh, I don't know. He was getting very red in 
 the face. He puffed a good bit as he came up the 
 stairs at the Bench. I've noticed it several times." 
 
 " Horrid thing, apoplexy," said the other one. 
 " Somehow or another it always seems to me as if it 
 was in a measure your own fault. Did it ever strike 
 you so ? " 
 
 " Well, yes. You see, the poor old squire never 
 was the same after he gave up hunting." 
 
 " Why did he give up hunting ? " 
 
 " Why, something to do with the veins of his legs. 
 Couldn't ride ; and after being a hard rider to hounds 
 all his life it didn't pay to take to doddering about. 
 I'm sorry he is gone ; he was a good sort, never a 
 better." 
 
 Well might relations and friends alike regret the 
 passing of the genial old squire of Hollingridge ; but 
 regrets, no matter how bitter they are, are impotent 
 to change one iota of the workings of Nature. The 
 squire was gone ; his place would know him no more ; 
 he had pottered round the stables, and the glass- 
 houses, and the grounds, and the place in which he 
 had been born, and which he loved with all his heart, 
 for the last time. 
 
 " Now, dear boy," said Mrs. Vincent the morning
 
 192 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 after the funeral, " I want to have a serious talk with 
 you." 
 
 " No, mother ; it is not necessary." 
 
 " It's best," said Mrs. Vincent, briefly, " to begin as 
 we intend to go on." 
 
 " Yes, dearest, but it isn't necessary to discuss that 
 at present," said Dick, firmly. 
 
 " You are the master of Hollingridge now ; you 
 are the squire." 
 
 " I know it," said Dick. " More's the pity it is so ; 
 but you are the mistress. Please let me hear nothing 
 more about it. I don't want to discuss it — there's 
 nothing to discuss." 
 
 " But if you should marry " began his mother, 
 
 tremulously. 
 
 " Well, dearest, if I should want to marry, I'll come 
 and tell you, and things will be made as convenient 
 as possible for you and the girls. Believe me, I shall 
 not spring a marriage on you, or anything else. Don't 
 talk about changes ; we've had one change, that's 
 enough — more than enough for the present." 
 
 " I should like to know," began his mother — " I 
 must know," she continued, in a desperate voice. 
 " We must have some scale of expenditure agreed 
 upon." 
 
 " Well, dear, I suppose that's necessary. It seems 
 to me that what my father could afford, I can afford. 
 You and the dear Dad have never lived above your 
 income, and there can be no necessity or occasion to 
 make any difference or any radical change now. For 
 the present, what you have been accustomed to spend 
 will be the proper thing to spend. Let everything go
 
 THE OLD SQUIRE AND THE NEW. 1 93 
 
 on as it has done until some of us want to make a 
 change. Winifred will be getting married by and by ; 
 well, that will be the first change ; possibly Laura." 
 
 " Possibly yourself," said Mrs. Vincent. 
 
 " Well, possibly myself ; but I think not. At all 
 events, that is a contingency which has not arisen, or 
 any prospect of it ; so we needn't discuss it as yet." 
 
 " And you will go out to California ? " 
 
 " I must go back, dearest, for a few months. I must 
 arrange either for the proper working of the place, or 
 for selling it. You must see that for yourself." 
 
 " Yes, yes, I see plainly enough. But you won't 
 stop there now ? " 
 
 " No, I shan't stop there. As ranching, it isn't 
 worth it, and an oil well can be worked without per- 
 sonal supervision. Or I can sell. I must be guided 
 by circumstances as to which course I take. But you 
 may be assured of one thing — that I shall not stay a 
 day longer than is absolutely necessary. I would not 
 go at all unless it were a necessity." 
 
 " I certainly would not like to feel that you would 
 go out there and remain another seven years." 
 
 " Oh, no, I should not have done if this trouble 
 had not come upon us. After all, the place has served 
 my turn. I went out with an awfully dickey chest, 
 and now it's as strong as any other part of me. I shall 
 never grudge the years I have spent out there ; con- 
 stitutionally they made a man of me ; but for my 
 pleasure — oh, thank you very much, I have had enough 
 of It." 
 
 " If I were you, Dick," said Mrs. Vincent, " I would 
 sell. Supposing your oil well dried up ? " 
 
 13
 
 194 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 " That would be awkward," said Dick. " I don't 
 believe that oil wells ever dry up so soon as this. But 
 I can't settle anything here on this side. I must do 
 what I think is for the best when I get out there, face 
 to face with those who are likely to want to buy." 
 
 " And in any case you mean to spend the greater 
 part of your life at home ? " 
 
 " The rest of my life, mother dear," said Dick.
 
 195 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 THE CENTRE OF THE WORLD. 
 
 For a few days after the squire's funeral Dick 
 Vincent did not set foot outside the estate of which 
 he was now master. On the fourth day his mother 
 canie to him in the httle room which had been his 
 father's den. 
 
 " Dick," she said, " I ha,ve had such a nice letter 
 from your ]\Irs. I^Jeredith." 
 
 " Oh, have you ? " He looked up and stretched out 
 an arm to draw her down upon the sofa beside him, 
 as boys who are on very affectionate terms v/ith their 
 mother often do. " She's a nice little woman," he 
 said, " a dear little woman. And, you see, she's been 
 in trouble herself." 
 
 " Her letter is very sv/eet," said Mrs. Vincent. " I 
 want you to read it." 
 
 It was a sweet, sympathetic, womanly letter. " Your 
 son," it said, " will have told you all the circumstances 
 in v/hich I lost my husband. How different to your 
 own! You, who stayed so many hours by your 
 husband's bedside, holding his hand to the last, cannot 
 perhaps understand how I envy you. Bitter as your 
 grief must be, you were together ; I have always the 
 anguish of remembering that my husband died with- 
 
 13*
 
 ig6 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 out knowing whether I loved him or not — even without 
 knowing whether I was faithful or not. Dear lady, 
 we do not know each other, except through your 
 charming son, so good, so kind, so considerate. In- 
 deed, you are blessed in him beyond all things. I 
 hope to meet you one day, that I may tell you just 
 how sweet and good your son has been to me." 
 
 " And you wouldn't let me ask them here, Dick," 
 said Mrs. Vincent, reproachfully. 
 
 For a moment or so Dick did not speak. " Some- 
 times, mother," he said at last, " one is afraid to do 
 what one is most anxious for." 
 
 " Then," said his mother quickly, and looking away 
 out of the window in order that she might not in any 
 way scare his confidence, " then your old friend's 
 daughter is more to you than an ordinary girl ? " 
 
 " She is everything to me," said Dick, under his 
 breath. 
 
 " I should like to see her," said his mother. " I 
 should like to have her here." 
 
 " No, I would rather you didn't. It is not at all 
 likely, dear mother, that anything more will come — 
 will — how shall I put it ? — will come of our friendship." 
 
 " Do you mean that she doesn't like you .' " 
 
 " No, I believe she thinks I am all right. She has 
 never been other than perfectly charming to me." 
 
 " Ah, well, it's early days," cried his mother. " A 
 pretty girl with a lot of money is not going to give 
 herself away until the man has asked her. You must 
 win her, my dear." 
 
 " We will see," said Dick. And a vision then of 
 Meredith in his last tumultuous moments came before
 
 THE CENTRE OF THE WORLD. 197 
 
 him. " I would like to explain everything. I don't 
 know how to put it," he said, in a rapid undertone ; 
 " I don't feel, somehow, that Meredith would approve. 
 I have a very peculiar feeling about Meredith. It 
 isn't her — I can't have }'ou blame her for a moment 
 — she is too sweet for words — ^but I do not feel that 
 she is for me." 
 
 " There is something wrong about her ? " said his 
 mother. 
 
 " No, no. She is everything that is good and beau- 
 tiful and charming." 
 
 For a moment his mother did not speak. Then, 
 without looking at him, for she was a very wise woman 
 in her way, she put her hand out and laid it over his. 
 " Have faith in time, dearest boy," she said, " have 
 faith in time. It works wonders." 
 
 The letter to Mrs. Vincent was not the only one 
 which came from Brighton to HoUingridge. Both 
 Mrs. Meredith and Cynthia wrote to Dick ; Cynthia 
 only once, it is true — a sweet, tender, girlish letter, 
 which I may as well confess Dick carried next to his 
 heart for many a long day. Mrs. Meredith, however, 
 wrote several times : frank, friendly letters, such as 
 Dick hailed with intensest satisfaction, because they 
 gave him news of Cynthia. 
 
 During those few days Dick's mother, without seem- 
 ing to in any way spy upon him, wormed a good deal 
 of information out of him. She herself sympathised 
 with Mrs. Meredith's feeling about going out to Santa 
 Clara. 
 
 " Dear boy," she said one day, when they were 
 sitting together on the wide old sofa in the study,
 
 198 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 " it's a perfectly natural thing she should want to go 
 out, if only for a few weeks." 
 
 " She cannot possibly stay longer than a few weeks," 
 said Dick. 
 
 " I have always heard that California is so lovely." 
 
 " Yes, it is — certain parts of it, but not at Santa 
 Clara. It's good enough, interesting enough ; but 
 it's far from civilisation, and I think ladies would be 
 very unhappy there. Besides, they couldn't go out 
 there and live with me, and I don't intend to live 
 there any more, and they cannot stop there long. 
 It's ridiculous and senseless their going ; I know per- 
 fectly well it will be a most dreadful disappointm.ent 
 to both of them." 
 
 " Well, dear boy, let me ask them to come and 
 stay here for a fev/ days. Of course, just now, I 
 couldn't have anybody excepting some one circum- 
 stanced as she is, in such deep mourning and your 
 partner's widow and child. It w^ould seem quite 
 natural that they should come and see me before any 
 of you go away. I might be able to persuade her to 
 stop in England." 
 
 " Do you think you could ? " 
 
 " Well, I might. I would try, since you wish it so 
 much ; but, all the same, I do sympathise with her in 
 a way, Dick." 
 
 "Yes, darling, I sympathise with her, too, in a 
 way, but not exactly in the same way. It isn't a 
 place for women. If she had gone out to Meredith, 
 Meredith would have spent a lot of money in putting 
 things to rights. He would have got up some Chinese 
 servants and a lot of furniture, and added a wing to
 
 THE CENTRE OF THE WORLD. 1 99 
 
 the house, and so on ; but it wouldn't be worth doing 
 now, and I am afraid she would be thoroughly dis- 
 illusioned." 
 
 " Well, now, listen to me. I will write and ask her 
 to come and spend a few days here, and if I can 
 persuade her off the scheme, I will do it, because you 
 don't want her to go. I think you would always be 
 glad that we had done the right thing and invited 
 them ; and you would like to see the girl here before 
 anything definite was settled between you ; of that 
 I am quite sure. See how she strikes you here with 
 your own sisters, in your own home." 
 
 " She will never strike me any differently, mother," 
 said Dick, " but since you wish it so much and are so 
 kind about it, I will write and beg them to come when 
 you ask them." 
 
 " Very well, dear, I'll write at once, because your 
 time is getting within a limit now." 
 
 " Yes, I must start within a month. I ought to go 
 a little sooner than that, if you could spare me." 
 
 " Dear boy, for business I must spare you," said she, 
 quietly. 
 
 Mrs. Vincent went away then, thoroughly gratified 
 at having obtained her own way. In her own mind 
 she was perfectly sure, from the tone of Mrs. Mere- 
 dith's letters, that she was as keen on keeping the oil 
 well to one ownership as Mrs. Vincent herself. " Is 
 it likely, a pretty girl with all that money, that she 
 wouldn't feel it a perfect sin to let the other half of 
 the splendid property slip ? Of course not Why, 
 it would be no more nor less than a sin," her thoughts 
 ran.
 
 200 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 So by that evening's post two letters went from 
 Hollingridge to Brighton ; one couched in the most 
 kind and friendly terms from Mrs. Vincent to Cyn- 
 thia's mother. 
 
 " I am sure you will understand how much I desire 
 to see you," she wrote. " It would be a great com- 
 fort to me if you would come and spend a few days 
 with us here. As we are both in deep mourning, 
 neither of us will feel the retirement of the other. 
 My boy has told me a great deal about you and your 
 charming daughter, and my girls are quite as eager 
 to see her as I am to see you." 
 
 The other letter was from Dick to Cynthia. " I 
 am writing to you because my mother is writing to 
 yours to beg you to come and stay with us for a few 
 days. I need not tell you how much pleasure it will 
 give me if you accept her invitation." And as Mrs. 
 Vincent had fully anticipated, by return of post came 
 back a most pleasant letter from the little widow, 
 saying that she and Cynthia would love to pay a visit 
 to Hollingridge and to make the acquaintance of 
 Dick's people. 
 
 Dick received the news with a certain pang of ap- 
 prehension and regret, and yet — ^yet — every pulse in 
 his body was stirred with a strange joy. He had 
 quite made up his mind that in any case he must 
 disclose the truth to Cynthia. Yes, it must be done 
 sooner or later. Of course, he could not do it in his 
 own house, that was impossible ; but he would tell 
 her, the evening before the day on which they would 
 depart, that he was coming down to Brighton to see 
 her, because he had a very serious communication to
 
 THE CENTRE OF THE WORLD. 201 
 
 make to her. That would prepare her mind for a 
 disclosure ; it would quite prevent his being put off 
 by untoward circumstances. He would make the ap- 
 pointment to meet Cynthia, say up on the Rotting- 
 dean Road, before she left Hollingridge, so that they 
 would not be dependent on any mood or fancy of her 
 mother's. Yes, that was what he would do, and after 
 that would come the deluge. When it was all over 
 he knew that he would be happier, oh, yes. With a 
 firm hand he would have shut down the curtain be- 
 tween himself and happiness ; he would have gained 
 in self-respect. It never occurred to him that pos- 
 sibly Cynthia Meredith might take exactly the oppo- 
 site view to that with which he had accredited her, 
 that she might say, just as the disinterested man who 
 had witnessed the whole affair had said at the time, 
 that he was in reality blameless, because he had only 
 acted from an instinct of self-preservation. To such 
 a contingency he never gave the remotest thought, 
 and he drove to the station to meet the mother and 
 daughter very much as a man might have driven to 
 meet his fate upon the scaffold, feeling absolutely 
 assured in his mind that the first time they came to 
 visit his ancestral home would be the last. 
 
 It was naturally not in any sense a gay party that 
 met round the table at dinner that evening, since 
 both hosts and guests were in the deepest of deep 
 mourning. To Mrs. Meredith Dick's mother took at 
 once. She herself was large and fair and command- 
 ing, with an inclination to softness which meant that 
 with a little trouble anybody who loved her could 
 easily get round her. She admired with all her soul
 
 202 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 the tenacity which she recognised in Roger Mere- 
 dith's widow ; she would really have loved herself to 
 be a soft-voiced, velvet-handed woman with a v/ill of 
 iron. There was no iron in Mrs. Vincent's will ; Mrs. 
 Aleredith's, on the contrary, was cold steel. With 
 Cynthia she v/as charmed. Even against her own 
 handsome, well-bred, intelligent, interesting daugh- 
 ters Cynthia showed up brilliantly. Her delicate 
 beauty, her sweet, soft, yet direct manner, her dainty 
 little v/ays, to say nothing of the oil well, all made 
 Mrs. Vincent determined that, if she could help it, 
 Dick should not throw away such an excellent chance 
 of settling himself in life. 
 
 " The girl is over head and ears in love with him," 
 she explained to Laura, when they were chatting the 
 last thing that night. " What can he be hanging 
 about for .? Says he feels Meredith would not like 
 it. Mrs. Meredith would like it, one can see that with 
 half an eye." 
 
 " I shouldn't interfere with Dick's affairs if I were 
 you," said Laura. 
 
 " Oh, I don't mean to interfere, but if a little ju- 
 dicious tact will help it along — well, Dick shall not 
 miss a good chance for want of it." 
 
 She was very tactful and very judicious during the 
 few days which followed. She devoted herself to 
 Mrs. Meredith, and Mrs. Meredith was more than 
 willing that she should be the recipient of so much 
 attention. 
 
 " I shall call you Cynthia, my dear," Mrs. Vincent 
 said to the girl during the course of the first evening. 
 
 " Oh, yes, please do."
 
 THE CENTRE OF THE WORLD. 203 
 
 " Well, it is rather early days, but you don't look 
 like ' Miss Meredith ' to me, and Cynthia is such a 
 charming name." 
 
 " I should love you to call me Cynthia," said the 
 girl, turning a vivid scarlet. 
 
 " You must let Dick take you to this place," Mrs. 
 Vincent would say, or " Dick must show you the 
 other. We old ladies will amuse ourselves very well, 
 shall we not, Mrs. Meredith .? " 
 
 " Oh, perfectly." 
 
 And so, having started the young people out on 
 some excursion, the Meredith girls with veiled in- 
 structions to judiciously efface or lose themselves, as 
 was necessary, the two mothers would go out for a 
 stately drive, or sit toying with some bit of fancy 
 work in drawing-room or garden. 
 
 " You li!:e Holhngridge ? " said Dick one day to 
 Cynthia. 
 
 She turned her deep grey eyes, upon him in v/on- 
 derment. " Like it ? " she said. " How could I help 
 liking it ? " 
 
 " Oh, you might not. Everybody doesn't. To me 
 't is the centre of the world." 
 
 " You are very lucky," said Cynthia.
 
 204 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 THE HAND TO THE PLOUGH. 
 
 It was the very last day of Mrs. Meredith's and 
 Cynthia's visit to HoUingridge. 
 
 " I am going," announced Mrs. Vincent at break- 
 fast, " to drive Mrs. Meredith over to Foxborough to 
 lunch. Who is going with us ? " 
 
 " I can't go," said Laura. " I have my singing 
 lesson at three o'clock. And Winifred won't be able 
 to go, since she has such a bad headache." 
 
 " Then what about you two ^ " said Mrs. Vincent, 
 looking vaguely across the table at her son and 
 Cynthia. 
 
 Cynthia said politely that she would do just as Mrs. 
 Vincent liked. Dick, however, distinctly demurred. 
 
 " Oh, do you much want to go .-* Do you like 
 babies .? " 
 
 " I don't mind babies," she said with a laugh. 
 
 " No, I don't mind babies in a general way ; I rather 
 like 'em. But Maud's baby — the last one — is a person 
 that squalls. They ought to give him peppermint — 
 or absinthe — or something." 
 
 " Oh, poor little thing, he's after his teeth," cried 
 Mrs. Vincent. 
 
 " Is he ^ Well, I don't see why we should be after 
 him. Don't go, Miss Cynthia — don't go. Stay at 
 home, and when we have packed Laura off to her
 
 THE HAND TO THE PLOUGH. 20$ 
 
 singing lesson, I'll take you up to the vety top of 
 the woods. You get one of the finest bits of view 
 in the country. You ought not to go away without 
 seeing it." 
 
 " I'll do just what you like." 
 
 " Well, are you really anxious to see babies .' " cried 
 Mrs. Vincent. " No } Then we'll go alone. \\'hat 
 do you say ? " 
 
 " Just as you like," replied Mrs. Meredith. " I 
 should certainly like to see your daughter's place. 
 Yes, I should certainly like to see it. And I rather 
 like babies, even when they are after their teeth." 
 
 So it was arranged and definitely settled. At 
 twelve o'clock Mrs. Vincent and her guest drove away 
 in state in the open carriage. 
 
 " I consider," said Dick, as he stood at the great 
 entrance, watching the disappearing vehicle, " I con- 
 sider that I got you out of that very cleverly." 
 
 " You did, dear boy," cried Laura. " It's the only 
 subject, as we often tell my mother, on which she is 
 absolutely — well, how shall I put it i* — off her mental 
 balance ; and that's the grandson. He's a nice little 
 kid as kids go, but it does get a little tiresome, I'm 
 fain to admit it. Well, now, I suppose you two don't 
 want me ? You can manage to entertain each other, 
 because I really must try over that new song of mine. 
 I have done shamefully little lately, and Madame gets 
 so cross when I am not up to the mark." 
 
 " Oh, we'll manage to amuse ourselves," cried Dick. 
 " Come along. Miss Cynthia." 
 
 " Where shall we go ? " said Cynthia, as Laura dis- 
 appeared towards the ipusic-room.
 
 206 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 Dick turned and looked at her rather doubtfully. 
 " It's blisteringly hot," he remarked. " Don't let us 
 go too far." 
 
 " Well, wait till I get a parasol," she rejoined. 
 " Then let us go just through the shrubbery — ^where 
 that little stream runs by the garden and the park. 
 I always think it's the prettiest bit of your whole 
 domain." 
 
 He flushed up with pleasure at her words. She 
 turned back into the hall and took a large black 
 parasol from its place and announced that she was 
 ready. 
 
 " I never saw anyone take so httle time as you do." 
 
 " What, in the country ? " Cynthia exclaimed. " I 
 don't say that I should take as little time to get 
 ready if I were in London, or even in Brighton ; but 
 here — why, one is always ready." 
 
 " Yes, I know ; but not every young lady would 
 think so." 
 
 " Ah ! there are young ladies and young ladies," 
 cried Cynthia ; " and I am afraid my training has been 
 never to waste a moment in unnecessary adornment." 
 
 As she spoke, she passed through the little gate 
 Vv-hich divided the west garden from the shrubbery. 
 
 " Few young ladies have so little need of it," said 
 he, as he shut the gate again. 
 
 " Oh, you don't think that ? " 
 
 " Indeed, I do think that. I am sure of it." 
 
 " Ah, you shouldn't say so. Flattery is so bad for 
 one." 
 
 " Flattery ? Did you think that I was flattering 
 you .? "
 
 THE HAND TO THE PLOUGH. 20/ 
 
 " I am quite sure that you were." 
 
 " No, no. I was telling you the truth." 
 
 " Ah, well, it isn't often the truth is so very palat- 
 able, Mr. Vincent. Now, isn't this delicious ? " 
 
 She sank down as she spoke upon the mossy bank 
 of a tiny rippling stream. The park beyond was 
 green and fresh ; the shrubbery behind was cool and 
 still. " I always say this is the prettiest corner of 
 your domain," she said. 
 
 "Wait till you have seen the top of the woods, 
 that's pretty if you like." He settled himself down 
 beside her on the bank as he spoke. " Do you know, 
 Miss Cynthia, I'm awfully glad you didn't go over to 
 Foxborough to-day." 
 
 " Are you ? Why .' Don't you like your sister ^ " 
 
 " My sister ^ Oh, yes, she's awfully jolly. But I 
 like better to have you here." 
 
