WORKS BY 
 ARCHIBALD MARSHALL 
 
 THE SQUIRES DAUGHTER 
 
 THE ELDEST SON 
 
 THE HONOUR OF THE CLINTONS 
 
 RANK AND RICHES 
 
 PETER BINNEY. UNDERGRADUATE 
 
 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES 
 
 RICHARD BALDOCK 
 
 EXTON MANOR 
 
 RODING RECTORY 
 
 WATERMEAD3 
 
 MANY JUNES 
 
 UPSIDONIA 
 
 ABINGTON ABBEY 
 
 THE GRAFTONS 
 
CLINTONS OF KENCOTE 
 
 Archibald Marshall has written four stories dealing 
 
 with the fortunes of the "Clintons of Kencote." 
 
 They are— 
 
 THE SQUIRE'S DAUGHTER 
 
 THE ELDEST SON 
 
 THE HONOUR OF THE CLINTONS 
 
 RANK AND RICHES 
 
¥ 
 
 ir 
 
 i 
 
 RANK AND 
 RICHES 
 
 By 
 
 ARCHIBALD MARSHALL 
 
 
 u 
 
 '■ 
 
 HODDER AND STOUGHTON 
 LIMITED LONDON 
 
 LT 
 
 J~ 
 
 XT 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 
 
 PACE 
 
 I. — Tme Sale ...... 13 
 
 II. — The Contest 
 
 
 
 • 25 
 
 III. — Little Kemsale 
 
 
 
 37 
 
 IV. —The Shooting Party . 
 
 
 
 47 
 
 V. — Armitage Brown 
 
 
 
 55 
 
 VI. — Hillgrove Towers 
 
 
 
 66 
 
 VII. — A Momentous Interview 
 
 
 
 ■ 75 
 
 VIII.— Barton's Farm . 
 
 
 
 S5 
 
 IX. — Garden Notes . 
 
 
 
 96 
 
 X. — The Heir Apparent . 
 
 
 
 106 
 
 XL — The Chancel Pew 
 
 
 
 116 
 
 XII. — More Garden Notes . 
 
 
 
 124 
 
 XIII. — The Voice of Kencote 
 
 
 
 135 
 
 XIV. — Sunday Morning 
 
 
 
 146 
 
 XV. — Sunday Afternoon . 
 
 
 
 156 
 
 XVI. — The Ice Broken 
 
 
 
 164 
 
 XVII. — Experiments 
 
 
 
 *75 
 
 XVIIL— Persuasion 
 
 
 
 187 
 
 XIX. — Kemsale Rectory 
 
 
 
 199 
 
 XX. — The Herons' Nest 
 
 
 
 209 
 
 XXI. — Recognition 
 
 
 
 217 
 
 XXII. — Having it Out . 
 
 
 
 226 
 
 XXIII. — Six Months later 
 
 
 
 • 237 
 
 XXIV.— A Country Walk 
 
 
 
 247 
 
 XXV. — A Difference of Principle 
 
 
 2 5 3 
 
 XXVI. — Father and Son v _ > 
 
 
 
 263 
 
•. / '.CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER .*. # 
 
 
 
 page 
 
 xxyiii4/fiJ£i^kT?ij^5/.\-..' . x . . 277 
 
 XXVIII. — More Festivities 
 
 
 
 . 286 
 
 XXIX. — The Old and the New 
 
 
 
 . 296 
 
 XXX. — Help in Trouble 
 
 
 
 . 307 
 
 XXXI. — An Engagement 
 
 
 
 ■ 3i4 
 
 XXXII. — The Syndicate . 
 
 
 
 . 323 
 
 XXXIII. — The End of a Dream 
 
 
 
 - 333 
 
 XXXIV.— The War .... 
 
 
 
 ■ 342 
 
 XXXV. — The Old is Better . 
 
 
 
 . 35i 
 
 XXXVI. — Those at Home . 
 
 
 
 . 363 
 
 XXXVII.— Farewells 
 
 
 
 i 374 
 
CHAPTER I 
 
 THE SALE 
 
 At first sight one would have thought that some sort of 
 fete was in progress. On the great stretch of level lawn 
 in front oi the house stood a white marquee, with flags 
 flapping at either end of it. The September sky was 
 brightly blue. It was just the day for a flower-show, or 
 a Primrose League festival, and just the place. 
 
 The house was one of those enormous country palaces 
 that make one wonder what sort of life those who built 
 them can have had in mind for themselves. It had the 
 dignity of size and proportion, but little beauty other- 
 wise. In front of it was about half an acre of gravel ; 
 in front of that a squared lawn of about an acre ; and in 
 front of that again, on a slightly lower level, and divided 
 from the lawn by a balustrade, was a formal garden of 
 a desolating ugliness, covering about two acres. The box- 
 edged beds were disposed in a vast and complicated pattern, 
 and each contained some plant chosen for the colour of 
 its leaves or flowers, and for its low and tidy habit of 
 growth. 
 
 With that two-acre carpet expensive ugliness ended 
 and beauty began. The open ground was flanked with 
 the graceful growth of huge beeches, through which the 
 carriage roads approached the house on either side. 
 Behind it the woods, now just beginning to show their 
 autumn variety of colour, rose in a wide amphitheatre, and 
 the white stone house with its many windows looked out 
 across the levelled ground on to a wide-sweeping expanse 
 of meadow and woodland, that ended only with a line of 
 low hills thirty miles away. 
 
 The great house not only of a parish but a county, 
 Kemsale had been accustomed to extend its amenities to 
 all sorts of festive and patriotic demands. The marquee 
 
 13 
 
ii Rank and Riches 
 
 was not hir^d for, such: occasions, but was kept until it 
 was wanted in one or another of the buildings* as exten- 
 sive as/a ^ji^.c'e: iha't^ixisled-for the service of the house. 
 Then : k was put up by' some of the small army of men 
 employed about the place, and after it had served its tem- 
 porary purpose taken down again, and the grass carefully 
 rolled and watered, so that its billiard-table smoothness 
 should not be marred by the least irregularity of 
 colour or surface. The lawn was not even used for 
 games, the ground for which was elsewhere. To keep 
 it and the gravel smooth, and to fill and tend the con- 
 torted beds of the carpet garden, so that at certain seasons 
 of the year, during the greater part of which the house 
 was shut up, its design should be coloured, occupied the 
 attention of many men. They lived by this work, and 
 those of them who had families fed and educated them 
 on the money they were paid for it. Some of them 
 occupied cottages on the estate, with little gardens of 
 their own, as unlike as possible to the one that they 
 laboured six days in the week to tend. So that the lawn 
 and the carpet of Kemsale may be said to have been 
 endowed with houses and land as well as with money. And 
 yet, of those who had paid the price of all this steady 
 labour, that had gone on for years and years, hardly one 
 had ever rested his gaze with pleasure on its results, 
 though many had done so on the lovely stretch of country 
 that lay below and beyond. It was kept up because it was 
 there, and had always been kept up. And the scores of 
 rooms in the great house, all richly or comfortably or 
 conveniently furnished, the greater number of which their 
 owners never visited, were also kept up, and endowed 
 again, as it were, with regular well-paid service, for the 
 sake of the few occasions in the year in which they were 
 filled or partly rilled with guests ; and because they were 
 part of the state attached to such a house as this. 
 
 But now, at last, on this bright September day, all the 
 complicated and expensive machinery that had been 
 kept oiled and wound up through generations was in 
 process of disintegration. The marquee on the lawn 
 indicated festivity, it is true, but as far as it concerned 
 the great house it was a festivity sadder than any mourn- 
 ing. Those who had eaten and drunk in it, and were 
 now spreading over the lawn and overflowing with admir- 
 ing comment into the untrodden walks of the carpet 
 
The Sale 15 
 
 garden, were the birds of prey that had settled upon 
 Kemsale. They had been invited to settle on it, and fed 
 and filled as a reward for doing so. They were to pick 
 it clean of all it contained, and leave it staring in its large 
 emptiness over the wide country of which it had been the 
 crown and centre, until some sort of machinery should be 
 put into it again, and it should reflect a life that might 
 in some respects resemble the old one, but could never 
 be quite the same. 
 
 Kemsale was being sold up — lock, stock, and barrel, as the 
 phrase goes. This was the third day in which luncheon had 
 been spread in the great marquee for the benefit of those 
 who had come from all over the country to bid for its 
 hoarded contents ; and the sale would last for three days 
 more, with increasing competition and excitement amongst 
 the buyers, as the catalogue worked slowly down from 
 the upper floors to the valuable " lots " from the lower. 
 
 The upper floors — even the great range of attics behind 
 the balustrade of the roof — had already yielded surprises 
 in plenty to the buyers, though few bargains ; lor this 
 sale had been too widely known and too eagerly anticipated 
 to serve the bargain-hunters. The house, as it stood, had 
 been furnished from roof to basement for over two hundred 
 3'ears, and the basis of its furnishing had been the contents 
 of a much older, though smaller, house, the place of which 
 it had taken. In the course of subsequent additions to its 
 stock of household gear, good things had receded from 
 places of honour, and taken up posts of retiring usefulness 
 instead. Sometimes they had been discarded altogether, 
 for no more than a reparable weakness, and relegated to 
 lumber rooms, until now the long years had brought them 
 to light again, more valuable in their partial destruction 
 than when they had left the hands of their makers, strong 
 and whole. Servants' bedrooms had yielded their scroll- 
 backed chairs, their mahogany tall-boys, toilet-mirrors, 
 brass fenders, and copper coal-scuttles, which had been 
 put into them new two hundred years before, as the ordinary 
 furniture of the time, and had come out old, to enter on a 
 new career as articles of price, fit for the best rooms of 
 other houses. From the broad corridors and hive of rooms 
 on the second floor — bachelors' rooms, nurseries, rooms of 
 ■dependents above the rank of servants — had come a rich 
 succession of treasures amongst the steady flow of old and 
 solid furniture. The engravings alone would have formed 
 
16 Rank and Riches 
 
 an embracing collection — mezzotints bought at the time of 
 their publication for a few guineas, kept, perhaps, in port- 
 folios for a time, then framed by the score and hung up 
 to decorate bare walls, and afterwards forgotten, now sell- 
 ing for scores and hundreds apiece ; etchings picked up by 
 some dilettante of the family making the Grand Tour, and 
 treated in the same way — Albrecht Diirers, Lucas Van 
 Leydens, Rembrandts, Marc Antonios amongst them ; deli- 
 cate prints in coloured stipple after eighteenth-century 
 artists who would have been forgotten but for the repro- 
 ductions of their work, now more valuable than the original 
 paintings — all these had been the normal yield, and their 
 total price had run up to many thousands, though the list 
 had been hurried through for the sake of richer treas- 
 ures still to come. There had been great store of old 
 china too, lotted and catalogued from these upper floors, 
 every piece of it of value, and some here and there of 
 great value ; old cut glass ; old clocks ; old inkstands and 
 tra}^s and writing-table toys ; old dressing-table sets ; old 
 carpets and rugs and curtains, faded and worn, but eagerly 
 bid for. Each room had become richer as the years had 
 passed, as more important rooms had been refurnished, 
 and their superseded contents moved up to the less im- 
 portant* The things from the upper floors alone would 
 have set up a dealer in antiquities for life, and filled his 
 shop to overflowing. 
 
 That is the light in which they were looked at by those 
 who competed so eagerly to possess them. They would 
 come to be scattered all over the country, and so scattered 
 would give infinitely more pleasure to their numerous 
 purchasers than they had given to their old owners. And 
 yet, in truth, as each was knocked down and its price 
 entered up by the busy auctioneer's clerk, virtue was 
 slowly and inexombly departing from these inanimate 
 things. They had come together through long years, filled 
 their natural place in the furnishing of a noble house, 
 given to each of its many rooms its own character. They 
 had had life, made up of old memories and associations, 
 and that life was dissolving. However carefully and lav- 
 ishly the house might be filled again, it could never have 
 the meaning that these things had given to it. 
 
 Now, on the third day of the sale, they were coming 
 down to the rooms of the first floor, and here there were 
 things to be sold more valuable than had been sold before, 
 
The Sale 17 
 
 and more bound up with the intimate lives of those who 
 had used them. A gong boomed out from the porch in 
 front of the house ; the figures that were spread out on 
 the lawn and in the garden came flowing towards it. 
 With well-fed alacrity they settled themselves behind the 
 long tables in the ball-room, while the auctioneer slipped 
 into his high seat under the musicians' gallery, and two 
 men in baize aprons brought in a large mirror which they 
 carried round the space left between the tables. 
 
 " Now then, gentlemen, we'll go on where we left off, 
 page twenty-five in the catalogue : From the Blue Boudoir, 
 Lot 494, Fine Gilt Chippendale Mirror. What offers ? 
 Oh, come now, I hope the good lunch you've enjoyed hasn't 
 blinded your eyes. This is a collector's piece, gentlemen. 
 Famous waterfall design, Chippendale's best period, and 
 not a scratch or a mark on it. Probably bought from the 
 maker himself, and been hanging here ever since. That's 
 better ; but let's take the business seriously, gentlemen. 
 We've got a lot to get through." 
 
 At this time a carnage was driving up the long road 
 through the woods that led from the east gates. The tall 
 bay horses trotted up the gentle slope that rose all the 
 way to the house as if it were level ground. The coach- 
 man and footman wore liveries of black cloth with dark 
 green facings. The whole equipage was well turned out, 
 in a sober but highly polished sort of way, as if in the 
 particular establishment to which it belonged fine horses 
 and easy carriages were the chosen means of conveyance, 
 and not an old-fashioned survival destined to give way 
 to motor-cars when they should be worn out. It belonged 
 to Edward Clinton, Squire of Kencote, ten miles away, 
 who had driven fine horses all his life, and up to his 
 present age of seventy-one had never ridden in a motor- 
 car, nor intended to. 
 
 He and Mrs. Clinton were in the carriage, and with 
 them was Lady Grace Ettien, the Squire's kinswoman, 
 who had been born in the house to which they were driving, 
 thirty years before, and lived in it the greater part of 
 her life. It was not a pleasant drive for any of the three 
 of them, in spite of the glory of the autumn woods and 
 the softness of the sun-soaked air. 
 
 Grace Ettien was a sw T eet-faced woman, tall and slender, 
 with features rather too much of the aquiline type for 
 beauty, but pleasant to look on for all that. She sat on 
 
is Rank and Riches 
 
 the back seat of the carriage. The Squire was recovering 
 from a sharp attack of rheumatism, or he would have 
 been driving his phaeton, as he still preferred to do when 
 he went abroad. He sat in his corner, his white beard 
 spreading over his buttoned-up shooting-cape, the skin 
 under his eyes a little loose, but his cheeks firm and fresh- 
 coloured still — a big, handsome old man, only a trifle out 
 of repair for the moment, and by no means yet to be 
 considered in his fit place leaning back against the cushions 
 of a carriage driven by a servant. Mrs. Clinton, although 
 her hair was as white as her husband's, looked a good deal 
 younger than he. Her face was fresh-coloured too, as 
 became a woman who had lived all her life in the country. 
 The Squire had been a stay-at-home since his youth, and 
 she had stayed at home with him, although at times she 
 would have preferred not always to stay at home. She 
 was rather short, and might have been considered dumpy, 
 but that she held herseif.erect, even sitting in her carriage, 
 and had a look of energy, both mental and physical. Her 
 face was round, and very kind. Just now, like that of 
 her husband, it showed deep concern. 
 
 They had been discussing the sale to which they were 
 driving, and certain of the circumstances that had led up 
 to it ; but the Squire, who did not consider that when a 
 thing had been said once it need not be said several times 
 more, now broke out again. 
 
 " Ton my word, Kemsale ought to be ashamed of him- 
 self. It makes my blood boil to come here and think of 
 what has happened and what is happening now. I shan't 
 come into the house, Grace. I don't think I could. To 
 think of what it used to be in your grandfather's time, 
 and now that going on in it ! There's only one word for 
 it : it's criminal. Criminal." 
 
 Kemsale was the title by which Lord Meadshire had 
 been known until he had succeeded his grandfather, ten 
 years or so before. He was known to his friends and 
 relations as " Kern," but the Squire was much too angry 
 with him to use any such abbreviation at present. 
 
 Grace Ettien leaned forward. " Poor Kem ! " she said. 
 " I know he feels it, Cousin Edward. If he is here, and 
 you see him, don't make it too hard for him." 
 
 " Feels it ! " snorted the Squire. " I should think he 
 did feel it. No man in his position has a right to behave 
 as he has done. When your grandfather was alive he was 
 
The Sale 19 
 
 the chief man in the county ; and his father and grand- 
 father before him. Actually — ten years ago — the owner 
 of Kemsale was Lord Lieutenant of Meadshire. And now 1 
 Kemsale sold up ! Sold up ! And the Marquis of Mead- 
 shire no better than a beggar. Pshaw ! It doesn't bear 
 thinking about." 
 
 He threw himself back in his corner of the carriage. 
 He had been talking like this during the best part of the 
 long drive, and as the horses were trotting up the last 
 rise that led to the house the two ladies may have hoped 
 that he had exhausted the subject, painful enough to 
 them, for the time being. But he still had something to 
 say, something that he had been searching for during 
 all his long repetitive tirades, that would sum up what 
 he felt about this startling disintegration, that would bring 
 it into the sphere of morals, and justify the deep-seated 
 dismay with which he regarded it. 
 
 " Kemsale has been using what doesn't belong to him," 
 he said, and his hearers knew that his words had a mean- 
 ing deeper than the literal. " Property in his position is 
 a trust, and he has broken it." 
 
 The carriage drew up before the porch, as it had drawn 
 up many times before, bringing its occupants to pleasant 
 private or semi-public gatherings very different from this 
 one. The two ladies alighted from it. The Squire 
 looked with pained disgust upon the litter in front of 
 the house, the vans and carts that were already beginning 
 to take things away, and the men who went to and fro, 
 with no respect for the sanctities attaching to such a place 
 as this, laughing and talking and smoking, as if the 
 downfall of a noble family were a mere incident in their 
 customary activities. The Squire had an impulse almost 
 of rage towards them ; these things were so very real and 
 so very important to him. He got out of the carriage, 
 assisted by the footman. " I can't sit still here," he said 
 angrily. " I shall walk about outside. If you want me, 
 I shan't be far off." 
 
 He went off, leaning on his stick, without further words, 
 and the two women, looking after him for a moment, turned 
 and went into the house. 
 
 With a frown at the marquee, in which eating and drinking 
 were still going on, the Squire made his way across the 
 lawn towards the carpet garden. He had no desire to 
 review that conventional hideosity, but below it there 
 
20 Rank and Riches 
 
 were 'other beautiful gardens, the privacy of which might 
 remind him of all that was passing away, and solace the 
 actual pain that he was feeling. But when he came to the 
 balustrade the steps and slopes that he would have to 
 negotiate deterred him from going farther in this direction, 
 and he made his way slowly round to the stables which 
 flanked the house to the west. 
 
 As he went under the archway that led to the great stable- 
 yard he felt an additional pang. He had loved horses all 
 his life, and as a boy and a young man he had so often 
 trodden these stones with light step, eager for the busy life 
 that had its centre here. The stables of Kemsale had 
 been kept up on a scale greater even than those at Ken- 
 cote, important as those had been. There had always been 
 something interesting and exciting to see there, and in his 
 youth he had never visited the house without visiting the 
 stables. It was the old associations that had brought him 
 to them now, rather than any desire to see what might be 
 going on ; for the Kemsale horses had already been sold, 
 and he anticipated no pleasure from visiting the place where 
 they had been. 
 
 The pang he felt was not wholly, nor perhaps in the 
 main, on his own account. He had been too fortunate in 
 life to dwell on past happiness with the half-sweet, half- 
 painful longing which visits those whose days have declined 
 to dullness. His own satisfactions would hardly be touched 
 by the withdrawal of Kemsale from his orbit. Nor did 
 he wince in sympathy with the man who had had all this 
 and had thrown it away. As far as that went the punish- 
 ment was just and fitting. It was the break-up of an 
 institution that he felt so deeply, and above all the sur- 
 prising suddenness with which it had come about. Ten 
 years of folly and lavish spending, and all this state and 
 circumstance, so admirably indicative of honourable condi- 
 tion, had come tumbling down like a house of cards, when 
 it had seemed to have been founded on an impregnable 
 rock. If that could happen where the place had been so 
 high and so apparently well-guarded, was there real safety 
 anywhere ? He did not tell himself that his own old line 
 was in danger. There was none visible there, either in his 
 own time or in that of his immediate heirs. But full con- 
 fidence had been sapped. He felt the same sort of dis- 
 comfort that many people must have felt after the Titanic 
 disaster, when they stepped on board a great ocean liner, 
 
The Sale 21 
 
 no longer with a sense of safety so assured that it need 
 not even be dwelt upon. Kemsale, with all that it had 
 meant in this little corner of the world and in the country 
 at large, had come to an end. The Marquis of Meadshire 
 had his title left to him, and very little else in the world 
 besides ; and what was his title worth, unsupported by the 
 land that had given it virtue ? Not so much as his own 
 ancient Squiredom. He found it impossible to grasp the 
 magnitude of the catastrophe. It was like a nightmare, so 
 monstrous as to bring a sense of its own impossibility even 
 before the waking. Surely such things as this could 
 not be ! If they were allowed, then nothing could be ex- 
 pected to stand firm. He saw rocks all around him, 
 although for him and his there were no rocks anywhere 
 within sight, and his course was over clear and smooth 
 waters. His perplexity increased ; he was very deeply 
 troubled. 
 
 " Hullo, Edward ! Glad to see you about again. Pretty 
 dismal sort of place this to come to nowadays, though." 
 
 He looked up to see the man who was at the root of 
 his perplexity standing before him, with a friendly smile 
 on his face, and he grew so red with shame and anger 
 that the smile faded away, and Lord Meadshire looked 
 down on the ground in confusion. 
 
 But only for a moment. He looked up again and 
 laughed. " Why, any one would think that it was you 
 who was being sold up, to look at you," he said. " Surety, 
 my dear Edward, if I can put up with it, you can." 
 
 He stood before him in a long frieze motoring coat, his 
 goggles pushed up on to his forehead underneath his 
 dusty cap. The long grey raking machine that had brought 
 him many miles in an incredibly short space of time was 
 still throbbing behind him with its bonnet open, and his 
 chauffeur was doing something to the engine. It added 
 enormously to the Squire's furious disgust with him that 
 he should stand there looking like a chauffeur himself, or 
 at least obviously in accord with the oily stinking machinery 
 that was taking all the dignity out of progression in these 
 modem days. But something in his look as he had turned 
 down his glance for that brief moment prevented his 
 breaking out against him, as otherwise he would have done. 
 He turned his back instead, and limped out of the yard, 
 his stick striking the cobbles sharply. 
 
 Lord Meadshire threw a glance at him, and then, with 
 
22 Rank and Riches 
 
 the smile that was seldom absent from his face, took off 
 his coat and threw it into the car, and followed him, un- 
 hooking his goggles as he did so. 
 
 He was a man of rather more than forty, and looked 
 his full age. He was tail and heavily built, with rounded 
 shoulders and long thin legs. His face was amiable and 
 had once been handsome, but it was blotched now, and 
 stamped with the marks of intemperance. His voice, as 
 he called after his cousin, was husky. 
 
 " Wait a minute, Edward. Are you going in to the 
 sale ? " 
 
 The Squire turned round sharply. " No, I'm not," he 
 said, and was about to add more, but Meadshire broke 
 in on him : " Well, I don't know that I want to either. 
 I suppose you brought Grace over. How i's the dear girl ? 
 It's a jar for her, this sort of thing, isn't it ? Still, we 
 shall both be much better off in the Heron's Nest than 
 ever we were here. Have you been over there lately, 
 Edward ? It's all finished now, and ready to put the things 
 into. It will be as pretty a little place as 'ever you saw, 
 when we've finished with it." 
 
 He spoke without a trace of awkwardness, and as if he 
 were quite unaware of the antagonism that was seeking an 
 outlet in his cousin's mind. They were walking slowly 
 along the path that bordered the lawn towards the south. 
 
 " The Herons' Nest ! " said the Squire contemptuously. 
 " A cottage suitable for an artist or some such fellow, and 
 all you've got left out of all this ! " 
 
 Meadshire would not let him go on. " Well, if you 
 come to that," he said, in the same easy tone, " I think 
 it will be a precious sight nicer to live in than all this." 
 They had come to the balustrade overlooking the carpet 
 garden. " Look at it," he said, laughing. " All that ugly 
 nonsense has been kept up for years and years, at a vast 
 expense, and what good is it to anybody ? We shall have 
 a garden we can make something of in the Herons' Nest." 
 
 " The new toy ! " snorted the Squire. " And how long 
 will you keep it, I wonder ? At your rate, you'd eat it up 
 in a day, if " 
 
 " If ! " Meadshire caught him up quickly. " There are 
 two very big ifs, my dear Edward, in the way of my eating 
 it up. The first is, as you know quite well, that it belongs 
 to Grace, and not to me, and the second is that I've turned 
 over an entirely new leaf." 
 
The Sale 23 
 
 The Squire was getting more and more incensed against 
 him. " How many does that make, I wonder ? " he asked 
 bitterly. 
 
 " I don't know. About the hundred and fiftieth, I should 
 think. But the others have all had this absurd place 
 hanging on to them. Now, at last, I've got rid of it 
 there'll be a different state of things altogether." 
 
 The Squire stopped and regarded him from under heavy 
 frowning white brows. " I sometimes think you've got no 
 sense of right and wrong at all," he said. " You talk as 
 if you had nobody but yourself to think of, and your 
 place in the world were nothing. Kcmsale has gone on 
 for hundreds of years, and every man that lias held it 
 has played his big part here; And now you — you, with 
 3 r our selfish ways — you've thrown it away, and talk of it 
 as if it were nothing. Bah ! You make me feel positively 
 sick, Kemsale." 
 
 Meadshire became a little more serious. " Now look 
 here, Edward," he said earnestly, " you've got to look facts 
 in the face. I've played the fool ; yes, I know. But I've 
 had a run for my money, anyhow. You talk — you always 
 have talked — as if I'd come in for a magnificent property 
 and chucked it all away in a few years. You know very 
 well that I came in for a white elephant. If I had lived 
 here at Kemsale as quietly as my old grandfather did 
 when he was over eighty I could just have kept the place 
 together and no more." 
 
 " At any rate you would have kept the place together, 
 as it was your duty to do ; and you might have played 
 the part that your grandfather played, and played so well. 
 Instead of which " 
 
 " Instead of which I go about stealing ducks. Yes, I 
 know all that. And I tell you I couldn't have played 
 the part my grandfather did, even if I'd wanted to. The 
 fact is that he skinned the place, and you know it per- 
 fectly well. I'm not blaming the old boy. He spent his 
 money in the very way that suited him — cutting a big 
 figure, and all that. You could do that on land, and land 
 only, when he was a young man, and you couldn't when 
 he was an old one. We've had nothing but land, and 
 that sort of thing was bound to come to an end sooner 
 or later. It came to an end with him. Who raised the 
 first mortgate on Kencote ? Eh ? " 
 
 The Squire made no reply to this question, but looked 
 
24 Rank and Riches 
 
 on the ground in his turn. There came before him things 
 that he never willingly thought of. He had been brought 
 up at Kencote by his grandfather, a man who had thought 
 about little but sport, and in spite of his wealth and long 
 descent had chosen to live the life of a plain country 
 Squire. His grandfather's sister had married the Marquis 
 of Meadshire, and the present Marquis's grandfather 
 was her son. During his boyhood Edward Clinton had 
 been taught to regard Kemsale as something very stately 
 and very honourable, but only accidentally allied to the 
 more modest pretensions of such a house as Kencote. 
 In his youth he had mixed more with the great world 
 than his grandfather had ever done, and the sense of a 
 considerable difference had lessened. But there had 
 always remained the feeling that his cousin was a great 
 man, with the sort of social greatness that he himself 
 best understood, and it had come as a great shock to him, 
 not many years before that cousin's death, to be asked to 
 lend his assistance in raising money for him on Kemsale. 
 He himself had inherited money from more than one 
 source, but he had looked upon it all as attaching to 
 Kencote and its wide lands. He hated to think of Kencote, 
 which had supported the Clintons in their modest state 
 for generations, being bolstered up by money from out- 
 side, and the knowledge that Kemsale, which was not 
 so bolstered up, could no longer support its more elaborate 
 state was a painful and disturbing thought. 
 
 He shook himself free of it. "A mortgage is nothing," 
 he said. " It's your criminal folly that has brought this 
 about. You ought to have thought of the line. You ought 
 to have married long ago." 
 
 Meadshire's face changed. Oh, that's another ques- 
 tion altogether," he said. " We won't go into that now. 
 Well, I think I'll look in and see how things are going. 
 I hear they're getting record prices. I'd no idea there 
 was such a lot of stuff in the house. Hullo ! Here's 
 Grace ! Well, my dear, have you got the things you want ? " 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 THE CONTEST 
 
 Lady Grace came quickly over the lawn towards them. 
 She smiled when she saw her brother. " I didn't know 
 you were here, Kem," she said. " Cousin Edward, they 
 are bidding the things up in an extraordinary way. We 
 have been able to get nothing we decided upon yet. I 
 want you to tell the man to go higher still for some that 
 are coming. The limits we gave him are not enough." 
 
 One of Meadshire's crowning follies had been to raise 
 money upon a Bill of Sale, which had included everything 
 that "the house contained at the time. It had been for 
 a large sum, but not nearly so large as the treasures of 
 Kemsale were still worth, even with the most valuable of 
 them already sold by their owner. Edward Clinton had 
 advanced money to clear off the Bill of Sale, so that 
 his cousin might at least get the benefit of the open market. 
 But the arrangement had been made hurriedly .at the 
 last moment, and instead of withdrawing the things he 
 and his sister had wanted to keep Meadshire had let them 
 go in with all the rest. It may have been part of the 
 turning over of that new leaf, of which he had spoken, 
 that had led him to do so. " They are yours up to a 
 certain value," he had said to his cousin. " If we see 
 that they are likely to fetch a good deal more, we can buy 
 back more. If not, we'll do with a few. You've been 
 very good, Edward ; but I don't want you to give me the 
 things." 
 
 And, indeed, there had been a sort of pride and inde- 
 pendence in his spendthrift career. He had probably never 
 asked a friend to lend him money ; he had certainly never 
 asked Edward Clinton, who was his sister's trustee, and 
 a strict and rigid one. The Squire had made the offer 
 about the Bill of Sale, and Meadshire had accepted it as 
 a business arrangement, and for his sister's benefit as 
 
 25 
 
26 Rank and Riches 
 
 well as his own. The things she would want could be 
 bought in too. It would only be making two bites at a 
 cherry to have them valued and withdrawn, and there 
 wasn't much time. He wanted to get the beastly business 
 over and done with. 
 
 But it seemed there was a difficulty about buying things 
 in at any reasonable price. 
 
 " But we gave him a limit half as much again as the 
 things were likely to fetch," said the Squire. " The fellow 
 must have muddled it." 
 
 " There is one man that bids against him," said Grace. 
 " He seems determined to have what he wants, whatever 
 it goes up to. Fortunately, there has been nothing I want 
 very much so far ; but they will soon be coming to my own 
 rooms, and I want you to tell our man to go higher still, 
 if it is necessary." 
 
 All three of them went across to the house. Grace had 
 her catalogue with her, and showed them the prices at 
 which some of the things they had marked had been 
 knocked down for. They seemed extravagant, and far 
 beyond the rate at which other things had been sold, 
 although prices were universally good. 
 
 They went into the great room where the sale was being 
 held. It was as full as if it had been a London auction- 
 room, and in fact all the dealers from London were there, 
 or their representatives, and buyers from all over the 
 kingdom besides. There were also a great many people 
 from the country around, and the Squire noted with a frown 
 the presence of several of his friends and acquaintances. 
 He thought that they might have kept away, out of 
 delicacy ; but there seemed no particular reason why they 
 should, since it was to be supposed that the more people 
 there were to bid for the things put up for sale the better 
 it would be for the sellers. 
 
 A man from the county town of Bathgate had been 
 commissioned to bid on behalf of Lady Grace, and of 
 the Squire himself, who had marked down a few "lots" 
 to be transferred to Kencote. He joined them when they 
 entered the room, in some excitement. 
 
 " He says he's got his orders, sir, but he won't tell me 
 who he's bidding for. I been trying to make some sort of 
 arrangement with him." 
 
 " Who is it ? What are you talking about ? " asked the 
 Squire impatiently. 
 
The Contest 27 
 
 He pointed out a man to whom a "lot n had just been 
 knocked down at a high price. " I've found out who 
 he is," he said. " He comes from a very respectable firm 
 in London. He's acting under orders, but it can't be for 
 his own people. They'd never pay the prices he's running 
 up to. He's acting for a private buyer." 
 
 The Squire bent his frowning gaze upon the man. He 
 seemed to be of an innocuous type, and rather nervous 
 besides. He was bidding again, for a little chintz-covered 
 easy-chair out of one of the bedrooms, and other dealers 
 were laughing at him and running him up. It could have 
 been bought new in any shop for two or three pounds, but 
 it was knocked down to him for five pounds ten, and there 
 was laughter and a disposition to cheer as the hammer 
 fell. 
 
 "Lot five hundred and ten, marble-topped rosewood 
 washhandstand," said the auctioneer. " A fine solid piece 
 this, gentlemen. I won't have it brought in. Shall we 
 start, at three pounds ? " 
 
 There was a bid of ten shillings, at which price fine 
 solid pieces of this description are occasionally acquired, by 
 mutual arrangement between dealers, at private sales. But 
 this sale was too well attended for the machinations of the 
 " ring " to have scope. Somebody bid a pound, and some- 
 body else thirty shillings. 
 
 " That's no price for an article of this sort, gentlemen," 
 said the auctioneer. " Now then, Mr. Waller, two pounds ? 
 Thank you. Two pounds. Two pounds. Any advance on 
 two pounds ? " 
 
 " Run him up," said Meadshire. " Let's see how far he'll 
 go. Go on, quick." 
 
 " Two pound ten. Thank you, Mr. Giles. Two fifteen. 
 Three pounds. Three pounds five. Three pound ten. Any 
 advance on three pound ten ? " 
 
 " It isn't one of the pieces you wanted, sir," expostulated 
 Giles. " It's not worth — Oh ! " 
 
 Meadshire had given him a sharp dig in the ribs. The 
 auctioneer's eye was on him. 
 
 " Three pound fifteen. Four pounds. Four five. Four 
 ten." 
 
 The Squire's agent faltered at ten pounds, but the light 
 of battle was in Meadshire's eyes. "Go on," he adjured 
 him, and he took it up to fifteen, with increasing excitement 
 on the part of the onlookers. 
 
28 Rank and Riches 
 
 "Don't be a fool, Kemsale," said the Squire angrily; 
 but Meadshire took no notice of him. " Stop at nineteen 
 fifteen," he whispered to his man. 
 
 But Waller, now in a painful state of confusion, stopped 
 before that, and the washhandstand was knocked down to 
 Meadshire's agent at eighteen pounds five shillings. 
 
 Meadshire swore, and then laughed. ' ' We've broken him , 
 anyhow," he said. " He can have the rest out of this room." 
 
 Waller seemed very unhappy. He was a short, nervous- 
 looking man with a dark pointed beard, neatly dressed, and 
 of a class rather above that of most of the dealers around 
 him. Probably he was a member of the firm that had been 
 entrusted with this important commission. His purchases 
 had already run up to a high figure. He did not look like 
 a man who would show any resource in an auction-room 
 battle, and evidently shrank from the amused notice that 
 his exploits were bringing him. 
 
 He rose from his seat, and, looking round, seized upon 
 another dealer with whom he conferred over his catalogue. 
 Then he hurried from the room, passing close to where 
 Meadshire and the party from Kencote were standing. 
 
 Meadshire followed him into the hall, where there were 
 men passing to and fro with articles for the sale-room. 
 
 "Where's the telephone? I want to get to the tele- 
 phone," cried W T aller, to all and sundry. 
 
 " In that room there," said a man with a green apron, 
 pointing to a door. 
 
 Waller was hurrying towards it when Meadshire stopped 
 him. " Wait a minute," he said. " What do you want the 
 telephone for ? " 
 
 Waller started nervously and stopped, and then frowned. 
 " What's that to do with you, sir ? " he asked. I suppose 
 I can use the telephone if I like ? " 
 
 " I don't know that you can," said Meadshire. ' This 
 isn't a public office." 
 
 One of the old servants of the house, who for lack of 
 instructions had been hanging about the hall in a miserable 
 sort of way, came up. 
 
 " The telephone ought to be at the service of buyers," 
 said Waller angrily, " especially of big ones like my firm. 
 It's very important that I should telephone to London. I'll 
 pay for the trunk call, of course." 
 
 " What do you want to telephone about ? " asked Mead- 
 shire again. 
 
The Contest 29 
 
 " I want But who are you, sir ? What business of 
 
 yours is it what I want ? You seem to me to be taking a 
 great deal upon yourself." 
 
 " Oh, if you're going to talk like that ! " said Meadshire, 
 turning away. " You can tell the gentleman who I am, 
 Cooper ; and he's not to use any of the telephones in the 
 house." 
 
 Meadshire went back into the sale-room and hid him- 
 self in a corner. Waller came in almost immediately, and 
 as if he wished to escape notice. He looked furtively about 
 amongst the crowd, which was now fairly thick, and made 
 his way through it to where the man who had been bidding 
 for him sat. Meadshire peered over heads and saw him 
 giving this man earnest instructions. Waller then took his 
 place at the table and the man pushed his way through the 
 crowd towards the doorway. 
 
 Meadshire went out into the hall before he could reach 
 it. " There's a big fellow in a bowler hat coming out," he 
 said. " If he wants to use the telephone, let him ; but 
 don't tell him who I am." 
 
 He went into the room off the hall, which had so far 
 undergone little change. Only the numbered labels stuck 
 on to the furniture indicated that its time for disintegra- 
 tion was coming. It was rather like the waiting-room of 
 an old-established club, with a turkey carpet, massive 
 mahogany furniture, and portraits in mezzotint on the dark 
 walls. Meadshire took a book of reference from the 
 writing-table and seated himself in an easy chair by the 
 window. 
 
 Waller's lieutenant pushed his way into the hall and went 
 up to Cooper with a half-a-crown ostentatiously displayed in 
 his fingers. " I say, mate, I wish you'd put me on to a 
 telephone," he said. " No need to tell the Governor about 
 it, you know. It's between you and me." 
 
 The half-crown changed hands. Cooper saw no reason 
 in view of the possible scarcity of such presents in the 
 future, why he should not accept one for doing his duty. 
 " I'm not sure there isn't somebody using it," he said. 
 " But you can go in there if you shut the door after you, 
 and don't say I told you." 
 
 He turned away with a grin, and the man, thinking how 
 easy it was to get what you wanted if you went the right 
 way about it, went into the room. 
 
 He found a middle-aged person in a rather shabby serge 
 
30 Rank and Riches 
 
 suit turning over the leaves of a large red book. " Have 
 you finished with the telephone, mate ? " he asked cordially. 
 " 'Cos I want a trunk call." 
 
 "I'm not using it, thanks," said Meadshire. 
 
 He looked undecided for a moment. " I got leave to 
 use it from the people of the house on rather a private 
 matter," he said. " You'll understand. If you wouldn't 
 mind " 
 
 Meadshire looked up with bland amiability. " I don't 
 mind in the least," he said. " Go ahead ; " and returned 
 to his book. 
 
 There was something about him that made the man 
 hesitate again. He had thought at first that he was some 
 one like himself, who bad made his way in here in the 
 general confusion. Now he thought that he might be 
 somebody connected with the house, and it might not be 
 wise to ask him to leave the room, or indeed likely that he 
 would go. 
 
 " Oh, well," he said, " I suppose you won't want to listen 
 to a private conversation, and perhaps you'll have found 
 what you're looking for by the time I get my call." 
 
 He rang up a London number and then hung about the 
 room with one hand in his pocket and the other pulling at 
 his moustache, his eye fixed doubtfully upon Meadshire. 
 
 Meadshire laid down his heavy book, and looked up at 
 him with a pleasant smile. " Things seem to be fetching 
 a big price," he said. " I've never seen a sale like this 
 before ? Have you ? " 
 
 Then he must have some connection with the trade, after 
 all. The man's face cleared. " It's surprising some of 
 them," he said. " There's a little sitting down at the 
 Meadshire Arms there of an evening amongst the biggest 
 of 'em, but they don't seem to have much to work on.- It's 
 the public coming in that spoils things. Did you ever see 
 anything like the bidding for that washstand, and that there 
 little easy ? It's crool, I call it. Pos'ively crool." 
 
 " I expect Waller knows what he's up to," said Mead- 
 shire. " He belongs to a good firm." 
 
 " Ah, now, that's just it. I've nothing to say against 
 Waller. I've known him for a good many years, and in 
 his own line he's a good man and deserves to get on. 
 There's nobody in the trade as'll spot a fake sooner than 
 Waller ; or sell one either. He's worth money to the firm, 
 and they didn't lose by giving him a partnership. But 
 
The Contest 81 
 
 when it comes to an emergency Waller's likely to lose his 
 'cacl. He's in an emergency now, and he don't know 
 whether to follow instructions or use his judgment." 
 
 " I suppose he's been instructed to buy certain things, 
 and given carte blanche." 
 
 " Well, I wouldn't take such instructions if it was me. 
 There's no sense in it. A customer tells you he wants 
 certain things and there's no limit. Directly other people 
 get to know that they run you up for the fun of the thing. 
 It's what 'appened with that there washstand. Waller was 
 quite right to let 'em 'ave it, but he didn't do it in the 
 proper way. He should have left off with a snap, as if heV 
 meant to give 'em one, 'stead of as if he was frightened 
 by 'em. Then the laugh would have been on his side, and 
 they wouldn't 'ave tried it on again p'raps. Then he comes 
 rushing out to telephone for further instructions, and runs 
 up against 'is lordship, not knowing who he was, and gives 
 'im lip, and of course 'e's told politely that the telephone 
 ain't at 'is disposal. I said I'd do it for him. I don't mix 
 myself up with no lordships ; I tip the flunkey be'ind 'is 
 back and the thing's done." 
 
 The telephone bell trilled sharply. He hurried to it. 
 "That you, Colt & Horn? Oh, yes, trunk call; put 
 me on to them as quick as you can, there's a good 
 girl." 
 
 He turned round with the receiver to his ear. " I know 
 pretty well what they'll say," he said, " 'specially if it's 
 
 old Colt. Oh Hullo! Colt & Horn ? That you, Mr. 
 
 Colt ? I'm speakin' from the sale at Kemsale, on be'alf 
 of Mr. Waller. They're runnin' 'im up, Mr. Colt, like any- 
 thing. 'E wants to know if 'e's to bid regardless, accord- 
 ing to instructions, or exercise 'is own discretion. He's 'ad 
 
 to pay W T hat ? Yes. Yes. Well, he knows ail that, 
 
 Mr. Colt. But he says the instructions were explicit, and 
 he doesn't like to go behind 'em without 'aving it quite 
 understood. Yes. Yes. Well, it ain't going to be as easy 
 as that, Mr. Colt. 'E's just as likely as not to be run up 
 a hundred pounds for a thing that's only worth five. 
 They're in that spirit, you know. If he's not going to be 
 
 at liberty to let 'em in every now and then What ? 
 
 Yes. Yes. Well, I think you had better do that, Mr. Colt. 
 Then it won't be your responsibility. Righto. I'll 'old 
 the line." 
 
 He turned round again. " He's going to telephone to 
 
82 Rank and Riches 
 
 his client," he said. " That'll put him right, whatever 
 happens." 
 
 " Who is his client ? " asked Meadshire. 
 
 " Ah, that'd be telling, wouldn't it ? But to be quite 
 honest with you, I don't know. I fancy from what Waller 
 told me, it's somebody who's going to buy the place whsn 
 it's put up. At any rate the things he buys are to rgmain 
 here for the present. He's bought 'alf the 'ouse, as far 
 as I can see." 
 
 " Well, look here. Tell Mr. Colt that there are some 
 things that were left in the sale by mistake, and the family 
 of the late owner wants to buy them in. If he'll come to an 
 arrangement about them they won't run him up." 
 
 His tone had changed. The man looked at him with a 
 trace of his former suspicion. " Oh, 5'ou've got to do with 
 the family after all, then. I thought from the way you 
 spoke you belonged to the trade ? " 
 
 " Well, this is trade business, isn't it ? Go on. Tell Colt 
 what I say ; or let me speak to him." 
 
 The man grumbled, but did as he was asked, not without 
 delay and difficulty from the telephone. " Oh, Mr. Colt, 
 sorry to trouble you again. There's a cove 'ere acting for 
 the family. Better ask if he can 'ave some of the things 
 he wants. Eh ? " 
 
 He turned with a grin. *' Old Colt don't mince his words 
 when he's annoyed. You oughter told me what you wanted 
 when I first got through to him." 
 
 The end of it was *that a message was sent to Waller 
 that he'd had his instructions and was not to play the 
 fool. 
 
 " Did he tell his client what I told you ? " asked Mead- 
 shire. 
 
 " Yes, and got a flea in his ear for bothering him. He'd 
 been told what to do ; if he couldn't do it there were plenty 
 of other people who would. Well, I'll be getting back to 
 Waller-" 
 
 He hurried from the room, and Meadshire followed him 
 more slowly. He felt suddenly angry. He had had his 
 fun, and because he had been intent on his fun he had 
 missed his chance. Some of his anger was directed against 
 himself. But as he went back into the sale-room he deter- 
 mined that he would fight this unknown personage, who 
 Beemed to have made his decisions somewhat prematurely. 
 
 He was going to buy the whole place, was he ? Con- 
 
The Contest 83 
 
 found him ! Meadshire had already refused to consider 
 an offer for the whole place as it stood, which had been 
 made to him through his solicitor. He had not wanted 
 some rich fellow to walk in and take possession of Kemsale 
 just as it was. His mind was a swirling mass of contra- 
 dictions about Kemsale. He was relieved to get rid of 
 the burden of the great useless house, but prepared to 
 hate anybody who would take it off his shoulders and pay 
 him for it. He had already sold valuable pictures, and 
 other rare things, out of it, at different times, received what 
 amounted in the aggregate to a handsome fortune for 
 them, and got rid of the money with a light heart. You 
 couldn't afford to keep family portraits that would sell for 
 ten thousand pounds apiece in these days, or articles of 
 vertu that you hardly ever looked at. When the Kemsale 
 tazza had been sold at Christie's for seven thousand pounds, 
 Meadshire had said : " Now there's a thing that has cost 
 us a pound a day to have in the house. Perhaps I've looked 
 at it once a year. That makes three hundred and fifty 
 pounds a look. It isn't worth it." But most of the money 
 had gone to redeem past loans and their colossal interest, 
 and the rest had been carried by Pickles, a horse that had 
 run second in the Cesarewitch instead of first. 
 
 There are people who want money for its own sake ; 
 there are others who want it so that they can acquire 
 possessions ; there are others again who want it so that they 
 can spend it on the amusements of the moment, and with 
 these the spending of money often becomes an amusement 
 in itself. Money burns holes in their pockets ; they can't 
 bear to have it lying idle, or even saved up for an occasion 
 on which they may have a use for it. These are of the 
 sort who light their pipes with banknotes in the early daj^s 
 of a gold-rush, or break all the bottles in a bar, and pay 
 for them afterwards. Meadshire would have been quite 
 capable of performing either of those feats. He had com- 
 mitted many hardly less foolish, and had gained satisfaction 
 from them. Nobody knew where all his money had gone ; 
 he did not know himself. Pie had kept race-horses, but 
 chiefly because racing will get rid of money almost faster 
 than any other pursuit. He had no love for horses at all ; 
 his tastes were mechanical, where they had any room to 
 grow, under the shade of that vast obsession of spending. 
 They were hardly even extravagant, apart from the neces- 
 sity of getting rid of money. He dressed like a chauffeur, 
 
 B (8> 
 
3 4 Rank and Riches 
 
 and not the smartest sort of chauffeur either. He had fallen 
 under the influence of drink at an early age, but he did not 
 care for expensive wines, although he preferred that the 
 friends he entertained so lavishly should aiways drink 
 them ; nor particularly for expensive food. He had really 
 been at his happiest in the early days of motoring, when 
 there was always some tinkering to be done whenever you 
 took out a car. During this time he had actually lived 
 within his income, seemed to have lost his unhappy taste 
 for drink, and begun to look like a young man again. But 
 the phase had not lasted ; the ruling passion was too strong. 
 His father died, and he inherited money that had come from 
 his grandmother. He ran through that, and was deep in 
 the mire again when his grandfather died. Revenues by 
 that time had begun to shrink, but there was more than 
 enough for a careful man to have played as big a part as 
 Marquis of Meadshire as any of his forbears. Meadshire 
 had no wish to play that sort of part, and it had taken him 
 only ten years to bring his house to the ground, with nothing 
 to show for it but a series of follies. 
 
 But was he so ready to give up that place in the world 
 of which he had made light ? As far as it rested on pos- 
 sessions he laughed at the idea of its affecting him in and 
 way. 
 
 But he would have nobody living at Kemsale, surroundey 
 by the family gods of the Meadshires, if he could prevent it. 
 
 The sale had reached Lady Grace's rooms. 
 
 " The West Boudoir, gentlemen. Lot 542. Axminster 
 pile bordered carpet, twenty by eighteen. What bids ? '* 
 
 Waller roused himself, and his re-entrance into the bidding 
 aroused a hum of amusement. The carpet fell to him. 
 
 So did the curtains for three tall windows, after both 
 had been bid up to more than their sale value. 
 
 The Squire was now fussing and fuming, and the light 
 of battle was in Meadshire 's eyes. 
 
 " But I don't mind those things much," said Grace. 
 "It is my writing-table I want chiefly, and the china ; 
 and especially the pictures. I must have the pictures, if 
 I can't get anything else." 
 
 " Lot 544. Buhl and ormolu writing-table. Period 
 Louis Quinze. What offers ? " 
 
 Waller was determined to have that. So was Meadshire, 
 and the bids rattled up without pause till they reached two 
 hundred pounds. Then the Squire made himself heard* 
 
The Contest 35 
 
 " It's perfect folly," he said angrily. " Grace, you had 
 better be content with the portraits, if they are determined 
 to have all the furniture." 
 
 But Meadshire had already prodded his man up to three 
 hundred pounds. 
 
 Waller got it at five hundred and twenty. Meadshire 
 was now furious and lowering. " He shall pay through the 
 nose for everything," he said. " And when we come to 
 the pictures we'll break him." 
 
 Waller mopped his brow and bid doggedly for one thing 
 after the other, paying enormous prices for everything, but 
 getting everything at the end. A sort of hush had come 
 over the room, and only the two voices were heard sharply 
 answering one another, while the auctioneer looked on im- 
 passively, and when the other voice ceased, knocked with 
 his hammer once, mentioned Waller's name and the price, 
 and went on to the next lot. 
 
 Poor Grace saw her cherished possessions go one after 
 the other — all the delicate pieces of china that she had got 
 together here, the water-colours that she loved, the gold 
 and silver and tortoiseshell toys of a woman's pretty room. 
 She had removed the things that had actually been given 
 to her, her own books amongst them, but all the rest had 
 always been considered hers, and only her scruples had 
 made her leave it, to be thus haggled over in shameful 
 publicity. Long before the contest was over she would have 
 given up everything rather than go on with it. All these 
 grinning open-mouthed people knew what the struggle was 
 about now. She stood in sight of them,. a woman whose 
 shy privacies were invaded. And her brother in his en- 
 raged advocacy of her cause only added to her distress. He 
 had moved up to one of the tables and stood over the man 
 who was bidding for them, all but taking the bids out of 
 his mouth. Everybody now knew who he was, and re- 
 garded him with open curiosity. He should have kept away 
 altogether, in this hour of his disgrace. But he was 
 making himself the most prominent figure in the room. 
 
 They came to two tinted pencil drawings of Grace's 
 grandfather and grandmother. They had been " taken " 
 soon after their marriage, and showed a handsome gay 
 young man and a sweet-faced girl, with a look of Grace 
 herself. They were by a well-known artist of the time, who 
 had also painted the later full-length portraits of the same 
 pair which hung elsewhere, but hardly so successfully. 
 
86 Rank and Riches 
 
 The drawings had their value, but it was not an extravagant 
 one. Fifty pounds apiece would have been a good price 
 lor them. 
 
 The}- were put up together, and were run up to a hun- 
 dred in advances of ten pounds. Then up to five hundred 
 with a sudden jump into fifties. The onlookers stared 
 open-mouthed. The bids had followed one another without 
 a moment's hesitation on either side. 
 
 Waller faltered and looked round furtively at his adver- 
 sary, as if imploring him to have mercy on him. Mead- 
 shire's face was red and scowling. He had pushed his agent 
 aside, and stood at the end of the table glowering over the 
 crowd of buyers as if he would have annihilated the lot of 
 them. The party from Kencote were now quite in the 
 background, hidden by the crowding mass of spectators. 
 
 Waller bid five hundred and fifty. Meadshire rapped 
 out '* Six hundred," himself. Waller paused again. The 
 new voice, gruff and loud, aroused a general murmur. 
 There was some giggling encouragement of Waller to go 
 on ; but there were more voices advising him to " let him 
 have 'em." 
 
 The auctioneer raised his hammer. " Seven hundred," 
 said Waller, before he could let it fall. 
 
 " Eight hundred," came from Meadshire, in a voice 
 louder than before. 
 
 Waller paused and looked around again, meeting nothing 
 but rows of faces with every eye in them bent upon him. 
 The auctioneer raised his hammer again. 
 
 " Nine hundred." 
 
 " A thousand." 
 
 Waller hesitated a moment, shrugged his shoulders, and 
 returned to his catalogue. It was a confession of defeat. 
 The hammer fell, and Meadshire pushed his way through 
 the crowd and stalked out of the room, pursued by a volley 
 of cheering, which put the finishing touch to his fury. 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 LITTLE KEMSALE 
 
 Little Kemsale lay just outside the village that clustered 
 about the west gates of the great house. It was the great 
 house in miniature, built at the same time, and of the 
 same white stone. It stood in a clearing of the beech 
 wood that rolled down the hill behind it, but though on a 
 considerably lower level than the great house, of which it 
 was a sort of appanage, it was still above the level of the 
 country that faced it, and commanded a fine spreading 
 view. A soft sloping lawn, much more attractive than the 
 flat rectangle of the great house, divided it from the road, 
 which ran under a sunk fence high enough to preserve its 
 privacy. It merged on either side into the russet-carpeted 
 shade of the beeches. Originally the carriage drive, going 
 in at one gate and out at the other, through the trees, had 
 led to a door in the middle of the f acade, but at some period 
 that arrangement had been altered. A hall had been made 
 and a porch added on the west ; and the east drive had 
 been done away with. So now the gravel that lay between 
 the house and the lawn, masked by shrubs from the drive, 
 made a pleasant place to sit out on. The dining-room on 
 one side and the drawing-room on the other, with the room 
 that had once been the hall between them, all had tall 
 windows reaching nearly to the ground. They were 
 spacious well-proportioned rooms, and in the summer, 
 with their easy access to the quiet garden and their wide 
 southward view of blue country, very attractive. So they 
 were in the winter, when they were close-curtained and 
 lamp-lit, and surrounded by the deep stillness of the 
 country night. In the daytime their large expanse of 
 glass gave them an air slightly bleak, though they caught 
 whatever sun might be shining. The front of the house 
 was much overgrown by creepers, and its likeness to the 
 great house, man}' of the points of which had been copied 
 
 37 
 
38 Rank and Riches 
 
 in its exterior, was lessened by them. People driving by, 
 seated high enough to catch a glimpse of Little Kemsale, 
 found it worth looking at as a specimen of the small 
 country houses of England, which are often so much more 
 attractive than the big ones. Wistaria, clematis, Banksian 
 roses, ceanothus, and other flowering or evergreen plants 
 framed all its window? in their several seasons ; the lower 
 ones were provided witrrgaily striped awnings ; great tubs 
 of agapanthus, azaleas, hydrangeas, pink geraniums, 
 stood along the broad space of carefully rolled gravel and 
 on the edge of the lawn. Hammock chairs and wicker 
 tables might be seen invitingly grouped there, and the 
 observer might sometimes surprise a tea party, half in and 
 half out of one of the open windows. 
 
 Such an one, as he drove on along the shady road that 
 curved round the shoulder of the hill, might have found 
 himself wondering whether the owners or inhabitants of 
 such a house were appreciative of their happy lot, or fitted 
 to enjoy it. Those who have that embracing taste for 
 houses, so that they can scarcely pass one with any attrac- 
 tions, large or small, without imagining themselves living 
 in it, are apt to forget the Horatian dictum that a change of 
 sky does not bring about a change of mind. Perhaps the 
 majority of those who live in the houses that they are 
 inclined to envy are not appreciably the happier because of 
 their surroundings. The troubles of unrequited love, ill- 
 health, debt, disappointed ambition, and all the pack of 
 worries incidental to daily existence are not sensibly light- 
 ened by the possession of a beautiful house. House-envy- 
 ing, as a pursuit, can only be carried on satisfactorily by 
 imagining the mind permanently attuned to its surround- 
 ings ; and it is a pity that the agents cannot guarantee 
 that the amenities they have to offer in the way of peace and 
 comfort shall operate within as well as without. 
 
 Nevertheless, there are some to whom the possession of 
 a house in which they can take a pride and pleasure, be 
 it large or small, is a constant, every-day enhancement of 
 life's interests, and at this time the occupants of Little 
 Kemsale were amongst them. 
 
 They were a Captain and Mrs. Douglas Irving, who had 
 already lived there for two years, and hoped to live there 
 for the remainder of a lease of seven, fourteen, or twenty- 
 cne years, and longer still if they should be permitted. 
 They had youth, health, and a sufficiency of income ; 
 
Little Kemsale so 
 
 two small, naughty, but most engaging children ; and 
 tastes and habits which could all be gratified by the manner 
 of life they had chosen. 
 
 Douglas Irving was in the middle thirties, and his wife 
 in the late twenties. He had retired from the Service 
 two years before upon the death of his father, who had 
 left him a fortune of between thirty and forty thousand 
 pounds, after having told him persistently ever since he 
 had first mentioned the subject that he might expect about 
 five hundred a year and not a penny more. It was about 
 what the old gentleman had spent himself, living in rooms 
 in London near his club, ever since the death of his wife 
 in Douglas's childhood. He may have saved the rest until 
 it had rolled up to the respectable sum mentioned, or he 
 may have amused his leisure with investments that had 
 turned out luckily. At any rate, there was no doubt about 
 the money, and Douglas Irving could never think of the 
 day in which he had learnt of what had come to him without 
 a glow of memory. 
 
 It had made such a difference to him. He had always 
 been hard up, and had always hated being hard up. At 
 school he had had less pocket-money than other boys, at 
 Sandhurst and in his regiment a smaller allowance than 
 his fellows. And he had had no happy home life as a child, 
 except for the first few dimly remembered years in India, 
 when his mother had been alive. He had been sent home 
 to an aunt who had married a clergyman with a living in 
 a poor London suburb, and little to supplement it with, 
 and he had spent his dreary school holidays there for the 
 most part, and some of his leaves, when he was too " broke " 
 to amuse himself elsewhere. 
 
 He had enjoyed soldiering, and especially the two years 
 he had spent in South Africa, when he had been enabled 
 to put straight his already slightly dislocated finances. 
 He had been a very young subaltern then, and had deve- 
 loped a military keenness that had somev/hat evaporated 
 later on, when he had settled down to a pottering life in a 
 garrison town. Then he had obtained a five years' billet 
 as adjutant to a Territorial regiment, and that had been 
 better, for he had had more money to spend, and oppor- 
 tunities for sport, in a friendly count}'. But he was already 
 " dipped " again financially when he fell in love with the 
 only child of a lady, the widow of a clergyman, who lived 
 in the seaside town nearest to the one in which he was 
 
40 Rank and Riches 
 
 quartered. It was an eminently suitable match, the girl's 
 birth being about on a level with his own ; his father had 
 made no objections to it, but had offered to increase his 
 allowance by a hundred pounds a year, if the girl's mother 
 would make her a like allowance. 
 
 It would just " run to it," and he thought himself very 
 fortunate, though his debts, about which he said nothing, 
 somewhat dimmed the bright prospect. He thought him- 
 self more fortunate still when he discovered that his fiancee 
 had about three hundred a year of her own, and would have 
 rather more than double that when her mother died. 
 He seemed to have come into wealth unlimited, or at least 
 to have the happy prospect of furnishing a charming little 
 country cottage and living in it in the most ideal fashion. 
 His tastes already inclined to a quiet, domestic, country 
 existence, with as much country sport to salt it as could be 
 obtained on the least possible expenditure ; and he was very 
 much in love with the girl he was going to marry. He had 
 loved her when he thought she had nothing, and did not 
 love her the less because her small income enabled them to 
 start their married life in a way that delighted both of them 
 together. 
 
 But the debts soon began to overshadow their happiness. 
 The two children came, one a year and the other two years 
 after they were married, and even without them it is 
 doubtful whether the scale upon which they lived in their 
 pretty creeper-smothered bandbox would have enabled 
 them to keep their heads above water. Beatrix Irving had 
 a head for management, but little experience. Their 
 income was about the same as hers and her mother's had 
 been, and they lived in a smaller house, though in a more 
 elaborate way, with much entertaining of men friends, and 
 many little extravagances such as she had had no previous 
 experience of. She trusted her husband with the appor- 
 tionment of their income, and never exceeded the allow- 
 ances for the spending of which she herself was responsible ; 
 and she did not like to suggest to him any curtailment of 
 the expenditure which kept him so gay and happy that the 
 little house was full of sunshine for her, in spite of the 
 shadow that was creeping over it. Then the children came, 
 and she was too much occupied to take upon herself the 
 initiation of a different scale of expenditure altogether, 
 which would soon have become absolutely necessary but for 
 her mother's death. 
 
Little Kemsale ii 
 
 This was a great grief to her, and her health, after the 
 birth of her second child, was not good for a time. She 
 allowed herself to drift with the current, and only mildly 
 opposed the taking of a larger house during the remaining 
 year of her husband's adjutancy. They had already out- 
 grown their cottage, and the house was a very nice one. 
 If they liked it they could stay on there, for Douglas 
 Irving had already decided that he would not go back to 
 his regiment. He was very sympathetic with her over her 
 unexpected loss, but " in a way " it was " providential/' 
 and with the addition of the handsome old-fashioned 
 furniture and effects that his wife had inherited, and their 
 increased income, his own genuine sorrow was assuaged by 
 the inauguration of the new house, and also by the ability 
 to settle old accounts. 
 
 But the shadow soon closed over the new house, as it 
 had closed over the old one. There was a stable and a 
 large garden to keep up, to say nothing of the nurseries, 
 and not nearly enough money to do that and all the rest 
 with, unless the money had been carefully husbanded, which 
 it wasn't. The appointment came to an end, and there 
 was so much less income. They let their house and went 
 abroad for a year. Then Colonel Irving died, all the diffi- 
 culties were swept away, and a new and most delightful 
 life opened up before them. 
 
 Such had been the history of this fortunate young 
 couple up to the time of their settling at Little Kemsale, 
 and perhaps Beatrix Irving realised exactly how fortunate 
 they had been. Her husband yielded to her in no way in 
 gratitude for the change that had now come over their 
 life and prospects, and felt it all the more because his past 
 presented itself to him as a perpetual and undeserved 
 struggle against adversity. If he had seen it in its true 
 light, it had been nothing but a succession of generous 
 chances such as come to very few spendthrifts. For there 
 was no doubt that Douglas Irving was a spendthrift, 
 although not of the neck or nothing type of Meadshire. He 
 was of our second sort — those who want money for the sake 
 of possessions. He loved a house and its contents, and the 
 power of adding to them. That was the necessary back- 
 ground of his life. And he wanted money for the sake 
 of opportunities, not to throw away, as Meadshire did. In 
 fact, when he came into his compact little fortune, he sud- 
 denly became careful about money. Many spendthrifts 
 
42 Rank and Riches 
 
 have that contradictory faculty. The Mcadshires would 
 gaily dissipate in a year a sum that would keep them 
 handsomely for the rest of their lives, with no disturbance 
 of mind as to what should come after. The Irvings would 
 never know a happy moment in dissipating a fortune, unless 
 they had some hopes that another would follow it. They 
 do not dissipate fortunes at a stroke ; they eat into them. 
 And all the time they writhe under the troubles of debt, 
 and are well aware that nothing they seek to enjoy is worth 
 the price they pay for it, or is enjoyable at all unless it has 
 the quality of permanence. 
 
 So Douglas Irving conceived of himself as having 
 thoroughly learnt his lesson, by a series of awkward strokes 
 of fate, and by long periods of life in which his enjoyments 
 had been almost completely spoilt by the consciousness 
 that he was heading for catastrophe. He would indeed be 
 a fool if he overspent an income large enough to afford 
 him everything he really cared about in life, when there was 
 no longer any prospect of that income being increased. Of 
 course, he could have done very well with twice as much, 
 and it was necessary to be careful. But a wise man cuts 
 his coat according to his cloth, and if the cloth is long 
 enough even finds some satisfaction in the process. Irving 
 now kept his accounts carefully, and took a good deal of 
 pleasure in doing so. He even saved money every year — 
 not very much, but enough to give him the comfortable 
 feeling of living well within his income and providing for 
 Jimbo's education. His pass-book was no longer a re- 
 proach, but a beneficence, and it was exciting to enter into 
 an occasional little speculation — always with the " margin," 
 never with money allotted to other purposes. He had 
 turned over a new leaf altogether, and shuddered at the 
 thought of the old ones ; and it seemed extremely unlikely 
 that he would ever jeopardise his present substantial 
 happiness by reverting to his old carelessness about 
 money. 
 
 An extra piece of luck had befallen him at the time he 
 had taken Little Kemsale. Meadshire had suddenly de- 
 cided that he would let his shooting. It was part of his 
 fantastic way of doing things that he decided everything 
 of this sort in a hurry and without any reference to other 
 decisions. He would not let Kemsale with it, and Little 
 Kemsale he had already let about a month before. His 
 agent was in despair, and came to Irving to ask him to sell 
 
Little Kemsale 43 
 
 back his lease. " How on earth can I let eighteen thou- 
 sand acres of shooting without a house ? " he asked. Irving 
 refused to surrender his lease, but thought he might help 
 him otherwise. He knew of a rich bachelor who was on 
 the look-out for a shoot ; if he took this one he might work 
 it from Little Kemsale. 
 
 He ran up to London, full of eagerness. His friend 
 came down with him and surveyed the prospect. Event- 
 ually an arrangement was come to by which Fanshawe, the 
 rich friend, and two others took the shooting. Irving was 
 to manage it for them and they were to pay their share of 
 expenses whenever they and their friends came down. The 
 arrangement was to be made for three years. Meadshirc 
 objected to this, but gave way suddenly when negotiations 
 were on the point of breaking off altogether. 
 
 The result, as it affected Irving, was that he had all the 
 fun of a big shoot at no expense whatever, and practically 
 saved his rent besides. It may be imagined that he did not 
 love Little Kemsale the less because these sporting ameni- 
 ties had become unexpectedly attached to it. 
 
 On an October evening, about a month after the sale 
 at Kemsale, Douglas and Beatrix Irving were walking 
 home together. They had been to interview keepers about 
 the arrangements for the next day, for their friends were 
 coming down that evening for the first big manoeuvre 
 among the pheasants. 
 
 It was a lovely mild evening, with an illusive air of spring 
 in it. They were both in the highest spirits. Things 
 were going so well with them, and there was not a care on 
 the horizon. And they both looked forward to the enter- 
 tainment immediately ahead. The house would be 
 crammed to the uttermost, and both of them enjoyed that 
 thoroughly. 
 
 They swung along the road at a sharp pace, chattering 
 about the coming pleasures. Beatrix had entirely recovered 
 from her weakness of some years before. She was full of 
 health and vigour in these days, and was almost as much 
 in the open air as her husband. With her slim figure, in 
 its cleanly cut tweeds, she looked no more than a girl. 
 Douglas was straight and spare too, and still kept his look 
 of youth, although he was approaching his thirty-fifth birth- 
 day. He was a good-looking fellow, of the well-set-up 
 military type, with crisp gingery hair and a close-cut 
 moustache to match, over a mouth full of strong white 
 
44 Rank and Riches 
 
 teeth. He had never known a day's illness in his life, not 
 even a twinge of toothache. The gods had showered their 
 gifts on him, and it must be said that at the present time 
 he was grateful to them, though he did not recognise the 
 full measure of their lavishness. 
 
 The two of them lingered in the garden, under a sky of 
 amber and jade. They were as keen on the garden as 
 on everything else at Little Kemsale, and just now there 
 were borders being reconstituted and flowering shrubs 
 planted. Douglas slipped his arm into his wife's as they 
 examined the long double border that led through the 
 middle of the garden behind the house, and found fault with 
 what had been done while they were out. They were the 
 best of friends, these two. Their continued pleasure in one 
 another's society was another gift of the gods, but one 
 which they took as a matter of course. 
 
 They had tea in Douglas's room, which had been built 
 for a billiard room when the house had been rearranged. 
 It was not big enough for a billiard-table and the furniture 
 of a comfortable sitting-room besides, so he had made a 
 library of it, for he read a good deal, and liked buying 
 books and arranging them on his shelves. He had bought 
 a good many at the sale at Kemsale, and brought his book- 
 shelves round to a return that jutted out into the room, by 
 the door. The work had just been finished, and all the 
 books, new and old, arranged to suit the extension. And 
 two or three of the prints that he had also bought from 
 Kemsale were hung on the back of the new bookcase, which 
 was covered with red canvas to match the walls of the room. 
 Douglas was enchanted with the effect. The masking of 
 the door made the room, which was large enough to benefit 
 by such an arrangement, ever so much cosier. The hand- 
 some binding of many of the books from Kemsale added to 
 the appearance of the well-filled shelves. He sat on the 
 cushioned fender in front of the fire, with his hands in his 
 pockets, and looked round him with deep satisfaction. 
 
 " It's a great success, isn't it ?'" he said. " The only 
 tiling about it is that the room is so jolly now that there's 
 nothing more to do to it." 
 
 That was the fly in the ointment. The pleasure of 
 " making " a room, to those who have those tastes, is keener 
 than the pleasure of living in it. 
 
 Beatrix laughed. She liked " nice " things, but was 
 without the driving acquisitive taste. " We shall have 
 
Little Kemsale 45 
 
 enough books now to keep us quiet for a long time to 
 come/ 'she said. 
 
 Douglas rose and went up to the shelves. " I don't 
 know/' he said. " There are a good many we haven't got 
 that we ought to have. I rather wish I had bid up for that 
 Pentland Stevenson/ 1 
 
 " Oh, my dear boy, it went up to a terrific price ; and 
 you've got all Stevenson." 
 
 " Not quite all, and not in a good edition. That one 
 is sure to go up in value still further. That's the best 
 of buying good editions. They're jolly to have, and you 
 can sell 'em for more than you gave, if you want to. I 
 say, it's jolly getting this whole set of ' Punches,' isn't it ? 
 Fancy having them all bound in red morocco like that ! I 
 must ask Meadshire where it was done. We shall have to 
 ^ei the new ones bound in the same way." 
 
 *' I don't suppose he knows," said Beatrix. " It would 
 be done by the groom of the chambers, just because it had 
 always been done in that way ; and probably Lord Mead- 
 shire never looked at them. It's perfectly appalling the 
 waste that went on in that house. There was nobody to 
 check anything." 
 
 Douglas returned to the fireside, where Beatrix was now 
 busy with the tea-table. Meadshire and Kemsale were 
 perennial sources of conversation. 
 
 "In a way," said Douglas — this was a very frequent 
 opening of his — " in a way, I can understand Meads] -ire 
 being quite relieved at getting rid of a great overgrown 
 place like Kemsale. You might almost say it was never 
 really his. It was chock full of jolly things, but they had 
 all been put there by somebody else. He just lived amongst 
 them, when he was there, and didn't care a bit about them." 
 
 " I'm not sure that he didn't. He was very keen on 
 getting the things that he and Grace wanted for the 
 Herons' Nest, and furious when they bid up against him 
 in that extraordinary way." 
 
 " Well, that's just what I say. The Herons' Nest is 
 their own, in a way that Kemsale never was. Of course 
 they take tremendous interest in it, and in everything they 
 put into it. It even gives Meadshire something to do that 
 he enjoys, though it isn't one of his chief tastes — that sort 
 of thing — and he'll probably get tired of it when it's all 
 done." 
 
 " Poor Lord Meadshire 1 " 
 
4G Rank and Riches 
 
 " He's nobody's enemy but his own. You were going to 
 say it ; I know you were." 
 
 Beatrix paused, looked slightly indignant, and then 
 laughed, and Douglas bent down to her and kissed her. 
 It was one of the amiable habits of this couple to take 
 each other up in this way when any obvious remark seemed 
 about to be made. 
 
 When the tea was nearly over, the two children rushed 
 in like a tornado. Woozle, whose baptismal name was 
 Emily Beatrice, had reached the tooth-shedding age, but 
 was otherwise of exceptional and, as it seemed to her father, 
 even of super-earthly beauty. She had very dark eyes and 
 hair, and a pair of reedy brown legs, of which her afternoon 
 costume displayed the greater proportion. She hurled 
 herself at her father, who had just time enough to put down 
 his teacup in order to receive the assault, and he hugged her 
 and rumpled her and turned her over his shoulder and back- 
 again in a way that made her shriek with joy, and then threw 
 himself into Ins deep easy-chair with her on his knee. 
 
 In the meantime Jimbo, who was all white sailor suit, 
 blue eyes and lacquer-coloured hair, had been turning 
 somersaults in the middle of the room, with vociferous 
 demands for notice between each event. When he had 
 nearly upset the tea-table his mother caught him, laid him 
 wriggling across her knee, and essayed to slap that part of 
 him which seemed to have been made for the purpose ; 
 but failing in this intention pulled him upright and hugged 
 him instead. 
 
 " You'll spoil that young ruffian before you've done with 
 him,' , said Douglas. | 
 
 " You'll spoil that little minx long before you've done 
 with her," retorted Beatrix. " We are both very unwise 
 parents. Now then, Jimbo, tell mummy everything you 
 have been doing this afternoon with Lizette, in French." 
 
 " Which mummy won't understand," said Douglas. 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 THE SHOOTING PARTY 
 
 The shooting party arrived with a cheerful bustle in 
 comfortable time to settle themselves for dinner. It con- 
 sisted of John Fanshawe, a large good-humoured rather 
 lazy bachelor of no occupation ; William Bradgate, who 
 had been in Douglas Irving's regiment and was now of the 
 Stock Exchange, with his wife ; and Charles Wesbrook, 
 a successful hard-working barrister, with a slow smile and 
 a confidential manner. There were also of the party the 
 Rector of Kemsale and the agent to the Meadshire property, 
 both of whom were to shoot with them on the morrow. 
 
 The Rector was a cousin of Meadshire's — the Honour- 
 able and Reverend James Compton. He was not clerical, 
 either in manner or appearance — a very tall thin man of 
 about forty, with sleek black hair well brushed back, and 
 a cynical type of face permanently decorated with an eye- 
 glass. He had no particular love for his work, and no 
 particular aptitude for it, but did what had to be done in 
 the way of duty conscientiously, and was well enough liked 
 by his parishioners. He was a bachelor, and reputed rich, 
 both from the emoluments of his living, which were sub- 
 stantial, and from private sources. He lived in some 
 style and considerable comfort in his charming rectory 
 house, from which he hunted regularly throughout the 
 season. Apart from sport, he was something of a recluse ; 
 it was not very often that Beatrix Irving could get him to 
 accept an invitation to dinner, and he hardly ever dined 
 ■out at any of the country houses round about. He was an 
 omnivorous reader, and if he could ever be induced to talk, 
 in congenial company, exhibited a mind stocked with all 
 kinds of knowledge. He seemed to forget nothing that he 
 had ever read, and had marvellous powers of assimilating 
 and collating his knowledge. But he had made no use of it, 
 had never published a line, or written anything except; 
 
 47 
 
48 Rank and Riches 
 
 some quite ordinary sermons. Douglas Irving was a little 
 afraid of him. With his encyclopaedic knowledge, he was 
 a wet blanket upon his own facile excursions into the field 
 of mental culture, and did not respond too heartily to 
 friendly advances. But he was rather proud of him too, 
 and recognised to the full his remarkable abilities. 
 M That fellow knows more than any fellow I've ever met," 
 he would say to those to whom he wished to exhibit him. 
 " You try him on any subject — I don't care what it is — 
 and you'll find he knows more about it than you do. Jolly 
 good man on a horse too," he would usually add, " and 
 knows all the country like a book. You'll never find him 
 far behind when it comes to the end of things." 
 
 Captain Herbert Fuller, Meadshire's agent, was a small, 
 compact man of about sixty. He was rather a pathetic 
 figure to those who knew of his life and immediate sur- 
 roundings. He had married rather beneath him, and his 
 wife had been trying to persuade everybody ever since that 
 she had married beneath her. She was extravagant, in a 
 yellow-haired towny sort of way, and had a daughter of 
 one and twenty whom she was training to follow in her 
 footsteps. They lived in a converted farmhouse, which 
 would have been an ideal country home if Mrs. Fuller had 
 had any idea of how to make it so. But there was no com- 
 fort or enjoyment inside it, at least for the poor little 
 peaceably minded Captain Fuller, who was obliged to spend 
 on it the whole of his hardly earned income, and had con- 
 stant ado not to exceed it. Mrs. Fuller went by the name 
 of Tottie behind her back, and all the ladies of the neigh- 
 bourhood regarded her as a scourge. Some of them were 
 sorry for her daughter, Irene, agreeing that she had not 
 had much chance ; but she was dull and slow at the best, 
 and by this time she had been generally given up as 
 material to be worked upon. Mrs. Fuller had been making 
 ludicrous attempts during the past five years to marry her 
 to the Rector, who could hardly bring himself to be civil 
 to either of them. Poor little Herbert, as Captain Fuller 
 was usually called, would never have been allowed to dine 
 at Little Kemsale en garcon as he was now doing, and 
 Beatrix Irving would never have spoilt such a party by 
 asking his women folk, if they had been there to be asked. 
 But, fortunately, Tottie and Irene were amusing themselves 
 shopping in London, and poor little Herbert, with his neat' 
 little grey moustache and sharp decisive speech, was quite 
 
The Shooting Party 49 
 
 ready to expand to his small limits, and play his part in a 
 company consisting chiefly of men. 
 
 " Well, Kemsale is sold," he told them, standing before 
 the fire in the drawing-room, and looking sharply from one 
 to the other. " I had the news this afternoon. But I 
 can't tell you who's the buyer yet." 
 
 " Oh, I can," said Bradgate. " I heard it in the City 
 this morning. It's Armitage Brown. Douglas, my boy, 
 if you play your cards well, you'll get tips that will put 
 money in your pocket all the time." 
 
 There was a general exclamation. This was news in- 
 deed, and gave matter for discussion during the greater part 
 of the dinner to which they now went in. 
 
 Every now and then there arises on the horizon a man 
 of business who captures the imagination of the whole 
 country ; a man who stands for brilliant success and oppor- 
 tunities for unlimited wealth. Armitage Brown was that 
 man at this time — a self-made man, as most of them are, 
 a keen and masterful financier, with some big affairs to his 
 credit, and as yet no trail of deluded victims hanging on to 
 his operations. And indeed there seemed to be no reason, 
 in his case, to anticipate the ultimate downfall that not 
 infrequently overtakes these Napoleons of finance. His 
 operations were large and bold, but they were clean and 
 sound enough, or at least had attracted none of the criti- 
 cism that would have been eager to pounce upon them if 
 there had been any points to direct itself against. And the 
 public at this time was cautious about such operators, and 
 apt to be suspicious of them. The last one had gone down 
 heavily, and dragged thousands with him. Armitage 
 Brown had a difficult path to tread, but so far he had 
 trodden it without a slip. 
 
 Bradgate had a good deal to say about him. " He's 
 more like one of the big American fellows, the Carnegies 
 and Pierpont Morgans, than our Jabez Balfours and 
 Whittaker Wrights," he said. " He's got the eye for it ; 
 sees money in everything." 
 
 " The rubber boom started him, didn't it ? " asked W T est- 
 brook. 
 
 " Oh, he'd made a pile long before that. But he pro- 
 bably more than doubled it over rubber. All his things 
 were sound, too ; that's what gave him his reputation. 
 And he made another scoop when the slump came ; he 
 knew his markets. He's a wily bird, Mr. Armitage Brown. 
 
50 Rank and Riches 
 
 lie II be a big little man one of these days, bigger than he 
 is now." 
 
 Most of the company round the dinner-table were anxious 
 for news of Mr. Armitage Brown on his private and 
 domestic side, which would affect them more than his public 
 — his wealth being taken for granted. But there was very 
 little news forthcoming. 
 
 " I've seen him in the City," said Bradgate. " He's a 
 middle-aged fellow with a heavy jowl and a stubby mou- 
 stache, nothing very remarkable to look at. I don't fancy 
 anybody knows much about him in his happy home. He 
 seems to have kept that dark, so far." 
 
 " He has a great big house out at Hillgrove," said Wes- 
 brook. 
 
 " Ah, yes, in the suburbs. And now he's ready to cut 
 a dash as the country gentleman. You'll be having some 
 changes here, Douglas, my boy." 
 
 Poor little Herbert had been soaking in the information 
 afforded with an ever-lengthening face. " I hope he won't 
 be trying new-f angled experiments with the land," he said. 
 
 " Of course he will," said Bradgate. " You'll be taught 
 your business, Fuller. I bet he'll make the land pay, too, 
 whatever experiments he tries." 
 
 Poor little Herbert's face grew longer still. It seemed 
 possible that under the circumstances he might not be 
 there to learn his business over again. And if he were 
 dismissed, what chance had he, at his age, of getting 
 another job ? 
 
 " Then we know now who it was that bought all that 
 furniture at the sale," said Beatrix. " Of course, if it 
 was a man as rich as that, he wouldn't mind what he paid 
 for it." 
 
 This was a new light. It moved the Rector to speech. 
 41 1 don't imagine I shall get on with a man like that," he 
 said slowly. 
 
 The rest looked at him. This was important. 
 
 " Meadshire telephoned to his agents," he went on, 
 "" that he wanted to buy in a few family things, and 
 Brown, or whoever it was, told them to buy them all the 
 same." 
 
 " Yes, that's Master Armitage all over," said Bradgate. 
 "" What he wants he's going to have." 
 
 " What about the shoot ? " asked Fanshawe. 
 
 " Well, he can't turn us out of that this season. I don't 
 
The Shooting Party 51 
 
 suppose we shall get it again, though. Master Armitage 
 will want to learn to shoot himself. I don't suppose he's 
 ever done such a thing before. When's he coining down, 
 Fuller? " 
 
 Poor little Herbert came out of a painful reverie with a 
 jump. " I don't know," he said. " I just heard that the 
 sale was complete — the house and all the farms." 
 
 " What an appalling prospect ! " said the Rector. 
 
 Kis tone brought a short pause. It showed him to have 
 considered the news in its entirety, and to be pronouncing 
 upon it. His character and position were such that the 
 way it struck him gave food for conjecture as to future 
 developments. 
 
 " It will make a good deal of difference to all of us," said 
 Douglas. 
 
 Mrs. Bradgate broke in. She was a lively pretty little 
 woman, some years younger than her husband. " You 
 ought to have a lot more fun than you did when Lord 
 Meadshire was here," she said. " You can't say that he 
 is much loss." 
 
 There was another pause, such as to cause her to look 
 round to see whether she had said something that she ought 
 not to have said. She met her husband's eyes directed 
 towards her with humorous tolerance. " Oh, yes, you've 
 put 3'our foot in it all right," he said. " Mr. Compton is 
 Lord Meadshire's cousin." 
 
 The slight tension was relieved. Compton laughed with 
 the rest. " You needn't mind, Mrs. Bragdate," he said. 
 " I don't in the least. My cousin's follies have been as 
 annoying to me as to everybody else." 
 
 It was not quite what he might have been expected to 
 say. Opinion towards Meadshire was tolerant at this time. 
 Lie had at least paid the full price for his follies, and should 
 he considered immune from criticism until he committed 
 further ones. Besides, as Beatrix Irving had said with 
 such originality, he was nobody's enemy but his own, and he 
 had certainly never acted with enmity towards any of those 
 present. 
 
 Poor little Herbert came up loyally to his defence. " He 
 was a very good landlord," he said. " Lots of landowners 
 who wanted more money out of their estates could have 
 done all sorts of things to get it or save it that he never did. 
 Everything has been kept up, till the last minute." 
 
 Perhaps some of the dislike that Compton felt for the 
 
52 Rank and Riches 
 
 persecuting Tottie extended vicariously to that lady's 
 husband ; perhaps he merely resented a hint of contra- 
 diction. He looked at the speaker not at all amiably. 
 " He never gave a moment's thought to his duties as a 
 landlord/' he said. " You know that as well as I do. He 
 just let everything slide." 
 
 Poor little Herbert was taken aback by this direct attack, 
 and subsided, fingering his moustache. Douglas Irving 
 came to his rescue, amiably, but with a shade of nervous- 
 ness. " He knew that he could safely leave everything to 
 Fuller," he said. 
 
 Compton turned to him. His face was pale, and his jaw 
 set. " I've kept pretty much to myself," he said, " while 
 all this business has been going on. I've been bottling up 
 what I feel about it. Now I'll tell you, straight out. I 
 think that for a man in Meadshire's position, the way he's 
 dealt with this property is a betrayal of trust. Everybody 
 is inclined to pat him on the back now, and say he's done 
 the right thing. He was in debt, and he's given up every- 
 thing. What right had he to give up everything ? If a 
 general in the field gets into a mess, are you going to pat 
 him on the back if he slinks out of it and gives up his 
 troops ? " 
 
 He threw himself back in his chair. The pause that 
 followed was very awkward indeed. He had spoken with 
 heat, advancing a disconcerting point of view. No one 
 wanted to blame Meadshire ; no one wanted to discuss 
 the ethics of landowning. 
 
 Mrs. Bradgate broke the silence. " I feel very sorry 
 for poor Lord Meadshire," she said feelingly. 
 
 There was a moment's tension, and then everybody 
 laughed, except Compton, who glared at her. 
 
 " Now we are going to have this company promoter 
 foisted on us," he went on. " He'll ride roughshod over 
 everything and everybody. Nothing will be the same as it 
 was before. And that's what Meadshire has brought us to." 
 
 No one in the room had heard him talk like this before, 
 or indeed express himself with warmth upon any subject 
 whatever. Douglas Irving was impressed by his manner 
 to vague discomfort. 
 
 " Oh, well, perhaps he won't be so bad," he said. " He 
 won't want to upset people." 
 
 Compton made no reply, except a shrug of the shoulders. 
 
 Charles Wesbrook entered the lists in his slow delibera- 
 
The Shooting Party 53 
 
 tive way. " That sort of thing is going on all over Eng- 
 land," he said, " the old men going out and the new men 
 coming in. It doesn't work so very badly. The new men 
 make mistakes occasionally, but they learn, and before you 
 know where you are, they're the old men in their turn." 
 
 Compton roused himself again. Evidently, anything 
 but complete accord with his opinions irritated him. " It's 
 only the people who are bred and born to it who know how 
 to "deal with land," he said dogmatically. " Every time 
 a property passes from the hands of those who understand 
 land, and comes into the hands of those who don't, the 
 country goes back . " 
 
 Nobody was ready to draw hre upon himself by dis- 
 puting this proposition. Mrs. Bradgate did so by inquiring : 
 " That's what you call High Toryism, isn't it ? " 
 
 She asked the question with engaging innocence, her 
 head a little on one side and her limpid eyes fixed sweetly 
 upon Compton's face. He replied, rather sourly; " It's 
 common sense, which I suppose is the same thing," and 
 then everybody else laughed, once more. 
 
 Later on in the evening, when Compton and Fuller had 
 gone home, and the rest of them were round the fire in 
 Douglas's room, the little lady was accused of pulling the 
 Rector's leg. 
 
 But she would not acknowledge it. " You always laugh 
 at me, Bill, whenever I try to take part in a serious conver- 
 sation," she complained. " I believe you think I'm a fool." 
 
 "We don't, Mrs. Bill," said Fanshawe. "We think 
 you'ro a very clever woman. I say, Douglas, that parson 
 of yours is what you call high and dry, eh ? " 
 
 "I'm a Tory myself," said Wesbrook ; "but I hate 
 intolerance." 
 
 " He didn't show up very well to-night," Douglas ad- 
 mitted. " He's an extraordinarily clever fellow, really ; 
 and a jolly good man on a " 
 
 " It doesn't take much cleverness to repeat ail the Tory 
 gags," interrupted Wesbrook. " That's about all he did 
 to-night." 
 
 " Oh, well," said Douglas ; " he's rather a bore on poli- 
 tics, I admit. But get him on any other subject — I don't 
 care what it is — and there's no fellow who knows more." 
 
 " If he thinks in that way about Mr. Armitage Brown," 
 said Beatrix, " they won't get on very well when he comes 
 here." 
 
5i Rank and Riches 
 
 " As he's so keen on people doing their duty," said Wes- 
 brook, " I should say that a parson's duty is to keep on 
 good terms with his squire." 
 
 " I suppose he'll still look on Meadshire as his squire, 
 if he's going on living here," said Fanshawe. 
 
 " Well, he's his own squire — in a way," said Douglas. 
 " He bought the patronage of Kemsale from Meadshire 
 to prevent his selling it elsewhere." 
 
 ' Then in that case I should think he'd make himself 
 a thorn in the side of Master Armitage," said Bradgate. 
 " I shouldn't be too ready to take sides if I were you, 
 Duggy. Armitage Brown is as rich as Croesus, and if he's 
 decided that his time has come to set up in an enormous 
 house like Kemsale, there'll probably be some fun going." 
 
 The advice fitted in with Douglas's inclinations. " Of 
 course I'm sorry to see Meadshire turned out," he said. 
 '.- But after all, he's sold the place and got his price. The 
 new man ought to have his chance. It will be rather 
 exciting, finding out what he's like." 
 
 " Lord Meadshire is furious at his stopping him getting the 
 things that he and Grace wanted at the sale," said Beatrix. 
 /' I don't think he will give him a very warm welcome." 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 ARMITAGE BROWN 
 
 On a Sunday afternoon at about this time, Mr. Armitage 
 Brown and his wife and son and daughter were drinking 
 tea in the morning-room of Hillgrove Towers. 
 
 Hillgrove Towers was a castellated mansion which had 
 been profusely erected in the middle of the nineteenth cen- 
 tury on the site of an older house. It stood in about twenty 
 acres of beautiful grounds, on the side of a hill overlooking 
 the country to the south of London, from the heart of 
 which it was divided by three or four miles of suburbs, 
 which already hemmed it in on three sides and were fast 
 pushing out beyond it on the fourth. The trams ran along 
 the road upon which its lodge gates were situated ; Armi- 
 tage Brown's motor-car deposited him at his office in the 
 City in less than half an hour from the time of his stepping 
 into it at the front door of the Towers, and had been known 
 to come home from a late theatre, when the streets were 
 clear, in a quarter of an hour. 
 
 But inside the high walls that surrounded the property 
 there was complete seclusion, and except for the sooty 
 coating on the trunks of trees and the leaves of shrubs, 
 3'ou might have been in a garden in the heart of the country. 
 It was very opulent, in the way of great ranges of glass- 
 houses, elaborate effects of tender flowers in the summer 
 beds, and very carefully tended lawns ; but there were 
 sylvan recesses within its limits besides, and a tree-enclosed 
 paddock or two, and a large lake on the lower ground. 
 
 These rura in tirbe are becoming increasingly rare in 
 the immediate outskirts of London. At the time that the 
 pretentious " Towers " had taken the place of the pleasant 
 old rambling house that had stood here, this one had 
 been actually in the country, and a little bit of the country 
 was still preserved within its walls. But outside them 
 there was nothing but a waste of little houses, running in 
 rectangular streets over the ground where there had once 
 
 55 
 
5G Rank and Riches 
 
 been meadows and arable fields belonging to the old house. 
 A few such places have lately been preserved from the 
 fate that has overtaken most of them by the rise of motor- 
 transport. Rich people who like space around them, but 
 have no further leanings towards country life, might be 
 expected to compete eagerly for the possession of them, 
 where they have been made almost as accessible as South 
 Kensington or Campden Hill. But there remains a sort 
 of stigma on suburban life, even where it has almost 
 ceased to become suburban, and few families that inhabit 
 such places as " The Towers" remain in them for more 
 than a generation. 
 
