GIFT OF 
 
 OHD BACON 
 
 I J'ARY 
 
 c«v^ 
 
HONESTY'S GARDEN 
 
 BY 
 
 PAUL CRESWICK 
 
 G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS 
 
 NEW YORK AND LONDON 
 
 Cbe "Knickerbocker press 
 1910 
 
Ube fmfcfterbocfeer press, "Hew »orb 
 
Dearest — this book I gave you years ago 
 
 269558 
 
Honesty's Garden 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 A speckled thrush, puffing his plum chest, 
 called once — twice — from the highest twig on 
 the highest branch of the pear-tree near my 
 window. I heard presently answering notes, 
 slightly petulant, perhaps. The rain had fallen 
 sweetly during the night, turning all the lumpy, 
 hard ground soft and fragrant, and cleansing 
 the rose trees of blight. The close lawn was 
 sparkling under the early sun, as though 
 sprinkled by some lavish magic hand with mil- 
 lions of diamonds. 
 
 Already the sun was well above the hills across 
 the valley, flinging slant rays reproachfully to- 
 wards us. The cuckoo's sly notes sounded from 
 the deep woods beyond the village; he invited 
 folk to awake — to leave their warm nests. The 
 thrush whistled again from his perch per- 
 
2 Honesty's Garden 
 
 emptorily, then dropped swiftly to the grass. 
 There was something amid the diamonds of dew 
 really remarkable! 
 
 After a fitting interval came the good lady. 
 She had finished preening her feathers, and now 
 deigned to flutter her sleek round self nearer 
 her fussy lord and master. She eyed the wrig- 
 gling morsel which he had captured with a fine 
 air of disdain. " Whatever 's that? " she asked 
 plainly, her head on one side. Then, before he 
 could attempt an explanation, " Pray don't 
 speak with your beak full, dear — it 's such a 
 bad example for the chicks. Besides, it does n't 
 suit you ! " 
 
 She condescended to accept the tit-bit, how- 
 ever, and at once flew off to the nest. Such a 
 twittering now! I could imagine the scene: 
 three or four hungry, tremendous mouths all 
 clamouring together to be served first! Typical 
 little birds obeying prime instincts. 
 
 Honesty awoke — who could sleep through such 
 a din? I heard her casement opening wide, 
 and drew back into the dimity shadows of my 
 own curtained window. A gentle puff of fresh 
 pure wind, pungent with aromatic savours, 
 greeted her. " Bless the birds ! " I expect she 
 said, smiling to hear the uproar in the thrush's 
 nest ; " how very early they do wake up ! " 
 Then crossing to her glass, and smothering a 
 
Honesty's Garden 3 
 
 tiny yawn, she concluded (no doubt), "What a 
 fright I look!" 
 
 I can only guess at Honesty's words; but I 
 expect she either said or thought just what I 
 have written. I am always careful to open and 
 close my window very gently ; a summer's morn- 
 ing is a wonderful business, not to be disturbed 
 by harsh sounds or by unmannerly intrusion. 
 Much of the garden can be seen from my room 
 — all the bushes and taller plants, while the long 
 sweep of close turf peeps between the whisper- 
 ing trees very refreshingly. Soon I see Honesty 
 herself, pink in her cotton dress, bareheaded, 
 with big gloves on her small hands, and with 
 sharp scissors snipping a bouquet. 
 
 Honesty is really the spirit of the place. This 
 busy little maid, experienced of twenty whole 
 summers, enters unassumingly, and — presto! — 
 the garden is worth a thousand thousand times 
 its value of a moment before. What quick, deft 
 fingers has she, despite those clumsy gloves! I 
 see a cloud of bright blossoms filling her gath- 
 ered-up apron, stains of deeper pink against the 
 pale pinkness of her dress, roses shy and sweet 
 crowding each other in lovely disorder. 
 
 Is it fair to watch Honesty like this? I think 
 yes — for surely God sent us pretty things that 
 we might look upon them, and so learn how to 
 be beautiful. 
 
4 Honesty's Garden 
 
 " Good-morning, Mr. Swift." 
 
 " Oh," say I, disconcerted no little, " I did n't 
 know you could see me." 
 
 Honesty laughs, but only briefly glances up- 
 ward towards my window. " I knew you were 
 there," she answers, smiling half to me, half to 
 herself. 
 
 " Did you? " ask I, rather curious; " and how 
 did you know? " 
 
 She goes on filling her apron. Presently 
 
 " Did you enjoy your trip to the West? " 
 
 " Very much. But please tell me how " 
 
 " Did you buy any new books? " 
 
 " Only one or two — not new books though. I 
 had a great find on Tuesday. Please wait until 
 I come down ; I must tell you about the find." 
 
 A few moments afterwards I am peering above 
 the hedge of sweetbriar which divides our 
 gardens. Honesty has pocketed her scissors, 
 and is making up the bouquet. It develops 
 astonishingly under her clever little fingers. 
 
 " Very nice," I announce, approving every- 
 thing. " Now, give me my answer." 
 
 " What did you ask? I don't remember." 
 
 " I want to know how you knew I was there." 
 
 " There? — in the West? Why, you yourself 
 told me you were going." 
 
 " That won't do. I mean — how did you guess 
 I was peeping at you just now? " 
 
Honesty's Garden 5 
 
 " I did n't guess it," replies Honesty provok- 
 ingly ; " I knew it." 
 
 " Yes; but how did you know it? " 
 
 " Because, because — oh, any one could have 
 known you were about! You make such a 
 noise." 
 
 " I opened my window ever so quietly. Even 
 the birds did n't notice me." 
 
 " They were too busy with breakfast," she in- 
 terrupts. " Here 's a button-hole for you. And, 
 another time, put on your hat ; the mornings are 
 often very chilly. You shall tell me about your 
 new books some other day; mother is calling 
 me now." 
 
 " I made such a find," I begin to explain. But 
 Honesty, with an apologetic laughing curtsey, 
 is gone from view ere I can reach my theme. 
 
 So there for a few moments I stand, and stare 
 into the cool gloom of the wide hall into which 
 she has vanished. I can faintly distinguish the 
 white face of the steady old clock, the rise of 
 the low stairs. 
 
 Bless me, what a delightful place is this old 
 world! Life is a great blessing, a great gift. 
 Summer, and a garden as fair as Eden; a small 
 Eve withal very delightful to look upon, and 
 waiting demurely for the right Adam. A para- 
 dise free from serpents, let us hope! 
 
 So to a quiet breakfast, and afterwards to 
 
6 Honesty's Garden 
 
 work. With my pipe and my book, I can dis- 
 regard the newspaper. What care I for frets 
 and worries this morning? 
 
 I write busily, and fulfil most of my morn- 
 ing's task ere seeking relaxation. Then, at 
 eleven or thereabout, I take a book, and think 
 again of the garden. 
 
 That way madness lies. Once in the sunlight, 
 I know I shall never have strength of mind to 
 return to duty. I elect to read for ten minutes 
 or so, with my back to the alluring open window. 
 
 Mine is a very small library, gathered together 
 in many years from many hands. I believe I 
 have loved books since I was able to read. 
 Books are house and home to me, my holidays 
 and workdays; they are my servants and my 
 masters, my children and my friends. These 
 have I acquired by toil, and by chastening self- 
 denials in other directions. Some are of old 
 acquaintance; to those on the top shelf have I 
 only just been introduced. I cannot say if any 
 of them will travel downward to that especial 
 shelf whereon are the well-tried and always 
 faithful — those which I can reach from my arm- 
 chair with ease. 
 
 Here a baker's dozen of a series, now long ago 
 concluded rather summarily by its publisher. 
 They are the first ones of it — fiction all of them. 
 They seemed to be sincere — to strike (how many 
 
Honesty's Garden 7 
 
 years ago?) a new note. Anything out of con- 
 ventional ruts attracts me. I have not much 
 mind which way books trend in thought or pur- 
 pose, if their writer's purpose be honest. Save 
 us — 'tis only by our mistakes that we learn! 
 Some one has said this before me, but it makes 
 no difference to the truth of it. 
 
 A man shall be known by the company he 
 keeps — in his books. Here on my few shelves 
 is my record of eight-and-thirty years, written 
 plainly, page by page. Any one of understand- 
 ing may know me at a glance. 
 
 It is a dreadful thought. I will curtain my 
 shelves, and sell some of my books forthright, 
 all except the Shakespeare, my pride and my 
 joy — eight very fine quartos, originally bound 
 together in one volume. If I might only dis- 
 cover the ninth ! But my pipe is done, and upon 
 my desk lie sheets of clean paper ready for spoil- 
 ing; beside them a stack of novels for review. 
 Unhappy me, and still more unhappy authors of 
 these gaily rigged ventures on a wide sea. If 
 in a passage in any one of these I discover an 
 idea in common with my own small philosophy, 
 I shall straightway deem the writer a shrewd 
 and sensible fellow. His tale shall be told me, 
 and I will listen intelligently to the whole of it. 
 Then shall I, in gratitude, do my best for 
 him. 
 
8 Honesty's Garden 
 
 If, on the other hand, nothing in tune with 
 my selfish, solitary notions appears, then shall 
 I dismiss the poor man speedily, and with cold 
 farewells. His book will go to that worthy gen- 
 tleman in St. Martin's Lane, who shall give me 
 a sixth (or less) of the published price — pro- 
 vided the work reaches him within a month of 
 publication, and is practically uncut! What a 
 farce it is ; yet I do suppose that critics all work 
 in my way, so that my reviews are as valuable, 
 or valueless, as theirs. 
 
 There is consolation in the idea that reviews 
 do not matter much. No review ever made a 
 book yet, or ever will. It may help: just as 
 Honesty, by tending her little garden, and by 
 bringing intelligent love to bear on her roses, 
 helps them to full measure of success. But the 
 real reason of her garden is not altogether 
 Honesty. An intangible element is in the being 
 of some of her bushes. These fellows keep free 
 from blight, do not get mildew even in the driest 
 season, blossom from June to September with- 
 out apparent effort They are a bewildering 
 success, in spite of culture and care and feeding 
 — if one might dare think it. As like as not 
 Honesty, with that sharp little knife of hers, 
 cut them back cruelly in the spring, disregarded 
 them, and lavished her skill on other trees 
 struggling ineptly. 
 
Honesty's Garden 9 
 
 It 's a gift, born with people — perhaps cul- 
 tivated by them, all unknowingly. Success is 
 not luck, it does not come as a reward; it is 
 simply in some of us, just as music is, or art, or 
 business. 
 
 Therefore reviews do not matter — at least, 
 not my reviews. 
 
 An article for the Daily Rocket is a more seri- 
 ous task, and one which I must complete ere 
 nightfall. It will take me three hours, and then 
 I shall not produce a paper which I shall really 
 like. Also, there is a beastly book on Alfred 
 which I must finish by the end of July; this 
 should have attention to-day. 
 
 Now I don't much care about Alfred. When, 
 on reading him up, you find he did not recite the 
 Psalms by heart long before he was able to 
 walk, that he never was in the cottar's hut burn- 
 ing cakes, you feel that, to a large extent, he is 
 an impostor. On looking further, you discover 
 that positively he usurped the throne, the actual 
 next-of-kin to poor unsung Ethelred being Ethel- 
 red's own child — Alfred's toddling nephew. Of 
 course the little chap could not have been a king 
 right away. But did Alfred make any movement 
 in the right direction when Ethelred junior came 
 to years of discretion? 
 
 I pause for a reply. 
 
 However, when a man has attained a mille- 
 
io Honesty's Garden 
 
 nary, one has to write about him, whatever one's 
 private feeling may be. 
 
 I want one day to write a book which shall 
 really be my own. It won't have much story in 
 it, and shall not be forced. I will build it in 
 my own way, just as I feel inclined. 
 
 It will be a capital means of ridding myself 
 of pestilent ideas and enthusiasms. Evils, or 
 what I believe to be evils, shall be denounced in 
 the grand style upon its sacred pages. Instead 
 of going about airing views, which, Heaven 
 knows, may be as ridiculously wrong as most 
 views are (for what mortal eye can see all round 
 a thing?), I shall simply rant and rave my way 
 to peace again within my book's unheeding cov- 
 ers. My admirations, my follies, my tolerations, 
 my religions, my self, shall be permitted only in 
 this garden. 
 
 What a collection of . . . weeds it will be ! 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 The first scene of the first act of a comedy 
 is performed before my window — or, rather, 
 Honesty's window — each day. The curtain 
 rings up at eight-thirty a.m. without fail; on 
 fine mornings it is often earlier. 
 
 From my point of view only half of the per- 
 sons of the play may be observed. I must ex- 
 plain that Honesty's garden and mine are side 
 by side, each facing into the highroad at their 
 eastern boundaries. At breakfast I sit with my 
 back to the window, as I do not like folk who 
 sit the other way, for ever peering out at other 
 people's business. 
 
 But I have a mirror above a rather nice old 
 sideboard (in the Adam style, and very useful), 
 and in that magic circle I perceive this first 
 scene of a comedy which never gets beyond the 
 first scene. It all comes to one point over and 
 over again — not by any means to a climax, yet 
 it never fails to be interesting. I can picture to 
 myself how Honesty smiles in response to the 
 young fellow's half-shy greeting! 
 
 ii 
 
12 Honesty's Garden 
 
 What do those two dear young things imagine, 
 I wonder, in June? Singing birds, sunshine, 
 perfume of roses and old-fashioned flowers — 
 health and happiness 
 
 Ideals too. Near to the eyes is the soul when 
 one is young! To leave the world a wee bit 
 better for your having lived in it, to be kind, 
 to help — these are the royal prerogatives! 
 And these the success I will wring from 
 life. 
 
 So go the years, each one showing our ideals 
 as increasingly difficult, almost impossible — 
 more and more shadowy and vague. 
 
 All we like sheep 
 
 But let me credit Mr. Baillie with conviction 
 at least in the present stage of it. He is twenty- 
 three, well set up, a good lad. Truly he wor- 
 ships Honesty, and passes her garden morning 
 by morning in ever-increasing adoration. If she 
 should be there, with that great apron about 
 her and those important gloves on her small 
 hands 
 
 " We '11 be having some rain," he will ven- 
 ture. 
 
 " Oh, please don't say that ! It rained all last 
 night, and I want the sun to shine every minute 
 of to-day. I have so much to do." 
 
 " It >s always busy you are, Miss Honesty." 
 
 " Indeed, yes. I hardly know where to begin. 
 
Honesty's Garden 13 
 
 The weeds grow so fast, and the grass always 
 wants mowing. I think you might stay and help 
 me." 
 
 Poor Baillie! Just then he hears the faint 
 whistle down the valley which tells that his train 
 is passing the far signals. He '11 have to trot 
 for it, for this little duologue has taken longer to 
 say than to write. The lad 's so nervous that 
 it 's a relief to him to run off, with some chok- 
 ingly explanatory " good-bye." He is never so 
 " Scotch " with me. Indeed, it is only at a crisis 
 of this nature that you might know Baillie for 
 a " laddie " at all. 
 
 I wish I could see Honesty's face during this 
 passage-of-arms — nearly an entire scene in our 
 Comedy of Love. But the sweetbriar hedge is 
 only partially reflected in my mirror, and I own 
 I have guessed the dialogue mainly. 
 
 It is interesting to hear the news of Car- 
 bridge-on-the-Mole, the happenings whilst I have 
 been away. We have really tremendous epochs 
 down here in this pretty Surrey village — on 
 occasion. You shall hear. 
 
 I summon Jones — my housekeeper, gardener, 
 general servant, cook, still-room and tweeny 
 maid, butler, and (within limits) valet-de- 
 chambre. She instructs me as to the more 
 recent history of our times. 
 
 First, I tell her: 
 
14 Honesty's Garden 
 
 " You can take away breakfast when you like, 
 Jones." 
 
 " Thank you, sir. The boy did n't bring the 
 paper this morning." 
 
 " So I see. You must tell me the news — if 
 you have any." (Spoken indifferently in tone; 
 I have to be wary with Jones.) 
 
 " Nothing much, sir. Miss Legard was mar- 
 ried on Tuesday." 
 
 "Oh! Nice affair?" 
 
 " Yes, sir — very nice. The young lady wore 
 white satin, made princess — with a trailing 
 skirt : quite swept the aisle it did. Orange blos- 
 soms in her hair, and four bridesmaids. Such 
 a lot of people in the church, sir — just like Sun- 
 day evening; and they had a full choir, and a 
 red carpet all down the road." 
 
 " All down the road, Jones? " 
 
 " Yes, sir; it was nice. Red felt at ten-three a 
 yard out of Hoy's shop, just like my brother's 
 wife has on her stairs. And the organ was play- 
 ing lovely " 
 
 Jones pauses, irresolute. " I thought you 
 would n't mind, sir, so I just locked up the house 
 for an hour. Everything was perfectly safe, and 
 I came straight back. I 'm sure I hope you 're 
 not " 
 
 " Well, Jones, I know you would n't do any- 
 thing risky." I don't half like it, all the same, 
 
Honesty's Garden 15 
 
 but, between ourselves, I 'm a trifle afraid of 
 Jones, she 's an old servant. Suppose some one 
 bad broken in, though ; I 'm positive they would 
 have taken my Compleat Angler, a fine copy — 
 or my Rowlandson prints. Or possibly the set 
 of Lowestoft mugs — frightful thought. The 
 Shakespeare would not tempt every one, because 
 so few people know of it. 
 
 I must somehow let Jones understand that 
 this must n't be taken as a precedent. " Of 
 course, er — urn." (Pause.) "I don't much 
 care for the house to be left, in the ordinary 
 run of things." 
 
 " Quite so, sir. But we don't have many wed- 
 dings down here, sir, more 's the pity." 
 
 (Why does Jones eye me so severely? It 's no 
 fault of mine.) 
 
 " Well, did the bride cry, or do anything else 
 usual and exciting? " 
 
 " No, sir, Miss Legard did n't cry — not as I 
 saw. She seemed rather glad and ' smiley/ sir. 
 They been engaged ten years, sir." 
 
 The tone in which Jones used the word is a 
 revelation, and stamps her at once above her 
 kind. Walking-out is the expression any 
 other Jones would have used, but not my 
 Jones. 
 
 " Smiley, was she? Let us hope she will be as 
 happy as she hopes." (Jones is eyeing me 
 
16 Honesty's Garden 
 
 again. I hasten to change my note.) "The 
 church was crowded, eh? " 
 
 " Yes, sir. I never see so many new dresses, 
 and there were twenty Maid Marians throwing 
 roses all under their feet as they walked " 
 
 " Hold hard, Jones. Twenty Maid Marians? " 
 
 Jones is firm. "And twenty little Robin 
 Hoods. They was on the other side of the car- 
 pet, throwing more roses. The Sunday-school 
 children, sir — Miss Legard's own class. There 
 was breakfast afterwards in Mr. Legard's 
 meadow. You could see it all from my win- 
 dow." 
 
 "You had come back by then?" 
 
 " Oh, yes, sir. I was n't gone more than an 
 hour. I did n't mean to leave your books and 
 things so long, only the time did slip by. I took 
 the liberty of dusting the shelves, sir." 
 
 " So I noticed — very carefully done, too. I 'm 
 obliged to you." Clever girl, Jones, can dust a 
 bookshelf without thoroughly disarranging it; 
 does n't tidily put back volumes I have specially 
 taken out for easy reference. " Any other 
 news? " 
 
 " The young lady next door went in pink — 
 very pretty summer sort of dress, sir, but hardly 
 right for a wedding, was it? Such a short skirt 
 too, quite clear of the ground all round. And 
 a great straw hat with roses in it — and no bou- 
 
Honesty's Garden 17 
 
 quet; only just flowers cut from her own 
 garding, sir." 
 
 A vision of Honesty rises before me. I '11 
 readily wager she looked the best there. 
 
 " Rather odd for a wedding, sir? " Jones 
 persists. 
 
 " Oh, I don't know. Simplicity is Miss Dene's 
 note. Have n't you noticed the sweetbriar hedge 
 round her garden ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir ; of course, sir." Jones is puzzled. 
 
 " Sweetbriar stands for simplicity, as you 
 should know — being a country girl. Just see if 
 my paper has come, will you? I fancy I heard 
 the boy just now." 
 
 So Jones departs, evidently unconvinced. 
 She, despite her years, would have gone to the 
 wedding, had she been a guest, in a dress of all 
 colours of the rainbow, be-frilled and be-flounced, 
 yards long, and brand new from Hoy himself. 
 (Hoy is the local universal provider.) Special 
 appearances and manners for special occasions 
 — how artificial and wicked! 
 
 But that 's precisely how the world wags. 
 
 I am so tired of the modern newspaper; I 
 want something much more human — something 
 where common-sense and sympathy find places. 
 Our present-day newspaper occupies its assertive 
 self so much with the worse side of our coats 
 
18 Honesty's Garden 
 
 — the rents and rags : so little is said of the stuff 
 itself — of the fine-drawn repairs. 
 
 If our clothes fit ill or wear badly — there 's 
 the newspaper man, with a loud voice, more than 
 ready to draw every one's attention to the fact. 
 I don't want to read of miserable things — really 
 miserable, I mean; of the quarrels of my neigh- 
 bours, and the worse quarrels of nations. The 
 newspaper too often makes the quarrel — helps it 
 to develop. Besides, why give evil such adver- 
 tisement? Alas, for the deep-rooted depravity 
 of us all. The newspaper man answers by slap- 
 ping his pocket. Cut all the evil out of a news- 
 paper, and where would be the profits of a 
 " daily " anything? 
 
 But I preach, which is a bad symptom; more- 
 over, there are excellent good points in a news- 
 paper. It advertises all the new books; 
 tells me (in its own fashion — I read between 
 the lines) all about them. It also runs a 
 library. 
 
 I hear further as to the wedding — from 
 Honesty herself. She tells me it was beautiful, 
 and that the weather was perfect. That the 
 bride was sweet, and said her responses so that 
 all could hear. That the groom was radiantly 
 nervous, and nearly tripped over the edge of the 
 red felt at ten-three a yard. 
 
 " I trust you did n't laugh." 
 
Honesty's Garden 19 
 
 "I?" Honesty is surprised at the question. 
 " No, I did n't laugh. I— I cried." 
 
 "Cried?" 
 
 " Not then, of course. It was before — in the 
 church. It all seemed so solemn, so dreadful — 
 in a way. But you will think that silly." 
 
 I shake my head ; I imagine that I understand. 
 We are holding this conversation through my 
 open parlour window. She has brought me some 
 rose-leaves showing signs of mildew. I am to 
 pronounce a cure for the trouble. " Powdered 
 sulphur," I am beginning; "but you must be 
 very " 
 
 " It means so much to a girl," she says, 
 inconsequently. 
 
 " And to the man," I declare, cleverly seeing 
 that her thoughts are still with the wedding. 
 " It 's a fearful lottery for a man." 
 
 " Oh, well — I don't know." She hesitates. 
 " Don't you see," she goes on — stumblingly for 
 Honesty, " a woman is just what a man makes 
 her, is n't she? I mean if he 's good, and kind, 
 and " 
 
 She stops short ; she cannot travel openly with 
 her argument — she is doubtful. 
 
 " It cuts both ways — like your pruning-knife," 
 I state judicially. I can look down upon her 
 from our window, and this gives me an air. 
 " A good wife makes a good husband, and vice 
 
20 Honesty's Garden 
 
 versa. The true basis on which to build up a 
 happy married life is Give-and-take — and Don't- 
 expect-too-much." 
 
 " Give-and-take? " questions Honesty, blankly. 
 
 " That, and patience. There ? s foundation and 
 superstructure for you." 
 
 " Nothing else? " 
 
 " Let me think. Of course there 's Unselfish- 
 ness, and Ability to Manage. There 's Proper 
 Pride ; and Don't- try-to-commence-where-your- 
 parents-left-off. That 's very important." 
 
 " There 's — there ? s Love," she interrupts, sud- 
 denly and boldly; then turns as red as the red 
 roses in her garden. 
 
 Dear me, Mr. Baillie! You have made my 
 Honesty dream all that stuff and nonsense, 
 eh? 
 
 Her blue eyes meet mine valiantly. She lifts 
 her small, determined round chin, confirming the 
 challenge. 
 
 " Not that it matters to me, you know." 
 Honesty is smiling, having entirely routed the 
 enemy. Komance holds the field. " I 'm going 
 to be an old maid." 
 
 " That 's awfully unoriginal of you, then," I 
 interpose, displeased. " So many girls have be- 
 come old maids since the world began." 
 
 " Poor things ! " 
 
 " Not at all. Their own fault, no doubt. 
 
Honesty's Garden 21 
 
 Either too much modesty, or too open with 
 their — love, or whatever you call the com- 
 plaint." 
 
 " I 'm afraid you 're going to be horrid," re- 
 marks Honesty, peeping up at me. " Was n't 
 the last book a first edition, after all! Not in 
 the original boards; and was it ten years too 
 late?" 
 
 " It was a bargain at any rate," I retort ; 
 " even if I did make a mistake ! And — observe 
 — see how it bears on the question. If I — ex- 
 perienced bibliophile as I am — can make a mis- 
 take about a book after all these years, how 
 much more easily could I make a mistake about 
 a woman, a book no one ever properly under- 
 stood, so far." 
 
 " But we were talking about Marie, I thought. 
 It was her wedding, you know. Why bring 
 yourself into it? Are you contemplating " 
 
 " Heaven forbid ! " I cry, vigorously. " But 
 you — that 's a different matter. If you really 
 wish to become an old maid, you shall have 
 Keedels. There 's a cat, if you like ! " 
 
 " Oh, and she belongs to Jones ! " Honesty is 
 profoundly shocked at my suggested violation of 
 the sacred laws of property. She adds, with 
 truth, " Jones w T ould leave you at once if you 
 were to lose Keedels." 
 
 " I should simply get a new housekeeper," 
 
22 Honesty's Garden 
 
 I announce, calmly. I add, stupidly, " Perhaps 
 you would come? " 
 
 She starts, flushes— lifts a quick, troubled 
 glance to mine. I see that I have offended her. 
 Idiotic of me, trying to be funny. I 'm not 
 funny; and I ought to be aware of the fact. 
 It 's a relief to hear Jones behind me murmuring 
 something about the butcher. I don't catch what 
 she says, but I welcome the butcher passionately. 
 " I '11 bring some sulphur," I call to Honesty, 
 " during the day. It 's gardener's work ; you 
 must let me show you." 
 
 She has already gone; and with inward mis- 
 givings I turn to hear Jones. Her theme is 
 butchers; their impudence and unreliability. 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 I have been flustered with visitors. The 
 Aunt Sophie squadron has successfully stormed 
 the fastnesses of the Haven at Carbridge-on-the- 
 Mole. Behold my home invaded by an exceed- 
 ingly capable aunt and two rather nice motoring 
 girls. 
 
 Not a large contingent, but deadly, never- 
 theless. Aunt Sophie brings Eva — her eldest 
 daughter, and Eva brings Kitty — her sworn com- 
 panion in crime. They have brought their new 
 motor — or, rather, it has (indifferently well) 
 brought them! A weedy-looking youth (the 
 gardener's son, I imagine), who has driven them 
 here, has already been flat on the road under- 
 neath the motor, on top of my only macintosh. 
 The attitude is, I am instructed, usual and 
 necessary. 
 
 The village gathered to witness the entertain- 
 ment, but a series of loud and totally unexpected 
 " pops " from the front part of the infernal ma-, 
 chine caused the juvenile portion of our inhabi- 
 tants to withdraw hastily. The gardener's son 
 alone was calm ; he said one word. 
 
 23 
 
24 Honesty's Garden 
 
 I hastily called my guests indoors, offering to 
 regale them with such refreshment as Jones and 
 I could find at short notice. 
 
 It appeared that Eva, who looked the picture 
 of health, was positively dying to see me. Thus 
 Aunt Sophie, who was quite in form : " It 's 
 ages since we have seen you, that 's the truth, 
 Mortimer. What have you been doing all this 
 time? " 
 
 " Existing, dear aunt, simply existing." 
 
 " What else can one do in the country? You 
 are quite a savage, Mortimer; but I like you still. 
 So Jones has n't left? I suppose you have to 
 humour her a great deal? " 
 
 Fatal topic! I steer carefully. "We hu- 
 mour each other, dear aunt. Do you think that 
 lad is quite safe? What extraordinary sounds 
 the car is making. Your boy seems to be wind- 
 ing it up now." 
 
 " Starting the engines," remarks Eva inform- 
 ingly, just glancing towards the window. " It 's 
 such a dear thing, Cousin Mortimer. Fancy! — 
 we came through from Knightsbridge in forty 
 minutes ! " 
 
 " Thirty-nine," corrects Kitty, whose other 
 name I find presently to be Harrison. 
 
 Aunt Sophie has taken in the details of my 
 parlour. " What charming old-fashioned fur- 
 niture. How nice and beeswaxy it smells. And 
 
Honesty's Garden 25 
 
 that funny little mirror, too — so artistic. I sup- 
 pose those tea-cups there are something very 
 precious? " 
 
 " You would like tea, aunt? I ought to have 
 thought of it long ago." 
 
 " I believe your Jones is bringing it, Cousin 
 Mortimer," announces Eva, hopefully. " May 
 we, in the meantime, have a peep at the Haven? 
 We won't disturb anything, and Kitty and I do 
 so long to see a real bachelor house. May we? " 
 
 " Of course," I say ; " make yourselves at 
 home, please." 
 
 " You will excuse us, Mortimer? " My aunt 
 rises to play chaperone, I suppose. 
 
 " Willingly." 
 
 " Oh, is n't he in a hurry to get rid of us ! " 
 cries Eva, taking me up. " Do come along Kit, 
 or the monster will say something worse. Look ! 
 he 's opening his mouth already ! " 
 
 " Not to eat you, my dear, but merely to re- 
 mark that, if I seem a very grizzly bear, it 's all 
 your fault. You should give bears sugar when 
 you want them to appear at their best." 
 
 I put my hands behind my back, and bend my 
 head a little forward, expectantly. Eva hesi- 
 tates — permits the others to go out before her; 
 her small mouth half puckers itself, very tanta- 
 lisingly ; then she alters her mind, " Shall I, 
 Kit?" 
 
26 Honesty's Garden 
 
 Miss Harrison calls from the stairs, " I think 
 we had better have sugar, Eva — just to sweeten 
 our tea." 
 
 Eva tip-toes up to me, and I catch her in my 
 arms. Really, it 's an experience. I have n't 
 enjoyed anything so much for years. My cousin 
 expostulates, squeaks — and escapes. 
 
 " You 're a naughty, naughty bear ! I 'm as- 
 tonished — pained — utterly and for ever shocked 
 — I '11 tell Kit the minute I get upstairs." She 
 pauses at a sudden inspiration. " No, I won't ; 
 I '11 — tell the girl next door — you see if I don't." 
 
 She flies for her life, while I remain properly 
 confounded. Eva tell Honesty that I kissed her ! 
 Whatever for? Tell Honesty! She would 
 simply say, " Why not, pray? Isn't he your 
 cousin? " 
 
 I chuckle over this ridiculous incident, and 
 wonder why Eva should have said such a thing. 
 What does she — little gad-about on motor-cars 
 — know of "girls next door"? Who told her 
 there was & girl next door? Honesty would be 
 amused. I, old enough to be her father — 
 absurd. 
 
 Later, the girls are allowed to turn over my 
 books and generally rummage round. Aunt 
 Sophie takes me for a walk in the garden, whilst 
 the weedy-looking youth, having wound and un- 
 wound the engines to his heart's content and the 
 
Honesty's Garden 27 
 
 perplexity of the machine, takes tea with Jones. 
 The motor-car remains sulkily silent, but every 
 instant I expect to hear it go off. It has a for- 
 bidding appearance; its lightless lamps are two 
 eyes fixing me with cold glances of disapproval. 
 
 Aunt Sophie makes known the main object of 
 this visit. (I knew Eva wasn't dying!) I am 
 warned and advised. Warned first — that being 
 the most important — to draw out my small hold- 
 ing in Gatherway's publishing business. Gather- 
 way is alleged to be embarrassed. " He '11 go, 
 Mortimer, you mark my words. Your uncle 
 Duveen told me on the quiet, ' Pop down to 
 Carbridge and warn the boy.' That 's what your 
 uncle said this very morning. So down we 
 came." 
 
 I thank Aunt Sophie, without having the 
 smallest intention of hurting Gatherway's feel- 
 ings in any way. Bless me, we went up to 
 Oxford together — in the same college! He took 
 his degree first, then, after a little preliminary 
 dabbling in literature, applied himself to busi- 
 ness. He has a name in the publishing world 
 of Edinburgh — a good name — and he pays five 
 per cent. I shouldn't dream of disturbing his 
 faith in me — or of losing five per cent. 
 
 Secondly, advice gratis. I am nearing forty, 
 it appears, and it is high time I settled down. 
 One way and another — according to Aunt 
 
28 Honesty's Garden 
 
 Sophie — I have an income of eight hundred a 
 year. 
 
 " May I beg of you not to breathe it to the 
 income-tax assessors?" I plead; "they only put 
 it down at " 
 
 " Don't be nonsensical, Mortimer. A nice 
 girl, properly trained, might contrive " 
 
 " They do contrive, aunt, without any train- 
 ing. We had a wedding here only last week." 
 
 " Be quiet, and attend. This is for your own 
 good, Mortimer. Now you know what sort of 
 creature will best suit you. Personally, I de- 
 clare diamonds trumps." 
 
 " Content, dear aunt." 
 
 " Diamonds, then ; and mind you play your 
 hand properly. It will be your turn to declare 
 later on, and I should strongly advise you to call 
 hearts. How would you like Kitty Harrison for 
 a partner?" 
 
 " Oh, aunt — this is so sudden ! " 
 
 " She 's a pretty girl, a healthy girl, and a 
 lady. Twenty-six, no affectation, a fine consti- 
 tution, and comfortable." Aunt Sophie's tone 
 gave it the correct manner. I found myself ex- 
 pecting a conclusion on these lines : " Now gen- 
 tlemen, what do you say? Here's a bargain 
 — a chance in a thousand. A young woman 
 absolutely unspoiled by the world; twenty- 
 six, healthy, nice-looking. A fine constitution — 
 
Honesty's Garden 29 
 
 twenty-six! thank you, sir! — twenty-six; going 
 at twenty-six ! " 
 
 " It 's not dear," I admit. 
 
 " She is a dear," emphasises Aunt Sophie, 
 mistaking my long pause for acquiescence in 
 her schemes. " The more you see of her, Mor- 
 timer, the more you '11 like her. Besides, time 
 doesn't stand still for us, even if we do collect 
 china and old books. What 's the use of your 
 gathering together this pretty little houseful of 
 treasures, if there 's no one to leave it to? Think 
 of your books being sold to rascally dealers — 
 or, worse still — to other collectors ! " (Aunt has 
 me here. I wince palpably, and she follows up 
 her advantage. ) " Think of your china — the 
 Lowestoft, the square-mark Worcester, the Nant- 
 garw tea service — broken up amongst your dis- 
 tant relatives. Get a wife, Mortimer; some one 
 to share your joys, and halve " 
 
 " My income," I wail, feebly. " Perhaps she 
 won't like china ; perhaps she '11 have idols of 
 her own." 
 
 " They '11 belong to both of you," declares my 
 aunt; and for a moment I don't follow the bear- 
 ing of this remark. " It will be the making of 
 you, Mortimer. I shall come and see you again 
 soon, and if I can bring Kitty " 
 
 Fortunately, Miss Harrison and Eva just then 
 came out of the house. Eva is breathless with 
 
30 Honesty's Garden 
 
 admiration. " Oh, cousin, we do think your 
 books wonderful. We have only turned out a 
 dozen shelves " ( Heavens ! ) " and there are 
 heaps more. Poetry, too, and Kit does so love 
 poetry." 
 
 " Come as often as — your motor-car will let 
 you," say I, recovering slowly from the fright 
 into which Aunt Sophie had put me. " I '11 
 show you the lions of Carbridge — our greatest 
 attractions." 
 
 " That will be only going so far as the next 
 garden, cousin, won't it? " asked Eva, slily. 
 What a little wretch ! 
 
 When saying good-bye, Miss Harrison gives 
 me, briefly, a small, cool, soft hand, a gracious 
 smile, and charming thanks for my poor enter- 
 tainment of her. Really, quite an amiable girl 
 this, with good teeth and pleasant eyes; walks 
 rather well, too, and does n't talk too much. 
 
 It 's hardly likely such a paragon would fall 
 in love with a round-shouldered old biblio- 
 maniac. I have heard though, even at Car- 
 bridge, that prices just now are ruling high 
 — for bachelors. Too many spinsters (so they 
 say) spoil the market. But I only hanker after 
 bargains — in books! 
 
 It would be mean to take advantage of the 
 other poor things; and, by the law of averages, 
 I am inwardly convinced that they make up for 
 
Honesty's Garden 31 
 
 all previous humiliations — once they secure a 
 man. " Pleased to see the world go by in all 
 its changing imagery." That 's the motto let- 
 tered laboriously by me above the lintel of my 
 den. She (any she) would soon paint it out! 
 
 Just as the motor-car is panting forward, 
 Aunt Sophie remarks : " I hear you have been 
 West again. Did you call at Harry's place, as 
 I told you?" (Harry is Eva's brother, who is 
 prospering exceedingly at some weird occupa- 
 tion connected with shoes in a village near 
 Bath.) I shout, "Yes!" and Aunt Sophie Du- 
 veen smiles approvingly as, with a jerk, the 
 weedy-looking youth suddenly causes the in- 
 fernal machine to bound onward and away. 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 I have sustained a fall in pride: Gatherway 
 has returned my Alfred typescript, with a 
 note that it won't do at all. It 's too informing, 
 he states, and boys will not be preached at. The 
 youthful mind likes it all story; keep the his- 
 tory " underneath the jam," writes Gatherway. 
 
 Thus I have to resume a task which I had 
 deemed complete — in July, too! when the gar- 
 den is calling me every minute. The weeds are 
 growing faster than the flowers — bother them ! — 
 and the grass seems to need mowing as often as 
 I need shaving. The carnations are all crying 
 to be tied up ; the sweet-peas are blooming them- 
 selves to an early death; and the ground should 
 be continually stirred to keep it sweet. (I'm 
 not a believer in watering. Stir and stir — 
 that 's the secret ; don't let the earth get crusty 
 — like any old bachelor!) 
 
 As for the roses — well, I give it up. Honesty 
 is the only one who can grow roses to any sort 
 of perfection. I can't imagine how she does it. 
 Her garden is next to mine, as you know ; it 's 
 
 32 
 
Honesty's Garden 33 
 
 the same identical soil, the same aspect. I work 
 much harder than she does, too. I coax them, 
 and syringe them, and disbud freely 
 
 But I can't grow roses to nearly equal 
 Honesty's. The impudence of her roses, the arro- 
 gance of them. Great flowers erect on thick 
 stalks; foliage growth that is positively tropical. 
 Her roses — whether standards, half-standards, or 
 bushes — are all healthily alike; teas, noisettes, 
 hybrid-perpetuals — they all flourish. 
 
 " It 's continual attention," says Honesty, 
 whenever I request her to confess the secret of 
 this natural magic. " It 's always watching over 
 them and loving them." 
 
 " And understanding the rascals," I cry, 
 " which is more than I do." 
 
 " If you love anything, you soon begin to 
 understand it," she tells me. " Don't you un- 
 derstand books? " 
 
 Of course, there 's something in that. ... I 
 have very few books to review, it being the be- 
 twixt-and-between season. In October I shall 
 groan under stacks of novels, and have to cut 
 them furiously to get through in time for press. 
 Why are we such creatures of superstition? 
 Who told the first publisher that books have no 
 summer nor any winter? 
 
 No true author could have given the hint, 
 I'm sure; nor reader (at a guinea per MS.); 
 
34 Honesty's Garden 
 
 nor printer; nor compositor; nor purveyor of 
 hand-made antique paper, " deckle-edged and 
 bulking grandly." 
 
 Have the holidays anything to do with it; the 
 fish under the white weirs, the grouse on the 
 moors, the roast turkeys, Christmas puddings, 
 and old port of winter? 
 
 It comes to me as a revelation. It is these 
 things which combine to make publishers work 
 for two seasons only in a year. Publishers, like 
 all other people (except authors) are becoming 
 too prosperous. They are being found out — 
 my newspaper says so! They ride in carriages, 
 and they consort with lawyers, brewers, and 
 American millionaires. 
 
 Sublime altitude! Shall I ever soar to it? I 
 fear yes — in a degree. Aunt Sophie seems to 
 have been in the know, after all, for I cannot 
 get any dividend out of Gatherway this half- 
 year. I gently reminded him, and then back 
 came my Alfred book. I politely requested a 
 better answer, with no success; and now, in my 
 dreams, county courts with all their attendant 
 horrors seem to be beckoning. 
 
 Whether Gatherway will permit himself also 
 to be beckoned remains to be seen. My only 
 consolation is that I did n't marry him to Miss 
 Harrison. That might have happened; for I 
 did ask him to dinner, when, according to threat, 
 
Honesty's Garden 35 
 
 Aunt Sophie brought her charge to bear upon 
 me. But Gatherway would not come out of 
 Scotland — not even for a dinner! 
 
 My outer fortifications were gone as soon as 
 Kitty Harrison, this " comfortable " young 
 woman, entered my house with Aunt Sophie 
 and Eva. I liked the little tricks of her: her 
 intense self-possession ; the fact that she did n't 
 glance sideways into looking-glasses as she 
 passed them. I had pleasure in noting the fact 
 that she had good shoulders, and held them 
 squarely. She also was kind enough to appear 
 interested in my books. She has read well and 
 intelligently; moreover, she shares my an- 
 tipathies. She does not like . . . nor , nor 
 
 any others of the " Get Fame Cheap " school. 
 
 But somehow I had memory of Honesty in 
 me, and so was serious, and ashamed in a man- 
 ner. I do not believe for an instant that Miss 
 Harrison has any suspicion of my aunt's out- 
 rageous " intentions." I did not attempt to be 
 other than a reasonable creature, and so played 
 host to my dangerous guests happily and enjoy- 
 ingly, without being so entirely concerned with 
 me, as you might have expected. 
 
 I am not able to guess how the Comedy of 
 Love progresses. We may be still in the first 
 act, or at the beginning of the second. Baillie 
 is prudent beyond belief, or else is n't in love 
 
36 Honesty's Garden 
 
 at all. These young men are very variable. 
 Honesty, being a woman, holds her cards so that 
 she only shall read her hand. Strange how an 
 intense passion for mystery and intrigue appears 
 in all women. It is as deep-planted, as ineradi- 
 cable, as horse-radish in its own particular field 
 — or as egotism in the male. 
 
 I detest your grumbler, but really I have felt 
 queerish of late. Whether it be through gen- 
 eral run-downness, or because of Gatherway's 
 affair, I cannot say. If he were to fail — well, it 
 would mean Retrenchment and Reform with 
 capitals ! I have only the little I earn as " litera- 
 ry " man (one had better by far be a crossing- 
 sweeper) and a small income arising from my 
 investments. Most of these remain still to the 
 credit of the Colosseum — that ancient, virtuous, 
 and Spartan review of which England is so 
 justly proud. 
 
 My father was one of the promoters of the 
 Colosseum in the early forties. He was a good 
 friend to it, and, in its way, the thing has been 
 grateful. Safe as the bank and as severely im- 
 posing, is the Colosseum! It has slated Dickens 
 in its time; has ragged Shakespeare, and it en- 
 joys the distinction of having never "discov- 
 ered " any author or artist, nor encouraged any- 
 body. When one has written twelve books (it 
 may now be fifteen), or has exhibited twenty 
 
Honesty's Garden 37 
 
 pictures, the Colosseum condescends to " hear " 
 of one. The blushing author or artist is at 
 length noticed by the Colosseum prudently and 
 briefly. Then his fortune either is made — or it 
 isn't! 
 
 The greatest of all the great Conservative re- 
 views has, however, chronicled his name and his 
 work for all time. 
 
 I should not rail at the Colosseum, seeing that 
 it virtually keeps me. But this waywardness 
 shows that I am not well. I will go to North 
 Devon forthright — to Lynmouth — where one 
 finds health and happiness at all seasons, more 
 especially, perhaps, in July. Devon in the " full 
 o' summer," when trees are in their sweetest 
 foliage, and the trout are jumping greedily to be 
 caught. The long warm days, and the cool quiet 
 nights; the birds singing for lovers' hearing their 
 love-songs yet; the ferns all unrolled j the rho- 
 dodendrons blazing to the last under the sighing 
 woods — these are the essentials in that Elixir of 
 Life which gives me youth and faith once again. 
 
 The rush of that little tempestuous river, so 
 downright, so determined, so heedless of ob- 
 stacles ! Nine miles fighting past great boulders, 
 leaping them here and there; nine miles deep 
 down betwixt frowning hills, whirling over 
 broad shallows — a silver thread in the ravine, 
 but bound to spin its length to the sea ! Here 's 
 
38 Honesty's Garden 
 
 a lesson for me — but I am too tired to profit by 
 it. Hope deferred 
 
 Baillie lias spent evenings with me, ostensibly 
 to talk about fishing. He is an enthusiast, but 
 has much to learn. Coarse fishing he can, with 
 indifferent success, contrive, but when it comes 
 to the literature of fishing I find him sadly 
 needing assistance. 
 
 So he comes to me to imbibe the ethics of 
 pisciculture, with a little — " up to the pretty, 
 please." A fine mature blend, I must tell you, 
 which after years of patient search I have 
 discovered. 
 
 It is brought me in a gallon jar, which in its 
 turn is poured gently into a slightly larger little 
 cask — that has a tap not too far down. The 
 cask is never to be tilted so that it shall be posi- 
 tively emptied; but one must be adding (on 
 occasion ) 4 to keep the tide flowing. 
 
 Writing of " Pretty " reminds me of Honesty, 
 of whom I really intended to speak when the 
 whiskey and Baillie interposed. It is even as I 
 thought; he loves the maidie ... it is not my 
 brilliant lecturing that he comes to hear, nor is 
 it my whiskey which tempts him ; although I do 
 assure you it is full fifteen years of age and 
 wondrous mellow. John Baillie permits himself 
 to be bored in order that he may talk with me 
 about Honesty. He has recognised (lover's in- 
 
Honesty's Garden 39 
 
 stinct!) that I am one to whom the subject is 
 not totally without interest. 
 
 I have extracted facts which lead me to sus- 
 pect that we are in the thick of the second act 
 of our comedy. He has, by some means, made 
 known his adoration ; and has been 
 
 Rebuked is the word I want : but Baillie shakes 
 his head. Mistress Honesty did not rebuke ; she 
 just said nothing at all. At least, only that she 
 was too old for such nonsense; and that he was 
 too young for it. So he brings it to me, and we 
 talk in this wise : 
 
 Venator: Trust me, Master, I see now it is 
 a harder matter to catch a trout than a chub; 
 for I have put on the garb of patience and have 
 followed you these two hours. 
 
 Piscator: Well, Scholar John, you must en- 
 dure worse things at the hand of a woman — or 
 you will never make a good lover. What, does 
 she flout you? Then affect to disregard her; 
 let her not see your affection, but make it seem 
 so that it shows like indifference. 
 
 Venator: That were a task, Master Swift: 
 for truly I do very passionately worship this 
 maid. She hath eyes of forget-me-not ; hair that 
 is bound about my heart. 
 
 Piscator: Sir, I will tell you that fires which 
 blaze so fiercely soon burn down. Put restraint 
 upon your actions; and upon your tongue above 
 
40 Honesty's Garden 
 
 all. Come Scholar, leave Honesty alone ; do not 
 offer to spoil your chance with her. 
 
 Venator: Well now, Master, will you not 
 give me better direction, as a friend, how I may 
 fish for this trout? 
 
 Piscator: I can give no better advice; let her 
 be, and she will run after you in turn. Maids 
 that are wilful are usually caught in this fash- 
 ion — and it is told that they do like and expect 
 to be caught — in the end of it. Look you, there 
 are many sorts of maids, and you must play 
 them carefully. A minnow will not tempt 
 all of them, as true anglers know right well ; nor 
 are minnows always to be got. But if you be a 
 true lover, it is sure that you shall find a way 
 to win for yourself, and no other shall teach 
 you. 
 
 Venator: Master, I fear I have not the 
 courage to do that which you say. Moreover, 
 it is certain that I must pass by her garden 
 every day when she is in it. 
 
 I find, for some obscure reason — because I am 
 not well, I expect — a mean satisfaction in the 
 knowledge that Honesty has discouraged Master 
 John. She is too good for him. Not but what 
 he is a decent lad for some other Jill. Honesty 
 belongs to her garden; and both, in a sense, be- 
 long to me. It is right that I should be con- 
 sulted; I loom paternally above the sweetbriar 
 
Honesty's Garden 41 
 
 horizon for Honesty, no doubt. Does she not 
 insist upon my wearing a hat on chilly morn- 
 ings? Baillie may follow my excellent counsel, 
 after all. And then — Honesty's garden without 
 Honesty. Which, as you already have perceived, 
 is not at all the same thing ! 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 Baillie recounts how he has come to love 
 Honesty and spares me no detail. He produces 
 evidence against the defendant in the course of 
 his confidences; for he is attempting to carry 
 out the plan of campaign which I have indicated. 
 
 Honesty is aware of his perturbed condition; 
 has been aware of it from the outset. In that 
 she did not at once nip him in the bud (as she 
 would have nipped any too presuming plant in 
 her garden), it must be conceded that she has 
 deliberately " led him on." 
 
 This is a delightful mode of argument, which 
 I recommend to all folk afflicted like poor John. 
 You can, in this manner, always make good 
 your case. Baillie, finding me so intelligent, is 
 prompted to continue: 
 
 " Item : Honesty has asked him to post let- 
 ters for her on his way to town, and once 
 accepted a stamp. 
 
 " Item : She has given him flowers from her 
 garden ; not many, but still 
 
 " Item : She inveigled him, at the last charity 
 42 
 
Honesty's Garden 43 
 
 bazaar, into purchasing an entirely unnecessary 
 and hideous ' table centre/ and a volume of 
 poetry. 
 
 " Item : One of the flowers once given to him 
 was a red rose, which of course meant " 
 
 But the instances could be multiplied ad 
 nauseam. The most flagrant is that one of the 
 bazaar. Why a table centre and poetry, if she 
 intended nothing? 
 
 We both pause for a reply — while Jones comes 
 into my den with a fresh siphon. " There ain't 
 any more in the house," she remarks, with a 
 peculiarly Jonesian glance towards my discon- 
 solate hero. " I never known you drink a dozen 
 a week before, sir," she adds. 
 
 Before we can either of us frame a fitting re- 
 partee, Jones continues firmly, " Shall I lock up, 
 sir? " 
 
 I '11 do it myself, I tell her, apologetically ; and 
 she is not to sit up. " I put your letters on your 
 desk, sir," she reminds me, as Baillie drops back 
 into his armchair. I push the tobacco towards 
 him. He fills his pipe, and as I nod hospitably 
 at the decanter, he takes the hint — with a pro- 
 digious sigh. 
 
 Silence falls, until presently two great illu- 
 minating truths break from my companion. He 
 has been regarding me steadfastly, and says, with 
 deliberate emphasis, " I 'm thinking, Swift — I 'm 
 
44 Honesty's Garden 
 
 thinking ye 're no a Scotsman." He watches 
 unblinkingly the effect of his thunderbolt, 
 " There 's too much o' comfort in the ways of 
 you, too much seempathy." He puffs a blue 
 cloud of smoke ; then concludes, " and the lassie, 
 she 's no a Scotsman." 
 
 " That 's true for you, Jock ! " I cry. 
 
 He is vexed, however, at this slip, and essays 
 to hide his confusion in the depths of his tumbler. 
 I fancy I see his meaning: Honesty and I are 
 both too foolishly kind to have been born north 
 of the Tweed. In our dread of hurting people's 
 feelings we become dangerously near to being 
 insincere. 
 
 " Aweel," observes Baillie, rising, " I '11 leave 
 my secret with you, Swift. It is yours to treat 
 as you will. On Saturday I shall be at Glas- 
 gow." He sighed once more under the cares of 
 a world of woe. 
 
 " You '11 write me a word of the lassie now 
 and then?" 
 
 " Rely upon it," said I, positively. 
 
 He goes, and I smoke on after he has gone — 
 thinking, thinking. I am sentimental to a de- 
 gree; and find, surprisedly, that I have a head- 
 ache long ere twelve has struck. I am, in truth, 
 puzzling over the signs and portents of our 
 comedy. Honesty has been to seek, of late; she 
 has never been in her garden when I have walked 
 
Honesty's Garden 45 
 
 in mine. One might say that she has avoided 
 me; but that would be absurd. 
 