 " Oh, do you ? " It was a trite remark, but it was 
 the best that Cynthia could think of at that moment. 
 "Is there anything hke this in California ? " she asked 
 suddenly. 
 
 For a moment Dick did not reply. Then he began 
 picking up bits of sticks, pebbles, and tufts of grass 
 and throwing them down into the quickly running 
 stream at their feet. " There are lovely places 
 in California," he repHed, " but none where Santa 
 Clara is. Santa Clara has no beauty to boast of — 
 none." 
 
 A sudden impulse came over him that now was the 
 best time and chance he would ever have for telling 
 her the hateful secret that was weighing so heavily 
 upon him. " Miss Meredith," he said.
 
 208 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 She looked up apprehensively. " Yes." 
 " I've got something to tell you." 
 " What sort of a something ? " Her voice trembled, 
 and so did the hand which was resting idly on her 
 knee. 
 
 " Well, it's a very important matter. I have been 
 wanting to speak to you about it for ever so long, 
 and I think as we have got now so near to the time 
 when we must — at least, the time when we have 
 settled to take a long journey together — it would be 
 better if I told you exactly what is in my mind, and 
 
 then if you feel any differently towards me " 
 
 She turned upon him with a delicate little laugh. 
 " Oh, there isn't any fear of that. It's no use my 
 pretending that — I don't know — what you — — " 
 " Don't know what .? " 
 " Well, what you are going to say." 
 Her eyes were downcast, a happy blush overspread 
 her cheeks, and her hand toyed nervously with the 
 fringed trimming of her gown. 
 
 For a moment Dick stared at her in incredulous 
 amazement. Then he drew a trifle nearer her. 
 " Cynthia ! " he barely breathed the word. 
 
 " Well ? " There was enough expressed in the 
 word to have moved the heart of a stone, and Dick 
 Vincent was no stone. 
 
 " Do you mean it ? " he gasped. 
 She looked at him at last. " Well, it is so very 
 wonderful ? Have I known so many men like you 
 that it should be wonderful that I — well, that you 
 —well, that I like you .? " 
 "Cynthia!"
 
 THE HAND TO THE PLOUGH. 209 
 
 In a moment he had forgotten everything — every- 
 thing. 
 
 " Oh, my darling, my darHng ! " he cried. " Do you 
 really mean it } " 
 
 " I don't know," cried Cynthia, midway between 
 tears and laughter. " I don't know that I said any- 
 thing, or meant anything — but, oh, Dick, I am so 
 happy ! " 
 
 And then, somehow, Dick's arms stole around her 
 and their lips met. 
 
 It was a long time before they came to their ordi- 
 nary senses again. 
 
 " What will your mother say ? " cried Cynthia. 
 
 " What will yours say .'' " replied Dick. 
 
 " Oh, well, as to that," with an arch laugh, " I don't 
 think they will say much, because, you know, we are 
 the twin halves of an oil well, aren't we .-' " 
 
 " Oh, hang the oil well ! " cried Dick. 
 
 " No, no. An oil well must be a most comfortable 
 thing. I know it has made all the difference in my 
 life." 
 
 " But you would have loved me just the same if 
 I hadn't had a penny ? " 
 
 " Yes, Dick, if you hadn't had a single penny." 
 
 " You are sure ? " 
 
 " Yes. I would have loved you just the same if 
 you hadn't had a farthing." 
 
 " Dearest ! " 
 
 They sat so long by the bank of the httle stream 
 that they forgot all mundane things until the sound 
 of the luncheon gong came booming through the still 
 autumn air.
 
 210 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 " That's lunch," cried Cynthia, starting to her feet. 
 
 " Never mind." 
 
 " But we are late." 
 
 " Never mind." 
 
 "Oh, but what will they say? What will they 
 think ? " 
 
 " Who ? Our respected mothers are gone to lunch 
 at Foxborough." 
 
 " But your sisters ? " she cried. 
 
 " My sisters ? The girls ? What will they think ? 
 I don't know. I don't much care ; I don't care what 
 anybody thinks as long as you are satisfied and con- 
 tent. Besides, what should they think .' It will make 
 very httle difference to them. My mother has 
 been v.'oriying me to get married ever since I came 
 home." 
 
 " Not really .? " 
 
 " Of course, she has." 
 
 " To somebody in particular .'' " asked Cynthia, 
 jealously. 
 
 " Well, no, I can't say that she has. Oh, no, don't 
 worry about any of my people or what they will say. 
 I'm a free agent, if ever there was one. You needn't 
 have the smallest fear of my mother," said he, as 
 they went quickly towards the house. " If ever a 
 hostess gave a girl a fair chance, I consider that she 
 has done as much for you." 
 
 " But you won't tell anybody ? " 
 
 " We must tell them when they come in." 
 
 " But you won't tell your sisters ? " 
 
 " Oh, no, no. We'll keep it for the mothers, and 
 let them have the first news."
 
 THE HAND TO THE PLOUGH. 211 
 
 " That's all right," said Cynthia, with a sigh of 
 relief. 
 
 All the same, the moment that Laura cast her keen 
 eyes upon the pair, she knew instinctively what had 
 happened. 
 
 " Well," she said, as they gathered round the table, 
 " and what do you tliink of the top of the woods .' " 
 
 " Oh, we've not been to the top of the woods. 
 We've only been down through the shrubbery and 
 round by the Skilpenbeck." 
 
 " Oh, I thought you were going to the top of the 
 woods to see the view." 
 
 " Later on — later on," Dick said, " after lunch." 
 
 " I think the little bit by the beck is charming," 
 said Cynthia, carefully avoiding meeting her future 
 sister-in-law's eye. 
 
 " It is— isn't it .? " 
 
 At this point Laura shot a meaning glance at Wini- 
 fred. Winifred failed to understand, and sent a shaft 
 of enquiry back by the same method of wireless 
 telegraphy. Cynthia intercepted both looks, and 
 blushed a furiously rosy red, seeing which Laura was 
 wicked enough to laugh outright She followed 
 Cynthia into the drawing-room after the meal was 
 over. 
 
 " Well," she said, " so you have made up your 
 minds ? " 
 
 " What do you mean ^ " asked Cynthia. 
 
 " Oh, the usual thing. You and Dick, of course. 
 You needn't think I didn't see, the moment you came 
 in, my dear — the moment you came in." 
 
 "Well.?" said Cynthia. 
 
 14*
 
 212 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 " Well, I'm delighted. I think it would have been 
 a great pity to divide the oil well, and you are too 
 charming for any words to express. Not, mind you, 
 that the oil well has had anything to do with Dick. 
 I know Dick, my dear, inside out. I have never 
 seen Dick look at a woman before. He exists for 
 you." 
 
 " You think he does ? You think he really cares 
 for me ? It seems so impossible." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " Oh, I should never make you understand. I have 
 never been in the way of young men, of any sort of 
 young men, to say nothing of their being like Dick. 
 Do you think your mother will mind ? " 
 
 " My mother ? No. I think my mother will make 
 you an excellent mother-in-law, and she will be very 
 fond of her daughter-in-law and very proud of her. 
 But remember I was the first one to wish you happi- 
 ness. You know Dick and I have always been the 
 chums of the family, far more so than any of the 
 others, and so I shall expect you to be great friends 
 with me, because I'm not going to give up my friend- 
 ship with Dick because you and he choose to get 
 married. Pray, don't think it for a moment." 
 
 " I should hope not," cried Cynthia, fervently. " I 
 don't want to interfere with Dick's love for his people 
 in any way." 
 
 " You can't help it to a certain extent," cried Laura. 
 " But that is neither here nor there." 
 
 " And you think your mother won't mind } " 
 
 " I think she won't," said Laura, dryly. " I don't 
 think anybody will mind. It's an ideal marriage, for
 
 THE HAND TO THE PLOUGH. 213 
 
 you are both desperately in love with one another, as 
 anybody can see. I saw it as soon as you got here." 
 
 " What ? Did I give myself away so much ? " 
 
 " Oh, girls know, trust them. What makes it so 
 ideal is that your old oil well is nothing but an ad- 
 junct — and it might have been the principal factor. 
 Well, I'll leave you to your own devices without any 
 apology. Winifred and I are going to drive into 
 town to-day for various little things. Is there any- 
 thing you want ? " 
 
 " Not a thing, thank you." 
 
 " I daresay not. You'll have Dick to look after 
 you. I wonder where he is now .'' " 
 
 It happened at that very moment that Dick was 
 sitting in the den which he called his study. He was 
 sitting in his father's great writing-chair at the carved 
 oak desk which was the principal piece of furniture in 
 the apartment. He did not look in all respects like a 
 happy lover. He was resting his elbows on the table 
 and his chin on his hands. 
 
 " There's no turning back now," his sombre thoughts 
 ran. " God knows I had no intention to speak, to 
 betray myself. She spoke out of the innocence of 
 her dear heart ; I can never say a word nov/. I have 
 done it all unwittingly, and I must keep it up. I have 
 put my hand to the plough ; there can be no looking 
 backwards."
 
 214 
 
 CHAPTER XXIIL 
 
 AN ENGAGEMENT RING. 
 
 " I don't think," said Dick Vincent to Cynthia, when 
 they had seen the girls drive off about their own parti- 
 cular affairs in the little pony cart which they called 
 their own, " I don't think we will go to the woods this 
 afternoon." 
 
 "No?" said Cynthia. "Why not?" 
 
 " Well, we've got other fish to fry. The mothers 
 are safe at Foxborough, the girls have gone to Little- 
 bourne ; supposing that you and I, being left to our 
 own devices, drive over to Newborough ? " 
 
 " What is there at Newborough ? " asked Cynthia. 
 
 " Well, there are shops," he replied ; " jewellers' 
 shops. I shall want to buy you an engagement ring." 
 
 " Oh, I should like to have an engagement ring," 
 said Cynthia, very decidedly. " I don't know that I 
 shall feel that I'm really engaged until Tve got one. 
 But won't you break it to your mother first ? " 
 
 " I don't think so. I don't think that the occasion 
 will necessitate any particular preparation in that way. 
 Your mother may insist upon your leaving to-morrow, 
 as was originally agreed. We had better make hay 
 while the sun shines, and get our ring whilst we've got 
 a chance." 
 
 " I don't mind," said Cynthia. " I should love it. 
 How shall we go ? "
 
 AN ENGAGEMENT RING. 21$ 
 
 " Well, you won't mind the dog-cart, will you ? " 
 
 " Not the least in the world ; it's all one to me. My 
 experience of carriages has been very very limited, I 
 assure you." 
 
 " Well, then, I'll order it at once. You'll put a coat 
 on, won't you? Because it will be a little chilly 
 coming back, and it is sure to be rather dusty." 
 
 " Yes, I'll put a coat on," she replied. 
 
 She went away to her room then and made some 
 slight additions to her toilette, among them being a 
 very smart coat of dark grey tweed. 
 
 It was between six and seven ere they turned in 
 again at the lodge gates. Mrs. Vincent saw them 
 come up the avenue, and she knev/ in a moment what 
 had come about during her absence. She was a good 
 mother, she had no second thought in her mind, none 
 of the traditional " My son is my son till he gets him 
 a wife " feeling, but she genuinely rejoiced that this 
 beautiful girl should be bringing the other half of the 
 oil well into the family property. She went along the 
 veranda to the portico to meet them. 
 
 " Ah, my dears," she said, " no need to ask whether 
 you have had a good time." 
 
 " The best of all times, mother," said Dick ; " for 
 I've brought you back a daughter-in-law." 
 
 " I was hoping that you might do so," said Mrs. 
 Vincent. Then she turned and took the girl's hand 
 in hers. " My dear," she said, " I won't say that I 
 hope you v/ill be happy, because I know that you will. 
 A good son makes a good husband, and a good 
 daughter makes a good wife. You two have always 
 been good to your mothers, and you deserve happi-
 
 2l6 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 ness, and you will certainly have it. Come, your own 
 little mother is sitting round here. Let us go and 
 break the news to her." 
 
 " Oh, Mrs. Vincent," cried Cynthia, " how kind you 
 are ! Are you sure that you don't mind ? " 
 
 " Yes, I'm quite sure," said Mrs. Vincent. " I'm 
 positive — certain sure. I have been, my dear, so 
 happy in my life here, so pleased in every possible 
 way, that I want my son to have as good a time as I 
 have had. My dear friend," she went on, advancing 
 to where Mrs. Meredith was sitting and laying her 
 hands on the back of that lady's chair, " what you and 
 I were talking of as a very desirable but remote con- 
 tingency has come about. These young people have 
 made up their minds, whilst you and I have been given 
 over to baby worship. Come — say that you are glad ; 
 Dick and Cynthia are engaged to each other." 
 
 Mrs. Meredith jumped out of her chair, the liveliest 
 expression of surprise upon her still pretty face. " No, 
 you don't mean it ? Oh, my dear children, I didn't 
 dare to hope that you would make up your minds so 
 quickly." 
 
 " Oh, I made up my mind ages since," said Dick. 
 
 " And I," cried Cynthia, " I didn't know that I had 
 any mind to make up. I didn't know that Dick would 
 ever look at me." 
 
 " Ah, my dear," cried Mrs. Vincent, " genuine 
 modesty is a beautiful quality, as rare as it is beauti- 
 ful. But now, my dear Mrs. Meredith, there will, of 
 course, be no question of your going away to-morrow." 
 
 " Oh, I don't know," began Mrs. Meredith. 
 
 " But I know ; I know. And Dick's time is getting
 
 AN ENGAGEMENT RING. 21/ 
 
 short now, and I suppose he will want to see as much 
 of his fiancee as possible before he goes out again. 
 Oh, you must stay a few days longer ; I won't hear of 
 any other arrangement." 
 
 Nobody being particularly anxious to suggest any 
 different arrangement, the suggestion was not in any 
 way disputed. The engagement was made public 
 immediately. Mrs. Vincent told some of the elder 
 servants, and intimated that in consequence of the 
 deep mourning of the family no kind of demonstration 
 was to be made. It was astonishing how very soon 
 Cynthia took her place as one of the family, and IMrs. 
 Meredith, who had for years been entirely cut off from 
 association, that is to say, intimate association, with 
 her own kind, found herself making all manner of 
 plans for the future in conjunction with Dick's mother. 
 
 " When we have settled our children," said Mrs. 
 Vincent, " you and I must go off on our travels and 
 see what we can do to amuse ourselves. We are so 
 nearly of an age, dear Mrs. Meredith, and our in- 
 terests will be so closely joined that we ought to prac- 
 tically cast in our lot together. What do you say ? " 
 
 " In a great measure I think it would be very wise," 
 ]\Irs. Meredith replied ; " but I shall not expect to be 
 entirely cut off from my daughter." 
 
 " Oh, no, no ; certainly not ; no more than I from 
 my only son. But I do believe in young people having 
 their house to themselves, don't you ? " 
 
 " Oh, I certainly do. But I think that I shall go to 
 town and instal myself in a pleasant flat. We might if 
 we each had our pied k terre, spend a great deal of 
 our time together. It would be a most delightful
 
 2l8 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 arrangement, unless indeed I should be so enamoured 
 of California that I should want to stay out there per- 
 manently." 
 
 Mrs. Vincent's jaw fell. " To stay out in Cali- 
 fornia ? What, alone ? " 
 
 " I might do so ; more impossible things have hap- 
 pened. I have always had a desire to see that part 
 of the world, always ; and since my husband's death, 
 I have longed more than ever to gratify my wish. I 
 feel, somehow, as if it was my fate to go out there." 
 
 " After they are married," breathed Mrs. Vincent. 
 
 " I haven't thought about it since there was the idea 
 of their being married. I want to go, and the sooner 
 the better." 
 
 " Dick," said ]\Irs. Vincent that night, when she was 
 going to bed, " come into my room for ten minutes ; 
 I have somiCthing to tell you." 
 
 " All right," was his muttered reply. 
 
 Accordingly, a few minutes later, he demanded ad- 
 mittance at her door. 
 
 " Come in, Dick dear," Mrs. Vincent said, " I want 
 to ask you something. When are you going to be 
 married ? " 
 
 " As soon as I comic back from California." 
 
 " But do you intend to go out there again ? " 
 
 " Oh, I don't think so ; not for ever so long. 
 Why?" 
 
 " Do you know that Mrs. Meredith intends going 
 out?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " She does." 
 
 " I know she did intend going out," Dick replied.
 
 AN ENGAGEMENT RING. 219 
 
 " Do you want her to go ? " 
 
 " No, I'd rather she didn't. It's no place for a lady. 
 It's a beastly journey, very inconvenient and very 
 fatiguing. I've told her so." 
 
 " But still, you consented to her going." 
 
 " I couldn't help myself, mother. She has a right 
 to go if she chooses." 
 
 " She means to go out with you still." 
 
 '■ Oh, well, I can't help it. She must do as she likes. 
 I'll talk to Cynthia about it. I wish she wouldn't, be- 
 cause I know they'll both hate it. And I should hate 
 it, too — as much as I could hate anything connected 
 with Cynthia. However, I'll talk to her about it." 
 
 ■' What I mean is this," said his mother. " It isn't 
 that I mind whether she chooses to go to California 
 or not ; it's no business of mine, and I don't intend to 
 make it so. Only you talked to me of your marriage 
 coming off as soon as you got back. Now your 
 marriage can't come off as soon as you come back 
 unless you give the poor girl a chance of getting her 
 clothes together. You can't order a trousseau now 
 and trot off to California and find it ready when you 
 com.e back again." 
 
 " No, exactly. I'll speak to Cynthia about it." 
 
 Accordingly the next morning he carried Cynthia 
 off to the little stream by the corner of the park. 
 
 " I want to ask you something," he said, when they 
 were safely settled down in their favourite hiding 
 place. " Your mother is talking about going out to 
 Santa Clara ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, dear ; nothing will turn her from it," 
 Cynthia replied.
 
 220 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 " Oh, is that so ? Well now, look here. To please 
 me — to please me," he repeated, looking straight into 
 his fiancee's lovely eyes — " to please me, darling, will 
 you get her to give it up ? " 
 
 " But I want to go," said Cynthia. 
 
 " And I don't want you to go," he said, in masterful 
 tones. 
 
 "But why not?" 
 
 " Because — well, you know my old objections. It's 
 a beastly journey ; it'll wear you out ; and if you go 
 our marriage will have to be put off by at least three 
 months." 
 
 " I don't see why." 
 
 " Well, you'll want clothes, won't you ? " 
 
 " I can order them before I go." 
 
 " You can't get your frocks fitted and all that sort 
 of thing if you are in California. I don't know what 
 you women want, but I know when my sister was 
 married our house became practically a draper's shop 
 for the time being." 
 
 A rejoinder rose to the girl's lips that she was not 
 one of his sisters, and would not require the house in 
 which she might be living to be made into a draper's 
 shop before she was going to be married. Then she 
 suddenly remembered that she would be marrying 
 into exactly the same position as his sister, and that 
 whatever was necessary for his sister's social status 
 would be necessary for the social position of Mrs. 
 Richard Vincent 
 
 "Yes, I suppose it will put off our marriage," she 
 said. 
 
 " I am sure it will. Now we could well go out there
 
 AN ENGAGEMENT RING. . 221 
 
 at some future time. If I go alone I can scurry 
 through, see to all business arrangements, and be back 
 again in ever so much less time than I can do if I have 
 two ladies with me." 
 
 " I can't understand quite," said Cynthia, " why you 
 should be so averse to our going out to Santa Clara ; 
 you have always been the same. Now if my father 
 had lived you would have used every effort to per- 
 suade us to go out there permanently." 
 
 " For a very good reason," replied Dick. " If your 
 father had lived he would have been at Santa Clara, 
 making preparations for your comfort while I escorted 
 you on the journey. He would have spent heaps of 
 money, would have got in all sorts of things, and would 
 have made a perfect bower of the place for you and 
 your mother. As it is, I can't do a thing. I can't very 
 well send out to the manager and say, ' Refurnish the 
 house. Mrs. and Miss Meredith are coming out.' His 
 taste is not your taste ; he is a good sort in his way, 
 but he has no idea of what two ladies like yourselves 
 would want. Can't you see that ? " 
 
 " Yes, yes, I see that plainly enough." 
 
 *■ If I could go out there first, and get everything 
 ready for you it wouldn't be so bad ; but then that 
 would entail your coming out alone. As your future 
 husband, I don't like it. Can't you see my stand- 
 point ? " 
 
 " Oh, I see your standpoint right enough ; there's 
 no mistaking it. But I also see mother's standpoint ; 
 and hers is that she has set her heart upon going out 
 to see the place where her husband lived — I was going 
 to say where he died — but that's another idea alto-
 
 222 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 gether. She has certainly set her heart upon seeing 
 Santa Clara, and I think, although she hasn't actually 
 said it, that she has also set her heart upon going out 
 to visit my father's grave. My dear Dick, you don't 
 understand women ; it's easy to see that you've never 
 cared for a woman before me. If you had done you 
 would know our v.'ays better. Mother is living to go 
 and see that grave ; nothing else will satisfy her ; even 
 if it puts off our marriage it would be better to put it 
 off a little while and let her gratify her whim — her 
 caprice, if you like to call it so." 
 
 " Mine," said Dick, " is neither a whim nor a caprice. 
 I don't like the idea of your going out to that wild 
 part v/ithout any preparation, as if you were a mere 
 nobody, in utter and entire discomfort, as you will do. 
 Let us be married quietly — we must be on account of 
 our mourning — then let us after a few months, say in 
 the spring, take your mother out with us." 
 
 "Well," said Cynthia, "I'll see what I can do to 
 persuade her."
 
 223 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 HER OWN WAY. 
 
 When Cynthia Meredith broached the idea to her 
 mother that her engagement would, for the present, 
 put a stop to any idea of their going out to Santa 
 Clara, that little lady absolutely shrieked in her dis- 
 may and horror. 
 
 " Well," she said, " I've always known that young 
 people in love were selfish, but I never came across 
 anything so barefacedly selfish as for you and Dick 
 to suggest that I should give up the very desire of 
 my hfe just to please his vagaries. You can tell him 
 that I shall do nothing of the kind. He can please 
 himself whether he goes to Santa Clara or not — I am 
 not in any way bound to him, of course, and he is not 
 as yet in any way bound to me, excepting as my poor 
 Roger's great friend — but you can make it quite clear 
 to the young gentleman that I intend to carry out my 
 original plan." 
 