 The Browns had lived here for nearly twenty years, 
 and now they were ready to move on. They were a case 
 in point. 
 
 Armitage Brown was a self-made man, but he was not 
 sprung from the lowest classes of the community. He 
 had no difficulty with his h's, and had never eaten with 
 his knife. His father had been in business in the City, 
 in connection with produce of some sort, and had even 
 left him some money. He had an elder brother who still 
 carried on the paternal business, and did well with it. 
 Armitage Brown had left school at fourteen and entered 
 a stockbroker's firm, first as office-boy, then as clerk, then 
 as authorized clerk. For ten or twelve years he had 
 remained obscure, one of the many thousand young men 
 who work in offices in London, and go home- every night 
 to some unknown dwelling-place, in which they live a life 
 completely separated from that of their working hours. 
 The degree to which the one life is subordinated to the 
 other will usually give the degree to which any one of 
 these young men has it in him to raise himself out of 
 the ruck. 
 
 Armitage Brown married early, on a very small income, 
 and his three children, one of whom died in infancy, came 
 quickly, one after the other. He might, at this stage, well 
 have been immersed in the little interests and anxieties 
 of his home life, as are many thousands like him. The 
 difficulty felt by such men as he is often in finding just 
 that first small sum of money which they can use as a 
 lever in raising themselves out of the salaried class. To 
 that extent he had handicapped himself by his early mar- 
 riage, for the whole of his salary was swamped in current 
 expenses. 
 
Armitage Brown 57 
 
 But he was learning, and watching for his chance all 
 the time. He saw it, and asked his father for money, which 
 was refused him. He never forgave this, not even when 
 his father died and left him a couple of thousand pounds. 
 That sum was nothing to him then. A tenth of it would 
 have saved him three years of poverty, if he could have 
 had the use of it at the right time. 
 
 It was for three years that he waited for the next chance, 
 but in the meantime his salary had increased, and his 
 home expenses had not — not by a penny. His wife knew 
 nothing of the business side of his life. For all the infor- 
 mation he gave her she might have expected him to remain 
 a poor clerk all his days. 
 
 He came home one evening and told her that they could 
 afford to move into a larger house and keep three servants 
 instead of one. He was his own master now — had been 
 for a month and more — and was doing well. 
 
 Exactly how well he was doing she had not the slightest 
 idea of. Things had begun to march at last. He was 
 only twenty-five, but it seemed to him that he had passed 
 a long lifetime of struggle, with all the chances against him. 
 
 The years of watching and waiting, and the ultimate 
 success, from which he never looked back, had, in fact, set 
 their mark on him, and far more than he knew. On the 
 one hand, he had wonderfully perfected his knowledge and 
 judgment, had learnt patience and strong self-restraint. 
 There had been many times when a speculation, hardly 
 even risky, would have put him where he aimed at being. 
 But he would not risk what he had — his reputation, the 
 assured basis of his home — ever so slightly. When he 
 struck, it was with the certainty of succeeding. This hold- 
 ing back of himself, through what seemed at his age long 
 years, while the spirit of adventure in him urged him to 
 make use of his fast-maturing powers, was an achievement 
 of character. 
 
 On the other hand, the splitting up of his life into two, 
 began at that earl}' age, marked the price which most men 
 who made a strong assault upon wealth have to pay for 
 their success. His working hours were full of interest ; 
 his home life was stunted and incomplete, for lack of money 
 spent on easing the wheels of its machinery. Ease and 
 enjoyment would come later ; in the meantime he with- 
 drew his mind from desire of them. 
 
 If he could have made his wife a partner in his ambitions 
 
58 Rank and Riches 
 
 no harm need have come of this. But he knew, with the 
 sharp instinctive knowledge of character that was already 
 beginning to develop in him, that she would not agree with 
 him in sacrificing some years of their youth to the chance 
 of large wealth in the future. She was a shade more gently 
 nurtured than he, and while she bore uncomplainingly the 
 povertj/ to which he condemned her and her children, as 
 well as himself, because she thought it unavoidable, it is 
 doubtful if she would have forgiven him if she had known 
 that he was depriving her of the small yearly sum that 
 would have taken off her shoulders the worst of the burden. 
 He never did tell her that he had been saving money during 
 the greater part of those hard years. She never looked 
 back upon them with pleasure, as so many people who 
 have become rich are able to do on their early days of 
 povert}', except perhaps upon the first year of their married 
 life, before the children began to come. The struggle had 
 marked her too deeply. She only wanted to forget it. 
 
 Nor did she know, when they moved to the larger house, 
 and her authorized expenditure was multiplied by four, how 
 small a proportion it still bore to what her husband could 
 have afforded. He set aside money for his home on terms 
 that were almost cold-blooded, although he was a kind- 
 hearted man by nature, and loved his wife and children. 
 He would certainly have said that it was for them he was 
 working, and believed it ; and it would have been true 
 with regard to the money that he allocated to the expenses 
 of living. He allowed himself no pleasures that they did 
 not share, and his meals in the City, when he was scraping 
 money together, and was of an age when the body calls 
 out for nourishment, were more meagre than theirs. Also, 
 they would have all that they wanted in the future. But 
 he would have kept them, and himself as well, on their 
 almost starvation allowance for an indefinite time, if there 
 had been any practical object to serve by doing so. There 
 was none, when he did make the increase. The few hun- 
 dreds a year that he allotted to living expenses counted 
 as nothing in the turnover of his operations. It was what 
 he could afford without being hampered by its loss. He 
 fixed it by that standard. It was put aside and not thought 
 of again. It was for his wife to deal with it. 
 
 At this stage, then, he had already reached the point 
 at which the making of money was his chief object, and 
 not any of the things that money could buy. He enjoyed 
 
Armitage Brown 59 
 
 the increased comfort of his home, but only in a very minor 
 degree beside the enjoyment he obtained from his work, 
 and his now increasing opportunities in it. He rather 
 guarded himself against interests outside his business, from 
 the feeling that the time had not yet come for him to 
 divide them, in however small a degree. His evenings were 
 apt to be dull ; he came to the beginning of the week's 
 work with much the same pleasurable anticipation as most 
 men come to the end of it ; and the annual holida}' was 
 acute boredom to him. His home was a place to rest in ; 
 he wanted no society but that of his wife and children, 
 and was gradually unfitting himself for societ}', except 
 that of men with whom he could talk business ; he never 
 read anything except what might have a bearing upon 
 business ; he had a mild liking for music and pictures, and 
 thought that he might develop those tastes later on, when 
 he should become very much richer and should have more 
 time. He did not see that he was impairing all his capa- 
 bilities for enjoying life outside the doors of his office, and 
 that the more money he should make the less he would be 
 fitted to use it except as a lever to make more still. 
 
 Probably the two years they spent in the semi-detached 
 villa which was their second home was the happiest period 
 of his life. The severe restrictions of the early years, 
 which had irked him, although much less so than his wife, 
 were over, and he had absolutely everything that he desired 
 in his home. And in the much fuller life that he lived in 
 pursuance of his schemes the glow of excitement was over 
 everything — more so than in later years, when success was 
 a fact beyond all hazard, and expectation embraced only 
 the operation of the moment, and not the large future. 
 
 And yet, even at this stage, he would never have admitted 
 that the skill with which he played the game of finance, 
 and the success he might have in it, were the only things 
 he really cared about. To acknowledge that would have 
 been to depreciate the coin for which he worked so hard 
 to the value of a counter. No ; he was to use it some day, 
 or the overplus of it ; but the using of it would need a 
 whole new set of desires and occupations, and these would 
 have to be created. It was a prospect that infused no 
 warmth into his imagination. He would like to be a rich 
 and powerful man, living in a big house — at least, he 
 supposed he would like it. But there was no hurry ; that 
 could all wait. 
 
co Rank and Riches 
 
 He was under thirty when be bought "The Towers," 
 and his expenditure rose from hundreds to thousands. 
 Those thousands had no more actual significance in the 
 strategy of his dealings than the hundreds had had. He 
 had gone beyond the point at which he could measure the 
 satisfaction to be gained from existence in such a house 
 by what it cost him. It might be said that, judged by 
 any practical standard, it cost him nothing. 
 
 But he did gain some genuine satisfaction over dealing 
 with large sums of money in this way, for the first time. 
 The feeling curiously resembled the spendthrift satisfac- 
 tion in getting rid of money for the sake of getting rid 
 of it, of which instance has already been made, but rested 
 on very different grounds. Its basis was an attempt to 
 touch the measure of possession, hitherto little tested on 
 this side. Henceforward there would be no limits to the 
 acquisition of anything that he might desire to have — 
 the desires themselves being contained within reasonable 
 bounds by his previous training of himself. Cost need 
 not be counted, and indeed the satisfaction would have 
 departed if it had had to be. The things that other men 
 struggled hard for, as an end in themselves, and made 
 themselves anxious about, he could now take, with no 
 more forethought, as far as price was concerned, than is 
 necessary for the buying of a toy in the street. 
 
 That he could hardly expect to enjoy them when he 
 had got them, as much as if he had been obliged to scheme 
 for them, did not occur to him. He did enjoy possession 
 of " The Towers " as much as he had left himself capable 
 of enjoying anything outside the main interest of his life. 
 Its largeness and pretentiousness suited what taste he had 
 in such matters, and it pleased him again to write a thump- 
 ing cheque for its sumptuous furnishing, after he had given 
 his wife carte blanche in that respect. She was encouraged 
 to run the house on a lavish scale, and he did the same 
 himself with gardens and stable, but exercised his grasp 
 of detail there, to the extent of not being imposed upon by 
 servants. Otherwise everything was to be of the best, and 
 he came to take a mild pleasure in his forcing-houses and 
 conservatories. It amounted to no more than a stroll round 
 them with a cigar, on Sundays or summer evenings, and 
 a pride in the show they made. He knew the names of 
 very few of the flowers banked there in gorgeous masses, 
 and nothing at all about their growth ; all that was left 
 
Armitage Brown 61 
 
 to his gardeners. When the house was once furnished 
 his interest in it ceased. He took for granted what was 
 in it, and never thought of adding anything, though his 
 wife was at liberty to biry what she liked. 
 
 After a time he began to buy pictures. He bought them 
 nearly all out of the yearly exhibitions at the Academy, 
 and occasionally in sale-rooms, but bought none of an earlier 
 date than the latter half of the nineteenth century. In 
 time he acquired a large and representative collection of 
 modern British art on its more obvious side, and had paid 
 in the aggregate a very large sum for it. For many years 
 this collection represented all his expenditure outside the 
 keeping up of his home ; and he was growing richer and 
 richer, though he had not yet reached the point at which 
 his name had become a household word. 
 
 Perhaps that was what he was unconsciously striving for 
 during those years — to take a recognised place amongst 
 the big men. Work must have some end in view if it is 
 to keep its salt, even though that end may not be definitely 
 envisaged. He had no ambitions towards any larger life 
 outside his business hours to which his money could help 
 him, and, denied an outlet there, his energies could only 
 lead towards wide recognition, if they were to lead any- 
 where. When the recognition came, when his name became 
 known everywhere, and hardly a newspaper was published 
 without some mention of it, a change in his way of living 
 seemed already to be indicated. He was to be carried on, 
 to embark on new and untried waters, and it was not 
 without surprise that he learnt now that his own untram- 
 melled will was no longer the sole shaper of his course. 
 
 It was not likely that his wife's development under the 
 influence of sudden and then increasing wealth should have 
 followed the same course as his. Her interests had scope 
 in what to him was only the permanent and unchanging 
 background of his life, his own vital interests lying quite 
 apart from it. In their second home, where she was able 
 to throw off the constant burdensome anxieties of the days 
 of their poverty, she began to make a life for herself. She 
 was still young, rather handsome, rather stupid, but very 
 eager for her place in the sun. She was domestic enough 
 to find her chief pleasure in looking after her children 
 and her house, but she also enjoyed the intercourse that 
 she had with the people who inhabited similar houses to 
 their own around them. She made no intimate friends, 
 
G2 Rank and Riches 
 
 and what real sociability she had in her expended itself 
 upon her own and her husband's immediate relations. What 
 she liked was the mechanism of sociability, the " calls," 
 the " At Home " days, the formal gatherings. For these 
 she dressed herself and decked her house. 
 
 When they moved to " The Towers," her life expanded 
 largely, but was still contained within limits essentially 
 narrow. Her children were older now, and she left them 
 a good deal with nurses and governesses. When she learnt 
 that she was at liberty to spend what to her was unlimited 
 money, she gave herself seriously to the question of dress. 
 There was hardly a day in the week in which she did 
 not drive into London to " shop." The hours she spent 
 with dressmakers and milliners were the stirring hours of 
 her life. And she spent much money on expensive appoint- 
 ments for the house, but never bought anything of real 
 artistic value. 
 
 " The Towers " was in quite another quarter from that 
 in which they had lived formerly, and she dropped all her 
 old acquaintances completely, and filled their places with 
 the people who at that time lived in Hillgrove. This was 
 not out of snobbery, from which she was comparatively 
 free, but simply because a circle of acquaintance was 
 necessary in order to exercise the pseudo-social activities 
 that went with such a house as ' ' The Towers." The people 
 who lived in similar, or rather smaller, houses immediately 
 around were those amongst whom she must now play her 
 part and her former acquaintances were cut. She wanted 
 friendships as little as before. 
 
 Armitage Brown had bought " The Towers " when Hill- 
 grove had already begun to deteriorate as a residential 
 suburb. Through the years that followed, one by one the 
 larger houses disappeared, to make way for the streets 
 of small houses that were Hillgrove's ultimate fate. The 
 wastage of people whom Mrs. Brown could ask to her 
 house, and to whose houses she could go, went on very 
 fast, and she had absolutely no reserves on which to draw 
 elsewhere. It was a very rare thing for her husband to 
 bring a business friend home with him, and if he occasion- 
 ally dined with one of them in London, he did not take 
 her with him. Not for years did she enter a house as large 
 as her own, or indeed any house belonging to rich people, 
 outside Hillgrove. 
 
 When they had lived at " The Towers " for about twelve 
 
Armitage Brown 63 
 
 years they went to the Riviera for a holiday. It was the 
 first time that either of them had ever been abroad ; and 
 it was the first time that Armitage Brown had ever enjoyed 
 a holiday since his boyhood. His enjoyment was of a mild 
 enough order. He liked the sunshine, and the bright life, 
 and the change of food. He was just beginning to feel 
 ever so slightly the strain that his unremitting concentra- 
 tion upon business had brought him. He was in the mood 
 to lie fallow for a few weeks. 
 
 But to his wife the experience was a revelation of what 
 life might be. The clothes alone would have filled her 
 mind. She had always been a peacock amongst jackdaws, 
 or at best amongst pheasants. She had dressed herself 
 from fashion papers and shop windows, not from other 
 women. But here there was something to observe, some- 
 thing to emulate. And she saw how much she had yet to 
 learn. Strong ambition awoke in her. She had the figure, 
 nnd the type of face, and the genius for it ; and, of course, 
 the money. Another year, if they came to this place — 
 and she was determined that they would — she would shine 
 in it as brightly as she had shone amongst the women of 
 Hillgrove. 
 
 They made some acquaintances at the smart hotel 
 in which they stayed. Her husband made them more 
 readily than she did. He was already known as a rich 
 man, and a rich man has no difficulty in making acquaint- 
 ances. The men with whom he went over to Monte Carlo, 
 or with whom he smoked and talked in the lounge of 
 the hotel, or on the terrace overlooking the sea, found 
 him companionable. He was interesting on his own sub- 
 ject, and as his own subject was money there were plenty 
 glad enough to listen to him. 
 
 With her it was different. She had no warmth of nature 
 to make up for her total lack of experience of the sort of 
 life lived by the women with whom she foregathered. She 
 had the sense to use a large silence and to learn much from 
 their talk. But her silence did not commend her to them, 
 and whenever she did speak she stamped herself as sub- 
 urban, or else as a stiff bore. The men who were inclined 
 to cultivate her because of her good looks found her quite 
 irresponsive. She wanted notice, but not the sort of notice 
 that demands any return. 
 
 The net result of this visit was a door opened to her in 
 Prince's Gate and another in Kensington Palace Gardens ; 
 
Gi Rank and Riches 
 
 and she and her husband spent a Sunday in August in a 
 house that one of their new acquaintances had taken on 
 the Thames. 
 
 Next year they went South again, and Armitage Brown 
 bought a villa at Cap Martin. He bought it just as it 
 stood, furniture and all, and paid a price for it that made 
 talk when it leaked out. They had dined in it one evening, 
 and sat out on the terrace after dinner amongst the orange 
 trees, looking over the moonlit sea to the fairy lights of 
 Monte Carlo. What little romance Armitage Brown re- 
 tained in him was stirred. Such a place as this would be 
 much more agreeable to retire to for a rest than a noisy 
 hotel. And they could have the children there, and they 
 and his wife could live there for a few months every year 
 instead of a few weeks, while he went backwards and 
 forwards. 
 
 He asked his host, whom he knew in business, whether 
 lie would sell the villa. His host laughed at him and said 
 he had only just bought and furnished it. He offered him 
 a high price for immediate possession, which was refused. 
 He offered him a much higher price, which was also refused, 
 with some irritation. He offered him an extravagant price, 
 which was accepted. His friend walked out and he walked 
 in, taking over the staff of servants and everything in the 
 villa except the clothes of its former occupants. Then he 
 went home to England and brought out the children, while 
 his wife slowly woke up to the fact that a new era had 
 commenced for her. 
 
 She was completely happy in it. Dull-witted as she 
 was, she quickly and instinctively learnt what was expected 
 of her. She had nothing to offer except lavish entertaining, 
 but that she offered, and it was enough. She was shy of 
 small parties, in which she would have to talk and show 
 the hollowness of her sociability. But if she could ask 
 people in numbers big enough to amuse themselves she 
 understood how to do all the rest. The easy-going crowd 
 ate her elaborate dinners, and praised them. This praise, 
 coming to her ears, made her happy. 
 
 " The Towers " was dull after Cap Martin. The savour 
 had gone out of her suburban entertainments, to which 
 she had great difficulty in attracting her newer acquaint- 
 ance. She asked her husband to move to a house in London. 
 It was the first time she had ever initiated any desire of 
 her own, having been content hitherto to act within the 
 
Ar milage Brown 65 
 
 limits he had assigned her, and he refused, in some surprise 
 that the request should be made. By and by he asked 
 her why she had made it, and then told her that he had 
 no intention of giving up his leisure to a round of dull 
 gaieties. He did not mind while they were at the villa — ■ 
 he had nothing much to do there — but when he came home 
 from his work in the City he wanted to be quiet, to stroll 
 and sit in his garden, to eat his dinner, and go to bed 
 early. " The Towers " suited him. He had no idea of 
 giving it up. 
 
 She accepted his decision, but looked forward to its 
 alteration some day, from force of circumstances. She 
 saw the trend of things in what affected her as clearly 
 as he did in the realm of finance. She had a clearer idea 
 than he of what an attraction his wealth was to all sorts 
 of people whom he made no effort to attract. She also 
 saw, which he as yet did not, that as he became increasingly 
 known, it would be impossible for him to bury himself 
 outside his hours of business for the greater part of the 
 year. She endured, and bided her time. 
 
 It had now arrived. Armitage Brown was a name in 
 everybody's mouth. Its owner must take the place in 
 the world that was expected of him. It seemed a natural 
 step in the great campaign to which he had committed 
 himself, although in its earlier stages he had not thought 
 that it would involve his private life, 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 HILLGROVE TOWERS 
 
 It was a family party that sat about the tea-table at 
 Hillgrove Towers on that Sunday afternoon. Armitage 
 Brown, with his stubby dark moustache and his rather 
 heavy face, was of the type that always looks middle-aged. 
 He was still a few years short of fifty, but had not changed 
 much in appearance during the last ten or fifteen years, 
 and would not change much for ten or fifteen years more. 
 The look of grim power which his face wore during his 
 business hours was absent from it when he was at home. 
 He did not usually even take the lead in conversation. He 
 was content to leave that to his son and daughter. But 
 he was undoubtedly master in his own house, as he was 
 master in most positions in which he found himself. 
 
 His son, Alfred, had reached the age of five-and-twenty 
 in a manner agreeable enough to himself, but somewhat 
 disappointing to his father. He had some of his mother's 
 good looks, and some of her tranquillity of manner ; but 
 his face was intelligent and alert, and he was ready with 
 his tongue, which she had never been. 
 
 He had been sent, as a day boy, to a private school at 
 Hillgrove, being taken away from it during the Riviera 
 sojourns and sent back again on the return to England. 
 A public school education had not been within his father's 
 experience or designs at this time, but after desultory 
 years under tutors, and in " families " in Switzerland and 
 Germany, he had been sent to Cambridge. This had suited 
 him admirably, but his previous lack of steady training, 
 and his inexperience in English games and sports, had 
 not prepared him for any very strenuous life there. He 
 went through his three years as an amiable slacker, but 
 developed a taste for the arts. He sang, and played 
 the piano, quite nicely, acted at the " A. D. C," dabbled 
 in water-colours, and contributed to various undergraduate 
 
 66 
 
Hillgrove Towers 67 
 
 journals. He was clever in everything he took up, but 
 lacked application in everything. 
 
 When he left Cambridge, after a very long Long Vaca- 
 tion, he was introduced to a stool in his father's office. 
 But that was a failure from the very first, and he only 
 occupied it for a year. Then he read for the bar, but 
 professed himself sick of the law in a few months, and 
 proposed to become an artist. He went to Paris, enjoyed 
 himself exceedingly, but did very little work, having 
 soon discovered that no amount of work was likely to lead 
 him anywhere. He developed a taste for writing short 
 stories in the French manner, one or two of which were 
 published in English magazines. That was the stage 
 which he had now reached. He was engaged in literature, 
 and might have been engaged to some purpose if he had 
 had to make his living out of it. 
 
 His failure to follow in his father's footsteps had not 
 seriously disturbed Armitage Brown. His business was 
 not a great organization that would need a successor. It 
 was almost entirely personal to himself, and would dis- 
 appear on his death or retirement, if there were nobody 
 with similar gifts to his to carry it on. As his son was 
 obviously lacking in those gifts, it was waste of time to 
 train him to the work. Much less than a year showed 
 up the unlikelihood of his ever making money on his own 
 account, and as there was no actual necessity for him to 
 make money, he was only kept at it for that time to make 
 quite certain of his inability. After that his father did 
 not care much what he did, as long as he did something. 
 The traditions in which he himself had been brought up 
 demanded that, but he did not adhere to them very strictly. 
 He was quite aware by this time that any work his son 
 might be doing was only a pretence. He had left off 
 expecting anything of him, except perhaps that he should 
 comport himself fittingly as the son of a very rich man, 
 upon whom whatever fame or honour he himself might 
 attain to would eventually descend. 
 
 It was not an arduous part to play, but unfortunately 
 Alfred showed no greater capacity for it than he had shown 
 for the intricacies of finance. He had no fixed allowance, 
 but was encouraged to ask for any money that he might 
 want. He asked for very little in comparison with what 
 he might have had. If he was not much of an artist, he 
 was an expert in getting all the fun possible out of an 
 
08 Rank and Riches 
 
 artist's life, which does not involve the spending of a great 
 deal of money. He wandered about the Continent of 
 Europe a good deal, very often on foot, and shunned the 
 places frequented by the rich. He could very seldom be 
 induced to visit the villa at Cap Martin, but stayed fre- 
 quently for weeks together at " The Towers," for he was 
 fond of his parents and of his sister, and w r as little dis- 
 turbed in his private pursuits there. 
 
 He was a greater disappointment to his mother than 
 to his father. He was a very presentable young man, 
 and she would have liked to drag him about with her 
 and show him off, incidentally relieving herself of the 
 burden of talk, which was the one fly in the ointment 
 of her activities. But he looked upon her life with abso- 
 lute horror, though his affection for her and his good- 
 humoured tolerance of all eccentricities prevented his 
 showing it in any way that might have wounded her. 
 He chaffed her about it, and she took the chaff without 
 resenting it, or perhaps understanding it. They were good 
 friends, but she felt that he did her no credit, when he 
 might have done her so much. 
 
 Her daughter, Katharine, did her none either. She 
 was a year younger than Alfred, but seemed older. In 
 appearance she took after her father, who had neither 
 the build nor the features that would translate themselves 
 into feminine beauty. She was short and square, and if 
 the truth must be confessed, plain. But she had a lively, 
 energetic way with hef, and was a general favourite — 
 would have been so even if she had not been known as 
 the daughter of millionaire. 
 
 She had a good head too. If she had been born the 
 boy and Alfred the girl she might very well have fulfilled 
 all her father's hopes, and Alfred would at least have 
 afforded a figure to which his mother might have extended 
 her own taste in dress. It was heart-breaking work trying 
 to dress Katie. She looked just the same in anything, 
 and had no taste whatever of her own for clothes. It 
 was some consolation to Mrs. Brown that she liked going 
 about. But that was because she liked making friends, 
 which was not the aim of her mother's peripatetics. So 
 even there there was not much that they had in common. 
 Mrs. Brown sometimes felt that she had been hardly dealt 
 with, both in her son and in her daughter. But Katie and 
 her father got on well together. She was the only person 
 
Hillgrove Towers go 
 
 to whom he sometimes talked of his business schemes, 
 apart from those who were directly interested in them. 
 
 Armitage Brown's elder brother and his wife made up 
 the party. Uncle James was an active, cheery man of 
 about fifty. He had prospered in the world to the extent 
 of being able to live in quite a nice house at Reigate, 
 drive a motor-car, and take at least two days a week off 
 his business to play golf. He was not in the least jealous 
 of his brother's success, which fact makes of him rather 
 a remarkable person. He sometimes consulted him about 
 an investment, but that was the extent of their business 
 dealings with one another, and they were all the better 
 friends because of it. His only trouble in life was that 
 he had no children. 
 
 His wife — Aunt Millie — was a bright little lady, very 
 well suited to him. She was the only person outside her 
 own family for whom Mrs. Armitage Brown felt any 
 affection. She had been kind to her in the days of .her 
 poverty, when she herself, as a young wife, had been 
 very much more comfortably situated ; and Mrs. Armitage 
 had never forgotten it. She felt at home with her, as 
 she did with few people, and showed at her best, never 
 taking her stand upon the riches that had heaped them- 
 selves up around her, nor latterly upon the place she 
 was making for herself in a world from which her sister- 
 in-law was cut off. 
 
 Whether Aunt Millie viewed the rise of a woman so 
 inferior to herself in character or intelligence with the 
 complete equanimity displayed by her husband in the case 
 of his brother may be doubted. But she showed as little 
 jealousy as he did, unless jealousy was shown by her 
 steadfastly refusing to receive anything from the hands of 
 her sister-in-law that she could not return. 
 
 Poor relations ! Judged by the standard of Armitage 
 Brown's great wealth, Uncle James and Aunt Millie were 
 poor relations. It is a difficult part to play, but they 
 played it so well that their course of life was almost as 
 much an achievement in its way as his was. They were 
 always welcome at " The Towers," and their rich relations 
 liked going to them at Reigate, and in fact went there 
 more often than to any other house. 
 
 They were talking of the coming changes. Alfred, 
 stretching his long legs from a low chair, his teacup in 
 his hand, was treating them in a spirit of levity which 
 
70 Rank and Riches 
 
 his mother felt to be in questionable taste, but had no 
 weapons to silence. 
 
 " We are going to blossom out as lords of the soil," he 
 said. " Our men-at-arms have dislodged the defenders of 
 the bold Marquis, and the banner of the Browns now floats 
 proudly from the battlements. I've forgotten what device 
 it bears, but it will show up very well." 
 
 " Alfred is talking his usual nonsense," explained Mrs. 
 Brown. " Kemsale is not an ancient castle. But it is a 
 very large house and will take a great deal of furnishing." 
 
 "It has about sixty bedrooms," said Alfred. " It's just 
 the house we've been looking for. We hate feeling cramped. 
 We shall be able to find you a corner sometimes, Aunt Millie." 
 
 " I was wondering, dear, whether you would care to 
 come down with me to help get the house in order," said 
 Mrs. Brown. " They will begin to pack up here next 
 week, but I shall send most of the servants down, and 
 there is enough furniture still in the house for you and 
 me and Katie to be able to picnic there till the rest comes. 
 And we shall be able to see what more is wanted and come 
 up and buy it." 
 
 Aunt Millie considered for a moment. The prospect 
 would have been alluring to any woman — a large house 
 to furnish and unlimited money to do it with. Would 
 she be departing in any way from her rule by accepting 
 the invitation? 
 
 Alfred broke in before she could reply. " My dear 
 mother ! " he exclaimed. " You can't possibly do it. 
 Think what you owe to the county ! Supposing the vicar 
 were to call and find you on your knees with a duster in 
 your hand, cleaning out the cellarette ! " 
 
 " Don't be foolish, Alfred," his mother rebuked him. 
 " Many of the rooms are completely furnished, and of 
 course there will be servants to do all the actual work. We 
 shall only have to see where the things from here are to 
 be put, and what more is wanted. I hope you will be 
 able to come, Millie. If it is fine, I should propose to 
 motor down on Tuesday week. We should be there quite 
 alone, and of course nobody would be admitted to the 
 house." 
 
 Aunt Millie said she would come if James would do 
 without her; and James, who had been talking to his 
 brother, said that he should enjoy a bachelor existence for 
 a week, or even longer. 
 
Hillgrove Towers 71 
 
 " I read about the sale," he said. " Some of the things 
 fetched enormous prices. Did you buy much there, 
 Armitage ? " 
 
 Armitage Brown never answered a direct question with- 
 out considering what his answer should be. His wife 
 replied to this one. " Armitage wanted to buy everything 
 as it stood," she said, "as we did with Les Glycines. It 
 would have saved a great deal of trouble, and he was 
 prepared to pay any price that might have been asked. 
 But when I saw how the house was furnished I was not 
 altogether sorry that the offer had been refused. We can 
 do better than that." 
 
 Alfred laughed. " I paid a surreptitious visit to the 
 future home of our ancestors," he said, " while the sale 
 was going on. Nobody knew that I v/as the rightful heir 
 in disguise, except the gentleman who was bidding for 
 us. By the by, father, I told him to buy one or two little 
 pictures I thought rather nice. I thought you wouldn't 
 mind." 
 
 " I don't mind, Alfred," said his father. " If you had 
 done what I asked, you would have gone down before, and 
 picked out anything that was worth having." 
 
 " I rather wished I had when I got there. I had no 
 idea what the house contained, though all the very valuable 
 things had already been sold at Christie's." 
 
 " Everything was very old-fashioned," said Mrs. Brown. 
 " Handsome, of course, a great deal of it, but to my mind 
 the best modern furniture is far preferable. What we have 
 here will brighten the house up wonderfully, but it will not 
 go very far, and there will be a lot that we must get." 
 
 She spoke with deep satisfaction. She had a glorious 
 time in front of her, with an excuse for plunging deep into 
 the rich stores of the most modern furnishing shops. Her 
 perceptions, which had mastered the art of dress and the 
 presentation of food, had not yet led her to any under- 
 standing of what was considered " the thing " in furnish- 
 ing. That was all that she really cared about, but she 
 cared about it so much that if she had realized that the 
 age of admiration for new gilt splendour v/as over she 
 would have despised it herself as sincerely as anybody, 
 and speedily acquired a taste more in accordance with 
 the time. 
 
 Aunt Millie, who, although quite content with the modern 
 furnishing of her own house, had absorbed some of the 
 
72 Rank and Riches 
 
 prevailing appreciation of old good things, thought it sur 
 prising that her sister-in-law, with her larger opportunities, 
 should have acquired none of it. But Mrs. Brown's oppor- 
 tunities had been curiously limited, and her observation 
 was as sluggish as possible except where her emulation 
 was aroused, and then it was acute. She had got as far as 
 big sofas and easy-chairs covered with loose gay chintzes, 
 instead of tight satin and plush, but that was about the 
 limit of her newly-acquired taste. The room in which 
 they were sitting had these, and an abundance of flowers 
 besides, but it also had a large gilt consol-table, crimson 
 silk curtains under heavy gilt cornices, and for ornament, 
 marble statuettes, great vases of modern china, and clocks 
 and candlesticks of elaborate ormolu. She had seen with 
 amazement the beautiful restful rooms at Kemsale, in 
 which the more intimate daily life had been lived for gen- 
 erations. Her e3 T e had entirely failed to take in their 
 high subdued values. They had contained none of the 
 things which she regarded as necessary for rich furnishing 
 — no gilt, very little mirror, no bright colour. Indeed 
 she " could do better than that ! " 
 
 " I liked the house as it was," said Armitage Brown 
 quietly. " And there must have been a lot of valuable 
 stuff in it, judging by what it fetched. But I leave these 
 things to the wife. She knows a good deal more about 
 them than I do." 
 
 He spoke with a smile, and without the least intention 
 of sarcasm. He thought that she did know better than 
 lie did in such matters, and did not care enough about 
 them to press his own mild preference for more sober 
 surroundings. 
 
 " But } T ou bought a good deal, didn't }'ou ? " asked 
 Uncle James. 
 
 " We bought a lot of the bedroom furniture exactly as 
 it stood," said Mrs. Brown — " the rooms that had been 
 most recently refurnished. They will do very well for 
 the present, and I can furbish them up by degrees. There 
 were such a lot of them that it would not have been very 
 amusing to take them all in hand at once. And Armitage 
 liked the libra^ as it was. We bought that." 
 
 " Ah, then we shall have something to read," said Alfred. 
 " That's encouraging." 
 
 " We did not buy the books," said his mother. " They 
 were mostly old and shabby." 
 
Hillgrove Towers 73 
 
 " I did tell them to buy most of them," said her husband. 
 " The shelves must be filled with something." 
 
 " Oh, well, we can have the oldest of them rebound." 
 
 Katie spoke for the first time. " I don't believe the 
 house will be half as nice as it was," she said sturdily. 
 "I'm a very modern person myself, but I do like old 
 things, when they seem to belong. I've got two lovely 
 rooms of my own, Aunt Millie. I think they belonged 
 to Lady Grace Ettien. They were delightfully furnished, 
 in an old-fashioned faded sort of way. I knew I could 
 never get them so nice again, so I asked father if he would 
 buy everything in them and leave them exactly as they were. 
 I don't think they contained anything very valuable." 
 
 Her father smiled at her. " They were the two most 
 expensive rooms in the house," he said. " I paid a fortune 
 for them. But I don't mind if you like them, my dear ! ". 
 
 She expressed her surprise. "I am sure there was 
 nothing there that ought to have cost a lot," she said. 
 " However, if they did, I shall like them all the better." 
 
 " A chip of the old block," said Alfred. " Perhaps Lady 
 Grace Ettien wanted them for herself, and ran them up." 
 
 " If she had wanted them they wouldn't have been there 
 for sale," said his father. " I believe there was a mistake 
 about a pair of drawings, but those they seem to have got. 
 I was worried about them in the middle of the sale. I 
 had given my instructions, and I was annoyed. My people 
 wanted to enter into a lot of explanations afterwards, but 
 I wouldn't have it. You didn't want the drawings par- 
 ticularly, did you, Katie ? " 
 
 " I rather liked them ; but I suppose they are family 
 portraits. I can do without them." 
 
 " Aren't you going to have the house done up before 
 you go in ? " asked Uncle James. 
 
 " We thought we would wait until we go to Cap Martin," 
 said Mrs. Brown. " Then we shall know better what is 
 wanted. Besides, Armitage wants to sell ' The Towers ' 
 now, and we must have somewhere to go." 
 
 " I've got an offer that isn't likely to be repeated," said 
 Armitage. " They're going to cut it up for building. If 
 they can't have this place at once, they'll buy another." 
 
 He spoke without a shade of feeling of the place that 
 had been his home for nearly twenty years. But Mrs. 
 Brown showed some. " Hillgrove has become impossible," 
 she said. " It is quite time we left it." 
 
74 Rank and Riches 
 
 Alfred sighed. " Hillgrove suits me," he said. " I am 
 so afraid I shall fail in my behaviour at Kemsale. Will 
 the heir of all the Browns be expected to hunt, father ? 
 They do that in the country, don't they — foxes, and stags, 
 and things ? " 
 
 What a disappointing son this was ! His mother would 
 have liked him to hunt — in a well-fitting red coat. 
 
 " Any golf links handy ? " asked Uncle James. 
 
 "No, but I am going to lay some out in the park," said 
 his brother. "lam going to take up golf myself." 
 
 This was entirely a new departure. " I want exercise," 
 he explained. " I shall give it a trial. You must come 
 down and teach us, James." 
 
 " Not me," said Alfred. " I refuse to play that debasing 
 game. Father, you must buy me a horse, and I will ride 
 him in secret until I know how. Then I will go out and 
 hunt the fox. I feel quite sure that that will be expected 
 of me." 
 
 " Do you know any people in the neighbourhood ? " asked 
 Uncle James. 
 
 " There were a Captain and Mrs. Clinton who had the 
 villa next to Les Glycines last year," said Mrs. Brown. 
 " She was rather delicate, and I did not see much of her ; 
 but they dined with us once. They live a few miles off. 
 I believe he is some connection of Lord Meadshire's." 
 
 " Lord Meadshire is still living at Kemsale, isn't he ? " 
 
 " His sister is. I don't know whether he is going to 
 live with her." 
 
 " I believe he is what is called a rotter," said Alfred. 
 " But it is to be expected that the county will rally to 
 him. The ancient and baronial family of Brown will 
 have to be very careful how it behaves." 
 
 " You talk great nonsense, Alfred," said his mother. 
 " We shall have our own circle. We shall not be depend- 
 ent upon the people around, though we shall be quite 
 ready to make friends with them." 
 
 " I don't know much about English country life," said 
 Alfred. " But I should say it would be more a question 
 of their making friends with us. We zre rich but new, 
 and they are reported to look with suspicion on the 
 combination." 
 
 "lam quite sure we shall find plenty of people to make 
 friends with," said Katie. " And at any rate there will 
 be the villagers. It will all be perfectly delightful." 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 A MOMENTOUS INTERVIEW 
 
 The new millionaire did not take up his residence at Kern- 
 sale, after all, until the late spring. Mrs. Brown found 
 that the house needed a great deal more " doing up " than 
 she had supposed. Electric light had to be installed, 
 drains overhauled, plumbing modernized everywhere, bath- 
 rooms added. And painting and decorating was needed 
 throughout, according to her standards, and must precede 
 furnishing, unless the work should be all done over again, 
 in an intolerable muddle. 
 
 When she came to a practically empty house, instead of 
 one that contained the accumulations of two hundred years, 
 she found herself out of her depth. The furniture from 
 " The Towers " hardly seemed to count, "in the enormous 
 and repeated spaces of Kemsale, nor did the large pur- 
 chases that they had made at Kemsale itself. And the 
 idea of expecting necessary adaptations and structural decor- 
 ations of such a house to be finished in two months was 
 seen to be quite impracticable. It would be nearly a year's 
 work to reconstitute Kemsale afresh. The builders and 
 decorators were given six months ; they charged heavily 
 for the speeding up, but fulfilled their contract. 
 
 The Browns took a furnished house in London for the 
 winter, and until they went to Cap Martin after Christmas 
 Mrs. Brown was engaged nearly all the time with the firm 
 of upholsterers to whom she had committed herself. She 
 learnt a good deal during those weeks, and began to be 
 doubtful about her wisdom in allowing so much that had 
 been in Kemsale to go out of it. But suggestions were 
 naturally made with diffidence to a lady who hardly ever 
 asked the price of anything except to fix upon something 
 that cost more, and the firm was quite willing to adapt its 
 taste to hers when she made it known what her taste was 
 Besides, she was worth an extra one per cent, dividend to 
 
 75 
 
7G Rank and Riches 
 
 the shareholders in buying at full price the most expensive 
 things out of stock that had been superseded, and was 
 cumbering up warehouses. Kemsale was the last very 
 large private house to be elaborately furnished and decor- 
 ated in Victorian style. Even hotels now wanted their 
 Tudor and Jacobean and Georgian chambers. The. pre- 
 siding genius of the firm, when he learned what a big business 
 this was going to be, took the matter in hand himself, and 
 derived a great deal of interest — and profit — from evolving 
 a definite idea out of the chaos of the Victorian style. 
 When all the work was finished he went over Kemsale 
 and chuckled at the result, walking through the blue 
 drawing-room, and the pink drawing-room, and the yellow 
 drawing-room, and the other shrines of his art. " I don't 
 believe there's anybody else could have done it," he said 
 to himself. ° It isn't hideous at all. It has character— 
 the character of the people who are going to live in it, and 
 a little bit of mine." 
 
 When all the papers were signed and all the money 
 paid that transferred Kemsale to its new owner, Captain 
 Herbert Fuller was summoned to London for an interview 
 with Armitage Brown. The little man obeyed the sum- 
 mons in nervous trepidation, which the energetic prompt- 
 ings of his wife to behave as if ' he valued himself and 
 " keep his end up " had done little to allay. So very 
 much hung upon that interview, and as he sat in the 
 corner of a third-class carriage on his way to London, and 
 fingered his neat little grey moustache, he vacillated be- 
 tween the extreme of hope and the depths of dejection. 
 If only the interview were over, and he were coming back 
 again and everything settled, one way or another ! It 
 would be a relief to know the worst. He had his full 
 share of pluck, and he thought he could face it, black as 
 it looked. But if he should be able to persuade this new 
 rich man, who couldn't be expected to know much about 
 land agency, that the natural thing for him to do was to 
 keep on the agent who had looked after the property for 
 the last fifteen years— well, he would have had a fright, 
 but no man need be the worse for that. At any rate, he 
 would do his best to fight for his job, but as he told him- 
 self so, he realized with a sinking feeling that there was 
 not likely to be much opportunity for fighting. Such a 
 man as he supposed Armitage Brown to be would probably 
 have made up his mind already. 
 
A Momentous Interview 77 
 
 It was odd that one man should have so much power 
 over the life of another. To this man whom he was going 
 to see, the income that would make all the difference between 
 comparative affluence and desperate poverty for three 
 people represented nothing at all ; and yet he would take 
 it away if it suited him to do so without a thought of what 
 its withdrawal would mean. How was it that he, Herbert 
 Fuller, who had worked diligently and faithfully all his 
 life, should be dependent upon the decision of a man who 
 had gained immeasurably more for a much shorter period 
 of work ? He could not quite make it out, but there seemed 
 to be something wrong somewhere. 
 
 He was rather surprised at the appearance of the office 
 in which such wealth as Armitage Brown's was dealt with. 
 It was on the first floor of a narrow house in Lombard 
 Street, and the little outer room contained only one clerk, 
 and hardly room for more. He was taken at once into 
 the great man's sanctum, which was a good deal larger, 
 but very ordinary in its appointments, and showing no 
 signs at all of the wealth of its owner. 
 
 Armitage Brown rose from his desk to shake hands 
 with him, and his secretary left the room as he did so. 
 " I'm pleased to see you, Captain Fuller," he said. " I 
 want to settle everything with regard to the estate. I'm 
 going to America to-morrow, and when I get back I shall 
 be too busy to attend to it for some time. I can spare 
 you five-and-twenty minutes." 
 
 Poor little Herbert gasped. He had come with a bagful 
 of papers and memoranda, and had expected to be closeted 
 with his new employer for the rest of the day at least — 
 as a preliminary. 
 
 Armitage Brown had given him a searching look as he 
 shook hands with him. Probably in that instant he had 
 summed him up, and made up his mind as to the man he 
 had to deal with. The capacity for forming lightning 
 judgments of that sort had been one of the factors of 
 his success. 
 
 " I'm not going into details," he said, with a glance at 
 the bag that Fuller was nursing on his natty serge-covered 
 legs. " I'll ask you what I want to know, and you must 
 answer me as concisely as you can. Then I'll tell you 
 what I want done. What was the net return on the whole 
 property last year, and the year before ? " 
 
 How poor little Herbert blessed his life-long hobby for 
 
78 Rank and Riches 
 
 figures, during the fusillade of questions that followed ! It 
 had been his pleasure to take out statistics of every sort 
 and kind connected with his work, and with other subjects 
 in which he was interested, and he had sometimes rebuked 
 himself for giving too much time to them, where their 
 actual usefulness was questionable. Armitage Brown asked 
 many questions that no man who knew anything about 
 estate management would have thought of asking, and no 
 agent would have been expected to answer off-hand. But 
 Captain Fuller answered them all, with only an occasional 
 reference to a page of his neat memoranda ; or, where 
 they could not be answered, explained the reason sharply 
 and concisely. 
 
 It was exhilarating. It reminded him of his long-past 
 days of military viva voce examinations. And the man 
 who was cross-examining him had something military in 
 his sharp direct manner. His own was sharp and direct 
 too, where he was sure of his ground, as he was here. 
 He did not know that his questioner felt an increasing 
 respect for him as he sucked his brain, and made his own 
 notes on the pad on his desk ; nor that his briskness was 
 causing him to appear as a younger man by ten years 
 than he actually was. Still less had he any idea that 
 the thought that had passed through Armitage Brown's 
 brain, as he had shaken hands with him and thrown him 
 that searching look, was, " You won't do at all. I must 
 get rid of you. Too old, for one thing." 
 
 Armitage Brown actually smiled at him when he had 
 asked his last question. " Well, you know your work, 
 Captain Fuller," he said, as he leaned back in his chair. 
 
 It was his way to praise, with a single short phrase, 
 when he was well served, and to blame in the same manner 
 when he was not. But he did not blame twice. 
 
 Poor little Herbert felt as if he could have gone down 
 on his knees to him. Surely he wouldn't have said that 
 if he had not meant to keep him on. 
 
 As for his knowing his work — well, it was rather like 
 the examination room again. He had been " put on " 
 in the subjects he had got up. The weaknesses had been 
 left undisclosed. 
 
 For there were weaknesses, and he knew them better 
 than anybody. He had not been bred to the work, nor 
 even brought up in the country. His knowledge of farming 
 cvas inadequate, though he had done his best to improve 
 
A Momentous Interview 79 
 
 it. His first agency had had to do mostly with town 
 property, and he had been lucky to get his second, at 
 Kemsale. He would hardly have kept it had not the 
 Lord Meadshire who gave it to him been an old and a 
 very kind-hearted man, unwilling to make changes. And 
 he was liable to be imposed upon by tenants, and knew 
 that too. More money had been spent on their behalf 
 than a careful landlord would have considered necessary 
 in these latter days. In the matter of farm and cottage, 
 buildings Kemsale was a model estate, and Herbert Fuller 
 knew what he was about when the details of building were 
 in question. But the expenditure on this head had not 
 been justified by the rent-roll, however well and econom- 
 ically the work had been done. 
 
 How could Armitage Brown know that ? Fuller was 
 startled by his saying, immediately after his word of com- 
 mendation : " The place doesn't seem to have been run to 
 pay. I suppose you had your instructions. The housing 
 and so on was the chief thing." 
 
 Fuller hesitated long enough to cause a sharp glance to 
 be directed towards him. " The old Lord Meadshire liked 
 everything of that sort to be done as well as possible," 
 he said. This one has left it pretty well to me ; but 
 he never complained of anything I did in that way." 
 
 " Oh, well, I'm not complaining either. If that's the 
 tradition I shall keep it up." 
 
 There followed another string of questions, as to bricks 
 and mortar this time, and they were answered with the 
 same crisp efficiency as before. 
 
 Again came the smile and the word of praise. " One 
 would think you had been brought up to the building trade, 
 Captain Fuller." 
 
 " I served in the Royal Engineers, and after that I had 
 a good deal to do with planning and building. It always 
 interested me, though of course it isn't the chief thing in 
 a land agent's job." 
 
 He felt obliged to put that in. A man like this mustn't 
 be deceived. 
 
 " Well, I'm inclined to think it may interest me too. 
 At any rate, until I come down and take the reins, you'll 
 understand that you have authority to do what you think 
 necessary in that way. Do what you've done before, in 
 fact. That point's settled, and we needn't recur to it." 
 
 Then he was going to be kept on. There seemed no 
 
so Rank and Riches 
 
 doubt about it now. He felt himself bathed in a warm 
 glow ; but he had to collect himself sharply for what 
 was coming now. 
 
 " When I said that the place hadn't been run to pay I 
 didn't mean that I reg0ded the outgoings that we've been 
 talking about as unreasonable. As far as that goes I 
 certainly shan't be behind Lord Meadshire in keeping up 
 the property, or improving it where improvement is wanted. 
 It's not my way. But I shan't be content with three- 
 quarters of one per cent, on the capital I've put into it, 
 cither, and that's about what it seems to have averaged 
 lately, leaving out of account the letting of the sporting 
 rights. By the by, that arrangement comes to an end 
 this year, doesn't it ? " 
 
 " At the end of the season.' ' 
 
 " And that's when ? I don't know anything about 
 sport." 
 
 " It ends on the first of February." 
 
 " It ends there for good, then. You understand that ? " 
 
 Captain Fuller had been prepared to discuss the point 
 at leisure. But all he said was, " Oh, certainly." 
 
 Armitage Brown looked at his pages of large-scrawled 
 notes and figures, then turned sharply to Fuller. 
 
 " How would you suggest making the place pay — say 
 three per cent. ? " 
 
 Poor little Herbert's jaw dropped. The weak place was 
 exposed now, with a vengeance. In commerce, Herbert 
 Fuller would have been a confidential clerk in a hundred 
 thousand — accurate, conscientious, untiring, trustworthy ; 
 but he would never have made a penny of money on his 
 own initiative. And landowning is nothing but a branch 
 of commerce, if it is to be judged by percentages on capi- 
 tal. To be asked coolly what he would suggest to multiply 
 his returns by four, when it took him all he knew to main- 
 tain them at their present level, was to turn him from 
 ready, confident speech to a hesitating confusion that 
 seemed likely to destroy all the good he had so far done 
 himself. 
 
 But Armitage Brown knew his man now, or thought he 
 did. He laughed shortly at his face of dismay. Well, 
 I don't know that you should be asked to pronounce on 
 what isn't your business," he said. " You've carried out 
 a system. It wasn't for you to alter it." He referred to 
 his notes again. " You've told me how much land is pasture, 
 
A Momentous Interview 81 
 
 and how much is — what do you call it ? — arable. Tell me 
 how dairying is carried on on the property." 
 
 Without the guidance of leading questions, the informa- 
 tion given was not so clear or exhaustive as it had been. 
 There was one large holding consisting chiefly of grassland 
 on the outskirts of the property, near the terminus of 
 Ganton, where dairying was carried on on a considerable 
 scale. Armitage Brown began to ask him questions about 
 that, when Fuller had floundered through his account of 
 how things were done on the home farm, and on other 
 farms where a herd of cows was kept. He asked about 
 markets and freights and the times of trains, and the 
 proportion of labour to the land, and of the herd to the 
 acreage,^ and many other things of which Fuller knew little 
 or nothing. He felt miserable again now, and began to 
 experience a sense of unfairness, and to consider whether 
 he should not put in a protest. 
 
 But Armitage Brown virtually put it in for him, and 
 met it. " Well, I suppose that isn't your business, either," 
 he said. " I'm not trying to puzzle you, Captain Fuller. 
 You must remember that I know almost nothing about land 
 and how it's held. I don't think I ever realised, what I 
 see now, that the tenant does pretty well what he likes 
 on his farm, and the agent's business isn't exactly to over 
 look him — to know more about it than he does himself, in 
 fact. Can you get up a subject, Captain Fuller ? " 
 
 The questions generally came sharply, after a speech 
 that had tended to relieve previous tension. Poor little 
 Herbert was beginning to feel the strain. Under pretence 
 of blowing his nose, he passed his handkerchief across 
 his brow. Perhaps it would be better to make a clean 
 breast of it. 
 
 " The fact is," he said, " I'm not a practical farmer. 
 I've learnt a good deal about it, of course, and I know 
 good farming from bad, and a man who's likely to do 
 well by his farm from a man who isn't. And I've always 
 run the home farm myself, with a bailiff, on satisfactory 
 lines, I think. But if you were to put me down on a large 
 farm, and tell me to make a handsome profit out of it, I 
 don't believe I could do it. I haven't been trained to it. 
 I don't want to sail under false colours." 
 
 He felt relieved at having said it. He would have 
 everything open and above board, and stand up to the 
 worst if the worst was to come. 
 
82 Rank and Riches 
 
 Armitagc Brown looked at his watch — an action that 
 was not reassuring. But he spoke at once. " I understand 
 all that," he said, " but it isn't exactly what I asked. Take 
 this subject of dairying now. I read a pamphlet the other 
 day that fell into my hands about dairying as it is carried 
 on in Australia, on a very large scale. It interested me. 
 And I suppose there's information to be got about how 
 it's done in Holland, and in other countries. If I got 
 together for you whatever has been written on the subject, 
 with returns and reports and so on, could you master them, 
 so that whatever questions I asked you you'd be able to 
 answer, just as you answered the first lot of questions I 
 asked you ? " 
 
 Fuller plucked up courage. " Yes, certainly I could do 
 that," he said boldly. " I did it once with the question 
 of fruit for the old Lord Meadshire. It's exactly what 
 I'm fit for." 
 
 " I think it is, Captain Fuller ; I think it is." The words 
 brought balm. " And it is what I shall want from you. 
 Ill tell you now that I shan't be content to carry on the 
 business of the land at Kemsale in the old-fashioned way. 
 I shall want to make experiments, and see if more can't 
 be done with it. The responsibility for them will be mine, 
 and you won't have to worry yourself about it. If I fail, 
 it will be my fault and not yours. All you will have to 
 do will be first of all to collect information for me, and 
 then see that what I decide is carried out. We'll begin 
 on those lines with this dairying question. Get together 
 all the information you can — I'll send you down books and 
 papers — and let me know exactly what the process would 
 be — alterations necessary and so on — to try it on a large 
 scale at Kemsale. It may not be feasible ; that I shan't 
 know till I'm primed. But we'll talk it over wnen I 
 come down in the spring. That's settled then. Now 
 you've told me about the tenancies on which the farms 
 arc held. Take a note of these instructions, please. Where 
 they are yearly, renew them till next autumn. Where 
 there's a year's notice required, give it, as from this autumn, 
 if that can be done. In the case of the two farms that 
 are vacant, take them over yourself — but I suppose you've 
 done that already." 
 
 " Some of the farms have been in the same hands for 
 a number of years, Mr. Brown." 
 
 It was the old order crying out to the new. -Armitage 
 
A Momentous Interview 83 
 
 Brown's face hardened slightly. " I don't propose to be 
 hampered by those considerations," he said stiffly. " At 
 the same time I'm not going to turn off anybody that I 
 can use. You can let it be known that the notice is only 
 intended to give me a free hand. I'll consider each case 
 in detail when I come down next year." 
 
 There was no time except for lightning decisions. He 
 had already opened his mouth to make his next speech, 
 when Fuller said : "I should like to use my discretion in 
 that matter, and tell certain of the older tenants that the 
 notice is purely formal." 
 
 Armitage Brown frowned. He had given his orders, 
 and was not accustomed to have them questioned. Fuller 
 saw the frown and it stiffened him. He was ready to 
 obey orders, but not in the manner of a servant. His 
 tone was as decisive as the millionaire's as he said : " You 
 told me just now that you knew nothing about the tenure 
 of land. There's no time to explain things. I'm ready 
 to do what you want, but you'd much better let me do 
 it in my own way. It will come to the same thing in 
 the end." 
 
 The little man would not have cared for the moment 
 if he had lost his post straight away. He was not going 
 round to tenants who had held their farms at Kemsale 
 for generations with a curt notice of dismissal, unless he 
 took his own along with them. There was loyalty in 
 these matters. 
 
 " The notice isn't purely formal," said Armitage Brown. 
 " Whatever I decide to do with the land, I don't intend 
 to run it on the old lines. If the tenants who are there 
 already choose to work on my lines, they'll have the chance, 
 those of them that I think suitable. But it's just the old- 
 established ones that are most likely to make difficulties." 
 
 •' Do you want me to tell them that you're going to 
 make these experiments with the land ? " 
 
 n Of course I don't want that. It's understood that 
 anything I've said to you is confidential." 
 
 " Then what's the good of upsetting them beforehand ? 
 Instead of coming down to find your way prepared for 
 you, you'll get nothing but friction that could just as 
 easily be avoided." 
 
 " Supposing I say that things must be done in my way 
 when I've indicated plainly what that way is to be, Captain 
 Fuller ? " 
 
8 t Rank and Riches 
 
 " Then I'll ask you to get somebody clse^to do them, 
 Mr. Brown. All the knowledge I have is at' your scrviee. 
 If you can't make use of it, you can't make use of me." 
 
 Armitage Brown's face suddenly lightened. " Well, I'm 
 not such a fool as not to see that," he said good-humouredly. 
 " I think I shall be able to make use of you very well, 
 Captain Fuller. Have it your own way, then, for the 
 present." 
 
 As the little man travelled home that evening, sitting in 
 a comer of his third-class carriage, and fingering his mous- 
 tache, he was full of happiness. He smiled constantly as 
 he went over the points of the interview. At one time the 
 smile left his face and was succeeded by a look of con- 
 sternation. " By Jove ! " he said to himself. " He didn't 
 give me notice ; I gave it to him. Thank goodness he 
 didn't accept it." Then he laughed. 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 barton's farm 
 
 Herbert Fuller reached home that evening m time for 
 dinner. His wife was standing at the door as his cart 
 drove up. " Well, what's the news ? " she called out in 
 her high-pitched voice, as he pulled up his horse. 
 
 He did not answer her at once, anxious as he was to 
 tell her that the news was good ; and as he stepped down 
 from his seat, she said, with sharp vexation, " Didn't you 
 hear me speak ? Why can't you answer ? " 
 
 " I couldn't tell you before him," he said, indicating 
 the groom, who was now driving round to the yard. " The 
 news is good, my dear. I'll tell you about it if you come 
 up while I change." 
 
 " Well, that's something to be thankful for," she said, 
 "if it really is good, and you're not only kept on tempo- 
 rarily. But you don't want to dress to-night, and it's cold 
 upstairs. Come in here ; I can tell them not to lay the 
 table for ten minutes." 
 
 She led the way into the dining-room, where there was 
 a bright fire burning. It was the only comfortable thing 
 in the room, except a shabby easy-chair, which was sup- 
 posed to be Fuller's, but which his wife more frequently 
 occupied. Dressmaking had been going on, and every 
 table and chair was littered, not only with the materials 
 and implements for such work, but with accessories to 
 indoor life, and outdoor too, that it was too much trouble 
 to put into their places. It was a large, rather low room, 
 with a great oak beam running across it, small-paned 
 windows in, two of the walls, and a cavernous hospitable 
 hearth. It would have made a delightfully comfortable 
 general sitting-room if there had been the slightest attempt 
 at keeping it in order ; but if the maids tidied up in the 
 morning their work was always undone by the time the 
 evening came round. The drawing-room was the room 
 of state, not used except for visitors, who were never 
 
 85 
 
sg Rank and Riches 
 
 allowed to enter this one. So it didn't matter what it 
 looked like. 
 
 Herbert Fuller looked round it with distaste. He was 
 cold and hungry ; it was a quarter to eight, but the dining- 
 table was cluttered up with a sewing machine and a dis- 
 orderly pile of feminine gear. His wife was in her day 
 clothes — a soiled blouse and an old skirt — and as she had 
 appointed to herself a day of retirement, she had not 
 troubled to dress her hair properly. Only he would see 
 her, and he didn't matter. 
 
 Perhaps he was a little exalted by his late success. He 
 did occasionally assert himself against the tyranny to which 
 he was subjected in his home, and did so now. " Why isn't 
 dinner ready ? " he snapped. " The room looks like a 
 pig-st}'. And if you're not going to take the trouble to 
 make yourself look decent for the evening, I am." 
 
 He marched out of the room and up to his dressing- 
 room, from which he was immediately heard to shout down- 
 stairs for hot water. There were no bells in the house, and 
 the mistress being what she was, the servants frequently 
 neglected their most ordinary duties. 
 
 Mrs. Fuller was fully capable of dealing with a revolt 
 of this sort. The easiest way would have been to follow 
 her husband upstairs, " row " the maid who had neglected 
 her duty, and make some sort of excuse for the state of 
 things to which he had come home. Or if not the easiest 
 way, to her, it would have calmed him down instantly, 
 and he would have told her all she wanted to know, and 
 he wanted to tell her. 
 
 For she had, in fact, gone through a very anxious day. 
 As she had been cutting out and stitching and working 
 her machine, she had been visited by sundry very cold fits 
 when she thought of the possibility of her husband losing 
 his position. There was next to nothing to fall back upon. 
 He had about a hundred pounds a year of his own, and 
 she had nothing. And he was getting on. She knew as 
 well as he did that if he lost this job he would almost cer- 
 tainly not get another. She had been able to put all thought 
 of the future aside as long as they were where they were, 
 and muddle away what was quite a good income without 
 allowing him to put by a penny of it. But if the income 
 should suddenly cease ! There was no getting away from 
 the thought now. 
 
 As she stitched and turned the handle of the machine, 
 
Barton's Farm 87 
 
 and snapped at her daughter when she made some remark 
 that disturbed her train of thought, she imagined her 
 husband giving in meekly to the man who had his fate, 
 or rather her fate, in his hands, showing himself weak 
 where he ought to be firm, and ■•' uppish " where it would 
 be better to give in. That was the way he dealt with 
 her, although she would not have acknowledged it ; and 
 she despised him for it. If only she could have been there 
 to stiffen him ! She quite thought that she could get her 
 own way with any man, as she got it with him. She 
 thought nothing of his cheerful conscientious service, nor 
 hoped that his new employer might recognise it, nor sent 
 out her sympathy to him in his anxiety and in the test 
 that he was undergoing. She only thought of him igno- 
 miniously failing to make himself out something that he 
 wasn't, and felt anger and contempt against him for his 
 deficiencies in an art that to her was second nature. If he 
 came back to tell her that his place had been assured him, 
 she would rejoice for her own sake, but would not allow 
 him to take any credit for it. She actually made up her 
 phrases beforehand. " Well, I'm glad he didn't see through 
 you." Or if he showed himself particularly pleased with 
 the way the interview had gone, " Oh, I dare say you flatter 
 yourself you got the better of him. We shall see what 
 happens later on." If the news was to be that he was 
 to remain on for a time on trial, she would gird at him 
 and ask him what he supposed they were to do when the 
 time came to an end. If it was to be dismissal, supersession, 
 then she would employ all her bitterness upon the poor 
 little honest man, who had only erred in not taking a firmer 
 stand against her, for the sake of their joint security in 
 the future. She would gain some immediate relief of the 
 black terror that would settle upon her, by seeing him hold 
 his head in his hands in misery under the lash of her 
 tongue. He would do that ; he would not stand up to her ; 
 and she would be goaded by his abject submission to still 
 further nights of vituperation. 
 
 Now she hesitated for a moment as he walked out of the 
 room. She did want to hear what had happened. Should 
 she make some half-contemptuous advance that would draw 
 it out of him ? The hesitation was only momentary. He 
 had said that the news was good ; details could wait. A 
 look of spite came over her face. 
 
 Her daughter came into the room. She had on a new 
 
88 Rank and Riches 
 
 evening gown, in which she had been arraying herself 
 for the last half-hour. Herbert Fuller always dressed for 
 dinner by choice, the habits of his youth and his orderly 
 precise ways demanding some sort of recognition of the 
 evening meal as dividing off the day. His wife usually 
 compromised in a draggled tea-gown, which she threw on 
 over other clothes in a few minutes. She hated the trouble 
 of dressing, unless it was for " company," when she would 
 spend hours over it. But occasionally she would take it 
 into her head to appear in full costume when they were 
 alone, especially if sl*e had something new that she had 
 not had an opportunity of wearing outside. Her daughter 
 was taking after her in all these whims and habits. 
 
 " Why didn't you clear up before you went upstairs ? " 
 she asked angrily. " You leave it all for me to do. Any 
 one would think I was your servant, to go trapesing about 
 and picking up all your mess. Put the things away at 
 once, and tell them to keep dinner back for half an hour. 
 I'm going up to dress." 
 
 " You're surely not going to take half an hour, mother, 
 are you ? " asked the girl. " It's just eight o'clock, and 
 I'm as hungry as a hunter." 
 
 Among the good points that had not yet been driven out 
 of her, this girl had an equable spirit, and was not easily 
 put out by her mother's eccentricities of temper. 
 
 " Oh, yes, I'm going to dress," said Mrs. Fuller, her 
 annoyance against her daughter overcome by her annoy- 
 ance against her husband. " Your father has come home 
 so perked up by his visit to the great man that he won't 
 look at us in anything but our best clothes. If he doesn't 
 like waiting for his dinner while I put 'em on, he can lump 
 it. Tell them to serve up at half-past eight, and if cook 
 gives notice, tell her she can go. I'm sick of her im- 
 pudence." 
 
 She was going out of the room when Irene asked : "Is 
 it all right about father's job ? " 
 
 " Oh, you'd better ask him," she said on the stairs, 
 " especially if you want your nose bitten off. I don't know 
 anything about it, and don't care." 
 
 Irene shrugged her shoulders, and began to clear the 
 table, putting the things down on the chairs or anywhere 
 where there was room for them, without any attempt at 
 reducing the room to order. She was a tall well-made 
 girl, with a face neither plain nor pretty. Her new frock 
 
Barton's Farm 89 
 
 was over-smart, and looked cheap at the same time. Her 
 mother spent too much money on her own clothes and too 
 little on the girl's ; but the neck and arms so liberally dis- 
 played were firm and smooth, and she moved with youthful 
 litheness. Perhaps she was justified in feeling that her 
 new frock was a sort of refuge against the cantankerous- 
 ness that was apparently going to be the note of the 
 evening. 
 
 She went out and gave the orders that she had been bid- 
 den to give, even to the extent of telling the cook that she 
 could go if she liked, and then came back and took some 
 almonds and raisins off a dish on the sideboard, and settled 
 herself in the big easy-chair to nibble at them, and read a 
 novel which she picked up from the floor, where she had 
 thrown it after lunch. 
 
 At the stroke of eight her father came briskly into the 
 room. His spurt of irritation had died down ; he was 
 looking forward to his dinner, and to regaling his wife 
 and daughter with the full account of his experiences. 
 
 His face clouded again when he saw the table still unlaid. 
 ° Why on earth isn't dinner ready ? " he asked. " It has 
 struck eight and they haven't even laid the table." 
 
 " Mother put dinner back to half -past eight," said Irene. 
 " She has gone up to dress." 
 
 She spoke lazily, leaning back in her chair, and looking 
 up at him. 
 
 He was too loyal to say anything in criticism of his 
 wife to his daughter, but stood irresolutely in front of the 
 fire, his face troubled and vexed. 
 
 " Well, I shall go into the den till it's ready," he said. 
 " I hope it won't be later than half-past eight, for I'm 
 confoundedly hungry. I had lunch at one, and no tea." 
 
 " I expect mother will be some time," said the girl. 
 " Why don't you have a whisky and soda and a biscuit ? " 
 
 She did not offer to get them for him, or to vacate the 
 chair that was supposed to be his. "I think I will," he 
 said, and went to the sideboard, where there was a spirit 
 tantalus and a syphon of soda water. 
 
 "Is it all right about the job, father ? " Irene asked, as 
 he came back to the fire. 
 
 " Oh, yes," he said shortly. Then he added : " We've 
 got another chance. We shall have to begin to be a bit 
 more careful now." 
 
 This did not interest her, and she returned to her book. 
 
90 Rank and Riches 
 
 Presently, after he had looked down at her, he said : 
 " Well, I shall go to the den till dinner is ready. I have 
 some papers to look over." 
 
 " There isn't a fire there," she said, without raising her 
 eyes from her book. 
 
 The den was as neat and tidy as the dining-room was 
 the reverse. On one side of it was a small carpenter's 
 bench and a metal-turning lathe, with tools on a rack above 
 them, all in their places. Writing-table, book-shelves, 
 nests of drawers, everything showed the occupation of a 
 man to whom orderliness was almost a passion. There 
 was a hearthrug, but no carpet on the floor. An old wooden 
 gate-backed armchair, with no cushions in it, stood by the 
 fireplace. The other chairs were of the common Windsor 
 pattern. There was no attempt at comfort in the room, 
 but its neatness made it look actually more comfortable 
 than the dining-room. 
 
 Herbert Fuller drew the curtains, lit the lamp, and after 
 a moment's hesitation put a match to the fire. He depos- 
 ited his bag of papers by the side of the writing-table, 
 and then sat down in front of the new crackling fire, with 
 his glass in his hand. 
 
 He was not greatly disturbed by his wife's spiteful 
 counter-attack. His mind was too simple and direct even 
 to recognise its pettiness. She would keep him waiting 
 half an hour, or perhaps longer, for his dinner. His an- 
 noyance on that account would not be added to by her 
 sailing into the room in elaborate evening costume, and 
 saying that she hoped she was smart enough now. But 
 her attitude stiffened him in a decision he had come to, 
 and that he had hoped to be able to carry out with her 
 co-operation. If she was not in a mood to give it, then 
 he must take steps to enforce his will, as much for her 
 sake as for his own. 
 
 Money had flowed through her fingers like water. He 
 was eminently capable himself of using an income to the 
 best advantage, and again and again he had made estimates 
 and apportionments which, if they had been kept to, would 
 have enabled them to live comfortably and save a consid- 
 erable sum every year. But the years had slipped by 
 and nothing had been saved. She seemed incapable of 
 husbanding her resources in any way. She would neglect 
 her household accounts for weeks together, and when they 
 came to be added up and found greatly to exceed the sum 
 
Barton's Farm 91 
 
 that had been laid down for them, all her excuse would 
 be that she " supposed they must have enough to eat." 
 She invariably exceeded her dress allowance, but " nevei 
 had a stitch to wear." She hated the discomforts of debt, 
 and took great credit to herself for this feeling. It did 
 not prevent her from running up bills, but it brought her 
 to him with them when they were large and pressing enough 
 to disturb her. Then the money that he had scraped 
 together to invest would be paid away, and she would 
 promise to be more careful, but accept no blame. These 
 were the only occasions upon which he could make himself 
 felt at all, and then never without fierce recriminations 
 and disclaimers from her. The only saving clause in the 
 situation was that Barton's Farm, which was the name of 
 their house, was not large enough for her to expand their 
 way of living beyond a certain point. She could spend 
 half as much again on their hugger-mugger existence as 
 a careful housewife would have needed for a well-appointed 
 house, but its bounds did put some sort of limit to her 
 expenditure inside ; and outside, in gardens and stable, 
 his own careful management gave them what was necessary 
 on the most economical terms. 
 
 Barton's Farm was not the official agent's house, which 
 was considerably larger. They had occupied it as a make- 
 shift when they had first come to Kemsale. The only 
 appreciable success that Herbert Fuller had had in his 
 incessant struggle against over-expenditure was that he 
 had never allowed himself to be persuaded, or bullied, into 
 moving into " The Limes." Even his wife, insanely un- 
 practical as she was, and contemptuous of his expostula- 
 tions, had never found an answer to his argument : "If 
 we can only manage just to keep our heads above water 
 here, what chance shall we have in a house like that ? " 
 To the fortunate accident of " The Limes " having been 
 tenanted at the time they had come to Kemsale, they owed 
 it that they had, so far, kept their heads above water. 
 
 But now the time had imperatively come when more 
 than that was wanted, and it was on the means of bringing 
 it about that this active, honest little man, wno felt younger 
 than his years, but was beginning to see them drawing to 
 a close, cogitated, as he sat hungry and still rather cold 
 before his smoky fire. 
 
 It was twenty minutes to nine when the dinner bell at 
 last rang. The extra delay had irritated him to the point 
 
92 Rank and Riches 
 
 of making him feel himself a martinet, and when he went 
 into the dining-room he was determined to carry out the 
 decisions he had made, with no nonsense allowed. His 
 wife was already seated at the table in what looked to 
 him like a ball-dress, and a very expensive one. She wore 
 all her jewels, and had dressed her brass-tinted hair elab- 
 orately. The process had, curiously enough, driven away 
 the effervescence of her ill-humour. She had kept him 
 waiting for his dinner for nearly an hour, which would 
 " teach him " ; and now, if he chose to behave himself, 
 he might deliver his budget of news without being more 
 snapped at than in normal conversation. 
 
 " Well, I hope this is grand enough for you/' she said 
 as he came in. 
 
 " It's a bit too grand for my taste," he said, as he sat 
 down. " But at any rate it looks clean." 
 
 It must be admitted that this was rude ; and the maid 
 was standing at his elbow, and would certainly report the 
 speech to the enraged 3 cook. 
 
 No more was said until she had left the room, when there 
 was an explosion. 
 
 " I meant what I said," he snapped in answer to it — he 
 could snap, too, at times. " And as for saying such a 
 thing before the servants, it's nothing to what you allow 
 yourself to say before them if you're annoyed." 
 
 " Oh, please don't quarrel, children," said Irene lazily. 
 " I want to hear about the great Armitage Brown." 
 
 Her father was already a little ashamed of his speech 
 and of pursuing a quarrel before her ; and his spurt of 
 temper died down quickly and left no sulkiness behind 
 them. Mrs. Fuller was still furious with him, but her 
 gown seemed to demand behaviour more " lady-like " than 
 she was accustomed to adopt in the home circle. She sat 
 * stiff and offended while he told of the cross-examinations 
 to which he had been subjected, and the success with which 
 he had met them. " That taste of mine for statistics has 
 turned up trumps," he said. " I suppose in a business like 
 his they have to use them a lot more than it's necessary for 
 us to do. Anyhow, it seemed to be exactly what he wanted." 
 
 It seemed to her as she listened to his account of the 
 earlier stages of his interview, which was broken off while 
 he was carving and the maid was in the room, that he 
 really had succeeded in bluffing the great man into thinking 
 him of more value than he was ; and it suited her better 
 
Barton's Farm 93 
 
 to believe in that sort of success than in the possibility of 
 his having shown qualities to earn it. She grew interested 
 in his account of the interview, seeing in it a contest in 
 which he might easily have broken down, but apparently 
 hadn't, as in the end he had kept his post. When he sud- 
 denly halted, she allowed herself to unbend so far as to 
 ask a question. He had begun to tell them, with a laugh, 
 and a " By Jove ! though," that at one period of his inter- 
 view he had actually said that if he couldn't have his own 
 way in a certain matter he should ask Mr. Armitage Brown 
 to find another agent, w T hen he bethought himself that he 
 must not say too much about changes that might be coming. 
 
 " What did he want you to do ? " she asked. 
 
 " Well, don't say anything about it outside, but notice 
 has got to be given all round. It's often done when a 
 new landlord takes a property over — just a matter of form, 
 till things are settled all round. What I told him was that 
 some of them might not understand that, and it would 
 make trouble unless I had authority to say that it wasn't 
 intended to turn out old tenants, like the Davises and the 
 Pettifers, for instance. He's a man who's accustomed to 
 do things in a pretty high-handed way, and he didn't like 
 it when I interrupted him to say what I thought about it. 
 He said — oh, you should have seen his j aw set as he looked 
 at me — he said, ' And suppose I say that when I say a 
 thing is to be done in a certain way, it's got to be done 
 in that way, Captain Fuller ? ' ' Well, then, I'll ask you 
 to get somebody else to do it, Mr. Brown,' I said." 
 
 He took a sip of wine, enjoying the memory of his 
 triumph. He was warmed and fed now, and had talked 
 himself into equanimity. 
 
 " You really said that to him ! " exclaimed his wife. 
 She had had no idea that he had it in him to bluff to 
 that extent, and had no idea now that he had not been 
 blurring. The revelation removed from her mind questions 
 she had intended to ask about the notice to the tenants. 
 If her husband could get the better of the millionaire in 
 that way, what might not she herself be able to effect with 
 her far greater powers ? 
 
 " Yes, that's what I said. I think he had only meant 
 to see what sort of answer I should give him, for he took 
 it with a laugh, and told me to do things in my own way. 
 I should say he was a straight fellow ; hard, perhaps, and 
 likes to have his own way, but- — " " 
 
o-i Rank and Riches 
 
 " But you can get round him. Well, that's good hearing, 
 I'm sure. And you seem to have hit upon the way to do 
 it, luckily for us. But I shouldn't give him notice every 
 time you want y<?ur own waj^, if I were you. You might 
 give it once too often. Besides, I don't suppose your way 
 would be any better than his, or so good. It's your business 
 to keep in with him. What about her? Did he say any- 
 thing about what's going to happen up at the house ? " 
 
 " Yes, I was coming to that. It's one of the best things 
 I've got to tell you. Mrs. Armitage Brown is coming down 
 next week to begin to get the house in order. He's been 
 suddenly called to America, and when he comes back they're 
 going to the Riviera till April. He's got a villa there. He 
 likes to go off in January, and " 
 
 " Oh, you've talked enough about him. What about 
 her ? " 
 
 " I was just going to tell you. There'll be a lot to 
 arrange, getting the house into order again. I fancy he 
 thinks it will be a bigger job than she does ; and running 
 it afterwards, too. He asked me questions about that, and 
 I told him that the old lord had had a secretary who was 
 kept pretty busy with accounts and overlooking things gen- 
 erally, and that I thought it hadn't paid not to have one 
 lately. I said I'd do what I could in the Estate Office, 
 but " 
 
 " Surely you didn't offer to take on all that extra work 
 for nothing ! Why, Mortimer had three hundred a year, 
 and his rooms and keep in the house. Well, you are a 
 fool ! " 
 
 He looked annoyed for a moment. " I wish you'd let 
 me finish," he said. " I was going to say that in the end 
 he offered me another hundred pounds a year, and an extra 
 clerk in the office, to take over the house accounts." 
 
 He had meant to lead up to it by repeating the conver- 
 sation that had passed. He had felt the offer to be a 
 generous one under the circumstances in which it had 
 been made, and its effect would be that at last he would 
 be in a position to save. But as it had been forced out of 
 him, it fell flat. 
 
 " Well, upon my word ! " she exclaimed. " A hundred 
 a year for doing the work that old Mortimer got what was 
 equal to five or six for ! And you let him get the better 
 of you as much as that ! I thought we should have a 
 different story before long." 
 
Barton's Farm 95 
 
 He looked downcast, but defended himself with some 
 irritation. " Mortimer was a relation ; it was quite dif- 
 ferent," he said. " And a great deal went on in the old 
 lord's time that people not in his position won't want. 
 Mr. Brown asked me about Mortimer's duties as secretary, 
 and when I told him some of them he laughed, and said 
 he shouldn't mind spending money on living comfortably 
 at Kemsale, but he didn't see himself spending it in that 
 way ; and of course there's no denying that, rich as he is, 
 he won't fill anything like the position that old Lord 
 Meadshire did. Besides, he's got his own secretaries, and 
 you may say that half Mortimer's job will be done by 
 one of them. No ; I should have been quite ready to take 
 the household accounts into the office, if he'd given me 
 another clerk. It was his own suggestion that he should 
 give me the extra hundred, and a clerk as well. It will 
 pay me handsomely for the extra work I shall have, and 
 he offered it in a nice sort of way. ' Well, I can't expect 
 you to save me money and get nothing out of it yourself," 
 he said. ' How would it be if I increased your salary by 
 a hundred a year ? Would that suit you ? ' I said I hadn't 
 expected anything of the sort and thanked him, but he 
 said I'd nothing to thank him for ; he should save much 
 more than that by having things looked after by a careful 
 man. I thought that was generous. I believe it's true, 
 of course ; but it isn't everybody who'd have said it, and 
 it showed that he'd taken my measure." 
 
 " Yes, he seems to have done that all right," she sneered, 
 " getting two people's work out of you for a little more 
 than the price of one. Still, it will just make the differ- 
 ance. There'll be no excuse for not getting into a decent 
 house now. You say you've got to give everybody notice. 
 That'll make it easy to shift that old cat out of •■ The 
 Limes.' " 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 GARDEN NOTES 
 
 Somewhere about the middle of November, when work 
 at Kemsale was in full swing, Alfred Brown came down 
 for a few days' visit, and was so pleased with his surround- 
 ings that he stayed for a month, in spite of the carpenters 
 and painters and plumbers that were all about him, and 
 the absence of the sun, which he loved. 
 
 The sun was not completely absent, even during those 
 weeks of November and December. On his first arrival 
 it shone mildly for three days together, in a sweet belated 
 Indian summer, and he told himself that he had never 
 before realised how lovely the English country was. He 
 was one of the many thousands of Englishmen who are 
 entirely ignorant of what rural England is like except in 
 the summer ; but before he went back to London he had 
 grown to love even the cold wet days, and to congratulate 
 himself upon having acquired a new and valuable artistic 
 impression. 
 
 Part of the charm of country life in the winter depends 
 upon the kind of shelter to which one returns as dusk falls. 
 Alfred considered himself fortunate in this respect. His 
 sitting-room was the old steward's room of Meadshire days, 
 which with most of the offices of the house had been bought 
 in with all their effects standing. It was on the basement 
 floor, and partly below the level of the ground outside. 
 But it had two large windows, one facing south and the 
 other east, and whenever there was any sun shining he 
 used to come down in the morning to find the room flooded 
 with it. 
 
 But he liked still better to come back to it in the even- 
 hen the faded red curtains were drawn, and a piled-up 
 fire was blazing on the old-fashioned hearth. He would 
 change his wet boots for slippers, and ensconce himself in 
 a deep chair with a book and a pipe, and taste to the full 
 the delights of undisturbed peace and bodily comfort. 
 
 96 
 
Garden Notes 97 
 
 He would chat to the elderly lady who came in to lay 
 the table for his dinner. She and her husband were care- 
 takers, old Meadshire servants, who knew well enough 
 how a gentleman ought to be looked after ; and he thought 
 he had never been so well served in his life. She had 
 taken a fancy to him, and he to her. She told him many 
 tales about " the family," and he liked to hear them, but 
 would sometimes confuse her by asking whether she didn't 
 really think it rather funny that a person like himself 
 should be in their place. " Now if you want to tease me, 
 sir," she would say, " I shall send Lizzie or my husband 
 in to wait on you " ; or " It's because I think you'll do 
 very well that I like to have speech of you " ; or " When 
 we're all in order you won't be seeing much of me ; } t ou 
 must talk sensible." But she would never -admit that she 
 accepted the new order as a satisfactory substitute for the 
 old ; nor could she hide what she felt about the downfall 
 of all that she had been brought up to. " Ah, it's a sad 
 thing to think of his lordship and her ladyship coming 
 down to live in that little Herons' Nest," she would say, 
 " and her so much looked up to and so suitable for living 
 in a great house like this, if I express myself right." 
 
 He began to be interested in her ladyship, in a way that 
 may be said to have been sentimental, although not in 
 any degree lover-like, because he had learnt that she had 
 reached what to a very young man is middle-age in the 
 other sex. She represented a romantic state which had 
 now suffered eclipse. He saw quite clearly, under the 
 influence of old Mrs. Parmiter's backward-looking talk, 
 that however much money might be lavished on Kemsale 
 in the future, it would never again be what it had been in 
 the past. Lad} T Grace had taken something away with her 
 that could not have been bought, if she hatj been willing 
 to sell it. Her influence was still over the wrecked house, 
 especially in those two quiet upstairs rooms which had 
 been hers. Comparing what was being made of the rest 
 of the house with those two rooms, or even with the solid 
 unpretentious comfort of this one that he was using, he 
 could only see in it irreparable loss, and came by degrees 
 to value more highly still the virtue that had gone out 
 of it. And even if the house could have been kept intact, 
 heavy gain as that would have been, its spirit would still 
 have departed ; it could not have been supplied by those 
 who were going to live in it 
 
 D 
 
98 Rank and Riches 
 
 He asked about the Herons' Nest, and received an 
 impression that made him hope some day to know it inti- 
 mately. It was about a mile away. Its situation, as 
 described by Mrs. Parmiter, hardly fitted in with the ob- 
 servations he had made of the country around. It stood 
 amongst pines on the edge of a rocky gorge ; he imagined 
 a scene such as may be seen in Swiss mountains. There 
 had always been some sort of rustic cottage there, used 
 for picnics and such retirements ; for it might actually 
 have been said to be in the grounds of Kemsale, approached 
 as it was by long shrubbery walks, and only recently fenced 
 off. Some years before, the cottage had been rebuilt, 
 greatly enlarged, and furnished for residence, though it 
 had never been continuously occupied. It had been left 
 to Grace for life by her grandfather, with some acres of 
 ground, which included the whole picturesque gorge, the 
 waterfall and the heronry above it. Upon her death it 
 would revert to the estate, and Meadshire had refused to 
 sell its reversion. So there, in the very heart of the 
 eighteen or nineteen thousand acres, were about thirty that 
 were alienated. The price for the whole had been reduced 
 on that account, but Meadshire had been obstinate about it. 
 
 When it had been decided to sell Kemsale, the Herons' 
 Nest had been still further enlarged, to make Grace's home 
 of it. And Meadshire had decided that he would make it 
 his home with her. "I'm not denying it's a very pretty 
 place," said Mrs. Parmiter, " and her ladyship is making 
 it prettier still, with gardens and all. If all was as it 
 should be here, with his lordship married and living in the 
 great house, as his forbears have done before him, then it 
 would be a very suitable place for her ladyship, as long as 
 she didn't marry herself, dear heart ! But as it is ! " 
 
 Alfred took an early opportunity of surveying this 
 Naboth's vineyard, as it was likely to become to his father. 
 From the road all that could be seen was a stream that had 
 already lost some of its impetuosity, passing under an old 
 stone bridge, and a little way from the bridge a gate, flanked 
 by a rustic lodge, and a road leading through trees to 
 much higher ground. A little farther along, after a corner 
 had been turned, a bold scarp of rock could be seen, which 
 soon softened into the thickly wooded slopes that were 
 the usual feature of this long range of hills. All the rest 
 was hidden from sight, and approached from other quarters 
 the place was still hidden by its banked masses of trees. 
 
Garden Notes 99 
 
 Only towards the summit of the hill, where the heronry 
 was 1 the ground was a little more open ; and the way in 
 which the little river had cut its way through the rock 
 could be seen at another point outside the new high fence. 
 The occupants of the Herons' Nest were at least assured of 
 complete privacy within the limits of that fence. 
 
 Alfred heard about Lady Grace and the Herons' Nest 
 from Mrs. Parmiter on the evening of his arrival. He 
 heard more about them the next morning, when he went 
 out in the soft November sunshine to explore the gardens. 
 
 He would much have preferred to go about unnoticed. 
 He was as far as possible from wishing to take up the 
 position of heir apparent to all the new splendour that was 
 being created about him. He was so constituted that it is 
 probable he had never yet thought of himself as some day 
 succeeding to it all ; otherwise he would certainly have 
 made some effort to reflect his own taste in the reconstitu- 
 tion of the house, for he could hardly have imagined him- 
 self living in the sort of place it was going to be, as its master. 
 In the mood of his youth it would be irksome to him to 
 be tied to any house, least of all to the gorgeous palace 
 that his parents were creating for themselves. He had 
 not even reached the point at which he v/anted any sort 
 of resting-place of his own. All he wanted was his free- 
 dom ; and a couple of rooms that he could make himself 
 at home in, when he wanted to be with his family, were 
 all the anchorage that he needed. 
 
 But he was not able to dispense with attention. He 
 had not seen much of the garden before he was joined by 
 the head gardener, who offered to show him round. 
 
 " I don't want showing round," he said ; " thank you 
 very much. I want to wander at my own sweet will. I 
 say, this looks pretty beastly." 
 
 He was standing on the steps that led down to the carpet 
 garden, now bare of all its plants for the winter, and showing 
 only its intricate design of squared box edging, raked soil, 
 and rolled gravel. 
 
 The gardener's face darkened. He was a Scotsman, 
 with a temper that he did not control when dealing with 
 his subordinates, although he did his best in that respect, 
 otherwise, where he judged it politic to do so. 
 
 " The plants have all been taken in lor the winter," he 
 said. " It looks quite different when it is bedded out." 
 
 '." Yes, I've seen it bedded out, and I didn't think it 
 
Rank and Riches 
 
 looked much better than it does now. I hate bedding out, 
 especially on this sea'.'." 
 
 " Well, it's a matter of opeenion," said Mackenzie dog- 
 matically. " The carpet garden at Kemsale has alwa} r s 
 been considered a feature, and I may say that for the twelve 
 years I've had to do with it it has lost none of its reputa- 
 tion." 
 
 He spoke rather disagreeably. He was " trying it on." 
 He was of the class of old-fashioned gardeners extra- 
 ordinarily capable within their limits, who take in no new 
 ideas, and fight against all interference from their employ- 
 ers. At their most tyrannous, they regard the gardens 
 which they arc employed to overlook as their own, and 
 expect those who own them to be content with their use 
 as pleasure grounds. They are getting rarer with the 
 growth of the taste for amateur gardening, but Mackenzie 
 was an advanced specimen, and was prepared to go to all 
 lengths to dominate the people who were now to pay him 
 his wages. To all lengths short of losing his place, that 
 is ; for he was enough aware of the changes in gardening 
 taste to be doubtful of getting another that would suit him. 
 He had formed his opinion that the people he would now 
 have to deal with would be just of the sort to be kept in 
 their place, and he had also determined the lines on which 
 it should be done. He had better begin at once with this 
 very young-looking son, who did not seem in the least 
 formidable. 
 
 " I hear Lady Grace Ettien is making a very original 
 garden at her new house," said Alfred. It had occurred 
 to him that it was odd that she, who had presumably had 
 the direction of what had been done in the gardens of Kem- 
 sale of late years, should have tolerated this expensive piece 
 of ugliness, which offended his artistic eye, although he 
 knew nothing of practical gardening. That was why he 
 brought her name in. 
 
 He had aroused a hornets' nest. Grace had been the 
 stumbling-block in the way of Mackenzie's complete auto- 
 cracy. He had had to give in to her, and had done so 
 without showing how much he resented her interference, 
 so that she had only laughed at his cantankerousness, and 
 i aken his opposition to each and all of her plans as natural 
 in an old servant. He had succeeded in confining her 
 activities to the lower part of the garden, and her own un- 
 willingness to spend money on it had confined them still 
 
Garden Nates. > ioi^ 
 
 further. But a greater cause of offence against* her still 
 was that she had not asked him. to gd vvith her -to the 
 Herons' Nest, but had taken nis secqocl in Gommanilj .With 
 two of the under gardeners. He would not have gone if 
 she had asked him, and in this he was almost alone of the 
 army of indoor and outdoor servants at Kemsale. He 
 felt that his secret disloyalty had been found out when she 
 left him where he was without a word, and the offence 
 rankled deeply. 
 
 " You may call it gardening if you like," he said con- 
 temptuously. " Her ladyship's at liberty to play about as 
 she pleases. She never knew what gardening was, and 
 never will." 
 
 " Didn't she like this sort of thing ? " asked Alfred 
 quickly, indicating the bare beds near which they wers 
 still standing. 
 
 " No ; she — . — " 
 
 " Well, I don't either. Now, I'm going to explore. 
 Good-bye, for the present." 
 
 An hour later Alfred stood on the steps overlooking 
 the two acres of carpet garden again. In the interval 
 he had acquired the glimmerings of a delightful new occu- 
 pation. 
 
 " I wonder if I could do it," he said, reflectively scratch- 
 ing his chin. " I think it would amuse me to try." 
 
 The next morning he wrote up to his father's London 
 office, asking that a cablegram might be sent to him : 
 " May I make some alterations in garden, and dismiss 
 head gardener if necessary ? Reply direct Kemsale. 
 Alfred." 
 
 The answer came the next day. It consisted of the 
 single word " Yes." Armitage Brown liked to save money 
 on cablegrams. 
 
 Alfred had already sent to London for books on garden 
 design and found others in the library that helped him. 
 He spent his evenings making elaborate plans for trans- 
 forming the flat oblong on which the carpet garden was 
 laid out into a formal garden of the most approved style. 
 There were to be arcades and alleys of yew, fountains 
 and tanks, if water could be provided, knots and parterres, 
 treillages and statuary— -every feature, in fact, that would 
 have been found in every mediaeval garden, and a good 
 many besides. He was unhampered by any knowledge of 
 the habits of flowers, or of the time it would take for his 
 
itre Rank and Riches 
 
 plans to mature ; but he enjoyed himself exceedingly and 
 finally produced a plan that did great credit to his artistic 
 taste, :an'd net a little to his capacity for assimilating know- 
 ledge that could be acquired from books. 
 