 Jones has not gone to bed. She taps at the 
 door, and enters — feigning astonishment to dis- 
 cover me still about. She fusses over the siphons 
 and the empty glasses. " It 's beginning to 
 rain, sir," she volunteers. 
 
 " Yes, Mr. John had to take an umbrella." 
 
 " It won't be more than a shower, I think," 
 Jones goes on. Her back is purposely turned to 
 me. " It '11 do the country a lot of good. They 
 say rain 's wanted bad in the country." 
 
 " This country 's always wanting something 
 badly," I say. 
 
 " The young lady next door will be glad to 
 see the rain," remarks Jones, still fussing. 
 " She 's quite given over watering her garding. 
 Perhaps you noticed the place don't look half 
 so nice this last day or two? " 
 
 I try to think whether I have noticed any 
 change for the worse in Honesty's garden. 
 Meanwhile Jones is still talking. 
 
 " People can't bother about gardings though, 
 when they 've got other troubles." 
 
 " Other troubles? " I become vaguely aware 
 that Jones is leading up to a climax. 
 
 " Yes, sir, they do say Mrs. Dene has lost all 
 her money through some lawyer. Haven't you 
 heard about it? " 
 
46 Honesty's Garden 
 
 " You should n't listen to silly tales, Jones," 
 I tell her, not believing the story for an instant. 
 u They say, indeed ! Folk who tittle-tattle make 
 most of the mischief in this world. I 'm sur- 
 prised you should encourage idle gossip." 
 
 Jones turns about. Her face is rather red. I 
 hope she hasn't developed, under Baillie's (and 
 my) bad example, a taste for the contents of 
 my little cask. Really, her voice is rather 
 shaky 
 
 " I knew you did n't know," she is saying. 
 " She is so proud, that one. Yes, sir, it 's quite 
 true ; I 've cried my eyes out about them having 
 to leave — such a kind, gentle young lady — she 's 
 not made for a hard life ; it will break her heart 
 to have to give it all up " 
 
 "Give it all up?" says I, vexed with Jones. 
 " I 'm sure / give it up. Whatever are you talk- 
 ing about? There, never mind to explain — I 
 daresay I can guess. You had better get along 
 to bed." 
 
 She goes floundering out of the room. I 
 shouldn't like to swear she wasn't crying. 
 Maudlin — oh, horrible! 
 
 I smoke on to regain my peace of mind. My 
 
 Jones a No, I can't believe it. Any other 
 
 Jones, but not my Jones. She has been teetotal 
 from birth; I could swear it. I must put 
 temptation out of her way. 
 
Honesty's Garden 47 
 
 Remembering my letters, not looked at since 
 Baillie arrived prior to the post, I rise and cross 
 to my desk. Book lists, advertising works at a 
 very fair sum over and above their market value ; 
 an appeal from a Right Honourable for my pres- 
 ence (and presents) at a dinner in aid of the 
 funds of the Something or other Society; an 
 astounding offer of a book-case and the twenty 
 handsome volumes of the Snippet Library of 
 Imperishable Literature — for five shillings down 
 and a subscription of sixpence a week for ten 
 years ; two coal circulars — lowest summer prices. 
 A postcard from Aunt Sophie, threatening an- 
 other call as soon as the motor-car has been 
 repaired; a letter from the Colosseum 
 
 I must sit down to this. Something has oc- 
 curred. I had my dividend last month. 
 
 " Dear Sir, — An Extraordinary General Meet- 
 ing of the Shareholders will be held at the offices 
 on Friday, July 10th next, to consider im- 
 mediately necessary proposals concerning the 
 future welfare of the Company. You are re- 
 quested to either attend, or appoint a proxy by 
 completing the attached form. 
 " Faithfully yours, etc., 
 
 " John Carruthers, Secretary." 
 
 Necessary proposals? What may these be, 
 
48 Honesty's Garden 
 
 and why immediately necessary? How dare the 
 faithfully yours John Carruthers alarm me in 
 this fashion, just as I am going to bed? Eeally, 
 it might almost mean a " call " — but that 's 
 absurd. The Colosseum can't need capital. 
 
 I take up the evening paper, only glanced at 
 until this moment. Bother Baillie, interrupt- 
 ing me with his love affairs! I turn the pages 
 to see if by chance there is any comment re- 
 ferring to the Colosseum, or giving me a clue. 
 Why could n't Carruthers say right out if there's 
 anything wrong? 
 
 Nothing : that 's good. The usual announce- 
 ments in the literary column : " On the author- 
 ity of the Colosseum we learn that Miss Blank's 
 new book will be published in the early autumn 
 
 by Mr. " And so on ; every reference to the 
 
 great periodical marked by the respect and con- 
 sideration shown as of yore. The Colosseum 
 says it: it is therefore right. We are safe in 
 taking it for granted, etc., etc. 
 
 The clock strikes in the hall. Twelve — save 
 us! What hours for Carbridge-on-the-Mole. I 
 throw the paper down hastily on my desk; and 
 even so my eye is attracted by a name, " The 
 Burnaby Mystery." 
 
 I read, without much interest, in the stop-press 
 column, that no further developments have oc- 
 curred since the sensational disappearance of 
 
Honesty's Garden 49 
 
 Mr. Burnaby's brother. Burnaby? The name 
 is n't uncommon, of course. I am moved to pick 
 up the paper once more. 
 
 Ah ! here it is. " The Burnaby Mystery. — We 
 fear that the solution of the above will prove, 
 after all, a very sordid romance. Absolutely 
 trustworthy information came to hand this 
 morning to the effect that Mr. Francis Burnaby, 
 the well-known editor of the Colosseum, had not 
 returned to his home since Tuesday last. His 
 brother has been missing, as our readers are 
 aware, for fully a week. Inquiries serve to show 
 that the affairs of both Mr. Francis Burnaby 
 and Mr. Henry Burnaby, the solicitor of Great 
 St. Helens, are considerably involved; and an 
 application in the Bankruptcy Court was made 
 to-day in reference to Mr. Henry Burnaby. 
 There is no doubt, in our minds, that the brothers 
 have absconded. It is said that their failure 
 will terribly prejudice many persons; the Great 
 St. Helens firm having especially enjoyed the 
 confidence of its clients to a wholly unpre- 
 cedented degree." 
 
 My first feeling is one of rage. Frank Bur- 
 naby absconded! Coupled with Carruthers' 
 note I can guess that he has played ducks and 
 drakes with the accounts of the Colosseum. He 
 has had complete and utter control; he was the 
 kind of man who would! What idiots we have 
 
50 Honesty's Garden 
 
 been; the paper has been more than usually in- 
 sufferably arrogant of late; more contemptuous 
 than ever of everything. But its many pages of 
 advertisements blinded us to the truth of the 
 old adage, " Pride goeth before a fall." 
 
 Burnaby, too, who has presumed to cut up my 
 reviews — to blue pencil my articles! Burnaby, 
 whose violent antipathies have more than once 
 brought the Colosseum perilously near the Law 
 Courts. (I recollect that Henry Burnaby has 
 invariably been the solicitor when libel actions 
 have threatened!) 
 
 Burnaby, the brilliant epigrammatist, whose 
 Life of Queen Elizabeth was, and is, one of the 
 great books of our time. Capable, shrewd, in- 
 domitable, unerring fault-finder — sent to chas- 
 tise authors for their manifold sins. I can say 
 here, without hesitation, that Burnaby has had 
 an astounding influence on literature. He has 
 been head gardener for years to the whole estate ; 
 and such a head gardener! No weeds allowed; 
 all bushes rigorously pruned in the spring (and 
 autumn, if necessary) ; plants disbudded — that 
 they may produce fine flowers only. 
 
 This has n't always come about. The process 
 of disbudding is painful. It has been known to 
 kill. 
 
 Burnaby : autocrat, genius — thief ! There 's. a 
 three in one, if you will. I expect he has simply 
 
Honesty's Garden 51 
 
 chosen to be a thief, just to astound the world, 
 and to prove that our estimate of him has been 
 entirely wide of the mark. 
 
 I suddenly observe that my headache is 
 much worse, and go to bed feeling vexed with 
 everybody. 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 " Are you better, Mr. Swift? " 
 
 " Quite myself again," I tell Honesty, sense- 
 lessly, in reply to her questioning. She has 
 stopped me from the vantage of her garden gate, 
 and smiled upon my appearance of hurry. 
 
 " You are going to London? " 
 
 " Yes ; now and every day, I expect. I find 
 that one can't go on being lazy; one must work 
 to live." 
 
 Honesty nods, and sets her little mouth 
 primly. The smile gently disappears. " I am 
 going to be a woman of business, I must tell 
 you," she declares. " Mother has agreed to my 
 taking up typewriting and I am learning quite 
 cleverly. But you want to catch your train." 
 
 " Walk to the station with me," I meanly sug- 
 gest ; I fancy Baillie is not far away. " Come 
 along as you are ; you look very nice." 
 
 The smile returns. " Can you wait a mo- 
 ment? I want to show you some of my typ- 
 ing — " She flutters across her garden into the 
 quiet hall, just as Baillie turns the end of the 
 lane. Ridiculous of him to be so early. 
 
 52 
 
Honesty's Garden 53 
 
 Honesty soon finds a hat, and reappears, 
 carrying a small roll of paper. " There you are. 
 It 's — it 's a story. You are to admire the 
 typing." 
 
 " And the story? " 
 
 " Perhaps. Now, here is something for you — 
 because I want you to be very kind." She hands 
 me a rose, which I insist on her pinning in my 
 coat. This gives Baillie no excuse to stay as he 
 passes us. He looks furious with us both, and 
 Honesty flushes as pinkly charming as the rose 
 itself, only more so. I have n't the gift of think- 
 ing pretty things like Baillie. " Morning to 
 you, Jock — it 's lovely weather." 
 
 " Aye," growls he, sulkily. " It 's lovely 
 enough — for some of us." 
 
 He glares at the poor little thing, and I know 
 she is trembling. What wretches these lovers 
 are. Next minute we are trotting along behind 
 Mr. Baillie, who affects to be oblivious of the fact. 
 
 " Perhaps you may have heard — " begins 
 Honesty; then comes to a full stop. She tries 
 again. " I want you to like the typing very 
 much," she goes on, awkwardly. " Because it is 
 rather necessary " 
 
 " Very necessary," I interrupt, " now that 
 writing is n't taught in the schools." 
 
 " I mean it is necessary for me to do it, you 
 know," she explains rapidly. " Mother has had 
 
54 Honesty's Garden 
 
 business bothers. You have heard of them, pos- 
 sibly ; things do so get round when they 're not 
 pleasant." There is a bitter note in her fresh 
 young voice which I don't like at all. " But 
 you must know, even if gossip has n't told you," 
 she continues. " We always regard you as a 
 neighbour in the best sense, Mr. Swift. I am 
 anxious, very anxious, to be able to earn a little 
 money, and perhaps you would n't mind " 
 
 " It would be a great privilege," I tell her, 
 naturally. " I am able to help you, my dear 
 child, and I will do so. I '11 read your story in 
 the train." 
 
 " Oh, you 're not to think it 's my story." She 
 makes a quick gesture of denial. " I am only 
 responsible for the typing." 
 
 " Who is the author? " I inquire. Honesty 
 laughs mysteriously. I am to read the story, 
 and then I shall guess. And, if I don't think the 
 typing too awful, perhaps I '11 try to get her 
 some work? 
 
 How much a thousand? She shakes her head 
 hopelessly. I am to fix the price; I know about 
 that, of course. 
 
 We catch up Baillie, and, between us, win him 
 to a better humour. When Honesty has left us, 
 Baillie becomes communicative. He tells me, 
 with fiery indignation, that Honesty is a pure 
 lass, a brave lass, and that all lawyers are rogues. 
 
Honesty's Garden 55 
 
 " There are others/' I suggest timidly ; but 
 just then the train arrives, and conversation is 
 checked. When we are safely in the carriage 
 he drops his paper, and pronounces lawyers to 
 be the worst kind. I hear an incoherent ac- 
 count of it, gathered, as I can't help thinking, 
 chiefly from imagination and the halfpenny 
 press. 
 
 " She 's so proud, she is. Not a word of com- 
 plaint; not a syllable even hinting it. One 
 would n't believe there was any trouble at all — - 
 to see the dear lassie. They say it 's near ruin 
 to them ; they '11 have to leave Carbridge " 
 
 " No! " I interject. 
 
 " Yes," he asserts, emphatically. " How can 
 they keep the place going? It costs money to 
 live, even out in the country — as he has proved 
 for himself." 
 
 " It costs money to live anywhere." 
 
 " Not so much in some places as in others. 
 Of course, I am not in their confidence." He 
 glances at me malevolently for a second, includ- 
 ing the pink rose in my button-hole. I am 
 tempted to vex him. 
 
 " Mrs. and Miss Dene will not leave Car- 
 bridge." 
 
 " I wish I could think it ; but I 'm fearing 
 you won't believe the truth. You were always 
 happy-go-lucky, Swift ; always for wearing rose " 
 
56 Honesty's Garden 
 
 ■ — (again he eyes my floral decoration) — "rose- 
 coloured spectacles." 
 
 " Miss Dene lias saved the situation for her- 
 self," I calmly instruct him. " She is a wonder- 
 ful girl ; she has learned typewriting." 
 
 " Typewriting ! " 
 
 "And shorthand, I make no doubt. I am 
 going to be her agent; allow me to solicit you, 
 sir. Authors' manuscripts carefully corrected 
 as regards spelling and grammar, and accurately 
 typed. One shilling a thousand words " 
 
 " I wish you might be serious, Swift." 
 
 " I have never been more so. Here is a 
 sample of our work; which you shall see — one 
 of these days! My dear fellow, don't look 
 so ferocious. Mrs. Dene is my friend and 
 yours ; we can help her. She must n't leave 
 Carbridge." 
 
 Baillie leans forward, and, just as if we were 
 not alone in the carriage, sinks his voice to a 
 despairing whisper. " Man, it is n't the help we 
 can give that she can accept. Do you no ken 
 it 's a crash for them? The scoundrel had all, 
 I fear; it was in trust or something." He 
 groans almost. " My folk are amongst the trade 
 creditors ; by good luck we 're scarcely touched. 
 But I 've seen a schedule of the debts, and I 'm 
 telling you, Swift, it 's ruin for hundreds of 
 poor souls." 
 
Honesty's Garden 57 
 
 " Poor souls should n't invest in fishy con- 
 cerns," say I, joking feebly. " They should be 
 content with five per cent." Here I remember 
 my own five per cent, in Gatherway's, and 
 hastily move to other ground. " Don't think me 
 heartless, Jock, because I refuse to take too 
 deadly a view of it all. We 're young yet — 
 at least you are — and there is plenty of fight 
 in us. I have had my own bothers of late, 
 and, therefore, I go to London each day — in 
 search of a fortune. The quest has not ex- 
 tended, so far, beyond reading — at the British 
 Museum — but later on I 'm going to write 
 such a book. You shall have a presentation 
 copy." 
 
 Even this fails to cheer Baillie. He is en- 
 joying, in a melancholy way, an Oxford fit of 
 the blues. He purses his lips, and wags his chin, 
 and becomes particularly Scotch in aspect. I 
 notice his prominent cheek-bones and the sandi- 
 ness of his wiry hair. And yet I can't help 
 liking him. 
 
 " Aye, I 've heard," he growls. " It was the 
 brother who bit you. A pretty pair. I would 
 dearly like the handling of them." 
 
 At first I don't grasp it. " The brother? You 
 don't mean that it's Burnaby?" 
 
 His chin still wags irritatingly. " Henry 
 Burnaby, no less," he is saying, while my wits 
 
58 Honesty's Garden 
 
 go flying. It can't be; surely the world is bigger 
 than this! 
 
 " Henry Burnaby, and he has been lawyer 
 enough to hide it fine. The business has been 
 rotten for years; barely assets to pay the costs 
 of bankruptcy. Mortgage upon mortgage, his 
 house and effects were seized before any one 
 could act. I thought you knew." 
 
 I can only nod. I have heard him as from a 
 distance. The train pulls up at a station, and 
 other passengers enter our carriage. Further 
 conversation is impossible, and Jock dives furi- 
 ously into his halfpenny paper. I unfold my 
 own news-sheet mechanically, but the print 
 dances before my eyes. With an effort I bring 
 my brain to attention. 
 
 I try to read the typescript given me by the 
 dear lass. (Baillie, please. He put the ex- 
 pression into my vocabulary.) It is even worse 
 than I could have dreamed — the story, I mean; 
 the typing is — well, not altogether impossible. 
 It's a romance about love, and moonshine in 
 general. There is a poor young man in it; an 
 oldish and opinionated entomologist, who seems 
 a bit of a bore. There is (how did you guess?) a 
 very sweet girl. The plot is of the slightest, and 
 the style is vaguely familiar. I have a notion 
 that I have read this story before. 
 
 But all these stories are alike, are n't they? 
 
Honesty's Garden 59 
 
 Little touches of what the author fondly con- 
 ceives to be " local colour " put me on the scent. 
 Dimly I discern Carbridge in it, and Baillie — 
 or somebody much like him. The very sweet 
 girl might be a dress-model for 
 
 Yes, she might be a symbol for Honesty. She 
 does not suggest anything approaching the ori- 
 ginal. An ill-focussed photograph, let us say, 
 taken by an amateur who has just won a kodak 
 in a raffle 
 
 I have it ! It is Baillie's story. He has dared 
 to perpetrate prose. The 'prentice hand shows 
 throughout ; an absurd belief in ideals dominates 
 all the characters — especially that of the butter- 
 fly-hunting ass of a fellow who marries the Very 
 Sweet Girl at the conclusion. The youth goes 
 to the " Salwanners, where the war is " ; gets an 
 honourable wound, and lightning promotion. It 
 is all very touching; and quite untrue to life. 
 
 Still, it is rather " magaziney," if I may coin 
 a word. I sent it to Rollaston, of the Balmoral 
 Monthly, after I had taken off the ribbon and 
 smoothed the "roll" out of the pages. Con- 
 ceive Rollaston's face at sight of a neatly-rolled 
 beribboned typescript! 
 
 I must advise Honesty what not to do when 
 typing. She has much to learn; her spacing 
 has n't attained perfection all at once. 
 
 This brings me back to thoughts of her trouble 
 
60 Honesty's Garden 
 
 — and Henry Burnaby. I feel myself respon- 
 sible; it is certain that I have a right to insist 
 upon her permitting that help which Baillie is 
 so cocksure she won't accept. I am annoyed that 
 Baillie should have learned so much of the Denes' 
 private affairs ; also that I should have known so 
 little. I must be terribly self-centred, that 's 
 
 clear. Even Jones knew 
 
 But servants always know everything. 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 Rollaston of the Balmoral Monthly answers 
 me almost by return of post. " Just the thing," 
 he declares, in true editorially abrupt manner. 
 " Tell your friend we '11 take another when he 
 likes. I suppose five guineas will be about it — 
 for British serial rights? If so, please sign en- 
 closed receipt. Why don't you always do this 
 sort of stuff? " 
 
 Nice, is n't it? After years of literary work of 
 a substantial description, and getting well into 
 " Who 's Who " — a mere tyro's effort is mistaken 
 for your own, and you are congratulated upon it. 
 
 I take the receipt to the house next door. The 
 garden has been dull of late. The weather has 
 been changeable, and some of the nights quite 
 cold. I have n't allowed Jones to talk. She 
 would love to ; but sees me uncongenial, and, ap- 
 parently, utterly uninterested. She must think 
 me a regular old curmudgeon. 
 
 I wish so much to find a plan by which I can 
 help my good friends. My courage has failed 
 me so far, and my power of invention. If Mrs. 
 
 61 
 
62 Honesty's Garden 
 
 Dene were only a man ... it would be just as 
 awkward ! 
 
 Honesty is delighted with my news; so, evi- 
 dently, Baillie need not be down-hearted. I find 
 myself growing cross at the thought that she 
 cares for him; although I have been certain of 
 it throughout. This story will come out all 
 wrong although he will get five guineas for it. 
 He won't go to the Salwanners, where the war is. 
 Not he. 
 
 " It is good of you," Honesty tells me, as we 
 sit in the lamplight in the old-fashioned, sweet- 
 smelling parlour of the Home. How very fra- 
 grant beeswax and turpentine can become when 
 applied in the proper quantities to the proper 
 kind of furniture. There is a refreshing atmos- 
 phere about me, and I am refreshed to perceive 
 my friends so brave under misfortune. As 
 Baillie said, one would never believe they had 
 such trouble. 
 
 Perhaps he has exaggerated? I am satisfied 
 that he has exaggerated. Mrs. Dene smiles at 
 me from her seat by the table. She is sewing 
 busily, and takes little part in the conversation. 
 Honesty and I occupy the window seat. 
 
 " It is a pleasure," I am saying. 
 
 " And so quick, too," she cries. " Fancy sell- 
 ing the story, after all." 
 
 (i Did n't you mean me to sell it? " I demand. 
 
Honesty's Garden 63 
 
 " Well, primarily, the idea was to show you 
 how nicely I can type. Mr. Wright lets me use 
 his typewriter; I did the story at his office. It 
 was a tremendous joke — the Undertaker taught 
 me the keyboard, and was most patient." 
 
 (Wright is a local house agent and surveyor. 
 The Undertaker is his boy ; a weird, prematurely 
 ancient creature of quite sixteen years.) 
 
 " The typing, no doubt, did the trick," I re- 
 mark. " And now we come to business. Will 
 you kindly sign the receipt, then I will give you 
 the money." 
 
 " I can't take that. I am only in it so far as 
 the typing is concerned." 
 
 " Deduct your charges, and hand the balance 
 to the author." 
 
 She glances at me, and flushes a little. She 
 hesitates. Finally — " I don't think I ought to 
 charge anything," she says, with something un- 
 accountably like defiance in her tone. " You 
 liked the story? " 
 
 " It was very pretty." 
 
 " Only pretty? " 
 
 I hedged. " Well, you can see for yourself it 
 is more than that. Here are five guineas. I 
 suppose I had better sign the receipt to save 
 explanations with the editor. The story ought 
 to have somebody's name to it, though, as 
 author." 
 
64 Honesty's Garden 
 
 " Why don't you tell Mr. Swift, Honesty? " 
 Her mother smiles up from her sewing. 
 
 " It would spoil it all," Honesty alleges. 
 
 " It seemed familiar to me, curiously 
 enough — " I am beginning, then realise that this 
 is rather rude if Baillie wrote the story. But 
 Honesty is pleased to encourage me. " Yes, yes 
 — go on ! " 
 
 " Oh, that ? s all, you know. It reminded me 
 of — of another story I 've read. I admired the 
 heroine; she was a dear." 
 
 Honesty relapses into little ripples of laughter 
 at this; so totally unexpected as to quite flurry 
 me. I could make nothing of her, and, to tell 
 the truth, felt rather annoyed about it — for the 
 moment. It seemed so ridiculous to make all 
 this mystery over young Baillie and his writings, 
 even if one were in love with him. I moved to 
 the table and signed the receipt; then counted 
 out five pounds and five shillings. " The story 
 shall be anonymous, then? " 
 
 Honesty controlled herself with an effort. 
 " If you please." 
 
 I prepared to go, but she begged me to take 
 up the money. 
 
 " It 's not mine," she stated, definitely refusing 
 it. 
 
 " Give it to the author and tell him to write 
 another as soon as he can. There 's a market 
 
Honesty's Garden 65 
 
 for everything that's sentimental, and — 
 Scotch." 
 
 She picked up the five shillings and left the 
 gold. " Is that too much, do you think? " she 
 asked, her eyes steady before mine. A flicker 
 of doubt clouded those forget-me-nots (bother 
 Baillie, why does he talk such bosh). 
 
 " Exactly right," I hastily and incorrectly in- 
 formed her. (Two shillings a thousand words! 
 Stark ruination for us poor authors.) 
 
 " Why did you say Scotch? " she inquired, her 
 mind working. " You 're not Scotch, are you? " 
 
 Woman's way. Makes a definite assertion, 
 then queries it. 
 
 " I will give it to Baillie myself," I said, throw- 
 ing diplomacy to the winds. 
 
 She positively stared at me, this perplexing 
 young thing, while Mrs. Dene chuckled suddenly. 
 " You must tell him, Honesty," she urged. 
 
 " Whatever can you think of me? " Honesty 
 found breath to demand, really blushing. " Mr. 
 Baillie? " She crushed me with " You must 
 think very badly of me." 
 
 " I 'm sure I don't. I think very well of you." 
 
 " You have no business to think of me at all 
 — in such a way." She collected the five little 
 gold discs, and rattled them into the ticket pocket 
 of my lounge coat. " Guess again, please — and 
 meanwhile hold the stakes." Then she was 
 
66 Honesty's Garden 
 
 struck by another aspect of the joke, and laughed 
 again and again. It was so contagious that I 
 laughed too — goodness knows why. 
 
 They made me stay to supper. I amused them 
 with an account of Keedels the cat, who has 
 lately taken to sleeping in the shed — to the ex- 
 treme vexation of Jones. She very rightly 
 argues that bed is the proper place for every one 
 at nights. Keedels, however, remains at home 
 all day, and starts off at dusk on peregrinations 
 of his own. He returns when he thinks he will. 
 
 " If Jones were to lose her cat," declared 
 Honesty, " it would be an end to your peace of 
 mind. She would simply leave you, books and 
 all." 
 
 " I should retire to a Home for Virtuous 
 Bachelors, where we should have no visiting 
 days," I announced; "an Eden of perfect peace 
 — Eves not admitted." 
 
 " You poor things, would n't you be lonely 
 and would n't you all get tired of hearing about 
 each other's virtues ! No one to sympathise with 
 you, and — listen. It wouldn't be a paradise" 
 — she peeped up at me — " it would be — the other 
 place." 
 
 " Honesty ! " Her mother was shocked. 
 
 " It would not agree with you, Mr. Swift," the 
 naughty girl continued. " You 're too " 
 
 " Too what? " 
 
Honesty's Garden 67 
 
 " Too fond of — Eves. I saw you with two — 
 no, three — the other day." 
 
 " Aunt Sophie, Cousin Eva and " 
 
 " Never mind. We won't press the point. 
 Besides, your writing betrays you." 
 
 " But nobody reads my books." 
 
 " Don't fish, it 's close time for compliments. 
 I did n't mean your books, but your handwriting. 
 Did n't you know I was a graphologist? " 
 
 " No — nor that you knew my handwriting." 
 
 That was a thrust for her. She parried it, 
 and made riposte. She indicated the receipt, 
 which still defied me from the far side of the 
 table. Honesty took it up, flattened it out be- 
 side her. " Indicative of terrible characteristics 
 — that loop and flourish. You must reform 
 without delay." 
 
 " Won't you help in the great work? " 
 
 " She would only make you far worse," said 
 Mrs. Dene, finally. 
 
 I do not believe that at all. I consider Baillie 
 a lucky young man; and I wish I were in his 
 broad-toed shoes. Going home (by the short cut 
 through the sweetbriar hedge) I sighed. It oc- 
 curred to me that Honesty, for all her high 
 spirits, made a pathetic little figure. There was 
 an under-note of sadness in her voice — so I 
 fancied more than once. Mrs. Dene, too, was 
 quieter even than usual, and seemed preoccupied. 
 
68 Honesty's Garden 
 
 I trust Baillie's surmise is n't anywhere near the 
 truth. 
 
 I wonder who wrote that infernal story, and 
 what I 'm to do with this five pounds? 
 
 Happy thought : I '11 buy Honesty a typewriter 
 — she can't refuse that. She cannot go on using 
 Wright's machine interminably; the Undertaker 
 will get the sack, for sure ! I '11 see that the 
 child has plenty to do ; and the pay shall be as 
 much per thousand as I can persuade her to 
 accept. 
 
 Baillie must be encouraged also. It will be 
 delightful to help these interesting young begin- 
 ners. It makes one young oneself to help. How 
 much does that boy earn per annum? Can I 
 influence his prospects? 
 
 I recollect he is a Scotsman. These always 
 prosper when they 're steady — and sober. 
 
 How fine to be a genie, just to clap my hands, 
 and build castles for all the folk I like ! But I 
 would n't alter Honesty's garden in one single, 
 tiny particular. 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 It is the unexpected that happens — exemplified 
 once again. The Extraordinary General Meet- 
 ing of Shareholders of the Colosseum elicits the 
 fact that the late editor, managing director, and 
 autocrat, Francis Burnaby, has availed himself 
 pretty considerably of the trust reposed in him. 
 He has been, in a fine and truly grand manner, 
 employing to his own uses such of our funds as 
 he has desired. Embezzlement, to put an ugly 
 name to it, has been going on for years ; and the 
 auditors have been fairly easily hoodwinked 
 with forged receipts and the like. Of course, 
 we were all fearfully indignant — it 's so easy to 
 be wise after the event. But, in my heart, I 
 don't wonder that the accountants were de- 
 ceived. Who could doubt Burnaby in the old 
 days? 
 
 An Oxford man, and a ripe scholar. A man 
 who lived plainly in Chelsea, whose acquaintance 
 was a privilege, and whose library a perpetual 
 amazement and delight. If ever any one had 
 the knack of collecting books in the real sense, 
 it was Burnaby. Many 's the browse I have had 
 
 69 
 
7° Honesty's Garden 
 
 Sunday afternoons, in that long, narrow room 
 built across the house above the hall, so near 
 to the Highway and yet so remote from its 
 noises and bustle. He always had the book you 
 wanted; and yet his was not a large collection. 
 He knew just what you desired to know; the 
 particular work was in your hands in a second. 
 The backwaters of literature as well as its fair- 
 ways, had been equally explored by this curious 
 man : he could tell you the past, the present, and 
 even the future of books. Some say because he 
 damned them all; but this is not the fact. He 
 was ever sparing of praise, but his judgment 
 was wonderfully sound. 
 
 A musician, too. His criticisms of the present 
 Italian school — bitter, destructive, wholesome — ■ 
 have done much to purify the too florid outpour- 
 ings of those young geniuses. Burnaby was 
 no mean executant; a warm admirer of Chopin, 
 he had his melodies at command on a very 
 sweet-toned German short-grand piano. To 
 read whilst he played — well, those were divine 
 moments. 
 
 And, under it all, a thief 
 
 Worse, it appears. Still, God knows how 
 strong are some temptations to some natures. 
 I could not chorus the general condemnation, 
 being pitifully aware of my own manifold sins 
 — little mean sins. 
 
Honesty's Garden 71 
 
 Part of his discarded mantle descends on me; 
 and this is where the unexpected occurs. I am 
 to be sub-editor of the Colosseum. For my 
 father's sake, I imagine. John Carruthers, still 
 the secretary of the company, had a lot to do 
 with the appointment — he is a kind fellow. 
 There will be a reasonable salary to make up 
 for my loss of dividends. Proper economy is to 
 be the order of the day, and the directors evi- 
 dently regard me as a reformer. The salary will 
 be most welcome, because there is also a call. 
 We all have to dip deeply into our balances to 
 make good a vital part of the Burnaby defalca- 
 tions. I foresee no holiday this year; but I 
 don't mind. Carbridge is pleasant enough for 
 an idle day or so. The fishing has been capital 
 of late. 
 
 I am so busy with my new honours and work 
 that I lose touch with Baillie. He has kept me 
 posted hitherto with knowledge of the business 
 affairs in our Comedy of Love. Now, for a little, 
 I am shut off from it altogether: but I see no 
 sign that weeds are getting the upper hand in 
 the garden next door. Indeed, it looks more 
 trim and charming than ever. The roses have 
 passed their first stage, but now the perennials 
 are showing flower. Giant phloxes, pentste- 
 mons, antirrhinums abound. Lilies are making 
 the air heavy with perfume; carnations are gay- 
 
72 Honesty's Garden 
 
 est of the gay. Against the house the fig-tree is 
 fruiting well; and the vine, too — although 
 grapes can never ripen out of doors in an Eng- 
 lish climate. Astonishing how that old vine 
 perseveres, though, year after year. 
 
 Honesty's dahlias appear promising; but bless 
 me, how the cruel little maid pinches out the 
 laterals and lower foliage. The dahlias are at 
 the back of the house, planted full four feet 
 apart, in a deadly straight line across the width 
 of her garden. Behind them show well-covered 
 poles of scarlet runners ; in front are little round 
 bushy dwarf beans. Useful and ornamental is 
 Honesty's motto. Vegetables and flowers to- 
 gether, where possible. No inch of ground to 
 be wasted. 
 
 Sweet-peas still flourish, and are stuck in the 
 same way as the eating peas. She keeps both 
 going well, by continually gathering the blossoms 
 of the one and the velvety green pods of the 
 other. In her small conservatory I can spy, by 
 peeping when the door is wide, begonias double 
 and single, zonal geraniums, and those kings of 
 all house plants, gloxinias — while I know the 
 hoya is in bloom. I had a glimpse of Baillie in 
 the city one day, with a spray of it in his coat. 
 It is really wicked to pick the hoya, as it always 
 blossoms on the same spur. 
 
 Yesterday I heard it might be necessary for 
 
Honesty's Garden 73 
 
 me to run up to Edinburgh. Gatherway, strange 
 creature that he is, has written earnestly from 
 that city, begging me to come to him. He apolo- 
 gises briefly for his shortcomings; states that he 
 has something very big in hand, which has taken 
 all his energies and his money. 
 
 My money, too, I remember, frown in gly. I 
 am not to worry, but to come at once. A friend's 
 help is essential, or he would n't have bothered. 
 Knowing that I have some leisure (I haven't; 
 that 's all past and done with), he has ventured 
 to take rooms for me at the Caledonian Hotel. 
 He will meet the first train in on Saturday morn- 
 ing, so that I must travel Friday night. Only 
 a dressing-bag for luggage, as he won't keep me 
 more than a few days. 
 
 So he calmly arranges things. 
 
 I write rather nastily, " Sorry can't manage it. 
 Have been appointed sub-editor on Colosseum, 
 and start duties Monday. Had rather a shock 
 there, as you can guess — and the money market 
 is tight. Yours, Mortimer Swift." 
 
 He wired instantly, " You must come. Im- 
 perative. Gatherway." 
 
 Perhaps it would be as well to go. I have 
 told Gatherway that I commence on Monday, 
 which is true enough ; but it 's not Monday next 
 — it's Monday fortnight. 
 
 Jones refuses to share my optimism concern- 
 
74 Honesty's Garden 
 
 ing our neighbours. I won't let her speak out, 
 but she continues to let me know her opinion in 
 various ways. I have n't been able to make that 
 presentation of a typewriter, after all. Some- 
 how, it has n't been so easy to arrange. 
 
 This afternoon, when I had returned from a 
 hard read at the British Museum, I sat at tea in 
 my den. My mirror occasionally showed me 
 Honesty busy in her garden, and I felt very 
 comfortable. Having done a good day's work, 
 I had pleasure in witnessing some one else at 
 it. Presently came the click of the latch, and 
 Honesty glanced up — to see the Undertaker at 
 her garden gate. 
 
 He bowed with all the dignity of an ancient 
 Brummel — a comprehensive, flattering, self- 
 effacing bow. A touch of colour burned his 
 sallow cheeks temporarily. Honesty bade him 
 enter. I perceived that he was carrying a large, 
 important, and hideously blue letter. 
 
 He brought gloom with him, appropriately. 
 The sun at that instant permitted a cloud to ob- 
 scure its jolly face. With all the weight of his 
 sixteen years, the Undertaker blighted Honesty's 
 garden. Even she seemed pale, and older. 
 
 An obtrusive sigh caused me to attend to 
 Jones. She had brought me another tea-cake, 
 hot and buttery, from her kitchen fire. I had 
 not heard her come in. 
 
Honesty's Garden 75 
 
 " That 's twice to-day," she announced. 
 
 " Well, really, Jones — two tea-cakes are not 
 much for a hungry man. You didn't mean to 
 suggest " 
 
 " I meant that there boy," she explained. 
 " Him what 's gone in next door. He fair gives 
 me the 'orrors, with his fat, white face and 
 creepy ways." 
 
 " I 'm sure he 's a very worthy, kind-hearted 
 youth," I tell her, recollecting that he taught 
 Honesty the keyboard of the typewriter ; " and 
 he can't help being fat in the face." 
 
 Jones sniffs. She is stoutish herself. " It 's 
 what he brings with him, then," she declares, 
 obstinately. " Such a nasty business, too. Low, 
 I calls it." 
 
 " Wright is an estate agent and surveyor," I 
 inform Jones. " He attends to the letting of 
 houses, and is a sharp, keen man. This boy " 
 
 " He does the dirty work. Serving sum- 
 monses, and all that. He puts the bailiffs in, 
 he does." 
 
 I correct her. One must not allow ignorance 
 to go unchecked. 
 
 " He does not serve summonses. He could n't ; 
 only a policeman can do that." 
 
 " That there letter had nothing good in it, 
 I 'm sure. It turned me quite cold like, the mere 
 sight of it." 
 
76 Honesty's Garden 
 
 " Did any books come for me this morning? " 
 I ask, to close the matter. 
 
 "Yes, sir. A parcel on your desk. And a 
 gentleman called about some Queer Toes. He 
 left his card and said he 'd write." 
 
 I readily identify quartos, and nod. A dealer 
 after my Shakespeare again: not the first one. 
 " He may write," I remarked, placidly. 
 
 " Was it a book, sir? " Jones inquires, 
 hovering. 
 
 " Books," I state ; " the old books on the 
 bottom shelf." 
 
 " Them skinny little brown square books? I 
 should n't think they was worth taking away." 
 
 " They are worth at least a hundred pounds 
 apiece. If I had the ninth volume they might 
 be worth twice as much." I never can resist 
 speaking largely about my chiefest treasure. I 
 am moved to tell Jones how it came to me. A 
 very dear old friend of mine had unearthed the 
 quartos in a library formed by a book-loving 
 ancestor. They had lain securely hidden away for 
 over a century ; they were offered to me as a gift. 
 I declined them, naturally, although with a very 
 bad pain somewhere inside me all the while. A 
 year or so later, when the good fellow had passed 
 to his rest, I found the quartos left to me at a 
 price which, while satisfying the executors, was 
 absurdly nominal. 
 
Honesty's Garden 77 
 
 I dilate on their beauties, and my rare fortune 
 in possessing them. I am moved to inform her 
 of my deep-seated hope that one day I may find 
 the ninth quarto. " And then you '11 have them 
 all bound together in a new cover, sir? They '11 
 look much nicer then, won't they — more valuable 
 like? " 
 
 I very nearly faint away. Great heavens, re- 
 bind my precious quartos! I curl up, retire 
 into myself like a snail whose horns have been 
 suddenly touched with a red-hot hairpin. Jones 
 luckily doesn't notice. She cheerfully babbles 
 on : " Jest fancy one of them books being worth 
 over a hundred pounds. Why, you could sell 
 them, one by one, if you was hard up. I expect 
 some people would be glad if they had them 
 Queer Toes, sir. They wouldn't need to be 
 frightened each time they heard the door bell. 
 Blue letters would n't worry them — not then." 
 
 She sighs again as she leaves me, being a 
 sympathetic, if sadly mistaken creature. I light 
 my pipe, frowning the while at thoughts 
 which will rise up from this hotch-potch of 
 conversation. 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 I have been to Edinburgh, and have borne 
 with Gatherway. He has planned an amaz- 
 ingly cheap issue of the Classics, and had de- 
 cided on everything — except the name for this 
 series. I found him nearly distracted over what 
 was positively a simple matter. I declared that 
 since the issue was to be cheap, the name should 
 indicate reasonableness in the sweetest degree; 
 that since it was to be also amazing, miracles 
 must be enticingly and solidly suggested. He 
 fully concurred. 
 
 " The Little Marvel Library," said I. " There 
 you are ! " 
 
 Gatherway had a million objections instantly ; 
 but, in the end, allowed that there was the germ 
 of an idea in my first attempt at christening. 
 He wishes me to be editor, take part shares, and 
 to allow my dividends to stand over a while. He 
 is a pleasant, optimistic fellow, and I agreed to 
 everything. Aunt Sophie would dub me a con- 
 fiding idiot; but I didn't invest a very large 
 
 78 
 
Honesty's Garden 79 
 
 further amount in Gatherways. However, I 
 ought not to have risked a penny. 
 
 I had a shock when I returned to Carbridge. 
 Honesty and her mother were on the up- 
 platform of our station, surrounded by a litter 
 of impedimenta. I crossed the line — being a 
 privileged person — and greeted them with de- 
 mands for a full explanation. 
 
 " Change is good for everybody," said Honesty, 
 in her valiant way ; u we are going for a change." 
 
 " How long will you be away? " I asked, feel- 
 ing vaguely disappointed. 
 
 She glanced at her mother, then answered 
 hesitatingly, " Oh, not long." She seemed ill at 
 ease. " Not very long, I should say. How have 
 you enjoyed your Scotch trip, Mr. Swift? You 
 have been gone nearly a week; did you know 
 that? " 
 
 I was telling her all about it when their train 
 was signalled. In the confusion I did n't dis- 
 cover where they were going. I had a sprig of 
 early white heather in my coat, plucked from 
 the highlands whilst walking with Gatherway. 
 I gave it to Honesty when they were safely in 
 their seats, poking it to her through the open 
 carriage window. " That 's for luck," I said. 
 
 She took it with quite a disturbing gratitude. 
 Mrs. Dene was carrying a bunch of garden 
 flowers, and Honesty pulled one from it — a 
 
80 Honesty's Garden 
 
 columbine. " That 's for remembrance," she 
 said, in a strange little voice. 
 
 The guard whistled, the engine acknowledged 
 the whistle piercingly. " I '11 look after the 
 garden for you," I promised cheerfully, as my 
 friends were carried slowly away from me. 
 " Mind and enjoy yourselves." 
 
 They both nodded; but, for the moment, I 
 thought tears stood in Mrs. Dene's brave old eyes. 
 Misgivings were in me as I waved and called 
 after them, " Come back as soon as you can ! " 
 The window was hastily drawn up, and I saw 
 no more. Curiously dashed, I turned to collect 
 my own luggage, then walked slowly home- 
 wards. Honesty's garden was neat as a new 
 pin, and more riotously beautiful than ever. 
 Uncomfortable notions left me as I entered my 
 own castle, with Jones and Keedels to welcome 
 me. 
 
 So pass a few days, and I arrive at the Mon- 
 day which is to see me an Important Person. 
 A sub-editor — no less. I attend the dingy old 
 office of the Colosseum; find the duties interest- 
 ing, and more numerous than I had imagined. 
 I am hard at it, drawing together the threads 
 of the muddle Burnaby has left behind. John 
 Carruthers is managing the concern, with the 
 assistance of all the directors in turn. The re- 
 sult seems to be confusion worse confounded. 
 
Honesty's Garden 81 
 
 We must dismiss those directors. So long as 
 they can draw their fees they won't much mind ! 
 
 Returning home from my first day's sub- 
 editing, with my importance in no wise abated, 
 I encounter Baillie. He walks with me so far 
 as Wright's office. He has little to say beyond 
 generally criticising the weather and the Govern- 
 ment; indeed, he seems quite down and uninter- 
 esting. Our house agent seems to be the fashion 
 in Cartridge; even Baillie pauses at his door. I 
 cry, jokingly, " House-hunting, Jock? Has it 
 come to this at last? " 
 
 " It 's not house-hunting I will be, Swift ; 
 no, it will not be that." 
 
 " You 're after chairs and tables, then. Con- 
 fess it — Wright has found you a bargain." 
 
 " It will be just a catalogue I 'm wanting, 
 Swift," says he, diving to meet the Undertaker, 
 who now appears from the gloom of the office. 
 
 I dawdle a while, to give Baillie a chance to 
 catch me up; but he is so slow that I come to 
 the end of our road alone. As I near Honesty's 
 garden I find myself speculating, for the hun- 
 dredth time, where my neighbours may have gone 
 — whether they are having a good time. I sin- 
 cerely trust, yes; wishing I were away at the 
 seaside also. But I could not lock up my house 
 as they have done; although we are all utterly 
 trustworthy in Carbridge, I should never be able 
 
82 Honesty's Garden 
 
 to sleep at night for dreaming that my quartos, 
 or my Lowestoft, had been stolen. 
 
 Somebody is in Honesty's garden. I stop at 
 the wicket-gate until the Somebody, feeling my 
 inquisitive regard, starts guiltily, and looks up. 
 It is — Jones ! She is weeding ; or was weeding. 
 I am dumbfounded. Jones a gardener, and I 
 never to have even suspected it. She is flushed 
 with her exertions, and remarks, " Oh," in the 
 true Jonesian manner. She is not precisely 
 pleased, I gather. " I did n't think you was 
 coming home so soon," she observes, with dis- 
 approval in every feature. She adds, remember- 
 ing our respective social positions, " I can soon 
 get you some tea, in course." 
 
 She recovers the hoe from the grass plot — 
 which sadly needs mowing — and prepares to go 
 into my domain, via the sweetbriar hedge. It 
 is now my turn to disapprove. I can't have 
 Jones trampling my flower beds, and I see she 
 is carelessly dragging the hoe after her — plainly 
 my hoe. 
 
 " Mrs. Dene has returned? " I question, with 
 meaning. " There is a gate, Jones." 
 
 She is surprised at my firmness; and, after a 
 sidelong glance, gives in. She decides to return 
 in an orthodox manner to her kitchen. " I 
 could n't abear to see the garding getting so 
 untidy," she excuses herself, when she is nearer. 
 
Honesty's Garden 83 
 
 " Them weeds do grow so fast ; it 's heart- 
 breaking." 
 
 I begin to open the gate for her, and then 
 suddenly catch sight of something which as- 
 tonishes me so much that I involuntarily shut 
 the gate again with a crash. There is a board 
 up between the trees facing into the road, a 
 house-agent's board — Wright's board. " Great 
 Sale of Furniture and Effects." 
 
 Jones's hand is on the gate; she pulls it re- 
 spectfully open. As in a dream I stand aside, 
 and she passes out. I am unaware if she says 
 anything; I am only conscious of terrible over- 
 whelming surprise. In the distance I hear foot- 
 steps. Baillie? I can't face him; I can't face 
 anybody. Almost at a run I win to the safety 
 of my room, stumbling up the stairs in my hurry. 
 
 It 's impossible ! It can't be. From my win- 
 dow I can see the back of that hateful board, 
 and know, with cold certainty, that it is not 
 impossible at all. A man has paused to read 
 the bill, that pitiful legend. Why doesn't he 
 go on? It's not his business. It's Honesty's 
 business. The inventory of a young maid's 
 heart is there; the sweet, tender record of her 
 life, day by day, since she was a little toddling 
 mite. There are all her poor secrets, sir; ruth- 
 lessly, monstrously catalogued. You will be 
 able to come close to them; appraise and bid 
 
84 Honesty's Garden 
 
 for them; and, perhaps, cart them away. They 
 won't be the same. Their magic must go as 
 soon as others handle them. 
 
 Surely you know every word on that board 
 by now? I turn from the window impatiently. 
 The gross curiosity of people! This fellow has 
 been joined by two more; they are discussing 
 the matter openly. I shall hear their comments 
 if I don't close my window. I do this hastily. 
 On my wash-stand is a tumbler of water, and 
 a spray of columbine has withered in it. Poor 
 little columbine, withered so soon. That 's for 
 remembrance. Brave little big heart, why 
 couldn't you tell me? Baillie, too? But it 
 shan't be! I am going to be a genie — an old, 
 cross, perfectly unbearable bear; an astound- 
 ingly magical magician. I will make everything 
 all right again, and you shall both be scolded 
 severely, told not to do it any more — and hand- 
 somely forgiven. 
 
 Had you so soon forgotten I was a person of 
 importance? A sub-editor ; an author and critic, 
 duly enshrined in " Who 's Who " ; a sleeping 
 partner in Gatherway's; a man to whom money 
 is practically a mere expression? Did you im- 
 agine for a moment that I was going to permit 
 my sacred privacy to be invaded; to allow any 
 Tom, Dick, or Harry to perambulate Honesty's 
 garden? 
 
Honesty's Garden 85 
 
 Never. 
 
 I am a mass of nerves, and couldn't tolerate 
 those worthy young gentlemen under any cir- 
 cumstances. They would whistle comic songs, 
 keep a tame gramophone, and generally break 
 down my health. I 'm selfish about my health. 
 Honesty's garden must remain intact, and in 
 full going order. The Home must remain un- 
 touched — save by the orthodox duster! 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 In a more equable frame of mind I take tea; 
 severely nip Jones's every attempt at con- 
 versation; and, having braced myself up to 
 the encounter, sally forth to interview the 
 Undertaker. 
 
 He is bland, sphinx-like, and intensely atten- 
 tive. " You don't mean to say you have posi- 
 tively sold the place? " I cry, receiving my first 
 check. 
 
 " I am pleased to state that Mr. Wright has 
 been successful in disposing of the property," 
 he answers, with heavy dignity. 
 
 " But, hang it ! it has n't been in the open 
 market five minutes," I argue, with some heat. 
 
 " It is a very exceptional property. In con- 
 fidence, I may tell you that we had a standing 
 offer for the house. So long ago as — let me 
 see — " He opens a black and hearse-like ledger, 
 and runs a business finger up the columns. 
 " Since Whitsuntide in last year," he informs 
 me, in hollow tones. " A client accidentally 
 saw the garden then, and came to us at once. 
 
 86 
 
Honesty's Garden 87 
 
 He gave us figures to which we could safely 
 go — " The Undertaker breathes sympathy with 
 my regret. " Quite a bargain — oh, yes, it was 
 certainly a bargain." 
 
 " Perhaps your client won't want it now — " 
 He shakes his head gloomily. " The money has 
 been paid, and the title-deeds have been made 
 over. I am sorry you are too late, Mr. Swift. 
 We should like to have obliged you." 
 
 " Mr. Wright is not in, I suppose? " 
 
 He resents this. " I have Mr. Wright's con- 
 fidence," he begins, drawing himself up to his 
 full five feet. 
 
 " Of course. I merely was wondering — " I 
 pause, hardly seeing what I can do. Yet some- 
 thing must be done, and quickly. 
 
 " We shall be most happy to let your house, 
 sir, if you contemplate moving." Business is in 
 this boy to the tips of his long, sallow fingers. 
 " We could arrange a sale of it on advantageous 
 terms. Carbridge is a growing residential neigh- 
 bourhood; we have plenty of inquiries at this 
 minute for bijou modern cottages such as yours." 
 
 " I have no intention of leaving Carbridge. I 
 want to buy the house next to mine, to — to " 
 
 " Consolidate the property, sir? I understand 
 perfectly. You wished to make a small estate 
 of it. Quite so." He glances down upon his 
 desk, his hands collect a mass of small litera- 
 
88 Honesty's Garden 
 
 ture. " Permit me to offer you a time-table, 
 warranted correct. Our last list — some very 
 charming little places you '11 find in it. And a 
 catalogue of the sale." 
 
 " Why, in the name of Fortune, is there to be 
 a sale? Surely, if your client has bought " 
 
 " Only the house, sir. The furniture was a 
 speculation of Mr. Wright's. Mrs. Dene wished 
 to entirely dispose of everything." Despite the 
 weight of his sixteen years, I suddenly suspect 
 that my Undertaker is keeping down his feelings 
 with an effort. " Great loss to Carbridge — Mrs. 
 Dene." 
 
 His weakish eyes, until now unwaveringly 
 staring into mine, blink palpably. He pretends 
 that he hears a call from the inner office, and, 
 crossing to the baize door, opens it, glancing 
 within. 
 
 " I could n't endure fresh neighbours ; and 
 that is the long and short of it," I snap out. 
 " Mr. Wright must sell me Mrs. Dene's fur- 
 niture as it stands, and get me the house. It 's 
 to be done, and you must do it. You can 
 do it." 
 
 He returns with alacrity. " As regards the 
 furniture, we shall be most happy " 
 
 " No, you won't ! The furniture goes with 
 the house, if I buy. I will take the place, lock, 
 stock, and barrel, at a reasonable valuation, or 
 
Honesty's Garden 89 
 
 I '11 take nothing. Let me know in the morning 
 without fail." 
 
 The Undertaker makes copious notes in his 
 diary. " To what extent will you permit us to 
 bid? " 
 
 " I will buy the whole at your price," I state, 
 thoroughly determined to be rash. " I can't 
 have other people in Honesty's — in Miss Dene's 
 garden. I should have to put up a ten-foot 
 fence " 
 
 He interrupts me, with gentle deprecation. 
 " You surely cannot mean that? " 
 
 " I do mean it. Your client had better sell. 
 Tell him it will be a ten-foot fence, tarred, and 
 spiked with nails. I shall tear up the sweet- 
 briar — it 's on my ground." 
 
 The Undertaker smiles faintly; he knows the 
 law. I should n't be able to do it. " Can't you 
 see how intolerable it would be?" I urge; "I 
 don't only mean the fence — but to have strangers 
 practically in your house? I am convinced that 
 Mrs. Dene will wish to come back. In point of 
 fact, I know she will come back. Well, then, 
 her home will be there, all ready for her. T 
 shall be prepared to make it over to Mrs. Dene, 
 complete and intact. I shall keep the garden 
 neat, and do my level best." 
 