 " He doesn't want you to put it off altogether, 
 mother dear." 
 
 " No, he wants to get you safely married first ; and 
 then a dozen things might happen which would en- 
 tirely preclude the possibility of taking a long journey 
 to a country for which Dick himself has no predilec- 
 tion. Stay ! you had better go and send him to me."
 
 224 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 So Cynthia., who was as wax in the hands of her 
 mother, obediently went downstairs in search of Dick. 
 
 " Dick," she said, " my mother wants to see you." 
 
 " Oh. About what ? " 
 
 " Oh, well, dear, you may as well give up hope. 
 Mother's mind is made up. She's going to Santa 
 Clara, even though the whole world should combine 
 against her. I believe if all the railroads were wrecked 
 and the great lakes overflowed themselves and made 
 an inland sea between New York and Santa Clara, 
 mother would get to the other side somehow." 
 
 " Where is she .' " asked Dick. 
 
 " She's in the boudoir next to her bedroom." 
 
 " Good. I'll go up." 
 
 Dick did go up. Mrs. Meredith received him with 
 a radiant smile. " I know all you are going to say, 
 my dear boy," she said, " but it isn't a bit of use. 
 I know you are so much in love with Cynthia that 
 you consider her little mother a brute to want her to 
 take a somewhat out-of-the-way journey ; but I was 
 as much in love with my Roger as you are with 
 Cynthia. You'll have your good time — all chance of 
 mine has gone by for ever." 
 
 Dick gave in at once. " Very well, Airs. Meredith," 
 he said, " if you feel like that, of course it's useless for 
 me to say anything. I confess I was thinking of your 
 comfort and Cynthia's before anything else — ^beheve 
 me as to that." 
 
 " Oh, I believe you, dear boy ; I believe you per- 
 fectly ; but life is not entirely a question of comfort. 
 I can promise you one thing," she went on, " I quite 
 see, now that I have seen this charming place of
 
 IIER OWN WAY. 225 
 
 yours, that your Californian property can never be 
 more than a mere source of income to you, and when 
 I have been out and seen the place, I am quite wilHng 
 to abide by your advice as to what I shall do with it. 
 Surely, too, it will simplify matters for Roger's will 
 if I am on the spot." 
 
 " Possibly it may do so. We won't say anything 
 more about it, Mrs. Meredith. And I take it that 
 you and Cynthia will be ready to start with me on the 
 tenth of next month ^ " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 When Dick left Mrs. Meredith's presence he went 
 in search of Cynthia. 
 
 " Well ? " she said, eagerly. 
 
 " Oh, it's no use," he replied. " Your mother has 
 set her heart upon going, and perhaps, after all, it's 
 just as well that she should do as she pleases. Cer- 
 tainly, when she has once seen the place, she will have 
 no desire to stay longer, or ever to go again." 
 
 " And yet you stayed there seven years." 
 
 " For one thing," he replied, " I went there in bad 
 health — at least, if not bad health, I couldn't stand an 
 English winter. And then I put my teeth into the 
 ranche and wanted to make it pay. It did pay before 
 we struck oil, but even then it wasn't much to boast 
 about. You know that we start on the tenth ? " 
 
 " That is a fortnight to-morrov/," said Cynthia. 
 
 " Yes. I have told your mother that it would be 
 absurd for you to go back to Brighton. You may 
 as well put in the fortnight here." 
 
 " What does your mother say ? " asked Cynthia. 
 
 " My mother ? Oh, we'll go and talk to her about 
 
 15
 
 226 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 it presently. I suppose there'll be certain things that 
 you'll want for travelling and for winter use, and you 
 can as easily go to London from here as you can from 
 Brighton." 
 
 Cynthia looked at him searchingly as he sat in the 
 autumn sunlight. " Dick," she said, going closer to 
 him, " are you very much upset that mother won't 
 give way ? " 
 
 " No, I wish she had, for her sake and your own ; 
 but since she is bent upon it, it is better that she 
 should see for herself how right I am. Ever since she 
 first proposed going out I have had a sort of instinct 
 that not exactly harm would come of the journey, but 
 it would be best that she did not make it. However, 
 I have done my best to dissuade her, and I have not 
 succeeded. So the only thing now is to let it go on." 
 
 " I wish mother had given in," said she, wistfully. 
 " You know that I would have done so, don't you ^ " 
 
 " Yes, you had already done so." 
 
 " I don't think, Dick, that I shall ever want to go 
 dead against you." 
 
 " I hope not. There is no reason why either of us 
 should want to go one against the other." 
 
 " I feel," said she, " as if your mother will think us 
 a perfect infliction." 
 
 " Don't feel that my mother thinks anything of the 
 kind. She isn't a selfish woman at any time, and with 
 regard to you and me, she has only a wish for my 
 happiness ; that counts with her first and foremost. 
 Don't worry yourself about my mother, or think that 
 you have worn out your v»'elcome in these few days. 
 Why, that would be a bad beginning. You are going
 
 HER OWN WAY. 227 
 
 to live all the rest of your life in this old house ; a few 
 days more or less will make no difference to my 
 mother." 
 
 " She is very sweet and kind," said Cynthia, in a 
 trembling voice. " I feel as if I had come along and 
 taken her one ewe lamb from her." 
 
 " Oh, nonsense, nonsense ! The one ewe lamb is 
 on your side of the bargain. I might feel that, but 
 I don't. I am going to make you a just perfect hus- 
 band, and you are going to make me a quite perfect 
 wife ; and so our mothers will be happy — or ought to 
 be, in knowing so much." 
 
 An hour later Dick knocked at his mother's bed- 
 room door. " Are you there ^ Can I come in ? " he 
 inquired. 
 
 " Oh, certainly, dear. Come in. I was just resting 
 for half-an-hour," she replied. 
 
 " It's a shame to disturb you, mother, but I wanted 
 to have ten minutes' quiet talk with you. You know 
 that Mrs. Meredith and Cynthia propose going out to 
 Santa Clara with me ? " 
 
 " Yes, you told me." 
 
 " Well, I didn't want them to go, and I want them 
 to go even less now that I am engaged to Cynthia." 
 
 " Well ? " Her tone was quite short. 
 
 " Well, it seems — I have been talking about it to 
 Cynthia to-day. She is quite willing to forego her 
 wish and to go out with me later on." 
 
 " Yes ? " 
 
 " But her mother has set her very heart upon it. 
 Nothing v^'ill induce her to change her plans." 
 
 " I suppose it is natural," said Mrs. Vincent, " but 
 
 15*
 
 228 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 I confess I should have thought more of her if she 
 had given in to your wishes." 
 
 " And so should I," said Dick. " But she doesn't 
 seem to look at it in that light at all ; and so 1 have 
 withdrawn my objection, and they will go with me 
 on the tenth of next month." 
 
 " They will go with you .'' " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " I see." 
 
 " Well, naturally, th»re is no need for them to hurry 
 away to-morrow." 
 
 " Not the least in the world. I hope they are not 
 thinking that I am wanting to get rid of them." 
 
 " I don't think they've thought about it yet. I 
 told Cynthia I knew that they wouldn't be in your 
 way, but will you say as much to-night to Mrs. Mere- 
 dith .? " 
 
 " I will, dear bo^^, certainly." 
 
 " You had better not say anything about her having 
 gone against my wishes in doing it. You see, I under- 
 stand to a certain extent what she feels, poor little 
 woman. She was parted from Meredith all those 
 years, and I think she feels as if by going out to see 
 the place where he lived for the last seven years of 
 his life, she will bring herself nearer to him." 
 
 " I shouldn't dream of interfering in Mrs. Meredith's 
 business, Dick," said his mother, with dignity. " I 
 shouldn't expect her to interfere in mine. I think she 
 is rather mistaken, because it is a very long and weary 
 journey ; but in any case it hes between her and you, 
 and has nothing to do with me. I detest interfering 
 in other people's lousiness, and after all, poor little
 
 HER OWN WAY. 229 
 
 woman, it's a natural thing that she should want to see 
 the house that was her husband's home so long. Dick, 
 did he really care for her, do you think ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes ; undoubtedly." 
 
 " But what an odd tvay he had of showing it. That 
 way wouldn't have done for me, Dick. Fancy your 
 father — ^your dear father — staying away from me for 
 fifteen whole years." 
 
 " I couldn't fancy it," said Dick. " That was one 
 reason why I always felt so horribly sorry for her, 
 because I couldn't fancy it. Why, the dad would 
 have died without you." 
 
 " Well," said Mrs. Vincent with a sigh, " he might 
 have lived, dear, but not the kind of life that would 
 have satisfied him. So you will always have to be a 
 little lenient to your mother-in-law, dear boy, because 
 she has missed so much." 
 
 " She is determined that she will miss nothing now," 
 said Dick, with a short laugh. " However, that's 
 neither here nor there. If you will ask them to make 
 this their headquarters until we go, or during most of 
 the time until we go, I shall take it as a great kind- 
 ness both to them and to me." 
 
 " That I certainly will. And tell me, dear — when 
 do you think your wedding will come off ^ ** 
 
 " Oh, I suppose some time in the New Year — when 
 we are back." 
 
 " Why don't you be married quietly in London 
 before you go? Wouldn't it make things much 
 easier ? " 
 
 " Perhaps. But I don't feel — No, it wouldn't do. 
 I'd rather not."
 
 230 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 " Oh, very well, dearest boy. Of course, just as 
 you like. I wouldn't interfere for the world. Trust 
 me, I'll make it all right with Mrs. Meredith. And 
 now you ought to go and dress for dinner." 
 
 Dick went off to his own room then. He pictured 
 over all that had happened during the previous few 
 hours whilst he was changing his clothes. So in spite 
 of him, in spite of all his good resolutions, in spite of 
 all his determination that he would resolutely refrain 
 from saying the words which would tell Cynthia the 
 true state of his felings, he was engaged to her. It 
 had come about so simply and so naturally that he 
 could not feel any mere surprise. It seemed to him 
 as if he had always been her lover ; as if they had 
 been together from the beginning of the ages ; and 
 yet it was but a few hours since she had made a deli- 
 cious mistake which had given her to him for all time. 
 
 Of course his mother, so sensible, so affectionate, 
 so unselfish, had put her finger gently on the crucial 
 spot of the entire situation. She had asked why he 
 did not be married quietly before they left England ? 
 So he would have been — at least, so he would have 
 tried to be — and he did not feel that either Cynthia 
 or her mother would have gainsayed him — had it not 
 been for that grim secret of his which he must bottle 
 up in his own soul now and for ever. They say that 
 down in the bottom of every heart still lingers some 
 remnant of the original fetish worship to which we 
 were all once addicted. Well, there was a little fetish 
 set up in Dick Vincent's heart, which told him that 
 although he could easily persuade Cynthia to become 
 his wife, immediately if he wished, he would not be
 
 HER OWN WAY. 23 1 
 
 doing quite honestly by her if he availed himself of 
 that power. 
 
 But supposing that the journey to and from Santa 
 Clara and the sojourn there were accomplished without 
 any disclosures being made, he felt he might take it 
 as an omen empowering him to go straight forward. 
 He was not especially afraid of the journey either to 
 Santa Clara or home again ; nor was he in the least 
 nervous about the time that they would stay at Santa 
 Cfara itself— although the ladies would, he knew, suffer 
 a good deal of inconvenience. Still, he would write 
 to Jack Frogg — no, he would telegraph to him at once, 
 now that it was finally settled that they v/ere to go, 
 and would give him instructions to buy, beg, borrow 
 or steal a sufficient number of things to make the 
 interior of the house cosy and presentable. 
 
 That was all easy enough. What he was really 
 afraid of was that Meredith's widow might insist upon 
 going down to Midas Creek in order to see Meredith's 
 grave and to have a talk with the landlord of the 
 hotel in which he had died. If that should come about, 
 Dick v/ould, he knew, be cornered, and Cynthia or no 
 Cynthia, he would have little choice but to tell Mrs. 
 Meredith the exact truth, and explain to her all that 
 he had so carefully been keeping back, both for her 
 sake and his own. Because he could not possibly let 
 a lady, still less a pretty woman, go down from Santa 
 Clara to Midas Creek by herself ; and were he to go 
 liimself as her escort, he v»^ould, to put it in his own 
 language, " immediately give the sliow av/ay." The 
 question was — Would she forego the visit to Mere- 
 dith's grave or not ?
 
 232 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 ACROSS THE OCEAN. 
 
 Having once made up his mind that Mrs. Meredith 
 was not to be turned from making the journey to 
 Santa Clara, Dick Vincent resigned himself to the in- 
 evitable and discussed the various arrangements there- 
 for v^ith as little show of annoyance as if the idea of 
 their accompanying him had been his own. 
 
 " I very much envy them their trip," said Mrs. Vin- 
 cent the evening before they left Hollingridge. " I 
 should greatly like to see an oil well myself." 
 
 " My dear mother," said Dick promptly, " you will, 
 if you please, have to do without seeing this oil well. 
 I can't help Mrs. Meredith going, although I'd give 
 five hundred pounds this minute if she'd forego the 
 pleasure. It's bad enough to have to take her — to 
 know that she's going into the most extreme discom- 
 fort — that she will be hideously disappointed, and that 
 anything may happen. I couldn't face taking another 
 lady, especially one as little accustomed to roughing it 
 as you are. Mrs. Meredith has had a very different 
 life to yours, you know, dear." 
 
 " Oh, yes, dear boy. I confess I should like to go, 
 but I know better than to set my heart upon it, or any 
 nonsense of that kind. And then, of course, my 
 reason would be one of pure curiosity ; hers is one of 
 sentiment — which is quite a different thing."
 
 ACROSS THE OCEAN. 233 
 
 " Yes. It makes one almost wish that there wasn't 
 such a thing as sentiment," said Dick, rather savagely. 
 
 He felt when he got safely into his own bedroom 
 that he had done well to, as he put it, "choke his 
 mother off straight." " If I had let them get talking 
 about it," his thoughts ran, " and the mater had made 
 up her mind to see Santa Clara, I should have had a 
 pretty kettle of fish. Ton my soul, I begin to think 
 there's nothing like being firm with a woman. I be- 
 lieve if I had been firm at first with Mrs. Meredith, 
 she would never have insisted upon undertaking this 
 ridiculous journey. However, if it was my fault 
 through over-lenience, I've got to pay the penalty." 
 
 By the time that they left London and embarked 
 on the great liner at Liverpool, Dick had grown so 
 accustomed to the idea of Meredith's wife and 
 daughter going to Santa Clara that he suffered no un- 
 easiness, excepting when he thought of the possible 
 visit to Midas Creek. Familiarity with danger breeds 
 contempt ; and so it did in this case. Mrs. Meredith, 
 much to her own disgust and not a little to Cynthia's 
 dismay, proved to be an exceptionally bad sailor. 
 Between Liverpool and New York Dick did not so 
 much as set eyes upon her. He heard from Cynthia 
 that her mother had quite made up her mind that she 
 would never cross the Atlantic again when once she 
 found herself in Old England. " In fact," she told 
 him, " I feel perfectly certain that if my father had 
 lived, mother would have settled herself down in Cali- 
 fornia and would never have gone back to England 
 at all." 
 
 " That's all very well," said Dick, " but I hope she
 
 234 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 won't take it into her head that it is a httle earthly 
 paradise and that old England is a played-out con- 
 cern, because if she does I shall quarrel with her — 
 which I have no earthly wish to do." 
 
 " Oh, of course, mother knows that you have a stake 
 in the country. It's quite a different situation now," 
 Cynthia exclaimed, " to what it was when poor dear 
 father was living. Why, Dick, how can you be so 
 foolish? Mother said if father had lived — if father 
 had lived and you had chosen to marry me just the 
 same, which," looking up at him coquettishly, " I sup- 
 pose you would have done, it wouldn't have mattered 
 in the least to you whether they chose to go on living 
 in California, or whether they cared to go back to 
 England and settle." 
 
 " No, no, of course not. I fully agree to that." 
 
 " Well, mother said ' if.' " 
 
 " Yes, yes, I quite understand ; yes, yes — if. But, 
 of course, poor chap, he isn't living ; and so that's just 
 the difference, isn't it ? " 
 
 " Yes, that was what mother said. You are so un- 
 reasonable, Dick." 
 
 " I don't mean to be unreasonable," said Dick, with 
 a pretty air of begging for forgiveness. " Why should 
 I be? Only it's rather appalling, when one has 
 brought a lady over here against one's will, to have 
 even the possibility suggested that perhaps she'll 
 never want to go back again." 
 
 " Oh, trust to your luck in that," cried Cynthia. 
 " Mother will never want to come out here again. 
 She wishes fervently that she had never come. She 
 says she believes evil will come of it."
 
 ACROSS THE OCEAN. 235 
 
 " I shouldn't be a bit surprised," said Dick, gloomily. 
 
 " Oh, wouldn't you ? Do you think that it is pos- 
 sible you may see somebody else you like better than 
 me?" 
 
 " I wish you wouldn't be so silly. How could I see 
 anybody that I liked better than you? Haven't I 
 been seven years in America? Did I ever see any- 
 body I liked better than you? I wish you wouldn't 
 talk such arrant nonsense." 
 
 " I'll try not to talk arrant nonsense," said Cynthia. 
 " You don't know very much about women, Dick. 
 You don't realise that when a woman is utterly and 
 entirely and altogether happy, it seems to be part of 
 her nature to talk arrant nonsense. I assure you, 
 Dick, I never wanted to talk nonsense before. The 
 people at Gatehouses regarded me as a most sensible 
 young woman without a jot of silliness about me. It 
 is you who have made me silly, believe me it is." 
 
 Mrs. IMeredith did not come upon deck until they 
 were within sight of New York, and then Dick Vv'as 
 horrified to see the ravages which the voyage had 
 made in her. She looked quite old, and very frail 
 and transparent. 
 
 " You see I ought not to have come," was her greet- 
 ing to him as he rushed forward and offered her his 
 arm that he might steady her tottering steps across 
 the deck. 
 
 " Well, I confess I didn't want you to come," he 
 said very kindly, " but I never thought of this. So 
 many people who are bad sailors in the Channel, think 
 nothing of a trip across the Atlantic." 
 
 " I had always called myself a good sailor," she said.
 
 236 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 " I wonder whether one could put one's self to sleep 
 ■ — to get back again." 
 
 " I am afraid that wouldn't be quite safe." 
 
 " If one took a sleeping draught every three hours 
 it ought to keep one going." 
 
 " I hope you won't try it." 
 
 "Oh, I'll do nothing foolish," she said. "But I 
 have felt the heat so much this summer, very much." 
 
 " That was because you would go to Brighton," 
 said Dick, gently. 
 
 " Yes, the heat at Brighton was absolutely insup- 
 portable. If your mother had not invited us to Hol- 
 lingridge, I believe we could not have stayed our time 
 out. I have always suffered more or less from heat, 
 but never so much as now ; and coming on the top 
 of that, this dreadful voyage has almost finished 
 me." 
 
 " We ought to stay a few days in New York for you 
 to recruit." 
 
 " I should like to do so if you don't mind," said Mrs. 
 Meredith, quite appealingly. " I suppose it is an in- 
 teresting city enough ? " 
 
 Dick laughed aloud. " Oh, yes ; you can well put 
 in a few weeks in New York if you wish to do so, pro- 
 vided it is not too hot, which it should not be at this 
 time of the year. Sometimes they get a spell of 
 Indian summer — which is very trying." 
 
 " i hope not," said Mrs. Meredith. " I believe I 
 shall die if there is anything like a wave of heat." 
 
 " In that case we mustn't stop in New York. We 
 must get you down to Long Island, or somewhere 
 where you can breathe. Then you'll fmd it cold
 
 ACROSS THE OCEAN. 237 
 
 enough afterwards, cold enough to freeze the very 
 marrow in your bones." 
 
 He felt genuinely sorry for the little woman. She 
 seemed so frail and so dependent ; and slie so 
 genuinely repented of having gone against his wishes 
 in taking the journey at all. Dick could be very 
 generous, and he was just as kind and considerate 
 then to Mrs. Meredith as he would have been had she 
 made the journey entirely to please him. 
 
 In due course they landed, and thankfully shook 
 themselves free of the big ship ; at least, Mrs. Mere- 
 dith certainly did. She could not repress a shudder 
 as she stepped across the gangway. It was a shudder 
 of disgust to think that before she could reach her 
 native country again she must spend seven more cruel 
 days on that or some other vessel. " Then," her 
 thoughts ran, " old England shall be good enough for 
 me. I wouldn't like to tell Dick so, not for the world ; 
 but oh ; how flattered he or any other man would be if 
 he knew how often and how bitterly I have repented 
 of ever leaving my native shores." 
 
 She would have been considerably surprised if she 
 could have known how thoroughly Dick realised her 
 exact feelings. 
 
 New York proved itself a veritable city of delights. 
 Its restless stream of life, its extraordinary vitality, all 
 appealed to the little woman who had for years been 
 hving a life of hated stagnation. Nobody but herself 
 knew, not even Cynthia, how she had loathed her 
 surroundings in Gatehouses, how she had raged within 
 herself at the kindly and perhaps a little patronising 
 visits of the vicar, how she had fumed over the more
 
 238 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 ceremonious calls of his less tactful wife, how she had 
 longed and prayed that Roger might one day come 
 back again and enable her to let these people see that, 
 after all, she was perhaps even better than their equal. 
 And then, as soon as the news came that she was com- 
 paratively rich, her instinct had been to get out of 
 Gatehouses at once ; she had no longer any desire to 
 shine among those who had been witnesses of her past 
 humiliations. She did not want her daughter to pose 
 as an heiress before those who had, not unnaturally, 
 regarded her as a " young person." So the vivacious, 
 restless life of New York fascinated her beyond what 
 any words of mine will express, and in order the more 
 thoroughly to observe it, she set herself industriously 
 to do the city and its environs. 
 
 It was hot for the time of year, but not extra- 
 ordinarily so, and therefore Mrs. Meredith was enabled 
 to gratify her love of sight-seeing to the very full. 
 Dick was appalled at the energy with which she at- 
 tacked her task, and the interest with which she carried 
 it through. 
 
 " I had no idea that your mother would be like 
 this," he said one afternoon to Cynthia, when Mrs. 
 Meredith had at last acknowledged that she was feel- 
 ing a little tired, " but why waste it on New York ? 
 If she had gone to Paris, or Dresden, or Munich, or 
 to Italy, I could have understood her enthusiasm ; but 
 I can't understand anybody enthusing about anything 
 in America." 
 