 On the second evening of his studies — he had as yet 
 only made tentative sketches of the plan that was forming 
 itself in his mind— -Mrs. Parmiter informed him that Mr. 
 Mackenzie wanted to see him. 
 
 " Ask him in," said Alfred. 
 
 Mackenzie was in a temper, which he made no serious 
 effort to disguise, except by keeping his voice to a compara- 
 tively respectful key. 
 
 " I've come to ask, sir," he said, " if you'll be good 
 enough to give me orders if you require anything from the 
 houses." 
 
 " Certainly," said Alfred genially, " unless I take it 
 into my head to pick something for myself. I picked a 
 bunch of grapes this afternoon. Is that what you're 
 referring to ? " 
 
 " You'll excuse me, sir, but as long as I'm head gardener 
 here, things can't be done in that way. My orders are to 
 send up so much vegetables and flowers and fruit to 
 Berkeley Square, and the grapes you picked were intended 
 to be sent off to-morrow. If " 
 
 " Oh, I'm sorry for that," said Alfred. " But there 
 seemed to be several hundred bunches of grapes ready 
 to be picked in the different houses. It's unfortunate 
 that I should have hit upon the very one. How do you 
 know them apart ? " 
 
 " I've got my work to do," said Mackenzie in a tone 
 slightly higher than he had used before, " and I'm quite 
 ready to do it, as I understand quite well how, having 
 lived in the highest families all my life. If I'm interfered 
 with, I can't expect to give satisfaction. I had my 
 instructions from her ladyship — I should say from 
 Mrs. Brown — and I've got to carry those instructions 
 out." 
 
 It may have been Alfred's imagination that he had made 
 his mistake purposely, and corrected it on a note of con- 
 tempt. At any rate it aroused his anger ; but he did not 
 sliow it. 
 
 " Well, you may take it from me," he said, " that Mrs. 
 Brown won't mind in the least which particular bunches 
 of grapes are sent up to her ; and that seems to be all 
 
Garden Notes 103 
 
 that you need worry about. If any complaints are made, 
 you're quite at liberty to put the blame on to me." 
 
 " Then, sir, I shall make a complaint. I know my 
 duty, and what's expected from men in rny position — 
 I dare say a good deal better than you do. Ever since 
 I was 'prenticed as a boy, I've worked in the gardens of 
 the nobility " 
 
 " Yes, you told me that before," Alfred interrupted, 
 " and it doesn't interest me at all. You're not working 
 for the nobility now, and it's quite possible that you may 
 have to adapt yourself to some changes. Now you've 
 made your protest, and I've given you my answer. I 
 don't look upon the houses or anything else in this place 
 as yours, and as long as I'm down here I shall take what 
 I like out of them." 
 
 Mackenzie was almost choking with rage. " If that's 
 the way I'm to be spoken to, I shall give notice at once," 
 he said, getting out his words with difficulty. 
 
 " I shouldn't advise you to be in too great a hurry," 
 said Alfred. " If you do give notice, it will probably be 
 accepted. I'll say good-night to you now." 
 
 When Mackenzie had taken himself off, with no further 
 words, Alfred grinned to himself. " I don't believe any 
 of the nobility could have done it better," he said. " Im- 
 pudent beast ! " 
 
 Then his face changed. "It's rather a shame to goad 
 him on," he said, " when I hold all the trumps. I'm not 
 going to kick a man out of his job if I can help it." 
 
 He wrote to his mother to tell her how matters stood. 
 " All the servants that you have taken over seem to be a 
 nice lot, except this fellow. He wants to tyrannize, and 
 if you leave him to me I'll put him in his place, so that you 
 will have no trouble with him when you come down. On 
 his own lines I should say he was an excellent man, and you 
 don't want to get rid of him if you can help it." He then 
 went on to tell her about his garden plans. "It's the 
 greatest fun in the world," he wrote. " The heir of all the 
 Browns has taken very kindly to country life, and you may 
 have to put up with his presence in the ancestral castle 
 more often than you bargained for." 
 
 Now the head gardener at " The Towers " had com- 
 ported himself in exactly the same way as Mackenzie 
 proposed to do, and it had suited Mrs. Brown admirably. 
 She took no interest whatever in the processes of garden- 
 
10! Rank and Riches 
 
 , :J a5 long as any orders she might give as to what 
 was to be brought into the house were obeyed, all the rest 
 was left to his discretion. She had interviewed Mackenzie 
 in a stately sort of way during her short stay at Kcmsale, 
 had given the orders which he was ready to carry out, and 
 left all the rest to him. He had rubbed his hands and 
 chuckled to himself after the interview. But he had none 
 the less misread Mrs. Brown. 
 
 There was a strain of arrogance in her composition, 
 which had been heightened by the wealth at her command. 
 She had envisaged herself reigning at Kcmsale with un- 
 disputed sway. She had been quite sincere when she had 
 intimated over the tea-table at " The Towers " that it 
 would be the part of the people living about her to culti- 
 vate her, not hers to cultivate them. Whatever her social 
 success had been, she had owed it greatly to this calm 
 dependence on her position as a woman much richer than 
 others. She hunted no tufts, but enough tufts had hunted 
 her to make her believe that all of them would, of any 
 amongst whom she should be placed. If not, she would do 
 without them. She did not know enough about country 
 life to imagine a different kind of intercourse from that with 
 which she had made herself familiar on the Riviera. 
 Money would surround her at Kemsale ; money would 
 draw the people she would want to know ; money would 
 do everything for her. 
 
 But there were little doubts and hesitations at the back 
 of her mind all the time, and perhaps Mackenzie had 
 divined some of them. Certainly he had " tried it on " 
 with her, and cleverly enough, insinuating information 
 as to how things were done in the establishments of the 
 high nobility, and taking it for granted that she would 
 like things done in the same way. So she would. And 
 he was right too in thinking that much that he told her 
 was news to her, as it very well might have been if she 
 had known a good deal more than she did, for his assump- 
 tions had been preposterous. Where he was entirely wrong 
 was in thinking that she had been awed into subjection 
 to him, and that her haughty acceptance of his statements 
 had been the mere veneer to hide it. He was quite ready 
 to play up to her haughtiness, if he could have his own way 
 in everything. But his way happened to suit her. Money 
 was no object ; he could spend as much money as he liked, 
 if he obtained the right results. He was to supply the best 
 
Garden Notes 105 
 
 of everything that was wanted ; how he did it was his own 
 affair ; she did not want to be troubled with details. 
 
 When Alfred's letter came by the same post as Mac- 
 kenzie's formal complaint, she was coldly angry. She 
 had half suspected Mackenzie of trying to work upon her 
 with his references to the " nobility/' skilfully as he had 
 used them, but thought she had shown him by her manner 
 that he could not impress her by those means. The same 
 reference in his letter was not the least of his mistakes. 
 Furthermore, one of her troubles about Alfred had been 
 that he was too easy with servants. She wanted him 
 treated, as the son of the house, with the same machine-like 
 deference she demanded for herself ; and how could that 
 be expected when he seemed to prefer to make friends with 
 them ? This man must have made himself extraordinarily 
 offensive if Alfred had taken notice of it. His complaint 
 to her Was a gross impertinence, practically demanding of 
 her that she should humiliate her son on his behalf. 
 
 As for Alfred, it delighted her that he should have taken 
 up this new interest that would attach him to Kemsale. 
 She wanted him to play his part there, and a big part. 
 The alteration of a garden was not much, but it was 
 something ; and the rest might come to be built upon it. 
 He had said in his letter that he liked the place, and the 
 life of the country, much better than he had thought 
 he should. She would see him hunting and shooting with 
 lis neighbours after all, and doing her credit as neither 
 her husband nor her daughter could. This new taste of 
 his must be encouraged for all it was worth. 
 
 She wrote and told him to do exactly what he liked with 
 his formal garden. He had hinted at certain ideas for it 
 that he had rejected because of expense. She would be 
 responsible for anything that it might cost, and she asked 
 him to write further about it, so that she might interest 
 herself in it too. She had not hitherto cared much for 
 gardening, which, however, everybody nowadays seemed to 
 be going mad about. If he were going to take it up, she 
 should like to do so too. At the end of her letter she wrote : 
 " I have written to Captain Fuller asking him to dismiss 
 Mackenzie, and find another man who knows how to obey 
 orders." 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 THE HEIR APPARENT 
 
 It must not be supposed that Alfred Brown, even in the 
 early days of his stay at Kemsale, had been confined to 
 the society of Mrs. Parmiter. However lightly he himself 
 may have taken his position as heir apparent to the trans- 
 ferred glories of his house, it was of importance enough 
 to others' to bring them about him with attentions that at 
 first he would rather have been without. He was not, 
 however, of an unsociable habit, and before his month at 
 Kemsale was far advanced he was glad to have houses to 
 go to and people to talk with. 
 
 Captain Fuller he fell in with on the first morning, 
 immediately after he had come in from his exploration of 
 the garden, for Fuller was keeping an eye upon the work- 
 men engaged in the house, and spent some time there every 
 day. Fuller, acting upon instructions, asked him to 
 luncheon. He refused for that day, but finding that 
 he should have to accept some time or other accepted for 
 the next. Barton's Farm was the first house in which he 
 was entertained at Kemsale, and Mrs. Fuller's satisfaction 
 was deep and sustaining. 
 
 When Mrs. Brown had come down to Kemsale with her 
 sister-in-law, Mrs. Fuller had been all over her. The 
 phrase may be a vulgar one, but Mrs. Fuller was a vulgar 
 woman. Aunt Millie saw it ; Mrs. Brown did not. But 
 then Mrs. Fuller took a great deal more trouble with Mrs. 
 Brown than she did with Aunt Millie. Aunt Millie was a 
 poor relation, in her eyes, because she never put herself 
 forward, and was always very quietly dressed. And such 
 women as Mrs. Fuller find it difficult to disguise their con- 
 tempt for poor relations. She did her best in this instance, 
 because Mrs. Brown was evidently fond of Aunt Millie, 
 but her best only amounted to an occasional address, in 
 which patronage was at least as much apparent as courtesy, 
 
 106 
 
The Keir Apparent 107 
 
 and she would have been surprised to learn how closely 
 the bright but quiet little lady had taken her measure. 
 
 Mrs. Brown was not at home to visitors during her 
 brief sojourn, but as she had to be in constant communi- 
 cation with Captain Fuller, who had immediately entered 
 upon his new duties in connection with the house, it was 
 not possible to escape the attentions of his wife. These 
 had been most skilfully brought to bear. Mrs. Fuller 
 had made herself useful ; she had made herself pleasant ; 
 she had burnt incense of a delicate aroma ; she had made 
 good her footing. After the three days' campaign, wearing 
 but exciting, she was entitled to congratulate herself upon 
 the success, as far as Mrs. Brown was concerned, of the 
 tactics in which she placed such reliance. She had bluffed 
 herself into being accepted as something other than she 
 was. 
 
 Her knowledge of dress had done most for her. In this 
 she could not have deceived Mrs. Brown, however hard she 
 had tried. But she really knew. She had been a dress- 
 maker — a lady dressmaker, of course — say a modiste. 
 She did not seek to hide it. She had been poor, and " one 
 must do something." 
 
 And since she had lived at Kemsale her husband's position 
 had given her opportunities for lynx-eyed observation. 
 She could reproduce the manners of the elite, if the effort 
 required was not too long sustained. She could be quiet 
 and self-possessed in the grand style, or in close imitation 
 of it. She could assume natural manners, extremely 
 unnatural to herself. She could create the effect of 
 being in her native air when in touch with great wealth, 
 but of being quite unashamed of her own state of compara- 
 tive poverty. . She knew well what a bad card fulsomeness 
 is, and restrained her persistent inclination to play it. 
 Her flattery was of the most delicate kind, and her only 
 mistake was in not exercising it towards Aunt Millie, who 
 might possibly have been taken in by it, but, as it was, 
 saw right through her as if she had been made of glass, 
 and was only restrained from saying so by considerations 
 that concerned her own rather difficult position. She was 
 strong in her determination not to allow herself to be 
 influenced by her sister-in-law's riches ; she would say 
 nothing to warn her against a woman whom she saw to 
 be influenced towards her by nothing else, for fear of being 
 misunderstood. 
 
108 Rank and Riches 
 
 So Mrs. Fuller had her triumph for the time being. 
 When Mrs. Brown left Kemsale she thought of Mrs. Fuller 
 as an agreeable, well-connected woman, who had rather 
 thrown herself away, but had made the best of it, and would 
 never presume upon the intimacy to which she seemed 
 entitled. She asked her to propose herself for luncheon in 
 Berkeley Square if she should happen to be in London. 
 They might, perhaps, have an afternoon's shopping to- 
 gether. And they would be seeing more of one another 
 when she settled at Kemsale in the spring. 
 
 Mrs. Fuller's reward seemed assured when Alfred, on 
 his introduction to her, amiably told her that he had heard 
 about her from his mother, who had rather hoped to have 
 seen her in London before this. His speech exhibited a 
 shade more cordiality than his mother's had done, and 
 seemed to imply a willingness towards cordiality on his 
 own part which made Mrs. Fuller very happy. The more 
 members of the family she could draw into her circle the 
 stronger her position with her patroness would be. Afred, 
 at least, should return to London with golden accounts 
 of her. 
 
 As for the match between him and Irene, upon which her 
 thoughts had, of course, been busy, great care must be 
 exercised at the present time. She saw now that the 
 Rector had been too patently pursued. It had been proved 
 to be so much more effective to cover up all signs of pur- 
 suit, while none the less eagerly pursuing. The same 
 subdued note as she had used with Mrs. Brown would be 
 imperative here. Alfred must never suspect that Irene 
 was being thrown in his way. She must be her mother's 
 precious treasure, destined for great things, but with no 
 thought of finding them, so to speak, on the premises. 
 She thought she could do it, if Irene played up ; and she'd 
 better. 
 
 The luncheon, though simple, as became what was no 
 more than a farmhouse, was well served. The room looked 
 what it should always have looked — the bright, tidy, cosy 
 living-room of a modest but well-cared-for home. It drew 
 admiration from Alfred, who had a taste for domestic 
 simplicity. 
 
 " Well, it is rather nice," Mrs. Fuller admitted, looking 
 round upon it as if she saw it for the first time, " but it 
 isn't quite what we've been accustomed to. We came here 
 for a few months, and have stayed for fifteen years. We 
 
The Heir Apparent ieo 
 
 shall be sorry for some things to leave the old place, 
 but " 
 
 " We're not going to leave it," interrupted her husband 
 doggedly. He had fought her over this day in and day 
 out ever since he had brought the news of his increase of 
 income. And he would go on fighting against any unscru- 
 pulous attack she might bring to bear upon him. 
 
 Only the flicker of an eyelid showed Mrs. Fuller's annoy- 
 ance. "Ah, that's a little matter of friendly dispute 
 between us," she said, with a smile. " But I shall get my 
 own way in the end." 
 
 Irene was quiet during the progress of the meal, and 
 hardly spoke except when she was spoken to. This was 
 chiefly from laziness, but her air of indifference towards 
 the much-dowered young man fitted in admirably with her 
 mother's ideas. It drew Alfred to go a trifle out of his 
 way to include her in the conversation, and Mrs. Fuller 
 thought she detected a dawning interest in him which 
 was almost more than could have been hoped for at this 
 very early stage. When he suggested that they should 
 all go out somewhere in the car, and the two ladies went 
 up to prepare themselves, she said to her daughter, with 
 suppressed excitement. " My dear, you're behaving 
 splendidly. Don't let him see yet that you're in the least 
 interested in him." 
 
 Irene looked at her with her large eyes, and went into 
 her room without speaking. She drifted up to a looking- 
 glass and surveyed herself. " I'm noi'm the least interested 
 in him," she said. "Nor in old Compton either. I wish 
 mother would leave me alone." 
 
 They drove far afield, and touched the bounds of the 
 estate at many points, but hardly went outside it. The 
 progress was made semi-royal by Mrs. Fuller. " All these 
 roads and lanes thread your father's property," was the 
 note of her pointings. ' ' All these rich meadows, fat plough- 
 lands, deep woods, meandering streams ; all these snug 
 farmhouses, pretty cottages, churches, vicarages, manor- 
 houses, and villas are his." And from beneath it all peeped 
 out the consciousness : " And they will 'all be yours some 
 day." 
 
 Fuller sat in front beside the chauffeur, and turned 
 round every now and then with a word of explanation. 
 Alfred sat on the back seat opposite to Irene, who, lulled 
 by the soft air and swift motion, and the after effects of a 
 
no Rank and Riches 
 
 luncheon rather larger than she was accustomed to, found 
 it difficult to keep her eyes open, and impossible to arouse 
 herself to conversation. Alfred occasionally addressed 
 a word to her, and looked at her frequently, with a good- 
 natured expression which Mrs. Fuller translated into ad- 
 miration. It was all going as well as it could be expected 
 to go. 
 
 They had come into a long stretch of straight road, at 
 the other end of which appeared a black figure on a horse. 
 " Here comes the Rector," said Fuller, turning round. 
 
 " Oh, stop him," said Mrs. Fuller eagerly. " It will 
 be a good opportunity to introduce him to Mr. Alfred." 
 He was to be called so, she had explained with friendly 
 emphasis, to distinguish him from his father. 
 
 The car, which was going at a considerable pace, began 
 to slow down ; the black figure came trotting along the 
 road towards it. Mrs. Fuller leaned out, and the Rector's 
 face darkened as he saw who it was that was about to stop 
 him. He could hardly avoid reining up, as the car had 
 come to a standstill, and the lady was so very insistent. 
 He took off his hat without a smile, and looked at her 
 inquiringly. 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Compton, I want to introduce you to Mr. 
 Alfred Brown, who has come to stay here for a few days." 
 
 Compton said : " How do you do, sir ? " still without a 
 smile, and then trotted on, with his face disagreeably set. 
 
 " He didn't seem violently anxious to know me," said 
 Alfred, whose first impulse was to salve over the affront 
 to the lady's feelings. 
 
 But Mrs. Fuller, besides being not altogether unaccus- 
 tomed to such affronts in that and other quarters, had 
 fulfilled her object, which was to display herself and her 
 daughter in intimate contact with the heir apparent. 
 " Oh, you never know how to take Mr. Compton," she said 
 lightly. " I suppose he's been hunting, a long way from 
 home, and feels hungry. He'll call on you now he knows 
 you are here. We don't care for him much ourselves, but 
 of course you have to keep in with the parson of your village 
 to some extent." 
 
 " Well, I bain't terr'ble wrapped up in parsons myself," 
 said Alfred. " I don't much care if he doesn't call on me." 
 
 "Of course, he's not quite like ordinary parsons," said 
 Mrs. Fuller. " He's the brother of a peer, and all that sort 
 of thing. He's quite a person to know in this part of the 
 
The Keir Apparent ill 
 
 world, though he shuts himself up a good deal. One has 
 to make allowances for him." 
 
 Alfred began to feel a doubt as to whether Mrs. Fuller 
 wasn't, after all, rather a tiresome sort of person. She 
 seemed to be a bit of a snob. No woman who respected 
 herself would have taken the man's rudeness in that way, 
 or have run the risk of meeting with it if she knew that it 
 might be offered. That he was " the brother of a peer, 
 and all that sort of thing," should not have been considered 
 a palliation. It certainly should not be as far as he him- 
 self was concerned. If the Rector did call on him, which 
 seemed unlikely, he would not see him, or return his call. 
 
 He was, in fact, angry, though he showed no signs of 
 it. He was aware that there might be some feeling against 
 people like himself and his parents taking the place of 
 people like the Meadshires, which was one of the reasons 
 why he had kept himself somewhat aloof from the discus- 
 sions and preparations that had gone on in his family with 
 regard to Kemsale. He was not going to spoil his happy 
 freedom by settling himself in a position where " all that 
 sort of thing " was of such importance. It was of none 
 whatever to him. Most people claim to be indifferent to 
 rank, but Alfred really was so. He was ready to make 
 friends with all and sundry ; he was incapable of resting 
 himself upon the accidents of his own birth with those 
 less fortunate than himself, or of paying court to anybody 
 because of the accidents of theirs. The whole question of 
 rank and wealth, as it affected a man, was a nuisance. The 
 jolliest companions he had known had had neither. So it 
 had come to pass that he had rather kept out of the way of 
 those who were gilded with " all that sort of thing." They 
 might be as jolly as anybody ; he had come across those 
 that were ; but more probably their standards would be 
 different from his. Better not run the risk. There were 
 plenty of others in the world. 
 
 And now Mrs. Fuller had let him in for a snub from a 
 person of the suspected class, and had taken it for granted 
 that he would swallow the snub because of the class. He 
 was as much annoyed with her as with the person who had 
 dealt it. 
 
 He dropped the Fullers at Barton's Farm as dusk fell, 
 and refused to come in to tea. He was already rather tired 
 of the Fullers, and wanted to get back to his cosy room and 
 his garden designing. 
 
112 Rank and Riches 
 
 He was not, however, to enjoy his solitude just yet. 
 As he got out of the car, Douglas Irving was just turning 
 away from the door. 
 
 He introduced himself. " Fuller told me you were here 
 for a day or two," he said. " I thought I'd look you up, 
 and see if I could do anything for you. You can't be very 
 comfortable here with all this mess about." 
 
 Alfred was rather pleased to see a man nearer to his 
 own age than any he had talked with for the last few days. 
 And there was something about Douglas's frank and 
 natural address that attracted him. 
 
 "Not comfortable? " he echoed. "You come in and 
 see." 
 
 They were standing before a side entrance, more fre 
 quently used than the main one. Alfred led the way 
 through a hall and passage full of the ladders and gear of 
 the decorators, and down a flight of stone stairs to the 
 echoing basement. He threw open a door. " There ! 
 What can you want more comfortable than that ? " he 
 asked. 
 
 A fire of logs was burning on the hearth ; a lamp was 
 on the table, and lighted candles on the high chimney- 
 piece. The curtains were close drawn ; toasted muffins 
 were keeping up their circulation on an old brass grid in 
 front of the fire, and a copper kettle was purring on the hob. 
 The invaluable Mrs. Parmiter had even put Alfred's 
 felt slippers to warm against the fender, although he was 
 not accustomed to wear them, except in his bedroom. 
 She had a genius for creating an atmosphere. 
 
 " It looks like a poem by Cowper," said Douglas. " Who 
 would have thought there was a room like this in this 
 barrack of a place ? " 
 
 Alfred had thrown a searching look at him when they 
 had come in to the light. He was not quite as young 
 as he had thought, but he felt inclined to like him extremely. 
 Young men do take sudden fancies to men older than them- 
 selves. Douglas Irving, with his military bearing and his 
 well-cut country clothes, had all the air of belonging to the 
 class upon which Alfred was accustomed to look askance, 
 but he forgot all that, and pressed him to sit down and make 
 himself at home. Tea would be in directly. 
 
 "I've had tea," said Douglas, "but there weren't any 
 muffins. How do you do, Mrs. Parmiter ? Got somebody 
 to look after again, eh ? " 
 
The Heir Apparent 113 
 
 Douglas talked about shooting. Alfred began to fear 
 that his type was too pronounced to afford probability 
 of common interests, in spite of the reference to a poet 
 not usually read by sportsmen. He laughed when he him- 
 self was invited to shoot. " I've never fired a gun in my 
 life," he said. " It's a bit late to begin now." 
 
 " Not a bit," said Douglas. " You'll certainly want to 
 shoot if you're going to live here. Come out with me some 
 morning quietly ; I'll lend you a gun and put you up to it. 
 You'll be as keen as mustard when you've brought down 
 your first pheasant." 
 
 " It's most awfully good of you," said Alfred. " Per- 
 haps I will some day, but you'll find me an awful duffer. 
 I've never gone in for sport ; never wanted to ; I've had 
 all sorts of other things to do. Still, if you'd put me in 
 the way of it, I might give it a chance." 
 
 Douglas did not quite know what to make of him. He 
 had not expected Armitage Brown's son to be like this. 
 He had pictured a young man either inclined to give 
 himself airs because of his potential command of money, 
 or inclined to subservience through not being quite sure 
 of himself. But this young man had thanked him with 
 warmth for his offer, without a trace of subservience, and 
 had admitted his ignorance of what a purse-proud young 
 man would prefer to be thought to know something about. 
 He was " all right," too, according to Douglas's standard 
 — boots not quite thick enough for country wear, but 
 collar and tie correct, and suit such as anybody might wear 
 who didn't care to go to the expense of having his tweeds 
 made in Savile Row. His manner and speech were " all 
 right " too. He was, in fact, a " gentleman." 
 
 But still, there was something about him that didn't 
 exactly fit in with the ordinary public school type, whose 
 virtues and limitations alike such men as Douglas Irving 
 feel most at home with. The sons of self-made men are 
 sent to big schools and turned out to pattern ; and if 
 possessing no salient characteristics of their own are in- 
 distinguishable from the sons of fathers who are not self- 
 made. Their address to their fellows is as careless and as 
 unenthusiastic ; they don't " swank " ; their tastes, habits, 
 and appearance are woven on the same loom. But this 
 young man did not conform in all respects. There seemed 
 to be a thread of originality woven into his tissue, and 
 originality is suspect until it is known on what grounds it 
 
li i Rank and Riches 
 
 rests. Still, he was inclined to like the fellow. He was 
 very heavily gilded, which might induce liking or the 
 reverse, according to circumstances. If he were not him- 
 self inclined to protrude the gilding it would not make 
 him the less likable. 
 
 " What have you been doing with yourself, if you haven't 
 had time for sport ? " Douglas asked. 
 
 " Oh, painting and writing a bit, and wandering about 
 generally. I tried the City for a year when I came down 
 from Cambridge, but it didn't suit me at all. I suppose 
 you might call me a sort of Bohemian." 
 
 He said it with an engaging smile. He wanted to stand 
 well with this older man/ and doubted whether his sym 
 pathies would extend as far as any sort of Bohemianism. 
 Cambridge had been thrown in as a sop to his supposed 
 prejudices in favour of a conventional career. 
 
 Douglas was entirely satisfied. The ground was cleared. 
 His own tastes were not Bohemian, but they were artistic 
 within limits. He would never have chosen those interests 
 of his as an opening for conversation, but he was quite 
 as ready to talk about them as about sport. They got on 
 well together after that. Douglas stayed for an hour, 
 and Alfred promised to dine at Little Kemsale the next 
 evening. 
 
 " Oh, Douglas, I think he's a dear," said Beatrix, when 
 the dinner had been duly eaten, and Alfred had gone away 
 at a late hour of the evening. " He's not a bit spoilt." 
 
 They went back to the library. " You'd hardly expect 
 a fellow of that parentage to turn out as he has," said 
 Douglas. " He seems to be bored by it all. I must say 
 it's a great feather in his cap that he takes it as he does. 
 It makes one like him extraordinarily. If the rest of 
 them are like that, we shall have some very jolly new 
 neighbours." 
 
 "I don't think they are. At least, his mother isn't, if 
 she's anything like Tottie's description of her. A high 
 and mighty lady, as one might have expected." 
 
 " Really, Tottie's the limit ! " exclaimed Douglas. " It's 
 plain she's got her claws into this youth. Wants him for 
 Irene, I suppose." 
 
 " I think he sees through her all right. I like him for 
 not saying things against her. Douglas, Mr. Compton 
 seems to have been awfully rude to him." 
 
 Douglas considered this. " Of course he hates the 
 
The Heir Apparent 115 
 
 Browns coming here," he said. " But surely he can't be 
 meaning to cut them altogether." 
 
 " It looks like it. But I suppose it was Tottie and Irene 
 he really shied at. Can't you see how Tottie would behave ? 
 ' Here's somebody much better worth getting hold of than 
 3 r ou are.' That's what would stick out of her." 
 
 Douglas smiled and pinched her chin. r< How uncharit- 
 able you are," he said. " What should we do without our 
 Tottie ? But I do think it's a bit too bad of Compton, 
 all the same. You couldn't have a nicer fellow than young 
 Brown is — modest and bright and clever. Oh, I think 
 he's an acquisition. I expect Bill and the rest of them 
 will like him. I'll teach him to shoot, and he shall come out 
 with us when we have a quiet day. I expect he'll be asking 
 us to shoot next near. May as well make friends with the 
 Mammon of unrighteousness, anyhow." 
 
 " I shall tell Grace how nice he is," said Beatrix. " I 
 wonder if Lord Meadshire will call on him." 
 
 " Not he," said Douglas. " He's got his knife into the 
 Browns and everything and everybody connected with 
 them." 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 THE CHANCEL PEW 
 
 On Sunday morning Alfred went to church, which was 
 not his usual practice. But here in the country it seemed 
 to be part of the delightful leisurely progress of things. 
 You got up in the morning with a sense of the day being 
 different from other days. You marked the difference 
 by the clothes you put on. You had sausages for breakfast, 
 if you were looked after by a Mrs. Parmiter. After 
 breakfast it was almost your duty to idle until church 
 time, and the idleness was pleasant, as it would not have 
 been if you had felt you were wasting the morning. Church 
 was a mild excitement, tuned to the key of the day. You 
 met people, going and coming, whom you knew ; you saw 
 them and other people at a new angle, and joined with 
 them in various acts of at least some social significance. 
 The cigarette that you lit immediately you were clear of 
 the churchyard was better than other cigarettes, and you 
 would be quite ready when the time came for your luncheon, 
 or early dinner, which with a Mrs. Parmiter at the helm 
 would certainly include roast beef. 
 
 And so on throughout the day — slight changes in occu- 
 pation and in consequent outlook, which brought you to 
 the end of it with renewed zest for the usual activities of 
 the week. But to taste the full flavour of the day you must 
 go to church, at least in the morning. 
 
 Alfred went rather early. He had been at Kemsale 
 five days now, and it had begun to dawn upon him that 
 lie was expected to play a part. The indications had 
 been subtle but pervasive, and there had been nothing as 
 yet to alarm him. But in his general ignorance of what 
 might be expected of him he was inclined to be watchful, 
 and it had occurred to him as he was dressing that there 
 might be some question of a squire's pew, which he would 
 be expected to occupy. He had no intention of occupying 
 
 116 
 
The Chancel Pew 117 
 
 a conspicuous position of any sort, and thought he might 
 escape the risk of being asked to do so by slipping into 
 the church ten minutes or so before the service began. 
 
 He did so, and found himself alone there, except for the 
 sexton, who was pulling at one of the ropes that hung 
 in front of the closed west doors, and two old women in 
 black bonnets, with their heads close together, in a pew 
 near him. There were six crisp loaves of bread on an old 
 coffer that stood against the north-west wall of the church, 
 and before any one else entered four more old women came 
 and joined the first two, one of them advancing a surrepti- 
 tious finger towards the loaves as she passed them. They 
 were the recipients of Cope's Charity, Cope having been 
 in his grave for the last two hundred years or more, and 
 being therefore responsible for at least sixty thousand 
 attendances at divine worship on the part of the successive 
 old women who had carried off his loaves during that 
 period. 
 
 Kemsale Church dated from the fourteenth century. It 
 was of noble proportions, and its great square tower was 
 a landmark for miles around. Its interior had points of 
 interest here and there, but its character had been much 
 lessened by an elaborate restoration that it had undergone 
 some fifty years before. It was too large for any congre- 
 gation that was ever likely to gather in it, except on the 
 occasion of a Meadshire wedding or funeral, and the 
 seating that had been put in left broad open spaces which 
 to some extent redeemed the havoc it had undergone. 
 
 Alfred seated himself in as retiring a position as he 
 could find, but there was none in which he could not be 
 seen by any one entering the church, except a large double 
 pew behind a carved screen in the chancel. This was 
 probably the pew that went with the house, and he thought 
 that, after all, he would have been more comfortable in it 
 then elsewhere. 
 
 But did it go with the house ? A few villagers had 
 trickled in, but he had not been in the church more than 
 three minutes before a middle-aged man with a red face, 
 followed by a tall thin lady with a pale one, entered and 
 walked straight up the nave to take their places in this 
 pew. Alfred had no difficulty in identifying them as Lord 
 Meadshire and Lady Grace Ettien, and felt some surprise 
 at the stare with which Meadshire surveyed him and the 
 frown that showed itself when he had evidently identified 
 
118 Rank and Riches 
 
 him in turn. Lady Grace had also looked at him, and as 
 she had followed her brother up the aisle she had blushed 
 and seemed ill at ease. 
 
 Alfred took it that they — or rather Meadshire — had 
 heard that he was at Kemsale, and had come early to 
 church for a similar reason to his own, to occupy the posi- 
 tion they wished. Supposing they had found him already 
 in the chancel pew ! He smiled when he thought how their 
 respective desires fitted in. And then he felt rather 
 serious. Was this man, whose property his father had 
 bought at a high price, going to take up a position of hos- 
 tility towards them for no other reason than that they 
 were the purchasers of what he had had to sell ? If so, 
 surely this was rather a small way of showing it. It did not 
 occur t^ him until later that the laying claim to what had 
 obviously been the Meadshire family pew might be a 
 considered act of aggression which the new owner of Kem- 
 sale would be invited to fight. It was quite possible that 
 the rights to the pew did go with the house, and had been 
 bought with all the rest. He hoped his father would not 
 consent to fight at all on such a question, but it was dis- 
 turbing to feel that enmity was to be shown from the first 
 by people who, so far as he knew, had no reason to show 
 any. 
 
 The school children clattered in, and up the wooden 
 stairs to the gallery ; farmers and their wives and families, 
 cottagers, little shopkeepers from the village, began to fill 
 the pews. 
 
 The Rector came in, and passed close to where Alfred 
 was sitting. He allowed his gaze to rest upon him for a 
 moment and went on to his vestry. It was made plain, 
 in some indefinable way, that his failure to give him any 
 sign of recognition was not because this was not the time or 
 place to give such signs, but because he had no intention 
 of giving them at all. 
 
 Miss Merriman came in — a short, grey-haired lady in 
 old-fashioned attire, whom Alfred knew to be the present 
 occupant of "The Limes." She was well off, and much 
 given to good works. She was accompanied by three young 
 girls in the most elaborate London attire, who caused con- 
 siderable attention amongst the congregation, and seemed 
 to enjoy it, although all three of them behaved beautifully, 
 and sang psalms and hymns in such a way that everybody 
 listened to them. The}' were members of some Actresses' 
 
The Chancel Pew 119 
 
 Guild in which the good lady was interested. She often 
 produced week-end visitors of an unconventional descrip- 
 tion. She had once brought six London flower-girls to 
 Kemsale Church, shawls, large-fathered hats, and all ; 
 but: they had also behaved very well. 
 
 The Irvings came in, Woozle held firmly by her father 
 and Jimbo by his mother, so as to subdue any untimely 
 exuberance of spirit. 
 
 The Fullers came in, and upon seeing Alfred, who had 
 by this time realized that he had taken up a position not 
 usually occupied in that assembly by a man with a gold 
 ring, Mrs. Fuller paused, and issued whispered instructions 
 to her husband to invite him to a seat with them in the 
 middle of the church. He refused the offer, somewhat 
 annoyed that it should have been so osentatiously made. 
 
 He regarded the Rector with some interest, as he went 
 through the service, and occasionally turned his gaze upon 
 the pair in the chancel pew, who were in full view of the 
 church when they stood up. Here were two people, if 
 not three, out of those who were ostensibly gathered to- 
 gether to perform an act that implied peace and charity 
 between them — two people, if not three, who had put them- 
 selves into a position of hostility towards him, a stranger, 
 and had not scrupled to show it in this place — had even 
 made use of this place to show it in. Like many who 
 confess to no creed, Alfred had a deep respect for the spirit 
 of Christianity, wherever it showed itself, and could not 
 but think it odd that people who made public profession of 
 their beliefs, and amongst them one who had set himself 
 apart to teach them, should show so little. The sense of 
 personal enmity, which he had done nothing to deserve, 
 disturbed him, who was so ready to show goodwill to ail 
 men. It spoilt the serenity without which, careless as he 
 was, he would not have cared to take part in a church ser- 
 vice. It destroyed the sense that he would otherwise have 
 enjoyed in such a church as this, of a little company of 
 people, most of whom knew one another in their daily 
 lives, gathered together, on the day of rest, in peace and 
 concord. 
 
 The Rector read the service in a monotonous, conven- 
 tional tone, and the lessons in the same way. His sermon 
 was short and academic, showing no signs of the wide 
 knowledge with which his mind was stored, or indeed of 
 any qualities above the ordinary, either of head or of heart. 
 
IfcO Rank and Riches 
 
 li was difficult to imagine him moved in his actions or im- 
 pulses by principles other than those which any decent* 
 uving, well-educated Englishman of no religious faith what- 
 ever would acknowledge. Perhaps his faith gave him some 
 hope for the future ; probably he found in it support for 
 some of the opinions he had formed on mundane affairs. 
 It did not seem likely to be of much use to any one but 
 himself. 
 
 Lord Meadshire occasionally sang a line or two of a 
 hymn or a psalm, but spent most of his time looking about 
 him. Alfred thought that his presence in church might 
 have been dictated by his wish to " set an example," and 
 smiled as the thought occurred to him. But as a matter 
 of fact he had come very seldom to church when he had 
 owned Kemsale, and if his retention of rights in the Mead- 
 shire pew should depend upon his occupying it regularly, 
 was unlikely to persist in the struggle. 
 
 The attitude of Lady Grace was different. She was 
 devout and collected, and never once, when she was in view 
 of the congregation, did she look towards them. Alfred 
 watched her with interest. Her profile, which was all he 
 saw of her face, did not attract his artistic sense. It 
 seemed to him indicative of long descent, with its high- 
 bridged nose and arched eyebrows, and he wondered idly 
 why no such facial signs showed themselves in her brother, 
 whose appearance would have led no one to guess the fact of 
 his birth. But the aristocratic type — if there really is such 
 a thing — is not beautiful in itself, and Grace was already 
 past her first youth. Alfred, whose own youth was strong 
 in him, regarded her almost as elderly. 
 
 And yet she attracted him. Her expression had sweet- 
 ness, subdued as it was. It seemed to have sadness too. 
 He felt a quick sympathy with her. She was " getting 
 on." She would probably not marry. If the immensities 
 of Kemsale had been her native air, as they never could be 
 that of those who were to take her place, and if she could 
 not now look forward to breathing it elsewhere, then she 
 was to be pitied, as her brother was not. And if she 
 cherished a grudge against those who had dispossessed her, 
 she might be forgiven for it. 
 
 But as he observed her, it came into his mind that she, at 
 least, bore no grudge Her meek downcast eyes were not 
 those of a woman who hugs a grievance. And if it was the 
 case that her brother had marched up to that chancel pew 
 
The Chancel Pew 121 
 
 with the idea of pushing a claim, the look of her as she had 
 followed him seemed to show that she had not done so in 
 his spirit of aggression. Alfred's mind lightened as he 
 eliminated her from the list of those who had already made 
 up their minds to dislike him and his. Perhaps they 
 would be friends some day. It seemed absurd that they 
 shouldn't be, living so close together, in a place where they 
 would be obliged to meet now and then. Kemsale had 
 been rudely disrupted, and was being reconstituted in a 
 fashion that would give it an altogether new character. 
 But it was its old character that was beginning to make 
 itself felt with Alfred, to the extent at least that, having 
 come down for the shortest possible visit, he was now 
 inclined to throw out roots, as he had never before done in 
 any place in which he had lived. And so much of Kemsale's 
 old character was connected in his mind with this gentle 
 lady, who had hitherto lived all her life in it. Yes, decidedly 
 they would make friends, if it were in any way possible. 
 
 The service came to an end, and the congregation filed 
 out, ready for the next process that marked the day for 
 what it was. This was, immediately, greeting of friends 
 and acquaintances in the precincts of the church, and walk- 
 ing away in conversation. Alfred manoeuvred so as to 
 emerge from the sphere of silence with the Irvings, and not 
 with the Fullers. In the porch Beatrix asked him to lunch 
 with them. 
 
 " Bless you for being so prompt," he said. " I will come 
 wilm the greatest of pleasure." 
 
 Mrs. Fuller almost pushed her way out. " Oh, how do 
 you do, Mr. Alfred ? " she said in a voice that carried, and 
 was intended to do so. " You are coming to lunch with us, 
 aren't you ? You mustn't be left to mope by yourself on 
 Sunday." 
 
 Alfred regretted the impossibility, and she was going on 
 to ask him to supper, but broke off to say : " Oh, I want 
 to introduce you to Lord Meadshire and Lady Grace. Do 
 just wait a moment. They will be out directly." 
 
 She made a motion almost as if she would have laid 
 hands on him ; but he pretended not to hear her, raised 
 his hat and walked on with the Irvings. 
 
 She came after him, and renewed her request. She could 
 not bear to be deprived of the exiguous triumph of bringing 
 the old and the new together /publicly. It was awkward, 
 because they were in a stream of people. But by the lycb 
 
122 Rank and Riches 
 
 gate it had thinned enough for Alfred to be able to say with- 
 out being overheard : "I'd really rather not, Mrs. Fuller, 
 thank you all the same." 
 
 He could not altogether keep the annoyance out of his 
 voice ; but she was too eager in her desire to keep him to 
 notice it. " Oh, don't be shy," she rallied him. " They 
 won't bite you." 
 
 Now he was angry. " I'm not at all sure that they 
 want to know me," he said. " Mr. Compton evidently 
 didn't." Then he left her and joined the Irvings. 
 
 The stream of people had now left the churchyard. 
 Irene, quite indifferent to her mother's desires, was waiting 
 for her, reading the inscriptions on the tombstones that 
 came within her view. Herbert Fuller, who was church- 
 warden, had not come out yet. But as Mrs. Fuller joined 
 her daughter, Meadshire and Grace appeared under the 
 porch. 
 
 She greeted them with a warmth that was met by Grace 
 with politeness, by Meadshire with joviality. He found 
 material for constant amusement in " Tottie " and her 
 ways. " How are you, Mrs. Fuller, how are you ? " he 
 inquired, wringing her hand. " Aren't you going to say 
 ' How do you do,' Irene ? By jove, you look more fetch- 
 ing than ever. You've been buying clothes, both of you 
 I know you have." 
 
 Irene allowed herself to smile, though she was not 
 amused. There had been a time when a higher alliance 
 even than that with the Rector had seemed to be indicated 
 for her. But, misunderstanding so many things, Mrs. 
 Fuller had never misunderstood Meadshire's attitude 
 towards herself and her daughter. Bright visions, half- 
 formed, had to be given up. He was not serious. Besides 
 he was too old, and " unsteady " besides. It would never 
 have done. She had spoken of it regretfully, to people at 
 a safe distance from Kemsale. He had seemed to be 
 attracted, but she had felt obliged to put a stop to it. He 
 had taken it well upon the whole, and they had remained 
 friends. Irene, fortunately, had not suffered ; she had not 
 cared for him " in that way," although, of course, they had 
 been great friends ever since she had been a little girl. Her 
 heart, she thought, was engaged elsewhere, and in a quarter 
 which promised a far more satisfactory development ; she 
 could not say anything more about that at present, but if it 
 " came off," it would be all that could be wished. 
 
The Chancel Pew 123 
 
 " Oh, Lord Meadshire," she said. " I did want to 
 introduce you to young Alfred Brown, who is here for a few 
 days. He is such a nice young fellow. We have been 
 seeing a great deal of him." 
 
 Meadshire dropped his chaffing manner. " Thank you, 
 Mrs. Fuller," he said, frowning, " I don't want to be intro- 
 duced to young Alfred Brown. If you had done so, I should 
 have told him so." 
 
 The Rector and Herbert Fuller came out of the church. 
 "Oh, but I'm sure you would like him," she pleaded. " He 
 really isn't half bad ; quite a gentleman, which you might 
 not have expected. Oh, Mr. Compton, good-morning. We 
 were just talking of young Alfred Brown. You were really 
 rather rude to him the other day, you know. But I sup- 
 pose you were too much taken up with your deep thoughts. 
 Shall you call on him ? I think he expects it, you know." 
 
 " I've no intention of calling on him," said Compton, and 
 went off along the path that led to the Rectory. Meadshire 
 and Grace were already at the lych gate, where a powerful 
 car was waiting for them. Meadshire never walked if he 
 could help it, or had himself carried anywhere under about 
 forty horse-power. 
 
 " Well, really, people don't seem very agreeable this 
 morning," said Mrs. Fuller. " Anyone would think they 
 hadn't been to church at all. Irene, did you see those 
 chorus girls with old Mother Merriman ? I could hardly 
 take my eyes off them. I call it a disgrace bringing people 
 like that into a church. Well, I've done my best to bring 
 people together. What's up with them, Herbert ? Aren't 
 they going to have anything to do with the Browns ? " 
 
 Herbert could not inform her. He looked worried. The 
 almost forcible occupation of the chancel pew boded trouble 
 in which he would probably be involved. She had not 
 apparently noticed it, and he said nothing about it to her. 
 
 Well, I don't know that it much matters," she said, 
 after a pause of consideration. " The Browns are cv.y 
 friends, anyhow ; and the others don't amount to much 
 now — except for their titles." 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 
 MORE GARDEN NOTES 
 
 With great manipulation of cartridge paper, compasses, 
 T-square, and water colours, the great plan for the formal 
 garden had been finished. The Irvings had expressed 
 warm interest in the project. Formal design had not come 
 within their scope, but planting of all sorts had ; perhaps 
 their experience would be of value. They were invited to 
 come round by Kemsale on their way home from church, 
 and examine the result of much planning. 
 
 They walked through the ground-floor rooms before 
 descending to Alfred's appointed retreat. Decoration had 
 already been set in hand here, at the same time as struc- 
 tural alterations were going on elsewhere. The blue saloon, 
 pink saloon, and yellow saloon were already nearing com- 
 pletion. Alfred said nothing as he piloted them through 
 the echoing spaces. And neither Beatrix nor Douglas said 
 anything, although they would willingly have made com- 
 ment if they could have found anything appreciative to say. 
 
 It was left to Woozle to express an opinion, which she did 
 in the following concise phrase : " I thing it-th puffickiy 
 beathly." 
 
 All three of them looked at one another, Douglas and 
 Beatrix with a quick deprecatory glance at Alfred, before 
 falling upon Woozle to rend her, Alfred with his head on 
 one side, inquiringly. Woozle escaped the rending. All 
 three of them burst into laughter, and laughed for a long- 
 time. 
 
 " Nothing more need be said. Now we'll go downstairs 
 and look at my plan," said Alfred. 
 
 The plan proved to be of such interest that they decided 
 to take it on to little Kemsale to study more at their 
 leisure. On the way there they looked at the carpet garden, 
 soon to be dispossessed. " If you like to say that this is 
 'puffickiy beathly,'" said Alfred to Woozle, "I shan't 
 you." 
 
 124 
 
More Gardan Notes 125 
 
 But Woozle said she had liked it when all the flowers 
 were there, and Jimbo put in a sudden claim to having once 
 walked over one of the beds, to see if it was realty like a 
 carpet. 
 
 " He did, the bad wicked man," said Beatrix. " We 
 had to tell Mackenzie, the head gardener, and he was very 
 angry with us, wasn't he, Jimbo ? " 
 
 " So was you," said Jimbo, quick to see the change of 
 attitude. "But you're not angry now." 
 
 She embraced him. " You'll ruin that child," said Doug- 
 las, as he took advantage of her example to embrace the 
 too-entrancing Woozle. 
 
 11 I think Mackenzie will be ang.y with me when he's told 
 what is going to be done," said Alfred. " It will be broken 
 to him to-morrow morning." 
 
 " That's a gentleman you've got to keep under your 
 thumb," said Douglas, " unless you want to live all your 
 life under his. Poor Grace Ettien did. She had to fight 
 for everything she wanted to do. Let's go through the 
 lower garden. It's only a little way further. She did 
 some j oliy things there ; but everything she planted had 
 to be got through him — for the sake of his commission, I 
 suppose — and even then she had to keep a sharp lookout 
 that he got the right things, and planted them right." 
 
 They went down through the lower terraces and slopes, 
 charmingly arranged to afford mild surprises, sun here and 
 shade there, vistas and glimpses, beauty of flower and 
 foliage, green spaces, and above all that sense of peace and 
 seclusion which a well-planned English garden should 
 always offer, even when all its trees are bare. 
 
 " Dear Grace ! " said Beatrix regretfully. " Her garden 
 is like her, sweet and gentle." 
 
 The speech pleased Alfred. " I think it's the best thing 
 here," he said. " I hope mine will be half as successful." 
 
 A few late roses were still blooming. The pomp of crim- 
 son and bright pink was over ; these were faint in colour and 
 delicate in scent. Alfred cut half a dozen of them for 
 Beatrix — all the perfect ones that the bushes could show. 
 They, also, seemed like the quiet gentle lady whom he 
 had just seen at her devotions. These lower gardens were 
 another part of Kemsale that kept their flavour amidst all 
 the ruthless change, and should keep it still, if he had 
 his will. His own changes, he prided himself, would have 
 the effect of building upon the basis of the old, which was 
 
12C Rank and Riches 
 
 beginning to appear to him such a priceless though easily 
 dispersed treasure. 
 
 What he felt about it all was expressed both by Douglas 
 and Beatrix. 
 
 " You know, in a way," said Douglas, with a laugh, " the 
 carpet garden seems more in keeping with what's being 
 done in the house than all this does." 
 
 " Grace always hated the carpet garden," said Beatrix. 
 " She would be very interested in your plans. I wish we 
 could get her to see them." 
 
 " Isn't Auntie Grace coming to tea this afternoon ? " 
 asked Woozle, with her toothless lisp. " She gen'ly does 
 on Sundays." 
 
 " I expect she will," said her mother. She did not say 
 anything further, having observed the little comedy in the 
 churchyard. 
 
 There was still time to go round the garden at Little 
 Kemsale before luncheon. Alfred, who would hitherto have 
 considered that a garden, at a time of j^ear when nearly all 
 its flowers were over, could have no interest for anybody, 
 was beginning to have a dim idea of the absorbing interest 
 of the autumn and winter planning and preparation. " I 
 believe I shall take to this," he said. " But there seems 
 to be a terrific lot ta learn. Tell me candidly now how 
 far my ignorance has affected the plan I've made." 
 
 " We'll go all through it this afternoon," said Beatrix. 
 
 Douglas was more direct. " The plan's all right as far as 
 it goes," he said. " But it's only half done. I suppose 
 you'll hand it over to Mackenzie to carry out. Well, he'll 
 get the yews planted, the beds dug, and all that ; but 
 what are you going to put into them ? If you leave it to 
 him it will be the carpet garden over again, which will be 
 ' pufnckly beathly.' " 
 
 The plan had simplified itself to broad alleys and arcad- 
 ings of yew, with wide spaces of lawn, and here and there 
 box-edged beds and borders. There was to be a stone- 
 edged lily tank in the wide central space, and a fountain 
 jet at each end of the main transverse alley. When Alfred 
 had written to his mother — whose reply was to be expected 
 the next morning — he had had in his mind a more elaborate 
 framework to his garden, with higher boundary walls, 
 wrought-iron gates above and below, and at each corner 
 Uttle Renaissance pavilions, with flagged paths connecting 
 them. But as he had worked out this idea throughout the 
 
More Garden Notes 127 
 
 whole of a long evening, he had found himself losing his 
 zest for it. It would be very expensive. He had little 
 doubt about being authorized, and even encouraged, to 
 spend as much as he wanted to spend over it. It was 
 not that that damped his ardour. It was his own protest 
 against depending upon the lavish use of money to bring 
 happiness and interest in life that was rising in him. He 
 had never done it before. He had been surrounded by 
 wealth all his life, and had instinctively recoiled from it as 
 a danger to true contentment. He had always been happy 
 except when he had been sitting at his desk in his father's 
 office. He had had a few qualms occasionally as to whether 
 he had a right to make himself so happy, since he was doing 
 nothing, or very little, that would lead him anywhere. His 
 father's character lived in him to that extent. But such 
 doubts had troubled him little as long as he was not 
 resting himself upon the golden pinnacle that was there for 
 him if he wished to occupy it. If he were to leave his 
 simple, inexpensive way of life, and begin to think about 
 what pleasures he could obtain by the spending of money, 
 his contentment would vanish. He felt it, though he did 
 not analyse his feeling. Not to spend more money than 
 he could help, not to think about money at all, was his way 
 of keeping himself unspotted from the world. 
 
 Directly he threw over his elaborate plan, his pleasure 
 in designing his garden returned. The other would have 
 been interesting, and, in comparison with what was now 
 being done at Kemsale, and even with what had been 
 done in the past in the way of expensive improvements, 
 its cost would have been negligible. But, somehow, it 
 was not for him to set it in hand. And Lady Grace's 
 garden, as he liked to call the lower slopes, had shown 
 him that it was not necessary to spend large sums of 
 money in order to get gracious and charming effects. 
 Great skill was necessary, as he was beginning to see, but 
 he thought it would not be beyond him to gain that skill ; 
 he had already gained a good deal by his studies. At least 
 let the skill come first, and let not ignorance be plastered 
 over by great spending. 
 
 He was a trifle dashed when Douglas, with the plan 
 spread out before him, and all three of them ready to give 
 it their undivided attention, said : "Of course, you know, 
 this is going to cost an awful lot." 
 
 "But I've kept it very simple," Alfred expostulated/ 
 
12S Rank and Riches 
 
 " They'll have to lay water on for the fountains, but bar 
 that and the bit of stonework, it's nearly all of it yew." 
 
 "Yes, but it will take thousands of yews, and you'll 
 want them a good size, I suppose. You won't want to wait 
 twenty years before you get any sort of effect." 
 
 "That's where I'm ignorant," said Alfred. "But if 
 that's all, I don't think it matters." 
 
 " Ah, well," said Douglas, " then if I were you I should 
 get trees as big as possible. If they are carefully looked 
 after when they are planted they'll come together in a 
 couple of years, and you'll get your effect almost from 
 the first." 
 
 He had given his warning, and was relieved of responsi- 
 bility. He had not really supposed that cost would mat- 
 ter, and meant to recommend the planting of well-grown 
 trees that would cost at least ten shillings apiece, even if 
 bought in thousands. It would be jolly to take a hand 
 in an affair of that magnitude, and he was inclined to 
 envy one who could garden on a scale so much larger than 
 was permitted to himself. 
 
 Alfred was relieved too. The actual cost of the garden 
 was not the question with him. There was no such thing 
 as actual cost in such matters as this, so far as his father 
 was concerned ; would not have been even if he had 
 kept to his more expensive design. Armitage Brown would 
 have paid the bill for either without thinking about it. 
 It was the difference between spending money on dead 
 stone and brick and mortar, and spending it on living 
 growth that seemed to matter. He would be prepared to 
 'order yews of the largest size that could be transplanted, 
 and as many of them as was necessary. That was ordinary . 
 gardening as he envisaged it. That it was gardening with 
 a golden spade in Douglas's eyes would have troubled him 
 but a little if he had known it. His own secret protest had 
 been obeyed. He was gaining his pleasure from the sim- 
 pler of two ways. 
 
 The colloquy was long and interesting ; catalogues were 
 produced, lists made sheets of notes scribbled. Alfred 
 began to regard a nurseryman's catalogue with new eyes. 
 
 " I shan't be able to do this myself, you know," he 
 said. " You'll have to help me." 
 
 This was what Douglas wanted. He leaned back in his 
 chair and played with his pencil. " Well, I'll tell you," 
 he said judicially. "If Mackenzie were the right scrt of 
 
More Garden Notes 129 
 
 gardener, you wouldn't want much help, when you'd de- 
 cided what things to get, and where to put them. But 
 you'll have him against you all the time, and the fact of 
 the matter is you don't know enough yet to see that he 
 does what he's told. Besides, this is going to take all 
 winter, and I suppose you won't be here all the time." 
 
 "No," said Alfred. "I wish you'd overlook it for 
 me." 
 
 " I will with the greatest of pleasure," said Douglas. 
 " Beatrix and I both will. She's jolly good at colour. We 
 shall enjoy it awfully. But j^ou'll have to put us right 
 with Mackenzie. He'll have to get the actual work done, 
 or let us have men to do it. He'll be furiously up against 
 us, of course ; but I shan't mind that if I've got undoubted 
 authority." 
 
 " Come up to-morrow morning," said Alfred, " and we'll 
 initiate Mr. Mackenzie into his new duties. You won't 
 have any trouble with him. He's going to do what he's 
 told, tho'ugh he doesn't know it yet." 
 
 They had been talking and planning for an hour. It 
 was now past three o'clock. There came a slight pause, 
 and Alfred suddenly remembered that Lady Grace was 
 probably coming to tea. His heart beat a trifle faster at 
 the thought. He wanted to see how she looked and spoke. 
 But Beatrix had not asked him to stay to see her. He 
 supposed he had better be going. 
 
 He was just rising to take his leave when the throb of 
 a motor was heard outside. " That must be Meadshire," 
 said Douglas. 
 
 "Well, I think I must be going," said Alfred. "I'll 
 take the plans and the catalogues. It will amuse me to 
 work it out more in detail, as we've arranged it. And 
 you'll both come up about ten to-morrow morning." 
 
 The door opened and Meadshire came suddenly into 
 the room. " Excuse me for walking in," he said jovially, 
 and then he saw Alfred and his face dropped. 
 
 " Good-bye, then ; to-morrow at ten." Alfred was out 
 of the room before any one had time to speak. He took 
 up his hat and went out at the hall door. Meadshire 's 
 powerful car was gently simmering outside, and Grace 
 was sitting in the front seat alone. Their eyes met as he 
 passed, and he dropped his with a blush as he fumbled 
 at his hat-brim. He thought to himself as he went down 
 the drive that he must have appeared in an odd light to her, 
 
 B (7) 
 
130 Rank and Riches 
 
 but hoped she had not misunderstood his nervousness, if 
 she had noticed it. 
 
 "Oh, you've had that young man here," said Meadshire, 
 when the door had closed behind Alfred. " He seemed to 
 be in rather a hurry." 
 
 " I suppose he didn't want to meet you," said Douglas. 
 
 " Well, I don't want to meet him," said Meadshire. " So 
 we're both suited. Look here, Grace wants you both to 
 come up and see the garden. Bring the kiddies up too ; I 
 know you can't bear to be parted from them." 
 
 Beatrix went upstairs. " I say, Meadshire," said Doug- 
 las, " what have you got against young Brown ? He's " 
 
 " I've nothing against young Brown," interrupted Mead- 
 shire, " except that he's the son of old Brown. And I'm 
 not going to have anything to do with any Browns of them 
 all. No more is Grace. We're going to keep ourselves to 
 ourselves in our quiet humble way, and they can cut their 
 dash here for all they're worth. That's to be the note, 
 Irving, my boy. If you want to make friends of them, 
 do, by all means. But don't follow Tottie's example, and 
 try to bring us together, for it won't work." 
 
 "It'll be jolly awkward," grumbled Douglas. "How 
 can you help meeting them sometimes ? If you come here 
 when this chap happens to be here, what are you going 
 to do ? Are you going to be rude to him ? " 
 
 " Oh, dear, no ; that isn't my way. I'm one of the 
 politest fellows that ever lived. When I do meet him I 
 shall be quite affable, though possibly with a shade of 
 'distance." 
 
 " But I suppose you'll cut him when you meet him again 
 if it's out of doors." 
 
 " I shan't do that either. You don't know me, Irving. 
 That's what I complain of. It would be making too much 
 of him, for one thing. I shall nod affably. If I happen 
 to be in a particularly effusive mood, as I sometimes am, 
 I shall even remark that it's a fine day — always supposing 
 that it really is fine. I shouldn't tell a lie even for the 
 sake of young Mr. Brown." 
 
 "Well, Compton was pretty rude to him the other 
 day." 
 
 " Ah, that's different. Jim Compton hates a fellow with 
 a fair moustache. Besides, he's a disagreeable fellow him- 
 self ; lie's made himself devilish disagreeable to me lately. 
 If lie doesn't look out I shall leave off going to church." 
 
More Garden Notes 131 
 
 " Well, I suppose if you have made up your mind not to 
 make friends with these people, you've a right not to. I'm 
 hanged if I think Compton has. They've done him no 
 harm — you either, for that matter — and the parson of a 
 place ought to be on good terms with his parishioners." 
 
 " I'm inclined to agree with you, Irving. If Jim makes 
 himself unpleasant to them, you let me know. I'll talk 
 to him. Ah, here you are, all of you. Come along or we 
 shall lose the daylight." 
 
 Alfred had Mackenzie summoned to his presence im- 
 mediately after breakfast the next morning. Mackenzie 
 arrived in his most aggressive mood. He had received a 
 letter that morning from Berkeley Square with further 
 instructions as to sending flowers and fruit. " Mrs. 
 Armitage Brown wishes," it had begun, and he had taken 
 it to have been written by that lady herself. He could 
 hardly have expected that it should contain a reference to 
 his own complaint. The fact of its being written at all 
 seemed to show that she had " knuckled under." Very 
 likely she had written to Mr. Alfred with instructions that 
 so valuable a servant must have his own way, which did not 
 in the least soften him to either of them, as such characters 
 as his can only use a concession to demand more. Perhaps 
 the young gentleman had sent for him in order to climb 
 down. If so, he would not make it easy for him. He 
 would use the opportunity to push his advantage, and 
 " show who was master." 
 
 " Good-morning, Mackenzie," said Alfred cheerfully. 
 " I've been employing myself the last few days in making 
 a plan for the carpet garden. I've sent for you to show 
 it to you, and see how we can best set about it." 
 
 The plan was spread out on the table. Mackenzie 
 hardly deigned to glance at it. "The plan for the carpet 
 garden is already prepared," he said. " It'll be what it's 
 always been for the spring planting. I should have set 
 it in hand last month, if I hadn't been three men short. 
 I shall begin planting this week." 
 
 Alfred took his stand in front of the fire. " I don't 
 think you quite understand me," he said. " There's not 
 going to be any more carpet garden. It's going to be 
 done away with. The space is to be planted afresh, 
 chiefly with yews, according to a plan I've prepared." 
 
 " Do away with the carpet garden ! " exclaimed Mac- 
 kenzie. " Why, it's been a thing people have come miles 
 
 (17) 
 
132 Rank and Riches 
 
 to sec, and I've got prize after prize for it. There's not 
 a finer one to be seen in the whole of England." 
 
 "Well, you see, it won't amuse us particularly to see 
 you getting prizes ; you can get them for something else. 
 Anyhow, the carpet garden is going. That has been de- 
 cided on, and " 
 
 " And ma}' I ask, sir, who has decided on it ? Am I 
 to take my orders from you, or from Mrs. Brown ? I 
 just ask, because I want to know exactly where I stand. 
 If I'm to do my work here to satisfaction, I'm not going 
 to be interfered with at every turn, and I'll say so at 
 once to save further trouble. I felt it my duty to make 
 a complaint of the way you interfered with me the other 
 day, and I've had a letter this morning from Mrs. Brown 
 giving me instructions to go on as I've been accustomed 
 to. I know well what's expected of me, and " 
 
 " Wait a minute," said Alfred. " What did you say you 
 had heard from Mrs. Brown ? " 
 
 " I had my instructions, following on the letter I wrote, 
 making complaint of you interfering with me in a way 
 I won't be interfered with if I'm to stay here and give 
 satisfaction. I'm not going to serve two masters, and that 
 I tell you straight, young gentleman. I make no doubt 
 that Mrs. Brown understands me very well, or she wouldn't 
 have written as she did. I dare say, if the truth were 
 known, you've had a letter from her yourself." 
 
 " Have you seen Captain Fuller this morning ? " asked 
 Alfred. 
 
 Mackenzie, who had worked himself into a cold ugty 
 passion, was arrested by something in his tone. 
 
 Alfred took a letter from the mantelpiece. " I did hear 
 from my mother this morning," he said. " I wrote to her 
 about this plan I've been making. She doesn't mention 
 you till the end of the letter. Perhaps you would like 
 to see what she says." 
 
 He handed him the sheet. Mackenzie took it and read 
 it. It deprived him of all speech. He could only look 
 up from it and roll his eyes, and look back again. 
 
 " It's time we understood one another," said Alfred. 
 "You've miscalculated the situation altogether, you see. 
 I'm not inclined to stand too much on my dignity, but 
 really, you know, it was a precious piece of impertinence 
 your writing to complain of me to Mrs. Brown. You sec 
 what she thinks of it ; and I don't see how you can have 
 
More Garden Notes 133 
 
 expected her to treat your complaint in any other 
 way." 
 
 Mackenzie had somewhat recovered himself. His ag- 
 gressiveness had disappeared. It was of the sort that 
 nourished vigorously until it is met by its like and then 
 wilts away. " I never expected to be dismissed for trying 
 to do my duty," he said. " I think you might have given 
 me credit for that, sir. I don't believe there's a head- 
 gardener in the country who has kept up the show that I 
 have here." 
 
 " I've had nothing to do with your getting turned off 
 — so far," said Alfred. " I told my mother that I thought 
 you'd do very well, if you could bring yourself to take 
 orders, instead of expecting to give them. At least, I 
 didn't put it quite like that, but that's what it comes to. 
 What she has written to Captain Fuller is the result of 
 your own letter, which I warned you against writing, if 
 you remember. The question is, are you prepared to take 
 orders ? " 
 
 Mackenzie saw a gleam of light. There was no doubt 
 about his prospective dismissal. Ke had read the con- 
 temptuous reply to his ill-advised complaint with his own 
 eyes, and had seen at the same time that it was in a 
 different hand from that of the letter he had received 
 himself. The lady had not been so much impressed by 
 him as he had imagined. She had not, in fact, been im- 
 pressed at all. No member of the " high nobility " could 
 have kicked him for his impertinence with a loftier stroke. 
 But perhaps this young man, who had, after all, turned 
 out to be master, might be worked upon to avert the stroke. 
 He seemed to have a touch of softness. Mackenzie was 
 quite ready, immediately, to take his orders. He had the 
 hectorer's complementary quality of servility. If he could 
 not be master himself, he would truckle to a master. It 
 was only necessary that mastery should exist somewhere, 
 instead of give and take, which he could not understand. 
 
 "The question is," said Alfred, " are you prepared to 
 take orders ? " 
 
 " I'm sure, sir, I've always done my best to give satis- 
 faction. I can only say " 
 
 " I don't think you have done your best to give satis- 
 faction. You certainly haven't given it in the way you've 
 spoken to me. Look here, Mackenzie, it's no good holding 
 out ; you've got yourself into a mess. If you go out of 
 
 (3) 
 
134 Rank and Riches 
 
 this room now, you'll get your dismissal directly Captain 
 Fuller comes up, and you'll richly deserve it. You under- 
 stand that, don't 3^011 ? " 
 
 " Well, sir, I dare say I've been a bit too free, and I'm 
 sure I'm sorry for it. I've always been accustomed to 
 have my own way within limits, and they've been under- 
 stood by those I've served, and — ■ — " 
 
 Alfred made a movement of impatience. " Oh, if you're 
 going on in that way," he said, " I'll have nothing more 
 to do with it. You can go, and be hanged to you. There 
 are dozens of men can be got to fill your place." 
 
 Mackenzie finally touched earth. ' ' If you'll get me kept 
 on, sir," he said, " I'll do everything I'm told, and you'll 
 never have reason to complain of me again." 
 
 " Very well," said Alfred. " On those conditions I'll get 
 you another chance — one more chance, mind, and only one. 
 This garden is going to be run for the benefit of the 
 people who own it, and as far as I shall have any concern 
 with it, I'm not going to be bothered by having to fight 
 you at every turn. Now I'm going to turn that beastly 
 carpet garden that you're so proud of inside out. It's 
 going to be set in hand now, and Captain Irving is going 
 to look after the planting of it. He's due up here now, 
 and we'd better go out and talk it over on the spot." 
 
 1 ' Am I to take orders from Captain Irving, sir, when 
 you're not there ? " 
 
 " Yes, you are, unless you'd prefer to take the one you'll 
 get from Captain Fuller." 
 
 It was a bitter pill, but Mackenzie swallowed it. " Very 
 good, sir," he said. 
 
CHAPTER XIII 
 
 THE VOICE OF KEN COTE 
 
 The tea encampment was set in the shade of the great 
 cedar on the lawn at Kencote. It was still early in May, 
 but a burst of continued sunshine had seemed so to insist 
 that summer had already arrived, that the fact had been 
 temporarily accepted. A rug had been spread under the 
 Squire's chair, as a sop to his fears of rheumatism, but 
 the ground was as dry and hard as if the month were 
 August, and the grass was beginning to look parched. Un- 
 grateful mortals were already crying out for rain, but, until 
 it should come, the boon of spring sunshine, hot days, and 
 delicious cool evenings were theirs to enjoy in their non- 
 agricultural moods. 
 
 The great stucco-covered house dozed in the afternoon 
 sun ; the trees in the park cast their shadows across the 
 grass, and the. herd of Alderneys stood in their shelter, 
 lazily flicking the flies from their creamy flanks ; bees 
 hummed about the spring flowers that seemed to show an 
 air of surprise at finding themselves overtaken by high 
 summer. There was a large peace in the garden at Kencote, 
 which seemed to have settled upon the group under the 
 cedar, for none of them looked as if they had a care in 
 the world, or had anything to do but to enjoy themselves in 
 the sunshine. 
 
 Nor, for the moment, had they ; but there was not one 
 of them that would not have represented himself or herseli 
 as leading busy and useful lives. 
 
 They were a family group. There were the Squire, who 
 had a large landed estate to look after, and his eldest son 
 Dick, who actually looked after it. Mrs. Clinton had hei 
 household, her villagers, and an increasing number ol 
 grandchildren to interest her. Virginia, Dick's charming 
 and very faintly American wife, had no children, but she 
 had Dick for a career, and wanted no other. Cicely 
 
 135 (3D) 
 
136 Rank and Riches 
 
 Graham, the Squire's eldest daughter, who lived at Mount- 
 field, four miles away, had a family of four, in the nursery- 
 governess stage. She was very pretty and young-looking, 
 but matronly in her ways and in her thoughts. There was 
 not so much money at Mountfield as there was at Kencote, 
 and she had to " manage." So had Jim, her husband, who 
 owned a house rather too big for his means, and both of 
 them managed very well. Joan, a much younger daughter, 
 was Countess of Inverell, which gave her enough to do 
 in itself. She was a bright lovely creature, treated still as 
 a child in her old home, in spite of the bundle of lace 
 and cambric belonging to her that slumbered peacefully in 
 the shade of another tree a little way off. And finally, 
 Frank, the youngest son, but some years older than Joan, 
 had returned only that morning from the other end of the 
 world, in whose waters his ship had been stationed for 
 the past three years. It was to welcome him home that 
 the little party was gathered together — all of his brothers 
 and sisters who were within reach. 
 
 There were three more of them : Humphrey, a widower 
 with no children, who had been in Australia for the last 
 four years sheep-farming ; Walter, a fast-rising physician 
 in Harley Street, who had married Jim Graham's sister, 
 and had six children ; and Nancy, Joan's twin sister, the 
 wife of Major Spence, with two bundles of lace and 
 cambric similar to Joan's one. There were thirteen grand- 
 children in all, in whom ran the ancient vigorous Clinton 
 blood. They were the source of great pride to the Squire, 
 whose one cause of complaint against their parents was 
 that he had never seen them all collected together at one 
 time beneath the roof of Kencote. 
 
 It all seemed a little strange to Frank, but most delight- 
 fully familiar as well — the leisured gathering under the 
 cedar, the peace, the spaciousness, the complete absence 
 of struggle or anticipation. He was thirty-one, already 
 making his mark in his profession, and as keen as possible 
 on its varied activities. But he felt like a boy again 
 coming back from school, or from the Britannia, full of 
 pleasure at being at home once more, where there was never 
 any change, and no change was ever wanted. Changes 
 there had been, later, with all of them growing older, and 
 now all but himself married ; but not in the basic life of 
 Kencote, which went on as it had always gone on. Every 
 time he had come home, after his periods of absence, he 
 P) 
 
The Voice of Kencote 137 
 
 had thought at first that the changes must make a differ- 
 ence ; but he had very quickly adjusted himself to them. 
 He was in the process of adjustment now. His father 
 looked a good deal older than when he had last seen him. 
 He had lived such an active life, and had lived it for so 
 many of his years in the same place and in the same 
 way, that he seemed to have stood still in age. But age 
 had marked him now. He was an old man. And yet, 
 while he looked for the signs of it, Frank was already 
 losing the impression . There was so much that was familiar 
 in his tones, and in the turns of his mind, as they exhibited 
 themselves in his talk. His mother was older, too, but not 
 yet, as it seemed to him, an old woman, though she was 
 Hearing seventy. The adjustments to be made in her case 
 were small. Neither did Virginia or Cicely seem much 
 older, nor Jim Graham, with his slow solid ways and speech. 
 But Dick did. He had been smart and slim and soldierly 
 up to the age of nearly forty. He was smart and soldierly 
 now, with his well-knit frame, upright carriage, and ex- 
 pensive inconspicuous clothes. But he was slim no longer. 
 He had become much more like his father ; the guardsman 
 was becoming merged in the country gentleman. He had 
 seemed to have the perpetual gift of youth ; now he was 
 middle-aged. 
 
 But it was towards Joan that Frank's eyes most fre- 
 quently turned, and when he looked at her he usually 
 ended by smiling and sometimes by suddenly laughing. 
 This was when he caught her eye, and she would laugh 
 with him, having divined in what respect the change in 
 her amused him, and being somewhat amused by it herself. 
 
 In appearance she had scarcely altered since he had last 
 seen her. She still looked a young girl — she was not 
 quite twenty-three — though there was that subtle change 
 in' her that comes of wifehood and motherhood. She was 
 beautiful and happy, as she had always been. It was 
 what she now represented that struck Frank as so irre- 
 sistibly comic. She and Nancy had been small children 
 when he had first gone to sea. On his successive home- 
 comings, they had been first bigger children, then mis- 
 chievous school-girls, then grown up, but still mischievous, 
 and liable to stern rebuke if they outstepped the large but 
 well-defined limits of feminine liberty as it was understood 
 at Kencote. So he had left them last. And now Joan was 
 a great lady, at home in the most exalted circles, her com- 
 
138 Rank and Riches 
 
 ings and goings of importance enough to be chronciled in 
 responsible newspapers, and the mother of the extremely 
 important bundle of lace and cambric already referred to. 
 It wanted getting used to — more than the new aspect of his 
 father as an old man, and his brother as a middle-aged 
 one, especially as she was to be seen now in her old familiar 
 surroundings, and not in her new glories. 
 
 The changes were greater this time than they had been 
 on former homecomings, but already the level easy change- 
 less life of Kencote was obliterating the sense of them. 
 And yet they pointed, as they had never done before, to 
 much greater change. That could not now be expected 
 to tarry for many years longer. The Squire was seventy- 
 two, still strong and hearty when he was perfectly well, and 
 as a rule he was perfectly well. But at seventy-two a man 
 has passed the allotted span of human life. So much that 
 Kencote meant to Frank, who had spent his happy child- 
 hood and his happy holidays in it, depended upon him, 
 When he died there would perhaps be less change than 
 is usual upon the death of a rich man. Dick would step 
 into his place at the great house, and Mrs. Clinton, if she 
 survived her husband, would go to the dower-house, where 
 Dick and Virginia lived now. That would be all, on the 
 outside, except that Frank would exchange his handsome 
 allowance for his younger son's portion, and be thence- 
 forward " on his own." But it was just there that the 
 great change would be felt. Dick was conservative enough 
 in all his ways, and Virginia would originate little apart 
 from him, but they would not live at Kencote in exactly the 
 same way as the Squire had lived. And if they did, still 
 the house would not be Frank's home in the same way as 
 it had been before, welcome as he would always be in it. 
 It was the sense of shelter, of fatherhood, that would be 
 lacking. Frank had never been in the least intimate with 
 his father, and his home thoughts, during his long absences, 
 had centred around him less than any member of his family, 
 and far less than around his mother. But the fatherhood 
 was there, with all that it meant in the long-established 
 home of which the Squire was the head. Frank had had 
 a slight pang upon seeing him much aged. It was the 
 shadow of the end, not very long to be delayed. 
 
 There was one slight change in the atmosphere — but 
 perhaps it was only temporary — that struck Frank as they 
 sat and talked round the tea-table. Though remote, in its 
 
The Voice of Kencote 139 
 
 quiet corner of the country, Kencote had always taken 
 to itself the air of being closely connected with all that 
 was going on in the great world — not the great world of 
 politics, except in so far as politics were connected with 
 names, or of thought, which was not one of Kencote's ob- 
 sessions, but of social activity. For the greater part of 
 his life the Squire had stuck to his acres as closely as any 
 country gentleman of the seventeenth or eighteenth cen- 
 turies. But his wide relationships and the connections 
 of his rich youth had brought him a sense of personal 
 contact with much that was going on in the world from 
 which he had largely cut himself off, and he liked to 
 discuss it all and feci that he was still part of it. And 
 Dick had been very much part of it during his nearly 
 twenty years of soldiering ; so had Humphrey, who had 
 been in the Foreign Office before he had acquired his 
 Antipodean interests. They had brought home all the 
 news, and from the conversation that had gone on, chiefly 
 amongst the men, you might have thought that Kencote 
 was one of those great country houses which only their 
 immediate surroundings and their distance from London 
 differentiate from a house in Mayfair. 
 
 But Humphrey was on the other side of the world and 
 Dick was becoming bucolic. The talk now was of local 
 interests, and although those interests were connected with 
 the world outside the county of Meadshire, they were not 
 discussed except from the local point of view. 
 
 The downfall of Kemsale was an old story. Everything 
 had been said about it, and said many times over, that 
 concerned Meadshire's follies and wickedness. He was 
 wiped out now ; it wouldn't much matter what he did in 
 the future, except as it affected dear Grace, who had stuck 
 devotedly to him. And Kemsale had been wiped out with 
 him, as the chief seat of aristocratic importance in the 
 county. From that point of view it had disappeared as 
 completely as if it had been burnt to the ground. That 
 it had not been burnt to the ground, but still existed to 
 the outward eye what it had always been, only made of it 
 a large country house like any other, with no character 
 except what its new owners should give it. 
 
 Frank would have welcomed more information as to its 
 downfall, which was a somewhat startling fact to one who 
 had been brought up to the Kencote view of Kemsale. But 
 he generally listened to the talk around him when he first 
 
mo Rank and Riches 
 
 came home without taking much part in it, except to ask 
 an occasional question. He was listening to it now, and 
 ft inning his own impressions. 
 
 The question was of the Annitage Browns, now settled, 
 at least for a Whitsuntide visit, at Kemsale. In what man- 
 ner were they to be recognised, and when ? 
 
 " I think that the fellow ought to have his chance," said 
 the Squire. " There are all sorts of stories going about 
 as to what he's going to do, but nothing is known for 
 certain yet, and if people like ourselves show him that 
 we're quite ready to be friendly, if he behaves himself, it 
 may keep him from making mistakes that will set the whole 
 place against him." 
 
 " Kemsale won't have anything to do with them," said 
 Dick. Kemsale, it will be remembered, was the name by 
 which Lord Meadshire was best known to his relations. 
 
 " Oh, Kemsale! " said the Squire. " I've no patience 
 with Kemsale. He's thrown away everything, and now 
 he wants to begin to rule the roost. He's never been any 
 good to anybody. He hasn't even hunted, or shot, for 
 years. KeTl find that nobody cares a bit what he says 
 or does. Besides, he's sold the place to these people, and 
 got their money. It isn't fair to go and plant himself 
 down on their doorstep and lay himself out to annoy them. 
 That's what he's doing, as far as I can make out, and I 
 say it isn't playing the game." 
 
 " I think you're right," said Dick. 
 
 " There's that dozen acres or so carved out of the very 
 middle of the property," said- Jim Graham. " That's a 
 serious matter for a landowmer." 
 
 11 I don't suppose it would worry a man like that," said 
 the Squire. " He wouldn't understand it." 
 
 " It might worry him rather if the people who lived there 
 made up their minds to be disagreeable to him," said Joan. 
 
 Frank looked at her, and laughed with considerable 
 enjoyment. 
 
 Joan laughed too. " Oh, I join in the conversation occa- 
 sionally now," she said. "You must get used to hearing 
 me air my views." 
 
 The Squire remained grave. Joan's incursions into 
 conversations were permitted, as coming from the Countess 
 of Inverell, but not considered of intrinsic importance. 
 " You have met these people, Dick," he said. " What are 
 they like? " 
 
The Voice of Kencote i^i 
 
 The question had been asked and answered a dozen 
 times. It was the way at Kencote. Virginia answered it 
 this time. " They are on the whole what you would call 
 in this delightful country ' all right,' " she said. " In fact, 
 Mr. Armitage Brown has the appearance of an American 
 millionaire — some of the manners, too — which endears him 
 to me. / shall call on them at once, and bathe myself once 
 more in a sea of dollars. It will be like home." 
 
 " Are they — are they — vulgar with their money ? " in- 
 quired the Squire, who adored Virginia, but was far too 
 British in his prejudices to extend his approval to her 
 countrymen at large. The American aristocratic invasion 
 had risen to prominence after he had retired to the seclu- 
 sion of Kencote. He may have had speech with half a 
 dozen Americans in his life, probably with less. But he 
 thought he knew them as a nation through and through, 
 and in his eyes they suffered from the serious taint of 
 resembling the English lower middle-class in many of their 
 ways and ideas. He was polite to such people, but did not 
 treat them as on an equality. Virginia was everything thai 
 she should be, of course, but then she had adapted herself ; 
 one would hardly have taken her to be an American at all. 
 He had once told her so, and she had been so angry with 
 him that he had almost noticed it. Sometimes she pre- 
 tended to be more American than she really was, after so 
 many years of English life. She seemed to be in that 
 mood now, and it was in implied disapproval of her atti- 
 tude that he asked : " Are they — are they — vulgar with 
 their money ? " 
 
 " They spend it," said Virginia. " Mrs. Brown's clothes 
 made me want to go and buy a shopful. And her luncheons 
 and dinners at Cap Martin were too expensively perfect for 
 words. She must pay her chef a fortune." 
 
 " She's dull enough," said Dick. " Hardly a word to 
 say for herself. But they do you well. I will say that for 
 them." 
 
 The Squire privately thought that this was rather vulgar, 
 or at least ostentatious. " People like that " had no right 
 to pay their chefs a fortune. Or if there was not much 
 objection to their doing it in foreign parts, they would 
 find that that sort of thing wouldn't go down in the Eng- 
 lish country. " They won't get on here by aping extrava- 
 gant French ways," he said. 
 
 " Do they want to cut a dash ? " asked Joan. 
 
l 12 Rank and Riches 
 
 " If so, you might give them a leg up," said Frank, with 
 a grin. 
 
 " Oh, I could if I liked," she said. 
 
 " Is the man a sportsman at all? " asked the Squire. 
 " I suppose not, if he's spent all his life grubbing after 
 money." 
 
 The Squire had a deep respect for money, but preferred 
 that it should come of itself rather than be made. At 
 the same time, if enough had been made to put its maker 
 into the position of owning a place like Kemsale, its source 
 might be forgiven, other things being equal. 
 
 " I doubt it," said Dick. " But's he not going to let 
 the shooting again to Irving." 
 
 " Jim met Mr. Brown's son when he shot with Captain 
 Irving at Kemsale," said Cicely. 
 
 " And what's he like ? " asked the Squire. " You never 
 told us that, Jim." 
 
 Jim Graham paused for a moment, as he always did be- 
 fore he replied to a question. " He seemed all right," he 
 said. 
 
 "What a thoroughly British answer," said Virginia. 
 " But I know exactly what it means. He wore the right 
 sort of clothes, and didn't trouble to make himself agree- 
 able." 
 
 Jim smiled his slow smile. " I didn't notice his clothes," 
 he said. " But he did make himself rather agreeable. He 
 enjoyed himself. Irving and his friends liked him." 
 
 " Then he must be ' all right,' as you say," said Vir- 
 ginia. " They could never like anybody who only made 
 himself agreeable and enjoyed himself." 
 
 " How did he shoot ? " asked Dick. 
 
 " He didn't shoot. He said he never had, but Irving 
 was going to put him in the way of it. He seemed rather 
 keen. I think he's an artist, or something of that sort. 
 He said something about the trunks of the trees being a 
 jolly sort of grey as we were going through Beeching 
 Wood." 
 
 Every one laughed at this, even the Squire, who said 
 that tree trunks were only grey on the north side. 
 
 " I think he must be a nice young man," said Virginia. 
 " Do you mean to say he wasn't ashamed of not being able 
 to shoot ? " 
 
 " I don't think so," said Jim. " There's nothing to be 
 ashamed of." 
 
The Voice of Kencote 143 
 
 <( There's a daughter, too," said Virginia. " Quite 
 bright and nice. I hardly spoke to her, but I liked the 
 look of her very much." 
 
 " She'll be a nice companion for you, Joan," said Frank. 
 
 A slight diversion was caused here by the appearance 
 of the Rector of Kencote, whom every one but the Squire 
 rose to greet. He was the Squire's half-brother, some years 
 3'ounger than he, but looking older. He was a big mild 
 gentle creature, and everybody at Kencote loved him. His 
 wife had died about a year before, and he still seemed lost 
 without her. That was why everybody rose to greet him 
 and to bring him into the circle. 
 
 " James Compton has just been over to see me from 
 Kemsale," he said, when they had all settled themselves 
 again. 
 
 " Oh, why didn't you bring him on here, Tom ? " said 
 the Squire. " He hasn't been near us for months." 
 
 " Well — er — he wanted to get back. He is leaving 
 Kemsale." 
 
 " Leaving Kemsale ! " This was news indeed. The in- 
 quiries that followed elicited from the Rector, who gave 
 the information with some reluctance, and left a good deal 
 of it to be inferred, that Compton had taken the late hap- 
 penings at Kemsale very seriously. It had been the break- 
 up of everything there, as far as he was concerned. He was 
 not going to stay in a place dominated by a London money- 
 grubber who had risen from the gutter. 
 
 The old man brought himself to repeat these words. 
 " I didn't think it was a nice way of putting it," he com- 
 plained, " and I took the liberty of telling him so. He 
 admitted that he had kept out of the way of this Mr. 
 Armitage Brown, and couldn't really tell me anything 
 against him, except that he had given all the tenants at 
 Kemsale notice to quit." 
 
 " Well, that's a pretty strong step in itself," said the 
 Squire. 
 
 " It was only meant to be a formal notice," said Dick. 
 " Fuller told me so." 
 
 " He said he had always lived amongst gentlefolks," 
 pursued the Rector. " He wouldn't be comfortable with 
 these new people there." 
 
 " Well, do you know, I think that's rather fine," said 
 the Squire. " Compton sticks by the old order. So do 
 we all, but I don't know that we should all be prepared 
 
i 1 1 Rank and Riches 
 
 to make sacrifices for it in that way. Kemsale is a good 
 living, as these things go nowadays, and he's prepared to 
 give it up for the sake of his principles. Yes, I call it 
 rathe* fine." 
 
 Nobody else seemed to think it was particularly fine, 
 or if they did they didn't say so. " Is he going to take 
 another living ? " asked Dick. 
 
 " I didn't gather so. He said something about buying a 
 house in Northamptonshire." 
 
 " Of course, he's well enough off not to have to work if 
 he doesn't want to," said the Squire. " He must have 
 been at Kemsale ten or fifteen years now. He was quite 
 a young fellow when he came there. He's done his 
 work." 
 
 " Been pretty well paid for it, too," said Jim Graham, 
 who disliked Compton thoroughly, otherwise he would 
 hardly have brought criticism to bear upon such an old- 
 established institution as the private patronage of the 
 Church of England. 
 
 " He's had what the living is worth, and nobody has 
 ever said he hasn't done his work," said the Squire, who 
 saw nothing to criticise in a system by which in this instance 
 a young man of five-and-twenty had been put into posses- 
 sion, for life if he chose to remain there, of a large house, 
 several acres of ground, and an income of between five and 
 six hundred a year for doing just as much work as he 
 pleased. " Besides, the patronage of the living is his own 
 now," he added. " He bought it from Kemsale. I wonder 
 why he did that ? " 
 
 " He only bought the next presentation, as I under- 
 stand," said the Rector. 
 
 "Oh, well, I suppose it was just to put a little money 
 into Kemsale's pocket. By the by, he'll have to find a new 
 incumbent." 
 
 " He has done that already. He has been occupied with 
 it for the last few months. He made up his mind to go 
 when Kemsale was sold, and has only waited till he could 
 find somebody to take his place." 
 
 " Well, he ought not to have much difficulty 'about that. 
 It's a place any parson might be pleased to take. Nice 
 house and a decent income for a man with something of his 
 own, a small parish, and a fair all-round sporting country. 
 I hope he has found the right sort of man." 
 
 The Rector hesitated. " It is hardly the sort of choice 
 
The Voice of Kencote 145 
 
 I should have expected him to make," he said. " It is a 
 Mr. Sheard." 
 
 This did not tell them much, though his tone told them 
 something. He was pressed for further information. 
 
 '■ Well, he has been for some years a curate at Melbury 
 Park." 
 
 " Melbury Park ! " exclaimed the Squire, and every one 
 went oil into peals of laughter, in which he joined himself 
 when he had got over the first shock of surprise. 
 
 Melbury Park, an over-built suburb of London, had been 
 the scene of Walter's first exploits as a medical practi- 
 tioner. The story has been told elsewhere of how strongly 
 the Squire had objected, first of all to his being a doctor 
 at all, and then to his settling himself in a place so far 
 removed in quality if not in space from the world a Clinton 
 should inhabit. It had even been a cause of disquiet to 
 him that Walter's eldest son, who, in default of children 
 of Dick's or Humphrey's, would seme day succeed to Ken- 
 cote, might have been born in Melbury Park. But that 
 disgrace had happily been averted ; only daughters had 
 been born there, and they didn't matter. Walter had left 
 the place two years before, and its ghost seemed finally 
 to have been laid. And now here it was cropping up 
 again. 
 
 "Can any good thing come out of Melbury Park? " 
 asked Virginia. 
 
 " A curate, you say ? " said the Squire. " Well, young 
 fellows who are in earnest do go and work in the slums 
 nowadays. Still, it's odd that he should come from that 
 particular place." 
 
 "Mr. Sheard isn't young," said the Rector. "He is a 
 married man with a large family. He took orders com- 
 paratively late in life. He was, in fact, a — a sailor." 
 
 " Oh, was he ? " said Frank. " That's interesting." 
 
 " He was not in the — er — Royal Navy," said the Rector. 
 " The mate of a merchant vessel, I understood James to say. 
 But a good earnest man ; I asked particularly about that." 
 
 There was a pause of consternation. " What on earth 
 can have induced Compton to put in a man like that ! " 
 exclaimed the Squire. " He must have gone out of his 
 senses." 
 
CHAPTER XIV 
 
 SUNDAY MORNING 
 
 " The first day in the new home," said Alfred. " Father 
 ought to be nailing up a picture almanac, with Kate and 
 me holding the hammer and tacks, and mother smiling at 
 us over the teapot." 
 
 It was the Sunday before Whitsuntide. They had met 
 in the "summer breakfast-parlour" — the Brown family 
 and Uncle James and Aunt Millie. The large room — there 
 were no small rooms at Kemsale — faced on to a garden 
 at the back of the house, and had access by French windows 
 to a broad nagged walk that ran the length of the west 
 wing. The famous upholsterer had done well with this 
 room, and the soaking heat, which had already set in at 
 nine o'clock in the morning, was exactly what he had 
 worked upon, though he could scarcefy have expected that 
 it would justify him so early in the year. The room was 
 both bright and cool ; brightness he had considered to be 
 the one salient Victorian note never to be lost sight of, 
 but in this case he had permitted himself to soften it by 
 the judicious addition of more ancient touches in furniture 
 and ornament. He had wished to preserve the tradition of 
 a morning " parlour," which the Victorians had carried on 
 from an earlier date, and the only difficulty he had fore- 
 seen was in the large number of ground-floor rooms at 
 Kemsale, which would prevent any one of them being used 
 for more than a single purpose. 
 