 I realise that I am talking to this boy as 
 though it were quite in his power to arrange 
 
90 Honesty's Garden 
 
 things. One gets in a way of being friendly 
 with the Carbridge folk; but this is letting my- 
 self go terribly. I shall have the Undertaker 
 slapping me on the back and calling me " old 
 man/' in a minute or so. Yes ; actually he 's 
 feeling for his cigarette case; he 's going to offer 
 me 
 
 It ? s his handkerchief he is after. His eyes are 
 blinking in a manner eminently suitable to an 
 undertaker. " I was allowed the pleasure of 
 teaching Miss Dene how to typewrite — " He 
 gulps, chokes, recovers control of himself — " a 
 great privilege; a very real pleasure. . . . We 
 will make this a personal matter, sir, if you will 
 be so good as to leave it all in our hands." 
 
 I nod, and hastily retire. The Undertaker 
 follows me to the door, respectfully waits until 
 I am well on my way home ere closing it. When 
 I glance back, the ridiculous creature is bowing 
 gravely to the various home-coming Carbridgians 
 just in by the train. 
 
 I go home, but cannot work in the garden. 
 That detestable board attracts everybody. I 
 shall swear more than is good for my peace of 
 mind and my position as a sub-editor. 
 
 Sub-editors are, comparatively, minions. They 
 may not swear, save with bated breath. Any 
 editor will tell you that. 
 
 I rake out the Alfred book, and have a grind 
 
Honesty's Garden 91 
 
 at it. Then read my notes for the new work I 
 am contemplating, that one which is to set the 
 Thames afire. 
 
 Poor dear old river, you may flow on quite 
 serenely. I expect you will be able to remain 
 as unsilvery as ever, notwithstanding all my 
 bold endeavours. 
 
 Later on in the evening, a funereal knock is 
 heard at the front door. Jones, with hostility 
 sounding in the very creak of her shoes, goes to 
 answer the summons. How dare folk come at 
 such an hour ! (It is about ten o'clock.) I hear 
 her sharp tones contrasting with an apologetic 
 mumble; she enters my study to announce: 
 " That there boy from the estate office — he is a 
 nuisance — wants to see you sir, very particular. 
 I told him you would n't like being disturbed." 
 She means she does n't like being disturbed. 
 
 I find my Undertaker in the parlour. He 
 smiles nervously. He is no longer on his own 
 ground. " I am really most sorry, sir," he be- 
 gins, in a deep bass. I indicate a seat. " No, 
 I thank you. If you will permit, I will state my 
 errand very briefly." (The absurd dignity of 
 the creature — he might be about to break ter- 
 rible news! The smile has entirely vanished, 
 his hand is waving about in wide gestures of 
 sympathy. ) " I was fortunately able to have a 
 conversation with Mr. Wright soon after your 
 
92 Honesty's Garden 
 
 honoured visit. He regrets extremely that he 
 should have been absent at the moment of your 
 call. So far as Messrs. Wright and Co. are 
 concerned, sir, the furniture and effects of the 
 property next door are yours at the barest 
 margin of profit to ourselves." 
 
 " Yes, but the house? " 
 
 " The purchaser of the freehold will be in 
 Carbridge to-morrow. He paid Mrs. Dene, 
 through us, the sum of twelve hundred and sixty 
 pounds — twelve hundred guineas. There is con- 
 siderable land attaching to the property. Mr. 
 Wright wishes to know the exact limit you will 
 allow us to touch." 
 
 The sum is rather more than I had imagined. 
 However, I am resolute. " I shall leave it with 
 you," I say, firmly. " Do the best you can for 
 me. Settle it to-morrow; and telephone to me 
 in London, if necessary." I give him my num- 
 ber at the Colosseum. " Also, I should like to 
 have the inventory of the furniture. I want 
 that notice-board to be removed, and to have the 
 whole affair off my mind. I suppose you have 
 Mrs. Dene's address? " 
 
 " No, sir. Mrs. Dene has not favoured us. 
 We understood she was uncertain of her move- 
 ments for the immediate present." 
 
 " But, surely, there will be other matters to 
 close? " 
 
Honesty's Garden 93 
 
 " Everything was disposed of before Mrs. Dene 
 left Carbridge. The money was paid over. If 
 you will excuse me, sir, I will not trouble you 
 any longer." He bows, and sidles to the door. 
 " Good-evening, sir ; thank you very much. 
 Your commands shall be carried out quite to 
 the best of our ability." 
 
 He refuses a glass of wine and a biscuit ; bows 
 again, and vanishes. I go back to the study to 
 spend an hour or so figuring it all out. To- 
 morrow I will call at the bank and ascertain 
 my balance there. I much fear that it is, like 
 myself, rather low. A depression is over me, 
 caused by too much Undertaker — and that night- 
 mare of " Great Sale of Furniture and Effects." 
 
 That shan't be, at any rate. Despite my ulti- 
 matum to Messrs. Wright and Co., I shall buy 
 the furniture, no matter who wins Honesty's 
 garden. I will release the spirit of her home, 
 at least, from profane and vulgar regard. 
 
 Memory of Jones's remark comes to me and I 
 stoop for my Shakespeare. I reverently draw 
 out the first one of the series. Evidently they 
 were all bound together at the outset by the ori- 
 ginal collector of them. The volume probably 
 included a ninth play, which has, unfortunately 
 for me, gone astray. Students of Shakespeare 
 will know that Capell published his edition of 
 Comedies, Histories, and Tragedies in folio in 
 
94 Honesty's Garden 
 
 the year 1768; and, no doubt, when Edward 
 Capell came across my now eight ninths of a 
 book, he broke it up to suit his own convenience, 
 and some one, thereupon, lost play number nine ! 
 In the Capell collection at Trinity College, Cam- 
 bridge, there are nine quartos only that attain 
 these measurements: seven-and-a-half-inches by 
 five-and-a-half, and they are bound up in two 
 volumes. In the Garrick collection there are 
 nine plays, all of this identical size. 
 
 These eight little quartos of mine, whether 
 broken by Capell or some other vandal, belonged 
 in 1780 to Master John Dering, who I can easily 
 picture as a worthy old gentleman, with the love 
 of books deep in his heart. His name, in small, 
 irregular gold lettering, appears on the brown 
 calf cover of each play ; below his name, the date 
 that each was acquired. In three years he had 
 obtained five of them, then comes a gap; 1779 
 saw the next; 1780 witnessed the purchase of 
 two more. Now for the last, thinks Master 
 Dering — number nine, his appetite keenly 
 whetted by the acquisition of number eight, 
 which is that jolly business invented hastily at 
 the command of good Queen Bess — who had the 
 whimsy to see Falstaff in love! 
 
 " A most pleasant and excellent conceited 
 comedy of Sir Iohn Falstaffe, and the Merrie 
 Wives of Windsor. With the swaggering vaine 
 
Honesty's Garden 95 
 
 of ancient Pistoll and Corporal Nym. Written 
 by W. Shakespeare " 
 
 And originally printed for Arthur Johnson, in 
 the yeare 1619. 
 
 Here are Master Dering's first finds: 
 
 (1) The whole contention between the two 
 Famous Houses, Lancaster and Yorke. With 
 the Tragicall ends of the good Duke Humfrey, 
 Richard Duke of Yorke, and King Henry the 
 Sixt. Divided into two parts: and newly cor- 
 rected and enlarged, Written by William Shake- 
 speare, Gent. Printed at London for T. P. 
 
 This is the book I have in my hand; next to 
 it is: 
 
 (2) A Midsommer nights Dreame. As it 
 hath beene sundry times publickely acted by the 
 Right Honourable, the Lord Chamberlaine his 
 servants. Written by William Shakespeare. 
 Printed by James Roberts, 1600. 
 
 (3) The first part Of the true & honourable 
 history, of the Life of Sir John Old-castle, the 
 good Lord Cobham 
 
 Many declare this play isn't Shakespeare at 
 all. 
 
 (4) The excellent History of the Merchant of 
 Venice. 
 
 (5) The Chronicle History of Henry the fift, 
 with his battell fought at Agin-court in France. 
 
 These were the commencement with Master 
 
96 Honesty's Garden 
 
 Dering, and these opened his eyes, now closed 
 for ever. How often has he tenderly handled 
 my wonderful faintly musty quartos; how often 
 will others, after me, handle them? Why — oh, 
 why did n't he discover that ninth play? This 
 I make to be the " Yorkshire Tragedie. Not so 
 New, as Lamentable and True." The Garrick 
 collection shows this in the same unusual size. 
 Dering ought to have lived long enough to have 
 recovered it! 
 
 You may as well know the other two I have. 
 The page can be skipped by readers not inter- 
 ested in Shakesperiana. 
 
 (6) M. William Shakespeare, His True Chron- 
 icle History of the life and death of King Lear, 
 and his three Daughters. 
 
 (7) The late and much admired Play called 
 Pericles, Prince of Tyre. 
 
 I wonder if Master Dering sees me now, 
 with his books? Shall I be granted the sorrow- 
 ful joy of watching those others who, later, will 
 prize these priceless volumes? 
 
 It is plainly time for me to go to bed. At 
 the back of my mind there lurks a spectre, con- 
 jured by Jones. If Honesty had these treasures 
 of mine, she might — under certain circum- 
 stances, please — be greatly tempted to sell them ! 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 It is arranged that I shall own Honesty's 
 garden and her home, and all the appurtenances 
 belonging thereto. The previous purchaser has 
 been made to perceive himself as being too pre- 
 vious — the result of sombre and funereal machi- 
 nations perpetrated by the Undertaker. 
 
 The sum total of the purchase money is ap- 
 palling, and scrutiny of my bank-book confounds 
 me. I have n't enough ! 
 
 But the excellent conceited plot of having 
 Honesty for my tenant shall be hatched success- 
 fully, come what may. I have gone too far, in 
 any event. I could never raise my head in the 
 presence of the Undertaker were I to even at- 
 tempt to back out of it now. 
 
 I must do something heroic. I will sell a few 
 (a very few) of my books. 
 
 Therefore, I called to-day at Joynson's, in 
 Chancery Lane. I know the younger Joynson; 
 a charming fellow — but very busy. He and his 
 brother conduct the great sale room, where 
 nearly every week one may find bargains — if 
 other people aren't looking! Joynson, junior, 
 
 97 
 
98 Honesty's Garden 
 
 glanced with his bright eyes adown the list 
 presented confidently by me. 
 
 " Rather early in the year for these. I '11 
 catalogue them, if you press it." 
 
 " I rather wanted to " 
 
 " Make room for others? " He suggested it 
 tactfully. " Of course. I '11 sprinkle them in 
 the list for week after next. They '11 fetch 
 enough to pay for new shelves — besides giving 
 immediate room for any fresh purchases." 
 
 I was aghast. " Only enough to pay for new 
 shelves? Surely " 
 
 " Bad time to sell such stuff," he decided, 
 bluntly. " Early autumn for decadent work. 
 Fall of the leaf, earth to earth, ashes to — those 
 who have a taste for Dead Sea fruit ! Autumn 's 
 the boy for your cast-outs, Swift. Pity you 
 have n't a folio Shakespeare — if you really need 
 ready cash, and plenty of it. I sold eight plays 
 bound together just prior to the issue of the 
 first folio, only this afternoon. For — how much 
 d'you think?" 
 
 " Three hundred? " I suggested, trying to ap- 
 pear indifferent. Strange, was it not, that this 
 imagined temptation of Honesty's should so soon 
 be dangled before me? I 'm not going to be 
 tempted, however. Dear me, no! 
 
 " It was an edition published in 1620, or 
 thereabouts. I verily believe the copy we had 
 
Honesty's Garden 99 
 
 to-day was part of a ' remainder.' Sounds 
 impossible, doesn't it? However, there it was, 
 eight in one — all beautifully fresh, considering. 
 It was being sold as part of an estate just clear 
 of Chancery. A Yankee secured it for — guess 
 again." 
 
 " I have n't an idea. A thousand pounds? " 
 (I hoped I had overshot it; the poison was 
 entering my system!) 
 
 Joynson unconsciously fell into his American 
 patron's nasal accent. " Two thousand and 
 eighty-six ! I 'm just standing myself a long 
 drink." 
 
 I suppose I gasped, or looked incredulous — 
 for he rattled on, quite forgetting his "busyness " 
 in the excitement of telling the tale. " You '11 see 
 it in the papers to-morrow morning. We all 
 felt a bit out of the c ornery.' That 's so. Wait 
 till I get my hat." He bustled into the small, 
 dark office at the side of the sale room; and 
 bustled out again ere I could recover. 
 
 I did n't enjoy the long drink — although Joyn- 
 son paid. Imprudently I told Joynson of my 
 quartos. It seems they are eight different plays 
 from those bought by the American. Joynson 
 invited himself to Carbridge: would have come 
 then and there — if I had n't, luckily and pluckily, 
 invented an excuse that served to prevent him. 
 
 This evening has been spent with the Alfred 
 
ioo Honesty's Garden 
 
 book. I am going to finish it off, and according 
 to Gatherway's suggestions. He shall pay me 
 royalties on account, enough to enable me to 
 clinch my purchase of Honesty's garden. 
 
 I did n't work well, however. My mind 
 wasn't — isn't — free. Thank goodness, that 
 board has gone from Honesty's — from my gar- 
 den. Dear gossips of Carbridge, there will be 
 no Great Sale! 
 
 I must interview Baillie, and extract from 
 him knowledge of Mrs. Dene's present where- 
 abouts. This young fellow has kept aloof of 
 late. Since Mahomet won't come to the moun- 
 tain, the mountain (myself) shall go to Jock 
 Baillie! 
 
 I make it my business to waylay him. He 
 seems disposed to be taciturn. To bring the 
 matter round to the point at which I can strike, 
 I remark, casually, " You will not need that 
 catalogue, Jock. Honesty's garden is out of the 
 market." 
 
 " I 've heard," said he, briefly. 
 
 " I don't take possession for a while. My 
 plans are not yet matured." I eyed him; it 
 really is very good of me to think of selling 
 my Shakespeare 
 
 I mean — finishing my Alfred book and closing 
 
Honesty's Garden xoi 
 
 my banking account — just to put Baillie into 
 the house. It 's more than generous. Aunt 
 Sophie would call it midsummer madness. 
 Meanwhile, the young gentleman preserved a 
 stony silence. We had walked from the station 
 until we were near my house — my houses, I 
 should say. 
 
 " I have the keys, of course," I prattled on, 
 cheerfully. "Would you care to come in?" 
 The inventory has not yet been called over by 
 the Undertaker, but Messrs. Wright and Co. 
 trust me with the keys, for all that. Baillie 
 paused undecidedly. " Come along," I urged. 
 
 " I 'm no sure I should na be ganging — " be- 
 gan Jock Baillie, Scotch because he was nervous 
 with me, for some reason. I took his arm, and 
 we entered the garden. 
 
 As a matter of fact, I was feeling rather ill 
 at ease myself. I required the moral support 
 of Baillie's presence — the place was full of 
 ghosts. Daylight ghosts, too — memories. They 're 
 the worst kind. 
 
 Jones has endeavoured to cope with the weeds ; 
 not with overpowering success. " I must have 
 the gardener to it," I told Jock, in a confident 
 voice — just to cheer us both. " It 's surprising 
 how the weeds seem to know when a garden 's 
 at their mercy. Scarcely a week ago " 
 
 " Nine days," Jock corrected me, carefully. 
 
102 Honesty's Garden 
 
 " Is it so long? " (What a stupid thing to 
 say!) 
 
 " You don't miss your neighbours, Swift — it 's 
 plain. It will be your books you 're thinking 
 about most of the time." 
 
 "Not all the time," I protested. "But, 
 really, how quickly the days fly! Easily ex- 
 plained, all these weeds, then. Let us go into 
 the house; although I fear it will be sad inside 
 there with the folk away." 
 
 At the door he disengaged his arm. " I will 
 not be going into the hoose with you, Swift," 
 said he, abruptly. 
 
 " You must," I insisted. " I can't go in 
 alone." 
 
 He regarded me thoughtfully. "It is your 
 ain hoose," he argued. 
 
 " Yes, but — do come along, there 's a good fel- 
 low. It 's so uncanny being in an empty place 
 by oneself." 
 
 " I will not be going into her hoose. It is a 
 sacrilege." 
 
 " You 're afraid ! " I cried, trying to laugh it 
 off. " You must learn to conquer that feeling, 
 Jock. You will often have to cross this thresh- 
 old in the future." 
 
 He stared back into my own steady regard: 
 he wavered — yielded. I turned the key, and 
 gently thrust open the door; then stood aside 
 
Honesty's Garden 103 
 
 for him to enter. " I will follow you," he de- 
 cided, mulishly. 
 
 " I 'm fearful you '11 run away, so soon as my 
 back is turned. Promise now that you won't ! " 
 
 We were in the small, stone-flagged hall next 
 instant. " The clock has stoppit," whispered 
 Baillie, who had taken off his hat as though he 
 were in a church. 
 
 " No clock will go on for ever," I answered, 
 pettishly. 
 
 " Eh, but it 's lonesome," he added. " It 's 
 just a hoose that 's dead." 
 
 " Nothing of the sort. A house that 's — sleep- 
 ing. We'll soon rouse it, Jock. Here goes." 
 I found the key, and very boldly wound up the 
 old grandfather clock. His slow, comforting 
 " tick-tack " recommenced. I hammered the 
 gong next, until its reverberations filled the 
 whole place. " Wake up, everybody ! " I called, 
 heartily — " Somebody 's at the front door wait- 
 ing to be asked to come in." 
 
 Baillie gave a fearful glance behind. " There 
 is n't a soul, living or The de'il tak us ! " 
 
 There is a soul, to give him ground for his 
 exclamation. But it is not the " de'il." Merely 
 the next best thing; my Undertaker. As usual, 
 he was bowing with ponderous gravity. 
 
 When he came up he thus excused the intru- 
 sion, " I ventured to follow you, sir. I thought 
 
104 Honesty's Garden 
 
 perhaps you would wish to have the detailed list 
 which Miss Dene herself gave us. If you will 
 kindly check each item we should prefer it." 
 
 " Oh, not at all. I am quite satisfied that 
 everything is in order." 
 
 " As a matter of business, sir," he persisted. 
 " If you have the leisure we could begin this 
 evening. I can wait upon you at any hour. It 
 would be more satisfactory." 
 
 " Mr. Baillie and I will examine the list 
 together," I announced. 
 
 " As you please, sir." The Undertaker bowed, 
 disappointedly, I couldn't help thinking, and, 
 with reluctant steps, passed the length of 
 Honesty's garden. An impulse made -me shout 
 after him, " The garden 's getting into a shock- 
 ing state, isn't it? I suppose you don't know 
 of anybody who could take it in hand? " 
 
 He came back almost at a run. " I — indeed — 
 if I might make so bold — " he stuttered. " That 
 is, I attend entirely to my mother's garden " 
 
 "You? But have you any opportunity?" 
 
 " Eh, but I 'm doing gairdening, Swift," 
 sharply interrupted Baillie, plainly meaning me 
 to refuse the Undertaker forthwith. " If it 's 
 just a bit mowing needs to be done, and a bit 
 weeding — I '11 gie ye a hand o' nights." 
 
 " If I might be permitted, Mr. Baillie," 
 pleaded the other, wringing his thin fingers to- 
 
Honesty's Garden 105 
 
 gether. " I 'm sure you '11 forgive me, sir, for 
 presuming to offer my services — but I am in 
 Carbridge all day; and from twelve to two I 
 have really nothing to think about. It would 
 be such a pleasure to me to be allowed to do 
 the verges. I understand the machine, Mr. 
 Baillie ; it 's a little tricky at times " 
 
 " How do you know that? " I requested. 
 
 " I have presumed to try it, sir. The grass 
 seemed to be so long and so untidy. Miss Jones 
 expressed her belief that you would not alto- 
 gether disapprove." 
 
 " It 's very kind of you, I 'm sure." I was 
 somewhat nonplussed. These two heroes were 
 eyeing each other. Odd they should both be so 
 keen. Gardening is not a virtue, as a rule, very 
 vigorous in the modern young man. I turned 
 to Jock. " Don't you feel it would be kind of 
 our friend here to keep the lawn trimmed for 
 us?" 
 
 "And the verges," breathed the Undertaker, 
 anxiously. " They 're really rather back-break- 
 ing, but I don't mind." 
 
 " To trim the lawn and the verges, Jock? " I 
 coaxed. " They are back-breaking, I can assure 
 you. Have you ever heard of ' gardener's 
 hinge '? That comes through trimming verges." 
 
 " It is your gairden, Swift, of course," said 
 Master Jock, coldly. 
 
106 Honesty's Garden 
 
 " No," said I earnestly. " Not mine, Jock. 
 Honesty's — and always will be. Let us divide 
 duties. I will do the rolling of the paths, it 's 
 exercise that will keep me fit. You shall do the 
 weeding, it will not be much if we work little 
 and often." I turned to the Undertaker, who 
 was positively trembling with eagerness — " You 
 shall do the verges, and Jones shall pick the 
 withered flowers. There, that 's settled. Let us 
 all go in to my house, and seal the compact." I 
 locked the door of the house quietly behind me, 
 and led the way back through the gap in the 
 sweetbriar hedge. Jock, with affected careless- 
 ness, plucked a rosebud from the garden, while 
 the Undertaker, pretending to tie his shoe-lace, 
 stole a pansy. They thought I didn't notice, 
 either the one — or the other! 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 
 Joynson has come, has seen — has conquered. 
 That is, he has talked me into permitting him 
 to catalogue my quartos in the next sale but one. 
 He can't get them in before, as the necessary 
 arrangements will not permit. 
 
 He pointed out to me, cogently: 
 
 First : That I could n't hope to buy the. 
 American's quartos: whereas he could hope to 
 buy mine. 
 
 Second: What good could it be to anybody 
 to possess eight of the plays? They didn't 
 even make a complete volume, let alone a 
 collection. It was like owning the tail of a 
 dog. 
 
 Third: Supposing I had a fire, and the 
 quartos were consumed, as might easily hap- 
 pen? Did I imagine there was any fire insur- 
 ance company in the world who would pay me 
 a tithe of what the quartos were undoubtedly 
 worth? 
 
 Fourth : The market was absolutely right for 
 Shakespeare quartos; the chance of getting a 
 tip-top price might never occur again — more- 
 
 107 
 
108 Honesty's Garden 
 
 over, the American had n't gone back. Joynson 
 knew where he was staying. 
 
 I am bound to confess (within myself) that 
 the amount I am likely to get, as royalties on 
 account, for the Alfred book (even if I finish 
 revising it) won't run into three figures. My 
 editing of Gatherway's series of classics, the 
 Little Marvels, progresses ; and the first two are 
 on the stocks. But here again I shall have to 
 wait before seeing any return. 
 
 So I allow Joynson to catalogue my quartos, 
 although with a heavy heart. 
 
 Meanwhile, the garden next door is receiving 
 plenty of attention. Never has the lawn been 
 so scrupulously mown, nor the verges so care- 
 fully cut and edged. There is not a weed to be 
 seen in the beds; and withered flowers are 
 scarcely given a moment's grace. The paths are 
 superbly rolled. I do that. 
 
 I wonder how often those young things, the 
 dramatis personam of our comedy, write to each 
 other? and what they find new to say each 
 time they write? Honesty might grant a mo- 
 ment's leisure in which to let me know where 
 she is 
 
 They don't consider old fogies, these lovers. 
 Why should they, after all? Later on, 
 perhaps 
 
 I never spy those silent couples in the lanes 
 
Honesty's Garden 109 
 
 about Carbridge, standing so close to each other 
 in the soft, kindly shadows, so full of dreams, so 
 utterly happy — without being (scornfully per- 
 haps) a little jealous. I don't seem to have 
 ever been young like that — I feel I have been 
 defrauded. Folk laugh and nod meaningly 
 when they chance upon lovers — forgetting (fool- 
 ish creatures!) their own glorious days. I 
 would n't want to forget : I can't be harsh, even 
 in thought, with Phyllis — or Corydon. It won't 
 be always like that, my poor dears. Summer 
 nights come to an end all too soon: you may 
 discover, when it 's irrevocable, that you are both 
 very human, very inconsistent, both possessing 
 little tempers of your own. In broad daylight 
 Corydon observes that Phyllis has — freckles! 
 She sees that he notices : now 's the instant to 
 remember your tender speeches, your sweet 
 silences; do not drop hands, but rather hold 
 together all the more. 
 
 Corydon finds that even a small house costs 
 the dickens and all to keep up; it's all work, 
 work, to keep pace with the bills. Phyllis wants 
 pretty clothes — (one can't keep pretty without 
 pretty clothes!) Dear me, what worries for 
 both of you. But (between ourselves) isn't it 
 worth the worry? You 're together, you love 
 each other; the little home is very beautiful — 
 while you love each other. 
 
no Honesty's Garden 
 
 Shall I, one of these days, witness Honesty 
 beginning to suspect that romance begins and 
 ends in summer? Shall I know Baillie grown 
 indifferent, and matter-of-fact? If I imagined 
 that there was ever the least chance of such vile 
 happenings I would n't sell my quartos. 
 
 However, I don't imagine anything so im- 
 possible. 
 
 Aunt Sophie, Eva, and Miss Harrison finely 
 surprise us one evening. We are all hard at it, 
 when sudden thunder and toot-tootlings proclaim 
 the advent of the motor-car. 
 
 I cease rolling, and give the word : " Prepare 
 to receive cavalry." 
 
 Jones scoots through the sweetbriar hedge; I 
 hastily plunge after her. The weedy-looking 
 youth, now in full motor rig, is handing the 
 ladies out. The Undertaker pauses in his mow- 
 ing, and critically examines the verges. Baillie 
 stands at attention. 
 
 " My dear Mortimer ! " 
 
 Aunt Sophie is upon me. " What roads, my 
 dear man ! Really awful. Goodness knows how 
 many people we have killed; I don't like to 
 think about it. The dust, and the stupidity of 
 your villagers ! Do they know which is the right 
 side of the road, Mortimer; are they totally 
 deficient in common-sense? " 
 
 " Well, aunt — we 're rather quiet down here. 
 
Honesty's Garden in 
 
 We get in a way of believing that the earth is 
 partly to be walked upon, after all. Our carts 
 certainly do tack up our hills — they always have 
 tacked, you know. We don't loiter on the per- 
 manent way in front of expresses ; and we there- 
 fore expect expresses not to wildly tear up and 
 down our lanes." 
 
 Miss Harrison smiles indulgently, showing her 
 nice teeth. " We don't wildly tear up and down 
 anything, Mr. Swift. I 'm sure we have been 
 quite twenty-eight minutes travelling here; and 
 it 's no more than twelve miles." 
 
 " Besides," interrupts Eva, who has been eye- 
 ing Baillie surreptitiously — " Besides, did n't 
 they say all that when trains were first in- 
 vented? And who travels on a coach now, I 
 would like to know? If you aren't screamingly 
 glad to see us, Cousin Mortimer, after we have 
 taken all the trouble to come " 
 
 " I am most delighted to see you," I hastily 
 interpose. " Nice-looking cousins are always 
 welcome at Carbridge — especially when they 
 bring nice-looking friends. You are just in 
 time for early supper; Jones has rushed in to 
 lay extra plates for you. Can't you hear her 
 rattling them? " I beckon Baillie, who really 
 is staring — " Now Jock, come here, please. I 
 want you to know my Aunt Sophie." He comes 
 with alacrity through the gap in the sweetbriar 
 
ii2 Honesty's Garden 
 
 — " Mrs. Duveen, Mr. Baillie. My Cousin Eva, 
 a very naughty girl. Also her friend, my friend, 
 and, I hope, to be your friend — Miss Harrison. 
 There you are ! " 
 
 " Quite a master of the ceremonies, Mortimer," 
 says Aunt Sophie. " You take my breath away. 
 Mr. Baillie, I have come down to Carbridge to- 
 night to ask my nephew a great favour. I trust 
 you '11 persuade him to grant it." 
 
 " It 's granted before you ask, aunt — so long 
 as it does n't involve a ride in the motor." 
 
 " It 's worse," says Eva cheerfully. " We '11 
 break it to you later on." She glances towards 
 the Undertaker, who is still raptly absorbed in 
 contemplation of the verges next door. " I hope 
 we weren't disturbing you?" 
 
 " We were just doing a bit gairdening," Baillie 
 tells her importantly. " It 's exercise, and Mrs. 
 Dene 's away the whiles. Swift 's the tidy man." 
 
 " We 're all tidy in Carbridge," I explain. 
 " It is our unfortunate habit. Please come in, 
 everybody." I nod to the Undertaker dismiss- 
 ingly, and lead the way indoors. Aunt Sophie 
 takes my arm; the weedy-looking youth greets 
 the Undertaker — as he emerges, rather forlornly, 
 from Honesty's garden — with a peremptory re- 
 quest for the loan of a " spanner." 
 
 " Now Mortimer, I want you to be kind to an 
 old woman," begins my aunt. " Your uncle is 
 
Honesty's Garden 113 
 
 feeling very run down and low. I am sending 
 him off next week to Aix, but shall never get 
 him further than Newhaven unless I can count 
 on you." 
 
 " I can't go to Aix," I argue. " I have n't the 
 leisure; nor the means." 
 
 " You need n't worry about the latter," says 
 my aunt, decidedly. "Your uncle must be taken 
 to Aix, properly installed there, and a course of 
 baths must be arranged for him. He is as ob- 
 stinate, Mortimer, as — most men, and he is 
 nearly doubled up with rheumatism* He has 
 been dosing himself with lithia — until he is 
 sufficiently depressed to commit suicide in forty 
 different ways." 
 
 " I know a splendid cure for rheumatism, aunt. 
 It 's quite infallible, an elixir vitce. It 's so 
 simple that you '11 laugh " 
 
 " Then I had rather not hear anything about 
 it." Aunt Sophie is firm. " I want to be quite 
 serious, Mortimer. If you have a remedy for 
 rheumatism, I should strongly advise you to 
 patent it; give it a catchpenny name, and then 
 advertise in all the Sunday newspapers. You '11 
 make a fortune. But, first, I desire you to try 
 to please an old woman — by taking your uncle 
 to the baths at Aix." 
 
 We have all arrived in the parlour by this. 
 Through the window I can dimly perceive the 
 
 8 
 
ii4 Honesty's Garden 
 
 legs of the weedy youth and the arms of the 
 Undertaker amicably waving about from under 
 the works of the motor. Those two are happy 
 for the immediate present. I seat my guests 
 round the table; Aunt Sophie takes the end and 
 I the top. Eva and Baillie arrange themselves 
 side by side, while Miss Harrison takes my right 
 hand. The situation is temporarily saved: but 
 as soon as all are served with cold sirloin, salad, 
 or chutnee (according to taste), aunt renews 
 the attack. 
 
 " This is the notion, Mortimer, and Mr. 
 Baillie, please say he must accept. We all 
 meet next Sunday morning at 9.30 at Victoria, 
 and take the boat-train to Newhaven. Then 
 on to Dieppe, by half-past three. At Dieppe 
 I, and Eva, and Kitty Harrison are going to 
 spend a fortnight — not a day more. Just 
 quietly, Mortimer, at some little hotel off the 
 front." 
 
 " We thought of the Hotel de Paris," says 
 Eva. " Or the Chariot d' Or," 
 
 " I generally put up at the Hotel du Rhin" I 
 remark, imprudently. There is a chorus, " How 
 jolly ! Then you know Dieppe, Mortimer? That 's 
 splendid ; you '11 be able to see us all fixed up 
 before going on to Aix." 
 
 " My dear aunt," say I, with determination, 
 " you must please not count on me. I have just 
 
Honesty's Garden 115 
 
 commenced my new duties as sub-editor of the 
 Colosseum." 
 
 " Surely you could get a few days' leave? " 
 Aunt Sophie urges. " A week-end, Mortimer — 
 say Sunday until the following Monday week? " 
 A w T eek-end ! " Of course, I should love to go 
 with you," I continue. " Dieppe is a delightful 
 little place. Those who go through it, en route to 
 Paris, only see the quay, and so get a totally 
 wrong idea of a charming little town. The 
 Casino is most amusing — you must join directly 
 you arrive, taking a family ticket. That 's much 
 cheaper." 
 
 " Oh, won't it be splendid, Kit? " breathes 
 Eva. " We shall want you to stay all the time, 
 Cousin Mortimer." 
 
 " You '11 give us a look-up on your return, you 
 know," adds Aunt Sophie. " Please pass me the 
 claret. What a sweet jug, Mortimer." 
 
 " Old Bohemian," I manage to throw in. She 
 rattles on : " Yes, that 's how we have planned 
 it. Your uncle and you to go to Aix, on the 
 second or third day. You install him comfort- 
 ably, and stay as long as you will. Then back 
 to Dieppe, and take your reward with us. Eva 
 and I will promise that you shall do just what 
 you like, and — understand, Mortimer — you are 
 to be your uncle's guest. He simply won't go 
 under any other arrangement." 
 
u6 Honesty's Garden 
 
 They very nearly talk me into it, between 
 them. Eventually I compromise by agreeing to 
 take them all to Dieppe, where, having found 
 Aunt Sophie and the girls a comfortable pension, 
 I will start my worthy uncle off to Aix. I shall 
 then promptly return to London. It will mean 
 being away from Sunday next to the Wednesday 
 or Thursday. 
 
 " So you soon will be back to your garden- 
 ing," says Eva, maliciously. " Mrs. Dene may 
 be home by then. I hope you '11 send her in a 
 big bill, all of you — for keeping her garden so 
 tidy." 
 
 Baillie, not catching my warning glance, re- 
 marks innocently : " It will be Swift's own 
 gairden, ye ken. It 's the bill / will be sending 
 to friend Mortimer here presently — for weeding 
 and hoeing and the like." 
 
 " I meant Mrs. Dene's garden more parti- 
 cularly," Eva tells him, with a sly twinkle for 
 both of us. 
 
 " 'T is all one — " Baillie answers, perplexed 
 at my frowns, of which he is at last aware. I 
 am conscious that Eva and Aunt Sophie are 
 regarding me very curiously. " Mrs. Dene has 
 left Carbridge," I announce, taking a bold 
 plunge. " I have bought her house and garden 
 rather than endure fresh neighbours. That was 
 why we were all so busy when you came down." 
 
Honesty's Garden 117 
 
 Aunt Sophie opens her mouth; shuts it on a 
 single word, with an obvious effort. " Oh? " 
 
 "Oh?" echoes Eva. 
 
 Miss Harrison merely smiles, irritatingly. 
 Whenever people have nice teeth they always 
 smile at every opportunity. 
 
 " Yes," say I, closing the subject, " that was 
 why we were all so busy. Let me give you some 
 pie, aunt — I can recommend it strongly. Cream, 
 too. Direct from Devon. I have it from Lyn- 
 mouth once a week, all the year round." 
 
CHAPTER XIII 
 
 I can scarcely realise what has happened 
 to-day. A strange mixture of emotions is 
 chaotically rioting through me. 
 
 An awful reflection recurs perpetually. But 
 let me begin at the beginning; and, while writing 
 it all down, reason with myself that everything 
 has chanced for the best. 
 
 Since Aunt Sophie had instructed me that 
 Uncle Duveen had been obliged to postpone the 
 Aix-les-Bains trip, I have enjoyed peace — of a 
 sort. Baillie and the Undertaker and Jones 
 have worked with tolerable amiability with me 
 in the gardens, on fine nights. Jock, however, 
 seemed childishly upset on that evening when Eva 
 and Miss Harrison motored over to Carbridge 
 to bring me aunt's letter, and properly explain 
 why the Dieppe holiday was not to be. I asked 
 them if they would care to go over my new 
 property. 
 
 Jock came, too — after again saying he 
 would n't. It was when we were admiring 
 Honesty's own little room that I first began to 
 
 118 
 
Honesty's Garden 119 
 
 notice his agitation. It is a small nest — as 
 sweet as a young maid's heart: the casement 
 window is draped with pink, dainty curtains; 
 the wall-paper has pink roses garlanded across 
 a pale-blue ground. I had put some silver 
 brushes and things upon the toilet table, and 
 Jones had cut blush roses for a big bowl stand- 
 ing on a little table. 
 
 Eva and Miss Kitty had no false sentiment. 
 My youthful cousin appeared to find everything 
 most interesting. She and the other girl — the 
 one with the nice teeth — stayed a little while 
 afterwards with us; while Baillie gradually got 
 better — and less Scotch as the time wore on. He 
 eventually motored back with the two girls and 
 the weedy gardener's son. I think, by the way, 
 that Jones is rather interested in that youth. 
 
 Baillie is very close as regards Honesty. Be- 
 yond his perturbation, already mentioned, I have 
 learned no whit as to her present whereabouts. 
 I shall have to ask right out, I suppose, when 
 the hour comes for me to take Jock into my 
 grand scheme. 
 
 The Undertaker, regretfully, has not been able 
 to quite complete my purchase of Mrs. Dene's 
 house and garden. He speaks (with technical 
 elaborations which I don't positively follow) of 
 mortgages and title deeds, and what not. I am 
 to see him presently 
 
120 Honesty's Garden 
 
 Which brings me back once more to to-day, 
 with its exhausting catastrophe. 
 
 I can't make myself realise that my cherished 
 quartos are really sold — it must surely be some 
 hideous dream from which, with huge relief, I 
 shall suddenly awake. When I arrived at the 
 sale-rooms this afternoon, it was with the fixed 
 intention not to go in, but just to glance, as it 
 were, at the outside. Alas, for the frailty of us 
 poor mortals; good intentions always prelude 
 fatalities. At least, they do with me. 
 
 There was quite a crowd in the lobby, with 
 a real policeman keeping order. I paused at the 
 foot of the steps and said to him, " What 's the 
 matter, officer? " 
 
 " They 're selling some very rummy old books, 
 sir," he informed me, adding with fine pity, " and 
 half London seems to have gone cracked over 
 'em." 
 
 "What are they?" I pursued, with a guilty 
 joy surging in my breast. 
 
 " I don't rightly know, sir. Won't you step 
 inside? " 
 
 I was going to say " No, thank you," when 
 somehow I got pushed up the steps. One 
 couldn't stay in the lobby; I had to go in or 
 out. 
 
 So I went in. 
 
 Such a buzzing and excitement ! I spied Joyn- 
 
Honesty's Garden 121 
 
 son at the high rostrum, gazing with admirable 
 affectation of nonchalance over the heads of the 
 crowd of book buyers, bargain-hunters, dealers, 
 and curiosity mongers — at the uppermost shelf 
 of the remotest bookcase. A lot had just been 
 sold; I fought my way to the long table below 
 Joynson's perch, and found half a seat with a 
 rather fusty old dealer. 
 
 Another lot was put up. Joynson's business 
 tones chanted in a minor key; the bidding was 
 impatient, brief. Yet another lot was cried. 
 
 I peeped at the catalogue, grimed and already 
 dog-eared, which the old dealer had spread be- 
 fore him. My glance, shooting sideways, lighted 
 upon Lot 206. 
 
 My quartos. 
 
 I can hear now Joynson's voice, still in the 
 minor key, still affecting indifference. "Lot 
 206. Eight very finely preserved quarto vol- 
 umes of Shakespeare's plays. Published in the 
 years 1600-1619. Collected by John Dering, 
 Esquire, and possibly originally bound together. 
 Each half-bound in brown calf. The pages have 
 not been cut down, but the leaves of two volumes 
 are slightly spotted. Imprinted as follows: 
 
 " (1) The whole contention between the two 
 Famous Houses, Lancaster and Yorke. With 
 the tragicall ende of the good Duke Humfrey, 
 Richard Duke of Yorke and King Henry the 
 
122 Honesty's Garden 
 
 Sixt. Divided into two parts, and Newly 
 Corrected and Enlarged. Written by William 
 Shakespeare, gent. Printed at London, for T.P. 
 No date. 
 
 " (2) A Midsommer Night's dreame. As it 
 hath beene sundry times publikely acted, by the 
 Right Honourable the Lord Chamberlaine his 
 servants. Written by William Shakespeare. 
 Printed by James Roberts, 1600. 
 
 " (3) Mr. William Shakespeare, His True 
 Chronicle History of the Life and death of King 
 Lear, and his three daughters. With the un- 
 fortunate life of Edgar, sonne and heire to the 
 Earle of Gloucester, and his sullen and assumed 
 humour of Tom o' Bedlam. As it was plaid 
 before the Kings Majesty at White Hall, uppon 
 St. Stephen's night, in Christmas Holidaies. 
 By his Majesties Servants, playing usually at 
 the Globe on the Banck-side. Printed for 
 Nathaniel Butler, 1608." 
 
 But why go on? Don't I know those dear 
 long-winded old titles by heart! Haven't I 
 pored over them, read them aloud to myself, 
 hugged them (figuratively) to my breast on a 
 thousand happy occasions! And they are gone, 
 gone 
 
 I could weep were it not so utterly childish. 
 And yet 
 
 The sale of these books, beloved as they are, 
 
Honesty's Garden 123 
 
 means the lifelong happiness of two very inter- 
 esting young people. Now I can buy Honesty's 
 garden comfortably, easily — and give it back to 
 her complete and unencumbered. For she shan't 
 have Baillie with it unless she particularly 
 wants him. 
 
 Of course she will. 
 
 Joynson's voice, still droning : " The late and 
 much admired Play called Pericles, Prince of 
 Tyre. With the true relation of the whole his- 
 tory, adventures, and fortunes of the said 
 Prince. Written by W. Shakespeare. Printed 
 for T. P. 1619. There is one volume missing, 
 gentlemen, of the series, if compared with the 
 other known sets. Probably the missing vol- 
 ume is the ' Yorkshire Tragedie, not so new as 
 lamentable and true.' That was also printed by 
 T. Pavier. Will some gentleman kindly start 
 the bidding. Five hundred pounds? Thank 
 you." 
 
 At once there was a confusion, a babel. Six 
 hundred, seven hundred, eight hundred, eight- 
 fifty. Pause. Nine hundred, nine-fifty, nine 
 seventy-five. Pause. Twelve hundred, at a 
 jump. 
 
 Joynson acknowledged the bid with a pale 
 smile. He waved his hammer inquiringly. 
 
 Twelve-fifty, seventy-five, thirteen-hundred 
 
 Fifteen hundred, in nasal tones. 
 
124 Honesty's Garden 
 
 The old dealer beside me nodded. " That 's 
 the American,'' he told me, knowingly. " He 
 bought a set a week or so back. Most in this 
 lot are different to those he holds. He means 
 business." 
 
 " Please don't talk," requested some one be- 
 hind us. " I want to follow the bidding." 
 
 " Now, gentlemen " — cried Joynson, just a 
 shade flurried. " Fifteen hundred has been 
 offered. Any advance? " 
 
 My old dealer glanced up. "Sixteen," he 
 mumbled. 
 
 This annoyed me, for some absurd reason. 
 Those grimy hands on my quartos? Never. 
 " Sixteen-fifty." 
 
 I did n't realise that it was I who had said it. 
 I felt myself go scarlet. Such a breach of eti- 
 quette! Trying to run up the bidding, folks 
 would say. I was n't sure that what I had done 
 was not criminal. " If you want it, sir — " began 
 the old dealer in a hoarse whisper. 
 
 " Silence, please. Sixteen-fifty, seventy-five, 
 seventeen hundred. Thank you, sir." Joynson 
 threatened with his hammer. 
 
 " Eighteen hundred," muttered the old man 
 next me. " I 'm bidding for you, sir, one per 
 cent.," he added in a whisper. "That all right? " 
 
 Ere I could frame a reply the nasal voice rang 
 out — "Two thousand pounds." 
 
Honesty's Garden 125 
 
 Heavy pause. One might have heard a pin's 
 head drop — let alone the proverbial pin. Then 
 some one coughed. Joynson, with elaborate 
 politeness, turned in that direction. " Did you 
 say two thousand and twenty-five?" he re- 
 quested. 
 
 " And thirty." 
 
 It was the old dealer; and I ardently hoped 
 he would get them and pass them all back to me. 
 When I saw those dear books lying there on the 
 table, so helpless, so forlorn, with the ghost of 
 old John Dering near by, anxiously trembling 
 — beseeching the right buyer to buy — my eyes 
 grew misty. 
 
 " Thirty-five— forty— forty-five." The bidding 
 was careful, and came from different parts of 
 the room. What would Joynson think if I 
 bought them in? What would it cost me? 
 
 My brain refused to work it out. I only knew 
 I wanted them : could n't let them go. My heart 
 was being torn out of my body. I longed to 
 seize them up in one swift armful, and rush 
 forth. They were mine, mine 
 
 Afar off, a scent of roses — Honesty's garden. 
 To make two people happy. To do one really 
 useful thing in one's life. Surely this was a 
 chance for me not to be selfish for ever? 
 
 Not the way to get rich, my boy. Head be- 
 fore heart, if you please. If you sell these books 
 
126 Honesty's Garden 
 
 you mustn't give away the result. Better buy 
 them in than do that — though it would be a 
 stupid thing to do. Hang sentiment, useless 
 lumber. Let it go. 
 
 " Two thousand, one hundred ! " 
 
 That brought me back to earth. The Ameri- 
 can meant it : no good to fight. Only three in it 
 now. I bade my old man be silent — avoided his 
 watery glance. I tried to distinguish who were 
 those left in; hoping to be able to read the man 
 and find comfort in thinking he had a nice 
 face. 
 
 " And two hundred." It was the last bid of 
 one of the best-known book dealers in town. 
 He was calm and confident: but so was the 
 American. 
 
 " Two thousand and two hundred, gentle- 
 men? " 
 
 The Yankee had a nice face, if a somewhat 
 decided voice. He added fifty pounds imme- 
 diately. A small thin man on the other side 
 of the table increased it to seventy-five. I did n't 
 take to the small thin man, any more than did 
 the ghost of old John Dering. I could see him 
 plainly whispering to the American to end the 
 matter. His intangible mind was made up. 
 
 " Two thousand and five hundred pounds ! " 
 
 The pause which followed this stupendous bid 
 was almost painful. Joynson looked positively 
 
Honesty's Garden 127 
 
 green. His hammer wavered: lifted itself: 
 wavered again. 
 
 " Gone," said he, in a tiny little croak. The 
 hammer fell with a nervous rap. 
 
 I turned to the American even as the hubbub 
 broke out. He was close behind me, promis- 
 ing the ghost all sorts of things. He elbowed his 
 way towards the rostrum; and, as he passed, I 
 laid my hand on his sleeve. " I heartily con- 
 gratulate you, sir," I said; and I meant it — for 
 the moment! 
 
 He looked surprised. " Thank you." 
 
 He had a pleasant way of saying it : the ghost 
 and I shook hands. 
 
CHAPTER XIV 
 
 News brought me by the Undertaker has 
 rather upset my peace of mind. Until now I 
 have been fondly under the impression that, 
 whatever had been Mrs. Dene's difficulties mone- 
 tarily, the sale of her property must have dis- 
 pelled them — for a while at least. But when 
 all the title deeds were before me, and the Under- 
 taker, Mr. Wright, and I concluded the business 
 — with deep misgiving I perceived there had been 
 heavy mortgages on the house and grounds. 
 
 And I knew that Wright hadn't given much 
 for the furniture. 
 
 Since, I have been worried about them, those 
 two bold people who have disappeared from my 
 ken — to adventure, no doubt, some impossible 
 craft on stormy waters. I know the way women 
 think, bless them — even if I am an old bachelor. 
 
 You only have to buy a sweet-stuff shop, or a 
 stationer's (with a typewriter), or start a select 
 boarding-house at the seaside. Then — it 's 
 merely a question of how long your poor little 
 bit of money will last ! 
 128 
 
Honesty's Garden 129 
 
 Baillie, however, is in correspondence with 
 them — so it 's all right. 
 
 The mystery of his story has been solved, in 
 a somewhat exasperating manner. The editor 
 of the Balmoral writes me indignantly, enclosing 
 a letter from one of his readers. It seems that 
 the Balmoral, like most enterprising journals 
 nowadays, offers prizes. One of them is a re- 
 ward to any one detecting unoriginal matter in 
 its pages, and some astounding clever fellow has 
 tracked Baillie's effort to its source. 
 
 In short, the story has been printed before, 
 and the editor is righteously wrathful. So, too, 
 am I. The story came out first ten years 
 ago, we are told, in a missionary paper cir- 
 culating in China. Evidently the Balmoral is 
 widely read! 
 
 The editor had requested Master Know- All to 
 produce the missionary paper before taking the 
 reward. The wretch did so. It has been pro- 
 duced to me. I recollect that I said (to Honesty, 
 was it not?) that I thought I had once read 
 something like the story. I was right, I had. 
 
 The story is n't Baillie's. It is my own, writ- 
 ten and forgotten long ago — save that, as Steven- 
 son once said — my memory remembered for me. 
 This practical joke makes me figure as an idiot 
 in the eyes of the Balmoral folk. I don't believe 
 I quite deserved it at Honesty's hands. 
 
130 Honesty's Garden 
 
 I have returned the five pounds, plus the 
 "golden guinea" reward. (Why do editors 
 always think in " golden " guineas or " crisp " 
 five-pound notes?) I have also apologised — ex- 
 plaining that the story is original, even if not 
 new — since the anonymous contributor to the 
 missionary magazine and myself are one and the 
 same person. 
 
 Why did Honesty do this thing — and how? 
 
 Jones did certainly have a comprehensive, 
 exhaustive, and rather late spring-cleaning this 
 year. Did she come across stray numbers of 
 the Reaper in this process, and promptly use 
 them for the daily bonfire? Did a copy incon- 
 tinently blow over the hedge into Honesty's 
 garden? 
 
 Even then, the story was anonymous. I turn 
 to the Reaper, produced by the villain who has 
 received my guinea, to make sure. Yes, the story 
 was unsigned. 
 
 Turning the leaves I notice the inevitable 
 " Answers to Correspondents " ; and my own 
 name hits me in both eyes at once. " Mortimer 
 Swift. Thank you for kind wishes and generous 
 gift from your talented pen. The story appears 
 in this number on pages four and five. We 
 should much like to hear often from you." 
 
 That 's how you get something for nothing ; 
 although I don't value the story, anyway. Per- 
 
Honesty's Garden 131 
 
 haps I did value it then, when as a novice I. 
 found it so hard to get into print. 
 
 Thus it is possible that Honesty obtained the 
 story, per Jones, per her bonfire. I ask Jones 
 about it, and she answers in the correct Jonesian 
 manner. " Reapers ! No, I have n't seen no 
 reapers. What are they — them things you trim 
 the grass with? A paper? Oh, no, sir. I don't 
 never destroy any of your writing papers." 
 
 Jones always calls manuscript writing-paper; 
 which seems to me a good description. " It was 
 a paper like this," I explain, showing her the 
 copy. 
 
 She plainly recognises it, and is taken aback. 
 " Well, there was a lot of rubbidge and stuff 
 under the desk. I didn't think they was any 
 use. You told me that what was under there 
 must have fell out of the waste-paper basket, 
 and could be burnt." 
 
 " There were some papers like this? " 
 
 " Just one or two, now I call it to mind. And 
 I did n't burn them, in course. The young lady 
 next door always had the old magazines for the 
 Cottage 'Ospital. I expect I gave 'em to Miss 
 Honesty." 
 
 " It does n't matter a bit," said I, seeing that 
 it upset her to imagine I thought her over- 
 zealous. 
 
 " It 's no good leaving 'oles and corners if 
 
132 Honesty's Garden 
 
 you 're going to spring clean," says Jones. 
 " You must do it thorough ; or else leave it 
 alone." 
 
 I mollify her. As she goes forth from my 
 den she hesitates at the door. " I suppose you 
 don't hear nothing of the young lady, sir, and 
 her mar? I do so 'ate that garding being empty- 
 like. They was saying the vicar would have 
 liked the place — for a Cripples' Home, or some- 
 thing — but you was just too quick for him." 
 
 " Mr. Baillie hears from Mrs. Dene, I be- 
 lieve," say I, turning over my " writing-paper " 
 as a kind of hint that I wished to be alone. 
 " Who told you about the vicar wanting the 
 property? " 
 
 " Mr. Wright's young gentleman — he told me," 
 states Jones. She adds, in so extremely doubt- 
 ful a tone that I, too, begin to be doubtful — 
 " I don't think Mr. Baillie knows where Mrs. 
 Dene has gone. Miss Honesty would n't ever be 
 writing to him, would she?" As I do not an- 
 swer, Jones is compelled to retire — which she 
 does lingeringly and with evident regret. She 
 leaves me still a long way off discovering why 
 Honesty typed my story and gave it me as some- 
 thing new. I understand her reason for not 
 accepting the five pounds. But no more. 
 