 ''Why not?" 
 
 " Because America is not a place to enthuse over. 
 Barring the Falls, which can be done in a few hours,
 
 ACROSS THE OCEAN. 239 
 
 it is a place to pass through — a place to do business in, 
 a place to seek your fortune and all that sort of thing, 
 but not to enthuse over." 
 
 " Oh, well," Cynthia cried, " mother knows that she 
 will never come back here again, and so she wants to 
 see all there is to be seen while she's about it." 
 
 " That's right enough, but if she goes on like this 
 she'll knock herself up properly. She ought to have 
 stayed here quietly and rested ; eaten her meals regu- 
 larly, taken a drive every morning and afternoon, and 
 then have gone leisurely on and have saved up all 
 sight-seeing until she was on the way home." 
 
 '■ Oh, well, you must let mother go her own way. I 
 am content to be guided by you, but mother must go 
 her own way. Sight-seeing pleases her, therefore let 
 her see sights. And mind, to-night she is not going 
 out ; we are none of us going out ; we are going to do 
 nothing more exciting than perhaps take a ride on that 
 elevated railway." 
 
 Dick fairly groaned. " Not for a pleasure trip ? 
 Oh, my dear child, do you know what I wish ? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Well, I wish that your mother had belonged to a 
 peripatetic circus — a sort of tent arrangement that sets 
 itself up every three days and then, having exhausted 
 the money of that pitch, goes along to another pitch. 
 Then if money had come to her, she would have been 
 content to sit still and enjoy it." 
 
 Cynthia looked at him with a world of fun shining 
 out of her soft eyes. " I believe they call that a ' fit-up 
 show,' don't they? Fancy mother in a fit-up show. 
 It's tc^ funny ! Well, Dick, dearest, I am really sorry
 
 240 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 that my mother is not more domesticated than she is, 
 not more hke your own, that you can keep in proper 
 order, but as she is, so you must take her or leave her. 
 I am afraid that she's going to make the most of this 
 trip, because she feels perfectly sure that she'll never 
 take another ; at least, not one that entails a seven 
 days' sea journey."
 
 241 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 A NEW IDEA. 
 
 " I THINK," said Mrs. Meredith one evening at dinner, 
 " that we have about done New York." 
 
 " I should think you had," said Dick, with a grim 
 smile. " And you may think yourself very lucky that 
 New York has not done you." 
 
 " How done me ^ I don't understand you, Dick." 
 
 " Well, that this fearful heat has not completely 
 knocked you up. Considering all that you have done 
 and seen, the little care you have taken of yourself, 
 the excited state in which you arrived, and the amount 
 of hard labour that you have put in since you have 
 been here, I can only say that you must have a con- 
 stitution of iron." 
 
 " I have an excellent constitution," said Mrs. Mere- 
 dith, who, if she perceived the sarcasm did not think 
 it worth while to notice it, " far better than ever my 
 daughter will have, so you may make up your mind 
 to that." 
 
 It was on the tip of Dick's tongue to rejoin "I 
 hope so," but he nipped it off just in time, and dropped 
 a piece of bread in his mouth to serve as an excuse 
 for having opened it. 
 
 " I must say," Mrs. Meredith went on, " that I have 
 enjoyed my stay in New York very much. It's a fine 
 city; there's a sense of life about it. I don't know, 
 
 i6
 
 242 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 if I were not, so to speak, tied elsewhere through you 
 two, that I wouldn't sooner live here than in any other 
 city I have ever been in." 
 
 " I can't understand your taste," said Dick. " I 
 think New York perfectly horrid myself. However, 
 these things are all a matter of opinion ; but since 
 you have done Nev/ York, Mrs. Meredith, without 
 New York having especially done you, I suppose you 
 will be moving on soon ? " 
 
 " Yes, I think there is nothing left to stay for now," 
 said Mrs. Meredith, quite seriously. " We might go 
 on to-morrow. What do you think, Cynthia ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes. Do let us get out of this horrid heat," 
 cried Cynthia. 
 
 Something in her voice made Dick turn and look 
 at her. " Do you feel ill, dearest ? " he asked. 
 
 " No, Dick, but I don't feel well. I never could 
 stand dreadful heat, and it has been very oppressive 
 to-day. Do you know, I think I shall go to bed 
 directly after dinner. If you two want to explore the 
 elevated railway, you can explore it without me." 
 
 " Don't you think, Mrs. Meredith," said Dicl<, " that 
 it would be as well to leave one world to conquer .'' " 
 
 " How ? " 
 
 " Well, you are coming back by way of New York. 
 How would it do to leave the elevated railway till 
 we are coming home, and spend one evening resting 
 ourselves .'' " 
 
 " Yes, I don't mind," she said. 
 
 " But I shall go to bed all the same," announced 
 Cynthia, " because my wretched head is getting worse 
 every minute."
 
 A NEW IDEA. 243 
 
 Dick looked at her again very anxiously. " 1 hope 
 you are not going to be ill ? " he murmured under his 
 breath. 
 
 " No, no, no ; only a headache. Too much sight- 
 seeing — too much done-up-ness. I am not strong like 
 mother." 
 
 " Thank God for that ! " was Dick's fervent inward 
 comment. 
 
 " Then we'll go on to-morrow, Dick," said Mrs. 
 Meredith. 
 
 " Very well, I'll find out about the trains presently." 
 
 " I suppose," said Mrs. Meredith, " that we can get 
 everything on the cars for whiling away the tedium 
 of the journey } " 
 
 " Oh, yes ; as much as the tedium of such a long 
 journey can be whiled away," Dick rephed. 
 
 " Yes, I suppose it is tedious." 
 
 " Yes, it is very tedious ; at least, I found it so," 
 said Dick. 
 
 " And what day do we arrive at IMidas Creek ? " 
 
 " Midas Creek ! " exclaimed Dick. 
 
 " Yes, of course. We are going there first." 
 
 " Going to Midas Creek first ? " 
 
 " Of course. That's the main reason why I have 
 come." 
 
 " Oh." 
 
 He happened in his consternation to glance at 
 Cynthia, who looked so white and so suffering that 
 he proposed, without further continuing the conver- 
 sation, that they should leave the table. 
 
 " The sooner you are in bed, Cynthia," he said, " the 
 better." 
 
 16*
 
 244 ^ MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 " Yes, I know. I feel awfully played out to-night. 
 You and the mother can settle about the journey," 
 she said, as they passed down the room. 
 
 " I'll go up and see you safe into bed, darling," said 
 Mrs. Meredith. 
 
 " And I will go and have a cigarette," said Dick. 
 
 He left them at the elevator, and turning went into 
 the smoking divan, where he sat down and tried to 
 think over the appalling suggestion which Mrs. Mere- 
 dith had just made to him. He no longer wondered, 
 fond as he had been of her, that Meredith had left her. 
 
 " It looks such a velvet glove," his thoughts ran, 
 " but what a hand of steel — cold steel, chilled steel — • 
 v^'ith velvet covers. She's made up her mind to go 
 to Midas Creek to worry everything out — to make a 
 
 holy show of herself there. Oh, it all, I must 
 
 stop it somehow ! I must manage somehow to make 
 her go to the ranche first. She'll be pretty sickened 
 by tlie rough time there ; and then I'll take her down 
 to Freeman's Rock, and when she has seen the charms 
 of that place she perhaps won't be so keen on taking 
 Cynthia to a place which everybody will tell her 
 is simply ten times as rough. At all events, 
 if she goes to Midas Creek, she must go without 
 Cynthia. Her father's grave is nothing to her, and 
 I strongly object to my wife, until she is my wife, 
 visiting any such part of the world. And then," he 
 added, with a resolute expression crossing his face, 
 " once she is my wife, I'll take care to keep her out of 
 that kind of thing." 
 
 He finished the cigarette and then went up to the 
 sitting-room which was attached to Mrs. Meredith's
 
 A NEW IDEA. 245 
 
 suite. He sat there alone for a few minutes before 
 she entered from the bedroom. 
 
 " Oh, you are here," she said " I am sure that 
 poor child will be all right when she has had a night's 
 rest. She has done a little too much." 
 
 " A great deal too much, Mrs. Meredith," said Dick. 
 
 " This heat is so very trying," she remarked. 
 
 "Yes, it is." Then he got up and went and sat 
 down opposite to her. '" Mrs. Meredith, I want you 
 to do me a favour." 
 
 " Certainly, Dick, if I can." 
 
 " I want you to go straight to Santa Clara." 
 
 " Oh, no." 
 
 " Well, but I have a good reason for saying it ; it 
 would be better on all accounts that you go to Santa 
 Clara first. I should strongly object to Cynthia going 
 to Midas Creek at all." 
 
 " But why ? " 
 
 " It isn't the place for a girl of her age or her excep- 
 tional looks." 
 
 " She will be perfectly safe with me," said Mrs. 
 Meredith, putting up her chin with a haughty gesture. 
 
 " Excuse me, Mrs. Meredith, but I happen to know 
 the part of the country where we are going to, and I 
 tell you that Cynthia is not going to Midas Creek with 
 my consent. As her future husband I object to it 
 very strongly, and I do think that my wishes should 
 be considered in some degree." 
 
 " It's natural that Cynthia should wish to visit her 
 father's grave." 
 
 " Not at all. If you will excuse me saying so this 
 once, Roger was nothing to Cynthia beyond the bare
 
 246 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT, 
 
 fact that he was her father. She has no remembrance 
 of him ; she has no special interest in him except as 
 he affects you. I am not saying this to hurt you, Mrs. 
 Meredith, but beHeve me that I am right. Cynthia 
 must not go to Midas Creek." 
 
 " There is no reason why she shouldn't go," Mrs. 
 ]\Ieredith persisted. 
 
 " There is every reason why she shouldn't go. The 
 most important is that her future husband objects 
 to it." 
 
 " But how can I go if Cynthia is to be left behind ? 
 Where is she to be left ^ " 
 
 " That's easy enough. If you go to Santa Clara, 
 and we get our business through with regard to the 
 property, I can arrange for somebody to tal^e care of 
 Cynthia while I take you down to Midas Creek. You 
 are making a mistake, Mrs. Meredith ; you had better 
 take my advice and stop away. It will be a black and 
 bitter disappointment to you. You will hear things 
 said about Meredith which will hurt you beyond what 
 any words of mine can express. He didn't bear the 
 character of a saint at Santa Clara ; he wasn't a 
 popular man anyhow. At Midas Creek you will hear 
 what will hurt you : you v/ill hear nothing that would 
 be in any way a satisfaction to you. As to the six 
 feet of earth that covers him, what difference is there 
 between one patch of ground and another ? My wish 
 is to spare you pain, and if you believe in me at all 
 you will be guided by me in this respect ; if you don't 
 believe in me, well, you don't ; and you must go your 
 own way, although it isn't the right way. Still, if 
 your mind is bent upon it, I'll take you down to Midas
 
 A NEW IDEA. 247 
 
 Creek myself, and I'll stay with you ; but I will not 
 allow Cynthia to go near the place." 
 
 For a moment Mrs. Meredith sat irresolute. Dick, 
 watching her keenly, saw by the tightly held in under 
 lip that she was torn by a dozen conflicting emotions. 
 
 At last she spoke. " Dick," she said, " I generally 
 have a very great respect for your opinion. You have 
 a clear, level, business head, and I have gone very 
 much by what you say, partly for that and partly be- 
 cause you are my dear Roger's great friend. But, 
 Dick, when you tell me, or when at least you imply 
 that I am not a sufficient protector for my daughter in 
 Cahfornia, or any other part of the world, I consider 
 that you insult me." 
 
 " Oh, Mrs. Meredith, there can be no question of 
 insult between you and me," he said quietly ; " you 
 must know that that is the wish furthest from my 
 thoughts ; you must know perfectly well that I can 
 have no object but your comfort and Cynthia's ulti- 
 mate good when I beg of you to consider my wishes 
 in this one respect. My dear lady, Meredith himself 
 was so conscious of the wildness of the life to which 
 he had grown accustomed by living in it for fifteen 
 years, that he would not allow for a moment that 
 should I find you, as I did find you, you would ever 
 consent to come out and share it. He naturally re- 
 membered you as he had left you, and he felt that 
 you would instinctively shrink from many things which 
 had become the habit of his daily life." 
 
 " But you have been seven years in this same place, 
 living this same life," persisted Mrs. Meredith, "and 
 I don't find that it has made any difference to you.
 
 248 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 I don't see that you are any different to your family. 
 You are still the young man of good family who has 
 been in a cavalry regiment I don't find that you have 
 been degraded by having lived for seven years at 
 Santa Clara." 
 
 " No," said Dick, " you may not find it ; but you 
 would have seen a difference in Meredith." 
 
 " I don't understand you, Dick." 
 
 " I mean simply this. Look here, Mrs. Meredith, 
 I'm going to speak this once straight and plain to you, 
 and then, if you please, we'll never touch on the 
 subject again. I went out to California on account of 
 my lungs ; I went out with money from my father, 
 with sufficient to start me in a decent way of living, 
 and from time to time my father supplemented that 
 start by further help. Mrs. Meredith, from first to 
 last of the whole seven years that I have spent in this 
 country, I have lived the same clean and wholesome 
 life that I was accustomed to live before I came here. 
 Meredith did not follow the same course. He had 
 been out eight years when I first met him ; he was 
 then a broken man — broken in pocket, broken in 
 character, broken in constitution. We chanced on 
 each other ; we chanced to become fri,ends, and I was 
 the drag on the wheel of Meredith's passions which 
 kept him alive and in something like decent condition 
 until I had no longer any hold over him. Meredith 
 knew life in California better than I did, better than 
 you can ever know it; but, Mrs. Meredith, I know 
 sufficient and I have seen sufficient to make me sure 
 of one thing — that you will make a great mistake if 
 you go to Midas Creek and you will regret it all your
 
 A NEW IDEA. 249 
 
 life if you seek to identify yourself there as Meredith's 
 widow." 
 
 For a moment Mrs. Meredith was too much as- 
 tounded to reply. " You mean to tell me," she ex- 
 claimed, " that if I went there as my husband's widow 
 I should not be safe ? " 
 
 " I don't mean that you would go in danger of your 
 hfe," said he, " but you would certainly not be safe 
 from insult for one thing. You would go with a deep 
 feeling towards Meredith, too — the feeling of nobody 
 that you would meet. Remember that Meredith died 
 raving mad drunk. If you went to Midas Creek and 
 you spoke of him to anyone who ever came in contact 
 with him during that last few days as you spoke of 
 him to me, that is as you have thought of him all 
 these years, your hearers would laugh in your face. 
 They might not even stop at that much." 
 
 " It wouldn't be necessary for me to say I was 
 Meredith's widow," said she. 
 
 " Well, if you were to speak of him to anyone in 
 Midas Creek without revealing your identity, you 
 would hear what, as I said before, would hurt you 
 more than any words of mine could tell. There's 
 nothing to be gained by it, Mrs. Meredith, nothing. 
 Believe me, you had better let well alone." 
 
 The moment the words had passed his lips he 
 realized that he had made a mistake. Mrs. Meredith 
 sat looking at him with a new light shining in her 
 blue eyes. 
 
 " Dick," she said, in a curiously hard, strained voice, 
 " what do you mean ? "
 
 250 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 NOTHING MORE. 
 
 For a minute or so Mrs. Meredith sat staring at Dick 
 Vincent as if she would look into his very soul. 
 
 " Dick," she said, " you have put a new idea into my 
 head. What did you mean when you said that it 
 would be best to leave well alone ? " 
 
 " I have been trying to explain what I meant," he 
 said deliberately. 
 
 His heart was beatmg more quickly than usual ; he 
 felt that some suspicion had been aroused in her mind. 
 Any sort of revelation might take place during the 
 next half-hour, and he nerved himself to meet what 
 might be before him as only a strong man in perfect 
 health would have been able to do. 
 
 " Look here ! " she said, ignoring his remark. " I 
 insist upon it that we stop at Midas Creek — I mean 
 that we go there first. I have a reason — a very 
 urgent, a very cogent reason." 
 
 " Not with Cynthia." 
 
 " Yes, with Cynthia." 
 
 " No, Mrs. Meredith ; I will not give my consent." 
 
 " Your consent is not necessary. Cynthia is not 
 your wife yet, but Cynthia is my daughter, and she 
 will go where I tell her. That will be to Midas 
 Creek."
 
 NOTHING MORE. 2$ I 
 
 " I shall appeal to Cynthia." 
 
 " You can appeal to Cynthia if you choose, but 
 Cynthia will do my bidding-. C}'nthia has never dis- 
 obeyed me in her life ; she is not likely to begin now. 
 Cynthia is going to Midas Creek with me ; you can 
 please yourself whether you go or not. I shall not 
 conceal myself, or the fact that I am my husband's 
 widow. What there is to learn about my husband's 
 death I will learn." 
 
 " What more can you want to learn than you already 
 know, Mrs. Meredith ? You have seen the account of 
 the occurrence in the local journal." 
 
 " I want to make sure," she said, looking at him 
 fixedly, " that my husband was killed." 
 
 He gave an exclamation of impatience. " My dear 
 Mrs. Meredith, this is worse than folly. If you have 
 any idea that Meredith, poor fellow, is still alive " 
 
 " No, I have no such idea. I know that my husband 
 is dead, but, and the question is a large one, was he 
 killed or was he murdered ? " 
 
 " He was killed," said Dick, shortly. " You have 
 the evidence in the papers. You can have no better 
 proof than that." 
 
 " Yes, I can have better proof than that. I can 
 have the proof of the man who was there and saw it 
 done — the landlord of the hotel." 
 
 " His evidence is there in the paper." 
 
 " I would prefer to have it from his own lips. How 
 do I know that the editor of that paper was not paid 
 to produce that report ? " 
 
 "My dear Mrs. ]\Ieredith, this is absolute folly," 
 said Dick. "Folly!"
 
 252 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 " Perhaps. If it proves so, I am content to abide by 
 it. You take things too much for granted over in 
 these wild parts of the country. I will not do so. I 
 have been robbed of my husband," she exclaimed, 
 working herself up into a fury, " and I will have satis- 
 faction. I will know the truth. You got the news in 
 New York ; you came on." 
 
 " What was the good of going back ? " 
 
 " You came on ; you left him to his fate. You 
 didn't care." 
 
 " What was the good of caring ? The man was 
 dead." 
 
 " You don't know that he was dead." 
 
 " Yes, I do." 
 
 " How do you know ? By the paper ? " 
 
 " No, I had a letter from a man who was present, a 
 man I know." 
 
 " What was his name ? " 
 
 " His name is Valentine Clegg." 
 
 " An American ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " You knew him ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes." 
 
 " And he wrote and told you my husband was 
 dead?" 
 
 " He wrote me the whole circumstances of the 
 affair." 
 
 " Why didn't you show me that letter, Dick ? " 
 
 " Because there wa.s a good deal in it that I had no 
 wish for you to see." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " I have already told you, Mrs. Meredith, that Mere-
 
 NOTHING MORE. 253 
 
 dith did not carry a very good character about with 
 him. His reputation in Cahfornia, such parts of it as 
 he was known, was a bad one. I should not Hke you 
 to read — being Roger's widow, and I knowing him as 
 I did, knowing the good there was in him — I should 
 not like you to read everything that Valentine Clegg 
 said about him. He had known him for many years — 
 almost ever since he first came out." 
 
 " I should like to see that letter." 
 
 " I am sorry I cannot show it to you." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " Because I have destroyed it." 
 
 " Why did you destroy it ? " 
 
 " I destroyed it because I then could not show it 
 to you." 
 
 " Did this Valentine Clegg justify the action of the 
 man who killed my husband ? " 
 
 " Absolutely. Nobody could have done otherwise. 
 It was a question of life for life, and the man who had 
 his senses about him did not see being shot down by 
 the man who was raving mad drunk. It's no use 
 shirking the truth, Mrs. Meredith, and, as I told you, 
 it is less than no use for you to go to Midas Creek, 
 either in the character of an avenging spirit or, for the 
 matter of that, as Meredith's devoted widow." 
 
 " Where does this Valentine Clegg live ? " 
 
 " Mrs. Meredith, it is not necessary to tell you." 
 
 " Yes, I will go and see him." 
 
 " No, I don't think you must go and see him." 
 
 " I intend to do so. Give me his address now." 
 
 " No, I shall not give you Clegg's address. From 
 what he wrote to me he could hardly be called staying
 
 254 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 in the hotel, as he had not been there more than five 
 minutes when the affray took place. He wrote me 
 from the standpoint of a purely disinterested eye 
 witness. It can do you no good to see him. Look 
 here — I'll send to Midas Creek for the entire evidence, 
 which I am quite sure I can get you. That will be as 
 worthy of credence as if you went and collected it 
 yourself, because I shall get it from the official 
 quarters." 
 
 "No, I'll have it at first hand. I'll go to Midas 
 Creek, and then I'll go to see Valentine Clegg. I 
 shall get his address from the hotel. You are shield- 
 ing somebody." 
 
 "Mrs. Meredith!" 
 
 " Yes. I am not the least excited ; I am speaking 
 with an absolute knowledge of what I am saying. It's 
 borne in upon me with an insistence which I should be 
 a wicked woman to disregard. I am quite calm, but I 
 am convinced that you are hiding something from me. 
 You are shielding somebody ; you know more than 
 you have ever told me, and if you v;ill not tell me the 
 truth, I will seek out those who will." 
 
 As a matter of fact, I^Irs. Meredith was most horribly 
 excited. She was trembling like an aspen leaf from 
 head to foot ; her face was white, her lips were 
 strained, and her voice was hard and repressed even 
 to monotony. 
 
 " So," she went on, " it's no use trying to hold me 
 back and bar my progress any longer ; it's no use to 
 speak to me of Cynthia ; Cynthia will go the way that 
 I go. The truth I will have. If my husband has been 
 done to death, his murderer shall suffer."
 
 NOTHING MORE. 255 
 
 As Mrs. Meredith grew more excited, so did Dick 
 Vincent become more absolutely calm. He was past 
 all personal feeling now. He was playing a game as 
 a game ; he was playing it desperately in earnest, for 
 the issues to him were more important than the issues 
 of life and death. He was playing a game of " pull 
 devil pull baker," between Mrs. Meredith's angry sus- 
 picion and the chance of Cynthia being his wife. And 
 he played for all he was worth. 
 