 He would have been pleased with Aunt Mollie's expression 
 of appreciation. " Really, this is a charming room," she 
 said. " Just the place to spend a quiet and happy morning 
 in." 
 
 " Oh, my dear, you can't do that," said Alfred. " What's 
 to become of the magenta morning-room and the puce 
 boudoir ? You've got to use them. You're allowed to have 
 your breakfast here, and then you must go somewhere else." 
 
 146 
 
Sunday Morning 147 
 
 Mrs. Brown disliked this kind of chaff, but had no 
 weapons with which to meet it. She sat stiff and stately 
 behind the massive silver of her tea and coffee equipage, 
 full of doubts and hesitations, of which she allowed no 
 trace to appear. For the first time in a stage of her 
 progress, she found herself at sea. She did not know how 
 life ought to be lived in a house like this, so as to occupy 
 it fully. Alfred's pleasantry was hardly a caricature of 
 her own feeling as to what was due to the overpowering 
 choice of rooms. Nor did she know how the great tribe 
 of servants should be made use of ; her difficulties had even 
 stretched to such points of detail as the question of powder 
 and plush for the footmen. 
 
 She had advanced her knowledge during the winter and 
 spring tenancy of the house in Berkeley Square. Her 
 progress had been almost triumphal there. She had given 
 many dinners, and a musical party, at which performers 
 of such eminence had appeared that invitations had been 
 indirectly pressed for from the most gratifying quarters. 
 The house in Berkeley Square had now been bought, and 
 was undergoing the same reconstruction as had befallen 
 Kemsale, which was the reason, or part of the reason, for 
 this early move to the country. The capture of London 
 was easy enough, with limitless wealth at command, and a 
 willingness to use it to provide entertainment ; and if the 
 capture was not yet complete, the affair was all the more 
 interesting on that account. It was the fight for recogni- 
 tion and social eminence that gave the zest, just as the 
 fight for money was more to her husband than its posses- 
 sion. And the means had been adapted to the end. The 
 large London house had presented no difficulties, nor the 
 marshalling of its attendant hosts. The rooms of state had 
 had their appointed place, the private rooms had not 
 been too many even for a life that was seldom private. 
 
 But here it was all different. The rooms of state were 
 here too, but there were no people to furnish them, nor 
 to employ the mobilised army. A houseful of guests ! 
 She shrank from it. Part oi her success in London and 
 on the Riviera had arisen from the fact that she had re- 
 ceived her guests and lavished her gifts upon them with 
 a sort of aloof pride. She had run after nobody, and 
 become intimate with nobody. It had been enough for her 
 that the people 'had been there, just as the elaborate food 
 and the priceless wines, the gold and silver and glass, the 
 
148 Rank and Riches 
 
 rare flowers, the tribe of silken powdered servants, the 
 famous musicians, had been there. Entertaining was her 
 occupation, to which the entertained were essential ; other- 
 wise she would have preferred to do without them. They 
 came at the appointed hours, to the set piece, played their 
 parts in the carefully organised scheme, and went away 
 again, leaving her to her cold triumph. It was all that 
 she wanted of them. 
 
 But what to do with a houseful of guests all day long ! 
 It w r ould be an intolerable burden. 
 
 The mistake, she was beginning to think, was in having 
 bought a house of the size of Kemsale. She was not 
 without her restful moments. A country house no big- 
 ger than " The Towers." would have been a pleasant place 
 to come to, as a relief from the arduous but exciting career 
 to which she had committed herself. With Millie, or some 
 of her ow r n relations to keep her company, with the garden, 
 the house in which she could take a pride, Katie and some 
 of her friends, and Alfred sometimes, to provide the youth- 
 ful stir, time would have passed pleasantly, in a country 
 house of ordinary size. The family side of life, in appre- 
 ciation of which she was not deficient, would have been 
 represented there, and would have provided a welcome set- 
 oft to the public side, which could have been left for London 
 and the French villa. Her small gift for genuine hospi- 
 tality would have been satisfied by having with her as often 
 as possible the mere handful of friends she possessed out 
 of the large and always-increasing number of her ac- 
 quaintances, and in giving Katie's friends, and Alfred's, if 
 lie liked to bring them, all facilities for amusing themselves. 
 A " house-party " drawn from other sources would simply 
 spoil her holiday. She would never be at ease with her 
 guests, even if she were successful in providing them with 
 something to do. Her own very rare visits to country 
 houses had shown her, always on the look-out for such 
 lessons, that the " note " of life in them was intimacy. 
 Ordinary family life might be decked out to some extent, 
 expanded to arranged pleasures, for the sake of guests, but 
 in essence the pleasure to be derived was from sharing 
 ordinary pursuits with congenial people. If a woman — 
 men, with their sports, were different — but if a woman 
 could not find her enjoyment in that, she would gain little 
 pleasure from country-house visiting ; and indeed Mrs. 
 Drown had gained no pleasure from her small experience 
 
Sunday Morning 149 
 
 of it. The people she met were not her people, and she 
 could not make herself at home with them. In spite of her 
 social developments she remained as to her private tastes 
 exactly what she had been before her rise to fortune. She 
 warmed only to those of the class from which she had 
 sprung ; towards the others she must always be playing a 
 part. This was why she had gone near to making a friend 
 of Mrs. Fuller, whose assumptions of superior birth, even 
 if she had allowed them to deceive her, had not destroyed 
 the sense of their being of the same clay. 
 
 She had allowed that vision of the country house as a 
 place of rest and retreat to play about Kemsale, and she 
 knew that her husband regarded the place chiefly in that 
 light. He would want to live his own life in it, according 
 as he might adjust it to new pursuits, and would not 
 permit her to use it in the main as a great palace of enter- 
 tainment. And if she could have been satisfied to allow 
 its decorated vastness to lie idle, she would have been as 
 simply content at the present moment, with all those whom 
 she loved best around her, as she had ever been in her 
 life. But the empty saloons, the long succession of fur- 
 nished rooms, the host of servants, oppressed her. She 
 could " settle to nothing." 
 
 As for the rest, they were each in their own way pleas- 
 antly excited by the new beginnings. Armitage Brown 
 regarded the large estate, which had supported the dignity 
 and circumstances of a great family for so many genera- 
 tions, as a toy to play with — one of the first he had per- 
 mitted himself. He wanted nothing from it but a new 
 interest. It had been bought and paid for, and " written 
 off." Its purchase had satisfactorily accounted for some 
 of his superfluous thousands, which he would miss no more 
 than he had missed the purchase price of his first semi- 
 detached villa, or, later, of " The Towers." He would 
 make it pay, not because he wanted its returns, but because 
 his amusement in it would be enhanced by doing so. The 
 stakes, though not essential, were high enough ; and he 
 would be dealing with actualities, where previously he had 
 dealt only with the paper that represented them. He v/as 
 eager to get to work, with Fuller, over the schemes he 
 had foreshadowed ; and in the meantime he felt arising in 
 him a faint pleasure in the details of his ownership that 
 was a new experience to him. He had already inspected 
 Alfred's formal garden, now finished, except for the matin- 
 
ir>o Rank and Riches 
 
 ing hand of time. He had been interested. He did not 
 suppose he would ever " take to gardening," but a vision 
 had crossed his mind of large " improvements " of the same 
 sort. There was something to base them on now. Kemsale 
 was his in a way that " The Towers " had never been. 
 " Improvements," there, had been dictated either by the 
 desire of the moment or by the prospect of ultimate return. 
 " The Towers " had been his as long as he had chosen 
 to live in it. Then it had been sold without a qualm. 
 Kemsale was his in perpetuity, his for much longer than 
 his own life should endure. It was part of him, endued 
 him with something that he had not had before, something 
 that counted in his character and in his presentation of 
 himself to the world. It was curious that Alfred's garden 
 should have brought this home to him, but it was so, and 
 not entirely because it was Alfred's who would succeed 
 him ; although that pleased him too, because Alfred for the 
 first time had done something that showed a tendency in 
 him to anchor himself. 
 
 Alfred had suddenly left Kemsale when the work in the 
 formal garden had been satisfactorily inaugurated under 
 Douglas Irving's directions. He had grown tired of it, as 
 he had generally grown tired of a place in which he had 
 lived for a month. But after a winter and spring spent 
 chiefly abroad, he had returned with some eagerness. 
 Kemsale had taken hold of him, and on that Sunday morn- 
 ing, getting up at five o'clock and wandering all over the 
 gardens and up into the beechwoods at the back of the 
 house, he had thought he had never been so pleased to find 
 himself anywhere. 
 
 Katie — bright little simple soul that she was — rejoiced 
 in her two " own " rooms and the lovely prospect from 
 them, in the quiet of the country after London, in the 
 holiday feeling of her father and Uncle James being in 
 the house and not having to leave it immediately after 
 breakfast, and in fact in everything that marked the fresh- 
 ness and newness of the change. She had made many 
 plans for life at Kemsale, based chiefly upon what she had 
 read of country-house life in novels ; for she had had no 
 experience of it on her own account. She was to make 
 friends with all the comfortable farmers' wives and their 
 families, and " visit " all the cottagers, making friends with 
 them too. She was to be made free of the village school, 
 and help to decorate the church in festal seasons. She was 
 
Sunday Morning 151 
 
 to find girls of her own age and tastes in the houses around, 
 and especially in the various rectories and vicarages ; and 
 when she should have made herself at home with them all 
 they were to have splendid times together in the great new 
 house, which would afford such opportunities for games 
 and dancing and all sorts of merriment. She would ask 
 her old friends there too. It would be no burden to her to 
 look after a party as big as the house could hold, and for 
 as long as she could keep it together. The only shadow in 
 her future was cast by her mother's great formal parties, 
 which, if they were to be anything like the parties at Cap 
 Martin or in Berkeley Square, would consist of scores* of 
 people whom she did not care for, and who, judging by the 
 way they ignored her, did not care for her. The thought 
 of a house-party of that sort oppressed her as much as it 
 did her mother. But in the meantime here they were all 
 together, with dear Uncle James and Aunt Millie added, 
 and nothing to do but enjoy themselves in the lovely 
 weather and the lovely new place. 
 
 Armitage Brown sat at the breakfast-table in a black 
 morning coat, and would presently endue himself with a 
 tall hat to go to church in. He always went to church on 
 Sunday morning, and this was the costume that he had 
 been accustomed to go in. His wife was very elaborately 
 dressed, for the same purpose. 
 
 " By the by," he said, " is there a pew that goes with 
 the house ? I didn't ask Fuller." 
 
 Alfred was reminded of events that he had almost for- 
 gotten. " I'm afraid you'll have a little trouble there," 
 he said. " There is a pew, in the chancel, and as far as 
 I could make out from Fuller, it does go with the house ; 
 you've got a legal right to it ; at least he thinks so, and 
 Mrs. Fuller is sure of it, though how she knows I can't 
 say. But Lord Meadshire intends to make a fight for it, 
 apparently. He gets there early and occupies it, and 
 unless you want to turn him out by violence, you will have 
 to sit elsewhere." 
 
 Everybody looked at the head of the house, most of them 
 with some consternation. Meadshire's hostility had not yet 
 become known to them, and this example of it was discon- 
 certing. What could be done ? 
 
 Armitage Brown's face was dark. If there was a legal 
 right, it was in his character to fight for it to the bitter 
 end. Unless Meadshire was prepared to pay heavily for 
 
]V2 Rank and Riches 
 
 an empty privilege, lie had been ill-advised to invite litiga- 
 tion that would be taken up to the highest court if it was 
 ente/ed upon at all. 
 
 " We had better find another seat for the present," said 
 Armitage Brown shortly. 
 
 Mrs. Brown was loath to give up any seat of honour. 
 " For the present, yes," she said. " But if it really belongs 
 to us, Lord Meadshire ought not to be allowed to take 
 possession of it." 
 
 Armitage Brown was still frowning. Now he raised his 
 eyes. " I'm not going to enter into a struggle about a seat 
 in the House of God," he said. 
 
 It was the ingrained Puritanism in which he had been 
 brought up coming out in him. His religion, ever since 
 his youth, had begun and ended with his Sunday morning 
 attendance at church ; no one in the room had ever heard 
 him mention it. But, apparently, it was strong enough as 
 a sentiment to prevent his stirring to claim his just 
 rights. 
 
 " That's the way to take it," said Uncle James, who had 
 relinquished regular church-going years ago in favour of 
 golf. " If he sees you don't care, he'll be ashamed of him- 
 self. At least he ought to be. I should." 
 
 Meadshire did look rather uncomfortable, although he 
 carried it off with an air of being much at his ease, when 
 the Brown family took the places to which Fuller con- 
 ducted them in the front pew of the nave. He was accom- 
 panied by two elderly ladies and a young one. Grace was 
 not there. He stared at all our friends in turn, but re- 
 moved his eyes when he met those of Armitage Brown, 
 which were slightly narrowed. It was the first time that 
 he had seen the man from whom he had bought Kemsale. 
 
 There was some stir in the church when there entered, 
 instead of Compton, a short sturdy bearded man in surplice 
 and stole, but with no academic hood, who, at the ap- 
 pointed time in the service, read himself in as the new 
 Rector of Kemsale. The rumour had got about that Comp- 
 ton was going to leave, but nobody had known, until a few 
 days before, that he had long since made his arrangements 
 to do so, and had already appointed his successor. Fuller 
 had whispered the news to Alfred as they had entered the 
 church : " The new Rector reads himself in to-day — man of 
 the name of Sheard." That was all the information that 
 anybody had, and the whisperings and buzzings that spread 
 
Sunday Morning 153 
 
 over the church marked the degree of surprise that was 
 felt at the sudden occurrence. 
 
 Meadshire seemed more surprised than anybody. He 
 tugged at his moustache, frowned and stared at the new- 
 comer, looked all about him for enlightenment, and ap- 
 parently found none. It would have seemed that in vacat- 
 ing his living and appointing as his successor a man as 
 unlike what the Rector of Kemsale had always been as it 
 was possible to find, and keeping it all secret till the last 
 moment, Compton had meant to mark his contemptuous for- 
 saking of a place that was no longer fit for him, and to 
 do it in such a way that his cousin, who had brought about 
 the catastrophe, should feel his displeasure. Had that idea 
 been at the root of his curious behaviour ? Nobody ever 
 knew. He had advertised for an incumbent for a country 
 living. Mr. Sheard had answered the advertisement, had 
 seen his patron, and been informed later that his applica- 
 tion was accepted. Compton had already left the rectory, 
 and was not seen at Kemsale again. 
 
 But it's an ill wind that blows nobody good. Here was 
 a man of small education, but a strong inclination towards 
 the ways of the Church, who had arrived after many years 
 and great difficulties at his goal, but could hardly have ex- 
 pected to have come in for one of the V plums " of his 
 new profession, as he had now so surprisingly done. The 
 house and glebe, the five or six hundred a year of income, 
 might have been only something in the way of a rich 
 " extra "to a man of Compton's resources ; to this man 
 they meant everything he could desire in life, for himself 
 and his family. It is to be hoped that in presenting Mr. 
 Sheard to the living of Kemsale, its patron had not been 
 unmoved by the consideration that he was bestowing his 
 favour where it would bring the greatest benefit. 
 
 The service was read slowly and quietly, in a voice not 
 without the suspicion of a " burr." The sermon was short, 
 and what in Armitage Brown's youthful days he had been 
 accustomed to hear spoken of as " earnest." He listened 
 to it with appreciation, though he was, in fact, in a state 
 of some bewilderment about the whole affair. He was not 
 quite satisfied that the advent of this new Rector on the 
 first Sunday that he himself had come to church at Kem- 
 sale did not represent a move against him, of the same 
 nature as Meadshire's occupation of the chancel pew. He 
 was dimly aware of the fact of private patronage in the 
 
154 Rank and Riches 
 
 Church of England, and thought that if the patronage of 
 Kemsale had been vested in the family of Meadshire, it 
 was quite likely that he had bought it with all the rest. 
 He meant to look into the matter later, but in the meantime 
 he was inclined to like this honest, rather rough-looking 
 man in the pulpit. 
 
 His mind was set at rest upon the subject of the patron- 
 age by Fuller, who came to luncheon with his wife and 
 daughter. " The presentation to the living is a separate 
 affair," he said. " I think you might have been consulted 
 on the matter, as you'll be the chief man concerned ; but 
 Compton was a queer fellow. To tell you the truth, I. 
 don't think you'll find him much loss." 
 
 " I don't suppose I shall," said Armitage Brown, who 
 had heard something about Compton from Alfred. " And 
 Mr. Sheard will suit me very well, as far as I've got any- 
 thing to do with it. Has he moved in yet ? Is he a family 
 man ? Oughtn't we to do something to show him that he's 
 welcome ? " 
 
 Kind little Herbert brightened. " It would make things 
 comfortable all round," he said. " It's a bit of a surprise 
 to us all, having a man like that put in here, but there's 
 nothing against him, as far as I know, except that he's 
 poor." 
 
 " That's nothing against a clergyman," said the mil- 
 lionaire. 
 
 " Oh, no. And I dare say there will be opportunities 
 of lending him a helping hand. Yes, I believe he has a 
 considerable family. They all move in at the end of this 
 week. Compton's things are to be taken away to-morrow. 
 Compton has already gone. Sheard is in the rectory to-day. 
 I don't know whether he is going back to London, or 
 whether he'll stay on here." 
 
 " What about this chancel pew ? " asked Armitage Brown. 
 " Is it mine or Lord Meadshire's ? " 
 
 Fuller's face fell. This was an unpleasant topic, and 
 foreboded strife. " I believe it to be yours," he said, 
 "though Lord Meadshire says it's his. The lawyers will 
 know." 
 
 " He can keep it," said Armitage Brown, " though I 
 shall be obliged if you will get a legal opinion on the point. 
 And you can tell his lordship, if you get an opportunity, 
 that he needn't come to church early to take possession of 
 it. You can tcU him, too " — he raised his voice here — " that 
 
Sunday Morning 155 
 
 if he wants to go to law with me, and will find a decent 
 excuse, I shall be quite ready to oblige him. He can have 
 his bellyful of law, if that's the line he's going to take up." 
 
 This conversation took place on the way from church. 
 Over the luncheon-table Mrs. Fuller made the mistake of 
 criticising the appearance and speech of the new Rector. 
 '* It has been the most extraordinary affair altogether," 
 she said. " Mr. Compton was not a very amiable person, 
 it's true, but he was a gentleman. What on earth can have 
 induced him to put a man like this into the living beats me 
 altogether. It looks very much as if he had wanted to 
 score off us all." 
 
 Armitage Brown bent his brows upon her with a look 
 of inquiry and dawning dislike. Then he said : " Alfred, 
 you and I will go down and see Mr. Sheard this afternoon ; 
 and I shall ask him to stay here, my dear, till he moves in, 
 if it's any convenience to him." 
 
 Mrs. Fuller hastened to amend her error, if by any 
 adroitness she could do so. " Now I call that really kind, 
 Mr. Brown," she said. " I was going to ask Herbert to 
 do the same, but of course Mr. Sheard would far rather 
 come here than to our little place. I thought he seemed a 
 particularly nice man, from his sermon this morning. I 
 only thought it odd that, being what he was, Mr. Compton 
 should not have chosen to put one of his own sort into so 
 good a living as this. If you had known him, that is what 
 you would have expected of him." 
 
 " We'll go round the place this afternoon, and see where 
 those golf links are to be laid out," said Armitage Brown 
 to his brother. 
 
CHAPTER XV 
 
 SUNDAY AFTERNOON 
 
 It was a good mile from the house to the church, and 
 Mrs. Brown had wanted to drive there and back. It was 
 partly for this purpose that horses and carriages had been 
 added to the stud of motor-cars. There were progresses 
 that she wished to make in the more stately fashion, and 
 her husband had had no objection to the acquirement of the 
 necessary means. He had objected, however, to the taking 
 out of horses and carriages on Sunday. Motor-cars were 
 different ; or so he said, and thought. So Mrs. Brown and 
 Aunt Millie had motored to church, but walked back, and 
 it had been possible for Alfred to introduce his friends from 
 Little Kemsale to his family, before their respective ways 
 diverged. 
 
 The Irvings would not come round by Kemsale, as they 
 were invited to do, because of the heat for Woozle and 
 Jimbo, but engaged themselves to come up in the afternoon 
 and talk about the garden. The arrangement rather dis- 
 pleased Mrs. Brown, who thought that Beatrix, at least, 
 ought to have " called " before being made free of the 
 house ; but she hid her slight displeasure and intimated a 
 welcome. Alfred and Katie were always doing that sort 
 of thing— making friends and throwing all proper cere- 
 mony with them to the winds. But as they also took the 
 burden of privately " entertaining " them off her shoulders, 
 there were compensations. She intimated to Katie that that 
 must be done in this instance. " They're your friends," she 
 said ; " yours and Alfred's. They seem to be quite nice 
 people, but I mustn't be left to make conversation to 
 them." 
 
 They were not yet Katie's friends, but she hoped they 
 would be ; and conversation had already flowed so freely 
 that there would be no need for anybody to " make " it. 
 She already adored the children, and admired and liked 
 Beatrix. 
 
 156 
 
Sunday Afternoon 157 
 
 She managed to get Beatrix to herself when the Irvings 
 came up early in the afternoon, and took her up to her 
 " own " rooms for a talk. " I suppose you have been here 
 before," she said. " These were Lacry Grace's rooms, 
 weren't they ? Why wasn't she in church this morning ? 
 Alfred said that neither of those ladies was she. Has she 
 gone away ? 
 
 Beatrix selected the question easiest to answer. " She 
 hasn't -gone away," she said. " She is coming to tea with 
 me this afternoon. She generally does on Sundays." 
 
 " Oh, then you won't be able to stay here. I'm so sorry. 
 Isn't this room nice ? I've left it almost entirely as it was. 
 I do so admire her taste. I could never have made the 
 room anything like this. I am sure she must be nice. Why 
 didn't she take her things with her to her new home ? " 
 
 Beatrix looked at her. She was such a cheerful simple 
 little soul that she felt like loving her already. Should 
 she tell her ? That Grace had not taken her " things " 
 with her was the main reason why the enmity, of which 
 this little person seemed as yet to be unconscious, was 
 to be kept up, from the Herons' Nest. She decided that 
 she would not tell her. It would spoil her pleasure in her 
 " things." And Beatrix was not without hope that the 
 enmity would dissolve before it became too apparent. She 
 had made light advances to Grace on the subject, and 
 Grace had avoided them, but had showed, Beatrix thought, 
 that it distressed her. She, at least, with her kind heart 
 and gentle ways, could not feel enmity against Katie Brown. 
 Nobody could, if they knew her ever so slightly. 
 
 " She is nice," she said. " You will be sure to like her. 
 Come down to tea with me this afternoon and get to know 
 her." 
 
 Katie's face lit up, but subsided again. She had learnt 
 her mother's views with regard to conventional methods 
 of approach. 
 
 " I should love to," she said. " But I don't know. 
 Wouldn't she call on mother first, if she wanted to know 
 us ? " 
 
 Beatrix stiffened. She had not expected this sort of 
 " nonsense " from Katie. " As you like," she said. "But 
 if you are coming to my house often, as I hope you will, 
 you can't always expect to avoid her." 
 
 Katie looked puzzled. Her simple heart went along with 
 a clever brain. " That means that she won't call on mother," 
 
158 Rank and Riches 
 
 she said. " She doesn't want to know us." Then, as 
 Beatrix made no reply, she said : " What is it all about ? 
 They talked about Lord Meadshire fighting father this 
 morning. There's a sort of feeling in the air that they 
 want to quarrel with us. Why should they ? Does Lady 
 Grace want to quarrel ? " 
 
 " No, I'm quite sure she doesn't. But " 
 
 " But what ? She doesn't want to know us ? Does she 
 think we're too common for her ? " 
 
 " Common " had been a word much in use at Katie's 
 school. Her own happy nature, as well as the riches by 
 which she was known to be surrounded, had prevented 
 the word being applied to her ; but she had kept her eyes, 
 open, at Cap Martin and in Berkeley Square. 
 
 " She certainly wouldn't think that if she saw you," said 
 Beatrix. " That's why I asked you to come to tea with me. 
 There's really no reason why you shouldn't." 
 
 " I should like to come," said Katie. " I want to see 
 your house, for one thing. And I should like to see her 
 too. I feel that I know her a little, living in these rooms 
 that were hers, and I feel that I should love her too, if 
 she'd let me. Alfred has told me about her. It is mother 
 who thinks calling is so important. I don't, especially if 
 vou don't. But I want to know how we all stand first. 
 You haven't told me. You shirk my questions." 
 
 Beatrix laughed. " I won't shirk them any longer," she 
 said. " I'll be as straightforward as possible. Lord Mead- 
 shire is up against your father, as they say. He doesn't 
 like to be turned out of Kemsale, and see him taking his 
 place." 
 
 " Turned out of Kemsale ! " exclaimed Katie. " But he 
 sold Kemsale to father. Surely " 
 
 " Oh, my dear, I know all that. His feeling is unreason- 
 able — .on the whole. But you can make allowances, can't 
 you ? And Lord Meadshire isn't a very wise man. He's 
 a kind one, though. I think his feeling will die down, when 
 you all come to know one another." 
 
 Katie considered this. " It does seem to me unreason- 
 able," she said. " But I suppose one can make allowances 
 for him, as you say. Does she feel as he does — Lady 
 Grace, I mean ? " 
 
 " No, I don't think she does. She's sensible, if he isn't. 
 I should say that she minds leaving Kemsale very little. 
 She loves her Herons' Nest." 
 
Sunday Afternoon 159 
 
 " But she lakes her line from him ? " 
 
 " I don't know that she even does that. Come and see 
 for yourself." 
 
 " Well, perhaps I will. I shouldn't like to make her 
 uncomfortable, though. I don't want to be made uncom- 
 fortable myself." 
 
 " You won't be. There'll be the children — and me." 
 
 " Yes ; she couldn't be really rude to me, could she ? " 
 
 " You wouldn't ask that if you knew her." 
 
 " You like her very much, don't you ? " 
 
 " Yes, very much. So will you. Now say you will 
 come." 
 
 Katie said that she would. 
 
 The five men smoked and drank their coffee in the garden 
 behind the house, where there were cushiony lawns and 
 cedars and peacocks, dividing walls of mellow red brick 
 with arched openings into other divisions of the garden, 
 and beyond it, and on one side, balustraded stone stairs 
 leading to higher and lower levels. There were at least 
 a dozen separate gardens at Kemsale. To Douglas Irving, 
 looking round him at this one, which was not the least 
 beautiful of them, there came a sense of the futility of 
 such an overwhelming aggregation of possessions as was 
 indicated everywhere at Kemsale. This garden would have 
 been a delight to any one, if it had stood alone, with the 
 necessary addendum of ground for use somewhere behind 
 its boundary walls. It would have been more than big 
 enough to do anything that one wanted to do with a garden, 
 would have provided endless resources for its owner. But 
 as it was, it was just there, a charming place to look at, to 
 walk about in, to sit in, but providing no interest of scheme 
 or anticipation, except in its yearly flower-furnishing, which 
 was attended to by gardeners. With a garden that was 
 finished and matured, as far as design and planting of 
 trees and shrubs was concerned, the arrangement of flowers 
 would provide the necessary interest if one were to feel 
 it as a living, moving part of one's experience. To allow 
 it to be done by others as part of a routine, however 
 well it might be done, was almost to lose possession 
 of it. 
 
 He looked at its owner with a sort of baffled curiosity. 
 Armitage Brown was at full ease, smoking his cigar, not 
 troubling himself to talk much. Probably he experienced 
 some pleasure in this quiet gracious place, possibly some 
 
160 Rank and Riches 
 
 mild proprietary gratification over it. And, as it was, it 
 called for no other feeling from him. It was too finished, 
 too perfect ; and he had had nothing to do with making 
 it so. Was that, then, all that his wealth could procure 
 him — the expensive finished article ? If so, Douglas him- 
 self, every inch of whose garden was alive so him, was 
 better off in that respect than he was, with his acres upon 
 acres of ground, most of which he had not yet seen, and 
 was in no hurry to see. 
 
 Was this great wealth, which in so many cases seemed 
 to belittle all simple satisfactions, really to be desired ? 
 Not if one made no more of it than an Armitage Brown. 
 But then, one would. One would use it to the full, revel 
 in it, get the last ounce of gratification out of the oppor- 
 tunities it afforded. Why was it that the people who 
 had it never seemed to know how to make use of it ? 
 Its very proximity, in the person of this millionaire, ex- 
 cited Douglas. He saw for a moment quite clearly for 
 how little the wealth might count, but could not see that 
 it might count for little with himself. His own satisfac- 
 tions seemed to have shrunk, in comparison with what 
 they might have been if he had had limitless money at 
 command. He no longer felt that he had everything in 
 the world that he could possibly want, when this man had 
 so much more, although he seemed unfitted to make use 
 of it. He had a feeling towards him that he could not 
 have justified. His wealth was so great that it loomed 
 much larger than his personality. If he had been with- 
 out it Douglas would have found him quite uninteresting, 
 their lives and their habits lying so far apart. With it, 
 he was a man to cultivate, if possible to be liked, and 
 by all means short of a loss of self-respect to be encour- 
 aged to liking. 
 
 They all walked about the park together, and discussed 
 the laying out of the golf links. Douglas and Uncle 
 James, who were the only golfers amongst them, quickly 
 agreed upon the general lie of the course, and discussed 
 details with energy. Alfred scoffed at the whole scheme ; 
 Fuller made suggestions of little value. Armitage Brown 
 was grimly humorous about it, and encouraged his brother 
 and Douglas to differ on the points where they were 
 inclined to do so. 
 
 " Well, Captain Irving," he said at last, " you seem to 
 know all about it. I think you'd better lay out the ground. 
 
Sunday Afternoon ici 
 
 If you do it half as well as you did Alfred's garden, we 
 shall have something to be proud of." 
 
 Douglas was immensely pleased. He had forgotten the 
 millionaire in his host for a time. Now he remembered 
 it. Armitage Brown was inclined to be friendly with 
 him. 
 
 Uncle James, who could never have enough exercise, 
 persuaded Fuller to go off for a walk with him. Douglas 
 Irving went with the other two to call on the new Rector. 
 
 They found him just returned from the school. He 
 was in the big room, intended for a drawing-room, which 
 Compton had used for his books. It was lined with them ; 
 nothing had as yet been removed from the house. It was 
 as attractive a room for a bookish man as could have been 
 imagined, luxuriously but soberly furnished, and looking 
 out on to a quiet shady garden. 
 
 Mr. Sheard seemed at first to be somewhat disconcerted 
 by the visit. In this house, so different from any he had 
 ever expected to inhabit, so unlike what it would be when 
 he did come to inhabit it, and in surroundings so much 
 in contrast with those in which his clerical life had been 
 spent, it was not surprising that he still felt astray. When 
 he understood that the visit was one of welcome, he 
 showed himself gratified, and talked with more freedom ; 
 but it was not until Armitage Brown, finding himself 
 hampered in saying various things that he wanted to say 
 by the presence of Douglas and Alfred, suggested that 
 they should go away, that the ice was broken between 
 the two elder men. 
 
 They were not unlike in their rugged directness, to 
 which the one had attained in his right for wealth, the 
 other in his long struggle against poverty. It had, in 
 essence, been the same struggle, though with very different 
 aims and issues, and each in his own way was sure of the 
 ground on which he stood. 
 
 " You'll find it rather an expensive business, moving 
 here from London, Mr. Sheard." 
 
 " Oh, not so very, sir. I've not much to move ; nothing, 
 I'm afraid, that won't look very poor in a house like this. 
 But we'll make the best of it. We shall have the fine 
 rooms, and the garden, and all the rest of it. It'll be a 
 great change for us." 
 
 " May I ask if you have a large family ? " 
 
 " Four boys and two girls. Large enough, but I wouldn't 
 
 F (15; 
 
162 Rank and Riches 
 
 have it smaller ; and they're all doing well for themselves, 
 those that are old enough." 
 
 " Grown up, then, most of them ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes. The youngest is eighteen. That's William. 
 He's at school still ; but I think he'll have to come and 
 study at home now. He won't mind that ; he's a good 
 hard-working boy. So are they all. Oh, they've done 
 well for themselves." 
 
 " Tell me about the rest, Mr. Sheard." 
 
 " Well, sir, I'm proud of them. There hasn't been 
 much money, but we've been lucky in education. We've 
 had good schools within reach ; we've always lived in 
 London, even when I was at sea ; and with scholarships, 
 and so on, they've hardly cost me a penny. There's John, 
 my eldest, he's a Fellow of his College at Cambridge, and 
 in Orders, married, and doing well. Henry's a doctor, 
 doing well, too ; he cost me something, but not much. 
 Charles is in the Navy ; his godfather helped him ; one 
 of 'em had to follow the sea ; it's in the blood. That's 
 all the boys. Mary is mistress in a high school ; and 
 little Anne — well, she's nineteen, but we call her little 
 Anne — she's been at home so far." 
 
 " And you've really been able to do all that for your 
 children, Mr. Sheard ! Well, I think it does you credit, 
 and them too. Now you've got to take it easy a bit, and 
 we've got to help you. I'm glad you've come here just 
 at the time we have. We shall be new brooms together. 
 One of the things I want to say to you is that where 
 money is wanted for your work here, you can always come 
 to me. I want to do what's right by the place, and I 
 look to you to help me there." 
 
 " Thank you, Mr. Brown. I shan't forget what you've 
 said." 
 
 " Now can I do anything for you personally ? " He 
 spoke quickly, to get out what he had to say against 
 possible protest. " I should consider it a privilege, and 
 nobody need know of it but ourselves. I've a great respect 
 for the clergy — those who do their work without getting 
 much pay for it, and I don't think they need feel ashamed 
 of letting other people give them a helping hand. I should 
 like to pay for your move down here, if you'll let me. I 
 should like to make you a present to help you fill this 
 house a bit, if you haven't got much furniture. Let's shake 
 hands on it as friends, and let me send you down a cheque." 
 
 (31) 
 
Sunday Afternoon 1G3 
 
 Mr. Sheard had looked at him closely as he spoke, and 
 now their eyes met. " I shall be proud to shake hands 
 with you as a friend, Mr. Brown," he said. " I shall value 
 3'our friendship, and you've made your offer in such a 
 way that I shouldn't feel any shame in accepting it if I 
 had any need of that sort of help. But I'm glad to say 
 I haven't. I had a good command in the Merchant Service 
 for a number of years, and I was able to put something 
 by nearly every year. I've got money in hand for the 
 move, and the income I shall have now will enable me to 
 get what's wanted for this line house by degrees. My 
 wife will prefer to do it in that way, I know ; but she'll 
 feel grateful for your kind offer, when I tell her of it, 
 and I needn't say that I feel the same." 
 
 " Well, I should have liked to make you a present," 
 said the millionaire, " but if you won't take it, you won't. 
 But there's one thing I hope you won't refuse me. Bring 
 your wife, and your son and daughter too, to stay with 
 us while you're moving in. That will put us all right 
 together. We shall be all alone, except for my brother 
 and his wife, and you can take us without any ceremony. 
 We've only just moved in ourselves." 
 
 Mr. Sheard provisionally accepted this invitation, and 
 after some further conversation the two men parted, liking 
 each other very well. 
 
 (25) 
 
CHAPTER XVI 
 
 THE ICE BROKEN 
 
 Douglas Irving was slightly disconcerted by the uncere- 
 monious way in which Armitage Brown had intimated that 
 he wished to be left alone to talk to Mr. Sheard. Alfred 
 took it as a matter of course, but was interested in what 
 the request betokened. " The parson has fallen on his 
 feet," he said, as they walked away from the rectory 
 together. ' ' When my father has taken a fancy to a fellow, 
 there's nothing he's not ready to do for him." 
 
 " Do you think he's taken a fancy to Sheard ? " asked 
 Douglas. 
 
 " Oh, yes, it's clear enough. And he's the sort of man 
 he likes — plain and straightforward and rather rough. He 
 won't try to ingratiate himself. Father hates to think 
 that people are trying to get something out of him. They 
 never do get much if they try, though they can get any- 
 thing they want if he likes them, and they leave him alone." 
 
 Douglas would have found it difficult to say what he 
 wanted to get out of Armitage Brown, but he felt that 
 he had received valuable information, as to the course of 
 conduct to be pursued with him. He thought that he 
 himself was at least as likable as the new Rector, and as 
 for being straightforward, wasn't he always that, even if 
 he had no natural quality of roughness ? " 
 
 " Sheard is certainly plain enough," he said. " He's 
 an odd change here from Compton." 
 
 " He's quite a satisfactory one," said Alfred. " He 
 won't try to treat the important family of Brown like 
 dirt beneath his feet. I suppose Compton put him here 
 because he thought he'd suit us. Well, he'll suit us very 
 nicely." 
 
 " Oh, he'll suit us too," Douglas made haste to reply. 
 " I wonder whether he'll suit Meadshire." 
 
 " I don't suppose Meadshire bothers himself much about 
 
 164 
 
The Ice Broken 165 
 
 the clergy, does he ? It's more a question, I should think, 
 how he'll suit Lady Grace." 
 
 Alfred had not thought much about Lady Grace since 
 he had been at Kemsale last, but now that he was back 
 there again her personality was constantly present to him. 
 It was a fragrant gentle influence that hung about the 
 whole place, that made itself felt even through the glaring 
 opulence that was the new note of Kemsale, now that it 
 had once more a living note of its own. He had talked to 
 Katie, and found that Katie had much the same feeling about 
 her, which pleased him, and justified his sentiment for 
 a woman some years older than himself. He had now 
 brought in her name, when mention of it was scarcely 
 called for, for the pleasure of hearing something more 
 about her. 
 
 " Oh, any parson would suit Lady Grace," said Douglas, 
 " if he went about his parish and the people liked him. 
 But we shall see what she says about it. You're coming 
 to tea, aren't you ? " 
 
 After a moment's hesitation, Alfred said that he would. 
 He could not forever avoid meeting Lady Grace, and he 
 wanted at least to see whether she wished to avoid meet- 
 ing him. 
 
 She was in Beatrix's drawing-room when the two men 
 entered it, and so was Katie, who was flushed, and not 
 altogether from the heat. Alfred saw at once, from the 
 appearance of all three ladies, that the meeting so far 
 had not been a brilliant success. 
 
 He was introduced to Grace, who bowed to him coldly, 
 and immediately turned to talk to Douglas, explaining 
 with unnecessary particularity that she had not been able 
 to induce her aunt and cousins, who were staying with 
 her, to come out, because of the heat. 
 
 But it was obviously impossible that conversation could 
 be carried on on these lines for any length of time, and 
 she must have seen it, for she next, not without a plain 
 effort, addressed a word to Alfred. It was about the 
 weather. There seemed to be absolutely no other topic 
 possible, if she were to keep him and his sister at arm's 
 length, as she seemed to wish to do, and yet not make 
 her host and hostess too uncomfortable. 
 
 They were uncomfortable enough as it was, Beatrix 
 talking to Katie constrainedly on the sofa, and Douglas 
 fingering his clipped moustache, with a bewildered frown. 
 
 (ii) 
 
igg Rank and Riches 
 
 But Alfred had the valuable gift of retaining a bright 
 calm in face of an awkward situation. He smiled ingen- 
 uously. " I can't talk about the heat to you, Lady Grace," 
 he said. " There are so many other things I want to say." 
 
 vShe blushed and showed her confusion, while the others 
 held their breath for what should follow. Then she looked 
 up, and smiled faintly in her turn, but immediately became 
 as serious as before. " Yes, it is foolish," she said, looking 
 at him and Katie in turn, " that now we have met, we 
 should not say something of what is in our minds. You 
 know, perhaps, that Kemsale has been my home all mv 
 life, and Mrs. Irving will tell you how much I have at 
 heart the happiness of all the people who live on the place. 
 Cannot either, or both, of you persuade your father to 
 treat those of them who have been here for so long less 
 harshly ? Oh, I know I have nothing to do with it all 
 now, except that I am so fond of the dear people who are 
 going to be turned out, that I feel I must speak for them." 
 She turned particularly to Katie. " You are in the posi- 
 tion here that I used to be in," she said. " Surely you 
 can do something, if you try. I would have tried, when I 
 was your age, and I think my grandfather would have 
 listened to me. He always did, though he would never 
 have done what is going to be done now." 
 
 Poor little Katie was almost in tears. She had very 
 little idea as to what it was all about, but was greatly 
 affected by Grace's emotion, and would have promised her 
 anything if she had had time to speak. 
 
 But it was Alfred who replied, immediately. " I am 
 quite sure my father would be unwilling to act harshly 
 in any way," he said. '* Who is going to be turned out, 
 Lady Grace ? " 
 
 " Why, everybody," she said, not without indignation. 
 " Even the cottagers have had notice, those of them who 
 pay rent directly to the estate." 
 
 Yes, they have had notice, but Fuller was authorized 
 to say that the notice was only a matter of form, in the 
 great majority of cases. He told me so himself." 
 
 " That's not unusual when a property changes hands," 
 Douglas put in. 
 
 " Perhaps not," she said, speaking more quietly ; " but 
 if it was only a matter of form, surely one would expect 
 that everything would be settled as soon as possible, so 
 that people who had a right to expect to stay on would 
 
 27) 
 
The Ice Broken 167 
 
 not be kept in anxiety. But it is six months now since 
 the notice was given, and not a word has been said to 
 them since as to what is going to happen. Can 3-011 
 wonder that they are crying out, and expecting the worst 
 to happen ? " 
 
 " I don't quite know what to say," said Alfred. " I 
 know nothing about my father's plans. I have not seen 
 him for six months until a few days ago, and he has been 
 abroad most of the time himself. He has been in America ; 
 he stayed on there much longer than he intended, or per- 
 haps he would have settled matters here before this. We 
 only came down last night, you know. I think he won't 
 lose much time in taking things in hand now he is here." 
 
 " And I'm sure he won't do anything unkind," added 
 Katie. " If you knew him, you would know he wouldn't." 
 
 Lady Grace looked at her more kindly than she had 
 done before. " I don't think you would," she said. " Per- 
 haps I ought not to have said what I have. I suppose 
 we must just wait and see what is going to be done, and 
 hope for the best." 
 
 "A lot of people are upset," said Beatrix. " Douglas 
 and I have talked about it sometimes and thought that it 
 might be as well to tell you of it " — she spoke to Alfred— 
 " so that Mr. Brown might know." 
 
 Douglas roused himself. " It's like this," he said. " We 
 have made friends, you and we, and we've thought it 
 wouldn't be friendly not to give you the tip. From what 
 you have told me yourself, your father doesn't know the 
 ways of a country landlord, and he might quite well make 
 mistakes that he'd be sorry for afterwards. It has seemed 
 to be up to us to give you a friendly warning, if we see 
 anything going wrong." 
 
 " But what is going wrong ? " asked Alfred. " You said 
 yourself just now that what has been done isn't unusual. 
 Fuller told me that he'd given just such a warning as you 
 talk about, and my father had taken it much better than 
 he had expected, and practically given him a free hand 
 to keep the tenants from worrying. If they are upset, as 
 you say — well, Fuller can't have been very successful with 
 them ; I don't see what blame lies with my father." 
 
 "Oh, well — Fuller ! " said Douglas. " But there's Mrs. 
 Fuller." 
 
 " We know how kind Captain Fuller is," said Grace. 
 " But what he says is very likely to be upset— afterwards." 
 
 (20) 
 
168 Rank and Riches 
 
 " By Mrs. Fuller ? " said Alfred. " What on earth has 
 she to do with it ? 
 
 " She is determined to move into ' The Limes,' " said 
 Beatrix, " and has made no secret of it. She doesn't 
 mind in the least what becomes of Miss Merriman/ 1 
 
 " Dear Miss Merriman, who has lived here for more 
 than ten years," Grace took it up, " and has spent her life 
 in being good and kind to everybody about her. There is 
 nowhere else she could go to in Kemsale. Barton's Farm 
 is too far from the village and the church, and there would 
 not be room enough for her to have the people staying 
 with her that she likes to have. If the Fullers go to ' The 
 Limes ' she will have to leave Kemsale altogether." 
 
 " But Fuller is determined not to move from Barton's 
 Farm," said Alfred. " He said so quite decisively when 
 his wife mentioned it, the first time I saw them together." 
 
 There was a slight pause. " What Fuller says quite 
 decisively," said Douglas, " isn't always what happens in 
 that amiable family." 
 
 " Oh, well," Alfred said. " I'll certainly tell my father 
 what you say about Miss Merriman. If Fuller doesn't 
 want to move, and only wants stiffening against the lady, 
 I should think we might be able to manage as much as 
 that. But, surely, that's a case that stands by itself, isn't 
 it ? It isn't like the farming tenants ? Isn't it a little 
 unfair to make my father responsible for Mrs. Fuller's 
 little games ? " 
 
 He looked straight at Grace. It was she who had to 
 answer the question, or evade it. 
 
 She dropped her eyes. " No one has been inclined to 
 blame Mr. Brown for anything that might happen there," 
 she said. There had been a slight emphasis on the " Mr.," 
 but she went on quickly, as if she had had something more 
 in her mind that she was unwilling to express. " I think 
 you got to know some of the farming tenants when you 
 were down here last. There are the Davises at Points 
 Farm. They have been there for nearly two hundred 
 years ; they look upon it as their home, just in the way 
 that people like us look upon the houses we live in." 
 
 " I should hope they wouldn't have to go," said Alfred. 
 " I don't see why they should, if they are the right sort 
 of tenant, and I suppose they are, or they wouldn't have 
 been there so long." 
 
 When A' 1 been at Kemsale during the previous 
 
 (13; 
 
The Ice Broken 169 
 
 autumn he had once or twice motored Fuller about the 
 estate, on his agent's business. He had been made very 
 welcome in snug farmhouses by comfortable friendly far- 
 mers' wives, and had carried away with him the pleasantest 
 recollections of their hospitality, and the general atmo- 
 sphere that surrounded them. He had not known, and did 
 not know now, what hopes had been founded upon his own 
 cheerful friendliness in some quarters, nor of the jealousies 
 and fears aroused in the minds of those whom he had not 
 been taken to see. The impression that had remained with 
 him had been far from that of a whole community disturbed 
 and alarmed, as this at Kemsale was now represented to 
 be. He thought there must have been influences at work 
 since, and that the delay in settling matters, owing to his 
 father having been abroad longer than he had anticipated, 
 would not entirely account for it. He was also inclined 
 to resent, on his father's behalt, the implication that be- 
 cause under the previous ownership an informal fixity of 
 tenure had been the tradition in certain cases, the new 
 owner was to be considered bound by it. After all, the 
 previous owner had played havoc with his own fixity of 
 tenure, and it was on that that the right of others to con- 
 sider their's permanent could only rest. He did not resent 
 it as it had been expressed by Grace. He liked her for 
 feeling as she did about the humbler friends amongst whom 
 she had been brought up, and for being willing to fight 
 their battles. It was elsewhere that the source of the 
 mischief that seemed to be in the air was to be sought. 
 
 " If there is anxiety amongst the tenants," he said, " I 
 think that trouble must have been made about us — about 
 my father — that isn't justified ; certainly by nothing that 
 he has done yet, or as far as I know is likely to do. I 
 feel quite safe, Lady Grace, in asking you to hold over 
 your opinion for the present — about him, I mean. Every- 
 thing will be settled pretty quickly now. And of course 
 I shall tell him what we have heard just now." 
 
 Grace was not inclined to hold over her opinion about 
 Armitage Brown. His high-handed proceeding in the 
 matter that had touched her personally had given her an 
 impression of him that was not altered by the loyalty of 
 his son and daughter. She simply thought them mistaken. 
 He might be kind enough to them, and still harsh and 
 overbearing in his business dealings, as he had ahead) 7 
 shown himself ; and the whole point of the difficulty was 
 
170 Rank and Riches 
 
 that the business of a landed estate could not be carried 
 on in the impersonal way of other businesses, and that he 
 could not be expected to know that. But she could do 
 no more at present. She might have done something 
 useful in speaking to these young people about it, or she 
 might have done something that would only put his back 
 up. Time would show. It was something that they 
 seemed to be " nice " — much nicer than she had thought 
 possible with such parentage ; for their father was what 
 he had shown himself, and their mother seemed already to 
 have made a close friend of Mrs. Fuller, and was very 
 likely at the bottom of the disturbance caused in the life 
 of dear Miss Merriman, whom she could hardly be expected 
 to appreciate. 
 
 Beatrix sent for Woozle and Jimbo, as a relief to the 
 situation, and they effected their purpose until tea was 
 linished, when an adjournment was made to the garden. 
 
 Douglas and Alfred detached themselves from the ladies 
 and children. " I suppose the fact of the matter is," said 
 Alfred, when they were out of hearing, " that Meadshire 
 has been stirring up discontent. It's what he seems to 
 be out for. I think, as he's sold the place and got his 
 money for it, he might leave us alone. I wish he'd go 
 away somewhere else and spend it." 
 
 " Oh, he's spent most of it long ago," said Douglas. 
 " Still, I'm bound to say that I've never known him stay 
 here for so long together before. Poor Grace is doing her 
 best to keep him in order. She seems to be succeeding 
 too. He hasn't had what we've been accustomed to call 
 one of his bursts for nearly a year. When he does have 
 one, as I suppose he will sooner or later, he'll clear out, 
 and very likely he won't come back again, for some time 
 at least." 
 
 " Here he is, by Jove ! " added Douglas, as Alfred was 
 just about to speak. Meadshire's car had slid up to the 
 gate near which they were strolling. The three ladies 
 who had been in church that morning alighted from it, 
 and Meadshire, after a word of greeting, went to the front 
 of the car to make some examination of the machinery. 
 
 The ladies went up the drive with Douglas. Alfred 
 stayed behind. He would have it out with the mischief- 
 maker. 
 
 Meadshire's examination was almost immediately over. 
 He shut the bonnet of the car and came through the gate. 
 
The Ice Broken in 
 
 His face wore its customary expression of careless good- 
 nature, and did not change when he saw Alfred standing 
 as if to await him. -■ Hullo, here's the enemy ! " he said 
 lightly. " Well, I hear you've begun to knock the place 
 about already." 
 
 Alfred was stung by his manner. " We've done away 
 with the beastly carpet garden, if that's what you mean/' 
 he said. 
 
 " It ain't much loss. I wish I'd done it myself." He 
 had begun to walk quickly up the drive, as if what he had 
 said already was all he wanted or meant to say. 
 
 Alfred did not feel disposed to run after him. "I'd 
 like to have a word with you, Lord Meadshire, if you can 
 spare me a minute," he said, standing where he was. 
 
 Meadshire stopped suddenly, and turned round. " Why, 
 certainty," he said, and waited for him to speak. 
 
 Alfred found some difficulty in beginning, but made a 
 plunge at it. "I hear there's some uneasiness amongst 
 the farmers and people as to what my father is going to 
 do here," he said. 
 
 " I hear the same," said Meadshire. 
 
 " I think it's a pity that they should be upset when 
 there's no need for it." 
 
 " So do I." 
 
 Alfred stiffened himself. " Well, isn't it you who's 
 upsetting them ? " he asked. 
 
 Meadshire's eyebrows went up. " I ? " he exclaimed. 
 " What on earth have I got to do with it ? " 
 
 " Well, that's what I'd like to know. My father has 
 been abroad for nearly six months. Now he has come 
 down here for some weeks, and will be hard at work getting 
 affairs into order. I think he might be allowed to have 
 his chance, without having people prejudiced against him." 
 
 Meadshire retained his expression of innocent goodwill. 
 " So do I," he agreed heartily, " and if he succeeds in 
 removing the general impression that he's a precious hard 
 nut to crack, he'll be doing a^good work." 
 
 Alfred was angry, but he did not show it. " Who has 
 given people that impression ? " he asked. 
 
 " Well, I should say he had given it himself. He's 
 given it to me, anyhow." 
 
 " And you have passed it on, I believe. It's quite an 
 unfair impression. I know he's anxious to do well by the 
 estate, and the people on it." 
 
1 : 2 Rank and Riches 
 
 " Well, now, I'm very glad to hear you say that ; and 
 as you've spoken to me first, and not me to you, I'll make 
 a clean breast of it to you. We've always done well by 
 the tenants on this place. I believe they'll tell you that 
 even I have done well by them, though I've done devilish 
 badly by myself. But we needn't go into that. Now your 
 father knows nothing whatever about the land, or what's 
 due to the people on it. You'll agree to that, I sup- 
 pose ? " 
 
 " I don't agree to anything of the sort. He knows 
 something about every sort of business, and what he doesn't 
 know he'll pretty soon pick up." 
 
 " I dare say ; but he hasn't picked it up yet. And the 
 very word ' business ' that you use shows how little you 
 know about land yourself." 
 
 " I didn't say that I knew anything about it myself." 
 
 " Well, it's the word he would use, isn't it ? He's going 
 to make all sorts of experiments here, and " 
 
 " I don't know that. He's never said so to me. Has 
 he to you ? " 
 
 " Of course he hasn't, my young friend. We've never 
 spoken to one another. But every one knows it. Be- 
 sides, it's exactly what he would do. He's a business man, 
 and they always make experiments when they buy land — 
 that sort ; generally lose by them too." 
 
 " Let me ask you plainly whether you have heard 
 anything whatever about his intending to make experi- 
 ments." 
 
 " I tell you plainly that I've heard nothing else." 
 
 " I don't mean rumours, from people who know nothing 
 about it. I ask you if you have definite information." 
 
 " Where could I get definite information about your 
 father's plans ? There's no smoke without some fire ; 
 and what has little Fuller been about, making all sorts of 
 inquiries everywhere ? " 
 
 " What about ? " 
 
 " Why, about everything in connection with farming 
 that he never worried about before. It isn't his job." 
 
 " I should have thought it was his job. Then you've 
 nothing to go on at all except rumour, and yet you've been 
 setting all the tenants against my father." 
 
 " I haven't. I say I haven't. I've nothing to do with 
 the tenants now, except that a lot of them arc childhood's 
 friends and all that sort of thing. They've always been 
 
The Ice Broken 173 
 
 pleased to see me, and they're pleased to see me now, and 
 talk things over. Do you mean to say that I can't go and 
 see my friends in their own houses, because your father 
 has bought them over their heads ? Why, you might as 
 well say I couldn't go and call on my aunt in Portland 
 Place if I didn't know the Duke of Portland." 
 
 " Well, I see there's no satisfaction to be got out of 
 you," said Alfred. ' You've made it plain, though, that 
 you are trying to create prejudice against my father, and 
 I think it's a damnably unfair thing to do. I'm glad I've 
 had the opportunity of saying so." 
 
 He moved away up the drive. Meadshire accompanied 
 him, still apparently in high good humour. " I'm rather 
 inclined to like you, young Mr. Brown," he said, " and 
 I don't in the least mind you're speaking rather sharply. 
 I'll tell you what, now. If your father doesn't turn out 
 the nice old people who have held their farms under us 
 for generation after generation, I'll tell all of 'em that I 
 was mistaken in him." 
 
 Alfred stopped again and faced him. " That's very 
 generous of you," he said. " You throw them all over 
 yourself, you expect the people who come after you to take 
 on all your responsibilities towards them, and yet you 
 can't wait to see whether they're going to do it or not. 
 You make all the mischief } t ou can, and then, if everything 
 goes right after all, you're going to say you've been mis- 
 taken. Thank you for nothing." 
 
 " Ah, now you seem to me to be speaking rather rudely," 
 said Meadshire. " Well, I think we understand each other 
 on the whole, don't we ? We'll talk of it all again some 
 day or other. I want to have a word with Beatrix Irving 
 now." 
 
 Alfred tookJvatie away as soon as he could. The space 
 at hand was too limited for him and Meadshire to occupy 
 it at the same time. He said nothing to his sister con- 
 cerning the late passage-at-arms. He had considerable 
 control over himself, this young man, and a broad reservoir 
 of wisdom on which to draw. If trouble were to arise it 
 would affect her more than it would him, who need not 
 be at Kemsale oftener than he wished. He was not going 
 to make trouble for her. 
 
 He was instantly rewarded for his omission, for she 
 said to him, as they went down the drive together : 
 " Alfred, Lady Grace is such a dear. She was as nice as 
 
171 Rank and Riches 
 
 ible to mc when you had gone away with Captain 
 Irving." 
 
 He laughed at her. " Do you think it was because I 
 was there, then, that she wasn't particularly nice before ? " 
 
 " Oh, no, I didn't mean that. I think it was what you 
 said that cleared up her doubts about us. Besides, she 
 likes you." 
 
 " How do you know that ? " 
 
 " Well, she said that now she had seen you and me 
 she should feel much happier about the people who think 
 they are going to be turned out. Of course, they won't 
 be turned out, will they ? It was all a mistake of hers ? " 
 
 " I think most of it was. Did she seem as if she wanted 
 to make friends with us ? " 
 
 Katie was a little doubtful about this. " I don't believe 
 she means to call upon mother," she said. " She didn't 
 say anything about it." 
 
 " Well, you see, that's rather a slap in the face for us 
 in itself." 
 
 " Is it ? Of course, I know we're awfully rich, and all 
 that, but we're nothing much beside people like her, arc 
 we ? " 
 
 " I suppose she thinks so," said Alfred, " or her brother 
 does. No ; I don't believe she would. Well, if you like 
 her, Kate, and she likes you, I hope you'll be friends 
 together some day. At any rate, the ice is broken now." 
 
CHAPTER XVII 
 
 EXPERIMENTS 
 
 " Before we begin, Captain Fuller, there's just one little 
 personal matter I want to clear up." 
 
 It was nine o'clock on Monday morning. Armitage 
 Brown and Fuller were closeted together in the room that 
 the new owner of Kemsale had chosen for his business 
 room. He had breakfasted at eight o'clock, an hour which 
 as far as he was concerned he did not propose to give up 
 for anybody, though the rest of the household were at 
 liberty to breakfast at any later time that suited them. 
 When the day came he wanted to begin the day's work, 
 and it was with genuine relief that he had awoke on that 
 Monday morning to the knowledge that there was work 
 to be done here at Kemsale, and not a day to be got through 
 in idleness, as was too often the case when he was at Cap 
 Martin. 
 
 Fuller had brought up his bag of papers. He was rather 
 excited as to what was to come. He had worked hard 
 during the winter at the task that had been assigned him, 
 and was in the mood of a well-prepared schoolboy who 
 expects to do well in an examination. 
 
 But a personal matter ! What could that be ? His 
 half-guilty feeling of having concealed his actual age rose 
 within him. He wished he could have demonstrated how 
 competent he was before any personal matter was touched 
 upon. 
 
 " This house in the village — ' The Limes ' ; it has 
 always been understood to be the regular agent's house, 
 I'm told." 
 
 Oh, that was it. Nothing very dreadful there ! 
 
 " It was, before I came here," said Fuller. " The agent 
 who preceded me was only here a short time. He was a 
 bachelor and preferred to live at Barton's Farm, where I 
 live now. When I came, ' The Limes ' had been lent for 
 a year to an old lady who was a relation of Lord Mead- 
 
 175 
 
176 Rank and Riches 
 
 shire's, and I went to Barton's Farm, where I've been 
 ever since." 
 
 " And now you want to get into ' The Limes,' I under- 
 stand." 
 
 " No, Mr. Brown, I don't. It's too big for me. I'm 
 quite contented where I am." 
 
 A faint smile came over Armitage Brown's face. " Mrs. 
 Fuller doesn't seem contented," he said. 
 
 " You must leave me to deal with my wife, sir. I've no 
 intention of moving, unless you make a point of it your- 
 self, which I hope you won't do." 
 
 His employer looked at him, still with the shadow of 
 his amused smile. " It's a good deal nearer here than the 
 house you're in now, isn't it ? " he asked. 
 
 " Yes, it's half a mile nearer, perhaps. But I'm in the 
 estate office all day, except when I'm out and about. And 
 there's the telephone between this and Barton's Farm, if 
 you want me out of office hours. I really don't think 
 you'd find it- any greater convenience to have me at ' The 
 Limes.' " 
 
 ' My wife seems to think it might be more convenient 
 to have Mrs. Fuller there. The ladies have struck up a 
 friendship. And Mrs. Fuller particularly wants to get 
 into a more convenient house than the one she's in now, 
 it appears." 
 
 Poor little Herbert's face fell. He had held out against 
 never-relaxed pressure for six months, and had not ex- 
 pected the attack to come from this quarter. But he 
 might have known that his wife would leave no stone 
 unturned to get her own way. 
 
 " I think it would arouse a good deal of feeling in the 
 place if Miss Merriman were to be turned out," he said. 
 " She's been there for ten years or more ; she's a very 
 charitable woman, and does a deal of good work in the 
 place. Pays a good rent too. It's practically so much 
 extra. I doubt if I could let Barton's Farm for more than 
 forty pounds a year, as it stands, without the land. Miss 
 .Merriman pays a hundred and ten for ' The Limes.' " 
 
 " The agents who occupied it didn't pay rent, I sup- 
 pose ? " 
 
 " Oh, no. It would be seventy or eighty pounds a yeai 
 the estate." 
 
 ' That practically comes out of your pocket, then ? " 
 
 " I don't look on it in that way at all. It suits me 
 
Experiments 177 
 
 much better to live in a smaller house. ' The Limes ' 
 would cost me a lot more to keep up." 
 
 Well, I suppose we've got to consider thfi ladies in 
 these matters, eh ? You've taken on more work, and are 
 getting a higher income for it. Mrs. Fuller thinks she 
 ought to benefit by that, I take it. That's the idea, 
 isn't it ? " 
 
 This was really beyond everything. If his wife had 
 made that plea to Mrs. Brown, then it absolved him from 
 the ungrateful task of shielding her. " The fact of the 
 matter is," he snapped out, " my wife, unfortunately, is a 
 bad hand a£ managing an income. Living in the way we 
 do, I've had my work cut out ever since I've been here to 
 keep straight ; and I haven't been able to put by a penny. 
 I ought to save money ; it's for her sake I ought to do it, 
 and my daughter's ; and your keeping me on here, which 
 I wasn't sure you'd do, and giving me another hundred a 
 year into the bargain — it's a chance that I'm not going to 
 let slip. I tell you, I'm ashamed of myself, Mr. Brown, 
 at my age and with the luck I've had to be in constant 
 work up to a time of life when most men are laid on the 
 shelf — I was sixty at the beginning of this year — I'm 
 ashamed of myself at having done nothing to make pro- 
 vision for the future. I can do it if I'm left where I am. 
 I can't do it if I've got to waste money in keeping up a 
 house bigger than I want." 
 
 He had plumped out the devastating fact of his age, 
 but it did not seem to have given Armitage Brown any 
 great shock of surprise. " I'm glad you've told me how 
 matters stand," he said. " It shan't go any further. And 
 I think you're quite right to stay where you are, under 
 the circumstances. I'll put that right too. I'll say it's 
 my wish. But I'll tell you what, Fuller ; we must humour 
 the ladies in their fancies, you know ; is there any way 
 in which we could make Barton's Farm a bit smarter — a 
 bigger drawing-room, or a few bow-windov/s, or something 
 of that sort ? It might ease matters, eh ? By your own 
 showing you're saving the estate seventy or eighty pounds 
 a year by living there. I'm quite ready to spend a few 
 hundreds on it, to make it more like a gentleman's resi- 
 dence, which I understand is what's chiefly wanted." 
 
 Poor little Herbert could only stammer out his thanks 
 for this generous and unexpected alleviation of the troubles 
 he was bringing upon himself. It was another piece of 
 
173 Rank and Riches 
 
 kindness from a man who had the reputation of being hard 
 and inconsiderate in his methods. There was growing up 
 in him a strong feeling of gratitude and liking towards his 
 employer. " It certainly would do a lot to make up for 
 the disappointment," he said, " though as far as I'm con- 
 cerned the house suits me very well as it is, and nothing 
 is really wanted." 
 
 " Well, you talk it over with your good lady, Fuller 
 Tell her I'm sorry I can't see my way to turning out Miss 
 — what's her name ? — Miss Merriman, but I'm anxious to 
 do what I can to make your house more what it should be. 
 I'll go up to three hundred pounds. You can use it as 
 you like. I've no doubt you'll get the best results out of 
 it, and improve the place for later on." 
 
 " Oh, I shouldn't want to spend anything like as much 
 as three hundred. If I were to make the place bigger, I 
 should be doing just what I want to avoid. A bow- window 
 to two of the rooms, and a good bathroom, and one or two 
 little conveniences — a hundred pounds would cover it all." 
 
 " Well, spend what you like up to three hundred. I 
 should give her a conservatory, if you haven't got one. 
 Ladies like that. Spend something on decoration ; they 
 like that too. You might get in some labour-saving appli- 
 ances — kill two birds with one stone, eh ? Do it as well 
 as you can ; don't bother about saving money within the 
 limit ; I'd rather you spent more than less. I mean that, 
 so don't go against my wishes. Well, now then, what 
 about this dairying business ? Let's get to work on that, 
 and see if there's a^'thing in it." 
 
 His complete change of tone, and hitching of his chair 
 round to his desk, shut off the previous subject entirely. 
 But the sense of gratitude and pleasure remained with 
 Fuller throughout the long affair that followed. He loved 
 pottering about with " improvements." There were many 
 that he would always have liked to make at Barton's Farm, 
 if he had had the money, or the authorization, to do it. 
 He could make them all now, even the most extravagant 
 of them ; and he knew that by making them he could add 
 at least another twenty pounds to the letable value of the 
 house. And surely the news that he would have to take 
 home would bring him peace at last, and he could go about 
 his work, which would be much more interesting now than 
 it had ever been, relieved of a constant burden. 
 
 For the next hour the two men stuck closely to the work 
 
Experiments 179 
 
 in hand. Armitage Brown showed an extraordinary apti- 
 tude for assimilating the facts that were put before him 
 so abundantly. Fuller had collected and collated every 
 sort of fact from the material that had been given him, 
 relevant and, as it sometimes seemed, irrelevant. And he 
 had done what he had not been told to do — made journeys 
 to see things for himself, from which he had collected other 
 facts, perhaps more important still, as to practical working. 
 Very slowly, during his six months' work, he had attained 
 to a grasp of his subject. But it was nothing to the grasp 
 that Armitage Brown attained during the hour in which 
 he attacked the great mass of figures and details that were 
 put before him. His eye for their significance was wonder- 
 ful. Several times, as he stood up to his flood of quick 
 questions, Fuller blessed his own thorough habit of going 
 into everything that had the slightest bearing on his sub- 
 ject, whether important or not. Facts that he had not 
 thought to be important were proved to be so, to the quick 
 and solid building up of Armitage Brown's knowledge. He 
 had thought he had left out nothing. He had gone over 
 his lesson again and again, trying to find gaps in his know- 
 ledge, and when he had found them filling them up with 
 the same painstaking care, whether they were noticeable 
 or almost invisible. But Armitage Brown found a few 
 further gaps — not big ones — and gave him a little more 
 research to do, seeing that he made careful notes of what 
 was wanted. His own grasp of exactly what was wanted 
 was masterly. Fuller thought that if his employer had 
 had to do all by himself what had taken him six months 
 of careful work to accomplish, he would have done it in a 
 week. It seemed to him that there was no complication 
 through which he could not cut his way at a stroke, no 
 balancing of doubts that caused him a moment's hesi- 
 tation ; and, in sum, that such a man could master any 
 operation that he put his mind to, teach every expert whom 
 he might employ how to do his work to the best advantage, 
 and run any business in the world, from land agency down- 
 wards. 
 
 But if the business that he chose to run happened 
 actually to have connection with land agency, it might be 
 run most efficiently to pay, but other considerations bear- 
 ing upon it were not likely to be dealt with tender!} 7 . 
 Armitage Brown still had something to learn with regard 
 to that particular business. The question was whether he 
 
180 Rank and Riches 
 
 would judge the lesson of enough importance to be willing 
 to learn it. 
 
 "Well," he said, leaning back in his chair, "I think 
 I've got everything at my fingers' ends now, except those 
 few little points which you've made notes of, and they 
 needn't delay us in setting to work." 
 
 Fuller experienced a momentary tightening of the brain. 
 He had been at full stretch for a long hour. The work 
 seemed to have been finished for the time being. But 
 apparently it was only just about to begin. 
 
 " What we have to do is to build our factory as soon 
 as possible, and I think we know where to build it. We'll 
 go over there this afternoon and have a look at the place. 
 To-morrow or the next day we'll take a run over to Den- 
 mark and get the latest information we can. It may save 
 time to bring a man over from there to make our plans. 
 We shall have to find one. We must have the most up-to- 
 date building and machinery we can get hold of. We shall 
 want a manager too. There's a great deal to do, but I've 
 nothing else important in hand now, and I shall work at 
 it myself for the next few months, here on the spot chiefly. 
 You've got the subject up remarkably well, Fuller. I 
 don't think I've ever been so well primed about anything, 
 or wasted less time in getting at what I wanted to know. 
 You shall have an interest in the concern ; that's only fair. 
 You'll have a good deal to do with the working of it. 
 But it's going to be a bigger thing than I thought it would. 
 I think I see my way now. The factory will have to be 
 under separate management altogether. You won't have 
 anything to do with that, except that you'll know all about 
 it, of course, so as not to make mistakes at your end. 
 Now we'll go into the question of the farms that are to 
 feed it. You've got a map of the estate ? " 
 
 " I've brought up a little one. The 25-inch survey is 
 down at the office." 
 
 " A little one will do. You'd better get me one to hang 
 up here, by the by. I shan't be in the office much ; I like 
 working in my own room. Now then, here's Oldmeadow 
 Farm. Yes, it's even better than I thought. Here's the 
 spot for the factory — roads from every quarter, and within 
 a mile of Canton Station. Pretty clear land too ; the town 
 seems to have spread the other way ; we might put down 
 a line by and by. Whom does the land belong to between 
 this and the station ? " 
 
Experiments 181 
 
 " It has changed hands lately. I think Mr. Clinton, of 
 Kencote, has bought it. He runs up to here, and here, I 
 know ; a good part of the building in Ganton lately has 
 been done on his land." 
 
 " Is he a go-ahead landlord ? He owns a large property, 
 doesn't he ? " 
 
 " Yes ; he's one of the biggest landowners in South 
 Meadshire. They say that Kencote has been in his family 
 for over five hundred years ; but I fancy most of this land 
 about Ganton has been bought or come in to his estate in 
 his lifetime. He's a rich man, I believe. His son, Captain 
 Clinton, looks after the property now ; looks after it very 
 well, I believe. But I don't know whether you'd call him 
 go-ahead exactly." 
 
 " I see. Well, we'll bear in mind the question of a line 
 of rail, and see about it before the land gets built over. 
 It looks to me as if we were just in time. I don't think 
 we could hit on a better spot than this for the factory. 
 It seems to answer ail requirements. What do you think ?" 
 
 " It's right on the edge of the estate. Half the roads 
 go off on to other properties, as you see." 
 
 " Oh, but that doesn't matter. We shan't want to keep 
 the factory only for our own farms. You'll see how the 
 rest will come in when we've shown them the way. We 
 shall tap miles of country by cart and motor-traffic, and I 
 dare say the rail will feed us later on. Three lines run- 
 ning from Ganton, look. We're very lucky to run up so 
 close to a terminus. I had a sort of idea it would come 
 in useful when I bought this place. I wish I'd known 
 about that strip of land, though, in time. I wonder whether 
 Mr. Clinton would sell." 
 
 " I should think it's quite possible he "might, at a profit. 
 He has never cared much about town property. I fancy 
 he only bought this to save some of it from being built 
 over. He has a very good house — here. Chequers it's 
 called. It's let now, but the idea is that he'll leave it to 
 one of his sons." 
 
 Armitage Brown laughed. " Bought it to stop its being 
 built over ! " he echoed. " That doesn't look like being 
 up-to-date. However, the bit I should want lies at the 
 other end. We'll see about it when the time comes. Well, 
 then, there's Oidmeadow. That's practically a dairy farm 
 already, I understand. Supplies Ganton, I suppose. What 
 sort of a man is the tenant ? " 
 
182 Rank and Riches 
 
 After some discussion it was accepted that he was the 
 right sort of man on the whole, not likely to be averse to 
 developing his dairying on lines that would be explained 
 to him. or holding his land with some alterations and com- 
 pensations then and there arranged and noted. 
 
 " These are the farms we'll start on," said Armitage 
 Brown, drawing the butt of his pencil round half a dozen 
 holdings, mostly of respectable size, on that part of the 
 map towards the town of Ganton. " They have the most 
 pasturage, and they are nearest to where the factory 
 will be." 
 
 He seemed to Fuller to be going very fast. " Isn't that 
 a big acreage to start with ? " he asked, " with all the 
 alterations to farm buildings that we've discussed, 
 and " 
 
 " I believe in starting things in a big way when you've 
 made sure of your ground, and know exactly what you 
 want to do, and how you are going to do it. It's the only 
 way to make them pay. And I don't call this a big way. 
 It's only because I don't yet know enough about the 
 difficulty or otherwise of making the changes in the farms 
 that I'm taking only these to start with. Here's Points 
 Farm now. Let's go into that, as an instance. How much 
 of this arable land can be profitably laid down in pasture ? 
 When we've settled that we'll talk about whether the 
 present tenant is the right man to take up a new idea. We 
 must treat each holding in the same way, but of course I 
 must go and see all the country for myself before I can 
 get a real hold of the question. One of these farms I 
 shall certainly cut up, so as to give the small men a chance. 
 We shall have to settle which. But take Points Farm 
 first." 
 
 Points Farm was the one about which Grace had 
 specially spoken to Kate and Alfred. Armitage Brown had 
 had the conversation and that of Alfred with Meadshire 
 repeated to him. Did he remember the half-hereditary 
 basis upon which Points was held, or was it just chance 
 that had led him to hit upon it for examination now ? 
 Fuller collected himself to present his report. Out of these 
 half-dozen farms that were to be subject to the experi- 
 ments, Points would be the one upon which the diffi- 
 culties that had so far been ignored would concentrate 
 themselves. 
 
 " Points Farm has been held by the family of Davis 
 
Experiments 183 
 
 from father to son since the year 1746," said Fuller. " I've 
 looked up its history in old estate books and papers. The 
 house, which is called Points Manor, was built for the first 
 Davis who took the farm. It's a fine one, and in the best 
 days of farming they seem to have lived there like gentle- 
 folk. Well, they're that now, though they don't grow rich 
 on it any more, and their way of living isn't much different 
 from that of the other farmers." 
 
 " You're rather putting the cart before the horse," 
 Annitage Erown interrupted him. " I want to know about 
 the proportion of pasture and arable land first." 
 
 " Well, it rather hangs on the history of the tenants. 
 When wheat was at its highest a good deal of pasture 
 was cut up. It seems actually to have been a dairy farm, 
 chiefly, before that, and as you can see by the map it lies 
 in the middle of the largest stretch of grass country that 
 there is on the estate. There's no doubt, leaving the 
 tenants out of account for the moment, that very nearly 
 the whole of Points could be profitably laid- down in pasture 
 again. The land is mostly fiat, and well watered. I'm 
 bound to say that for your scheme Points is the best of 
 the holdings you could take — I mean of the larger ones 
 where a great many changes will have to be made." 
 
 " Well, that's satisfactory. Perhaps it would be a good 
 farm to break up. But let's hear about the tenants first. 
 Why did you say that breaking up the pasture had to do 
 with them particularly ? Wasn't it done all over the place 
 at the time you mention ? " 
 
 " Yes, it was done a great deal. But the Davises did 
 it on a big scale, and grew rich on it. They're not rich 
 any longer, as I say, but they've kept up a tradition about 
 it. There's always been more wheat grown at Points than 
 anywhere else on the property — anywhere else in Mead- 
 shire, I believe. There's a Davis a com factor in Ganton, 
 from the same family — a very old business it is, and used 
 to be a very big one." 
 
 " What's that got to do with the farm ? " 
 
 " Nothing at all. But it's the tradition in the f amity, 
 you see. They've kept it up." 
 
 Annitage Brown considered for a moment, his face 
 showing some vexation. " What age is the present man ? " 
 he asked shortly. " And has he any sons ? " 
 
 " George Davis is getting on for seventy, I should say. 
 Yes, he has sons. The eldest works the farm with him, 
 
184 Rank and Riches 
 
 a< their eldest sods always do. Another's a clergyman. 
 Two more are in business in London." 
 
 " Well, I see what all this comes to," said Armitage 
 Brown after another short pause. " It means that with 
 land that belongs to me, land that I've bought as an 
 investment, and have as much right to use in the way that 
 will bring me in the best return as if it were any other 
 commodity, I'm to be prevented from doing what I please 
 by considerations that wouldn't arise in any other form 
 of property in the world. What tenure have these people 
 held their farm on ? " 
 
 " Always on a yearly tenancy. There has been a pride 
 on both sides that they have never had more hold on it 
 than that." 
 
 " Yes, very creditable, I dare say, when land ownership 
 has been carried on as a sort of game, as it seems to have 
 been here. I'm not going to carry it on in that way, and 
 I don't care if it brings me up against every old-fashioned 
 landowner in the district. How long has Lord Meadshire 
 been going about trying to make mischief amongst the 
 tenants against me ? " 
 
 The sharp questions at the end of speeches of comment 
 were beginning. Fuller roused himself to meet them as 
 they came. 
 
 "I'm afraid he has been making mischief," he said. " I 
 hope you'll believe me when I say that I've been uncom- 
 monly careful not to let out anything that we've been 
 talking about. I've worked at the statistics I've got 
 together for you in my room at the office, and sometimes 
 at home, in my den, at night, and I've always locked the 
 books and papers away, so that nobody should get v, ind 
 of anything." 
 
 " Oh, yes, Fuller, I don't think anything has got about 
 through you. I satisfied myself of that. My boy, Alfred, 
 tackled his lordship yesterday about making mischief, and 
 he couldn't give any grounds for it, except that these 
 notices had been hanging about longer than I intended. 
 I'm going to make experiments because it's what I should 
 do, being what I am ; I'm going to turn out everybody, 
 it seems, and they're all up in arms against me. Is that 
 true ? " 
 
 " Well, there's a good deal of unrest. I've tried to keep 
 it down, but Lord Meadshire lias tried to keep it up. I've 
 no hesitation in saying so, and I've spoken to him about 
 
Experiments 1 8 5 
 
 it, but you might as well speak to a weather-cock. Of 
 course the people like him. They've known him since he 
 was a boy, and he has a pleasant way with him. And 
 they've never suffered from his spending money as he 
 has. The estate has been the one thing he hasn't bled. 
 When his difficulties got too big for him he sold it." 
 
 " Yes, and he sold it to me, and I paid him a higher 
 price than I need have done, because I never bargain 
 beyond a certain point. What right has he, I should like 
 to know, to behave as if he were still master here, after 
 taking my money ? " 
 
 " I shouldn't say he behaved as if he was master. But 
 he's making trouble with the tenants, and if you hadn't 
 heard about it already, I should have told you. I served 
 him loyally when he owned Kemsale, but I'm not going 
 to stand by and see him making mischief when he ought 
 to keep clear of the place altogether." 
 
 " Well, we won't waste time in discussing him. If he 
 goes too far, he'll find that I'm a pretty good fighter, and 
 he may come to feel sorry for interfering. In the mean- 
 time you can tell him this, Fuller. I've every disposition 
 to treat the old tenants on the place well, but I've no 
 intention of binding myself by his rules. If he likes to stir 
 them up against me he'll be doing them the worst disservice. 
 It ought not to be difficult to see that. I shouldn't have 
 any qualms about getting rid of anybody who was really 
 set against me, if it suited me to do so otherwise. If they 
 are well-disposed I should think twice about it. Now as 
 to this man, Davis, at Points. It's a difficult question, 
 and if Lord Meadshire has been interfering there it won't 
 have made it any easier. And yet it's not so difficult if it's 
 looked at squarely. All that you've told me about the 
 family growing wheat as a tradition strikes me as simply 
 childish, and no man in his senses would expect a new 
 owner to consider that for a moment. But I'm ready to 
 consider their long tenancy, and in my view that's a big 
 concession, because Points is the farm that I should prefer 
 to cut up, for one thing, and if I didn't I'd rather have a 
 younger man there, and one who was less likely to be 
 prejudiced against a new departure. I'll stand a certain 
 amount of grumbling and difficulty from this Mr. Davis, 
 but I won't stand more than a certain amount. If he wants 
 to keep on where he and his family have always lived he'll 
 have the chance to do so, and I shan't expect too much 
 
1S6 Rank and Riches 
 
 from an old man. But he'll have to give up his wheat and 
 take to dairying, which, after all, as you've told me, his 
 own forbears used to carry on. That's the long and the 
 short of it. If he likes to do that he'll have all the help 
 we can give him, and he can stay on at Points as long 
 as he lives, and his son can stay on after him. If he's 
 fool enough to stand out against the challenge, he can go. 
 It will be his choice and not mine." 
 
 " That's fair enough," said Fuller. " And if you're 
 ready to make allowances for the old fellow's grumbling 
 a bit at the change, I dare say Points will settle itself 
 quite comfortably. The son is sensible, and well-educated 
 too. He may take to the idea quite kindly. Do you want 
 me to talk to them about it now, and to the other tenants ? 
 We shall have to tackle them all separately." 
 
 " 1 want you to come round with me and introduce me 
 to them. I'll talk to them all myself. We'll go to Points 
 this afternoon." 
 
CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 PERSUASION 
 
 The two men set out early in the afternoon on their tour 
 of inspection. The road to Ganton kept for two or three 
 miles upon the level on which Kemsale was situated, and 
 showed wide views of the country beneath it. Then it 
 wound round in a northward curve, always dropping a 
 little until the hill died away gently down to the wide gap 
 where Ganton was situated, upon the other side of which 
 the hills rose again. Through this gap flowed a respectable 
 river ; broad high roads from the three valleys centred in 
 the town, and along each of the valleys ran a line of rail. 
 
 Several times the car was stopped at a vantage point 
 from which wide stretches of country could be seen, and 
 the owner of a great part of it studied it eagerly, his mind 
 now firmly set upon his scheme, in which his agent was 
 also becoming more and more interested. It was inspiring 
 to go into an affair with such a man as this, for whom 
 difficulties existed only to be overcome, and who impressed 
 one with the conviction that anything he undertook he 
 would carry on to success. It was gratifying too to feel 
 that there was money behind it all, as much money as 
 would be needed to start everything on a handsome scale ; 
 so much of this particular agent's work, as of many others, 
 having been directed towards husbanding money every- 
 where. Armitage Brown had made it quite clear that his 
 way would be not to spare money on the first outlay. 
 The profusion with which it would be supplied was 
 expected, as it seemed, to mark the measure by which it 
 would be returned later on. There was a largeness about 
 his ideas that gave confidence, which was increased by the 
 conviction that he knew very well what he was about, and 
 that his agent need have no fears in suggesting expenditure. 
 
 Where the road began to bend round the spur ol the 
 hill, and the land upon which the experiment was first 
 
 187 
 
188 Rank and Riches 
 
 to be tried came into view, they got out of the car, and 
 stood for some time leaning over a gate by the side of the 
 road. Armitage Brown had never leaned over a gate in 
 bis life before. It was an initiation. 
 
 " I haven't an eye for land," he said—" not yet, though 
 I think I shall get it ; but it docs look to me as if this was 
 a natural grass country. The grass that is there seems to 
 be the right thing, somehow, with all those brooks and 
 willows, and I don't see that any of those big ploughed 
 fields that cut into it have any particular reason to be 
 there." 
 
 " There's a great deal more grassland on the other side 
 of the hill, all round Kencote," said Fuller. " We might 
 go round that way if there's time when we come back ; I 
 should like you to see it. It's just the same sort of country 
 as this, but it hasn't been cut up nearly so much. 
 
 " Kencote ! That's Mr. Clinton's land, isn't it ? Does 
 he go in for dairying ? " 
 
 " No ; more for stock, I think. He has a fine herd of 
 Herefords on his home farm. They've only been going 
 in for them for a few r years, but they've won a lot of prizes. 
 It has been Captain Clinton's hobby, I fancy." 
 
 " Well, that sounds as if they aren't altogether asleep. 
 Are Herefords good milking cattle ? " 
 
 " No ; they're more for fattening." 
 
 " I shall learn all about these things Dy and by. It 
 seems to me there's a great deal to learn, Fuller, and a 
 great deal to interest one. I must get hold of books, and 
 I must talk to people. Well, we had better be getting on." 
 
 He still lingered a moment, leaning over the top bar of 
 the gate. " I shall come and look a,t this again from here, 
 when most of it's laid down in grass," he said as he moved 
 away. 
 
 " There's one thing," said Fuller, as they were getting 
 into the car, " Kcmsale will be popular with the hunting 
 people, if it gives them several more miles of grass instead 
 of plough." 
 
 Armitage Brown settled himself in his seat. " You don't 
 suppose I'm going to have the hunting people galloping 
 about amongst my dairy cows, do you ? " he asked. 
 
 It was a dreadful question. Fuller made no attempt to 
 answer it, but remained very quiet until they came to the 
 proposed site of the factory. 
 
 Later i:i the afternoon they arrived at Points Manor. 
 
Persuasion 189 
 
 It was a sweet mellowed old house, with few signs of the 
 farm about it. It stood near the road ; a gate of wrought 
 iron between high pillars of red brick led through a garden- 
 court to the front porch, and another gate, at the side, to 
 the stable-yard. Beyond that there was a walled kitchen 
 garden, and then an orchard, and the farm buildings were 
 separated from the house by the width of those amenities. 
 It was, as Fuller had indicated, a gentleman's house, but 
 the iron gate was padlocked, and the bricks of the garden 
 paths wanted weeding. They entered by a side door leading 
 into the yard. 
 
 They were shown into a charming faded old-fashioned 
 drawing-room, which looked as if it were little used, and 
 smelt a little damp, the front of the house facing north. 
 Here they were joined by Mrs. Davis, who showed some 
 nervousness on her introduction to her husband's new land- 
 lord. She was a thin elderly lady, with a refined face ; 
 she wore a cap on her grey hair and a collar of old lace 
 over her black gown. She had already sent for her husband 
 and her eldest son, she told them. 
 
 " You have a very nice house here, Mrs. Davis," said 
 Armitage Brown, as she begged them to be seated, and 
 took a chair herself. 
 
 " Yes," she said. " We are the fifth generation of 
 Davises to live in it. We did hope, my husband and I, 
 that we should end our days here." 
 
 " Well, I hope you will, Mrs. Davis ; I hope you will. 
 I have come here to talk over matters with your husband. 
 I've left it a good deal longer than I intended to, but I 
 only came down on Saturday afternoon, so I've lost no 
 time now I am here, you see." 
 
 Fuller thought that his kindly encouraging tone was 
 admirable. No country landholder, born and bred to the 
 game, could have bettered it. He was beginning to think 
 that he need have worried himself much less than he had 
 done about his employer's willingness to take the personal 
 factors of landowning into account. The thought crossed 
 his rnind, as he saw Mrs. Davis's rather melancholy face 
 brighten at this speech, that personal factors existed in 
 every kind of business, and that Armitage Brown would 
 not have had the success that was his unless he had known 
 how to deal with men. He felt some interest in sitting by 
 and seeing how he would deal by himself with the situation 
 here. 
 
190 Rank and Riches 
 
 He seemed, at any rate, to know exactly how to deal with 
 Mrs. Davis, who talked to him quite freely during the ten 
 minutes or so that elapsed before her husband and son 
 came into the room. Nothing more was said about the 
 future, which was somewhat of a triumph in itself ; for it 
 had seemed as if the poor quiet lady had girded herself 
 to talk about nothing else, and to exercise whatever small 
 power she might possess to avert the stroke that was 
 hanging over her home. She could not, perhaps, have been 
 diverted from her intention by an obvious avoidance of 
 the subject ; but she was encouraged to talk about the 
 Davis forbears, and their connection with Points, which 
 had so important a bearing upon the question that she 
 probably never realised that its application was avoided 
 altogether. 
 
 Mr. Davis and his son came in together. They were a 
 striking-looking pair. The old man— very tall and very 
 upright, white-haired, clean-shaven except for a clipped 
 moustache, dressed in well-cut homespun, gaitered— would 
 have been a king of the soil in any new country, where 
 men who work the land own it. This idea came to Armi- 
 tage Brown, who had lately been in Canada as well as the 
 States, as he shook hands with him. And his son, who 
 was past his first youth, was like him, with the same strong 
 well-knit frame, and the same quiet air of dignity. Their 
 greeting was courteous, but unsmiling. It showed watch- 
 fulness, perhaps to the extent of suspicion, if not hostility. 
 
 " I have been telling Mr. Brown all about the long line 
 01 Davises that have lived in this house ever since it was 
 built, and he has very kindly said that we are mistaken in 
 having supposed that it was his wish to bring it to an 
 end." 
 
 It was an attempt, not without pathos in the way in 
 which the statement was delivered, to gain an advantage 
 at the start, or to show that the advantage had already 
 been gained. Fuller, somewhat taken aback by its hardly 
 justified terms, wondered whether they would be corrected. 
 
 But they seemed to be accepted without question. " I 
 should be very sorry to bring such a line to an end," 
 Armitage Brown said at once, " especially now I have 
 seen the promise it shows of going on." He looked to- 
 wards the younger man, who dropped his eyes, and did 
 not smile. The watchfulness was not to be allayed by a 
 graceful word, although if he had known how little graceful 
 
Persuasion 191 
 
 words were in the speaker's way, when he was intent upon 
 negotiations, he might have wondered what this one 
 betokened. 
 
 The old man, slow of speech, and perhaps, in some 
 respects, of understanding, met the advance more readily. 
 "I am very glad to hear that," he said. " It would be 
 a sad thing to be turned out of this, after so many years, 
 and for no fault committed." 
 
 It would not have been easy to embark upon the neces- 
 sary discussion without first destroying the large assump- 
 tions that lay under this simple speech. But Mrs. Davis 
 put in a word. 
 
 " I told Mr. Brown," she said, " how very anxious we 
 have been for the past six months. But he has very kindly 
 explained that he was unable to avoid the delay, and has 
 come to us at the first possible moment to settle every- 
 thing." 
 
 " Yes," said Armitagc Brown, " there is a great deal 
 to be settled when a property as large as this changes 
 hands. A new owner isn't to be expected, naturally, to 
 carry on everything in the same way as the old owners, 
 but that isn't to say that he wants to upset things for 
 the sake of upsetting them. I certainly don't want to do 
 that. I want to carry the people who have been settled 
 on the land here with me, as far as they are ready to go, 
 and that's why I have left the re-arrangements that I am 
 going to make until I could come and talk them over with 
 them myself." 
 
 The old man spoke, after a pause that made speech from 
 the other side necessary. " A great deal has been said 
 lately about experiments on the land that has upset people," 
 he said slowly. " I should be glad to know that there's 
 no fear of that." 
 
 " Who has it been said by, Mr. Davis ? " 
 
 " It has been the general talk all over the estate." 
 
 " But who started it ? I didn't, you know, and I'm the 
 only person who knows what is in my own mind about 
 the estate, unless it is Captain Fuller, and I don't think 
 he started it, did he ? " 
 
 " No ; Captain Fuller has always said that if we would 
 wait till you came back from abroad we should find we 
 had been worrying ourselves about nothing." 
 
 " Well, you haven't chosen to believe him, apparently. 
 And yet he's my agent, and the only man who could speak 
 
192 Rank and Riches 
 
 will i any authority about me. Who have you chosen to 
 believe instead ? " 
 
 " It has been said constantly all over the estate that 
 there would be experiments tried that wouldn't do us any 
 good, and that if we didn't choose to fall in with them, 
 and give up all that our experience has taught us, we should 
 be turned out neck and crop." 
 
 Fuller noticed the flash of annoyance that passed over 
 Armitage Brown's face. John Davis, the younger, pro- 
 bably noticed it too, although it was gone in a moment. 
 He spoke for the first time. " It wouldn't be fair to go by 
 rumour, not based upon anything," he said. "It was his 
 lordship who told us we must look out for trouble." 
 
 Armitage Brown turned to him quickly. " So I under- 
 stand," he said. " And I should like to ask you whether 
 you think it is likely that I should have spoken about my 
 plans to his lordship ?" 
 
 " I don't know that he ever said more than that it was 
 likely to happen, sir." 
 