 Baillie is busy in the garden, and the Under- 
 taker is trimming the verges with accuracy and 
 
Honesty's Garden 133 
 
 precision. I determine to go down to them, and 
 roll. 
 
 It was not until after the Undertaker had gone 
 that I had a chance to open the subject, and 
 even then it was not easy. I said something 
 about the garden, of course. 
 
 " It 's pleasant work," said Baillie, in answer. 
 
 " I did n't mean that so much," I went on. 
 " I meant I ought n't to let it become a tax on 
 you, Jock. You're so good-natured that you 
 don't realise you're giving up a lot of your 
 time." 
 
 " I would sooner be here than in the city." 
 
 " Yes ; but — are you sure that there are not 
 other things you would like doing better? Weed- 
 ing a garden is all very well " 
 
 " I 've nothing better to do, Swift, than weed- 
 ing — just now. It will be very restful to the 
 brain." 
 
 So I tried another tack. " I 'm going to 
 Dieppe, after all — just for a few days. By the 
 way, when do you take your annual month? Or 
 is it six months? " 
 
 He considered the matter gravely, straighten- 
 ing himself up from a recalcitrant dandelion 
 which simply would n't come out of the middle 
 of the gravel path. " It will be on Saturday 
 
134 Honesty's Garden 
 
 week that I shall be having a few days' vaca- 
 tion," said he deliberately. 
 
 " And where are you going? " 
 
 " Just anywhere." 
 
 " That means I 'm not to ask questions? " 
 
 He shook his head. " I was thinking I would 
 cross the water with you, Swift — if you had been 
 willing." 
 
 " Would you, Jock? I never gave that a 
 thought. It would n't be bad though, upon my 
 word." I was rather struck with the idea. 
 " Why did n't you mention it before? " 
 
 " I might be bothering you," he began. 
 
 " Not at all, I should like it immensely." I 
 took a shot at him : " I had an idea that you 
 would be seeing the Denes during your holidays : 
 or else I should have suggested your coming to 
 Dieppe with us." 
 
 He made no reply — beyond turning to his 
 weeding. After a long pause, he said: "And 
 what made you think I would be seeing the 
 Denes?" 
 
 " Oh, I don't know. I only imagined that 
 might be your programme, from some remarks 
 you once made to me." I eyed him banteringly, 
 but he weeded with obstinacy. 
 
 " I often wonder where they are," I added, 
 hinting outrageously. 
 
 He still was silent; so I began to roll the lawn 
 
Honesty's Garden 135 
 
 again. When we were tidying up for the night 
 he suddenly remarked, apparently apropos of 
 nothing at all — " I will not be knowing where 
 Mrs. Dene has gone. She does not favour me 
 with her confidences." 
 
 I was so taken aback that I did not even resent 
 his sarcasm — palpably aimed at myself. It was 
 so firmly in my mind that Baillie knew where 
 they were. " You don't know Mrs. Dene's 
 address? " I questioned blankly. 
 
 " Since they left Carbridge I have never seen 
 nor heard from the Denes," says he, then — and 
 I saw that he was bitterly aggrieved. 
 
 " You don't imagine that I — " There I 
 stopped, and faced him. The full seriousness of 
 the issue had come upon me. " Surely you know 
 where they are, Jock — you must know! Why, 
 I have been counting on your knowing. All my 
 plans have been laid in that belief. Has n't 
 Honesty written you? " 
 
 " Aye, she did that. I have her letter." He 
 began fumbling in his coat pocket. " I will 
 show it to you, Swift, if you wish." 
 
 " My dear boy, of course not ! Letters like 
 that should be sacred " 
 
 " 'T is only to thank me for sending her a 
 book," said he, gruffly. We went inside and 
 washed our hands, and were at supper before 
 taking the subject further. Baillie presently 
 
136 Honesty's Garden 
 
 produced a small, carefully preserved note. It 
 ran as follows, so far as I can recollect : 
 
 "Dear Mr. Baillie: How kind of you! I 
 have so long wanted to read Heart's Desire, and 
 have never once felt brave enough to ask the 
 author where I could get it. I shall think of 
 you all when reading the story — it looks very 
 interesting from a small peep I have taken. Yes, 
 we are leaving Carbridge almost immediately. 
 I do not know where we shall settle ultimately; 
 but we go to a friend's house first, in High- 
 gate. I shall miss my garden, and my good 
 neighbours, very, very much. It is a wrench for 
 mother — and yours always sincerely, 
 
 "Honesty Dene." 
 
 I read it, and felt flattered in the truest sense. 
 It was nice of Jock to have given her my book. 
 I told him so. 
 
 " She was wanting to have it," he answered, 
 baldly ; then volunteered, " I have no had leisure 
 to read it myself, Swift. I suppose there was 
 naething in it she shouldna read? " 
 
 He said this in such good faith that one could 
 not be upset. " It is a perfectly proper book," I 
 announced. " That 's partly why it did n't run 
 into a second edition. Jock, is this all? " 
 
 " Miss Dene will have written that just be- 
 
Honesty's Garden 137 
 
 fore she left Carbridge," said he, labouring to 
 be calm. " She has thought naething else of 
 me worth a letter. I '11 trouble you to pass the 
 whiskey, if you please." 
 
 I complied in silence. It seemed useless to 
 tell him that I, too, had had no word from 
 them ; had not the faintest idea where they might 
 be. Some magnitude of the task I had so lightly 
 undertaken came upon me 
 
 I heard Baillie's voice as from afar: " 'T is 
 not the water- jug I was wanting, Swift." 
 
 " I beg pardon, I 'm sure." I woke up to my 
 duties as host, while Baillie liberally helped the 
 table-cloth to my famous whiskey in his intense 
 agitation. 
 
CHAPTER XV 
 
 It is absolutely hateful to have to confess it, 
 but the Denes have disappeared into the un- 
 known without leaving us the smallest of clues. 
 Neither the Undertaker, nor Baillie, nor my 
 faithful Jones have the least knowledge of them ; 
 but all three plainly think that I know. I 
 simply dare n't admit, therefore, that my infor- 
 mation on this extremely interesting matter is 
 even less than theirs. 
 
 To Baillie and the Undertaker I have become 
 the god out of the machine. They obviously 
 wait my pleasure, and artfully attempt to out- 
 flank each other in seeking to curry favour. I 
 have to preserve a Sphinx-like attitude, which is 
 both unbecoming to my frank nature, and in- 
 tensely difficult to maintain. My inquiries have 
 had to be conducted in the manner of a certain 
 eminent detective, now unhappily deceased. 
 
 An advertisement in the Morning Post sug- 
 gested itself, and was duly achieved. I worded 
 it carefully, declaring my intentions crypto- 
 
 138 
 
Honesty's Garden 139 
 
 grammatically (Heavens, what a word!) as 
 follows : 
 
 " Mrs. D , of C.-on-M., is asked to forward 
 
 her address to Mortimer S., who very earnestly 
 wishes to be remembered." 
 
 I keep saying inwardly that something more 
 must be done. That's as far as I get. 
 
 Baillie ought to find Honesty, of course. I 
 should, quickly enough, if she were in love with 
 me. 
 
 In such a contingency I would move heaven 
 and earth. I would search night and day. I 
 would will to find her, and bring her back to 
 her little nest, and cherish her far beyond every 
 other conceivable aspiration or ambition. She 
 would be my life — and more than my life. 
 She would be everything worth having in this 
 wide world — just embodied in the sweetest 
 personality ever created 
 
 I recollect, suddenly, that she isn't in love 
 with me. 
 
 Sometimes I fear that Baillie is not pre- 
 eminently worthy of his good fortune. It is 
 uncharitable of me; but Honesty is such a very 
 exceptional girl. I should not have given up 
 my quartos if she had not been a really extraor- 
 dinarily exceptional girl. Baillie, it seems to 
 me, takes it too easily. He is ready and willing 
 to let me bear the heat and burden of the quest 
 
140 Honesty's Garden 
 
 — only, of course, he does not understand that 
 I am "questing." Suppose I fail; what is to 
 become of the Home? Obviously I cannot live 
 in two houses; even if I can manage — with the 
 assistance of Jock, the Undertaker, and Jones 
 — two gardens. 
 
 Jones, by the way, once hinted that the church 
 people would like the Home as a Play House 
 for Crippled Children. One might have worse 
 neighbours; I will hear what Carbridge has to 
 say on the point. 
 
 But why? I am going to find Honesty. 
 
 I frequent the A.B.C. depots in Typewriting 
 Land, and peer about me inquisitively. So much 
 so that I have to keep changing to a fresh depot 
 every day, for fear of the manageress's eye. I 
 quail before the glance of an A.B.C. manageress. 
 How can I explain to one so haughty and emi- 
 nent that, please, I'm only searching for Honesty 
 Dene, hoping against hope that she may one day 
 be wandering about here, carrying a rolled and 
 beribboned typescript, trying to get work? 
 
 It is my very unlegal aspect which awakens 
 distrust in the rather meagre breast of the man- 
 ageress. Only barristers and other minions of 
 the law have the freedom of Typewriting Land. 
 
 Baillie, as I say, does n't appear utterly heart- 
 broken. He 's anxious, and all that. But 
 
 I have fancied (I may be entirely out of it) 
 
Honesty's Garden 141 
 
 that when Eva comes motoring Carbridgewards, 
 Jock is a wee bit inclined to — forget. Certainly, 
 Eva is a most amiable creature, and my cousin ; 
 still, if I had to choose between Eva and 
 Honesty 
 
 This reminds me that we are all going to 
 Dieppe in a few days' time. Aunt Sophie has 
 arranged it. She arranges everything; and 
 either invited Baillie, or encouraged him to in- 
 vite himself. Uncle Duveen is not going to Aix 
 unless he thinks he 's worse. They are going to 
 try him with a rest-cure at Dieppe. 
 
 I laugh, sardonically and silently, at the no- 
 tion of a rest-cure in that very lively little 
 Normandy seaport! 
 
 The postman has brought me a letter from 
 Gatherway, enclosing a cheque for dividends 
 much overdue. He gossips about his series, and 
 accuses me of being the slackest editor he has 
 ever had the misfortune to encourage. I am to 
 start on number four of his Little Marvels 
 (Little Devils, I am beginning to think them), 
 and see that he has all " copy " by end of Sep- 
 tember. He does not make the slightest apology 
 for being late with his dividends. 
 
 Any spare time I might have from the Colos- 
 seum, which I am finding to be an interesting 
 
142 Honesty's Garden 
 
 handful, I had intended to employ on a more 
 complete tour of Typewriting Land. I am very 
 worried about that child. What can she be 
 doing? 
 
 It is astonishing how much we miss her from 
 that garden. She has, somehow, grown to be 
 part of my rather useless life. My little scheme 
 for her happiness has quite come to a standstill. 
 It shall go forward again, however ; we will make 
 her happy, in spite of herself. 
 
 Why is she silent? Through what deep 
 waters are they passing, those two brave, de- 
 voted women? Their very silence terrifies me, 
 because I know a little of the world. I have 
 written Aunt Sophie that I can't go to Dieppe: 
 am far too busy. 
 
 Baillie, reinforced by Eva and Miss Harrison, 
 has demanded my instant surrender. I am to 
 go to Dieppe, or else have Uncle Duveen's blood 
 upon my head. It is imperatively necessary 
 that I should guide my revered relatives to 
 France. 
 
 "It's so easy," I argue, plaintively; "you 
 can't want me. You just go to Newhaven, and 
 change into the boat " 
 
 " Which boat? " demands Baillie. " I will be 
 thinking there are many boats at Newhaven." 
 
Honesty's Garden 143 
 
 "Only one which will take you to Dieppe/' 
 I retort. " The obliging officials will see that 
 you do not make any mistake. You will want 
 French money on board, because " 
 
 " And how will we get French money at New- 
 haven? " asks the relentless Jock. 
 
 " There is a bureau on the platform." 
 
 " But if it 's an English boat, why do we need 
 French money?" This from Eva, hopelessly. 
 
 " Because there 's a way they have of calling 
 a franc a shilling. * Em frong ' — pardon my 
 accent — they say, in response to your request, 
 1 How much? ' You give them a shilling, if you 
 have no French money; but do you get two- 
 pence change — I wonder ! " 
 
 " You must come with us, Mr. Swift." Miss Har- 
 rison states the issue calmly, but emphatically. 
 
 Their motor-car is pawing the earth outside 
 my gardens. (Am obliged to write in the 
 plural — since Honesty is yet to seek.) The 
 bilious youth is lost. So is Jones. I am so 
 bothered by them all, and by Miss Harrison's 
 pretty little smile, that I show signs of collapse. 
 At once they rush the trenches, attempt the 
 fortifications. 
 
 "We shall never be able to get through the 
 Customs without you," declares Miss Harrison, 
 her glance gently persuasive. " I have n't the 
 faintest notion of French, while as for Eva— — " 
 
144 Honesty's Garden 
 
 " I 've forgotten every syllable," my cousin 
 affirms. 
 
 " French is not necessary at Dieppe," I hasten 
 to reassure them, struggling still, although with 
 a strong sense of impending defeat. " When 
 they ask whether you have any contraband — 
 tobacco, tea, or matches, you know — you simply 
 have to shake your heads, look (if possible) 
 charmingly innocent, and repeat, ( Rien — abso- 
 lument.' That 's all you say." 
 
 " I could n't say it," Eva decides ; " at least, 
 not so convincingly as that." 
 
 " There will be great confusion at the 
 Customs, I make no doubt," ruminates Baillie 
 gloomily. 
 
 "No confusion at all," I tell him, lightly; 
 " and directly you are through you must stand 
 shoulder to shoulder outside the station, until 
 you see the 'bus of your hotel. Signal to the 
 driver, and firmly decline to enter any other 
 vehicle of any sort, kind, or description." 
 
 " I am thinking it would be only kind to Mrs. 
 Duveen that you should go with us, Swift," 
 argues the young man, obstinately. " She is 
 your aunt — and it will be your duty." 
 
 "What about Honesty's garden?" I demand, 
 out of patience with him. He avoids my stern 
 regard, and mumbles : " It is your ain affair, 
 Swift — that gairden. Mrs. Dene and Miss 
 
Honesty's Garden 145 
 
 Honesty would come back to it awhiles, may 
 be?" 
 
 Plainly a question. I am not going to answer 
 it. As a matter of fact, I cannot answer it — 
 satisfactorily. 
 
 Miss Harrison is firing again a whole battery 
 of cajolements : " Mrs. Duveen vowed she would 
 take no denial. Eva and I are special ambas- 
 sadors — ambassadresses. We called for Mr. 
 Baillie, and we can't go back with a refusal. 
 Now, please — / wish you to come; Eva wants 
 you; Mr. Duveen won't go without you — and if 
 Mr. Duveen won't go, we none of us can go. 
 Think of that." 
 
 " The dad is trying to wriggle out of it, that 's 
 a fact," Eva protests. " He always does try to 
 wriggle out of everything jolly. In common 
 with most men, my respected father is fright- 
 fully changeable. Directly we're set fair he 
 becomes stormy." 
 
 " My dear girl, I 'm not changeable." 
 
 " You 're the most changeable man in the 
 world, Mortimer. You said you were going to 
 Dieppe, and now, when you have coaxed us into 
 thinking of accompanying you — you meanly try 
 to get out of it." 
 
 I coaxed them into going! 
 
 Jones and the bilious gardener's son being 
 still lost to sight, though to memory dear — and 
 
146 Honesty's Garden 
 
 the motor-car being on the point of blowing 
 Carbridge and all its inhabitants into smither- 
 eens, I can but give way. " I '11 go for a week- 
 end. From Saturday till Tuesday, just to fix 
 you up comfortably and securely." 
 
 " You dear ! " cried Eva ; and before I could 
 retaliate, she overpoweringly embraced me. I 
 liked it, although convinced that she was peep- 
 ing for Baillie all the time. Miss Harrison 
 laughed ; she always does laugh. 
 
 She didn't desire to express her feeling of 
 joy and gratitude quite so openly. She merely 
 squeezed my fingers at parting. At least, I like 
 to believe she did. 
 
CHAPTER XVI 
 
 We are at Dieppe, at the Hdtel du Rhin. It 
 is modest, comfortable, and on the front. It is 
 also scrupulously clean. The cashier speaks 
 English, which is a help. Of course, I intend to 
 return on Tuesday, at the latest. 
 
 My Aunt Sophie and my Uncle Duveen have 
 taken a family ticket for the Casino — which is 
 practically opposite — for six. We are therefore 
 all Duveens for the time being. This is a most 
 economical arrangement, especially as Uncle 
 Duveen refuses to let any one else pay any part 
 of the amount. 
 
 The weather is behaving, and, really, the place 
 is quite delightful. I had forgotten that the 
 country was so pretty. We walked out to Pour- 
 ville the same afternoon that we arrived, and 
 motored back. Baillie and Eva could not find 
 room in our car, so chose to walk. 
 
 At dinner we sat at a long table, preferring 
 this to the restaurant, where one dines a la carte. 
 It was all very amusing and lively. Afterwards, I 
 escorted my family (for Uncle Duveen wouldn't 
 
 147 
 
148 Honesty's Garden 
 
 come out) to the Casino. There was a ball go- 
 ing on, and the everlasting petits chevaux. 
 
 Dancing is not in my line, but I like to watch 
 it. Eva insisted on my taking her round, and 
 then Miss Harrison. I suppose my dancing was 
 humorous in some manner, for she smiled con- 
 tinuously. At last I remarked, " I 'm afraid 
 you would rather sit it out? " 
 
 " Would you? " she inquired, instantly. 
 
 " Well, I 'm a bit of a duffer — and I hate to 
 bore any one. Every man should be aware of 
 his limitations." 
 
 " No true man is," she retorted. 
 
 I had to escort her outside, to discover what 
 this might mean. We walked up and down by 
 the sea for a turn or two, and then came back. 
 Eva and Jock had lost themselves, however, and 
 Aunt Sophie was fixed to table No. 4. "How 
 much?" I asked. 
 
 She answered over her ample shoulder, and 
 without removing her fixed stare from the green 
 cloth: "About a louis." 
 
 " I shall fetch uncle." 
 
 " You can — at eleven o'clock. I have a sys- 
 tem, and it 's going to be worked until then." 
 
 I know those systems. " Shall we leave her 
 to her fate? " I asked Kitty Harrison, not mean- 
 ing it really. 
 
 Aunt replied for her. " By all means — I hate 
 
Honesty's Garden 149 
 
 to have people asking me questions. My system 
 demands perfect concentration. Go and look at 
 the sea, both of you." 
 
 " We have," said Miss Harrison, plaintively. 
 
 " Go again, and see if an arm sticks out, or 
 anything, holding up the sword Excalibur. I 
 command you, Modred." 
 
 " My name is not Modred ; and " 
 
 Twenty people said " Hush ! " simultaneously. 
 " We had better go," opined Miss Harrison. 
 
 " Dance? " I queried. 
 
 " Let us stroll into the town, and have a look 
 round," she suggested, which was a delicate way 
 of telling me I did n't dance at all ! 
 
 I got her cloak, and we started off for the 
 Caf6 des Tribuneaux. As we crossed the road 
 and passed under the gateway between the two 
 old towers of the chateau, she took my arm. It 
 was done in such a nice way that really one 
 could n't object. 
 
 " That 's the theatre," I told her, pretending 
 I hadn't noticed; "and that's the Hotel de 
 Paris, a very jolly little house. I should have 
 taken you all there, if the * du Rhin ' had been 
 full. By the way, where are you sleeping at 
 the 'du Rhin/ you and Eva?" 
 
 She seemed surprised, but answered, " At the 
 back, looking on at such a quaint litle court- 
 yard ! It 's the dearest room, with two beds 
 
150 Honesty's Garden 
 
 under canopies; and there are long windows 
 opening to a little verandah." 
 
 "Be sure you draw your curtains close," I 
 said, in a fatherly way ; " it 's rather difficult to 
 make them meet, and there are other rooms all 
 round that court-yard. I remember one time I 
 was here — Ah, here 's the Tribuneaux," I ex- 
 claimed, pointing it out. " It 's a capital little 
 cafe — and very Bohemian. In the days of the 
 Yellow Book this used to be a merry meeting 
 house." 
 
 We found comfortable seats; two chairs on 
 the pavement, in a corner not too near the 
 orchestra. We were just under the awning and 
 out of the draught. " Now, what will you 
 have? " I questioned. 
 
 "Isn't this all delightfully irregular?" re- 
 marked my companion, settling herself. " Here 
 we are, all by ourselves " 
 
 " I 'm old enough to be your grandfather ! 
 Besides, this is France ; and — here is the gargon ! 
 What is it to be? " 
 
 She really did n't know. " Coffee? Cassis et 
 siphon? Grenadine? A tiny nip of Kirsch? " 
 
 " Coffee, of course. I did n't know one could 
 have coffee here — " I gave the necessary orders, 
 and subscribed to the orchestra. Mademoiselle 
 had espied us, and was soon attending — with 
 outstretched escallop shell. 
 
Honesty's Garden 151 
 
 " You were going to tell me," began Miss 
 Harrison, so soon as the coffee had appeared, 
 " something about our court-yard. I expect I 
 ought not to hear it, and that makes me all the 
 more curious." 
 
 " It was nothing," I told her, soothingly. " It 
 left off at the interesting part. I forget now. 
 Is n't it jolly being here? " 
 
 " I think it 's very nice," she said, dutifully. 
 " But I expect you miss the garden." 
 
 I wish she had n't said that. It reminded me 
 of something I have been trying to forget : some- 
 thing I don't admit at all. Just a kind of little 
 backstairs thought. " I am a bit worried about 
 that garden," I confessed. 
 
 Miss Harrison looked sympathetic. For once, 
 she did n't smile ! " I should like to tell some- 
 body all about it," I announced, brazenly. 
 " But Aunt Sophie would say ' Stuff and non- 
 sense ' long before I had finished — which 
 would n't help me a bit." 
 
 She considered her coffee, and suddenly peeped 
 at me above the rim of her cup — like an adver- 
 tisement I seem to remember. " No," I said — 
 " I must n't try you — even though you do look 
 grateful and comforting." 
 
 She put her cup down, and declared, " I 'm 
 not very learned about gardens, I know. But 
 I 'm a good listener." 
 
152 Honesty's Garden 
 
 I thought of Jones. What would she say to 
 my telling this girl about our little plot? Cer- 
 tainly Jones is n't in the plot yet. But she will 
 be. And Jones is — Jones! 
 
 " The story is far too long and too prosy. 
 Also, we have to fetch Aunt Sophie." 
 
 " If you have bought that house," said my 
 companion, quite frankly and directly, "with 
 the idea of establishing Mr. and Mrs. Baillie in 
 it — well, it's very sweet of you and most ro« 
 mantic. Are you quite, quite sure you have 
 found the right Mrs. Baillie?" 
 
 I replied at once, equally open with her, " I 
 have carelessly and utterly lost the Mrs. Baillie 
 that was to be." 
 
 " Ah, you say ' was to be ' ! " She beamed 
 triumphantly. " I know the plot of your story, 
 Mr. Swift ! You are already doubtful as to who 
 shall be planted — that 's rather a slangy expres- 
 sion, but it fits! — in your garden. Let me tell 
 you that you are wise to hesitate. People like 
 to arrange their own gardens, and their own 
 affairs." 
 
 " Yes, I know all that," I found myself argu- 
 ing. " Baillie, of course, is rather pig-headed. 
 He was frightfully in earnest, however; and, as 
 girls naturally don't let one guess their feelings, 
 Honesty might have been in love " 
 
 " She probably is in love. It 's still present 
 
Honesty's Garden 153 
 
 tense with Miss Dene, I hope." Miss Harrison 
 laid her hand on my arm. "Do you know I 
 think you're rather a hasty gardener! Take 
 my advice, a very worldly, selfish person's ad- 
 vice — let your roses grow a little before you 
 begin to train them." 
 
 " But you would n't have me not find Honesty? 
 I want to put the child back into her garden, 
 at the least. That's why I sold my quartos — 
 you don't know about that, though. I must 
 find her : she 's poor and friendless ; and there 's 
 her mother, too. God knows what they 're do- 
 ing — while I 'm just calmly enjoying myself. 
 You don't suppose I bought that house to 
 keep? What on earth could I do with two 
 houses? " 
 
 Thus I found myself telling her all about 
 the Comedy of Love; and how I had planned 
 to give Honesty her garden and the husband 
 she wanted 
 
 "You must find that out first," said Miss 
 Harrison with a tiny, amused sort of laugh. 
 " I should n't attempt to even begin the search 
 for Miss Dene until you are quite sure about 
 that. As for Mr. Baillie — well, these young 
 men are very fickle." 
 
 The small orchestra was employing itself har- 
 moniously with a selection from Thomas's dainty 
 opera " Mignon," and we found considerable 
 
154 Honesty's Garden 
 
 pleasure in listening. I had plenty to think 
 about; and, I daresay, Kitty Harrison had her 
 own castles to build. And who could build 
 under pleasanter circumstances than ours, at 
 that instant? Keally, the band was admirable; 
 and the music 
 
 Every one knows how delightful is the music 
 of " Mignon." 
 
 A quiet crowd had gathered in the roadway, 
 a crowd of all sorts, but chiefly from the 
 humblest quarters of the town. Old and young 
 of the Deippois, rich and poor, representing all 
 grades, all classes, were assembled about the 
 Cafe des Tribuneaux: those who could afford a 
 modest cup of coffee had seats like ourselves at 
 the little tables, either in the cafe or out on the 
 trottoir. The majority stood, however, in the 
 roadway, in orderly, wonderful silence, their 
 eyes looking towards the music, themselves lost 
 in dreams. A young, tired-looking man, bare- 
 headed, held his cap in nervous fingers, twisting 
 it round and round. I could see there were 
 tears in his dim eyes, and that " Mignon " meant 
 some beautiful memory for him: sad, perhaps — 
 most beautiful things are sad. 
 
 Near him, a young girl — a poor seamstress 
 very likely, her hair prettily dressed and her 
 clothes charming, for all they were of common- 
 est material. Extraordinary, the gift that the 
 
Honesty's Garden 155 
 
 French have of making the best of themselves: 
 no Cinderellas in France, no rags and tatters, 
 while one can, at least, find needle and thread. 
 She, also, was under the spell of the music. I 
 fancied, as we sat there, that the vision conjured 
 up by those two was visible to me. A cloudy 
 picture, a cornfield through which there was a 
 path, very straight, and very narrow; a little 
 stile over which one entered into the verdant 
 meadow beyond. Here were cattle grazing 
 peacefully: the faint tinkle of bells came with 
 a sense of the gentle perfume of the fields. 
 A thin line of smoke rose upwards towards the 
 summer sky from the chimney of a farmhouse, a 
 girl was feeding some fowls near the rickety, 
 half-hinged gate; the bright colour of her dress 
 vivified the picture. Her eyes were blue and 
 steady; her voice, as she chattered to the cluck- 
 ing hens, was very sweet. 
 
 I saw a man coming along the road towards 
 the farmhouse: he paused as he spied the girl. 
 But she knew he was there, she turned, started ; 
 a quick gleam of hope illumined her face as she 
 moved at once to meet him. He, smiling ten- 
 derly, shook his head. Not yet; it could not be 
 yet. Probation still. Dear God, how endless it all 
 seems : how intolerably patient we must all be — 
 whilst wishing our lives away. Oh, that it were 
 to-morrow! cries the child; and, after him, the 
 
156 Honesty's Garden 
 
 lover — and then, the man. And it is always 
 to-morrow: never, never to-day! 
 
 I saw that one nervous hand had released 
 the cap; that now the pair stood closer. Her 
 fingers had found his; had imprisoned them. 
 Then the music ceased. Mignon was gone. 
 
 It was time, too, for us to go. I was glad 
 to have Miss Kitty's hand on my arm — and her 
 silence. The night was very lovely; the stars 
 w r ere twinkling down at this old earth, inquisi- 
 tive as ever. As we neared the Casino we found 
 that the moon w T as above the sea, a trembling 
 enchanted road had been cast by it across the 
 water, broadening and glistening towards us 
 from the far-off silver distance. 
 
 Aunt Sophie was still at her system, and 
 doing well, notwithstanding it. Soon as we re- 
 turned to the Casino, she gave us peremptory 
 orders not to interrupt, but to try hard to be 
 good! So we watched, over her shoulders, the 
 faces of the other players. Some were rather 
 bored, some rather flushed, some a wee bit dis- 
 consolate. All conditions were at the tables 
 now; young and old, pretty and plain — the 
 world and the half-world. 
 
 I suppose I must have exclaimed very audibly, 
 a little later, for the croupier said reprovingly, 
 " Ush ! Talking ees not pairmit " ; while Aunt 
 Sophie supplemented this, in her " italiccy " 
 
Honesty's Garden 157 
 
 way : "Gracious, Mortimer, I wish you would n't ! 
 How can I make up my mind what to do whilst 
 you are breathing so frightfully down my back ! " 
 
 " It 's Gatherway," I hurriedly explained. 
 " Just fancy. I 'm sorry, aunt ; but it took my 
 breath away." 
 
 " It did n't," snapped my aunt. " Don't 
 labour under that misapprehension, I beg of 
 you." 
 
 I called Gatherway's attention to the three of 
 us, much to the croupier's indignation. How- 
 ever, we managed to pacify him, and Gatherway 
 was duly presented when he came round to us. 
 He was affable in the extreme, and stated his 
 firm conviction that I was a " gay dog." 
 " Swift 's supposed to be exercising his massive 
 brain on my behalf, Mrs. Duveen," he declared, 
 in his great big voice. " It 's lucky my business 
 instinct prompts me to pay him by the piece! 
 These editors, they 're all alike! " 
 
 " Editors need holidays, as much as pub- 
 lishers," said I, flatly. 
 
 " I 'm here professionally," he roared, in the 
 best of tempers. " I have been arranging a 
 small matter with Caiman Levy, in Paris. More 
 work for you, Swift." 
 
 " Not translations," I told him. 
 
 He, disregarding me altogether, annexed Miss 
 Harrison, and walked her off to the ballroom, 
 
158 Honesty's Garden 
 
 where dancing had just commenced. I stayed 
 with Aunt Sophie and the petits chevaux, until 
 she bade me go away. " You 're bringing me 
 bad luck, Mortimer," she complained. 
 
 " I shall bring you Uncle Duveen in a few 
 minutes. Do you know that it's past eleven? " 
 
 Jock and Eva were dancing, so Miss Kate 
 informed us, when she and Gatherway returned 
 in the midst of my aunt's expostulations that it 
 wasn't eleven, or anywhere near eleven. As a 
 result, we all came in for it. " Instantly go 
 away, everybody," commanded my aunt, as one 
 of her treasured five-franc pieces was clawed 
 ruthlessly off Impair by the relentless rake of 
 the croupier. " You are confusing and con- 
 founding me, and I can't sustain it. Kitty, take 
 both those men, and dance with them in turn 
 until ten minutes to twelve. Now I 'm going 
 to back Impair again. Yes, I will — it 's my 
 system." The horses spun round and round 
 briskly. " You '11 see, Mortimer, it '11 be seven 
 or nine — or possibly three — that 's the white one 
 with the chocolate sleeves — " The small ani- 
 mals suddenly, and without sufficient reason, 
 became tired and languid; the brown horse first, 
 then the mottled one that only had such a very 
 small circle to negotiate. " Number nine 's 
 done," said my aunt, easily, "but so 's number 
 four. An odd number will win, for certain." 
 
Honesty's Garden 159 
 
 We watched anxiously, as numbers three and 
 one came to a dead stop. Then number six — 
 number seven. The croupier got his rake ready. 
 
 "Two's going to win," chuckled Gatherway; 
 and the eyes of everybody flashed briefly and 
 angrily in our direction. " It 's a hundred to 
 one — no, it '11 be eight. Or five." 
 
 Aunt Sophie declared positively that five 
 should and must win. It crawled slowly up to 
 number eight, forged past, neared number two, 
 who was betraying considerable fatigue. Nearer 
 yet 
 
 " Come on, five," said Aunt Sophie, encourag- 
 ingly. Five came on — and won. " There you 
 are, Mortimer," said my aunt, rapturously. 
 " That only shows. Now, all three of you run 
 away, and find those other children. I 'm go- 
 ing to follow the bank's luck. Five always 
 comes up twice." 
 
CHAPTER XVII 
 
 The faithful and conscientious Jones has re- 
 directed my last two days' letters from the 
 Haven. Consequently I had a budget beside my 
 plate at dejeuner this morning, with an alarm- 
 ing bill for three francs odd for excess postage. 
 I nearly decided to get back home at once, 
 before Jones should quite ruin me. 
 
 My mind was fully made up when I went 
 through the correspondence. Half of it took the 
 form of circulars from coal merchants, second- 
 hand book-sellers — I mean, of course, sellers of 
 second-hand books — and dealers in lines of sound 
 old tawny port. Messrs. Rookem and Swindles 
 having just purchased, etc., etc., can offer a 
 really high-class wine at a nominal figure. One 
 bottle extra free with every order for half-dozen. 
 
 I wonder whether a repeat order is ever placed 
 with Messrs. Rookem? 
 
 That enterprising firm did not make up my 
 mind, however. It was a curious little letter 
 which changed all my plans, a reply to my adver- 
 
 1 60 
 
Honesty's Garden 161 
 
 tisement in the Morning Post, the crypto- 
 grammatic one. I imagine that a child has 
 written the note; its oddly formal style seems 
 to show that the child has had help. Here it 
 is in extenso: 
 
 " 117, Paradise Street, Clapham, S. W. 
 " Mrs. Jolliman presents her compliments to 
 Mr. Mortimer S., whose advertisement in the 
 papers she wishes to answer. Mother says she 
 had lodgers who seems to be the ones you want. 
 We got your address from a letter which had 
 not been quite burnt up under the grate when 
 we were clearing out their rooms. Mrs. J. only 
 saw your respected advert, to-day in a paper 
 round a parcel. 
 
 "Yours truly, 
 
 " Mrs. Jolliman. 
 " P.S. — If there is any reward mother thinks 
 she ought to get it." 
 
 The last touch is particularly happy. 
 
 I think it good enough to follow this clue, 
 slender though it be. I must n't be staying here 
 too long. I told Aunt Sophie I could not pro- 
 mise more than to bring her and the rest to a 
 safe anchorage: having done this — and Gather- 
 way being conveniently on hand — I propose, 
 gently but firmly, to return to Carbridge. 
 
162 Honesty's Garden 
 
 Of course, exclamations and expostulations. 
 Jock has arranged to take us all to Rouen; 
 there is a Grand Bal on Thursday at the Casino ; 
 Gatherway intends to stay till Saturday, and 
 we can cross over together; Aunt Sophie thinks 
 it most mean: uncle feels that he might want 
 to try the baths at Aix. 
 
 I meet these objections seriatim. 
 
 Jock can still take the party to Rouen — one 
 can't very well miss the way — one simply gets 
 into a train at Dieppe town station, and one 
 gets out at Rouen. Then, with guide-book in 
 hand, one simply goes to all the churches and 
 the cathedral, and dines at the Soleil d' Or, or 
 elsewhere. 
 
 As for the Grand Bal — Miss Harrison can 
 speak for my being no dancer. (Protestations 
 from a pretty little mouth Spartanly ignored.) 
 
 Gatherway, I am rejoiced to hear, will stay 
 until Saturday. He will make an excellent 
 cicerone, knowing Normandy by heart. (Yes, 
 you do — don't contradict!) 
 
 Aunt Sophie can't mean that I 'm mean ; I 
 know her too well to imagine, for a moment, 
 that she would wish me to neglect business. 
 (Are you sure it 's business, Mortimer?) As for 
 uncle, I '11 promise to come back, if he should 
 finally decide to go on to Aix 
 
 Eva and Kitty implore. Jock drops into 
 
Honesty's Garden 163 
 
 Scotch — literally, not figuratively. Gatherway 
 sweeps us all up in his " not another word " 
 style, and forbids me to leave Dieppe before the 
 end of the week. We therefore go over the whole 
 ground again, and finally compromise. I am to 
 leave by to-morrow's mid-day boat, since I am 
 so perverse. In the meantime, I am to take 
 every one this afternoon to Arques la Bataille, 
 and explain who was killed there, and why: 
 giving at the same time a full and historic ac- 
 count of the battle — and the meaning of the 
 motto over the chateau gate. 
 
 I find that there are many other things I have 
 to explain. Why has the coachman so many 
 buttons on his clothes? Do all the buttons have 
 corresponding button-holes? Did Lord Salis- 
 bury ever live at Arques — or was it only Dumas? 
 When are we going to see the Manoir d'Ango, 
 which Lord Salisbury built? If he did n't build 
 it, who did? 
 
 So that was how Dumas came to write The 
 Three Musketeers? Oh, Monte Cristo, then. 
 Are all his stories true? And what 's the mean- 
 ing of Phare d'Ailly, and how do you pronounce 
 it? Far di yay? How funny! — and does it 
 positively mean lighthouse? Is it a fact that 
 there aren't any birds in France? Can any- 
 body go through the Forest of Arques, and are 
 the wild boars very ferocious? 
 
1 64 Honesty's Garden 
 
 The last question comes from Aunt Sophie, 
 naturally. The others are mostly Eva's. Uncle 
 wants to know what the Dieppe links are like, 
 and whether it isn't confoundedly blowy up 
 there on the cliffs. How many Haskells did I 
 lose last time I went round? Is it a full course, 
 or only nine? What did I go round in? 
 
 Miss Harrison is interested in the people who 
 live in the cliffs towards Puy. What kind of 
 people are they? Just poor folk? She under- 
 stood they were charcoal burners — why, she 
 couldn't say; but don't they have charcoal 
 burners in France? 
 
 They do, says Gatherway, when they want to 
 go out of France. It is cheaper than pistols, 
 and neater than drowning yourself in the Seine. 
 And one looks much nicer when in the 
 Morgue 
 
 Horrid, everybody declares — and Gatherway 
 sweeps us all up promptly. To tea, where Lord 
 Salisbury once bought a pear, or something. 
 Here I had to describe and expound all that we 
 had seen at the Chateau of Arques, and why it 
 was called " la Bataille." 
 
 The buttons of the coachman of our char-a- 
 banc again came up for criticism on the home- 
 ward journey — until he drew rein at the Hotel 
 du Clos Normand, at Martin Eglise. Great de- 
 light here of one and all, increasing to enthusi- 
 
Honesty's Garden 165 
 
 asm. Certainly a most charming spot; quite 
 the most beautiful little place in all the beauti- 
 ful country round about Dieppe. We had 
 " galettes," and various " syrops " — tinctured by 
 soda-water. " Tea for me," says Aunt Sophie, 
 " even though they do charge for it. Undoubt- 
 edly, Mortimer, the tea is excellent. China? Of 
 course — as if I did n't know that. You will be 
 teaching your grandmother next." 
 
 Uncle asks, are there links at Martin Eglise? 
 Am I sure there are not? He would sooner 
 stay here than at Dieppe. Will I ask the land- 
 lord if he may come again and fish the brook? 
 " Yes, but certainly," says the smiling proprietor 
 of the Clos Normand — " Monsieur shall fish all 
 the hours of day and of the night." Uncle states 
 that the hours of day will be good enough for 
 him. 
 
 We disembark at the Cafe* Suisse, and get 
 home just in time to jump into our clothes 
 for dinner. Afterwards to the theatre, where 
 Jeanne Petit is delighting the Dieppois on alter- 
 nate nights with " Madame Angot," and the 
 "Little Michus." Quite different the little 
 Michus at Dieppe! The General des Ifs a man 
 of humour, yes — but not a clown. He is vehe- 
 ment, and he sings with many gesticulations; 
 the little ladies also vehement: charming, and 
 somewhat French now and then. 
 
166 Honesty's Garden 
 
 During the entr'acte we swarm with all and 
 sundry to the Casino, where the little horses, 
 equally with the little Michus, are charming — 
 and French! Aunt Sophie persists in her sys- 
 tem, which appears to me to consist chiefly in 
 punting backwards and forwards on Pair and 
 Impair, with an occasional flutter on number 
 five. However, she wins a louis in the end of 
 it, and, thus fortified, we all swarm back again 
 to the theatre. 
 
 I say all; but Miss Harrison has been ap- 
 parently " swept up " by Gatherway, and the 
 blackness of the night. It is blowing great guns 
 across the Plage; a stinging, inspiriting, devil- 
 may-care wind is roaring and blustering all the 
 way from Paris, to see what the Channel and 
 England are doing. It looks well for my cross- 
 ing to-morrow. 
 
 I was dispatched to find Gatherway, so soon 
 as the little Michus had been finally sorted, and 
 the rightful Irene des Ifs restored,, by a pretty 
 device, to her lawful and awful papa. Truly 
 the wind was tonic. I felt really a quite young 
 man when battling with it along the Plage. It 
 pounced at every corner; shouted and laughed 
 and frisked; plunged headlong into the sea; 
 bounded out again, flapped the loose papers on 
 the hoardings, whistled down the chimneys, im- 
 pudently whisked off hats, and agitated petti- 
 
Honesty's Garden 167 
 
 coats. Never was so audacious a wind. " Off 
 — off ! " I seemed to hear. " Come on — what are 
 you waiting for? Allons vite! Don't you wish 
 you were me? Because I shall be there first, 
 my boy. Off, off ! What a life ! What a night ! 
 Look up there at the stars twinkling. They 
 know, — they see out of their great big golden 
 eyes. Come along, lazy. Don't wait, don't 
 wait — I 'm on the track — I 'm going faster than 
 thought to — Her! Do you understand that, 
 my poor old young man? I make my plans as 
 I go, rushing and roaring under the stars — I 
 don't care how wide they open their big golden 
 eyes! Off — off! I don't wait, and wonder — 
 and worry. I — do ! " 
 
 I heard laughter in the wind as it fled; 
 laughter that stung me somehow. It left a taste 
 of tears in the air; or was it only the salt 
 spray? 
 
 Gatherway seemed highly delighted with him- 
 self when at last I found him. Kitty Harrison 
 was practically tucked under his arm; her face 
 was in a glow. " What a night, eh? What a 
 wind ! " He laughed, too, and then Miss Kate 
 — " We went as far as the pier ; but when we 
 tried to come back " 
 
 " I know, but will Aunt Sophie believe it? " 
 I offered my left arm, and thus she had an arm 
 of each of us. " Now then, all together ! They 
 
1 68 Honesty's Garden 
 
 have gone to the Tribuneaux for cafe marmitte 
 and liqueurs; I am to bring you both to 
 confession." 
 
 " What a night ! " shouts Gatherway again. 
 
 " The wind told me that long ago," I cried 
 back to him. " The wind told me ever so many 
 secrets." 
 
 Miss Harrison peeped at me. " Eeally? " 
 
 I ventured to squeeze the small hand holding 
 my arm — affirmatively. 
 
CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 The crossing was no joke, though. I came 
 back in the Tamese, a beastly little boat, which 
 I sincerely hope has become firewood a long time 
 since. I was not ill ; but I did n't feel well. 
 
 To-day I called on Mrs. Jolliman. Paradise 
 Street is not anywhere near Paradise, I must 
 imagine. Possibly it leads to Paradise, as the 
 way is long and narrow, and difficult. But I 
 would n't like to promise it. No. 117 was as 
 much like No. 116 as No. 116 was like the rest of 
 the houses. There is a flashy public-house at the 
 end of Paradise Street, but I don't think it is 
 intended as a symbol. Also, a little way down 
 on the left-hand side, where the roadway briefly 
 widens to permit the passage of traffic, there are 
 five stunted poplar trees, " all in a row," as the 
 song declares. Thereafter the street dwindles 
 and diminishes, and becomes, if possible, even 
 more offensively unlike its name. 
 
 No. 117 was especially difficult to pick out, 
 by reason of some caprice of the authorities, 
 through which half- of the houses have been re- 
 
 169 
 
170 Honesty's Garden 
 
 numbered as part of the Prince of Wales's rents. 
 I perseveringly blundered along until I reached 
 Paradise Alley, then I captured a small pig- 
 tailed child carrying a can, and apparently en 
 route for the Prince of Wales's public-house. 
 " Which is Mrs. Jolliman's? " I asked, careful 
 not to frighten my young lady with figures. 
 
 " Down by those trees you 've come past it 
 you have," she answered all in a breath. She 
 swiftly moved the beer-can to the " off " side. I 
 said, "Down by the trees, eh? Which house 
 is it? " 
 
 " The middle one opposite the trees what 's 
 got the swing between 'em ever so far down." 
 
 I thanked her, and commenced to retrace my 
 steps. The young person eyed my back thought- 
 fully — I could feel that she did. She gave two 
 hops and a skip, and, swinging the empty can, 
 caught me up. " Mother 's doing dressmaking 
 out so it 's no use your calling until she comes 
 in." 
 
 "Are you Miss Jolliman?" I ventured. 
 
 " Euphemia Felicia Jubilee Jolliman that 's 
 me." She again deemed it wise to keep the 
 beer-can out of my reach. 
 
 " Then you can tell me all about your lodgers, 
 I suppose," I was beginning, when she cut me 
 very short with, " Father says never answer no 
 questions nor don't ask 'em but keep your teeth 
 
Honesty's Garden 171 
 
 close together and you won't never give yourself 
 away." 
 
 " Excellent advice in the ordinary course, 
 Euphemia." 
 
 " Billy they calls me short for Jubilee see 
 and it is n't such a mouthful." 
 
 " I do see, Billy, and strongly approve your 
 father's sentiments. But I have come a long 
 way " 
 
 " They always say that," interrupted Billy, 
 whisking her pig-tail over her left shoulder with 
 the queerest little jerk of her head. " You had 
 best begin right at the beginning and say who 
 you are because I may have got a message for 
 you." I had a momentary gleam of a small 
 black bow at the end of the small pig-tail, 
 ere the latter was whisked into position once 
 more. 
 
 " I 'm Mr. Mortimer S., if you please." 
 
 She flashed me the shrewdest glance imagin- 
 able. " What paper was it in? " 
 
 "Morning Post; at the top of the second 
 column on the front page." 
 
 " What was the words? " 
 
 " ' Mrs. D. of C.-on-M. is asked to write ' " 
 
 " Wrong ! Forward her address what 's the 
 rest? " 
 
 " Forward her address to Mortimer S., who 
 very sincerely wishes to be remembered." 
 
172 Honesty's Garden 
 
 " It was ' earnestly wishes ' because I recker- 
 lect it was a boy's name." 
 
 " A boy's name? " 
 
 " Ernest of course." We had reached the five 
 poplar trees by this. 
 
 " That 's my swing but I 'm too old for it 
 now." The pig-tail briefly and disdainfully 
 flashed to the front. " I let the kids have it. 
 
 00 yes, swinging 's low." 
 
 You have become used to my small guide's 
 " comma-less " method of speech by this, so that 
 
 1 need not make any further attempt to indicate 
 it. We paused before No. 117 — I understood 
 that it must be No. 117, although nothing very 
 clearly demonstrated whether it was any number 
 at all. 
 
 " I should n't have thought swinging was very 
 low," I argued. 
 
 " You better come in and wait," she conde- 
 scended. She hung the beer-can on the railings 
 of the gate, and announced over her shoulder, 
 * That 's for the milk. I went to fetch it, but 
 of course he was out." 
 
 "The milkman?" 
 
 She nodded. " I just got there too late, and 
 missus wouldn't put it in the book. I don't 
 like her — she 's no class." 
 
 Billy opened the door with a large key, dis- 
 covered under a dilapidated boot-scraper. She 
 
Honesty's Garden 173 
 
 entered the gloom of a narrow passage, papered 
 years ago in imitation of marble slabs. Now- 
 adays, the marble had visibly whitened, with 
 age or damp, in great fantastic patches. A 
 straight and steep flight of linoleumed stairs led 
 us to the " front and back " — a sitting- and a 
 bed-room which Mrs. Jolliman was accustomed 
 to let "with cruet, candles, and attendance" 
 — if asked for. 
 
 " But some likes to do their own, and then 
 it 's eighteenpence a week cheaper," Billy in- 
 structed me. u They did their own after the 
 first fortnight." 
 
 "Your late lodgers?" I asked, surveying the 
 poor, shabby little apartment. 
 
 " Mrs. and Miss D.," replied Billy, eyeing me 
 thoughtfully. " This was their living-room, you 
 know." She made a direct attack upon the sub- 
 ject uppermost in her mind. " If there 's any 
 reward, you had best give it to mother, on the 
 quiet like. Father, he " — she hesitated — " father 
 don't care to be bothered with business." 
 
 I told her that I would be careful not to 
 bother father with business; at which Billy 
 seemed relieved. " Father 's had a lot of worry, 
 you know; and he gets awful bad headaches 
 sometimes." 
 
 She jerked her pig-tail to the front, then to 
 the rear, then eyed me with her head on one 
 
174 Honesty's Garden 
 
 side, like a sharp little bird. " I found the 
 letter what gave us your address. It was a 
 envelope, at least; and nigh burnt up. Mother 
 couldn't read it, but I did. I soon found it 
 out." 
 
 " There was no letter inside the envelope? " 
 
 " Nothing much. Perhaps miss was going to 
 write to you, and then altered her mind." 
 
 " Wait a moment, Billy. Would n't it be as 
 well for us to find out whether my advertise- 
 ment was really meant for your mother's 
 lodgers? There might be some mistake." 
 
 " There could n't be," flashed the pig-tail im- 
 mediately. " That envelope was directed to 
 you, wasn't it? And you're Mr. Mortimer S., 
 aren't you? " 
 
 I admitted that there could be no doubt; al- 
 though very desirous that there should be. I 
 had already pictured things — that giving up of 
 " cruet, candles, and attendance " after the first 
 fortnight, was eloquent. I asked the obvious 
 question, " Do you know where Mrs. Dene and 
 her daughter have gone? " 
 
 Billy screwed up her eyes in profound inward 
 deliberation. She unscrewed them cheerfully, 
 after a moment's thought. " I could find out," 
 she decided. 
 
 " Then you don't actually know? " My spirits, 
 already depressed by the five poplar trees with- 
 
Honesty's Garden 175 
 
 out and the marble paper within No. 117, 
 Paradise Street, sank more and more. 
 
 " I 'm certain I could find out," Billy declared. 
 " I seen where they sent their boxes." 
 
 I guessed that the little wretch knew more 
 than she chose to tell. Evidently she was keep- 
 ing her father's advice well in her mind. There 
 was no other way out of it. " Here, Billy, is a 
 silver penny for yourself. I am much obliged 
 to you for entertaining me so long. Tell your 
 mother I will write to her to-night." 
 
 She hopped over to me for her half-crown, took 
 it with well-concealed indifference. " Thanks, 
 I 'm much obliged to you." She used my own 
 words, feeling that the situation demanded them. 
 As I turned to go, Billy volunteered a further 
 item, one that instantly gave me " furiously to 
 think." 
 
 " Funny thing, you know, Miss D. should n't 
 have seen your advert.," said she, lightly. " The 
 paper was ropped round a parcel she left here 
 herself, for mother — round some clothes she gave 
 mother as a present, because — " Billy sud- 
 denly recollected her father again. "As a 
 present, you know," she concluded abruptly. 
 
 At once I saw it all. Honesty had seen my 
 advertisement; had intended a reply. 
 
 " You 're sure there was no letter in the 
 envelope? " 
 
176 Honesty's Garden 
 
 Billy stiffened. " I 'm not in the habit of 
 telling untruths." Her wispy pig-tail bristled 
 with indignation. 
 
 " No, no, of course, I did n't mean it that 
 way. I meant mightn't there have been part 
 of a letter under the grate — as well as the 
 envelope? Did you look? " 
 
 " There was just some little bits of a letter. 
 Mother's got them. But there isn't anything 
 you can make out." Billy was very uneasy so 
 soon as she had spoken. She clearly imagined 
 that now she was " giving herself away." She 
 bustled past me down the stairs; a plain hint. 
 I made another attempt to win her. 
 
 " Billy, listen to me. I want you to under- 
 stand that I 'm terribly anxious to help Mrs. 
 and Miss Dene. They're very dear friends of 
 mine. I 'm afraid they 're in trouble, Billy, and 
 I know they are too proud to let any one guess. 
 I 'm not here wanting to ask you a lot of idle 
 questions. Won't you help me to help them? " 
 
 She paused at the street-door, looked back 
 cautiously at me. "You aren't Hire Pur- 
 chase? " 
 
 I didn't grasp her meaning until she added, 
 " Nor a Promissorory Note? " 
 
 " No — most certainly and emphatically. Just 
 a friend, Billy, who did n't understand — until it 
 was too late. A very stupid friend, you '11 say." 
 
Honesty's Garden 177 
 
 She nodded in full agreement, then stood with 
 her back to the door, with her head tightly 
 rammed against the panels, until she bethought 
 her of the pig-tail. " Something to Her Ad- 
 vantage? Is that what you are, straight?" 
 