 " You forget," ht said, very quietly, " that you are 
 speaking of a country which is not England. You 
 would get no redress, you would get no fresh inquest, 
 you Vk'ould not even get sympathy. The jury, 
 probably made up of hard-headed, rough and ready 
 men, considered Meredith's death a pure accident, 
 and in order to express their feeling in that way they 
 brought the verdict in — ' Died by the visitation of 
 God.' If I had been the foreman of that jury, or in- 
 deed an ordinary juryman, I should have suggested 
 that they would better have expressed their feeling by 
 returning a verdict of ' accidental death ' ; but, you 
 see, I was not there, and, therefc^re, they followed their 
 own ideas and returned the verdict as you know. As 
 to my shielding anybody, as to my hiding something, 
 well, if you like to think so, you must. I have no 
 objection to taking you to Midas Creek ; I only object 
 to my future wife going near that place. I have asked 
 nothing unreasonable of you ; I have only asked you 
 to take that journey when you have seen the ranche ; 
 and you are not acting reasonably by me when you do 
 everything you can to thwart me, when you go against 
 my fixed principles as regards my fiancee, when you
 
 256 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 accuse me of something for which you have absolutely 
 no grounds." 
 
 " You dare to say this to me ? " 
 
 "Yes, Mrs. Meredith, I dare to say this. And I 
 shall dare to say a good deal more before we have 
 done. It takes no such great daring." 
 
 " Then I shall go to Midas Creek without you, and 
 I shall take my daughter with me. If you like to give 
 my daughter up " 
 
 " There's no question of my giving your daughter 
 up ; I shall never give your daughter up, excepting 
 at her own wish. And I defy you — I dare you to say 
 one word to influence her against me. If you do, Mrs. 
 Meredith, it will be a trial of strength between us, 
 and although Cynthia may have been the most perfect 
 daughter in the world, she has given her word to me, 
 she has given her love to me, and I am convinced that 
 she will abide by my wishes, because her common- 
 sense will tell her that they are more reasonable than 
 yours." 
 
 Mrs. Meredith got up from her seat. She stood, 
 holding on to the table beside her, staring hard at 
 him and swaying unsteadily, as if her head were in a 
 whirl. 
 
 " You think," she began, " you think that you can 
 hoodwink me, but you will find your mistake." 
 
 She pointed a trembling finger at him, and then, 
 without a word of warning, without a sigh, a gasp, or 
 an attempt to save herself, she dropped like a stone at 
 his feet. Dick, with an exclamation of intense annoy- 
 ance, stooped and raised her from the ground. He 
 was vexed with her ; he was vexed with himself. She
 
 NOTHING MORE. 257 
 
 seemed a dead weight in his arms, and he carried her 
 to the nearest couch, where he laid her down, then 
 flew to the electric button, ringing three times as a 
 signal to one of the chambermaids to come to him. 
 
 " Quick ! this lady is ill ! " he exclaimed, when the 
 maid arrived. " Can you get me some brandy ? 
 Stay ! Perhaps Miss Meredith may have some. She 
 has gone to bed ; she cannot be asleep yet." 
 
 The maid, who was a Swede, stooped down over 
 Mrs. Meredith, and took the cushion from under her 
 head. " It is ze best to put ze head low," she said in 
 a tone which re-assured him, because it told him that 
 she was not flurried at Mrs. Meredith's state. " I go 
 see if the young lady has brandee." 
 
 A moment later she came back, carrying a small 
 silver flask and a glass from the toilet table. She was 
 immediately followed by Cynthia, who had thrust on a 
 cambric wrapper above her nightdress. 
 
 " What is the matter, Dick ? " she said. " Is mother 
 ill?" 
 
 " Yes, she has fainted. Have you ever seen her 
 like this before ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, I have sometimes. Yes, that's right, 
 Brincka, the lower the head, the better. Rub the 
 palms of her hands. Now, Dick, a little of this brandy 
 — Oh, don't weaken it with water, just a few drops 
 will be enough to begin." 
 
 Thus bidden, Dick Vincent forced a few drops of 
 brandy down her throat There was no effort to 
 swallow, and the liquid ran out of the corner of her 
 mouth on to the cushions of the sofa. 
 
 "I tliink," said Cynthia, still rubbing hard at the 
 
 17
 
 258 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 palm of one hand while the Swedish maid did the 
 same with the other, " I think we should do better if 
 we could get a doctor here. This sort of thing needs 
 ether. There must be a doctor near to a big hotel 
 like this, possibly one living here. Her pulse is so 
 slow, and she scarcely seems to breathe. Wait a 
 minute, I'll get some scent." 
 
 But it was all of no use. Brandy, scent, doctor, 
 daughter, nothing had any effect upon the inanimate 
 form lying upon the sofa. A doctor who happened to 
 be occupying the next suite came quickly in. He took 
 but one glance at the sofa, touched the wrist, bent 
 down and listened a moment to the heart, then turned 
 to the maid and said " Give me a looking glass." 
 
 Cynthia dropped her mother's hand, went swiftly 
 into the bedroom and brought back an ivory hand- 
 glass. She had no idea why he wanted it ; all this 
 was an absolutely new experience to her. She 
 watched the doctor with wide-open eyes, in which 
 curiosity was the main expression, as he held the glass 
 over Mrs. Meredith's lips. Then he took it away, 
 looked at it, and glanced markedly at Vincent. 
 
 " Are you this lady's son, sir ? " 
 
 " I am going to be her son-in-law," said Dick. 
 " This is her daughter." 
 
 The stranger turned and took the girl by the hand. 
 " My dear young lady," he said, " it is better to tell you 
 the truth at once. We can do nothing more."
 
 259 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 A TERRIBLE WEEK. 
 
 When the doctor uttered those words to Cynthia 
 Meredith — " We can do nothing more " — she looked 
 at him with eyes which unmistakably showed that she 
 had not in any way taken in the full meaning of his 
 words. 
 
 " I have never done more than given her a little 
 brandy," she said, looking anxiously at him. 
 
 " You don't understand," he said. " It's no use 
 giving her brandy. It is too late to do anything." 
 
 " I don't understand you," she said. 
 
 At this moment Dick took the girl's hand. 
 " Dearest," he said, " you don't realise what the doctor 
 wants to tell you. He means that you have only me 
 now ; that we must be everything to each other." 
 
 " You don't mean that my mother is dead ? " 
 
 " She is dead," said the doctor, simply. 
 
 Dick was holding her two hands fast within his 
 own. He expected a terrible outbreak of grief, but 
 Cynthia was absolutely calm. 
 
 "Are you quite sure? " she said to the doctor, and 
 then looking down at the quiet face of the dead, " Are 
 you sure that nothing can be done? Won't you try 
 to do something ? " 
 
 " There's nothing to be done," he said. " Your 
 
 ^ - i;*
 
 26o A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 mother is dead. She was, of course, subject to these 
 attacks ? " 
 
 " Oh, sometimes. I have known her faint, not very 
 often, but never so long as this. You are quite sure ? " 
 
 " I am quite sure." 
 
 For a few seconds the girl did not speak. She 
 stood looking down on the sofa with a blank face. 
 " You were quite right, Dick," she said, at last, looking 
 up at him. " You said she would kill herself." 
 
 " With what? " asked the doctor. 
 
 " Oh, she was ill all the way over ; yes, very ill. 
 The doctor on board said she ought not to have come. 
 And then she couldn't rest ; she wanted to see every- 
 thing ; and the heat was so great ; she was so ener- 
 getic, so determined to make the most of her time, 
 and nothing we could say made any difference. She 
 utterly fagged herself out." 
 
 " Ah, it's a pity. Her heart must have been in a 
 state necessitating a very quiet life. I shall, of course, 
 be able to speak more definitely later on. What a 
 pity it is when people take their holidays too hard and 
 make a toil of a pleasure." 
 
 " Well, I did my best," said Dick ; " in fact, I was 
 trying to persuade her not to take a very disagreeable 
 and arduous expedition when she was taken ill. 
 However, it's no use to talk of that now ; there must 
 be a great deal to arrange. Cynthia, I am sure that 
 you would be better in bed. I ought to find some- 
 body to stay with you to-night. Miss Meredith," he 
 continued, turning to the doctor, " does not know a 
 soul in the country ; and I not a single lady in New 
 York"
 
 A TERRIBLE WEEK. 261 
 
 The doctor did not hesitate for a moment. " Oh, 
 that's easy enough," he said. " I'll fetch my wife here. 
 Come into the next room," he added to Cynthia ; " I 
 should like just to run my eye over you." 
 
 He drew her into the adjoining room and listened a 
 moment at her heart. 
 
 " Your heart's all right," he said. " I'll bring my 
 wife to you. I think they had better transfer you to 
 a room next to ours, and she will look after you for 
 the night." 
 
 He had closed the door of the room where Mrs. 
 Meredith was lying, and made a sign to Dick to follow 
 him into the corridor. " She will be better when she 
 has had a good burst of crying," he said in an under- 
 tone. " She is a good deal run down. Has she been 
 sight-seeing too ? " 
 
 " Yes, she has — until she absolutely rebelled this 
 evening, and refused to do any more." 
 
 " I see. What's her name ? " 
 
 "Oh, Meredith. Miss Cynthia Meredith. You 
 know that she is engaged to me." 
 
 " I gathered as much. With her mother's con- 
 sent ? " 
 
 " Of course. Oh, yes." 
 
 "Father living?" 
 
 " No, he isn't. He and I were partners on a ranche 
 together in California. We were on our way to settle 
 up his affairs." 
 
 " Well, my dear sir, it's a pity you didn't get married 
 before you left England. That poor little woman in 
 there has really driven herself to death from what I 
 can gather from a cursory examination. However,
 
 262 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 I'll go and fetch my wife. By-the-bye, what is your 
 name ? " 
 
 " Vincent — Richard Vincent. Thank you a thou- 
 sand times. I really don't know how to thank you 
 enough. You see, I'm so frightfully stranded, being 
 left like this, and if she breaks down at all, I shan't 
 know what to do with her. It's awfully good of you." 
 
 "Oh, it isn't a bit. My wife will be delighted; 
 she's the kindest creature living. I daresay she'll be 
 able to do more with her in five minutes than you and 
 I would in a week. And then we must have a talk 
 as to all that will have to be done. You have a very 
 unpleasant week before you." 
 
 " I know it," said Dick. " However, I must go 
 through it somehow." 
 
 It was but the work of a few minutes for Doctor 
 Sergeantson to go back to his own suite of rooms, 
 acquaint his wife with all that had happened, and enlist 
 her services for the girl who was so suddenly bereaved 
 of her only living relative. 
 
 Mrs. Sergeantson was a warm-hearted Irishwoman, 
 impulsive, quick, and intensely sympathetic. She 
 never attempted to stand upon ceremony, but rushed 
 into Cynthia's room as if she had known her all the 
 days of her life. 
 
 " Oh| me poor child ! me poor dear child ! How 
 can I find words to tell you how grieved and sorry I 
 am for the dreadful trouble that has fallen upon you ! " 
 she cried. 
 
 Cynthia, who was sitting by the open window, 
 staring at nothing, looked round with a half-vacant 
 stare.
 
 A TERRIBLE WEEK. 263 
 
 " You are very kind," she said. " I don't think that 
 I quite reahse what has happened yet. It's all been 
 so sudden, so " 
 
 " Yes, me poor child, I know perfectly well. You 
 are stunned, poor darling. But you shall not stay here 
 in this room by yourself. Come and stay to-night 
 with me. Come to my suite. You shall share my 
 room to-night, and we'll turn the doctor into the room 
 next door. Come, me poor dear, you can do no good 
 here, and you can't stay here brooding by yourself." 
 
 Some note in the sweet Irish voice or in the touch 
 of the tender hands made Cynthia realise, as nothing 
 else had done, the terrible loss which had befallen her. 
 She caught her breath with a sob for the first time 
 since they had called her from her bed, 
 
 " Oh, why should you be so kind to me ? " she asked. 
 
 " Sure, me dear, because although I never saw you 
 before I've got a heart that can ache for anyone that's 
 in trouble. But you must cheer up. The doctor tells 
 me that you've a fine young man that's going to be 
 your husband, and so you won't be as much alone in 
 the world as if you were left all by yourself. Ah, 
 here's Brincka. She's a good sort is Brincka ; she's a 
 great friend of mine. Come now, Brincka, if I take 
 Miss Meredith off to me rooms, you'll bring all her 
 things, won't you, — there's a good girl ? " 
 
 Mrs. Sergeantson well understood the art of getting 
 what she wanted by the soft methods of persuasion. 
 Brincka, who was genuinely sorry for the great blow 
 which had befallen Cynthia, readily promised to trans- 
 fer all the young lady's belongings to Mrs. Sergeant- 
 son's apartments.
 
 264 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 "Now, me dear, you can leave it all to Brincka," 
 cried Mrs. Sergeantson. " She's as clever as daylight, 
 and as kind as they make 'em. Come straight along 
 with me, there's a dear. There's nothing to be gained 
 by staying here, and the sooner you lay your weary 
 head on your pillow and get you to sleep, the better." 
 " I don't feel as if I should ever sleep again," cried 
 Cynthia. 
 
 They were just about to leave the room when an 
 idea struck Mrs. Sergeantson. She stepped aside and 
 spoke to the Swedish maid, who whispered something 
 back in reply. Then she turned back to Cynthia. 
 " Me dear," she said, " you'd like to go and take your 
 last look at the little mother ? She'll not be the same 
 to-morrow perhaps. Go and say good-bye to her 
 now. It will comfort you afterwards, and I'll go with 
 you, and then I'll be the better able to talk to you 
 about her." 
 
 " Yes," said Cynthia, " perhaps it will help me to 
 realise it." 
 
 Mrs. Sergeantson looked into the adjoining room. 
 " There's no one there," she said. " They'll wait 
 until we've cleared out of the road." 
 
 The dead woman was lying upon the couch where 
 she had breathed her last, a light sheet being thrown 
 completely over it. 
 
 " Sure she was a pretty creature," said the Irish 
 woman impulsively, " and you are her living image. 
 Poor dear! poor dear! It's sad to see her like this. 
 And yet me husband said she couldn't have suffered 
 a pang." 
 
 In a moment the floodgates of Cynthia's grief and
 
 A TERRIBLE WEEK. 265 
 
 sorrow were opened. She flung herself down upon 
 the floor by her dead mother's side. The Swedish 
 girl impulsively ran towards her, but the doctor's 
 wiser wife touched her with a warning hand and shook 
 her head. 
 
 " Not a word," she said ; " I have been waiting for 
 this. It had to come sooner or later." 
 
 The Irishwoman was very kind and tender and con- 
 siderate to the forlorn girl. She encouraged her 
 tears ; she tended and ministered to her ; she took her 
 away to her own cheerful room and waited upon her 
 as her mother had never done. 
 
 So, knowing that she was in good hands, Dick was 
 left free to make all necessary arrangements with 
 Doctor Sergeantson and the authorities. 
 
 At best it was a hideous week which followed. The 
 formalities which are necessitated by sudden death 
 were all got through in due course, and as soon as 
 possible all that was left of Cynthia's mother was laid 
 quietly away to rest in one of the graveyards of the 
 city to see which she had sacrificed her very life. 
 
 " And now," said Mrs. Sergeantson to Dick, when 
 they were all once more assembled in the doctor's 
 sitting-room, " now what is going to happen ? " 
 
 " Mrs. Sergeantson," said Dick, " you can believe 
 that during the past few days I have been thinking 
 that question out with my whole heart. Under the 
 circumstances, so unexpected, so tragic, I do not see 
 that we have before us but one course." 
 
 "And that?" 
 
 " That is that Cynthia and I should be married 
 immediately here in New York. I know dearest," he
 
 266 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 said, putting out his hand to her, " that this is sudden, 
 but we have been in circumstances which leave us 
 little or no choice. We both thought to wait a few 
 months and to go back and be married in England in 
 the midst of our relations, but here we are, several 
 thousand miles away from anybody belonging to us, 
 alone with each other, alone saving for the doctor and 
 his kind wife, as alone as if we were on a desert 
 island. Now, having come so far, it would be ridicu- 
 lous to go back without completing the business for 
 which we came across the Atlantic. I hold your 
 father's will ; I also hold your mother's will, made just 
 before she left England. You have seen my mother 
 and my people ; you know that you will be absolutely 
 welcome to them whether you go back as Cynthia 
 Meredith or as my wife. It will simplify everything 
 if we are married now. We can then go to Santa 
 Clara without any difficulty. We can wind up your 
 father's estate, we can arrange what shall become of 
 the ranche, and then go back to England to take up 
 our life together in the home which would have been 
 yours in any case after a few months. What do you 
 say, Mrs. Sergeantson ? " 
 
 " Sure, I think it is the very best plan that could 
 possibly be," said the doctor's wife. 
 
 " You have no fear that your mother ? " began 
 
 Cynthia. 
 
 " My dear, I have no fear of anybody," he replied. 
 " You know perfectly well that my mother was de- 
 lighted when we announced our engagement to her ; 
 she was delighted. To her you are the ideal daughter- 
 in-law. I suppose," he said, turning to the doctor.
 
 A TERRIBLE WEEK. 267 
 
 " that there will be no great difficulty in arranging for 
 a marriage to take place as soon as possible ? " 
 
 " Oh, there are a few formalities to go through, of 
 course — the same as in any country ; they are, if any- 
 thing, fewer here than at home. Anyway, the wife 
 and I will be delighted to keep Miss Cynthia with us." 
 
 " Don't call me Miss Cynthia," Cynthia broke in, 
 pathetically eager to show how she appreciated the 
 kindness which had been lavished upon her. 
 
 " Well, I won't. I don't feel, although we have only 
 known you a few days, I don't feel Hke a stranger to 
 you. We shall be delighted, Vincent, to keep Cynthia 
 with us until she is safely your wife. I think you are 
 perfectly wise, and everybody concerned — that is to 
 say your mother and your sisters ; nobody else will 
 matter — will certainly agree that you had no other 
 course open to you. Then you can go along on your 
 journey, get through your business in your own time, 
 and stay a few days with us on your way back." 
 
 " And then," said Dick Vincent, holding out his 
 hand, " our greatest desire will be that you and Mrs. 
 Sergeantson should come and stay with us at Holling- 
 ridge."
 
 268 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 dick's way. 
 
 It is an easy thing to get married. All the great 
 epochs of life, those about which we are accustomed 
 to make the most fuss, may be accomplished without 
 any fuss at all. How easily some people die ! Quietly, 
 unobtrusively, like guests who wish to slip away with- 
 out spoiling a party, some people lay down the armour 
 of life and slip so gently away out of our midst that 
 we hardly miss them until they are actually gone. 
 So, in spite of the fuss that is usually made about 
 weddings, it is quite possible and easy to be married 
 without any fuss at all ; and with the help of the 
 doctor, who had proved himself such a good friend 
 to Dick and Cynthia, the two were married in the 
 Church of the Strangers at New York one day early 
 in November. 
 
 Any feeling that Cynthia might have had of being 
 married in a corner, of having in a sense run away 
 to be married, was quite dispelled by a cable from 
 her future mother-in-law, to whom Dick had at once 
 cabled the news of Mrs. Meredith's death and his in- 
 tention of marrying Cynthia without delay. " Deeply 
 grieved," it said. " Fully approve." So it Wcis with 
 what you might call the skeleton of a maternal bless- 
 ing that the two went, accompanied by the doctor and
 
 dick's way. 269 
 
 his wife, to the Church of the Strangers, and were 
 made one ; and when they had celebrated the event 
 by a quiet little feast together, they set off on their 
 long journey towards Santa Clara. 
 
 It was not until then that Dick Vincent permitted 
 himself to breathe freely. It is difficult to explain his 
 feelings at this time. His first sensation, when he 
 realised that Mrs. Tvleredith was dead, had been one 
 of actual horror ; his next of care for Cynthia ; and 
 this had been speedily followed by a feeling, which 
 would not be shaken off or got rid of, that he had 
 been mercifully delivered out of a terrible situation ; 
 that he had been spared a near chance of losing the 
 only girl he had ever loved — the girl who loved him 
 with all her heart and soul. He knew that if Mrs. 
 Meredith had ever accomplished her wish and got to 
 Midas Creek, she would inevitably have discovered 
 everything ; she had been so plainly and unmistakably 
 on the right track. And he knew, although no real 
 blame could be imputed to him even by her, that all 
 chance of happiness for him would have been at an 
 end for ever. 
 
 Cyntliia, after the first few days, had recovered 
 wonderfully from the awful shock of her mother's 
 death. It is so much easier to get over a loss when 
 one is in the midst of strange scenes, when one's life 
 is full, and one's heart has an occupant which for the 
 time is sufficiently enthralling to push every other 
 interest to one side. So, by the time they started on 
 the first stage of their journey which would eventually 
 bring them to Santa Clara, Dick was feeling that at 
 last he could allow himself to be utterly happy. And
 
 270 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 Cynthia — well, with Cynthia happiness took the form 
 of breathless gratitude to think that Dick, so hand- 
 some, young, well-born, straight and clean and whole- 
 some, should have fixed his affections upon her. It 
 was extraordinary. Of course, she gave the credit of 
 it all to that mysterious fetish which we call Provi- 
 dence. "And the best of it is," she said to him, as 
 they waved a last adieu to the doctor and his wife, 
 "you would have cared for me just the same if I 
 hadn't had a penny to my fortune." 
 
 " Perhaps even a little more," corrected Dick. 
 
 " Well, you might. But I don't altogether believe 
 in that ; at least, I don't like to think that under any 
 circumstances you could have liked me better." 
 
 " You are quite right, child ; I couldn't. Only 
 ' like ' is such a wishy-washy word for what I feel for 
 you." 
 
 Well, they spent a couple of weeks dawdling along 
 the road to that part of California in which Santa 
 Clara was situated, and at last they arrived at the 
 mansion which Dick had painted in such unpromising 
 colours to his fiancee's mother. 
 
 Cynthia was openly, frankly, childishly disappointed. 
 " Is that the place ? " she asked " Not those sheds .? " 
 
 Dick laughed. "Yes, that is the mansion." 
 
 " But, Dick, there must be a house somewhere." 
 
 " That is the house." 
 