 " Why should he have said as much as that ? He knows 
 nothing about it. I've never spoken to him. Until 
 yesterday in church I never set eyes on him. The fact is, 
 his lordship has been trying to raise up prejudice against 
 me, and if you talk about fairness, I should like to ask you 
 whether you think that is fair. I've bought Kemsale from 
 him, you know, and paid him a very big price for it. He's 
 had his money, and has got rid of all his responsibilities. 
 I've taken them on. Don't you think he ought to have 
 been careful not to make difficulties for me over them ? " 
 
 " If it's not true that experiments are going to be tried 
 on the land, I don't think he ought to have said so," said 
 John Davis unwillingly. 
 
 But even this admission was too much for his father. 
 " His lordship, you might say, is a friend of ours," he 
 said. " We've lived in the place so long that I think he 
 would let us call him that, and he has always behaved as 
 such. He is very much blamed for what he has done since 
 he succeeded, but whatever he has done it is himself that 
 he has hurt, and not us. It is not for us to blame him. 
 I think we had better leave his name out." 
 
 " Very well, Mr. Davis," said Armitage Brown, and 
 now his tone was harder. " As I understand your attitude, 
 Lord Meadshire is your friend, and I am not to be allowed 
 to complain of his trying to persuade you that I am your 
 
Persuasion 193 
 
 enemy, although I take the trouble to assure you that he 
 knows nothing whatever about me. But it doesn't give us 
 very encouraging ground to stand on as landlord and 
 tenant, does it ? " 
 
 Poor Mrs. Davis did not understand it all very well, but 
 she saw with dismay that the favourable atmosphere she 
 had created seemed to be changing. " I'm sure, if Mr. 
 Brown assures us that Lord Meadshire has been mistaken," 
 she said, " we are ready to accept that, kind as Mr. Brown 
 has shown himself to be." 
 
 " We had better hear what Mr. Brown wants or us, my 
 dear," said her husband, not yielding an inch. 
 
 But his son saw more clearly than he did, and put in 
 his word too. " Mr. Brown can have no objection to our 
 keeping on friendly terms with Lord Meadshire. But he 
 is not our landlord any longer, and we ought not to let 
 what he sa} r s come between us and Mr. Brown." 
 
 "I'm glad you've said that," said Armitage Brown, 
 " for it was beginning to look as if I was going to waste 
 my time talking at all, and I'm not a man who likes to 
 waste time. I said what I did about Lord Meadshire not 
 in the least because I care for what he says about me, but 
 because I wanted you to understand quite plainly that he 
 has done nothing — nothing whatever — to dispose me well 
 towards his old tenants. Whatever he has done has been 
 with the object of setting us against one another. You 
 may reconcile that with his friendship for you just as } r ou 
 please. That's your business. But it is me you have to 
 deal with, and if I am ready to give you as much considera- 
 tion as one man can give to another, as indeed I am " — 
 he was addressing the old man now — " well, it's a matter 
 between me and you, and, as your son says, Lord Mead- 
 shire and his way of doing things don't come into it." 
 
 His direct dominant speech was beginning to tell. The 
 old farmer was influenced little enough by his world-wide 
 reputation as a great figure in finance ; to him he was only 
 a new rich man likely to make great mistakes in the busi- 
 ness of landholding, and a very inferior substitute in every 
 way for those whom he had dispossessed. But he recog- 
 nised unwillingly his quality of mastership, and he had 
 been bred through long generations to accept mastership 
 from the man who held just the one position towards him 
 that this man held, though without loss of dignity on his 
 own part. 
 
 G (8) 
 
194 Rank and Riches 
 
 " It is my duty/' said the old man with grave courtesy, 
 11 and I shall hope to make it my pleasure, to stand well 
 with my landlord, as I have always done. And I thank 
 you, sir, for yonr statement that you wish to stand well 
 with me." 
 
 " I do wish that," said Armitage Brown. " I have come 
 here to you, first, as the oldest tenants on the estate, at 
 the earliest possible moment to tell you so. And also to 
 tell you what my plans with regard to this part of the 
 property are. They are such that I look to you particularly 
 to help me in, and such that I think I can hold out to you 
 the prospect of larger returns than you can have had from 
 your farm for a good many years back." 
 
 " Wheat is not what it was in my father's or my grand- 
 father's time," said the old man, " but it is looking up 
 again, and I think it is likely to look up still further." 
 
 " I don't want you to go on growing wheat. I am going 
 in for dairying on a large scale. I am prepared to spend 
 a large sum of money on it, and I want the men who hold 
 land from me hereabouts to go in for it with me. They 
 will have no initial expenditure of their own, and they will 
 be compensated — those who choose to stay on — for any 
 temporary loss that they may be put to, just as if they 
 had previously held their farms under me, and I were not 
 beginning here entirely afresh. Now I understand very 
 well — I have gone into it thoroughly with Captain Fuller 
 — that to change Points Farm from one where wheat is 
 chiefly grown to a dairy farm goes against the traditions 
 you have carried on for some generations ; but I also 
 understand, Mr. Davis, that before your family took their 
 lead in wheat-growing they were big dairy-farmers, here at 
 Points : so I think that any natural disappointment you 
 may feel at changing your ways to that extent may be 
 fairly balanced by knowing that you are only going back to 
 a still older tradition of your family." 
 
 The old man sighed deeply ; the young one frowned. 
 What was all this but one of the wild ignorant experi- 
 ments that they had been warned against, that they had 
 yet begun to hope would not be tried after all ? 
 
 " I understood you to say, sir, that Lord Meadshire was 
 mistaken in saying that you would want to change every- 
 thing round here," said John Davis. 
 
 " I said that Lord Meadshire knew nothing whatever 
 about what I wanted to do. But what do you call 
 
Persuasion 193 
 
 changing everything round ? How much am I wanting to 
 change, here at Points, and how much am I desirous of 
 leaving as it is ? There are two things, I take it, that count 
 with you. One is staying on in the house that has been 
 yours for nearly two hundred years, the other is carrying on 
 your farming as you've carried it on for about a hundred. 
 Which counts for most ? " 
 
 Again he began with the younger man and ended with 
 the older, and the old man answered him with proud resig- 
 nation. " If I've got to change all my ways, sir, at the 
 end of fifty years of work, and my experience is to go for 
 nothing, I may as well leave the old house at once. I'm 
 too old to begin again." 
 
 " Is wheat the only thing that you have learnt to grow 
 in fifty years, Mr. Davis ? We have just come through 
 3'our land, and I noticed that a good deal of it was pasture, 
 and we stopped for a moment to look at a herd of cows. 
 Do you know nothing about dairying at all ? " 
 
 " Oh, indeed," said Mrs. Davis, " we have been very 
 proud of our dairy. Next to the wheat it has been the 
 chief thing with us. When I was younger and could do 
 more myself, I looked after it entirely, and it is still a 
 model dairy for its size." 
 
 " There you are ! " said Armitage Brown in good- 
 humoured triumph. " I thought I had come to the right 
 place to get advice upon details. Mr. Davis, I expect you 
 know just as much about dairying as about wheat-growing, 
 and I think when I have told you a little more about the 
 scheme I have worked out, you won't, after all, find it 
 such a terrible thing to make one rather than the other your 
 chief interest. I don't want you to give up wheat-growing 
 altogether, you know." 
 
 The old man gathered himself together. " I hope you 
 won't take amiss what I am going to say, sir. I mean 
 no disrespect to you, but you are a man many years younger 
 than I am. As I understand, you have been engaged in 
 business in the City of London all your life, and have 
 grown rich on it. And now you come into the country in 
 middle-life and want to teach their business to men who 
 learnt it long before you were born, and had it in their blood 
 and bones before they were born. I ask you fairly, now, 
 which is likely to know more about farming — you or 
 I?" 
 
 " I'll answer your question, Mr. Davis, and then I'll 
 
 (IS) 
 
Rank and Riches 
 
 DO one. If you were to put me down in the smallest 
 possible farm you could find, I shouldn't begin to know 
 how to work it. Now is that a straight answer to your 
 question ? " 
 
 ' Yes, sir. I think you have answered everything. If 
 you admit that, then you had better let me go on doing 
 the best I can for you, as I did the best I could for those 
 who came before you. For I do know how to work a farm, 
 and so does my son." 
 
 " But wait a minute. I've got a question to ask you first. 
 You said just now that I had been working all my life in 
 the City of London, and had grown rich on it. That's 
 true ; and I began without a penny, and, as you say, I'm 
 not old yet. And how do you suppose I made my money ? 
 I'll answer that question for you myself. No money is 
 made, Mr. Davis, in the City of London, or anywhere else, 
 that does not come, if you trace it back far enough, either 
 from exploiting land or from exploiting labour. A few 
 years ago I made a great deal of money out of rubber. What 
 do I know about rubber-growing ? I have never seen a 
 rubber-tree. But I made it my business, and worked very 
 hard at it, to know exactly what a given rubber plantatior 
 was worth. That's why I not only made money when other 
 p?ople were making it, but went on making it after other 
 people had begun to lose. A month or two ago when I 
 was in America, I heard something about timber in Canada, 
 and I went out to the west of Canada to see for myself. 
 What do I know about timber ? I doubt if I could tell you 
 the names of a dozen English trees if you were to show 
 them to me. But I stand to make a great deal of money 
 out of what I have found out about timber. Have you ever 
 heard about the Wheat-Pit in Chicago, Mr. Davis ? Wheat 
 is your family tradition. Some of your forbears grew rich 
 on growing wheat in the good times. Did any of them 
 ever make three thousand pounds in ten minutes out of 
 g wheat ? Because that's what I did the other da}' 
 in Chicago. I had had a little piece of information given 
 me, and I turned it into money. All the work I did in 
 connection with it didn't take me more than ten minutes, 
 and I ran no greater risk than you would run from a bad 
 harvest — not so much, because as far as I had to know 
 something I knew it exactly. And now I come to my ques- 
 tion. When it's a matter of making money, out of rubber 
 or timber or wheat, or anything else you like to mention, 
 
Persuasion 1 9 7 
 
 which is likely to know most about it— the man who studies 
 their growth, or the man who studies their value ? " 
 
 There was silence. Fuller broke it, speaking for the 
 first time. " I've never heard a subject dealt with in a 
 better way than that," he said. " It's as clear as daylight, 
 Mr. Davis, and if Mr. Brown won't mind my saying so, 
 it's a great compliment on his part to tell us these things. 
 What he has told us is exactly how he has made his great 
 fortune. It's by taking a lot of pains to find out where 
 opportunities lie, and then taking them. Well, he's found 
 an opportunity here, and I can tell you this, that he's 
 already taken such a lot of pains about it, that there's no 
 room for mistake. And what he's offering you is to go in 
 with him, and to go on living here at Points into the bar- 
 gain. I should take the chance if I were you. There 
 aren't many who wouldn't be glad of it." 
 
 The old man still looked troubled, and the old lady 
 bewildered, but the young man, who had listened with in- 
 creasing interest, now spoke, in a more alert voice than 
 he had used before. " If Mr. Brown has a well-worked- 
 out scheme by which money can be made out of dairying 
 — I suppose it would be on a large scale from the way he 
 has spoken — and we are invited to come into it, then I 
 for my part do take it as a compliment that he has come 
 to us in the spirit that he has. For I suppose, as far as 
 he is concerned, he would just as soon have new people 
 here to work with him as not." 
 
 Armitage Brown turned round to him sharply. "Ah, 
 now you see it," he said. " Well, you may judge how 
 much of a compliment I have paid you, when I tell you that 
 I've never in my life taken as much trouble to interest any- 
 body in anything I've taken in hand. It's a great many 
 years since I've taken that sort of trouble at all. I've had 
 to keep off the people who wanted to come in with me 
 instead of persuading them. " I've taken trouble with you 
 — and now he had turned to the old man once more — 
 " because I don't want you to leave this house, where you 
 have been so long. It's not a matter of business at all ; 
 it's a matter of sentiment. If it were a matter of business 
 I would start everything afresh, as your son quite rightly 
 judges. I should make a great deal more money for 
 myself if I took over all the farms I want to bring into 
 the scheme, and put in men to work them under a manager. 
 But I don't look for more than a fair return on my capital 
 
198 Rank and Riches 
 
 out of this particular scheme. I want others to benefit by 
 it — the people on the land, and the more of them the better. 
 They will use their knowledge, and I shall use mine ; we 
 shall work in together. Now, Mr. Davis, I've put it fairly 
 before you ; it's for you to choose. Are you going in with 
 me ? " 
 
 The old man hesitated for a moment, and then said 
 quietly : " I'm ready, sir, to hear about the scheme you have 
 spoken of." 
 
 
CHAPTER XIX 
 
 KEMSALE RECTORY 
 
 All sailors are said to love a horse. Frank Clinton, who 
 had been brought up to look upon horses as affording the 
 chief pleasures open to mankind, was no exception. When 
 his periods of leave had coincided with the hunting season, 
 he had reckoned it an unsatisfactory week in which at 
 least five days had not been spent in the saddle ; and even 
 in this hot premature summer he found some excuse nearly 
 every day for betaking himself somewhere on horseback. 
 He had learned lately that a shipmate, also on leave, was 
 to be found at Kemsale Rectory, and set out one morning 
 to visit him there. 
 
 It was a ten-mile ride, and he enjoyed every moment 
 of it. He was a young man cut out for the enjoyment 
 of the moment. Whatever he had to do he did as well 
 as he could and interested himself in it ; he was a capable 
 and throughly reliable officer, though not a brilliant one. 
 His days were contented, wherever he spent them, because 
 he was not always looking forward to better ones. So 
 when the better days came he was more than contented ; 
 they were not spoilt by regret, nor by the hampering sense 
 of their coming to an end. He had no debts, no personal 
 worries, no ambition except to rise steadily in the service, 
 which he was doing, and no keen desires unlikely to be 
 fulfilled. As he trotted along the country roads and lanes 
 and occasionally cantered upon grass, whistling to himself, 
 and cracking the long lash of his hunting crop at the 
 dogs that accompanied him, he was the entirely free and 
 happy man. 
 
 He stayed to luncheon, or rather early dinner, at Kemsale 
 Rectory, and was treated as an honoured guest. Charles 
 Sheard, who had lately served on the same ship as him- 
 self in the Pacific Station and come home at the same 
 time, was a junior lieutenant, while he was a senior one, 
 
 *99 (22) 
 
200 Rank and Riches 
 
 and the visitors of Frank Clinton's particular quality were 
 a new experience in this family. 
 
 " It may also be said that this family was a new experi- 
 ence to Frank Clinton. Those who belong of old-estab- 
 lished right to the world of big country houses are liable 
 to gaps in their social knowledge. They are familiar with 
 the lives of the poor, but not with the lives of those who 
 come between the labouring and the professional classes. 
 Rectories and vicarages they know, where there is apt to 
 be genteel poverty ; but the rectories and vicarages of South 
 Meadshire were filled for the most part with families whose 
 ways differed little, except sometimes in respect of money 
 at command, from those of the country-house families. 
 The Sheards came from different surroundings altogether. 
 Neither Mr. Sheard nor his wife were by birth what the 
 Clintons of the world would have called gentlefolk ; Mr. 
 Sheard's profession had raised him a social step, although 
 that had been very far from his object in embracing it, 
 and the step had not been marked in the place in which 
 his clerical life had hitherto been spent, except by the 
 success of his sons, who had also entered the professional 
 classes one after the other. The good man wanted this 
 kind of success for his children, made sacrifices for it, and 
 was proud of it when it came. For himself he wanted 
 nothing of it, and, other things being equal, would have 
 pre 1 vrred to do the work on which his mind was set amongst 
 the people from whom he had sprung. It was a calm 
 joy to him to be put into possession of this large house 
 and its beautiful surroundings, and the comfortable income 
 of which he would never waste a penny. But he had 
 no idea of presenting himself before the world as anything 
 other than what he was. The large house made no demands 
 upon him to live up to its standard ; it was made to adapt 
 itself to his. His parish was his sole social unit ; no 
 concessions were made to outside claims. He had not 
 considered it necessary to have anything, however modest, 
 in the elaborate stables, " to get about in " ; he did not 
 wish to get about. He did not claim an equality with 
 neighbouring squires, or socially even with neighbouring 
 parsons ; their ways were not altogether his ways, and his 
 ways were sufficient for him. It followed, therefore, that 
 he was invulnerable to the snobbery that attaches itself to 
 so many country parsonages. The kind of criticism that is 
 brought to bear upon a man born below a certain stratum, 
 
Keinsale Rectory 201 
 
 and lacking the conventional education that may hide it, 
 did not touch him, because he accepted those facts about 
 himself and was not ashamed of them. His manhood was 
 revealed ; it was his only standing-ground — that and his 
 religion. 
 
 Charles Sheard was in the garden when Frank rode up. 
 His sister was with him, but she disappeared before Frank 
 dismounted, being at the age of sudden disappearance 
 before the unfamiliar. Charles Sheard was the typical 
 sailor, short and stubby like his father, with a pleasant 
 open face — more typical than Frank, who was tall and 
 fair, and except that he was clean-shaven, wore an air 
 more military than naval, especially in his smart riding- 
 clothes. They went round to the empty stables together, 
 but when Charles Sheard insisted that Frank should stay 
 to lunch, they went down to the village inn, so that the 
 horse could also have refreshment, of which the rectory 
 stables were now denuded. Frank had intended to go on 
 to the Herons' Nest for lunch, but he had caught sight 
 of Charles's sister, before her disappearance, and had the 
 sailor's interest in a pretty girl. Anne was pretty enough 
 to make him quite willing to change his plan. 
 
 " I haven't been to this house since I was a boy," said 
 Frank, as they walked up the rectory drive again. " A 
 sort of cousin of mine was rector here then, but he died 
 when I was on the Britannia." 
 
 " I expect you'll find it a good deal altered," said Charles. 
 " We lived in a very small house before we came here, 
 and our gear doesn't make much of a show. I'll just 
 take you to see my father, and then we might go out in 
 the garden till dinner's ready." 
 
 The square hall, which in Compton's time had been 
 furnished luxuriously as an extra sitting-room, was almost 
 entirely bare. There was a square of oilcloth in the middle 
 of it, and a stand for coats, hats, and umbrellas against 
 one of the walls, and that was all, except a large almanac 
 pinned to another wall. The door leading into what had 
 been Compton's large book-room was open, and revealed 
 a still more complete desolation, for the shelves that sur- 
 rounded it were all empty, and it contained nothing but 
 some packing-cases and a few odds and ends of furnishings 
 that had not yet found their place. 
 
 " This is a jolly room," said Charles, pausing at the 
 door. "It will be the drawing-room some day, but it 
 
202 Rank and Riches 
 
 would have to be repapered and the shelves taken down ; 
 and there isn't enough furniture for it at present." 
 
 " Yes, it's a hue room," said Frank, somewhat taken 
 aback by the poverty that his friend accepted as so natural 
 a state of things. He followed him down a passage and 
 into a small room looking out on to the garden, in which 
 Mr. Sheard sat at his desk, surrounded conveniently enough 
 if somewhat austerely, by the books and other accessories 
 of his calling. A large picture of a four-masted ship with 
 all her sails set formed a somewhat incongruous ornament 
 above the mantelpiece, and Mr. Sheard referred to it after 
 the introduction had been made. 
 
 "I see you're looking at the old Orion, Mr. Clinton," 
 he said. I made just twenty voyages in her, out by the 
 Cape to Australia and back round Cape Horn. She was 
 one of the fastest wool clippers afloat ; we only missed doing 
 the record passage home by fourteen hours. I like to 
 think sometimes that I was a sailor once ; a real sailor, 
 you know. I was never in steam during all the thirty-two 
 years I followed the sea." 
 
 " I suppose no seaman could say that now, could he ? " 
 
 " Very'few, I should think. When I first went to sea, 
 a great many battleships only had auxiliary screws, and 
 I rather think there were some of the old wooden ships 
 still on duty here and there without any steam at all." 
 
 " They don't make sailors of us now," said Frank ; 
 " we're all mechanics." He was inclined to like this 
 rather unusual kind of rector, with his simple speech and 
 his years of hard seafaring life behind him. "I'd like to 
 hear about some of your voyages, Mr. Sheard," he said. 
 " You get a bit of a draught round the Horn sometimes, 
 don't you ? " 
 
 " If you start father on that subject he'll never have 
 done," said Charles. 
 
 " But we'll have some yarns, all the same, later on," 
 said Mr. Sheard. " You're going to keep Mr. Clinton to 
 dinner, aren't you, Charles ? If you take him into the 
 garden now, I'll come out to you when I've finished what 
 I have to do. I shan't be long." 
 
 Neither of them was interested enough in a garden to 
 care to inspect this one. They sat under a tree and smoked. 
 Each of them was readjusting his view of the other. They 
 had hitherto been equals, except for Frank's seniority, 
 living the same life and interested in the same pursuits. 
 
Kemsale Rectory 203 
 
 Charles had known that Frank, who had a larger allow- 
 ance than most of his shipmates, came from a big country 
 house somewhere ; Frank had known that Charles was 
 the son of a clergyman. Photographs and cabin adorn- 
 ments indicate these things, as well as talk about sport 
 and other things ashore. But it made no difference. 
 Now the difference of origin seemed very marked, and 
 perhaps both of them were looking for signs that it was 
 noted in the other. It could not help being noted, and 
 there was a slight awkwardness between them during 
 the twenty minutes or so during which they were alone 
 together. But at the end of that time each liked the 
 other better than he had done before. There was a broad 
 simplicity of mind in both of them that based itself upon 
 essentials, but shirked nothing. Their previous intimacy, 
 which had been fed by their long and close proximity in 
 a life in which their interests were the same, stood the test 
 where the influences that affected them were widely 
 different. The accidents of environment were seen to be 
 nothing ; the friendship dug deeper than the accidents. 
 
 William, the youngest son, came out to them. He was 
 something like Charles in appearance, already settling to 
 the stocky Sheard breed, although he was not quite 
 eighteen years of age. He was something of a problem in 
 the family. He had been educated at the big London school 
 at which his two elder brothers had done so well, taking 
 it as a spring board from which to get the scholarships 
 and prizes that had made their after education possible 
 to them. But William was not a winner of prizes and 
 scholarships, though he had worked steadily up to his full 
 ability. He was great at games, and a personage in the 
 little world of his school ; but that kind of eminence, while 
 it may earn results at a later educational stage, has to be 
 supported at his age, and the support was not available 
 here. He would have been allowed to stay at school for 
 another year if his father had not moved away from Lon- 
 don, but there was not enough money to keep him there as 
 a boarder, unless it had been worth while for the sake of 
 rewards that would carry him on a stage further. He was 
 at present " resting " at home, until a career should be 
 decided for him, and enormously enjoying the change to 
 a country life. 
 
 He was shy and awkward, and badly dressed, in a much- 
 worn black jacket, trousers too short for him and bagging 
 
Rank and Riches 
 
 at the knees, and his school cap on the back of his head ; 
 just the figure that might test Frank Clinton's ability to 
 pierce beneath the surface ; for his own brothers as school- 
 o! mature age, two at Eton and one at Winchester, 
 had presented a very different appearance, and acquired 
 a very different manner. He passed the test. Young 
 William found no difficulty in talking to him — village 
 cricket was the subject for the moment — and as he fol- 
 lowed him indoors later threw a look almost of hero- 
 worship at him, so easy is it for an older man by a little 
 kindness and attention to arouse the admiration of youth. 
 
 Mrs. Sheard and Anne were in the dining-room, to 
 which the furniture that had been transferred from the 
 thirteen-by-twelve apartment at Melbury Park gave the 
 appearance of a large stage inadequately set. Mrs. Sheard 
 still bore the appearance of a sea-captain's wife ; Anne 
 was much prettier than Frank had taken her to be on 
 his first glimpse of her. She was as tall as her brothers 
 and her father, which with her youthful slimness gave her 
 the appearance of height in which they were conspicuously 
 lacking. Her face was demure and merry at the same 
 time ; her eyes were on the look-out for laughter, and her 
 lips ready to follow suit upon the slightest provocation ; 
 but she could look very grave. There was something 
 kittenish about her soft roundness, but she had the natural 
 grace of her growth besides. A severe critic might have 
 denied to her beauty of a high type, but must have been 
 visited by grave doubts as he did so, wondering whether, 
 after all, so sweet a face could have been improved upon 
 by features or profile. 
 
 The maid, who with a man for the garden and for odd 
 jobs took the place of Comp ton's indoor and outdoor 
 staff of nine, brought in an Irish stew, and after it an apple 
 tart. There was beer to drink for the men, and at dessert, 
 which included one or two rare edibles from distant 
 climes, Mr. Sheard brought out some very ancient rum. 
 There were flowers on the table, massed chiefly in a heavy 
 piece of presentation plate in the centre. The slight air 
 of festivity afforded by these arrangements was no doubt 
 due to Frank's appearance as a guest. There was a little 
 ice to be broken at first with Mrs. Sheard, but it soon 
 thawed under his natural geniality, and he had her laugh- 
 ing and enjoying herself long before the remains of the 
 Irish stew were exchanged for the apple tart. Her pretty 
 
Kemsaie Rectory 205 
 
 daughter had inherited her dimpled merriment from her, 
 and it was a relief to the good lady to give vent to it in 
 these broader surroundings, for of late years she had had to 
 play a part to which she was not altogether suited. 
 
 Anne was, of course, brought into the conversation. 
 Frank turned to her more than was absolutely necessary 
 for the sake of seeing her pretty face break into smiles, 
 her lips part, and the white teeth show themselves, while 
 the sweet little trill of laughter came, with the head slightly 
 thrown back, and the dimples showed themselves on 
 rounded chin and cheek in the most entrancing fashion. 
 If Frank exerted himself to produce these attractive ex- 
 hibitions, and took more and more pleasure in them each 
 time, he was not only gratifying himself, as it appeared. 
 There was an admiring tenderness shown towards this 
 pretty child by her father and mother and brothers alike. 
 She was the flower of the family, greatly loved and 
 cherished. Her father's rugged face grew wonderfully soft 
 when he looked at her ; she was sitting next to him, and 
 once or twice he put his hand out on to hers as it rested 
 on the table. Her mother once rebuked her for talking too 
 much, but the last thing that her tone and her smile de- 
 manded was that her rebuke should be acted upon. Charles 
 encouraged her by an occasional dry word of chaff. Wil- 
 liam was the only one who looked at Frank more than he 
 looked at her, and Frank's undisguised admiration of her 
 seemed to gratify him exceedingly, so that when he 
 did look at Anne it was with new admiration of his own. 
 
 The talk that brought them all in in this happy way was 
 founded upon the experiences of distant seas and countries 
 that the three men had enjoyed, and that had always 
 held open for this family a window towards a larger brighter 
 world than the one they inhabited. When it drifted nearer 
 home, Anne took little part in it, but her eyes were upon 
 Frank almost as much as William's, who sat next to her. 
 
 William was in the seventh heaven of delight. There 
 had been mention of a trout-fishing expedition that Frank 
 and Charles had made in New Zealand. Frank had asked 
 Charles to come over for a day's fishing at Kencote, and had 
 extended the invitation to William. The happy boy, cut 
 out by nature for every country pursuit, but condemned 
 hitherto to the uncongenial restraints of the town, saw a 
 glamourous new life opening up before him, and his feelings 
 towards Frank had flowered into something like adoration 
 
200 Rank and Riches 
 
 already. " Oh, we'll put yon into the way of it," Frank 
 said, " and there are plenty of rods at Kencote. Plenty of 
 i d -lit, too, though they're not the monsters that Charles and 
 I caught in New Zealand. Who fishes here, by the by ? 
 There's some good water at Kemsale." 
 
 " I don't believe anybody does," said Charles. " Wil- 
 liam and I were looking at the fish the other day. We'd 
 half made up our minds to ask Mr. Brown if we might have 
 a try some evening." 
 
 "I don't know about that," said his father. " Mr. 
 Brown is so kind that I shouldn't care to ask him for any- 
 thing that he didn't offer himself." 
 
 The attribution of this particular quality to the arch- 
 millionaire, of whom he had formed quite a different idea, 
 was a surprise to Frank. " Is he behaving well — Armitage 
 Brown ? " he asked. " There are all sorts of stories flying 
 about the country." 
 
 " He has shown the utmost kindness to us," said Mr. 
 Sheard gravely. " The difficulty has been to prevent him 
 doing more than a man of independence wants another man 
 to do for him." 
 
 " I'm glad to hear he is like that," said Frank. " Kem- 
 sale coming into new hands is a great change for us in these 
 parts." 
 
 " Kemsale is a very fine house," said Mrs. Sheard. " We 
 all stayed there for a week while we were moving in, except 
 Charles, who was with his godfather." 
 
 The good lady had been enormously impressed by Kem- 
 sale, which was quite different from anything she had ever 
 known before, or dreamt of as likely to come into her 
 experience. She had not been altogether comfortable there, 
 although Mrs. Brown and Ai#nt Millie had taken to her, 
 and done their best to make her so. It had been too great a 
 change. But she liked to think about it all, and had written 
 many letters to relations and intimate friends on the 
 subject. 
 
 " It's the largest house in these parts," said Frank. " It 
 was quite a shock to me when they wrote and told me it 
 had been sold." 
 
 " I suppose you knew it, Mr. Clinton, when Lord Mead- 
 shire lived there." 
 
 "Oh, yes. He's my cousin, j'ou know. I knew it best 
 when I was a boy, and his grandfather was alive. He was 
 a dear old boy, and was always getting us over here and 
 
Kemsaie Rectory 207 
 
 doing things for us. He- was the great man in these parts 
 too, and one would never have thought it possible that Kem- 
 saie should ever come to an end as it did. I couldn't 
 believe it when I heard it." 
 
 This was an entirely new point of view, except possibly 
 to Mr. Sheard, who had been diligently going about his 
 parish. Mrs. Sheard, certainly, had never thought of Kem- 
 saie as having come to an end, in any way. To her it was 
 in the full flood of its opulent progression, and she couldn't 
 imagine anything more splendid than the figure it cut. 
 " It's a very beautiful house," she said again, rather weakly. 
 
 " I suppose you know my cousin Grace," said Frank to 
 Anne. " She is a dear thing. She and I were born on the 
 same day." 
 
 " She has been to see mother, but I wasn't here," said 
 Anne. " I have only seen her in church, but I thought she 
 looked very sweet. And she was very kind when she came, 
 wasn't she, mother ? " 
 
 Cs Yes, she was," said Mrs. Sheard. " She made us wel- 
 some to Kemsaie. Everybody has done that. Everybody 
 has been very kind." 
 
 " Do she and Meadshire get on with the new people ? " 
 asked Frank. 
 
 " Katie Brown and Mr. Alfred — that's Mr. Brown's son 
 — know Lady Grace, and they like her tremendously," said 
 Anne. 
 
 " I think the two houses have not come together yet," 
 said Mr. Sheard. " lhere are certain things upon which 
 there has been disagreement ; but whatever feeling there 
 may be, I am sure that it will die down very soon. Lady 
 Grace is so gentle and so kind, and our friends at the big 
 house are so anxious to treat everybody in the place well, 
 that they really want the same things, and can't keep 
 apart for long. We shall see them good friends, no doubt, 
 very soon, and as Anne says, the young people up at the big 
 house have already a great admiration for Lady Grace." 
 
 " Grace isn't capable of bearing enmity to anybody," 
 said Frank. " If there is any, it must be Meadshire who 
 is keeping it up. But he never keeps up anything for long. 
 Tell me what the young Browns are like. Are they both 
 here now ? " 
 
 He had turned to Anne again. It seemed rather im- 
 portant to know on what terms she stood with the young 
 Browns — or at least with one of them. 
 
208 Rank and Riches 
 
 ( h # they're very nice," she said, " and very lively. 
 We had great fun when we were staying there, and we 
 i ih n go tfp now to play games with them." 
 
 " Yes, they're a godsend," said Charles. " Father, I really 
 don't think there would be any harm in asking Alfred 
 about the fishing. I expect he would like to fish himself, 
 if it were suggested to him." 
 
 " He loves the country, and doing everything that people 
 do who live in it," said Anne. " And so do we. I adore 
 everything to do with the country." 
 
 As Frank rode on to the Herons' Nest later in the after- 
 noon he found himself wondering how far the intimacy 
 between Alfred Brown and the young people at the rectory 
 had extended. He had not been able, in subsequent con- 
 versation with Charles, to gather whether Alfred showed 
 himself at all enamoured of Anne, as might possibly have 
 been expected of him under the circumstances. He could 
 have seen few prettier girls anywhere, and whether ena- 
 moured or not he was undoubtedly on terms of bright 
 companionship with her as well as with her brothers. 
 And she liked him ; she had said as much herself, with a 
 smile of reminiscence at the " fun " they had all had 
 together that had struck Frank as possibly significant. 
 Alfred Brown seemed to be a nice sort of fellow, by all 
 accounts ; there was no sense in denying that ; and the 
 enormous wealth at his back was certainly no drawback to 
 him, even if these honest simple Sheards were as little 
 affected by wealth as people in their position very well 
 could be. Frank came to the conclusion, as he rode up the 
 steep road to the Herons' Nest, that it was no business of 
 his, but that it would be rather a pity if Alfred Brown 
 fell in love with Anne Sheard and she with him. But he 
 had no time to explain to himself why it seemed to him 
 that it would be rather a pity. 
 
CHAPTER XX 
 
 THE HERONS' NEST 
 
 Grace was at home, and she was alone. She gave Frank 
 the warmest greeting. The terms they were on were more 
 those of brother and sister than is usual between cousins 
 of different sexes. Their cousin ship only derived from 
 Grace's great-grandfather having married a Clinton from 
 Kencote ; but the proximity of the two houses, and other 
 accidents, had kept the families intimately connected 
 through three generations, and the relationship was closer 
 than it had ever been. 
 
 " I am so glad you have come over Frank," Grace said. 
 " I hardly saw anything of you the other day at Kencote, 
 and I want to show you our new house. But why didn't 
 you come to lunch ? Kem has gone off somewhere, and I 
 have been by myself all day." 
 
 Frank told her where he had lunched, and why. 
 
 " I had no idea Mr. Sheard had a son in the Navy," she 
 said in some surprise. 
 
 " Charles Sheard told me that his godfather had seen 
 him through. They're awfully nice people, Grace." 
 
 " I like Mr. Sheard," she said. " I am sure he is a 
 good man. But Kem is furious with James Compton for 
 putting him in here." 
 
 " Why ? " 
 
 " Well, he did everything in such an extraordinary way. 
 He would hardly speak to Kem after the sale was decided 
 upon. I absolutely refused to quarrel with him myself, 
 but he never came near us here, and if I hadn't gone down 
 to the rectory when I heard he was going, he wouldn't even 
 have said good-bye. He didn't say good-bye to Kem." 
 
 " But why is Kem annoyed with him for putting Sheard 
 in ? " 
 
 " He thinks he did it out of spite. I don't think that 
 myself, but I think he did go out of his way to fine' a 
 
 209 
 
1210 Rank and Riches 
 
 man as unlike himself as possible. I suppose he wanted to 
 us what we had brought upon ourselves." 
 
 She laughed, but Frank took the information seriously. 
 " Well, I don't want to say anything against a relation of 
 yours," he said, " and I hardly knew Compton ; but I'd 
 a great deal rather have the Sheards here than I'd have 
 him." 
 
 " I think they will do very well," she said. " Now I 
 must show you all over the house and the garden." 
 
 It was as charming a house as anybody could have wished 
 to live in. It was built upon two floors only, and covered 
 a lot of ground. There were spacious rooms in it, as well 
 as a great many of moderate size, and the beautiful things 
 that had been brought from Kemsale to furnish it had been 
 arranged to such an effect as to give it an air more settled 
 than the newness of the greater part of it would have 
 seemed to allow. Kemsale had contained such abundant 
 riches that nothing had come out of it that was not good 
 to see in these new surroundings. The things that Grace 
 had not been able to buy back were not intrinsically better 
 than those she and her brother had kept. If she still 
 missed them she said nothing about it to Frank, who told 
 her that he knew little about these things, but to him the 
 Herons' Nest seemed more beautifully furnished than Kem- 
 sale had been. 
 
 " There is nothing of very great value here, as there 
 was at Kemsale," she said, " but we picked out what we 
 liked best, and of course it is more concentrated. I am 
 so glad you like it, Frank ; I think we have made a success 
 of it. Kem has been very interested. He says he wishes 
 he had let Kemsale and come to live here when he first 
 succeeded. He likes it ever so much better." 
 
 " How is Kem in these days ? " asked Frank. 
 
 The way in which he put his question made it plain 
 to what he referred. He could talk to Grace about it ; they 
 had talked together about it before. 
 
 " Oh, he has been quite all right since we came here, 
 more than six months ago now," she said eagerly. "lam 
 so deeply thankful, Frank. Dear Kem ! He has had 
 such a lot to fight against, and he is so kind and good 
 when he is entirely himself. I would never have thought 
 that he would have been happy and contented living quietly 
 here with me for as long as he has. Do you know that he 
 has only slept out of the house once since we came ? He 
 
\ The Herons' Nest 211 
 
 Y/ent up to London just after Christmas, and I was so 
 afraid of what might happen. But he came back the next 
 day, and he said he liked being here better than anywhere. 
 I could have cried for joy. And every month that passes 
 makes me hope still more that he is getting over his temp- 
 tations at last. Poor Kem ! " 
 
 " That's very good hearing, Grace. What does he do 
 with himself ? " 
 
 " Ke is immensely interested in making the garden. I 
 should never have thought he would have taken to that, 
 but he works at it with his own hands. And he is out in 
 his car a great deal. He reads too, which he never did 
 before. He seems to enjoy the quietest sort of life. He 
 doesn't even want to have people stay here. And he looks 
 ever so much better. Now you must come and see the 
 garden, Frank." 
 
 The house was built on a plateau, part natural, part 
 excavated from the rock. It faced west, but its chief living- 
 rooms w r ere at the back, and opened on to a broad terrace 
 which hung over the gorge. It provided a view of the 
 chief fall of water, as well as a glimpse of the blue country 
 to the south through the gap. It was a surprising scene 
 to come upon in this country. Nothing could be seen close 
 at hand from the terrace but rocks and pines, and the 
 miniature mountain torrent. It was difficult to imagine 
 one's self in the heart of such a county as Meadshire. 
 
 Frank exclaimed in admiration. " I didn't remember 
 that it was half as jolly as this," he said. " You might 
 be in the Rockies. But where's the garden, Grace ? " 
 - " Look over," she said. 
 
 The greater part of the terrace was cut out of the living 
 rock. It was bounded by a rough stone wall, and beneath 
 this wall paths and steps had been cut out of the rock, 
 running here and there along its face and leading down 
 to the water at the bottom of the gorge. Here was a natural 
 rock-garden, already gay with drifts and patches of colour. 
 
 " You must remember that it has only just been planted," 
 she said. " Next year the things will have spread tre- 
 mendously, and it will be a lovely sight. I don't think 
 there will be many rock-gardens in England to beat it ; it 
 is all so natural, and we can go on with it to any extent. 
 Now you must come and look at the flowers. We have all 
 sorts of rarities, and are both getting very learned upon 
 how to grow them." 
 
212 Rank and Riches 
 
 Frank showed as much interest in the flowers as his state 
 of ignorance upon such matters allowed, and they went up 
 and down the rocky paths and stairs, and then to the upper 
 parts of the gorge, where the more ordinary parts of the 
 garden lay, or were in the making. " I believe I should 
 take to this game myself if I ever settled down ashore," 
 was Frank's gratifying comment on what he had been 
 shown, when the inspection was over and they returned to 
 seats on the terrace. " I think you've done it awfully 
 well. On the whole I should say it was more fun living 
 here than at Kemsale." 
 
 Grace sighed. " I shouldn't feel leaving Kemsale a bit, 
 if the Herons' Nest had been in quite a different part of 
 the country," she said. 
 
 "I'm glad it isn't for our sake. But of course it must 
 be a bore having those new rich people there, and not being 
 able to get away from them. What are they really like, 
 Grace ? The Sheards can't speak too highly of them." 
 
 She did not answer immediately, and then she said, with a 
 shade of unwillingness : " I think Mr. Sheard is a good 
 honest hard-working man, and will do well as Rector of 
 Kemsale ; but being what they are they are likely to be 
 over-impressed by people like the Browns, who are enor- 
 mously rich and rather ostentatious ; and it is perhaps 
 natural that they should wish to keep in well with them." 
 
 Frank looked at her in surprise. " My dear girl," he 
 said, " that's the first time I have ever heard you say any- 
 thing uncharitable about an3^body. They speak in a very 
 different way about you." 
 
 She blushed and looked deeply distressed. " Oh, I 
 lon't want to be uncharitable," she said, " but one can't 
 help feeling a little sore about certain things. I don't 
 really know them. I have met the son and daughter, and 
 I think they are nice ; but " 
 
 " Oh, I don't mean the Browns ; I mean the Sheards. 
 You have quite misunderstood them, Grace. I don't believe 
 they'd go an inch out of their way to keep in with rich 
 people, as you say. I should think Sheard was quite as 
 independent as Compton, and with very much less to sup- 
 port his independence on." 
 
 " Well, I don't want to be uncharitable towards the 
 Sheards cither, dear Frank. I don't think I am. But one 
 must look facts in the face. I did find Mrs. Sheard very 
 much inclined to talk about the Browns and their grandeur. 
 
The Herons' Nest 213 
 
 Of her class she is a thoroughly nice woman, I am sure, ana 
 it is because of her class that one needn't think much of 
 her talking in a way that would mean something quite 
 different if she were of ours." 
 
 It was unpleasant to Frank to have Mrs. Sheard's class 
 thus assigned to her ; it reflected on the delightful Anne, 
 who would have adorned any class. Nevertheless, Grace's 
 logic was unassailable. Mrs. Sheard's innocent wonder- 
 ment at the revelations of wealth that had been made to 
 her was only innocuous if she placed herself quite below 
 the level on which admiration of wealth would be an ugiv 
 quality to display. And if she did so place herself, as 
 undoubtedly she did, there could be no offence in accepting 
 her own view of herself. 
 
 " I'm quite sure you're wrong in thinking that Mrs. 
 Sheard, or any of them, would run after people because 
 they are rich," Frank said. " They are very simple people 
 in their ways, of course ; they can't ever have had much 
 money, and they are not ashamed of it. I admire them 
 for the way they've settled down here exactly as it suits 
 them to live. As for these rich Browns, they seem to have 
 behaved very well to them, putting them up while they 
 were moving, and wanted to do more for them than they 
 would accept. Charles, my friend, told me that. They're 
 very careful about keeping their independence." 
 
 " Well, then, I think I must have been mistaken about 
 them, Frank, and I'm sorry I said what I did. They have 
 a very pretty daughter. Did you see her ? " 
 
 " Yes, she was there. I think she's one of the prettiest 
 girls I have ever seen. And she admires you tremendously, 
 Grace. She has seen you in church." 
 
 " I must go and see them again and make friends with 
 her. I love young things, and I'm glad there's a family at 
 the rectory. I did like Mrs. Sheard. I don't think I 
 should have thought anything of her speaking in the way 
 she did about the Browns if I hadn't wanted not to hear 
 about them at all. But I'm beginning to think that one 
 won't be able to keep away from them, and one might as 
 well make up one's mind to make the best of them." 
 
 " You've met the son and daughter, haven't you ? You 
 ^eem to have made as deep an impression upon them as you 
 have on little Miss Sheard. She told me so. They had told 
 her. It's no use your trying to stand out against people, 
 Grace. They won't let you." 
 
214 Rank and Riches 
 
 " It is very nice to be liked," she said with a smile. 
 " I'm afraid I didn't take much pains to make young Mr. 
 Brown and his sister like me. I was rather struck with 
 both of them, really. The girl is a happy warm-hearted 
 little thing, and the young man is straightforward and 
 amiable. No ; I should be quite ready to make friends 
 with them. I don't think it would be so easy with the 
 father and mother, and Kem is so up in arms against them 
 about everything, that I think he would throw me over if 
 I were to try to." 
 
 At this point Meadshire himself arrived upon the scene. 
 His welcome of Frank was almost vociferous. He seemed 
 full of life and energy. The unpleasant appearance of 
 over-indulgence had departed from his face ; his eye was 
 clear, and his skin only red from the sun. 
 
 " Well, what do you think of the rock-garden, Frank ? ° 
 he asked at once. " You've never seen anything like it 
 before, I know. It was Grace's idea to begin with, but 
 I've carried most of it out. Now we're beginning to get 
 our reward. I tell you, I wouldn't be away from it in the 
 spring, for long, for any fun you could offer me. I've be- 
 come a country potterer, my boy. I go to bed early ; I 
 get up early ; and all through the winter I was slinging 
 rocks about, and working like a navvy." 
 
 " It seems to have done you a world of good, Kem. 
 You're looking ten years younger than when I saw vou 
 last." 
 
 " Oh, I'm a reformed character. But I'm doing a little 
 mischief too. I'm putting spokes in the wheel of Mr. 
 Banknotes Brown, who has come down here to upset every 
 mortal thing in the place. I tell you, it's quite pathetic 
 the way the people cling to me and Grace. I can't do 
 much for them now, worse luck, but it makes me feel a 
 good boy to go and sit with them and hold their hands, and 
 listen to all their dismal tales. What do you think the 
 fool's doing now ? Turning all the tenants out of their 
 farms at the Ganton end, and making plans for a great 
 butter factory to which they've got to send their milk." 
 
 " Yes, we've heard something about that at Kencote. 
 But I don't quite see how they're going to send their milk 
 to his factory if he turns them out." 
 
 " Oh, well ; he's going to put his own people in. They've 
 got to work their farms according to his ideas. A fat 
 lot he's likely to know about dairying ! When he's made 
 
The Herons' Nest 215 
 
 a mess of it, and lost a pot of money, you'll see, he'll turn 
 out the people he's put in just as sharp as he's turned out 
 the others ; and he'll want to get the right sort of people 
 back ; and he won't get 'em, unless they're bigger fools 
 than he is." 
 
 " He hasn't turned everybody out, Kem," said Grace 
 " The Davises are staying on ; and the Blakes ; and I 
 think the Pettifers." 
 
 " The Pettifers aren't. I've just been there. They 
 asked me what I thought about it all, and I told them. ' I 
 wish I'd got a farm of my own to put you in,' I said. ' But 
 there are plenty of farms to be taken under landlords who 
 know their business, and don't want to play old Harry 
 with their land. ' If you do stay,' I said, ' you employ a 
 jolty sharp. lawyer and fix the gentleman down in black- 
 and-white, so that when his precious scheme comes to an 
 end you won't get left.' However, they're not going to 
 risk it. They're leaving. A beastly shame I call it. The 
 Pettifers have been there ever since I was a boy. So have 
 the Davises, of course, but he seems to have talked them 
 round. John Davis is all for it, and had the cheek to 
 tell me that they expected to do better under Mr. Bank- 
 notes Brown than they did under us. That's human nature 
 I suppose. They've been at Kemsale almost as long as we 
 have, made pots of money out of their farm in good times, 
 and never had their rent raised a halfpenny. Now we're 
 down and no good to them any longer, they go over bag and 
 baggage to the new fellow. I don't want to hear any 
 more about the Davises. I've done with them." 
 
 " Dear Kem, I don't think you ought to go about stirring 
 up people against Mr. Brown," said Grace. " It isn't true 
 that he's turning everybody out. On other parts of the 
 estate most of the farming tenants are being allowed to 
 renew their agreements if they wish to, and there has been 
 scarcely any change made in the cottages. Miss Merriman 
 is staying on at ' The Limes,' and Captain Fuller told her 
 that it was by Mr. Brown's wish. So we certainly did him 
 an injustice there. The people are settling down, and are 
 prepared to see how things will work out. It ought not- 
 to be we who upset them." 
 
 But Meadshire would not take this view. " They'll set- 
 tle down for a year, perhaps, and then all the trouble wilj 
 come over again," he said. " This is only the beginning 
 of his ridiculous experiments. He'll be trying for coal 
 
216 Rank and Riches 
 
 somewhere, next. Besides, I'm not upsetting anybody. 
 The people all know me, and they're only too pleased to 
 talk. If they ask my advice, I give it to 'em. I can't be 
 blamed for that." 
 
 " If you're not careful you'll have Mr. Brown suing you 
 for libel, or scandal, or whatever it is," said Frank. " I 
 should leave him alone if I were you, Kcm." 
 
CHAPTER XXI 
 
 RECOGNITION 
 
 " Now, Mr. Brown, I want to hear all about this dairying 
 scheme of yours. We needn't go in to the ladies just yet. 
 We'll have it all out. Let me nil your glass." 
 
 The Squire had moved down to the other end of the 
 table, decanters in hand. The Browns had come over to 
 Kencote to dine, all four of them. Dick and Virginia, 
 and Jim Graham and Cicely, had been asked to meet them. 
 It was a party of recognition, and had so far passed off 
 fairly well. The Squire had seen Mrs. Brown's well- 
 decked back pass through the door with a sense of relief, 
 for he had found her very heavy in hand, and Mrs. Clinton 
 had not succeeded in establishing relations of any cordiality 
 with Armitage Brown. But the younger generation had 
 talked and laughed freely enough during dinner. Alfred 
 and Katie had justified their inclusion in the party. 
 
 Armitage Brown passed his hand over his heavy mous- 
 tache. He was struck with sudden amusement at being told 
 to stand and deliver by this old country squire, who had 
 treated him with hearty hospitality, but not without a hint 
 of condescension. He had become used to being approached 
 about his schemes, but in a very different manner. How- 
 ever, as he wanted to talk to Mr. Clinton about this one, 
 one method of approach was as good as another. 
 
 It may be supposed that, with his record, he was not 
 unversed in presenting a statement in such a way as to 
 attract those who were already interested in its subject. 
 On the financial side of any scheme he could speak with 
 a clearness and authority that was bound to carry weight. 
 At the end of his preliminary exposition, which had been 
 listened to withouf interruption, he stood before his hearers 
 no longer as the rich Londoner who had been tentatively 
 received as a country neighbour, to be politely dropped if 
 he failed to come up to their mark, but as the man who 
 
 217 
 
218 Rank and Riches 
 
 made money as if by magic, which was the way in which 
 he was generally regarded by the world outside. 
 
 The Squire was particularly struck by his speech, and 
 the qualities in him which it revealed. He so seldom came 
 into contact with power based upon anything but the acci- 
 dents that brought the kind which he enjoyed himself ; but 
 he recognised it here. He no longer felt any inclination to 
 patronise his guest. He remembered what a reputation 
 this man bore, and had been brought by the cold mastery 
 of phrase he had used to recognise it as effective. At 
 the beginning of the exposition he had been ready to 
 criticise it from every point of view ; at the end he was 
 feeling rather flattered at being taken into the confidence 
 of a great financier, and was searching in his mind for 
 points which would display any knowledge that he might 
 have of his own. 
 
 Dick and Jim Graham were also impressed. They had 
 already talked the matter over between themselves and 
 agreed that whatever the scheme might be it was not likely, 
 originated by such a man as this, to fail at its business end ; 
 which was a considerable admission for men of their preju- 
 dices to make. If Armitage Brown was prepared to spend 
 a large sum of money in building and equipping a butter 
 factory on the outskirts of Ganton, he had probably satis- 
 fied himself that that was a suitable place for it ; and, 
 assuming that he could obtain his supplies, he was prob- 
 ably capable of making it pay. They were helped to this 
 opinion by the fact that they also thought the place suit- 
 able and the supplies quite possible to get. What they 
 had both of them doubted was the financier's ability to 
 organise the supplies. Very many considerations came in 
 there of which he must be entirely ignorant. They were 
 both prepared to watch closely for signs of that ignorance, 
 and to concentrate their criticism on it. The criticism 
 would not be destructive ; they were inclined to encour- 
 age the scheme, if it were put on a sound footing, for 
 they saw profit in it both for Kencote and Mountfield. 
 But it would be searching. In the talk that was going 
 about, there was more than a hint of the faddy experi- 
 ments that a new rich man who knew nothing about the land 
 would be likely to try when he had turned himself into a 
 landowner. This new rich man was to be shown that he 
 bad everything to learn upon that side of his scheme. 
 
 But apparently he hadn't. The explanation was only 
 
Recognition 219 
 
 in outline, and dealt more with the handling of supplies 
 than with their source ; but it was quite as well-informed 
 on the points which their special knowledge enabled them 
 to test as upon the others. As Dick said to Jim afterwards : 
 *■ You'd have thought the fellow had milked cows all his 
 life." 
 
 The statement came to an end suddenly. Not a word 
 had been said to invite co-operation or even approval. 
 The facts were left to talk for themselves. " That's how 
 I see it," said Armitage Brown ; but added, as he raised 
 his cigar to his lips : " But naturally I'm liable to error 
 when it comes to dealing with the land. That's where I 
 look to you for expert opinion." 
 
 These words did almost as much for him as all his pfe- 
 vious ones. They put him absolutely right with his hearers. 
 He had shown his mastery over detail, but was still willing 
 to learn from them. 
 
 1 It doesn't seem to me as if you are liable to much 
 error," said the Squire handsomely. " You must have 
 taken a lot of trouble to get at 3'our facts, and as far as 
 I'm able to judge, you've got at them remarkably Well. 
 What do you think, Dick ? " 
 
 " I like the idea," said Dick. " It has been closely 
 worked out ; of course one would expect that from Mr. 
 Brown ; and he has given us something definite to go upon. 
 As a matter of fact I think we are more ready for it here 
 than he is at Kemsale. It's a question of getting the 
 farmers to go in at first." 
 
 " You have more grass here, I know," said Armitage 
 Brown. " I've seen that. But I don't see why we shouldn't 
 get as much grass on our side." 
 
 A long discussion followed, in which the Squire and 
 Dick took the greater part, the Squire displaying consid- 
 erable knowledge, but apt to go off into irrelevancies, Dick 
 bringing him back to the point, and working things out 
 by degrees in a way that showed him clear-headed and 
 with a grasp of his subject, if rather slow at coming to 
 conclusions. After a time, Armitage Brown paid no more 
 than perfunctory attention to the Squire, but had his eye 
 on Dick all the time, sizing him up, testing him by little 
 speeches and questions thrown in, and gaining as it seemed 
 a respect for him which he had hardly thought would be 
 called for. 
 
 " Well, you can teach me a lot," he said. " You have 
 
220 Rank and Riches 
 
 taught me a good deal already. A scheme like this may 
 look all right on paper, but unless it takes, in all the factors 
 that you know about and I don't, it may be all wrong." 
 
 It was doubtful whether Dick had taught him very much 
 that was of importance. He had been racking all available 
 brains for a fortnight, including John Davis's, whose intel- 
 ligence was as great as Dick's and his practical experience 
 greater. John Davis had become his enthusiastic lieuten- 
 ant, and had even brought his own father to the belief that 
 Points Manor was about to recover some of its ancient 
 glories. But perhaps he had been won over by some such 
 judicious sops to his self-esteem as were now being offered 
 to Dick. Armitage Brown knew very well how to admin- 
 ister them where it was worth his while to do so. 
 
 " Are you going to try the share system ? " asked Jim 
 Graham. It was the first time he had spoken. 
 
 " What do you know about the share system ? " asked 
 Armitage Brown in some surprise. He had taken no 
 notice of Jim whatever, putting him down as of no im- 
 portance in the discussion. 
 
 " Oh, I've been in Australia. It works well there. If 
 you start your factory, I shall probably cut up one of 
 my farms, if I can find the capital to do it. It will bring 
 people back to the land." 
 
 " Have you got land near here, sir ? " 
 
 " I shall be within your radius, with a co-operative 
 motor-lorry." 
 
 Armitage Brown laughed. " Here's another gentleman 
 that can teach me something," he said. " Don't you worry 
 about capital, Mr. Graham. If you've got the land and 
 are prepared to use it in that way, you can have all the 
 capital you want. Yes ; I've gone into the share system ; 
 only on paper, of course. If you've seen it in practice, 
 I should like to go into it with you. I'm going to try it 
 on one of my own farms." 
 
 " What is the share system ? " asked the Squire, who 
 was inclined to be suspicious of this talk of cutting up 
 farms. Jim, for all his steadiness and slowness, had a 
 few Radical crotchets in his head, and it was not to be 
 supposed that Mr. Armitage Brown would be without them, 
 in spite of the unexpected soundness he had hitherto 
 displayed. 
 
 ' As it is worked in Australia," said Jim, " it means 
 that the landlord provides everything — land, buildings, 
 
Recognition 221 
 
 herd, and so on — and takes his proportion of the profits. 
 The holdings are mostly small, because there's a difficulty 
 about regular labour there ; but a man with a family can 
 make a handsome living out of a few acres." 
 
 " That means cottage-building/' said the Squire. " If 
 you once start that on any scale you're done. What farm 
 were you thinking of cutting up at Kemsale, Mr. Brown ? " 
 
 Armitage Brown probably had his own reasons for an- 
 swering this question directly. " Warren's Farm," he said. 
 
 ' ' Warren's ? That's Pettifer's farm. He has been there 
 a great many years. Is Pettifer going ? " 
 
 ' ' I don't know yet. I gave him the chance of coming in." 
 
 " I don't think he would be much use," said Dick. Old 
 Cousin Humphrey only let him stay on, father, because 
 he had a large family." 
 
 " I believe so," said the Squire rather unwillingly. 
 " Still, one doesn't like to think of old tenants being shown 
 the door." 
 
 " I felt the same," said Armitage Brown. M I've given 
 all those on the six farms I mentioned to you the chance 
 of staying on, of course on condition that they would work 
 in with me. I should do all I could to help them. But I 
 rather fancy Lord Meadshire has persuaded Mr. Pettifer 
 that he'll do better for himself if he clears out. He'll cer- 
 tainly do better for me ; but I was careful not to say that." 
 
 There was a silence, and then Frank laughed. It was 
 only a few days since he had paid his visit to the Herons' 
 Nest. 
 
 " The sooner Meadshire learns to mind his own business 
 the better," growled the Squire. " I'll take the liberty 
 of telling him so the next time I see him." 
 
 The Browns left punctually at half-past ten. Cicely's 
 carriage had not been ordered until eleven. On such 
 occasions as this the Squire liked a final conversation with 
 the men of his family over a cigar. But he did not suggest 
 an immediate adjournment to his room when he had hos- 
 pitably seen his guests off at the door ; he went back into 
 the drawing-room. 
 
 " Well, I think these people will do," he said largely, 
 looking round upon his womenfolk there assembled. 
 
 " Alfred and Katie will," said Joan. " Alfred and 
 Katie are treasures." 
 
 It might have been supposed that an opinion upon 
 Alfred and Katie was not exactly what he had asked for. 
 
222 Rank and Riches 
 
 They and Joan and Cicely and Frank had spent most 
 of the evening at a table apart from the groups made by 
 the rest, playing games, and the talk and laughter that 
 had come from it had only not disturbed conversation 
 because the room was so large. The Squire had once or 
 twice gone over and stood by them, and had seemed by 
 his reception of Joan's remark to have given more atten- 
 tion to his younger guests than might have been expected 
 of him. 
 
 " The girl struck me as a very nice girl," he said. " Not 
 pretty exactly, but bright and sensible. We shall always 
 be glad to see her here when she likes to come." 
 
 " Oh, and Alfred too," said Joan. " I adore Alfred. 
 He is full of character. He hates being rich." 
 
 " Did he tell you that ? " asked Frank. 
 
 " No, I found out for myself. I found out a lot about 
 him. Mother darling, did you tell Mrs. Brown we were 
 expecting Royalty ? She was a diamond shop." 
 
 But the Squire, apparently, did not wish to hear Mrs. 
 Brown discussed. " I like that girl very much," he said 
 again. ' ' You seemed to find no difficulty in making friends 
 with her, Frank — what ? " 
 
 " We'll make up a match between Frank and Katie," 
 said Joan. " Then I shall have Alfred as a sort of brother- 
 in-law." 
 
 " You're letting your tongue run away with you, Miss 
 Joan," said the Squire, quite in his old-time style of 
 rebuke. " Well, we'll go and have a cigar in my room. 
 You don't want to go off just yet, Cicely ? That's 
 right." 
 
 Talk over the cigars was not entirely on the subject of 
 the dairying scheme, although that was the point from 
 which it started. Armitage Brown, without apparent effort 
 on his part, had succeeded in impressing his personality 
 upon the three elder men, who were each a little excited 
 at having come into contact with him. Jim Graham was 
 the only one of the three whose command of money was 
 less than was convenient for the way in which he lived, 
 and the things he wanted to do. The excitement he felt 
 was at the prospect of carrying out an idea of the kind 
 that he had often considered in connection with his estate, 
 but had been too cautious to try at the expense of bur- 
 dening it with mortgages. Now these difficulties were to 
 disappear. The millionaire had swept them away, with 
 
Recognition 223 
 
 a laugh. And he was backing the scheme himself, with 
 his genius as well as his wealth, on the side on which 
 Jim would have been powerless. His imagination went 
 no further than the idea by which he knew he would profit, 
 on the lines on which all his quiet steady work were set. 
 But Armitage Brown's advent into his life was a stirring 
 event viewed from that standpoint alone. 
 
 Neither the Squire nor Dick had any need of more 
 money than they possessed already. Each of them lived 
 exactly the life that suited him, and spent less than his 
 income. But the Squire liked the " feel " of money, not 
 in elaborate expenditure, which he was inclined to depre- 
 cate, unless it was in support of legitimate state, but for 
 the sense of power that it brought. The almost unlimited 
 wealth with which Armitage Brown was generally credited 
 made a personage of him. The Squire had not quite real- 
 ised how much of a personage he was, hitherto ; but now 
 he did. Ke had recognised some of his quality. He 
 was a man to cultivate. 
 
 Dick was very much like his father in essentials, but 
 with a clearer head and a wider knowledge of the world. 
 He was the least moved of the three by contact with the 
 millionaire, but he was not unmoved. He had had a glimpse 
 of the workings of a mind that coins money out of every 
 combination of facts that it takes in, where other minds 
 only use them for idle amusement. It had stimulated his 
 own mind. The activities in which he contentedly spent 
 his days seemed rather poor and dull beside the workings 
 that brought such royal harvests. 
 
 " It seems to me," he said, " that this fellow can teach 
 us something about the land after all." 
 
 " Well, I don't know about that," said the Squire. " He 
 seems pretty sharp at picking up information, but what 
 he said was that we should have to teach him. I rather 
 liked that in him. I hadn't expected it. These new rich 
 fellows generally think that if they've read a few news* 
 paper articles they can start straight off and teach people 
 who've been connected with the land all their lives." 
 
 " We'd better get it out of our minds that he's a new 
 rich fellow," said Dick. " He isn't particularly new as 
 far as his riches go, and that's what matters to us if 
 we're going to take advantage of his ideas. As for his 
 not being what we've been used to having at Kernsale, 
 that's all done with now, and we needn't worry about it 
 
224 Rank and Riches 
 
 any longer. They're not bad sort of people to have there ; 
 we might have been much worse off." 
 
 " Oh; yes/' said the Squire. " They'll do very well. I 
 don't care for the lady much, but there's no fault to find 
 with the young people. I thought the girl was a particu- 
 larly nice girl." 
 
 " The way I look at it," said Dick, who was not inter- 
 ested in the girl, " is that what we know about the land 
 and he doesn't is the least important part of the business. 
 It wouldn't be if he left it out of account ; but he doesn't. 
 He'll use all we can tell him. We're the experts, and I 
 suppose men in his line of life are always using experts, 
 and know how to use them. But they manage their busi- 
 nesses themselves." 
 
 The Squire did not quite follow this. " I haven't got 
 as far as seeing him manage mine," he said. 
 
 " No, but he'll bring us in new ideas. Probably what 
 he thinks of us is that we hate new ideas. We don't. 
 We're always ready for them, if they fit in with what 
 we know." 
 
 " There isn't much wrong with this dairying idea of his." 
 
 " Well, see how he's worked that out. Left no stone 
 unturned to get every bit of information available. Went 
 over to Denmark and looked into everything, just as we 
 should go and have a look at something new in a farm 
 next door." 
 
 " I should be inclined to be careful about introducing 
 foreign ideas into this country. I was a little doubtful 
 about all that." 
 
 " It's all material. That's what struck me more than 
 anything about him, the pains he takes to collect material, 
 and the way he uses it. Didn't you notice that, Jim ? " 
 
 " Fuller has been grinding at statistics for him for the 
 last six months," said Jim. " He told me there was nothing 
 he didn't want to know, and nothing he couldn't take in." 
 
 " Well, there it is. I'm quite willing to follow his lead 
 if lie works things out as carefully as that, and is willing 
 to make the use he does of all one can tell him. It seems 
 to me that he brings us something we haven't got, and we 
 can give him something that he hasn't got. I'm not sorry 
 that he's come here." 
 
 While this conversation was going on, the Browns were 
 flying homewards in their luxuriously appointed car. Alfred 
 and Katie were doing most of the talking. They had 
 
Recognition 225 
 
 enjoyed themselves, and liked all the people they had 
 met, as they usually did. Mrs. Brown paid little attention 
 to their chatter. She was seriously exercised in her mind 
 as to the diamonds she had worn in such profusion. Lady 
 Inverell had worn but few jew r els, but Mrs. Brown had 
 seen her at a party in London with diamonds finer than 
 her own. Had she made a mistake ? The thought kept 
 her silent and depressed during the ten-mile drive. 
 
 Armitage Brown had also kept silence during the first 
 half of it. Then he roused himself. " Well, I've corrected 
 some of my ideas," he said. " There's not much to be 
 done with old Mr. Clinton, but that son of his has some 
 brains in his head, and so has Mr. Graham, though he's 
 one of the quiet sort. If I'm not mistaken, we shall make 
 this bit of country hum between us." 
 
 But he had said nothing about warning the hounds ofi 
 his land. 
 
 o«j 
 
CHAPTER XXII 
 
 HAVING IT OUT 
 
 Katie stood under a tree by the side of the road, while 
 the rain came down as if it wanted to make up in a few 
 minutes for holding off for the best part of two months. 
 She had walked out three miles to a lonely cottage, where 
 there was a sick woman with a young baby, and when she 
 had started the sky had shown no threat of rain, though 
 if she had thought of looking at a barometer she would 
 not have gone without protection. She had set out for 
 home again under black thunder-clouds, and was now rapidly 
 getting wet, as the leaves over her head were yielding to the 
 terrific downpour. 
 
 A motor-car came slushing along in the mud. She knew 
 it for Lord Meadshire's, and felt a sudden alarm lest he, 
 who was in it alone, should offer her assistance. She would 
 rather have got wet through. 
 
 He had his hood up, and was peering straight ahead 
 through the blurred glass screen, but just as lie passed 
 Katie's tree he caught a glimpse of her, and had not gone 
 many yards further before he stopped and then backed 
 towards her. 
 
 " Hullo ! want a lift ? " he called out, and then recog- 
 nised her. " Oh, it's you, Miss Brown," he said, as if 
 they had been on the most friendly terms. " I say, I 
 think you'd better hop in. You'll get soaked through in 
 a few minutes." 
 
 " Oh, thank you very much," she said hurriedly. " I'm 
 all right. I expect it will leave off soon." 
 
 He laughed and opened the door for her. " Come in 
 quick," he said. " I'm going to stop here till the worst is 
 over. It gets in through the chinks." 
 
 She got in, feeling like a child whose will has been over- 
 ridden by one in authority, and sat down next to him. 
 
 " That's right," he said, grinning affably at her. " I'll 
 
 (32) 226 
 
Having it Out 227 
 
 drive you home when it eases up a bit. I'm going up to 
 see your father." 
 
 "You are going to see father ! " she exclaimed. 
 
 " Yes. Do you think hell want to bite me ? " 
 
 She had recovered her wits. She v/as not going to let 
 him treat her as a child. " I think you would deserve it 
 if he did," she said. 
 
 He roared with laughter. " That's right ; you stick up 
 for your father," he said. " He wrote and asked me to 
 come, you know. Either he would come and see me, or 
 I could come and see him, or he'd put his lawyers on to 
 me. That's the sort of man he is. I thought I'd go and 
 beard him in his own lair. I rather want to see what 
 you've done with Kemsale. I'm glad I met you. Perhaps, 
 if I take you home dry, he'll let me off easy, eh ? I'm in 
 an awful funk, you know." 
 
 She could not help laughing, but immediately became 
 serious again. " Why do you dislike father so much ? " 
 she said. " He has done nothing to you, and yet you do 
 all you can to set people against him. You go about 
 everywhere making mischief. I think it's very mean." 
 
 " Oh, but you mustn't say that, Miss Brown. I've got 
 my feelings, you know. I'm sure you wouldn't like to 
 hurt them." 
 
 " If you are going to talk to me like that," she said, 
 " I shall get out. I don't mind if I do get wet. I'm not 
 a child to be laughed at and held of no account." 
 
 She was already fumbling at the catch on the door. 
 His face changed. " All right," he said, "I'll tell you 
 why I'm up against 3 7 our father. Anybody in my position 
 would be. He comes down here and rides roughshod over 
 everything and everybody. He uses his beastly money as 
 a sort of steam roller. You're expected to get out of the 
 way of it, and if you don't he thinks he can crush you 
 with it. He's not going to crash me. I've got my little 
 place in the world, and I'm going to keep it. Money isn't 
 everything, and I'm going to be the person that will show 
 him that." 
 
 " I don't in the least know what you mean," she said. 
 " I suppose I've no right to be offended by the things you 
 say, as I asked you a question, but there is nothing in them 
 at all like my father. You must have made some mistake. " 
 
 " I've made no mistake. I had a taste of his quality 
 before ever he bought the place, and I'm not likely to 
 
 (26) 
 
Rank and Riches 
 
 I it, or *-rgive it either. However, that's no reason 
 you and I should quarrel. My sister likes you, you 
 know, and we've both come to the conclusion that there's 
 nothing in the way of our being friends, as we shall have 
 to meet each other now and then, living next door as we 
 do. Your father ! Well, that's a different matter." 
 
 " We can't be friends," she said uncompromisingly, " if 
 you tr?at my father as you do; I mean that she and I 
 can't be, if she looks on him like that. But perhaps she 
 doesn't. Perhaps it's only vou who are so unfair about 
 him." 
 
 " She looks on him in exactly the same way as I do. 
 ■ reason to, after what he did." 
 
 " What did he do ? " 
 
 She asked the question boldly, but not without inward 
 tremors. If it was " business," she thought her father 
 might have been hard, and that in an} r case she might not 
 know enough to be able to defend him. 
 
 He looked at her sharply. " I don't know that I want 
 to go into it with you," he said. " From what I've heard, 
 you're concerned in it yourself, though it's quite possible 
 that you haven't known." 
 
 " I concerned in it ! " She was utterly at a loss. 
 
 " Well, I will tell you, then. You have my sister's two 
 rooms up at Kemsale, haven't you ? Yes, Beatrix Irving 
 told me so. And every mortal thing in them — or very 
 nearly everything — that she'd always had. How would 
 you like it if somebody took advantage of a little mistake 
 you had made, and did you out of all the special things 
 you'd had round you all your life, as your father did her ? " 
 
 " What do you mean ? " asked poor Katie, bewildered 
 and distressed. 
 
 " Well, I suppose you don't know anything about it. 
 You'd better ask your father what he paid for the contents 
 of those two rooms." 
 
 " lie did tell me that they cost a great deal. But do 
 please explain. You can see that I don't understand." 
 
 " Grace's things ought never to have gone into the sale. 
 
 we didn't take them out because we thought it would 
 
 be just as easy to buy them back. Well, your father 
 
 i't let us. He had them bid up to preposterous 
 
 prices. We just managed to get two family portraits — our 
 
 grand d grandmother — by frightening the man who 
 
 idding, and paying ten or twenty times their value. 
 
Having it Out 220 
 
 After that they wouldn't let us have a thing. We'd had 
 two rooms built at our house almost exactly like my sister's 
 old ones, so that she should feel at home in them. They're 
 empty. She didn't want to furnish them afresh. That's 
 what we have to thank your father for ; and if Grace can 
 forgive it, I can't." 
 
 The tears were in her eyes, half of indignation, half of 
 deep distress. " Oh, how can you think we knew that ? " 
 she cried. " Father had no idea that the things he bought 
 were wanted for her. How could he have ? He wasn't 
 there himself. They were bought with all the rest at 
 the sale." 
 
 " I tell you he did know. They telephoned to tell him 
 in the middle of the sale. I sent "the message myself, and 
 he took no notice of it whatever. They were to buy them 
 in, whatever it cost." 
 
 " I tell you he didn't know ; he couldn't have known. 
 Yes, I remember now he did say something about a mes- 
 sage, afterwards. He thought it was about the pictures 
 only. If it was what you say, he didn't understand it. 
 And as if / should want to have things that Lady Grace 
 wanted for herself. She shall have them all back, every 
 one. I know father will let me give them to her if I ask 
 him." 
 
 She was in actual tears now. He looked at her curiously 
 and kindly. " Well, don't upset yourself about it," he 
 said. " You are kind and nice enough, anyhow. Of course 
 it was a jar for my sister, losing all her little private trea- 
 sures ; but she's got used to it now. If you've got them, 
 and like them, we'll leave it at that." 
 
 " I liked them because they were hers," she said. " I 
 haven't changed anything in the rooms. Nearly every- 
 thing else in the house is altered, but her two rooms are 
 just the same. I hoped she would see them some day, 
 and be pleased." 
 
 ' ' I think that '& very sweet of you. I '11 tell her. Perhaps 
 she will see them some day." 
 
 " Oh, but she must have them back. Now we know that 
 there was a mistake we can put it right. I shouldn't have 
 a happy moment using her things now." 
 
 " Well, you see, we couldn't very well take them as a 
 present, though it's kind enough of you to think of it. 
 Don't worry about it any more. We can be getting on 
 now, I think." 
 
 (12) 
 
280 Rank and Riches 
 
 It took them only a short time to cover the four miles 
 to Kcmsale. Katie dried her eyes and sat very thoughtful, 
 only answering by monos3dlables what Meadshire said to 
 her, and hardly hearing it. He had a fund of easy talk 
 that required little attention, and used it so as to put her 
 at her ease. When they drew up before the great porch 
 at Kemsalc he said to her : " Now don't you think any- 
 thing more about those rooms. I shan't, and Grace won't 
 either. I dare say there was a mistake, and your father 
 didn't understand." 
 
 " Oh, I shall talk to him about it," she said. " Thank 
 you for saving me from getting wet. Good-bye." 
 
 The rain had ceased and she went round to another en- 
 trance, leaving him to make his way into the house. 
 
 He was shown straight into Armitage Brown's business 
 room. The millionaire was sitting at his desk, awaiting 
 him. 
 
 " Good-morning, Mr. Brown," said Meadshire affably. 
 "I've just brought your daughter home to you. I found 
 her getting wet under a tree." 
 
 Armitage Brown was not often at a loss, but he was 
 so now at this unexpected opening. He mumbled a word 
 of thanks and asked his visitor to sit down. 
 
 " Thanks," said Meadshire, and took a chair, in which 
 he leaned back, crossing his legs and looking with amiable 
 expectancy into his adversary's face. 
 
 Armitage Brown recovered his equanimity. " I wish to 
 put a few facts to you," he said, " before I instruct my 
 solicitor to take proceedings." 
 
 "Oh, yes. It's just as well to have a little talk. Per- 
 haps when we've finished we shall find it unnecessary to 
 bring our solicitors in at all." 
 
 Armitage Brown thought that he was going to be treated 
 with the bland impertinence that had been used towards 
 Alfred, and perhaps invited to lose his temper. He was 
 not going to do that. He was going to say what he had to 
 say in the most direct fashion possible, and if complete 
 satisfaction were denied him cut the interview short and 
 take his proceedings. He was going to take no notice of 
 the impertinence. 
 
 " What I shall take action on," he said, " is your having 
 
 ! Dr. Blake of Stubbington Farm, on a certain date, and 
 
 before witnesses, that I was not in a position to carry out 
 
 ;ements I had entered upon with him, and that if he 
 
Having it Out 231 
 
 didn't wish to be ruined he had better find a farm under 
 another landlord." 
 
 Meadshire appeared to give this statement full consid- 
 eration. " Well, it does seem rather strong if it's put like 
 that, doesn't it ? " he said. 
 
 " That will be the chief ground of the action. I shall 
 bring up other witnesses to prove that ever since I bought 
 this property from you 3^ou have persistently gone about 
 amongst people who were your tenants and are now mine, 
 raising prejudice against me. It will be shown that you 
 have kept a footing here in the middle of the estate, that 
 you took very little interest in the tenantry on it when it 
 was yours, and were not often here, but that since selling 
 it to me you have been constantly here, and constantly in 
 communication with the tenants ; and that this has been 
 happening while I was abroad and was unable to take steps 
 to counteract your influence." 
 
 " It begins to look worse and worse, doesn't it ? As I 
 understand it, ail this will be brought up to create preju- 
 dice against me in the e}^es of a British jury." 
 
 " It will be brought up to prove that you have been 
 chiefly engaged during the past six months in spreading 
 scandal against me. But it isn't by any means all that 
 will be brought up. It will be proved that in the negotia- 
 tions that took place leading up to the sale of this property 
 I gave way upon many points that I might have held out 
 on, that, in fact, you received the full price for everything 
 that you sold me, that you were difficult and inconsequent, 
 while I made one concession after the other, that we never 
 even met personally, and that I gave you no cause whatever 
 for feeling any rancour against me. It will also be proved 
 that you sold with the rest the chancel pew in Kemsale 
 Church, and that you have taken steps to prevent my occu- 
 pying it, which will probably bring some light relief into 
 the proceedings when they come to be recounted, and your 
 attendances at church previously to my coming here are 
 touched upon. It will be shown that I gave way to you 
 there, and I shall state the reason why I did so — that I 
 was not going to enter upon any litigation in respect to a 
 seat in a church. So it will come out gradually that you 
 have been the aggressor throughout, and that I have not 
 been able, even by giving way to you, to soften your 
 rancour." 
 
 Meadshire's face had changed somewhat during this 
 
 (30) 
 
Rank and Riches 
 
 speech. It might have been supposed that ridicule was 
 the one weapon that he was unable to stand up against. 
 But he must have been aware that he would cut a poor 
 figure before this strong self-possessed man, and deliver 
 himself into his hands if it was to be his own temper that 
 should be lost. " Well, it's beginning to look like a good 
 case," he said, in the same tone as before, but not with 
 quite the same easy smile. " It will rest upon my actually 
 having no complaint against you and your methods ; but 
 we'll leave that aside for the moment. Supposing you're 
 going to have everything your own way, what will be the 
 reason to be fixed upon me for my attitude towards you ? " 
 
 " Oh, that's very easily answered. Jealousy. Jealousy 
 of a particularly contemptible sort. All the world knows 
 what you are ; all the world knows what I am. You're a 
 peer, the head of an old family, who have acted in such a 
 way as to have to sell everything you had, and bring your 
 family to an end. I'm a rich man, who have made enough 
 money to step into your shoes. And you don't like it. 
 You'll take my money, but you'll do all you can to prevent 
 my enjoying what you've sold to me. You'll sit down here 
 next door to me, and see that you mop up all the bowings 
 and scrapings that are due to you ; you think I want them 
 as much as you do, and you'll prevent me getting them if 
 you can. You'll scuttle into church half an hour before 
 the service, when you hardly went at all before, so that I 
 shall be prevented from sitting in a seat that belongs to me 
 a couple of steps higher than the rest of the congregation. 
 You've thrown over the people that have lived on your 
 land for generations ; you encourage them to think that 
 I shall turn them out. When you find I mean to take over 
 the responsibilities that you've chucked away and keep 
 them on, though there's no obligation on me to do it, you 
 can't bear that cither. You don't care what becomes of 
 them ; you set yourself to persuade them to go, because you 
 think you can harm me by it." 
 
 " Oh, that's enough," said Meadshire. He was red and 
 scowling ; the indictment had been too wounding. It had 
 been impossible to keep up the air of jaunty indifference 
 with which he had listened to its opening. If you want 
 to brin^ an action against me, bring it and be damned to 
 you. You won't get it all your own way." 
 
 He rose from his seat, and prepared to leave the room. 
 Armitage Brown did not shift his position, nor look up at 
 
 (14; 
 
Having it Out 233 
 
 him. " Well, that's how it will show up if I go to law," 
 he said in the same even voice. " The question is whether 
 what you can bring up in defence — and I've no doubt you'll 
 bring up something — is going to harm me as much as what 
 I shall bring up will harm you. If not, I don't see why 
 money should be wasted in litigation when matters can 
 quite easily be settled between ourselves." 
 
 He looked up now, inquiringly. There was no passion 
 in his hard gaze, no annoyance, no contempt even. He was 
 proposing a business negotiation. Meadshire was being in-.' 
 vited to ignore his outbreak, as completely as his adversary 
 had ignored it. 
 
 He decided to do so. The stronger character had won. 
 He could only lose more and yet more by keeping up the 
 struggle. 
 
 He glared down at him for a moment and then threw 
 himself into his chair again with a laugh. " I told some- 
 body the other day that you were a hard nut to crack," he 
 said, " and, by Jove, you've cracked me. I don't wonder 
 that you've got on in the world." 
 
 Armitage Brown was ready to allow him to recover his 
 equanimity, but was not yet ready to relinquish his imper- 
 sonal attitude. " What I should expect to gain by litiga- 
 tion," he said, " would be to put a stop to the annoyance 
 I'm subjected to now by finding you continually in my 
 way. I've stood it up to the point at which I'll stand it 
 no longer ; but if you can satisfy me now that the annoy- 
 ance will cease I shall get all I want. I'm not anxious 
 to waste my time in the law courts. I can find better use 
 for it." 
 
 Having once got rid of his fit of temper, Meadshire was 
 now himself again, and proof against showing temper 
 again. " You'll give up the idea of scoring against me," 
 he suggested. 
 
 " Scoring against you I I shouldn't waste five minutes of 
 my time or a shilling of my money for the sake of scoring 
 against you. I don't care anything about you, if you'll 
 keep out of my way. That's all I want." 
 
 The temper showed itself for a moment, but was under 
 control. " Well now, that's just the attitude that has riled 
 me, you know, and led to my doing things that perhaps I 
 shouldn't have done if you had shown yourself a little more 
 agreeable. Keep out of your way ! It's what I call riding 
 roughshod, and you can only do it because you're rich." 
 
284 Rank and Riches 
 
 " What chances have I had of making myself agreeable, 
 as you call it ? Did you expect me to come hat in hand 
 to you for leave to live peacefully in the place I've bought 
 from you ? What did you expect ? I'm hanged if I know. 
 If you've made up your mind to avoid having an action 
 brought against you, by giving me the undertaking I want, 
 you might tell me how I've succeeded in offending your lord- 
 ship — what I've left undone, that a marquis might expect 
 from a man in the City. I'm not above learning." 
 
 " You've got a damned rough tongue in your head, Mr. 
 Brown. If I hadn't happened to have had a little conver- 
 sation with your daughter just now, which has thrown 
 rather a new light upon a certain subject, I shouldn't sit 
 here taking all this from you. You're showing yourself all 
 the time exactly what I thought you. I don't stand on 
 what I happen to be by accident. I've stood on it a great 
 deal too little, according to the general opinion. But you do 
 stand on your money. It's what has given you your posi- 
 tion here. I dare say I've played the fool and given you a 
 handle against me. I generally do play the fool somehow ; 
 it's what I'm noted for. But there's been something be- 
 hind it. I thought if I didn't show that I wasn't going to 
 be snowed under by you and your money, here in the place 
 where I live, and have a right to live, you would — well, you 
 would behave exactly as you're doing now." 
 
 " I'm behaving now as you've invited me to behave. If 
 you had shown yourself disposed to be friendly when I 
 came down here, you wouldn't have had anything to com- 
 plain of in my behaviour. Nobody else about here has, as 
 far as I know . At the same time I should like to make it 
 quite plain that I'm not grumbling at your holding off from 
 me. You'd a perfect right to do that if you didn't think 
 I was good enough for you. But I suppose I've as good 
 a right to show myself independent as you have, and you've 
 no cause to complain, after what has happened, at my want- 
 ing to have it understood that I'm not the sort of man to 
 care a snap of the fingers whether you had thought me 
 good enough or not. What were you referring to when you 
 mentioned my daughter just now ? " 
 
 " Well, it's at the bottom of the whole thing. You used 
 your money in what I call a brutal way, to prevent us 
 getting some things we wanted out of this house." 
 
 : ' You must speak more plainly, please. I don't know 
 what you're referring to." 
 
Having it Out 235 
 
 " I made the mistake of leaving things in the sale that 
 ought to have been taken out beforehand. I thought we 
 should be able to buy in what we wanted. Well, you 
 wouldn't let us. The contents of my sister's two special 
 rooms were bid up to extravagant prices, and she lost them 
 I suppose you'll say I got twenty times their value in money 
 and so I did, and more ; but I didn't want the money/ 1 
 wanted the things, for her." 
 
 " It's rather an absurd charge to make, if you mean by 
 it that I should deliberately pay twent}' times the value of 
 things, and pay it to you, in order to prevent your having 
 them. Why should I do a thing like that ? " 
 
 " That's what I want to know. You did do it." 
 
 " What happened exactly was that I gave instructions 
 that certain things were to be bought. How was I to know 
 that some of them weren't meant to be sold ? " 
 
 " They telephoned to you in the middle of the sale, and 
 I sent a message myself." 
 
 " Well then, they muddled it. I do remember being rung 
 up. I was very busy at the time and I'd given them 
 my instructions, so I didn't waste much time over them. 
 They certainly didn't put it on the ground you mention, or 
 I should have listened. I don't remember anything being 
 said about that at all. It was on the ground of things 
 fetching a higher price than they had expected that they 
 telephoned." 
 
 Meadshire remembered how little trouble he had taken to 
 get the right message through, intent on his " fun " as he 
 had been. " Well, it's all over and done with now," he said. 
 " I dare say I did you some injustice, but surely you must 
 have found out how things stood afterwards. You paid 
 something like a couple of thousand pounds for those two 
 rooms, and they were worth a couple of hundred at the 
 very outside." 
 
 " I was surprised ; but I don't worry about that sort 
 of thing when it's over. I thought I had myself to thank 
 for it. It was foolish to give the instructions I did. I 
 thought I'd just been taken advantage of, and as I'd been 
 warned, I couldn't blame anybody but myself. As I'd had 
 to pay the money I thought that might do ; so I put it out 
 of my mind." 
 
 " Well, as I say, I did you an injustice, and I'm sorry 
 for it. Still, you'll admit that your way of doing things 
 wouldn't exactly explain itself to anybody who wouldn't 
 
23G Rank and Riches 
 
 be prepared to sacrifice two thousand pounds for making 
 a mistake, and to think no more about it. The whole thing 
 .1 significant. It seems to have put me on to a 
 wrong scent." 
 
 ' ' I must talk to my daughter about it. She wanted those 
 rooms exactly as they were, and that was another reason 
 why I didn't mind the price I paid. You say you've talked 
 to her. What did she say ? " 
 
 " Oh, she was as nice as she could be about it — seems 
 to have taken a fancy to my sister, and wanted to give her 
 everything back — didn't like to think she'd been done out 
 of the things, and of course wouldn't admit that you had 
 been to blame in any way. I don't know that you were. 
 I told her we'd better let it stand now. But if you'd 
 care to sell the things for the price you gave, it would put 
 everything right." 
 
 " Certainly I will, if my daughter agrees ; and I sup- 
 pose she will, from what you say. We'll consider that 
 settled then, and it's one misunderstanding removed." 
 
 Meadshire was melted. " It's really the only one," he 
 said. " Look here, Mr. Brown, I've become infernally 
 bored with carrying on this feud. I'm not cut out for it. 
 My old cousin, Edward Clinton, went for me the other day 
 about it. I wouldn't let him see that I was sick of it, but 
 I am. I apologise for everything I've done or said against 
 you. Now will you accept that and think no more about 
 it? " 
 
 " Yes, I think I can promise that, Lord Meadshire. I've 
 always been able to make some excuses. If I'd belonged 
 to a place in the way you have, I shouldn't care about 
 seeing somebody else in my shoes." 
 
 " That's very handsomely said. But I haven't behaved 
 well, and there's no good denying it. Now you'll sit in the 
 chancel pew next Sunday, won't you ? I've been to church 
 six Sundays running, and I want a holiday." 
 
CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 SIX MONTHS LATER 
 
 " I am thinking of giving a ball here. 
 
 The momentous announcement was made by Mrs. Brown 
 to Mrs. Fuller, as they sat at tea together, one late Novem- 
 ber afternoon, in Mrs. Brown's boudoir. It was received 
 by Mrs. Fuller with complete calm of manner ; but her 
 eyes glistened. 
 
 " I think it is a good idea," she said. " There is no 
 finer house for a ball anywhere, and done as you will do 
 it, it ought to be a great affair." 
 
 " There ought to be no difficulty in doing it well in this 
 house. It might have been built for it. It seems a waste 
 not to have one." 
 
 " Yes ; with that splendid ballroom, and everything. I 
 have often thought that Kemsale was just the house to 
 give your genius for organisation full scope." 
 
 " I do like organising entertainments, it is true. I like 
 to get people together and see them enjoy themselves. 
 But you know how difficult it has been to do anything 
 here." 
 
 The speech showed how far Mrs. Fuller had advanced 
 with her patroness during the past six months. For the 
 difficulties referred to had been those that Mrs. Brown's 
 husband had put in the way of her using Kemsale as the 
 stage for large formal parties. One of the few strains 
 of weakness in this lady's otherwise self-reliant character 
 was the necessity she felt for a confidant. Aunt Millie 
 would not do. She would talk about everything but the 
 social campaign, and that, to do her justice, Mrs. Brown 
 had never asked her to talk about. Aunt Millie had never 
 been to any of her big parties ; it was an understood thing 
 that on that side of their lives each took her own line, and 
 so they remained fast friends on the other sides. But Mrs. 
 Fuller v/ould talk about the social campaign as much as 
 was required. She did it with a constant effort of tact. 
 
 237 
 
2 os Rank and Riches 
 
 Her line was that Mrs. Brown had a duty to perform to 
 society ; no hint was ever allowed to creep out of any ques- 
 tion of " climbing." The affair, indeed, was not regarded 
 as a campaign *at all. And she also exercised tact with 
 reference to the difficulties already referred to. She did 
 so now, as she replied : 
 
 " It is only natural that with Katie and Mr. Alfred at 
 home for Christmas — I suppose you will have the ball about 
 that tune — and I suppose some of their friends here too, 
 you should get up something to amuse them." 
 
 " That is why I want to have it, of course," said Mrs. 
 Brown. " In fact, Katie said something to her father the 
 other day about dancing, and he made no objection." 
 
 " The last time there was a ball here was in the old 
 lord's time. He loved gaiety of that sort. It was a very 
 brilliant affair. But yours, of course, will be just as 
 brilliant." 
 
 " I don't see why it shouldn't be done just as well. I 
 could hardly expect, I suppose, to get exactly the same 
 sort of people." 
 
 " But why not ? It will be chiefly a county ball. You 
 know everybody around you now. All the big houses will 
 bring their parties. If you have it, as I should suggest, 
 in the same week as the Hunt Ball and the County Ball, 
 you will get exactly the same people, except for those stay- 
 ing in the house." 
 
 " I should like to see the house well filled. I suppose 
 people will come from London for it. We could have 
 special trains for them." 
 
 It gave Mrs. Fuller a pleasant sense of superiority when 
 she found her patroness tripping in her knowledge of 
 social habits, which she frequently did when they were 
 based upon country life. But she was careful not to dis- 
 play her superiority. " Wouldn't it be better," she said, 
 "to do as they did here last time — invite people for the 
 three balls. You would be more likely to get the right 
 sort of people wouldn't you ? You know best, but I should 
 have thought that it might be difficult to get them from 
 London at that time of the year, and just for one night." 
 
 " That means having a regular house-party for the best 
 part of a week." 
 
 Mrs. Fuller had divined the alarm with which a pros- 
 pect of that sort was regarded. " With the house quite 
 full," she said, people would amuse themselves. Besides, 
 
Six Months Later 2.39 
 
 at this time of the year there would be plenty for them to 
 do. You could arrange the big shoot for that time, and I 
 dare say some of them would hunt. Perhaps you might 
 get up private theatricals, or something of that sort, if 
 there is an evening free." 
 
 Mrs. Brown considered this. " Alfred might write a 
 play," she said. " He has often talked of doing it. He 
 might get his party here to rehearse it for some time before- 
 hand. Then it would be natural to get people down to 
 see it. There would be plenty of room for both sorts." 
 Both sorts, as was well understood between them, meant 
 Alfred's and Katie's friends, who would be the excuse for 
 the gatherings, and the most ornamental of Mrs. Brown's 
 acquaintances who could be induced to come. " I think 
 theatricals or tableaux vivants are a good idea." 
 