 " I hope so. Indeed I hope so." 
 
 She hopped back to me. " What did you turn 
 'em out for, then?" she requested, sharply. 
 " What did you buy 'em up for? Why did you 
 go and take all the things she cared for? " 
 
 Before the appalling suddenness and fierce- 
 ness of this attack I gave way. I did nit show 
 to advantage; I was wordless. 
 
 " Took her garden, too, you did. Oo — did n't 
 I see her crying about it? I don't want your 
 old half-crown." She thrust it into my hand. 
 " I don't want it ; I would n't touch it. It 's 
 no good your being sorry. You done it now. 
 Too late! I should think it was too late." Her 
 anger grew, and her eyes flashed lightning. 
 " ' Earnestly wishes to be remembered ' ! As if 
 people would forget, after all you done to them ! 
 She don't forget : you need n't worry about that." 
 
 " Billy " 
 
 " Don't you Billy me ! I hate you, hate you ! 
 You with a house of your own, too. And a gar- 
 den." She was back to the door, and tore it 
 open. " That 's my garden, and I don't drive 
 people out of it." 
 
178 Honesty's Garden 
 
 " Until to-day, Billy," I told her quietly. Her 
 flame of wrath died down as hastily as it had 
 risen, leaving her pale and trembling. 
 
 " You are being as unkind to me as you think 
 I have been unkind to — " A cruel suspicion 
 stabbed me. " Did Honesty tell you all this? 
 Did she think it? " 
 
 " She never said anything, of course. Why 
 should she? She never thinks only good of 
 every one, no matter what they does. She 's 
 the nicest, kindest, truest, best person in the 
 whole world; and — and — " Billy was quite 
 comma-less once more, while signs were showing 
 that the storm would end as storms generally 
 do. " And she 's gone ! " suddenly and loudly 
 wailed the poor little pig-tail, breaking down. 
 " She 's gug-gug-gone " 
 
CHAPTER XIX 
 
 I went away from No. 117, Paradise Street, 
 after comforting the child to the best of my 
 clumsy ability. I went humbly, I hope, under- 
 standing that even in Paradise Street one could 
 be sure of finding the most beautiful story in 
 the world. The only story, I dare to suppose. 
 
 Truly, Honesty diffuses love and kindliness al- 
 ways, like the sweetbriar in her garden, which 
 scents the air in summer, and offers red haws 
 for the hungry birds in winter time. Prickly, 
 too, that she may be, very properly, a little 
 feared as well! I felt myself scratched and 
 chafed with the knowledge that Honesty had 
 thought, even briefly, all those bad things of 
 me — that I should covet her home and garden, 
 and be ready to snatch them away at first 
 chance. I wonder how she came to hear; how 
 she came to so mightily misjudge me. I am hurt 
 to feel that Honesty could think me so mean, so 
 small, so contemptible. I am more than hurt 
 that she could n't even bring herself to write to 
 me. 
 
 179 
 
180 Honesty's Garden 
 
 Prickles; undoubtedly prickles. One can be 
 scratched badly by sweetbriar, for all its 
 sweetness. 
 
 Mrs. Jolliman has communicated further, un- 
 der the hand and seal (an accidental thumb- 
 mark) of Miss Billy. Mrs. J. regrets that she 
 was absent from home when I called, and hopes 
 no offence. She quite understands there is no 
 reward; but all the same, would like to be of 
 service, for the young lady's sake. Hoping to 
 have a favourable reply, Yours truly, Mrs. 
 Jolliman. 
 
 The remark about the reward was evidently 
 inspired by Billy. I have not yet quite made 
 friends with the pig-tail. I am still under 
 observation. 
 
 I answered Mrs. Jolliman from the Colosseum, 
 and stated my intention of calling upon her 
 again at some time more convenient to her, if 
 she would kindly make an appointment. Her 
 reply came per special messenger, Miss Pig-tail 
 herself. She was duly announced by the inquiry 
 clerk, in tones indicating a modicum of sur- 
 prise, justified to some extent. For Miss Billy 
 had come forth from Paradise Street in full 
 war-paint. 
 
 Not that the pig-tail had been looped up, or 
 captured in a net, or fluffed out into a moppy 
 kind of cushion for her hat to flop upon. The 
 
Honesty's Garden 181 
 
 pig-tail remained in all its chaste severity of 
 outline, possibly braided a shade or so more 
 tightly. But the costume surrounding and hem- 
 ming in Miss Billy was immense, in every sense 
 of the word. Most striking was the blue serge 
 jacket, somehow vaguely familiar. Much too 
 long in the body, too large in the chest, and 
 too small in the waist. It was buttoned where 
 it would, not otherwise. Below this, a singular 
 green skirt, all flounced in the wrong places 
 seemingly, and caught up by a string arrange- 
 ment, simple, efficient — but not precisely elegant. 
 Below this (at intervals) a scarlet petticoat 
 sagging in between two rather broomsticky, 
 darned-stockinged legs. More darns than stock- 
 ing in parts; and made especially noticeable by 
 the fact that the legs ended in two left-footed 
 boots, considerably too large. She had black 
 cotton gloves, and carried a corpulent um- 
 brella; her hat was of a mushroomy character, 
 indefinite, but possibly originally a triumph of 
 the millinery art. It was certainly over- 
 powering. 
 
 She favoured me with a particularly ferrety 
 glance, and began, as usual, entirely with- 
 out punctuation — " Mother 's compliments and 
 she thought I had better come up and ex- 
 plain that she has n't got much time to see 
 any one except of an evening and father 's 
 
182 Honesty's Garden 
 
 at home evenings this week and mustn't be 
 worried." 
 
 " That 's all right, Billy. I daresay you and 
 I can come to terms. Won't you sit down? " 
 
 " I can't stay long because I 'm away from 
 school and ought to go this afternoon to make 
 up." 
 
 "Don't you always go in the afternoon?" 
 
 " I 'm a half timer, I am. Directly I 'm up to 
 the sixth standard I need n't go any more. Not 
 unless I like." 
 
 " Oh, well, perhaps they will let you off this 
 afternoon, if I write an excuse." 
 
 " Are you a County Council? " 
 
 " Not entirely ; but still I may be able to 
 work it for you. Take off your hat and gloves, 
 and we'll have some lunch whilst we talk." I 
 rang for my clerk, and gave him instructions. 
 He said he fully understood, sir, and would see 
 that the manageress understood also. 
 
 Billy was impressed that this resplendent 
 young man should have called me " sir " ; and I 
 began to score a little. She settled down in a 
 big desk-chair on the opposite side of my table. 
 " Is this where you do newspapers? " she asked, 
 awe-struck. 
 
 " Sort of newspapers — " I began. 
 
 " What sort of newspapers? " 
 
 " Once-a-week papers. All about literature — 
 
Honesty's Garden 183 
 
 that 's books ; painting — that 's pictures ; music 
 and belles-lettres — that 's French." 
 
 Billy's keen glances searched my editorial den. 
 " That 's a typewriter, is n't it? And that 's a 
 copying press. Father does them at his office, 
 sometimes. He 's in the post-office, he is." 
 
 She closed her lips tightly together, suddenly 
 perceiving that this might come under the head- 
 ing of " Giving Herself Away." " He 's not a 
 postman, of course," she added, with fine 
 emphasis. 
 
 " In the General Post-office, eh? That 's a 
 grand big building, not very far from here." 
 
 " I been there," she remarked briefly, then fell 
 to critically regarding her two left-footed boots, 
 to signify that discussion on these lines had gone 
 far enough. She dived her hand presently into 
 an impossible pocket under her skirt, involving 
 an alarming display of the scarlet petticoat. 
 " I got the bits of that letter," she announced, 
 producing a crumpled envelope, and laying it on 
 the table ; " and mother said I was n't to forget 
 to tell you Mrs. D. had been very ill." 
 
 I inquired, hastily and anxiously, when? 
 "All the time," said Billy; "at least, most all 
 the time. Kind of a weak sort of illness; 
 nothing much only it kep her in bed. They 
 did n't have the doctor, not once." 
 
 This to cheer me, and to make light of the 
 
184 Honesty's Garden 
 
 matter. Billy pushed the crumpled envelope to- 
 wards me, and watched narrowly as I opened it 
 and drew forth a few charred pieces of paper. 
 She came round to my side of the desk to help 
 me arrange them. " There 's only a tiny scrap 
 here and there that fits in," she explained, deftly 
 sorting the pieces. " I can make out a little of 
 it, see? 'Dear Mr. Swift/ that's the begin- 
 ning, f Mother wishes me to — ' The rest of 
 that line 's gone. ' She would so much like — ' 
 that 's plain, is n't it? " 
 
 "What's this? ' Please let me pay — ' I 
 don't understand that at all." 
 
 Billy grimly responded, " Don't you? Are 
 you certain sure? " Her mind was still run- 
 ning on hire purchase and promissory notes. 
 How could I convince Billy that, instead, I am 
 positively " Something to Her Advantage? " I 
 pored over the fragments of Honesty's letter, 
 pondering the best way out of it. 
 
 " Here 's another sentence. Look ; it fits in 
 after * pay.' " I showed it to her triumphantly. 
 " Now read, Billy." I held the pieces down 
 firmly, as they were showing a tendency to 
 flutter all over the place. Some one had opened 
 the outer door. My small companion slowly 
 read aloud, " Please let me pay you in my own 
 way, by simply thanking you." 
 
 " Well now, Billy? " 
 
Honesty's Garden 185 
 
 The clerk came in with our lunch, and soon 
 we were busy enough with more material mat- 
 ters. During the meal I told Billy all about 
 the queer old genie who wanted just to clap his 
 hands and make everybody happy. The story 
 was a great success. 
 
 She understood it, too — did this small fan- 
 tastic person. In short, I was accepted as a 
 Something to Every One's Advantage, ere the 
 lunch was cleared away. Things had been grad- 
 ually working in this excellent direction from 
 the moment she heard my clerk call me " sir." 
 " And now, Billy, you see that there 's only one 
 thing to be done. It won't be difficult if we 
 both give our minds to it. We must clap our 
 hands, and find Mrs. and Miss D." 
 
 She likes me to refer to the Denes in this way. 
 It breathes an air of mystery, and thus appeals 
 to her odd, inquisitive, romantic nature. I dis- 
 covered that Billy hadn't really more than the 
 faintest notion as to Honesty's hiding-place. 
 She simply knows the name of the station 
 wherefrom their boxes have been dispatched. 
 
 However, the charred pieces of Honesty's un- 
 finished note gave us, at length, a clue. There 
 seemed to have been some sort of address men- 
 tioned in the body of the letter, of which only 
 the town was now existing. Of the town only a 
 suburb — figuratively speaking. We managed to 
 
1 86 Honesty's Garden 
 
 decipher between us the four suggestive letters 
 C L I F— plainly denoting " Cliff." 
 
 " Ratcliff — where the Highway is," guessed 
 Billy. " Father he knows Ratcliff because he 
 was born there." 
 
 " I don't fancy it 's Ratcliff, somehow," I 
 argued, gently but genially. " There 's a West- 
 cliff, now — near Southend-on-Sea. Let us see if 
 we can find the first part of the word." 
 
 Billy sorted over the flimsy remains. " It 
 must begin with a C, because that's a capital, 
 plain as anything." 
 
 I was doubtful. "We'll make it Clif. . . . 
 How about Clifton?" 
 
 There was nothing about Clifton finding 
 favour with my honourable and intelligent 
 friend. She did n't know such a place, and her 
 tone more than hinted that I did n't either. She 
 leaned to Clifford Street, Kennington, " where 
 the trains go across." 
 
 Her guess set my mind working in a new 
 direction. There must be scores of Clifton and 
 Clifford Streets in London alone, and it may 
 well be only the name of a street, and not a 
 town at all. We decided to leave the matter 
 for the present. " I think I '11 go home with 
 you to Paradise Street, Billy, and take my 
 chance of seeing your mother." I rang for the 
 clerk, and whispered a few instructions. He 
 
Honesty's Garden 187 
 
 nodded understanding^, being a remarkably 
 handy young man. 
 
 " Please come with me, will you? " said he to 
 Billy, confidentially. " We 're going to have a 
 look at the shops, sir," he added to me, " while 
 you do your writing. What time shall we come 
 back to tea? " 
 
 " Not later than four," I answered, outlining 
 the scheme. " Will you be certain to buy every- 
 thing for that little girl I mentioned? Billy 
 here will help you choose the things ; she 's about 
 the same size, is n't she? " 
 
 " I should say just exactly the same size, sir. 
 Come along, Billy. You '11 help me buy new 
 clothes for Mr. Swift's little girl, won't you? " 
 
 " He never told me he had a little girl," re- 
 marked Billy, with some return of her distrust. 
 " I don't believe " 
 
 " You come along with me and I '11 tell you 
 all about it," said my ever-ready young as- 
 sistant. " There 's a sweetstuff shop close by." 
 
 " Is Miss D. your little girl? " requested Billy 
 directly, and totally ignoring the sweetstuff shop. 
 
 " Miss D. ? Oh, no — oh, dear me, no ! " I 
 laughed at the idea, but Billy did not smile. 
 " I don't see why she might n't be your little 
 girl," she declared roundly. She regarded me 
 consideringly. " Is she too old? " 
 
 " Ever so much too old," I told her quickly. 
 
1 88 Honesty's Garden 
 
 " Good gracious me, how old do you think I 
 am?" 
 
 "You're much older than father, of course," 
 she was ruthlessly commencing, when my fellow- 
 conspirator came to the rescue. " You just take 
 my hand, and come on," he whispered; "don't 
 you see we're interrupting the guv'nor? I'll 
 tell you about the little girl. There 's hundreds 
 of dolls at the shop we 're going to. Some of 
 'em open and shut their eyes, and others can 
 talk. They go ' Peep-eep ! mamma ! I want 
 you-oo-oo ! ' " 
 
 " They don't," said Billy, flatly. 
 
 "You just come and see." His tone was so 
 convincing that she decided she would go. " But 
 if they don't talk, you '11 have told a great big 
 whopper," she warned him. 
 
 As they were going out of the office I tele- 
 graphed " boots." My young man replied in the 
 vernacular, slightly forgetful of our respective 
 positions. " What do you think ! " 
 
 " The guv'nor said books," he hastened to ex- 
 plain to Billy. " I 'm going to send them in to 
 him. Office work, you know. He 's going to 
 do my work while I take you out" (the im- 
 pudence of it!). " That 's a bit of luck for both 
 of us, eh? " 
 
 " It 's a bit of luck for you/ 9 observed Billy, 
 pointedly. 
 
CHAPTER XX 
 
 Fine feathers assuredly make fine birds. Billy 
 was certainly a remarkably fine bird, fully 
 fledged, when she returned a good two hours 
 later. Also she had been evidently largely en- 
 joying herself. She and my young man were 
 the best of friends. I perceive that the Colos- 
 seum has a diplomatist of the highest quality in 
 this lad. His salary shall be increased at the 
 next revision; I have marked his name in our 
 books. 
 
 As sub-editor I have a fair amount of in- 
 fluence, so I have been pleased to find out. 
 Possibly, it 's because I do most of the work 
 
 However, I must record Billy's triumphant 
 re-entry of the offices of the Colosseum. She 
 looked taller, and despite the pig-tail, positively 
 pretty. She had chosen a jacket and skirt of 
 dark-blue serge, and had a dark blue spotted 
 sort of blouse, showing where the little jacket 
 was unbuttoned; black stockings, and neat 
 little shoes; kid gloves, if you please — and a 
 round hat of blue felt, with a quill stuck in it. 
 
 189 
 
190 Honesty's Garden 
 
 " I just passed the order over to the manageress 
 of Wallis's," said the tactful organiser of the 
 marvellous transformation. " Complete and en- 
 tire," I said, " that 's the governor's definite 
 ultipomatum. It was all done in a little over 
 an hour; wonderful." 
 
 " I am very pleased with you, Carr." 
 
 " Thank you, sir. Manageress a friend of 
 mine, in a way, if I may say so." He blushes 
 meaningly. " It 's all due to her, sir. Shows 
 taste, I think?" 
 
 " Decidedly so." Billy is self-conscious, and 
 betrays the fact by standing alternately first on 
 one foot, then on the other. " Will these 
 clothes suit? " she asks. " The lady made me 
 put them on. There 's a new petticoat, too ; and 
 there 's " 
 
 " They 're very nice indeed," I cut in, to pre- 
 vent further embarrassing revelations. " What 
 do you think of them yourself, Billy? " 
 
 " I like them all right, of course, and if the 
 little girl 's same size as me and likes things 
 neat and plain and not a lot of frips and frills 
 and high colours and — " She is again devoid 
 of punctuation, and rather breathless. " I says 
 she 's a very lucky little girl and I told her so 
 and I told him so and the dolls do talk because 
 I heard them only they did n't do it like he did 
 but much better." 
 
Honesty's Garden 191 
 
 " Told her? " I am puzzling it out when Carr 
 interprets : "The manageress, sir. At Wallis's." 
 
 " She said they were all for me but of course 
 that 's silly." 
 
 " Would you like to have them, Billy? " 
 
 I could tell that her small heart leapt. " But 
 they 're not for me are they because it would n't 
 be fair and proper to the little girl what you 've 
 bought 'em for." 
 
 " Well then, they are for you. And you 're 
 the little girl in question. It 's the reward, you 
 know." 
 
 " I don't want any reward." She fidgeted 
 awkwardly. " Where 's my own clothes? " 
 
 I saw that I had struck a false note. " It 's 
 just the queer old genie clapping his hands! 
 You 're going to help me find Mrs. and Miss 
 D., aren't you? It may be a long business — 
 although I hope it will be a very quick one — 
 and you must allow the queer old genie to do 
 things in his own way. Your clothes are in that 
 bundle." 
 
 " Yes, sir," corroborates Carr. 
 
 " So you see? We will have our tea at once 
 — perhaps Mr. Carr will ask for it — and then 
 we '11 go home in the tube to Paradise Street, 
 and ask mother what she thinks." 
 
 Billy is only half convinced. I see I am 
 rather bungling the business, so leave it alone. 
 
192 Honesty's Garden 
 
 Carr fetches the tea, and has such a flow of 
 conversation whilst he is doing it, that we find 
 ourselves in smooth waters again. Invaluable 
 chap, that young man. He " tips me the wink," 
 as he somewhat vulgarly phrases it. " Make 
 light of them, sir — pretend they 've cost hardly 
 anything." I endeavour to follow this advice, but 
 Billy is too shrewd. " It 's very kind and I 'm 
 not saying it is n't and I am sure I 'm very much 
 obliged." She gives a little choke over her tea, 
 and dives deeper into her cup. When she 
 emerges, she adds, " But it ought to have been 
 the milkman, it ought. Not me, because I 
 haven't done anything. Father won't like it; 
 and besides " 
 
 She pauses; and, at thought of her father, 
 becomes the essence of discretion. " Mother 
 would have said the milkman, or the butcher," 
 she concluded, primly. " Because then it 's done 
 and can't be got back except in credit. But 
 father he had to put his overcoat — " She checks 
 herself suddenly. 
 
 Carr, who has been waiting on her, seemingly 
 understands. " You '11 have to sleep in them, 
 Miss Billy — that 's the dodge," he says, at which 
 they both chuckle, and I fancy I begin to com- 
 prehend. I remember that milkman ; Billy would 
 rather I had paid his bill — bless her for a 
 thoughtful little soul! 
 
Honesty's Garden 193 
 
 " Perhaps if the genie clapped his hands again 
 when we get home, you know, other things might 
 happen," I say, cheerfully. 
 
 As we were leaving the office she slipped her 
 hand into mine. Her other fingers held her 
 bundle tightly as (I recollect) they had held the 
 beer-can. 
 
 " You must promise you won't — be angry — 
 with father," she faltered. " No one 's ever 
 angry with him, because he is n't strong and the 
 hours are so awkward." 
 
 "I shouldn't dream of it," I told her. "I 
 hope he won't be angry with me." 
 
 She gave small hops and skips to keep pace, 
 and clutched my hand convulsively. " He won't 
 be angry, not him," she remarked with a fine 
 show of courage. " He 's never very cross with 
 me. He 's never cross with any one for long. 
 It 's only when his head 's bad, that 's all." 
 
 I have arranged a plan of campaign, with the 
 assistance of Billy and Billy's mother. Her 
 father, so far as I am concerned, counts for 
 nothing. I am sorry; but I didn't take to him. 
 He might have had one of his headaches, how- 
 ever, and so not have been at his best. 
 
 I have contrived to become lodger at Mrs. 
 Jolliman's; that is, I have taken a bed-sitting- 
 13 
 
194 Honesty's Garden 
 
 room in Paradise Street, by the month, at a 
 really nominal rent. Mrs. Jolliman is to keep 
 her card in the window, so that her, " apart- 
 ments " may still seem to be available. For we 
 have an idea that Honesty will give a sign to 
 Paradise Street before long; some clue that will 
 help us to discover which of the many " Cliffs " 
 in the world are giving her and her mother 
 shelter. It's a chance, as likely as unlikely — 
 perhaps more so. At any rate, Jones and I will 
 be on the look-out at Carbridge, be sure: for I 
 am to be a lodger in name only in Paradise 
 Street. 
 
 This entering of myself upon the books of 
 Mrs. Jolliman permitted me ground for inter- 
 viewing the milkman, and also gave me a means 
 of explaining Billy's sudden grandeur. Her 
 mother gracefully accepted my little selfish 
 charities — for all charity is selfish when you are 
 giving just to please yourself, as I invariably 
 do. But Mr. Jolliman, presumably because of 
 the headache already supposed, was distinctly 
 offensive. Not in direct attack — for then I 
 should have dealt with him; but in tone and 
 attitude. 
 
 Thus: if people were to be permitted to avail 
 themselves of the prestige and shelter of the 
 Jolliman establishment, they must pay honour- 
 ably and straightforwardly for same — not by 
 
Honesty's Garden 195 
 
 underhand tricks; nor by attempts to compen- 
 sate for an extreme privilege by making offer- 
 ings in kind to the children of the said 
 establishment. It positively made him sick, 
 etc., etc. 
 
 I may like Jolliman better as I grow older. 
 
 So here I am at Carbridge again, with my 
 books and my pipes; my faithful Jones, and 
 her profligate cat. Nothing has changed, except 
 that Keedels is visibly wasting. Late nights are 
 telling on his constitution. 
 
 I hear of some wonderful trout, taken by the 
 local anglers ; but should like to have had ocular 
 proof that three of them turned the scale at 
 eight pounds. We have n't had a fish weighing 
 over twelve ounces taken in Carbridge waters 
 since I have lived here. And (between our- 
 selves) Carbridge fishermen are much the same 
 as all other anglers. 
 
 The garden seems to have become extrava- 
 gantly overgrown in a night. Is that the way 
 autumn makes it up to us, I wonder — by allow- 
 ing profusion where even before we had plenty? 
 I don't like to see places (or rooms) too full; 
 and a garden with everything crowding (rather 
 rudely, so far as the perennials are concerned) 
 makes me think of pruning-knives and the 
 like. 
 
 I have negotiated, per my Undertaker — who 
 
196 Honesty's Garden 
 
 seems to have been latterly attending to busi- 
 ness even more strictly than usual — for a pur- 
 chase of the lopped branches from some oaks 
 which have been felled in a neighbouring 
 meadow. With these, a few pounds of good 
 French nails, and some patience, I propose 
 erecting rustic work arches and screens for our 
 new roses. I have already put up an arch over 
 my own gate — I mean the Haven, of course — and 
 although it is a wee bit out of the true, the 
 effect (to my mind) is distinctly artistic. Be- 
 fore Christmas I shall have a score or so of 
 new roses from a man at Lyons, who sends 
 them, via Ashford, nicely packed at very re- 
 markably cheap rates. Climbers grafted on 
 high stock (for which I pay a little more) 
 will flourish over my arches and rustic-work 
 screens, and will hide any defects next season. 
 All my friends will say I am a wonderfully 
 clever fellow, whatever they may secretly 
 think. 
 
 Jones has not openly expressed any opinion 
 about the rustic arch. She assisted in the 
 " carting " of the wood from the meadow one 
 dusky evening, and has notified me that the 
 stack which I have built in her " yard " inter- 
 feres considerably with the hanging-out of her 
 washing each Monday. I have promised to 
 get through with the scheme within the next 
 
Honesty's Garden 197 
 
 week, and have arranged with the Undertaker 
 accordingly. 
 
 He is naturally all for neatness and precision. 
 He argues that we must have foundations for 
 our uprights. I ask why, when cross-pieces and 
 ties of very " rusticky " pattern will keep all 
 fast together? He also suggests that we had 
 better peel the wood before going any further, 
 so that the arches can be done over with Stock- 
 holm tar. I fear Jones would never wait for us ; 
 she would take forcible means. One evening I 
 should return home to find my lopped branches 
 had disappeared. " I did n't think you wanted 
 that there wood any more, you was so long 
 using of it." 
 
 I have thought of doing some of this rustic 
 business in the garden next door, but wish to 
 ask Baillie's opinion first of all. Which reminds 
 me that I have a letter from him, informing me 
 that Aunt Sophie and Co. are returning next 
 Sunday. Baillie suggests that I might have a 
 week-end at Newhaven, and so be on hand to 
 meet them. I hardly imagine that I could stand 
 Newhaven (although the name of the town is 
 delightful enough) for longer than an hour or 
 two, therefore I shall compromise by going to 
 Brighton on Saturday next, whence I can easily 
 run over to Newhaven at the right time. 
 
 I put this proposition to Jones, who remarks, 
 
198 Honesty's Garden 
 
 " You don't never seem to be at home now since 
 the house next door has been empty — so it don't 
 much matter " — which is an absurd observation, 
 look at it how you will. 
 
CHAPTER XXI 
 
 I want to write it all down as coherently as 
 possible, so force myself to begin with the record 
 that I reached Brighton yesterday afternoon. 
 It was raining, and the sea and sky were grey 
 and disagreeable; also the south-westerly wind 
 from Normandy had found a way across the 
 Channel. It was a really depressing afternoon, 
 a fitting prologue in a sense 
 
 But this is to anticipate, and bring confusion 
 where I am particularly desirous of being lucid 
 and intelligible. My mind still works in such 
 a chaos of emotions, however, that I can see this 
 chapter of my life will require a lot of editing 
 before it can be allowed to go into my book. 
 
 Shortly — I must tell it — I have found Honesty. 
 She and the worst part of her pitiful story are 
 mine. For I must let myself think of Honesty 
 in that manner. She is truly my child now. 
 
 It is curious that I should have chosen Brigh- 
 ton — or rather that Brighton should have been 
 practically chosen for me — for just this parti- 
 
 199 
 
200 Honesty's Garden 
 
 cular little holiday. And the rain too, which 
 drove me rather dejectedly from one shelter to 
 another along the King's Road, has had some- 
 thing to do with it. I am so unobservant a 
 creature that, otherwise, I might never have 
 spied that piteous little figure, huddled up and 
 asleep out of the wind under the indifferent 
 protection of the shelter on the Madeira Drive. 
 We might have missed each other ; and then 
 
 Well, who can say what then? Fate works 
 on consistent lines, I verily believe. The string 
 of circumstances which has brought me to 
 Brighton just now, just at the right and wonder- 
 ful instant, was woven by clever hands. It hap- 
 pened in quite ordinary-wise that I saw her in 
 wet mackintosh, and tired, so tired — sleeping 
 there against the ivied wall at the back of the 
 shelter. I looked and saw a pale girl sleeping, 
 worn out and abandoned by all good fortune; 
 her hair blown about and her shabby hat awry, 
 the rain still driving in at her in angry fitful 
 gusts, her hands ungloved and looking very cold. 
 So I saw her and felt pity ; and then amazement ; 
 and then 
 
 It came upon me to catch her up suddenly 
 and very close; to hold her tightly and securely 
 from all unhappiness for ever and ever. To run 
 away with her from all the whole world, so that 
 she might be mine utterly and wholly ; so that I 
 
Honesty's Garden 201 
 
 might alone care for and guard her. A strange, 
 inexplicable feeling is in my heart; and yet is 
 no new thing. It is part of me; always must 
 be that part of me which counts; always has 
 been the better part of me — since I knew 
 Honesty. 
 
 Something perhaps of the love which a father 
 feels for his child? The love that my father 
 had for me, when I was a little chap — as help- 
 less as Honesty looked then? Our only excuse 
 for living is that we may love and help others: 
 it is the way to happiness and that even better 
 thing — sweet content. 
 
 I came near to her, and paused irresolute, 
 after all. My first impulse had been to catch 
 her to me, as I have said: then it came upon 
 me that she was sleeping, and so must not be dis- 
 turbed. An odd mixture of thoughts and doubts 
 prevented me from doing what I would have 
 liked. 
 
 As I wondered there, she awakened; and, see- 
 ing me, gave out a small startled cry. Then 
 somehow knowing me for a friend (for how in 
 that half-light could she really have recognised 
 me?) she seized my coat with her cold fingers 
 and drew me close. I bent down to hear what 
 she was saying, and guessed the whole of the 
 story from one heart-broken word. 
 
 " Oh, my dear and my heart ! Don't cry— 
 
202 Honesty's Garden 
 
 don't cry ! God does these things, and He knows 
 best." 
 
 The very ardent desire in me to be of comfort 
 to her conquered — despite my set phrases. What 
 could one say in face of such bitter trouble? 
 Honesty stood up, and for a moment brave blue 
 eyes met mine: then she rested her head simply 
 against my shoulder — whilst my arm went about 
 that poor little body, shaken by the tempest of 
 sorrow within it. 
 
 It had been a forlorn hope for them; this 
 coming to Brighton — the nearest seaside, and the 
 smallest fare. But the blow had been struck 
 when they had left Carbridge; it had been too 
 deadly for the elder woman to survive it long. 
 I heard through Honesty's tears a story of pain 
 bravely borne; of ill-health steadily going from 
 bad to worse; until at last nothing might be 
 done. " If we had not left home this might 
 never have been " ; so ran the plaint. " We were 
 so happy there, so happy. Perhaps we were too 
 happy." 
 
 I made her walk with me along the Madeira 
 Drive and let her tell me all. Talking did her 
 good; she grew more calm. Little by little I 
 learned the fact that her mother had passed out 
 of Honesty's life only within the week. Brain 
 fever, exhaustion brought on by worry, too acute 
 for that timid, shrinking nature; by fear of 
 
Honesty's Garden 203 
 
 worse things — fear for Honesty, horrible dread 
 of what must happen when the last of their little 
 money was gone — brought on by the humiliation 
 of it all; by the shock to her old-world pride; 
 by semi-starvation — that the most evil day might 
 be kept away, in the far distance. 
 
 " And I could do so little ! Oh, it is terri- 
 ble to find out how really useless one is! All 
 my grand plans went tumbling to pieces. I 
 couldn't earn enough by my typewriting to 
 even pay the baker's bill." 
 
 " Surely you might have tried your friends, 
 Honesty. You might have given them a chance 
 of helping you " 
 
 " At the last I would have done anything. 
 But it was only when it was too late that I 
 could bring myself to see it was too late. Be- 
 sides, we have few friends, and those are poor. 
 And I have scorn of those who beg." 
 
 She drew herself away from me, as if at some 
 inner thought. I remembered Billy's accusa- 
 tion. Is it possible Honesty thinks this, too? 
 I could but say, lamely, I fear, " I wish you had 
 written to me. I wanted to help you so badly. 
 Do you know that the old home is waiting for 
 you? That was why I bought it; in the hope 
 that very soon you would come back to it. 
 Won't you come back? " 
 
 She glanced quickly up at me through her 
 
204 Honesty's Garden 
 
 tears, so strange a look. " Do you ask me to 
 come back? Do you think I could ever be 
 happy in Carbridge again?" She shook her 
 head. " No, I have a chance at last. Of course 
 it comes now — and not when it might have meant 
 so much more. I can stay here, and shall be 
 able to live. That is all I really want. To be 
 near her — as near as I can be." 
 
 I saw the difficulties ahead, but had enough 
 sense to remain silent. We walked along into, 
 the maze of small streets about Kemp Town; 
 and presently came to one trying to be more 
 worthy of Brighton — in a rather pretentious 
 way. I saw its name boastfully lettered on the 
 corner house : Over Cliff Gardens. Truly Billy 
 and I might have searched a long while ere find- 
 ing this solution to our puzzle. 
 
 I told Honesty, before we parted, how I had 
 discovered Paradise Street and Billy: seeking 
 to drive away sad thoughts I made the little 
 history quite cheerfully romantic. I insisted on 
 an early meeting for this morning ... we went 
 together to the cemetery; and, for a few mo- 
 ments, stood hand in hand. 
 
 It was not difficult to understand that this 
 last and worst happening had practically ended 
 their resources. But all their bills had been 
 paid. The stubborn pride of the child is dread- 
 ful — if it were not so pitiful. No help will she 
 
Honesty's Garden 205 
 
 accept ; indeed, she seemed to grow colder every 
 minute, more distant. Last night, when she 
 cried against my heart I thought it would all 
 be so easy; that I would be able to make her 
 understand her troubles were over. There was 
 only a something very small just to be said, or 
 done. It appeared to be almost achieved. 
 
 I have racked my brains this day to discover 
 how it is I have been so near to success; and 
 why I have failed. Clearly there needed but 
 one more touch; it appears to me now that I 
 ought to have perceived instinctively the neces- 
 sary magic. Honesty is drawing away from 
 me. I am losing her again; and this time 
 hopelessly. 
 
 Not that! She smiled wanly once, I re- 
 member, when I spoke of Jock. That's the 
 thing I want, of course ! Poor soul. Love alone 
 can help her — and since I can only help through 
 Love I must bring Love to her. 
 
 Her scheme — her " chance " she calls it — is to 
 take up the duties of a sort of companion- 
 manageress to a big boarding-house on the front. 
 She has duly accepted the terms offered ! a home 
 in exchange for her services. Honesty tells me 
 that the people look kind: they have not asked 
 her to pay anything; indeed, they have promised 
 to make her a little allowance if the season be 
 a good one. Poor child, I think once more; 
 
206 Honesty's Garden 
 
 but dare not suggest Carbridge again. Sud- 
 denly, however, daylight comes to me. I ask 
 the address of the boarding-house; it is always 
 useful to know of places of this sort, I explain. 
 Then when Honesty has returned to goodness 
 knows what kind of a meal at the Over Clin 
 Gardens lodgings, I set forth promptly for the 
 King's Road. 
 
 There are ways of helping even stubborn 
 people. It was not long before I had arranged 
 matters with the proprietress, a nice woman 
 with a terribly worried expression. Her light 
 blue eyes were so suggestive of imminent ner- 
 vous breakdown that I could quite believe her 
 statement that a manageress was needed in the 
 establishment. She spoke quickly in agitated 
 whispers. " Yes, oh, yes. We have many guests. 
 They are really not exacting, of course ; but with 
 so many other things " 
 
 Servants were continually popping in and out 
 of the room all through our interview. A dozen 
 times came, " Excuse me one moment. I am so 
 sorry, but this house — " Then a brief con- 
 sultation with the maid; and rapid instruc- 
 tions, then a return to me, to the subject in 
 hand. " One has to attend to the business so 
 continually. I have never been able to persuade 
 any one else to give their minds to it. But 
 Miss Dene really has the air of being thor- 
 
Honesty's Garden 207 
 
 oughly capable. There will be plenty to 
 do." 
 
 " That will help her," I said. " She must have 
 no opportunity to brood. Let her be as busy as 
 she likes, and pray be careful not to let her 
 suspect our little plot. It will merely be neces- 
 sary for you to say, at the end of the first week, 
 that she has been so useful that you must insist 
 on paying a proper fixed salary." 
 
 " It shall all be arranged, Mr. Swift," she 
 interrupted, "just as you wish. I quite under- 
 stand." She smiled here in a rather odd man- 
 ner, I thought. " Miss Dene can come in 
 to-night, if she will. As to her dress " 
 
 I suppose I appeared rather blank. " You 
 had better leave that to me," she went on, 
 shrewdly. "Good clothes will be imperative. 
 She is in mourning, isn't she? Mourning is 
 rather expensive." 
 
 She pondered the question inwardly, and 
 whilst thinking of clothes her attitude of worry 
 considerably lightened. " This will be the plan," 
 she presently announced. " You must make her 
 an advance, and I will take her to the best 
 shops to-morrow " 
 
 " She would never permit it," I blundered in. 
 " Don't you see " 
 
 " One moment, Mr. Swift. It is perfectly 
 easy. You make Miss Dene an advance. Say 
 
208 Honesty's Garden 
 
 you offer her fifty pounds. She will probably 
 agree to accept twenty as a loan, and I shall 
 tell her at once that there will be a salary, and 
 certain engagement for the season. She can 
 repay you so much a week if she chooses." 
 
 " Excellent," I agreed, admiringly. " You 
 think of everything " ; and so came away to a 
 quietly satisfactory, if solitary, lunch at my 
 hotel. 
 
 Afterwards I went over to Newhaven to meet 
 Aunt Sophie and the rest; but they must wait 
 for another chapter. 
 
CHAPTER XXII 
 
 " The best laid schemes of mice and men "— 
 exemplified once again ! My little plot with the 
 boarding-house lady hab come to nothing. But 
 first of all, Aunt Sophie. 
 
 I met them at Newhaven, and we all had a 
 frantic time of it going through the Customs. 
 They have a system at Newhaven — excellent in 
 theory, diabolical in practice — of arranging all 
 the luggage in streets of numbers about the floor 
 of the Customs House. Then one simply goes to 
 one's " street," stands near one's box, and waits 
 the inspector. That is, after one gets in. 
 
 The inspector asks you the usual question. 
 You give the usual slightly modified truth. He 
 either is satisfied — or he is n't. In the latter 
 case you are asked for your key, and your box is 
 duly rummaged. 
 
 This is the theory: in effect, it isn't quite so 
 simple. Other passengers seem to have the 
 knack of getting that inspector away from the 
 neighbourhood of your box just as he is next 
 door to it. They seem to know him: he is ad- 
 14 209 
 
210 Honesty's Garden 
 
 dressed by his Christian name — he recognises 
 them — and promptly removes himself to their 
 " street" It is a quarter of an hour at least 
 ere he works back to you; and all the while 
 you are trembling lest another old acquaintance 
 should appear and hail him off elsewhere. 
 
 Aunt Sophie chose me to assist in this pan- 
 demonium. We were given the keys and left to 
 our fate. When, after half an hour's conflict, 
 we emerged pale but triumphant from the Cus- 
 toms, we found the London train just ready to 
 start. 
 
 Gatherway, who really might have helped, 
 positively did nothing — except get Miss Harri- 
 son tea and bread-and-butter and do stupid 
 things of that sort. They had all enjoyed a 
 most delightful crossing and there was no need 
 for tea. I told Gatherway so; but he merely 
 swept me up. 
 
 Eva complained that the sea had upset her: 
 consequently she annexed Baillie — or tried to. 
 I had to be dealt with, however; and I can be 
 terribly firm on occasion. Eva was not allowed 
 to do it. I bundled Aunt Sophie and uncle into 
 the carriage in which the little minx had calmly 
 settled herself with Jock. I then called him 
 out, on some pretext or another — smoking, I 
 think — and made him travel with me as far as 
 Lewes. 
 
Honesty's Garden 211 
 
 I broke it to him; gently, I hope. Of course 
 the lad was dreadfully concerned to hear of 
 Honesty's great loss. He appeared quite shaken, 
 and full of eagerness to comfort our poor little 
 girl. I tried to think out some means by which 
 I could reasonably get him to Brighton with 
 me. We neither of us wished to let the others 
 into the business ; it seemed not to be absolutely 
 necessary. 
 
 " Look here," said I, at length, " this must be 
 the way out of it. We are already in the wrong 
 part of the train for London; and in the right 
 part for Brighton. The guard told me not to 
 forget to change at Lewes. Well — suppose we 
 do forget? " 
 
 " But my luggage? " 
 
 " We will wire from Brighton that your port- 
 manteau is to be put in the cloak-room." I saw 
 myself as a very Napoleon of organisers — for 
 about a minute. 
 
 Baillie frowned and looked out of the window. 
 After briefly surveying the passing and rather^ 
 dreary landscape, he remarked, " I 'm thinking 
 I must be getting home to-night, Swift. I will 
 have to be at work to-morrow at ten o'clock." 
 
 " There is a train leaving Brighton at eight- 
 thirty. You shall catch it without fail, because 
 I shall be catching it, too." 
 
 That ought to have settled it. " I do not 
 
2i2 Honesty's Garden 
 
 think I will dare do it, Swift. The train might 
 very well be late. A wee bit late and it would 
 be enough." He added, more brightly, " Or 
 maybe, I would oversleep myself." 
 
 I own this made me rather short with him. 
 " Well, I naturally thought you would like to 
 see Honesty as soon as you could. Still, do as 
 you deem best for yourself." 
 
 He was hurt. " It is n't for myself I will be 
 thinking. My ain folk expect me home this 
 night." 
 
 There 's a modern lover for you ! As if he 
 could n't have wired to his " ain folk." If I 
 were in love with Honesty, nothing short of wild 
 horses should keep me from her at this juncture. 
 I would get to her somehow, despite wild horses. 
 
 " Shall I bear any message from you to Miss 
 Dene? " I asked, trying hard to remain patient. 
 " I shall see her directly." 
 
 " I have no message for Miss Dene that you 
 could not give better as coming from yourself, 
 Swift," he retorted quite ridiculously. " If you 
 will tell her that I would be glad to write, it is 
 likely she will give me an address." After that 
 we smoked in silence. But the lad's better 
 feelings finally prevailed. As we were nearing 
 Lewes, he laid his hand on my knee, and said in 
 a shamefaced sort of way " Eh, but my heart 's 
 sore for the lassie, Swift. It is dreadful she 
 
Honesty's Garden 213 
 
 should have been suffering — the whiles we were 
 taking holidays." 
 
 " We must make it all holidays for her now," 
 said I. 
 
 He shook his head. " I misdoubt we can do 
 that," he answered soberly. " Sorrow dies hard. 
 She had no one else. Think of it, Swift." 
 
 "Are you sure there's no one else?" I ques- 
 tioned, to give him a lead. He jerked his pipe 
 back to his mouth, and puffed forth volumes 
 more eloquent than words. I caught him eyeing 
 me in a Scotch inquisitive way, presently. 
 
 However, prudence before all else. Baillie 
 must get out of the smoking-carriage at Lewes, 
 and set forth to find the others. I had the time 
 to spare, so went up the platform with him. 
 We passed Miss Harrison and Gatherway, not 
 alone — but giving one the notion that they would 
 like to have been. Next, we discovered Eva. In 
 fact, she was looking out for us. 
 
 I explained matters to Aunt Sophie, who, of 
 course, was all exclamations. " I was wonder- 
 ing what you were going to do with that other 
 house, Mortimer," she observed; then, fortu- 
 nately for me, the guard blew his whistle. 
 
 " Jump in, sir, going on," he cried in a breath, 
 reminding me of Billy. 
 
 Jock jumped in and settled down in Eva's 
 corner. I heard her whispering. She had been 
 
214 Honesty's Garden 
 
 saving it for him. I nodded, and waved my 
 hand; then returned to the Brighton part of 
 the train, making mental notes that Eva must 
 be advised to leave Baillie alone. She must n't 
 interfere. How on earth can I be a genie if 
 she 's going to upset things? 
 
 On the whole, I was not very pleased. Jock 
 certainly appears inclined to take it all for 
 granted. I wonder if he does love Honesty. It 
 looks as though she were doing all the loving 
 now; whereas before 
 
 That's the young man of to-day! I believe 
 he would put a football match before any other 
 kind of match, no matter how pretty and de- 
 sirable the girl. Everything is turned round in 
 these times. All the stories and novels I used 
 to read concerned one heroine and many men. 
 Modern novels make it the other way, with a 
 vengeance. Girls, according to the present-day 
 novelist (most often a woman, so she ought to 
 know — and does n't) do all the courting. The 
 Man Hunters, was the title of a book I picked 
 up at a book-stall only this week ; and I wish I 
 hadn't. The audacity of the theme was only 
 equalled by the treatment of it. 
 
 I got to Brighton in a low frame of mind, 
 therefore. I met Honesty in the King's Road. 
 She had already seen the worried lady who keeps 
 the boarding-house. It soon became obvious 
 
Honesty's Garden 215 
 
 that the worried one had not been discreet. 
 Honesty had heard of my visit; had asked 
 shrewd questions. In fact, I speedily per- 
 ceived that, in the words of the poet, she knew 
 all. 
 
 She strongly objected to my harmless little 
 plot. " No doubt you have acted with the best 
 intention, Mr. Swift," she announced, with some 
 constraint. " But you must think very poorly 
 of me if you imagine, for a moment, I can accept 
 such charity. Please let me speak. It is 
 charity, and you know it. You must blame my 
 pride — false pride, if you like — but I will not 
 accept charity just yet." 
 
 " You are a little unjust to me, child " 
 
 " Ah, forgive me ! I do not mean to be un- 
 just, and I know I have much to be thankful 
 for." She laid her hand on my arm as we 
 walked, then quickly drew it away. " It is a pity 
 that I should be so wilful, I know; but I have 
 always been wilful." 
 
 " What, then, will you do? " 
 
 She shrugged her little shoulders and laughed 
 piteously, at least so it seemed to me. The night 
 was cool after the rain; autumn was very pre- 
 sent. " I must make other plans," she said, after 
 a while. " I shall go back to London — to 
 Paradise Street." 
 
 "And then?" 
 
216 Honesty's Garden 
 
 " I shall try to get such a place there as the 
 one " 
 
 " I have spoiled for you here? " I interrupted. 
 
 " You have n't spoiled it for me. You wanted 
 to, and tried to; but I wouldn't let you." She 
 smiled at memory of Paradise Street. " I shall 
 be all right there," she added, as I read her 
 thoughts. 
 
 " You will have some one at Paradise Street 
 who loves you," said I, jealously. 
 
 She glanced at me, just such a look as I had 
 noted before. " You mean Billy? " 
 
 " Euphemia Felicia Jubilee," I corrected her. 
 This time her laughter had a better ring. " Now 
 come with me, and we '11 have a little supper- 
 party all to ourselves at a place I know of. We 
 will talk over ways and means." 
 
 " Ways," she interposed ; " only ways, please. 
 I must be independent." 
 
 " Means shan't be given a chance," I promised. 
 " We won't even hint at means." I remembered 
 to ask her again about the typewriting. " Have 
 you given that a fair trial? " 
 
 " Gracious, yes ! And I type rather well, too. 
 That dear little chap at Wright's taught me so 
 cleverly." 
 
 " It was his pleasure and privilege " 
 
 " So he always declared. . . . Did I tell you 
 that once I — crept back to Carbridge? It was 
 
Honesty's Garden 217 
 
 when we were at Paradise Street. I saw our 
 house was sold, and I asked a child in the road 
 who had bought it." She drew in her breath, 
 and I did not dare to speak. Presently she went 
 on about the typewriting. " All the typing 
 schools cut one out. Pupils pay to be taught, 
 and practise on the manuscripts sent in to the 
 schools. They can afford to type at sixpence a 
 thousand words, and type really decently. Is n't 
 it awful?" 
 
 " Awful every way, I expect. But how about 
 becoming lady typist to some firm? Plenty of 
 people can do with a really capable girl 
 secretary." 
 
 " Are there such posts and such people? " 
 inquired Honesty, doubtfully. " Or are you 
 inventing both? " 
 
 " I could n't be half so brainy," I told her. 
 " Here 's the restaurant. Come along, and we '11 
 find a quiet table." She hesitated, but event- 
 ually agreed to pass before me through the door- 
 way. The too-obliging waiter soon put us at 
 ease ; and, as it was still early, we had the place 
 practically to ourselves. 
 
 I ventured, very carefully, to commence the 
 hatching of yet another plot. I recollected my 
 cousin, Harry Duveen. (I expect you have for- 
 gotten him utterly; although I told you, at the 
 end of Chapter III., that he was prospering ex- 
 
218 Honesty's Garden 
 
 ceedingly at something to do with shoes, in a 
 village near Bath. ) Why should n't Harry Du- 
 veen want a lady typist? If I can only get 
 Honesty safely to Paradise Street without sus- 
 pecting anything, she can remain there rent free, 
 since I have paid Mrs. Jolliman in advance for 
 my room. Behold me a Machiavelli. I do hope 
 I shall bring this conspiracy to a better issue. I 
 shall run down to Bath during the week ; I shall 
 make Harry see that his triumphs are incom- 
 plete, his prosperity unframed, as it were, so 
 long as he is without a lady typist. I shall 
 coax his little wife to help me; she will under- 
 stand the case when I have explained it to her. 
 Perhaps she won't — still I '11 try, all the same. 
 
CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 Honesty has been safely convoyed, with her 
 few poor belongings, to Paradise Street, and 
 Billy is in a seventh heaven. Memory of that 
 queer little thing's unaffected delight at the re- 
 covery of Honesty is something worth treasuring. 
 
 I cannot altogether understand Baillie. He 
 went with me to meet Honesty at Victoria on 
 Monday night, because I made him; but he 
 would n't come on to Clapham. He had some 
 excuse or another, and I felt very uncomfortable, 
 as I had evolved a variation in my schemes, 
 whereby Honesty and he were to be left alone in 
 a compartment of the train whilst I smoked. I 
 did manage to leave them at Victoria for a bit, 
 under pretence of getting the tickets; but I 
 found them on my return still talking stiffly to 
 each other on the draughty platform. In the 
 end, we had to waste Jock's ticket, and go on by 
 ourselves to Clapham Road. Then we took a 
 double-decked tram to Paradise Street, for a 
 halfpenny each — which certainly made up for 
 the preliminary extravagance. 
 
 219 
 
220 Honesty's Garden 
 
 Billy's parent was grappling with a headache 
 (probably in the nasty little public-house at the 
 corner), so that I was able to introduce Honesty 
 in quite my own w r ay. Both those dear crea- 
 tures, Mrs. and Miss Jolliman, were as joyful 
 as myself at the meeting, and Honesty was not 
 permitted to cry, even for appearance' sake. Of 
 course she must needs " arrange " with Mrs. 
 Jolliman about the rent of the room, and I 
 allowed her to settle it in her own fashion. 
 Mrs. Jolliman was in my plot, as I had taken 
 care to write a small note, which I slipped into 
 Mrs. J.'s hands whilst Billy and Honesty were 
 engaged for a minute or two in some astound- 
 ing learned discussion concerning Billy's new 
 clothes. Thus, I am continuing my career of 
 deception, and am vastly enjoying it. 
 
 I have framed an advertisement for to-morrow 
 morning's newspaper. The answer will come to 
 Honesty quite naturally from Bath! What a 
 diplomatist the world has lost in me. Why was 
 I ever " took literary "? I am sure I could have 
 done better at an embassy, or even in the secret 
 service. 
 
 I am able to record, however, that the Little 
 Marvels are behaving well. Their sales have 
 been most satisfactory, and Gatherway has posi- 
 
Honesty's Garden 221 
 
 tively forwarded me a cheque. Not a cheque for 
 a large amount, mind you. This must be (so 
 far as I am concerned) a modest and reliable 
 chronicle. It is only in the realms of fancy that 
 people become rich in a moment as the proper 
 reward of their efforts or abilities. In real life 
 fortune is not hasty. She takes her time, and 
 has been known to come — too late. 
 
 You must not cherish delusions about authors 
 and editors. They work just as hard as most 
 men, and often harder. They 're none the worse 
 for it. The best work in this world has usually 
 been achieved by the hardest-worked man or 
 woman. Reflection will soon supply you with 
 proof of this. Take yourself, for instance. 
 
 Meanwhile, I will get along with my business 
 — which now brings me to Bath Station, on the 
 Great Western Railway. You must please dis- 
 cover me waiting for the stopping train to Bris- 
 tol, by which I intend journeying to the small 
 village where my cousin, Harry Duveen, does 
 something weird and wonderful with shoes. 
 