 " Oh ! " Her tone was redolent of the intensest dis- 
 appointment. " Oh, what would poor mother have 
 thought of it ? " she exclaimed 
 
 " I told her what to expect" 
 
 " Yes, dear — yes. But you never gave such a pic-
 
 dick's way. 271 
 
 ture of — Oh, well, I don't know how to put it, but it's 
 like a cattle shed. I expected to see a long, low, 
 white house with a piazza, and hammocks, and easy- 
 chairs, and lots of plants and flowers, and all that 
 sort of thing. It's a sort of lean-to without another 
 side to it. Dick, how could you stay here for seven 
 years ? " 
 
 Dick Vincent laughed. " Well, you know, dearest, 
 I didn't care tuppence about the prettiness of the 
 place — or perhaps I should rather say the nonpretti- 
 ness of the place. I had set my teeth into it, and I 
 intended to make it pay. It's all very well if you 
 can buy a fancy ranche in a picked quarter, then life 
 on a ranche may be very nice ; but here, where you 
 have to start from the beginning, where you never see 
 a decent soul from year's end to year's end, only those 
 that are playing the same game as yourself, some 
 succeeding and some making the most hideous fail- 
 ures, there is something very grim and extremely 
 unpleasant about tlie whole thing. But mind you, we 
 made it pay before we struck that oil well." 
 
 " I am sure you did," said Cynthia, with an adoring 
 glance at him " But what pluck you must have had ! 
 You had dear Hollingridge with all its beauty ever 
 in your mind ; you knew it would be yours one day, 
 even though you didn't like to think about it. How 
 could you put up with this .? " 
 
 '■ Oh, well, one gets used to things. After all, one 
 only lives one day at a time." 
 
 " Do you get used to things ? " said Cynthia. " I 
 don't believe it. Do you know, Dick, I never got 
 used to being a teacher in a village school? You
 
 272 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 might say, ' Oh, that's nonsense ! Her mother was 
 ahvays poor; she had known nothing better. She 
 was not like a person who had lost a big position 
 within her memory.' I don't believe it makes a bit 
 of difference ; if you are not congenial to the life you 
 are in, you never get used to it. There only comes a 
 time when you don't mind it If I had gone on till I 
 was ninety teaching those wretched little stupid chil- 
 dren, I should always have hated it just the same." 
 
 " Yes, yes. Because you were utterly out of your 
 natural sphere ; that is understandable enough. But 
 in a case like this, where you are working for an end 
 — and I had two ends to work for, for I wanted to 
 buck my lungs up and I wanted to make the show 
 pay — one puts up with things, discomforts, all the rest 
 of it, as a means to an end. But, dearest, we'll not 
 stay here a day longer than is necessary to wind up 
 affairs. It will be comparatively easy, but it will take 
 some weeks. Do you think you can be happy here 
 till we are through ? " 
 
 " Oh, Dick, I can be happy anywhere where you 
 are. Why, I shouldn't mind living here altogether, 
 so long as I had you. It isn't what I expected, no. 
 I suppose hardly any strange place is quite what one 
 expects ; I have never seen one yet that was." 
 
 But with all her cheerfulness and all her love 
 Cynthia did not in the smallest degree take any 
 different view of Santa Clara. " Poor mother ! " she 
 said, over and over again, " how disappointed she 
 would have been. It's almost as well, Dick, that she 
 didn't live to come here. She would have hated it 
 all. Even if my father had lived she would never have
 
 dick's way. 273 
 
 been happy here. She loved prettiness, daintiness, 
 comfort and convenience — just as she loved flowers 
 and the sunshine. Hers was a most luxurious nature, 
 although, poor dear, she had to do without luxury all 
 the best years of her life." 
 
 " If your father had lived," said Dick, " it would 
 have been by no means a sine quS. non that your 
 mother should make Santa Clara her permanent home. 
 You forget that he would have been able to live in 
 any part of the world that he liked, just as you and I 
 are going to do. For my part, and wfth all my heart, 
 child, I wish that they had both lived to come to- 
 gether again. It was equally hard on the man who 
 had toiled for years and years, trying this scheme and 
 that, taking first this road and then the other, to have 
 everything go wrong just when he had grasped the 
 prize. Life is very hard for some people ; I think of 
 it every day ; and it was harder, perhaps, for the 
 woman who had waited all the best years of her life, 
 only to find too late that the man she loved had been 
 faithful to her and had loved her to the very end. 
 I feel, child, as if I must try to make you happier 
 than the ordinary run of women ; as if I should in a 
 way so make up to your mother for the happiness 
 that she missed. But we will go home, dearest. I 
 don't feel, now that I have come back again, like 
 holding on to any responsibilities in this country. 
 I'd rather realise everything and go home, and live 
 our own modest, contented life at Hollingridge. There 
 is no especial happiness in great wealth ; one's first 
 feeling is — Well, here's an oil well worth ten thousand 
 a year, t£ ^ve know ten thousand is coming in we 
 
 18
 
 274 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 shall insensibly creep up in our expenditure, enlarge 
 our ideas, and then if anything were to happen — i 
 mean if the blessed well were to dry up — we should 
 have to cut down everything, which would be horrid. 
 Eut if we realise it all now we can invest our money 
 in good English securities, and we can regulate our 
 expenditure accordingly. What do you think ? " 
 
 In truth Cynthia was so disappointed with Santa 
 Clara and all connected with it, that she was ready to 
 agree to anything that seemed good to her husband, 
 and Dick therefore regarded the eventual disposal of 
 the ranche as a settled thing and only a question of 
 time. But neither in America nor in any other country 
 wherein laws exist and take effect can the wills of two 
 persons be duly arranged for and carried out without 
 a certain amount of delay. Christmas had come and 
 gone before Dick Vincent was in a position to begin 
 negotiations for the disposal of the ranche. Cynthia 
 was terribly disappointed that they were not able to 
 spend Christmas at Hollingridge. 
 
 " If you knew," she said, in one letter to her mother- 
 in-law, " what an isolated life I have lived, I who 
 have not one relation in the world, you would under- 
 stand how I yearn to be with you at this time. But 
 this tiresome old ranche is still on our hands ; not that 
 it is likely to stay on our hands, for oil wells always 
 fetch their price, but it has not changed owners yet, 
 because Dick could not, although he pushed the 
 lawyers as hard as he could, get affairs settled so 
 as to be able to set about selling Santa Clara." 
 
 " Dear little thing," said Mrs. Vincent to Laura, 
 " she didn't in the least want to go out there- It
 
 dick's way. 275 
 
 was her mother's insistence that carried that point. 
 Dick hated their going. How much better it would 
 have been if they had stayed quietly here with us, or 
 divided their time between us and Brighton, and let 
 Dick go and arrange everything. I hate women who 
 Vv'ant to go and poke their noses into everything." 
 " Well, she got married," remarked Laura. 
 " Yes, she got married, that's true — but what is 
 that ? She missed all the wedding presents." 
 
 " Oh, I don't suppose the wedding presents wouk^ 
 have counted for much, as she hasn't a relation in the 
 world. And we shall all give them wedding presents 
 just the same," Laura cried. 
 
 " Ah, yes, that is so ; yes, that is so. Well, my 
 dear, I don't like to say anything unkind, and it isn't 
 nice to speak ill of the dead, but really I think Dick 
 won't be any the less happy because his wife's mother 
 chose to have her own way in this instance." 
 
 " If Dick isn't happy with that sweet little wife," 
 said Laura, " then he deserves to be unhappy." 
 
 "And if anybody," said Mrs. Vincent in quite a 
 severe tone, " deserves to be happy throughout the 
 rest of his life, it is my dear Dick. No, Laura, I am 
 not partial. I always feel with regard to you children 
 that I am not partial. Dick's as good as gold and 
 as straight as a die." 
 
 " I wasn't saying anything against Dick, mother," 
 said Laura with a smile. 
 
 18*
 
 276 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 DISILLUSIONISED. 
 
 The sojourn of Dick Vincent and his wife at the 
 ranche of Santa Clara was but another rendering of 
 the old saying, " All things come to him who can 
 afford to wait." In time even the most intricate legal 
 matters will arrange themselves, and when they are 
 clearly, concisely and simply laid down in black and 
 white in the shape of a will, the time of waiting is not 
 very long. It seemed long to Cynthia because she 
 yearned for the dignity and comfort of an English 
 home. To Dick the time seemed positively to fly. 
 He was so happy, so absolutely satisfied and content 
 with the wife that he had chosen, that he did not really 
 care whether they stayed at Santa Clara a few months 
 more or less. He had remembered to take up from 
 New York a box of odds and ends of things which 
 would, he felt, transform the place into something 
 more like the semblance of a home than he had left 
 it. He had written to his manager. Jack Frogg, to 
 see if he could not get up certain articles of furniture 
 from the next town, and among them was a little 
 piano, which had once belonged to a young English 
 bride, who had gone out full of hope and joy and had 
 not survived the ennui and misery of life on an isolated 
 ranche until the anniversary of her wedding day came 
 round again. When all these extras had been ar-
 
 DISILLUSIONISED. 277 
 
 ranged and put in their places, the " mansionj" as he 
 always called the house on the ranche, represented 
 to him as good a home as anybody in California need 
 desire. But Cynthia, although she was more sweet 
 and more companionable and delightful than even his 
 fondest dreams had imagined her to be, never for one 
 moment accepted Santa Clara as anything but a tem- 
 porary abiding place. 
 
 " No, dear," she said one day, when Dick proposed 
 to buy in some more furniture from a neighbouring 
 sale, " it isn't worth while. What we have will do for 
 us very well as long as we are here. What is the good 
 of burdening ourselves with a single chair more when 
 we have got Hollingridge waiting for us at home ? " 
 
 " One would think," said Dick, putting his arm 
 round her and looking fondly down upon her, " that 
 Hollingridge was your childhood's home, not mine." 
 
 " Ah, it's women who value houses and homes," said 
 she, wisely. " I don't suppose your father cared half 
 as much for Hollingridge as your mother did ; and I 
 am sure — ^yes sure, Dick — that you don't think a 
 quarter as much of it as I do. This is all so much 
 waste time. How soon do you think we shall be able 
 to start?" 
 
 " Well, if all goes on all right, we shall be able to 
 start towards the end of the month. But you would 
 like to see San Francisco, wouldn't you ? " 
 
 " San Francisco ? Oh, no, Dick. When we have 
 thoroughly satiated ourselves with Hollingridge, with 
 little spells of London in between, we'll go to Rome 
 and to Munich. I have a great desire to see Munich ; 
 and I would hke to see Dresden very much. But San
 
 278 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 Francisco, no. I daresay it is very beautiful ; I think 
 I have always heard so — the 'Golden Gate,' isn't it? 
 But I don't think we'll stop any longer out here just 
 for San Francisco. You have seen it, of course ? " 
 " Oh, yes ; I have been there several times." 
 " Then you don't want to see it again ? " 
 " Only for your sake." 
 
 " Ah, then for my sake we will go home. We will 
 go home and make much of Hollingridge. But Dick, 
 you didn't tell me that you had sold the ranche." 
 
 " I have not ; but those fellows who were here yes- 
 terday told me that they would let me have an answer 
 to-morrow without fail, and if they give my price we 
 shall have nothing to grumble about when we go off 
 homewards." 
 
 " Are they going to take it as it stands ? " 
 " Yes, they don't care to have a lot of strangers 
 about. You see, they may strike oil somewhere else ; 
 where there is one oil well, there are very often two, 
 even three ; and it is a fine thing to keep your neigh- 
 bourhood fairly clear. They are going to use the 
 house for the manager to live in ; and as for the vines 
 and all that sort of thing, they'll let all that slide. To- 
 morrow we shall know ; to-day, dearest, come out with 
 me and let us go along towards the Lee Morrisons'. 
 Mrs. Lee Morrison would like to see you, I know ; 
 and you haven't been there for a month." 
 
 " That is unkind of me," said Cynthia, " because 
 Mrs. Lee Morrison has been very nice to me since I 
 have been out here. Dick, I'd like to make her a 
 present before I go back. She was good to you, 
 wasn't she ? "
 
 DISILLUSIONISED. 2/9 
 
 " Very good. She nursed me in the last go of fever 
 I had." 
 
 "Did she? You never told me that. Do you 
 think, Dick, we could afford to give her the piano ? " 
 
 '■ We can afford anything that you like in reason." 
 
 " Is the piano in reason, Dick ? I know — I happen 
 to know, it would be a great treat to that little woman. 
 She plays exquisitely, and Lee Morrison has had such 
 a hard fight with his ranche that he has never been 
 able to afford even to hire one for her." 
 
 " Cynthia, dearest, how good and thoughtful and 
 kind-hearted you are. Nobody but you would have 
 thought of giving the little woman so much pleasure. 
 We'll go and see her this afternoon, and then you can 
 tell her your idea." 
 
 " Oh, no," cried Cynthia. " I'll send it over in a 
 cart and let it be a surprise. Why, it's half the 
 beauty of giving it to send it as a surprise," she 
 laughed. " But I'll go over with you. Dear little 
 woman! I hope she doesn't think that I have 
 neglected her," 
 
 " Oh," said Dick, easily, " she knows you have plenty 
 to do. Don't worry about that. People out here 
 doni spy into one's motives and count visits, as they 
 do over in the old country. Child, if you have not 
 been able to keep up with your callers here, what the 
 dickens will you do when you get to Hollingi-idge ? " 
 
 " It will be different at Hollingridge." 
 
 " Will it ? I believe that my mother had sixty-three 
 families on her visiting list ; I gathered as much the 
 last time I heard the subject mentioned. You have to 
 call on each so many times a year ; you have to call
 
 28o A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 after every dinner party and every function, and they 
 have to do as much for you. You will have to play 
 the Lady Bountiful to the entire village ; to go down 
 and hear the kids read in the school — ^you know the 
 kind of thing — ' John — was — a — good — little — boy.' 
 You'll have to give away prizes ; you'll have to give a 
 cup for the Agricultural Show, and very likely you'll 
 have to present the awards. You'll have to go along 
 doing the civil and the gracious until your soul is sick 
 within you." 
 
 " I'll do it," said she, confidently. " Oh, I'll do it." 
 
 " Now my mother," he went on, " had a certain 
 genius for that kind of thing. I went out with her one 
 afternoon just before I came down to Blankhampton, 
 and she took me what she was pleased to call ' a round 
 of visits.' A round of visits ! Seventeen houses did 
 we go to, and she timed every one of them so that 
 there wasn't a soul at home. When we got to the last 
 one, she was getting to feel peckish ; so she was very 
 pleased to go in like a dignified Gulf Stream and talk 
 about nothing for twenty minutes. She told me as 
 we drove up the avenue that there was a pretty 
 daughter there. She wasn't my idea of prettiness." 
 
 " But you hadn't seen me then." 
 
 " No, I hadn't seen you, child. And yet, I think I 
 must have done somewhere in my dreams, or in some 
 other incarnation, because when I first saw you that 
 morning in St. Thomas's Street, I knew, somehow or 
 other, that you were the other half of my soul, and 
 everything that I had ever admired or wanted from 
 the beginning of time." 
 
 Within a week from that time Dick had brought
 
 DISILLUSIONISED. 28 1 
 
 the negotiations for the sale of the ranche to a con- 
 clusion, and the time when they would be able to leave 
 California for ever came within measurable distance. 
 Cynthia went to and fro as gaily as any bird, with 
 always a snatch of a song on her lips and such un- 
 feigned satisfaction about her whole mien that Dick 
 was constrained to laugh at her every time that they 
 met, 
 
 " I believe," he said to her one morning, when she 
 was gaily planning out the programme for their return 
 journey, " I believe you hate California." 
 
 " Oh, I do," she exclaimed ; " I do. It's so unlike 
 everything that I had pictured. I have no doubt the 
 air is lovely, dear, I don't deny it for a moment — ^but 
 air isn't quite everything. How you could exist here 
 for seven long weary years I can't think. But of 
 course you knew it was only for a time ; it wasn't your 
 life, it was only a kind of slice out of it Of course, I 
 owe California one debt," she said ; " it gave you to 
 me." 
 
 " Yes, we shall of course owe it that debt," said Dick. 
 
 " Yes. It not only gave you to me, Dick, it pre- 
 served you for me. No, I don't mean your chest ; I 
 don't believe there was ever anything much the matter 
 with that ; but if you had gone on in England, you 
 certainly would have been married long before I had 
 the chance of meeting you." 
 
 "Not at all. I don't believe I should ever have 
 married." 
 
 " Ah, that is as may be. Anyway, here we are, man 
 and wife, and we must make the best of each other." 
 
 She uttered the words with an air of offering a
 
 282 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 challenge, and Dick, who was still desperately in love, 
 caught her in his arms and merged the husband in the 
 lover instantly. 
 
 " Oh, child, child," he cried, " do you think you will 
 always make the best of me ? " 
 
 " Well. I'll try," she replied, coquettishly, " I'll try. 
 It will be hard, but I'll do my best." 
 
 Dick still held her tight clasped to his breast. 
 " You promise me that you will ? " 
 
 " Dick," she said, reproachfully, " haven't you any 
 faith in me ? Haven't I promised you the same thing 
 over and over again? One would think that there 
 was some sort of Damocles' sword hanging over your 
 head ; that some bogey man might come round the 
 corner and wrest me away from you, whether I would 
 or not. I daresay we shall have a few rubs in our 
 married life ; other people all seem to have them. 
 What have you in your mind ? Nothing, I hope, that 
 I have said or looked or done ? " 
 
 " Nothing," he said, " except that I have not yet got 
 used to the fact that you are m.ine. I always feel that 
 something or somebody might come in and tear you 
 away from me." 
 
 " Make your mind quite easy on that score, dear 
 Dick," said she. " All the world isn't going to run 
 after me because you happen to be in love with me. 
 Don't forget — although, mind you, I think it is very 
 bad policy on my part to cheapen myself to you — but 
 don't forget that I lived to be eighteen years old and 
 never had a lover until you came along." 
 
 "Not one?" 
 
 " Well, no, not a real one. There were one or two
 
 DISILLUSIONISED. 283 
 
 young men who cast sheep's eyes at me, but somehow 
 it never went any further than that I used," she 
 went on, " sometimes in the bright summer evenings, 
 when I saw all the girls in Gatehouses with their 
 young men dangling after them — you know how life 
 runs in a little place like that, a little tennis, a little 
 boating, a little dancing, and then there's an engage- 
 ment and a lot of wedding presents and another couple 
 started — I used to wonder whether I should ever be 
 like one of those girls and have a man to order about, 
 to be at my beck and call, to carry my tennis racket 
 and my tennis shoes, and generally make himself use- 
 ful, to bring me flowers, and you know, Dick, all the 
 rest of it. And then " 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " I used to shake my head and say, ' No, Cynthia 
 Meredith, you are m^ost unfortunately placed. You 
 are like Mahomet's coffin, hanging midway between 
 earth and heaven. You are not one of those lucky 
 girls up there with a nice villa and a tennis ground, an 
 ample allowance, and a mother who could give dinner 
 parties and all the rest of it, and yet you are not the 
 ordinary stuff of which village schoolmistresses are 
 made. The young men of the tennis grounds will 
 never want to marry you, and you will never want to 
 marry the young man who would be willing to marry 
 the schoolmistress ; and so you must look on all your 
 life and make believe that the onlooker who sees most 
 of the game has the best time." 
 
 " And yet when the young man came along who was 
 willing to marry the schoolmistress," said Dick, " you 
 found yourself quite willing to marry him,"
 
 284 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 *' It's very wonderful, Dick, isn't it ? Sometimes," 
 she went on, " I find myself thinking about the cir- 
 cumstances of our marriage. There seemed to be a 
 sort of fate about it Did it ever strike you^ Dick ? " 
 
 " Yes, many times." 
 
 " So strange that mother should have insisted on 
 coming out here. Do you know, Dick, I can tell you 
 now what I never liked to tell you before." 
 
 "What's that?" he asked. 
 
 " Well, poor mother, just at last you know, she got 
 the most extraordinary idea about you." 
 
 " Your mother did ? " 
 
 " Yes. She fancied you had some special reason for 
 not wanting her to see my father's grave." 
 
 " I had." 
 
 "What was it?" 
 
 " Well, I hardly know how to put it. I could not 
 see that any good could come of such a pilgrimage, 
 and in that rough place there might have come harm." 
 
 "I thought that too, then," said Cynthia simply; 
 " but sometimes, Dick, if I happen to be awake at 
 night, as I am now and again, I get thinking, and I 
 wonder whether I ought not to look upon her great 
 wish as a sacred trust, and to go to Midas Creek in her 
 place."
 
 285 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 VALENTINE CLEGG. 
 
 At last the day of departure had come. Santa Clara 
 no longer belonged to Dick and Cynthia. The pur- 
 chase money, an enormous sum, had been duly ar- 
 ranged for, and Cynthia Vincent, her boxes already 
 stowed in the wagon which would carry them down 
 to Freeman's Rock, was taking a last farewell of the 
 house which had been her husband's home for seven 
 years. 
 
 " Good-bye, old house," she cried, " good-bye, dreary 
 view, good-bye everything and everybody. Mr. Frogg, 
 you have been very nice to me since I have been 
 here. I wish you were coming home to England." 
 
 At this the manager laughed. " No, Mrs. Vincent, 
 there's no room for me in England," he replied. 
 
 " I don't believe in that. For my part, I'd rather 
 live in a cottage in England than in the grandest 
 palace that ever was built in San Francisco." 
 
 " But you haven't seen San Francisco." 
 
 " No, but I have seen Santa Clara and the surround- 
 ing neighbourhood, and I had a glimpse of Freeman's 
 Rock as I came through. Now, if you come to Eng- 
 land, be sure you come and see me." 
 
 " Thank you a thousand times." 
 
 " Meantime I wish you all the luck in the world, 
 but I wish you weren't going to have it here."
 
 286 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 " Don't set him against the place, Cynthia/' said 
 Dick. 
 
 " No, no. I could have no influence over Mr. 
 Frogg, not in that way. He's a hard person that likes 
 a barren land. And I'm going home to dear England 
 — to lovely Hollingridge, all green and cool and beau- 
 tiful. And, oh, I am so happy. I feel like a child 
 going home after the longest term that any child ever 
 stayed at a boarding school — an uncomfortable board- 
 ing school." 
 
 " Have you been so very miserable with us, Mrs. 
 Vincent ? " 
 
 " I haven't been miserable at all. How could I ? 
 But all the same, it's been an exile, and I'll not 
 pretend anything else." 
 
 " If you don't stop chattering and get in," said Dick 
 Vincent, " there'll be no going to old England or any- 
 where else." 
 