 " Tableaux vivants would be better still," said Mrs. 
 Fuller. (Irene could pose pictorially, but it was doubtful 
 if she could act.) " Mr. Alfred would be very good at 
 arranging them, and they ought to be well worth seeing and 
 make a considerable stir, done in the thorough way in which 
 you would do them. They had some at Brenchleys a few 
 j'ears ago. They were pretty enough, but they were got 
 up — well, on the cheap, as you might say, mostly with home- 
 made costumes." 
 
 Mrs. Brown saw large sums of money spent upon dresses 
 and scenery, the ball-room turned into a theatre for one 
 night, and changed back as if by magic to a ball-room 
 for the next. If spending money could have done every- 
 thing, the prospect would have held nothing but the extreme 
 of gratification. 
 
 " It might, perhaps, be as well," suggested Mrs. Fuller, 
 who also had her visions, " to have the tableaux performed 
 by the young people, and others, who are at hand here. 
 There are plenty of them, and Mr. Brown likes seeing them 
 about the place, doesn't he ? " 
 
 " It would give them all something to do about Christmas 
 time. They could come and stay in the house if they wished 
 to, and we could have a series of little dances for them. 
 I shouldn't mind hiring a band for a fortnight or so." 
 
 " Oh, what a delightful idea ! And how it will wake 
 everybody up ! Kemsale will indeed take its place again 
 as the chief house in the county." 
 
 " As for the shooting, I really don't know. My husband 
 doesn't care about it. I thought Alfred might, but " 
 
240 Rank and Riches 
 
 That " but " meant a good deal. Mrs. Brown had or- 
 d one shooting party — or rather the guests for it— 
 and it had been almost a fiasco. When Alfred had heard 
 the names of the guests, he had found it necessary to run 
 over to Paris for a few days, and had, unfortunately, not 
 been able to return in time for the occasion. Time had hung 
 heavily indoors. Armitage Brown, who had always com- 
 ported himself with affability during the few hours of a 
 dinner or an evening party, had found the strain too great 
 When extended to days. His own life had been completely 
 upset, and he had expressed himself strongly about it. He 
 had refused to have anything to do with the arrangements 
 out-of-doors, and Fuller- had not been competent to carry 
 them through. Douglas Irving had saved the situation at 
 the last moment, and the shooting had gone well ; but Mrs. 
 Brown knew that very few of the men who had shot the 
 Kemsale pheasants would come again to a house in which 
 the host took no interest in their sport, but handed them 
 over to somebody else, and that she herself had not suc- 
 ceeded in preserving their womenkind from boredom. 
 
 " If you were to make the ball and the theatricals the 
 chief thing, and were to ask mostly young people — of the 
 right sort, of course — then the shooting, for the men, would 
 just be something to do in the daytime, and the women 
 could go out with them. My husband would have no diffi- 
 culty in arranging matters satisfactorily for a shoot of that 
 sort, if plenty of time were given beforehand." 
 
 Mrs. Fuller had been furious with the poor little man 
 for allowing himself to be superseded by Douglas Irving 
 on the previous occasion, and she knew that Mrs. Brown 
 had also disliked his being called in. What she had never 
 been able to gauge, however, was exactly how far that lady 
 was under the commands of her husband. She seemed 
 to have an extraordinary license to spend money on objects 
 that she cared about and he didn't, and yet occasionally he 
 put his foot down, as he had done over this. As people had 
 been asked to shoot, it was for him to see that their shoot- 
 ing was properly managed for them, and he chose to 
 delegate his powers to Irving, as he knew nothing about such 
 things himself. But people like that were not to be asked 
 again. There were plenty of people about the place who 
 could be asked to shoot ; he wasn't going to have the shoot- 
 ing made an excuse for filling the house with smart Lon- 
 doners. That was the way he had expressed himself, al- 
 
Six Months Later 241 
 
 though Mrs. Brown's guests had not been exclusively 
 Londoners, but on the whole a very creditable collection of 
 what she and Mrs. Fuller now always spoke of as " the 
 right sort of people." 
 
 " The difficulty with young people would be that they 
 might not mix very well with Katie's and Alfred's friends," 
 Mrs. Brown said, ignoring the invitation to come out as 
 backer of Fuller against Irving. " Alfred likes artists and 
 literary people, and Katie's chief friends are her school 
 friends. I am pleased to see anybody they choose to ask 
 here, of course, and to do everything I can for them. I 
 have never tried to influence their friendship in any way ; 
 but " 
 
 " I have often thought it rather odd that Katie should 
 have so little of your wonderful discrimination about 
 people. She is a dear little thing in every way, and any- 
 body would be glad to have her for a friend, I don't care 
 who they were. See how Lady Grace has taken to her ! 
 And Lord Meadshire admires her tremendously ; that is 
 very plain to sec." 
 
 " Oh, please don't say that sort of thing," said Mrs. 
 Brown, in a tone of displeasure. 
 
 Mrs. Fuller hastened to amend her mistake. " Oh, I 
 don't mean in that way," she said with a laugh. " I should 
 never have thought of such a thing. You wouldn't care for 
 it, I know. I only meant that he makes a great friend of 
 her ; and really, I think she has had a wonderfully good 
 influence on him. That is sometimes the way with a thor- 
 oughly nice girl, and a man much older than herself, who 
 looks up to her as being good, if you understand what I 
 mean, and behaves carefully because of her influence." 
 
 " Yes, I understand what you mean ; but I don't like to 
 think of Katie mixed up in any way with Lord Meadshire, 
 and I think that what you say is exaggerated. He had a 
 serious break-out not so long ago, and if it were not for 
 Lady Grace I think I should have tried to break off all 
 connections with him definitely after that." 
 
 Mrs. Fuller did not believe this, although she thought 
 it quite natural that it should be said. But it was true 
 enough. Mrs. Brown detested Meadshire. For one thing, 
 she knew that he had taken her measure. After his capitu- 
 lation .to her husband six months before, he had not only 
 thrown aside all traces of his former hostility, but had prof- 
 fered an easy intimacy towards the whole family. Katie 
 
212 Rank and Riches 
 
 ! ighted in ; she had captured him, during their inter- 
 .u the motor-car, by her sincerity and courage, and by 
 the tenderness she had shown towards Grace. Alfred he 
 liked too, and had begun by apologising handsomely for the 
 way he had treated him on that Sunday afternoon at Little 
 Kemsale. Armitage Brown had been at first rather grimly 
 distant with him, but had found it impossible to stand out 
 against his extreme good nature. He was like a child who 
 has been naughty and wants to " make up." He was like 
 a child in so many ways, inconsequent, undependable, undis- 
 ciplined, but with the appeal of a child whose approaches 
 cannot be resisted. He chaffed the millionaire about his 
 millions, about his schemes, which he still thought absurd, 
 but did nothing any longer to hamper, about everything 
 that most people would have treated with respectful 
 silence ; and the millionaire rather liked it. He had 
 thought that the sudden change from enmity to friend- 
 ship in a man of Meadshire's history must mean the laying 
 of a train for profit to be presently extracted. He had 
 quite expected a loan to be applied for when the intimacy 
 should be sufficiently established. It is one of the penalties 
 of the rich man that he must always suspect a proffer of 
 friendship. But in this case it soon became plain that 
 there was no design behind the friendly raillery. As long 
 as Meadshire had any money of his own he would want 
 nobody else's, and the possessions of another man would 
 cause him no envy. In fact he would consider himself 
 on an equality with the richest in respect of money, 
 until his own disappeared. Armitage Brown had a half- 
 contemptuous regard for him, as a man who had thrown 
 away all his chances, but retained his cheerful outlook. 
 He was an amusing companion, of a sort that he had not 
 come across before ; and he was warm-hearted. Armitage 
 Brown's own feelings with regard to him were beginning 
 to be tinged with a slight warmth. 
 
 But the light raillery which Meadshire directed against 
 the millionaire was a deep offence to the millionaire's wife. 
 To be chaffed about her pink saloon and her blue saloon 
 and her yellow saloon and other marks of her wealth and 
 state was unforgivable. She was incapable of answering 
 him in his own vein, and took refuge in haughty silence. 
 When he saw that his chaff annoyed her he gave it up ; but 
 the occasional twinkle in his eye when he addressed her, as 
 well as the discontinuation of the chaff, showed her that her 
 
Six Months Later 243 
 
 ambitions stood revealed to him. She heartily wished that 
 his hostility had continued. His frequenting of Kemsale 
 did her no credit with anybody ; she had got beyond the 
 point at which a much-damaged marquis might have been 
 desired as an ornament, and her cold correctitude of morals 
 caused her to shrink from what she had heard about him. 
 She had from the first disliked the terms of his friendship 
 with Katie, although she had not made Mrs. Fuller's mis- 
 take of imagining more in it than was displaj^ed for all to 
 see. When the long-delayed " outbreak " had occurred in 
 mid-summer, and Meadshire had been away from Kemsale 
 for two months, to return much subdued and much the 
 worse in appearance, her distaste for him had increased to 
 the point of strong dislike. She had told Katie that she 
 must have nothing more to do with him, and her husband 
 that she hoped he would not be encouraged to come to 
 Kemsale again. But Katie would not give up Grace, and 
 as Grace was a credit to her friends, Mrs. Brown had not 
 felt able to insist that she should. Meadshire had kept 
 away from Kemsale of his own accord for some weeks, until 
 Armitage Brown, who had been somewhat scandalised by 
 the outbreak, made advances to him of his own accord. He 
 was sorry for him, he told his wife. From all he could 
 hear, he had not kept straight for so long together for 
 many years past and was evidently ashamed now of hav- 
 ing given way. He wasn't going to be the one to show 
 the cold shoulder to a man who was trying to lift himself 
 out of the mire. So they had drifted back to the old 
 conditions. Meadshire was often at Kemsale, and seemed 
 quite to have recovered his spirits and his health. But 
 Mrs. Brown's watchfulness never slumbered, and she dis- 
 liked him more than ever. If another " outbreak " should 
 occur, she would make a strong effort to cut the tie alto- 
 gether. 
 
 And now, as Mrs. Fuller had given her the opportunity, 
 she determined to express what she felt about it, with no 
 possibility of being mistaken. 
 
 " I dislike Lord Meadshire thoroughly," she said ; " and 
 I dislike his being as intimate with Katie as he is. The 
 intimacy does her no harm, perhaps, in itself ; I will do 
 him the justice to say that I think he is at his best with 
 her ; and Lady Grace is nearly always there. I have no 
 fear of anything happening on either side that I should 
 not wish. But it is just because what you have just said 
 
•2 n Rank and Riches 
 
 others may be saying that I dislike it so. I suppose you 
 would not have said it unless it were the common talk." 
 
 Mrs. Fuller was puzzled. Did Mrs. Brown really dislike 
 th • idea of her daughter's name being coupled with that 
 of a marquis ? The idea was almost beyond the range of 
 her imagination, although she could well understand her 
 wishing it to be thought that she did. And yet there was 
 iv) mistaking the sincerity of her annoyance. Perhaps 
 there was something behind it that she did not know of. 
 
 " Are people saying it ? " Mrs. Brown pressed her. 
 
 " Not in any ill-natured way at all. But you see it is 
 a thing that would be likely to be said anyhow. Katie 
 is looked upon as a great heiress, and a person in Lord 
 Meadshire's position is always supposed to be on the look- 
 out for an heiress." 
 
 " I don't know why Katie should be looked upon as a 
 great heiress. She will have some money, of course, by 
 and by, but whatever she may have, she would not have it 
 for many years yet, let us hope. My husband is not so 
 much older than Lord Meadshire, and I should say that 
 his life is every bit as good. Such talk is very annoying ; 
 very annoying indeed. I do hope you will do all you can 
 to discountenance it. I do think you owe me that, at 
 least." 
 
 What Mrs. Fuller actually owed to her was her coun- 
 tenance, which did not help her much outside ; some 
 brightening of her own life, for which she paid something 
 on account in an irksome self-control ; and an occasional 
 gift of a hat or a gown, which she was glad enough to 
 accept, while she secretly resented the offer. She also 
 resented being reminded of her obligation, but judged the 
 countenance to be worth making some effort for. 
 
 " What I shall say to anybody who mentions it to me," 
 she said, " is that you would be very much against it. But, 
 of course, the talk isn't serious. Most people would expect 
 Katie to make a better match than that." 
 
 " I have never even thought of Katie making a match 
 at all — in that sort of way. She is very young, for one 
 thing, and she does not care about society. Myi husband 
 and I would be quite satisfied for her to marry a nice man, 
 by and by, who would not be what the world would call a 
 great match." 
 
 This was absolutely true. Mrs. Brown was intent on her 
 own career. Her daughter could neither help her in it nor 
 
Six Months Later 245 
 
 follow such a career for herself. A " great match," if it 
 should surprisingly come Katie's way, might create com- 
 plications. Mrs. Brown did not want " greatness " in her 
 private life, of which Katie was a part. The school friends 
 she brought into it gave no trouble. Katie would do very 
 well as she was. 
 
 But Mrs. Fuller was quite incapable of divining all this, 
 and thought that she was being " bluffed " or, in other 
 words, lied to. It was part of her game, however, to 
 accept such statements at their face value, and she did so 
 now. " I must say I do admire that in you," she said, 
 " that you are so free from what I call snobbery. The way 
 in which you have taken up the Sheards would prove it, if 
 nothing else did. I think they may consider themselves 
 very fortunate to have such people as yourselves here. 
 They have certainly fallen on their feet." 
 
 " The Sheards are very nice people," said Mrs. Brown 
 quite sincerely. They again were accepted as part of her 
 private and domestic existence, and gave her no trouble in 
 the way of " entertainment." Mrs. Fuller disliked them 
 on that account. 
 
 " I hope you won't be offended with me," she said, " if 
 I say that Anne Sheard seems to me to be a little over- 
 free in her manners when she comes up here. I know it 
 is a vulgar expression, but it has sometimes occurred to me 
 that she was setting her cap at Mr. Alfred." 
 
 Could it be that Mrs. Brown had also envisaged this 
 possibility, and that it bore no terrors for her ? She said 
 at once without flinching : ' ' There is nothing in that. All 
 the young people are very good friends together. It is 
 natural that a young man should be attracted by a pretty 
 girl, and Anne is a very pretty girl, and a nice one, too." 
 
 " But, dear Mrs. Brown, surely you would not think Anne 
 Sheard a suitable match for Mr. Alfred S " 
 
 " I have not thought about it at all. I don't think there 
 is the least chance of such a thing happening. For one 
 thing, unless I am very much mistaken, young Mr. Clinton 
 and Anne Sheard are in love with one another." 
 
 " What, Frank Clinton ! Well, I shouldn't advise you 
 to hint that to his father. It wouldn't suit him at all." 
 
 "lam not likely to hint it to anybody, and I hardly 
 know old Mr. Clinton. But his son has been over here 
 constantly whenever he has been home on leave, and I 
 think that is the attraction." 
 
246 Rank and Riches 
 
 " Well, I don't. I think it's Katie. And I believe old 
 Mr. Clinton thinks so too." 
 
 " Why do you think that ? " 
 
 " A little bird whispered it to me. Well, I won't make 
 a mystery of it. When my husband was over at Kencote the 
 other day about this dairying business, Mr. Clinton talked 
 about you all a good deal, and said what a nice girl Katie 
 was. And he seemed quire pleased at Frank coning over 
 here — talked about that too. Even my husband, who is not 
 observant in these matters, put two and two together. And 
 you know that Katie and Mr. Alfred were often invited 
 over to Kencote in the summer, whenever Frank Clinton 
 was at home." 
 
 The idea was a new one to Mrs. Brown. " I think it is 
 Anne," she said, but said it doubtfully, as if ready to admit 
 herself in the wrong. 
 
 " Should you object to that as a match," asked Mrs. 
 Fuller, " if it proved to be the case ? " 
 
 Mrs. Brown did not answer for a moment. " Oh, I am 
 not thinking of marriage for Katie," she said with a hint 
 of impatience. " And I am sure she herself has no idea of 
 such a thing." 
 
 But in that she was wrong. 
 
CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 A COUNTRY WALK 
 
 A long country walk was not much in Lord Meadshire's 
 way, but that was the form of entertainment to which he 
 was invited one Sunday afternoon at this time, when he 
 and Grace had been lunching at Kemsale. It was a glorious 
 sunny day ; they would go up through the woods at the back 
 of Kemsale and along the ridge to where a particular view 
 could be obtained of the two valleys. There was a large 
 party of them : Meadshire and Lady Grace, the Irvings, 
 Frank Clinton, who had came over from Kencote to lunch, 
 William and Anne Sheard, and a friend of Katie's staying 
 in the house. Mrs. Brown and Aunt Millie preferred to 
 stay at home, but Uncle James and Armitage Brown set 
 out with the rest. 
 
 They climbed up the hill; some of them walking faster 
 than others, and gradually split up into twos and threes. 
 Presently Meadshire and Katie were for practice of speech 
 alone together. 
 
 " There was a time," said Meadshire, " when I liked this 
 sort of thing ; and I generally led the party. I had long 
 legs, which I have still, and a thin body, which I have lost. 
 Now I must puff and pant in the rear, and rather wish I 
 hadn't come at all." 
 
 " I think exercise is very good for you," said Katie. 
 " You go about far too much in your car." 
 
 " My dear child, I am getting old. Exercise is an abom- 
 ination unto me." 
 
 " You are not old at all. You are not much older than 
 Captain Irving, and he seems like a young man." 
 
 " He has led a good life, you see, and has therefore pre- 
 served his splendid youth. I have not led a good life, and 
 I am old." 
 
 " All that is over now," she said with an air of great 
 decision. " It is not to be thought about any more. It is 
 not to happen again ; it will not happen again." 
 
 247 
 
248 Rank and Riches 
 
 He looked down at her half quizzically, half tenderly. 
 They made rather a queer couple, he with his great height 
 and heavy shoulders, walking as if walking were not the 
 most natural mode of progression for mankind, she, short 
 and erect, with a step full of spring and energy. " You're 
 very certain of that, aren't you ? " he said. 
 
 " Yes, I am. You see now what a mistake it has all been, 
 and what trouble it brings to those who care for you." 
 
 " Are you one of them ? " 
 
 " You know I am," she said very boldly. " First of all, 
 I cared about it because of dear Grace ; and then, when I 
 saw that it wasn't really part of you, and that it spoilt 
 everything, I cared because of you." 
 
 " You wanted to pluck a brand from the burning ? " 
 
 " I felt that I wanted to help you. One likes to help 
 one's friends." 
 
 " You have been a very good friend to me, little Miss 
 Brown. If I had known you, or somebody like you, twenty 
 years ago, things might have been very different with me." 
 
 " Well, they are going to be different now. It is never 
 too late to mend." 
 
 "I'm not so sure about that. It's all a good deal harder 
 than you think. The spirit is willing, but the flesh is 
 weak." 
 
 " Oh, I hate to hear you talk like that," she said. " It 
 isn't the way to do anything. You must make up your 
 mind firmly ; you must stiffen yourself. One can do any- 
 thing that one determines to do." 
 
 He laughed at her gently. " You could, I believe," he 
 said. " But, you see, you have never played with yourself ; 
 you've got your will-power undisturbed ; you're young, and 
 full of energy and confidence. When one has reached my 
 age, and made such a mess of things all round, there doesn't 
 seem to be much left to try for. Then when the trouble 
 comes, one says to one's self, after holding out perhaps for 
 a bit : ' After all, why shouldn't I ? I'm doing nobody 
 any harm but myself, and what does that matter ? ' " 
 
 Yes, you have said that to yourself before ; but you 
 are not going to say it any more. It is different now." 
 
 " How is it different now, little Miss Brown ? " 
 
 " Because you have people who believe in you. I believe 
 in you ; and Grace believes in you." 
 
 Poor dear Grace ! She was beginning to, before 
 that little set-back we had in the summer. I say, it 
 
A Country Walk 249 
 
 seems rather odd that I should be talking about these 
 things to you." 
 
 " I think it is a very good thing for us to talk about 
 them. I used to wish I could, when Grace first told me 
 all about it ; and when you came back again I wished it 
 more than ever. It was one of the proudest days of my 
 life when we did begin to talk about it together. I felt 
 that I was trusted, and could begin to do something. I 
 hate standing by and doing nothing." 
 
 " Yes, you're a chip of the old block in that, aren't 
 you ? Do you know that your father also had a word 
 with me about my little failing ? " 
 
 " He was sorry about it, I know ; and he likes you. 
 What did he say ? " 
 
 " I shan't tell you what he said. At least, I'll tell you 
 some of it. He thinks I ought to do something. He thinks 
 I'm a pretty useless sort of fellow as I am. And he's not 
 far wrong there." 
 
 11 I think you ought to do something, too." 
 
 " What do you think I ought to do ? I'm afraid I don't 
 possess the financial genius of your father. Doing some- 
 thing in these days generally means making money. I've 
 got a genius for spending it, but I'm afraid there's nothing 
 much to be made of that. Besides, I've lost my lavish 
 tastes. They seem to have dropped away from me since 
 I've been living here quietly with Grace. It's a rotten 
 game, anyhow, chucking money away, and the friends you 
 make over it are rotten friends. I think you can trust 
 me there, little Miss Brown. That side of my vivid career 
 is over and done with." 
 
 " I trust you in much more than that," she said simply. 
 " What I think }fou ought to do is to take up some public 
 work. It is what people like you are there for, and your 
 ancestors did a great deal, I know. I was reading about 
 them the other day in a book at-Kemsale. They won all 
 sorts of honours for you, and the honours have descended 
 to you, and you ought to show that you are worthy of 
 them." 
 
 " Noblesse oblige," he said, laughing at her again. " It 
 doesn't oblige much in these days, and the time has gone 
 by for me. No, I'm a useless sort of fellow all round. I 
 shall do best by living here quietly and behaving myself as 
 well as I can. Fortunately the line comes to an end with 
 me. It's something to my credit that I haven't continued it." 
 
230 Rank and Riches 
 
 It was true that throughout all his follies and his loose- 
 ness he had kept to that determination. He had broken 
 up the fortunes of his house, but he would not bequeath 
 the fragments of its ruin to heirs of his body ; lie would 
 not marry, and share his disgrace with a wife. Did he 
 know now that he might do so, that this brave strong 
 confident girl walking by his side was ready to join her 
 clean life to his damaged one, to bear the burden of his 
 weakness with him, to lift him out of the slough in which 
 he had involved himself ? He knew it very well. 
 
 When the difficulties in the way of a friendship between 
 Kemsale and the Herons' Nest were done away with, the 
 friendship followed very quickly. The impetuosity with 
 which Katie cleared out her rooms and transferred their 
 contents to Grace at the earliest possible moment, and 
 sent her own warm heart with them to make amends for 
 the wrong done, left no doubt as to the value of her friend- 
 ship. She was longing to love Grace, if Grace would let 
 her, and Grace very soon came to love her. They were 
 happy together during the weeks of early summer. They 
 went about amongst the country people, who also learnt 
 to love Katie, as they had always loved Grace. The two 
 were a complete contrast, Grace gentle and sweet, but too 
 yielding, Katie energetic and clear-sighted. Meadshire 
 showed his liking for his little Miss Brown, chaffed her 
 and teased her, and sometimes succeeded in arousing her 
 strong indignation against him. At that time neither he 
 nor Grace nor Katie herself could have thought of any 
 closer tie between them. 
 
 Then came the time when he began to get moody and 
 morose. Katie began to dislike him. She knew nothing 
 of his failing. She saw Grace becoming sadder and sadder, 
 and thought that there must be some dispute between them, 
 and he was treating her unkindly. Once she spoke to 
 him with indignation about it, and he glared at her, and 
 turned away without speaking. The next day he disap- 
 peared, and for a week Grace shut herself up and would 
 sec nobody. 
 
 Then she told Katie her troubles, and seemed to lean 
 on her for support and consolation in her bitter disap- 
 pointment. For a year had passed since this had hap- 
 pened, and she had begun to think that it might never 
 happen again. 
 
 When Meadshire came back, two months later, so much 
 
A Country Walk 2 51 
 
 subdued that there was no chaff left in him, and he seemed 
 ashamed to see Katie in the house, and escaped her when- 
 ever she came there, ambition awoke in her to show herself 
 worthy of Grace's confidence, to do something to help 
 these kind friends in their trouble. For it seemed to her 
 in her innocence that Meadshire only wanted taking out 
 of himself and showing that his fault was forgiven him 
 to regain his self-respect, and be as he had been before, 
 and better than he had been before. She felt protective, 
 almost motherly, towards him. He was so like a naughty 
 child who must be encouraged not to brood too much upon 
 his fault, but to make up his mind that it should never 
 occur again. So she took much pains to raise him out of 
 his despondency, and presently succeeded. 
 
 Then came the time when "he talked to her about him- 
 self, and she spoke truly when she said afterwards that 
 this was a proud moment for her. She could strengthen 
 and inspirit him now. She knew that Grace had come to 
 feel great confidence in her influence over him, and with- 
 out any real knowledge of the task before her she thought 
 herself eminently capable of raising him out of the mire. 
 
 It is doubtful if she did much more than keep him 
 amused, although his liking and respect for her grew. 
 But to Grace she seemed to be performing wonders. Grace 
 herself had never felt that she had any real hold over him, 
 much as she loved him, and ready as she was to do every- 
 thing she could to help him. She thought that Katie, with 
 her bright confident strength, could have kept him straight 
 if she had been in her place. And by and by she began 
 to form a hope that she might take a closer place than hers, 
 and give him back some of the years that he had lost. 
 
 She waited for a while, and then in her almost feverish 
 anxiety asked him if he could not make up his mind to 
 marry Katie. She put it like that ; she thought she knew 
 that Katie would accept him if he asked her. 
 
 Ke laughed at her, as he laughed at most things, but 
 showed that the idea was not new to him. " She's a dear 
 little thing," he said. " I could get on very well with 
 her. If it had been ten years ago, I dare say I might 
 have tried my luck. But it's too late now. I like the 
 little thing too much to want to tie her up to a person 
 like myself, at her age and at mine ; or perhaps I don't 
 like her enough. It's a little of both." 
 
 Then Grace talked to Katie, and found out that to 
 
252 Rank and Riches 
 
 her the idea was new and alarming. The gentle creature 
 reproached herself for her thoughts about the girl, but 
 her desires were so strong, were indeed heightened by 
 her discovery that Katie's firmness and self-reliance went 
 along^ with so much innocence and simpleness of mind, 
 that she would not let her alone, the ice once broken. They 
 talked it over together many times, not without tears and 
 strong emotion on either side, and at last Katie said : "If 
 he wants me, I will take him. I will give up my life to 
 save him from himself. I know he is good and kind at 
 heart, but he is weak, and I know that I am strong. Yes, 
 Grace, I will." 
 
 She was uplifted by her decision. She had a task to 
 perform. She would not only save and protect this man 
 from his faults, she would make something of him, and 
 be proud of him. Of her own risk she thought nothing, 
 partly because she was ignorant of it, partly because she 
 was so sure of herself. 
 
 And so the matter stood on this Sunday afternoon. She 
 was ready to take him if he should ask her. But appar- 
 ently he could not make up his mind to ask her. Her 
 exaltation still held, but it was becoming a little dimmed. 
 Although she talked to him so confidently and so quietly, 
 she was not happy, either with him or with herself. Indeed, 
 her free youthful happiness seemed to be slowly departing 
 from her. Perhaps she would never recapture it again, 
 whether she made her sacrifice or whether it should not 
 be required of her. 
 
 There was another couple much interested in one another 
 who took advantage of that winter walk to secure a prac- 
 tical solitude in the midst of the little crowd. They were 
 Frank Clinton and Anne Sheard, who had reached the 
 stage of looking into one another's eyes and finding infinite 
 meaning there, though the meaning was not yet declared 
 between them. It was with a delicious sense of hazard 
 that they had found themselves together and separating 
 from the rest. Each of them had wanted that, but had 
 not been sure that it could be brought about, or that the 
 other wanted it. And now that they were together, and 
 the rest, though within sight, were not within hearing, 
 they were so happy that they scarcely knew what to do 
 with their opportunity. 
 
 When Frank's long leave in the early summer had 
 to an end, he had been appointed to a ship sta- 
 
A Country Walk 253 
 
 tioned at Chatham. It was the first time in his naval 
 career that he had been employed in home waters, and 
 the number of times that he had been able to put in an 
 appearance at Kencote, and consequently at Kemsale, if 
 only for a day, had seemed to indicate that leave was very 
 easily obtainable for lieutenants in His Majesty's Navy. 
 
 He had not for some time admitted to himself that he 
 was very deeply in love with Anne. He had been en- 
 couraged to go over to Kemsale during his leave, and as 
 it had coincided with Charles Sheard's, he had never gone 
 there without going to the rectory, unless the young Sheards 
 were up at the big house, as they often were. A great 
 deal of lawn tennis was played at Kemsale during that 
 summer, and a certain amount of golf ; Frank liked Katie 
 and Alfred Brown, and told himself that he would have 
 gone over just as often if the Sheards had not been there. 
 Perhaps he might have gone, or nearly as often, for there 
 were no young people at Kencote now, Joan having re- 
 turned to her resplendent duties in London. At any rate, 
 the excuse had been quite satisfactory, and he was enabled 
 to satisfy his father's curious thirst for news about his 
 doings at Kemsale whenever he returned from one of his 
 visits. He never failed to mention the young Sheards when 
 they had been of the party, and Anne and Charles and 
 William had been to Kencote with Katie and Alfred on 
 return visits, and had been affably entreated by the Squire, 
 who had never, however, broken out into commendation of 
 Anne as he constantly did of Katie. 
 
 It was not until Frank had left Kencote that he dis- 
 covered how very- much he had enjoyed the past few 
 weeks. It had been the best leave he had ever spent, 
 and he had never once slept away from Kencote. When 
 he found how much drawn he was to go back there on 
 all possible occasions, he could no longer disguise from 
 himself the attraction that drew him, and being of a 
 direct habit of rnind, and no longer a boy, began to ask 
 himself whither he was tending. 
 
 The result of his self-questionings was that he began 
 to think about Anne from a slightly different angle. That 
 the thought of her made his blood run warm was not 
 quite enough. That had happened to him with other girls, 
 though never to the same extent ; there were photographs 
 of one or two of them in his cabin, but there was not 
 one of them that he had studied so earnestly as he did 
 
254 Rank and Riches 
 
 the snapshot of Anne standing on the tennis-court at 
 Kencote that he had taken himself. It did not seem to 
 him possible that this was a passing fancy, to fade away 
 in time like the others. It was of a different quality 
 altogether. 
 
 The idea of marriage with Anne gave him a deep thrill, 
 but it could not be admitted without careful consideration. 
 It was only when he told himself that if he was not pre- 
 pared to woo her in earnest he ought not to be constantly 
 making plans to see her, that he realized what a blank his 
 life there would be if he were not so prepared. 
 
 She was very young, hardly more than a child ; and he 
 was coming to the end of his youth. It was a disturbing 
 thought that she might not regard him as young at all. 
 
 It was quite certain that there would be trouble in the 
 camp at Kencote if he were to announce his intention of 
 bringing home Anne as a bride. That would not worry 
 him much if the reasons for it did not affect him personally, 
 and he had to make up his mind, without blinking facts, 
 whether they did or not. 
 
 Anne was the sweetest creature in the world, but she 
 was not sprung from the kind of stock from which brides 
 were sought at Kencote. Did that matter ? 
 
 No ; it didn't matter to him. Anne was Anne, and her 
 " people " were worthy of all respect. Their ways were 
 slightly different from the ways of his people, and that 
 was all. The difference of their ways was almost entirely 
 based upon the lack of money, and he smiled to himself as 
 he invented a question for his father : " What is the differ- 
 ence between the Sheards and the Browns, if you leave 
 money out of account ? " 
 
 He found that he had acquired a deep respect for Anne's 
 father, and it was based partly upon the very fact of his 
 not being of a birth and position equal to his own, or his 
 father's. How many men were there who would have 
 made of themselves what he had, or having gained his 
 success would have used it with such singleness of mind, 
 such entire absence of unworthy ambitions ? His was a 
 line character ; it had gone towards the making of Anne. 
 If Anne's parents were to be taken into account, her father 
 ought to weigh the balance in her favour, not against it, 
 if lie were to be judged by worthy standards. As for her 
 mother, she was more definitely marked of the origin to 
 which the Squire would make strong objections. But that 
 
A Country Walk 255 
 
 was all that could be said against her. She was a good 
 simple-minded woman, unselfish and warm-hearted. And 
 her character also had gone to the making of Anne. 
 
 Frank had met all Anne's brothers and sisters now, and 
 had liked them all. John, the Cambridge don, was like 
 other young Cambridge clerical dons, rather older than 
 his years in some things, rather young in others. He had 
 the family sturdiness, both in mind and bod}\ Henry, 
 the young house-surgeon, was much like him. Neither of 
 them was in the least ornamental ; Henry had not quite 
 got over his medical student's roughness. If Dick or 
 Humphrey, or even Walter, had been at the University 
 with them, they would have left them out of account, as 
 belonging to the great mass of undergraduates who led 
 lives quite apart from theirs. But those standards change. 
 Certainly Walter now, and probably Dick and Humphrey, 
 would accept men working diligently and successfully at 
 their professions ©n their merits. 
 
 Frank could not avoid bringing in his brothers to sit 
 in judgment upon Anne's brothers. They were all some 
 years older than he, and he had accepted their standards 
 in his youth — the standards of their schools and colleges, 
 which were socially narrower than those his own education 
 had taught him ; for in the Navy there are real things to 
 do from the first, and ability cannot be left out of account. 
 He had been interested to see what Dick would make out 
 of William Sheard when he took him. over with Charles to 
 fish at Kencote. Dick had been land to him and had 
 given him a rod ; he had taken no notice of his deficiencies 
 of costume, or, if he had noticed them, had not remarked 
 upon them. Dick could always be relied on to behave 
 perfectly, but Frank had a suspicion that his courtesy 
 would receive a severe strain if he were called upon to 
 extend it to Anne's brothers in any closer degree than as the 
 sons of a neighbouring parson. "But one never knew with 
 Dick. Virginia had broadened him in some respects ; 
 he had a clear brain, and, for a man of his native prejudices, 
 a tolerant outlook. 
 
 Mary Sheard, the elder daughter, was the energetic 
 capable mistress of a class in a big London High School, 
 very interested in her work, standing no nonsense, a little 
 inclined to be critical of Anne, who was not striving after 
 scholastic success in the way she herself had been doing 
 at her age. Perhaps it was on account of this critical 
 
Rank and Riches 
 
 le that Frank liked her the least of :niy of her 
 family ; and somehow, with her half-masculine sensible- 
 she seemed more of a stumbling-block in the way 
 of a complete understanding between his people and hers 
 than anyone else. His young sisters, in the stage of 
 pupilage, would have " led her a dance." They might 
 have liked her, as a human being, as he tried now, not 
 altogether without success, to do. But the schoolmistress 
 would have been most apparent in her. Still, she was not 
 Anne, and would not matter much. Pic wished that Joan 
 had seen Anne. Cicely had, and had taken to her. She 
 had even wondered whetker it would be possible to get her 
 to Mountfield as first governess to her children. That 
 was the sort of complication that it was impossible to get 
 away from, and made an examination of the Sheards' 
 condition essential, distasteful as it was. 
 
 When it all came to be summed up, Anne's extreme 
 youth and the very short time he had known her were 
 the only things that held him back. He was not a boy 
 to rush into an engagement with a pretty girl who had 
 made an impression upon him. He must have more time. 
 But no consideration deterred him from seeing as much 
 of her as he could during that summer and autumn, and 
 now at the end of it he knew that the impression she had 
 made upon him was not a passing one. He loved her 
 deeply and truly, and loved her more ever} 7 time he saw her. 
 And by this time there was very little doubt that she loved 
 him. Her looks and her words gave him the sweetest 
 thrills when he recalled them in the silence of his night 
 watches, going over every minute of the time he had 
 passed with her, and ardently longing to be with her 
 again. 
 
 He was just at that stage when his final word hung upon 
 a chance. He could not be quite sure what the answer 
 would be until he had said the word, and the state of 
 tremulous happiness in which they were living was too 
 sweet to be cut short except at the bidding of strong 
 emol ; 
 
 The word was not spoken that afternoon. They talked 
 
 rything but their love for each other, but that was 
 
 1 in everything that they said. The word trembled 
 
 Kps many times, but he held it back, he could not 
 
 have told why. At the end, their solitude was suddenly 
 
 invaded by Meadshire and Katie catching them up, and 
 
A Country Walk 257 
 
 he was not alone with Anne again. The chance had passed, 
 but it would come again. It would come at Christmas- 
 time, when he would get a long leave, and so much would 
 be going on at Kemsale that they would meet every day. 
 And in the meantime this walk had given him a crowd of 
 sweet memories on which to feed until he saw her again. 
 
 (7) 
 
CHAPTER XXV 
 
 A DIFFERENCE OF PRINCIPLE 
 
 ArmiTAGE Brown was angry. Anger was a passion that 
 lie rarely indulged in, and when he did he kept its expression 
 rigidly subdued, and used other means to make it felt. 
 It had seldom happened that those means had not been 
 efficacious in removing the cause of his anger. 
 
 But his wife was the cause of his anger now, and he could 
 not remove her. He must make his will felt otherwise. 
 
 They were in her boudoir together. It was a room he 
 seldom visited. It was not used except in the daytime, 
 and in the daytime their ways had always lain apart. 
 They did so now whenever he spent his time at Kemsale. 
 He had his interests and she had hers. They had never 
 clashed before, but they were clashing now, and he had 
 come to tell her that the clashing must cease. 
 
 " I thought it was understood," he was saying, " that 
 after what happened here a month ago, the house was not 
 to be filled again with strangers." 
 
 " But, Armitage, these people are not strangers." 
 
 " I call them strangers. At any rate they are exactly 
 the same sort of people as were asked here before. Call 
 them what you like. They are not coming here again." 
 
 She was offended by his brusqueness. " You have never 
 spoken to me like that before," she said. 
 
 He took a seat deliberately. " It is quite time I spoke 
 plainly," he said, " and I do so now once for all. I have 
 never, as far as I remember, once interfered with your 
 way of living, though it hasn't always suited me. Since 
 we first went abroad you have spent enormous sums 
 of money on your parties, and on people that I don't care 
 a bit about, except one or two here and there, and I don't 
 believe you care about them any more than I do. I 
 don't grudge you the money — that's nothing ; spend 
 what you like in any way that amuses you. And I don't 
 
 253 
 
A Difference of Principle 259 
 
 grudge you your parties, as long as you keep them to their 
 proper place. Their proper place is in London and at the 
 villa, not at Kemsale." 
 
 " Why don't you want people invited to Kemsale ? 
 It is the regular thing to do with a great house like this ? " 
 
 " What do I care about the regular thing ? I'm not 
 going to give up my home to what you call the regular 
 thing. I don't object to people being invited to Kemsale 
 if they are my friends, or yours, or the children's friends. 
 I like to see them here, and the more of them there are the 
 better I like it. And I like to see people here from the 
 neighbourhood. I should like to see a good many more" 
 of them, not only the people from the big houses, but the 
 others as well." 
 
 " What do you mean by the others ? Do you mean the 
 farmers and the tradespeople ? " 
 
 " I shouldn't at all object to seeing some of the farmers 
 here. But I think you know quite well what I mean ; 
 and I do mean it. The people I don't want to see here, 
 and am not going to have here, are the people who come 
 just for what they can get and are only asked because 
 they're what's called smart. I'll ask you to accept that 
 decision and act upon it for the future." 
 
 There was a dull fxush on her face. It was true that he 
 had never spoken to her in this way before. But then she 
 had never given him occasion to. Was it worth while, 
 for the sake of her ambitions, to hold out against him ? She 
 was a proud woman ; she could not give in, in a matter 
 in which he had never before interfered, for just a word 
 from him, not too courteously expressed. 
 
 " I think you are taking a very extraordinary line," she 
 said. " Do you really mean, after all these years, that I 
 am not allowed to ask my friends to my house." 
 
 He shifted in his seat. " I'll put it more plainly still," 
 he said. " This isn't a small matter ; it has come to 
 be an important difference of principle between you and 
 me ; and where it is a question of principle I am going to 
 have my way, as head of the house." 
 
 " How can you talk about a question of principle in 
 such a matter as this ? One would think I was proposing 
 to do something definitely wrong." 
 
 " Well, I think it is wrong. You talked just now about 
 asking your friends here. Please tell me this : out of 
 all those people who came here to shoot the other day, 
 
 (IT) 
 
Rank and Riches 
 
 how many were really your friends? Which of them 
 would you ask to spend a week with you here alone, as 
 you would ask James and Millie, for instance ? 
 
 *' That is quite different." 
 
 " 1 know it is quite different. That is just what I am 
 j. Not one of those people was a friend of yours 
 iii any way. You didn't know what to do with them 
 when they were here. They were as much a nuisance to 
 3-011 in the house as they were to me ; in fact, more so, 
 for there were one or two I liked talking to, and I don't 
 think there was a single one that you did. The fact of 
 the matter is, my dear, you don't make friends. It may 
 seem a harsh thing to say, but it's perfectly true. You 
 are loyal enough to the few you have, but there, isn't a 
 single one of them that belongs to the smart world, emd 
 you're reahy not comfortable with people of that sort when 
 you've got them round you. I'm not either, though, 
 upon my word, I think I'm more comfortable with them 
 than you are, They're just furniture for your smart 
 parties. Keep them so, if it amuses you to have them ; I 
 don't complain of that ; but don't mix them up with your 
 home life. They only spoil it." 
 
 What he had said, though wounding to her, was too true 
 to be contradicted. She had not thought he had seen it. 
 She had even thought that he had taken some pride in her 
 social successes, that it had suited him that she should 
 play the part that she had, the part for which he was not 
 fitted himself. She could not even now believe that he 
 was quite indifferent to it. 
 
 " I really don't understand you," she said. " I know 
 that there was a time when you preferred to live quietly 
 at Hillgrove, and keep clear of society altogether. But 
 when you became very well known, I thought that you 
 had made up your mind that you could not go on hiding 
 yourself there, that you must mix more with the world. 
 I have done everything for you in that way, taken all the 
 burden of it off your shoulders, and brought you into 
 touch with all sorts of people. I thought that I was help- 
 ou, and doing what you wished." 
 
 " Well, if I thought you had done it entirely for my 
 sake, I'd say thank you, you've done it very well. But I 
 don't want to he unfair ; it suits me all right that I'm known 
 ii London not merely as a man who grubs for money in 
 the City. -To that extent the place you've made for your- 
 
A Difference of Principle 26i 
 
 self, and I suppose me with you, is worth something. 
 As far as I'm concerned it's worth just the trouble I take 
 to go out when I'd rather be sitting at home, and not a bit 
 more than that, except that it pleases you. But here 
 it's different. This is my home. Can't you see it ? It 
 doesn't seem to me very difficult." 
 
 " When we decided on this place out of all the others we 
 considered, there was no talk of our having a large London 
 house. That came afterwards. If you had said at that 
 time : take a London house to see people in, and a country 
 house to. retire to, I should have liked that very well. 
 But we certainly shouldn't have bought Kemsale, which is 
 quite absurd for a place to shut one's self up in. It was to 
 be — or so I understood it — the place in which we were to 
 make the difference. We had shut ourselves up at Hill- 
 grove. There was no idea of our shutting ourselves up 
 here." 
 
 " You talk a lot of our shutting ourselves up, and that's 
 the last thing I want, and the last thing we're doing. 
 We must have a dozen young people staying in the house 
 now, and more coming. I like all that. Give them their 
 ball by all means, and all the fun you can. That's all I 
 thought it meant till I tumbled to it that it was going 
 to be made an excuse for another party of the sort we had 
 here a month ago. That will spoil everything, and 
 I " 
 
 "Wait "a minute, please, Armitage. I want to see 
 exactly what it is that you do want, and what it is that 
 you are blaming me for. Is it not a fact that when you 
 bought this place it was because you were ready to come 
 out of your shell, and to see more of the world ? 'When 
 we settled upon this enormous house, before we decided 
 to have one in London as well, did you really mean that 
 we were to keep it to ourselves, and to Alfred's and Katie's 
 friends ? That is what I want to know." 
 
 He had recovered his good humour. He was going to 
 have his own way. He had said the unpleasant thing 
 that he had made up his mind to say ; he had no wish to 
 put his wife into a state of antagonism towards him. 
 " Well, you've cornered me," he said. " But the facts of the 
 case are these, and I hope you'll accept them and act on 
 them. When we made the change I didn't quite know what 
 I wanted. I suppose I was ready to take up a bigger posi-" 
 tion in the world than I had done before, and I thought 
 
 (3) 
 
2G2 Rank and Riches 
 
 I could do it by buying a fine country house and estate — 
 the finest there was in the market. I had really very few 
 ideas as to what I was going to do with it all. The estate 
 was to be a sort of toy to me, and the house to }'ou. Neither 
 of us knew anything about life in the country, and the 
 trouble seems to me to be that while I've learnt a good deal 
 about my part, you've learnt \ery little about yours." 
 
 " I wish you would say what you have to say without 
 making unkind speeches, Armitage. I am willing to fall 
 in with your views when you have explained them, but I 
 am not willing to accept blame for having misunderstood 
 you. You have already admitted that your views have 
 changed since we came here." 
 
 " I don't want to be unkind, my dear, but I think you 
 knew quite well that I should object to what you were going 
 to do, and I am trying to make you see that you have been 
 going on the wrong tack, and to agree with me about it* 
 What has become plain to me since we have been living 
 here is that you are much more mixed up with your 
 neighbours in the country, rich and poor, than you are in 
 London- You can't leave them out of account, and go 
 your own way. I very soon saw that, when I began to get 
 to work with estate business. It's one of the reasons 
 why everybody is up in arms at once when they hear of a 
 rich man like me buying a big estate. They know all about 
 that side of it — people like the Clintons, I mean ; even 
 people like Meadshire, who make so many mistakes other- 
 wise — and they think that people like us don't know. 
 Well, they're right. But I tumbled to it pretty quickly, 
 and I believe there's very little feeling left against me on that 
 score. I'm doing all that the old-established people are 
 doing, and more besides." 
 
 " I really don't see, Armitage, what that has to do with 
 what we are talking about. You mention the Clintons. 
 How are they, and people like them, who live about here, 
 different from the people I want to ask here ? We have 
 known them a very short time. Lord and Lady Dawlish, 
 and one or two others I had' meant to ask next month, we 
 have known for years, ever since we first went abroad." 
 
 " They are different because they are our neighbours. 
 What I say is that in the country your social life and even 
 your business is based upon something much more like 
 friendship than it is in London. You have interests 
 in common with all the people about you. You meet 
 
 C'Jj 
 
A Difference of Principle 263 
 
 them in a more intimate way. Well, take the Clintons. 
 They call on us and they ask us to dine. They don't give 
 us a formal dinner-party. They take us into their family. 
 And it doesn't end there, either. The young people make 
 friends, and there's coming and going between our two 
 houses. That's what I like to see. And, mind you, that's 
 going on always. We're only just at the beginning of 
 it, you and I. When Alfred takes the reins here after me, 
 there's that tie, and others like it ; and when his children 
 come they'll be friends with the next generation at Kencote. 
 It's something worth thinking about. You don't get that 
 sort of thing except in the country. You certainly don't 
 get it with the smart people who come to your parties in 
 London. They come and eat your food and drink your 
 wine, and think they're doing you a favour. They know 
 nothing about you, and you know nothing about them." 
 
 " Why did you say just now that I did not understand, 
 or had not learnt, what you have just been saying ? I 
 understand it ven^ well. I am ready to entertain our 
 country neighbours as well as they have ever been enter- 
 tained, even in this house, where a great deal of state was 
 kept up." 
 
 " I should think if you were to make inquiries about the 
 entertainments that were, given in this house you would 
 find that they didn't depend upon state at all. A certain 
 amount of state was natural for people like that, and it 
 isn't natural for people like us. If they got big parties of 
 people together "they got them together to enjoy them- 
 selves, not for the sake of showing off their state. I'm quite 
 sure that the shooting parties they had here weren't like 
 that ghastly affair of ours the other day." 
 
 " I wish you wouldn't keep harping upon that. I admit 
 that it was not a success. But that was largely because 
 there was no man to organize it." 
 
 " I don't agree with you. The shooting was the only 
 thing that went well, thanks to Irving. The party was 
 a failure because the people you asked to it weren't your 
 friends. And it would be just the same with your ball 
 next month, if I were to consent to your asking people in 
 the same way." 
 
 " Wnen the last big ball was given here, not long before 
 Lord Meadshire's grandfather died, the house was filled 
 with people staying here for it. I have seen a printed 
 list of the guests"." * 
 
 (2D 
 
264 Rank and Riches 
 
 And who were the guests? Every one of ilicm rela- 
 tions and friends of the family, I've not the smallest 
 doubt. It's just what I'm saying. If people like that 
 were to give a big ball in London all the smart crowd 
 would be asked, I dare say. But they would only ask 
 their friends to a ball in the country. Of course their 
 friends would be people like themselves, and I dare say 
 their names would make a fine show in a printed list. Even 
 if you could get a list to look something like it, it wouldn't 
 be the same thing, for they wouldn't be your friends. 
 And I've a pretty strong suspicion, too, that it wouldn't 
 look like the same thing to those who really knew. The 
 people who would go to them wouldn't come to us. Why 
 should they ? They don't want anything from us. Your 
 Dawlishes and people like that do, and that's why they 
 come. And we want something from them, or we shouldn't 
 ask them." 
 
 " What do we want from them ? " 
 
 " Their names, in a list. I can't think of anything else." 
 
 " Well, Armitage, I think you are unfair to me. I have 
 listened to all you have said, and tried to understand your 
 point of view. I do understand it to some extent and am 
 willing to obey you when you tell me exactly what it is 
 that you do want. But it is very unfair to accuse me of 
 running after people for the sake of their names, as you 
 express it. It is a thing I have never done. It is rather 
 the other way about. People have run after me." 
 
 " Well, my dear, if you want the plain truth, I think 
 you have deteriorated in that respect since we have been 
 at Kemsale. You are at liberty to make your own friends, 
 of course, but the only one you seem to have made here, 
 out of all the nice people we have come to know, is a 
 woman I've no respect for at all. If you're not a snob 
 by nature — and I don't think you are — she is, and you 
 have acted more on her ideas than you have on your own." 
 
 Her face grew red again. " I can hardly be said to have 
 made a friend of Mrs. Fuller," she said. " She has been 
 useful to me, and I have been able to do things for her. 
 And I am not aware of having acted on her ideas." 
 
 " Well, you haven't acted as you did before. It used to 
 amuse me rather to see people running after you. It 
 doesn't amuse me at all to see you running after them." 
 
 " I do not run after people, Armitage." 
 
 " I call it running after them. How were you going 
 (i) 
 
A Difference of Principle 265 
 
 to ask people for this party ? Write first to the biggest 
 of them, and fill up the places of those that refuse— don't 
 think it good enough — by the next biggest. It isn't good 
 enough for us, my dear. We're what we are. Let's 
 keep our self-respect, and ask people to our house that 
 will come because they like us, and not for what we can 
 give them." 
 
 She thought over it for a moment. Underneath the 
 chagrin she felt at having desires that she had scarcely 
 formulated dragged out and shown up to her, there was 
 a sense of relief at being free of a burden. To arrange 
 her programme for people who would thoroughly appre- 
 ciate it, and give her no trouble at all by their presence, 
 and let the others go by, was a large relief. And she 
 began to have a glimmering of what lay at the back of 
 her husband's mind, and to see that he was right. Her 
 parties at Kemsale could be as frequent and as elaborate 
 as she pleased, but they must have a difference basis from 
 her parties in London. They must draw chiefly from 
 the people around, and there was, after all, a large field 
 to draw from. They could not be as " select " as her 
 London parties, but they would be enjoyed much more, 
 and credit would accrue to her from one form of enter- 
 tainment as much as from the other. 
 
 " Well, I will tear up the invitations I have written," 
 she said, " except to one or two of Katie's friends." 
 
 " I don't want you to tear up any to Katie's friends." 
 
 "I am thinking of people whom we have known at the 
 villa. Katie has made friends amongst the people you 
 so much object to." 
 
 " I don't object to them any more than to any other set 
 of people. If you had made friends amongst them you'd 
 have been at liberty to ask them here. Don't let us spar 
 about it. I think we understand one another ; and if 
 you will think it over you will see that I am right. Now 
 about these parties. You will look after everything in- 
 doors, of course. The young people ought to have a royal 
 time ; and their elders too. The men can shoot, those 
 of them who want to, and we had better get over a few 
 neighbours as well — older men, who have been accustomed 
 to shoot here. I don't know anything about it, and it 
 doesn't interest me, except to go out and look on occa- 
 sionally. And Alfred doesn't seem to care for it either. 
 I propose to put all the arrangements into Irving's hands. 
 
% 2G0 Rank and Riches 
 
 He got us out of a hole last time', and I dare say he'll 
 like doing it. He has done it for three years, and paid 
 for it, or his friends have — I don't know. Anyhow, he'll 
 get just as much fun out of it as he did before." 
 
 " Before } 7 ou do that, Armitage, I wish you would talk 
 to Alfred and see if you can't induce him to take all that 
 up as a duty. It seems to me humiliating that we should 
 have to call in an outsider to do what the men of the house 
 ought to do. If you do not care to make those arrange- 
 ments, Alfred ought to. He does shoot, and it can't be 
 very difficult to learn what there is to learn. Let Captain 
 Irving help him, if you like ; but don't put everything into 
 his hands, as if he were master here." 
 
 " There's something in that. I'll talk to Alfred. I 
 should like him to take an interest in all that sort of thing. 
 He's not too old, as I am. And goodness knows, he has 
 little enough to do ; he doesn't do the work that he pro- 
 fesses to be doing. I've not said anything about that, 
 because my ideas have changed somewhat since we came 
 here. It seems to me now that there is plenty for Alfred 
 to do here, if he'll do it. Captain Clinton keeps pretty 
 busy looking after property that will be his some day ; 
 and this will be Alfred's in the same way. He didn't take 
 to my business in London, and I didn't much mind. But 
 there's a great deal of business to be done here that I shall 
 be disappointed if he doesn't take to. I don't want him to 
 grow into a slacker. We have an example of that before 
 our eyes, and it's one that ought to make him careful." 
 
 " I am very disappointed in Alfred. I thought at first 
 that he would take an interest in the place. But lately 
 he has done nothing but moon about ; and if there is any- 
 thing that's wanted of him he runs away." 
 
 " Well, I don't blame him for running away from what 
 he did. But now we have settled that that is not to happen 
 again, he ought to play his part. I haven't worried him 
 about it yet, because I thought he had better get used to 
 the idea of living here first. He has got used to it, I think. 
 He has been a great deal more at home this year than he 
 ever was before." 
 
 " I can't make him out. He seems to have changed. 
 I was prepared to take an interest in the garden with him, 
 as that was what lie began with. But he takes an interest 
 in it no longer. He takes an interest in nothing todowitli 
 the place. He even told me the other day that he hated 
 
A Difference of Principle 2 or 
 
 the house as it is now. He and Katie are always going off 
 to the Herons' Nest. I suppose Lord Meadshire and Lady 
 Grace have put ideas into their heads. It is a great 
 nuisance. I wish they were out of the place altogether." 
 
 Armitage Brown did not take this up. He was thought- 
 ful for a moment. " Well, I'll have a good talk with 
 Alfred," he said. 
 
CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 FATHER AND SON 
 
 Irene Fuller came down to breakfast twenty minutes 
 late, in motor-cap and coat. Her mother, who had been 
 only a quarter of an hour late, exclaimed in vexation. 
 " Surely you're not proposing to go trapesing off for the 
 day when there's everything to be settled this morning up 
 at the house," she said. 
 
 " It's a fine day," said Irene carelessly, " and I thought 
 I should like to go with father. They won't want me up 
 at the house." 
 
 " You can make yourself very useful there. I told Mrs. 
 Brown particularly that I should like to bring you. I 
 take all the trouble I can to get you in to things, and 
 you haven't got the sense to lift a little finger for your- 
 self, even when everything's made easy for you. There's 
 that Anne Sheard in and out of the house as if it belonged 
 to her, and you might be the same if you'd just exert your- 
 self a little. As it is you're just like a stranger there." 
 
 " They don't care for me and I don't care for them," said 
 the girl. " What good should I be to help settle things ? " 
 
 " Really, you'd try the patience of a saint. There are 
 the parts in the tableaux to be finally settled, and the 
 costumes. If you're there, you'll get the good parts you 
 ought to get. If you're not, I've got to do it all for you, 
 and I'm not going to. It looks as if I were always trying to 
 shove you in." 
 
 " Well, that's what you always are trying to do, isn't 
 it? " 
 
 '* When you've had breakfast, you'll just go and dress 
 yourself properly and wait till it's time to come with me. 
 I've had enough of it. You're always wanting to go off 
 with your father now, and you never used to before. What 
 you've got in your head I don't know. But you've got to 
 (hop it and do what you're told. I'm sick of you and your 
 All the young people in the house will be there 
 268 
 
Father and Son 269 
 
 this morning, and Alfred will be making his final arrange- 
 ments. I'm not going to have you out of it. If you don't 
 know where your bread's buttered, I do." 
 
 " Alfred won't be there this morning," said Herbert 
 Fuller. "He is coming with his father to meet us at 
 Points. I wish you'd told me you wanted to come last 
 night, Irene. I said I'd take William Sheard." 
 
 " Oh, if it's only William Sheard," said Mrs. Fuller, 
 " he can sit up behind, as he's done before ; good enough 
 for him too. The way those Sheards poke themselves in 
 everywhere — well, I should be ashamed to do it in that 
 bare-faced way. I wonder why Alfred has changed his 
 mind. I quite understood that there was to be a meeting 
 to decide things this morning at half-past ten. He doesn't 
 seem to be taking the interest in the tableaux that Mrs. 
 Brown hoped he would. Did you tell him that you were 
 going to Points this morning, Irene ? " 
 
 " No. I haven't seen him for nearly a week." 
 
 " Well, you can go this time ; but next time you'll please 
 ask my leave beforehand. You seem to think you can 
 do exactly what you like. Now mind you talk to Alfred 
 about the tableaux. Make some suggestions, and show an 
 interest in them. See that you get some good parts. For 
 goodness' sake try and do something for yourself, and don't 
 leave it all to me." 
 
 " I shall be starting in a quarter of an hour," said Fuller, 
 rising from the table, " with you or without you, Irene." 
 
 Herbert Fuller was a busy happy little man in these 
 days. The alterations that he had made in his house during 
 the summer pleased him greatly, and fortunately they also 
 pleased his wife, who had now resigned herself to a perma- 
 nent occupation of Barton's Farm. Armitage Brown, 
 always intent upon time-saving, had bought him a two- 
 seated car for estate work, which he drove himself. It 
 had been one of his ambitions to have a little car, but his 
 wile's expenditure had hitherto stood in the way. 
 
 William Sheard made his appearance just before the 
 time appointed, and hung about in front of the house, 
 much to Mrs. Fuller's annoyance, who, however, did not 
 ask him in. She hated all the Sheards, and usually re- 
 ferred to William as " the hobbledehoy." But William's 
 appearance had quite altered since he had first come to 
 Kemsale, and his outlook too. Armitage Brown had 
 suggested that he should be taken into the estate office. 
 
270 Rank and Riches 
 
 He had paid Fuller a premium to teach him his work, on the 
 understanding that the Sheards were not to know of it. 
 An outlook almost too rosy for belief was in front of the 
 boy : in the foreground a life for which he was eminently 
 suited, to be lived entirely in. the country, which he was 
 getting to love more and more, and in the distance the 
 practical certainty of succeeding to the Kemsalc agency, 
 if he showed himself competent. He was showing himself 
 exceedingly competent ; Fuller had never had a pupil or 
 an assistant so keen and immersed in his work. Every bit 
 of it was a delight to him ; he could think and talk about 
 scarcely anything else. As he waited on the gravel, an 
 offence to Mrs. Fuller's eyes, even she could hardly find her 
 excuse in his appearance. He was dressed in rough brown 
 tweeds, very different from his shabby school clothes, and 
 if he did look like a farmer's son, as she remarked dis- 
 gustedly to Irene, he looked like a very contented and 
 prosperous one. 
 
 He did not mind at all sitting up on the little perch 
 behind, and told Irene that he was glad she was coming 
 with them, in a way with which even Mrs. Fuller could 
 have found no fault. He had dropped some of his shyness 
 and awkwardness ; he had found his niche in the world 
 and was gaining confidence in himself and his abilities 
 every day. He leaned over the back of the car as they ran 
 along the muddy roads, and talked to Fuller about the 
 land they were passing through and about the work there 
 was in hand that morning, and Fuller treated him as an 
 equal, and sometimes deferred to his opinion. Irene sat 
 silent for the most part, but showed some interest when 
 they talked about the dairying. 
 
 They arrived at Points Farm rather before the time at 
 which Armitage Brown had appointed to meet them there. 
 They did not go to the house, but stopped opposite to 
 where the new buildings were now all ready for the work in 
 which Points Farm was to lead the way. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Davis and their son were waiting for them 
 at the gate. Mrs. Davis had lost some of her air of melan- 
 choly ; she was now as interested and as optimistic about 
 : oject as anybody. She gave Irene a warm greeting. 
 " Well, now, this is a pleasant surprise, my dear," she said. 
 " Will you come into the house and take a little refresh- 
 ment, or would you like to wait and go round the buildings 
 with the rest of us ? " 
 
Father and Son 271 
 
 Irene said she would go round the buildings. She was 
 a different girl from the one who mooned about at home, 
 taking no interest in anything, as her mother so often told 
 her. She even wanted to begin the inspection at once, 
 and John Davis took her off for a preliminary view without 
 waiting for the rest. The two of them seemed to have 
 plenty to say to one another, but as a matter of fact Irene 
 had been to Points Farm with her father several times of 
 late, and scarcely needed showing what had been done. 
 
 William Sheard found himself talking to old Mr. Davis, 
 who had taken a fancy to him. 
 
 " It's a fine thing to make your living out of the land, and 
 to live on the land," said the old man. " Times are chang- 
 ing all round us, but the land must always go on. If you 
 study it diligently it won't fail you. You may not make 
 so much money as in other pursuits, but you live the best 
 sort of life. You are fortunate to get your chance, and I 
 think you will do well with it." 
 
 " I shall try my best, Mr. Davis," said the boy. " It's the 
 one thing I really like, and feel fitted for. It's Mr. Brown 
 who has given me my chance, and I feel very grateful to him." 
 
 " Mr. Brown is a good-hearted man," said the old farmer, 
 " and I believe a far-seeing one. I am not yet convinced 
 that all his ideas are right, but my son is quite sure that 
 we shall all do well to follow him, and I am ready to fall 
 in, for the few j^ears longer that I have before me. The 
 old people are gone, or going, and those of them that are 
 left must try and keep step with the new ones." 
 
 Armitage Brown's car came up at that moment and he 
 and Alfred alighted from it. Alfred looked a shade 
 dispirited, but cheered up as the little party came together, 
 and showed more interest in the subject in hand than 
 might have been expected of him. 
 
 The inspection did not take long. The chief object of 
 Armitage Brown's visit to this part of his estate was the 
 farm that was being cut up into small holdings, and the 
 buildings that were being adapted or newly erected on it. 
 When a move was made away from Points Farm, Irene 
 elected to stay behind and talk to Mrs. Davis. Her father 
 was to pick her up on his way back. Mrs. Fuller would 
 not have been pleased if she had known that her inter- 
 course with Alfred had been confined to a few word s of 
 greeting and farewell. 
 
 The expedition ended with a visit to the new factory. 
 
272 Rank and Riches 
 
 now nearly completed. Alfred and his father went on to 
 Kencote, where they were to lunch. As they shut them- 
 selves in at the back of the car, out of hearing of the 
 chauffeur, Armitage Brown began at once : " Now there it 
 is, Alfred. You've seen it all, and heard a great deal about 
 it. It's all interesting enough, but as far as I'm concerned 
 I want to go on to the next thing, now I've once put it in 
 hand. Can't you make up your mind to take it up ? " 
 
 Some suggestion of that sort made on the way out had 
 induced that air of depression in which Alfred had reached 
 Points Farm. " I really can't see that it's in the least in 
 my line, father," he said plaintively. " It's all business, 
 you know, just as it was in Lombard Street, and I thought 
 we had agreed that I am not cut out for business." 
 
 " I don't mean that you should take it as business, except 
 to get a general idea of the financial side. It's using the 
 land to the best advantage, and settling as many people 
 as possible on to it that is the chief thing in this scheme. 
 It isn't money-making — at least not for us. Just a fair 
 return ; that's all I want from it." 
 
 " Well, what do you want me to do ? I was interested 
 in the new cottages — rather wished I'd had a hand in 
 designing them. I think I could have made one or two 
 improvements." 
 
 His father turned to him eagerly. " Now that's exactly 
 the sort of interest I want you to take," he said. " You've 
 shown so little that it never occurred to me to talk to } t ou 
 about that particular detail. Look here, my boy ; let's 
 have it straight out, you and I. I've made the money ; 
 there's no necessity for you to make any more. But you've 
 got to use what I've made, you know, sooner or later. Most 
 of it will come to you. And this place will come to you. 
 Whatever I do here, if I live another thirty years, I shall 
 just be the rich stranger, who knows nothing about it all. 
 They'll say that of me, if I coin gold out of the land. I 
 shan't belong. But with you it's different. It's different 
 already. They'll make friends with you in a different sort 
 of way to what they will with me. In a few years you'll 
 be one of them. That's what I want you to see, and to 
 play up to." 
 
 One would have thought by his face of misery that the 
 young man was being told that expectations of wealth 
 were to be disappointed, instead of being begged to take 
 advantage of them. 
 
Father and Son 273 
 
 " Surely it's not so very difficult," his father said with a 
 touch of impatience. " You've got one of the most beau- 
 tiful homes in England. I'm just asking you to take an 
 interest in it. I bought it partly for you." 
 
 " You never told me so. I didn't have much to say in it." 
 
 " You might have had all the say you wanted. What's 
 wrong with the place, Alfred ? What's wrong with you ? " 
 
 " I don't know that there's anything wrong with me, 
 except that I'm the son of a rich man. I don't seem to have 
 been cut out for it." 
 
 " I don't know whether you think you're cut out for the 
 son of a poor man. I don't. You've done exactly what 
 you liked ; you've stuck to no work. You haven't spent a 
 great deal of money, it's true, but you've had all that money 
 could buy you in your home, and you've lived just as it 
 suited you outside of it. A poor man's son couldn't have 
 done what you have." 
 
 " I'm afraid I'm rather a useless sort of fellow, father ; 
 but I can't help thinking that, if I hadn't had any money 
 at all behind me, I could have made enough to live pretty 
 much as I have — except, of course, when I've been at home." 
 
 " Yes, and for how long ? It's been all very well so far. 
 But you're getting on now. You're twenty-six. You 
 might have wanted to marry before this ; I hope it won't 
 be long before you do marry. You couldn't offer a wife 
 the sort of life you've been living abroad, even if you'd made 
 it pay for itself, which you haven't. I've never bothered 
 you about all that wandering of yours, but of course it has 
 been a great disappointment to me. I always wanted you 
 to do something. I didn't care what it was ; but so far 
 you've only enjoyed yourself." 
 
 Alfred sighed. " I suppose I've enjoyed myself more 
 than most fellows," he said. " I've got that to look back 
 upon ; and you've been very good about it, father. If 
 you want me to settle down now, I owe it to you to do what 
 you want." 
 
 Armitage Brown felt baffled. " I wonder if there's any 
 other young man in the world who looks at things in the 
 way you do," he said with an affectionate but irritated 
 smile. " What am I asking you to do ? Any one would 
 think I wanted you to shut yourself up in a prison. You 
 can go abroad whenever you want to, as long as you don't 
 stay away too long. You needn't go in for London society, 
 if you don't care about it ; I'm glad you don't ; I shouldn't 
 
274 RatiK and Riches 
 
 left you so free a> I have if you'd been a 3'oung mar, 
 about town, or a loafer, as I prefer to call it. I quite 
 thought you had taken to country life at one time." 
 
 " So I have to some extent. I've been here at Kemsale 
 more often and for longer than I've stayed in any place 
 in England since you let me off Lombard Street." 
 
 " Well ? " 
 
 " The place is too big, too rich. It oppresses me. We 
 don't seem to belong to it. It fitted the people who were 
 here before ; it doesn't seem to fit us. All the time we're 
 trying to live up to something, something we don't under- 
 stand." 
 
 " There's something in that, Alfred. I'd no idea of it 
 before I came here. I suppose you saw it all along, and 
 that's why you took no interest in it when we first talked 
 it over." 
 
 " It may seem odd, but I never thought of it as a place 
 that had anything to do with me at all. I certainly never 
 thought of it as a place that would be mine some day, as 
 you say it will." 
 
 " A father has no right to grumble at that, my boy. 
 And I hope it will be a good many years yet before you have 
 to take it over from me." 
 
 " So many years that one needn't think about it at all, 
 need one ? " 
 
 There was silence for a time. Then Armitage Brown 
 said : " These people we're going to — the Clintons. There's 
 the old man, bred up to it all. They say he's hardly left 
 Kencote since he inherited it from his grandfather. And 
 there's his eldest son. From what I hear he has been about 
 a great deal more than his father ; but now he has settled 
 down there too. You might say that the old man was the 
 narrow-minded country squire that one reads and hears 
 about, though he has his points too, and he's not a man to 
 be despised. But his son is different. He's a man of 
 brains, of a sort. He could never have done what I have ; 
 very few men could. But if he'd been born to a big position 
 in the financial world — the son of a big banker, or something 
 of that sort — he'd have made good. He'd have carried 
 on. And he's seen the world. Yet there he is, quite happy 
 in living the best part of his time here in the country, and 
 looking after his father's interests, that will be his by and 
 by." 
 
 " Isn't that because he was born to it ? " 
 
Father and Son 275 
 
 " I suppose so, partly. But it's a lot that most young 
 men wouldn't ask to be born to, if they had it offered to 
 them young enough. I shouldn't. It's too late for me 
 now to change my interests altogether. I want to be doing 
 bigger things than I could do here. But I think if I were 
 to be offered my life again, beginning at your age, I should 
 choose your chance rather than my own. I can never 
 be a satisfactory squire of Kemsale, as old Mr. Clinton is of 
 Kencote. But you can. And Kemsale wants its squire. 
 I've come to see that." 
 
 Alfred laughed. " Fancy me a squire !" he said. "And 
 as for that, father, I think you have turned yourself into 
 a squire in a thousand. You're not cut after the pattern 
 of Mr. Clinton, of course ; but you bring a new mind to 
 it, and a mind that's able to take up anything that it sets 
 itself to. If I tried to follow you, it would be just Lombard 
 Street all over again. I haven't got it in me." 
 
 " Haven't you got it in you to do something or other 
 with your father, Alfred ? I've done everything alone, 
 all my life." 
 
 Alfred was touched. The words, and the tone in which 
 they had been spoken, revealed something in his father 
 that he had not suspected hitherto. 
 
 " Do you feel like that about Kemsale ? " he asked. 
 
 " I'll tell you exactly what I feel about Kemsale. It's 
 a much bigger thing than I thought it was when I bought 
 it. When I was making my plans about running the 
 estate, not to pay handsomely, but to pay as a business 
 proposition, I was constantly getting little warnings that 
 it couldn't be treated just as any other business proposi- 
 tion. I was impatient of them. I thought it was all old- 
 fashioned feudalism, that a go-ahead modern man would 
 just get rid of. Xow I look upon it differently. The 
 feudalism can be overdone. It was here. It's good neither 
 for landlord nor tenants that one man should be looked 
 up to as of different clay from all the rest, or so it seems 
 to me. Ihe way I look at it is that they ought to be all 
 in together, with the landowner as the guiding spirit. 
 Perhaps they would say — the old people — that that was 
 their way. Well, according to their lights they act up to 
 it, the best of them. They know their people and they 
 are ready to help them in all sorts of ways. It isn't like 
 a big business in London, where you've got hundreds 
 of people dependent on you, but know no more about most 
 
270 Rank and Riches 
 
 of them than if they were strangers. That's the side of it 
 I should like to see you take up. You're fitted for it. You 
 can make friends ; people like you. They like you 
 already, the people here, and little Katie too ; she's doing 
 just what she ought to do, and no old-fashioned squire's 
 daughter of them all could do it any better. The people 
 look on you and her in a different way from what they look 
 upon me ; I can see that. If you ask me what I want j^ou 
 to do, I want you to live in the place — make your home in 
 it." 
 
 " It isn't much to ask of me, I'll admit," said Alfred. 
 " It's what I have done for the greater part of the past 
 year." 
 
 " Well, perhaps I want a little more than that. I want 
 to be able to talk to you about what I do myself here, 
 when I come down. I shan't be here quite so much after 
 Christmas. There's a big affair on that will occupy most 
 of my time for some months to come. I don't find that 
 this place gives me enough scope. I've been very interested 
 in this dairying business, and I think it will turn out all 
 right. But to tell you the truth, it was a lucky chance, 
 to begin with. I might have taken up some other scheme 
 that wouldn't have had so much promise. I didn't 
 know enough. I shall go slower in the future, do what I 
 can to get the place up gradually, working a good deal more 
 on the old lines, unless I see a brilliant opening. I want 
 to come down here and have things to interest me, but not 
 to work at in a big way. It's to be my recreation. But I 
 should like it to be much more than that to you." 
 
 "If it is to take an interest in the people, father, I 
 think I can do that ; and as for model cottages and that 
 sort of improvement, if you want it, I could take an interest 
 in that too." 
 
 " Well, think it over, Alfred. Do what you like in the 
 place, but let us talk over what you do together. I shall 
 enjoy the place more than I do now, if I can feel that 
 I'm helping you to make what you'd like to make out of 
 it. I'm not bad at putting ideas into shape, you know. 
 It's what I've been used to." 
 
 Alfred laughed at him. " Dear old dad ! " he said. 
 " You're a perfect marvel. I wish I had it in me to do 
 you more credit. But I'll do my best, now I know what 
 you want." 
 
CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 THE PICTURES 
 
 Douglas Irving was in luck again. His friend Bradgate 
 told him so, and his friend Wesbrook endorsed the state- 
 ment, as they sat in Douglas's room after the first day's 
 shoot, in that blissful sportsman's hour between tea and 
 dinner, when easy-chairs seem easier than at other times, 
 firelight brighter, and tobacco sweeter. 
 
 " You always do fall on your feet, Duggy," said Brad- 
 gate. " From all I can see, the millionaire has taken you 
 to his bosom, and as for the shooting, you have as much 
 to do with it as you've had for the last three years." 
 
 William and Mrs. Bradgate, Charles Wesbrook, and 
 some young cousins of Beatrix's, now amusing themselves 
 in the drawing-room, had come down the day before for 
 the Meadshire festivities. They had attended the South 
 Meadshire Hunt Ball at Bathgate the night before ; they 
 had shot to-day and were all to dine at Kemsale presently 
 and view the tableaux afterwards. On the morrow there 
 was to be a lawn meet at Kencote, and in the evening 
 the Bathgate ball. On the day after they were to shoot 
 again, and the proceedings would end with the ball at 
 Kemsale. 
 
 M Armitage Brown wanted me to take over the whole 
 management of the shooting a month ago," said Douglas. 
 " I was to have the big days when I wanted to, and ask 
 who I liked. He didn't care about it himself and he 
 didn't suppose his son would." 
 
 " His son seems to have bucked up about it," said 
 Wesbrook. " He's a nice fellow that, and makes an ex- 
 cellent shooting host, though he doesn't know much about 
 the game." 
 
 " I told Brown that Alfred ought to look after it. It 
 wouldn't look well for me to take it on, and ask people 
 just as if it were my own. I said I'd do all I could to 
 
 277 
 
278 Rank and Riches 
 
 help him, and it's turned out very well. I don't think 
 he'll ever shoot for nuts, he's not keen enough on it ; 
 but he's trying to be a good boy and please his papa. 
 I'm glad you thought he did well to-day, Charles. We 
 all like him here. He's different from other fellows ; but 
 he's one of the best." 
 
 " I suppose papa wants him to take his place as a future 
 county magnate," said Bradgate. " It's not a bad sort 
 of billet, cither. Mr. Armitage Brown shows up rather 
 well as a country gentleman, Douglas. We had a little 
 conversation together to-day, and got on very well. 
 Nobody would have thought that either of us had ever 
 heard of the City. I should have liked to ask him one or 
 two questions — seemed sort of queer to be talking to a 
 man like that and not extracting a bit out of him. He 
 seems to think a lot of you, by the by. Have you ever 
 got him to talk ? " 
 
 " I haven't tried. I've left it to him. He did say 
 something the other day about having something on that 
 would keep him pretty busy in London for the next few 
 months." 
 
 " By Jove, that's interesting. Can't you get early 
 information ? It might be worth a lot to 3'ou." 
 
 " I asked him if he couldn't put me into it. He laughed 
 and said he didn't know I wanted money. He thought I 
 was one of those fellows who had everything he could 
 want." 
 
 " You're on those terms with him, are you ? What did 
 you say ? " 
 
 " I said that most of us could do with a bit more. I 
 said : ' You'll do me the justice to observe that I've never 
 mentioned the word money to you, but naturally when 
 one's in your company, one can't help thinking about it 
 sometimes, and if there's anything good going you might 
 let your friends have first chance ! ' " 
 
 " Capital, Duggy ! You're quite a diplomatist. That's 
 the way to treat him. What did he say ? " 
 
 Douglas hesitated. " Well, I can't tell you exactly what 
 he said, Bill. I wasn't to. But when the time comes I 
 think I shall be able to do something for my pals. I 
 can't say more than that at present. You must leave it 
 to me." 
 
 " Right you are, my boy. You seem to have played 
 your cards well. And whether you make anything out of 
 
The Pictures 279 
 
 him or not, you've got him as a neighbour, and he seems 
 to be a fairly useful one." 
 
 The dinner-party at Kemsale ought to have brought 
 some consolation to Mrs. Brown for opportunities denied 
 her. Meadshire, who had to take her in, and regretted 
 the necessity as much as she, told her that not even when 
 Royalty had been entertained at Kemsale had there been 
 " a finer show." " Except in the matter of plate," he said. 
 " I'm speaking the absolute truth, so I'm bound to say 
 we beat you there. We had some magnificent Tudor 
 plate. It was the first thing I got rid of. But I doubt 
 if my old grandfather gave them a better feed than this, 
 Mrs. Brown ; and as for the flowers, we never had any- 
 thing like 'em." 
 
 Mrs. Brown suspected that she was being laughed at, 
 but answered with cold propriety, and made a mental note 
 to the effect that still more plate was wanted, Tudor if 
 possible. 
 
 If this was the largest dinner-party that Mrs. Brown 
 had ever given, for the great room would have hardly 
 taken another table anywhere, and was at least double 
 the size of any she had had to fill before ; it was also by 
 far the merriest. It is to be doubted whether the majority 
 of the guests would not have enjoyed themselves just as 
 much if the viands and the wines had not been of such 
 super-excellence, or the accessories of the feast so elaborate. 
 They were for the most part very young people staying in 
 the house, some of them drawn from circles in which such 
 displays of wealth were not unknown, but more still quite 
 unaccustomed to them. When the chatter and laughter 
 was at its height, Armitage Brown, who had been talking 
 quietly to Lady Grace on the one side of him and Virginia 
 Clinton on the other, looked round him with a pleased 
 smile. It was the first time in his life that he had enjoyed 
 one of his wife's parties, or felt that the lavish display of 
 hospitality that marked them had its reward. " We can 
 hardly hear ourselves speak," he said, " but I shouldn't 
 mind if they made more noise still. I really believe they're 
 enjoying themselves." 
 
 " Mr. Brown, it's the loveliest dinner-party I've ever 
 been to, if you'll excuse my lapsing into American," said 
 Virginia. " If you make a joke, I shall laugh so that I 
 shan't be able to stop myself. I feel like that, with all 
 these young people about me." 
 
280 Rank and Riches 
 
 " We're all young people to-night," said Grace. " It 
 takes me back to the time when I was just grown up, and 
 my grandfather gave me a ball and filled the house with 
 my friends. Those are by far the best sort of parties ; and 
 this is going to be a very successful one, Mr. Brown." 
 
 Armitage Brown experience}} a thrill of pleasure at these 
 words. He had been right in standing out for his ideas 
 against his wife's. To get people together to enjoy them- 
 selves — that was the kind of party-giving that brought 
 satisfaction to host and guests alike. It seemed fairly 
 obvious, but it had certainly not l**m his wife's idea. He 
 glanced at her as she sat stiff and stately between Mead- 
 shire and a young man whose ancestry had brought him 
 the honour of supporting her on her other side. Neither 
 of them was talking to her at the moment ; she was isolated 
 in the midst of all the gaiety and friendliness. But as she 
 looked round her, and especially at the tables where 
 Alfred and Katie were sitting, her face changed ever 
 so slightly, and took on that look of satisfaction which 
 meant that things were going well, and she was priding 
 herself on a success. It came to him then that she was 
 beginning to see. This sort of gathering, which brought 
 pleasure to many whose opportunity for pleasure was 
 small, whom it was so easy to please because of their youth 
 and large capacity for enjoyment, was the right sort of 
 gathering, in the country, and for people such as them- 
 selves. Its selection was based upon exactly the same 
 principles as the bright gatherings that Kemsale had seen 
 in the past ; the great house was being used up to its full 
 capacity. And there was nobody here who was not a 
 friend, or at least a neighbour. 
 
 The tableaux, like most entertainments of their kind, 
 were more amusing to the performers than to the spec- 
 tators, although there were some in the audience to whom 
 they seemed as remarkable as anything they had ever 
 seen. The audience, in fact, was more " mixed " than 
 Mrs. Brown liked, and Mrs. Fuller had told her quite 
 plainly that it " would never do." Armitage Brown had 
 required that some of the tenants should be asked. Mrs. 
 Fuller had said, though not to him, that such a thing 
 couldn't be done ; the county people would be up in arms 
 at being asked to meet farmers and their wives. She had 
 hinted, with what had seemed to her infinite tact, that 
 the Browns, being themselves, so to speak, on their trial, 
 
The Pictures 281 
 
 couldn't afford to make such innovations. But the tact 
 had not been enough to cover the impertinence. She had 
 at last succeeded in offending her patroness. Mrs. Brown 
 had not been unmoved by her husband's accusation that 
 she had made her sole friend at Kemsale of a woman least 
 deserving of friendship. Her pride was on the alert ; 
 Mrs. Fuller, if she had known it, was no longer in a petition 
 to offer any advice as to what ought to be done, without 
 giving offence. She did not know yet that she had given 
 it, and had postponed the realization of a change of atti- 
 tude towards her from Mrs. Brown, by giving way in- 
 stantly when she discovered what that lady's intentions 
 were. The " county " was to be represented at this 
 particular entertainment by those of its younger members 
 with whom there was already some intimacy, and these 
 were to be asked to dinner. For the rest, the ball must 
 suffice, and another dinner-party before it for the county's 
 biggest wigs, or such of them as would be likely to accept 
 an invitation. 
 
 A stage had been erected at one end of the ball-room, 
 an orchestra had been engaged, the scenery and the costumes 
 were the best that could be procured for money, and 
 the men who had come from London to see to every detail 
 were enough to obviate the long waits that the form of 
 entertainment chosen is liable to when undertaken by 
 amateurs. Alfred had grumbled at the elaboration 
 brought to bear upon his ideas. It would have been so 
 much more fun to have painted the scenery and made 
 the costumes themselves. He and his friends and Katie's 
 friends had done this for a few of the pictures, and enjoyed 
 themselves greatly over it ; but there had not been time 
 to do it for all, and he was not sorry at the end to leave 
 the management in the hands of the experts. 
 
 The pictures followed one another in quick succession. 
 It must be confessed that those which followed the stories 
 displayed in the popular print-sellers' shops were more^ 
 vociferously applauded than those invented and carried : 
 out by Alfred and his artist friends, fresh and charming 
 as some of them were. 
 
 In one of the former there were two couples in eighteenth- 
 century costume, engaged in a beautiful garden at a 
 game of cross-purposes. Alfred and Anne Sheard, 
 apparently betrothed to one another, and Frank Clinton t 
 and Irene Fuller, in a like predicament, were all four 
 
282 Rank and Riches 
 
 gazing not at their own companions but at the opposite 
 partners. It was agreed on all hands that Frank and 
 Anne put a marvellous amount of expression into their 
 looks, and this picture was demanded three times. Mrs. 
 Fuller was one of the most energetic in her applause ; and 
 indeed Irene looked very well. 
 
 Arfnitage Brown had asked Mrs. Fuller to pay parti- 
 cular attention to Mrs. Davis. Mrs. Fuller had gracefully 
 accepted the charge, while feeling annoyed that it should 
 have been given her, for she had thought that her fitting 
 place was exclusively with those of the house-party, and 
 those who had been asked to dine, and had had ideas of 
 showing condescension to the people who had come after- 
 wards. She had, however, escorted Mrs. Davis to a seat 
 in the front rows, next to her own, and patronised her 
 affably, while occasionally turning from her to talk in 
 markedly different tones to her neighbour on the right, 
 who was of the elect. 
 
 " I can't help fancying," said Mrs. Davis, when the 
 curtain had gone down for the third time on the picture 
 of the two couples, " that there is something between 
 young Mr. Clinton and that pretty daughter of the Rector's. 
 Their looks were almost too natural not to be true." 
 
 Mrs. Fuller laughed, not very amiably. " There would 
 be a pretty to-do over at Kencote if it were so," she said. 
 " I think myself that it was a mistake to give that girl 
 such a part. She did make eyes at him, I admit, and 
 there may be something in what you say as far as she's 
 concerned. It shows the danger of taking people out of 
 their places." 
 
 " The other two did their part just as well, I thought," 
 said Mrs. Davis. " Your daughter is a pretty girl, Mrs. 
 Fuller, and a nice one, too. We always like to see her 
 over at Points when she comes with her father." 
 
 Mrs. Fuller was not at all pleased with this compliment. 
 If Mrs. Davis thought that a daughter of hers came to 
 Points Farm as an equal, as seemed to be indicated by 
 the tone of her speech, she had better be disabused of 
 such an idea. " She likes going round amongst the tenants," 
 she said, " and often does it when she's wanted elsewhere. 
 They make a lot of her here, as you can see by her being 
 chosen for a part like that." 
 
 Mrs. Davis was meek and proud at the same time. 
 She grew very red and said : " That is an insulting speech, 
 
The Pictures 283 
 
 Mrs. Fuller. I do not consider that your daughter is 
 conferring a favour upon me by coming to my house 
 occasionally, though as I say I am pleased to see her for 
 her own sake/' 
 
 Mrs. Fuller thought that perhaps she had gone too far. 
 After all, the Davises were very " good people," and not 
 to be confounded with the ordinary run of farming tenants. 
 " Oh, please don't think I meant anything of that sort," 
 she said. " When she does go round with her father, 
 yours isn't the only house she goes to, you know. If it 
 were I shouldn't mind in the least — naturally not." 
 
 " I think you have an unfortunate way of expressing 
 yourself," said the old lady, only half-appeased. " I think 
 I will go and find some of my friends elsewhere if you will 
 kindly allow me to pass." 
 
 " Oh, please don't move," said Mrs. Fuller, in great 
 alarm. Armitage Brown was standing with his back 
 against the wall at the end of the row in which they were 
 sitting. If the offended lady should take it into her head 
 to tell him why she was thus changing her seat in the 
 middle of the performance, Mrs. Fuller was aghast at 
 what might be the result. " Please stay," she said in an 
 urgent, hurried whisper. " I want to tell you something. 
 You must forgive my not being quite myself to-night. 
 You remarked yourself how well Irene and 3 : oung Mr. 
 Brown played their parts. Well, you can guess why, 
 perhaps. It has been going on for months. I wouldn't 
 breathe a word except to an old friend like yourself, and 
 I'm sure you won't repeat what I say. But you can see 
 how-it is with me, can't you ? I'm in a state of excite- 
 ment. I can't be responsible for everything I say." 
 
 " I don't think you can," said Mrs. Davis dryly. " And 
 as for our being old friends, Mrs. Fuller, I have never 
 flattered myself that you looked upon me with any friend- 
 ship. You have always considered me beneath you, and 
 it may perhaps surprise you to know that I don't consider 
 myself beneath you at all. It so happens that I have 
 always known exactly what you were before your marriage, 
 and that Captain Fuller descended a good many steps to 
 make that marriage. I have kept what I know to myself 
 hitherto, because your husband is a gentleman, and I 
 have a regard for him. I have a regard for your daughter 
 too, who takes after her father in the main, which is why 
 
.i Rank and Riches 
 
 The ringing of the bell on the stage and the sudden 
 lowering of lights cut short the discourse, which had been 
 delivered in a low, even voice, and seemed as if it would 
 have gone on for ever. It may be imagined that Mrs. 
 Fuller, during the respite that followed, deeply regretted 
 the ill-advised speech which had brought it upon her. It 
 was eminently disturbing too, just at this time, to dis- 
 cover that her past was known, and to some one whom 
 she had succeeded in offending. There was nothing dis- 
 graceful in her past, but the penalty she had to pay for 
 the position she claimed in the present was that she could 
 not afford to have it generally known. Or so she thought, 
 being unaware that it would have caused more surprise 
 amongst her neighbours to have proof that she was what 
 she claimed to be than what she was. 
 
 When she could talk again, under cover of the music, 
 she said at once : " When you talk of what I was before 
 my marriage, Mrs. Davis, I should like to tell you that 
 in my eyes poverty is no disgrace to anybody. You may 
 tell all the world, if you please, that I was poor as a girl, 
 and had to work for my living. I have never tried to 
 hide it. I have even told Mrs. Brown the facts of the case." 
 
 " I don't suppose for a moment you've told them all," 
 said Mrs. Davis, in the same low persistent tone. She 
 also had been thinking, and had apparently made up her 
 mind to have it all out. 
 
 " I was not very happy at home," said Mrs. Fuller, 
 faltering, " and I worked at dressmaking until I married. 
 Lots of ladies of good birth have done the same. There 
 is nothing to be ashamed of." 
 
 " No, but you're ashamed of it all the same," pursued 
 the terrible quiet voice. " Besides, you weren't a lady 
 of good birth, whatever you may pretend about yourself. 
 Your father was a regimental bandmaster, and married 
 your mother out of a little sweetstuff shop in a back 
 street in Portsmouth, where you were brought up. My 
 own father was chaplain to the same regiment, and I 
 remember you very well as a forward giggling girl, with 
 the worst possible manners and not the best of reputations, 
 though I don't say that you couldn't look after yourself 
 even at that age. How you managed to get hold of poor 
 Captain Fuller I don't know, as it was long after I married 
 myself and left the place ; but I recognised you directly 
 you came here." 
 
The Pictures 285 
 
 It was much more terrible than anything that Mrs. 
 Fuller had imagined. She had thought that all traces of 
 her life before the dressmaking period, which was the 
 one in which she had met her husband, had been covered 
 up and forgotten. She could only abase herself and 
 beg her tormentor to keep her information to herself. 
 " You can't be surprised," she pleaded, " that I shouldn't 
 want the facts of my childhood known. I shook myself 
 free from them as soon as I could. I have made a good 
 position for myself, and it would be a cruel thing, for my 
 good kind husband and for my daughter, if " 
 
 " Oh, you needn't alarm yourself," interrupted the 
 relentless old lad)'. " It was for the sake of your good 
 kind husband, whom you've never valued as he deserves, 
 that I held my tongue, and I shall continue to hold it as 
 long as you behave properly. But it was just a little too 
 much to have you, of all people, setting me in my place. 
 As for your silly ideas about your daughter and young 
 Mr. Brown, I've no doubt you've worked hard enough to 
 bring something of that sort about, but there's nothing in 
 it, and you only succeed in blinding yourself and making 
 yourself look ridiculous when you talk about it." 
 
 The conclusion of the performance brought the painful 
 interview to an end. Mrs. Fuller emerged from it much 
 battered, and her equanimity was not restored during the 
 dancing that followed by the fact that Irene favoured 
 John Davis as a partner above others, and did not dance 
 once with Alfred. 
 
CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 MORE FESTIVITIES 
 
 Kemsale turned up in force the next morning at the 
 lawn meet at Kencote, chiefly in motor-cars, but partly 
 on horseback. At the last moment Mrs. Brown drew back 
 from the party, on the plea of a headache. Her head- 
 ache was of the slightest ; she could not bring herself to 
 appear at an important, house as introducer of the motley- 
 looking cavalcade that had already ridden off. 
 
 Horses had been supplied for everybody who wanted 
 them, and most of Alfred's friends did. They were chiefly 
 artists or students of art, some English and some French, 
 ready to get the utmost fun out of everything that was 
 going on, and not to be deterred by deficiencies of costume 
 or ignorance of the art of equitation from taking part in 
 an English fox-hunt. It is doubtful if such an appearance 
 as they made in the aggregate had ever been seen in a 
 South Meadshire field before ; it was a miracle that every 
 member of the party eventually found his way back sound 
 in limb ; but the stiffness induced by the unwonted 
 exercise gave Kemsale the appearance of a home for 
 cripples on the day after. 
 
 Alfred's ignorance of horsemanship w T as not so great 
 as he had pretended. He had had his own ponjr as a boy, 
 and had been as ready to take to a horse on occasions 
 as most vigorous young men. During a spring sketching 
 expedition in the New Forest he had even taken rather 
 keenly to hunting with the stag-hounds, but he had kept 
 this fact dark for various reasons. His chief objection 
 to hunting was that it was the sport of people amongst 
 whom he was not accustomed to find kindred spirits, but 
 he was not sure that here in Meadshire that objection 
 might not be overcome. There were young people from 
 neighbouring houses whom he was beginning to know very 
 well, and some of them had been staying at Kemsale 
 
 2S6 
 
More Festivities 287 
 
 daring the past week. There had been a tendency to form 
 two groups amongst the guests assembled. Alfred had 
 not been altogether at his ease in his duties as host. On 
 the one hand, some of the young men from the country 
 houses, and those whose presence derived from acquaint- 
 ance made on the Riviera, had been inclined to treat 
 coldly the artistic contingent ; and on the other, sundry 
 members of that contingent had shown themselves affected 
 by their situation in such a way as to give cause for the 
 coldness. As light-hearted Bohemians they had been all 
 that could be desired as companions ; in rich and con- 
 ventional surroundings they had not all been able to behave 
 as if a happy poverty were not a lot to be rather ashamed 
 of. Alfred was beginning to suspect that he should have 
 to choose between one way of life or the other, or at least 
 that the mixing up of the two wa}^s of life in this manner 
 would not give satisfactory results. What he hated more 
 than anything was to feel that the wealth whose evidences 
 were so apparent in his home affected the attitude of 
 others towards him. The young men of recognised paren- 
 tage did not show that they were affected by it, though 
 this might only have been because their code did not 
 permit them to show it, and it was probably owing to the 
 wealth that his status was accepted by them. But at 
 least they were at their ease at Kemsale. So were the 
 majority of his other friends, especially the Frenchmen, 
 who took all the unaccustomed luxury and ceremony as 
 a piece of good fortune and good fun, and were not other- 
 wise impressed by it, or inclined to alter their views of 
 Alfred because of it. It was just the one or two who 
 would never be the same towards him again, however 
 much their friendship might appear to have increased. 
 It spoilt everything, gave him an ugly view of human 
 nature, and made him feel cut off from the free and careless 
 enjoyment of his artist life. There seemed to be a fate 
 pushing him towards rich conventional respectability, and 
 in spite of the many attractions that life at Kemsale held 
 out towards him, as well as the fact that his duty seemed 
 to lie there, his inclination was to resist the compulsion. . 
 
 Arrived at Kencote, most of the artist brigade declined 
 to go into the house for the refreshment hospitably offered 
 to all comers. The reason given, amidst much laughter, 
 was that if they once got off their horses many of them 
 would find great difficulty in getting on to them again, 
 
288 Rank and Riches 
 
 but it is probable that a hint had been given to th 
 by one. of their number who shrank from the sensation 
 that their appearance would occasion. Alfred felt some 
 relief at not having to head a procession of them into the 
 house, and hated himself for the feeling. But he was- 
 wavering between two opinions. 
 
 The Squire greeted him and those who went in with 
 him cordially. " But why aren't you in pink ? " he asked, 
 in his loud and confident voice. " We've got to thank 
 Kemsale for a handsome subscription," he said, lowering 
 his tone a little. " Very glad indeed that the South 
 Meadshire is going to be supported from Kemsale again ; 
 it hasn't been for years, at least not by people hunting 
 from there. You must come out with us regularly now 
 you've once begun, and you must get your coat. I dare 
 say it will be a lot smarter than mine — ha ! ha ! — haven't 
 bought a new coat for years, and don't suppose I shall ever 
 buy another now. Well, I've had my fun ; time to make 
 room for the younger fellows now, I say ! " He lowered 
 his voice still further^ into a confidential whisper, and 
 took Alfred's arm to lead him to the comparative privacy 
 of a window. " There's a little matter I want just to 
 mention. There's a rumour going about that your father 
 has an idea of keeping the hounds off that dairying land 
 of his, when everything gets into order. That won't do, 
 you know — make a lot of trouble. Besides, it isn't neces- 
 sary. I can satisfy him as to that if he'll come and talk 
 it over with me. Is he coming to-day, by the by ? " 
 
 Alfred said that he wasn't. " But he told me that he 
 had given up that idea of his," he said. " I think John 
 Davis persuaded him that the hounds would do very little 
 damage." 
 
 " Well now, I'm very glad to hear that. Of course 
 John Davis knows all about it. I suppose they've hunted 
 from Points as long as from anywhere. George Davis 
 used to come out with us regularly years ago. He's a 
 younger man by three or four years than I am, but he 
 gave it up earlier. Couldn't mount himself so well as 
 he used to, I fancy ; but I. hope all that's going to be 
 changed for them now. He'll have to thank your father 
 for that. He's getting in to things in a wonderful way 
 — your father, I mean. I'm glad this rumour of inter- 
 fering with the hounds isn't true. It would never have 
 done. He'll learn all that sort of thing by and by, and as 
 
More Festivities 289 
 
 for you, young man, why, when you're as old as I am, 
 you'll forget you've been anything but a country squire 
 all your life. Gobblessmysoul ! What are all those 
 ragamuffins doing here ? " 
 
 The artistic contingent had drawn nearer to the house, 
 on the wide stretch of parkland that lay beyond the drive. 
 They presented a sufficiently remarkable appearance. 
 There may have been two or three pairs of gaiters amongst 
 the dozen or so of them, but as a general rule their trousers 
 were either rucked up to their knees or in process of 
 becoming so. There were velvet coats amongst them, 
 flowing ties, and an assortment of brigand-like felt hats ; 
 the youngest of them all wore a long yellow beard. 
 
 On ordinary occasions Alfred would have laughed heartily 
 at their appearance and at the Squire's face and exclama- 
 tion of horror. But he was ruffled at the speech that had 
 just been made to him, and at other things, and said stiffly : 
 " They are all friends of mine. I'm sorry they are not 
 ornamental. I'll go out and tell them to move farther off 
 if you like." 
 
 But it was the Squire who laughed heartily, and insisted 
 upon the whole party being fetched indoors. With un- 
 wonted sharpness he perceived that some of them were 
 French, and as he had been nurtured on stories of French- 
 men in the hunting-field, he took their presence as a 
 tremendous joke. Alfred's French friends had no reason 
 to complain of their glimpse of British hospitality, and if 
 some of his English ones suffered from mauvaise honte 
 in being dragged in amongst a crowd of sportsmen and 
 sportswomen, it was not because they were not given a 
 welcome. The Kemsale brigade became a famous catch- 
 word among the followers of the South Meadshire after 
 that day, and the Squire was furnished with a new stock 
 of Franco-sporting stories, drawn from his own -observa- 
 tion, which lasted him for the rest of his life. 
 
 But it was not everybody who accepted the Kemsale 
 house-party as merely providing a fund of amusement. 
 It not only invaded the hunting-held, and interfered con- 
 siderably with the proceedings of the day, but was large 
 enough to make itself felt at the two Bathgate balls. 
 These, like other hunt and county balls, were the preserve 
 of the country houses around, with the usual sprinkling 
 from the families of country parsons, doctors and lawyers 
 and the like, and were merry and sociable within those 
 
290 Rank and Riches 
 
 limits. But merriment and sociability from outside their 
 accepted limits are apt to be looked upon coldly in such 
 circles. It was thought to be a very queer lot that had 
 come froxn Kemsale, and there was some resentment and 
 a great deal of criticism brought to bear upon the new 
 people who were responsible for its introduction. They 
 ought to have known better, since they were only on 
 probation themselves. 
 
 This feeling in the air caused Mrs. Brown, who divined 
 it readily enough, untold agony of mind. She sat stiffly 
 on the dais at the end of the Assembly Rooms, wonder- 
 fully gowned, wonderfully jewelled, and wondered how 
 she could ever have consented to be responsible for such 
 a motley crew. As long as they had been confined to 
 Kemsale, their unstinted enjoyment of the entertainments 
 provided for them had caused her to regard them with 
 indulgent eyes. But to see them making themselves 
 boisterously at home here, to compare them with the smart 
 young men of the county, with their red coats and their 
 sleek heads, and painfully to collect the glances of dis- 
 taste and the smiles that followed disparaging comment, 
 was purgatory to the poor proud lady. Her husband's 
 ideas simply would not do. She saw it quite plainly now, 
 and she had an idea that her son saw it too. It was some 
 relief to the acute distress of mind which she underwent 
 on that first evening — she could not face the second, and 
 stayed at home — to believe that Alfred was coming round 
 to her way of thinking. He did not wear a red coat, but 
 any one who observed him would certainly have put him 
 down as belonging to the " county," and not to the awful 
 crew that he called his friends. She was assured of that, 
 and she watched him constantly. He did not look as if he 
 were enjoying himself, as he had done the night before 
 at Kemsale. Surely he had come to see at last that he 
 had made a mistake in bringing these terrible people to 
 Kemsale, a mistake in making friends with them at all 
 when the right sort were so ready to welcome him as one 
 of themselves ! 
 
 She was quite right in supposing that Alfred was not 
 
 entirely happy, and quite wrong in everything else that 
 
 she supposed about him. He did see plainly that " it 
 
 In't do," but it was not against his own friends that 
 
 anoyance was directed. All but a few of them were 
 
 tried and trusted companions, with whom he had enjoyed 
 
More Festivities 291 
 
 some of the best days of his life. Until this public appear- 
 ance he had rejoiced in being able to give them an un- 
 accustomed pleasure and rejoiced in the free and happy 
 way in which they had accepted it. It was what they 
 were doing now, and what they were being criticised for. 
 Hadn't they as much right as anybody else to enjoy them- 
 selves ? Wasn't it what ought to be expected of clever 
 gay young men, who had spurned the path of money- 
 making in order to devote themselves to a glorious art, 
 that they should not show themselves impressed or 
 oppressed by the smug self-complaisance of well-endowed 
 respectability ? He resented on their behalf every shrug 
 and smile and whisper. His heart warmed towards them. 
 He made himself one of them, and towards the end of the 
 evening his mother had the additional mortification of 
 seeing him shrugged at and whispered at with the rest. 
 She had dreadful visions of her own ball-room deserted by 
 the people she wished to see there, and Kemsale marked 
 for ever as outside the pale of " county " sociability 
 altogether. 
 
 When the night of the Kemsale ball arrived, however, 
 she was consoled to find that none of those who had 
 accepted her invitation had stayed away. She had been 
 rather surprised at the way things had been " done " at 
 the Hunt Ball. The eighteenth-century Assembly Rooms 
 in the George Hotel at Bathgate had harboured these 
 annual gatherings for many years past. They had been 
 considered extremely handsome at one time, and were so 
 still in a faded old-fashioned way, with their panels of 
 worn crimson brocade, and their lustre chandeliers and 
 sconces. It had never been considered that they needed 
 any special decoration, except that of flowers, and these 
 had been provided on a comparatively modest scale. The 
 floor was excellent, and the supper good, and that was all 
 that was wanted for an evening's enjoyment amongst 
 neighbours. 
 
 But then Mrs. Brown had never been accustomed to 
 think of a ball as an opportunity for enjoyment. She 
 had not been in a position to go to balls in her young 
 days, and thought of them now chiefly as affording oppor- 
 tunities for display. If the people who were apparently 
 contented to disport themselves in such surroundings as 
 those of the Hunt Ball would come to Kemsale and hold 
 over their opinion of its owners until they saw the kind 
 
 (25) 
 
2 92 Rank and Riches 
 
 of thing that would be provided for them there, she 
 thought she could make them open their eyes. And this 
 anticipation had greatly consoled her during the miserable 
 hours she had spent in the Bathgate Assembly Rooms. 
 
 And indeed, except for the absence of the Tudor plate, 
 which still rankled with her a little, there could have 
 been no decorations in Kemsale's most palmy days to 
 equal hers. They were entirely floral ; Kemsale had been 
 so abundantly decorated already that there was no oppor- 
 tunity to do more than cover up its decorations with 
 flowers. The supplies offered for the purpose by Mac- 
 kenzie, who had thought that at last there was a chance 
 of showing what he could do with his great range of glass- 
 houses, were rejected as quite inadequate, and he himself 
 was swept contemptuously aside as decorator-in-chief, and 
 told to put himself and his stock at the disposal of the 
 London florists who were summoned to do their utmost, 
 regardless of expense. Mrs. Brown received her guests 
 in a forest of great palms and orchids ; the walls of the 
 ball-room were trellised with pink roses ; all the rooms of 
 state had their lavish and appropriate decoration ; the 
 scent of flowers was everywhere. The numbers of the 
 band were limited by the space afforded by the musicians' 
 gallery ; otherwise she would probably have made over- 
 tures to the full Queen's Hall orchestra ; but it sent down 
 its swinging strains in a way to set the heaviest foot tripping 
 on the almost too polished floor. Of the supper it need 
 only be said that the young people who wanted to dance 
 all the time hurried away from it as soon as possible, and 
 the older people lingered over it more than they were 
 accustomed to linger even over ball suppers, which are a 
 solace to those whose dancing days are over and a not- 
 to-be-despised part of the entertainment to some others. 
 
 And yet there were criticisms — ungrateful it must be 
 allowed, since all the lavish expenditure did make this 
 particular ball something exceptional in the way of country 
 balls, and to be talked about afterwards. It seemed to 
 be a " try on," an attempt to take by storm a citadel that 
 prides itself on not lowering its flag to money. The Browns 
 had been " taken up " already ; there was hardly any one 
 of importance of " the county " that was not represented 
 at Kemsale on this night. But the county was not to be 
 shown the way to do things ; it was quite satisfied with its 
 i way, and a considerable part of it was quite as well 
 
More Festivities 293 
 
 aware as Mrs. Brown of how " things were done," in 
 great London houses for instance. These elaborate floral 
 decorations would have been suitable for one of the re- 
 cognised London palaces on an occasion of great state ; 
 they were hardly suitable for a country house, even when 
 it was as large as Kemsale, and the unsuit ability was all 
 the greater when it represented nothing that the county 
 was inclined to respect, except unlimited wealth. Mrs. 
 Brown had, in fact, made the same sort of mistake in over- 
 elaborating her ball as her husband made in going to church 
 in the country in his best London clothes. Neither of them 
 knew their way about yet. 
 
 In ordinary circumstances, the county's cause of com- 
 plaint would have been felt, and probably expressed, by 
 no one more exhaustively than the Squire of Kencote. It 
 would take a good-sized pamphlet to explain what acces- 
 sories of life and what standard of behaviour would have 
 been considered to be fitting to the various social states of 
 which he had knowledge ; and it is doubtful whether the 
 explanation would then have satisfied anybody who did 
 not stand exactly where he stood himself. But the prin- 
 ciple behind its subtleties and self-contradictions would 
 have been fairly plain. In spite of his own dignity as the 
 head of an ancient line, and the wealth that more than 
 supported it, he had always clung to an essential simplicity 
 of life. It was the things one did in the country that were 
 of importance ; the end must not be obscured by the 
 means. And the end was a healthy useful life, spent as 
 much as possible in the open air, and with neighbourliness 
 to rich and poor alike to colour its pleasant activities. Its 
 full fruition could be attained by means of a moderate 
 degree of wealth, and an over-application of wealth to its 
 nicely adjusted parts would throw the complicated machine 
 out of balance. 
 
 But the Squire's critical faculty was asleep on this 
 occasion. He even defended the profuse spectacle against 
 disparaging comment. " What are a few flowers more or 
 less to people like this ? Very pretty and bright I call 
 the whole thing ; rather a compliment that we country 
 bumpkins are considered worth such a show, I think," 
 was the line of his defence. And to one or two of his 
 particular cronies there would be a confidential " They tell 
 me this man's worth " The figures were only indi- 
 cated in a roundabout way, but the fact plainly emerged, 
 
 ai) 
 
294 Rank and Riches 
 
 for those who knew the Squire, that he felt some personal 
 interest in them, and his pride that aped humility set 
 tes wagging in a way that would have offended him 
 deeply, only that he had no idea that his most secret 
 desires were, as it were, cried aloud by himself. 
 
 He had not been present at either of the Bathgate 
 gatherings, and would have considered that his age absolved 
 him from attending this one, if he had not wished to see 
 for himself how affairs were progressing in a certain 
 quarter. 
 
 Frank had secured a fortnight's leave over Christmas, 
 and had spent the preceding week of it at Kemsale. He 
 had also visited Kemsale, as has been said, on every 
 occasion that he had made a flying appearance at Kcncote, 
 and those appearances had sometimes been of such short 
 duration that it was only natural to suppose that a very 
 strong attraction had led him to make the journey down 
 to Meadshire when most young men in his position would 
 only have used the opportunity for a little jollification in 
 town. Surely by this time something might be expected 
 to come of it ! The Squire, remembering his own youth, 
 had a strong suspicion that such an occasion as this would 
 be very likely to bring matters to a head. 
 
 And so it did. Frank had spent the most blissful week 
 of his life at Kemsale, and this was to be the end of it. 
 Anne, who was now a prime favourite in the house, had 
 been caught up and enveloped in all the excitements of 
 the time. He had been with her every day, and often for 
 the whole day. They had floated with the glamourous 
 tide, understanding one another perfectly, and being 
 understood and abundantly sympathised with by most of 
 those who had such frequent opportunities of observing 
 them. They were constantly left together. No one would 
 have thought of claiming either of them . for anything 
 separately. The young man was so gallant and handsome, 
 the girl so pretty and sweet, that it was felt to be an idyll 
 to be treated with tenderness, not to be too much talked 
 about. Probably Mrs. Brown was the only one of all the 
 large company who did not know what was going on under 
 her eyes, and even hers could hardly have remained blind 
 to it if on the night of the Hunt Ball she had not been so 
 immersed in other thoughts, and had not stayed away from 
 the ball on the night after. By this time it was well, 
 enough known to " the county " at large, and it was a 
 
 (ST) 
 
More Festivities 205 
 
 little ill-natured of some of the Squire's more intimate 
 friends not to give him a hint of it, but to wait and see the 
 realization of the truth, and what should follow it, break 
 in upon him gradually. 
 
 The poor old man, so confident and self-satisfied in the 
 early hours of the evening, provided all that could have 
 been desired in the way of entertainment to the cynics as 
 the truth did gradually dawn upon him. As is the way of 
 young men in his case, rrank made his concessions to what 
 he conceived to be his duty at the outset, so as to be able to 
 give himself up more completely to his inclinations later on. 
 He danced twice with Katie, and the Squire beamed each 
 time, did not know he was beaming, but was closely 
 observed. Then came a dance with Anne, during which 
 he made some of those observations already recorded. 
 This dance was followed by a prolonged period of absence, 
 during which he began to show himself somewhat puzzled 
 and disturbed. And so the game went on, until, finally, 
 after a much longer period of absence, the two of them 
 came back into the ball-room, and their faces showed as 
 plainly as faces could show anything that amidst all the 
 troubles and misunderstandings of the world here were 
 two young people who feared nothing of what might come 
 as long as they could meet it together. 
 
 (29) 
 
CHAPTER XXIX 
 
 THE OLD AND THE NEW 
 
 " I call this the haunt of peace," said Alfred. " After 
 the turmoil we have been living in it's like coming to a 
 delightful rest cure." 
 
 He and Katie were lunching at the Herons' Nest with 
 Grace and Meadshire alone. The spacious dining-room, 
 with its oaken floor, old panelling, and fine furnishing, 
 might have been in some ancient peaceful house that had 
 known no change for generations. The winter sun flooded 
 the room, and through the open windows nothing could be 
 seen but the massed ranks of the pines on the other side 
 of the gorge, and nothing could be heard but the music of 
 the water on the rocks below. 
 
 But if the scene was quiet and untroubled, the faces of 
 the four who sat at the table were not. Alfred showed 
 his disquiet less than any of them, and perhaps his disquiet 
 was less than theirs. But he was feeling dispirited and out 
 of gear, and in spite of his words he was gaining no solace 
 from this companionship of four. 
 
 Meadshire was in a frowning discontented mood. He sat 
 for long periods saying nothing, and when he did speak had 
 nothing to say that had any effect upon the general de- 
 pression. He was drinking nothing but water ; otherwise, 
 Alfred, who became more and more irritated with him as 
 the meal progressed, would have suspected him of being 
 on the road to one of his periodical breakdowns. Grace 
 looked at him sadly every now and then, but tried to keep 
 the ball of conversation rolling. Her face was thin and 
 her eyes heavy. Alfred wondered how he could ever have 
 thought her young. Her face kept its sweetness, but it 
 was that of a middle-aged woman. 
 
 Little Katie made valiant efforts to be bright and talka- 
 tive, but her efforts were not a success. She looked as if 
 she had been crying. She and Alfred had not been much 
 
 296 
 
The Old and the New 297 
 
 together while Kemsale had been full, but now all the 
 guests had departed it had come to him that she had not 
 shown that happy gaiety that might have been expected 
 of her, with so many of her friends around her and so much 
 to occupy them. He had asked her, as they had walked 
 to the Herons' Nest together, if there was anything the 
 matter with her, and she had denied it vigorously. He 
 had not pressed his inquiries, thinking that he might have 
 been mistaken as to the past, and that the reaction from 
 gaiety to dullness might account for her dejection of the 
 present. Now he thought that there must be something — 
 something between her and Grace ; but he did not connect 
 it with Meadshire's lowering state, except so far as he made 
 everybody in his presence uncomfortable. 
 
 They were talking of Frank Clinton and Anne Shear d. 
 Sympathy with those happy lovers brightened the faces of 
 three of them until Meadshire struck in. 
 
 " You don't suppose Edward Clinton is going to allow 
 that, do you ? "he asked ; and his eye rested for a moment 
 on Katie. 
 
 Grace spoke hurriedly as if to prevent him from saying 
 more. " He may be a little disappointed at first," she said. 
 " But he can't help loving that sweet little Anne when he 
 knows her. He is much more soft-hearted than he gives 
 himself credit for." 
 
 " He's much more soft-headed," growled Kemsale. " But 
 there are two gods he. worships, money and birth, and as 
 your sweet little Anne has neither he'll kick up a devil of 
 a row about it." 
 
 " Yes, perhaps he will make a fuss — poor Cousin 
 Edward ! He did about Dick and Virginia ; but he 
 adores Virginia now." 
 
 " That's very different. Virginia had money ; and she 
 was a beautiful woman — an American, and you don't ask 
 for birth from them. I don't see Edward welcoming a 
 pretty little girl out of a country parsonage whose parents 
 are — well, we all know what they are — as good as they 
 make 'em. They'll do for us, but they won't do for 
 Edward." 
 
 " If Frank Clinton has any pluck," said Alfred, " he 
 won't take much notice of all that nonsense. He'll just 
 take her out of her country parsonage, and be happy with 
 her. Who's Mr. Clinton, that he should turn up his nose 
 at a girl as charming as little Anne ? " 
 
298 Rank and Riches 
 
 He spoke with some contempt. The cause of his present 
 ill-humour was precisely " all that nonsense," which had 
 been bothering him as he had never allowed it to bother 
 him before. He was going to make a stand against it, to 
 make it quite plain what his own position was ; and 
 Meadshire, who seemed determined for some reason or 
 other to show his disagreeable side, should have something 
 definite to be disagreeable about if that was what he wanted. 
 Meadshire turned his frown upon him. " Edward 
 Clinton is my cousin for one thing," he said. 
 
 Alfred laughed constrainedly. " Does that mean I'm 
 not to take it upon myself to criticise him ? " he asked. 
 
 " Oh, we all criticise dear Cousin Edward," said Grace 
 lightly. " But we love him all the same. I'm sure he 
 won't stand out long, if he stands out at all." 
 
 Meadshire went on as if she had not spoken. " Edward 
 Clinton is the head of a family that has been at Kencote 
 for something like five hundred years. That's a record 
 that very few people in England can show. I don't blame 
 him for holding up his head about it and wanting to keep 
 his line what it's always been." 
 
 " But you said just now that he thought too much about 
 birth and money," said Katie. She spoke with a little 
 air of authority, as if she wished to recall him to himself, 
 and had a right to do so. And he smiled at her as if he 
 accepted her right. 
 
 " I don't say that I agree with him," he said, more 
 amiably. " But when I'm asked who Edward Clinton 
 is, I'm giving an answer. He's something quite recog- 
 nisable, and has been all his life." 
 
 Alfred was about to pursue the subject in a way that 
 would probably not have tended to preserve Meadshire's 
 slight improvement in manner, but Grace prevented him 
 by talking about something else, and the rest of the meal 
 passed more easily. 
 
 They drank their coffee outside in the sun, and presently 
 Meadshire, who seemed to be unable to sit still, and had 
 been walking up and down the terrace with his hands in 
 his pockets, puffing at a cigarette, asked Katie to go to 
 the upper rocks with him. She arose at once, and Grace 
 and Alfred were left alone together. 
 
 " What's the matter with Meadshire ? " Alfred asked. 
 " He doesn't seem to be in the best of tempers." 
 She laughed at him. " I have been thinking the same 
 
' The Old and the New 299 
 
 about you," she said. " I suppose we are all feeling a 
 little off colour after our excitement of the last few weeks." 
 
 " It isn't that with me," said Alfred, after a pause. 
 " I'm very glad the excitement is all over. It wasn't a 
 success, and I hope it won't be repeated." 
 
 " Not a success ! " she exclaimed. " I think it has 
 been the most brilliant success. Everybody is feeling 
 extraordinarily grateful to you for giving them such a good 
 time. It has been quite like old days at Kemsale." 
 
 The last sentence had been divided from the rest of 
 the speech by an appreciable pause. Alfred smiled at 
 her. " It is like you to say that," he said. " You make 
 the best of us, and you're generosity itself. All the same, 
 I think your chief thought must have been how very unlike 
 it all was to the old days at Kemsale." 
 
 She was too truthful to protest that she had meant 
 exactly what she had said. " In many ways," she amended 
 her statement, " it was like our gay times. But, of course, 
 my grandfather was very old already when I was just 
 grown up ; the gay times were not so frequent as they 
 had been, and it is natural that I should remember best 
 the happy quiet times." 
 
 " Yes, I know," he said. " And your quiet times were 
 very different from ours. You belonged there, and we 
 don't. Unless we are making a noise and spending vast 
 sums of money on amusing ourselves and other people, we 
 don't know what to do with ourselves. My father is tired 
 of the place already ; my mother is dying to get away 
 from it now, and will be off directly, with Katie. And if 
 you want the truth about me, I've had as much as I can 
 stand of it for some time to come, and I'm going off as 
 well, if my father will let me." 
 
 " It isn't like you to talk like that of your father and 
 mother," she said gently. " They have both been very 
 kind, and have given many people a great deal of pleasure. 
 And your father, especially, has shown himself to be a 
 really good and considerate landlord." 
 
 " I'm not saying anything against either of them, and 
 perhaps I wouldn't say what I have said to anybody but 
 you. It is when I think of you in connection with Kemsale 
 that I see how unsuitable all of us are to be living here." 
 
 She saw that he wanted to unburden himself, and though 
 she did not understand the springs of his discontent, she 
 liked him well enough to be interested in them. " Tell 
 
300 Rank and Riches 
 
 me why you say that," she said. " I shouldn't have thought 
 that your father was tired of Kcmsale, as you say he is ; 
 and I don't see any reason at all why you should be." 
 
 " I don't suppose my father does know that he is tired 
 of it. Perhaps he isn't altogether. But ever since we first 
 came here he has been trying to make Kemsale his chief 
 interest, and he can't keep that up any longer. It isn't 
 enough for him. I suppose he has made a great deal more 
 money than he knows what to do with, and I believe he 
 had an idea of leaving off money-making and settling down 
 here, if it suited him, though he has never actually said 
 so. I suppose he wanted to see how it turned out first. 
 Well, he has one of his big affairs on in the City, and he's 
 just as pleased to be getting back to it as if he were a 
 boy going home from school. You won't see much of him 
 here for weeks to come. He may be down occasionally 
 on Sundays, but he won't have much attention to spare 
 for Kemsale affairs when he does come down. He'll just 
 want to rest." 
 
 "It is very curious, she said." " But I suppose every 
 man is most interested in the things he does best. Kem 
 never really cared about estate work. If he had been 
 an engineer, or something of that sort, I expect he would 
 have worked hard at it. Still, he was fond of Kemsale 
 when it was his, and I think your father is too." 
 
 Alfred had not yet forgiven Meadshire his fractiousness. 
 
 " I dare say nvy father will be as fond of it as he was," 
 he said. " But he thought he was going to be fond of 
 it in a different way. He thought it would give him 
 something to do all the time. Now he finds it won't, he 
 wants to shift it off on to me. He sees well enough that 
 it wants taking care of — that it's too big a thing to leave 
 to agents and business people. Old Mr. Clinton taught 
 him that, I think. He has been rather impressed by 
 the way he has stuck to his land, and his eldest son 
 sticks to it now." 
 
 " Yes ; Kencote is enough for both of them. Why 
 isn't Kemsale enough for you ? I thought you had been 
 happy here. You told me before Christmas that you had 
 never stayed for so long in one place. What has hap- 
 pened since to make you want to leave it ? " 
 
 " Oli, I've had my eyes opened ; I expect you know 
 why." 
 
 She looked at him in surprise. " Indeed I don't," she 
 
The Old and the New 801 
 
 said. "I thought that having so many of your friends 
 here would make you like it more than ever. Katie told 
 me that you had never had such an opportunity for hos- 
 pitality before you came to Kemsale." 
 
 " It doesn't seem to have brightened Katie up much. 
 It was all right until one made the discovery that one's 
 old friends weren't considered good enough for one's new 
 ones." 
 
 She cast down her eyes. She had expected nothing of 
 this sort, and was not altogether guiltless of having thought 
 some of his old friends not quite good enough. She thought 
 he was accusing her, but could not remember that she had 
 given the slightest occasion for accusation. 
 
 He was not looking at her, and went on : "I can see 
 it ail now. I suppose I've always known in the back of 
 my mind that I could get into any society I cared about 
 because of all the money. It doesn't seem difficult to 
 buy your way anywhere nowadays, even amongst the people 
 who pride themselves on respecting something besides 
 money. But I've hated the idea of it so much that I've 
 sunk the beastly money as much as ever I could. I've 
 made friends amongst people I've really liked, and I've had 
 a royal good time. All those fellows who were down 
 here— clever and amusing fellows — took me for myself, 
 not for my money, or my father's money. Now, even 
 with one or two of them it's different already. They 
 think of me not as a fellow like themselves, as they used 
 to, but as a chap who is plastered with gold. I hate it ; 
 it humiliates me. I'm like Croesus, who ruined every- 
 thing that he touched." 
 
 " I think it is rather fine that you should think about 
 money like that," she said. " I can understand it. There 
 are people in the world who are affected towards rank in 
 the way that you hate. One has to guard one's self 
 against false values. It is the penalty one pays for being 
 a little different from others. But still, I don't see why 
 what you have said should make you turn against poor 
 Kemsale. One's rank was in its right place here, while 
 we had it, and I think your father's wealth, which he 
 spends here so generously, is in its right place, too." 
 
 He smiled at her again. " You always calm one's ideas," 
 he said. " But I don't think you really believe that money 
 is a good substitute for rank at Kemsale. You make the 
 best of us, as I said before, but you stood out against us 
 
302 Rank and Riches 
 
 for a long lime, you know. I don't think you've changed 
 all your ideas since wc became friends." 
 
 " I have changed a great many of them," she said 
 simply ; " and I suppose it is because both you and Katie 
 are so little affected by " 
 
 " By the money. Yet it's the money that has put us 
 where we are. When we lived in a big house in the 
 suburbs of London you wouldn't have thought us fit people 
 to know." 
 
 " Oh, you mustn't talk like that. You're muddling things 
 ip. I should always have thought you the nicest people 
 to know, if I had once got to know you. So does everyr 
 body about here. I don't think you have any reason to 
 complain of lack of friends here. No one could have 
 made themselves more liked in so short a time." 
 
 " Well, if people have taken us up, I say it is because 
 of the money. I thought at first, as far as I was con- 
 cerned, it was because of myself. So it may be with a 
 few, but with the majority it's because of the money. 
 And I've found it out. That's why I'm longing to get 
 away, and be myself again." 
 
 She did not speak at once. Then she said slowly : 
 " If you think about it like that, it is of no use simply 
 to say that you're wrong. But I think you are wrong 
 all the same." 
 
 " I'm sure I'm not wrong. Any number of the people 
 who were at Kemsale the other night were turning up 
 their noses at us all the time, and they were turning 
 them up still higher at Bathgate. And why ? " 
 
 " Well, why ? " 
 
 " Because we had the impudence to be ourselves. If 
 we had filled our house with people all cut after one 
 pattern they'd have passed us — of course as long as we 
 behaved ourselves humbly and gratefully for being taken 
 notice of. It would have been better than they would 
 have expected from people like us, and " 
 
 She would not let him go on. " Oh, but I think you're 
 talking a great deal of nonsense," she said. " If you 
 want the plain truth, your friends did make a good deal 
 of noise, and they weren't the kind of people we're accus- 
 tomed to. Most people were rather amused at them, and 
 if there were some who took it all too seriously, you 
 can surely make allowances. If a lot of fox-hunting 
 young Englishmen took charge of an artists' ball in 
 
The Old and the New 303 
 
 Paris it would have been just the same, the other way 
 round." 
 
 He was already inclined to be a little ashamed of the 
 division he himself had tried to create at the Bathgate 
 balls, and she had spoken with more decision than she 
 generally used. " Well, all that isn't of much importance," 
 he said, rather grudgingly. " It isn't really what I'm up 
 against. I suppose these people here have a right to have 
 their own show run as it pleases them. Well, let them 
 run all their shows as it pleases them, and I'll keep outside. 
 I don't belong to them. I belong to the other lot, and 
 it has been made plain to me that the two lots don't mix. 
 I've made my choice now." 
 
 " Have you got a right to make your choice in that 
 way ? " she asked him. 
 
 " Why not ? I don't belong to the fox-hunters. I don't 
 care for them, as a body. Of course I like one or two 
 here and there. I like Irving ; I like Frank Clinton ; I 
 like a few of the fellows who have been staying with us. 
 But that's only because they're something more than fox- 
 hunters." 
 
 " It's because you know them. Nobody likes all the 
 people whom they have to live amongst. I'm sure you 
 don't like all the artists amongst whom you have lived. 
 You pick and choose, and the rest you tolerate. But in 
 a city you have more choice. In the country perhaps you 
 have to tolerate more than you can make friends with. 
 It's the same for all of us." 
 
 " What did you mean when you said I hadn't a right 
 to choose for myself ? " 
 
 " I asked you whether you had. I had a little talk 
 with your father the other day. He wants you to settle 
 down here. He told me that Kemsale would be yours 
 some day. He doesn't want you to do what some of us 
 have done — look upon a great country estate as so much 
 property, providing an income to be spent, and carrying 
 with It no duties or responsibilities. He told me that he 
 had come to see that that was not the way that land should 
 be held — at least not in England." 
 
 " Oh, yes, he's got hold of all that, the dear old dad. 
 There's nobody like, him for seizing the salient point. 
 Only, unfortunately, he isn't going to bother himself with 
 holding land in what he sees to be the right way on his 
 own account. I've had it all out with him, and I did 
 
301 Rank and Riches 
 
 make up my mind more or less before Christmas to give 
 it a fair trial. But what he doesn't see yet is that it 
 takes the right man to do it. You don't always find the 
 right man amongst the people that you come from, and 
 you're less likely still to find him amongst the people from 
 whom I come. You may. I believe my father would have 
 been one of the right men if he'd taken to it early enough. 
 But I'm not. It would suffocate me to live down here 
 all my life — even going away a good deal, as I should — 
 amongst all the people who think themselves so broad- 
 minded and are really so narrow." 
 
 " Well, I've lived amongst them all my life," she said, 
 " and I don't believe they are more narrow than others. 
 I think it is the happiest life there is, to live most of your 
 time quietly in the country, and do the work and take 
 the pleasures that lie close to your door." 
 
 " I like to think of your doing that. It seems to suit 
 you. When I go away from Kemsale I shall often think 
 of you living here in this pretty place — so much nicer 
 than Kemsale is now, in the way we have spoilt it with 
 our money. Ah, if Kemsale had been what it was before ! 
 If it could have gone on somehow with no change, I don't 
 think I should have wanted to leave it. When I first 
 came down, your influence seemed to be over it all, though 
 the changes were beginning to be made then. I loved it ; 
 it was something that I had never known before. But 
 we seem to have rubbed it all off now — all the romance 
 of it. I don't know that we're more vulgar than other 
 people of our sort, but we do seem to have vulgarised 
 Kemsale. It can never be again what it was when you 
 lived there." + 
 
 She was a little abashed by his speech, and did not 
 quite understand it. But she recognised him for a young 
 man of originality, who could say things that other people 
 would not say. It was difficult to answer him. She thought 
 of him and Katie both as quite unspoilt by their upbring- 
 ing, but she did also think that Mrs. Brown had vulgarised 
 Kemsale, and she could not commend them without criti- 
 cising her. 
 
 " It is kind of you to think of me like that," she said. 
 "I am a little part of Kemsale still, and if it is any plea- 
 sure to you to know it I am much happier living here 
 with you as neighbours than I had thought at first that 
 I could possibly be — with any new neighbours, I mean, 
 
The Old and the New 305 
 
 at Kemsale. So yon see, the way it all seems to strike 
 you doesn't strike me." 
 
 " Well, how does it strike you exactly ? You can't help 
 seeing that we're different from the people in all the other 
 country houses. I don't mind being different, you know. 
 What I hate is to be in a place where one isn't allowed 
 to be." 
 
 " It doesn't strike me that you are so very different. 
 We're not all cut after the same pattern, as you seem to 
 think. I don't believe you do think it really. There's 
 as much room for your tastes in the country as for any- 
 body else's. And some of your tastes are the same as 
 those of all the rest of us— more of them than you're 
 inclined to admit just at present. I will tell you what 
 I think about you, as we're friends, and I may speak 
 my mind. The life you have been living has been delight- 
 ful to you while you have been quite young. But it 
 couldn't go on in exactly the same way ; you wouldn't 
 be satisfied with it. It is not as if you were preparing 
 yourself to be a great artist ; you have only taken the 
 amusing parts of an artist's life, just as other young men 
 take to other amusements before they settle down to the 
 life prepared for them ; or as my cousin Dick Clinton, 
 for instance, took to soldiering for a time, not as a serious 
 profession. You've had j-our fun out of it all, but it 
 would be wasting yourself to go on with it much longer. 
 We all have something to do in the world. I think your 
 duty plainly lies here, as your father wishes it ; and you 
 couldn't get rid of Kemsale if you wanted to." 
 
 He sat silent for some time. Then he said : "It all 
 comes back in the long run to the money. Money is a 
 dreadful tyrant. You work for it as my father does, 
 and it isn't like working for other things which are satis- 
 fying in themselves. When you have worked to make 
 it, if you have made so much that it is beyond anything a 
 man can want, you have to work to use it ; or it mocks 
 you. He sees that, as he sees most things ; but he has 
 the genius for making it, not for using it. Whatever he 
 tried to do with his money he would make more of it. He 
 couldn't help himself. This scheme of his that he has 
 started here — no doubt it will benefit the estate, and the 
 people on it, but the end for him will be that he will 
 make money out of it ; it wouldn't be his scheme if he 
 didn't." 
 
sog Rank and Riches 
 
 " He told me that he didn't want to make much money 
 out of it — a fair return on his capital he said. It was for 
 the benefit of the estate and the people chiefly. I think 
 that is just right. It is what landholding has always 
 been at its best. The Clintons think it is right, and they 
 say — or Dick says — that it is a good thing to get new 
 blood and new ideas into it." 
 
 " But don't you see that he's got beyond the point at 
 which he can satisfy himself with working for those objects ? 
 The stakes aren't high enough. He's as little of a gambler 
 as anybody. I don't believe he has ever won or lost a 
 penny on cards or horses, and I know enough of his busi- 
 ness to see that there is as little speculation in it as pos- 
 sible. It's all sheer knowledge and calculation. But the 
 stakes have got to be high all the same. That's why 
 he's going back to the City now. No, it's I who have 
 to bear the burden of all the wealth he's rolling up ; and 
 I'm not fit for it. It oppresses me. I can't leave it lying 
 idle any more than he can. I've got that much of his 
 blood in me." 
 
 " There are so many ways of using money to benefit 
 the world." 
 
 " Are there ? I've often thought of that. The people 
 who give away enormous sums don't seem to me to make 
 much of a hand of it. I think it's enormously difficult to 
 find a way, when you have to dispose of a great overplus." 
 
 " I suppose it is only of late years that individual men 
 have become so rich that they have to dispose of millions 
 by giving them away. It used to be easier. Men were 
 rich because of their land, and their land gave them all 
 that they wanted. Now rich men turn their money into 
 land, and gain new opportunities. I think that is the best 
 way. I think that is the way marked out for you at 
 Kemsale." 
 
 "It looks like it/' he said. " I'm afraid so." 
 
CHAPTER XXX 
 
 HELP IN TROUBLE 
 
 When Meadshire and Katie had left the terrace, Mead- 
 shire said : " There's very little to see in the garden now. 
 We'll walk up to the heronry. The fact is I want to get 
 away from your brother. He's in a devilish irritable mood, 
 and I don't want to quarrel with him for your sake, little 
 Miss Brown." 
 
 She made no repfy. She was thinking how she should 
 open what she had to say to him. 
 
 " What's the matter with you both ? " he asked her. " I 
 can't say that you are irritable, for you never are ; but 
 you're not very cheerful." 
 
 " No, I'm not," she said. " I'm very miserable." 
 
 " Poor little girl ! Why are you miserable ? Tell me 
 about it." 
 
 " I'm miserable about you." 
 
 The dark look which had lifted from his face returned 
 to it. " You needn't worry about me," he said. 
 
 " How can I help it ? You know how I love Grace, 
 and she's as unhappy as she can be. She sees what is 
 happening, and she feels that she can't help you. She 
 thinks I can. Oh, I wish you'd let me. You have let me 
 talk to you about it before. Can't you talk to me new ? " 
 
 He turned round on her suddenly and glared at her. 
 She stopped, and looked up in his face, half frightened, 
 but plucking at her courage. " Can't you see I'm making 
 a fight ? " he asked gruffly, and then turned and went on 
 again. 
 
 She was conscious of a great sense of relief. The ice 
 was broken ; she could talk to him now. " Oh, I know 
 you are," she said, " and I'm so glad. It isn't only for 
 Grace's sake. It's for your own, too. You know how 
 I want to help you, if I only can. It will help you to 
 talk about it, won't it ? If one is fighting against some- 
 
 307 
 
308 Rank and Riches 
 
 thing, it docs help when your friends know it, and are 
 thinking of you all the time." 
 
 They had come to a broader part of the path, where 
 there was a seat facing a gap in the pines, through which 
 the sun shone. He sat down heavily, and she stood by 
 him looking down upon his face, which was in pain. 
 
 " I've never fought against it so hard before," he said. 
 " I've never fought at all, except a little, last year. I'm 
 going through hell, little girl." 
 
 He looked up at her with a glance half- whimsical, but 
 looked down again immediately, his face reverting to its 
 expression of dark struggle. But there was something in 
 the glance that pierced her through and through. She 
 sat down beside him and her breath caught in a sob. " Oh, 
 I wish I could help you," she cried. " I wish I could 
 bear it for you." 
 
 His face cleared a little. " You have helped me, my 
 dear," he said. " At least, it's because of you I'm putting 
 up a fight. If you hadn't shown me that you thought I 
 
 could — and hoped I would But it's too much for 
 
 me. Ten years ago, perhaps, I might have won through. 
 It's too late now. I shall fight as long as I can ; then I 
 shall have to give way." 
 
 " Oh, no. You mustn't say that. You can struggle 
 through if you make up your mind." 
 
 He smiled at her again. " You don't know what it 
 is," he said. " Nobody can, unless they feel it them- 
 selves. It comes and goes. At it's worst you can hold 
 out, unless the stuff is actually there, and then when the 
 craving dies down a little there's another sort of impulsion 
 pushing you on. I can't explain it, but it's stronger than 
 the other. It's like your will turning traitor on you. 
 When I do give way this time, it probably won't be when 
 the craving is on me. I shall do it deliberately when I 
 needn't — physically. I shall go dead against what I want, 
 and I shan't be able to help myself." 
 
 " Oh, but you mustn't talk as if you were going to 
 give way. If you have held out so long — surely it passes, 
 doesn't it ? It is months since you had any desire to give 
 way. It can't last for ever." 
 
 " " I don't know how long it can last. It seems to me 
 now that it will last till I do give way. I only know that 
 I can't hold out much longer. My will is blipping away 
 from me. I seem to be caught in a net. I've reached 
 
Help in Trouble 309 
 
 that stage where there seems no reason for holding out. 
 You'd better forget all about me, little girl. I'm past 
 caring for. I shan't risk it coming on here again. I 
 shall go away, when I know I'm in for it. You needn't 
 know of it any more. When I'm c}own here I shall be 
 all right, and we can be friends, as we've always been." 
 
 She wanted to cry, but held back the tears, and put all 
 the strength of her clear firm mind into her determination 
 to stiffen his resistance. " If you think of yourself like 
 that," she said, " of course you won't hold out. I don't 
 understand all about it, but I know that it can't be neces- 
 sary for you to give way. There must be things 5*ou 
 can do." 
 
 " There are said to be cures. I don't believe in them 
 much, and if I did I don't think I'd try them. The only 
 reason I should want to get the better of myself would 
 be because somebody believed in me — or wanted to. Grace 
 — and you too. Oh, you've put a little bit of your pluck 
 into me. I'm more of a man now for holding out as long 
 as I have, even if I can't hold out much longer. If one 
 put one's faith in a medical cure, and ran to it every time 
 one had need — well, I don't see that it would be much 
 better than running to the other thing. One would be 
 no better in one's self." 
 
 " Oh, yes, I see that," she cried. " It's yourself you 
 must conquer. But I didn't mean that sort of cure. Per- 
 haps there is no actual cure and you would have to fight 
 always. But I believe if you fought and won, the times 
 when you would have to fight would get less, and the 
 fight would be less hard every time. When you talk about 
 it — when j^ou talk to me — doesn't that help you ? It isn't 
 strong enough to make you want to go away, now and 
 leave me — for it ? " 
 
 " No. At this very moment I've no actual craving. I'm 
 not sure that the worst of that isn't over. I wouldn't let 
 Grace have only water on the table at lunch, but I didn't 
 mind drinking only water myself. '* 
 
 " Oh, then, I do hope you are getting over it this time. 
 Perhaps you will only have to struggle on a little further 
 to be free again. And then you will feel ever so much 
 stronger, having got over the desire." 
 
 " Yes, but I've tried to tell you that that isn't the worst 
 danger. The struggle plays the devil with your will — 
 seems to turn it all topsy-turvy. When you want it most 
 
310 Rank and Riches 
 
 it's there, and when it seems to be wanted less you find 
 it gone altogether." 
 
 That is where a friend ought to be able to help you. 
 If your own will is damaged for a time, you ought to 
 be able to depend upon another will." 
 
 "If the friend were always there ! That's the trouble 
 little Miss Brown. It's when one is by one's self that 
 the perverse devil gets hold of one. Well, it's on the 
 knees of the gods. What will be will be. We needn't 
 spoil this lovely afternoon, anyhow, by dreading what's 
 going to happen. Let's go up across the hill. Perhaps 
 a long walk will do me good. And at least I'm safe 
 while I'm with you." 
 
 He took her assent for granted and started off up the 
 rocky path. She followed him. She had made up her 
 mind now what she was going to do. It was not easy 
 to do it, with his back towards her, and both of them 
 walking fast, but it was not easy to do it anyhow, and 
 the additional discomfort would not deter her. 
 
 " If you'll let me, I'll always be with you to help you." 
 
 He didn't catch what she had said, and called out a 
 question over his sheulder. 
 
 " Please stop," she said. " I have something to say 
 to you." 
 
 He stopped and faced her. Her face was pale and 
 her eyes were on the ground, but she raised them to his, 
 and spoke in a clear voice. " Let me stay with you always 
 and help you," she said. " I know I can." 
 
 His face grew wonderfully soft. He put his hand on 
 her shoulder. " You're a dear good little girl," he said. 
 " You've done me an honour that I shall never forget. 
 By Jove, I will see it through this time, for your sake. 
 But you shan't sacrifice yourself for me, my dear. Come, 
 we'll go and sit down again, and talk." 
 
 They went back to the seat, and she said in a voice 
 that trembled a little : " It wouldn't be sacrificing myself. 
 It would make me happy to know that I was helping 
 you through the bad times. I should feel that I was 
 helping to save your soul for you. It isn't given to many 
 women to do that for a man." 
 
 He took her hand in his. " Supposing it went wrong, 
 my dear ! " he said. " At first it wouldn't go wrong. But 
 afterwards — when we had become more used to one an- 
 other ! I'm not altogether a brute. I should be very 
 
Help in Trouble 31 1 
 
 grateful to you — always — even when the bad times came 
 on me ; but I'm grateful to Grace, and it doesn't prevent 
 me from showing myself a brute to her. I daren't risk 
 it, Katie." 
 
 " I would risk it," she said. " I'm not afraid." 
 
 " I know you're not. You're the bravest, best little 
 soul in the world. And you'd never reproach me, what- 
 ever I did. You'd stick to me through thick and thin. 
 Perhaps you might save my soul for me, as 3~ou say. I 
 should have to be a lot worse than I am if I didn't fight 
 tooth and nail against myself for your sake, even when 
 it didn't seem worth doing for my own. Oh, we'd make 
 a great fight of it, together. Perhaps we should win. 
 It's a great temptation, Katie. But I'm not fit for you, 
 my dear. I'm too old. I've played the fool with myself 
 and my chances too long — not only in that way, but in 
 every way. I've nothing to offer you in return for all 
 you'd do for me. If I'd known you ten years ago — but 
 you were a child then, and I was already a blackguard 
 and a waster. No, my dear, it isn't to be thought of." 
 
 It was she who felt weak now. She had offered herself 
 to him, but she could not plead with him to take her. 
 She could only show him how ready she was to give her- 
 self ; and that was difficult. 
 
 " I don't want you to think of me," she said ; "I mean, 
 I don't want you to think for me. I've done ail that ; if 
 I hadn't thought it all out again and again, and made up 
 my mind, I shouldn't have dared to say what I have. I 
 said it because I thought you wouldn't ; and yet I thought 
 that you would want me, if you knew I was ready to 
 come to you." 
 
 A feeling towards her that he had not had before was 
 creeping into his mind. He had thought of her cool loyal 
 strength as something to lean on, as a refuge from him- 
 self ; she would be like a kind devoted little sister towards 
 him — like another sister, stronger and more resourceful 
 than Grace. And he was fond of her, and liked her as 
 a companion ; it would not be irksome to be tied to her 
 for life. They would get on very well together. But 
 now he was beginning to see her as a woman whom he 
 might desire for a bride. She had shown tenderness, not 
 merely kindness and courage. She had no beauty except 
 the freshness of her youth, and the beauty that shone 
 through her from her fine true nature ; but that was more 
 
812 Rank and Riches 
 
 than enough to make a man desire her for a mate. It 
 made it harder for him to stand out against her ; but he- 
 was determined to stand out. 
 
 He still held her hand in his. " Don't think I don't 
 want yon," he said. " God knows I do. If I could think 
 only of myself, it wouldn't have been left to you to speak, 
 as I love and honour you for speaking ; I should have 
 asked you long ago. But it's the one thing in all my 
 rotten life that I've put away from me. From the first, 
 I've said to myself that a man like me had no right to 
 marry and share his disgrace with others. It's true I 
 never thought of any one like you, who knew the worst 
 about me and was ready to share it and to mend it. If 
 I'd known you when I was young, Katie, I think I'd have 
 let you risk it for me. I can't let you now, my dear. 
 You don't know the risk. I'm not fit for you. I should 
 be more of a blackguard than I am if I spoilt your youth 
 and goodness in that way." 
 
 She was crying softly, but left her hand in his, and 
 made no attempt to wipe away the tears. " You're not a 
 blackguard," she said. " If I didn't know that, I might 
 want to help for Grace's sake, and a little for your own, 
 because we're friends ; but I shouldn't have said what I 
 have to you. I know of your faults, but I know what 
 you are beneath them." 
 
 " Ah, but you don't know. How can a young girl, good 
 and innocent like you, know all that there is in the life 
 of a man so much older, wiio has done what he pleased, 
 never held himself in, thought of nobody but himself and 
 his own gratification ? " 
 
 " I know that there is much that I can't know. But I 
 look behind all that. I don't fear it. Love casteth out 
 fear — such fear as that." 
 
 He was profoundly moved by the word. Yes, it was 
 love that she was offering him — the noblest kind of love, 
 which thinks no evil. Might he not take the great gift, 
 and be healed and raised by it ? 
 
 If he could give love in return ! That would balance 
 the account, weighed down so heavily by his sins as against 
 her purity. 
 
 They sat for a long time in silence. Her hand rested 
 in his, as a token of her quiet and willing surrender. Its 
 touch soothed his troubled spirit, and whatever there was 
 in his thoughts that lay outside the great fact of her love 
 
Help in Trouble si 3 
 
 for him, and her readiness to share with him the burden 
 of himself, was swept away. 
 
 He turned <sto her and took her face between his two 
 hands and looked into her eyes. Then he kissed Ler 
 very gently on the forehead, but said nothing. She did 
 not know, when they walked on together, nor when they 
 parted, whether he had accepted her offer of herself or no 4 ". 
 
CHAPTER XXXI 
 
 AN ENGAGEMENT 
 
 It was the morning after the ball at Kemsale. Frank 
 Clinton was closeted with Mr. Sheard in his room where 
 the picture of the clipper sailing-ship Orion hung amongst 
 the dull-bound books on theology and Biblical study. 
 
 Mr. Sheard's face was serious. " I can't say this has 
 come upon me as a surprise altogether," he was saying. 
 " But I'll admit that I didn't think it was coming so 
 quickly, if it was coming at all." 
 
 " Well, you can't have expected that it wouldn't come 
 to Anne sooner or later," said the young man. 
 
 He looked confident and happy. It is to be supposed 
 that his happiness was so gloriously new to him that an 
 interview which most young men in his case look upon 
 as a necessary but irksome interruption to more pleasant 
 interviews was not even irksome. He could talk about 
 Anne and take a delight in the open recognition of his love 
 for her. 
 
 " Sooner or later, yes. But aren't there some difficulties 
 in the way, Mr. Clinton, that we have to consider ? " 
 
 He raised his honest eyes to Frank's face. They held 
 nothing but liking for him, as he sat there handsome and 
 strong, with the glow of his happiness on his face. If he 
 must lose his little daughter he could not wish that a more 
 proper man than this should take her from him — other 
 considerations apart. 
 
 " What difficulties ? " Frank asked. 
 
 " Does your father know of your wish ? Would he 
 approve of your marrying a daughter of mine ? " 
 
 Frank's face fell a little. " My father has had a sort 
 of idea that I wanted to marry somebody else," he said. 
 " I've given him no grounds for it ; in fact, I've taken 
 some little pains to make him see which quarter the wind 
 was in. But he hasn't seen it before last night, and at 
 
 314 
 
An Engagement 315 
 
 present he's suffering from disappointment. It won't last 
 long when he knows Anne." 
 
 " Well, it's natural that you should think that. I 
 shouldn't like you to think otherwise. But there are ques- 
 tions which young people in your state of mind can't be 
 expected to give much weight to, and they are just those 
 that parents have to think of most. Let's be honest about 
 it — you and I. Isn't your father, being what he is, likely 
 to object very strongly to your marrying a daughter of 
 mine ? You needn't be afraid of answering. You won't 
 hurt my feelings. I'm what I am, and I'm not ashamed 
 of it. I should be ashamed of myself if I pretended to 
 be something else — something like 3-our father, for in- 
 stance." 
 
 " If you want a perfectly plain answer, I don't know 
 how my father is likely to take it, wlien he has got over 
 his disappointment. He won't hear about it now, and 
 that's the truth. But it doesn't follow that he won't do 
 everything that's wanted of him when he gets used to the 
 idea. He's like that. You know my brother Dick's wife. 
 Well, he nearly disinherited Dick, as far as he could, 
 because he insisted on marrying her. They didn't meet 
 for nearly a year — Dick and he — and Dick gave up the 
 Service and took a job till he came round. Now he thinks 
 there's nobody like Dick's wife. I don't suppose he'd 
 act in the same way again. He's had his lesson, and 
 there's a lot more sense in him than you'd sometimes sup- 
 pose from his way of talking." 
 
 Mr. Sheard may have been somewhat surprised at this 
 very outspoken summing-up of a father by a son, but he 
 did not show it. "I don't know anything about the cir- 
 cumstances of your brother's marriage," he said. " But 
 I've been told that his wife was a lady of title before he 
 married her. Your father's objections to her can't have 
 been the same as they might be towards my little Anne." 
 
 " She was the widow of a fellow with a title. That's 
 all. She wasn't of the sort that he expected his eldest 
 son to marry. He didn't know her, mind you. When 
 he did, he came right round. You see, he's lived tied 
 down to Kencote for the whole of his life. He can't 
 forget he's a big man in this little corner of the world, 
 and that our family has been here for hundreds of years. 
 Perhaps it's all more important to him than it ought 
 to be." 
 
oi G Rank and Riches 
 
 " Well, Mr. Clinton, I've no fault to find with a man 
 who prides himself on his birth and his position, as long 
 as it leads him in the paths of honour. And I can't say 
 that I think it's wrong for him to wish that his children 
 should marry into families something like his own. That's 
 his side of it. But we've got our side too, you know — 
 we people without birth or wealth. As far as you're con- 
 cerned you've put that aside. I'm not ashamed to say 
 that you do us honour by treating us as equals. If Anne 
 marries you she marries into a family that's a good deal 
 above her own, and I don't pretend it wouldn't be a grati- 
 fication to us, if it could be happily brought about. But 
 we have our proper pride as well as those above us. It 
 wouldn't be for us to aim at such a marriage for our 
 daughter. If what we are, and what she is, is enough, 
 on both sides, no one's pride suffers. But if it isn't, then 
 my objections would be as strong as your father's, and 
 they would come from the same source." 
 
 " You mean that " 
 
 " I mean that before I consent to a marriage between 
 you and Anne, your father must consent to it. It's for 
 him to take the first step, because it's for him to waive 
 the difference between us, not for me." 
 
 Frank was conscious of a drop in his happy confidence. 
 He knew enough of the man before him to recognise that 
 he said nothing that he did not mean, or was not prepared 
 to act on. " I'm long since of age, you know," he said. 
 " And I'm not dependent on my father altogether, though 
 I should expect him to make provision for me when I 
 married." 
 
 " But Anne isn't of age. In any case, I shouldn't want 
 her to marry until some little time had elapsed ; but we're 
 not ready to talk of that yet. And I say nothing of pro- 
 vision for marriage. My ideas of a suitable provision 
 would probably be different from yours ; they would cer- 
 tainly be very different from your father's. I married 
 on a hundred and fifty a year, and I should let Anne do 
 the same, if I trusted the man who married her. I should 
 trust you ; we needn't talk about that side of it at all. 
 She'd go to you with nothing ; she'd be one with you, 
 whether you were rich or poor ; you'd work it out to- 
 gether. I sometimes think that the start in life of a young 
 couple amongst the people I belong to — where they take 
 their risks together — is a happier thing than what you are 
 
An Engagement sir 
 
 accustomed to in your circles, where all is made easy for 
 them from the beginning. But that's going too far at 
 present, too. I just say it, so as to make it quite plain 
 that I'm asking for nothing for Anne, except that she 
 shall be received as a daughter in your father's house. 
 That I have a right to ask for her, and I can't give my 
 consent without it." 
 
 " Yes," said Frank slowly, " you have every right to 
 ask for that ; and I shouldn't be satisfied for her with- 
 out it. I wish I could take her over to get it now. She'd 
 get it from my mother, and my sisters — I think from 
 every one except my father. And she'll get it from him 
 by and by. Perhaps I ought to have made more certain 
 of him before I came to see you, before I spoke to Anne. 
 I don't like to think I can't take her to my home, proud 
 as I am of her." 
 
 " Well, it's one of the little complications that come 
 from the differences we've been talking about. I shan't 
 allow it to vex me, and if I were you, I shouldn't take it 
 too much to heart. Little Anne won't, I know, as long 
 as she's sure of you." 
 
 " Then you don't forbid me to see her, until I've settled 
 up with my father, or to write to her ? " 
 
 " Oh, no. It's you I'm ready to give her to, and I'll 
 give her to you gladly when the time comes. If it doesn't 
 come before, it will come when she's of age, and can 
 choose. for herself. I shouldn't consider I had the right 
 then to stand on my pride. I'm afraid that's what it 
 comes to now, but I think I'm right to do it." 
 
 As Frank rode home that afternoon, with Anne's kisses 
 warm on his lips, he asked himself whether he was not 
 better off in having found her where she was, than if 
 she had been of some great house, kept and guarded from 
 him until all the tiresome side-issues of betrothal had 
 been settled for them. Their love for one another was 
 so fresh and still so wonderful that it was enough for 
 them at present to spend those blissful hours together, 
 to feed on them in memory, to look forward with keenest 
 delight to letters, when they should be parted, and to 
 meeting again ; always with the bright hope before them 
 of a time when they should be together for always. A 
 long engagement ! It was a more common experience 
 amongst Anne's people than amongst his. Lovers' inter- 
 course was founded on it : their freedom was not affected 
 
318 Rank and Riches 
 
 by difficulties in the way of an early marriage, and if 
 those difficulties were not as a rule of the same kind as 
 the difficulties that confronted him, still, Anne's parents 
 had treated them in the same way — as presenting no 
 obstacle to a complete understanding between him and 
 her. Within due limits their affair was their own. They 
 might not marry till the way was clear, but they were 
 not forbidden to be happy in their love for one another, 
 or to plight their troth, as if the obstacles would never 
 be overcome. 
 
 Frank had found it difficult at first to talk to Anne of 
 what had happened since he had parted from her the 
 night before. He was so afraid of hurting her, so ashamed 
 of having to make her understand that he had not yet 
 been able to make a welcome for her in his home. But she 
 was so young, and so shy with everybody but him — and 
 with him she was adorably shy, but in another manner — 
 that she rather dreaded having to face his people at 
 Kencote, and it was an actual relief to her not to have 
 to do so while the wonderful thing that had happened 
 to her was still so new, and what should come of it was 
 hardly yet in her thoughts. She wanted no one but him 
 at present ; she liked to feel that she was " engaged " ; 
 but marriage was a long way off yet. They would come 
 to that slowly, after long happy months, perhaps after 
 3 r ears. It didn't matter now how long it would be, since 
 Frank was hers to love and to think about, and had prom- 
 ised to write to her every day. 
 
 So his task was easy, after all, and he had to thank 
 the ideas to which Anne had been brought up for it ; or 
 rather the ideas to which she had not been brought up. 
 His father was not ready yet to sanction their marriage. 
 Anne saw nothing much to trouble her in that, though 
 she was a little surprised that Frank said nothing about 
 his sanctioning their engagement, which to her was quite 
 a different thing. But she saw that in respect of the 
 sanction it was to be considered the same thing, by the 
 way Frank spoke of it, and she was quite prepared to 
 leave it to him to remove the difficulties, all in good time. 
 He found that it was not necessary to explain to her 
 what they were. In his relief he made some slight sacri- 
 fice of filial affection. Anne was left with a vague idea 
 that the Squire was rather a tiresome old gentleman who 
 would come round all in good time, and she displayed 
 
An Engagement sio 
 
 much more interest in whether Mrs. Clinton would love 
 her, and whether Frank's sisters wouldn't be too " grand " 
 for her. He was able to reassure her on both these points, 
 from his own convictions on them, but it was represented 
 to her that until his father " came round " there might 
 be some difficulty in their all coming together happily. He 
 had left her a little sad, but more because he was going 
 away the next day and did not know when he should next 
 be able to secure a leave, than because of what he had 
 told her about Kencote. She would wait for him, in her 
 happy home-nest, and dwell on her thoughts of him 
 there. She was not ready to leave it yet ; it mattered 
 lktle that the doors of Kencote were not yet open to 
 her. 
 
 There was an agreeable surprise waiting for Frank when 
 he reached home. Joan and her husband had arrived, 
 on their way from one country house to another. Or 
 rather, as one country house was in Norfolk and the other 
 in Hampshire, and they had had to pass through London, 
 they had filched a day from the second of their visits, 
 and turned aside into Meadshire. It was a source of 
 gratification to the Squire that Joan had made so many 
 opportunities of coming to Kencote, and that her young 
 husband was always ready to accompany her, if the numer- 
 ous calls on him permitted him to do so. Although the 
 Squire considered himself " as good as anybod}'," because 
 of his ancient birth, and the wealth that enabled him to 
 support it in honour, and had had his taste of social 
 eminence in his youth, he had lived his retired life at 
 Kencote for so long that visits from members of the most 
 exalted aristocracy, to which young Inverell belonged, were 
 not quite like other visits to him. Viewed as a country 
 gentleman, living in comparatively simple style in his 
 large house all the year round, he was in fact rather more 
 outside the orbit of his daughter and son-in-law than the 
 Shear ds were outside his. Frank thought he might draw 
 advantage to himself out of this timely visit. 
 
 Joan was considered to be rather spoilt when she came 
 to Kencote, but all her demands were based upon her 
 love for her childhood's home, and gave pleasure to her 
 parents as well as to herself. One of these was that she 
 was always to have the old schoolroom, now disused, as 
 her special sitting-room, and one of the first things that 
 had been done on the receipt of the heralding telegram 
 
320 Rank and Riches 
 
 was to prepare it for her use. So it was as they sat 
 together on the old sofa, covered with faded chintz, in 
 front of the schoolroom fire, with no one to disturb them, 
 that Frank told Joan of his love and of the difficulties 
 in the way of his marriage. 
 
 " I think she's a darling," said Joan, looking at Anne's 
 photograph. " Dear old Frank, I'm so glad. I was be- 
 ginning to think you'd be left, out* of us all. Really, she's 
 awfully sweet. I'm sure I shall love her." 
 
 " She's ever so much prettier than that," said Frank, 
 and Joan laughed at him, and gave him a sisterly hug. 
 
 " I wonder if I should have time to go over and see 
 her to-morrow before we go," she said. " If father is 
 tiresome about it, it might soften it down a bit for her. 
 I know how much I felt it before it was all made right 
 for me and Ronald. I'll tell you what I'll do — I'll say I 
 must go over and see Grace. Then I'll go there on my 
 way. I'll take Ronald too. He'll come if I tell him why. 
 I never feel of much importance when I come back to 
 Kcncote ; but Ronald's different." 
 
 " You're a good girl, Joan. I thought you'd take it 
 like this, but I wasn't quite certain." 
 
 " Why, how did you suppose I'd take it ? Whoever 
 you married I should try to love her, if she'd let me. 
 And it oughtn't to be difficult with a sweet thing like that. 
 Let me look at her again, Frank, if you can spare her. 
 Yes, she's a real lamb, as Nanc}' and I used to say." 
 
 " Well, Joan, it's no use keeping things back. I don't 
 think you quite undertand how it is, though I've tried 
 to tell you. It's difficult, because whatever I say about 
 her people it looks as if I were running them down, and 
 I like them too much for that, especially her father. I 
 should like and respect him if there were no question of 
 her at all. It's natural that you should think of them as 
 ordinary rectory people, and father unreasonable to ob- 
 ject. But they're not quite like that." 
 
 " Oh, but I know, dear Frank. I was here when Uncle 
 Tom came and told us about them, in the spring — when 
 he first knew that Mr. Shcard was going to Kemsale." 
 
 " Yes, of course you were. I'd forgotten that. He told 
 us that Sheard had been a curate at Melbury Park, and 
 I think he said he had been a mate on a merchant ship 
 before that. Well, he was the skipper of a crack sailing 
 craft, as a matter of fact ; but that doesn't make much 
 
An Engagement 821 
 
 difference. He's a very fine fellow — simple and honest 
 and good right through ; if you said that he wasn't a 
 gentleman you'd feel ashamed of yourself when you once 
 came to know him ; but with the ordinary meaning that 
 people like us give to the word, that's what it amounts 
 to, and that's all that father can see. It doesn't affect 
 Anne. I'm quite sure it doesn't. I've had my eyes and 
 my ea.rs open. I couldn't very well help it, under the cir- 
 cumstances. She 's just what you'd want her to be, wherever 
 you put her. I think you'd be rather surprised if you 
 saw her mother, after you'd seen her. She's a dear .kind 
 soul, as good as gold. If she weren't, I suppose Anne 
 wouldn't be what she is, as she's always lived at home. 
 But there's no getting over it that she'd be out of place 
 dining here, for instance. Oh, it seems beastly to say 
 ?uch things of Anne's mother, and I do like her, and can 
 get on with her, though she's not equal to her husband. 
 You see, Joan, I'm not quite like the rest of you. You've 
 always lived amongst people of our own sort, and you're 
 inclined to think that they're the only ones in the world — 
 at least, father is. But one meets all sorts in the Navy, 
 and knocking about the world as I've done. You don't 
 think so much of position and all that sort of thing. You 
 take people for what they are in themselves. I tell you 
 honestly that I like being with people like the Sheards, 
 when they're as straight as they are, better than with 
 most people of our own sort. They've got their job to 
 do, and it's what they're thinking about. They're more 
 serious than us, but it's the right kind of seriousness and 
 doesn't make them less cheerful. And their lives are 
 much simpler. I've come to like that rather, too." 
 
 " You know," said Joan, after a slight pause, " I think 
 we've all got something to thank father for in that way 
 I was talking to Nancy about it the other day. I sup- 
 pose you couldn't call our life here simple exactly in the 
 way that you mean. There's a lot spent on it ; father 
 has always lived like a rich man, and you boys, especially, 
 were brought up to have everything that other rich men's 
 sons have — all the healthy things, I mean. But still, the 
 life at Kencote is simple compared to that of most other 
 houses one goes to. It's why I like coming back to it ; 
 and Ronald likes it too. When you live as we do, and see 
 so many people who think of nothing but spending money 
 and amusing themselves from morning till night, you have 
 
 L (8) 
 
322 RanK and Riches 
 
 to take hold of yourself a little, and say that you're not 
 going to make amusement the chief end of your life. Per- 
 haps we owe more to darling mother than we do to father 
 —we girls, I mean — but, in spite of all his funny little 
 ways of looking at things, he has stuck to his simple old- 
 fashioned manner of living. We used to grumble at being 
 dull here sometimes, but we love to think of it all now, and 
 to come back to it." 
 
 " Well, I haven't had as much experience of the other 
 sort of life as you have. I dare say you're right though, 
 and compared with that this is quiet, and perhaps dull. 
 But it seems to me pretty complicated. When I went to 
 stay with Humphrey in Australia, we took a trip out west 
 and stayed for a week with a pal of his. There wasn't 
 a servant within miles, and we did every mortal thing for 
 ourselves. Humphrey said it was the only life worth living, 
 and he hadn't a care in the world ; and you know what 
 Humphrey used to be — couldn't shift a }'ard without his 
 man, and would have thought that a fellow who didn't dress 
 for dinner every night was beyond the pale altogether." 
 
 " Humphrey had the right stuff in him all along, and 
 now it has come out. Father was always against his 
 extravagance, and his fashionableness, when he was young 
 —poor Humphrey ! " 
 
 " He was against a lot of things. I suppose he has 
 always had his fixed ideas, and they're not those of the 
 smart world. But they don't help me much now. He's 
 just as much against the far greater simplicity of people 
 like the Sheards as he is against the extravagance on the 
 other side." 
 
 " But it isn't because they live simply that he's against 
 them." 
 
 " Oh, well, we know why he's against them. They're 
 not good enough for him. But I say it is really because 
 of their simplicity. Their ways are different from ours. 
 That's all there is to it. He doesn't know what good 
 people they all are. He doesn't want to know ; that 
 doesn't count." 
 
 A gong boomed through the house. It was the second 
 that had sounded, and denoted that half the time appointed 
 for dressing had passed away. Joan sprang up. " I really 
 must go," she said. " Dear Frank, it will come all right 
 ia (lie end. I am going to see to it for you. I believe I 
 
 ..• father better than you do." 
 CM) 
 
CHAPTER XXXII 
 
 THE SYNDICATE 
 
 The Irvings were sitting at breakfast. The happy month 
 of June had come round again. June was a glorious month 
 at Little Kemsale because of the roses, which were the 
 Irvings' speciality. Neither of them liked to be away for 
 a night while the roses were in their full glory. There 
 was a great bowl of them on the breakfast-table, and 
 another on the sideboard. The room was scented with 
 them. And new beds had been dug the previous autumn 
 along the lawn in front of the house. These were filled 
 with the newer varieties, and the first thing to be done 
 every morning was to go and see what new treasure had 
 unfolded itself during the night. 
 
 But during this May and June Douglas had been a good 
 deal in London, running up one day and coming back on 
 the next or the day after to his roses. He had gone up 
 on business. He was in a big affair with Armitage Brown, 
 he told Beatrix, and he had been able to do Bill Bradgate 
 a good turn, and put business in his way. Things were 
 developing extraordinarily well, but there were all sorts 
 of difficulties to be overcome one by one. Armitage Brown 
 had been working steadily at them for the last six months. 
 It was wonderful what a genius he had for getting things 
 through ; Douglas could see now that there was a good 
 deal in that definition of genius being an infinite capacity 
 for taking pains, or whatever the phrase was. Armitage 
 Brown brought his mind to bear upon each tiny detail, and 
 left nothing to cha.nce. He was really a wonderful fellow, 
 and it was an extraordinary piece of luck being allowed 
 to go into a thing with him. 
 
 He talked a great deal to Beatrix in this fashion, but 
 gave her no details of the scheme. He wasn't allowed 
 to say a word about it yet, and she wouldn't understand 
 it if he did. She must be careful not so much as to men- 
 
 323 (18) 
 
82 i Rank and Riches 
 
 lion outside that there was anything on, or that he went 
 up to London to see Armitagc Brown. 
 
 A - a matter of fact, his visits to London were not quite 
 the important affairs that Beatrix imagined them to be. 
 He would go to Bradgatc's office in the City, to find out 
 what was going on. Sometimes Bradgate had a little piece 
 of news for him, sometimes no tiling whatever had happened, 
 and he had not had word with the financier since Douglas 
 had last been up. Bradgate, indeed, had little to do with 
 it at this stage, though he expected it to bring grist to 
 the mill later on. But lie was kept informed from time 
 to time of the broad aspects of the affair, and the progress 
 that had been made, and it was actually from him that 
 Douglas got all his information. He got none at all from 
 Armitage Brown. He would call in at his office, and some- 
 times he would be admitted, but not always. There would 
 be a word or two about Kemsale ; Douglas generally pre- 
 pared himself with something to say about the game, 
 which he now looked after entirely. Then Armitage Brown 
 would say : " Well, I'm very glad to see you, but I'm fright- 
 fully busy. I may be down on Sunday ; if not, give me 
 a look in the next time you're up. I like to hear what's 
 going on." So the door was kept aj ar ; but the only time 
 he had ventured to ask a question about the great scheme, 
 Armitage Brown had said : " Oh, that's going on all right. 
 I haven't forgotten that you want to take a hand. When 
 I'm ready for you I'll let you know." 
 
 Then Douglas would go to his club and play bridge 
 after luncheon, until it was time to go home. Sometimes 
 he would stay up for the night and go to a play. And 
 once he dined with the Browns in Berkeley Square, filling 
 a place at the last moment in one of Mrs. Brown's big 
 parties. But he had scarcely a word With his host. 
 
 They were talking of the Browns now, over the break- 
 fast table. Kemsale had been shut up since the beginning 
 of the year. Armitage Brown had spent some of his Sun- 
 days there, sometimes alone, sometimes with his brother 
 and sister-in-law. Neither Mrs. Brown nor Katie nor 
 Alfred had been down, and there was no immediate 
 prospect of their coming. Rumour was rife as to the 
 reason. 
 
 " They're not much good to us after all," said Douglas. 
 " I did think Alfred was going to stick to the place." 
 
 " Grace thought so too," said Beatrix. " He talked to 
 
The Syndicate 325 
 
 her about it just before he went away. I'm afraid he's 
 rather a harum-scarum creature. He's very nice, though. 
 So is poor little Katie. Douglas, I wonder if it's true 
 about her and Lord Meadshire." 
 
 " I'm pretty certain of it. Why should she have been 
 hurried off like that, all of a sudden. We know that 
 Mrs. Brown hadn't been meaning to go for another day 
 or two. And she never came to say good-bye." 
 
 " She wrote though ; and said she hoped to see me 
 when they came back from the Riviera. She never has 
 come back." 
 
 " Well, I don't know that she hasn't. Mrs. Brown said 
 she was at Venice with Alfred a month ago. She wasn't 
 inclined to be communicative. I'm afraid the poor little 
 thing's in disgrace. I think it's a beastly shame of Mead- 
 shire to make, up to her. I suppose she got carried off 
 her feet. You can't think that a nice little thing like that, 
 and as young as she is, would really want to marry a 
 fellow like Meadshire. However, I suppose she fancied 
 herself as a marchioness, and " 
 
 " Oh, no, Douglas. I don't believe she'd care a bit 
 about that. She's not like her mother." 
 
 " Well, her mother doesn't seem to have cared about 
 the idea. Or perhaps it was Armitage Brown who put 
 his foot down. He looked pretty glum after Mrs. Brown 
 had whipped her off. So did Alfred. He hates Meadshire." 
 
 " He did at first. I don't think he did after they all 
 made friends together." 
 
 " He did at the end. He said so. I expect what hap- 
 pened was that he'd heard about his trying to get hold 
 of Katie. He was very strong on people being after 
 them for the sake of their money. Of course that's what 
 Meadshire wanted. I don't blame Armitage Brown for 
 turning him off with a flea in his ear." 
 
 " You don't know that he did that." 
 
 " I can guess. Meadshire was furious with him, before 
 he went off ; and when I mentioned Meadshire's name to 
 Brown he looked as black as thunder." 
 
 " I do feel most awfully sorry for Grace. She thought 
 he was getting over his bad habits at last, and had settled 
 down quietly here. Now he's worse than ever — drink- 
 ing and spending money again ; and never comes near 
 her." 
 
 " Oh, he's a rotter. Can't help it, poor fellow. The 
 
32 G Rank and Riches 
 
 best thing that could happen for everybody would be for 
 him to drink himself into his gravti. He'll never be any 
 good now. I wonder that he managed to keep himself 
 steady here for so long. I suppose he knew he wouldn't 
 have a chance for Katie if he didn't." 
 
 " If it's true that he wanted to marry Katie, I expect 
 he proposed to her on the night of the Kemsale ball. So 
 did Frank Clinton to Anne Sheard, and young Davis to 
 Irene Fuller, and there have been difficulties about all 
 three proposals." 
 
 Douglas laughed. " Tottie's rage ! " he said. " I can't 
 help laughing whenever I think of it. Of course it's a 
 very good match for Irene. She's turned out to be 
 much more sensible than her mother. But poor Tottie ! 
 And she'd quite made up her mind that she'd caught 
 Alfred for Irene. Really, Bee, if you were to put that 
 woman " 
 
 " Into a book, nobody would believe she could be true," 
 Beatrix finished the sentence for him. " That's one to 
 me, and wipes off yesterday's." 
 
 " I wasn't going to say that at all." 
 
 " What were you going to say ? " 
 
 " Never you mind." 
 
 " Oh, you're not playing fair. But Tottie has come 
 round now. I didn't tell you ; I met her yesterday, and 
 she told me that she'd decided to make the best of a bad 
 job. She talked a lot about Points Manor ; Points Farm 
 is going to be dropped entirely. And it seems that the 
 Davises are, after all, a rather aristocratic family. One 
 of them married a baronet, about a hundred years ago I 
 think it was, and they've been ' seated ' at Points Manor 
 for two hundred years." 
 
 " She's a record, isn't she ? Never disappoints ex- 
 pectation. What did she say about the Browns ? Every- 
 body knows Mrs. Brown gives her the cold shoulder now." 
 
 " Oh, they are hopelessly vulgar, in spite of their money. 
 But I wasn't to say she said so, for goodness' sake. People 
 in their position had to serve people of all sorts, and keep 
 in with them to a certain extent, but for the future she 
 thought that she should let Herbert bear the brunt of it. 
 She'd done her best to make a friend of Mrs. Brown, and 
 put her up to things, but she got little thanks for it, and 
 she should leave her to take her own way for the future, 
 and make all the mistakes she was liable to." 
 
 <20) f 
 
The Syndicate 327 
 
 " Bursting with spite ! I wonder if she really thinks 
 she deceives a living soul by talking like that. She's jolly 
 lucky to have the Browns at her silly back. Little Her- 
 bert has been treated remarkably well. He might quite 
 easily have been sacked, at his age, and he wouldn't have 
 got another job ; but he's making more than he did before. 
 I must say Armitage Brown is a generous fellow when he 
 likes anybody ; and he doesn't buck about it either. I 
 bet you what you like he paid little Herbert a premium 
 to take young William Sheard into the office and teach 
 him his job." 
 
 " Do you think he did ? I don't believe Mr. Sheard 
 would have allowed that. He's very independent." 
 
 " He wouldn't have known anything about it. He 
 wouldn't know it was usual. He'd think that as it was 
 Brown's office he had a right to put voung William into it." 
 
 " He would, wouldn't he ? " 
 
 " It wouldn't be usual. Fuller has to teach him his 
 work. He'd have a right to a premium. Young William's 
 doing very well. Did you ever see such a change in a 
 fellow ? It's just what he's suited for." 
 
 " All the Sheards are good workers. Isn't it funny, 
 Douglas, w T hat a success they've been ? I wish Mr. Comp- 
 ton would come and pay us a visit, and see how it has 
 turned out." 
 
 " I shall write to him directly it's fixed up between 
 Frank Clinton and little Anne." 
 
 " If it ever is fixed up. Mr. Clinton won't hear of it at 
 present, and he's an obstinate old gentleman." 
 
 " Oh, he won't hold out when they show they're in 
 earnest. There's nothing against the child. Frank doesn't 
 want to marry her family." 
 
 " I like her family ; they're so straight about things. 
 They never try to disguise the fact that the Clintons are 
 higher up in the world than they are, or blame Mr. Clinton 
 for objecting." 
 
 ' ' They allow Anne to consider herself engaged to Frank, 
 though." 
 
 " Well, I rather like that, too. Mrs. Sheard told me 
 how they felt about it. They think Anne is quite good 
 enough for him, and they are not going to take a humble 
 line about that. But they won't let her marry him till 
 the Clintons think so too ; and say so. And Mrs. Sheard 
 believes in long engagements, and thinks Anne is too 
 
 (22) 
 
328 Rank and Riches 
 
 young to marry yet, anyhow. The idea is that they are 
 to have a year's probation. So it really doesn't work out 
 badly. Mr. Clinton ought to get used to the idea before 
 the year is up. The rest of them are on Frank's 
 and I expect they'll work it between them." 
 
 " I know Lady Invercll is. It was rather nice of her 
 to go over and see the Sheards. But I doubt whether 
 Dick Clinton is, and he has a good deal to say to things 
 over at Kcncotc." 
 
 " Mrs. Dick has a great deal more to say, in the long 
 run. She's rather amusing about it. She says that she 
 thought she had got to the bottom of all British prejudices, 
 but this beats her altogether." 
 
 " Well, I can't see that it's so unreasonable as that. 
 Anne is a charming little creature, of course ; any man 
 might be proud to have her as his wife." 
 
 " That's just what Mrs. Dick says." 
 
 " But the Sheards — in a way — well, you know what I 
 mean." 
 
 " Of course 1 do. You're British. So am I, I suppose. 
 But I do see a little what nonsense it all is • and of course 
 to an American " 
 
 The morning post, brought in at that moment, closed 
 the conversation for the time being. There was a letter 
 for Douglas, directed in a large iirm hand, w r hich he 
 opened first. 
 
 " Good business ! " he exclaimed, when he had read the 
 few lines it contained. 
 
 Beatrix looked up from her own reading to see his 
 face radiant with satisfaction. 
 
 "Dear old girl!" he said. "Our fortune's made. 
 Armitage Brown has put it through. I'm to go up and 
 see him as soon as possible. I'll go to-day. I can catch 
 the eleven o'clock train." 
 
 " What does he say ? " asked Beatrix. 
 
 He glanced at the letter, hesitated a moment and then 
 handed it across the table to her. 
 
 " Dear Irving," it ran, 
 
 " I have secured the concession and arranged for 
 the consolidation of all the properties. I understood you 
 to say that you wished to take up shares in the prelim- 
 inary Syndicate to the extent of £20,000. If you still wish 
 this I shall want a cheque from you within a week from 
 («) 
 
The Syndicate 329 
 
 to-day, but I should like to know your decision at once, as 
 there are others anxious to come in. Before deciding you 
 had better come up here to have full details. 
 
 " Yours truly, * 
 
 " Armitage Brown." 
 
 "Oh, but Douglas ! Surely you are not going to risk 
 twenty thousand pounds ! Why, it is more than half 
 that we have." 
 
 He had known that the protest would come, but felt 
 irritation at it none the less, which, however, he succeeded 
 in keeping under. 
 
 " My dear girl, I don't know all the details of the 
 business, but I know enough to say that it's an absolute 
 certainty. It is one of the biggest things Armitage Brown 
 has ever taken in hand ; and as far as his work is con- 
 cerned he has finished it. What it comes to is that he 
 has bought something that he can sell again for anything 
 up to ten times its value." 
 
 " But you can't possibly be certain of that, Douglas ! " 
 
 She was greatly distressed. She had had no idea that 
 he had been meaning to risk a very large sum of money 
 in what looked to her like nothing but speculation, and 
 said so, while he felt more and more impatient with her, 
 but still carefully refrained from showing it. 
 
 " Well, dear," he said, " I suppose it's natural that you 
 should think of it like that. And if I were to put in this 
 money, or any money, into the company that will be formed 
 when these preliminaries are put through, it would be a 
 speculation, though a good one, I believe. But this really 
 isn't. What do you think Armitage Brown is putting in 
 himself ? " 
 
 " Oh, I don't know. But " 
 
 " Half a million. Five hundred thousand pounds ; and 
 he's the cleverest financier in London, perhaps in the 
 world. Honestly, Bee, it's a real kindness on his part to 
 let me go in with him at this stage. He wasn't a bit 
 keen that I should. Good heavens ! why, there are people 
 tumbling over one another to get the chance that he's 
 giving me. He only did it because he thought he owed 
 me a good turn for looking after things here. I said I 
 wouldn't take a salary from him, but he could put me in 
 the next big thing he took up." 
 
 " Why didn't he want you to go in with him ? " 
 
330 Rank and Riches 
 
 " He said he didn't like to mix up business with friend- 
 ship." 
 
 " Then he must have thought there was some risk." 
 
 " I'll tell you exactly what he said. I don't want to hide 
 anything from you, my dear, and I suppose it's natural 
 that you should think one risks money when one invests 
 a great lump of it at once." 
 
 " Let's talk about it in the garden," she said. " I must 
 just go up to the children, but I'll come down again in a 
 quarter of an hour." 
 
 He saw that he should have to convince her fully, if he 
 were to be able to go up to London later on with a clear 
 mind. He thought over how he could put it carefully, 
 for he was absolutely convinced himself. 
 
 What Armitage Brown had said to him in answer to 
 the request he had mentioned was : "I don't usually do 
 that sort of thing, because if I want money for anything 
 now I can always get it without any difficult}', and if any- 
 thing goes wrong afterwards I'm not bothered by thinking 
 I've let in my friends. But I have something coming on 
 that seems to me to have practically no risk whatever if 
 I can get it up to a certain point, and if you like to chance 
 a thousand or so I'll make an exception for once, as you 
 have been very good about lots of things down here." 
 
 There had followed certain explanations, but actually 
 until this very day Douglas had never been told more than 
 that it was a question of securing a concession from a 
 foreign power, and buying up scattered properties of great 
 value, for which a large sum of money would be required, 
 but which could be put on to the market for an enormously 
 large sum. He was given to understand that the difficulties 
 lay in the securing of the concession, and in getting all the 
 properties together. When this had been done practically 
 everything would have been done. There would be some 
 technical work to do which would take a few months, and 
 then the members of the original Syndicate would receive 
 their enormous profits. Bradgate knew a little more, but 
 Bradgate was forbidden to open his mouth about what he 
 knew, even to Douglas. All that he had been able to tell 
 him during his visits to London was that details were being 
 gradually overcome, and their talk had been chiefly of the 
 companies that were to be formed later, and the profits that 
 were likely to be made by the members of the Syndicate. 
 
 Douglas felt that this wanted a great deal of explain- 
 
The Syndicate 331 
 
 ing, and he realised, as he thought it all over, that Brad- 
 gate, his particular friend, had been rather adroit with him, 
 in keeping back so much, while being so ready to talk. 
 At the same time he had never said anything to dissuade 
 Douglas from taking his chance, and he had always advised 
 him about his business affairs, and done well for him. That 
 would be a point. Beatrix knew how careful old Bill was. 
 When Douglas had mentioned the sum that he wanted 
 to use, Armitage Brown had demurred to it. It was then 
 that he had let out what interest he was prepared to take 
 himself. " I wouldn't risk a sum like that," he had said, 
 " unless I was pretty certain of getting it back, with a good 
 deal more besides. But if I were to lose even as large a 
 sum as that it wouldn't make a poor man of me, and I 
 should make it up later. I don't want to pry into your 
 affairs, but can you say the same of what you want to risk ? 
 For I'm not going to say there's no risk in any business 
 proposition, though I shouldn't let you go into this one at 
 all if I could see an v." _ 
 
 That had been enough for Douglas and he had given 
 the required assurance ; but this was a point in the conver- 
 sation that he did not propose to tell Beatrix. It would 
 give her a wrong impression. Armitage Brown had, of 
 course, felt obliged to give him a conventional warning. 
 That it was merely conventional was proved by the way 
 he had taken Douglas's reply. " Very well," he had said 
 indifferently. " Nobody else will come in under twenty 
 thousand. It will make it easier. I should have let you 
 have some of my own shares if you had only wanted a thou- 
 sand or so, as I thought, and I don't particularly want to 
 part with any of them." Beatrix could be told that. She 
 would only misunderstand the preliminary warning. 
 
 It practically rested entirely upon Armitage Brov/n's 
 honesty, and really there- couldn't be any question of that. 
 It didn't even rest on his capacity, because if he did not 
 succeed in bringing off his coup, no money would pass. He 
 was bearing all the preliminary expenses, which would be 
 by no means light, himself. Surely Beatrix would admit 
 that Armitage Brown was absolutely to be trusted. 
 
 She did admit it. But Douglas, after all, did not feel 
 that he was justified in holding back from her that word 
 of warning, and naturally that loomed larger than anything 
 with her. 
 