 While I wait, behold Harry himself. He is 
 like Eva, only different and bigger. I mean if 
 you knew Eva you would recognise Cousin 
 Harry. He is a fine fellow, and, as I have 
 hinted, fortune is not lagging behind him. He 
 has acquired some touch of the Somerset mel- 
 lowness of tone, and contour. He is delighted 
 
222 Honesty's Garden 
 
 to see me, and so full of a really amazing ma- 
 chine for making hooks for eyes — I should say, 
 eyelets — that I cannot anyhow coax our con- 
 versation towards typewriters. He is also going 
 to St. Keynes, having arranged a most import- 
 ant afternoon's business in Bath. From some- 
 thing he lets slip, I half suspect that the business 
 was partly connected with the new fishing-rod 
 which he is carrying. In the stopping train the 
 hook machine prevails over all other topics; it 
 rules them with statistics, technicalities, and 
 highly complex descriptions. " Suppose my 
 finger is the valve. Well, it bobs up and down 
 just like this, whilst the hooks are settling to- 
 wards the bottom of the feed. See? Then the 
 valve lets 'em through in two streams, one at a 
 time; and natural gravitation takes 'em down 
 two slots, where they slide out comfortably into 
 two kind-of-scissor things which the man holds. 
 See? The man clips the scissor-things together 
 soon as they 're full, and catches the points close 
 and tight, so that the hooks are all one way up, 
 and can't move. Then he passes them over " 
 
 " The scissors or the hooks? " 
 
 "Both; they're all in one piece now — see? 
 Another chap collars hold of the scissors that 
 are full. First man turns to fill another pair. 
 Second man whips the heads of the hooks flush 
 under the press, slips the sheet of celulloid over 
 
Honesty's Garden 223 
 
 them, all colours, you know. We do eyelets for 
 any kind of shoes, slippers, or boots. Stays, 
 too. We have a huge corset factory at Bath." 
 
 " Don't shatter all my ideals, Harry : I don't 
 want to know how stays are made, or that they're 
 made at all." 
 
 " Oh, well, we '11 get back to the hooks. The 
 press is steaming hot; can't bear to touch it 
 hardly. Down it comes on the hooks — bang ! " 
 His hand falls on his knee with a resounding 
 slap, and the other passengers turn to glance at 
 us. They recognise Harry, and smile and nod. 
 He shouts out various greetings to all and sun- 
 dry; has an answer for every one. Temporarily 
 the hooks are left under the press, thoroughly 
 banged. As we near St. Keynes I get a chance, 
 at last. The subject is brought before the 
 House. We only get as far as a first reading 
 of the Bill, and Cousin Harry is doubtful as to 
 whether we shall carry it any further. Even if 
 we pass it through Committee, there is still a 
 House of Lords — Cousin Harry's little wife! 
 He fears she won't in any way approve a lady 
 typist; more especially a young lady typist. 
 
 That being the situation, behold me a master 
 of tactful persuasion. Harry admits he wants 
 help in the office ; that the clerical work is really 
 beginning to bother him. " We sent out over a 
 million eyelets last week, my boy," he declares, 
 
224 Honesty's Garden 
 
 " and when the hook machine 's in full going 
 order, we shall do a million of them as well. 
 Yes, I could do with somebody extra, and a good 
 handy girl would be all right; especially if 
 she could take the correspondence. You see, 
 I have to give so much time to the practical part 
 of it; keeping touch with the details — thinking 
 out new patents and improvements " 
 
 " Of course, of course," I interrupt, fearing a 
 recrudescence of the " hook " machine. " You 
 would find Miss Dene invaluable, I know. She 
 is a most capable, excellent girl, and very quick. 
 As regards emolument " 
 
 " Oh, I would give her a pound a week at 
 the start," says Harry, instantly. " And she 
 could ' dig ' down at Connor's. They have a 
 nice room they might let, and the lass would n't 
 be lonely." 
 
 " Do try and arrange it for me, Harry," I 
 beg, delighted at this. Connor I remember very 
 well; a nice man, working with the chocolate 
 people in Bristol. I know the house, by the 
 side of the little river that runs through St. 
 Keynes into the Avon. Honesty would be com- 
 fortable with Mrs. Connor, a most homely, 
 motherly woman. " I should like to make the 
 necessary arrangements with the Connors," I 
 add, over-anxious to do my best. 
 
 Harry Duveen gives me a queerish sort of 
 
Honesty's Garden 225 
 
 look. " This Miss Dene 's a protegee of yours, 
 Mortimer, it seems? " 
 
 " She is a poor child in whom I am very much 
 interested/' I tell him. " I am hoping she will 
 not have to stay long as Miss Dene; in fact I 
 am tolerably sure your wife need have no alarm 
 for you." I laugh, but Harry shakes his head. 
 
 " I 'm afraid — " he is starting, when I inter- 
 pose. I give him briefly a notion of the case; 
 explain Baillie, and the rest of it. Of course, I 
 don't say anything about my own little final 
 scheme of returning Honesty to her garden. 
 That somehow is a climax which must be re- 
 served as a climax. It may need all the 
 engineering I can command, and I don't even 
 understand hook-machines yet, notwithstanding 
 Harry's picturesque description of them. 
 
 We arrive at St. Keynes. Harry regards me 
 as a rather soft-hearted, easily-imposed-on crea- 
 ture — if he does n't think worse. I suppose it 
 does sound absurdly philanthropic, and yet to 
 me it 's perfectly natural that I should want to 
 help Honesty. Supposing she were an old 
 woman, or anybody but Honesty herself, should 
 I then be so ready to appear unselfish? I am 
 helping Honesty, because I like doing it. There ! 
 
 I am sentimental. I must confess it. Inside 
 my pocket-book, pressed between the leaves, is 
 a little, withered flower — a columbine, that has 
 
226 Honesty's Garden 
 
 to stand fv.r remembrance. I have been unsenti- 
 mental for so many, many years; and directly 
 Honesty has been made happy I will be as crusty 
 and fusty and disagreeable again as any one 
 may desire. 
 
 So we come into St. Keynes, and call at the 
 factory on our way to Cousin Harry's house. 
 Everything at the factory is soon found to be in 
 order, for which I am glad — the smell of cam- 
 phor being a trifle too pronounced even for one 
 who really rather likes it. Harry explains it is 
 the celluloid that makes the atmosphere so pun- 
 gent, and protests that he has never had one 
 of his people away with cold yet. " They simply 
 can't catch anything while they 're in my factory. 
 As a matter of fact, a lot of the villagers come 
 here to be cured. Whenever I drop in sud- 
 denly I generally find one or two of them 
 standing about the doorway, pretending they 
 have business." 
 
 " You have a good many girls employed here, 
 have n't you? " 
 
 " Upstairs ; so they can't be the attraction." 
 
 Harry shuts the door of the camphory place 
 carefully behind him. "Come along; I expect 
 you 're starving." I note he has left the fishing- 
 rod behind in his small office. I admit that, 
 whilst not exactly expiring for want of food, I 
 could still do with a mouthful. " Let us hope 
 
Honesty's Garden 227 
 
 there will be more than that," laughs Harry, as 
 we trudge up the street. " Had rare doings 
 down here since I last saw you," he presently 
 instructs me. " First of all we have had a 
 regular stand-up fight with the traction com- 
 pany, who nearly rushed us into allowing their 
 trams through from Bristol to Bath." 
 
 " Would n't trams be rather convenient for 
 St. Keynes? " 
 
 " My dear fellow, of course ! That 's just the 
 trouble. We should have the place full of 
 Bristol riff-raff in a jiffy. Then rows of cot- 
 tages; then streets of 'em ever growing. Then 
 Bristol would reach out one of its dirty paws 
 and rake us in! St. Keynes would become a 
 suburb — and that 's always the end of indi- 
 viduality and everything else worth talking 
 about." 
 
 " Any other doings? " I did n't want to press 
 Honesty too much. I was fairly satisfied with 
 my progress up to this point. 
 
 "Anything else? I should think so!" He 
 sinks his jolly voice to a whisper which you 
 could hear the length of the street. " The White 
 Lady 's been at it again." 
 
 " The White Lady? " 
 
 " Walking all night, swishing her petticoats 
 about the corridors; tapping on the windows; 
 carrying on just as though she owned the whole 
 
228 Honesty's Garden 
 
 show. Maude 's been crazy about her ; swears 
 she won't stay in the house a minute longer than 
 she can help. I said, ' You must, my dear. 
 This village is our living. It's good style to 
 run a ghost, especially a lady ghost.' No use 
 my arguing, though. * Either that woman goes, 
 or I do,' vows Maude. It positively came to 
 that." 
 
 " What are you going to do? " 
 
 " That was last month," grins Harry, cheer- 
 fully. " The White Lady had the sense to per- 
 ceive that Maude meant it. Moreover, it 's 
 beginning to be chilly of nights ; our White Lady 
 has returned to warmer climes. We have heard 
 nothing of her for three weeks ; and we hope for 
 the best. There is Maude at the gate, looking 
 out for me. She 's wondering who the dickens 
 I have brought with me, and whether the cold 
 mutton will make enough for three ! " 
 
CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 The House of Lords is considering the Bill, 
 but has already added so many amendments, 
 that I begin to doubt whether the faithful 
 Commons (Honesty and her pride) will accept 
 the situation. I almost believe the Bill will be 
 lost, after all. 
 
 Dear me, what a duffer I am in this affair! 
 One would think it easy enough to help another 
 person if one tried; but it isn't easy to help 
 Honesty. 
 
 However, I can't keep running about the 
 country like this, and neglecting my sacred sub- 
 editorial duties, in order to achieve a series 
 of ridiculous failures. I must settle Honesty; 
 and insist on her being happy 
 
 It 's all very well to tell people they must be 
 happy whether they will or not. It can't be 
 done; and, remembering the terrible loss the 
 poor child has sustained, I am a brute to expect 
 her to take much interest in life just at present. 
 I sometimes try to think what it must be like to 
 have lost your home, and then your very dearest 
 
 229 
 
230 Honesty's Garden 
 
 friend in all the world. I do so wish I could 
 comfort her; but I see that only time can do 
 that. 
 
 I had the oddest dream last night, through 
 listening to gossip anent the White Lady, con- 
 tributed by Harry and his little wife after a 
 somewhat heavy supper. I ought to be thank- 
 ful it was no worse than a dream: these Somer- 
 set Duveens are so hospitable, and eat so heartily 
 themselves, that one is forced to slightly exceed 
 the limit, out of sheer etiquette! 
 
 Dreams are foolish things at the best, and I 
 am not superstitious, so I will only outline the 
 strange fancy that held my sleeping thoughts 
 last night. I was in Paradise Street, and it was 
 summer still, but very hot and uncomfortable. 
 Billy was swinging herself between the poplar 
 trees, and eyeing me with disdain. In some 
 way I was in her bad books. " You ought to 
 know," she was saying ; and each time the swing 
 brought her within striking distance she kicked 
 out towards me a small, vicious foot. " You, 
 with your conceit and all." I found myself 
 absurdly anxious to explain that it was n't my 
 fault, whatever it was; but she only went on 
 swinging. " I hope you '11 be sorry for it," con- 
 tinued this vision of Miss Felicia Jubilee Jolli- 
 man, angrily; "I hope she'll come and haunt 
 you for the rest of your days ! I hope she '11 tap 
 
Honesty's Garden 231 
 
 on the windows in the dead of night, and frighten 
 you into a million billion fits ! " Again I tried 
 to speak, but my tongue seemed horribly tied 
 up in my mouth. " I hate you and I hate your 
 old books. You took away her garden, you did. 
 You 're worse than Hire Purchase and Promis- 
 sorory Note, you are. Oh, don't I just hate 
 you ! " She swung herself furiously. " You '11 
 hear her creeping along the corridors: al- 
 ways coming nearer and nearer, and yet never 
 coming at all. That '11 pay you out. Steal- 
 ing her home and stealing her heart; and all 
 for a lot of cripples! You and your cripples, 
 indeed ! " 
 
 Surprise so much got the better of slumber 
 that I nearly woke up. Then my memory flashed 
 to my brain that once Jones had said something 
 about the vicar of Carbridge wanting Honesty's 
 home for a play-house for little cripples ! I had 
 scarcely given the remark attention at the time 
 — yet here it was fully crystallised by Billy into 
 a grievance against unfortunate me ! 
 
 Odd that my dream should make Billy so 
 ferocious. Queerer still that phrase, " stealing 
 her home, and stealing her heart." But dreams 
 are supposed to be only incoherent workings of 
 a tired brain; senseless repetitions and varia- 
 tions of things heard during the day. As I sat 
 in the early train, homeward bound from St, 
 
232 Honesty's Garden 
 
 Keynes, I plainly saw that the White Lady had 
 influenced this nightmare. 
 
 It was a nightmare too. At the end of it 
 Billy had appeared to literally swell with rage. 
 As she swung ever higher and nearer, she had 
 seemed to grow and grow — until I was threat- 
 ened by a literal giantess, an overpowering fury 
 who meant to exterminate everything in her way. 
 I was quite helpless; presently she would be 
 able to sweep me up even more thoroughly than 
 Gatherway in his happiest moments. I was the 
 man in the story of "The Pit and the Pendulum" 
 — you haven't forgotten that eerie masterpiece 
 of Poe's? 
 
 However, just as that Juggernaut of a swing 
 was on its last downward journey, swooping to 
 crush me to atoms, I made the effort and — woke! 
 It was still dark, and being in a strange room, 
 I found myself positively upset. All sorts of 
 weird noises sounded about the house: really it 
 required very little imagination — and, presto! 
 one had the White Lady in full sail ! 
 
 The country was very beautiful, I thought, as 
 we skimmed through it this morning. Bathamp- 
 ton to Chippenham is a charming little bit of 
 England, and typical, too. Then Swindon, with 
 its maze of lines, its workshops, and all those 
 multitudinous engines of all ages and conditions 
 standing about everywhere. Poor rusty old 
 
Honesty's Garden 233 
 
 ghosts (ghosts again!) of bygone days, repre- 
 senting the then pinnacles of somebody's ambi- 
 tion: the dernier cri in engines — so soon to be 
 at their own dernier cri. I saw in my mind the 
 blithe inventor — Harry Duveen and his hooks 
 put it in my head, I suppose — joyfully regarding 
 the great improvement he had achieved; telling 
 the tolerant shades of old George Stephenson 
 and Timothy Hackworth just where they had 
 been wrong, just where they had stopped short; 
 and then the blithe inventor, a shade as well, 
 frowningly regarding another generation busy 
 perfecting totally different types of locomotive 
 engines. 
 
 My hand here for all time, thinks man — and 
 lo! the invention is obsolete even while he lives. 
 Or, if he performs an actual miracle, one that 
 shall survive all years, such as the pyramids 
 or the sphinx — then the work annihilates the 
 worker, and his name is lost yet more completely. 
 
 So, poor rusty triumphs of an hour, be grate- 
 ful that you are not on the scrap-heap ! Exposed 
 as you are to all weathers, still you do exist 
 tangibly. It is yours to see the proud " com- 
 pound " leviathan humming by you ; and it may 
 be yours to welcome him later to the siding near 
 your own — where, in turn, you shall both see 
 some electrical monstrosity performing feats un- 
 dreamed of in your brief epochs. 
 
234 Honesty's Garden 
 
 Progress — progress! Which reminds me that 
 of all old slowcoaches you must be deeming me 
 the most intolerable. 
 
 I had a busy morning of it at the offices of 
 the Colosseum. We have news of Burnaby: a 
 rumour as to his whereabouts has reached Scot- 
 land Yard, we are informed. Consequently we 
 are all agog, and my clerk Carr can scarcely 
 contain his feelings. " We don't want him, any- 
 way," he permits himself to observe. " Fancy 
 Mr. Burnaby back here again ! " He added, with 
 fervour, " I don't fancy it at all, sir — and that 's 
 the flat, downright truth." 
 
 "We shall never have such another editor," 
 said I. 
 
 " It 's to be hoped not," he catches me up. 
 " Of course, I know what you mean, sir," he 
 goes on, condescendingly. " And what Mr. Bur- 
 naby did n't know in the literary way was n't 
 worth knowing. But, my eye, he was a hard 
 nut to crack." 
 
 I offer no opinion on this delicate point, and 
 so Carr has to get back into his own particular 
 shell best way he can — a difficult feat, palpably. 
 He is simply packed with recollections of our 
 late editor — he is a popcorn only needing the 
 warmth of encouragement to burst out in all 
 directions. Carr would be slapping me on the 
 back and calling me " Old Sport," in half a 
 
Honesty's Garden 235 
 
 jiffy. I know Carr; and much as I like the lad, 
 I must endeavour to keep him normal at this 
 juncture. 
 
 You would say that, living the better part of 
 his life in an atmosphere of heavy and respon- 
 sible literature, Carr must be necessarily a 
 heavy and responsible clerk ; a youth who would 
 think in classics, and who must inevitably talk 
 informingly, scientifically, and with nice appre- 
 ciation of the value of an epigram. You would 
 figure Carr as pale of visage, meagre, with a 
 slight stoop, may be; his every thought a chap- 
 ter, his dress lambskin slightly spotted, no date ; 
 his glance a publisher's announcement. You 
 would be utterly out of it in every respect. 
 
 Things happen in this way. The most likely 
 person is always in the most unlikely spot. My 
 Undertaker is the kind of lad you would expect 
 in the offices of the Colosseum; and you would 
 expect in vain. Carr would be most suitable 
 for Messrs. Wright and Co. ; he would impart a 
 lively and piquant air to the business of house- 
 letting and valuing. On the smallest encourage- 
 ment Carr would blossom forth into a check 
 suit and one of those soft, impossible hats — 
 distinguished some years back by the name of 
 Trilby. His chubby, happy, lightly-come-and- 
 still-more-lightly-go nature would be admirable 
 in an auctioneer. 
 
236 Honesty's Garden 
 
 I quite agree with Carr, however, as regards 
 Burnaby. Frankly, I don't want him to be 
 taken by Scotland Yard. I want to still have a 
 tiny sort of hope at the back of my mind that 
 he did n't do it, after all ; that he will come back 
 one of these days and explain everything. More- 
 over, I am comfortable here as sub-editor ; I have 
 a free hand, and truly delude myself with the 
 idea that the Colosseum is n't so bad even under 
 its new direction. The advertising manager 
 seems satisfied, and that's a fairly promising 
 sign. 
 
 When I got home to-day Carbridge appeared 
 a very delightful place. The small wriggling 
 river is full, and by the bridge the water-lilies 
 are blooming yet. Autumn is upon us, though : 
 we may well have an early frost one of these 
 mornings; then, alas for the gardens. I am 
 always so sorry for the dahlias; they are so 
 easily knocked over — one day full sap and arro- 
 gance ; next day " boiled " and hideous. There 
 is no fight in a dahlia ; even the geranium makes 
 a better show. Some good roach have been taken 
 just above the water-splash, so I learn. I don't 
 seem to get a chance with a rod now. 
 
 Honesty's garden is presentable, thanks to the 
 Undertaker. I surprise him busy at the verges, 
 and he blushes quite painfully, with shears sus- 
 pended in action. " Good-evening, sir." 
 
Honesty's Garden 237 
 
 I nod, as I come up to him. " The garden 
 does you great credit," I announce. 
 
 " Miss Jones has been good enough to render 
 considerable assistance," the Undertaker admits 
 at once. " I venture to hope that your gardens 
 compare very favourably with others in this dis- 
 trict." He surveys his work with pride. " The 
 sweetbriar hedge needs trimming, but one has 
 to be very prudent with sweetbriar." 
 
 He means that he does not wish to cut it, 
 because he knows Honesty used to let it grow 
 pretty much as it would. " The perennials are 
 excellent," I observe, moving slowly about the 
 garden. " Astonishingly beautiful that late 
 phlox. And the golden-rod — that's a jolly 
 good sort, you know. I wonder where Mrs. 
 Dene " 
 
 I break off, suddenly. I was going to say: 
 " I w T onder where Mrs. Dene got it. I must ask 
 her." And the Undertaker guesses exactly how 
 I should have ended a thoughtless remark. He 
 says nothing, and I am glad of his silence. He 
 is a nice boy ; a tactful boy. 
 
 " Miss Jones gave me instructions that Miss 
 Dene had come to London," he mentions, in his 
 usual manner. " She instructed me as to 
 Miss Dene's sad bereavement. May I be so 
 bold as to ask kindly after Miss Dene's health, 
 sir?" 
 
238 Honesty's Garden 
 
 " She is fairly well, I think. Of course, she 
 has had a very terrible experience — has suffered 
 an irreparable loss." I turn to the Undertaker, 
 and, facing him, can find myself able to speak 
 in less stilted language. I am sure of his sym- 
 pathy and interest in our subject. " We must 
 do the best we can to help her," I say. " We 
 must try to show her that it is n't irreparable 
 — that she must n't think of it like that. It 's 
 — it 's the least we can do," I end, lamely. 
 
 He is busy at the verges again. He clips and 
 snips mechanically a while; then in the middle 
 of an especially penetrating snip pauses to ask, 
 in a low voice, " Do I understand that Miss Dene 
 will be returning to her home? " 
 
 " I can't say. I wish I knew," I answer. " I 
 don't see what I 'm to do with the property, 
 if she doesn't." 
 
 He appreciates the word " property." It is 
 food and drink to him. He recovers promptly, 
 eloquently. " The Home is certainly a most at- 
 tractive and desirable property, sir." He stands 
 up, and waves the shears with emphasis. " It 
 comprises a perfect bijou residence of convenient 
 size, with an excellent garden, well laid out and 
 mature. The pleasure grounds, indeed, are 
 quite extensive, and in a high state of cultiva- 
 tion. Carbridge is splendidly positioned amidst 
 absolutely rural surroundings; it is a most 
 
Honesty's Garden 239 
 
 picturesque village, unspoiled by trams, and 
 surrounded by large estates with park-like 
 lands." He draws breath and fresh inspiration 
 together. " One might easily erect a neat motor 
 garage; and then, in view of the unobtrusive 
 adjacence of the railway, one would have a 
 residence comprising every advantage." 
 
 " Yes, I know. But I can't live in two 
 houses," I argue, repeating my own mental 
 conclusions of some time back. 
 
 " You can live on this estate, sir — and let 
 your own," he suggests ; forgetting that they 're 
 both my " own." " I could find you a tenant 
 immediately " (what a boy for his trade!) ; " in 
 fact, it is not too much to say you can have 
 an exceptional tenant at practically a minute's 
 notice " 
 
 " Yourself? " I interrupt, jokingly. 
 
 " No less a person than our vicar," he an- 
 nounces, solemnly; and waits to enjoy my 
 surprise. " The vicar of Carbridge, himself." 
 
 " Oh ! does he think of moving, then? I had 
 no idea." 
 
 " Not for a vicarage, of course. The Haven, 
 although very eligible, would hardly be adapted 
 for a vicarage." The shears gently but firmly 
 deprecate the suggestion. " No, sir — the vicar 
 has other views. He has long wished to rent 
 one of these two residences, in connection with 
 
240 Honesty's Garden 
 
 his scheme for the welfare of crippled child- 
 ren." 
 
 The cripples again! The second time to-day. 
 First, in a dream; and now in dignified and 
 portentous reality! 
 
CHAPTER XXV 
 
 The advertisement — Honesty's — has duly ap- 
 peared, and we have only to wait for the shoals 
 of answers. I sent a marked copy of the morn- 
 ing's paper to Harry Duveen, and expect the 
 decision of the House of Lords hourly. I have 
 asked him to advise me by the same post as he 
 writes to Honesty; so that I may be aware of 
 the precise shape into which Maude Duveen has 
 knocked my Bill for the Secret Assistance of an 
 Unhappy Little Spinster. 
 
 I have also taken the liberty of sending Carr 
 over to Paradise Street with a spare typewriter 
 from the office, so that Honesty may keep in 
 practice. The machine is one on which I have 
 a reversion, as a matter of fact; therefore do 
 not think I am following in Burnaby's footsteps, 
 on however so small a scale. We have lately 
 taken up new machines from one of the ring of 
 firms, and this particular instrument was to go 
 in part payment, but they offered so ridiculous 
 a discount that I said I would take the type- 
 writer myself for half as much again. 
 16 241 
 
242 Honesty's Garden 
 
 The person who had control of the matter 
 being Me, you can perceive the arrangement 
 easily made, and Carr, later on in the morning, 
 sallying forth Claphamwards. He takes the 
 typescript of the Alfred book, with my altera- 
 tions (or rather Gatherway's impudent inter- 
 ferences) complete — and Honesty can have no 
 objection to executing the order. Carr, indeed, 
 is to wait for the first sheets, and has been im- 
 pressed with the belief that I 'm in the dickens 
 and all of a hurry for the lot. 
 
 I have made a note to ask Honesty about that 
 story of Baillie's which turned out to be mine; 
 and why she played such a trick upon me. I 
 mean to have a full and satisfactory explanation, 
 in order that she may know I can be a tartar 
 when I choose. 
 
 I have been touching up some shorter pieces 
 I had by me, and taking stock of my manuscripts. 
 I found some quite saleable efforts amongst those, 
 and forwarded them to my agent — a most de- 
 lightful fellow, who relieves me of many of the 
 bothers attaching to literature as a profession. 
 
 The Colosseum work alone comes direct from 
 my pen; all and sundry of my other attempts 
 go through the agent. He first introduced me 
 to Gatherway, and the introduction has ripened 
 to a friendship, as you know. All the same, I 
 allow the commission of ten per cent, on returns 
 
Honesty's Garden 243 
 
 from the Little Marvel series to my agent — > 
 because it 's only fair. 
 
 Thus you will see that I am painfully upright 
 in business, and that I approve of literary 
 agents. I must admit I am specially favoured 
 in this direction. 
 
 Fortune has been capriciously kind latterly. 
 Some positively ordinary little stories of mine 
 have sold for nice prices, so I can afford to send 
 Honesty the typewriter, and also enjoy the lux- 
 ury of running two houses. Particularly as one 
 is empty! 
 
 Jones is pestering me for an autumn spring 
 clean of the Home; I suppose the place is a bit 
 dusty after being locked up so long. It is not 
 damp, for Jones goes in every day to open 
 the windows and light an occasional fire. The 
 grandfather clock in the hall has been kept going 
 ever since Baillie and I started it that day. 
 
 Baillie has been to Paradise Street, but did n't 
 stay long. He is such a nervous fellow with 
 women. He gives me the notion that he is afraid 
 of Honesty, and I can't watch him as I used, in 
 that small mirror opposite the window. 
 
 The Comedy of Love I called those morning 
 encounters — dear me, how long ago it seems! 
 Here we are thinking about early frosts and the 
 like, and coals have long since risen from the 
 abject depths of their lowest summer prices ! 
 
244 Honesty's Garden 
 
 Fortune has been capricious, I was saying— 
 this being a way of leading round to the recital 
 of a strange adventure which came to me whilst 
 Carr was gone with the typewriter. 
 
 It was in Farringdon Street, mid-day. I had 
 just gone there for a prowl after lunch, in case 
 any rare and astounding bargains might be 
 blushing unseen on the bookstalls. Few, how- 
 ever, are the prizes which slip through the clever 
 — if somewhat grimy — hands of the Farringdon 
 Street dealers. Yet even the wisest amongst us 
 are caught napping, now and then, and hope 
 springs eternal in the bookworm's breast. 
 
 It 's fine hunting for the minor poets. I have 
 rescued some charming and wonderful books of 
 verse from the stalls in Farringdon Street; first 
 editions galore. 
 
 This unintelligent age seldom encourages 
 poets to the attainment of a second impression : 
 flashy, trashy novels run into their thousands 
 (at least, so their publishers assure us), while 
 the genius of the fine art of words has to be 
 content with a circulation chiefly amongst his 
 friends. 
 
 It is intensely pathetic to me to see all those 
 books jumbled up together on the Farringdon 
 Street stalls; once I found one of my own — a 
 novel which I thought really quite epoch-making 
 when I wrote it. The gentleman had priced it 
 
Honesty's Garden 245 
 
 at sixpence; which soothed my outraged vanity 
 (for sixpence is a top price in Farringdon 
 Street), until he, perceiving me handling it, 
 shouted across the barrow, " Thrippence, guv'nor 
 — there you are! Must sell out to-day some 
 >ow!" 
 
 I bought a History of England from this par- 
 ticular dealer some years back, offered at two- 
 pence a volume. There were thirteen, and he 
 put them in at two shillings. Other finds I 
 have had; and to watch the buyers raking 
 through these dust-heaps of literature is most 
 amusing. I asked my especial fellow how busi- 
 ness might be, and he gave a witheringly scorn- 
 ful glance towards the small crowd jostling 
 at the front of his barrow : " Plenty turning 
 of 'em over, guv' — that's 'ow we do biz now-a- 
 days ! " 
 
 I joined the throng, and was allowed presently 
 to get through. Having bought a nice little 
 volume of verse called Story and Song for a few 
 pence, I dug more vigorously into the rows of 
 books staring so appealingly heavenward from 
 the stall. I discovered one of the suppressed 
 Bohns next; and acquired that also — patting 
 myself on the back for having got in front of 
 another purchaser just in the nick of time. This 
 was a man in seedy clothes and a three weeks' 
 beard, who wore a cap pulled down over his 
 
246 Honesty's Garden 
 
 eyes. He favoured me with a savage stare; and 
 — I recognised Francis Burnaby! 
 
 Surprise kept me silent. He edged away ; but 
 plainly desired me to follow. We moved to the 
 outskirts of the crowd, walked sharply towards 
 the Clerkenwell Road, one behind the other, In- 
 dian fashion. In the comparative seclusion of 
 Clerkenwell Road I came abreast of him. 
 
 " Jump on this next tram — quick ! " 
 
 I obeyed, scrambling to the top, at his heels. 
 " I thought I might meet you, Swift — that 's the 
 truth." He shrewdly noted the other pas- 
 sengers. " Don't look so scared, I ? m not the 
 plague." 
 
 " I thought you had left England — " I was 
 beginning. 
 
 " I hope many others share that childlike be- 
 lief," he interrupted, in the impatient manner 
 I knew so well. " It is not easy to get out of 
 this confounded country at any time," he 
 added, frowning; "especially when one hasn't 
 the key which opens all doors. No, I have been 
 hanging about like a thief in the night. Like 
 myself, in short." 
 
 " What shall I do for you," I asked him 
 simply, " now that we have met? " 
 
 " You can tell me things, first of all. That 
 is, unless conscience prompts you to call the 
 next policeman. No, I don't think that of you, 
 
Honesty's Garden 247 
 
 Swift. I have never thought any worse than 
 to class you among the glorious company of 
 Sentimentalists. I have lain in wait for you in 
 Farringdon Street for many days. You see, with 
 all my cleverness, I did n't manage it quite nicely." 
 He drew attention to his miserable appearance 
 with a careless gesture. " Henry had what was 
 left; he was lawyer to the last — even with his 
 brother. Curious, your spying that Bohn; it 's 
 scarce and a nice copy." 
 
 I offered it to him, at which he laughed. " No, 
 thanks! I won't rob you again." He shrugged 
 his shoulders in very cynical style. " I merely 
 thought of it as a possible means of getting 
 shelter for to-night." 
 
 " Burnaby ! " 
 
 " Hush — for God's sake ! What a fellow you 
 are ! " Again he peeped furtively at the other 
 passengers. Then he laughed once more. " I 'm 
 frightened of my shadow, let alone my name. 
 It 's awful to have to hate your own name, 
 Swift; something more than an experience. 
 Well, what do they say? What have they 
 done? " 
 
 " Have n't you seen the papers? " 
 
 " Oh, the papers ! Does any one pay any at- 
 tention to them? I suppose they still have faith 
 in the papers — in Brixton! Hal got away; I 
 suppose they know that? He started first." 
 
248 Honesty's Garden 
 
 " Your brother is supposed to be in Val- 
 paraiso." 
 
 " Wonderful, wonderful, and yet again won- 
 derful; and after that — out of all whooping! 
 Henry is in — but why should I give him away, 
 even to you? Suffice it that I must join him, 
 or starve, or be caught. Which you like." 
 
 " It does n't rest with me," I said, quietly. 
 
 " No? Listen, Swift. You can give me 
 money, and, now that the hue and cry is over, 
 I shall be able to escape. I have my plans, and 
 they are sound. Who would have thought of 
 hiding in the shade of the Old Bailey?" He 
 chuckled, grimly. " Only a practised criminal 
 could have seen that there was the safest place 
 in all the world! And the police are looking in 
 the suburbs, in the ' likely ' spots — for a booky 
 man, a respectable, bald-headed, middle-class 
 fool who has just unfortunately overshot the 
 mark." He favoured me with a sidelong glance. 
 u You always knew I was a criminal, Swift? " 
 
 " It hurts me most to hear you talk like this," 
 I told him then, amidst the jolt and noise of 
 the traffic. 
 
 " I was sure salvation would come to me 
 through you, Mortimer. You still believe in me, 
 bless your soft and simple heart! You are say- 
 ing, most unwisely, within yourself. ' There ? s 
 good in that man yet. He '11 pull up ; turn over 
 
Honesty's Garden 249 
 
 a new leaf.' Of course, I like to agree with your 
 tender faith in mankind ; it is part of my scheme 
 to make you imagine all these vain things. But 
 I find that I prefer to be brutal. I have others 
 depending on me." 
 
 '" The papers hinted at that," I remarked 
 drily. 
 
 " Lies ! " he snapped. " But they might have 
 told other lies. I 'm not going to put all the 
 blame on Hal, though. Perhaps you did. Well, 
 I 'm not that kind of beast yet. Hal was 
 knocked down ; and I — tripped over him. There 
 you have the gist of it." 
 
 He accepted my silence as tribute to his old 
 sway over me. In truth I had already forgotten 
 the shabby clothes, the three-weeks' beard. 
 
 * Who knocked him down does n't matter," he 
 went on, lightly. " Possibly some poor wretch 
 running away from another equally poor; who, 
 in turn — But why worry as to prime causes? 
 We can trace everything back to the serpent, if 
 we wish. It takes all sorts of components to 
 make a man; all conditions of men and women 
 to make a nation — all types of nations to con- 
 stitute what we call the world. Hal and I are 
 the units that don't stay in the right places; 
 the normal cells that wilfully become abnormal 
 — cancerous. So, at the end of it, I don't even 
 excuse myself, you see. I merely point out, 
 
250 Honesty's Garden 
 
 unpleasantly, that I exist — and that an operation 
 is necessary." 
 
 Poor wretch, indeed, to have come to such 
 arguments as these! I needed no argument, 
 however; he might, at least, have credited me 
 with that. I gave him what he asked, willingly ; 
 and, for the sake of old times, wished him good 
 luck. Also I made him take the Bohn — it was 
 a nice copy, as he had said, and I thought it 
 would amuse him on his long journey, and help 
 to keep him away from his thoughts. He smiled, 
 then : " Sure, Swift, you are the dearest old 
 — woman alive ! " 
 
CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 It is all over with the Bill for the Secret 
 Assistance of an Unhappy Little Spinster. The 
 faithful Commons can't possibly accept the 
 amendments embroidered thereon by the Hered- 
 itary House. 
 
 All my little plots seem to come to worse than 
 nothing. I shall never make a thoroughly suc- 
 cessful conspirator. Maude Duveen was an 
 easy match for me. Any single one of her 
 amendments would have wrecked my Bill; and, 
 the annoying part of it is, they 're most of them 
 utterly and perfectly reasonable, and just what 
 I might have expected. 
 
 So I leave Cousin Harry to his hooks and 
 antiquated methods of book-keeping. If he 
 won't have the excellent opportunity I offer — 
 well, he won't, and there 's no more to be said. 
 
 Honesty has accepted the typewriter, on the 
 understanding she can pay for it in instalments. 
 I said, " Very well, a penny a day for a thousand 
 years ! " 
 
 Billy Jolliman instantly commenced to cal- 
 251 
 
252 Honesty's Garden 
 
 culate. " You '11 have to pay over fifteen hun- 
 dred pounds that you will," she chirped, being 
 present at our interview — for the sake of pro- 
 priety. We were in Honesty's room (or mine, 
 rather — if she only knew). "It's a swindle 
 don't you have nothing to do with it." 
 
 " I 'm afraid it 's paying rather dearly for the 
 convenience," Honesty agreed. 
 
 " Make it a penny a week and then it '11 be 
 near two hundred and twenty," continued the 
 lightning calculator. " You better buy his old 
 typewriter right out, Miss D., or else let father 
 get you one. He knows where to get 'em cheap." 
 
 "Talking of typewriters," said I, to change 
 the subject; and satisfy, while I recollected the 
 matter, a natural curiosity, " Do you know that 
 I have discovered the author of that story you 
 typed? " 
 
 Honesty smiled faintly — I could see she was 
 nervous, and felt meanly glad. " I hope you 
 gave him a good notice? That usually fol- 
 lows a discovery in the literary world, doesn't 
 it?" 
 
 " The notice comes first," I decided ; " and then 
 the discovery. However, we '11 keep to the point, 
 if you please. That story was mine; and you 
 knew it. Kindly explain what you meant by 
 pretending it was n't." 
 
 " Oh, but I did n't. Surely I only asked you 
 
Honesty's Garden 253 
 
 to look at the typing? " She coloured so pain- 
 fully that I hastened to adopt an easier tone. 
 
 " Tell me how you chanced upon the thing. 
 That 's the mystery I cannot solve." 
 
 She owned at once she had seen the story in 
 the Reaper; that the Reaper in question had 
 come to her as gusty litter from the Jonesian 
 bonfire. " I wanted some easy way of telling 
 you that I must work. I didn't know how bad 
 matters were then. I hoped — mother hoped we 
 might win through, somehow." She choked a 
 little at that thought. " One can't understand 
 right off that the worst has happened. At least, 
 I could n't. It seemed so utterly impossible." 
 
 " The worst never happens, my dear," I said, 
 gently. " I have learned that — if I have learned 
 nothing else." 
 
 She flashed a quick glance at me. " Don't you 
 think the worst has happened? Don't you see 
 I have nothing to live for — now? Nothing — 
 nothing." 
 
 " Time will prove," I answered. " There are 
 other folk who, perhaps, would like you to live, 
 even if only for their sakes. And we must not 
 think of those who are gone from us — quite in 
 that way. We must not imagine them unhappy, 
 my dear. That would be to give up hope all 
 round, wouldn't it? The one common creed 
 held by humanity all over this little earth as- 
 
254 Honesty's Garden 
 
 serts the contrary. We know our dear ones to 
 be happy; surely we know that? It isn't fair 
 to pretend to believe anything else." I took her 
 hand, " And as for the living — well, you will 
 always find that something compensates." 
 
 Billy perceived this to be her cue; or, very 
 probably, was tired of being silent. " Tell us 
 about that story," she commanded, imperiously. 
 " Was it about adventures and all that? Or 
 only about love-making stuff? " 
 
 Honesty drew her fingers from mine, as we 
 both laughed. She replied to our young in- 
 quirer : " There were some adventures in it, 
 Billy, of course. Even lovers have adventures." 
 
 " Silly ones, then. I don't care for that sort. 
 Was it about lovers? " 
 
 The question was addressed to me, and 
 could n't be shirked. " There was a girl in it," 
 I admitted. 
 
 "What kind of girl? Like her?" She in- 
 dicated Honesty. 
 
 " Much better," I untruthfully announced. 
 
 " Then I don't want to hear any more about 
 it," declared my candid little friend. " She 's " 
 — her gesture embraced Honesty utterly — " good 
 enough for me." 
 
 " Thank you, dear." Honesty moved to where 
 Billy sat cross-legged in her chair, displaying a 
 considerable quantity of striped stocking. The 
 
Honesty's Garden 255 
 
 child put out her arms. " He don't know much, 
 after all — does he? " Billy remarked scornfully. 
 " Fancy them letting him write stories ! He 
 can't reckernise a pretty girl when he sees one." 
 
 " Did n't I recognise you? " I demanded. But 
 she was too engaged with Honesty to grant me 
 even a hearing. 
 
 " How are you getting on with my Alfred 
 book? " I asked Honesty, when she had emerged 
 from Billy's comprehensive embrace. 
 
 " I hope to finish it by to-morrow, or the day 
 after. " I '11 show you — " She sprang to her 
 feet again, and hastened to fetch the typescripts 
 — hers and the original — from the table in the 
 window. I pretended to go very carefully 
 through them. " Capital." 
 
 " Really, and truly capital? Or only because 
 I did it? " 
 
 " From both points of view. I have plenty 
 more work for you, but first of all I want you 
 to take a little holiday. What do you say to 
 spending the day with me next Sunday? " 
 
 She lifted a doubtful glance towards me, 
 her impulse being to say " No." I was not go- 
 ing to let her even think no, however. " Yes, 
 Sunday next ; and I '11 meet you both at the 
 station " 
 
 " Me, too? " The pig-tail whisked front to 
 back anxiously. 
 
256 Honesty's Garden 
 
 " Of course. I shall take you for a walk along 
 the river, and show you our lions — then home 
 to dinner at the Haven. Sunday afternoon we '11 
 take quietly, we old people. Billy can read, or 
 talk to Jones, or make a pie for our suppers." 
 
 " Would your Jones let me make a pie? " 
 
 " She will let you do anything, if you make a 
 fuss over her cat. He's a wonderful animal — 
 not beautiful, perhaps, so much as wonderful." 
 
 "What does he do?" Billy was deeply in- 
 terested. 
 
 "Jones will tell you. His name is Keedels, 
 and he 's a bit of a rip — according to my mind. 
 If ever a cat deserved to have headaches in the 
 morning " 
 
 " Oh, they 're just nothing ! Father he has 
 headaches in the morning sometimes but that 's 
 only because he 's worried at the office." Billy 
 always gets slightly " comma-less " when speak- 
 ing of her male parent. She is on the defensive 
 instantly. I can understand why. 
 
 Mr. Jolliman hardly improves on acquaint- 
 ance. I am prejudiced against him, that 's the 
 fact. He 's so openly selfish. 
 
 I should admire him for having the courage 
 of his convictions; but I don't. However, 
 Honesty dismisses all unpleasant reflections by 
 saying that she will be delighted to come to 
 Carbridge next Sunday. 
 
Honesty's Garden 257 
 
 My busy brain plans to get Baillie to the 
 Haven that same Sunday afternoon. Then I 
 shall affect to want a nap, and the young folk 
 can have a gossip all to themselves. Jones will 
 look after Billy; or I will, if necessary. 
 
 I am not satisfied with Honesty's explanation 
 of the story incident. Why didn't she tell me 
 right out it was mine? Certainly, I ought to 
 have known. Women are strange creatures — 
 it 's useless trying to understand them. 
 
 But — occasionally — I think they're rather 
 nice, especially when they know how to look 
 pretty. And it isn't necessary to understand 
 them. As a matter of fact, who understands 
 himself — or wants to? There are millions of 
 things more interesting to do, and one is never 
 much wiser for self-examination. Only bewil- 
 dered. Or ashamed. Or enraged! 
 
 For instance — on my way back to Clapham 
 Station I pass a small dirty, second-hand fur- 
 niture and oddment shop. There are some posi- 
 tively grimy books on a shelf in the window, 
 priced absurdly above their value. I study them 
 closely, being always on the look-out for a 
 bargain, and knowing by experience that one 
 must n't expect to come across bargains every 
 day. They are to be found in the most unlikely 
 places, let me tell you — when they are in the 
 shape of books. I bought once, in a bookseller's 
 
258 Honesty's Garden 
 
 in Holborn — an important, imposing shop — a 
 copy of the House of Pomegranates for eight- 
 and-six-pence — in the limited and only authentic 
 edition. The work was published at fifteen shil- 
 lings net, so the bookseller ought to have been 
 on the qui vive; and at the moment I bought 
 the copy it was worth fully two pounds. Now 
 three would n't buy it — but let us return to the 
 second-hand furniture shop. 
 
 I saw a queer little edition of the Compleat 
 Angler, of no great value, but very charming. 
 So in I walked, like the fly into the spider's web. 
 A very shabby, dusty web it was, too. The 
 spider pounced out in due course, and declined 
 to part with the little " Walton and Cotton " — 
 until I had parted with many arguments and 
 two whole silver shillings. I was just leaving 
 the shop in disgust, when a rather shoddy bureau- 
 cabinet at the back attracted my notice. On its 
 shelves were the usual Dutch candlesticks, cop- 
 per-lustre jugs and mugs (probably direct from 
 Birmingham) ; one or two pieces of old blue, and 
 a few odd plates of Mason's ironstone china. A 
 very hotchpotch. 
 
 The spider remarked my interest, faint as it 
 was, and skilfully increased it : " Nice bit of 
 old Dresden there," he opined. 
 
 " Where? " I asked, roused at once. 
 
 " In that bureau. That 's an odd bit of 
 
Honesty's Garden 259 
 
 furniture, too ; though, mind you, I 'm not say- 
 ing it 's old. I don't really know what it is, so 
 can't pretend to say. I don't believe it 's old at 
 all." 
 
 The way these wretches talk ! You have 
 heard them, if you happen to be a collector, for 
 your sins. They never can " pretend to say." 
 They 're invariably doubtful, referring the point 
 to you — as one who understands. They wilfully 
 disparage an article, just to hear what you '11 
 say. They know then precisely how little you 
 know. 
 
 " It appears quite modern to me," I remarked, 
 with indifference. 
 
 " I daresay — very likely. We all get had 
 sometimes." The spider seemed about to weep, 
 this being one of the melancholy species. 
 They 're the worst, beware of them. " But 
 that little sugar basin 's all right, no doubt 
 about that. It 's a lovely little bit. I '11 get it 
 for you." 
 
 " Oh, don't trouble ; I 'm not a likely 
 buyer " 
 
 " No trouble at all, sir ; I 'd like you to look 
 at it." He crossed to the bureau (which I will 
 swear had n't left Wardour Street more than five 
 minutes), and opened the badly hung glass doors 
 of the cabinet above. He raked out a couple of 
 Mason jugs, a smashed black Wedgwood tea- 
 
260 Honesty's Garden 
 
 pot, a few pieces of china which he was pleased 
 to designate, complimentarily and comprehen- 
 sively, as " Oriental." Then he produced from 
 the back somewhere a queer little sugar-basin, 
 with a lid to it, and a dish to go underneath. 
 
 It was (and is) a pretty little piece of hard 
 paste, although 
 
 But that's to anticipate. On the top of the 
 lid, by way of handle, is a rose-bud; one or two 
 of its petals very slightly chipped. The design 
 is quartered in four panels on each piece; two 
 egg-shell blue — with flowers upon the dark 
 ground ; two dead white, with Watteau subjects. 
 These repeat, as I say, on the outside of the 
 basin and on the surface of the round dish; but 
 each white panel shows the shepherd and shep- 
 herdess in a different scene, although generally 
 in graceful attitudes of mutual adoration. 
 
 It i-s, appropriately, a sweet bit of china, and 
 there, below the basin and the dish, are the un- 
 doubted crossed swords of the Meissen factory. 
 
 " It 's only a common old butter-dish," said I, 
 shrugging. 
 
 The spider was distinctly pained. Tears 
 welled in his weak eyes. " Oh, really, sir — 
 you '11 excuse me, but I 'm sure you know better 
 than that. Dresden, sir : those are not even the 
 Worcester swords. Examine it, sir — I 'm sorry 
 the light 's so bad. Old Dresden, too." 
 
Honesty's Garden 261 
 
 " There are wheel marks across the swords, 
 cutting them " 
 
 " I think not, sir. A small scratch ; dirt, very 
 possibly. Allow me." He attempted to wipe 
 the glaze with his sleeve. " Yes, sir — dirt, you 
 see, after all." 
 
 Certainly there was dirt enough everywhere; 
 but I could n't distinguish the wheel marks when 
 he returned the dish to my hands. " Dirt, sir, 
 and dirt cheap ! " He laughed feebly at his 
 feeble joke. 
 
 " I never can understand why you chaps don't 
 have a spring clean now and then. You 're all 
 alike; your shops are the most musty, dusty, 
 unwholesome places on earth " 
 
 " Temperament, sir," he interrupted, sorrow- 
 fully. " It 's a spare life, but it fits our humour 
 well. You know the proverb? " 
 
 " Shakespeare," I told him. " Touchstone and 
 Corin, in the forest of Arden." 
 
 " Of course. The Swan of Avon. ' A spare 
 life, but in respect that it is solitary, I like it 
 very well/ It suits us, sir; it is part of the 
 business. That sugar-basin is really a cabinet 
 piece; observe the exquisite finish of the paint- 
 ing. Only equalled by Leroy; and you have to 
 pay for Leroy ! " 
 
 "How much?" 
 
 " I bought it from a gentleman in Paradise 
 
262 Honesty's Garden 
 
 Street, sir — you know the spot, I see. Very old 
 part of Clapham, sir." 
 
 " Yes ; but how much " 
 
 " Oh, well — let me think. I gave a good lot 
 for it; the gentleman was uncommon hard to 
 move. Suppose we say a sovering, sir? 
 
 ? You may say it as often as you like," I 
 decided, putting down the basin — reluctantly, 
 I confess. 
 
 " It would fetch best part of a fiver in the 
 West End, sir." 
 
 " It won't fetch it here. Not from me." 
 
 " I have n't been doing much business to-day. 
 Shall we call it seven teen-and-six? " 
 
 I shook my head, and prepared to go. 
 
 " It has been in the gentleman's family for 
 years, sir. It was simply owing to a temporary 
 financial difficulty that he had to part with 
 it." The spider eyed me, persuasively. " How 
 about seventeen bob? There you are, round 
 figures." 
 
 " Seventeen is n't a particularly round figure," 
 I argued. " No, thanks. It does n't especially 
 interest me." 
 
 (My name should be Moses Swift, not Mor- 
 timer. ) 
 
 " The gentleman valued it very high. He as- 
 sured me that it belonged to his grandfather. 
 Quite an heirloom — fifteen shillings, sir ; and the 
 
Honesty's Garden 263 
 
 basin 's yours. I '11 do it up for you with the 
 little books." 
 
 " I '11 give you exactly half that sum," 
 said I. 
 
 He held up deprecating fingers, deeply in 
 mourning — to match his tears. " Could n't be 
 done, sir. Thank you, sir, all the same." He 
 took up the dish and the basin; and began to 
 restore them to the cupboard. 
 
 " They 're not Dresden at all," I commented, 
 ruthlessly. 
 
 " Perhaps not, sir — I don't know nothing 
 about china. I have n't made my living all these 
 years by dabbling in it, of course." The spider 
 waxed sarcastic. " The gentleman in Paradise 
 Street, a very superior person, he said it was 
 genuine old Meissen. It 's marked with the 
 crossed swords " 
 
 " Oh, they all used that mark in the early days 
 of porcelain." 
 
 " Don't that prove the basin 's old? " he cried, 
 at this slip of mine. " It 's old porcelain, any- 
 way, and I say it's Dresden. Fifteen, sir — 
 you can't resist it." 
 
 He was right. I couldn't. I was beaten; 
 and fifteen shillings passed to the till, to keep 
 company with the two I had already paid for 
 the Compleat Angler. 
 
 Directly I got home to Carbridge I washed 
 
264 Honesty's Garden 
 
 the basin and dish carefully, Jones in attend- 
 ance, and highly interested. " That there don't 
 look worth much, do it? " she ventured, in due 
 course. 
 
 " You never can tell," I said, viewing, with 
 some misgiving, the re-appearance of the wheel 
 marks. I dried the pieces, held them to the 
 light. Beautiful, at any rate. Jones examined 
 them gingerly. " What 's them there little 
 figures? " she inquired. 
 
 "Just pastoral subjects. After Watteau, the 
 great French artist. They 're shepherds and all 
 that " 
 
 " I mean these here little tiny numbers," she 
 explained. 
 
 " Numbers? Where? " 
 
 Jones was right. Faintly impressed in the 
 paste were ordinary modern numerals — signify- 
 ing the factory number of the model from which 
 later work is produced. " Old " Dresden? Cer- 
 tainly — not! The sugar-basin and dish were 
 possibly made at the present Meissen Factory: 
 but they were decorated, no doubt, by transfer- 
 printing from the original design somewhere 
 else! Faulty glazing, or modelling — hence the 
 cuts of the wheel across the swords. 
 
 I have found the faults. They are slight 
 enough — but fancy my being taken in! I, who 
 rather flatter myself. 
 
Honesty's Garden 265 
 
 " Still, it 's very pretty, is n't it? " Jones 
 comforted me. "And no one isn't going 
 to take it off of the old sideboard to look 
 underneath." 
 
CHAPTEE XXVII 
 
 Sunday evening. I have had a most pleasant 
 day of it, and believe that my guests enjoyed 
 themselves. It was sad for the child Honesty, 
 at first: how many times was it on the tip of 
 my tongue to tell her that the Home is hers yet? 
 
 That item of intelligence must come from 
 Baillie. It shall be my pleasure to tell him to 
 tell Honesty. 
 
 A bright, warm day we have had, considering 
 we 're well in October. The garden had to be 
 tenderly examined; but I had no great fear. 
 Did not the Undertaker, Jones, and I go thor- 
 oughly over the ground yesterday afternoon? 
 Verges trimmed to the acme of neatness; lawn 
 like a billiard- table ; withered flowers and dead 
 leaves conspicuous by their utter absence. A 
 general and comprehensive sweep-up (fully 
 equalling Gatherway at his very best). 
 
 The only non-starter was Jock. I understand, 
 
 however, that he had business in town. He 
 
 came in this afternoon, as I had planned. I 
 
 made them go into the garden, hoping they would 
 
 stand a while at the gate — so that I might (quite 
 
 266 
 
Honesty's Garden 267 
 
 discreetly) view in my mirror the curtain just 
 rising on the third and last act of the Comedy 
 of Love. How one does hanker after the old 
 ecstasies. 
 