 " I stand rebuked," cried Cynthia, gaily. " Vv'^ell, 
 good-bye, Mr. Frogg, good-bye. Be sure to come 
 and see us if you ever find yourself in the old country 
 again." 
 
 The little woman to whom she had given the piano 
 was Vv^aiting a little way down the dreary road in 
 order to wish her a last God-speed. " I shall miss 
 you," she said, rather wretchedly, " in spite of the 
 great pleasure that you have brought into my life." 
 
 " Oh, the piano .? " cried C)mthia. " Think of me 
 when you play it, and keep a corner in your hearts for 
 us. Good luck be with you. Good-bye! " 
 
 " There ! " she said to Dick, as they rattled along, 
 " we're off at last. We will never go back, Dick,"
 
 VALENTINE CLEGG. 28/ 
 
 "No," echoed Dick, "we'll never go back. Take 
 care of your arm, child ; take care of your arm." 
 
 Oh, she was so gay as they rattled along. In her 
 heart there was one song of thankfulness which kept 
 rising to her hps in snatches — 
 
 " We're going home ! We're going home ! " 
 
 How like and yet how wide apart were tlie tlioughts 
 of the husband and wife as they jolted along the 
 uneven road. Cynthia was openly and childishly glad 
 at being about to turn her back on California; Dick 
 was equally well satisfied to do so, though for a very 
 different reason. In truth to him the time they had 
 passed at Santa Clara had seemed interminable ; every 
 day he had got out of his bed with a feeling that 
 before he got into it again some accident might have 
 revealed the fact which he was so anxiously concealing 
 from his wife. Once clear of the country and settled 
 at HoUingridge, he knew that he need have no fear 
 of any such accident befalling him. He was not likely 
 in that quiet, far-off country home ever to meet again 
 with any one of the persons who had been witnesses 
 of that terrible tragedy, the tragedy which still 
 weighed upon his mind with a sense of unmitigated 
 horror. They had got now to within a few hours of 
 what to him meant safety. Or, stay ; that was not 
 exactly the term which he used to himself — v/hat to 
 him meant peace of m.ind which was not likely ever 
 to be broken. He could not help thinking, as they 
 rode along, how wonderfully everything had worked 
 together to help him' to conceal the unpalatable truth. 
 How determined that little woman had been that she 
 would sift the whole affair to the bottom. How sus-
 
 i88 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 picious she had been — how determined — ^how ruthless 
 in her unquenchable desire to have always absolutely 
 her own way. And her own way had practically 
 killed her. Well, so far as happiness was concerned, 
 Dick knew perfectly well that he would not suffer 
 in that respect by the death of his wife's mother. And 
 Cynthia, dear, tender-hearted little girl that she was, 
 had been smitten by a qualm of conscience. She had 
 taken into her dear little head that perhaps she ought, 
 as a duty, to go to Midas Creek as a substitute for 
 her mother. Well, he had nipped that in the bud at 
 once. 
 
 " I could not convince your mother that it was wiser 
 she did not go near the place where your father died," 
 he said to her. " Don't you think, dearest, that if 
 your mother had been intended to go there she would 
 have been spared to do so ? " 
 
 " I never thought of that," was Cynthia's reply ; 
 " and, of course, dear Dick, if you would rather that I 
 didn't go, I'll never give it another thought again." 
 
 " I would much rather you did not go," he said. 
 " I never like to think that my greatest friend, whom 
 I trusted and loved all the seven years that we lived 
 together, came by his end in such a horrible way. I 
 like to remember him as we were together at Santa 
 Clara : when he was so easy, so considerate, so kindly 
 to everybody. I tell you candidly, Cynthia, that I 
 know exactly what I should hear if we went to Midas 
 Creek, and I shrink from hearing it. He is dead : 
 his hour had come ; nothing that we can do would 
 bring him back to life again, so pray don't let us do 
 anything. We must pass through Midas Creek, be-
 
 VALENTINE CLEGG, 289 
 
 cause we get on to the cars there — but don't let us 
 stop. I hate to think of the place as associated with 
 him." 
 
 And she had instantly fallen in with his ideas, de- 
 claring that she believed him to be perfectly right, 
 and that for her part she hated these wild, out-of-the- 
 way savage places, and never wanted to find herself 
 in any one of them. " It was only an idea, Dick," 
 she said, " a fooHsh idea, but you know I have been 
 through a great deal lately, and I get ideas in my head 
 at times." 
 
 " Well, don't get any more ideas on that subject, 
 dearest," he said, " it can do no good. You might 
 fret yourself to fiddle-strings feeling that if you had 
 only persuaded your mother to be quiet, or to do 
 other than she did, she might still be with us. That 
 would be all very well if we could look forward as we 
 can look backward. If I had known that your father 
 would get drinking again the moment that my in- 
 fluence was taken away from him, I would never have 
 left him at all ; I wouldn't have come home." 
 
 " Oh, but you couldn't go through life as his 
 jailer." 
 
 " Well, to all intents and purposes I was his jailer." 
 
 For a moment she sat looking up at him. " Dick," 
 she said, " I don't like to think about my father. I 
 wish he had lived for mother's sake. Do you think 
 that I will ever go the same way that he did ? " 
 
 " Oh, my dear delicious little person, no ; certainly 
 not. What a ludicrous idea! Put such a notion out 
 of your dear little head this moment. You mustn't 
 think too much of his having been a drinker ; he was
 
 290 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 nobody's enemy so much as his own. You must take 
 the circumstances of his life into consideration ; his 
 temptations — his careless, gay, easy-going, good- 
 natured bonhommie. He was a dear good fellow all 
 through, but for this one little weakness — well, I am 
 afraid I must say this one great weakness — and he Wcis 
 a good sort — a good friend." 
 
 " He was a very bad husband," said Cynthia, half 
 resentfully. 
 
 " Well, yes ; he was a bad husband." And then 
 a memory came back to Dick of a steel hand in a 
 velvet glove, and he knew, beyond all certainty of 
 doubt, that had he been the husband of Cynthia's 
 mother he would probably have acted very much as 
 Cynthia's father had done. 
 
 He thought over this conversation as they rode 
 along. 
 
 " You look quite moody, Dick," said Cynthia, turn- 
 ing her radiant eyes upon him. 
 
 " Moody ? I never felt less moody in my life," he 
 declared. " I was thinking, that wus all. You know, 
 child, a man cannot put seven years of his life behind 
 him without a certain feeling of sadness — at least, I 
 can't." 
 
 " But you are putting them behind you for me." 
 
 " I wasn't regretting you," he said. " Pray don't 
 get such a thought as that in your mind." 
 
 I need not go into all the details of the long and 
 weary drive down to Freeman's Rock. " I am so 
 tired, Dick," said Cynthia, as at last they came to the 
 first straggling huts of the little town. " I do like 
 civilization, Dick ; this kind of life would not have
 
 VALENTINE CLEGG. 291 
 
 suited me at all. I think I should have gone mad if 
 I had had to live here." 
 
 " Ah, well, you would have got used to it. Thank 
 heaven you needn't ; and that you will always be 
 able to afford a carriage and pair and a Pullman car." 
 
 " Yes, the cars are all right, but, oh, Dick, I don't 
 like being off the beaten track." 
 
 She clutched at his arm nervously as they drew up 
 at the door of the hotel. 
 
 " There's nothing to be frightened of," he said, 
 soothingly. " Don't let yourself get full of fancies. You 
 are nervous and unstrung ; you are tired out. We'll 
 get some dinner, such as it is, and we'll be off to bed 
 in good time. Remember the coach starts very early 
 in the morning." 
 
 She was even more nervous as they approached 
 Midas Creek. 
 
 " I feel as if I were going to see ghosts," she said, 
 shiveringly, to him. 
 
 " Nonsense ! nonsense ! You will see nothing to 
 upset you, child. It is a shade better than Freeman's 
 Rock, and it isn't as if we had to stop there." 
 
 " We get straight on to the cars, don't we ? " 
 
 " Yes, yes, child. We are just in time. We shall 
 have something like twenty minutes to spare. You 
 will get something like a decent dinner on the cars ; 
 and mind, we haven't had that since we got off them 
 three months ago." 
 
 It was very strange, but the girl was possessed of a 
 curious shrinking feeling that everybody in Midas 
 Creek must recognise her as the daughter of the man 
 who had a few months before been turned into the 
 
 19*
 
 292 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 likeness of a wild beast. Her nervousness was suffi- 
 cient, naturally enough, to give Dick courage. In 
 soothing her fears he forgot how intensely he had 
 dreaded this momentary touch with the town where 
 Meredith had died. 
 
 It was with a simultaneous breath of relief that the 
 husband and wife found themselves once more on the 
 cars which would carry them away from Midas Creek. 
 
 " Good-bye, good-bye ! That is the last we shall 
 see of California," said Cynthia, waving her hand 
 towards the little town. " Now, Dick, you and I are 
 going to begin to live." 
 
 How she enjoyed the cup of tea which Dick ordered 
 for her immediately! How, after the inconveniences 
 of the make-shift life at Santa Clara, she revelled in 
 the completeness of the luxury which she found as 
 soon as they were once aboard the cars ! 
 
 " I am going to settle down and do nothing ; to rest 
 myself," she said, when she and Dick had gone back 
 to the saloon. " It will take me three days to get over 
 the awful jolting of that dreadful journey from Santa 
 Clara down to Midas Creek. Dick, I feel old and 
 haggard." 
 
 " Well, you look neither one nor the other," he re- 
 plied. " But the more you can rest, the better for 
 you. Then you will be fit and well, to have a few 
 days with the Sergeantsons, before we go on board 
 the ' City of Boston.' What are you going to do 
 now ? " 
 
 " I am going to stay here quietly and read this book. 
 I have got a lovely new book from that black waiter 
 just come up with a trayful of them."
 
 VALENTINE CLEGG. 293 
 
 " And I," said Dick, " if you really don't mind being 
 left, would like to go into the smoking-car and have 
 a pipe." 
 
 " My dear boy," she cried, " pray do ! You must 
 be as tired as I am, and as longing for your little 
 luxuries." 
 
 "I am longing for a pipe," he said with a laugh, 
 " so I shall leave you. If you want me, send one of 
 these coloured gentlemen after me." 
 
 Then Dick left his wife, passing through the next 
 car and into the smoking car, where he took a vacant 
 seat about half-way between the two doors. As he 
 took up his pipe and his tobacco pouch, a man who 
 v/as sitting on the other side of the car put down a 
 newspaper and looked across at him. For a moment 
 Dick was puzzled. It was a face he knew — ^yes, but 
 he could not put a name to it Where had he seen 
 that man ? Somewhere ; but where ? 
 
 Then the stranger got up and came to the chair 
 next to him " I guess you've forgotten me," he said. 
 " My name is Valentine Clegg."
 
 294 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIL 
 
 TOUCH AND GO. 
 
 As the words which disclosed his identity left Valen- 
 tine Clegg's lips, Dick suddenly felt that he was 
 undone. So, after all, chance and luck had failed him. 
 He had gone right through the very midst of danger 
 and his luck had served him ; now, at the last moment, 
 he felt himself deserted by Dame Fortune. He could 
 not expect to avoid a meeting between Cynthia and 
 this man, this man who knew him for what he was — • 
 the one who had taken her father's life. In the flurry 
 of the moment he quite forgot that Valentine Clegg 
 had from first to last sympathised with him before 
 everything. He forgot everything except that his 
 wife was on board the train, and that he must make 
 one last effort to keep the truth from her. He felt 
 now, with a wild gush of poignant regret, that he had 
 taken the wrong course with her. He felt that it 
 would have been wiser and the better plan to have 
 openly, from the first moment, disclosed the truth 
 that it was a shot from his revolver which had ended 
 Roger Meredith's life. It would have been easy 
 enough to prove, had proof been necessary, that he 
 had had little or no choice in the matter ; but now 
 nothing could take away, if the facts ever came to 
 Cynthia's knowledge, the one damning mistake of his
 
 TOUCH AND GO. 295 
 
 having deceived her. She would have forgotten the 
 accident ; she would never forgive the concealment. 
 He had meant it kindly enough at the first. He had 
 not liked to say to the little widow, with her eyes full 
 of tears, that his had been the hand to bring her 
 husband's ignoble career to an end. He had done it 
 to spare her feelings entirely. He recalled bitterly, as 
 Valentine Clegg talked on and he aimlessly gave 
 answers at random, how little she, that soft-eyed, 
 velvet-gloved woman, had ever considered his wishes, 
 his likes, his desires. He might have spared himself 
 the trouble now — now everything was on the verge 
 of disclosure. The whole fabric of his happiness 
 might, during the next hour, fall about his ears like a 
 pack of cards. 
 
 He quickly determined that he would leave the cars 
 at the next stopping-place, though he could not 
 imagine what excuse he should make to Cynthia her- 
 self for doing so, more especially as their luggage was 
 expressed right through to New York. Still, he could 
 not run the risk of her meeting with Valentine Clegg. 
 
 " I see," said Mr. Clegg, " that the very sight of me 
 has knocked you over. You needn't let it do that, 
 my dear fellow. I never sympathised with anybody 
 more in my life than I did with you. What happened 
 was absolutely unavoidable ; and for the matter of 
 that, Meredith was such an out-and-out blackguard, 
 that you really did a service to the entire world by 
 ridding it of him. I told you so at the time." 
 
 " Yes, I know you had a bad opinion of Meredith." 
 
 " I had that same," said the stranger in an emphatic 
 tone. " I knew Meredith inside out. I had known
 
 296 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 him for yeaxs and years and years. He was a wrong 
 'un; a bad hat. The world's no poorer for his 
 demise." 
 
 "No," said Dick, "you are wrong there. There 
 was good in him, and plenty of it. It was only that 
 besetting curse of drink that made him what he some- 
 times was." 
 
 Valentine Clegg looked up at Dick in genuine 
 amazement. " Say," said he, " you are not qualifying 
 for a finger-post, are you ? " 
 
 Dick shook his head. "No, far from it — very far 
 from it. I never had any qualification for preaching 
 to others ; I have less than ever now." 
 
 " Oh, my dear chap, you take a wrong view of it 
 altogether. I tell you you didn't know the fellow. 
 You'd think no more about it, if you knew him as I 
 did, than a butcher thinks when he fells an ox, or a 
 policeman when he kills a mad dog." 
 
 " As a matter of fact," said Dick, " I did know him ; 
 I'd known him intimately for years. Believe me, there 
 was a lot of good in poor old Meredith. I have never 
 quite got over it ; I shall never be quite the same man 
 again." 
 
 " Well, I think you take a v/rong view of it," said 
 Valentine Clegg. " Of course, since you say there 
 was good in the chap, I won't dispute it ; I am glad 
 to hear it, but I didn't know it — that's all. I don't 
 think you will fmd many men ready to endorse your 
 opinion. But still that's neither here nor there. The 
 thing was done, it was an accident — at least, it takes 
 about the same rank as an accident — and I dont' like 
 to see you, a fine young fellow like you, brooding over
 
 TOUCH AND GO. 297 
 
 what could not possibly be helped. Put it out of your 
 mind, my dear fellow ; leave it behind you ; don't 
 think about it again. After all, what's done can never 
 be undone in this world — not where it has to do wath 
 a six-shooter." 
 
 " You are very kind," said Dick. " I can never 
 sufficiently express to you how entirely grateful I was 
 for the advice you gave me when we met before. I 
 have wished more than once that I had stayed and 
 faced it out ; but perhaps you were right, and it was 
 the easiest way out of the difficulty." 
 
 " I am sure of it," said Valentine Clegg, " perfectly 
 certain of it ; and the jury showed their appreciation 
 of my idea by the verdict they brought in. Well, I 
 saw that meeting me knocked you over, but don't let 
 me disturb you. I am getting off the cars in a couple 
 of hours from now ; I only go as far as Mexville." 
 
 The stranger then skilfully turned the subject away 
 from that of Roger Meredith's death, and talked on 
 in the most friendly way on quite different matters. 
 And as they talked, Dick kept turning over in his 
 mind how he could avoid a meeting with Cynthia, or 
 how he could convey to him that Cynthia was in total 
 ignorance of that particular episode in her husband's 
 life. 
 
 At last, when they were summoned to dinner, and 
 Valentine Clegg rose, as if it were the most natural 
 thing that they should dine together, he had no choice 
 but to inform him that he was not travelling alone. 
 
 " By the way," he said, " I have got my wife with 
 
 me. 
 
 " So ? " Been married long ;
 
 298 A MATTER 5OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 " No, only a few months — well, almost less than a 
 few months." 
 
 " Really ? I hope you will present me to Madame." 
 
 " I shall be delighted to. There's just one thing " 
 
 " I suppose she knows nothing ? " interposed Mr. 
 Clegg. 
 
 " Not a word," said Dick, " not a word. I wouldn't 
 have her know it for anything." 
 
 " That's natural enough — presupposing that she's an 
 Englishwoman. One of our women, you know, 
 wouldn't mind." 
 
 " I don't know. She is an Englishwoman," said 
 Dick. 
 
 " My dear sir, I'll be as mum as a cherub carved 
 in marble on a tombstone." 
 
 He followed Dick into the dining-car, where Cyn- 
 thia, being healthily hungry, had already taken her 
 place at the table assigned to them. Did-c felt, as he 
 walked between the rows of little tables, that it was 
 a case of now or never, touch and go. 
 
 He knew that hesitation would be fatal, so putting 
 the best face possible upon his nervousness, he walked 
 straight up to Cynthia. 
 
 " Dearest," he said, " I have met an old friend of 
 mine — Mr. Valentine Clegg. We have been having 
 a great time together. I hope you haven't been 
 lonely." 
 
 " Dear Dick," I have been asleep," she replied. " I 
 feel ten thousand times better for it. Mr. Clegg, I 
 am most pleased to meet any old friend of my hus- 
 band's. How do you do } " 
 
 Valentine Clegg took Cynthia's hand " Mrs.
 
 TOUCH AND GO. 299 
 
 Martin, ma'am," said he, " I am most pleased to make 
 your acquaintance." 
 
 " My name isn't Martin," said Cynthia, " it's Vin- 
 cent. My husband's name is Vincent." 
 
 For a moment Valentine Clegg's jaw dropped, and 
 Dick felt a ringing in his ears that was almost insup- 
 portable. The sharpness of the American, however, 
 saved the situation. 
 
 " Did I say ' Martin .? ' God bless my soul ! What 
 tricks one's tongue serves one ! Of course your name 
 is Vincent. But I am getting old, my dear lady — ■ 
 that's the truth. I remember when I was a boy my 
 father used to call ' Tom-Dick-Harry -John-Jack ! ' 
 He seldom got to the right name until we supplied 
 it ourselves." 
 
 " Ah, yes. And travelHng does tire you, doesn't 
 it } I am worn out," said Cynthia. " Well, are you 
 going to join us at this table .'' " 
 
 " If you will allow me, ma'am, I shall be extremely 
 flattered and honoured." 
 
 " Oh, don't say that. We shall be very glad of your 
 company, shan't we, Dick ? " 
 
 " Oh, very glad," said Dick. 
 
 A grim thought crossed his mind of an old saying 
 that had long obtained in the Vincent family. It was 
 to the effect that he might very comfortably put any 
 gladness he felt in his eye and be none the worse 
 for it. 
 
 Cynthia was still very gay at the prospect of going 
 home, and exerted herself to the utmost to be pleasant 
 and charming to this friend of her husband's. She 
 talked gaily and naturally of her joy in seeing the
 
 300 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 last of California, and the intense happiness she felt 
 at going home to her own country. 
 
 " It's not because we're insular," she said, " I am not 
 at all an insular person, but I do like comfort. The 
 hideous discomfort of life out in new countries is too 
 much for me. It's like getting up too early in the 
 morning, before the world is aired. I like my world 
 aired for me by people having lived in it for a few 
 hundreds of years." 
 
 Thus she rattled on, and Valentine Clegg, always, 
 though he was a plain man himself, attracted by a 
 pretty woman, fell in with her humour and talked 
 his hardest. Nor was Dick himself the least silent of 
 the three. In truth he was so afraid that she would 
 in some way give him away, that he, too, talked nine- 
 teen to the dozen, and theirs was the merriest table 
 in the whole car. 
 
 At last, when the meal had nearly come to a con- 
 clusion, Cynthia happened to drop her handkerchief. 
 It was a filmy little square of finest silk muslin, pro- 
 fusely embroidered in black, with an elaborate mono- 
 gram in one corner. It happened that Valentine 
 Clegg was the first to perceive the loss, and he stooped 
 and picked it up with a gallant air, which showed that 
 Cynthia had impressed him very favourably. Cynthia 
 took the handkerchief with a smile and a word of 
 thanks, laying it on the corner of the table between 
 them. It happened thus that the corner which bore 
 the monogram lay uppermost, and presently Mr. Clegg 
 chanced to notice it 
 
 " How curious ! " he said, speaking with involuntary 
 surprise, " that I should make the mistake of calling
 
 TOUCH AND GO. 3OI 
 
 you Mrs. Martin, and you have got a monogram which 
 is marked ' C. M.'— Cynthia Martin." 
 
 " Well, it is funn}^," said Cynthia ; " it looks rather 
 fishy, to tell the truth, but our name is Vincent. Now 
 you are wondering what the ' C. M.' stands for. It 
 stands for Cynthia Meredith — which was my maiden 
 name." 
 
 " Cynthia Meredith ! " repeated Mr. Clegg. " Was 
 your name Meredith ? " 
 
 At this point of the conversation Dick gave himself 
 up for lost. He never looked at Cynthia nor Valen- 
 tine Clegg ; he went on arranging bits of cheese and 
 butter on a biscuit with an intensity which such an 
 occupation did not warrant. 
 
 " Yes, my name was Meredith," said she. 
 
 Valentine Clegg looked at Dick, then back at Cyn- 
 thia. " And were you by any chance the daughter of 
 Roger Meredith ? " 
 
 " Yes, I was Roger Meredith's only child." 
 
 " The man who was killed at Midas Creek ? " 
 
 " Yes," speaking sadly, " the same." 
 
 " But how came he to have a daughter like you ? " 
 
 " I don't know. I was his daughter, but he had 
 been out here for fifteen years. I hadn't seen him 
 since I was three years old." 
 
 " I see. Well, Mrs. Vincent," glancing at his watch, 
 " I shall be getting off the cars in a few minutes now, 
 but I must tell you something before I say good-bye 
 to you. I was there when Meredith was killed." 
 