 She cried— amongst her roses. " We've been so happy 
 
332 Rank and Riches 
 
 her ," the said, " and you have said again and again that 
 nobody could want more than we have, Douglas. Why risk 
 it all, even in the slightest degree ? " 
 
 It appeared that he had only said that nobody could want 
 more than they had when there seemed to be no chance 
 of getting any more. There were lots of things that they 
 could spend a great deal more money on, if they had it — 
 a house in town, for one thing ; a country house, not 
 perhaps larger than Little Kemsale, but belonging to them 
 instead of rented, with land going with it ; perhaps a villa 
 in the south of France, or a moor in Scotland — oh, lots of 
 things ! Not worth risking Little Kemsale for, of course ; 
 " but on anything you like to swear me by, Bee, I'm not 
 risking anything. It really is so, if you could only see it." 
 
 She gave way at last. He promised to ask Bradgate 
 fairly and squarely if he thought he was justified in risking 
 so large a part of his capital. If Bradgate said no, he was 
 to cut down his risk to five thousand pounds ; they haggled 
 about the precise sum for some time, but Douglas said that 
 it was absurd to make a mere word of Bill's outweigh all 
 his own convictions. 
 
 What Bradgate did say, when the question was put to 
 him, not quite in the form suggested by Beatrix, was : " I'm 
 not going to take any responsibility for it, Duggy. As far 
 as one can humanly see, the risk isn't there. The thing 
 is done when the papers are signed and the money is paid 
 over. All we have to do then is to sell to the public, and 
 that there'll be no difficulty about whatever. At the same 
 time, I'm with our friend Armitage. I don't personalty 
 put more money into anything than I can afford to lose." 
 
 " But you're putting a lot more into this than you want 
 to lose." 
 
 " If I did lose it, it would give me a nasty knock, and 
 we should have to lie low for some time, the missus and I. 
 But we should have enough left, and I should make it up 
 again. You wouldn't have enough left, and you couldn't 
 make it up." 
 
 " His last words were : "I'm not going to advise you to 
 do it, because if you did lose your money, I should feel 
 I'd been partly responsible. And I'm not going to advise 
 you not to do it, because if it comes off, as I believe it will, 
 you'd never forgive me. You must make up your own mind." 
 
 So Douglas made up his mind, and instructed Bradgate to 
 sell out securities to the extent of twenty thousand pounds. 
 
CHAPTER XXXIII 
 
 THE END OF A DREAM 
 
 Alfred was closeted with his father in Armitage Brown's 
 business room at Kemsalc. It was mid-July, but the rain 
 was pouring down outside, and there was no relief to the 
 spirit anywhere : certainly none in the room itself, which 
 had taken on more than ever the appearance of an office. 
 
 Nor was there any in the hard bearing of the millionaire, 
 who had not seen his son for six or seven months until 
 the evening before, and was now delivering to him an 
 ultimatum. 
 
 " My patience is at an end," he was saying. " You've 
 had your fling, and now you've got to settle down to do 
 what I tell you. I'm very disappointed with you. When 
 we talked it all over last year I put it to you in such a way 
 that I thought you would take up your life here so that we 
 might have more in common than we've had before. I 
 thought you were ready to do that, partly out of affection 
 to me, partly because you'd come to see what a good thing 
 I was offering you. But all you do is to rush away from 
 the place without a word, and stay away for seven months. 
 I don't know how much longer you'd have stayed away if I 
 hadn't insisted upon your coming home. I'm not going to 
 put up with that treatment any longer." 
 
 " Oh, well, father, you know why I cleared out. I really 
 couldn't put up with living in the same place as that fellow, 
 after what had happened." 
 
 " If you mean Lord Meadshire, that had nothing to do 
 with you at all. I was quite prepared to deal with him, 
 and did so. Besides, he went away himself within a week, 
 and hasn't been back since. You're talking nonsense. We 
 got on very well here when we first came, and there was 
 definite hostility between him and us for some time. I 
 don't want to have anything more to do with him, but I'm 
 certainly not going to let him drive us out of the place. But 
 
384 Rank and Riches 
 
 I'm not going to argue about it. I've treated you as a man 
 of sense, and that treatment has failed. You haven't 
 shown sense or duty or affection or anything else that you 
 ought to have shown. You've just gone off and amused 
 yourself, on money I've supplied you with. Now you have 
 to do what I tell you." 
 
 Alfred's father had not spoken to him like this since his 
 boyhood, and very seldom then. He did not like it, but 
 felt no resentment against him, nor any sense of fear. He 
 did feel, however, in spite of his twenty-six years, that he 
 would have to do what he was told. 
 
 " Well, I'm sorry you're not pleased with me," he said. 
 " But I haven't really lost sight of all you said last year. 
 I've been thinking about it ever since. Can't you take my 
 absence as a last good long holiday before I have to settle 
 down to the serious business of life ? " 
 
 Armitage Brown was rather taken aback by the free 
 amiability of this speech. His annoyance against his son 
 had been growing ever since his absence had begun to 
 lengthen itself beyond all reasonable limits. He had made 
 up his mind to have no more nonsense, and was ready to 
 deal with Alfred as he had occasionally dealt with an unsat- 
 isfactory subordinate, shortly and sharply. After a time, if 
 he behaved well, he would take him into favour again, but 
 at first he would be kept strictly up to the collar. 
 
 But subordinates under rebuke had not been wont to 
 treat matters in this way, and he did not quite know how 
 to take it. Also he was fond of his son, and already soft- 
 ened by the news that he had not simply ignored all that 
 had been said to him. 
 
 " I can't understand you," he said. " I don't believe 
 there's another young fellow in England who would want 
 to run away from what I'm offering you. One of the 
 finest houses in the country, with everything in and about 
 it to amuse yourself with, in a healthy sort of way, oppor- 
 tunities for seeing all the friends you want here, plenty 
 of nice people all round you, a fine estate — and all you're 
 asked to do is to spend the greater part of your time here 
 and look after it all." 
 
 " Oh, I know, father. I suppose I am a bit of a freak. 
 It's not my line in life, but I suppose I can make it so, if 
 I take pains about it. What is it you want me to do 
 exactly ? " 
 
 Armitage Brown stiffened himself. He had laid down 
 
The End of a Dream 335 
 
 in his mind a course for his son to pursue. That should 
 be kept to, for a time at any rate. Concessions might be 
 made later. " I want you, first of all, to go into the estate 
 office for a year. I shall article you to Fuller in the ordinary 
 way, and you'll work at it just as if you were any other 
 young man learning estate agency. You can take regular 
 holidays — not more than three in the year, and not more 
 than six weeks in all." 
 
 " All right," said Alfred resignedly. " If I'm to do it at 
 all, I may as well do it thoroughly. I suppose I shan't have 
 to stick in the office all day, as I did in Lombard Street." 
 
 " You'll have to do what Fuller tells you. As you have 
 mentioned Lombard Street, I should like to say this. When 
 you were in my office you did what you were given to do, 
 but you took no interest in it whatever. When you left, 
 you knew no more what all your work tended to than you 
 did when you came. You didn't work intelligently. Now 
 you're four years older, and I hope you'll be ashamed 
 to treat your work in that way. You'll go there for a 
 definite object, and you must keep that object before you." 
 
 " I'll try to. What is it ? " 
 
 " Are you trying to annoy me ; or do you really mean 
 that you don't know what it is ? " 
 
 " I have my own ideas, but I should like to be sure 
 of what yours are." 
 
 " I've already told you. If you want it again, put into 
 a few words, what you have to do is to fit yourself to run 
 this place, as an enlightened landowner ought to run his 
 property. You have to take your place in this part of the 
 country as the owner of Kemsale ought to take it. Live 
 like 3'our neighbours do, and, if you can, take to the same 
 pursuits. I don't want you to hunt and shoot just for the 
 sake of doing it, if you don't care about it, but because 
 it will bring you into the right relations with them, and 
 they're both healthy amusements that I expect you can take 
 to with a good deal more pleasure than you pretend. The 
 fact is, Alfred, you've been keeping up a pose, and you're 
 old enough to drop it now. You're not a great artist or a 
 great any tiring ; you're just an ordinary young man, quite 
 fitted to lead the life of other ordinary young men in your 
 position. For goodness' sake drop your nonsense once for 
 all and behave like the rest." 
 
 " It's an awful outlook," said Alfred. " But I'll do 
 my best." 
 
Rank and Riches 
 
 to leach you what he can about game-pre- 
 tid managing the shooting. I shall expect you to 
 take that over next season. It's absurd to pay all the 
 money I do to preserve game and hand it over to somebody 
 eke. I might just as well let it ; but of course I'm not 
 going to do that. Shooting parties are a very good way of 
 getting people together in the country. I enjoy them my- 
 s< If, though I don't shoot. I didn't mean to say anything 
 about my part in the whole business, Alfred, as I've said 
 it already, but it does seem to me that you might do some- 
 thing of your own free will to make this place an attraction 
 and a recreation to me. I work very hard ; I'm too old 
 now to do without my work, and give myself up to an easy 
 life down here. I haven't fitted myself for it. But I 
 could enjoy the place if you would only do your part in 
 connection with it." 
 
 " Oh, I'm going to, father. I've made up my mind 
 about it. I'm going to begin a new life altogether." 
 
 " Well, I hope you really mean it. I think the life 
 will be pleasant enough for you, and you'll come to enjoy 
 it. You ought to. If you do your duty by me and by 
 the place, I hope to have a good many yeais yet in which 
 to enjoy it myself. I should like to see you married before 
 very long. There's no hurry for that, but " 
 
 " Well, if I'm gding to settle down here for life, and 
 become the right sort of country squire, I think the sooner 
 I get married the better." 
 
 His father stared at him. " Do you mean that there is 
 some one you want to marry ? "he asked. 
 
 " I've been thinking about it ever since I was here last. 
 I shouldn't have said anything to you about it before trying 
 my luck, but for what happened with Mcadshire and 
 Katie. But if you approve I'm going to ask Grace Ettien 
 to marry me " 
 
 "Grace Ettien!" Armitage Brown looked thunder- 
 struck. " What on earth are you talking about ? Are 
 you trying to play with me ? " 
 
 " No, I mean it. There's no contact in my mind with 
 Kemsale — at least as regards the life you want me to take 
 up here — except through her. Otherwise, it's just a great 
 overgrown place in which we spend a vast amount of money 
 and get very little in return ; almost nothing that I care 
 about. It's just a heavy burden. But ever since I first 
 came here, I've felt that there was another side to it, and 
 
The End of a Dream 337 
 
 it has always been represented to me by her. If she'll 
 marry me, I can go into it all with some chance of settling 
 down to it happily, and taking the sort of place you want 
 me to take here. If I've got to do it all off my own bat, 
 well, I'll do my best, but I shall never feel that I'm in my 
 right place." 
 
 Armitage Brown was simply bewildered by this. " Are 
 you in love with Lady Grace ? " he asked. 
 
 " I like her better than any woman I know. I should 
 be very glad if she said she'd marry me. It would make 
 all the difference to me, settling down here for good." 
 
 " She's years older than you are." 
 
 " Five years older. That's nothing." 
 
 " Have you any idea as to whether she " 
 
 " As to whether she'd have me ? No, I should think it's 
 quite likely that she wouldn't. But I should like to 
 ask her." 
 
 " It's a new idea to me altogether," said his father, after 
 a puzzled pause. " I can't understand what you're really 
 thinking about. Of course, she's a very charming woman, 
 different altogether from her brother. There might be diffi- 
 culty there, though, if you're really serious about this. But 
 somehow I can't think you are, Alfred. I wish you'd tell 
 me what's in your mind about it. It isn't a subject to 
 treat lightly." 
 
 " I've tried to tell you what's in my mind, father, as 
 far as I know myself. I've thought about it ever since 
 I went away from here after Christmas. I had a talk with 
 her, just before that ; it was on the same afternoon that 
 Meadshire spoke to Katie. She understands ail about Kem- 
 sale, and what's wanted here ; she's part of it — has been 
 all her life. With her as my wife, I could do exactly what 
 you want me to do, and take a pride and pleasure in it." 
 
 Armitage Brown sat at his desk looking down upon his 
 blotting paper, still with the same puzzled frown upon his 
 face. " Well, it isn't for me to settle," he said. " If you're 
 in earnest about it, I shan't say no. It seems to me odd. 
 It wouldn't be at all the sort of marriage I had thought of 
 for you. But I don't know that it would be any the worse 
 for that. You'd better think it over very carefully before 
 you do an}^thing. She seems much more than five years 
 older than you. You don't seem to be in love with her, by 
 the way you talk, and it's a dangerous thing for a young 
 man to marry a woman he isn't actually in love with. Still. 
 
338 Rank and Riches 
 
 you're old enough to know what you want now. If you do 
 want this, and Lady Grace wants it too, I shan't stand in 
 your way. That's all I can say at present. Except that 
 I won't have her brother in this house. He's done a cruel 
 thing upsetting poor little Katie. She pretends to have got 
 over it, but it's plain to see that she hasn't. I wish I'd had 
 my eyes open to what was going on. When you do see Lady 
 Grace, I wish you would talk to her about that. I should 
 like to get to the bottom of it." 
 
 Alfred went to the Herons' Nest that afternoon. He was 
 in a curious exalted mood as he walked there. He had 
 not answered his father's challenge as to whether he was 
 in love with Grace. His feelings towards her had small 
 resemblance to the feelings that he had once or twice in 
 his life experienced towards certain attractive young 
 damsels with whom he had been thrown in contact ; but 
 he regarded it as all the more likely to be the real thing on 
 that account. For it was touched with emotion. She 
 did stand for something that was desirable to him — a 
 unity of life, and a purpose, which he seemed incapable of 
 realising by himself. He was convinced that, with her, 
 the life that his father desired him to live at Kemsale 
 would satisfy him, and satisfy him in a way that his present 
 life had ceased to do. Her companionship would be sweet 
 to him ; they would have very much in common ; he 
 would be proud of her as his wife ; their days would pass 
 in a quiet happiness that seemed to him to promise just 
 that permanence and security that married life ought to 
 hold. Since he had seen her last he had thought of her 
 constantly, and wished to see her again. 
 
 And yet, when he found himself in her presence, he was 
 conscious, not of elation, but of a feeling more like cow- 
 ardice. 
 
 She looked pale and sad, and hardly smiled as she greeted 
 him. When he had told her that he had come down to 
 Kemsale the evening before, she asked at once whether 
 Katie was there, and he said that she had come down 
 with her mother on the day before he had. 
 
 " She hasn't been to see me," she said. "Isn't she coming?" 
 
 The question put him to constraint. Katie had not 
 mentioned Grace's name to him for months past. She had 
 wrapped herself in complete silence about what had hap- 
 pened to her. It was understood that it was not to be 
 touched upon between them. He had no idea of how she 
 
The End of a Dream 339 
 
 stood towards Grace, or indeed of how she stood towards 
 Grace's brother, who had asked for her in marriage. 
 
 Grace did not press him for an answer, when she saw 
 that he hesitated. " I suppose you know," she said quietly, 
 " that my brother went away directly after your father 
 treated him so badly, and has not been here since." 
 
 It was like taking a plunge into very cold water. He 
 had never thought for a moment that she would speak 
 of this at all, still less that she would speak of it in that way. 
 
 " I heard that he had gone away," he said awkwardly ; 
 and then more gently : " But I don't think my father 
 behaved badly towards him." 
 
 "If he had known what he was doing," she said, as if 
 she had not heard him, " I think he would not have 
 behaved as he did. Poor Kem was getting over his troubles. 
 For a year, with one short lapse, he had been a new man 
 altogether. Katie had very much to do with it. With her 
 he would have conquered his old self altogether ; I feel 
 sure of it. So did she, the dear girl, when she promised 
 to marry him. He was full of gratitude and affection £or 
 her. He was strong and resolute, and happy in a way I 
 have never seen him before. Humble too, about himself, 
 but with the right kind of humility. Oh, it was a wicked 
 thing to treat him as your father did. He pushed him 
 over the brink — pushed him to his ruin. It is all over 
 with him now. I've lost my brother. I shall never have 
 him with me whole and sane again." 
 
 She burst into tears. It was as if she had been saving 
 herself until she could bring her indictment, and not till 
 now had lost control over herself. 
 
 Alfred felt horribly uncomfortable. The feelings to- 
 wards her which he had nurtured for so long crumpled 
 up and disappeared. He was not touched to sympathy 
 or tenderness by her tears, as he would have been if his 
 sentiment for her had been based upon a genuine love, of 
 whatever quality. He was simply distressed at finding 
 himself plunged into a scene with a woman. And he was 
 against her in what she had said, and was bound to combat 
 it. But, of course, he would do so gently, so as not to 
 disturb her still further. 
 
 " None of us thought that it would be a suitable mar- 
 riage," he said ; " and my father felt strongly that, under 
 all the circumstances, Meadshire ought not to have made 
 love to Katie before asking for permission." 
 
340 Rank and Riches 
 
 " Made love to her ! " she echoed. " Oh, how you mis- 
 understand everything ! Dear Katie didn't misunderstand 
 it. She knew everything that she was doing, and would 
 have been happ}' in doing it, for the rest of her life. Is 
 she happy now ? Will you tell me that ? " 
 
 " No, she isn't," he said, with the risings of indignation 
 in him, but keeping a level voice. " It has upset her 
 altogether. She is a different creature. If she weren't so 
 young, I should say that it has spoilt her life for her. 
 If you can see our side of the question at all, I think 
 you ought to be able to forgive my father for anything 
 harsh he may have said over what brought that upon us." 
 
 " And I suppose his view, and your view, is that my 
 brother so worked upon her that she hardly knew what 
 she was doing ; and that it was a righteous act to save 
 her from his clutches, for which she would be grateful 
 to you when she came to her senses." 
 
 It was exactly what they had thought, but he did not 
 feel inclined to acknowledge it in face of the contemptuous 
 tone in which she spoke. He was feeling more and more 
 uncomfortable in her presence, and even hostile towards 
 her. He had never thought of her as possessing the qual- 
 ities which she was showing now. She was gentle and 
 sweet and quiet, and would always be so, under whatever 
 provocation, he had thought. But this was not the woman 
 whose image he had cherished in a corner of his heart. 
 
 " Does it look like that now ? " she went on. " Is she 
 grateful to you ? Has she acknowledged that she made a 
 great mistake ? If a girl is saved from the sort of man 
 you think my brother is, would you expect to say of her 
 six months later that it has seemed to have spoilt her life ? 
 
 A glimmering of doubt came to him. He was so con- 
 stituted that the other side of a question was bound to 
 have weight with him. But hitherto he had thought that 
 there was no other side to this question. 
 
 But as he was gathering his thoughts together to reply 
 to her, his ordeal came suddenly to an end. " I won't talk 
 about it any more," she said, in a quieter voice. " She 
 might have saved him ; she would have saved him ; and 
 he would have made her happy. Now it is too late. When 
 I see Katie, as I hope I shall soon — tell her that I want 
 to see her — I will do what I can to help her out of Iter 
 trouble. We shall be sisters, always, she and I. And as 
 we all have to live our lives here, close together, I hope 
 
The End of a Dream sn 
 
 we shall none of us feel enmity towards one another. I 
 shall never talk of this again to you ; nor to your father 
 when I see him." 
 
 This was once more the Grace whom he knew, and some- 
 thing of sweetness and serenity had returned to her face 
 as she spoke. 
 
 " If we are never going to speak of it again," he said, 
 " I wish j^ou would tell me why you look upon it so 
 differently from what we do — from what, I think one might 
 say, nearly everybody would be likely to." 
 
 " I think I will say no more about it," she said, after 
 a pause. "It is over and done with. If your father 
 were to withdraw his opposition, it would make no differ- 
 ence now. But yes, I will just say one thing, which you 
 may think over, if you like. You talked of my brother 
 making love to Katie. You must believe me when I tell 
 you that he had never done that. There are many kinds 
 of love, and the love that there was between them was of 
 the highest kind, short of the love one owes to God. It 
 would have healed him, and it would have given her a 
 very noble kind of happiness and satisfaction in life. You 
 know, women don't demand that life shall be made easy 
 for them, as men do. They can find the best that is in 
 them through sacrifice. I hope that dear little Katie will 
 get her happiness back in time, and that she will marry and 
 have children to spend herself on. But she was ready to 
 rise to great heights. Whatever she does she will tread a 
 lower path now." 
 
 He was chilled by this. He did not think that his 
 sister would have risen to great heights in marrying a 
 drunkard and a waster, even if she should succeed in 
 making him drink and waste less, or not at all. He had 
 his facile perceptions, and an idealism that had its prac- 
 tical results on his own conduct, but they did not lead him 
 to look upon self-sacrifice as anything but a means to an 
 end, and the end here seemed worth so little. 
 
 They sat for a time in silence, and then talked of other 
 things. He told Grace that the fiat had gone forth that 
 he should settle down at Kemsale, and turn himself into 
 as near an approach as he could to the average country 
 gentleman. He was rather amusing about himself, and 
 she was able to treat the subject lightly, though not with- 
 out some effort. They parted half an hour later, quite good 
 friends. 
 
CHAPTER XXXIV 
 
 THE WAR 
 
 The month of July wore itself out. To most of those 
 with whom we have had to do it was a time of waiting, 
 with expectation for some, but for others no lightening 
 of the atmosphere, which contained many elements of dis- 
 comfort. 
 
 Armitage Brown's long period of work was done. The 
 Anglo-Moravian Syndicate was in being, and the conse- 
 quent public companies were in process of formation, with 
 every indication of a most successful launching when the 
 time should come. But their broad details had long since 
 been settled. The actual work in connection with them 
 was being done by smaller men. He could now stand aside, 
 and count upon taking his enormous profits. 
 
 He was conscious of no elation. The profits would be 
 of no advantage to him, except to use for further efforts, 
 each one of which must be bigger than the last, if he were 
 to employ his millions, and gain satisfaction from employ- 
 ing them. His life would be changed by them in no smallest 
 particular. There was nothing that they could give him 
 that lie wanted, or could not have had before. It was 
 some satisfaction to have put through a big thing like this. 
 But against that was the drop that came from losing the 
 consuming interest that had held him for the last six 
 months. He had worked as hard as if his whole income 
 depended upon it, and was ready for a short rest ; but he 
 knew that the rest would soon become irksome to him. 
 Even the interests of Kemsale would not hold him for more 
 than a few weeks. 
 
 Mrs. Brown knew now that she disliked Kemsale. The 
 
 life that she lived there had no salt for her ; there was 
 
 no progression in it. She saw that other gifts than hers 
 
 wanted for playing a leading part in the country, 
 
 342 
 
The War 313 
 
 even v/ith Kemsale at her back. She had resigned herself 
 to treating it as a house of rest, conserving her energies 
 for London and the Riviera. But its unwieldiness and the 
 sense that it was being wasted, with only a few of its 
 great range of rooms occupied, made it sit like a burden 
 upon her. It was a humiliation to her to feel that she 
 was incapable of using any house, however splendid, up to 
 its full capacity. There was some consolation in Alfred's 
 having taken up his work in connection with it. Through 
 him Kemsale might come, in time, to be considered again 
 one of the social centres of Meadshire. But Alfred was 
 moody and depressed. He had his regular work, and did 
 it, but he seemed to be more at a loose end than before. 
 She doubted whether he would ever come to take a real 
 pride in his position, or in a future that might be so full 
 of dignity and honour, if only he would use his oppor- 
 tunities. She saw that he had just the qualities that she 
 herself lacked, to make himself prominent in country society, 
 if he cared to use them. He made friends easily ; he could 
 attract anybody to him with what he had to offer them, and 
 treat them on a basis of hospitality that was beyond her 
 powers altogether. She was ill at ease about him, but could 
 only wait and see how his new and enforced attachment 
 to Kemsale would turn out, hoping for the best, but 
 suffering many hours of uneasiness and boredom in the 
 meantime. 
 
 Towards Katie her feelings were those of impatient dis- 
 approval. Her husband had forbidden her to talk to the 
 girl of what had happened in the winter. He had dealt 
 with it himself. Katie was to be treated with affection 
 and helped to forget it. He was peremptory ; nothing was 
 to be said to her at all ; it would do no good. So the girl 
 and her mother had drifted apart. There had never been 
 much confidence between them, and now there was none. 
 If Mrs. Brown had loved her daughter, even as much as she 
 loved her son, it would have been impossible for her to 
 keep the silence that she was instructed to keep. But it 
 suited her to do so. Except for some curiosity as to 
 exactly what had happened, which she knew that Katie 
 would not have satisfied in any case, she wanted to forget 
 the disagreeable occurrence herself. It reflected no credit 
 upon her to have had her eyes closed to what her own 
 daughter might be subjected to, especially as she had been 
 warned of it ; and her husband had blamed her for not 
 
844 Rank and Riches 
 
 looking after Katie, and had said things that she also 
 wanted to forget. 
 
 But Katie made it difficult for her to forget anything. 
 She was obviously trying her best to be exactly what she 
 had been before, and outsiders might have seen no differ- 
 ence in her. But those of her family could not help noticing 
 the change in her, try as she might to hide it. She had 
 been a young light-hearted girl a year ago. Now she was 
 a saddened serious woman ; no effort of brightness could 
 disguise it. She was a standing reproach to her mother, 
 who could only wait for the time when she should recover 
 from her disappointment, but in a constant state of won- 
 der that she should have felt disappointment at all, and 
 should take such an extraordinary time to get over it. 
 
 At Little Kemsale there was no increase of happiness 
 over the coming fruition of Arrnitage Brown's great coup. 
 Beatrix no longer expressed doubts as to the result, for 
 Arrnitage Brown had said a word or two to her, at Doug- 
 las's request, that had made her doubts seem unreasonable. 
 The thing was practically done. The launching of the 
 companies was a matter of a few weeks only, and then 
 the members of the original Syndicate would take their 
 extremely handsome profits. She and Douglas would not 
 be millionaires like Arrnitage Brown, but they would be 
 rich. She never heard it talked about in any other way 
 than as if they were rich already, but she felt at the 
 bottom of her mind that she would never consider them- 
 selves so until the money was actually in Douglas's bank. 
 
 Douglas was already talking of leaving Little Kemsale, 
 which they had thought themselves so fortunate to find, 
 and to which they had done so much to make it still more 
 to their taste. His pleasure in it had departed. It had 
 done splendidly for them as long as they could not afford 
 something better, but it had many disadvantages, and 
 now they would be able to look about for something very 
 much nicer. His chief occupation at this time was to study 
 house-agents' catalogues, but it did not save him from the 
 weariness of waiting. The garden was at its ripest, but he 
 took little interest in it, nor pleasure in the long summer 
 days, but only wished that they would pass away more 
 quickly. 
 
 At Barton's Farm there were already beginning prepa- 
 
 is for Irene Fuller's wedding, which was to take place 
 
 in November. She was to live at Points Manor, where 
 
The War 84,5 
 
 there was plenty of room for the old couple and the young 
 couple too. Mrs. Fuller had strongly objected to this ar- 
 rangement. She had previously strongly objected to every 
 other arrangement, important and unimportant, that had 
 been suggested, including the central one of Irene marrying 
 John Davis ; and at last Mrs. Davis, who had been polite- 
 ness and patience itself ever since her encounter with Mrs. 
 Fuller at Kemsale, had once more expressed herself forcibly. 
 
 She was in a position to give an ultimatum, and its 
 terms were that Mrs. Fuller should henceforward behave 
 herself and give no more trouble. " You're perfectly at 
 liberty," said the quiet terrible old lady, "to go about 
 telling everybody that it's a great come-down for your 
 daughter to marry my son. Nobody will believe you, but 
 that's your affair. You please yourself and you don't 
 hurt us. But we are going to take Irene away from all 
 the lies and nonsense to which you have brought her up, 
 and make a nice good useful woman of her ; and we are 
 going to do it in our own way. Thanks to you, she knows 
 nothing about housekeeping, or anything that a country- 
 man's wife ought to know, and it will be a benefit to her 
 to have me at her back, at least for some time to come. 
 She's sensible enough to see it herself, or the suggestion 
 would not have been made. Peacock about as a fine lady 
 as much as you like, but don't forget that I know all about 
 you, and can tell others what I know if I'm driven to it." 
 
 So Mrs. Fuller had capitulated, and was busy with 
 Irene's trousseau, for which her husband had produced 
 a sum of money exceeding expectation. He had not told 
 her where it came from. He was far more independent 
 and authoritative in the matter of money than he had 
 been at any time since their marriage. He had a grip on 
 his affairs at last, and intended to keep it. The fact 
 was, that after nearly two years of the new ownership of 
 Kemsale, he had proved himself the right man in the right 
 place, and enjoyed the fullest confidence and liking of his 
 employer, while she had overshot the mark, and had lost 
 the confidence she had first enjoyed. Mrs. Brown's cold- 
 ness towards her rankled deeply ; she was by turns con- 
 temptous and waspish about that lady, and her amiability 
 in her own home was rather less than before. But its 
 absence was less effective than before. Her husband had 
 a great deal to occupy him outside, where everything, in- 
 cluding the dairying scheme, now in full working order, 
 
346 Rank and Riches 
 
 was going so well ; and her daughter was looking forward 
 to getting away from her. Barton's Farm was not exactly 
 a happy home, but its unhappiness recoiled chiefly upon 
 her who created it. 
 
 Happiness, indeed, was not the note of Kemsale at this 
 time. Even little Anne Sheard, living in the glamour of 
 her first love, was beginning to feel that the delay in heF 
 recognition meant something more serious than the year's 
 probation which it was represented to be. And yet none 
 of all the company of neighbours, except Grace, who 
 mourned for the downfall of her hopes, and Katie, who 
 was slowly recovering from a shock, had anything serious 
 to complain of in the complications that touched their 
 lives. Those complications came from sheer artificiality. 
 A breath from the real world of struggle and passion might 
 have been expected to blow them all away. 
 
 And the breath came. 
 
 There were rumours of war. Almost before those who 
 were not particularly interested in foreign politics had 
 gained an idea of what it was all about, there was war 
 itself. Before they had become used to that sudden and 
 surprising fact, the net had dropped and caught them all. 
 War for them meant fighting, and men to fight, this time, 
 not reading about it in newspapers. It came home. 
 
 The news that England would certainly go in was sent 
 to Kencote a few hours before it was known to the country 
 at large by Dick Clinton, who always seemed to be able 
 to get inside knowledge of anything that was going on. 
 He had gone up to London on the first serious rumour, 
 and when he returned it was with a budget of news. He 
 was to rejoin his old regiment, and it was believed that 
 it would be one of the first to be sent to the front. John 
 Spence, Nancy's husband, was to rejoin too ; he had rushed 
 down from Yorkshire with the same eagerness as Dick. 
 Both of them held themselves fortunate, at their age, not 
 to be left out of it. Young Inverell, serving a few years 
 in the Household Cavalry, would also, probably, be amongst 
 the first to go. Dick had seen Walter in London. He had 
 already volunteered for Red Cross work. Dick had been 
 able to pull strings at the War Office ; he would certainly 
 be accepted for work at the front. 
 
 This was his news, as it affected the immediate Clinton 
 family, with much more as to what was going on behind 
 the scenes to give it point. Including Frank, serving in 
 
The War 347 
 
 the Navy, it accounted for all the sons and sons-in-law, 
 except Humphrey and Jim Graham. Both of them had 
 held commissions as young men in the Meadshire Yeomanry. 
 Within a week Jim Graham had found his way back to 
 them, and a cablegram had been received from Humphrey 
 announcing that he had secured a commission in the Austra- 
 lian Expeditionary Force. 
 
 The Squire's first state was one of bewilderment. 
 England was being hurried into a catastrophe on no clear 
 grounds that anybody could take hold of. Why should 
 we go to war for the sake of Servia ? His opinion of 
 Servia, which changed completely at a later date, may be 
 suppressed. He suspected the Radicals of muddling the 
 affair, but this suspicion was balanced by the fear that 
 they might keep a dishonourable peace. He had no par- 
 ticular opinion of the Germans ; they were a beer-swilling, 
 sausage-eating nation who committed numerous absurdities 
 such, for instance, as crying " Hoch," when an Englishman, 
 if he cried anything, would cry " Hurrah ! " But, on the 
 other hand, he had no particular opinion of the French ; he 
 had lately seen some of them in the hunting-field ; and they 
 ate frogs. 
 
 He came to anchor on the invasion of Belgium, and 
 read the full reports of speeches by Radical ministers, 
 which he had never done before, preferring to take them 
 for granted as a pack of nonsense. He admitted that they 
 read well. He had never denied that the Radical ministers 
 were clever fellows — the trouble with them had been that 
 they were too clever by half ; and now that they saw 
 their duty plainly he hoped that they would do it. They 
 seemed to be doing it, so far, and he for one was quite 
 ready to let bygones be bygones, and support them freely. 
 We must give the Germans a lesson that they wouldn't 
 forget in a hurry. We must teach them this and that, and 
 the sooner we did it and got it over the better. 
 
 But underneath all his confidence in England's being 
 able to do quickly what was necessary — aided, of course, 
 by France and Russia — there grew upon him in those 
 early hurried days of preparation a blank feeling of dread 
 at the payment to be demanded from those who b}^ inherited 
 tradition would have the doing of it. Dick had served 
 in the South African War, and had come through it un- 
 scathed, with a D.S.O. to his credit. There had been 
 long months of anxiety, but they had never darkened to 
 
848 Rank and Riches 
 
 fear. The chances bad been that one out of so many would 
 escape. What were the chances of seven escaping, in what 
 was soon seen to be a far more serious matter ? He put the 
 fear from him, and was upheld by the pride of knowing 
 that all the younger men of his family and those connected 
 with it had answered at once to their country's call, as he 
 would have answered himself in the good days that were 
 behind him. But he knew that there were dark times 
 coming to him and the women who would be left behind, 
 when once the days of preparation were over, and they 
 should be left alone to wait, and perhaps to weep. 
 
 Dick brought the reality close home to him when he told 
 him that he ought to give way at once in the matter of 
 Frank's marriage. 
 
 " I've had a letter from him this morning," Dick said. 
 " He can't say where he'll be sent, of course, and there's 
 no such thing as leave now. But he may possibly get 
 a few days later on, if his ship is anywhere about — that 
 looks as if he were going to be kept in home waters — 
 and he wants to have everything prepared for a quiet wed- 
 ding at a few days' notice." 
 
 " A wedding ! " exclaimed the Squire, much startled, and 
 inclined to be offended. " That's going ahead with a ven- 
 geance. I told him definitely I wouldn't hear of his marry- 
 ing this girl. It isn't a suitable marriage for him. You 
 said so yourself." 
 
 " I didn't altogether like it. I don't think it is particu- 
 larly suitable. But, after all, he's made up his mind ; he's 
 quite old enough to do it ; and she's a nice girl enough." 
 
 " She's a mere child with a pretty face. And her people 
 are not the sort that a son of mine ought to marry amongst. 
 Why should you want me to change round now all of a 
 sudden and give way ? " 
 
 " Oh, because that sort of reason loses its weight at a 
 time like this. He won't be marrying her people, and we 
 needn't see more of them than we want to. Anyhow, I 
 don't think they'll do us much harm. Her father is a 
 good enough sort of fellow, and he's behaved well about it." 
 
 " I don't think he's behaved particularly well. He has 
 allowed Frank to consider himself engaged to the girl 
 against my wishes." 
 
 " He's said he won't let him marry her till you give your 
 consent. That's straight enough. Look here, father, I 
 don't want to rake up bygones, but you took just the 
 
The War 849 
 
 same line about me and Virginia, and you know what very 
 nearly happened. What did happen has made this differ- 
 ence, that I'm going out with the regiment as a captain, 
 instead of in command of it." 
 
 " I don't think you ought to bring all that up, Dick," 
 said the Squire in a pained voice. '■ I've not said I won't 
 give way, but 3 T ou can hardly expect me to go back on the 
 position I've taken up in a few minutes. And your mar- 
 riage and Frank's are very different things. You are my 
 eldest son, and " 
 
 " Well, but my dear father," Dick interrupted with a 
 laugh, " that makes it all the easier to give way. It doesn't 
 matter so much whom Frank marries, as the youngest of us. 
 What I meant by reminding you of my marriage was that 
 there's very little time. We have heaps of other things 
 to think of and settle up in the next few days, and we 
 don't want to keep this hanging over our heads as a ques- 
 tion to be worried about. We had quite enough of that in 
 my case." 
 
 " Well, I don't like the idea of this marriage, and I 
 say so plainly ; and I've seen the girl ; it's quite different 
 from Virginia's case. I might give way if Frank had 
 set his heart on it, and felt the same in a year or so's time. 
 But when you talk of immediate marriage — rushing into 
 things like that — it doesn't seem to me reasonable. I don't 
 understand why you press it." 
 
 Dick stood up and lit a cigarette from a match-holder 
 on the mantelpiece. Then he turned round and looked 
 down at his father, who sat at his big writing-table, half 
 facing him. " This war is a very serious business," he said. 
 " We're all going. I don't know how many of us will 
 come back. If Frank doesn't " 
 
 He broke off ; the old man gave a stifled cry of pain. 
 " You won't want him to be thinking bitterly— about any- 
 thing," Dick said. 
 
 There was a pause. " One of her brothers is a sailor," 
 said Dick ; " and another one — the boy who has come over 
 here sometimes — is enlisting. That's two of them in the 
 same box as the rest of us." 
 
 " I don't see what that has to do with it," said the Squire. 
 
 " It seems to me that it has, in these days. We're all 
 going to do something that matters more than anything 
 we've done before. People like that are doing it as well 
 as us. We're not thinking much now of the little differ- 
 
350 Rank and Riches 
 
 ences between us. They don't seem to be of such impor- 
 tance as they did." 
 
 " I think you're right, Dick," said the old man, slowly 
 and painfully. "After all, we're giving up a lot more 
 than that. There's you, and John Spencc, and young 
 Inverell. I wish to God all those rascally Germans were 
 at the bottom of the sea. Well, I won't hold out any 
 longer. You do think she's a nice girl, don't you ? Vir- 
 ginia likes her ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes. So does Joan. She and Ronald Inverell 
 went over to see her, you know. If they can do with it, I 
 think we can. They're ready to treat her as a sister. So 
 is Cicely. And mother would have had her here before 
 this, if you hadn't objected.'' 
 
 " I rather wish I hadn't objected," said the Squire. 
 ■■ Frank has always been a good boy, given no trouble 
 about money or anything else, and liked to come home 
 whenever he could. I don't like to think of the boy going 
 into danger, and thinking bitterly of his father, as you 
 said. Perhaps I've treated him a bit harshly over this." 
 
 " I only said that because I wanted to bring it home 
 to you — what he might think if you stood out. All you 
 have to do is to write to him and tell him that it's all right. 
 You'll make him happy, and the girl, and yourself, too. 
 There's not too much happiness to look forward to just at 
 present." 
 
 The Squire sighed deeply. " I'll write to him," he said. 
 " And I'll ask your mother to go over to Kemsale with me 
 to-morrow. It isn't a time to hold up your head now, 
 except over what you're doing to put things right." 
 
CHAPTER XXXV 
 
 THE OLD IS BETTER 
 
 "Well, Mr. Brown, I hope you have brought some good 
 news. One wants it in these times." 
 
 The Squire had been sitting in his room, with the Times 
 on his knee, long after he had finished his first reading 
 of it. His windows were open to the hot August air. He 
 would go out presently ; there were many things to see to, 
 now Dick had gone ; but it was difficult to bestir one's self 
 about ordinary duties when all the world was changed about 
 one. 
 
 Armitage Brown did not look as if he had brought good 
 news. His face was dark, and he did not smile as he 
 accepted the Squire's greeting. 
 
 " I thought I had better come and tell you myself," 
 he said. " You know we have declared war on Austria 
 at last. That puts our business off indefinitely, and most 
 likely loses us our money for good." 
 
 Some months before the Squire had asked him in his 
 bluff half-condescending way if he could make use of a 
 couple of thousand pounds he had lying idle. He had 
 been good enough to say that he didn't much care about 
 speculation, but with a famous financier living next door, 
 so to speak, if he didn't try his luck now he never should. 
 There were the two thousand pounds, if Mr. Brown could 
 do anything with them. If they were lost, he shouldn't 
 grumble ; if they were doubled, he should think very highly 
 of the capacity of " you gentlemen in the City." 
 
 It may be imagined that Armitage Brown was not accus- 
 tomed to be approached with offers of this description, but 
 its calm assurance caused him a grim amusement, and he 
 told the story afterwards to some of his business associates, 
 with considerable success. He could hardly have explained 
 why he allowed the Squire to take up two thousand of the 
 shares he had reserved for himself in the Syndicate. From 
 
 351 
 
Rank and Riches 
 
 his point of view it was pure benevolence, and yet it would 
 not look at all like that to the Squire. But the aristocratic 
 old country gentleman had touched his imagination in a 
 curious way. He was inclined to admire his magnificent 
 ignoring of all standards but his own. And in Meadshire 
 there was no doubt which of them was the bigger man. 
 Armitage Brown felt it no less than his neighbours, and 
 did not mind feeling it. His amusement at the request 
 that had been made to him was directed partly against 
 himself, for being actually rather flattered by it. And it 
 would be gratifying to turn the Squire's two thousand 
 pounds into live or six at least, and probably very much 
 more, and so exhibit himself as able to do something that 
 the Squire, for all his beliefs in himself, could not do. 
 
 But all those ideas were very far from his mind as he 
 sped over to Kencote in his fast car. He was furious 
 with himself. Never before had he allowed motives of 
 friendship to influence him in matters of business, and 
 now this affair out of all the others in which he might 
 have given his friends an interest, greatly to their benefit, 
 must needs go wrong. Douglas Irving, his nearest neigh- 
 bour, had virtually been ruined by it. He was going back 
 to his regiment, leaving his wife to move into a cottage 
 and live on a few hundreds a year. That was what had 
 come of doing him a good turn, though he had not known 
 that the fool had put the greater part of his capital into 
 his hands, or he would not have accepted it. And this old 
 Squire — he supposed he could afford the loss, but if he had 
 judged him aright, he would not take it quietly. He rather 
 hoped he wouldn't. It was with the idea of relieving his 
 mind that he was going over to Kencote to tell his news 
 by word of mouth instead of writing it. Irving had taken 
 it well, had apparently seen clearly, what was quite true, 
 that the factor which had come in to upset everything could 
 not have been guarded against, and that Armitage Brown 
 was not in the least to blame. It had been a painful busi- 
 ness, all the same, and he wanted to get the taste of it out 
 of his mind. He might do that if the old Squire gave him 
 the opportunity of stating — with some indignation — exactly 
 how each of them stood in the matter. 
 
 As for his own loss, it disturbed him greatly. It was 
 the first serious set-back he had ever had. The loss of 
 the great sum of money, and the dislocation of the money 
 market which would occasion him the loss of much more, 
 
The Old is Better 353 
 
 appeared to him in the light of a disaster, and he had 
 not yet begun to recover from it. It was of no use at 
 present reminding himself of the fact that whatever hap- 
 pened he would still be a very rich man, and that the 
 universal change of values would give him opportunities 
 in the immediate future for the profitable use of his finan- 
 cial acumen. While the great majority of people would 
 lose heavily, he would gain, and the longer the war lasted 
 the richer he would be at the end. of it ; for he could hold 
 out, and others couldn't. But it was not enough. He felt 
 like a man who had been made poor, and his impulse was 
 to draw in everywhere, to put down all unnecessary ex- 
 penditure, to lie low and wait for the better times to come. 
 He had gone back, when he had never thought to do any- 
 thing but go quickly and steadily forward. He cursed 
 the war, and all the disturbance it had brought him. It 
 was in no complacent mood that he prepared himself to 
 listen to the Squire's remarks on his loss — the Squire, to 
 whom the war had also brought considerable disturbance 
 of another sort. 
 
 The Squire's face darkened when he brought out his 
 news. " I haven't been thinking much about that sort of 
 thing," he said. " Well, it's another blow ; I suppose one 
 can put up with it. I was a fool to risk a sum like that. 
 It's a thing I've never done before in my life." 
 
 This was what Armitage Brown wanted. It turned the 
 point of his anger away from himself and gave him a 
 certain satisfaction in being free to give vent to it. He 
 was thoroughly angry, in a cold self-contained fashion that 
 left him fully capable of expressing himself in the most 
 disagreeable way he could find. 
 
 " You weren't a fool at all," he said. " You would have 
 been a fool, under the circumstances, not to take the chance 
 I gavej'ou." 
 
 The Squire looked up at him in some surprise at this 
 method of address. But he did not understand that he was 
 being invited to a quarrel, or he might have chosen his 
 next speech with more care. " If the chance has resulted 
 in my losing two thousand pounds," he said, " it doesn't 
 look as if I should have been a fool not to take it. How- 
 ever, it's no good crying over spilt milk. If the money's 
 gone, it's gone. I shall be wiser the next time." 
 
 " What do yon mean exactly by that, Mr. Clinton ? " 
 
 There was no doubt now that the man was in a dis- 
 
 M (16) 
 
351 Rank and Riches 
 
 agreeable frame of mind. The Squire had become accus- 
 tomed to something like deference from him, and had 
 rather lost sight of his eminence in another sphere. He 
 was reminded of it now by his hard expression and short 
 aggressive speech. But he was not in a quarrelsome mood ; 
 he was too down-hearted for that. " Oh, of course, I don't 
 blame you in any way," he said handsomely, " and specu- 
 lation is your business, I suppose. You've done extraordi- 
 narily well with it, I know. But for people like me, it's 
 better to give it a wide berth. That's all I meant." 
 
 " Speculation isn't my business," said Armitage Brown, 
 " any more than it's yours. My business is to get together 
 all the knowledge I can and use it. I gave you all the 
 information I had myself about this particular business. It 
 was buying properties of a definitely known value at much 
 beneath their value, and selling them again. Where was 
 the speculation in that ? " 
 
 The Squire was not prepared to say. But he felt it 
 rather hard that, having lost his two thousand pounds, he 
 should be browbeaten about it. "I suppose the trouble 
 is that we can't sell them again now," he said. " Perhaps 
 we didn't think enough about that risk." 
 
 " What you mean, I take it, is that J didn't think enough 
 about it. I thought about nothing else, until I'd gone over 
 every possibility. It was the central point of the whole 
 thing. I won't take a particle of blame for what has hap- 
 pened, Mr. Clinton. It was I who was the fool to take 
 your wretched little bit of money. I didn't want it. If 
 this business hadn't been stopped, like hundreds of others, 
 by what no man at the time could have foreseen, you would 
 have had handsome profits out of something that I should 
 have done all the work for ; profits that I should practically 
 have given you. And you'd have taken it as a matter of 
 course, with perhaps a thank you thrown in. That's what 
 I should have got for going past my rule not to let my 
 friends into my business, and it's all I should have got. 
 It is I who was the fool." 
 
 " Well, perhaps you were," said the Squire dryly. He 
 had been offended at the reference to his " wretched little 
 bit of money." Two thousand pounds was not a sum to 
 mention in that way, by anybody, and the fact remained 
 that the man who so mentioned it had lost it for him. 
 " Still, I haven't grumbled yet at the result, and I've said 
 expressly that I don't blame you. I suppose you couldn't 
 
The Old is Better 355 
 
 foresee the war, any more than any of us. Is the money 
 gone for good, or shall we get it back, or some of it, when 
 the war is over ? What's the situation ? " 
 
 He was taking it more reasonably than Armitage Brown 
 had anticipated. He had been intending to work up to 
 a little effect. The outbreak of war between England and 
 Austria was just the one thing that could have ruined this 
 wonderfully engineered and consolidated piece of business. 
 Was there anybody in England who could have foreseen, 
 at the time the money was called up for the original pur- 
 chase, that in the course of the few months that must 
 elapse before the companies could be formed, we should be 
 at war with Austria ? Had the Squire himself had the 
 slightest suspicion of it ? That was to have been the poser ; 
 because any one could have seen that that would ruin the 
 scheme as it had been explained to him, and he could not 
 shift the responsibility of ignoring the risk on to anybody 
 else. 
 
 But apparently he did not wish to shift the responsi- 
 bility. It was with a drop in his tone of aggression that 
 Armitage Brown said : " My loss over this is very heavy, 
 because it was about the safest proposition I've ever tackled 
 if I could once bring it off, and I put a very large sum 
 of money into it. I'm not even going to say I risked it, 
 because if one took into account such risks as have spoilt 
 this business, there would be no business done at all. I'm 
 sorry to have lost your money, but you had exactly the 
 same opportunities as I had of taking this risk into account, 
 and you didn't see it as a risk any more than I did. Nobody 
 could have seen it. I don't know whether the money is lost 
 for good or not. I'm advised that the Austrian Govern- 
 ment is quite as likely as not to keep the money we have 
 paid over to them, and resume the properties too. We 
 shall certainly be able to do nothing with them until the 
 war is over, and I suppose whether we shall be able to deal 
 with them then will depend upon a good many things — 
 who wins, for one." 
 
 " Well, there isn't much doubt as to who's going to win. 
 They seem to think it will be a longer job than we thought 
 for at first, but we shall get the better of them in the 
 long run, the lying dishonest blackguards. I don't know 
 much about the Austrians. I believe they are a bit above 
 the Germans ; but they have gone in with them, and 
 they'll have to be trounced for it together. Of course the 
 
 (26) 
 
Rank and Riches 
 
 Germans would think nothing of soiling you something and 
 sticking to it after they had taken your money. We'd 
 r consider it as lost, I think. If we get some of it 
 back by and by, so much the better. I can't help wishing 
 I'd got this money in hand now. I think I should have 
 sent it all to this fund they're starting. That's something 
 we stay-at-homes can do to help. It'll come hard on a lot 
 of people who haven't got much. It's wonderful how the 
 whole nation has come together over this ; makes you proud 
 of being an Englishman. By the by, Brown, if \^ou haven't 
 sent your contribution to the fund yet, you might do it 
 from Meadshire, not from London. We want the county 
 to show up well in whatever is going on. I'm sending a 
 thousand pounds as a first contribution. I expect j'ou'il 
 better that by a long way ; but I thought I'd wait to see 
 if money is wanted particularly for something else." 
 
 " Oh, I've not begun to think about that yet," said 
 Armitage Brown. " The war has knocked everything side- 
 ways. I shall be kept busy for a long time to come, trying 
 to make up what I've lost only within the last week or so. 
 The war ! Who would have thought at this time of day 
 that half the nations in Europe would be at each other's 
 throats, and about nothing that anybody cares a pin 
 about ? " 
 
 " It's a sad business. I don't suppose the world will 
 ever be the same again — not in my lifetime. Still, it 
 gives us something to thmk about, and something to do. 
 I'm cutting down everything I can here. It's made it 
 easier — the servants enlisting and the horses being taken. 
 We've sent off nine men from the house and gardens and 
 stables alone, already. Not bad that ; but everybody is 
 doing his best in his own sphere of life now. Are you 
 making much difference at Kemsale ? " 
 
 " I shall make all the difference I can. It's no time now 
 to spend money on keeping up a great empty house. 
 I should let the place if I could find any one to take it. 
 11 be pretty busy for some time to come, looking 
 after my business. I shan't be down here much. I shall 
 leave my son to do what he can to keep things together 
 at Kemsale. He won't mind living in a few rooms, and 
 I can shut up the rest. I've given half the servants notice. 
 If the men like to go and enlist, they're welcome." 
 
 " Your son isn't going, then ?" 
 
 " Going ? Going where ? " 
 
 (10) 
 
The Old is Better 357 
 
 " Why, Gobblessmysoul, to fight, like a man ! We want 
 all the men we can get." 
 
 " Well, v/e shall have to do without him, then. No, 
 he's not going to fight. Why on earth should he ? He's 
 the only son I have. He'd be no better than any young 
 ploughman at fighting, and he's heir to all I've got. I'll 
 keep him out of it." 
 
 The Squire gulped down his growing disgust. He had 
 something to suggest, and wanted to be persuasive. " I've 
 an idea in my head," he said. " I don't know whether 
 you've thought of it, but you talked just now about shutting 
 up Kemsale. What about turning it into a hospital ? 
 I and one or two more have been going over the houses in 
 Meadshire that are suitable, and the fellows that can afford 
 to equip them. Naturally we thought of you first, as you 
 have the biggest house of the lot, and I suppose more money 
 than any of us. If we could get up a committee, and you 
 could come forward with the first offer — we'd arrange 
 that — it would give it a good lead. How does it strike 
 you ?"■■., 
 
 Armitage Brown rose from his chair. " It doesn't strike 
 me at ail," he said. " I'll say good-bye now, Mr. Clinton. 
 I'm sorry to have had to bring you bad news, but " 
 
 "Sit down," the Squire interrupted him. "I've got 
 something to say to }'ou. What are you going to do 
 towards helping in this war ? " 
 
 Armitage Brown did not obey the peremptory order. 
 He showed frowning offence at the tone in which it had been 
 given. " What am I going to do ? " he repeated. " Pay 
 taxes through the nose, like everybody else. I shall have 
 thousands to pay in taxes ; and I shan't squeal at it. 
 I'll pay my share, and more than my share, because they'll 
 come down on me for more, but " 
 
 The Squire stood up himself, and interrupted him again. 
 " When you go out of this house," he said, red in the face 
 with anger and contempt, " you don't come into it again. 
 I'll have no dealings with a man who behaves like a mean 
 and selfish cur. And I'll take good care to let it be known 
 far and wide what short of a man we've got amongst us at 
 Kemsale, which used to take the lead in every good work 
 in the county." 
 
 Armitage Brown's brain cleared as if by magic. Many 
 thoughts passed through his mind, and he saw many things 
 he had not seen before. He sat down again and said : 
 
 (12) 
 
358 Rank and Riches 
 
 " I'll ask you to explain what you mean by that, Mr. 
 Clinton." 
 
 The Squire's strong indignation winged his utterance. 
 He spoke with more than his usual clarity, as he bent his 
 white brows upon the man sitting before him, and ad- 
 dressed him as if he were some culprit amongst his own 
 people, who had incurred his heavy displeasure. The text 
 of his discourse was that people who owned land and lived 
 on it had duties to perform, and if they didn't perform 
 them when the call came they were shirkers and cowards, 
 not fit for honest God-fearing people to associate with. 
 " You have a young, unmarried son," he said. " Why 
 aren't you sending him with the rest ? Because he's your 
 only son ! I've got four sons, and they're all going, and 
 three sons-in-law, and they are going too, and leaving their 
 wives and children. I'm proud of them ; I wouldn't keep 
 one of them back. Your son has to stay behind to look 
 after your property Property ! That's all that a place 
 like Kemsale means to you — the money it has cost you. 
 I'm an old man ; I'm the twenty-second Clinton to hold 
 Kencote, and I'd go to-morrow if I could be any use. My 
 eldest son, and all the others, have gone. All three of my 
 daughters' husbands are men of property, two of them 
 men of large property. Young Inverell — you know all 
 about him ; I. suppose he's about the same age as your son, 
 but with a young wife and child, and everything in the 
 world — name and wealth and a great future before him— 
 that a young man could have. He's leaving it all ; glad 
 to take his chance of coming through, just like the young 
 ploughmen you talk about. Who are you, I should like 
 to know, that you should skulk behind your money-bags, 
 and men like that should go out and do the fighting for 
 you ? We've given you your chance here of coming in and 
 being one of us. You've had a welcome ; we've put aside 
 the fact that your birth isn't the same as ours. But, by 
 God Almighty, if you're going to show that you've got no 
 honour and no pride in yourself and your country, your 
 name will stink among us, and your precious son's after 
 you." 
 
 Armitage Brown had sat quite still during this indict- 
 ment, with his eyes on the ground, and no change on his 
 face. It was in a voice quite level and free from offence 
 that he said : " Well, Mr. Clinton, I've made a mistake. 
 
 "u've shown me that. But I'll ask you to remember 
 
The Old is Better 359 
 
 that I've just lost half a million of money that I know of, 
 and a lot more that I don't yet know of. A man that 
 that's happened to isn't likely to have his thoughts free 
 for other matters, till he's got over it a bit, and begins to 
 see his way." 
 
 The Squire's indignation was not softened by this speech. 
 He had more to say yet. 
 
 " We give our sons when our country wants them," he 
 said, " and we give ourselves if we're young and strong, 
 as I wish to God I was. We love our homes and the 
 land that's been ours for generation after generation, in 
 a way that a man like you, who just buys them for money, 
 can't know anything about ; and we leave them as if they 
 were nothing. If we've got money we're ready to give 
 that. What are you ready to give ? Nothing ! Nothing 
 in the world. I say that men like you who rake great 
 fortunes together that do no good to anybody but them- 
 selves are a pest on society. You're not brought up to 
 give your manhood to your country. The gentlemen of 
 England — and the ploughmen, too, by George ! — yes, they 
 can do that. But you can't even help with your money. 
 It's all there is to you, and it gets you where you've no 
 right to be, nine times out of ten ; but we've got to do that 
 as well, because you won't. Taxes ! You'll pay your 
 taxes ! Pah 1 " 
 
 He had been standing on the hearthrug, and now threw 
 himself into his chair again, somewhat exhausted by the 
 harangue he had delivered, but still flaming with anger 
 and contempt. 
 
 Armitage Brown spoke with the same absence of offence 
 as he had used before. " It's a strong accusation," he said, 
 M and if it were true, I should have nothing to say. I 
 should get up and go. The men like me — the rich business 
 men — do give our money when there's a call on us. We 
 give more than anybody. I've subscribed many thousands 
 myself, at one time or another." 
 
 " You said just now that you hadn't even thought about 
 subscribing to this fund that's been started, and " 
 
 " I said I hadn't thought of what I should give. I didn't 
 mean I shouldn't give anything. Of course I shall. And 
 I admitted just now, before you began to rub it in a second 
 time, that I'd made a mistake. My mistake has been 
 in not seeing what was wanted quick enough. You must 
 make some excuses, Mr. Clinton, for a man who has just 
 
 (30) 
 
360 Rank and Riches 
 
 jetting on for a million of money. That is how the 
 has touched me personally. It has touched you in a 
 wry different way, and it so happens that your personal 
 interest in it is a more patriotic one than mine. But that's 
 not to say I shouldn't have come to take the right views, 
 and do the right things, when I'd had time to get over what 
 has so upset things for me. You've brought them home to 
 me, and I don't resent your plain-speaking at all. About 
 this hospital plan now — what are you doing about it 
 yourself ? Are you going to turn this house into a hos- 
 pital ? " 
 
 Was all this quite sincere, or was it a clever attempt to 
 avert retribution of an awkward kind by disclaiming an 
 attitude that was seen to be indefensible ? And was the 
 question at the end an attempt to turn the tables ? Nothing 
 had been said about turning Kencote into a hospital. 
 
 The Squire, at any rate, was suspicious of such a sudden 
 surrender. " I shouldn't have asked you to do something 
 I wasn't prepared to do myself," he said, with little change 
 m his tone of indignation. " My wife and I are going to 
 move down to the dower-house to be with my daughter- 
 in-law. I am going to offer this house. There's a lot of 
 room in it. Whether I can fit it up as a hospital all complete 
 I don't know yet. I shall have to see what it means and 
 exactly what is wanted. And I don't want to do anything 
 till I've seen others about it. I should like to make it a 
 county business — or South Meadshire, at any rate." 
 
 " Well, whatever you do with Kencote, I'm ready to do 
 with Kemsale. It was a new idea to me altogether, or I 
 wouldn't have spoken as I did about it, when you first 
 mentioned it. I didn't even realise that private hospitals 
 would be wanted. But I suppose they will; and you have 
 thought about that, as you've thought about other things. 
 I'm willing to follow your lead, Mr. Clinton. I know I'm 
 a new man here ; I'm not so anxious, perhaps, to cut a 
 figure in county society as you might imagine ; what you 
 threatened a while ago wouldn't bother me much if I didn't 
 think what you proposed was right. I've done a good 
 many things since I came here that I hadn't thought of 
 doing before ; I've tried to be a good landlord according 
 to my lights, and if I haven't understood everything at once, 
 it has been because it's not my way to do things just because 
 other people do them ; and as you pointed out, I wasn't 
 brought up to it." 
 
The Old is Better 361 
 
 The Squire began to foe mollified. The man tallied a 
 lot, and seemed able to change his views and intentions 
 ' more quickly than an ordinary mind could follow him. But 
 he was not altogether untried. It was true that he had 
 not shown himself unduly anxious to curry favour with the 
 more important of his neighbours. He had taken his own 
 line about many things, and he had also shown himself 
 ready to learn from those who knew better than he did. 
 And so far he had proved himself an exceptionally good 
 landlord in everything that really mattered. If he was 
 ready to do his duty now, and spend money, which others 
 who were more than ready to do their duty could not 
 afford to spend, he might still prove himself a strong sup- 
 port to whatever should be done in the county ; and it 
 would be a feather in the Squire's cap to have brought him 
 to a right way of thinking. 
 
 " Well, I'm glad you're inclined to look at things in a 
 better way," he said. " What I should like to do would 
 be to call a meeting of the people who are ready to oiler 
 their houses at once. My own idea is that any money 
 we can collect besides, for equipment and so on, had better 
 be offered at the same time, as a lump sum, and let the 
 proper authorities deal with it, and with the accommoda- 
 tion." 
 
 " I think I may say — now you've given me the idea — 
 that I should be ready to equip my house completely, in 
 any way they might direct." 
 
 ''' You can make that offer if you like. What I'm- trying 
 to explain is that some people might be willing to give up 
 their houses, but couldn't afford to do more than that. 
 Personally, I should feel that if I offered to do that with my 
 own house, it would look as if I were trying to gain credit 
 over other people who were just as willing as I was, but 
 couldn't afford to do so much. That's why I should like 
 to make a county business of it. I should pay what it 
 would cost me to fit up this house into a general South 
 Meadshire fund, and the proper people could use it as they 
 pleased." 
 
 Armitage Brown felt abashed. The old man still had 
 something to teach him in unselfish neighbourly feeling. 
 " That would be far the better way," he said. " If you 
 will call your meeting, I'll be ready to attend it. And I'll 
 undertake to subscribe at least what it would cost to equip 
 Kemsale." 
 
362 Rank and Riches 
 
 The Squire was conquered. This was tangible. His 
 hostility to the man who had revealed qualities that he 
 had not suspected in him dropped away, and he saw again 
 the man whom he had liked, approved for the respect he 
 had shown to himself and his opinions, and been ready to 
 accept as a desirable neighbour, in spite of obvious differ- 
 ences* 
 
 " It's very good of you," he said. " I'd better call the 
 meeting, because I know the people and have sounded some 
 of them. But you're the owner of the biggest house. You'd 
 better take the chair. " 
 
 " No, I won't take the chair," said Armitage Brown. 
 " You shall do that. But I dare say my business experi- 
 ence will come in useful in working out a scheme, and 
 helping to run it afterwards, if that's necessary. There 
 may be other things we can do in South Meadshire. I'm 
 ready to give time to them as well as money, Mr. Clinton. 
 It will take my attention off disagreeables that aren't 
 perhaps so important, after all. I've got to thank you for 
 showing me the way." 
 
CHAPTER XXXVI 
 
 THOSE AT HOME 
 
 As Armitage Brown sped back from Kencote to Kemsale 
 he felt as if a heavy weight had been lifted from his mind. 
 He no longer thought of his losses ; they seemed to be as 
 nothing. They were, in fact, nothing in respect of any 
 practical effect that they need have upon his actions. He 
 had been shown his duty, and he was ready to do it. 
 
 He was more than ready to do it. He had come into 
 line, and whatever he could do now, by wise use of his 
 money, and still more of his organising ability, he would 
 do, with as much energy as he had brought to bear upon 
 his financial adventures, and as much satisfaction as he 
 had gained from them. 
 
 For the old Squire had brought him to himself, and the 
 real man was not the selfish money-grubber who had 
 brought down that indignant fulmination. His vision had 
 been obscured for the time, but the idealism was there, 
 and the spark had been kindled that had made it glow. 
 The quick change that had come over him was character- 
 istic of the man. His son had remarked, with another 
 reference, upon his genius for seizing the salient point. 
 He had done it again and again in small matters since he 
 had turned himself into a landholder, and largely under 
 the influence of the old man who had been a landholder 
 before he himself had been born, and had now shown him 
 so plainty what fine ideals of loyalty and service lay 
 beneath all the easy stereotyped course of life led by men of 
 his order. 
 
 He had seen it all, as in a flash. These men might be 
 stiff and prejudiced against change, reactionary in some 
 of their ways, a hindrance here and there, perhaps even 
 as a class, to the march of liberty and progress. They 
 
 363 
 
Rank and Riches 
 
 had more than others, and were jealous of all interference 
 with what they looked upon as their rights. But when 
 the call came they were ready to give themselves, eagerlv, 
 without waiting to be called, without taking or seeking 
 credit for it. It was not simply because the higher ranks 
 of the fighting services were chiefly their preserve, nor 
 from the young man's love of adventure, that they went so 
 readily. Those reasons counted ; but what counted more 
 was the instinctive inherited response to the call of honour. 
 The old man had made his claim. He had pointed to his 
 eldest son, and to his sons-in-law. They had more than 
 others, and they gave more ; their great possessions would 
 not hold them back for a moment. It was true that others 
 were now coming forward who had less to give, but who 
 gave all they had. Patriotism and self-sacrifice were not 
 the monopoly of one class. But if the Squire was to be 
 taken as representing the old order of English wealth, and 
 Armitage Brown himself the new, then there was no doubt 
 as to which of them had shown up better hitherto. 
 
 Armitage Brown went over in his mind the hard things 
 that had been said to him, but with no bitterness. His 
 mind was large ; it had only been narrowed where it had 
 concentrated itself upon piling up money with no wide 
 view as to its proper use. He even thought with some- 
 thing like affection of the righteously angry old man blazing 
 out his wrath at him. He had not understood everything, 
 he had not made enough allowances ; but his readiness and 
 Tightness had stood out in such contrast to his own failure 
 to grasp the true proportions of all that was happening 
 around him that there was no combating them. He was 
 not a man who saw things clearly and without prejudice, 
 as a rule. He had lived for many years in an old-fashioned 
 feudal backwater of his own, while the great river of 
 progress had flowed past him. But he had seen clearly 
 here, and acted rightly, even down to that detail of sinking 
 his own importance so that he should not appear to be 
 taking credit that would not be wholly his. It was a 
 fine touch that ; it had come after Armitage Brown had 
 capitulated to him, and was ready to bring a more trained 
 intellect than his to bear upon his schemes ; but the simple 
 man had thought of it, not the clever one. 
 
 Well, he had been shown the way ; he would not be 
 behind now in treading it. He liked the old Squire's idea 
 of organizing his county of Meadshire. They had talked 
 
Those at Home 365 
 
 of ether things that could be clone ; the Squire was watch- 
 ing the recruiting figures with pride at the response of the 
 count)/, but some jealousy because other counties were 
 doing still better ; he knew personally every man who was 
 serving or ready to serve on his own estates, and many 
 outside them. Armitage Brown knew scarcely anything 
 of what was going on at Kemsale, and ) r et he had prided 
 himself on the things that he had done to make it a model 
 estate ; he had thought himself far better fitted to advance 
 the welfare of his tenantry than the owner of Kencote, with 
 his old-fashioned views. 
 
 As for his own son — he could not quite make up his mind 
 there. Was it really necessary that a young man of such 
 value should offer himself as food for cannon ? He thought 
 of young Inverell, the Squire's son-in-law, who had been 
 brought up as an answer to that question. There was not 
 much doubt which of them the world at large would consider 
 to be of the higher value ; but Alfred was his son, his only 
 son. The comparison did not convince, but only dejected 
 him. Did Alfred want to go himself ? He had said 
 nothing about it. But they had not talked much together 
 lately. Armitage Brown had been gloomily considering 
 his affairs ; Alfred had been busy with the work he had 
 taken up, or at least, kept a great deal away by it. 
 
 But when he reached home he found that the decision 
 had been taken out of his hands. His wife met him in a 
 state of perturbation. Alfred had received a telegram and 
 had already gone up to London, leaving farewell messages. 
 There was a good chance of his getting taken on as an 
 interpreter. Captain Clinton had worked it so far for him, 
 and had wired him to come up without delay. 
 
 To Armitage Brown's recovered vision his wife's annoy- 
 ance seemed unreasonable. Alfred's decision had cut the 
 knot of his own hesitations in a very satisfactory way. He 
 was glad that he had wanted to go, and relieved that his 
 going would not involve the greater dangers. " I think 
 he might have told us what he was thinking about," he 
 said. " But I'm not sorry that he is going to do his share. 
 I shouldn't have made any difficulty — if that's why he kept 
 quiet." 
 
 " Oh, I think it is dreadful," said poor Mrs. Brown. 
 " He couldn't deny that there was danger, though he pre- 
 tended to make light of it. He hoped to be sent right to 
 the front, and he thinks that the men who do the inter- 
 
3G6 Rank and Riches 
 
 prcting work will be expected to make themselves generally 
 useful. Whether that means fighting or not I don't know, 
 but I'm sure Alfred hopes it does, though he only mentions 
 Red Cross work. He actually said that if there had not 
 been a chance of his getting an interpretership he would 
 have enlisted at the very first." 
 
 Armitage Brown was conscious of a glow of pleasure. 
 He wished he had known of that before, so that he could 
 have told old Mr. Clinton. It had still rankled a little, 
 after he had come to his own senses, that the Squire and 
 his belongings had not needed bringing to theirs. But 
 here was his own* son who had been as ready to offer him- 
 self as any old-fashioned gentleman of them all. 
 
 " It makes me proud of my boy," he said. " I suppose 
 he will let us know when he is going. If he can't come 
 down here we'll go up to London and give him a send- 
 ofL" 
 
 She had expected that her husband would regard the 
 matter in the same light that she did. It was some time 
 before he could get her to listen while he told her of the 
 change that had come over his own views. He did not do 
 so directly. While he appeared to defer more to her wishes 
 in certain matters than the Squire deferred to those of his 
 wife, he was actually far more independent of them ; for 
 the Squire always appeared to get his way in everything, 
 while Armitage Brown actually did so. The decision he 
 had formed on his way home was that Kemsale should be 
 given up at once for its new use, and that he would rent 
 Little Kemsale back from Irving, furnished. 
 
 Mrs. Brown was startled by the proposal. If economics 
 were to be made, as she had already been told they were, 
 she would be glad enough to get away from Kemsale. 
 If the knowledge that the house was not actually being 
 used was galling to her, it would be still more so to make 
 the fact apparent, which would be done by shutting up 
 most of it and dismissing half the servants. But she wanted 
 to live in London. " What is the object," she asked, "of 
 tying ourselves here, to a small house, if we must leave 
 the big one ? " 
 
 " You'll be much happier in a smaller house," said her 
 husband, who knew more about her likes and dislikes than 
 she suspected. " You'll get rid of a lot of bothers, and 
 I shall get rid of a lot of expense. I don't want the Berkeley 
 
 [uare house opened up this year ; just keep a few rooms 
 
Those at Home 867 
 
 and a couple of servants there for when we want to go to 
 London. There's a great deal of work to be done here ; 
 we shall be able to do it conveniently at Little Kemsale, 
 and the house is quite big enough. It will do Irving a good 
 turn too, to take it off his hands in that way ; unless 
 he's made other arrangements, which I hope he hasn't 
 yet." 
 
 Douglas had made no other arrangements. He was glad 
 enough to consent to this one. He and Beatrix were sitting 
 together in his room when Armitage Brown went down to 
 them. Douglas had returned from London that morning. 
 He was to rejoin his old regiment on the next day. Brad- 
 gate was going back to it too. 
 
 Douglas was not particularly disposed to welcome this 
 visitor. He had had a very bad quarter of an hour with 
 Armitage Brown some days before. He had seen in him 
 what he had not seen before — the hard ruthless man of 
 business, to whom the losses and distress of other people 
 were matters of annoyance, so far as they affected his own 
 ease of mind, but not matters of sympathy. He had 
 felt like a culprit before the man to whom he had entrusted 
 his money, when he had been obliged to confess what 
 the loss of it meant to him. He did not blame him for its 
 loss — he could hardly do that — but he did not want to talk 
 to him about it again. 
 
 But Armitage Brown had apparently reverted to his old 
 state of mind, which had not been destitute of sympathy 
 and kindness towards his nearest neighbours. When they 
 had talked a little about the war, and Douglas's probable 
 movements, he made his proposal, offering a very handsome 
 rent for the use of the house exactly as it was. " All 
 your things will be looked after well," he said, " and per- 
 haps you can leave them more as they are than if you were 
 to let the house to strangers ; you'll be able to come back 
 to them when all this trouble is over." 
 
 " I'm afraid we shan't be able to come back to them," 
 said Douglas. " We were just talking of that. But I'm 
 very much obliged to you for your offer. Of course we'll 
 accept it gratefully, won't we, Bee ? " 
 
 She was sitting on the arm of his chair, her hand in his. 
 She looked as if she had been crying, and there were 
 signs of emotion on his face too. But she spoke lightly 
 enough. Their troubles were between them ; no outsider 
 was to know how deeply they had been hit. " It's a splen- 
 
370 Rank and Riches 
 
 parlour and a large garden. With a little alteration it 
 would make a charming home ; but nothing was to be 
 done to adapt it at present ; it would do for her and the 
 children and two maids, as it was. It was furnished from 
 Little Kemsale, and the gaps there made good from Great 
 Kemsale. Armitage Brown had succeeded in mending 
 the damage done to the lives of these friends of his by no 
 more than a little thoughtful kindness. Whether or not 
 they would ever get back to something of their former 
 prosperity seemed at present to matter little. Their way 
 was clear ; they could leave the rest. 
 
 At Kemsale Rectory there was deep seriousness in tries® 
 days, heavy with fate for so many. Charles was in his 
 ship somewhere on the other side of the world ; young 
 William had joined the Meadshire Hussars, and was busy 
 with his training ; John, the Cambridge don, was hoping 
 to get a chaplaincy at the front ; Henty, the doctor, had 
 already gone out to a base hospital. But little Anne 
 had been made happy, though her fears for her lover 
 were not small. The Squire and Mrs. Clinton had driven 
 over to Kemsale with their treaty of alliance. Frank was 
 employed in home waters ; his letters gave no information 
 as to where he was or what he was doing, but he had 
 expectations of a week's leave later on in the year, and 
 preparations were to be made for a wedding upon the 
 first opportunit}'. 
 
 The Squire, having once given in, behaved handsomely. 
 Frank's allowance was to be increased to a thousand a 
 year, and they were to occupy a snug little Georgian house 
 in the village of Kencote, where Anne would be under 
 the fostering eye of her new relations when the lot of a 
 sailor's wife left her alone. Her parents would have 
 preferred that she should stay with them until she and 
 Frank could settle together in whatever home the exigencies 
 of his profession would allow. But they accepted the 
 arrangement philosophically, as part of the price they 
 must .pay for their daughter marrying outside of their 
 station. Anne was to be a Clinton, and it was for the 
 Clintons to say what was suitable for her, not the Sheards. 
 She would not be far off, and would often be with them. 
 
 But the differences between Clintons and Sheards, in 
 these unsettling days, seemed much smaller than at other 
 times. Even to the Squire, the dignity of his house seemed 
 of less importance, except in so far as it was upheld by 
 
Those at Home sn 
 
 the services it was rendering so willingly ; and taken on 
 that ground the Sheards, who were rendering their ser- 
 vices too, were not devoid of dignity. The Squire recog- 
 nised it, as he sat in Mrs. Sheard's drawing-room, which 
 was furnished now, though sparsely. He recognised it 
 in the Rector's upright direct manliness, which met the 
 same qualities in himself, and made the unessentials with 
 which they had been overlaid shrivel away from him. Still 
 more did Mrs. Clinton recognise it in the simple-minded 
 woman who was moved by the same fears and sorrows and 
 pride on behalf of her sons as she was herself. 
 
 The Squire made no patronising speeches. " Well, Mr. 
 Sheard, my boy wants to marry your girl ; we've got to 
 put our heads together and make it easy for them." That 
 was his opening, and nothing was said throughout the 
 interview that followed about his own previous unwilling- 
 ness to make it easy, or even possible, for them. When 
 little Anne came in, blushing and smiling and rather fright- 
 ened, he kissed her and said : " My dear, we're going to 
 take care of you while Frank is away ; and when he 
 comes back to us again, we're all going to be very happy 
 together." 
 
 When Mr. and Mrs. Clinton drove away he said : 
 "That's a very dear little girl. I'm glad she's young 
 and pretty. She'll cheer us up at Kencote. God knows 
 we shall want it, with what's coming." There was no 
 word of criticism, no reference to those differences which 
 had bulked so largely with him, and, if he had been 
 thinking of them now, must have made themselves in some 
 ways apparent during the visit. But Mrs. Clinton had 
 known how he would take it when it came to the point. 
 She had kept quiet and not hurried to intervene. She 
 wanted her boy's happiness, and had known that his love 
 for this good sweet girl was not a mere passing fancy. 
 In time she would have moved ; but there had been no 
 necessity, and she was glad that her husband should have 
 shown himself what she knew him to be without pressure 
 on her part. _ 
 
 " I am sure we shall love her," she said. rrank has 
 chosen well." 
 
 There was another marriage to be celebrated at Kem- 
 sale, quietly and prematurely because of the war. John 
 Davis was in the Meadshire Yeomanry, as all his forbears 
 had been since his family had first settled at Points Farm. 
 
872 Rank and Riches 
 
 rid Irene were to be married in S< , and she 
 
 was to go to her new home to waii for him there. 
 
 Mrs. Fuller was relieved from certain mean anxieties 
 by the arrangement. A " grand " wedding, to the carry- 
 ing out of which she would have brought every faculty 
 that she possessed if Irene had been marrying what she 
 would have called well, would have presented difficulties 
 under the circumstances. She had already begun to dread 
 them. The Davises would have brought to the ceremony 
 many friends and relations of the utmost respectability, 
 but of the kind at whom she had been accustomed to turn 
 up her nose. But she on her side could not even have 
 done that. Her husband had scarcely any relations, and 
 while she had plent}', she would have died rather than 
 produce any one of them. 
 
 But a quiet wedding ! It was being done now, under 
 similar circumstances. It was " the thing." Even presents 
 were to be discouraged — not strongly discouraged from 
 immediate neighbours ; but there was to be no display of 
 them. This got over another difficulty that had kept Mrs. 
 Fuller awake in the night ; for there had been nowhere 
 for presents to come from, apart from immediate neigh- 
 bours, or, at any rate, none that could be displayed with 
 advantage. 
 
 Poor little Herbert was- pleased enough to be rid of 
 the fuss. His mind was greatly exercised over what was 
 happening. He mourned his advancing years as he had 
 never mourned them before, even when he had thought 
 that they might bring him to penury. He thought about 
 the war night and day, and envied from the bottom of his 
 loyal little soul the men who were young enough to go ofi 
 and fight. Mrs. Fuller gave him no sympathy, until, stung 
 by her sneers, he began to consider seriously whether he 
 couldn't be of use in training new troops, and talked of 
 sending in an application. Her sympathy was not re- 
 markably soothing then, but she managed to put a stop 
 to his designs. He was wanted where he was ; and what 
 should she do, pray, if he were to go off and leave her ? 
 And he wasn't strong enough for it either ; he was very 
 proud of appearing younger than he really was, but his 
 years were beginning to tell on him, and he'd better not 
 put himself in a position where that would be made plain. 
 
 Tims did this amiable spouse refuse to be parted from 
 her supporter. She cut out and made up a few suits of 
 
Those at Home 373 
 
 pyjamas for the Meadshire Yeomanry later on, when she 
 found that that sort of thing was " being done," and 
 pushed herself on to one or two Meadshire ladies' com- 
 mittees. Otherwise, the war made no difference to her. 
 " If only one could send a few women to the front," said 
 Armitage Brown, with reference to her, " one wouldn't 
 so much object to the phrase ' food for powder.' " 
 
 * 
 
CHAPTER XXXVII 
 
 FAREWELLS 
 
 " If you care to go back that way, we might all go and 
 have a last look at the house." 
 
 It was Alfred who spoke. Grace and Meadshire had 
 been dining at Little Kemsale, and the three of them, 
 with Katie, set out under the harvest moon for the great 
 house, which was now fully transformed into its hospital 
 state. 
 
 During the early days of the war Meadshire had come 
 down to the Herons' Nest, for the first time for eight 
 months. He was sobered and sad, himself again for a 
 time at least, but showing the signs of his long bout of 
 intemperance as he had never shown them before. On 
 the morning after his arrival he motored over to the 
 headquarters of the Meadshire Yeomanry, with which he 
 had served as a young man, and his offers of renewed 
 service were promptly rejected. He went straight up to 
 London again without returning to Kemsale, and Grace 
 heard nothing of him for some weeks. Then he wrote to 
 say that he was to be allowed to take a motor-car over 
 to Headquarters, and make himself generally useful. He 
 was coming down for a night to say good-bye. He wanted 
 also to say good-bye to Katie, and to the Browns, and 
 asked her to arrange it. Armitage Brown need not fear 
 any renewal of the request that he had rejected so intol- 
 erantly. He should like to leave England in a state of 
 friendship with them all. 
 
 Armitage Brown consented at once. He did not regret 
 having refused his consent to a marriage between Mead- 
 shire and Katie ; but he was inclined to regret the way 
 in which he had intimated his refusal. He did not now 
 understand all that had led up to the proposal, but was 
 no longer disposed to think of it as a dishonourable at- 
 tempt on the part of a middle-aged wastrel to capture an 
 
 374 
 
 I 
 
Farewells 375 
 
 heiress. He had never talked to Katie about it at all ; 
 she had shown him no less affection than before, and 
 had been docile and companionable whenever they had 
 been together. But the change in her had been marked, 
 and had continued. After some months it was no longer 
 possible to think of her either as a girl who had been 
 rescued from a danger into which her youth and inexperi- 
 ence had led her, or on the other hand as one who was 
 grieving over a broken love-affair. Her father did at last 
 mention Meadshire's name to her when Grace had asked 
 him what she had been told to ask. 
 
 " Lord Meadshire is coming down to-morrow, Katie. 
 He wants to say good-bye to us — to you. Will it distress 
 you to see him, my dear ? " 
 
 Her face did not change in the least as she lifted her 
 eyes to his and said : " Oh no, father. I should like to say 
 good-bye to him before he goes. Grace told me he was 
 coming." 
 
 He said no more, but was as puzzled as ever, and in- 
 clined to sadness, because his girl was now sad, or at 
 least subdued, where she had been so gay and bright. 
 Ke made up his mind to get Meadshire by himself, if he 
 .could, and get out of him what it was that had happened ; 
 to ask him, if he had now given up the ideas he had 
 formed, whether he could not do something, or say some- 
 thing, to release the burden from Katie's mind, and give 
 him back his daughter restored to her former self. 
 
 It was not unreasonable, considering what had passed 
 between them, and the anger in which they had parted, 
 that he should ask Meadshire for a few words before he 
 received him again amongst his family. The interview 
 was short. Meadshire came in looking grave, but already 
 more recovered in health and bearing than he had been 
 on his last hurried visit to Kemsale. " This will very 
 likely be the last time we shall meet," he said, as he shook 
 hands. " I wanted to tell you that I bear you no grudge 
 now for what happened the last time we met. You were 
 right, in the main. Where you were wrong doesn't matter 
 now. Let's forget about it and part friends." 
 
 " Oh, don't speak as if you weren't coming back," said 
 Armitage Brown. " We shall hope to see every one back 
 before many months are past. And I want you to tell 
 me, before we forget it, as you say, where I was wrong 
 in what I said to you." 
 
37G Rank and Riches 
 
 " I've a Eeeling that I shan't come back," said Mcad- 
 shire. " I'm not sure that I want to. I've made a hideous 
 mess of my Life, and it's past mending now. If it's ended 
 while I'm doing something at last that's worth doing, 
 nobody need be sorry for me. Well, as you've asked me, 
 I'll tell you that it might have been mended last winter. 
 That dear good little girl would have kept me straight. 
 I should have been so proud of her trust in me that I 
 don't believe any temptation that might have come would 
 have been strong enough to break me down, or to break 
 us down together. I don't think she'd have suffered for 
 it either ; there would have been a good deal more to 
 bind us together than with most. I'd stood out against it ; 
 I'd thought it wasn't fair on her. But we had a conver- 
 sation together, when I was just getting over a very bad 
 time, thanks to her influence over me, that took me out 
 of myself. I felt then that I could get the better of 
 myself with her to help me, and that I shouldn't be taking 
 everything from her and giving nothing ; and I knew the 
 way in which she looked at it, too. We had come together 
 on higher grounds than a man and a woman do where 
 there's no suffering and no repentance between them. So 
 you see, when I was tackled by you about wanting that 
 brave good healing little soul for the sake of your money, 
 it was as much of a shock to me as if Vd never thought 
 about money in my life. I hadn't thought about it in 
 connection with Katie, not once, believe me or not as 
 you please. I believe I said some rude things about your 
 damncd money ; but you must balance them against the 
 things you said to me. I suppose you can't help your 
 money colouring everything you have to do with, and you 
 couldn't be expected to see what an outrage it was to bring 
 it up against me in the frame of mind I came to you in." 
 
 Armitage Brown let most of this pass, but he looked 
 very serious. " I'm willing to admit that I misunderstood 
 the situation to some extent," he said. " Of course I 
 completely withdraw all I said about money ; I've come 
 to see that that wasn't at the bottom of it. Still I can't 
 regret — especially after what has happened since — that I 
 refused your oiler for my girl. I wanted to ask you 
 now, before we spend our last evening all together, if you 
 can't do something to put things right for us all. You 
 said, in your letter to Lady Grace, that you had given 
 up " 
 
Farewells 877 
 
 "Oh yes," Meadshire. interrupted him, not altogether 
 without impatience. " You won't be bothered with me 
 again. Whatever I might have been — whatever she might 
 have made of me — eight or nine months ago, I've put it 
 out of my power to be anything to her now. Poor little 
 soul ! She was ready to do the biggest thing a woman 
 could do — save a man from himself ; and I think she'd 
 have done it. It's too late now — for her. But there's 
 another factor that has come in since. Lots of us fellows 
 who can't do anything for ourselves can do something for 
 our country. I've got another chance, thank God. I 
 should like to say something to her about that. I'll try 
 and put her right with herself, if I get the opportunity 
 before I go off. You needn't be afraid of my saying 
 anything to her you wouldn't want to have said." 
 
 I'm not," said Armitage Brown stoutly. " I've mis- 
 understood you in some things. You're a better man 
 than I thought. Still, I can't regret refusing you my 
 daughter, though I'm sorry I used the rough way I did." 
 
 " We were both of us pretty rough," said Meadshire, 
 with a smile. " I hadn't meant to say what I have to 
 you, but I'm not sorry it has been said. We misunder- 
 stood each other before, and made friends to some extent 
 after it. I hope we can part friends now. You've taken 
 my place here ; you'll fill it better than I did. You've 
 done much better than I did already, and you'll do better 
 yet. The old blood is worn out. It's just as well that it 
 shouldn't be continued. I've come to see that. But you've 
 got something to see too, Brown. You can't replace blood 
 by mone}'. I believe you're beginning to see it ; and your 
 son saw it long ago. Well I'm not the fellow to preach 
 to you, but I'm glad we're going to part friends." 
 
 The four of them walked up the long east drive under 
 the moon, Grace and Alfred in front, Katie and Mead- 
 shire far enough behind to be out of hearing. 
 
 Not a word was said between Meadshire and Katie as 
 to what had happened when they had last met, and she 
 knew that not a word would be said. And yet she was 
 quieter in spirit, happier almost, than she had been at 
 any time during the past nine months. He was talking 
 to her as he had never talked before, not even on that 
 winter afternoon when they had both been so much moved 
 out of themselves. 
 
 " There were older men than I," he was saying, " who 
 
378 Rank and Riches 
 
 had gone back to their regiments, and they'd been glad 
 to have them. They wouldn't look at me. Oh, then the 
 iron entered my soul. What good was I in the world, if 
 I couldn't do that ? I went through black days and nights. 
 The devil that's ridden me ever since I was a boy took 
 hold of me, though I'd been giving him rein for months 
 past and thought I'd worn him out. I wouldn't give way 
 to him, though. I felt if I did I should be damned and 
 lost to all eternity. Then I got my chance — my last 
 chance, and the devil slunk away. . I don't believe he'll 
 worry me again now till I've done what's laid down for 
 me to do." 
 
 " I shall be thinking of you always, out there," she 
 said, in her young clear voice, which never hesitated to 
 say what was in her mind. " I shall be full of fear — a 
 woman can't help that for those she loves — but I shall 
 be full of pride, too. I suppose I shan't be happy again 
 till it's all over ; but I shan't be unhappy in the way 
 that I have been." 
 
 "It is I who have made you unhappy, my dear. 
 I have made every one unhappy who has ever had any- 
 thing to do with me. I've had everything given to me 
 that a man could have had, and I have thrown it all 
 away." 
 
 " No, you have kept the best. Those who have loved 
 you have loved you for that. And now there will be 
 nothing but the best to think of. All the rest is blotted 
 out. It wasn't really you. It will never again come into 
 my thoughts about you." 
 
 " God bless you, little Katie," he said. " I shan't fail 
 you in your trust again." 
 
 Alfred was also going off the next morning. His mood 
 was light-hearted, almost merry. It was as if a burden 
 had been removed from him, and he had at last found his 
 true vocation. It jarred somewhat upon Grace, who was 
 weighed down with fears and sorrow. 
 
 " I can't look upon the dreadful war as a chance for 
 adventure," she said at last. " It is too much to hope 
 that all of those whom one knows, and loves, will come 
 back from it. Some have been killed already, though 
 none as yet who are nearest." 
 
 He became graver at once. His feelings towards this 
 gentle creature, older than himself, still held some ten- 
 derness, though the fact that he did not feel quite at 
 
Farewells 379 
 
 his ease in her presence, and talked more lightly on that 
 account, proved that he had awakened from his dream. 
 
 " I don't look upon it only as an adventure," he said. 
 "It is a very serious business, for all of us — much more 
 serious than anything that has ever come into my life 
 before. But it cuts so many knots for me. I shall be 
 doing something to make myself useful at last." 
 
 Her thoughts were upon the two behind them ; and 
 she felt some impatience with him for returning to a subject 
 which they had discussed before, but which seemed to 
 have little importance in these heavy days. 
 
 " There is no one who could have better chances of 
 making himself useful than you," she said. " You can't 
 cut knots by running away from them. Oh, but I don't 
 mean that. You are right to go, of course, but you will 
 come back. Pray God you will come back, and your 
 place will be here for the rest of your life." 
 
 " When I come back," he said, "if I do, everything 
 will be different. I feel that, though I don't exactly know 
 how. That is why I'm not worrying about the future. I 
 have something to do now, and all I have to think of is 
 how to do it as well as ever I can." 
 
 She thought she had spoken with undue asperity, and 
 said gently : "I'm sure that is the way to think of it. 
 The call has come for all of us, and we need not think 
 of what will be after it. And, of course, it is right for 
 those who are young, and are going to face hardship 
 and danger, to keep a brave heart. You will know that 
 those who are left behind are thinking of you all the 
 time." 
 
 " I shall like to feel that you are thinking of me," he 
 said simply. " I shall think of you, too, very often. I 
 have always thought of you whenever I have thought of 
 Kemsale. You have seemed to belong to it, and we never 
 have. But even that is altering now. We could never 
 be what you have been here, however much we tried. 
 That is why I have so kicked against being pitchforked 
 into a position I could never fill. But nothing will be 
 quite like it was when the war is over. The changes 
 have begun already, and they will grow bigger. That's 
 what I feel about it, though I don't know what they will 
 reach to. But one can leave all that for the present. 
 There are things to be done. When I do come back, if 
 I do, there'll be other things to be done, but they won't 
 
sso Rank and Riches 
 
 be the same as before. When the time comes I'll try 
 to do them, loo." 
 
 They came to the groat house, with all its uncurtained 
 windows staring nakedly. Old Mrs. Parmiter let them 
 in, and showed them over some of the rooms, swept clear 
 of trappings and furniture, ranked with white beds in 
 unending rows, all waiting clean and bare and sad for 
 what should come in the near future. Never had Kem- 
 sale looked like that before, never had its innumerable 
 rooms been so full of meaning. The graciousness of the 
 old life and the empty show of the new had alike been 
 swept away. It was shortly to become a home of pain, 
 but a home of healing too. What it should become here- 
 after could not yet be foreseen, but it would never again 
 be quite what it had been before. 
 
 THE END 
 
 Printed at The Chapel River Press, Kingston, Surrey. 
 
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