 It 's a sign of age, Mortimer. You 're begin- 
 ning already to say — and worse, think — that 
 things were done much better in your " young 
 days." When so-and-so played that part he did 
 this — and he did that. What 's-his-name, at the 
 New Thingummy Theatre, is really very good. 
 That's admitted. But, my dear fellow, you 
 never saw so-and-so ! 
 
 What marvellous children we were in those 
 good old days! Don't you recollect? At ten 
 you could translate Charles XII., like pie. 
 Algebra, at twelve. Why, equations were noth- 
 ing to you. Old Caesar, and his invasions — you 
 could reel them off without ever wanting to 
 refer to the vocabulary at the end. Games — 
 I should think so! In the first eleven, my 
 boy, long before I was in my teens. Made 
 a century more than once; and as for the hat 
 trick 
 
 Your son thrusts a Latin motto before you, 
 on the cover of his school magazine. " What 's 
 that, dad? " 
 
 " Age bene quod agis." 
 
 Where are my spectacles? That? " age " — let 
 me see " age bene — " Bene means " good " 
 
268 Honesty's Garden 
 
 Your young hopeful grins at his mother. 
 " The dad can't read it," he cries. 
 
 " Do well what thou doest," he tells you, 
 triumphantly. There 's something for the old 
 man to think about; something to give him 
 pause, now and again. 
 
 Honesty and Baillie did not make any tableau 
 for me at the garden gate. They chatted to- 
 gether soberly, looked at the last of the flowers 
 — golden-rod, dahlias, Michaelmas daisies, heath- 
 ers (we have some very pretty varieties at Car- 
 bridge, I must announce; I got them, in the 
 beginning of our gardening, from a capital 
 floriculturist in the Lake District.) 
 
 I gave Honesty a sprig of white heather that 
 day I came home from Gatherway's after we 
 had settled the Little Marvel Series. " For 
 luck," I had said, heedlessly. 
 
 Poor little maid! Not much luck for her 
 since then. 
 
 Honesty and Jock Baillie not coming up to 
 my expectations, I amused myself with Billy. 
 She took the keenest interest in my small library, 
 and was delighted to have a copy of one of my 
 adventure books — " With the author's kindest 
 regards." 
 
 She pored over it. It has pictures, I must 
 tell you, and these attracted her : " Did he 
 really get killed? " 
 
Honesty's Garden 269 
 
 " No, not really. We all thought he was go- 
 ing to be — but, just then, something happened. 
 You '11 know all about it, if you read the story." 
 
 " I shall read it what do you think? I always 
 reads my books whether I like them or not." 
 She turned to another picture. " Who 's she? " 
 
 " That 's the lovely girl he marries in the end." 
 
 " What 's her name? " 
 
 " Bertha." 
 
 " That 's an ugly name, what does it mean? " 
 
 " Do all names have to mean something? " 
 
 " Of course. Mine means the Queen's Jubilee. 
 Hers," — she waved a hand towards the garden, 
 wherein Honesty and Jock still hesitated — 
 " hers means what it says, you know. Bertha 
 — well, anybody might be named Bertha." 
 
 " I 'm sorry," I said, meekly. " I '11 call my 
 next girl Felicia. May I?" 
 
 " It means happiness that does. I wonder if 
 I 'm going to be happy? Very very really — truly 
 happy? " 
 
 She peered up from her book so anxiously 
 that I hastened to assure her there was n't the 
 slightest doubt in my mind about the matter. 
 She accepted the statement of my convictions 
 seriously. " Well, you know, lots of people 
 are n't happy even though they want to be — and 
 try ever so hard. Father he 's not happy." 
 
 " Perhaps his name means something else? " 
 
270 Honesty's Garden 
 
 I suggested, feeling rather positive it could n't 
 signify any extremely nice attribute. 
 
 " His name 's Henry. I don't know what it 
 stands for except Arry. I don't like Arry, do 
 you? Some of them calls him Enery; that's 
 beastly cheek. Course, there 's his other name." 
 She reflected. 
 
 " Jolly by name, and jolly by nature." I said, 
 hypocritically. 
 
 " Father 's not what you might call jolly 
 neither," continued Billy, considering it. " It 's 
 his headaches and all that. And he 's so worried 
 about — " She closed her lips primly, in the 
 manner I already know so well. Giving herself 
 away, or nearly ! " You got some pretty china, 
 too," she remarked, definitely, changing the sub- 
 ject. " I love pretty things even if they are 
 old." 
 
 " You don't love them because they 're old? " 
 
 " Not much, not me ! " She scorned the no- 
 tion. " I like things because they 're pretty, 
 that 's always the best way. Oh my — is n't that 
 the image of our china sugar basin what mother's 
 so fond of ! " She pitched her book to the floor, 
 and reached my beautiful old Adam sideboard in 
 two skips and a slide. Next moment she had the 
 spider's swindle in her hands. " Why it is 
 mother's basin." 
 
 I suppose I must have appeared rather at a 
 
Honesty's Garden 271 
 
 loss; for, with the intense shrewdness which so 
 pathetically distinguishes some of these old- 
 young little folk, Billy put the basin back on 
 the dish of shepherds and shepherdesses, with 
 the simple observation : " No, it is n't, after all. 
 I see it isn't the same, though that rose-bud 
 being chipped made me think: perhaps mother 
 gave it to you? " 
 
 " She — lent it to me," I compromised. 
 
 " She gave it you because you gave me all 
 these clothes." She saw it all quite clearly. 
 " That was good of mother, because — " She 
 paused, fidgeting from one foot to the other, 
 the pig-tail whisking to and fro, punctuating far 
 better than commas and full stops : " Or per- 
 haps father he don't much care for me taking 
 presents from — from people unless he can pay 
 back you know." 
 
 "You can take it home to your mother to- 
 night," I said, guessing things quite quickly for 
 me. " You shall put it back just where it always 
 stands, and then no one will ever know that it 
 has been journeying to Carbridge." 
 
 " But— is n't it yours? " 
 
 " Only while it 's here," I assured her. 
 
 She slowly returned to her chair and her book, 
 which I had picked up. Her forehead was di- 
 vided sharply between the brows by a short, deep 
 line. " I reckerlect father saying he would try 
 
272 Honesty's Garden 
 
 to get that rose-bud mended now I think of it," 
 she told me confidentially. " He was going to 
 give it to you all the time. You must keep it, 
 you must." 
 
 " You need not let father know, my dear," I 
 answered. Her faith in that fellow touched me 
 deeply. Do you believe in fairies? In the 
 Little People? I do, friend, being a rather 
 childish old buffer. " Jones shall wrap it up 
 carefully for you; and, soon as you get home, 
 you will invent some excuse to pop into your 
 mother's room — and slip those shepherds and 
 shepherdesses into their proper place." 
 
 She made no further protest, and became ab- 
 sorbed once more in her book. I found Honesty 
 returning to the house : " Hullo, where 's 
 Jock?" 
 
 " He has gone back to tea," she replied, in a 
 low voice. " He said he had arranged to be 
 home by four-thirty." 
 
 " I wanted him to stay to supper with us," I 
 began. 
 
 " We don't want him if he don't want us," 
 interrupted Billy, promptly. " It '11 be much 
 nicer all being by ourselves like — without any 
 strangers." 
 
 Honesty laughed. " Thank you, Billy. But 
 I 'm afraid we 're strangers, in a sense." 
 
 " No we 're not and we 're not going to be 
 
Honesty's Garden 273 
 
 either," retorted the comma-less one. "Come 
 and look at this book what Mortimer's given 
 me. It 's got a picture of you in it only she 's 
 called Bertha." (Mortimer — did you notice it?) 
 She allowed me no chance, but went on ruth- 
 lessly : " He calls me Billy and you Bertha so 
 that 's quite good enough is n't it? " 
 
 I gave Honesty the key of the house next door 
 directly she came this morning. She would 
 want to be alone there, I imagined, and Jones 
 had given the rooms a vigorous dusting and 
 " turning out " — an apology for spring-cleaning, 
 according to her statement. Honesty did not 
 stay long away from us, however, and I guess 
 she had been anticipating Jock's visit this after- 
 noon — hoping, no doubt, it would drive away sad 
 thoughts. And he had come and gone in half 
 an hour! 
 
 He had wished her to say good-bye to me; he 
 would be sure to see me in the train in the 
 morning. " Then it 's certain he is n't coming in 
 again for supper? " 
 
 Honesty understood he was going up to town 
 to-night — somewhere in the west-end. How 
 brutal of Jock ! These twentieth-century lovers ! 
 I '11 swear that we did n't go on this way in 
 my young days 
 
 At it again, you see! Fancy though, after 
 boring me with all those details (and drinking 
 
 at 
 
274 Honesty's Garden 
 
 my mellow old whiskey), here 's our Romeo tir- 
 ing of his Juliet after a few minutes' ramble in 
 an exceedingly pleasant and quite warm garden 
 (although October is here). I give up lovers. 
 
 " I was thinking/' says Honesty, seeing that 
 Billy is flattering me by affecting to be lost in 
 my book, " that perhaps you would n't mind tak- 
 ing me presently over your new estate? " She 
 asked me this in a wistful fashion which I 
 could n't altogether account for. " I hardly 
 cared to go into the house this morning," she 
 added, in excuse. 
 
 " I shall be delighted. You must n't think of 
 it as my new estate. It 's to be a — " Billy 
 glanced up from her book. " A sort of — well, 
 another Haven, you know/' I added, lamely. 
 The grand secret was nearly betrayed then. 
 
 " He 's a genie he is," Billy remembered. " He 
 just claps his hands, and people get all they 
 really truly want. All the things they lost comes 
 back to them whatever they are. China sugar 
 basins and all that." She resumed her reading. 
 
 To avoid tiresome explanations I hurried 
 Honesty away. We got candles and matches; 
 for the evenings are soon upon us now. When 
 we were at the door of the Home — " I found I 
 couldn't go in by myself," Honesty faltered. 
 * Was n't that cowardly? " 
 
 " Empty houses are always uninviting," I said, 
 
Honesty's Garden 275 
 
 fitting the key to the lock. " Jock was nervous 
 about going in here, even with me." 
 
 " I don't see why Mr. Baillie should mind 
 going over our house," Honesty answered, in 
 a changed tone. " There is nothing here to 
 frighten — or interest — Mr. Baillie." 
 
 " No? " I opened the door, and we crossed the 
 threshold together. I lit the candles we had 
 brought, and found that thoughtful Jones had 
 trimmed the hall lamp. That soon bright- 
 ened the place, and our spirits too. 
 
 The steady old clock was tick-tacking at the 
 right hour. Also, I had caused Jones to put 
 some big bunches of Michaelmas daisies in the 
 vases standing about in the low-ceilinged, dear 
 old-fashioned parlour. 
 
 We went silently from room to room. It did 
 not seem necessary that we should speak much. 
 Between true friends, as Carlyle says, there can 
 be always the better understanding of silence. 
 Her own little room she entered alone; and I 
 waited very patiently for her in the small lobby 
 — on which all the doors of the up-stairs apart- 
 ments open. It was not a large " estate " that 
 we had to view; but it took time to go over 
 it all. 
 
 I had purposely asked Jones to attend to Mrs. 
 Dene's room; she had made it gay with a great 
 bowl of dahlias; and on the table by the bed 
 
276 Honesty's Garden 
 
 my faithful serving-maid had bethought her to 
 place a Book — one that brings comfort to us all. 
 
 Honesty suddenly took my arm, here, to the 
 great peril of the candle. We cast queer, dis- 
 torted, and rather shaky shadows on the wall, 
 I fear. But brave little heart didn't break 
 down; and I think she felt comforted in some 
 manner to see the Home still as much her own 
 as ever a willing Jones — and a clumsy man — 
 can make it. 
 
 When we returned to the Haven we discovered 
 the Undertaker strongly in evidence. He had 
 ventured to suppose that he might be allowed to 
 respectfully inquire after Miss Dene's health. 
 He hoped and sincerely trusted that she had not 
 found the garden so very much out of order? 
 No doubt there were many shortcomings, so to 
 speak, as regards the actual details; but the 
 general effect 
 
 " Shows me how many kind friends I have in 
 Carbridge," said Honesty, taking his hand. " It 
 is very pleasant to be remembered like this, and 
 I do thank you all — oh, so much, and so 
 gratefully." 
 
 " It has been a real pleasure to us," I put in ; 
 " and we 're glad you 're glad ! So that 's set- 
 tled. Please don't forget this — Honesty's gar- 
 den will always remain Honesty's garden, 
 because we are all of one mind about it; and 
 
Honesty's Garden 277 
 
 when many people are of one mind, one mind 
 dominates them all." 
 
 " I don't understand that, I don't," remarked 
 Billy, encouragingly. " You 're always saying 
 queer things, you are. When are we to have sup- 
 per? She " — plainly meaning Jones — " says it 's 
 high time, if she 's to get washed up before she 
 goes to bed." 
 
 " Supper at once then — no, you are not to go. 
 You must help me entertain. We have a place 
 for you, here — " The Undertaker ceremoniously 
 drew out chairs for the ladies; and, with a pro- 
 fusion of apologies for his acceptance of my 
 invitation, seated himself between them. 
 
 " You got to talk to me you have," Billy told 
 him, " because I 'm on your right. The others 
 won't mind. How old are you? Do you know 
 Clapham? No, I don't mean the Junction that's 
 horrid that is. I mean Clapham Road where 
 they all go along on Derby Day. You been to 
 the Derby? I nearly went once; but father said 
 it was no place for ladies " 
 
CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 Gatherway writes me that he is in London, 
 on very important business. He desires to 
 know whether I can take him to my club next 
 Friday; as he understands the subject of dis- 
 cussion will be " something unpleasant about 
 publishers." 
 
 I refer to my syllabus, and find that we shall 
 discuss " Author, Publisher, and Public "—un- 
 der the direction of Rollaston, of the Balmoral 
 Magazine. Why Gatherway should imagine that 
 Rollaston, or any one of my fellow-journalists, 
 would be likely to show a hostile front to pub- 
 lishers — while we have the other two wretches 
 to bully — passes my understanding. I tell 
 Gatherway that he will be most welcome, and 
 that if we can benefit him by letting in light on 
 the dark places of publishing, we shall feel once 
 more justified in our existence as a club. 
 
 We have these Friday evening dinners and 
 talks every winter; and derive much amusement 
 from both. Our club has held its meetings for 
 forty odd years; always on winter Fridays — 
 
 27s 
 
Honesty's Garden 279 
 
 always at the same hostelry in Fleet Street. 
 Half-past six we sit down to a plain repast; at 
 half -past seven (or thereabout) we begin to dis- 
 cuss other matters — all quite in camera; so 
 that nobody is hurt, even when we are at our 
 fiercest. At nine-thirty we all go home to bed, 
 like good little boys. 
 
 Of course, you and I can guess Gatherway's 
 " important business." He is not a brick wall ; 
 and we, therefore, see through the whole affair, 
 and know well enough why he wishes to dine 
 with us. Why do people always choose me when 
 they want to talk about love, and all that stuff? 
 
 Baillie — but you recollect how he used to 
 adopt the flimsy pretext of taking lessons in the 
 gentle art of fishing, in order to cover con- 
 sumption of my whiskey — not to say siphons. 
 
 That young man has been scarcely noticeable 
 at all in Carbridge of late. I don't find him 
 on the morning trains; and he does not come 
 straight home, as all good Carbridgians have 
 been taught to do — by their respective and re- 
 spected little wives. I hear vaguely that he is 
 working very hard; and is playing for a big 
 stake. With true Scot's caution, Baillie has not 
 enlightened me as to the nature of the stake; 
 but I hope the faggot may prove digestible when 
 he has it! 
 
 Aunt Sophie has threatened me with another 
 
280 Honesty's Garden 
 
 invasion, if I don't go to Knightsbridge soon. 
 Uncle Duveen's rheumatism is so bad tliat the 
 old boy has gone off to Nice — alone, I regret to 
 discover on re-reading Aunt Sophie's vigorous 
 epistle. Nice, as she says, with a true instinct 
 for geography, is not far from Monte Carlo; 
 and "your uncle is sure to be running into all 
 sorts of mischief; being much the same as the 
 rest of you men." 
 
 This is distinctly unfair of Aunt Sophie. 
 Uncle Duveen, bless the old chap, will probably 
 enjoy himself by having a good look at the vari- 
 ous " objects of interest " ; thinking himself no 
 end of a dog and, like a dog, delighting in his 
 freedom — and there will be the end of it. He 
 won't go into the Casino, " impairing " his sys- 
 tem by accepting the odds of other systems — 
 not he. I can picture him this morning, gently 
 promenading the warm front at Nice, arm in 
 arm with some crony discovered at the hotel; 
 the twain discussing rheumatism in all its 
 branches and ramifications. 
 
 Aunt would have gone with him, she writes; 
 but " other bothers kept me at home, Mortimer. 
 Your Cousin Eva is giving me a great deal of 
 anxiety; and I really fear she is joyfully con- 
 templating a step which will make me very 
 unhappy." 
 
 Another " ineligible " on the Aunt Sophie hori- 
 
Honesty's Garden 281 
 
 zon, I imagine. " She and that Harrison are 
 quite insane and impossible," continues my 
 worthy aunt, scoring all her points with decision 
 and a horribly thick pen. " Neither seems to 
 have any desire for a restful, peaceable life. 
 They are for ever drinking tea together in Bond 
 Street, in some utterly disreputable place; or 
 else are having Turkish baths in Northumber- 
 land Avenue — a part of London in which no 
 respectable person is now ever seen. If I feebly 
 suggest that Eva should stay in after dinner to 
 a quiet, enjoyable little bridge, with her poor 
 old mother and one or two other nice people, 
 she simply screams and roars — and wants to go 
 to the theatre. Positively, Mortimer, I fear the 
 worst. And so slangy, too — really where does 
 the child pick it up? ' Bumble-puppy at ten- 
 pence, and chicory at the same price, don't ap- 
 peal to me a bit, mother mine. Kit and I want 
 to see the new Aladdin,' or some such twaddle. 
 i She has got seats, and 'phoned me this after- 
 noon, I must really.' Her actual words, Mor- 
 timer — and phrasing." 
 
 Poor aunt. 
 
 I shall, no doubt, learn on Friday who gives 
 Kit the seats which prompt her to 'phone Eva 
 that " she must really " come to the theatre, and 
 be — gooseberry ! 
 
 So I do not altogether expect Gatherway's 
 
282 Honesty's Garden 
 
 business, so far as I am concerned, will concern 
 me very nearly. We are getting along nicely 
 with our Marvels; and have just caught the 
 market on the rise. They are wonderful little 
 books, and embrace many of those masterpieces 
 which have been lately under eclipse. We have 
 aimed at getting together an interesting series; 
 and, starting with Chaucer and Malory, have 
 worked backwards and forwards from the cele- 
 brated Ancients to the best of the Moderns. 
 
 Copyright difficulties have prevented me so 
 far from securing one small book which I mean 
 shall eventually enhance our Marvels; but we 
 shall triumph over prejudice and dog-in-the- 
 manger policies before we have done. I refer 
 to Wilde's exquisite essayette on the Sonnets 
 of Shakespeare, The Portrait of Mr. W* H., 
 which at present cannot be obtained in England 
 — more's the shame (and loss) to us all. 1 
 
 Reading over the Alfred book of my own shows 
 me many faults in it still; but I am too busy 
 to attempt another re-writing of it. My clerk 
 Carr has typed one or two pages which I did 
 amend; and has expressed a wish to have the 
 rest of Honesty's typescript for perusal. He is 
 a decent fellow that ; but, I 'm afraid, a flatterer. 
 
 I feel impelled to call at Paradise Street to- 
 
 1 Now at last issued, jointly with Lord Arthur Savile's 
 Crime, at 5/- net. M.S. 
 
Honesty's Garden 283 
 
 night; having some more work for Honesty, and 
 also a creeping desire to learn whether the Dres- 
 den sugar basin (which isn't Dresden) has 
 been allowed to remain in its proper and lawful 
 sphere. If I find it has gone again to the 
 spider's web I shall say something 
 
 I see that I left off with Paradise Street; and 
 it is a strange thing that iny story must move 
 forward from that spot, and in so dreadful a 
 fashion. That poor child — I cannot forgive my- 
 self for having failed to save her. I seem to be 
 one who is just too late in every enterprise. 
 
 It must have been about five o'clock when my 
 tram drew up opposite the Swan at Stockwell, 
 a time of half-light so dangerous now-a-days to 
 unwary pedestrians in our crowded streets. I 
 was walking along thoughtfully enough towards 
 Paradise Street, when I became aware of a 
 hubbub and confusion taking place on the foot- 
 board of the tram I had left, and which now 
 was well under way for the next stopping-place. 
 Some drunken fellow had delayed getting down 
 at the Swan, and was being perforce carried on 
 to a point evidently beyond his ticket and des- 
 tination. He was ringing the bell behind the 
 driver, and was loudly protesting to the con- 
 ductor, who had hold of him by the arm — evi- 
 dently wishing to wrest his fingers from the 
 
284 Honesty's Garden 
 
 bell-button. One or two other passengers had 
 risen from their seats, others had followed the 
 cause of the fuss from the top compartment of 
 the car. So much I saw, when nearly abreast 
 of Paradise Street 
 
 How can I tell the rest? I had hardly real- 
 ised it was Billy who flashed swiftly and surely 
 across my path into the road — before the whole 
 miserable tragedy was upon us. She had guessed 
 that the man was going to jump from the rapidly 
 moving car; and she darted forward to catch 
 him — steady him. What else was in her mind 
 I know now. The man sprang suddenly free of 
 the conductor into the up-road of the tramway, 
 swayed, and reeled in Billy's arms . . . the two 
 together fell backwards clumsily against the rear 
 of the car, to which the brakes had been instantly 
 applied. It seemed as if it pushed them away 
 — just so gently that, although folks shouted, one 
 could not believe them to be hurt. 
 
 A tram on the up line, green lamped, hammer- 
 ing a clangorous bell, bore down upon them; a 
 woman screamed. Then somehow I had reached 
 them, had torn the child from that drunken grasp. 
 The bell sounded immensely in my ears; a 
 rough hand thrust us outward . . . together we 
 stumbled and staggered out of deadly peril— I 
 carrying her through the checked traffic, a dead 
 weight under the fading light, to the far side 
 
Honesty's Garden 285 
 
 of the road. There, in safety, came her first 
 waking thought : " He ? s not — hurt? " 
 
 I neither knew, nor (God forgive me) cared 
 very much. Some one told her that her father 
 was not hurt; that he was there — close to her. 
 She slid from my arms to run to him; and as her 
 foot touched the ground a sharp involuntary cry 
 was wrung from her quivering lips. But still she 
 would have got to him — had courage availed. 
 
 I lifted her heart-high, despite all protesta- 
 tions. By this there was a crowd about us, and 
 the police. They kindly enough made way for 
 me, and allowed me to have my will, so that I 
 carried the little maid to Paradise Street, past 
 the poplars, and into her home. 
 
 I noticed that the milk can was hanging there 
 from the spikes of the railings — a stupid detail, 
 but in some incomprehensible style it made a 
 note in the tragedy. Honesty met me; under- 
 stood; ran back to open the door of her bed- 
 room; ran to Mrs. Jolliman. We laid the child 
 on the bed, and Honesty was by my side again, 
 bathing the cut cheeks and comforting that 
 anxious heart. " Father — he 's so careless he is. 
 He done that before — jumped off when the tram 
 was going he did. The man said it might have 
 killed him " 
 
 " He ? s quite safe, dearest — quite, quite safe." 
 
 I heard the quick sigh of relief, as Billy's eyes 
 
286 Honesty's Garden 
 
 closed again briefly. Mrs. Jolliman was by the 
 bedside, holding her child's hands. The thin 
 little fingers were plucking at the bedclothes 
 continuously. Some one had brought a doctor : 
 he pushed by us to the bed. 
 
 Instantly : " Father — he 's all right, is n't 
 he? " And at the young doctor's word her eyes 
 closed again. " My head 's awful bad . . . like 
 father's is sometimes — " Her voice trailed away 
 into " But then the hours is so awkward, you 
 know, enough to try " 
 
 No worse than a broken leg, says the doctor 
 later on (after examination), with slight con- 
 cussion of the brain. A wonderful escape for 
 the man, who is downstairs in the kitchen ; sleep- 
 ing now, let us hope. It made me too grossly 
 ashamed of our frail common humanity to hear 
 him crying over the child. It brought before me 
 that terrible scene in Ibsen's Wild Duck, where 
 the self-deceiving father reproaches himself for 
 Hedwig's death. 
 
 Honesty walked with me to the railway sta- 
 tion, so soon as the poor little maid's leg had 
 been set. Ah, brave, wonderful soul in a small 
 body — not a cry, hardly a tear. Even a smile 
 for me as I was coming away. She made me 
 bend my head to listen to a very secret whisper : 
 " You have n't made her happy yet, you know 
 — it 's her turn it is." 
 
CHAPTER XXIX 
 
 I can't help pondering over the ironical stu- 
 pidity of it all. To think that that man actually 
 travelled by the same tram as I did. Had I but 
 gone outside — which might easily have happened 
 — I should have seen him, have been able to 
 help him; he would have alighted safely with 
 me. Or, could I have been a thought quicker 
 as Billy dashed by me, I might at last have been 
 of service to some one in this world. 
 
 That dream of mine at St. Keynes — of Billy, 
 poor mite, threatening me as she swung between 
 her poplars, has come uppermost in my mind 
 once or twice. Of course I don't believe in 
 dreams — still, it is odd that she should have 
 been associated in that phantasmagoria with the 
 thought of crippled children. Not that she will 
 be a cripple for long; the doctor holds that 
 everything is going along well with her, and the 
 brain danger has already passed. 
 
 Carr is a good chap; he took upon himself to 
 call last Sunday — yesterday. He caused a sen- 
 sation in Paradise Street by appearing in what 
 
 287 
 
288 Honesty's Garden 
 
 I call a D'Orsay overcoat (a kind of frock-coat 
 with a waist and velvet collar), a tall hat, and 
 trousers with perfect creases down each leg. 
 He came just before one o'clock, a mystic and 
 important hour for Paradise Street, and gave the 
 loafers outside the nasty little public-house op- 
 portunity for cheap witticisms. He was carry- 
 ing a regular cauliflower of a bouquet; and had 
 a box of chocolates bulging one of the pockets 
 of the magnificent overcoat. 
 
 Honesty told me all about it; for I called in 
 the afternoon. I had plotted to bring Baillie 
 with me; but something which Gather way let 
 fall the other night gave me pause. 
 
 Which prompts me to bring you into our con- 
 fidence, on condition you don't tell a living soul. 
 Gatherway — are you prepared? — is engaged to 
 be married. 
 
 He ate my dinner (much as Jock drank from 
 my small cask on a like occasion) and described, 
 very badly, all the pangs and torments which 
 love has put upon him. How, surprisingly, he 
 had been encouraged to be the last to find out 
 that he was in love at all. How she had known 
 it from the first : and had never even given him 
 a hint. 
 
 " So like a woman," I remarked, sententiously. 
 
 He swept me up. " So like some women. But 
 Kitty's totally different, Swift, from the rest; 
 
Honesty's Garden 289 
 
 nothing petty or small-minded about her. She 
 wouldn't say yes — or no; she wished to con- 
 sider the matter rationally. Was I quite sure 
 I loved her; had I considered it? ' I 've con- 
 sidered nothing else since I saw you/ I said. 
 1 Ask Swift.' " 
 
 " She did n't ask me," I told him. " Perhaps 
 it was just as well." 
 
 "She's a beautiful girl," he went on, fatu- 
 ously ; " and, mark me, Swift — absolutely un- 
 aware of the fact. Have you noticed her eyes? " 
 
 " I 've noticed that she does n't peep sideways 
 into looking-glasses whenever she 's near them," 
 I conceded. " Also she has nice — a pretty 
 smile, I mean." 
 
 I nearly said teeth; but that seemed, to my 
 fastidious mind, so much like Red Riding Hood. 
 Besides, it was Gatherway who had been doing 
 the eating. 
 
 " A sweet smile, Swift. Extraordinarily ex- 
 pressive. Gives charming emphasis to all that 
 she says." He choked sentimentally over his 
 ice-pudding, and made worse of it by gulping 
 a mouthful whole and un thawed. " I 'm the 
 lucky man, Swift," spluttered he. 
 
 " Bear up," said I, " there 's worse to come." 
 
 He positively glared. "Ah, you cynical old 
 humbug. You don't know what life is. You 're 
 in your second childhood before you 're out of 
 19 
 
290 Honesty's Garden 
 
 your first. You 're a fossil, Swift. There 's no 
 blood in your body. It 's water, sir, water — and 
 weak at that." 
 
 " Have some coffee? " I inquired, " and a 
 creme de men the? " 
 
 " Can't stand peppermint ! it kills me. But, 
 of course, you like it. Boyhood's days come 
 back, as I hinted a moment since. When 's he 
 going to let us smoke? Tip him the wink, 
 Swift." 
 
 Rollaston did n't need any tipping, or winking. 
 " Gentlemen, you may smoke ! " 
 
 I accepted a cigar from Gatherway with mis- 
 giving. When a man 's in love he is n't given 
 to be too careful — in what he eats, drinks, or 
 smokes. It lit all right. 
 
 " I must say that Mrs. Duveen has made mat- 
 ters very comfortable for us," Gatherway next 
 instructed me. " Most kind she has been, that 
 aunt of yours. And Eva, too. You '11 excuse 
 my speaking of your cousin by her Christian 
 name, Swift, but it is her wish." 
 
 " I 've no objection," I told him. " And cer- 
 tainly Eva seems to have played * gooseberry ' 
 to purpose " 
 
 " Gooseberry," he broke in, in that sweeping 
 style of his. " Not she. By Jove, no ! " He 
 chuckled. " I know a bit about women, Swift, 
 and they won't stand being odd man out for 
 
Honesty's Garden 291 
 
 very long. I fixed it up for your Cousin Eva, 
 after a try or two." 
 
 " The teas and the Turkish baths entertained 
 a quartette, then?" 
 
 " Turkish baths? Oh, I see. They were the 
 excuse, my dear fellow. Surely you didn't 
 imagine " 
 
 "I did n't permit myself to think about it," I 
 said, " but all the same I am glad to be re- 
 assured. Who was the fourth party? " 
 
 " Somebody that your young pickle wanted. 
 I 'm the sharp one for finding out, let me tell 
 you." 
 
 " You naturally wanted to have Kitty to your- 
 self. You'll excuse "my calling her Kitty; but 
 it was just a little fancy of hers." (Had him 
 there ! ) 
 
 He pretended not to notice. " Naturally we 
 wanted to have a minute or so for conversation 
 on intimate affairs. And Miss Duveen is rest- 
 less, Swift. There 's no gainsaying it. Look 
 how she has worked that motor to death. 
 You 've heard Duveen has threatened to give 
 it up? " 
 
 "No; has he? He's still at Nice, I under- 
 stand? " 
 
 " There, or thereabouts." Gatherway was 
 doing the winking now. " Yes, he vows he '11 
 go back to horseflesh, like primitive man." 
 
292 Honesty's Garden 
 
 " And who was the fourth party? " He had 
 quite wandered away from the point, as you 
 observe, and I didn't want a dissertation on 
 horses. It would inevitably lead to hunting, 
 one of Gatherway's pet subjects. I also desired 
 to hear something of the discussion on Author, 
 Publisher, and Public. 
 
 " Oh, that was young Baillie, of course. One 
 saw how the wind was blowing when we were 
 at Dieppe." 
 
 " I perceived the quarter it was blowing from 
 — as regards you — and Kitty," I said, remember- 
 ing that night I had met them crossing the 
 Plage. "But Baillie — and Eva? You're 
 joking? " 
 
 " You '11 hear," he declared, grimly. " I 
 shouldn't be surprised altogether if you 'd 
 have to give two wedding presents very shortly, 
 Swift. So save up, my laddie." 
 
 Jock — and Eva? Can it be that my story, 
 and his story, is going to turn out all wrong? 
 It also is Honesty's story; and I conceive 
 Honesty as being more important than the other 
 parties. At any rate, I decline to be a fat- 
 headed genie, like that one which Sindbad let 
 out of the bottle. So I did n't tell Baillie I was 
 going to No. 117 Paradise Street, on Sunday. 
 
 I rather hoped he would be there, however, 
 of his own volition. 
 
Honesty's Garden 293 
 
 Here we are wandering from Author, Pub- 
 lisher, and Public — and Gatherway, who had 
 many further items to give me concerning his 
 beloved. I spare you his rhapsodies; as you al- 
 ready know, from what I have written, how 
 charming a girl is Kitty Harrison — despite her 
 premature acceptance of Gatherway on his own 
 estimate. 
 
 Rollaston opened the proceedings, and we had 
 a capital speech from the club guest of the 
 evening. But do you care twopence, or even 
 a penny, about the matter? 
 
 It 's as old as the hills, this quarrel. The 
 author says that the publisher does n't properly 
 pay the piper, although he insists on calling the 
 tune. The publisher swears that he loses money 
 — no matter what the piper plays. The public 
 vows that it can never get what it wants — either 
 in the way of piper or tune. 
 
 Naturally, I think the author is very badly 
 treated. I consider that he should have the bulk 
 of the profits, and should be regarded as a per- 
 son of extreme importance. I emphatically 
 declare that no birthday list of honours is com- 
 plete, or satisfying, unless it contains (at least) 
 one author. I claim that literature should rank 
 equally with bacon. 
 
 In one glorious reign it was synonymous. 
 
 I tell this joke to Gatherway during a lull in 
 
294 Honesty's Garden 
 
 the discussion. I could see that another attack 
 of Kitty Harrisonitis was overdue, and my 
 ready wit certainly succeeded in keeping the 
 trouble in check. 
 
 At half-past nine the club had talked the mat- 
 ter out to its own satisfaction ; and so we retired 
 to the club-room to continue the debate in more 
 informal style. Gatherway drinks water with 
 his ; which shows him in a bad light, I maintain. 
 The man who takes a dash of Apollinaris with 
 it, however, is a true artist. 
 
 Gatherway retorted by roaring out (for all 
 to hear) that he didn't store whiskey in his 
 house by the cask, like some folk. " No," I say, 
 " because you would n't store it at all ; you would 
 drink it." 
 
 "Isn't that the proper way to store it?" he 
 asks, thumpingly. 
 
 He has many bad habits, has Gatherway. The 
 tobacco he smokes (judging by that cigar) is n't 
 tobacco at all. I should say it grew in Jersey 
 along with the cabbages, and was dried on a wet 
 day. Still, he 's very much in love ; and intends 
 to be a good fellow. Kitty is influencing him 
 already; he doesn't sweep me up quite so 
 unbearably as of yore. 
 
 I expect a lecture from Aunt Sophie, in due 
 course. You have not lost sight of the fact 
 that Kitty was designed for me? But I don't 
 
Honesty's Garden 295 
 
 figure well in my aunt's " system," I fear. I 'm 
 the five, under which numeral she, in common 
 with most players, loses heavily. Nothing that 
 I touch seems to go as it should. 
 
 What am I to do with Honesty's garden in 
 the event of the Jock and Eva rumour becoming 
 something more solid? I can't live in two 
 houses; or two gardens — for the matter of that. 
 I wonder whether Honesty could bring herself 
 to ever care a little for 
 
 Absurd, my dear Mortimer! Love is epi- 
 demic, like most other deadly afflictions. You 
 are in danger of catching it, my poor, dear, 
 deluded, round-shouldered old man. Do you 
 mean to make an exhibition of yourself in your 
 dotage? 
 
 I 'm afraid I would rather like to ! 
 
CHAPTER XXX 
 
 The "exhibition" (outwardly) ends in my 
 simply repeating Carr's performance last Sun- 
 day. If I were a lover in the accepted sense 
 (like Gatherway) I should have anticipated Mr. 
 Carr, not have slavishly followed his example. 
 Behold me passing the poplar trees of Paradise 
 Street at half-past three to-day, a butt for the 
 louts and servant girls who monopolise Sunday 
 afternoons in the suburbs of London. I was 
 glad to dive behind the iron gate opposite the 
 swing, and hammer discreetly for shelter at the 
 door of No. 117. Honesty had spied my ap- 
 proach from the window — and I was not kept 
 long a-waiting. 
 
 " What lovely flowers ! Where did you get 
 them? " 
 
 She knew, I think, before I answered: 
 " They 're your own, cut haphazard. You per- 
 ceive that the garden is not altogether neglected? 
 Tell me, how is the patient? " 
 
 " Better, much better. She will be so glad 
 to see you. But, before we go in — I want you 
 
 296 
 
Honesty's Garden 297 
 
 to be very firm with her. She will persist in 
 trying to do things; and I know the doctor is 
 rather anxious " 
 
 " Anxious? " 
 
 " Only that she shan't be a cripple for life," 
 Honesty hastened to reassure me. " The frac- 
 ture is setting wonderfully; but I am so afraid 
 she will be jumping out of bed — that I scarcely 
 dare to leave her. She worries over him, you 
 know." Honesty whispered the rest. " He 's 
 tiresome at times, and needs managing." 
 
 " Needs a jolly good talking to," I growled. 
 But Honesty laid her little hand lightly on my 
 mouth, a fairy touch, which instantly brought 
 good manners ; also an insane desire to kiss those 
 small quickly withdrawn fingers. I thought of 
 that, though, a millionth part of a moment too 
 late. Typical of me. 
 
 We went in to Billy, who had reared herself 
 up in bed in her intense curiosity. " Hello, 
 what were you two doing out there in the hall? 
 Was it secrets? " 
 
 " Of course not ! " answered Honesty, posi- 
 tively blushing at this direct charge. "Look 
 at these beautiful flowers; brought all the way 
 from Carbridge for you. Are n't they lovely ! " 
 
 " They don't smell very much," opined Billy, 
 regarding them critically. " That 's the worst 
 of those showy things " 
 
298 Honesty's Garden 
 
 " Ungrateful little girl," said I, crossing to 
 her. " I believe you '11 like these better," and 
 produced a box of peppermint creams, and a 
 couple of paper-backed books. She grabbed the 
 books first. 
 
 " What 's this one — adventures? " 
 
 " Marvellous, astounding. And the other I 'm 
 very fond of. I hope you will love the heroine 
 as much as I do." 
 
 " It 's long is n't it? The name 's all right." 
 She eagerly turned over the pages of Lorna 
 Doone. " Does he marry her in the end? " 
 
 " Certainly. That 's the end of all stories." 
 
 " It ought to be the beginning," suggested 
 Honesty. 
 
 Billy flashed her a keen glance. " Stories about 
 married people and their children would n't be 
 a bit interesting they would n't. I know all 
 about that kind of story myself." 
 
 " Well now, how is the poor leg? " I asked, to 
 divert her mind from that particular aspect of 
 life — the Paradise Street view of things. " I 
 trust you 're taking care of yourself? " 
 
 "She is," replied Billy, proudly; her nod in- 
 dicating Honesty. " Help me sit up please, so 's 
 I can look at the books." 
 
 " You ought n't to, dear," began Honesty. 
 
 " There you are, I did n't ask you. I shan't 
 hurt my old leg. Help me, Mortimer, and don't 
 
Honesty's Garden 299 
 
 mind what she says. She 's always fussing and 
 bothering, she is — I shan't give her a cream. 
 You and I '11 eat them all, every one." As I 
 put my arm about Billy to lift her into a com- 
 fortable half-reclining position, Honesty moved 
 to the other side of the bed and bolstered her 
 up with the pillows. Billy put out her thin 
 arms suddenly and caught me round the neck. 
 I was favoured with a vehement ( and rather pep- 
 perminty) embrace. "You're an old dear you 
 are. Here, whisper — I put my foot on the 
 ground this morning, I did — when she wasn't 
 in the room. I can stand all right just like 
 I used. Don't let her know, she'd be so 
 cross." 
 
 " Promise me you won't do it again," said I 
 softly but with insistence. " Promise now, or 
 I '11 take Honesty away, never to come back any 
 more." 
 
 Billy peered into my eyes to see if I meant 
 it. " You 're not going to be horrid too are 
 you? You would n't want to be lying about in 
 an old bed day after day when there 's heaps of 
 things to be done. Father can't get his meals 
 proper, or nothing — while I 'm here. It makes 
 his home miserable after a hard day's work it 
 does to come back to a houseful of invalids. 
 There ain't no wonder he goes out again." 
 
 She paused, and then the pig-tail came to the 
 
3<x) Honesty's Garden 
 
 rescue. It whisked back to front, front to back, 
 and the tears remained unshed. 
 
 " You want to get well, dearest, don't you? " 
 questioned Honesty, who had gathered the gist 
 of it. " You must get well, so as to be able to 
 help father again. And the only way is to be 
 patient, just a little while longer " 
 
 " It 's always a little while longer it is. 
 That 's why I hate it so. Why can't it be now, 
 now, now ! I don't want things when I 'm old ; 
 when I can't enjoy them, and don't care to enjoy 
 them. I 've been here a hundred years I have ; 
 and it 's always, always wait a little while 
 longer." The pig-tail flashed to the front, 
 hastening valiantly to save the situation. 
 
 Billy gulped her grief bravely. " There don't 
 you mind me. I ? m a beast I am. She 's so 
 good and I 'm such a — such a beast ! It was all 
 my fault I got hurt making doctor's bills and 
 all that and fresh worries when people 's got 
 quite enough as it is. It 's enough to try the 
 patience of Job, always and for ever working 
 all hours of the night and day — to keep house 
 and home together. And then when you do get 
 home, there 's nothing but sour looks and don't 
 wake the child " 
 
 Somehow she had wriggled herself into 
 Honesty's arms by this; and there found com- 
 fort. I turned to the window, and pretended 
 
Honesty's Garden 3 01 
 
 I couldn't hear the small, pitiful weeping. I 
 untied the string which Jones had very firmly 
 knotted about the stalks of my despised dahlias, 
 and attempted to arrange the beautiful flowers 
 in a vase on the chest of drawers. But dahlias 
 are not easy to arrange. 
 
 Presently I found Honesty by my side. " Let 
 us go downstairs to the kitchen. Only Mrs. 
 Jolliman is in, and we can get tea. Will you? " 
 
 I peeped towards the bed, and saw Billy deep 
 in King Solomon's Mines. The storm had 
 passed. 
 
 So we descended, like two children, to the 
 lower and more material regions of Paradise, 
 hand in hand, and spent a pleasant time getting 
 the tea. Mrs. Jolliman was in, but asleep. She 
 woke up, all apologies; but Honesty ordered her 
 off to her own room. " A little rest will do you 
 good. You go upstairs and lie down, quietly. 
 Mr. Swift and I are going to be useful, for 
 once." 
 
 " But I must show you where to find the tea. 
 And the fire 's gone out, too. Oh, dear, dear, 
 I 'm so sorry." Mrs. Jolliman began to fuss 
 about the kitchen in an aimless manner. The 
 place was most untidy; and, man-like, I began 
 to think that, perhaps, there was some excuse 
 for Jolliman 
 
 Honesty soon found the tea — in the identical 
 
302 Honesty's Garden 
 
 little Dresden sugar-basin that you wot of. 
 " Ah, yes, a nice bit of chiny that, Mr. Swift. 
 Used to belong to my mother, it did. There was 
 two of them, and six plates, and three square 
 dishes. One of my lodgers said they was real 
 old chiny, and worth ever so much. The child 
 sets a store on that there basin, because her 
 father says it 's so valuable. But the plates is 
 all cracked. Do let me light that there fire, 
 Miss Honesty! You'll make yourself so black, 
 you will." 
 
 The fire yielded to our joint ministrations, 
 and then Honesty had her own way. Mrs. 
 Jolliman, expostulating, was hurried away to 
 her room. Honesty returned triumphant. " Now 
 we can get the place to ourselves, and reduce 
 chaos into something more resembling " 
 
 " A kitchen," said I, smiling. Between us, we 
 bustled to some purpose. Jones would have 
 stared to see me — washing up, and drying, and 
 putting away into their proper places a small 
 battalion of plates and dishes. I must con- 
 fess that I did not relish washing the knives. 
 They wouldn't wash, simply — until Honesty 
 showed me how. Wonderful what a lot she 
 knows. 
 
 Then we laid table: for two, if you please. 
 " I 'm going to take their tea upstairs," an- 
 nounced Honesty, " after we have each had a 
 
Honesty's Garden 303 
 
 cup. For, really, I must say we deserve some 
 kind of reward." 
 
 " You could n't give me a reward that I like 
 better," I said. 
 
 " Men always love tea," she remarked, quite 
 mistaking my meaning. "Now, sit down, please, 
 and cut some nice thin bread and butter. Gra- 
 cious, not so thick ! You must cut bread towards 
 you, not downwards. Like this." 
 
 In a minute or so, behold a dish of dainty 
 bread and butter, fit for a king and queen. 
 
 I felt royal, too — sitting side by side with 
 Honesty. Never had we seemed so near, so in- 
 timate. Was it strange that, presently, my hand 
 should find hers in some oddly natural manner, 
 and my fingers close about those others, so soft 
 and so yielding? 
 
 " My dear," I heard myself saying, " do you 
 know I want to tell you some very important — 
 and very difficult — news? And for the life of 
 me, I don't know how to begin." 
 
 " I fancy," said Honesty, quietly, " that you — 
 have begun." 
 
 " It 's about — " and I plunged straight to the 
 truth of it, instead of being a tiny bit diplomatic 
 — " It 's about John Baillie — and my Cousin 
 Eva." 
 
 Honesty said " Oh " in a round kind of voice, 
 and gently pulled her hand from under mine. 
 
304 Honesty's Garden 
 
 Having thus lost everything to hold me safe to 
 the shore, I floundered about in rough waters 
 quite hopelessly, " I believe they 're going to be 
 engaged. In fact, from what my friend Gather- 
 way told me " 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 " He said, they were engaged — and only wait- 
 ing my uncle's consent." 
 
 She was silent so long that I imagined I had 
 better go on. " I hope, my dear, dear child, 
 you won't take it too much to heart. I 've told 
 you very badly and stupidly, and not at all as 
 I meant to. But, perhaps, it was better to get 
 done with it quickly." 
 
 She turned steady eyes towards mine. " Why 
 do you say that? " she questioned, gravely. 
 
 Fire roses flamed in her face at my silence; 
 died down. " It is strange you should think 
 that I — " She paused, trying to choose her 
 words. " Do you actually believe that your 
 news is very dreadful? For my hearing, I 
 mean? Is it possible that you believe that I 
 care one tiny scrap; that you imagine my heart 
 beats faster — because of what you have told 
 me?" 
 
 She smiled whimsically, and pushed back her 
 chair from the table, then moved away from 
 me, crossing to where the kettle was clamorous 
 on the hob. Her face was hidden; I fancied 
 
Honesty's Garden 3°5 
 
 that she laughed, then I knew it was not 
 laughter at all 
 
 Somehow I, too, had risen; had reached her. 
 The kettle was threatening us both fussily, but 
 I caught her away from it, and she was in my 
 arms. " Have I been wrong? " I demanded, so 
 roughly, that my voice was new to me. " Wrong 
 all through and through? Don't you care for 
 him; don't you? You seemed to, once " 
 
 Her mouth was closed, but her eyes answered. 
 I kissed her lips; and she came to me, and was 
 mine; utterly, and for ever. 
 
 Looking back, I cannot yet believe it. Is it 
 credible, when one is quiet, and alone, and a 
 little chilled? That she, so young, should love 
 me, so old? That she, so very beautiful, so 
 sweet in thought and in deed; an angel 
 
 Angels are to be discovered — even in Paradise 
 Street. I know that this is true. True also that 
 the kettle boiled over in great indignation, so I 
 suppose we could n't have been attending to it ! 
 
 Honesty has chosen to be blind to my many 
 imperfections — or has she only deceived herself 
 into thinking she loves me? Thus I torment 
 myself, even in the midst of all my raptures. 
 She has given herself to me in gratitude — for 
 the very little I have done for her: hers is a 
 daughter's love — for one who has only tried to 
 be kind. 
 
306 Honesty's Garden 
 
 Or, perhaps, her pride. Does that bid her 
 make pretence, in order that none may guess 
 how cruelly she feels her loss in love? 
 
 Again I tell myself, tinglingly, that it is true 
 — that a miracle has come about. Have we not 
 settled all the world's politics, we two, for all 
 time? In future there will just be the Haven, 
 and all the world will be contained within its 
 four walls. 
 
 I am afraid that they had to wait for their 
 tea, those others. The kettle had to be coaxed 
 back into good humour. Lovers are dreadfully 
 selfish — and minutes were seconds — no more; 
 indeed, not so much. Mrs. Jolliman did n't rest 
 upstairs long enough. We fortunately recog- 
 nised that it was all over, that amazingly glori- 
 ous, never-to-be-forgotten hour, at the precise 
 moment that she re-entered the kitchen. I was 
 sufficiently natural to permit her to discover 
 me cutting more bread-and-butter; whilst Hon- 
 esty was on her knees before the expiring fire, 
 trying to blow back life into it. 
 
 I don't fancy she guessed anything. She cer- 
 tainly did ask if I was preparing for a school 
 feast; but Honesty came to the rescue. She 
 turned, in flushed and charming confusion, to 
 vow she had quite overlooked the fact that there 
 was already bread and butter enough for a 
 dozen, and hastened to brew and pour out for 
 
Honesty's Garden 307 
 
 Mrs. Jolliman a cup of the most delicious tea 
 that ever I remember to have tasted. 
 
 I don't mean I tasted it from Mrs. Jolliman's 
 cup. I had mine from Honesty's. Then my 
 darling escaped, on a pretence of taking tea to 
 Billy; leaving me to discuss the quasi-Dresden 
 sugar bowl with Mrs. Jolliman, whilst she dis- 
 cussed a second cup of somewhat over-drawn 
 tea. She made up for that, however, by telling 
 me all about Mr. Jolliman's headaches; the 
 topic naturally starting from strong tea, as she 
 said. 
 
 He can't put down his headaches altogether 
 to that. 
 
 The subject did not especially interest me, 
 and Honesty was so long away, that I ventured 
 to institute a search-party, consisting very com- 
 pletely of myself solus. I found her with Billy, 
 who was gravely regarding food and King Sol- 
 omon in turns. " Jolly fine it is just the sort," 
 declared my young friend, favouring me with 
 the briefest glance. " I 've read six chapters 
 nearly and I got to where they go down! My! 
 would n't I love to find those mines. D' you 
 think it 's really and truly? " 
 
 " Part of it, perhaps " 
 
 " I shall go to Africa when I 'm married, if 
 they 've killed off all the lions and tigers. Thank 
 you very much for those flowers; Honesty says 
 
308 Honesty's Garden 
 
 I forgot to thank you. I 'm always afraid of 
 'em, you know, they're so earwiggy. Once I 
 knew a girl who had an earwig crawl right into 
 her ear it did. Oo, it was awful ! " 
 
 I learned very shortly afterwards that the 
 great problem had been settled. That busy 
 little brain had immediately perceived that we 
 could n't want to live in two houses, in any 
 case. So one must be got rid of. 
 
 " I could never part with the Home," I argued. 
 
 "Of course not! But you wouldn't mind 
 moving the Haven into the Home, would you? 
 It wouldn't be difficult, and — change is good 
 for us all. I would help with the precious 
 books." 
 
 " I must talk it over with Jones." 
 
 " We will talk it over with Jones afterwards." 
 I observe that she means to be first, this small 
 but extremely important person. " I have an 
 idea. Why not do as that funny boy suggested 
 — turn the Haven into a play-house for — " She 
 checked herself hurriedly. 
 
 " Play-house for what? " demanded a sharp 
 little voice. 
 
 "For little children, Billy. Don't you think 
 that a capital notion?" 
 
 " It was cripples he said. I have n't forgot. 
 Cripples, but I 'm not going to be a cripple never 
 fear. I 'm going to do adventures and go to 
 
Honesty's Garden 309 
 
 Africa. Where are you two going when you 're 
 married? " 
 
 " I — I don't know — " faltered Honesty, and 
 then she peeped aghast into my face of con- 
 sternation. But our young lady hadn't quite 
 intended her question in that embarrassing man- 
 ner. " One of you might go to Africa with me," 
 she proposed, wistfully, " because it would n't 
 be altogether likely you 'd both be going to the 
 same place would it? You might want to live 
 side by side though so I would n't give the Haven 
 to no cripples. There 's lots of other things you 
 could do with it better than that." 
 
 Thus Honesty's " idea " got sat upon, even as 
 she — But that 's tellings ! I walked home to- 
 night from the station at Carbridge (she came 
 with me to the Clapham station) literally on 
 air. What a lovely world it is; how amazingly 
 beautiful ! I stood for a while, under the stars, 
 bareheaded, and the scent of the sweetbriar was 
 as frankincense. Is it a dream? Tell me. Or 
 am I only the luckiest fellow alive? 
 