 " You .'' " She looked at him with all her soul in 
 her grey eyes. Dick's eyes were rivetted on her
 
 302 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 " I don't want to say a word ag-ainst your father, 
 even though you hadn't seen him for fifteen years," 
 said Valentine Clegg, " but you know he had a faihng ; 
 it is a faihng a good many men have out in the wilder 
 parts of the world." 
 
 " I know," said Cynthia, " I know." 
 
 " Well, it was very sad — when a good man goes 
 wrong, it is always very sad — but I was there, Mrs. 
 Vincent, and I saw the whole thing from beginning 
 to end. I knew Meredith years before. It was a 
 pity he came by his end like that, but practically the 
 whole affair was an accident. The other fellow had 
 no choice ; it was one life or the other. If ever you 
 hear to the contrary, you have my word for it that 
 the whole thing was as much an accident as if Mere- 
 dith had dropped a lighted match into a box of 
 dynamite. There — the cars are slowing down, so I 
 will bid you good-bye. I am glad to have met you, 
 very glad ; more so than you'll ever know. We shall 
 probably never meet again, but whatever you hear in 
 the time to come, remember that you have my word 
 for it that your father's death was neither more nor 
 less than an accident. So, good-bye ! God bless 
 you both ! " 
 
 He took her hand, holding it fast in his own for a 
 minute or so, then he turned round to Dick. " Good- 
 bye, old fellow," he said. " You know where to write 
 to if I can ever do anything to serve you. Good- 
 bye! God bless you! I am glad to have seen you, 
 and seen you together." 
 
 " I'll come and see you off the cars," said Dick. 
 
 \\'hcn he returned the cars were once more in
 
 TOUCH AND GO. 303 
 
 motion. Cynthia was sitting precisely where he had 
 left her. 
 
 " Dick," she said, in a tone of conviction and with 
 a deadly earnestness that completely startled him, " I 
 am not sentimental, I don't look at things as my 
 mother did, but that was the man who shot my 
 father!" 
 
 " No, no," cried Dick. 
 
 " Dick, I am certain of it ; I am convinced of it." 
 
 " You are wrong, my child — ^you are wrong ; I 
 assure you you are wrong." 
 
 " No, Dick, I am not wrong. That was the man 
 who shot my father." 
 
 " Well, if he did," said Dick, suddenly feeling a 
 deadly sickness creeping over him, " the whole affair 
 was, as he put it himself, practically an accident." 
 
 " Yes, yes, I know that ; 1 am not saying anything 
 about that ; but Dick, I have sat at meat with him — 
 I have laughed and joked with him — ^and after all, 
 one's father is one's father." 
 
 For a moment Dick Vincent did not speak. 
 " Dearest," he said, as his face was pale and his voice 
 shook a little in spite of himself, " I knew your father 
 much better than either his wife or you. Believe me, 
 if he could speak to you now he would tell you to 
 put such an idea out of your head altogether. There 
 are times in one's life — in everyone's life — when the 
 most grave and important acts must be decided on the 
 spur of the moment. The man who shot your father 
 in self-defence is, I feel certain, carrying with him a 
 burden which will only fall from him with the grave. 
 Nobody blamed him."
 
 304 A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. 
 
 " He might have spoken out," said Cynthia. 
 
 " No, he was advised at the time that the easiest 
 way would be to keep silence. When once a man 
 has put his hand to the plough, there can be no 
 turning back ! " 
 
 THE END.
 
 List of Works by John Strange Winter 
 
 Cavalry Life, 
 
 Hegimental Legends. 
 
 Booties' Baby, 
 
 Houp-la ! 
 
 In ftuarters. 
 
 On March. 
 *Army Society. 
 
 Pluck. 
 *Garrison Gossip. 
 
 Mignon's Secret. 
 
 That Imp i 
 
 Mignon's Husband. 
 
 A Siege Baby. 
 
 Confessions of a 
 Publisher. 
 
 Booties' Children. 
 ^Beautiful Jim. 
 
 My Poor Dick. 
 
 Harvest. 
 
 A Little Fool. 
 
 Buttons. 
 *Mrs. Bob. 
 
 Dinna Forget. 
 
 Ferrers Court. 
 
 He "Went for a Soldier. 
 *The Other Man's Wife. 
 
 Good-bye, 
 
 Lumley the Painter. 
 
 Mere Luck. 
 
 Only Human. 
 *My Geoff. 
 
 A Soldier's Children. 
 
 Three Girls. 
 
 That Mrs. Smith! 
 *Aunt Johnnie. 
 jThe Soul of the Bishop. 
 
 A Man's Man. 
 
 Red-Coats. 
 *A Seventh Child. 
 
 A Born Soldier. 
 
 ^ * Published 
 
 at 
 
 The Stranger "Woman. 
 
 A Blanaeless "Woman. 
 
 The Major's Favourite. 
 
 Private Tinker. 
 *A Magnificent Young 
 Man. 
 
 I Married a "Wife. 
 
 I Loved Her Once. 
 *The Truth-Tellers. 
 
 The Same Thing with a 
 Difference. 
 
 The Strange Story of 
 My Life. 
 
 Grip! 
 
 The Troubles of an 
 "CTnlucky Boy. 
 
 Into an Unknown "World. 
 
 A Seaside Flirt. 
 
 Everybody's Favourite. 
 
 A Gay Little "Woman. 
 
 Princess Sarah. 
 
 In the Same Regiment. 
 
 The Peacemakers. 
 
 The Price of a "Wife. 
 
 Heart and Sword. 
 
 Two Husbands. 
 
 The Sentimental Maria. 
 
 A Summer Jaunt. 
 
 The Binks Family. 
 *A Name to Conjure "With. 
 
 The Soldier and the Lady 
 
 A Mother's Holiday. 
 
 The Money Sense. 
 
 The Married Miss Binks. 
 
 A Self-made Countess. 
 
 She was called Noel. 
 
 The Career of a Beauty. 
 
 The Man I Loved. 
 
 Lord Broke's "Wife. 
 
 A Matter of Sentiment. 
 6cl, each.
 
 BY JOHN STRANGE WINTER. 
 
 THE MAN I LOVE D. 
 
 Fourth Edition. Cloth. 6j-. 
 
 WEEK END. 
 
 " A novel dealing with the prevalent craze for palmistry and clairvoyance, 
 and it should therefore prove to be a book of absorbing interest. " 
 
 SCOTSMAN. 
 
 " Is ' John Strange Winter ' also among the occultists ? Clairvoyants of 
 sorts and sexes have it pretty nearly all their own way in her story of ' The 
 Man I Loved' .... The story is, it need hardly be said, cleverly and 
 brightly written, and there are scenes and passages in it quite as good as 
 the author's best. Both interest and amusement may be found in the 
 story, but they adhere to it in spite of the clairvoyance, and not in any way 
 because of it." 
 
 ATHEN/EUM. 
 
 " In this novel ' John Strange Winter ' has ventured into the realm of 
 mysticism, and the book may be called a romance of the occult. Those 
 ■who cultivate this pseudo-science (and their number is daily increasing) 
 will delight in • The Man I Loved.' " 
 
 LITERARY WORLD. 
 
 "It is sure to find an appreciative public among lovers of the mystical." 
 
 DAILY MAIL. 
 
 "A book which will attract a large public is 'The Man I Loved,' by 
 John Strange Winter. The plot is straightforward, if incUned to the 
 occult .... Spirited and entertaining, the story certainly conveys a 
 most wholesome moral." 
 
 SKETCH. 
 
 "A most desirable story. It does not, lik most of Mrs. Stannard's 
 novels, deal with soldiers and garrison life, but is a domestic story, to which 
 an extract on the title-page forms a key. This is : ' My Magic Wheel, 
 draw home to me the man I love.' It is charmingly written, and will 
 certainly brighten an idle hour and also add to the high reputation of the 
 author as a clever story-teller. " 
 
 WOMAN. 
 
 " The secret of her success is humanity. The human note, that appeals 
 to everybody, great or small, rich or poor, is rung in all her boo];s and we 
 are at home at once with her characters, charmed by the glib pen that 
 
 depicts them, interested from cover to cover She may not pretend 
 
 to daring and intricate plots, or revel in presenting unsolvable problems, 
 but whatever theme she handles is invariably presented the right way up, 
 and communicated smoothly and naturally to the reader, without any 
 straining after effect, needless explanations and discussions, or tiresome 
 moralising. This certainly makes her stories loved by those who seek for 
 wholesome, readable fiction." 
 
 F. V. WHITF: & CO., Ltd., 14, Bedford Street, Strand, W.C. 
 
 2
 
 THE CAREER OF A BEAUTY. 
 
 Sixth Edition. Clot/i, 6s. 
 
 DAILY GRAPHIC. 
 
 " ' John Strange Winter ' puts more reality of the best description into 
 each succeeding novel that she -writes. Her powers of rousing our sj-m- 
 pathies in her characters, of making us feel the pathos and the sadness," the 
 joy and the humour of life, are as strong as they ever were. In ' The Career 
 of a Beauty ' we are given some charmingly frank and realistic pictures of 
 ' Society ' which are as good as any of her previous works. • The Career 
 of a Beauty ' is, indeed, one long but entertaining series of glimpses of life 
 in the more exclusive classes called 'upper,' and the effects upon the 
 ' Beauty ' of the many influences at work therein are shown very cleverly. 
 The book, too, contains many of those charming passages which help us to 
 see farther into life than we are accustomed to in our every-day existence. 
 They are not weighted with solemnity, but are leavened with the pleasant 
 humour that distinguishes all that comes from Mrs. Stannard's pen." 
 
 SKETCH. 
 
 '• AVill be thoroughly enjoyed." 
 
 WHITEHALL REVIEW. 
 
 " The book that Mrs. Arthur Stannard has just given us is one of the 
 very best we have had from her distinguished pen. This is as it should 
 be, for an artist's work should always improve as it goes on. In tracing 
 the life of her ' Beauty,' the authoress has given the world a glance into 
 the inner workings of ' Society,' and the way a professional beauty's mind 
 is forced (or warped — which you prefer), which is of a deeply interesting 
 nature, and not only interesting, but containing the essence of a keen 
 observation and trenchant thought." 
 
 BRISTOL MERCURY. 
 
 "One of the most interesting parts of the bo )k is the picture which it 
 presents of the position of those who have been left at home during the 
 war, to wait and worry. " 
 
 SCOTSMAN. 
 
 " The hand of Mrs. Stannard has not lost its cunning. Very fresh and 
 vigorous writing is this latest novel of hers, built though it is, perhaps, on 
 a somewhat slim foundation. It is full of tine jnctures of modern society 
 life, in portraying which ' John Strange Winter ' has for so long been one 
 of the acknowledged masters, while there are in it, too, glimpses of Army 
 life — that other and almost special ' preserve ' of this author among lady 
 novelists — and of the war, but unfortunately these latter are no more than 
 glimpses." 
 
 COURT CIRCULAR. 
 
 "In 'The Career of a Beauty ' Mrs. Stannard shows no falling off in 
 originality of plot and freshness of treatment. Her characters are as well 
 drawn and as natural as in any of her previous books, and the inevitable 
 military element is as spirited and breezy as ever." 
 
 SHEFFIELD TELEGRAPH. 
 
 " There is in it that irresistible attraction of the directly personal 
 narrative, which in the hands of this accomplished writer at once and for 
 all the time pleasantly deludes the reader in the belief that he is reading 
 the real story of a woman's life told by the woman herself. This quality 
 is more perceptible in the present book than in any of J. S. W.'s delightful 
 stories." 
 
 F. V. WHITE & CO., Ltd., 14, Bedford Street, Strand, W.C. 
 
 3
 
 A SELF-MADE COUNTESS. 
 
 THE JUSTIFICATION OF A HUSBAND. 
 Sixth Edition. Clotli, 6s. 
 
 SCOTSMAN. 
 
 *" A Self-made Countess ' is written in John Strange Winter's brightest 
 and best style. It grapples with no more difdcult social problems than 
 how to make good matches for a family of girls, and how a young woman, 
 marrying into the peerage, may, by success in her new sphere, justify the 
 earl in having chosen a wife not born in his own rank. The story is 
 nothing more than a naive autobiography of the young countess from her 
 girlhood till a few years after her marriage, but the style is delightfully 
 crisp, clear, and witty, and the characters are as clear-cut as diamonds. 
 Blanche herself, her perfect strategist of a mother, her finely contrasted 
 sisters, the Earl of Grindlebury, the most honest, and frank, and the least 
 artificial of men, and, in short, all the dramatis persona of this charming 
 social comedy are as real as life, and as interesting as a sparkling wit and 
 a quick fancy can make them." 
 
 DAILY MAIL. 
 
 '• The high-spirited and perennially industrious writer, the author of 
 'Booties' Baby,' makes a new departure in 'A Self-made Countess.' 
 Her present story deals with some very remarkable personages in ' le hi- 
 life,' and their methods of self-advertisement, methods which are as 
 amusing as they are novel." 
 
 STANDARD. 
 
 "It amounts to a scathing though good-natured attack on the fashion- 
 able philanthropy of the day, and, to speak plainly, a vast deal of truth is 
 here wrapped up in the garb of fiction. The story is told naturally and 
 easily. . . , The book will interest women rather than men, since they 
 will enjoy and understand the feminine tactics of which it treats." 
 
 LADY'S PICTORIAL. 
 
 " A very amusing and well-worked-out story. The pen that wrote 
 • Booties' Baby ' shows no sign of fatigue." 
 
 BRISTOL MERCURY. 
 
 "John Strange Winter's new volume is a very readable and a very 
 vivacious excursion into the life of society as it is to-day. The widow of a 
 distinguished civil servant is left with three daughters, whom she schemes 
 and contrives to settle in the world. The manoeuvres which are required to 
 retain a footing in Mayfair are remorseless! j' described, and the universal 
 worship of social success. It is very amusing to be told how society 
 leaders nearly all take up charitable movements for the necessary purpose 
 of self-advertisement. It is impossible to avoid the feeling that the society 
 described is something of a treadmill, but ' John Strange Winter ' alwaj^s 
 manages to put enough human feeling and reality into her characters to 
 render them thoroughly companionable to her readers. She gives away 
 the methods of the society journalist most completely." 
 
 YORKSHIRE GAZETTE. 
 
 " It is written in a terse and vigorous style, and abounds in those happy 
 touches of character study at which Mrs. Stannard is an adept. " 
 
 F. Y. WHITE & CO., Ltd., 14, Beaford Street, Strand, W.C. 
 
 4
 
 IMPORTANT NOTICE. 
 
 AN ENTIEELY NEW EDITION OF 
 
 JOHN STRANGE WINTER'S 
 POPULAR NOVELS 
 
 IS NOW BEINa PUBLISHED BX 
 
 F. V. ^VHITE & CO., LTD. 
 
 Price SIXPENCE per Volume. 
 
 Already Issued : 
 
 THE TRUTH TELLERS. 
 
 A MAGNIFICENT YOUNG MAN. 
 
 BEAUTIFUL JIM. 
 
 ARMY SOCIETY. 
 
 GARRISON GOSSIP. 
 
 MRS. BOB. 
 
 MY GEOFF. 
 
 A SEVENTH CHILD. 
 
 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE. 
 
 AUNT JOHNNIE. 
 
 A NAME TO CONJURE WITH. 
 
 F. Y, WHITE & CO., Ltd., 14, Beaford Street, Strand, W.C. 
 
 5
 
 UNIFORM SIXPENNY EDITION OF 
 
 John strange Winter's Popular Novels. 
 A NA ME TO CONJURE WITH. 
 
 ATHEN/EUM. 
 
 "We consider this one of the best books produced so far by Mrs. 
 Stannard." 
 
 DAILY TELEGRAPH. 
 " A novel which sensibly raises the average." 
 
 QUEEN. 
 "A genuine study of real life and human nature." 
 
 BLACK AND WHITE. 
 "A carefully considered, seriously worked character-study of a woman 
 writer — a famous novelist. The story is intensely interesting, and compels 
 our attention to the very end." 
 
 VANITY FAIR. 
 "No one knows better than Mrs. Stannard the worries and glories of a 
 successful woman author's Hfe, and she draws the character of Mary 
 Lessingham with the ease born of long experience." 
 
 GLOBE. 
 
 •' One of her best. The book exhibits such an intimate knowledge not 
 only of literary but of journalistic life as might be expected from this 
 experienced writer." 
 
 BOOKSELLER. 
 
 " It is, indeed, a graphic, vigorous picture, most effectively painted, and 
 it at least shows that to succeed is not always happiness, while it points 
 the moral that loving wives and husbands are happiest when they have no 
 secrets from each other." 
 
 ST. JAMES'S GAZETTE. 
 
 " Certainly the book is worth reading for this powerful treatment of a 
 somewhat unusual phase of the drink question — perhaps as good work 
 as any that John Strange Winter has done." 
 
 LITERARY WORLD. 
 
 "The slow but pitiless inroads of the drink habit are described with a 
 fidelity almost terrible." 
 
 CHURCHMAN. 
 
 " Mrs. Stannard has risen in this pathetic story to the level of tragedy. 
 . . . Though not intended as a temperance story, but rather as a 
 psychological i)roblem, this work will be immensely popular amongst those 
 interested in temperance work." 
 
 ALLIANCE NEWS. 
 
 " Sitting down merely to write an interesting novel, she has, to her 
 surprise, produced what is, in fact, one of the most powerful temperance 
 tales that have ever been written." 
 
 F. V. WHITE & CO., Ltd., 14, Bedford Street, Strand, W.C. 
 
 6
 
 A NAME TO CONJURE WITH. 
 
 [Continued.] 
 
 SCOTSMAN. 
 
 " Xo one will begin the book without following out its clever and work- 
 manlike development to the end, and admiring the tenderness with which 
 its difficult subject is treated." 
 
 THE LEAGUE JOURNAL. 
 
 " It is a pitiful, a pa'hetic, a grand story. It is a story that is needed. 
 It is a living story, and it is not overdrawn." 
 
 MANCHESTER COURIER. 
 
 "A very remarkable work. . . . One of the cleverest things Mrs, 
 Arthur Stannard has done. " 
 
 CHRISTIAN WORLD. 
 
 " A careful and clever analysis of the influence of stimulants on tempera- 
 ment." 
 
 BRITISH WEEKLY. 
 
 " John Strange Winter deserves the thanks of all women for the noble 
 and outspoken way she has written some problems of the day." 
 
 SHEFFIELD DAILY TELEGRAPH. 
 
 " Few will rise dry-eyed from the dramatically pathetic scene in which 
 the unhappy lady, aided by the Church and her husband, emerges 
 victorious from the prolonged and arduous struggle. Mrs. Stannard has 
 never written a better story, and no one has written a better temperance 
 story. " 
 
 GOOD TEMPLAR. 
 
 " A most interesting and fascinating book. . . . Our members ought to 
 read this book. It is a most powerful indictment of the drink system and 
 the sad havoc it works." 
 
 TEMPERANCE RECORD. 
 
 "A temperance novel of a new and striking type. . . . We beheve it 
 will interest and influence a class of readers hitherto untouched by temper- 
 ance tales. " 
 
 Mr. W. S. Caine, M.P. (President of the British Temperance League, 
 and of the N^itional Temperance Federation), says : — 
 
 " I have read 'A Name to Conjure With ' closely and critically. As a 
 temperance reformer, I thank you most heartily for having written the 
 most interesting and powerful story on the evil of alcoholic stimulants 
 since Walter Besant's 'Demoniac' A story of this kind comes with ten- 
 fold power from a pen which has not hitherto been devoted to the cause 
 it advocates, and I am sure it will have a very far-reaching effect on 
 Society generally. . . . You have been so completely successful in ' A 
 Name to Conjure With,' that I hope it will induce you to write another. 
 There is no doubt whatever that your book will greatly strengthen the 
 hands of temperance workers, and 1 feel sure it will have a great circulation 
 among them, if it is properly brought under their notice. ... I can 
 judge of your treatment of this very difficult subject from a deep well of 
 experience. It is quite faultless." 
 
 F. V. WHITE & CO., Ltd., 14, Bedford Street, Strand, W.C. 
 
 7
 
 A MAGNIFICENT YOUNG MAN 
 
 A NEW EDITION. PAPER COVERS, Qd. 
 
 DAILY TELEGRAPH. 
 
 "'John Strange Winter 'has -nritten many ingeniously-devised and 
 symmetrically-constructed stories, teeming with interesting incident, genial 
 humour and tender pathos. In 'A Magnificent Young Man ' this sym- 
 pathetic romancist has surpassed the high standard of narrative excel- 
 lence attained by her previous -norks." 
 
 SATURDAY REVIEW. 
 
 "Entertaining from cover to cover. If one wants to -while away a 
 three-hour railway journey, this is the book." 
 
 WORLD. 
 
 "But it is not so much with regard to its characterisation that the 
 book deserves commendation ; its real merit lies in the ingenuity of its 
 plot, which is most skilfully woven, and leads the reader on step by 
 step until the mystery is solved." 
 
 LADY'S PICTORIAL. 
 
 "A stirring and exciting story." 
 
 WHITEHALL REVIEW. 
 
 " There is a most exasperating mystery in this work which is not 
 revealed until the closing chapter — a mystery that Wilkie Collins would 
 have revelled in. Once the book is begun, the reader is impelled to 
 go on until the secret is divulged." 
 
 GRAPHIC. 
 
 "A mystery which will certainly defy the acumen of the most ex- 
 perienced of readers. The whole story is lightly and brightly written." 
 
 ATHEN/EUM. 
 
 " The plot is so good that it is difficult for even the practised novel 
 reader to conjecture what will be the outcome of the mystery which 
 overshadows the hfe of the heroine." 
 
 DAILY NEWS. 
 
 "The author weaves the rest of the narrative with so much skill that, 
 until she reveals her secret, we cannot guess at the mystery attending 
 the fate of the hero. The book is one of the best that John Strange 
 Winter has written." 
 
 LLOYD'S NEWS. 
 
 " 'A Magnificent Young Man' is a well-told story of modern society. 
 . . . . Mrs. Stannard weaves her plot with the hand of a skilled 
 worker in fiction, draws her characters clearly, and satislies the demand 
 for incident." 
 
 LITERARY WORLD. 
 
 " The whole book is occupied with telUng the story in simple, straight- 
 forward style. The plot is hardly probable, but it is quite new, and 
 creates a new set of situations. And both hero and heroine are charming 
 people." 
 
 F. V. WHITE & CO., Ltd., 14, Bedford Street, Strand, W.C. 
 
 8
 
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