CHAPTER XXXI 
 
 It is not a dream, but only a secret. Honesty 
 wishes it to be the latter — for the present. I 
 understand why, and love her all the more for it. 
 
 I am to move into the house next door. That 
 has been ordained ; for the fates seem to be with 
 Honesty all through. I weakly mentioned her 
 notion to the Undertaker: he promptly carried 
 it to the vicar. As a result I was " approached," 
 as they say in the papers, and negotiations were 
 opened for the sale of the Haven. 
 
 I can't bear to think of it; so I don't. Jones 
 
 is quite easy about the matter. " One good 
 
 thing, we shan't lose our cat. He '11 soon find 
 
 out where to go. It '11 be same as before to him, 
 
 because they '11 hardly turn him out — if he does 
 
 go in their kitching." Jones is reconciled, 
 
 therefore. Moreover : " We should have to 
 
 have a spring cleaning anyways in both the 
 
 houses; and now I shall only have to do one. 
 
 It will be a easy move, too. You '11 be able to 
 
 carry your books in yourself, and all your 
 
 writing-papers, and your china." She asks a 
 
 310 
 
Honesty's Garden 311 
 
 question which I have long feared to hear. 
 " Ain't you ever going to bring them Queer Toes 
 back from the orfice? " 
 
 " I — ah, no. In fact, I have sold them." 
 (Jones must know the truth sooner or later; 
 and the fiction of their being at the "orfice" 
 can't be lived up to eternally.) 
 
 " You sold them? You never said nothing 
 about it." 
 
 She is plainly affronted : so I tell her the bald 
 facts. " Yes, I sold them to help pay for the 
 house into which we are about to move. They 
 more than paid for it, I may say. I couldn't 
 allow Miss Dene's garden to belong to any one 
 else." 
 
 Jones receives the information in silence. 
 She turns it over mentally whilst she clears 
 away my dinner : " I wonder you could bring 
 yourself to part with them Queer Toes," she 
 remarks, as she puts the finishing touches to 
 her work. " I thought you wanted to get an- 
 other of them, or something, and have 'em all 
 bound up together." 
 
 " It was you who suggested that," I reminded 
 her grimly. 
 
 She brightened considerably, evidently taking 
 this as a compliment. " We shall have a lot 
 more furniture than we can do with," she de- 
 cided, before leaving me to my pipe and evening 
 
312 Honesty's Garden 
 
 paper. " That there boy will be able to help 
 us sell what we don't want." 
 
 " I shall let the vicar take his choice, after I 
 have had mine," I said. I relish this daily after- 
 dinner chat with Jones, she is so eminently prac- 
 tical. She supplies me, all unknowingly, with 
 many ideas. " That will be partly my gift 
 towards the Play House." 
 
 " I should n't do anything without telling 
 Mrs. Duveen," Jones admonishes me. " She 
 wouldn't like it; and she does carry on about 
 things she don't like. That there young man 
 what drives her motor, he told me " 
 
 " You should n't have listened, Jones." 
 
 " No, sir. In course not." She moved to the 
 door. " When does Miss Dene come down 
 again, sir? Because I like to do the garding 
 just beforehand." 
 
 She receives my statement, " I 'm not quite 
 sure when Miss Dene will next be in Carbridge," 
 with obvious disbelief. She knows I know — to 
 a minute. Jones is putting two and two to- 
 gether, I can tell; and the secret won't be much 
 of a secret to her, when it comes to be declared. 
 That 's one disadvantage of old servants ; they 
 become so much part of one's life that they neces- 
 sarily know all about everything. I 'm sure 
 Jones regards my antiques and curios and books 
 as being hers also, in a very large measure. The 
 
Honesty's Garden 313 
 
 only possession we do not fairly share is 
 Keedels, the cat. He is chiefly Jones's — and 
 (between ourselves) I don't much mind. 
 
 I light my pipe, and smoke — and dream: the 
 dream that 's a secret, of course. I wonder if I 
 shall wake up presently and discover 
 
 You see, I feel that I don't deserve it. What 
 have I done to be so opulently rewarded? I 
 look backward to perceive myself self-centred, 
 morbid, a man of small horizon, a fellow who 
 will never be anybody much — not even rich, not 
 even a great collector. I shall always be round- 
 shouldered, and go about my little business in a 
 little way. Round shoulders, however, do not 
 " show up " old comfortable clothes. I can't 
 help it — I worship my old clothes. As I said 
 just now of Jones, they 're so much part of my- 
 self. When I'm in a new suit I feel another 
 person entirely; an unpleasant, conscious crea- 
 ture who thinks every one is quizzing him. I 
 should n't mind writing a chapter about clothes, 
 only Carlyle has done it before me. Still, if 
 we 're not to do things just because somebody 
 has done them before us, we may as well give 
 up being alive. And that is our sole justifica- 
 tion : the only reason why we should be tolerated 
 at all. 
 
 Looking back, I find nothing achieved. I 
 have never wilfully injured any one, perhaps; 
 
314 Honesty's Garden 
 
 and have attempted to do as I would be done 
 by 
 
 But there is no credit in this. It would hurt 
 me to do otherwise. It would make me ashamed 
 of myself ; and I must suppose I am not extraor- 
 dinarily sensitive. No one wilfully hurts an- 
 other. Occasionally one of us may be a trifle 
 forgetful; may not be quite so alert as usual. 
 Then, unconsciously, injury is done. 
 
 I continue to sum myself up, seeking dili- 
 gently for my virtues — and my works. There 
 are a few books above my name — the titles of 
 them, I mean. The books (save those copies 
 naturally on my own shelves) have been 
 " pulped " long ago. Throughout I have been 
 consistently selfish as regards Honesty's garden. 
 I did not intend it for Baillie — although I might 
 have brought myself to the ordinary decency of 
 giving it to him, had Honesty loved the lad. 
 
 It was because I suspected that she did n't ; 
 and because I meanly desired her (in that back- 
 stairs way I have detected in myself once or 
 twice), that I bought the garden. Duplicity; 
 worse. My dear Swift (I must call you dear, 
 since surely no one else will be so indulgent!) 
 you are a fraud! A deceiver, an arch self- 
 deceiver. 
 
 Sacrifice? You don't know even the rudi- 
 ments of sacrifice. Billy could teach you. You 
 
Honesty's Garden 315 
 
 have never had to screw and scrape to make 
 both ends outwardly meet. It 's tragedy — when 
 poverty must be respectable. One hears of it 
 sometimes; not often. The true martyrs are 
 those who do not complain. 
 
 On your knees, then, my dear Swift. The 
 most beautiful story in the world has chosen you 
 for its " hero." And being a hero — mind you 
 don't let folk find you out! 
 
 Jones taps: the last post has arrived. I 
 did n't even hear the man knock. " You been 
 asleep, sir," says Jones denouncingly. " Your 
 pipe 's on the floor. Might have burnt a 'ole in 
 the rug. Might have burnt the 'ouse down." 
 
 A letter from Honesty. So soon as I am 
 alone again I read it ; and I — awake. 
 
 It was only a dream. Foolish of me to have 
 imagined it could ever be reality. Poor child, 
 poor child ! 
 
 " Forgive me — if you can. It was wicked of 
 me. You are so good, so considerate; I ought 
 not to count so much on that. You want every- 
 body to be happy — that is why I cannot forgive 
 myself. I have had a bad time of it lately with 
 my thoughts; please do not think too hardly of 
 me. I know you will understand " 
 
 Enclosed is my signet ring; wrapped about 
 with tissue paper to make it less obvious. I 
 gave it to her — last Sundav? 
 
316 Honesty's Garden 
 
 Is it so long ago? Not yet a week? 
 
 Troubles never come singly, they say. This 
 post has brought me, bad, bad news. I can face 
 the rest though. What are wounds to vanity but 
 vanity? 
 
 The Colosseum has no further use for my 
 services as sub-editor. Carruthers writes me a 
 very decent letter, covering the directors' formal 
 regrets. He tries to soften the blow. I will 
 not omit to thank Carruthers. He is not to 
 blame. 
 
 I must answer Honesty. Somehow I don't 
 seem to care much about the Colosseum. 
 
 The nights are growing chilly. One soon gets 
 tired, and cold, in October. Jones should start 
 the fires. I must speak to her. 
 
 In Paradise Street, last Sunday, we sat before 
 a fire. In the afternoon, too. In the heart of 
 that fire I fancied that I read my fortune, read- 
 ing my own heart all the while. A fire that 
 burned so brightly could not, of course, burn 
 for long. It — died down, unnoticed either by 
 Honesty or myself. 
 
 It lasted long enough, shall I say? No, for 
 that were a bitter thought and unworthy. Lord, 
 keep my memory green — that I may, at the least, 
 be grateful. . . . Honesty must never guess my 
 pain — pity is not akin to the love I wish her 
 
Honesty's Garden 3 J 7 
 
 to know. Like the poor folk, I too must make 
 both ends meet outwardly — must seem the same, 
 must hide, even from myself, all that I feel. 
 After all, I shall not be much more alone than 
 before. 
 
 False, false! I have not been alone — until 
 to-night. Until to-night I have always had my 
 dreams. 
 
CHAPTEE XXXII 
 
 I have drawn up a deed of gift by which 
 the Home will be restored to its rightful owner. 
 The Haven will go to those others — poor wee 
 mites, it will be a quiet happiness to me to 
 know that, at last, I have been of some use. I 
 shall take my books and my treasures to a small 
 flat in London ; and shall then work hard 
 
 Not to forget. I do not want to forget. All 
 the best of one dies when one forgets. 
 
 In my mind I have planned this: that the 
 Haven shall become the Play House for Little 
 Cripples, even as that good fellow the vicar of 
 Carbridge desires. I shall arrange terms not 
 too onerous, and shall give what I can — only 
 stipulating that, since the Play House will need 
 a matron, I shall be allowed to make the first 
 nomination. 
 
 So, if Honesty will go back to her garden 
 she will find employment at her gate. 
 
 I should like Billy to help Honesty keep 
 house, until the Only Prince shall appear. 
 
 But I cannot part with Jones. I have tried 
 318 
 
Honesty's Garden 3*9 
 
 hard to make myself add Jones to the Home in 
 conjunction with Billy. It cannot be done. She 
 must come to London with me, and housekeep 
 yet. I will even welcome Keedels. 
 
 Because, whilst I have Jones, I have some 
 excuse for still keeping in touch with Carbridge. 
 She has her interests there, and will want to 
 call at the Home sometimes. 
 
 Ah, how we hug our hopes! In that respect 
 we are very frail. I own it. I hope — against 
 hope. It seemed to me that there was some- 
 thing more than gratitude that day when 
 Honesty came to me. 
 
 Her letter I have answered. How, I cannot 
 remember. 
 
 Also, Carruthers had to be faced ; for the new 
 editor and sub-editor take their posts at once 
 on the Colosseum. They are keen, shrewd men 
 — so far I can judge, and one hails from New 
 York City. His methods (to me) appear par- 
 alysingly upheaving. However, we shall see 
 what we shall see. 
 
 The directors were extremely polite; trust 
 that I would still continue a contributor — and 
 granted me six months' salary in lieu of notice. 
 They further offered to buy, at a trifle over 
 present value, such of my shares in the 
 Colosseum, Ltd., as I might care to sell. 
 
 This offer remains open for a month, and I 
 
320 Honesty's Garden 
 
 shall consider it carefully. The New York City 
 gentleman rather inspires me to accept. I am 
 not fond of earthquakes, and have an inward 
 conviction that the directors are making a big 
 mistake. 
 
 They 're getting rid of me, for instance. 
 
 They have all been very worrying — these busi- 
 ness bothers. But they have served to distract 
 my thoughts. 
 
 • •••••• 
 
 A characteristic note from Gatherway this 
 morning. Can't you imagine friend Gatherway 
 writing this: 
 
 " Dear Swift : I hear you 're making a 
 change, and so likely to be able to consider a 
 notion of mine. Why shouldn't I have a Lon- 
 don branch of my business? Affairs are cer- 
 tainly flourishing, and we may as well take 'em 
 at the flood. I should n't pay you ten thousand 
 a year for taking down the London shutters, 
 and sorting the mail bag; but if you can con- 
 ceive some other arrangement to our mutual ad- 
 vantage, please let me hear. By the way I wish 
 you to act as best man for me — presently. 
 You 're not married, are you? 
 
 " Yours, etc., 
 " Gatherway, Edinburgh." 
 
Honesty's Garden 3 21 
 
 He signs just as though he were a peer, or a 
 bishop. No initial, and " Edinburgh " scribbled 
 after his name just as if it belonged to him. 
 But it 's a heartening letter, coming at this 
 juncture. 
 
 Almost following it, behold the motor-car and 
 the Aunt Sophie squadron! I rushed hatless 
 and astonished, into the garden and my aunt's 
 outstretched arms. " Thank goodness, Mortimer, 
 we 're not too late ! " 
 
 " What for? " I wondered, audibly. 
 
 "Your Uncle Duveen couldn't sleep all 
 night for thinking of you. My dear boy, it 's 
 scandalous and disgraceful — and what I ex- 
 pected! We only heard the news yesterday: 
 of course, you '11 bring an action against 
 them?" 
 
 " I will — when you tell me who they are and 
 what they 've done." 
 
 Eva put in her word, " I think it so brave of 
 you, Cousin Mortimer; so awfully brave. We 
 are so indignant. Kit said that Mr. Gatherway 
 was in a frightful rage about it. He's coming 
 up to London this very week." 
 
 " To see me? " I asked, beginning to fit the 
 puzzle together. What an impulsive ass 
 
 It was rude of me to think of Gatherway like 
 that. He means it for the best; but I can't 
 allow him to sweep up the Colosseum. I have n't 
 
322 Honesty's Garden 
 
 settled what to do with those shares of mine 
 yet. If I sell them, Gatherway can do his worst. 
 I shall rather enjoy the spectacle; especially 
 if Edinburgh proves obnoxious to New York 
 City 
 
 That 's uncharitable, and revengeful. But 
 Aunt Sophie having despatched the weedy youth 
 to my kitchen, leads me back indoors to my 
 half-finished breakfast. Eva remains in the 
 garden, ostensibly to watch the motor. My 
 mirror shows me, later on, that Baillie has 
 paused at the gate. 
 
 My worthy aunt desires to know All About 
 It. I hasten to explain that the directors have 
 deemed it expedient to experiment with the 
 Colosseum on American-Irish lines; that they 
 are quite within their rights, legally and morally, 
 in doing so. As long as they enjoy the con- 
 fidence of the shareholders. 
 
 "But do they, Mortimer? Aren't you a 
 shareholder? Can't you turn them all out? " 
 
 " With the assistance and concurrence of the 
 hundred-odd other shareholders, no doubt I 
 could turn them all out," I assure her. 
 
 " Then w T hy not do it? I would fling them 
 all into the middle of the road " 
 
 "What's the matter with the gutter?" asks 
 Eva, suddenly appearing in the doorway. She 
 is slightly flushed, but still most refreshingly 
 
Honesty's Garden 323 
 
 slangy. " Would n't the gutter be handier — 
 and less of a fag? " 
 
 Behind her we observe Baillie. He smiles 
 deprecatingly. " I thocht I would gie ye a peep, 
 Swift," he announces. " But, mayhap, ye will 
 not be for London this day? " 
 
 " I shan't go up until the ten-thirty," I inform 
 him. 
 
 Aunt Sophie paralyses the unfortunate Jock. 
 " Good-morning, Mr. Baillie ; this is a delight- 
 ful surprise ! I imagined you would be in town 
 long before we could get down to Carbridge. 
 My husband still has to breakfast at eight — 
 every morning of his life. But, of course, he 
 is n't a millionaire." 
 
 " Father never starts till after nine," remarks 
 the irrepressible Eva, " and even then we don't 
 know that he goes straight to the office. How- 
 ever, if Cousin Mortimer does n't propose earn- 
 ing his daily bread until the ten-thirty, possibly 
 he would like to escort you, mother mine? You 
 must have a lot to talk over; and I should only 
 be more in the way than usual." 
 
 " I will look after you, aunt, with pleasure," 
 I say, forthwith. 
 
 "Love to all, then," Eva interrupts me, im- 
 mediately preparing to leave us. She glances 
 at Baillie as she speaks. Her observation evi- 
 dently includes him, although not in a valedic- 
 
324 Honesty's Garden 
 
 tory sense. " Could I drop you anywhere? At 
 the station, I mean? Mother evidently desires 
 me to rip the motor home — all by my own little 
 self." 
 
 " I don't think — " begins Aunt Sophie. But 
 Eva and Jock have already departed. We hear 
 the motor toot-tooting loudly for the gardener's 
 son, who rushes down the garden with his mouth 
 pretty obviously full of breakfast. The trio em- 
 bark, furiously heralding the fact — then whirl 
 away in a highly aromatic cloud of dust. 
 
 " You must tell me everything, Mortimer," 
 says my aunt, returning to her seat. " First of 
 all, give me a cup of tea — if it is n't quite cold ; 
 then light your pipe, sit down, and begin abso- 
 lutely at the beginning." 
 
 " There is little to tell — beyond the bare fact 
 of my retirement from the Colosseum. That 
 will take place almost directly. Gatherway 
 offers me another billet — but you don't believe 
 in Gatherway, do you? " 
 
 " I invariably believe in success, Mortimer. 
 That proves a man, to my mind. Proves him, 
 and improves him." 
 
 I make a gesture of dissent. My aunt is em- 
 phatic. " Success is the hall-mark which shows 
 that you are dealing with sterling metal. In 
 these days, my dear Mortimer, any one — literally 
 any one — can be clever. There 's nothing in it. 
 
Honesty's Garden 3 2 5 
 
 Free education is provided, free breakfast — 
 really, this tea of yours is shockingly inferior — • 
 raw material is fashioned into brains at no cost 
 at all to the individual. With a result that the 
 average person of to-day is considerably above 
 the standard of our grandfather's generation. 
 My maid can play the piano, and write a menu. 
 My gardener can hoe a row of potatoes, or take 
 off a Michelin tire without swearing. My cook 
 is simply a mass of palpitating intelligence. 
 I am positively afraid of her." 
 
 Aunt Sophie pauses, collects herself. She 
 continues, " Yes, Mortimer, education is the 
 curse of the age. All the young men have mi- 
 grated to the towns ; all of them have become too 
 superior to be anything lower than a clerk; the 
 country is neglected and starving — very much 
 like your poor aunt. I '11 have just the wee-est 
 slice of that ham, it looks very good." 
 
 " Jones shall make you some fresh tea," I 
 say, and ring the bell. 
 
 When we are alone again the lecture is re- 
 sumed. " There 's Jones, now. I expect she 
 will be leaving you one of these fine days. There 
 are no servants in England, Mortimer. They 're 
 all of them young ladies. Lady-companions, 
 lady-helps, typists, waitresses: anything to get 
 their evenings free, and be misses " 
 
 " And Mrs.," I suggest. 
 
326 Honesty's Garden 
 
 " If they can. And they 're clever enough 
 even for that. A woman who can catch a man 
 in these hard times deserves her friend's con- 
 gratulations. That 's success, Mortimer. Which 
 brings me back to Mr. Gatherway. I originally 
 misunderstood him. There you are. I admit 
 it. Now, I understand — and appreciate him. 
 While you have been dreaming he has secured 
 the prize." 
 
 " Do you think I could have won it? Her, 
 I mean? " 
 
 " Did you try? " retorts my aunt. " Mortimer, 
 you 're incorrigible ! Why will you persist in 
 dreaming? When will you awake? " 
 
 " When all the busy people are asleep, I ex- 
 pect. So look out ! " I shook my finger at her. 
 " My dear aunt, allow me to ask you a riddle 
 — in return for the conundrum with which you 
 have just posed me. What is happiness? " 
 
 " To love, and be beloved." 
 
 " Exactly." I rose, came to her side, and 
 kissed her gently on the forehead. " That 's 
 the kind of success I want," I told her. 
 
 Aunt Sophie was quiet — for almost two 
 seconds. Then : " That 's very pretty, even if 
 it's not very practical," she decided. " I suppose 
 it is also a hint that I 'm not to ask any more 
 questions. Mortimer, I desire you to know it 
 is your uncle's wish — and my own — that, in the 
 
Honesty's Garden 327 
 
 event of your being in any difficulty " — she hesi- 
 tated. " My dear, dear boy, you will bring your 
 troubles to us, won't you? We regard you as 
 a son ; and, indeed, we are very anxious." 
 
 " Thank you, dear," I said, kissing her again. 
 " You are answering my riddle in full." 
 • •••••• 
 
 I wasn't sorry to get back home again to- 
 night. Everything is virtually cleared up at the 
 Colosseum, I have said " good-bye " to Carr: 
 A kind-hearted, sympathetic lad, that. 
 
 My dinner seemed unusually lonely. Some- 
 how or other, I did n't feel very cheerful. I 
 know things are for the best; that they happen 
 that way. Does life teach anything else, I 
 wonder? It seems to me that one has to wait 
 a long time — to gain very little. 
 
 Jones appeared depressed; but it's the fall 
 of the year. The Undertaker had called during 
 my absence; and he generally contrives to en- 
 viron gloom. The plans for the Play House 
 progress, however. Presently, I shall have to 
 see about the appointment of matron. The pro- 
 moters of the scheme will agree to leave me that 
 duty. 
 
 In clearing away the dinner Jones raised a 
 small discussion — in her usual style. " We had 
 visitors early to-day," she remarked. " They 
 ketched me in my cottons," 
 
328 Honesty's Garden 
 
 " Mrs. Duveen was very severe on our tea," I 
 said, preparing to fill my pipe. " By the way, 
 Jones, where do we get our tea? " 
 
 "Hoy's done the last lot, sir. I generally 
 goes to the Colonial for it. But they're so in- 
 dependent like, they won't leave it without the 
 money. I was that vexed the other day — I 
 had n't got no change, and the boy he would n't 
 leave nothing. So I told him straight that we 'd 
 go somewhere else. Aggravating imperence." 
 
 " It 's their system, I believe. It was n't the 
 boy's fault." 
 
 "They ought to know where their money's 
 all right, and where it isn't," argued Jones. 
 " They 've served us for ever so long. I don't 
 care for Hoy, either. He thinks too much of 
 hisself." 
 
 " I don't much care for his tea," I confessed. 
 
 " So dear, too. He knows how to charge, that 
 there Hoy. I told his young man what I 
 thought of him." Jones remained, hovering. 
 " Did you know it was raining, sir? " 
 
 I expressed surprise. 
 
 " Ever so hard," continued Jones, more cheer- 
 fully, " Keedels had to stay in. He don't like 
 that." 
 
 She fidgeted with her apron. " Mrs. Duveen 
 was rather in a way, was n't she, sir? " 
 
 " She was n't in my way," I joked, feebly. 
 
Honesty's Garden 3 2 9 
 
 Jones did not respond suitably. Instead, she 
 went on in a more than ever Jonesian manner: 
 " I hope you will excuse the liberty, sir, but I 
 been thinking Mrs. Duveen brought you bad 
 news, sir. I 'm sure I trust you '11 forgive the 
 liberty." 
 
 " Mrs. Duveen did n't bring me any bad news, 
 Jones " 
 
 " Then it was here before she come," inter- 
 posed my faithful old friend. " I know it 's no 
 business of mine — and yet it is, in a sort of 
 fashion. It's been in the air like, all day long; 
 and all the last week. I knowed it direckly I 
 heard you was going to leave the Haven." She 
 turned her back upon me, and resolutely fell to 
 dusting the Adam sideboard with her apron. 
 " In course, it is a liberty, put it how you will, 
 and I 'm sure I humbly begs your pardon, sir. 
 But I wanted to say that it won't make no dif- 
 ference to me, if you '11 only let me stay on. 
 A good home and a kind home is worth every- 
 thing" 
 
 " My dear girl — " I began, dumbfounded. She 
 turned round at once; and, for a moment, her 
 eyes challenged mine. " I ain't going to go, so 
 there ! " she cried, literally. " I won't go. And 
 if you 've lost all your money, I '11 work for 
 n-n-nothing! It would fair break my heart." 
 Her apron went up to her eyes, and she burst 
 
330 Honesty's Garden 
 
 into a storm of weeping. " There 's that — there 
 cat — too. He 's all I got — to love — in the world. 
 He 's all I got. I could n't — leave him." 
 
 " You shan't," I said, firmly. " I have n't lost 
 quite all my money. I 'm certain there will be 
 enough; for myself, for you — and a little over 
 for Keedels. Now, don't be a silly girl. It's 
 ridiculous of you to go on like this. I can't 
 imagine what can have put such nonsensical 
 ideas into your head. Listen ; some one 's at the 
 door. Kun along into the kitchen, I '11 go my- 
 self. I 'm sure I 'm much obliged to you, Jones : 
 the place would n't be home without you — and 
 Keedels. We must n't forget Keedles ! " 
 
CHAPTER XXXIII 
 
 Blank astonishment, giving way to alarm, 
 when at length I opened the front door. I be- 
 held, forlorn and dripping, the small but valiant 
 Billy. 
 
 As I exclaimed, she hopped on to the doormat. 
 She shook herself like a soused bird, and hopped 
 again. " I had to come myself because there 
 wasn't any other way," she remarked breath- 
 lessly. " I nearly got lost I did. Oo — don't it 
 rain." 
 
 She leaned against the open hall-door, stork- 
 like, still on one leg. " You don't seem very 
 glad to see me." 
 
 I put out my hand, with some welcome on my 
 lips. I was stricken dumb with concern for 
 this naughty imp, and my mind was working in 
 every direction to guess what had prompted this 
 utterly unlooked-for visit. Next instant present 
 things sent surmise to the winds. My little 
 stork had ventured to put both legs to the 
 ground. 
 
 331 
 
332 Honesty's Garden 
 
 I managed to catch her; she fell with agonised 
 whimperings into my arms, continued until I 
 had carried her, helter-skelter, to my den. As 
 I laid her on the couch she gave a tiny gasp, as 
 if of relief; then became ominously quiet. Jones 
 came rushing to the rescue, in answer to my 
 frantic call. 
 
 " It 's her foot, I expect. Quick ! off with her 
 boots. I expect her ankle has got twisted. No, 
 I '11 do it. Eun for the doctor. Quick as you 
 can." 
 
 Jones, all alert now, and quite her useful self 
 again, left me with Billy. I whipped off the 
 child's boots (those dreadful old ones again, I 
 noticed), and made some attempt to bring her 
 round. She had fainted in dead earnest. 
 
 I managed to force a little brandy between 
 her cold lips, and pillowed her into some seem- 
 ing of comfort. Then sharp application of cold 
 water upon her forehead suddenly restored ani- 
 mation. She gasped once, twice, and decided to 
 go on with the business of life. 
 
 Her feet were icy, but I knew a natural magic 
 for making them warm. I drew away her stock- 
 ings from under her convulsive little toes, then 
 chafed each frozen foot cleverly between my 
 hands as I knelt beside her. " Oo — that 's nice," 
 she sighed. 
 
 " Any pain, Billy? " 
 
Honesty's Garden 333 
 
 " Not now. It was when I put my foot down. 
 I could n't keep hopping — " She closed her eyes. 
 " I do feel so sleepy, I do." 
 
 " Go to sleep then. I '11 watch over you. 
 Are you sure you have n't hurt yourself? " 
 
 " My leg 's bad when I move. I '11 be all right 
 in a minute I will. Where 's that girl of yours? 
 She has n't gone for no doctors? " 
 
 " Of course not ! Let me get this wet hat off 
 your head. There, that 's better. What beauti- 
 ful hair you have, Billy." 
 
 " I don't always keep it in a pig-tail, you 
 know. I 'm getting too old." She wriggled into 
 a sitting posture. " I had to come myself you 
 know because she was crying so. It fair gave 
 me the horrors to hear her last night." 
 
 " Honesty? " 
 
 " Miss D. It woke me up. It was in the 
 middle of the night when everything was dark. 
 I wasn't frightened of that landing. I just 
 creeped out and into her bed. She thought I 
 was a ghost she did." 
 
 " Why was she crying? Did she tell you? " 
 (My heart was thumping strangely, strangely.) 
 
 " I did n't want her to tell me. It was all 
 my fault. I knew why she was crying. Don't 
 you? " 
 
 " I can guess, perhaps." 
 
 " No, you can't. You don't never guess right. 
 
334 Honesty's Garden 
 
 She was crying because I told her a lot of lies. 
 Orful lies." 
 
 " Why did you tell her lies, Billy? " 
 
 " Why do I ever do mean wicked things? 
 Because I 'm a beast that 's why. A nasty ugly 
 little beast." 
 
 I made her lie down again. " Never mind. 
 I don't think you a beast; and you are certainly 
 not ugly. Not with that beautiful hair." 
 
 " It 's all very well to talk," she snapped. 
 " That 's the worst of you. You say so many 
 nice things that folk believes you. I don't believe 
 you. There ! " 
 
 " I 'm prepared to admit you 're little, my 
 dear. It was only the ugly and the other things 
 that I questioned. Will that pacify you? " 
 
 " Wait till you hear the lies I told. Oo — I 
 did let myself go! Because I see how it was 
 going to be. From the first I see it. So I did 
 my best, and I did my worst. I said you did n't 
 really care a bit. Not in the right style, I said. 
 Only because you were kind-hearted, and could 
 see she had fallen in love with you " 
 
 "Billy!" 
 
 " Yes I did. And worse ! And worse ! I said 
 you bought her house to sell it to Mr. Baillie; 
 him what you always kept trying to shove in 
 her way. I said no man what really truly loved 
 a girl would even pretend to want another man 
 
Honesty's Garden 335 
 
 to have her. So it was plain you did n't love 
 her at all." Billy writhed in my arms and would 
 not keep still. "Now aren't I a beast?" 
 
 " She did n't believe it," I said, softly. " She 
 wouldn't misunderstand me like that." 
 
 " Perhaps she did n't believe it, right down 
 deep, but on the top she had to. Girls don't like 
 a man to be gentle and — molly-coddling like 
 you are sometimes. They like adventures and 
 fighting." 
 
 " That 's because you like adventures." My 
 heart was quieter. I knew now. I was blind 
 no longer. 
 
 "And then when it wasn't any use that 
 Baillie — Oo — I hate him worse than I hate you." 
 
 " You don't hate me, Billy." 
 
 " I do, I do ! You 're going to take her from 
 me you are. After all I done." 
 
 " I won't part you, my dear. It would be 
 sorry work parting true friends." 
 
 " That 's what you say now." She fixed me 
 with another, fiercer question. " Did n't you 
 ask her just because Mr. Baillie would n't? " 
 
 " You told Honesty that? * 
 
 " Now you 're angry you are. Why don't you 
 hit me? I want you to hit me. That 's why I 
 came down all through the rain. I got to be 
 what-d'you-call-'em, and clap my hands and 
 make it all come right, now that I nearly made 
 
336 Honesty's Garden 
 
 it all come wrong. She cried so she did. She 
 did n't want to believe what I said." 
 
 "And she didn't believe, Billy. Not right 
 down deep." 
 
 " She wrote that letter ! That was to see what 
 you 'd do. I know. She won't own it ; but us 
 girls are all alike. We want telling and telling 
 over and over again ; and yet it don't seem true. 
 Because it 's too wonderful to be true. Do you 
 feel like that? " 
 
 I looked steadfastly into those bright, eager 
 eyes, unclouded for the instant by any thought 
 of self. " I love her with all my heart and all 
 my soul, Billy. I dare not even let God know 
 how much I love her. I would sacrifice every- 
 thing that she might be happy. How can I be 
 so vain as to think that my happiness will be 
 hers as well? " 
 
 " You ought to know it would," said she mis- 
 erably. " You ought n't to want no one to tell 
 you." 
 
 In my heart was that peace which passeth all 
 understanding. I think that the child knew it, 
 and the fires of her jealousy flamed upward 
 again. " You don't deserve her you don't. I 
 wonder what she can see in you. You 're old 
 you are." 
 
 I suppose I smiled at this. Her face grew 
 pinched, and her expression was not pretty. 
 
Honesty's Garden 337 
 
 Then she softened again, and put out her arms 
 to me. " I — hate you," she whimpered. " From 
 the first I told you I did." 
 
 " Never mind all that," I murmured sooth- 
 ingly. " Forget it, Billy. We 're friends again, 
 all of us. That 's the great thing." 
 
 " I have n't told you all. There was a letter. 
 You will hate me now." 
 
 " You have brought me such good news, Billy, 
 that I can forgive anything." 
 
 " You wait. There was a letter addressed to 
 Mr. Mortimer S " 
 
 " I know. It got burnt." 
 
 " Yes it got burnt." She closed her eyes reso- 
 lutely, and remained unresponsive in my arms. 
 " I— burnt it." 
 
 " You? " 
 
 " Because I hated you even then. She used 
 to talk about you. So I burnt the old letter 
 after she wrote it. I did it quite secret." 
 
 " And Honesty thought I had had it? " 
 
 " I suppose so. I wanted her to think you 
 did n't care. So I said I 'd post it ; and she give 
 it me. And I kept it till she was gone. Then 
 I just chucked it in the fire." 
 
 " Does Honesty still think I had her letter, 
 Billy? " 
 
 " Now you 're wild ! I don't care. Yes, she 
 does." 
 
338 Honesty's Garden 
 
 " You must tell her- 
 
 " I shan't. I won't ! If you tell her I '11 kill 
 you." 
 
 " It 's only fair, Billy. You must tell her." 
 She opened her eyes and glared defiantly into 
 mine. Her glance wavered, tears trembled in it. 
 " You tell her, Mortimer," she whispered, chok- 
 ingly. " And Mortimer, dear — don't let her hate 
 me. Because I love her too. I do love her, so 
 much, so much." 
 
 Can you see me hurrying through the rain, 
 and not knowing that it rained at all? Would 
 you not have wished for the wings of Icarus; 
 and would you not have flown instantly towards 
 the sun also? 
 
 Ah, well-named little mean street! Paradise 
 was waiting for me there, behind those stunted, 
 sturdy, leafless poplars. I cannot tell you all 
 that I said, all that happened. Only I know 
 that at last I said the right thing; that heart 
 spoke to heart; that there was no shadow be- 
 tween us. So long as we live no shadow shall 
 come between us. 
 
 There are some matters quite sacred. They 
 must stay for ever in that holy of all holies, 
 for each of us alone to know. Such a wonder- 
 ful secret as mine comes but once in a life ; but, 
 having come, remains until the end. It is this 
 
Honesty's Garden 339 
 
 that is the better part of us; the part which 
 is divine. 
 
 As magic, the rain had ceased. The night 
 was calm; there were stars. We found Billy 
 sleeping happily in the arms of my patient 
 and faithful Jones. Upon the hearthrug was 
 Keedels, purring before the clear heat of an un- 
 usual fire. Whilst the mother knelt by her 
 child, Honesty and I stood apart. 
 
 Billy stirred, awoke. She hugged her mother 
 close, then espied us. Honesty came to her ; but 
 Billy slipped out of the loving arms which sought 
 to pinion her, and showed that she was unhurt 
 by reaching Honesty in two amazing hops, and 
 one little skip. 
 
 " The doctor he says there is n't nothing the 
 matter and my leg isn't broke again so there. 
 You ask him." Billy's sweeping gestures impli- 
 cated me. " He would n't go to fetch you until 
 the old doctor had been he is a worry that Mor- 
 timer. I just got to stay here for a week — and 
 so has she." Honesty was not permitted even 
 to expostulate at this. " He can go back home 
 with mother presently and tell father I 'm all 
 right." 
 
 No one venturing to offer an amendment 
 caused Billy to suggest one herself : " Perhaps 
 I had n't better stay quite a week in case father 
 wants me. But she must stay because it '11 do 
 
340 Honesty's Garden 
 
 her good. Mortimer wants you to help him 
 move," she explained, as an after-thought; and 
 I guessed Jones had been talking. 
 
 It seemed a good plan that Billy should stay 
 at the Haven. Indeed, we did not quite see 
 how we could safely convey her home. She was 
 formally consigned to Jones, therefore, so soon 
 as she had again fallen asleep ; and Honesty and 
 I went back to Paradise (need I write street? 
 It was Paradise to me in brief!) to bear the 
 latest news to Mr. Jolliman. Mrs. Jolliman had 
 a natural desire to stay with Billy, if this could 
 be arranged, for the night at least; and we were 
 her ambassadors to her lawful (and awful) lord. 
 
 It was one of his early departure weeks; and, 
 in any case, he would have to leave Clapham at 
 three in the morning. It was the ten o'clock 
 up-train which we contrived to catch; so that 
 there was not much in it, one way or the other. 
 
 We managed to secure a compartment in the 
 train to ourselves. At least, I managed it. 
 Credit should be given where credit is due. I 
 ventured to produce, from between the leaves of 
 my pocket-book, a much-pressed, queer little one- 
 time flower — a columbine. " That 's for re- 
 membrance," I told Honesty. 
 
 Her fingers had been in mine, but now she 
 drew them away — to find her purse. She opened 
 it. " I must pay you — in kind," she whispered, 
 
Honesty's Garden 341 
 
 softly. " That is the only way I can ever repay 
 you." 
 
 There was an inner compartment to the purse, 
 with another fastening. A place to store gold 
 — and other precious matters. If one has no 
 gold, one may still have treasures. Don't you 
 admit that? 
 
 Honesty had no greater treasure than a with- 
 ered sprig of white heather — at least, so she said. 
 I was very fain to believe her. " That 's for 
 luck," she averred. " The best possible good 
 luck in the world." 
 
 Other memories came before us at sight of 
 that faded white heather. Have I not said that 
 most beautiful things are sad? Sorrow is with 
 us always; and this is only right. We touch the 
 keys of joy, but the black notes are there, too; 
 and without them how can we expect to evoke 
 the more exquisite melodies? 
 
CHAPTER XXXIV 
 
 Have you ever moved? If you have you will 
 readily believe with me that a life can be lived 
 in a single day ! I positively had not the slight- 
 est notion that moving was such a business. 
 Although it must be six — seven months ago, the 
 memory of that great upheaval is still a pang. 
 
 The Undertaker deceived me altogether. He 
 declared, solemnly I do assure you, that Messrs. 
 Wright and Co. could recommend a firm who 
 would move us " in a jiffy." The Undertaker 
 vowed that I should n't even suspect I was mov- 
 ing. He covenanted that we should be trans- 
 lated from the Haven to the Home practically 
 before we could turn round. The charge, he 
 was encouraged to imagine, would be almost 
 nominal 
 
 When I say from the Haven to the Home, I 
 am not strictly in order, because the Haven has 
 moved with us. In fact, it went first. 
 
 A certain young lady, having some leisure 
 from her duties as typist in general to a certain 
 gifted author, painted out (with the assistance 
 
 342 
 
Honesty's Garden 343 
 
 of the Undertaker aforesaid) the inscription on 
 one gate, and I screwed it in (in brass letters) 
 on the other. 
 
 We went to Devon, of course. To Lynmouth, 
 equally of course. Did n't I say I could n't go 
 anywhere else for a honeymoon? Especially in 
 springtime, when trout fishing has just begun ! 
 
 It was a lover and his lass — a lover not half 
 good enough, if you will — who hand in hand 
 climbed the path to Watersmeet, and onward to 
 Brendon ; who gathered those first sweet violets 
 and golden primroses, while timid ferns were 
 stretching fragile fronds upward — to find out if 
 the sun were really awake at last. A lover no 
 longer old, if you please; whose round shoul- 
 ders were making desperate and not altogether 
 unsuccessful efforts to square themselves — be- 
 cause the lover was so very proud of his lass; 
 so conceited and vain of his wonderful good 
 fortune. 
 
 The trees were tenderly green. Even the oaks 
 had ventured to peep forth at the happiness of 
 those two curious beings who walked so quietly 
 beneath them. When hearts are full they speak 
 without words. 
 
 I was Gatherway's best man; Jock was 
 mine. He and Eva have to wait a while. Uncle 
 Duveen has decreed it, and not all the king's 
 horses — nor our Aunt Sophie's — can displace 
 
344 Honesty's Garden 
 
 Uncle Duveen, ooce lie puts his foot down. It 's 
 so large — and so gouty, that 's why — says Eva. 
 
 The late Haven has developed into the play 
 house for those poor little ones. Honesty could 
 not be matron, after all. There was no urgent 
 reason why she should neglect the new Haven 
 — formerly the Home — and myself. I found I 
 could n't spare Honesty — not even for a minute. 
 
 Billy, once again sound of wind and limb, is 
 Play Mistress in Chief at the Play House, and 
 seems likely to become as invaluable to the es- 
 tablishment as Jones must always be to the 
 Haven, new or old. I didn't care for the idea 
 of sharing Jones ; but, you see, it had to be done. 
 Diplomatically, it need scarcely be said. Jones 
 has to be handled cautiously. If she had n't 
 approved of Honesty, Honesty could n't have 
 become her mistress. There was the position, 
 in a nutshell. 
 
 Can you picture Honesty and me without 
 Jones? And Keedels? The imagination (my 
 own, at all events) reels at the bare thought. 
 Jones knows all my ways, my hours, my wants, 
 my likes — and my dislikes. She understands 
 my crotchets, and my little periodical bad 
 tempers. She knows how to dust my books ; and 
 can do it without tidily putting back those I 
 have taken from the shelves for easy reference. 
 
 You have been instructed before of this great 
 
Honesty's Garden 345 
 
 cardinal virtue in Jones; but you may not have 
 grasped the full beauty of it. Like the wise 
 thrush, I sing my story of Jones's astounding 
 abilities twice over, lest you should miss the 
 first fine careless rapture! 
 
 It is necessary that I should insist on Jones's 
 virtues, although at risk of boring you. I have 
 re-opened this magnum opus chiefly on account 
 of Jones. She is an old servant. What might 
 seem freedom of speech, and — well, presumption 
 — in another Jones must be allowed for. Allow- 
 ances are always worth while. 
 
 As I told my wife 
 
 I must have a look at that sentence. It has n't 
 occurred before on any one of these many pages. 
 I like it. It has a masterful ring about it. 
 There 's a true sense of property in the expres- 
 sion. And property is real estate. Ask my 
 venerable friend the Undertaker. 
 
 As I told my wife only a few moments ago 
 
 You will pardon me, won't you? How did 
 you feel on the initial occasion you committed 
 that phrase to cold black and white? Did n't it 
 appear to you that now you were a person of 
 huge international importance? It did. Very 
 well; forgive my vanity. 
 
 As I told Honesty a few moments ago, it is 
 far better to let Jones give Keedels an over- 
 supply of the daily milk, and rather more of the 
 
346 Honesty's Garden 
 
 herring than legitimately belongs to the " head," 
 than have an awkward, china-breaking, kitchen- 
 sweethearting young miss interloping at the 
 Haven. Jones might get dressed earlier in the 
 afternoon, of course; and her taste (or rather 
 the taste of her friends) in pictorial postcards 
 could easily be on a higher plane. But pray 
 observe the way Jones gets up in the morning; 
 remember how punctual are our meals; how 
 nicely cooked 
 
 " That is all you men think about," says a 
 voice from behind my desk-chair, and conse- 
 quently behind me. " I can tell you, Mortimer, 
 that that cat drinks " 
 
 " Which cat, my love? " 
 
 "If Jones heard you say that! However, if 
 you had to settle the weekly milk bill, you would 
 soon guess which cat! Go on with your writ- 
 ing; I didn't mean to interrupt you, only there 
 seemed so much about Jones " 
 
 " I 'm saving you for the last. You 're first 
 — and last — with me." 
 
 " I must be in between as well. I know this 
 isn't my hour; and that's exactly why I want 
 it. I notice that you commence this chapter by 
 asking your quite hypothetical readers whether 
 they have ever moved. You have given them no 
 chance of an answer, nor any explanation as to 
 why you propounded the question." 
 
Honesty's Garden 347 
 
 I wheeled round here to regard Honesty seri- 
 ously. " They say people become alike when 
 they 're married," I pronounced, magisterially. 
 " But I can't have you turning literary so soon. 
 There are too many women writers as it is. 
 Ask any man. A woman's place " 
 
 " Yes, dear, I know. Mending the socks and 
 making the puddings. Also her own dresses 
 (poor thing!), but Jones won't let me make 
 the puddings ; and that 's where it all begins. 
 Why can't I be allowed to make puddings, 
 Mortimer? " 
 
 " Let every one do the thing he (or she) does 
 best. You look very pretty to-night." 
 
 " In this old frock ! " Honesty appeared 
 amusedly unconvinced, although she must know 
 she is pretty. Very, very pretty. u That im- 
 plies I 'm hideous on other nights. Yes, it does. 
 You can't get out of it, so continue your writing 
 — at once. I only came into your den to ask 
 how you got on in town to-day ; and whether you 
 wish to have this utterly inappropriate legend 
 hung up again over the door? I found it in one 
 of the boxes of rubbish which had n't been turned 
 out since. the moving." 
 
 She exhibited the small narrow board which 
 formerly was fixed above the lintel of my old 
 den : " Pleased to see the world go by in all its 
 changing imagery." 
 
34 8 Honesty's Garden 
 
 " You 're not a bit like that now," Honesty 
 declared. " You 're — changed." 
 
 "For the better?" 
 
 " Ever so much for the better. You 're so 
 much more — strong, and confident You're al- 
 most fierce at times." 
 
 " My responsibilities make me fierce. I have 
 to bear the burden of Atlas. What with 
 Gatherway and his schemes " 
 
 " They 're successful." 
 
 " Entirely owning to me — Gatherway and his 
 schemes; the Play House; Jones and her cat; 
 Eva and young Baillie; the Alfred book " 
 
 " That 's in a second edition." 
 
 " Very properly so. The Alfred book ; the 
 Little Marvels; the fact that I have lost all my 
 valued possessions since we moved " 
 
 "Lost all?" 
 
 " Give me a kiss, and don't interrupt. I — I — 
 you make me fear I 'in too happy, sometimes — 
 because life levels up so. There, that 's a 
 thought in the minor key. We ought n't to 
 doubt. When you are near me I don't doubt. 
 You are the exception to prove the rule. But 
 it certainly is a funny thing I can't find that 
 copy of Herrick's Hesperides " } 
 
 " You had it in your pocket when we were at 
 Lynmouth. Don't you recollect reading it to 
 me that day we walked through Glenthorne? 
 
Honesty's Garden 349 
 
 We sat by one of the old gates, and you found 
 1 Love like a gipsy lately came and did me much 
 importune ' " 
 
 " ' To see my hand — that by the same He might 
 foretell my fortune/ You 're quite right ! I 
 did have Herrick then. He 's in the pocket of 
 my old Norfolk jacket ' He saw my palm; and 
 then said he ' — How does it go? " 
 
 Honesty whispered the rest. " ' I tell thee, 
 by this scar here, That thou within few months 
 shalt be The Youthful Prince d' Amour here.' " 
 She had my hand ; and she caught it to her heart. 
 
 But I was going to tell you how we moved. 
 You can expect us to have done the garden 
 moving, in October and November last year. 
 Honesty's garden will be as beautiful as ever 
 this summer. Come to Carbridge, and see for 
 yourself. 
 
 It was a showery day, and the wind was really 
 rather annoying. It had a way of whisking 
 papers out of one's hands — and I have a lot of 
 papers. These and my books had to be moved 
 by myself. I allowed them to help with the 
 heavy books. The Undertaker and Billy were 
 most useful. 
 
 My new den is jolly. Absolutely jolly. The 
 bookshelves are arranged all round three sides 
 of the room and stand about five feet high, ex- 
 
35° Honesty's Garden 
 
 cept by the fireplace, where they reach to the 
 frieze. All along the shelf which makes the top, 
 I have grouped my old brass candlesticks and 
 pots and pans; and an ancient lantern clock 
 (Cromwellian — I bought it last Christmas for 
 a joint preliminary wedding present to Honesty 
 and myself) ticks joyfully amid its bravely glit- 
 tering surroundings. I have a nice garnish of 
 pewter too, by itself, on the mantelpiece. Also 
 a comfortable window-seat ; and my small mirror 
 — which pictures still the comedy of love. 
 
 The " Adam " sideboard is in the parlour, and 
 carries the best china. Honesty has unearthed 
 some very nice pieces. Old Stafford, Shenton, 
 Coalbrookdale. They have all been duly iden- 
 tified in Ohaffers's. The drawing-room 
 
 Well, we don't call it a drawing-room, but 
 simply the best room. It sounds more countri- 
 fied and — homely. It 's in a French scheme, 
 Rose du Barri colouring throughout — walls, 
 drapery, carpet. 
 
 Louis XVIth gilt furniture. (Models, of 
 course. I 'm only a poor man!) A short rose- 
 wood grand piano; a rosewood cabinet — for my 
 one or two pieces of Dresden, and the Lowestoft 
 mugs, and the square-mark Worcester, and the 
 Nantgarw tea-service. Another window-seat. A 
 decorated Spanish mahogany round table 
 
 (This doesn't hurt the rosewood.) 
 
Honesty's Garden 35 1 
 
 You note, with my new-found arrogance, that 
 the personal pronoun predominates? My brass 
 candlesticks ; my Dresden ! Oar Dresden, of 
 course. It 's our everything. 
 
 The best room is really Honesty 's. She de- 
 signed it all. People say, directly they enter it, 
 " What a sweet room ! " They can't help them- 
 selves; the truth will out! 
 
 We own two grandfather clocks, and can thus 
 lay claim to be considered in Carbridge. A 
 warming pan lends distinction to the hall; and 
 warming-pans are the sign-royal in Carbridge. 
 No self-respecting cottage is without one. 
 
 Bless me, how happy I am ! Foolishly happy, 
 do you dare to suggest? I know I have more 
 than my deserts — but, who hasn't? 
 
 Be sure, I will not forget ... to walk humbly 
 in Honesty's Garden. 
 
 THE END 
 
Jl: Selection from the 
 Catalogue of 
 
 G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS 
 
 Complete Catalogues sent 
 on application 
 
ANNA KATHARINE GREEN'S 
 GREAT NEW NOVEL 
 
 THE HOUSE OF THE 
 WHISPERING PINES 
 
 This is one of the strongest and best detective 
 stories ever written, in which the popular au- 
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 culmination of her peculiar powers. 
 
 Imagine the situation! 
 A rambling old country house surrounded by 
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 the stairs and depart. Upstairs he finds her 
 sister, his fiancee, strangled. As he bends over 
 the lifeless body, enter the police, summoned by 
 a mysterious call. He is arrested. 
 
 Crown 8vo. $1.50 
 With Frontispiece in Color by Arthur /. Keller 
 
 New York Q. P. PUTNAM'S SONS London 
 
"No one who reads it can ever forget it." 
 
 Jilbany Times'Union. 
 
 POPPY 
 
 The Story of a South African Girl 
 By CyntHia StocKley 
 
 "Breezy freshness, strong masculinity, and 
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 St. Louis Post-Dispatch. 
 
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 " Extremely interesting — so much life, ardor, 
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 " Shows undoubted power." — N. Y. Times. 
 Second Printing 
 With Frontispiece. $1.35 net {$1.50 by mail) 
 
 NewYorK G. P. Putnam's Sons London 
 
Clever, original, entertaining, thrilling." 
 
 Cincinnati Times-Star. 
 
 The Master Girl 
 
 By Ashton Hilliers 
 
 Author of "As It Happened," etc. 
 
 A vivid story of prehistoric times, when the 
 wife-hunter prowled around the cave of the 
 savage woman he intended to appropriate. 
 Into this life of hard necessity, of physical 
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 more deeply rooted passions than they are 
 to-day. 
 
 " This tale of the Master Girl and her 
 amazing doings has only one fault. It is 
 
 too Short."— "New TorK Sun. 
 
 At all Booksellers. $1.25 net ($1.35 by mail) 
 
 New York Q. P. Putnam's Sons London 
 
Jin ideal love story 
 
 THE ROSARY 
 
 By Florence L. Barclay 
 
 "/~\NCE in a long while there appears 
 V-/ a story like The Rosary, in which 
 there is but one adventure, the love of the 
 two real persons superbly capable of love, 
 the sacrifices they make for it, the sor- 
 rows it brings them, the exceeding re- 
 ward. This can only be done by a 
 writer of feeling, of imagination, and of 
 the sincerest art. When it is done, some- 
 thing has been done that justifies the 
 publishing business, refreshes the heart 
 of the reviewer, strengthens faith in the 
 outcome of the great experiment of put- 
 ting humanity on earth. The Rosary 
 is a rare book, a source of genuine de- 
 light." — The Syracuse Post. 
 
 Crown 8vo, $135 Net ($1,50 by mail) 
 
 G. P. Putnam's Sons 
 
 New York London 
 

t.6 3246 
 
 269558 
 
 : » -; «< 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 
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